Adrian Boas - The Crusader World-Routledge (2016) PDF

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The Crusader World

The Crusader World is a multidisciplinary survey of the current state of research in the field
of crusader studies, an area of study which has become increasingly popular in recent years.
In this volume Adrian Boas draws together an impressive range of academics, including
work from renowned scholars as well as a number of thought-provoking pieces from emerg-
ing researchers, in order to provide broad coverage of the major aspects of the period. This
authoritative work will play an important role in the future direction of crusading studies.
This volume enriches present knowledge of the crusades, addressing such wide-ranging
subjects as: intelligence and espionage, gender issues, religious celebrations in crusader
Jerusalem, political struggles in crusader Antioch, the archaeological study of battle sites
and fortifications, diseases suffered by the crusaders, crusading in northern Europe and
Spain and the impact of crusader art. The relationship between crusaders and Muslims, two
distinct and in many way opposing cultures, is also examined in depth, including a discus-
sion of how the Franks perceived their enemies.
Arranged into eight thematic sections, The Crusader World considers many central
issues as well as a large number of less familiar topics of the crusades, crusader society,
history and culture. With over 100 photographs, line drawings and maps, this impressive
collection of essays is a key resource for students and scholars alike.
Adrian J. Boas is Professor of Medieval Archaeology in the Departments of Archaeology

and Land of Israel Studies at Haifa University, Israel.
THE ROUTLEDGE WORLDS
THE CELTIC WORLD
Edited by Miranda Green
THE GREEK WORLD
Edited by Anton Powell
THE REFORMATION WORLD
Edited by Andrew Pettegree
THE EARLY CHRISTIAN WORLD

Edited by Philip F. Esler
THE ROMAN WORLD
Edited by John Wacher
THE MEDIEVAL WORLD
Edited by Peter Linehan and Janet L. Nelson
THE BIBLICAL WORLD
Edited by John Barton
THE HINDU WORLD
Edited by Sushil Mittal and Gene Thursby
THE ENLIGHTENMENT WORLD
Edited by Martin Fitzpatrick
THE WORLD OF POMPEII
Edited by Pedar W. Foss and John J. Dobbins
THE BABYLONIAN WORLD
Edited by Gwendolyn Leick
THE RENAISSANCE WORLD
Edited by John Jeffries Martin
THE EGYPTIAN WORLD
Edited by Toby Wilkinson
THE ISLAMIC WORLD
Edited by Andrew Rippin
THE VIKING WORLD
Edited by Stefan Brink and Neil Price
THE BYZANTINE WORLD
Edited by Paul Stephenson
THE ELIZABETHAN WORLD
Edited by Susan Doran and Norman Jones
THE WORLD OF THE AMERICAN WEST
Edited by Gordon Morris Bakken
THE OTTOMAN WORLD
Edited by Christine Woodhead
THE VICTORIAN WORLD
Edited by Martin Hewitt
THE ORTHODOX CHRISTIAN WORLD
Edited by Augustine Casiday
THE SUMERIAN WORLD
Edited by Harriet Crawford

THE ETRUSCAN WORLD
Edited by Jean MacIntosh Turfa
THE GOTHIC WORLD
Edited by Glennis Byron and Dale Townshend
THE WORLD OF THE REVOLUTIONARY AMERICAN REPUBLIC
Edited by Andrew Shankman
THE WORLD OF INDIGENOUS NORTH AMERICA
Edited by Robert Warrior
THE FIN-DE-SIÈCLE WORLD
Edited by Michael Saler
THE OCCULT WORLD
Edited by Christopher Partridge
THE ATLANTIC WORLD
Edited by D’Maris Coffman, Adrian Leonard, William O’Reilly
THE BUDDHIST WORLD
Edited by John Powers
Forthcoming:
THE MODERNIST WORLD
Edited by Stephen Ross and Allana Lindgren
THE POSTCOLONIAL WORLD
Edited by Jyotsna Singh and David Kim
THE SHAKESPEAREAN WORLD
Edited by Jill L. Levenson and Robert Ormsby
THE WORLD OF IONIA
Edited by Alan M. Greaves
THE WORLD OF FORMATIVE EUROPE
Edited by Martin Carver and Madeleine Hummler
Edited by
Adrian J. Boas
THE CRUSADER WORLD
First published 2016
by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
and by Routledge
711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business
© 2016 Adrian J. Boas for selection and editorial matter; individual

contributions, the contributors.
The right of Adrian J. Boas to be identified as the author of the editorial
material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been
asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced
or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other
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the publisher of any errors or omissions, and these will be corrected in
subsequent editions.
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or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and
explanation without intent to infringe.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
The crusader world / edited by Adrian J. Boas.
pages cm. — (The Routledge worlds)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Crusades. I. Boas, Adrian J., 1952- editor, author.
D157.C763 2015
909.07—dc23
2015011532
ISBN: 978-0-415-82494-1 (hbk)

ISBN: 978-1-315-68415-4 (ebk)
Typeset in Times New Roman

by Swales & Willis Ltd, Exeter, Devon, UK
CONTENTS
List of illustrationsxi
List of contributorsxvi
1 Introduction 1
Adrian J. Boas
PART I: IDEOLOGY, CRUSADE, WARFARE

AND PEACE-MAKING
2 Pope Urban II and the ideology of the crusades 7
Paul E. Chevedden
3 Women’s involvement in the crusades 54
Helen J. Nicholson
4 ‘Crusading’ warfare in the twelfth century 68
John France
5 Paid troops in the service of military orders during the twelfth and
thirteenth centuries 84
Alan Forey
6 Peacemaking in an age of war: when were cross-religious alliances in the
Latin East considered treason? 98
Yvonne Friedman
— Contents —
PART II: THE CRUSADER WEST

7 The military-religious orders in the crusader West 111
Karl Borchardt
8 Crusade, empire and the process of war in Staufen Germany, 1180–1220 128
Daniel P. Franke
9 Northern crusades: between holy war and mission 144
Darius von Güttner-Sporzyński
10 Christian expansion in medieval Iberia: Reconquista or crusade? 163

Luis García-Guijarro Ramos
PART III: THE LATIN EAST

11 The Venetian presence in the crusader lordship of Tyre: a tale of decline 181
David Jacoby
12 The Antiochene war of succession 196
Jochen Burgtorf
13 Western Upper Galilee under crusader rule 212
Rabei G. Khamisy
14 Queen Alice of Cyprus 225
Bernard Hamilton
15 The Franciscan return to the Holy Land (1333) and Mt Sion: pilgrimage
and the apostolic mission 241
Andrew Jotischky
PART IV: MEDIEVAL BYZANTIUM

16 Byzantine crusaders: holy war and crusade rhetoric in Byzantine contacts
with the West (1095–1341) 259
Nikolaos G. Chrissis
17 Memory and ideology: the image of the crusades in Byzantine
historiography, eleventh–thirteenth centuries 278
Aphrodite Papayianni
18 The fall of Jerusalem (1187) as viewed from Byzantium 289
Michael Angold
viii
— Contents —
PART V: MEETING ISLAM

19 An illusion of ignorance? The Muslims of the Middle East and the
Franks before the crusades 311
Niall Christie
20 The early Mamlūks and the end of the crusader presence in Syria (1250–1291) 324
Reuven Amitai
21 The Muslim political world as mirrored in the First Crusade chronicles 346
Svetlana Luchitskaya
22 Crusaders, Muslims and biblical stories: Saladin and Joseph 362
Yehoshua Frenkel
23 Historical motifs in the writing of Muslim authors of the crusading era 378
Daniella Talmon-Heller
24 Latin Cyprus and its relations with the Mamluk sultanate, 1250–1517 391
Nicholas Coureas
25 Christian mercenaries in Muslim lands: their status in medieval Islamic
and canon law 419
Michael Lower
PART VI: ARCHAEOLOGY OF THE CRUSADES

26 Crusader fortifications: between tradition and innovation 437
Mathias Piana
27 Crusader battlefields: environmental and archaeological perspectives 460
Raphael Y. Lewis
28 The Hospitaller castle of Belvoir: setting the scene for a discussion of the
topography, geology and architecture 490
Vardit Shotten-Hallel, Eytan Sass and Lydia Perelis Grossowicz
29 Maritime commerce in the Latin East as reflected in the import of ceramics 519
Edna J. Stern
30 Domestic life in the Latin East 544
Adrian J. Boas
31 Conquest and Europeanisation: the archaeology of the crusades in
Livonia, Prussia and Lithuania 568
Aleksander Pluskowski and Heiki Valk
32 Intestinal parasites in the crusades: evidence for disease, diet and migration 593
Piers D. Mitchell
ix
— Contents —
PART VII: ART AND LITERATURE

33 Decorative architectural sculpture in crusader Jerusalem: the Eastern,
Western, and Armenian sources of a local visual culture 609
Nurith Kenaan-Kedar
34 Crusader art and the West: thoughts on assessing the impact of art from the
crusader East on medieval art in western Europe, especially in central Italy 624
Jaroslav Folda
35 Narratological readings of crusade texts 646

Marcus Bull
PART VIII: STUDYING THE CRUSADES

36 From Sepphoris to Nazareth: aspects of crusader historiography and a
new reading of the Nazareth sculpture 663
Gil Fishhof
37 After twenty-five years: Joshua Prawer’s contribution to the study of
the crusades and the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem reconsidered 675
Sophia Menache
38 What are the crusades? 688
Gary Dickson
Index698
x
ILLUSTRATIONS
2.1 The priory chapel of Berzé-la-Ville (Saône-et-Loire), France: general

view of the mural paintings decorating the apse (early twelfth century) 18
2.2 Charlton Heston as El Cid in the 1961 film El Cid22
2.3 The endowment charter issued by Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar in 1098 to
the cathedral of Valencia and its bishop, Jerome of Périgord 23
21.1 An episode from the seige of Nicea (1097) 354
21.2 A scene from the siege of Antioch by the army of Karbuqa (1098) 354
21.3 Generalized image of the siege warfare presented at the three-tiered
miniature depicting the major events of the crusade 355
21.4 Two-tiered miniature: sultan sending a spy in the camp of the crusaders
(on the right); Saracens set out to the military campaign against
Christians (on the left) 355
26.1 Krak des Chevaliers (Syria), the best-preserved crusader castle and a
paramount example to illustrate the defensive qualities of the castles
of that period 438
26.2 Saône (Syria), east section showing walls of tenth-century Byzantine
castle (left) and crusader front tower 441
26.3 Giblet (Lebanon), an example of a keep-and-bailey castle marking the
seigneurial phase of crusader castle building 443
26.4 Tortosa (Syria), layout of medieval town and citadel in the
thirteenth century 444
26.5 Beth Gibelin (Israel), outer wall with gate (foreground) and
castrum-type main ward (background) 445
26.6 Tortosa (Syria), north-east corner of the citadel displaying rock-based
walls of outer enceinte 446
26.7 Kerak (Jordan), south front of the castle with lower bailey (left)
overlooking a deep rock-cut chasm 447
26.8 Belvoir (Israel), south-west corner tower of outer ward surmounted
by remains of inner ward, constituting a concentric castrum concept 449
— Illustrations —
26.9 Beirut (Lebanon), outer west wall of the citadel showing crusader
masonry with columns used as headers (foreground) and main ward of
citadel (background) 450
26.10 Silifke (Turkey), south section of the castle illustrating Hospitaller
reinforcements such as rounded towers, a stronger forewall, a
stone-lined moat and a counterscarp wall 451
26.11 Caesarea (Israel), east wall of the fortification erected by King Louis
IX of France (1251–52) 454
26.12 Sea Castle at Sidon (Lebanon), reflecting the last crusader phase in its
layout when it served as a base for the Knights Templar (1260–91) 454
27.1 The Battle of Hattin 3–4 July 1187 battle plan 462
27.2 Arsuf 7 September 1191 battle plan 465
27.3 Main settlements on topographic map of the central and eastern
Lower Galilee 466
27.4 Map of the Sharon Plain. Location of kurkar ridges and sand dunes 468
27.5 Milestone positioned at the center of the Maskana pool probably for
estimating water level, and the same milestone by the Roman Road 471
27.6 Maskana pool (from top to bottom): aerial photo from March 2006
with two sections, pool with water 4 July 2009, two sections taken
for estimation of amount of water 472
27.7 Map of roads and junctions between Maskana and Tiberias studied
during the Battle of Hattin Project 478
27.8 Road and junctions at the vicinity of Apollonia/Arsuf 479
27.9 Main features on the Horns of Hattin 480
27.10 Looking west to the battlefield from the peak of the northern horn 481
27.11 Eye sight from the height of 1.7 m. The area covered is marked in white 482
28.1 Aerial photograph of Belvoir 491
28.2 South face of the moat: columnar structure and boulders retrieved
from the castle during excavations 1963–66 496
28.3 SE wall of the inner court. Basalt and limestone construction.
Thin basalt chips inserted between coarsely hewn limestone blocks 497
28.4 Characteristics of the cover basalt exposed in the moat of the castle:
iron imprints, lava flows, stripes of vesicles in the lower part of the moat 498
28.5 Characteristics of Gesher Formation nodular limestone (the varied
layers) as seen in petrographic sections of building block from the castle 499
28.6 Lapidary, the concentration of elements retrieved by Meir Ben-Dov,
north of the moat 499
28.7 Architectural elements: a) portal fragments; b) window fragments; c)
rib vaulting vertebrae 500
28.8 Quarry in Hagal Wadi, Gesher Formation 502
28.9 Rib vault fragment (see Fig. 28.7c) petrographic sections, under
plain-polarised light 504
28.10 Stone slab presenting a hovering angel and an unidentified (damaged)
object or creature above it 506
28.11 Trumeau. Bearded head, decorated with foliage 508
28.12 Head of a youth, decorated with foliage 509
28.13 Detail of portal, west façade, Saint Foy, Conques 509
xii
28.14 The bearded head and the head of youth 510

29.1 Map with the major sites mentioned in the text 522
29.2 The Hospitaller compound, Acre, 1992. General view of the central
courtyard, looking east 524
29.3 The Kishle site, Jaffa, 2007 excavation season. Courtyard with
cistern and remains of domestic buildings, looking south 524
29.4 Glazed bowls imported to Acre 525
29.5 Cooking wares and glazed table ware found in Acre and produced in
Beirut and its vicinity 526

29.6 A Proto-maiolica glazed bowl with a depiction of a woman holding a lily 527
29.7 Quantitative comparison of imported ceramic types between Acre
and Jaffa 530
29.8 Imported glazed bowls found at Horbat ‘Uza 532
29.9 Quantitative comparison of general ceramic types between Acre,
Horbat ‘Uza and Horbat Bet Zeneta 533
29.10 Quantitative comparison of glazed bowls from Acre, Alexandria
and Venice536
30.1 Plan of a courtyard house in Acre 546
30.2 Twelfth-century market street in Jerusalem 548
30.3 Possible thirteenth-century market street in Jerusalem 549
30.4 Imported ceramics from Acre 550
30.5 Aqua Bella. A rural administrative building 552
30.6 Al-Kurum. A Frankish street village near Jerusalem 553
30.7 Reconstruction of street in al-Kurum 553
30.8 Khirbat al-Lowza. A Frankish farm near Jerusalem 554
30.9 Spade recovered in excavations at Montfort Castle (photograph by author) 555
30.10 Plan of the Cistercian abbey of Belmont near Tripoli 556
30.11 The Hospitaller sugar refinery at Kolossi, southern Cyprus 557
30.12 Glass (prunted beaker) from Beit She’an, manufactured in the Holy Land 558
30.13 Lead ampulae 559
30.14 Wooden spoon from Montfort 560
30.15 Bone dice from Chateau Pelerin 561
30.16 Grave marker in the Mamilla cemetery, Jerusalem 562
31.1 The geopolitical situation in the eastern Baltic before (a) and after
(b) the crusades 569
31.2 Native strongholds in Estonia in the thirteenth century 572
31.3 Fortifications on the hill fort of Lõhavere, Estonia, burnt by the
crusaders in 1215 or 1223: the reconstruction and archaeological reality 573
31.4 Sites of crusaders’ trebuchet platforms (A–E) from August 1223
in Viljandi, Estonia 573
31.5 Livonia after the end of the crusades: castles and churches around
ad 1300 and strongholds of post-conquest use; Estonian post-conquest
strongholds; Latvian post-conquest strongholds: 1 – town, 2 – large urban
settlement without town rights, 3 – castle, 4 – timber castle or hill fort,
5 – church, 6 – monastery 575
31.6 The distribution of strongholds (circles) abandoned during the
thirteenth century in western Lithuania 579
xiii
31.7 Remains of the thirteenth-century timber castle excavated in Elbląg

(Elbing) in 2012 581
31.8 The castle at Papowo Biskupie 582
31.9 View of Malbork castle (Marienburg) from the south-west (a) with
examples of the earliest brick courses in the Wendish bond from the
lower north wall of the high castle (b) 583
32.1 Latrine from Saranda Kolones Castle in Cyprus 597
32.2 Toilet seats from the latrines of the Order of St John in Acre 598
32.3 Whipworm egg from latrines of the Order of St John in Acre 599
32.4 Fish tapeworm egg from latrines of the Order of St John in Acre 599
32.5 Beef/pork tapeworm egg from private house excavated near Ha-Amal
and Ha-Gedod Ha-Ìvri roads in Acre 600
32.6 Roundworm egg from cesspool in private house excavated near
Weizman Street in Acre 600
33.1 Southern façade of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem 613
33.2 West façade of the Church of Saint Anne, Jerusalem 614
33.3 Goudron frieze framing the portal from the narthex to the church,
Armenian Church of the Archangels 616
33.4 Main nave, Church of the Archangels 617
33.5 Goudron frieze framing the portal from the narthex to the cathedral
of Saint James 618
33.6 The inner dome, Cathedral of Saint James 619
33.7 Outer panorama of the dome of the Cathedral of Saint James 620
33.8 Outer panorama of the dome of the Cathedral of Saint James: detail 620
33.9 Dome of the Tomb of Melisende 621
34.1 Crusader icon of the Virgin and Child Hodegetria Dexiokratousa,
bust-length, in mosaic, Constantinople or Sinai, Monastery of
St. Catherine, Sinai, c. 1250s 625
34.2 Crusader icon of the Virgin and Child Hodegetria, bust-length, Sinai
or Acre (?), Monastery of St. Catherine, Sinai, c. 1260s 630
34.3 Italian panel painting: Virgin and Child Hodegetria Dexiokratousa,
bust-length, known as the “Madonna di sotto gli Organi,” now in the
cathedral in Pisa, first quarter of the thirteenth century 632
34.4 Italian panel painting: icon of the Virgin and Child Hodegetria,
bust-length, with angels, now in the Museo Nationale, Pisa (inv. 1575),
from the church of San Giovannino dei Cavalieri, c. 1265–70 (?) 633
34.5 Italian panel painting: Virgin and Child Hodegetria (Madonna del Voto)
by the Madonna del Voto Master, c. 1265–70 (?) 634
34.6 Italian panel painting: Virgin and Child Hodegetria enthroned, with angels,
the Pushkin Madonna, from Pisa, now in the Pushkin Museum,
Moscow, c. 1260 634
34.7 Crusader icon of the Virgin and Child Hodegetria enthroned on a
lyre-backed throne, with angels, Sinai or Acre (?), Monastery of
St. Catherine, Sinai, c. mid-thirteenth century 635
34.8 Italian panel painting: altarpiece for the Church of the Servites
in Siena: Madonna del Bordone, by Coppo di Marcovaldo, 1261 638
xiv
36.1 Church of the Annunciation, Nazareth, Rectangular capital, depicting

Ecclesia/Mary leading a sainted male, middle – second half of twelfth
century, courtesy of the Studium Biblicum Franciscanum 667
36.2 Church of the Annunciation, Nazareth, trumeau statue of St. Peter holding
the keys and the model of the church, middle – second half of twelfth
century, courtesy of the Studium Biblicum Franciscanum 669
xv
CONTRIBUTORS
Reuven Amitai is Eliyahu Elath Professor of Islamic History at the Hebrew University of
Jerusalem. He has recently published Holy War and Rapprochement: Studies in the Relations
between the Mamluk Sultanate and the Mongol Ilkhanate (1260–1335) (Brepols, 2013) and
Nomads as Agents of Cultural Change: The Mongols and Their Eurasian Predecessors,
co-edited with Michal Biran (University of Hawai’i, 2014).
Michael Angold is Professor Emeritus of Byzantine History at the University of Edinburgh.

He is the author of several books on the history of the Byzantine Empire, most recently The
Fall of Constantinople to the Ottomans: Context and Consequences (2012). He also edited
Cambridge History of Christianity V: Eastern Christianity (2008). He is working on a trans-
lation of the works of Nicholas Mesarites, Bishop of Ephesos.
Adrian J. Boas is Professor of Medieval Archaeology in the Department of Archaeology and

the Department of Land of Israel Studies at the University of Haifa. He has excavated urban
and rural sites and castles and is currently director the Montfort Castle Project. He has pub-
lished several books including Crusader Archaeology (1999), Jerusalem in the Time of the
Crusades (2001), Archaeology of the Military Orders (2006) and Domestic Settings (2010).
Karl Borchardt teaches medieval history at the University of Würzburg and is working
at the Monumenta Germaniae Historica in Munich, preparing an edition of the letter-col-
lections named after Petrus de Vinea (d. 1249). His fields of interest include the military-
religious orders, especially the Hospitallers. He has published a number of articles on their
commanderies in Central Europe and among his publications has co-edited the Hospitaller
documents from Rhodes concerning Cyprus 1409–59 (2011). Together with Damien Carraz
and Alain Venturini he is publishing circa 350 weekly accounts of the important Hospitaller
commandery at Manosque in Provence from the 1280s.
Marcus Bull is Andrew W. Mellon Distinguished Professor of Medieval and Early Modern
Studies at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. His publications include Knightly
— Contributors —
Piety and the Lay Response to the First Crusade (Oxford, 1993), The Miracles of Our Lady
of Rocamadour (Woodbridge, 1999), Thinking Medieval (Basingstoke, 2005), and, with
Damien Kempf, The Historia Iherosolimitana of Robert the Monk (Woodbridge, 2013). His
latest research includes a study of the Great Siege of Malta (1565), and an investigation of
the nature of eyewitness testimony in medieval and early modern historiographical texts.
Jochen Burgtorf is Professor of Medieval History at California State University, Fullerton

(USA). He is the author of The Central Convent of Hospitallers and Templars: History,
Organization, and Personnel (1099/1120–1310) (2008), a co-editor (with Helen J. Nicholson
and Paul F. Crawford) of The Debate on the Trial of the Templars (1307–1314) (2010), and
a collaborator of the international ‘Regesta Pontificum Romanorum’ project on pre-1198
papal documents.
Paul E. Chevedden (1986, UCLA) is an independent scholar specializing in the crusades

and has published numerous studies pertaining to crusading warfare, the origins of the
crusades, and post-crusade Muslim society in Spain, among them, with Robert I. Burns,
Negotiating Cultures: Bilingual Surrender Treaties in Muslim-Crusader Spain under
James the Conqueror (1999).
Nikolaos G. Chrissis (PhD London) is a Postdoctoral Research Fellow at the University

of Athens. He has taught history at the universities of London and Birmingham and at
the Hellenic Open University. His main interests revolve around Byzantine-Western
interaction, the crusades, the papacy, and Byzantine identity. His publications include the
monograph Crusading in Frankish Greece: A Study of Byzantine-Western Relations and
Attitudes, 1204–1282 (2012), while he also co-edited the volume Contact and Conflict in
Frankish Greece and the Aegean, 1204–1453 (2014).
Niall Christie teaches the history of Europe and the Muslim world at Langara College
in Vancouver, Canada. His research focuses on interactions between the Middle East and
Europe in the Middle Ages. He is the author of a range of publications, including two
books: Muslims and Crusaders: Christianity’s Wars in the Middle East, 1095–1382, from
the Islamic Sources (2014), and The Book of the Jihad of ‘Ali ibn Tahir al-Sulami (d. 1106):
Text, Translation and Commentary (in press).
Nicholas Coureas works as a Senior Researcher at the Cyprus Research Centre in Nicosia
on the history of Lusignan Cyprus (1191–1473). He has published various articles and books
on this subject, including the monograph The Latin Church of Cyprus, 1195–1312 (1997)
and its sequel The Latin Church of Cyprus 1313–1378 (2010). Together with Peter Edbury
he will publish a new translation of the fifteenth-century anonymous Cypriot chronicle of
‘Amadi’ for the Cyprus Research Centre early in 2015.
Gary Dickson has a BA from Stanford, MA from Yale and PhD from Edinburgh. He is a
medievalist at the University of Edinburgh; formerly Reader in History, currently Honorary
Fellow. His publications include Religious Enthusiasm in the Medieval West: Revivals,
Crusades, Saints (2000) and The Children’s Crusade: Medieval History; Modern Mythistory
(2008). Work in progress includes Medieval Pentecostalism: Charismatic Christianity in
Western Europe, 1000–1500.
xvii
Gil Fishhof teaches medieval and crusader art history in the Department of Art History at
Tel Aviv University. He specializes in French Romanesque art, and devotes his research
to questions of Romanesque architecture in Burgundy; patronage; art within the order
of Cluny; and the meaning of models in Romanesque architecture. Dr Fishhof’s second
area of research is crusader art, and his studies are dedicated to the mural cycle of the
church of Emmaus (Abu-Gosh) and its Hospitaller patrons, as well as to the church of
the Annunciation in Nazareth. His publications appeared in Mediaevistik, Arte Medievale,
Annales de Bourgogne and Viator, among others.
Jaroslav Folda is the N. Ferebee Taylor Professor of the History of Art, emeritus, at the
University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. His recent publications include: The Art of
the Crusaders in the Holy Land, 1098–1187 (1995; awarded the Haskins Medal by the
Medieval Academy of America in 1999); Crusader Art in the Holy Land, from the Third
Crusade to the fall of Acre: 1187–1291 (2005); and Crusader Art: The Art of the Crusaders
in the Holy Land, 1099–1291 (2008).
Alan Forey, who is now retired, taught in the universities of Oxford, St Andrews and
Durham. He recently published a study of Western converts to Islam in the Middle Ages,
but his main field of research has been military orders and crusades. His publications
include The Military Orders from the Twelfth to the Early Fourteenth Centuries (1992) and
The Fall of the Templars in the Crown of Aragon (2001).
John France is Professor Emeritus in the History Department at Swansea University spe-
cialising in the history of warfare and of crusading. His Victory in the East. A Military
History of the First Crusade (1994) combines the two. His most recent book is Perilous
Glory, The Rise of Western Military Power (2011). He is presently writing a history of
warfare during the crusades.
Daniel P. Franke was an Assistant Professor at the United States Military Academy at
West Point for three years. His fields of study are high and late medieval warfare, with
particular concentrations in the Staufen and late Plantagenet eras. Currently he is working
on an analysis of the earls of Suffolk in fourteenth-century England, to be followed by a
military biography of Frederick Barbarossa. He has published various articles on medieval
warfare and the crusades.
Yehoshua Frenkel has a PhD in History of the Middle East (Hebrew University) and
is a senior lecturer in the Faculty of Humanities, University of Haifa. His research inter-
ests and teaching include social and legal history of the pre-modern Arabo-Muslim lands.
Among his recent publication are two books: Ḍawʾ al-sārī li-maʿrifat ḫabar Tamīm al-Dārī
(On Tamīm al-Dārī and His Waqf in Hebron) Critical Arabic Edition of al-Maqrizi, Ibn
Hajar and al-Suyuti epistles, annotated and translated into English with an English introduc-
tion (2014); and The Turkic Peoples in Medieval Arabic Writings (2015).
Yvonne Friedman is Lazarus Phillips Professor of General History in the Department of

History and the Land of Israel Studies and Archeology at Bar-Ilan University and Chair
of the Board of Israel Antiquities Authority. She has published several books and many
articles on inter-religious historical subjects. Her latest project is a book on peace-processes
xviii
between the Muslims and the crusaders in the Middle East in the twelfth and thirteenth
centuries. Her book Encounter between Enemies: Captivity and Ransom in the Latin
Kingdom of Jerusalem (2002) dealt with ransom as an inter-cultural and inter-religious
phenomenon in the medieval Middle East and as a first step of peace-making.
Luis García-Guijarro Ramos is Reader in Medieval History at the University of Zaragoza

and Secretary of the Society for the Study of the Crusades and the Latin East. He has pub-
lished books and articles dealing with the Reconquista, the crusades, the military orders and
the Latin Church in the Central Middle Ages. An additional line of his research is centred on
the birth and development of political units in Eastern Iberia between the ninth and eleventh
centuries.
Lydia Perelis Grossowicz obtained her BSc and MSc degrees on Geology from the Hebrew
University of Jerusalem (1969–74) where she also acted as an educational and research
assistant for two years. Since 1975 she has worked at the Geological Survey of Israel as
a Senior Researcher on the field of Foraminifera (microfossils). She collaborates with oil
and gas companies, water drilling companies, field geologists and archaeologists. She is the
author/co-author of more than sixty publications.
Darius von Güttner-Sporzyński is a Historian and Research Fellow at the University

of Melbourne, Australia. His research and teaching concentrates on cultural aspects of
religious warfare, crusading, military orders and identity. His recent publication Poland,
Holy War and the Piast Dynasty, 1100–1230 (2014) examines the transmission of the
ideology of holy war in Central Europe and its adaptation by the Piast Dynasty of Poland.
He is currently working on the first English edition of the Chronica Polonorum by Bishop
Vincentius of Kraków.
Bernard Hamilton is Emeritus Professor of Crusading History in the University of

Nottingham, and President of the Society for the Study of the Crusades and the Latin East.
Among his publications is The Leper King and his Heirs: Baldwin IV and the Crusader
Kingdom of Jerusalem (2000). He is at present working with Andrew Jotischky on Latin
and Orthodox Monasteries in the Crusader States, which will be published by Cambridge
University Press.
David Jacoby is Professor Emeritus of Medieval History at the Hebrew University,

Jerusalem. He has published extensively on intercultural exchange and maritime trade
between the West and Byzantium, the Crusader states and Egypt in the eleventh to fifteenth
centuries, medieval silk production and trade, and the Jews in the Eastern Mediterranean in
the Middle Ages. His latest collection of studies is titled Travellers, Merchants and Settlers
across the Mediterranean, Eleventh–Fourteenth Centuries (2014). He is currently working
on a book on Crusader Acre and another on Silk and Silk Textiles in Byzantium and the
Medieval Mediterranean.
Andrew Jotischky is Professor of Medieval History at Lancaster University, where he has

taught since 1995. His main areas of research interest are crusading and the crusader states,
and more widely the religious culture of the eastern Mediterranean, and monasticism in
both the East and West. He has published articles and essays on Eastern/Western religious
xix
and cultural interactions, Orthodox influences on Western reform monasticism, pilgrimage

and crusading origins. He is the author of The Perfection of Solitude. Hermits and Monks
in the Crusader States (1995), The Carmelites and Antiquity (2002), Crusading and the
Crusader States (2004) and A Hermit’s Cookbook. Monks, Food and Fasting in the Middle
Ages (2011).
Nurith Kenaan-Kedar is Professor of Medieval Art History in the Department of Art

History, the Faculty of the Arts at Tel Aviv University. She has published widely on cru-
sader art, monumental sculpture and architecture in the Holy Land, Eleanor of Aquitaine
as patron of the Visual Arts, and Romanesque and Gothic Marginal sculpture in medieval
France.
Rabei G. Khamisy has a PhD from the University of Haifa. His dissertation dealt with the
history and archaeology of the region of Acre during the Crusader period. He was awarded
the Rothschild post-doctoral Fellowship and has carried out a post-doctorate at Cardiff
University during which he wrote a book titled Fiefs, Fortresses, Villages and Farms in
Western Galilee and Southern Lebanon in the Frankish period (1104–1291): Political,
Social and Economic Activities (in press). He has published articles in Crusades, Ordenis
Militares, Israel Exploration Journal, al-Masaq and Journal of Medieval Military History.
He has been involved in the University of Haifa’s Montfort Castle Project since its founda-
tion in 2006.
Raphael Y. Lewis is an archaeologist specialising in landscape archaeology and archae-

ology of conflicts. He received his PhD in Archaeology at the University of Haifa. He
did a post-doctoral research at Harvard University and another at Tel Aviv University.
Currently he works as a post-doctoral researcher at the University of Haifa as a member
of the Montfort Castle Project. He is also a lecturer of archaeology in the Department of
Political Science of Bar-Ilan University. He directed, co-directed and conducted a number
of archaeological projects among these sites: Hattin, Arsuf and Mount Zion (Jerusalem).
Michael Lower teaches history at the University of Minnesota. He is the author of The
Barons’ Crusade: A Call to Arms and Its Consequences (2005). He is currently working on
two book projects: a history of the Tunis Crusade of 1270, the last major expedition led by
a European monarch in aid of the Holy Land; and a history of medieval mercenaries who
crossed the religious divide in North Africa and the Iberian Peninsula.
Svetlana Luchitskaya is affiliated with the Russian Academy of Sciences, the Institute of
Universal History as a Senior Researcher of the Department of Historical Anthropology.
Her research interests include the history of the crusades and medieval Christian views
of Islam. Among her publications are Image of the Other: Muslims in the Crusader
Chronicles (2001, in Russian); ‘Pictorial Sources, Coronation Ritual and Daily Life in the
Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem’ in Ritual, Images and Daily Life (ed. G. Jaritz, 2012); ‘Veoir
et oïr, legere et audire: réflexions sur les interactions entre tradition orale et écrite dans
les sources relatives à la Première croisade’ in Homo legens. Styles et patiques de lecture,
Analyses comparées des traditions orales et écrites au Moyen âge (2010); and ‘Wie star-
ben die Jerusalemer Könige’ in Mediävistik. Internationale Zeitschrift für interdisziplinäre
Mittelaltersforschung (2009, 2010).
xx
Sophia Menasche has a PhD from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem (1980) and is
Professor of Medieval History at the Department of History, University of Haifa. She is a
visiting fellow at Clare Hall, Cambridge. Her main areas of research are Church history, the
papacy, the crusades, medieval communication (propaganda, stereotypes, etc.), the expul-
sions of Jews (France, England), the reign of Philip the Fair, and the approach to dogs in
the Abrahamic religions. Her main books are: The Vox Dei: Communication in the Middle
Ages (1990), L’humour en chaire (1996), Clement V (1998), and The Catholic Church in
the Middle Ages: Ideology and Politics (2004).
Piers D. Mitchell is a biological anthropologist, medical historian and physician who

teaches at the University of Cambridge. His research interests focus on disease in the past,
and he is the leading authority on health, disease and medicine in the crusades. Piers is
President of the Paleopathology Association, the worldwide organisation for the study of
ancient diseases. His publications include Medicine in the Crusades: Warfare, Wounds
and the Medieval Surgeon (2004), Anatomical Dissection in Enlightenment England and
Beyond: Autopsy, Pathology and Display (2012), and Sanitation, Latrines and Intestinal
Parasites in Past Populations (2015).
Helen J. Nicholson is Professor of Medieval History at Cardiff University in Wales, and

has published extensively on the military orders, crusades, medieval warfare and various
related subjects, including articles on ‘Women on the Third Crusade’ (1997) and ‘Queen
Sybil of Jerusalem (1186–1190) in History and Legend, 1186–1300’ (2004). In 1997 she
published a translation of the Itinerarium peregrinorum et gesta regis Ricardi, an important
source for the Third Crusade. She has a particular interest in the role of women in warfare
and in religious orders.
Aphrodite Papayianni teaches at the universities of London and Oxford. She has a particu-
lar interest in the Byzantine-Latin political and ecclesiastical relations, and has published
articles on various topics of Byzantine history. Her publications include: ‘The Reaction of
the Greek-Orthodox Monastic Community to the Talks about the Reunification of the Two
Churches, 1204–1261’ in Church, Society and Monasticism (ed. A. Lopez-Tello Garcia and
B. S. Zorzi, 2009); ‘He Polis healo: The Fall of Constantinople in 1453 in Post-Byzantine
Popular Literature’ (2010); and ‘The Papacy and the Fourth Crusade in the Correspondence
of the Nicaean Emperors with the Popes’ in La Papauté et les Croisades/The Papacy and
the Crusades (ed. M. Balard, 2011).
Mathias Piana is an independent scholar and member of the scientific board of the
Deutsche Burgenvereinigung e.V. His research topics include medieval fortified
architecture of the Eastern Mediterranean and transfer processes in medieval architec-
ture. His main publications include: ‘The Crusader Castle of Toron: First Results of its
Investigation’ (2006); Burgen und Städte der Kreuzzugszeit (2008); ‘From Montpèlerin
to Óarābulus al-Mustajadda: The Frankish-Mamluk Succession in Old Tripoli’ in Egypt
and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid and Mamluk Eras VI (ed. U. Vermeulen, K. D’hulster,
2010); (co-ed. with Christer Carlsson) Archaeology and Architecture of the Military
Orders: New Studies (2014); and ‘A Bulwark Never Conquered: The Fortifications of the
Templar Citadel of Tortosa on the Syrian Coast’ in Archaeology and Architecture of the
Military Orders, 2014.
xxi
Aleksander Pluskowski is Lecturer in Medieval Archaeology at the University of Reading

and Director of the Ecology of Crusading Project. His research interests include the rela-
tionship between ecological and cultural change in medieval Europe, especially in frontier
regions. His publications include: The Archaeology of the Prussian Crusade: Holy War
and Colonisation (2012), The Ritual Killing and Burial of Animals: European Perspectives
(2012), Breaking and Shaping Beastly Bodies: Animals as Material Culture in the Middle
Ages (2007) and Wolves and the Wilderness in the Middle Ages (2006).
Eytan Sass is Professor Emeritus of Geology at the Institute of Earth Sciences, the Hebrew
University of Jerusalem. His interests and academic activity include: sedimentology of car-
bonate rocks, with emphasis on limestones and dolomites; carbonate platforms of Israel;
carbonate geochemistry of major and trace elements, including stable isotopes; and brines,
geochemical characterisation and evolution.
Vardit Shotten-Hallel is a PhD candidate at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, European

Forum. Her thesis focuses on building technologies and materials in churches of the Latin
Kingdom of Jerusalem. She holds an MA in Archaeology (University of Haifa) and Diploma
in Architecture (University of Cambridge). Since 2003 she has been working at the Israel
Antiquities Authority, in the conservation and research of the Hospitaller Compound in
Acre, where she recently curated the history and content for the newly opened museum.
Edna Stern is a Senior Archaeologist and a Medieval Ceramic Specialist in the Israel
Antiquities Authority. She excavates at various sites in northern Israel and studies pottery
from the crusader, Mamluk and Ottoman periods. Publications include: (with M. Avissar)
Pottery of the Crusader, Ayyubid, and Mamluk Periods in Israel (2005) and ‘Akko I: The
1991–1998 Excavations, The Crusader Period Pottery (2012).
Daniella Talmon-Heller is a Senior Lecturer at the Department of Middle East Studies of

Ben-Gurion University of the Negev. She is the author of Islamic Piety in Medieval Syria
(2007); co-author (with Nehemia Levtzion and Daphna Ephrat) of Islam – A History (1999–
2003) and (co-editor, with Katia Cytryn-Silverman) of Material Evidence and Narrative
Sources: Interdisciplinary Studies of the History of the Muslim Middle East (2014). She is
interested in social history, religious thought and practice, comparative religion and medi-
eval historiography.
Heiki Valk is Senior Research Fellow at the University of Tartu (Estonia) at the Institute
of History and Archaeology, specialising in the archaeology of Late Iron Age and Medieval
Estonia. His research interests also include the transition to the Middle Ages, hill forts, and
the relations between archaeology and folkloric/ethnographic traditions. His publications
include: (with Silvia Laul) Siksälä: A Community at the Frontiers. Iron Age and Medieval
(2007); Rural Cemeteries of Southern Estonia 1225–1800 AD (2001); and ‘Strongholds and
Power Centres East of the Baltic Sea in the 11th–13th Centuries’ (2014).
xxii
CHAPTER ONE
INTRODUCTION
Adrian J. Boas
S ome of the most profound historical developments, when we look back on them, seem
to have emerged without due warning out of a series of apparently minor, almost unno-
ticeable events which evolved and took on pace, eventually swelling out of all imaginable
proportions, so that from our distant perspective it is almost impossible to understand how
they even began. Such is the period discussed in this volume. It is in no small part the seem-
ingly spontaneous nature of its origins that makes the crusades a field that has attracted the
attention of modern scholars and has turned crusader studies into an increasingly popular
academic field. Our fascination in the geneses of the crusades relates perhaps to a desire to
comprehend the rapidly developing movements that have similarly impacted the modern
world. But the mystery of its origins is only one aspect of the allure of crusader history. The
enormous impact that the crusades and the Frankish East had on the Western world and on
the Near East at the time, and on Western culture in later periods, is another. The crusades
have been and remain a goldmine for story-tellers, from the romantic novelists of the nine-
teenth century to film producers of the twentieth. The role of the Latin East as meeting place
between Occident and Orient has become of growing consequence in a time of cultural
confrontation when the terms ‘Crusade’ and ‘Holy War’ or jihad are increasingly heard in
reference to a whole range of ethnic and religious encounters. The clash in the Middle Ages
of two distinct and, in many senses, opposing cultures (on the battlefield, in religion, in
learning, in diplomacy, in commerce and in daily life) is perhaps more relevant today than
it ever was in the past.
Over the past decades large numbers of scholars and students have become involved in
crusader studies. Crusader sessions and papers are increasingly represented in international
medieval conferences. A growing number of crusader courses appear in university curricula
and numerous crusader-related websites have made their appearance. The Society for the
Study of the Crusades and the Latin East (SSCLE) now numbers around 500 members, its
quadrennial conferences are well attended and its journal, Crusades, has become a prestig-
ious tool with a broad readership.
This volume does not attempt to cover every aspect of crusading. There are many excel-
lent comprehensive histories of the crusades and the Latin East as well as major studies
1
— Adrian J. Boas —
devoted to crusader warfare, art, architecture and archaeology. Rather, the aim of this
c ollection has been to present the reader with a broad vista of the crusader world observed
through a combination of chapters dealing with central issues together with studies on spe-
cific topics and with many examples of new and ongoing research and new approaches. The
picture that emerges demonstrates the range and quality of modern scholarship which has
advanced greatly over recent decades.
The five papers in Part I examine facets of the activity most prominent in crusader stud-
ies. The military aspects of crusading have always been a “hot topic” but recent studies have
expanded our horizons, to look more deeply into not only the conflicts themselves but also
motivation, participation and the interrelations between participants. Paul Chevedden takes
a look at the manner in which Pope Urban II viewed crusading. Helen Nicholson examines
the involvement of women in the crusading movement as supporters, victims and partici-
pants. John France discusses the contrasting styles of twelfth-century warfare, comparing
the methods and leadership of the Western crusaders, Latin settlers and the Muslims. Alan
Forey discusses the engagement of paid troops in the service of the military orders, and
following these discussions on military activities, a chapter by Yvonne Friedman considers
how peacemaking efforts and cross-religious alliances were regarded at the time.
Part II examines some aspects of crusading in the West. Karl Borchardt takes a look at
the supportive role played by the principal military orders, in particular by expanding their
assets and enabling the supplying of financial support to their houses in the East. Daniel
Franke looks at German crusading in the late twelfth century and at recent German histo-
riography. Darius von Güttner-Sporzyński looks at the expansion of Christendom in East
Central and Eastern Europe, surveying the various crusades and missionary activities and
the broad involvement of the various factions in subjugating and Christianising the pagans
and Luis García-Guijarro Ramos presents an insightful examination of the Reconquista in
medieval Iberia.
The outcome of the main endeavours of twelfth and thirteenth-century crusading was
the occupation and settlement of the Syrian-Palestinian mainland states and the island of
Cyprus. Various activities of Latins in the medieval Levant are the topic of five papers in
Part III. The role of Italian merchant communes in the Latin East was a paramount one.
David Jacoby takes a look at the vicissitudes of Venetian involvement in the Lordship of
Tyre. Jochen Burgtorf writes about the complex struggles of succession of the principality
of Antioch that evolved in the early thirteenth century. Rabei Khamisy observes settlement
and land ownership in the western Galilee. A neglected example of Frankish monarchy is
examined in Bernard Hamilton’s study of Queen Alice of Cyprus. In the final chapter in
this section, Andrew Jotischky takes a look at the Franciscan Order, the establishment of
the custody of the Holy Land in the fourteenth century, and Mt Sion; its holy loci and role
in pilgrimage.
In Part IV three papers take a look at different aspects of Byzantium in its relationship
with crusading. Nikolaos Chrissis considers how the Byzantine Empire saw and represented
itself with regard to the crusades. The manner in which Byzantine historians in the eleventh
to thirteenth centuries regarded the crusades is the topic of Aphrodite Papayianni’s chapter,
followed by Michael Angold’s examination of how the loss of Jerusalem to Saladin in 1187
was viewed in Byzantium.
The meeting between East and West, between Islam and Christianity, so quintessen-
tial a part of the crusader experience, is examined in Part V. Niall Christie argues that
the Muslims were better acquainted with the Franks prior to the First Crusade than was
2
— I n t ro d u c t i o n —
sometimes represented by medieval Muslim historians and suggests why this ‘illusion of
ignorance’ exists. At the other end of the period, Reuven Amitai takes a look at the early
Mamluks from their first encounter with the Franks in 1250 through their defeat of the
Mongols at Ayn Jālūt in 1260 until their final defeat of the crusader mainland states in
1291. Svetlana Luchitskaya discusses the manner in which chronicles of the First Crusade
represent the Muslim political figures. Yehoshua Frenkel examines the manner in which
medieval Muslim sources identified Saladin as a latter-day Joseph by making analogies
between events in his life and those of the biblical figure. This theme continues in the chap-
ter by Daniella Talmon-Heller, where medieval Muslim leaders are compared by Muslim
authors to notables of the formative period of Islam, their victories to victories of the early
Islamic leaders and traitors to former traitors of Islam. Nicholas Coureas examines the com-
plex relationship between Latin Cyprus and the Mamluks. In his broad survey he covers the
topics of warfare, diplomacy, cultural and religious exchanges, commerce and settlement,
from the time of the establishment of the Mamluk sultanate in 1250 until its demise in 1517
at the hands of the Ottomans. In the final chapter of this section, Michael Lower looks at the
legal status of Christian mercenaries in Muslim lands.
In Part VI the discussions are devoted to archaeological research. Mathias Piana expands
on the topic of fortifications. Castles are the architectural form most identified with the
crusades and Piana examines the history of crusader fortification research, and the develop-
ment and form of castle building and urban fortifications in the Levant. Raphael Lewis stud-
ies two major battle sites: the region between Saforie and the Horns of Hattin in the eastern
Galilee, site of perhaps the most significant battle in the history of the crusader states; and
Arsur (modern Herzliya) on the central coast of Israel, the location in which the Battle of
Arsuf, a significant encounter between the army of the Third Crusade under Richard I and
the Ayyubid forces under Saladin, took place in 1191. Lewis exames how the environment
of the battle site influenced the outcome of events. In this regard he takes a look at topogra-
phy, geology, forests, fortifications, climate, water sources, road systems, and hours of sun
and moonlight. Vardit Shotten-Hallel, Eytan Sass and Lydia Perelis Grossowicz present
some architectural aspects from a new and ongoing study of what was certainly a landmark
in castle design at the time of its construction shortly after 1168 – the Hospitaller castle of
Belvoir in eastern Israel. In this chapter, emphasis is placed on the castle chapel, and top-
ics discussed include layout, the types of building materials used and their possible source,
and proposed dating of the chapel’s construction. Edna Stern looks at how the examination
of imported ceramic finds enlightens us on international commercial connections of the
Latin East, most particularly evident in finds from the maritime cities of Acre and Jaffa.
Adrian Boas examines different aspects of day-to-day life and the domestic surroundings
in Frankish towns and villages. Aleksander Pluskowski and Heiki Valk survey archaeo-
logical evidence for conquest, colonisation and Europeanisation of the eastern Baltic. Piers
Mitchell’s chapter ends this section with a discussion of archaeological evidence for dis-
ease, diet and migration. He examines the eggs of intestinal parasites found in latrine waste
in the castle of Saranda Kolones in western Cyprus and in the Hospitaller compound and
private houses in Acre and shows how these finds reflect on sanitation, diet, cooking, migra-
tion of crusaders and pilgrims and general issues of health of the Frankish population.
The three papers in Part VII examine aspects of crusader art and literature. In many,
perhaps most, of their endeavours, Frankish artist and artisans were influenced in varying
degrees by the art they came into contact with. Nurith Kenaan-Kedar examines Eastern,
Western and Armenian sources for the decorative sculpture found in crusader Jerusalem,
3
concentrating on a specific feature – the goudron frieze, a decorative motif found in several
Frankish churches in Jerusalem which she proposes to be an Armenian or north Syrian form
adopted in buildings constructed under the patronage of Queen Melisende. Jaroslav Folda
assesses the impact of the art of the crusader states on the medieval art of Western Europe.
In the third chapter in this section, Marcus Bull takes a look at narratology in crusader texts
through the examination of three crusader narratives: the anonymous Gesta Francorum, the
De expugnatione Lyxbonensi and La conquȇte de Constantinople.
Remaining in the sphere of crusader art, the first chapter of the final section, Part VIII,
which is devoted to the study of the crusades and the Latin East, is Gil Fishhof’s examination
of the scholarship of crusader art and his own observations on the sculptural programmes
of the Church of the Annunciation in Nazareth. Sophia Menasche follows with an exami-
nation of the role of Joshua Prawer, one of the foremost historians of the crusader period
in the twentieth century and founding father of Israeli crusader studies. In the conclud-
ing chapter, Gary Dickson asks the seemingly simple but in fact very complex question –
What are the crusades?
These thirty-eight papers represent a small but notable portion of the vibrant scholarship
that has evolved over recent decades and give an insight into not only the more studied
aspects of crusader history but also many less familiar topics that form windows through
which we can gain an enhanced view of the crusader world.
4
5
PART I
PEACE-MAKING
IDEOLOGY, CRUSADE, WARFARE AND
CHAPTER TWO
POPE URBAN II AND THE IDEOLOGY

OF THE CRUSADES
Paul E. Chevedden
There’s a battle outside and it is ragin’ …

For the times they are a-changin’
—Bob Dylan1
God transfers rule when He wishes and changes the times
—Pope Urban II
A LOVELY ILLUSION
H istorians of the crusades embark upon their task in the confident belief that the Jerusalem
Crusade of 1095–99 provides a self-evident starting point. Yet this belief arises from an
illusion. The illusion is created by the mass of chroniclers’ accounts of this crusade (Gesta
francorum; Fulcher of Chartres, Historia; Raymond of Aguilers, Liber; Robert the Monk,
Historia; Guibert of Nogent, Dei gesta; Baldric of Bourgueil, Historia; Peter Tudebode,
Historia; Ekkehard of Aura, “Chronica”; Ralph of Caen, “Gesta Tancredi”; William of
Malmesbury, Gesta; Orderic, Ecclesiastical History; Albert of Aachen, Historia; William
of Tyre, Chronique). The spotlight they direct on this single expedition so brilliantly illu-
minates it as to cause all that has gone before it to be thrust into the shadows. One sees only
the Jerusalem Crusade and assumes that it is the only form that crusading took during the
eleventh century. From this angle of vision, numerous histories of the crusades have been
written (Grousset, 1934–36; Runciman, 1951–54; Waas, 1956; Rousset, 1957; Oldenbourg,
1965/1966; Cognasso, 1967; Setton, 1969–89; Balard, 1988; Zöllner, 1990; Platelle, 1994;
Richard, 1996/1999; Mayer, 2005; Tyerman, 2006; Phillips, 2009, 2014; Asbridge, 2010;
Jaspert, 2013/2006; Morrisson, 2012; Madden, 2013; Riley-Smith, 2014). What is lacking
is an awareness of the wider world of crusading of which “the march to Jerusalem” (iter
Hierosolymitanum) formed a part. The traditional paradigm of the crusades is not giving
way easily to this wider world. It rejects the idea that a series of crusades constituted the
point of departure for the earliest thinking about the crusades and instead contends that an
individual crusade constitutes a self-evident “point from which” (terminus a quo) knowl-
edge about the crusades can proceed forward. It rejects a Mediterranean-wide perspective
7
— Paul E. Chevedden —
in which to analyze the crusades in their initial form and comprehends them from a highly
localized perspective—a Jerusalem-centered point of view—and projects this highly local-
ized perspective onto all crusades, such that all crusades bear the stamp of the Jerusalem
Crusade (Chevedden, 2013, 36–37). It also rejects a pluralistic conception of the crusades
that recognizes crusade plurality as the general condition for understanding the crusades
and instead adheres to a strict monism, according to which a single crusade—the Jerusalem
Crusade—serves as the “standard” (Riley-Smith, 1987, xxix; 2005b, xxxi; Hehl, 1994, 318;
2004, 214), the “scale” (Riley-Smith, 1995a, 9; Tyerman, 2004, 228), the “touchstone”
(Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, 1981, 2; Schein, 2005, 117; Paul and Yeager, 2012, 3),
the “template” (Housley, 2006, 19; Whalen, 2009, 70), the “model” (Blake, 1970, 12; Hehl,
1994, 318; Lloyd, 1995, 44; Starnawska, 2001, 418; Mitterauer, 2003, 208; Tyerman, 2004,
47; France, 2005, 97; Jensen, 2007, 17; Flori, 2010, 51; Price, 2011, 77, 78), the “blueprint”
(Jotischky, 2004, 7), the “benchmark” (Frankopan, 2012, 5), and the “reference point”
(Tyerman, 2011, 2) for all other crusades.
Such a Jerusalem-centric vision of the crusades leaves the false impression that these wars
emerged cum grano salis fully developed, arising simultaneously as a political force and as
an institutionalized tradition, which already consisted of a wide range of formalizing acts:
authorization by a pope, the granting of an indulgence and privileges of protection, the taking
of a vow, and the wearing of a cross. By elevating a single crusade into a general kind, as if
its accidental and transitory features were necessary and permanent, the usual sequence by
which political practice is connected to suitable instruments is reversed. Instead of seeing the
institutional structures of crusading developing “by degrees and successively” (gradatim et
successive), we see them emerging “altogether and at once” (simul et semel). And, instead
of reasoning that these structures might spring from the fact that crusades have come into
existence and that institutional mechanisms have been created to support and sustain them,
we reason that there were crusades because institutional structures were combined in such
and such a way, or because one or more institutional structures were persistently and recur-
rently attached to crusades (e.g., papal authorization, indulgence, vow, cross, and privileges)
(Brundage, 1969, 25–26 n91, 30–190; Riley-Smith, 1977, 15; 2009b, 5; Bysted, 2014, 3–6,
276; Chevedden, 2013, 4–6, 10–11). Yet the crusades had a specific reality in deeds and
events before they acquired institutional arrangements, conceptual formulations, theoreti-
cal understandings, and extrinsic rewards to affirm, validate, and reinforce this reality. Carl
Erdmann (1935, 133/1977, 147) asserted as much in his statement that “the crusading idea
became articulate only after it had developed in real life,” but he found it impossible to
develop a thesis based on this insight. To an extraordinary degree, the history of the crusades
remains stuck on the examination of the Jerusalem Crusade. “All round and round in one
vortex” (Melville, (1851) 2001, 623), the Jerusalem Crusade carries those that study the
crusades. So unremitting is the flow from this single vortex that the modern observer cannot
detect how the crusades were first apprehended—not in the form of an isolated vortex but in
the form of separate vortices, whose parts were linked to a common movement.
MONISM VERSUS PERSPECTIVALISM

A focus on a single, self-existent, isolated crusade will not sharpen our understanding of
the crusades; it will only dull it. What is needed is a de-emphasis on the usual theoretical
framework into which the crusades have been cast and an emphasis on what contemporar-
ies understood by crusading. Norman Housley (2006, 166) has observed that “the issue of
8
— chapter 2: Pope Urban II and the ideology of the crusades —
what contemporaries understood by crusading, and above all the sense they made of their
crusading past, has as yet received little attention.” Housley seems to be suggesting that
our understanding of the crusades be rebuilt on a completely new basis by taking into con-
sideration the changing viewpoints and perspectives of contemporaries, who, admittedly,
knew the crusades incompletely and restrictedly. Yet in the same breath that he proposes
a perspectivalist approach2 to the crusades, he also finds fault with this mode of analysis,
because, as a way of “achieving an objective perspective on past events,” it is clearly unsuc-
cessful at “building up a historically accurate and nuanced picture of past crusading” (17).
What Housley ignores in attempting to apply a perspectivalist methodology to the crusades
is that this investigative method “seeks out the entirety of perspectival views in which real-
ity is disclosed,” without “prejudice about the character of [such] reality,” and tries “to
understand every view according to its own norms,” knowing that “each form or ‘view’
carries in itself the measure of its reality,” and that “true reality is the subject which is capa-
ble of all these ‘views’” (Cassirer, 1953–96, 4:211–12). Rather than making some other
perspective a standard by which to evaluate various perspectival views of the crusades, as
Housley does, those adopting a perspectivalist approach should attempt to reconcile partial
standpoints to one another in an effort to make them coherent.
Too often modern investigators judge historical sources for the crusades in the light of
their own conceptions of crusading, as if their own ideas are universal and timeless, and
fail to judge these sources in their own terms, according to the values and ideals implicit
in them. Another pitfall for modern investigators has been anachronism—interpreting ear-
lier periods of the crusades in the light of what crusading later became.3 A perspectivalist
approach to the crusades would recognize, for example, that all interpretations of crusad-
ing found in twelfth-century narrative accounts of the Jerusalem Crusade are interesting,
valid, and important, but these interpretations should not submerge or supplant eleventh-
century interpretations, nor should twelfth-century interpretations be read into the interpre-
tations of the previous century. The so-called founding father of the crusades, Pope Urban II
(r. 1088–99), saw crusading far differently from chroniclers writing after the events of the
Jerusalem Crusade. According to Urban, crusading was not held in check until 1095, when
“God,” as claimed by Guibert of Nogent (c. 1055–1124), “ordained holy wars … so that
the knightly order and the erring mob … might find a new way of earning salvation” (Dei
gesta, 87; trans. Levine, Deeds of God, 28). Nor did crusading remain inert until 1147, when
an account of the capture of Santarém (Shantarīn), north-east of Lisbon, in March of that
year, speaks of God having “chosen new wars in our days” (De Expugnatione Scalabis, 94;
Constable, 1953, 235). Still less did the crusades lie dormant until 1189–92, when Caesarius
of Heisterbach (c. 1180–c. 1240) reports that “the first expedition to Jerusalem” (prima
exeditione Jerusolymitana) took place (Dialogus, 1:300, 4:1986, 4:2014; Purkis, 2013,
113–14, 118).
None of these differing explanations of the start of the crusades offered by contempo-
raries can be considered incorrect. Each is correct in its own frame of reference, offering a
valid account of events as seen from a particular angle of vision. From Guibert of Nogent’s
angle of vision, the history of the crusades has been particularly well researched and docu-
mented. What is lacking is a history of the crusades told from Pope Urban’s angle of vision.
Historians have studied this pope and developed a more complex image of the man and
the times in which he lived without questioning the assumption that his 1095 summons
to crusade must be seen as the key to the emergence of the crusading movement (Becker,
1964–2012). Urban, however, did not view crusading as his “creation,” nor did he regard
9
the Jerusalem Crusade as the start of something new (Chevedden, 2013). Rather, he saw the
Jerusalem Crusade as a part of a movement already underway. From his point of view, an
individual crusade does not constitute a self-evident starting point for theorizing about the
crusades; rather, a series of crusades constitutes the point of departure for thinking about
the crusades. In his letters, he ponders the events “in [his] day” (nostris diebus)4 and uncov-
ers something new and original in them—a transition from Islamic to Christian rule taking
place in large parts of the central, western, and eastern Mediterranean.
A MEDITERRANEAN POWER SHIFT

IN THE MAKING
The shift from Islamic to Christian rule in which Pope Urban discovers the real essence of
crusading was made possible by the strategic priorities and ambitions of a major Islamic
state. In 358/969, the great power of the central Mediterranean, the Fatimid caliphate,
turned its face eastward and conquered Egypt. This was the first step in its campaign
to fulfill its historic mission of redeeming Islam by making a Shīʿī caliph, regarded as
the infallible imam (imām maʿṣūm) and the sole authority for the Law of God on earth,
sovereign over the ummah Muḥammadīyah. As the Fatimids made their bid for political
supremacy over Muḥammad’s community and moved to dominate the central regions of
the Middle East, they turned their backs on strategic possibilities in the central and western
Mediterranean. Once this happened, other events followed as inevitable consequences. The
central and western Mediterranean was left for others to exploit. Meanwhile, the Fatimid
“march on Baghdad” directed toward the destruction of the Abbasid caliphate floundered.
A Byzantine military resurgence (c. 940–c. 1030), which reduced northern Syria to tribu-
tary status, preoccupied Fatimid caliphs, as did uprisings against Fatimid rule in Syria and
internal conflict within the Fatimid regime (Gil, 1992, 335–408; Whittow, 1996, 367–69,
371, 377, 379–82, 390; El-Cheikh, 2004, 162–87). As a result, the Fatimids were pre-
vented from using Syria as a springboard for a drive on Baghdad. This setback turned
the Fatimid thrust eastward into a strategic dead-end. Before long, the Fatimid attempt to
achieve supremacy over the ummah Muḥammadīyah became the crucible for the Sunnī
revival of the eleventh and twelfth centuries made possible by the Saljuq conquest of the
Mashriq. As the great dialectic between Sunnī and Shīʿī Islam played itself out in the East,
the strategic situation in the central and western Mediterranean changed dramatically.
Islam at first held the advantage. The Aghlabid conquest of Byzantine Sicily, between
the years 212/827 and 289/902, signaled a new wave of Islamic aggression in the central
Mediterranean. Muslim pressure against the Italian mainland remained constant throughout
the ninth and tenth centuries in the form of raids and incursions, and even resulted in the
establishment of coastal lodgments and pocket emirates (e.g., the lodgment on the Garigliano
River and the emirates of Bari and Taranto). As the Fatimids replaced the Aghlabids as the
premier power of the central Mediterranean in the early tenth century, the first faint stirrings
of a Christian reaction began. In May 915, a coalition of papal, Byzantine, Campanian, and
Spoletan forces attacked and destroyed the Muslim enclave at the mouth of the Garigliano
River, thereby freeing central Italy from the Islamic threat. But Muslim raids and incursions
intensified in southern Italy, culminating in the conquest of Reggio in 950. More Muslim
raids during the 970s and 980s provoked Emperor Otto II (r. 973–83) to intervene with a
large German army, but he was soundly defeated by a Muslim force in southern Calabria,
near modern Villa San Giovanni, in July 982 (Vehse, 1927; Engreen, 1945; Cilento, 1959,
10
1971; Citarella, 1967, 1987; Bertolini, 1970; Krueger, 1969–89; Partner, 1972, 50–82;
Kreutz, 1991, 18–62, 75–79; Marazzi, 1994, 251–78; Alvermann, 1995; von Falkenhausen,
2003; Hamilton, 2007).
Following Otto’s debacle and retreat northward, the Byzantine Empire, in general recov-
ery under emperor Basil II (976–1025), was able to stabilize its rule in southern Italy. This
was greatly facilitated by the transfer of the Fatimid seat of power to the newly founded city
of Cairo in 362/973. With the strategic deployment of the Fatimids now directed eastward,
North Africa and Sicily gradually severed their links to the Ismāʿīlī Shīʿī caliphate and
became independent. As power diffused into the hands of the Kalbids in Sicily, the Zirids
in Ifrīqiyah, the Hammadids in Algeria, and the Banū Khazrūn in Tripoli, serious weak-
nesses developed for Islam in the central Mediterranean. After a brief heyday, Kalbid rule
in Sicily collapsed, and power devolved into the hands of local qāʾids, as the land fractured
into a collection of petty states (ṭawāʾif; sing. ṭāʾifah). This situation was the “sign” that the
Norman duke of Apulia, Robert Guiscard, was looking for to launch his invasion of Sicily,
which he undertook with papal authorization that granted him rights of jurisdiction over the
island as a “vassal” of the Holy See.5
Other “signs” could be seen in other parts of the Mediterranean, as the tide began to
turn against Islam along the outer margins and hinterland of the Middle Sea. For more than
eighty years (c. 889–c. 973) the Muslim lodgment at Fraxinetum (Jabal al-Qilāl in Arabic
sources; modern La Garde-Freinet), on the French mainland east of Marseilles, was the epi-
center for Muslim pillaging expeditions up the Rhône Valley and into the heart of the Alps
and Piedmont. By the third decade of the tenth century, “while the bulk of the Muslim forces
was entrenched in the mountainous canton of Fraxinetum, in the immediate vicinity of the
sea,” advance parties occupied and controlled the Alpine passes as far as Pontresina (Pons
Saracenorum or “Bridge of the Muslims”) in eastern Switzerland and “held—at least dur-
ing the summer—all the country [from southern France to northern Italy and Switzerland]
under a reign of terror” (Lévi-Provençal, 1950, 2:160; see also Dufourcq, 1978, 15–34;
Wenner, 1980). In 954, the great Benedictine monastery of St. Gall, one of the main cent-
ers of Western culture from the ninth to the twelfth centuries, was sacked, and in the same
year Grenoble fell to the Muslims. Cities as widespread as Embrun, Maurienne (Saint-
Jean-de-Maurienne), Vienne, Marseille, Aix-en-Provence, Nice, Geneva, Lausanne, Chur,
St. Maurice, Asti, Acqui, and Turin all suffered major attacks. The event that precipitated
the overthrow of the Muslim enclave at Fraxinetum and forced the Muslims out of the Alps
occurred on the night of 21/22 July 972. As Abbot Maiolus of Cluny and his entourage
were crossing the Great Saint Bernard Pass (Mons Iovis) in the western Alps, they were
taken captive and held for ransom by Muslim forces from Fraxinetum. This event shocked
Western Christendom and spawned an immediate reaction. The considerable ransom of
1,000 pounds of silver was promptly paid to secure the abbot’s release and shortly there-
after a coalition of local forces ousted the Muslims from Fraxinetum, thus ending Muslim
plundering and captive-taking in Provence, Piedmont, and the Alpine region (Bruce, 2007).
By the turn of the eleventh century, Muslim attacks could now expect to be followed by
Christian counterattacks. We see this pattern played out along the shores of the Ligurian
Sea. In 934, the Fatimids launched an amphibious assault on Genoa and thoroughly sacked
the city. Pisa suffered Muslim attacks in 1004 and 1011. In 1015, Mujāhid ibn ʿAbd Allāh
al-ʿĀmirī, ruler of Denia (Dāniyah) and the Balearics (al-Jazāʾir al-Sharqīyah) from 1014
to 1045, launched his campaign to conquer Sardinia. This offensive posed an immediate
threat to Pisa and Genoa, since Muslim ships operating out of Sardinia could take control
11
of the sea-lanes essential to the economic survival of these two maritime cities. The Pisans
and the Genoese immediately joined forces, and, with the support of Pope Benedict VIII
(r. 1012–24), launched a coordinated attack on the Muslims on Sardinia. In 1034, the
Pisans carried the war into the enemy’s camp and captured Būnah (ancient Hippo Regius,
colonial Bône, present-day ʿAnnābah) in North Africa. In 1050, the Genoese and Pisans
turned their attention again to Sardinia and, at the behest of Pope Leo IX (r. 1049–54),
ousted the Muslims from the island (Lewis, 1951, 184, 194, 198–99, 201, 204–05, 220–22,
224, 226, 232–33; Becker, 1964–2012, 2:284, 300–04; Citarella, 1967; Epstein, 1996,
14–23; Bruce, 2006).
In Iberia, a wave of Muslim attacks against the Christian states in the north of the peninsula
from the late tenth to the early eleventh centuries eventually radicalized the Christian popu-
lation into a Holy War reaction of its own. The architect of this onslaught was Muḥammad
ibn Abī ʿĀmir (326–92/938–1002), the Umayyad ḥājib, or chief minister, who became the
de facto ruler of al-Andalus from 368/978 to 392/1002. Taking the title al-Manṣūr billāh
(“the one rendered victorious by God”; Almanzor in the Christian sources), Ibn Abī ʿĀmir
made aggressive militarism the hallmark of his rule. He launched more than fifty cam-
paigns of jihād against his northern Christian neighbors, sacking numerous cities, towns,
and monasteries, among them Zamora (981), Simancas (983), Sepúlveda (984), Barcelona
(985), the monastery of Sant Cugat del Vallès (San Cugat del Vallés) (985), Coimbra
(987), León (988), Clunia (994), Santa María de Carrión (995), Astorga (995), Santiago de
Compostella (997), Pamplona (999), Burgos (1000), Cervera (1000), and San Millan de la
Cogolla (1002) (ʿUdhrī, Nuṣūṣ, 1:185–95, 2:196–205; Dhikr bilād al-Andalus, 1:185–95,
2:196–205; Ruiz Asensio, 1968; Lévi-Provençal, 1950, 2:233–59; Kennedy, 1996, 109–29;
Chalmeta Gendrón, 1991, 430). Unfortunately for al-Andalus, he failed to translate his vir-
tuoso operational performance into any strategic gain. In fact, Ibn Abī ʿĀmir’s military
successes worked to the advantage of the Christian kingdoms. The devastation wrought by
the Muslim incursions became the cauldron of a Christian resurgence. Soon after the death
of Ibn Abī ʿĀmir’s son and successor, ʿAbd al-Malik al-Muẓaffar, in 399/1008, the ʿAmirid
dictatorship collapsed, and al-Andalus fragmented into a jumble of ṭawāʾif that soon fell
easy prey to the rising Christian powers of the north. Financial exploitation, in the form of
tribute or parias, soon transitioned into a movement of reconquest, followed by crusades
from 1064 onward.6
As Christian powers in the Latin West gained the strategic momentum in the war with
Islam and shifted to the offensive, the Islamic world found itself unable to offer effec-
tive resistance. Having created the conditions for a Christian Holy War reaction, Islam
in the eleventh century was remarkably unprepared to deal with it. From the western
Mediterranean to eastern Iran, the major Islamic powers that exercised dominance in the
tenth century had either collapsed or fallen into a downward spiral by the eleventh century.
Although momentum in the Mediterranean shifted in favor of the Latin West during the
eleventh century, there was at first no dramatic turn of events. Even by mid-century, the
most significant development in relations between the Latin West and the Islamic world
lay not in any general European movement against Islamic powers in the Mediterranean
but in unstable local situations along the Islamic frontier that invited a Christian reaction.
The injection of the Latin West into Islamic political struggles in the central and western
Mediterranean soon led to something much larger. Islamic weaknesses came to be exploited
in ways that had not been anticipated. As certain Christian communities stirred themselves
energetically for the fight with Islam, the Church was quick to follow.
12
TRANSLATIO REGNI
The idea of crusading in the eleventh century, as it emerged under the reform popes (Nicholas
II, Alexander II, Gregory VII, Victor III, and Urban II), was an attempt by the papacy to get
a handle on a highly fluid situation—the rise of the Latin West to political dominance and
its changed relationship with Islam—and to provide western Christendom with a rationale
for a transformation already underway in the Mediterranean world. In his attempt to do full
justice to the novelty and uniqueness of what was happening “in [his] time” (nostris tempo-
ribus),7 Pope Urban did not invent a new term or concept to account for what was occurring,
but instead adopted and adapted a pre-existing conceptual framework taken from the Old
Testament to explain the “world-historical” events of his day. These events, Urban found,
were best understood through the prism of God’s chosen people, in the redemptive cycle
of sin, punishment, repentance, and restoration manifested in the history of ancient Israel,
and through the idea that God directs the transfer of worldly power from one kingdom to
another (translatio regni) and is doing so at present to restore the lost lands of Christendom.
In 1088, during the first year of his pontificate, Urban laid out the essential features of his
crusading vision. He did so on the occasion of restoring the archbishopric of Toledo to pri-
matial rank, which had been made possible by the capture of Toledo three years earlier by
Alfonso VI of Léon-Castile (1072–1109).8 Although the features of his crusading vision are
specifically related to Toledo, they will be applied subsequently by the pope to other parts
of Iberia,9 to Sicily,10 as well as to the eastern Mediterranean,11 so that, “in the last three or
four years of [Urban’s] pontificate,” these regions will be considered by the pope as “simply
three different fronts … in which the same fight between Christianity and Islam was being
played out, and in which everyone … took his assigned place and fulfilled a task of exactly
equal value” (Becker, 1964–2012, 1:229–30; see also 3:675).
In his bull restoring Toledo as Iberia’s primatial see, the pope begins by dividing the
Christian history of the city into four major periods, the last two of which partly overlap and
relate to the crusades. In the first period, Toledo enjoys an exulted status:
It is apparent to all who know the holy decrees what a great position the Church of
Toledo held from ancient times and what great authority it exercised in the regions of
Iberia and Gaul, so much so that its authority in ecclesiastical matters increased.
In the second period, “the many sins of its people” bring about the conquest of Toledo by
the Muslims and the destruction of “the liberty of the Christian religion”:
But due to the many sins of its people, this city was conquered by the Muslims, and the
liberty of the Christian religion was destroyed completely there, so much so that over the
course of nearly 370 years no Christian bishop could hold office there.
In the third period, “divine mercy” and human action combine to produce a movement of
reconquest that returns Toledo to its Christian roots:
In our time (nostris temporibus), however, with divine mercy pouring forth upon His
people and through the efforts of the most glorious King Alfonso and with the hard work
of the Christian people, after the Muslims were expelled, the city of Toledo was restored
to the rite of the Christians.
13
In the fourth period, “the original authority of the Church of Toledo” is restored, making it
possible “to consolidate and further enhance … the condition of the city”:
And, therefore, in response to God’s grace and mercy, we have not refused to restore the
original authority of the Church of Toledo, since you, through such hazards on land and
sea, have humbly yearned for the authority of the Roman Church. Indeed, we rejoice,
and, with a very joyful heart, offer great thanks to God, as is fitting, for the fact that He
granted to the Christian people in our time (nostris temporibus) so magnificent a victory,
as we ardently desire, with His help, to consolidate and further enhance, as far as it is
possible for us, the condition of the city.12
In the lands lost to Islam by Christendom, Urban sees the same historical pattern repeat-
ing itself: (1) a period of greatness for the Church, followed by (2) a period of collective
sin and punishment that takes the form of conquest and domination by the forces of Islam,
followed by (3) a period of reconquest, that ultimately brings with it (4) a “[restoration of]
the former position of the Holy Church” (antiquum ecclesie sancte statum … reparavit).13
For Urban, these events give significance to the passage from the Book of Daniel telling
of God’s power to change the times and the seasons, and to depose kings and set up kings
(Dan 2:20–21).14 What the prophet Daniel said in the Old Testament, according to Urban, is
once again being fulfilled nostris temporibus in an astounding translatio regni by which the
Church of God (ecclesiam Dei) is being expanded into Muslim territory.15 This translatio
regni was no invention of Urban’s, but the central fact of his age. By linking the translatio
of his day with the translatio of scripture, Urban attempts to convey not merely a “change in
rule” (Herrschaftsübertragung), but also a “change in era” (Zeitenwende or Zeitenwandel)
(Becker, 1964–2012, 2:342, 344, 349, 352–54, 356, 361–63, 369, 372–75, 384, 398, 404,
3:356, 587, 675–76; Ringel, 1987, 139; Hehl, 1994, 303, 304, 319, 328, 335). The old era
of Islamic ascendancy has ended and is being replaced by a new era of Christian reconquest
and restoration. What caught Urban’s imagination was not a translatio regni in the nar-
row sense—a localized effort to “rescue Jerusalem and the other Churches of Asia from
the power of the Muslims” (Somerville, 1972, 124)—but a translatio regni in the broadest
sense, a Mediterranean-wide movement to free the Christian world from Islamic rule and
to rebuild the Church.
The separate events and actions that make up this sweeping translatio regni—in the cen-
tral, western, and eastern Mediterranean—are in themselves dissimilar from one another in
many ways. Urban overrides all dissimilarities and focuses on the one element that unites
them: translatio regni. In doing so, he gives to these disparate events a conceptual identity
by bringing them into a network of interrelations with other events. Urban’s interpretation
of the crusades as a translatio regni does not come from a centuries-old exegetical tradi-
tion (Gabriele, 2012),16 but from an actual translatio regni already advancing across the
Mediterranean, and it is this reality that gives the Book of Daniel contemporary importance
because it is now seen to have a deeper meaning than previously thought.17
THE EXEGETE OF HISTORY

In providing a deeper meaning to the Book of Daniel by relating it to the events happening
nostris temporibus, Urban becomes an “exegete of history” (Herder, (1803) 1985–2000,
930; Hamilton, 2003, 235). He is not only an interpreter of the events of his day but also a
14
self-proclaimed “cooperator”18 in the actualization of these events. In addition, he uses his

exegetical powers to reconnect the past with the present, the Old Testament with events nos-
tris temporibus, so that the past is no longer seen as alienated from the present. There is now
nothing blocking access to the past because its meaning is now being fulfilled in the pres-
ent. Urban contends that the past is not in fact detached from the present, but is intimately
joined to it, and that the truth of the past is to be found in the present. To know the past, it
is necessary to understand the present. The translatio regni spoken of in the Book of Daniel
now takes on significance because Urban has placed it in relationship to the translatio regni
occurring in the eleventh century.
As the “exegete of history,” Urban, in Herder’s words, “looks out at what is behind and
what is before him … and becomes an interpreter, indeed a creator of the times” (rückwärts
und vor sich hinausblickt … und wird ein Ausleger, ja ein Schöpfer der Zeiten) (Herder,
(1803) 1985–2000, 930; Hamilton, 2003, 235). He not only looks for the present in the past,
but he also searches for the future in the present. “What is” is connected to “what was,”
so that the present can inform the past. In addition, “what is” is also linked to “what ought
to be,” so that the developing Mediterranean translatio regni is projected onto a future in
which the Church is to be regenerated through the recovery of ancient episcopal sees and
ecclesiastical provinces that have fallen under Muslim domination. Urban feels certain that
present efforts that have seen “the Church … enlarged, the domination of the Muslims …
reduced” and “the ancient honor of episcopal sees … restored”19 contain the seeds of the
future. These events signal a fundamental and radical change in the relations between Islam
and Christendom. They mark the close of an old epoch in which Christendom had been
under the heel of Islam and the beginning of a new epoch in which Christendom will be
reborn. Out of these events Urban maps the course of Christianity’s recovery and infuses the
crusades with an underlying worldview and an ideology that is both powerfully attractive
and inspirational.
POPE URBAN’S ESCHATOLOGICAL VISION

AND HIS MANY “CRUSADES”
In Herder’s words, Urban “shoots far out a prophetically strong shot into the heart of the
future” (Herder, (1769) 1985–2000, 794; Hamilton, 2003, 234). Yet accounts of the cru-
sades rarely do justice to Urban’s eschatological vision and his commitment to epochal
change, primarily because Urban does not fit the mold of a medieval apocalyptic thinker,
such as Gerhoh of Reichersberg (1093–1169) or Joachim of Fiore (1135–1202). He was
not at all like “those who dream by night,” who, on waking in the day, find no change in
their surroundings. Rather, he can be classified among “the dreamers of the day,” to use
T. E. Lawrence’s expression (1935, 23), who are distinguished by the fact that “they may
act their dream with open eyes, to make it possible.” Urban did not consider the Crusade of
reconquest (reconquista) and the Crusade of rebuilding the Church (restauratio) as ends in
themselves. They were linked to the Church’s mission to “proclaim the Gospel to all crea-
tion” (Mk 16:15). The Crusade of reconquest was to lead to the Crusade of regenerating the
Church; and the Crusade of rebuilding the Church was to lead to the Crusade of missionary
evangelization (dilatatio fidei). As a “dreamer of the day,” Urban was faced with coming
up with a way of achieving his many “crusades,” or interlinked movements of the crusading
enterprise. He realized that these “crusades” could not be achieved simultaneously; they
could only be achieved in succession: achieving the first “crusade” was a condition for
15
achieving the second “crusade,” and achieving the first and second “crusades” was a condi-
tion for achieving the third “crusade.”
Early in his pontificate, Urban clearly set the pattern for his many “crusades,” when
he promoted a policy of Muslim conversion upon the recovery of an ancient see. In 1088,
Urban took action both “to restore the original authority of the Church of Toledo” and to
fulfill the mission of the Church to “make disciples of all nations” (Mt 28:19). He restored
the archiepiscopal see of newly reconquered Toledo to ecclesiastical primacy within Iberia
and directed its incumbent Archbishop Bernard of Sédirac, himself a former Cluniac
monk, to undertake a program of conversion: “With warm affection we exhort you, rever-
end brother, that you live worthy of so high and honored a pontificate, taking care always
not to give offense to Christians or to Muslims; strive by word and example, God help-
ing, to convert the infidels [i.e., the Muslims] to the faith.”20 Urban was following in the
footsteps of his predecessor Pope Gregory VII (r. 1073–85), who had previously promoted
conversionary activities in Sicily, Iberia, and North Africa (Kedar, 1988, 44–57), and had
directly linked the crusade indulgence to the apostolic mission of the Church when he com-
manded Archbishop Arnald of Acerenza to grant Count Roger d’Hauteville (1031–1101)
remission of his sins and to do the same for “his knights, who [were] about to fight with
him against the pagans (i.e., the Muslims) [in Sicily],” which required that Roger and
his knights receive the Sacrament of Penance and that Roger “keep himself from capi-
tal offences and … seek to spread the worship of the Christian name among the pagans
(i.e., the Muslims)” (Chevedden, 2005b, 292; 2010, 216; see also Kedar, 1988, 49–50).21
One of the principal concerns of Pope Urban was to demonstrate the continuity of cru-
sading with the history of the Church and God’s plan for salvation. This meant above all
seeing the crusades as playing a part in fulfilling the ultimate mission of the Church of mak-
ing disciples through the preaching of the Gospel.22 Why Urban’s concern for the apostolic
mission of the Church should not figure prominently in his extant letters dealing with the
Jerusalem Crusade is perhaps best explained by his tripartite division of crusading activity.
If conversion was to be achieved in an effective and enduring manner, it had to be pursued as
part of a coherent overall crusading program. The stages that make up crusade—reconquest,
restoration, and evangelization—could not all be achieved at once, but only in some sequen-
tial progression over time. So it is not surprising that Urban paid no heed to conversion in his
appeals “to liberate the Churches of the East” (ad liberationem Orientalium ecclesiarum).23
Only after Jerusalem was recovered and restored did evangelization enter the picture.
Archbishop Anselm of Canterbury (c. 1033–1109) is the first to speak of evangelization as a
crusading goal of the Jerusalem enterprise. In his letter to Baldwin I, following his corona-
tion as the first king of Jerusalem (r. 1100–18), Anselm uses language that strongly echoes
Urban’s own view of crusading. He praises God for having raised Baldwin
to the dignity of king in that country in which our Lord Jesus Christ Himself, having
initiated the beginnings of Christianity, has reestablished (novam plantavit) His Church,
which, because of the sins of men, had been, by the judgment of God, long oppressed
by the infidels (i.e., the Muslims) there; but which, by His mercy, has in our time been
so wonderfully raised to life again (resuscitavit), so that it might be spread from there
throughout the whole world.24
The history of Jerusalem is laid out according to the same historical pattern that Urban first
identified at Toledo, except for the fact that reconquest and restoration are combined under
16
a single rubric: reestablishment of the Church. Yoked to the recovery of the Church is a final
stage that has not been identified thus far as part of Urban’s historical schema: the resump-
tion of the mission of the Church. Anselm’s version of Urban’s schema may be summarized
as follows: (1) “the beginnings of Christianity” in Palestine initiated by “our Lord Jesus
Christ Himself,” then (2) “oppress[ion] by the infidels there” of the Church “because of the
sins of men,” then (3) reestablishment of the Church there, and finally (4) the “spread [of
the Church] from there throughout the whole world.”
For Urban, as for Anselm, the Crusade of battle, the Crusade of rebuilding the Church,
and the Crusade of evangelization were all conjoined activities. As these churchmen saw
it, reconquest and restoration were means towards the ultimate goal of evangelizing the
world. Another Church leader with whom Urban had strong ties and who shared Anselm’s
excitement about the new opportunities presented by the crusades for the evangelization of
the world was Hugh of Semur, abbot of the great monastery of Cluny in Burgundy from
1049 until his death in 1109 (Hunt, 1967; Cowdrey, 1970b, 183–85; 1973; Kohnle, 1993;
Constable, 2008). Hugh was at the forefront of the “evangelical awakening” (Chenu, 1979,
202–69; Constable, 1982, 53–56; 1996, 156–59)25 at its birth during the second half of the
eleventh century and promoted the new missionary enterprise to the Islamic world (Dunlop,
1952; Cutler, 1963, 1968; Turki, 1966; Hunt, 1967, 149; Cowdrey, 1978, 146–47; 1970a,
240–45; Kedar, 1988, 44–47, 55, 84; Kohnle, 1993, 38–39, 94–95, 227–29, 275; Constable,
2008, 191; Sarrió Cucarella, 2012). Hugh’s interest in converting Muslims was doubtless
known to, and most certainly shared by, the future Pope Urban II, who was prior of Cluny
under Hugh from about 1070 to 1080 and who maintained his ties to Cluny after becoming
a cardinal and, later, pope.
Hugh presided over the building of the largest church in Europe at the time, the great
third church at Cluny, and served as a leading participant in the Council of Clermont (1095),
which called for a crusading “march” (iter) to Jerusalem “to liberate the Church of God”
in the East.26 He, just like Urban and Anselm, placed the Crusade of evangelization in the
context of the broader parameters of the crusading movement, and viewed the Crusade of
reconquest, the Crusade of rebuilding the Church, and the Crusade of evangelization not
only as interrelated phenomena but also as interpenetrating phenomena. Hugh incorporated
these ideas into the decorative program of the Cluniac chapel of Berzé-la-Ville, located in
Burgundy mid-way between Cluny and Mâcon (Chevedden, 2011, 281–88, 320–29). While
a discussion still rages regarding who oversaw the actual execution of all the interior paint-
ings of the chapel—Hugh or his successor, Pons de Melgueil (1109–22)—there is little
doubt that the choice of the decorative program was made by Hugh (Wettstein, 1971–78,
1:77; Lapina, 2005, 311–12). Its overall purpose is to show the Crusade of reconquest, the
Crusade of rebuilding the Church, and the Crusade of evangelization in mutual dependence
and correlation (Figure 2.1).27
Benjamin Kedar (1988) posits a sharp distinction between crusading as “Europe’s coun-
teroffensive against the realm of Islam” (41) and “crusading for the advancement of mis-
sions” (159), the immediate consequence of which is that crusade and mission are each
assigned their separate domain, so that they cannot interact. To forge a bridge between the
two, Kedar constructs a scenario whereby crusading needed some development outside
itself to bring it into harmony with the apostolic mission of the Church. The “mechanism”
of change that brought about the union of crusade and mission, according to Kedar, was a
growing emphasis within the Latin West on preaching to fellow Christians, which, even-
tually, by the middle of the twelfth century, turned outward and found a new destiny in
17
Figure 2.1 The priory chapel of Berzé-la-Ville (Saône-et-Loire), France: general view
of the mural paintings decorating the apse (early twelfth century). These paintings, which
give visual expression to crusading as a series of interlinked movements of reconquest, restoration,
and evangelization, represent the earliest artistic effort to articulate the ideology of the crusades
(Chevedden, 2011, 281–88, 320–29). With permission of the Académie de Mâcon.
Photograph © Scala / Art Resource, NY.
“preaching to the Muslims” (134). This reconstruction is a masterpiece of ingenuity and

invention, but it fails to account for how contemporaries of the crusades understood the
relationship between crusade and mission. As the crusades gathered momentum in the latter
half of the eleventh century, hope for Islam’s conversion was at the same moment being
strongly asserted. The popular religious thought of the day was passionately concerned
with converting Muslims. This finds its literary expression in the first heroic epic poetry of
Europe, the chansons de geste, which speak of Muslims converting both collectively and
individually (Burns, (1971), 1386; 1984, 81; Kedar, 1988, 68–70). Pope Urban, Anselm of
Canterbury, and Hugh of Cluny were no bystanders to these currents of thought but active
18
promoters of conversionist efforts. To them, crusade and mission were natural companions.
No mysterious harmony needed to be created between crusade and mission. The concept of
mission was not external to the concept of crusade, imposed upon it from outside, but was
integral to crusade, part of its fundamental nature.
CRUSADING IDEOLOGY: A GUIDE, NOT

A STRAITJACKET, FOR ACTION
Although Urban may not have been the originator of the crusades, he certainly must be
credited with having systematized and refined a theory and an ideology of the crusades. As a
theory, translatio regni explains the crusades; as an ideology, it provides a guide for action.
It is both a theoretical and a practical principle, offering an explanation of the experience
of crusading and a stimulus and a framework for guiding crusading action. Pope Gregory
VII planted the seeds for this theory and ideology,28 and Urban extended this theory and
ideology and gave it a Mediterranean-wide scope. Yet for all of its power to inspire and gal-
vanize political action, crusading theory and ideology never functioned as a straitjacket that
bound the Latin West to “an aggressive war of religion for the expansion of Christendom”
in which “religion itself provided the specific cause of war, unencumbered by the considera-
tions of public welfare, territorial defense, national honor, or interests of sate” (Erdmann,
1935, 1, 7–8/1977, 3, 10). Crusading did not operate autonomously, unrelated to political,
social, economic, and military circumstances. Crusading theory and ideology certainly gave
to the immemorial struggle with Islam a new sense of purpose and design, but the rulers of
Western Christendom that undertook to undo the Muslim occupation of former Christian
territories and rebuild a subjugated Church performed their task, not only to serve the inter-
ests of wider Christendom but also to serve their own interests. These rulers contributed to
the common war with Islam in unequal measure, depending on their own relations with the
Islamic world and their own political ambitions. Whenever they did engage in crusading,
they did so on their own terms. When their interests conflicted with the papacy, they could
hold out with remarkable stubbornness, by passive, as well as by blatant, opposition.
By ceding no role whatsoever to the papacy or the hierarchical Church in establishing
the crusades, other than as a “cooperator in the works of God and the proclaimer of God’s
will regarding the translatio regni and the restauratio of religion and the Church” (Becker,
1964–2012, 2:357), Pope Urban accentuates with the greatest emphasis the part played by
Christian rulers of the Latin West in initiating the crusades. This is not an eccentric view
but the shared sentiment of many contemporaries of Urban, which finds its literary mani-
festation in the most famous medieval crusading epic, The Song of Roland. In this greatest
of all medieval epic poems, crusading is presented as a royal, not a papal, enterprise (La
Chanson de Roland).29 What this indicates is that the crusades arose and took root because
these wars pertained to important interests of newly emerging European polities, whether
in the form of Italian maritime city-states, such as Genoa, Pisa, and Venice, or in the form
of larger territorial entities, such as Norman South Italy, or various Catalan counties that
would gradually be brought under the rule of the count of Barcelona, or the recently minted
kingdoms of Aragon and León-Castile, or the Cid’s principality of Valencia (1094–1102).
Much of the impetus for the crusades can be traced to the realm of politics in terms of the
rise of Christian polities and the expansion of Christendom, rather than to the realm of
religion, as the word “religion” is understood nowadays, in a privatized and individualized
way (Riley-Smith, 1997, 75; 2000, 20; 2001, 135; 2005a, 555; 2005b, xxx–xxxi; 2008, 33;
19
2009b, 58; 2014, 19), not a public way (Burns, 1989a, 127; 1989b, 100). Over the course of
the eleventh century, Christian powers seized the opportunity both to deliver a counterat-
tack against Islam and to create, or further expand, independent political realms in regions
that had been lost to Christendom. In such circumstances, it is easy to see why these powers
promoted crusading and the concept that sustained it: translatio regni. The crusades were
driven by political realities rather than by ideology. Yet ideology played a key role in giving
political coherence to the crusading movement, and Pope Urban was instrumental in mak-
ing the crusading enterprise an ideologically and politically coherent movement.
Following his celebrated call for a crusade in 1095 “to liberate the Churches of the East,”
Urban soon feared that this expedition would “[pull] the whole [crusading] enterprise in this
one direction” (Mayer, 2005, 20; see also O’Callaghan, 2003, 33), that is, toward Jerusalem,
to the detriment of crusading fronts elsewhere. Urban foresaw the disastrous consequences
of Iberia becoming the “forgotten front,” the Burma of the crusading enterprise. If the
Jerusalem Crusade were considered to be the one and only expression of crusading, such a
narrow and myopic vision of the crusading enterprise would endanger Christendom by put-
ting at risk the “Churches [in Iberia] suffering from the incursions of the Muslims.”30 If the
Jerusalem campaign became the sole supreme model for crusading, then crusading would
have value only insofar as it was pursued to liberate the Eastern Churches. And if crusading
consisted solely of acting to aid Eastern Christendom, then the Islamic threat in the broader
Mediterranean region would not be addressed.
Urban believed that he could avoid these undesirable consequences by considering the
war with Islam in its full range, across the entire Mediterranean, rather than viewing it as
a series of discrete campaigns unrelated to one another. Accordingly, he promoted a com-
prehensive approach to the crusades that recognized the need to maintain pressure against
Islam in both the western and the eastern Mediterranean. When a number of Catalan counts
and their knights were contemplating joining the expedition “to aid the Churches of Asia
and to liberate their brothers from the tyranny of the Muslims,” Urban admonished them in
a letter (c. July 1096), saying, “if anyone of you plans to go to Asia, let him try to fulfill the
desire of his devotion here [in Iberia].” The pope begged and commanded them, “for the
sake of the city and Church of Tarragona … to carry out its restoration in every way,” and
he affirmed the Mediterranean-wide focus of crusading in the bluntest of terms: “it is no
feat of valor to liberate Christians from Muslims in one place [i.e., in Asia] only to deliver
Christians to Muslim tyranny and oppression in another place [i.e., in Iberia].”31 Urban’s
broader vision of crusading is also on display in the spring of 1099, when, as Erdmann
recounts, “Archbishop Bernard of Toledo appeared in Rome … wishing to proceed from
there to Syria to join the crusading army.” Instead of being commended for his action, the
pope absolved the prelate of his crusading vow and sent him home, because, as Erdmann
explains, “the pope did not wish the Spaniards to take less heed for the church of their own
land than for that of the East” (Erdmann, 1935, 295/1977, 318; see also Becker, 1964–2012,
1:230, 2:381; O’Callaghan, 2003, 34).
PAPAL PARTICIPATION IN THE CRUSADES:

A STEP-BY-STEP DEVELOPMENT
Urban’s prominent role in the Jerusalem Crusade was not at all indicative of the papa-
cy’s participation in the crusades from the beginning. For example, the Norman assault
on Islamic Sicily, starting in the late fall of 1060 with a reconnaissance operation in the
20
north-eastern corner of the island, gives no sign of papal direction or leadership in the
enterprise. To the contrary, the direct evidence seems to suggest that the initiative behind
the Norman undertaking came from Robert Guiscard. The title that he gives to himself in
his oath to Pope Nicholas II at Melfi in August 1059, “future Duke of Sicily” (dux … futurus
Sicilie), indicates, according to Graham Loud (2007, 138), that “the invasion of Sicily was
already contemplated [by Guiscard], and hence the return of the island to Christian rule.”32
Regardless of the limited role that the papacy exercised in Guiscard’s venture at its outset,
beyond papal authorization of the project, this role soon grew.
In 1063, following the Norman victory at the critical Battle of Cerami in the Sicilian
interior fifteen miles north-west of Troina, Pope Alexander II (r. 1061–73) granted a
crusade indulgence to the participants in the Sicilian enterprise (Geoffrey Malaterra, De
rebus gestis, 44–45 [II.33]; trans. Wolf, Deeds, 111; Erdmann, 1935, 125/1977, 138–39;
Chevedden, 2010, 214–16). In the same year, Pope Alexander also granted a crusade indul-
gence to Christian warriors setting off for Iberia on a campaign against the Muslim frontier
town of Barbastro (Loewenfeld, (1885) 1959, 43 (no. 82); Chevedden, 2005b, 277–86;
2006, 134–35; 2010, 193, 214–16). The most detailed account of the Barbastro Crusade
(1064–65), written by Ibn Ḥayyān (377–469/987 or 988–1076), identifies its senior leader
as “the commander of the papal mounted army” (qāʾid khayl rūmah),33 and Amatus of
Montecassino identifies this individual as the Norman adventurer Robert Crispin (Storia,
13–14 (I.5); trans. Dunbar, History, 46–47).34 Whether the term qāʾid khayl rūmah can
be equated with the Latin title romani exercitus princeps militiae (“the commander of the
papal army”), as Dozy (1881, 2:351) believed, it is Ibn Ḥayyān’s thoroughgoing contention
that the papacy, spearheaded by its Norman allies, played the dominant role in the Barbastro
Crusade. This crusade was followed up “in the next decades by a series of similar under-
takings,” that included, according to Erdmann, the “bands of crusaders, especially from
France,” that rushed to aid Alfonso VI in the fight against the North African Almoravids
(al-Murābiṭūn), who intervened in al-Andalus to bolster Islam’s rapidly deteriorating posi-
tion, due to Castile’s conquest of Toledo. “The severe defeat suffered by the Christians,”
at the battle of Sagrajas (Zallāqah), near Badajoz (Baṭalyūs), in 479/1086, Erdmann con-
tends, provided “new stimulus to the idea of a Spanish crusade” (Spanienkreuzzuges). In
the following year, “substantial contingents of knights reached Spain from various parts
of France under high-placed leadership,” and “these knights continued to attribute to the
Moorish war the crusading character it had had in the Barbastro campaign” (Erdmann,
1935, 267–68/1977, 288).
The papacy played a crucial part in providing new stimulus to crusading in Iberia. To
shore up Christian defenses in the peninsula, Pope Urban issued a crusade bull on 1 July
1089 to Catalan nobles and bishops and urged them to rebuild Tarragona (Ṭarrakūnah) so
that it might “be celebrated as a concentric system of defense (in murum et antemurale)
against the Muslims for the Christian people,” offering to all those who heeded his call
“the same indulgence that they would gain if they had undertaken the long journey [to
Jerusalem or to some other (pilgrimage) site].”35 In the early 1090s, the crusading vow was
first made compulsory upon those taking part in the Tarragona Crusade (Villanueva and
Lorenzo Villanueva, 1821, 326–29, Appendix 39, nos. 1–2; McCrank, 1974, 255–56, 280–
81 nn30–34; 1978, 162). As the Tarragona enterprise was slowly evolving, the Almoravids
were busy methodically obliterating one Muslim ṭāʾifah state after another in al-Andalus.
This development prompted the Castilian nobleman and military leader Rodrigo Díaz de
Vivar to capture Valencia in Jumādá I 487/June 1094.
21
RODRIGO DÍAZ DE VIVAR (EL CID): CRUSADER

PRINCE AND “PROPAGATOR OF THE FAITH”
Known to history and legend by the honorific title El Cid, Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar (c. 1043–99)
continues to be an enigmatic figure (Figure 2.2). History seems to cast him in the role of a free-
booter and a soldier of fortune, while legend has made him the quintessential Christian hero
and crusading warrior. Historians mostly prefer an either/or choice between these two contrast-
ing images, but it is obvious that both characterizations of Rodrigo are equally valid. The con-
tinuing debate over which image is the correct one—Christian hero (Menéndez Pidal, 1969)
or military adventurer (Dozy, 1881, 2:1–233; Wasserstein, 1985, 148, 262–64; Linehan, 1987;
Fletcher, 1987, 36; 1989; 2004, 72–73, 86, 89, 92; Catlos, 2004, 76–78; 2014a, 10, 69–123,
148, 319–20; Purkis, 2010, 445; Hitchcock, 2014, 130–33)—and recent efforts to judiciously
strike a balance between the two (Martin, 2007; Barton, 2011) overlook a very important part
of Rodrigo’s diverse and complex career: his role as a crusading ruler, during the years 1094
to 1099, when he exercised sovereign power over the principality of Valencia. Like Robert
Guiscard d’Hauteville (c. 1015–85), who legitimized control over lands to which he had no
rightful claim by gaining papal recognition in 1059 of his sovereignty over Apulia, Calabria,
and Islamic Sicily,36 Rodrigo also consolidated his hold on the greater part of the former ṭāʾifah
of Valencia by obtaining papal recognition of his sovereignty over this territory. The document
that confirms this is the endowment charter that Rodrigo granted in 1098 to the newly restored
cathedral of Valencia and its newly installed bishop, Jerome of Périgord. Although it is the
only document that the Cid put in writing that has survived, and contains his own autograph
subscription (lines 34–35), it has received surprisingly little attention (Figure 2.3).37
Figure 2.2 Charlton Heston in a publicity still for the 1961 Anthony Mann film El Cid, in which
he played the title role. By permission of the Heston Family Trust. © AF archive / Alamy
22
Figure 2.3 The endowment charter issued by Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar in 1098 to the cathedral of
Valencia and its bishop, Jerome of Périgord. It presents Rodrigo as the independent ruler
of the Christian principality of Valencia, and it applies Pope Urban II’s fourfold schema of
Christian history to Valencia. Salamanca, Archivo Diocesano, caja 43, legajo 2, no. 72. See:
http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Dotación_del_Cid_a_la_catedral_de_Valencia_1098.jpg
http://es-la.dbpedia.org/page/resource/Jerónimo_de_Perigord
23
There is no trace in this document of Rodrigo Díaz as the unscrupulous adventurer, who
is willing to offer his services to Muslim and Christian alike. Instead, what we find are the
basic elements of Pope Urban’s crusading vision and the part played by Rodrigo in this
vision. Rodrigo is presented as an independent ruler, with the titles princeps (prince) and
campidoctor (Sp. Campeador = victor), whose authority is underwritten by God Himself.
The preamble, or introduction, of the document establishes Rodrigo’s right to rule by invok-
ing the principle of God’s sovereignty over the kingdoms of the world, the primary principle
that is the source and origin of the idea of translatio regni, as well as other translatio-based
concepts, such as translatio imperii (transfer of empire), translatio legis (transfer of the
Law (from Moses to Christ, and from Christ to his two chief apostles, Peter and Paul)),
translatio religionis (transfer of religion (from Judaism to Christianity)), and translatio
studii (transfer of knowledge and learning). The preamble begins with a general statement:
Although no one among the Catholic people doubts that the divine presence is power-
fully manifested everywhere, it is read nonetheless that the Almighty has chosen certain
places over others to show mercy to those who are faithful to Him.38
This declaration is then set within the larger framework of the history of salvation, beginning
with “the transformation of priesthood and kingship” (sacerdotium regnumque mutatum est),
described in Augustine’s The City of God, and continuing through to the contemporary deeds
of the Cid. God’s shift of the priestly lineage of ancient Israel from Eli to Samuel, and God’s
changes in rulership from priestly judges to kings, and in kings, from Saul to David, coupled
with the change in the center of cultic worship from Shiloh to Jerusalem, all have a function
within the divine purpose of establishing the eternal priesthood and kingship of Christ (De civi-
tate Dei, 17.4–8; trans. Dyson, City of God, 770–93) by which God’s universal plan of salvation
is fulfilled. These changes would eventually lead to the Old Testament hope that the temple of
Jerusalem would one day become the center of worship for all the nations (Ps 77 (78):68–69;
Isa 2:2–3; 56:6–7; Zech 8:20–23) and the Christian understanding that Christ’s “own body,
first destroyed and then raised from the dead is to be the true Temple, the house of prayer for
all the nations” (Barrett 1978, 195; see also Mk 11:17, 14:58; Jn 2:19, 21; Mt 26:61). The Old
Testament hope and the New Testament realization of that hope are founded upon God’s pre-
conceived plan of redemption for all people made possible by the primordial sovereignty of God:
When the Israelite people had become dominated by the rites of their law, and the tab-
ernacle of Shiloh, where God had dwelt among men, had been rejected [by God] (Ps 77
(78):60; Jer 7:12–14) on account of the wickedness of the sons of Eli (1 Sam 2:12–26),
He founded on Mount Zion (Ps 77 (78):68–69) a house of prayer for all the nations (Isa
56:7; Mk 11:17). At the consecration of this temple, in order to strengthen the hearts of the
simple, the glory of the Lord plainly appeared in a cloud (3 Kings (1 Kings) 8:10–12), and
He who had conceived of this beforehand assigned sovereignty to God (Ps 21:29 (22:28),
61:12 (62:11); Zech 14:9; Rom 9:5; 1 Tim 6:14–15) to endure forever (2 Sam 7:16; Ps
44:7 (45:6); Isa 9:7; Dan 2:44; 3:100 (4:3); 4:31 (34); 6:26; 7:14; Lk 1:32–33; Heb 1:8; De
civitate Dei, 17.6, 8, 12, 16; trans. Dyson, City of God, 785–86, 790–93, 800, 804–07).39
God’s sovereignty extends over all the nations on earth, and these nations, the preamble
emphasizes, will ultimately join in the worship of God, because the coming of Christ into
the world has inaugurated “the fullness of time” (Gal 4:4; Eph 1:7–10), the eschatological
age in which the Old Testament prophecies are fulfilled in the person and work of Christ
24
and “the full number of the Gentiles” (Rom 11:25) are brought to the worship of God by
being united in “spiritual marriage” (De civitate Dei, 17.16; trans. Dyson, City of God, 805;
Jensen 2012, 197, 199, 200) in baptism to Jesus Christ, “their Bridegroom and Redeemer”:
But with the fullness of time (Gal 4:4; Eph 1:10; cf. Mk 1:15) coming, truth has sprung
up from the earth (Ps 84:12 (85:11); Augustine, En. Ps. 84:13), the iniquity of the Jews
has deceived itself (Ps 26 (27):12), and the full number of the Gentiles (Rom 11:25),
entering into the bridal chamber of their Bridegroom (Ps 18:6 (19:5); Mt 25:1–13; Mk
2:19–20; Jn 3:28–29) and Redeemer (Job 19:25; Ps 18:15 (19:14); 77 (78):35; Is 41:14;
43:14; 44:6, 24; 47:4; 48:17; 49:7, 26; 54:5, 8; 59:20; 60:16; 63:16; Jer 50:34; Lam 3:58;
Rom 3:24; 1 Cor 1:30; Gal 3:13; Titus 2:14; Apc 5:9), are redeemed. That doubtless the
Holy Spirit has foretold [and] was made manifest in the prophecy of Malachi: From the
rising of the sun to its setting My name is great among the nations, and in every place
incense is offered to My name, and a pure offering (Mal 1:11).40
Having established that all the nations will one day be united under the worship of one
God, as the Psalmist and the Prophets predicted (Ps 21:28 (22:27); 85 (86):9; Isa 45:22–23;
66:18–23; Jer 3:17; Zech 2:11; 8:20–23), the preamble describes how the followers of
Christ brought the message of the Gospel to the Gentile world:
Once Jewish faithlessness (Rom 3:1–3) was rejected, as it ought to have been, the sound
of apostolic preaching went forth from Zion in the east to the ends of the earth, and filled
the whole of Iberia in the west. Iberia, soundly instructed in the worship of God by most
learned teachers, with superstitions cast aside and errors rooted out, meeting no resist-
ance, remained at peace for a long time.41
At this point, the preamble jumps ahead to the Islamic overthrow of Visigothic rule in
Iberia, and, in the same way that Augustine had argued that the rise of “great evils” in Rome
was due to “the prosperous condition of things” (De civitate Dei, 1.30; trans. Dyson, City of
God, 45), the preamble assumes an inverse relationship between prosperity and virtue and
blames the triumph of Islam over the Visigoths on the “wickedness” and “idleness” that
emerged out of the prosperity that God had lavished upon Iberian Christians:
But as soon as adversity departed altogether, as a gift from God, and was followed by
as much prosperity as could be desired, charity grew cold [and] wickedness abounded
(Mt 24:12); and, by pursuing idleness (Ezek 16:49), oblivious of the terrible judgment
of God, Iberia suffered sudden destruction (1 Thess 5:3), and the splendor of worldly
rule together with that of the Church was completely overthrown by the cruel sword of
the sons of Hagar (i.e., the Muslims); and, he, who had been as a free man unwilling to
serve the Lord of lords (1 Tim 6:14–15; Apc 17:14; 19:16), was compelled by authority
to become a slave of those who are slaves by nature.42
Islamic subjugation lasted for a considerable time, but God interceded in the end and gave
to Iberia a deliverer:
After nearly four hundred years following this calamity, the most merciful Father
deigned to take pity on His people, and He raised up the most invincible prince Rodrigo
the Campeador to be the avenger of the disgrace of His servants and the propagator of
the Christian faith (christiane religionis propagatorem).43 And he, after many famous
25
victories in battle, accomplished through divine assistance, captured the very wealthy
city of Valencia, with its vast riches and abundance of inhabitants. Furthermore, after
defeating a large army made up of Almoravids and barbarians from all of Iberia in an
incredibly short space of time and without harm to himself, he dedicated to God as a
church the [main] mosque [of Valencia city] that the Hagarenes (i.e., the Muslims) had
used as a house of prayer, and he granted the abovementioned church, with the following
endowment from his own assets, to the venerable priest Jerome, who was consecrated
bishop by the hands of the Roman Pope, [upon being] unanimously and canonically
acclaimed and elected, and who was elevated [to this position] by an exemption under a
special privilege (specialis privilegii libertate).44

It is only after this lengthy preamble that the endowment clause of the charter begins, giving
the particulars of the properties assigned to the cathedral, but even here we are reminded
that temporal authority derives from God, and, by implication, that Rodrigo’s authority too
comes from God and is sanctioned by God. Particularly noteworthy is a direct appeal to the
Book of Daniel to indicate that rulers are beholden to God for their sovereignty:
In the year 1098 of the Incarnation of the Lord, I, Rodrigo the Campeador, and my com-
manders, as well as the people whom God has entrusted to my power for as long as it
pleases Him, give to our Redeemer—who alone has sovereignty over the kingdom of
mortals and gives it to whom He will (Dan 4:14, 22, 29 (17, 25, 32); cf. 5:21)—and to
our Mother Church of Valencia and our venerable pastor, Bishop Jerome, the village of
Picassent, with its farms, lands, and vineyards, cultivated and uncultivated, together with
its trees of various sorts and all that belongs to it in any way.45
The charter, at this point, records other properties included in the endowment, followed by
threats of anathema for non-compliance with the charter, Rodrigo’s autograph subscription
(“I, Rodrigo, together with my wife, confirm what is written above”),46 the names of a num-
ber of witnesses, and, finally, the scribe’s name.
The endowment charter of 1098 does, of course, serve the obvious purpose of providing
the Cathedral of Valencia with properties for its material upkeep, but it also serves to establish
and underwrite the Cid’s legitimacy as an independent ruler of the principality of Valencia. In
fact, the charter is a bold attempt to create a political foundation for the Cid’s rulership based
completely upon the principle of God’s sovereignty over earthly powers and authorities. That
is why Pope Urban’s fourfold schema of Christian history is presented in the most explicit
and complete form found in any eleventh-century document, with the Cid incorporated into
this schema. In addition, this schema is itself embedded in the wider framework of “the trans-
formation of priesthood and kingship brought about by the new and everlasting priest-king
Who is Christ Jesus” (De civitate Dei, 17.4; trans. Dyson, City of God, 770), which directly
relates the Cid’s exploits to the propagation of the Christian faith through the reestablishment
of the Valencian Church. The basic tenet undergirding both translatio sacerdotii (change of
the priesthood) and translatio regni is the same: “the Almighty has chosen certain places over
others to show mercy to those who are faithful to Him.”
After linking translatio sacerdotii and translatio regni in the priesthood and kingship
of Christ, the charter shows the working of God’s purpose of salvation in the history of
the Christian people, with particular reference to Iberia and Valencia. In the first stage
of history, Iberia is Christianized and enjoys peace and prosperity. In the second stage, a
“calamity” befalls Iberia and “the splendor of worldly rule together with that of the Church
26
[is] completely overthrown by the cruel sword of the sons of Hagar.” In the third stage,
God raises up “the most invincible prince Rodrigo the Campeador to be the avenger of the
disgrace of His servants and the propagator of the Christian faith,” who succeeds in winning
“many famous victories in battle, accomplished through divine assistance,” and “captur[ing]
the . . . city of Valencia.” And in the fourth stage, Rodrigo consecrates for Christian use the
main mosque (jāmiʿ) of Valencia city and reestablishes the Church of Valencia by restoring
the cathedral and creating a new ecclesiastical apparatus for his realms.
THE VALENCIA–ROME CRUSADING AXIS

What is significant in the endowment charter of 1098 is that Pope Urban is associated
directly with it. In the long preamble, he is designated as “the Roman Pope” (romani pon-
tificis); in the endowment part of the document, he is mentioned under his name, Pope
Urban II (Urbano papa secundo).47 In both instances, the pope is linked to an act which of
itself appears of trivial importance: Bishop Jerome’s direct papal consecration by reason
of an exemption privilege. The exemption privilege is not spelled out in so many words,
but it can be inferred from the reference to Jerome’s consecration by the pope. Personal
consecration by the pope was one of the key mechanisms by which a bishopric was made
directly subject to the Holy See and outside the administrative structure of a metropolitan
province (Loud, 2007, 201–2).48 The significance of Pope Urban personally consecrating
Jerome can now be understood. In 1088, the pope had confirmed that the see of Valencia,
then in Muslim hands, was under the jurisdiction of the archbishop of Toledo. Valencia,
however, had been conquered by the Cid, who “[had] prayed to God, Our Lord, to give it to
me,” and, as “a man who has never possessed a kingdom,” he now wanted to be “master”
over that which “God gave me the grace to conquer.”49 Not only that, the Cid had political
ambitions that stretched far beyond Sharq al-Andalus (eastern Islamic Iberia), and included
all al-Andalus.
Contemporary Andalusī historians Ibn ʿAlqamah (428–509/1037–1116) and Ibn Bassām
(d. 543/1147) both remark on the scope of the Cid’s territorial desiderata. Ibn ʿAlqamah
says that the Cid declared that he would force the other rulers of al-Andalus to submit to his
authority, and that “just as King Rodrigo [i.e., Roderic, the last Visigothic king of Hispania]
(r. 710–711), who was lord of al-Andalus without being of royal lineage, yet was king and
reigned, so he too would reign and be the second King Rodrigo.”50 Ibn Bassām records that
“someone told me that he heard [the Cid] say, when his ambition was at its height and his
greed was relentless: ‘On account of a Rudharīq [Roderic, i.e., the last Visigothic king of
Hispania], this Peninsula was laid open to invasion, and a Rudharīq [Rodrigo, i.e., El Cid]
will take it back.’”51 Before such dreams could begin to take shape, the Cid had first to gain
sovereignty over the principality of Valencia and that required freeing the Valencian Church
from foreign manipulation. Although Toledo had a better claim to the see of Valencia than
did the Cid, the Cid could not maintain his independence in Valencia if he were to allow so
important a vassal as the Valencian bishop to fall under the control of Castile. He therefore
requested that Pope Urban make the Valencian see directly subject to the Holy See, so
that Valencia would have its own separate ecclesiastical organization, independent of the
archbishopric of Toledo. Bishop Jerome’s personal consecration by the pope indicates that
the pope granted this request, which put Valencia’s ecclesiastical establishment under the
Cid’s vassal, Bishop Jerome, and placed the Valencian Church under the watchful eye of
Valencia’s new master, who functioned now both as an autonomous temporal ruler and as
27
an independent religious sovereign endowed directly by God with transcendent obligations

for his interwoven political and religious realms.
This concession by the pope not only reveals the means by which the Cid consolidated
his position as the independent ruler of the principality of Valencia, but also establishes the
pope as a “cooperator” in the Cid’s drive for independence. The Cid had taken the most
active role in refounding and redeveloping the Church of Valencia, and Pope Urban amply
rewarded him by granting Valencia ecclesiastical independence from Castile, which served
to secure the sovereignty of the new ruler.52 For the Cid, the papal grant of exemption from
the ecclesiastical jurisdiction of Toledo was a means of converting the practical sovereignty
of the new Christian principality of Valencia into a genuine sovereignty. For the pope, it
signaled a new way of thinking about the crusades. In 1088, it seemed possible for the pope
to envision a unified crusade against the Muslims in Iberia under the leadership of Castile.53
Even Castile’s disastrous defeat at the battle of Zallāqah in 479/1086 by the Almoravids
was not sufficient reason to lay aside such a strategy, since the North African state did not
initially intend to establish a permanent presence in Iberia. Its interventions in 479/1086
and 481/1088 were followed by withdrawal, which afforded Castile the chance to recover,
“as if the victory at Zallāqa had never been won” (Kennedy, 1996, 164). It is only when the
Almoravids, beginning in 483/1090, substituted their strategy of periodic engagement in
Iberia with one of territorial expansion in the peninsula, sending Castilian forces in retreat,
that Pope Urban abandoned his strategic assumptions of 1088 and did his utmost to aid
other Christian powers in Iberia in conflicts against the Muslims. His constant urging in
the 1090s of Catalan counts to reconquer and repopulate Tarragona,54 his jubilation at the
recovery of Huesca by King Peter I of Aragon (1094–1104) in 1096,55 and his support of the
Cid’s independent Valencian principality are all part of a concerted effort to champion rul-
ers whose deeds indicate that they have been raised up by God as liberators of the Christian
people and as propagators of the Christian faith, understood broadly to mean Christian
princes engaged in the recovery of ancient sees and ecclesiastical provinces.
The endowment charter of 1098 gives us insight into Urban’s understanding of the cru-
sades. The document presupposes a connection between the Valencian translatio from
Islamic to Christian rule and a network of interrelations with other events of the same kind,
such that the translatio achieved by the Cid can take on a conceptual identity only in so far
as it is brought into this network of interrelations to other similar events. Neither the Cid’s
crusading deeds nor the crusading nature of his principality of Valencia can be determined
in isolation of other crusading deeds and events. And the specific content of the Cid’s cru-
sading acts is not the starting point but the end point of the conceptual process by which
one can postulate the existence of crusading phenomena. The starting point is a unify-
ing principle by which certain events are connected and held together, so that the specific
character of crusading, whether in Valencia or elsewhere, becomes known only when it
is understood in relationship to this unifying principle and to other events whose identity
is determined by this principle. For Urban, the unifying principle of the crusades, which
governs and connects all crusades together, is translatio regni, the transfer of power from
Islam to Christianity, expressing the sovereignty of God. As Urban looks upon the Cid’s
actions in taking Valencia and in reestablishing Christian dominion there, he recognizes a
translatio from Islamic to Christian rule and, in response, becomes actively involved as a
“cooperator” in this endeavor. The key players in the crusading enterprise were the “princes
chosen by God” (Becker, 1964–2012, 2:354), such as the Cid, who acted as agents of God’s
sovereignty on earth and exercised dominion in His name.
28
CRUSADER SOVEREIGN OR ṬĀʾIFAH KING?

The Cid was not “a sort of taifa ruler of Valencia” (Smith, 1983, 50) or a founder of “a per-
sonal taifa kingdom” (Cobb, 2014, 64). Nor was he “a Muslim hero” who, “once in the pos-
session of Valencia,” acted “in the capacity of a Taifa [ruler]” (Hitchcock, 2014, 130, 132).
Nor was he a “Christian taifa king” (Catlos, 2014a, 71, 74, 2014b, 26), who “ruled Islamic
Valencia as sultan” (2014a, 70), or who reigned as “the sultan of Islamic Valencia” (10), and
to whom “thanks” should be directed for “Muslim Valencia [being] saved” (114). Modern
scholars have found it difficult to accept the fact that the Cid was a Christian crusading ruler
of an independent Christian crusader principality, either because they are looking for more
worthy standard-bearers for the crusading cause, or because they find Dozy’s (1881, 2:233)
verdict that the Cid was “more Muslim than Catholic” not far from the truth. Barton (2011)
places the Valencian phase of the Cid’s career in the context of the Spanish reconquista, not
the crusading movement, and regards the 1098 endowment charter “as a manifesto for [it].”
Yet the Cid and his charter have emphatically nothing to do with the Spanish reconquista,
which is not a historical fact, but a completely discredited historical theory. This anachro-
nistic theory treats medieval Iberia as if it were simply an earlier or primitive version of
the modern nation-state of Spain, and reads modern nationalist and secularist ideals into
the Iberian past, as if it were always the mission of Iberian Christian rulers to wrest control
of the Iberian peninsula from the Muslims (Ríos Saloma, 2011).56 If one departs from the
“narcissistic framework” of nineteenth-century historiography that isolates medieval Iberia
from the rest of the Latin West as “a quirky appendage to Christendom … and bloody semi-
Africa” (Burns, 1979, 238; 1984, 1), the crusades will emerge in quite a new and revealing
light. The static model of the crusades will be replaced by a dynamic model, and even the
checkered and conflict-ridden life of the Cid will be seen as intersecting with the crusades.
When the Cid took up position at Jubaylah (Cat. Puig; present-day El Puig de Santa
Maria) to besiege Valencia in Jumādá II 486/July 1093, no St. Ferdinand III of Castile
(r. 1217–52) or St. Louis IX of France (r. 1226–70) came to direct the operation, and the
troops assembled there were not observed to be wearing devotional and penitential crusad-
ing ideals on their sleeves. Today, it is possible to envisage better standard-bearers for the
Valencian Crusade than the Cid and his followers, but in the eleventh century in the east of
Iberia there were none. As bent upon the “ruthless pursuit of plunder” (Catlos, 2014a, 108)
as the Cid and his forces may have been before the walls of Valencia, lack of crusading reli-
gious purity never stood as a barrier to the development of the crusades. The Cid certainly
was no saint, but in terms of the religious sensibilities, pieties, and beliefs of his era, he was
every bit a crusading hero and champion of the faith for his conquest of Valencia. Muslim
sources attest to this. Ibn ʿAlqamah presents the Cid’s self-understanding of his winning of
Valencia as the work of God. He “prayed to God” that it might happen, and, when it did, he
credited God with giving him the grace to make it happen. We have no reason to doubt that
his gratitude to God was genuine.
The Cid’s subsequent construction and defense of his independent Christian princi-
pality, not “a Christian taifa kingdom” (Catlos, 2014b, 25), upon the ruins of a Muslim
ṭāʾifah state, was the fulfillment of a long-held desire for “a man who [had] never pos-
sessed a kingdom.” In his capacity as organizer of newly won Valencia, the Cid set about
Christianizing his realms by rebuilding the physical, institutional, and social structure of the
Valencian Church. Ibn al-Kardabūs (fl. twelfth–thirteenth centuries) comments on the Cid’s
Christianizing mission in his history of Islamic Iberia, Taʾrīkh al-Andalus (103), when
29
he speaks out against the “contemptible, shameless, and depraved Muslims” who joined
the Cid after the conquest of Valencia in 487/1094, “most” of whom, he says, converted
to Christianity. This assessment of the number of converts to Christianity in conquered
Valencia may be wildly exaggerated, inspired by a desire to pour scorn on the inhabitants
for having lost the city to the Christians, but it conveys an underlying reality: Christian
reconquest did not stop at a change in government, as if the process merely amounted to “a
Christian taifa kingdom” replacing a Muslim ṭāʾifah kingdom. It entailed the restoration of
the land to its former state as a part of Christendom, which involved the reestablishment of
the Church and the Church community.
In this respect, the Cid’s objective was no different from that of another conqueror of
Valencia, King James I of Aragon-Catalonia (r. 1213–76), who secured the city perma-
nently for Christendom in 1238. The great Catalan conqueror regarded his task as multi-
faceted: to reconquer former Christian lands and “to restore and assimilate [the conquered
areas] to Christian worship” (Burns, 1989b, 102–3; see also 1967, 1:15, 2:376 n56). In these
varied pursuits, the “founding [of] even the clerical institutions of the Church of Valencia
was neither a decorous work of piety nor a routine accompaniment of [a] secular conquest,”
but rather an act aiming to express, transmit, and diffuse a religious culture that served as
the foundation of societal existence, so that “the Church, even in its purely clerical func-
tions, was to be King Jaume’s major transforming agency in [an] alien and dangerous land”
(1989b, 110; see also 1989a, 137). What was true for King James in the thirteenth century
was equally true for the Cid in the eleventh century, and just as King James’s “greatest
renown was to come from his conquest of Valencia and from his energetic reorganization
of that area as a Christian kingdom” (Burns, 1967, 1:3), so too the Cid would win his great-
est fame for his conquest of Valencia and for his valiant but ultimately doomed effort to
reorganize that area as a Christian realm. Without understanding this, one cannot grasp why
the exploits of the Cid should appeal to wider Christendom (Chevedden, 2011, 284–86) and
inspire one of the world’s greatest epic poems, the Poema de mio Cid (Smith, 1972).
Scholars have questioned the Cid’s religious piety. “Of any sign of special Christian
devotion in the Cid,” asserts Smith (1983, 50), “we know nothing.” Yet the Cid did not
need to display “any sign of special Christian devotion” in order to win over the hearts and
minds of his followers and instill fear and dread into his adversaries; the normal kind for a
Christian warrior was quite sufficient. Like King James, the Cid’s faith was grounded in a
“theology of military ‘deeds’” (Burns, 1976, 10) that gave evidence of God’s mighty power
working through him. His battles and his victories were in partnership with God. As the
great king of Aragon would later say, “God gives [victories in battle] to those to whom He
wants to give them” (James I, Llibre dels fets, 430.14–15; Burns, 1967, 2:375 n43). The
Cid’s generation lived in this view of the military arena and could only conclude from the
Cid’s long run of successes on the battlefield that God had made this possible. In the eyes
of his contemporaries, divine assistance had rendered the Cid unconquerable, earning him
the epithets of “the most invincible prince” and “the Campeador.” The Cid need not have
embodied the purest piety in order to be seen, as Ibn Bassām (Dhakhīrah, 3/1:100 and n1)
did, as “a gift from his [divine] Lord” (āyah min āyāt rabbih), even though one might feel
obliged, as the Andalusī historian did, to invite God’s curse upon him: laʿanahu Allāh
(“May God curse him!”).
Catlos (2014a) contends that the Cid “captured the imagination of the inhabitants of the
[Iberian] peninsula and beyond in the 1100s,” not because he was “the most successful sol-
dier of fortune in pre-Crusade Spain,” but because “he was one of the first” (111). For him,
30
it was the Cid’s “ruthless pursuit of plunder and his steady distribution of the spoils of war
that made him a popular Christian hero in his own time” (108), and “although even during
his own life he was beginning to be portrayed as a dedicated holy warrior, he was, in fact,
an indirect champion of Christianity” (108–09). It matters little what indirect, circuitous,
roundabout, meandering, crooked, oblique, twisting, and torturous path the Cid took to
becoming a champion of Christianity, or that non-religious motives may have been to the
fore, rather than religious ones, when the Cid entered into his fame as a champion of the
faith. What matters is that he did become a champion of faith, and that is what “captured
the imagination of the inhabitants of the [Iberian] peninsula and beyond in the 1100s,” not
the fact that he was a successful soldier of fortune.

Catlos’s sharp dualism between the epoch of the Cid, featuring “struggles between
Christian and Muslim warlords who had little regard for the religious identity of their ene-
mies or allies, and who pursued political, personal, and often short-term goals” (87–88),
and “the era of the Crusades” (5, 10, 267), featuring “a war of religion” (225) “launched”
(223) by Pope Urban II that “constituted an anomaly, having no precedent in the history of
either Europe or the Middle East” (242), is premised on the notion that Iberian history, as
well as the history of the Mediterranean world, is wholly discontinuous, one period with the
next. “The era of the Crusades” does not grow organically from the preceding period, with
the result that one can see clearly the connection between El Cid the warlord and El Cid the
crusader. Rather, these two periods are discrete and exist in some “pure” state, so that any
change that occurs is not developmental, but sprunghaft, and signifies a new start. For that
reason, Catlos places the Cid at “the end of an era” (120–23) and not at the beginning of a
new era that he helped to create. In addition, he sees the new era, “the era of the Crusades,”
as “a by-product of aggression among Christians” (316) that was “not a reaction on the
part of the Christian West to Muslim attacks, but rather the consequence of transforma-
tions and tensions within Christian society” (7). Out of these inter-Christian “transforma-
tions and tensions” emerged a struggle between “Latin and Byzantine Christendom” that
had been brewing “since the fifth century” (323), and that ultimately culminated in “the
conquest by Christians of the greatest Christian empire in history” (316), the Byzantine
Empire. The crusades provided “the framework for this clash, and the threat of Islam, its
pretext” (323), so that the crusades were a product, not of a real struggle between Islam
and Christendom, but of an earlier clash between Eastern and Western Christendom, and
the crusades were simply a cloak by which the Latin Church covered up the real nature of
an internal Christian conflict.57
Whatever the imaginings of modern historians, it is absurd to think that the crusades were
the outcome of an internal Christian dispute, and not the result of a real struggle between
two opposing Mediterranean societies, Islam and Western Christendom, both defined by a
deeply rooted religio-cultural identity. Catlos tries to downplay the importance of religion
in these two religious societies, reducing warfare between the Dār al-Islām and the Latin
West to a purely political or power-related phenomenon, presented occasionally in reli-
gious guise: “The struggles and conflicts of the golden age of Crusade and jihad, the period
from the mid-eleventh to the twelfth centuries, were first and foremost struggles between
individuals and between clans that did not act as representatives of theological principles,
but rather pursued personal and earthly agendas,” to which “at times religious ideology
may have provided a firm and convincing basis for their actions,” in order to give “a sense
of higher purpose for their ambitions, or a moral justification for their violence, but it was
neither a prerequisite nor a cause [of struggles and conflicts]” (324). For Catlos, the history
31
of medieval Mediterranean societies can be explained by the doings of minority political

elites in their quests to accumulate and retain power. Ideas, especially religious ideas, were
mere devices used by those wielding power in the Middle Ages to advance their “worldly
agendas” (145), because “as integrated and cosmopolitan as [medieval] societies may have
appeared, they were built on relationships of power” (321) and were controlled by “oppor-
tunists who cloaked their avarice and ambition in piety” (324).
Catlos portrays the politics of “the Middle Ages, and the era of Crusade and jihad”
(318), as essentially an affair of the elites, with a corresponding neglect of the non-elites,
the populus christianus, the society of Christian peoples, and the ummah Muḥammadīyah,
the society of Muslim peoples founded by the Prophet Muḥammad. The process by which
the non-elites were brought into the activities of crusading and jihād was by manipulation. The
consciousness of a people as a res publica Christiana and an ummah as “a body politic as
well as the body of true believers” (von Grunebaum, 1962, 48) that is important to main-
tain, develop, and protect is denied. The very possibility of a civilization being conceived
in terms of the values of a given religion and being threatened by an alien society simi-
larly organized is also denied. And the actual historical experience of a prolonged strug-
gle between Islam and Christendom is denied, replaced by power politics and self-interest
of minority ruling elites, so that “as a rule, the various campaigns of conquest that took
place across the Mediterranean in the eleventh and twelfth centuries were clearly prosaic
in nature: their goals were territory, resources, and the expansion of trade,” with “religious
difference [providing] a justification for a war, endowing it with greater meaning for its
participants and bolstering their morale, but it was rarely, if ever, a cause of war” (Catlos,
2014a, 322).
Catlos defends his position by arguing that “for many among the warrior elites of the
Middle Ages, religion was for Sundays (or Fridays or Saturdays, depending on one’s faith),
at most.” As “professional killers,” Muslim and Christian warriors enjoyed a “vocational
solidarity” that transcended political and confessional boundaries, represented by a shared
“ethos of honor, a hunger for power and wealth, a sense of entitlement, and an apprecia-
tion of prestige, all of which often took precedence over religious differences.” Because
these warriors had much in common, “a sense of mutual respect” developed among them
“that easily transcended the dictates of faith.” Catlos writes that “Muslim warriors and
Christian knights swore oaths to each other, exchanged weapons, falcons, and tack, sang
each other’s praises, and bore each other gifts. They competed in tournaments, hunted
together, feasted with each other, attended religious services together, and gave each other
the ‘kiss of peace’—knowing full well that on another day they might be fighting each
other to the death” (109–10). In addition, “the peoples of the Mediterranean adopted ele-
ments of one another’s style of dress, cuisine, art, and architecture more than ever before.
They shared and borrowed ideas, technologies, and techniques, fueling a tremendous wave
of innovation—agricultural, medical, navigational, mathematical, philosophical, theologi-
cal, literary, and technological.” At the same time, “the collaborations and disputes among
theologians, philosophers, and mystics of the three faiths transformed each, and laid the
intellectual foundation for the European Renaissance, European Judaism, and Islamic
modernity” (323–24).
Yet it matters little that in the realms of Islam and Christendom the common run of
humanity (not to mention the rulers and the military elite) turned deeply and intensely
to religion only spasmodically and infrequently, or that cultural interchange occurred
between the Islamic and Christian worlds. No vast interpenetration of cultures, no “history
32
of encounters among Christianity, Islam, and Judaism” (8), no “[engagement] in relation-

ships of mutual benefit and support with those [deemed] ‘infidels’” (7), and no amount of
“collaborative relations between kingdoms that should have been, according to the prin-
ciples of their religions, deeply opposed [to one another]” (320–21) was able to reduce
or mitigate what Goitein (1967–93, 4:xii, 5:502) calls the “all-embracing religiosity” of,
not only “the Geniza society,” which he studied so thoroughly, but also of all the other-
wise very worldly societies of the medieval Mediterranean. That is because religion was
the permanent feature of medieval man’s identity, the enduring substratum that gave the
fundamental shape for all other determinations of human identity. “Religion formed the
frame [of the social body]” around which the entire societal edifice was constructed, and
“that ‘frame,’” Goitein reminds us, “was fairly substantial.” Regardless of the quality of
the religious behavior, or the degree of belief or lack of belief, of “an ordinary person in
the Middle Ages” (Catlos, 2014a, 319), the identity and self-image of a denizen of the
medieval Mediterranean world was unreservedly religious. This identity was seen as vital
to the individual and to the society to which he or she belonged, important and even criti-
cal to the survival of one’s social group, defined in a religious sense by membership in “a
people … the Lord your God has chosen” (ʿam … bāḥar YHWH ʾĕlōhêḵā) (Deut 7:6), “a
Christian people” (populus christianus), or “a community submitting to [God]” (ummatan
muslimatan laka) (Qurʾān 2:128).
The crusades cannot be properly comprehended without an understanding of two pre-
existing communities, the populus christianus and the ummah Muḥammadīyah, or with-
out an understanding of a pre-existing conflict between these two societies. Seen from the
standpoint of Pope Urban, this conflict had entered a new phase during the second half
of the eleventh century, the phase of Christian reconquest, restoration, and evangeliza-
tion, and he saw in the Cid a champion of the faith for the recovery of the Church, which
is seen not only in terms of brick and mortar and of “prelates and clergy” but also, and
more fundamentally, in terms of “the entire body of true Christians who are to be found
in the whole world” (Alfonso X, Siete partidas, 1:156 (1.10.1)). With an ever-growing
sense that the Cid’s taking of Valencia formed part and parcel of this new phase of his-
tory, the pope took steps to inspire and sustain the Valencian crusading project. He put
Valencia on a truly independent footing by siding with the Cid in the struggle for control
of the Valencian Church. He conferred upon the Cid an exemption privilege in order to
protect the interests of this crusading ruler in governing his domain, just as he had done
for Roger I of Sicily (Loud 2007, 200, 213), because he regarded both men as “princes
chosen by God” (Becker, 1964–2012, 2:354) for “the great task of the reconquest of the
Mediterranean from the power of Islam” (Dawson, 1932, 285). The pope took an active
role in the creation of the Cid’s crusader principality, and the Cid’s endowment charter
of the cathedral of Valencia incorporates the fullest expression of the pope’s ideas about
the crusades.
What counted in the process of aiding and orchestrating crusading activity in the
Mediterranean and giving to the crusades a degree of ideological and political coher-
ence was weakness, not strength, and a type of authority that could be asserted and
acted upon internationally. It was the very weakness of the papacy vis-à-vis the secular
realm that allowed the papacy to rise to a position of leadership in the crusading move-
ment. At a time when the German Empire was a spent force as a pan-European polity,
unable to command the internationalist convictions of the peoples of the Latin West
in either the political realm or the spiritual realm, and unable to respond adequately
33
to the new political challenges of the day, particularly to the kaleidoscopic changes in
the Mediterranean world, the papacy asserted its “supremacy over the entire Western
Church” and “the independence of the Church from secular control” (Berman, 1983,
50). To achieve independence for the Church and make it a truly self-governing body,
the papacy had to secure new protectors other than the German Empire, which viewed
the papacy as an integral part of its own governmental apparatus. The papacy found
such protectors in the newly emerging polities of Western Christendom, which made
common cause with Rome in its struggle with the Empire because they needed a higher
power than themselves to legitimize their own claims to sovereignty. The papacy not
only conferred legitimacy upon individual rulers and polities in the Latin West, but also
assisted rulers in maintaining their independence by giving them their own separate
ecclesiastical organization. In addition, the papacy recognized the territorial claims of
Christian rulers to lands that had “originally belonged to the Christians” but had been
conquered by Islam and subjected to Islamic rule (ʿAbd Allāh ibn Buluggīn, Tibyān,
100; trans. Tibi, Tibyān, 90), and supported rulers that took up the struggle with Islam.
In this effort, the papacy was able to draw upon the internationalist convictions of
Christianity that stretched back to the early Church and to forge effective coalitions
to undo the Islamic occupation of Christian territories and to restore, reorganize, and
assimilate these territories back into Christendom. It was able to do this quite effec-
tively because of its ability to appeal to the conscience of the wider Christian commu-
nity in a way that the secular powers could not, and because of its capacity to rise above
national and territorial rivalries. Secular polities, for their part, were ready to accept
papal direction in situations where the interests of wider Christendom were at stake and
where their own self-interest and Church interests were widely aligned.
THE 1095 PARADIGM VERSUS POPE URBAN’S

UNDERSTANDING OF THE CRUSADES
Scholars have long sought to determine the ideational content of the crusades. Yet when it
comes to considering Pope Urban’s ideas about the crusades, his views cannot be examined
or explained without seeing them within the framework of the 1095 crusade paradigm.
Another approach is available to us. Instead of imposing ideas upon Urban by forcing his
ideas into a preconceived mold, we should try to interpret Urban in his own terms. We
should take into account the distinctions he made, the concepts he used, and the terminology
he employed. Above all, this means that we should consider his own depiction of crusading
as a true translatio regni and how he differentiates the crusading period from the period
before it. Once we formulate the crusades in Urban’s terms, by using the concept of trans-
latio regni, we will begin to see some of the advantages of his conceptualization.
Crusading began when Western Christian powers initiated a counteroffensive against
Islam (Kedar, 1988, 41, 43, 56, 57, 83, 134) and undertook to restore the lost lands of
Christendom. The term “crusade” can therefore be applied to this counteroffensive and
restoration program that became a Mediterranean-wide phenomenon during the course of
the eleventh century, evident in the central, western, and eastern regions of the Middle Sea.
Pope Urban properly describes and designates crusading phenomena as translatio regni, in
the sense of a dramatic shift in the power relationship between Islam and Latin Christendom
in the Mediterranean world. This power shift was discernible by the 1060s, when the Latin
West gained the strategic and operational initiative in the war with Islam and shifted to the
34
offensive. Despite tactical setbacks, the West was never to lose the strategic momentum
in this war. Islamic sources fully corroborate Urban’s vision of the crusades by depict-
ing the early crusades as a three-pronged assault on the power of Islam by the Christian
West directed at Sicily, al-Andalus, and the eastern Mediterranean (Chevedden, 2006,
2008, 2010, 2011). Urban’s conception of crusading was not a narrow and myopic one,
limited to a single event, the Jerusalem Crusade, or to a single aspect of that event, namely
the “objective … to acquire or to preserve Christian dominion over the Sepulcher of Our
Lord in Jerusalem” (Mayer, 1965, 263; Chevedden, 2013, 17–18). Rather, his vision was as
expansive as it was ambitious.
Urban’s great insight was that the nature of crusading could best be determined by look-
ing at how it was that crusades were actually undertaken. He therefore focused attention
on the activities of Christian rulers who were engaged in exploits of translatio regni, the
actual process of crusading, rather than on speculative theories about crusading. He found
that contemporary history—the events taking place “in [his] time” (nostris temporibus)—
could be an indispensable guide to a theoretical understanding of crusading. Urban had
a willingness to allow the facts of history to set the terms of his conceptualization of the
crusades. He refused to impose an a priori notion of what the crusades were, but instead
sought to respond to what actually appeared to be happening “in [his] time” (nostris tem-
poribus) in the struggle “to liberate the Church of God” (ad liberandam ecclesiam Dei)
(Somerville 1972, 74) and to “restore the Christian [Churches] to their former freedom.”58
In other words, he finds crusading in history.
History has not been where scholars have been looking for the crusades. When Erdmann
(1935/1977) reduced the crusades to an idea, he eliminated any relation of this idea to his-
tory. While his study maintains the pretense of a historical reconstruction, its actual under-
pinning is Herder’s famous “genetic method,” which looks to the origin of a phenomenon
in order to learn “the entire nature of its product” (Herder, (1764) 1984–2002, 1:10; trans.
Forster, 2011, 233), and discovers “in the origin of a phenomenon the whole treasure of
elucidation through which the explanation of the phenomenon becomes genetic” (Herder,
(1767–68) 1985–2000, 1:602/2002, 53). Building upon Erdmann’s “genetic” doctrine of
“crusade,” Hans Eberhard Mayer (1965, 263–65) reified crusading activity into a defin-
able and defined entity and invited other scholars to do likewise. Many responded to his
invitation (Riley-Smith, 1977, 1986, 1997, 2008, 2009b, 2014; Flori, 1992, 1999, 2001,
2004, 2010; Bull 1993, 2009; Hehl, 1994; Richard, 1996/1999; Tyerman, 1998, 2004,
2005, 2006, 2011; Asbridge, 2004, 2010; Demurger 2006; Housley, 2006, 2008; Jaspert,
2013/2006; Purkis, 2008; Phillips, 2009, 2014; Madden, 2013), so that today it has become
common practice to cull and classify the crusading enterprise into a discrete, knowable,
and essentialized object for study. Yet crusading was not a discrete, static, and pedes-
talled object standing in one place. Rather, it was a historical entity that was exceedingly
dynamic and heterogeneous, and that stood to be discovered and rediscovered, imagined
and reimagined, made and remade and remade again, and repeatedly renewed, revitalized,
and transformed.
During the eleventh century, the crusades took on as many shapes as Proteus. This fact
alone is sufficient, in the eyes of many, to disqualify all but one crusade in this century as
being truly legitimate. Yet one of the defining characteristics of the early crusades was
their protean character, encompassing a wide range of activities. A single large enterprise,
such as the Jerusalem Crusade, would have been considered a crusade, but so too would
have been a small-scale enterprise, such as the restoration of the monastery of Sant Cugat
35
del Vallès, near Barcelona, destroyed by Ibn Abī ʿĀmir in 985.59 The crusades not only
involved many crusades, varying from small to very large, but they also involved a num-
ber of interlinked movements, or “crusades,” mutually related to each other and mutually
reinforcing one another: a Crusade of reconquest, a Crusade of rebuilding the Church, and
a Crusade of evangelization. In time, the Church would add to these another “crusade”:
the Crusade of settlement and colonial control (Burns, 1989b, 101; 1962, 245–46).60 Many
varieties of “crusades” took place at any given time during the crusades, and still more “cru-
sades” may be waiting to be discovered. Each of these “crusades” gathered strength from
the idea that an old era had ended and an entirely new era had begun. Pope Urban looks
into the face of Proteus and sees both a changeability of character and a unity of being. By
recovering something of what Urban understood by crusading, we might come to a better
understanding of the crusades.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
My warm thanks to Donald J. Kagay for his assistance and guidance with many of the let-
ters of Pope Urban II discussed in this chapter.
NOTES
1 Lyrics reproduced by kind permission of Special Rider © 1963, 1964 by Warner Bros. Inc.;
renewed 1991, 1992 by Special Rider Music.
2 On “perspectivalism” in the study of history, see Chladenius, (1742) 1969, 181–370; 1752,
91–155; Beiser, 2011, 40–62.
3 Riley-Smith (2007, 29) has described his own consciously anachronistic understanding of the
crusades. Lambert (2007, 93) criticizes this approach.
4 Urban II to Bishop Peter of Huesca, 11 May 1098, in Durán Gudiol, 1962, 193 (no. 20). Becker,
1964–2012, 1:228, 2:334, 348–49, 351, 383, 400, 425, 3:77; 1989, 15–16.
5 For the “sign” that signaled to Robert Guiscard that it was God’s will that he take Sicily, see
Amatus of Montecassino, Storia, 229–31 (V.7–9); trans. Dunbar, History, 136. The oath that
Robert Guiscard swore at Melfi in August 1059 to Pope Nicholas II (r. 1058–61) acknowledged
Robert’s supreme authority over all of Apulia and Calabria, even though Bari, the Byzantine
capital of Apulia and the seat of the Byzantine governor (catepano) of Italy, did not fall until April
1071, and recognized Robert as the rightful ruler of Islamic Sicily (dux … futurus Sicilie), thereby
endorsing the Norman conquest of the island and its return to Christian rule. For the text of this
oath, see Liber censuum, 1:422. Translations of this oath are found in Tierney, 1988, 44; Norwich,
1992, 128–29; Loud, 2000, 188–89.
6 On the Iberian Crusades, see now O’Callaghan, 2003, 2011, 2014.
7 Urban II to Bernard of Sédirac, archbishop of Toledo, Anagni, 15 October 1088, in Mansilla
Reoyo, 1955, 43–45 (no. 27), at 43; Urban II to Daibert, bishop of Pisa, Anagni, 21 April 1092,
in Urban II, “Epistolae et privilegia,” letter 63, in Migne, 1841–64, 151:345A; Urban II to Bishop
Peter of Huesca, 11 May 1098, in Durán Gudiol, 1962, 193 (no. 20); Urban II to Bishop Gerland
of Agrigento (d. 1101), 10 October 1098, in Collura, 1961, 22 (no. 5); Urban II to Bishop Pons of
Barbastro, 1099, in Kehr, 1926, 298 (no. 31); Becker, 1964–2012, 2:342, 351, 353, 357.
8 Becker (1989, 10) claims that “one can observe the evolution of [Pope Urban II’s] idea of Crusade”
by studying his bulls and letters, and that the “essential and characteristic elements” of his concept
of crusade “appear already from the very start of his pontificate, in 1088.” Others disagree and
argue that the essential and characteristic elements that make up the idea and ideology of crusade
emerged as a result of the Jerusalem Crusade, and that Urban served as a catalyst, but not a guiding
36
force, in the creation of the ideational and ideological content of crusading; cf. Mayer, 2005,
18–52; Riley-Smith, 1986, 1–2, 30, 99, 135–55; 1987, 10; 1993, 10; 2005b, 112; 2009a, 3; 2014,
69–70.
9 Urban II to Berenguer Sunifred de Lluçà (d. 1099), bishop of Ausona-Vic, 1 July 1091, in Mansilla
Reoyo, 1955, 50–51 (no. 32); Urban II to Count Ermengol IV of Urgell, 1 July 1091, in Kehr,
1926, 286 (no. 22); Urban II to Bishop Gomez of Burgos, Piacenza, 14 March 1095, in Urban II,
“Epistolae et privilegia,” in Migne, 1841–64, 151:407B–D; Urban II to Bishop Peter of Huesca,
11 May 1098, in Durán Gudiol, 1962, 193 (no. 20); Urban II to Bishop Pons of Barbastro, 1099,
in Kehr, 1926, 298 (no. 31); Becker, 1964–2012, 1:228, 2:334, 341–42, 346–49, 351, 359, 383,
398, 400, 3:65, 77, 91, 586–88, 600, 712–13; 1989, 15–16.
10 Urban II to Ambrose, first abbot of the monastery of St. Bartholomew on Lipari, just off the
north-east tip of Sicily, 3 June 1091, in Urban II, “Epistolae et privilegia,” in Migne, 1841–64,
151:329C–D; Urban II to Abbot-Bishop Ansgar of Catania, 9 March 1092, in Scalia, 1961, 48
(no. 1); Urban II to Bishop Roger of Syracuse, 23 November 1093, in Urban II, “Epistolae et
privilegia,” in Migne, 1841–64, 151:370C–371A (under the date 17 November 1093); Urban II
to Bishop Gerland of Agrigento (d. 1101), 10 October 1098, in Collura, 1961, 22 (no. 5); Becker,
1964–2012, 2:340, 342–46, 349–50, 359–60, 383, 3:146–47, 355–56.
11 In two letters, Pope Urban links the campaign “to aid the Churches in Asia and to liberate their
brothers from the tyranny of the Muslims” with the movement of Christian liberation in Iberia:
Urban II to the counts Bernat of Besalú, Hugo of Ampurias, Guislabert of Roussilon, and Guillem
of Cerdanya and their knights, c. July 1096, in Kehr, 1926, 287–88 (no. 23); Urban II to Bishop
Peter of Huesca, 11 May 1098, in Durán Gudiol, 1962, 193 (no. 20). In a third letter, Urban
declares “that in our time (nostris temporibus) the Church has been enlarged, the domination of
the Muslims has been reduced, the ancient honor of episcopal sees has been, by the gift of God,
restored (restauratur),” thereby connecting the movement of translatio regni to the central, west-
ern, and eastern Mediterranean. Urban II to Bishop Pons of Barbastro, 1099, in Kehr, 1926, 298
(no. 31); Becker, 1964–2012, 1:227–30, 2:334, 347–49, 351, 383, 400, 425, 3:77, 600, 713.
Reoyo, 1955, 43 (no. 27): “Cunctis sanctorum decretales scientibus institutiones liquet, quante
Toletana ecclesia dignitatis fuerit ex antiquo, quante in Hispaniis et Gallicis regionibus auctoritatis
extiterit, quanteque per eam in ecclesiasticis negotiis utilitates accreverint; sed peccatorum populi
multitudine promerente a saracenis eadem civitas capta et ad nihilum christiane religionis illic
libertas redacta est, adeo, ut per annos CCCo pene LXXa nulla illic viguerit christiani pontificii dig-
nitas. Nostris autem temporibus, divina populum suum respiciente misericordia, studio Aldefonsi
gloriosissimi regis et labore christiani populi, sarracenis expulsis, christianorum iuri Toletana est
civitas restituta. … Et nos ergo miserationi superne gratie respondentes, quia per tanta terrarum
mariumque discrimina Romane auctoritatem ecclesie suppliciter expetisti, auctoritatem pristinam
Toletane ecclesie restituere non negamus. Gaudemus enim et corde letissimo magnas, ut decet,
Deo gratias agimus, quod tantam nostris temporibus, dignatus est christiano populo prestare vic-
toriam statumque eiusdem urbis, quoad nostra est facultas, stabilire atque augere, ipso adiuvante,
peroptamus.” Becker, 1964–2012, 2:337, 342, 359, 3:384–86; 1989, 14. I thank Prof. Donald J.
Kagay for translating this text.
13 Urban II to Bishop Gerland of Agrigento (d. 1101), 10 October 1098, in Collura, 1961, 22 (no. 5).
For Urban’s fourfold schema of Christian history, reduced to its simplest expression, see Becker,
1964–2012, 2:352–53; Cowdrey, 1995, 723; Flori, 1998, 73–74; Chevedden, 2005b, 274 n48;
2011, 271–72; 2013, 19.
14 Dan 2:20–21: “Deus … mutat tempora, et aetates; transfert regna, atque constituit” (“God …
changes times and seasons, deposes kings and sets up kings”). For Urban’s letters that give
expression to the biblical foundation upon which his conception of the crusades is based, see
Becker, 1964–2012, 2:235 n179, 3:356 and 356 n284. For a discussion of these letters, see Becker,
1964–2012, 1:227–30, 2:342, 344, 349, 352–54, 356, 361–63, 369, 372–75, 384, 398, 404,
37
3:356–57, 587–88, 675–76; Chevedden, 2013, 32–46. According to Becker (1964–2012, 3:675),
Dan 2:20–21, which Urban explicitly references in three of his extant letters (1964–2012, 2:353
n180; Ringel 1987, 137–39), forms the basis for his theology of history (Geschichtstheologie),
and this theology of history, I would add, offers not only a theoretical understanding of the cru-
sades but also an ideological framework for carrying out the crusades.
15 See below n43.
16 Gabriele (2012) examines an exegetical tradition that supposedly “gave weight to some of the
biblical citations in Urban II’s letters” (799), which refer to the movement of “reconquest and
restoration” (812) taking place across the Mediterranean nostris temporibus, instead of examining
the historical context that gave substance and meaning to the biblical passages. He describes the
movement of “reconquest and restoration” as “a ninth-century promise come true” (812), because
Urban, “steeped in ninth-century exegesis” (814), continued “the work of his ninth-century pre-
decessors, [in] calling the Christian people (populus christianus) to mend their ways and strike
back against the pagans” (796), with the result that “at the end of the eleventh century, the work
that had begun centuries before could be completed” (814). Yet it is far-fetched to think that the
eleventh-century movement of “reconquest and restoration” began with the bookish pursuits of
ninth-century exegetes. Instead of asking, “What religio-intellectual current caused the emergence
of a political movement built on religious foundations?” Gabriele should be asking, “What type of
activity or movement intensified to the point where it provoked a validating intellectual rational-
ization?” In referring to Pope Urban as “the last Carolingian exegete,” Gabriele misunderstands
the type of exegesis that Urban was engaged in. Urban does not see his function as shedding more
light on various biblical texts after the fashion of a textual exegete. Rather, he attempts to shed
light on events nostris temporibus, and, in this pursuit, he is interested in biblical texts only to the
extent that they support his analysis of events. Contra Gabriele, Urban maintains that a purely
exegetical understanding of the present is insufficient precisely because it ignores the present—or,
more specifically, a present that is capable of informing scripture.
17 According to Goez (1958, 8), “the idea of transfer of power (Translation der Macht) arose, not
from speculation, but from the fact that it was so experienced.” Quoted, with approval, in Becker,
1964–2012, 2:353 n180.
18 Urban II to Berenguer Sunifred de Lluçà (1076–99), bishop of Ausona-Vic, 1 July 1091, bestow-
ing on him the title archiepiscopus Tarraconensis, in Mansilla Reoyo, 1955, 49–52 (no. 32), at 51;
Becker, 1964–2012, 2:341–42.
19 Urban II to Bishop Pons of Barbastro, 1099, in Kehr, 1926, 298 (no. 31): “quod nostris temporibus
ecclesia propagatur, Sarracenorum dominatio diminuitur, antiquus episcopalium sedium honor
prestante Domino restaurateur.” Becker, 1964–2012, 2:351, 3:600, 713.
Reoyo, 1955, 44 (no. 27): “Te, reverentissime frater, affectione intima exortamus, quatenus dig-
num te tanti honore pontificii semper exhibeas christianis ac sarracenis sine offensione semper
esse procurans et ad fidem infideles convertere, Deo largiente, verbis studeas et exemplis”; trans.
in Burns, 1971, 1389; 1984, 82–83.
21 Gregory VII to Archbishop Arnald of Acerenza, 14 March 1076, in Caspar, 1920–23, 1:271–72
(no. 3.11): “Quapropter pastorali cura hoc laboris onus tibi imponimus, immo ex parte beati Petri
imperamus, ut postposita omni torporis desidia illum [Rogerum] adeas eumque huius nostri pre-
cepti auctoritate fultus, si nobis parere sicut pollicitus est voluerit et poenitentiam, ut oportet
christianum, egerit, ab omni peccatorum vinculo tam illum quam etiam suos milites, qui cum
eo contra paganos, ita tamen ut agant poenitentiam, pugnaturi sunt, peccatis maxime absolvas.
Addimus praeterea, ut eum pia admonitione admoneas, ut se a capitalibus criminibus custodiat
et christiani nominis culturam inter paganos amplificare studeat, ut de eisdem hostibus victoriam
consequi mereatur.”
22 Others disagree. Reflecting the views of Riley-Smith (2001, 135), who considers crusading as
being “primarily about benefiting the crusaders themselves, through the imposition of condign
38
self-punishment, and as such … an act of self-sanctification,” MacEvitt (2008, 18) contends that
the Jerusalem Crusade was “not … concerned with the salvation of others, but only about the
salvation of the warrior himself. The infidel represented a path to salvation, not a focus of concern
for the crusader.” Whalen (2009, 58) also sees no connection between the Jerusalem Crusade
and conversion, but he considers only forcible conversion: “Medieval contemporaries did not
initially link crusading with an effort to convert Muslims ‘by the sword’ or by the threat of vio-
lence.” In the main, Whalen follows in the footsteps of Kedar on this topic: “According to the
crusade chronicles, individual acts of conversion did happen, but the effort to expand Christendom
by ‘recovering’ lands from the infidels did not entail any systematic effort to convert the non-
Christian inhabitants of those regions. There was, in fact, little discussion in the Roman Church
during the period leading up to the crusade about the necessity or desire for converting infidel
societies en masse. … A full-fledged theory of mission to the Muslim world would not develop
until the thirteenth century, when ideas of crusading and conversion would begin to compete
and mutually reinforce each other, both contributing to Christian visions of world order.” Cutler
(1968), Flori (2002), Loutchitskaja (2002), and Birk (2011) challenge the notion that the Jerusalem
Crusade was entirely devoid of any idea of conversion or missionary focus.
23 Urban II to all the faithful in Flanders, c. December 1095, in Hagenmeyer, 1901, 136 (ep. II.3).
24 Saint Anselm (archbishop of Canterbury), Epistle 235, “Ad Baldewinum regem Hierosolymorum”
(to Baldwin king of Jerusalem), c. spring 1102, in Schmitt, 1946–61, 4:142: “Benedictus deus in
donis suis et sanctus in omnibus operibus suis [Ps. 144:13, 17], qui vos ad regis dignitatem sua
gratia in illa terra exaltavit, in qua ipse dominus noster Iesus Christus, per se ipsum principium
Christianitatis seminans, ecclesiam suam, ut inde per totum orbem propagaretur, novam plantavit,
quam propter peccata hominum iudicio dei ab infidelibus diu ibidem opressam, sua misericordia
nostris temporibus mirabiliter resuscitavit.” See Chevedden, 2011, 280–81.
25 Chenu (1979), who coined the term “evangelical awakening,” gives Pope Gregory VII credit for
providing the Awakening with its original impetus, but he studies this movement, not in its early
stages, but in its twelfth-century context.
26 Somerville, 1972, 74: “Quicumque pro sola devotione, non pro honoris vel pecunie adeptione,
ad liberandam ecclesiam Dei Hierusalem profectus fuerit, iter illud pro omni penitentia ei repu-
tetur”; Chevedden, 2005a. On Hugh’s participation in the Council of Clermont, see Somerville,
1974, 75. Iogna-Prat (1998, 330/2002, 329) accepts Erdmann’s finding (1935, 304 n73/1977, 329
n73) that there is no evidence that Cluny actually played a role in the propaganda or execution of
the “First” Crusade and states that “as far as we know, Hugh of Semur and his Cluniac brethren
did not work directly to launch the [Jerusalem] expedition.” Although the surviving direct evi-
dence linking Cluny with the Jerusalem Crusade is meager—a handful of charters attesting to the
financing of a few individual crusaders—many other monasteries, especially in the Mâconnais
region where crusade recruitment was heavy, also have an imperfect record of their participation
in the Jerusalem Crusade. Such an imperfect record, however, does not permit us to conclude
that Cluny did not work directly to launch the Jerusalem Crusade, let alone argue that there is
no evidence that Cluny had any real role in the propaganda or implementation processes for this
expedition. The surviving evidence from Cluny and its dependencies indicates that this stronghold
of Christendom did work directly with crusaders to launch them on their great march to Jerusalem
by contributing its vast organizational and financial resources to this enterprise.
27 Precisely the same purpose is accomplished by the scheme of the tympanum above the central
entrance of the Benedictine abbey church of Sainte-Marie-Madeleine at Vézelay in Burgundy
(c. 1120–32). See Katzenellenbogen, 1944.
28 In 1083, when Pope Gregory confirmed the restoration of Palermo to its ancient metropolitan
status in Sicily and allowed the first Norman archbishop of the city to wear the pallium, he spoke
of the Church of Palermo as having once been “distinguished and famous.” Due to sin, however,
it “was delivered over to the faithless power of the Muslims, but, with God’s help, it is now
restored to the Christian faith through the vigorous action or unremitting efforts of the glorious
39
Duke Robert.” Pope Gregory VII to Archbishop Alcherius, 16 April 1083, in Santifaller, 1957,
253 (no. 212); Becker, 1964–2012, 2:305; Cowdrey, 1998, 436–37. All the stages of Pope Urban’s
translatio regni find expression in Gregory’s schema: (1) important achievement of a Christian
community, then (2) dreadful calamity caused by sin, then (3) “the vigorous action or unremitting
efforts” of reconquest, then (4) restoration. Pope Gregory’s bull of 18 January 1074 confirming
the rights and privileges of the monastery of Saint Mary on the island of Gorgona, located in the
Ligurian Sea between Corsica and Livorno, also adheres to this schema when it speaks of a mon-
astery, once “under the special right and dominion of St. Peter,” which suffered calamity when
Gorgona was subjected to “the cruelty of the Muslims” and Christian worship was banned on the
island, but then, “by Divine piety,” was restored. Santifaller, 1957, 40 (no. 61); Whalen, 2009, 36.
It seems very likely therefore that Urban’s own theoretical views of the crusades took shape under
the influence of Pope Gregory and were already fully mature by the time he became pope in 1088.
Others disagree; cf. Gabriele, 2012, 812–13, who argues that “Gregory VII and Urban II belonged
to similar, yet distinct, textual communities” and held differing views on Christian reconquest and
restoration.
29 Others disagree; cf. Ashe, 1999, who fragments medieval religious experience and medieval cru-
sading experience by suggesting that the Church expounded one model of crusading, reflecting
papal resolve to assert control over secular rulers, while the Song of Roland expounded “a sub-
versive antimodel of reality,” reflecting “its own, distinctive, form of secularized Christianity …
opposed not only to Church theology, but to Church power.”
30 Urban II to the counts Bernat of Besalú, Hugo of Ampurias, Guislabert of Roussilon, and Guillem
of Cerdanya and their knights, c. July 1096, in Kehr, 1926, 287–88 (no. 23); trans. based on
O’Callaghan, 2003, 33, with additions and amendments made by the author.
31 Ibid. See also Erdmann, 1935, 294–95/1977, 317; Riley-Smith and Riley-Smith, 1981, 40; Goñi
Gaztambide, 1958, 60–61; Becker, 1964–2012, 2:347–48; Housley, 1992, 32–33; McCrank, 1974,
264, 284–85 n51; Chevedden, 2005b, 299–302. Pope Urban’s coordinated strategy of engag-
ing the enemy on two fronts simultaneously finds a parallel in the Islamic world. When Aḥmad
ibn Ḥanbal (d. 241/855) was asked about a man who wished to journey to Tarsus to fight the
Byzantines while his own region of Islamic Central Asia was contending with the Turks, Ibn
Ḥanbal responded by quoting the Qurʾānic Sūrat al-tawbah, āyah 123: “‘O believers, fight the
unbelievers around you.’ It is not for anyone that he go from his own land while the enemy is in
it, and fight someone other than them. Let him fight in defense of his lands, and drive away the
enemies of God” (quoted in Sizgorich, 2009, 211).
32 For the Oath of Melfi, see above n5.
33 Ibn Ḥayyān’s account of the siege of Barbastro in his lost Kitāb al-Matīn is preserved in Ibn
Bassām, Dhakhīrah, 1/3:179–90. See 1/3:182, for his reference to qāʾid khayl rūmah. According
to Dozy (1881, 2:350), this designation can only mean “the commander of the cavalry of Rome”:
“The Arabic words qāʾid khayl Rūmiyah [according to the Gotha manuscript of Ibn Bassām’s
Dhakhīrah], or Rūmah according to manuscript B [of the Dhakhīrah in the collection of Pascual
de Gayangos], cannot have any other meaning.” Ibn Ḥayyān’s phrase consists of three terms. The
first term, qāʾid (pl. quwwād), means “leader.” In a military setting it denotes a “commander” and
may even be translated as “general,” depending on the context. When Ibn Ḥayyān uses the term
in his account of Roman Iberia (Ibn Ḥayyān, Muqtabis, 273; trans. Jesús Viguera and Corriente,
Muqtabis V, 207), as in qāʾid ahl rūmah, he is referring to “the Roman general” (lit., “the general
of the people of Rome”). The second term, khayl, is a collective noun signifying “horses.” By
extension, khayl can be applied to a “mounted troop,” a “cavalry force,” or a “mounted army”
(Viré, 1978, 1143). The third term, rūmah, or rūmiyah, is the Arabic word for the city of Rome.
By extension, rūmah/rūmiyah can be applied to the papacy. Dozy notes that medieval authors
used either rūmah or rūmiyah. Al-Idrīsī and Abū Ḥamīd al-Gharnāṭī employed rūmah, while Ibn
Khurradādhbih, Yāqūt, and al-Dimashqī employed rūmiyah. Other authors, such as Ibn al-Athīr,
employed both terms (Dozy, 1881, 2:350). Ibn Ḥayyān clearly favors rūmah: Muqtabis, 272, 273,
40
274, 482 (rūmah = Rome); trans. Jesús Viguera and Corriente, Muqtabis V, 206, 207, 208, 362
(Roma); Ibn Ḥayyān, as quoted in Maqqarī, Nafḥ al-ṭīb, 1:203 (madīnat rūmiyah = city of Rome);
1:566 (madīnat rūmah = city of Rome); 1:134, 138, 139, 147, 150, 354, 366, 414; 4:449, 525, 526;
5:34; 6:462 (rūmah = Rome). Corriente (1997, s.v. “RWM”) lists only rūmah as the Arabic term
for Rome.
34 Amatus doubtless derived his account of the Barbastro Crusade directly from Robert Crispin, who
was at Montecassino in June 1066 where he witnessed a charter of Richard I of Capua (Loud,
1981, 121–22 (no. 13)).
35 Urban II to Catalan counts Berenguer Ramon II, Armengol VI of Urgel, and Bernard II of Besalú,
and “omnibus Tarrraconensis et Barchinonensis provincie episcopis vicecomitibus et ceteris nobilis

et potentibus sive clericis sive laicis,” Rome, 1 July 1089, in Mansilla Reoyo, 1955, 46–47 (no. 29).
36 See above n5.
37 Salamanca, Archivo Diocesano, caja 43, legajo 2, no. 72; Menéndez Pidal, 1918, 11–13; 1969,
2:868–71; Martín Martín, 1977, 79–81 (no. 1); Lacombe, 1999, 119–121 (no. 1), fig. 12; Martin,
2007, 133–35. An abridged edition of the charter, with an English translation, is available in
Smith, Melville, and ʿUbaydlī, 1988–92, 1:130–133. All references will be made to the edition of
this document in Martín Martín, 1977.
38 Martín Martín et al., 1977, 79: “Christus [MS: XPS]. Cum divinam presentiam catholicorum nul-
lus ambigat ubique potencialiter adesse, quedam tamen pre ceteris loca ad propiciandum fidelibus
sibi legitur Omnipotens elegisse.”
39 Martín Martín, 1977, 79: “Israhelico [MS: Israhelitico] namque populo legalibus cerimoniis
obumbrato, et tabernaculo Silo, ubi Deus habitaverat in hominibus, ex filiorum Heli nequitia rep-
robato, in monte Syon domum orationis cunctis gentibus instituit, in cuius templi dedicatione,
ad roboranda simplicium corda, Domini gloria in nebula patenter apparuit, et Deo imperium qui
premeditatus hoc fuerat in eternum permanere constituit.”
40 Martín Martín, 1977, 79: “Ut autem accedente plenitudine temporis, de terra orta est veritas et
mentita est sibi iudeorum iniquitas, atque in Sponsi et Redemptoris sui thalamum ingressa est
redempta plenitudo gentium, profecto claruit quod Sanctus Spiritus per Malachie predixerat vati-
cinium; a solis ortu usque ad occasum magnum est nomem meum in gentibus, et in omni loco
sacrificatur et offertur nomini meo oblatio munda.”
41 Martín Martín, 1977, 79: “Repulsa igitur primum ut oportuit iudea perfidia, apostolice sonus
predicationis ab orientali Syon in fines orbis exiens, totam sub occiduo replevit Hispaniam; que
firmiter ad Dei cultum eruditissimis informata doctoribus, abiectis supersticionibus, extirpatis
erroribus, nemine resistente, nonnullis in pace quievit temporibus.”
42 Martín Martín, 1977, 79: “At ubi prorsus ex Dei dono abscessit adversitas et ad votum cuncta suc-
cessit prosperitas, refriguit caritas, habundavit iniquitas, et sectando ocium orrendum Dei oblita
iudicium, repentinum est perpessa exterminium, et crudeli filiorum Agar gladio secularis dignitas
funditus corruit pariter cum sanctuario: et qui liber servise [MS: servire] noluit Domino domino-
rum, iure cogitur fieri servus naturalium servorum.”
43 In the same year that the Cid is praised as christiane religionis propagator, Pope Urban pays tribute
to Count Roger of Sicily for having “greatly expanded the Church of God into Muslim territories”
(in Saracenorum finibus Ecclesiam Dei plurimum dilatavit). Urban II to Count Roger, 5 July 1098,
Urban II, “Epistolae et privilegia,” in Migne, 1841–64, 151:506C; Geoffrey Malaterra, De rebus
gestis, 108 (IV.29); trans. Wolf, Deeds, 213; Becker, 1964–1012, 2:350–51, 3:38, 66–69. This title
is reminiscent of the title that Paul the Deacon gave to Charlemagne (“Letter to Charlemagne,”
230–31): “propagator and defender of the Christian faith” (propagatori ac defensori christianiae
religionis).
44 Martín Martín, 1977, 79–80: “Itaque annorum ferme CCCCorum in hac calamitate labente cur-
riculo, tandem dignatus clementissimus Pater suo misereri populo, invictissimum principem
Rudericum Campidoctorem obprobrii servorum suorum suscitavit ultorem et christiane religionis
propagatorem; qui post multiplices et eximias quas divinitus assecutus est preliorum victorias,
41
diviciarum gloria et hominum copia opulentissimam urbem cepit Valentiam; necnon et innumera-
bili moabitarum et tocius Hispanie barbarorum exercitu superato, velut in momento ultra quam
credi potest sine sui detrimento, ipsam meschitam, que apud agarenos domus oracionis habebatur,
Deo in ecclesiam dicavit, et venerabili Ieronimo presbitero, concordi et canonica acclamatione
et electione per romani pontificis manus in episcopum consecrato et specialis privilegii libertate
sublimato, prelibatam ecclesiam ex suis facultatibus tali dote ditavit.”
45 Martín Martín, 1977, 80: “Anno siquidem incarnationis Dominice LXXXX° VIII° post millesi-
mum, ego Rudericus Campidoctor et principes, ac populos quos Deus quandiu ei placuerit mee
potestati comisit, donamus ipsi Redemptori nostro, qui solus dominatur in regno hominum et
cuicunque voluerit dat illud, et matri nostre ecclesie sedi videlicet Valentine, et venerabili pas-
tori nostro Ieronimo pontifici, villam que dicitur Pigacen, cum villis et terris et vineis cultis vel
incultis, et cum diversi generis arboribus, et cum cunctis ad eam quocunque modo pertinentibus.”
46 Martín Martín, 1977, 81: “Ego Ruderico, simul cum coniuge mea, afirmo oc quod superius scrip-
tum est.”
47 Martín Martín, 1977, 80: “Ego Rudericus … donamus in manu pastoris nostri Ieronimi ab Urbano
papa secundo canonice ordinati et a Deo.”
48 On exceptions from episcopal jurisdiction, see Loud, 2007, 89, 197–213, 243, 260–61, 329, 382.
49 Muḥammad ibn Khalaf Ibn ʿAlqamah, al-Bayān al-wāḍiḥ fī al-mulimm al-fāḍiḥ [The clear expo-
sition of the shameful calamity], as reproduced in Old Castilian in Alfonso X, Primera crónica
general, 2:588b–589a: “Yo soy omne que nunca oue regnado, nin omne de mi linage non lo ouo;
et del dia que vin a esta villa, pagueme della mucho et cobdiçiela, et rogue a Nuestro Sennor Dios
que me la diesse; et veet qual es el poder de Dios que el dia que yo pose sobre Juballa [Arabic:
Jubaylah] non auia mas de quatro panes, et fizome Dios merçed que gane Valençia et so apoderado
della.” Barton, 2011, 534.
50 Ibn ʿAlqamah, al-Bayān al-wāḍiḥ, in Alfonso X, Primera crónica general, 2:564b: “Et dixo que
ell apremiarie a quantos sennores en ell Andaluzia eran, de guisa que todos serien suyos; et que el
rey Rodrigo que fuera sennor dell Andaluzia que non fuera de linnage de reys, et pero que rey fue
et regno, et que assi regnarie ell et que serie el segundo rey Rodrigo.” Barton, 2011, 533.
51 Ibn Bassām, Dhakhīrah, 3/1:99: “Ḥaddathanī man samiʿahu yaqūlu wa-qad qawiya ṭamaʿuhu wa-
lajja bihi jashaʿuhu: ʿalá Rudharīq futiḥat hādhihi al-jazīratu wa-Rudharīqu yastanqidhuhā.”
52 Both Fletcher (1989, 183) and Martin (2007, 126–27) understand the exemption privilege in the
1098 endowment charter as a likely tool for making the Valencian bishopric directly subject to the
Apostolic See and outside of the control of Toledo, and they both argue that this privilege is a clear
sign of the Cid’s ambition to be independent. Barton (2011, 529), on the other hand, understands
the exemption privilege as a vehicle for achieving “Bishop Jerome’s independence from secular
power,” making “it all the more likely that the prelate had earlier served as a Cluniac [monk], for
which Order the defence of independence against secular encroachment was a perennial concern.”
Reoyo, 1955, 44 (no. 27); Burns, 1967, 1:257–58.
54 Urban II to Bishop Berenguer of Vic, 1 July 1091, in Mansilla Reoyo, 1955, 49–52 (no. 32); Urban
II to Count Ermengol IV of Urgell, 1 July 1091, in Kehr, 1926, 286 (no. 22); Urban II to the counts
Bernat of Besalú, Hugo of Ampurias, Guislabert of Roussilon, and Guillem of Cerdanya and their
knights, c. July 1096, in Kehr, 1926, 287–88 (no. 23).
55 Urban II to Bishop Peter of Huesca, 11 May 1098, in Durán Gudiol, 1962, 193 (no. 20).
56 For attempts to abolish the concept of the Spanish reconquista as a framework for viewing Iberia’s
medieval past, see Burns, 1979, 242; 1998; Chevedden, 2013, 41–42. The monumental study of
crusade bulls in Iberia by Goñi Gaztambide (1958) should have been sufficient to bury the idea
of the Spanish reconquista, as well as the 1095 start date for the crusades, but his findings were
ignored by scholars.
57 Just as Catlos argues that the Latin West placed no intrinsic value in crusading as an activity
that should be pursued for its own sake, as an end in itself, but rather made use of it as a mere
42
tool to serve the needs of an internal Christian conflict, Hirschler (2014) argues that the Islamic
world, when faced with the crusader advance in the eastern Mediterranean, was drawn to jihād,
not because it held any intrinsic value for Muslims, but because jihād was called upon to serve
as a tool in “the rivalry between the Abbasid Caliphate and the Saljuq Sultanate.” For Catlos
and Hirschler, it is not necessary to postulate an external cause for either the crusades or the
jihād response to them, since internal struggles within Christendom and the Dār al-Islām have
the power to produce both crusade and jihād. The overall intention of both scholars is to remove
the ongoing conflict between Islam and Western Christendom in the medieval Mediterranean
world from the causes of hostility between these two civilizations, and to demonstrate that either
inter-Christian disputes (Catlos) or inter-Muslim disputes (Hirschler) were to blame for whatever
strife arose between Cross and Crescent. A thesis such as Catlos’s and Hirschler’s that maintains
that actions were determined by causes internal to a society must show an absence of external
causes, that external causes could not be a factor in their determination.
58 Urban II’s letter to the monks of Vallombrosa, 7 October 1096, in Hiestand, 1985, 88–89 (no. 2);
trans. in Jensen, 2003, 121.
59 Urban II to Bishop Bertrand of Barcelona and the counts of the city, Berenguer Ramon and Ramon,
9 December 1093, in Kehr, 1926, 290–92 (no. 27); Becker, 1964–2012, 2:346; Chevedden, 2005b,
299 n112.
60 The Crusade of settlement and colonial control is explored at length in its Valencian context in
Burns, 1973 and 1975.
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53
CHAPTER THREE
WOMEN’S INVOLVEMENT IN
THE CRUSADES
Helen J. Nicholson
M odern readers could be forgiven for assuming that women could have no role in the
crusades. Canonists and preachers alike discouraged women’s active involvement.
The reforming Church wished to enforce chastity on anyone involved in spiritual undertak-
ing, and so crusaders must avoid all contact with women (Holt 2008). Failures on crusade
could be blamed on women’s sexual temptation. Maureen Purcell went so far as to claim
(1979) that women could not be true crusaders: crucesignatae, literally ‘cross-signed’, bear-
ing the sign of the cross.
Against this view, we have the leadership of noblewomen in holy wars and the Holy
Land. From 1131 to 1152 the Kingdom of Jerusalem was ruled by a queen, Melisende, who
ruled jointly with her husband, Fulk of Anjou, until 1143, and then as queen in her own
right with her underage son Baldwin III, until 1152. Melisende was praised by her con-
temporary Abbot Bernard of Clairvaux and many of the nobles of the kingdom supported
her against her eldest son (Hamilton 1978: 152–5; Newman 2014: 215–16). In the Iberian
Peninsula, Queen Teresa of Portugal (1112–28) and Queen Urraca of León and Castile
(1109–26) continued their father King Alfonso VI of Castile’s wars of expansion against
the Moors, wars which Pope Paschal II declared to be the equivalent of crusades. In Italy,
Countess Matilda of Tuscany ruled her county in her own right from 1076 to 1115, and gave
military support to the reforming papacy (Hay 2008). She also sponsored an attack on the
North African coastal city of al-Mahdiyyah in 1087, in which the Pisan participants wore a
pilgrim’s badge and the warriors claimed to be fighting a holy war against godless Muslims
(Cowdrey 1977).
It is clear that women were involved in crusades. Sabine Geldsetzer (2003) traced
ninety-one clear crucesignatae from the period 1096–1291, in addition to another seven
possible crucesignatae and a further fifty-nine whose status is unclear but who were present
or involved in some way. It is evident that women’s involvement was limited by cultural
and religious expectations, and also that contemporary sources do not give us a full picture
of their activity. All narrative sources from the medieval period had a didactic and mor-
alising as well as an informative role, but those composed by clerical writers especially
so. The imperative to produce a moralising discourse distorted the depiction of women,
54
— c h a p t e r 3 : Wo m e n ’s i n v o l v e m e n t i n t h e c r u s a d e s —
recreating them as pious virgins, faithful wives, carers or impious whores, but with little
acknowledgement of their fulfilling wider roles (Hodgson 2005, 2007). The writings of the
crusaders’ opponents were little better in this respect, offering a different but equally dis-
torted image. Modern scholars attempt to read between the lines and against the grain, but
all too often the narrative sources have not given sufficient information to allow effective
analysis (Gerish 2005; Nicholson 2004: 124). In the case of noblewomen, we may be able
to refer to the evidence of charters, wills or material culture to counter the distorted view
of the narrative sources, but there is little evidence for non-noblewomen’s involvement
beyond the narrative sources.
Beyond the question of whether women could legally be crucesignatae lie other debates.
Did women fight on crusade? Was their role in supporting crusaders their main contribu-
tion to the crusading movement? Were women, as some contemporary clergy claimed, an
impediment to a successful crusade?
We must remember that although the first crusades were depicted by contemporaries as
mass-movements, by the beginning of the thirteenth century the papacy discouraged the
involvement of all but warriors. Non-warriors – such as all male clergy, merchants, peas-
ant farmers and women of all classes – were encouraged to redeem their vows through a
money payment unless they were wealthy enough to lead soldiers to the crusade. If women
played only a minor role in crusading from the early thirteenth century, they were in the
same position as most men. However, in fact women did continue to be involved in cru-
sading in various ways, but – as for men – the most important contributions were made by
wealthy women.
RECRUITMENT
Women’s sufferings in the Holy Land at the hands of Islam were used by crusade propa-
gandists to urge support for the crusade (Lambert 2001: 9). Yet accounts of Pope Urban
II’s preaching of the First Crusade suggest that the pope did not expect women to take
part (Rousseau 2001: 32–4). Fewer women joined crusading expeditions from the early
thirteenth century: the crusade was preached to everyone, but increasingly women were
encouraged to commute their crusading vows and pay a sum of money in support of the
expedition instead (Powell 1992: 295; Rousseau 2001: 37–39). Nevertheless, women con-
tinued to join expeditions during the thirteenth century (Kedar 1972). Even after the final
loss of Acre to the Mamluks in 1291, women continued to promote crusading.
Pope Urban II promised that those who took part in the First Crusade would be relieved
of all penance due for their confessed sins (Riley-Smith 1997: 68). This guarantee would
have made the expedition equally attractive to all Catholic Christians of Europe. So far as
motivations can be established, the same incentives drew women as men: remission of con-
fessed sins, the desire to visit the holy places, to imitate Christ and support the Christians
of the East, in addition to a host of other less spiritual motives such as dynastic connections
(Geldsetzer 2003: 45–67).
Pope Urban II advised that men should have their wives’ consent before undertaking
the crusade, but crusade preachers quickly saw the danger that men would allow their
wives to hold them back from taking the cross. Gerald of Wales, recording Archbishop
Baldwin of Canterbury’s preaching mission in Wales before the Third Crusade, recalled
that one man had refused to ask for his wife’s consent because the crusade was men’s busi-
ness. Yet he also recorded cases of men who had been dissuaded from taking the cross by
55
— Helen J. Nicholson —
their wives – or at least claimed that their wives had dissuaded them as an excuse for not
fulfilling their vow – and a woman who accidently smothered her baby in her sleep after
preventing her husband from taking the cross (Edbury 1996a).
Despite such claims by contemporary preachers that women held back their husbands
and sons from joining the crusade, much of the historical evidence is the other way.
Jonathan Riley-Smith (1991) demonstrated that involvement of noble French families in
the Second Crusade was connected through the female line, while James Powell (1992)
showed how the women of Genoa promoted the Fifth Crusade. When a prominent woman
took the cross, as did Queen Isabella of England in 1313, it would encourage wide recruit-
ment and donation of resources, even if (as in Isabella’s case) she never set out on crusade
(Guard 2013: 139). A near-contemporary narrative of the Third Crusade, the Itinerarium
peregrinorum, records women encouraging their menfolk to participate and regretting that
they could not join the crusade themselves ‘because of the weakness of their sex’ (p. 48).
The contemporary Muslim historian Ibn al-Athīr recorded a conversation he had with a
Christian prisoner who told him that although he was his mother’s only son, she had sold
the family home in order to equip him for the Third Crusade, and had sent him to recover
Jerusalem (Nicholson 1997: 339).
Women played a role in organising crusades as well as encouraging recruitment. In
1301 Pope Boniface VIII endorsed a project by a group of Genoese noblewomen to spon-
sor a crusading expedition. They selected a leader, the famous Genoese admiral Benedetto
Zaccaria, and planned to join the crusade. The pope noted ‘that the women were venturing
where the men had refused to go’, but like many crusade plans of this time it came to noth-
ing (Luttrell 1990: 187).
Later in the fourteenth century, Catherine of Siena, mystic and writer, promoted the con-
cept of a crusade against the infidel, to be made up of both men and women. In 1372 a Tuscan
hermit wrote that he had heard that a group of pious young men and women wished to go
overseas – a euphemism for going on crusade; by 1374 Catherine of Siena had asked the pope
for permission to go on pilgrimage to Jerusalem with a group of holy women, and wrote of
her intended journey as if she envisaged it as a crusade; in 1375 she wrote about a crusade
against the Turks. But her plans came to nothing (Luttrell 1990: 187; Maier 2004: 78–81).
WOMEN IN CRUSADE CAMPAIGNS

As Christoph Maier has pointed out, although most women who were involved in crusade
campaigns were not formally called crucesignatae, the same is true for most men in crusade
armies, especially before the start of the thirteenth century (2004: 69–70). James Brundage
(1969) has shown that, despite Purcell’s arguments to the contrary, medieval canon lawyers
did acknowledge that women’s crusading vows were valid. Having said this, women who
took part in crusades did not normally fight.
Noblewomen who accompanied the First Crusade travelled with their husbands, broth-
ers and other male relatives. Conor Kostick points out that they ‘were brought to generate
families should the conquest be successful’ (2008: 278). That said, only one of the leaders
of the crusade, Raymond of St Gilles, was accompanied by wife, Elvira of Castile. Alan V.
Murray (2012: 256) suggests that as Raymond had passed his estates to his son Bertrand, he
intended to ‘found a new principality for himself in the East’.
Noblewomen and queens also accompanied their husbands on later crusades: Eleanor of
Aquitaine accompanied King Louis VII of France on the Second Crusade, while Richard I
56
of England was accompanied from Sicily by his widowed sister Joanna and his wife-to-be
Berengaria of Navarre. In 1248–54, Margaret of Provence accompanied her husband, King
Louis IX of France, on crusade to Egypt; in 1271 Eleanor of Castile accompanied her hus-
band the Lord Edward, soon to be King Edward I of England, on his crusade to the Holy
Land. For the majority of these cases, men and women travelled together to seek the bless-
ing of the pilgrimage, but Richard I also needed his sister’s dowry to finance his campaign.
Queens also had a role in diplomacy: Eleanor of Aquitaine and the German-born Empress
Bertha communicated by letter, and Emperor Manuel I Komnenos tried to arrange a Greek
marriage through her for one of the ladies accompanying the French army (Martindale
2004). According to Muslim accounts, Richard I used the possibility of marriage between
Saladin’s brother al-Adil and his sister Joanna as a bargaining tool with Saladin (Luttrell
1990: 185–6). When King Louis IX was captured during his campaign in Egypt, his wife
Margaret directed the defence of Damietta from her childbed (Joinville 1963: 262–3).
Presumably many women of lesser status also took part in these crusades with their
families, for the crusade was a pilgrimage as well as a holy war and therefore participation
was open to all. Yet Catholic clerical writers depicted women participants in crusades as
a source of sexual pollution and an encouragement to sin – as the crusade was a spiritual
undertaking, it was essential that participants avoid sex during the campaign (Brundage
1985; Holt 2008). Women should therefore not take part in crusades, should be strictly seg-
regated from men during the expedition, or at least should be respectably married and under
male control. Alan V. Murray has pointed out that in fact most of the single women on
crusade were not prostitutes but women whose male protectors, whether husbands, fathers
or employers, had died during the campaign: many would have been domestic servants,
members of crusaders’ households. The common crusaders were concerned to support these
women when they were left without protection or employment (Murray 2012).
Western contemporary writers recording crusades also depicted the non-noblewomen in
crusading armies providing a military support role during the expedition, supplying food,
bringing water to the warriors during battles, helping with manual labour such as filling in
ditches, and giving encouragement and advice (Powell 1992: 300; Lambert 2001: 8; Maier
2004: 67). They also killed Muslim prisoners (Itinerarium peregrinorum nd: 89). The popu-
lar story that Eleanor Castile sucked poison from her husband Edward I’s wound following
an assassination attempt during his crusade is no more than a story, but reflects the tradi-
tional caring role of women, and Eleanor’s reputation as a devoted wife (Parsons 2004).
Even non-combatant women were in conditions of considerable danger during a crusade
campaign. Albert of Aachen’s First Crusade story of the beautiful woman captured at the
siege of Antioch while playing dice in an orchard outside the city has a moralising function
but expresses the constant danger of war: the woman and her companion the archdeacon
were captured and killed because they failed to keep a good look-out or set an effective
armed guard (Kostick 2008: 277). Ambroise and the Itinerarium peregrinorum recount the
death of a woman engaged in filling in the ditch defences of the city of Acre (Ambroise
2011: 2:83; Itinerarium peregrinorum nd: 106). An account of the Fifth Crusade mentions
women present during one battle outside the city of Damietta, on the banks of the river Nile,
19 August 1219: ‘By the waterside were the Romans and women who carried fresh water
for the infantry to drink. The Bedouins, who were above the river, charged them and killed
them’ (Fragmentum de captione Damiatæ nd: 187).
Western crusade chroniclers depicted Muslim women in various roles during these cam-
paigns. Like Christian women, they could give sound advice to their menfolk (Hodgson 2001).
57
Abbot Guibert of Nogent, who was not an eye-witness of the First Crusade, imagined
exotically dressed Saracen women in the Muslim camp, carrying quivers full of arrows,
who he wrote seemed to have come ‘not to fight but to reproduce’ but who later ran away,
abandoning their children (Lambert 2001: 8–9). Christian writers in Western Europe
imagined Muslim women to be beautiful and well-educated, ready to be impressed by
and to marry doughty Christian warriors. The reality was rather different, as Usama ibn
Munqidh describes the suicide of a young Muslim woman who was captured by a Frankish
knight (Nicholson 2013: 109–10). The continuator of William of Tyre recounted that the
sergeants in the King Guy of Jerusalem’s army, on their way to relieve the fortress at
Tiberias in early July 1187, captured a Saracen sorceress who said she had been employed
by Saladin to curse the Christian army. The Christians killed her and then burned her body,
but the continuator comments ‘it was indeed true that few knights escaped [from the battle
of Hattin] and avoided being killed or taken’, suggesting that Muslim magic could not be
easily nullified (Edbury 1996b: 40). This story reflects the Western European belief that
the Muslims, as ‘other’, had magical knowledge; but also reflects the actual Arab knowl-
edge of science that had become known to the Catholic West since the capture of the city
of Toledo in 1085, with its extensive collection of Greek and Arabic scientific texts. In
contrast to these highly imaginative Western depictions, contemporary Islamic sources
indicate that Muslim women were prepared to fight Christians or assist Muslim warriors
in defence of home and family, but they did not become involved in military campaigns
(Nicholson 1997: 341).
COMBATANTS
Saladin’s secretary ‘Imād al-Dīn al-Isfahani echoed the Christian clerical image of crusad-
ing women as a source of sexual pollution, writing of Christian prostitutes taking the cross
and coming to the siege of Acre in 1189 to provide sexual services for the crusaders. But
he also described women bringing supplies and merchandise to the siege, and depicted old
women stirring up the crusaders to fight. He and the qadi Bahā al-Dīn ibn Shaddad gave the
Christian women active military roles too, depicting a Christian woman using a bow against
Muslim soldiers and Christian women fighting in the field against Muslims (Nicholson 1997:
337–9). The Catholic Christians writers make no mention of women fighting. If women on
this crusade were stepping out of their normal sphere, it is strange that Christian writers
did not blame the failure of the Third Crusade on female misbehaviour: one of the contem-
porary reasons given for the failure of the Second Crusade was the presence of Eleanor of
Aquitaine, wife of King Louis VII of France, who was accused of sexual misbehaviour with
her cousin Prince Raymond of Antioch (Holt 2008: 454, 465–6; Geldsetzer 2003: 107–12).
The Muslim commentators, however, set out to depict their Christian enemies as morally
corrupt barbarians who were incapable of fulfilling proper manly functions (such as defend-
ing their women folk) and whose society was cursed by God. Their depiction of Christian
women fighting on the battlefield would have formed part of this image of the morally cor-
rupt enemy heading for destruction (Nicholson 1997: 340–2, 348).
In contrast, the women in power in the crusader states would have acted as military lead-
ers, even though they did not fight in the field in person. As fief holders, military service was
their duty, although their feudal lord would normally expect an heiress to marry and for her
husband to perform the military service due (Edbury 2004: 286). However, if circumstances
demanded, a woman holding a lordship could take part in military action herself. Queen
58
Melisende defended her kingdom against her son Baldwin III when he rebelled against her
(Newman 2014: 211–12). Queens Sybil and Isabel of Jerusalem, cousins of King Richard
I of England, commanded the fortified cities of Jerusalem and Tyre respectively against
Sultan Saladin’s forces; in July 1187 Lady Eschiva of Tiberias commanded the defence of
her castle of Tiberias against Saladin’s siege (Itinerarium peregrinorum nd: 38, 312–13;
Edbury 1996b: 37, 38, 48). But even these high-status women never fought on the bat-
tlefield; they commanded, but the contemporary sources do not record that they bore arms.
One Muslim noblewoman directed military forces against crusaders, although she did
not fight herself: Shajar or Shajarat al-Durr (d. 1257) (Duncan 2000). Originally a Turkish
slave, from 1240 she was concubine of al-Ṣāliḥ Ayyūb, Ayyūbid sultan of Egypt and was
promoted to being his wife. In November 1249, while King Louis IX of France’s first
crusade was attacking Egypt, the sultan fell ill and died. According to the Arab historian
al-Maqrīzī, writing nearly two centuries later, Shajar al-Durr called together the emir Fakhr
al-Dīn ibn Shaykh al Shuyūkh, commander of her late husband’s armies, and Djamāl al-Dīn
Moḥẓsin, explained that her husband was dead and asked them to keep the death a secret, for
fear of demoralising the Muslims and encouraging the invaders. The three worked together
to maintain government until the heir, al-Malik al-Mu‘aẓẓam Tūrān-Shāh Ghiyath al-Dīn,
could arrive from Hiṣn Kaīfā (now Hasankeyf in south-eastern Turkey). Shajar persuaded
the emirs and government officials to swear to acknowledge Tūrān-Shāh as heir.
The crusaders, who had already captured the important port of Damietta, heard rumours
of the sultan’s death and advanced towards Cairo. Fakhr al-Dīn led the Muslim defence.
After a series of battles, on 8 February 1250 the crusaders were defeated at Manṣūra and
forced to withdraw, but Fakhr al-Dīn himself was killed. Shajar al-Durr continued to con-
duct affairs of state in the name of her dead husband until Tūrān-Shāh arrived at Cairo and
was proclaimed sultan. The crusaders, meanwhile, began to retreat, but were surrounded
by Muslim troops and forced to surrender. Many were executed, but the leaders, includ-
ing King Louis himself, were held for ransom. Having dealt with this danger, Tūrān-Shāh
demanded that Shajar al-Durr hand over the dead sultan’s treasure to him. Shajar al-Durr
denied having the treasure and appealed to her late husband’s mamluks for aid. They mur-
dered Tūrān-Shāh, and made Shajar al-Durr sultana.
However, the Syrian emirs would not acknowledge Shajar al-Durr as ruler of Egypt
and threatened to invade Egypt, so the Mamluks appointed a military commander to rule
jointly with Shajar; she then abdicated. Shajar came into the public sphere only because she
was acting on behalf of a man, her late husband, and her authority lasted only until a male
replacement was found.
PILGRIMS AND CRUSADERS

During the crusades, women continued to visit the Holy Land as pilgrims and might take
the cross as a symbol of their intention to travel to Jerusalem. The English royal clerk Roger
of Howden, an eyewitness of the Third Crusade, noted in his ‘Chronicle’ that when King
Béla III of Hungary died (1196) his wife Margaret, sister of King Philip of France and
former queen of England as wife of Henry the young king, took the cross for the journey
to Jerusalem, accepit crucem Jerosolimitanae profectionis, and remained in the land of
Jerusalem at Acre in the Lord’s service until the end of her life. So she was a crucesignata,
a crusader; but there is no evidence that she took part in warfare when she reached the Holy
Land (Nicholson 1997: 337).
59
Yet women who were in the Holy Land as pilgrims during crusades did become involved
in the military action. Perhaps the best-known example is that of Margaret of Beverley,
whose life was recorded by her younger brother Thomas of Froidmont. Margaret was in
Jerusalem at the time of Saladin’s siege of 1187, and assisted in the defence of the city by
bringing water to the warriors. She was made a prisoner after the fall of the city and went
through many sufferings before she was able to return to Europe, where she became a nun.
Thomas’s spiritual biography of his sister remains within the traditional narrative of wom-
en’s involvement in warfare; she acts in a supportive role and suffers a living martyrdom
through imprisonment and slavery (Luttrell 1990: 185; Maier 2004: 64–7).
Another pilgrim saint depicted being caught up in events in the Holy Land just before
the Third Crusade is St Hildegund, who joined the Cistercian abbey of Schönau as a monk,
died during her first year there on 20 April 1188, and was discovered after her death to have
been a woman. Her biographers recorded that following her mother’s death her father took
her on pilgrimage to Jerusalem but died en route. According to an account written by one
of her fellow novices, Hildegund’s father had dressed her as a boy in order to travel more
safely, ut sic securior iens, and given her the name of Joseph. ‘Joseph’ arrived in Jerusalem
and visited Jerusalem and the Holy Sepulchre. Destitute and without support, she did not
know where to turn, but a pious man helped her and gave her food. She stayed in Jerusalem
for a year in the Templars’ house, visiting the Holy Places, before returning to Europe with
an old friend and relative of her father. Her male biographers praised her virtue, seeing her
male disguise as a sign of spiritual strength (Hotchkiss 2012: 36, 39; Acta Sanctorum April
II 1865: 781). However, they do not state that Hildegund ever fought with arms while she
was staying with the Templars.
For both of these women, their suffering in the Holy Land allowed them to share in
Christ’s sufferings even though contemporary culture did not permit them to take part
in military combat to defend Christians; but sometimes female pilgrims were depicted
as taking part in combat. Anthony Luttrell has noted that ‘in 1350 an English woman
pilgrim was reputed, presumably with considerable exaggeration, single-handedly to have
killed more than a thousand Turkish captives at Rhodes’. The event was recorded by the
traveller Ludolph von Sudheim, who admitted that that story was only rumour (Luttrell
1990: 187). Over a hundred years later, Lucy, an English sister of the Trinitarian Order,
was reported to have fought in the 1480 defence of Rhodes against the Ottoman Turks
(Guard 2013: 140). Such accounts demonstrated the power of even weak Christian women
over their Muslim enemies.
WOMEN LIVING IN CRUSADING REGIONS

According to both Catholic Christian and Islamic cultural ideals, women should have been
excluded from fighting in crusades, and should have been regarded as inviolate non-combat-
ants. Heath Dillard has noted an account in the anonymous Chronica Adefonsi Imperatoris
which was predicated on this assumption:
One reliable anonymous narrative describes the shrewd command of the Empress
Berengaria at Toledo in 1139 when the garrison was caught unawares and ill-defended
in the absence of Alfonso VII. She successfully averted a Muslim attack by concealing
her few soldiers and shaming the besiegers’ vanity, asking them what honour they could
hope to win by taking the city from a woman. To make her point, she retired with her
60
ladies to the summit of the castle, and the Muslims, beholding these non-combatants
deliberately arrayed in finery and playing musical instruments, withdrew from the field.
(Dillard 1984: 15)
But in practice, women were not normally spared the violence of holy war. Margaret of
Beverley has already been mentioned as a female pilgrim who was captured and enslaved
during Saladin’s campaigns which resulted in the Third Crusade. Almost two centuries later
in January 1366 the Englishwoman Isolda Parewastrell informed Pope Urban V that she had
been imprisoned and tortured while she was on pilgrimage to the Holy Land: perhaps she
was caught up in the reprisals against Christians following King Peter I of Cyprus’s attack
on Alexandria in October 1365 (Luttrell 1990: 189). In the first decades of the thirteenth
century, the crusaders taking part in the Albigensian Crusade dealt with women just as they
dealt with men, hacking them to pieces. Most notorious was the killing of the noblewoman
Girauda of Lavaur, who was thrown into a well and then covered in stones (Barber 2001:
48; Shirley 1996: 41). Women and young girls on both sides were captured in the course
of crusades; sometimes they were killed, but often they were enslaved, and contemporary
writers assumed that they would be sexually abused (Friedman 2001).
It is therefore no surprise that women living in crusading regions expected and were
expected to take part in military activity. According to the author of the Chanson de la
croisade albigeois, women brought about the death of the leader of the crusade, Simon de
Montfort, on 25 June 1218. He was besieging the city of Toulouse when he was killed by a
stone hurled by a catapult operated by ladies, girls and married women (Shirley 1996: 172).
According to this writer, Montfort’s actions were so abhorrent to God that He permitted
weak and feeble women to kill him – a shameful death for such a renowned warrior.
The Catalan writer Ramon Muntaner, writing in the early fourteenth century, recorded
an incident during the French crusade against Aragon in 1285. Na Mercadera, a woman of
Peralada in Aragon, went out of her house armed with a lance and shield so that she could
defend herself if necessary against the French crusaders, who were besieging the town. She
encountered a French knight, whom she captured (Nicholson 1997: 343–4). Muntaner used
this story to demonstrate God’s support for the Catalans, for even their weak women could
defeat the supposedly superior French knights.
Moving forward to the early fifteenth century: on 14 June 1419 the people of Prague,
including many women, held off a fierce attack by the army of King Sigismund, king of
Hungary and heir to Bohemia, during the first crusade against the Hussites. Prague had
declared for the Hussite heresy; Sigismund and his army were determined to enforce ortho-
dox Roman Catholicism. A Czech contemporary, Lawrence of Březová, described the cru-
saders’ attack:
They strongly attacked the … wooden bulwark. They succeeded in crossing the moat,
and they took the old watchtower on top of the vineyards. And when they tried to scale
the wall erected from earth and stone, two women and one girl together with about
twenty-six men who still held the bulwark defended themselves manfully, hurling stones
and lances, for they had neither arrows nor guns. And one of the two women, though she
was without armour, surpassed in spirit all men, as she did not want to yield one step.
Before Antichrist, so she said, no faithful Christian must ever retreat! And thus, fighting
with supreme courage, she was killed and gave up her spirit.
(Heymann 1955: 138)
61
A letter from the margrave of Meissen claimed that 156 Hussite women had been captured
during this encounter, wearing men’s clothes and armed (Heymann 1955: 138). This was a
crucial day in the formation of the Czech nation: it was the battle which saved Prague and
the Hussite faith from German and Catholic invasion. For the Czech writer, the presence
of courageous women among the fighters underlined the rightness of the Czech cause. For
the Germans, the presence of women dressed and armed as men among the enemy’s forces
demonstrated their otherness.
The above instances all occurred in crusades in which Christians fought Christians,
but Rasa Mazeika has shown that the same situation pertained in the regions where the
Teutonic Order was militarily active against non-Christians from the 1230s onwards, in
Prussia, Livonia and Lithuania. The chronicler Peter von Dusburg and others described
women fighting alongside men against the pagans, and the pagan women encouraging their
menfolk to fight against the Christians. A Christian woman attacked by a pagan man and
chased into a swamp turned on him and drowned him in the mud; captive Christian women
also turned on their Lithuanian captors and killed them, through the power of God. Like
the Muslim women who fall in love with Christian heroes in the Old French epics of the
crusade, an Estonian woman was depicted helping two brothers of the Teutonic Order who
had been taken captive by her fellow pagans (Mazeika 1998). The situation was the same
in the eastern Mediterranean, where a Greek woman was recorded to have died as a martyr
fighting at Rhodes against the Turks in the siege of 1522: she was apparently the partner of
a Hospitaller officer (Vertot 1726: 3:342–3).
As Mazeika explains apropos of the crusades in the Baltic region, ‘Women in heaven and
on earth were not excused from participation in battle … there could be … no bystanders in
a war seen as an elemental struggle between war and demons’, and in such circumstances
God would give even weak women strength to fight like men (Mazeika, 1998: 247). These
heroic tales, however, must conceal many instances where women suffered death, torture
and enslavement, the invariable fate of non-combatants in wartime.
SUPPORTING THE CRUSADE

Although women did not normally fight on crusade campaigns, noblewomen could use their
wealth to support the defence of Christendom. Pietro Collivaccino, a notary of the Roman
curia under Pope Innocent III who finished his work on canon law in 1209, wrote that a
woman should normally redeem her crusading vow by paying a sum of money so that a man
could go in her place, unless she was wealthy and would be accompanied by a retinue of
soldiers (Brundage 1969: 77). Pope Innocent III himself also stated that a wealthy woman
could lead warriors to the East at her own expense (Rousseau 2001: 39). Women certainly
did finance campaigns. For example, in 1288 Countess Alice of Blois travelled to the city
of Acre in Palestine with a large military force and financed the construction of a tower to
defend against Muslim attack (Annales de Terre Sainte nd: 459–60).
Obviously, women were better able to give such support to crusades if they had control
of resources of their own. At Genoa in the second decade of the thirteenth century, the
crusade preacher Jacques de Vitry found that the wealthy and noble women were eager to
take the cross. James Powell has pointed out that Genoese women ‘wielded considerable
economic power’, making commercial contracts, investing in trade, ‘active in real estate
and in the borrowing and lending of money’ (1992: 296–7). Of the surviving wills from
62
Genoa from the period of the Fifth Crusade, fifteen contain legacies for the crusade; ten of
these were the wills of women (1992: 296).
In effect, every wife who remained at home running the family estates or business
while her husband was on crusade was supporting the crusade effort (Maier 2004: 75–6).
In theory, the crusaders’ wives, children and possessions were under the protection of
the Church during their absence (Muldoon 2005: 46). But in practice this did not always
come about. During a crusader’s absence, his wife and daughters were vulnerable to force
from those with land claims against them: both physical force and legal attack through
the courts. It was not always clear whether a crusader who had not returned was dead
or captured, and hence the status of his wife and heirs remained uncertain. The widow
of a crusader might have to resort to the law courts to obtain her dower lands. Women
could be pressured to sell their own dowry and dower lands to support their husband’s
crusade, which would leave them in financial difficulties in the future, unable to pay their
absent husband’s debts or support themselves and their children (Brundage 1967a, 1967b;
Tyerman 1988: 208–211).
In addition to financial aid, women gave prayer support to this spiritual undertaking. In
1212, in preparation for King Alfonso of Castile’s expedition against the Muslims in Spain,
Pope Innocent III commanded that there should be a liturgical procession in which men and
women formed separate contingents and prayed to God for his support for the campaign.
His encyclical for the Fifth Crusade, Quia Maior (1213), ordered monthly liturgical proces-
sions on the same lines, in which men and women were to pray for God to liberate the Holy
Land from the Muslims (Rousseau 2001: 36). Men and women would take part in daily
prayers at mass and almsgiving for the crusade (Rousseau 2001: 37).
Another means of supporting the Catholic Christian cause was to support the military
religious orders which developed in the Holy Land and the West, dedicated to the care
of Christian pilgrims and defence of Christendom. Women gave valuable donations and
patronage to these institutions. They could also become members or associates. Although
they did not fight, they provided a support role of prayer and sometimes nursing care
(Luttrell and Nicholson, 2006; Born, 2012).
As those who were left behind, women were also involved in the commemoration of
crusaders. Idonea de Camville and Countess Ela of Salisbury, respectively wife and mother
of William Longespee, English hero of King Louis IX’s first crusade who perished at the
Battle of Manṣūra in February 1250, may have instigated the references to William’s deeds
in historical records created at the abbeys of Barlings and Lacock (Lloyd 1992: 86–87).
Natasha Hodgson has noted that in the early fourteenth century the crusade propagan-
dist Pierre Dubois proposed a new role for women in the effort against Islam. His sugges-
tion was that women should be trained in theology and logic and then married to Eastern
Christians and Muslims, so that they could convert their husbands through reasoned argu-
ment. Alternatively, they could be educated in the medical care of women’s ailments and
thereby they would influence non-Christians to convert (Hodgson 2006: 1290). Such sug-
gestions reflected the fictional narratives of Muslim heroes converting to Christianity for
love of Christian women (Kangas 2013: 125–6). Like King Richard I’s sister Joanna who
was reported to have refused to marry Saladin’s brother al-Adil, it is unlikely that any west-
ern European Christian noblewoman would have been willing to give up her culture and
society in this way, even for the good of Christendom; or that their menfolk would have
been willing to allow them to do so. That said, Catholics did intermarry with Armenian
63
Christians, both parties hoping to secure alliances, gain territory and extend power and
influence. This was not always successful: despite these alliances, neither side wished to be
ruled by the other (Hodgson 2011).
Certain female Christian saints, including Christ’s mother the Blessed Virgin Mary,
were the focus of crusaders’ special religious devotion. Eric Christiansen has described
Mary as a ‘warrior goddess’ in her role as the patron of the Teutonic Order in its military
campaigns in the Baltic, and Rasa Mazeika has pointed out that the priest Henry of Livonia
described her as ‘a cruel wreaker of vengeance on her enemies’ (Christiansen 1997: 222;
Mazeika 1998: 244–7). Although elsewhere she was not usually depicted in such a martial
setting, nevertheless she was the outstanding female supporter of the crusades. The mili-
tary religious orders claimed a number of female saints as patrons, probably because they
presented valuable spiritual examples of long suffering and martyrdom (Nicholson 2005).
CONCLUSION
It is clear that women were deeply involved in the crusades, as participants and supporters.
As James Powell noted, ‘The enthusiastic response with which Genoese women greeted
Jacques de Vitry’s preaching of the crusade demonstrates the degree to which they felt
involved in one of the major enterprises of the Latin West’ (1992: 296). Women in Catholic
Christendom could not fail to be involved in a movement that was so central to their society
and culture, but both the form that involvement took and its depiction by contemporary
commentators were circumscribed by social convention and expectations. For contempo-
raries, prayer, finance and commemoration were as valuable in support for the crusade
as actual fighting. In contrast, women who lived in the warzone or who were travelling
there as pilgrims could not avoid being drawn into the conflict, either as victims or active
participants in war. Even female saints were co-opted as supporters of the crusade; a few
women tried to initiate crusade expeditions. For most women, however, as for most men,
the crusade was an expression of faith which they supported but in which they were not
personally involved.
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67
CHAPTER FOUR
‘CRUSADING’ WARFARE IN THE

TWELFTH CENTURY
John France
S ince the crusades were wars in God’s name, pious acts for which salvation could be
obtained not by the traditional good deeds but by slaughter, the warfare of the era has
exercised enormous interest. It has also produced a great deal of confusion because all
Western warfare in the Eastern Mediterranean in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries has
been characterised as crusading. Since crusades faced a Muslim reaction in the form of
jihad, these have been seen as wars of religious fanaticism, and indeed an observation by
William of Tyre has often been taken as proof of that:
War is waged differently and less vigorously between men who hold the same law and
faith. For even if no other cause for hatred exists, the fact that the combatants do not
share the same articles of faith is sufficient reason for constant quarrelling and enmity.1
It is not hard to find examples of fanaticism in the course of the crusades. Antioch was
besieged by the First Crusade for eight months, and when they finally broke in on the night
of 2 June 1098, according to Albert of Aachen they massacred as many as 10,000, includ-
ing local Christians, which Albert of Aachen justified rather casually as the consequence
of fighting in the dark.2 When they broke into Jerusalem in July 1099, there was an orgy of
killing and an eyewitness testified that:
In the Temple and porch of Solomon, men rode in blood up to their knees and bridle
reins.3
After the capture of Acre, Saladin delayed in paying the ransom for the garrison who had
surrendered on terms and Richard the Lionheart (1189–99) ordered that all 2700 of them
should be massacred.4 In the ensuing fighting, Saladin in turn ordered that all prisoners
should be killed.5 These are famous and notable occasions, but it should be noted that bru-
tality and massacre were far more pronounced than in the West. In the fighting between
Antioch and Aleppo in the first third of the twelfth century, prisoners were routinely killed,
as Kemal ad-Din makes clear.6
68
— c h a p t e r 4 : ‘ C r u s a d i n g ’ w a r f a re i n t h e t w e l f t h c e n t u r y —
But such brutality was actually only episodic, even when Western crusades were
p resent in the East. Saladin’s forces were defeated by Richard’s crusaders at the Battle
of Arsuf, after which it became obvious that the war would be protracted, and exchange
of prisoners was once more resumed. In fact in a very rough and ready way both sides
respected the laws of war as practised in the Islamic and Christian worlds, though it has
to be said that this was very rough and ready and exceptions were very numerous.7 This
convergence was due to a number of factors. On the face of it, Islamic and European
societies were very different. European rulers depended on lords who exercised power
in their names, but often very independently. Literacy was confined largely to the clergy
and it was only slowly that government was systematised, and even then it remained
very decentralised. The East had great cities, on a scale unknown to Europeans. Their
rulers enjoyed the support of quite complex and literate bureaucracies which collected
and accounted for taxes. However, since 1055 the Middle East had been dominated by
a steppe people, the Seljuk Turks, whose concept of power was deeply personal. Cities
such as Mosul, Damascus, Diyarbakir and Aleppo were ruled by Turkish grandees pre-
siding over the bureaucrats and nominally responsible to the sultan at Baghdad. Both
European lords and Turkish magnates attached great importance to redeeming family
members and their more notable followers when they were captured in war, it being the
case that only people of wealth and importance could escape death or enslavement as a
result of captivity.8
But there was a more fundamental reason why war to the knife, whether in battle or
siege, occurred less often than might be expected. While the rulers of the Islamic cities
would impose tax on trade, both societies fundamentally depended on agriculture, which
produced only relatively limited surpluses that had to support the magnificence of courts
and religious institutions as well as warfare. This had a profound influence on the recruit-
ment of armies. Turkish grandees could usually support a small standing force, the askar,
but for anything bigger they needed to accumulate wealth. Western lords relied very heav-
ily on agriculture, keeping about them only a limited number of soldiers in their military
households; the raising of major forces depended on negotiation with their subordinates and
potential allies. For both sides, therefore, warfare had to be episodic. And since an army
represented a huge political and financial investment, leaders tended to be risk averse. As
a result, truces were a commonplace and warfare was discontinuous, except in relatively
rare cases such as the Third Crusade (1189–92). It was simply not possible to maintain
the kind of constant murderous warfare seen on the Eastern Front in the Second World
War. Of course, the greater a ruler’s dominions, the bigger the army he could raise. It has
been calculated that by the 1180s Saladin’s huge empire had the potential to raise 34,000
mounted men. But such a force could only be concentrated by a great effort and in particular
political circumstances. That is, when the magnates of a ruler agreed and there was no other
external threat – the greater the empire, the more enemies it had. In 1187 Saladin created an
enormous army because political circumstances were favourable, but without the success of
Hattin it is doubtful whether he could have done it again, and his resources were soon after
deeply stretched by the Third Crusade.
The warfare between Westerners and Turks was in part a clash of contrasting styles, and
all the more fascinating because of that. The Turks brought with them into the Middle East
a form of warfare developed on the open steppe of Asia. They were primarily horse-archers
whose way of life made them highly disciplined warriors. The possession of strings of
horses enabled them to move long distances over the steppe lands and to manoeuvre at high
69
— John France —
speed over periods of time when in contact with their enemies. Such light cavalry could
move around clumsier enemies, surrounding them or tempting them to lose formation by
feigned retreats. Their strength lay in manoeuvre and sapping the power of their enemies.
This style fitted well into the open plains of the Middle East and could be sustained by
the easy raising of small horses possible in such areas. It is worth noting that the Middle
East to this day is regarded as excellent tank country. The anonymous author of the Gesta
Francorum, who may himself have been a knight, remarked on the sudden appearance of
the enemy which so surprised the army:
Our men wondered exceedingly whence had arisen so great a multitude of Turks, Arabs,
Saracens and others, for almost all the mountains and hills and valleys and all the level
places, within and without, were on all sides covered with that excommunicate race.9
And Fulcher of Chartres, a priest trapped in the crusader camp, observed acutely the novelty
of the enemy’s methods:
Altogether they numbered 360000 fighters all on horses and armed with bows as was
their custom. We, on the other hand, had both foot-soldiers and knights. … The Turks
crept up, howling loudly and shooting a shower of arrows. Stunned, and almost dead,
and with many wounded, we immediately fled. And it was no wonder, for such warfare
was new to us all.10
But this form of warfare had a fatal flaw which was picked out by the anonymous author of
the Gesta Francorum as he later reflected on the course of the battle of Dorylaeum, 1 July
1097:
Turks, who thought that they would strike terror into the Franks as they had done into
the Arabs and Saracens, Armenians, Syrians and Greeks, by the menace of their arrows?
(GF, 21)
At Dorylaeum the crusaders, though surprised, held their formation and crushed the Turks.
In the circumstances of the Middle Ages, battle usually had to be settled by close-quarter
combat, in which the heavily armoured crusaders had an advantage. This was why Turkish
armies tried to have a leavening of more heavily armoured men, and indeed the same author
recognised that they did when he later noticed:
The Agulani numbered 3000; they fear neither spears nor arrows nor any other weapon,
for they and their horses are covered all over with plates of iron.
(GF, 49)
The priest Raymond of Aguilers remarked on the same thing when he discussed the make-
up of the garrison of Antioch:
There were, furthermore, in the city two thousand of the best knights, and four or five
thousand common knights.
(RA, 41, trans. 127)
70
It was relatively easy for Islamic armies to recruit horse-archers, either from their native
steppe-lands or from the Turcomen tribes who roamed the Middle East, often displacing
the Bedouin and semi-nomadic Arab tribes. Such men were brave and able fighters, and
they could sometimes prevail against the crusaders either by sheer weight of numbers or
by luring them into breaking formation, as they seem to have done in the battle of Harran
in 1104.11 It was perhaps no coincidence that it was the failure of the Latin’s light cavalry,
their Turcopoles, which played a part in the catastrophic defeat of the army of Antioch at
the Field of Blood in 1119.12
But light horsemen found it difficult to break down close formations of heavily armoured
knights whose horses were protected from arrow fire by surrounding foot soldiers. Thus on
occasion the armies of the settlers opted for what Smail called the ‘fighting march’.13 In
1147 the Latins, under Baldwin III of Jerusalem, had marched on Bosra but found Nur ed-
Din in great strength, so they formed a column to retreat. In consequence:
General orders had been given that the bodies of all the dead in the Christian ranks were
to be placed upon camels and other pack animals, that the knowledge of the massacre
of our forces might not tend to strengthen the enemy. The weak and wounded were also
to be placed on beasts of burden so as to give the impression that not a single Christian
had been killed or wounded. It was a source of amazement, therefore, to the wiser heads
among the enemy that, after such a volley of arrows, such repeated conflicts, such torture
of thirst, dust and unbearable heat, not a single dead Christian could be found. This peo-
ple must indeed, be made of iron, they thought.
(WT, Bk 16: ch. 11)
Such a tactic was only possible against masses of light cavalry who did not close to kill – the
reference here to ‘such a volley of arrows’ is highly significant. The problem for Muslim
armies was to amass sufficiently large numbers of the heavily armed and armoured horse-
men who could challenge the Latin knights at close quarters. William of Tyre noted the
large number of such elite troops in the army of Shirkuh at the battle of Babayn in 1167:
Shirkuh had twelve thousand Turks, of whom nine thousand wore the breastplate and the
other three thousand used only bows and arrows.
(WT, Bk 19: ch. 25)
Again at the battle of Montgisard in 1177, William distinguished 8000 ‘splendid soldiers’,
including Saladin’s personal bodyguard of 1000, from the remainder of the 26,000 cav-
alry.14 The proportion of this elite, the tawashi, seems to have increased, and this marched
with an increasing emphasis on heavy equipment for the army in the 1170s and 1180s.15
They continued to use the bow and were never as heavily armed as the Christian knights
who they outnumbered. As Saladin’s empire grew, so the numbers of such troops at his
disposal grew, enabling him to concentrate large numbers of them in the forces gathered for
the great confrontation at Hattin in 1187. Overall, by the time of Saladin, the capacity of
Islamic armies for the close-quarter battle had increased enormously, while their capacity
for manoeuvre remained very substantial.16
When we come to analyse the military methods of the Westerners who invaded the
Middle East, we have to distinguish two distinct forms of warfare:
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— John France —
1 The warfare of crusaders from the West in or moving towards the East.
2 The warfare of those who had settled in the East.
It is the case of the present article that in the twelfth century the Latin settlers adapted the
Western style of war to the different circumstances of the Middle East. However, in the thir-
teenth century their armies were usually only a part of Western forces, so that the distinction
between them and crusaders proper disappeared. This process was the more rapid because
the armies coming from the West became increasingly sophisticated.
In Western Europe the predominant style of war was what I have called ‘agro-urban’.17
Concentrations of power, usually castles in Europe, were supported by arable and pastoral
farming. Extensive agriculture left little ground for horse-rearing compared with the steppe
and the open plains of the Middle East. As a result armies were composed of masses of
foot soldiers and rather small numbers of cavalry. The horsemen were members of the
elite. They could afford to raise big horses capable of bearing their owners’ equipped with
strong heavy armour and fine weapons, and even to equip small numbers of followers. Since
political structures were weak and kings had only very limited administrations, much power
rested with the most powerful magnates of the realm. So armies came to war in their reti-
nues, and while infantry and cavalry might be separated for the purposes of the campaign,
the soldiers would have known only those from their own locality. Such armies were, there-
fore, incoherent, rather clumsy and slow-moving. Their focus was siege because castles
and cities were the lynchpins of their political structure. And because this was complex, the
simple business of ravaging, destroying the land to feed yourself and deny the enemy, was
the staple of war:
Destroy your foes and lay waste their country

By Fire and burning let all be set alight
That nothing be left for them, either in wood or meadows
Of which in the morning they could have a meal.18
Because of the limits of the economy, armies could not be maintained for long and even
most members of the elite were soldiers only part of the time – for the rest they needed to
supervise the activities of the agricultural year. So armies were rather incoherent because
they were usually kept together only for short periods. Further, since communications were
poor, political structures were relatively weak and all armies were in the nature of alliances,
raised for a purpose and then dispersed. In this they were not unlike the armies of Islam,
though Western rulers could not draw on Turcomen and steppe peoples with their military
expertise. Western armies were thus major economic and political investments which rulers
were cautious about exposing to the chance hazards of battle.
The result was armies of retinues whose connection to an overall commander was
generally weak. For the most part they were engaged in ravaging or defending against
it, which meant many small-scale engagements. This fostered amongst the elite an indi-
vidualistic ethos which valued bravery and comradeship within the group, rather than
discipline, an attitude essentially unhelpful to overall command. Because of this and their
lumbering style, manoeuvre was not a strong point, and when battle was desired, Western
armies sought to go straight to the close-quarter battle. Any major Western army was
essentially a collection of retinues, and crusading armies were collections of armies made
up of retinues.
72
The First Crusade, therefore, ushered in a fascinating clash of contrasting military styles.
When it came to sieges, the army was competent and able, but the lack of a real command
structure put it at risk in field operations. Its people were deeply disconcerted by Turkish
tactics at their first contact at the battle of Dorylaeum, but their army was so numerous that,
with some good luck, they overcame the Turks of Anatolia. And the crusade leaders were
good soldiers who adapted quickly to the challenges of their new situation. At the very end
of 1097, a large foraging expedition ran into the army of Duqaq of Damascus who was
attempting to raise the siege of Antioch. The presence of a rearguard protected the crusad-
ers from encirclement. At the Lake Battle of 9 February 1098 they appointed Bohemond
of Otranto as sole commander and ambushed the army of Ridwan of Aleppo, while by the
time of the Battle of Ascalon it was their habit to throw infantry forward to protect their
horses from the arrows of their enemies.19 Above all they learned solidity of formation,
which could hold off their more numerous enemies. These adaptations reflected well on the
crusader leaders, but there was no means by which such lessons could be passed on to later
expeditions. The ‘Crusade of 1101’ came to grief in Anatolia as did the Second Crusade
(1145–49).20
But the Latin settlers in the East had to adapt to their new circumstances. Lordship was
the basic Western social, political and economic institution which they brought with them.
It was natural, therefore, for castles which were estate centres to be built in large numbers,
especially as in the early years almost all of the states were open to enemy raiding. In a
country lacking in wood, they built in stone, much of it taken from the ancient ruins which
studded the Holy Lands. Many of these were not especially strong, but they proved able to
innovate when necessary. Belvoir, built 1168–70, was a superb concentric castle in which
the outer wall could be supported by the inner, while the defences of both were multi-
tiered with ample fully enclosed shooting-galleries.21 Even weaker castles had their uses. In
1182 Saladin invaded the Kingdom of Jerusalem with a huge army against which only 700
knights could be deployed. But they attacked aggressively and when driven back anchored
themselves on Baisan and Forbelet and so repelled the enemy.22
But their greatest innovations occurred in field warfare. Because they were so heavily
outnumbered, the Latins had to be prepared to launch their entire strike-force, the cavalry, in
one stroke if they were to achieve a decisive success. The mass charge was possible because
the settlers fought time after time and were used to working together. Timing, of course,
was vital, for if it did not strike the heart of the enemy force, the horses would be blown
and vulnerable and the enemy did their best to provoke them into unconsidered action. This
was the importance of the fighting march which did not serve a merely defensive purpose.
Protected, at least to a degree by a screen of foot soldiers, the knights could at a moment
of their choosing be launched at the enemy. Turcopoles were light cavalry, usually horse-
archers, and the crusaders recruited them from their own people in the native Christian
population.23 However, numbers were limited because the local population was relatively
small and had undergone long centuries of demilitarisation under Islam.
But perhaps the greatest military innovations of the Latins were the monastic Military
Orders of the Temple and the Hospital. An enormous amount has been written about these
two organisations which were so immensely popular in medieval Europe and powerful in
the Latin states.24 What is important in this context about the Orders is that they established
standing armies. This was a startling innovation in the context of the twelfth century. They
each seem to have been able to field some 300 knights.25 In addition the Templar Rule makes
it clear that the Order had Turcopoles and sergeants, some of whom were mounted; there
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— John France —
is no indication of their numbers, but they were presumably proportionate to the knights.26
This means that the Orders could field 600 knights, approximately the same as the mounted
strength of the entire Kingdom of Jerusalem.27 At the end of the twelfth century, Richard
I of England (1189–99) conceived of the idea of raising a permanent body of 300 knights,
apparently to be paid for by remitting ‘feudal’ service for taxes. Magnate resistance scup-
pered the force, and Richard could not pay for it out of his own resources because it would
have cost over half the normal annual income of the crown.28 It is interesting that each of
the Military Orders, in terms of a field-force alone, could raise a standing cavalry force
beyond that which could be managed by the English Crown. By contemporary standards
the forces of the Orders were well disciplined, and given their motivation they seem to have
been formidable fighters. This was an important innovation in military affairs. Moreover
the wealth of the Orders enabled them to build great castles: Belvoir, already noted above,
was built by the Hospital.
The full military capacity of the Islamic powers and the Latin settlers was rarely mobi-
lised. The stuff of war was mainly raiding across the frontiers, although this was backed up
by the existence of strong regular forces. In 1184 Saladin besieged Kerak, tying down the
army of Jerusalem and permitting his forces to enjoy a highly destructive raid on Galilee.29
Once Saladin had created his great empire, after 1174 the balance of advantage between him
and the settlers had changed, clearly in his favour. However, he faced a formidable enemy.
The strength of the Kingdom of Jerusalem lay in the walled cities, any one of which could
only be taken by a major siege. There was nothing in siege technique between the Muslims
and their settler enemies. By 1154 all the great cities of the Palestinian coast had suc-
cumbed to Latin attack.30 The Muslims were no less adept at this form of warfare, as Saladin
showed by his capture of Jacob’s Ford.31 But an invading army which stopped to besiege
a city would be subject to attack by the field army of the kingdom, which could count on
close knowledge of the area and active support from the numerous castles which studded
the countryside and served as centres of supply and support. The strength of the kingdom
was made very evident in 1177 when Saladin entered the kingdom from Egypt. So formi-
dable was his army that Baldwin IV’s much smaller force retreated into Ascalon. However,
Saladin permitted his forces to disperse to ravage the countryside, so that when Baldwin’s
men approached, he had to call them together in haste. He then allowed himself to be lured
into an area unfavourable for manoeuvre, and suffered a heavy defeat at Montgisard.32
Montgisard was a heavy blow to Saladin’s prestige as the self-appointed champion of
Islam, especially as he was much concerned with fighting Islamic enemies such as the
Zengid clan. In October 1178 Baldwin IV of Jerusalem tried to follow up his victory by
building a new castle at Jacob’s Ford to threaten Damascus, but his army suffered heavy
losses in a raid into the Beqaa valley. Saladin then attacked Jacob’s Ford unsuccessfully and
as he withdrew Baldwin pursued him only to be defeated at Marj Ayun, opening the way
for Saladin’s successful attack on Jacob’s Ford in 1179. In 1180 drought in Syria and Egypt
brought both sides to a truce which lasted until 1182 when Saladin first attacked Kerak,
then led a major army across the Jordan into Galilee from whence it was ejected by an
aggressive defence. When Saladin then attacked Beirut, Baldwin raised the siege. By 1183
Saladin had gained control of Aleppo and once more attacked the Galilee. On this occasion
the defenders were poorly led by Guy of Lusignan and enormous damage was done. In
November 1183 and August 1184 Saladin again attacked Kerak. By 1185 Zengid hostil-
ity in Mosul forced him to a truce with the Latins. Jacob’s Ford marked a turning point in
the military balance because from then on the fighting took place within Christian territory.
74
The only exception was the raid Reynald of Chatîllon led which disrupted pilgrimage to Mecca
in 1184, causing great scandal in the Muslim world and increasing pressure on Saladin.33
These campaigns must have been difficult and expensive for Saladin, but they placed
enormous pressure on Jerusalem, whose leaders in 1184 sent an embassy to Europe asking
for help. They returned with money but no major commitment of military aid. The sheer
variety of Muslim assaults, raids, sieges and battles all caused substantial physical damage
which sharpened disagreements in the Latin leadership over how to proceed. There were
no typical battles. In fact the confrontations at Marj Ayun and elsewhere were battles of
encounter in which luck and opportunism were more important than any kind of planning.
By the mid-1180s Saladin clearly recognised that he needed to destroy the field-army of
his enemies if he was to damage them seriously, and in the end this could only be done by
battle. He could take comfort in the thought that if he was defeated, he could absorb the
punishment because the Latins were unlikely to be able to do anything far-reaching. But
defeat, or even failure to do much, could erode his aura as the champion of Islam. He needed
success. However, Guy, the new king of Jerusalem, was deeply unpopular and needed a
success. And many of his leading subjects, exasperated by a long period on the defensive,
were eager to fight. In short, both sides were prepared for battle, and this was why Hattin
happened. And there followed its consequence, the Third Crusade and the Battle of Arsuf
in 1191. These two major confrontations were not typical, but they illustrate the nature of
warfare in the Middle East at this time.
In late 1186 or early 1187 Reynald of Chatîllon lord of Kerak, in open breach of the truce
with Saladin, attacked a caravan travelling between Egypt and Syria. This set the scene for
a great confrontation, for Saladin seized the opportunity to end the truce negotiated in 1185.
The newly crowned king of Jerusalem, Guy of Lusignan, was a bitter enemy of his greatest
lord, Raymond of Tripoli lord of Tiberias, who concluded a treaty with Saladin who agreed
to aid him against Guy and in return was given the right to pass Raymond’s lands to raid the
kingdom. On 1 May 1187 the Muslims took advantage of this and launched 7000 troops on
a major raid into the Galilee. They massacred a force of 140 knights, mostly Templars, who
tried to take them on. This was a disastrous loss at a time when it was known that Saladin
was gathering a huge army of between 30,000 and 40,000 near Damascus. At its heart were
12,000 regular cavalry augmented by huge numbers of Turkish and Arab horse-archers and
substantial infantry forces. On 30 June Saladin crossed the Jordan at Sinnabra and entered
the Kingdom of Jerusalem. His army ascended the mighty slope of the western side of
the Jordan valley and established its main camp at Kafr Sabt, and laid siege to Tiberias.
According to Ibn al-Athir, Saladin was using the siege of Tiberias as a lure:
His purpose in besieging Tiberias had only been that the Franks should leave their posi-
tion so that he could engage them.34
Saladin was seeking such a battle, and so was King Guy who needed a success to win over
his sullen and hostile barons.35 As Saladin had prepared his army, so too had the kingdom,
and some 18,000 troops, with 1200 knights at its heart gathered at Saforie, some 26 km
due east of Tiberias. The crusader leaders were divided about the response to Saladin’s
onslaught, with some urging an immediate attack and others preferring Fabian tactics, cer-
tain that the huge enemy army would in the end melt away. The mass of the knights, how-
ever, were eager for a fight. Perhaps because of the damage they had suffered in recent raids
they wanted vengeance:
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— John France —
All advised that at dawn they should march out, accompanied by the Lord’s cross, ready
to fight the enemy, with all the men armed and arrayed in battle formation.36
Because of the disaster which ensued, King Guy has been much blamed for joining bat-
tle but there was a case for attacking because it offered the opportunity to inflict a terrible
defeat on a dangerous enemy. The problem is that we have no idea how Guy intended to
use his army. The debate over how to counter Saladin had been fractious and lasted into the
night of 2 July, concluding with the decision to continue to avoid battle. However, over-
night Guy changed his mind and ordered an immediate advance on the morning of 3 July.
In such circumstances, if he had a plan there was hardly any opportunity to communicate it
to his soldiers who were astonished by the change of plan. Saforie was on the south side of
a west–east valley through which a Roman road passed via Turan then up a long slope to
the plateau of Hattin. It seems unlikely that Guy intended to march to Tiberias 26 km to the
east. In 1182 a Latin army marched 8 km against major opposition, and in 1183 Guy himself
had made only 6 km.37 It seems likely, therefore, that he was bent on forcing a battle but we
have no idea how and no knowledge of his instructions to the army.
On the morning of 3 July, Guy and his army set off eastwards, probably via Mashhad.38
They turned north down onto the road to Tiberias, and advanced towards Turan. They were
organised in three boxes. The vanguard was commanded by Raymond of Tripoli, for it was
the custom that the army should be led by the lord across whose lands they were fighting. The
king, accompanied by the Holy Cross, commanded the central box, while Balian of Ibelin was
in charge of the rearguard which was largely manned by the Templars and Hospitallers. Within
each box were the mounted knights, the strike force of the army, and they were surrounded
by infantry and archers whose task was to hold off the enemy horse-archers who would try
to wound the all-important horses. As they debouched onto the Roman road to Tiberias, this
formation would have extended over a considerable distance. The road was about 10 metres
wide, which means that the knights could have advanced along it in a column six wide.39 It
seems likely that each block of knights numbered about 400, so that allowing 3 metres for
each horse, the heavy cavalry in any one box would have occupied about 200 metres of road.
In addition the army also had a large number of light horse, Turcopoles, who probably kept
close to the knights. We know that the army had a substantial amount of baggage because
towards the end of the battle they tried to set up tents to block enemy charges. We are not told
if this paraphernalia was carried on wagons or pack-animals, but we can assume they covered
at least an additional 60 metres of road. In addition a contemporary Muslim letter reports that
after the battle many women and children were captured, so presumably there were non-com-
batants as well. Around this core were the infantry and archers, forming a perimeter at least 10
metres outside and all around the knights and the baggage. Thus anyone of these boxes would
have extended over some 400 metres or more of road. Since the boxes would have been some-
what separated, the army would have been spread out over more than 1 km of road, rolling like
a battering-ram towards the enemy. In the heat and dust of this movement, communication
between the three commanders would have been enormously difficult.
The departure of this huge force seems to have surprised Saladin, who may well have had
some knowledge of the decision taken the night before to stay at Saforie. He was supervising
the siege of Tiberias and arrived at the top of the slope overlooking Turan only at midday, by
which time the Jerusalemite army had arrived at Turan where there was a spring.40 This move-
ment significantly changed the balance of advantage between the two armies because Guy was
now only about 14–15 km from Tiberias and just 10 km from Saladin’s main camp at Kafr Sabt.
76
As Saladin looked down on the enemy, he must have been deeply worried lest they establish
themselves at Turan. Certainly, if there was enough water, at Turan Guy would have been in an
unassailable position very like that at Saforie, and from there he could threaten to advance and
oblige Saladin to keep his forces on the edge of the plateau in readiness. This was a game which
Saladin’s army could not play indefinitely because it was profitless in every sense. It has been
suggested that Guy was trying to tempt Saladin’s army down the slope where it would be away
from its own water supplies.41 But after a short pause, Guy led his army up the slope towards
Saladin’s forces ensconced on the plateau in great strength. Saladin’s relief was palpable in a
letter he wrote shortly after to Baghdad speaking of ‘the hawks of the Frankish infantry and the
eagles of their cavalry hovering around the water’. But, he went on, ‘Satan incited Guy to do
what ran counter to his purpose’, that is to say, Guy left Turan and mounted the slope up to the
plateau.42 This was, indeed, the crucial decision which led to defeat because they were marching
through great heat into an almost waterless area. It is possible that Guy was encouraged by the
relatively easy progress to Turan, and he may have thought that as in 1183 Saladin would harass
but not directly challenge his march.43 As the army climbed up the northern edge of the valley
towards the plateau, Saladin sent substantial sections of his army to cut them off from Turan
and to harass them, concentrating especially on the rearguard. This could easily have been
disastrous if the Latins had charged them, but they could not do that because the central mass
of the Muslim army remained to the east at the top of the slope, standing off but threatening.
After 4–5 km the army had reached the edge of the plateau, but it was demoralised and
Guy called a halt at Maskana where there was a small and wholly inadequate pool. In the
words of one account:
At this place they were so constrained by enemy attacks and by thirst that they wished
to go no further.44
The pause was hardly beneficial because night was spent tightly surrounded by the huge
enemy army whose infantry swarmed into the rocky land to the north and set fire to the
grass increasing the horrors of thirst. During the night there were desertions and it was a
thoroughly demoralised army which resumed formation in the morning of 4 July, totally
surrounded. Saladin once more held his forces back, allowing the heat of the day to further
weaken the enemy army. When fighting resumed, Guy seems to have had no plan. His
infantry fled up onto the slopes of the ancient volcano called the Horns of Hattin, uncover-
ing the cavalry who were overwhelmed.
The collapse of what was normally a strong and disciplined Latin army was probably
down to poor leadership. Guy was deeply unpopular and he had hesitated many times about
how to tackle Saladin. By contrast Saladin was in command and worked through trusted
and experienced lieutenants. Then there was the sheer size of the Muslim army. It was so
numerous that powerful elements engaged the Christians on 3 July and did great damage,
yet its main force under Saladin himself never engaged, though its menace protected those
who did. There was nothing inevitable about victory at Hattin. The Muslims were very
numerous, but Saladin knew how deadly the charge of the knights could be and his entire
strategy was to weaken them to the utmost before closing. Even at the last such a charge
almost broke through the Muslim army. According to Saladin’s son, al-Afdal:
I was alongside my father during this battle. When the king of the Franks was on the hill
with that band, they made a formidable charge against the Muslims facing them, so that
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they drove them back to my father … I looked towards him and he was overcome with
grief and his complexion pale. He took hold of his beard and advanced, crying out ‘Give
the lie to the Devil’. The Muslims rallied, returned to the fight and climbed the hill. …
But the Franks rallied and charged again like the first time and drove the Muslims back
to my father. He acted as he had on the first occasion and the Muslims turned upon the
Franks and drove them back to the hill.45
It is one of the curiosities of history that only about four years later, on 7 September 1191,
there was a rematch, but fought on very different terms: the Battle of Arsuf. The disaster of
Hattin and the consequent capture of almost all the land of the Kingdom of Jerusalem inspired
Europe to launch the Third Crusade. Between 1189 and 1191 the focus of the crusaders was
the siege of Acre which capitulated to the crusaders on 11 July 1191. On 22 August, Richard
the Lionheart, now the undisputed leader of the crusader forces, marched south determined
to seize Jaffa, which would be the base for any assault on Jerusalem. The core of his army
were his own troops, mostly tough professional mercenaries and knights long in his service.46
There were plenty of other crusaders of many nationalities, all well seasoned after the long
siege at Acre. Numerous amongst them were the French who had no love for Richard. But his
military reputation was high and since he was the sole king left on the expedition, his leader-
ship was inevitable. And they had been fighting together for some time, and this gave them
much greater coherence than was common in crusader armies. The numbers in Richard’s
army are uncertain. A recent writer has suggested about 20,000 in all, but his calculations are
based on the original numbers of those coming to the East with Philip and Richard, and this
makes no allowance for deaths and defections. But certainly he had no less than 10,000 and
perhaps many more. Saladin seems to have had about 25,000, all cavalry.47
Richard arranged his men in three blocks with the infantry surrounding the cavalry as at
Hattin.48 But unlike at Hattin, Richard’s fleet hovered offshore providing food and water.
Moreover, although his infantry on the landward (left) side of the army were exposed to
enemy assaults, Richard could rotate them to the shore-side, where they were virtually
immune from attack, to give them rest. Richard was always careful about logistics and these
dispositions were vital to his aim of seizing Jaffa.49 As at Hattin, on 3 July, Saladin, with a
larger army, savagely harassed his enemy and both sides suffered heavy casualties. Saladin’s
biographer described with admirable clarity the military situation as Richard moved south:
The Muslims were shooting arrows on their flanks, trying to incite them to break ranks,
while they controlled themselves severely and covered the route in this way, travelling
very steadily as their ships moved along at sea opposite them, until they completed each
stage and camped.50
The discipline which Richard imposed was remarkable and even his enemies admired it:
The enemy army was already in formation with the infantry surrounding it like a wall,
wearing solid iron corselets and full-length well-made chain-mail, so that arrows were
falling on them with no effect … I saw various individuals amongst the Franks with ten
arrows fixed in their backs, pressing on in this fashion quite unconcerned.51
On 7 September, Saladin deployed for battle in the narrow plain, 1.5–3 km deep between
the wooded hills and the sea. In the classic pattern, massive harassing attacks were sent
78
against the crusader column, and increasingly they focused on the rearguard where the
Hospitallers took terrible punishment. It has been suggested that Richard did not want to
fight and that he kept his army in column striving to shake off Saladin and so reach Jaffa.52
However, it seems unlikely he could have avoided battle entirely and he certainly could
not move towards Jerusalem with Saladin’s army intact and close. In addition he would
have recognised that a decisive victory would open the way to both Jaffa and Jerusalem.
That morning he reorganised his cavalry from three groups into five and issued orders that
all were to keep formation until he ordered otherwise. In the event, Saladin attacked the
Hospitaller rear savagely, presumably hoping to bring them to a halt which would separate
them from the rest of the army. The Hospitallers, provoked beyond endurance, launched
a charge of their own and Richard recognised that they must be supported. The massive
charge which followed did enormous damage to the Muslim army:
The enemy’s situation worsened still more and the Muslims thought they had them in
their power. Eventually the first detachments of their infantry reached the plantations of
Arsuf. Then their cavalry massed together and agreed on a charge, as they feared for their
people and thought that only a charge would save them. I saw them grouped together in
the middle of the foot-soldiers. They took their lances and gave a shout as one man. The
infantry opened gaps for them and they charged in unison. One group charged our right
wing, another our left, and the third our centre. It happened that I was in the centre which
took to wholesale flight. My intention was to join the left wing, since it was nearer to me.
I reached it after it had been broken utterly, so I thought to join the right wing, but then
I saw that it had fled more calamitously than all the rest.53
Though their losses were heavy, many of the light Turkish horse got away and rallied, so that
Saladin’s army remained in being. Richard achieved what Guy had sought to do at Hattin.
The tactics in both battles were remarkably similar, and they were alike in another respect.
Both battles, though climactic, were indecisive. After Hattin, most of the cities of the Latin
Kingdom surrendered, but Tyre held out and Saladin never launched an all-out attack. Later
he moved to Tripoli and Antioch, but although he made important gains, achieved nothing
decisive. It is worth considering why this was. Saladin relied on an army grouped around
a core of his own followers, but even amongst his own men – predominantly like himself,
Kurds – most fought for gain and like their Western counterparts needed to keep an eye on
the agricultural year. Siege was bloody and difficult. Moreover, great though the victory at
Hattin was, Saladin could not strike at Europe despite his incautious boasting:
As soon as Allah the most high enables me to wrest the rest of the maritime plain, I plan
to divide my realm among my aides, give them instructions, bid them farewell and cross
the seas, pursuing the enemy to their island. There I shall destroy the last on the surface
of the earth of those who do not believe in Allah.54
The prospect of relief forces arriving was therefore ever present, and indeed the prompt
arrival of a Sicilian fleet saved Tripoli in 1188.55
Saladin lacked the power, not the will, to destroy the European settlements in Palestine.
Richard, by contrast, knew from the first that he could not conquer what had been lost. He
hoped to use military pressure to persuade Saladin to leave the kingdom and Jerusalem. From
the moment of his landing he opened negotiations which would go on until his departure.
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For he knew that even if he won Jerusalem, the armies would melt away and the land could
not be held. This was the significance of his unceasing negotiations with Saladin. As it was,
the military advantage which he gained at Arsuf was too marginal and too transient to be
of much use. He subsequently showed remarkable reluctance to attack Jerusalem, and quite
sensibly suggested that if anything was going to be conquered, it should be Egypt, Saladin’s
financial powerbase. Subsequent crusades in the thirteenth century saw the sense of this,
but at the time the army as a whole was focused on Jerusalem. Subsequently, the quarrels
between its individual components and leaders brought to an end the remarkable discipline
demonstrated in the march to Jaffa and the Battle of Arsuf.
For all his military ability, Richard was unable to manage the crusader army, which
was quickly crippled by its inner tensions, though it is doubtful whether it ever had enough
strength to reconquer the Holy Lands. It is remarkable that Richard, whose entire experi-
ence before 1191 was European, should have been able to adapt to the fighting march and
to have conducted it so skilfully in an alien environment. He enjoyed the advantage of
leading a very seasoned army, but it was no less divided at heart than that which Guy had
led. Subsequently the tensions between the various elements in the army were to come to
the fore. But when it came to battle the personality and capacity of a leader could make all
the difference. Guy never seems to have had a plan and to have ignored the demands of
logistics, quite unlike Richard.
Conquest in medieval circumstances was always difficult, largely because armies were so
episodic and great powers had so many distractions. It is sobering to reflect that it took two
and a half centuries for England to conquer its tiny neighbour, Wales. The events of the First
Crusade were altogether so remarkable and so exceptional that it is no wonder that contempo-
raries regarded them as truly the work of God. At first sight the Latin colonies which it estab-
lished appeared weak, especially in comparison to the vast empire which Saladin created. But
large empires have many enemies, and the Latin kingdom, based upon well-fortified cities
supported by a formidable field army, was a tough nut to crack. In its own way Hattin was as
wonderful as the outcome of the First Crusade, and like it partly the result of chance events.
But Saladin’s armies were too episodic to destroy all vestiges of the European settlement
and much too weak to triumph once the Third Crusade arrived. Correspondingly, Richard
never had enough support from a divided and quarrelsome Europe to reverse the decision of
1187. The triumph of Islam came with the creation of a new army, that of Mamluks, whose
hard core was a very substantial number of highly trained professional soldiers gathered in a
standing army.56 The Mamluks defeated not only the Latin settlers but also the Mongols, and
their triumph is witness to what a real standing army could do.
NOTES
1 William of Tyre, Historia Rerum in partibus transmarinis gestarum, ed. R.B.C. Huygens, Corpus
Christianorum, Continuatio Medievalis 63A, 2 vols (Tournhoult: Brepols, 1986) 13:16, also as A
History of Deeds done beyond the Sea by William of Tyre, trans. E.A. Babcock and A.C. Krey, 2
vols (New York: Columbia University Press, 1943) 2:25. Subsequently cited as WT.
2 Albert of Aachen, Historia Hierosolymitana ed. S.B. Edgington (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2007),
4:22.
3 Raymond of Aguilers, Liber, ed. J.H. and L.L. Hill (Paris: Geuthner, 1969), 150, trans. A. C. Krey,
The First Crusade (Gloucester MA: Smith, 1958), 261. Subsequently cited as RA. There is some
disagreement about the scale of the massacre. J. France, Victory in the East: A Military History of
80
the First Crusade (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 355–6 suggests that this was
a fairly normal result of a city holding out until stormed, and that many survived. The case for the
massacre being quite exceptional is persuasively stated by B.Z. Kedar, ‘The Jerusalem Massacre
of 1099 in Western Historiography of the Crusades’, Crusades 3 (2004), 15–76.
4 L’Estoire de la Guerre Sainte par Ambroise ed. and trans. G. Paris (Paris, 1897), ll. 5506–59 trans.
M. Ailes and M. Barber, History of the Holy War (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2003), 108.
5 Ibn al-Athir, Chronicle of Ibn al-Athir for the Crusading Period from al-Kamil fi’l-Ta’rikh, trans.
D.S. Richards, 3 vols (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006–08), Part 2, 390.
6 Kemal ad-Din, The Chronicle of Aleppo, in Recueil Des Historiens des Croisades, Historiens
Orientaux, 3:577–665.
7 See Y. Friedman, Encounter Between Enemies: Captivity and Ransom in the Latin Kingdom
of Jerusalem (Leiden: Brill, 2002); J. France, ‘Siege conventions in Western Europe and the
Latin East’, in P. de Souza and J. France (eds), War and Peace in Ancient and Medieval History
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 158–72 and ‘Surrender and capitulation in the
Middle East in the Age of the Crusades’, in H. Afflerbach and H. Strachan (eds), How Fighting
Ends – A History of Surrender (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 73–84.
8 For the East, see Friedman, Encounter, 35–54, and for the West, M. Strickland, The Conduct
and Perception of War under the Anglo-Norman and Angevin Kings 1075–1217 (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1996).
9 Anonymous, Gesta Francorum et aliorum Hierosolimitanorum, ed. R. Hill (Edinburgh: Nelson,
1962), 19. Subsequently cited as GF.
10 Fulcher of Chartres, Historia Hierosolymitana, ed. H. Hagenemyer (Heidelberg: Winter, 1913), 85,
trans. F.R. Ryan and H.S. Fink, A History of the Expedition to Jerusalem 1095–1127 (Knoxville:
University of Tennessee Press, 1969), 64. Subsequently cited as FC.
11 Ibn al-Qalanisi, Damascus Chronicle of the Crusades, ed. H.A.R. Gibb (London: Luzon, 1932),
60–1, and Ralph of Caen, Life of Tancred, trans. B.S. and D.S. Bachrach (Woodbridge: Boydell,
2005), 164–7.
12 Walter the Chancellor, The Antiochene Wars, trans. T.S. Asbridge and S.B. Edgington (Aldershot:
Ashgate, 1999), 127.
13 R.C. Smail, Crusading Warfare 1097–1193 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1956, 2nd
edn 1995), 156–64.
14 WT 21:23.
15 C. Cahen, ‘Les changements techniques militaires dans la Proche Orient médiévale et leur impor-
tance historique’, in V.J. Parry and M.E. Yapp (eds), War, Technology and Society in the Middle
East (London: Oxford University Press, 1975), 113–24.
16 For a fine analysis of the Egyptian element of Saladin’s army, see Y. Lev, Saladin in Egypt (Leiden:
Brill 1999), 141–60.
17 J. France, Perilous Glory. The Rise of Western Military Power (London: Yale, 2011), 4–6.
18 Jordan Fantosme, Chronicle, ed. R.C. Johnston (Oxford: Clarendon, 1981), 41:33–4.
19 France, Victory, 173–85, 237–41, 360–1.
20 J.L. Cate, ‘The Crusade of 1101’, in K. Setton and M.W. Baldwin (eds), History of the Crusades
6 vols (Philadelphia and Madison: University Presses of Pennsylvania and Wisconsin, 1955–86),
1:343–67; J. Phillips, The Second Crusade: Extending the Frontiers of Christendom (London:
Yale, 2007), 168–206.
21 H. Kennedy, Crusader Castles (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 58–61.
22 M. Ehrlich, ‘The Battle of Hattin: A chronicle of a defeat foretold?’ Journal of Medieval Military
History 5 (2007), 16–32.
23 Y. Harari, ‘The military role of the Frankish Turcopoles: A reassessment’, Mediterranean
Historical Review 12 (1997), 75–116.
24 The standard works on the Orders are J. Riley-Smith, The Knights of St. John in Jerusalem and
Cyprus, c.1050–1310 (London: Macmillan, 1967) and his The Knights Hospitaller in the Levant,
81
— John France —
c.1070–1309 (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2012); M. Barber, The New Knighthood. A History of the
Order of the Temple (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994).
25 For the figure of 300, see S. Schein, ‘The Templars: The regular army of the Holy Land and the
spearhead of the army of its reconquest’, in G. Minicci and F. Sardi (eds), I Templari: mito e storia
(Sienna: A.G. Viti-Riccucci, 1989), 15–28.
26 H. de Curzon, La Règle du Temple: French Text of the Rule of the Order of the Knights Templar
(Paris: Nogent-le-Rotrou, 1886), English trans. J.M. Upton-Ward, The Rule of the Templars
(Woodbridge: Boydell, 1992), especially 39–66.
27 At Hattin in 1187 a maximum effort by the kingdom mustered some 1200 knights, on which see
the finest scholarly study of Hattin by B.Z. Kedar, ‘The Battle of Hattin revisited’, in B.Z. Kedar
(ed.) The Horns of Hattin (London: Variorum, 1992), 190–207.
28 J. France, Western Warfare in the Age of the Crusades (London: UCL Press, 1999), 58.
29 Abu Shama, The Book of the Two Gardens, trans. M.C. Lyons and D.E.P. Jackson, Saladin. The
Politics of Holy War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), 217.
30 R. Rogers, Latin Siege Warfare in the Twelfth Century (Oxford: Clarendon, 1997) charts this pro-
cess and explains its mechanisms well.
31 M. Barber, ‘Frontier warfare in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem: The Campaign of Jacob’s Ford,
1178–79’, in J. France and W.G. Zajac (eds), The Crusades and Their Sources. Essays Presented
to Bernard Hamilton (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998), 9–22.
32 M. Ehrlich, ‘Saint Catherine’s Day Miracle – the Battle of Montgisard’, Journal of Medieval
Military History 11 (2013), 95–106.
33 B. Hamilton, ‘The Elephant of Christ: Reynald of Châtillon’, in D. Baker (ed.), Religious
Motivation: Biographical and Sociological Problems for the Church Historians (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1978), 97–108.
34 Ibn al-Athir, Chronicle, Part 2 (1146–93), 321.
35 R.C. Smail, ‘The predicaments of Guy of Lusignan,’ in B.Z. Kedar et al. (eds), Outremer (London:
Variorum, 1982), 168–9.
36 Anonymous, De Expugnatione Terrae Sanctae libellus, ed. J. Stevenson (London, RS 66,
1875), 221–2, trans. in J.A. Brundage (ed.), The Crusades: A Documentary Survey (Milwaukee:
Marquette University Press, 1962), 155.
37 M.C. Lyons and D.E.P. Jackson, Saladin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 259.
38 In this article I am not seeking to discuss the course of the battle, but merely to pick out elements
which bear on my subject. I would like, however, to acknowledge my debt to some distinguished
writing on the subject: J. Prawer, ‘La bataille de Hattin’, Israel Exploration Journal 14 (1964),
160–79, English trans. in his Crusader Institutions (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1980);
P. Herde, ‘Die Kämpfe bei den Hörnern von Hittin und der Untergang des Kreuzritterheeres’,
Römische Quarttalschrift für christliche Altertumskunde und Kirchengeschichte 61 (1966), 1–50;
Lyons and Jackson, Saladin, 255–66; Kedar, ‘The Battle of Hattin revisited’. My own study of
Hattin is presently in press.
39 Kedar, ‘The Battle of Hattin revisited’, 195.
40 Kedar, ‘Battle of Hattin revisited’, 197 thinks its flow would not have watered the whole army, but
we cannot know this definitely.
41 Lyons and Jackson, Saladin, 260.
42 C.P. Melville and M.C. Lyons, ‘Saladin’s Hattin letter’, in Kedar, The Horns of Hattin, 216–20.
43 M. Ehrlich, ‘The Battle of Hattin: A chronicle of a defeat foretold?’ Journal of Medieval Military
History 5 (2007), 16–32, at 20–3.
44 Anonymous, De expugnatione, 156.
45 Ibn al-Athir, Chronicle, Part 2 (1146–93), 327.
46 P. Edbury, ‘Preaching the crusade in Wales’, in A. Haverkamp, H. Vollrath, K. Leyser (eds),
England and Germany in the High Middle Ages (London: German Historical Institute, 1996),
82
221–33 has suggested that Richard never had the crusade preached in England, which means that
it is likely that his troops were paid men.
47 F. McLynn, Lionheart and Lackland (London: Cape, 2006), 182.
48 Good accounts of the course of the march to Jaffa and the battle are those of: S. Painter, ‘The Third
Crusade: Richard the Lionhearted and Philip Augustus’, in Setton and Baldwin, History of the
Crusades, 2:45–86; J. Gillingham, Richard I (Yale: Yale University Press, 1999), 173–8; McLynn,
Lionheart and Lackland, 182–94.
49 McLynn, Lionheart and Lackland, 184 comments on Richard’s logistical provisions.
50 Baha al-Din Ibn Shaddad, The Rare and Excellent History of Saladin, ed. D.S. Richards (Aldershot:
Ashgate, 2002), 74.

51 Baha ad-Din, The Rare and Excellent History of Saladin, 170.
52 T. Asbridge, The Crusades. The War for the Holy Land (London: Simon and Schuster, 2010), 466,
contested convincingly by M. Ehrlich, ‘The Battle of Arsur: A short-lived victory’, Journal of
Medieval Military History 12 (2013), 109–18.
53 Baha ad-Din, The Rare and Excellent History of Saladin, 175.
54 P.K. Hitti, Makers of Arab History (London: Macmillan, 1968), 116.
55 M.W. Baldwin, ‘The decline and fall of Jerusalem 1174–89’, in Setton and Baldwin, History of the
Crusades, 1:618.
56 On the Mamluks, see especially R. Amitai-Preiss, Mongols and Mamluks: The Mamluk-Ilkhanid
War, 1260–1281 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995) and ‘Ayn Jalut revisited’, Tarih
2 (1992), 119–50, reprinted in J. France (ed.), Medieval Warfare 1000–1300 (Aldershot: Ashgate,
2006).
83
CHAPTER FIVE
PAID TROOPS IN THE SERVICE

OF MILITARY ORDERS DURING THE
TWELFTH AND THIRTEENTH CENTURIES 1
Alan Forey
M any who participated in crusades during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries received
payment. From the time of the First Crusade, those going to the aid of the Holy
Land included men who were paid, either from the start of an expedition or at a later stage
(Tyerman 2013: 1–40; Murray 2006: 246–8). The practice is also encountered in the Iberian
peninsula and the Baltic region: in the thirteenth century, for example, indulgences were
offered both to individuals who provided money for others to serve in these areas and to
those whom they sent (Fonnesberg-Schmidt 2007: 139, 143, 185, 194–5; Mansilla 1955:
161–2, 274–5); and thirteenth-century Spanish chronicles mention payments made by the
Castilian King Alfonso VIII during the Las Navas campaign in 1212 (Charlo Brea 1997:
57; Fernández Valverde 1987: 263).2 The use of stipendiarii is reflected in several crusader
treatises written in the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries, which advocated the
recruitment of paid soldiers for crusading expeditions (Leopold 2000: 63–5). The forces
which local secular rulers mobilised in the crusader states against Muslims also included
paid troops: in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, for example, money-fiefs were common (Murray
2008: 275–86), and in the later thirteenth century hired troops in the Holy Land included
a contingent which was maintained at the expense of the French king, while some other
Western rulers also offered to pay for troops there (Marshall 1992: 77–83; Tyerman 2006:
815–16). Sancho IV of Castile was similarly using paid troops to defend frontier castles in
Castile in the later thirteenth century (García Fitz 1988: 275–323). Detailed information has
survived of paid troops in the service of military orders on various fronts during the later
Middle Ages (Biskup 1991: 49–74; Luttrell 1991: 133–53; Ekdahl 2008: 345–61; Kreem
2001: 26–42), but precise evidence about fighting men in the pay of these orders in the
twelfth and thirteenth centuries is more elusive; it has in fact sometimes been claimed that in
the Baltic region the Teutonic order did not need to hire troops until the fourteenth century
(Tumler 1955: 495; Ekdahl 2008: 345).
It is certainly clear that those fighting under the command of military orders in the
twelfth and thirteenth centuries often included many who were not brothers. On numer-
ous occasions auxiliary troops far outnumbered brethren in an order’s contingent. This is
apparent from information about garrisons of castles, forces in the field and losses sustained
84
— c h a p t e r 5 : P a i d t ro o p s i n t h e s e r v i c e o f m i l i t a r y o rd e r s —
in warfare. In the Kingdom of Jerusalem, the Templar garrison at Safed after the castle
had been restored in the thirteenth century comprised fifty brother knights, thirty brother
sergeants, fifty turcoples (these usually constituted a light cavalry) and 300 crossbowmen
(ballistarii), and a Limoges chronicle asserts that when the stronghold fell in 1266 some
150 Templars and a further 767 fighting men were killed (Huygens 1965: 384; ‘Majus
Chronicon Lemovicense’ 1855: 773–4). Wilbrand of Oldenburg reported that when he vis-
ited the Holy Land in 1211–12 the night watch at the castle of Margat, in the principality of
Antioch, consisted of four Hospitaller knights and twenty-eight other guards (Pringle 2012:
121). A similar impression is conveyed by sources for other regions, such as eastern and
north-eastern Europe. In 1236 the master of the Temple in France wrote that six brothers,
three knights, two sergeants and 500 other men under Templar command had been killed
in Hungary by the Mongols (Holder-Egger 1882: 604–5). Peter of Dusburg, a fourteenth-
century chronicler of the Teutonic order, stated that in 1242 a contingent of five brothers of
the Teutonic order and twenty-four men-at-arms (armigeri) attacked Sartowitz, and that in
1289 Ragnit, on the river Memel farther north, was garrisoned by forty-one brothers and a
hundred armigeri; he also mentioned a force of thirteen brothers and 250 mounted troops
on campaign in Prussia in 1281 (1984: 138–40, 320, 350). Nine years later, according to the
Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, a force of twelve brothers and 350 Kurs and armigeri under-
took an expedition against the Lithuanians (Smith and Urban 1977: 139).
Yet paid troops were just one of several types of outsider who fought under the com-
mand of military orders. Others included unpaid vassals, who provided both cavalry and
infantry forces. There were also fighting men, such as ‘knights at term’ (milites ad ter-
minum) who voluntarily entered the service of a military order for a period on an unpaid
basis (Forey 2008a: 5–11). Further service was provided by offenders who had a penance
imposed upon them of serving for a period with a military order: among these were the
murderers of Becket, as well as Bertrand of Cares, who in 1224 was ordered to serve
with the Temple after killing the bishop of Le Puy (Vincent 2003: 248–62; Forey 2008b:
164 n. 66; Claverie 2005: 98). There was even the expectation on the part of the papacy,
though not always fulfilled, that all crusaders in Prussia would accept the leadership of the
Teutonic order (Philippi and Seraphim 1882–1909: 1.1:218; 1.2:47–8, 84–5). Such troops
might provide not only service in the field but also castleguard. Crusaders might help in
the task of defending strongholds,3 especially as some stayed for a year: in 1239–40 Otto
of Brunswick and his following resided at the Teutonic order’s stronghold of Balga in
Prussia for this period of time (Peter of Dusburg 1984: 126–8; Rüdebusch 1972: 192–3).
Milites ad terminum could also help to provide garrisons, and in some instances vassals
had an obligation of castleguard, as at the Hospitaller stronghold of Margat (Delaville Le
Roulx 1894–1906: 1:491–6), although there are few references to this duty and it may not
have been common.
Unpaid troops were, however, not necessarily available when they were needed.
Vassals’ obligations for unpaid service were often restricted in time, distance or num-
bers; and in some cases service was commuted into a money payment to an order (e.g.
Ayala Martínez 2003: 544–5). The loyalty of subject populations was also sometimes in
doubt. Although in the Baltic region converted native inhabitants as well as settlers were
expected to fight (Philippi and Seraphim 1882–1909: 1.1:77–81, 131–3, 158–65; Murray
2013: 33–7), there were in the thirteenth century several periods of widespread revolt
by the native population against the Teutonic order in Prussia. In the Holy Land and the
Iberian peninsula, subject Muslims could not be relied to fight against fellow Muslims.
85
— A l a n F o re y —
The Muslims of the Templar lordship of Chivert in northern Valencia, for example, were
obliged to give military service only of a defensive kind when Chivert itself came under
attack (Febrer Romaguera 1991: 10–16; Guinot Rodríguez 1991: 100–5), and in the cru-
sader states Muslim subjects were not summoned for military service (Kedar 1990: 158–9).
Although western settlements in the Kingdom of Jerusalem were often established in
places where there was a considerable population of oriental Christians and not where
Muslims predominated (Ellenblum: 1998: passim), and although these Christians at times
fought alongside Westerners, doubts have been expressed about their reliability and in
some instances their competence (Smail 1956: 46–53). It has also been suggested that
the numbers of milites ad terminum in the service of military orders in the Holy Land
declined in the thirteenth century (Forey 2008a: 9–11), while there were apparently no
‘guest knights’ (Gastritter) with the Teutonic order in Prussia in the last quarter of the
thirteenth century (Paravicini 1989: 23; Ehlers 2001: 25).
It is not, however, always easy to identify those who fought for pay in the service of mili-
tary orders. Obviously, not all who were in the paid employment of these orders were fight-
ing men: outsiders were commonly engaged to undertake domestic or agricultural work.
Unfortunately, many sources which refer to paid employees do not specify the nature of the
tasks undertaken. A reference to mercennarii in early regulations of the order of Calatrava
has been taken to indicate the use of paid troops, but the word could apply to any who were
in the order’s paid employment (Lomax 1961: 490, 493).4 Gregory IX’s comment in 1237
in a privilege to the Templars that ‘in a number of houses directly subject to them, some
men served for pay, and others freely’ has been considered to refer to warriors (Auvray:
1907: 567; Marshall 1992: 58), but this is not a necessary conclusion; and the paid sergeants
mentioned in Hospitaller statutes in 1262 may similarly not have been fighting men; while
a Templar inventory of the Aragonese commandery of Castellote in southern Aragon in
1289 which states that ‘the company (companyes) has been paid up to the last Sunday
of May’ was probably not alluding to troops (Delaville Le Roulx 1894–1906: 3:43–54;
Miret y Sans 1911: 67).
Sources which clearly refer to military personnel often fail to differentiate between
paid and unpaid service. In some instances those for whom an order is known to have
been providing may have been receiving merely maintenance and not cash. This is true,
for example, of the crusaders to whom in 1158 Adrian IV promised spiritual rewards if
they served with the Templars in Spain at their own expense for a year or ‘at the expense
of the brothers … for two years’ (Kehr 1926: 363–4). In many sources troops serving with
an order are described merely by type, such as knights (milites), sergeants (servientes),
turcoples and foot soldiers (pedites), with no indication of the terms on which they were
engaged. It has admittedly sometimes been assumed that turcoples were all paid troops, but
some in fact were recruited on a different basis. Although Hospitaller statutes of 1303 refer
to the engaging and dismissing of turcoples (Delaville Le Roulx 1894–1906: 4:57–8) –
these were obviously paid men – in Templar ordinances and in those of the Teutonic order
a distinction was made between turcoples who served ‘for charity’ (à charité) and those
who were paid: the former would be maintained by the order, just as the milites ad ter-
minum were, but did not receive a salary, although those in the Temple were given three
besants at the end of a year’s service (Upton-Ward 2003: 74–6; Perlbach 1890: 141–2).
Turcoples might also receive fiefs (Richard 1986: 264–5; Mayer 2010: 375–7, 455–7; Mas
Latrie 1861: 606–7). The Templar Customs imply that a turcople might even be a brother;
although, as turcoples are often distinguished from brothers in many of the surviving
86
sources, it would seem that they were only rarely members of an order (Curzon 1886: 273:
Amatuccio 2009: 268).
Nor did turcoples always fulfil a military function: leading officials of military orders in
the East commonly had one or more turcoples in their entourage, and in the regulations of
the Teutonic order it was ruled that of the three assigned to the master, one was to carry his
shield and lance, the second was to act as a messenger and the third was to be a chamberlain
(Perlbach 1890: 98–9, 103, 106; Curzon 1886: 75, 86, 89, 94, 100, 102: Amatuccio 2009:
46, 58, 62, 72, 75; Delaville Le Roulx 1894–1906: 2:31–40). Yet relatively few turcoples
would have been occupied in such tasks: the vast majority had a military role, and probably
most were paid.

Apart from references to turcoples serving for pay, there are comparatively few direct
statements about paid service. Some of these relate to men who served a military order but
were financed by others. The indulgence granted to those who went on crusade at another’s
expense was given to some who in these circumstances fought under the banner of a mili-
tary order: thus in 1250 Innocent IV promised an indulgence to those who, at the expense
of others, assisted the order of Santiago in its campaigns in the Iberian peninsula for a year
(Quintana Prieto 1987: 602–3; Aguado de Córdoba et al. 1719: 181–2). Evidence also
survives of particular arrangements by which men were to serve an order at the expense
of others. The penance imposed on the English King Henry II in 1172 for the murder of
Becket included the requirement that he should provide enough money to maintain 200
knights for a year in the defence of the Holy Land ‘according to the judgement of the broth-
ers of the Temple’ (Duggan 2000: 657–8; Robertson and Sheppard 1885: 516–18), and in
a letter to the archbishop of Sens, the cardinals who imposed the penance wrote that Henry
had promised to give the money to the Templars (Robertson and Sheppard 1885: 520–2).
It would seem therefore that the Templars were to engage 200 knights at the expense of the
English king, although it is doubtful whether the money was in fact made available (Mayer
1982: 722–3; Tyerman 1988: 54). In his will, the French king Philip Augustus left money to
the king of Jerusalem, the Temple and the Hospital on the condition that they would main-
tain 300 knights, ‘apart from the convents of the said houses’, for three years (Delaville
Le Roulx 1894–1906: 2:305). In 1217 Philip of Dreux, bishop of Beauvais, similarly left
100 marks in aid of the Holy Land ‘so that they are sent there for hiring paid troops by the
Templars’ (Guyotjeannin 2004: 151); and Peter of Dusburg reported that in 1244 the duke
of Austria sent thirty mounted archers at his own expense to Prussia, where they were pre-
sumably under the command of the Teutonic order (1984: 156). A few years later, when
the French king Louis IX was in the East, he was maintaining a force of paid troops at the
Templar castle of Atlit, on the coast of the Holy Land, where his wife Marguerite was then
staying: they were apparently subject to the Templar commander there (Claverie 2001: 627,
635). In the thirteenth century the English kings Henry III and Edward I also granted fifty
marks annually to the Templars for the maintenance of a knight in the Holy Land, although
it is not known exactly how the order utilised the money (Calendar of Liberate Rolls,
1251–1260 1959: 53–4, 482; Calendar of Close Rolls, 1279–1288 1902: 70; Calendar of
Charter Rolls, 1257–1300 1906: 237–8).
It may not only have been rulers, nobles, prelates and others seeking indulgences
who paid for men to serve with military orders. Some communities which owed military
service to an order probably hired men to fulfil their obligations, and in 1233 Hermann
of Salza, Master of the Teutonic order, ruled that if any resident of the towns of Culm
or Torun in Prussia defaulted in giving service, the town judge was to find a substitute
87
to be maintained from the goods of the defaulter (Philippi and Seraphim 1882–1909:
1.1:77–81).
Of paid troops who were financed by military orders themselves, some held money fiefs
and received cash payments: in the early 1260s, when the Hospitallers in the Holy Land
rented Arsur from Balian of Ibelin, a list was drawn up of the sums of money which were
to be paid by the Hospitallers to knights and sergeants who held fees there (Delaville Le
Roulx 1894–1906: 3:6–7). Other paid troops were engaged as the need arose. William of
Tyre reported that in 1168, when an attack on Egypt was being planned, the master of the
Hospital had brought his order into serious debt because he had used the Hospital’s own
resources and also loans to pay all the knights that he could recruit (1986: 917). Several
manuscripts of Templar regulations refer to ‘secular knights who are in Jerusalem and are
attached to the house for pay’ (Curzon 1886: 102; Amatuccio 2009: 74).5 It was further
reported by Matthew Paris that in 1237 the prior of the English Hospitallers went out to
the East ‘with a paid militia and household’ (1876: 406), and a letter written by Thomas
Berard, master of the Temple, in 1260 to the English provincial master referred to the hir-
ing of stipendiarii by his order for the defence of castles in the Holy Land (‘Annales de
Burton’ 1864: 494). The employment of stipendiarii by the next Templar master, William
of Beaujeu, was mentioned by a Templar in his testimony during the Templar trial, and a
notary, who also then gave evidence and who at one time had been in Templar service, said
that he had witnessed an altercation in Italy between the same Templar master and a body of
sergeants who had been engaged at pay to help defend Templar castles (Michelet 1841–51:
1:646). Lastly, a letter written by the master of the Hospital to the prior of St Gilles after the
loss of Acre in 1291 mentions paid troops employed by his order during the siege of the city
(Delaville Le Roulx 1894–1906: 3:592–3).
The relative paucity of direct references to the hiring of troops by the orders themselves
does not, of course, imply that this was merely an occasional practice. There was never any
attempt systematically to record the employment of men on a paid basis. That the hiring
troops by military orders was a regular custom which was widely known is implied by the
comment attributed to a Templar in Jacquemart Giélée’s Renart le Nouvel, written in the
late thirteenth century:
Mout nous couvient de saudoiers

Et mout or et argent despendre
Tout pour sainte Eglize desfendre
(1961: 306)6
There are in fact a number of other sources which, while not alluding directly to the hir-
ing of men to fight, strongly suggest the employment of paid troops. Clause thirty-three
of the rule of the Teutonic order refers to outsiders serving freely or for pay, and as the
clause mentions the prayers to be said for a dead knight who had been serving freely, it was
clearly including military personnel (Perlbach 1890: 53). In 1218, during the fifth crusade,
Honorius III mentioned the sums of money which the Temple and Hospital were daily
expending at Damietta ‘on knights, sergeants, crossbowmen and others capable of fighting
and on the poor’: he stated that they were each providing for some 2000 persons, while
Oliver of Paderborn, who participated in that crusade, claimed that the Temple was daily
feeding 4000 troops (Rodenburg 1883: 57–8; Oliver of Paderborn 1894: 255). The size of
the numbers suggests that many of those mentioned were paid men, as the orders could put
88
only a limited number of brothers in the field: a recent estimate places the total number of
Hospitaller warrior brethren in the East at never more than 200 (Riley-Smith 2012: 82), and
many of these were needed for garrisoning castles, while masters of the orders could not
rely on being able to assemble a considerable number of unpaid volunteers. Even without
William of Tyre’s comment, it could be assumed that the 500 knights promised by the
Hospitaller master in 1168 for an invasion of Egypt would have included some engaged for
pay (Delaville Le Roulx 1894–1906: 1:275–6). In 1246 the master of Santiago undertook to
take to the Latin Empire of Constantinople a force of 300 knights, made up of brothers and
laymen (the infante Alfonso sought to ensure that the order’s contingent included no more
than fifty brother knights), together with 200 crossbowmen, of whom a hundred should be
mounted, and a thousand foot. As it was said that all crusaders accompanying the order
should be included in these totals, it was obviously not expected that these would comprise
all those who were not brothers, and – given that the contingent was to be stationed in the
East for two years – it would seem that a very considerable part of the force would have
consisted of paid troops (Benito Ruano 1952: 30–4). The wording of Peter of Dusburg’s
Chronica further implies that some of the armigeri who formed part of the garrisons of
the Teutonic order’s castles in Prussia and Livonia were paid: he stated that the armigeri
defending the newly built stronghold of Georgenburg in 1259 were drawn from Prussia
and Livonia, and an armiger who deserted from Ragnit in 1293 was said by the chronicler
to be a native of Bartenland, farther south (1984: 202, 368). These were not local inhabit-
ants who owed service to the Teutonic order. It may also be assumed that the reference to
stipendiarii in the account of the rebuilding of the Templar castle of Safet referred at least
in part to some of the non-Templars who helped to form the garrison of the castle (Huygens
1965: 384); and the Syrian archers who later participated in the defence of the small island
of Ruad, off the Syrian coast, which the Templars had occupied in 1300, could hardly have
been other than paid troops (Raynaud 1887: 310). No doubt some of the other troops listed
in the surviving sources merely by type, with no further explanation, were also paid.
Yet, although the military orders appear to have made widespread use of paid troops
in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, their ability to recruit such men must in some
instances have been affected by declining financial resources. In the later thirteenth century
the Templars and Hospitallers were no longer making large-scale acquisitions of property
through donation or purchase in most parts of western Europe; they were losing revenues
derived from estates in the Holy Land as these fell into Muslim hands; and in some parts
of the West financial privileges and exemptions were being reduced, while the orders were
expected to contribute to new forms of royal and papal taxation. Letters from Templar and
Hospitaller officials in the East bewailing the plight of the two orders are common: on sev-
eral occasions the fear was even expressed that they might have to abandon the Holy Land
to its fate because of lack of resources (‘Annales de Burton’ 1864: 494; Kohler and Langlois
1891: 55–6).7 In the Holy Land there was the further problem of the availability not only of
Westerners, as fewer journeyed to the East, but possibly also of others who could be hired.
This is suggested by a letter of the Templar master Thomas Berard, who wrote in 1260 that
in defending his order’s castles in the East ‘we have to sustain four times the normal level
of expenses, as paid troops cannot be had unless they are provided with food and the risk of
death is reflected in their pay’ (‘Annales de Burton’ 1864: 494). Shortage allowed potential
hired troops to make large demands.
Troops recruited for pay by military orders were drawn from various backgrounds.
Western Christians were no doubt engaged for warfare in the Iberian peninsula and the
89
Baltic region, and paid troops serving in the Holy Land included some from western
Europe.8 These either went to the East in search of employment or were hired in the
West. Gerard of Ridefort, who became Templar master in 1185, was said to have been
employed at pay by Raymond III of Tripoli after travelling out to the Holy Land (France
1999: 61). The sergeants recruited by William of Beaujeu mentioned by the notary dur-
ing the Templar trial were drawn from France and other Western countries, and it has
already been mentioned that paid troops were sent out to the East from England by the
Hospital (Michelet 1841–51: 1:646). Those who served with the orders at the expense of
Westerners were presumably also themselves Westerners. That turcoples, whether paid
or not, included some Westerners is suggested not only by a reference to a brother tur-
cople in Templar regulations, but also by the appearance as a witness of Frevol ‘turcople
of the house of the militia’ at the Catalan convent of the Temple at Tortosa in 1211 and
by references to Berenguer Turcople in Templar documents drawn up there in 1229 and
1234 (Curzon 1886: 273; Amatuccio 2009: 268; Pagarolas i Sabaté 1999: 44–6, 53–4;
‘Cartulario de Tortosa’ 23–23v); and it would seem that turcoples giving unpaid service
were normally Western Christians, possibly including some who had converted from
Islam. But evidence about the origins of turcoples is slight and differing opinions have
been expressed about their provenance (Richard 1986: 262–4, 269–70; Saavides 1993:
122–3; Harari 1997: 100–14). Probably most in the Holy Land were of Eastern origin
and were Christians of various sects or Muslim converts. Paid turcoples could, however,
also have included some Muslims, for it was at times claimed that military orders had
Muslim troops in their employ, presumably usually for pay. The chronicler Ibn al-Athir
mentions a Muslim at Crac des Chevaliers who raided with the Franks: he was refer-
ring here to the Hospitallers, who held that stronghold (Richards 2007: 364). In 1242
the Spanish bishops of Cuenca and Sigüenza asserted that the order of Santiago had
used Muslim archers against them, and during the Templar trial brother Hugh of Narsac
stated that the master William of Beaujeu ‘had some Saracens in his pay when he wanted
them’ (Lomax 1959: 360–5; Rivera Garretas 1985: 387–90; Michelet 1841–51: 2:209).
Christian rulers were certainly prepared not only to ally with Muslim states but also to
employ paid Muslim troops in their armies, just as Christians entered the paid service
of Muslim rulers: in the later thirteenth century, for example, the Aragonese kings were
employing Muslim jenetes, mainly against Christian enemies but at times also against
Muslim powers (Gazulla 1927: 174–96: Catlos 2004: 257–302; Fancy 2013: 39–73).
Muslim troops were occasionally even employed by Western rulers in more northerly
parts of Europe (Powicke 1910: 104–5). Although James of Vitry warned the military
orders not to put their trust in Muslims (Pitra 1888: 421), these orders often negotiated
and made treaties with Muslim powers in the East in the thirteenth century (Holt 1995:
33–41, 49–57, 66–8), to the consternation of some recently recruited brothers (Michelet
1841–51: 1:44–5), and in 1304 Aragonese Templars were raiding into Granada alongside
the Muslim mercenary leader Alabes Abenraho, who was in the employ of the Aragonese
king James II (‘Templarios’ 101; Finke 1922: 122–4; Giménez Soler 1905: 365–9).
During the Templar trial, brother Bernard of Fuentes escaped and fled to Tunis, where
he became head of the Christian militia there (Forey 2001: 17, 28, 216). It would not
therefore be very surprising if some of the paid troops employed by military orders in the
Mediterranean region were Muslims.
It may, of course, be asked why military orders engaged paid troops instead of relying on
their own members, especially as hired men were more expensive to maintain than brothers.
90
Turcoples admittedly received smaller rations than fighting brothers (Curzon 1886: 119,
208, 210–11; Amatuccio 2009: 92, 190, 192; Perlbach 1890: 116), but the overall cost of
a paid warrior was greater than that of a brother. A notary who gave evidence during the
Templar trial asserted that the rank of sergeant brother had in fact been introduced into the
Temple because there had been insufficient funds to pay all the sergeants who had earlier
been in the order’s employ (Michelet 1841–51: 1:643).
In obtaining service through money fiefs, the orders were merely continuing an exist-
ing practice, encouraged by the nature of the local economy, and they had little control
over the employment of troops financed by others. Yet the majority of Templars and
Hospitallers resided in Western Europe, remote from the frontiers of Christendom, and in
1291 the French clergy argued that most of the brothers of these orders should serve in the
East, with only a few remaining in the West, and a similar idea was considered by Gregory
XI with regard to the Hospital in the later fourteenth century, while about the year 1340
it had been proposed that the paid troops on the Hospitaller island of Rhodes should be
replaced by a hundred brother sergeants (Bartholomew Cotton 1859: 213; Legras 1987:
37–8, 40; Luttrell 1991: 144). But brothers were needed in the various regions of Western
Europe away from frontier districts in order to encourage recruitment and donations; many
were not skilled warriors; and some were too old to fight (Forey 1980: 330). For orders to
maintain a larger fighting establishment of brothers, further recruitment would often have
been necessary.
Some military orders – especially minor ones – appear, however, to have experienced
difficulties in recruiting brothers. In 1180 the order of Mountjoy petitioned Alexander III
to allow it to accept Brabanzon, Aragonese and Basque mercenaries, who had been con-
demned at the Lateran Council in the preceding year: this recently founded order, which
acquired considerable estates in Aragon, was apparently having difficulty in attracting
recruits, and was seeking to convert mercenaries into brothers (Delaville Le Roulx 1893:
54; Hiestand 1972: 319–21; Forey 1971: 254–5). The Swordbrethren in Livonia were amal-
gamated with the Teutonic order after losing fifty brothers in the battle of the Saule in 1236.
The dispatch of brothers of the order of Santiago to Germany in 1250 with powers to admit
recruits suggests that it had then become necessary to seek new members outside the Iberian
peninsula, where most of its brothers originated, and when fifty-five brothers of Santiago
were killed in the defeat at Moclín in 1280, the order merged with the small military order
of Santa María de España (Aguado de Cordóba et al. 1719: 178; Forey 1986: 160). Yet not
all institutions encountered recruiting difficulties. In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries the
leading orders appear to have been able to replace losses of manpower. According to the
Flores historiarum, after the defeat at La Forbie in 1244 ‘to make good the loss of broth-
ers, the Templars and Hospitallers admitted to their orders many selected laymen, and sent
assistance to the Holy Land’ (Luard 1890: 287); and in 1289, following the fall of Tripoli,
where the Hospital lost forty brothers, the master of that order wrote that ‘we have ordered
that some of our brethren should be summoned to these parts from each province, so that
the convent may be brought up to strength’ (Delaville Le Roulx 1894–1906: 3:541).9 Yet it
is not known, of course, whether these orders’ losses could easily have been made good if
much larger contingents of brothers had been maintained in the Holy Land and casualties
among brethren had therefore been greater.
In some instances additional troops were, however, needed for only a limited
period. Although the Temple and Hospital were able to replace losses, the slowness of
communications – caused partly by the restricted periods of sailing across the
91
Mediterranean – inevitably delayed the transfer of brothers from Western Europe to the
Holy Land: in the meantime paid troops might be hired. It has been suggested that some
knights in the Templar and Hospitaller contingents at Hattin in July 1187 were paid,
as these orders had suffered heavy losses at Cresson two months earlier (France 2000:
2:59). Other heavy losses in the East included those sustained at Hattin itself and in 1244.
On some occasions paid troops may also have been hired temporarily to replace vassals
whose term of service had expired, and on occasion it may also have been necessary to
pay vassals to keep them in the field for a period beyond their normal term of service.
But clearly paid troops were not engaged merely on a very short-term basis: as has been
seen, garrisons of castles were composed partly of men recruited for pay. The reasons for
the long-term hiring of troops by orders such as the Temple and the Hospital need therefore
to be considered.
In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries the recruitment of certain types of soldier was
not usually prevented by social exclusiveness within military orders: the only limitation
was that, as in other religious orders, recruits should not be serfs. Many brothers of mili-
tary orders resident in Western Europe in fact spent their lives engaged in menial domestic
or agricultural tasks (Forey 1973: 280–1). Yet brothers of an order may not at times have
been able to provide the kind of military service which was needed. Before it became
militarised, the Hospital may have hired men to protect pilgrims along the roads of the
Holy Land: this is suggested by a letter of Innocent II, sent between 1139 and 1143,
which refers to ‘sergeants, whom the brothers of that house retain at their own expense
especially for this task’ (Delaville Le Roulx 1894–1906: 1:107–8). The Temple at first
consisted only of a group of milites – a term which at that time referred to a type of soldier
rather than to a social rank – and during the Templar trial it was said that in the order’s
early days ‘they rated each of their esquires and sergeants at a certain amount of money,
which they used to pay them for their salaries as paid employees’ (Forey 1998: 294–5;
Michelet 1841–51: 1:643): but it is not clear whether any of these paid sergeants had mili-
tary functions comparable with those of later brother sergeants-at-arms, who were more
lightly armoured than milites. It was, however, probably necessary to resort to payment in
order to obtain the service of turcoples, as there would not have been enough Westerners
who were skilled in the turcoples’ manner of fighting. Some other specialised troops,
such as crossbowmen, could probably also only be obtained through hiring. Admittedly,
when writing of campaigns in Prussia, Peter of Dusburg mentioned Henry Tupadel, ‘fully
skilled in the crossbowmen’s art’, who later became a brother of the Teutonic order (1984:
240); and certainly in the later thirteenth century some brothers of the leading military
orders did possess bows, including crossbows; but they were not primarily archers (Forey
forthcoming). The use of bows and crossbows within Western Christendom was in fact
condemned by the Church (Alberigo et al. 1962: 179; Friedberg 1881: 805), and although
this did not prevent the employment of archers in wars in Western Europe, crossbowmen
were apparently used to only a limited extent in the West during the twelfth century and
were often mercenaries (Bradbury 1985: 8, 171). It may therefore not have been easy for
orders to attract large numbers of recruits who could serve as ballistarii. For some mili-
tary orders, the hiring of troops may therefore have been necessitated at least in part by an
inability to recruit certain types of fighting men as brothers. And already in the first half
of the twelfth century, of course, the engaging of troops for pay was a well-established
practice in the secular world.
92
NOTES
1 I have avoided the use of the term ‘mercenary’ when discussing troops paid by military orders as
this word has been defined in more than one way: the question is examined in several essays pub-
lished in France (2008). ‘Paid’ is used in this chapter in the sense of remuneration in cash.
2 On the hiring of troops during the Albigensian crusade, see Horoy (1880: 143, 154).
3 Several papal bulls refer to crusaders who assisted orders in the defence of the latter’s castles in
various frontier regions (Ortega y Cotes et al. 1761: 57; Mansilla 1955: 251; Bunge 1853: 109).
4 The same comment can be made about a reference in 1238 to mercenarii of the order of Alcántara
(Palacios Martín 2000: 92).
5 Other manuscripts omit the words ‘for pay’ (aus solz).

6 The sixteenth-century historian Rades y Andrada (1572: Santiago 23v, 30v) states that the order of
Santiago had paid troops (gente de sueldo) on its campaigns, but provides no reference.
7 The fear that the Holy Land might have to be abandoned was expressed not only by the military
orders (Weiland 1874: 547–9).
8 Differing views have been expressed about the numbers of Westerners available for hire (France
2004: 1:353; Murray 2008: 279).
9 On the supply of recruits generally, see Forey (1986: 157–62).
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CHAPTER SIX
PEACEMAKING IN AN AGE OF WAR:

WHEN WERE CROSS-RELIGIOUS
ALLIANCES IN THE LATIN EAST

CONSIDERED TREASON?
Yvonne Friedman
T he history of the crusades and the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem is fundamentally one of
war, conquest, and ultimately defeat. From the romantic histories of Christian heroism
to the modern historiography of warfare, much emphasis has been placed on the ideologies
of holy war and jihad. As the almost yearly publication of new histories of the crusades
proves, this topic continues to exercise its fascination in both scholarly and lay circles.
Most histories of the crusades focus on war and heroic battles, with the second stage—that
of coexistence between clashing cultures and religions—a more recent newcomer on the
scholarly scene.
Even if the prevailing perception of the 1096 to 1291 era is one of perennial holy war, this
epoch of holy war was in fact punctuated by interludes of peace. These treaties were accepted
by both sides as legally binding and, although in principle a temporary remedy for inability
to continue to fight a holy war, in fact both the Muslim and the Christian political entities
could legitimately enjoy periods of peace (Friedman, 2011: 229–32; Forey, 2012: 41, 42).
These treaties were not only between religious adversaries and, from the very first encoun-
ters, included cross-religious alliances as Christians leaders tried to play off rival Muslim
powers by siding with one against another and sometimes gaining tribute; similarly, Muslims
made alliances against a too formidable Muslim neighbor or used internal divisions in the
Christian camp to gain power (Köhler, 2013: 37–40). Such alliances were criticized as oppos-
ing the ideology of holy war and sometimes the initiator was seen as a traitor to the cause, as
in the case of Shams al-Khilafa, emir of Ascalon, who was described as “more desirous of
trading than of fighting and inclined to peaceful and friendly relations and the securing of the
safety of travelers” (Ibn al-Qalanisi, 1932: 109–10; Hillenbrand, 2000: 396).1 After he made
an alliance with King Baldwin I in 1111 he was assassinated by his local coreligionists who
objected to his pro-Frankish policy (Ibn al-Qalanisi, 1932: 108–9; Albert of Aachen, 2007:
11:35–37). Ibn al-Athir claimed that Shams al Khilafa wanted to assert his independence
from Egypt and that was the reason for the truce with Baldwin (2007: 1:52). When were such
alliances perceived as pragmatic policy and when were they seen as treason?
In modern history, based on a reality of nation-states, private negotiations with an enemy
delegate are clearly designated treason and harshly punished, sometimes even by capital
98
— chapter 6: Peacemaking in an age of war —
punishment.2 In the medieval Middle East, however, in the absence of nation-states, the lines
between individual and societal prerogatives were often more blurred. This chapter exam-
ines the question of treason in the context of the Christian–Muslim contacts in the Latin
East, asking when the Christian side viewed a Christian–Muslim alliance as an example of
prudent pragmatic policymaking and when similar overtures ranked as high treason.
The search for a Frankish definition of treason brings us to the Livre au roi (c. 1200).
Chapter 16 stipulates various acts of treason against his seignor and his land as grounds for
confiscation of a vassal’s fief sans esgart de cort: “La segonde raison si est, c’il avient que
aucun home lige fait traïson contre son seignor ou contre sa terre, si juge la raison qu’il
det estre deserités a tous jors mais” (Greilsammer, 1995: 179). Treason, under the rubric of
apostasy in Roman law, was considered in our assise in the special case of surrendering a
town or manor to the Saracens:
7: La septime raison est se aucun home lige entre par force de Sarasins contre la volonté
de son seignor et sans esgart de cort en saisine et de casaus et de sa terre don il det servise
et homage au roi, si juge la raison qu’il det estre desiretés a tous jors mais.
[If a vassal seized against the will of his lord and without judgement of court with the
help of Saracens such villages and such lands for which he owes service and homage to
the king.]
(Greilsammer, 1995: 182)
Betrayal was a crime of treason against a sovereign who personified the state and not the
betrayal of the lord by his vassal (La Monte, 1932: 276–80). Prawer (1980: 435) defined
such acts as “cases of treason against the state or against Christendom.” Such a definition
assumed that there existed at the time a concept of state or Christendom against which
one might perform an act of treason, a kind of identity that was defined not by personal
ties of fidelity to a person but to a higher concept. Acts defined as treasonous included:
armed rebellion; taking legal action against the king; plotting to poison him and his family;
deserting him in battle; converting to Islam; and, what is most germane to this considera-
tion, entering into possession of a fief with the help of Muslim forces against the will of the
king (Riley-Smith, 1973: 146). Similarly, Jean d’Ibelin’s Livre de Assises (Edbury, 2003:
86–87) also notes asking for assistance from Muslim forces in order to keep a fief as an act
of treason, citing the Roman law that saw this as a capital offense (Edbury, 2003: 230–35,
433–38). Accordingly, an alliance between a private Christian power and a Muslim ruler in
a period of crusade and holy war was defined as treason by both law and custom.
In and of itself, a Muslim–Christian peace treaty was not necessarily negative or excep-
tional. Notwithstanding the propaganda on both sides that depicted the enemy as an infidel,
pragmatic alliances were alien neither to the crusaders nor to the Muslims. Agreements were
made when deemed expedient, as Köhler has shown (2013: 165–69; 230–35). Although
both the Muslim concept of jihad and the Christian ideal of holy war legitimated peace-
making only in cases of dire need, there were in fact many treaties from the beginning of
the encounter between the enemies. These treaties not only included agreements between
the two former religious enemies, but also Christian–Muslim alliances against their own
coreligionists. Thus political considerations could override inter-religious enmity. We find
Muslims joining with Christians to oppose a Muslim ruler, or Christians inviting Muslims to
oppose a Christian rival. This, however, was the prerogative of the king or military leader.
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— Yv o n n e F r i e d m a n —
But when was negotiating with the enemy considered treason? In order to answer that
q uestion I investigate some test cases in chronological order to see what notions governed
the contemporary Christian attitude toward private alliances with the Muslims.
Two early twelfth-century cases serve as examples of the different perspectives on
whether making an alliance with a Muslim ruler was considered a pragmatic step or trea-
son. William of Tyre describes the princess Alice of Antioch as a “mulier callida supra
modum et maliciosa nimis” (WT bk 14, ch. 4, p. 635, ll. 9–10): a woman of “wicked malice”
(WT 13, 27, 265, 70). In 1130–31, after her husband’s death and before she was aware that
her father Baldwin II intended to come to Antioch, “nequam agitate spiritu rem concepit
nefariam” (“an evil spirit led her to conceive a wicked plan”) (13, 27, 623, 254). In order
to strengthen her rule and maintain her independence, she sent messengers to the ruler of
Mosul, Imad ad-Din Zengi, the arch-enemy of the northern principalities. Her envoy to
Zengi was one of her familiares and with him she sent a snow-white palfrey decorated
with silver trappings. Intercepted by Baldwin’s men, the messenger was tortured and put
to death, a fate that William of Tyre seemed to think was appropriate. Thomas Asbridge,
who analyzed the event as an example of female power in the Latin East, tends to view the
story as a tale that was perhaps invented by those opposed to Alice’s rule (Asbridge, 2003:
34, 36). However, if true, approaching the enemy would be enough to discredit Alice as
ruler of Antioch. It should, however, be noted that sending a costly horse as a gift was nor-
mal negotiating procedure in the East and not necessarily a romantic tale (Friedman, 2007:
31–48). If Alice wanted to forge an alliance with Zengi there was nothing unusual in her
behavior. As the legitimate ruler of Antioch, she was simply using her prerogative as prin-
cess to deal with questions of war and peace, seeking an ally against those who opposed her
rule. Although William of Tyre does not use the word “treason” to describe her deeds, he
probably viewed her “wicked” behavior as such. Accordingly, William states that the unfor-
tunate messenger paid the just price for her deeds, whereas she was spared by Baldwin’s
paternal love. Although he ousted her from Antioch, Baldwin allowed her to keep Latakia
and Jabala, her dowry, as a power base. Thus, her, to us, treasonous actions were punished
by exile and loss of power, but not by a capital sentence.
Taking place almost contemporaneously, the revolt of Hugh of Puiset against Fulk, the
king of Jerusalem (“For certain reasons some of the highest nobles of the realm: namely
Hugh, count of Jaffa, and Romain de Puy, lord of the region beyond the Jordan, are
said to have conspired against the lord king” [WT 14, 15, 651, 3–4]), seems like double
treason—that of a vassal against his king by having an affair with the queen, and of a vassal
who asks for Muslim aid when summoned to court. If William of Tyre’s insinuations are
true, an affair with the queen would amount to a classical crimen laesae maiestatis. William
claims that, in the middle of this revolt, Hugh approached the Fatimid enemy and enlisted
their help. When the Fatimids attacked Arsur, Hugh’s behavior was seen as clear treason
and he was deserted by his former supporters. In this case too, Asbridge doubts that Hugh
could have made such a move:
Hugh was not so politically naïve as to make a choice that would automatically turn all
his supporters against him. Instead, I would suggest that, once Hugh had been accused of
this treasonous act, whether on the basis of fact or not, his supporters deserted him, not
because they were disgusted by his act, but because they judged his political position to
be untenable.
(2003: 36 n31)
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If Hugh was indeed guilty of high treason, King Fulk’s reaction seems surprisingly lenient.
Hugh did not show up for the duel to which his stepson had challenged him—accusing him
of high treason—(“more accusatoris obicit comiti quod maiestatis crimine reus erat et quod
contra domini regis salutem cum quibusdam factionis eiusdem complicibus, contra bonos
mores et contra nostrorum disciplinam temporum, conspirasset” [WT 14, 16, 652, 5–8]);
“he publicly accused Hugh in the royal presence of high treason and of having conspired
with certain accomplices of the same faction against the life of the king, contrary to good
morals and the laws of the times” (WT trans., II, 72)—and fled to Egyptian shelter instead.
When finally tried, the king and his court decided on a three-year exile as the appropriate
punishment. This seems a very light sentence for what appears to be high treason and, at
the very least, a feudal revolt (“Contra dominum regem ab hostibus opem postulaturus
ingressus est” [WT 14, 16, 653, 23–24]). Apparently, if the king was unable to execute him
lawfully, Hugh had strong forces backing him (Mayer, 1972: 102–12). An assassination
attempt was made which ended in the execution of the assassin. Surprisingly, William of
Tyre’s final assessment of Hugh states: “Roger of Apulia thought that Hugh was a noble and
valiant man (virum strenum et nobilem) who had been driven from the kingdom through the
jealousy of his rivals” (WT 14, 18, 655, 43–44).
The punishment of exile in both of these cases shows that allying oneself with the Muslim
enemy in an internal Christian power dispute apparently did not merit capital punishment. It
seems that the definition of this act was more one of infringing on the king’s prerogatives,
not necessarily treason against kingdom and Christendom.
My next example comes from the fateful days before the battle of Hattin. This battle was
preceded by a period of court intrigue and shifts in regency. According to one contemporary
description, the ultimate villain of the day was Raymond III of Tripoli. Head of one of the
political factions in the kingdom in this decisive period, he endorsed a policy of making
treaties with the Muslims. However, Raynaud de Chatillon and Guy de Lusignan, the so-
called court party, have been described as more hawkish. In 1185, while serving as regent
for the infant king, Baldwin V, Raymond signed a treaty with Saladin. This took place
after a year of drought, considered by both sides as a good pretext or reason for peacemak-
ing. After Baldwin V’s death a year later, the court faction staged a coup d’état, crowning
Sybilla queen and accepting her unpopular husband Guy de Lusignan as king. Raymond,
who refused to accept Guy as ruler, went from being the lawful regent of the kingdom to
rebellious prince of Galilee. His standing treaty with Saladin was transformed from a truce
between rulers to a private alliance between a rebel and an alien enemy against the crowned
king of Jerusalem. At the same time, Saladin was pressured into making jihad after a long
period of empire-consolidating battles against other Muslims (Köhler, 2013: 250–51).
What made Raymond a traitor in the eyes of some of his contemporaries? It was that,
at Saladin’s request, he allowed Saladin’s son al-Afdal to invade his territory for one day,
on 1 May 1187. The battle of Cresson, with its dreadful carnage of the Templars and
Hospitallers, transformed Raymond’s treaty with Saladin into an act of treason. Or as
the Lyon Eracles defined it: if he agreed (to al-Afdal’s raid) he would “bear great shame
and reproach in Christendom” (“grant honte et grante blasme en avroit de la crestienté”
[Morgan, 1982: 38; Edbury, 1996: 31]). The modern historian Bernard Hamilton sum-
marizes: “The plain name for Raymond’s action is treason” (2005: 224). In fact, simi-
lar political motivations drove Raymond’s act and Reynaud’s attack on Saladin’s sister’s
caravan during a period of truce. Raymond’s famous reply to the king when asked to make
reparations for breaking the truce was “that he was lord of his land, just as Guy was lord of
101
his and he had no truces with the Saracens” (Morgan, 1982: 36; Edbury, 1996: 29). Both
princes infringed on Guy’s regal rights but in opposite directions: one honored a truce with
the Muslims; the other broke a truce with the Muslims. In both cases their behavior had
dire consequences for the kingdom.
If a traitor, what was Raymond’s punishment? Following the battle of Cresson, Raymond
paid homage and fealty to Guy and they were reconciled, even though he could have been
regarded as a traitor and punished accordingly. Raymond then joined the fight against
Saladin. An anonymous chronicle still pegged him as the main villain in the great disaster
at Hattin from the Frankish viewpoint. According to the chronicle, Raymond dispensed
bad military advice, and his charge against Saladin’s troops that enabled him to escape to
Tyre and save his life was suspicious, but the chronicle did not name him a traitor (Colbert-
Fontainebleau Eracles, 1859: 62–64; Edbury, 1996: 159). According to another version of
the continuation of William of Tyre, the chronicle does report that before the battle Gerard
de Ridefort told the king not to trust Raymond as he was a traitor (Morgan, 1982: 34).
Ernoul rather placed the blame for the defeat at Hattin on Guy and his lack of leadership
(Mas Latrie, 1871: 162–63). Depending on the writer and his political views at the time,
Raymond could be seen either as a valiant leader worthy of the crown or a traitor.
In 1192, at the end of the Third Crusade, when Conrad of Montferrat tried to negotiate
a private peace with Saladin, Richard the Lionheart’s propagandist saw it, not unreason-
ably, as treason (Ambroise, 1897, ll. 8665–700). It certainly weakened Richard’s position
in his negotiations with Saladin. Beha a Din ibn Shadad explains how Saladin used the
duplicity of peace offers as a card in the diplomatic play (Richards, 2001: 195–99). But as
neither Richard nor Conrad were kings of Jerusalem at the time, this act could be harshly
criticized, but not as treason, which is, by definition, against the king. When Richard signed
a truce with Saladin in 1192, Ambroise explained that Richard had no choice, and that he
promised to return and fight a holy war in three years’ time (Ambroise, 1897, ll. 11761–800,
11805–15). Thus, making peace during the crusades was part of the lawful ruler’s preroga-
tive; nevertheless, an explanation was required.
To this point, the examples of “treason” have been related to political factors: what was
acceptable for a ruler (namely to make an alliance with the enemy) was not acceptable
for a private individual, who thereby manifested opposition to the legitimate regime. How
then are we to regard the strange case of St. Francis, whom modern historians describe as a
paradigm of private peacemaking? (Powell, 1986: 158–59; 2007: 271–80; Runciman, 1954:
159–60; Queffélec, 1982: 228; Tolan, 2009: 305). Leaving the crusader camp near Damietta
in September 1219, Francis crossed the lines accompanied only by another friar and was
either received by the sultan al-Kamil or captured and brought before him. Although Francis
tried to preach Christianity to him, al-Kamil did not kill Francis, returning him some days
later to the camp at Damietta. I suggest that perhaps the sultan regarded Francis as an envoy
sent to negotiate a ceasefire and therefore granted him an audience and safe-conduct. This
took place shortly before al-Kamil offered a truce to the crusaders, whose terms included
the return of all the territories west of the Jordan to the Kingdom of Jerusalem if the Fifth
Crusade would leave Egypt:
Therefore the Sultan, fearing dearth and famine, and also because of his desire to keep
Damietta, offered the Christians a peace with Coradin his brother on these terms: That
he would give back the Holy Cross, which had formerly been captured in the victory
of Saladin, along with the Holy City and all the captives who could be found alive
102
throughout the kingdom of Babylon and Damascus and also funds to repair the walls of
Jerusalem, in addition he would restore the kingdom of Jerusalem entirely, except Krak
and Monreal.
(Hoogeweg, 1894: 222–24; Gavigan, 1948: 48)
This offer was refused by the papal legate Pelagius, the military orders and Italian com-
munes. The king of Jerusalem and some of the local nobility, however, were in favor of
accepting the truce. Francis’s endeavor has been seen by modern historians as an implicit
criticism of the crusade and perhaps even as his working against crusader interests. But the
contemporary sources do not support the modern image of Francis as an individual peace-
maker. Jacques de Vitry portrayed St. Francis as an ardent preacher of Christianity who
tried to convince the sultan to convert; thus he exemplified mission rather than crusade:
Lord Rayner, Prior of St. Michael, has entered the Order of the Lesser Brothers. The
Order is multiplying rapidly throughout the world, because it expressly imitates the pat-
tern of the primitive church and the life of the apostles in everything. Nevertheless, this
Order seems dangerous to us, because it sends out two by two throughout the world,
not only formed religious, but also immature young men who should first be tested and
subjected to conventual discipline for a time.
The head of these brothers, who also founded the Order, came into our camp. He was so
inflamed with zeal for the faith that he did not fear to cross the lines to the army of our
enemy. For several days he preached the Word of God to the Saracens and made little
progress. The Sultan, king of Egypt, privately asked him to pray to the lord for him, so
that he might be inspired by God to adhere to that religion which most pleased God … I
am having a difficult time holding on to the cantor and Henry and several others.
(Huygens, 1960, letter 6; trans. from Tolan, 2009: 19)
Although his mission was not effective, Francis could still be admired for his piety. The
chronicle of Ernoul emphasizes that the friars asked for permission to cross the lines in
order to preach Christianity to the sultan and that this was reluctantly granted by Pelagius
(Mas Latrie, 1871: 431; Tolan, 2009: 42). Whether the motivation was missionary zeal
or seeking the glory of martyrdom, Francis’s initiative was not a private negotiation for
peace. St. Francis may have become a symbol of the individual fighting for peace and love
in a society organized for war, but the contemporary sources do not support such a view.
Ernoul does, however, elaborate on the friar’s pure intentions, noting that, although the
sultan offered them great riches, “They said they would take nothing, since they could not
have his soul for God for it was in their eyes more valuable to them than all that he pos-
sessed” (Mas Latrie, 1871: 435; Tolan, 2009: 42). Unlike the examples discussed earlier,
where the peace initiative was motivated by personal or political gain, it was clear to all
sides that Francis sought no personal gain. His very presence in the crusader camp suggests
that he did not perceive missionizing and crusading as opposing tasks and did not criticize
crusader policy (Kedar, 1984: 129–31). Indeed, the sultan may have thought him insane and
therefore spared his life or he may have been impressed by his personality and sanctity, as
the hagiographic Franciscan stories have it. It is doubtful that al-Kamil used Francis as a
tool for promoting his offer of a truce. In any event, in the hagiographic descriptions Francis
does not undermine the military aim of conquering Egypt once and for all.
103
Another saintly crusader, Louis IX, returned to Damietta in 1249 and made almost
exactly the same political and military mistakes as his predecessors, the leaders of the Fifth
Crusade. He too declined an Egyptian offer of a treaty in hopes of crushing Egypt com-
pletely, only to end up in captivity along with his entire army. Nonetheless, in 1250, on
his return to Acre, he was received with royal magnificence as the leader of the crusade
(Gaposchkin, 2013: 85–60). On hearing that the Templars had conducted private negotia-
tions for a truce with the Damascus Muslims in 1252, the saintly king reacted with fury. He
did not, however, term the deed treason, but an infringement of the king’s sole authority to
decide on matters of peace. The Templars’ marshal, Hugues de Jouy, had encroached on
these rights and therefore had to be punished publicly: the king insisted on his expulsion
from the kingdom (Joinville, 1888, chs. 511–14). Thus in the mid-thirteenth century such
initiatives had to be nipped in the bud to elucidate that the king, and only he, possessed the
right to enter into peace negotiations with the enemy. Whereas in Spain the kings were able
to enforce the principle that the military orders could not make peace privately and had
to honor truces that the king made, it was apparently less clear in the Latin East (Forey,
2012: 42–44). In 1168 Bohemond III of Antioch conceded that the Hospitallers could make
war or peace from the places he gave them (Delaville le Roulx 1894, doc. 391: 266–68;
Forey, 2012: 45) and the Templars received tribute from the Assasins in the 1170s (WT 20,
29–30; Forey, 2012: 45) and in 2012 the pilgrim Wilbrand of Oldenburg reported that the
Hospitallers received tribute from Aleppo (Wilbrand, 1873: 170) and in the Kingdom of
Jerusalem there were many cases of private negotiations without asking the king’s permis-
sion (Forey, 2012: 47–49). When Louis IX was in Cyprus before his crusade to Damietta,
he ordered the Templar master not to negotiate with the Muslims without his permission
(Guillaume de Nangis, 1840: 366–69; Forey, 2012: 49). The king’s reaction did therefore fit
his concepts of kingship and the king’s prerogative to have the sole authority to decide on
matters of war and peace. The punishment of expulsion fitted that of a treasonous infringe-
ment of royal rights.
This show of central power was not lasting. Although Louis was not king of Jerusalem,
his personal authority as king of France and prestige as holy warrior, in spite of his failure,
were enough to restrain other factions. However, with Mamluk ascendance and the fact
that the kings of Jerusalem were absentee kings, the dwindling kingdom made desperate
efforts to be saved by making truces with the Mamluk sultan Baybars and his heirs. In the
1280s Baybars and Qalawun made numerous peace treaties with separate entities in the
Latin Kingdom: the Hospitallers (1271), the Templars (1281), certain cities as in the case
of Tripoli (1281), the lady Margaret of Tyre (1285), and also entered into short-term private
peace treaties where each entity did its best to save its own skin without much thought for
the good of the kingdom. These treaties illustrate the disintegration of the kingdom into
petty political and geographical entities, which enabled the Mamluks to dictate ever more
humiliating terms (Holt, 1995). Given the absence of a central authority to prevent them
from seeking their own interest, the Genoese, the Hospitallers, and the lady of Tyre could
not be viewed as treasonous.
The last “treasonous” accord discussed here comes from the story of the Templar
of Tyre concerning the final years of the Kingdom of Acre. This involved the Templar
master William of Beaujeu, who engaged in private contacts with the sultan of Egypt,
including financial dealings and safe conducts. Although not defined as a traitor, his core-
ligionists distrusted him. Time and again he warned the rulers of Tripoli and Acre of the
Mamluk sultan’s imminent plans to conquer the kingdom. But, because of the suspicion
104
aroused by his lucrative contacts with the sultan, his warnings and mediation endeavors
went unheeded.
They did not want to believe this … Others said ugly things about the master, to the
effect that he wanted to alarm them so that they would need him as an intermediary
between them and the sultan, so that it would seem as though the master had induced the
Saracens to go back, but that in fact they were not coming at all.
(Crawford, 2003: 99)
When the sultan prepared the final attack on Acre, William again tried to warn the Franks, in
vain (Crawford, 2003: 102, 104). On the one hand, the king was unable to curb the Templar
master as Louis IX had, but, on the other, he also did not use the intelligence to be gained
from the master’s peaceful relations with the sultan. In a way, the master was regarded as a
traitor. This was in fact proven incorrect when the Templars fought courageously in the final
battles for Acre and went to their deaths as martyrs.
To return to the question with which I opened this chapter: the classic definition of trea-
son, with its sentences of long imprisonment or capital punishment, belongs more to the
notion of the nation-state than to the medieval landscape with its petty, warring principali-
ties. Pursuit of personal political or financial gain through alliances with the enemy placed
the individual in question under suspicion of lack of loyalty to the “central” government of
the day. However, when kings engaged in peacemaking initiatives or alliances, they were
seen as exercising their royal prerogative. As always, treason is in the eye of the beholder.
NOTES
1 For the economic background to treaties, see, for example, the treaties between Baldwin I and
Tughtigin of Damascus in 1108–09, 1111, and 1113 sharing the income from territories held as
condominiums, in Ibn al-Qalanisi, 1932, 92, 113, 147.
2 See, e.g., the British code of 1351 which is still in force: Declaration what Offences shall be
adjudged Treason. Compassing the Death of the King, Queen, or their eldest Son; violating the
Queen, or the King’s eldest Daughter unmarried, or his eldest Son’s Wife; levying War; adhering to
the King’s Enemies; killing the Chancellor, Treasurer, or Judges in Execution of their Duty. Similar
definitions of treason as helping enemies of one’s country are found in US Code, Title 18, Part I,
Chapter 115, § 2381 (the punishment being death or not less than five years’ prison) and Israeli
penal law 1977, 93–103.
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Crawford, P., trans., 2003. The “Templar of Tyre”. Part III of the “Deeds of the Cypriots.” Aldershot:
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Delaville Le Roulx, J., ed., 1894. Cartulaire général de l’ordre des Hospitaliers de Saint-Jean de
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Edbury, P.W., trans., 1996. The Conquest of Jerusalem and the Third Crusade. Aldershot: Ashgate.
Edbury, P.W. ed., 2003. John of Ibelin: Le Livre des Assises. Leiden: Brill.
Forey, A., 2012. The Participation of the Military Orders in Truces with Muslims in the Holy Land
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Friedman, Y., 2007. Gestures of Conciliation: Peacemaking Endeavors in the Latin East. In I. Shagrir,
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Gaposchkin, C., 2013. The Captivity of Louis the IX. Quaestiones Medii Aevi Novae, 18.
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Hamilton, B., 2005. The Leper King and His Heirs: Baldwin IV and the Crusader Kingdom of
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107
109
PART II
THE CRUSADER WEST

CHAPTER SEVEN
THE MILITARY-RELIGIOUS ORDERS

IN THE CRUSADER WEST
Karl Borchardt
T emplars, Hospitallers and the Teutonic Order were founded in the East to support the
Latin Christians there with supplies from the West. Their role in the West was twofold:
spiritual and practical. Setbacks in the East were usually explained as happening peccatis
nostris exigentibus, and so life in the West had to be reformed to regain God’s favour in
the East. On the practical side, the West provided men, armour and money for fighting in
the East. The concept of an order itself was new. Its evolution was not complete before the
thirteenth century when general councils forbade the creation of new orders. Before the
twelfth century, mother houses might found filie and try to maintain there some kind of
uniformity regarding the rule, the statutes and the consuetudines. The military-religious
orders primarily tried to organise an efficient exploitation of Western resources. During
the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, they acquired rich possessions in the West which were
administered by brethren known as preceptors or commanders. For administrative purposes
the commanderies formed various geographical entities usually called provinces, priories
or bailiwicks. Such geographical divisions were a twelfth-century innovation made popular
by Templars, Hospitallers and Premonstratensians, whereas so far Cluniacs, Cistercians and
other religious communities had controlled their new houses through the immediate mother
house, that is, by the principle of filiation. This, however, soon proved to be awkward for
long distances. In the context of reforms after the failure to regain Jerusalem, the Lateran
Council of 1215 c. 12 prescribed triennial chapters according to ecclesiastical dioceses, in
singulis regnis sive provinciis, for all Benedictine and Cistercian abbots and priors (Tanner
and Alberigo 1990: 240–1). In the thirteenth century, the Dominicans, the Franciscans and
other mendicants followed the example of the military-religious orders and established
provinces (see Schmidt 2013 with further references). Neither the history of the administra-
tive divisions of the three great military-religious orders in the West nor the development of
their Western possessions in general have been studied thoroughly so far. The major reason
for this is not the lack of documentation but, on the contrary, the huge number of relevant
charters in archives throughout Latin Europe. Especially the prosopography of the leading
brethren and the regional officers has so far not been established on a critical and reliable
basis, and therefore the history of their offices cannot be described here with confidence as
111
— K a r l B o rc h a rd t —
such offices were formed and reshaped not only due to changing political situations but also
for individual brethren. The purpose of the present chapter is merely to highlight some of
the open questions in this context.
All three great military-religious orders had their headquarters in Jerusalem or elsewhere
in the East, at least until Acre was lost in 1291. Their central convents were in the Levant,
their chapters general usually assembled there, and their masters were as a rule elected in
the East and lived there, although they sometimes travelled to the West trying to organise
support (Burgtorf 2008: 115). From the twelfth century onwards both the Hospitallers and
the Templars empowered envoys to represent the respective order in the West, at first prob-
ably for special missions and later on a permanent basis. In Western documents and sources
such an officer might be called maitre deça mer or magister citra mare. And there might be
several of them at the same time for different Western regions. In due course, possessions
and administrative tasks multiplied. Regional officers had to be established in the West, and
for controlling them, visitations were introduced during the thirteenth century. There could
be different visitatores for different Western regions at the same time, and sometimes a
maitre deça mer or magister citra mare could himself serve as a visitator. After the 1250s
the Templars tended to have one such officer for Spain and another for France, England and
Germany, whereas their Italian possessions were apparently surveyed by the Eastern head-
quarters directly (Forey 1973: 328–9; Barber 1994: 245; Vogel 2007: 283–5). Similarly, the
thirteenth-century Hospitallers empowered grand commanders for the West in general, for
specific regions, or for special purposes. They must not be confused with the regional priors
who held a permanent office (Riley-Smith 1967: 366–71).
ADMINISTRATION IN THE WEST

The brethren in charge of Western affairs and possessions were at first usually called magis-
tri, following the example of the supreme magister in the Eastern headquarters, preceptores,
referring to their special authority, or procuratores, as one of their tasks was to represent
their order at negotiations and law-courts; the Hospitallers also used the monastic term
priores. Later on, especially in the thirteenth century, the terms baiulus and commendator
came to be more frequently used, the former from the Anglo-Norman and French royal
and princely administrations, the latter probably from the merchants’ commenda, a well-
known commercial institution in the Mediterranean. These officers could be special missi,
envoys with specific tasks. Yet the increasing number of donations soon made it necessary
to appoint permanent officers for specific geographical regions. In the thirteenth century
such permanent officers even began not only to use their personal seal but also to have a seal
for their office. The size of the geographical entities was never stable and would be changed
according to political or personal conditions. Nor was there always a clear-cut hierarchy of
such regional officers. In remote regions, subordinate officers might be de facto independ-
ent. The local administrative unit was supposedly the commandery, a house where a group
of brethren, milites, priests and servientes formed a convent. The officers in charge of such
a house used the same titles as the regional officers: magister, preceptor, procurator, bai-
ulus or commendator. This makes it difficult to distinguish whether such an officer was in
charge of only a single house or of his order’s possessions in a whole region. Furthermore,
houses came into existence only when there were enough brethren available in the region.
Sources may mention the acquisition of a certain property. Yet such an acquisition did not
necessarily mean that a house or a commandery was established at this particular place
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— c h a p t e r 7 : M i l i t a r y - r e l i g i o u s o r d e r s i n t h e c r u s a d e r We s t —
immediately. Finally, the series of office-holders is difficult to establish, because they are
mentioned only occasionally in charters, and because such sources are not always acces-
sible in reliable editions. Furthermore, until the end of the thirteenth century many officers
were mentioned only with their first or Christian name, and family names would often vary.
Therefore it is almost impossible to establish the prosopographies of the Western office-
holders of the military-religious orders for the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. It is clear,
however, that the Eastern headquarters usually appointed only the higher Western officers
who in turn had their own chapters where they dealt with the local commanders. Conflicts
might arise of course when the headquarters wanted to reward brethren who had served in
the East with particular Western commanderies, and when kings, princes or other influential
people in the West wanted to secure the appointment of their favourites as officers among
the military-religious orders.
The starting-point for any discussion of the regional divisions of the three military-
religious orders in the West has to be the situation at the beginning of the fourteenth
century. For the Hospitallers, there is a list from the year 1317 when Pope John XXII appointed
priors and preceptores for ten years who had to repay debts of the order to the societies of the
Bardi and the Peruzzi (Mollat 1904: nos. 4450–72). At this stage, the Hospital had seven priors –
Venice, Pisa, Lombardy, Rome, Barletta, Capua and Messina – and three preceptors –
(1) Santissima Trinità in Venosa and San Giovanni de Pizonibus in Naples, (2) Sant’Euphemia
in Calabria and (3) Santo Stefano in Monopoli – in Italy, seven priors – Provence, Saint-
Gilles, Toulouse (separated from Saint-Gilles in 1315), Auvergne, Francia, Aquitaine,
Champagne (the latter two separated from Francia in 1317, Legras 1987: 73–74) – in
France, three priors – England, Ireland, Scotland – on the British Isles, four priors –
(1) Castile and León, (2) Portugal, (3) Navarre and (4) the Castellany of Amposta for Aragón –
on the Iberian Peninsula, where in 1319 Catalonia was formed as another separate priory,
and finally four priories – (1) Alamania superior and inferior, (2) Bohemia, Moravia, Poland
and Austria, (3) Dacia, Sweden and Norway, (4) Hungary – for central, eastern and north-
ern Europe. This amounted to a total of twenty-six priories and, in Italy, three preceptories.
When brethren, supplies and moneys were sent to the conventual headquarters in the East,
they were grouped there according to seven langues: (1) Provence, (2) Auvergne, (3) France,
(4) Italy, (5) Spain, (6) England and (7) Germany (Riley-Smith 1967: 353–9).
For the Templars, who were dissolved between 1307 and 1312, the documentation con-
cerning their trial permits a reconstruction of their regional divisions in the West. They
had about a dozen provincial preceptores for Francia – Poitou and Aquitaine, Provence,
Auvergne – for England and other parts of the British isles, for Aragón and for Portugal, for
Lombardy and other parts of Italy, for Sicily and for Apulia, for Alamania and the Slavic
lands east of Alamania, and finally for Hungary including Slavonia (Vogel 2007: 285–90).
It is difficult to establish a precise figure, because some of these regional entities had subdi-
visions which might have separate preceptores, among them Normandy and Ireland. When
the Hospitallers were awarded the Templar possessions in 1312, they had to retrocede to the
papacy certain commanderies in the Comtat Venaissin by 1317, among them the Hospitaller
houses of Avignon, Châteauneuf, Orange and Pernes, Beaulieu, Thoronne and Saint-Paul-
Trois-Châteaux, plus the former Templar houses at Cavaillon, Roaix and Richerenches
(Carraz 2005: 536–7 with n. 98 and fig. 29).
The Teutonic Order was formed only between 1190 and 1197, and its possessions cen-
tred on Germany, the Mediterranean and the Baltic. At the beginning of the fourteenth cen-
tury its regional administrative structures included three provincial masters (Landmeister)
113
for Germany, Prussia and Livonia. Outside Prussia and Livonia the Teutonic Order had
also Landkomture, provinciales, for certain groups of commanderies called bailiwicks, an
innovation copied from Templars and Hospitallers in Western Europe. There were some
twelve bailiwicks in the Empire north of the Alps: (1) Franconia, (2) Alsace and Burgundy,
(3) Lorraine, (4) Koblenz, (5) the partes inferiores or Netherlands, (6) Westphalia, (7) Marburg,
(8) Thuringia, (9) Saxony, (10) Bohemia and Moravia, (11) Austria and (12) Bozen on
the Etsch. The possessions around the Mediterranean were grouped into more than half a
dozen bailiwicks – Sicily, Apulia, (Central) Italy, Lombardy, Spain, Romania (Greece),
Cyprus, and Armenia – the latter two being more or less titular by 1300 (Forstreuter 1967:
56–7, 65–6).
The Western officers had to report to the Eastern headquarters from time to time. For
their chapters general and for the magistral elections, all three military-religious orders
tried to ensure that Western officers went to the Eastern headquarters. For the Templars,
a section of the French rule datable probably to the mid-1160s mentions eight regional
preceptores, two in the East – Tripoli and Antioch – and seven in the West – France,
England, Poitiers, Aragón, Portugal, Apulia and Hungary. By the late thirteenth century
there were also important preceptores for Aquitaine, Normandy and Auvergne (Barber
1994: 244–5). The Hospitaller chapter general of 1182 mentioned the priories of France,
Saint-Gilles, Italy, Pisa and Venice: later on, a number of Western officers were regarded
as capitular bailiffs and participated in chapters general alongside with the conventual
officers (Riley-Smith 1967: 287–8). According to the mid-thirteenth-century statutes,
the Teutonic Order summoned seven regional preceptores to its annual chapters in the
Eastern headquarters, from Livonia, Germany, Prussia, Austria, Apulia, Romania and
Armenia. In a fourteenth-century French translation, Armenia was replaced in this list by
Spain (Perlbach 1890: 59, 97). The reason was probably that the Armenian possessions
had been lost meanwhile.
WESTERN POSSESSIONS
Hospitallers and Templars
The lesser nobility of Western Europe being the primary supporters of the military-
religious orders in the twelfth century, both Hospitallers and Templars had their major pos-
sessions in Capetian and Angevin realms. French or Occitan were the dominant languages
in both orders. For Western Europe, Provence was the major centre of communication
with the Levant, and the port of Saint-Gilles became a major administrative centre for both
Hospitallers and Templars. The first Templar master, Hugues de Paiens, however, origi-
nated from near Troyes, and therefore many early donations to the new militia came from
Champagne. Nobles in other French and in Plantagenet lands soon followed suit. So from
their beginnings the Templars tended to have three regional magistri: the first for Provence,
the second for Francia including Champagne and the third for Angevin Poitou. As dona-
tions multiplied, subregions were created which sometimes received separate officers. The
following survey is primarily based on Léonard (1930), who merits ample revisions but
may serve as a starting-point for future research. In the twelfth century there were two
clear-cut divisions: one between the Capetian and the Angevin spheres of influence, and
one between the northern regions and Provence. Already in the 1140s the Templars had a
magister for Provence (Forey 1973: 420–1), responsible especially for Saint-Gilles, Arles,
114
Avignon, Orange, Roaix, Richerenches, Valence, Jalez and Montpellier. His province being
large and having numerous possessions, there came to be masters for smaller regions such as
Carcassonne and Redez (including Douzens), Rodez (including Sainte-Eulalie-du-Larzac),
Albi (including La Selve), the Rouergue (mentioned in 1233 and 1256; Selwood 1999:
150 n. 60), the region of Cahors, Toulouse with the house of Villedieu and the diocese of
Comminges, Gascony with the Agenais including the houses between the Garonne and the
Dordogne, finally the Roussillon with Mas-Déu and Perpignan. From the 1240s onwards
the preceptor of Provence lost his Spanish responsibilities (Selwood 1999: 148). Poitou
or, as the regional master styled himself from the 1190s, Aquitaine included Bordeaux, La
Rochelle and the Saintonge, Anjou, Touraine and Brittany with Nantes. Since the 1180s the
Limousin and Auvergne had a separate officer, with unclear competences for the region of
Bourges. Francia included Paris with the Île-de-France, Orléans, and separate bailiwicks
for Brie (with Provins and Moisy), for Picardy, for Beauvais, for Vermandois, for Artois,
for Laon (with Reims), for the duchy of Burgundy (with Bure) and for Chalons-sur-Saône.
In the early thirteenth century Capetian expansion created many problems, not only in the
south with the Albigensian war. Conquered by Philip Augustus in 1204, Normandy (with
Bretteville, Renneville, Sainte-Vaubourg) had a separate officer dependent upon Francia,
whereas Brittany agreed to stay with the province of Aquitaine in 1225 (Josserand 2012: 22).
The borders between France and the Empire were of no importance for the socio-political
networks and the administrative divisions, neither in the south for Provence nor in the north
for Francia, which included separate bailiwicks for Flanders, Hainault and Brabant, for
Lorraine, and for the Franche-Comté or county of Burgundy. For some houses the territorial
divisions are so far unclear, among them for the Lyonnais and the Dauphiné.
For the Hospitallers, the situation was more or less similar, with the exception that they
lacked any founder such as Hugues de Paiens in Western Europe. Their possessions cen-
tred only on Saint-Gilles at first. The Hospitaller officer there originally held some sort of
responsibility also for the Iberian peninsula until the 1150s and the British Isles until around
1150. The Hospitaller priory of Francia is mentioned from 1179 onwards, first at Paris, then
at Corbeil, a donation from Ingeborg, widow of King Philip Augustus, in 1223, and after
the suppression of the Templars again at Paris (Mannier 1872). The Hospitaller priory of
Auvergne came into being some time between 1229 and 1245 (Riley-Smith 1967: 353–4;
Legras 1987: 73).
In England the troublesome times of King Stephen (1135–54) saw many donations to
both Templars and Hospitallers, whom nobles trusted to pray for them regardless of chang-
ing political alliances. A Templar master for England is known since the 1140s, a Hospitaller
prior since about 1180. London, the capital and the most important economic centre, had
their most important houses, the Old Temple, sold between 1155 and 1162 to Robert de
Chesney, bishop of London, and the New Temple on the north banks of the Thames, for
the Hospitallers Clerkenwell just outside the northern walls of London. The Templars used
the big city to sell agricultural surpluses from their estates in Essex, especially at Temple
Cressing, donated in 1137 by Queen Matilda, Stephen’s wife, and at Witham. In the north,
Yorkshire had ten, Lincolnshire five commanderies. According to the 1185 inquest, some
Templar possessions in the south were administered by the master for England directly,
whereas elsewhere tasks were so numerous or estates so remote that the Templars had spe-
cial bailiffs for London, Kent, Warwick, Weston, Lincolnshire, Ogerston and Yorkshire.
The Hospitallers may have imitated this, as in 1189, at a prioral chapter in London, there
was regional preceptor for Kent (Delaville 1894: no. 869). By the thirteenth century both
115
the Templars and the Hospitallers had separate masters for the commanderies in Ireland
and for Scotland. Both of them were usually appointed by and responsible to the master or
prior of England and his chapter, a fact that caused political tension primarily in Scotland,
for example, when in 1291 both the Templar and the Hospitaller master of Scotland swore
fealty to King Edward I of England (Parker 1963; Lord 2002; Nicholson 2011: xv–xvi).
On the Iberian peninsula both the Hospitallers and the Templars participated in the recon-
quista, and both had to compete with regional military-religious orders such as Santiago
or Calatrava. Already in 1113 a certain Palaicus a Ierosolimitani xenodochii preposito
Geraldo missus was empowered to collect alms for the Hospital per Yspaniam (Delaville
1894: no. 31). A plan by King Alfonso I of Aragón to bequeath his whole realm to the
Templars, the Hospitallers and the Holy Sepulchre failed in 1134. But both the Templars
and the Hospitallers held important castles, churches and estates in all Iberian kingdoms,
not only on the frontiers with the Muslims but also in the hinterland. These included for the
Templars six castles awarded in 1143 when the order renounced its claims to the kingdom,
among them Monzón and Belchite (at first the seat of an independent militia founded by
Alfonso I of Aragón; Lourie 1982), and the city of Tortosa in the Crown of Aragón, the lat-
ter being exchanged for the castle of Peñiscola in 1294, the castles of Soure and Almourol
plus the house of Tomar in Portugal; for the Hospitallers the castle of Caspe, the castel-
lany of Amposta and the female convent of Sigena in the Crown of Aragón, the castles of
Consuegra and Alcázar de San Juan in Castile, the castle of Belver and the convent of Crato
in Portugal. The Templars at first administered their possessions in Catalonia, Aragón and
Navarre together with those in Provence, all belonging to Occitan political and cultural
networks. Only Portugal had at least five separate masters from the 1140s onwards, fol-
lowed by probably four separate masters for Castile and León from the late 1170s onwards.
From 1210 to 1288, seventeen officers administered both provinces, Portugal and Castile-
León, but already in 1286 Castile-León had its own subordinate administrator. Then the two
realms were separated again, Portugal under at least three, Castile-León under at least four
successive officers. It was only after the Albigensian crusades that the Templars separated
their Spanish lands from Provence. In 1240 an independent Templar master for Aragón and
Catalonia was mentioned. He and his successors were in charge of more than thirty com-
manderies, among them two in kingdom of Navarre. Among the Hospitallers, Saint-Gilles
was apparently never in charge of Iberian possessions. They had separate priories for all
Iberian kingdoms, including not only Portugal but also small Navarre. The majority of
their Iberian possessions was administered by the prior of Castile-León and the castellan of
Amposta, who acted as the regional prior for the Crown of Aragón (Forey 1973; Martinez
Diez 1993; Josserand 2004; Miret i Sans 2006). When in 1312 the papacy planned to give
the Templar possessions to the Hospital, the kings of Aragón and Portugal protested as this
would have tilted the balance of power in their realms. Finally, in 1319 the Templar posses-
sions in Portugal were awarded to a new military-religious order, the Order of Christ, and
in the Crown of Aragón the Hospitallers got only the Templar estates in Catalonia, which
formed a separate priory, but had to relinquish their own estates in Valencia, which together
with the Templar estates in Valencia were transferred to another new military-religious
order, the Order of Montesa (Forey 2001).
The Italian peninsula was important to all military-religious orders because of its mari-
time connections with the Levant. Many early possessions were to be found in ports or
along pilgrim routes. For the Templars such early possessions included houses and churches
in the Ligurian ports of Genoa and Albenga and in communes such as Milan, Vercelli and
116
Bergamo. Until around 1200 seven further convents were established, followed by no fewer
than twenty-seven new houses in the thirteenth century (Bellomo 2008: 13–14, 23, 26). On
the Italian peninsula the Templars had a provincial preceptor for Lombardy or tota Italia
who is attested since the 1160s. His exact title varied. He was in charge of the whole pen-
insula north of the kingdom of Sicily. This included Rome and the papal dominions, that
is, the patrimonium Petri in Tuscia, Campania, Maritima, the duchy of Spoleto, the march
of Ancona, and Sardinia. Occasionally, there were regional bailiffs, the first in the East for
the march of Verona or the march of Treviso, the second in the south for Rome, Tuscia and
Sardinia and the third for Lucca, that is, Tuscany north of the papal dominions (Bellomo
2008: 363–6). The southern part of the Italian peninsula formed the kingdom of Sicily ruled
by the Normans and from 1197 by the Hohenstaufen, followed by the Anjou in 1266, who
from 1282 onwards quarrelled with Aragón (Bramato 1991; Houben 2002; Guzzo 2003;
Petracca 2006; Ricci 2009).
In central Europe two Hospitaller priories were known from the 1180s onwards: one in
the West for Alamania and one in the East for Bohemia, which included Austria, Moravia
and Poland (Silesia). The first acquisitions occurred at the times of the Second Crusade. In
the thirteenth century, competition with the Teutonic Order was fierce. The Hospitallers,
however, received enough donations to consider regional subdivisions for Upper und
Lower Germany, superior and inferior Alamania. Quarrels between empire and papacy
under Frederick Barbarossa (d. 1190) and especially under Frederick II (d. 1250) fostered
this regionalism. Some princely families such as Wittelsbach or Wettin were loath to sup-
port centralised orders who might not be willing to continue masses and prayers during
papal excommunication, and as a consequence there were no Hospitaller possessions in
Bavaria or Meißen. In about 1250 Poland and Lower Germany with its centre at Cologne
sided with the papacy, whereas Upper Germany and Austria supported the Hohenstaufen.
Early in the fourteenth century the priory of Alamania included even a third geographi-
cal entity, media Alamania for the Wetterau near Frankfurt, Franconia and Thuringia,
but this was not continued when by 1318 the north-eastern houses became a separate
bailiwick centred on the March of Brandenburg and by 1319 the houses in Frisia were
made dependent upon (Burg)Steinfurt, the centre of the bailiwick of Westphalia. Other
bailiwicks included Utrecht and Cologne for Lower and Oberland for the Upper Germany,
the regions along the Rhine from Swabia to Mainz where Heimbach near Speyer and
Heitersheim near Freiburg im Breisgau were frequently meeting-places for prioral chap-
ters. The priory of Bohemia with its major house at Prague suffered from tensions between
the Přemyslid kings of Bohemia and the dukes of Austria as well as from ethno-linguistic
diversity between German and Slavic fratres. Its unity was nevertheless preserved. Only
Pomerania was transferred to the priory of Alamania in the 1230s, in view of the German
colonisation (Borchardt 1998, 2011). A Templar magister for Alamania is known from
only the 1230s. The acquisition of many properties in the lands east of the Elbe and Saale
meant that he was sometimes called master for the German and Slavic lands. By the end of
the thirteenth century, political tensions between the four Rhenish electors and the kings of
Bohemia may have sparked off attempts to form a separate Templar province for the east-
ern parts of central Europe including Bohemia, Austria, Poland and Pomerania (Labonde
2010; Jan 2011a, 2011b; Vogel 2011).
Scandinavia and Hungary were closely related to central Europe. Hungary’s importance
rested on the overland routes to the Levant, which ceased to be used after the Third Crusade.
Both Hospitallers and Templars had a regional officer and some possessions for Hungary,
117
though only south and west of the Danube, the Templars also in Croatia and Dalmatia,
including Zengg and the castle of Vrana on the shores of the Adriatic (Hunyadi 2010, 2011).
In Scandinavia only the Hospitallers had a priory of Dacia for Denmark with just one house
in Norway, at Varna, and in Sweden, at Eskilstuna. Apparently, there were no Templars,
although in 1308 Clement V’s nine commissioners for the trial of the Templars on the
British Isles were also licensed to act in Scandinavia (Nicholson 2011: xii), probably only
an addition by the papal chancery for the sake of completeness. Until the fourteenth century
there were no, or only very few, Teutonic Knights in Scandinavia either.
The Teutonic Order

The Teutonic Order was different from both the Hospitallers and the Templars. Founded
about hundred years later and based on the Hohenstaufen Empire, its Western possessions
were located primarily in Germany and in Italy. As late-comers the Teutonic Knights faced
many difficulties in the Holy Land. So from 1212 to 1225 they accepted an invitation by
King Andrew II of Hungary to settle in Transylvania. Between the 1230s and the 1280s
they fought heathen natives on the eastern shores of the Baltic. They conquered Prussia and,
merged with the Sword-Brethren in 1237, they subdued Livonia. In the 1230s Hermann
Balk acted as magister per Sclavoniam et Prusciam and administered also the order’s pos-
sessions in Bohemia, Silesia and Cujavia; in the newly conquered territories he had two pro-
visores at his side – one for the Kulmerland and one for Prussia proper. These two provisores
existed still in the 1250s. In Livonia a Landmeister of the Teutonic Order succeeded the
master of the Sword-Brethren, and soon Prussia also became only one Landmeister. Neither
Prussia nor Livonia had bailiwicks between the Landmeister and the single commanderies;
Prussia and Kulmerland at first had twelve commanderies, later twenty-six, and in Livonia
about twelve. There were also a few Vögte for regions where the order maintained no con-
vent but just an officer; for example, at Tapiau/Gwaresk, Goldingen/Kuldīga and Rositten/
Rēczekne (Militzer 1999: 334–87). In Germany and around the Mediterranean, however,
the Teutonic Order developed bailiwicks – an institution which the Hospitallers imitated for
central Europe. The quarrels between the Hohenstaufen and the papacy posed a problem,
especially for the Teutonic Order. Master Hermann von Salza (1209–39) tried to mediate
on behalf of Emperor Frederick II but failed (Cohn 1930/78; Kluger 1987). When Master
Gerhard von Malberg sided with the pope, he was forced to resign in 1244. This produced
a schism as Prussia, Livonia, Venice and some Italian houses favoured Innocent IV. From
1250 to 1252 there were apparently two competing masters: Günther von Wüllersleben for
the Hohenstaufen and Wilhelm von Urenbach for the pope. Gradually the supporters of
the papacy gained ground. Master Poppo von Osternohe, elected in 1252, had to resign in
1256, and from then on his successors were papal partisans. Templars and Hospitallers were
more affected by quarrels between France and England, Venice and Genoa, but in the early
1250s, the Hospitaller Raimbaud de Voczon, prior for Hungary and Slavonia, clearly sup-
ported Conrad IV, Frederick II’s son and successor and for this reason he became responsi-
ble also for Austria, Styria and, partially, Italy (Hunyadi 2010: 71–2).
The major supplies for the Teutonic Order were of course produced by Germany.
Donations and purchases came from the Hohenstaufen, many ecclesiastical and some lay
princes, but mostly from nobles and lesser knightly families, the so-called ministeriales
whose sons dominated the order as milites. The properties in Germany were adminis-
tered by a magister, preceptor or procurator for Alemania or Teutonia from the 1210s
118
onwards. Quite often the master from the East came to Germany himself in the thirteenth
century, and evidence is too scarce to decide whether Koblenz and adjacent houses which
produced valuable quantities of good wine were already exploited by the supreme master
himself at this time, as was certainly the case in the fourteenth century (Militzer 1970:
90–4, 143–9; 1999: 285–90). Bohemia and Moravia were administered by the Prussian
Landmeister in 1233, and were taken over by the supreme master from Marienburg in
the fourteenth century (Militzer 1967: 57–63, 149–51; 1999: 239–50). For Austria and
Styria a separate commander was instituted by Emperor Frederick II and Master Hermann
von Salza in 1236, when the emperor had just deposed the Babenberg duke of Austria.
From that time onwards the Landkomtur for Austria, Styria, Carinthia and Crain contin-
ued to be directly subordinate to the central master (Militzer 1967: 63–9, 152–5; 1999:
261–7). The same may be true for the rich hospital at Bozen, two lesser hospices at
Lengmoos and Sterzing and several parishes around the River Etsch/Adige, which formed
a separate bailiwick (Militzer 1967: 100–6, 155–7; 1999: 299–302). For possessions in
the kingdom of France, most of them donated by participants of the Damietta crusade,
there was a separate preceptor in regno Francie already in 1225 (Militzer 1999: 191–3).
The Low Countries had their own Landkomtur in 1228 but later on were subordinate to
the Deutschmeister; the most important houses were (Alten)Biesen and Utrecht (Militzer
1967: 55–6; 1999: 223–39), contrary to France which remained under the central mas-
ter. Primarily possessions in Franconia and on the Upper Rhein were administered by
the Deutschmeister himself. More remote possessions he ceded to bailiffs: in 1236 at
Thuringia-Saxony, centred around Altenburg and Zwätzen; in 1243 at Alsace-Burgundy,
centred first at Rufach; from the 1250s at Beuggen and later sometimes also at Altshausen;
in 1245 at Lorraine centred at Trier. There were Landkomture for Marburg in 1258, where
since 1235 saint Elizabeth was venerated, and for Franconia in 1268, where the major
houses were at Würzburg and Nuremberg. Finally, a bailiwick of Westphalia was created
in 1285, centred at Münster and including the house at Bremen, and in 1287 Thuringia-
Saxony was split into two separate bailiwicks – the new Landkomtur for Saxony usu-
ally living at Lucklum. Possessions such as Horneck, Speyer and Sachsenhausen near
Frankfurt, however, remained directly under the Deutschmeister. So for most parts of
the empire north of the Alps, the Teutonic Order had finally a four-layered adminis-
trative structure – Hochmeister, Deutschmeister, Landkomtur, Komtur – contrary to the
three-layered structure everywhere else (Militzer 1967: 70–137; 1999: 193–332). This
four-layered structure was imitated by the German Hospitallers whose leading members
usually originated from the same social strata of ministeriales.
Until early in the fourteenth century, however, the Teutonic Order did not relinquish its
Levantine aspirations, and this ensured the importance of the Italian peninsula. When Acre
was lost in 1291, the order’s headquarters was moved to Venice, and only in 1309 Master
Siegfried von Feuchtwangen (1303–11) moved on to Marienburg/Malbork on the Vistula
in Prussia. How controversial this decision was in the early fourteenth century can be
inferred from the fate of Master Karl von Trier (1311–24), who was forced to leave Prussia
(Nieß 1992). Only his successors finally took up their residence at Marienburg. Around the
Mediterranean, the Teutonic Order acquired possessions and shaped their administration
with the help of the Hohenstaufen and their partisans, including the Venetians, but against
the Genoese and the Guelph supporters of the papacy. The Hohenstaufen kingdom of Sicily
figured prominently in this context. On the island of Sicily the Teutonic Order held posses-
sions in the important harbour of Messina, from an unknown but probably very early date,
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and in 1197 was given the monastery of Santissima Trinità at Palermo by King Henry VI,
because the Cistercians there had supported Henry’s enemies. From the 1210s onwards sev-
eral preceptores of Sicily are known, and from the 1260s onwards also for Calabria, which
in the royal administration formed part of Sicily; at the turn of the century this officer began
to be called generalis or magnus preceptor of Sicily. More important than Sicily was Apulia
where the Teutonic Orders held an important hospital, St Thomas, at Barletta (confirmed by
Henry VI in 1197), a German hospice at Brindisi mentioned already in 1191, furthermore
the castle of Mesagne near Otranto (a donation by Henry VI), and finally in Siponto the
monastery of San Leonardo, incorporated by Pope Alexander IV in 1260. From the 1220s
several preceptores of Apulia are known; from the 1280s onwards they also began to be
called generales or magni preceptores of Apulia (Forstreuter 1967: 110–11, 120–1, 124–7,
132–3; Militzer 1999: 172–7; Houben 2002; 2004; Toomaspoeg 2003). Possessions on the
Peloponnese, since 1209 in the principality of Achaia, centred around Mosteniza, a remote
place on the borders of Elis and Arcadia, plus the Venetian harbours of Modon and Coron,
and had their separate preceptor of Romania from the 1230s onwards at the latest. Plans for
expansion failed: first, because Innocent IV gave the hospital of St James at Andravida, the
then capital of Achaia, to the Templars in 1246; second, after 1259, because of the Greek
reconquests (Forstreuter 1967: 72–5, 86; Militzer 1999: 177–8; Kiesewetter 2004). After
the fall of Acre in 1291, the Teutonic Order united Apulia, Romania and Cyprus under the
(magnus) preceptor Guido of Amigdala, mentioned from 1293 to 1311 (Houben 2008). His
title sometimes included Sicily, referring to the kingdom, not to the island, as from 1282
onwards the conflict between Anjou and Aragón rendered it inadvisable if not impossible to
have one and the same officer for the two regions.
In central and northern Italy the Teutonic Order strove to acquire possessions to ensure
communication over the Alps to its German centres. These included Brixeney/Precenicco
(confirmed in 1232), in Venice the monastery Santissima Trinità (founded by the Doge
Reniero Zeno in 1258), houses in Padua, Bologna and Parma (here only until 1247 when
the city sided with the papacy against the Hohenstaufen), and finally the castle and town
of Stigliano between Padua and Treviso (donated in 1282). In Rome in 1220, Honorius III
bestowed the church Santa Maria in Domnica on the order to house its procurator at the
curia, but in 1312, when both the curia and the procurator were in Avignon, Clement V
transferred this church to his nephew. The Teutonic Order kept, however, possessions in
Viterbo, Montefiascone and Orvieto, favourite papal residences in the thirteenth century,
plus a hospital at Castiglione near Arezzo acquired in 1229. From the 1240s there was a
preceptor of Lombardy and the March of Treviso. The possessions in the papal dominions
were probably administered by the procurator at the curia; only after 1312 a Landkomtur
for Tuscia was mentioned (Forstreuter 1967: 136–8, 140–2, 146–52, 155, 158–67; Militzer
1999: 178–80, 183–9).
At Montpellier the town council gave the suburban hospital of St Martin to the Teutonic
Order in 1228. At Arles the Teutonic Order had possessions near the suburban hospital
of St Thomas. In the fourteenth century these revenues were supervised by the order’s
procurator at the Roman curia, then in Avignon (Militzer 1999: 189–91). In Spain the
Teutonic Order received a few noble and royal donations between the 1230s and 1250s, as
the Castilian court had dynastic ties with the Hohenstaufen. The donations included Figares
(Higares) on the Tajo north-east of Toledo, La Mota (del Marquez) north of the Duero
between Valladolid and Zamora, and Carmona east of Seville. Two commendatores or pro-
vinciales of Spain are known, in the 1250s Fr. Eberhard von Mörsberg, formerly preceptor
120
of Lorraine and probably French-speaking, in the 1280s Fr. Volmar von Bernhausen, who
in 1287 was killed fighting against the Lithuanians in Livonia (Forstreuter 1967: 89–5;
Militzer 1999: 180–3).
WESTERN RESOURCES
The primary aim of the military-religious orders was certainly to collect alms for the Latin
East. To avoid conflicts, alms-collecting, the questia, was organised according to dioceses
by the Latin church. As a consequence, alms-collectors were licensed for a particular dio-
cese or group of dioceses. For practical purposes they would stay in a house at the episcopal
see or in another important town of the diocese. Such houses might be rented, and only at
a later stage they might be bought. This is perhaps one of the reasons why the military-
religious orders were often recorded at episcopal sees only at a very late date, although
their regular presence in such cities may be much older. It may also be a reason why both
Hospitallers and Templars quite frequently used to have houses in the same cities, from
Arles, Avignon, Orange to Milan or London. In the countryside or in lesser towns, the
military-religious orders owed their presence to particular founders, patrons or purchases,
and only rarely two or more orders would have a house in the same town; for example,
Rothenburg or Mergentheim in Franconia.
Alms would include cash money, weapons, horses, cloth or other valuable commodi-
ties which were taken to the Holy Land or sold on behalf of the Holy Land. Ports on the
Mediterranean and hospices on roads leading towards the Mediterranean were therefore
essential for the military-religious orders, and it is not by chance that already in 1113 the
Hospitallers coveted xenodochia sive ptochia in occidentis partibus near Saint-Gilles, Asti,
Pisa, Bari, Otranto, Taranto and Messina (Delaville 1894: no. 30). In north-western Europe
they may have started to collaborate with a fraternity of Ierosolimitani at Utrecht at about
the same time (van Winter 1996). Although regular shipping through the Straits of Gibraltar
did not begin before the end of the thirteenth century, people from north-western Europe did
participate with ships in crusading expeditions throughout the twelfth century. Overland-
routes to the Holy Land through Hungary, the Balkans, Constantinople and Asia Minor
ceased to the useful after the Third Crusade. So Hungary lost some of its importance for the
military-religious orders in favour of Venice and the Adriatic. Eastern central Europe would
use roads from Moravia through Austria to Venice. From the Rhineland others would cross
the Alps to reach ports in Italy, Genoa, Venice, Ancona, Brindisi or Messina. People from
Western Europe would follow the Rhône valley to reach places such as Marseille or Aigues-
Mortes, the latter a newly established port by Louis IX of France in the 1240s. Between
1216 and 1233 both the Hospitallers and the Templars increased their regular shipping from
Marseilles to the Levant (Barber 1994: 237–41).
The acquisition of landed estates required local administration for their exploitation.
The military-religious orders must have tried to avoid this, and so they tried to sell such
estates. The Italian Templars, for example, sold a remote donation in Bavaria in 1167 to
the Wittelsbach family (Labonde 2010: 223–5). Of course they could not avoid accepting
donations in regions such as Eastern Europe where money was not as commonly used as in
Italy or in Western Europe. The lack of permanent administration is highlighted by special
missi acting for a military-religious order; for example, a certain Oberto, missus de Templo
de Ierusalhem, at the Ligurian port of Albenga in 1143 and 1145 (Bellomo 2008: 229–33),
or by laymen, local nobles, receiving donations on behalf of a military-religious order,
121
such as Count Poppo of Wertheim in 1192 on behalf of the Hospitallers near Würzburg in
Franconia (Delaville 1894: no. 924).
Donations were frequently made in the context of crusades proclaimed by the papacy,
especially after the fall of Edessa in 1144 and the fall of Jerusalem in 1187. Before leav-
ing for the East, crusaders might try to secure the services of a military-religious order, or
after returning from the East they might show their gratitude by making donations. For
the Hospital, the immense acts of charity in their conventual hospital in the East became
a standard phrase for justifying the donation of privileges and estates. Threatened by Nur
ad-Din and by Saladin, the East needed a more continuous support than merely alms and
donations. So from the second half of the twelfth century both Hospitallers and Templars
accepted permanent revenues from estates and other possessions in the West, despite the
fact that this required the costly maintenance of an administration. Moreover, the failure of
the Third Crusade in 1191 and the defeat at La Forbie in 1244 made it clear to everyone
that the Latin East would be dependent upon continuous support from the West. So all three
military-religious orders began to invest money in the West, to build castles or to keep
fighters, but also to produce enough surpluses that could be sent to the East as responsiones
on a regular basis (Bronstein 2005). These responsiones were fairly high – in the second
half of the twelfth century one-third of the incomes. In the thirteenth century the amount of
money was fixed for each officer. Soon complaints started that because of wars or similar
disasters the money could not be paid (Riley-Smith 1967: 344–6; Forey 1973: 319–27). By
the end of the thirteenth century, as fighting both in the East and on other frontiers of Latin
Christendom ceased, the military-religious orders became integrated into ordinary religious
networks, becoming local houses to prayer and prestige.
The sources for the military-religious orders in the West are mostly charters referring
to particular legal acts, donations, purchases, exchanges of properties, and economically
profitable privileges. There must have also been inventories of estates and accounts, but
such sources are rarely extant. There is an inventory for the Templars in England started
by 1185 and completed probably around 1190 (Lees 1935). Most such inventories only
date from the fourteenth century for confiscated Templar possessions after 1307 or for
the Hospitallers in Provence (Beaucage 1982) and England (Larking and Kemble 1856),
both of them made following a commission by Benedict XII in 1338. There are a few
accounts written on paper from thirteenth-century Manosque (Carraz and Borchardt 2015).
Furthermore, there are a few obituaries with the names of patrons to be commemorated by
houses of the military-religious orders; for example, by the Templar commandery in Reims
(Barthélemy 1882). Sometimes it is possible to use later evidence, even early modern sur-
veys, to reconstruct the size and the components of estates. Yet more than a fairly general
enumeration of agricultural and other revenues is not possible for the period prior to the
early fourteenth century.
The bulk of the Western revenues was certainly due from agricultural production, both
grain and livestock. The orders had estates which they managed themselves with servants,
corvees and hired workers, and they had peasants who paid rents, either commodities or
cash. The arable land would produce wheat, oats, rye and barley. Mills were frequently
mentioned, usually for grain, in a few cases perhaps for fulling purposes; participation in the
production of cloth warrants further investigation. Cattle, sheep and swine would graze on
pastures or in woods, which also produced timber. In some places salt and iron were impor-
tant. To earn money, grain and wine, meat, hides, dairy products such as cheese and wool
might be sold on the markets, sometimes also fish, salt and metals. The Templars had ships to
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transport wine from Bordeaux to England. Usually, however, there is only indirect evidence
for such commercial activities through royal and other privileges which provided access
to markets for free or at reduced fees. The market-orientation may have been especially
important for large population centres such as Milan, Paris, Cologne or London, for com-
mercial regions such as Tuscany, Flanders or Champagne; it may not be by chance that the
Templars held two houses at Provins (Barber 1994: 262–4). The Templars and Hospitallers
in Paris and London were involved in accepting valuables and giving loans to crusaders and
others. From Haimard in 1202 to Jean de la Tour in 1307, many Paris Templars served not
only their order but also the king of France to administer his revenues. Both the Templars
and the Hospitallers accepted valuables and cash for deposit and disbursement, lent money,
transferred funds over long distances, sometimes using letters of exchange, issued and used
credit instruments, and guaranteed future interests. Apparently, however, the orders were
less frequently involved in such business in southern France, Provence and Italy where both
the papacy and the military-religious orders usually worked with merchants and lay bank-
ers (Barber 1994: 266–79). Only the Aragonese Templars were active money lenders and
bankers (Forey 1973: 346–52). A typical administrative centre would include the residence
of the personnel, a chapel, stables and barns, mills, ovens, forges and an enceinte. Not all
such manors or houses would necessarily have a convent of fratres, but if so, there would
have to be a refectory and a dormitory; later on, fratres would have separate chambers. In
the second half of the twelfth century, Richerenches, north-east of Avignon, had between
ten and twenty Templars resident, and eight dependent houses with perhaps two or three
Templars each. In the late thirteenth century, Mas-Déu in Roussillon had a preceptor, some
twenty-five Templars plus seven dependent houses with one or two Templars each; all these
establishments closely worked together with the urban house of Perpignan where six or
seven Templars lived (Barber 1994: 254). From these examples one can easily understand
how misleading and futile is would be just to count houses, convents or commanderies.
Some of these military-religious order centres could include castles, parishes, hospitals and
temporal jurisdiction.
Generally, the military-religious orders were not supposed to fight in the West against
Christians. Whenever they were given possessions on the frontiers of territories, this was
mainly done because any raiders would incur excommunication for plundering bona
ecclesiastica. Warfare being costly, the orders would not usually undertake this in the
West, except for the defence of their local princes and rulers against enemies of the faith
such as the Mongols in 1241, or if the orders themselves were local lords, such as at
Manosque. Parish churches were also costly, as they required the maintaining of priests.
However, parish churches permitted the continuous collection of alms, tithes and other
dues from a steadily growing population, especially in newly founded towns. The found-
ers of such new towns might wish to give the parish church to a military-religious order,
especially as this meant ensuring prestigious support for the new foundation against pos-
sible envy and as the orders would be able to increase and decrease the number of priests
serving in such a parish without the costly and legally cumbersome procedure of founding
permanent benefices.
Hospitals were quite often entrusted to both the Hospitallers and the Teutonic Knights,
because both orders were renowned for keeping a prestigious hospital at the convent in the East.
The Templars in the East did not have a conventual hospital, but nevertheless they received
a few hospices in the West, either because Western patrons did not know enough about the
differences of the military-religious orders or because they were supposed to keep stations
123
for pilgrims on their way to the East. Eagle in Lincolnshire may have been used to house
Templar fratres who were sick or too old and infirm to fulfil their duties (Parker 1963: 41).
Most military-order establishments in the West were subject to temporal lords, yet in a few
cases they were also donated secular jurisdiction, lesser or even higher. Manosque is an
example in the county of Forcalquier. In a similar way the military-religious orders were
sometimes awarded older monastic houses with rich possessions, such as the Hospitallers
by Boniface VIII in 1297 at Venosa in Apulia, the Teutonic Knights’ two Augustinian
houses at Zschillen, diocese of Meißen, in 1278 and at Trient/Trento in 1283, from the local
bishops respectively (Militzer 1967: 75, 102; 1999: 273, 301).
Compared with Cistercians and Premonstratensians in the twelfth century and

Dominicans and Franciscans in the thirteenth century, the military-religious orders were
unique because their primary aim was not spiritual reform or economic innovation in
the West. However, they did try to improve their possessions by founding new villages,
castles and towns, such as in Gascony (Higounet 1986), and especially on the Iberian
peninsula and east of Germany (Smoliński 2011; Wihoda 2011; Borchardt 2013). And
as a rule, the military-religious orders did not produce learned preachers, although a few
of their brethren did study at schools or became prelates. Their Western officers were
milites, sometimes servientes and, except for the Templars, also priests. Some of them
also served popes and prelates, kings and princes or communes in the West, a fact that
could produce conflicts of loyalty with the order. A lot of future research has to be done,
yet in sum the importance of the Western possessions can hardly be underestimated, for
both religious and economic reasons. Although until the fourteenth century evidence is
scarce and casual, the military-religious orders established important networks within
Latin Christendom to support defence against the enemies of the faith. This was certainly
helped by the existence of (con)fratres, -sorores and donats, noble and non-noble affili-
ates and members of the orders’ confraternities who made regular donations, shared the
prayers of the order and choose to be buried in the orders’ churches. The knights of the
orders also had squires, each Templar knight one squire, each Hospitaller knight two
squires. Such squires could be paid commoners or young aspirant knights who took up
service as a donzel or attendant (Selwood 1999: 159–60). It should be noted, however,
that such networks could easily be converted to other uses, supporting younger sons of the
nobility who could not inherit family possessions but still aimed at noble careers and at
supporting temporal lords, kings or princes in the West. The prestigious goal of fighting
for Jerusalem, the Holy Land or the faith rendered administrative innovations accept-
able among the nobility (Borchardt 2012). Yet one should not over-emphasise this. The
good documentation for the higher social strata may produce a somewhat distorted view
of the Western social networks on which the military-religious orders relied. The orders
also had many not fully professed affiliates who joined the prayers, paid dues, sometimes
were paid stipends, although all this would not be kept in long-term archival records. All
this has to be taken into consideration when we focus on the role of the military-religious
orders in the West during the times of the crusades in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.
Afterwards things changed. From the second half of the thirteenth century onwards, and
especially after the fall of Acre in 1291, the demise of the Levantine crusades profoundly
affected the role of the military-religious orders in the West. The Templars whose sole
raison d’être had been fighting the enemies of Christ were suppressed, whilst both the
Hospitallers on Rhodes and the Teutonic Knights on the Baltic desperately tried to keep
up some semblance of performing pious acts of charity by defending Christians and by
124
running their hospitals. The military-religious orders kept their organisation and their
administrative structures. Nevertheless, they lost many of the special features which had
made them unique earlier on.
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127
CHAPTER EIGHT
CRUSADE, EMPIRE AND THE PROCESS

OF WAR IN STAUFEN GERMANY,
1180–1220
Daniel P. Franke
T he crusade in the kingdom of Germany enjoyed a long, vigorous, and bloody life
from 1096 to well beyond the fall of Acre in 1291.1 Nevertheless, German crusading
is frequently under-covered in English-language scholarship, being most often presented
either as a narrative or a series of examples that support general conclusions about crusad-
ing.2 This is due partly to the fact that most scholarship on the medieval German kingdom
remains in German, and in part because this German scholarship is both dense and situated
against a complex historiography that only specialists have the time or inclination to mas-
ter.3 It also, until recently, tends to exhibit particularly “German” traits, such as a dubious
preoccupation with demonstrating that Germany had as good a claim as France to the cru-
sades.4 Furthermore, the previous English-language survey of German crusading, Rudolf
Hiestand’s “Kingship and Crusade,” is twenty years old, and while some of its questions
have proved to be of abiding interest, others reflect approaches to medieval German politics
that have been heavily modified or superseded in the last two decades. At the same time,
however, there are a number of instances where we are really no further along in 2015 than
in Hiestand’s analysis from 1996.5
This chapter, therefore, has two aims: first, to acquaint otherwise unfamiliar readers with
the themes and sources of German crusading in the late twelfth century; second, to indicate
the state of German crusades historiography in the twenty years after Hiestand’s “Kingship
and Crusade.” In particular, it focuses on the “initial conditions” of the Third Crusade as
the essential foundation for understanding the subsequent political-religious situations that
confronted German monarchs from Henry VI’s coronation in 1191 to Frederick II’s coro-
nation in 1220. It gives a sense of the available sources and the state of the scholarship,
and indicates some avenues of research that are still in need of exploration. Since space is
limited, many of the references given in the footnotes will guide the interested reader to
scholarship with extensive citations and bibliographies. What follows shifts among three
different aspects of the German crusade experience: the crusade itself, the empire, and the
process by which a medieval kingdom went to war, since, as Hiestand remarked, “the cru-
sade itself was a sort of mobilization.”6
128
— c h a p t e r 8 : C r u s a d e , e m p i r e a n d w a r i n S t a u f e n , 11 8 0 – 1 2 2 0 —
CRUSADE AND EMPIRE: FREDERICK I 7

Except for the reign of his grandson Frederick II, the reign of Frederick I (known as
“Barbarossa” on account of his red beard) receives more attention than nearly any other
period of medieval German history. There have been two enduring insights into Barbarossa’s
involvement in crusading, and into German crusading in general. The first is Hiestand’s
insistence on the political potential of crusade, specifically that “[i]t was the crusade that
gave [Barbarossa] the opportunity to arrive at peace with the Church and force the princes
and nobles to peace, and not a standing peace prior to 1187 that allowed the possibility of the
crusade.”8 The second insight, developed in several publications by Knut Görich, is the way
that Barbarossa’s actions as emperor were guided by the concept of honor imperii, the honor
of the empire. In particular, Görich draws attention to precisely those aspects of medieval
German political culture that are largely absent from Hiestand’s analysis, but which are cru-
cially important when attempting to understand how crusade impacted the empire—history
and literature, chivalry, aristocratic memory, consensual lordship, the court, etc.9
Görich’s approach allows for a more nuanced interpretation of Barbarossa’s crusade, as
it asks us to think of the context of 1187 before considering the crusade’s events. To start,
imperial concerns rested on a popular enthusiasm for pilgrimage whose influence on crusade
still needs investigation. Despite the defeat of Conrad III’s army in the Second Crusade,
German interest in the Levant remained strong throughout the twelfth century, even before
news of the Battle of Hattin reached Europe in October 1187.10 The most prominent exam-
ples of this interest are John of Würzburg’s famous guidebook to the Latin Kingdom and
the pilgrimage of Henry the Lion, duke of Bavaria and Saxony, in 1172. Henry’s diplomatic
visits to both the Seljuk and Byzantine capitals signaled a new interest in and commitment to
the eastern Mediterranean by Germany’s ruling elite.11 At roughly the same time, Raymond
of Tripoli had begun negotiations with Frederick Barbarossa for the marriage of Raymond’s
niece Sibylla to one of Frederick’s cousins, William of Montferrat. By the time the mar-
riage took place in November 1176, however, the entire diplomatic landscape had changed:
Barbarossa had been defeated at Legnano by the Lombard League and was seeking a nego-
tiated peace with the papacy and the Lombard cities.12 Meanwhile, Henry the Lion had
refused to support the campaign of 1176, and Frederick’s rapprochement with the papacy
meant that many of Henry’s clerical henchmen would likely have to vacate their positions.
By 1181, the Lion had been stripped of his titles and exiled to England, while Frederick and
Lucius III continued to negotiate the administrative and legal mess that sixteen years of war
had created in Italy and, to a lesser extent, Germany. While a crusade was a standing long-
term goal of their negotiations, much had to be done at home first. Thus domestic and papal
political issues exerted a decisive influence on the empire’s geopolitical involvement with
the crusader states, whatever the popularity of Jerusalem as a pilgrimage destination.
These internal political issues had reached crisis proportions by autumn 1187, and it
is this crisis, often overlooked or downplayed by historians, that is the essential context
for understanding whether Frederick “used” the crusade, and how successfully he did
so. No matter how foregone a conclusion Barbarossa’s participation may have been, the
Crisis of 1187 had to be at least temporarily solved before he could formally commit to
the Jerusalem crusade.13 It consisted of two separate but interrelated problems: a conflict
with Urban III over the disputed election to the archbishopric of Trier, and a rebellion of
Archbishop Philipp of Cologne, who fancied himself the papacy’s champion in Germany
against Barbarossa’s tendency to use church property as a petty-cash box.
129
— D a n i e l P. F r a n k e —
In 1184, Pope Lucius III, frustrated at Barbarossa’s obstinacy over ecclesiastical prop-
erty negotiations, signaled his intent to resist imperial demands by refusing to crown young
King Henry VI.14 Meanwhile, the disputed archiepiscopal election in Trier, ongoing since
late 1183, underwent an unexpected escalation. According to the Gesta Treverorum, what
might have been a minor dispute between papal and imperial factions became much larger
when Werner von Bolanden, imperial legate in Burgundy, arrived and proceeded to drive
the pro-papal candidate, Folmar, from the city. It seems that Folmar enjoyed widespread
sympathy, since shortly afterward Barbarossa’s son Henry arrived in Trier at the head of
a large retinue, revoking all tolls, rights, and privileges held by the metropolis. Folmar
appealed directly to Lucius III to intervene.15 Although Lucius died in November 1185, his
successor, Urban III, actually proved a far more vigorous supporter of Folmar.16 As a native
of Milan and a supporter of Thomas Becket, Urban was one of Frederick’s most inveterate
enemies, and the papal registers testify to the energy with which he defended the Church’s
interests.17 Upon his accession, he retained the archbishopric of Milan, so that the emperor
would not be able to collect its revenue,18 and he refused to crown Henry emperor unless
Barbarossa first renounced his crown, as Lucius III had insisted previously.19 The emperor’s
response was to have his son’s marriage to Constance of Sicily celebrated in Urban’s native
Milan on January 27, 1186. Henry VI occupied the papal lands in Italy: Urban responded
by personally consecrating Folmar as archbishop in May. Meanwhile, Folmar had crossed
the frontier to take refuge with the archbishop of Rheims; by May 1187 the bishop of Metz
had also fled to Cologne, his estates being occupied by Werner’s imperial troops; and the
bishop of Verdun had lost his temporalities.20
With several of the major Western sees under imperial occupation, attention shifted
at this point to the ambitious Philipp of Heinsberg, archbishop of Cologne. Philipp’s rea-
sons for opposing Barbarossa were complex, but in broad terms consisted of his confi-
dence in his power as duke of Westphalia and archbishop, his ongoing conflicts with the
ambitious Count of Hainault (who had secured the Staufen’s favor), pressure from the
citizens of Cologne, and a genuine concern for the freedom of the Church.21 Caesarius
of Heisterbach, not a friend to the Staufen, wrote in his addendum to the Cologne annals
that “Frederick, as was supposed by many, secretly envied the glory of the archbishop,
and feared his power.”22 But this is mere partisanship: Frederick had no reason to fear
Cologne. To the contrary, imperial economic initiatives in the lower Rhineland gave the
citizens of Cologne cause to resent the emperor.23 At the Diet of Gelnhausen in November
1186, Philipp alone refused to subscribe to the German prelates’ collective rejection of
Urban III’s appeals for support. Archbishop Wichmann of Magdeburg, however, endorsed
Barbarossa’s measures as supporting “justice and the empire’s honor.”24 Philipp officially
withdrew from the imperial court, and by 1187 both sides were cautiously preparing for
open war.25 When Philipp began to negotiate with the king of France for aid, Barbarossa
opened his own negotiations with the French king, and concluded a treaty in July 1187
whereby the Staufen promised Philip II Augustus support against Henry II of England in
return for the Capetians withdrawing all support from Cologne.26 Although both Eickhoff
and Huffman have stressed Cologne’s increasing isolation, neither the papacy nor the
emperor shared this point of view: Urban escaped from Verona and was about to pro-
nounce Friedrich’s excommunication, when he died on October 24, supposedly after
learning of the Battle of Hattin.27
Such was the general situation when Gregory VIII ascended the papal throne in October
1187 with the overriding objective of organizing a new crusade.28 Our narrative at this
130
point is well known: Gregory, who had opposed Urban’s confrontational attitude, imme-
diately indicated that he would align his views on both Trier and the imperial succession
with those of the emperor, and the emperor lifted the siege of Verona and gave the pope an
imperial escort.29 At Strasbourg in December 1187, the imperial court listened to Henry,
bishop of Strasbourg, exhort the assembled nobles and knights to take the cross. Many
knights came forward, but Barbarossa said little; the Historia Peregrinorum claims that he
hid his true intentions until he knew that enough nobles had committed themselves.30 At the
Pentecost diet of March 1188, the “curia Jhesu Christi” as the chroniclers reverently called
it, Philipp of Cologne finally submitted to Barbarossa, throwing himself unconditionally on
the emperor’s mercy, formally abjuring his defiance and agreeing to pay a fine. In addition,
Cologne’s fortifications were to be degraded (though the outraged citizens quickly rebuilt
them). Meanwhile, Gottfried of Würzburg, Barbarossa’s chancellor and a diplomat of some
acumen, preached a rousing sermon, Barbarossa and hundreds of knights and nobles took
the cross, and several popular riots against the Jews were crushed by Henry of Kalden, the
imperial marshal.31 The imperial army departed Regensburg on May 11, 1189; the survivors
reached Acre toward the end of 1190, but without the emperor, who had drowned in Asia
Minor on June 10, 1190.
The above is an all-too-brief exposition of the conditions in which the call for crusade
was issued in 1187. The reliability of our sources continues to stir a great deal of debate,
in particular the collection of letters from the Abbey of Hildesheim.32 More fundamental
to our understanding of Barbarossa’s crusade is the dating of the Landfriede (the general
peace) against “incendiaries,” which for years had been dated to 1186, although Burchard of
Ursberg’s chronicle places it in early 1188. Currently, while a date of 1188 is preferred, the
full implications of locating a key piece of imperial legislation within the crusade are still
largely unexplored.33 But even more significantly, our usual focus on Audita tremendi and
the Diet of Mainz have obscured the actual limitations of crusade as a vehicle for political
peace. We will never know how Urban, a true enemy of the Staufen, would have planned
the new campaign, and far more importantly, it would be a serious mistake to imagine the
princes of the empire standing united behind Barbarossa at Mainz in 1188 for longer than
the duration of the diet.34 The conflicts in the empire were far greater in extent than can
be conveyed here, and they were not extinguished simply because the emperor took the
cross. Even as late as March 1189, the bishop of Metz’s holdings were still in Barbarossa’s
possession, while Philipp of Cologne held a great sale of his properties in Cologne and
Westphalia, raising nearly forty-seven thousand marks thereby, which the chronicler says
he used “to guard against the future.”35 Although Philipp went on to serve Henry VI faith-
fully, after Henry’s death in 1197 Cologne rather naturally sided with the Welf Otto IV,
and suffered siege, economic loss, and military defeat at the hands of the Staufer Philip of
Swabia from 1205 to 1207.36 The Count of Hainault’s intrigues continued unabated in 1189,
as did the Italian cities’ feuds.37 Simply put, Hiestand’s recognition of the political aspects
of crusading did not go far enough.
EMPIRE AND CRUSADE: HENRY VI

AND FREDERICK II 38
The initial conditions of Barbarossa’s crusade discussed above serve as a template for
understanding the issues in subsequent crusades. Upon learning of his father’s unex-
pected death in Lesser Armenia, Henry VI assumed the reins of imperial government.
131
His crusade, launched just before his death in 1197, has generally been the preserve of
s pecialists, and is usually subsumed within discussions of his hopes to make the empire an
hereditary monarchy rather than an elective one. Van Cleve’s 1937 discussion of Henry’s
dreams of world empire expressed a general fascination with a larger-than-life character,
and it has proved impossible for historians, as it proved for Henry’s contemporaries, to
separate crusade and the imperial succession. Csendes has emphasized just how serious
are the gaps in the surviving evidence of Henry’s negotiations with Celestine III con-
cerning crusade and empire—unknown locations, unknown correspondence, unknown
contents of known correspondence. Despite these limitations, Naumann has argued per-
suasively that in Henry’s case the crusade likely preceded a serious effort to secure the
throne for his infant son Frederick, and that the succession issue was likely a byproduct
of Henry’s crusade plans, brought up by those of his loyal followers who planned on par-
ticipating. Loud has recently argued that Henry’s insistence on the succession provoked
a groundswell of discontent, even from nobles who had supported the dynasty and the
crusade to that point.39
However, the precise political context of Henry’s crusade is also difficult to ascer-
tain, for reasons largely the opposite of his father’s crusade. Where we know much about
Barbarossa’s court and itinerary, we know comparatively less about Henry’s. The sources
for his crusade are also fewer and less detailed. As king of Germany, he inherited a fairly
sophisticated administrative establishment of ministeriales (unfree knights) in Germany,
followed itineraries separate from those of his father, and secured the cooperation of many
of his father’s former supporters such as Berthold of Künigsberg, and even Philipp of
Cologne.40 With Henry VI, identification with knightly culture seems to have been accentu-
ated, both because Henry had been “knighted” at Mainz in 1184 and because his inner circle
seems to have been largely composed of ministeriales: of his top nine advisors, six were
from ministerial families.41 There was also a corresponding decrease of princely involve-
ment with the imperial court, and an increased location of the court away from centers of
princely or ecclesiastical power, though as Theo Kölzer has remarked, “we have yet to
determine whether these tendencies had already begun under Barbarossa.”42 These circum-
stances doubtless affected the way he recruited and organized his crusade.
While it is hard to shake the impression that Henry prioritized war and empire over
crusade, and there can be no doubt that most of his surplus cash was spent on military
affairs, “the sheer size of the expedition suggests that he genuinely wanted to win back
Jerusalem.”43 After spending most of Richard the Lionheart’s ransom on the conquest of the
Norman kingdom of Sicily, the emperor appeared ready to devote even more resources to
the crusade. Henry planned to expend sixty thousand ounces of gold for his three thousand
knights and sergeants when his revenues, even after the conquest of Sicily and the extortion
of Byzantium, likely amounted to less than that.44 Arnold of Lübeck writes of the seemingly
endless numbers of knights pouring into Apulia in 1197 to take the emperor’s wages for the
upcoming expedition.45
Yet this image of the German emperor, pouring resources into his crusade and pre-
cipitating a constitutional crisis in the process, is not how his partisans wished to present
him—and this contrast, curious in itself, has by and large escaped historians’ notice. There
is undoubtedly a strong connection, even subordination, of crusade to empire in surviv-
ing artifacts such as the perennially popular Liber ad honorem Augusti, produced by Peter
of Eboli around 1196, and replete with symbolism that continues to prompt new analy-
ses.46 Crusade and empire are given a very prominent place throughout the manuscript,
132
particularly Frederick I’s crusade. Particularly noteworthy is the famous scene on folio
107r depicting his death (which in later versions of the manuscript was painted over) and
the composition of images depicting the capture of Richard I of England on folio 129v, in
which Richard’s crusader cross is explicitly subordinated to Henry’s imperial authority. It
was also no accident that eulogists such as Gottfried of Viterbo appropriated Maccabean
imagery to describe Henry’s secular wars, despite his well-documented failures in Sicily.
The appellation was used of his father and was specifically associated with crusade: its use
in this non-crusade context should be considered in conjunction with Henry’s treatment of
Jews and heretics.47
As events unfolded, the expedition proved to be of short duration and lacking in firm
direction: the first fleet set sail on September 22, 1197, and most crusaders had returned
home by the summer of 1198 after learning of Henry’s death. Konrad of Hildesheim, Henry
VI’s chancellor and previously court chaplain to Barbarossa, was the chief executor of
Henry’s plans for crusade in 1198, but did not command the army. However, the operational
commander Heinrich of Kalden, the imperial marshal who had served first Barbarossa and
then Henry with spectacular success, was resented by the nobles who looked to Henry
duke of Brabant as their natural leader.48 The Germans did not make a good impression
on the Franks of the Levant, with the Estoire d’Eracles complaining of the arrogance they
displayed at the siege of Toron, where they rejected several offers to surrender in favor of
attempting to storm the place.49
After the death of Henry VI in 1197 and the election of Innocent III in 1198, many
aspects of Western Christian experience changed, crusading perhaps most of all. Innocent’s
election coincided with a double royal election in Germany, in which the Staufen candidate
Philip of Swabia struggled to maintain the family’s position against the Welf candidate
Otto IV. In the aftermath of Philip’s murder in 1208 and then Otto’s defeat at Bouvines in
1215, young Frederick II emerged as the sole claimant to the royal and imperial throne, and
from the very start of his reign the crusade hung over his head. Frederick’s world seemed
“wider, more varied, and livelier” than that of his grandfather Barbarossa, and those politi-
cal aspects of crusade that we examined under Barbarossa were magnified tenfold due to
Frederick’s path to power and the complexity of his social and political networks.50 Both at
his royal coronation in 1215 and at his imperial coronation in 1220, he made a crusade vow,
but, as is well known, did not fulfill it before the Fifth Crusade unraveled at Egypt. Not until
1228 would the emperor fulfill his vow, and then while excommunicated.51 In the mean-
time, in 1213 the papal bull Quia maior had foregrounded many of the political aspects of
crusade, so that taking the cross was “not only a vassal’s duty, but also a demonstratively
symbol-laden affirmation of loyalty.”52 The near-constant presence of crusade preaching in
Frederick’s court and the papacy’s more systematic approach to preaching could only result
in an increased awareness of the potential and pitfalls of a deceptively spontaneous com-
mitment to Jerusalem.53
THE PROCESS OF WAR

The final aspect of crusade discussed here is one that is only gradually being incorporated
into studies of German crusading: crusade as war and the process of going to war. The
emperor’s personal devotion aside, his participation in crusade was not just a matter of pil-
grimage, but a state affair of the first order. Although this fact has long been acknowledged,
a systematic study has yet to be completed of how the empire’s resources were mobilized
133
for these multiple crusades. There are two major aspects to this mobilization: diplomatic
and socio-military.
The diets held by emperors in preparation for crusade still contain unmined data, in
part because there have been no major follow-ups to Plassmann’s and Seltmann’s work
on court networks. There are also two very important caveats that researchers must make
to any conclusions from the records, namely that much documentary evidence is lost or
fragmentary, and that, as Kölzer has remarked, what survives often does not tell us what
we want to know. For example, to return to Barbarossa and the Third Crusade: between
December 1187 and May 1189, Barbarossa held nine diets of significance, as well as various
smaller gatherings as he prepared the empire and himself for the army’s embarkation from
Regensburg. These diets were held in Strasbourg (December 1187), Nuremberg (February
1188), Mainz (March 1188), Seligenstadt (April–May 1188), Goslar (July–August, 1188),
Nuremberg (December 1188), Strasbourg (April 1189), Hagenau (mid-April 1189), and
Regensburg (May 1189). For most we lack much more than a few surviving documents. In
particular the great diet of Mainz in March 1188, the great crusading affair of state, has left
us very little material. With a couple of exceptions such as the treaties with Clement III and
Alfonso of Castile, few diplomatic initiatives are well documented, in particular the embas-
sies to Constantinople or Iconium.54 So, although we can easily deduce imperial agendas
(Goslar and Nuremberg focused on the northern nobles and diplomatic affairs, Hagenau and
Donauworth largely on Staufen family affairs), details that would complicate or nuance our
understanding of the crusade preparations are largely missing.55
For strictly military resources, in particular manpower, we continue to await new, com-
prehensive studies that analyze the troops, supplies, bases, and extensive planning neces-
sary to carry out this kind of venture.56 However, there are several points worth pondering
in looking at the military resources of the German crusades.
For Barbarossa’s crusade, the mobilization of troops was not so much controlled as guided
and influenced by the emperor; the limits of technology and communication did not allow
for much more than that. Some participants who joined the imperial army were not known
as Staufen supporters. Others, who were known to be sympathetic to the Staufen, took the
sea route instead, and there is no transparent logic behind who went by land and who by
sea. This includes Barbarossa’s nephew Ludwig “the Pious,” Landgrave of Thuringia, who
traveled by sea with various Dutch and Hessian nobles, and the famous expedition of the
north German sea-faring peoples, who stopped to assist the king of Portugal on their way
to the Levant.57 Why certain groups chose the sea route over the emperor’s land route was
a matter of individual circumstance, and the Historia de Expeditione can safely be ignored
when attributing sea-route decisions to the devil. After all, even Gottfried of Würzburg’s
first impulse, so the author says, had been to go by sea.58 If the Brussels chronicle fragment
is anything to go by, the sea-route had been considered and rejected due to concern over
lack of shipping, and Henry VI’s sea-borne crusade was made with naval resources not
quite available to his father.59
There was expectation that any campaign led by the emperor would de facto consist
largely of troops from his own estates and vassals. This, after all, is the thrust of Walther
von der Vogelweide’s poem “You princes—all who’d gladly be king-free,” and is sup-
ported by many of the known allegiances of the nobles in the imperial army in 1189.60
Yet recent studies have moved away from the connected suppositions that only Staufen
supporters joined the emperor’s army, and that this expenditure of manpower put the
dynasty at a disadvantage in the wars of Henry VI and Philip of Swabia. Tabulated, if
134
incomplete, data of imperial land holdings indicate that they grew substantially during
the reign of Barbarossa, and Henry VI’s ability to sustain extended wars in Germany
and Italy (albeit with difficulty) also suggests that, whatever reserves of manpower had
been expended by his father’s passagium, they did not seriously impact the dynasty’s
ability to project power against potential rivals.61 It is often argued that manpower and
force-projection issues were eased by the militarization of the German Hospital at Acre,
transforming it into a fully-fledged military order dominated by Staufen political inter-
ests.62 However, as Nicholas Morton has shown, while the order certainly benefitted from
imperial patronage, other patrons’ “donations generally seem to have been made in the
wake of a pilgrimage or a crusade, not in reaction to an act of imperial benevolence.”63

The Order’s reaction to the split royal election in 1198 and the subsequent war between
Otto IV Welf and Philip of Swabia indicates that, rather than being a Staufen auxiliary, it
was “an institution which represented the combined commitment of the German people
to the recovery of the Holy Land.”64 It was only at the end of the period considered here,
during the Fifth Crusade, that the order appears as an agency equal to the Hospitallers or
the Templars.65
Lastly, the backbone of any German crusading army from our time period was knights.
The character, motivations, and political aspirations of the knightly class have been studied
in exhaustive detail by German scholars, and Rittertum forms the keystone of many inter-
pretations of crusade and empire in the twelfth century.66 Barbarossa, as discussed below,
seems to have encouraged and specifically identified with the ritter as a means of promoting
a unifying martial culture in his empire. The number of designated ministeriales appearing
in the charter witness lists actually declined over the course of Frederick I’s reign, while
the presence of major ministerial families increased in the charters of Henry VI, indicating,
according to Thomas Zotz, the general tendency of the ministeriales to integrate into the
lower rungs of nobility.67 Yet non-knightly participants counted not only for a far greater
percentage of a crusade army, but also, as De Itinere Navali suggests, for a great deal of its
combat power and technical expertise. David Bachrach has already examined the military
capabilities of German cities in the mid-thirteenth century, and a similar study of urban
crusade contributions would be welcome.68
BEYOND THE STATE

This chapter has focused primarily on what could be called a state-centric view of crusad-
ing. Yet in the end, while the imperial perspective will likely continue to dominate most
discussions, more profitable may be those avenues of investigation that leave imperial poli-
tics behind altogether and approach the subject from the point of view of local crusading
spirituality. After all, medieval resources for war were decentralized to the point that cru-
sade to the Levant or against the Slavs on the eastern frontier did not absolutely require
an imperial presence—the Fifth Crusade is an excellent example of this. The notorious
“Children’s” Crusade of 1212 is another. Both Peter Raedts’ classic 1977 article as well as
more recent work by Gary Dickson encourage us to think of German crusading outside the
imperial box in which Henry VI and his supporters tried to place it.69 Similarly, questions
of German regionalism, identity, and religious belief are thrown into sharper relief when
we look to the crusades across the Elbe and Oder than when we examine Germans on the
Jerusalem pilgrimage.70 As Tyerman has indicated, the crusade idea in the Baltic inhabited
a world very different from that of the Jerusalem crusade—conversion of non-Christian
135
peoples was a key difference, for one thing, and the re-purposing of crusade to a different
geography was another.71
Also absent from this chapter, but essential to bring into the conversation, is the rich
crusading material in medieval German literature, on which there have been consider-
able recent advances. In particular, the cultural functions of medieval German romance
are extremely important to the current discussion, since, as Will Hasty has remarked, they
“seem to reflect or continue preceding cultural developments (such as the crusades), [and]
they provide … a new method for archiving, remembering, and processing” the displace-
ment of aggression to the peripheries of society.72 The work of Wolfram von Eschenbach,
in particular his Willehalm, has proved fertile ground for literary analyses of crusade and
empire, as has the lyric poetry of Walther von der Vogelweide.73 Reception of French chan-
son de geste has received new treatment, and will add to the already-plentiful scholarship
on German poets and crusade-lyricists such as Hartmann von Aue who either apostrophize
the emotions of crusading or else extol the character of their Muslim opponents. At the same
time, Jarold Frakes has cautioned us not to over-apply modern discourses of “tolerance” to a
medieval German literature that lacked the concept as we would understand it.74
Integral to both crusade and empire, according to Josef Fleckenstein, was the monarch’s
identity as a warrior. Barbarossa in particular seems to have recognized the benefits of
fostering a ritterlich identity among his unfree knights, his ministeriales.75 This achieved
its highest form with the crusade, and the concept of the milites Christi, such as Barbarossa
enacted when he took the cross at Mainz in 1188. With this, “the ideal superorder became
reality, a reality in which the emperor took the protection of all Christendom as his high-
est duty.”76 While Fleckenstein has argued that the dynamics of rittertum were at once
“national” and universal, it has also been argued that knighthood was gaining social promi-
nence in part because of the growing economic challenges to fielding good cavalry, much as
Jean Scammell has argued happened in Henry II’s England. It is thus reasonable to consider
whether the “chivalric” ceremonies at Mainz in 1184 and 1188 represent the conscious
fulfillment of the emperor’s goals, or perhaps instead the shrewd appropriation of a larger
historical social transformation.77 In any case, much of the rhetoric about chivalry, crusade,
and empire has focused on Barbarossa, and overlooks the changing and often unstable rela-
tionship of subsequent emperors to these items. Frederick II is a case in point.78
CONCLUSION
On May 18, 1190, Frederick Barbarossa had led his followers against the Seljuk army
shouting “Christus regnat, Christus vincit, Christus imperat,” the laudes regiae used at his
imperial coronation in 1155.79 Such an explicit identification of crusade with empire was the
hallmark of the later twelfth century, and of the dynasty that gave the era its moniker. Yet
it was hardly confined to the Staufen: the Rolandslied, after all, was composed under the
patronage of Barbarossa’s cousin, Henry the Lion, and completely imbued with the spirit
of imperial crusade.80 Both examples are instances of the appropriation of a concept much
larger than a particular ruling house, and Hiestand’s “Kingship and Crusade,” by implicitly
separating concept from appropriation, has held up quite well after twenty years. At the
same time, a continued fascination with the narrative sweep of Staufen Germany has not
prevented increasingly complex approaches to the crusade, frequently embedding the cru-
sade within social analysis and imperial ideologies. Unfortunately for English audiences,
much of this new work is in German and we are in sore need of more translations in order
136
to make this field accessible to a wider audience. Frederick I’s crusade remains the most
approachable of the German crusades, and analyzing his preparations remains an excellent
case study of how the religious imperatives of “crusade” were negotiated in a world shaped
by faction, interest, and personality. Even if we accept that there was a general expectation
in the empire that the emperor would lead the passagium to Jerusalem, his path to doing so
was not straightforward. The same goes for every subsequent German crusade to the Latin
East.
At the same time, there are several areas of research that are not much further advanced
than they were twenty years ago. The impact of heavy crusading mortality on the political
landscape remains imperfectly understood, not least because our understanding of German
government and administration, on which Hiestand based his conclusions, has changed. As
an event, mortality could be decisive enough: Frederick of Swabia’s death at Acre basically
ensured a contested royal election in 1198. Of the sixty-seven nobles serving in the impe-
rial army in 1189, at least a third died on the expedition.81 However, by itself that statistic
means little. To date, there have also been few follow-ups to Plassmann’s and Seltmann’s
work on power networks, or applications of network analysis to power and crusade in the
German realms. The relationship of crusade as political act to crusade as act of personal
devotion is also still in need of development. We also have much to learn about the connec-
tions between crusading ideas in literary and historical writing. A full analysis of crusading
must also examine persecution, and we are in need of a more comprehensive revision of
the Jewish experience in the German crusades.82 Finally, while the ultimate success of the
effort might be limited, more attention should be given to attempts, like Andrew Latham’s,
to bring the crusades into dialog with the social sciences; this may have potential for uniting
the disparate strands of crusade activity in the German realm.83
It could also be said that the way we assess medieval actors has changed significantly since
the 1990s. “The crusades,” remarked Hiestand, “were wasteful of both men and money.”84
That judgment remains by and large an accurate one; after all, war tends to be a wasteful
activity, no matter how skillfully handled or adroitly planned. Neither Frederick Barbarossa
nor his uncle Conrad III, or even, in the final analysis, his son Henry VI, were especially
remarkable for the efficiency of their operations. Yet the “waste” of which Hiestand speaks
was regarded as acceptable loss in pursuit of a goal that superseded the normal calculations
of statecraft, or rather directed diplomatic, military, and economic resources to an end that,
to the German realm at least, was considered an obligation as well as a privilege. Both
Barbarossa and his son found the intersection of crusade, empire, and the process of war a
messy and costly one. But, had they lived long enough, they likely would have agreed with
Wolfram von Eschenbach that “whoever desires the Grail has to approach that prize with
the sword. So should a prize be striven for.”85 As subsequent centuries demonstrated, it was
not a mentality that would soon fade.
NOTES
1 The “Roman Empire” technically consisted of three kingdoms: Germany, Italy, and Burgundy.
Nevertheless, following medieval German practice, the “Kingdom of Germany” and the “Empire”
are often used synonymously, and, for ease of reference, that is how they are used in this chapter.
Non-German parts of the empire are indicated by name.
2 Recent English-language works that have helped to redress this imbalance include Graham Loud’s
excellent article “The German Crusade of 1197–98,” in Crusades 13 (2014), 143–170, Loud’s
137
translation of the Ansbertus Chronicle, The Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa: The History of
the Expedition of the Emperor Frederick and Related Texts (Farnham: Ashgate, 2010), Nicholas
Morton’s The Teutonic Knights in the Holy Land 1190–1291 (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2009),
Jonathan Lyon’s Princely Brothers and Sisters: The Sibling Bond in German Politics, 1100–1250
(Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2013), and John Freed’s much-anticipated study of Frederick
Barbarossa (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2015).
3 For German medieval scholarship through 2010, see Jonathan Lyon, “The Medieval German State
in Recent Historiography,” German History 28 (2010), 85–94; Hans-Werner Goetz, “Historical
Studies on the Middle Ages in Germany: Tradition, Current Trends, and Perspectives,” The
Journal of English and Germanic Philology (Special issue: The State of Medieval Studies), 105
(2006), 207–230; and Joachim Ehlers, “Das Kaisertum Barbarossas und seine Folgen für das
Reich,” in Staufisches Kaisertum im 12. Jahrhundert, ed. Stefan Burkhardt et al. (Regensburg:
Schnell & Steiner, 2010), 295–319.
4 Rudolf Hiestand, “Kingship and Crusade in Twelfth-Century Germany,” in England and Germany
in the High Middle Ages, ed. Alfred Haverkamp and Hannah Vollrath (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1996), 235–240. This topic was recently discussed in Susan B. Edginton’s presentation “Did
the Franks suppress the German Contribution to the First Crusade?”, which addressed John of
Würzburg’s claim in the 1160s that the Franks had done just that. For more details, see abstract at
the 34th Annual Conference of the Center for Medieval Studies at Fordham University, 29 March
2014, http://legacy.fordham.edu/mvst/conference14/program.html (accessed January 14, 2015).
5 Rudolf Hiestand, “Kingship and Crusade,” 235–265; “Precipua tocius christianismi columpna:
Barbarossa und der Kreuzzug,” in Friedrich Barbarossa: Handlungsspielräume und
Wirkungsweisen des staufischens Kaisers, ed. Alfred Haverkamp (Sigmaringen: Jan Thorbecke,
1992), 51–108.
6 Hiestand, “Kingship and Crusade,” 258. Hiestand understates the matter: the military aspects of
crusading are often overlooked, but were essential to the enterprise.
7 The key studies on Frederick I’s crusade, aside from those already mentioned, are mostly in
German, and are dominated by Ekkehard Eickhoff’s work. See Eickhoff, Friedrich Barbarossa
im Orient: Kreuzzug und Tod Friedrichs I (Tübingen: Ernst Wasmuth, 1977); “Die Bedeutung de
Kreuzzüge für den deutschen Raum,” in Die Zeit der Staufer, vol. 3 (Stuttgart: Württembergisches
Landesmuseum, 1977), 239–248; and “Friedrich Barbarossa in Anatolien,” in Stauferzeit–Zeit
der Kreuzzüge, ed. Karl-Heinz Rueß (Göppingen: Gesellschaft für staufische Geschichte, 2011),
58–85. See also Alan V. Murray, “Finance and Logistics of the Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa,”
in In Laudem Hierosolymitani, ed. Iris Shagrir et al. (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), 357–368. For a
detailed analysis of how chroniclers reported Frederick’s death on crusade, see Leila Bargmann,
“Der Tod Friedrichs I. im Spiegel der Quellenüberlieferung,” Concilium medii aevi 13 (2010),
223–249.
8 Rudolf Hiestand, “Precipua tocius,” 57. See also Marcel Pacaut, Frederick Barbarossa, trans.
A. J. Pomerans (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1970), 193–201; and for Conrad III’s cru-
sade, see Conor Kostick, “Social Unrest and the Failure of Conrad III’s March Through Anatolia,
1147,” German History 28 (2010), 125–142; and Knut Görich, “Schmach und Ehre: Konrad III.
auf dem Zweiten Kreuzzug,” in Stauferzeit–Zeit der Kreuzzüge, ed. Karl-Heinz Ruess (Göppingen:
Gesellschaft für staufische Geschichte e. V., 2011), 42–57.
9 See Knut Görich, “Die ‘Ehre des Reichs’ (honor imperii): Überlegungen zu einem
Forschungsproblem,” in Rittertum und höfische Kultur der Stauferzeit, ed. Johannes
Laudage and Yvonne Leiverkus (Cologne: Böhlau Verlag, 2006), 36–74; Die Ehre Friedrich
Barbarossas: Kommunikation, Konflikt und Politisches Handeln im 12. Jahrhundert (Darmstadt:
Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2001); and Friedrich Barbarossa: Eine Biographie (Munich:
C. H. Beck, 2011).
10 See Reinhold Röhricht’s dated but still useful Die Deutschen im Heiligen Lande (Innsbruck,
1894).
138
11 See John Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrimage 1099–1185 (London: Hakluyt Society, 1988) for
John of Wurzburg’s account. For Henry the Lion’s pilgrimage to Jerusalem, see Joachim Ehlers,
Heinrich der Löwe: eine biographie (Munich: Siedler Verlag, 2008), 197–211. For the most recent
overview of scholarship on Henry, see Wilhelm Störmer, “Heinrich der Löwe–ein europäischer
Fürst des Hochmittelalters,” Zeitschrift für bayerische Landesgeschichte 73 (2010), 779–789.
12 See Malcolm Barber, The Crusader States (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2012), 266. See
also Jonathan Phillips’ Defenders of the Holy Land: Relations between the Latin East and West,
1119–1187 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996).
13 Joseph P. Huffman, The Social Politics of Medieval Diplomacy (Ann Arbor: University of
Michigan Press, 2000), 103–132, and esp. 120–123 and 128–132, insists that Philip of Cologne’s
policy was territorial, and not part of a larger anti-Staufen coalition. Görich, while downplaying
the chances of the dispute becoming an empire-wide conflict, does recognize the gravity of the
situation, as well as the crucial way in which the Capetian-Angevin wars affected it. See Görich,
Friedrich Barbarossa, 527–530.
14 Görich, Friedrich Barbarossa, 520–525; Pacaut, Friedrich Barbarossa, 183–185. The points at
issue are too complex for analysis here: they revolved around Barbarossa’s use of church incomes
in Italy, his refusal to remove bishops unacceptable to Rome, his occupation of the Matildine
estates, which had been bequeathed to the papacy, and above all his negotiations with William II
of Sicily for a marriage alliance.
15 Gesta Treverorum Continuata, ed. G. Waitz, MGH SS 24, 383–5.
16 Arnold of Lübeck describes Urban as a “zealot for justice, who constantly worked for the defense
of the holy Roman church, not fearing the imperial earthly principality.” Chronica Slavorum, ed.
G. Pertz, SRGS 14 (reprinted Hannover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1978), 102.
17 See I. S. Robinson, The Papacy 1073–1198: Continuity and Innovation (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1990), 499. Robinson’s remains the most concise account of the papacies of
Lucius III, Urban III, Gregory VIII, and Celestine III, 497–507. For Urban’s energy, see let-
ters to Wichmann of Magdeburg, protesting imperial use of church property (Regesta Pontificum
Romanorum, vol. 1, ed. Jaffe [RPR] 15534), and to Barbarossa himself, protesting Henry VI’s
behavior in central Italy (RPR 15634, June 18, 1185).
18 Robinson, 503.
19 Ibid., 502, 503.
20 Gesta Trev., 387; Folmar resided at the archbishop of Rheims’ castle at Mouzon. Chronica
Regia Coloniensis, ed. G. Waitz, MGH SRG 18, 135, for the bishop of Metz; Görich, Friedrich
Barbarossa, 526–527, for Henry VI and Folmar’s consecration.
21 For Philipp’s earlier career and central role in the fall of Henry the Lion, duke of Saxony and
Bavaria, see Görich, Friedrich Barbarossa, 466–475.
22 Catalogi Archiepiscoporum Coloniensium: Continuatio II, ed. Hermann Cardauns, MGH
Scriptores 24, 345.
23 See Manfred Groten, “Köln und das Reich: Zum Verhältnis von Kirche und Stadt zu den stau-
fischen Herrschern 1151–1198,” in Stauferreich im Wandel, ed. Stefan Weinfurter (Stuttgart: Jan
Thorbecke, 2002), 237–252, for an overview of this larger (but often overlooked) debate over
Barbarossa’s relationship with Cologne.
24 The position of the German prelates and papal legates to the German church are both subjects in
need of more study. For an overview, see Bernhard Töpfer, “Kaiser Friedrich Barbarossa und der
deutsche Reichsepiskopat,” in Friedrich Barbarossa: Handlungsspielräume und Wirkungsweisen
des Staufischen Kaisers, ed. Alfred Haverkamp (Sigmaringen: Jan Thorbecke, 1992), 394–402.
For the political influence of the bishops after the Peace of Venice in 1177, see Wolfgang Georgi,
“Wichmann, Christian, Philipp und Konrad: Die ‘Friedensmacher’ von Venedig?”, in Stauferreich im
Wandel: Ordnungsvorstellungen und Politik in der Zeit Friedrich Barbarossas, ed. Stefan Weinfurter
(Stuttgart: Jan Thorbecke, 2002), 41–84. For Wichmann of Magdeburg, see Erzbischof Wichmann
(1152–1192) und Magdeburg im hohen Mittelalter: Stadt – Erzbistum – Reich, ed. Matthias Puhle
139
(Magdeburg: Magdeburg Museum, 1992). For Cologne, see Wilhelm Weise, Der Hof der Kölner
Erzbischöfe in der Zeit Kaiser Friedrich Barbarossas (Düsseldorf: Droste, 2004).
25 Görich, Friedrich Barbarossa, 527–528. Constitutiones 1, 441–448, Controversio cum Urbano
III. Philipp’s diet of March 1187 supposedly had upwards of four thousand knights present; see
Die Regesten der Erzbischöfe von Köln im Mittelalter, vol. 2 1100–1205, ed. Richard Knipping
(Bonn: Hanstein, 1901), nos. 1280, 1281, 1282.
26 Ferdinand Opll, Das Itinerar Friedrich Barbarossas (1152-1190) (Vienna: Hermann Böhlaus,
1978), 92; Görich, Friedrich Barbarossa, 529–530.
27 Eickhoff, Friedrich Barbarossa im Orient, 33–34.
28 See Gregory’s first bull, “Nuntio cladis Hierosolimitanae,” RPR 16013, October 24, 1187.
The founding document of the Third Crusade, Audita tremendi, has been translated in Loud,
The Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa, 37–41, and in Crusade and Christendom: Annotated
Documents in Translation from Innocent III to the Fall of Acre, 1187–1291, ed. Jessalynn Bird et
al. (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2014), 4–9.
29 Robinson, The Papacy 1073–1198, 505–506.
30 Loud, The Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa, 143.
31 For Mainz, see Fleckenstein, “Friedrich Barbarossa und das Rittertum: Zur bedeutung der großen
Mainzer Hoftage von 1184 und 1188,” in Festschrift für Hermann Heimpel, vol. 2, ed. Fellows
of the Max Planck Institute for History (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1972), 1023–1141.
For Würzburg, see Hiestand, Die päpstlichen Legaten, 286; Hiestand compares Gottfried to
Adhemar le Puy, papal legate during the First Crusade. For the Jews, see Robert Chazan, “Emperor
Frederick I, the Third Crusade, and the Jews,” Viator 8 (1977), 83–93.
32 Rolf de Kegel, ed., Die Jüngere Hildesheimer Briefsammlung (Munich: Monumenta Germaniae
Historica, 1995). For the most part, these letters seem to belong to a genre called Stilübungen, that
is, stylistic exercises produced by clerks to gain practice in scribal duties. However, there has long
been an argument that the content of the exercises is historically valuable, and if this is true there
is much to be learned about the Crisis.
33 MGH Diplomata vol 10, part 4, Urkunden Friedrichs I 1181-1190, ed. Heinrich Appelt (Hannover:
Hahnsche, 1990), no. 987, 273–277; Burchard von Ursberg, Chronicon, MGH SRG 16, 2nd ed.,
ed. Oswald Holder-Egger and Bernhard von Simson (Hannover: Hahnsche, 1916), 65–69; Loud,
The Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa, 209–212.
34 Cf. Eickhoff, Friedrich Barbarossa im Orient, 35, who argues with comparative accuracy that
“nobles and church in Germany, Burgundy, and Italy at no point and for no other undertaking
stood so closely behind an emperor in the Middle Ages.”
35 DFI 991, 280–281, Frederick giving salt flats to the Monastery of Trois-Fontaines while the tem-
poralities of the bishop of Metz were in imperial hands. For Philipp, see Chron. Reg. Col., 140.
36 Catalogi Archaepiscoporum Coloniensium, 352.
37 See Gilbert of Mons, Chronicle of Hainault, trans. Laura Napran (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2005),
122–134; Annales Placentini Guelfi, MGH SS 188, 417.
38 The key studies on Henry VI are almost entirely in German: Claudia Naumann, Der Kreuzzug
Kaiser Heinrich VI (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1994); Peter Csendes, Heinrich VI (Darmstadt:
Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1993); Ingeborg Seltmann, Heinrich VI: Herrschaftsprxis
und Umgebung (Erlangen: Palm & Enke, 1983). At St. Louis University, Daniel Webb is currently
conducting major new research on Henry’s crusade, which will be a very welcome addition to the
literature.
39 Thomas Curtis Van Cleve, Markward of Anweiler and the Sicilian Regency (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1937), chapter 1; Csendes, Heinrich VI, 184–188; Naumann, Der Kreuzzug
Kaiser Heinrichs VI, 108–110; Loud, “The German Crusade,” 143–147.
40 For Henry’s itinerary, see Regesta Imperii vol. 4, part 3 Heinrich VI 1165 (1190)–1197, ed. J. Böhmer,
revised Gerhard Baaken (Cologne: Böhlau, 1972), at http://daten.digitale-sammlungen.de/~db/
bsb00009243/images/ (accessed June 25, 2015). For Berthold of Künigsberg, castellan of modern
140
Haute Kounigsberg, crusader with Barbarossa, and commander of the imperial army in 1192, see
Loud, Crusade, 54. For Philipp of Cologne, see Hubert Houben, “Philipp von Heinsberg, Heinrich
VI. und Montecassino,” Quellen und Forschungen aus Italienischen Archiven und Bibliotheken 68
(1988), 52–73.
41 This was one of the conclusions of Ingeborg Seltmann’s study of Henry’s court, Heinrich VI:
Herrschaftspraxis und Umgebung (Erlangen: Palm & Enke, 1983).
42 Theo Kölzer, “Der Hof Friedrich Barbarossa und die Reichsfürsten,” in Stauferreich im Wandel:
Ordnungsvorstellungen und Politik in der Zeit Friedrich Barbarossas, ed. Stephan Weinfurter
(Stuttgart: Jan Thorbecke, 2002), 224.
43 Peter W. Edbury, “Celestine, the Crusade and the Latin East,” in Pope Celestine III (1191–1198):
Diplomat and Pastor, ed. John Doran and Damian J. Smith (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2008),
129–143, 134.
44 MGH Constitutiones, vol. 1, #365, Encyclical on the Expedition to Jerusalem, 12 April, 1195.
45 Arnold of Lübeck, Chronica Slavorum, 197.
46 The two best versions of the manuscript are Petrus de Ebulo: Liber ad honorem Augusti sive
de rebus Siculis, ed. Theo Kölzer, Marlis Stähli, and Gereon Becht-Jördens (Sigmaringen: Jan
Thorbecke, 1994), and Gwenyth Hood, Book in Honor of Augustus (Liber ad Honorem Augusti)
(Tempe, AZ: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2012).
47 Gottfried von Viterbo, Gesta Friderici I. et Heinrici VI., MGH SRG 30, ed. G. H. Pertz (Hannover:
Hahnsche, 1870), 48, line 70; Nicholas Morton, “The Defence of the Holy Land and the Memory
of the Maccabees,” Journal of Medieval History 36 (2010), 275–293. For Henry’s policy toward
heretics in Italy, see Peter D. Diehl, “Henry VI, Heresy and the Extension of Imperial Power in
Italy,” in Plentitude of Power: The Doctrines and Exercise of Authority in the Middle Ages. Essays
in Memory of Robert Louis Benson, ed. Robert C. Figueira (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), 37–46.
48 Csendes, Heinrich VI, 197–202; Loud, “The German Crusade,” 143–147. For Hildesheim,
see Gerhard Bach, Konrad von Querfurt, Kanzler Heinrichs VI., Bischof von Hildesheim und
Würzburg (Hildesheim: Bernward, 1988), 33–45. For Henry of Kalden, see Loud, The Crusade of
Frederick Barbarossa, 74.
49 Peter W. Edbury, The Conquest of Jerusalem and the Third Crusade (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998),
144–145.
50 See the discussion in Bodo Hechelhammer, Kreuzzug und Herrschaft unter Friedrich II:
Handlungsspielräume von Kreuzzugspolitik (1215–1230) (Stuttgart: Jan Thorbecke, 2004), 41.
51 The most recent overview of Frederick II’s crusade is by Wolfgang Stürner, “Der Kreuzzug Kaiser
Friedrichs II,” in Stauferzeit-Zeit der Kreuzzüge, 144–157.
52 Heckelhammer, Kreuzzug und Herrschaft, 50.
53 Ibid., 50–55.
54 See Constitutiones I, 461–463 for the treaty with Clement, Constitutiones I, 452–457, and DFI
4:247–251 for the treaty with Alfonso of Castile.
55 See Opll, Das Itinerar, 92–97 and the maps in Karl Bosl’s two-volume study, Die Reichsmin
isterialität der Salier und Staufer (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1950).
56 For the Third Crusade, Dana Cushing and Stephen Bennett are working on separate proj-
ects that explore recruitment for the Third Crusade. For Cushing’s new, expandable inventory
of German crusaders which substantially corrects and expands Röhricht’s list; see her “ICHS-
CrusaderDatabase,” www.academia.edu/4204567/ICHS-CrusaderDatabases (accessed January
15, 2015). Interested readers should peruse Loud’s translation of the Historia de Expeditione,
cited above; also Sylvain Gouguenheim’s “Die Perspktive der Erforschung der Ritterorden im
Lichte der ‘neuen Militärgeschichte’: einige Bemerkungen aus der Geschichte des Deutschen
Ordens,” Ordines Militares: Colloquia Torunensia Historia 18 (2013), 7–25. For Henry VI’s cru-
sade, see Loud, “The German Crusade,” 155–158.
57 See Dana Cushing’s exhaustive new analysis of the northern group’s chronicle, De Itinere Navali
(Antimony Media, 2013).
141

59 Freiherrn von Reiffenberg, ed., Bruckstück über den Kreuzzug Friderich’s I (Stuttgart, 1844), 24.
For an excellent survey of twelfth-century shipping and extensive bibliography, see Dana Cushing,
“New Information about Cogs and Medieval Naval Logistics from an Eyewitness Crusade
Chronicle, De itinere navali,” AVISTA Forum Journal 20 (Fall, 2010), 24–34, available at www.
academia.edu/671249/New_Information_about_Cogs_and_Esneccar_from_an_Eyewitness_
Account_of_the_Third_Crusade_De_Itinere_Navali (accessed January 28, 2015).
60 Walther von der Vogelweide, Poem no. 52 “Ir fürsten die des küniges gerne waeren âne,” in
Walter von der Vogelweide: The Single-Stanza Lyrics, ed. and trans. Frederick Goldin (New York:
Routledge, 2003).
61 Hiestand, in particular “Kingship and Crusade,” 258–259, has argued that crusade inadvertently
weakened, or at least complicated, Staufen internal power. However, see Loud’s analysis of the
imperial army in 1189, The Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa, 20–25, and Murray, “Finance
and Logistics.” See also Loud, “The German Crusade,” 158–167, for an in-depth analysis of the
political sympathies of Henry’s crusaders in 1197. For royal and imperial holdings, see Andreas
Schlunk’s controversial Königsmacht und Krongut: Die Machtgrundlage des deutschen Königtums
im 13. Jahrhundert–und eine neue historische Methode (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1988). While the
mechanics and assumptions behind his argument have not found acceptance with most scholars,
the carefully tabulated spreadsheets of royal and imperial holdings remain extremely valuable.
62 Udo Arnold, “Die Staufer und der Deutschen Orden,” in Medieval Spirituality in Scandinavia and
Europe: A Collection of Essays in Honor of Tore Nyberg, ed. Lars Bisgaard et al. (Odense: Odense
63 Morton, Teutonic Knights in the Holy Land, 25.
64 Ibid., 30. See also Bodo Hechelhammer, “Mittler zwischen Kreuz und Krone: Hermann von Salza
und der Kreuzzug Friedrichs II,” Zeitschrift des Vereins für Thüringische Geschichte 61 (2007),
31–58.
65 See James Powell’s Anatomy of a Crusade, 1213–1221 (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press,
1990); Morton, Teutonic Knights in the Holy Land, chapter 2, and especially Oliver of Paderborn’s
chronicle Historia Damiatina, in Die Schriften des Kölner Domscholasters, ed. Dr. Hoogeweg
(Tübingen: Litterarischen Verein in Stuttgart, 1894), 253–255.
66 The classic study, though now obsolete, is Karl Bosl’s two-volume Die Reichsministerialität
der Salier und Staufer: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte des hochmittelalterlichen deutschen Volkes,
Staates und Reiches, MGH Schriften 10 (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1950/1951). Another impor-
tant study is Josef Fleckenstein’s edited collection Herrschaft und Stand: Untersuchungen zur
Sozialgeschichte im 13. Jahrhundert (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1977).
67 See Thomas Kotz, “Die Ministerialen und der Hof Friedrich Barbarossas,” in Friedrich Barbarossa
und sein Hof, ed. Caspar Ehlers and Karl Heinz Rueß (Göppingen, 2009), 59–77.
68 David Bachrach, “Making Peace and War in the ‘City State’ of Worms, 1235–1273,” German
History 24 (2006), 505–525.
69 Peter Raedts, “The Children’s Crusade of 1212,” Journal of Medieval History 3 (1977), 279–323.
Reprinted in The Crusades: Critical Concepts in Historical Studies, vol. 4, ed. Andrew Jotischky
(London: Routledge, 2008), 264–317. See the most recent work by Gary Dickson, The Children’s
Crusade: Medieval History, Modern Mythistory (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010). However,
see Loud, “The German Crusade,” 170, who argues that historians have read “imperial ambitions”
into Henry’s crusade preparations where a “crusading ethic” may be the more convincing explana-
tion.
70 The two most important works on the Baltic crusade for this period are the 2003 edition of The
Chronicle of Henry of Livonia, trans. James Brundage (New York: Columbia University Press,
2003) and Marek Tamm et al., eds., Crusading and Chronicle Writing on the Medieval Baltic
Frontier: A Companion to the Chronicle of Henry of Livonia (Farnham: Ashgate, 2011). See
also Alan Murray, ed., Crusade and Conversion on the Baltic Frontier 1150–1500 (Aldershot:
142
Ashgate, 2001); and Rasa Mažeika, “Granting Power to Enemy Gods in the Chronicles of the
Baltic Crusades,” in Medieval Frontiers: Concepts and Practices, ed. David Abulafia and Nora
Berend (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002), 153–171. Friedrich Lotter’s older “The Crusading Idea and
the Conquest of the Region East of the Elbe” remains an excellent survey of the topic, in Medieval
Frontier Societies, ed. Robert Bartlett and Angus MacKay (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989),
267–306.
71 Christopher Tyerman, “Henry of Livonia and the Ideology of Crusading,” in Crusade and
Chronicle Writing, 26.
72 Will Hasty, “Bounds of Imagination: Grail Questing and Chivalric Colonizing in Wolfram von
Eschenbach’s Parzival,” in Hasty, ed. The Grail, the Quest, and the World of Arthur (Woodbridge:
Boydell and Brewer, 2008), 48–61.
73 See in particular Wolfram’s Willehalm: Fifteen Essays, ed. Martin H. Jones and Timothy McFarland
(Woodbridge: Boydell and Brewer, 2002), and Frederick Goldin, ed. and trans., Walther von der
Vogelweide: The Single-Stanza Lyrics (New York: Routledge, 2003).
74 See Bernd Bastert, Helden als Heilige: Chanson de geste-Rezeption im deutschsprachigen Raum
(Tübingen: A. Francke, 2010), and Jerold C. Frakes, Vernacular and Latin Literary Discourse of
the Muslim Other in Medieval Germany (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011).
75 Josef Fleckenstein, “Friedrich Barbarossa und das Rittertum.” The best introduction to the issues of
knighthood in later twelfth-century Germany remains chapter 2 of William Henry Jackson’s Chivalry
in Twelfth-Century Germany: The Works of Hartmann von Aue (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1994).
76 Fleckenstein, “Kaisertum und Rittertum in der Stauferzeit,” Ordines Militares–Colloquia
Torunensia Historica 5 (1990), 18.
77 See William Henry Jackson, “Aspects of Knighthood in Hartmann’s Adaptations of Chrétien’s
Romances and in the Social Context,” in Chrétien de Troyes and the German Middle Ages, ed.
Martin H. Jones and Roy Wisbey (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1993), 49. Jean Scammell, “The
Formation of English Social Structure: Freedom, Knights, and Gentry, 1066–1300,” Speculum 68
(1993), 591–618.
78 Josef Fleckenstein, “Friedrich II und das Rittertum,” in Federico II e le nouve culture (Spoleto,
1995), 27–44.
80 Jeffrey Ashcroft, “Honor imperii—des riches ere: the Idea of Empire in Konrad’s Rolandslied,” in
German Narrative Literature of the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries, ed. Volker Honemann et al.
(Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1994), 139–156.
81 Hiestand, “Kingship and Crusade,” 248; Loud, The Crusade of Frederick Barbarossa, 47–55.
82 Resources for further reading on this complicated topic can be found in Daniel Franke, “The
Crusades and Medieval Anti-Judaism: Cause or Consequence?” in Seven Myths of the Crusades,
ed. Alfred J. Andrea and Andrew Holt (Cambridge: Hackett, 2015).
83 Andrew A. Latham, Theorizing Medieval Geopolitics: War and World Order in the Age of the
Crusades (New York: Routledge, 2012). Latham’s “corporate-sovereign Church” thesis and “con-
ditions-of-possibility” thesis for crusade are not completely satisfying, but his book represents a
serious attempt to rethink medieval politics, and deserves wider consideration.
84 Hiestand, “Kingship and Crusade,” 261.
85 Wolfram von Eschenbach, Parzival, X:503, trans. Helen Mustard and Charles Passage (Vintage
Books, 1962); “wan swer sgrâles gerte/ dô muoste mit dem swerte / sich dem prîse nâhen. / sus
sol man prîses gâhen.” See the TITUS database, University of Frankfurt, http://titus.fkidg1.uni-
frankfurt.de/texte/etcs/germ/mhd/parzival/parzi.htm (accessed January 2, 2015).
143
CHAPTER NINE
NORTHERN CRUSADES: BETWEEN

HOLY WAR AND MISSION
Darius von Güttner-Sporzyński
T he impact of the holy wars and crusades in East Central and Eastern Europe was trans-
formative and enduring, expanding the frontier of Christendom spiritually, culturally
and geographically. The precursor to these military expeditions was pacifist missionary
activity, which in many areas preceded the holy wars by up to a century. In the historiog-
raphy of the crusades, the Northern Crusades are rarely considered on the same footing as
crusades directed at the Holy Land. This is because, among other reasons, the Northern
Crusades were characterised by a combination of forced conversion and conquest to a
degree not found in the Levantine crusades. The issue of papal authorisation of the Northern
Crusades is also questioned as many of the campaigns did not receive explicit sanction.
Notwithstanding that the Northern Crusades were, like the ‘true crusades’, ‘fought against
those perceived to be the external or internal foes of Christendom’, the association of the
crusades to the Holy Land with ‘the recovery of Christian property’ and the ‘defence of the
Church or Christian people’ accorded them primacy. Whilst this latter objective was often
also claimed by the participants of the Northern Crusades, concrete evidence that Christian
property or peoples were directly threatened by the pagan targets of a specific military
action is often difficult to substantiate.1
The traditional view that the Northern Crusades were a uniquely German endeavour is no
longer accepted as an increasing body of research testifies to active involvement by Danes,
Poles, Swedes and Russians.2 This former view was influenced by the arrival of the Teutonic
Order in Prussia in 1226 at the invitation of the Poles and its subsequent establishment of
theocratic lordship in the lands the order conquered from the Prussians. What has become
increasingly clear in the growing scholarship is that from the early days of Christian–pagan
interaction, the relationship was characterised by the heavy-handed involvement of secular
rulers from the newly converted monarchies of the region. The Danes were involved in
Christianising the Wends, Prussians and Estonians; the Swedes acted in Finland; the Poles
with the Wends, Pomeranians and Prussians and there was Russian involvement in Estonia
and Finland. The Teutonic Order, a military religious order established in the Holy Land
took up the challenge of converting the pagans and declared a perpetual crusade against
the Prussians and other Balts, the last pagan communities in Europe. The Prussians were
144
— chapter 9: Northern crusades: between holy war and mission —
annihilated; their culture and language vanished and their name was appropriated by a
German dynasty. Among the Balts, the Lithuanians survived by forming an alliance when
its ruler accepted Christianity, delivered his people and territories into a union with Poland
and in exchange was crowned the king of Poland.
INTO THE NEW LANDS

In the middle of the tenth century, German colonisation began encroaching on the lands
of the pagan Slavs between the Elbe and Oder rivers. In these colonised marches new
bishoprics were founded and the mission to Christianise the local Slav tribes began. The
pagan Slavs, collectively referred to as Wends, did not form a unified polity. Across the
Oder River a pagan warlord Mieszko accepted baptism in 966 and was recognised as
the duke of the Poles by the empire and the papacy. A missionary bishopric for Mieszko’s
subjects was established in Poznań in 968. Similar processes were underway in Bohemia,
whose rulers were influenced by the Christianisation of Moravia attributed to the earlier
mission of Cyril and Methodius in 863. The first bishopric was established in Prague in
973. Within a century of Mieszko’s baptism other regional pagan elites had followed suit
and the dynasties of Denmark, the Rus, the Hungarians, Norway and Sweden converted
to Christianity.
Yet, while the Wendish elites were receptive to a degree to Christian preaching they
demonstrated a selective and calculated approach to the new religion espoused by their
neighbours. Significantly, the Wends were not unified under a single dynasty who could
enforce the adoption of Christianity and they rejected German missionary efforts. With the
military conquest of Pomerania (c. 1102–28) by the Poles and a campaign of Christianisation
conducted by Otto of Bamberg (c. 1060–1139) in 1124 and 1128 under the auspices of
Bolesław III Krzywousty of Poland (1086–1138), the Wends were increasingly seen as a
target for missionary bishops.3 The involvement of devout and energetic bishops such as
Norbert of Xanten (†1134), archbishop of Magdeburg, Otto Bamberg’s acolyte Adalbert of
Pomerania (†1160/1164) and Alexander of Malonne (†1156), bishop of Płock ensured that
the early Northern Crusades acquired a distinctive missionary character.
THE MAGDEBURG CHARTER OF 1108

The success of the First Crusade, increasing missionary activity among the Wends and the
political situation in the Holy Roman Empire, provided fertile ground for the evolution of
the idea of crusade into legitimacy for wars of defence against a perceived pagan threat. The
lands of the Wends (fertile, resource rich and strategically located), where missionary work
often led to the martyrdom of Christians, provided contemporaries with vivid examples of
the newly converted being oppressed by pagans. In 1108 an appeal was drafted advocating
a war in defence of the Christian communities and for the conversion of the pagans of the
region.4 The appeal or the Magdeburg Charter is the first extant document to advocate a
Christian war of conversion in North Central Europe.5 It was most likely written by a cleric
and claims to represent the ideas of Archbishop Adelgot of Magdeburg.6 Its author calls for
action against the pagans in language reminiscent of the chronicles of the First Crusade;
addressing Christian warriors as ‘lovers of Christ’7 and urging them to follow in the foot-
steps of the Franks and liberate ‘our Jerusalem’.8 The Wends are described as the ‘most
cruel heathens’, attacking Christians and profaning churches.9 The imagery used in the
145
— Darius von Güttner-Sporzyński —
charter sought to provoke the intended audience to act against the inhumanity and cruelty
of the Wends presenting such a war as an opportunity to both secure salvation and acquire
land.10 Whilst there is no evidence of a military or political response to the appeal in 1108,
the charter is evidence of the spread of the idea of crusade to North Central Europe within
a decade of the First Crusade and is an example of the adaptation of the idea of crusade in
the form of missionary war to suit a local environment.11
THE CONQUEST OF POMERANIA

The conquest of Pomerania by Bolesław III of Poland is an early example of the adoption
of the ideas expressed in the Magdeburg Charter. Pomerania’s Latin Slavic-derived name
referred to its location ‘along a sea’ and in the Middle Ages it encompassed almost the
whole southern shore of the Baltic Sea, from the Recknitz River near Stralsund in the west
to the delta of the Vistula River near Gdańsk in the east and to Chełmno Land in the south.
The Pomeranians were a group of West Slavic tribes who spoke a Lechitic language akin
to Polish. Archaeological evidence suggests a long history of skirmishes between the
southern ‘Polish’ and northern ‘Pomeranian’ tribes long before the arrival of Christianity.
From the tenth century, Pomeranian communities faced continuous attempts by the Piast
dynasty from neighbouring Poland to incorporate Pomerania into the Piasts’ expanding
realm and Polish communities were subject to violent pillaging raids in return.12 The Piast
military expeditions accompanied by forced Christianisation resulted in the short-lived
subjugation of Pomerania. Taking advantage of the eleventh-century pagan reaction in
Poland (when all church structures were destroyed and Piast authority collapsed), the
Pomeranians reasserted their independence, which earned them the appellation of ‘viper
race’.13 By the twelfth century, the Piasts and the Church had regained control and the
dynasty undertook a concentrated and sustained military effort to bring the Pomeranians
under Piast political control and conducted a systematic Christianisation of the popula-
tion in a series of wars which contemporary apologists glorified in their chronicles as
holy wars.
The oldest extant Polish narrative source, the Cronicae et Gesta ducum sive principum
Polonorum, written between 1112 and 1118 by an anonymous monk,14 describes the early
efforts by Bolesław to convert ‘the most savage nations of pagan barbarians’ listing amongst
these the Pomeranians and Prussians.15 According to the Gesta, the leading motivation for
the conquest of Pomerania was its conversion but its author also wrote that the wars gave
the Poles opportunity for enrichment and land, and the defeat of the Pomeranians would
put an end to their devastating pillaging raids.16 Another dynastic consideration was that
the incorporation of Pomerania into the Piast realm would place its population within the
administrative structures of the Church and specifically, within a Church hierarchy subordi-
nated to Poland and not to the encroaching Empire.
The Cronicae et Gesta ducum sive principum Polonorum presents the conquest of
Pomerania and fighting the pagans as a transcendent holy act directly commanded by God.
In practical terms, however, the Christian religion was used to bond the newly acquired
territory to the Piast monarchy.17 After the successful military conquest of Pomerania,
Bolesław III initiated a mission led by Bishop Otto of Bamberg to Christianise its popula-
tion. Bolesław provided the mission with armed guards and threatened the return of his
armies should the population not convert and keep the Christian observances. Bolesław
sought to make the conquest permanent and in the process created a new model of forcible
146
conversion.18 Under the new approach, the military and political subjugation of the pagans
by a Christian ruler was followed by intense missionary activity which through baptism of
the population and the destruction of the symbols of paganism ‘welcomed’ them as a new
Christian community into Christendom. Otto undertook two missions, the first in 1124 and
the second in 1128, and their success earned him the appellation ‘Apostle of Pomerania’.19
Otto’s methods stood in contrast to the approach of his predecessor, the pacifist Spanish
missionary Bernard the Eremite, who ventured to the Pomeranians in ascetic garb and
without shoes. Contemporary accounts relate that Bernard’s appearance failed to impress
the pagans, who surmised he was lacking in divine favour.20 According to the chronicles,
Bernard advised Otto that in order to ‘win over the brute hearts of these barbarians he
must go there with a splendid retinue of companions and servants and a plentiful supply of
foodstuffs and garments’. Only then ‘those who, with unbridled neck, despised the burden
of humility will bend their necks in worship’.21 Otto heeded this advice and utilised local
superstitions. He presented himself to the Pomeranians as the messenger of a potent deity,
wearing rich pontifical vestments suggesting he was a person of great importance, influence
and power, and was supported by an almighty god.22 Otto’s mission, although described as
a peaceful conversion, was underlined by military threat. It involved a powerful combina-
tion of traditional warfare with the ideals of Christian holy war aimed at the evangelisation
of the pagans.23 The threat of force was an overriding consideration and where previous
attempts had failed, achieved the submission of the Pomeranians to the Christian faith.
Later, this strong missionary element remained a crucial part of crusading in Northern
Europe and was sanctioned by the papacy.
THE WENDISH CRUSADE

In 1146 Pope Eugenius III (1145–53) enlisted Bernard of Clairvaux to preach the Second
Crusade.24 Bernard persuaded some reluctant European monarchs, including Conrad III of
Germany, to take the Cross.25 Saxo Grammaticus, the author of the first history of Denmark,
wrote about fifty year later that the reception of the summons to this crusade was received as
the call ‘upon the faithful to fight against all enemies of the faith’, requiring each province
of the Church ‘to fight the pagans living closest to them’.26 On 13 March 1147 in Frankfurt,
Henry the Lion and Albert the Bear approached Bernard of Clairvaux to gain his support to
obtain papal approval for a crusade against the Wends instead of joining the crusade to the
Holy Land. Bernard’s response was enthusiastic, he immediately approved and endorsed the
launch of a Wendish Crusade. Within a month the papal bull Divini dispensatione extended
crusading privileges to those who fought against the Wends. In addition to announcing papal
authorisation of the crusade, Bernard of Clairvaux proclaimed that the crusaders were for-
bidden to make any truce with the pagans ‘until such a time as, with God’s help, they shall
be either converted or wiped out’.27 There has been much debate over interpretation of this
startling declaration. The prevailing view is that Bernard’s statement was intended as a dec-
laration of missionary war and that it’s not clear whether Bernard actually meant the physical
annihilation of the pagans.28 The experience of the Northern Crusades and in particular the
conquest and conversion of Prussia demonstrates that the crusaders interpreted this state-
ment literally.
The forces of the Wendish Crusade gathered in two separate groups after the departure
of the crusaders for the Holy Land and, like the departed crusaders, were marked as cruces-
ignati with a cross which resembled globus cruciger.29 In early July 1147, the first Wendish
147
crusading army besieged Dobin under the command of Henry the Lion and with the s upport
of the Danish fleet.30 After early losses to the Danes, a truce was concluded with the terms
providing for the release of Danish prisoners, the nominal conversion of the Wendish
ruler to Christianity and the resumption of an earlier, lapsed tribute payment.31 The second
Wendish crusader army, which included a contingent commanded by the younger brother
of the duke of Poland, Mieszko III (c. 1126–1202), gathered in Magdeburg before the end
of July 1147.32 Its command was assumed by Albert the Bear together with the papal leg-
ate Bishop Anselm of Havelberg (c. 1100–58). They marched north towards the Wendish
stronghold of Dymin, which did not surrender, and later towards Szczecin in Pomerania.33
The siege of Szczecin was a fiasco. It was already a predominantly Christian town and the
seat of Bishop Adalbert of Pomerania. The siege was lifted as a result of negotiations by
Bishop Henry of Olomouc and the Pomeranian duke’s public affirmation of his adherence
to the Christian faith.34 Similarly after the siege of Malachow, the Wendish ruler Niklot
acknowledged Saxon overlordship. Before the end of September the crusaders dispersed.
The Wendish Crusade was considered a failure and attracted criticism: it failed to deliver
new land to the Christians and it failed to achieve new converts. In the long term, however,
the crusade which was in essence a significant frontier raid, enabled further missionary
activity and ultimately facilitated the conversion of the last Slavic bastion of paganism and
with it the incorporation of Wendish territory into Latin Christendom.35
THE POLISH EXPEDITIONS TO PRUSSIA

IN 1147, 1166, 1192
Prussia remained a target of expansionary policy for the Piast dynasty of Poland, which
officially drew inspiration from the martyrdom of Saint Adalbert of Prague, slain by
pagans in 997. In 1147, shortly after the conclusion of the Wendish Crusade, an army led
by Bolesław IV of Poland (c. 1125–1173) successfully subjugated some of the Prussian
tribes.36 This expedition is referred to by the Polish historian Stanisław Smolka as ‘the truly
Polish crusade’ but its extant descriptions suggest a missionary war which bore similari-
ties to the Wendish Crusade.37 The two sources which provide evidence for this expedition
are the Annales Magdeburgenses and the twelfth-century narrative source the Chronica
Polonorum written by Bishop Vincentius of Kraków.38 The Annales Magdeburgenses also
contained reports on the crusader armies of the Wendish Crusade, including the size of the
Polish contingent, and gives information on the duke of Poland’s expedition against the
Prussians. According to the Annales Magdeburgenses, Bolesław IV with ‘a boundless army
went against the cruellest barbarian Prussians and remained there a long time’.39 The place-
ment of information about the Prussian campaign immediately following a narrative of the
events of the Wendish Crusade suggests that Bolesław’s expedition against the Prussians
was equated with, or was at least as significant as, the Wendish Crusade. In the Chronica
Polonorum, Bolesław’s expedition is presented as a holy war to eradicate the pagan’s threat
to salvation: Prussians are ‘dangerous not so much to the body as to the “soul”’.40 The
Prussians need to be compelled by Bolesław and his army to undergo baptism and should
be presented with a choice – baptism or death.41 Such a declaration could be understood
as a repeat of Bernard of Clairvaix’s instructions to the crusaders against the Wends. The
outcomes of Bolesław’s expedition did not, however, result in the lasting subjugation of the
Prussian tribes and the Piast dynasts of Poland organised at least another two punitive strikes
against the Prussians, now considered as apostates, in 1166 and 1192.42 Neither expedition
148
was proclaimed a crusade. The 1166 expedition against the Prussian apostates claimed the
life of the only twelfth-century Piast prince who is known to have travelled to the Holy
Land, Bolesław’s second youngest brother, Henry.43 Only the Chronica Polonorum, whose
author Bishop Vincentius of Kraków was a member of the Piast court and would have had
access to living witnesses, offers information on the 1166 expedition. The account in the
Chronica Polonorum reflects on the deep loss the dynasty suffered with the death of Henry;
its author remarking on the surprising defeat of Polish troops and pleading that ‘oratory
of the most eloquent kind would not suffice to relate’ the details of the tragic event. He
then declines to give the ‘names, personages, noble lineage, ancestry, dignities, valour,
diligence [and] standing of those who were killed’.44 Such a deliberate omission perhaps
reflects the Chronicle’s author’s own view of the expedition against the Prussians as God’s
judgement on the Poles as they had not been zealous enough in ensuring adherence to the
Faith, a view consistent with contemporary understanding of the outcomes of holy wars
related in the Old Testament.45 The 1192 expedition is also mentioned by the Chronica
Polonorum. Vincentius compares the pagan Prussians as ‘enemies of the Holy Faith’ to the
‘Saladinistas’, kinsmen of the Muslim leader Saladin (c. 1138–93) and the ‘most obstinate
enemy of the Holy Sepulchre’.46 Such a direct link could be only a literary device used by
the erudite Bishop Vincentius of Kraków, but it can also be interpreted as a comparison
used to demonstrate the merit of the Prussian campaign as a holy war and a just war. Could
it also indicate that the Piast dynasts and the participants of these expeditions have assumed
that the provisions of Divini dispensatione authorising crusade ‘against the Slavs and other
pagans inhabiting the north’47 extended to them in the absence of papal action to the con-
trary? The 1147 expedition against the Prussians and the expeditions of 1166 and 1192
certainly matched other examples of Northern Crusades.48
THE BALTIC CRUSADES

In the second half of the twelfth century attempts to Christianise the pagans who lived in the
east Baltic region coincided with or were a by-product of warfare conducted to eliminate
the pagan threat to the dominions of Christian rulers.49 Denmark fought in the Baltic against
the pagan Wendish and Estonian pirates through strategic raids using the Danish fleet. The
first target of the Danes were the islands of Rugen, whose pagan population continued to
raid and devastate the Danish coast. In 1168 Valdemar I (1157–82) destroyed the pagan
temple at Arkona, forced the Wends to accept Christianity and initiated the Christianisation
of the population with the foundation of a network of Cistercian houses. The Danish con-
quest of the southern shores of the Baltic followed with victories over the Pomeranians, who
were already nominally Christian following the missions of Otto of Bamberg.
In the 1170s, missionary activity began amongst the Estonians and Livonians who lived
in the lands between the Dvina River and the Gulf of Finland. Missions were often assisted
by military protection from Denmark, Sweden and Germany. The missionaries, who aimed
at ‘helping to propagate the Catholic faith’ and assuring that ‘the infidel people gain salva-
tion’,50 gained some measures of success in the short term, however, they were met with
fierce and sustained resistance from local communities. Defence of the new Christian out-
posts in the Baltic became a new, if reluctant, concern of the papacy still preoccupied with
the Levantine crusades.51 The bull Non parum animus, issued in September 1171 or 1172,
offered an indulgence to all those in Denmark, Sweden and Norway who supported military
missions in Estonia against the brutal reprisals of the pagans.52
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In Livonia, the mission started by Meinhard around 1180 established its base at
Üxküll on the Duna River. Support for this Christian outpost came from Archbishop of
Hamburg-Bremen, resulting in Meinhard becoming the Bishop of Üxküll.53 In 1200 Albert
of Buxhövden, who was consecrated a missionary bishop in 1199, organised an expedi-
tion of crusaders and clerics, colonists and traders to secure the survival of the Livonian
mission. Albert established his seat as the Bishop of Livonia in a new town of Riga and
successfully repelled numerous attacks by the pagan Livonians. The new frontier crusad-
ing outpost was supported by a militia established before 1202. The Order of the Sword
Brothers, also known as the Fratres Militiae Christi, was a military religious order which
provided armed support to the missionary work of the bishop and played a key role in all
crusading campaigns organised in Livonia and Estonia. Albert worked energetically to
secure the stability in the lands under his control and the security of his community.54 The
establishment of Livonia as an imperial fief was announced in 1207, followed in 1215 by
subordination of the diocese of Riga directly to the pope. The extension of the jurisdiction
of the bishop of Riga over the whole of Livonia and Estonia was approved by the pope in
1219. The measure of independence won by Albert led Valdemar II of Denmark to reas-
sert his rights in respect of Estonia by forcing Albert in 1221 to acknowledge the authority
of the archbishop of Lund over Riga.55 Denmark was victorious in its conquest of Estonia
and by the end of Valdemar’s reign in 1241 its population was subject to Danish rule.
Within decades, however, there were significant changes to the method and purpose of the
Northern Crusades as a result of the bishops’ disagreements with the Order of the Sword
Brothers and the arrival of the Teutonic Order in Prussia in 1226. Denmark sold Estonia
to the ascendant Teutonic Order in 1346 as the knights consolidated their south and east
Baltic dominion.
THE CHRISTIANISATION OF PRUSSIA

At the same time as the missionary activity was in progress in the eastern Baltic, Cistercians
from Poland and Pomerelia were undertaking the evangelisation of the pagan Prussians.
Within a decade after the establishment of the mission among the pagan Livonians, the
Cistercian community of Oliwa in Pomerelia and its sister house in Łękno in Greater Poland
sent their monks on a mission to the Prussians. For the Cistercians from Łękno, the mis-
sion was the continuation of the tradition of Saint Adalbert of Prague who was martyred
in Prussia in 997.56 In 1206, Innocent III recognised the efforts of the abbot of Łękno,
authorised the mission57 and in 1210 he placed it under the protection of the archbishop of
Gniezno.58 The mission’s success was marked by the establishment of the Cistercian con-
vent in the Prussian town of Zantyr with the monk Christian as its superior.59
The mission attracted a measure of interest from the papacy. In 1212 Pope Innocent III
forbade the dukes of Poland and Pomerania to impose higher taxes dues on the converts,
perhaps in an enlightened policy aimed at reducing apostasy among the new Christian com-
munities in Prussia, a lesson learned from the outcomes of the 1147 Polish expedition against
the Prussians.60 The progress of the mission was communicated to Innocent III in person in
1216 by its leader, Abbot Christian, who travelled with a number of neophytes to Rome.
Innocent recognised the enthusiasm and the ability of Christian and ordained him bishop
with jurisdiction over Prussia.61 Christian’s energy for the establishment of the support for
his mission matched that of Albert of Buxhövden in Livonia and his efforts were recognised
accordingly. In 1217 Honorius III empowered Christian to form a militia for the defence of
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the Christian neophytes and in 1218 authorised the bishop to erect new dioceses in Prussia
as and when it was warranted for the evangelisation of the local population.62 During 1218,
the pope also made an appeal to the faithful of Poland and Pomerania and the dioceses
of Cologne, Salzburg and Mogunz and called on them to support the crusade against the
Prussians. Honorius singled out those who were unable to support Christian efforts in the
Holy Land by agreeing to the commutation of crusading vows from the Levant to Prussia.63
Those who were unable to participate in person were able to receive a full crusading indul-
gence if they were able to equip and financially support others who went on crusade in their
stead.64 On 6 May 1218, Honorius III authorised the crusade in Prussia to defend the newly
converted Christian communities against the pagans.65 Within a year the pope placed sole
authority over the newly baptised Prussians in the hands of Bishop Christian.66 However,
some uncertainty on jurisdiction over the mission must have remained, because in 1221
Pope Honorius III again decreed his control of the course of the mission and military activi-
ties in Prussia, requesting that Prussian prisoners be handed over to the bishop.67
In 1222, the Piast dynasts Conrad I of Mazovia, Leszek the White of Lesser Poland
and crucesignatus Henry I of Silesia organised a joint expedition for the recovery of
Chełmno from the Prussians.68 Involvement by Bishop Christian of Prussia and other
Polish bishops suggests a coordinated effort against the Prussians, although there is no
other evidence of the 1222 Polish crusade, and the borderland region of Chełmno was
recovered from the Prussians. Subsequently, Conrad I of Mazovia granted the bishop of
Prussia fiefdom over the land of Chełmno, further expanding the economic base for the
mission to the Prussians.69
The increasing resources of the mission and presumably the complexity of the task
attracted armed men and knights to the mission’s cause. These men became the core of
Bishop Christian’s local militia. It is not unreasonable to assume that a local military force
existed from the very early days of the Cistercian mission in Prussia. There is no evidence
of its formal structures until 1217 and only in 1228 was the militia recognised as a military
religious order called the Knights of Christ, Fratres Milites Christi de Prussia.70 In the
same year, Conrad I, granted the Knights of Christ the town of Dobrzyń. The town and the
surrounding land were territorially located in Mazovia, south of and adjacent to Prussia.
Conrad aimed for the Knights of Christ to provide assistance to the Cistercian missionaries
in Prussia and protect Christian communities in Mazovia from raids by pagan Prussians.
The military religious order of the Knights of Christ received the rule modelled on the
Knights Templar. The knights wore white cloaks with the symbols of a raised red sword
and a red star over their armour.71 As a fighting force, the Knights of Christ reached perhaps
no more than 150 knights.72
A significant change in papal policy towards the Cistercian mission in Prussia occurred
under Honorius’s successor, Gregory IX (1227–41). Gregory formulated a new strategy
combining missionary activity with pastoral care of the new Christian communities. In the
pope’s view, the Cistercians would no longer hold a monopoly over the mission in Prussia
and he considered the Dominican Order and other mendicant orders such as the Franciscans
ideally suited, given the evangelising character of their vocation and focus on pastoral care.
This shift in papal policy coincided with the arrival in Prussia of the Teutonic Knights,
which heralded fundamental changes to the quest for Prussian souls and the overlordship
of their lands.
In 1226 the Teutonic Order responded, at first reluctantly, to the repeated requests of
Conrad I of Mazovia for the leadership of the order to consider establishing an outpost in
151
the borderlands of Poland and Prussia.73 The order was to settle in lands donated for this
purpose by Conrad and to pursue the crusade against the pagans. The Teutonic Knights’
zeal in pursuing the conquest of Prussia surprised all contenders in the region and their
arrival marked the rapid decline in influence and control by Bishop Christian.
Papal documents revoked its blanket support for the Cistercian mission74 and in 1231
the pope authorised the Dominicans to preach and organise crusades against the remain-
ing pagan Prussians, further limiting the scope of Bishop Christian’s authority.75 Between
September 1230 and January 1232, Pope Gregory IX issued a number of documents
which subordinated the crusading effort in Prussia to the Teutonic Order. In October 1233
and again in September 1234, Gregory IX repeated his directive that all crusaders in
Prussia (and this time also the converts) support and follow the command of the Teutonic
Knights.76
The position of the Dominicans and the Teutonic Order towards Bishop Christian was
made clear in 1233 when the bishop was unexpectedly taken hostage by the Prussian pagan
tribe of Sambs. Neither the Dominicans nor the Teutonic Order attempted to secure his
release.77 Instead, the Teutonic Order began to take control of the estates and the prop-
erty of the Cistercian mission which hindered the missionaries’ work.78 Over the course of
Bishop Christian’s five-year imprisonment, the Teutonic Order systematically undermined
and destroyed the structures established in support of the bishop’s mission and effectively
removed Cistercian influence from Prussia. The Teutonic Knights’ actions provoked the
disapproval of the Piast dynasts for whom Prussia had a natural sphere of influence.
The papal legate William of Modena received explicit instructions from Gregory to
endorse the role of the Teutonic Order and to assist its work in Prussia. However, the
legate was not to take over administration of the crusade.79 It could be argued that when
William arrived in Prussia in 1234, he attempted to deal with the power vacuum left by
Christian’s absence. In 1235 the Teutonic Order also secured the takeover of the mili-
tary order of the Knights of Christ.80 In 1236, without any reference to the bishop of
Prussia, Pope Gregory IX decided to divide Prussia into three dioceses to be ruled by
Dominican bishops. Before Bishop Christian’s release from captivity in 1239 (secured
after his own family paid the ransom), the Teutonic Order, with the agreement of the
curia, had Christian removed from all positions of authority in Prussia.81 The removal
of Bishop Christian and the Cistercians achieved domination and control of the Prussian
crusade for the Teutonic Order.
The Teutonic Knights established a tightly controlled, territorial lordship which became
the base for a permanent crusade against the pagans. By the end of the thirteenth cen-
tury the Teutonic Order had successfully, if nominally, Christianised the Prussians and the
order directed its activities against the pagan Lithuanians through brutal annual seasons
of Reisen.82 The last pagan tribe in Europe, the Lithuanians, outmanoeuvred the Teutonic
Knights when the queen of Poland, Jadwiga (1373/4–99) accepted in marriage Lithuania’s
Grand Duke Jogaila on the condition that he and his people convert to Christianity.83 At
a stroke, Jogaila removed the pretext for Teutonic raids and became king of Poland as
Władysław II Jagiełło (c. 1351/1362–1434) and Jadwiga secured vast new territories mak-
ing the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth the largest political unit in Europe. By the fif-
teenth century there were no pagan strongholds left within the Teutonic Order’s Baltic
territories or within its reach, yet despite the entreaties of its neighbours and the obvious
completion of its mission, the Teutonic Knights did not leave. The crusading state of the
order in Prussia existed until 1525 when the order’s grand master staged a coup, and in
152
defiance of the rule, converted to Protestantism, accepted Polish sovereignty and secured
for his family hereditary rule over Prussia.
CONCLUSION
The Northern Crusades resulted in the incorporation of large and significant territories into
Latin Christendom subordinated to the adherence to one God. The roots of the Northern
Crusades lay in pacifist missionary activity and wars of expansion which facilitated the
‘making of Europe’. The work of the missions among the pagan communities, the conver-
sion of some of its members, and the often violent reaction actions taken by Christian mis-
sionaries, later provided a justification for holy war, missionary war and crusades. These
episodes of violence against those who were seen as the enemies Christendom were thus
justified on the basis of ‘the recovery of Christian property’ and the ‘defence of the Church
or Christian people’. The experience of the Northern Crusades shaped the region. In the
absence of the conveniently distant authority of the papacy, the Northern Crusades often
began as local initiatives, most often dominated by secular rulers motivated by religious
fervour and who adopted and actively adapted the ideology of Christian holy war to satisfy
their need for salvation, their ambition and their dynastic needs.
NOTES
1 See the definition of the crusades suggested in Jonathan Riley-Smith, The Crusades: A Short
History (London: Athlone, 1987), xxviii.
2 For example: Eric Christiansen, The Northern Crusades: The Baltic and the Catholic Frontier,
1100–1525 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1980); William L. Urban, The Baltic
Crusade, 2nd edn (Chicago, IL: Lithuanian Research and Studies Center, 1994); William Urban,
The Prussian Crusade (Chicago, IL: Lithuanian Research and Studies Center, 2000); Alan V.
Murray, ed., Crusade and Conversion on the Baltic Frontier: 1150–1500 (Aldershot: Ashgate,
2001); Carsten Selch Jensen, Kurt Villads Jensen, and John H. Lind, ‘Communicating Crusades
and Crusading Communications in the Baltic Region’, Scandinavian Economic History Review
49, 2 (2001): 5–25; Jerzy Gąssowski, ed., Christianization of the Baltic Region, Castri Dominae
Nostrae Litterae Annales vol. 1 (Frombork, Pułtusk: Bałtycki Ośrodek Badawczy, Wyższa
Szkoła Humanistyczna, 2004); Sven Ekdahl, ‘Crusades and Colonization in the Baltic’, in
Palgrave Advances in the Crusades, ed. Helen J. Nicholson (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan,
2005), 172–203; Iben Fonnesberg-Schmidt, The Popes and the Baltic Crusades: 1147–1254
(The Northern World. North Europe and the Baltic c. 400–1700 AD: Peoples Economies and
Cultures) (Leiden: Brill, 2007); Alan V. Murray, ed., The Clash of Cultures on the Medieval
Baltic Frontier (Farnham: Ashgate, 2009); Marek Tamm, Linda Kaljundi, and Carsten Selch
Jensen, eds., Crusading and Chronicle Writing on the Medieval Baltic Frontier: A Companion
to the Chronicle of Henry of Livonia (Farnham: Ashgate, 2011); William L. Urban, The Teutonic
Knights: A Military History (Barnsley, South Yorkshire: Frontline Books, 2011); Darius von
Güttner-Sporzyński, ‘Constructing Memory: Holy War in the Chronicle of the Poles by Bishop
Vincentius of Cracow’, Journal of Medieval History 40, 3 (2014): 276–91; Darius von Güttner-
Sporzyński, Poland, Holy War, and the Piast Monarchy, 1100–1230, Europa Sacra (Turnhout:
Brepols, 2014).
3 von Güttner-Sporzyński, Poland, Holy War, 77–106.
4 Gerard Labuda, ‘Wezwanie wschodnioniemieckich feudałów do walki ze Słowianami roku 1108’,
in Fragmenty dziejów Słowiańszczyzny Zachodniej, ed. Gerard Labuda (Poznań: Poznańskie
Towarzystwo Przyjaciół Nauk, 1975), 233–69; Marian Dygo, ‘Crusade and Colonization: Yet
153
Another Response to the Magdeburg Charter of 1108’, Quaestiones Medii Aevi Novae 6 (2001):
319–25.
5 Wilhelm Wattenbach, ‘Handschriftliches’, Neues Archiv der Gesellschaft für Ältere Deutsche
Geschichtskunde 7 (1882): 624–6. English translation in Louise Riley-Smith and Jonathan
Riley-Smith, The Crusades, Idea and Reality: 1095–1274, Documents of Medieval History
(London: Edward Arnold, 1981), 74–7.
6 Friedrich Lotter, ‘The Crusading Idea and the Conquest of the Region East of the Elbe’, in
Medieval Frontier Societies, ed. Robert Bartlett and Angus MacKay (Oxford: Clarendon Press,
1989), 267–306, here 275–8; Giles Constable, ‘The Place of the Magdeburg Charter of 1107/08 in
the History of Eastern Germany and of the Crusades’, in Vita religiosa im Mittelalter: Festschrift
fur Kaspar Elm zum 70. Geburtstag, ed. Franz J. Felten and Nikolas Jaspert (Berlin: Duncker und
Humblot, 1999), 283–99, here 290.
7 ‘Amatores Christi’. Wattenbach, ‘Handschriftliches’, 626.
8 ‘Hierusalem nostra’. Wattenbach, ‘Handschriftliches’, 626. Christopher Tyerman highlights the
incoherence of crusader ideology developing as ‘a thing of shreds and patches in the regions
remote to the influence of the papacy and learned elites, ill-formed’. Christopher Tyerman, ‘Henry
of Livonia and the Ideology of Crusading’, in Crusading and Chronicle Writing on the Medieval
Baltic Frontier: A Companion to the Chronicle of Henry of Livonia, ed. Marek Tamm, Linda
Kaljundi and Carsten Selch Jensen (Farnham: Ashgate, 2011), 23–44, here 24.
9 ‘Insurrexerunt in nos et prevaluerunt crudelissimi gentiles, viri absque misericordia et de inhuma-
nitatis sue gloriantes malicia.’ Wattenbach, ‘Handschriftliches’, 626.
11 Constable, ‘The Place of the Magdeburg Charter’, 286–7; Mikołaj Gładysz, The Forgotten
Crusaders. Poland and the Crusader Movement in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries (The
Northern World. North Europe and the Baltic c. 400–1700 AD: Peoples Economies and Cultures)
(Leiden: Brill, 2012), 31; von Güttner-Sporzyński, Poland, Holy War, 131. Cf. Tyerman, ‘Henry
of Livonia and the Ideology of Crusading’, 23–44, here 44.
12 Stanisław Rosik, Conversio gentis Pomeranorum. Studium świadectwa o wydarzeniu (XII wiek)
(Wrocław: Chronicon, 2010).
13 ‘Viperalis progenies’. Gesta Principum Polonorum, ed. Frank Schaer, trans. Paul W. Knoll and
Frank Schaer, Central European Medieval Texts 3 (Budapest and New York: Central European
University Press, 2003), I:Prohem, p. 12. [=Gesta].
14 Darius von Güttner-Sporzyński, ‘Gallus Anonymus’, in Encyclopedia of the Medieval Chronicle,
ed. Graeme Dunphy (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 659–60.
15 ‘Ad mare autem septemtrionale vel amphitrionale tres habet affines barbarorum gentilium fero-
cissimas naciones, Selenciam, Pomoraniam et Pruziam, contra quas regiones Polonorum dux
assidue pugnat, ut eas ad fidem convertat. Sed nec gladio predicacionis cor eorum a perfidia
potuit revocari, nec gladio iugulationis eorum penitus vipperalis progenies aboleri. Sepe tamen
principes eorum a duce Poloniensi prelio superati ad baptismum confugerunt, itemque col-
lectis viribus fidem christianam abnegantes contra christianos bellum denuo paraverunt.’ Gesta,
I:Prohem, p. 12.
16 Gesta, II:14, p. 141; II:44, p. 201; II:47–8, pp. 204–7; III:1, pp. 220–7. A wider context is pro-
vided in Jerzy Strzelczyk, ‘Bolesław Krzywousty i Otton z Bambergu’, in Pomorze Zachodnie
w tysiącleciu, ed. Paweł Bartnik and Kazimierz Kozłowski (Szczecin: Archiwum Państwowe w
Szczecinie, 2000), 47–67, here 51.
17 Józef Umiński, ‘Rola Bolesława Krzywoustego w uchrześcijanieniu Zachodniego Pomorza’,
Collectanea Theologica 21 (1950): 384–417.
18 Cf. Lech Leciejewicz, ‘Społeczne i polityczne warunki chrystianizacji Pomorza’, Pomorania
Antiqua 16 (1995): 51–74; Benedykt Zientara, ‘Stosunki polityczne Pomorza Zachodniego z
Polską w drugiej połowie XII wieku’, Przegląd Historyczny 61, 4 (1970): 546–76.
154
19 Herbordi dialogus de vita s. Ottonis episcopi Babenbergensis. Monumenta Poloniae Historica.

Nova Series 7 (Warszawa: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe,1974), II:16, p. 90. Maleczyński
outlines the itinerary and progress of the mission. Karol Maleczyński, Bolesław III Krzywousty
(Kraków: Universitas, 1975; reprint, 2010), 189–236. See also Jürgen Petersohn, ‘Apostolus
Pomeranorum’, Historisches Jahrbuch 86 (1966): 257–94, here 262.
20 ‘Quomodo […] credere possumus te nuntium summi Dei esse, cum ille glorious sit et omnibus
divitiis plenus, tu vero despicabilis at tante pauperitatis, ut nec calciamenta habere possis?’ Ebonis
vita sancti Ottonis, episcopi Babenbergensis. Monumenta Poloniae Historica. Nova Series 7
(Warszawa: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe,1969), III:1, p. 51; Robert Bartlett, ‘Conversion
of a Pagan Society in the Middle Ages’, History 70, 229 (1985): 185–201, here 198.
21 ‘Lucrum aliquod in brutis barbarorum pectoribus agere volueris, assumpta cooperatorum et obse-
quentium nobili frequentia, sed et victus ac vestitus copioso apparatu, illuc tendas; et qui humilita-
tis iugum effrenata cervice spreverunt, diviciarum gloriam reveriti, colla submittent.’ Ebonis vita
sancti Ottonis, episcopi Babenbergensis. II:1, p. 55.
22 Herbordi dialogus de vita s. Ottonis episcopi Babenbergensis. III:19, pp. 181–2.
23 Cf. Bartlett, ‘Conversion of a Pagan Society in the Middle Ages’, 194–7. I don’t agree with the asser-
tion made by James Westfall Thompson that Pomerania’s ‘transition from paganism to Christianity
and from barbarism to civilization’ was achieved ‘by transformation and not by force’. James
Westfall Thompson, Feudal Germany (New York: Frederick Ungar, 1928; reprint, 1962), 430.
24 Eugenius III reissued Quantum praedecessores on 1 March 1146 with minor changes.
25 Jonathan Phillips, ‘Papacy, Empire and the Second Crusade’, in The Second Crusade: Scope
and Consequences, ed. Jonathan Phillips and Martin Hoch (Manchester: Manchester University
Press, 2001), 20–2. Cf. Harold Cosack, ‘Konrads III. Entschluss zum Kreuzzug’, Mitteilungen des
Instituts für Österreichische Geschichtsforschung 35 (1914): 278–96.
26 Gesta Danorum, ed. Jørgen Olrik and Hans Ræder (København: Levin & Munkesgaard, 1931),
XIV: 3.5, p. 376. Cf. Fonnesberg-Schmidt, The Popes and the Baltic Crusades, 46.
27 ‘Donec, auxiliante Deo, aut ritus ipse, aut nation delegatur.’ Jean Leclercq, Charles H. Talbot, and
Henri-Marie Rochais, eds., Sancti Bernardi Opera, 8 vols (Rome: Cistercienses, 1957–77), 8: 433
(doc. 457), dated after 13 March 1147; Bruno Scott James, trans., The Letters of Saint Bernard of
Clairvaux, 2nd edn (Stroud: Sutton, 1998), 467. See also discussion of a range of propositions in
John R. Sommerfeldt, ‘The Bernardine Reform and the Crusading Spirit’, The Catholic Historical
Review 86, 4 (2000): 567–78.
28 Fonnesberg-Schmidt, The Popes and the Baltic Crusades, 32–3.
29 Annales Magdeburgenses. Monumenta Germaniae Historica. Scriptores (Hannover: Hahn, 1859),
188. ‘Eramus in obsidione castri Dimin sub vexillo Crucifixi.’ ‘Wibaldi epistolae’, in Monumenta
Corbeiensia, ed. Philip Jaffé, Bibliotheca Rerum Germanicarum (Berlin: Berolini, 1864), I, doc.
150, p. 244. ‘Saxones […] cruces […] assumpserunt, a nostris in hoc distantes, quod non simpli-
citer vestibus assutae, sed a rota subterposita in altum protendebatur.’ Ottonis et Rahewini Gesta
Friderici I. imperatoris, ed. Georg Waitz, 3rd edn, Monumenta Germaniae Historica. Scriptores
rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum separatim editi (Hannover: Hahn, 1912), I:42, p. 61.
‘Magna christiane militiae multitudo contra paganos, assumpto signo vivifice crucis exiverat.’
Annales Magdeburgenses. 188.
30 Ex Saxonis Gestis Danorum. Monumenta Germaniae Historica. Scriptores (Hannover: Hahn,
1892), XIV: 87. Vincentii Pragensis Annales. Monumenta Germaniae Historica. Scriptores
(Hannover: Hahn, 1861), 663.
31 Auctarium Gemblacense. Monumenta Germaniae Historica. Scriptores (Hannover: Hahn, 1874),
392; Ex Saxonis Gestis Danorum. XIV: 87.
33 Johannes Schultze, ‘Der Wendenkreuzzug 1147 und die Adelsherrschaften in Prignitz und
Rhingebiet’, Jahrbuch für Geschichte des deutschen Ostens 2 (1953): 114–15. Cf. Jay T. Lees,
155
Anselm of Havelberg: Deeds into Words in the Twelfth Century, Studies in the History of Christian
Thought (Leiden: Brill, 1998), 75–82.
34 Vincentii Pragensis Annales, 663.
35 The criticism can be found in Vincentii Pragensis Annales, 663; Annales Palidenses. Monumenta
Germaniae Historica. Scriptores (Stuttgart: Hahn, 1859), 87; Helmoldi presbyteri Bozoviensis
cronica Slavorum. Scriptores rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum separatim editi (Hannover:
Hahn, 1937), 129. Cf. varied interpretation in Otto von Heinemann, Albrecht der Bär: Eine quel-
lenmässige Darstellung seines Lebens (Darmstadt: G. G. Lange, 1864; reprint, 2001), 171; Margret
Bünding-Naujoks, ‘Das Imperium Christianum und die deutschen Ostkriege vom zehnten bis
zum zwölften Jahrhundert’, in Heidenmission und Kreuzzugsgedanke in der Deutschen Ostpolitik

des Mittelalters, ed. Helmut Beumann, Wege der Forschung (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche
Buchgesellschaft, 1963), 107; Friedrich Lotter, Die Konzeption des Wendenkreuzzugs: ideenge-
schichtliche, kirchenrechtliche und historisch-politische Voraussetzungen der Missionierung von
Elb- und Ostseeslawen um die Mitte des 12. Jahrhunderts (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1977), 70–2.
36 Magdalena Biniaś-Szkopek, Bolesław IV Kędzierzawy – książę Mazowsza i princeps (Poznań:
Wydawnictwo Poznańskie, 2009), 277–92.
37 Stanisław Smolka, Mieszko Stary i jego wiek, ed. Aleksander Gieysztor, 2nd edn (Warszawa:
Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1881; reprint, 1959), 255.
38 Annales Magdeburgenses, 188; Chronica Polonorum, 15 vols, Monumenta Poloniae Historica.
Nova Series (Kraków: Polska Akademia Umiejętności, 1994), III: 30.
39 ‘Cuius etiam frater maior [Bolesław IV] cum infinito exercitu adversus Pruscos crudelissimos
barbaros venit, et diutius ibi moratus est.’ Annales Magdeburgenses, 188.
40 ‘Quos non tam personis quam animabus constat esse infestos.’ Chronica Polonorum, III: 30.
41 ‘Quorum quibusdam uix tandem post multa bellorum discrimina subactis, hoc edictum iussit pro-
mulgari, ut qui Christiane caracterem religionis elegisset, absolutissima donatus libertate, nullum
in personis, nullum in fortuna pateretur dispendium; qui autem sacrilegum gentilitatis ritum deser-
ere neglexisset, ultimo capitis infortunio indilate plecteretur.’ Chronica Polonorum, III: 30.
42 The expeditions are discussed in detail in von Güttner-Sporzyński, ‘Constructing Memory’,
276–91.
43 Henry died on 18 October 1166. He travelled to the Holy Land perhaps even twice, first dur-
ing the Second Crusade in 1147, and again in 1154. Henry has been tentatively identified as the
‘king of the Poles’ who, according to John Kinnamos, led a Polish contingent in 1147 and who
also founded the Hospitaller commandery in Zagość, Poland before 1166. ‘Dux Hinricus inter-
fectus est cum exercitu suo in bello in Prussica’: Annales Cracovienses priores cum kalendario,
ed. Zofia Kozłowska-Budkowa, in Monumenta Poloniae Historica, n.s., 13 vols (Warszawa:
Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe; Kraków, Polska Akademia Umiejętności, 1946–2007),
V (Warszawa: PWN, 1978), 62; ‘Dux Henricus cum exercitu suo interficitur in bello in Prussia’:
Annales Poloniae Maioris, ed. Brygida Kürbis, in Monumenta Poloniae Historica, n.s., 13 vols
(Warszawa: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe; Kraków, Polska Akademia Umiejętności,
1946–2007), VI (Warszawa: PWN, 1962), 114.
44 ‘Quorum nomina, personas, generositatem, prosapiam, dignitates, strennuitatem, industriam, for-
tunas nec superficietenus quidem cursu attingere, nedum disserendo exequi omnis dissertissimo-
rum sufficeret facundia, quos lamentationum varietates, a diversis diverso modo deplorate, usque
hodie lugubriter deplangunt.’ Chronica Polonorum, IV: 30.
45 Writing some three hundred years later Jan Długosz (1415–80) summed the reasons for the 1166
Polish defeat: ‘just God has rightly punished the Poles for their transgressions and thus in a short
time [the Prussians] achieved their cunning aims’. ‘Neque illos spes opinioque fefellit, sed cal-
lido vafroque eorum ingenio, Polonos pro suis transgressionibus iusto puniente Deo, effectus
brevi respondit.’ Joannis Dlugossii Annales seu Cronicae incliti Regni Poloniae. Lib. 5–6, ed.
Krystyna Pieradzka, Zofia Kozłowska-Budkowa and Danuta Turkowska (Warszawa: Państwowe
Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1973), 83.
156
46 ‘Atrocissimum Dominici sepulcri hostem Saladinum.’ Chronica Polonorum, IV: 16.

47 ‘Contra Sclavos ceterosque paganos, habitantes versus aquilones.’ Patrologiae Cursus Completus.
Series Latina, ed. Jacques P. Migne (Paris: Garnier, 1844–55), vol 180, cols 1203–4.
48 von Güttner-Sporzyński, Poland, Holy War, 165–86. See also von Güttner-Sporzyński,
‘Constructing Memory’, 276–91.
49 See, for example, Edgar Andreson, ‘Early Danish Missionaries in the Baltic Countries’, in Gli
inizi del Cristianesimo in Livonia-Lettonia: Colloquio internazionale di storia ecclesiastica, ed.
Michele Maccarrone (Città del Vaticano: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 1989), 245–75.
50 Adam Afzelius et al., Diplomatarium Danicum (København: C.A. Reitzel, 1938), 1:3, doc. 22. Cf.
Fonnesberg-Schmidt, The Popes and the Baltic Crusades, 56. PL 200, cols 852–3.
52 Fonnesberg-Schmidt, The Popes and the Baltic Crusades, 59.
56 Tadeusz Manteuffel, ‘Próba stworzenia cysterskiego państwa biskupiego w Prusach’, Zapiski
Historyczne 18 (1953): 165–6. Mikołaj Gładysz offers a concise summary of the early mission
originating in Łękno, Gładysz, The Forgotten Crusaders, 177–80.
57 Preussisches Urkundenbuch, ed. Rudolf Philippi, vol. 1 (Königsberg: Hartungsche
Verlagsdruckerei, 1882), doc. 4, pp. 2–4. [dated 26 October 1206]. [=PrUB]
58 PrUB 1, doc. 5, p. 4 [dated 4 September 1210].
59 PrUB 1, doc. 6, p. 5 [dated 10 August 1212]. Cf. Emilia Jamroziak, ‘Centres and Peripheries’,
in The Cambridge Companion to the Cistercian Order, ed. Mette Birkedal Bruun (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2013), 68.
60 PrUB 1, doc. 7, p. 6 [dated 13 August 1212].
61 PrUB 1, doc. 9–10, p. 7 [dated 18 February 1216].
62 PrUB 1, doc. 7, p. 6 [dated 13 August 1212]. PrUB 1, doc. 19, p. 14 [dated 5 May 1218].
63 PrUB 1, doc. 21, pp. 15–16 [dated 6 May 1218]
64 Johannes Voigt, ed., Codex diplomaticus Prussicus, 6 vols, vol. 1 (Königsberg: Gebrüdern
Bornträger, 1836), doc. 2 [dated 5 May 1218]. [=CDPr]
65 ‘Ad defendum fideles predictos contra barbaras nations.’ CDPr 1, doc. 3 [dated 6 May 1218].
66 PrUB 1, docs 30–1, pp. 21–2 [dated 11 and 12 May 1219].
67 PrUB 1, doc. 38, p. 25 [dated 17 January 1221]. Tadeusz Manteuffel argued that Bishop Christian
was effectively working towards the establishment of a monastic Cistercian lordship in Prussia.
Whilst Christian was unsuccessful, the leadership of the Teutonic Order made these ideas reality.
Manteuffel, ‘Próba stworzenia cysterskiego państwa biskupiego w Prusach’, 157–73. Cf. László
Pósán, ‘Prussian Missions and the Invitation of the Teutonic Order into Kulmerland’, in The
Crusades and the Military Orders: Expanding the Frontiers of Medieval Latin Christianity, ed.
Zsolt Hunyadi and József Laszlovszky, CEU Medievalia (Budapest: Central European University,
2001), 429–48.
68 Cf. Gładysz, The Forgotten Crusaders, 197–8.
69 ‘Ego Conradus, dei gratia dux Mazovie et Cuiavie, notum facio omnibus fidelibus tam futuris
quam presentibus, quod venerabili domino Christiano Episcopo Prutscie primo et suis succesori-
bus pro eo, quod H. ducem Slesie, L. Wratzlauiensem, L. Lubusensem episcopos cruce signatos
et eorum barones, ceterosque cruce signatos versus Prusciam, ad peticionem meam baronumque
meorum, castrum Colmen, per multos annos a Prutenis destructum et totaliter desolatum, reedifi-
care cum eius bona voluntate permisit, partem predicti Culmensis territorii, […] in remissionem
peccatorum meorum liberi me donavi.’ PrUB 1, doc. 41, pp. 27–31 [dated 5 August 1222]. The
grant was confirmed in 1223 by Pope Honorius III, PrUB 1, doc. 44, p. 33 [dated 18 April 1223].
Tadeusz Manteuffel, Papiestwo i cystersi: ze szczególnym uwzględnieniem ich roli w Polsce na
przełomie XII i XIII wieku (Warszawa: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1955), 99–105; Paul
157
Milliman, ‘The Slippery Memory of Men’: The Place of Pomerania in the Medieval Kingdom of
Poland (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 38–40.
70 Zenon Hubert Nowak, ‘Milites Christi de Prussia. Der Orden zu Dobrin und seine Stellung in der
preußischen Mission’, in Die geistlichen Ritterorden Europas, ed. Josef Fleckenstein and Manfred
Hellmann, Vorträge und Forschungen (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1980), 339–52. Cf. Wanda
Polkowska-Markowska, ‘Dzieje Zakonu Dobrzyńskiego’, Roczniki Historyczne 2 (1926): 145–
210; Friedrich Benninghoven, Der Orden der Schwertbrüder. Fratres Milicie Christi de Livonia,
Ostmitteleuropa in Vergangenheit und Gegenwart (Köln, Graz: Böhlau, 1965), 265–6. In the older
historiography the order is referred to as the Knights of Dobrzyń because of the order’s association
with Dobrzyń (located in Mazovia and not in Prussia). Dobrzyń, however, is related to the order’s
final years of existence of the Order. It is more accurate to refer to it as the Knights of Christ of
Prussia. Jan Karol Kochanowski, ed. Codex diplomaticus et commemorationum Masoviae genera-
lis, vol. 1 (Warszawa: z zasiłku Kasy im. J. Mianowskiego, 1919), docs 258–9, pp. 276–7. Maria
Starnawska argues for the earlier foundation of the order. Maria Starnawska, Między Jerozolimą a
Łukowem: zakony krzyżowe na ziemiach polskich w średniowieczu (Warszawa: DiG, 1999), 109;
Maria Starnawska, ‘Military Orders and the Beginning of Crusades in Prussia’, in The Crusades
and the Military Orders: Expanding the Frontiers of Medieval Latin Christianity, ed. Zsolt Hunyadi
and József Laszlovszky (Budapest: Central European University, 2001), 417–28, here 420.
71 Petrus de Dusburg, ‘Chronica terrae Prussiae’, in Pomniki Dziejowe Polski. Seria 2 = Monumenta
Poloniae Historica. Series 2 (Kraków: Polska Akademia Umiejętności, 2007), II:4, pp. 25–6.
72 Nowak, ‘Milites Christi de Prussia’, 339–52, here 348.
73 For example, Tomasz Jasiński, ‘The Golden Bull Allegedly Issued in 1226 by Friedrich II for the
Teutonic Order’, Quaestiones Medii Aevi Novae 3 (1998): 221–44. Cf. PrUB 1, doc. 58, p. 44
[dated 5 May 1227].
74 PrUB 1, doc. 85, pp. 65–6 [dated 18 July 1231].
75 Cf. Dariusz Aleksander Dekański, ‘Cystersi i Dominikanie w Prusach – działania misyjne zako-
nów w latach trzydziestych XIII wieku. Rywalizacja czy współpraca?’, in Cystersi w społeczeń-
stwie Europy Środkowej: materiały z konferencji naukowej odbytej w klasztorze oo. Cystersów
w Krakowie Mogile z okazji 900 rocznicy powstania Zakonu Ojców Cystersów, Poznań-
Kraków-Mogiła 5-10 października 1998, ed. Józef Dobosz and Andrzej Marek Wyrwa (Poznań:
Wydawnictwo Poznańskie, 2000), 227–50.
76 PrUB 1, doc. 102, p. 76 [dated 7 October 1233]; docs 115–16, pp. 88–9 [dated 9 September 1234].
77 PrUB 1, doc. 133, p. 100 [dated 23 March 1240]; doc. 135, p. 102 [dated 28 April 1240]. The
pope referred to the imprisonment of Christian in a letter addressed to the Dominicans in Prussia.
PrUB 1, doc. 100, pp. 74–5 [dated 7 October 1233]. After his release, Christian complained to
the pope that the Teutonic Order did nothing to secure his release from imprisonment in Sambia.
He also gave examples of the exchange of ransoms, hostages and prisoners by the Order for other
Christian prisoners. PrUB 1, doc. 134, pp. 100–2 [dated 11 April 1240].
78 PrUB 1, doc. 134, pp. 100–2 [dated 11 April 1240].
79 PrUB 1, doc. 111, p. 86 [dated 9 September 1234].
80 PrUB 1, doc. 119, p. 90 [dated 19 October 1235]. William of Modena adjudicated in the dispute
between Conrad I of Mazovia and the Teutonic Knights. Conrad objected to the transfer of the prop-
erty of the Knights of Christ to the Teutonic Order arguing that Dobrzyń should be restored to him.
81 The investigation into Bishop Christian’s complaints against the order did not change Gregory’s
policy favouring the Teutonic knights. PrUB 1, doc. 134, p. 100 [dated 11 April 1240]. Cf.
Fonnesberg-Schmidt, The Popes and the Baltic Crusades, 200–2.
82 Aleksander Pluskowski, The Archaeology of the Prussian Crusade: Holy War and Colonisation
(London: Routledge, 2012), 18–20.
83 Jadwiga was the queen regnant of Poland from 1384 until her death. On her coronation she was
actually crowned ‘king’ (rex) to highlight her position as queen in her own right. Her role in the
Christianisation of Lithuania contributed to her canonisation in 1997 by a Polish pope.
158
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162
CHAPTER TEN
CHRISTIAN EXPANSION IN
MEDIEVAL IBERIA: RECONQUISTA
OR CRUSADE?
Luis García-Guijarro Ramos
I n the spring of 711, Mūsā ibn Nuṣayr, the Arab governor of the recently conquered ter-
ritories of western North Africa, sent an expedition to southern Iberia under the command
of his Berber subordinate Ṭarīq Ibn Ziyād. Previous raids had taken place in 709 and 710,
but this new operation seems to have originated as support to one of the aristocratic parties
coveting royal power in the complex and unstable panorama of Visigothic high politics.
The turn of events quickly transformed assistance into conquest of territories as the political
structures of the kingdom collapsed among continuous quarrels between its ruling classes.
King Roderic was engaged at the time in one of the usual campaigns against the unrestful
Basque peoples in northern Iberia. He became alarmed at the news of the Muslim landing
and depredations and decided to rush to the theatre of events, although he and his army were
at a considerable distance from the most southern tip of Iberia. In July that year he met the
invaders in the mountains west of Tarifa – Transductini promonturii – not far from the rock
of Gibraltar, which was later named after Ṭarīq who was supposed to have landed there with
his forces. The Visigothic army was put to rout. The utter defeat may have been favoured
by the lack of unity on the Christian side caused by deep rivalries within the higher nobility
after the election of Roderic as king in 710, which was contested by the late King Wittiza’s
sons and their followers, who may have sought help from the Arabs in North Africa.1
The disastrous defeat and the disappearance of Roderic, who probably perished
in combat, was a turning point in the history of Iberia. The Muslims soon turned from
assistants to one of the Visigothic aristocratic factions to invaders who found no effective
military resistance. They soon reached the Guadalquivir valley and headed for Cordoba
which fell. Late in 711 or early in the following year, Mūsā set foot on the Iberian peninsula
with an Arab contingent which controlled Seville and Merida before joining Ṭarīq and the
Berbers in Toledo, the former centre of the Visigothic royalty, which had been taken by
Ṭarīq. The occupation of most of the regions of southern, central and eastern Iberia was
completed very soon with little fighting through pacts with the regional and local Visigothic
aristocracy. The best known of such accords was the one signed by Duke Theodemir, lord
of the region of Murcia, on 5 April 713.2 The Christians of these territories retained their
socio-economic status and the religious cult on condition of total loyalty and payments to
163
— L u i s G a rc í a - G u i j a r ro R a m o s —
the Muslim authorities. Pacts became the usual way of transferring political power to the
Arab invaders because their reduced numbers made it difficult to control wide territories
in another way. That policy had been used before in the first wave of conquests that had
extended Arab rule to Syria, Palestine and Egypt in the late 630s and early 640s. This sort
of agreement was also favoured by the vanquished side. The break up of any sign of overall
Visigothic political power forced aristocracies to come to terms with the newcomers to keep
as much economic and social control of men and lands as possible.
North-eastern Iberia, especially the coastal regions of the old Tarraconensis Roman
province, and Septimania were the last Iberian or Trans-Iberian territories to be occupied by
the Muslims. Some form of aristocratic power and apparently even an elected king delayed
Arab conquest for a few years and forced the Muslims to stronger action than in other parts
of Iberia, although pacts continued to be common. In the end they managed to extend con-
trol beyond the Pyrenees to the most important cities of Septimania: Narbonne was taken
in 721 and Carcassonne and Nimes in 724. They became the most northerly outposts of a
series of conquests which soon began to be known as al-Andalus. In little over a decade, all
the former lands which formed the Visigothic kingdom had passed to the Arabs, who had
quickly developed in less than a century since the times of Muhammad a radically differ-
ent culture, although such a clear divide from Christianity was neither perceived by Iberian
Christians at that moment nor in the immediate times to come.
The second decade of the eighth century left a distinctive mark on the Iberian Middle
Ages. Muslims were politically dominant in the peninsula for three hundred years, had ter-
ritorial control over half of Iberia for another two hundred and kept an emirate in Granada
and its wide region until 1492. No other part of Latin Christendom consistently and pre-
dominantly based external expansion on snatching lands from the Muslims since the late
eighth down to the late fifteenth centuries. Although it was by no means an even process in
its rhythm, intensity and quality, it is no wonder that medieval Iberia is generally related to
that very long struggle. Spanish nationalism found in it the signs of identity of Spain as a
modern nation since the mid-1800s and developed sophisticated and sometimes conflicting
intellectual views to support that view in the following century.3 Although essentialist pro-
posals either of conflict or convivencia with the Moors such as those put forward by Claudio
Sánchez Albornoz and Américo Castro in the 1950s cannot be subscribed nowadays,4 there
is little doubt that Muslims played a substantial role in the Iberian Middle Ages and that
Christian kingdoms and counties basically expanded by way of conquests in al-Andalus.
Social formations made that territorial enlargement possible, but the ideology which mixed
with and gave meaning to social impulses was also of paramount importance. Controversies
about the conception of such ideological background, either as Reconquista or crusade, has
generated nowadays a historiographical debate which shows different ways of structuring
contemporary ideas on the character of Christian conquests in al-Andalus all through the
Middle Ages.
The Reconquista, or continuous struggle against and submission of Muslims in al-Andalus,
was considered the specific trait which differentiated Spaniards from other Europeans and
which provided modern Spain with a character of its own at the time when nations were
being built. This nineteenth-century intellectual view which offered Spanish nationalism a
solid historical background had liberal origins but was soon appropriated by conservative
thinking and by Francisco Franco’s regime well into the twentieth century; the post-1939
authorities found in the medieval protracted conflict with Muslims arguments for the his-
torical peculiarity of Spain of which the authoritarian regime was a continuation. Such a
164
— chapter 10: Christian expansion in medieval Iberia —
dichotomous look at the Iberian Middle Ages which demonised the Moors served the black
and white ideology of the nationalists in the Spanish Civil War (1936–39). No wonder that
they strengthened their approach by considering the conflict a crusade.5 This labelling had
a wider international echo than the ambiguous concept of Reconquista and it served to mix,
in the practice of an internal modern military conflict which had a wide appeal abroad, terms
which were coeval and somewhat related, but mutually independent in the Middle Ages.
In the first third of the twentieth century, Reconquista and crusade had been loosely
related by both liberal and conservative historians, but there was no study specifically
devoted to that relationship.6 In 1958, José Goñi Gaztambide, canon archivist of the cathe-
dral of Pamplona, produced a seminal work of conceptualisation of the Reconquista from

the perspective of the crusade once this movement emerged in the late eleventh century.7
Goñi Gaztambide thought that both shared an ultimate religious goal and that the more
universal scope of the crusade absorbed the ideological and doctrinal expression of war
with Islam in the Iberian Peninsula. The Reconquest, originally a ‘sacred war’, switched to
‘proper crusade’ in that century.8 This intellectual approach was influenced by the ideologi-
cal climate of post-civil war Spain. Goñi Gaztambide was a rigorous historian of conserva-
tive leanings. He offered a thorough institutionalist account of the fusion of Reconquista
and crusade which had been vaguely referred to by historians before the 1930s and had been
used as a potent ideological weapon by the nationalist side during and after the Spanish
Civil War.
Goñi Gaztambide’s book is an insufficient formal approach to the complexities of ide-
ology, or ideologies to be more precise, of Christian expansion in medieval Iberia, but it
was and still is a reservoir of details and sources, especially of papal bulls. He was highly
praised by historians on that account, but not fully used to view the Reconquista as crusade
until pluralism became dominant in crusading studies in the last decades of the twenti-
eth century. His book was an isolated brilliant study until Joseph O’Callaghan turned to
this question in 2003 and reaffirmed Goñi’s views for a period which covered the great
Christian expansion, from the campaign of Barbastro (1064) to the conquest of Seville
(1248).9 O’Callaghan’s line of reasoning is crystal clear from the preface of the book: ‘The
clash of arms between Christians and Muslims in the Iberian peninsula from the early eighth
century onward, commonly labelled the Reconquest, was transformed into a crusade by the
papacy during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.’10 The chosen period is well suited to the
purpose of twisting Christian Iberian campaigns into a crusading pattern, but the character
of the Reconquista before the crusade appeared receives no treatment. Thus there is no link
between both ages and the deep change is attributed to the external agency of popes follow-
ing Goñi’s trail. O’Callaghan has later focused on the Battle for the Strait and on the War of
Granada as crusading campaigns, thus encompassing the whole medieval time and reinforc-
ing Goñi’s arguments which extended well into the early modern period.11
The most influential contribution, at least in the anglophone world, of the vanishing of
the Reconquista into the crusade has been, however, a momentous article published by
Richard Fletcher in 1987.12 The main difference with Goñi’s and O’Callaghan’s views lies
in the consideration that the background of Iberian Christian fighting against the Muslims
down to the mid-eleventh century had no religious undertones and that conflicts lacked the
uncompromising virulence fuelled by religion on both sides: ‘There is a degree of mutual
restraint in the political dealings of Christian and Muslim with one another.’13 According to
Fletcher, this situation changed around the 1060s due to external influences and not inter-
nal developments either in Christian Iberia or in al-.Andalus so that ‘the restraint which
165
had marked them [the relations] was gradually replaced by more aggressive attitudes’.14
French adventurers, ecclesiastic and lay – Cluniacs most notably among them all – were
the agents of hard-line policies towards the Muslims in the Christian kingdoms and coun-
ties, while North African newcomers, namely the Almoravids, produced similar effects in
al-Andalus. This new climate introduced religion as the main element of sharper attitudes
on both sides and eased the way for crusade monopoly of Christian expansion in Iberia via
military actions.
Richard Fletcher’s reasoning is debatable on two points. Religion was at the core of
western or eastern Iberian Christian campaigns since at least the ninth century. The
Asturian-Leonese monarchy and the Carolingian or post-Carolingian Pyrenean or Pre-

Pyrenean counties were nascent polities with a firm religious ideological grip when shaping
the new political entities or when waging war against the Muslims, who were beginning to
be considered pagans. The Trinitarian controversy of Adoptianism in the late eighth cen-
tury showed the will of the Western Christian kingdom to build up a religious foundation
of its own that would cement a new polity away from Mozarabic compromises with Islam.
Eastern counties under Carolingian rule stuck to imperial orthodoxy which repeatedly con-
demned Bishop Felix of Urgel for his defence of what were considered heretical views. Two
centuries later, Almanzor’s seizure as a trophy of the bells of the main church at Santiago of
Compostela in 997 was a symbol of the intense religious character of the conflict between
Christians and Muslims. Two instances picked at random at different periods prior to the
eleventh century show that religion was instrumental in building up Christian kingdoms
and counties and in protecting or enlarging them. Islam had obviously the same function in
al-Andalus. Joseph O’Callaghan is then right in asserting that ‘discord was obviously based
on religious antagonism’.15
The second questionable point relates to the external impulses which transformed
Reconquista into crusade. No basic structural traits are imported and made to work in soci-
eties throughout history. There may be important influences from outside, but the main
developments tend to be always internal. That general historical evidence must affect any
consideration of the ideological elements which gave consistence to Christian expansion
in Iberia through war against the Moors leading to conquest or political submission. It is
not conceivable that peninsular kingdoms and counties had to wait for agents coming from
abroad, be they French or papal, to develop a religiously coherent mental structure to sup-
port and motivate fighting against Islam. It is far more logical to assume that native ideolog-
ical constructions, which had a distinct religious flavour and shared common traits between
eastern and western Iberia, appeared and developed according to specific socio-economic
basis while impelling political strategies of expansion. They received external influences
and above all used the crusade on special occasions as a prestigious religious addition. Their
signs of identity were, however, distinguishably native and geared towards restoration of
political unity and Christianity as they were at the time of the Visigoths. Restauratio was
the term widely used in medieval chronicles. Reconquista was coined much later, at the end
of the eighteenth century.16
The relation of the great Christian Iberian expansion in the Central Middle Ages
with a pan-crusading ideological deployment seems to dismiss the factors which made
possible conquests and extension of territories in the peninsula. They were specific to
Iberia, although the nature of many of its elements is recognisable elsewhere in Latin
Christendom. Sedentary societies begin to expand when the social relations that structure
them reach a considerable degree of permanence and stability. The great leap forward is
166
the outcome of maturity. That means the full development of the qualitative potential of
cohesive principles and their extension to all levels of society. The beginning of this pro-
cess favoured piecemeal expansion east and west in Iberia in the second half of the ninth
century. The maturity of social relations of dependence began to unleash great potential
for expansion since the second third of the eleventh century. From the very start expansion
was not only rationalized but also made possible by ideological structures which grew
especially in the Kingdom of Asturias-Leon. The interrelationship of social aspects and
ideology is the key to understanding Christian expansion in medieval Iberia.
A second factor conditioned the possibility of still embryonic or mature Christian soci-
eties to gain territories beyond the frontier with al-Andalus: the political cohesion and
strength of Muslim power or powers in Iberia. It is well known that the emirate, the caliphate
of Cordoba or the North African empires which intermittently crossed the Strait and swept
Iberian lands from the late eleventh century onwards had difficulties in keeping control over
different parts of al-Andalus. The weaker the Muslim opponents, the greater the possibili-
ties to Christian expansion according to the social and political strength of their polities. It is
not a mere coincidence that disruption or fitna in the emirate favoured Christian occupation
down to the rivers Duero, Gállego and Llobregat in the second half of the ninth century.
Neither it is questionable that the great expansion of the period 1145–1248, dates of the
conquests of Calahorra on the Ebro and Seville on the Guadalquivir, was made possible by
the collapse of the caliphate of Córdoba and the fragmentation of Muslim political power
into petty kingdoms at odds with each other, nor that the temporary control of al-Andalus
by North African empires put a momentary brake to territorial enlargement at certain times
in the twelfth, thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.
The interaction of Christian and Muslim powers at different degrees of social cohesion
and strength over a long period of time is the basic factor to understand Christian expansion
in Iberia and its process which extended over seven centuries. The crusade, once it emerged
in the late 1000s, contributed to Christian military conquests only in a subsidiary way. It
certainly appeared as reinforcement, but papal bulls or passing references in chronicles
should not lead historians to think that it became the main element which made possible
the great conquests of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries or the occupation of the emirate
of Granada at the close of the Middle Ages. The Reconquista, or restauratio (the medi-
eval term), was a native ideological construction which expressed and promoted expansion
in different ways and with varied rhythms and intensities from the ninth to the fifteenth
centuries. Kings and counts lived in that ideological Iberian humus and only occasionally
resorted to crusading apparatus as additional support to domestic impulses.
The Reconquista, as ideology both of expansion and of the political powers related to
it, was present throughout the entire Middle Ages. It did not stick to a stereotyped form
and meaning, but changed according to the times, although it kept a common perception of
the character of confrontation with the Muslims and of the will to subdue them which was
adapted to the peculiarities of each epoch in both cultures. Permanence and adjustment to
different times are basic characteristics of a wide time spectrum in historical concepts. The
territorial expansion of Christian polities in Iberia and consequently the ideology which
explained and propelled it had three distinctive periods: resistance to Islam, formation of
Christian polities and first territorial acquisitions, eighth to early eleventh century; the great
expansion, mid-eleventh to mid-thirteenth century; the emirate of Granada, last Muslim
enclave, from vassalage to conquest, second half of the thirteenth century to late fifteenth
century. The main aspects of each period shall be dealt below in a summary way to reveal
167
how the Reconquista, and not the crusade, was the ideology of war against the Moors and
of feudal submission of them in medieval Iberia with nuances and different characteristics
at each epoch. Special attention shall be given to the origins. Post-1030s developments are
difficult to understand, ignoring their roots which lay in earlier centuries.
RESISTANCE, SOCIAL CHANGES AND

EMERGENGE AND GROWTH OF NEW IBERIAN
CHRISTIAN POLITIES, EIGHTH TO EARLY
ELEVENTH CENTURIES
Traditional Spanish nationalism converted a skirmish, the Battle of Covadonga (718/722),
and the figure of Pelayo, reckoned as first king of Asturias (718–737), into symbols of the
will to recover the Visigothic unity and reinstate Christianity only a few years after the
rout of Guadalete. According to this view, there was no break between the collapse of
the Kingdom of Toledo and the early conscious efforts to recover it. But the idea of an
early purpose to restore the immediate Gothic past shattered to pieces in 711 is anachro-
nistic; it only served later medieval purposes of a clear-cut beginning of the restauratio or
modern images of the Reconquista based on essentialist views of a medieval neo-gothic
past as origin of the Spanish nation. Muslims did not control, or did it superficially and
briefly, those northern territories of Iberia which first the Romans and then the Visigoths
had not fully held sway over. Regions north of the Cantabrian Mountains and some places
in the Pyrenees soon reacted against Muslim dominion, as they had done in previous cen-
turies, especially the Basques, against the unifying policies of Rome or of the kings of
Toledo. By the early 720s, Muslims ruled the Iberian regions which had been socially
and culturally integrated in the Visigothic kingdom from Septimania to Baetica, from the
Mediterranean to the Atlantic seas. Northern peripheries of the peninsula resisted integra-
tion into al-Andalus more as a result of backward disunited social structures which rejected
control of more developed societies than of deliberate impulses to recover what had been
lost in the summer of 711. Visigothic immigrants arrived at these lands and had a consider-
able impact in speeding up developments towards more complex societies, but they did not
head any movement which aimed at reinstating the Gothic world soon after its collapse.
The social and political character of the Asturian-Cantabrian world could not have backed
it. Resistance to a much more powerful culture, Islam, was the only alternative for more
than a century, especially when the Umayyad emirate tried after 756 to put some order into
fractioned Muslim policies in al-Andalus. Pressure on the Asturian kingdom grew when
Cordoban emirs managed to curtail autonomous powers and achieved some degree of over-
all control, albeit only temporarily.
The situation in north-eastern Iberia was somewhat different and much related to the
birth of the Carolingian world. Pepin the Short’s coup d’état of 751 reinforced kingship
and allowed an expansionist policy which soon put an end to Muslim power north of the
Pyrenees. In 759 Narbonne was rendered to the Frankish king by the Visigothic notables; by
the end of the 750s the Muslims had lost control of Septimania. Charlemagne’s interest in
the Upper March of al-Andalus, which had its centre at Zaragoza, was prompted by the need
to protect Aquitania and conquered Septimania from possible attacks. The unstable situa-
tion in the mid-Ebro valley led the Frankish king into an Iberian expedition in 778 which
became widely known thereafter by the Carolingian defeat at Roncesvalles significantly
caused by local peoples, Basques or converts to Islam (muladíes), and not by Muslims of
168
Arab stock. The reverse at Roncesvalles did not weaken Charlemagne’s aggressive policies
in the region. The lands of Gerona, Urgel and Cerdaña were occupied in 785–789. The con-
trol of the coastal area was more difficult. Barcelona was taken in 801 but attempts further
south at Tarragona (809) and Tortosa (811) were unsuccessful.
At the turn of the ninth century, conquered territories in north-eastern Iberia were politi-
cally structured as counties heavily dependent on the Carolingian administration. These
were highly Romanised and Visigothised territories. Perception of and relations to the
neighbouring Muslims were those decreed by Charlemagne and his entourage. There had
been conquests south of the Pyrenees, but they did not come out of any restoration ideology.
The situation was socially and politically different at that time in the Asturian kingdom.
Social structures were far more backward than in the newly born Carolingian counties and
political power shakier than that of Charlemagne. There was no strong European power
at hand to check Muslim inroads and thus resistance had been the main political aim of
Asturian kings until the end of the eighth century. Neither in eastern nor western Iberia were
there at that time signs of a restoration ideology.
A specific Christian ideological approach to fighting with Muslims was made possi-
ble in the ninth century when social developments and political stability consolidated the
Asturian monarchy which became ready for territorial expansion at any sign of weakness
in al-Andalus. The political autonomy of the most eastern counties and of Aragon, which
also had a similar Frankish origin, was a natural outcome of the crisis of Carolingian
power in the second half of that century. Break-up of imperial rule allowed native outlooks
and policies towards neighbouring Moors that were no longer dependent on the overall
schemes of the Frankish kings and emperors. Greater strength and cohesion in the west
and autonomy in the east of Iberia favoured the development of ideologies of war with
the Muslims regardless of the fact that these mental perspectives were overtly expressed
in chronicles in the western kingdom and not in the eastern counties or in the embryonic
kingdom of Navarre.
The long reign of Alfonso II of Asturias (791–842) was a turning point for the history
of Christian enclaves in north-western Iberia. Submission to Cordoba was abandoned and
an autonomous policy adopted based on the development of more solid and complex social
relations and on an autochthonous ideology which severed links with southern Mozarabism.
Matriarchal royal lines of succession which had probably helped Alfonso I (739–757) and
Silo (774–783) to become kings of Asturias in the previous century vanished. They were
signs of archaic social practices in which women transmitted rights. Patrilineal practices
existed but were not absolutely dominant. The fact that they became so in the ninth century
implied deep social changes which favoured a stronger and more cohesive society. This
situation made it possible to abandon passive resistance to the Muslims, to develop a politi-
cal entity of its own and to confront the Moors at a time when the emirate had managed to
impose power from Cordoba to the regions but was periodically affected by local rebellions
(Toledo, Cordoba, Mérida) which weakened its external power. The new position versus
Cordoba, which had internal social roots and was facilitated by problems in al-Andalus,
was also expressed in the efforts to separate northern Christians from al-Andalus Mozarabs.
A new programme of religious autonomy, that is to say, of explicit distinctiveness of the
Asturian polity, was developed. A brand new royal centre, Oviedo, in which churches had
as much importance as royal buildings, expressed the new significance and purpose of the
monarchy. New bishoprics and the reshuffle of the diocesan map, as well as the foundation
of monasteries, showed regional vitality and desire for autonomy from the metropolitan see
169
of Toledo, which the anti-adoptianist standing of northern clerics had already made clear at
the end of the eighth century. The beginnings of the cult of St James, through whom a much
coveted apostolic link was found, added prestige to the Asturian Church that was increas-
ingly becoming unrelated to Christian Mozarabism in the south. All aspects of the rich reign
of Alfonso II pointed towards building up a new polity with no formal connections with the
al-Andalus Christians, who inevitably had to come to terms with the Muslims. An organic
dependence of the Asturian Church to the metropolitan of Toledo would have meant a de
facto Muslim protectorate of the new kingdom, as religion was obviously the main ideologi-
cal asset to the nascent monarchy.
This background has to be taken into account when dealing with the great territorial
advance in the second half of the ninth century which transferred the frontier of the Kingdom
of Asturias from the Cantabrian Mountains to the valley of the River Duero and tripled the
extension of lands controlled by the monarchs of a kingdom which soon was centred on the
city of León. Kings Ordoño I (850–866) and Alfonso III (866–910) relied on the sound social
and political foundations established at the time of their predecessor Alfonso II to occupy
the west (Oporto, 868), the centre (León, 856; Zamora, 893) and the east (Burgos, 884) of
the river valley. Two circumstances favoured this momentous expansion: the region down
to the Duero and immediately beyond was not uninhabited, as Claudio Sánchez Albornoz
once presumed,17 but had no consistent Muslim effectives since the Berbers abandoned the
region in the 740s; besides, Cordoba could not send armies to check the Christian advance
because it was in the midst of the worst disruptive internal crisis that it experienced before
the ruin of the Caliphate in the first third of the eleventh century. Internal strength could lead
to territorial enlargement due to temporary weakness in al-Andalus.
The control of the Duero valley from the Atlantic sea to the eastern frontiers of the nas-
cent county of Castile was a half-century process (Tuy, Astorga, 854; Osma, 912) which
was also made possible by an ideological construction that was rooted in conceptions that
emerged at Alfonso II’s time and were refined in chronicles composed by court clerics since
the 880s. In that decade a series of texts began to offer a general view of the place in his-
tory of the Kingdom of Asturias and of contemporary events.18 They gave form to the idea
that Christians on both sides of the Cantabrian Mountains were directly connected with the
Visigoths and were also entrusted by God to recover and restore what their Gothic predeces-
sors had lost through sinful behaviours. It is obvious that the restauratio ideology – what
in modern times has been labelled Reconquista – is a high cultural product structured in the
midst of a great process of territorial expansion and that it was designed to give sense not
only to the occupation of the Duero valley but also to the Kingdom of Asturias itself. But
this in no way means that this construct was invented by learned men, some probably of
Mozarabic origins, and that it was imposed from above to a passive aristocracy or to other
social layers.19 It is a historical truism to view ideology as a long process that stretches from
bottom to top of society and which exists and has an informal coherence long before it is
given its final form, by clerics in this case. It is not conceivable that the first phases of the
Duero expansion were deprived of any ideological meaning and support until some court
intellectuals illuminated the scene post eventum or in the middle of events. This ideology
was religious throughout before and after it was given literary form. Religion was thus at
the centre of relationships with Islam whether there were military actions or not. It is not
acceptable to detach Christian ideals from the Reconquista and defend that only Cluny and
the crusade introduced them aggressively in the late eleventh century in the war against the
Muslims in Iberia, as Richard Fletcher and many historians thereafter have proposed.
170
One of the main arguments of nationalist Catalan historiography in favour of a distinc-

tiveness of Catalonia from Castile and other parts of present-day Spain since the early post-
Visigothic period touches on the Carolingian origins of the north-eastern Iberian counties
and on developments which made them different from the Kingdom of Asturias – they
do not take into account that early Aragon was also a county of Carolingian stock which
followed ways different in many respects to other eastern counties. This historiographical
approach assumes that no explicit ideological construct was developed in them to make
sense of their new polities and of war to the Muslims, and that the set of ideas which coa-
lesced in restauratio or Reconquista was alien to the autonomous counties. As they did not
share common ideological origins, they were utterly different from other Christian Iberian
polities from the start, so it is argued. Their identity was related to the wide autonomy
from Carolingian rulers that the counties enjoyed from the second half of the ninth century.
Guifre the Hairy (870/878–897), the head of various comital dynasties which controlled the
region when Frankish power ceased to be effective, was the founder of Catalonia according
to this essentialist vision, no less so than that centred on Pelayo and Covadonga.
There were social and geopolitical differences between the Kingdom of Asturias and
the north-eastern counties. The latter had a far more developed social structure – mainly in
the coastal areas – had experienced Carolingian administration of which they may have felt
followers at the beginning, and had faced thriving Muslim communities which repeatedly
struggled for autonomy from Cordoba and put a brake on significant Christian expansion.
When the counts ceased to be accountable to Carolingian kings and emperors, they became
de facto solely responsible for the welfare of their polities that was based on harnessing aris-
tocracies and on confronting nearby Muslims who were a barrier but not a too aggressive
obstacle. The fitna or great rebellion in al-Andalus during the late ninth century increased
the autonomy of Muslim powers of the Superior March but prevented joint action of Iberian
Moors against the new comital powers and so the need of help from their still Frankish over-
lords. Differences between eastern and western Iberia existed but were confined to social
developments – the gap was nonetheless narrowing – and to the potential pressure across
the frontier. It is not easy to perceive the ideology towards Muslims in eastern Iberia, basi-
cally because there were no parallel chronicles to the ones written at the time of Alfonso III
of Asturias and after, nor were there for a long time. However, the absence of such evidence
is not a concluding proof of lack of restauratio concepts or of basic aspects of them. The
more the counties became part of an Iberian setting as consequence of their autonomy, the
more their rulers probably took an ideological standing similar to other peninsular counts
and political leaders. The confinement to Asturias-Leon and later to a mythicised Castile of
the origins of the idea of Reconquista and of its development in following centuries is a pre-
sentist approach which serves all kind of modern Spanish or regional nationalisms. When
chronicles widely appeared in the Crown of Aragon in the thirteenth century – James I of
Aragon’s ‘Book of Deeds’ is perhaps the best example20 – they depicted similar attitudes of
kings and nobles to the Muslims that were and had been common in León-Castile.
The great territorial advances which had extended Christian occupation to the Duero val-
ley, or more modestly to the lines of the rivers Aragon, Llobregat and Cardoner in the central
Pyrenees and in eastern Iberia, came to a stop after ‘Abd al-Raḥmān III succeeded his grand-
father as Cordoban emir in 912. His control of revolts which had put the emirate on the brink
of collapse and the establishment of a caliphate in al-Andalus in 929 altered the relations of
power between Christians and Muslims in Iberia clearly in favour of the latter. The tenth
century was the golden age of al-Andalus. Northern kingdoms and counties, some of them
171
weakened by serious internal political succession crisis, were on the defensive for decades.
Reconquista principles had to wait for more propitious times to be again active elements of
expansion. The caliphate was not particularly aggressive. It did in fact opt for a conserva-
tive strategy of fortifying the extensive frontier. The situation changed when Almanzor (c.
980–1002), a distinguished courtier, rose to prominence over the feeble caliph Hishām II
(976–1009). Harsh punitive expeditions were repeatedly sent deep into Christian territory to
boost morale and the ḥājib’s power in Cordoba. The raids afflicted many regions in the north,
but they did not disrupt polities nor add significant number of lands to the Muslims. However,
these activities artificially kept the power of Almanzor and his son Abd al Malik (1002–08)
but did not solve the basic problem of legitimacy and consequent lack of authority which the
Amirid regime could never come to terms with. When these two powerful personalities van-
ished, the system that they had tried to impose fell and dragged with it a caliphate which had
been eroded without repair into oblivion after three decades of systematic snub.
The caliphate of Cordoba broke up into pieces in 1031 and al-Andalus was split in a
number of petty kingdoms (taifas) which were relevant culturally but not politically. Their
Christian counterparts were at that time developing greater social and political cohesion
and were prepared to take advantage of the situation not only by waging expansive wars
along Reconquista ideas, but also by adapting their socio-political feudal principles to rela-
tions with the Muslims through the submission of taifas by vassalage and tributes. This
policy was not contrary to restauratio aims, but an alternative expression of them because it
implied supreme overlordship over the Moors, a different option to outright conquest when
conditions so demanded.
AL-ANDALUS DWINDLES TO MINIMA: THE

GREAT CHRISTIAN EXPANSION, MID-ELEVENTH
TO MID-THIRTEENTH CENTURIES
Most works which associate Reconquista at its prime with crusade begin the story of this
connection with the expedition to Barbastro in 1064. There has been copious literature
discussing if this event may be considered a pre- or protocrusade, or no crusade at all. But
the debate has missed the essential question. Regardless of Pope Alexander II’s impulse, if
he ever gave it, the campaign was a strictly Iberian issue. It was involved in the strategies
of the eastward expansion of the kingdom of Aragon – King Ramiro I was killed in the
attempt to take Graus, north-east of Brabastro, in 1063 – and of the westward expansion of
the county of Urgel beyond both Noguera rivers and eventually even beyond the Cinca river
where Barbastro lay. This expansive policy had been already at work in the 1050s and it was
continued after Barbastro was lost back to the Muslims in 1065 while significantly being
defended by Count Armengol III of Urgel, who died in the attempt to keep it in Christian
hands. One of the main agents of this policy had been Arnau Mir de Tost, an Urgellian noble
who based expansion and control of new areas on the building of castles much in the same
way as Fulk Nerra had done in Anjou shortly before.
The Barbastro campaign shows quite clearly that this and other much more important
expeditions in the late eleventh and in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries were conceived
as part of the expansion strategies of the different Christian kingdoms and counties and not
primarily as crusades. The restauratio ideology, which had been present openly or silently
in Christian Iberia since at least the late ninth century, was an inextricable part of those
schemes which were put to work in military actions long before the crusade was added only
172
on very specific occasions from the short-lived capture of Tarragona in the 1090s to the War
of Granada at the end of the fifteenth century.
Focusing on Barbastro, many historians tend to disregard previous campaigns in Iberia
since the 1030s, when Muslim unitary power collapsed and the Christian political map,
which was a reflection of a dynamic and increasingly cohesive social world in most areas,
became established for the rest of the Middle Ages at the death of Sancho III the Great of
Navarre in 1035: Kingdoms of León-Castile – united or separated at different times until
their final union in 1230 – Navarre and Aragon; the eastern counties, which came to be
known collectively as Catalonia in the early twelfth century; and Portugal, separated from
León in 1139, completed the Iberian Christian territories in the Central Middle Ages. Each
of them tended to expand according to well-established strategic lines. Navarra was focused
on the Upper Ebro valley: Calahorra was taken in 1145. León-Castile tried to consolidate
its hold over the entire Duero valley and go beyond it at the mouth of the river: conquests
of Lamego, 1157, Viseu, 1158, and Coimbra, 1164. In the year when a pre- or protocrusade
was apparently at work in Barbastro, Fernando I of León-Castile succeeded in snatching
from much weakened Muslims Coimbra, an important position south of the Duero; both
campaigns had the same intrinsically Iberian nature, although the former has fallen under
the spell of crusading interpretations. The next step for Leonese-Castilian kings was to
consolidate positions between the Duero and the Cordillera Central, and thus make settle-
ments safe in the northern Castilian plateau, by winning a strategic city south of the range
of mountains. Toledo was taken in 1085. The control of the royal centre in Visigothic times
made kings Alfonso VI (1065–1109) and Alfonso VII (1126–57) feel superior to other
Christian Iberian rulers. They began to use the title of emperor to mark the difference in
status. Restauratio principles were clearly at work.
Attention to campaigns between the 1040s and 1080s should not obscure the fact that
Christian polities had at the time an alternative way of dealing with the Muslim petty
kingdoms, weak and in conflict with each other, which combined pressure, protection and
extortion that produced substantial tributes (parias). Traditional views stress the point that
northern kingdoms and counties had yet no military or demographic strength to undertake
overall conquests and resettlement of new territories and were driven to a policy of benefi-
cial accords with the taifas. This may have been true at that time, the mid-eleventh century,
but not at other periods of the Central and Late Middle Ages in which submission was pre-
ferred to conquest in specific situations – the survival of the emirate of Granada until 1492
is the most obvious example. Armed interventions and vassalage of Muslim petty kingdoms
were not conflicting options, but different possibilities to expand in polities which regarded
feudal submission as effective in terms of authority and power as direct control of terri-
tories. The restauratio was also achieved through pacts with the Muslims. These treaties
determined the terms of subjection of the latter which may have been at times more profit-
able to Christians than outright conquest. Medieval societies at their prime were based on
a growing number of dependants. The control of territories was only relevant when they
offered native or most commonly new settlers means to pay rents or tributes.
Reconquista ideals aimed at restoring jurisdiction over entire Iberia. This was done
through war and occupation of lands or through the forced subordination of tributaries
whose overlord was a Christian king who thought he was enlarging his dominion that
way, as in fact he was according to the socio-political structure of that age. The double
option of conquest or submission of Muslims which the social and ideological Christian
Iberian background offered is beautifully attested by the way Ferdinand III of Leon-Castile
173
(1217/1230–52) addressed his son Alfonso on the point of death: ‘My Lord, I leave you the
whole realm from the sea hither that the Moors won from Rodrigo, king of Spain. All of it is
in your dominion, part of it conquered, the other part tributary’ (italics are mine).21 There
was thus no black and white distinction or preference in military actions between direct con-
quest and imposing vassalage. Both were expression of the Reconquista, namely of feudal
social relations and of the ideology that pervaded them.
There were short- or long-term conditions which determined either policy. Among the
latter, unity or fragmentation of al-Andalus was the basic factor. Only when the several
post-Caliphate attempts to control Muslim Iberia by North African empires failed one after
the other (Almoravids, Almohads, Marīnids) and second or third taifas rose, there was the
possibility to impose subjection on the weakened parts of al-Andalus. This was also the
setting which favoured the conquest of much coveted positions which had been strategic
targets for decades. The surrender of Tortosa on 30 December 1148 is a good example.
Ramón Berenguer IV, prince of Aragon and count of Barcelona, who had been able to unite
the conflicting expansive strategies of both territories after marrying Petronila of Aragon in
1137, forced the capitulation of the city at the mouth of the Ebro valley when no relieving
Muslim force helped the besieged within the established truce of forty days. Al-Andalus
was then experiencing a re-emergence of the petty kingdoms (the so-called second taifas)
after the Almoravid power had cracked and the Almohads had only just disembarked in the
Iberian Peninsula. Ramon Berenguer IV blocked any help from the south by winning the
allegiance of the taifa king who controlled the area north and south of Valencia. Submission
elsewhere made the conquest of Tortosa possible or at least easier than it might have been
if any Muslim expedition had been sent to rescue the besieged.
The specific example of Tortosa shows how little impact the crusade had in the charac-
ter of this and other campaigns in the crowns of Aragon and Castile in the Central Middle
Ages. The key to their understanding lies on the long-term strategies of Christian kings and
on the strength or weakness of al-Andalus at specific moments. Only at the level of specific
military operations did the crusading call have any relevance through warriors who may
have taken the cross. Some kings also used the crusade to enhance their positions in Latin
Christendom. James I of Aragon (1213–76) resorted to the crusade in late 1236 to achieve
the conquest of the city of Valencia, but the Christian campaign against the taifa kingdom
had started successfully in 1233 with no crusading undertones. Once he had completed that
aim, he tried to compete with Louis IX of France for pre-eminence among Christian mon-
archs by devising an expedition to Outremer which did not take place. All these aspects are
obviously not enough to unify Reconquista campaigns under the umbrella of the crusade.
Views which do so are much influenced by papal sources that show opinions, intentions
and desiderata of popes and their entourage. This type of information cannot be taken for
granted because it did very seldom correspond exactly to what was happening in situ. Papal
bulls, for example, are as ideological as any chronicle and can be considered tools in the
struggle between popes and kings, between overarching ecclesiastic ambitions and secular
restrictions to them. They phrased struggle against Islam in Iberia in the way most favour-
able to the power of popes in the peninsula, thus enhancing the crusading perspective, and
they devalued the ideological and military autonomy of the policies of kings.
Traditional periodisation of medieval Christian expansion in Iberia emphasised the
access to successive great river valleys. This approach is still very useful because it stresses
the geopolitical lines of expansion which each kingdom or county consistently followed
over a long time. The Duero, Ebro, Tagus, Jucar and Guadalquivir were fluvial frontiers
174
which Iberian Christians aimed at reaching to consolidate previous conquests and look
forward to new ones. Al-Andalus was a culture of cities and river valleys teemed with urban
centres. Their capture by Christian kings has been a symbol of expansion: Toledo (1085)
on the Tagus; Zaragoza (1118) and Tortosa (1148) on the Ebro; Valencia (1238), Alcira
(1242) and Jativa (1244) on the Jucar; Cordoba (1236), Jaén (1246) and Seville (1248) on
the Guadalquivir. Toledo apart, many modern historians consider that the other conquests
were products of crusading campaigns. I have already dealt briefly with the nature of the
expeditions which brought the mouth of the Ebro river or the Muslim Kingdom of Valencia
into Christian hands. Similar arguments may be put forward when touching on the above
mentioned or on many other conquests in the great expansive thrust of the twelfth and
thirteenth centuries. The traditional ideals of Reconquista welded dynamic social forces to
achieve goals which were easier to attain when the Muslims were disunited. The crusading
framework did not substitute the Reconquista as the main ideological ethos. It only supple-
mented Iberian principles which were tightly linked to social aspirations to expand when the
additional energy of non-Iberian warriors was needed, when an extra ideological impulse
was added to face the conquests of important cities or to check the advance of potent North
African armies, as it happened at the battle of Las Navas de Tolosa (1212), or finally when
kings thought that a crusading appendage increased their prestige.
RECONQUISTA AFTER THE END OF THE

RECONQUISTA? CHRISTIAN KINGDOMS AND
THE EMIRATE OF GRANADA, MID-THIRTEENTH
TO LATE FIFTEENTH CENTURIES
The greatest Christian territorial advances in Iberia took place in the 1230s and 1240s led by
Kings James I of Aragon and Ferdinand III of Castile-León. The Balearic Islands, the region
of Valencia and a considerable part of Andalusia fell to them after the Almohads failed to
consolidate unity in al-Andalus and new taifas began to emerge as a result of the Muslim
defeat at Las Navas (1212) and the retreat of the Almohad contingent to North Africa.
Historians who identify Reconquista with seizure of Moorish territories assume that the
long process of expansion had finished by the middle of the thirteenth century. Once Jaén,
south of the Guadalquivir river, was captured in 1246 the emir of Granada decided to cut
his prospective losses and became a vassal of the Leonese-Castilian king. Seville opted for
confrontation, but it became clear not long after that it stood little chances of success. The
city capitulated in 1248. By that time the most substantial part of the Guadalquivir valley
was in Christian hands.
Reconquista was, however, mainly concerned with restoring Christian rule, which was
done not only through conquests and land acquisition, but also through submission leading
to vassal emirates. Ferdinand III chose that alternative in 1246 in relation to Granada and
the region kept that status for nearly two hundred and fifty years. Few Moorish districts
were fully integrated into the Crown of Castile since the 1250s, but Reconquista principles
still shaped relationships with the remaining autonomous Muslims in south-eastern Iberia
in the following centuries. Two were the major questions under consideration in Castilian
policy towards Granada: the control of the Strait of Gibraltar and the nature of the contacts
with the Naṣrid emirate.
From North Africa came the only possibility of help to the Muslims of Granada, although
relationships between al-Andalus and the African empires had always been shifty: the need
175
of military assistance was counterbalanced by utter reluctance to the unitary purposes of

either Almoravids, Almohads or Marīnids. The Strait was the sea route to keep assistance to
Granada active. It was centred on the key posts of Algeciras and Gibraltar, once the Atlantic
side came under the control of the Castilians after the seizure of Niebla (1262) and Cadiz
(early 1260s), and the most southern point of the Iberian Peninsula, Tarifa, was taken in
1292. The main strategic objective of Castilian kings was for decades to check an easy con-
nection between the Iberian and African shores. The battle of El Salado (1340) was decisive
in this regard. Once again and following the trail of crusading views on so many conquests
and battles, it has been considered primarily a crusade. The much repeated argument is valid
here: Iberian Christian strategies structured and fuelled by Reconquista principles were at
the heart of that conflict on the Christian side. Crusade was the usual resort to boost native
ideology and military efficiency. No more than that.
Victory at El Salado was followed by the capture of Algeciras in 1344, but these cam-
paigns abruptly ended with Alfonso XI of Castile’s death caused by the bubonic plague
in 1350 while laying siege to Gibraltar. The Crown of Castile soon entered years of inner
turmoil which concluded with the killing of Alfonso’s successor Peter I (1350–69) and with
a new dynasty, the Trastamaras, reaching power. Then came a long period of social and
political readjustment at times of severe structural crisis that was common to most European
regions. The emirate of Granada was not the first priority either to kings who were reas-
serting their rule or to a new nobility, formed by upstarts who benefitted from the dynas-
tic change and who were finding their way to and through power. Only at the beginning
of the fifteenth century did the regent Fernando, soon to become king of Aragon, resume
campaigns against Granada and seize the important post of Antequera (1410). The Naṣrid
emirate was again on the agenda of Castilian kings and nobles, and some positions on the
frontier were taken, but no fully fledged effort for an outright conquest of the whole territory
was made until the Catholic kings started operations in the early 1480s, which concluded
with their entry into the city of Granada on 2 January 1492.
The key aspect related to the long campaign of Granada is not the deconstruction of
its crusading nature (it may be done following the arguments put forward above), but the
understanding of what Reconquista principles meant to Isabella of Castile (1474–1504)
and Ferdinand of Aragon (1479–1516) who married in 1469. Ideas about restauratio were
central to Iberian political ideology all along the Middle Ages, but they were interpreted
by monarchs, ruling elites and societies in general in very different ways depending on the
times. They were expression of specific periods and were coloured by them, as happened
to any other contemporary aspect. Restauratio/Reconquista was certainly not an immuta-
ble message that had run through without alterations since its inception in ninth-century
Asturias. Kings and nobilities had perspectives in the later Middle Ages which were dis-
similar from those of the thirteenth or earlier centuries. The previous precarious balance
between monarchs and nobles had given way to the construction of states around kings with
the help of the new ruling classes. The aim of reinforcing royal power to levels unknown in
previous centuries and of converting it into a potent political and administrative machinery
tainted Reconquista ideals. These began to be not only focused on reinstating Christian
religious and territorial domination as in times past. Ferdinand and Isabella abandoned prac-
tices of vassalage, related in this case to the Muslims, in favour of religious and political
unity, and this implied a certain degree of uniformity in rulership and beliefs. The Castilian-
Aragonese monarchy began to change the focus from vassals and vassalage to subjects fully
integrated in the project of a new political structure: a state of which kings were the axis.
176
Granada, as a vassal emirate that was integrated into a feudal political structure, had
its place and meaning at the time of its establishment in the thirteenth century. It had to
be conquered when it ceased to be operative to Castile in the late fifteenth century. Then
the Reconquista finished. The nature of the War of Granada was strictly no longer related
to a question of ‘restoring’ what had been lost in 711, but of building up a new political
frame, post-medieval in many aspects though it may keep the neo-Visigothic rhetoric (King
Ferdinand as a new Pelayo) and the use of crusading apparatus. Resorting to the crusade
in the way of papal bulls rather than in the contribution of non-peninsular warriors served
the Catholic kings as a financial bonus and as a speedy way of building up a positive image
of the Castilian-Aragonese monarchy in the papal court. Ferdinand II was especially inter-
ested in this last point due to the Italian commitments of the Crown of Aragon. Soon after
Granada fell, war broke out between France and Castile-Aragon on account of the Kingdom
of Naples. The pope’s support to Ferdinand II’s anti-French policies was a quick response
to favour whom the papacy regarded as a crusading king. High Roman ecclesiastical circles
conceived the crusade in the most traditional papally centred way. But it was only instru-
mental for the Catholic kings who wrapped the last Reconquista campaign in such bright
institutional colours with purposes which mostly were related to it only in an indirect way;
one of the most relevant was to benefit the Mediterranean policy of the Crown of Aragon.
The usual Iberian policy of ‘crusadising’ the most important military operations of the
Reconquista was this time highly successful in terms of propaganda: on 19 December 1496
Pope Alexander VII conferred upon Isabella and Ferdinand the title of ‘Catholic kings’.
NOTES
1 A recent approach to this complex series of events is in Luis A. García Moreno, España, 702–719:
La conquista musulmana (Seville, 2013).
2 An English translation from Arabic by Olivia R. Constable in Medieval Iberia: Readings from
Christian, Muslim and Jewish Sources, ed. Olivia Remie Constable (Philadelphia, 1997), 37–8.
3 Martín F. Rios Saloma, La Reconquista. Una construcción historiográfica (siglos XVI-XIX)
(Madrid, 2011).
4 Both authors produced abundant literature to support their arguments. The basic texts which had
many updated re-editions to fuel the controversy are: Claudio Sánchez Albornoz, España, un
enigma histórico, 2 vols (Buenos Aires, 1956), English translation by Colette Joly Dees and David
Sven Reher (Madrid, 1975); Americo Castro, La realidad histórica de España (México, 1954),
English translation by Williard F. King and Selma Margaretten as The Spaniards. An Introduction
to their History (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1971).
5 Stanley G. Payne, Spanish Catholicism: An Historical Overview (Madison, WI, 1984), 171–9.
The first Francoist official history of the war unambiguously referred to it as a crusade: Joaquín
Arrarás Iribarren, Historia de la cruzada española, 8 vols (Madrid, 1939–43).
6 One among many possible examples is included in one of Rafael Altamira’s contributions to
the Cambridge Medieval History: ‘Spain, 1031–1248’, CMH, vol. 6: Victory of the Papacy, ed.
J. R. Tanner, C. W. Previté-Orton and Z. N. Brooke (Cambridge, 1929), 420–1: ‘Meanwhile, the
Spain of the reconquest, by continual crusades against the Muslims, was the strongest rampart for
the rest of Europe, and saved the Christian world from an invasion which would otherwise had
been easier on the Western side.’
7 José Goñi Gaztambide, Historia de la Bula de la Cruzada en España (Vitoria, 1958).
8 Goñi Gaztambide, Historia de la Bula de la Cruzada en España, ch. 2 ‘La Reconquista, guerra
santa’, 14–42, and ch. 3 ‘La Reconquista, verdadera cruzada’, 43–62.
9 Joseph F. O’Callaghan, Reconquest and Crusade in Medieval Spain (Philadelphia, 2003).
177
10 O’Callaghan, Reconquest and Crusade in Medieval Spain, xi.

11 Joseph F. O’Callaghan, The Gibraltar Crusade: Castile and the Battle for the Strait (Philadelphia,
2011); Joseph F. O’Callaghan, The Last Crusade in the West: Castile and the Conquest of
Granada (Philadelphia, 2014). For the fifteenth century, see also John Edwards, ‘Reconquista and
Crusade in Fifteenth-Century Spain’ in Crusading in the Fifteenth Century: Message and Impact,
ed. Norman Housley (Basingstoke, 2004), 163–81.
12 Richard A. Fletcher, ‘Reconquest and Crusade in Spain, c.1050–1150’, Transactions of the Royal
Historical Society, 5th series, 37 (1987), 31–47.
13 Fletcher, ‘Reconquest and Crusade in Spain, c.1050–1150’, 36.
14 Fletcher, ‘Reconquest and Crusade in Spain, c.1050–1150’, 38.

15 O’Callaghan, Reconquest and Crusade in Medieval Spain, p. 11.
16 Martín F. Ríos Saloma, ‘De la Restauración a la Reconquista: la construcción de un mito nacional
(Una revisión historiográfica. Siglos XVI–XIX)’, En la España Medieval 28 (2005), 379–414,
here 398–402; also in Ríos Saloma, La Reconquista. Una construcción historiográfica (siglos
XVI–XIX), 147–52.
17 Claudio Sánchez Albornoz, Despoblación y repoblación del valle del Duero (Buenos Aires,
1966).
18 The ‘cycle of Asturian chronicles’, as historians label this remarkable production, comprises the
Chronica Albeldensia, 881–3, the ‘Prophetic Chronicle’, 883, and the two ‘Chronicles of Alfonso
III’, which mention the latter and so are post-883: Crónicas asturianas, ed. Juan Gil Fernández and
Juan Ignacio Ruiz de la Peña, Spanish trans. José Luis Moralejo (Oviedo, 1985); also Chroniques
asturiennes (fin du IXe siècle), ed. Yves Bonnaz (Paris, 1987).
19 Derek Lomak assumed that the Reconquista ‘was an ideal invented by Spanish Christians soon
after 711’: The Reconquest of Spain (London, 1978), 1. Peter Linehan placed the invention in the
880s: History and the Historians of Medieval Spain (Oxford, 1993), 103 and in general ch. 4 ‘The
Invention of the Reconquest’, 95–127. He came to the conclusion that it was a myth which was
not shaped as such in the medieval centuries. It was rather moulded in modern times as the central
part of the ideological historical basis of Spanish nationalism.
20 Crònica o Llibre del feits, in Les quatre grans cròniques, ed. Ferran Soldevila, 2nd edn (Barcelona,
1983). English translation: The Book of Deeds of James I of Aragon: A Translation of the Medieval
Catalan Llibre dels Fets, trans. Damian Smith and Helena Buffery (Aldershot, 2003).
21 ‘Sennor te dexo de toda la tierra de mar aca, que los moros del rey Rodrigo de Espanna ganado
ovieron; et en tu sennorio finca toda: la una conquerida, la otra tributada’ (italics are mine),
Primera Crónica General de España, ed. Ramón Menéndez Pidal, 2nd edn, 2 vols (Madrid,
1955), II:1132, p. 772. English translation from J. F. O’Callaghan, Reconquest and Crusade, 8.
178
179
PART III
THE LATIN EAST

CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE VENETIAN PRESENCE IN

THE CRUSADER LORDSHIP OF TYRE:
A TALE OF DECLINE
David Jacoby
T yre was among the last Fatimid strongholds along the Levantine coast resisting Christian
conquest after the First Crusade. It was eventually captured in 1124 by the forces of
the Latin kingdom, supported by a contingent from the County of Tripoli and a Venetian
fleet. The lordship of Tyre, which consisted of the city and its countryside, was included in
the royal domain until 1187, except for the years 1129–31 when Fulk of Anjou held it as
fief before ascending the throne of Jerusalem. Following the Frankish defeat at the battle of
Hattin in 1187, Tyre remained for some four years the only city of the Latin kingdom under
Frankish rule, while its countryside was occupied by Sultan Saladin of Egypt. The lord-
ship of Tyre was once more included in the royal domain after the conclusion of the Third
Crusade in 1191. The forces of Emperor Frederick II of Hohenstaufen occupied the city
from autumn 1231 until June 1242. They were defeated then by the baronial party, backed
by Marsilio Zorzi who had arrived at Acre in the spring of that year to serve as Venetian
bailo or state representative in the Levant. Following Tyre’s conquest, Balian of Ibelin, lord
of Beirut, was appointed royal custodian of the lordship of Tyre on behalf of Queen Alice
of Cyprus, regent of the Kingdom of Jerusalem (Jacoby, 1986a; Jackson, 1986). In 1246
King Henry I of Cyprus, regent of the kingdom, assigned the lordship’s custody to Philip of
Montfort, who proclaimed himself lord of Tyre. King Hugh III recognized his possession
of the lordship around 1269. Philip was succeeded in 1270 by his son John, who was com-
pelled in the same year to enter a treaty with Sultan Baybars I of Egypt. John maintained
his rule over the city of Tyre and its immediate surroundings, he retained ten villages, yet
five others were transferred to the sultan and the revenue from the remaining rural territory
was divided between them. John of Montfort died in 1283, and his widow Margaret agreed
in 1285 to a ten-year truce with Sultan Qalawun of Egypt, which confirmed the treaty of
1270 (Holt, 1995: 106–117). Frankish rule over the lordship of Tyre came to an end with the
Mamluk occupation of the city in 1291.
Venice’s presence and Venetian activity in the lordship of Tyre until 1291 are docu-
mented by royal and seigniorial charters, chronicles, notary records, resolutions adopted
by Venetian state institutions, and above all by a report compiled by Marsilio Zorzi
between 1242 and 1244. He collected extensive oral evidence, some from old people
181
— David Jacoby —
(Berggötz, 1991: 29, 101: “per anticos nostros qui in Syria demorantur”), as well as from
documents regarding Venetian privileges, assets, and losses incurred in the lordship of
Tyre, Acre, and Cyprus. Zorzi completed his report by August 1244 at the latest, and
after returning to Venice in the autumn of that year submitted it to the Venetian doge
(Berggötz, 1991: 1–42; Jacoby, 1986a: 85–87, 93). Once the scattered evidence is col-
lected and assembled in proper chronological order, it may be possible to determine to
what extent Venice managed to uphold its interests in the city and countryside of Tyre.
The foundation of Venice’s standing, property and privileges in the lordship was estab-
lished in 1123 by its treaty with Gormond of Picquigny, Patriarch of Jerusalem, acting in
the name of Baldwin II who was in Muslim captivity. The so-called Pactum Warmundi
assigned one-third of the city and its countryside to Venice as a reward for its expected
naval assistance in the city’s conquest. Venice was to hold its section of the lordship as a
collective allodium in which it would exercise the same rights as the king in his own domain
(Mayer, 2010: III, 1333–1337, no. 764; Jacoby, 1997a: 157–163, especially 157–158). The
inclusion of an extensive section of the countryside was clearly made at Venice’s insist-
ence. This was a striking departure from the Venetian policy regarding the acquisition of
property in a foreign land, which in Byzantium had been limited to an urban center, namely
Constantinople (Jacoby, 2001: 154–156).
The treaty of 1123 was apparently implemented shortly after Tyre’s conquest in the
following year. Marsilio Zorzi does not always accurately date past events, yet his state-
ment that Venice held its portion of the countryside “since the conquest of the city of Tyre”
may be taken at face value. By 1123 that rural area had already been occupied for several
years by Christian forces and the Venetians were thus fully acquainted with its resources,
which included extensive sugar-cane plantations (Berggötz, 1991: 149–150). Since there
is some confusion in Marsilio Zorzi’s report, it is impossible to arrive at the exact number
of villages included in Venice’s section of the countryside, yet it appears to have consisted
of some twenty whole villages and one-third of some fifty villages, in fact, one-third of
their revenue. The treaty of 1285 between Sultan Qalawun of Egypt and Margaret, John of
Montfort’s widow, describes how shared revenue from villages in the Levant was assem-
bled and divided (Holt, 1995: 111–114, pars. 4–8).
Venice also obtained a section of the city of Tyre and a yearly lump sum of 300 bezants
from the revenue of the royal funda, the toll station at the city’s land gate. In addition, the
parties determined the sources of royal revenue from which one-third would be allocated to
Venice. These included the remaining revenue from the funda, the revenue from the chaine
or toll office in the harbor, as well as sales and other taxes, listed later by Marsilio Zorzi
(Berggötz, 1991: 166–167, and see below). The Venetian church of San Marco in Tyre was
built shortly after the conquest with revenue from the Venetian quarter (Berggötz, 1991:
143, ll. 1–2; Tafel and Thomas, 1856–1857: I, 140 = Pozza, 1994, 70–71). It is first attested
in 1137 (Morozzo della Rocca and Lombardo, 1940: I, 126–127, no. 126).
After returning from captivity, King Baldwin II concluded a new treaty with Venice in
1125, by which he reasserted royal authority over the Venetian share of the lordship. Its
section of the city and the countryside lost its allodial status and became a fief held from
the king. This change was closely linked to a new clause in the treaty. It defined Venice’s
obligation to participate in the defense of the Kingdom of Jerusalem “to the extent that the
revenue of the third portion [of the lordship of Tyre granted to Venice] can suitably bear”
(Mayer, 2010: I, 245). This rather vague formula implies some kind of relation between
revenue and military service, yet it obviously also concealed a more precise understanding
182
— c h a p t e r 1 1 : Ve n e t i a n p r e s e n c e i n t h e l o r d s h i p o f Ty r e —
between Venice and the king. In order to fulfill its obligation Venice established several
fiefs within its portion of the lordship soon after the latter’s conquest (Berggötz, 1991:
156, 169). The fiefs consisted of land in the countryside, a house in town (Berggötz, 1991:
159, ll. 1–2; 161, ll. 14–15; 169, ll. 14–19), and in some cases also revenue in cash (see
below). The fiefholders owed military service as horsemen (Jacoby, 1997a: 163–164).
Marsilio Zorzi mentioned two of the original fiefholders, both members of prominent fami-
lies in Venice, namely Vitale Pantaleo and Rolando Contarini maior.
The fief of Vitale Pantaleo, surnamed Malvisino, consisted of two entire villages,
Dairrham and Gaifiha, a third of the villages of Maharona and Cafardani, both shared with
the king; some other landed property; a house in Tyre, inhabited in Marsilio Zorzi’s time by
Guglielmo Zorzani and his wife of the Pantaleo family, which incidentally reveals that the
fief was hereditary; finally, sixty bezants from Venice’s portion of the revenue yielded by a
royal market of musical instruments (Berggötz, 1991: 156–159, 167). Precious information
regarding Vitale Pantaleo and his fief appears in a notary charter, the full implications of
which have been overlooked so far (Morozzo della Rocca and Lombardo, 1940: I, 126–127,
no. 126). Around 1137 he asked Pietro Morosini, the parish priest of the Venetian church of
San Marco in Tyre, to draft his will, since he feared “sudden death when going to the army
and [in] battle.” In 1137, the reference is either to the expedition of King Fulk of Anjou to
counter in the county of Tripoli the offensive of Zengi, the atabeg of Mosul, or to the forces
gathered somewhat later by William of Messines, Patriarch of Jerusalem, to assist the king
(Runciman 1952–54: II, 203–204).
In his will, Vitale Pantaleo bequeathed his fief to his own brother Pietro, who had visited
him two or three times since 1124, obviously in the course of commercial operations. Vitale
entrusted a pouch containing the document and additional charters bearing on his fief and
other land to the priest, who was to deliver them after his death to Pietro. Vitale Pantaleo
died without offspring in Tyre in the first months of 1157. Shortly afterwards his nephew
Giovanni, Pietro’s son, was informed of this event while trading in the Byzantine Empire
and hastened to Tyre. He settled in Vitale’s house and requested the latter’s pouch of char-
ters from the priest in his own father’s name. It was his intention to keep the house until
his father’s arrival and thereby uphold the latter’s claim to the fief. When the priest Pietro
Morosini refused to comply with his request, Giovanni Pantaleo assembled in April 1157
in the local church of San Marco all the Venetians he could find in Tyre, who unanimously
supported him. After a lively and noisy debate, the priest finally gave in, but duly stated
that he had done so under duress, “because of the calls and shouting at me” (“propter voces
et vociferaciones que fuerunt facte supra me”). The notary charter recording the episode of
1157 was drafted at the request of two residents of Tyre. One of them was Ambrogio Bon,
milex (sic), whose surname appears among those of Venetian prominent families and whose
title suggests that he too was a Venetian fiefholder, probably one of the original ones settled
in the city. We have no other information about him.
The episode of 1157 reveals three important facts. First, prior to 1137 Vitale Pantaleo
had apparently participated in military operations and in any event had been called up for
another one in or around that year. Venice had thus duly implemented its military obliga-
tion to contribute to the defense of the kingdom. It had established a clear link between
the holding of fiefs granted by the doge to its citizens (Berggötz, 1991: 156, ll. 12–13) and
military service, in accordance with the custom prevailing in the Kingdom of Jerusalem.
Venice had also borrowed the term miles for fiefholder from ‘feudal’ terminology. Second,
there was no permanent or even temporary Venetian state representative or administration
183
in Tyre in 1137, nor in 1157. Instead, the parish priest of San Marco, settled in the city for
more than twenty years, acted as substitute for the state, fulfilling administrative functions
such as drafting the will of Vitale Pantaleo and safeguarding documents at his church,
like contemporary Venetian clerics and their establishments in Byzantium (Jacoby, 2015:
77–78). In addition, in the absence of a state representative or state institution, the Venetian
citizens who happened to be in Tyre, both settlers and visiting merchants, acted collectively
as a decision-making body in a specific case. Third, since Vitale Pantaleo was childless in
1137, he willed his fief to his brother, considering that it was hereditary or transmissible
within the family, which indeed it was, and as noted above further evidence in that respect
will be adduced below.

The earliest datable loss incurred by Venice is related to the annual allocation of 300
bezants from the royal funda of Tyre, which in 1243 yielded 1,900 bezants (Berggötz, 1991:
167). We may safely assume that Baldwin II was the king who transferred that royal obliga-
tion to the catena or harbor customs of Acre, after granting the lordship of Tyre to Fulk of
Anjou in 1129. The latter unilaterally suspended the yearly payment, clearly during his rule
as king of Jerusalem from 1131 to 1143. Venice attempted yet failed to recover it in 1164
(Tafel and Thomas, 1856–57: I, 141 = Pozza, 1994, 71).
A few years later Venice suffered a far more serious blow by losing a large portion of its
property in the lordship of Tyre, namely almost the entire fief of Rolando Contarini maior,
who lived during the reign of King Fulk of Anjou which extended from 1131 to 1143. The
formula “since the time of Rolando Contarini,” used by Doge Vitale Michiel in 1164 (Tafel
and Thomas, 1856–57: I, 140–144, especially 141 = Pozza, 1994, 70–73, especially 71),
points to the standing of this Venetian citizen as the most prominent Venetian fiefholder
with the largest holdings in the lordship of Tyre soon after 1124. The whole issue of his
fief has been obscured by the fact that two additional members of the same family bear-
ing an identical name later appeared in the lordship. His fief included twelve whole vil-
lages, most of which formed a compact territory south of Tyre, a third of four additional
villages, and a house in the Venetian section of Tyre. The fief owed the service of three
horsemen (Berggötz, 1991: 72–73, 169). Rolando Contarini’s widow, Guida, a member of
the Venetian Gradenigo family, held in fief from Venice the village of Mahallia, one-third
of four other villages, and a house in the city of Tyre, none of which is included in the
inventory of her husband’s fief (Berggötz, 1991: 157, 161, 169).1 These assets presum-
ably belonged to Guida’s inheritance, which suggests the presence of her father among the
original Venetian fiefholders. According to Marsilio Zorzi, when Rolando Contarini died
childless, sometime between 1131 and 1157,2 the Venetian baiulus or state representative
requested his widow to return his fief to the state, or Commune as it was called. In fact, there
was no Venetian state officer in Tyre at that time, as noted above, which explains why the
Commune failed to take hold of the fief. Guida placed herself under royal protection and,
moreover, bequeathed the fief of her deceased husband to the king in order to keep it dur-
ing her lifetime. The king seized the rural assets of the fief after her death, which occurred
before 1187 (Berggötz, 1991: 31). Most usurped property was never recovered by Venice
(Berggötz, 1991: 169–170). Still, Venice managed to retain Guida’s village of Mahallia
(Berggötz, 1991: 156–157).
Around the time at which Rolando Contarini’s fief was lost or somewhat later another
development affected Venice’s rights and assets, this time in the city of Tyre. Pisa’s prop-
erty in the city was at first limited to five houses in the vicinity of the harbor, conferred by
King Baldwin II within the years 1124–29. The grant was confirmed and additions were
184
made in 1156 and 1165 (Mayer, 2010: I, 263–265, no. 106; 446–449, no. 242; II, 541–544).
Pisa also bought a fondaco or caravanserai from one of the kings of Jerusalem, possibly in
1168 when King Amalric granted the Pisans a quarter in Acre (Mayer, 2010: II, 564–568,
no. 327), or somewhat later.3 The fondaco was situated east of the Venetian quarter, faced
the harbor, and extended along a street shared by the king and Venice leading to the har-
bor customs (catena), along which there was a shop and a city gate. After obtaining the
fondaco, the Pisans built their church of San Pietro above the shop and the city gate in
such a way that it encroached upon Venetian territory and left a passageway in the street
only some five Venetian feet or 1.74 meters wide. Zorzi states that this had happened so
long ago that he could not find anyone remembering it (Berggötz, 1991: 167–168; Pringle,
1993–2009: IV, 220, and map on 212).4 Only the absence of Venetian reaction and possible
royal connivance while construction was underway may explain this violation of Venetian
territorial rights.
Originally Venice must have owed the service of five horsemen, if not more: the fief of
Rolando Contarini maior providing three, as noted above, Vitale Pantaleo’s one, Ambrogio
Bon’s one, and the fief of Guida Contarini’s father possibly one. Yet according to a list
dated to 1185 or 1186, included in the Livre des Assises compiled by John of Ibelin,
Venice’s obligation of military service to the king was limited to three out of a total of
twenty-eight “chevaliers,” or horsemen, owed by the lordship of Tyre (John of Ibelin, 2003:
613; Edbury, 1997: 122, 129–131). Clearly, Venice had obtained a reduction of its military
burden, undoubtedly following the loss of the fief of Rolando maior and most of Guida’s
fief. These losses had seriously curtailed Venice’s holdings in the lordship of Tyre.5
The service of three Venetian fiefholders was renewed after the recovery of Tyre’s coun-
tryside from Saladin in 1191. Vitale Falier was then reinstated in the fief he had obtained
in 1171. In 1206 he returned it to the doge, most likely because he was unable to further
perform his military service (Tafel and Thomas, 1856–57: II, 11–13). The fief of Vitale
Pantaleo, acquired by his brother Pietro in 1157 or shortly afterwards, was in the hands of an
unknown descendant or relative of his after 1191. Some fifty years later, in Marsilio Zorzi’s
time, it was held by Guglielmo Zorzani (Berggötz, 1991: 150, l. 7: Guillielmus Iordanis) in
the name of his wife, who was a Pantaleo (Berggötz, 1991: 153, ll. 17–18; 155, ll. 2–3; 158,
l. 23–159, l. 2). The third fiefholder was Rolando Contarini (here Rolando II), a relative yet
not a direct descendant of the one surnamed maior, who had died without issue and whose
fief had been lost, as noted above. Rolando II arrived in Tyre at an unknown date and held a
Venetian fief while Pantaleo Barbo served as Venetian state representative in the Kingdom
of Jerusalem during the rule of Count Henry of Champagne, which extended from May
1192 to September 1197 (Berggötz, 1991: 155, 159–161, 171).6 This was a new fief, espe-
cially established for Rolando II. Significantly, none of its components had ever belonged
to the fiefs of either Rolando Contarini maior or his wife Guida. This also applies to a house
in town, distinct from the one held by Rolando maior, although the two were contiguous
(Berggötz, 1991: 169). Pantaleo Barbo authorized Rolando II to sell a piece of land called
Fossa, a move that in fact reduced the fief’s revenue. Vitale Galafarius, tutor of the grandson
of Rolando II called Rolando minor, who had inherited his fief, recovered Fossa and thus
restored the territorial integrity of the fief while Stefano Giustinian served as Venetian state
representative in the kingdom (Berggötz, 1991: 161), presumably in the early 1230s.7
Marsilio Zorzi may have obtained a confirmation of the reduced load of military service
in 1242. Significantly, he tacitly recognized the seemingly irreversible royal annexation
of Rolando’s fief. While he minutely describes its content and relates the circumstances
185
of its loss (Berggötz, 1991: 169–170), he fails to insist upon Venice’s legal rights to the
property, as he systematically does with expressions such as “in eo habemus ius” or “in quo
dicimus habere terciam [partem]” when mentioning other lost Venetian assets (Berggötz,
1991: 159–160).
Venice’s position in the lordship of Tyre was considerably weakened in the years fol-
lowing the Frankish defeat at Hattin in 1187. Conrad of Montferrat arrived at Tyre shortly
afterwards. From the summer of 1189 until the fall of Acre in 1191 the two commanders of
the Venetian fleet operating in Levantine waters, who served as official state representatives
in Tyre, refrained from supporting him in his dispute with King Guy of Lusignan over the
royal crown (Jacoby, 1993: 190, 193–194, 213–223). In that period, Conrad confiscated a
large house in which he established a royal mint, yet later granted the house to the Genoese
Ansaldo Bonvicini, whose son held it when Zorzi compiled his report (Berggötz, 1991: 159,
168).8 In May 1188 Conrad also granted to the Pisan Societas Vermiliorum, a military asso-
ciation created in Tyre during the city’s siege by Saladin, several villages of which Venice
was entitled to one-third of the revenue (Mayer, 2010: II, 882–885, no. 524). It is unclear
whether Venice had already lost its portion of these villages, or whether Conrad disregarded
Venice’s rights because it failed to support him. In any event, the grant remained meaning-
less, since the villages were situated in the countryside occupied by Saladin at that time, and
the Societas Vermiliorum is not attested after the Christian forces recovered that territory,
presumably because it dissolved once Tyre’s siege ended.
In 1191 Venice submitted a copy of the Pactum Warmundi to Conrad of Montferrat,
although the charter issued by King Baldwin II to Venice in 1125 had superseded it and
was the authoritative document defining Venice’s assets and privileges (Jacoby, 1997a:
165–166). Uncertainty about the recovery of Venice’s property in Tyre’s countryside may
have prompted the choice of the Pactum Warmundi, since it lacked the military obligations
based on that property included in the charter of 1125 issued By Baldwin II. Conrad’s
confirmation of the Pactum Warmundi in 1191 or 1192 (Mayer, 2010: II, 900–904) did not
prevent further Venetian losses.
Indeed, the recovery of the rural hinterland of Tyre in 1191, after almost four years of
Muslim occupation, signaled the beginning of an accelerated and continuous erosion of
Venetian property and rights in that area. It was far more extensive than in the city. Several
lords previously sharing villages with Venice usurped the latter’s portion or curtailed its
revenue, as illustrated by numerous entries in Marsilio Zorzi’s report. He recorded that in
the village of Betheron, jointly held by Venice and the archbishops of Tyre, three pieces of
land belonging to Venice had been held by the archbishops for fifty years, “since the time
of Sultan Saladin,” a reference to 1191. Other Venetian pieces of land had been entirely
taken over by successive archbishops during the previous forty, twenty, fifteen, ten or five
years respectively (Berggötz, 1991: 161–162). Vitale Galafarius, an old man by the 1240s,
testified how the Venetian section of Sedim, a village shared with the king, had been lost.
He was in charge of its cultivation at the time of Pantaleo Barbo, thus between 1192 and
1197. Barbo requested the implementation of the customary division of the total revenue
from the village, presumably because it was not implemented or had been curtailed. Henry
of Champagne, who ruled over the kingdom, flatly refused and seized the Venetian section,
which since then had remained in royal hands (Berggötz, 1991: 170, ll. 4–6; 171).
Tommaso Dulce, Vitale Galafarius and others reported that because of neglect the
Venetian state representative Domenico Acotanto had lost the Venetian section of the vil-
lage of Teyrfebne, presumably in 1198 or 1199. When royal officers realized that it was
186
abandoned and not effectively supervised by Venice, they seized it for the king (Berggötz,
1991: 170; Favreau-Lilie, 1999: 228, n. 49, for the dating of his office). A vineyard planted
“at the time of the capture of Damietta” in Egypt during the Fifth Crusade, thus in 1219, had
also been lost (Berggötz, 1991: 161–165, especially 163). In the village of Hanoe shared
with the Templar Order, Venice had enjoyed for a long time no more than one-eighth of the
revenue, instead of the third it was entitled to (Berggötz, 1991: 154).
Venice was also deprived of property confiscated by the royal administration on judicial
grounds. At an unspecified date, yet many years before 1231 when Riccardo Filangieri
occupied Tyre on behalf of Frederick II, a Venetian mill in the vicinity of Tyre had been
leased out for five years at the annual rate of 100 bezants. After the miller committed a
murder, he was arrested and the mill confiscated by royal officers as if it were the king’s
property. Marsilio Zorzi failed to recover it and it remained in royal hands (Berggötz, 1991:
151, 171). Criminal justice, a royal prerogative (see below), thus provided the king’s offic-
ers with opportunities to encroach upon Venetian property.
Venice also suffered losses in jurisdiction and taxation inside its own quarter of Tyre.
According to Zorzi, Jews living in the quarter had been subjected to royal jurisdiction
and taxation for some fifty years, thus from the 1190s either under the rule of Conrad of
Montferrat or of Henry of Champagne. The royal treasury collected the annual tax of one
bezant levied from all Jewish males in the city having reached the age of fifteen. Royal
jurisdiction had also been imposed upon the Syrian or Oriental Christian weavers residing
in the Venetian quarter, who were required to pay to the king what appears to be a monthly
license fee imposed upon their workshops (Berggötz, 1991: 139–140).9
The infringements of Venetian privileges markedly increased during the reign of John
of Brienne, whose rule extended from 1210 to 1225. King John exempted the Syrians liv-
ing in the royal section of the city from dues at the catena or harbor customs, in order to
lure their brethren residing in the Venetian quarter, who did not enjoy such an exemption,
to move to his own section of the city (Berggötz, 1991: 166–167). Apparently the measure
was only partly successful and, therefore, the king extended royal jurisdiction over all the
Syrians remaining in the Venetian quarter, while previously only Syrian weavers had been
submitted to it (Berggötz, 1991: 139). He also extended royal taxation to the Venetian
quarter and unified tax collection under the royal muhtasib or iusticiarius in the entire city
of Tyre, regardless of Venice’s rights in its own quarter. Without referring to John, Zorzi
mentions in his report a specific case which illustrates this step, namely the royal tax of 4
denarii on the slaughtering of pigs called tuazo, a survival from Fatimid times (Berggötz,
1991: 140–141, 167; Riley-Smith, 1973: 84). In view of the various measures introduced
by John of Brienne, we may safely ascribe to him the usurpation of Venice’s portion of the
revenues from customs dues at the catena and at the city’s land gate, as well as from sales
taxes on musical instruments, grain, wine, beer, olive and sesame oil, milk, fish, spices,
glass and candles, the collection of which the royal treasury granted to individuals under
lease (Berggötz, 1991: 140, 166–167). The extension of royal jurisdiction and taxation over
the Venetian quarter of Tyre, as if it were part of the royal domain, amounted to the col-
lapse of the quarter’s de facto exterritorial status, and the loss of revenue previously shared
with the king outside the quarter abolished the remnants of Venetian rights and privileges
obtained in 1123 and 1125. John of Brienne’s harsh measures against Venice were most
likely prompted by the dire state of the royal treasury, attested by various sources, following
his participation in the military campaign in Egypt from 1218 to 1220, in the framework of
the Fifth Crusade (Favreau-Lilie, 1986: 437, n. 13, on his indebtedness).
187
Venice must have recovered some assets and revenues after the reign of John of Brienne,
at the latest in the first years following Riccardo Filangieri’s occupation of Tyre in 1231 on
behalf of Emperor Frederick II. The emperor was attempting then to ensure Venice’s sup-
port in Italy. A renewed loss occurred after Venice turned against the emperor from 1237
onward, in any event following its treaty of September 1239 with Genoa and Pope Gregory
IX, followed by attacks of the Venetian navy against imperial ships and cities in Apulia
(Kretschmayr, 1905–1934: II, 42–45). Zorzi accused Filangieri of having stripped Venice
of its revenue in the entire lordship of Tyre and requested its restoration, but to no avail
(Berggötz, 1991: 135). He therefore supported the baronial forces in their attack on Tyre
(Jacoby, 1986a: 87, 93–94). Yet even after the city’s conquest in June 1242, to which he had
contributed, Marsilio had to wait several months before achieving some measure of success.
The developments affecting Venice’s assets and privileges from 1187 to 1242 did not
prevent Venetian individuals from remaining in Tyre and retaining their private property in
the city, even under the rule of Riccardo Filangieri. Such was the case with members of the
Dulce (Dulsi, Dous) family. Giacomo was habitator of Tyre in 1189 (Morozzo della Rocca
and Lombardo, 1940: I, 366–367, no. 373). Tommaso, burgensis Tyri, is mentioned in 1200
and 1221. At an unspecified date before 1242 he served as procurator of the local church
of San Marco and as such bought some property on its behalf. He leased various pieces of
property from the Commune. In 1243 he owned a plot of land and several houses. Tommaso
provided Marsilio Zorzi with invaluable information regarding the loss of Venetian state
property in the countryside due to Pantaleo Barbo and Domenico Acotanto, respectively
between 1192 and 1197 and presumably in 1198–99 (Berggötz, 1991: 143, 145, 146, 148,
170–171; Favreau-Lilie, 1999: 228, n. 49, for the second dating). Manasse Dulce, another
member of the family, appears in 1221 and was appointed Venetian vicecomes in Tyre by
Marsilio Zorzi (Favreau-Lilie, 1987: 94, no. 6; Berggötz, 1991: 147, 159). Pietro is recorded
in a document of 1209 dealing with Tyre, yet drafted in Acre, and in 1221 in Tyre (Morozzo
della Rocca and Lombardo, 1940: II, 52–53, no. 513; Favreau-Lilie, 1987: 94, no. 6).
Domenico served as witness in Tyre in 1211 (Morozzo della Rocca and Lombardo, 1940:
II, 69–70, no. 529). Vitale Galafarius had been in charge of the cultivation of the Venetian
section of Sedim at the time of Pantaleo Barbo, thus between 1192 and 1197, and as tutor
of Rolando Contarini minor he bought a piece of land at the time of Stefano Giustiniani,
presumably in the early 1230s (see above). He further served as witness in Tyre in 1218 and
1221 (Favreau-Lilie, 1987: 92, no. 5, Vitale Calefai; 94, no. 6, Vitale Callafatus).
Some other Venetian citizens had also remained in Tyre by 1242 (Berggötz, 1991: 146).
According to Marsilio Zorzi, the city’s Venetian burgenses or residents decisively contrib-
uted to its conquest by the baronial party, presumably by offering information regarding
Riccardo Filangieri’s forces. Some of these Venetians also provided Zorzi with precious
data regarding Venice’s rights, interests and losses in the lordship of Tyre (Berggötz,
1991: 137; see also above). However, Venetian merchants based in other ports most likely
refrained from trading or limited their activity in Tyre, once they were denied the exemp-
tions and special judicial status previously enjoyed by Venetian citizens and subjects.
Following the ouster of the imperial forces from Tyre in June 1242, Balian of Ibelin,
lord of Beirut, one of the two leaders of the baronial party, became royal custodian of the
lordship, and it is with him that Marsilio had henceforth to deal. Balian restored to Venice
its urban quarter and the Commune’s property within its ancient boundaries, except for a
few houses. Marsilio Zorzi mentions one that had belonged to the dowry of a widow, with-
out referring to the date at which its loss had occurred. The house should have reverted to
188
the Commune after the widow’s death, since she was not entitled to alienate it (Berggötz,
1991: 168). Balian of Ibelin held the house that had once belonged to the fief of Guida, the
wife of Rolando Contarini maior. He also held the house that had originally belonged to
the fief of Rolando himself (Berggötz, 1991: 161, 169). Zorzi claims that Pantaleo Barbo
had resided in it when he visited Tyre while serving as Venice’s representative between
1192 and 1197. This would imply that Venice had recovered the house sometime after the
death of Rolando Contarini maior, which is unlikely. It would seem that Zorzi confused this
house with another one that had belonged to the Commune and had occasionally served as
residence of the Venetian representatives based in Acre, when they temporarily stayed in
Tyre. Hugh l’Amiral, a supporter of the baronial party opposing Frederick II, lived in that
house and claimed that it belonged to the dowry of his wife, a daughter of Zunzulino Gazel
(Berggötz, 1991: 168). He had seized it, as well as the Venetian third of the village of Joie
situated in the countryside of Tyre, presumably after his appointment as royal castellan of
Tyre, a function he still held by April 1243 (Berggötz, 1991: 139, 160, 168; Kohler, 1899:
179–180, no. 71).
Following Tyre’s conquest in June 1242, Marsilio Zorzi recovered Venice’s share of
the taxes collected in the royal section of the city and cites the sums obtained (Berggötz,
1991: 166–167). He also regained Venice’s fiscal and judicial authority over its own quarter
and all the latter’s residents, whether Latins, Syrians or Jews (Berggötz, 1991: 139–141).
However, when he asserted that Venice’s jurisdiction over Venetian nationals also extended
to High Justice, he encountered strong opposition, since it was viewed as one of the foremost
expressions of royal and baronial authority. Zorzi and the royal party eventually worked out
a compromise. The royal officers refused to recognize Zorzi’s contention, while transferring
to him Venetian criminals and enabling him to exercise High Justice openly. Zorzi boasts
that he retained this jurisdiction for the rest of his term of office in the Levant. “And these
things we did,” he wrote, “so that our court should be seen doing them.” He was obviously
eager to establish precedents, because he knew that his claim to High Justice was groundless
(Berggötz, 1991: 139; Jacoby, 1997a: 159, 169–171). In order to ensure his enlarged judi-
cial prerogatives, which he considered crucial for Venice’s position in Tyre, he had to forgo
the recovery of the houses of the Venetian quarter that had been lost. As noted earlier, two
of these were held by Balian of Ibelin and another by Hugh l’Amiral, the royal castellan of
Tyre, precisely the two officials who tacitly agreed to Zorzi’s exercise of High Justice with
regard to Venetian nationals.
Zorzi also recovered some of the Commune’s assets in the countryside of Tyre, as illus-
trated by references to angaria or labor services and payments in kind by peasants to the
Commune and to the bailo (Berggötz, 1991: 45–46; 153, ll. 5–7, 11–12, 24–26; 154, ll.
10–13; 155, ll. 13–16; 156, ll. 2–4, 10–11). Payments in kind are also mentioned in 1256
(Cessi, 1931–50: II, 357, par. I). However, most Venetian rural assets usurped by royal
officers or by other lords were lost (Berggötz, 1991: 170–171). The policy adopted by
Balian of Ibelin after the conquest of Tyre in 1242 toward Venice was entirely consistent
with royal interests. The renewal of Venice’s territorial, fiscal and judicial privileges in
the city of Tyre was bound to encourage private Venetian trade and shipping and thereby
enhance the income of the royal treasury. This goal could be achieved without restoring the
Commune’s share of the countryside.
Marsilio Zorzi’s achievements in Tyre were lost during the so-called War of St. Sabas,
which from 1256 to 1258 opposed Venice to Genoa in Acre. Philip of Montfort, lord of Tyre,
who sided with Genoa, expelled the Venetians from his city shortly before the resumption
189
of the war in autumn 1257 (Jacoby, 2003: 243–246). As a result, Venice and its citizens
incurred heavy losses of income in the following twenty years. Philip of Montfort confis-
cated the assets of individual Venetians, as implied by the charter of March 1264 confirming
his treaty with Genoa, which refers to the former shops of Vitale Galefarius (Calefat) and
Pietro Dulce (Dous) and the former two houses of Tommaso Dulce (Dous) (Madia, 1999:
7–12, especially 9). The church, campanile and loggia of San Marco in the Venetian quarter
suffered damage, whether purposely inflicted or as a result of neglect, which implies that
these buildings had not been used for a long time (Tafel and Thomas, 1856–57: III, 153).
Not surprisingly, Tyre does not appear in the anonymous Venetian trading manual compiled
in Acre around 1270 (Jacoby, 1986b).

Fearing a joint attack by Ruggero di San Severino, the representative of Charles of
Anjou, king of Sicily, in the Kingdom of Jerusalem and by Venetian forces, Philip’s suc-
cessor, John of Montfort, reached an agreement in July 1277 with Venice’s bailo in Acre,
Albertino Morosini. In principle it provided for a return to the situation existing during
Marsilio Zorzi’s tenure of office. The Commune recovered its privileges in the lordship of
Tyre, both in the city and in its rural hinterland, and individual Venetians regained posses-
sion of their assets (Tafel and Thomas, 1856–57: III, 150–159; Jacoby, 2003: 172–174).
However, the territorial clause regarding the countryside was clearly unrealistic, following
the agreement concluded by John of Montfort with Sultan Baybars in 1270. The revenue
from villages previously shared by Venice with the kings of Jerusalem and from 1246 with
the lords of Tyre was now divided between John of Montfort and the sultan (Holt, 1995:
111–114, pars. 4–8). The whole of Batiole, which had belonged to Venice according to
Marsilio Zorzi (Berggötz, 1991: 152), was among the villages retained by the lord of Tyre,
and a section of its territory had been seized by the Mamluk governor of Safed (Tafel and
Thomas, 1856–57: III, 398–400).
In the field of jurisdiction, the whole formulation of the agreement of 1277 was sup-
posedly in accordance with the terms of the charter issued by Baldwin II in 1125 and rep-
resented a return to the situation existing during Zorzi’s tenure of office. In fact, John of
Montfort acknowledged the Venetian doge and Commune as the “true lords” of their pos-
sessions (Tafel and Thomas, 1856–57: III, 152); in other words, the latter’s exterritorial
status. He also recognized Venice’s right to exercise criminal, in addition to civil justice
over Venetians, as well as over the permanent and temporary residents of its portion of
Tyre, except for his own liegemen and burgesses. This amounted to a shift from tolerated
exercise of High Justice, as in Marsilio Zorzi’s days, to full authority in that field. John of
Montfort also granted full exemption from taxation on both seaborne and land trade, an
improvement on the privilege of 1125. He further promised to transfer to Venice’s repre-
sentatives the revenue yielded by the property belonging to the Commune and to Venetian
individuals that he and his father had collected in the city and its rural hinterland from
1257 to 1277.
The implementation of the agreement of 1277 was far from smooth. John of Montfort’s
numerous infringements prompted Venice to conduct new negotiations with him in 1283.
All the major issues supposedly settled in 1277 were raised again. Venice instructed its
bailo in Tyre to demand full implementation of the charters of 1125 and 1277 with respect
to fiscal matters and the exercise of justice. The Commune should enjoy its share of the land
and the fiscal revenues of the city and countryside of Tyre, in conformity with their origi-
nal partition, once more a completely unrealistic demand (Cessi, 1931–50: III, 43–44, par.
129; Jacoby, 2003: 174). There is no evidence regarding the outcome of the negotiations
190
between Venice and John of Montfort. Despite the territorial losses suffered by the lordship
of Tyre, it is noteworthy that Venice still retained some sugar-cane plantations in the city’s
rural hinterland at the time of Marco Zen, who must have served as bailo of Tyre shortly
before 1286 (Cessi, 1931–50: 149–150, par. 75). He may have been identical to the one
serving as podestà of Chioggia in that year (Rösch, 1989: 23).
The absence of a permanent Venetian state administration in the Kingdom of Jerusalem
was undoubtedly the most important factor responsible for the ongoing erosion of Venice’s
position in the lordship of Tyre from the 1140s to the 1220s. This absence is rather puz-
zling, yet once we consider it within the context of Venetian expansion in the eastern
Mediterranean, it is clear that this was a matter of general policy. Venice appears to have
avoided whenever possible direct administration in its outposts and colonies in that region
(Jacoby, 2015: 101–102). Tyre’s rulers and their officers, as well as landlords sharing vil-
lages with Venice in the countryside, took advantage of these conditions to usurp Venetian
property, rights and revenue, whether temporarily or definitively. After 1187 the aggressive
royal policy in that respect was also prompted by the constant need to compensate for the
severe curtailment of royal territory and revenue following the Frankish defeat of Hattin.
Venice’s losses were further compounded by adverse political circumstances, such as its
conflict with Frederick II and the War of St. Sabas in Acre.
Venice resorted to various devices to solve the problems arising from the absence of a
state presence in the lordship of Tyre, namely the grant of fiefs, the lease of property instead
of direct exploitation, and delegation of authority to ecclesiastical institutions. The fiefs
must have represented about half the total number of Venice’s villages in the countryside.
By granting them, Venice also transferred the administration and revenue of a large section
of its territory to the beneficiaries. The remaining rural territory and property in the city
were leased to Venetian citizens in return for payments, as Venice’s sugar-cane planta-
tions in 1204 (Lombardo and Morozzo della Rocca, 1953: 103, no. 90). The collection of
the yearly rent from leased property did not require the permanent presence of a Venetian
state official in Tyre. It could be performed by Venetian settlers or visiting merchants, as in
Constantinople (Jacoby, 2015: 79–80). We have no information regarding the exercise of
Venetian judicial and fiscal authority affecting the indigenous population.
As noted above, in the city of Tyre the priest of San Marco and his church replaced the
state in certain administrative functions as late as 1157. However, somewhat later Venice
entrusted San Marco with more extensive functions, in view of the state’s losses of property
from the 1140s. It transferred to the church a section of its urban quarter, at first temporar-
ily some time before August 1164, and definitively in that month. In January 1165 Venice
granted to San Marco its entire quarter in Tyre and the remainder of its rural possessions
for five years, except for sugar-cane plantations in the countryside of Tyre, and extended
that transfer two more times, until 1180. Still, Venice considered that state supervision over
these assets was required, and by 1171 Leo Falier, as prelatus tercie divisionis Tyri, was in
charge of the entire Venetian section of the lordship, a function that apparently continued to
exist until 1187. There is good reason to believe that Leo Falier and his successors leased
the function of prelatus, were not paid a salary, and recouped themselves with the revenue
from the assets they supervised on behalf of the state.
The heavy losses Venice suffered soon after 1191 prompted it to exercise firmer author-
ity over its share of the lordship of Tyre under a vicecomes in terra Tyri, yet this func-
tion too was leased from the state. Domenico Acotanto’s appointment to that office in
1198 yielded some positive results. He reached an agreement with the local church of
191
San Marco regarding the division of revenue accruing from the lease of two ovens, one
of which was adjacent to a fondaco of the church (Berggötz, 1991: 143, ll. 12–16). He
also took a strong stand with respect to the royal administration. Venice was entitled to
four yearly installments from the revenue yielded by the royal fondaco, according to an
agreement by which it had relinquished its share of the revenue deriving from a soap fac-
tory and a dyeing installation. Acotanto enforced the closure of the dyeing plant when the
payments were withheld, and maintained it until they were renewed (Berggötz, 1991: 149,
ll. 1–8). It would seem that Acotanto paid less attention to the Commune’s assets in the
rural hinterland of Tyre, since he was responsible for the loss of the Venetian section of a
village (see above).

By August 1204, Venice’s interests in Acre and the lordship of Tyre were under the
control of a single individual. Giovanni Dandolo had been appointed for five years vice-
comes et prelatus of Venice’s quarter in Acre and of its share in the lordship of Tyre. He
resided in Acre, yet his title miles suggests that he was one of Venice’s fiefholders in the
lordship of Tyre at that time (Lombardo and Morozzo della Rocca, 1953: 103, no. 90,
insert of 1204 in a document of 1240). In 1214 Andrea Vitale appears as the first bailo in
partibus Syrie, thus in the entire Kingdom of Jerusalem. A further upgrading of Venice’s
presence took place after Vitale left the office, when a full permanent state administration
was established under salaried officials sent from Venice. In 1217 Teofilo Zeno is the
first securely attested salaried bailo in charge of that administration. A separate apparatus
for Tyre headed by a vicecomes, yet under the authority of the bailo in Acre, was created
in 1221. This step was presumably prompted by the severe royal encroachments upon
Venetian property, rights and jurisdiction in the lordship of Tyre under John of Brienne
(see above). All these developments did not halt Venetian losses (Jacoby, 2015: 88–94, for
the last three paragraphs).
Marsilio Zorzi was the first Venetian official who managed to recover a significant por-
tion of Venice’s state authority and revenue. He was less successful with respect to property.
It is possible that he was the one who suggested a further upgrading of the office of state rep-
resentative in Tyre. Between his return to Venice in the autumn of 1244 and January 1249
Venice appointed a bailo for the lordship, distinct from the one serving in Acre. Political
circumstances brought about a total loss of Venetian interests in Tyre in 1257, which lasted
twenty years. The achievements and precedents established by Zorzi determined Venice’s
position in its negotiations with John of Montfort in 1277. As noted above, the implementa-
tion of their agreement proved to be arduous.
Venice was one of the three powerful maritime powers active in the Kingdom of
Jerusalem throughout the latter’s existence. Surprisingly, though, for about a whole
century it displayed considerable weakness in the lordship of Tyre. It appears to have
been unconcerned about its property and rights there and inefficient in their management
and preservation, especially in the countryside. When it finally adopted a firm policy
to recover lost assets and privileges, it was too late. It achieved only partial success in
the city of Tyre, and failed in the rural area. The developments in the lordship of Tyre
sharply contrast with those affecting Venice’s quarter in Acre. To be sure, in Acre indi-
vidual Venetians suffered from increased royal taxation, which they considered illegal
and a breach of their privileges (Berggötz, 1991: 179–180: Jacoby, 1997a: 168–169).
However, there was no loss of state assets or revenue (Berggötz, 1991: 172–179). At first
state rents and taxes must have been handled by local clerics or merchants, as presum-
ably done in the city of Tyre. The regular arrival and especially the continuous presence
192
of Venetian settlers in Acre, the precise boundaries of the quarter, and the absence of
property-sharing with other lords, as in Tyre’s rural hinterland, were decisive factors in
the preservation of Venice’s interests. Once Venice established direct state control over
its property in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, Venice’s quarter in Acre became its main base
and was administered separately from its assets in the lordship of Tyre, also more effi-
ciently. Venice’s focus upon Acre is not surprising: it was the major port and market of
the Kingdom of Jerusalem.
NOTES
1 Strangely, Marsilio Zorzi ascribes four villages to Guida’s fief (Berggötz, 1991: 156–157), yet else-
where mentions them as belonging to Rolando’s fief (169). Berggötz (1991: 246) wrongly ascribes
Mahallia to that fief.
2 The first date is implied by the correspondence between “the time of Rolando Contarini” and
the reign of Fulk of Anjou (Tafel and Thomas 1856–57: I, 141). Since Rolando does not appear
among the Venetian witnesses in the document of 1157 mentioned above, he must have been dead
by that time.
3 In 1187 Conrad of Montferrat confirmed the grant of assets close to the Pisan fondaco in Tyre made
by Raymond III of Tripoli when acting as regent of the kingdom in 1185–86 (Mayer, 2010: II, 863,
no. 519). The phrasing implies that Pisa was already in possession of the fondaco.
4 Pringle’s translation of the relevant passage fails to reflect Zorzi’s implicit complaint. The use and
meaning of the feminine trivia in that context (instead of neuter trivium) is unusual. Trivium gener-
ally refers to a T crossroads with three branches.
5 Berggötz (1991: 73–74) argues that the service of three knights only was justified, since it cor-
responds proportionally to the number of villages included in the Venetian fiefs out of the total
number in the lordship of Tyre at the time of Marsilio Zorzi’s tenure. However, revenue, rather than
territorial extension, determined the amount of service required, as implied by the cash allocated
to Vitale Pantaleo in addition to territory, noted above. This was in line with the extensive use of
money fiefs by other lords in the Kingdom of Jerusalem (Prawer, 1980: 153–155).
6 Pantaleo Barbo was back in Venice by April 1198 (Lombardo and Morozzo della Rocca, 1953:
51–52, no. 45). Marsilio Zorzi wrongly ascribes to all Venetian state representatives who preceded
him in the kingdom the title “bailo,” which is not attested by other sources before 1214 (see below).
He also uses an anachronistic vocabulary in other instances.
7 He is attested in Tyre in 1211, yet without a title (Morozzo della Rocca and Lombardo 1940: II,
69–70, no. 529). He served in high offices in Venice in the years 1227–29 and 1232–33, and as duke
of Crete in 1236–38 (Berggöz, 1991: 62). Rolando minor was already an adult in 1221 (Favreau-
Lilie, 1987: 94, no. 6). Marsilio Zorzi notes that he “nunc est,” thus in the early 1240s (Berggötz,
1991: 169 line 17).
8 A proper reading of the second entry points to Conrad’s time, “in tempore marchionis Montisferati,
qui fuit dominus rengni (sic),” for the expropriation of the house, the existence of the mint, and
the grant to the Genoese Ansaldo Bonvicini, who arrived with Conrad in Tyre and who in October
1187, September 1189 and April 1190 appears among the witnesses to charters issued by Conrad,
in the last case as castellan of Tyre (Mayer, 2010, II, 865, no. 519, 888, no. 525, 894, no. 526;
Jacoby, 1993: 189, 204–205, 216, 222, 228, 233). There is no evidence for the existence of a
Venetian mint in Tyre, as claimed by several modern authors: see the generally overlooked note by
Heyd (1879).
9 Zorzi’s reference to the weavers is rather perplexing, since they paid a tax on a fovea, pit and by
extension vats as in dyeworks “where they wove.” The tax amounted to two cartata, an unex-
plained term. Still, Riley-Smith (1973: 84) considers this a tax on vats and Berggötz (1991: 45) a
tax paid by dyers.
193
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CHAPTER TWELVE
THE ANTIOCHENE WAR OF

SUCCESSION
Jochen Burgtorf
D omestic abuse, torture-induced suicide, death by poison, murder in the cathedral, and
excommunication: the Antiochene war of succession features many of the ingredients
popularly associated with the Middle Ages, as well as some of the staples of warfare, such
as sieges, campaigns of devastation, and even a few minor battles. Fought between 1201
and 1219 to determine the succession to the throne of the principality of Antioch, the north-
ernmost Syrian crusader state, after the death of its ruler, Prince Bohemond III, this con-
flict pitched Antioch’s northern neighbor, King Leo of Cilician Armenia, against Antioch’s
southern neighbor, Count Bohemond IV of Tripoli. For the first decade of the war, Leo
represented the rights of a minor, his great-nephew Raymond-Roupen, who was also the
late prince’s grandson from the marriage of his oldest, but also deceased son Raymond to
Leo’s niece Alice, thereby stressing the Antiochene custom of primogeniture and an exist-
ing agreement between Leo and Bohemond III. Meanwhile, emphasizing the latter’s final
wishes and the alleged will of the people, Bohemond of Tripoli, Bohemond III’s younger
son, sought the succession for himself. The war lasted until 1219, the year Bohemond of
Tripoli managed to seize Antioch permanently for himself, Leo died, and Raymond-Roupen
lost the support of both Antiochenes and Armenians. The war’s repercussions, however,
were felt well into the second half of the thirteenth century.
What makes the Antiochene war relevant to the history of the “Crusader World” is the
range and diversity of its direct and indirect participants. At one time or another, and to var-
ying degrees of intensity, this conflict involved the Seljuks of Anatolia to the north and west
of the main theaters of war; the Ayyubids of Aleppo, Hamah, Homs, and Damascus to the
east; the Assassins (Ismailis) to the south-east; the pope and the papal legates of the Fourth
and Fifth Crusades; the Latin empire of Constantinople and the Byzantine empire of Nicaea;
the Latin kingdoms of Jerusalem and Cyprus; the military religious orders of the Templars,
Hospitallers, and Teutonic Knights; the Italian cities of Genoa, Pisa, and Venice; and the
members and clergy of the various Christian denominations of Antioch and Armenia, par-
ticularly the Greek Orthodox, the Armenians, and the Latins (Roman Catholics).
The primary sources available for the study of this war include a number of charters,
and while the archives of the rulers of Antioch, Tripoli, and Armenia have not survived,
the documents preserved by Hospitallers and Teutonic Knights shed some light on the
events. It is here, however, that the loss of the Templars’ Eastern archives is most acutely
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felt, because the conflict repeatedly focused on Baghras (Gaston), a castle situated
north-east of Antioch and claimed by the order but held by the Armenians for much of
the war. There are also letters, especially the correspondence between Leo and Pope
Innocent III, as well as the 1204 report of the papal legates; travel accounts, for example,
that of Wilbrand of Oldenburg, a canon of Hildesheim; the Old French continuations of
the chronicle of William of Tyre; the “chronography” of the Syriac Orthodox (Jacobite)
Gregory Bar Hebraeus; several Armenian texts, including the “history” of Sempad the
Constable, the brother of King Hethoum; the Arabic chronicle of Ibn al-Athir; and some
archaeological evidence, for example, at Antioch and Baghras. In scholarly treatments
of the crusades, the Antiochene war usually features as a side show of the Fourth and
Fifth Crusades, while historians of the crusader states have tended to focus more on the
twelfth rather than the thirteenth century. Researchers can, however, gather much from
the analysis of the pre-war Antiochene affairs by Hans Eberhard Mayer (1993), the still
invaluable reconstruction of the war by Claude Cahen (1940), and the recent study of the
Armenian side of the story by Claude Mutafian (2012). This chapter first outlines the his-
tory of the region prior to the death of Prince Bohemond III. It then discusses the military
history of the war itself, addresses the key legal debates, and lastly turns to the question
of real and imagined alliances.
ROADS TO WAR
In the second half of the eleventh century, Antioch was one of the Byzantine Empire’s
most important frontier duchies. Its existence, however, was challenged by several demo-
graphic and military developments. Due to the Seljuks’ incursions from the east, groups of
Armenians, particularly the rival Roupenid and Hethoumid clans, moved into Cilicia just
north of Antioch, where they established an Armenian principality with the capital in Sis,
and a Byzantine general of Armenian background even briefly became duke of Antioch
(1078). Traveling on the Armenians’ heels, the Seljuks migrated into Anatolia, founded
the sultanate of Rum, and captured Antioch (1084). When the First Crusade arrived in
the region, the Byzantine emperor expected that Antioch, once retaken from the Seljuks,
would revert to his control. Thus, the formation of the crusader principality of Antioch
(1098) was countered by several successful imperial campaigns to assert Byzantine over-
lordship. However, the Byzantines’ loss to the Seljuks at the battle of Myriocephalum in
Anatolia (1176) effectively ended their sway over Cilicia and northern Syria. Consequently,
Antioch found itself surrounded by the increasingly independent principality of Armenia
to the north; Ayyubid-controlled Aleppo, Hamah, and Homs to the east; the territory of
the Assassins to the south-east; and the crusader county of Tripoli, closely allied with the
Latin kingdom of Jerusalem, to the south. At Antioch’s northern border, the Templars held
a number of castles, most notably Baghras, and at the principality’s southern border the
Hospitallers were building a strong presence around the castle of Margat (Nersessian 1969;
Boase 1978; Riley-Smith 1978).
The dominant figure in Antioch at this time was Prince Bohemond III. Born around
1148, he had succeeded to the throne upon reaching legal age around 1163, and it appears
that Prince Thoros of Armenia assisted with his succession, which had been blocked by
Bohemond’s own mother Constance. From his first marriage to Orgueilleuse of Harem,
an Antiochene noblewoman, Bohemond III had two sons, Raymond (born 1169) and
Bohemond IV (born 1171). Around 1177, he married Theodora Comnena, the niece of
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the Byzantine emperor Manuel Comnenus who had already wed Bohemond III’s sister
Mary. While this Antiochene–Byzantine rapprochement caused considerable discomfort in
Armenia and the kingdom of Jerusalem, it was not to last: following Manuel’s death in 1180,
Bohemond separated from his Byzantine wife, which may have hastened the downfall of his
own sister in Constantinople, to marry Sibyl, an Antiochene noblewoman, whose reputation
ranged from spying for Saladin to being a whore and sorceress. Those Antiochene nobles
who opposed the match found refuge at the court of Prince Roupen III of Armenia, which
soured the relationship between Bohemond and Roupen. Thus, in 1185, when Roupen’s
Armenian rivals, the Hethoumids, turned to Bohemond for help, the latter assisted them by
detaining Roupen during a visit to Antioch, demanding and receiving an oath of fealty from
him, which made Armenia a vassal of Antioch, and collecting a ransom, including territo-
rial concessions, for his release (Hiestand 1993; Mayer 1993: 45–65; Mutafian 2012, 1: 89;
but see also Rüdt de Collenberg 1983; Hodgson 2011). It must be noted that the Normans
had considerable experience with forcing their “guests” to swear oaths of this kind: William
of Normandy had required Harold Godwinson to do so, an event famously recorded on the
Bayeux Tapestry; however, the shame associated with Roupen’s kidnapping of 1185 would
long be remembered by the Armenians.
After the battle of Hattin (1187), Count Raymond III of Tripoli, who did not have any
children of his own, named his godson Raymond of Antioch, Bohemond III’s oldest son, as
his successor in Tripoli. However, Raymond’s father had other plans and sent his younger
son Bohemond IV instead, so that, prior to his death that same year, the ailing count of
Tripoli made his nobles swear fealty to Bohemond IV. Yet, the charter evidence suggests
that, at least for a few years, Raymond of Antioch was considered a titular count of Tripoli
(Mayer 1993: 133–134, 184–202). To secure his legacy in Tripoli, Bohemond IV, within a
few years, married Plaisance Embriaco, a Tripolitan noblewoman from the Genoese fam-
ily of the lords of Jubayl (Gibelet), who bore him several children, among them Raymond,
a future bailli of Antioch, Bohemond V, and Philip. Meanwhile, Roupen III had retired
to a monastery and subsequently died (1187), whereupon his brother Leo (born around
1150) assumed the regency for his brother’s daughters, Alice and Philippa, but eventually
sidelined them. He married Alice to an Armenian noble, Hethoum of Sason, and pursued
a foreign connection for himself by wedding Isabel, the niece of Bohemond III’s third
wife Sibyl. In 1188, Leo achieved military successes against the Seljuks, and Bohemond
III obtained a truce agreement from Saladin, making Armenia and Antioch the beacons
of Christendom in southern Asia Minor and northern Syria. (Hardwicke 1969; Nersessian
1969; Mutafian 2012, 1: 96).
At this time, with both reaching their early forties, Leo and Bohemond III appear to have
developed royal ambitions, perhaps because of their position of relative strength, the dynas-
tic weakness of the kingdom of Jerusalem, and the soon-to-arrive Third Crusade’s cast of
crowned rulers. As early as 1187, Bohemond had offered to submit Antioch to the overlord-
ship of his Italo-Norman relative, King William II of Sicily, in exchange for Sicilian troops
to be sent to the aid of the crusader states. This was likely an attempt to extricate Antioch
from subordination to any other political entity in the eastern Mediterranean, and it may not
be a coincidence that Bohemond’s son from his third marriage was also named “William.”
A few years later, in 1190, Bohemond rendered hommage for his principality to Duke
Frederick VI of Swabia, the son of the late Western Emperor Frederick Barbarossa. This,
too, was not a random act: on his way to the East, Duke Frederick had become engaged to
Constance of Hungary, the daughter of Bohemond III’s step-sister Agnes, and he was the
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younger brother of the future emperor Henry VI who, in turn, had married into the royal
house of Sicily (Hiestand 1993; Mayer 1993: 135). Bohemond’s overtures toward these
western rulers came to naught, but they must have made Leo nervous. In 1191, Leo seized
the Templar castle of Baghras, the northern gateway to the Antiochene plain, which had
been abandoned by Saladin’s troops after a three-year occupation. Bohemond responded by
entering into a new truce agreement with Saladin (1192) that did not include his Armenian
vassal. By 1193, a conspiracy was underway that involved Leo, as well as Bohemond’s
third wife Sibyl, ostensibly concerned about the rights of her son William. Thus, when
Bohemond followed Leo’s invitation to come to Baghras to discuss the terms for the return
of the castle to Antioch or the Templars, he was seized and deported to Sis (1194), an
unmistakable retaliation for Bohemond’s previous kidnapping of Leo’s brother Roupen III
(Mutafian 2012, 1: 96).
In exchange for Bohemond’s release, Leo initially demanded Antioch, and he sent
Hethoum of Sason, the husband of his niece Alice, to effect the surrender. However, the
Greek Orthodox population of Antioch opposed the idea of an Armenian ruler, as did
the principality’s Italian communities, who may have feared for their existing privileges
(Röhricht 1893: 113, 124, 192). To ensure that their government would continue to oper-
ate, the Antiochenes formed a commune and installed Bohemond’s oldest son Raymond
as ruler. Eventually, to obtain his freedom, Bohemond had to accept Armenia’s independ-
ence from Antioch, forfeit Baghras, and agree to the wedding of his son Raymond to Leo’s
recently widowed niece Alice (1195) with the understanding that a male heir from this
union would rule over both Armenia and Antioch. Alice’s late husband, Hethoum of Sason,
had died shortly after his failed attempt to take possession of Antioch, and it takes little
imagination to think that Leo must have played a part in his convenient demise. Nothing
further was heard of Sibyl, Bohemond III’s third wife, or her son William; given her role
in the conspiracy to kidnap her own husband, one may assume that she stayed in Armenia;
after all, her niece Isabel was still married to Leo (Mayer 1993: 183; Mutafian 2012, 1: 96).
Having dealt with Antioch, Leo turned his attention to obtaining a royal crown, which
had to come either from the pope or from an emperor. The pope’s condition, namely the
union between the Armenian Church and the Roman Church, required the Armenian cler-
gy’s consent, which was slow in coming. Not surprisingly, the Byzantine emperor was
not approached in the matter due to his historical claim to the region. Only the Western
emperor’s respective expectations, namely to be recognized as the overlord of the king of
Armenia, seemed instantly acceptable. In 1197, Aimery of Lusignan had been crowned
king of Cyprus by representatives of the Western emperor, and Leo’s coronation as king
of Cilician Armenia with insignia sent by the Western emperor followed in 1198. Now
only Antioch remained without a royal crown, but Antioch had other problems. In 1197,
Bohemond III’s oldest son Raymond had died while his wife, Leo’s niece Alice, was preg-
nant. Their child, Raymond-Roupen, born shortly after his father’s death, was the heir
apparent to the principality of Antioch, yet Bohemond sent the newborn and his mother to
Armenia, perhaps to ensure their safety, but more likely to suggest that Raymond-Roupen’s
claim to Antioch would not be honored. As if to emphasize this, Bohemond III’s younger
son, Bohemond IV of Tripoli, came to Antioch to stage what looked like a coup, but may
have had his father’s tacit approval (1198/1199). As Bohemond III’s surviving, albeit
younger son, Bohemond IV asked for and received the Antiochene commune’s acknowl-
edgment of his claim to the principality, thereby countering Raymond-Roupen’s right of
primogeniture with the commune’s popular mandate bestowed on him. By the time Leo
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arrived in Antioch to restore Bohemond III’s rule, Bohemond IV had returned to Tripoli,
and it is noteworthy that the latter, in charters issued in 1199, referred to himself as the ‘son
of Prince Bohemond of Antioch and by the grace of God count of Tripoli’, thereby stressing
his Antiochene lineage. Leo, meanwhile, set up a military presence at Baghras and reported
the recent developments to the new pope, Innocent III, who responded by inquiring about
the status of the anticipated Church union, promising an investigation led by papal legates,
and encouraging a focus on fighting the Muslims (Maleczek 1988: 160–163; Mayer 1993:
201; Mutafian 2012, 1: 97–99).
MILITARY CAMPAIGNS
Bohemond III died in April 1201. Bohemond IV had been alerted of his father’s imminent
passing and managed to arrive in Antioch just in time for the funeral. Presenting himself as
the heir in accordance with his father’s final wishes, he obtained the commune’s renewed
oath of allegiance; however, a considerable number of Antiochene nobles, claiming to be
bound by feudal law to uphold the rights of Raymond-Roupen, chose exile in Armenia
(Cahen 1940: 594–595; Richard 1985: 202). The Antiochene war was about to begin,
and it is to its military history that we now turn. In hindsight, it is clear that neither side
had the resources to field an army that was substantial enought to annihilate the enemy,
permanently garrison Antioch, secure its surrounding plain, and simultaneously keep that
army’s own homeland, namely Armenia or Tripoli, safe from internal and external dan-
gers. To start with this last point, Armenia was permanently threatened by the Seljuks of
Anatolia in the north and the Ayyubids of Aleppo in the east, and its Roupenid king also
had to stay alert with regard to his inner-Armenian rivals, the Hethoumids. Tripoli, mean-
while, had its own share of rebellious nobles, and one of its count’s priorities, if he ever
wanted to rule over both Tripoli and Antioch, had to be the restoration of the mainland
connection between the two crusader states, which had been severed by Saladin’s con-
quests and was currently controlled by the Ayyubids of Hamah and Homs. Thus, one of
the reasons why the Antiochene war lasted as long as it did was because both sides were
fighting several wars at the same time. That Leo was twenty years older than Bohemond
IV also appears to have had an interesting effect: while Leo launched military campaigns
on an almost annual basis, Bohemond stalled whenever possible, perhaps figuring that
time was on his side.
Shortly after Bohemond IV’s Antiochene takeover in the spring of 1201, Leo invaded
the principality to press the claim of his great-nephew Raymond-Roupen, and laid siege to
the capital. Thereupon Bohemond called on Az-Zahir Ghazi, the Ayyubid ruler of Aleppo,
as well as Rukn ad-Din Suleiman, the Seljuk sultan of Anatolia, who responded with inva-
sions of Armenia from the east and the north, thereby forcing Leo to abandon the siege of
Antioch and return to the defense of his homeland. In the process, Leo was able to intercept
some of Bohemond’s envoys to the Seljuks and promptly informed the pope of his oppo-
nent’s collusion with the Muslims. In 1202, some participants of the Fourth Crusade trave-
led directly to the East, rather than assembling at Venice. Since they were comparatively
few, King Aimery of Cyprus and (by now also) Jerusalem refused to break the existing truce
with the Muslims, which is why these crusaders temporarily involved themselves in the
Antiochene war: some joined Leo in his next campaign against Antioch, while others rode
with Bohemond in an attack against his Ayyubid neighbors. After a campaign of devasta-
tion through the Antiochene plain in the spring of 1203, Leo almost prevailed in the fall of
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that same year. In November, a small Armenian contingent managed to enter Antioch by
night, while Bohemond was absent, and, to avoid an all-out battle, asked the city’s Latin
Patriarch Peter of Angoulême to help them negotiate with the commune. However, the
Antiochene Templar garrison drove the Armenians out of the city, and the commune sent
carrier pigeons with calls for help to Aleppo, whose ruler Az-Zahir Ghazi immediately
dispatched troops to invade Armenia; once again, Leo had to lift the siege (Cahen 1940:
600–605; Lock 2006: 83–85).
Bohemond had been away from Antioch because trouble had been brewing in Tripoli.
One of his vassals, Lord Renard of Nephin, had married Isabel, the daughter and heiress
of Akkar (Gibelacar), without Bohemond’s consent. The Tripolitan court of barons sided
with Bohemond, but Renard refused to comply, wherefore the court authorized Bohemond
to seize Renard’s possessions. Renard proceeded to ravage the countryside around Tripoli,
and in 1204 Bohemond even lost an eye in a battle against this rebellious baron, earning
him the nickname ‘the one-eyed’. Renard was enjoying the support of King Aimery and
some barons in the kingdom of Jerusalem who were troubled by Bohemond’s ‘pretensions
to autonomy’ (Hardwicke 1969: 534), but King Aimery’s death in 1205 changed things,
because the new regent, John of Ibelin, sided with Bohemond against Renard: the latter
was forced to surrender his fiefs and retire to Cyprus, allowing Bohemond to refocus on
Antioch. In the background of all this, the Hospitallers of Margat were fighting to gain con-
trol over Latakia, part of the mainland connection between Tripoli and Antioch, but this was
based on their right to wage their own wars rather than a desire to function as Bohemond’s
agents (Richard 1985: 216; Lock 2006: 85–87; Burgtorf 2013: 229).
That Bohemond did not lose Antioch to Leo while dealing with Renard of Nephin
was due to the simultaneous altercations between Leo and Az-Zahir Ghazi. In addi-
tion to Baghras, Leo had occupied several other fortresses in the Amanus mountains,
thus not only blocking the northern access to the plain of Antioch, but also threatening
Aleppo’s western border. In 1205/1206, the two sides came to blows, with Az-Zahir
Ghazi receiving Antiochene support and, in turn, supporting Antioch whenever Leo was
turning against the city. On Christmas Day of 1205, Leo attacked Darbsak (Trapessac), a
castle just north of Baghras and held by the Ayyubids of Aleppo, but was defeated in the
ensuing battle and had to escape through a snowstorm that made pursuit impossible. By
the summer of 1206, Leo was suing for peace and eventually gained an eight-year truce
according to which he was expected to refrain from attacks against Antioch. It appears
that Leo followed the letter, but not the spirit of this agreement, as it was probably no
coincidence that opposition against Bohemond now arose inside Antioch, thus expand-
ing the “foreign” war by adding a “civil” war. In 1207/1208, Leo’s main ally in Antioch,
the Latin Patriarch Peter of Angoulême, brought some of the exiled nobles back from
Armenia, staged an uprising, replaced the existing communal authorities with new ones,
and forced Bohemond to seek refuge in the citadel. However, Bohemond managed to
gather his troops, returned into the city, defeated the rebels, and incarcerated the patri-
arch. When the latter refused to declare Bohemond the legitimate ruler of Antioch, he
was tortured by drink deprivation, whereupon he consumed the oil of his lamp and died
(Cahen 1940: 609–613; Nersessian 1969: 649).
Since it was clear that Leo was not letting up on his efforts to gain Antioch, despite his
existing truce with Aleppo, and, in 1208, even led a new campaign of devastation through
the Antiochene plain, Bohemond called on Kaykhusraw, the Seljuk sultan of Rum, who,
in 1208/1209, attacked Armenia from the north. Leo had to seek terms, which included
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the restoration of Baghras to the Templars and the ceasing of hostilities toward Antioch,
n either of which the Armenian king intended to do. While Leo was dealing with the
Seljuks, Bohemond had to face his Ayyubid neighbors yet again: the Hospitallers’ various
campaigns, launched from their castles at Margat and Krak des Chevaliers against Hamah,
Homs, and Latakia, had enraged Al-Adil, the sultan of Damascus, who held Bohemond
responsible for the order’s actions, led a campaign against Tripoli in 1208/1209, and
forced Bohemond to ransom himself and his city (Cahen 1940: 614–615; Mutafian 2012,
1: 105–109). Leo’s refusal to surrender Baghras to the Templars reached all new heights
in 1211, when he attacked one of the order’s convoys that was transporting provisions
to northern Syria. The Templar master William of Chartres, who happened to be trave-
ling with the convoy, was injured, which seriously upset Pope Innocent III and caused
him to call on John of Brienne, the king of Jerusalem, to support a retaliatory expedition
against Leo. Leo does not seem to have been too impressed with this and, in 1212, sent
his great-nephew Raymond-Roupen, who was just about to reach legal age and had been
crowned Leo’s heir the previous year, on yet another campaign of devastation through the
Antiochene plain (Cahen 1940: 616–619; Bulst-Thiele 1974: 164). Meanwhile, Bohemond
remained busy in his county of Tripoli, where, in 1213, his eighteen-year-old firstborn son
Raymond, bailli of Antioch, had been murdered by Assassins while visiting the cathedral
of Tartus (Tortosa). The following year, to avenge his son’s death, Bohemond launched
a campaign against the Assassins who, in turn, called on Az-Zahir Ghazi of Aleppo for
help. By that time, the Ayyubids of Aleppo had set aside their long-standing differences
with the Ayyubids of Damascus and therefore summoned the latter to their aid, whereupon
Bohemond abandoned his campaign, sent an apology to his old ally in Aleppo, and focused
his attention on keeping Tripoli safe (Riley-Smith 1967: 158; Hardwicke 1969: 537–538;
Major 2001: 65).
Exhausted from almost annual campaigns of devastation against the surrounding coun-
tryside and feeling abandoned by Bohemond, the Antiochene may have been ready to give
Armenian rule a try. In early 1216, Armenian troops swarmed into the city by night and
occupied all strategic points, so that Antioch changed hands without bloodshed. In February
1216, Leo and Raymond-Roupen entered the city. The latter was ordained as prince of
Antioch by the Latin Patriarch Peter II of Ivrea, and he received oaths of allegiance from the
nobles and the leaders of the commune. Concluding that no assistance would be forthcom-
ing, Bohemond’s Antiochene garrison surrendered the citadel, which prompted Bohemond
to abandon his intended relief expedition. Now that the Armenians were in control of
Antioch, Leo returned Baghras to the Templars and dispatched embassies of goodwill to
Aleppo and Damascus. The Anatolian Seljuks, however, took Leo’s triumph in Antioch
as a sign that it was time for an all-out war against Armenia. This must have shifted Leo’s
attention immediately back to Armenia, and perhaps he called on Raymond-Roupen, the
new prince of Antioch, to assist him against the Seljuks. By 1217, the relationship between
Leo and Raymond-Roupen had deteriorated to the point that the latter intended to detain his
great-uncle. Leo, however, was warned by the Templars who, now that Baghras had been
returned to them, no longer held a grudge against the Armenian king, and Leo was able
to escape to Armenia to deal with the Seljuk invasion (Cahen 1940: 621–623; Hardwicke
1969: 538; Mutafian 2012, 1: 108–109).
Without his great-uncle’s backing, Raymond-Roupen’s days in Antioch were num-
bered. While he was able, in 1218, to make good on a promise to help the Hospitallers
occupy Jableh (Gabula), situated just south of Latakia, but not with lasting success, the
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Antiochene war had left the principality impoverished, and no medieval prince without
resources was ever able to remain in power for long. Bohemond had initially lacked the
troops to fight back and therefore participated in the Fifth Crusade, but by 1219 his sup-
porters in Antioch were ready to orchestrate his comeback. As Bohemond entered the city,
it was Raymond-Roupen’s turn to flee to the citadel, which he entrusted to the Hospitallers,
before escaping to Armenia to call on his great-uncle for help. Leo, however, was dying
and, in the interim, had made plans for his legacy that no longer involved his great-nephew.
Thus, with Raymond-Roupen’s ouster from Antioch, Bohemond’s restoration to power,
and Leo’s death in May 1219, the Antiochene war came to a rather unspectacular end.
Few may have noticed this, though, because it was immediately followed by an Armenian
postlude. At first, Raymond-Roupen’s prospects to gain the Armenian throne appeared
promising: he had the support of his mother Alice, the daughter of the late Roupen III, of
some Armenian nobles, of the pope and his Fifth Crusade legate Pelagius, and, within their
territorial spheres of interest, of the Hospitallers who helped him with the occupation of
Tarsus. However, Constantine of Barberon, a member of the Armenian Hethoumid clan
and regent for the late Leo’s infant daughter and heiress Isabel (Zabel), took swift action:
he captured Tarsus after a three-month siege, and by 1221/1222 Raymond-Roupen was
spending the final days of his life in an Armenian prison; he was in his mid-twenties. In an
ironic twist of fate, the Armenians now turned to Bohemond to secure a husband for young
Isabel. He offered his younger son Philip, the two were married in 1222, and Philip initially
even made a good impression by repelling a Seljuk attack. However, Philip’s contempt
for the Armenians soon got the better of him, which is why, in 1224, a group of Armenian
nobles kidnapped and poisoned him. Bohemond planned to avenge his son; however, in
another ironic twist of fate, the Armenians were able to forestall his military interven-
tion by forging an alliance with his own former allies, the Ayyubids of Aleppo, who,
now that Bohemond was established in both Tripoli and Antioch, were no longer inter-
ested in supporting him and even joined the Armenians in an unsuccessful attack against
Baghras (1226). Relations between Antioch–Tripoli and Armenia remained frosty well
beyond Bohemond IV’s death (1233), and the Antiochene (and Armenian) war of succes-
sion left northern Syria substantially weakened (Riley-Smith 1967: 159; Hardwicke 1969:
540–541; Mutafian 2012, 1: 115–117).
LEGAL DEBATES
Military force was not the only means employed to determine the Antiochene succession.
Therefore, as we leave the battlefield, we enter the courtroom and, thus, the legal debates
pertaining to this war. While the Armenians emphasized the Antiochene custom of primo-
geniture and the 1195 agreement between Leo and Bohemond III, the Tripolitans argued
that all this was overruled by the Antiochene commune’s acknowledgment of Bohemond
IV’s claim, represented by the more recent oaths of allegiance sworn to him in 1198
and 1201, which amounted to a popular mandate based on Bohemond III’s final wishes.
However, could new realities really invalidate existing practices and arrangements? Who
was to judge, and what if the opposing parties could not agree on a judge?
It is this last question that set Leo and Bohemond IV on a collision course right from
the start. Initially, Leo appeared confident that the vision of a union between the Armenian
Church and the Roman Church, as well as the prospect of the Armenian king championing
a crusade, would secure the pontiff’s support; and, after all, the pope had the power to send
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legates, excommunicate evildoers, and place entire territories under the interdict. Yet, Leo
seems to have overlooked several critical points. His opponent Bohemond regarded the
whole succession affair as a dispute under feudal law, was prepared to revive Antioch’s
status as a territory under imperial suzerainty, and did not recognize the pope and his leg-
ates as appropriate arbiters. Second, Leo’s use of Baghras as a pawn eventually had to
antagonize the pope, because the Templars claimed that they owned Baghras, apparently
based on an Antiochene donation, and that their right to defend it had been confirmed by
Pope Alexander III (reigned 1159–81); they were an exempt order of the Church under the
pope’s protection; and therefore any attack on their property was an attack on the Church.
Third, Leo’s argument that he was holding Baghras by right of recent conquest, which, to
him, set aside the Templars’ older claim, since they had failed to protect the castle against
the Muslims, amounted to an admission that new realities could indeed invalidate existing
practices and arrangements. Fourth, the Greek Orthodox commune of Antioch was suspi-
cious of any outsider, especially a Roman Catholic legate, to intervene in their affairs; like-
wise, Antioch’s patriarch, be he Latin or Greek, was historically averse to papal or legatine
claims of jurisdiction. Lastly, excommunication as a means of coercion had become so
overused that those hit by it often felt at liberty to ignore it for years, which is exactly what
Bohemond IV, much like the Hohenstaufen Frederick II a few years later, was prepared to
do (Lawrence 1978: 42; Maleczek 1988: 160–163; Mutafian 2012, 1: 103–104).
In 1198/1199, when Leo alerted Pope Innocent III of the impending Antiochene suc-
cession crisis, the pontiff assured him that he would be sending legates. The first legate to
arrive, in the fall of 1202, was Soffred Gaetani of Pisa, cardinal priest of St. Praxedis; he
was followed by his colleague, Peter Capuano of Amalfi, cardinal priest of St. Marcellus,
who made the trip to the East in the late spring of 1203. Soffred’s attempt to schedule
negotiations hit its first roadblock when Bohemond stated that he was not allowed to
meet with the papal legate, because he had been excommunicated by the patriarchs of
Jerusalem and Antioch for his disagreement with the Hospitallers over certain incomes
in the region of Krak des Chevaliers. When Soffred traveled to Tripoli to broker a settle-
ment between Bohemond and the Hospitallers, the count insisted that the legate’s name
not be mentioned in the respective agreement, thus indicating that he was not willing to
recognize the papal legate as an arbiter. Upon Soffred’s arrival in Antioch in 1203, Leo’s
envoys told him that both the Church union and the Armenian support for the crusade
would only be forthcoming once the Antiochene succession would be resolved in Leo’s
favor. However, Antioch’s predominantly Greek Orthodox commune was not interested
in a Church union that would give the Armenians any additional legal standing; the city’s
Latin patriarch Peter of Angoulême categorically opposed Bohemond with whom he had
had a contentious relationship ever since his tenure as bishop of Tripoli; and Bohemond’s
representatives insisted that the Antiochene succession was entirely a matter of feudal law
and not under papal or legatine jurisdiction. Where Soffred had not been able to make any
headway, his colleague Peter Capuano was hoping to succeed, and things even seemed to
be off to a good start when he and representatives of the Armenian clergy were finally able
to celebrate the Church union. Yet, during his stay in Antioch in 1203/1204, Peter quickly
found that neither side was willing to budge: Leo was unwilling to surrender the Templar
castle of Baghras from where he was terrorizing the Antiochene plain, and Bohemond
was unwilling to remove his troops from Antioch and, thus, allow the Armenians to
move in. Peter now focused on Baghras, perhaps speculating that returning the castle
to the Templars would create a much-needed buffer between Antioch and Armenia.
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He summoned Leo three times, and when the latter declined to appear, excommunicated
him and placed Armenia under the interdict, sentences that the Armenian clergy refused
to publicize. Frustrated with this whole new level of legal deadlock, Leo and the legates
sent separate reports to Rome, where the pope must have realized that Leo was going to
be no help with the crusade for the time being (Hiestand 1972: 323–354; Maleczek 1988:
164–167; Jamil and Johns 2003: 167).
In the spring of 1204, as a consequence of the crusade, Baldwin of Flanders had become
the Latin emperor of Constantinople. When his wife, Mary of Champagne, stopped in
Acre that same year on her way from Europe to Constantinople, Bohemond IV seized the
opportunity to pay hommage to her for Antioch, thus reviving the principality’s status as
a territory under imperial suzerainty and sending a clear message to Leo, the pope, and
the legates that any legal proceedings between Tripoli and Armenia pertaining to Antioch
would have to involve the Latin emperor as Antioch’s overlord and, by implication, the
Western emperor as Armenia’s overlord. With this, the case was placed well outside of
the current legates’ legal reach (Cahen 1940: 606; Hardwicke 1969: 535). Nonetheless, in
1205/1206, Innocent III asked Peter Capuano to return to the East, where the latter quickly
became embroiled in the internal affairs of the Antiochene clergy. He and the Latin patri-
arch Peter of Angoulême sparred over who had the right to appoint the successor to the
Antiochene archdeaconate which had recently become vacant, and when the city’s cathedral
chapter appealed to Rome, the legate responded with suspension and excommunication.
While Peter of Angoulême was still appealing the legate’s sentence, Bohemond seized the
opportunity to elevate a Greek Orthodox, Symeon, to Antioch’s patriarchal throne. Soon
thereafter, however, the pope reversed the legate’s sentence, and Peter of Angoulême used
his restored patriarchal powers to excommunicate Symeon, Bohemond, and their sup-
porters, and placed Antioch under the interdict, which was not really effective because
the Antiochene commune allowed all excommunicated Latin Christians to attend Greek
Orthodox services. The breaking point was reached in 1207/1208, when the Latin patriarch
conspired with Leo to overthrow Bohemond. As we have already seen, the coup failed and
led to Peter of Angoulême’s incarceration and death. Thus, Bohemond had demonstrated
that, while he was willing to drag legal proceedings out for years, he would act swiftly,
should his legal opponents decide to resort to arms (Hardwicke 1969: 535; Richard 1985:
230, 234; Jamil and Johns 2003: 167).
Innocent III now asked Patriarch Albert of Jerusalem to publicize Bohemond’s excom-
munication and oversee the election of a new Latin patriarch in Antioch, which led to the
elevation of Peter II of Ivrea in 1208/1209, but it was not until 1212/1213 that the latter
was able to push Symeon out of the city (Jamil and Johns 2003: 168). As it turns out, Peter
of Angoulême was not to remain the only one whose patience had run short with regard
to drawn-out legal debates. In the dispute over the ownership of Baghras, the pope and
his legates had consistently refused to back Leo, leading the Armenian king to his above-
mentioned 1211 attack on the Templar convoy in northern Syria. If he had hoped, though,
that the use of arms would improve his legal standing, Leo did not know Innocent III very
well. The pope responded by calling on all the clergy in Syria and Cyprus to publish the
sentence of excommunication that had been hanging over Leo’s head ever since Peter
Capuano had first uttered it in 1204. However, Leo had yet another legal card to play: he
now called into question the Church union, expelled the Latin clergy from his kingdom,
installed Armenians and in some cases even Greeks in their places, and received Symeon,
the Greek Orthodox patriarch of Antioch, who had been driven into exile by Peter II,
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at his court. In February 1213, Innocent III finally found Leo’s (then) soft spot, when he
threatened to extend the apostolic sentences, so far only leveled against Leo himself, to his
grand-nephew Raymond-Roupen. Leo now quickly signaled his willingness to negotiate,
and the pope, for his part, instructed the patriarch of Jerusalem to lift Leo’s excommunica-
tion. This latest development has to be seen in the context of Innocent III’s plans for the
immediate future, which required peace among the Christians of the East, for, in April
1213, the pontiff issued the bull ‘Quia maior,’ thereby calling for a new crusade (Cahen
1940: 616–619; Claverie 2005, 1: 43).
Unlike his predecessors, Pelagius Galvani, cardinal bishop of Albano and legate of the
Fifth Crusade, largely stayed out of the legal debates pertaining to the Antiochene succes-
sion, perhaps because he had himself been a contender for Antioch’s patriarchal throne after
the death of Peter II in 1217. In 1219, when Raymond-Roupen was ousted from Antioch
and not welcomed as his great-uncle’s successor in Armenia, he turned to Pelagius for help.
However, the contingent that the legate sent to his aid from Damietta via Cyprus was not able
to reach him in time. Raymond-Roupen was captured and incarcerated by his Hethoumid
opponents, and died shortly thereafter. Meanwhile, Pelagius did have to deal with some of
the legal complications caused by the Antiochene war. In 1221, he divided Jableh, part of the
mainland connection between Tripoli and Antioch, between Templars and Hospitallers; the
former argued that it had been given to them by Bohemond IV, while the latter stated
that it had been donated to them by Raymond-Roupen. It was, however, actually held by the
Muslims, so the whole affair was a case of ‘shadow boxing’ (Mayer 1993: 203). Pelagius’s
Solomonic judgment created a ‘terra partitioni’ in the region that kept both orders in arbitra-
tion well into the 1260s. As for the legal status of the two main antagonists, Leo’s excom-
munication, as we have seen, had been lifted in 1213; Bohemond IV, however, would be
excommunicated several more times, but, perhaps the ultimate evidence that he was indeed
‘one of the great Syrian jurists’ (Hardwicke 1969: 549), he did manage to have the sen-
tence lifted just before his death in 1233 (Riley-Smith 1967: 161; Burgtorf 2008: 489–490;
Mutafian 2012, 1: 109).
REAL AND IMAGINED ALLIANCES

At first glance, the Antiochene war was a conflict between Armenians and Tripolitans,
and it involved Antiochenes on both sides: the city’s Latin patriarch and the majority of
the principality’s nobility held with the Armenians, while the Greek Orthodox commune,
generally speaking, supported the count of Tripoli. Leo benefitted from the papal hope that
the Armenians would agree to a Church union and play a significant part in a future crusade,
while Bohemond IV was able to use his diplomatic relations with the Seljuks of Anatolia
and the Ayyubids of Aleppo to considerable advantage. This brings us to the war’s real and
imagined alliances, particularly those with the Muslims, military religious orders, and vari-
ous ruling families (Hitti 1985).
According to Claude Cahen, the history of northern Syria in the first half of the thirteenth
century was characterized by ‘a lack of conflicts with the Muslims, [but] constant con-
flicts with the Armenians’ (Cahen 1940: 579). As we have seen, the Muslim neighbors of
Armenia, Antioch, and Tripoli did nonetheless factor into the Antiochene war. They did not
unite against the Christians, and they even entered into alliances with them, because they
were fighting their own wars of succession, as well as wars with their “other” neighbors, the
governing principle being: “my enemy’s enemy is my friend.” Thus, following the death of
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Kilij Arslan II in 1192, the Seljuks of Anatolia went through succession struggles involving
his sons and grandsons that lasted well into the second decade of the thirteenth century, and
while Leo tried to take sides in these struggles, this did not really benefit him. After 1204,
the new Byzantine empire of Nicaea developed into a formidable foe to the north, which
distracted the Seljuks at least temporarily. Consequently, the Seljuk invasions of Armenia
during the Antiochene war were primarily intended to protect the sultanate from Leo’s
ambitions of expansion, but they were frequently timed to occur whenever Leo was already
occupied with Bohemond IV, making them look like invasions on Bohemond’s behalf. That
Leo was able to simultaneously defend Armenia against the Seljuks (and Ayyubids) and
wage a war over the Antiochene succession is a testament to his military and diplomatic
abilities (Cahen 1940: 600–623; Mutafian 2012, 1: 105–111).
The Ayyubids, too, experienced succession disputes after Saladin’s death in 1193
that involved the latter’s son Az-Zahir Ghazi of Aleppo, his great-nephew Al-Mansur
Muhammad of Hamah, his second cousin Al-Mujahid of Homs, and his brother Al-Adil of
Damascus and Egypt. Aleppo, a direct neighbor of both Armenia and Antioch, initially sup-
ported Bohemond IV as the lesser of two evils, and because Aleppo and Tripoli had a joint
rival, namely Damascus. Usually, this took the form of Aleppine invasions into Armenia
whenever Armenia was moving against Antioch. That these invasions were actions on
Bohemond’s behalf can be seen from the conditions imposed on Leo, whenever he lost
against the Ayyubids, because these conditions usually included the surrender of Baghras
to Antioch, rather than Aleppo, whose ruler certainly had an interest in this castle on his
western border as well. However, the alliance between Aleppo and Tripoli slowly cooled
over the years. Bohemond’s 1202 attack on his Ayyubid neighbors, primarily intended to
occupy some participants of the Fourth Crusade, left a bad aftertaste. Second, his Ayyubid
neighbors held Bohemond, despite his protestations that he was not involved, increasingly
responsible for the regular attacks against their territories by the Hospitallers of Margat and
Krak des Chevaliers. Third, the 1212 marriage between Az-Zahir Ghazi and Dayfa Khatun,
Al-Adil’s daughter, ended the rivalry between Aleppo and Damascus, and therefore neutral-
ized Aleppo with regard to any future altercations between Tripoli and Damascus. Fourth,
Bohemond’s 1214 campaign against the Assassins, intended to avenge his son who had been
murdered by them, prompted the Assassins to seek the protection of Aleppo, which forced
Bohemond to abandon his plans. Fifth, Aleppo’s neutrality during the 1216 Armenian take-
over of Antioch must have disappointed Bohemond. Sixth, Az-Zahir Ghazi’s death in 1216
left Aleppo and Damascus under the regency of Dayfa Khatun, which, in effect, terminated
Bohemond’s alliance with the Ayyubids. Lastly, Bohemond’s triumph in Antioch in 1219
made him too powerful in the eyes of his Ayyubid neighbors who, henceforth, occasionally
sided with the Armenians (Cahen 1940: 600–630; Hardwicke 1969: 536–540; Mutafian
2012, 1: 108–109).
The military religious orders have been credited with key roles in the Antiochene war,
namely the Templars as Bohemond IV’s allies, the Hospitallers first as Bohemond’s and
later as Leo’s allies, and the Teutonic Knights as Leo’s allies (Riley-Smith 1978: 99–101;
see also Morton 2009: 56). Yet, quite like the Seljuks and Ayyubids, the orders acted pri-
marily out of self-interest, and the term “alliance” is probably too strong to characterize their
involvement. Since it included repeated campaigns of devastation, the Antiochene war went
against the orders’ economic interests. Moreover, the fact that members of the Armenian,
Antiochene, and Tripolitan ruling houses occasionally joined the confraternity of these
orders should not be overstated: one had to pay to be a “confrater,” and one received prayers
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and basic goodwill, but no unwavering military alliance, in return. Lastly, the loss of the
Templars’ Eastern archives, compared to the surviving documentation for both Hospitallers
and Teutonic Knights, leaves us with a distorted image. For the Templars it was apparently
all about Baghras. As long as Leo was using this castle as a pawn, they stood against him,
as evidenced by their swift intervention when he tried to seize Antioch in November 1203.
However, after Baghras had been returned to them (1216), they even alerted Leo to his
great-nephew’s conspiracy against him, not because they had suddenly developed an affec-
tion for him but, rather, because his detention would have destabilized Armenia, where the
Templars were just reestablishing themselves. The Hospitallers were particularly keen on
expanding their interests around Margat and Krak des Chevaliers against the neighboring
Ayyubids and Assassins. When Leo established them in western Anatolia to create a buffer
against the Seljuks by entrusting Silifke (Seleucia) to them (1210), the Hospitallers did not
disappoint and, in 1216, repelled a Seljuk attack (Bronstein 2005: 18, 49–50). However,
in 1224, when Silifke briefly became the focus of an extradition demand involving Isabel,
the late Leo’s daughter and heiress, the order sold it rather than getting involved in inner-
Armenian disputes. The Teutonic Knights were especially courted by Leo who owed his
crown to the Western (German) emperor and, in 1212, gave them the castle of Amuda
(Hemite). It was at Amuda that Bohemond IV’s son Philip was allegedly poisoned (1224),
for which, however, the order should not be held responsible, or, if so, then only to the
extent that the Hospitallers should be blamed for the incarceration of Isaac Comnenus at
Margat during the Third Crusade; in both cases, the orders merely permitted someone else
to use their castles (Cahen 1940: 590–634; Favreau 1974: 73–79; Arnold 1980; Edwards
1983; Chevalier 2006; Molin 2008; Burgtorf 2013).
It has been said that ‘dynastic alliances’ are ‘the linchpin of political stability’ (Hodgson
2011: 86; see also Ryan 2001: 57). They certainly can be, as long as they hold. The 1195
marriage between Bohemond III’s oldest son Raymond and Leo’s niece Alice had been
intended, at least by Leo, to forge such a dynastic alliance, but when, with Raymond’s
death in 1197, the Antiochenes and Tripolitans viewed this alliance as “over,” while the
Armenians did not, the stage was set for the Antiochene war, which was fought by way
of matrimony just as much as it was fought with arms and legal arguments. In 1210, Leo,
who had meanwhile separated from his first wife, married Sibyl of Lusignan, a daughter
of the late King Aimery and his second wife Isabel of Jerusalem, while his great-nephew
Raymond-Roupen married Helvis of Lusignan, a daughter of the same King Aimery and his
first wife Eschiva of Ibelin. However, Bohemond IV was not to be sidelined by this dynas-
tic alliance between Armenia and Cyprus/Jerusalem: in 1218, shortly after the death of his
first wife, he married Melisende of Lusignan, a younger sister of Leo’s new wife, thereby
establishing the curious scenario that, one year before the end of the Antiochene war, all its
major players were married to daughters of King Aimery, raising the inevitable question: At
what point do dynastic alliances cancel each other out?
Since he was aware of his inner-Armenian Hethoumid rivals, Leo was determined to
diversify his family’s dynastic portfolio; however, to rather dubious effect: the 1188 mar-
riage of his niece Alice to Hethoum of Sason ended with the husband’s mysterious death;
Leo’s own 1188 marriage to Isabel, the niece of Bohemond III’s third wife Sibyl, ended
in separation; the 1195 (second) marriage of Leo’s niece Alice to Raymond of Antioch
led to the Antiochene war; the 1210 marriage of Leo’s great-nephew Raymond-Roupen to
Helvis of Lusignan ended with the husband’s death in prison; the 1214 marriage of Leo’s
other niece Philippa to Theodore I Laskaris, the Byzantine emperor of Nicaea, ended in an
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annulment; the 1214 marriage of Rita (Stephanie), the daughter from Leo’s first marriage
to the Antiochene Isabel, to John of Brienne, the royal widower of Jerusalem, brought
domestic abuse and ultimately death to the wife and their child; the 1218 engagement of
Isabel, the daughter from Leo’s second marriage to Sibyl of Lusignan, to Prince Andrew
of Hungary was dissolved when the Hungarians learned of Leo’s death; the 1219 (third)
marriage of Leo’s niece Alice to Vahram of Korykos ended with the husband’s murder; the
1222 marriage of Leo’s daughter Isabel to Bohemond IV’s son Philip found a premature
end when the husband was kidnapped and poisoned; only the 1226 (second) marriage of this
same Isabel to Hethoum, the son of Constantine of Barberon, eventually brought about the
successful union of these two as king and queen of Armenia, and reconciled the Hethoumid
and Roupenid clans. From the perspective of dynastic alliances, it was not until 1254, when
Prince Bohemond VI of Antioch-Tripoli married Sibyl of Armenia, one of the daughters of
King Hethoum and Queen Isabel, that the Antiochene war of succession truly came to an
end (Cahen 1940: 619–635; Mutafian 2012, 1: 102–116).
CONCLUSION
The Antiochene war of succession was, first and foremost, a “game of thrones,” born from
royal and territorial ambitions. It was a struggle between two strong individuals, Leo and
Bohemond IV, both diplomats, the former a strategist, the latter a jurist. It was a conflict
between denominations, namely Latins, Armenians, and Greek Orthodox. It was a war that
ultimately engulfed Christian and Muslim neighbors. It was a war of succession surrounded
by other wars of succession, a side show of two crusades, and a distraction to the activities
of the military religious orders. It was fought by means of arms, legal debates, and alliances.
It cited imperial overlords in both West and East, and it involved the first and the second
seat of St. Peter, namely Antioch and Rome. It resulted in the personal union of Tripoli and
Antioch under one ruler, a wedding that brought together two rival clans, and, albeit years
later, another wedding that reconciled the former enemies. Above all, while its economic
damage outweighed its actual loss of lives, it left northern Syria impoverished and vulner-
able: Antioch fell to the Mamluks in 1268, Tripoli followed in 1289, and only Cilician
Armenia survived until 1375 (Cahen 1940: 644; Claverie 2009: 410). However, the war did
not interrupt the cross-cultural exchange in this “Crusader World”: the “Assises of Antioch,”
a significant law code, were translated into Armenian; the Jacobite Theodore of Antioch
undertook a veritable academic ‘peregrinatio’ that took him to Mosul, Baghdad, Cilician
Armenia, and eventually the court of the Emperor Frederick II (Kedar and Kohlberg 1996);
and, in 1227, King Hethoum donated a beautifully carved wooden door to the Church of
the Nativity in Bethlehem with both an Armenian and an Arabic inscription, perhaps out
of gratitude that the Antiochene war of succession, and its Armenian postlude, had finally
come to an end (Boas 1999: 166–168; Mutafian 2012, 2: plate 213).
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Boase, T. S. R. (1978). “The History of the Kingdom,” in The Cilician Kingdom of Armenia, ed. T. S.
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Geschichte des Templerordens 1118/19–1314, Göttingen.
Burgtorf, J. (2008). The Central Convent of Hospitallers and Templars: History, Organization, and
Personnel (1099/1120–1310). Leiden.
———. (2013). “Der antiochenische Erbfolgekrieg,” Ordines Militares Colloquia Torunensia
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Cahen, C. (1940). La Syrie du nord à l’époque des croisades, Paris.
Chevalier, M. A. (2006). “La vision des ordres religieux-militaires par les chrétiens orientaux
(Armeniens et Syriaques) au Moyen Age (du début du XIIe siècle au début du XIV siècle),”
Crusades, 5: 55–84.
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———. (2009). “Guerre de succession d’Antioche,” in Prier et combattre: Dictionnaire européen
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211
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WESTERN UPPER GALILEE UNDER

CRUSADER RULE
Rabei G. Khamisy
W estern Upper Galilee can be divided into a few small areas in its different parts. The
term refers to the area which is located west of the highest summits of Upper Galilee
(the watershed between the Mediterranean and the Jordan Valley), east of the Mediterranean,
south of the Ladder of Tyre and the mountain range that continued farther east of the Ladder
and north of Sahl al-Biʿna (the plain of al-Biʿna) – which is called after the Frankish village
of St George de Labeyne (see below).
The natural division between Upper and Lower Galilee is very clear owing to the great
difference in elevation between them. While Lower Galilee reaches the 602m above sea
level, Upper Galilee is twice as high, with the Shāghūr mountains rising very steeply north-
wards above the plain of al-Biʿna to form the border between the two Galilees. This moun-
tain range rises up in some points for 700m above the plain, and more than 1000m above
sea level.
In general, Lower Galilee is consists of long Horsts oriented east–west and separated
by quite wide plains (Grabens), while Upper Galilee consists of two different areas: the
eastern one is the Mount Meron range comprising high hills reaching 1,208m above sea
level and is very rocky, steep and difficult for cultivation, and the western part comprising
long spurs oriented east–west with comparatively flat summits but, unlike Lower Galilee,
here very deep and wild valleys separate the spurs. West of these, a thin and fertile coastal
plain is located.1 Thus, on the one hand, Lower Galilee was much more suitable to serve as
a passage connecting the Mediterranean and the Jordan valley through its plains, and, on the
other hand, Upper Galilee is much more suitable for refugees, especially for small ethnic
groups and entities that needed a kind of separation from their surroundings. However, this
does not mean that the inhabitants of Upper Galilee were refugees. In fact, this area had
been extensively settled and developed during several periods, especially in the Byzantine
period.2 The current chapter aims, inter alia, to examine the reasons that stand behind the
Frankish settlement there.
In addition to the differences mentioned above between the two Galilees, other important
differences can be distinguished in terms of the rainfall and the availability of water sources.
In both aspects, Upper Galilee is richer.
212
— c h a p t e r 1 3 : We s t e r n U p p e r G a l i l e e u n d e r c r u s a d e r r u l e —
Western Galilee had been regarded as part of Acre region during the crusader period, a
fact that naturally had contributed in developing the region and expanding its importance.
Many landowners, including the kings, the military orders, noble families, ecclesiastical
bodies and private persons were active there during the crusader period, and landownership
changed for different reasons such as political and economic factors. Thus, this chapter will
try also to examine the Franks’ use of the northern part of this region and will try to identify
the relationship between the development of the region and the natural resources available
there. To do so, I will refer to historical documents, archaeological remains and topographi-
cal situations as well.
PREVIOUS RESEARCH
Many scholars since the second half of the nineteenth century tried to discuss the Frankish
documents dealing with the area under study and succeeded to identify many of the places
that were mentioned as part of it. For example, Emmanuel Rey tried to identify these places
in his colonies franques which, although published in 1883, is still regarded alongside the
most important studies in the field (Rey, 1883: 471–509). Three years earlier, in 1880, Victor
Guérin published his journey through Galilee in which he tried to give some identifications,
dealing with just few documents, such as those regarding Kuwaykāt (Guérin, 1969). One
year later, in 1881, Claude Conder and Horatio Kitchener published their survey in Galilee,
but without referring to many documents or trying to identify the majority of the crusader
places (Conder and Kitchener, 1881). However, in his later studies, Conder dealt, inter
alia, with identifications (Conder, 1889a, 1889b, 1890). In the 1880s and 1890s, Reinhold
Röhricht also published a few studies with many suggestions of identifications (see, for
example, Röhricht, 1887). Although few of the abovementioned studies have also discussed
the fiefs which contained these villages and tried to locate them and give their borders,
the most important studies in the nineteenth century about fiefs were carried out by Louis
De Mas-Latrie (Mas-Latrie, 1965: 107–20; 1882). Later, in 1945, Gustav Beyer published
one of the most important and extensive studies about the region of Acre in the crusader
period in which he tried to identify all the places that were mentioned in the Frankish docu-
ments and to locate the Galilean fiefs (Beyer, 1945). Joshua Prawer and Meron Benvenisti
published a map containing many crusader places in the crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem,
and some work had also been done by Jonathan Riley-Smith and in the Tübinger Atlas
(Prawer and Benvenisti, 1970; Riley-Smith, 1991; Tübinger Atlas). Hans Mayer also took
part in this research and published some of the most important studies about the region,
giving detailed discussions about the seigneurie of Joscelin III and the Teutonic Order, and
also about the fief of ʿArrāba which is situated in Lower Galilee. In his recent publication,
he dealt with these issues in each document that included information about these places
(Mayer, 1977, 1980, 2010). Rafael Frankel, in 1988, published the first and only study that
includes an accurate division between many Galilean fiefs and properties. He also presented
several new identifications of places that were not identified in the earlier studies. Later
on, few researchers from the Israel Antiquities Authority, led by Frankel, published three
important studies which include information about the crusader period in Galilee (Frankel,
1988; Frankel and Getzov, 1997, 2013). Throughout his Churches and Secular Buildings,
Denys Pringle mentioned all the names that he found of each place included in his studies,
and added several new identifications (Pringle, 1993–2009, 1997). In my PhD thesis I dis-
cussed the crusader villages and properties in Galilee, presenting new identifications, a few
213
— Rabei G. Khamisy —
corrections of previously error identifications and chronological mapping of all the Galilean
fiefs (Khamisy, 2012, forthcoming(a)).3
GENERAL HISTORY OF THE REGION DURING

THE CRUSADER PERIOD
The nearest two main urban settlements to the area, Tiberias and Acre, were occupied by
the crusaders in 1099 and 1104 respectively (Pringle, 1997: 101 no. 222; 1993–2009: II,
351; IV, 5; Prawer, 2001: I, 270). Therefore, it is reasonable to assume that all Western
Galilee fell to them around this time, most probably in 1104, shortly after the occupation of
Acre. Since that time, the Frankish entities, led by the kings of Jerusalem, started to carry
out activities in the region. However, in 1187, following the crusader defeat by the Ayyūbid
forces in the Battle of Haṭṭīn, the whole area, as well as most of the crusader Kingdom of
Jerusalem, fell to Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn who probably damaged most of the Frankish places. It seems
likely that Western Galilee was recovered by the Franks with the recovery of Acre by the
Third Crusade. In fact, scholars have suggested that Miʿilyā and al-Biʿna, which are located
in the middle of Western Galilee, had been recovered by the Franks in 1192 (Mayer, 2010:
III, 1047; Pringle, 1993–2009: II, 30). According to Mayer’s map, Miʿilyā seems to belong
to the Franks in 1192 (Mayer, 1982: 324). However, it seems likely that the Franks had
recovered all the Acre region until the watershed. This can be understood from the terms
of the truce which were given in some details by Bahāʾ al-Dīn Ibn Shaddād, a biographer
of Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn (Bahāʾ al-Dīn Ibn Shaddād, 1994: 344–5; 1872–1906: III, 343; Richards,
2001: 229) (this truce will be published by me in detail in Khamisy forthcoming(a)), who
clearly stated that the Franks should keep the region of Acre. The terms of the treaty did
not exclude any of Acre’s parts, as was clarified while mentioning other places that were
included in the truce. This might mean that the entire region of Acre (the coastal plain and
Western Galilee) had been recovered by the Franks.4
The situation in the region had not been changed following the Crusade of Frederick II
in the late 1220s,5 but did change in 1241 when the Franks doubled their area in Galilee fol-
lowing their agreement with the Muslims (Mayer, 1982: 257, 324 map 2; Prawer, 2001: II,
285–7, 284 map 8).6 Things had not changed in Galilee until 1266 when half of the area was
lost to the Mamluks following their occupation of the major castle of Safed. The biographer
of Baybars, Muḥyī al-Dīn Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, described the occupation in detail, but neither
he nor his successors dealt with the conquest of Western Galilee (for the fall of Safed, see
IbnʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, 1976: 250–63; for some studies, see Thorau, 1992: 166–71). Five years
later, on June 1271, Montfort Castle fell to Baybars (IbnʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, 1976: 385–7; for
a detailed discussion, see Khamisy, forthcoming(c)), leading few scholars to suggest that
large areas in the region, including Castellum Regis, fell to the Mamluks sometime between
1266 and 1271 (see, for example, Pringle, 1993–2009: II, 31). However, based on both
Latin and Arabic sources, it is reasonable to assume that during Baybars’s first campaign
in 1266, he captured all the Frankish areas between Castellum Regis and Safed including
Castellum Regis itself (see Khamisy, 2014b: 156–9). This new political situation affected
the Frankish activities and their day-to-day life in the region; Montfort’s close vicinity
became a real frontier for the first time since establishing the crusader kingdom; this in
turn reduced the number of the Frankish inhabitants in the area whose settlements were
either dismantled or re-inhabited by Muslims. In fact, after 1266 the Franks seem likely to
control only a very small area surrounding Montfort (Khamisy, 2014b: 155, fig. 1). Yet, in
214
June 1271 Montfort fell to Baybars who put an end to the Frankish existence in Western
Galilee except for a very thin strip of land, no more than 11km wide including the coastal
plain running north–south and forming the Acre region in the last two decades, and more
precisely, since 1272. In my recent studies, I raise the possibility that some of the locales
inside this strip of land, which contained the first hills east of the coastal plain, had been
previously taken by the Mamluks (between 1266 and 1271) and later granted to the Franks
in the truce that was concluded between the two parties in 1272 (Khamisy, 2014a, 2014b).
Finally, on May 1291 Acre fell to the Mamluk forces led by sultan al-Ashraf Khalīl (Mayer,
1982: 286), and the Franks lost the entire region.
FRANKISH OWNERSHIP AND ACTIVITIES

IN THE REGION OF ACRE
As noted above, Frankish entities started to carry out activities in Western Galilee from
1104. I will start with the kings who formally owned the land, but granted part of it as fiefs
to different entities. However, not every single activity by the kings of Jerusalem will be
discussed in this chapter, but rather, a few of their most important and interesting acts will
be presented.
A charter dated 1153 proves that King Baldwin III was planning to establish Frankish
settlement in Casal Imbert (al-Zīb, Akhziv, map ref. 1598.2728) which was earlier granted
to a knight called Hubert de Paci, probably by King Baldwin I in the very beginning of
the Frankish control in the region, that is, directly after 1104 (Mayer, 2010: I, 419–22, no.
228. For discussion, see Ellenblum, 1998: 65–8; Prawer, 1980: 140–1; Pringle, 1997: 110;
1993–2009: II, 384; Boas, 2010: 328. For the first mention which relates the village with
Hubert, see Delaborde, 1880: 37–8, no. 12). The document of 1153 stated that the king
owned a bakery and bath-house in Casal Imbert and a mill in the village of Ferge (al-Faraj,
map ref. 1617.2678), c. 6km south-south-east of Casal Imbert. A document from 1197 men-
tions sugar production under the control of the king in the same village of Ferge (Mayar,
2010: II, 983–6, no. 609). Later documents, from 1253, 1256 and 1261, prove that Casal
Imbert was the centre of a region which included the majority of the coastal plain between
the Ga‘ton stream (Wādī Jaʿthūn) and the Ladder of Tyre (for the documents see Mayer,
2010: III, 1396–400, no. 802, 1403–4, no. 805; Strehlke, 1975: 106–9, no. 119. For the
region and its borders, see Frankel, 1988: 251 fig. 1; Khamisy, 2012: 303–31). In addition,
other documents from 1160, 1182, 1220 and 1226 prove that the area under discussion had
been expanded during the years, presumably after 1220, by attaching some villages that
previously belonged to the area of Castellum Regis (for the documents, see Mayer, 2010: I,
460–2, no. 253; II, 730–3, no. 430; III, 1041–52, 1071–75, nos 639, 652. For discussions,
see ibid; Frankel, 1988: 259–60; Khamisy, 2012: 303–31). In fact, the Casal Imbert area
had been granted as a fief to Balian of Ibilin, possibly sometime after 1232 and held by the
family until 1261. The history of the area will not be examined in detail, but I will assume
that its location and its natural resources, especially the existence of the only three peren-
nial streams to the north of Acre, played an important role in its history. That was the only
area in the region of Acre to be controlled by the throne for such a long time. This in turn
sheds light on the kings’ participation in the activities in the region. It seems likely that they
encourage Franks to settle in the villages in the vicinity and also encourage the develop-
ment of the agriculture and industry (milling and sugar producing). Casal Imbert had been
mentioned by Fulcher of Chartres (d. c. 1127) as being a castle (‘Castellum’) which they
215
passed by on their way between Tyre and Acre in 1099 (Fulcher of Chartres, nd: 354). In
1183 it was described by Ibn Jubayr as a big fortress (Ibn Jubayr, 1952: 319; Ibn Jobair,
1956: 356), and in 1187 it appeared alongside the stronghold mentioned by al-Iṣfahānī
(ʿImād al-Dīn, 1995: XIII, 5914). It is not known whether this stronghold was built by one
of the kings or by Hubert, the knight who owned the village in the early dates of Frankish
control. However, although Fulcher of Chartres mentioned it as ‘Castellum’ which already
existed there before the Franks arrived, it is logical to assume that the ‘castle’ or perhaps
‘the settlement fortifications’ had been later expanded or strengthened by King Baldwin III
who wanted to carry out the project of developing the village and settling it with Franks.
If judging the existence of a castle according to Fulcher’s use of the term ‘Castellum’, we
should assume that a pre-Frankish castle really existed there.7
Although the situation of the Castellum Regis area is quite different, its documentation
sheds light on the kings’ activities there. In 1160 the administration of the area was granted to
John of Haifa with a hope that new villages would be inhabited (Mayer, 2010: I, 460–2, no.
253). Ellenblum assumes that the purpose was to settle Franks (Ellenblum, 1996: 105; 1998:
41–2), and I agree with him. This political action, which seems to be carried out, inter alia,
in order to change the demographical situation in the region, had been achieved sometime
before 1220, but surely not before 1182 when the area was granted as a fief to Joscelin III of
Courtenay (for the document, see Mayer, 2010: II, 730–3, no. 430). Whether it was the case or
not, it is the second time that we are informed about the desire of King Baldwin III to settle new
villages, especially by Christians, and most probably by Franks. In addition, King Baldwin III
seems to build Castellum Regis not only as an administrative centre in the middle of Western
Upper Galilee but also in order to strengthen the region against the Muslim threat from the
north, or maybe against his mother Queen Milesende, with whom he had great conflict which
ended with a civil war in 1152 (for the historical events in the late 1140s and the early 1150,
see Mayer, 1982: 107–15; 1972a; Holt, 2004: 61–4). It is worth noting that the 1160 charter
mentioned only nine villages by name in the Castellum Regis area, and it recorded that the
king hoped to settle others. The Franks did not receive a completely empty area, and certainly
part of the inhabited villages continued to be settled from earlier period.8 Thus, it seems that
minimal activities had been carried out by the kings in this area before 1160.
These facts show that the kings, especially King Baldwin III, should be regarded with
the most active entities in the region in all political, social and economic fields; settling the
area with new inhabitants in newly established villages would affect all aspects. In addition
to the demographical change, it will develop the agriculture by cultivating additional lands,
which certainly will greatly increase the amount of crops. This in turn will need more agri-
cultural installations such as mills, wine presses, olive presses and so forth. Such activities
have certainly increased the incomes of the inhabitants but mainly those of the lords – the
kings in this specific case.
The same document from 1153 mentioned above refers to the abbey of St Mary of the
valley of Jehoshaphat as being the owner of properties in Casal Imbert. In fact, the abbey’s
properties in the settlement had been mentioned several times between 1120 and 1255 (for
the documents, see Delaborde, 1880: 37–8, 45–7, 60–1, 63–70, 100–5, nos12, 18, 26, 28, 29,
49). However, the first of the abbey’s properties in the region of Acre appeared in a docu-
ment dated 1115 when two carruca of land were granted to it by King Baldwin I (for the
document, see Mayer, 2010: I, 195–8, no. 640). Our study of the abbey’s documents revealed
that this property should be identified with the place in which the village of Kisrā is situated
(map ref. 1787.2630), on one of the highest hills of the southernmost spur of Upper Galilee.
216
It is worth noting that the abbey did not expand his properties in the Acre region after the first
half of the twelfth century. Moreover, the documentation of Kisrā threw light on its history
during the crusader period, and might be summarised as follows: it is possible that the vil-
lage had been established by the abbey between 1115 and 1120 and most probably settled by
Christians (see discussion, Khamisy, 2012: 23–30). It was captured in 1187 and for unknown
reasons, probably economic, and in unknown time, probably after 1192, a knight called John
of Cannay had rented properties in the village and tried to carry out activities there; however,
in 1230, both John and the abbey passed the rights to the Teutonic Order who, at the time,
tried to control as much property as it could in Western Galilee (see below). It should be
noted, however, that the Teutonic Order seems to have been interested in this area more for
political reasons than for economic ones (Khamisy, 2012: 23–30). Owing to the documenta-
tion of the adjacent territories, it is possible to locate the areas which had been controlled by
the abbey and centred by Kisrā, with high degree of accuracy (Khamisy, 2012: 23–30).
This 8km square area lacks perennial streams and springs, but its average rainfall is
almost 900mm a year. The topographical and hydrological situations were not suitable,
thus, for the developing of irrigated agriculture and building agricultural installations that
used water power. Presumably that is why no major development of this territory had been
traced yet through its documentation and archaeological remains.9 We might conclude that
the abbey of St Mary of the valley of Jehoshaphat was not notably active in the region but
it was one which had long existed there. It controlled Kisrā between 1115 and 1266 when
it was lost to Baybars,10 and the properties in Casal Imbert were owned between 1120 and
the fall of Acre in 1291.
The abbey of St Mary of the valley of Jehoshaphat was not the only ecclesiastical entity
to take part in the activities in Galilee. For example, the church of the Holy Sepulchre
owned lands in Mīmās (map ref. 1643.2633) which is located in the plain north-east of
Acre. The documents prove that the church received the lands there from Lambert Hals
in the 1130s and continued to own them during the 1250s (for the documents mentioning
this property, see references by Pringle, 1993–2009: II, 32; VI, 52; Röhricht, 1893: I, 313,
no. 1187). If that were the case, it might be assumed that they kept the lands until the fall of
the region in 1291. However, except for building a church in the late 1130s, which is also
not certain (Pringle, 1993–2009: II, 32; for the site in the crusader period, see Khamisy,
2012: 39–45), no archaeological remains or historical accounts prove that the area or the
village had been developed under the church’s control. The church of the Holy Sepulchre
owned also a parcel of land near Castellum Regis (Mayer, 2010: III, 1030–2, no. 632).11
The third group to be discussed is the knights and other leading figures in the kingdom
who received fiefs from the kings, perhaps for their help during the crusades or for their
social and administrative positions. This is why we are informed that Hubert de Paci owned
Casal Imbert, which was named after him, and that Lambert Hals owned extensive lands in
Mīmās. We are also told that Barda Armenus and his wife granted the village of Kuwaykāt
(map ref. 1642.2639) to the Hospitaller Order in 1129 (Mayer, 2010: II, 270–3, no. 111).
This man seems to have been a knight in order to have been granted such an important
village in the plain of Acre (for the village, see Khamisy, 2012: 31–5). In the year 1179,
Petronalla, the viscount of Acre and her sons, sold properties in Galilee to Joscelin III.
These included two separated villages – Suḥmātā (map ref. 1787.2679) and Shufayya (map
ref. 1715.2685) (Mayer, 2010: II, 706–7, no. 413. Petronella seems to have been the widow
of Clarembald, the viscount of Acre, who was mentioned for the first time in 1149 and the
last time on 13 August 1169 (Mayer, 2010: I, 354, no. 175; II, 590, no. 340. For suggestions
217
by Mayer, see Mayer, 2010: II, 706, no. 413). Nevertheless, the most important of this
group were the chamberlains of Acre who owned a fief containing some of the most impor-
tant lands and villages in the region of Acre. This fief had passed from one chamberlain to
another and finally was sold to Joscelin III in 1179 (Mayer, 2010: II, 700–3, no. 410. For
research see Mas Latrie, 1882; Frankel, 1988: 251, fig, 1, 258–9; Khamisy, 2012: 36–53).
A document dated one month after the sale, confirms that the chamberlain who sold the
fief had previously granted the Hospitallers one quintar of sugar from a village in his area
(Mayer, 2010: II, 704–5, no. 412). This is the only hint we have for a serious activity taking
place in the fief under the leadership of the chamberlain. It is interesting to note, however,
that both the chamberlain and Petronella sold their fiefs to Joscelin III in 1179, and this put
an end to a stage in which this group of owners held large areas in Western Upper Galilee.
From now onwards, most of the lands were divided between the king and the noble families.
It might thus be asked, what were the real reasons for the sales in 1179? In fact, many sug-
gestions might arise and many answers can be given, but I would like to argue that between
the many reasons, two are more probable. The first is that the region had been harmed by
a natural or political catastrophe and the owners could not renovate their properties. This
might find support by the fact that a severe earthquake hit the region in 1170 and caused
huge damage in both Frankish and Muslim areas, probably also in Acre and its vicinity (Ibn
al-Athīr, 1987: 24; Amiran et al., 1994: 270; Mayer, 1972b: 296–7). The second reason,
which for me looks more reliable, is that Joscelin III was a very promising figure who had
a familial relationship with the throne and was part of a very influential family in the Latin
East.12 This made things easier for him, and probably there was a programme to create his
lordship instead of the much greater one that the Courtenay family lost in Edessa (Hamilton,
1985: esp. 200–1). Here I will start with the fourth group and one of the most important,
which is the noble families who controlled extensive areas throughout long periods.
Joscelin III had consolidated his lordship in a very extensive area in Galilee, with its
majority in Western Upper Galilee. He combined the two villages of Petronella, the fief
of the chamberlain, the area of Castellum Regis (in 1182) and the fief of Gofri le Tor (in
1183), which also belonged to a noble family who controlled a wide area in the eastern part
of Western Upper Galilee. In addition, Joscelin owned a third of the fief of Henri de Milly
(see below), by marrying his daughter, Agnes, in the second half of the 1170s (for this mar-
riage, see Hamilton, 1985: 200). Joscelin and his family seem to have been very active in
the region in all aspects: political, social and economic. They established a series of new
villages and settled them with Franks, they developed their own sugar production and cer-
tainly built mills and other installations to produce products from their lands.13 However,
Gofri le Tor does not seem to have been particularly active in his eastern area, probably
because of the lack of perennial streams there, but he was in Manueth (al-Manawāt, map ref.
1645.2717), the western fief that he owned in the plain of Acre, where he produced sugar
and probably developed the village. This part of Gofri’s fief continued to be held by him for
later periods, and in 1212 the Courtenays appeared as the owners of some rights there, prob-
ably acquired from Gofri between 1183 and 1187. In later charters from 1217 and 1231, the
king and a person called Nicholas of Manueth appeared as owning rights there (for the rela-
tion between Nicholas’s father and Gofri le Tor, see Ellenblum, 1998: 201, 202). However,
all three owners sold their rights to the Hospitaller Order between 1212 and 1231.14
Here again, we witness the influence of the natural resources on the activity of the land
lords and the development of their properties. When water sources are available more activ-
ities can be done.
218
The greater fief of St George de Labeyne surrounds the Kisrā area from its eastern,
western and southern sides. It was controlled by the Milly family, most probably since the
first half of the twelfth century. However, our knowledge about the fief comes from docu-
ments dealing especially with the properties of Joscelin III and the Teutonic Order. Until
the late 1160s, the fief was controlled by Henri de Milly (Le Bufle), and in 1171, probably
one year after his death, the fief was divided between his three daughters (for the dates of
Henri’s death and the division, see Edbury, 2009: 330). The first third belonged to Joscelin,
who seems to own some rights in the whole fief in 1182 (for the document and discussion
about the rights of 1182, see Mayer, 2010: II, 730–3, no. 430. For other discussions on the
fief, see for example Mayer, 1980, esp. 181–9; Frankel, 1988: 251–5, 256–7; Mas-Latrie,
1878; Khamisy, 2012: 252–87). The second third was sold to the Teutonic Order in 1249
by John l’Aleman of Casarea, who was a descendant of one of Henri’s daughters (Strehlke,
1975: 78–80, no. 100; see Frankel, 1988: 251–5, 256–7; Khamisy, 2012: 252–87), and the
last third had not been mentioned in the contemporary documents but seems to have been
located in the north-eastern side of Western Upper Galilee, and remained with the descend-
ants of Henri until its fall to Baybars in 1266 (Khamisy, 2012: 282–4). The archaeological
survey in the area belonging to Hinri’s fief had greatly contributed to the identification of
the fief’s boundaries and some of the important activities there. However, the lack of docu-
mentation and archaeological excavations prevents us from knowing precisely when and
why each activity had been carried out and who is responsible for them.
However, in the centre of this fief stands the village of al-Biʿna which contains remains
of a Frankish building, probably a small stronghold, and a fortified ecclesiastical build-
ing (monastery) dedicated to St George, which is the source of the name ‘St George de
Labeyne’ (in Dayr al-Asad at present) (for the abbey, see Pringle, 1993-2009: I, 80–92. For
the stronghold in al-Biʿna, see Boas, 2006: 91; 2010: 234–6; Ellenblum, 1998: 166–71).
These religious and administrative buildings shed some light on the activity carried out by
the owners. In addition, Gothic art was found during my survey in Bayt Jann – one of the
mountainous villages there (map ref. 1860.2634). Gothic art might point to the existence
of a thirteenth-century church in a Frankish settlement (see, for example, Khamisy, 2012:
275–7). In fact, the archaeological remains and the historical accounts throughout the cru-
sader, Mamluk and Ottoman periods suggest that part of the villages in the Mount Meron
range were settled by Christians, part of them were certainly Franks (Khamisy, 2012). It
would not be strange, thus, if future research proves that Frankish inhabitants settled in
some villages further east and as far as the major castle of Safed.
Thus, the owners, whether the noble families or the Teutonic Order, seem to have car-
ried out extensive activities including settling the mountainous villages with Christians, and
certainly with Frankish inhabitants in some of them. This contradicts Ellenblum’s assump-
tion that the Franks inhabited villages eastwards from the Mediterranean until the middle
of Western Galilee, reaching the area between Fassūta (map ref. 1768.2710) and al-Bi’na
(Ellenblum, 1998: 213, 215).
Unlike the area of Kisrā, Hinri’s fief contained extensive agricultural lands in both the
mountains and the plains, and also contained many springs and small perennial streams
which helped in developing the agriculture and the industry as well. Moreover, its lands con-
tained low plains, small hills and part of the highest mountains of Galilee. This c ombination
had certainly increased the number of different plants that could have been cultivated there.
The fifth and most important entities to take part in the activities were the military orders.
As noted above, the Hospitaller Order received its first property in the plain of Western
219
Upper Galilee in 1129, and continued to expand its properties throughout the twelfth and
thirteenth centuries by owning extensive lands in the plain north-east of Acre, but mainly in
Manueth (for these properties and their location see Khamisy, 2013a). The Templar Order
was also very active in the region, but, unfortunately, the loss of its archive prevents us
from knowing any precise details. However, the documentation of the other entities greatly
helps in locating its properties and studying its activities (Khamisy, 2013a). Both military
orders seem to have been very active, especially in the agricultural fields, but most interest-
ing is their absence from the hilly areas of Western Upper Galilee. This leads us to believe
that they mainly dealt with agriculture, but the Templars probably also tried to defend the
highway which connected Haifa with Tyre (Khamisy, 2013a). This was not the situation
with the Teutonic Order, which tried to control the mountainous region and wide areas of
the plain, as mentioned above. Its activity seems to be mainly political, but did also involve
many economic activities. The construction of its main castle in the kingdom, Montfort
Castle, began in 1226/27, when Western Upper Galilee was in Frankish hands. However,
Montfort seems to be located in an area very close to the frontier with the Muslims in
the east and north. Once Montfort fell to Baybars in 1271, no strong fortress remained in
Frankish hands in the Acre region. The historical accounts as well as the archaeological
remains suggest that the Teutonic Order, in addition to building the castles of Montfort and
Jiddīn (for Jiddīn, see Pringle et al., 1994: 135–66) and controlling Castellum Regis, it also
established new villages (see, for example, Khamisy, 2014b: 159, n. 65), strengthened and
fortified few others (see Khamisy, forthcoming(a)) and built mills and sugar refineries.15
CONCLUSIONS
In 1104 the Franks started to control the Acre region including Western Upper Galilee.
Activities started to be carried out by the Frankish kings and also by few entities such as
ecclesiastical bodies, knights and officers who were close to the throne and received proper-
ties from the kings. At the same time, especially in the St George fief, noble families started
to own lands and to take part in activities. In a slightly later stage, some properties were
transferred by the knights to the Hospitallers and a few ecclesiastical bodies. However, by
the 1170s, when Joscelin III appeared again in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, the majority of
the land in the region was being controlled by the noble families with some areas remain-
ing with the throne and others with the military orders. In a later stage, the Teutonic Order
became the most dominant in the mountainous area and in the northern part of the coastal
plain, while the Templars and Hospitallers owned the majority of the lands in the southern
section of the plain, north of Acre. However, a few properties remained under the control
of other entities such as the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the Genoese community (for
the Genoese’s property, see Frankel, 1980; Khamisy, 2013a).
Three stages of major developments seem to take place in the region: the first under the
leadership of King Baldwin III; the second was under Joscelin III’s leadership between
1179 and 1187; and the third and most impressive under the leadership of the Teutonic
Order, especially between 1220 and 1271. However, before, during and after these stages,
the same three entities and many others carried out different activities in all political, social
and economic fields, reflected in building small strongholds, establishing new settlements,
constructing industrial and agricultural installations, erecting churches and, above all, cul-
tivating wide areas of lands to support the day-to-day life in the region. In fact, throughout
the period of Frankish rule, private individuals owned properties in the region and took
220
their part and contributed to the development of the region. Evidence to such owners can
be found in one document dealing, inter alia, with properties that had been acquired by the
Teutonic Order from many inhabitants from Castellum Regis (Strehlke, 1975: 120–1, no.
128. For discussion in the document, see Ellenblum, 1996; 1998: 41–53; Khamisy, 2013b).
Unfortunately we have no information about the inhabitants of the other villages, their prop-
erties and activities, and thus, it is impossible to know the value of their influence on the
above mentioned activities.
It is also worth noting that there was a direct relationship between the development of
each area and the availability of the natural recourses, especially the perennial streams. In
addition, there was a direct relationship in the different periods between the kind of activity
done to develop each area and the owners of these areas.
NOTES
1 The topographical information is based on my personal observations and the 1:20,000 Mandatory
maps of Upper and Lower Galilee (Mandatory map of El-Baṣṣa, 1940, 1:20,000 (sheet 16–27),
the Survey of Palestine; Mandatory map of Tarbīkhā, 1941, 1:20,000 (sheet 17–27), the Survey
of Palestine; Mandatory map of Sasa, 1940, 1:20,000 (sheet 18–27), the Survey of Palestine;
Mandatory map of Nahariya, 1941, 1:20,000 (sheet 16/25, 16/26), the Survey of Palestine;
Mandatory map of Tarshīḥā, 1940, 1:20,000 (sheet 17/26), the Survey of Palestine; Mandatory map
of Beit Jann, 1940, 1:20,000 (sheet 16/25, 18/26), the Survey of Palestine; Mandatory map of Acre,
1946, 1:20,000 (sheet 15/25, 16/25), the Survey of Palestine; Mandatory map of Majd El Kurūm,
1944, 1:20,000 (sheet 17/25), the Survey of Palestine; Mandatory map of Maghār, 1944, 1:20,000
(sheet 18/25), the Survey of Palestine; Mandatory map of Haifa, 1942, 1:20,000 (sheet 14/24,
15/24), the Survey of Palestine; Mandatory map of Shafā ʿAmr, 1940, 1:20,000 (sheet 16/24),
the Survey of Palestine; (sheet 17/24); Mandatory map of Turʿān, 1940, 1:20,000 (sheet 18/24),
the Survey of Palestine; Mandatory map of Nahalal, 1940, 1:20,000 (sheet 16/23), the Survey of
Palestine; Mandatory map of Nazareth, 1942, 1:20,000 (sheet 17/23), the Survey of Palestine).
2 For the settlements throughout the different periods, see Frankel et al. 2001.
3 Other works with additional information including new identifications have already been pub-
lished by the author (all the following articles contains information about few Galilean villages
and fiefs: Khamisy, 2013a, 2014a, 2014b).
4 Based on the descriptions given by contemporary Arabic sources, one could understand that the
Ayyūbids were well informed about the Frankish regions and their inner divisions including the
small districts and their centres. Thus, I believe that when talking about the region of Acre in the
truce, the two parties, as well as Ibn Shaddād, knew exactly what they were talking about. Detailed
discussion will be published later in Khamisy, forthcoming(a).
5 The additional areas were the city of Jerusalem, ten estates on the road between Acre and
Jerusalem and according to Christian sources also Nazareth, as well as the lordship of Toron and
Sidon (Mayer, 1982: 236, 324 map 2; Prawer, 2001, 2: 201, 207 map 7).
6 As these issues are not essential to the current chapter, I have not discussed them in detail here or
referred to other research that deals with them.
7 Fulcher came from Chartres which is located some 90km south-west of Paris. That means that
he was influenced by the north-western European terminology which used the word ‘Castellum’
to describe strongholds at the time, unlike the use of the term ‘castella’ in early medieval Italy to
describe a simple village, not necessarily fortified (Pringle, 2010: 223).
8 This point is being discussed in Khamisy forthcoming(a).
9 This information will published in detail in Khamisy forthcoming(a).
10 It is true that the abbey moved many of the village’s rights to the Teutonic Order in 1230, but it
continued to be the official owner.
221
11 Collecting tithes by churches and bishops is not regarded as an activity for developing the area,
and thus will not be discussed here.
12 The Courtenay family, and especially Joscelin III, have been discussed in many studies such as in
Nicholson, 1973 and Hamilton, 1985. The current chapter will not discuss it.
13 I will not discuss these issues in detail here, but they will be published in Khamisy forthcoming(a).
See Khamisy, 2012, 371–8.
14 This was one of the most important villages and sugar producers in the crusader period. It drew
the attention of many scholars how had dealt with it, sometimes in detail. For researches, see, for
example, Boas, 2006: 246; Ellenblum, 1998: 200–2, n. 13; Frankel and Getzov, 1997: 106–7;
Frankel and Stern, 1996; Stern, 1998, 2001; Khamisy, 2012: 228–31. For the documents and
other historical accounts, see Khamisy, 2014a: 88, n. 41; Mayer, 2010, vol. 3: 1019–20, 1033–4,
1034–6, 1359–61, nos. 627, 634, 635, 783.
15 Many studies had been carried out regarding the Teutonic Order and its activities, and many oth-
ers studied the three castles controlled by it, especially Montfort (for Montfort, see for example
Pringle, 1986; Piana, 2008; Khamisy, 2004; but mainly see the publications by Adrian Boas who is
leading a major project in the castle including survey and excavations: Boas, 2012a, 2012b, 2013a,
2013b. For Jiddīn, see for example Pringle et al., 1994; Khamisy, 2004. For Castellum Regis, see
Ellenblum, 1996; Pringle, 1997: 71–2; 1993–2009: II, 30–2; Khamisy, 2013b. However, none of
these had precisely examined the Teutons’ political, social and economic activities through the
archaeological remains they left in their rural settlements in Galilee. For these points see Khamisy,
2012, through the whole thesis. For a brief discussion on the landownership in Montfort region see
Khamisy, forthcoming(b).
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
I would like to thank Yad Hanadiv for the Rothschild Fellowship, the Council for Higher
Education for the VATAT Fellowship, Haifa University for its generous grants, and Cardiff
University for its hospitality during my post-doctorate.
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224
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
QUEEN ALICE OF CYPRUS

Bernard Hamilton
A lice of Cyprus was interested in exercising political power. In this she resembled
Melisende of Jerusalem and Eleanor of Aquitaine, from both of whom she was
descended. Although some reference is made to her in most works dealing with the Latin
East in the first half of the thirteenth century, she has not hitherto been the subject of any
single study, and consequently her influence has often been underestimated.
She was the daughter of Isabel I of Jerusalem (1190–1205) by her third marriage. Isabel’s
first marriage to Humphrey IV of Toron, which had been childless, had been annulled in
1190 and she had then married Conrad of Montferrat to whom she bore a daughter, Maria.
After his assassination in 1192, she married Count Henry II of Champagne, a nephew of
both Richard I of England and Philip Augustus of France. Isabel and Henry had three daugh-
ters: Alice, born in c. 1193, Philippa and Margaret who almost certainly died in childhood
(Lignages, 2003: 164).
Henry and Isabel’s right to rule was contested by Guy of Lusignan who had become
Lord of Cyprus in 1192. He had been married to Isabel’s elder sister Sibyl and had been
king of Jerusalem from 1186 until her death in 1190, but he continued to claim the throne
for the rest of his life. When Henry married Isabel, Guy’s brother Aimery was constable of
the Kingdom of Jerusalem and lord of Jaffa. Henry stripped him of both dignities and exiled
him to Cyprus, of which he became lord when Guy died childless in 1194. It was not until
1197 that Henry and Aimery made peace in preparation for the arrival of a new crusade led
by the Western emperor Henry VI. One of the provisions of their agreement was that when
their children came of age, Aimery’s eldest surviving son should marry Henry’s eldest sur-
viving daughter who should receive the county of Jaffa as her dowry (L’Estoire d’Eracles
(henceforth Eracles), 1859, XXVI, xxi, RHC Occ. II, p. 209; the Florence manuscript (Bibl.
Laurentiana, Pluteus 61, 10) gives details of the dowry, 1982: 177). A few months later, in
September 1197, the imperial chancellor, Conrad of Hildesheim, who came to the Levant
with the vanguard of the crusade, crowned Aimery king of Cyprus while in return Aimery
acknowledged that his kingdom was an imperial fief.
On 10 September 1197, Henry of Champagne fell to his death from the first-floor
gallery of the palace of Acre, and after a short interval Queen Isabel married Aimery of
225
— B e r n a rd H a m i l t o n —
Cyprus who had recently become a widower (Eracles, XXVII, iii–v, pp. 219–23). The
projected imperial crusade was abandoned because Emperor Henry VI died in December
1197, and the defence of the Latin East undoubtedly benefited from the union of Cyprus
and Jerusalem, but no attempt was made to perpetuate it. When Aimery died on 1 April
1205, he was succeeded as king of Cyprus by Hugh I, the son of his first marriage. Isabel
had borne him three children, a son who died in infancy, and two daughters, Sibyl and
Melisende (Lignages, 2003: 81).
Isabel resumed sole rule of Jerusalem and, with the assent of the High Court, appointed
John of Ibelin as her bailli, or executive regent. John and his brother Philip were her half-
brothers. Isabel was the only child of King Amalric (1163–74) and Maria Comnena, while
John and Philip were the sons of Maria’s second marriage in 1177 to Balian of Ibelin
(Eracles, XXX, xi, p. 305).
Isabel died a few months after her husband, leaving five daughters. A clear precedent
existed for the succession when there were only female heirs: that of Baldwin II, who in 1131
had been succeeded by his eldest daughter, Melisende. So Isabel was succeeded by her eldest
daughter, Maria, the child of Conrad of Montferrat. She was about fourteen years old, and
it was thought necessary to appoint a regent until she married. The custom of the kingdom,
recorded for Aimery of Lusignan in the Livre au Roi, stated that: ‘The regency of the kingdom
should be entrusted to the nearest relation, male or female, on the mother’s side, if the claim to
the throne comes through the mother’ (Le Livre au roi c.5, 1995: 146). Since Maria’s sisters
were all still minors, her closest maternal kin was her uncle, John of Ibelin, who was already
bailli, and who was now appointed as her regent (Eracles, XXX, xi, p. 305). Alice, who was
the next oldest of Queen Isabel’s daughters, became Queen Maria’s heir-presumptive.
Under the terms of the agreement made between her father and Aimery of Lusignan
in 1197, Alice, the eldest surviving daughter of Henry, should have been betrothed to
Hugh I of Cyprus, Aimery’s eldest surviving son. Hugh was still a minor and the regency
was held by Walter of Montbéliard, husband of his sister Burgundia (Eracles, XXX, xii,
p. 305). A papal dispensation was needed to allow Alice and Hugh to marry, because as a
result of Aimery’s marriage to Isabella they had become stepbrother and stepsister although
no blood relationship existed between them. Innocent III delegated the inquiry to Albert,
Patriarch of Jerusalem, and if either of the regents had been opposed to the marriage, they
could have raised objections at that point, but neither of them did so (Bullarium Cyprium
I, doc. b.-27, pp. 145–6). Walter of Montbéliard no doubt welcomed a marriage which, if
Queen Maria should die childless, would bring the Kingdom of Jerusalem under the rule of
King Hugh. John of Ibelin, it may be conjectured, hoped that the marriage would strengthen
the interests of his family, for Hugh’s mother had been Eschiva of Ibelin, and his marriage
to John’s niece Alice might restore Ibelin influence at the court of Cyprus.
The marriage was in Alice’s own best interests, because there was no more eligible bach-
elor in the Latin East than Hugh of Cyprus. A papal dispensation was granted, and Alice
received the county of Jaffa as her dowry, as had been specified in the 1197 agreement.
Her marriage contract was supervised by her grandmother, Maria Comnena, who may have
been her guardian (Thesaurus Novus Anecdotorum, 1717: I, 806–7). The marriage probably
took place in 1210, the year in which Hugh was fifteen and came of age. Alice, who was
about seventeen, was escorted to Cyprus by her uncles John and Philip of Ibelin (Eracles,
XXX, xv, p. 309). The marriage preceded the end of the truce with al-Adil and the arrival of
John of Brienne at Acre in September 1210. Peter Edbury argues that the first half of 1210
was the most likely date for the marriage (Edbury, 1991: 43, n. 18).
226
— chapter 14: Queen Alice of Cyprus —
The High Court of Jerusalem had asked Philip Augustus to choose a husband for Queen
Maria, and he nominated John of Brienne, a first cousin of Walter of Montbéliard, the regent
of Cyprus. John of Brienne reached Acre in September 1210 and his marriage to Maria
marked the end of John of Ibelin’s regency (Eracles XXX, xiii–xiv, XXXI, i, pp. 306–8,
311–12). The regency of Walter of Montbéliard also came to an end at about the same time,
when Hugh I attained his majority. When the young king demanded that Walter should
account for the revenues which he had received while regent and hand over the treasures
which he had amassed, Walter fled to the court of John of Brienne, where he died in 1212
(Eracles XXXI, v, pp. 315–16; Rudt de Collenberg, 1977–1979: 131, n. 45).
John was not popular with some of the nobility of Jerusalem: this was particularly true of
his relations with the Ibelins and their supporters.1 There was no open breach while Queen
Maria was alive (Mayer, no. 626, 2010: III, 1017–19), but after her death in 1212 neither
John nor Philip of Ibelin appeared at John of Brienne’s court again. As they were kinsmen
of King Hugh, it seems likely that they went to live in Cyprus, and it would appear that they
were not alone in this, for in 1213 Innocent III reprimanded Hugh for supporting John of
Brienne’s rebellious vassals, although he did not name them (Bullarium Cyprium I, doc.
b.-36, pp. 162–4). The first secure evidence for the presence of the Ibelin brothers in Cyprus
comes from 1217, when they headed the list of witnesses in a diploma of King Hugh for the
Teutonic Order (Röhricht, 1893–4: no. 900, I, 241).
The constitutional position of John of Brienne after the death of Queen Maria was uncer-
tain. The heir to the throne was their only child, Isabel II, sometimes called Yolande, who
was at most about a year old when her mother died. Her father, as her nearest kinsman, was
undoubtedly the lawful regent during her minority, but there was some uncertainty about
whether he should continue to be king after his wife’s death. Had John’s daughter Isabel
died, the throne would certainly have passed to the heir-presumptive, Alice of Cyprus and
her husband King Hugh, and it was an awareness of this, no doubt, which led John of
Brienne’s disaffected vassals to seek refuge at the Lusignan court.
Alice’s younger sister, Philippa, remained in Acre as a ward of John of Brienne. In
c. 1213, as L’Estoire d’Eracles reports: ‘While King John was visiting Tyre, Philippa, the
daughter of Count Henry, left the castle of Acre secretly by night and went to the lodg-
ings of Erard of Brienne, who married her at dawn on the next day, which was a Friday’
(Eracles, XXXI, viii, p. 319). Erard was King John’s cousin, and he and Philippa went to
France, where they advanced Philippa’s claim to the County of Champagne.
When Alice and Philippa’s father, Henry of Troyes, count of Champagne, took the
cross, he designated his younger brother, Theobald, as his heir should he die on crusade
without issue. When Henry died in 1197, Theobald III was invested with Champagne
by Philip Augustus without reference to the rights of Henry’s daughters, living in Acre.
Theobald III died in 1201, leaving his wife, Blanche of Navarre, pregnant with the future
Theobald IV. During his minority, she acted as regent of the county and vigorously
defended his rights against Erard and Philippa’s claims. First she disputed the validity
of their marriage. Innocent III ruled that they were related within the prohibited degrees
because one each of their great-grandfathers had been brothers.2 Despite this ruling, the
marriage was not annulled, perhaps because in 1215, before the case had been resolved,
the Fourth Lateran Council reduced the number of the prohibited degrees of kinship, so
that Erard and Philippa’s marriage no longer contravened canon law (De restricta prohi-
bitione matrimonii, 1973: Canon 50, pp. 257–8). Philip Augustus made a pragmatic rul-
ing that the dispute about the succession to Champagne should not be judged until 1222
227
when Theobald IV would come of age at twenty-one (Dossier, documents IV, V, VI, PL
216, cols 975–77).
Countess Blanche realised that the question of the validity of Erard and Philippa’s mar-
riage was at best a delaying tactic rather than a secure defence of Theobald IV’s rights,
because even if Philippa’s marriage was annulled, her claims to the county would be unaf-
fected. The regent therefore raised a different objection: that Philippa’s father’s marriage
to Isabel of Jerusalem had been invalid because the annulment of her first marriage to
Humphrey IV of Toron had been uncanonical. From this it followed that she had not been
free to marry either Conrad of Montferrat or Henry of Champagne, and that the daughters she
had borne to Henry were illegitimate and had no claim to their father’s inheritance. Isabel’s
marriage to Humphrey had been dissolved by the papal legates on the Third Crusade, but
all the sources agree that the proceedings had been brief and arbitrary, and that although
Humphrey had been opposed to the divorce, the court had given him no opportunity to pre-
sent his case (Hamilton, 1978: 172–3). Cardinal Robert of S. Stefano, to whom Innocent III
entrusted this inquiry, took statements from a group of knights who had served on the Third
Crusade and witnessed the annulment proceedings. They were unanimous in declaring that
the marriage had been dissolved against the wishes of the young couple (Dossier, document
XI, PL 216, cols 980–1). Nevertheless, Pope Innocent, like many of his contemporaries,
was struck by the way in which Isabel’s second and third husbands had met with violent
deaths: Conrad at the hands of the Assassins and Henry by falling headlong from a balcony,
and supposed that this indicated divine displeasure. He therefore ordered that the annulment
should be reviewed by a tribunal of the Roman curia (Champagne Dossier, documents VII,
VIII, PL 216, cols 978–9).
This challenge to the validity of Queen Isabel’s second and third marriages had impli-
cations for the succession to the throne of Jerusalem as well as to that of the county of
Champagne. Odoard, the marshal of Champagne, swore on oath to the papal legate that
Isabel’s three daughters (Maria, Alice and Philippa) were born while Humphrey IV of
Toron was still alive (Champagne Dossier, document XII, PL 216, col. 980; Migne incor-
rectly dates this document 1200, but the text itself gives the correct date of 1213). None of
the witnesses who gave evidence made any reference to Isabel’s fourth marriage to Aimery
of Lusignan, perhaps because Humphrey of Toron died in 1198 soon after it was solem-
nised (Mayer, 1990: 241). If Innocent III had upheld the objections to the annulment of
Isabel’s marriage to Humphrey of Toron, not merely would Alice and Philippa have had
no claim to the county of Champagne, but they and their elder half-sister Queen Maria
would have had no claim to the throne of Jerusalem either. In that case the rightful heir to
the crusader kingdom would have been Sibyl, the elder daughter of Isabel and Aimery of
Lusignan. Hugh of Cyprus, who was her half-brother and guardian, had arranged her mar-
riage to Leo II of Armenian Cilicia in c. 1210 (Eracles, XXX, xi, p. 305; Lignages, 2003:
81–2; Rudt de Collenberg, 1979–80: 99–100), but it is doubtful how far an Armenian king-
consort would have been acceptable to the baronage of Jerusalem. This may explain why,
although the question of Isabel I’s divorce from Humphrey was not forgotten by the Holy
See, it was never pursued with any degree of rigour, because the political implications for
the Latin East would have been very difficult to handle. Consequently Maria’s daughter,
Isabel II, remained queen of Jerusalem, while her aunt, Queen Alice of Cyprus, remained
the heir-presumptive.
Alice and Hugh had two daughters, Maria and Isabel, and a son Henry, born on 3 March
1217 (Lignages, 2003: 90; Rudt de Collenberg, 1979–80: 100–3). In September of that
228
year, the first contingent of the Fifth Crusade, led by King Andrew II of Hungary, reached
the Levant. King Hugh took a force of Cypriot crusaders to the mainland and joined with
Andrew’s army and that of the Kingdom of Jerusalem in raids on Muslim-held Galilee and
the lands to the east of the Jordan. Andrew II, having fulfilled his crusading vow, set out for
home with his army in January 1218 and Hugh accompanied him as far as Tripoli, where
he attended the marriage of his half-sister Melisende, the younger daughter of King Aimery
and Queen Isabel I, to the recently widowered Bohemond IV of Antioch. During the cel-
ebrations, Hugh was taken ill, and died at Tripoli on 10 January 1218 (Eracles, XXXI, xiii,
p. 325; Powell, 1986: 123–36.
Henry I of Cyprus was eight months old when he succeeded to the throne, and there are
two contemporary accounts of the provision made for the government of the kingdom dur-
ing his long minority. One is in the Mémoires of Philip of Novara, who at the end of his life
was described as ‘the best legal counsel this side of the sea’ (‘Sire Phelipe de Nevaire, qui
lon tient au meillour plaideour de sa mer’, Edbury, 1979: 25). In his youth he had entered
the service of John of Ibelin, Lord of Beirut, with whom he remained until John’s death in
1236, and his account of events in Cyprus after Hugh’s death is heavily weighted in favour
of his patron’s family (Philippe de Novare, 1913, pp. iii–vi):
All the liegemen of the king did homage to Queen [Alice] as regent, and they all begged
my lord Philip of Ibelin to be bailli of Cyprus, to rule the land, preside over justice and
command the army. King Hugh himself as he was dying had asked that this should be
done. Lord Philip received the office of bailli, which caused him a great deal of work and
harm, and the queen received the revenues and spent the money lavishly.
(Philippe de Novare, 1913, c. iii, p. 6)
The account given by L’Estoire d’Eracles, the Old French continuation of William of
Tyre’s Chronicle, is rather different:
Queen [Alice] required the people of the land to do homage to her, and they did so
immediately and without reservation, because she was the regent. After she had received
homage, she handed over the government of the kingdom on her behalf to her uncle,
Philip of Ibelin, and required her vassals to swear to obey him until her son Henry came
of age. This was a stupid thing to do, because when she wished to change her mind she
was unable to do so.
(Eracles, XXXII, xxi, pp. 360–1)
Alice’s appointment as regent set a constitutional precedent in the kingdoms of Jerusalem

and Cyprus because the mother of a sovereign had not previously held power there dur-
ing a minority.3 This may account for the degree of hostility which Alice initially faced,
which led Honorius III to instruct Cardinal Pelagius of Albano, his legate on the Fifth
Crusade, together with the Masters of the Temple and the Hospital, to defend the queen
from ‘certain men inspired with wicked fervour, who rashly presume to do injury to her,
her children and her kingdom’ (Bullarium Cyprium, I, docs. c.-17, c.-19, pp. 199–202). It
was presumably in response to this opposition that Alice appointed an executive regent, or
bailli, to govern on her behalf. Philip of Ibelin was an obvious choice. He was her uncle,
but he had no claim to the throne and therefore had a vested interest in insuring the safety
of the child king.
229
After the death of King Hugh, the Cypriot crown took no further official part in the
Fifth Crusade, although individual barons from Cyprus played a distinguished role in it.
In May 1218 the crusade was directed against Egypt, and Alice maintained regular contact
with its leaders to whom she relayed information about Muslim troop movements in Syria
(Oliver of Paderborn, 1894: 268). As regent she also had dealings with the legate, Cardinal
Pelagius, who was charged with negotiating a religious settlement in Cyprus. Virtually the
entire indigenous population belonged to the Orthodox Church of Cyprus, a venerable and
self-governing institution, which had been granted autocephalous status by the Council of
Ephesus in 431 (Janin, 1955: cols 791–820). A Latin hierarchy had been established in the
island by Pope Celestine III (1191–98), consisting of an archbishop at Nicosia, with suffra-
gans at Famagusta, Limassol and Paphos, but when Alice became regent, relations between
the two hierarchies had not been resolved.
Alice was sympathetic to the Orthodox of Cyprus. This may reflect the influence of her
grandmother, Maria Comnena, or it may simply indicate that she had sound political sense
and did not wish to offend Greek Christians, who formed the majority of her subjects. In
the Agreement drawn up in October 1220 between the queen, the Frankish nobility and the
Latin hierarchy of Cyprus, in the presence of Cardinal Pelagius, Alice specified that the
Orthodox clergy should be freed from the payment of taxes and from corvées of labour.
Her intervention was important, since, as Nicholas Coureas has pointed out, the Orthodox
hierarchy was not represented at the discussions. The queen also wanted the Greek bish-
ops to remain in office and this matter was referred to the pope, who was adamant that
the Orthodox hierarchy should be suppressed (Coureas, 1997: 12; Bullarium Cyprium,
I, docs c.-35, c.-37, pp. 223–5, 227–8). In the end, as a result of Alice’s persistence, a com-
promise was reached whereby an Orthodox bishop was allowed to live as a suffragan of his
Catholic colleague in each of the four Latin sees, although many other Orthodox bishoprics
were suppressed (The Cartulary of the Cathedral of the Holy Wisdom of Nicosia (hence-
forth, Holy Wisdom), 1997: no. 95, p. 251).
The Frankish nobility did not object to these provisions, but opposed very strongly the
concession made by the queen in the 1220 Agreement that all Frankish landowners should
pay tithe to support the Latin hierarchy. Honorius III was not satisfied with the terms of the
Agreement either, because no decision had been reached about Orthodox church property
sequestered by the Franks, which the pope proposed should be given to the Latin Church.
A fresh Agreement was therefore drawn up in 1222 despite the protests of the Frankish
nobility. The provisions about payment of tithe were allowed to stand, but the Crown
and its Frankish vassals declined to restore any of the former property of the Orthodox
Church to the Latin bishops. The papal legate, and in due course the pope himself, had no
alternative but to accept this decision (the First Agreement, Holy Wisdom, 1997: no. 84,
pp. 220–2; confirmation by Pelagius, no. 82, pp. 213–16; the papal requirement to recon-
sider the Agreement, no. 80, pp. 208–9; the Second Agreement, no. 95, pp. 249–52; con-
firmation by Pelagius, no. 83, pp. 216–219; confirmation by Honorius III on 16 May 1224,
no. 98, pp. 255–6; Coureas, 1997, pp. 11–31). As these negotiations show, Queen Alice was
not simply a nominal head of state but took an active part in shaping policy which affected
her vassals. This may have contributed to the tension which developed between her and her
bailli, Philip of Ibelin.
Alice was also anxious to pursue her claim to her father’s inheritance in Champagne.
She may have been encouraged in this by the judgment of Innocent III that Erard of Brienne
had been blinded by ambition and avarice in claiming Champagne on behalf of his wife
230
Philippa, ‘because she is not the firstborn daughter, who ought to succeed if it were right
that either of them should succeed’ (Dossier, no. VI, PL 216, cols 976–7). Alice does not
seem to have raised the issue in her husband’s lifetime, but on 23 June 1219 Honorius III
reported that the Countess Blanche of Champagne had complained to him that Alice had
sent a representative to advance her claim to the county. The pope later informed Philip
Augustus, as overlord of Champagne, that no action should be taken until the curia had
determined whether Alice was of legitimate birth (Bullarium Cyprium, I, docs c.-23, c.-24,
pp. 209–11). Erard of Brienne was no longer in contention: he had renounced his claims
to Champagne in return for a monetary indemnity and a substantial land grant, and had
even undertaken to support Blanche against Alice (Dossier, nos XIII, XVII, PL 216, cols
982–4, 986–7). Alice did not attempt to use force to make good her claim, which would
have been both expensive and impractical, but more subtly sought to arrange a marriage for
herself with William II of Dampierre who, as constable of Champagne, would have been a
powerful advocate of her rights. Theobald IV, who had come of age in 1222, presumably
alerted Honorius III to this proposal, and in August 1223 the pope declared that Alice and
William were related within the prohibited degrees and refused to grant them a dispensation
(Bullarium Cyprium, I, doc. c.-49, pp. 250–1; Evergates, 1975: 177).
Alice made no further attempt to assert her claim to Champagne for some years because
a crisis had arisen in her government of Cyprus. Philip of Ibelin resented the fact that
the queen did not delegate the financial administration to him as bailli. The Chronique
de Terre Sainte relates: ‘Queen Alice was very generous and spent the revenues of the
kingdom liberally, and disposed of them entirely as seemed good to her’ (Chronique de
Terre Sainte, c. 96, 1869: II, 669). Unfortunately there is no way of testing the truth of
this assertion because the only surviving financial document issued by Alice as regent is
a modest grant of alms for the repose of the soul of King Hugh (Holy Wisdom, 1997: no.
62, pp. 167–8). L’Estoire d’Eracles reports that Philip of Ibelin made the queen’s position
so untenable that ‘she was not able to endure any longer the injuries and lack of respect
to which she was subjected’ and went into voluntary exile, initially in the Kingdom of
Jerusalem, where her dowry, the county of Jaffa, was situated. Subsequently she mar-
ried Prince Bohemond of Antioch-Tripoli, the son of Bohemond IV. The date given by
L’Estoire d’Eracles for this, the late summer of 1225, is unlikely to be correct, ‘ele ne pot
soffrir moult de leidenges et de despis que l’en li faisoit’ (Eracles XXXII, xxi, RHC Occ.
II, p. 361), because on 11 August 1225 Honorius III ordered Archbishop Eustorgius of
Nicosia to hold an inquiry to determine whether Alice and Bohemond were related within
the prohibited degrees. Since a request about this matter must have had time to reach the
curia from the Latin East, it seems likely that the marriage had taken place earlier, perhaps
in the winter of 1224–25 (Bullarium Cyprium, I, doc. c.-63, pp. 271–2).
According to Philip of Novara, the members of the High Court of Cyprus feared that
Alice would try to make Bohemond bailli in place of Philip of Ibelin, a contingency to
which they were unanimously opposed (Philip of Novara, 1913: c. viii, p. 8). This was
almost certainly the reason why the pope had been alerted to the possibility that Alice’s
marriage to Bohemond was uncanonical. In fact the barons of Cyprus were not so sol-
idly behind Philip of Ibelin as Philip of Novara claimed. A group led by Aimery Barlais,
Amaury of Bethsan, Hugh of Jubail, William Rivet and Gawain of Cheneché were mem-
bers of families which had settled in Cyprus under Guy and Aimery of Lusignan (Edbury,
1991: 51–2; Hamilton, 1997: 16). When Aimery Barlais quarrelled with Philip of Ibelin
and sought refuge with Alice and Bohemond in Tripoli, Alice appointed him her bailli
231
in Cyprus. The High Court refused to accept him, claiming that Philip of Ibelin had been
appointed bailli until the king reached his majority and that Alice did not have the power
to change the terms of his appointment which the High Court had ratified. Aimery Barlais
therefore returned to Tripoli for, as Philip of Novara comments, ‘his expectation was that
with imperial help he would be able to subdue the house of Ibelin’ (Philip of Novara, 1913:
c. x, p. 9). Other opponents of the Ibelins joined him at Tripoli, among them William de
Rivet, whom Alice and Bohemond chose, together with the master of the cathedral school
of Antioch, to defend the validity of their marriage before the Roman curia (Bullarium
Cyprium, I, doc. c.-76, pp. 285–6).
Philip of Novara’s mention of ‘the expectation of imperial help’ related to the forthcom-
ing crusade of the Emperor Frederick II. In 1223 he had betrothed Isabel II of Jerusalem
and had given a solemn undertaking to Honorius III that he would lead a crusade to the
East in 1225. Although the crusade was deferred until 1227, Isabel was married to the
emperor by proxy in 1225 and crowned queen of Jerusalem at Tyre. Alice, the queen’s aunt
and heir-presumptive, attended the coronation and led the official delegation which bade
her farewell when she left for the Sicilian Kingdom, where her marriage to Frederick was
solemnised on 9 November (Eracles, XXXII, xxi, RHC Occ. II, p. 361; Chronique de Terre
Sainte, 1869: II, 668).
Alice and all Philip of Ibelin’s opponents looked to Frederick II for help. As emperor he
had an interest in the Kingdom of Cyprus because Aimery of Lusignan had received it as
a fief from Frederick’s father, Henry VI. After his imperial coronation in 1220, Frederick
considered himself overlord of Cyprus, and Philip of Novara reports that he had several
times asked Alice to recognise him as the true regent. These claims were at first theoreti-
cal, but after he had married Isabel II and announced his intention of coming on crusade,
it was necessary to take them seriously. In 1225 the High Court of Cyprus arranged for
Archbishop Eustorgius to crown the eight-year-old king Henry. This was done without ref-
erence to Alice. What they hoped to achieve by it is not clear: perhaps the barons believed
that the king, once he had been crowned, would be able to validate the acts carried out by
Philip of Ibelin in his name. The coronation angered Frederick, since it was performed
without reference to him as overlord: the rite should have taken place in presence of his rep-
resentative, and Henry should have done homage for his kingdom (‘Et aucune fois manda
l’empereor a la reyne Alis de Chypre qu’ele li laissast tenir le baillage de grace, tant com il
li plairoit’, Philip de Novara, 1913: c. iv, p. 6).
In 1226, in preparation for his coming, the emperor appointed the Sicilian Count Thomas
of Acera as his bailli in the Kingdom of Jerusalem in place of John of Brienne’s nephew,
Odo of Montbéliard. This showed that Frederick intended to control the government of his
wife’s kingdom (on Odo of Montbéliard, see Hamilton, 1997: ‘Entourages’, p. 21, n. 57; on
Frederick II’s appointment of baillis see Riley-Smith, 1973: 166–7, 319). At that time he
was well disposed towards Alice and Bohemond. He persuaded Honorius III, shortly before
his death in March 1227, that Archbishop Eustorgius, to whom the pope had delegated
the inquiry into the validity of their marriage, was not an impartial judge, and Honorius
appointed two new judges to investigate the case, an arrangement which was ratified by the
new pope, Gregory IX (Honorius III appointed the patriarch of Jerusalem and the bishop
of Acre as judges delegate, and Gregory IX confirmed this, Bullarium Cyprium, I, docs.
c.-75, c.-76, d.-1, pp. 284–8). In the summer of 1227 the Frankish leaders from Cyprus and
the mainland, including Queen Alice and her husband, gathered at Limassol to greet the
emperor. Alice and Bohemond no doubt hoped that he would recognise them as regents
232
for King Henry, but Frederick did not arrive. He had fallen ill when about to leave Sicily
and was forced to postpone his departure until late June 1228 (Eracles, XXXII, xxiii, RHC
Occ. II, p. 364).
Before he set out for the East, his constitutional position in the Kingdom of Jerusalem
changed. In the first place he had been excommunicated by Gregory IX in 1227 for failing
to leave the West on the scheduled date, and the pope renewed this censure in 1228 because
the emperor left on crusade before making his peace with the Church. The problems which
this caused him as a crusade commander were fairly minimal, although the repercussions in
the Sicilian Kingdom were more serious (Pacifico, 2012: 155–86). A change in his position
in the Kingdom of Jerusalem had come when Isabel II of Jerusalem died on 4 May 1228,
having given birth on 25 April to a son named Conrad (Mayer, 2010: III, 1070). According
to the law of the kingdom, Frederick then, like John of Brienne in 1212, ceased to hold the
crown matrimonial and became regent for his daughter.
The emperor’s constitutional position in Cyprus remained unchanged. Philip of Ibelin
had died in 1227 and had been succeeded as bailli by his brother John, Lord of Beirut. John
was appointed without reference to Queen Alice and presumably owed his position entirely
to the High Court, but it is doubtful whether that body had the right to appoint a bailli with-
out the consent of the regent (the exact date of Philip of Ibelin’s death is unknown; Edbury,
1997: 38, n. 50).
Frederick learned about this development from a group of dissident Cypriot noblemen
who joined his fleet off the coast of Frankish Greece as he brought his crusading force to
the Levant in the summer of 1228 (Philip of Novara, 1913: c. xviii, p. 12). When he reached
Limassol he found a delegation from the Kingdom of Jerusalem waiting for him, together
with the barons of Cyprus (Eracles, XXXII, i, RHC Occ. II, p. 367).
Soon after this he was joined by Prince Bohemond IV of Antioch at the head of a cru-
sading force of sixty knights and an unspecified number of mounted sergeants and infan-
trymen (Eracles, XXXII, iii, RHC Occ. II, p. 368). It is not known whether his son and
daughter-in-law, Bohemond and Queen Alice, accompanied him, but, as Philip of Novara
relates, cordial relations between Bohemond IV and the emperor soon broke down because
Fredrick ordered the prince and his vassals to take an oath of fealty to him. The prince, ‘se
tint a mort et dezerité’, fled secretly by night, together with his army, to the castle of Nefin
in the county of Tripoli (Philip of Novara, 1913: c. xxxix, pp. 22–3). Although Frederick
might have argued that the counts of Tripoli had traditionally been vassals of the kings of
Jerusalem (John of Jaffa, Le Livre des Assises, c. x; Edbury, 1997: 113–14), the princes of
Antioch had never been. Prince Bohemond had no intention of accepting the suzerainty
of the Western emperor and took no further part in Frederick’s crusade. One consequence
of this was that Alice and the young prince Bohemond lost the emperor’s goodwill and
received no help from him in being restored to power as regents of Cyprus.
This did not mean that the emperor had any sympathy with the Ibelins. He asked John of
Ibelin to account for his administration of the finances of the kingdom. John’s defence was
a technical one: as bailli he did not receive the revenues, which were paid to Queen Alice
as regent, but Fredrick was not impressed by this claim, not least perhaps because there
is no evidence that any revenues had been paid to Queen Alice since she had left Cyprus
in 1224 (Edbury,1991: 56–8). Frederick removed John from power and required the little
King Henry to do homage to him, but Henry’s vassals refused to do homage directly to
Frederick, claiming that they owed homage only to Queen Alice as regent, though they were
prepared to do homage to the emperor as King Henry’s overlord, and Frederick was content
233
with that (Philip of Novara, 1913: cc. xxvii, xxxvii, pp. 16–17, 21–2). When he left for
Italy in 1229 he appointed the five chief opponents of the Ibelins as joint baillis of Cyprus
(Philip of Novara, 1913: c. xlv, p. 25). Frederick did not question Alice’s right to be regent,
but he did nothing to restore her powers. He did not seek her confirmation of the baillis
whom he appointed, nor was she consulted about the marriage which Frederick arranged for
her twelve-year-old son Henry with Alice of Montferrat, which took place on 15 May
1229. That marriage was in Frederick’s interest, since the bride was a cousin of his son
Conrad (Alice of Montferrat was a granddaughter of Boniface of Montferrat; Conrad
of Jerusalem was a great-grandson of Boniface’s brother, Conrad (Hamilton, 1997:
‘Entourages’, p. 22, n. 65)). Alice officially remained regent until Henry came of age on 3
May 1232 when he was fifteen, but her title conferred no power and during those years she
did not return to Cyprus (see the ‘Table chronologique’ appended by Kohler to his edition
of Philip of Novara’s Mémoires (1913: 137)).
Queen Alice was a woman of combative temperament. Although Frederick had ignored
her during his time in the East, she remained heir-presumptive to the crown of Jerusalem
and countess of Jaffa, The High Court had recognised Conrad as king, and did not dispute
that Frederick, as his closest kinsman, had the right to be his regent, or that as regent he had
the right to appoint baillis to rule the kingdom during his son’s minority. Before he left Acre
on 1 May 1229, Frederick appointed Balian Lord of Sidon and Garnier l’Aleman as baillis
in Acre, and Rainald of Haifa as bailli in the city of Jerusalem, recently restored to Frankish
rule (Riley-Smith, 1973: 319).
A few weeks later Alice appeared before the High Court to point out that the laws of the
kingdom required an heir to a fief living in the West to come in person and claim his inherit-
ance within a year and a day of his succession. Isabel II had died on 5 May 1228, and the
time of grace for Conrad to make his claim had expired on 6 May 1229. He had therefore
forfeited the throne, and Alice demanded that she should be recognised as queen because
she was the legitimate heir of her grandfather King Amalric I (1163–74). The members
of the Court were clearly flustered and pointed out that they had just done homage to the
emperor as regent for King Conrad. Nevertheless, they accepted the force of Alice’s argu-
ment and adopted a compromise solution. Geoffrey le Tor and John of Bailleul were sent to
Italy to require the emperor to send his son to receive seisin of the kingdom within a year
and a day. If he did so they would receive him as their lord, and the emperor is said to have
agreed to those terms (Eracles, XXXIII, xiii, RHC Occ. II, 380).
Frederick, of course, never complied with this unrealistic undertaking. There was con-
siderable opposition to him in the Latin East, but initially on quite different grounds. John
of Ibelin, Lord of Beirut, led a revolt against the imperial baillis in Cyprus which spread to
the mainland (Edbury, 1991: 60–5).
The Ibelins and their supporters recognised the absent Conrad of Hohenstaufen as lawful
king, while disputing the emperor’s right to appoint baillis for him in absentia. That func-
tion, they claimed, devolved on the High Court in the emperor’s absence. John of Ibelin,
it may be inferred, had no interest in supporting Alice’s claim to the throne, even though
she was his niece, because she had opposed the rule of his brother Philip and of himself in
Cyprus. Yet without the support of her Ibelin kinsmen Alice had no hope of success, and
she was aware of this.
No mention is made of Alice’s husband Bohemond in the accounts of her suit before the
High Court of Jerusalem, because their marriage had been dissolved before then. This is
234
known from the fact that Pierre Mauclerc, Count of Brittany, had made public his i ntention
of marrying Queen Alice. This alliance did not take place because on 21 July 1229 Pope
Gregory IX refused to grant the couple a dispensation from consanguinity (Bullarium
Cyprium, I, doc. d.-2, pp. 288–9).
Queen Alice did not perceive her exclusion from the Kingdom of Cyprus, the rejection
by the High Court of her claims to the throne of Jerusalem, or the annulment of her mar-
riage to the heir to the principality of Antioch/Tripoli, as reasons why she should retire from
public life. Instead, she decided to pursue her claim to the county of Champagne. Her cousin
Theobald IV was by this time well established, but had made many enemies among the high
nobility of France and, indeed, among some of his own vassals, all of whom were inclined
to support Alice’s claims. She went to France in person in 1233, and Theobald alerted
Gregory IX to this and reminded him that the question of Alice’s legitimacy had never been
resolved. The pope ordered Alice to come to Rome, so that the matter might be examined
by a papal tribunal and wrote to her supporters in Champagne forbidding them to with-
draw their allegiance from Theobald until the Church had given judgment about Alice’s
legitimacy. The sheer volume of this correspondence is an index of the support which Alice
enjoyed (Bullarium Cyprium, docs. d.-11, d.-12, d.-13, d.-14, pp. 301–7). Louis IX helped
to formulate a peaceful settlement in September 1234, by which Alice renounced her claim
to Champagne and Brie and in return received from Theobald IV an outright payment of
40,000 livres of Tours, together with estates in freehold tenure which would yield a further
2,000 livres annually (Dossier, nos 20, 21, PL 216, cols 988–92). Jean Richard observed:
‘Quelle que fût la richesse de Thibaud … l’énormité de cette somme le contraignit à aliéner
une partie de ses terres’ (1983: 95). Although Gregory IX complained in August 1234 that
Alice had refused to appear before the papal tribunal, her agreement with Theobald obvi-
ated any need for her to do so, and the question of whether Isabel I had been lawfully mar-
ried to Conrad of Montferrat and Henry of Champagne remained permanently unresolved
(Bullarium Cyprium, I, doc. d.-19, pp. 311–12).
When Alice left Cyprus in 1224, her daughters Maria and Isabel had stayed behind with
the young King Henry (in 1232 they were living in the castle of Dieudamour/St Hilarion;
Eracles, XXXIII, xxxiii, RHC Occ. II, p. 399). When Henry came of age in 1232, John
of Ibelin, who hoped to enlist the support of Bohemond IV of Antioch in his war against
Frederick II’s supporters in the Latin Kingdom, persuaded King Henry to arrange a mar-
riage between his younger sister Isabel and Bohemond’s younger son, Henry (Philip of
Novara, 1913: c. xcv, p. 61). There is no evidence that King Henry consulted his mother
about this marriage, but he certainly seems to have enlisted her help in arranging the mar-
riage of his elder sister, Maria.
Maria married Walter IV of Brienne, one of the chief vassals of Theobald IV of
Champagne, and the nephew of King John of Brienne (Lignages, 2003: 90). He was also the
only credible alternative to Frederick II as King of Sicily, because his mother, Alberia, was
the daughter of King Tancred (1189–94) (van Cleve, 1972: 43; Longnon, 1978: 15–18).
He married Maria in 1235, the year in which Queen Alice returned to the Latin Kingdom
and a confederate Frankish army besieged Montferrand (Annales de Terre Sainte, 1884: II,
part ii, p. 439). L’Estoire d’Eracles records among the Frankish participants in that cam-
paign, ‘Gautier li cuens de Briene, qui avoit esposée en cele année Marie la suer dou
roi Henri’ (Eracles, XXXIII, xxxviii, RHC Occ. II, p. 403; the editor has wrongly dated
this siege to 1233). Walter became count of Jaffa, but that county was Alice’s dowry.
235
Mayer has rightly pointed out that the use of this title by Walter during Alice’s lifetime
implies that the county had been transferred to Maria when she married Walter, and that
Walter held it in his wife’s right (Mayer, 1984: 143–44 acknowledges that he is indebted
to a suggestion made earlier by Jean Richard about Maria’s marriage settlement). Peter
Edbury is reluctant to accept this solution, observing that it was the normal custom for a
woman to keep her dowry for life and for it to pass to her heir at her death, and suggest-
ing that Walter was merely administering the fief on Alice’s behalf (Edbury, 1997: 81).
This, however, fails to explain why Walter of Brienne was called Count of Jaffa by all his
contemporaries. I can see no reason why Alice should not have transferred the dower-fief
to her elder daughter Maria on her marriage. She would have needed the assent of her
natural heir, King Henry of Cyprus, but he would no doubt have welcomed the suggestion,
since it would have provided his sister with a dowry at no cost to himself (Eracles states
that Henry had given land to Walter, but does not specify where it was situated, XXXIII,
xxxviii, RHC Occ. II, p. 403). In the light of this evidence, it seems probable that Alice had
consulted with Henry about the marriage of Maria before she went to Champagne in 1233
and that they had agreed on Count Walter of Brienne as a suitable husband. Not merely
was he rich, well connected and single, but also, because of his descent from the twelfth-
century Norman Kings of Sicily, he would be acceptable to the Ibelins who by that time
controlled much of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Having received a generous settlement in
Champagne, Alice was no longer solely dependent on the income of her dower lands and
might well have been prepared to surrender the county in order to secure a good marriage
for her daughter. It is possible that she returned to Palestine in Walter’s company; certainly
they arrived there in the same year.
By 1235 a virtual stalemate had occurred in the struggle between the supporters of
Frederick II and the native baronage led by John of Ibelin, lord of Beirut. The cities of
Tyre and Jerusalem obeyed the imperial bailli, Richard Filangieri, while the rest of the
kingdom was ruled by the baillis Odo of Montbéliard and Balian of Sidon, recognised by
the baronial party.4 When John of Beirut died in 1236, the leadership of the baronial party
passed to his son, Balian of Ibelin, and Balian’s cousin, Philip of Montfort, lord of Toron
(Edbury, 1997: 74–6).
In September 1239 Theobald IV of Champagne, who had also become king of Navarre,
led a crusade to the East. Among his followers was Ralph, brother of the count of Soissons,
and he and Alice married, probably in the winter of 1239–40 (Continuation de Guillaume de
Tyr de 1229 à 1261, RHC Occ. II, p. 527; Toury, 1989). Alice was about forty-seven years
old, but remained an attractive marriage prospect because she was a very rich woman who
was also queen-mother of Cyprus and heir-presumptive to the throne of Jerusalem.
Peter Jackson and David Jacoby independently proved that Hohenstaufen rule in the
Kingdom of Jerusalem was successfully challenged in 1242, not 1243 as had been gener-
ally assumed before they published their articles (Jackson, 1986; Jacoby, 1986). Philip of
Novara reports that in 1242 a group of citizens of Tyre, discontented with imperial rule,
approached Balian of Ibelin and Philip of Montfort offering to admit baronial forces to the
city, while the new Venetian bailli in Syria, Marsilio Zorzi, was prepared to give the barons
naval help because Venetian privileges in Tyre had been eroded under imperial rule (Philip
of Novara, 1913: c. clxviii, p. 93; Marsilii Georgii, Venetum in Syria Bajuli, ad Ducem
Relatio (henceforth Relatio), 1856–57: 354–5). The baronial party, while wishing to avail
themselves of this opportunity of regaining control over Tyre, were concerned about the
legality of such a plan. Philip of Novara, who was a distinguished lawyer, masterminded a
236
constitutional coup d’état. His case rested on a false premise, that the absent King Conrad
had come of age in April 1242, whereas he was not fifteen until 26 April 1243. Philip argued
that because Conrad had come of age Frederick II’s regency was at an end, and that his right
to appoint baillis in the kingdom on his son’s behalf was also at an end.5 He further main-
tained that it was the custom of the kingdom that if an absentee ruler did not present himself
to be invested, power should be held by his nearest kin living in the kingdom until he did so.
Conrad’s nearest kin in the Latin East were Queen Alice and her husband Ralph of Soissons
(Philip of Novara, 1913: c. clxx, p. 94). Philip claimed that a written agreement was drawn
up at this stage and endorsed by Alice and Ralph, which stated that if they became regents,
custody of the royal castles would be vested in Balian of Ibelin and Philip of Toron (Philip
of Novara, 1913: c. clxxiii, p. 95). It was ironic that the Ibelin cousins, whose elder kinsmen
had driven Alice from power in Cyprus, and excluded her from the throne of Jerusalem in
1229, should have needed her help in 1242 to forward their ambitions, but there was no
constitutional alternative. They were not members of the blood royal, and Alice was the
heir-presumptive: should Conrad die without legitimate heirs, the throne would automati-
cally pass to her. Yet they clearly intended to reserve all-important powers to themselves.
On 5 June 1242, a meeting of the curia generalis took place in Acre: this consisted of the
members of the High Court, with representatives of the Church, the military orders and the
Italian communes in attendance (Relatio, 1856–57: 355).
Those present agreed to Philip of Novara’s proposal and, as he relates: ‘Queen Alice
was then given seisin of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, Then the lord of Beirut and the lord of
Toron did homage to her, followed by the other knights present in Acre’ (Philip of Novara,
1913: c. clxxvi, p. 96).
The attack on Tyre took place exactly a week later on 12 June. Ralph of Soissons accom-
panied the baronial forces, and they were admitted to the city by a group of dissidents who
opened a postern to them. There was, nonetheless, fierce fighting on the walls between the
garrison and the invading force in which Ralph took a leading part. When the city capitu-
lated, he expected to receive it on his wife’s behalf because it was part of the royal domain,
but Balian of Ibelin and Philip of Montfort took charge instead (Philip of Novara, 1913:
cc. clxxix, clxxx, pp. 97–8; Eracles, XXXIII, cc. lii, liii, RHC Occ. II, pp. 422–3). When
they also refused to hand over the other important part of the royal domain, the city of
Acre, Ralph was disgusted. L‘Estoire d’Eracles relates: ‘it seemed to him that he was just
a shadow [ruler]. So because of the resentment he felt and the double-dealing to which he
had been subjected, he abandoned everything and, leaving his wife behind, returned to his
own country’ (Eracles, XXXIII, c. l, RHC Occ. II, p. 420). Ralph returned to the Holy Land
with the crusade of Louis IX in 1248, bur Alice was dead by then, and he no longer had any
claim to office in the Latin Kingdom (John of Joinville, 1868: c. 92, p. 167).
Alice recognised Conrad as king, but Frederick II did not recognise her as regent. In 1244
he sent Thomas of Acera to the kingdom as his son’s bailli, but he was not received there
and made his headquarters at Tripoli, where he acted as Conrad’s representative, under the
protection of Alice’s former husband, Bohemond V (Riley-Smith, 1973: 210, 302, n. 109,
321, n. 2). Frederick was unable to react more vigorously on his son’s behalf, because he
was locked in a bitter struggle with the Holy See and the Lombard communes which only
ended with his death in 1250 (Pacifico, 2012: 399–481).
It is difficult to be certain how much power Alice had as regent of Jerusalem. Nominally
she ruled the kingdom. Philip of Novara records that that she gave him a money-fief of 1,000
Saracen bezants as well as paying off his debts of 1,000 silver marks (Philip of Novara, 1913:
237
c. clxxvii, p. 96), but this might be regarded simply as the payment of g enerous legal fees
to him for securing her appointment as regent. Marsilio Zorzi, the Venetian bailli, reports
that when he claimed the restoration of the rights which Venice had formerly enjoyed at
Tyre and which the imperial representatives had diminished, the queen took a firm line:
‘She replied that if any of our rights in the kingdom had been diminished by any bailli they
would freely be restored to us, but if any of our rights had been diminished by the lord king
they would not be restored, because the queen was not the lawful ruler of the kingdom, King
Conrad was’ (Relatio, 1856–57: 357). The queen had clearly taken legal advice and a way
had been found to deny the Venetians the full restitution of their rights despite the support
they had provided in the attack on Tyre. Alice also revoked all the appointments and grants
made by Frederick II since the death of Isabel II in 1228 (Documents relatifs à la succes-
sibilité au trône et à la régence, 1841–3: II, 401). It is not clear how far any of these acts
represented Alice’s own wishes and how far she was implementing policies decided by her
Ibelin cousins. There are no acts which may unequivocally be construed as the outcome of
decisions taken by her alone.
The office of regent conferred status on Alice. She already had a large fortune and per-
haps she was resigned to allowing her kinsmen to decide policy in her name. Certainly
she made no attempt to follow her husband’s example by retiring from office because it
conferred no real power. She presided over the kingdom for four years, and died in 1246
when she was about fifty-three years old. Her heir was her son, King Henry of Cyprus, who
succeeded her as regent of the Kingdom of Jerusalem (Annales de Terre Sainte, text B, AOL
II, part ii, pp. 441–2).
A NOTE ON THE COUNTY OF JAFFA AFTER

ALICE’S DEATH
Alice’s son-in-law, Walter IV of Brienne, was captured by the Ayyubids at the battle of
Gaza in 1244 and died a prisoner in Egypt (John of Joinville, 1868: 188–92). In 1252
the Sultan of Egypt returned Walter’s remains to Louis IX who was in the Holy Land,
and the arrangements for their re-burial were made by Walter’s cousin, the lady of Sidon,
which indicates that his wife, Alice’s daughter Maria, was already dead at that time (John
of Joinville, 1868: c. 91, p. 166). Mayer considers it probable that her death had occurred
in or before 1247 (H.-E. Mayer, 1984: 145–7). John of Brienne, the son of Walter IV and
Maria, cannot have been older in 1252 than ten or eleven and King Henry of Cyprus, his
uncle and closest kinsman, must have been his legal guardian. John would have inherited
the county of Jaffa from his mother, but in 1247, Henry, in his capacity as regent of the
Kingdom of Jerusalem, granted the fief to John, the son of Philip of Ibelin. In the same year,
Henry granted his nephew, John of Brienne, ‘all the rights he possessed in the counties of
Champagne and Brie’ that is, the estates granted to Alice by the settlement of 1234, which
had passed to King Henry at her death in 1246. It would appear that Henry intended this to
be compensation to his young nephew for the sequestration of the county of Jaffa, which
was rightfully his. This is only an inference: there is no written evidence to substantiate this
view (‘La terre que li cuens Tybaus donna a la royne de Cypre, tiennent il cuens de Brienne
qui ore est [presumably Walter V (1297–1311)], et le cuens de Joigny por ce que l’aiole li
conte de Brienne fu fille a la royne de Cypre et femme li grant conte Gautier de Brienne’,
John of Joinville, 1868: c. 19, p. 32).
238
NOTES
1 The problems faced by John of Brienne are not central to this chapter. The interested reader
should consult the excellent study by Guy Perry, John of Brienne, King of Jerusalem, Emperor of
Constantinople, c. 1175–1237 (2013).
2 J. Richard, ‘Les affaires de Champagne, 1227–1236’, in his Saint Louis (1983: 88–96); J.P. Migne
printed a dossier of the documents relating to the inheritance of Champagne as an Appendix to the
Registers of Innocent III (henceforth this collection is referred to as Dossier) documents I, II, III,
IX, X, XII relate to Erard and Philippa’s marriage, Patrologia Latina (henceforth PL), 216, cols
973–5, 979–82.
3 In Jerusalem, Melisende, who was queen in her own right, ruled jointly with the young Baldwin
III after the death of King Fulk in 1143, not as his regent; Agnes of Courtenay could not act as
regent during Baldwin IV’s minority (1174–76) because her marriage to King Amalric had been
annulled; Sibyl was barred from being regent for her infant son Baldwin V (1185–86) by Baldwin
IV’s arrangements for the succession; Maria and Isabel II, who both became queens while minors,
did so on the deaths of their mothers.
4 After the death of Balian of Sidon in 1239, Odo alone was recognised as bailli by the baronial
party (Riley-Smith, 1973: 319).
5 Philip told Balian of Ibelin: ‘Je vos fais assaver que le roy Conrat est d’aage, et par raison estes
vous mais quite a l’empereor’, 1913: c. clxix, 93.
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———, ‘Les Lusignans de Chypre’, Epeteris 10, 1979–80.
Thesaurus Novus Anecdotorum, E. Martène and U. Durand (eds), 5 vols, Paris, 1717.
Toury, M.N., ‘Raoul de Soissons’, in Y. Bellenger and D. Quéruel (eds), Les Champenois et la
Croisade, Paris, 1989, 97–107.
240
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE FRANCISCAN RETURN TO THE

HOLY LAND (1333) AND MT SION:
PILGRIMAGE AND THE

APOSTOLIC MISSION
Andrew Jotischky
T he association between the Franciscan Order and the Holy Land is almost eight centu-
ries old, and for several of those after the 1330s, the Franciscans represented the major
Latin religious presence there. The custody of the holy places, established in 1333, permit-
ted the Franciscans to establish a convent at Mt Sion, just outside the south-west corner
of the current walls of the Old City of Jerusalem, and to celebrate Latin rites there. Soon
afterwards these rights were extended by the Mamluk Sultan of Egypt an-Nasir to other holy
places, including the Holy Sepulchre. The return of the Franciscans to the Holy Land as the
sole representatives of the Latin Church, only forty years after the fall of Acre had signalled
the end of the Latin presence on the mainland, was a remarkable turn of events, both for
the Franciscan Order itself and for Christianity in the Holy Land. Equally surprising is the
manner of the Franciscan establishment of the custody in 1333, following as it did a series
of negotiations that had taken several years between an-Nasir and two separate Christian
kingdoms: Aragon and Naples. No less remarkable is the preparedness of the Franciscans
to undertake such an ambitious venture at a time when the Order was still undergoing the
traumas of serious internal conflict and division resulting from the split between conventu-
als and Spirituals.1
The circumstances of the Franciscan return are well known from the surviving sources,
but they have rarely been commented on in the context of Franciscan internal affairs, nor
indeed of Franciscan spirituality. This chapter will examine in some detail the initiation and
significance of the custody in the light of Franciscan perceptions of the Order’s mission,
the place of Mt Sion in the pilgrimage tradition, and the connections between the principal
sponsors of the custody and the Spiritual movement within the Order.
I
A group of Franciscans arrived in the Holy Land to establish the custody in 1333, but final
settlements regarding its nature, legal status and physical parameters were not made until
1336. In 1335 the Franciscans Roger Guérin and John, together with Margaret of Sicily,
the director of a pilgrims’ hospice in Jerusalem, acquired by purchase from the qadi Sharaf
241
— A n d re w J o t i s c h k y —
ad-Din Muhammad, the administrator of the public treasury in Jerusalem, four properties
and some ruins on Mt Sion, which probably formed the basis for a convent on the site.2
More land was purchased in 1337 and 1345, and a cistern in 1357.3 In 1361 permission
was granted by Pope Innocent VI to build a convent next to the tomb of the Blessed Virgin
in the Kidron Valley just beyond the eastern wall of Jerusalem; in 1391 the Franciscans
bought a garden on Mt Sion from its Armenian owners, and four years later another house
was purchased on Mt Sion.4
Only one of the Franciscans involved is known by name, and that is from a later source.
The Franciscan Chronicon XXIV Generalium, written in c. 1375, records the dispatch by the
Minister-General Gerald Odonis of Roger Guérin, a friar from Provence, with an unspeci-
fied number of companions, in 1333.5 According to the Chronicon, Roger and his compan-
ions were part of a larger group en route for the Franciscan mission in Armenia. The legal
basis for the Franciscan authority to represent the Catholic Church at the holy places is
outlined in two bulls of Pope Clermont VI from 1342.6 Up to twelve friars and their house-
holds are permitted to serve the shrines in perpetuity, maintained through an annuity paid
by the crown of Naples, which also purchased a plot of land on Mt Sion for the construction
of a convent for the friars. The custody thus secured rights to maintain religious provision
in specific named churches, but no rights of residence in those churches or buildings associ-
ated with them. By the time the bull was granted, the custody had been extended to include
rights in the tomb of the Blessed Virgin, in the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, and
in the Cenacle on Mt Sion. Only on this last site did the Franciscans also exercise rights of
ownership of land, but this ownership was negotiated through local authorities by purchase
from the previous owner. The precise dates at which the later custody rights were granted
remains unclear, but the Franciscans seem to have been present in Bethlehem and at the
Tomb of the Virgin from 1334, and to have secured rights over the Cenacle and over various
parts of the Holy Sepulchre in 1335. The drawn-out nature of these concessions suggests
that the initial agreement must have secured permission for Roger Guérin to enter the Holy
Land, after which he then had to negotiate the further concessions piecemeal. As regards
Mt Sion, the bull confirms the concession of the Cenacle (the room where the Last Supper
supposedly took place), of the chapel of the Holy Spirit (the room where the Holy Spirit
descended in the form of fire on the Apostles), and the chapel of St Thomas, the ‘lower
room’ where the disciples met secretly after the crucifixion.7
The custody entrusted the provision of religious offices to the Franciscans, but – with
the exception of the Cenacle, where property was purchased – no proprietary rights of
ownership over the shrines. The Lanercost Chronicle, a Franciscan source deriving from
the bishopric of Carlisle, implies that the settlement permitted the return of Latin clergy
to Outremer in order to re-open churches, but that no sovereignty was ceded over territory
occupied by any shrines.8 Although allowed permanent rights within the Holy Sepulchre,
the Franciscans did not gain entitlement to the church. The sultan’s officials even controlled
access to the church, and the keys were retained by Mamluk officials.9 Thus the Franciscan
pilgrim Niccolo da Poggibonsi, who wanted to spend a night in prayer at the Sepulchre, had
to resort to the stratagem of changing places with one of the resident Franciscans so that he
could enjoy the illicit privilege.10
So much for the immediate circumstances of the establishment of the custody. In order to
understand the significance of this series of events, however, it will first be necessary to go
back to the first arrival of the Francsicans in the Holy Land, and to examine how the friars’
presence there embodied aspects of Franciscan spirituality.
242
— c h a p t e r 1 5 : F r a n c i s c a n re t u r n t o t h e H o l y L a n d a n d M t S i o n —
Franciscan interest in the Holy Land dates from 1217, when the province was established
at the Order’s first chapter-general.11 One of Francis’s followers, Giles, made a pilgrimage
to Jerusalem in 1215 that may have provided the impetus for this,12 but the first evidence
for the activities of the Franciscans in the Holy Land dates from 1220. In a letter, Jacques
de Vitry, bishop of Acre, complains that three of his clergy, including a canon of Acre, had
joined the Order and that he had had to dissuade others from doing the same.13 In 1230 Pope
Gregory IX instructed the Latin ecclesiastical authorities throughout the crusader states
to ensure that laypeople who wished to build chapels for Franciscan use should not be
impeded.14 A Franciscan convent was established in Jerusalem, probably after 1229 when
most of the city was restored to the kingdom, and in 1252–53 King Louis IX built a con-
vent for the Order in Jaffa.15 Subsequently convents were built at Sidon in 1253 and Tyre
before 1255, by which time there was also one at Acre.16 In general, however, evidence for
Franciscan activities in the province of the Holy Land is limited, certainly when compared
to the rest of Christendom.17
For Franciscans themselves, however, their presence in the land of Christ’s birth was
only natural. Biblical prophecy seemed to legitimise it: the Franciscans saw themselves
as the ‘gens iusta’ of Isaiah 26.2, who were entrusted with the ‘custodia veritatis’, and
as the ‘populus egenus et pauper’ of Wisdom 3.11.18 Parallels were made in Franciscan
literature of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries between Francis himself and Christ.
The Holy Land, moreover, features strongly in the Franciscan literary tradition of the
fourteenth century. The Spiritual Franciscan Angelo da Clareno, retelling the story of
St Francis’ preaching to Sultan al-Kamil on the Fifth Crusade in 1219, asserts that Francis
went on to pray at the Holy Sepulchre afterwards, a detail repeated by the Chronicon
XXIV Generalium.19 Another Spiritual work, the Actus beati Francisci (in which Francis
secretly converts the sultan to Christianity), places part of Francis’ preaching in the Holy
Land.20 The Franciscans had a history of martyrdom in the Holy Land, and the custody
was to provide further such opportunities. According to his biographer, Francis specifi-
cally desired martyrdom as the outcome of preaching to the Muslims, and his Regula non
bullata specified martyrdom as a possible outcome of the mission.21 In 1266 the Templar
grand master asked the Franciscan provincial of the Holy Land to send friars to give
spiritual aid to the Templars besieged in Safed. James of Podio and his three Franciscan
companions who undertook the mission persuaded the Templars to accept martyrdom
rather than conversion to Islam, a fate in which the friars also shared.22 Seven Franciscans
were killed in the sack of Tripoli in 1289, while the fall of Acre in 1291 resulted in the
deaths of fourteen Franciscans and some Claresses.23 In 1391 four of the friars of the
custody were martyred when they tried to preach to a crowd of Muslims at the Dome of
the Rock.24
The Franciscan presence after 1333 was determined by the relationship to specified
shrines. Naturally, the sites of the birth, death and resurrection of Christ – the Churches
of the Nativity and the Holy Sepulchre – were universally recognisable as the most impor-
tant of all holy places. Latin worship in the Holy Sepulchre was emblematic of the right-
ful possession of the site by Western Christendom. Mt Sion, however, was particularly
important to the custody, for it marked the only place over which the Franciscans enjoyed
rights of ownership. Moreover, Mt Sion offered to the Franciscans a set of symbols that
conformed in very particular ways to the Order’s perception of itself and its mission.
This meaning can only be understood if we first consider briefly its previous history as a
pilgrimage site.
243
II
Mt Sion’s history as a holy site is complex. The site included the Cenacle – the room where
the Last Supper had been held – and the house where Jesus first appeared to the Apostles
after the Resurrection, and where at Pentecost the Holy Spirit descended in the form of
flames on the Apostles. It was also celebrated in Christian tradition as the place where
the Blessed Virgin had died, and as the burial place of the first martyr, Stephen.25 Not all
these topographical identifications were made at the same time, however. Even before the
Constantinian foundation of the Anastasis Church in the 320s, Mt Sion may have provided
a topographical focus for Christians in Jerusalem.26 During the growth of pilgrimage to

Jerusalem in the fourth century, Mt Sion retained a special place in a complex and physi-
cally demanding liturgical drama. Cyril of Jerusalem (c. 348) mentions Mt Sion as the
place where the Apostles gathered in the upper room after the death of Jesus, and it is clear
that there was already a church on the site by this date.27 Egeria, in the 380s, reported that
the Easter and Pentecost celebrations included processions of the faithful with the bishop
of Jerusalem to Mt Sion on Easter Sunday and a week later. Having just celebrated the
Passion and Resurrection, Christians now looked forward to the return of Jesus to his dis-
ciples as they gathered in the Upper Room with locked doors.28 At Pentecost, the Church’s
oldest feast, the role of Mt Sion was even more central. After the Sunday service, the con-
gregation processed with the bishop to the Upper Room, where the relevant passage from
the Acts of the Apostles was read aloud. The whole congregation then crossed the city to
ascend the Mount of Olives, where the Ascension was commemorated, returned to Calvary
for another service, and finally – late at night, by this time – processed once again to Mt
Sion for further readings.29
Mt Sion’s physical presence in the observance of ritual in Jerusalem confirmed its place
as ‘the mother of all the churches’, as it was called in the Jerusalem liturgy itself, and as it
became known in the Palestinian monastic tradition.30 As the location where the Holy Spirit
had descended on the Apostles at the first Pentecost, it was, in effect, the site of the origin
of the Church itself. Hence the importance of the translation of the relics of St Stephen, the
first martyr, to Mt Sion, the place where he had been chosen as one of the first deacons of the
Church by the disciples, even though the relics themselves were discovered several miles
away from Jerusalem.31 Stephen himself enjoyed a particular importance in the Jerusalem
liturgy, and among the relics associated with him and preserved at the church of Sion were
some of the stones used at his martyrdom.32 Another of the relics at Mt Sion important to
early Christians was the throne of St James, the first bishop of the Church. This, and the
liturgical presence of the bishop in the early Christian celebrations of Easter and Pentecost,
reinforced the identity of Mt Sion as the original site of authority in the Church.
Pilgrimage accounts consistently identify Mt Sion with Pentecost, but added importance
was bestowed by the identification of the Upper Room, from the fifth century onward,
as the site of the Last Supper.33 Saewulf, the Anglo-Saxon pilgrim who visited Jerusalem
in 1101–03, believed he had seen the very table at which the Last Supper took place. He
also knew Mt Sion as the place of the burial of St Stephen, and as the ‘Galilee’ – the place
where the Apostles had taken refuge after the crucifixion.34 In most Western pilgrimage
accounts of the twelfth and early thirteenth centuries, the biblical events of the Last Supper
and the descent of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost provide a constant thread in the descrip-
tions of Mt Sion.35 A service book made for the canons of the Holy Sepulchre gives details
of the Maundy Thursday procession to Mt Sion for the service of the blessing of the holy
244
oil, led by the patriarch, in which the diocesan bishops and heads of religious houses in
Jerusalem also participated.36 Slight variations occur in Orthodox pilgrimage; for exam-
ple, the Cretan monk John Phokas (1185) knows Sion by the early Christian formulation
‘mother of all the churches’, and both he and Abbot Daniel (1106–07) followed a tradition
that the house where the Last Supper took place and where the Virgin died belonged to John
the Evangelist.37
Another such variation, which places the house of Caiaphas the High Priest on Mt Sion, is
found both in Orthodox pilgrimage accounts and in a Latin account, the Work on Geography
(1128–37), which is itself derived from Jerome’s De Interpretatione Nominum and another
topographical work of the same period attributed to Jerome.38 There thus appears to have
been an early Christian tradition that the judgement of Christ at the lithistratos, or stone
pavement, took place on Mt Sion. From c. 1170 some Western pilgrims also observed this
tradition, including some or all of the elements of the Passion such as the scourging of Jesus
and the wearing of the crown of thorns.39 This extension of the role of Mt Sion in the Passion
beyond the Last Supper drew pilgrims physically back to the site during the liturgical re-
enactment of the Passion in Holy Week.
The tradition associating the judgement of Jesus with Mt Sion was not uncontested,
however. In the Gospel narratives, Jesus underwent two separate trials: one at the hands of
the Jewish Temple authorities, Caiaphas and his father-in-law Annas, and the other presided
over by the Roman governor Pontius Pilate. Early Christian tradition located the house
of Caiaphas on Mt Sion, and assumed therefore that the first trial had taken place there.
However, the pilgrim Theoderic (1169–74), while affirming the identification of both trials
on Mt Sion, also hinted that the Praetorium, the official seat of Pilate’s government, lay
instead to the north of the Temple enclosure. It is also clear from Theoderic’s account that
by c. 1170 the Templars were promoting the Praetorium as the place of the second trial, on
the grounds that it was near here, in the Sheep Pool, that the wood that formed Jesus’s cross
was taken.40 The Gospel narrative of the trial made better sense if Jesus went straight from
the second trial to Golgotha; therefore, if the source of the cross were securely identified,
the site of the trial by Pilate must be nearby. It was, of course, no coincidence that both sites
lay just to the north of the wall of the Templars’ own precinct. This meant that pilgrims re-
enacting the drama of the Passion were drawn back from Mt Sion to the Temple precinct for
the last stage of the procession to the Holy Sepulchre, and from the orbit of the Augustinian
canons to that of the Templars themselves.
The Cenacle itself seems to have undergone extensive rebuilding in the 1180s, and pos-
sibly minor renovations when Jerusalem once again came under Frankish control between
1229 and 1244.41 This building campaign comprised the ribbed vaulting of the Upper Room
and the renovation of Galilee below, providing a model of a second-floor refectory that
may have been imported to Augustinian houses in England in the late twelfth and thirteenth
centuries.42 As Folda has observed, the Cenacle was in terms of its architectural sculpture
the most advanced church building in the Crusader kingdom in the 1180s, and may repre-
sent the transmission of architectural ideas between Angevin England and Jerusalem.43 If
so, it surely also suggests a huge investment by the canons of Mt Sion to wrest back from
the Templars the initiative in the identification and control of Passion sites that played an
important role in pilgrimage.
After 1187, the use of the Templars’ Sheep Pool site, and the route from it to Golgotha,
was in any case no longer available. Even in 1229, the treaty through which Frederick II
negotiated the return of Jerusalem specifically excluded the Temple area. But from 1192,
245
pilgrims had been permitted controlled access once again to the Holy Sepulchre and certain
other sites, among them Mt Sion.44 Thirteenth-century pilgrims identified the Cenacle as
the place of both the house of Caiaphas and the judgement and the trial at Pilate’s hands
and the punishment that followed it.45 Even the report of conditions in the Holy Land sent
to Rome by Patriarch Aimery the Monk at the pope’s request made this identification.46
Confirmation of the importance of Mt Sion as a holy site in the thirteenth century is given
in Jacques de Vitry’s Historia Orientalis. Although he says nothing about the Praetorium
or the second trial, Jacques brackets Mt Sion alone of all other pilgrimage sites with the
Holy Sepulchre: ‘Among other holy places, this enjoys the greatest honour.’47 Jacques rein-
vigorates the early Christian tradition associating Mt Sion directly with the origins of the
Church itself: here, in the place where Jesus dined with the Apostles and established the
commemoration of the event through the breaking of bread, where later he was to appear
to them after the resurrection, and where they received the gift of the Holy Spirit, ‘the new
Testament was instituted’.
In the thirteenth century, especially after the loss of the rival sites at the Temple Mount
promoted by the Templars, the importance of Mt Sion was given a further boost. The
Franciscan Albertus Stadensis reports that it was by way of Mt Sion that Jesus entered
Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. This was probably a rationalisation of the loss of the traditional
route for the Palm Sunday procession from Bethany to Golgotha via the ‘Golden Gate’
in the eastern wall of the Temple precinct.48 Since the topographically correct route was
no longer available, attention shifted back to Mt Sion, which had since the fourth century
been identified with some elements of the Passion narrative. Similar emphasis on the role
of Mt Sion in pilgrimage processions and re-enactments is noticeable in other Franciscan
accounts, such as the anonymous De via eundi de Iope ad Jerusalem.49 Although the exist-
ence of a Franciscan house in Jerusalem is uncertain, Mt Sion may have been served by
Franciscans between 1229 and 1244, during the period when Jerusalem was once again in
Frankish hands but when the Augustinian canons of Mt Sion remained in Acre.
The early Christian traditions surrounding Mt Sion explain why the Cenacle was so
important to the Franciscans, possibly as early as 1229–44 but certainly from 1333 onward.
The crusader rebuilding of the Cenacle housed sites that had an iconic quality for an Order
whose profession – like that of the Augustinian canons whose tenure of the site preceded the
Franciscans’ – was centred on the vita apostolica.50 Mt Sion, as Fergusson has noted, was
the site of the ‘principal sacramental, missionary and miraculous acts of Christian history’.51
Since the mid-fourth century it had been recognised as the birthplace of the Church itself
through its identification as the place of the Upper Room where the disciples had received
the gift of the Holy Spirit and the commission to preach the Gospel – a commission con-
sciously imitated by Francis in his injunctions to the friars minor. The connection with the
Last Supper reinforced this association through the institution of the Eucharist, which by
the 1330s had been established through the feast of Corpus Christi as the regular salvific
act mediated by the Church. The doctrine of transubstantiation, which placed the physical
presence of Christ at the centre of late medieval spirituality, also served to focus attention
on the site where the Eucharist had been born.52 That this Eucharist-centred spirituality was
critical to Franciscan self-perception in a general sense is demonstrated by the cycle of
Passion scenes, including the Last Supper, which are interspersed with scenes from the life
of St Francis in the Lower Church at Assisi.
The Franciscans also had the opportunity, through the identification of the house of
Caiaphas on Mt Sion, to commemorate the part of the Passion narrative centred on the
246
trial of Jesus. This was surely of particular significance at a time when the iconography of
the Passion in Western art had undergone a shift towards more representational depictions
of the suffering of Jesus, including concentration on the episodes of the Flagellation and
Mocking.53 Moreover, the burial of Stephen the proto-martyr on Mt Sion centred at the
same site an association with the early Church’s priestly ministry through the institution of
the diaconate – the office held by Francis himself.54 Likewise, the institution of episcopal
authority could be identified with Sion through the throne of the first bishop of Jerusalem,
the Apostle James. It is significant in this regard that the Franciscan custody, according to
Clement VI’s bull of 1342, acted as a surrogate for patriarchal authority.55 Mt Sion thus
offered a unique combination of physical sites that reinforced its place at the heart of the
Church’s mission: the Eucharist, the evangelical commission, the priestly and episcopal
offices. In short, the Cenacle provided the Franciscans with the opportunity to embody their
mission as restorers of the early Church with public reference to the places in which the
Church had been founded.
III
From the last quarter of the thirteenth century, the legacy of Francis came to be contested
within his Order between those who wished to observe his rule in its strictest form, includ-
ing absolute poverty, and the mainstream who saw the need to modify it in order to establish
the internal efficacy of the Order. By the 1280s the conflict had centred on the question of
whether the Franciscans could legitimately own property. The Sprituals argued that since
the Apsotles had not practised ownership, they too were prohibited from doing so.
Thus far, there is nothing to suggest that the Franciscan custody was accented with any
specifically Spiritual overtones. Given that Pope John XXII had condemned the Spirituals
in 1317 and actively persecuted them from 1322 onward, it is inconceivable that Clement
VI would in 1342 have sanctioned the custody if it were seen to promote ‘Spiritual’ ide-
als. Indeed, the Spiritual movement is generally reckoned to have had its day by this time.
Nevertheless, there was much in the symbolism of the custody to attract Spirituals. The
apocalypticism of Angelo da Clareno’s Historia de septem tribulationum drew on per-
ceived links between the Spirituals and the suffering and martyrdom of the Apostles.56 For
those who clung to the ideal of apostolic poverty, the Holy Land was a homeland. Here as
nowhere else on earth, friars could follow to the letter biblical injunctions and examples by
walking in the very footprints of Christ and the Apostles.57
The terms of the custody may also be significant here. As we have seen, the Franciscans
were granted rights of dwelling in the Holy Sepulchre, Church of the Nativity and Tomb of
the Virgin, but no rights of ownership. In this respect the unwillingness of Sultan an-Nasir
to cede any territory in the Holy Land may have coincided with the principles of apostolic
poverty to which some Franciscans still clung even after the papal condemnation of the
doctrine. Francis himself had insisted that the Minors should not own property, but simply
make use of what was given to them for the purpose. The arrangements made by Roger
Guérin for the custody in the 1330s resemble, coincidentally perhaps, the conditions of the
usus pauper theory developed by Peter John Olivi to clarify Francis’ teaching on apostolic
poverty. Even the undoubted ownership exercised over the property on Mt Sion could be
seen as a purchase by Queen Sancia for the use of the Franciscans.
When we turn to examine the source of the Franciscans’ patronage in the Holy Land, an
undercurrent of Spiritual interest becomes visible. Clement VI’s bulls cannot mask the fact
247
that the papacy’s involvement in the establishment of the custody was from the beginning
minimal. All that Clement did in 1342 was to recognise the fait accompli of the custody
established by Sancia and Robert of Naples. Both Robert and Sancia, however, had fam-
ily connections with the Franciscans. The Angevin royal house had been linked with the
Franciscans through the patronage given the Order by Sancia’s great-aunt Elizabeth of
Hungary (1207–31) and Louis IX of France (1226–70), Robert’s grand-uncle. Robert’s
own brother, Louis of Toulouse (1274–97), who renounced his throne for the Franciscan
habit, was canonised in 1317. Sancia’s own upbringing in the court of Majorca was imbued
with Franciscan-inspired spirituality. Her mother, Sclaramanda of Foix, was a patron of the
Franciscans; one of her brothers, James, renounced his claim to the throne for the religious
life; another, Fernando, abdicated as prince of Achaia and the Morea to become a friar.58
Sancia herself, who already enjoyed the concession of having two Claresses in her personal
retinue, petitioned the pope in 1317 to divorce Robert in order to enter a convent. Although
Pope John XXII refused, from c. 1328 onward Robert and Sancia entertained a mutual
regard for the Franciscans. Robert was buried in the Franciscan habit (in which he had
been painted by Benozzo Gozzoli) while after his death in 1343 Sancia herself entered the
Clares’ convent of Santa Croce in Naples.59
So far, so orthodox. But her youngest brother, Philip, who had become a disciple of
Olivi and Angelo Clareno, renounced the regency of Majorca in 1328–29 to enter a com-
munity in Naples that was dominated by Franciscan Spirituals. Sancia’s predilection for the
Spiritual Franciscans became sufficiently marked for John XXII to write to her complaining
about the preaching of evangelical poverty in her kingdom, and warning her not to con-
tinue to harbour heretics and schismatics. In 1334 she wrote to the chapter-general of the
Franciscans outlining her involvement with the Order and the direction of her sympathies.60
The letter, which survives in the Chronicon XXIV Generalium, includes the texts of previ-
ous letters to the Order: one written to Michael of Cesena during his minister-generalship in
1316, another to the chapter-general after Michael’s deposition in 1329, and a third to the
chapter meeting held under Gerald Odonis in 1331.61
It is clear from the letters not only that Sancia had a profound knowledge of the
Franciscan literary tradition, but also that she regarded the Spirituals much as they saw
themselves, as the true followers of St Francis. She calls on Franciscans to defy the pope,
to remain faithful to Francis’ teaching on apostolic poverty, and to adhere to the literal
prescriptions in the Rule. Sancia’s involvement with the Spiritual tendency, however, is
marked by her actions as well as her words. She deliberately snubbed the Conventual
mainstream of the Order by opening the kingdom of Naples to dissenting Spirituals and
fraticelli.62 At the very time that the Franciscan custody in the Holy Land was beginning,
in 1332–33, a group of about fifty Spirituals from Ancona settled in Castel Lettere, in the
Bay of Naples.63 Among Sancia’s advisors was a man who was later to be tried for being
one of the fraticelli, Adhemar de Mosset, a friend of her brother Philip of Majorca.64 Philip
himself had been a protégé of one of the leaders of the Anconan Spirituals, Angelo da
Clareno, since 1311. Nine of Angelo’s letters between 1316 and 1334 were addressed to
Philip, and another of Philip’s friends, Robert of Mileto, asked to borrow Angelo’s trans-
lation of the Rule of St Basil.65 Philip benefited from his sister’s protection to found an
openly extreme Spiritual community at Santa Chiara in Naples. His preaching against the
pope’s condemnation of the Spirituals provoked a letter from John XXII objecting to his
activities, and in 1331 the pope tried to compel him to join an ‘approved’ order.66 In 1336
Sancia and Robert banished the Franciscan minister-general, Gerald Odonis, from Naples,
248
in retaliation for the Order’s attack on another of Philip’s friends, the Spiritual Andreas
da Gagliano, on the grounds of disobedience both to the pope and the Franciscan Order.67
As Musto has suggested, the inquisitorial process directed against Andreas was a means
of attacking a queen who was ‘a major protagonist in the later history of the Spirituals’.68
Robert, whose sympathies probably lay with the mainstream of the Order, nevertheless had
to defend Sancia against such interference.69
The provocative favour shown by Sancia to Spiritual Franciscans, and her willingness to
snub the Order itself, naturally raise questions about her sponsorship of the Franciscan cus-
tody in the Holy Land in the 1330s. It is true that at the time when the Franciscans arrived
in the Holy Land, in 1333, Sancia and Robert had not yet taken formal action against the
Conventuals in the kingdom of Naples. Nevertheless, Sancia’s insistence on adherence to
apostolic poverty, as attested in her letters to the Order, dates from well before this, and
she can hardly have been well disposed to Odonis after 1331, when he had tried to get
John XXII to abrogate the Franciscan Rule’s prohibition on receiving money.70 Her letter
of 1329 had begged the Franciscans assembled in chapter to elect a new minister of the
same high qualities as Michael of Cesena; when she heard about Odonis’ attempt to have
the Rule changed, she wrote again, in 1331, to recommend disobedience to the minister-
general if he succeeded in his objective.71 In the very year that Odonis sent Roger Guérin to
the Holy Land, Robert and Sancia were intervening with John XXII on behalf of Andreas
da Galgliano and another Spiritual, Peter of Cadeneto.
None of this evidence for Sancia’s defence of Spirituals, fraticelli or other Franciscan
rebels and their principles necessarily means that in the 1330s she only supported the rem-
nants of the extreme wing of the Order. For one thing, it is difficult to be precise about
the nomenclature of ‘Spirituals’ and ‘fraticelli’ in this period.72 The kingdom of Naples
under Robert and Sancia was a haven for a wide variety of disaffected mendicants; it was,
as one historian has put it, a ‘great melting-pot of Franciscan dissidence’.73 Robert’s most
recent biographer has challenged the assumption that he shared his wife’s sympathies for
the Spirituals and their ideals.74 Dissident Franciscans from different provinces had suffered
varied experiences and had absorbed different traditions; those who took refuge in Sicily
cannot necessarily be classed with the Anconans or Provencals. The sheer variety of dis-
sident Franciscans to be found in Robert and Sancia’s Naples, however, may have made it
more representative of the Spiritual movement as a whole.75 Her letters to the Franciscans
indicate that she saw herself not so much as a partisan of one particular side over another
in the Spiritual debate, but as a mother-figure to the whole Order.76 Sancia’s letter of 1334,
written to remind the Franciscans of the care with which she had always nurtured the Order,
coincides with the beginning of the Franciscan custody in the Holy Land for which she was
paying out of her own purse.
The only contemporary narrative of the establishment of the custody, the Chronicon
XXIV Generalium, places these events in the context of Franciscan missionary activity that
the chronicler sees as part of a Spiritual agenda. Roger Guérin is named as the friar who
negotiated the return of the Cenacle on Mt Sion from the Sultan.77 The whole passage,
however, makes it appear that this was simply a side-show in the larger Franciscan mis-
sion to the Armenians. Roger was apparently one of the Aquitainian friars sent by Gerald
Odonis in 1332–33 to reconvert those Armenians who had slipped away from Roman obe-
dience. After a short aside explaining the significance of the Cenacle as the place where
the Last Supper had been held, and furthermore as the site of the descent of the Holy Spirit
on the Apostles, the chronicler returns to the main story of the Armenian mission and the
249
martyrdoms that resulted from it; following this, he inserts the letters of Queen Sancia to
the Franciscan chapter-general.
The Franciscan mission to Armenia had become in the 1280s a predominantly Spiritual
affair, and one moreover dominated by dissenting friars from Ancona. The Armenian king
Hethoum II, anxious to maintain diplomatic channels to Rome after the fall of Tripoli in
1289, asked for Franciscan preachers to be sent to his country to re-invigorate the union
of the Armenian Church with Rome. This request must be seen in the context of a long-
standing Franciscan involvement in Armenia, which by mid-century had resulted in the
foundation of convents in Sis and Siwas. The minister-general used the request as an oppor-
tunity to defuse a potential revolt from the province of Ancona, by sending a group that
included friars who had been imprisoned for their extreme views – Peter da Macerata,
Thomas of Tolentino, Marco da Montelupone, Fraymundo and Angelo da Clareno.78 The
Spirituals enjoyed a cordial reception from Hethoum, who was personally sympathetic to
the Order, but in 1290 they were forced out of Armenia as a result of rumours spread by
the conventual establishment in the province of the Holy Land, and withdrew to Cyprus.79
In 1292 Marco and Thomas pleaded unsuccessfully at Rome for military help for Armenia;
in the face of the Mamluk invasion of Armenia in that year, Hethoum II himself became a
Franciscan at Sis. The Order’s chapter-general, held in the same year, placed the Franciscan
convents in Armenia under the obedience of the province of the Holy Land, which was
firmly in the hands of conventuals.80
After they were withdrawn from Armenia in 1290, they found that the province of the
Holy Land was being contested between conventuals and Spirituals. Cyprus, for example,
was divided in its opinion: at the convent in Nicosia, Peter of Macerata was welcomed, but
in Paphos he encountered hostility.81 John of Parma, a ‘protospiritual’ who had resigned as
minister-general in 1257,82 was from 1270 to 1279 custodian of the Franciscan province
of the Holy Land. The chapter-general of 1287, however – the same that found against the
teachings of Peter John Olivi on the ‘usus pauper’ – decreed that no more ‘insolent’ friars
(the term used to describe those with extreme sympathies) were to be sent to the Holy
Land.83 Eastern mission fields were used by the Order as a means of getting rid of trouble-
some Spirituals: Thomas of Tolentino, one of the Anconans sent to Armenia in 1289–90,
was eventually martyred in India in 1321.84 If this was the case with Armenia in the 1280s,
why not also in the 1330s, when the need to be rid of Spirituals and fraticelli after the papal
condemnation was more pressing still? Spiritual sympathisers, indeed, seem to have been
alive to this strategy: a bull of John XXII from 1325, censures Spirituals who undertook
missionary work in the East in order to evade the authority of their Order, and without
proper licence.85 If the friars sent by Gerald Odonis to Armenia in 1333 were in fact going
into a missionary exile, and if Roger Guérin and his diversion to the Holy Land was part of
this mission, then it follows that the friars of the custody may also have been suspected of
Spiritual sympathies.
There is no ‘silver bullet’ that links the surviving Spirituals in the 1330s definitively to
the Franciscan custody of the Holy Land. Yet hints have been dropped by historians before
now suggesting that such a connection may have been real.86 In any event, the custody of the
Holy Land offered the opportunity for the Franciscans to revive a reputation that had suf-
fered through internal dissent by taking on the responsibility of representing Christendom
in the holy places. In providing spiritual ministry and practical help for pilgrims to the
Holy Land under Mamluk rule, the custody enabled the Order to rediscover and reinvig-
orate pilgrimage to Jerusalem, but at the same time also to re-define their own spiritual
250
direction. In due course, over centuries of exercising their ministry to Catholic Christians in
the Jerusalem, the Franciscans would become synonymous with the Holy Land in ways that
belied their quiet beginnings there in the 1220s but that reconnected them with the spiritual-
ity of the first Church.
NOTES
1 David Burr, The Spiritual Franciscans. From Protest to Persecution in the Century after Saint
Francis (University Park, PA, 2001) provides the most recent survey of these events.
2 Girolamo Golubovich (ed.), Serie cronologica dei superiori di Terra Santa (Jerusalem, 1898),
131–3; Margaret is mentioned by the pilgrim Ludolf von Sudheim, ‘Liber terrae sanctae
Jerusalem’, ed. G.A. Neumann, Archives de l’Orient latin, ii (1884), 352.
3 Golubovich, Serie cronologica, 143–4, 153–4, 160.
4 Sabino de Sandoli, The Peaceful Liberation of the Holy Places in the Fourteenth Century, Studia
Orientalia Christiana Monographia 3 (Cairo: Franciscan Center of Oriental Studies, 1990), 26–9,
for summary of these acquisitions.
5 Chronicon XXIV Generalium ordinis Minorum, in Analecta Francescana, iii, (Quaracchi, 1897),
510. The anonymous author is mistaken in thinking that permission to occupy Mt Sion was
given at this stage. For introduction to the chronicle, Bert Roest, Reading the Book of History.
Intellectual Contexts and Educational Functions of Franciscan Historiography 1226–ca.1350,
(Groningen, 1996), 37–8.
6 L. Wadding (ed.) Annales III (Rome, 1635), an. 1342, n. 17, also Girolamo Golubovich, Biblioteca
bio-bibliografia della Terra Santa e dell’Oriente francescano, 5 vols (Quaracchi 1906–27), iv,
52–6.
7 Wadding, Annales, III, an. 1342, n. 17.
8 Chronicon de Lanercost 1201–1346, ed. Joseph Stevenson (Edinburgh, 1839), 289–90; how-
ever, the author seems to have confused the 1333–36 proceedings with negotiations resulting
from an earlier embassy by Peter de la Palud in 1329–30. On the authorship of the chronicle,
see A.G. Little, ‘The Authorship of the Lanercost Chronicle’, in Franciscan Papers, Lists and
Documents (Manchester, 1943), 42–54, and H.S. Offler, ‘A Note on the Northern Franciscan
Chronicle’, Nottingham Medieval Studies, xxviii, (1984), 45–59. In general, see the remarks of
Antonia Gransden, Historical Writing in England, I, c.550 to c.1307 (London, 1974), 494, and
idem, Historical Writing in England, II, c.1307 to the Early Sixteenth Century (London, 1982),
115–17.
9 An anonymous Franciscan pilgrim of 1345 reports that the door to the church was opened by a
Mamluk gatekeeper, ‘Itinerarium cuiusdam Anglici’, in Golubovich, Biblioteca, IV, 453. Another
Franciscan pilgrim, Niccolo da Poggibonsi (1346), says that eight Muslims held the keys to the
church, Libro d’Oltramare (1346–50), ed. B. Bagatti (Jerusalem 1945), XXXII, 25–6. Even after
the Franciscan custody had been granted, however, there is some doubt as to who kept the key to
the edicule of the Holy Sepulchre itself. Ludolf of Sudheim, who visited Jerusalem at Christmas
1336, thought that the key was kept by Georgian monks, G.A. Neumann, 349–52.
10 Niccolo da Poggibonsi, Libro d’Oltramare, XXXIII, 26.
11 J. Moorman, A History of the Franciscan Order from its Origins to the Year 1517 (Oxford, 1968),
62, for a full account of these events.
12 Moorman, History, 227.
13 Jacqes de Vitry, Lettres, VI, ed. R.B.C. Huygens, Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Medievalis
(Turnhout, 2000), 620–3.
14 Golubovich, Biblioteca, I, 160.
15 Denys Pringle, The Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jersualem. A Corpus, 4 vols (Cambridge,
1993–2009), IV, no. 381, 48–50; William of St Pathus, Vie de Saint Louis, ed. H-F. Delaborde
(Paris, 1899), 46–7.
251
16 Pringle, Churches, II, no. 243, 328; Golubovich, Biblioteca, I, 234.

17 M. Roncaglia, I francescani in Oriente durante le Crociate (Cairo, 1954), 33.
18 Salimbene de Adam, Cronica, CCCLXXIII-IV, ed. G. Scalia, Corpus Christianum Continuatio
Medievalis 125 and 125A (Turnhout, 1998, 1999), 393–4; Marjorie Reeves, The Influence of
Prophecy in the Later Middle Ages: A Study in Joachimism (Oxford, 1969), 179–81.
19 Angelo Clareno, Chronicon seu Historia septem tribulationum, ed. Alberto Ghiniato, (Rome,
1958–9), 35–6; Golubovich, Biblioteca, I, 56; Chronicon XXIV Generalium, 331. Angelo may
be following the sense of Thomas of Celano, Vita prima sancti Francisci, XX, ed. E. Alençon,
S. Francisci vita et miracula (Rome, 1906), 57–60, who includes ‘Syria’ within the geographical
orbit of Egypt. The Old French continuation of William of Tyre, Eracles, RHC Occ ii, 348, also
has Francis going on to Syria from Egypt. See now John V. Tolan, Saint Francis and the Sultan
(Oxford, 2009).
20 Actus beati Francisci et sociorum eius, XXVII, ed. P. Sabatier (Paris 1902), 90–1.
21 Thomas of Celano, Vita Prima, XX, ed. E. Alençon, S. Francisci vita et miracula (Rome, 1906),
57–60. For general discussion, see Christopher MacEvitt, ‘Martyrdom and the Muslim World
through Franciscan Eyes’, Catholic Historical Review 97 (2011), 1–23.
22 Les gestes des Chiprois, Receuil des Historiens des Croisades, Documents Arméniens, 2 vols
(Paris 1869–1906), II, 765.
23 Golubovich, Biblioteca, I, 351–2.
24 P. Durnieu, ‘Procès-verbal du martyre de quatre frères mineurs, 1391’, Archives de l’Orient Latin,
i, (1881), 539–46.
25 Pringle, Churches, III, 261–87.
26 Thus E.D. Hunt, Holy Land Pilgrimage in the Later Roman Empire, AD 312–460, (Oxford, 1982),
19, but see Joan Taylor, Christians and the Holy Places. The Myth of Jewish-Christian Origins,
(Oxford, 1993), 208–9, for the view that Mt Sion was too up-market an area for the earliest
Christians to have resided there; on these grounds she dismisses the idea of a Jewish-Christian
house church on the site. On the early Church in Jerusalem, see Jerome Murphy-O’Connor, ‘Pre-
Constantinian Christian Jerusalem’, in A. O’Mahony (ed.) The Christian Heritage in the Holy
Land (London, 1995), 13–21.
27 Cyril of Jerusalem, Catecheses XVI, 4, PG 33: 924; Taylor, Christians and the Holy Places, 211,
for dating the church to c. 336.
28 Itinerarium Egeriae, XXXIX, 5, ed. A. Franceschini and R. Weber, Itineraria et alia Geographica,
[C]orpus [C]hristianorum [S]eries [L]atina 175 (Turnhout, 1965), 83. A twelfth-century litur-
gical synaxarion from the Greek Orthodox community in Jerusalem records the procession to
Mt Sion and the services of Vespers and the blessing of the holy oil in the Upper Room on Maundy
Thursday, A. Papadopoulos-Kerameos (ed.), Analekta Ierosolymitikes Stachyologias, ii (Athens
1894, repr. Brussels 1963), 83–108, from Jerusalem Holy Sepulchre MS 43.
29 Itinerarium Egeriae, XLIII, 8, 86.
30 Liturgy of St James ed. G. Mercier, Patrologia Orientalis 26 (Paris, 1946), 206; Cyril of
Scythopolis, Vita Sabae, LVII. ed. E. Schwartz, Kyrillos von Skythopolis (Leipzig, 1939), 176.
31 Hunt, Holy Land Pilgrimage, 212–20.
32 Antoninus Placentinus Itinerarium XXII, ed. P. Geyer, Itineraria et alia Geographica CCSL 175,
140.
33 The first mention is in Ps-Hesychius, Commentarium in Psalmos, I, 17, LIV, 14, CIX, 2; see
Taylor, Christians and the Holy Places, 207.
34 Saewulf, ed. R.B.C. Huygens, Peregrinatores Tres, CCCM 139 (Turnhout, 1994), 71.
35 The architectural layout of the church and shrines is difficult to reconstruct exactly from pilgrims’
accounts, Jaroslav Folda, The Art of the Crusaders in the Holy Land, 1099–1187 (Cambridge,
1995), 282.
36 Ch. Kohler (ed.) ‘Un ritual et un bréviaire du Sait-Sépulcre’, Revue de l’Orient latin, viii (1900–1),
414–15.
252
37 John Phokas, Descriptio Terrae Sanctae, PG 133: 942; The Life and Journey of Daniel, Abbot
of the Russian Land, trans. W.F. Ryan, in J. Wilkinson (ed. and trans.) Jerusalem Pilgrimage
1099–1185 (London, 1988), 142.
38 P.C. Boeren (ed.) Rorgo Fretellus de Nazareth et sa Description de la Terre Sainte: histoire et
Edition du Texte (Amsterdam, 1980), 127, Daniel, 142.
39 John of Würzburg, ed. R.B.C. Huygens, Pergrinatores Tres, CCCM 139, 115: ‘Traditus est, ut
diximus, dominus noster a discipulo suo, captus et ligatus a milite romano reductus ad Montem
Syon, ubi tunc est pretorium Pilati nuncupatum lithistrotos, hebraice autem Gabatha.’ Innominati
VII Descriptio Terrae Sanctae, ed. S. de Sandoli, Itinera Hierosolymitana Crucesignatorum, iii
(Jerusalem, 1983), 80; Thietmar, Iter ad Terram Sanctam, VIII, 264.

40 Theoderic, ed. R.B.C. Huygens, Peregrinatores Tres, CCCM 139, 195, and see Wilkinson,
Jerusalem Pilgrimage, fig. 19. The tradition is first recorded, however, in the Itinerarium
Burdigalense (333), ed. P. Geyer and O. Cuntz, Itineraria et alia Geographica, CCSL 175, 16–17.
41 Folda, Art of the Crusaders, 601.
42 Peter Fergusson, ‘The Refectory at Easby Abbey: Form and Iconography’, Art Bulletin, lxxi
(1989), 334–51. Arguments for a late twelfth-century date for the rebuilding of the Cenacle are
provided by Hugh Plommer, ‘The Cenacle on Mount Sion’, in Jaroslav Folda (ed.) Crusader
Art in the Twelfth Century (London, 1982), 139–66, correcting Camille Enlart, Les Monuments
des Croisés dans le royaume de Jérusalem, 2 vols (Paris, 1925–8), ii, 249–62, and H. Vincent
and F-M. Abel, Jérusalem: Recherches de topographie, d’archéologie et d’histoire, 2 vols (Paris,
1914–26), ii, 421–40.
43 Folda, Art of the Crusaders, 471.
44 Between 1187 and 1229 the Cenacle seems to have been in the control of the Greek Orthodox,
who maintained a monastery on Mt Sion, Wilbrand of Oldenburg, Itinerarium Terrae Sanctae II,
9, in De Sandoli, Itinera, iii, 242.
45 For example, Thietmar, Iter, VIII, 264; Les pelerinages por alher in Jerusalem, IX, in De Sandoli,
Itinera, iii, 456; De via eundi de Iope in Ierusalem, ed. Golubovich, Biblioteca, i, 406.
46 B.Z. Kedar, ‘The Tractatus de locis et statu sancte terre Ierosolimitane’, in J. France and W.G. Zajac
(eds) The Crusades and their Sources. Essays Presented to Bernard Hamilton (Aldershot, 1998),
127.
47 Jacques de Vitry, Historia Orientalis, LXI, ed. F. Moschus (Douai, 1597), 103–4.
48 Albertus Stadensis, Itinerarium Terrae Sanctae, ed. Golubovich, Biblioteca, i, 182. For discussion
of the Palm Sunday procession, see Molly Lindner, ‘Topography and Iconography in Twelfth-
Century Jerusalem’, in B.Z. Kedar (ed.) The Horns of Hattin (Jerusalem, 1992), 81–98.
49 Golubovich, I, 406.
50 On the Augustinians and the vita apostolia, see inter alia C.N.L. Brooke, ‘Monk and Canon:
Some Patterns in the Religious life of the Twelfth Century’, in W.J. Shiels (ed.) Monks, Hermits
and the Ascetic Tradition, Studies in Church History, xxii (Oxford, 1985), 109–29, Caroline W.
Bynum, ‘Did the Twelfth Century Discover the Individual?’ Journal of Ecclesiastical History,
xxxi (1980), 1–17.
51 Fergusson, ‘The Refectory at Easby Abbey’, 341.
52 See in this context, Francis’ instructions to clergy and to the custodes of the Order on the handling
and positioning of the Eucharistic host, Kajetan Esser (ed.) Die opuskula des hl. Franziskus von
Assisi. Neue textkritische Edition (Grottaferrata, 1976), 192–4, 207–9.
53 Anne Derbes, Picturing the Passion in Late Medieval Italy. Narrative Painting, Franciscan
Ideologies and the Levant (Cambridge, 1996), 7–8.
54 The only contemporary evidence for Francis as a deacon comes from Thomas of Celano, Vita
Prima LXXXVI, Analecta Franciscana, x, 64, and idem, Vita Secunda CCXIX, 257. For discus-
sion of Francis’ deaconate in the context of contemporary views of the office, see C.N.L. Brooke,
‘Priest, Deacon and Layman, from St. Peter Damian to St. Francis’, in Diana Wood and W.J. Sheils
(eds) The Ministry, Clerical and Lay, Studies in Church History, xxvi (1989) 65–85.
253
55 Wadding, Annales, II, an. 1342, n. 17.

56 Gian Luca Potestà, Angelo Clareno: dai poveri eremiti ai fraticelli (Rome, 1990), 199–200; but
see also Stephen Wessley, ‘The Role of the Holy Land for the Early Followers of Joachim of
Fiore’, in R.N. Swanson (ed.) The Holy Land, Holy Lands and Christian History, Studies in
Church History, xxxvi (Woodbridge, 2000), 181–91, for the argument that Joachists were indif-
ferent to the Holy Land.
57 Consider the importance attached to the literal following of apostolic conduct in the debate
between English Franciscans and Dominicans in the 1290s, Thomas Sutton, Contra aemulos fra-
trum Praedicatorum, ed. F. Pelster, ‘Eine Kontroverse zwischen englischen Dominikanern und
Minoriten über einige Punkte der Ordensregel’, Archivum Fratrum Praedicatorum, iii (1933),
74–80.
58 Welbore St Clair Baddeley, Robert the Wise and His Heirs 1278–1352 (London, 1897), 154, 232.
59 Ronald G. Musto, ‘Queen Sancia of Naples (1286–1345) and the Spiritual Franciscans’, in Julius
Kirshner and Suzanne Wemple (eds) Women of the Medieval World (Oxford, 1985), 185–7,
189–90. On the piety of Sancia and Robert, see Domenico Ambrasi, Storia di Napoli (Naples,
1969), iii, 502–12.
60 Musto, ‘Queen Sancia’, 207–14, for a translation of the letter.
61 Chronicon XXIV Generalium ordinis Minorum, 508–14.
62 Ambrasi, Storia di Napoli, iii, 487–522; Francesco Russo, ‘I Fraticelli in Calabria nel secolo XIV.
Fatti e personaggi’, Miscellanea Francescana, lxv (1965), 349–68.
63 Bullarium Franciscanum, ed. J. Sbaralea, vi, 601, 607, 611.
64 Musto, ‘Queen Sancia’, 195.
65 Musto, ‘Queen Sancia’, 196. The letters are discussed in Ronald G. Musto, ‘The Letters of
Angelo Clareno (c.1250–1337)’, unpub. PhD dissertation, Columbia University, 1977, 307–43,
367–98; for the loan of St Basil’s Rule to Robert, see Lydia von Auw (ed.) Angeli Clareni Opera.
I. Epistolae (Rome, 1980), 203–7.
66 Musto, ‘Queen Sancia’, 196–7.
67 Baddeley, Robert the Wise, 233; Edith Pásztor, ‘Il processo di Andreas da Galgiano (1337–8)’,
Archivum Franciscanum Historicum, xlviii (1955), 252–97.
68 Musto, ‘Queen Sancia’, 200–1.
69 Samantha Kelly, The New Solomon. Robert of Naples (1309–1343) and Fourteenth-Century
Kinghip (Leiden, 2003), 83–6.
70 Alvanus de Pelayo, De planctu ecclesiae (Lyons, 1517), ii, 219.
71 Musto, ‘Queen Sancia’, 210–11, 212–13.
72 David Burr, The Spiritual Franciscans (Philadelphia, 2001), 11–12.
73 Duncan Nimmo, Reform and Division in the Franciscan Order 1226–1538 (Rome, 1987), 265.
74 Samantha Kelly, ‘Robert the Wise (1309–1343) and the Spiritual Franciscans’, Cristianesimo
nella storia, xx (1999), 41–80.
75 Nimmo, Reform and Division, 260.
76 Musto, ‘Queen Sancia’, 206–14; Wadding, Annales, vii, 1334, 172.
77 Chronicon XXIV Generalium, 506.
78 Angelo Clareno, Historia septem tribulationum ordinis minorum, ed. Franz Ehrle, Archiv für
Literatur und Kirchengeschichte, ii (Berlin 1886), 305–6.
79 Angelo Clareno, Historia septem tribulationum, 306–8.
80 F. Ehrle (ed.) ‘Die ältesten Redaktionen der Generalconstitutionen des Franziskanordens’, Archiv
für Literatur und Kirchengeschichte, vi (1892), 64. For a summary of the mission to Armenia, see
Lydia von Auw, Angelo Clareno et les spirituals italiens (Rome, 1979), 31–3. On the Franciscan
province of the Holy Land in the thirteenth century, see Marshall W. Baldwin, ‘Franciscan
Missions to the East in the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries’, in Kenneth Setton (gen ed.)
History of the Crusades, 5, The Impact of the Crusades on the Near East, ed. Norman P. Zacour
254
and Harry W. Hazard (Madison, 1985), 452–89; Martiniano Roncaglia, Storia della Provincia di
Terra Santa. Vol 1. I Francescani in Oriente durante le Crociate (sec. XIII) (Cairo, 1954).
81 Angelo Clareno, Historia septem tribulationum, 307–8. See also G. Golubovich, ‘Cipro frances-
cana’, Archivum Franciscanum Historicum, x (1917), 357–66.
82 Burr, Spiritual Franciscans, 29–32.
83 M. Bihl (ed.), ‘Statuta generalia ordinis edita in capitulis generalibus celebratis Narbonae an.1260,
Assisii an.1270 atque Parisiis an.1292’, Archivum Franciscanum Historicum, xxxiv (1941), 69.
84 Chronicon XXIV Generalium, 609–10.
85 Golubovich, Biblioteca, iii, 291.
86 Kaspar Elm, ‘La custodia di Terra Santa. Franziskanisches Ordensleben in der Tradition der latein-
ischen kirche Palästinas’, in I Francescani nel Trecento. Atti del XIV Convegno Internazionale
Assisi 16–18 Ottobre 1986 (Assisi, 1988), 129–66.
255
257
PART IV
MEDIEVAL BYZANTIUM
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BYZANTINE CRUSADERS: HOLY WAR

AND CRUSADE RHETORIC IN BYZANTINE
CONTACTS WITH THE WEST (1095–1341) 1
Nikolaos G. Chrissis
Seeing the Holy Land, where our Saviour suffered for the salvation of the world […],
occupied by the infidels and the impious, and [seeing] the innumerable army of the Latin
peoples who rushed to assist its deliverance […] turn back having achieved nothing and
profited in no way […] deeply touches the heart of our Highness, afflicting us with con-
stant sadness, making us wander around sullenly and mournfully each day, washing with
tears not only our bed but even the streets and roads. My Highness urges your Holiness:
[…] sounding your trumpet and wielding your pastoral staff, muster all the Christians in
one flock, and instruct them all to be enemies only to the Serpent. Not only the spiritual
Serpent, Satan […], but also the impious who ally with him and at his instigation hasten
to trample upon the Holy Land; their head will not be crushed, unless the common bond
of love to Christ unites all the Christians in one and makes them a single mouth, a single
tongue, a single hand against the perpetrators of impieties.
T hese words, so full of pathos for the fate of the Holy Land, are not the words of a Western
king or a crusading lord. They rather come from a letter of the Byzantine emperor Isaac
II to Pope Celestine III, composed around 1193 (Darrouzès, 1970: 336–45). That is, the
same emperor who had tried to hinder the passage of Frederick Barbarossa during the Third
Crusade, and whose negotiations with Saladin had given rise to scandalous (if exaggerated)
rumours in the West that an alliance had been forged between the two rulers (Brand, 1962;
Neocleous, 2010, 2013). Why did Isaac declare his commitment to the cause of the Holy
Land and the crusade despite the rather different choices of his foreign policy at the time?
It will be argued here that Byzantine policymakers realised early on that they could not
afford to ignore the crusade and the Western sensitivities on the affair of the Holy Land.
Consequently, it became established practice for Byzantine emperors when dealing with the
West to express their concern for the Holy Sepulchre and profess their support for ‘the com-
mon cause of Christendom’. It was this established practice of Byzantine diplomacy that
Isaac was following. We will examine the characteristics of this policy and the way it devel-
oped over the following two centuries. The focus will be mostly on Byzantine propaganda
259
— Nikolaos G. Chrissis —
towards the West, that is, the self-representation of the empire, rather than its actual policy
towards the crusade.
BYZANTIUM AND HOLY WAR

The examination touches upon a wider and controversial issue: namely, the Byzantine atti-
tudes towards the notion of Holy War, and particularly its Western variety, the crusade.
There is no doubt that the crusades greatly affected Byzantium. The armies of the First
and Second Crusade, as well as the host of Frederick Barbarossa during the Third Crusade,
made their way to the East through Byzantine territory, with alternating phases of coopera-
tion and growing tension with the Byzantine authorities. Furthermore, the creation of the
crusader states within the sphere of Byzantine interests reconfigured the balance of power
and the political landscape in the area (Lilie, 1993; Harris, 2003). It was only reasonable
that imperial diplomacy would have to readjust and take the new circumstances into consid-
eration. Its reaction would necessarily depend on Byzantine understanding of the motives
and incentives behind crusading.
The subject is a complex one and we will not presume to solve it here. However, it will
be useful to summarise the main directions of the debate so far and the basic underlying
issues, as they are pertinent to our topic.2 George Dennis has put it like this:
For the Byzantines […] both ideas and forms of holy war – jihad and crusade – were
abhorrent. They absolutely rejected both. [...] They never seemed to understand why all
those Western knights and their followers were marching through their land. [...] The
Byzantines did not have any concept of a true holy war.
(2001: 32–3)
This view reflects the opinion of a sizeable proportion of the scholars who have dealt with
the issue of Byzantine attitudes to Holy War and the crusade. It harks back to a semi-
nal contribution by Vitalien Laurent (1946), while similar views have been expressed by
major scholars, such as Paul Lemerle (1955), Angeliki Laiou (1993, 2006) and Nicholas
Oikonomides (1995). The argument against Byzantine understanding of Holy War is two-
fold: first, no wars fought by Byzantium qualify as Holy Wars; and second, the very notion
of a Holy War was alien and repugnant to Byzantine thought.
The question largely depends on definitions. In general, Dennis, Laiou and Oikonomides
accept three criteria as essential for defining a Holy War. First, promulgation: the war
should be declared by a religious authority (and not a secular one), theoretically at the insti-
gation of the Divine. Second, it should be in pursuit of a religious objective. This can have
a ‘defensive’, re-active character, namely the protection of the faith, of sacred places and of
co-religionists – including the effort to avenge past injuries in such matters. Alternatively,
it can have an ‘offensive’, pro-active character, namely the conversion, elimination or
subjection of the ‘infidels’. Finally, it should entail the promise of a spiritual reward for
the participants, such as the remissions of sins, the crown of martyrdom, and the promise
of heaven.
Byzantine wars are seen by these scholars as not fulfilling any of the three criteria. The
authority responsible for declaring and waging war in Byzantium was indisputably the
emperor and never the Church. The aim of fighting, for all its possible religious overtones,
was generally to defend or reclaim imperial territory. Finally, Byzantine soldiers were not
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— chapter 16: Byzantine crusaders: holy war and crusade rhetoric —
granted any spiritual rewards for their service as the Byzantine Church never sanctioned
such a development.
This latter point and the view that Byzantines rejected the notion of Holy War in general
rest primarily on the Byzantine Church’s adherence to the thirteenth canon of St Basil,
which states: ‘Our Fathers did not consider killings in war to be murders, but, in my opin-
ion, pardoned those who fight in defence of virtue and piety. Still, it is perhaps well to
advise them to abstain only from communion for three years, since their hands are not
clean’ (Courtonne, 1957–66: II, 130, no. 188). An event from the tenth century is usually
cited to illustrate the point: Emperor Nikephoros Phokas (963–9), famous for his military
exploits against the Arabs, requested for the Byzantine soldiers who fell in the fighting to be
awarded the status of martyrs by the Church. Patriarch Polyeuktos and the synod rejected
the petition, citing the canon of St Basil as justification (Thurn, 1973: 273–5). The incident
was also reported and commented upon by later canonists from the twelfth to the fourteenth
century: John Zonaras, Theodore Balsamon and Matthew Blastares all seemed to approve
of the patriarchal decision – although, it should be noted, they were less clear-cut about the
possibility or even the desirability of enforcing St Basil’s ‘suggestion’ of exclusion from the
sacraments (Beck, 1981: 20–39; Viscuso, 1995; Stouraitis, 2011: 52–8). Therefore, though
fighting can be unavoidable or indeed desirable when it is for a just cause, it can by no
means be a ‘holy’ activity bestowing spiritual benefits to the participants. Rather, it is neces-
sary for soldiers to do penance and be purified from the shedding of blood.
A parallel point often made is that in Byzantine thought there was an emphasis on peace,
while war was not seen as meritorious or glorious in itself but rather as a necessary evil, a
last resort if all efforts at peace had failed. This was stressed even in the preface of a military
treatise, the Taktika, attributed to Emperor Leo VI (886–912), which stated:
all men ought to embrace peace and foster love for one another instead of taking up
murderous weapons in their hands to use against their own people. But since the devil
[…] has made use of sin to bring men to the point of waging war against their own kind,
it becomes entirely necessary for men to wage war […] and, without flinching, to take
their stand against those nations that want war.
(Dennis, 2010: 2–5)
Following this line of argument, the combination of the abovementioned elements could
only mean that the Byzantines faced the crusade with shock and incomprehension as to the
motives of the participants. It was something outside their experience and opposite to their
values and worldview.
However, this is not the only way to interpret Byzantine attitudes to Holy War, and this
view has not gone unchallenged. Some scholars have taken a different approach to the
subject. Athina Kolia-Dermitzaki (1991a, 2012) has argued for the existence of a particular
variety of Byzantine Holy War distinct from both the crusade and the jihad, whereas Tia
Kolbaba (1998) has similarly taken a more nuanced view to the question, re-examining the
defining elements of a Holy War. These scholars pointed out that criteria and definitions
have often been based upon the model of the crusade and the jihad, and therefore they lack
the flexibility to allow for different forms of Holy War originating from different societies,
such as the Byzantine one. Even allowing for the three aforementioned criteria to stand,
it is argued that some Byzantine wars fulfilled them in their own particular way. Indeed,
Byzantine political ideology viewed the emperor as God’s regent on earth and his office was
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by no means a solely secular one. The emperor was ‘sacred’ and his position as the only
competent authority to declare war was never challenged, rendering the direct involvement
of the Byzantine Church in this matter unnecessary, unlike what had been the case with the
papacy in the West. Similarly, the objective was to protect the emperor’s subjects, identi-
fied as the ‘Christians’ and the ‘chosen people’, and to defend the ‘sacred empire’, which
was seen as a part of God’s plan for the salvation of humanity – in other words, aims that
transcended the temporal plane.
The most important issue for our examination, however, is that of spiritual rewards, as it
is connected with the Byzantines’ own understanding and attitude towards holy or sanctified
war, rather than our definitions of it. We have already seen how the official Church rejected
the request by Nikephoros Phokas for fallen soldiers to be recognised as martyrs. Another
relevant incident comes from the early thirteenth century. Patriarch Michael IV Autoreianos
(1207–13), resident with the exiled Byzantine government at Nicaea, in one of his acts
granted remission of sins to the Byzantine soldiers who fell in battle against the Latins who
held Constantinople (Oikonomides, 1967: 117–19). This is dismissed by those who reject
the existence of Byzantine Holy War as a unique exception and a temporary aberration from
the practice of the Byzantine Church under the pressure of Emperor Theodore I Lakaris.
However, the most important counter-argument is exactly the point that the idea of a
sanctified war, whereby the warriors would be proclaimed martyrs or given remission of
sins, obviously held some allure for both emperors, Nikephoros II and Theodore I. They
evidently also thought that it would be good for the soldiers’ motivation; therefore it is
to be expected that the idea would be far from incomprehensible or repugnant to them.
Furthermore, there is evidence that Byzantine commanders actually went ‘further than what
was admissible for the Byzantine church’ in telling their soldiers of the holy nature of the
war and divine rewards to be had (Oikonomides, 1995: 66–7). A military treatise from
the tenth century speaks of the soldiers as protectors and liberators of the Christian people
(Dagron and Mihaescu, 1986: 284–6). It is important that in the same source which was
mentioned earlier as evidence for the negative Byzantine attitude towards war in general,
the Taktika of Leo VI, Byzantine soldiers who die in battle are presented as martyrs for the
faith, fighting ‘for the salvation of [their] souls and for God’ (Dennis, 2010: par. XIV.31,
XVIII.16, 19, 127). The author also advises that:
[the soldiers should be reminded] of the divine reward and the imperial generosity […]
and that the fight is for God and for love of God and for the brothers and co-religionists
and for the women and children and the homeland […] and that such a fight is against
the enemies of God, and that we have God as a friend […] whereas they have Him as an
adversary, because they are infidels.
(Dennis, 2010, par. XII.57)
This was not the earliest reference to divine rewards. Back in the seventh century, in a
climate of heightened religious antagonism during the great Byzantine-Persian war,
Herakleios reportedly encouraged his soldiers by telling them that they were fighting to
avenge the insult against God and their fellow Christians, in return for eternal life and the
crown of martyrdom (de Boor, 1883–85: I, 307, 310–11; Mango and Scott, 1997: 439,
442–3; Stoyanov, 2011; Kaegi, 2012).
The difference of opinion between secular and ecclesiastic leadership on the matter
should not be exaggerated either. Around 915, the patriarch of Constantinople, Nicholas I
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Mystikos, wrote a letter to congratulate the Byzantine general of the theme of Longobardia
in southern Italy for the great victory against the Arabs at Garigliano. In this letter, the
patriarch stated that he hoped for even greater victories for ‘the race of coreligionists’ to
honour the name of God, and expressed the wish that the general might enjoy ‘both in the
present life the greatest honours, as the fruits of your own labours [...] and in the afterlife
the common reward for those who fight for Christ our God and for His glory’ (Jenkins and
Westerink, 1973: no. 44, 262–3; Kolia-Dermitzaki, 1997: 226). In this case, therefore, the
view that the fight against infidels can bring rewards after death was expressed by no less
an authority than the head of the Orthodox Church. Further evidence that ecclesiastical
authorities occasionally recognised in practice fallen soldiers as martyrs and saw fighting as
connected to the salvation of the soul is provided, for example, by some surviving liturgies
(Kolia-Dermitzaki, 1991a: 252–60; Stephenson, 2012).
Finally, a more general critique regarding the notion of a Byzantine Holy War is that
there should be a meaningful way of distinguishing between a ‘holy’ war and any other war
waged by the empire, particularly any other ‘just’ war. Ioannis Stouraitis (2012) proposes
that the distinction is essentially between a war fought for ‘rational’ state reasons and one
waged on the basis of an ‘irrational’ divine command. Consequently, only when religious
incentives were the basic motive for the fighting (or at least for the soldiers’ participa-
tion in it), can we speak of Holy War. Since Byzantium’s wars were mostly motivated
by ‘political’ (or natural-law) reasons – that is, the defence or the expansion of the state –
they cannot be rightly called Holy Wars. For all the merits of this argument, however,
its main flaw is the overly theoretical rigidity of the proposed model. On real, historical
grounds it is unlikely that any war – not only Byzantine ones, but also most crusading and
jihadist campaigns – would meet the criteria imposed by such a strict dichotomy. Virtually
none of them was ‘untainted’ by practical considerations and circumstances other than a
perceived divine mandate. Jihad was connected intimately to the ambitions and needs of
the Muslim regimes that had recourse to it, while crusading activity followed closely the
political circumstances in both the West and the crusader states in the Levant. This is obvi-
ously too prescriptive an approach and does not allow for gradations of real-life religious
devotion and for the dynamic relationship between the holy and the temporal. A more
balanced analysis of the interplay between political exigencies, imperial ideology and the
attitudes towards warfare inherited by the Christian and Roman traditions is offered by
Yuri Stoyanov (2011: 25–75).
In any case, most recent discussions of the topic confirm that an often intense sacralisa-
tion of warfare was present in Byzantium (see Stephenson, 2007). Ideas of Holy War, there-
fore, were not necessarily alien and automatically repudiated by the Byzantines.3 This is the
most pertinent point here – and not whether Byzantium had its own variety of Holy War – as
we turn to consider the Byzantine attitudes and reactions towards Western crusading.
BYZANTIUM AND THE CRUSADE 4

The source most frequently cited to highlight the allegedly uncomprehending Byzantine
attitude towards crusading is the Byzantine princess Anna Komnene who, in her account of
the First Crusade, stated that the real aim of the leaders of the expedition, and particularly
of the Norman prince Bohemond, was to seize Constantinople (Reinsch and Kambylis,
2001: Bk 10, pars. V.10, VI.7, IX.1, and XI.7). A similar view was held by John Kinnamos
who, recounting the Second Crusade, stated that Jerusalem was merely a pretext, whereas
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the crusaders’ real aim was the conquest of the Byzantine capital (Meineke, 1836: Bk II,
par. 12, 67). Byzantine fears seemed to be confirmed, when the Fourth Crusade, instead of
going to the Holy Land, captured Constantinople in 1204. Nicholas Mesarites, describing
the looting of the churches of Constantinople by the crusaders, commented: ‘Such was the
reverence for holy things of those who bore the Lord’s cross on their shoulders; thus their
own bishops taught them to act’ (Heisenberg, 1973: no. II.i, 47; Brand, 1968: 269).
But this criticism, it should be stressed, was levelled against the eventual actions of the
crusaders and not their initial or professed aim. Anna Komnene’s attitude was not much dif-
ferent in that respect: she explicitly contrasted the leaders’ designs on Constantinople with
the genuine desire of the ‘simpler folk’ to go to the Sepulchre of the Lord. It was not the
notion of the crusade as a Holy War that was criticised by these Byzantine authors but rather
the discrepancy between the professed ideal and the crusaders’ actions and designs (real or
imaginary) against the empire. The criticism presupposes an awareness of the underlying
principles of crusading. What is more, Niketas Choniates, himself an eyewitness of the con-
quest of Constantinople by the Latins in 1204, accepted the motives of the participants in
the Second and Third Crusade as sincere, that is, aiming to bring assistance to the Kingdom
of Jerusalem and the Christians of the Holy Land. Furthermore, he displayed a clear under-
standing – and essentially an appreciation – of crusading ideology in his History, in the
speech he put in the mouth of King Louis VII of France and in his portrayal of Emperor
Frederick Barbarossa. In the speech purportedly given by the French king there is even
a reference to gaining heaven through the crusade (van Dieten, 1975: I, 60–71, 401–17;
Harris, 2003: 138–9; Kolia-Dermitzaki, 1991b: 177–9). The notion of spiritual rewards for
crusaders was not only known but also accepted by at least one high-ranking member of
the Byzantine clergy. Patriarch Symeon II of Jerusalem (resident in Cyprus after fleeing his
see) issued joint admonitions with the papal legate in the early stages of the First Crusade,
calling those who had taken crusade vows to fulfil them or face excommunication. In a letter
of October 1097 it was even stated that the patriarch had a vision in which Christ told him
that those who participated in the expedition would wear crowns at the Last Judgement, an
allusion to martyrdom (Hamilton, 1980: 5–7). Regardless of Symeon’s actual role in com-
posing these letters, the Orthodox prelate was evidently content to add his name to them and
was not appalled by the Holy War waged by the crusaders.
Thus, the Byzantines were far from oblivious of the ideology and practice of crusading.
This is confirmed also by the way Byzantine imperial diplomacy towards Latin powers
incorporated language and imagery revolving around the Holy Land and the affair of the
cross. Indeed, Byzantine emperors in the twelfth century took care to project an image of
their actions that was acceptable to the Latin West.
The Byzantine emperor’s status as a Christian ruler and the empire’s proximity to
the Holy Land raised expectations in the West for Byzantine participation in the com-
mon enterprise – even more so, as one of Urban II’s stated objectives for launching the
First Crusade was to assist the Eastern Christians against the Muslims, following Alexios
Komnenos’s appeal to the West (Charanis, 1949; Riley-Smith, 1993: 13–30). During a large
part of the First Crusade, it was hoped or even assumed that the emperor would accept
the honourable obligation to lead the expedition. For example, according to Raymond of
Aguilers and Peter Tudebode, the envoys sent by Raymond of St Gilles to Constantinople
reported back that the count should hurry to meet Alexios and come to an agreement with
him: ‘since the Emperor had taken the cross, he said he would take the Jerusalem journey
as their commander-in-chief and head’ (Hill and Hill, 1974: 29; 1968: 22). Even at the
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meeting of the crusade leaders with Byzantine ambassadors at ‘Arqah, after relations had
seriously deteriorated between the two sides, Raymond advocated that the host should wait
for Alexios, since they would benefit from his help and they would ‘be united under his
leadership’ (Hill and Hill, 1968: 105–6).
Alexios foresaw the potential benefits and took advantage of the passage of the First
Crusade to effect the re-stabilization of Byzantine authority in Asia Minor. The above
testimonies indicate that the emperor, already at the time of the crusaders’ arrival at
Constantinople, invoked arguments that were in tune with their sensitivities and aims, cul-
tivating the expectation that he would join the campaign. The flip side of crusading for
Byzantium was made evident in 1107–08, when Bohemond launched a propaganda cam-
paign depicting the emperor as behaving treacherously against the pilgrims and hindering
the way to the Holy Land, in an effort to stir Western emotion against Constantinople. He
eventually diverted the crusade under his command to an invasion of the empire (Rowe,
1966–67; Whalen, 2010). Alexios managed to defeat Bohemond at Dyrrachium but the
implications of this attack were clear: the emperor needed to project a positive image to the
West and counter the impression that he was hostile to the crusaders. These considerations
set the tone for Byzantine diplomacy for decades to come. The Byzantine leadership was
acutely aware of the danger, because Latin recriminations against Byzantine unhelpfulness
and unwillingness to contribute to the ‘war of the faith’ became commonplace over the
following years and the argument was often used to justify aggression against the empire
(Harris, 2012).
Though Alexios’ heir, John Komnenos (1118–43), followed a more aggressive pol-
icy towards the Latin principality of Antioch, he did not lose sight of the importance of
invoking a crusade-related rationale to legitimise his actions. In his first expedition against
Antioch in 1137–38, the emperor opted not to persist with direct aggression, which could
provoke Western opinion. Instead, he concluded a treaty with Prince Raymond for com-
mon action against Aleppo, Shaizar and Homs, as the capture of these cities would not
only be exchanged with the cession of Antioch but it would also, in Lilie’s words, ‘invest
the Byzantine Emperor with the glory of a successful crusader and raise the dignity of
the Empire in the West’ (Lilie, 1993: 120–123, 140). Imperial propaganda evidently pro-
jected John as a defender of the faith, both internally and towards the Latins, as has been
argued by Augé (2000: 228–49, 336–7; 2001) and Papageorgiou (2007: 225–45, 308–59;
forthcoming).5
But the Byzantine ruler whose policy most persistently made use of the crusade was
Manuel Komnenos (1143–80). Magdalino (1993) and Lilie (1993: 142–221) have exten-
sively and convincingly demonstrated how Manuel fashioned and projected his image
towards the West as a protector of the Christian peoples and the Holy Land, with a view to
strengthening his influence in both the Latin States in the Levant and in western Europe.
This propaganda climaxed in his expedition against the Seljuk Sultan Kiliç Arslan which
ended with the defeat of Myriokephalon (1176) – ‘the Byzantine Crusade’ as has been
termed by both scholars (Magdalino, 1993: 95–8; Lilie, 1993: 211–14). Reasonable objec-
tions have been raised regarding this term (Stouraitis, 2011: 42–9; Chrysos, 2012); how-
ever, as we will see, it is beyond doubt that Manuel presented it as such to the Latin world.
This brief outline of Komnenian policies corroborates our basic premise that Byzantine
emperors took crusade ideology under consideration in their diplomacy towards the West.
This will be demonstrated even more clearly through a thematic examination of: a) the
means used by imperial propaganda, and b) the major developments over time.
265
MEANS AND METHODS OF BYZANTINE

PROPAGANDA
Byzantine diplomacy resorted to three general methods in order to portray imperial policy
in a favourable light regarding Western sensitivities for the Holy Land: the use of relevant
crusading rhetoric; symbolic gestures; and actual (and widely advertised) cooperation with
the Latins against the Muslims.
Starting with rhetoric: virtually all twelfth-century emperors took care to explicitly state
their interest for the Holy Land in their correspondence with Latin powers. In this context,
the evocative power of Jerusalem and the Holy Sepulchre was repeatedly exploited. John
Komnenos wrote to King Fulk and expressed his wish to visit and assist the Holy City, at the
time of his second campaign against Antioch in 1142–43 (Huygens, 1986: par. 15.21). The
court orator Nikephoros Basilakes rejoiced that ‘the Christ-loving emperor [John] had made
the way safe for pilgrims to Jerusalem’, which indicates that the theme was a current one in
the Byzantine court (Garzya, 1984: 56; Magdalino, 1993: 41, 420; Kolia-Dermitzaki, 1991a:
332–7). Manuel Komnenos consistently presented himself in this light, particularly from the
1160s onwards, when he stepped up his policy of actively interfering in the affairs of Outremer.
An example that stands out is the lavish reception of King Amalric in Constantinople, in
1171, when Manuel promised assistance to the Kingdom of Jerusalem (Huygens, 1986: par.
20.22–4; Runciman, 1982). When preparing his major campaign against the Seljuks in 1176,
the emperor wrote to Pope Alexander III presenting the re-fortification of Dorylaion in the
Anatolian plateau as an important contribution to opening up the road to the Holy Sepulchre.
Consequently, he asked the pope to incite Western (crusading) support, for his forthcoming
expedition. The pope, indeed, called the French king and nobles to take up this task which
would be ‘for the exaltation of the name of the Christian Faith’ (Bouquet et al., 1738–1904:
XV, 952–3, no. 385; Stone, 2003). Manuel described his campaign in similar terms also to
King Henry II of England (Vasiliev, 1929–30; Harris, 2003: 103). Later in the twelfth cen-
tury, Isaac II, as we saw in our opening quotation, did not spare rhetorical exaggerations to
depict his anguish for the tribulations of the Holy Land. His successor, Alexios III, affirmed
his fiery zeal to assist the Sepulchre for which, he claimed when writing to Innocent III, he
would not only devote the riches and manpower of the empire but would in fact ‘gladly lay
down [his] own life’ (Hageneder et al., 1964–: II, 391, no. 201; Powell, 2003).
Furthermore, in communications with the West, crusading was routinely depicted as
a worthy enterprise which the Byzantine emperors approved of. For example, Manuel
applauded the prospect of the Second Crusade in his letters to King Louis VII of France and
to Pope Eugenius III:
[we were informed that] the aforementioned most noble king of France set out, along with
numerous other glorious men, on God’s journey, in order to avenge the holy churches
and on account of the capture of Edessa by the godless enemies of God. Our Imperial
Majesty received the news of this great mobilisation most gladly. For it will be for the
benefit of the Christians and for the fall and eradication of the godless enemies of God.
(Lampros, 1914: 112–13)
As we will see below, even in the thirteenth century, when crusading was actually turned
against the Byzantines, Theodore Laskaris and John Vatatzes expressed their indignation
at this perversion of the crusade, thereby implying that the original aim was praiseworthy.
266
Another instrument in the hands of Byzantine diplomacy was the invocation of the
c ommon bond of Christianity coupled with calls for unity among the Christian peoples.
Isaac II urged Celestine III to bring all Christians together, as this was the only way to
crush the impious who trampled upon the Holy Land (Darrouzès, 1970: 345). The theme
of unity was further elaborated when the emperors stressed their unwillingness to shed
Christian blood and affirmed their preference to fight against the infidels. Any conflict
among Christians, it was pointed out, would be to the detriment of the affair of the cross.
Alexios III warned Pope Innocent III that he had prepared a fleet to reclaim Cyprus from the
Latins but he delayed the expedition ‘lest [he] shed the blood of Christians and prevented
the aid to the Holy Land’ (Powell, 2003: 94–5; 2004, par. 64).
Except for rhetoric, Byzantine diplomacy also resorted to symbolic gestures, aimed at
confirming the emperors’ commitment to the common cause and advertising their role as
protectors of the Christians and of the Holy Land. Ransoming Christians from Muslim cap-
tivity was an effective gesture, as the emperor’s generosity was also publicised by the grati-
tude of the released prisoners who were bound to disseminate his charitable act throughout
Europe. Alexios I was the first to employ this measure to counter accusations against him
when he ransomed the Latins that had been captured by the Egyptians at the battle of Ramla
(Lilie, 1993: 71–2). Manuel, likewise, ensured the release of Christian captives as part of
his truce with Nur-ad-Din in 1158–59 and, later on, ransomed Bohemond III of Antioch
and Raynald of Châtillon (Magdalino, 1993: 71–3, 97; Hamilton, 1988: 360–1). Another
symbolic gesture meant to highlight the emperor’s protectorate over the Holy Land was
the restoration of the Churches of Nativity in Bethlehem and of the Holy Sepulchre in
Jerusalem which was carried out at Manuel’s orders and expenditure in 1169 (Carr, 1982;
Hunt, 1991; Folda, 1995: 347–78). Alexios Komnenos had evidently made a similar point
in the 1100s, when he founded a hospice for Latin pilgrims at Civetot and entrusted it to
the care of Cluniac monks (Gay, 1931). Under ‘gestures’ one could also include Manuel’s
arrangement of diplomatic marriages: one of his nieces was married to King Amalric of
Jerusalem, his daughter Maria married Renier of Montferrat, and his son and heir, Alexios
[II], was betrothed to Agnes, the daughter of Louis VII of France. Besides the obvious case
of Jerusalem, the marriage of Manuel’s children into the royal family of France and the
house of Montferrat, both with notable connections to crusading and to Outremer, enhanced
the reputation of Byzantium regarding its solicitude for the Holy Land (Hamilton, 1988:
370; Madgalino, 1993: 100–4).
Finally, a number of joint Byzantine-Frankish expeditions were undertaken against
Muslims, usually at Byzantine initiative. No doubt, other practical aims were usually more
important for the empire to take such action but the allusions to the cause of the Holy Land
were not lost from sight. Such were, for example, the expeditions of John and the prin-
cipality of Antioch against Aleppo and Shaizar in 1138, and the ones by Manuel and the
Kingdom of Jerusalem against Nur ad-Din in 1158–59 and against Egypt in 1167–68 and
1177 (Lilie, 1993: 120–8, 198–202, 215–20, 309–20; Madgalino, 1993: 70–5; Hamilton,
1988: 357–66). Even though none of these campaigns achieved much in practical terms,
they were evidently successful in raising the empire’s prestige and improving Byzantium’s
reputation among the Latins – at least, if the opinions expressed by William of Tyre are any
guide, when he praised the bravery and the commitment of the emperors and their soldiers
while criticizing the passive and unenthusiastic role played by the Latin lords of the Levant
(Huygens, 1986: par. 15.1–2, 20.16). Similarly, Byzantine emperors repeatedly held out the
prospect of their participation in a crusade for the Holy Land. As we will see below, this
267
was done in various times and circumstances; for example, by Alexios III on the eve of the
Fourth Crusade, by Theodore Laskaris when dealing with its aftermath, and by Michael
VIII after the recovery of Constantinople.
DEVELOPMENT OF BYZANTINE
‘CRUSADING’ DIPLOMACY (TWELFTH TO
FOURTEENTH CENTURY)
This brings us to the examination of how the abovementioned characteristics of Byzantine
diplomacy evolved over time. There were three critical turning points in Byzantine–Western
interaction from the twelfth to the fourteenth century: first, after the death of Manuel
Komnenos; second, after the conquest of Constantinople by the Fourth Crusade; and third
after the growth of the Turkish threat in the Aegean. What was the impact of those develop-
ments on Byzantine crusade-related rhetoric?
After Manuel’s death in 1180, Byzantium’s policy drifted away from cooperation with
the Latins, and its influence in the affairs of Outremer gradually diminished (Lilie, 1993:
222–45). But that change of policy hardly affected the pronouncements of Byzantine diplo-
macy towards the West – with the exception of Andronikos I, for whom little relevant evi-
dence survives. As we saw, both Isaac II and Alexios III kept on asserting their commitment
to the struggle against the infidels. But the fact that they did not support their proclamations
with actions gave rise to widespread criticism in the West (for Western attitudes towards
Byzantium in this period, see Lilie, 1993: 232–40, 252–8; Harris, 2003: 127–43, 146–51;
Neocleous, 2009: 174–271). The Byzantine leadership was aware of that and tried to counter
the accusations with the argument that it was Western aggression that hindered Byzantine
participation in the crusade and consequently harmed the cause of Christendom and the
Holy Land. Isaac, in his letter to Celestine III, explained the setbacks of crusading efforts
as the outcome of internal strife between the Christian leaders, and pointed specifically to
the hostility of the Hungarian king, Béla III, against Byzantium (Darrouzès, 1970: 343–5).
Alexios III, responding to Innocent’s reproof that Byzantium was unhelpful to the Holy
Land, spoke of the danger that Frederick Barbarossa had presented for Constantinople, and
asserted that such aggression was a hindrance to Byzantine cooperation (Hageneder et al.,
1964–: II, 389–94, no. 201). The emperor used similar crusade-related rhetoric in response
to the threat presented by his nephew (the future Alexios IV) who had fled to the West and
had appealed, among others, to the leaders of the Fourth Crusade. Alexios III tried to con-
vince Innocent III not to support the claims of the young prince to the Byzantine throne,
urging the pope not to use the crusade against Christians, something which would ‘offend
God and weaken the attack against the enemies of Christ’ (Hageneder et al., 1964–: V,
239–43, no. 121). Alexios III brought up the same arguments in his attempt to convince the
leaders of the Fourth Crusade to desist from any aggression against Constantinople in 1203,
while the fist skirmishes between Latins and Byzantines were taking place. According to
Geoffrey of Villehardouin, the emperor’s envoy addressed the following words to the heads
of the crusading army:
[Emperor Alexios] seriously wonders why, and for what purpose, you have entered this
land over which he rules. For you are Christians just as he is, and he knows very well
that you have left your own country to deliver the Holy Land oversea and the Holy Cross
and Sepulchre. If you are in want of supplies, he will give you a share of his provisions
268
and his money, provided you withdraw from his land. If you refuse to leave, he would be
reluctant to do you harm, yet it is in his power to do so.
(Faral, 1961: par. 143; Shaw, 1963: 63)
The chronicler’s report has the ring of authenticity, for we can see here the emperor tak-
ing up most of the themes mentioned earlier: the common bond of Christianity between
the Greeks and the crusaders; the positive reference to the latter’s crusading mission; the
prospect of Byzantine assistance to the expedition; and Alexios’ unwillingness to use force
against fellow Christians.
However, the conquest of Constantinople brought an end to such discussions. Byzantine

failure to contribute to the war against the ‘infidels’ had, in fact, been one of the main argu-
ments of justification for the attack by the army of the Fourth Crusade, while providing
assistance to the Holy Land was perceived as the raison d’être of the Latin Empire, which
was set up at Constantinople (Chrissis, 2012a: 22–5). What’s more, the rump Byzantine
states of Nicaea and Epiros became the target of a series of crusading expeditions in the
thirteenth century, aimed at buttressing the Latin possessions in Romania (Chrissis, 2012b).
The two main arguments used by the papacy when proclaiming these crusades were the
schism between the Greek and the Latin Church, and – crucially – the fact that Byzantium
had been unhelpful or even a hindrance to the Holy Land. This illustrates vividly the signifi-
cance of Byzantium’s diplomacy which aimed at projecting itself favourably regarding the
latter affair, despite its eventual failure to avert the events of 1204.
Nevertheless, it is striking that Byzantine rulers continued to invoke the crusade in their
correspondence with the West during the period of exile, although there were two signifi-
cant changes. First, there were now Byzantine protests and criticism for the use of crusad-
ing against them as a betrayal of Christendom. Theodore I Laskaris, in a letter to Innocent
III, accused the soldiers of the Fourth Crusade of perverting the expedition by turning
against Constantinople and raising their weapons against Christians, whereas they had
assumed the cross of the Lord and vowed to go to the help of the Holy Land; they, there-
fore, were guilty of apostasy, treason and sacrilege (Hageneder et al., 1964–: XI, no. 44).
Then, in 1237, in a vehement letter to Gregory IX, John Vatatzes expressed his scorn at the
use of the crusade by the pope to support the Latin Empire against the Greeks of Nicaea.
The emperor dismissed such plans as ‘mockery against the Holy Land and games at the
expense of the cross’. The implication is that the emperor appeared to approve of the theo-
retical objective of crusading for the Holy Land. His bitter criticism made exactly the point
that the use of the crusade against the Christian Greeks was a perversion of an otherwise
worthy cause. In response to Pope Gregory’s threat that a crusading army was making its
way to Romania, Vatatzes ironically remarked that he was overjoyed since he hoped that
‘the avengers of the Holy Land would start their revenge in our homeland, inflicting just
punishment on the conquerors [of Constantinople] as desecrators of churches, defilers of
holy vessels, and perpetrators of all kinds of impious crimes against Christians’ (Sakellion,
1872: 376; Grumel, 1930).
The other notable development in this context is that the statements of commitment to
the crusade receded from the Byzantine rulers’ policy towards the West. The only time
Byzantine promises for cooperation against the Muslims appear during the period of exile is
early on: around 1208 Theodore Laskaris asked the pope to intervene so that peace could be
established between Nicaea and Constantinople. In return, Laskaris promised that he would
cooperate with the Latins against the ‘Ismaelites’ (Hageneder et al., 1964–: XI, no. 44).
269
However, after that point, promises of participation to a crusade or help to the Holy Land
no longer feature in the contacts of Nicaea or Epiros with the West.6 There were basically
two reasons for this: first, the deployment of the crusade against the Byzantines after 1204
obviously created an ideological (not to mention emotional) complication to the invocation
of crusading by the Byzantine rulers; second, and most importantly, the successor states
lacked the international standing and resources of the empire for such promises to carry any
weight.
Once the empire was reinstated at Constantinople in 1261, however, Michael Palaiologos
resumed vigorously the policy of professing his commitment to the Holy Land and prom-
ising Byzantine help for forthcoming crusades (see Chrissis, 2012b: 227–9). This came
along with the revival of a number of the rhetorical themes which were associated with
Byzantine diplomacy towards the West in the past. Already in his contacts with Pope Urban
IV (1261–64), Michael returned to the argument of Christian unity, expressing his surprise
that the Holy See ‘preferred war to peace among Christians’, while at the same time allud-
ing to Byzantine assistance to the crusading effort for the Holy Land (Guiraud, 1892–1958:
no. 748). In 1266–68, Michael VIII offered Pope Clement IV not only Byzantine but also
Armenian participation in a crusade (Jordan, 1893: no. 1201). The emperor similarly invoked
the crusade in his contacts with James I of Aragon and Louis IX of France, in 1269 and 1270
respectively (Geanakoplos, 1959: 220, 223–8). But by far the most extensive and successful
of Michael’s efforts in that field were the negotiations with Gregory X, which culminated in
the Union of the Churches at Lyons in 1274. Crucially, the Union was accompanied by the
agreement for a common Byzantine–Latin crusade in Asia Minor. The plan for this expedi-
tion, which aimed to wrest the formerly Christian lands of Anatolia from Turkish hands so
that they could be returned to the empire, was discussed at some length between the pope
and the imperial envoy, George Metochites (Giannelli, 1947; Geanakoplos, 1959: 285–94).
This remarkable proposal actually meant that Michael could now put the crusading pow-
ers of Western Christendom at his service rather than trying to dodge their blows. The
project did not proceed, as Pope Gregory died shortly afterwards and papal policy towards
Byzantium was soon reversed. The fact remains, however, that by this point Michael had
astutely manipulated Western crusading sensitivities to his advantage – and, apparently, not
only through his rhetoric but also through some more tangible gestures. If we are to believe
Marino Sanudo’s report a few decades later, Michael had built a tower in Acre at his own
expense (Papadopoulou, 2000: 157), something we can compare with Manuel’s acts of
patronage in the twelfth century.
We will conclude our examination with a quick look at the developments after 1282,
under Michael’s successors, Andronikos II (1282–1328) and Andronikos III (1328–41):
a significant part of Andronikos II’s reign was dedicated to reversing his father’s policies,
particularly regarding contacts with the West. Bowing to internal pressures, Andronikos
followed an isolationist policy, repudiating the Church Union with Rome. As a result, the
opportunities for (or the usefulness of) crusade-related rhetoric were limited. However, the
emperor had to change his approach later in his reign, on account of the threat posed by
Western claimants to Byzantine lands and, even more, by the Turkish encroachment in Asia
Minor (Laiou, 1972).
The first of those problems was similar to the situation in the previous century – and so
was the response. Marino Sanudo, writing to Andronikos in 1324 and 1326, advised the
emperor that in order to stop Western aggression he should promise Byzantine participation
270
in a crusade and restart negotiations for Church Union (Bongars, 1661: II, 299, 301; Lock,
2014). Indeed, when the Dominican Benedict of Como visited Constantinople in 1326 as
an envoy of the French king Charles IV, Andronikos responded not only by professing his
inclination for the Union but also by indicating his wish to take part in the Franco-papal
expedition for the Holy Land which was under preparation at the time (Bosch, 1965: 108).
Given the state of the empire, which was unable to protect its territories from Turkish inva-
sions and Catalan looting, there could be no realistic hope for such a far-fetched and distant
involvement. Yet, it was still important for Byzantine diplomacy to assert its commitment
to the cause of the Holy Land.
The effort to stem the Turkish advance was taken up more actively by Andronikos III,
who also turned more decisively to the West. It is striking that he took an active role in
promoting and even proposing crusade plans to Latin powers. In 1332 he was one of the
initial signatories of the first anti-Turkish naval League, along with Venice and Hospitaller
Rhodes (Thomas, 1880–99: II, 224–30, nos. 114–17; Zachariadou, 1983: 21–40; Ivanov,
2012). The agreement of 6 September set out the League’s mission statement in clear terms
of religious warfare. It denounced the violence of the Turks, ‘the enemies of the cross’,
against Latins and Greeks in Romania. The signatories (the Byzantine emperor, the doge
and the Hospitaller grand master) agreed to act in common, out of reverence to God, for the
exaltation of the orthodox faith and for the consolation of the aforementioned Christians.
Such language – which referred jointly to both Greeks and Latins as the faithful who were
to be delivered from the attacks of the ‘infidels’ – is even more striking if one considers that
up to a few years earlier Holy War was proclaimed against the Byzantines by John XXII,
the same pope who would now agree to join this alliance (Mollat, 1904–47: nos. 2128,
8241, 16672).
Andronikos actually went one step further. In 1339, he dispatched Barlaam of Calabria
to the papal court for negotiations. The imperial envoy argued that some common action
should come before Church Union. In a move reminiscent of George Metochites’ mission
to the papacy at the time of Michael VIII, Barlaam proposed a plan by which a Greco-Latin
crusade would first reclaim Asia Minor, before moving on to Jerusalem. Among Barlaam’s
proposals was the suggestion that the crusade indulgence should be given to anyone who
came to the help of the Greeks against the Turks (Tautu, 1958: nos. 42–43; Gill, 1979:
196–9). So, Byzantine diplomacy now not only took the lead in suggesting crusade action
to the curia but also advocated for the indulgence to be offered for services rendered to
the empire.
Barlaam’s plan and proposal eventually came to nothing as the empire descended into
chaos after the emperor’s death in 1341. Nevertheless, Andronikos III’s crusade rhetoric
came closer to matching his actions than that of any of his predecessors since the time of
Manuel Komnenos. Two factors had made this possible: first, a revival of Byzantine for-
tunes under the leadership of the determined emperor; and second, the fact that the main
theatre of crusading in the Eastern Mediterranean was shifting from the Holy Land to the
Aegean, and from reclaiming Jerusalem to stopping Turkish expansion. Even if the empire
no longer had the status to make a difference in the affair of Outremer, its role on the Turkish
front was crucial and immediate. However, as Byzantium was embroiled once again in dev-
astating civil wars in the 1340s and 1350s, the inability to contribute significantly to the
crusades against the Turks came as a corollary of its once again diminishing importance in
international and regional affairs.
271
CONCLUSION
The Byzantine leadership familiarised itself early on with the crusade. Relevant language
and imagery were incorporated in diplomatic contacts with the West, while declarations of
interest for the Holy Land and commitment to the service of the cross became a pattern of
Byzantine propaganda. This approach persisted to the end of the twelfth century, hardly
altered by the death of Manuel Komnenos. Even after the radical change of circumstances in
1204, the policy of exploiting Western sensitivities on the issue of the Holy Land persisted,
as it could still serve Byzantine objectives.
The impact of such proclamations varied. It is difficult to distinguish it from the effect
of actual Byzantine policy towards the West and the crusader states. Not only was the
development of this propaganda closely tied to the current political situation in the Levant,
but also its success depended on whether the emperors could couple words with actions.
This is mostly evident in the case of Manuel Komnenos. His policy of active interference
in the Latin East and dynamic interaction with the West, along with his consistent self-
representation as a pious ruler interested in the fate of the Holy Land, resulted in the crea-
tion of a Byzantine protectorate over Outremer. At the height of this influence, factions
within the crusader states advocated a pro-Byzantine policy, and notable figures turned
to Byzantium for support and help. Doubtless, these actions were mostly motivated by
the dire need of the Latins in Syria and Palestine, but Byzantine propaganda helped
legitimise intervention that could otherwise be denounced as external interference. An
indication of the potential effectiveness of this propaganda was Manuel’s reputation in
later times. In the West, he was often regarded as a model for his successors on account
of his services to the Holy Land (Neocleous, 2009: 167–73; Carrier, 2006: 312–52).
However, Byzantine failure to provide help to the crusade meant that proclamations to
that end could be – and indeed were – criticised as mere lip-service and Byzantine policy
dismissed as duplicity and treason against the common cause. That negative impression
was further aggravated when set against the background of Manuel’s ‘legacy’. For exam-
ple, Innocent III, writing in 1202 to Alexios III, stated that after the time of ‘Manuel of
blessed memory’ the Byzantine emperors had been serving the cause of the Holy Land
with words rather than actions, and warned Alexios to redress his and his predecessors’
omissions so as to avert ‘the fire burning in far-away parts from coming to [his] lands’
(Hageneder et al., 1964–: V, 239–43, no. 121).
Diplomacy did not save the empire from the disaster of 1204. But the arguments used to
justify the conquest and, subsequently, the crusades against the Byzantines highlight how
important it was for Byzantium to have at least attempted to negotiate with the Latins in such
terms. The successes of Michael VIII and of Andronikos III are proof that this diplomacy
could be efficiently used to neutralise threats and even turn the crusade to Byzantium’s
advantage when favourable circumstances were coupled with a strong political will on the
Byzantine side and when the empire appeared to regain its influence in the area.
To return to our initial discussion, the agents of imperial diplomacy were well aware
of Western crusading sensitivities. They had a more than passing understanding of the
motivations and ideology behind the crusade, even if they did not entirely share these
views. The explanation for the failure of Byzantium to avoid the disastrous clash with
Latin powers in the late twelfth and early thirteenth century should be sought elsewhere
rather than in a supposed Byzantine incomprehension and ignorance of Western mental-
ity. The ease with which the Byzantine imperial diplomacy took up Western crusading
272
themes and language is another argument against blanket statements that the Byzantine
mind found ideas of Holy War repelling. Without overlooking the substantial differences
between the two societies, the answer to this question needs to be rephrased in more
nuanced terms.
NOTES
1 Part of the research for this chapter was carried out in the context of the project “Worlds Apart?
Identity and Otherness in Late Byzantine Perceptions of the West” (SH6–1345). The research proj-
ect was implemented within the framework of the Action “Supporting Postdoctoral Researchers”
of the Operational Program “Education and Lifelong Learning” (Action’s Beneficiary: General
Secretariat for Research and Technology), and was co-financed by the European Social Fund
(ESF) and the Greek State. The chapter is based on papers I presented at Leeds (IMC, 2007),
London (Royal Holloway, 2009; Crusades Seminar, IHR, 2012) and Athens (Oikonomides
Seminar, 2013).
2 A great number of studies touching upon the subject have appeared in recent years. See, for exam-
ple, the works cited by Koder and Stouraitis (2012: 133–4), and Stoyanov (2011: 25–36).
3 I have also made this point more extensively, from a rather different angle, in a recent paper on
‘Byzantine Criticisms of the Crusade’ at the International Medieval Congress (Leeds, 9 July 2014).
4 On Byzantine views of crusaders and crusading, see in general the works by Charanis (1952),
Kolia-Dermitzaki (1991b), Gounaridis (2006), Stouraitis (2011) and Dagron (2012).
5 I would like to thank Dr Papageorgiou for providing a copy of her article prior to publication.
6 Without being possible to positively exclude the presence of such elements in other sources now
lost, there are no surviving references to Byzantine participation in a crusade in: the correspondence
of Honorius III with Theodore Doukas of Epiros; in the correspondence of John Vatatzes with
either Gregory IX or Frederick II (even during the extensive unionist negotiations between Rome
and Nicaea in 1232–34 and 1249–54); in the submission of Manuel of Thessalonica to the Roman
Church; in the unionist negotiations between Theodore II Laskaris with Alexander IV in 1256; or
even in the contacts between Vatatzes and Henry I Lusignan of Cyprus.
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MEMORY AND IDEOLOGY:

THE IMAGE OF THE CRUSADES
IN BYZANTINE HISTORIOGRAPHY,
ELEVENTH−THIRTEENTH CENTURIES
Aphrodite Papayianni
I n March 1095, the ambassadors of the Byzantine emperor Alexios I Comnenos addressed
the council Pope Urban II had summoned in Piacenza, requesting the pope’s help to mus-
ter an army of Western mercenaries to come to Byzantium’s aid against the Turks in Asia
Minor. Responding to the appeal, the pope did indeed encourage ‘many to promise, by
taking an oath, to aid the [Byzantine] emperor most faithfully in so far as they were able
against the pagans’ (Bernold of St Blasien 1844: 462; Riley-Smith 1986: 13). What Alexios
had petitioned for was a Western army a few hundred strong to be sent to fight under his
command. What he received the following year were numerous Western armies made up of
allies, together with their women and children, over whom he had no control. Until 1204,
the presence of crusaders in the lands of the Byzantine Empire caused nothing but friction
and frustration between them and both the local population and the authorities, culminating
in the conquest of Constantinople in April 1204 and the atrocities that ensued.
The aims of this chapter are to examine the terminology employed by contemporary (i.e.,
eleventh to thirteenth century) Byzantine historians to describe the crusade movement and
its participants, to analyse their choice of terminology and to explore the ideology behind
them.
The notion of the First Crusade as a divinely ordained war against the Muslims who had
conquered the lands of the Byzantine Empire and now had Jerusalem under their control, with
the aim to liberate those lands and reclaim Jerusalem, is articulated unequivocally in Urban
II’s sermon delivered in Clermont in March 1095 and is clearly reflected in the terminology
used in the Latin West to describe the movement and its participants (Robert of Monk, 2005:
80‒2; Fulcher of Chartres 2005: 513‒17; Baldric of Bourgueil 2014: 6–10). For the Latins,
a crusade was ‘via’, ‘iter’, ‘itenirarium’, ‘iter hierosolymitanum’, ‘profectio’, ‘passagium’,
‘Hierosolymitana expeditio’, ‘expeditio Dei’ or simply ‘expeditio’, ‘expugnatio Dei’,
‘agmen’, ‘causa’, ‘bellum’, ‘negotium’, ‘peregrinatio’, ‘peregrinatio Iherosolimitana’, ‘via
Dei’ or ‘via Jesu Christi’, ‘sancta via’, ‘opus Dei’, and, later, ‘crux’. The crusaders were
‘milites Dei’ or ‘milites Christi’, ‘athletae Christi’, ‘athletae Dei’, ‘christocoli’, ‘fideles
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Christi’, ‘bellatores Dei’ or ‘bellatores Christi’, ‘paupers’, ‘Hierosolymitani’, ‘peregrini

Dei’ or just ‘peregrini’, and collectively they were an ‘exercitus christianus’, ‘exercitus
Dei’ or ‘exercitus Domini’, ‘militia Christi’ or ‘militia Dei’, ‘agmen Dei’, ‘populus Dei’ or
simply ‘populus’, ‘plebs’, ‘gens Dei’ or ‘gens Christi’, who participated in the operation
‘peregrinationis gratia’.1 At the end of the twelfth century, the term ‘crusesignatus’ or
‘cruciferus’ also started to be used to refer to a crusader (Markowski 1984).
Contemporary Byzantine historians, however, very rarely used the terminology of pil-
grimage, journey or crucifix to describe the crusades and their participants, but almost
exclusively employed the vocabulary of war or military expedition. In the twelfth cen-
tury, Anna Comnena, daughter of Emperor Alexios I, characterised the First Crusade as an
‘ἐπέλευσιν’ (‘attack’), ‘ἔφοδον’ (‘journey through’ but also an ‘assault’) and ‘συγκίνησιν’
(‘concerted movement’, ‘assault’) and the crusaders as ‘ἐπερχομένους’ (‘[those] coming
in order to attack’) (Comnena, 2001: 297‒9; Leib, 1943: II, 206‒9). Writing in the same
century, the imperial secretary Ioannes Kinnamos, called the Second Crusade ‘πορείαν
ἐπὶ Παλαιστίνην’ (‘a march on Palestine’) (Kinnamos, 1836: 73; Brand, 1976: 63) and
‘ἐμβολὴν’ (‘an incursion) (Kinnamos, 1836: 88, 92; Brand, 1976: 72, 76), whilst the thir-
teenth-century statesman, theologian and orator Nicetas Choniates called the crusades
‘κίνησιν’ (lit. ‘a movement’) (Choniates, 1975: 61; Magoulias, 1984: 35), and in refer-
ence to the Third Crusade ‘ἐπιδρομὴ ἐθνῶν’ (‘invasion of nations’) (Choniates, 1975: 403;
Magoulias, 1984: 222), and ‘ἔξοδον’ (‘expedition’) (Choniates, 1975: 61; Magoulias, 1984:
35). The statesman George Acropolites, also writing in the thirteenth century, claimed
similarly that ‘those from Italy campaigned against Constantinople’ (Acropolites, 1978: 5;
Makrides, 2007: 106). The terminology used is martial and clearly speaks of an aggressive
approach on the part of the crusaders towards the Byzantines.
Nor are the crusaders themselves described in terms used in the Latin West. Instead,
they are designated by ethnic terms, though these do not necessarily represent their true
origin: Gauls, British (Kinnamos, 1836: 67; Brand, 1976: 58), Alamanoi (Kinnamos, 1836:
68, 69, 77, 80, 81, 84, 85, 88, 188, 228; Brand, 1976: 59, 60, 65, 67, 68, 70, 72, 73, 143,
172), Germanoi (Kinnamos, 1836: 67, 69, 82, 84, 86, 87, 188; Brand, 1976: 58, 60, 68,
70, 71, 72, 143),2 Celts (Comnena, 2001: 297 and passim; Leib, 1943: II, 207 and passim;
Kinnamos, 1836: 67; Brand, 1976: 58),3 or Franks (Comnena, 2001: 321 and passim; Leib,
1943: II, 235 and passim; Choniates, 1975: 553, 588, 647; Magoulias, 1984: 303, 323,
357);4 or by generic terms: ‘Λατινικὰ γένη’ (‘Latin races’) (Kinnamos, 1836: 199; Brand,
1976: 151), Latins (Comnena, 2001: 301 and passim; Leib, 1943: II, 212; Choniates, 1975:
551 and passim; Magoulias, 1984: 302 and passim)5 or ‘Λατινικὰ στρατεύματα’ (‘Latin
troops’) (Choniates, 1975: 67; Magoulias, 1984: 39), ‘Φραγκικὰ στρατεύματα’ (‘Frankish
troops’) (Comnena, 2001: 297, 302; Leib, 1943: II 1: 206, 214), ‘Φραγκικὰ τάγματα’
(‘Frankish regiments’), ‘Κελτικὸ στράτευμα’ (‘Celtic troops’) (Comnena, 2001: 298, 331;
Leib, 1943: II, 208‒9; 1945: III, 18) or simply ‘στρατεύματα’ (‘troops’) (Comnena, 2001:
315; Leib, 1943: II, 228; Acropolites, 1978: 5; Makrides, 2007: 107), as ‘πανστρατιὰ’ (‘[the
result of] a general military mobilisation’) (Comnena, 2001: 298; Leib, 1943: II, 208),
‘κατάφρακτοι Λατινικαὶ … φάλαγγαι’ (‘Latin battalions in full armour’) (Choniates, 1975:
572; Magoulias, 1984: 314), ‘ἐξ ἑσπέρας στρατοὶ’ (‘armies from the Occident’) (Choniates,
1975: 61; Magoulias, 1984: 36), or ‘army’ (Kinnamos, 1836: 67, 76; Brand, 1937‒45:
58, 64; Choniates, 1975: 65, 402; Magoulias, 1984: 38, 221), as ‘a cloud of enemies …
a dreadful and death-dealing pestilence’ (Choniates, 1975: 60; Magoulias, 1984: 35), as
‘Κελτικὰ πλήθη’ (‘Celtic hordes’) (Comnena, 2001: 303; Leib, 1943: II, 215), as ‘δυσμικὰ
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— A p h ro d i t e P a p a y i a n n i —
ἔθνη’ (‘Western nations’) (Kinnamos, 1836: 88, 92; Brand, 1976: 72, 76), as ‘ἅπαν … τὸ
ἑσπέριον … κράτος’ (‘the whole Western array’) (Kinnamos, 1836: 67; Brand, 1976: 58), as
‘ἑσπέρια γένη’ (‘peoples from the West’) (Choniates, 1975: 648; Magoulias, 1984: 357) or
as the ‘scattered nations of the West’ (Choniates, 1975: 585; Magoulias, 1984: 322). Anna
Comnena and Choniates also at times call them ‘barbarians’, mainly when commenting on
the crusaders’ undisciplined conduct in the Byzantine Empire (Comnena, 2001: 297, 298,
307, 315, 357; 358, 428, 429, 433, 440; Leib, 1943: II, 207, 208, 218, 228; 1945: III, 51, 52,
146, 147, 153, 161; Choniates, 1975: 68, 560, 574, 590, 591, 594, 648, 649, 653; Magoulias,
1984: 39, 306, 315, 324, 325, 327, 357, 358, 360), whilst John Kinnamos uses the appel-
lation when referring to the crusade army of the Second Crusade collectively (Kinnamos,
1836: 67, 69, 70, 72, 73; Brand, 1976: 59, 60, 61, 63). The only time that Western terms are
found in contemporary Byzantine historiography to describe the crusaders are when Anna
Comnena cites the treaty of Devol (1108), where Prince Bohemud of Otranto (and later of
Antioch) describes the crusaders as ‘περεγρῖνοι’ (the Greek transliteration of the term per-
egrini) (Comnena, 2001: 421; Leib, 1945: III, 135); when Nicetas Choniates notes that King
Conrad of Germany ‘had taken up the cross at home’ (‘σταυροφορήσας’) long before he
arrived in the Byzantine Empire (Choniates, 1975: 395; Magoulias, 1984: 217); and when
the same historian records that one of the leaders of the Third Crusade, the German king
Frederick I Barbarossa, referred to his army as ‘soldiers of Christ’ (Choniates, 1975: 412;
Magoulias, 1984: 227).
The choice of vocabulary raises questions about the extent to which the Byzantines were
aware of the crusade ideology. What considerations informed their choice of terms? Was it
a matter of ignorance, of empathy or of experience? What fashioned their views? Byzantine
historians appear to have had limited knowledge of the idea of the crusade as a divine enter-
prise organised through the agency of the pope. They were aware of the aim of the crusades,
however, that is to say, the liberation of Jerusalem from Muslim rule (the other purpose, at
least of the First Crusade, namely the freeing of the Eastern Churches from Muslim oppres-
sion, is not mentioned at all), although at times they express doubts about the sincerity of
some of the participants. As for the absolution of sins offered to crusaders who died on
crusade, that seems to have been known only to Nicetas Choniates (Choniates, 1975: 69;
Magoulias, 1984: 40).6
In regard to the crusaders’ motives, the Byzantine historians’ views do not differ signifi-
cantly. Remarkably, Anna Comnena fails to mention her father’s appeal to Pope Urban for
military aid in the fight against the Turks. Nevertheless, she seems to have been aware that
Peter the Hermit claimed that a divine plan had been revealed to him to exhort Frankish
noblemen to accompany him to the Holy Land to liberate Jerusalem from the Muslims and
characterised it as a ‘wise’ one (Comnena, 2001: 297; Leib, 1943: II, 207). Although Anna
does not distinguish between a crusader and an unarmed pilgrim, she does make a distinc-
tion between the pure religious motives of the ‘more simple-minded’ participants of the
First Crusade, who certainly did wish to visit Christ’s tomb, and the ‘more devious ones’,
whose unspoken motivation might have been to capture Constantinople on their way to the
Holy Land. She includes Peter the Hermit in the first category and Prince Bohemud and
other noblemen in the second. Furthermore, she states unequivocally that certain crusaders,
like Bohemud, used Peter the Hermit’s proclamation as a pretext to deceive the ‘most hon-
ourable’ crusaders by claiming that they were going to the Holy Land, when in reality their
aim was to conquer the Byzantine Empire. The reason for that, Anna claims, was Alexios’
victory over Bohemud near Larisa a few years earlier. To support her argument that some of
280
the noblemen crusaders had a hidden agenda, she states that they had sold their lands in the
West before they set out for the East (Comnena, 2001: 299, 301, 309, 319‒20; Leib, 1943:
II, 209, 212, 220‒1, 233‒4). Similarly, Kinnamos states baldly that the Western nations that
participated in the Second Crusade used the liberation of the Holy Sepulchre as a pretext for
attacking Byzantine lands; their real aim was to gain possession of them (Kinnamos, 1836:
67, 73; Brand, 1976: 58, 63). The violence perpetrated against local merchants in the empire
during the Second Crusade exposed the ‘hostile intent’ of the crusaders, in Kinnamos’ view
(Kinnamos, 1836: 70; Brand, 1976: 61). The same historian also questions the motives
of Frederick I stating that ‘Frederick … had set his sights on the office of [the Roman]
emperor’ (Kinnamos, 1836: 229; Brand, 1976: 173), and that he ‘intended to invade the
Romans’ land’ (Kinnamos, 1836: 262; Brand, 1976: 197).
Of all contemporary Byzantine historians, Choniates, an eyewitness to the Third and
Fourth Crusades, seems to have had the most complete insight into the ideology of crusad-
ing. He appears to have been aware that the crusaders of the Second Crusade ‘declared and
affirmed by oath that Jerusalem was the motive for their expedition’ and admits that ‘later
events proved their declarations were not false’ (Choniates, 1975: 61; Magoulias, 1984:
36). He also notes Frederick I’s request, and the consequent accord between him and the
Byzantine Emperor Isaac II, in the course of the Third Crusade, for German crusaders who
‘were heading towards Palestine’ to be allowed to pass unhindered through Byzantine terri-
tory (Choniates, 1975: 401‒2; Magoulias, 1984: 221). In the fictitious speech of exhortation
(Simpson, 2013: 316) that he attributes to Conrad, Choniates includes all key elements of
the crusade ideology: that the crusaders’ expedition was taken on behalf of Christ, that they
were seeking the glory of God, that it was their duty to bear suffering, that the crusader army
was ‘a sacred host and God-chosen army’, that those who fell in battle would be rewarded
with access to heaven, that the enemy would be crushed by the power of Christ, that the lib-
eration of the Holy Sepulchre was the ultimate goal of their expedition and that they would
take vengeance on the infidels who had defiled Christ’s tomb (Choniates, 1975: 68‒70;
Magoulias, 1984: 39‒41). In his epitaph to Frederick I, he confirms his knowledge of cru-
sade ideology by stating that Frederick ‘died for the name of Christ’ (Choniates, 1975: 416;
Magoulias, 1984: 229). However, his judgement of crusaders is not blunted by this knowl-
edge, for he also claims that the Lord’s empty tomb was a pretext for the Second Crusade
(Choniates, 1975: 61; Magoulias, 1984: 35), and records that the patriarch of Jerusalem,
Dositheos (1189‒91), ‘prophesied’ that Frederick intended to march on Constantinople,
not to take possession of Palestine, during the course of the Third Crusade (Choniates,
1975: 405; Magoulias, 1984: 222). Moreover, he describes Frederick as ‘the evil beyond
our borders … [who] burst upon us’ (Choniates, 1975: 401; Magoulias, 1984: 221) and
characterises the Fourth Crusade as a ‘voyage of piracy’, stating that its participants used
the restoration of Isaac II as their pretext, ‘like a painted mask concealing their true motives’
(Choniates, 1975: 585‒6; Magoulias, 1984: 322), and pointing out that they were exposed
as ‘λογοποιοὶ’ (‘people who make up excuses’, ‘liars’) who, seeking to avenge the Holy
Sepulchre, raged against Christ and sinned by overturning the Cross with the cross they
wore on their backs for the sake of a little gold and silver (Choniates, 1975: 576; Magoulias,
1984: 316). George Acropolites makes similar assertions in regard to the Fourth Crusade
(Acropolites, 1978: 5; Makrides, 2007: 107).
Riley-Smith has remarked in regard to the First Crusade that ‘even the propagandists
agree that the crusading armies had adventurers and charlatans among their number,
although most of these were not knights’ (Riley-Smith, 1986: 40). The odd composition
281
of the participants in the crusades did indeed surprise the Byzantines, while their unruly
behaviour and vast numbers dismayed them. Although one cannot be certain about the
objectivity of contemporary Byzantine historians’ accounts of the activities of the crusaders
whilst in the Byzantine Empire, besides the attribution of stereotypical Latin characteristics
to them,7 it should be noted that these historians do not hesitate to acknowledge the virtues
of some groups of them or of individuals, and also to record and comment on incidents
when the crusaders were treated unjustly by the local population. For instance, Kinnamos
comments that the mounted Frankish knights excelled in the use of the spear and surpassed
the German cavalry in speed, whilst the Germans were outstanding in the use of the sword
and better than the French in combat on foot (Kinnamos, 1836: 84‒5; Brand, 1976: 70). In
regard to the French crusaders, participants in the Fourth Crusade, Choniates comments that
they ‘were unlike the others in temperament or physique and boasted that the only thing
they feared was heaven’ (Choniates, 1975: 588; Magoulias, 1984: 323). Anna Comnena,
Kinnamos and Choniates often describe individual crusaders in positive terms too: Anna
characterises Bohemud, a long-standing enemy of the empire, as a ‘most able individual in
adjusting to the circumstances’ and ‘braver than all other crusaders’ (Comnena, 2001: 319;
Leib 1943: II, 233) and Raymond of Saint Gilles, one of the leaders of the First Crusade, as
a man of ‘superior spirit, rightness in his judgement, purity in life and sincerity’ (Comnena,
2001: 320; Leib, 1943: II, 235). Kinnamos likens Prince Raymond of Antioch to the ‘leg-
endary Herculeis’ (Kinnamos, 1836: 125; Brand, 1976: 99) and remarks that he was ‘most
active in martial affairs’ (Kinnamos, 1836: 122; Brand, 1976: 97), whilst in regard to
Conrad he notes that ‘he was courageous in warfare’ (Kinnamos, 1836: 82; Brand, 1976:
68). Choniates comments favourably on Marquis William of Montferrat and especially his
son Conrad, later king of Jerusalem, whom he calls ‘brave and prudent beyond measure, and
full of rigour and bodily strength’ (Choniates, 1975: 201; Magoulias, 1984: 114), a man who
‘was so excelled in bravery and sagacity that his fame was widespread, not only among the
Romans [Byzantines] but also among his countrymen … graced with acute intelligence and
strength of arm’ (Choniates, 1975: 382; Magoulias 1984: 210). The French Baron Peter of
Bracieux, according to the same historian, was a man of ‘heroic strength’ (Choniates, 1975:
601; Magoulias, 1984: 330), whilst Baldwin I, the first Latin emperor of Constantinople and
one of the leaders of the Fourth Crusade, ‘was devout in his duties to God and … temperate
in his personal conduct’ (Choniates, 1975: 597; Magoulias, 1984: 328). Choniates is also
full of praise for Frederick I, who caused so many problems in the empire during the course
of the Third Crusade: ‘[he was] endlessly acquiring recognition for his sagacity’, he writes,
and, after mentioning his drowning in the River Salef, states:
He was a man who deserved a blessed and never to be forgotten memory … also, because
his burning passion for Christ was greater than that of any other Christian monarch of
his age … he chose … to suffer with the Christians of Palestine for the name of Christ
and due regard to the life-saving tomb … following the example of the Apostle Paul, he
did not count his life dear unto himself but pressed forward … Thus the man’s zeal was
apostolic, his purpose dear to God, and his achievements beyond perfection.
(Choniates, 1975: 416‒17; Magoulias, 1984: 228‒9)
Nevertheless, Byzantine historians also highlight the negative traits of individual crusad-
ers. Anna Comnena considers Bohemud a cunning man who for a long time harboured a
desire to conquer the Byzantine Empire (Comnena, 2001: 299, 301; Leib, 1943: II, 209,
282
212). Kinnamos attributes to Conrad ‘haughtiness’ and ‘arrogance’ (Kinnamos, 1836: 78,
79, 80; Brand, 1976: 65, 66, 67), to Baldwin III of Jerusalem ‘innate arrogance’ (Kinnamos,
1836: 185; Brand, 1976: 141), to Frederick I ‘immoderate wilfulness’ (Kinnamos, 1836:
71; Brand, 1976: 61) and calls Frederick’s intention to divide the Byzantine lands, that he
intended to attack in the course of the Second Crusade, among his followers ‘some kind of
barbaric folly’ (Kinnamos, 1836: 262; Brand, 1976: 197).
In an apparent expression of impartiality, one that can be explained if one considers his
criticism of Byzantine society and also his Kaiserkritik,8 Choniates is scathing about local
Byzantines who, either following the Byzantine Emperor Manuel I’s orders or on their own
initiative, violated agreements with the German army of the Second Crusade regarding
supplying them with provisions. Some Byzantines were ‘ruthless’ (Choniates, 1975: 63;
Magoulias, 1984: 37), their acts were ‘knowingly unlawful’ and their deeds ‘iniquitous and
unholy’ (Choniates, 1975: 66; Magoulias 1984: 39). In a similar vein, he calls senseless the
indiscriminate animosity Byzantines expressed towards Latin inhabitants of Constantinople
during the course of the Fourth Crusade (Choniates, 1975: 552; Magoulias, 1984: 302) and
openly accuses Emperor Manuel of minting debased silver coins for trading with the cru-
saders and for inciting the Turks, through an exchange of letters, to take action against the
crusaders (Choniates, 1975: 66‒7; Magoulias, 1984: 39). He also blames Isaac II’s repre-
sentatives, who did not fulfil their duty to facilitate Frederick I’s passage through Byzantine
lands, for the strained relations between the Byzantines and the crusaders of the Third
Crusade because ‘through ignorance of their obligations and their cowardliness … they
provoked the king’s [Frederick] anger against the Romans and induced the emperor [Isaac
II] to think of the king as an enemy’ (Choniates, 1975: 402‒3; Magoulias, 1984: 221; also
see Choniates, 1975: 411; Magoulias, 1984: 226). Interestingly, he also records Frederick’s
message to the Byzantine emperor’s representative, the protostrator Manuel Kamytzes,
that he had never plotted anything ‘detrimental or offensive to the Romans’ and that ‘he
had observed the terms of the agreement unviolated’ (Choniates, 1975: 403‒4; Magoulias,
1984: 222).9 Similarly, Kinnamos notes King Conrad’s and the French King Louis’ mes-
sages to the Byzantine emperor’s envoys during the course of the Second Crusade in which
they affirmed that they had not entered the Byzantine empire in order to inflict harm on the
Byzantines (Kinnamos, 1836: 68, 82; Brand, 1976: 59, 68).10
Apart from the crusaders’ behaviour, what also surprised the Byzantines was the hetero-
geneity of crusade participants, as well as their sheer numbers. Ekkehard of Aura notes that
some of the participants of the First Crusade had taken their crusade vows under ‘all kinds of
personal disadvantages. In fact many of them were burdened on the journey with wives and
children and all their domestic goods’ (Ekkehard of Aura, 1895: 17; Riley-Smith, 1986: 39).
Anna Comnena records similarly that ‘women and children’ (Comnena, 2001: 297‒8; Leib,
1943: II, 207‒8), ‘a crowd of all kinds [of people]’, followed the First Crusade (Comnena,
2001: 315; Leib, 1943: II, 227). Other contemporary Byzantine historians too commented
on the mixed composition of the crusader groups. What, however, surprised them most
was their numbers. Anna describes the First Crusade as made up of ‘countless Frankish
armies’ (Comnena, 2001: 297; Leib, 1943: II, 206; also see Comnena, 2001: 304, 315; Leib,
1943: II, 215, 227), ‘a crowd as innumerable as grains of sand and the stars’ (Comnena,
2001: 297, 440; Leib, 1943: II, 207‒8; 1945: III, 160), ‘a countless multitude of people’
(Comnena, 2001: 315, 321, 322, 330, 439; Leib, 1943: II, 235, 227; 1945: III, 7, 18, 160),
‘setting out from everywhere, they burst upon us’ (Comnena, 2001: 439; Leib, 1945: III,
160), ‘like rivers which, flowing from all directions, were converging and … came against
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our [lands]’ (Comnena, 2001: 298; Leib, 1943: II, 208). ‘Neither man nor woman could
remember anything like it’, she remarks in regard to the Western mobilisation. Before the
crusaders’ arrival, Peter the Hermit had arrived in the empire with 80,000 foot soldiers and
100,000 cavalry, she claims (Comnena, 2001: 299; Leib, 1943: II, 209‒10). Writing about
the Second Crusade, Kinnamos states that ‘the whole of the western army had been mobi-
lised’ and that the number of participants in the crusade was ‘beyond count’ (Kinnamos,
1836: 67; Brand, 1976: 58). They were ‘innumerable and greater than the grains of sand
on the shore’ so that the Byzantine emperor’s officials, who had been appointed to count
each crusade ship’s cargo that was crossing the Danube, gave up when they had reached
900,000, he notes (Kinnamos, 1836: 69; Brand, 1976: 60). Choniates claims similarly that
the crusader army of the Second Crusade was so large that the Byzantine officials who were
supposed to register every man ferried across to the Asiatic side, facing Constantinople,
abandoned the task (Choniates, 1975: 66; Magoulias, 1984: 38). That is certainly an exag-
geration but it is indicative of the impression made on the Byzantines by the numbers of
crusaders arriving in the empire. Anna Comnena states that ‘the whole of the West and all
barbarian races who inhabited the land beyond the Adriatic [Sea] and up to the Herculean
Columns [that is, Gibraltar], all of them travelled together … and were making their way
to Asia through Europe’ (Comnena, 2001: 297; Leib, 1943: II, 207). Elsewhere, she reports
that ‘these people did not all arrive together nor did they come at the same time … some
came first, some second, others [followed] them’ (Comnena, 2001: 298; Leib, 1943: II,
208; also see Comnena, 2001: 303‒4, 308, 314, 315; Leib, 1943: II, 215, 220, 226, 227‒8).
Indeed, the crusaders of the First Crusade did arrive in waves: in July and August 1096
Walter’s and Peter the Hermit’s contingents came, while between December 1096 and May
1097 four more, under the command of Western noblemen, arrived. In regard to the Fourth
Crusade, Acropolites reports that ‘large crowds’ (‘πλήθη πολλὰ’) from the realms of the
Franks, Italy, Venice and elsewhere had assembled in Italy to join the crusade (Acropolites,
1978: 5; Makrides, 2007: 107). Not surprisingly, the Byzantines gained the impression that
the West had been mobilised to invade the East and, given the behaviour of the crusaders
and their leaders, they were fearful of their presence in the empire.
Interestingly, on occasion, the Byzantine historians hint poignantly at the common reli-
gion of the Byzantines and the crusaders. Alexios I was reluctant to attack the crusaders
massed outside the walls of Constantinople because he wanted to ‘avoid the brotherly kill-
ing (‘ἐμφύλιον [πόλεμον]’)’, Anna reports. When the crusaders persisted in storming the
walls of the city, however, he commanded his men to fire on them, but ordered them to
aim wide because it was ‘most important that Christians not to be killed’ (Comnena, 2001:
310‒12; Leib, 1943: II, 222‒3, 225).11 George Dennis has pointed out that the Byzantines
were not belligerent people and, in fact, this led the crusaders to accuse them of cowardice.
For the Byzantines, killing, even when deemed justifiable, was considered evil (Dennis,
2001: 37‒8). Choniates also refers to the two sides’ common religion when he castigates
the way some locals treated the crusaders who wanted to buy provisions from them, because
they did not take into consideration the fact that they were ‘co-religionists’ (Choniates,
1975: 66; Magoulias, 1984: 39). Anna is surprised by the active involvement of a Latin cler-
gyman in a naval battle and explicitly denounces it (Comnena, 2001: 306‒8; Leib, 1943: II,
218‒20),12 whilst Choniates denounces the atrocities of the ‘forerunners of Antichrist’, as he
calls them (i.e., the Latin Christians), committed against the local population who, in vain,
tried to propitiate them by greeting them holding up crosses and icons when they entered
Constantinople in April 1204. The rape of women of all ages, including nuns, the destruction
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and looting of churches and the desecration of holy relics, among other atrocities, clearly
left Choniates feeling revulsion for the Western Christians (Choniates, 1975: 572‒4, 595;
Magoulias, 1984: 314‒15, 327).
Nevertheless, beside the crusaders’ attacks on the local population, plunder, theft of food,
the destruction of sacred, private and public property, assaults on the walls of Constantinople
and of other cities, and the slaughter of the local population in conquered Byzantine cities
and towns, attacks on the crusaders by local populations are also documented in Byzantine
accounts. Kinnamos records that the ‘braggart’ crusaders of the Second Crusade ‘slew
many Romans who resisted them’, whilst the Byzantines made ‘a great slaughter of barbar-
ians [crusaders]’ in retaliation for Frederick’s torching of a monastery in Adrianople, an

act the German prince inflicted in revenge for the killing of a distinguished German, who
was treated in that monastery, by Byzantine soldiers (Kinnamos, 1836: 71‒2; Brand, 1976:
61‒2). Later, another ‘great slaughter of Germans’ occurred during a battle waged against
the Byzantines, he notes (Kinnamos, 1836: 77; Brand, 1976: 65). Choniates states that, in
the course of the Second Crusade, the Byzantines ‘slew no small number’ of crusaders, a
deed which, in combination with other misdemeanours perpetrated against the crusaders,
aimed to incite fear in the latter and deter them from attacking the Byzantines in the future
(Choniates, 1975: 66‒7; Magoulias, 1984: 38‒9).
Even before the First Crusaders arrived, the Byzantines were weary of them, mainly
because of the disastrous financial and territorial impact and human losses that had
resulted from the Norman attacks on Byzantine territories in the eleventh century, and
also because of the commercial privileges accruing to Venice and the consequent finan-
cial implications that had had for Byzantium. These factors had given rise to tension and
distrust between the Greek East and the Latin West. According to Anna, when Alexios
heard that the crusaders were advancing, he was fearful because ‘he had got to know
their [the Latins’] unstoppable rush, their unpredictable and changeable views … that
they adore money, that whenever they have the chance they readily dishonour their own
agreements …’ (Comnena, 2001: 297; Leib, 1943: II, 206‒7; also see Comnena, 2001:
319, 325, 327; Leib, 1943: II, 233; 1945: III, 11, 13; Choniates, 1975: 551; Magoulias,
1984: 302). Moreover, he was aware, even before the crusaders arrived, that the Latins
‘were dreaming of the throne of the Roman empire’ (Comnena, 2001: 439‒40; Leib,
1945: III, 160). Nevertheless, he treated them with courtesy and provided them with mili-
tary assistance in their passage through Asia Minor. Emperor Manuel too had little trust
in the crusaders, according to Choniates: ‘with little sincerity [Manuel] lavished high
praise on their [crusaders’] action and pretended to admire them for their pious inten-
tion’ (Choniates, 1975: 61; Magoulias, 1984: 36). Summing up his personal views on
the ‘western nations’, Choniates states: ‘these men were braggarts, undaunted in spirit,
lacking all humility and trained to be ever bloodthirsty … they also nurtured an unsleep-
ing hostility towards the Romans [Byzantines], a restless, raving hatred as they viewed
them with suspicion’ (Choniates, 1975: 199; Magoulias, 1984: 113). To that one could
add Anna’s claim that the Latins’ treachery, among other negative attributes, had been
‘πάνυ ἐπαληθεῦον’ (‘many times verified’) (Comnena, 2001: 297; Leib, 1943: II, 206‒7).
The events of 1204 proved that the Byzantines who, in the eleventh and twelfth centuries,
suspected or feared that the religious warriors from the West had nothing less in mind
than the conquest of the empire were right.
In conclusion, and based on the crusaders’ activities whilst in the Byzantine Empire,
can one accuse contemporary Byzantine historians of prejudice? It has been argued that the
285
Byzantines perceived the crusades as a military expedition, one that was no different from
others (Kolia-Dermitzaki, 1991). This is partly right. Indeed, in the eyes of contemporary
Byzantines the crusaders were unwelcome invaders. However, some Byzantines seem to
have had a little insight into the fundamental elements of the ideology that inspired these
invaders and understood its main principles. Interestingly, they did not seem to object to
those core ideological elements. What they objected to was the political implication of
the crusaders’ enterprise ‒ that is, their behaviour and demands while they were in the
empire. We should not forget that all the Byzantine narratives were written after the cru-
sades they describe. Therefore the contemporary Byzantine historians judged the crusade
movement by the outcome of each crusade. With the benefit of hindsight, the Byzantine
historians had no interest in dwelling on the ideological background of the crusades because
of the overwhelmingly negative consequences of the crusaders’ actions in the empire, men
who, in their eyes, constituted nothing less than a numberless, demanding and unruly mob.
Georgina Buckler points out that ‘on the whole it is remarkable that Anna should have
been so little prejudiced [against the crusaders] rather than so much’ (Buckler, 1929: 459).
George Dennis has argued that in general the Byzantines never seemed to understand why
all those Western knights and their followers were marching through their land; pilgrimage
they understood, warfare they understood, but the conjoining of the two the Byzantines did
not understand (Dennis, 2001: 33). Steven Runciman writes of a ‘most complete misunder-
standing’ in regard to the crusade movement and Byzantium (Runciman, 1986: 22). It might
have started like that, but later the actions of the crusaders taken against the Byzantine
Empire and its interests fell short of being considered by the Byzantines as a barbarian
invasion. Nicetas Choniates, referring to the sack of Thessalonika by the Normans in 1185,
had remarked that ‘χάσμα διαφορᾶς … μέγιστον’ (‘an enormous chasm’) separated the two
worlds of Greeks and Latins (Choniates, 1975: 301; Magoulias, 1984: 167; Luke 16:26).
By their conduct in the empire, the crusaders contributed nothing to alter that opinion. On
the contrary, they created an even wider chasm, one that was not bridged throughout the
Middle Ages.
NOTES
1 For an overview of the terminology of crusading in the West, see Constable, 2008: 349‒52; Kolia-
Dermitzaki, 1994: 24‒5.
2 Kinnamos calls the French ‘Germans’.
3 Kinnamos calls the Normans ‘Celts’.
4 On the use of the term ‘Franks’ in Byzantium in the eleventh century, see Shepard, 1993.
5 Anna uses the terms ‘Latins’, ‘Celts’ and ‘Franks’ interchangeably when referring to the crusad-
ers. On the use of the terms ‘Latins’ and ‘Franks’ in Byzantium, see Kazhdan, 2001.
6 On the absolution of sins to the crusaders who died in battle, see various Western contemporary
views in Riley-Smith, 1986: 19‒20, 28, 36.
7 The unruly behaviour of the crusaders of the first four crusades, whilst in the Byzantine empire,
has been described extensively in modern works, therefore I will not refer to them in detail in this
chapter. For bibliography about the image of the Latins in Byzantine sources during the period of
the Crusades see Stouraitis, 2011: 17, note 17.
8 On Choniates Kaiserkritik, see Magdalino, 1993: 3‒26 and passim; Angold, 1997: 173‒80;
Simpson and Efthymiadis, 2009: 17‒22, 24; Simpson, 2013: 3‒6, 295, 319 and passim.
9 One ought to take into consideration Nicetas Choniates’s rather biased views on emperors Isaac
and Manuel.
286
10 Kinnamos’ account of the relationship between Emperor Manuel and King Louis seems to be
partial; Brand, 1976: 4, 7.
11 Another reason for his reluctance to attack the crusaders was because it was Maundy Thursday.
Anna points out that the crusaders were not deterred by that. Cf. the behaviour of the Latins
against the Byzantine Christian population of an unnamed town in Asia Minor in 1101: Comnena,
2001: 346; Leib, 1945: III, 37. Note that on Easter Sunday 1069, the Byzantine forces of Emperor
Romanos IV attacked the forces of the Norman mercenary leader Robert Crispin: Michaelis
Attaliotae, 1853: 123‒4.
12 The Byzantines were aware of the existence of this practice by Latin bishops before the start of the
crusades: Stouraitis, 2011: 31.
REFERENCES
Acropolites, G., ‘Historia’, ed. A. Heisenberg and P. Writh, in Georgii Acropolitae Opera, Stuttgart
1978, vol. 1.
Angold, M., The Byzantine Empire, 1025‒1204, London 1997.
Anne Comnène Alexiade, trans. B. Leib, 3 vols, Paris 1937‒45 (cited in the text as Leib).
Bardric of Bourgueil, The Historia Ierosolimitana of Bardric of Bourgueil, ed. S. Biddlecombe,
Boydell 2014.
Bernold of St Blasien, ‘Chronicon’, Monumenta Germaniae Historica Scriptorum 5, Hanover 1844.
Buckler, G., Anna Comnena: A Study, London 1929.
Choniates, N., O City of Byzantium: Annals of Niketas Choniatēs, trans. H. Magoulias, Detroit 1984
(cited in the text as Magoulias).
Comnena, A., Alexias, ed. D. R. Reinsch and A. Kambylis, Corpus Fontium Historiae Byzantinae
40/1, Berlin 2001.
Constable, G., Crusaders and Crusading in the Twelfth Century, Ashgate 2008.
Deeds of John and Manuel Comnenus by John Kinnamos, trans. Charles Brand, New York 1976 (cited
in the text as Brand).
Dennis, G. T., ‘Defenders of the Christian People: Holy War in Byzantium’, in The Crusades from
the Perspective of Byzantium and the Muslim World, ed. Angeliki E. Laiou and Roy Parviz
Mottahedeh, Dumbarton Oaks 2001, 31‒9.
Ekkehard of Aura, ‘Hierosolymita’, Recueil des Historiens des Croisades, Historiens Occidentaux 5,
Paris 1895.
Fulcher of Chartres, in A Source Book for Medieval History, ed. Oliver J. Thatcher and Edgar Holmes
McNeal, New York 1905.
Ioannis Cinnami epitome rerum ab Ioanne et Alexio Comnenis gestarum, ed. A. Meineke, Corpus
Scriptorum Historiae Byzantinae, Bonn 1836 (cited in the text as Kinnamos).
Kazhdan, A., ‘Latins and Franks in Byzantium: Perception and Reality from the Eleventh to the
Twelfth Century’, in The Crusades from the Perspective of Byzantium and the Muslim World, ed.
Angeliki E. Laiou and Roy Parviz Mottahedeh, Dumbarton Oaks 2001, 83‒100.
Kolia-Dermitzaki, A., Συνάντηση Ανατολής και Δύσης στα εδάφη της Αυτοκρατορίας, Athens 1994.
———, Die Kreuzfahrer und die Kreuzzüge im Sprachgebrauch der Byzantiner’, Jahrbuch der
Österreichischen Byzantinistik 41, 1991, 163–88.
Magdalino, P., The Empire of Manuel I Comnenos, 1143‒1180, Cambridge 1993.
Makrides, R., George Akropolites. The History, Intro., trans. and commentary Ruth Makrides, Oxford
2007.
Markowski, M., ‘Crusesignatus: Its Origins and Early Usage’, Journal of Medieval History 10, 1984,
157‒65.
Michaelis Attaliotae Historia, ed. I. Bekker, Bonn Corpus Fontium Historiae Byzantinae 11/1 1853.
Nicetae Choniatae Historia, ed. I. A. van Dieten, Berlin and New York 1975 (cited in the text as
Choniates).
287
Riley-Smith, J., The First Crusade and the Idea of Crusading, London 1986.
Robert of Monk’s History of the First Crusade. Historia Iherosolimitana, trans. C. Sweetenham,
Ashgate 2005.
Runciman, S., ‘Byzantium and the Crusades’, in The Meeting of Two Worlds. Cultural Exchange
between East and West during the Period of the Crusades, ed. V. Goss, Michigan 1986.
Shepard, Jonathan, ‘The Uses of the Franks in Eleventh-Century Byzantium’, Anglo-Norman Studies
16, 1993, 275‒305.
Simpson, A., Niketas Choniates. A Historiographical Study, Oxford 2013.
Simpson, A. and S. Efthymiadis, eds., Nicetas Choniates. A Historian and a Writer, La Pomme d’Or
2009.
Stouraitis, I., ‘Jihãd and Crusade: Byzantine Positions towards the Motions of “Holy War”’, Vyzantina
Symmeikta [Βυζαντινὰ Σύμμεικτα] 21, 2011, 11‒63.
288
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE FALL OF JERUSALEM (1187)

AS VIEWED FROM BYZANTIUM
Michael Angold
A n important development in the historiography of the crusades in recent years has

been a reassessment of Byzantine attitudes to war. It is now becoming clear that far
from condemning the notion of Holy War as unchristian, the Byzantines accepted that in
practice war might be divinely sanctioned. It could hardly be otherwise with the example
of the Emperor Constantine held up before them. Not only was campaigning in Byzantium
accompanied by a special liturgy, but also in some cases cults of martyrdom developed
around soldiers, such as the forty martyrs of Amorion, who had perished at enemy hands.1
The high moral standing of soldiers at Byzantium in the tenth century is a theme of a mili-
tary handbook of the time, which underlines their willingness to lay down their lives in the
service of the emperor and in defence of Christianity.2 Authorship of this military handbook
has been ascribed to the Emperor Nikephoros Phokas (965–69), who unsuccessfully sought
patriarchal approval of the popular notion that a soldier dying in battle against the infidel
acquired the status of martyr. Once military retrenchment became the order of the day in the
course of the eleventh century, ideas about war having spiritual rewards and goals began
to have less resonance at Byzantium, while at the same time the notion of the emperor as
peacemaker rather than warrior took hold.3 However, the traditions of Holy War, which had
sustained Byzantine expansionism in the tenth century were not forgotten among the mili-
tary families, who came to form the core of the Comnenian regime at the end of the eleventh
century, and allowed some measure of understanding of – and even sympathy for – the aims
of the crusading armies.
The letters despatched by Alexius I Comnenus to Oderisius, abbot of Monte Cassino,
at the time of their passage through Byzantine territory in 1097 and 1098 suggest not only
good relations with the crusading armies, but also approval of the ideal of crusade. The
emperor regretted that so many of the crusaders had gone ‘to the eternal tabernacles’, but
adds ‘They are blessed, since they met death with the right intention, wherefore we should
scarcely consider them dead, but rather living, having departed to the eternal and incor-
ruptible life’.4 The stress not only on right intention, but also on spiritual rewards for death
in battle reveals the awareness there was at Alexius Comnenus’s court of the crusading
ideal in its earliest stages. The fullest account of the First Crusade comes from the pen of
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— Michael Angold —
the emperor’s daughter Anna Comnena. Completed nearly half a century after the passage
of the First Crucsade, it represents studied reflection rather than immediate reaction. If
there is an underlying anxiety about the way the undoubted piety of the crusaders might
be exploited by unscrupulous leaders, the undertaking itself is not called into question. On
the contrary, it is presented as a noble enterprise, which had the full support of her father.
He even ransomed crusade leaders, who had been captured by the Fatimids of Egypt. His
daughter claims that this was because he found it intolerable for men, who ‘seemed to
rival the heroes of old’, to be held in captivity.5 Anna Comnena was writing as the Second
Crusade was making its way eastwards.6 She was therefore aware that the crusade was not
an exceptional incident, but a recurrent movement, which harnessed the spiritual and mili-
tary energies of Latin Christendom. This might hold dangers for the Byzantine Empire,
but it did not prevent her from approving its underlying motivation. This applied with
equal force to Niketas Choniates, who was writing on the eve of the Fourth Crusade. Even
in such a climate of uncertainty his sympathies still lay with the crusade and its leaders. In
his account of the passage of the Second Crusade through the Byzantine Empire he went
out of his way to criticise the Emperor Manuel I Comnenus for his hostile handling of
the crusade. He puts into the mouth of the German Emperor Conrad II (in mistake for the
French king Louis VII) a speech, which reveals a sensitive understanding of the spiritual
ideals underlying the crusade.7 Only in the sections of his History written after 1204 do
we find outright condemnation of the crusade. Only then did Byzantine writers subject the
crusade to a rigorous analysis and reject it as a perversion of Christian ideals. There can be
no doubt that it was the crusader conquest of Constantinople which was the critical event
in turning Byzantine opinion against the crusade. However, playing a subsidiary – but not
unimportant – part in this was the fall of Jerusalem to Saladin some twenty years earlier
in 1187.
As always, Jerusalem was contested by the different faiths. If the crusade itself was an
enterprise that the Byzantines had little difficulty in countenancing, the Frankish occupa-
tion of Jerusalem and the holy places together with the appropriation of the patriarchate
of Jerusalem produced a different set of problems. It challenged the Byzantine claim to
the protection of the Holy places. Long before the crusades the Byzantine emperor John
Tzimiskes (969–76) had for propaganda purposes proclaimed his intention of liberating the
Holy Sepulchre.8 Though not seriously meant, it directed attention to the Holy Sepulchre,
which became the focus of the campaign directed by the Fatimid caliph al-Hakim (996–
1021) against the Christians in his territories. In 1009 he ordered the destruction of the
Holy Sepulchre, which resulted in razing the Constantinian basilica to the ground and seri-
ous damage to the Anastasis rotunda.9 In 1027 his successor made formal approaches to
Constantinople for help in making good the damage. Furthermore, he restored the rights –
long in abeyance – of the Byzantine emperor in the appointment of the patriarch of
Jerusalem, thus formalising the Byzantine claims to the protection of Jerusalem and the
Holy places.10 The crusader conquest of Jerusalem in July 1099 called these into question.
It so happened that the patriarchal throne was vacant; the last incumbent Symeon II having
died a year earlier. The crusaders therefore elected one of their own as patriarch without
reference to the papacy; still less to Byzantium. An Orthodox successor to Symeon II was
forced to seek refuge at Constantinople.11
If Antioch was the main focus of Byzantine policy in the aftermath of the creation of
the crusader states, it did not mean that Jerusalem and the holy places were forgotten. Their
appropriation by Latin Christians in the wake of the First Crusade forced a reappraisal of
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— c h a p t e r 1 8 : T h e f a l l o f J e r u s a l e m ( 11 8 7 ) —
a string of Byzantine attitudes. It brought clarification and intensification of existing views

rather than any radical change. Before the crusades it would have been difficult to say how
important Jerusalem and the holy places were in practice to the Byzantines. There was never
a tradition at Byzantium of popular pilgrimage to Jerusalem, of the kind, which burgeoned
in the West over the eleventh century.12 Instead, pilgrimage to Jerusalem was to a large
extent the preserve of ascetics, for many of whom it was part of a spiritual education and
might be combined with retreat – sometimes for a number of years – at one of the famous
Palestinian monasteries, such as the Lavra of St Saba and the monastery of Choziba,13 which
were noted for their ascetic expertise.
Counterbalancing Jerusalem in the popular imagination was the New Jerusalem of

Constantinople. The idea of Constantinople as the new Sion had ancient roots, going back
to the fifth century. Scholars have recently argued that from the mid-tenth century this idea
was given clearer focus with the transfer of the imperial collection of relics of the passion
to the chapel of the Pharos within the precinct of the imperial palace.14 It is further main-
tained that the chapel thus became another Holy Sepulchre: a line of thought which receives
some support from the Emperor Manuel Comnenus’ decision in 1169 not merely to transfer
Christ’s burial slab from Ephesus to the Pharos chapel, but to carry it in person into the
chapel; in the words of Niketas Choniates, ‘as if it were the body of God Himself’.15 This
and the other relics of the passion were put on display.16 But the question is not so much
who had access to them, but who controlled access? If ultimately it was the emperor, more
immediately it was the sacristan or skeuophylax of the holy churches within the imperial
palace. In other words, entry into the chapel was carefully supervised. However, it was not
the exclusive preserve of the imperial court. This is borne out not only by its inclusion in
guide books of the eleventh and twelfth century,17 but also by the story of a Canterbury
monk, who was able to gain access through the good offices of a fellow countryman in the
Varangian guard.18 But equally such information cannot be taken to mean that the Pharos
chapel was a site of popular pilgrimage. There is a story of its icon of the Mother of God
Oikokyra acting as a godmother to children brought by their mothers, but this practice is
unlikely to have had any wide application.19 The main importance of the chapel continued
to be the role it played in imperial ceremonial. Its collection of relics contributed to imperial
prestige and was regularly shown off to visiting rulers.20 The parallel drawn by contempo-
raries was not with the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, but with Shiloh, the original resting
place of the Ark of the Covenant, the equivalent of which in the new dispensation were the
relics of the passion.21
The parallel with the Church of the Holy Sepulchre can be misleading, particularly when
it is suggested that Manuel Comnenus deliberately promoted the chapel of the Pharos to
compensate for the Church of the Holy Sepulchre falling under Latin control. In the context
of his policy of entente towards the crusader states, the two were seen as complementary
rather than in competition, even if by the end of his reign it was becoming difficult to disguise
the limitations of this formula. But it was never a matter of disengaging from Jerusalem and
the holy places now that they came under Latin auspices. Manuel Comnenus was building
on the intense interest in Jerusalem shown by his father John II at the very end of his reign.
It was John’s brother Isaac who is the first member of the Comnenian dynasty known to
have gone on pilgrimage to Jerusalem.22 After the discovery of his conspiracy against his
brother John, he sought refuge among the Turkish emirs of eastern Anatolia. When they
failed to back his bid for the Byzantine throne, he went on pilgrimage to Jerusalem. While
in the Holy Land he paid for the construction of an aqueduct to bring water from the spring
291
of Elisha (’Ain as-Sultan) to the Orthodox monastery of St John by the River Jordan.23 It is
perhaps best to see Isaac’s sojourn in the Holy Land as an act of atonement, which prepared
the way for his reconciliation for his brother and his return to Constantinople in 1136. It cer-
tainly made an impact at court. A court orator credited the emperor with smoothing the path
for pilgrims to Jerusalem.24 In 1137 his cousin, the monk Adrian/John Comnenus, ‘took
that blessed route and tasted the joys of the holy city’. He ‘steeped himself in our Saviour’s
birthplace and everywhere connected to Him, including Golgotha, the burial place of our
Saviour’.25 Though the orator, who celebrated his visit to the Holy Land, cloaks it in the
usual pieties, he reveals that it was also combined with a diplomatic mission to the king of
Jerusalem, which discussed among other things an exchange of prisoners. Circumstantial

evidence suggests that another topic will have been the emperor’s fervent wish to make the
pilgrimage to Jerusalem himself. The deathbed speech that Niketas Choniates put into his
mouth came close to turning him into an apologist for the crusade. The emperor talked of
his desire to visit Palestine ‘to ascend the mountain of the Lord, as the Psalmist puts it, and
to stand in His holy place; justified by the law of war to drive away the encircling enemy,
who have often seized the Sepulchre of our Lord, just as in former times the gentiles took
the ark by force of arms’.26 As a token of his sincerity, he had already had a large golden
lamp made, which he hoped to present in person to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.27 His
death following a hunting accident prevented the wish being fulfilled.
Manuel I Comnenus was not immediately able to build on his father’s achievements.
The passage of the Second Crusade and the Norman incursions into Greece left him with
little time to devote to the crusader states. It was not until 1159, when he made a ceremo-
nial entrance into the city of Antioch, that he recovered the ground lost since his father’s
death sixteen years before. Thereafter there was a period of entente with the crusader states
lasting until almost the end of his reign.28 It was characterised by an increase in pilgrimage
traffic overland. Eustathios of Thessaloniki applauded the way that Emperor Manuel had
made the routes across Anatolia safe for pilgrims. You no longer had to be armed to make
the crossing. Even ‘women brought up to a life of luxury … were venturing along these
roads, prompted by a holy desire to frequent the holy places of that land’.29 At a diplomatic
level there were exchanges of embassies and a series of marriage alliances linking the great
families of crusader Outremer to the Comnenian dynasty. Manuel chose as his second wife
a princess from Antioch, while King Baldwin III of Jerusalem (1143–63) married one of
Manuel’s nieces and his brother and successor Amalric I (1163–74) another Comnenian
princess. In 1171 Amalric made a state visit to Constantinople, when he grudgingly recog-
nised Manuel as in some sense overlord of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. In practice, it was
unlikely to have been much more than acceptance of his role as protector of the holy places.
Later events suggest parallels with the principality of Antioch, where in 1159 the ruler
Reynald of Châtillon not only did homage to Manuel, but also promised to restore the cathe-
dral of Antioch to the Orthodox patriarch, though it took several years of Byzantine pressure
before this happened. Later events suggest that at Jerusalem Manuel was equally deter-
mined to secure agreement on the part of the Latin authorities to Orthodox claims on the
Church of the Holy Sepulchre. He contributed to the decoration of the church, as he did to
the refurbishment of the church of the Nativity at Bethlehem, where a bilingual inscription
of 1169 celebrates his work. The first part of the inscription is in Latin and pride of place is
given to King Amalric, while Emperor Manuel is remembered as a generous donor. It duti-
fully recalls that the bishop of Bethlehem at that time was called Ralph and that the artist
in charge of the decoration of the church was one Ephraim. By way of contrast, the Greek
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inscription gives pride of place to the monk Ephraim, described as designer and mosaicist,
who completed the work under the imperial auspices of the Great Emperor Manuel in the
days of the Great King of Jerusalem Amalric and of Bishop Ralph. The prominence given to
the mosaicist is best explained by the importance of the iconography of the church’s decora-
tion.30 That it reflected Manuel’s ideas is suggested by the way that Manuel’s portrait was
set up at various points in the church, including the sanctuary. The emperor was without
any doubt the moving spirit behind the refurbishment of the church. A Greek pilgrim can
be forgiven for suggesting erroneously that the emperor was responsible for the construc-
tion of the whole church, but his insistence that he decorated the whole church with gold
mosaic is much closer to the truth, because the mosaic decoration is substantially new.
There is no way of telling how much of the original mosaic decoration was included, but
for our purposes it is not important, because the iconography of the church was a way of
proclaiming Manuel Comnenus’s commitment to the union of churches. The devices of
ecumenical and local councils, which decorate the walls of the nave to the north and to the
south, were an effective declaration of adherence to a common set of beliefs. Lucy-Anne
Hunt has argued that ‘taken as a whole, the mosaic program proclaimed the reconciliation
of the divine and human natures of Christ’.31 This was the theme of the Ekthesis issued by
Manuel I Comnenus in 1166 pronouncing on the controversy over the verse ‘My Father is
greater than I’ (John 14:28), which had divided the church of Constantinople. The emperor
had relied heavily for his formulation on the Pisan theologian Hugo Eteriano and was delib-
erately making concessions to Western opinion at a time, when he was actively seeking an
understanding with the papacy.32 Manuel’s patronage of the church of the Holy Nativity
at Bethlehem was well designed to emphasise the sincerity of his overtures. But it was
something more than this. It reflected the place that Jerusalem and the Holy Land held in
Manuel’s thinking. It was a symbol of the integrity of Christianity, for which the Byzantine
emperor as the heir of the emperor Constantine bore a direct responsibility. In lavishing
care on the shrines of the Holy Land, Manuel Comnenus had Constantine’s example before
him. In the preamble to the Ekthesis, he claimed to be ‘the heir of the crown of Constantine
the Great and in his spirit holding sway over all his rightful possessions’.33 But there was
another way in which Manuel Comnenus could carry out his responsibilities. Palestine was
a Holy Land not only because it witnessed the life and death of Christ, but also because it
had been a cradle of monasticism. At the church of the Nativity at Bethlehem, the columns
of the nave bore the images of St Euthymios, St Theodosios and St Sabas, who were the
founders of noted Palestinian monasteries, all of which were still functioning in the twelfth
century.34 While the crusader conquest had relegated the hierarchy of the Orthodox Church
to a position of inferiority, Orthodox monasteries continued to flourish. They benefited
immensely from the patronage of the Emperor Manuel Comnenus.35
This was a theme of the description of the holy places written by Sevastos John Doukas,36
who is to be identified with Grand Hetaireiarch John Doukas, one of the leaders of an
embassy despatched to Jerusalem in 1177.37 His description of the holy places was the fruit
of this mission. It was written either in the course of his stay in the Kingdom of Jerusalem
or immediately after his return to Constantinople; certainly before the death of Manuel
I Comnenus, who was still alive at the time of writing. In dating this text, scholars have
been mislead by two things: the date 1185 (Latin style), which is ascribed to the text in
one of the manuscripts (Bibl. Vall. Rome Ms. 153) and a reference to the late emperor
Comnenus Porphyrogenitus, which must not be to Manuel Comnenus, but to his father John
II, because Manuel is always referred to as either ‘my’ or ‘our’ emperor, indicating that he
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was still alive. The 1185 date (Latin style – MCLXXXV) has no direct relationship with
the original Greek text. It has been suggested that it may be a misreading for 1485 (Latin
style – MCDLXXXV) – a possible date for the copying of the manuscript. It has, in any
case, no bearing on the dating of the text. After John Doukas returned from the Holy Land
his life was far too crowded for him to have had time for literary composition. In 1179 he
was sent by Manuel Comnenus to Thessalonica to rescue its archbishop, Eustathios, who in
gratitude produced a eulogy in his honour, where his journey to the Holy Land is admiringly
commented on.38
His ekphrasis of the holy places must be the most elegant of Palestinian pilgrimage
accounts and might even have satisfied Eustathios of Thessalonica. Not only did he manage
a reference – which may be more pointed than it seems – to the romance of Leukippe and
Kleitophon by Achilles Tatios,39 but he was also able to weave into his narrative some verses
of Chorikios celebrating paintings of the Mother of God.40 These would be nods in the direc-
tion of a Constantinopolitan audience, but the author’s piety quite patently informed his
literary endeavours. With the naivety of a pilgrim he recounted what purported to be recent
miracles at two different shrines, but these turned out to be just the recycling of old stories.41
His underlying purpose was to emphasise the immediate importance to Byzantium of the
holy places and the spiritual value of pilgrimage. It was also to celebrate all that Emperor
Manuel I Comnenus had done to put a Byzantine stamp on the Holy Land by his donations
to major pilgrimage shrines, such as the Church of the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem42 and of
the Holy Nativity at Bethlehem,43 and by his rebuilding of Orthodox monasteries.44
It is more than possible that it was intended to counter an earlier account of a visit to
the Kingdom of Jerusalem made by Constantine Manasses in 1160,45 who was also on a
diplomatic mission. John Doukas’s invocation of Achilles Tatios looks like a veiled refer-
ence to Constantine Manasses’s literary pretensions evident in his romance of The Loves of
Aristander and Kallithea.46 John Doukas and Constantine Manasses undoubtedly had rather
different views about the importance of the Holy Land from the Byzantines.47 Constantine
Manasses dutifully visited the holy sites of Jerusalem and then took the pilgrim trail to
Jericho and the Jordan, where he became increasingly disillusioned.48 He had no wish to see
Jericho ever again; even in his sleep. He had bathed in the waters of the Jordan, but they
were murky and unfit to drink.49 Capernaum was an abomination and Nazareth a hellhole.
Manasses could not understand why Christ should have chosen to live there.50 He invokes
the city of Byzantium, which had nurtured him, as his only hope. O to be under its shelter-
ing wing!51
Given the comparative lack of Constantinopolitan interest in Jerusalem and Palestine
before the twelfth century, to have two detailed accounts of journeys to the holy places writ-
ten within twenty years of each other is quite unprecedented and underlines their importance
to the Byzantines in the mid-twelfth century. Admittedly, Constantine Manasses’s poem was
a very different work from John Doukas’s Ekphrasis of the holy places. Manasses was deal-
ing in personal experience – the more miserable the better, largely for comic effect. But his
underlying theme was the superiority of Constantinople over the outside world as the proper
setting for civilised society. There is no hint of any religious dimension. Constantinople is
not held up as a New Sion. John Doukas might well have agreed with Manasses about the
benefits of civilised life in Constantinople, but he was urging the importance of a spiritual
life, as exemplified by pilgrimage to Jerusalem and by Palestinian monasticism.
On occasion, Constantinople and Jerusalem might come into conflict, as happened in the
case of a young Constantinopolitan patrician, John Mesarites. Towards the end of Manuel
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Comnenus’s reign, when Mesarites was in his teens, he formed a plan to run away and
become a hermit in the Palestinian desert, to which end he took a ship for the Holy Land. His
father was distraught and begged the emperor to get him back, which at no small cost he did.
The young man was hauled before the emperor, who rebuked him in the following terms:
What turned you, who are short in stature and lacking discernment, into such a daredevil?
Despite your youth you intended to cross the open sea in order to live in foreign parts and
to choose to stay among Barbarian peoples, whose way of life is entirely incompatible
with our own. Their gaze is scarcely human, while ours is full of humanity; our speech
is agreeable, while theirs is harsh and garbled. They are all armed and ready to set out
along any route; they are bloodthirsty as just a look will tell, while we are peaceful and
compassionate and refuse to carry weapons needlessly, not being in thrall to Ares.52
This comes from the Epitaphios, composed for John by his brother Nicholas Mesarites in
1207. Whether after a lapse of thirty years the words attributed to Emperor Manuel were
completely accurate is one thing, but the incident itself is more than believable. Manuel took
great pains to keep control of his aristocracy, as his supervision of aristocratic marriages
shows.53 It was certainly not in the state’s interest to have talented youngsters shutting them-
selves away in Palestinian monasteries rather than becoming high-powered administrators.
It posed in very clear terms a dilemma, which runs through Byzantine life: how to balance
the vita activa and the vita contemplativa. The emperor ignored the spiritual dimension
and simply emphasised the superiority of the Byzantine way of life over the Latin. John
Mesarites had no compunction in demonstrating the weaknesses of the emperor’s position.
His father, by way of contrast, treated his son more sympathetically and more astutely. He
pointed out the advantages of life in Constantinople, but emphasised that it was not lacking
spiritual benefits.
There is no need for you to settle in a foreign land or to live among strangers, whose way
of life is at variance with your own, still less among aliens. Christ may have made him-
self known in Judaea, but he has not forsaken us. The tomb of our Lord may be there, but
we have the veils and shrouds; the place of the skull may be there, but we are privileged
by the possession of the Holy Cross and its base, the Crown of Thorns, the sponge, the
lance and the reed, which are here. What more should I add? The Uncircumscribed, who
appeared among us in human form, thus received definite shape. The form he then had
has been preserved impressed on the Holy Towel and applied to the fragile Holy Tile by
some superhuman artistic skill (acheiropoieta). This land of ours, my child, is Jerusalem,
Tiberias, Nazareth, Mount Thabor, Bethany and Bethlehem [all rolled into one] and par-
takes of salvation because our Lord watches over us and fulfils the wishes of those that
fear him throughout the whole world.54
If these words were intended in the first instance to assuage a young man’s spiritual long-
ings, they pointed to a discrepancy between Manuel Comnenus’s promotion of Palestine, as
the holy land, and his celebration of the relics of the passion, which turned Constantinople
into a holy city. If the former had as one of its goals a justification for a Byzantine protec-
torate over the crusader states, the latter was a way not only of enhancing imperial pres-
tige, but also of placating Constantinopolitan amour-propre. They were predicated on the
assumption of a broad community of interest between Byzantium and the West, the limits
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of which became increasingly clear after Manuel Comnenus’s death. These created serious
divisions within Byzantine society that only the crusader conquest of 1204 finally resolved.
But even before Manuel’s death, cracks were beginning to appear; never so obviously as
on the occasion, when Leontios, the Orthodox patriarch of Jerusalem, attempted to take
up residence in his see.55 He was a famous ascetic, who became abbot of the monastery of
St John the Theologian on the island of Patmos.56 He was an appropriate choice as patriarch
of Jerusalem, because his way of life was likely to meet with approval from the heads of the
Orthodox monasteries in Palestine. He set out from Patmos in the winter of 1176, spend-
ing time on the islands of Rhodes and Cyprus. He reached Acre in 1177 almost certainly
in tandem with the Byzantine embassy, of which John Doukas was one of the leaders.
The patriarch negotiated with the Latin authorities over the possibility of performing the
Orthodox liturgy in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, but they were adamant that any visit
had to be made as a private individual.57 It put an end to any hopes of a triumphant recovery
of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. He made his way to Jerusalem and visited the church
as unobtrusively as possible. He went as a pilgrim rather than as a patriarch.58 But his pres-
ence soon became known. It happened to coincide with a storm, which ended a drought at
Jerusalem. The patriarch’s supporters immediately claimed it as a miracle, which increased
Latin hostility.59 There was an assassination attempt or more probably the threat of one, as a
way of persuading the patriarch to leave Jerusalem.60 Rather than jeopardise relations with
the Kingdom of Jerusalem, Emperor Manuel summoned him back to Constantinople,61 but
not before Saladin had got wind of what was happening and invited him to take up residence
at Damascus. The patriarch politely declined the offer on the grounds that he was returning
on imperial orders to Constantinople. Saladin replied post haste offering him every support
for his journey home. On his return to Constantinople, the patriarch presented Saladin’s let-
ter to the emperor as reproof to the Latins.62 It was an episode from which Saladin emerged
in Byzantine eyes with credit. It allowed him not only to open up diplomatic channels to
the Byzantine court, but also to put out feelers to the Orthodox community in the Kingdom
of Jerusalem.
Saladin’s victory over the armies of the Kingdom of Jerusalem at the battle of the Horns
of Hattin in July 1187 left the city of Jerusalem depleted of defenders and it was only
a matter of time before it surrendered on terms to Saladin. The official Byzantine reac-
tion was muted. It was left to the Cypriot hermit St Neophytos the Recluse to express his
regrets: ‘Who would not lament from the depths of his heart and soul such a disaster, upon
seeing and hearing of such a turn of events – how the holy flock in that Holy Land was
ousted, and the holy of holies was delivered to the dogs?’63 This was very much a personal
reaction. As a young man he had visited the holy places and stayed in the monasteries of
Palestine. This was an experience, which will have left him with a strong emotional attach-
ment to Jerusalem. Given the isolation of Cyprus from Constantinople at this juncture
Neophytos’s thoughts can hardly be taken as a reflection of Constantinopolitan attitudes,
but he remained in close touch with monastic circles in Palestine. Andrew Jotischky is
therefore almost certainly correct, when he dismisses as erroneous the information con-
tained in the History of the Patriarchs of Alexandria to the effect that the Orthodox com-
munity of Jerusalem was instrumental in handing over Jerusalem to Saladin.64 If there
had been any collusion with local Christians, Saladin might have been expected to hand
over the Church of the Holy Sepulchre to the Orthodox clergy on his victorious entry into
Jerusalem on 2 October 1187, which did not happen. Instead Saladin’s initial action was
to close the church down, as he debated with his advisers whether or not to raze it to the
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ground. It was only after being struck by the futility of any such action that he turned the
church over to the Orthodox clergy.65
The lack of any clear response to the fall of Jerusalem to Saladin on the part of the
Byzantine government needs little explanation. It was in a state of disarray following the
troubles – coups, counter-coups, rebellions and foreign invasions – which the Byzantine
Empire experienced in the aftermath of the death of Manuel Comnenus in September 1180.
The reigning Byzantine emperor, Isaac II Angelos, had come to the throne in 1185 by sheer
luck, when a popular uprising unseated the usurper Andronikos I Comnenus. His hold on
power was uncertain. In 1187 he faced a rebellion by his most successful general Alexios
Branas. He survived thanks to the martial skills of his brother-in-law Conrad of Montferrat,
whose marriage to the emperor’s sister was negotiated in the course of the previous year. It
was one of Isaac Angelos’s earliest forays into the field of foreign policy. It revived Manuel
I Comnenus’s alliance with the house of Montferrat, which among other things was a way
of procuring specialised military assistance. Everything suggests that at the outset of his
reign Isaac Angelos intended to continue lines of policy followed by Manuel Comnenus.
Surviving stalwarts of the old regime rallied round Isaac Angelos. It would follow from
this that Isaac would have wished to re-establish Manuel’s alliance with the crusader states,
but events conspired to push Isaac into seeking an alliance with Saladin. For example, no
sooner had Conrad of Montferrat defeated the rebel commander than he abandoned his new
bride, Isaac’s sister, and took ship with his retinue to the crusader states; arriving off Acre
on 13 July 1187 a few days after the defeat suffered by the Franks of Jerusalem at the bat-
tle of Hattin. There was very little that Isaac Angelos could do to influence events because
Cyprus had passed under the control of a member of the Comnenus family in 1184. Isaac
Angelos despatched an expedition to recover the island in 1186, but it was a total failure.66
Without Cyprus it was difficult, if not impossible, to revive Emperor Manuel Comnenus’s
entente with the crusader states. We can surely discount stories of an alliance between
Saladin and the previous Byzantine emperor, Andronikos I Comnenus, as Western propa-
ganda, but it may well be that even before the fall of Jerusalem Isaac Angelos was exploring
the possibility of a deal with Saladin, because Isaac’s elder brother Alexios was a presence
at Saladin’s court. He had fled there to escape the vengeance of Andronikos I Comnenus,
but mysteriously he stayed on for two years or more after his brother Isaac had secured the
Byzantine throne.67 He could have acted as an intermediary with Saladin. Even so, meaning-
ful negotiations only began after the fall of Jerusalem and had as their background the gath-
ering of the Third Crusade, the passage of which through Byzantine territories presented
Isaac II Angelos with immense difficulties.68
It was these that at some point after the fall of Jerusalem decided Isaac Angelos that there
was more to be gained from an alliance with Saladin than from co-operation with Emperor
Frederick I Barbarossa, who proposed to follow the overland route to the Holy Land. It had
as its corollary a preference for Muslim rather than Latin control of the holy places. This rep-
resented a clear break with Comnenian policies. There were many in the Byzantine adminis-
tration, such as the historian Niketas Choniates, who were critical and ascribed the reversal
of policy to the emperor’s spiritual father Dositheos, a Studite monk of Venetian extrac-
tion.69 The attractions, which an alliance with Saladin held for Isaac Angelos, were largely
pragmatic. Once it became clear that reviving Manuel Comnenus’s policy of entente with
the crusader states was impractical – largely because of the loss of the island of Cyprus – an
understanding with Saladin was the most effective way of protecting Byzantine interests in
Anatolia, where Saladin could bring his influence to bear on the Seljuqs of Rum. If Byzantine
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foreign policy was almost always pragmatic, short term – and usually r eactive – it had to be
dressed in religious and even eschatological terms for respectability’s sake. Dositheos was
used as a propagandist, but with a twist: Isaac Angelos appointed him patriarch of Jerusalem
in succession to Leontios, who had died on 14 May 1185. Such an appointment reflected the
continuing importance of the Church of Jerusalem in Byzantine thinking. It was designed
to press Orthodox claims over the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which became even more
necessary once the city had fallen to Saladin. If Jerusalem as a symbol of Christendom
united in the common enterprise of the crusade had little appeal for Isaac Angelos and his
spiritual mentor, more attractive was the use increasingly made of it by Byzantine apologists
as a symbol of Orthodox ecumenicism as opposed to Roman exceptionalism.70 In order to

secure control over the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Isaac offered to place the mosque in
Constantinople under Saladin’s auspices by transferring the khutba from the Fatimid to the
Abbasid caliph. Saladin willingly accepted and despatched a new mihrab (or pulpit) to be
installed in the mosque at Constantinople.71 Saladin and his advisers were convinced that
Isaac’s overtures were merely a reaction to the dangers presented by Frederick I Barbarossa
and should be treated accordingly, which meant that Isaac obtained no worthwhile help from
Saladin. He even failed to obtain any concessions over the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.72
Saladin was willing to place it in the care of the local Orthodox clergy. He was not willing,
however, to countenance the return of an Orthodox patriarch, even during the vacancy that
occurred after 1190/91 with the death of the Latin Patriarch Heraclius. Isaac was compre-
hensively outplayed.73
Isaac Angelos’s opposition to the passage of Frederick I Barbarossa’s armies produced
deep dissatisfaction at the heart of government. It was, in any case, self-defeating because
he was quickly brought to terms by the German emperor. The historian Niketas Choniates
had first-hand experience of the events. He was governor of Thrace and had a part to play
in organising opposition to the Germans – ineffective as it was. He wrote up this section of
his history before the coming of the Fourth Crusade. In his hands, Frederick I Barbarossa
becomes a hero figure designed to underline the inadequacies of the Byzantine emperor.
The historian’s sympathy for the crusade ideal, which Barbarossa exemplifies, seems gen-
uine.74 It reveals a split in Byzantine opinion: there were those opposed to the crusade,
who were happy to accept a reversion to an older state of affairs, when the holy places
came under the control of a Muslim ruler. Against them were those at Byzantium, such as
Niketas Choniates, who still clung to a belief in the moral value of holy war as waged by
the crusaders. This might appear to be at odds with his famous denunciation of the Latins
for their arrogance and their pomposity and their double-dealing and their contempt for the
Byzantines.75 This was not a passage, as it would be easy to imagine, that Choniates added
to his History after 1204, but one written before the arrival of the Fourth Crusade, when he
was generally speaking well disposed to the Latins. It forms part of his description of the
sack of Thessaloniki in 1185 by the Normans of Sicily. The outrages they committed were
in contrast to the comparatively orderly progress of crusader armies through the Byzantine
Empire. Niketas Choniates was still under the illusion that the crusade was a force for moral
good and acted as a restraint on the unbridled instincts of Westerners.
That the fall of Jerusalem to Saladin should have had such a muted reception in con-
temporary Byzantine sources is a reflection of the failure of Isaac Angelos’s attempted
alliance with Saladin. It deprived the Byzantine emperor of his moral standing and prepared
the way for the coup, which brought his brother Alexios to power in 1195. The weakness
of his position is evident from the fate of his spiritual adviser Dositheos. With the threat
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of the German crusade hanging over Byzantium, he imposed Dositheos on the patriarchal
throne of Constantinople in February 1189 – though strictly speaking such a transfer was
uncanonical. Niketas Choniates has great fun describing how the emperor tricked the great
canonist Theodore Balsamon into giving a favourable opinion, which allowed Isaac to place
his mentor on the patriarchal throne. But the patriarchal synod was not so easily fooled and
almost immediately forced Dositheos to resign. Isaac understood that his authority was
being called into account and in June 1189 once again imposed Dositheos on the patriarchal
throne of Constantinople. The patriarch was at the very centre of resistance to the Germans.
He is alleged by the chronicler of the German crusade to have preached in the church of
St Sophia that convicted murderers could atone for their sins by killing crusaders, which is
perhaps a garbled version of something less sensational. In any event, when peace was made
between Frederick I Barbarossa and Isaac Angelos in February 1190, the former insisted the
patriarch append his signature to the peace treaty.76 The latter’s stance at the time of the pas-
sage of the German crusade did not endear him to the Episcopal bench. In September 1191
he was once again examined before synod. Despite his best efforts, the emperor could no
longer protect him and Dositheos was forced to resign. The patriarch was at the heart of one
of the bitterest disputes to divide the Church of Constantinople in the twelfth century.77 It
was superficially about infringements of canon law, but beneath the surface were far larger
questions about the place of the Church of Jerusalem in the Byzantine scheme of things:
was it a symbol of the co-operation of Byzantium and the West within the framework of
the crusade or was it a symbol of Byzantium’s emancipation from Western interference?
It was a question, which Isaac Angelos did his best to avoid in the letter he sent in c. 1193
to Pope Celestine III. He was trying to mend fences after the failure of his opposition to the
passage of the Third Crusade. He claimed to be sorrowed by the spectacle of the holy places
in the possession of the infidel; but still more dismayed by the fiasco of the Third Crusade.
He attributed this to the divisions between the leaders of the crusade. His argument is inter-
esting. His premiss is as follows: a simple gift to a shrine only becomes acceptable to God,
when the donor has made his peace with his enemy. ‘How then,’ he asks, ‘is it admissible
for those who have vowed their bodies and souls to God to behave in a way that offends
against Christ’s love, when at the moment of making their offering they quarrel bitterly with
one another?’78 To an extent it was a matter of shifting the blame, but it also pointed to a
practical failing of the crusade ideal. Isaac Angelos refrained from pointing out that the fall
of Jerusalem might equally be ascribed to divisions among the Franks.
It was only after the crusader conquest of Constantinople in 1204 that Byzantine views
about the fall of Jerusalem received any definitive expression. That they had failed to mate-
rialise earlier is best explained by the overlay of the traumatic events connected with the
passage of the Third Crusade. Our best witness is Niketas Choniates. Following Alicia
Simpson we can compare the version of his History, which was completed on the eve of
the arrival of the Fourth Crusade in August 1203, with that written in exile at Nicaea. In the
earlier version the fall of Jerusalem to Saladin is treated in passing and dismissed as of little
importance.79 It was only after the fall of Constantinople that its relevance became apparent.
He now compares the treatment of Constantinople by the crusaders with that of Jerusalem
by Saladin. He notes that the latter
allowed one and all to depart having set the ransom money at a few gold coins for
each man and permitted them to keep the rest, even though they were like grains
of sand. It was in this fashion that the enemies of Christ behaved towards the Latin
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infidels; magnanimously they inflicted upon them neither sword, nor fire, nor hunger,
nor persecution, nor nakedness, nor bruises, nor tortures. Quite differently, as we have
superficially recounted, were we treated by those, who [were supposed] to love Christ
and be our fellow believers, guiltless, as we were, of any wrong.80
This was not an isolated reaction: while Niketas Choniates was revising his History at
Nicaea, Theodosios Goudeles was on the island of Patmos writing his Life of St Leontios
of Jerusalem. His account of Leontios’s time in Jerusalem reflected grudging admiration
for Saladin, which could now be openly expressed. As Theodosios Goudeles put it, even
if ‘[Saladin] did not seek after the good in an appropriate fashion, he was in many things
good and kind and honourable’;81 far more so than the Franks, who refused Leontios access
to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Their intrinsic evil was amply displayed in the sack
of Constantinople. It was left to the exiled patriarch of Constantinople John Kamateros
to make this connection in a tract entitled ‘On the Harm done to us by the Latins’ written
shortly before he died in 1206.82 He dismisses them as tomb robbers for their depreda-
tions in Constantinople and contrasts this with their claim to be venerators of the Lord’s
sepulchre, who have devoted themselves to its rescue from the Muslims. ‘It is your desire
to wrest Ailia [Jerusalem] from the Arabs. Wherefore Christ allowed your “carcasses to be
scattered in the wilderness” (Hebrews 3.17), knowing that [His] Sepulchre would be a cause
of trouble and that possession of Constantinople would become an issue’.83 He makes clear
what he means by this a little further on: ‘Not so long ago you were driven from Jerusalem
by the Arab. Does that mean that the Arabs are stronger in their faith than your church and
its leader? But the Scythian and the Bulgarian also overcame you and slaughtered you. Does
that mean that they are holier than you?’84 This is the clearest expression of an idea, which
began to emerge after the fall of Jerusalem to Saladin. It revealed that the crusade was an
enterprise, which was not pleasing to God; which in Sir Steven Runciman’s words was
‘nothing more than a long act of intolerance in the name of God, which is the sin against the
Holy Ghost’.85 All this was to be confirmed by the sack of Constantinople in 1204.
It was accompanied by a deep contempt for the wearing of the cross, which is denounced
in the following terms by Niketas Choniates:
Still more [to blame] were those who bore the cross on their shoulders, who had oft-
times sworn by it and by holy scripture to pass through Christian lands without spilling
blood, neither nodding to the left nor inclining to the right, and to take up arms against
the Saracens and to stain their swords purple in their blood; those [they were] who were
going to take Jerusalem by storm, [having sworn an oath] not to marry or to have sex
with women, while they bore the cross on their shoulders, because they were consecrated
to God and were ready to follow in his footsteps. They were exposed as frauds. Seeking
to avenge the Holy Sepulchre they raged openly against Christ and criminally encom-
passed the destruction of the Cross with the cross they bore on their backs!86
These were the bitter words of a man who had once admired the crusade ideal, but which
to his dismay proved to be entirely false. Choniates’s words were echoed by Nicholas
Mesarites, who concluded his account of the sack of Constantinople as follows: ‘Such was
the reverence displayed towards the things of God by those, who bore the cross of our
Lord on their shoulder!’87 He also took to task those ‘who bear our Lord’s cross on their
shoulders’ for a completely different reason. He accused them of persevering with Jewish
300
customs, despite their claim to have abolished them. In justification they could only offer
their oath ‘by the holy sepulchre’, which to Mesarites’s way of thinking was tantamount
to death to the Jews.88 ‘By the holy sepulchre’ was the battle cry of the armies of the Latin
Empire of Constantinople.89 Mesarites was therefore employing sarcasm as a way of under-
lying how nonsensical the ideal of the crusade had become in Byzantine eyes.
Admittedly, it took the sack of Constantinople to bring out the significance of the fall of
Jerusalem to Saladin. It was only after 1204 that the Byzantines became critical of the ideas
and practices, which sustained the crusade. In his ‘Griefs against the Latins’, Constantine
Stilbes, the bishop of Kyzikos, presented Latin Christianity in a new light.90 It had been
perverted by its espousal and promotion of war, at the heart of which was the crusade.91 He
pointed to the use of indulgences, which made possible the forgiveness of not only past sins
and crimes, but also those still to be committed.92 He pointed to the way those dying in battle
were supposed to go directly to paradise, which may have had no canonical foundation, but
was widely believed by those participating in the crusades.93 He also claimed that bishops
sprinkled holy water over naked youths, which turned them into invincible warriors. This
sounds like a garbled version of the making of a knight.94 Constantine Stilbes devoted a
section of his treatise to the excesses of the crusaders during the sack of Constantinople.
He paid special attention to one bishop carrying the sign of the cross, who had a prominent
part to play in the storming of the city.95 This was proof, if proof was needed, of the per-
version of Latin Christianity. It was something picked up by Nicholas Mesarites, when he
observed: ‘Thus did their own bishops teach them to behave! What name could you give
them? Bishop-soldiers or warrior-bishops?’96
To the fall of Jerusalem to Saladin, the ideal of the crusade not only had the general
approval of Byzantine opinion, but also provided a framework for the co-operation of
Byzantium and the crusader states. Though it took time to articulate the precise meaning
of the fall of Jerusalem in 1187, the difficulties encountered by Isaac II Angelos in his han-
dling of the Third Crusade revealed in a practical way the loss of understanding and trust
between crusader and Byzantine now that Jerusalem was gone. However, it was only with
the crusader conquest of Constantinople that the true importance of the fall of Jerusalem for
Byzantium’s relations with the West became apparent. Without Jerusalem, the Byzantines
were unwilling to credit the crusade with any moral force. In retrospect, the loss of Jerusalem
magnified the enormity of what had been perpetrated in 1204 and convinced Byzantine
opinion that the crusade was a work of evil. It explains why the Byzantines were loath to
accept Latin rule. It explains too why, much later, Michael VIII Palaiologos found it more
or less impossible to persuade Byzantine opinion of the legitimacy of co-operation with the
papacy within the framework of the crusade.
NOTES
1 See A. Kolia-Dermitzaki, Ο βυζαντινός <ιερός πόλεμος>.Η έννοια και η προβολή του θρησκευτικού
πολέμου στο Βυζάντιο (Athens: S.D. Vasilopoulos, 1991); T.M. Kolbaba, ‘Fighting for Christianity:
Holy War in the Byzantine Empire’, Byzantion, 68 (1998), 194–221; P. Stephenson, ‘“About the
Emperor Nikephoros and How He Leaves his Bones in Bulgaria”. A context for the controver-
sial Chronicle of 811’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 60 (2006), 87–109; P. Stephenson, ‘Religious
Services for Byzantine Soldiers and the Possibility of Martyrdom ca. 400-ca.1000’, in Just Wars,
Holy Wars and Jihad, ed. S.H. Hashmi (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 25–46; esp. I.
Stouraitis, ‘Jihad and Crusade: Byzantine Positions Towards the Notions of Holy War’, Byzantina
Symmeikta, 21 (2011), 11–63, for a survey of earlier literature.
301
2 Le traité sur la guerrilla de l’empereur Nicéphore Phocas, ed. G. Dagron and H. Mihăescu (Paris,
1986), 110.35–38.
3 A.P. Kazhdan, ‘The Aristocracy and the Imperial Ideal’, in The Byzantine Aristocracy IX to XIII
centuries, ed. M.J. Angold [BAR International Series 221] (Oxford: BAR, 1984), 43–57.
4 H. Hagenmayer, Die Kreuzzugsbrief aus den Jahren 1088–1100 (Innsbruck: Wagner’sche
Universitäts-Buchhandlung, 1901), no. XI.
5 Anna Comnena, Alexiad, ed. D.R. Reinsch and A. Kambylis [CFHB, ser. Berol. 40] (Berlin and
New York: De Gruyter, 2001), XI, vii, 4: 343.72.
6 P. Magdalino, ‘The Pen of the Aunt: Echoes of the Mid-twelfth Century in the Alexiad’, in Anna
Komnene and her Times, ed. T. Gouma-Peterson (New York and London: Garland, 2000), 24–9.
7 Alicia J. Simpson, Niketas Choniates: A Historiographical Study [Oxford Studies in Byzantium]
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 316–18.
8 P.E. Walker, ‘The “Crusade” of John Tzimiskes’, Byzantion, 47 (1977), 301–27.
9 M. Canard, ‘La destruction de l’église de la Résurrection par le Calife Hākim et l’histoire de la
descente du feu sacré’, Byzantion, 35 (1965), 16–43.
10 M. Biddle, The Tomb of Christ (Stroud: Sutton, 1999), 74–88; D. Pringle, The Churches of the
Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem: III – The City of Jerusalem (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2007), 10–12.
11 J. Pahlitzsch, ‘The Greek Orthodox Church in the First Kingdom of Jerusalem (1099–1187)’,
in Patterns of the Past; Prospects for the Future: The Christian Heritage in the Holy Land, ed.
Th. Hummel et al. (London: Melisende, 1999), 195–207.
12 A.-M. Talbot, ‘Byzantine Pilgrimage to the Holy Land from the Eighth to the Fifteenth Century’,
in The Sabaite Heritage in the Orthodox Church from the Fifth Century to the Present, ed.
J. Patrich [Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta, 98] (Louvain: Peeters, 2001), 96–110.
13 Pringle, Crusader Churches, I, nos 77–9; A. Jotischky, ‘Greek Orthodox and Latin Monasticism
around Mar Saba under Crusader Rule’, in Patrich, Sabaite Heritage, 85–96.
14 P. Magdalino, ‘L’église du Phare et les reliques de la Passion à Constantinople (viie/viiie–xiiie
siècles’, in Byzance et les reliques de Christ, ed. J. Durand and B. Flusin [Monographies, 17]
(Paris: Association des amis du centre de recherché et d’histoire et civilisation de Byzance,
2004), 15–30; A. Lidov, ‘The Imperial Pharos Chapel as the Holy Sepulchre’, in Jerusalem
as Narrative Space, ed. A. Hoffmann and G. Wolf (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2012), 63–103.
Cf. E. Patlagean, ‘La double terre sainte de Byzance. Autour du XIIe siècle’, Annales HSS, 49/2
(1994), 459–69.
15 Niketas Choniates, Χρονικὴ Διήγησις, ed. J.L. van Dieten 222 [CFHB, ser. Berol., 11] (Berlin and
New York: De Gruyter, 1975), 222.80.
16 K.N. Ciggaar, ‘Une description de Constantinople dans le Tarragonensis 55’, Revue des études
byzantines, 53 (1995), 123.62–3.
17 K.N. Ciggaar, ‘Une description anonyme de Constantinople du XIIe siècle’, Revue des études
byzantines, 31 (1973), 340–1; K.N. Ciggaar, ‘Une description de Constantinople traduite par
un pelerin anglais’, Revue des études byzantines, 34 (1976), 245–6; M. Bacci, ‘Relics of the
Pharos Chapel: A View from the Latin West’, in Eastern Christian Relics, ed. A. Lidov (Moscow:
Progress-traditsija, 2003), 234–48.
18 C.H. Haskins, ‘A Canterbury Monk at Constantinople, c. 1090’, English Historical Review, 25
(1910), 293–5.
19 J.P. Migne, Patrologia graeca (Paris: J.P. Migne, 1865), 145, 548C.
20 P. Magdalino, The Empire of Manuel I Komnenos, 1143–1180 (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1993), 242–3.
21 A. Heisenberg, Nikolaos Mesarites: Die Palastrevolution des Johannes Komnenos (Würzburg:
H. Stürtz, 1907), 29.25, 34.29.
22 K. Varzos, Ἡ Γενεαλογία τῶν Κομνηνῶν [Βυζαντινὰ κείμενα καὶ μελέται, 20α](Thessaloniki:
Centre of Byzantine Studies, 1984), I, no. 36, 238–54.
302
23 E. Kurtz, ‘Unedierte Text aus der Zeit des Kaisers Johannes Komnenos’, Byzantinische Zeitschrift,
16 (1907), no.4, 107–8; W. Horänder, Theodoros Prodromos: historische Gedichte [Wiener byzan-
tinische Studien, 11] (Vienna: Österreichische Akadamie der Wissenschaften, 1974), no. xl, 391–3.
24 Nicephori Basilacae orationes et epistolai, ed. A. Garzya (Leipzig: Teubner, 1984), no. 3, 567
12–17.
25 Ibid., no. 2, 46–7.
26 Choniates, 42.26–31.
27 Ioannes Cinnami epitome: rerum ab Ioanne et Alexio Comnenis Gestarum, ed. A. Meineke (Bonn:
E. Weber, 1836), 25; Deeds of John and Manuel Comnenus, tr. C.M. Brand (New York: Columbia
University Press, 1976), 28–9. Cf. Michel Italikos: Lettres et Discours, ed. P. Gautier [Archives
de l’Orient Chrétien, 14] (Paris: Institut français d’études byzantines, 1972), no. 44, 290.1–6.
28 See R.-J. Lilie, Byzantium and the Crusader States 1096–1204 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993),
142–221.
29 Fontes rerum Byzantinarum: fasc.1–2 – rhetorum saeculi XII orationes politicae, ed. W. Regel
(Petrograd: Eggers and I. Glasunof, 1892 [repr. Leipzig, 1982]), 30.6–13.
30 See L.-A. Hunt, ‘Art and Colonialism: The Mosaics of the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem
(1169) and the Problem of “Crusader Art”’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 45(1991), 69–85; Pringle,
Crusader Churches, I, 137–56; A. Jotischky, ‘Manuel Comnenus and the Reunion of the Churches:
The Evidence of the Conciliar Mosiacs in the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem’, Levant, 26
(1994), 207–24.
31 L.-A. Hunt, ‘Art and Colonialism’, 81.
32 P. Classen, ‘Das Konzil von Konstantinopel und die Lateiner’, Byzantinische Zeitschrift,
48(1955), 339–68; M.J. Angold, Church and Society in Byzantium under the Comneni 1081–1261
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 83–6.
33 C. Mango, ‘The Conciliar Edict of 1166’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 17 (1963), 324.5–8.
34 Pringle, Crusader Churches, I, 146.
35 A. Jotischky, The Perfection of Solitude: Hermits and Monks in the Crusader States (University
Park PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1995), 65–100; A. Weyl Carr, ‘The Mural Paintings
of Abu Ghosh and the Patronage of Manuel Comnenus in the Holy Land’, in Crusader Art in the
Twelfth Century, ed. J. Folda [BAR Int. Ser. 152] (Oxford: BAR, 1982), 215–43.
36 J.P. Migne, Patrologia graeca (Paris: J.P. Migne, 1864), 133, 928–61; ed. I. Troitskii in
Pravoslavnii Palestinskii Sbornik, 8 (1889), 1–28; trans. J. Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrimage
1099–1185 [Hakluyt Society, ser.ii, 167] (London: Hakluyt Society, 1988), 315–36.
37 For the important identification of the author of this text, traditionally named John Phokas, with
John Doukas, see Ch. Messis, ‘Littérature, voyage et politique au XIIe siècle: L’ekphrasis des lieux
saints de Jean Phokas’, Byzantinoslavica, 69 (2011), Suppl., 146–66. Cf. A.F. Stone, ‘The Grand
Hetaireiarch John Doukas: The Career of a Twelfth-century Soldier and Diplomat’, Byzantion, 69
(1999), 146–64.
38 Eustathii Thessalonicensis Opera Minora: magnam partem inedita, ed P. Wirth [CFHB, ser.
Berol., xxxii] (Berlin and New York: De Gruyter, 2000), 198.15–19.
39 Migne, PG 133, 932D (§6.1–2); ed. Troitskii, 5.7–8; trans. Wilkinson, 318.
40 Migne, PG 133, 936B (§10.7), 957D (§27.14); ed. Troitskii, 7.23–31, 25–26; trans. Wilkinson,
320, 333–4.
41 Migne, PG 133, 952D–953B (§23.4–13), 960D–961A (§29.4–6); ed. Troitskii, 21–2, 27.15–23;
trans. Wilkinson, 330–1, 335.
42 Migne, PG 133, 944B (§14.18); ed. Troitskii, 13.21–23; trans. Wilkinson, 324.
43 Migne, PG 133, 957A–B (§27.6); ed. Troitskii, 24.18–24; trans. Wilkinson, 333.
44 Migne, PG 133, 952B (§22.1), 956D (§27.3); ed. Troitskii, 20.9–14, 24.1–5; trans. Wilkinson,
329, 332.
45 K. Horna, ‘Das Hodoiporikon des Konstantin Manasses’, Byzantinische Zeitschrift, 13(1904),
313–55 (Text: 325–47); W.J. Aerts, ‘A Byzantine Traveller to One of the Crusader States’, in East
303
and West in the Crusader States. Context–Contacts–Confrontations, ed. K. Ciggaar and H.G.B.
Teule [Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta, 125] (Louvain: Peeters, 2003), 165–221 (Text: 172–219).
Cf. M. Marcovich, ‘The Itinerary of Constantine Manasses’, Illinois Classical Studies, 12 (1987),
277–91; É. Malamut, ‘Le récit de voyage (Hodoiporikon) de Constantin Manassès (1160–1162)’,
in Géographes et voyageurs au Moyen Âge ed. H. Bresc and E. Tixier du Mesnil (Paris: Presses
universitaires de Paris Ouest, 2010), 253–73.
46 P. Magdalino, ‘In Search of the Byzantine Courtier: Leo Choiosphaktes and Constantine Manasses’,
in Byzantine Court Culture from 829 to 1204, ed. H. Maguire (Washington DC: Dumbarton Oaks,
1997), 161–4. Cf. I. Nilsson, ‘Constantine Manasses, Odysseus, and the Cyclops: On Byzantine
Appreciation of Pagan Art in the Twelfth Century’, Byzantinoslavica, 69 (2011), Suppl. 123–36.
47 Cf. A. Külzer,‘Konstantinos Manasses und Johannes Phokas – zwei byzantinische Orientsreisende
des 12. Jahrhunderts’, in Erkundung und Beschreibung der Welt. Zur Poetik der Reise- und
Länderberichte, ed. X. von Ertzdorff and G. Gieseman [Chloe (Beihefte zum Daphnis), 34]
(Amsterdam and New York: Rodopi, 2003), 185–209.
48 Constantine Manasses, Hodoiporikon, §I, vv.218–93: ed. Horna, 331–3; ed. Aerts, 186–90.
49 Ibid., §I, vv.286–91; ed. Horna, 333; ed. Aerts, 190.
50 Ibid., §I, vv.294–330; ed. Horna, 333–4; ed. Aerts, 190–2.
51 Ibid., §I, vv.331–6; ed. Horna, 334–5; ed. Aerts, 192.
52 Nicholas Mesarites, Epitaphios, ed. A. Heisenberg, ‘Neue Quellen zur Geschichte des latein-
ischen Kaisertums und der Kirchenunion I’, Sitzungsberichte der bayerischen Akademie der
Wissenschaften, philos.-philol und hist. Klasse, 1922, Abh.5 (= A. Heisenberg, Quellen und
Studien zur spätbyzantinischen Geschichte (London: Variorum, 1973), no. II), §12, 25–6.
53 Angold, Church and Society, 413.
54 Mesarites, Epitaphios, I, §13, 27–8.
55 R.B. Rose, ‘The Vita of St Leontius and its account of his visit to Palestine during the Crusader
period’, Proche Orient Chrétien, 35 (1985), 238–57; M. Kaplan, ‘Un patriarche byzantin dans
le royaume latin de Jérusalem: Léontios’, in Chemins d’Outremer. Études d’histoire sur la
Méditerranée médievale offerts à Michel Balard [Byzantina Sorbonensia, 20], ed. D. Coulon et
al. (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 2004), II, 475–88.
56 D. Tsougarakis, The Life of Leontios, Patriarch of Jerusalem (Leiden, New York and Cologne:
Brill, 1993), 1–11.
57 Life of Leontios, §88, 138.1–4.
58 Ibid., §84, 1–5.
59 Ibid., §85, 132–34.1–23.
60 Ibid., §85, 134.23–36.
61 Ibid., §87,134–36.6–11.
62 Ibid., §87, 136.11–43.
63 C. Galatariotou, The Making of a Saint: The Life, Times and Sanctification of Neophytos the
Recluse (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 206–7.
64 Cf. A. Jotischsky, ‘The Fate of the Orthodox Church in Jerusalem at the End of the Twelfth
Century’, in Hummel et al., Patterns of the Past, 179–94.
65 ‘Imâd ad-Dîn al-Isfahânî, Conquête de la Syrie et de la Palestine par Saladin, trans. H. Massé
(Paris: Paul Geuthner, 1972), 59.
66 C.M. Brand, Byzantium Confronts the West 1180–1204 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 1968), 114–16.
67 Choniates, 531.71–74; M.C. Lyons and D.E.P. Jackson, Saladin: The Politics of the Holy War
[University of Cambridge Oriental Publications, 30] (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1982), 251–2.
68 C.M. Brand, ‘The Byzantines and Saladin, 1185–1192: Opponents of the Third Crusade’,
Speculum, 37 (1962), 176–81, but for a more nuanced reading of the situation, see S. Neocleous,
‘The Byzantines and Saladin: Opponents of the Third Crusade?’, Crusades, 9 (2010), 87–106;
304
S. Neocleous, ‘The Byzantines and Saladin: Some Further Arguments’, Al-Masaq, 25 (2013),
204–21.
69 Choniates, 404–7. Cf. D.G. Angelov, ‘Domestic Opposition to Byzantium’s Alliance with Saladin:
Niketas Choniates and his Epiphany Oration of 1190’, Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies, 30
(2006), 44–68.
70 J. Darrouzès, ‘Documents byzantins sur la primauté romaine’, Revue des études Byzantines, 23
(1965), 51–59. The first instance of this usage seems to have been by Niketas Seides in 1112.
71 Bahâ’ al-Din Ibn Shaddad, The Rare and Excellent History of Saladin, trans. D.S. Richards
[Crusader Text in Translation] (Aldershot and Burlington VT: Ashgate, 2001), 121–2.
72 Ibid., 201–2.
73 ‘Imâd ad-Dîn, 244–5.
74 Choniates, 416–17.
75 Ibid., 301–2.
76 Brand, Byzantium Confronts the West, 176–88.
77 Angold, Church and Society, 122–4.
78 J. Darrouzès, Georges et Dèmètrios Tornikès Lettres et discours (Paris, 1970), 341.20–26.
79 Choniates, 417.66.
80 Ibid., 576.89–95.
81 Life of Leontios, §87, 136.14–15.
82 Archimandrit Arsenij, Tri stat’i neizvestnago grechescago pisatelia nachala XIII veka (Moscow:
A.P. Spegirevoj, 1892), 84–115.
83 Ibid., 85.20–28.
84 Ibid., 90.10–20.
85 S. Runciman, A History of the Crusades: III – The Kingdom of Acre (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1954), 480.
86 Choniates, 575–6.
87 Nicholas Mesarites, Epitaphios, I, 47.1–2.
88 Nicholas Mesarites, Katechetikos Logos, III, 27.22–29.
89 Henri de Valenciennes, Histoire de l’empereur Henri de Constantinople, ed. J. Longnon (Paris:
Paul Geuthner, 1948), §539.
90 J. Darrouzès, ‘La mémoire de Constantin Stilbès contre les Latins’, Revue des études Byzantines,
21 (1963), 50–100. See T.M. Kolbaba, The Byzantine Lists: Errors of the Latins (Urbana and
Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2000), 32–87.
91 Angold, Church and Society, 516–17.
92 Stilbes, 69.133–42.
93 Ibid., 77.273–75.
94 Ibid., 67.106–109.
95 Ibid., 84.400–403.
96 Nicholas Mesarites, Epitaphios, I, 47.2–4.
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309
PART V
MEETING ISLAM
CHAPTER NINETEEN
AN ILLUSION OF IGNORANCE? THE

MUSLIMS OF THE MIDDLE EAST AND
THE FRANKS BEFORE THE CRUSADES
Niall Christie
INTRODUCTION
A reader of the contemporary Muslim sources for the First Crusade and its aftermath
(1095–1146) would likely conclude that one of the major reasons that the Muslim writ-
ers found the crusaders to be such intimidating foes was the fact that they knew almost noth-
ing about them before their arrival in the Levant. It seems that the crusaders exploded onto
the scene, sweeping the shocked Muslims before them, while the Muslims were themselves
mystified and confused about why the Franks had seen fit to invade their territories. Some
authors attributed the crusaders’ activities to greed for plunder or territory, while others
linked them in a basic way to the Franks’ Christian faith, with their campaigns being under-
taken either as a form of revenge for the abuse of Christian pilgrims to the East or an attempt
to spread Christianity by force. Only one author of the time, a Damascene jurisprudent
named ‘Alī ibn Ṭāhir al-Sulamī (d. 1106), seems to have been aware that the Franks were
fighting a jihād, here understood in its aspect as a formal military campaign for their reli-
gion, seen by al-Sulamī as being analogous to the Muslim military jihād doctrine (Christie,
2006). Al-Sulamī’s description of the motives of the Franks, which is found in his Kitāb
al-Jihād (the Book of the Jihād), a treatise on the jihād in all its aspects that he composed in
public over the course of the year 1105, has been described as ‘remarkable’, and indicative
of ‘an understanding, probably unique at this early stage of the Crusades, of what the Franks
were planning to do’ (Christie, 2006: 71; Hillenbrand, 1999: 71).
Yet how far was al-Sulamī’s recognition of the impetus behind the First Crusade really
indicative of an unusual level of insight, and how far is it actually the case that the Muslim
authors contemporary with the first decades of the crusading period knew more in general
about the Franks than they reveal in their works? In this chapter we will contend that while
the Muslim writers of the Middle East, and by extension the Muslims of the region as a
whole, seem to have known very little about the Franks before their arrival in the Levant,
there are elements in the sources that suggest that this apparent ignorance is in fact an illu-
sion, and that other factors led the Muslim authors of the crusading period to avoid provid-
ing full descriptions of their enemies. We will then provide some suggestions regarding
what these other factors may have been.
311
— Niall Christie —
MUSLIM GEOGRAPHERS’ IMAGES

OF THE FRANKS
The principal genre of sources that we have for Muslim knowledge of the Franks from before
the crusading period is the Muslim geographical literature, the earliest known examples of
which date from the ninth century. It is worth noting from the outset that the Muslim authors
who wrote about the Franks before the crusades had a different understanding of the term
‘Frank’ itself. The Arabic term ifranj, along with other variations on the root consonants
f-r-n-j such as firanj or faranj, was originally used by the Muslim writers to refer to the
inhabitants of, roughly, the area corresponding to the Frankish empire of the Carolingians.
As John Tolan has recently observed, it is not clear how the term came to be transformed into
one that, by the time of the First Crusade, referred to Europeans in general. Latin sources for
the crusade refer to the Christian forces using the overall term Franci, even though a limited
number of the first crusaders were French; was this a term picked up from the Muslims, or
was it one that they already used for themselves, which led the Muslims to adjust the way
in which they understood the similar Arabic word ifranj (Tolan, 2013: 311)? The scarcity
of sources from the time makes it unlikely that this question will ever be fully answered.
In structuring their works, the Muslim geographers followed the model of the second-
century Greco-Alexandrian author Ptolemy (c. 100–c. 170), who divided the world up into
seven climes, essentially horizontal bands that enjoyed different climates; the most tem-
perate zones were the third and fourth climes, in which Greek civilisation consequently
flourished. The Muslim geographers divided the world similarly, placing their own lands in
the temperate third and fourth climes (Hillenbrand, 1999: 268–70). The Franks, however,
lived in the frigid sixth clime, the effects of which are illustrated in the following famous
passage from Kitāb al-Tanbīh wa’l-Ishrāf (The Book of Instruction and Supervision), by
the Muslim traveller and geographer ‘Alī ibn al-Ḥusayn al-Mas‘ūdī (d. 956):
As for the peoples of the northern region, who of those who reach the north are the ones
for whom the sun is far from the zenith, like the Slavs, the Franks and those nations next
to them, the sun shines weakly upon them because of their distance from it, cold and
damp have overcome their region, and snow and ice come upon them in uninterrupted
succession. They have little warm temperament in them; their bodies have become enor-
mous, their humour dry, their morals crude, their intellect stupid and their tongues slug-
gish. Their colour has become excessively white, to the point of becoming blue, their
skins thin, their flesh coarse, their eyes blue in accordance with their colouring, and their
hair lank and reddish-brown because of the excess of steam and damp. Their beliefs have
no solidity, and this is because of the nature of the cold and the lack of warmth. The ones
who are from further north have become overcome with ignorance, dryness of humour
and brutishness. This increases in them the further north that they go.
(Al-Mas‘ūdī, 1894: 23–4)
Thus the Muslim geographers, like their Greek predecessors, attributed a direct impact on
the physical and mental characteristics of the peoples whom they described to the climes in
which they lived.
Al-Mas‘ūdī’s commentary on the Franks, above, is actually relatively copious in com-
parison to the rather briefer references to them that we see in the works of other Muslim
geographers. These writers also show confusion regarding the location of the capital of the
312
— chapter 19: An illusion of ignorance? —
Franks (Paris or Rome), their religion (possibly Christian, possibly the same as that of the
Byzantines) and their relationship to the Byzantines (possibly allies, or possibly subjects)
(Christie, 1999: 10–27). Examples of knowledge of the Franks’ internal affairs are few and
far between, though in his other great geographical work, Murūj al-Dhahab wa Ma‘ādin
al-Jawhar (Meadows of Gold and Mines of Gemstone), al-Mas‘ūdī presents us with an
important exception to the rule:
The Franks are the strongest of [the] races, the most fearsome and the most numer-
ous. They have the most widespread power and the most numerous cities. They are the
best organised, the most obedient to their kings and the most compliant, except that the
Galicians [whom al-Mas‘ūdī regards as a subspecies of the Franks] are stronger and
more harmful than the [other] Franks. One Galician is a match for several Franks.
All of Ifranja is unified in one kingdom. There is no competition between them about
that, nor is there any factionalism. The name of the capital of their kingdom at this time
is Paris. It is a great city.
Al-Mas‘ūdī then provides a partial list of the Frankish kings, which he has apparently drawn
from a book that he read in Cairo that had originally been given to the future Umayyad ruler
of Spain, al-Ḥakam II (r. 961–76) in 939 or 940 by the bishop of Girona in Catalonia:
The first of the kings of Ifranja was Clovis [r. 481–511]. He was a Zoroastrian, but
his wife converted him to Christianity. Her name was Clotild. Then his son Theuderic
[r. 511–24] ruled after him. Then Theuderic’s son Dagobert ruled after him. Then Dagobert’s
son Theuderic ruled after him, then after him ruled his brother Carloman. Then his son
Charles [probably Charles Martel, major domo of the Merovingian kings, 714–41] ruled
after him. Then his son Pippin [III, major domo, 741–51, king of the Franks, 751–68]
ruled after him. Then after him ruled his son Charles [Charlemagne, r. 768–814], who
ruled for 26 years, and he was in the days of al-Ḥakam, the ruler of al-Andalus [Muslim
Iberia, r. 796–822]. After him his children fought each other and fell into disputes until
Ifranja was ruined because of them. Then Louis, the son of Charles [Louis the Pious,
r. 814–40] became the ruler of their kingdom, and he ruled for 28 years and six months,
and he was the one who advanced on Tortosa and besieged it.
(Al-Mas‘ūdī, 1965–79: II, 145–8)
Al-Mas‘ūdī continues to list the Carolingian kings up to the time that he read the book in
947 or 948.
Confused and incomplete as the details of his list may be, al-Mas‘ūdī’s insight into the
affairs of the Franks is strikingly detailed in comparison to the works of his contemporar-
ies. This apparent lack of attention to the Franks in particular, and to Europeans in general,
in the Muslim geographical literature led Bernard Lewis, in his seminal work, The Muslim
Discovery of Europe (first published in 1982), to conclude that despite the conflicts between
Muslims and Europeans that took place in various parts of the Mediterranean region in the
eighth to tenth centuries, there was ‘a complete lack of interest and curiosity among Muslim
scholars about what went on beyond the Muslim frontiers in Europe’ (Lewis, 2001: 142).
Lewis’ view has enjoyed considerable influence in the decades since its publication, as is
apparent in the publications of a number of scholars, including the early work of the author
313
of this chapter (Christie, 1999: 23–30; Hillenbrand, 1999: 267–74). However, it has been
convincingly challenged by a number of scholars, who have re-examined and re-interpreted
the source material to demonstrate that Muslim scholars were in fact at times greatly inter-
ested in the world outside the dār al-islām (Tolan et al., 2013: 17). One work particularly
pertinent to the topic of this chapter is Nizar F. Hermes’ The [European] Other in Medieval
Arabic Literature and Culture (2012), in which the author demonstrates, through the use
of a wide range of sources, that ‘generally speaking there was no shortage of Muslims who
cast curious eyes and minds toward Europe and the Europeans’ (Hermes, 2012: 174). We
will be drawing on a number of the same sources as we seek to uncover the ‘hidden’ knowl-
edge of the Muslims.
PROBLEMS WITH THE ACCEPTED IMAGE

The two images that al-Mas‘ūdī gives us of the Franks are of course markedly different.
In the Tanbīh he depicts the Franks as brutish, stupid and sluggish of speech, while in
the Murūj he presents them as fierce fighters who have established a well-organised state
with many cities and a powerful capital. While the two passages that we have cited do not
explicitly contradict each other, they are hard to reconcile with each other. How can we
understand this disparity? We are fortunate to have information on the history of these two
texts. Al-Mas‘ūdī wrote the first draft of his Murūj in 943, then revised it twice, in 947 and
956; however, the only version of the text that we have is the version from 947. Meanwhile,
al-Mas‘ūdī wrote the Tanbīh in 955 and revised it in 956 (Pellat, 1991: VI, 785–6; Shboul,
1979: 68–72). What is of note here is that the description of the Franks that seems to be less
well informed and more driven by imagination is the one that appears in the later text. It
would of course be nonsensical to suggest that al-Mas‘ūdī’s knowledge of the Franks dete-
riorated over time, so we must seek out other explanations, the most likely of which is that
with his account in the Tanbīh al-Mas‘ūdī intended not to provide an accurate depiction, but
rather to contrast the heathen barbarity of the northern peoples with the enlightened civilisa-
tion of the Muslims, in a way that echoes the stereotypes of the northern peoples found in
the Classical sources upon which the Muslim geographical works were modelled (Hermes,
2012: 49–50). Thus we see polemic trumping any attempt to preserve accuracy. This is of
course an important sign that we must be cautious in assuming that the limited depictions of
the Franks that we see in the works of the Muslim geographers represent an honest indica-
tion of the true extent of their knowledge of them.
Another Muslim geographer makes us similarly suspicious. In his Mukhtaṣar Kitāb
al-Buldān (Abridgement of the Book of Countries), written in about 903, the Persian scholar
Ibn al-Faqīh states, ‘The sixth climate consists of Firanja and other countries. In it are
women whose custom it is to cut off their breasts and cauterise them while they are small,
so that they will not grow large’ (1967: 6). The influence of the Greek tradition is appar-
ent here, since the women whom the author describes are clearly based on the Amazons of
Greek myth, who were said to engage in similar practices so that their breasts would not
interfere with their use of bows and arrows. While it is not clear whether or not Ibn al-Faqīh
believes what he has written, this account certainly makes us, again, wary of taking the
words of the Muslim geographers at face value, given the fact that the tradition in which
they were writing clearly had an overwhelming influence on the subject matter at times.
Turning away from the geographical tradition, another important clue appears in a text by
the Christian physician al-Mukhtār ibn al-Ḥasan ibn Buṭlān (d. 1066), who was originally
314
from Baghdad but travelled widely in the Levantine region. In his Risāla Jāmi‘a li-Funūn
Nāfi‘a fī Sharī al-Raqīq wa Taqlīb al-‘Abid (Comprehensive Epistle on Useful Techniques
in Trading Slaves and Inspecting Bondservants), Ibn Buṭlān notes the following:
It is said: Whoever wants a slave girl for pleasure should take on a Berber; whoever
wants her to look after treasure and keep things safe [should take on] a Byzantine; who-
ever wants her to bear children [should take on] a Persian; whoever wants her for nurs-
ing [should take on] a Frank; and whoever wants her to earn wealth [should take on] a
Meccan. […] This is a saying of which we have gathered the scattered parts and put the
fragments in order from the epistles of the teacher of Alexander [Aristotle] and others of
the ‘ulama’ and philosophers.
(Hārūn 2001: I, 383)
Ibn Buṭlān is of course perpetuating stereotypes here, but what is interesting is that in his
almost casual mention of the activity to which Frankish slave girls are best suited, he does
not suggest that Franks are a particularly exotic or unknown element among the slave popu-
lation of the Muslim world, nor does he seem to feel the need to describe them in any more
detail for an unfamiliar audience. The Franks seem instead to be as well known as Berbers,
Byzantines, Persians and even Meccans, at least in Ibn Buṭlān’s eyes. This again makes us
question the traditional view that the Muslims were particularly unaware of the Franks and
their characteristics before the crusades.
SOURCES OF INFORMATION
Having established that the Muslims of the Levant may well have known more about the
Franks than they let on, we will now explore the means through which they are likely to
have gained that information. A number of Muslim sources written both before the First
Crusade and during the first decades of the crusading period provide us with important clues
in this regard.
Muslims and Franks at war

The Muslims, of course, came into conflict with the Franks on a number of occasions before
the crusading period. Al-Mas‘ūdī refers to some of these, though he mixes up the Franks
and the Byzantines in the process. Thus he refers to Rhodes, Crete, Sicily and North Africa
as territories that the Muslims took from the Franks, rather than the Byzantines (al-Mas‘ūdī,
1965–79: II, 145–6). Al-Mas‘ūdī is not alone in confusing the Franks and Byzantines in
this way, and this is a tendency that continues to appear during the first half of the twelfth
century (Christie, 1999: 17–20, 64).
Other writers present more accurate accounts; for example, the tenth-century geogra-
pher Ibn Ḥawqal, in his Kitāb Ṣūrat al-‘Arḍ (the Book of the Shape of the Earth) describes
the Muslim presence in Fraxinetum, near Saint-Tropez in Provence, which he notes was
once in Frankish hands and has become a well-supplied stronghold ‘in the faces of the
Franks’, from which its Muslim occupiers cannot be dislodged (Ibn Hawqal, 1967: 204).
The Muslims held this site from about 890 to 973. This was just one of a number of sites
in modern-day France and Switzerland that the Muslims occupied in the tenth century
(Versteegh, 1990).
315
It is perhaps surprising, then, that the Battle of Poitiers (Tours) in 732 receives so little
mention in the Muslim sources. The account of the Egyptian historian Ibn ‘Abd al-Ḥakam
(d. 871) is a typical example:
‘Abd al-Raḥmān [al-Ghāfiqī, the governor of al-Andalus,] raided the Ifranja, who are
the most distant enemies of al-Andalus, and gained great booty and conquered them […]
then he also went out to raid them and was martyred along with all his companions. His
death […] was in the year 115 [733].
(Ibn ‘Abd al-Ḥakam, 1922: 216–17)
This lack of detail in the Muslim sources has led modern historians to debate the signifi-
cance of this event, such that their depictions range from the defeat of a small-scale Muslim
raid that has been over-valued by other modern scholars to the breaking of a Muslim
advance that would have seen European civilisation subordinated to that of Islam (Lewis,
2001: 18–20; Watson, 1993). Whatever the truth of this, for the purposes of this chapter
the significance of the battle is that it represents another example of a direct military con-
frontation between Muslims and Franks that made enough of an impression to be recorded,
albeit vaguely, in the chronicles of the writers of the Levant, despite time, distance and the
arguably negligible impact that it made upon them personally. It may have been encounters
like these that al-Mas‘ūdī had in mind when he referred to the strength and fearsomeness
of the Franks.
When one looks at the earliest Muslim sources for the crusading period itself, one sees
attention still being paid to the activities of the Franks in the west. Al-Sulamī refers to the
reconquista in Iberia (as well as the Norman conquest of Sicily), in the process depicting the
First Crusade as being part of a wider Frankish offensive that also includes these other mili-
tary campaigns (Christie, 2006: 64). The chronicler Ibn al-Qalānisī (d. 1160) wrote a history
of his hometown, Dhayl Ta’rīkh Dimashq (The Continuation of the History of Damascus),
which focuses first and foremost on the history of the city; however, he likewise clearly
still felt that he should mention Frankish military activities in Iberia and North Africa in
his account of the Muslim years 478–79 (1085–87) (Ibn al-Qalānisī, 1983: 193–4). Thus it
would seem that the Muslim writers were both aware of and feeling an obligation to report
on Frankish activities at the other end of the Mediterranean.
Starting in the eleventh century, the Byzantines began employing significant contingents
of Frankish (and especially Norman) mercenaries in their forces (Haldon, 1999: 85–94;
Kazhdan, 2001: 89–93). For the Muslims of the Levant the Franks were now not only
involved in military operations in the distant West, but also a more immediate and proxi-
mate threat as part of the armed forces of their traditional Christian enemies. This means
that the Muslims of the Levant had direct experience of fighting the Franks even before the
arrival of the First Crusade. The presence of Franks in the Byzantine forces was also likely
a contributory factor to the confusion of the two that can be seen in the Muslim sources, as
noted above. Of course, it is also worth noting that Frankish slaves were inducted into the
armies of Muslim rulers, which would have provided another way for the Muslims to learn
more about them (Tolan et al., 2013: 68).
Muslim contacts with the Franks were not only restricted to the battlefield. Some Muslim
and Frankish rulers also engaged in diplomatic exchanges. The best known of these, of
course, are the embassies exchanged between Charlemagne and the ‘Abbāsid caliph Hārūn
al-Rashīd (r. 786–809), which are directly attested to only in the Frankish sources and have
316
been the subject of much scholarly discussion (Sénac, 2002: 37–8, 46–51). These exchanges
formed part of a wider exchange of intermittent embassies between the Carolingians and
the ‘Abbāsids that began with a diplomatic mission sent to the caliph al-Manṣūr (r. 754–75)
by Pippin the Short in 765, continued with the embassies between Charlemagne and Hārūn
al-Rashīd, and ended after ambassadors from the caliph al-Ma’mūn (r. 813–33) visited Louis
the Pious in 831; again, none of these are mentioned in the Muslim chronicles of the time.
Scholars have suggested a number of reasons for these diplomatic exchanges. Strategic
concerns are likely to have played a major part. The Carolingians and the Abbāsids shared
mutual enemies in both the Umayyads of Cordoba and the Byzantines, not to mention the
possibility of these two powers providing assistance to other opponents of the Carolingians
and ‘Abbāsids, such as Byzantine support of the Lombards against the Carolingians. The
second motivation for diplomatic contact relates to Carolingian interest in giving patronage
to the sacred sites of the Holy Land. It is generally accepted that the authority that Hārūn
al-Rashīd allegedly gave Charlemagne over the holy places of the region, described with
such enthusiasm by Einhard (d. 840) and Notker the Stammerer (d. 912) (Thorpe, 1969:
70, 148–9), is a fabrication, but the diplomatic contacts between the two seem to have been
intended to make it easier for Charlemagne to respond to calls for support that came from
the Christians of Jerusalem in 799 and 810, and to make wider donations to the Christian
communities of the Muslim world. Finally, the diplomatic exchanges between the caliphs
and the Carolingian kings may have been intended to promote trade and safeguard trade
routes between the two powers, which were threatened by the activities of the Umayyads
and Byzantines (Sénac, 2002: 38–41, 46–51). The third proposed incentive for diplomatic
contact in some senses reflects the first, reminding us that these motivations were, of course,
not mutually exclusive.
As noted above, these exchanges between the ‘Abbāsids and the Carolingians are not
mentioned in the Muslim sources of the period, something that Runciman ascribes to a
desire by the ‘Abbāsids to avoid besmirching their pious reputation by leaving an official
record of cordial relations with infidels (Runciman, 1935: 607). However, a reflection
of them is found in the pages of the Arabian Nights, a collection that dates back at least
as far as the eighth century and has been added to, expanded, and revised repeatedly
since (Irwin, 1994: 48). The tale of Nur al-Din and Miriam the Sash-Maker tells of a
Muslim merchant’s son, Nūr al-Dīn, who buys a Frankish slave girl. She turns out to
be the daughter of the king of Ifranja, who after being captured by Muslim pirates was
enslaved and during her captivity converted to Islam. Nūr al-Dīn and Miriam fall in love
and experience a series of adventures, including two forced sojourns in the land of the
Franks, after the second of which they escape back to Muslim lands once more. However,
the king of the Franks sends an ambassador to Hārūn al-Rashīd with a letter requesting
that his daughter be returned to him and offering the caliph half of the city of Rome in
exchange. The lovers are duly arrested and taken to the caliph’s court in Baghdad, where
they tell their story. Upon learning that Miriam has become a Muslim, the caliph refuses
to return her to her father, and Miriam herself executes the Frankish king’s ambassa-
dor. Miriam and Nūr al-Dīn are married and live the rest of their lives happily together
(Lyons, 2008: III, 341–428).
What is noteworthy here, of course, is that the last challenge that Nūr al-Dīn and Miriam
face stems from the fact that Hārūn al-Rashīd enjoys friendly relations with the king of
the Franks, and the caliph fully intends to return Miriam to her father before he learns that
she has become a Muslim, sending orders to his agents across the Muslim world that they
317
should find her (Lyons, 2008: III, 424). While the king of the Franks is not identified by
name in the tale, the co-operative diplomatic contact that the king and the caliph enjoy is
strongly reminiscent of that between the ‘Abbāsid and the Carolingian rulers recorded by
the Frankish sources. We must also acknowledge that the difficulties involved in dating
folk literature such as the Arabian Nights, along with its explicitly fictional nature, must
make us wary of placing too much faith in its depictions of real historical figures, but the
trans-Mediterranean echo remains, nevertheless, striking as a recollection of the ‘Abbāsid-
Carolingian relations that are not found in the Muslim chronicles.
We do have, however, other occasional historical records of Muslim-Frankish diplo-
macy written by Muslim authors. One intriguing example is the correspondence exchanged
between Bertha, the daughter of Lothair II of Lotharingia and the self-styled ‘queen’ of
Tuscany (d. 925), and the ‘Abbāsid caliph al-Muktafī (r. 902–08). In 906 Bertha sent an
embassy to the caliph that has been recorded in passing by the well-known Baghdadi bib-
liographer Ibn al-Nadīm (d. 995 or 998) and in considerably more detail by the rather less
famous author al-Awḥadī. According to both authors, Bertha sent the embassy in order to
create ties of friendship with the caliph and to ask his hand in marriage, even though she was
married at the time (Ibn al-Nadīm, 1970: I, 38; Hamidullah, 1953: 273, 279)! Al-Awḥadī’s
version of events also includes a list of the presents that Bertha sent with her embassy, as
well as describing the circumstances of its arrival and the caliph’s response, though we
do not learn exactly how the caliph reacted to Bertha’s amorous advances (Hamidullah,
1953: 273–86). Needless to say, no wedding ensued, but Bertha’s embassy provides further
evidence of periodic diplomatic contact taking place between the Muslims and the Franks
before the crusades. In addition, one interesting feature of al-Awḥadī’s account is that we
are told that upon receipt of Bertha’s letter, the caliph or his vizier sought out someone who
could read it, eventually finding a Frank in the caliphal wardrobe who translated it into
Greek, after which someone else translated the Greek into Arabic (Hamidullah, 1953: 274,
280). If this is not a case of confusion of Franks and Byzantines, this suggests that Frankish
slaves could be found, in the caliphal household at least, as early as the tenth century, fur-
ther supporting the hypothesis that Franks were a known quantity in the Muslim world from
an early stage.
It was not only through direct contact that diplomatic relations gave the Muslims oppor-
tunities to learn about the Franks. The Aleppine chronicler al-‘Aẓīmī (d. after 1161) asserts
that the Byzantine emperor Alexius Comnenus (r. 1081–1118) wrote to the Muslims in
1096, warning them that the Franks were on their way (1984: 358). It is not clear which
Muslims the emperor wrote to; Carole Hillenbrand suggests that the most likely candidates
were the Fāṭimids of Egypt, who had enjoyed diplomatic links with the Byzantines for a
long time before the First Crusade (Hillenbrand, 1999: 45, 69). Whatever the truth of this,
for the purposes of this discussion the important thing is that, if we can trust al-‘Aẓīmī’s
claims, at least some of the Muslims of the Levantine region were receiving information
about the Franks through indirect channels, complementing any direct contact that they may
have had with them.
Travellers and trade

Ambassadors were not the only Westerners visiting the Muslim world before the First
Crusade. European pilgrims, both Christian and Jewish, had been visiting the Holy Land
long before both the crusading period and the first appearance of Islam in Arabia; with
318
regard to Christian pilgrims in particular, Wilkinson notes that the earliest record we have
of such a visitor dates back to 333 ce (2002: 1). The Muslim conquest of Jerusalem in 638
only caused a temporary hiatus in Western pilgrimages to the region, as the Muslim rulers
themselves on the whole did not seek to prevent such visits (Wilkinson, 2002: 18). Indeed,
they seem to have become used to seeing European pilgrims passing through the Levant en
route to the holy places of the East. In her Life of St Willibald, the nun Hugeburc (fl. 780)
records the words of one influential Muslim citizen at the Syrian city of Homs, apparently
dictated to her by Willibald himself after his own pilgrimage to the area: ‘Many times I
have seen people coming here, fellow-tribesmen of theirs, from those parts of the world.
They mean no harm. All they want to do is to fulfil their law’ (Wilkinson, 2002: 236). A
more direct attestation to the passing of European pilgrims through the Holy Land from the
Muslim side is given by al-‘Aẓīmī, who notes in his account of the year 486 ah (1093–94
ce), ‘The people of the coastal ports prevented Frankish and Byzantine pilgrims from cross-
ing to Jerusalem. News of what happened spread from those who escaped to their countries,
and they prepared to invade [the Levant]. The news of that reached the coast and all the
lands of the Muslims’ (1984: 356). In this way al-‘Aẓīmī indicates an awareness of the
presence of European pilgrims in the Holy Land, depicting the First Crusade as having been
undertaken in revenge for their mistreatment at the hands of the Muslims. It is also note-
worthy, of course, that he claims that Muslims as a whole became aware of the impending
European attack, years before the crusaders arrived, though he is probably exaggerating for
effect here. However, this does not detract from the fact that European, including Frankish,
pilgrims had been visiting the Levant for centuries, providing another way in which the
Muslims may have learned about them.
Muslim travellers also came from West to East. For example, in 1092–95 the Sevillan
pilgrim and scholar Ibn al-‘Arabī (d. 1148) visited various places in the Holy Land, and
has left his impressions of the region in various works (Drory, 2004). Ibn al-‘Arabī spent
significant portions of his visit studying and debating with Muslim and Jewish scholars.
It is not unreasonable to assume that he might in the process have informed his listeners
of developments in Iberia, including Frankish activities in the region. It is likely that he
and other travellers like him were important sources for Levantine writers who recorded
events in the Muslim west, like the examples of al-Sulamī and Ibn al-Qalānisī that we have
noted above.
We should also not neglect the role that trade played in interactions between East and
West. There had been trade taking place between Europe and the Muslim world from as
early as the eighth century, and this expanded in the eleventh century as Egypt became
the centre of commerce in the eastern Mediterranean (Tolan et al., 2013: 72–6). At the
forefront of this trade were two major groups: the Jews and the Italians. The Jewish trade
networks of the Mediterranean, which were studied so masterfully by Shlomo D. Goitein
(Goitein and Sanders, 1967–99), enabled goods and information to pass between the Jewish
communities as far apart as France, Egypt and India, though it is not clear how far informa-
tion, at least, passed between these Jewish communities and their non-Jewish neighbours
in Europe and the Muslim world (Christie, 1999: 39–43). The various Italian trading cities,
especially Amalfi, Venice, Pisa and Genoa, also established themselves as major carriers of
trade between Europe and the Levant in the eleventh century, and the Venetians, Pisans and
Genoese in particular would go on to become prominent in the crusading movement as the
twelfth and thirteenth centuries unfolded (Tolan et al., 2013: 74–8). The Franks, however,
seem to have been far less significant participants in the commerce between Europe and
319
the Middle East, receiving only occasional mentions in Muslim descriptions of East–West
trade. For example, the Persian traveller and poet Nāṣir Khusraw (d. c. 1077) who visited
Tripoli in February 1047, remarks that it is ‘a trade centre frequented by ships coming from
the Byzantines, the land of the Franks, al-Andalus and the Maghrib’ (1970: 12 [Persian] and
41 [French translation]). It is possible that Nāṣir Khusraw is using the term ‘Frank’ in its
later sense of ‘western European’ here, given that the Italians were the dominant European
trading power in the Levant at the time, but it is also possible that he is referring to genu-
inely Frankish merchants who had found their way to the East. It is striking that they are in
Tripoli, rather than Egypt, which was the primary destination of Italian merchants travelling
to the region, which could represent an attempt by Frankish merchants to avoid coming into
conflict with Italian commerce.
AN ILLUSION OF IGNORANCE?
It is clear from the above that there is simply too much evidence, even though much of it is
circumstantial, to support the idea that the Muslims of the Middle East knew little about the
Franks before the arrival of the First Crusade in the Levant. If we accept that the Muslim
writers of the periods before and contemporary with the crusade and its aftermath both
had greater access to information and knew more than has commonly been assumed, we
must, then, consider why they reveal so little in their accounts of the events. Space will not
permit a full consideration of Muslim attitudes towards the Franks during this period; such
discussions are available elsewhere (Hillenbrand, 1999; Christie, 1999: 62–113). However,
a review of some of the major characteristics of the Franks in the contemporary Muslim
sources will help to provide some understanding of why this might be the case.
The Muslims knew that the crusaders were Christian, and very quickly they used the
different religion of the Franks to depict them in their writings as a religious enemy that
had to be opposed through military jihād for the sake of the Muslim faith. In doing so,
they also sought as far as possible to emphasise the points of conflict between Christian
and Muslim doctrine; thus the crusaders are described as kuffār (blasphemers or infidels),
highlighting the fact that Christian claims that Jesus was the son of God are blasphemy from
a Muslim point of view; and mushrikūn (polytheists), in that they worship three gods (the
Holy Trinity) when God is in fact only one, with no partners or associates. In an evocative
passage, an anonymous poet from the period provides a negative depiction of Christianity
and the crusaders’ observance thereof, stating, ‘How many a mosque have they made into a
church, a cross set up in its mihrab? Pig’s blood in it is suitable for them, and the burning of
Qur’ans in it as incense’ (Ibn Taghrī Birdī, 1963: V, 152). In the process he not only accuses
the Franks of committing sacrilege by burning copies of the Qur’an, but also accuses them
of using the blood of pigs, an animal considered unclean in Islam, as part of their worship.
Thus Christianity, sacrilege and pollution go hand in hand.
Another prominent feature of the Franks is their greed for wealth and power. A number
of Muslim writers highlight this feature. Al-Sulamī depicts the crusaders as having found
the conquest of the Levantine coast more successful than they had expected and states,
‘Still now they are spreading further in their efforts, assiduous in seeking an increase in
their achievements. Their desires are multiplying all the time […] until they have become
convinced that the whole country will become theirs and all its people will be prisoners in
their hands’ (Christie, 2014: 133). Thus he presents the ambitions of the Franks as being
unbridled, with them always seeking to gain more territory and wealth. While material gain
320
is not seen as inherently evil in Islam (the Prophet was, after all, a merchant), overweening
desire for gains of the type demonstrated by the Franks is seen as unacceptable and flying
in the face of pious contentment with what one has been given by God, so their behaviour
thus makes them both evil and impious. Al-Sulamī’s representation of the Franks as being
greedy is echoed in the other Muslim sources from the period.
A third noted feature of the Franks is their tendency to be treacherous. As an example,
Ibn al-Qalānisī gives the following description of the Franks’ conquest of Jubayl in 1104:
They took it with an assurance of safety, and when it passed under their control, they
dealt treacherously with its people and did not stand by the assurance of safety that they
had offered. They seized the people and took possession of their property and wealth
using punishments and various tortures.
(Ibn al-Qalanisi, 1983: 231)
It is of course noteworthy that by breaking the agreement, the Franks were taking the oppor-
tunity to gain the possessions and wealth of the people of the town. Thus their avarice and
their treachery are combined in the Damascene chronicler’s narrative.
The three features of the Franks highlighted here exemplify the fact that on the whole,
Muslims depictions of them from the time tend to be negative. This is of course not surpris-
ing; they had, in the eyes of the Muslim writers, invaded, plundered, and occupied Muslim
lands, and the writers were trying to motivate their listeners or readers to oppose the ongo-
ing Frankish activities. We might suggest, therefore, that the rather limited portrayal of the
Franks that we get in the Muslim sources stems not from ignorance but rather from a desire
to focus only on their negative qualities, so that they will be seen clearly and unambigu-
ously as an enemy. The lack of detail about the Franks may also in part owe its origin to a
technique beloved of horror movie directors, in that the less that is revealed to the audience
about the villain, the more dangerous and frightening they seem. Thus we see the Muslim
sources being economical with the information that they have in order to present the Franks
as a clear and present danger, against which the Muslims are obliged to take action. What
was important for the Muslim writers was not what the Franks were like, but what was to
be done about them.
CONCLUSION
In this chapter we have argued that there is too much evidence in the sources from before
the period of the crusades to support the notion that the Muslims knew almost nothing about
the Franks before their arrival in the Levant. As noted above, we must acknowledge that
much of the evidence for this argument is circumstantial. In addition, the references that we
have to the Franks in the Muslim sources before the crusades are still relatively few and
scattered, and even the contemporary sources for the First Crusade are limited in number, so
it is difficult to determine how far they speak for the Muslims of the Middle East in general,
and the Levant in particular, as a whole. The question is also complicated by the lack of
clarity that surrounds the changing use of the term ‘Frank’ in the Muslim sources. However,
the evidence that does exist remains too significant to ignore, and must therefore be borne
in mind as we refine our understanding of both the first encounters between the Muslims of
the Levant and the crusaders, and the ways in which these encounters are depicted by the
contemporary Muslim sources for the period.
321
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323
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE EARLY MAMLŪKS AND THE

END OF THE CRUSADER PRESENCE
IN SYRIA (1250–1291) 1
Reuven Amitai
A t the battle of Manṣūra in the Nile Delta on February 8, 1250, the Ayyūbid army was
caught completely off guard by a surprise crusader attack under the general command
of King Louis IX of France, coming after a standoff of several weeks across a large channel
of water. The sultan, al-Malik al-Ṣāliḥ Ayyūb, had recently died (November 22, 1249), and
the commander of his army, Fakhr al-Dīn ibn Shaykh al-Shuyūkh, was cut down before he
could organize resistance. Frankish knights broke through the Muslim lines, reaching the
city of Manṣūra itself. Things looked grim for the Muslims, but the tables were turned with
the appearance of a large group of Mamlūks of the late sultan. This is what the contempo-
rary Syrian chronicler Ibn Wāṣil (d. 1298) writes:
[And then,] the Turkish band, Mamlūks of the Sultan—may God have mercy on him—
from the Jāmadāriyya and the Baḥriyya2—lions of war, and horsemen [who were mas-
ters in the use of] lance and bow—appeared on the scene. They launched a concerted
attack against the Franks, violently rocking their pillars, demolishing their building
and overturning their crosses.3 The Turkish swords and maces wreaked havoc with
them, inflicting death and wounds, and threw them down on the ground in the alleys of
Manṣūra.
A little later, when summing up the battle, the author writes:
This was the first encounter in which the polytheist dogs were defeated by means of the
Turkish lions (wa-kānat hādhahi awwal waqʿa untuṣira fīhā bi-usūd al-turk ʿalā kilāb
al-shirk).4
In aftermath of this defeat, the Franks under Louis IX began withdrawing to the north,
hoping to make it back to their base at Damietta on the Mediterranean coast. They were,
however, unsuccessful, stymied by difficult conditions and incessant Muslim attacks. Many
died, while Louis and most of his troops were taken captive in April.5 The fate of the French
king, however, is not our concern, at least not yet. Rather, we should look at what was going
324
— chapter 20: The early Mamlūks —
on in the Muslim camp, while the above described Mamlūks—and the Muslim army in
general—were basking in their victory.
On February 23, al-Muʿaẓẓam Tūrānshāh, son of al- Ṣāliḥ Ayyūb and heir apparent, had
arrived from his governorship north of the Euphrates. The new ruler soon managed to alien-
ate the veteran leadership of the army (mainly Mamlūk officers from various units), not the
least by advancing quickly his own men to top positions. The result, not for the first time
in Muslim history, was that the son of the previous ruler was removed from power; as was
often the case, he was killed in the process. Yet, unlike similar occurrences in the past, this
time the military leadership did not seek another young member from the dynasty to serve
as a malleable puppet, but decided to forgo this fiction. Instead, they officially placed on
the throne the beloved wife of the late al-Ṣāliḥ Ayyūb, Shajar (or Shajarat) al-Durr (“Tree
of Pearls”), who was also of Inner Asian Turkish origin like most of the Mamlūks. Soon
afterward, aware of the unprecedented nature of naming a woman as ruler, they picked a
non-descript Mamlūk officer by the name of Aybak al-Turkmānī, also a Mamlūk of al- Ṣāliḥ
Ayyūb but not part of either of the two above-mentioned units, to serve as Aṭābak (com-
mander of the army and also guardian or regent) and to wed her.6
This was a real revolution. For the first time in the Muslim Middle East, a legitimate
ruling dynasty had been completely cast aside,7 and replaced by nothing less than a former
slave girl and an officer of slave provenance. This was not a planned revolution, as had been
the case when the ʿAbbāsids took power in 750, or as Shīʿī groups had been trying to do for
centuries. As there was no ideological basis for this change in 1250, and no thinking about
the day after, this was indeed a time of political and military confusion. However, before
going on to examine how the leadership of the new political entity resolved some of the
outstanding issues, and then strengthened its rule internally and externally, let us look at the
conditions that led to this change in the nature of politics.
BACKGROUND TO POLITICAL CHANGE

Muslim armies had long a strong component of Mamlūks, or slave soldiers, who were usually
Turks from the Eurasian Steppe. Certainly from the time of Saladin, Turkish Mamlūks had
played an important role in Ayyūbid military (and sometimes political affairs). The number
and role of such Mamlūks were strengthened through the ongoing efforts of Saladin’s great
nephew, al-Ṣāliḥ Najm al-Dīn Ayyūb (b. 1205). Already as a young prince in the 1220s,
while left as regent in Egypt by his father al-Kāmil Muḥammad (r. 1218–38), al-Ṣāliḥ had
obtained Mamlūks in large numbers to augment his position in the internal politics of the
Ayyūbid federation.8 His father put an end to such mischief, as he saw it, sending al-Ṣāliḥ
off to serve as governor in some of the Ayyūbid possession east of the Euphrates. After his
father’s death, al-Ṣāliḥ was raised to the throne, but soon lost it, due to the disloyalty of the
former’s troops. Later, when al-Ṣāliḥ gained control over Syria for a second time, in 1240,
he showed that he had learned his lesson.9 Thus, the historian Ibn Wāṣil writes, while sum-
ming up al-Ṣāliḥ Ayyūb’s life:
He bought from among the Turkish Mamlūks what no one in his family had bought
[before him], so that they became the main part of his army. [This happened] when he
saw the perfidy of the Kurds and others on the day that Damascus was taken. He [also
noted] the steadfastness of his Mamlūks with him, when his [other] people fled from
him while he was Qaṣr bin Muʿīn in the Jordan Valley (al-Ghawr). He thus preferred his
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— Reuven Amitai —
Mamlūks, giving them precedence. When he took over in Egypt (in 1240), he discon-
tinued the service of the officers who had been with his father (al-Kāmil) and brother
(al-ʿĀdil Abū Bakr II), and imprisoned them. In Egypt, he bought a large group of
Turks, and made them his inner entourage and those who surrounded him in his pavilion
(al-dihlīz), calling them the Baḥriyya.10
This is, however, only part of the story. It was not enough only to have a heightened desire
for more Turkish Mamlūks, one had to find a ready supply. Around 1240, this was exactly
the situation, as the historian al-Nuwayrī (d. 1332) tells us:
The [Mongols] fell upon [the Qipchaq Turks] and brought upon most of them death,
slavery and captivity. At the same time, merchants bought [these captives] and brought
them to the [various] countries and cities. The first who demanded many of them and
made them lofty and advanced them in the army was al-Malik al-Ṣāliḥ Najm al-Dīn
Ayyūb.11
Our source is tersely telling us that it was the Mongol campaigns of the late 1230s in the
steppe region north of the Black Sea and the Caucasus (i.e. southern Russia and Ukraine of
today), where the Qipchaq (also known as Cumans or Polovtsy) tribes lived, practicing a
lifestyle of nomadic pastoralism, that led to the flooding of local slave markets with young
Turks, both boys and girls. Most of these slaves were probably shipped through the Crimean
Peninsula, brought through the Bosporus or over land via Anatolia by merchants of various
origins. In Syria and Egypt, the boys were enrolled in the Mamlūk units of various princes
or officers; the girls, at least in part, became household slaves and concubines, not the least
in this or that princely court.12 Al-Ṣāliḥ Ayyūb, then, had the means to build with relative
ease his new Mamlūk formation, setting in motion events that helped to propel the Mamlūk
takeover of 1250.
THE EARLY YEARS OF THE MAMLŪK RULE

The leadership of the fledging Mamlūk state did not find Aybak’s marriage to Shajar al-
Durr provided enough legitimacy to rule, especially in the face of growing Ayyūbid oppo-
sition in Syria. Thus, after about three months they found a suitable Ayyūbid scion to fill
void, al-Malik al-Ashraf Mūsā, the ten-year-old great-grandson of the above-mentioned
al-Kāmil Muḥammad, with Aybak remaining Aṭābak (again, a combination of guard-
ian and army chief). However, while they may have thought to have found a solution
to the problem of legitimacy, the Ayyūbid princes in Syria thought otherwise. Led by
al-Nāṣir Yūsuf b. al-ʿAzīz, the erstwhile ruler of Aleppo (from 1234), who also took over
in Damascus soon after al-Ṣāliḥ Ayyūb’s death, they launched an invasion of Egypt at
the beginning of 1251 (following intermittent fighting in the previous months in the area
of Gaza). It is not surprising that the Syrian Ayyūbids were unhappy with the effective
end of Ayyūbid rule in that country, no matter who the ostensible ruler was. The armies
met in Kuraʿ, to the east of Cairo at the beginning of February. While the Syrians were
initially successful, Aybak was ultimately victorious, and al-Nāṣir Yūsuf and most of his
troops fell back in disarray. Aybak made some moves to launch a campaign into Ayyūbid
Syria to wrest it from the Ayyūbids, and thus initiated negotiations with King Louis IX,
now in Acre after having ransomed himself out of captivity in Egypt. The Mamlūk leader,
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however, soon became aware that that even a partial conquest of Syria was beyond his
powers; likewise, al-Nāṣir Yūsuf surely despaired of regaining Egypt for the Ayyūbids.
There was thus likely relief on both sides at the offer by Caliph al-Mustʿaṣim in Baghdad
to broker an agreement. In April 1253, a peace treaty was signed: Mamlūk sovereignty
was recognized in Egypt, including the Sinai Peninsula, up to, but not including Nablus;
soon Shawbak in Transjordan was also under their control. However, in 1255, in a second
agreement facilitated by a caliphal envoy, Aybak gave up any claims to territory north and
east of al-ʿArīsh in north-east Sinai.13
The resolution of the difficulties with the Syrian Ayyūbids opened up the possibility
of infighting among the Mamlūks themselves. The Baḥriyya (along with their colleagues
from the Jāmadāriyya) may have been the driving force behind the Mamlūk victory at
Manṣūra, but they were far from controlling the government. Aybak was also a Mamlūk of
al-Ṣāliḥ Ayyūb, but not one of them, and there were other factions represented in the rul-
ing group. While Aybak may have been picked originally for his apparent lack of political
strength, his position had become stronger during his time in office. He had begun assem-
bling his own unit of Mamlūks, and he had the support of various military refugees from
Syria, from many of the Turkish ʿAzīziyya regiment (the Mamlūks of al-Nāṣir Yūsuf’s
father) and from some members of the Kurdish Qaymariyya, a large group that until then
had been stalwarts of the Syrian Ayyūbid regime. The Baḥriyya and their allies, however,
had not been idle, and under the dynamic leadership of Fāris al-Dīn Aqṭāy were angling for
taking real and formal control of the State. They certainly behaved as if they were already
running things: Aqṭāy was already referred to with the royal title of al-Malik al-Jawād and
was allocating iqṭāʿāt (revenue-generating land allocations).14 A clash between Aqṭāy and
Aybak was inevitable, and probably most observers of the political game in Cairo thought
that the victory of the former was a foregone conclusion. However, Aybak moved first, and
his trusted Mamlūk Quṭuz struck down Aqṭāy on January 1, 1254. Some of the Baḥrīs were
arrested, other escaped to the north: a small group went on to Anatolia (gaining employ-
ment with the Seljuq ruler of Rūm, i.e. Anatolia), while the majority—some 700—stayed
in Syria under the command of one Rukn al-Dīn Baybars al-Bunduqdarī. We will return
to this Baybars and his comrades shortly, but first let us continue with developments in
Egypt.15
Aybak had surely been frustrated by the problems he had hitherto encountered trying to
rule, and thus took the opportunity to bolster his position. Almost immediately after dispos-
ing of the Baḥriyya, he got rid of the Ayyūbid puppet ruler, al-Ashraf Mūsā, and declared
himself sultan, with the royal title of al-Malik al-Muʿizz (“the King who brings glory”);
coins, however, were still struck in the name of al- Ṣāliḥ Ayyūb, with Aybak as his viceroy!
Aybak also sought the hand of a “princess” from far away: the daughter of Badr al-Dīn
Lu’lu’, ruler of Mosul. This brought about a final rupture with his erstwhile wife, Shajar
al-Durr (who had been an ally of the Baḥriyya). In a series of events worthy of Games of
Throne, Shajar al-Durr murdered her husband (April 1257), and she was in turn killed by
his concubines. Unable to decide on one of their own to rule, the military grandees (now
bereft of most of the Baḥriyya) raised Aybak’s son fifteen-year-old son, ʿAlī to the throne
with the royal name of al-Malik al-Manṣūr. The regime’s strongman was Quṭuz, Aybak’s
trusted Mamlūk. Here we see what will be a pattern throughout most of the Mamlūk period:
a ruling sultan—himself a former Mamlūk officer—dies a natural death or otherwise; the
powerful officers are unable to agree on a successor, or none of them is strong enough to
force the issue, and so the late ruler’s son is appointed. The latter invariably plays the role
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of a puppet ruler, with one or more of the senior officers acting as the power behind the
throne. This present charade was put to an end in November 1259: with the approach of the
Mongols, it was clear to the political and military elite that a strong leader was needed. The
hapless boy sultan was replaced by Quṭuz, who took the royal title of al-Malik al-Muẓaffar
(“The Victorious King”).16 In retrospect, this was surely a good thing for the Mamlūks
military class, the Egyptian and Syrian populations and perhaps the Muslims in a more
general sense.
In the meantime, things had been busy in Syria. The presence of Baybars and his
comrades from the Baḥriyya was a catalyst for political and military troubles among the
Ayyūbid princes. Originally, the Baḥriyya attached themselves to al-Nāṣir Yūsuf, ruler of
Damascus and Aleppo, but eventually relations between him and Baybars soured, leading to
fighting near Nablus in October 1257. The Baḥriyya, discomforted in this engagement, then
joined up with al-Mughīth ʿUmar, Ayyūbid prince of Karak in Transjordan. Here Baybars
and company continued their encouragement of an attack on Egypt, and in at the end of
November of that year, a small army under Baybars drew close to Cairo, but was repulsed.
Still undeterred, Baybars and his supporters again tried their luck in March 1258 against the
Mamlūk regime in Cairo, and were again defeated. Thereupon began a confused period in
which part of the time Baybars and various groups of troopers were independently active
in Palestine, mostly against the troops and interests of al-Nāṣir Yūsuf. Yet, by early 1259,
Baybars was reconciled with the al-Nasir, and with some of his comrades was back in his
service in Damascus.17
At this point, we might ask ourselves two questions: first, what about the Franks,
local and from across the sea; and second, what about the ever-approaching Mongols?
Regarding the former question it appears that ever since Louis IX had left the country in
late April 1254,18 the Frankish-Ayyūbid frontier had generally been quiet. Not only were
the Muslim rulers preoccupied with their own affairs but also the local Franks had neither
time nor energy for their traditional adversaries. The one significant exception to this rela-
tive quiet was a Frankish raid in January 1256 in the area between Ashkelon and Gaza,
and the resulting Muslim attack on Jaffa. Besides booty and some destruction of the coun-
tryside, nothing was accomplished by this fighting, perhaps with the exception of keeping
alive Christian–Muslim enmity.19 It was not long after that the “War of Saint Sabas” com-
menced in Acre between the Genoese and the Venetians (and their respective allies), cer-
tainly reducing the ability of the Franks in Acre (and beyond) to launch campaigns against
Muslim-controlled territory.20
THE COMING OF THE MONGOLS

The matter of the Mongols, who were very soon to change the whole nature of politics and
warfare in the region, is a weighty one. This is not the place to discuss in any detail the rise
of the Mongol empire under Chinggis Khan (d. 1227) and its expansion south into China,
and westward across Asia, reaching eastern Europe by the late 1230s (as we have seen
above), and we will limit ourselves to a few remarks.21 The first Mongol invasion of the
Islamic world began in 1219 under the direct command of the great conqueror. This cam-
paign covered what is today known as Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, northern Afghanistan and
north-east Iran, although one column reached western Iran before turning north and advanc-
ing through Azerbaijan and the Caucasus. Chinggis Khan and most of his army returned
to the eastern Steppe in 1223, but smaller Mongol forces remained in the area, and over
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the next three decades expanded the area under Mongol control, including all of Iran, the
Caucasus, most of Anatolia, with occasional raids into Upper Mesopotamia and northern
Syria.22 In the mid-1250s, a new wave of Mongol campaigns in the whole region began with
the arrival of a large army under Hülegü, grandson of Chinggis Khan and brother of the
Great Khan Möngke (r. 1251–59). Hülegü’s orders included re-organizing all territories that
had hitherto been conquered by the Mongols, gaining the surrender of the Nizārī Ismāʿīlīs
(known in the West as the Assassins) in their mountain fortresses, obtaining the submission
of the ʿAbbāsid caliph in Baghdad, and pushing on to Egypt, enacting in all conquered ter-
ritories the “law (yasa) of Chinggis Khan.” By the end of 1259, Hülegü had taken almost
all the Ismāʿīlī fortresses (killing also their leader), had conquered Baghdad (also executing
the caliph and most of his family), had consolidated Mongol rule in the entire region, and
was poised to enter north Syria.23
Al-Nāṣir Yūsuf, the Ayyūbid ruler of Syria, made some efforts to organize its forces
to meet the Mongol invasion, while conducting desultory negotiations with Hülegü. The
ability of the Ayyūbid regime to meet the upcoming Mongol challenge was surely com-
promised by activities of both high civilian officials and princes to strike deals with the
enemy: at least one of the former, Zayn al-Dīn al-Ḥāfiẓī, was actively working on behalf
of the Mongols, to weaken moral and to confuse planning. The lion’s share of the Ayyūbid
army was with al-Nāsir outside of Damascus, but there were forces to the north, primarily as
garrisons. Around the beginning of 1260, a large Mongol army under the Ilkhan24 crossed
the Euphrates, entering northern Syria. It soon invested Aleppo, taking it after one week
(January 25), with much killing and looting (from which local Christians and Jews seemed
to have at least been partially protected); the citadel held up for another month, eventually
surrendering and its defenders spared. Meanwhile, Mongol forces began to spread through-
out the country, and soon an advanced division under Kitbuga, Hülegü’s most trusted gen-
eral, moved south.25
At Damascus, matters soon came to ahead. Even before the Mongol takeover of north
Syria, al-Nāṣir Yūsuf’s position had become even weaker. Baybars—who had despaired
of a concerted or effective resistance to the Mongols in Syria under this ruler—had joined
a conspiracy to remove him. When this plan fell through, he left with his supporters and
some allies for Gaza, and from there made his way back to Egypt, effecting a reconcilia-
tion with his old enemy Quṭuz (March 1260). When news arrived of Aleppo’s fall, al-Nāṣir
Yūsuf lost his nerve, and fled with part of his army to the south. Reaching Gaza, he soon
made his way to Egypt, approaching Cairo, with the hope of a rapprochement with Quṭuz.
However, al-Nāṣir’s fears got the better of him, and he then turned around, heading east.
Mongol scouts caught up with him in Transjordan. He was brought before Hülegü, and
later—after ʿAyn Jālūt—executed. So ended Ayyūbid rule over the main parts of Syria.
In Damascus, pro-Mongol elements asserted themselves, and Kitbuga soon arrived to take
over. Mongol administrators and governors were appointed in Damascus and elsewhere,
and Mongol raiders and scouts were soon spreading out over Palestine and Transjordan,
reaching Jerusalem and as far south as Gaza.26
From the beginning of his reign, Quṭuz had adopted a resolute attitude toward the
Mongols. This policy was surely reinforced when he learnt that toward the end of winter,
Hülegü had withdrawn from north Syria with the bulk of his troops, leaving behind as
governor Kitbuga with a division of about 10,000 men.27 When in the late spring Mongol
envoys arrived in Cairo carrying a bellicose letter from Hülegü, calling on the Mamlūks to
unconditionally surrender, Quṭuz had them all cut in half, and their heads hung up around
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Cairo. The die was now cast for a confrontation, to the chagrin of some of the Mamlūk
officers, who were far from one mind regarding the wisdom of challenging the Mongols.
In mid-July 1260, the Mamlūk army left Cairo for Syria. At Gaza, it ran into a Mongol for-
ward force, repulsing it before continuing up the coast. At Acre, around the end of August,
the Franks wisely decided to adopt a neutral attitude in the upcoming conflict, but passed
on supplies to the nearby Mamlūks, who soon entered the Valley of Esdraelon, heading
south-east looking for the Mongols; the vanguard was under the command of Baybars.28
The Mongols had taken up position in the plain to the north of the Gilboa Mountains, near
the Spring of Goliath (ʿAyn Jālūt in Arabic, the bliblical ʿEin Ḥarōd). The two armies came
into contact on Friday, September 3, 1260; after a long and difficult battle, the Mamlūks
emerged victorious. Kitbuga was killed in the fighting and the Mongols abandoned Syria.
The Mamlūks occupied the country up to the Euphrates, earning much prestige and explod-
ing the myth of Mongol invincibility.29
In order to understand the background to this Mamlūk victory, and their continued suc-
cess in the wars against the Mongols, lets look at what one of the Mamlūk historians them-
selves write. Aḥmad Ibn Faḍl Allāh al-ʿUmarī (d. 1349), a senior bureaucrat in Syria and
author of a comprehensive encyclopedia, writes in the section on the Mongols:
And the Turks of these lands [i.e., the Mongol state of the Golden Horde, in the southern
Russian Steppe] are the best Turkish race, because of their faithfulness and bravery and
their shunning treachery … they constitute the overwhelming majority of the Egyptian
army, for since the time that al-Malik al-Ṣāliḥ Najm al-Dīn Ayyūb had made his mind
to buy Qipchaqi Mamlūks, the sultans and commanders of this country have been of
these Turks. Then, when the rule [of Egypt] passed into their hands, their kings inclined
toward the people of their own race, and they decided to increased their numbers, until
Egypt had become populated and protected by means of them … Islam had praised their
stand in the protection of the Muslim religion as well as their waging the holy war in
the name of God, against their own relatives and against the people of their own race.
Their first victory over the Mongols in the battle of ʿAyn Jālūt is sufficient [to give them
praise and glory]. The Egyptian army had succeeded where all the kings of the earth
had failed.30
Here the point is made that the Mamlūks had fought well, in spite of their ethnic closeness
to the Mongols. In fact, this ethnic affinity (and thus similar fighting methods) made possi-
ble for concerted and successful resistance to the Mongols. Another writer, the Damascene
jurist and historian Abū Shāma (d. 1268), puts it in even more unequivocal terms:
The amazing thing is that the Mongols were defeated and annihilated by people of their
own race (bi-anbā’ jinsihim) from among the Turks. I said about this:
The Mongols conquered the land and there came to them
From Egypt a Turk, who sacrificed his life.
In Syria he destroyed and scattered them.
To everything there is a pest of its own kind (min jinsihi).31
Thus, to the minds of learned Arabic-speaking Muslims, the combination of military abili-
ties (similar to those of their Mongol “cousins”) and commitment to jihād are the keys to
330
understanding the ongoing Mamlūk successes to defeat the Mongols and to keep them at
bay.32 These two elements also played a major role in the ultimate Mamlūk victory over the
Franks in the Levant.
Quṭuz, the victor at ʿAyn Jālūt, did not long enjoy the glory of his success. The Mongol
danger had been removed, at least for now, and internal struggles within the Mamlūk lead-
ership soon reappeared. Baybars, who had been reunited with the Sultan in the face of the
Mongol danger, was now part of a conspiracy (and maybe its leader) that assassinated
Quṭuz on October 23, 1260. After some discussion and political jostling, Baybars was
elected sultan by the senior Mamlūk commanders, launching a seventeen-year reign that
would be very formative for the Mamlūk state, have a decisive impact on the Franks in the
Levant, and also be of significant consequence for the Mongols in both Iran (the Ilkhanate)
and southern Russia (the Golden Horde).33 After a two-year interregnum, when two of
Baybars’ sons were sultans (in name, if not always in fact), his comrade Qalāwūn al-Alfī
took the throne, adopting the regal title of al-Malik al-Manṣūr (“The [Divinely Assisted]
Victorious King”). Qalāwūn worked to consolidate Baybars’ achievements, ruling until his
death in 1290; he also made more significant inroads into Frankish territory.34 He, in turn,
was succeeded by his son, al-Malik al-Ashraf Khalīl (“The Most Noble King,” r. 1290–93),
whose great accomplishment was the conquest Acre in 1291, thus putting an effective end
to the Frankish polity in the region.35 We will examine the following themes over the reigns
of all three sultans: the strengthening of military and state institutions; the war with the
Mongols; and, the conflict with the Franks. We will conclude with some brief remarks about
the culture and society under the early Mamlūks and the long-term history of the sultanate,
which remained the leading power in the region until its demise in 1517 at the hands of the
Ottomans.
THE MAMLŪK SULTANATE COMES

INTO ITS OWN
After a somewhat chaotic first decade, the Mamlūk state was now set to become more
organized and institutionalized. Led by a military elite, and born in war with serious and
determined enemies, this polity was infused with a martial ethos and an ideology of holy
war (jihād). Probably at no other time in Islamic history has the state and the army been so
intertwined.36 This was not a chance occurrence, resulting from the culmination of unco-
ordinated actions by a ruling group, but to a large degree, the result of the decisions and
actions of one individual, Sultan Baybars al-Bunduqdarī, who took the royal title of al-
Malik al-Ẓāhir (“The Triumphant King”) upon his accession in the fall of 1260.
At the center of Baybars’ activities was the expansion and strengthening of the army.
Under his rule, both the Egyptian and the Syrian armies probably doubled in size, and they
underwent frequent drilling in the hippodromes, along with inspections to check equipment
and general readiness. The ongoing campaigns in Syria and beyond the frontier there (espe-
cially against the Armenian Kingdom in Cilicia) provided ample opportunity for ongoing
“hands-on” practice of individual skills, small and large unit training, and the inculcation of
esprit de corps. A logistic system to equip and feed such an army, which probably numbered
some 40,000 troopers (not all of them, however, going on campaign at a given time), was
set up, although we have little information about it. The vast majority of the soldiers were
mounted archers, so much attention and many resources were devoted to procuring, training,
and maintaining horses, not the least during campaigns in Syria, since most of the Mamlūk
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army was based in Egypt. The bulk of the cavalry were Mamlūks, organized in the corps of
Royal Mamlūks (al-mamālīk al-sulṭāniyya), and in the units of the amirs (umarā’, plural of
amīr), “officers,” who generally commanded units of 100, 40, or 10 Mamlūks (this could
be flexible, certainly in the early period). Baybars had some 4000 personal Mamlūks (the
Ẓāhiriyya), while Qalāwūn purchased at least 6000 (the Manṣūriyya). Most of these were
Turks, although other ethnic groups were represented, including some Mongols of various
provenance. Qalāwūn also established a large sub-unit known as the Burjiyya (“[those liv-
ing in] the towers [of the Cairo Citadel]”), composed of Circassians from the Caucasus. In
addition, there were many battalions of Ḥalqa (“ring,” as in the circle surrounding the ruler,
or perhaps that encircling the enemy), composed mainly of non-Mamlūk troopers: sons of
Mamluks, Kurds, Muslims military refugees from neighboring countries, not insignificant
Mongol deserters, and even some declassé Mamlūks. These Ḥalqa soldiers were all cavalry,
and in fact, in the early Mamlūk period, were of a fairly high quality; the abilities and readi-
ness of Ḥalqa formation, however, declined over time. In addition, there were specialist
units, such as sappers and engineers to build and operate trebuchets and other machines of
war. In Syria, there were also units of foot archers (uqciyya) and other infantry, especially
in the border fortresses. Civilians, on the whole, did not fight in the Mamlūks armies, but in
frontier areas, some were used to combat, and could take part in defense or even offensive
operations if necessary.37
In order to build and maintain such a large military force, two conditions had to be met:
a continual and organized supply of young Mamlūks (as sons of Mamlūks—awlād al-nās—
could not serve in elite Mamlūk units, but only in the secondary Ḥalqa); and, the command-
ers and their soldiers needed to be paid. Building on earlier traditions, the supply of young
Mamlūks generally continued on an annual basis. Young candidates for “mamlūkhood,”
as well as young girls destined for concubinage or domestic slavery, were collected from
the realm of the Golden Horde (with the agreement of the authorities there), and were
brought to the trading cities of Crimea. There Muslim merchants were involved, as were
ships from the sultanate. The Genoese, however, played a major role in transporting these
young Qipchaq slaves (as well as the occasion Mongol and others who were swept up in this
trade), and their importance increased with over time. From the Black Sea, the ships car-
rying the slaves passed the Bosporus with the agreement of the Byzantine ruler (Anatolia,
under Mongol rule, was now impassable for this trade). Emperor Michael Palaeologus had
expelled the Latin rulers and their Venetian allies in 1261, permitting the establishing of a
Genoese colony, again to the advantage of the trade in young Mamlūks.38 Once in Egypt or
Syria, the young slaves were bought by agents of the sultan or officers, thus beginning their
years of training.39 For the economic support of the Mamlūk—the troops in the units and
their commanders—the agricultural lands of Egypt and Syria were divided up into iqṭāʿāt,
allocations that were awarded to officers, who continued to reside in the cities, but collected
the taxes from the agricultural yields. The iqṭāʿ did not mean local administration, and gen-
erally were not passed on to heirs. Rather, the iqṭāʿ system represented a relatively efficient
way to transfer the surplus from the countryside to the military-political elite, including the
ruling sultan, who also enjoyed extensive revenues from this source. With these revenues,
the iqṭāʿ-holders would support their households, train their personal Mamlūks and then
support them in the long run.40
Baybars also established efficient communications systems to enable the rapid transfer-
ence of urgent military and political information between Syria and Egypt. This included
a network of postal horse relays connecting the important cities of Syria with Cairo, the
332
capital, a pigeon post, and lines of bonfires from the Euphrates frontier to send word of an
impending Mongol raid or invasion.41 Once news reached the sultan (whether in Egypt or
Syria), he could dispatch or lead the Egyptian troops, concentrated in Cairo.42 Fighting with
the Mongols tended to be in the winter months; the Mongols had even larger cavalry-based
armies, and needed both the water then available in the riverbeds and the fresh grasslands
to nourish their mounts.43 For the Mamlūks, the movement of large numbers of troops (and
animals) in winter meant crossing many full riverbeds in Syria. To meet this challenge,
Baybars constructed or rebuilt a number of bridges in southern Syria to expedite the move-
ment of his armies with relative ease.44
Fortifications also received the attention of the Mamlūk rulers. Overall, castles and forti-
fied cities were destroyed on the coast as they were taken from the Franks (more about that
below), while those further inland were rebuilt, well maintained and garrisoned.45 Thus,
Baybars states in the mid-1265, in an announcement issued after the conquest of Arsūf
(Apollonia) and Caesarea in Palestine:
One part [of the Muslim armies] uproots Frankish fortresses, and destroys [their] castles,
while [another] part rebuilds what the Mongols destroyed in the east and increases the
height of their ramparts.46
Special attention was devoted to keeping up the morale of the inhabitants of the frontier
fortresses, especially Bīra and Raḥba along the Euphrates. We learn that:
The people [in the frontier castles] were reassured that the Sultan [Baybars] did not
neglect an act, [but rather] carried it out, and he did not abandon his servants. The hearts
of the castle defenders were calmed at this, and they said: “The Sultan moves quickly
to our aid and his armies reach the besieging enemy before news [of these approaching
armies] comes.47
An important component of military preparedness is intelligence gathering, and starting

with Baybars, a far-reaching and well-organized foreign espionage service was set up. This
included a director in Cairo who was a trusted personal of the sultan; a special, secret gov-
ernment office (dīwān) for payments; covert operatives (quṣṣād, sing. qāṣid, literally “cou-
riers”) who deep went into enemy territory to make contacts with local informants. We find
the Mamlūk espionage operators active among the Franks, the Mongols and the Armenians,
bringing information about impending attacks, political changes and other important mat-
ters, along with regular scouts (usually called kashshāfa) active in the frontier area.48
Baybars’ activities, however, were not limited only to the strictly military sphere. He
reestablished the ʿAbbāsid caliphate in Cairo, after its extinction in Baghdad in 1258, hav-
ing a scion of the ʿAbbāsid family acknowledged in 1261 and given the title of al-Mustanṣir.
During this carefully orchestrated ceremony, this new caliph’s first act was to transfer all
executive power to Sultan Baybars, as well as authority over all territories that will be con-
quered by him. Henceforth, Baybars was also known as qasīm amīr al-mu’minīn, “the asso-
ciate of the Commander of the Faithful.” The importance of this epithet, which was surely
to strengthen the sultan’s legitimacy in the eyes of the Muslim subjects, can be seen in that
it is found in the gold and silver coins issued by Baybars and his successors.49
The Mamlūk sultans also strove to integrate Syria into a centralized state controlled from
the Egyptian capital. In this, they were following the precedent set by their patron al-Ṣāliḥ
333
Ayyūb, who would not abide the confusion and difficulties experiences of the earlier
Ayyūbid rulers of Egypt with their recalcitrant and all-but-independent family members
in Syria. Over major cities (Damascus, Aleppo, Hama, Homs and Karak, later Gaza, Safad
and Tripoli, but note, usually not Jerusalem) were appointed governors (nuwwāb, plural of
nā’ib) directly by the sultan. Each governor answered directly to the Sultan, and usually,
the commander of the local urban citadels did likewise.50 This process was intensified even
further under Qalāwūn and his successors, and was to remain in place until the end of the
Mamlūk rule in Syria in 1516.51
THE ONGOING STRUGGLE WITH THE MONGOLS

The Mongols were the most important foreign concern of the Mamlūks for sixty years start-
ing from 1260, and they long remained a significant factor in their thinking. The Mongols
in Iran and the surrounding countries, the so-called Ilkhanate, were the most serious ene-
mies of the sultanate. For the Mamlūk leadership it was clear that they had defeated only
a small Mongol force at ʿAyn Jālūt, and it was just a question of time before the Mongols
would return in force to avenge their defeat. At the same time, the “Golden Horde,” the
Mongol state to the north of the Black Sea and the Caucasus, was the most important ally
of the Mamlūk sultanate. As noted above, this was the main source for young Mamlūks,
the lifeblood of the sultanate; in addition, from the winter of 1261–62, the khans (rulers)
of the Golden Horde were at war with their (literal) cousins, the Ilkhans. Although many
of the rulers of the Golden Horde were Muslims (as compared to shamanist and Buddhist
Ilkhans), the struggle was apparently not mainly a religious one, but rather for control of
the Caucasus and Azerbaijan, as well as tax revenues and other concrete matters. This
“civil war” in the Mongol ruling family was of course a great boon to the Mamlūks, since
the Ilkhanid Mongols were frequently pre-occupied with these wars (and those with the
Chaghatayid Mongols from Central Asia).
However, this recurrent fighting in the north did not free the Mamlūks from almost exis-
tential dread of the Mongols from over the Euphrates, and they reacted accordingly. Most of
the military measures described above were directed first and foremost toward this danger.
There was virtually no year in the first two decades after ʿAyn Jālūt where there was not
some fighting on the frontier, and sometimes in the north of Syria. Already at the end of
1260, another Mongol force—of about 6000 horsemen—was back in the country, and was
defeated by the combined forces from Aleppo, Hama and Homs, near the last mentioned
location. In the aftermath of these two battles, it was clear to the Mamlūk leadership that
it was only a matter of time until the Mongols would come back again, most probably in
force. They could not know then, of course, that only in 1281 would conditions be such that
a large Mongol army would be back. Meanwhile, over the years they tried to take the border
fortress of Bīra, in a small Mamlūk-controlled enclave on the east of the Euphrates (today
in Turkey): 1265, 1272, and 1275. Later, Raḥba further south was the focus of Mongol
attacks: the Ilkhans Gazan and Öljeitü in 1303 and 1312 respectively put it under siege, but
were unable to take it (although possibly, at least according to pro-Mongolian sources, the
governors made symbolic submissions). Time and again, with news of impending Mongol
invasions or even raids, there was massive mobilization of the Mamlūk armies in Egypt and
Syria, and frenzied preparations were made to meet this possible challenge. Overall, the
Mamlūk leadership was not ready to let the frontier be breached or northern Syria be taken
by default. To keep the Mongols off their guard, Mamlūk forces (either regular troops from
334
the center and from the fortresses or Bedouin irregulars) raided across the frontier and col-
lected intelligence. Another tactic to make life difficult for the advancing Mongols was to
set grasslands in the frontier area on fire, and thus to reduce available pastureland so neces-
sary for the Mongol armies.52
In the framework of the present volume, I will note in a little more detail one Mongol
raid. In 1271, a Mongol force of some 1500 horsemen raided in north Syria, with another
10,000 or so waiting along the Euphrates for further orders. This particular raid was in con-
juncture with the Franks, particularly Prince Edward of England who had arrived in Acre
with some troops earlier that year. This is how Abaga Ilkhan (1265–82) is reported to have
responded to Edward’s original letter:
After talking over the matter, we have on our account resolved to send to your aid
Cemakar [Samagar, commander of Mongol forces in Upper Mesopotamia] of a mighty
force; thus, when you discuss among yourselves the other plans involving the for-
mentioned Cemakar be sure to make explicit arrangements as to the exact month and day
on which you will engage the enemy.53
Yet, no meeting or practical coordination between the Franks and Mongols was effected at
this time, Edward dissipating his strength on pointless raids in Palestine. The opportunity
for a potentially effective coordinated campaign between the Franks and the Mongols was
wasted, largely due to Edward’s dithering. The Mongol force in north Syria eventually
withdrew with the approach of a Mamlūk army, when it became clear that there would be
no help from the Franks in Acre. The Mamlūks were aware of these contacts between the
Mongols and Franks, a point to which I will return below.54
As mentioned above, the Mamlūks at times took the war across the frontier, again usu-
ally with success. The most serious of these campaigns was Baybars’ 1276 invasion of
Anatolia, then ruled by the Seljuqs of Rūm, vassals of the Mongols. The local Mongol gar-
rison of the country was defeated at Abulstayn (today Elbistan in southeastern Turkey), and
Baybars advanced as far as the Seljuq capital at Caesarea (Kaiseri) in the center of the coun-
try. It was, however, impossible to hold the country, and Baybars withdrew before a new
advancing Mongol army; the sultan died soon afterwards in Damascus (1277).55 The next
stage of the Mongol–Mamlūk war was early in the reign of his comrade Qalāwūn: already in
1280 there were Mongol probes, and the following year, an enormous army (perhaps even
80,000 troops, mostly cavalry) invaded the country. Qalāwūn mobilized the Egyptian army,
and moved into Syria. Joined by local Mamlūk forces, the two armies met north of Homs
on October 29, 1281. After difficult fighting and much uncertainly, the Mamlūks emerged
victorious; the long-term efforts to build the Mamlūk military machine by Baybars had
proven itself.56
Over the next fifteen years, the Mamlūk-Ilkhanid struggle was somewhat muted, although
there was occasional fighting along the border. Between 1282 and 1284, during the short
reign of Tegüder Aḥmad Ilkhan, there were desultory peace negotiations. Some scholars
have thought that Tegüder, a long-time convert to Islam, was sincere in his démarche, while
others detect the traditional Mongol truculence (albeit more subtly expressed) and calls for
Mamlūk surrender.57 In any case, these discussions via missives and ambassadors came to
naught, and ended with Tegüder’s death after his removal from office by his nephew Argun
(1284–91). This new Ilkhan, an unequivocal Buddhist, devoted much effort—like that of
his father, Abaga, ultimately unsuccessful—to organizing a military alliance with the West.
335
The most famous of these Ilkhanid embassies was that of the important Nestorian cleric,
Rabbān Ṣauma, who in 1287 met with the kings of France and England, and the follow-
ing year with the new pope, Nicholas IV; luckily the story of this trip has been preserved
in some detail by an anonymous account in Syriac.58 Under Abaga’s successor, Geikhatu
(1291–95), there was virtually no anti-Mamlūk initiative on the diplomatic or military front,
which did not prevent the Mamlūks themselves from taking the initiative. In 1292, fresh
from his victory at Acre, Sultan al-Ashraf Khalīl, took the Armenian fortress Qalʿat al-Rūm
(Hromgla), in Mongol controlled eastern Anatolia, and was threatening to invade Iraq to
retake Baghdad when he was assassinated.59 Matters began to heat up along the frontier in
the second half of the 1290s, after the accession of Gazan Maḥmūd to the Ilkhanid throne
in 1295. This ruler, son of Argun and thus the great-grandson of Hülegü, became a Muslim
during the struggle for the throne with his cousin Baidu, and henceforth, the Ilkhanate can
be called a Muslim state. The implications for the Mongol–Mamlūk war were great, but
that goes beyond the framework of this chapter. We may note just that between 1299 and
1303, Gazan (who died in 1304) launched three large campaigns. In spite of a setback in
December 1300, when the Mamlūks were defeated near Homs and the Mongols occupied
Syria for some 100 days, in the long run the Mamlūks kept control of the country. By 1320,
negotiations began between the two powers that resulted in a treaty in 1323, leading to a
peace that remained in force until the dissolution of the Ilkhanate in 1335.60
To what might we attribute this ultimate success of the Mamlūks over the Mongols, who
had a much larger army? Several reasons can be considered: the similarity of fighting tech-
niques (disciplined masses of mounted archers) on both sides; the logistical problems faced
by the Mongols (although the Mamlūks needed to deal with some of the same problems);
the Mamlūks were fighting on home turf, enjoying civilian support (most of the time) and
having supply bases and castles nearby. Of great significance was the ongoing conflict—
alluded to above—between the Mongols of the Ilkhanate with those of the Golden Horde
and the Chaghatayid Khanate of Central Asia (to a lesser degree). This often prevented
the Ilkhanids from devoting all of their attention to the Mamlūks, in spite of unequivocal
bellicose rhetoric toward them and clear aspirations to take Syria and then to eradicate this
enemy. In fact, it was the inability (and perhaps unwillingness) to devote themselves to
the Mamlūk enemy, due to external and internal matters, that surely stymied the Mongol
effort on the Syrian front. The Mamlūk leadership, however, clearly recognized the Ilkhanid
Mongols as an existential enemy, and prepared themselves accordingly. This single-minded
devotion to the Mongol danger gave the Mamlūks the strategic edge in this struggle, along
with other reasons adduced above.61
ACTIVITIES VIS-À-VIS THE FRANKS

IN THE LEVANT
When not dealing with the Mongol peril, the Mamlūks frequently devoted themselves to
reducing the Frankish presence in the Levant. This was not a forgone conclusion in the
aftermath of ʿAyn Jālūt and the establishment of Mamlūk rule in Syria. There is not a priori
reason to think that the Mamlūks would change the policies of the Ayyūbids, which gener-
ally meant a continuation of the status quo with the Franks. True, the Mamlūk sultanate
was a military state, which earlier had adopted a public jihādī ethos that had been forged in
encounters, such as against the Franks at Manṣūra in 1250 and the Mongols at ʿAyn Jālūt
in 1260. This may have contributed to increased truculence against the Franks. I believe,
336
however, that something more concrete was involved. This is the growing understanding by
the Mamlūk leadership that the Franks of Syria, as well as those in Europe, were increas-
ingly in contact with the Ilkhanid Mongols, in order to come to some type of agreement with
regard to a joint campaign against the Mamlūks. For example, after the Mongols attacked
the frontier fortress of Bīra in 1265 (withdrawing with the approach of a large Mamlūk
army), Baybars wrote to the castellan of Jaffa to complain about the Frankish leaders in
Syria: “This people have committed many offences against me, such as their writing to
the Mongols to attack my territories.”62 The possibility of real Mongol-Frankish military
cooperation was the Mamlūks’ worst nightmare. They might be able to deal with each
enemy individually, but the possibility of fighting simultaneously on two fronts, let alone a
combined enemy on one battlefield, was more than the Mamlūks could abide. I can suggest
that in order to pre-empt such a possibility, and to generally weaken the Frankish presence
in Syria, the Mamlūks under Baybars initiated a systematic program of conquering Frankish
castles and fortified cities, invariably when the war with the Mongols was in abeyance. In
the case of coastal cities, generally the fortifications and harbors were at least partially dis-
mantled (the statements of the written sources to the effect that these were totally destroyed
is belied by the extant fortifications today). The aim was clearly to deny the Franks as much
as possible potential facilities for bringing troops, horses and supplies, not the least so that
they could not combine forces with the Mongols.63 As we have seen above, this potential for
Mongol–Frankish cooperation was never realized, even when a small crusading army—as
under Edward of England in 1271—was present in the country.
There had been some somewhat inconsequential skirmishing with the Franks in the early
1260s, but fighting began in earnest in 1263, with the attacks against Nazareth, the taking
of Mt. Tabor and the raids in the environs of Acre. In 1265, the first serious offensives were
carried, resulting in the conquest of Arsūf (Apollonia) and Qayṣariyya (Caesarea) after
well-prepared sieges. The following year, Safad was taken, also a lengthy siege, and most of
the Templar garrison was massacred. Unlike the first two cities, the fortifications and ports
of which were at least partially destroyed, Safad was rebuilt, and became the capital of a
new Mamlūk province (niyāba). In 1268, more locations were taken: Jaffa, Shaqīf Arnūn
(Beaufort) and, most significantly, Antioch, again with much bloodshed. In the first half of
1271, with news that King Louis IX of France had taken his crusading army to Tunis, and
would not be coming to Holy Land in the near future, Baybars launched a series of attacks
on various fortresses, taking many in relatively short order: Safītha/Safīta (Chastel Blanc,
of the Templars), Ḥiṣn al-Akrād (Crac des Chevaliers, of the Hospitallers), Ḥiṣn ʿAkkār
(Gibelacar, also of the Hospitallers) and al-Qurayn (Montfort, headquarters of the Teutonic
Knights). This is pretty much the end of Baybars’ campaigns against the local Franks,
although surely he and his governors were alert to renewed activity on their parts: the raids
launched by Edward of England later in 1271 occasioned a vigorous Mamlūk response.64
Under Sultan Qalāwūn, further Frankish territory was taken, but at a less frenetic rate.
Early in his reign, Qalāwūn was preoccupied with the Mongols, and in general he devoted
more attention than his comrade and illustrious predecessor to consolidating power in
Egypt. However, by 1285 he was ready to take another slice from the Frankish kingdom:
Marqab (Margat), was soon conquered, and then rehabilitated and heavily garrisoned.
Qalāwūn’s big achievement vis-à-vis the Franks was the conquest of Tripoli in 1289; the
town was destroyed, but rebuilt further inland, again becoming the center of another niyāba.
Preparations were in full swing in 1290 for a siege of Acre, but were curtailed by Qalāwūn’s
death in November of that year. A few months later, his son and successor, al-Ashraf Khalīl,
337
realized his father’s plan, and took the city (end of May 1291). Soon afterwards, the few
remaining Frankish strongholds were abandoned or surrendered and with this the political
presence of the Franks came to an end (although individual Franks and small communities
may have remained).65
Of course, relations with the Franks in these thirty-one years did not only involve fight-
ing. There was also plenty of diplomatic activity, leading at times to long-term treaties
with various entities (the Kingdom of Jerusalem centered at Acre, individual lords, the
military orders and the Italian cities). These agreements were generally very much in the
sultanate’s favor; as the stronger side, the sultan got the better deal, and could break these
agreements when necessary or convenient without too much ado. In the case of Genoa
and Venice, however, these agreements were more even handed, as befitting partners who
provided important services to the sultanate (not the least, with regard to Genoa, young
Mamlūks). We cannot survey all of these treaties, but can note that those treaties were
discussed in detail by the late Peter M. Holt, in his exemplary exposition (with full transla-
tions) in 1995: Baybars’ treaty with the Hospitallers in 1267; his treaty with Lady Isabel
of Beirut in 1269; yet another treaty with the Hospitallers in 1271, who now controlled
much less territory; Qalāwūn’s treaty with Bohemond VII of Tripoli (having lost Antioch
in 1269); Qalāwūn’s treaty with the Templars in 1282; Qalāwūn’s treaty with the Latin
kingdom in 1283; Qalāwūn’s treaty with Lady Margeret of Tyre in 1285.66 From these trea-
ties (most of which were for either ten years, or for ten years, ten months, and ten days), we
learn—sometimes en passant—of commercial relations between the Franks of the Levant
and their Muslim neighbors, even while the Mamlūk armies were pursuing a clear policy
of territorial aggrandizement at the expense of these same Franks. This is not the first or
last time in the late medieval history of the region that political and military considerations
would not get in the way of economic concerns, or rather, vibrant economic relations belied
ongoing tension in other spheres.
With the complete elimination of the Frankish entities in the Levant, it is instructive to
cite the words of the later Syrian bureaucrat and encyclopedist, Ibn Faḍl Allāh al-ʿUmarī:
If [al-Ashraf Khalīl b. Qalāwūn] had not cleansed the country [of the Franks], and not
[taken upon himsef] the duty during his reign to rid any remnant of them [there], then in
the 699/1299–1300 when the sultan Mahmud Ghazan came to the country and withdrew,
[the Franks] would have gained control of the country and annihilated the inhabitants,
taking advantage of the absence of the [Mamlūk] army, the distance of the [Mamlūk]
officers from Syria], and the disagreements [among the Muslims].67
This passage, written perhaps two generations after the disappearance of the Frankish entity,
may attribute to them too much power in its waning days, but this does clearly show the per-
ceived connection between the Franks and the Mongols, and the danger that this represented
to Mamlūk rule, at least in Syria.
THE WIDER PICTURE

In this short survey of the early Mamlūk sultanate, no mention has been made of the vigor-
ous intellectual and cultural life of both Syria and Egypt, at least partially facilitated by the
patronage of the Mamlūk elite: this included a massive construction effort of religious and
secular buildings, along with much infrastructure. The religious buildings were very often
338
supported by the creation of endowments (awqāf, the plural of waqf), which directed the
revenues from urban and rural properties toward such projects, among which were madra-
sas (Muslim religious colleges), khānqāhs and zāwiyas (ṣūfī centers), mosques, caravanse-
rais (which, in spite of their clear economic value were considered pious projects), etc. One
result was the strengthening the groups of ʿulamā’ (religious scholars) and ṣūfīs (mystics);
often the border between these two groups was unclear. Other areas of cultural and intel-
lectual activity were in the natural sciences (medicine and astronomy stand out), historical
writing and the “minor” arts (work in metal, glass and other media).68 This sets the stage for
further developments in these and related areas in the coming generations. The Mamlūks
ruled over a varied and multi-confessional society, besides Sunni Muslims, there were
Shīʿīs in Syria (and several splinter groups, mainly Druze and Nuṣayrīs), large Christian
communities in both Egypt and Syria, concentrations of Jews in both countries and a small
Samarian community in Palestine. There is concrete evidence that in the Mamlūk period
there were waves of conversion to Islam among the Christians of Syria and Egypt, setting
the stage for the demographic situation that lasted up to the nineteenth century.69
The Mamlūk sultanate in the first decades of its existence played an essential role in
stopping the Mongols in south-west Asia and bringing the Crusading presence in the Levant
to an end. The success of the Mamluks was due to the creation of a relatively centralized
state, the judicious use of available resources, the building of a large and powerful mobile
field army, outstanding leadership and a sound ideological program. In the framework of
the present volume we have concentrated on the achievements of this early period, yet we
should not forget that the Mamlūk state continued for more than another two centuries as
the leading regional power. As such, it dealt with powers big and small in all directions,
and provided a reasonably stable framework for an overall robust cultural, intellectual, eco-
nomic and social life. Thus, the period surveyed in this chapter is more than just the story
of the end of the crusading presences in the Levant or even the war against the Mongols: it
is the time in which the foundations were laid down for a quarter millennium of rule, with
great influence on regional and even world history.
NOTES
1 The initial research for this chapter was conducted with the support of Israel Science Foundation
grant no. 1676/2009, but it was written while I was a fellow at the Annemarie Schimmel Kolleg
(“History and Society of the Mamlūk Sultanate 1250–1517”) at the University of Bonn, Germany
in the fall of 2014. I am grateful to the directors and staff of the Kolleg for their warm, hospitable
support.
2 These were the two main components of the Ṣāliḥiyya, the Mamlūk regiment of al-Ṣāliḥ Ayyūb.
The Jāmadāriyya (literally: “wardrobe attendants”) were apparently a special bodyguard, while the
Baḥriyya (from baḥr, “sea,” but in this case, meaning a large river, referring to their camp on the
island of Rawḍa in Baḥr al-Nīl, or the Nile River), were also an elite body of fighters. On these
units, and al-Ṣāliḥ Ayyūb’s Mamlūks in general, see Amalia Levanoni, “The Mamlūks’ Ascent to
Power in Egypt,” Studia Islamica, 72 (1990), 124–125; idem, “The Consolidation of Aybak’s Rule:
An Example of Factionalism in the Mamlūk State,” Der Islam, 71 (1994), 241, n. 2.
3 These are metaphors for the complete disarray that the Mamlūks caused among the Franks.
4 Ibn Wāṣil (Jamāl al-Dīn Muḥammad), Mufarrij al-kurūb fī akhbār banī ayyūb, in Mohamed Rahim,
Die Chronik des ibn Wāṣil: … Untergang der Ayyūbiden und Beginn der Mamlūkenherrschaft
(Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2010), 55, 57. This seems to be the ultimate source for the rousing
passage in the chronicle by Nāṣir al-Dīn ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Muḥammad Ibn al-Furāt (d. 1405):
339
Ursula and Malcolm C. Lyons (trans.) and Jonathan S.C. Riley-Smith (intro. and notes), Ayyubids,
Mamlukes and Crusaders. Selections from the Tārīkh [sic] al-Duwal wa’l-Mulūk of Ibn al-Furāt,
(Cambridge: Heffers, 1971), I, 27–28 (Arabic text); II, 22–23 (trans.). NB: The earlier work does
not mention the role of Baybars in this episode.
5 For the fate of these Franks, see Joshua Prawer, Histoire du royaume latin de Jérusalem, trans.
G. Nahon (Paris, 1970), II, 343–344.
6 These events are surveyed in some detail in the following: Robert Irwin, The Middle East in the
Middle Ages: The Early Mamluk Sultanate 1250–1382 (London: Croom Helm, 1986), 20–27;
R.S. Humphreys, From Saladin to the Mongols: The Ayyubids of Damascus, 1193–1260 (Albany:
SUNY Press, 1977), 301–305; Julien Loiseau, Les Mamelouks, XIIIe-XVIe siècle: une experience
du pouvoir dans l’Islam médiéval (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 2014), 112–115.
7 We can note, however, that earlier in the thirteenth century, a parallel type of political entity was
established by Muslim commanders of slave origin, again mostly Turkish, in northern India and
centered at Dehli. See Peter Jackson, “The Mamlūk Institution in Early Muslim India,” Journal of
the Royal Asiatic Society, 2 (1990), 340–358.
8 Hans Gottschalk, Al-Malik Al-Kāmil von Egypten und seine Zeit. Eine Studie zur Geschichte
Vorderasiens und Egyptens in der ersten Hälfte des 7./13. Jahrhunderts (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz,
1958), 175.
9 For these events, see Humphreys, From Saladin to the Mongols, 250–265.
10 Ibn Wāṣil, ed. Rahim, 19. This is surely the origin of the oft-cited passage by al-Maqrīzī (Taqī
al-Dīn Aḥmad b. ʿAlī, d. 1441), al-Sulūk li-maʿrifat duwal al-mulūk, ed. M.M. Ziyāda and
S.ʿA. ʿĀshūr (Cairo, 1934–73), I, 339–340.
11 Al-Nuwayrī (Shihāb al-Dīn Aḥmad b. ʿAbd al-Wahhāb), Nihāyat al-arab fī funūn al-adab
(Cairo, 1992), XXIX, 417. For other sources that relate similar sentiments, see Reuven Amitai-
Preiss, Mongols and Mamlūks: The Mamlūk-Ilkhanid War, 1260–1281 (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1995), 18, n. 63.
12 See below for more on this trade in young Mamlūks. We should note that some of these young
slaves, particularly the girls, also made their way to the western–and Christian–part of the
Mediterranean, becoming there household slaves.
13 Humphreys, From Saladin to the Mongols, 314–323; Prawer, Histoire du royaume latin, II,
346–347; 14, The Middle East, 27–28; Peter Thorau, The Lion of Egypt: Sultan Baybars I and
the Near East in the Thirteenth Century, trans. Peter M. Holt (London and New York: Longman,
1992), 46–47, 52.
14 For the growing tension between the Baḥriyya and other sections of the military-political elite,
especially Aybak, see Levanoni, “The Mamlūks’ Ascent to Power,” 141–144.
15 Humphreys, From Saladin to the Mongols, 326; Irwin, The Middle East, 28. For the origins and
very early career of Baybars, see Thorau, The Lion of Egypt, 27–32. The nisba (adjective denot-
ing descent or origin ending in an –ī) of Bunduqdarī refers to Baybars’ first Mamlūk patron, the
amir (officer), ʿAlā’ al-Dīn Aydakin al-Bunduqdar. Aydakin, also originally a Mamlūk of al-Ṣāliḥ
Ayyūb, who had early in his career been the bearer (dār < Persian) of a pellet shooting arbalest
(<bunduq, lit. “hazelnut”) for his master; this weapon was used for hunting birds. Subsequently,
Baybars became a personal and close Mamlūk of al-Ṣāliḥ.
16 Irwin, The Middle East, 29; Thorau, Lion of Egypt, 51–53, 64–65; Amitai-Preiss, Mongols and
Mamlūks, 19.
17 Irwin, The Middle East, 30, succinctly summarizes these events, which are rendered in greater
detail in Thorau, The Lion of Egypt, 51–58, and Humphreys, From Saladin to the Mongols,
326–333.
18 For Louis’ activities in Palestine, see Humphreys, From Saladin to the Mongols, 321–326; Prawer,
Histoire du royaume latin, II, 339–356. Irwin (The Middle East, 30) notes that Louis was “fairly
successful” in playing off al-Nāṣir Yūsuf against the Mamlūks.
19 Prawer, Histoire du royaume latin, II, 357.
340
20 Linda Goldsmith, “St. Sabas, War of (1256–1258),” in Alan V. Murray (ed.), The Crusades: An
Encyclopedia (Santa Barbara, Denver and Oxford: ABC-CLIO, 2006), III, 1059; Prawer, Histoire
du royaume latin, II, 359–373.
21 For excellent introductions to the history of the Mongol empire, with extensive bibliographies,
see: Michal Biran, Chinggis Khan, “Makers of the Muslim World” (Oxford: One World, 2007);
David Morgan, The Mongols, 2nd ed. (Oxford, Malden MA and Carlton, Victoria: Blackwell
Publishing, 2007). The forthcoming Cambridge History of the Mongol Empire, edited by Michal
Biran and Hodong Kim, will surely be an extremely useful reference work on this particular chap-
ter in Asian, Middle Eastern and world history.
22 The best survey of this interim period is still John A. Boyle, “Dynastic and Political History of
the Īl-Khāns,” in The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 5, ed. J.A. Boyle (Cambridge: Cambridge
23 Ibid., 340–350; Amitai-Preiss, Mongols and Mamlūks, 8–17. For the wider Mongol context, see:
Thomas T. Allsen, Mongol Imperialism: The Policies of Grand Qan Möngke in China, Russia and
the Islamic Lands 1251–59 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1987).
24 Hülegü was now frequently referred to with this title, meaning probably “submissive ruler [to the
Great Khan].” It was also often applied to his successors, and thus this Mongol state is conve-
niently referred to as the Ilkhanate.
25 Humphreys, From Saladin to the Mongols, 348–351; Amitai-Preiss, Mongols and Mamlūks,
26–27; Reuven Amitai, “Im Westen nichts Neues? Re-examining Hülegü’s Offensive into the
Jazīra and Northern Syria in Light of Recent Research,” in Frank Krämer, Katharina Schmidt and
Julika Sinder (eds.), Historicizing the “Beyond”. The Mongolian Invasion as a New Dimension of
Violence? (Heidelberg: UniversitätverlagWinter Heidelberg, 2011), 83–96.
26 Thorau, The Lion of Egypt, 64–69; Humphreys, From Saladin to the Mongols, 345–348, 351–355;
Reuven Amitai, “Mongol Raids into Palestine (A.D. 1260 and 1300),” Journal of the Royal Asiatic
Society (1987), 236–55; idem, “Mongol Provincial Administration: Syria in 1260 as a Case-Study,”
in Iris Shagrir, Ronnie Ellenblum and Jonathan Riley-Smith (eds.), In Laudem Hierosolymitani:
Studies in Crusades and Medieval Culture in Honour of Benjamin Z. Kedar (Aldershot: Ashgate,
2007), 117–143.
27 For Hülegü’s withdrawal, see Amitai-Preiss, Mongols and Mamlūks, 27–29; cf. David Morgan,
“The Mongols in Syria, 1260–1300,” in Peter Edbury (ed.), Crusade and Settlement. Papers
Read at the First Conference of the Society for the Study of the Crusades and the Latin East and
Presented to R.C. Smail (Cardiff: University College Cardiff Press, 1985), 231–235; John M.
Smith, Jr., “ʿAyn Jālūt: Mamlūk Success or Mongol Failure,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies,
44 (1984), 307–345, esp. 328–345.
28 For the relations between the Franks and the Mongols at this time, see: Peter Jackson, “The
Crisis in the Holy Land in 1260,”English Historical Review, 95 (1980), 481–513, esp. 486–507;
cf. Prawer, Histoire du royaume latin, II, 425–434.
29 The most detailed description of the battle remains Reuven Amitai, “ʿAyn Jālūt Revisited,” Tārīḫ
(Philadelphia), 2 (1992), 119–150, reprinted in R. Amitai, The Mongols in the Islamic Lands:
Studies in the History of the Ilkhanate (Aldershot and Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2007); additional
bibliography in R. Amitai, “ʿAyn Jālūt,” Encyclopdaedia of Islam, 3rd ed., online version.
30 Al-ʿUmarī (Shihāb al-Dīn Aḥmad b. Yaḥyā ibn Faḍlallāh), Masālik al-abṣār fī ’l-mamālik
al-amṣār, partial ed. and trans. in Klaus Lech, Das Mongolische Weltreich: al-ʿUmarīs Darstellung
der mongolischen Reiche in seinem Werk Masālik al-abṣār fī ’l-mamālik al-amṣār (Wiesbaden:
Harrassowitz, 1968), 70–71 (Arabic text), 139–140 (German translation). This rendition in English
is based on that given in David Ayalon, “The Great Yāsa of Chingiz Khān. A Reexamination,”
Studia Islamica, Part C1, 36 (1972), 122–123; reprinted in D. Ayalon, Outsiders in the Lands of
Islam: Mamlūks, Mongols, and Eunuchs (London: Variorum, 1988).
31 Abū Shāma (Shihāb al-Dīn ʿAbd al-Raḥmān b. Ismāʿīl), Tarājim rijāl al-qarnayn al-sādis wa’l-
sābʿ al-maʿrūf bi’l-dhayl ʿalā al-rawḍatayn, ed. Muḥammad al-Kawtharī (Cairo: Maktab Nashr
341
al-Thiqāfa al-Islāmiyya, 1947, 208, cited and trans. by David Ayalon, “The European-Asiatic
Steppe: A Major Reservoir of Power for the Islamic World,” Proceedings of 25th Congress of
Orientalists–Moscow, 1960 (Moscow: Izdatel’stvo vostochnoy literatury, 1963), II, 47–52
[reprinted in D. Ayalon, The Mamlūk Military Society (London: Variorum, 1979)].
32 For more citations to this effect, see: Ayalon, “The Great Yāsa of Chingiz Khān,” 117–124;
Amitai-Preiss, Mongols and Mamlūks, 45, n. 119.
33 Thorau, The Lion of Egypt, is the best available survey of this sultan’s reign, with particular empha-
sis on the relations with the Franks in the Levant and Europe. Also useful is Abdul-Aziz Khowaiter,
Baibars the First: His Endeavors and Achievements (London: Green Mountain Press, 1979).
34 Linda Northrup, From Slave to Sultan: The Career of al-Manṣūr Qalāwūn and the Consolidation
of Mamlūk Rule in Egypt and Syria (678–689 A.H./1279–1290 A.D.) (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner
Verlag, 1998).
35 There is no biography of this sultan, nor a detailed review of his reign. However, this energetic
ruler’s deeds (ended abruptly when he was assassinated by a group of senior officers who were
dismayed by some of his policies) are surveyed in the following general works on the Mamlūks,
which are also very informative for the entire period discussed here: Irwin, The Middle East; Peter
M. Holt, The Age of the Crusades: The Near East from the Eleventh Century to 1517 (London
and New York: Longman, 1986); Linda Northrup, “The Baḥrī Mamlūk Sultanate, 1250–1390,” in
Carl Petry (ed.), The Cambridge History of Egypt, vol. 1: Islamic Egypt, 540–1517 (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1998), 242–289.
36 Reuven Amitai, “Dealing with Reality: Early Mamlūk Military Policy and the Allocation of
Resources,” in Stefan Leder (ed.), Crossroads between Latin Europe and the Near East: Frankish
Presence in the Eastern Mediterranean (12th to 14th Centuries) (Würzburg: Ergon Verlag, 2011),
127; idem, “Mamlūks, Franks and Mongols: A Necessary but Impossible Triangle,” in Robert
Hillenbrand, Firuza Abdullaeva and Andrew Peacock (eds.), Ferdowsi, the Mongols and the
History of Iran: Art, Literature and Culture from Early Islam to Qajar Persia (Charles Melville
Festschrift) (London: I.B. Tauris, 2013), 140.
37 For Baybars’ organization of the army, see Amitai-Preiss, Mongols and Mamlūks, 71–74; for
Qalāwūn’s purchase of Mamlūks and his military policy, see Northrup, From Slave to Sultan,
183–199; for the organization of the Mamlūk army, see David Ayalon, “Studies on the Structure
of the Mamlūk Army,” Bulletin of the School of Asian and African Studies, 15/2 (1953), 203–228;
15/3 (1953), 448–476; 16/1 (1954), 57–90 (reprinted in D. Ayalon, Studies on the Mamlūks of
Egypt (1250–1517) [London: Variorum, 1977]; for the infantry in the Mamlūk army and the role
of civilians, see Reuven Amitai, “Foot Soldiers, Militiamen and Volunteers in the Early Mamlūk
Army,” in Chase F. Robinson (ed.), Texts, Documents and Artifacts: Islamic Studies in Honour of
D.S. Richards (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 2003), 232–249.
38 Andrew Ehrenkreutz, “Strategic Implications of the Slave Trade between Genoa and Mamluk
Egypt in the Second Half of the Thirteenth Century,” in Avram L. Udovitch (ed.), The Islamic
Middle East, 700–1900: Studies in Economic and Social History (Princeton: Darwin Press,
1981), 335–345; Reuven Amitai, “Diplomacy and the Slave Trade in the Eastern Mediterranean:
A Re-examination of the Mamlūk-Byzantine-Genoese Triangle in the Late Thirteenth Century
in Light of the Existing Early Correspondence,” Oriente Moderno, NS, 87/2 (2008), 349–368
[Special issue entitled: Les relations diplomatiques entre le monde musulman et l’occident latin
(XIIe-XVIe siècle), ed. Denise Aigle and Pascal Buresi].
39 David Ayalon, L’esclavage du Mamelouk, “Oriental Notes and Studies,” No. 1 (Jerusalem: Israel
Oriental Society, 1951) [reprinted in D. Ayalon, The Mamlūk Military Society (London: Variorum,
1979)]; see also the forthcoming two articles by Yehoshua Frenkel, “Some Notes Concerning the
Trade and Education of Slave-Soldiers during the Mamlūk Era” and Amir Mazor, “The Early
Experience of the Mamlūk in the First Period of the Mamlūk Sultanate (1250–1382 CE),” both to
appear in Christoph Cluse and Reuven Amitai (eds.), Slavery and the Slave Trade in the Eastern
Mediterranean (c. 1000–1500 CE).
342
40 Robert Irwin, “Iqṭāʿ and the End of the Crusader States,” in Peter M. Holt (ed.), The Eastern
Mediterranean Lands in the Period of the Crusades (Warminster: Aris and Phillips, 1977), 62–77
[reprinted in R. Irwin, Mamlūks and Crusaders: Men of the Sword and Men of the Pen (Farnham,
Surrey and Burlington: Ashgate, 2010)]; Hassanein Rabie, The Financial System of Egypt,
A.H. 564–741/A.D, 1169–1341 (London: Oxford University Press), 26–72.
41 Amitai-Preiss, Mongols and Mamlūks, 74–75; Adam J. Silverstein, Postal Systems in the Pre-
Modern Islamic World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 165–185.
42 On the movement of the Mamlūk army to Syria, see David Ayalon, “Ḥarb, iii. – The Mamlūk
Sultanate,” The Encyclopedia of Islam, III, 184–185.
43 For the logistical challenges faced by the Mongols in their wars with the Mamlūks, see
Morgan, “The Mongols in Syria”; Smith, “ʿAyn Jālūt”; Reuven Amitai, “Some More Thoughts
on the Logistics of the Mongol-Mamlūk War (with Special Reference to the Battle of Wādī‫‏‬
al-Khaznadā‫‏‬r),” in John Pryor (ed.), Logistics of War in the Age of the Crusades (Aldershot:
Ashgate, 2006), 25–42.
44 Amitai-Preiss, Mongols and Mamlūks, 75.
45 Kate Raphael, Muslim Fortresses in the Levant: Between Crusaders and Mongols (Abington,
Oxon and New York: Routledge, 2011); Amitai-Preiss, Mongols and Mamlūks, 76–77.
46 Ibn al-Dawādārī (Abū Bakr b. ʿAbd Allāh), Kanz al-durar wa-jāmiʿ al-ghurar, vol. 8: al-durra
al-zākiyya fī akhbār al-dawla al-turkiyya, ed. Ulrich Haarmann (Cairo: Deutsches Archäologisches
Institut Kairo, 1391/1971), 109; trans. and analysis in David Ayalon, “The Mamlūks and Naval
Power: A Phase of the Struggle between Islam and Christian Europe,” Proceedings of the Israel
Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1, 8 (1967), 12 [reprinted in D. Ayalon, Studies on the
Mamlūks of Egypt (1250–1517) (London: Variorum, 1977)].
47 Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir (Muḥyī al-Dīn), al-Rawḍ al-zāhir fī sīrat al-malik al-ẓāhir. ed. ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz
al-Khuwayṭir (Riyad: n.pub., 1396/1976), 227.
48 Reuven Amitai, “Mamlūk Espionage among Mongols and Franks,” Asian and African Studies, 22
(1988), 173–181; Amitai-Preiss, Mongols and Mamlūks, 139–156.
49 Peter M. Holt, “Some Observations of the ʿAbbāsid Caliphate of Cairo,” Bulletin of the School
of Oriental and African, 47 (1984), 501–507; Reuven Amitai, Holy War and Rapprochement:
Studies in the Relations between the Mamlūk Sultanate and the Mongol Ilkhanate (1260–1335)
(Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), 56–57.
50 Peter M. Holt, The Age of the Crusades: The Near East from the Eleventh Century to 1517 (London
and New York: Longman, 1986), 149–150. Actually, in the aftermath of ʿAyn Jālūt, three of these
localities remained under the direct rule of Ayyūbid princes who had submitted to the Mamlūk
sultan: Karak (prince was removed and executed in 1263); Homs (with the death of the prince in
1263, replaced by Mamlūk governor); and Hama (generally remained under Ayyūbid princes until
1341); see Thorau, The Lion of Egypt, 134–141.
51 Irwin, The Middle East, 45, 65–67.
52 For the border war in general, see Amitai-Preiss, Mongols and Mamlūks, ch. 5.
53 Reinhold Röhricht, “La croisade du Prince Édouard d’Angleterre (1270–1274),” in idem, “Études
sur les deerniers temps du royaume de Jérusalem,” Archives de l’orient latin, 1 (1881), 623, n. 35,
citing Liber de Antiquis Legibus, ed. T. Stapleton (London: Camden Society, 1846), 143; trans.
from Denis Sinor, “On Mongol Strategy,” in Proceedings of the Fourth Altaistic Conference, ed.
Ch’en Ch’ieh-shien (Tainan, Taiwan: Dept. of History, Natinoal Ch’engkung University, 1975),
224 [reprinted in D. Sinor, Inner Asia and Its Contacts with Medieval Europe (London: Variorum,
1977)].
54 On this episode, see: Prawer, Histoire Histoire du royaume latin, II, 499–505; Reuven Amitai-
Preiss, “Edward of England and Abagha Ilkhan: A Reexamination of a Failed Attempt at
Mongol-Frankish Cooperation,” in Michael Gervers and James M. Powell (eds.), Tolerance and
Intolerance: Social Conflict in the Age of the Crusades (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press,
2001), 75–82 (nn. 160–163).
343
55 Claude Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey: A General Survey of the Material and Spiritual Culture and
History c. 1071–1330, trans. J. Jones-Williams (London: Sidgwick and Jackson, 1968), 285–292;
Amitai-Preiss, Mongols and Mamlūks, ch. 7.
56 Boyle, “Dynastic and Political History of the Īl-Khāns,” 363–364; Amitai-Preiss, Mongols and
Mamlūks, ch. 8.
57 Adel Allouche, “Tegüder’s Ultimatum to Qalāwūn,” International Journal of Middle Eastern
Studies, 22 (1990), 437–446; Reuven Amitai, “The Conversion of Tegü‫‏‬der Ilkhan to Islam,”
Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islamic Studies, 25 (2001), 15–43; Judith Pfieffer, “Aḥmad
Tegüder’s Second Letter to Qalā’ūn (682/1283),” in Judith Pfeiffer and Shjoleh A. Quinn (eds.),
in collaboration with Ernest Tucker, History and Historiography of Post-Mongol Central Asia and
the Middle East: Studies in Honor of John E. Woods (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2006), 167–202.
58 John A. Boyle, “The Il-Khans of Persian and the Christian West’” History Today, 23/8 (1973),
554–563 [reprinted in J.A. Boyle, The Mongol World Empire 1206–1370 (London: Variorum,
1977)]; Peter Jackson, The Mongols and the West, 1221–1410 (Harrow: Pearson Longman, 2005),
169, 173, 179; Morris Rossabi, Voyager from Xanadu: Rabban Sauma and the First Journey from
China to the West (rpt., Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2010).
59 Boyle, “Dynastic and Political History of the Īl-Khāns,” 373; Irwin, The Middle East, 78–82;
Angus Stewart, “Qalʿat al-Rūm / Hromgla / Rumkale and the Mamlūk Siege of 691 AH/1292
CE,” in Hugh Kennedy (ed.), Muslim Military Architecture in Greater Syria: From the Coming
of Islam to the Ottoman Period (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 269–280.The role of the Armenia Kingdom
of Cilicia in the Mongol–Mamlūk war is beyond the scope of this chapter; see Bayarsaikhan
Dashdondog, The Mongols and the Armenians (1220–1335) (Leiden: Brill, 2010); Reuven Amitai,
“Dangerous Liaisons: Armenian-Mongol-Mamlūk Relations (1260–1292),” in Gérard Dédéyan
and Claude Mutafian (eds.), La Méditerranée des Arméniens, XIIe-XVe siècle (Paris: Geuthner,
2014), 191–206; Angus Stewart, Armenian Kingdom and the Mamlūks: War and Diplomacy
During the Reigns of Het‘um II (1289–1307) (Leiden: Brill, 2001).
60 Boyle, “Dynastic and Political History of the Īl-Khāns,” 376–413; Charles Melville, “‘Sometimes
by the Sword, Sometimes by the Dagger’: The Role of the Ismaʿilis in Mamlūk-Mongol Relations
in the 8th/14th Century,” in Farhad Daftary (ed.), Medieval Ismaʿili History and Thought
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 247–263; Reuven Amitai, “The Resolution
of the Mongol-Mamlūk War,” in Reuven Amitai and Michal Biran (eds.), Mongols, Turks and
Others: Eurasian Nomads and the Sedentary World (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 2005), 359–390.
61 See the elaboration on this theme in Amitai, Holy War and Rapprochement, 35–36; idem, “Dealing
with Reality,” 131–132.
62 Shāfiʿ b. ʿAlī al-Kātib (Nāṣir al-Dīn), Ḥusn al-manāqib al-sirriyya al-muntazaʿa min al-sīra
al-ẓāhiriyya, ed. ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz al-Khuwayṭir (Riyad: Maṭābiʿ al-Quwāt al-Musallaḥa al-Suʿūdiyya,
1396/1976), 87–88; trans. in Peter M. Holt, “Some Observations on Shāfiʿ b. ʿAlī’s Biography of
Baybars,” Journal of Semitic Studies, 29 (1984), 127, who suggests that the Castellan was most
probably John d’lbelin.
63 For general Mamlūk policy regarding the Syrian coast, see: Albrecht Fuess, “Rotting Ships and
Razed Harbours: The Naval Policy of the Mamlūks,” Mamlūk Studies Review, 5 (2001), 45–71;
David Ayalon, “The Mamlūks and Naval Power: A Phase of the Struggle between Islam and
Christian Europe,” Proceedings of the Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1/8 (1967),
1–12 [reprinted in David Ayalon, Studies on the Mamlūks of Egypt (1250–1517) (London:
Variorum, 1977)]; Amitai, “Dealing with Reality,” 136–137.
64 Irwin, The Middle East, 47–49; Thorau, The Lion of Egypt, 142–162, 166–171, 175–178, 187–192,
203–206; Prawer, Histoire du royaume latin, II, 436–505.
65 Irwin, The Middle East, 73–78; Prawer, Histoire du royaume latin, II, 519–557; Northrup, From
Slave to Sultan, 130–132, 151–154; Donald P. Little, “The Fall of ‘Akkā in 690/1291: The
Muslim Version,” in Moshe Sharon (ed.), Studies in Islamic History and Civilization in Honour of
Professor David Ayalon (Leiden: Brill and Jerusalem: Cana, 1986), 159–181.
344
66 Peter M. Holt, Early Mamlūk Diplomacy (1260–1290), Treaties of Baybars and Qalāwūn with
Christian Rulers (Leiden: Brill, 1995). See the short discussion in Northrup, “The Baḥrī Mamlūk
Sultanate,” 275–276, as well as Thorau, Lion of Egypt, passim; Northrup, From Slave to Sultan,
112–115. It is impossible here to review the important information regarding diplomatic relations
with the Byzantine Empire, the Armenians, the Italian city-states and other European political
entities, but see the comments in Holt’s introduction to Early Mamlūk Diplomacy.
67 This section of the encyclopedia by Ibn Faḍl Allāh al-ʿUmarī, Masalik al-absar wa’l-mama-
lik al-amsar, has been edited by Michele Amari, “’Al ‘Umari. Condizioni degli stati cristiani
dell’occidente,” Atti della Reale Accademia dei Lincei. Memorie della Classe di scienze morali,
storiche e filologiche, Ser. III, 11 (1882–83) (=Anno 280), 102–103; see also Arieh Gribetz, “Some
Notes by al-ʿUmarī on the Franks,” in Benjamin Z. Kedar, The Crusaders in Their Kingdom
1099–1291 (Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi, 1987), 268–269 [Hebrew].
68 See the surveys in Northrup, “The Baḥrī Mamlūk Sultanate,” 265–271; Jonathan Berkey,
“Culture and Society during the Late Middle Ages,” in Petry (ed.), Cambridge History of Egypt,
I, 400–411; Donald P. Little, “Historiography of the Ayyūbid and Mamlūk Epochs,” in Petry,
Cambridge History of Egypt, I, 420–441.
69 Donald P. Little, “Coptic Conversion to Islam under the Baḥrī Mamlūks, 692–755/1293–1354,”
Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 39 (1976), 552–569; Nimrod Luz, “Aspects
of Islamization of Space and Society in Mamlūk Jerusalem and its Hinterland,” Mamlūk Studies
Review: 6 (2002), 133–154; Tamer El-Leithy, “Sufis, Copts and the Politics of Piety: Moral
Regulation in Fourteenth-Century Upper Egypt,” in Richard J.A. McGregor, and Adam A. Sabra
(eds.), Le développement du soufisme en Égypte à l’époque mamelouke (Cairo: Institut français
d’archéologie orientale, 2006), 75–119 [= Cahier des Annales Islamologiques, 27].
345
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE MUSLIM POLITICAL WORLD

AS MIRRORED IN THE FIRST
CRUSADE CHRONICLES
Svetlana Luchitskaya
B oth the chronicles of the First Crusade and the “Song of Antioch” contain this same
fictive scene: Muslim warriors bring to their camp a rusty sword, a wooden bow and
a completely useless spear supposedly seized from the crusaders.1 At the sight of those
primitive weapons, the Muslim leader Karbuqa depicted in the Crusade sources as a typi-
cal epic Saracen, the embodiment of pride and vainglory, bursts out with a long bombastic
speech: “Are those the warlike and splendid weapons which the Christians have brought
into Asia and by which they hope to drive us out of the limits of Khurāsān and to blot out
our names beyond the river of Amazonia? Are those the people who drove our forefathers
away from Romania and from the royal city of Antioch which is the honourable capital of
the whole of Syria?” Thereafter Karbuqa calls his secretary and says: “Be quick as to write
many letters which should be read in Khorasan by the Calip our bishop and the sultan, our
king and lord, and the strongest knight as well by all the wisest knights of the kingdom
Khorasan,” and he dictates: “I have got all the Franks shut in Antioch. They are now in
my hands, I shall either put them to death or lead them captured to Khorasan because they
threaten to expel us by their weapons beyond Khorasan … as they expelled our forefathers
out of Rum and Syria.”2
This passage from the crusade chronicle, albeit fictitious, gives a vivid image of the
Muslim political world. In this chapter I will try to see this world through the eyes of the
medieval writers. I will contrast the accounts of chronicles with what we know about
the political structure of the Muslim East. Analyzing the relationship between fiction and
reality in the texts, I will try to find out to what extent the medieval authors were able to
grasp Islamic realities.
The scene mentioned above takes place in the land of Khurāsān, or the “kingdom of
Khorasan.” The province of Khurāsān, whose name referred the medieval readers to the
eschatological connotations (Matthew 11:21; Luke 10:13), was identified in the medieval
treatises with the birthplace of the Antichrist.3 In the chronicles, Khurāsān is described as
the remote land situated on the edge of the earth and surrounded by mountains and marshes.4
After the capture of Antioch by the crusaders, the twelve ambassadors of Yaghi-Syan,
the emir of Antioch, set out for this land in quest for the help against the Christians.
346
— chapter 21: The Muslim political world —
Chems-ad-Daul (Sensadolus) is at the head of this embassy, one of the ambassadors is

Kilj-Arslan, the sultan of Nicea, previously defeated by the crusaders.
Having passed through this territory, the ambassadors find themselves in the town of
Sammarthan (may be Samarkand) where they meet the “king of Khorasan” and his “serv-
ant” (familiaris) Karbuqa. Both of them, especially Karbuqa, take the story of the Turkish
defeats by Christians with a sneer and distrust.5 But after a close look at the lists of the
Christian kingdoms and chieftains fighting the Muslims, the “king of Khorasan” starts pre-
paring for a war against the crusaders: he sends “throughout the kingdom of Khorasan” the
order to assemble the best troops followed by the inquiries of magicians and fortune-tellers
about the outcome of the forthcoming battle. In the chronicles, Khurāsān appears as a kind
of the border area controlled by the Muslims – embassies are sent there for the reinforce-
ment, Muslims fear to be driven outside its limits, Christians taken prisoner are led there.6
This is evidently a political center of the Muslims for the chroniclers mention the capital of
the “kingdom of Khorasan”; strange as it may seem, it is the city of Bagdad located in the
Near East.7
According to the chroniclers, Khurāsān is the residence of the ruler to whom they give
majestic titles: “king,” “sultan,”8 “the sultan, carrying the scepter,” “the great ruler over
all the kings and rulers of the Oriental land.9 We can say with certainty that the chroni-
clers mean the sultan Berqyārūq, at that time the head of the Persian sultanate of Bagdad,
the greatest of the Seljuk states that came into being after the death of Malik-shāh. The
Seljuk Turks are the major branch of the Oghuz Turks named after the chief of their horde
Seljuk converted to Islam around 985. The migration of these nomadic tribes in the western
direction started at the beginning of the eleventh century. Their first greatest conquest was
the province of the medieval Persia Khurāsān that takes up the most part of contempo-
rary north-eastern Iran. In Khurāsān the Seljuk Turks adopted the tradition of the strong
political power and created the powerful state while gradually subjugating Western Iran,
Xorazm, and Azerbaijan. Finally their chief Toghrul-bek captured the city of Baghdad in
1055. From this time onward the Seljuks chose to move toward Western Asia where two
mighty dynasties were struggling with each other—the one being the (Sunni) Abbasids
based in Baghdad, the other being the (Shi’a) Fatimids based in Cairo. The Seljuk chieftain
Toghrul-bek became the faithful vassal of the Abbasids and promised to fight against the
Fatimids.10 The Baghdad caliph delegated him the temporal power and conferred to him the
title of the sultan of the West and the East. Under Toghrul-bek and his successors alp-Arslan
(1063–72) and Malik-shāh (1063–95), the Turks at first subjugated Armenia, then occupied
the whole of Minor Asia, where the Seljuk chief Suleiman ibn-Kutulmish (1077–86) cre-
ated the Rūm sultanate with the capital in Nicea. Finally the Seljuk Turks established their
control over Syria and Palestine and deprived the Fatimids of Jerusalem in 1071, Damascus
in 1076 and Antioch in 1085. That is how the great Seljuk state has arisen.
Just like his predecessors, Berqyārūq mentioned in the First Crusade chronicles was rec-
ognized by the Baghdad caliph as the sultan of the Arab provinces of the Seljuk state. At that
time Syria was divided between the sons of Tutush I (+1095): Dukak, the emir of Damascus,
and Redwan, the emir of Aleppo, Malik-Shāh being their uncle. In Iran, Berqyārūq suc-
ceeded in taking control over the above mentioned Khurāsān and handed it over to his
younger brother Sanjar.11 In spite of the general negative attitude of the Western provinces
toward the power of Berqyārūq, Khurāsān was still perceived in terms of central power.
On the eve of the First Crusade, the Seljuk states were absorbed in the dynastic wars
between the successors of Malik-shāh.12 However, these conflicts do not receive much
347
— Svetlana Luchitskaya —
attention of the chroniclers who rather focus on the fight in Western Asia between the
Fatimids, on the one hand, and the Seljuk Turks supporting Abbasids, on the other. All
the First Crusade chroniclers distinctly differentiate between the “Turks” and the “Arabs,”
calling the former “Turci” or “Turci, gens Persica” and the latter “Arabes” or “Saracens.”13
They also know about religious discords between the Shi’a Arabs and Sunnite Turks.14
On the whole, the chroniclers underline the hostility between the two great rivaling
Oriental states—the “kingdom of Khorasan,” on the one hand, and “the empire of Babylon”
(or the kingdom of Babylon) on the other. The former in general stands for the Abbasid
caliphate and the latter for the Fatimid Egypt. Just as there exists the “king” in the “kingdom
of Khorasan,” there is also the “king” or the “emperor” in Babylonia.15 Babylon is known
to be the name of the fortress near Cairo, the capital of the Fatimid Egypt. But it is also the
city on the bank of the river Euphrates that is interpreted in the Prophetic books and in the
“Apocalypse” as the symbol of evil and is associated with the Antichrist.
Just as in the case of the toponym of “Khurāsān,” there might have been eschatological
connotations associated with the name of Babylon. As said by medieval writers, there were
“severe discord and hatred” between the “Babilonium regnum” and the “regnum Perisidis.”16
The chroniclers give a detailed account of the conquest of the Fatimid (Babylonian) territo-
ries by the Seljuk Turks who stand out for their “military talent and great courage.”17
As stated by the chroniclers, the “Babylonian empire” used to be one of the most pow-
erful states in the Orient and subjugated Syria, Palestine and other provinces but in the
long run it gave up these lands to the Seljuk Turks known for their “ferocious spirit.” As a
result, the “Persian king” who ruled over the people who were more “dexterous in fighting”
“seized the greatest part of the Babylonian empire.”18 One of the most important episodes
in the history of the struggle between the two powers is the capture of Jerusalem by the
Fatimids. Suqman ibn Ortoq (+1105), the Turkish ruler of the holy city, was expelled by
the Egyptians in August 1098. This fact is mentioned in all the First Crusade chronicles.19
This is the general image of the Muslim political world which emerges from the First
Crusade chronicles. How distinctly do they perceive its political structure and hierarchy?
We have seen that according to the chronicles emperors and kings rule in “Babylonia” and
the “Persian realms.” Kilij-Arslan and Yaghi-Syan are also kings.20 Besides, the sources
familiarize readers with other “kings,” “dukes,” and even “majordomos.”21 Such a play of
symmetry can be observed in the traditional chansons de geste representing the political
hierarchy of the Saracenic world. In the epic literature, particularly in the “Song of Roland,”
we come across Saracenic kings, barons, and viscounts.22 The medieval authors consider the
political structure of the Orient analogous to that of Western Europe.23 But the titles of the
former are not fixed; on the contrary, they are instable, changeable. For instance, Redwan
the ruler of Aleppo is sometimes called king by the chroniclers, sometimes emir.24 His
brother Duqaq, the ruler of Damascus, is referred to as either king or emir.25 One can get a
wrong impression that the medieval authors confuse some titles. But the rank of the emir is
mentioned more frequently, so we may assume that the medieval writers were clear about
it. Probably this title was a clue to convey the specific character of the Oriental hierarchy so
the analysis of this term may help us to elucidate the crusade chroniclers’ ideas concerning
the political structure of the Muslim Orient.
The title of “emir” (derived from the Arabic word amara meaning “to order, to rule”)
is a very general designation of a Muslim ruler or a military leader. In the twelfth cen-
tury the emirs were the deputies of the Seljuk sultans in the towns and fortresses of the
Seljuk state.26 Just like poets, the First Crusade chroniclers sometimes do not even translate
348
the title and give only exotic names: am(d)miraldus, am(d)miratus, admiralis, admiralius,
ad(m)miravisus, miraldus, am(d)mirabilis etc.27 But in contrast to the poets, chroniclers are
aware of the difference between the Christian and the Muslim hierarchies and they try to
make sense of it. In particular, they look in their language for the equivalent of the term
designating the rank of an emir and for this purpose they antiquate it by identifying “emir”
with “prefect,” “procurator” and other Roman title-holders.28 For instance, bearing in mind
the ruler of Jerusalem Soqman ibn-Ortoq, Guibert of Nogent refers to him as “the prefect
of Jerusalem whom they call emir in their barbarian language.”29 Thus accepting the dif-
ference between the Muslim and Christian political hierarchies Guibert is reluctant to rec-
ognize the foreign language while calling it barbarian. Sometimes he goes even further by
comparing the Seljuk emirs with the Ancient Persian rulers and speaking about the “twelve
noblest who are called satraps in Chaldean language and emirs in their barbarian manner.”30
From among the Egyptian and Seljuk rulers the chroniclers single out twelve of them―
a kind of the corps d’elite. As the Christian writers state, “twelve noblest leaders of the
Turkish army called emirs were killed” during the battle of Antioch in March 1098.31 This
figure is mentioned not by chance. The story about the twelve emirs is surely a literary topos
of the chansons de geste where twelve most distinguished Saracens are usually opposed to
the twelve peers of France.32 This topos also goes back to the ancient tradition. Drawing
upon this tradition, the chroniclers try to display the administrative structure of the Muslim
world. They claim that “those they call emirs are in fact kings who rule the provinces out
in the regions. The definition of a province is an area with a metropolitan, twelve consuls
and a king.”33
Shems-ad-Daul lists the names of the provinces (Syria, Romania, Khorasan, Jerusalem,
and the kingdom of Damascus) in the presence of the kings who rule over them.34 Karbuqa
intends to send his boastful letter to these various provinces appealing not only to “the pope
and the king” but also to “the prefects and their companions-in-arms in different regions.”35
It is clear that the knowledge of the chroniclers concerning the political structure of the
Muslim world is rather vague but nevertheless they try to get an insight into the unfamiliar
political realities. No doubt, they look at them through the prism of the ancient and literary
traditions as well as of their concept about their own political hierarchy.
After all they characterize quite correctly the functions of the emirs, this title being
applied to the rulers of large cities and the military leaders as well as commanders of tow-
ers and fortresses.36 The emirs of fortresses who serve the higher rulers are depicted in the
chronicles as their vassals.37 The chroniclers clearly differentiate between these vassals and
important hierarchy representatives called maiores or potentes.38 Who are these great mem-
bers of the Egyptian and Seljuk hierarchies?
The Egyptian political hierarchy is described poorly. Specific names are missing—
“Babylonian emir” or “king of Babylon” and even “Babylonian emperor” being mentioned
most often.39 It seems reasonable to assume that chroniclers mean by these titles the vizier
al-Afdal who was the actual ruler of Egypt under the reign of the weak caliph al-Mustali
and his son. But such is not always the case. The example to prove is the “king of Babylon”
giving orders to his commander Lavedalius who is easily recognizable as al-Afdal.40 Do the
medieval writers imply al-Mustali addressing him “king” in this case? We shall never know
it. In other cases it is even more difficult to identify the holders of the titles41.
The chroniclers let us know how Jerusalem was won over from the Turks and it is
undoubtedly al-Afdal who is hidden under the title of the “king of Babylon.” The news
about the Christian victories over the Turks prompted the Egyptian vizier to besiege the
349
city of Jerusalem ruled by the Turkish garrison led by Soqman ibn Ortoq and he took
it.42 After the reconquest of the holy city, “the king,” “in accordance with the rituals of
gentils,” paid homage to the shrines of Jerusalem by visiting the Temple of the Lord and
the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. He even permitted the Christians to observe their reli-
gious rites and finally he offered gifts (candles and incense) to the Holy Sepulchre and the
mount Calvary.43
The Egyptian king demonstrated his skills as a ruler maneuvering between Turks and
Christians.44 The chroniclers are informed that the Turks applied to the Egyptian “king” to
conclude an alliance against the crusaders and even pledged to embrace Shiism and to make
many other concessions to them provided the Arabs wage the war on their side.45 The crusad-
ers agreed to give them back the cities captured by the Seljuks on condition that the “king of
Babylon” would concede them Jerusalem. Finally the Egyptians sent legates to the Christians.
Some chronicles report that the “king-emir of Babyloniua” offered to make a treaty with
Christians and to restore them the tower of David and the Mount Zion and even to have
discussions about acknowledging the Christian faith.46 Moreover, the “emir of Babylon”
found it desirable that Christians should lay down their swords and continue their way to
Jerusalem with the Egyptian escort of honour.47 The response of the crusaders shocked the
legates—they accused the Muslims of putting obstacles in the pilgrims’ way and of cap-
turing Jerusalem that by right belonged to Christians and will be recovered with arms “by
God’s countenance.”48 So we can conclude that the policy of the Fatimid Egypt is explained
in detail by the chroniclers, whereas their notions with regard to the political hierarchy in
the Arab world are far from distinct. By trying to characterize the status of the Egyptian
rulers, the chroniclers hesitate between the Western title of ‘king” and the Eastern title of
“emir” and even invent a fantastic title “the king-emir,” and in addition they do not tie a
concrete person to these titles.
Among the Seljuk leaders the chroniclers feature Yagh-Syan, Kilij-Arslan and Karbuqa
as epic Saracens. The Turkish “maiores” appear rather often in the chronicles. I would like
to point to the story about the embassy of Shems-ad-Daul to the “king of Khorasan.” This
embassy was sent to Khorasan by the governor of Antioch Yagh-Syan (Cassianus) who is
referred to sometimes as “emir,” sometimes as “king” and also as “king and the ruler of the
city.”49 It is noteworthy that the participants of the heated debates at the sultans’ court virtu-
ally indicate the complex set of hierarchical relationships of the Seljuk Turks.
The system of the Seljuk political relationships is depicted in this episode (in accordance
with reality) as a family clan in which all the great leaders appear to be brothers (confratres)
related to each other by family bonds. In his message, Yagh-Syan warns his “brothers and
rulers” about the Christian threat, subsequently the “Persian sultan” summons his subjects
to take vengeance on Christians who have injured the “friends and relatives of the Turks.”50
Turkish hierarchy seems to be closely interwoven with relations of consanguinity. It is
not by chance that in the chronicles Turkish emirs call each other “brothers and friends.”51
In the fictitious speech of Kilij-Arslan at the headquarters of the sultan, he calls Yagh-Syan
“our superior and kin.” As stated by the Nicean sultan, Yaghi-Syan, the “friend and sub-
ject” of the Persian sultan “holds the city of Antioch and other lands by sultan’s gift.”52 In
my opinion the essence of the relationships is correctly reflected in this passage. Scholarly
research has shown that the Seljuk governors were in fact a certain kind of vassals depend-
ent upon the Persian sultan, who granted lands to them in exchange for their loyal service.53
As said by the chroniclers, the same type of relationships connected Yaghi Syan, “the
king of Syria and the whole Armenia” with his tributaries, in particular, with the four
350
“noblest and most powerful emirs quasi kings”, each of whom possessed a hundred cas-
tles.54 As stated by Albert of Aachen, the four most important towers guarding the central
citadel in Antioch known to be the residence of Yagh-Syan gave names to these four emirs
who were long-standing Yaghi Syan’s protectors and defenders of the governor just like
these towers.55 Though the number of the vassals as well as their names are merely ficti-
tious, the principle of the Seljuk hierarchy is properly outlined. Yaghi-Syan the eldest and
the noblest among the emirs (“homo grandaevus”) is one of the greatest “maiores” who are
directly subject to the sultan.
No wonder Albert of Aachen awards Yagh-Syan with the Western insignia calling him
the “ruler carrying the scepter.”56 Only Sultan Berqyārūq is invested with such signs of
power. Though historically Yaghi-Syan was merely the governor of the sultan in Antioch,
the chroniclers describe him as “the most powerful among the Oriental kings” who is sec-
ond to the sultan.57 It goes without saying that Yaghi-Syan is portrayed as an epic Saracenic
ruler. Being passive and light-hearted, he was not able to protect his subjects and fled out of
fear from the beleaguered city.58 During his wanderings, he encountered his former subjects
who recognized him immediately, took hold of his sword, cut his head off, and sent it to the
crusader camp.59
Kilij-Arslan received no less attention of the chroniclers.60 The Nicean sultan is depicted
as one of the most powerful Turkish rulers. They know him to be the son of Suleiman ibn-
Kutulmish (Solimanus Vetus) who “wrested the whole of Romania from the Emperor”61
Albert of Aachen calls him “a powerful man, duke and prince of the Turks,” “greatly
renowned for his diligence and eloquence.”62 The power of Suleyman (Solimanus) is
immense—he has subdued Nicea and Romania (Anatolia) and in a military campaign he
summons to his assistance “emirs and dukes from all of the Oriental territories.”63 Because
Suleyman holds Nicea and Romania (Anatolia) from the “Perisan king” in exchange for his
loyal service, he is referred to as “the Turkish king” and even “the great king.”64
As in other cases, chroniclers ascribe epic features to the sultan and create his image as
a typical Saracen and villain. In the epic and historical tradition of the crusade, Christian
knights always win, Saracens always lose. In the eyes of the chroniclers, Kilij-Arslan is
one of the Muslim rulers who had his share of defeats at the hands of the Christians and
therefore shows humility.65 His fictitious speeches convey the chroniclers’ idea of what
a defeated Saracen should have said and of how he should have behaved. Thus after the
defeat at Dorylaeum, Suleiman confesses how his army composed of cavalry archers was
destroyed by the Frankish heavy cavalry. He praises the military valor (celestial or devilish)
of the Christian knights enthusiastically, describing their armor and convincing the Turks
not to join the battle with them.66
The story of valor of the Frankish knights as well of their armor “glittering more than the
brilliance of the sun” is repeated in the sultans’ headquarters where Kilij-Arslan arrives with
the embassy of Shems-ad-Daul long after his defeat at Nicea.67 This time Killij Arslan, being
in an extremely desperate state (he plucks out his beard and hair), tells how his army was
destroyed in Nicea and his family was taken prisoner and himself persecuted by Christians
had to flee to Antioch in the hope of finding refuge. As Karbuqa starts mocking his speeches
and boasting of his own victories over the Peter the Hermits’ army and his alleged participa-
tion in the battle of Nicea, Kilij-Arslan attempts to crush his pride. He reproaches him for
underscoring the strength of the Christian knights who vanquished the Turks by Nicea, he
also lists the victories of the crusaders who conquered and subdued many towns and castles
in Anatolia and Armenia.68
351
Whereas Kilij-Arslan is featured by the chroniclers as the typical Saracen leader who
changed pride to humility after the defeat by Christians, Karbuqa, who has not yet experi-
enced the courage of the Frankish warriors, is shown as an epic Saracen overwhelmed with
pride and boasting of his eventual victories but also doomed to be defeated by Christian
warriors.69 Chroniclers put into his mouth most of the fictitious speeches that occur in their
works.70 At first glance their descriptions of the titles of Karbuqa are not very clear or dis-
tinct. They present him as “the Persian satrap” or “the principle of the army of Persian sul-
tan” and even as “majordomo.”71 And it seems that he is never given the title “emir.” On the
contrary, as he tells his mother in one of the imaginary dialogues, there are “more powerful
emirs at his disposal than in all the Christian army.”72 Karbuqa appears to be at the highest
stage of the Muslim political hierarchy, he is the sovereign of Khorasan.73 While his role in
the real political life was rather insignificant, in the crusade historiography and chansons
de geste of the crusade cycle he is depicted as the most powerful ruler, probably superior to
the others. According to Albert of Aachen, Karbuqa is “the first in the court and second to
the king of Khorasan.”74
The residence of Karbuqa is placed by the chroniclers in Khorasan.75 It is Karbuqa who,
by the order of the sultan, sends dispatches throughout all the “kingdom of Khorasan” to
summon warriors for the expedition to Antioch. As indicated by chroniclers, he is the most
powerful military principal: greatest manpower resources are at his disposal, and all the other
principals worship him “adorating him as God and heeding him as their leader.”76 These
descriptions may sound exaggerated but they contain bits of true information. Karbuqa is
known to be the atabeg of Mosul, this title (word derived from Turkic “ata” meaning ances-
tor and Iranic “beg” meaning lord) in the Seljuk state was usually conferred to a tutor and
guardian of the minor heir, so to some extent Karbuqa was a “servant” (familiaris) in the
sultan’s family. Because the atabegs were usually appointed leaders of the army, the chroni-
clers always refer to Karbuqa as the “principal of the army of the sultan.”77
In the chronicles, all the Seljuk emirs, maiores as well as minores, are subordinate to the
Persian sultan. Being “the most powerful king” (rex prepotentissimus),78 the sultan stands
above “all the noblest majors” of the “kingdom of Khorasan.”79 It is “the king of Khorasan”
who invites “noblemen and emirs” to a military council meeting notifying “our friends and
brothers” about the threat of war against Christians; it is the sultan again who organizes the
military campaign in order to rescue Turks besieged in Antioch.80
By referring to the sultan as “the mightiest knight,” the chronicles lay stress on the mili-
tary aspect of his power.81 The military and secular power of the sultan is really great. This
appreciation is rather close to reality; in fact, thanks to the Seljuks the idea of the secular
power went on developing in the Islamic world. Though the sultan is invested with Western
insignia and is described as “the holder of the scepter” (the same goes for the chansons de
geste), his position in the political hierarchy of the Muslim world is denoted adequately.82
Khorasan, where the sultan receives the Seluk rulers, is also the residence of the caliph
who is mentioned in the chronicles equally with sultan. Karbuqa addresses his bombastic
letter to “our pope and our lord the king of Persians.”83 Guibert of Nogent is surprised to find
that the Saracens have their pope “the same way as we do.”84 The chroniclers call the caliph
“the blissful pope” as well as “apostolic Caliph,” “Caliph our bishop,” “pope our caliph,”85
laying stress on his role as the religious head of the Muslim world. The crusaders surely
differentiated between the Fatimid and Abbasid caliphs. It is evident that when they refer
to the “Turkish pope,”86 they are talking about the caliph of Baghdad, who was at that time
Ahmad al-Mustazhif (1094–1118) but whose name they probably did not know.
352
The extract about the “Shems-ad-Dauls’ embassy” can be paralleled in the “Song of
Antioch.” In this poem the emir sultan rules in his “kingdom of Persia,” his residence being
located in the town of Sarmazane where the embassy of Shems-ad-Daul arrives. The Turks
from all over the Orient have assembled there to pray to the idol of Mohammed adorned
with precious stones and held up in the air by magnet forces.87 The sultan (Soudan) is a
center stage in this passage. He is represented as a great sovereign who stands above all the
pagans (païens). Nevertheless the caliph surpasses him in power being the mightiest ruler
in the Muslims world—as stated by poets, his dominions “extend all the way to the setting
sun.”88 The caliph personifies the supreme power; he is superior to all the representatives of
the political hierarchy.89

Having heard the complaints of Yaghi-Syan and Soliman about their defeats and having
made sure of the truthfulness of their accounts—it sufficed to show him a piece of the beard
of Yagh-Syan given by him to the messengers as a token90—the sultan sends out letters to
Baudas (may be Baghdad) to the apostolic caliph. Some 400 couriers carry these letters with
the emir’s seal to the supreme ruler spreading the news in fifty different languages.91 Then
the sultan summons the Muslim aristocrats to the council in the vicinity of Coronde. All the
Oriental “kings” come to join the assembly (parlement) where the caliph announces a “rich
pardon that Mahon will give us.”92
The emir invites the three kings-brothers from Mecca to come with all their forces and
bring the God Mohammad along with them. The kings-brothers arrive and bring their god
Mohammad made entirely of gold and silver and seated on the elephant in a jeweled how-
dah with a canopy over his head. Through enchantment, the devil (aversier) penetrates in
the hollow statue of the idol and speaks to the infidels. The caliph interprets his words to the
Saracens. The demon allows the Saracens to have twenty, thirty wives or as many as they
fancy to increase the number of pagans able to fight against Christians. Everyone who seeks
Mohammed’s forgiveness and goes into battle will, should he die, have two bezants in one
hand and a rock in the other; with the bezants they will buy their passage to the paradise, or
if that fails, with the rock they can fight their way in, Mohammad will aid them and bring
them to heaven at any rate.93
Just as the pope in the Catholic world is responsible for the salvation of the Christians’
souls, the caliph, as the spiritual leader of the Muslim world, shows the way to the para-
dise even if in this passage the Christian idea of the paradise is completely inverted.94 The
description is quite fantastic but the role of the caliph as the Muslim religious leader is
comprehended properly. It is depicted symmetrical to the role of the pope.
We have a good reason for believing that the descriptions of the Muslim political reali-
ties in the chronicles as well as in the crusade epic songs are a kind of mirror-image. The
iconography seems to confirm this thesis. In the most lavishly decorated codex of the cru-
sade chronicle (Estoire d’Eracles) a considerable part of the miniatures is devoted to the
events of the First Crusade.95 The Muslims who are often painted as old men are recogniz-
able by their beards and turbans as, for instance, in the miniatures recounting the history of
the siege of Nicea (Fig. 21.1). The representatives of the Muslim political hierarchy may
be identified even easier. Some miniatures represent Karbuqa―one of the most important
Muslim personages of the First Crusade chronicle and epic songs (Fig. 21.2).
We see Karbuqa at the moment of the siege of Antioch when he orders his archers to
begin shooting. He differs greatly from his warriors who are depicted in short tunics and
turbans on their heads. In contrast to them, Karbuqa is in a long mantel trimmed with squir-
rel fur, he wears a crown on his head and looks very much like the European monarch.
353
Figure 21.1 An episode from the seige of Nicea (1097). Bibliothèque Nationale de France.
Ms. Fr. 22495, f. 28.
Figure 21.2 A scene from the siege of Antioch by the army of Karbuqa (1098). Bibliothèque
Nationale de France. Ms. Fr. 22495, f. 50v.
354
Figure 21.3 Generalized image of the siege warfare presented at the three-tiered miniature
depicting the major events of the crusade. Bibliothèque Nationale de France. Ms. Fr. 22495, f. 9.
Figure 21.4 Two-tiered miniature: sultan sending a spy in the camp of the crusaders (on the right);
Saracens set out to the military campaign against Christians (on the left). Bibliothèque
Nationale de France. Ms. Fr. 22495, f. 280v.
355
The only features of his appearance that make him look different from Western kings are his
beard and his dark face. The painter adjusts the size of the figure to the positions they hold
so the figure of the Turkish ruler is remarkably larger than those of ordinary warriors. This
social symbolism is of universal character, it is also applied to signify the Christian social
hierarchy.96 “Maiores” are usually painted in an identical manner in the miniatures of the
illuminated chronicles.97
Here is one of the examples. At the very beginning of this illuminated manuscript codex,
we see a three-tiered (two images in every tier) miniature dedicated to different themes
of the crusade. This miniature introduces different subjects and personages of the history
of the crusades including Saracens, so it plays a significant role in the iconographical

program of the illuminated chronicle. It also familiarizes us with the generalized image of
the Muslim ruler. This abstract Oriental personage (Fig. 21.3) is depicted according to the
general principles of iconography: unlike the ordinary Saracens he wears a long mantel, his
high rank being indicated by the crown which is the indispensable element to represent a
Muslim ruler.
In the iconography as well as in the chansons de geste and the chronicles, the members
of the political hierarchy are represented in the same way as the European kings. But like
chroniclers, the medieval artists are aware of the differences between the hierarchies and
attempt to get an insight of it. As a result, sometimes the painters ascribe to their personages
two iconographic elements: the crown, which is a typical sign of power in Europe, and the
turban, which is a constant iconographic attribute of the Saracens (Fig. 21.4).98 The way the
political otherness of the Muslim world is represented in the works of art is identical to that
of the chronicles and the chansons de geste.
*****
So we see that in the chronicles and the chansons de geste of the First Crusade the political
hierarchy of the Muslim world is symmetrical to the European. In fact, while the religious
cult is usually depicted in the chronicles according to the inversion principles (in this case
they serve as a sort of camera obscura) as paganism, which is believed to be an opposition
to Christianity, the Muslims political institutions are mirror-images of the feudal hierarchy.
As we have seen, the oral tradition is present in the chroniclers―medieval authors see the
political hierarchy through the prism of this tradition and create epic portraits of the Saracen
rulers. Nevertheless in their perception of the political otherness of the Muslim world, they
go a step further than poets. They are knowledgeable about the lack of coincidence between
the political hierarchies and try to make sense of it.
With this purpose, they antiquate the Muslim institutions, comparing them with the
ancient ones and correlating the new experience with their general knowledge about politi-
cal and administrative structure. In their attempt to approach the unfamiliar reality, they
impose their conception of the feudal hierarchy on the Muslim world which results in the
identification of the Muslim hierarchy with the European in the chronicles as well as in the
iconography. The chroniclers cannot perceive the political structure of the Muslim world
other than in terms of their proper culture.
Even if the chroniclers call the representatives of the Muslim political hierarchy kings
and attribute to them other Western titles, they are very often close to understanding the spe-
cific character of political power in the Muslim East. Thus the title of emir is used by them
equally alongside the ancient (prefect, procurator) and medieval (king, emperor) ranks. It
serves to denote the Muslim ruler including different secular and military rank holders.
356
In order to emphasize the authority of the Muslim rulers, the medieval authors ascribe to
them royal and noble ranks and insignia.
The essence of the relations within the Muslim hierarchy where the Seljuk emirs are
represented as the tributaries of the Persian sultan is interpreted adequately. By analyzing
the power relations between sultan and caliph, the medieval writers compare them with the
pope and the emperor and as we have seen these parallels may be not unfounded.
Describing conflicts and alliances of the Seljuk and Egyptian leaders as well as nego-
tiations between Christians and Muslims, chroniclers show sound knowledge of the
Realpolitik. At the same time they attach less importance to the political relations per se, the
focal point being their military victories and their political interests. If fictitious speeches
of the Muslim rulers are cited in the chronicles, the Saracens usually dwell on their defeats
suffered from the Christian army. If they boast of the eventual victories like Karbuqa, their
speeches bring them to dishonor.
Nevertheless the Muslim political realities as mirrored in the First Crusade chronicles
are depicted in a quite different manner in comparison to the Muslim religious rites which
are normally represented as “heathen pollution.”99 The medieval authors are more toler-
ant in their descriptions of the Muslim political world. According to the chroniclers, ritus
gentilium may agree with the respectful attitudes toward Christian shrines. The proof of it
is the story about the visiting of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre by the vizier Al-Afdal.
But after the defeat by Asclaon in August 1099, the Egyptian ruler, being an epic Saracen,
swears to Mahomet and other gods to destroy the Holy Sepulchre and to raze to the ground
the holy city of Jerusalem.100
NOTES
1 Peter Tudebode, Historia de Hierosolymitano itinere, ed. John H. Hill and Lauritia L. Hill, Paris,
1977, 91–92; Gesta Francorum et aliorum Hierosolymitanorum, ed. Lauritia Hill, London, 1962,
51–52; Guibert of Nogent, Gesta Dei per Francos, ed. R.B.C. Hyugens. Turnhout, 1996, 211;
Baudri of Bourgueil, Historia Hierosolymitana, in RHC Oc IV, 59; Robert the Monk, Historia
Hierosolymitana, in RHC Oc III, 811; Suzanne Duparc-Quioc, Chanson d’Antioche. Étude cri-
tique, 2 vols (Paris, 1977–1978), I, vv. 6786–6800.
2 These fictitious passages are based upon the historical events of the siege of Antioch (October
1097–June 1098). They recount the “embassy of Sensadolus,” the son of the governor of Antioch
Yaghi- Syan, to Khurāsān and his negotiations with the Seljuk Sultan Berqyārūq and Karbuqa.
These passages are common to both the Old French crusade cycle, especially the “Song of
Antioch,” and the crusade chronicles, in particular that of Albert of Aachen. The issues about
the links between epic and historiography of the First Crusade are discussed in many works.
For example, Chanson d’Antioche; Jean Flori, Des chroniques à l´épopée ou bien línverse?,
Perspectives médiévales 20 (1994), 36–43. See also the introduction to the translation of the
“Chanson d’Antioche”: Chanson d’Antioche, the Old-French Account of the First Crusade, ed.
Suzan Edgington and Carol Sweetenham (Oxford, 2011), 3–85.
3 For the eschatological connotations that were associated with Khurāsān and might have been
actualized during the crusades, see Alan V. Murray, “Coroscane: Homeland of the Saracensi n
the Chansons de geste and the Historiographу of the Crusades,” in Aspects de l’épopée romane.
Mentalités. Idéologies. Intertextualités, ed. Hans van Dijk and Willem Noomen (Groningen,
1995), 177–184.
4 Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana, ed. Susan B. Edgington (Oxford, 2011), 612.
5 Albert, 248–250.
6 Gesta, 50–1, 67; Peter Tudebode, 90–91.
357
7 Albert, 594.
8 Fulcher, Historia Hierosolymitana, ed. H. Hagenmeyer (Heidelberg, 1913,), 247: “soltanus, rex
scilicet Persarum”; 340.
9 Albert, 248, 613.
10 Hamilton A.R. Gibb, “The Caliphate and the Arab states,” in A History of the Crusades, ed.
K.M. Setton (London, 1969), 81–98.
11 Cahen Claude, “The Turkish Invasion: The Selchükids,” in Setton, A History of the Crusades,
135–176; Barthold Vasilly, Turkestan Down to the Mongol Invasion (London, 1977).
12 The Seljuk sultan Tutush I was fighting against the Nicean sultan Suleiman ibn-Kutulmish who
in his turn was seeking to seize the southern Syria. Ibn-Kutulmish was defeated by Tutush in
1086 but the latter himself was beaten and killed by his nephew Sultan Berqyārūq in February
1095. At the same time Berqyārūq was involved in the struggle in central Persia against his other
brother Mohammad. See Joshua Prawer, Histoire du royaume latin de Jérusalem, 2 vols (Paris,
1975), I, 120.
13 Fulcher, 133; Radulf of Caen, Gesta Tancredi in expeditione Hierosolymitana, in RHC Oc III,
668–669.
14 For instance, Raymond of Aguilers notes that Egyptians are Shi’a and worship Ali’ who was a
relative of the prophet Muhammad: Raymond of Aguilers, Le “Liber” Raimundi de Aguilers, ed.
J. Hugh and Lauritia L. Hill (Paris, 1969), 111 (“colerent Alim, … qui est de genere Mahumet”).
15 Raymond, 111.
16 Albert, 230: “grauissima … erat discordia et odium.”
17 Guibert, 100: “in re militari et equestri elegantia, animi etiam virtute prepollet.”
18 Guibert, 189, 271.
19 For the most detailed story see: Albert of Aachen, 442–444.
20 Albert, 248–250.
21 Guibert, 208; Fulcher, 571.
22 Chanson de Roland, ed. Joseph Bédier (Paris, 1922), vv. 2649–2650.
23 See Matthew Bennett, “First Crusaders’ Images of Muslims: The Influence of Vernacular
Poetry?” in Forum for English Language Studies, 22 (1986), 105.
24 “dux de Caleph” (Raymond, 56); “Rodoam admiraldum Caleph” (Gesta Francorum Iherusalem
expugnantium, in RHC Oc III, 497).
25 “Ducath, rex Damascenorum” (Fulcher, 373); “Decaccus admiraldum Damascenorum” (Gesta
Francorum Iherusalem expugnantium, 340).
26 Jeanine Dominique Sourdel, Dictionnaire historique de l’islam (Paris, 2004), 78–79.
27 In the traditional chansons de geste, the title of emir is often identified with the title of king, but
most frequently is left without translation. See Paul Bancourt, Les musulmans dans les chansons
de geste, 2 vols (Aix-en-Provence, 1982), II, 839–844.
28 For instance, Karbuqa gives orders to his emir whom the chronicler calls “procurator.” See
Baudri of Bourgueil, 76: “procuratori suo quеm admiralius vocant.”
29 Guibert, 208: “Ierosolimorum praefectus, quos barbarica illi lingua admiravisos vocant.”
30 Ibid., 192: “dudodecim de eorum primoribus viris, quos verbo Caldaico satrapas, secundum
eorum barbariem, admiravisosiris vocant.”
31 Baudri of Bourgueil, 51; Gesta, 41. Robert the Monk mentions twelve best Egyptians emirs:
Robert the Monk, 788.
32 See Chanson de Roland, vv. 707–708.
33 Robert the Monk, 788: “Et quos admiraldos voсant, reges sunt, qui provinciis praesunt. Provincia
quidem est, quae unum habet metropolitanum, XII consules et unum regem.”
34 Ibid., 809.
35 Guibert, 211.
36 Albert, 504; Guibert, 298: “Babylonie princeps militiaе, quem patrio lingua admiravisum
vocant”; Gesta Francorum et aliorum Hierosolymitanorum, 91. Such were the real functions
358
of the emirs. See Dominique Sourdel, Gouvernement et administration de l’Orient islamique

jusqu’au milieu du XI siècle (Leyden, 1988), passim.
37 For instance, Karbuqa entrusts the command of a citadel to an emir who takes an oath of fealty
to his lord. See Peter Tudebode, 90.
38 Robert the Monk, 811: “maiores regni Persarum”; Albert, 646: “Babylonie potentes.”
39 Peter Tudebode, 147; Raymond, 110; Guibert, 271.
40 Fulcher, 311.
41 For instance, Robert the Monk names the “Babylonian emir” Clemens which is not paralleled in
other texts. As Carol Sweetenham has shown in her recent article, naming so the greatest enemy
of the Christians was a way to comment on a contemporary political situation. The matter is that
in the investiture conflict the antipope Wibert of Ravenna had taken the name of Clemens III. See
Sweetenham Carol, “Crusaders in a Hall of Mirrors. The Portrayal of Saracens in the Robert the
Monk’s History,” in Languages of Love and Hate. Conflicts, Community and Identity in the Medieval
Mediterranean, ed. Sara Lambert and Helen Nicholson (Turnhout, 2011), 50–63, esp. 52–55.
42 Albert, 442.
43 Ibid., 444; Raymond, 110–111.
44 Raymond, 110 “Dubitaverat enim an faceret nobiscum amititiam, an cum Turcos.” In this extract
of the chronicle it is hard to tell “the king of Babylon” from the “emir.” The guess is that the latter
is al-Afdal.
45 Raymond, 111: “si venire cum ipsis contra nos in praelium, colerent Alim, quem ipse colit.”
46 Albert, 230.
47 Robert the Monk, 791–792; Raymond, 110.
48 Robert the Monk, 793.
49 Albert, 248; Guibert, 249. Historically Yagh-Syan was a governor of Antioch nominated by
Malik-shāh. Nominally Yagh-Syan was a vassal of Redwan of Aleppo and then of Dukak of
Damascus.
50 Albert, 250, 260.
51 Ibid., 254.
52 Ibid., 252: “rex Darsianum … tibi subjectum et amicus tuoque munere urbes et terras tenentem.”
53 Claude Cahen, “L’evolution sociale du monde musulman jusqu’au XII siècle face à celle du
monde chrétien,” Cahiers de civilisation médiévale 1 (1958), 451–463.
54 Albert, 194.
55 Ibid., 200: “quatuor insuperabiles turres … quoum praefati ammiraldi quatuor semper custodies
et defensores regis Darsiani attitulati sunt.”
56 Ibid., 248.
57 Radulf of Caen, 656: “regum orientalium potentissimus, uni Soldano qui regnum Persida regnav-
erat, secundus.”
58 As said by Albert of Aachen, during the siege of the city, Yaghi-Syan, ignorant of the danger,
sleeps soundly in his upper rooms through all the fighting. Albert, 248: “rex Darsianus … hacte-
nus in omni conflict … in solio dormiens.”
59 See Robert the Monk, 806; Albert, 286; Radulf of Caen, 655–656; Chanson d’Antioche, vv.
9365–9390.
60 Historically Kilij-Arslan is the ruler of the sultanate of Rum who destroyed the army of Peter the
Hermit at Civitot in October 1096. In May 1097, the crusaders took his capital, the city of Nicea,
and afterwards Kilij-Arslan was defeated by the Christians in the battle of Dorylaeum on July 1,
1097.
62 Albert, 32.
63 Gesta Francorum Iherusalem expugnantium, 495: “Solimanus admiraldus erat qui Nicaeam et
totam fere Romaniam imperii suo subjugavit adhibitis sibi multis in auxilium orientalibus parti-
bus admiraldos et ducibus.”
359
64 Radulf of Caen, 620: “rex Turcius,” 623, 625: “rex Solimannus”; Baudri of Bourgueil, 62:
“Solimano regi magno.”
65 Albert, 252: “nuper expertus est virtutem Christianorum.”
66 See “Verba Solimanni”: Robert the Monk, 764; Gesta Francorum et aliorum Hierosolymitanorum,
22.
67 Albert, 250. In the “Song of Antioch” (vv. 4995–5005) he arrives in Khurassan after Shems-ad-
Daul. His host numbers only forty soldiers, all of them mutilated and wounded during the fights
for Nicea.
68 See the accounts of Kilij-Arslan in the chronicles and the “Song of Antioch”: Albert, p, 252–256;
Chanson d’Antioche, vv. 5020–5045, 5070–5145.

69 Albert, 254: “vir contumax et plenus superbia feritate virtutes Christianorum parvipendens”;
Robert the Monk, 811: “quae sibi conversa sunt in ignominia.” Historically Karbuqa arrived at
Antioch only on June 5, 1098 after having assembled the army of thirty thousand warriors. On
June 28 he was defeated by the crusaders.
70 Gesta Francorum et aliorum Hierosolymitanorum, 50–53; Peter Tudebode, 89–90; Robert the
Monk, 811, Chanson d’Antioche, vv. 4605–5150, 5376–5390, 6786–6840, 6838–6895.
71 Radulf of Caen, 664: “Persarum satrapa”; Baudri of Bourgueil, 50: “ militiae soldanus Persiae
magister”; Guibert, 165: “major domus vel potius militia princeps.
73 Albert, 312: “Corbahan princeps Corruzana.”
74 Ibid., 254: “Corbahan vero familiaris et primus in aula regis et secundus a rege in regno
Corruzana.”
75 Guibert, 189.
76 Albert, 254.
77 Ibid., 264.
78 Ibid., 250.
79 Robert the Monk, 811: “regique Persarum soldano super omnes glorioso, majorisbusque regni
Persarum proceribus.”
80 Albert, 252, 254, 260.
81 Gesta Francorum et aliorum Hierosolymitanorum, 51: “ nostri regi domino Soldani militi fortis-
simo.”
82 In contrast to the chroniclers, the poets have no idea with regard to the character of the sultans’
power and think of this title as a proper name. In the “Song of Roland” this rank is not even
mentioned. See Bancourt, II, 846–849.
83 Guibert, 211.
84 Ibid., 208: “habent enim papаm suum, ad instar nostri.”
85 Ibid., 211: “papaeque beatissimo”; Peter Tudebode, 92: “Caliphas nostro episcopo”; Robert the
Monk, 811: “religiosos papae nostro Caliphae, regique Persarum Soldano.”
86 Raymond, 111.
87 Chanson d’Antioche, vv. 4877–4910.
88 Ibid., v. 5195: “Cil a le segnorage dusqu’a soleil couçant.”
89 Ibid., v. 5194: “A Calife qui est sor les autres puissan.”
90 Ibid., v. 4857.
91 Ibid., v. 5191.
92 Ibid., v. 5212.
93 Ibid., vv. 5323–5347.
94 The Muslim political world is very often an inversion of the Christian. See on this subject,
Pascal Péron, Les croisés en Orient: la représentation de léspace dans le cycle de croisade
(Paris, 2008), 490–495. See also John Tolan, “Muslims as Pagan Idolators in the Chronicles of
the First Crusade,” in Western Views of Islam in Medieval and Early Modern Europe. Perception
of Other, ed. David R. Blanks and Michael Frassetto (New York, 1999), 107–109.
360
95 The illuminators paint the scenes of the siege of Nicea, Antioch, and Jerusalem. See BNF. Ms. fr.
22495, f. 28, 32, 50v. See other illuminated codexes of the chronicle: fr. 9082, ff. 66v, 75v etc.
96 See the images of the Christian rulers in the same codex: 22495, f. 78.
97 See: BNF. Ms. fr. 9083, ff. 200v, 263v, 283v.
98 See other miniatures: BNF. Ms. fr. 2630, f. 129v etc.
99 See on this subject: Penny Cole, “O God, the Heathen Have Come into your Inheritance”: The
Theme of Religious Pollution in Crusader Documents, 1095–1188,” in Crusaders and Muslims
in Twelfth Century Syria, ed. Maya Shatzmiller (Leiden, 1993), 84–111.
100 Peter Tudebode, 147; Robert the Monk, 877–878.
361
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CRUSADERS, MUSLIMS AND BIBLICAL

STORIES: SALADIN AND JOSEPH
Yehoshua Frenkel
INTRODUCTION
T he Ayyubid sultan Saladin (Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn Yūsuf bn Ayyūb; 1137–93) is the undisputed
hero of medieval Islam. His political and military career is well documented and has
been extensively investigated. A considerable number of modern works, both in European
and in Near Eastern languages, reflect upon his political career, the wars he fought and other
achievements;1 to these should be added the seemingly endless list of writings and other
means of communication in the Arabic/Islamic worlds that center on him.
These literary products depend heavily upon the writings of Saladin’s secretaries and
court poets. They and their medieval successors aspired to present him as a great and val-
iant Muslim warrior and diplomat; to this end they were also ready to manipulate biblical
stories that were familiar to medieval Muslim audiences. The presence of biblical heroes
in the medieval Muslim imagination is illuminated by the drawing of an analogy between
Saladin Joseph and the biblical Joseph (Yūsuf bn Yaʿqūb in Arabic). This comparison is a
noticeable literary tool in the verbal arsenal that was available to the sultan’s admirers and
they employed it both in prose and in poetry.
Relying on detailed studies by competent scholars, the present work aims at looking into
this apparent element in the construction of Saladin’s image and the ensuing propaganda.2
Yet, before turning to this principal goal, this chapter will dwell briefly on the career of
Saladin and on the reception of the biblical story of Joseph by medieval Muslims. The suc-
ceeding section will deal with the representation of Saladin in passages written by Ayyubid
contemporaries in which he is treated as a hero akin to the biblical Joseph.
SOURCES
The study of Saladin’s image is based principally upon literary sources composed by his
contemporaries or collected by their successors,3 although inscriptions and material evi-
dence provide useful information. The Ayyubid sultan paid great attention to recording his
deeds and his political and military achievements and, undoubtedly, he was very successful
in his efforts to project a fitting image and to boost his prestige as the ideal Muslim warrior.
362
— chapter 22: Crusaders, Muslims and biblical stories —
His representation in Arabo-Muslim historiography attests to his success at achieving this

goal. In these works he acquired the image of an outstanding Muslim political and military
hero.4 This role is visible in the texts used by me in this limited study.5
ʿImād al-Dīn Muḥammad al-Shāfiʿī (519–97/1125–1201), who is known as the Secretary
from Isfahan (al-kātib al-isfahānī), was a Persian émigré who came to Damascus in the
summer of 1167 and joined the court of sultan Nūr al-Dīn Maḥmūd. After Saladin’s capture
of Damascus, the new sultan, who needed the services of skilled bilingual scribes, recruited
ʿImād al-Dīn (in 1175). Being a close companion of Saladin, al-ʿImād al-Isfahānī operated
as a ghost-writer for the new commander of the armies of Jihad. ʿImād al-Dīn’s major work,
al-Barq al-Shāmī (The Syrian Thunderbolt), which tells the history of the reigns of Nūr
al-Dīn and Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn, was completed after the latter’s death.6
Bahāʾ al-Dīn Ibn Shaddād joined Saladin after the victory at Ḥaṭṭīn (in 1187) and was in
his service during the Third Crusade and until the sultan’s death in Damascus.7 His training
and professional career resembled that of many of his skilled contemporaries. These well-
educated scholars, including those in the religious sciences (ʿālim), served at the military
command headquarters. A confidential servant of the victorious sultan (al-Malik al-Nāṣir),
with whom he enjoyed long sessions, Ibn Shaddād claims to provide his audience with
insightful information. Yet we should bear in mind that his primary aim was to portray his
master as the archetypical holy warrior.8
Although Ibn al-Athīr’s bias against Saladin is notorious,9 his al-Kāmil (The Complete
Book in the Matters of History)10 and al-Bāhir (The Dazzling Victory: On the History of
the Zangids) are major Arabic sources for the history of the crusaders. The al-Kāmil fī
al-taʾrīkh was written over a considerable time and underwent various revisions.11 In his
narrative of the events, Ibn al-Athīr tried to place the story of the Franks in the Eastern
Mediterranean within the framework of a global conflict between Islam and Christendom.
Abū Shāma the Damascene, an elder contemporary of Ibn al-Athīr, provides accounts
from earlier sources that have not survived in his al-Rawḍatayn (The Two Gardens).12 This
book, appended with biographies of Muslim nobles, has the quality of an ego-document.13
An admirer of the two sultans who are pivotal in his book, Nūr al-Dīn and Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn,
Abū Shāma depicts their reigns as exemplary models for Muslim rulers and commanders.14
Ibn Wāṣil al-Ḥamawī was a scion of a Syrian elite family and served in the civilian
administration of two dynasties. In late Ayyubid Cairo, he taught at the al-Aqmar mosque.15
During the years of transition, from the Ayyubid dynasty to the Mamlūk sultanate, he com-
posed a comprehensive history of the wars between Islam and the Franks.16 In the chapters
that he dedicates to reports on Saladin, Ibn Wāṣil based himself on earlier sources, while in
the accounts of later decades he incorporates personal narratives. Such, for example, is the
report on his diplomatic mission to Italy, which he visited as an ambassador of the Mamlūk
sultan Baybars.17
THE POLITICAL CAREER OF SALADIN:

PROPAGANDA AND IMAGE
The administrative, military and political career of Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn Yūsuf bn Ayyūb in Egypt,
Syria and south-east Anatolia extended over nearly a half century (c. 1151–93). At approxi-
mately the age of fifteen, he joined the Asadiyya in Aleppo, which were the well-trained
army battalion of his uncle, Asad al-Dīn Shīrkūh (both names mean lion). In 1164, he moved
to Egypt for the first time. Five years later, after the death of his uncle, he became the
363
— Ye h o s h u a F r e n k e l —
commander of the Syrian contingent, which Nūr al-Dīn Maḥmūd had dispatched to the Nile
Valley. Following the death of the last Fatimid caliph in Cairo (1171), he became the de
facto ruler of Egypt and, for the next two decades, he was primarily engaged in efforts to
strengthen his legitimacy as an heir of Nūr al-Dīn (d. 1174).
The victory at Ḥaṭṭīn (in 1187) established Saladin’s image as a leading jihad com-
mander, although even after this decisive triumph he was ready to negotiate truces with
the Franks and even to recognize their rule over parts of the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem.
This willingness is apparent in the treaty he concluded with Richard Coeur de Lion in
September 1192.18 Following this event, Saladin’s troops dispersed and he himself returned
to Damascus, where he lived for a few months before succumbing to illness and death in
March 1193.
As with other twelfth- and thirteenth-century warlords, Saladin was also deeply con-
cerned with questions of legitimacy.19 Hence he was very keen in constructing an image
as a devoted Muslim, a close supporter of the Abbasid caliph, and a champion of combat
against both internal and external threats.20 To this end, he recruited soldiers, employed
clerks, and paid poets. Thus, as already stated above, he was able to fashion a positive biog-
raphy, which was composed by several of his companions. These texts contain glorifying
poetry and official dispatches that portray the sultan as a devoted Muslim who cleaned up
(ṭahara) the Abode of Islam from the contamination caused by internal heresies and exter-
nal enemies.21
By steadily holding the reins of power, Saladin used the resources at his disposal to pur-
chase public support.22 Material evidence and inscriptions illuminate this sultanic policy.23
This policy is highly visible in his socio-religious policy as the sultan endowed pious chari-
ties (awqāf).24 The main beneficiaries of his “altruistic” investments were jurisconsults and
sufi mendicants who were the backbone of his religious establishment. Another example of
this point is an inscription from Damascus that reads:
The construction of this school was completed during the days of al-Malik al-Nāṣir Ṣalāh
al-Dunyā wal-Dīn the rescuer of Jerusalem from the hands of the polytheists.25
It should be emphasized here that scholars disagree in their evaluation of Saladin’s jihad
policy.26 In the study of his anti-Frankish propaganda, which has deep roots in the his-
toriography of the Latin Kingdom and of the contemporary Islamic dynasties, it is pos-
sible to detect two conflicting interpretations: either he was motivated by an anti-Christian
jihad spirit27 or he lacked a well-formulated ideology of holy war and opted for a policy of
détente.28 In this study of the sultanic eulogia, this question is of limited concern, although
it is fitting to say that the image of Saladin as a reviver of religion is striking.29
JOSEPH (YŪSUF) IN THE QUR’AN AND

IN ISLAMIC TRADITION
To facilitate a study of the analogy between the biblical Joseph and Saladin, which is plainly
visible in Oriental and Occidental medieval sources, I will briefly turn to the story of bibli-
cal Joseph in the Islamic tradition.
Biblical “references” are detectable in various medieval Islamic historical-political nar-
ratives and reflect the familiarity of Muslim historians with the prophets and biblical tales.30
Although exact literal biblical quotations are extremely rare in the various Islamic genres
364
that narrated the history of the Children of Israel, biblical kings and prophets, and other
related subjects, Islamic writings on these matters reflect deep familiarity with the Bible
and the Midrash.31 It is valid to claim that biblical legends were instrumental in Islamic
historiography. Those chapters that represent Muhammad’s mission as the final stage in the
history of revelation serve as one example.32
Another case in the point is an account of the last chapter in the life of al-Amīn, the
besieged Abbasid caliph (ah 198/ad 813).33 This account is said to be based on testimony
that was narrated by his nephew Ibrāhīm b. al-Mahdī. Its transmitters designed it as an ego-
document and as such it is quoted by several later historians. It tells of a weary, depressed,
and obviously frightened caliph who twice heard a voice coming from the Tigris River. The
waters whispered, so we are told by his alleged companion: “The matter is decided whereon
you enquire.”34 This phrase is taken directly from the Qurʾanic verses that tell the story of
Joseph in Pharaoh’s prison.
The narrator of this presumed event certainly assumed that his audience was familiar
with the “Stories of the Prophets.” Although he transfers the event from the Nile Valley to
the banks of the Tigris, he did not doubt that the audience would receive the story as reim-
agined by him. He further believed that the placing of the scene in Baghdad would not deter
them from accepting the validity of his testimony.
Chapter 12 of the Qurʾān (sūrat yūsuf) is devoted to the story of Yūsuf bn Yaʿqūb (Joseph
the son Jacob). The relating of his youth and the account of his career in Pharaoh’s Egypt
is the longest sustained narrative of any biblical character’s life in the Qurʾān. The story of
Joseph in this chapter reflects the basic paradigm of the Qurʾān: a young prophet is derided
by his family and kin, is exiled to an alien territory, but is eventually vindicated and rises
to prominence.35
In post-Qur’anic literature, and particularly in pietistic literature, Joseph serves as a
model of virtue and wisdom.36 His beauty and chastity are other salient topics in these
texts.37 Abū Jaʿfar Muḥammad b. Jarīr al-Ṭabarī (224–310/838–923), a highly esteemed
historian and exegete, who is a crucial node in the transmission of Islamic juridical, histori-
cal and scriptural lore, brings in his bulky exegesis of the Quʾrān the following tradition:
Some of the People of the Torah report that, according to the Torah, Joseph was sold by
his brothers and brought to Egypt when he was seventeen years old. They say that he
remained in the house of the ruler who bought him for thirteen years, and that when he
reached the age of thirty the Pharaoh of Egypt al-Walīd b. al-Rayyān made him vizier.38
In his “Tales of the Prophets,” al-Thaʿālibī transmits the following description of Joseph:
The beauty of Joseph was like the light of day; his skin was fair, his face comely, his hair
curly, eyes large, he stood upright, had strong legs, upper arms, and forearms, a flat belly
with a small navel, he was hook-nosed, and had a dark mole on his right cheek which
beautified his face; a white birth mark between his eyes resembling the Moon when it
is full, and eye lashes like the fore-feathers of eagle wings. His teeth sparkled when he
smiled, and light emanated from his mouth between his incisors when he spoke. No
human would be able to describe Joseph, no one! It is said that he inherited his beauty
from his grandfather Isaac, son of Abraham, who was the most beautiful man, Isaac
means “the one who laughs” in Hebrew, and who, in turn, inherited his beauty from his
mother Sarah.39
365
SALADIN YŪSUF AND THE BIBLICAL JOSEPH

Poets and other authors who were keen to promote Saladin’s image exceedingly praised
Yūsuf bn Ayyūb (Saladin).40 A deviation from the main topic of their subject matter is a
common literary device used in these writings. In order to eulogize the sultan Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn
Yūsuf, these sources often take a digression before returning to the key subject of their
account.41 It is not rare, as was already suggested here, to stumble in these praising lines
upon an analogy between Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn Yūsuf the son of Ayyūb (the Hebrew Job) and the
biblical Joseph the son of Jacob (Yūsuf bn Yaʿqūb in Arabic).42
Shortly after his arrival at Damascus (in 562/August 1167), the secretary ʿImad al-Dīn
al-Kātib al-Isfahānī, who would fill an important role at Saladin’s court, visited Najam al-Dīn
Ayyūb, Saladin’s father. At that date the host’s son and brother, Saladin and Asad
al-Dīn Shīrkūha respectively, were heading toward completing their second Egyptian
adventure.43 At the reception, the secretary ʿImād al-Dīn recited a long poem, which con-
tained prophetic verses:44
The two will tomorrow kindle a corroding fire among the infidels / the tongue of fire will
turn young to old // In the future Joseph will establish himself in Egypt / with it, after a
long separation, Jacob will find security // There Joseph will meet his brothers / by God,
with no reproach Allah will unite them at that day.45
On the arrival of Saladin to Egypt, the poet Ḥassan (known as ʿArqalah) said to him:
the Turk [soldiers have] relinquished Egypt to be destroyed by the Bedouins / O Lord
in the past you gave Egypt to Joseph the righteous (Yūsuf al-Ṣadīq), the son of Jacob /
nowadays Egypt is governed by Yūsuf the faithful (al-Sādiq), the son of Ayyūb.46
Narrating the story of Saladin’s rise to power, Ibn Wāṣil says that following the death of
his young nephew, Asad al-Dīn, the former seized the command over the Syrian expedi-
tion forces that were stationed at Cairo. Then he goes on and tells about Ṣalāh al-Dīn’s
repentance:
When the leadership was given to him he stopped from drinking alcohol and shunned
from [non-Islamic] entertainments. From now on, till death, he acted sombrely and
solemnity (al-jidd wal-ijtihād).47
In the plot woven by the narrator, the elevation of the young army commander was not
a political turning point, but a deeply religious conversion. This literary technique is
employed by some authors who glorify the achievements of Saladin by installing the sultan
within the timeline of Islam’s sacred history. They compared his successes with key events
in a utopian past and compare his achievements with triumphs that occurred in the days of
the founding fathers of Islam.48
Learning in Damascus of Ṣalāh al-Dīn’s success in subduing a rebellion in Cairo (564/
August 1169), ʿImād al-Dīn dispatched a panegyrical poem to him:
with Saladin gleamed the most respect praises in our days // I have to produce what is my
duty of honour and to thanks him for his considerable efforts to present voluntary gifts
366
// He is Joseph of Egypt our hopes are directed toward him // You rendered the flooding
two Nile Rivers: a river of dark blood and an attainment of grace [...] with your power
you are confusing the Nile, well it is the time to conquest the Mediterranean’s coasts //
and to sanctify the Holy City, to clean her from the corrupted infidels, from the filth of
the wicked barbarians.49
A second dispatch in response to a communication by Saladin, the secretary ʿhe s al-Dīn

mentions his addressee’s conflict with Shawār, a violent clash that ended with the execution
of the Fatimid vizier.50 This event was the subject of a panegyric poem that says:
Be delighted Egypt, Yūsuf [Joseph the son of Jacob] has seized control over you, God
the All-merciful made him to accomplish something long awaited // Only David’s kill-
ing of Goliath resembles the execution of Fatimid vizier Shāwar at the hands of Yūsuf
[Joseph Saladin].51
The term “Pharaoh” (Firʿūn) occurs in the Quʾrān seventy-four times. He is an evil
king who, together with his household, did not believe in God. Later Islamic literature
depicts Pharaoh as a symbol of evil and arrogance.52 It is no wonder that in many leg-
endary tales, Pharaoh is said to lead his followers to hellfire on the day of resurrection.53
He is the symbol of absolute wickedness and biographers of Saladin were familiar with
this tradition and manipulated it for their own purposes.54 Often they used this motive
to emphasize the anti-Fatimid policy of Saladin and to extol his measures to eliminate
them from Egypt.55
Saladin, however, is portrayed as the redeemer of Egypt, who saved the Nile Valley from
the heretics.56 Verses by the Yemenite poet ʿUmāra, who was in Cairo when Saladin abol-
ished the Fatimid vizierate, can serve as an example to these dramatic formulas:
It is as if in those nights, I was a believer amongst the people of Pharaoh: I struggled to

defend my religion, even though death was kept waiting.57
ʿAbd al-Munʿim al-Jilyānī (531–602/1136–1205), a second poet that witnessed this unifica-
tion of father and son, wrote:
In the east the splendor of Najm al-Dīn has risen / his sons are unconsumed comets //
They arrived like Jacob and the tribes, who have come / from Syria to the ruler of Egypt
and joined him // Yet when the brothers arrived to this Joseph / they experienced no
conflict or slander.58
To commemorate the death of al-ʿĀḍid and the end of the Fatimid regime in Egypt, ʿImād
al-Dīn al-Isfahānī wrote a poem. Its verses contain a sharp political message:
al-ʿĀḍid the propagandist passed away never again an imposter will seized Egypt // with
it the age of Pharaoh came to an end in Egypt / from tomorrow the reins of government
will be in the hands of Yūsuf of Egypt.59
As a summary of this analogy between biblical Joseph and Saladin, we can use Ibn Wāṣil’s
narrative. This historian narrates an episode enriched with quotations from the Qurʾān:60
367
What happened to Ayyūb with his son Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn Yūsuf resembles to a considerable
degree to what happened to Jacob with his son Joseph, when he arrived at Egypt and
found that his son is the ruler of the Nile Valley. “So, when they entered unto Joseph,
he took his father and mother into his arms saying, ‘Enter you into Egypt, if God will,
in security’.”61 It is narrated that when Ayyūb met with his son al-Malik al-Nāsir (the
Victorious King) Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn, who was accompanied by the [Fatimid] caliph al-ʿĀḍid, a
reciter chanted the adjacent verse: “And he lifted his father and mother upon the throne;
and the others fell down prostrate before him. ‘See, father,’ he said, ‘this is the interpreta-
tion of my vision of long ago; [my Lord has made it true]’.”62
Moreover, in the texts studied by me, Saladin was compared not only to biblical Joseph.
Thus, for example, it is reported that Saladin accepted, without complaint, the bad news
about his army’s defeat at Mongisard (Mount Gezer). His endurance was equal to the
patience of Job, maintains the historian, and he is said to bewail the crushing defeat like
King David.63
Subsequent to the victory at Jacob’s Ford (Vadum Jacob or Chastellet; 575/August
1179)64 the poet Ibn al-Sāʿātī composed the following verses:
You stopped at the Castle of the Ford // indeed it is a unique post that no other place-
ment equals // you raised your yellow flag and shortly / afterwards your enemies shook //
should a gang that lie while proclaiming their faith live in the land of the prophets // you
advised them, and all know that warning is a religious duty / they scattered the house of
Jacob and immediately Joseph came forward.65
The decisive victory of Saladin at Ḥattin is compared with the biblical story of Joseph in
the land of Egypt, his arrest and release.66 This image of Saladin was not limited solely to
Muslim sources. The Christian historian Bar Hebraeus summarizes the transfer of power
from the last Fatimid caliph to Saladin, the new lord of the Nile Valley and says: “And the
poets also have composed a multitude of metrical harangues, saying ‘The reign (melkūtā) of
Pharaoh has come to an end, and that of Joseph (yosefya) has begun’.”67
At the first sermon in the al-Aqṣá mosque, which was given after Saladin’s victorious
entry to Jerusalem, the preacher said, among other praises: “is not this house (i.e. al-Aqṣá)
where God stopped the sun from descending over Joshua (Yūshaʿ [bn Nūn]) and slowed the
coming of the night so that he will be able to conquest and to offer the sacrifice?”68 “Is it not
the shrine that Moses ordered his people to save and they all, except two men. He became
angry and punished them by deporting them to the desert.”69 The preacher continued his
words and said that after the Sons of Israel have averted from Him, God has chosen the
Muslims in their place.70
The lengths that Saladin’s entourage was ready to go in their efforts to praise him can be
deduced from the description of his final hours:
I came across a letter by al-Qāḍī al-Fāḍil who wrote that a man saw a vision at the night
of Saladin’s death. A voice whispered “tonight Joseph was freed from his jail.” These
words are in line with the saying by the Prophet Muhammad: “The world is the prison
of the believer and the paradise of the infidel.” The transmitter added: “our Joseph was
in this earthly world in prison, compared with his fate in the Paradise. God is pleased
368
with his spirit and hence opened for him the gates of Heaven. This was the last opening
(i.e. Conquest) that Saladin hopped to attain.”71
The connection of biblical metaphors and the official language used by the courtiers of
Saladin is plainly seen in the memorandum that was composed by ʿImad al-Dīn al-Isfahānī.
In it, the chief secretary of Saladin reports to the caliph’s court in Baghdad on the victories
of 583/July 1187.72 He opens his report with a carefully selected verse from the Qurʾān that
reads: “For We have written in the Psalms (zabūr), after the Remembrance, ‘The earth shall
be the inheritance of My righteous servants’.”73
As was demonstrated above, Saladin’s admirers often saw him as equivalent to biblical
Joseph.74 This representation spread in the Near East already during Saladin’s lifetime, as
we can deduce from an anonymous Latin poem that says:
He was not a Joseph, should not have been a Joseph. In the king’s bed by a crime against a
woman, He corrupted his lady, adulterous man, a thief too bold … By general edict, Saladin
became the first among princes, through such a crime becomes nearly the king’s equal.75
SUMMARY
The sources analyzed here reflect the reception of the story of Joseph by many medieval
Muslims, who assimilated and retold it. The identification with the biblical patriarchs was
an integral component in their world vision and the use of biblical references in documents
that portray Saladin illuminates it; his contemporaries drew analogies between him and
Joseph the son of Jacob. It would not be difficult to append the handful of verses quoted
above with numerous other stanzas and accounts that extol Saladin the sovereign of Egypt,
who is said to resemble Joseph the vizier of Pharaoh.76
These passages also raise the question of the role of the Bible in their world vision.77
That early generations of Muslims were familiar with biblical legends is agreed upon by
students of Islam who have pondered upon the popularity of the Isrāʾīliyyāt genre during
those centuries.78 Yet, during the Mamlūk period a twist can be detected. Sources from that
period make it clear that several well-respected Muslim scholars voiced their objection to
the reception of this literary genre.79
However, from the texts studied here by me it is clear that the popularity of biblical nar-
ratives was unchallenged during the Ayyubid period. Moreover, the connection of Joseph
with the ruler of Islamic Egypt did not end with the collapse of the Ayyubid house. Ibn al-
Mughayzil (d. 1296), an early Mamlūk historian, transmits a tale that associates, perhaps for
the first time, al-Ẓāhir Baybars (d. 1277), the new Mamlūk sultan of Egypt with the Biblical/
Qurʾānic tradition. One of the emirs of the Ayyubid ruler al-Ṣāliḥ Ayyūb (d. 1249) is quoted
as saying to al-Ẓāhir Baybars: “God put you in the place of Joseph, and put in your hand the
souls of his servants.”80 Facing a food crisis, the sultan nominated an inspector (muḥtasib)
of the markets in Cairo (Misr), telling him: “you are a foreigner (gharīb), I am a foreigner
and Joseph the righteous (ṣadīq) was an outsider.”81 A poet wrote that while on the road
from Cairo to Mecca an emir was arrested (751/1351): “In the highest mountain peak in a
fortress he was jailed. A lofty prison high as a shining star. / He will be welcomed by the
mighty that provided hospitality to Jesus the son of Mary. As Joseph was delivered from the
dungeon so will be you freed.”82
369
NOTES
1 On his political and military career, see Hamilton A. R. Gibb, The Life of Saladin: From the
Works of Imad ad-Din and Baha ad-Din (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1973); idem, Saladin: Studies
in Islamic History, ed. Y. Ibish (Beirut, 1974); Andrew S. Ehrenkreutz, Saladin (Albany: State
University of New York Press, 1972); Malcolm Cameron Lyons and D. E. P. Jackson, Saladin: The
Politics of the Holy War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982); Yaacov Lev, Saladin in
Egypt (Brill, 1999); Anne-Marie Eddé, Saladin trans. Jane Marie Todd (Cambridge, MA: Belknap
Press of Harvard University Press, 2011).
2 Stanley Lane-Poole, Saladin and the Fall of the Kingdom of Jerusalem (New York, 1906), 377–401.
3 Fr. Gabrieli, “The Arabic Historiography of the Crusades,” in B. Lewis and P. M. Holt (eds),
Historians of the Middle East (London: Oxford University Press, 1962), 98–107; Claude Cahen,
“Editing Arabic Chronicles: A Few Suggestions,” Islamic Studies 15 (1976), 17–19; for a selected
translation of these sources, see Fr. Gabrieli, The Arab Historians of the Crusades (London, 1969).
4 An early survey of this literary production was done by Hamilton A. R. Gibb, “The Arabic Sources
for the Life of Saladin,” Speculum 25 (1950): 58–72; Donald S. Richards, “A consideration of two
sources for the life of Saladin,” JSS 25 (1980): 46–65.
5 This facet is distinctly visible in Abū Shama’s report on the relations between Nūr al-Dīn and
Saladin and his evaluation of the sources that report on developments in Cairo and Damascus. Abū
Shama ʿAbd al-Raḥman b. Ismaʿīl b. Ibrāhīm al-Shāfiʿī (599–665/1202–67), Kitāb al-Rawḍatayn
fī akhbār al-dawlatayn al-nūriyya wal-şalāḥiyya, ed. Ibrahim Shams al-Dīn (Beirut: Dar al-Kutub
al-ʿIlmiyya, 1422/2002), II: 77–79 (AH 564). I shall return to this issue further below.
6 Donald S. Richards, “Imad al-Din al-Isfahani: Administrator, Litterateur and Historian,” in Maya
Shatzmiller (ed.), Crusaders and Muslims in Twelfth-Century Syria (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1993),
133–46; Nasser O. Rabbat, “My Life with Salah al-Din: The Memories of ʿImad al-Din al-Katib
al-Isfahani,” Edebiyat 7/2 (1996): 267–287.
7 Bahaʾ al-Din Abu al-Mahasin Yusuf b. Rafiʿ Ibn Shaddad (539–632/1145–1239), al-Nawadir al-
sultaniyya wal-mahasin al-yusufiyya [Sirat Salah al-Din], ed. G. al-Shayyal (Cairo: Turathuna,
1964) (D. S. Richards (trans.), The Rare and Excellent History of Saladin or al-Nawadir al-
Sultaniyya wa’l-Mahasin al-Yusufiyya by Baha’ al-Din Ibn Shaddad (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2001).)
8 Chase F. Robinson, Islamic Historiography (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003),
62–63.
9 See, however, the review by Françoise Micheau, “Le Kitāb al-kāmil fī l-tāʾrīkh d’Ibn al-Athīr:
Entre chronique et histoire,” Studia Islamica 104 (2007): 94–98.
10 ʿIzz al-Din ʿAli b. Abi al-Karm Muhammad Ibn al-Athir al-Jaziri (555–630/1160–1233), al-Kamil
fi al-taʾrikh, ed. al-Daqqaq (Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al-Ilmiyya, 1424/2003) (Donald S. Richards
(trans.) The Chronicle of Ibn al-Athir for the Crusading Period from al-Kamil fi’l-ta’rikh, 3 vols
(Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006–08).
11 S. Richards, “Some Consideration of Ibn al-Athīr’s al-Tāʾrīkh al-Bāhir and its relationship to the
Kāmil,” in C. Vázquez de Benito and M. A. Manzano Rodríguez (eds), Actas XVI Congreso UEAI
(Salamanca, 1995), 444.
12 Abū Shāma ʿAbd al-Raḥman b. Ismaʿīl b. Ibrāhīm al-Shāfiʿī (599–665/1202–67), Kitāb al-Rawḍatayn
fī akhbār al-dawlatayn al-nūriyya wal-şalāḥiyya, ed. Ibrahim Shams al-Dīn (Beirut: Dar al-Kutub
al-ʿIlmiyya, 1422/2002).
13 See the author’s remarks on his birth and name: Abū Shāma, Dhayl al-Rawḍatayn, V: 50, 57–58.
14 On Abu Shāma’s and Ibn Wāsil’s life and production, see Konrad Hirschler, Medieval Arabic
Historiography: Authors as Actors (London: Routledge 2006).
15 Ṣalāḥ aL-Buḥayrī, “Le décret de nomination de l’historien Ibn Wāṣil au poste de professeur de la
mosquée al-Aqmar,” AnIsl 12 (1975): 85–94.
16 Jamal al-Din Muhammad b. Salim Ibn Wāṣil (604–97/1207–98), Mufarrij al-kurūb fi akhbar bani
ayyub, ed. al-Shayyal et al. vols 1–5 (Cairo, 1954).
370
17 Y. Frenkel, “Ayyubid and Mamluk Historiography: Eyewitness Accounts by Several Contem

poraries,” in K. D’Hulster and J. van Steenbergen (eds), Continuity and Change in the Realms of
Islam (Leuven: Peeters, 2008), 245–260.
18 Y. Frenkel, “Muslim Responses to the Frankish Dominion in the Near East (1098–1291),” in
Conor Kostick (ed.), The Crusades and the Near East: Cultural Histories (London: Routledge,
2011), 30–31.
19 R. Stephen Humphreys, “Legitimacy and Political Instability in Islam in the Age of the Crusades,”
in Hadia Dajani-Shakeel Ronald A. Messier (eds), The Jihad and its Times dedicated to Andrew
S. Ehrenkreutz (Ann Arbor: MPublishing University of Michigan and Center for Near Eastern and
North African Studies, 2011), 5, 7.

20 Peter Malcolm Holt, “Saladin and His Admirers: A Biographical Reassessment,” BSOAS 46
(1983): 235–239.
21 Emmanuel Sivan, L’Islam et la croisade: Idéologie et propagande sans réactions musulmanes aux
croisades (Paris: Librairie d’Amérique et d’Orient, 1968), 95–97.
22 Ibn Wāṣil, Mufarrij al-kurūb, I: 174.
23 Stephennie Mulder, “The Mausoleum of Imam al-Shāfiʿī,” Muqarnas 23 (2006): 15–46.
24 Y. Frenkel, “Political and Social Aspects of Islamic Religious Endowments (awqāf): Saladin in
Cairo (1169–73) and Jerusalem (1187–93),” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies
62 (1999): 1–20.
25 Gaston Wiet, “Les Inscriptions de Saladin,” Syria (1922): 309, 312, 314 (note 4); A. S. Tritton,
“Three Inscriptions from Jerusalem,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 20
(1957): 537–539.
26 Hillenbrand, The Crusades: Islamic Perspectives, 248–250 (on the conflicting interpretations by
Sivan and Köhler).
27 This thesis was advanced by Emmanuel Sivan in several works. See his L’Islam et la croisade:
Idéologie et propagande sans réactions musulmanes aux croisades (Paris: Librairie d’Amérique
et d’Orient, 1968).
28 Michael Köhler argues that the jihad propaganda of the Ayyubids should not to be taken at face
value in every case. They, including Saladin himself, often opted for negotiations with the Franks
and concluded treaties with them. Michael Köhler, Alliances and Treaties between Frankish and
Muslim Rulers in the Middle East: Cross-Cultural Diplomacy in the Period of the Crusades, trans.
Peter M. Holt, ed.and intro. Konrad Hirschler (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 213–267.
29 Andrew S. Ehrenkreutz, Saladin (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1972), 205–206. It
is appropriate to translate his royal title “the reformer of religion and earthly things.”
30 Uri Rubin, “Islamic Retellings of Biblical History,” in Y. Tzvi Langermann and Josef Stern (eds),
Adaptations and Innovations Studies on the Interaction between Jewish and Islamic Thought and
Literature from the Early Middle Ages to the Late Twentieth Century, Dedicated to Professor Joel
L. Kraemer (Louvain: Peeters, 2007), 299–313.
31 F. Rosenthal, “The Influence of the Biblical Tradition on Muslim Historiography, ” in B. Lewis
and P. M. Holt (eds), Historians of the Middle East (London, 1962): 41–44; Hava Lazarus-Yafeh,
Intertwined Worlds: Medieval Islam and Bible Criticism (Princeton: Princeton University Press,
1992), 112.
32 Jalāl al-Dīn Abū al-Faraj ʿAbd al-Raḥman b. ʿAlī Ibn al-Jawzī al-Ḥanbalī (510–597/1117–1201),
al-Wafā bi-aḥwāl al-Muṣṭafái, ed. M. A. ʿAṭā (Beirut: Dār al-kutub al-ʿilmiyya, 1408/1988),
56–68; esp. 60 “in another Psalm hymn [David] said: ‘God proclaimed him in Zion, a praise-
worthy crown’. The crown indicates leadership and guidance, praiseworthy (maḥmūd) means
Muhammad”. Cf. Psalm 50: 2 “Out of Zion, the perfection of beauty, God shines forth.”
33 Abū Jaʿfar Muḥammad b. Jarīr al-Ṭabarī (224–310/838–923), Taʾrīkh al-rusul wal-mulūk, ed.
M. A. Ibrahīm (Cairo: Dār al-Maʿārif, 1386/1967), XIII: 476–477; Tayeb el-Hibri, “The Regicide
of the Caliph al-Amin and the Challenge of Representation in Medieval Islamic Historiography,”
Arabica 42/3 (1995): 338–339.
371
34 Q. Sūrat Yūsuf, XII: 41 (trans. Arberry).

35 Sh. Goldman, “Joseph,” in Jane Dammen McAuliffe (ed.), Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān (Leiden:
Brill, 2001), III: 55–57.
36 R. Firestone, “Yusuf,” The Encyclopaedia of Islam (Leiden: Brill, 2002), XI: 352–354.
37 Abu al-Fida Ismaʿil Ibn Kathir (701–74/1301–73), Qiṣaṣ al-anbiya, ed. A. al-Farmawi (Cairo,
1417/1997), 304; For primary sources in English translation, see W. M. Brinner (trans.), The
History of al-Tabari. Vol. 2: Prophets and Patriarchs (Albany 1987), 148–185; William M.
Brinner (trans.), Arāʻis al-majālis fī qiṣaṣ al-anbiyā, or, Lives of the Prophets as Recounted
by Abū Isḥāq Aḥmad ibn Muḥammad ibn Ibrāhīm al-Thaʻlabī (Boston: Brill, 2002), 181–235;
W. M. Thackston (trans.), The Tales of the Prophets of al-Kisā’ī (Boston 1978), 167–192; Abu
al-Fida Ismaʿil Ibn Kathir (701–74/1301–73), Stories of the Prophets: From Adam to Muhammad,
trans. Sayyid Jad et al. (Dar al-Manarah, 2001), 127–156; Brannon M. Wheeler (ed. and trans.),
Prophets in the Quran: An Introduction to the Quran and Muslim Exegesis (London and New
York: Continuum 2002), 127–145.
38 Brinner, The History of al-Tabari, 154–155.
39 Brinner, Arāʻis al-majālis fī qiṣaṣ al-anbiyā, 184.
40 Konrad Hirschler, Medieval Arabic Historiography: Authors as Actors (London: Routledge
2006), 81, 89–90.
41 Abu Shama, Rawḍatayn, II: 82, 83, 84, (AH 564; quotes Dīwān ʻArqalah al-Kalbī), 88, 89, 90.
42 Ibn Wāṣil, Mufarrij al-kurūb, II: 233, 235.
43 They were back in Damascus in September. Qiwām al-Dīn al-Fatḥ b. ʿAlī al-Bundarī (586–643/1190–
1245), Sanā al-barq al-shāmī mukhtaṣar al-barq al-shāmī lil-ʿImād al-isfahānī, ed. R. Şeşen (Istanbul,
2004), 10–11.
44 Ibn Kathir, Bidāyah, XVI: 423 (AH 562/1167).
45 A reference to Q. 12: 92 “He said, ‘No reproach this day shall be on you; God will forgive you;
He is the most merciful of the merciful’” (trans.) Arberry.
46 Ibn Kathir, Bidāyah, 16: 421 (AH 562/1167; the first journey of Saladin to Egypt); Malcolm
Cameron Lyons and D. E. P. Jackson, Saladin: The Politics of the Holy War (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1982), 10–11.
47 Ibn Wāṣil, Mufarrij al-kurūb, I: 168 (quoting Bahāʾ al-Dīn).
48 Ibn Wāṣil, Mufarrij al-kurūb, II: 222; for the reception of pseudo-history as a source for events
that presumably took place during the first generation, see Shams al-Dīn Muḥammad b. Ibrāhīm
Ibn al-Jazarī (658–739/1259–1338), Taʾrīkh Ḥawādithal-zamān wa-anbāʾihi wa-wafayāt al-
akābir wal-aʿyān min abnāʾihi al-maʿrūf bi-taʾrīkh Ibn al-Jazarī, ed. A. A. al-Tadmurī (Beirut:
al-Maktaba al-ʿAṣriyya, 1419/1998), III: 667 (he quotes pseudo-Wāqidī, Futūḥ al-shām as an
original work).
49 Ibn Wāṣil, Mufarrij al-kurūb, I: 177–78; Abu Shama, Rawdḍatayn, II: 88–89.
50 On Shawār, see F. Daftary, The Ismaìlis: Their History and Doctrines (Cambridge University
PRess 1990), 271–272; 2nd edn (2007), 251–252.
51 Ibn Wāṣil, Mufarrij al-kurūb, I: 178; Abu Shama, Rawḍatayn, II: 90; Ibn Kathīr, Bidāyah, XVI:
433 (AH 564/1169); ʿIzz al-Dīn Aḥmad ibn Ibrāhīm al-ʿAsqlānī al-Ḥanbalī (800–876/1398–1471),
Shifāʾ al-qulūb fī manāqib Banī Ayyūb taḥqīq Madīḥah al-Sharqāwī (Cairo: Maktabat al-Thaqāfah
al-Dīnīyah, 1415/1996), 98.
52 Also in present-day political writings. See, for example, Zainab al-Ghazali, Return of the Pharaoh
Memoir in Nasir’s Prison, trans. Mokrane Guezzou (The Islamic Foundation 1427/2006), esp. 171
(5 June 1967).
53 Reuven Firestone, “Pharaoh,” in Jane Dammen McAuliffe (ed.), Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān
(Leiden: Brill, 2001), IV: 66–68.
54 Konrad Hirschler, “The ‘Pharaoh’ Anecdote in Pre-Modern Arabic Historiography,” Journal of
Arabic and Islamic Studies 10 (2010): 45–74, esp. 51.
372
55 For similar accusation voiced against an Ayyubid sultan, see Gary Leiser, “The Madrasa and the
Islamization of the Middle East: The Case of Egypt,” Journal of the American Research Center in
Egypt 22 (1985): 44.
56 This is not the first time in Islamic history that poets manipulate this comparison to strengthen the
image of their patron. Abū Shāma, Rawḍatayn, II: 131–132.
57 Pieter Smoor, “‘Umāra’s Poetical Views of Shāwar, Ḍirġām, Shīrkūh and Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn as Viziers
of the Fatimids Caliphs,” in Farhad Daftary and Josef W. Meri (eds), Culture and Memory in
Medieval Islam: Essays in Honour of Wilferd Madelung (London: I. B. Tauris, 2003), 425; on
ʿUmāra, see Yaacov Lev, Saladin in Egypt (Brill, 1999), 90
58 Abū Shāma, Rawḍatayn, II: 100 (AH 565).

59 Ibn Kathir, Bidayāh, XVI: 451–452 (AH 567/1171), and 453; and see resembling verses by ʿImad
al-Din in Abū Shāma, Rawḍatayn, II: 128 (567/September 1171).
60 Ibn Wāṣil, Mufarrij al-kurūb, I: 186.
61 Q. 12: 99/100.
62 Q. 12 100/101.
63 Ibn Kathir, Bidāyah, XVI: 523 (573/November 1177); Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kāmil fī al-taʾrīkh, X:
85–86 (AH 573). On this event and report, see D. Richards “Ibn al-Athir and the later parts of
al-Kamil,” in D. O. Morgan (ed.), Medieval Historical Writing in the Christian and Islamic Worlds
(London: SOAS, 1982), 89.
64 On the archaeological site, see Adrian J. Boas, “Archaeological Sources for the History of
Palestine: The Frankish Period: A Unique Medieval Society Emerges,” Near Eastern Archaeology
61/3 (1998): 157–158.
65 Ibn al-Sāʿātī (618/1221), Dīwān (Beirut, 1936), II: 409; ʿIzz al-Dīn Aḥmad ibn Ibrāhīm
al-ʿAsqlānī al-Ḥanbalī (800–876/1398–1471), Shifāʾ al-qulūb fī manāqib Banī Ayyūb ed. Madīḥah
al-Sharqāwī (Cairo: Maktabat al-Thaqāfah al-Dīnīyah, 1415/1996), 117.
66 Ibn Kathīr, Bidāyah, XVI: 585; Qurʾān sūra 12.
67 Gregorii Barhebraei (ad 1226–86), Chronicon Syriacum (Paris, 1890), 344 (ll. 22–23) (E. A. Wallis
Budge (trans.) The Chronography of Gregory Abu’l-Faraj commonly known as Bar Hebraeus
(Oxford, 1932), 300.)
68 Ibn Wāṣil, Mufarrij al-kurūb, II: 223; cf. Joshua 10: 12 “Sun, stand still over Gibeon, and you,
moon, over the Valley of Aijalon”; al-Ṭabarī, Taʾrīkh, ed. Ibrahim, 1: 440, 441.
69 Q. 5: 21–23.
70 Ibn Wāṣil, Mufarrij al-kurūb, II: 223–224.
71 Abū Shāma, Rawḍatayn, IV: 217.
72 Ibn Wāṣil, Mufarrij al-kurūb, II: 203.
73 Q. al-Anbiya, 105; cf. Psalms 37: 29: “The righteous shall possess the land and dwell upon it
forever.”
74 Anne-Marie Eddé, Saladin, trans. Jane Marie Todd (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard
75 For this negative description that aimed at opposing the praised image of the sultan, see Eddé,
Saladin, 470–471.
76 Ibn Wāṣil, Mufarrij al-kurūb, I: 183, 186; Abū Shāma, Rawḍatayn, II: 89, 95, 96 (by verses by
ʿImad al-Dīn).
77 M. J. Kister, “Haddithu ʿan Bani Isra’il wa-la harja. A Study of an Early Tradition,” Israel Oriental
Studies vol. 2 (1972), 215–239; reprinted in his Studies in Jahiliyya and Early Islam (London:
Variorum 1980), art. 14.
78 Roberto Tottoli, “Origin and Use of the Term Isrāʾīliyyāt in Muslim Literature,” Arabica 46/2
(1999): 193–210.
79 Yehoshua Fernkel, “Is there a Mamlūk culture?,” Ulrich Haarmann Memorial Lecture, ed. Stephan
Conermann (Berlin: EBVerlag, 2014), 20–21.
373
80 Ibn al-Mughayzil, Dhayl Muffarij al-kurūb fī akhbār Banī Ayyūb, ed. ʿUmar ʿAbd al-Salām
Tadmurī (Beirut, 2004), 89–90. An amir who has beaten up Baybars in childhood told him after he
seized the sultan’s throne: “would not Joseph’s brothers treating him badly he would not became
the king of Egypt. The person who faces difficulties patiently will win at the end of the day.
Suffering is the key for rewards.” al-Nuwayrī al-Iskandrānī, Kitāb al-ilmām, VI: 5.
81 Mūsá ibn Muḥammad al-Yūsufī (676–759/1277–1358), Nuzhat al-nāẓir fi sirat al-malik al-nāşir,
ed. A. Ḥuṭayṭ (Beirut, 1986), 297 (l. 7; AH 736/1336); cf. Koby Yosef, “Mamluks and Their
Relatives in the Period of the Mamluk Sultanate (1250–1517),” Mamluk Studies Review 16
(2012): 63–68.
82 Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn Khalīl. b. Aybak al-Safadī (696–764/1296–1363), Ayām al-ʿaṣr wa-aʿwān al-naṣr
(Beirut, 1418/1998), II: 88 (ll. 5–6).
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377
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
HISTORICAL MOTIFS IN THE WRITING

OF MUSLIM AUTHORS OF THE
CRUSADING ERA*
Daniella Talmon-Heller
The past was a very real presence in early medieval societies. It might provide a legitimiz-
ing template for the current order of things, explaining how things were meant to be thus,
or an image of an ideal order, a Golden Age against which the present could be judged.1
I n his introduction to Kitab al-Rawdatayn (The Book of the Two Gardens, i.e. the reigns
of Nur al-Din and Saladin), the Damascene historian Abu Shama (d. 1268) writes about
the collection and the reading of his sources. He discloses how impressed he was with
the biographies of his protagonists, saying: “and I have found them, from among the later
generations, like the two ʿUmars of the early generations [ʿUmar ibn al-Khattab and ʿUmar
ibn ʿAbd al-ʿAziz],2 as each one of them followed those predecessors regarding justice and
jihad and striving in every way for the glory of the religion of God.” He adds, revealing
his motivation to record history: “it is our duty (wajaba ʿalayna) to commemorate their
merits.” He also expresses his wish that such commemoration will inspire others to follow
their example.3
Several recent articles deal with Zangid and Ayyubid era Arab historiography, or more
generally, with the discourse of Arab writers of the crusading era. They address the way
Muslims had understood the crusaders’ motives and goals, and their perception of the coun-
ter-crusade, or jihad, returning to questions raised by Emmanuel Sivan’s seminal work of
1968.4 Directing their attention to the literary sources and rhetorical devices used by these
Muslim writers of the twelfth to fourteenth centuries, most authors stress the religious char-
acteristics of the discourse. Mourad, Lindsay, and Christie demonstrate, among others, the
quotation of hadith—especially hadith in praise of Syria, Palestine, and Jerusalem and their
religious merits (fadaʾil), or hadith in praise of jihad;5 Lev, Leder, and Chevedden highlight
the construction of a firm link between personal piety and enlistment to the defense of Dar
al-Islam.6 What I would like to add to these typologies are some comments on the use of
narratives about early Islamic history in Muslim crusading era discourse, an example of
which Abu Shama has provided for us in the excerpt quoted above.
The crucial role of narratives about the past in the constitution of group and indi-
vidual identities, and in the interpretation of historical events experienced in the present,
378
— chapter 23: Historical motifs in the writing of Muslim authors —
has been established by scholars of various fields. In the sub-field of medieval Muslim
historiography, this notion has been employed as a framework for enquiry in the work
of Thomas Sizgorich, Violence and Belief in Late Antiquity.7 Konrad Hirschler refers to
this phenomenon, which he calls “historicizing,” in his detailed study of the works of
the above-mentioned Abu Shama and his colleague the chronicler Ibn Wasil (d. 1298).
Hirschler deciphers the meaning of the chroniclers choice to place narratives about the
past into specific continuities or discontinuities.8
A later strata of historical analogies, that making use of narratives of crusading-era
history in Modern Arab historiography and political discourse, has been dealt with more
widely. Emmanuel Sivan analyzes the creative ways in which twentieth-century Arab his-
torians engage in comparisons between the twelfth- to thirteenth-century jihad against the
crusaders and the nineteenth- to twentieth-century struggles with imperialism, colonialism,
Zionism, and the West. One of the prominent lessons which were formulated by the Arab
historians who made these analogies, claims Sivan, was an optimistic one: history is bound
to repeat itself; the failure of the crusades and the victory of the Muslims predict the victory
of the East in its present-day encounter with the West.9 Another prominent Israeli historian,
B.Z. Kedar, has dealt with allusions to the crusades in modern Hebrew historiography and
publicist writing, and came up with some surprising analogies and several contradicting
lessons.10 Several works focus on Saladin’s representations and the use of his figure in
Ottoman and modern works of historians, publicists, and artists.11
I would like to begin my presentation of the historical motifs and analogies used by
Muslim historians, preachers, poets, and men of religion of the crusading era, in their
accounts of the events they were experiencing in their own times with a little known work
of the Damascene historian and preacher Sibt ibn al-Jawzi (d. 1256). In the first decades of
the thirteenth century, Sibt ibn al-Jawzi’s fame was established on his weekly assemblies
of exhortation, which drew huge enthusiastic crowds. To later generations he is best known
as the author of the lively chronicle Mirʾat al-Zaman (Mirror of the Time). The work I
am referring to is his al-Jalis al-Salih wa-l-Anis al-Nasih, written in the genre of “mirrors
for princes” and dedicated to his patron and friend, the Ayyubid ruler al-Malik al-Ashraf
(r. 1229–37). The book includes a rather lengthy chapter on jihad, with a discussion of
the lexical meanings of the term. Sibt ibn al-Jawzi explains that jihad may denote one of
five: warfare on the battle field, combating one’s passions, fighting with the devil, polemics
against heretics and dissenters (combat by the tongue, known as al-jihad bi-’l-lisan), and
the laborious struggle of the mystic to purify his heart and overcome all possible distractions
that may lead him astray from total devotion to God. Sibt ibn al-Jawzi grades the virtue of
the wars of the heart and soul above the virtue of combat on the battle field, in accordance
with a well-known saying of the Prophet, who, coming home from the battlefield, confessed
that he was returning from the ‘lesser jihad’ to the ‘greater jihad’.12
Having concluded his discussion of the five meaning of the word jihad and of related
terms, Sibt ibn al-Jawzi moves on to recall a series of stories (hikayat) about Muslim war-
riors of three historical periods: participants in the wars of the Prophet Muhammad against
the people of the tribe of Quraysh; the warriors who went out to conquer Syria in the 630s
during the caliphate of ʿUmar ibn al-Khattab (634–44); the volunteers who enlisted for the
war of attrition on the Arab-Byzantine frontier in the eighth to tenth centuries. I will follow
his paradigm and divide my presentation into the same three parts.
At this point, it may not be superfluous to point out that the narratives and myths about the
formative period of Islam had been constructed at least four centuries before the crusading
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— D a n i e l l a Ta l m o n - H e l l e r —
era. The first four caliphs had been elevated to the rank of the ‘Rightly Guided’ Caliphs (al-
rashidun), in what was to evolve into the Sunni camp,13 already in the Umayyad period.14
The extraordinary qualities and good virtues of the Companions of the Prophet (al-sahaba),
and their great service for Islam, have become a favorite theme since the early second/
eighth century. Compilations of hadith of the third/ninth century devote special chapters
to advertising their merits (fada’il/manaqib) and historians of that period contributed to
the formation of the doctrine on their elevated status.15 As eloquently argued by Thomas
Sizgorich, the figure of the militant, pious ascetic warriors, “horsemen during the day and
monks at night,” was accorded a place of honor in the foundational narratives of the early
Muslim community, interwoven into the master-narrative of “a grand drama” in which God
had given the Muslim umma dominion over vast territories and immeasurable wealth.16
Sibt ibn al-Jawzi opens his chapter of stories about the warriors of old with anecdotes
about the heroes of Badr, the first significant military confrontation between Muhammad’s
men (the coalition of his devotees from Mecca with their helpers at al-Medina) and their
adversaries who had remained in Mecca. It had taken place in the second year of the hijra
(624 ce) and ended in a great Muslim victory. Sibt ibn al-Jawzi emphasizes the role of the
warriors who had expressed an explicit wish to die on the battlefield, and did indeed achieve
martyrdom. Those include ʿUmayr b. Abi Wiqqas, who insisted on joining the Muslim
army despite his youth; the elderly lame ʿAmr b. al-Jamuh, whose sons had tried in vein to
convince him to stay at home, and Abu al-ʿAqil, who lost an arm in Badr but nonetheless
enlisted for the following campaign.17
Badr was a favorite theme. For example: the poet Ibn al-Qaysarani (d. 1153–54), a refu-
gee from the coastal town of Qaysariyya who fled to Mosul, recalls the battle of Badr in
his eulogy of Zangi’s greatest victory—the conquest of Edessa in 1144. He enthusiastically
describes angels who accompanied, as it were, Zangi’s soldiers, alluding to the units of
angels who had encouraged the men of the Prophet in 2/624.18 The pinnacle of Saladin’s
career in the eyes of his contemporaries, the reconquest of Jerusalem in 1187, was also
compared to Badr. This comparison was first suggested by the preacher Ibn al-Zaki, who
had won the prestigious and much sought after appointment to the pulpit of the regained and
hastily re-consecrated mosque of al-Aqsa, on the first Friday after the reconquest.19
A somewhat less dramatic victory of Saladin, achieved during the summer of 1179 in
Marj ʿAyun (in southern Lebanon), was compared by the poet Abu ʿAli al-Hasan al-ʿIarqi
al-Juwayni (d. 1188–89), to Muhammad’s victory at Hunayn, some 550 years earlier. In the
valley (marj) of Hunayn, on the eighth year of the hijra (ad 630) shortly after the conquest
of Mecca, the tribes of Hawazin had gathered their families and belongings. They prepared
for an attack on the Muslim force, perhaps in anticipation of an attack on the temple of
their goddess al-Lat. The “front force” of the Muslim army retreated disorderly and the
Muslims were close to defeat, but they recuperated and returned to assault. Encouraged by
the Prophet’s war cry “One and One only,”20 they finally won a great victory and plenty of
booty. At Marj ʿAyun, as at Hunayn, a notable victory was attained by the Muslims even
though the initiative was the enemy’s. Surprised by a large Frankish force led by King
Baldwin IV, and despite an initial reverse, Saladin managed to capture over 270 knights,
including the heads of the Templars and Hospitallers and other prominent men. Those were
later ransomed for huge sums of gold and the release of an impressive number of Muslim
prisoners, including some important emirs.21
A rather unusual analogy, highlighting the similarities between the enemies of Islam
“then”—in the days of the Prophet—and “now,” was suggested in a poem propagated
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following the seizure of Damascus by Nur al-Din in 1154. Alluding to the deposed ruler of
the city, Mujir al-Din, who preferred a treaty with the Franks to fighting against them, the
poet recalls the Jews who betrayed Muhammad early on: “The governor of Damascus and
its inhabitants are like the Jews of Khaybar who cooperated with the people of Quraysh
[against the Prophet].” He concludes by saying: “Whoever defends the fortress of Islam is
a believer, whoever does not, is an infidel.”22
The most daring analogies between the crusading era and the times of the Prophet were
suggested by ʿImad al-Din al-Isfahani (d. 1201), Saladin’s personal secretary. First, he com-
pared the significance of Saladin’s reconquest of Jerusalem on the 27th of Rajab ah 583
(October 2, 1187) to that of the night journey of the Prophet to Jerusalem, known to have
happened on the very same date. Second, in the opening paragraph of his History of the
Reconquest of Jerusalem, he writes the following striking lines:
I began this record at the beginning of the year 583 [1187] because histories usually
begin either with the creation of mankind or with the succession of states … I, on the
other hand, chose to write my history from a second hijra … this hijra being the hijra of
Islam to Jerusalem, undertaken by the Sultan Salah al-Din … History would do well to
be dated from this year … Indeed, this hijra is of more lasting significance than the first.23
A third dramatic comparison of the reconquest of Jerusalem is suggested in ʿImad al-Din’s

letter to the caliph in Baghdad. It is based on sura 20:37, “We had already showed you
favor.” Imad al-Din writes: “The first time was in the century of the Prophet and of his
Companions. The second is the present time, which has seen Islam freed from the slavery
of misfortune.”24
One of the most surprising implicit positioning of Saladin on par with the Prophet may
be found, according to Abu Shama, in the sultan’s own words, allegedly uttered during his
illness, away from home: “If I die, I have designated Abu Bakr, ʿUmar, ʿUthman and ʿAli
to succeed me.” Alluding to his brother al-ʿAdil Abu Bakr, his nephew Taqi al-Din ʿUmar,
and his two sons al-ʿAziz ʿUthman and al-Afdal ʿAli, the choice to designate them by that
component of their names that recalls the first four caliphs in the order of their reign can-
not be missed.25 Perhaps one can read into this sequence also a proclamation of fidelity to
Sunni Islam—which unlike Shiʿi Islam endorses all four first caliphs—at a time in which
the struggle against the crusaders was firmly linked to the attempt to revive absolute Sunni
hegemony in Syria.26 A reminiscent example is brought by ʿImad al-Din al-Isfahani, who
upon the death of the emir Bahaʾ al-Din ʿUmar ibn Daya equates the friendship and fidelity
of the five Banu Daya brothers toward Nur al-Din to the relationship between Abu Bakr,
ʿUmar, ʿUthman, ʿAli and Hasan, and the Prophet.27
The futuh, the great conquests of the Arabs that took place after the death of the Prophet,
especially the speedy conquest of Syria in the 630s, are often alluded to in twelfth- to
thirteenth-century sources. Ibn al-Zaki enumerates the decisive battles of the first Muslim
conquest of Syria when he proclaims: “You [Saladin] have renewed for Islam the glorious
days of al-Qadisiyya, the battle of Yarmuk, the siege of Khaybar, and the impetus attacks
of [the celebrated general] Khalid ibn al-Walid.”28 The physician and poet Abu al-Fadl
ʿAbd al-Manʿam b. ʿUmar al-Jilyani (d. 1205–06), an Andalusi emigrant to Damascus,
exclaims, in a qasida he composed in praise of Saladin, for the occasion of the reconquest of
Jerusalem, “[it is as if] we are in the era of the Companions, and you [Saladin] are named al-
Siddiq (the upright; Abu Bakr’s epithet).”29 ʿImad al-Din al-Isfahani claims a victory such
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as that achieved in Jerusalem was not seen since the days of the Companions.30 Nur al-Din’s
council with a group of ʿulamaʾ in Damascus (regarding the use of waqf money for fortifi-
cations) is compared by the protocol maker, as quoted by Abu Shama, to the custom of the
Companions who got together in order to discuss the best interests of the Muslims.31 From
a slightly different perspective on this theme, Konrad Hirschler observes that the interest in
governance and in the qualities of the ideal ruler is due to closer connection between histo-
rians and the ruling elites, typical of the later medieval period.32
The poet al-ʿArqala (Husan b. Numayr al-Kalbi, d. c. 1171–72) compares Nur al-Din’s
gains to those of futuh al-Faruq (the conquests of ʿUmar) “in the east and west, valley
and mount.”33 Even earlier, following Zangi’s successful campaign against the Frankish
stronghold of Baʿrin (Montferrand), north of Hims, in 1137, Ibn al-Qaysarani expresses his
wish that all the thughur (garrison towns of the Arab-Byzantine frontier) will return to the
Muslims laughing, as if liberated by ʿUmar, the second caliph.34
Being the caliph who received the surrender of the people of Jerusalem in 634 in
person—according to Arab historians of the classical era—ʿUmar ibn al-Khattab is men-
tioned time and again in the poems composed on the occasion of the surrender of the peo-
ple of Jerusalem to Saladin in 1187. The Egyptian poet Muhammad b. Asʿad al- Juwayni
(d. 1192) exclaims, turning to Saladin: “You are its Faruq (one of the laudatory names of the
second caliph), ʿUmar the most pure imam.”35 Ibn Shaddad praises Saladin’s analysis of the
condition of the forces in April 1190 (contrasting it with the faulty understanding suggested
by his emirs and councilors), commenting, with hindsight: “It came about as the sultan said
… befitting what the Prophet had meant when he said: ‘In my community there are those
with insight who speak up, and ʿUmar is one of them.’”36 Even Ibn al-Athir, known for his
continuous loyalty toward the fallen house of the Zangids, and hence a rather reserved, if
not biased attitude toward Saladin,37 admits the semblance between the conquests of 634
(or 636) and 1187, saying: “This blessed deed, the conquering of Jerusalem, is something
achieved by none but Saladin (God have mercy on him) since the time of ʿUmar ibn al-
Khattab (God be pleased with him). This is his sufficient glory and honor.”38
The comparison to the two ʿUmars (al-ʿUmarayn), as suggested by Ibn al-Athir
(d. 1233) in his eulogy of Nur al-Din, both in his universal history (al-Kamil fi al-Taʾrikh)
and in his chronicle of the Zangid dynasty (Ta’rikh al-Bahir fi al-Dawla al-Atabakiyya),39
goes far beyond the military aspect. “Not since the rightly guided caliphs and ʿUmar ibn
ʿAbd al-ʿAziz,” he writes, “have I seen a ruler whose conduct was neither better than that of
al-Malik al-ʿAdil Nur al-Din, nor more just and fair. [He was] a man who has devoted his
days and nights to the dissemination of justice, who has made it his jihad.”40 Nur al-Din’s
virtue of justice, which receives pride of place in his formal title “al-Malik-ʿAdil,” is hailed
also by other biographers, and inscribed in stone and wood on his endowed monuments.41
This depiction of Nur al-Din, according to Yaacov Lev, is dominant in the twelfth- to thir-
teenth-century historiography of his reign, while his depiction primarily as a warrior of
jihad is peculiar to Ibn al-Athir.42 Donald Little notes that the first section of Ibn Shaddad’s
biography of Saladin, which is devoted to describing his virtues of justice, generosity, cour-
age, zeal, steadfastness, humaneness, etc., is geared to demonstrate the correlation between
his life and that of the Prophet.43
The humility and humane conduct of ʿUmar ibn al-Khattab has been compared to the
cruel savagery of the crusaders in Jerusalem in 1099.44 ʿUmar is said to have entered
Jerusalem on foot, in shabby cloths, assuring the patriarch that the lives and property of its
inhabitants will be protected. He refrained from prayer in the Holy Sepulcher, so as not to
382
establish a precedent that may lead to the confiscation of the church, unrolled his prayer mat
outside the church and knelt (or rather, prostrated) there. The doubts that some latter-day
historians have raised regarding the historicity of Umar’s conquest of Jerusalem in person,45
are, of course, irrelevant. When Saladin entered Jerusalem after its surrender, according to
the testimony of his secretary ʿImad al-Din al-Isfahani, some of the emirs that had taken
part in the campaign called for the destruction of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, so
as to make sure that the Christians have no reason to ever return to it. Others argued that
the Christian pilgrims are drawn to the place of crucifixion rather than to the edifice built
upon it, and therefore the destruction of the church will bring no benefits. Some of them
reminded the sultan that when ʿUmar ibn al-Khattab, the commander of the believers con-
quered Jerusalem, he did not demolish the church, but rather confirmed the right of the
Christians to the place.46 This seems to have been a decisive argument.
Early traditions, repeated by Arab geographers of the fourth/tenth century and in
eleventh-century compilations of the virtues of Jerusalem, mention ʿUmar ibn al-Khattab’s
visit at the prayer niche of David (Mihrab Daʾud) upon his conquest of Jerusalem. Moreover,
he is said to have appropriately recited Surat Sad (sura 38, of which verses 21–22 allude to
the niche) on the spot, thus establishing the connection between the Qurʾanic story of David
and the place.47 When Saladin recaptured the city, he renewed this connection. Ibn al-ʿImad
al-Isfahani, probably an eye-witness, writes that the sultan “provided for its restoration, and
appointed an imam, two muezzins and servants.”48
Comparisons to ʿUmar b. ʿAbd al-ʿAziz, the exceptionally pious eighth Umayyad caliph,
are likewise geared either to highlight commendable governance, or piety and praiseworthy
personal virtue. Hence Nur al-Din is also depicted as indifferent to laudatory poems, “which
was the way of ʿUmar ibn al-ʿAziz, the most frugal (zahid) caliph.”49
Not only sultans and emirs, but also pious and devoted regular participants of the counter-
crusade were likened to those companions of the Prophet who are said to have joined the
great conquests, inspired by purely religious motives, rather than by the quest for glory or
booty. The memory of the sahaba who fought in the great Islamic conquests was raised
already in 1105, only six years after the arrival of the First Crusade, in a series of sermons
delivered in Damascus by ʿAli b. Tahir al-Sulami (d. 1106).50 Al-Sulami stressed the willing-
ness of the Companions to give their lives for the conquest of Syria. Several decades later, the
historian Ibn ʿAsakir (d. 1176), author of a huge biographical dictionary entitled The History
of Damascus, defines all the people of Syria as defenders “in the way of God” (murabitun
fi sabil Allah) and as “God’s army” (jund Allah) by their mere place of residence, citing a
saying of the Prophet.51 Usama ibn al-Munqidh praises his contemporaries, the shaykhs ʿAbd
al-Rahman al-Halhuli and al-Fandalawi by comparing them to the Companions. Those two
elderly scholars who had left Damascus in 1148, in the midst of the siege imposed by the war-
riors of the armies of the Second Crusade, were happy to find martyrdom in their assault upon
the enemy. Like al-Sulami, Ibn ʿAsakir stresses the purity of the intents of the Companions,
and their readiness to sacrifice their lives in the way of God.52 Likewise, both ʿImad al-Din
al-Isfahani and Ibn Wasil write about one of the fallen soldiers of a battle that took place
in the vicinity of Acre in 1189, that he was a worthy descendent of his great forefather, Ibn
Rawaha. The latter was a martyr of the first and unsuccessful (not to say catastrophic) loss of
the Muslims to the Byzantines, at Muʾta Transjordan, in 629. According to the Muslim ver-
sion, only a handful of Muslims had confronted the 20,000 soldiers of Heraclius at Muʾta.53
“One died as a shahid at Muʾta fighting the Byzantines, and the other died as a shahid at the
plain [of Acre],” concluded Ibn Wasil.
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The memory of those earlier exemplars of talab al-shahada (the active quest of
martyrdom) was probably quite alive in the minds of the above-mentioned al-Halhuli
and al-Fandalawi. A treatise on jihad compiled by one of those exemplars was read in
public in Damascus during the Second Crusade: ʿAbd Allah ibn al-Mubarak’s Kitab
al-Jihad—a compilation of hadith on the merits of jihad and martyrdom (probably
the oldest surviving work on this subject nowadays). Ibn al-Mubarak (d.797) was a
model “embattled scholar” of the Arab–Byzantine frontier. He became famous for his
asceticism, and for the courage he displayed both in his encounters with the Christian
enemy and in his confrontations with Muslim political authorities. ʿAbd Allah ibn
al-Mubarak and his comrades, who went out to fight the enemy in the war of attrition
that was carried on from the later eighth century until the mid-tenth in the frontier zones
(al-thughur)—especially those facing the Byzantine Empire, but also in the planes
of central Asia, against the Turks—found their way into hagiographic tradition from
early on. Their dedication to jihad and their uncompromising asceticism, as well as the
tensions inherent in their very demanding way of life, is depicted in this literature in
glaring colors.54
Kitab al-jihad by ʿAli ibn Tahir al-Sulami, read in the Mosque of Bayt Lahiya in the
suburbs of Damascus in 1105, brought forth the example of Saʿid ibn al-Harith, who took
part in a campaign against the Byzantines in 706–07. Saʿid fought zealously for three
days—motivated by a dream in which he saw his future eternal wife and heard from her that
she is promised to him upon his martyrdom, when he was mortally wounded and died. Lest
taken to have fought only for heavenly joys, al-Sulami hastens to mention the importance
of undertaking jihad out of piety, implying that this was indeed the case with Saʿid b.
al-Harith’s martyrdom on the Byzantine frontier.55
Sibt ibn al-Jawzi drew from a pool of reminiscent stories about the Arab–Byzantine
frontier, both in his written and in his oral communications. One of them is about a devout
Muslim who performed hajj and jihad in alternate years. In one of his jihads he encountered
a Greek face to face. When it was time to pray, the Muslim asked the Greek to allow him a
pause, and then resume. The Greek agreed, and kept his promise. They continued fighting
until the Greek’s time to pray arrived. The Muslim gave his promise, but was tempted to
break it. However, when he raised his sword, a heavenly voice stopped him, recalling a
certain Qurʾanic verse. The Muslim’s hand trembled and he dropped the sword. The Greek,
truly impressed by God’s care for the enemies of the Muslims, converted, proclaiming
the shahada on the spot.56 In another wonderous tale I had reiterated elsewhere, Sibt
ibn al-Jawzi preaches jihad through the story of Ibn Qudama, a ninth-century veteran of
the Byzantine frontier, who had witnessed an inspiring case of youthful martyrdom and
maternal willing sacrifice.57
I had not found explicit analogies between the scholars and ascetics who volunteered to
go out to the Arab–Byzantine frontier and those who joined the counter-crusades, if not for
the actual fighting, at least as some kind of chaplains and propagandists. But it seems as
if the twelfth- to fourteenth-century chroniclers and biographers who describe them make
use of earlier models of embattled scholars. Depictions of shaykh Abu ʿUmar ibn Qudama
(d. 1210) may serve as a good example. Abu ʿUmar, a native of the Palestinian village of
Jammaʿil who became a charismatic preacher and communal leader in the Hanbali suburb
of Jabal Qasyun by Damascus, is said to have “never heard of a jihad without joining in,”
volunteering for many expeditions against the Franks. He is also described as a rigorous
ascetic, scrupulous in his care to avoid illicit food and luxuries, deeply devoted to prayer:
384
he always volunteered to stand on guard at nights, when the others slept, busying himself
in prayer and recitation of the Qurʾan. Despite the fact that prominent members of his clan
usually enjoyed cordial relations with the rulers and governors of Damascus, Abu ʿUmar is
said to have refrained from any contact with ruling authorities, just like the eighth-century
ascetic, warrior, and author ʿAbd Allah ibn al-Mubarak. Even when al-Malik al-ʿAdil,
Saladin’s brother and heir came to visit him, Abu ʿUmar, who was preoccupied with
prayer in his tent, allegedly did not go out to greet him. Al-ʿAdil waited in the sun, until he
despaired and went away.58 Finally, talab al-shahada—the active quest for martyrdom on
the battlefield, or at least the expression of the will to die “in the way of God”—was also
attributed to Abu ʿUmar, as to other scholars of the same circles.59
CONCLUSIONS
Arab Muslim historiography of the crusading era evokes the memory of earlier genera-
tions who struggled for the glory of Islam. It reproduces the myths of the campaigns of
the Prophet, the great conquests, and the embattled scholars and martyrs of the Byzantine–
Umayyad and early ʿAbbasid frontier. By highlighting elements of moralistic continuity60
with the Islamic golden age they obviously served well the cause of propaganda for the
counter-crusade and the political legitimization of its leaders, contributing to the consolida-
tion of the collective identity of the Muslims of Syria. Most Muslim historians of the twelfth
to fourteenth centuries also partook in the discourse of piety, typical of that pious age. They
employed not only the prowess, zeal to fight, and quest of martyrdom of the times of the
Prophet, the first caliphs, and the early Islamic empire, but also their asceticism, humility,
just conduct (ʿadl) and sincere personal religiosity. They especially stress their convergence
of the two jihads: holy war on behalf of the Muslims, and holy struggle with their lower
soul.
As a literary device, early exemplars are often recalled for what Tarif Khalidi calls
the “not since” motif (“not since the victories of Saʿd or Khalid have such victories been
recorded”).61 Moreover, the images of earlier campaigns, especially those of the Prophet
and his companions, and of the conquest of Syria in the 630s, seem to have influenced the
ways in which Muslim authors of the Zangid, Ayyubid, and Mamluk periods constructed
the events and protagonists of their own days. The representation of certain contemporary
events as a sort of re-enactment of significant events that occurred in early Islamic history
seems to be a means to make sense of current events and clarify their meaning,62 if not to
enhance their significance, and even to lift contemporaneous struggles to the heights of the
divinely guided early heyday of the Muslim community. Of course the humbler intention
of embellishing one’s narration of contemporary history for “the literati who watch for bril-
liant purple passages,” to quote ʿImad al-Din al-Isfahani’s introduction to his major history
al-Barq al-Shami, must not be overlooked.63
Returning to the purpose of historical writing in medieval Islamic civilization, on
the basis of the examples brought above, history was obviously regarded as a mine of
exempla, practical and moral lessons, which may help men, especially young princes—
future rulers—in choosing their conduct.64 In Ibn al-Athir’s words: “The instructiveness
of History has many aspects, and its usefulness, both in this world and in the other world,
is very great … Kings and persons in authority derive an additional advantage from the
study of history.”65 This view cohabits, somewhat uneasily, with the notion that history is
but the execution of the divine plan.66 Such continuities and repetitions as the assistance
385
of angels at Badr (624), at Edessa (1144), and in Jerusalem (1187) were depicted as part
of this divine plan.
APPENDIX
“Yusuf b. Ayyub thus fights the powers of evil, just as did Yusuf b.
Yaʿqub”67—the re-enactment of Qurʾanic episodes in the
Ayyubid era, as depicted in Muslim historiography”
Analogies between Saladin and the prophet whose name he carried—Joseph/Yusuf—are

replete in our sources. Several medieval authors make Saladin into a new Joseph, equating
not only their names, but also their biographies: both left Syria (Palestine) for Egypt, rose
to be the right hand of the Egyptian ruler, and acted on behalf of law and justice. Here are
some examples, in the chronological order of the sultan’s life story.
After Saladin’s appointment as head of police (shihna) in Damascus by Nur al-Din in
1165, the witty poet al-ʿArqala (d. c. 567/1171–72), playing on the Qurʾanic story on the
female guests of Potiphar’s wife (known as Zulaykha) who, stupefied by Joseph’s beauty,
cut their fingers with their knives (Q. 12: 31), writes: “go softly, O thieves of Syria – this
is my advice to you … the hands of women were cut because of that Joseph, but this
one cuts off the hands of men.”68 Two years later, upon the arrival of Saladin with his
uncle Shirkuh to Egypt, he writes: “God, as you had it [Egypt] ruled by Yusuf al-Siddiq
of the progeny of Jacob, may in our times rule over it Yusuf al-Sadiq of the progeny of
Ayyub.”69
Similar analogies are employed also after Saladin returned to Syria and engaged in war-
fare. Rejoicing at the fall of Tiberias to the Muslims in 575/1179–80, the poet ʿAli ibn
Muhammad al-Saʿati (d. 604/1207–08) addresses the defeated saying: “I give you good
advice (and advice is a duty of religion): Leave the House of Jacob, for Joseph has come!”70
Likewise, a long poem in praise of Saladin, presented to the sultan by al-Hakim Abu al-Fadl
al-Jilani in 582/1187 and cited by Abu Shama, depicts the “tribes of Joseph” (asbat Yusuf)
coming from the land of Egypt, in their zeal for Jerusalem.71
Finally, reporting about Saladin’s deathbed illness, al-Qadi al-Fadil alludes to Joseph’s
ordeal in the Egyptian prison: “our Joseph – may God have mercy upon him – was in prison
here below, compared to the place he occupies in the next world.”72
NOTES
* I wish to thank the Israel Science Foundation, grant no. 1679/09 “The Formation of Muslim
Society in Palestine (ca. CE 600–1500),” for supporting this study.
1 I. Hen and M. Innes, The Uses of the Past in the Early Middle Ages, Cambridge, 2000, 1.
2 ʿUmar ibn al-Khattab (r. 634–44), the second of the “righteous caliphs,” and ʿUmar b. ʿAbd
al-ʿAziz (r. 717–20), the most righteous among the Umayyad caliphs.
3 Abu Shama, Kitab al-Rawdatayn fi Akhbar al-Dawlatayn, ed. M.H.M. Ahmad, 4 vols, Cairo,
1998–99, 1: 5–6. On Abu Shama’s frequent references to the “Golden Age” of the Prophet and
rightly guided caliphs, see K. Hirschler, Medieval Arabic Historiography. Authors as Actors,
London, 2006, 79.
4 E. Sivan, L’Islam et la croisade, Paris, 1968. See also his later “Muslim Representations of the
Crusades,” in Verso Gerusalemme, Il convegno internazionale nel IX centenario della i crociata
(1099–1999), ed. F. Cardini, M. Belloli and B. Vetere, Lecce, 1999, 131–132.
386
5 S. Mourad and J. Lindsay, “Rescuing Syria from the Infidels: The Contribution of Ibn ‘Asakir of
Damascus to the Jihad Campaign of Sultan Nur al-Din,” Crusades 6 (2007): 37–55; S. Mourad,
“Ibn ‘Asakir of Damascus and the Radicalization of Sunni Jihad Ideology in Crusader-Era Syria,”
in Just Wars, Holy Wars, and Jihads, ed. S. Hashimi, New York, 2011, 116–119; Niall Christie,
“Motivating Listeners in the Kitab al-Jihad of ʿAli ibn Tahir al-Sulami (d. 1106),” Crusades 6
(2007): 10. Christie also dealt with the use of curses against the Franks, in his “The Origins of
Suffixed Invocation of God’s Curse on the Franks in Muslim Sources for the Crusades,” Arabica
48 (2001): 254–266.
6 Y. Lev, “The jihād of Sultan Nūr al-Dīn of Syria (1146–1174): History and Discourse,” Jerusalem
Studies of Arabic and Islam 35 (2008): 272; and S. Leder, “Sunni Resurgence, Jihad Discourse
and the Frankish Presence in the Near East,” in Crossroads between Latin Europe and the Near
East: Corollaries of the Frankish Presence in the Eastern Mediterranean (12th–14th centuries),
ed. S. Leder, Wurzburg, 2011, 95; Christie, “Motivating Listeners,” 1–14; P. E. Chevedden, “The
View of the Crusades from Rome and Damascus: The Geo-Strategic and Historical Perspectives
of Pope Urban II and ʿAli ibn Tahir al-Sulami,” Oriens 39 (2011): 292–299 [257–329].
7 T. Sizgorich, Violence and Belief in Late Antiquity, Philadelphia, 2009. For a short presentation of
the theoretical foundation, see ibid., 8–10.
8 Hirschler, Medieval Arabic Historiography.
9 E. Sivan, “Modern Arab Historiography of the Crusades,” Asian and African Studies 8 (1972):
109–149; and “Modern Arab Historiography of the Crusades,” in his Interpretations of Islam, Past
and Present, Princeton, 1985, 3–44.
10 B.Z. Kedar, “Il Motivo della Crociata nel Pensiero Politico Israeliano,” in Verso Gerusalemme,
135–150 and idem, “The Crusades’ Motif in the Israeli Political Discourse,” Alpayyim 26 (2004)
[in Hebrew].
11 See D. Abouali, “Saladin’s Legacy in the Middle East,” Crusades 10 (2011): 175–185; J. Phillips,
“Before the Kaiser: The Memory of Saladin and the Crusades in the Near East from the Fifteenth
to the Nineteenth Centuries,” in Vor der Orientreise Wilhelms II. – Die Erinnerung an Saladin
und die Kreuzzüge im Nahen Osten vom 15. bis zum 19. Jahrhundert, ed. F. Hinz, Zurich and New
York, 2014; S. Heidemann, “Memory and Ideology: Images of Saladin in Syria and in Iraq,” in
Visual Culture in the Modern Middle East, ed. C. Gruber and S. Haugbolle, Indiana, 2013, 57–81;
E. Aubin-Boltanski, “Salāh al-Din, un héro à l’épreuve. Myth et pèlerinage en Palestine,” Annales
HSS 1 (2005): 91–107; A.M. Eddé, Saladin, trans. Jane M. Todd, Cambridge MA, 2011 (2008),
620–623.
12 Sibt ibn al-Jawzi, al-Jalis al-Salih wa-l-Anis al-Nasih, ed. F. S. Fawaz, London, 1989, 124–125.
13 On the gradual differentiation of Muslims to Shiʿis and Sunnis, see J. Berkey, The Formation of
Islam, Cambridge, 2003, 83–91.
14 P. Crone, “The Early Islamic World,” in War and Society in the Ancient and Medieval Worlds,
ed. K. Raaflaub and N. Rosenstein, Cambridge MA and London, 1999, 317 n. 38. For their rep-
resentation in the History of Tabari (d. 923), see B. Shoshan, Poetics of Islamic Historiography:
Deconstructing Tabari, Leiden, 2004, 94–97.
15 M. Muranyi, “Sahaba,” in Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd edition, ed. C. Bosworth, et al. Leiden,
1995, 9: 828; A.I. Tayob, “Tabari on the Companions of the Prophet: Moral and Political Contours
in Islamic Historical Writing,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 119 (1999): 204–205.
16 Sizgorich, Violence, 190–191, 13. The thrust of Sizgorich’s work—intercommunal relations in
late antiquity—is beyond our point here.
17 Sibt ibn al-Jawzi, al-Jalis, 114–119.
18 H. Dajani Shakeel, “Jihad in 12th century Arabic Poetry,” Muslim World 66 (1976): 107. The
help of angels is also mentioned by ʿImad al-Din al-Isfahani in his poetic description of the lib-
eration of Jerusalem by Saladin: “wa-aʿāna Allāhu bi-inzal al-mala’ika wa-l-ruh” (Abu Shama,
al-Rawdatayn, 2: 315).
19 See D. Talmon-Heller, Islamic Piety in Medieval Syria, Leiden, 2007, 101–102.
387
20 Shoshan, Poetics, 97.

21 A.S. Ehrenkreutrz, Saladin, Albany, 1972, 162; based on Ibn al-Athir, al-Ta’rikh al-Bahir; al-
Bundari, Sana al-Barq al-Shami, ed. F. ʿA. al-Nabrawi, Riyad, 1989, 166. See also Abu Shama,
al-Rawdatayn, 2: 22–25; Ibn Wasil, Mufarrij al-Kurub fi Akhbar bani Ayyub, ed. G. al-Shayyal,
S. ʿAshur and H. Rabhi, 5 vols, Cairo, 1953–77, 2: 75–77. For a detailed comparison between
the works of Abu Shama and Ibn Wasil, see Hirschler, Medieval Arabic Historiography. For an
evaluation of Ibn Wasil’s coherence and evenhandedness, see R.S. Humphreys, Islamic History.
A Framework for Inquiry, London, 1995, 395–396. The battle of Hunayn was recalled for the
sake of comparison earlier: by Tabari, in his account of the rebellion of 144/760–761 (Shoshan,
Poetics, 96–97).
22 Translation of Abu Shama, in D. Ephrat and M. Kabha, “Muslim Reactions to the Frankish
Presence in Bilad al-Sham: Intensifying Religious Fidelity within the Masses,” al-Masaq 15
(2003): 50–51.
23 T. Khalidi, Arabic Historical Thought in the Classical Period, New York, 1994, 182. Khalidi argues
that Ayyubid and Mamluk historians present their own times as “a new era” (idem, 183–184).
But this seems to be more relevant to their perception of the Mongol invasions as unprecedented,
as he himself stresses, rather than to the wars against the Franks.
24 Eddé, Saladin, 177.
25 Al-Bundari, Sana al-Barq al-Shami, 269 trans. Eddé, Saladin, 177.
26 As noted in D.J. Stewart, “The Maqamat of Ahmad b. Abi Bakr b. Ahmad al-Razı al-Hanafı
and the Ideology of the Counter-Crusade in Twelfth-century Syria,” Middle Eastern Literatures
11 (2008): 228. On Sunni revivalism in the twelfth century, see for example N. Elisséeff, “The
Reaction of the Syrian Muslims after the Foundation of the first Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem,”
in Crusaders & Muslims in Twelfth-Century Syria, ed. M. Shatzmiller, Leiden, 1993, 162–172;
Y. Tabbaa, The Transformation of Islamic Art during the Sunni Revival, Seattle, 2001.
27 Abu Shama, al-Rawdatayn, 1: 388.
28 Trans. in C. Hillenbrand, The Crusades: Islamic Perspectives, Edinburgh, 1999, 191. The battle
of Qadisiyya is also mentioned in a poem by al-Hakim Abu al-Fadl. He asks: “Have you seen the
conquest of Qadisiyya in the surroundings of Lubya [where Saladin fought in preparation of the
decisive battle at Hattin]?” (Abu Shama, al-Rawdatayn, 2: 369).
31 For a detailed description and analysis of this meeting, see S. Heidemann, “Charity and Piety for
the Transformation of the Cities,” in Charity and Giving in Monotheistic Religions, ed. M. Frenkel
and Y. Lev, Berlin and New York, 2009, 169–172.
32 Khalidi, Arab Historical Thought¸ 184; see also D.P. Little, “Historiography of the Ayyūbid and
Mamlūk epochs,” Cambridge History of Egypt, ed. C.F. Petry, Cambridge, 1998, 413; Hirschler,
Historiography, 14.
34 Abu Shama, al-Rawdatayn, 1: 89. On the attack, see Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil, Beirut, 1966, 11:
51–52; trans. in F. Gabrieli, Arab Historians of the Crusades, London, 1969, 42–43.
36 D.S. Richards, The Rare and Excellent History of Saladin or Nawadir al-Sultaniyya wa’l-Mahasin
al-Yusufiyya by Baha’ al-Din Ibn Shaddad, Aldershot, 2001, 109.
37 D.S. Richards (trans.), The Chronicle of Ibn al-Athir for the Crusading Period from al-Kamil fi’l-
ta’rikh, part 1, Aldershot, 2006, 2–3; part 2, Aldershot, 2007, 4; Lev, “The jihad,” 238.
38 Richards, Chronicle of Ibn al-Athir, 2: 335. Ibn al-Athir relies mainly on Tabari for events prior to
his lifetime (Little, “Historiography,” 415).
39 For a comparison between the two works, see Ch. Robinson, Islamic Historiography, Cambridge,
2003, 99.
388
40 Ibn al-Athir, al-Bahir, 163; Richards, The Chronicle of Ibn al-Athir, 2: 222. Another ruler of the
middle period who is honored with a comparison to ʿUmar ibn ʿAbd al-ʿAziz thanks to his just
conduct is the hapless caliph al-Zahir b. al-Nasir, who got to the throne in 622/1225 at 52, for
nine months only, yet found the time to abolish non-sharʿi taxes and to tend to many complaints
on injustice (Ibn Kathir, al-Bidaya wa-l-nihaya, Beirut, 1993, 13: 126; Ibn al-Athir, al-Kamil fi
al-Ta’rikh, Beirut, 2003, 10: 453). A comparison gone sour is mentioned in an anecdote about the
caliph al-Mustansir, who in 633/1235–36 was angered by the apparent flattery of a scholar who
told him: “were you present at the day of the saqifa (immediately after the Prophet’s death), you
would have been the first chosen.” He was banished from Baghdad as punishment for insulting the
first righteous caliphs (Ibn Wasil, Mufarrij al-Kurub, 5: 108).

41 Lev, “The jihad,” 236–237, 270–272.
42 Lev, “The jihad,” 277.
43 Little, “Historiography,” 416.
44 A. Maaluf, The Crusades through Arab Eyes, New York, 1984, 51.
45 H. Busse, “ʿOmar’s image as the conqueror of Jerusalem,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam
8 (1982), 149–169.
46 Al-Isfahani, Hurub Salah al-Din wa-Fath Bayt al-Maqdis, ed. I. Shams al-Din, Beirut,
2003, 95–96; or al-Isfahani, Kitab al-Fath al-Qusi fi al-Fath al-Qudsi, ed. C. de Landberg, Leiden,
1888, 69.
47 H. Busse, “The Tower of David - Mihrab Dawud: remarks on the history of a sanctuary in Christian
and Islamic times,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 17 (1994): 142–165.”
48 Al-Isfahani, al-Fath, 68, trans. in Busse, “The Tower,” 158. On Mihrab Da’ud, see A. Elad,
Medieval Jerusalem & Islamic Worship. Holy Places, Ceremonies, Pilgrimage, Leiden, 1995,
131–134. An even more explicit connection between ʿUmar b. al-Khattab’s building projects and
those of Saladin is drawn by the Palestinian authors Fadi Salamiyya and Majdi al-Saʿdi, writing
about the aftermath of the battle of the Horns of Hattin. They claim that Saladin renewed and
enlarged a mosque that was established in the times of the second caliph in Hattin, adding to it a
khanqah (named after him, al-Salahi) and a minaret (the first in the region, so they claim). They
also attribute to Saladin the settlement of the depopulated village with refugees (F. Salamiyya and
M. al-Saʿdi, Qaryat Hittin, Damascus, 2011, 42–43).
50 For the first study of his manuscript sermons, see. E. Sivan, “La Genèse de la contre-croisade:
un traité damasquin de debut du XIIe siècle,” Journal Asiatique (1966): 197–224; also in Les
relations des pays d’Islam avec le monde latin du milieu du Xe siècle au milieu du XIIIe siècle.
Articles réunis par Françoise Micheau, Paris, 2000, 26–51.
51 Ibn ʿAsakir, Ta’rikh Madinat Dimashq, ed. M.A. ʿU. al-ʿAmrawi, part 1, Beirut, 1995, 282.
52 J.-M. Mouton, “Yusuf al-Fandalawi: Cheikh des Malekites de Damas sous les Bourides,” Revue
des études islamiques 51 (1983): 63–75; D. Talmon-Heller, “Muslim Martyrdom and Quest
for Martyrdom in the Crusading Period,” Al-Masaq, Journal for the Study of the Medieval
Mediterranean 14 (2002): 136. Lev estimates that not all of the defenders of the city were likewise
motivated by the spirit of jihad, moreover, that the Second Crusade was exceptional to arouse such
zeal at the time (Lev, “The Jihad,” 275).
53 Ibn Wasil, Mufarrij al-kurrub, 2: 300–302. According to Hirschler, Ibn Wasil makes only occa-
sional references to earlier periods, “since he considered the period treated in his text to be of
equal importance with most of the preceding periods” (Hirschler, Historiography, 77).
54 M. Bonner, “The Naming of the Frontier,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies
57 (1994): 17–24; idem, “Jihad on the Arab-Byzantine Frontier,” Studia Islamica 75 (1992):
26; idem, Jihad in Islamic History, Princeton, 2006, 98–101. For a detailed treatment of Ibn al-
Mubarak’s works on asceticism and jihad, see also Sizgorich, Violence, 180–189. For an amusing
anecdote depicting (parodying?) the struggles of a certain ascetic of the ninth century, Ahmad ibn
389
Khazruya, see Farid al-Din Attar, Muslim Saints and Mystics: Episodes from the Tadhkirat al-
Auliya’ (Memorial of the Saints) trans. A.J. Arberry. London and Boston, 1966.
55 Christie, “Motivating Listeners,” 12–13.
56 Sibt ibn al-Jawzi, al-Jalis, 107.
57 Sibt ibn al-Jawzi, al-Jalis, 106–107, and idem, Mir’at al-Zaman, Hyderebad, 1951–52, 8: 544–545,
told in detail in D. Talmon-Heller, “Charity and Repentance in Medieval Islamic Thought and
Practice,” in Frenkel and Lev, Charity, 270–271.
58 Diya’ al-Din al-Maqdisi, Manaqib al-Shaykh Abu ʿUmar al-Maqdisi, ed. A.ʿA. al-Kundari, Beirut,
1997, 46.
59 See Talmon-Heller, “Muslim Martyrdom,” Al-Masāq: Islam and the Medieval Mediterranean 14
(2002): 131–139.
60 I owe this phrase to Mourad and Lindsay, “Rescuing Syria,” 45.
61 As formulated by Khalidi, Arabic Historical Thought, 186.
62 See also Robinson, Islamic Historiography, 122.
63 Translated in D.S. Richards, “ʿImad al-Din al-Isfahani: Administrator, Litterateur and Historian,”
in Shatzmiller, Crusaders and Muslims, Leiden, 1993, 141.
64 E. Rosenthal, A History of Muslim Historiography, Leiden, 1968, 46–49.
65 D.S. Richards, “Ibn al-Athir and the Later Parts of the al-Kamil: A Study of Aims and Methods,”
in Medieval Historical Writing in the Christian and Islamic Worlds, ed. D.O. Morgan, London,
1982, 93–95; Chronicle of Ibn al-Athir, 1: 5; Rosenthal, Historiography, 298–300. For ʿImad al-
Din’s similar view, see D.S. Richards, “ʿImad al-Din,” 143.
66 On God and history in the writings of Muslim historians, see Robinson, Islamic Historiography,
129–134. Put shortly, despite the axiom that God was the engine of history, many historians pre-
sented their work as a record of human choices, from which their readers were to draw the appro-
priate lessons. On the prescriptive value of history, especially of the biographies of the Prophet
and other exemplars, see ibid., 122.
67 See Ephrat and Kabha, “Muslim Reactions,” 52.
68 Translated in Malcolm C. Lyons and D.E.P. Jackson, Saladin. The Politics of Holy War, Cambridge,
1982, 10.
69 Abu Shama, al-Rawdatayn, 2: 364, and similar allusion ibid., 449. For the comparison between the
Mamluks and Joseph, and between Egyptian rulers (of various eras) and Joseph, both in Muslim
and in late medieval European sources, see K. Yosef, “Mamluks and Their Relatives in the Period
of the Mamluk Sultanate (1250–1517),” Mamluk Studies Review 12 (2011): 63–69.
70 The Chronicle of Ibn al-Athir, 2: 266.
72 Eddé, Saladin, 159, 507. Only extracts of the work of this senior official of Saladin have survived.
390
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
LATIN CYPRUS AND ITS RELATIONS

WITH THE MAMLUK SULTANATE,
1250–1517
Nicholas Coureas
R elations between Latin Cyprus, a kingdom under the French Lusignan dynasty from
1192 to 1473 and a Venetian possession from 1473 until its conquest by the Ottomans
in 1570, and the Mamluk Sultanate, which lasted from 1250 until 1517, the year in which
the Ottoman sultan Selim II conquered it, were multifaceted. Furthermore, they spanned
the entire period of the Mamluk sultanate from its inception to its abolition. This chapter
shall cover relations between the two states in the following fields: war, diplomacy, cultural
and religious exchanges and, finally, trade and settlement. Although these will be treated
as distinct fields, it will be made clear that they were interrelated to a considerable extent,
not separate from each other, with developments in one field affecting or affected by those
in another.
WARFARE
War between the two states was intermittent from the mid-thirteenth century until 1426,
when, following the defeat of the Cypriot king Janus at the battle of Khirokitia, the kingdom
of Cyprus became a tributary of the Mamluk sultans, coming under their suzerainty. As early
as 1252, King Henry I of Cyprus arrived in Latin Syria in person at the head of a large army in
order to assist King Louis IX in strengthening the military capabilities of the Latin Christians
there.1 Such help did not halt the Mamluk re-conquest of the remaining Latin outposts in Syria
and Palestine, beginning in 1263 under the Mamluk sultan Baybars, who attacked Acre in that
year and in 1265 took Arsuf and Caesarea, as well as destroying Haifa. In 1266 several impor-
tant Latin strongholds were captured, including the great fortress of Saphet in the interior. King
Hugh III of Cyprus responded to the above developments by bringing forces from Cyprus over
to Latin Syria. In 1265, 130 knights and mounted squires had been brought over, and a similar
force was sent from Cyprus to Latin Syria in 1266. These forces, however, did not prevent the
loss of the above localities to the Mamluks, and were probably utilised in reinforcing the Latin
garrison at Acre.2 King Hugh II’s successor, Hugh III, continued the policy of despatching
Cypriot forces to the defence of Latin Syria, but was unable to prevent Sultan Baybars from
capturing Jaffa, Beaufort and Antioch in 1268.3 In 1271 Baybars also took the great Hospitaller
391
— N i c h o l a s C o u re a s —
castle of Crac des Chevaliers, but desisted from attacking Tripoli because Hugh III despatched
forces to the defence of Acre in conjunction with Prince Edward I of England, who arrived in
the city at the head of 1,000 men. While journeying to the Holy Land, he had stopped off on
Cyprus and had various supplies loaded onto his galleys transporting troops to Acre.4 Cyprus’s
role in despatching both troops and supplies to the defence of Latin Syria brought the island
to the attention of the Mamluk sultan Baybars. In an attempt to divert King Hugh III from the
defence of Latin Syria, he conceived a naval attack on Limassol. The Mamluk galleys sailing
there were painted black in the manner of Christian ships, and bore the sign of the cross on their
sails so as to secure the element of surprise. The plan misfired, however, when the Mamluk fleet
was driven aground on the shoals off the coastline of Limassol. The troops and sailors on board
were all captured and transferred to Acre for the purposes of ransom, although a large number
were able to make their escape from there. The fact that the fleet had been under the command
of two admirals who did not get on with each other seems to have been the main reason why
it ran aground, although some Mamluk authorities cite the attempts at deception, namely the
painting of crosses on Mamluk ships, as having been impious, thereby provoking divine anger.5
This naval defeat off Limassol did not prevent the eventual success of the Mamluk land
forces in Latin Syria. Sultan Kalavun, who obtained power in 1279 and was helped by
the dispute between King Hugh III and Charles of Anjou the king of Naples from 1277
onwards for the kingdom of Jerusalem, stormed the coastal city of Tripoli in 1289, even
though King Henry II of Cyprus had sent his brother Amaury to its defence at the head of
a force of knights and soldiers. Cypriot assistance likewise failed to prevent the forces of
Kalavun’s successor, Al-Ashraf, from capturing Acre in 1291. King Henry II arrived in
person to its aid with a force of 200 knights and 500 foot soldiers, or 100 knights and 200
foot soldiers according to a more conservative estimate. Following Acre’s fall, Tyre, second
in importance to the Latins after Acre, surrendered to the Mamluks without offering resist-
ance, as did Sidon, which the Templars abandoned, fleeing to Cyprus.6 Overall the experi-
ences of the period from 1263 to 1291, in which the Latins of Cyprus attempted to aid their
co-religionists in Latin Syria in confronting the final Mamluk onslaught, with virtually no
assistance from Europe, clearly showed that the resources of Lusignan Cyprus could not
prevent the final loss of Latin Syria to the Mamluks. If Cyprus were to contribute effectively
to the crusading movement and to the defence of Latin Christendom against the Mamluks,
this would have to be done in co-operation with other powers.
Steps in this direction were taken in the period from 1291 to 1307, when the forces of
the Lusignan kingdom cooperated with those of the Catholic military orders, the Armenians
and the Mongols against the Mamluks. In the decade following 1291, Cyprus served as
a base for the organisation of naval raids against Mamluk Egypt and Syria. Some of the
campaigns which the Latins of Cyprus participated in were not simply raids, but also had
the recovery of the recently lost territories as their objective. In 1292 a Latin fleet of twenty
galleys attacked Adalia, a port on the southern coast of Asia Minor, in conjunction with a
Cypriot fleet of fifteen galleys. The combined fleet then proceeded to conduct a naval raid
against Alexandria, the largest port of Mamluk Egypt.7 In the decade following Acre’s
fall, both the Templars and the Hospitallers, who had transferred their respective military
headquarters to Limassol on Cyprus, began to develop fleets with a view to implementing
seaborne offensives against the Mamluks. In 1300 a combined Templar, Hospitaller and
Lusignan fleet of sixteen galleys raided both Syria and Egypt, an expression of the new
policy whereby Latin Cypriot forces were engaging the Mamluks in battle in alliance with
those of the Catholic military orders.8
392
— chapter 24: Latin Cyprus and the Mamluk sultanate —
The Lusignan kings of Cyprus also attempted to engage the Mongols of Persia, the
Mamluks’ eastern foe, as allies in the warfare being waged against them. Such attempts
foundered on the inability of both parties to coordinate their movements, but also because of
fundamental differences in their respective aims. Whereas the Latins sought the re-conquest
of territories lost to the Mamluks, the Mongols desired to raid Mamluk lands but not nec-
essarily to conquer them. From 1299 to 1301, attempts by the Cypriot Latins to coordi-
nate military operations with the Mongols met with failure. In 1299 the Mongols of Persia
invaded Syria and invited the Templars, the Hospitallers and the Latin Cypriots to join
them, but the Christian response was dilatory. Nonetheless, when the Mongol invasion took
place late in 1299, King Henry’s brother Amaury began operations against the Mamluks
together with the Templars and the Hospitallers. In 1300 the island of Ruad off Tortosa was
captured from them. The 300 Latin Cypriot knights who took part in the attack on Ruad
represented the largest army ever mobilised by the Lusignan kings of Cyprus, and Amaury
went on to capture Tortosa itself, where he waited for the Mongols’ arrival. The Mongols,
however, did not arrive until February 1300, and then departed after a brief sojourn, and
so the Cypriot forces returned to Cyprus.9 A second Mongol invasion of Syria resulted in a
Mamluk defeat in 1301, but after advancing as far as Homs the Mongols withdrew again.
The island of Ruad, taken in 1300, was retaken by a powerful Mamluk fleet late in 1302.
The naval forces of the Latin Cypriots and of the military orders on Cyprus were unable
to offer any assistance to the besieged Templars holding the island, and over 500 of them
were either beheaded or led into captivity following their surrender to the Mamluks in 1302.
Two Hospitaller military expeditions to the Christian kingdom of Cilician Armenia failed
to result in effective action against the Mamluks.10 When Amaury overthrew his brother
King Henry II of Cyprus, in the coup of 1306 he invoked Henry’s neglect of the defences
of Cyprus, and he may have had in mind the failures to undertake concerted action against
them mentioned above, as well as the limitations the king had imposed on the acquisition
of incomes and properties on Cyprus by the military orders, whose power he was fearful of
and anxious to circumscribe.11
Perhaps mindful of such criticisms, shortly after his restoration to the Cypriot throne in
1310 with Hospitaller assistance Henry submitted detailed proposals to the pope before the
Council of Vienne, advocating Cyprus as a base not only for attacking the Mamluks but
also for implementing a naval blockade designed to weaken them economically prior to
the start of military operations. Being near both Egypt and Syria, Cyprus was proposed as
the ideal base for offensive operations, because the Mamluks, unsure of which land would
be attacked, would be forced to split their forces between them. But these proposals came
to naught. With the dramatic rise of Turkish and especially Ottoman power in Asia Minor
in the first half of the fourteenth century, crusading activity shifted from the Levant to the
Aegean. In terms of political and strategic thinking, the Turks of Asia Minor were now per-
ceived as the main threat, as opposed to the Mamluks of Syria and Egypt. As a result, offen-
sive campaigns to recover of the Holy Places were superseded by the creation of defensive
naval alliances aimed at combating Turkish piracy in the Aegean and the Mediterranean.12
Under King Peter I (1359–69), a reversion to the policy of war against the Mamluks
occurred when he organised a crusade against Alexandria, the chief port of the Mamluk
sultanate and Famagusta’s main rival as a commercial entrepôt after the final loss of the
Armenian port of Lajazzo to the Mamluks in 1335. Peter Edbury has argued that King
Peter’s crusade against Alexandria was actuated by commercial considerations, for follow-
ing the lifting of the papal ban against direct trade with the Muslims in 1344 Famagusta
393
had steadily been losing business to Alexandria.13 Whether this or a determination to lead
a crusade was the king’s overriding motive, the long-term consequences of this venture,
despite the immediate glory and renown it brought him in Western Europe, were disastrous.
The Lusignan kingdom became embroiled in an expensive war with the Mamluks, the cost
of which provoked internal unrest and was a factor leading to the murder of King Peter I in
1369 by disaffected nobles who resented the costs of his bellicose policies.14 The sack of
Alexandria was also resented in Venice and Genoa, as it had harmed their commercial inter-
ests. Genoese anger expressed itself in 1373 when it invaded Cyprus, seizing Famagusta,
the main commercial port, and retaining it until 1464. In the peace treaty between Genoa
and Cyprus of 1383, Cyprus was also forced to pay Genoa a heavy annual indemnity, fur-
ther impoverishing the kingdom.15
This financial impoverishment impelled the Cypriots to wage a new type of warfare
against the Mamluks: naval piracy. The first quarter of the fifteenth century was marked
by systematic piracy against the Egyptian and Syrian coastlines by Catalan, Cypriot and
Rhodian pirates operating from Cyprus, with the connivance and active encouragement of
the island’s nobles and the king himself, in straitened financial circumstances on account
of the annual war reparations Cyprus had to pay Genoa after the disastrous Genoese inva-
sion of 1373. The pirates seized Muslim ships and captured thousands of Muslims, who
were sold as slaves in the markets of Rhodes and Cyprus, while those sold in Cyprus
were often set to work in the highly profitable and labour-intensive sugar plantations at
Kolossi and Episkopi in the district of Limassol and at Lemba near Paphos, belonging to
the Hospitallers, the Venetian Corner family and the Crown.16 The participation of Cypriots
was certain, especially when King Janus of Cyprus took part in such raids. Furthermore, the
Mamluks themselves conducted retaliatory raids against the Cypriot coasts and Genoese
Famagusta in 1410–11, even though the Genoese had ransomed twenty-five Muslim cap-
tives in the previous year so as to send them to the sultan. Fearing more reprisals, the king
of Cyprus concluded a peace treaty with the Mamluk sultan in 1410, promising not to allow
pirates operating from Cyprus to raid Syria, not to offer victuals to pirates should they come
to Cyprus and not to allow his subjects to purchase their ill-gotten goods.17
But subsequently the Cypriot nobles took a different line from both the king and the
Western merchants based on Cyprus, who both desired peace in the interests of commerce
and political stability. In 1413 the king’s brother Prince Henry of Galilee together with
some Catalans raided the Syrian coastline, capturing so many Muslims that the governor of
Damascus sent an embassy with money to ransom them. A new peace treaty between the
Cypriot Crown and the Mamluk sultan signed in 1414 was a dead letter precisely because
it ran counter to the desire of the Cypriot nobles to enrich themselves through piracy and
acquire workers for their estates. This need for workers also engineered an abrupt change in
royal policy, for in 1415 King Janus, faced with declining royal revenues and an insufficient
workforce for his sugar plantations, ordered the royal war galley to raid the Egyptian coasts,
capturing 1,500 Muslims in the process. He refused to release them, despite the fury of the
Mamluk Sultan al-Mu’ayad, replying to him that they were needed to work in the sugar
plantations, although the Italian writer Emmanuel Piloti states that 535 persons captured
in Cypriot piratical raids were ransomed in the same year.18 Catalan pirates secured sup-
plies from Cyprus and sold their plunder there, especially the captives, and some time after
1422 a Muslim captive escaping from Cyprus recounted to the sultan how high officers of
the kingdom of Cyprus were supporting the pirates, singling out Philip de Picquigny, the
royal bailli of Limassol. Salih ibn Yahya, a contemporary Muslim historian from Beirut,
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recounted how a ship loaded with soap and other goods belonging to the merchant Ahmad
ibn al Hamim, a protégé of the sultan, was seized by Basque pirates as it left Tripoli for
Damietta and was taken to Cyprus. Both these incidents steeled the sultan’s resolve to attack
Cyprus by way of punishment.19
Nemesis was not long in coming. In the summer of 1424 the Mamluk fleet defeated
the Lusignan fleet off Limassol, the first Mamluk naval victory, pillaging the fortress of
Limassol and villages on the Cypriot coastline. King Janus, overruled by his bellicose
brother Henry and royal councillors whose interests in promoting piracy he had failed to
check, had rejected the offer of a peace treaty made by the governor of Syria and various
Mamluk emirs, even though personally disposed to accept it. A second punitive expedi-
tion followed, while the final expedition taking place in 1426 culminated in King Janus’s
defeat and capture in the battle of Khirokitia and in the Mamluk sacking and pillaging of
Nicosia, the island’s capital. The course of the military campaign is well known but it is
worth emphasising that because of the parlous state of the Mamluk fleet, neglected since
the beginning of the fifteenth century, the galleys constructed at the arsenal of Beirut proved
defective, with the Venetian Emmanuel Piloti observing that there were not enough rudders
for the galleys. Consequently the Mamluk war fleet transporting troops to Cyprus consisted
of djermas, transport ships used on the Nile, and ships requisitioned from Western traders in
Egypt.20 This condition of the Mamluk fleet goes some way towards explaining why prior to
1424 Catalans, Rhodians and Cypriots were able to raid the Egyptian and Syrian coastlines
with such impunity.
Some elements of Cypriot society opposed war with the Mamluks. The so-called ‘White
Venetians’, Cypriots and Levantines resident in the East who were subjects of Venice and
generally engaged in trade, not only opened the gates of Nicosia to the advancing Mamluks
but even showed them where the revenues of the royal treasury were located.21 It was the
merchants in Cyprus who had opposed piratical operations against the Mamluks, favoured
by the Cypriot nobility and eventually the Crown itself, and these actions of the ‘White
Venetians’ smack of revenge. In addition, the Mamluk victory of 1426 over Cyprus did not
stop completely pirates from raiding the coasts of Egypt and Syria and using Cyprus as a
base. Genoese-occupied Famagusta lay territorially outside the kingdom and was used by
Catalan and Biscayan pirates, acting in collusion with corrupt Genoese officials, for pre-
cisely this purpose well into the second half of the fifteenth century.22 After 1426, however,
the issues of war and piracy no longer dominated relations between Lusignan Cyprus and
the Mamluk sultanate, given that the former was now a tributary of the latter.
DIPLOMACY
War and diplomacy are inextricably linked, and the history of diplomatic relations between
Lusignan Cyprus and the Mamluk sultans must be examined. The records for the despatch
of envoys and the diplomatic negotiations they engaged in derive mostly from Cypriot
chronicles and Mamluk histories, for the state archives of both the Lusignan kingdom
and the Mamluk sultanate are not extant. Furthermore, most evidence for diplomatic mis-
sions was shortly before, during or immediately after armed conflict between the states
of Lusignan Cyprus and Mamluk Egypt, although missions concerning the payment of
the tribute after 1426 are also attested, and here documentary evidence is extant. Most
envoys were of high station, Cypriot nobles or Mamluk emirs, but some were merchants
or clerks, and some were even religious converts, used on account of their understanding
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of the language and culture of their former faith. The treatment of the envoys could also
vary, from honourable reception to imprisonment and even death. A truce of ten years, ten
months and ten days, concluded after the customary Mamluk manner of making truces
with Christians was made in 1289 between King Henry of Cyprus and the Mamluk sultan
Al-Kalawun. An attack by crusaders from western Europe on Muslim peasants bringing
produce to market in Acre that occurred in August 1290 gave the sultan, who was disin-
clined to observe the truce in any case, the pretext needed to begin the hostilities leading
to the fall of Acre. An embassy of four men sent by the citizens of Acre to the new sultan
Al-Ashraf shortly before the siege began in April 1291 were all imprisoned. Its leader, Sir
Philip Mainboef, a native of the Holy Land fluent in Arabic, was not released from cap-
tivity until 1319, spending twenty-eight years in gaol, a dramatic example of the dangers
attendant on diplomatic missions.23
The state of war between Cyprus and the Mamluk sultanate between the years 1366 and
1370 led to a flurry of diplomatic activity until the conclusion of a peace after the assas-
sination of King Peter I. Envoys sent from Cyprus by the king but also from the Venetians
and the Genoese, who desired peace in the interest of commerce, included nobles such as
Sir James de Nores, Sir James le Petit and Sir Hugh de la Baume, as well as an erudite
clerk named Anthony, an expert in law, the merchants Sir Cassan Cigala and Sir Nicholas
Giustinani from Genoa and Venice respectively, and on one occasion two Muslim slaves.
The latter, sent with letters from the king to the Mamluk sultan in the autumn of 1368,
were sent following the mistreatment of Cigala and Giustiniani at Mamluk hands, caus-
ing the king to fear for the safety of Christian envoys. In the summer of 1366, one of the
envoys sent from Cyprus to Egypt was the Catalan John d’Alfonso, a Jewish convert to
Christianity.24 Mamluk envoys sent to Cyprus included emirs, sometimes going there with
a large retinue. Early in 1370 the sultan sent four Christian envoys, two Venetians and two
Genoese merchants he had been keeping in custody, to conclude peace with Prince John of
Antioch, the brother of King Peter I and regent of Cyprus following the king’s assassina-
tion.25 Shortly before invading Cyprus in 1426, the Mamluk envoy sent there to persuade
King Janus to stop piratical activities was the son of an eminent Muslim sheikh named
Muhammad ibn Khudaidar, sheikh of Damascus. This envoy was refused access to the king
and returned empty handed. During the Mamluk invasion of June 1426, the Mamluks sent
as an envoy following their capture of Limassol an old Mamluk who had long ago con-
verted from Christianity to Islam, perhaps on account of his familiarity with the culture of
the enemy, and he too was refused access to the king. The Mamluk envoy who did secure
access to King Janus in July 1426, a peasant bearing a letter for the king, was tortured and
maltreated so cruelly that he died, and on discovering his corpse the Mamluk troops vented
their fury on the Cypriots, during the battle of Khirokitia.26
Diplomatic communication was generally conducted through letters borne by the envoys
of the respective parties, but oral communication was also employed sometimes. With the
reduction of the kingdom of Cyprus to a Mamluk tributary after 1426, diplomacy and the
dispatch of envoys continued, often in connection with payments of the annual tribute.
Mamluk delegations sent to Cyprus in the years after 1426 were numerous and costly to
maintain for their Cypriot hosts.27 Envoys from Cyprus also visited Mamluk Egypt, and
were not always Cypriot nationals. Hence in 1437 the Castillian nobleman Pero Tafur jour-
neyed to Egypt as King John II’s envoy to Sultan Barsbay with three requests to the sultan,
all of which were granted. One was for the sultan not to send numerous Mamluks to Cyprus
to collect the tribute because much was spent on hospitality towards them, the second was
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for the camlets and other textiles sent as tribute in kind from Cyprus to be valued at Egyptian
prices, which were higher than those paid in Cyprus, and the third was for Cypriot salt to be
sold throughout the Mamluk lands duty free. Tafur was given a fine robe as a present during
his embassy, and such robes were given as tokens of vassalage by the Mamluks to foreign
ambassadors as early as the thirteenth century. He was chosen for his mission on account
of his friendship with Carceran Suarez, a fellow Castillian who was the admiral of Cyprus,
a post he had obtained after saving the life of King Janus during the battle of Khirokitia.
Furthermore, he was assisted in his mission on arriving in Cairo by Taghribirdi, the chief
interpreter at the Mamluk court, himself a converted Jew originally from Seville who was in
receipt of an annual pension of 200 ducats from both King Janus and his son and heir King
John II due to the assistance he had given King Janus whilst the latter was in captivity in
Cairo.28 Then as now, ethnic affinity and personal connections facilitated diplomacy.
Despite Tafur’s reported success, at least one of the three requests he had been granted
was subsequently disregarded, for in 1450 Barsbay’s successor Sultan Jaqmaq ordered his
Mamluk Faris-al-Turkmani to go to Cyprus, buy Mongol slaves there and have them sent
to Cyprus. He gave him a sum of gold for this purpose and ordered him to use the tribute
collected in Cyprus as well. The tribute due was not always paid promptly. In a letter Sultan
Inal wrote just after his accession in March 1453 to King John II, he referred to a letter he
had received from Peter Podocataro, a nobleman from a family of Greek extraction who was
the king’s ambassador to the Mamluk court. The letter informed the sultan of the festivities
organised on Cyprus to celebrate Inal’s accession, a practice also followed in the provinces
of the Mamluk lands to celebrate victories, the accessions of sultans and governors and the
building of new mosques. Pleased by this demonstration of loyalty, Sultan Inal commended
King John to the Ottoman sultan Mehmet II, asking the latter to desist from piratical raids
against Cyprus, and he also remitting arrears in the Cypriot tribute amounting to 16,250
ducats.29 After King John’s death in 1458 and the war of succession between his legitimate
daughter Queen Charlotte, the rightful heir to the throne, and his natural son James, the
issue of tribute actually determined Mamluk support for the latter’s claim. The embassies
sent by both Charlotte and James to Sultan Inal determinedly made bids for the sultan’s sup-
port. Both were accompanied in their journey to Cairo in 1459 by the Mamluk ambassador
Taghribardi-at-Tayyar, who had originally arrived in Cyprus in early 1459 to declare the
sultan’s support for James. In Cairo James’s embassy, headed by the wily William Goneme,
an Augustinian friar whom James later had appointed archbishop of Nicosia as a reward for
his services, essentially outbid Charlotte’s embassy, headed by Peter Podocataro, by offer-
ing double the annual tribute normally sent.30
During the civil war of the years 1460 to 1464 between the supporters of Charlotte and
James, the latter, following his capture of Famagusta early in 1464, had to send another
embassy to Cairo after massacring the Mamluk commander Janibeg and his troops fol-
lowing an armed clash when Janibeg refused to heed James’s orders that the Mamluks in
Cyprus were to stop kidnapping youths for forcible conversion to Islam and recruitment
as Mamluks. The ambassador sent, referred to as ‘James the Frank’ by the contemporary
Muslim historian ibn Taghribirdi, later returned to Cyprus with a Mamluk envoy named
Sudun al-Mansuri. This envoy ‘recounted many things’ on his return from Cyprus. This sug-
gests that he probably went there on a fact-finding mission after the massacre of Janibeg’s
Mamluks. James’s embassy was ultimately successful, giving presents not only to the sultan
but also to other important people in his entourage. In 1466 James also succeeded in obtain-
ing papal recognition as King James II.31 The Mamluk sultans were the suzerains of Cyprus
397
and so their good will and recognition were sought whenever a change of government
occurred there. On King James II’s death in 1473, both his ousted sister Queen Charlotte
and his Venetian widow Queen Catherine sent embassies to Sultan Qaytbay (1468–96). The
latter embassy headed by Andrea Casoli, a burgess from Famagusta, and Anthony de l’Orsa
was successful. The sultan refused to see Queen Charlotte’s emissaries, but detained them
and then handed them over to Queen Catherine’s ambassadors for her to deal with at her
pleasure, and they were sent back to Rhodes, where Queen Charlotte had been resident. The
sultan also made known his good feelings towards Queen Catherine, adding apropos of the
tribute that: ‘he should be sent 24,000 ducats for three outstanding payments, and a good
present because the queen has entered into her kingdom!’32

Venice effectively annexed Cyprus after the death of King James II and the flight from
Cyprus of former supporters of his, predominantly Catalans and Sicilians, opposed to
Venice. The diplomatic relations between Venetian Cyprus and the Mamluk passed through
two phases. During the first phase, lasting until Queen Catherine’s abdication in 1489,
Venice was anxious to secure Mamluk recognition of Venetian control over Cyprus and to
prevent the Mamluks from offering support and recognition to rivals of Venice wishing to
control Cyprus. These rivals were Queen Charlotte and her daughter Carla, King Ferdinand
of Naples and his natural son Don Alonso and the two natural sons of the late King James,
Eugene and John. The second phase followed the abdication of Queen Catherine and the
Mamluk recognition of Venetian direct rule over Cyprus in 1490, after which diplomatic
relations largely centred on the prompt payment of the tribute from Cyprus and in ensuring
that the camlets and other textiles sent were of acceptable quality, which was not always
the case according to the Mamluks receiving them. A Venetian envoy sent from Cyprus in
late 1474 or early in 1475 was ill treated at the Mamluk court, possibly because the Mamluk
sultan thought that King Ferdinand of Naples might seize the island. By May 1476, how-
ever, the Mamluk sultan assured the queen’s second envoy, the Cypriot Thomas Ficard,
that the first envoy who had been detained would be sent back. He thanked her for the two
years of delayed tribute sent to him and sent her valuable presents including a robe of gold
brocade lined with ermine, the customary token of vassalage but also reconciliation. Indeed,
the Venetians encouraged the queen to call herself ‘Io tua schiava’ in her correspondence
with the sultan, who nonetheless appears to have kept his options open by welcoming Don
Alonzo and Queen Charlotte on their arrival in Egypt in autumn 1478 and by sending an
embassy in the years 1479–80. By this time, however, Venice had warned King Ferdinand
to keep his fleet away from Cyprus, a warning that he heeded, and Venetian control was
incontestable.33
Time, moreover, was working in Venice’s favour. Carla’s death in 1480, Queen
Charlotte’s sale of her rights over Cyprus to the dukes of Savoy in 1485, her own death in
1487, Don Alonzo’s departure from Egypt in the same year and the arrest in 1488, followed
by the incarceration and eventual execution of Rizzo di Marino, a former supporter of King
James who had long plotted to overturn Venetian control over Cyprus, cut the ground from
under the feet of Venice’s enemies.34 A second embassy of Thomas Ficard to the Mamluk
sultan in 1483, just one year after Queen Charlotte’s departure from Egypt, was crowned
with success. Ficard, initially detained for non-payment of tribute, was released on assur-
ances that the delayed tribute would be paid, given a robe of honour and expensive gifts
for the queen and duly returned to Cyprus. In his written report he also pointed out that
the sultan had refused an audience with the Neapolitan ambassador. The only hitch in the
good relations between Venice and the Mamluks regarding Cyprus occurred in 1488 when
398
the Mamluk sultan, angered by the above-stated arrest of Rizzo di Marino, who had led an
embassy for the Mamluk sultan to Hospitaller Rhodes, had the Venetian consul in Damietta
incarcerated. In addition, he refused to see Mark Malipiero, the Venetian ambassador sent
to see him in April 1489 so as to justify Venice’s decision to impose direct rule over Cyprus.
Nothing daunted, Venice sent a second ambassador, Pietro Diedo, to Egypt in September
1489, securing Mamluk recognition of her imposition of direct rule over Cyprus by March
1490.35 Furthermore, a Catalan envoy named Marchius who had also come to Cairo and
expressed opposition to this takeover to Taghribirdi, the sultan’s chief interpreter, was lit-
erally sent packing. This chief interpreter, a namesake of the one discussed above, was a
Spanish or Sicilian Jew who had converted first to Christianity and then to Islam. He was
in the pay of Venice, hence his denunciation of Marcius. Venice’s diplomatic success over
Cyprus is also to be placed in a wider context, this being the Mamluk sultan’s desire to
form a common front with Western rulers against the Ottomans, with whom he was at war.
The sultan concluded treaties with Venice and Florence in March 1490 and sent his ambas-
sador to the papal congress held in Rome with the aim of organising a crusade against the
Ottomans, an aim that never materialised.36
CULTURAL AND RELIGIOUS EXCHANGES

The geographical proximity of Cyprus to Egypt and Syria resulted in a variety of cultural
contacts. These took place notwithstanding the fact that Cyprus was a Latin kingdom with a
Greek majority and large groups of Oriental Christians while the Mamluk sultanate was an
officially Sunni Muslim state with groups of Orthodox and Oriental Christians. Indeed the
Oriental Christians were an important though not exclusive factor in cultural interchanges.
One of the earliest influences took place in the field of hunting, a sport highly popular in
Cyprus among the Latin nobility as well as among other social classes and ethnic groups.
King Hugh IV of Cyprus loved hunting and an anonymous English traveller visiting Cyprus
in the years 1344–45 states that he used to employ leopards to hunt moufflons: Ludolf of
Suchen, a German traveller who also visited Cyprus in the fourteenth century recounted
how John of Ibelin, the count of Jaffa, also possessed leopards for hunting, which he was
forced to sell in late 1342. One can surmise with a reasonable degree of certitude that
they were imported to Cyprus from Egypt, the African country nearest to Cyprus and a
country known to contain numerous species of wild animal, both endemic to the country
and imported from Nubia and elsewhere further to the south. Indeed, these ‘leopards’ are
almost certainly cheetahs. The fastest among all land animals, cheetahs were familiar in
the medieval Islamic world and never confused with leopards. From Mamluk Egypt, where
they were to be encountered in the Cairo menageries and were considered quite common,
they could be easily imported from Alexandria to Cyprus. They were used for hunting in
medieval Egypt and Syria. Such cheetahs were ‘the companions of princes and sultans’ who
had them seated on the back of their horses for both hunting and parade ground purposes.37
Arabic was spoken on Cyprus before the Mamluk period, especially by the Maronites,
Eastern Christians who though originally Monothelite had for the most part recognised
papal primacy during the twelfth century. Following the Latin conquest and the estab-
lishment of the Lusignan dynasty, the number of Eastern Christians settling in Cyprus
increased, with Arabic scribes mentioned among those encouraged by Guy, the founder
of the Lusignan dynasty, to settle in Cyprus. Literary evidence exists proving that Arabic,
besides being widely spoken in Cyprus, developed distinct characteristics in relation to
399
other varieties of eastern Arabic. Izz ad-Din abu Ishaq Ibrahim bin Muhammad bin Tarxan
as-Suwaydi’s work titled ‘Treatise on the Characteristics of Plant Names’ (Kitab al-simat
fi asma al-nabat) and written in the thirteenth century lists in separate sections the distinct
usages of the Arabic names, given alongside their equivalents in other eastern and European
languages, in Egypt, Palestine and Cyprus. This constitutes proof that by this time a distinct
Cypriot Arabic idiom had come into existence.38 It was further disseminated during the
Mamluk era as the language of many Eastern Christians who migrated to Cyprus between
1260 and 1291, in the wake of the Muslim re-conquest of Latin Syria.
Arabic was also used by members of the Cypriot nobility. Among them were Isabella
de Ibelin, who was married to King Hugh III of Cyprus in 1255 and transmitted her ability
to swear and blaspheme in that language to her daughters Maria and Helvis. King Hugh
IV of Cyprus and his second wife Alice de Ibelin knew Arabic and the Byzantine scholar
and humanist Nicephorus Gregoras states that the Arabs of Egypt close to Cyprus often
travelled across the sea to the king for the sake of stimulating conversation. King Janus
de Lusignan likewise knew Arabic, a knowledge of which made his life easier during his
detention in Cairo, following his capture by the Mamlūks in 1426 at the battle of Khirokitia.
According to an admittedly partisan contemporary chronicler, Janus befriended the trainee
Mamluk julban while in Cairo and visited prostitutes of both sexes. Likewise, when the
Mamlūks reached Nicosia after the battle and hesitated on whether or not to enter, the
knights Joseph, Bekhna and Raymond Audeth, Sir Khimi and his brothers and Sir Badin
Goneme, who all knew Arabic and were all bar the last of Syrian origin, led them into the
city and subsequently asked them to have various offices conferred upon them.39
The development of Famagusta into a major trading centre in the later thirteenth century,
populated by varied groups of Arabic-speaking Eastern Christians who actively participated
in this trade, often with their co-religionists remaining behind in the Mamluk sultanate, saw
the emergence of the drogumani or turcimanni, persons able to translate commercial deeds
and other commercial documents from and into Arabic, attested in fourteenth- and fifteenth-
century Famagusta. Such persons included Latin, Melkite and Eastern Christian clergy,
craftsmen and the anonymous writer of the third part of the early fourteenth-century manu-
script known as the Gestes de Chiprois, a section now known as the ‘Templar of Tyre’,
who was employed as a translator of Arabic in the Templar chancery. The Augustinian
friar James of Verona and the Greek merchant Athanasios Lependrenos who visited Cyprus
in the mid-fourteenth century commented on the Cypriots’ ability to understand Arabic
and Latin-based languages. Furthermore, the chronicle of George Boustronios suggests that
there was a school of Arabic in fifteenth-century Nicosia, although this is not conclusive
evidence. Arabic was also present in rural Cyprus. A donation of mulberry and olive trees
to the church of St George in Kythraea dated 24 June 1499 was signed by one of the signa-
tories witnessing it, a man named Isaac, in Arabic.40
Arabic medicine was highly appreciated in Cyprus. The Italian doctor Legno di Bologna
journeyed to Syria in 1448 for treatment of problems with his eyesight, something he
had been suffering from since 1446. This doctor, described as a fisicus, was a resident of
Famagusta, then under Genoese occupation, and a member of the city’s municipal coun-
cil. On account of problems he was suffering with his eyesight, which could manifestly
not be cured in Cyprus, he had taken four months’ leave from work in order to journey
to Damascus in Syria and undergo treatment there, after having secured assurances that
his salary would continue to be paid to him while he was away. This doctor left Cyprus
while Famagusta was under the administration of the Genoese captain Baliano de Porta.
400
He remained in Damascus, where his eyesight problems were indeed cured following treat-
ment, for four months. Arabic medical works were translated for use on the island. Among
those possessing such translations was Guy de Bagnolo, the physician of King Peter I of
Cyprus, whose library was transported from Cyprus to Venice in 1368. Many of the medical
treatises were translations from Arabic. Arabic medical works continued to be in demand on
Cyprus during the following centuries. During the fifteenth century, the Cypriot nobleman
James Singlitico purchased a medical manuscript that had been copied c. 1300 by the Greek
Michael Loulloudes. The manuscript contains numerous marginal notes indicating that doc-
tors familiar with Arabic were using it, for they simply transcribed into Greek Arabic medi-
cal terms that had no direct Greek equivalent. A better understanding of Arabic medicine
also provided an incentive for the wider diffusion of the language throughout Cyprus. After
the effective annexation of Cyprus by Venice in 1473, the Venetian Council of Ten in 1539
urged the local authorities in Cyprus to find a Copt fluent in Arabic so that they could pay
him to teach the language to his fellow Copts resident in Cyprus and to others interested in
learning it. In this fashion the books on medicine written in Arabic discovered in the Coptic
monastery of St Macarius situated in the mountains to the north of Nicosia could be under-
stood better and the knowledge therein disseminated more widely.41
King Hugh IV of Cyprus was himself a patron of Arabic art. A vessel from his court
was a large and finely worked brass basin, formerly damascened with gold and silver, and
measuring 57 centimetres across and 27.5 centimetres deep. The vessel is now in the Louvre
Museum in Paris; similar types were made in the first half of the fourteenth century for
King Hugh’s contemporary, the Mamluk sultan a-Nasr Muhammad of Cairo. The stylistic
similarities between this vessel and one in the St Louis Museum produced for an officer of
Sultan al-Nasr Muhammad in the same monumental Thuluth script make it clear that the
vessel with the French inscription was made at around the same time for King Hugh IV
by craftsmen so familiar with the calligraphic techniques used for metal engraving in the
Mamluk court that they must have been trained there. What makes the vessel commissioned
for King Hugh IV stand out is the fact that it was commissioned for a Christian ruler. This
vessel like others of similar dimensions and dating, commissioned for Christian patrons,
were arguably not produced at the Mamluk sultan’s court, but on Cyprus itself for the king.
King Hugh consciously appropriated the courtly language of the damascened brass vessels
made at the court of Sultan al-Nasir Muhammad and was almost alone among Western rul-
ers in doing so. He may have wished to project the idea that he was the sultan’s equal in
importance and power.42
Contacts between Cyprus and the Mamluk lands spanned the domain of religion. The
economic resources of the Latin Church of Cyprus, established in 1196, were used to sup-
port the embattled Latin sees in Latin Syria, suffering from Muslim raids and the re-conquest
of Latin-controlled territories. In 1253 Pope Innocent IV granted Cypriot clerical tenths and
the revenues of the archbishopric of Nicosia to help finance the fortification of the castle
of Qusair, belonging to the Latin patriarch of Antioch and suffering from Muslim raids,
and in 1256 this patriarch was granted the administration of the Cypriot see of Limassol to
relieve his poverty. In 1291 Pope Nicholas IV granted the Dominican Patriarch Nicholas of
Jerusalem exemption from paying tithes on two casalia his church owned in Cyprus to the
Latin archbishop in Nicosia. This exemption was rescinded in 1291, by which time Latin
Syria had been irretrievably lost in any case. In 1312, after the dissolution of the Order of
the Templars, some of their villages in the diocese of Nicosia were granted to the titular
patriarchs of Jerusalem, who were now resident on Cyprus. The loss of Latin Syria in 1291
401
also resulted in the relocation of the Latin bishopric of Tortosa to Famagusta, although the
cathedral chapters of Famagusta and Tortosa remained separate. The Latin canons of the
bishopric of Beirut found refuge in Nicosia. Papal hopes that the Mamluk sultan An-Nazir
Muhammad might restore the Holy Land to Latins through peaceful negotiation led Pope
John XXII to authorise the Dominican Peter de la Palude, titular patriarch of Jerusalem,
and his household to visit and reside there, and to have the custody of the Latin churches
there. He was also granted administration of the see of Limassol, exemption from paying
tithes on the villages his patriarchate owned in Cyprus and the fines imposed on merchants
excommunicated for transporting forbidden goods to finance his journey to the Holy Places.
Reaching Cyprus in 1329, the patriarch went on to Egypt in 1330, but he failed to persuade
the sultan to return the Holy Places and eventually returned to Avignon.43
Cyprus’s proximity to the Holy Places made it an attractive point of departure for pil-
grimages to the Holy Land. In 1326 Pope John XXII authorised King Hugh IV of Cyprus to
send nuncios and ‘explorers’ of his own choosing to the Muslim lands around his kingdom
in order to explore these lands. In another letter of around this time he also allowed him
to send mendicants in his employ or in that of officials of his kingdom to these countries,
and one wonders if this was a veiled reference to espionage carried out from Cyprus. From
1326 onwards, the popes began authorising Latin archbishops of Nicosia, members of the
Latin clergy and Latin lay persons to perform pilgrimages to the Holy Places, so long as
they did not transport prohibited strategic materials such as weaponry and timber there to
finance their journeys, but only licit goods. In September 1333 the pope granted Helias de
Nabineaux, the new Latin archbishop of Nicosia, permission to visit the Holy Places and
also celebrate mass there in churches and oratories under Muslim occupation. Papal policy
relaxed further in 1345 when Pope Clement VI authorised Archbishop Philip of Nicosia
to grant absolution from excommunication, on payment of a monetary fine, to pilgrims
who had visited the Holy Places without having first obtained papal permission, while also
authorising him to visit the Holy Places successively with large numbers of companions, of
between 100 and 300 on each occasion. By delegating the power of absolution to the arch-
bishop, the pope was also saving petitioners on Cyprus from the time, expenses and dangers
attendant on making a journey to Avignon for the purpose of obtaining absolution. From
1350 onwards visitors to the Holy Land travelling from Cyprus solicited and received papal
licences as a routine procedure.44
The pilgrims’ needs regarding accommodation, health care and even burial were
also attended to. In 1328 the pope granted permission to the Genoese merchant Stephen
Draperius to have a chapel to St Stephen founded within the confines of a hospital he had
founded for the housing, care and burial of pilgrims in the cemetery attached to it. A hos-
pital founded with papal permission on Mt Zion by the Florentine widow Sophia Philippi
in 1353, run by women who had adopted the rule of the Franciscan Third Order and which
had been damaged by Muslim raids carried out in retaliation for King Peter’s attack on
Alexandria in 1365, also received help from Cyprus. In 1370 Pope Urban V authorised
Archbishop Raymond of Nicosia to receive donations for its restoration and for repayment
of its debts. In 1372 he also authorised the bishop of Famagusta to allow Sophia to visit
the Holy Places with 200 people, a way of raising funds for the hospital. Furthermore, in
1373 the pope granted indulgences to those assisting in its reconstruction, although now the
foundation was also placed under direct papal supervision.45
The Spanish Dominican friar Alfonso Buenhombre, who knew Arabic, lived in Famagusta
during the mid-fourteenth century. With a view to promoting missions to the East, he was
402
engaged in translating works from Arabic into Latin, dedicating in February 1341 to Cardinal
Pedro de Sotomayor a history of St Anthony he had discovered in a manuscript deposited
in the library of the Coptic monastery of this saint in Famagusta. On Cyprus, Buenhombre
continued a vocation of translator and commentator he had begun in Egypt with the aim of
strengthening contacts between Eastern and Western Christians. Ascertaining that the men-
dicants established in Famagusta, arguably the most cosmopolitan of Cypriot cities, were
ignorant of Arabic and lacked an interpreter, he lamented the divide separating the various
Christian denominations. He observed that Arabic-speaking Christians had no linguistic
access to the works of the great Latin Church fathers such as St Thomas Aquinas and Isidore
of Seville while Western Christians were deprived of the teachings of the Egyptian anchorite
fathers and Ephraim the Syrian. This Spanish Dominican promoting inter-denominational
dialogue in Famagusta can be placed in a tradition of multilingual interpreters mentioned
twenty years later by the Greek merchant Athanasios Lependrenos in his correspondence
with the Byzantine scholar Nicephoros Gregoras.46
Interfaith contacts between Cyprus and the Mamluk lands involved religious polemic. The
Syrian Melkites, who followed the Greek rite and were present on Cyprus, had co-religionists
in the Mamluk lands and were directly involved in such polemic. It took the form of the
so-called ‘Letter from the People of Cyprus’, an elegantly worded but highly contentious
piece of Christian polemic initially written in the thirteenth century by the Melkite Bishop
Paul of Sidon as a letter to a Muslim friend. In it Paul stated that he has travelled to the
lands of the Christians at the request of his anonymous Muslim friend so as to discover
Christian beliefs concerning Islam. He then proceeded, through a combination of citations
of the Quran, sometimes altered to make them conform more closely to Christian belief, and
logical reasoning to prove that the Quran supports and agrees with fundamental Christian
beliefs, such as the Trinity, the duality of Christ and the Incarnation. His work maintained
that the teachings of the prophet Muhammad were directed not to mankind as a whole but
solely to the unlettered desert Arabs as a preparatio evangelica, a means whereby they
might be made receptive to Christianity, the ultimate religious truth. This tract circulated
widely in the thirteenth century and was known to Muslim scholars, one of whom, Shihab
al Din al Qarafi, refuted it in his writings.47
During the early fourteenth century, this piece of Christian polemic was recast exten-
sively by an anonymous author. His fluency in Arabic, thorough knowledge of the Quran
and citations of the Bible in its Arabic translations suggest that he was either a Syrian
Melkite or a convert from Islam to Melkite Christianity, who had perhaps fled to Cyprus
after or even just prior to the Muslim re-conquest of Latin Syria to escape the Muslim
punishment for apostasy. He deleted much of the original’s logical reasoning, corrected
the doctored citations of the Quran and added further such citations, as well as citations
from the Bible, hoping thereby to make the text more acceptable, less easy to refute and
ultimately more convincing for the Muslim audience it was aimed at. This sedulously
revised ‘Letter from the People of Cyprus’ was then sent to two Muslim scholars in
Damascus, Ibn Taymiyya in 1316 and al-Dimashqi in 1321. Al-Dimashqi wrote a com-
prehensive refutation of this piece of Christian polemic just four months after receiving
it, arguing from a wholly Quranic perspective. It is not known whether this reply ever
reached Cyprus and its survival in just one manuscript indicates a limited diffusion. The
‘Letter from the People of Cyprus’, composed either to boost Christian morale in the
wake of the Muslim re-conquest of Latin Syria or to attempt conversion of Muslims by
peaceful means, indicates that the Syrian Melkites living on Cyprus as well as the Latins
403
were active in promoting the struggle against Islam, in the Melkites’ case through the
medium of religious polemic.48
Ibn Taymiyya likewise refuted this ‘Letter from the People of Cyprus’ in his famous work
known as The Right Answer (Al-Jawab al-salih) some time after 1316, a landmark in the
history of Christian–Muslim polemics. The main ideas developed in this work were antici-
pated in summary form, however, in an earlier work he had written in the years 1303–04,
known as Al-risala al-qubrussiya or The Cypriot Letter. The letter’s addressee has occa-
sioned disagreement among scholars, who maintain him to have been either John II the lord
of Jubail, a member of the Embriaci family living in exile on Cyprus at the time, or William
de Villaret, the Hospitaller Grand Master between the years 1294 and 1305. In this letter,
Ibn Taymiyya presents Islam as a golden mean, superior to Judaism in its severity towards
unbelievers and superior to Christianity in its compassion towards believers. In the Cypriot
letter, developing the Sufi tradition’s three fundamental attributes concerning God of maj-
esty, beauty and perfection, Ibn Taymiyya states that Moses had the attributes of majesty
and severity, Jesus those of beauty and compassion, and Muhammad, ‘the seal of the proph-
ets’, that of perfection. Christianity is accused of corrupt features, such as crosses allegedly
suspended in mid-air, icons shedding tears and the ‘Holy Fire’ coming down in the Church
of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem during Easter, regarded as a fabrication. Christians are
also accused of having renounced jihad, the duty to wage war on God’s behalf. The letter
states that the coming of the prophet Muhammad was revealed in the Old Testament book
of Habakkuk 3:3–13. Ibn Taymiyya concluded The Cypriot Letter by maintaining that the
Muslim captives on Cyprus had been seized wrongfully. This was because while Muslims
were right to wage war against the Christians, who had corrupted God’s religion, Christians
could never be justified in waging war on Muslims because neither God, the Messiah or
the apostles had ever sanctioned attacks on those following the religion of Abraham, by
which he meant Islam. The letter’s recipient is urged to treat Muslim captives on Cyprus
humanely and to abstain from trying to change their faith.49 This was an oblique acknowl-
edgement that Muslim captives on Cyprus did sometimes convert to Christianity, as will
be seen below.
TRADE AND SETTLEMENT

Trade between Lusignan Cyprus and Mamluk Egypt and Syria took place throughout the
period under discussion, even when officially prohibited. As early as 1232, the Genoese,
who had helped the Ibelin faction prevail in the civil war on Cyprus between the Ibelins
and the Imperialists, secured shops in Famagusta, the Cypriot port opposite Syria, in the
treaty they concluded with King Henry I. In his decrees of 1251 Archbishop Hugh of
Fagiano, the Latin archbishop of Nicosia, condemned as excommunicated those ‘false
Christians’ exporting timber, weapons and iron to the Mamluk lands, in line with succes-
sive papal prohibitions on the export of such goods to the infidels from the twelfth century
onwards. His successor Archbishop Ranulf renewed this prohibition in 1280, and it is also
found in the Greek translations of the Assizes de la Cour des Bourgeois executed in the
fourteenth century, where in the second of the two extant codices it is a capital offence.
That such goods were exported to Egypt and Syria from Cyprus at the time occasions
no surprise, for Cilician Armenia also exported timber, iron and weapons to the Mamluk
lands in the thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries.50 The Mamluks were keen to acquire
such goods, in short supply in their own territories, from any outside source. During and
404
immediately after the Mamluk re-conquest of the coastal cities of Palestine and Syria under
Latin rule between 1260 and 1291, completed by the capture of Acre and Tyre, numerous
Latin and Syrian Christian refugees from those areas settled in Cyprus and especially in
Famagusta. By the start of the fourteenth century, Famagusta had become the main port of
the Lusignan kingdom, not least on account of its proximity to Egypt, Syria and above all
to the port of Alexandria.51
The bull Pope Nicholas IV promulgated in August 1291 forbidding Christians to trade
with the Mamluk lands for the next ten years, on pain of excommunication, followed by
subsequent bulls forbidding the export of strategic materials to the Mamluks actually ben-
efited trade between Cyprus and the Mamluk lands. As Anthony Luttrell has pointed out,
‘a blockade which could only be enforced by those who stood to lose from it had little
chance of success’. In practice the Cypriot authorities enforced the ban where possible on
Western merchants travelling to Egypt or Syria while covertly allowing merchants based
in Cyprus, Latins as well as Syrians or Greeks, to trade freely in those lands. Cyprus-based
traders profited greatly as middlemen between the Western merchants coming to Cyprus to
buy goods, including silks, spices and slaves, originating from the Mamluk lands, and the
Muslim traders eager to buy Western textiles, timber, metals and weapons. And this despite
repeated condemnation of their activities, in 1320, 1323 and 1324 by Pope John XXII. In
actuality, the papacy developed a practice whereby merchants and others excommunicated
for such illicit trade could obtain absolution, either on the payment of a monetary fine or
by serving for a fixed period of time in campaigns organised against the Muslims. From
around 1326 onwards, the papacy began granting permission for trade with the Muslims in
licit non-strategic materials in return for a fee.52 An anonymous trading manual compiled
in around 1320 records the export of Cypriot camlets and the colours exported to various
destinations. Emerald green, pistachio, light green, yellow, azure and white ones were sent
to Alexandria, Cairo and Damietta, large quantities in all colours to Damascus and Beirut,
emerald green, pistachio green and white were sent to Tripoli and green, white and a few
pistachio green camlets were sent to Latakia. Cypriot camlets continued to be exported to
the Mamluk sultanate and from 1426 onwards formed part of the tribute until the Ottoman
conquest of Egypt and Syria in 1517.53
The papal embargo and its beneficial effects on Cyprus, however, were transitory. After
1335 the political instability affecting Iran and the Tatar kingdom of Southern Russia made
it harder for goods to reach Western Europe via those lands, to the considerable detriment
of Venetian and Genoese traders. Pressure was exerted on the papacy to lift the embargo,
and in three letters of August 1343 Pope Clement VI granted Bishop Eudes of Paphos,
the collector of papal taxes on Cyprus, permission to absolve from excommunication mer-
chants and others in Cyprus found guilty of taking forbidden goods to Alexandria and other
proscribed destinations on receipt of a suitable monetary payment, whereupon the sentence
of excommunication would be commuted to a penance. The papal prohibition on trade
between Western merchants and the Muslims was lifted under Pope Clement VI in 1344.
From then onwards the Venetians and Catalans were permitted to send lines of galleys to
the Mamluk lands regularly.54
With the resumption of direct trade between Western Europe and the Mamluk terri-
tories the role of Cypriot middlemen was undercut. While Venice continued to send six
to eight state-sponsored trading galleys every year to the eastern Mediterranean, these
galleys now had papal permits for trade with the Muslims and only around half came to
Cyprus. During the years 1357 to 1359 inclusive, fourteen such galleys were equipped
405
for trade with Alexandria and only nine for Famagusta. If this trend in Venetian trade is
reflected in the other major trading nations involved in the transit trade between Western
Europe and the East, it seems that fewer goods were available for sale on Cyprus. Fewer
visits to the island on account of the merchants’ legal as well as practical ability to sail
directly to Egypt and Syria meant reduced customs dues for the Cypriot Crown. Hence
in 1361 complaints were made of how people were falsely claiming Venetian national-
ity or importing as Venetian merchandise goods belonging to non-Venetians in order to
claim exemption from customs payments. Disputes between Cyprus and Genoa in 1364
nearly erupted into war, and the agreement of April 1365 that averted this contained pro-
visions humiliating to the kingdom of Cyprus. One long-running issue of contention was
to what extent Eastern Christians under Venetian or Genoese protection, the so-called
‘White Venetians’ and ‘White Genoese’, could claim exemption from customs duties and
other imposts, with the royal officials seeking to tax them and the Venetians and Genoese
upholding their claims to exemption.55
The decline of Cypriot commerce caused by the resumption of normal trade between
Western Europe and the Mamluk sultanate and the corresponding reduction in Cypriot
royal revenues may well have been a key factor impelling King Peter I of Cyprus to attack
Alexandria in 1365 with Hospitaller assistance, in the context of the crusade the pope had
proclaimed. The ruinously expensive war this provoked with the Mamluks, discussed above,
did nothing to benefit Cypriot trade, and the anger both Venice and Genoa felt towards
King Peter, whose attack had harmed their own trading interests, only made things worse.
Despite his desire to resume war with the Mamluks, the Venetians and Genoese secured
papal backing for peace with them. In May 1368 the king authorised envoys from the mer-
cantile republics of Venice and Genoa to negotiate a peace treaty on his behalf. Among
the issues for the Cypriots in these negotiations was one important for Cypriot traders in
Mamluk territory, namely the residence of the Cypriot commune in Alexandria, colloqui-
ally known as the Han de la Moze, the khan of Moses. This facility, like similar facilities
existing in Egypt, Syria and other Muslim countries for merchants from Europe was a regu-
lated commercial and residential facility for transitory and resident merchants as well as
other travellers from Cyprus. Cypriots residing in Egypt came under the legal jurisdiction
of the Cypriot consul there, at least in cases not involving bloodshed, and similar arrange-
ments were in force for Venetians, Provençals, Catalans and other Westerners residing in
Cyprus. The peace concluded between Lusignan Cyprus and the Mamluk sultanate and rati-
fied in 1370, one year after King Peter’s assassination, revived commercial contacts. These
were boosted even more by the Genoese seizure of Famagusta in 1373, which toughened
the competition Cypriot merchants faced and impelled them to make greater use of Egypt
as an operational base.56
Early fifteenth-century Cypriot trading activity in Mamluk territories is recorded.
A certain Maria of Cyprus, an innkeeper in Alexandria, lent four ducats to George
Deliono, who possibly originated from the town of Nuoro in Sardinia and was resident
in Famagusta. It is possible that Maria is identical to the ‘Mariona de Zipro’ mentioned
in a notarial act of December 1421 regarding the purchase of eighty-one butts of wine by
three Venetians resident in Candia, Crete. This wine, sent from Crete to Alexandria, was
sold to three persons explicitly mentioned as tavern-keepers, one Greek, one Anconitan
and one Coptic, as well as to Mariona, who although not mentioned as a tavern-keeper
must have either been one or have been engaged in a similar occupation, for why else
would she have purchased this wine? The participation of women in this trading activity
406
is noteworthy and several Cypriot women maintained hostels in the city. Sometime before
1422 Peter Zexomeno, a Greek from Cyprus, became Cypriot consul there. A deed of July
1422 recounts how Peter’s son James married Maria, an Abyssinian slave manumitted
by her master Bartholomew Lomellini on the same day and given a dowry of 60 ducats
by him, clearly so as to marry James. In Alexandria, notarial acts of the early fifteenth
century record Cypriot ships visiting the harbour there.57 One notes in this context that a
community of Cypriot merchants similar to that at Alexandria also came to be established
in Beirut during the mid-fourteenth century, when according to the Arab write Salih ibn
Yahya Frankish ships began in this period to frequent this port tentatively so as to trade.
Venetians were coming to Cyprus and the king of Cyprus used to despatch their goods to
Beirut on board two ships that arrived there consecutively. He states that the Cypriots had
a church in Beirut, although he does not state unfortunately which Christian denomination
it belonged to, and a group among them took up residence there, maintaining their taverns
and wine presses.58
The Mamluk invasion of Cyprus in 1426 and its reduction to tributary status actually
boosted Cypriot exports to the Mamluk sultanate, since the tribute was payable in kind.
Camlets have already been mentioned, and other products given by way of payment were
silks, woollens and cloth, especially as sometimes the camlets were of poor quality. While
Syrian cotton and bocasine were exported to Europe via Cyprus and to Cyprus itself in
the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, Cypriot cotton and bocasine were also exported to
Europe. Genoese customs entries for the years 1376–77 record far more numerous such
imports from Cyprus as opposed to Mamluk territory. Both Cyprus and the Mamluk lands
produced sugar, but Cyprus appears to have produced it more cheaply. Cypriot sugar,
including the cheaper molasses variety, was imported to Mamluk lands throughout the fif-
teenth century. In 1477 the Venetian government ruled that a Venetian galley from the
regular Beirut convoy should stop at Famagusta and take Cypriot sugar on board before
continuing to Beirut. Mario Sanudo the Younger recorded in his Diarii for the year 1504 the
export of Cypriot sugar, molasses and honey to Syria. Sugar production in Egypt and Syria
suffered on account of the technological stagnation there in comparison to Cyprus, the sti-
fling of competition because privileges were granted to factories owed by the sultan and his
emirs, and the management of the sultan’s factories by corrupt officials. These phenomena,
together with the inflation Egypt and Syria experienced on account of the export of silver
to Europe and the import of copper, which in the early fifteenth century became the basis of
Mamluk currency, all hampered Mamluk production and assisted rival Cypriot production
of sugar, textiles and other goods.59
Wheat cultivation in Mamluk Syria and Egypt declined during the fifteenth century and
was displaced by barley. Nonetheless, wheat and barley from these lands were imported
to Cyprus throughout the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries whenever the island suf-
fered a bad harvest and Coptic merchants participated in such grain exports. Indeed, the
depopulation of Egypt and Syria facilitated such exports to Cyprus down to the end of the
period of Mamluk rule. Cyprus began to export wheat to Egypt regularly after the imposi-
tion of Mamluk suzerainty in 1426, and in 1436 Pero Tafur observed that the kingdom was
bound by treaty to export wheat regularly to Egypt. Cypriot barley was also exported to
Egypt and Syria throughout the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries. Mastic from Chios
was brought to Cyprus, with Jews from Chios active in selling it and Genoese Famagusta
acting as a sale and distribution point throughout Cyprus but also to Syria and Egypt.
Cypriot salt, first mentioned by Pero Tafur as an important Cypriot export article to the
407
Mamluk territories, was still being exported there according to Marino Sanudo in the early
sixteenth century. Sanudo made the important observation in 1510 that many poor people
in Cyprus made a living from the trading relations with Syria. Genoese merchants based
in Famagusta and Nicosia imported pepper from Egypt to Cyprus. There were numerous
soap factories in Egypt and Syria in the early fifteenth century. In 1427 Venetian merchants
based in Alexandria sold some soap to King Janus and earlier a Copt based in Famagusta
and working with a Genoese merchant in Nicosia also sold soap to a North African drago-
man named Daut.60
Copts, mentioned above as merchants in connection with trade between Cyprus and
the Mamluk lands, probably settled on Cyprus in the second half of the fourteenth cen-
tury, although they may have arrived earlier. The punitive measures the Mamluks took
against the Copts in retaliation for King Peter I’s attack on Alexandria may have impelled
some Copts to flee to Cyprus, but there is no conclusive evidence for this. The first Coptic
bishop on Cyprus, Anba Michael, who subsequently became the metropolitan of Rhodes,
is recorded as late as 1483, although this reference is important in showing that the Copts
were numerous and organised enough by that time to have their own bishop. Coptic
manuscripts were copied or edited on Cyprus and some time before 1535 the Copts had
a church in Nicosia dedicated to St Benham. Two wills of 1451 and 1453 drawn up by
members of the prominent Audeth family of Syrian origin record bequests to ‘the four
churches of the Copts’. Although their names and locations are unfortunately not men-
tioned, they are probably the Coptic cathedral of St Anthony in Nicosia, the church of
St Benham mentioned above, the Coptic church of St Anthony in Famagusta and the
Coptic monastery of St Macarius of Klima founded near the village of Platani to the north
of Nicosia. These four churches received 2,000 ducats in the will of the prominent Copt
Sir Hanna Christodoulou, who died in 1518. The Coptic monastery of St Macarius was
mentioned in a letter of the Venetian Council of Ten dated 24 May 1539. It commented
favourably on the monks’ abstemious lifestyle and regular worship and awarded them a
grant from the public purse so that they could construct new buildings on account of an
increase in the number of monks from four to sixteen. It was this monastery, moreover,
that possessed the Arabic medical books that also attracted the Venetians’ attention, as
discussed above. Not everyone liked the Copts, and in 1580 the Dominican friar Stephen
de Lusignan, writing at a time when Cyprus was under Ottoman rule, described them as
obstinate and opinionated, although reluctantly acknowledging that they maintained a
strict regimen.61
Muslims as well as Christians from the Mamluk sultanate also settled in Cyprus, albeit
under very different circumstances. James the natural son of King John II of Cyprus pre-
vailed over his legitimate sister Queen Charlotte in the civil war of the years 1460–64 with
the help of an auxiliary force composed of Circassian Mamluks. Although some, for reasons
explained above, were massacred following the capture of Famagusta, others, such as John
the Circassian, the emir Curcuma and the Mamluk Taghribirdi, remained in the service of
James, who granted fiefs to them by way of rewarding them. Although generally keeping
their Muslim faith in some cases, they intermarried with Cypriot women and their chil-
dren, Christians who nevertheless acknowledged their Circassian ancestry, as attested as
fief holders in the Venetian period. Examples are Peter and Bernard Cercasso, sons of John
the Circassian, while an unnamed son of his was killed in 1501 in the fighting that broke out
when twelve Ottoman ships raided Lapithos on the northern coast of Cyprus. The persons
Thomas, Jeronimo and Paris Cercasso recorded in sixteenth-century Venetian documents
408
were probably also among John the Circassian’s descendants. Jeronimo Cercasso, recorded
in the list of feudatories owing military service dated 28 April 1560 drawn up by the
Venetian proveditor general and syndic Andrea Dandolo, held the title of magnifico, an
indubitable attestation of noble rank. He is indeed the only person of Circassian origin
recorded as achieving noble status in Cyprus. The Cypriot interpreter Michel Membre who
later worked in Venice claimed to be of Circassian origin while the matthesep (muhtasib)
Battista Mamaluco who served in the Karpass peninsula sometime before 1559 was clearly
descended from the Mamluks.62
Not all persons moving from the Mamluk territories to Cyprus or vice versa did so
voluntarily. The movement of slaves, usually captured in warfare, is a case in point. Over
1,800 Muslims were taken captive near Limassol in 1271 when the fleet sent against
Cyprus by Sultan Baybars ran aground. Many of them were sent to Acre to be ransomed
and although a ransom price was not agreed, they escaped successfully from custody with
the aid of saws and files which their warders, who had been bribed, smuggled in to them.
As stated above, Ibn Taymiyya also referred to Muslim captives in Cyprus in his letter of
1303–04, probably addressed to John II the exiled lord of Jubail, and Ludolf of Suchen
who visited Cyprus in the mid-fourteenth century referred to a vineyard called Engaddi in
the Paphos district, where the Templars had employed over 100 Muslim captives to tend
the vines daily, clearly before their dissolution in 1312. Christians were also taken captive
in war, and when the besieged Templars on the island of Ruad surrendered to the Mamluk
forces in 1302, those who escaped massacre were taken to Cairo as captives. According to
the testimony of the Genoese witness Percival of Mar during the trial of the Templars tak-
ing place on Cyprus in the years 1310–11, they were kept in captivity for nearly ten years,
deprived of food and water, yet they preferred dying in this state, or even decapitation, to
renouncing Jesus Christ.63
The systematic raids conducted from Cyprus against the Mamluk coastlines of Egypt
and Syria in the early fifteenth century brought numerous captives. King Janus of Cyprus
acquired 1,500 Muslim captives in a raid of 1415, according to the Cretan Emmanuel Piloti,
who were sent to work on the royal sugar plantations. An emissary from the Mamluk sultan
sent to the king to request their return was told by him that they were far less than he needed.
But sometimes captive Muslims were ransomed. In 1414, following a ceasefire between
Cyprus and the Mamluk sultanate, a Muslim emir sent to Cyprus successfully negotiated
the ransom of 535 Muslim captives, with the king paying in person for the ransom of 135 of
them. In 1419 the Venetian government instructed its consuls in Damascus and on Cyprus
to buy back numerous Muslim slaves purchased by Jean Corner, probably to work in his
family’s extensive sugar plantation in Episkopi near Limassol. The raids for Muslim slaves
ceased following the Mamluk invasion of 1426. On account of the invasion, former Muslim
captives who had become Christian fled from Nicosia and elsewhere to escape the wrath of
their former co-religionists, who would have had them executed for apostasy had they dis-
covered them. Between the years 1424 and 1425 the Mamluks seized over 1,000 Cypriots
in retaliatory raids on the island’s littoral, taking them into captivity. Some were killed for
refusing to apostatise to Islam while others were sold as slaves. Following the Mamluk
invasion of 1426 and their seizure of Nicosia, between 2,000 and 6,000 Cypriots were
taken to Egypt in captivity, according to differing estimates. Some were ransomed, and the
papacy ordered the churches of Spain, France, England and Italy to offer funds for their
redemption. Others, however, were sold into slavery, with some converting to Islam and
others executed for refusing to abjure Christianity.64
409
CONCLUDING REMARKS
Relations between Lusignan Cyprus and the Mamluk sultanate, which encompassed Egypt,
the Holy Land and Syria, were multifaceted. They crossed religious, linguistic and ethnic
boundaries but were continuous, involved fluctuating degrees of hostility and intervention
by outside powers, notably the Mongols in the early fourteenth century and Venice from
the late fifteenth century. This was not only because of the proximity of all these lands to
each other but also because of the long period of time the relations covered, in the case of
the Mamluk sultanate spanning the whole of its history. Initially beginning as relations
between two sovereign states, from 1426 until the fall of the Mamluk sultanate in 1517 the
relationship was between tributary and suzerain. Even after the Ottoman conquest of the
Mamluk sultanate, Cyprus, under Venetian control since 1474, continued to be a tributary
to the Ottomans. With the Ottoman conquest of 1570, however, Cyprus like the former
lands of the Mamluk sultanate came under Ottoman rule. The political map of the eastern
Mediterranean was radically and irrevocably altered.
NOTES
1 P. Edbury, The Kingdom of Cyprus and the Crusades 1191–1374 (1991; 2nd edn, 1994), 83.
2 P.M. Holt, The Age of the Crusades: The Near East from the Eleventh Century to 1517 (London and
New York, 1986), 95–6; C. Marshall, Warfare in the Latin East 1192–1291 (Cambridge, 1992; 2nd
edn, 1994), 231–4, 238, 244; P. Thorau, The Lion of Egypt: Sultan Baybars and the Near East in the
Thirteenth Century (London and New York, 1987), 158–62 and 166–71; Edbury, Kingdom, 89.
3 Holt, Near East, 96; Marshall, Warfare, 244 and 247–248; Thorau, Lion, 187–192; Edbury,
Kingdom, 90, 92.
4 A. Forey, ‘Cyprus as a Base for Crusading Expeditions from the West’, in Cyprus and the
Crusades, ed. N. Coureas and J. Riley-Smith (Nicosia, 1995), 76; Thorau, Lion, 206; Holt, Near
East, 96; G. Hill, A History of Cyprus, 4 vols (Cambridge, 1940–52), 2:166–7; Edbury, Kingdom,
92.
5 Thorau, Lion, 206–7, 218 notes 110–12; Hill, History, 2:167; A. Fuess, ‘Was Cyprus a Mamluk
Protectorate? Mamluk Policies towards Cyprus between 1426 and 1517’, Journal of Cyprus
Studies, 11 (2005), 13.
6 The ‘Templar of Tyre’ Part III of the ‘Deeds of the Cypriots’, ed. P. Crawford (Aldershot, 2003),
104–19; Holt, Near East, 102–4; Marino Sanudo Torsello, The Book of the Secrets of the Faithful of
the Cross: Liber Secretorum Fidelium Crucis, trans. P. Lock (Farnham, 2011), 365–70; Marshall,
Warfare, 244–5, 253–5; Edbury, Kingdom, 98–9; Hill, History, 2:188.
7 Sanudo, Secrets, 370; Edbury, Kingdom, 102.
8 A. Luttrell, ‘The Hospitallers in Cyprus after 1291’, in Praktika tou Protou Diethnous Kyprologikou
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13 J. van Steenbergen, ‘The Alexandrian Crusade (1365) and the Mamluk Sources: Reassessment
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14 J. Richard, ‘La révolution de 1369 dans le royaume de Chypre’, in idem, Orient et Occident
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15 P. Edbury, ‘Cyprus and Genoa: the Origins of the War of 1373–1374’ and ‘The Aftermath of
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16 ‘Amadi’, 498; Excerpta Cypria Nova, ed. G. Grivaud, vol. 1 (Nicosia, 1990), 61–2; E. Ashtor,
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18 ‘Amadi’, 499–500; Ouerfelli, ‘Relations’, 333–4; Ashtor, Levant Trade, 225.
19 Ouerfelli, ‘Relations’, 335–36.
20 ‘Amadi’, 500–9; Ouerfelli, ‘Relations’, 336; R. Irwin, ‘Hoi eisboles ton Mameloukon sten Kypro’,
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21 Leontios Makhairas, Recital concerning the Sweet land of Cyprus, entitled ‘Chronicle’, ed.
R. M. Dawkins, 2 vols (Oxford, 1932), 1:§693.
22 Une enquête à Chypre au XVe siècle: Le Sindicamentum de Napoleone Lomellini, capitaine génois
de Famagouste (1459), ed. C. Otten-Froux (Nicosia, 2000), 120–1, 141–6, 150–1, 153–8, 190–1,
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23 Crawford, ‘Templar of Tyre’, 101–4; Hill, History, 2:183–4; P.-V. Claverie, ‘L’ Ambassade au
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24 Makhairas, Recital, 1: §§181–2, 184–5, 189; Guillaume de Machaut, The Capture of Alexandria,
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30 Chypre dans les sources arabes, 89–91, 94–5; Ziada, ‘Mamluk Conquest’, 55–8; Hill, History, 3:
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32 Boustronios, Narrative, §§111–12, 120, 132, 149; Otten, Une enquête, 141–2, 235 note 7; Mas
Latrie, Histoire, 3:127 note 3.

33 Mas Latrie, Histoire, 405–6; Ashtor, Levant Trade, 458–9; B. Arbel, ‘The Last Decades of Venice’s
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54; Hill, History, 3:606–6, 609, 725.
34 Hill, History, 3:609–12, 731 note 1, 741 and note 4; Boustronios, Narrative, §§278–9; Mas Latrie,
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35 ‘Documents nouveaux servant de preuves à l’Histoire de l’île de Chypre sous le règne des princes de
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37 Mas Latrie, Histoire, 2:201, 215; ‘Anonymous Englishman’, in Supplementary Excerpts on
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38 A. Borg, Cypriot Arabic (Stuttgart, 1985), 5–6, 150–1; idem, Comparative Glossary of Cypriot
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39 W. Rudt de Collenberg, ‘Les Ibelin aux XIIIe et XIVe siècles: Généalogie compilée principale-
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41 CSFS 41, nos. 13–14, 16; Grivaud, Entrelacs, 31, 81–2; Anekdota engrapha tes kypriakes
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45 Coureas, ‘Controlled Contacts’, 402; idem., Latin Church 1313–1378, 170–1, 177–9.
46 Grivaud, Entrelacs, 65; Nerantzi-Varmazi, Syntagma, 167; Pohlsander ‘Anthology’, 239.
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52 J. Richard, ‘Le royaume de Chypre et l’embargo sur le commerce avec l’ Égypte (fin XIIIe-
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53 D. Jacoby, ‘Camlet Manufacture and Trade in Cyprus and the Economy of Famagusta from the
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54 Edbury, Kingdom, 151–2; Ashtor, Levant Trade, 64–70.
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56 Mas Latrie, Histoire, 2:294 note 1, 306; Ashtor, Levant Trade, 99–103; O. R. Constable, Housing
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58 Mansouri, Chypre dans les sources arabes, 101.
59 N. Coureas, ‘Trade between Cyprus and the Mamluk Lands in the Fifteenth Century, with special
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60 Coureas, ‘Losing the War’, 356–9; idem, ‘Trade’, 420–3, 427–33, 438.
61 G. Grivaud, ‘Les minorités orientales à Chypre (époques médiévale et moderne)’, in Chypre et la
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62 B. Arbel, ‘Venetian Cyprus and the Muslim Levant’, in Cyprus and the Crusades, ed. N. Coureas
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63 Hill, History, 2:167; Mas Latrie, Histoire, 2:212; The Trial of the Templars in Cyprus: A Complete
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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHRISTIAN MERCENARIES IN MUSLIM

LANDS: THEIR STATUS IN MEDIEVAL
ISLAMIC AND CANON LAW
Michael Lower
M any Latin Christian mercenaries fought for Muslim regimes during the classic era of
crusading. Some were prominent exiles, waiting for the political winds to shift back
in their favor at home. Others were true soldiers of fortune, who sought riches beyond the
borders of Christendom. Most were fighters with expertise in particular forms of warfare—
heavy cavalry combat, naval operations, artillery (especially the crossbow), and demolition—
that made them attractive to Muslim rulers looking to diversify their armed forces. They
were popular for other reasons as well. Their status as Christians made them useful for car-
rying out politically sensitive tasks, such as collecting taxes, and for providing disinterested
protection to the ruler, whom they often served as personal bodyguards. These mercenaries
usually fought in internecine struggles between Islamic states, especially in Anatolia, North
Africa, and al-Andalus (Richard, 1952: 174). Sometimes, though, they found themselves
opposing crusader armies. This was the case in 1270, when Abu ʿAbd-Allah Muhammad al-
Mustansir, emir of Tunis, deployed his elite Catalan guard against King Louis IX of France’s
forces during the future saint’s ill-fated final campaign (Lower, 2006: 508).
It is easy to see the Christian mercenary in Islamic lands as a transgressive figure, whose
search for fame, fortune, or just a decent livelihood drove him to violate widely held ideals
on both sides of the religious divide. In some normative Christian literature, he appeared as
a traitor. The Siete partidas (1972: III, 139; Burns, 2001: IV, 997), the thirteenth-century
Castilian law code, condemned him for twofold treason—to the realm and to Christianity.
Muslim rulers who hired Christian mercenaries could encounter disapproval as well. An
early fourteenth-century emir of Tunis, Ibn al-Lihyani, was walking down the street one
day, surrounded as usual by his Christian bodyguard, when he was spotted by the pious
ascetic al-Qarawi, who ran up to him and shouted, “O faqih Abu Yahya, that is not permit-
ted!” Because they had once studied together, al-Lihyani stopped and asked him what he
meant. Al-Qarawi reminded the emir of an ancient Maliki prescription: “God has forbidden
seeking the aid of a polytheist” (Brunschvig, 1940–47: I, 447). In Christian and Islamic
legal traditions that offered crusade and jihad as the default stance of each faith toward the
other, there would seem to be little room for accommodating the mercenary who took up
service for a religious rival.
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— Michael Lower —
Given how entrenched interreligious mercenary warfare was in medieval Mediterranean

culture, it is important to take a closer look at the legal theory that developed around it.
Once we move beyond the stern admonition of the Siete partidas and al-Lihyani’s awk-
ward encounter in the streets of Tunis, we find a surprising diversity of opinion among
the Christian canonists and Muslim jurists who analyzed interfaith military collaboration.
Far from condemning the Christian mercenary as a kind of anti-crusader and his Muslim
employer as a betrayer of the jihad, the traditions afforded both parties considerable flex-
ibility in their dealings with each other. This generally accommodating stance provided the
context in which the thriving Mediterranean mercenary market of the Central and Later
Middle Ages developed. It also raises a larger question about the relationship between
norms and practice in that world. Thanks to the work of David Nirenberg (1996) and oth-
ers, it is widely recognized that religious boundaries were far from impermeable in the
rough and tumble ports of the medieval Mediterranean. Medieval Mediterranean merchants,
craftspeople, mariners, and even soldiers enthusiastically crossed religious borders in the
name of profit or a living wage. It is often assumed that these crossings took place against
a backdrop of official condemnation, or at least disapproval. Even as interreligious contact
flourished, religious authorities are thought to have maintained formal ideologies of separa-
tion, division, and conflict. The mercenary case, however, raises an intriguing possibility:
could these authorities have actually encouraged rather than inhibited the cross-cultural
contact that allowed Christian mercenaries to spread far and wide in Islamic lands?
ISLAMIC JURISPRUDENCE ON MILITARY

ASSISTANCE FROM NON-MUSLIMS
The questions of how, to what extent, and for what reward non-Muslim troops might col-
laborate with Muslim armies went back to the earliest days of Islam. As Islamic tradition
stressed, Muhammad’s first efforts to build up a religious movement in Medina involved
a complex series of accommodations and confrontations with the major Jewish tribes of
the city and the pagan Quraysh of Mecca (Donner, 2010: 43–50). The result was a corpus
of traditions that described the Prophet as rejecting military assistance from non-believers
on some occasions and accepting it on others. This diversity among the Prophetic hadiths
supported contrasting stances among the early Muslim jurists on the legitimacy of seeking
military aid from non-believers.
Wadad al-Qadi (2004) lists five Prophetic hadiths that show Muhammad refusing help
from non-Muslims for his military campaigns. Three of these were thematically linked and,
as Luke Yarbrough (2015) has argued, shared a common origin in eighth-century Medina.
The most widely circulated of these Medinese hadiths was traced back to ʿAʾisha, the
Prophet’s wife, and told of a polytheist (mushrik) who approached Muhammad as he was
on his way out to Badr, where he and his followers would attack a caravan organized by
the Quraysh of Mecca in 624. When the polytheist asked if he could join the raiding party,
Muhammad replied with a question of his own: did he believe in God and his Prophet? The
man said no, so the Prophet told him to go back from where he came, declaring: “I will
not seek the assistance of a polytheist.” Sometime later, the same man again approached
Muhammad, who was taking shade under a tree. They repeated the conversation they had
on the way to Badr. Finally, they met for a third time in the desert, and the man pro-
claimed his belief in God and his Messenger, to which Muhammad replied, “Come along
then” (Sahnun, 1994: I, 525). A year later, the Meccans launched an attack on Medina that
420
— c h a p t e r 2 5 : C h r i s t i a n m e rc e n a r i e s i n M u s l i m l a n d s —
resulted in defeat for Muhammad and his followers at the battle of Uhud (625). In a hadith
from Saʿd b. al-Mundhir, it was reported that on his way out to the battle, the Prophet saw
a fine squadron and asked who they were. When told they were ʿAbd-Allah b. Ubayy b.
Salul and his clients among the Banu Qaynuqaʿ, a Jewish tribe, the Prophet urged them
to convert to Islam. After they refused, he turned them away, saying: “We will not seek
the assistance of polytheists against polytheists” (al-Tahawi, 1996: VI, 417). The Prophet
delivered the same message to the grandfather of Khubayb b. ʿAbd al-Rahman b. Khubayb,
who approached Muhammad with another man from his tribe before a raid and expressed
shame that their tribe would fight without them because they had yet to embrace Islam.
In this hadith, once the Prophet had told them that he would not “seek the assistance of
polytheists against polytheists,” Khubayb converted and went on to fight in the battle, thus
reconciling his martial and spiritual values (al-Tahawi, 1994: VI, 407–419). The two final
hadiths in which Muhammad spurns assistance from non-believers used different language
to express this rejection. In a hadith from al-Zuhri, the Prophet said, “We do not need
them,” when his Medinese supporters asked if they should call on their Jewish allies to fight
with them at the battle of Uhud (Sahnun, 1994: I, 525); and he declared that “booty was not
licit for anyone before us” in a tradition related by Abu Hurayra—a statement that some
later jurists would interpret as prohibiting non-Muslims from sharing in the spoils of battle
(Ibn Hazm, 1964: VII, 391).
On the basis of these hadiths, the Maliki school of jurisprudence that flourished in medi-
eval North Africa came to oppose military collaboration with non-believers. Because Malik
b. Anas, the school’s eponymous founder, did not comment on the issue in his Muwatta, it
was left to the other formative figure of Maliki fiqh, Sahnun b. Saʿid, to stake out the madh-
hab’s position. Citing ʿAʾisha’s hadith about the polytheist of Badr and al-Zuhri’s about the
Prophet rejecting Jewish help before Uhud, Sahnun stated that Muslims may not call upon
the aid of polytheists, but added two qualifications: “unless they are sailors (nawatiyya) or
servants (khadam), for I see no objection to that” (Sahnun, 1994: I, 524). As Wadad al-Qadi
(2004: 137–144) has shown, early Muslim fleets employed Egyptian Copts as sailors, who
manned the ships and left the actual fighting to the Muslims. Sahnun may have carved out
an exception for sailors to his general ban on interreligious military alliances with this prac-
tice in mind. Prestige may have been a factor as well. By lumping the sailors together with
the servants, Sahnun suggested that while non-believers could perform low-status tasks for
the armed forces, the glories of combat should be reserved for the Muslims.
Later Maliki jurists adhered to Sahnun’s strictures, loosening them only a little over
the course of centuries. Ibn Abi Zayd al-Qayrawani (922–96) added to Sahnun’s list of
acceptable ways for non-Muslims to assist Muslim armies. In his Kitab al-Nawadir, a major
compendium of Maliki fiqh, Ibn Abi Zayd proposed that non-Muslims could also demolish
strongholds, shoot siege artillery, and make useful things. In addition, if the Imam made
peace with some residents of the house of war (dar al-harb), these harbis could supply
him with weapons that he could use to fight other harbis with whom he was at war (Von
Bredow, 1994: 29).
This idea of auxiliary support on the fringes of the Muslim war effort found its fullest
expression in the legal writing of Ibn Rushd al-Jadd (1058–1126), the Andalusian Maliki
faqih and grandfather of the famous philosopher. He posited the case of a group of Christian
residents of the house of Islam (dar al-Islam) who live near the frontier of the dar al-harb.
Acting on their own initiative, these dhimmis decide to launch a raid against their harbi
co-religionists across the border. If the dhimmi raiders take plunder during the expedition,
421
should it be subject to the khums, the fifth part of the spoils traditionally reserved for the
Imam? Ibn Rushd al-Jadd concluded that they might keep all the booty they have taken,
provided that they were really raiding on their own, separately from the Muslims. He also
envisioned a scenario whereby dhimmis could supply weapons to the Imam and even fol-
low along on his campaigns to “urge on” the army, provided that they remained outside the
Muslim camp (Ibn Rushd al-Jadd, 1988: III, 5–10).
By maintaining the ban on direct military collaboration between Muslims and non-
Muslims while exploring a wide range of secondary support roles for the latter to play,
Ibn Rushd al-Jadd pushed against but did not break through the parameters of the Maliki
position. The restrictions the school placed on interreligious military alliances remained in
place through the Later Middle Ages. In his popular epitome of Maliki law, Khalil b. Ishaq
(d. 1365) simply paraphrased Sahnun when summarizing the rules of jihad: “It is forbidden
to ask for the aid of polytheists other than for auxiliary services” (Fagnan, 1908: 5).
Another Sunni madhhab that came to prominence in the western Mediterranean echoed
this view. Ibn Hazm al-Qurtubi (d. 1064), the Andalusian polymath who was central to
the juridical and theological innovations of the Zahiri school, argued that Muslim armies
could use non-believers only as guides. Like the Maliki jurists, he quoted ʿA‫ء‬isha’s hadith
about the polytheist of Badr in support of this restriction. Unlike other jurists who shared
his opposition to interreligious military collaboration, however, he also explored a broader
corpus of Prophetic traditions relating to non-Muslim participation in Muhammad’s cam-
paigns (Ibn Hazm, 1964: VII, 391–392). Although Ibn Hazm would ultimately reject the
implications of these hadiths on technical grounds, other jurists would use them to argue for
the legality of using non-Muslims in direct military roles.
Several of these pro-alliance hadiths described Muhammad allowing Jews to fight in his
wars. Al-Zuhri reported that when the Prophet used to go raiding with the Jews, he would give
to them the same shares of the spoils as the Muslims received (Ibn Hazm, 1964: VII, 391). A
hadith from al-Waqidi stated that Muhammad also gave ten Medinese Jews an equal share
of the plunder after they fought with him at the battle of Khaybar (629) (al-Qadi, 2004: 112).
In another unidentified battle, Ibn ʿAbbas related that the (Jewish) Banu Qaynuqaʿ joined the
Prophet’s forces but received only a little of the booty, not the full shares given to the Muslims
(Abu Yusuf, 1938: 40). Some hadiths showed polytheists as well as Jews participating in the
early Islamic conquests. It was reported on the authority of Abu Hurayra that the Prophet and
Abu Bakr hired a polytheist from the tribe of al-Diʾl as a guide to show them along the coastal
road (Ibn Hazm, 1964: VII, 392). Safwan b. Umayya was said to have fought at the battle of
Hunayn (630) alongside Muslim forces before he embraced Islam himself (al-Shafiʿi, 1961:
IV, 261). Finally, a hadith that circulated in Hanafi legal scholarship had the Prophet say:
“In truth God will aid this [Islamic] religion by means of men who do not have a place in the
hereafter” (al-Sarakhsi, 1971: IV, 1422–1423; 1989: III, 56).
For a majority of the key figures in the formative and classical era of Islamic jurispru-
dence, these texts offered persuasive evidence that the Prophet’s habitual practice was to
call upon the aid of non-believers in his military campaigns. Among this majority we can
include al-Shaʿbi (d. 722–23), Qatada (d. 725), Abu Hanifa (d. 767), al-Awzaʿi (d. 774),
Sufyan al-Thawri (d. 778), Abu Yusuf (d. 798), al-Shaybani (d. 805), al-Shafiʿi (d. 820),
Abu ʿUbayd al-Qasim b. Sallam (d. 838), al-Tabari (d. 923), al-Tahawi (d. 933), al-Mawardi
(d. 1058), al-Sarakhsi (d. 1090), and, according to one report, Ahmad b. Hanbal (d. 855)
(Ibn Hazm, 1964: VII, 391–392; Friedmann, 2003: 36; al-Qadi, 2004: 113). These jurists
came to approve of military cooperation with non-Muslims, but not without reservations.
422
They qualified their support for the practice, just as the Maliki and Zahiri legal scholars
qualified their opposition.
One of the most important conditions that pro-alliance jurists envisioned for licit military
collaboration across religious lines was that Muslims retain overall command of the com-
bined forces. In his Kitab al-siyar, the Hanafi jurist Muhammad b. al-Hasan al-Shaybani
(1966: 258; 1975: 249) gave his opinion in the form of a dialogue with his master, Abu
Hanifa:
I asked whether there is any harm for the Muslims in seeking the assistance of unbeliev-
ers against the inhabitants of the territory of war …

He replied: There is no harm in seeking their assistance, provided the command is in
the hands of the Muslims, but if the command were in the hands of the unbelievers,
the Muslims should not participate in the fighting along with unbelievers, unless they
were fearful for their safety—[in such cases it would be alright to fight with them] in
self-defense.
In his commentary on this passage, Shams al-Aʾimma al-Sarakhsi, another leading Hanafi
jurist, emphasized the subordinate status of the Christian auxiliaries: “We thus understand
that there is no harm in asking aid [of non-Muslims]. It resembles the aid that one expects
from dogs to fight the unbelievers” (al-Sarakhsi, 1971: IV, 1422–1423; 1989: 56–57). Just
as animals could be useful to the war effort, even though they were not Muslims, so too
could human non-believers, provided they were tightly controlled.
Another requirement for licitly drawing on non-Muslim military assistance was need.
Following al-Shaybani’s analysis, fear of the enemy could even justify fighting under non-
Muslim command. There is also a discussion of need in this context from Ibn Rushd al-
Jadd, the anti-alliance Maliki jurist discussed above. He cited a certain Abu al-Faraj, who
in turn quoted Malik b. Anas as saying “that he did not object to the Imam calling on the
assistance of polytheists if he had need of it, taking as evidence [the Prophet’s] statement to
the ansar (his Medinese helpers), ‘We do not need them’” (Ibn Rushd al-Jadd, 1988: III, 6).
This was a reference to al-Zuhri’s hadith, in which Muhammad gave this answer to his sup-
porters who wondered whether they should ask the Jews for help before Uhud. While usu-
ally cited as grounds for opposing interreligious military cooperation, here it served to raise
the possibility that on other occasions the Prophet might have required non-Muslim aid.
A seeming corollary to the condition of need was that non-believers bring some benefit to
the Muslims when they fought together. Muhammad b. Idris al-Shafiʿi (1961: IV, 269–270)
was particularly insistent on this. The imam should not allow non-believers who might
harm the Muslim cause to participate in his campaigns. He should be especially watchful
for hypocrites who might lie to the Muslims, dampen their spirits, and help their enemies
instead of them.
If the non-believers had to bring a benefit to the Muslim war effort, what should they
receive in return? The relevant Prophetic hadiths offered a variety of answers, from no
reward at all, to some compensation from the booty, to the full share claimed by the Muslim
soldiers. While two Umayyad-era jurists, ʿAbd al-Rahman al-Awzaʿi and Sufyan al-Thawri,
argued for full shares, most of the later jurists settled on giving non-Muslims a little reward
from the plunder (al-Tabari, 1933: 21; 2007: 89–90; al-Qadi, 2004: 115). This policy was
not wholly satisfactory to al-Shafiʿi, however, who worried about non-Muslims gaining
423
even a little booty when many Muslims who might become involved in military campaigns,
such as women and minors, received none. His solution was to call for non-Muslims to be
hired, so that they would serve on predetermined terms (al-Shafiʿi, 1961: IV, 261).
Even as al-Shafiʿi permitted the employment of non-Muslim troops, he was aware of the
traditions in which the Prophet was said to have rejected the practice. He was perhaps the
first jurist to attempt to reconcile the two conflicting sets of proof texts. To do so, he invoked
the juridical concept of abrogation (naskh), arguing that earlier reports of the Prophet reject-
ing non-Muslim help at the battles of Badr (624) and Uhud (625) had been superseded by
later ones of him accepting it at the battles of Khaybar (629) and Hunayn (630) (al-Shafiʿi,
1961: IV, 261). One difficulty with this chronological approach was that several pro- and
anti-alliance hadiths were not linked to a particular episode in the Prophet’s biography. The
a-temporal quality of some of the hadiths (e.g. “God will aid this religion by means of sinners”)
encouraged later jurists to harmonize the conflicting traditions on less technical grounds. Luke
Yarbrough (2015) discusses two important attempts along these lines. Al-Tahawi (1994: VI,
417–419) distinguished between “seeking assistance” and “fighting with”: Muhammad would
not ask non-believers to join his forces, but he would fight alongside them if they wound up on
the battlefield with him. The fourteenth-century Shiʿa jurist al-ʿAllama al-Hilli maintained that
the Prophet’s seemingly straightforward statement, “I will not seek the assistance of a polythe-
ist,” actually contained two implicit conditions. Muhammad would not seek assistance unless
(1) he needed it and (2) he could trust the non-Muslims who offered it. If one of these condi-
tions were lacking, he would turn them away. That was why he rejected Khubayb, for exam-
ple, in the oft-cited anti-alliance hadith. These conditions, presented here as implicit in the
Prophet’s declaration, featured explicitly in the Hanafi analyses of interreligious military alli-
ances that we reviewed above. The Hanafi stalwart al-Sarakhsi (1971: IV, 1422–1423; 1989:
56–57) explained away the contradictions in the hadith corpus by turning to still another quali-
fication: Muslim operational control. Muhammad refused assistance from Jewish fighters on
the way to Uhud because they were autonomous and did not want to fight under his banner,
but he accepted help from the Banu Qaynuqaʿ (against the Banu Qurayza) and from Safwan b.
Umayya (at Hunayn) because they acknowledged his command.
Despite these efforts at reconciliation, classical Islamic jurisprudence remained divided
on the question of accepting military aid from non-believers. By the Central Middle Ages,
two schools had emerged, with a majority approving of interfaith collaboration under cer-
tain conditions and a strong minority, led by the Malikis, opposing direct military aid but
allowing auxiliary services. There was a spectrum of opinion within the two schools and at
times the outer reaches of each position came close to overlapping. Al-Sarakhsi’s restrictive
approval of interfaith alliances was not far removed from Ibn Rushd al-Jadd’s measured,
exception-laden disapproval. There was sufficient diversity within and across the two main
positions to afford Muslim rulers ample leeway in their military arrangements, even in areas
where Maliki fiqh predominated, such as North Africa and al-Andalus. Maliki strictures
certainly did not deter Ibn al-Lihyani, the fourteenth-century emir of Tunis who walked the
streets with his Christian bodyguards in tow. When al-Qawari upbraided him about seek-
ing the assistance of non-believers, he responded, “Why, yes” and kept right on going. As
Robert Brunschvig noted (1940–47: I, 447) long ago, the moral of the story is clear enough:
even in Maliki North Africa, only “the excessive zeal of a rigorist” could disapprove of
the employment of Christian guards. If the development of the Islamic legal tradition on
interfaith military collaboration explains why this might be so, we are still left with a further
question: how did religious authorities in Latin Christendom regard the Christian mercenary
424
who took up service with a Muslim prince? Al-Lihyani’s bodyguards may not have feared
official Muslim disapproval, but were they risking their immortal souls along with their
lives in offering him protection?
CANON LAW ON CHRISTIAN MERCENARIES

On the face of it, these mercenaries would seem to have serious cause for concern. The
papacy had long taken a dim view of mercenary warfare within Europe, never mind beyond
its borders and on behalf of avowed religious rivals. The most important early ecclesiastical
attempts to deal with mercenaries had their roots in the Peace and Truce of God, a move-
ment to limit and channel the violence that had been an endemic feature of European life
since the tenth century. First at assemblies of local people, later at church councils presided
over by high churchmen and sometimes even the popes in person, a formal ban would be
placed on waging war against vulnerable members of society and at certain times of year.
Although mercenaries had fought in medieval armies since Carolingian times, they first
became the focus of Peace legislation in the mid-twelfth century, when they emerged as a
social problem for ecclesiastical authorities (Géraud, 1841–42). In regions where claims to
power were many, groups of fighters banded together to offer their services to the highest
bidder. Though known under many names, the men who belonged to these companies were
most commonly called routiers, from the Latin ruta or rupta. The usage derived from a term
for clearing brush—an earthy evocation of the destructive path these bands carved through
war-infested areas of Europe (France, 2008: 6–8).
The region the routiers hit hardest was southern France; and it is no surprise to find a
cleric of the Midi issuing the first Peace of God decree against them. In 1139 Archbishop
Guillaume of Auch (Sainte-Marthe and Hauréau, 1715–1865: I, 162; Housley, 2002: 86)
called on secular authorities to suppress the “pestilential bands of mercenaries” by force.
To those who took up the challenge he offered a partial indulgence: forgiveness of two
years of enjoined penance. Those who died in the campaign would receive the full crusade
indulgence. Calling on local nobles to take military action against violators of the Peace was
standard procedure by this time. Granting them crusade indulgences was not.
Hard line or not, the archbishop’s decree did little to stanch the flow of routiers into
southern France. It did, however, provide a model for Pope Alexander III when churchmen
from the region pressed him to take action against mercenaries at the Third Lateran Council
in 1179. He issued a decree censuring the “Brabanters, Aragonese, Navarrese, Basques,
Coterelli, and Triaverdini, who practice such cruelty upon Christians that they respect nei-
ther churches nor monasteries, and spare neither widows, orphans, old or young nor any age
or sex, but like pagans destroy and lay everything waste” (Tanner, 1990: I, 224–225). Some
of these terms for the mercenaries were regional designations, while others were generic.
Coterelli and Triaverdini, for example, can be roughly defined as “men of the companies”
(France, 2008: 6–8). However named, the canon condemned them all, in effect, for violat-
ing the Peace of God. Their crime lay in attacking the vulnerable groups protected by peace
legislation: the clergy, the old and the young, and women lacking male defenders.
These attacks removed the mercenaries from the community of the faithful. The decree
likened them to pagans and linked them to another threat to Christian social order: heretics.
The first part of the canon noted the spread of heresy in southern France and placed heretics,
their supporters, and defenders under anathema. In similar fashion, those who “hire, keep,
and support” the mercenaries were to be denounced publicly and refused communion unless
425
they abjured “their pernicious society and heresy.” This program of de-Christianization
climaxed with a call to oppose mercenaries and heretics with crusading force. The canon
granted the full Holy Land crusade indulgence to those who died in the course of combating
these twinned evils and remission of two years’ penance to survivors of the proposed cam-
paign. Those who fought the mercenaries and heretics would receive the papal protection of
persons and property extended to Holy Land crusaders by Pope Eugenius III in his crusade
bull of 1145, Quantum praedecessores.
Alexander III’s decree was carefully targeted. Fighting for pay was common in the late
twelfth century and enforcing an outright ban on it would have been impractical. Instead,
the pope focused on particular groups (the named mercenary bands) and particular actions
(attacking vulnerable members of society). In doing so, he implicitly recognized a kind of
soldier who could legitimately receive wages. Distinguishing this soldier from the mer-
cenary, however, was no easy task. The names used to identify the routier companies in
the canon only helped so much—presumably, for all the mercenaries recruited from these
areas, there still could be found soldiers of Brabant, Aragon, and Navarre serving blame-
lessly for pay. The distinction would have to be grounded in an analysis of what mercenar-
ies did, not who they were.
Despite the interpretive challenges it posed, Alexander III’s mercenary decree would
receive little attention from canon lawyers. This was because it did not find its way into the
Liber extra, the authoritative collection of church law promulgated by Pope Gregory IX in
1234. The mercenaries, however, did attract the attention of a prominent group of pastoral
theologians, including Peter the Chanter, Robert of Courson, and Thomas of Chobham.
Against the backdrop of widespread mobilization of paid troops in the early thirteenth-
century conflicts between England and France, they would attempt to apply Alexander III’s
teachings to the realities of contemporary warfare.
Robert of Courson explicitly differentiated between illicit mercenaries, whom he called
Coterelli, and licit fighting men, whom he called milites stipendarii, or “salaried knights”
(Baldwin, 1970: I, 221). To make clear what separated the two categories of paid soldiers, he
turned first to just war theory, stating plainly that knights may receive wages if they fight in
a righteous campaign (Baldwin, 1970: I,: 222). Defined initially in the Christian tradition by
Augustine, the just war had received its most influential legal formulation in the mid-twelfth
century, courtesy of causa 23 of Gratian’s Decretum. There Robert and his colleagues could
read that “a just war is waged by an authoritative edict to avenge injuries” (Friedberg, 2000:
I, col. 895). The definition gave equal weight to two factors: the justice of the cause for which
the war was fought and the legitimacy of the authority waging it. In differentiating mercenary
combat from other forms of salaried warfare, however, the pastoral theologians tended to
stress just cause as the crucial factor over legitimate authority. Thus Peter the Chanter offered
the case of a city under papal interdict: could a knight draw wages to fight in its defense with-
out incurring excommunication? The answer was yes, so long as the knight could not make
a living any other way and, crucially, the city was being unjustly attacked. Even when the
legitimacy of the war-waging authority was in doubt, a knight could still serve it in return for
wages if the cause were just (Baldwin, 1970: I, 222; Russell, 1975: 241).
If fighting in a just war was one hallmark of the salaried knight, the other was that he did
not earn more than he was due. The salaried knight had to fight not only in a just war but
also for a just price. In the eyes of Robert of Courson (Baldwin, 1970: I, 222), it was robbery
for a fighting man to receive anything beyond his contracted wages. Looting, plundering,
and pillaging were sinful appropriations of unearned wealth. Thomas of Chobham (Russell,
426
1975: 241) argued that mercenaries were particularly liable to receive more than the just
price for their work, since they not only devoted themselves to plunder but also neglected
their other duties in the process.
Once set apart from the legitimate wage-earning soldier, the mercenary could be con-
demned unambiguously. Thomas of Chobham declared the mercenary enterprise dangerous
to the soul. Robert of Courson said that those who pursued it were evil and guilty of sacri-
lege, while Peter the Chanter called for them to be refused the Eucharist because they made
their living by killing innocent people. He advised mercenaries to find another line of work,
but not before undergoing penance (Russell, 1975: 241). These views helped to solidify an
anti-mercenary norm in Latin Christendom in the early thirteenth century. The question
was whether this norm applied to Christian soldiers who fought in Muslim lands. If military
service represented an acceptable form of wage labor under certain conditions, could these
conditions be met outside of Christendom?
LATIN CHRISTIAN RELIGIOUS AUTHORITIES

ON MILITARY AID TO MUSLIMS
Initially, at least, the answer was no. Writing at the end of the twelfth century, the canonist
Huguccio argued that Christian soldiers sinned when they freely offered their services to
Muslim regimes (Russell, 1975: 121). The popes of that era shared his view and expressed
particular concern about the Iberian Peninsula, where Christians had long fought for Muslim
regimes. The Umayyad caliphate that ruled Muslim Spain in the ninth and tenth centuries
was probably the first Islamic power in the region to employ Christian troops (Clément,
1997: 120). It was the collapse of the dynasty in the eleventh century, though, that ushered
in the heyday of the Christian mercenary in al-Andalus. The breakdown in central authority
during the ascendancy of the taʾifa kings created a market for Christian warriors, the most
famous of whom was Rodrigo Diaz, el Cid. His death in 1095 ushered in an era of sharper
religious division on the peninsula. From the north, crusading ideology crossed the Pyrenees
and imbued the Christian reconquest of Spain with the aura of holy war. From the south,
two reformist Islamic regimes from North Africa—the Almoravids and the Almohads—
crossed the Straits of Gibraltar in succession and forged al-Andalus into a more unified and
aggressive neighbor to the Christian kingdoms of the north. Religious scruples, however,
did not prevent either dynasty from having frequent recourse to the services of Christian
mercenaries. Nor did it stop them from entering into alliances with Christian powers when
expedient (Burns, 1972).
These practices continued even after a grand alliance of Christian Iberian powers
defeated the Almohads at Las Navas de Tolosa in 1212. Although Christian Spain seemed
unified like never before, ecclesiastical authorities were soon complaining that Christian
knights were flocking to the banners of Muslim princes once again. Writing around 1218
to “all the knights of the whole of the kingdom of the king of Castile,” Archbishop Rodrigo
of Toledo noted with dismay “how some of you by yourselves and some with your lords
and friends, deserting your people and your land, are trying to enter into an alliance with
the Saracens so that, if you are able, you can fight and oppress the Christian people with
them” (Pick, 2004: 211–212). These worries found an echo in the decrees of secular rul-
ers. In the Siete partidas, the mid-thirteenth-century Castilian law code promulgated under
King Alfonso X, those who left the realm to take up arms with Iberian Muslims were
declared traitors to God and country alike:
427
When a nobleman leaves his country of his own accord, and the king does not banish
him, and he goes to the land of the Moors, his vassals should not follow him. This is the
rule because he commits treason in two ways: first, he commits it against God, because
he goes to the assistance of the enemies of the faith; second, he commits it against his
natural lord, by making war against him and ravaging his country, and his vassals are
guilty of the same treason if they accompany him in order to assist him.
(Siete partidas, 1972: III, 139; Burns, 2001: IV, 997)
The decree resonated with the language of betrayal. Nonetheless, the policy it enacted was
less restrictive than such terminology might imply (Garcia Sanjuan, 2006: 446). It excluded
from the ban those whom the king had expelled and it seemed most concerned with subjects
who fought directly against the king alongside his Muslim enemies in Iberia. It did not
address the possibility of fighting in North Africa.
The papacy shared the concerns of ecclesiastical and secular authorities about Christian
military support for Muslims in Spain, and on similar grounds. Popes objected to the practice
for two main reasons: it could harm Iberian Christians and it could hamper the crusading plans
of Iberian monarchs. These objections emerge with particular clarity from the correspond-
ence of Pope Celestine III (1191–98), a fervent advocate of crusading against Muslim Spain
who struggled to unite the Christian rulers of the Peninsula behind his plans (Smith, 2008).
In 1195, at the battle of Alarcos, the Almohads defeated a crusade Celestine had preached.
In the wake of this victory, Caliph Abu Yusuf Yaʿqub al-Mansur recruited two Christian rul-
ers to his side: Duke Sancho of Navarre and King Alfonso IX of León. Writing to Sancho in
1196, Celestine (Kehr, 1970: II, 574–576, no. 220) wondered whether he had reflected care-
fully enough on the fact that Muslims “thirst after the blood of all Christians” before forging
his agreement with the Almohads. Allying with these pagans was an offense toward God
because they were “enemies of the church, persecutors of the faithful, and agents of evil.”
Warning Sancho to abjure their company, the pope urged him to take up arms against them
on crusade instead. While hoping to lure Sancho back to the Christian side, Celestine judged
King Alfonso of León to be incorrigible. In 1197 he excommunicated Alfonso, absolved the
people of León from their oaths of fidelity to him, and declared his lands open for occupa-
tion by Catholic princes (Colomé, 1895: 423–424, no. 3). At the same time, the pope granted
crusader privileges to the king of Portugal to invade León (Erdmann 1970: 376, no. 154).
Later popes would not go so far as to preach crusades against those who provided military
support to Iberian Muslims, but they were more than willing to deploy their most powerful
spiritual sanctions against them. In 1214, as the euphoria generated by the Christian triumph
at Las Navas two years earlier began to fade, Innocent III ordered clergy throughout Spain
to excommunicate any Christian who supported Muslims in combat against other Christians
(Barton, 2002: 24–25). Once again, the harm such support did to Iberian Christians supplied
the rationale for the papal intervention. In 1250, King Jaime I of Aragon asked for papal
help against the Christians and Muslims who were working together to de-stabilize his rule
over Valencia. Pope Innocent IV threatened excommunication against any Christian who
“presume[d] to give advice and help to the Saracens against [Jaime], to the danger of their
souls” (Quintana Prieto, 1987: II, 563, no. 620). Whether kings played the role of perpetra-
tor or victim, the issue for the papacy was the same: it would not tolerate military aid to
Muslims that harmed Spanish Christians or their crusading ventures.
In addition to forbidding Christian military support to Muslims, the papacy also pro-
hibited interreligious trade in war materials. Perhaps because they addressed an important
428
economic issue—cross-cultural commerce in the Mediterranean—these papal measures

were incorporated into the Liber extra as decretals. Unlike papal pronouncements on mer-
cenaries in Europe, therefore, they generated considerable decretalist commentary.
In the decretal Ita quorundam, Pope Alexander III lamented that:
Cruel avarice has so seized the hearts of some that though they glory in the name of
Christian they provide the Saracens with arms and wood for galleys and become their
equals or even their superiors in wickedness and supply them with arms and other neces-
saries to attack Christians. There are even some who for gain act as captains or pilots in
galleys or Saracen pirate vessels.

(Tanner, 1990: I, 223; Friedberg, 2000: II, col. 773)
The pope went on to declare that such persons should be excommunicated and deprived of
their possessions, and could legally be enslaved by those who captured them.
Ita quorundam seemed to envisage a broad embargo, prohibiting the supply of mili-
tary materials and naval expertise to Muslims for any reason at any time. In the decretal
Significavit (Friedberg, 2000: II, col. 775), Pope Clement III (1187–91) considered two pos-
sible exceptions to this general ban. The first exception related to trading war materials for
pious purposes. Could merchants active in the markets of Alexandria sell prohibited items
in order to redeem Christian captives? Clement answered that they could, provided that they
offered nothing in aid or subsidy beyond the redemption fee. The second exception Clement
considered raised the issue of timing. Could merchants trade prohibited items in Alexandria
during a truce between Muslim and Christian powers? Here the answer was no: the embargo
remained in force at times of peace, war, and truce. While re-affirming the broad temporal
scope of the Alexandrian embargo, Clement also expanded the list of prohibited trade items.
In the decretal Quod olim (Friedberg, 2000: II, col. 775), he ruled that during periods of
war between Christians and Muslims there could be no Christian commerce at all with the
Islamic world. In addition to a total wartime embargo, Quod olim added new categories
of prohibited Christian military activity on behalf of Muslims. Whereas at Third Lateran
Alexander had excommunicated only those who served as captains or pilots on Muslim
warships, Clement leveled this spiritual sanction against those who “by some other means”
provided “any kind of aid or advice to them, while war was underway between us and
them.” Although Clement allowed a significant exception in the case of redeeming cap-
tives, the overall effect of his rulings was to increase the number of papal prohibitions on
Christian military aid to Muslims.
Under Pope Innocent III (1198–1215), the papal embargo achieved its classic form. His
version of the ban appeared in the crusade decree Ad liberandam issued during the Fourth
Lateran Council of 1215 (Tanner, 1990: I, 270; Friedberg, 2000: II, col. 777–778). In Ad
liberandam, Innocent re-asserted the total ban on trade in arms and timber with Muslims.
He also made three changes to the embargo. First, he added iron, galleys, and ships to the
list of goods that Christians could never sell to Muslims. Second, he repeated Clement’s
ban on military aid or advice to Muslims, but did not limit the prohibition to periods of
war. In effect, Innocent barred Christians from providing military support to Muslims at all
times, making this ban consistent with the trade embargo. Third, he justified the prohibi-
tions in terms of Christian safety and the security needs of the Crusader States of Syria and
Palestine. Those who engaged in such illicit practices did so “in opposition to Christ and the
Christian people” and “to the detriment of the Holy Land.”
429
With Innocent III’s embargo, church teachings on interreligious military aid and trade
reached a crossroads. One path led toward a complete prohibition of all forms of Christian
military support to Muslims at all times: there was certainly language in the decree to jus-
tify this restrictive turn. Another path, however, led toward a more flexible policy. Because
Innocent had given the embargo a specific purpose—to prevent injury to Christians and
Christian settlements in the Holy Land—it became possible to envision military assistance
to Muslims that did not violate the embargo’s intent. In their analyses of Ad liberandam,
canonists stressed the harm that could come to Christians and the Holy Land by provid-
ing military aid to Islamic powers. According to Bernardus Papiensis “We are prohibited
from giving or sending arms to Saracens … because they are accustomed to fighting us
with our own arms; we know, from the desolation of the kingdom of Jerusalem, that this is
something that has happened in our own day” (Papiensis, 1956: 210). Pope Innocent IV, in
his commentary on the decretals, confirmed that selling galleys to Muslims was prohibited
because “with these they could cause great injury to Christians” (Innocent IV, 1570, fol.
507). Christian pirates who colluded with their Muslim counterparts were also subject to
ecclesiastical censure “because of the following words, in aid of the Holy Land” (Innocent
IV, 1570, fol. 507). Ramón of Peñafort (1744, fol. 26) held that “we may not send arms to
Saracens, with which they could fight us.”
Ramón’s expertise in this matter was well known. In 1234, the heads of the Dominican
and Franciscan communities of Tunis sent him a long list of questions about their ministry
there, many of which related to the trade embargo. Their concerns were to provide pastoral
guidance to the Christian residents of the city and to impose ecclesiastical discipline cor-
rectly. They wrote to Ramón because he was a papal penitentiary for Pope Gregory IX
and as such dealt with matters relating to the forum of conscience across the church. His
expertise in canon law and enthusiasm for missionary work in the Islamic world made him
particularly well attuned to their concerns. When Ramón replied, he did so in the name of
the pope. He explained at the beginning of his letter that his answers were authoritative
statements of the church’s penitential discipline:
You asked to be instructed by the Apostolic See about what you ought to hold regard-
ing the following articles; therefore, once the pope had personally subscribed to these
articles I had the answers that he promulgated after due deliberation noted so faithfully
by this special order that you may judge according to their tenor in the penitential forum.
(Balme and Paban, 1898, no. 18)
Ramón’s responses reveal how difficult it was to apply the papal embargo to real-life situa-
tions and how creative some merchants could be in trying to skirt its penalties. What goods
were included under the ban? Should horseshoes, bridles, and saddles be considered arms?
What about victuals, such as wheat and beans? Were these to be defined as war materials,
and thus banned at all times, or should they be considered licit commercial goods and thus
prohibited only in times of war? Did a merchant’s original intentions for a prohibited item
matter in determining whether a violation had occurred? For example, what if a merchant
brought a large supply of swords, lances, and daggers into Muslim lands, not to sell, of
course, but for self-defense, then ran out of money and had to sell the weapons in order to
survive? Did that merchant face excommunication? (The short answer: yes.)
Amid this proliferation of cases, the mendicants of Tunis needed a uniform stand-
ard of judgment. To provide it, Ramón turned to the criteria that had emerged out of
430
Ad liberandam, decretalist commentary on it, and the long-standing papal disapproval

of Christian military support for Muslims in Iberia: furnishing military goods or aid to
Muslims merited excommunication only if it harmed Christians or the Christian cause in
the Holy Land. Over and over again, Ramón used these criteria to distinguish licit from
illicit Christian interaction with Muslims. When asked, therefore, whether those who pro-
vided support to Muslims by their arms should be excommunicated, he replied “no, unless
it was done to the detriment of the Holy Land or other Christians” (Balme and Paban, 1898,
no. 18). With that statement, Ramón and Gregory IX set forth the church’s teaching on the
Christian mercenary who served a Muslim regime. Even though his occupation frequently
led to sin, and in other contexts could expose him to charges of heresy and paganism, he
was not necessarily to be cast out of the community of the faithful. Even though he carried
out his duties beyond the bounds of Christendom, in the service of a rival faith, he could
remain a Christian in good standing.
CONCLUSION
Christian mercenaries who fought for Muslim states were valuable commodities in the
medieval Mediterranean. For Muslims rulers, they offered military force that was not
enmeshed in local networks of power. However powerful and thus potentially useful a
Christian mercenary captain might be, the religious difference ensured that he could never
seriously threaten his Muslim employer’s supremacy within the state. Retention of their
natal faith also allowed the mercenaries to maintain ties with their home countries, which
enabled them to act as intermediaries in cross-Mediterranean diplomacy and trade. These
arrangements benefited the mercenaries and their home countries, too. For the mercenary,
service abroad was a potential path to riches, or at least an escape from poverty or trou-
bles at home. For the Christian kingdoms of Iberia especially, the availability of military
employment outside the realm provided a safety valve when political tensions between the
monarchy and the nobility became unbearable. Many a thirteenth-century Iberian Christian
noble was able to resume his accustomed position in the political order after a cooling off
period in al-Andalus or the Maghreb (Barton, 2005: 125–127).
The fighting men who took up this option were so useful to their home and host socie-
ties that they may have been able to thrive even in the face of official disapproval. In real-
ity, though, they rarely had to transgress religious norms to do their work. Most Muslim
and Christian medieval religious authorities permitted interfaith mercenary warfare, with
only Maliki jurists placing significant restrictions on the practice. Across many cultures
and historical eras, the figure of the mercenary has often been associated with outlawry and
sin. Strangely enough, the medieval Christian mercenary who fought for Muslims usually
avoided this negative portrayal.
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433
435
PART VI
ARCHAEOLOGY OF THE CRUSADES

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CRUSADER FORTIFICATIONS:
BETWEEN TRADITION AND INNOVATION
Mathias Piana
T he most impressive remnants left by the crusaders from their two hundred years’ rule in
the Levant are certainly the castles and urban fortifications they erected. Substantially
preserved examples such as Krak des Chevaliers/Qal‘at al-Ḥiṣn, Margat/al-Marqab and
Saône/Ṣahyūn in Syria, Giblet/Ǧubayl and Sidon/Ṣayda in Lebanon, Kerak/al-Karak
and Montréal/aš-Šawbak in Jordan, as well as Belvoir/Kawkab al-Hawā and Chastel
Pèlerin/‘Aṯlīt in Palestine still bear witness to the fortified landscape the crusaders had
established in the East. Although many of these sites were studied and excavated during the
past decades, there are still a lot of questions raised by them, and the debate on some key
issues is still going on. They range from formation conditions, sociocultural influences, the
distinction between castles and fortified settlements/towns, encastellation processes and set-
tlement patterns, the representative and residential requirements of builders, to military and
strategic functions and the significance of these fortifications for the exertion of governance.
One major issue raised by scholars from the beginning of scientific research was the influ-
ences that shaped their layout and architecture (Lawrence 1988: xxi–xl; Piana 2011). Their
physical appearance, often determined by a dominating monumentality, and their novel
design, implementing cutting-edge defensive elements and principles, going far beyond the
achievements of contemporary European military architecture, always puzzled travellers
and scholars having dedicated themselves to their study (Fig. 26.1).
HISTORY OF RESEARCH
While the remnants of these fortifications were well noticed by the many travellers to the
Eastern Mediterranean during the past centuries, it was not until 1871, when the French his-
torian Emmanuel Guillaume Rey published the first systematic study dedicated to them (Rey
1871). Rey’s book, based on the results of three scientific journeys to the respective areas,
also addresses urban fortifications, although being less well preserved, recognising their
importance for the development of military architecture. With his work, Rey lay the foun-
dation of the scholarly investigation of these objects, providing many useful observations
of details since lost, the more so as he was accompanied by one of the early photographers,
437
— Mathias Piana —
Figure 26.1 Krak des Chevaliers (Syria), the best-preserved crusader castle and a paramount
example to illustrate the defensive qualities of the castles of that period. Photograph: Author.
Louis de Clercq, who left a series of 222 photographs in six volumes, entitled Voyage
en Orient, of which one (vol. II) was especially dedicated to the Châteaux du Temps des
Croisades en Syrie (de Clercq 1881). Rey’s approach to embed the fortifications in their
historical setting was advanced by Max van Berchem who brought to mind the complexity
of the building history of many of these sites by analysing – in most cases for the first time –
their Arabic building inscriptions (van Berchem 1888, 1897).
A remarkable study, originally an undergraduate thesis, was published in 1936 by the
young Thomas Edward Lawrence, the later Lawrence of Arabia, who presented the results
of his tour of 1909 through Syria (Lawrence 1988). His most important contribution to
the study of crusader fortification was the recognition that the early castles of the keep-
and-bailey type reflect a strong Western influence. Both Rey and Lawrence, however, were
mistaken about their view that Templar and Hospitaller castles could be distinguished by
the shape of their towers, an opinion completely discarded by later research. However, their
assumption of a decisive Byzantine influence has found a wider acceptance today – backed
by a better knowledge of Byzantine fortifications – than in earlier decades.
The year 1926 marks the starting point for the archaeological investigation of crusader
fortifications, when a team from the Metropolitan Museum in New York excavated the cas-
tle of Montfort in Galilee (Dean 1927). The main objective of this campaign, however, was
to obtain medieval artefacts from a promising site. In the following year the French historian
Paul Deschamps set out for Syria, where he conducted three large campaigns studying the
crusader fortifications there and in the neighbouring countries. Deschamps’s masterpiece
was the exploration of the Krak des Chevaliers, of which he published the results in 1934
(Deschamps 1934). This work was the first to assess a major Levantine fortification with a
438
— chapter 26: Crusader fortifications —
high degree of accuracy, a comprehensive documentation and an exhaustive exploration of

the historical sources. It is the result of an intense preoccupation with the building history
of the site, unique for the time in his methodological approach. Deschamps’s oeuvre con-
cerning the architecture and topography of the Latin states in the Levant certainly laid the
foundation of any modern research on crusader fortification in all its aspects (Deschamps
1939, 1973; Richard 1991).
A principal criticism against the ‘French school’ of historians, of which Deschamps was a
major exponent, was their nationalistic approach, undoubtedly rooted in the spirit of the time
(Ellenblum 2007a). This era ended when British researchers entered the scene in the 1930s,
supported by the British Mandate Department of Antiquities of Palestine. One major figure
was Cedric N. Johns from the British School of Archaeology in Jerusalem. After having
participated in the clearing and conservation works at the castle of ‘Aǧlūn/Qal‘at ar-Rabaḍ in
Jordan 1927–29 (Johns 1997: viii), he directed the excavations at ‘Athlīt from 1930 to 1934,
which comprised not only the castle but also the adjacent town (Johns 1997: ii–vi). This was
the first excavation of a crusader fortification where modern principles of archaeology such
as stratigraphy and the analysis and documentation of artefacts were employed. Thereafter,
from 1934 to 1939, Johns led a major excavation campaign at the Citadel of Jerusalem
(Johns 1997: vii). Another important exponent was T.S.R. Boase whose most important
contribution – still of relevance, though with some modifications – was the theory of an
autonomous crusader art and architecture, influenced by European, Byzantine, Armenian and
Arabic cultures (Boase 1967, 1971). The scientific research on the Frankish topography in
Israel was established by Joshua Prawer, who promoted several projects in this field. During
his time and with his support, several excavations were conducted: Caesarea (1960–64,
1972, 1975–76, 1979), Belvoir (1963–67) and Acre/Hospitaller quarter (1955–64).
Although since then many further studies were conducted, the medieval fortifications of
the Eastern Mediterranean, including those erected by Armenian, Byzantine and Muslim
rulers, which are to be considered in any study in that field, are far from being sufficiently
researched. Only very few of the sites under review have experienced a comprehensive
study, taking into account not only the architecture but also the many other functions forti-
fied sites are seen to be related to within the framework of modern-day research. Issues dis-
cussed in current European castellology such as encastellation processes (Creighton 2012:
140–45), the symbolic and iconological values of fortifications (Zeune 1996; Perbellini
2000; Creighton and Higham 2005: 166–173; Kühtreiber 2009; Piana 2015) and the envi-
ronmental context (Liddiard 2005; Hansson 2006; Creighton 2012: 125–46) were hitherto
only marginally addressed. Therefore, there is still a wide range of open questions and top-
ics for further studies.
The picture is somewhat complicated by the fact that – more than in medieval Europe –
the distinction between the ‘classical’ castle and other walled precincts such as citadels,
fortified manors (maisons fortes), fortified monasteries, walled villages or small towns with
a castle-like appearance, of which many existed especially in Syria and Mesopotamia, is
not clear. The more so, as the contemporary chroniclers were equally ambiguous about that
matter (Ellenblum 2007a: 84–102; Kedar 2009; Pringle 2010). Here, one has to keep in
mind that the majority of the several hundred fortifications which were owned by the cru-
saders throughout the period of their rule, did either exist before that period or was erected
on pre-existing sites (Ellenblum 2007a: 167, Table 11.1). Newly built ones at a place which
has never been fortified before are primarily found in rural areas and in Palestine, where less
pre-crusader fortifications existed.
439
FORTIFICATION AND THE DEVELOPMENT

OF THE CRUSADER STATES
When the first crusaders arrived in the East, they encountered an already well-developed
fortified landscape, due to the Arab–Byzantine wars from the seventh to the eleventh centu-
ries and the Fatimid–Seljuq rivalries during the latter. Especially the fierce and long strug-
gle along the Arab–Byzantine border zone in Northern Syria and Mesopotamia, the ṯuġūr,
left its imprint in form of a network of fortified settlements (Hellenkemper 1976; Bianquis
1992; Eger 2008). One can even go so far as to say that at the arrival of the crusaders in the
end of the eleventh century every larger settlement in Northern Syria, the area of the Levant
entered by them first, was either walled or protected by another kind of fortification. This
is easily comprehensible from the sources related to the First Crusade and the subsequent
period which leave no doubt that almost any place conquered by the crusaders was fortified.
The rapid advancement of the crusading forces resulted in the occupation of a significant
number of these sites. According to contemporary sources between 165 and 200 civitates
et castra in Syria were conquered prior to the taking of Antioch in June 1098 (Hagenmeyer
1901: 145, 147, 151). Although the figures may be exaggerated, they nonetheless reflect the
density of fortifications in that area.
These facts shed light on an important prerequisite for the study of crusader fortification,
hitherto not adequately taken into account. Before beginning to construct their own fortifi-
cations in the years after 1100, the crusaders already possessed around sixty fortifications
of Byzantine origin (Fig. 26.2) and about forty Islamic ones, to which some Armenian may
be added (Piana 2014b), which had undoubtedly served as models (Bianquis 1992: 136–7).
In view of an enemy skilled in all current siege and mining techniques, it was of utmost
importance to adopt approved local fortification principles. Therefore, in order to prevail
against an opponent abreast with its latest developments, the study of the local fortification
and its characteristics was a vital need for this new player in the field. As we can derive
from their early fortifications, which boast many elements unknown to the West at that
time, the crusaders undoubtedly benefited from the possession of well-fortified places such
as Antioch, the second-best fortified city of the time after Constantinople, Tarsus, Adana,
Mamistra, Anavarza, Edessa, Lattakia, Raphania, Tortosa, Caesarea maritima, Jaffa and,
finally, Jerusalem. Additionally, the crusaders had co-religionist Byzantine and Armenian
workers and masons at their disposal who counted among the best of their time, acquainted
with all aspects of Eastern defence technology (Prouteau 2008).
The development of crusader fortified architecture is closely intertwined with the history of
the crusader states (Ellenblum 1996; Ehrlich 2003). It may thus be divided into distinct phases:
I.a (1097–c. 1110): conquest and acculturation – occupation of pre-existing fortified sites
I.b (first quarter of twelfth century): formation of the crusader states – conquest of the
remaining coastal cities, first crusader fortifications
II (second quarter of twelfth century): settlement and colonisation – construction of
castles and refortification of cities/towns
III (c. 1150–87): maximal expansion of crusader states – advancement of fortification
employing novel developments
IV.a (1187–91): consolidation after heavy losses by Saladin’s campaigns
440
Figure 26.2 Saône (Syria), east section showing walls of tenth-century Byzantine castle (left) and
crusader front tower. Photograph: Author.
IV.b (1191–1229): reconquest of the coast and restitution of territories – refortification

of recovered coastal towns (Gaza, Ascalon, Jaffa, Caesarea, Acre, Sidon, Beirut)
V (1220–63): consolidation – foundation/reinforcement of fortresses (Margat, Tortosa,
Krak des Chevaliers, Sidon, Beaufort, Montfort, Chastel Pèlerin/‘Aṯlīt, Saphet) by the
Military Orders and reconstruction of town walls by King Louis IX of France (Arsur,
Jaffa, Caesarea, Haifa, Acre, Sidon)
VI (1263–1302): decline of the crusader states on the mainland – coastal towns as
last bulwarks (Acre until 1291, Giblet/Ǧubayl until 1298, Tortosa and Arwād until
1291/1302)
Five phases are of special interest. Phase I is marked by the first wave of fortifications
erected by the crusaders, most of them built by the king and his magnates. These early
strongholds are all situated at places of a strategic interest. They played a role in the pro-
tection of the newly conquered areas, the control of important routes, and in the conquest
of cities such as Antioch, Tripoli and Tyre. Three siege castles placed around the walls
of Antioch in November 1097 and March 1098 (Malregard, La Mahomeria, Castrum S.
Aegidii) were the first fortifications in stone built by the crusaders. Further such castles
were Montpèlerin (Ar. Qal‘at Sanǧīl), founded in 1102 by Raymond IV of Saint-Gilles
opposite of Tripoli (Piana 2010: 309–10), and Scandalion (Ar. al-Iskandarūna), erected in
1117 by King Baldwin I to blockade and attack Tyre from the south. In 1105 Baldwin con-
structed Qaṣr Bardawīl, bearing the king’s name, and in the following year Chastel Arnaud
441
(Ar. Yālū) (Pringle 1997: 106–07, 117). Qaṣr Bardawīl was located on the Golan Heights
to control the Hauran and Chastel Arnaud on the road from Jaffa to Jerusalem ‘to ensure
the safety of pilgrims passing along that route’ (Babcock and Krey 1943: II, 58). During the
same time Hugh of Falkenberg, lord of Tiberias, founded the castles of Toron (Ar. Qal‘at
Tibnīn) and Chastel Neuf (Ar. Hūnīn) on the road from Damascus to Tyre, to serve as bases
for raids against the latter (Piana 2008c: 396–7).
This phase, a period of fierce struggles and temporary losses of previously conquered
places, is equally marked by a fortification or better refortification of towns, for which
reasons it may be considered as a phase of entrenchment and consolidation. Although
castles at that time played a stronger military role, previous paradigms of castles and
other fortified places as predominantly military entities necessary to enforce power and
sway within a colonial settlement and to defend the frontiers of the new crusader states
(Prawer 1951; Smail 1956) is now abandoned in favour of a more differentiated view,
supported by the results of surveys and archaeological interventions from the past decades
(Ellenblum 1995).
Phase II is marked by an upsurge in the construction of Frankish castles, now to a lesser
extant for military reasons but rather according to the need of the new sovereigns to estab-
lish themselves as feudal rulers. The castles, and similarly the fortified small towns in this
period, were necessary to secure and to administer the appropriated land and to serve as
residences. This phase is therefore marked by private fortifications of a new elite devoted
to establish a seigneurial landscape according to the model of their homelands. Defensive
capabilities seem to have played a minor role in the castle building of that period. This is
also due to the fact that all major towns in Northern Syria and along the Levantine coast
were in Frankish hands and all of them were fortified. Urban fortifications thus formed
the defensive backbone of the crusader states in that period. That the castles erected at
that time predominantly served as seigneurial centres, being constituents within a feudal
settlement landscape, may be derived from their spatial distribution (Ellenblum 2007a:
165–86). They were situated in safer inland areas, though often at strategic points, rather
than in border zones.
Most of these seigneurial castles, especially in rural areas, were of the keep-and-bailey
type, consisting of a central tower surrounded by an enceinte (Fig. 26.3). More than hundred
such castles are reported (Pringle 1994; Major 2003). The central tower or keep was identified
as an import from the West. There, the keep not only served as the residence of a lord but
also equally figured as the symbol of seigneurial power and status. The usually quadrangular
enceinte, however, clearly refers to a model prevailing in the East, the castrum. It is derived
from the Roman legionary camp and consists of a quadrilateral enclosure usually furnished
with corner towers and a gate in the centre of one of the curtain walls. The combination of
both has therefore been labelled as ‘marriage of turris and castrum’ (Smail 1956: 228) but
may as well be viewed as the transfer of the motte-and-bailey castle, a common European
prototype, to the Eastern sphere, where the Romano-Byzantine castrum scheme was a
widespread pattern of fortified architecture. A common advancement of this scheme was
the attachment of collateral barrel-vaulted halls at the interior of the curtain walls. This
feature is prefigured in the array of chambers along the walls of Romano-Byzantine castella
from the third to the sixth centuries (Qaṣr Bušīr in Jordan, Androna/al-Andarīn in Syria) or
the Byzantine examples from the tenth and eleventh centuries such as Maṣyāf and Ṣahyūn
(upper wards). One of the first crusader castles implementing this scheme was Montpèlerin
near Tripoli (Piana 2008d: 426–31; 2010: 332–4). There, the inner ward representing the
442
Figure 26.3 Giblet (Lebanon), an example of a keep-and-bailey castle marking the seigneurial
phase of crusader castle building. Photograph: Author.
first building phase from the time of Raymond of Saint-Gilles features a modified castrum
scheme with continuous vaulted halls along the enceinte, most probably combined with a
central tower. The nearby Byzantine castle of Maṣyāf with a similar arrangement may have
served as a model. However, Montpèlerin was reportedly erected with Byzantine support
or by Byzantine masons.
Montpèlerin, as well as the contemporary castle of Saône, shows a further characteristic
of these fortifications. They were usually associated with a settlement, which could be
accommodated in an outer bailey or a faubourg. More often, this was an open village
(casale) or an agricultural estate. Sometimes, fortifications acted as a starting point for a
new settlement, as at Montpèlerin, where a suburb developed at the foot of the castle hill
during the Frankish period (Piana 2010: 315–18). These settlements were often secondarily
fortified, thus initiating an urbanisation process, in which the former castle turned
into the citadel of the new urban entity. This development, which in cases such as Arsur
(Roll 2011: 11–12) or Caesarea (Mesqui 2014: 77–99) already took place in the pre-
crusader period, becomes obvious regarding the examples of Tortosa (Piana 2014a: 136)
and Kerak (Meulemeester and Pringle 2008). In both cases the castles turned into citadels
of the emerging towns during the Frankish period (Fig. 26.4).
AN APOGEE IN THE ART OF FORTIFICATION

The following phase from the middle of the twelfth century to the break caused by Saladin’s
campaigns against the crusader states in 1187–90 is characterised by a step change in the
development of fortification. The promoters of this development were the Military Orders,
443
or more specifically the Hospitaller and Templar Orders. Their growing financial resources
and their increasing relevance for the defence of the crusader states led them to play a
major role as builders of fortifications. Another factor contributing to the upsurge in the
building of fortifications in this period was the growing threat from Muslim attacks led by
Nūr ad-Dīn and Saladin. After a period of quiet, the crusader states had to face a long series
of attacks starting from the late 1140s, when Nūr ad-Dīn began to seize one after another
Frankish strongpoint in Syria, and later, in the 1160s, in Palestine, continued by Saladin in
the 1170s (Ellenblum 1996: 523–29).
The principles and elements now employed were the concentric design, large projecting
towers to enable flanking fire, casemated arrow-slits, barbicans and other arrangements to
protect the gates, measures against undermining such as basing walls on bedrock and upon
a talus or a glacis (stone revetment of slopes beneath fortification walls), and moats with
stone-lined scarps. All these elements are already known from earlier Byzantine and Islamic
fortifications but were now systematically employed and even advanced.
The concentric design is an advancement of the double wall scheme, consisting of a
main wall and a lower forewall at a short distance. This arrangement, which offered sev-
eral advantages such as a staggered defence from different firing levels and the preven-
tion of a direct access to the main wall, is already known from the Late Chalcolithic in
Egypt and was in use in the lands of the Fertile Crescent more or less incessantly until the
Middle Ages. The most important pre-medieval promoter of this scheme and therefore
the mediator of its use in later periods was the Byzantine emperor Justinian I (r. 527–65)
who renewed the fortifications of major cities in the East. During the subsequent centuries,
Figure 26.4 Tortosa (Syria), layout of medieval town and citadel in the thirteenth century.
Source: Author.
444
this principle was also employed at smaller fortifications. At the time when the crusaders
arrived in the East, all larger coastal towns as well as major inland towns such as Kayseri,
Tarsus, Antioch, Anavarza, Artasia/Artāḥ, Birtha/Birecik, Edessa/Urfa, Marasion/Maraş,
Melitene/Malatya, Kaisum/Kaysun, Resafa, Manbīǧ, Raqqa, Marra/Ma‘arrat an-Nu‘mān
and Jerusalem, as well as the citadels of Adiyaman, Aleppo, Cyrrhus, Arka and Apamea
were protected by double walls, be it Byzantine or Islamic fortifications (Piana 2007). For
the advancement of this arrangement to the concentric scheme consisting of two independ-
ent lines of defence no clear transition can be determined. However, it is already realised
at the pre-crusader Byzantine castles in Syria, as examples such as al-Manīqa, al-Ḫawābī
and Maṣyāf indicate.

One of the first crusader castles featuring this design was Montpèlerin near Tripoli. The
advancement of the second line of defence there is attributed to the time span between
1112 and 1137 (Piana 2010: 334). The first castles where this design was implemented
from scratch were Beth Gibelin (Ar. Bait Ǧibrīn) and Belmont (Ar. Ṣūbā). Beth Gibelin
was built by King Fulk of Anjou in 1134 as a siege castle against Ascalon and entrusted
to the Hospitallers upon completion two years later, as related by William of Tyre. They
were, however, certainly involved in the planning and construction. The castle, consist-
ing of a classical castrum with corner towers surrounded by an outer enceinte with adja-
cent halls (Fig. 26.5), was set in the north-west corner of the Byzantine city walls of
Eleutheropolis, making use of some of its towers (Kloner and Cohen 2008). Belmont
marks a step forward in the development. It was erected by the Hospitallers most prob-
ably in the mid-1150s on a hill west of Jerusalem (Harper and Pringle 2000). The rock
surface on top of that hill was shaped to form a steep polygonal glacis surrounding its base,
Figure 26.5 Beth Gibelin (Israel), outer wall with gate (foreground) and castrum-type main
ward (background). Photograph: Author.
445
partly rock-cut and partly built, with a regular ashlar facing enclosing a rubble core. This
arrangement may be regarded as an advancement of the stone-lining of the slopes of castle
hills, a phenomenon known from Islamic fortifications such as the citadels of Aleppo,
Ḥārim, Šayzar, Hama, etc., lending not only an armour-like appearance to the walls but
also impeding their undermining and the use of siege towers. The main ward consists of
a walled quadrangle with hall ranges on three sides, no doubt adopting the traditional
castrum scheme. Structures of the castrum type in hilltop position were not uncommon in
the preceding Byzantine period, as examples from the upper wards of Maṣyāf and Ṣahyūn
demonstrate. Remains of a hall range to the south-west at intermediate level indicate that
the castle did have a concentric layout.

A contemporary example employing the same principles, though on flat ground, is
the citadel of Tortosa (Ar. Ṭarṭūs) on the Syrian coast. A devastating raid of Nūr ad-Dīn
in spring 1152, followed by the conflagration of the former town, led the local bishop to
entrust the ruins to the Templars with the obligation to rebuild the fortifications. They con-
structed a new citadel on the lines of the former town walls, most probably not long after
1155, when a truce was agreed with Nūr ad-Dīn. Here, too, the walls and towers were
based on bedrock where possible, which in most cases was hewn to form a sloping talus
(Fig. 26.6). The layout of the citadel is marked by a concentric design, consisting of a main
ward developed from the castrum scheme with continuous hall ranges along the enceinte,
and – separated by a ditch – a lower outer enceinte of the same build (see Fig. 26.4). The
ensemble was completed by an outer moat, once filled with sea water, with scarps partly
rock-cut partly stone-lined. A further novel feature are open-backed towers, equally pre-
figured in Montpèlerin and earlier sites (Piana 2014a). These principles were applied to
Figure 26.6 Tortosa (Syria), north-east corner of the citadel displaying rock-based
walls of outer enceinte. Photograph: Author.
446
another Templar stronghold in the hinterland of Ṭarṭūs, Chastel Blanc (Ar. Ṣāfītā), which
was completely rebuilt after the earthquake of 1170 and a temporary occupation by Nūr
ad-Dīn in the following year. There, a concentric castle was erected on top of a hill, similar
to Belmont with a steep glacis all around the outer enceinte, which was, however, furnished
with open-backed towers and a central keep accommodating a church at ground floor level
and a hall above (Piana 2008a).
This period saw the equivalent advancement of private castles. At Saône the most
vulnerable east side of the castle was furnished with massive rectangular towers around the
mid-twelfth century. The largest of which, 24.5 m square, located at the centre of this section
and overlooking the deep rock-cut ditch, acted as a front tower commanding the entire
eastern part of the castle and the area beyond the ditch (see Fig. 26.2), where a settlement
had emerged (Michaudel 2011). Beaufort (Ar. Qal‘at aš-Šaqīf) was conquered in 1139
and refortified in the following decades, as well as Kerak, where a new castle was erected
by Pagan the Butler who transferred his residence from Montréal/Šawbak to this place.
According to William of Tyre, his successors strengthened it by adding towers and a moat.
The castle was located at a strategic position, on the narrow ridge connecting the plateau on
which the town lies with the main Moab plateau. On both ends of the castle deep rock-cut
ditches were dug, adding much to the impregnability of the place (Fig. 26.7). An outer wall
to the west delimited a lower bailey, which might correspond to the barbacana ceded to
Figure 26.7 Kerak (Jordan), south front of the castle with lower bailey (left) overlooking
a deep rock-cut chasm. Photograph: Author.
447
the Hospitallers in 1152, and halls alongside the curtain walls, but was not concentric in the
narrow sense of the term (Meulemeester and Pringle 2008).
A number of analogies to the citadel of Tortosa leads to the assumption that the same
workforce was in charge, when the Krak des Chevaliers was newly built after the severe
earthquake of 1170, which had completely ruined the castle. The Hospitallers had received
the place in 1142 from Count Pons of Tripoli who had temporarily lost it to the Muslims
two years before and could not afford its defence any more. It consisted of a trapezoidal
enceinte with adjacent halls delimiting a courtyard, revealing borrowings from the castrum
scheme, indicated by the corner towers and the central tower at the south side. In this first
phase the Hospitaller castle was not fully concentric but had a forewall at three and a half
sides. A barbican in front of the gate and a bailey on the south side completed the ensemble
(Zimmer et al. 2011).
At about the same time the Hospitallers commenced another, even more ambitious forti-
fication project, in which the concentric principle found its culmination. In 1168 they took
over the castle of Belvoir (Ar. Kawkab al-Hawā) in Palestine, a border stronghold overlook-
ing the Jordan valley, and reconstructed it in the subsequent period (Biller 1989). There, a
classical quadrangular castrum with four hall ranges, four corner towers and a gate tower at
the central west side was surrounded by another, though pentagonal, castrum of the same
build – here with an intricate entranceway at the east side through a large projecting tower-
like structure, an arrangement similar to that at the citadel of Tortosa. The towers of the outer
enceinte all rest on high taluses rising from the bottom of the surrounding moat, with the
intermediate slopes of the scarp equally revetted with regularly coursed ashlars (Fig. 26.8).
With this programmatic concept, often referred to as a ‘castle within a castle’, Belvoir marks
an apogee in the art of fortification. Additionally, all novel elements of fortification were
employed: hall ranges with flat roofs for the mounting of artillery, postern gates leading to
the bottom of the moat to enable the active defence of the same, casemated arrow-slits, flank-
ing towers rising from taluses, stone-lined hill slopes, and multiple-bended entranceways
exposing an enemy to direct fire. Hence it forced Saladin to a siege of one and a half years
and despite all these measures the Hospitallers finally surrendered in 1189 after the collapse
of the large structure at the central east side, which might have been a tower or a barbican.
REVIVAL AFTER SALADIN’S CAMPAIGNS

The heavy losses inflicted on the crusader states by Saladin evoked several new crusades, in
the aftermath of which many of the lost towns and castles were either recaptured or restored.
Phase IV is thus marked by the refortification of the regained places, which almost all had
been destroyed and their walls and towers dismantled, due to fear of Saladin and his succes-
sors that the crusaders could re-establish themselves in the respective areas. Gaza, Ascalon,
Jaffa, Caesarea and Acre were retaken by King Richard I of England in 1191 who imme-
diately began to reconstruct their fortifications. In the following year, however, Gaza and
Ascalon were again lost to the Ayyubids, Jaffa only in 1197, followed by the dismantling
of all its walls, while Caesarea was left in ruins. Its citadel was rebuilt in 1218 but again
destroyed in the following year. Its walls were, however, rebuilt prior to the arrival of the
German crusade of 1228–29 and again slighted in 1244. While Gaza was never again forti-
fied by the crusaders and Ascalon not until 1239, Jaffa’s citadel was reconstructed from its
foundations by Emperor Frederick II 1228–29, whereby the surrounding ditch was cleared
from debris and lined with stones, commemorated by two preserved inscriptions (Sharon
448
Figure 26.8 Belvoir (Israel), south-west corner tower of outer ward surmounted by remains of
inner ward, constituting a concentric castrum concept. Photograph: Author.
and Shrager 2012). Beirut and Sidon, where Saladin had razed the town walls in 1190, were
both re-conquered in 1197, but while the walls of Beirut were subsequently reconstructed,
those of Sidon were subject to further destruction after the crusader had army left the town.
On a small island immediately north of Sidon, however, two towers were erected by English
and French crusaders in 1227–28, constituting the nucleus of the later Sea Castle (Piana
2008b: 374–83). Beirut was given to John of Ibelin between 1200 and 1205 whereupon
he rebuilt the town walls and the keep inside the citadel. The magnificent furnishing of
which is admired by Wilbrand of Oldenburg in 1212 (Pringle 2012: 118–19). Wilbrand also
describes the fortifications of the citadel, which might have been rebuilt by the king already
before the capture of the town by Saladin in 1187. They consisted of a double wall with
strong towers and a deep, stone-lined ditch. In 1995 the ground walls of the south-eastern
corner tower on the landward side of the citadel were excavated (Antaki 2002). The tower
was 19 m square with walls between 4.2 and 4.8 m thick, featuring a masonry of large rus-
ticated ashlars with ancient columns employed as headers. The double wall, described by
Wilbrand, is attested at the adjoining south wall, where the tower had a postern gate that led
to the bottom of the ditch, which at this point was 14 m wide. In 2005 a section of the west
wall of the citadel was exposed, displaying the same characteristic masonry (Fig. 26.9). In
front of this wall a 9 m wide free space is delimited by a parallel wall, probably representing
the moat and a section of the city wall. To the north the 5 m thick wall bends back at a right
angle to abut the rock of the ancient tell. This corner was once taken up by a tower which
at its base measured 18 by 16 m. To the south of the tower, a secondarily walled-up postern
gate is located. The parts of the citadel once located on the peninsula, which jutted out to
the sea between these two sites, do not exist any more as the peninsula was ablated when
the new harbour was built in the 1890s.
449
Figure 26.9 Beirut (Lebanon), outer west wall of the citadel showing crusader masonry with
columns used as headers (foreground) and main ward of citadel (background). Photograph: Author.
At Tyre, which was not conquered by Saladin, the Genoese built a castle near the town
wall in 1192. The heavy earthquakes of 1202/03 almost completely ruined the fortifications,
which were reconstructed in the course of the thirteenth century. At Jerusalem, where the
walls had been razed by al-Malik al-Mu‘aẓẓam in 1219, construction works are recorded
at the citadel during the Frankish period of 1229–39 (Johns 1997: vii; Ellenblum 2007b;
Leistikow 2008). Besides Ascalon, where some stretches of the walls attributed to Richard
I have survived (Pringle 1984), in neither of these towns substantial remains of the walls
are preserved.
In this phase some new castles were erected and existing ones strengthened. Both at
Margat and at the Krak des Chevaliers, the decades after 1200 were characterised by large-
scale construction programmes. The latter was extended by adding an outer enceinte and a
new polygonal gate tower. Additionally, the three towers at the south section of the main
ward were enlarged and furnished with rounded front sides, their curtain walls strengthened
by a high glacis with arrow-slits and a casemate inside to operate them (Zimmer et al. 2011:
263–77) (see Fig. 26.1). D-shaped towers, most probably a Western import (Piana 2013:
236–7), were now favoured, as the castle of Silifke (Cr. Seleph) from the same period
indicates. There, the Hospitallers refortified a former Byzantine stronghold overlooking
the town of the same name, after they had it taken over in 1210. They strengthened the
Byzantine main wall and forewall, added a series of D-shaped towers on three sides, and a
glacis in front of the forewall. This was surrounded by a moat, the counterscarp of which
lined with masonry and a third wall erected on top of the rampart having accumulated
by digging out the moat (Fig. 26.10). On the north side a gate tower with a bended passage-
way was erected, which could only be accessed via an outer gate followed by a barbican.
450
Figure 26.10 Silifke (Turkey), south section of the castle illustrating Hospitaller reinforcements
such as rounded towers, a stronger forewall, a stone-lined moat and a counterscarp wall.
Photograph: Author.
The castle, centre of a newly founded Hospitaller march in Cilicia, had to be surrendered to
the Armenians in 1226 (Piana 2013).
THE ERA OF THE GREAT FORTRESSES

The fortifications of the thirteenth century are different from those of the twelfth. Baronial
and royal castles, having shaped the fortified landscape of the latter, became less important.
The brunt of defence and fortification of the remaining Frankish territories was born by the
Military Orders who built new fortifications and refortified older ones on a larger scale.
This period (phase V) is further marked by the refortification programme King Louis IX of
France executed at a number of the major coastal towns of the Levant. The achievements
in fortification from the preceding century are now systematically implemented, but only
very new elements employed. One of these may have been the machicolations which are
now found more often, another the establishment of a third line of defence beyond the moat.
However, the fortification of the thirteenth century is marked by a stronger Western influ-
ence. At all sites with buildings from that period can be found not only Gothic vaulting and
sculpture but also construction principles developed in the West at that time. These were
a more deliberate planning, the employment of geometric design patterns, and the use of
smaller, regularly cut stones (petit appareil).
From 1217 to 1222 the Templars erected a new fortress on the peninsula of ‘Aṯlīt
(Cr. Chastel Pèlerin) and a large faubourg on the adjacent mainland. The place was
intended to become the main Templar stronghold in the Kingdom of Jerusalem and so
were its defensive works. To the landward side a main wall, 12 m thick and over 30 m
451
high, flanked by two huge rectangular towers more than 34 m high, overlooked a forewall,
6.5 m thick and 16 m high, furnished with three smaller towers in a staggered arrangement
protecting the curtains of the main wall. The forewall contained a vaulted passage at the
towers’ first floor level providing access to the casemated arrow-slits of the curtain walls
and the tower chambers at that level. The wall was once crowned by a battlemented para-
pet, most probably furnished with merlons pierced by arrow-slits, as at the other Templar
fortifications. These towers, which acted as gate towers having lateral entrances protected
by machicolations, overlooked a 25 m wide moat delimited by a walled counterscarp
forming a third line of defence. The forewall and its towers, as well as the counterscarp,
had all sloping sills. The interior of the castle follows a concentric plan with a rectangular
inner ward and a polygonal outer enceinte, both accompanied by sequenced hall ranges
(Johns 1997: ii–vi). Although Chastel Pèlerin ranked among the strongest fortified sites of
the crusaders, additionally favoured by natural advantage, it had to be abandoned after the
fall of Acre in 1291.
Montfort, the main castle of the Teutonic Knights in the East, was founded in the moun-
tains of Galilee in 1226. Its main ward, erected on a slightly sloping spur, was protected at
the east side by two rock-cut ditches and a huge D-shaped front tower resting on a plinth,
which contained a cistern and a chapel and had an outer facing of large ashlars with plain
bosses. The outer dimensions of the latter are some 24 by 21 m, its wall thickness amount-
ing to more than 7 m, and its height to about 25 m. The narrow main ward consisted of
an elongated hall building with a massive, trapezoidal structure of tower-like dimensions
added at its western end. It certainly was of a residential character and contained a noble
hall with vaults resting on a central octagonal pier (Boas 2012). An outer enceinte at a
lower level completed the ensemble, which fell to Sultan Baybars in 1271, who had it
subsequently dismantled.
At the citadel of Tortosa the walls of the main ward were heightened during the thir-
teenth century, adding two further firing galleries with arrow-slits alternating with square
openings, probably for the use of siege-crossbows. Additionally, a new castle chapel was
built and a great hall added at the inner north section of the main wall (Piana 2014a).
The castle of Saphet (Ar. Ṣafad), once erected to guard the route from Damascus to Acre
and labelled as the ‘key (fortress) of all Galilee’, had been dismantled during the 1220s
by al-Malik al-Mu‘aẓẓam. After it had been restored to the Templar Order in 1240, it
was refortified on a massive scale and at a vast expense. Its construction is reported in
a treatise from 1264, entitled De constructione castri Saphet, which represents the most
detailed contemporary account we have of the building of a medieval castle, even pro-
viding dimensions of its major elements (Huygens 1981). The castle was oval in shape,
covering a hilltop (300 by 130 m) overlooking the town of the same name. It was built
on a concentric plan, with ditches between the inner ward and forewall and in front of
the latter. Although the earthquakes of 1837 and 1927 had left a heap of ruins, recent
excavations at the south-west section of the inner ward revealed some evidence (Barbé
and Damati 2004). According to this and the specifications given in De constructione, the
main ward was enclosed by a wall, some 3 m thick on top and about 40 m high, furnished
with seven rectangular towers, 20 m square with walls 4 m thick, surmounting the curtain
walls by 4 m. The outer wall had a height of about 20 m and was equally furnished with
towers. They were round, as one example having survived under its Ottoman superstruc-
ture at the north-west side of the castle indicates. This wall seems to have been built
on top of a glacis containing casemates which were connected with the inner ward by
452
underground tunnels and from which crossbowmen could operate great ballistas. The for-
tifications were completed by an outer ditch enclosed by a rampart. During the same time,
Ascalon was refortified after it had been occupied by Count Theobald IV of Champagne in
1239. This rebuilding, however, concerned merely the citadel at the north-west corner of
the former town. It was furnished with a double wall and a high glacis covering the slopes
of the Bronze Age ramparts, sections of which are still visible. Additionally, the principle
layout of the intricate entrance passage at the north gate could be reconstructed (Boas and
Piana 2008). One of the few baronial castles refortified during that period was the citadel
of Arsur (Ar. Arsūf), completely rebuilt by John of Ibelin in 1241. The castle, or better
the citadel, is situated on the cliff edge in the north-western part of the town overlook-
ing a small harbour. During the past decades, the remains of the castle were completely
exposed. A small ward around the central octagonal keep is delimited by halls and a pen-
tagonal enceinte with rounded towers at the corners. The gate at its east side is flanked by
two U-shaped towers, undoubtedly an adoption from Western models of the time. This
enceinte is enclosed by a forewall forming semi-circular bastions around the towers and
the gate, resting on a glacis. Of this forewall, which overlooks a deep moat between 21
and 30 m wide, only scant remains have survived. On the opposite side a polygonal wall
on top of a rampart defines a third line of defence, turning this small but compact castle
to a heavily fortified structure. Architectural analysis reveals a strong Western influence,
tangible not only from the tower shapes but also from the repertoire of Gothic forms and
building principles employed (Roll 2011).
In 1250 King Louis IX of France arrived at Acre after his unsuccessful campaign against
Egypt and he subsequently ordered the walls of the new suburb of Montmusard to be refor-
tified. As at the city wall proper, this new enclosure had a main wall and a forewall, both
furnished with towers at regular intervals. After donations of the necessary land in 1192 and
1194, the Hospitallers established their main quarter in the city. It was located at the north-
ern city wall and incorporated a tower and one of its gates. Its layout is based on the castrum
scheme. The excavations during the past decades revealed considerable remains allowing
for the reconstruction of the medieval buildings, which comprised a church dedicated to St
John and several large halls and magazines. The main quarter of the Templar Order was
once located on a promontory jutting out into the sea at the south-west corner of the city.
Today almost nothing has survived but, to conclude from the sources, it must have been
strongly fortified in the thirteenth century (Kedar 2006; Jacoby 2008).
The ruined fortifications of Caesarea were rebuilt by King Louis IX in 1251–52 on a
massive scale (Fig. 26.11). The walls enclose a rectangle, covering an area of about 450
by 240 m, on three sides with the fourth side to the west encompassing a small harbour.
They still followed the lines of the Islamic city wall but were now furnished with a high
talus and sixteen open-backed towers, with three of them acting as gate towers, one in
each wall, of which the north and east gates had bended passageways. The uprising walls
surmounting the talus were lavishly furnished with casemated arrow-slits connected by
covered wall-walks. Postern gates leading into the moat allowed for sallies. The south wall
ends at the sea side at a neck ditch which separates a peninsula south of the harbour. There,
a rectangular keep, now heavily mutilated, was located, defended to the landward side by
two massive rectangular towers with ancient columns used as headers within a masonry of
huge bossed ashlars. The latter are now contributed to the refortification campaign of 1228,
while the keep may have been the work of the king of Jerusalem, John of Brienne, executed
in 1217–18 (Mesqui 2014).
453
Figure 26.11 Caesarea (Israel), east wall of the fortification erected by King Louis IX
of France (1251–52). Photograph: Author.
Figure 26.12 Sea Castle at Sidon (Lebanon), reflecting the last crusader phase in its layout when it
served as a base for the Knights Templar (1260–91). Photograph: Author.
454
Other towns refortified by King Louis IX were Haifa (where the walls of the citadel,
h aving been razed by Saladin, were repaired), Jaffa and Sidon. Jaffa, where Louis IX had
stayed a full year (1252–53), was subjected to a major refortification programme. The cita-
del had already been rebuilt by Emperor Frederick II in 1228–29, and subsequently fortified
by Patriarch Gerald of Lausanne by two towers constituting his own residence. Louis IX had
then refortified the town walls, ‘from sea to sea’, with twenty-four towers, three gates and a
ditch. This work seems to have been unfinished by March 1267, which may have facilitated
the conquest by Sultan Baybars one year later (Peilstöcker 2006; Kedar 2006). Excavations
in 2007–08 have brought to light the glacis of a huge round tower (diameter c. 35 m) in the
area of the Franciscan Hospital, attributed to the works of King Louis IX. The appurtenant
tower seems to have been a corner tower, accommodating a gate, as indicated by remains
suggesting this, which were excavated on top of the structure (Re’em 2010). At Sidon, the
king’s activities (1253–54) are related to the second building stage at the Sea Castle. It is
represented by the extension of the existing fortification, consisting mainly of two towers, to
a construction of the castrum type with corner towers, of which only the south-eastern one
has survived within later additions. This tower protected a postern gate immediately west
of it and the castle’s main gate adjoining to the north, defended by a portcullis and a murder
hole. This ensemble was refortified at a massive scale most probably after 1260, when the
castle was destroyed by the Mongols and subsequently ceded to the Templars (Fig. 26.12).
A further work of King Louis IX may be seen in the glacis around the land castle of Sidon,
which until today is named after the king. Nothing, however, has survived from the town
walls, which he had ‘fortified with great walls, mighty towers, deep and cleaned ditches
inside and outside’ (Piana 2008b). Tyre, which was so badly damaged by the earthquake
of 1202 that ‘all the towers but three, and the walls except for the outer barbican’ had col-
lapsed. These were the famous triple walls on the landward and the double walls on the sea
side, which had already existed when the crusaders conquered the town in 1124. The refor-
tification must have been accomplished by 1283, when Tyre was described by Burchard of
Mount Sion who wrote that ‘on the east side … it was surrounded by triple wall, strong and
high, and 25 feet thick, … fortified with twelve very strong towers, … linked to the citadel
or castle, which is very strongly defended and situated on a rock in the midst of the sea, …
likewise fortified with towers and solidly-built residences’. The castle may be identified
with the one already mentioned in 1190 and of which King John of Brienne disclosed in
1212 that he had begun to (re)build it. A contemporary source reported that it was situated
near the harbour and had four high towers (Pringle 1995: 85–87; Antaki 2011).
CONCLUSION
Regarding the fortifications erected by the crusaders in the light of research conducted so
far, it becomes clear that certain traits of its development may well be assessed. However,
many questions remain open to debate. What is ascertained is that we cannot speak of the
crusader castle as a typological entity, due to the wide range of forms and types found.
Many of the building principles, architectural forms and defensive elements that often occur
are equally found in Byzantine, Armenian and Islamic fortification. Even if the ancient
castrum scheme, which is, however, varied and advanced, is so often found that we may
speak of it as a hallmark of crusader fortification, there are many fortifications utilising the
advantages of the terrain for the positioning of walls and towers. An indispensable feature
of any ambitious fortification from the very beginning was the main wall–forewall–moat
455
scheme, often combined with a ditch between the walls or a rampart beyond the moat with
or without a (third) wall on top. The advancement of the forewall to a more independent
structure with adjacent halls constituting the full concentric fortification, although already
pre-figured in Byzantine castles of the region, is a true achievement of the crusader period.
The main promoters of this concept were the Military Orders who developed this principle
to a hallmark of their fortifications, which in turn had repercussions on European castle
building (Piana 2014b).
A further frequently found principle is the setting of walls on bedrock, a measure against
undermining, usually combined with a sloping of its base in form of a talus or with a glacis.
Stone lining is also applied to the opposite flank of the moat or ditch, the counterscarp,
and even to the bottom of which. During the thirteenth century, casemates were built into
the glacis, thus enhancing the defensive capabilities of such a structure. Fortification walls
became thicker over time, from about 2 m to 4 m and more during the thirteenth century,
reflecting the developments in siege artillery. Towers are almost always rectangular during
the twelfth century, while during the thirteenth rounded fronts became popular, most prob-
ably a Western import due to the specific forms. Other than at the very beginning, when
buttresses and smaller towers prevailed, towers usually projected from the adjoining curtain
walls, in order to provide flanking fire and a better overview of the ground zone in front
of them. A further development, equally adopted from earlier (Byzantine) fortifications,
were open-backed towers. Arrow-slits were rapidly introduced but also advanced during
the twelfth century, with casemates and longer openings with sloping sills, and their bases
widened for a more effective operation. A further characteristic element were arrow-slits in
the centre of merlons.
Although during the thirteenth century European influences grew much stronger, even
then we notice a peculiar mixture of archaic forms such as bulky rectangular towers and
splendid Gothic halls. One example is the Sea Castle of Sidon, where a massive rectangular
tower with a masonry of rusticated ashlars and columns used as headers at the east tower
contrasts with its much more elegant counterpart at the west side with a polygonal layout
and a rounded front (see Fig. 26.12). Another example is Arsur, where Western forms such
as the gate with its twin U-shaped towers are combined with a forewall, a glacis and a
counterscarp wall as a third line of defence, an old fortification pattern from the East, to
be found for example at the pre-crusader fortifications of Constantinople and Tripoli. The
development of the concentric fortification scheme, however, shows that elements were not
only adopted and maintained but also advanced. Thus the fortification of the crusaders may
not be regarded simply as a syncretic phenomenon but rather as an eclectic one, born out
of Eastern fortification traditions and combining the best-proven elements and principles
according to the military, economic, sociocultural, administrative and representative needs
of their builders and of the era they lived in.
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459
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CRUSADER BATTLEFIELDS:
ENVIRONMENTAL AND
ARCHAEOLOGICAL PERSPECTIVES
Raphael Y. Lewis
T he following description by Ibn al-Athir of the fields of Hattin, given two years after the
decisive Ayyubid triumph in Hattin, is well known:
About two years later I passed by the site of the battle and saw the ground covered with
their bones, visible from afar, some of them heaped up and others scattered about and
this was apart from those that torrents had swept away or wild beasts in those thickets
and hollows had taken.
(Ibn al-Athir, 2007: 324)
These words inspired travelers and scholars who visited, studied, and described the decisive
historical event occurring on the on 4 July 1187 on the fields to the west of the volcanic hill
“the Horns of Hattin” (Wilson, 1880: 63–66; Rae Wilson, 1824: 220–221; Conder, 1897:
147–160; Prawer, 1964: 117–124; Guérin, 1985: 125–133; Kedar, 1992: 190–207; Herde,
2002: 97–153; Ehrlich, 2007: 16–32; Lewis, 2013). But Saladin’s biographer is doing more
than just providing a strict and neutral observation of the battlefield. In fact, he is giving
us a preliminary (and almost scientific) geomorphologic observation of the fields of Hattin
associating a cause—torrents and wild beasts—with an effect—bones taken and swept
away. Today, we can corroborate al-Athir’s observation knowing the tendency of the clay-
ish Basalt soil, covering a major part of the Hattin plain, to be swept easily by rain water
(Avisar, 1973: 132–136; Liphschitz and Biger, 2004: 242–246).
Hundreds of years of change and development span between the present and historical
events such as the Battle of Hattin, Arsuf and other battlefields. The people opposing each
other were under the influence of manmade and natural forces before and during the fighting
itself and the material signature left by them was exposed to environmental and manmade
forces operating from the time of the event itself to present days. Environmental conditions
such as soil, heat, humidity, radiation, sunlight, and moonlight have direct influence on
both military campaigns in all periods and on the preservation of finds. In order to be able
to reconstruct historical events, we must consider the environmental conditions mentioned
above (and others).
460
— chapter 27: Crusader battlefields —
Sir Basil H. Liddel Hart understood that no natural hazard could measure to the obstacles
people could impose on each other (Liddell Hart, 1989: 92). It is obvious that some land-
scapes can be traveled faster, easier, and safer than others. Manmade features such as roads,
walls, earthworks, ditches, trenches, and plowed fields can influence the movement of men
in a given landscape. Therefore, in order to understand the historical event, a map represent-
ing the landscape in which the event took place should be presented. Archaeological fea-
tures should be taken into account and be considered together with the environmental and
historical data in order to get a picture as close as possible of the studied arena. The dynamic
nature of the landscape usually presents a fundamental problem in studies which are based
only on written accounts and on preliminary observations of the battlefield’s topography.

The researcher should cross the boundaries of his discipline and examine the subject from
the widest angle possible (Arnold, 1986: 32; Bloch, 2002: 66, 99–104). Therefore, the data
presented in studies of historical events should consist of three main categories of evidence:
(1) environmental considerations; (2) material cultural remains; (3) written sources.
This chapter will demonstrate the significant contribution which environmental and
archaeological perspectives can have on the understanding of events such as battles. The
two case studies are based on the two decisive events from the days of the Latin Kingdom
of Jerusalem which have recently been studied archaeologically by the writer of this chapter
(Lewis, 2013; Lewis, forthcoming): the Battle of Hattin1 (3–4 July 1187) and the Battle of
Arsuf 2 (7 September 1191).
Just a little more than four years separate the two events, and some of the chief partici-
pants were present at both. But still the two open field battles were fought in very different
landscapes: the Battle of Hattin was waged in the middle and eastern Lower Galilee and
the Battle of Arsuf took place along the coastal plain of the Mediterranean. This makes
the two events interesting case studies to follow. It should also be noted that the archaeo-
logical characteristics of the two battles (presented below), as with other open battlefields,
are very different from the ones previously studied archaeologically in the Levant. First,
the Battle of Hattin and the Battle of Arsuf took place over a vast landscape when the
Muslim (Ayyubid) and Frankish (crusader) armies were almost constantly on the move,
marching through different terrains, and the campaign lasting no more than a few days.
Second, although there were many casualties, the dead bodies and other remains related to
the fighting were not buried within a destruction layer but were left lying in the field in a
way that was more vulnerable to post-residual processes caused by nature and man. In order
to overcome these fundamental methodological challenges, it was required to look beyond
the boundaries of conventional archaeological field-survey and site-detection methods, and
develop a new perspective that would help to define the work within dynamic and ever-
changing landscapes.3
A SHORT SUMMARY OF THE EVENTS OF

THE BATTLE OF HATTIN 4
The Hattin campaign was part of the jihad war declared on the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem
years before. The Muslims, led by Saladin, started to gather at the eastern part of the Jordan
River in April 1187 (Lane-Poole, 1964: 201–203; Ehrlich, 2007: 24; Ibn al-Athir, 2007: 319;
Asbridge, 2010: 344). On 1 May 1187, the Battle of Cresson occurred as a result of a
large group of Muslim cavalry crossing into the Galilee (for a disputed reason) and meet-
ing with a Frankish party led by the grand masters of the Templar (Gerard de Ridefort)
461
— R a p h a e l Y. L e w i s —
and Hospitaller (Roger de Moulins). The collision between the two forces by the springs
of Cresson (Fontaine de Cresson/Croisson) was catastrophic to the Franks, with only
the grandmaster of Templar surviving the engagement and a few of the parties’ follow-
ers (Lane-Poole, 1964: 201–203; Baldwin, 1978: 87–92; Prawer, 1984: 529–530; Edbury,
1996: 156–157).5 The Battle of Cresson is important not only because it led to the Battle of
Hattin, but also because it made a good deal of the Muslim senior officers familiar with the
same landscape as the Battle of Hattin (Lewis, 2013: 337) (Fig. 27.1).
The Muslims reinvaded the Galilee in late June 1187. They crossed the Jordan River
(27 June) took the village of Kafr Sabt (30 June) and positioned themselves in other vantage
points (such as Mount Tabor) in the eastern Lower Galilee and along the Safori-Tiberias
road (Kedar, 1992: 193–194; Lewis, 2013: 336–337). On 2 July, one of the Muslim forces
conquered Tiberias and placed its castle under siege (Kedar, 1992: 194–195; Nicolle,
1993: 61). Eventually, after a quarrel between the grandmaster of the Templar knights and
Count Raymond of Tripoli, the Muslim provocation caused the Franks, led by King Guy of
Lusignan, to evacuate their camps at the springs of Safori and to march on Tiberias (Kedar,
1992: 194–195; Nicolle, 1993: 62; Ehrlich, 2007: 30).
The Frankish forces started moving on 3 July. When they reached the valley of Turan,
the Muslims began harassing them with endless attacks from their mounted archers (Prawer,
1964: 122; Ehrlich, 2007: 30). The march was slow and made at the pace of the infantry,
which most probably circled the three main bodies of mounted knights in rings of defense
(Smail, 1956: 156–157, 198; Prawer, 1980: 491; Ehrlich, 2007: 30). According to a letter
written by Saladin, the Franks managed to take over one of the water sources which was
on their way (most likely the spring of Turan) but later abandoned it (Lyons and Jackson,
Figure 27.1 The Battle of Hattin 3–4 July 1187 battle plan. Source: Author.
462
1982: 259–260; Melville and Lyons, 1992: 209; Kedar 1992: 196). When they reached
Maskana, known for a big seasonal pool to its south, the Franks were heavily attacked,
and the rearguard led by Balowin de Iblin retreated (Smail, 1956: 196; Nicolle, 1993: 75;
Ehrlich, 2007: 31).6
At sunset of 3 July 1187, the fighting did not stop. The Franks camped around Maskana,
while the Muslims brought convoys of provision to the front line, and at the same time
kept harassing the Frankish camp (Prawer, 1980: 493; Kedar, 1992: 199–200; Herde, 2002:
121). At sunrise the Franks were on the move again. The men and their horses were in
total exhaustion. It was argued by some scholars that Count Raymond of Tripoli took a
northern route leading to the Springs of Hattin in order to quench their thirst (Prawer,
1980: 493). Other researchers argue that on 4 July the Franks were still heading toward
Tiberias as planned (Kedar, 1992: 202–203). Reading through the different sources and
studies, it is hard to follow the exact order of the events, but we know that at a certain
point the Muslims burned the fields around the Franks. At another point, the vanguard
led by Raymond of Tripoli got the command (and honor) to charge against the Muslim
troops that blocked their way. But instead of the two forces colliding, the Muslims opened
their ranks and Raymond’s troops went right through them, never returning to the battle-
field. It is also unclear at which point the infantry fled to the Horns of Hattin, leaving the
main body unprotected behind, and at which point cavalry charges made in the direction
of Saladin himself were initiated by the Franks and restrained by the Muslims (Prawer,
1980: 496–499; Lyons and Jackson, 1982: 262–264; Kedar, 1992: 204; Herde, 2002:
139–140). The Muslims’ victory is marked by the capture of the relic of the “True Cross,”
the fall of the Frankish king’s red tent, his imprisonment, the massacre of the Templar and
Hospital knights as well as the beheading of Count Reynald de Chatillion (Prawer, 1980:
500; Kedar, 1992: 204; Nicolle, 1993: 76–79). The total defeat of the Franks led to the fall
of the holy city and the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem. The detailed landscape archaeology
study done during the Battle of Hattin Archaeological Project and the reconstruction of the
Hattin landscape, allowed us, for the first time, to place the events just mentioned chrono-
logically and also to point to the space where they could have occurred in the landscape
(for more details see Lewis, 2013: 335–373).
A SHORT SUMMARY OF THE EVENTS OF

THE BATTLE OF ARSUF
The decisive Frankish defeat at the Battle of Hattin (3–4 July 1187 ce), the capture of
the “True Cross” and the fall of Jerusalem, all led to the Third Crusade (Prawer, 1964:
117–124; Kedar, 1992: 190–207; Herde, 2002: 97–153; Ehrlich, 2007: 16–32; Lewis,
2013: 335–373; Lewis, forthcoming). The ultimate goal of the campaign was to reclaim
Jerusalem, an objective that was not in fact achieved. The Battle of Arsuf was the central
violent engagement of the Third Crusade which took place in an open field (Roll, 2007: 36).
After Acre’s surrender to the Crusaders on 12 July 1191 and the departure of Philip II
Augustus to France, Richard I decided to besiege Jerusalem. Therefore, he marched on
Jaffa and captured its important port in order to secure his men with constant provisions and
potential reinforcements. The Arsuf battlefield was only a continuation of the monumental
siege warfare taking place (from August 1191 to November 1192) on the plain of Acre and
on its walls (Prawer, 1984: 63–64, 70–71). Due to the three years of siege, both the Muslims
and the crusaders were looking for a decisive move before the crusaders planned to finish
463
crossing the coastline and particularly the Sharon plain (Ehrlich, 2014: 109). The crusader
forces started marching along the coastline on 22 August 1191 close to the seashore with
their right flank protected by the sea (Gillingham, 1999: 174). The force was divided into
several sections, each protected by infantry. The infantry suffered from the Muslim skir-
mishers, therefore they were split—one marched closer to the enemy while the other to the
west recuperated (Nicolle, 2005: 67).
On 1 September 1191 the crusaders left Caesarea and marched for 5 km to Flum Mort
(the “Dead River”, modern Hadera River). On 3 September 1191 they suffered many losses
because of the Muslim fire and the heat.7 Then they camped and stayed for two days at Flum
Sale (the “Salty River”, modern Alexander River). On 5 September 1191 they marched
into the Arsuf forest to Flum de Rochetaillée (Nahar al-Falik, modern Poleg River) with
almost no casualties. On Saturday 7 September 1191, the crusaders made their way to Arsur
(Arsuf/Apollonia, on modern Herzliya north-western town limits) positioned 8 km to the
south (Oman, 1924: 304–309; Lyons and Jackson, 1982: 334–336; Prawer, 1984: 72–74;
Gillingham, 1999: 174–178; Ibn Shaddād, 2002: 170–174; Nicolle, 2005: 55–66; Roll,
2007: 36–37; Ibn al-Athīr, 2007: 390–391).
According to Ibn Shaddād: “He [Saladin] rode out and drew up his divisions for
battle, with every intention of bringing the enemy to a pitched battle, that day” (2002: 174).
Richard I was probably aware of this situation and therefore moved up and down the line
of men on the march (Ambroise, 1976: 252, 6207–6210; Gillingham, 1999: 176; Nicolle,
2005: 67).
Saladin’s skirmishers attacked the crusaders from the early morning (Fig. 27.2), and close
to Arsuf (in mid-morning, or “at the third hour” according to the Intinerarium, i.e. 09:00)
the Muslims intensified their attack, killing many of the crusaders’ horses. The Hospitallers
in the rear were the target of many constant attacks (Stubbs, 1864: 262; Ambroise, 1976:
252–253, 6212–6300; Ibn Shaddād, 2002: 174; Nicolle, 2005: 74). Richard I endured, while
Saladin kept raising the pressure on the crusaders’ rearguard, sending his personal guard as
reinforcement (Ibn Shaddād, 2002: 175; Nicolle, 2005: 75). Finally, the grand master of the
order, Garnier de Naples, and one of the knights (who had come with Richard I), Baldwin
Carew, could restrain themselves no more and charged from the rear, crying: “Saint Jorge
[George]!” (Ambroise, 1976: 258–259, 6420–6433). They were soon followed by the rest
of the host. Though a premature charge had been made, Richard I seized the moment and
supported the Hospitallers’ attack. Soon thereafter almost all of the knights8 broke through
the infantry line and swept the field from west to east. But the first premature cavalry charge
did not throw the Muslims off balance, and it took at least two more attacks to achieve this.
The series of charges made by the crusaders pressed Saladin to withdraw, leaving the field
with many of his men dead and others wounded and scared. He found no consolation even
from his admirer, Bahā al-Dīn Ibn Shaddād. Saladin’s son (al-Afḍal) was among those who
stood firm but “was shaken by this day” (Ibn Shaddād, 2002: 175–176).
The Battle of Arsuf is considered to be one of the key events of the Third Crusade, and
consequently, it has been the focus of a good deal of historical research (Oman, 1924:
305–319; Smail, 1956: 156–165; Gillingham, 1999: 188–191; Lyons and Jackson, 1982:
337–339; Prawer, 1984: 74–77; Nicolle, 2005: 55–89; Roll, 2007: 35–38; Asbridge, 2010:
466–476; Ehrlich, 2014: 109–118). Some of the studies adopted a more multidisciplinary
approach, considering mainly aspects of geography and topography. But like many other bat-
tlefields in the Levant, the Hattin and Arsuf battlefields were excluded from archaeological
464
Figure 27.2 Arsuf 7 September 1191 battle plan. Source: Author.
465
study (Lewis, 2013: 1–3; Ehrlich, 2014: 110–111).9 Written sources are probably the most
important evidence we have for an historical account, but they are always written after the
fact from a certain subjective perspective. I believe that considering related environmental
and archaeological perspectives can supplement significantly our understanding of histori-
cal events because it conserves part of the traces of the original event.
ENVIRONMENTAL ASPECTS
As mentioned above, environmental conditions such as natural water sources, soil, heat,
humidity, radiation, sunlight, and moonlight have direct influence on military campaigns
and on the preservation of finds. Therefore in order to reconstruct historical events and espe-
cially military campaigns, environmental conditions must be considered, as will be shown
below (Lewis, 2013: 141).
Geographic overview of the two battlefields

The Battle of Hattin
The Battle of Hattin took place in the central and eastern parts of the Lower Galilee
(Fig. 27.3), a region which characterized by mountain ridges with wide valleys between
them, laying on a west to east axis. The Nazareth Mountains are of soft limestone, which
allows the growth of vegetation and in the past was cultivated intensely. The Turan
Mountain, however, is characterized by hard dolomite stone, creating a landscape with
Figure 27.3 Main settlements on topographic map of the central and eastern Lower Galilee.
Source: Author.
466
almost no vegetation. The valley of Turan, located between these two mountains, is rich
with a thick layer of alluvial soil which tends to be flooded during the rainy season. So is
the valley of Beit Netofa/ al-Batuf to the north of Mount Turan.
The eastern Lower Galilee is characterized by a series of tilted blocks covered with
basalt stones. The western edge of the tilted block of Arbel and the north-western border of
the tilted block of Poria is characterized by soft limestone which creates a hilly landscape
lying south-north and separates the Maskana plateau from the plain of Hattin. This area is
the highest in the eastern Lower Galilee: the Nimra mount (by the abandoned village of
Nimrin) is 392 m above sea level, Kibbutz Lavi stands at the height of 313 m above sea
level, and the hill of Lubia is 326 m above sea level (Bitan, 1982: 7).
The volcanic hill known as the Horns of Hattin was formed 4–4.3 million years ego. The
hill has two volcanic craters, main and a secondary, both are open to the south-west creating
the two mountain peaks— giving it its name. While the hill gradually climbs from west to
east, on its eastern side the slope drops rapidly (Mazor, 1980: 116–117).
The battlefield of Hattin stretches over an area of 26 km, and a good deal of that area went
through significant development during the twentieth century. Therefore it was decided to
concentrate in the event taken place in the area between Maskana and the Arbel Valley, a
timeframe confined to the eve of 3 July and to midday of 4 July 1187. This area is also less
developed from the one to its east. Kibutz Lavi and Hodayot are the main settlement in that
area but there is also highways, an industrial area, a museum (in Golani Junction) and the
sanctuary of Nabi Shu’ayb.
The Battle of Arsuf

The Battle of Arsuf took place in the southern part of the Sharon plain (central coastal plain
of Israel). This region extends between the Yarqon River in the south and the Taninim
River in the north (5 km to the north of Caesarea). The Sharon plain is about 15 km in width
and extends from east to west, from the foothills of the Samaria hills to the Mediterranean
(Fig. 27.4). Early coastlines had created three Kurkar ridges of hills (Kurkar is fossilized
dune sandstones) parallel to the Mediterranean coastline and to each other, subdividing
the Sharon plain into three valleys. The streams running from the foothills of Samaria to the
sea penetrated the kurkar ridges and enabled sand from the sea to create dunes; when the
streams were blocked, the kurkar ridges swamps were thus created. The first kurkar ridge
is the closest to the coast and occasionally it is characterized by a steep cliff. Some of the
larger ancient settlements in the Sharon plain including Caesarea and Apollonia-Arsuf were
built on it (Gophna and Ayalon, 1998: 8). On its eastern side the ridge gradually slopes to
the “Sharon Swale”, an elongated valley that extends between the first and second kurkar
ridges. The traditional and the present coastal trunk road runs along its eastern border. The
second ridge is constructed from a stronger type of kurkar rock, serving as an adequate plat-
form for the emergence of settlements throughout the ages. Since it provided a useful foun-
dation for building purposes, it was also used for quarrying building-stones and for hewn
burial caves and agricultural installations (Gophna and Ayalon, 1998: 8; Gibson, 2003: 8).
The valley to the east of the second ridge is blanketed with alluvial soil. The third kurkar
ridge is almost completely covered today with a red sandy soil and appears to merges with
the red sand hills (hamra) located to its east (Gophna and Ayalon, 1998: 8). The Sharon
region, and especially the eastern valley, is poorly drained and occasionally in the rainy
season water accumulates creating waterholes. Throughout the nineteenth and twentieth
467
Figure 27.4 Map of the Sharon Plain. Location of kurkar ridges and sand
dunes (after Gavish and Bakler, 1990: map 2). Source: Author.
centuries the area was well known for its swamps (Gophna and Ayalon, 1998: 8). Due to
the bad drainage of the Sharon plain, it was sparsely populated throughout most eras. Only
when a centralized power invested in draining the swamps did it became more hospitable,
and permanent settlements were founded. Drainage systems had to be maintained and once
neglected the swamps reappeared. The Sharon was unattractive for agriculture and settle-
ment in many periods, therefore throughout most of the human history the Sharon plain
served mainly as a route through which people traveled (Safrai et al., 1990: 249; Ehrlich,
2014: 113–114). Today the Sharon region is one of the most densely populated and culti-
vated areas in Israel.
The battlefield supposedly lies under the modern towns of Herzliya and Kibbutz
Shefayim, and the villages of Rishpon, Kfar Shmaryahu, Arsuf and Arsuf-Kedem and an
abandoned military factory.
468
Sunlight and moonlight

Sunlight and moonlight can have a great effect on organisms (humans are not excluded), but
surprisingly there are hardly any references to such elements in the literature with regards
historical events. Time calendars of sunlight and moonlight are of enormous use in mod-
eling military campaigns, and in many cases can help us learn more about the actual events
or even to put them into a more limited timeframe.
According to the cosmological data,10 on 3 September 1187 the Frankish forces had more
than fourteen hours of daylight to reach Tiberias from Saforie. This means they had to cover
a distance of about 30 km at a pace of a little more than 2 km per hour. This does not look
like an impossible challenge for a healthy group of people, but in war conditions this is
becoming almost impossible. We should also take into account that the Franks were march-
ing on both 3 and 4 July, facing the sun, which was probably another factor contributing to
their exhaustion. According to the cosmological data, on 3 July the sun rose at 04:37 and
set at 18:50. At sunset on 3 July 1187 the fighting did not stop. It is interesting that in those
light conditions the Muslims were still able to bring from the east convoys of provision and
at the same time keep harassing the Frankish encampment at Maskana. The moon, however,
rose only fourteen minutes after midnight, hence five hours and twenty-four minutes after
sunset. And when it rose, it was shining only in 28.2% moonlight capacity: five hours of
complete darkness on that dark night. These are definitely not ideal conditions for horse
riding, but one could easily find cover in the dark.
The sun rose (on both armies) the next morning again at 04:37, so we should consider the
possibility that the order to continue the march eastwards was given only after the sun was
high in the sky and out of the eyes of the Frankish archers facing east. In Arsuf the lunar
conditions were almost exactly the opposite. The sun rose at 05:22 on 6 September 1191
and set at 17:50.11 This gave the two forces at least twelve hours of sunlight. If the battle had
not taken place in the fields of Arsuf, the crusader forces would have had to march to Jaffa,
a distance of close to 20 km. This would not have been an easy challenge and an almost
impossible task to accomplish under fighting conditions.12 The moon during that night rose
1.27 hours after sunset. Since the night of 5 September 1191 had a full moon, it was most
likely a very clear night. In these lunar conditions the two rivals could theoretically be at
each other’s throats continually through the night. Such a clear night could have made
night-time horse-riding possible, but there would have been hardly any cover from arrows
with such moonlight.
Next morning the moon set only at 06:35, which was 1.12 hours after sunrise. Another
point that should be taken into account regarding the battle of Arsuf is that the crusader
force was marching to the south, but during their march the Muslim archers were standing
to the east of the crusaders, which gave the former a clear advantage during early morning
over the Latin forces facing not just the Muslims but also the sun. So we should consider
the possibility that the order to continue the march southwards was given to the crusader
forces, just as with Hattin, each day of their march only after the sun was high in the sky.
Water sources
The decisive defeat of the Frankish forces at Hattin is explained by the written sources and
researchers in different ways. But there is no dispute over one thing: the Muslims’ total
control of the main water sources along the Safori-Tiberias road and the slow movement of
469
the Frankish forces—carrying their own provisions, heavily armed in the extreme heat of
July—had led to the complete exhaustion of the Frankish army. There are few more impor-
tant points that should be taken into account regarding the water sources which were in
Frankish reach. The springs along the Safori-Tiberias road were discussed in past research,
special attention was given to the spring of Turan in relation to the mention of a water
source taken by the Franks and then abandoned (Prawer, 1980: 493; Lyons and Jakson,
1982: 259–260; Kedar, 1992: 196–97; Melville and Lyons, 1992: 208, 209, 211). Prawer
noted that the spring of Turan was unreachable for the Franks due to the presence of Muslim
bowmen in their flanks (Prawer, 1980: 493). Kedar showed that the water discharge of the
spring of Turan was significantly lower than other springs in the region, and therefore would
not be able to provide enough water for the thousands of men and animals in the Frankish
force (Kedar 1992: 196–197). The spring of Turan is located at the end of a narrow gorge/
wadi 1.5 m in length and no more than 60 m in width. The spring flowing out of a plastered
cave has almost no open space around, so it will not be possible for more than a few men
and horses to group at its entrance (Lewis, 2013: 350). The two spurs running along the two
sides of the wadi are controlling it from a height of sometimes tens of meters. In fact, due to
the extreme topography, the spring of Turan would be unreachable if one does not control
the two spurs running above it. It would make more sense that the water source mentioned
in Saladin’s letter (Melville and Lyons, 1992: 209, 211) was actually water flowing down
the wadi from the spring gathered at the entrance of Wadi Turan or where the modern Turan
village is located. But if Kedar’s observation is right, the spring’s low water discharge
would not make it all the way to the bottom of the wadi without trickling into the ground
(Lewis, 2013: 350).
Another possibility is that Saladin in his letter was actually referring to the seasonal
pool located to the south of the ruins of Maskana, Talmudic Mashkena13 (Marecalcia/
Mareschaucie), which was considered in the past also by several sources as possible water
source available to the Franks (Prawer, 1980: 489–490; Kedar, 1992: 198–199; Lewis, 2013:
350). Maskana pool is a small seasonal pool, and though it is based on what looks like a vol-
canic crater, it was modified and maintained by people in the past (Fig. 27.5). We can learn
this from several features located at the north-eastern and south-eastern points of the pool.
The first north-eastern feature is a channel that was cut and then built with basalt stones.
The channel runs north from the north-eastern corner of the pool, and along the basalt
plateau to its east and the western edge of the settlement. It was probably built by the
inhabitants in order to enlarge the catchment basin of the pool from the west and served to
maximize the collecting basin of the Maskana pool. Another feature which meets the north-
eastern part of the pool is a small road leading from the settlement of Maskana which over-
looks it. Today, due to modern development, only the beginning of the road can be seen, but
it is evident in aerial photos taken in 1945. The feature located at the south-eastern part of
the pool is an access ramp connecting the pool to the empyreal roman Sefori-Tiberias road.
This road was dated in the past, and again during the Battle of Hattin archaeological project
to the first half of the second century ce was in constant use to the beginning of the twentieth
century. The village of Maskana was inhabited during the Late Roman, and the Byzantine
periods and it is mentioned in the Ottoman cadastral register of 1555–1556. It was men-
tioned in Frankish sources regarding the Battle of Hattin as a casale (a village) (L’estoire
de Eracles: 63; Libellus: 223; Kedar, 1992: 198–199) and therefore Kedar concludes that it
is very likely that it was also inhabited during the twelfth century. Twelfth-century pottery
was found during three different archaeological surveys done at the site of Maskana support
470
Figure 27.5 Milestone positioned at the center of the Maskana pool probably for estimating water
level, and the same milestone by the Roman Road (Lewis, 2013: 293, fig. 83). Source: Author.
Kedar’s assumption (Leibner, 2004: 336–337; Lewis, 2013: 351). Maskana pool is an open
reservoir, and it is possible that the quality of water was not high. According to British
Intelligence in 1918, the water in the pool were considered to be good for animals but not
for men (Kedar, 1992: 200–201, n. 36). Today, though declared as a small national park, the
water in the pool is polluted by cattle and most likely also by the road traveling north, a gas
station, and an army camp located nearby.
Additional information regarding the pool of Maskana was gathered during the Battle of
Hattin Archaeological Project. It seems that the seasonal pool of Maskana is not as seasonal
as was expected in the past. Apparently, once in every few years, the pool remains with
substantial amount of water throughout the whole summer. After the channel leading water
into the pool from the north was reopened accidently, due to earthworks, during the winter
of 2008 the pool stayed with water until summer 2014. On 3 July 2009 the pool was meas-
ured and had approximately 1.2 million liters of water in it (Fig. 27.6) (Lewis, 2013: 295).
According to the Canadian Agri-Food Research Council an average-size horse (545 kg)
when not working hard drinks about 27 liters of water a day. Therefore during 3 July 2009
there was enough water in the pool to sustain 44,444 (not very thirsty) horses (Lewis, 2013:
351, n. 386). It should also be noted that apart from the Maskana pool there are four other
seasonal pools along the Roman road and in the Lubia/Hattin plain, although less impres-
sive than the one just discussed, and it is very likely that they were already dry in late spring,
just as today.14
As Herde suggested, because of the subtropical climate conditions in this region,
water cisterns were always the most common and repayable water source in the Levant
471
Figure 27.6 Maskana pool (from top to bottom): aerial photo from March
2006 with two sections, pool with water 4 July 2009, two sections taken
for estimation of amount of water (Lewis, 2013: 294, fig. 84). Source: Author.
(2002: 111–112). There are hundreds of such installations between Safori and Hattin, and
though water cisterns are hard to date by archaeological excavations, it is very likely that
because of their relations to other features in the landscape and the dating of the main set-
tlement in the region, most of the water cisterns were built in the Early Roman to Byzantine
periods and sustained by the villagers and farmers until 1948; in other words, they could
have been operating at the time of the battle of Hattin. Only in the village of Lubia, which
had continuous occupation from the Early Roman period to the mid-twentieth century, are
there over 200 water cisterns (Khalidi, 1992: 527; Alexandre, 2003: 27–9; Leibner, 2004:
341–343; Lewis, 2013: 246–250, 296, fig. 86, 297–298). Apart from a few rare cases of
water cisterns which were built from basalt stones and plastered, most of the water cis-
terns are cut into limestone, and therefore can be found mainly were this rock formation
exists (Lewis, 2013: 297–298). The survey done during the Battle of Hattin Archaeological
Project enabled us to follow, for the first time, the exact route traveled by the Frankish
472
forces through most of the area between Maskana and the Horns of Hattin (Lewis, 2013:
354–360). The Franks walked through most of 3 and 4 July 1187 in the valley of Turan
and the plain of Hattin, which are covered with a thick layer of alluvial soil with no water
cisterns on their way, while the Muslims were controlling the hills around them, which
are dotted with plenty of water cisterns. This could give the Muslims another consider-
able advantage over the Franks. Seven water cisterns (only one is functional today) were
located during the survey on Maskana (Lewis, 2013: 296). The artifacts destitution analy-
sis shows that the Franks crossed the watershed not far from two big water cisterns,15 but
even if those water cisterns were not contaminated by the Muslims and available to the
Franks, still the Muslims total control of the water cisterns should be considered as a major
factor in their decisive victory.
The march to Jaffa during the Third Crusade shows that the Latin forces preferred to
locate their encampments near running-water streams. Hence it was interesting to learn
how much daytime the crusaders would have had in order to get from one encampment to
the next during each single day. As mentioned earlier, by camping by the Wadi al-Falik
the night before the battle, the crusaders were provided with a good source of water, and
this also allowed them to camp on a well-protected position overlooking the land to the
north, east, and south. This would have been very important on the very clear night of
6 September 1191.
Albedo
Apart from sunlight and the availability of water sources, there is another environmental
factor that can effect human exhaustion. Albedo is the amount of electromagnetic radia-
tion, reflected from the sun, which is bounced back to the atmosphere after hitting and
heating different surfaces. The closer a man or animal is to the surface, the more they are
affected by the heat and radiation. The brighter a surface is, more electromagnetic radia-
tion will be returned from it to the atmosphere: snow, for instance, returns the highest
amount of radiation, but darker surfaces will absorb more of the radiation which could
turn to heat (Hall et al., 2005: 801–802, 810). During the Battle of Hattin, the Franks could
have used the volcanic crater and the basalt plateau overlooking the Maskana pool as an
encampment for the night of 3 July, but in the morning, walking from that point eastwards
on the dark soil of the basalt plateau, the heat generated from it would have been a major
factor adding to the heat and thirst from which they were already suffering (Lewis, 2013:
153–156, 365–367).
During the Battle of Arsuf, the sun could be reflected into the eyes of the crusaders and
Muslims. Theoretically, the albedo could have heated the sand dunes close to the shore, but
it is more likely that the crusader forces were marching between the first and second kurkar
ridges (Lewis, forthcoming), an area with more chance of coverage by coastline vegetation,
which will reduce the albedo effect to a minimum.
Wind direction and velocity

It is clear that wind direction and velocity could have a significant influence on humans,
especially on their capabilities of maneuvering and on their sight. It will also have great
effect on the accuracy and range of ballistic weapons. Those could be very important to the
outcome of historical events and understanding them. 16
473
The wind on the Hattin plain during summertime tends to blow from west or south-west.
The wind is strongest at about 11:00, at about 17:00 it will slow down, and then it starts
blowing stronger again at about 02:00. Table 27.1 gives data from the agro-metallurgical
station at Kibbutz Lavi (positioned on the Hattin plain) for the last five years.
The wind direction at Hattin blows from west to south-west and has two implications
for the battle. First, it will give considerable advantage to those shooting ballistic weapons
from the west—with the wind direction. An experimental archaeology test made during
the Battle of Hattin reenactment in 2011 showed that the range of an arrow shot from a
60 lb composite bow, at a 45 degree angle, can reach a distance of over 60 m when shot
with the wind direction and not against it.17 Second, and just as important, the western
winds blowing on the Hattin plain meant that the Muslims could only light a fire after the
Franks had crossed the Muslims line and the Franks were positioned to the east of them.
Any fire lit when the Franks were situated to the west of the Muslims troops would play
into Frankish hands, creating a screen of smoke between the two forces, cutting commu-
nication between the Muslim units or even burning the Muslims themselves (Lewis, 2013:
154–155, 365–367).
The wind in Arsuf, as in the coastal region of the eastern Mediterranean, usually starts
blowing in the morning, first from the south-west, and then during the day it moves clock-
wise and reaches the north-west in the afternoon. Usually the wind stops in the evening, and
starts up again during the second half of the night. It grows stronger, with the wind coming
from the highland region. According to Jaffe and Fledel (1990: 100), this is the general
characteristic of the wind throughout the year, but especially in summer. Changes from the
characteristics mentioned above usually happened between seasons (such as in September).
At that time (and in winter), hot, dry, and turbulent eastern winds descend from Mount
Carmel and Samaria to the Sharon. These can reach the speed of 20 knots (37.04 km per
hour) and more (Jaffe and Fledel, 1990: 100).
When the crusaders entered the forest of Arsuf, they were worried that the Muslims
would set it on fire (Ambroise, 1976: 248, 6095–6100). Through most of their march to the
south, the wind was blowing at the back of the marching crusaders, giving them an advan-
tage in ballistic range, the carrying of dust, and the direction that a forest fire would spread.
The wind direction can also provide another explanation as to why Saladin preferred attack-
ing the rearguard (at the north) throughout most of the march. Positioning his troops to the
east or to the south-east of the marching crusaders not only would have put his archers in
an inferior position but also would have unnecessarily risked the lives of his people owing
to the danger of forest fires extending from the north-west. By contrast, if we consider the
account by the Regis Ricardi, of clouds of dust covering both the crusaders and Muslims
Table 27.1 Wind speed (agro-metallurgical station Kibbutz Lavi)
Date Highest wind speed Date Highest wind speed Date Highest wind speed
(meters per second) (meters per second) (meters per second)
2.7.2009 9.9 3.7.2009 9.7 4.7.2009 8

2.7.2010 8.7 3.7.2010 9 4.7.2010 9.4
2.7.2011 9.1 3.7.2011 9.3 4.7.2011 10.1
2.7.2012 9.4 3.7.2012 7.9 4.7.2012 8.5
2.7.2013 7.6 3.7.2013 8.2 4.7.2013 9
474
(Stubbs, 1864: 271), this must be seen to be more than just a metaphor which was meant to
dramatize the event. It is likely therefore that in the early hours of 7 September, the wind
was not blowing hard or in a clear direction, and that as a result it did not provide an advan-
tage to either of the two rivals.
Temperature and humidity

Different levels of temperature and humidity can create a false reading of their effect on the
human body. Only by putting the temperature and humidity one against the other can we
really get an idea of the extent of the heat burden (Lewis, 2013: 152).
The temperature at the eastern Lower Galilee and Hattin is the same as for the rest of the
Levant, the highest during the month of August. The maximum temperature ever measured
in this region, 49°C, was at the Sea of Galilee. During summer at daytime, temperatures will
be between 20° and 23°C at 6:00 and will reach its maximum of 30° to 36°C at about 14:00.
In Nazareth the average temperature during summer is 30°C (Table 27.2).
Table 27.3 gives data from the agro-metallurgical station at kibbutz Lavi concerning
relative humidity measured from the last five years.
The climate in the Sharon plain, and Arsuf, is of Mediterranean temperatures. August
is the hottest month in the year, but the highest temperatures in the Sharon were actually
measured during the fall and spring. The temperature between the two main seasons can rise
up to 40°C (in the shade). The number of days in which the temperature is higher than 30°C
near the coastline is relatively low. The radiation in the Sharon is relatively lower than in
other regions in Israel because it is covered with clouds for many days throughout the year
(165 calories per square cm). However, fog during daytime is a rare phenomenon in the
Sharon, and if it happens, it disappears soon after sunrise (Jaffe and Fiedel, 1990: 99–100).
Though humidity is at its highest during the winter months, it is also high in summer and
the relative humidity is between 70% and 85% during the day, and at night can rise up to
95%. In addition, there are 200–240 nights of dew in a year, and a good number of these are
during the summer (Jaffe and Fiedel, 1990: 100).
One of the differences between the Battle of Hattin and the Battle of Arsuf is that on 6
September on the Sharon plain the two rivals stopped their quarrel for the night. At Hattin,
the fighting did not stop on the night of 3 July, and the Muslims archers continued to har-
ass the Franks at their encampment throughout the night, after a long day of fighting in
the blazing Levantine summer. In Arsuf, however, at least some of the warriors could get
some rest and even some sleep. But just as importantly, the Franks were sweating under
intense physical and mental difficulty. When one is wearing several layers of clothing, the
sweat can hardly evaporate. This helps with cooling the body during daytime, but at night,
when the relative humidity percentage can easily go over 90%, not taking off the armor and
drying the moisture under it would contribute significantly to the body’s dehydration and
exhaustion, even when at rest.18
ARCHAEOLOGICAL ASPECTS
Archaeology deals with a wide range of material culture. However, at this point I would
like to present only two case studies where archaeology can contribute significantly to the
understanding of a historical event that took place in the landscape; in other words, locating
time in space.
475
Table 27.2 Temperature (agro-metallurgical station Kibbutz Lavi)
Date Temperature Ground temperature Date Temperature Ground temperature Date Temperature Ground temperature
in Celsius 5 cm at 08:00 in Celsius 5 cm at 08:00 in Celsius 5 cm at 08:00
2.7.2009 23–36 28.6 3.7.2009 25.9–32.6 27.8 4.7.2009 25.8–31.5 27.6

2.7.2010 18.3–32.4 26.6 3.7.2010 20–33.1 27.1 4.7.2010 19.2–36.3 27.4
2.7.2011 19.6–34.1 24.9 3.7.2011 20.3–36.1 25.5 4.7.2011 21–35 26.1
2.7.2012 18.3–34.3 27.2 3.7.2012 23.6–33.4 28.5 4.7.2012 21.8–32.9 27.6
2.7.2013 18.6–31.7 26.7 3.7.2013 20.4–33.1 27.1 4.7.2013 18.6–33.8 26.9
Table 27.3 Relative humidity (agro-metallurgical station Kibbutz Lavi)
Date Relative humidity % Date Relative humidity % Date Relative humidity %
2.7.2009 17.4–81.2 3.7.2009 29.4–90.7 4.7.2009 36–90.2

2.7.2010 38–86.3 3.7.2010 42.7–87.4 4.7.2010 34.3–91.8
2.7.2011 32–84.2 3.7.2011 32.8–86.2 4.7.2011 24.5–88
2.7.2012 27.9–88.6 3.7.2012 21.4–79.4 4.7.2012 28.5–78.9
2.7.2013 34–87.1 3.7.2013 39.4–88.5 4.7.2013 29.8–93
Communications: road systems

Topography usually determines the way in which a network of roads is laid out in the
landscape. Generally, there is a strong link between land structure and the location of roads
in antiquity (Safrai et al., 1990: 253; Gibson, 1995: 237–258; Lewis, 2013: 269). In addi-
tion, continuity is one of the most important aspects in landscape archaeology. In relation
to roads, we find that people used the same tracks or lines in the landscape for thousands of
years. Because of these two factors (topography and continuity), roads should be classified
and understood as part of the structural features of the long durée.
Archaeologists have suggested different ways in which to classify roads (Gibson, 1995:
237; Roll, 1996: 153–154; Wilkinson, 2003: 60, 62, 113, 116). Due to the landscape archae-
ology approach of those two case studies, I adopted Gibson’s model for the categorization
of roads: international roads (highways); regional roads; local roads.
The main difference between Gibson’s approach to that of other researchers is that his
classification is free from directly referencing a specific construction technique, period, or
culture.19 Gibson regards roads as communication systems linking different types or levels
of settlements and trade centers with other landscape components such as agricultural fields,
industrial and agricultural installations, or burial complexes (Gibson, 1995: 237; Lewis,
2013: 269).
During the Battle of Hattin Archaeological Project, eighteen pre-modern roads (of all
the three different levels mentioned above) and nineteen road junctions were found, sur-
veyed, and in some cases excavated. Many of those roads were already present during
the Battle of Hattin and served travelers in this region for hundreds of years before and
after the Hattin campaign (Lewis, 2013: 269–291). One of the main questions that came
up in studies concerning the battle was whether on the morning of 4 July 1187 the Franks
were marching to the springs of Hattin or were still following their initial plan, getting
to Tiberias (Prawer, 1980: 493; Kedar, 1992: 202–203; Lewis, 2013: 373). The artifact
distribution analysis done during the Battle of Hattin Project points out that the Franks
crossed the watershed (the hills of Lavi) at exactly the location where they left the inter-
national road to Tiberias and climbed north to the Hattin plain. Initially, it would seem
that the climbing by the Franks north toward the Hattin plain while leaving the Saforie-
Tiberias road supports Prawer’s theory that at that point they were aiming toward the
Springs of Hattin. But a more detailed look at the road system map drawn during the Battle
of Hattin Project will suggest otherwise, as it reveals that even from the Hattin plain the
Franks could continue advancing toward Tiberias on a regional road, bypassing the Horns
of Hattin from the south (Fig. 27.7). This road that runs along the southern border of the
Hattin plain and an extensive co-axial field system could eventually lead them back to the
Saforie-Tiberias road they had left earlier (Lewis, 2013: 277 fig. 74, 278, 283–284 table 19,
285–289, 373). Once it was understood where the watershed was crossed, we could recon-
struct it chronologically and suggest a point where other events, mentioned by the sources,
occurred. Those series of events (which will not be discussed here), accompanied by the
fire ignited by the Muslims after they crossed them to the east, drove the Franks to make
a last stand on the volcanic hill on the eastern border of the plain and on the fields just to
its west (Prawer, 1980: 497–500; Kedar, 1992: 204; Nicolle, 1993: 65–79; Herde, 2002:
139–140; Lewis, 2013: 3360–3373).
Due to their terrible state of preservation, it is hard to reconstruct the ancient road sys-
tems in the western part of the Sharon plain based on the existing archaeological record.
477
Figure 27.7 Map of roads and junctions between Maskana and Tiberias studied
during the Battle of Hattin Project. Source: Author.
Learning about the road system can be done mainly by relying on sources such as the posi-
tion of one or two ancient urban centers, mid-nineteenth- to mid-twentieth-century cartog-
raphy, and aerial photographs taken before the intensive modern development (Roll and
Ayalon, 1989: 222–223; Safrai et al., 1990: 249, 256–258; Roll, 1994: 38–40; Wilkinson,
2003: 33–37; Lewis, 2013: 120–123, 133–188; Lewis, forthcoming).
Smail argued that the Franks were not dependent on roads when applying the fight-
ing technique known as the “fighting-march” (1956: 304–305). Smail’s analysis infers that
the study of road systems is neither relevant for the Arsuf and Hattin campaigns nor for
any other Frankish military affair that involved this tactic. I tend to disagree with this,
since even if physically Frankish men and their horses did not have to walk on the paved
roads, they were still bound to travel on the same network of roads which was based on the
region’s infrastructure.
It is evident from the road-system map that there were at least four land roads (Roll and
Ayalon, 1989: 229, fig. 140) in the sub-region, among them one international and three
regional roads, leading to and from Apollonia-Arsuf (Fig. 27.8). Crossroads are points for
decision-making; if one wants to influence the decision of an opponent then a road junction
will be just the right place to do this. The road junction near Arsuf must be regarded as a
regional focal point. Connecting different levels of roads, it was the most important junc-
tion between Caesarea and Jaffa. It is evident that this focal point attracted a lot of human
activity, including that of military conflicts (Gichon, 1990: 289–317).20 In fact, the Arsuf
road junction could be the key for understanding why the event took place in this specific
location between Caesarea and Jaffa. The Arsuf junction presents a dilemma: either going
south along the coast to Jaffa or proceeding to the east toward Jerusalem.
Arsuf was the first place to be encountered in the march down the coast from where the
crusaders could actually leave the coastal road and then go east to Jerusalem. Marching
to Jerusalem through the broad Lydda (Lod) plain could suit their battle tactics in the best
way.21 Saladin undoubtedly took a greater risk by attacking the crusaders at Arsuf: a deci-
sive loss on his side might have sent the crusader army straight on to Jerusalem. I would like
478
Figure 27.8 Road and junctions at the vicinity of Apollonia/Arsuf. Aerial photograph
(dev-12 60196021. 28.1.1946). Source: Author.
to suggest that Saladin was not fully aware that their target at that point was in fact Jaffa and
not Jerusalem. As mentioned earlier, the Muslim defeat at Arsuf was no more than a moral
blow, but the capture of Acre was much more significant.
Saladin took the risk and attacked with all his might. He lost the battle, but the assault
at Arsuf contributed significantly to the fact that the crusader forces decided not to march
straight on to Jerusalem (Lewis, forthcoming).
479
The Walls of Hattin

During the archaeological Project of Hattin many areas and features, which went through
tremendous changes over the years, were studied archaeologically. One evident change
that was made relates to the ancient fortification walls surrounding the Horns dated to
the Late Bronze Age and to the Iron Age IIa–b. The excavation of several archaeological
features on the Horns of Hattin itself exposed a complicated complex. Late Bronze and
Iron Age IIa-b settlements existed on the mountain. It seems that the basalt soil eroded
into the main crater, together with the laying of the co-axial field system in the second
century ce on a good deal of the eastern Lower Galilee, covered a series of buildings and
structures dated to those periods and maybe others (Gal, 1992: 213–214; Lewis, 2013:
260–268) (Fig. 27.9).
This is the testimony of one of the villagers of Hattin who during the 1948 Arab–Israeli
war defended their village from the top of the Horns just as strategic reasoning would
recommend:
We joined our lookouts on the Horns of Hi[a]ttin. Numerically, we were fewer; however,
our position overlooked theirs … we saw every move they made. As they advanced
towards us … we fought them fiercely for more than four hours and forced them to halt.
A few of us went down the mountain and dug in behind the rocks; when they opened fire,
the Jews thought that they were trapped and decided to retreat.
(Khalidi, 1992: 522–523)
Figure 27.9 Main features on the Horns of Hattin. Source: Author.
480
After the Israeli Independence War and taking over the Horns of Hattin (in the second
attempt) during Operation Dekel, the Israeli Defense Forces and the city officer of Tiberias
fortified the mountain. Comparing the photos taken before and after 1948 demonstrates that
new roads were cut into and around the Horns and that trenches were dug into the ancient
walls themselves. This information has tremendous implications for our understanding of
the final stages of the battle. Back in 1823 Rae Willson still had to get off his mule in order
to climb to the Horns and so did other pilgrims and travelers (Rae Wilson, 1824: 221;
Hodder, 1878: 273). It is evident, however, that when the Frankish army reached the Horns
of Hattin, probably toward midday of 4 July, the walls circling them would have been much
closer in character to those visible on the images taken before 1948.

The secondary crater is also open to the south-west, but unlike the main crater, there is
no natural or manmade feature which can prevent horses from getting to its peak through
the field that climbs gradually to it. Though the crater is accessible from the west, its peak
can still be well protected. This is due to the fact that the Iron Age IIa–b wall runs along
its southern border and a natural wall of basalt boulders is running along its northern edge.
The field between those two walls measures 120 by 80 m. Approaching the northern Horn,
would mean crossing through a blind spot. It would seem that due to this special layout of
archaeological and natural features, the northern Horn could be approached by horses and
could also be easily defended. At the peak of the Horn there is an open area (about 8.5 m in
diameter). This feature, which is probably the top of the volcanic chimney of the secondary
crater, is almost clear of stones. Despite the different obstacles mentioned, the battlefield
south-west and south of the peak can be viewed easily from the height of a man standing at
this point on the peak of the northern Horn (Fig. 27.11). The fact that the peak of the Horns
can be approached by cavalry, it can be protected and that the battlefield can be viewed
Figure 27.10 Looking west to the battlefield from the peak of the northern horn.
Photograph: Author.
481
Figure 27.11 Eye sight from the height of 1.7 m. The area covered is marked in white
(Socet GXP, courtesy of BAE Systems; Lewis, 2013: 369, fig. 126). Source: Author.
from it would make it the most appropriate place for King Guy’s position during the final
stages of the battle. However, only a handful of people and horses could stand together on
the northern Horn’s peak.
It seems that, unlike suggestions in the past (Prawer, 1980: 499), there is evidence
that horses (at least in large numbers) could not climb into the main crater of the volcano
and definitely could not be grouped and charge toward Saladin’s position.22 It seems that
only infantry could climb into the main crater and up to the southern Horn. But a small
group of horses and riders could climb up to the peak of the northern Horn and use it as
a last stand, or could serve the Frankish king and his company as a stronghold where he
was finally captured. Moreover, as just mentioned above, since only a small group of
horses could group on the northern peak, it would seem that most of the knights were
cornered against the volcanic hill without being able to use it as refuge. If the typical
western winds were also blowing on the plain on that day, carrying the fire and their
arrows eastward, the Muslims would have had another considerable advantage on the
encircled knights.
482
THE LOCATION OF THE BATTLE OF ARSUF

AND THE LOCATION OF THE ARSUF
(SHARON) FOREST
The forest of Arsuf/Arsur was once part of a very large area of woodland stretching over most
of the Sharon plain of modern Israel (Waisel and Agami, 1990: 118–120; Ehrlich, 2014: 113).
One of the great enigmas concerning the reconstruction of the landscape of the southern
Sharon plain on the eve of the battle pertains to the location of the Arsuf forest. According
to Conder and Kitchener: “The country south-west of Mukhalid is an open woodland of
oak, the trees attaining a fair size” (1881: 136). The two explorers identify the wood as
the crusader’s forest of Arsur, located between the Salt River (Nahr Iskanderuneh/modern
Alexander) and Rochetaillie (al-Falik/Poleg) (Conder and Kitchener, 1881: 136). The forest
may also be seen delineated on the Survey of Western Palestine map from 1880 together
with the legendary “Oak Forest” (Conder and Kitchener, 1881, Sheet X, scale one inch to
the mile). The forest is marked on the map approximately at the village of Mukhalid and
extends southwards from the al-Falik stream, south-east to Kefar Saba, and almost as far as
al-Haram (Sayiduna [Sidna] ‘Ali) on the south-west.
According to Ambroise, on the day before the battle the crusader forces came out of the
forest and camped on open land near Rochetaillie. It could be understood from Ambroise
that the Arsuf forest’s southern border was on the banks of Rochetaillie/al-Falik (Prawer,
1984: 74), but it is clear from the eye-witness cited in Ibn Shaddād’s description of the bat-
tle that the three charges made against the Muslims took place near the woods and in that
direction (Ibn Shaddād, 2002: 175).
It seems that the literary sources on the Battle of Arsuf actually give us the approximate
western boundary of that famous and long-gone forest. According to Ibn Shaddād, the cru-
sader forces charged three times against their enemy. Those cavalry charges were directed
(mainly) toward the east, because of the danger of being drawn into an ambush (in the forest),
and thus the charges were stopped at its edge (Ibn Shaddād, 2002: 175). Ibn al-Athīr tells
us: “close to the Muslims there was a grove of dense trees which the Muslims entered and
the Franks suspected that it was a trick, so they withdrew and took the pressure off them”
(2007: 391). Ambroise claims that the Muslims fled into the woods, climbed up trees and
hid behind the bushes (1976: 261, 6519–6520).
The detailed archaeological field study, done at the valley located between the first and
second kurkar ridges and just north-east of Arsuf, leads us to believe that this is where the
Battle of Arsuf took place. Though the fields of Arsuf went through great changes due to
modern development, a decision was made after the reconstruction of the landscape to try
to look for the material signature of the Battle of Arsuf. Fortunately, a handful of finds23
that could be related to the battle were located in close proximity to each other by a metal
detector (Lewis, forthcoming).
Though we might have some sources that may suggest that the crusaders chased the
Muslim for a distance of up to two leagues or in the direction of the sea (Ambroise, 1976:
261, 6523–6529; Edbury, 1996: 180), I think there is good reason to believe that the three
charges described were made toward the east and were stopped at the forest’s edge. If the
charge was made by the crusader forces toward the east, and taking into account the artifacts
found during the survey together with the range of an arrow and the distance of an affective
cavalry charge, it is reasonable to point to the approximate distance from the battlefield to
the western border of the Arsuf forest.
483
It has been shown how crucial and vital archaeological and environmental aspects can be
for the understanding of historical events. But it seems that the case of the Battle of Arsuf
shows that this works in both directions, when the written and archaeological evidence can
help us point to the approximate location of the lost forest of Arsuf.
CONCLUSION
There are many other matters which were studied during the Battle of Hattin and the Battle
of Arsuf Projects, which were not brought up here. The main objective of this chapter was
to show the importance of widening our point of view, on what was once considered as
strictly historical objective. Hattin and Arsuf were the first time that a research framework
for the discipline of Battlefield Archaeology24 was presented and applied successfully in
the Levant. The fact that the two case studies chosen were of crusader battlefields is not
coincidental and relates to the great number of sources and the eminence of the historical
studies on them. Those works were fundamental for this archaeological field study which
attempted to find and understand the material imprint of the short durée. Those studies were
also important because some of them already initiated a multidisciplinary approach. But it
was mainly demonstrated here that written, environmental, and archaeological perspectives
should always be considered at an almost equal level when looking into a historical event
such as a field battle and warfare including our subject matter—the Latin East.
NOTES
I am indebted to Prof. Tal and the Israel Antiquities Authority (IAA) for supporting this study
during the academic year 2013–14. I would also like to thank Dr. Huake Kenzler for his remarks
on the script and the rest of the Apollonia excavation team from the Tel Aviv University and the
University of Tübingen, for their support during the project.
1 The Battle of Hattin Project was carried out by the author of this chapter during his doctoral study.
The PhD thesis titled Archaeology of Conflict: The Decisive Stage of the Battle of Hattin as a Case
Study, supervised by Prof. A. Boas, was granted by the University of Haifa.
2 The Battle of Arsuf Project was carried out as a post-doctoral research project by the author at
Tel Aviv University, Department of Archaeology and Ancient Near Eastern Cultures, under the
supervision of Prof. O. Tal.
3 In my dissertation I argued that historical events such as battles, political assassinations, and even
natural disasters, which are of short duration, have to be examined in the light of the structural (i.e.
long durée) and the circumstantial-cyclical (i.e. medium durée) categories as well. Events cannot
really be fully understood without the researcher initiating the broader perspective, moving from
the macro (as represented by the landscape) to the micro (as represented by the specific artifact). In
fact, the approach taken by the Annales School has been adopted here, and seems to contribute to the
broadening of our knowledge more than the Historical-Positivist School (Lewis, 2013: 80–4).
4 The summary of events on the two battles discussed is presented at this point for the general
orientation of the reader. The main preliminary sources for the battle where presented, debated
and assessed mainly by Prawer and Kedar (Prawer, 1980: 484–486; Kedar, 1992: 192). The main
preliminary sources for the battle are: Theodericus, Libellus de Locis Sanctis, eds. M.L. and W.
Bulst, (1976), Heidelberg; L’estoire de Eracles empereur la conqueste de la Terre d’Outremer,
(1844–1859), RHCr.Occ., II, Paris: 52; L. de Mas Latrie, (ed.), (1871), Chronique d’Ernoul et
de Bernard le Trésorier, Paris: 155–166; Röhricht, R. (1893–1904), Regesta regni hierosoly-
mitani and Additamentum, Innsbruck No. 664a, No. 658, Nos. 661 and 661 Additamentum,
No. 660; Principes transmarinae Ecclesiae ad Fridericum I, M. G. H. SS., XXI, 475; Ibn al-Athir,
484
The Chronicle of Ibn al-Athir for the Crusading Period from Al- Kāmil fi’l-ta’rikh, trans.
D.S. Richards (2007), Ashgate: Aldershot: 322–324; Kraemer, J. (1952), Der Struz des Königreichs
Jerusalem (583/1187) in der Darstellung des ‘Imad ad-Din al- Katib al- Isfahani. Wiesbaden;
Abū Shāma (1898), Le livre des deux jardins, in RHC. Or. vol. 4, Paris: 286–287ss.; MS REG.
LAT. 598.; Al-Safadi, al-Wāfi bi-l Wafāyāt, ed. A. al-Arnā’ūt and T. Mustafā, (2000), vol 6 of 29,
Beirut p.117; MS 6024; Bahāʽal-Din Ibn Shaddād (1884), Anecdotes et beaux Traits de la Vie du
Sultan Youssof in RHC. Or. vol. 3, Paris.
5 The location of this battle is still uncertain; a few possible locations were suggested in the past
by travelers and scholars (Palmer, 1881: 122; Conder and Kitchener, 1881: 413; Abel, 1938:
422; Prawer, 1984: 529–530; Guerin, 1985: 111–112; Pringle, 2001: 239; Ibn al-Athir, 2007:
319; Lewis, 2013: 10–11). A recent archaeological study undertaken by the author of this chapter
shows that a violent event occurred at the springs of Saforie during the late twelfth to early thir-
teenth centuries. This could strengthen Ibn al-Athir’s account about the location of the battle by
those springs (Ibn al-Athir, 2007: 319; Lewis, 2013: 345–346).
6 It is unclear if Balowin de Iblin himself retreated already at this point or later in the battle.
7 Richard I himself was also injured by an arrow.
8 The Normans and English (Anglo-Normans) were held in reserve (Gillingham, 1999: 178;
Nicolle, 2005: 78).
9 The main preliminary sources for the battle are: Ltin peregr. Gest. Regis Ricardi, c. XVII–XX (ed.
W. Stubbs: 260–77); Ambroise, L’Estorie, v. 6125–6730 (ed. G. Paris, cols. 163–180); cf. Hubert
and La Monte 1941: 249–68; Bahā al-Dīn Ibn- Shaddād (trans. D. S. Richards) (2002), The Rare
and Excellent History of Saladin. Aldershot; Imad ad-Din al-Katib al-Isfahani (tr. H. Massè),
Conuête de la Syrie et de la Palestine par Saladin, 383–388 (340–4), Paris; Abu Shamah, Kitab
al-Rawdatayn’ in Recueil Historens des Croidades: Historiens Orientaux, IV&. V, Paris (1898).
10 According to the Wise Observatory Center in Ramon (http://wise-obs.tau.ac.il/~eran/Wise/wise_
calen.html).
11 According to the Wise Observatory Center in Ramon (http://wise-obs.tau.ac.il/~eran/Wise/wise_
calen.html).
12 During the march to Tiberias from Saforie on the 3 July 1187 the Franks covered a distance of
about 17 km.
13 “Mashkena”–Mishkenot–Mishkan in Hebrew means ‘dwellings’.
14 One east of Maskane Poll (188600/242986), another on the plain of Hattin (192730/244950) both
unnamed, a third pool located south of the Horns of Hattin (194000/244590), which is called on
the Survey of Western Palestine map Birket el- Kurum (The vineyards’ pool) and a fourth pool
located today at the eastern edge of Kibutz Lavi (191990/244000) which was given on the map of
Tiberias 1:20.000 from 1942 a very unpromising name – Birkat er-Riqq (the empty pool).
15 One which still functions today was dated during the survey to the Early Roman period.
16 It should be taken in to account that the data available on the two battlefields are different due to the
fact that there is an agro-metallurgical station of the Hattin battlefield. This is not the case in Arsuf.
17 Wind speed on this specific day was as high as 10.1 m. per second, the highest speed recorded and
presented in Table 27.1.
18 During the Battle of Hattin reenactment of 3 July 2010, four of the reenactors where monitored
physically by the author of this chapter. Data were collected on: height, weight, percentage of
water (and alcohol), body temperature, and blood pressure. Though there were only four subjects
measured, it was interesting to see that while three of the subjects maintained their body tempera-
ture around 37°C through the walk (of 17 km), the fourth subject’s body temperature dropped to
34.5°C (hypothermia) at 15 km and because of this he could not continue to the next day.
19 Roll classified roads into four categories: countryside roads; local roads; main roads; and Roman
roads (Roll, 1996: 153–154). Wilkinson’s classification is: formal and paved roads; paved roads in
highlands; cutting (mountain crossings); linear hollows; rural tracks with boundary walls; stepped
tracks; wheel ruts; desert tracks (Wilkinson, 2003: 60, 62, 113, 116).
485
20 Because of structural reasons, Arsuf remained an important junction even after it was taken by the
Mamluk army in late April 1265 (Tal and Roll, 2011), and the settlement itself had no apparent
significance.
21 Saladin probably remembered very clearly the event occurring on that same plain on 25 November
1177, later known as the Battle of Montgisard, during which his army suffered a major loss at the
hands of the Franks led by Baldwin IV and he was almost killed there (Ehrlich, 2013).
22 On the possible location of Saladin during the final stages of the battle in relation to what can be
viewed from dominating point over the battlefield and a study of eyesight in relation to different
features, see Lewis, 2013: 368–70.
23 Two arrowheads, a horse harness fittings (part of curb bit?), a horseshoe nail (violin key type) and
a punctured metal plate (part of a Great Helm?) (Lewis, forthcoming).
24 It was agreed in 2008, during the 5th Biennial Fields of Conflict Conference in the city of Ghent,
that Battlefield Archaeology is a sub-discipline of Archaeology of Conflicts (Bradley, 2008: 30;
Lewis, 2003: 3).
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489
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE HOSPITALLER CASTLE OF BELVOIR:

SETTING THE SCENE FOR A DISCUSSION
OF THE TOPOGRAPHY, GEOLOGY

AND ARCHITECTURE
Vardit Shotten-Hallel, Eytan Sass and Lydia

Perelis Grossowicz
INTRODUCTION
A detailed archaeological and historical study of Belvoir Castle is currently underway

as part of a long-term research project.1 The aim of this chapter is to provide an intro-
ductory platform for engaging some questions regarding the architecture of Belvoir. While
these questions are not new and were indeed addressed in the past, this chapter attempts to
look closely at the core features of Belvoir and infer only those relevant to the timeframe
and the unique social fabric in which it was shaped. The study of these features requires a
multidisciplinary approach. Hence, the methodology applied here is based on an examina-
tion of the castle’s various components, the analyses of the building materials and the inte-
gration of the data with the historical documents and the archaeological finds.
Whether we perceive Belvoir as a ‘concentric castle’,2 ‘enclosure castle’ or ‘double cas-
trum’,3 we must first examine the core features in order to decipher their meaning. They
relate to the construction and the architecture of Belvoir and particularly to one of its most
important components: the chapel. The church or chapel of any castle or monastic establish-
ment is a key element for the understanding of its plan and the interrelations between its
various, religious and lay, modules. The first part of this chapter examines the architectural
layout of the castle. By analysing several building elements and distinguishing between dif-
ferent construction phases, we are able to propose a location for a chapel.4 The second part
of this study deals with the topographical and geological settings, including a discussion
of the main building materials used in the castle and the recently surveyed quarries located
in its vicinity. This analysis, in our view, is a key element in understanding the architec-
ture of Belvoir. In the synthesis we will focus on the building materials used to engage
the question of the identity of Belvoir chapel, and specify attributes typical to Hospitaller
church or chapel buildings. We suggest, although there is no certainty as to the original
490
— chapter 28: The Hospitaller castle of Belvoir —
location of the ‘castle chapel’, that from the surviving elements it is possible to draw several
preliminary conclusions about its plan. As work, both archaeological and historical, is still
in progress, we will focus on the following questions and suggest a point of departure for
future discussion.
OUTSTANDING QUESTIONS
The general plan of Belvoir consists of a deep moat, open on the east, and outer defences
built from the bedrock as a glacis. Posterns leading to the moat were located in the outer
defence line which in the level of the castle formed vaulted halls and galleries. An open area
separated the outer line of defence and the inner castle, which was built around a central
courtyard. Four towers were located at each of the inner castle corners. A staircase from the
south side of the courtyard ascends to the upper level where dormitories and a chapel were
probably located during the second and probably also during the first phase of Hospitaller
presence at Belvoir (Fig. 28.1).
The first issue addressed here relates to the dating of the castle chapel. The architectural
analyses and the historical documentation will be used to aid this, yet some gaps cannot be
bridged at present. Although it is accepted that the castle was built anew in one campaign,
we will try to break down the chronology of the construction by looking at the differ-
ent occupation phases. This model will provide explanations to construction phases and to
issues relating to heterogeneous architectural style of the elements found in the site. The
initial construction of Belvoir Castle commenced in the third quarter of the twelfth century
when the Hospitaller Order was led by Gilbert d’Assailly (1163–70). Under his mastership,
Moat
W tower
NW Inner Tower
Courtyard Cistern in Courtyard
Outer defence Space between outer

and inner castle
Cistern
SE Gate
Figure 28.1 Aerial photograph of Belvoir. Photograph: Dubi Tal, 2004.
491
— S h o t t e n - H a l l e l , S a s s a n d P e re l i s G ro s s o w i c z —
the order was deeply involved in large-scale military and financial projects: in the Egyptian
campaigns of King Amalric, in purchasing large tracts of lands, farms and building and in
the defence of several castles.5 The second issue to consider relates to identity. Belvoir is
classified as a well-designed military castle, built by the Hospitaller Order of St John. Its
location on the eastern frontier of the Latin Kingdom, the topographical setting, its plan
and architectural features qualify to the highest standards of military construction. The dual
character of the Hospitaller Order, as a military and a religious institution, imposed creat-
ing a unique fabric of establishment that had to accommodate military and monastic func-
tions at the same time. Therefore, design scheme principles and architectural components
corresponding to its military function and its religious identity had to be implemented and
could, at times, come into conflict. The estimated location and the plan of the castle chapel
in particular embodied the complexity of a castle built by a military religious order in the
Latin East. The third issue relates to materiality. The materials employed in the castle, espe-
cially stone, are the key to understanding and reconstructing the architectural plan of the
castle chapel. Although the location of the chapel has not yet been confirmed, we are able
to distinguish now the architectural elements, the sculptures and the masonry of the chapel
from those of the castle.
Dating
The first Frankish settlement in the area was during the reign of Fulk of Anjou (1131–43).6
The two periods of Hospitaller presence at Belvoir discussed here begun during the mas-
tership of two grand masters. The first period, from c. 1168, begun in the years of Gilbert
d’Assailly (1163–70). With his controversial resignation only a couple of years after the
acquisition of Belvoir, a period of growth in power, possessions and acquisitions of the
Hospitaller Order was ending.7 The second Hospitaller occupation of the site began, most
probably, during in the years of Peter of Vieille Bride (1240–42) and lasted until the rise
of Baybars and his raid of the Galilee between 1263 and 1266 when the Templar Castle of
Safed fell.8
The question of dating is relevant for the identification of the architecture of Belvoir
chapel and to several other elements including the west tower of the inner castle, the adja-
cent rooms and the staircase in the central courtyard.9 These architectural elements are
essential for analysing the arrangements of functions within the castle. At present it is hard
to establish whether these elements were built at the first phase of Hospitaller occupancy
of the site, altered by the Ayyubid, renewed during the second Hospitaller phase or during
the Mamluk period. The assumed second Hospitaller occupancy of the site (1241–66) was
a little longer than the first (1168–89), if we take 1266 as a last possible date.10 By the mid-
dle of the thirteenth century there was no doubt about the need to refortify and garrison the
castle to face the new threats from Egypt and the Khwarizmians who occupied Jerusalem
(1244). This must have been a challenging task after the devastating result and the great
casualties of the battle of La Forbie later that year, which also caused financial deficiency
in the order.11 There is no explicit evidence regarding settlement at Belvoir after 1266.12
Identity
In the research of Frankish architecture, Belvoir is regarded as ‘one of the finest cas-
tle designs produced by the Franks in the East’,13 ‘the first of the concentric castles’,14
492
and ‘a milestone in castle design’,15 to mention just a few. The meaning ascribed to this
well-designed structure was habitually military and the monastic or cloistral character of
Belvoir has only scarcely been discussed.16 This aspect was overlooked by contemporary
Latin and Muslim sources who also associated Belvoir with a military stronghold, in the
same way that the Order of the Hospital was perceived.17 Theodoric, writing in 1172,
a few years after the construction of Belvoir reported: ‘In cuius vicino monte praecelso
hospitarii fortissimum et amplissimum castrum constituerunt, ut adversus Noradini,
halapiensis tyranni, insidias terram citra Jordanem sitam possint tueri.’18 William of Tyre
also refers to it as a castle: ‘castrum novum cui nomen est hodie Belveir’.19 In the Muslim
sources, Belvoir appears as a military stronghold. In a letter al-Fadl addressed to Saif al-
Din, Belvoir is described as the Hospitaller base where their leader, weapons and muni-
tions are concentrated:20
.‫ ومستقر صاحب امرهم وموقع سالحهم وذخرهم‬,‫وهى كرسى االسبتارية ودار كفرهم‬
Even if Belvoir was not regarded as a monastic institution by its contemporary view-
ers, there is no doubt that its proprietors strove to integrate the order’s military require-
ments with those of its monastic way of life. Master Gilbert d’Assially himself stressed
this particular exceptional characteristic, amongst others, of his order: ‘Nos itaque et fratres
nostri, religioni miliciam commiscentes, in ejus defensione continue labore.’21 This dual
insight is manifested in the building: from the layout, design and architecture, through the
various functions and even more so, in the visual appearance of several components. The
Augustinian Rule, from which the Hospitaller Rule drew inspiration, discloses no building
requirements or standards. It is intriguing then to examine how Belvoir, no doubt a military
structure, functioned at the same time as a monastic establishment, although by the time
the castle was built the character of the order was yet to be developed, as reflected in the
statutes of 1182 where the first mention of fratribus armorum appears.22 To do so we can
compare the distinctive architectural components of each type. Table 28.1 illustrates how
these components are manifested at Belvoir.
Presenting a compacted plan we can assume the external castle was inhabited by the lay
community and served for storage and defence, the ground floor of the inner castle was used
for the domestic activities (kitchen, refectory) and the upper level was for the use of the
brethren (dormitories, chapel, possibly a chapter house, private chambers for officials). The
architectural differentiation between secular and religious buildings was also articulated in
the materiality of the castle’s construction and the castle chapel was recognisable not only
by form but also by material as the external fortifications were built using different material
from the inner castle.
Materiality
Topographical and geological setting
Belvoir Castle is situated 298 m above sea level, in the north-west Jordan Valley of Israel.
Located on the east slope of the Kokhav Plateau, convenient access to the site is from the
west, a significant factor in terms of roads for transporting large quantities of building
materials.23 The Kokhav Plateau, formed by a series of faults, is located at the western
margin of the African-Syrian Rift. The area is built mainly of Neogene (23–2.6MA) and
493
Table 28.1 Features of concentric castle and cloistral monastic establishment at Belvoir
Features Concentric castle Cloistral monastic establishment
Location Evidently located in a frontier area, Belvoir Ideally isolated from urban centres.
was located S of Tiberias, an area
administrated by the Hospitallers during
the last quarter of the twelfth century.
Topography Manmade cut in the escarpment of Kokhav No Holy Sites are associated with
plateau, vacating the site for the castle and the purchase of Belvoir.
a surrounding moat.
Water supply Two water reservoirs: small cistern in the Source of water: cistern, spring
inner court and a larger one in the outer or manmade basin used for the
bailey (providing, according to Ben-Dov, sacraments.
more than 500 cubic m).
Burial grounds NE NE
Architectural components
Moat Surrounded by a dry moat (bridge on the W NA
face?). Access was via the main gate in
the SE corner of the castle.
Barbican E face of the castle, protruding the outer line NA
of defence.
External Outer line of walls. NA
fortifications
Glacis The surrounding glacis is alternating with NA
the natural rock, inconsecutive along all
faces.
Inner castle Inner castle well defended and self-contained Serve as a cloister for the brother
with water and storage spaces for food, knights, separating them from
weapons and munitions. the lay community.
Fortifications/ Corner towers projected from a glacis NA
towers pierced only with posterns in both outer
and inner fortifications.
Church/Chapel Castle chapel Church/Chapel located at the N
of the convent. In Belvoir the
chapel/s was probably located in
the W inner tower.
Bell tower NA Required in Hospitaller houses.a
Chapterhouse NE NE – presumably on the upper
level.
Kitchens Located in the SE area of the courtyard.
Cooking vessels and other kitchen utensils
were found during the excavations.
Refectory According to M. Ben-Dov, the refectory was The community ate twice a day in
located adjacent to the kitchen.b common, the meals divided to
two shifts.c
Dormitories Halls for the castellan (castellanus), chaplain Separated halls for chaplain,
and other high-rank officers or visitors, knights, brother sergeants and
these were likely to be separated. Halls lay personnel.
for knights and for brother sergeants that
might have been joined.
494
Latrines NE NE
Cellars Inner vaults for shelter, safe movement and Storage of wine and foodstuff.
storage of wine and foodstuff.
Treasury NE NE
Drapery NE NEd
Infirmaries NE NE
Walls Thick walls arranged in number of lines NA
Windows In the inner castle only. Required for lighting and
ventilation. There is no evidence
of windows in the remains of the

ground floor.
Sorties (and Inner courtyard, inner wall staircase (SE). Day stairs Staircase in the
staircases) Posterns to the moat. inner courtyard
served to
approach the
upper level.
Night stairs NE
Galleries Galleries for additional firing positions. Providing separated area for the
knights.
Staircases Wide enough to accommodate fully Staircase in the inner courtyard
equipped knights’ movement. served to approach the chapel.
Firing and Firing and viewing apertures in inner towers. NA
viewing
apertures
Scriptoria NA NE
Notes: NA – not applicable; NE – no evidence.
a The Statutes of Hugh Revel as decreed in the Chapter General of 19 September 1262 Cart III, 43–54, no. 3039:
31: the bell for dinner was sounded on a fixed time, daily and on the occasion of Fridays and Festivals. In clause
27, the requirement to come to the Sunday Procession: ‘Statutum est quod omnes diebus dominicis fratres
veniant ad processionem, illis exceptis qui erunt aliquo domus negocio occupati.’
b Ben-Dov, M. (1969) Excavations in the Crusader Fortress of Kokhav Hayarden. Qadmoniot (in Hebrew), 2 (1):
22–7, at 26.
c Cart I, 62–8 no. 70 (Rule) 11; Cart. II, 536–47, no. 2213 (esgarts) 26–7; Cart II, 547–61, no. 2213 (usances) 105,
124.
d Cart II, no. 2213, esgart 39, usance 109.
Quaternary (2.6MA till present) volcanics and sediments.24 The stratigraphic sequence
consists of over 600 m that include: 1) the Lower Basalt (part of the Hordos Formation,
Tiberias Group, lower to middle Miocene, base not exposed in the area); 2) the Dead
Sea Group (late Miocene – Pliocene) sediments and volcanics that include a) the Umm
Sabune conglomerate (0–200 m consisting mainly of basaltic pebbles and granules
eroded from the Lower Basalt), b) the marine Bira Formation (marls, dark clays, sand-
stone, chalks and limestone mostly composed of thinly laminar calcareous shales, that
pass gradually upwards into evaporitic gypsum and anhydrite), c) the Gesher Formation
(marls, chalks, gypsum and limestone which were deposited in lagoons or shallow lakes),
and d) the Cover Basalt, whose rocks are exposed in the area of the castle, at the top of
the escarpment.
495
Building materials
Two main rock types were used for the construction of Belvoir: the Cover Basalt and lime-
stones of the Gesher Formation. Some similarly decorated architectural elements, including
elbow columns and thick leaf capitals, were produced in both types. The Cover Basalt,
extracted on the site to form a dry moat, was the main building material for the defence ele-
ments: the glacis, external towers, external walls and posterns. Vertical columnar joints and
horizontal fractures in the basalt, the latter measuring between 0.3 and over 1 m, caused dur-
ing the cooling process, created ‘natural’ segmentation of the rock, which no doubt eased
the stone cutters’ work. This phenomenon is clearly seen along the outer face of the moat
cut, on the south side and also on the north inner face of the glacis (Fig. 28.2).
In the inner castle, large and small building blocks of basalt were used in the lower
courses of the ground floor and incorporated in the defence structures: in the towers and
in the construction of walls, foundations, openings and vaults. The basalt building blocks
were both hewn stones (range: 0.3–0.9 x 0.4–0.7 m) and rough, unfinished stones including
some trapezoids (boulders, 0.3–0.7 x 0.3–0.5 m). Smaller stones (0.2 x 0.5 m) were incor-
porated between the large rough stones and in the vaults and the higher parts of the walls
(Fig. 28.3). Maintaining high standards of construction, hewn stones were commonly used
in door and window frames, while the rough stones were used in the lower courses and for
the curtain walls between the constructive elements (i.e. doors, windows, embrasures). The
appearance of these walls suggests that they were plastered.25 Basalt was used in the lower
part of the openings, particularly embrasures, and the western gate of the castle as well as
gates to the rectangular towers. In addition, thin basalt chips (3–10 mm) were inserted in
the joints between the limestone blocks. This method was retained as standard all over the
castle, regardless of joint widths. Occasionally joints were of less than 5 mm wide. It was
implemented only on walls built in nodular limestone. No such method was detected on
walls constructed in basalt.26
Figure 28.2 South face of the moat: columnar jointing and boulders retrieved from the castle
during excavations 1963–66. Photograph: Vardit Shotten-Hallel.
496
The Cover Basalt exposed in the area of the castle is characterised by: a) columnar struc-
ture in the upper part of the flow, some of which are curved and tapering towards the top
of the flow and are fractured horizontally; b) concentric lava flows around basalt pebbles
(Fig. 28.4 showing the outburst of lava upwards splitting on both sides of the centre, r20
cm, r5 cm respectively); c) ferric oxides imprints on the face of the rocks (Fig. 28.4); d) thin
stripes of small vesicles (Fig. 28.4) differ to the round/longitudinal/pipe vesicles shown on
some of the rough building stones showing three vesicular stones positioned on different
directions to the flow); e) zeolites.
All the above features are seen on construction blocks throughout the castle. In addition,
basalt granules were added to the mortar mixture used in the basalt construction levels.
Limestone for the construction and decoration of the castle and of the chapel was
extracted from different quarries. Those quarries represent two members of the Gesher
Formation, showing different characteristics in hand specimens and in petrographic sec-
tions. Throughout the castle, the builders used limestone from the upper layer of Gesher
Formation (the varied layers, henceforth nodular limestone).27 Major characteristics include:
a) laminated structure, b) thin layers of darker mineral, possibly bentonite, and c) nodules.
The nodular limestone was incorporated in the construction of the inner castle and was used
for walls, arches and openings and staircases. The relatively large blocks were not carved
perfectly to rectangular shapes. The stone cutters rather followed the natural structure of the
rock with its nodular structure (Fig. 28.5). The blocks perimeter therefore is only coarsely
Figure 28.3 SE wall of the inner court. Basalt and limestone construction. Thin basalt chips inserted
between coarsely hewn limestone blocks. Photograph: Vardit Shotten-Hallel. Scale in photo is of 15cm.
497
Figure 28.4 Characteristics of the cover basalt exposed in the moat of the castle: oval iron imprint,
lava flows, stripes of vesicles in the lower part of the moat. Photograph: Vardit Shotten-Hallel.
cut. To fill the irregular joints between the layers of stones, the builders inserted thin basalt
chips (see Fig. 28.3 above).
The architectural fragments, retrieved from the houses of the village of Kawkab al-
Hawa, and now piled north of the moat, were used for the reconstruction of the architectural
elements of the castle chapel (Fig. 28.6). Amongst these are: a) three-sided pillar base;
b) portal fragments (Fig. 28.7a); c) window fragments (Fig. 28.7b); d) rib vaulting vertebrae
(Fig. 28.7c); e) surrounding cornice nave and apse; f) elbow columns; g) arches; h) round
and semi-round columns in various sections; and i) thick leaf capital. All these details were
extracted from the mid member of Gesher Formation and they differ in texture and colour
from the nodular limestone described above. These features, prominent in the final appear-
ance of the blocks, include: a) white colour; b) thin grain size; and c) homogenous compact
structure. They regulate high standards of the construction method enabling subtle architec-
tural detailing and precise courses.
Additional types of rocks were employed for specific structural and decorative elements
such as portals and sculptures. The bossed blocks in the jambs of the south-east entrance
to the castle, secondary use, were carved in fine quality limestone, yellow-red in colour
498
a)
b) c)
Figure 28.5 Characteristics of the Gesher Formation nodular limestone (the varied layers) of
building block from the castle: a) W jamb of opening to the NE hall in the inner castle; b) peloidal
mudstone containing mottled structure areas – no clear boundaries between patches and
abundant cross-cutting calcite veins; c) compact crystalline patches within mottled structure,
developed in peloidal mudstone. Fine calcite veins. Photographs: Vardit Shotten-Hallel.
Figure 28.6 Lapidary, the concentration of elements retrieved by Meir Ben-Dov, north
of the moat. Photograph: Vardit Shotten-Hallel.
499
a) b)
c)
Figure 28.7 Architectural elements retrieved from the village Kaukab al-Hawa: a) portal fragments;
b) window fragments; c) rib vaulting vertebrae. Photographs: Vardit Shotten-Hallel.
(whose source is currently unidentified) and show well-preserved bivalves. Two marble
sculpted pieces, currently on display in the Israel Museum in Jerusalem, were retrieved
from the cistern in the courtyard.28 Originally coming from at least two different elements,
these include the bearded head and the head of a youth (see below: sculptural elements).
500
The quest for quarries

While exploiting the immediate source for basalt in the site itself, it appears that the
Hospitallers spared no effort to secure distant sources for other building materials, espe-
cially limestone for the construction and decoration of their chapel. Two limestone quar-
ries were surveyed in the vicinity of the castle, both located less than 2 km from the castle
(c. 300m above sea level). North east of the castle (249841/723371, and 290 m below), a
quarry site occupies some 90 sq m of slopes in the Kokhav Stream. The remaining exposed
limestone bed suggests a good source for quarrying. On the site remains an exceptionally
large quantity of stone wedges and man-made trenches for extracting blocks, horizontal
surfaces indicating the place where blocks were removed (Fig. 28.8a). A second quarry
was identified some 1500 m (point to point) north-west of the castle (248378/724342, 8
m below sea level) on the south slope of Tabor stream. In the site that was surveyed in the
past, three surfaces of quarry along c. 15 m, 90 cm high each and clefts for extraction of
blocks are still visible.29 Thin sections of samples from both quarries were examined under
polarising microscope. The thin sections show peloidal wackestone, poor sorting of round
to oval micritic ooids, unidentified ostracods valves, some conserving their original shape
(Fig. 28.9a and Fig. 28.9b). Both samples contain gastropod shell or moulds. As none of the
examined building stones from the castle contained any, these quarries apparently did not
serve for the construction of Belvoir.
During survey of the area, we identified a quarry site in Hagal Wadi, located some
6,000 m (point to point) north of Belvoir, south of the Hagal spring (250716/727858). The
exposed rocks in the quarry belong to the Gesher Formation, which consist of limestone
beds with thin dark layers of bentonite. The appearance of rock on the north and east faces
is similar to that of the building blocks in the castle. The quarry site stretches from both side
of the road and is mostly covered with fresh soil. This is evidently the result of the topo-
graphical conditions. The quarry is a plane located below the slopes where soil is constantly
sliding. In the winter of 1188–89 in a letter addressed to Saif al-Din, al-Fadhel describes
the weather conditions in the vicinity of the castle. The description depicts heavy rains,
floods and mud, literally causing a shallow landslide. The current situation in the quarry
site, where most of it is covered by soil that has washed down from higher areas, echoes
this description while describing the area in the vicinity of Belvoir when he describes the
streams full of water, the mountains covered with snow and walking the narrow roads
resembles a prisoner in chains:
‫ والثلوج تنشر علي الجبال طي‬،‫ وقد طلع من االنواء في موكبه‬،‫وكان نزولنا علي كوكب والشتاء في كوكبه‬
30
‫ ومشيت المطلق فيها مشية االسير في الحلقات‬... ‫ واالودية قد عجت بمائها‬،‫مالئها‬
Samples from the quarry and from building blocks in the castle were analysed in petro-
graphic thin sections. Samples show textural differences in some areas but similar content
and similar character: mottled texture of micritic grain, heterogeneous texture, limonite
patches and veins of sparry calcite. Since the Gesher Formation is characterised by great
variability, these minor differences are anticipated. At this stage we assume the quarry
could have served the castle’s builders as a source of stone for construction of the inner
castle buildings. A quarry located elsewhere, unidentified to this date, served for the con-
struction and decoration of the chapel.
501
a)
b) c)
Figure 28.8 Quarry in Hagal Wadi, Gesher Formation. Petrographic sections of a sample from the
quarry: a) limestone quarry, Gesher Formation, clefts shown where blocks were extracted;
b) peloidal mudstone displaying a mottled structure – no clear boundaries between patches;
c) contact area between mottled texture and compact calcite crystals (130μm) patches,
veins separating between the two structures. Photographs: Vardit Shotten-Hallel.
THE CASTLE CHAPEL

The constant struggle to maintain their rule over the Holy Land required that both the Franks
and their Muslim rivals demonstrate their hold over urban centres and especially over reli-
gious sites. Hence the urge to accentuate the symbols of their faiths.31 The chapel or church
in a castle became an important visual element just as military components; for example,
fortified towers and thicker walls, were emphasised.32
The existence of a chapel at Belvoir is beyond doubt.33 However, important data
are missing: there is no direct archaeological evidence of the chapel’s original location.
502
At present we do not know its plan or whether it was rebuilt at different times in the cas-
tle’s history. The documentation provides only a general time framework within which
various phases can be proposed. We suggest that there may have been a sequence of
chapels on site. Prior to the Hospitallers, the first settlement in the area of the castle was
probably built in the 1140s while Fulk of Anjou was king of Jerusalem, although no
direct documentation or archaeological trace were found to support this.34 The site was
in the hands of Ivo Velos who sold it to the order for the sum of 1,400 bezants.35 As a
settlement of a Christian nobleman, one would assume a chapel dedicated already in this
early stage.36 The site came into Hospitaller hands in 1168 at the latest, and was held by
them until 1189. A chapel must have been built at the very first stage. We refer to this
chapel as Castle Chapel I. Saladin, who conquered the castle after a long siege, would
probably have destroyed this chapel, at least partially, to demonstrate his conquest. From
1241, during the second Frankish occupation of the site, a second chapel was probably
constructed, which is referred to as Castle Chapel II. The hypothetical reconstruction of
chapel history is listed in Table 28.2.
We were able to distinguish the elements of the chapel from those of the inner castle
by their distinct petrographical features. All the elements were carved of oolitic limestone
from Gesher Formation. This type of rock is of higher quality and its appearance is con-
siderably superior to those of stones cut of the varied layers member (nodular limestone).
The oolitic limestone was used when precision in details and superior workmanship were
of first priority.37
Table 28.2 Hypothetical summary of chapel generations at Belvoir
Generation Date Fate Elements Estimated location

Private c. 1140 Unknown. No identified remains. Unknown.
chapel(?) Demolished by the
Hospitallers with
the rest of the
buildings?
Castle c. 1168–89 Demolished or Most of the remains Unknown. Possibly on
Chapel I partly demolished, were possibly the second level of
possibly by reused for the inner castle.
collapse of the roof chapel II.
by Saladin.
Castle c. 1241–66 Last occupation by Materials remained 1 In the same place as
Chapel II the Hospitallers, in the site and the first chapel, i.e.
complete were reused in on the second level
demolition the houses of the of the inner castle.
probably by village Kaukab 2 A new location on
Baybars. al-Hawa and in the second level.
Muslim tombs in 3 Unknown. A new
cemetery located location on ground
near H. Gebul, level.
SW of the castle
(719085/248126).
503
a) b)
Figure 28.9 Rib vault fragment (see Fig. 28.7c) petrographic sections, under plane-polarised light.
a) Oolitic limestone. Oval ooids, cemented by sparry calcite, occurring in two size modes: larger
ooids (750–850μm) and small ones (~250μm). The nuclei of the ooids commonly consist of
either fragmental or whole ostracod valves, and occasionally of ostracod
containing intraclasts.
b) Mostly oval ooids formed around ostracod valves. Oval ooid formed around a number
of valves, thick brown coating. A single ostracod valve, micritic filling. A single
valve with dark rim around it. Over layered valves with micritic filling and thin
brown rim surrounding each. Photographs: Vardit Shotten-Hallel.
The samples described in Figure 28.9 were extracted from the same layer of Gesher
Formation. The stone is probably extracted from the same quarry and the minor variations
in the analysed samples are typical to this formation.
Proposed architectural plan

As no trace of the original building survived, we can only assume its location and the
methods of construction. However, the remaining architectural elements allow for a par-
tial reconstruction and estimation of the size of the building and its appearance. The ‘third
generation’ chapel, the Castle Chapel II, we assume, as suggested by M. Ben-Dov, was
located in the second level of the west tower.38 Changes in the original plan of this area
enabled the construction of a chapel here. The principal entrance was therefore probably
located on the south façade, to enable for a convenient access from the broad staircase
leading from the courtyard. Another entrance was probably located on the north side of
the chapel to allow direct access to the dormitories and more importantly for rituals and
processions.
According to the architectural fragments, currently under study, the plan of the chapel
consisted of an independent structure of two bays measuring approximately 18 by 8 m
internally: a single nave covered with cross vaults and a sanctuary.39 A triple clustered col-
umn was the division element between the nave and the apse and the springing point for the
transverse rib and the diagonal ribs of both spaces.40 The nave measured approximately 14
m in length and was accessed via at least one opening. So far, the single window of the sanc-
tuary was reconstructed from the remaining fragments, yet it is possible that more windows
504
were located along the nave. These dimensions were concluded from cornice fragments of
the apse. The dimensions of the main portal were derived from the reconstruction of the
tympanum where a stone slab presenting an angle was probably located. This slab is one of
three sculptures found ex situ during the excavation of the castle.
Sculptural elements: interpretation of architectural context

Three sculptural elements found during the excavation of the site pose questions of identity,
dating and original position. They certainly do not attest to the complete original sculptural
programme of Belvoir chapel. In fact, it would have been a very difficult task to identify
the three elements with one programme, had we not known they all actually came from the
same source. However, the only plausible building to which these highly adorned elements
belonged was the chapel. The elements are: a) a stone slab, part of a tympanum, presenting
a hovering angel and an unidentified (damaged) object or creature above it (Fig. 28.10);
b) a bearded head, decorated with foliage in the rear (Fig. 28.11), c) a head of a youth,
decorated with foliage (Fig. 28.12).41 Two of these elements were studied and published
by M. Barasch after the excavation.42 Barasch detailed the artistic features of both elements
at length and suggested that their stylistic origin was in the ‘southern regions of twelfth
century Europe’.
Customary scenes depicted in portals of the twelfth or thirteenth century include the
Ascension, the Last Judgement, the Last Supper, Annunciation and Adoration of the Magi.
But subjects and representations were endlessly diverse. The interpretation of the elements
retrieved from Belvoir points to a different, perhaps unique, scene that was depicted on the
main portal and façades of its chapel. The iconographical oddities evident in these three
elements allow no traditional or familiar Western interpretation.
Reconstruction of the chapel’s plan and that of the sculptural programme demands
reconsideration of these three elements and analysing their original function. To do so, and
to aid decipher their identity, we summarised their properties in Table 28.3.43
Hovering angel
The architectural form of the ‘Hovering Angel’ slab suggests it was the left part of a tym-
panum of the main portal. The main portal in the principal entrance was not necessarily
located on the west façade.44 The left side of the slab was where the arch of the portal rested:
a chamfer on the upper part of the slab was conformed with the curve of the arch so the slab
tapered. The remaining gap was filled, on the left side and above, with stones adjusted to
the arch.
With one angel on the left side of the tympanum, the more obvious scenes would be
Majestas Domini (Christ in Majesty), where Christ is depicted flanked with the four evan-
gelists who were often represented by their symbols or the Ascension in which Christ is
seen with angels on both his sides (usually holding the mandorla). In the first scene the
angel would have represented St Matthew, winged and holding a square shape object that
appears to be a book. Above the angel is an unidentified remains of a creature/object that
was severely damaged, probably for the same reason that caused the angel’s wings to be
impaired. The remains of scrolls on the left side of this figure suggest this was the depiction
505
Figure 28.10 Stone slab presenting a hovering angel and an unidentified (damaged) object or
creature above it. Courtesy of Israel Museum, Jerusalem. Photograph: Vardit Shotten-Hallel.
of St Mark as a Lion. To complete the scene a similar relief slab on the other side would
present the symbols of the evangelists St Luke as an ox and St John as an eagle. The middle
block in this type of scene would be the relief of Christ himself enthroned.
This reconstruction is problematic for a number of reasons. First and foremost we have
only the relief of the angel and above it some obscure figure; the other parts have not been
discovered yet. Second, the position of the angel contradicts the common iconography as
he is depicted turning outside of the scene focal point which is Christ; even his face is not
looking back but rather further left, a very unusual gesture. In addition, in most representa-
tions of this scene the angel appears at the upper part and the lion/St Mark below.45 Notable
examples include Chartres’ West façade, central portal tympanum showing the angel on
top left and the eagle on top right. The lion and the ox are on the lower parts, their bod-
ies turn outward but their heads turned inward. In the portal of St Trophime in Arles, the
evangelists are represented holding a book each, except for St John who rests as an eagle
upon a scroll. All figures are presented when they are turning in the direction of Christ and
so are their faces.46
506
Table 28.3 Summary of properties for three sculptural elements
Element/ Material/ Oddities/ Function/ Original position

Additions Dimensions Interpretation Construction details
Hovering Oolitic limestone The angel is turning Slab, part (1/3) of a Out.
angel/ (Gesher Fm.)a away from the tympanum. Portal, principal
square 117 x 58 x 31 cm scene in an Reverse left entrance. Left
object, unusual gesture. unworked hence part of the
possibly Unidentified the slab was tympanum.
a book damaged element inserted to the

above it. construction,
mortar remains on
the right side of the
slab.
Bearded Proconnesian Trumeau (?)/double- In and out.
head/nil marble sided capital: Portal, principal
figured on the entrance.
obverse, foliage on The sides of the
the reverse. capital show the
41 x 37.5 cm The capital is worked mould of narrow
of all sides: front – slabs attached
bearded head; back on both its
– foliage; sides – sides. The base
flattened to receive of the capital is
slabs. The lower rounded to fit a
part is delineated 150cm column.
by an astragal.b
Head of Thasos Furrows and mouth Cornice (?) Out. Surrounding
youth/nil marble suggesting external cornice,
33 x 32 x 32 cm a grimacing Right side unworked, attached to the
expression.c left side flattened, construction on
possibly to fit one face.
continuation of the
cornice.
Notes:
a For a detailed study of this type of limestone, see ‘Building stone’ section in this chapter.
b Jacoby, Z. (1982) The Workshop of the Temple Area in Jerusalem in the Twelfth Century: its Origin, Evolution
and Impact. Zeitschrift fur Kunstgeschichte, 45/4: 325–94, at 376.
c Barasch interprets the expression to be a smile comparing the ‘formula’ to two more heads from Acre. M. Barasch
(1971) Crusader Figural Sculpture in the Holy Land: Twelfth Century Examples from Acre, Nazareth and Belvoir
Castle. Ramat Gan, 192–3.
Bearded head
According to the architectural finds studied so far, the portal was framed by a double col-
onnette, of which components of the left jamb survived (see Fig. 28.7 components of the
left jamb), and was possibly divided to two by a trumeau formed by the bearded head
and a round column. The trumeau was seen from both its sides: the front sculpted with
507
b)
a)
Figure 28.11 Trumeau. Bearded head, decorated with foliage. Photographs: courtesy of IAA,
Mariana Salzberger.
the face and the back with foliage. The trumeau was probably situated between two thin
lintels above which was the tympanum framed by the archivolts, making the portal height
significantly larger. It rested upon a column shaped to fit its base. A base for the trumeau
column has not yet been identified. Although associated with the angel detail of the portal,
the foliage in the rear of the trumeau conform to the foliage details carved in the head of
youth element. The acanthus leaves in the reverse seem to be carved in the same way as
those in the front left part of the head of youth. This could imply the same artist working on
the different elements.
Head of youth
The original function of this element was probably in a surrounding cornice, located in
an opening of a door or a large window. Its right side was hidden inside a wall and its left
side was worked to receive the neighbouring fragment of the cornice. Barasch and Folda
seem to agree that the expression on the youth’s face represents a smile by observing the
mouth and furrows. Barasch dated this piece to the middle and second half of the twelfth
century.47 Grimaces of laughter and mockery appeared frequently as demonstrated by
N. Kenaan-Kedar.48 Alternatively, we propose to identify the youth as grimacing rather
than smiling. Looking for parallel examples of this expression and main features, such as
the dominant hair, yields no prominent example. In the tympanum of the main portal of
Sainte-Foy, Conques, a few demonic figures illustrate comparable features (Fig. 28.13).
The demons are carved with furrows, prominent chin, swollen lips and an open mouth.
Additional features include the carving of the hair (spirals) and the holes drilled in the
eyes. Moreover, to the right of Christ are four angels depicted, each turns in a different
direction.49
The following discussion deals first with the hovering angel as representing one scene
depicted on the portal, which belong to the celestial hierarchy of saints and angels, and then
508
Figure 28.12 Head of a youth, decorated with foliage. Photograph: courtesy of

Israel Museum, Jerusalem, photographer: unknown.
Figure 28.13 Detail of portal, west façade, Saint Foy, Conques. Note features of the bottom-left
demon. Photograph: courtesy of R. Kool.
509
with the two elements representing visual physiognomic features (open mouth, wide-open
eyes) connected to the representation of sinners, dammed, demonic or fantastic creatures
(Fig. 28.14). The heads are isolated, with no human and animal body attached, and carry no
objects acting as symbols. Both elements were most probably displayed on the outer side of
the chapel. The rear of the bearded head as a trumeau displayed foliage which was facing
the interior of the chapel.
Whether we adopt the moralising or apotropaic approach, our interpretation of the sculp-
ture from Belvoir is based on the meaning ascribed to them and by our reading of the dual
character of the Hospitaller Order. The heads of Belvoir represent fantastic and demonic
creatures alongside celestial creatures.50 Regardless of how complete the sculptural pro-
gramme was, with only three elements surviving there is still enough to draw the difference
between the elements and to emphasise some principles regarding the visual vocabulary
used in a Hospitaller chapel.51
Figure 28.14 The bearded head and the head of youth. Courtesy of Israel Museum, Jerusalem.
Photograph: Vardit Shotten-Hallel.
510
SYNTHESIS: DATING, IDENTITY

AND MATERIALITY
In this work we have attempted to analyse the architecture of Belvoir through different
prisms: historical, archaeological, architectural and geological. By enquiring into issues
of dating, identity and materiality of Belvoir Castle, we can now suggest a new point of
departure for a detailed study of the castle and in particular of the castle chapel. It is possible
to identify a number of attributes of chapel construction directly associated with the Order
of the Hospital. These attributes are based on new reading of the finds from Belvoir and
parallels with a limited number of other Latin–East Hospitaller churches.52 Each of these
churches provides us only with a fractional image of its original sculptural programme and
plan. En masse they allow the visualisation a more complete image of each chapel. Three
attributes relate to the materiality, and additional four relate to architecture and art. Both
types of attributes reflect an image different from the one common so far regarding the
architecture of Hospitaller churches in the Latin East.
1 Variety of materials
Many of the Frankish churches in the Latin Kingdom were built using different materi-
als for construction and for decoration. At Belvoir, marble elements were incorporated
in the sculptural programme.53
2 Spolia
The use of spolia in churches is evident throughout the kingdom. In the second genera-
tion chapel (Castle Chapel II) of the thirteenth century, many elements of spolia could
have come from the first chapel (Castle Chapel I) built by the Hospitallers on site in the
twelfth century. While all the construction and decoration were exectured in limestone
of the same type, the two marble sculptures form an exception. Thus they cannot be
‘dated’ or attributed to either of the stages (twelfth or thirteenth century). Their iden-
tification will have to be based on grounds of style and contemporary parallels, as the
Franks, as argued by Nurith Kenaan-Kedar, used models of symbolic themes in the
architectural components of their churches.54
3 Limestone
As a general rule, the majority of Frankish churches incorporated limestone in con-
struction details. At Belvoir, ex situ elements of oolitic limestone can accordingly be
attributed to the chapel/s.
4 Location
In Hospitaller compounds of the Latin East, the church/chapel is not always located
in the traditional customary place, that is in the northern area of the cloister.55 In the
Hospitaller convent in Acre, the church was located south of the main compound.56 The
same applies to the church at Bethgibelin which was located south of the refectory and
courtyard. At Belvoir we suggest that the chapel (Castle Chapel II) was located in the
west tower of the inner castle.
5 Visibility
The visibility of the church was significant as much as any other military component,
hence the tendency to locate the church in the upper levels, not only for reasons of
segregation of the religious from the lay community, but also to visibly demonstrate
511
Christian rule. At Belvoir it is at the western tower upper level, at Athlit at the high-
est point in the castle, and at Arsur, we also suggest its location at the western tower’s
upper level.
6 Single apse plan
The choice of plan evidently derived from a wide range of considerations. Size and
scale of the convent were relatively of minor significance. The chapels in Belmont
(near Tripoli), Crac des Chevaliers, Margat (Marqab) and most likely that of Arsur,
show all plans based on a single nave and apse.
7 Monsters and demonic creatures
The most intriguing attribute relates to the introduction of monstrous creatures. The
representation of these creatures is abundant in Western churches of the twelfth and
thirteenth century. Demons and other monsters and hybrid creatures representing evil
(manticores, centaurs) were extensively used in churches throughout Europe.57 In the
Latin Kingdom demonic creatures appear in the Church of the Annunciation, Nazareth
(twelfth century)58 and in the cathedral church of St John the Baptist, Sebastia (twelfth
century).59 It is important to note that the two remaining sculptures from Belvoir are
both heads carved into most significant building details. They convey a message not
only as an image but as a vital building component. A recent discovery at Arsur,
retrieved from the fills of the castle’s western façade in 2010, further emphasises the
introduction of monsters into church buildings.60 At Arsur, as at Belvoir, this element
was a significant component of the castle chapel as designed by the Hospitallers.
CONCLUSIONS
In this chapter we propose an interpretation to the chronology of Hospitaller presence
in Belvoir, while trying to decipher some of the castle’s architectural components. We
focused on the numerous fragments of architectural elements, ex situ, which in our view
represent two different generations of chapels in the castle: Castle Chapel I (c. 1168–89)
and Castle Chapel II (c. 1241–66).61 A two-chapels chronology as proposed here may
provide a partial explanation for the eclectic nature of the detailed assemblage and for
the multi-type construction details relative to the estimated size of the chapel.62 The
Hospitaller church in Abu-Ghosh, contemporary to Belvoir, followed a basilica-type plan,
which allowed flexibility and ‘room’ for several technological solutions to be applied
throughout.63 At Belvoir the chapel was an independent structure, consisting of two bays:
a single nave and a sanctuary, measuring approximately 18 by 8 m internally. Despite
its relatively small scale, the structure was complex since the builders used several sup-
portive elements to construct the vaults. Clustered column served as the division ele-
ment between the nave and the apse. An impost below the vaulting marked the springing
point for the transverse arch and the diagonal ribs of the vaulting. The impost followed
the nave and the curve of the apse where a single window was set. The chapel was built
exclusively of oolitic limestone, while marble elements were incorporated only in the
sculptural programme.
The rather ‘eclectic’ nature of the architectural components, suggesting two generations
of chapels, does not allow us to rely on any of the features to provide a distinct consecra-
tion date. Yet, in light of parallel features abundant in some twelfth-century Jerusalem area
churches (e.g. elbow columns), it would be reasonable enough to assume a twelfth-century
origin for most of the details studied so far. The proposed hypothetical history of chapels
512
built in Belvoir as a result of different occupation phases also resolves the conflict regarding
the construction of the western tower. According to the pieces so far retrieved from Belvoir,
spolia elements were used for both construction and for the decoration of the chapel.64 As
suggested already by M. Ben-Dov and by T. Biller, the tower is yet to be studied in order to
trace the different phases. However, if we take into account that it was either refortified by
the Mamluk or/and by the Hospitallers themselves in the thirteenth century, it could have
provided the foundation for the upper-level chapel.
The discussion of the sculptural programme of the chapel is for the moment reduced to
three elements, all currently on display in the Israel Museum in Jerusalem. At least two of
these were probably used in the portal of the principal entrance to the chapel. Their theme
remains enigmatic at this stage.
Engaging questions that concern the dating and the identity of the chapel in Belvoir
through examination of the materiality allowed new interpretation to come forward. This
reading of the architectural plan of the castle allows ascribing a chapel to the second
Hospitaller phase in the thirteenth-century castle.65 The proposed location of the chapel, the
heart of religious life, on the upper level of the inner fortified tower echoes the words of
the Hospitaller master who built Belvoir, reflecting the duality of the Hospitaller Order as
it appears at Belvoir:
Nos itaque et fratres nostri, religioni miliciam commiscentes.
NOTES
Special thanks are due to the directors of Mission archéologique de Belvoir, Professor Jonathan
Riley-Smith, Meir Ben-Dov, Na’ama Brosh, Dr Moshe Shirav, Dr Shimon Ilani and Alexis
Rosenbaum, Professor David Jacoby, Professor Amnon Linder, Florian Renucci, Simon Dorso,
Dr Sebastián Ernesto Salvadó, Dr Robert Kool and to Dr Gil Fishof. All the sculptural and archi-
tectural elements mentioned in this chapter are at present in the site itself and in the Israel Museum
in Jerusalem.
1 Mission archéologique de Belvoir (IAA licence No. G 51 / 2013, G 47 / 2014) is led by Professor
Bruno Phalip, Université Blaise Pascal Clermont-Ferrand and Dr Anne Baud-Chemain, Université
Lyon II in cooperation with Dr Hervé Barbe of the Israel Antiquities Authority. The first author
is part of the mission and a PhD candidate at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, supervised by
Professor Benjamin Z. Kedar with the guidance of Professor Eytan Sass.
2 Ellenblum, R. (2008) Crusader Castles and Modern Histories. Cambridge University Press, 283–4.
3 Boas A. J. (2006) Archaeology of the Military Orders: A Survey of the Urban Centres, Rural
Settlements and Castles of the Military orders in the Latin East (c. 1120–1291). Routledge, 13,
122–3; (2009) Crusader Archaeology: The Material Culture of the Latin East. Routledge, 103–6.
4 At this stage the exact location and layout of the castle chapel has not yet been identified. The
structure seen today above the west tower was built by the restoration team of the castle, fol-
lowing the excavations of 1966. Meir Ben Dov excavated the site on behalf of the Department
of Antiquities and the National Parks Authority. He identified and isolated the stones originally
belonging to the chapel and which we are now studying. Other stones used in this reconstruction
were retrieved from the dismantling of the village Kawkab al-Hawa.
5 Riley-Smith, J. (2012) The Knights Hospitaller in the Levant. Palgrave, 33. See also: Burgtorf, J.
(2008) The Central Convent of Hospitallers and Templars: History, Organization, and Personnel
(1099/1120–1310). Brill, 65–6; Hamilton, B. (2014) The Crusades and North East Africa. In: John,
S. Morton, N. (eds) Crusading and Warfare in the Middle Ages: Realities and Representations.
Ashgate, 169–70.
513
6 J. Prawer noted the problematic documentation of the first settlement in Belvoir. Victor Guerin,
based on a text by Jacques de Vitry, was contemplating the construction of the castle under the
leadership of King Fulk of Anjou, between 1138 and 1140: Cum igitur ciuitates memoratas
pluresque alias, maximè mediterraneas, nostri subiugare non possent, in extremitatibus ter-
rae suae, vt fines suos defenderent, castra munitissima & inexpugnabilia inter ipsos & hostes
extruxerunt, scilicet Montem Regalem, & Petram Deserti, cuius nomen modernum est Crac,
vltrà Iordanem, Sapheth & Belvoir, cum multis aliis munitionibus, citra Iordanem. Est autem
Sapheth castrum munitissimum inter Accon & mare Galileæ, non longè à montibus Gelboë
situm. Belvoir vero, non longè à monte Thabor iuxta civitatem quondam egregiam & populosam
Iezraël, inter Citopolim & Tyberiadem, situm est in loco sublimi (Jacques de Vitry, chap. 49,
éd. Moschus: 83–4; éd. Bongars: 1074). Marino Sanudo, who copied de Vitry almost verba-
tim, included this passage in his chronology dating the construction to the end of King Fulk’s
reign, or to 1143, at the latest. Contradicting the opinion of Guerin and his immediate suc-
cessors, Van Berchem, M. (1902) Notes sur les croisades, 413–14, https://archive.org/stream/
notessurlescroi00bercgoog#page/n43/mode/2up (accessed online 22 February 2015). Van
Berchem already noted that Jacques de Vitry did not mention any date for construction of vari-
ous castles mentioned in this passage. Prawer, J. (1967) The History of the Fortress of Kaukab
el-Hawa Belvoir. Yedi ‘ot ha-Hevrah la-hakirat Erets-Yisra’el ve-‘atikoteha Vol. 31. Jewish
Palestine Exploration Society, 236–49 at 237–8.
7 Alongside his ambitious moves, d’Assailly will be most remembered for the crises caused in his
time: the Order’s involvement in the Egyptian campaigns initiated by King Amalric and for his
resignation. Nevertheless his time as master for nearly a decade was characterised by great sta-
bility in personal terms: King Amalric was crowned in 1163 and was king of Jerusalem until his
death in 1174, he was accompanied by one preceptor – Guy of Mahón (1163–70). In the Chronicle
of the Deceased Masters, d’Assailly was commemorated as ‘Hic fuit antiquus valdè, et brevi
tempore que vixit multa bona religioni procuravit, et dominis infirmis servivit multum benignè.’
Dugdale, W. (ed. 1817–30) Monasticon Anglicanum, Cronica magistrorum defunctorum, 8 vols,
London, VI, 796–8, at 797.
8 Blochet, E. (trans. 1908) Histoire d’Égypte de Makrizi traduite de l’arabe et accompagnée de
notes historiques et géographiques, Earnest Leroux, 471, n. 2. Kaūkab is mentioned amongst
other sites returned to the Franks (‘Les villes dont les Francs se rendirent maîtres de nouveau
furent: Jérusalem, Béthléem, Ascalon et la province qui en dépend, Baīt-Djibrīl et sa province,
Medjdel Yabā la province qui en dépendent: Safad, Kaūkab, Toūr, Tibnīn, la province de Ghaza
sauf la ville de Ghaza elle m la province de Ghaza sauf la ville de Ghaza elle mȇme, Tibériade et
ses dépendances, les deux Shakīf, et en somme tout le Sāhel’). For the fall of Safed, see Barbé H.
(2010) Le château de Safed et son territoire a l’ėpoque des croisades. PhD diss., Hebrew University
of Jerusalem (French; Hebrew summary), 31–5.
9 For a proposed reconstruction of the W gate see: Biller, T. (1989) Die Johanniterburg Belvoir am
Jordan: zum frühen Burgbau der Ritterorden im Heiligen Land. Architectura 19: 105–36, at 119.
10 It should be clearly noted that we have no historical document confirming Hospitaller reoccupa-
tion and rebuilding of Belvoir castle.
11 For the financial instability, see Bronstein, J. (2008) The Decree of 1262: A Glimpse into the
Economic Decision-Making of the Hospitallers. In: Mallia-Milanes, V. (ed.) The Military Orders:
History and Heritage. Ashgate, 197–8. It seems that the order was able to restore man power,
however, their income suffered from significant loss of agricultural territories. In October 1259
the order was relieved from the payment of full tithes and pay only the twentieth part of some
of its crops (‘pour le dixmes de Belveer et ses dépandance … l’ordre ne payera dorénvant que la
vingtièm partie du bled d’orge, féve, pois chiches, lentilles, vins et huiles, et qu’il sera exempt de
toute autre sorte de dixme pour les dites terres’); Cart II, no. 2937, p. 883. The original document
was lost (Marseille, Arch. Des B. du-Rh., ordre de Malte, H. invent. Des chartes de Syrie, no. 318
(XVIII s)).
514
12 Prawer noted the treaty of Qalāwūn where Kaukab al-Hawa is listed amongst other cities under
his rule. See Prawer, J. The History, 237. For the treaty of 682/1283 and translation of the text and
list of the cities and sites, see Holt, P. M. (1995) Early Mamluk Diplomacy, 1260–1290: Treaties
of Baybars and Qalāwūn with Christian Rulers. Brill, 69–88.
13 Boas, Archaeology of the Military Orders, 229.
14 Ellenblum, Crusader Castles, 249.
15 Piana, M. and Carlsson, C. (2014) Archaeology and Architecture of the Military Orders: New
Studies. Ashgate, 179.
16 Comments in Boas, Archaeology of the Military Orders, 202: the dormitories of Belvoir were prob-
ably ‘located in the vaults north or south to the cloister/courtyard’; Kennedy, H. (1994) Crusader
Castles. Cambridge University Press, 61: ‘In Belvoir we can see clearly how the inner court
functioned as a monastic cloister for the knights’; Riley-Smith, J. (2012) The Knights Hospitaller
in the Levant, c.1070–1309. Palgrave, 112: ‘the construction of the castles had also to take account
of religious life. Enclosure … was an important issue.’
17 See a discussion in Riley-Smith, The Knights Hospitaller, 32–4.
18 Theodorici Libellus de Locis Sanctis, XLIV (1172). Tobler, T. (ed.) Paris, 1865, 97–8.
19 Prawer already noted that the castle is called ‘new’ although it was probably built three years
before. Prawer, The History, 237.
20 Letter of al-Fadhel, Recueil des Historiens des Croisades, Historiens Orientaux. IV, 387, 388–9,
at 389. http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k51581f (accessed 10 January 2015).
21 Delaville le Roulx, J. (1894) Cartulaire général de l’ordre des Hospitaliers (1100–1310), 4 vols.
Ernest Leroux, IV, 247–8, no. 310.
22 Cart. I, 425–9, no. 627
23 For the geology of the site consult also the Geological Map of Belvoir Area: Sneh, A., Bartov,
Y. and Rosensaft, M. State of Israel, Ministry of National Infrastructures, Geological Survey of
Israel, Jerusalem 1998. Geological Map of Israel 1:200,000 Sheet 1.
24 Schulman, N. (1962) The Geology of the Central Jordan Valley. PhD thesis, Hebrew University,
Jerusalem (in Hebrew); Shaliv, G. (1991) Stages in the Tectonic and Volcanic History of the
Neogene Basin in the Lower Galilee and the Valleys. Report GSI/11/91 (in Hebrew).
25 Plaster remains on the inner walls of the castle as shown on the S wall of the courtyard. The dating
of this wall is still questionable.
26 Compare this standard persistently kept in Belvoir with the construction of walls in Vadum Jacob,
the Templar stronghold built N to the Sea of Galilee, where in the limestone construction (e.g. of
the north wall) the builders randomly used chips of both basalt and limestone.
27 Typical section in the lower Tabor Stream consist of three members. The base: thin grain lami-
nated limestone, max. 22 m, hardly exposed in the area. The middle layer is the ‘Oolitic lime-
stone’ and on top the ‘varied layers’ (Schulman, The Geology of the Central Jordan Valley; Shaliv,
Neogene Basin in the Lower Galilee).
28 M. Ben-Dov, 2014 personal communication.
29 Zvi Gal, Israel Antiquities Authority Survey Map ‘Gazith – 46, 1991.
30 Letter of al-Fadhel, Recueil des Historiens des Croisades, Historiens Orientaux. IV, 389.
http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k51581f (accessed 10 January 2015)
31 Replacing the crescent with a cross and vice versa as a visual symbol of replacing the author-
ity and the dominant faith. See, for example, Goldhill, S. (2008) Jerusalem. Harvard College,
55. Another aspect is the integration of architectural elements originated from churches in the
construction of Muslim buildings. See, for example, Guidetti, M. (2009) The Byzantine Heritage
in the dār al-Islām: Churches and Mosques in al-Ruha between the Sixth and Twelfth Centuries.
Muqarnas, 26: 1–36. https://univie.academia.edu/MattiaGuidetti (accessed 8 February 2015).
32 The exceptionally large number of religious institutions formed in the Latin Kingdom during less
than two centuries goes beyond the mere religious needs of the Frankish society. See Pringle, D.
(1993) Churches of the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem. Cambridge University Press, I, 1.
515
33 Finds directly associated with a chapel were discovered during the excavations led by Meir
Ben-Dov. See Ben-Dov, M., (1969) Excavations in the Crusader Castle at Kochav Hayarden,
Qadmoniot Israel Exploration Society, Jerusalem II, 1, 5: 22–7, at 26–7. Two column fragments,
from the chapel, were found on the ground floor north and south to the west tower. Meir Ben-Dov,
personal communications, 2015. We thank Meir Ben-Dov for his contribution.
34 Prawer, The History, I. 241. Mission archéologique de Belvoir Excavations of 2014 revealed
architectural elements which were not identified with any of the Hospitaller phase. Most probably
they belong to the earlier phase of construction on site.
35 Cart. I, 271–2 no. 398: ‘damus et concedimus in elemosinam castrum de Coquet, quod vulgariter
Belvear nuncupatur cum suis divisis et pertinentiis quod Ivo Velos Suique heredes pretio mille et
quadringentorum bisantiorum Hospitali … vendiderunt.’ Cf. Röhricht, R. (ed.) (1960) Regesta
Regni Hierosolymitany (MXCVII–MCCXCI). No. 448, p. 117. Libraria Academica Wageriana.
www.archive.org/details/regestaregnihie00rhgoog (accessed 8 February 2015).
36 There is no indication of nobility regarding Ivo Velos’s origins. His signature only appears in
the document. For private chapels, see Kieckhefer, R. (2010) The Impact of Architecture. In:
Bornstein, D. E. (ed.) Medieval Christianity. Augsburg Fortress, 109–46, at 133.
37 Regardless of these differences, in terms of preservation both types of rocks proved to be durable.
Hardly any changes are seen on both types as a result of natural weathering processes or physical
deterioration.
38 During the survey of the castle walls, we identified limestone chips between basalt boulders in
the inner walls of the outer castle. The chips, cutting waste, were found only in the NW side. This
might indicate the stone masons’ workshop area that was situated close to the site of the chapel.
39 Calculations are based on two elements of a rounded impost that was placed in the apse. The
radius of the elements is 3.73 m which indicate the dimension of the apse 7.46 m and interior of
the nave of no more than 8 m. Reconstruction plan of the chapel is currently under preparation.
40 A similar element was recorded by C. N. Johns in the parish church of ‘Atlit. Johns, C.N.
(1997) Pilgrims’ Castle (‘Atlit), David’s Tower (Jerusalem) and Qal‘at ar-Rabad (‘Ajlun): Three
Middle Eastern Castles from the Time of the Crusades, ed. D. Pringle. Ashgate, 124, fig. 2, plate
LXXIV 5.
41 Photos of the three sculptural elements exhibited at the Israel Museum, Jerusalem. Courtesy of the
Israel Antiquity Authority.
42 Barasch, M. (1971) Crusader Figural Sculpture in the Holy Land: Twelfth Century Examples from
Acre, Nazareth and Belvoir Castle. Ramat Gan, 189–207, fig. 46; Folda, J. (1995) The Art of the
Crusaders in the Holy Land, 1098–1187. Cambridge University Press, 395, pl. 9.36d.
43 The reconstruction is based on analysis of the sculptural elements. Further elements, should they
be found, will shed more light and might suggest a different reconstruction. The analysis is mostly
based on the architectural function of these three elements rather than on their style.
44 Barasch suggested it decorated the porch of the chapel. Barasch, Crusader Figural Sculptures, 203.
45 For the traditional location of the Evangelists, see Fishof, G. (2012) The Master of the Tympanum
of Saint-Hilaire in Semur-en-Brionnais: Rethinking the Meaning of Style and Concepts of Decline
in Burgundian Romanesque Sculpture. Annales des Bourgogne 84–3: 245–80, at 255.
46 For a detailed discussion of the iconography of Majestas Domini scenes, see Vergnolle, É. (2008)
Maiestas Domini Portals of the Twelfth Century. In: Hourihane, C. (ed.) Romanesue Art and
Thought in the Twelfth Century. Essays in Honour of Walter Cahn. Princeton Index of Christian
Art and Penn State University, 179–80; Skubiszewski, P. (2006) ‘Maiestas Domini’ et liturgie.
In: Arrignon, C., Debies, M.-H., Galderisi, C. and Palazzo, E. (eds) Cinquante années d’études
médiévales, Actes du colloque organise à l’occasion du cinquanteniaure de CESCM les ler 4
septembre 2003. Brepols, 309–408.
47 Barasch, Crusader Figural Sculptures, 196–7.
48 Kenaan-Kedar, N. (1995) Marginal Sculpture in Medieval France: Towards the Deciphering of an
Enigmatic Pictorial Language. Aldershot, 14.
516
49 This is not to suggest any further connection between the portal at Conques to the elements found
in Belvoir. For the dating of the portal, see Kendall, C. B. (1989) The Voice in the Stone: the Verse
Inscription of Ste.-Foy of Conques and the date of the Tympanum. In: Gallacher, P. J. and Damico,
H. (eds) Hermeneutics and Medieval Culture. State University of New York Press, 163–82. For the
origin of Gilbert, see Poplimont, Ch. (1870) La France Héraldique, vol. 1. Bruges, 83. The origin
of the master of the Hospital, Gilbert of Assailly, has not been established as coming from Assailly,
which is in the Aveyron department, Midi-Pyrénées region. Assailly is only some 300 km from
Conques and by the time Gilbert left for the East, the church and the tympanum were long built.
50 Recent scholarship differs in this field of research: Dale, T. E. A. (2011) The Monstrous. In:
Rudolph, C. (ed.) Blackwell Companion to Art History, A Companion to Medieval Art: Romanesque
and Gothic in Northern Europe. Blackwell; Steel, K. (2012) Centaurs, Satyrs, and Cynocephali:
Medieval Scholarly Teratology and the Question of the Human. In: Mittman, A. S. and Dendle P.
J. (eds) The Ashgate Research Companion to Monsters and the Monstrous. Ashgate, 257–74.
51 Criticising the use of monstrous creatures in cloisters, Bernard of Clairvaux also stressed the
use of marble: ‘Tam multa denique, tamque mira diversarum formarum apparet ubique varietas,
ut magis legere libeat in marmoribus, quam in codicibus, totumque diem occupare singula ista
mirando, quam in lege Dei meditando’. Apologia ad Guillelmum abbatem, 29.
52 These chapels include: the chapel of Belmont near Tripoli, chapel of Crac des Chevaliers, chapel
of Margat (Marqab) and a proposed location and plan for a Hospitaller Chapel in Arsur.
53 According to the recent analysis, Belvoir seem to be an exception in that respect as no other
materials were identified, excluding the marble elements. The possibility of integrating basalt and
limestone details, such as the elbow columns, has yet to be proved.
54 Kenaan, N. (1973) Local Christian Art in Twelfth Century Jerusalem. Israel Exploration Journal,
23, 4: 221–229, at 222 in relation to the Holy Sepulchre. For the use of spolia in the Frankish East
see, for example, Boas, A. J. (2006) Archaeology of the Military Orders. Routledge, 108. 183, 186
(Belvoir), 190, 217.
55 Lawrence, C. H. (2014) Medieval Monasticism: Forms of Religious Life in Western Europe in the
Middle Ages, 3rd edn. Taylor & Francis, 158, 306.
56 Shotten-Hallel, V. (2015, forthcoming) Ritual and Conflict in the Hospitaller Church of St John in
Acre: The Architectural Evidence. In: Schenck, J. and Carr, M. (eds) Military Orders 6, Culture
and Conflict. Ashgate.
57 Ambrose, K. (2013) Marvellous and the Monstrous in the Sculpture of 12th-century Europe.
Boydell, 95–9.
58 Jacoby, Z. (1981) Le portail de l’eglise de l’Annonciation de Nazareth au XIIe siécle: Un essai
de reconstitution. Monuments et memoirs Academie des inscriptions et belles letters Fondation
Eugene Piot, 64: 141–94, at 21–2. These include fragment of a capital, devil’s head, great arch
stone from the external archivolt decorated with manticore and from the western portal of the
church, demons with bow and arrow and demon with shield.
59 A corbel with a monster’s head.
60 The Last Supper at Apollonia (2011) Exhibition Catalogue, 41, Fig. 17 (in Hebrew).
61 The assemblage of architectural details are currently studied by the mission members Florian
Renucci, Anne Flammin and the first author.
62 Elbow columns were found in the Church of our Lord’s Resurrection in Abu-Ghosh and also
in the church of St Mary of the Germans in Jerusalem. Both churches share similarity in details
in addition to the similarity between their plans. See Grabiner, E. (2001) From Raw Materials
to a Compound and Back Again: A Look at One Element of Crusader Architecture. Assaph –
Studies in Art History, 6. http://arts-old.tau.ac.il/departments/images/stories/journals/arthistory/
Assaph6/05grabiner.pdf (accessed 9 February 2015).
63 The plan of the Church in Abu-Ghosh is based on three aisles separated by rectangular piers, the
aisles are flanked with pilasters, and are covered with pointed groin vaults with transverse arches.
The nave arches rest upon elbow columns. Two sets of double elbow columns are positioned
517
on the west façade to receive the transverse arches of the side aisles. Two surrounding cornices
separate the clerestory from the lower part of the walls, continuing around the three apses.
64 Few elements of spolia were used in the castle, in the SE inner tower, in the SE external gate and
in the south jamb of the western inner gate. See Ben-Dov, Excavations, 27.
65 Forthcoming excavations will no doubt add to our knowledge of Belvoir Castle and its architec-
ture. This chapter aimed at sharing the work currently underway and at providing a preliminary
platform for future discussion.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
MARITIME COMMERCE IN THE LATIN

EAST AS REFLECTED IN THE
IMPORT OF CERAMICS
Edna J. Stern
INTRODUCTION
Coinciding with the establishment of the crusader states in the East during the twelfth
century and following in the thirteenth century, maritime travel and commerce in the
Mediterranean was at its peak. The new maritime trade network that developed between
the western Mediterranean ports and the Frankish ports in the eastern Mediterranean was
led mainly by the Italian maritime commercial cities. Ports throughout the Mediterranean
developed and flourished as the maritime technology of the period necessitated stopping
at various ports along the way. The many ships that anchored at these ports brought vari-
ous goods, among them ceramics, from one region of the Mediterranean to another. These
imported glazed tableware, containers for foodstuff and other kitchen ware, brought by
the medieval shipmen, travellers and merchants, were exposed in numerous archaeological
excavations in various urban and rural sites within the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem (mod-
ern-day Israel). Discarded ceramic vessels broke into many fragments and as they are not
perishable, hundreds of years later sherds can be collected in archaeological excavations.
When studied and categorized, their provenience can be traced using typology and analyti-
cal studies. Although pottery was not the most important product traded, it can represent a
wide range of medium-priced bulk products such as cloth, glass or metals and staple foods
as grain, oil and wine that either did not survive, or whose provenience is harder to trace.
The study of the ceramics traded throughout the Mediterranean may contribute in filling
gaps left by written sources on trade as these bulk products and foodstuffs are the basic ele-
ments of any economic system. Tracing their movement can give us a new perspective on
patterns of maritime commerce and the economic systems of the Latin East. We would like
to suggest here to consider the use of ceramic evidence as yet another source for assessing
and reconstructing the patterns of maritime trade of the Latin East; or in other words, to
convert ceramic evidence into an acceptable source relevant to other scholars studying the
Crusader World, not only those interested in archaeology or ceramic studies.
Denys Pringle was the first to look into the connection between ceramics and trade among
the crusader states (Pringle, 1986). Following a discussion on the types of pottery found in
519
— Edna J. Stern —
the East, Pringle pointed to three main features. The first was the homogeneity of thir-
teenth-century ceramic assemblages in Frankish Cyprus, Syria, and the Latin Kingdom of
Jerusalem, indicating the existence of an intensive system of coastal distribution of ceram-
ics produced in the crusader states and southern Italy, Byzantine Greece and Muslim Syria.
The second was the observation that fine wares were not the only items of trade. Coarse
wares were distributed by sea, containers and cooking wares. The third feature was the
existence of documentary evidence from the crusader states that points to coastal trade in
coarse wares. Nevertheless, Pringle stated that the archaeological study of medieval pottery
in the Levant is still in its infancy, and suggested to further research the topic by sampling
and analyzing distributed pottery with the purpose of identifying the sources of production,
by applying quantitative and qualitative analyses to these ceramic wares, in order to meas-
ure the volume of the various traded wares as well as to conduct additional research on the
unglazed coarse wares.
The study of crusader ceramics has advanced considerably since and some of Pringle’s
suggestions for further research have been adopted. These will be shortly reviewed below
as they are essential for the discussion of our topic. Ceramics from the eastern and western
Mediterranean as well as from the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem have been scientifically
sampled with the purpose of identifying the sources of production. The results of these
enable identifying some of the production sites. Quantitative and qualitative analyses of
Crusader period ceramics and additional research on the unglazed coarse wares have also
been carried out in various excavated sites. For instance, Acre and Jaffa, two main ports of
the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, in which large-scale excavations were conducted in the
past years and the crusader-period ceramic assemblages, were extensively studied. This
chapter will use the results of these studies to present the ceramic evidence relevant for the
study of the Latin East maritime trade.
BACKGROUND
This section provides some background material for the topic under discussion here, the
trade and distribution of pottery throughout the Mediterranean during the crusader period.
These include general historical sources pertaining to Mediterranean maritime trade, nauti-
cal data concerning ships, ballast, sailing routes and navigation techniques that prevailed
during this period. Finally, we will shortly review the excavations of Acre and Jaffa whose
ceramic assemblages are used here to study maritime trade.
Historical background
The opening of the trade routes between Western Europe and the Levant following the
establishment of the Latin kingdoms and principalities in the eastern Mediterranean had
great consequences for the Western economy. This period has been described by some
scholars as an age of “commercial revolution.” During this time the Italian maritime cites
dominated the Mediterranean maritime transportation as they were developing more sophis-
ticated business techniques and becoming more daring in their commercial activities. With
the First Crusade, the Genoese, Pisan, and later the Venetians assisted the crusading armies,
mainly with ships for naval battles and to bring supplies to the East. This resulted in eco-
nomic privileges and quarters that these Italian maritime cites received in the main coastal
towns and were the core for the establishment of trade colonies on the Levantine coast.
520
— c h a p t e r 2 9 : M a r i t i m e c o m m e rc e i n t h e L a t i n E a s t —
Their possessions in the coastal towns and cities included hostels, warehouses, markets
and churches. Citizens from the mother-cites resided in these quarters, where they had their
consuls and their own legislation. The skill and initiative in commerce of the Italian mari-
time cities was on a par with none. They also had the biggest fleets, making the European
trade with the Levant dependent mainly on them in the twelfth century. Along with the
gradual growth in the power of the Italian cities in the Levantine trade, during the end of
the twelfth century and the beginning of thirteenth, merchants from Catalonia and Provence
also began to be active in trade (Abulafia, 1995: 1, 17–18; 2000; Day, 2002: 800; Richard,
1987: 172–3, 179–82).
The Levant maritime trade was very active in long-distance, mid-distance and local
trade. Long-distance maritime trade between the Levant and Europe had existed before the
crusades, but became larger in volume thereafter. Mid-distance maritime trade connected
the Levant, Egypt and the Byzantine Empire. Local maritime trade, also known as tramp-
ing, was characterized by ships plying the length of the Levantine coast from Asia Minor to
Egypt, buying and selling merchandise and picking up and unloading passengers in the vari-
ous ports along the way. The ships used for this traditional activity along the Mediterranean
coast were either small or medium-sized and belonged to local traders, or larger ships of
European traders and seamen (Abulafia, 2000: 336; Jacoby, 1998).
The geographical locations of Acre and Jaffa on the coast resulted their being two of the
main ports in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, trading with Europe, the Muslim states and
the Byzantine Empire as well as serving as a gateway for pilgrims (Fig. 29.1). Jaffa served
as the main port of Jerusalem, the twelfth-century capital, and Acre was in fact the capital in
the thirteenth century, in addition to serving as a thriving commercial center, both for over
land and maritime trade. The Pisans were granted a quarter in Jaffa, and controlled the trade
through its port, while at Acre the Genoese, Venetians and Pisans were granted quarters
and commercial privileges from the twelfth century in the town, contributing greatly to the
city’s growing commercial importance (Boas, 1999: 32–41, 49–50).
Nautical background
In light of the fact that pottery arrived at Acre primarily by sea, it is imperative to consider
issues related to maritime transportation. The nature of the ships, the issue of ballast, the
sailing routes, and technological advances in navigation are all intrinsically related to the
movement of pottery (and other goods) around the Mediterranean.
A change in ship-building in the western Mediterranean took place shortly before the
First Crusade. Ship-builders of the Italian maritime cities began to build larger vessels
that were technologically superior to the existing ships (Pryor, 1988: 29–31, figs. 5–8).
Known as the round ship or navis, this type represented the most advanced of the sailing
ships plying the Mediterranean at the time. Such ships usually carried cargo, but could take
up to a thousand passengers and up to a hundred horses (Pryor, 1994: 64). As they grew
larger, their capacity increased and they also became faster due to technological innova-
tions, as detailed below. The galley ship, also known as the long ship or galea, increased
in size during the crusader period as well. These ships were not usually used for cargo and
occasionally were used only for short-distance trading. In the thirteenth century, as the
ships grew and improved, they could carry more cargo and they sailed more frequently
between the Mediterranean ports (Byrne, 1930: 5–6; Pryor, 1988: 26–32, 1994; Balard,
1994: 131–135).
521
Figure 29.1 Map with the major sites mentioned in the text.
Ballast is a heavy object that provided ships with greater stability and better
maneuverability. The antiquity of this practice is attested to by ancient Mediterranean
shipwrecks from the Late Bronze period onwards (McGrail, 1989: 357). Ballast, which
usually consisted of rubble, stone, gravel or sand, took up valuable space in the ship.
Eventually, it was realized that a ship could take on heavy, salable goods, such as metal
ingots, marble or millstones. Two goals could then be achieved: a well-ballasted ship and
a profit from selling those goods. This type of cargo has been defined by archaeologists
studying shipwrecks as “saleable ballast” (McGrail, 1989: 354–357; Parker, 1992: 91–92).
Support for this can also be found in medieval written sources. Venetian lists of maritime
freight charges and Genoese marine contracts classified cargo into light and heavy goods.
The latter were called merces de savurra, which literally means ballast (Dotson, 1982:
56–59). The idea of medieval pottery serving as ballast has previously been suggested by
Abulafia (1985: 294). He pointed out the presence of Tunisian medieval pottery at Pisa,
and suggested that it can indicate that large cargo ships that transported grain to Tunisia
522
brought back only low-weight products and thus the pottery served as both a space filler
and as saleable ballast.
The sailing routes in the Mediterranean in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries more or
less hugged the coast (Pryor, 1988: 14, fig. 2; Stern, 2012a: 155, fig. 8.2). Although there
were ships that could cross the sea at that time, merchant and passenger ships preferred the
littoral route in order to trade at the different ports, to restock food and water, and to break
the monotony of the long, slow voyages. The main commercial trunk routes developed
along the chain of islands in the northern part of the Mediterranean for this reason, as well
as to overcome the prevailing winds in the east–west voyage, which made the crossing of
the open sea from east to west more challenging, although not impossible. They could be
avoided by hugging the coast and taking advantage of the currents and daily cycle of the
land and sea breezes close to the shore. For the west–east journey, the prevailing winds were
more favorable, this was important at the time since ships were generally powered by wind
(Pryor, 1989: 70–73; 1994: 74).
Finally, the technological leaps in navigation of the period included the invention of the
mariner’s compass and more sophisticated nautical charts, tables, and maps. These, in addi-
tion to the bigger and better ships in use during this period and the improved Mediterranean
sailing routes, resulted in reduce of shipping costs and led to an increase in the number of
ships sailing from Europe to the eastern Mediterranean (Lane, 1966: 332–337, 341; Balard,
1994, 131, 134).
Archaeological background
Archaeological excavations have been conducted by the Israel Antiquities Authority since
the 1990s both at Acre and at Jaffa due to the growth and development, and at Acre also for
the promotion of tourism sites. These archaeological excavations have revealed different
parts of the crusader-period towns. The two main excavations conducted at Acre (Stern and
Syon, in preparation), are the compound of a Military Orders: the Hospitallers (Fig. 29.2;
Stern, 2002, 2006) and a residential and commercial quarter at the Knights Hotel (Syon
and Tatcher, 1998), yielded almost 10,500 ceramic fragments and vessels that were com-
prehensively studied (Stern, 2012a). At Jaffa, a large number of medium to small salvage
excavation have been conducted (Fig. 29.3; Peilstöcker, 2006, 2011; Arbel, 2009; Re’em,
2010), exposing various parts of the town. Over 1,000 ceramic shreds and vessels from the
Kishle site (Burke and Stern, forthcoming) and the French Hospital (Stern, in preparation)
have been studied. The wide variety of ceramic wares imported from many regions through-
out the Mediterranean stood outstanding in the ceramic assemblages from both Acre and
Jaffa. These include pottery types from the western Mediterranean that were not previously
identified in crusader-period contexts in Israel or at other sites in the Levant, and consist
mainly of glazed table wares, but also included some unglazed plain wares, cooking vessels
and transport amphorae.
THE CERAMIC EVIDENCE

As shown above, glazed tableware coming from many different regions in the Mediterranean
were found in the two ports of the Latin Kingdom, serving the kingdom’s capitals (Fig. 29.4).
In order to use pottery as evidence to reconstruct patterns of the marine commerce in the
Latin East, it is required to shortly present the ceramic wares imported to the Latin Kingdom
523
Figure 29.2 The Hospitaller Compound, Acre, 1992 excavation season. General view of the
central courtyard, looking east. Photograph: Howard Smithline, courtesy Israel
Antiquities Authority.
Figure 29.3 The Kishle site, Jaffa, 2007 excavation season. Courtyard with cistern and remains of
domestic buildings, looking south. Photograph: Yoav Arbel, courtesy Israel Antiquities Authority.
524
Figure 29.4 Glazed bowls imported to Acre from a wide range of regions throughout the
Mediterranean. Photograph: Howard Smithline, courtesy Israel Antiquities Authority.
of Jerusalem, to determine the production areas, the distribution and consumption areas, and
which ceramic forms were the most commonly traded by sea, and why. Then ceramic assem-
blages from other consumption areas in the Mediterranean will be observed and compared
to Acre.
Imported ceramics
As noted, the ceramics found in the large-scale excavations at Acre and Jaffa are used
here to represent the ceramics imported to the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem. The Acre
ceramics were grouped according to production regions as determined by fabric and form
and as based on the existing crusader-period pottery typologies as well as on the results
of provenance studies and archaeological remains of pottery production (see below and
Stern, 2012a: 33–101). The pottery from Jaffa was studied in a similar way, allowing it
to be easily compared to Acre’s pottery (Burke and Stern, forthcoming; Stern, in prepara-
tion). The twelfth- and thirteenth-century pottery groups are listed here together; how-
ever, while studying the assemblages each type was dated, and it was found that there
was an increase in the provenances of imports in the thirteenth century (Stern, 2012a: 27,
table 3.3).
The pottery that was imported by sea to Acre and Jaffa came from various regions,
including wares produced on the Lebanese coast within the borders of the Latin Kingdom
(Fig. 29.5). The Lebanese coastal ware include amphorae, jugs, and oil lamps (LE.PL:
Stern, 2012a: 38–40), some other unglazed cups, jugs and oil lamps (BE.PL: Stern, 2012a:
40, 41), glazed cooking ware (BE.CW; Stern, 2012a: 41–44) and glazed table wares,
jugs and oil lamps (BE.GL; Stern, 2012a: 44–47). From the Muslim territories of central
525
Syria, soft-paste ware (SY.GL: Stern, 2012a: 52–54), with typical oriental floral and geo-
metric designs painted in black and blue, and covered with a transparent alkaline-based
glaze, was imported to the ports and also the rural sites of the Latin Kingdom. The forms
include jugs, jars, albarelli, and bowls. It is interesting to see that despite the antagonistic
nature of Muslim–Christian relations, commerce, at least in such goods, continued. The
vividly decorated glazed Port St. Symeon Wares were imported from the Principality of
Antioch (al-Mina) and possibly similar vessels were also manufactured in the neighbor-
ing Armenian Kingdom (in Kinet and Misis). The finds from Acre included four deco-
ration schemes and mainly bowls and other open forms. Some jugs, albarelli, flasks, oil
lamps, and even a figurine and tiles were also identified (NSY.GL; Stern, 2012a: 55–58).
The ceramic industry flourished in thirteenth-century Frankish Cyprus, as vast amounts of
ceramics were traded from there to the urban and rural sites within the Latin Kingdom of
Jerusalem (Stern, 2008, 2014). These mainly include glazed tablewares and oil lamps, deco-
rated either with monochrome green or yellow glaze, slip painted, or incised decoration,
with or without enhancement of green or/and yellow glaze (CY.GL: Stern, 2012a: 60–65)
that arrived in larger numbers, with smaller numbers of handmade cooking pots (CY.CW:
Stern, 2012a: 59, 60) and jugs (CY.PL: Stern, 2012a: 58, 59). Pottery was also imported
from other parts of the eastern Mediterranean. From mainland Greece and the Aegean Sea,
glazed tablewares with a variety of decorative styles (GR.GL: Stern, 2012a: 65–69) were
shipped to the Latin Kingdom. Some of these vessels are coarsely potted and the wall thick-
ness is uneven, as well the incised decoration being quickly executed. All this seems to
Figure 29.5 Cooking wares and glazed table ware found in Acre and produced in Beirut and its
vicinity. Photograph: Howard Smithline, courtesy Israel Antiquities Authority.
526
indicate mass production of this ware that apparently was destined for maritime distribu-
tion. This is also evident by underwater excavations of shipwrecks where these types of
glazed wares were found in the cargo in commercial quantities (see Armstrong, 1991, 1997;
Stern, 2012a: 149–153). From Asia Minor and the Black Sea region amphorae were shaped
for maritime transport (TUR/GR.PL: Stern, 2012a: 70–72), and were commonly found in
shipwrecks (Stern, 2012a: 149–153) and glazed tablewares of the Zeuxippus-Ware group
(TUR/GR.GL: Stern, 2012a: 72–76) were imported. The forms of these include cups, plates
and bowls with very thin walls and incised decorations. Pottery was also imported from
southern Italy and Sicily and from northern Italy. The large quantities of various types of
Proto-maiolica wares (Fig. 29.6; SIT.GL.2-6: Stern, 2012a: 77–80) that have been found in
Acre emphasize the impact of the central geographical location of southern Italy and Sicily
on trade (Stern, 2012a: 154). This ware is characterized by its pale yellow or buff fabric,
decorated with tin glaze painted designs in brown, blue, and yellow, occasionally green or
only brown. Common forms are bowls and plates, less common are jugs. Spiral Ware (SIT.
GL.1: Stern, 2012a: 76, 77) was less common than the former, although it was imported
from those regions as well. The decoration on these glazed bowls is uniform and consists of
four spirals, painted alternately in green and brown. The glazed wares from northern Italy
Figure 29.6 A Proto-maiolica glazed bowl with a depiction of a woman holding a lily.
Photograph: Clara Amit, courtesy Israel Antiquities Authority.
527
(NIT.GL: Stern, 2012a: 80–82), most likely imported from Venice, seem to have been pro-
duced there from the late thirteenth century and inspired by some Late Byzantine ceramic
types, mainly the Zeuxippus ware mentioned above. The forms imported include mainly
bowls but also some jugs and albarelli. Identified thus far mostly at Acre, with a few exam-
ples at Jaffa, ceramics were transported also from the western Mediterranean. Cooking
ware made of a characteristic orange-red coarse fabric was imported from areas along the
Ligurian coast to Catalonia (NIT/SFR/CA.CW: Stern, 2012a: 87, 88), and with a gray fine
fabric from the coast of Provence and Languedoc in southern France (SFR.CW: Stern,
2012a: 83, 84). A glazed jug (SFR.GL: Stern, 2012a: 84) and some unglazed crucibles,
small pinched bowls and thick walled basins also came from southern France (SFR.PL:
Stern, 2012a: 82, 83), perhaps for the use of a chemist, metal producer, or for any other
craftsman. Various types of glazed wares were imported from Catalonia at the end of the
thirteenth century (CA.GL: Stern, 2012a: 85–87), among them a simple, utilitarian, coarsely
made basin, and table ware including jugs and bowls, the latter are decorated with green
and brown painted designs. Tunisia on the northern African coast was a natural port of call
for trading ships and therefore it is not surprising that bowls, basins, and jugs of the locally
produced Blue and Brown painted ware (TU.GL: Stern, 2012a: 88, 89) were shipped to
Acre and Jaffa, as well as to Paphos, Alexandria and the western Mediterranean. Large jars
with impressed decoration either unglazed or glazed were also found in small quantities in
Acre and in Jaffa (SP/NA.PL,GL; Stern, 2012a: 89–91). These jars, used as containers for
liquid or grain, were produced in Spain and/or North Africa and were also found in two
shipwrecks in Corsica and Catalonia, suggesting they were used on the ships as water recep-
tacles. Finally, green-glazed, fine stoneware vessels were imported from China to Acre
(CH.GL: Stern, 2012a: 91, 92). The celadon ware may have arrived at Acre with Venetian
merchants who traded with China, by land routes through central Asia and the Black Sea,
or by a maritime route to the Red Sea, and from there to Alexandria for further distribution.
The Celadon vessels found at Acre were not only in transit, but were also used by the local
population, as attested by the finds there.
Production areas
As stated above, pottery was imported to the Acre and Jaffa from a range of regions through-
out the Mediterranean, including the area of present-day Syria, Turkey, Cyprus, Greece,
Italy, Sicily, France, Spain, Tunisia, and China. The provenance of the imported ceramics
was determined primarily by traditional archaeological methods, such as typological and
stylistic consideration, or by identifying archaeological remains of production sites, that is,
workshops or kilns (e.g. a cluster of workshops excavated at Paphos and Lemba in Cyprus
that produced similar pottery vessels [CY.GL] see Papanikola-Bakirtzi, 1996: 215–216;
von Wartburg, 1997: 336; Cook, 2014).
In order to obtain more precise and scientifically grounded results to define produc-
tion areas, two main methods of provenance analysis were applied to the study of medi-
eval Mediterranean ceramics, beginning in the 1980s. These are petrographic analysis,
which identifies the geology of the region from which the clay and/or the added temper
was obtained, and chemical analysis (also known as elemental analysis), which provides a
compositional “fingerprint” of each pot (see Stern, 2012a: 14–17). These methods of analy-
sis were also employed to crusader-period pottery found within the borders of the Latin
Kingdom of Jerusalem (Boas, 1994; Acre: Goren, 1997; Waksman et al., 2008; Shapiro,
528
2012; Waksman, 2012; Beirut: Waksman, 2002; François et al., 2003) and at other regions
in the Latin East (Kinet: Blackman and Redford, 2005; Cyprus: Megaw and Jones, 1983;
Armstong and Hatcher, 1997; Megaw, Armstong and Hatcher, 2003; Waksman and von
Wartburg, 2006; Waksman, 2014). The results of these studies have been incorporated in
the description of the ceramic groups above.
After establishing the locations of the production sites from which pottery was exported
to the Latin East, it was obvious that most of these pottery workshops were situated in
coastal areas, in some cases very close to the coast: Beirut (BE.PL, CW.GL) and the
Lebanese coast (LE.PL), al Mina and Kinet (NSY.GL), Paphos (CY.GL), Apulia and Gela
(SIT.GL.2–6), Venice (NIT.GL), the Ligurian coast to Catalonia (NIT/SFR/CA.CW),

Provence and Languedoc (SFR.PL,CW), Catalonia (Barcelona?, CA.GL) and Tunisia
(TU.GL). Exceptions are the soft-paste wares from central Syria (SY.GL) and the celadon
wares from China (CH.GL), which were apparently brought overland to the ports and were
then redistributed by sea.
Clustering these workshops into regions and determining the percentages of ceram-
ics coming from each region can reveal some interesting data. But first, it is necessary to
explain sherd quantification, before the results of the counts of ceramics found in the exca-
vations at Acre and Jaffa (Stern, 2012a: 24–31; Burke and Stern, forthcoming; Stern, in
preparation) will be discussed. In order to assess a ceramic assemblage and compare either
various factors within the assemblage, or compare it with another, we need to know how
much of any given item is there. This is done by identifying and quantifying all the sherds
of the rims found in the excavation by form and function.
Tabulating the sherd counts according to production regions shows that the glazed table-
wares imported to Acre and Jaffa (as represented by the Kishle and French Hospital sites)
are predominantly from the Eastern Mediterranean, with 44.2% at Acre and 43.37% at Jaffa
(Fig. 29.7; Table 29.1; Stern 2012a: 31, table 3.7; Burke and Stern, forthcoming; Stern, in
preparation). The second largest group comes from northern and central Syria and Lebanon
(the Levant; in Acre – 29.3%; Jaffa –30.92%), and then Italy (Acre, 23.1%; Jaffa, 22.49%).
In both sites the smallest proportions come from the western Mediterranean (Acre, 3.3%,
Jaffa, 3.21%) and China (Acre, 0.2%, Jaffa, none). Therefore Acre’s and Jaffa’s ceramic
imports reflect an orientation toward the Byzantine world, the trade of which was domi-
nated by the Italian mercantile cities of Genoa, Pisa and Venice.
Distribution and consumption areas

The pottery groups that were shortly described above, were, as noted, all found in Acre and
most of the groups were also found at Jaffa. The crusader-period pottery from Acre and
Jaffa was divided to two phases according to stratigraphy and according to the presence
or absence of certain securely dated pottery types, to an early assemblage dating roughly
to the twelfth and early thirteenth centuries, and a late assemblage, dated to the thirteenth
century. While assessing and comparing the early assemblages from Acre and Jaffa, the
ratio between the local and the imported wares is almost the same, with a slight inclination
toward 10% more imported ceramics at Jaffa than at Acre. Comparing the late assemblages
shows that the ratio between the local and the imported wares is almost the same, but there
is slight inclination toward imported ceramics at Acre (Stern, in preparation). Although this
may be coincidental, the fact that Jaffa served as the main port for Jerusalem, the capital of
the Latin Kingdom in the twelfth century, and Acre was the capital of the Latin Kingdom
529
50.00%
45.00%
40.00%
35.00%
30.00%
25.00%
20.00%
15.00%
10.00%
5.00%
0.00%
Levant East Italy West Other
Mediterranean Mediterranean
Acre Jaffa
Figure 29.7 Quantitative comparison of imported ceramic types between Acre and Jaffa.
Drawing: Nimrod Getzov.
of Jerusalem in the thirteenth century, in addition to being one of the busiest ports in the
Levant, may explain this.
The same imported pottery groups were distributed to and consumed at other Frankish
sites along the Levantine coast (Fig. 29.1) including ‘Athlit (Johns, 1934, 1936; Pringle,
1982), Caesarea (Pringle, 1985; Brosh, 1986; Boas, 1992; Arnon, 2008) and Apollonia,
Arsuf (Roll, 2007; Tal and Roll, 2011; Ayalon et al., 2013). At sites further inland most of
the ceramic groups listed above were also consumed (BE.GL, NSY.GL, SY.GL, CY.CL,
GR.GL, TUR/GR.GL, and SIT.GL). Interestingly, these are also the groups found in larger
quantities at Acre (Stern, 2012a: 31, table 3.7) and Jaffa (Burke and Stern, forthcoming).
The inland Frankish sites in which these groups have also been found include Horbat ‘Uza
(Fig. 29.8; Stern and Tatcher, 2009), Mi’ilya (Stern, 2012b), the Monastery of St. Mary of
Carmel (Pringle, 1984; Gabrieli and Stern, in preparation), Tiberias (Amir, 2004; Stern,
2013), Nazareth (Alexandre, 2012) and Yoqne’am (Avissar, 1996, 2005), as well as at non-
Frankish sites inhabited by indigenous population; for example, Horbat Bet Zeneta (Getzov,
2000), Kisra (Abu ‘Uqsa, 2006) and Horbat Burin (Kletter and Stern, 2006). (For a com-
prehensive list of sites in the Latin East with imported pottery see Avissar and Stern, 2005,
40–80, 105, 106 and Stern, 2012a, 38–47, 52–99.)
Quantification of the ceramic assemblages unearthed at urban and rural Frankish sites
and at non-Frankish rural sites has shown that the differences between these sites lay in the
relative quantities of imported pottery types consumed at each site (Fig. 29.9; Table 29.2).
This has been seen in a comparative study of the ceramic assemblages from Acre (Stern,
1997), an urban Frankish site and rural sites in which either Franks (Horbat ‘Uza; Stern
and Tatcher, 2009) or indigenous population resided (Horbat Bet Zeneta; Getzov, 2000;
Stern, forthcoming). While the rural indigenous population consumed more handmade
530
Table 29.1 Quantitative comparison of imported ceramic types between Acre and Jaffa
(numbers=vessel rims)
Region and Ware Group Jaffa Acre
Levant
BE.GL 56 292
SY.GL 1 29
NSY.GL 10 216
Sub-totals 67 537
East Mediterranean
CY.GL 31 410
GR.GL 33 47
TUR/GR.GL 3 349
Sub-totals 67 806
Italy
NIT.GL – 81
SIT.GL 46 342
Sub-totals 46 423
West Mediterranean
SFR.GL – 1
CA.GL – 52
TU.GL 6 8
Sub-totals 6 61
Other
CH.GL – 4
TOTALS 186 1831
wares (43.3%), and less local glazed bowls (23.3%), and even less imported glazed bowls
(0.4%), the rural Frankish population consumed relatively less handmade vessels (10.9%),
and more imported glazed bowls (15.6%). The urban Frankish population consumed con-
siderably more imported glazed wares (44%), but nearly no handmade wares (0.7%). These
interesting results suggest that the choice of vessels was not related to a preference for a
certain type, and was most likely not consciously used as a display of ethnic identity. Rather,
choices seemed to have stemmed initially from dining and food preparation habits, as well
as other practical factors such as at which market they shopped and which vessels were
available on the market.
The same pottery groups found in the Latin Kingdom were also found at excavated ports
throughout the Mediterranean that were active in the international maritime trade during
the twelfth and thirteenth centuries including: Beirut (el-Masri, 1997–98; Waksman, 2002;
François et al., 2003), Tripoli (Salamé-Sarkis, 1980), al-Mina (Lane, 1937; Vorderstrasse,
2005: 118–127), Kinet (Redford et al., 2001; Blackman and Redford, 2005), Paphos
(Megaw, 1971, 1972, 1975; von Wartburg, 2003), Istanbul (Hayes, 1992; Megaw, 1968),
Corinth (Morgan, 1942; MacKay, 1967; Williams and Zevros, 1993, 1994; Sanders, 1987),
Split (Buerger, 1979), Venice (Saccardo, 1998; Saccardo et al., 2003), Genoa (Cabona
et al., 1986; Capelli et al., 2005; Benete, 2010), Marseilles (Marchesi and Vallauri, 1997;
531
Figure 29.8 Imported glazed bowls found at Horbat ‘Uza. 1, 2: Cypriot thirteenth-century glazed
ware, 3: Port St. Symeon Ware, 4: North African Blue and Brown Wares. Photograph:
Tsila Sagiv, courtesy Israel Antiquities Authority.
Vallauri and Démians d’Archimbaud, 2003), and Alexandria (François, 1999). All these
sites yielded substantial and amply published ceramic finds that could be compared to the
ceramic assemblages of Acre and Jaffa (see below).
What was the most common ceramic form traded by sea, and why?
For reconstructing marine commerce patterns in the Latin East, a comparison of relative
quantities imported types by function can reveal what was the most common ceramic form
traded by sea. Once the count results are organized by functional type (glazed bowls, cook-
ing ware and jars and amphorae), it is clearly demonstrated that the ratios between func-
tional groups of pottery vary. The most frequent import by far are the glazed bowls, of
which 875 were found, 11.1% were imported cooking ware, and only 4.2% were imported
jars or amphorae (Stern, 2012a, fig. 3.2). Hence it is clear that the great numbers of glazed
vessels for individual dining were imported to Acre in what could be defined commercial
quantities.
Glazed bowls shipped in commercial quantities were also recorded in ten Mediterranean
and Black Sea shipwrecks dated to the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. These were found
in large enough quantities to suggest that they were part of the cargo and not items for
532
50.0%
45.0%
40.0%
35.0%
30.0%
25.0%
20.0%
15.0%
10.0%
5.0%
0.0%
Local glazed Imported Cooking Undecorated Handmade
tableware tableware ware wheel- vessels
made vessels
Acre H. ’Uza H. Bet Zeneta
Figure 29.9 Quantitative comparison of general ceramic types between Acre, Horbat ‘Uza and
Horbat Bet Zeneta. Drawing: Nimrod Getzov.
the personal use of the passengers (Stern, 2012a: 149–151, table 8.1: nos. 1, 3, 4, 5, 7–9,
16, 18, 19, fig. 8.1). These shipwrecks reveal interesting evidence regarding the mari-
time trade and ceramic distribution. Occasionally glazed bowls were found together with
amphorae and other goods, like at the Novy Svet shipwreck (Zelenko, 1999; Waksman
et al., 2009), indicating that they were part of a compound cargo. Fulford (1987: 60–1) and
Parker (1986: 36), archeologists who studied ancient shipwrecks, suggested that pottery
was probably always part of a compound cargo, mainly because of the lack of cargoes with
Table 29.2 Quantitative comparison of general ceramic types between Acre, Horbat ‘Uza
and Horbat Bet Zeneta (numbers=vessel rims)
Pottery Group Acre-Courthouse site H. ‘Uza H. Bet Zeneta
Local glazed tableware 36 348 106

Imported tableware 133 117 2
Cooking ware 61 138 75
Undecorated wheel-made vessels 72 51 70
Handmade vessels 2 82 197
Total 304 736 450
533
only pottery in shipwrecks from various ancient periods. Multiple manufacturing sources
of the cargo demonstrate that merchants were engaged in tramping, sailing along the coast-
line from one port to another, buying and selling goods along the way (see above section
‘Nautical background’). This suggests that medieval pottery could have a double capac-
ity as both a sale item and a space filler or salable ballast (see above, and Stern, 2012a,
153–154).
But why fill a ship with merchandise that according to contemporary written sources
was apparently relatively inexpensive and available almost everywhere (Stern, 2012a:
146)? It is possible that ships unloading merchandise in ports wanted to fill the space that
was created, or more importantly, that they needed the extra weight on the ship for its
stability on the sea. The ship master or sailors could buy some ceramics to later sell along
the sailing route, or/and in the meantime it could be used as a secondary, heavy cargo, like
ballast. The advantage of using ceramics as ballast, as opposed to lead or brass mentioned
in medieval sources, was that it could be sold once the space was needed for more valu-
able goods, and even if it could not be sold, as its value was not very high, it could be
dumped into the sea, as were stones that were used as ballast. Bowls were very convenient
for this purpose, since they could be packed easily, one inside the other, to avoid break-
age. In addition, standardized glazed dinning vessels were also the most common form,
in use everywhere.
“Mediterranean Mix”
The diverse pottery groups imported to Acre and Jaffa during the crusader period, locally
produced and transported by sea from relatively nearby sites on the Lebanese coast, as
well as vessels coming from more distant venues, enable us to examine the extent of
Mediterranean trade, as well as its distribution patterns. It has been shown above that simi-
lar pottery was found at contemporaneous port cities throughout the Mediterranean. This
comprised a unique assemblage termed a “Mediterranean mix” (Stern, 2012a: 133–135,
table 7.1). Sixteen of the main subgroups of imported pottery found at Acre were also
found at these excavated sites, including glazed table and cooking ware from Beirut (BE.
GL and BE.CW); soft-paste wares from central Syria (SY.GL); Port St. Symeon Ware from
the north Syrian coast (NSY.GL); Cypriot thirteenth-century glazed ware (CY.GL); glazed
ware from Greece (GR.GL); Zeuxippus Wares, (TUR/GR.GL), and amphorae (TUR/
GR.PL) from the eastern Mediterranean; Protomaiolica Ware (SIT .GL) from southern Italy
and Sicily; glazed ware from Venice (NIT .GL); cooking ware and glazed ware from south-
ern France (SFR.CW and SFR.GL); glazed ware from Catalonia (CA .GL); cooking ware
from the western Mediterranean coast (NIT /SFR/CA .CW); North African Blue and Brown
Wares from Tunisia (TU.GL); and celadon ware from China (CH.GL). These groups were
compared, and it has been found that the sites yielding the highest similarity to the sixteen
imported ceramic subgroups from Acre are Marseilles, Paphos, Venice, Genoa, Alexandria,
and al-Mina. These sites are major cities, some of them serving as ports of call of the main
ruling powers of the time. Marseilles was an important port in the western Mediterranean
and also the home port of Provençal merchants who traded with the Levant from the end
of the twelfth to the thirteenth centuries (Abulafia, 1980: 20–21, 29; Lopez, 1987: 342).
Venice and Genoa were two of the major Italian maritime powers (Pryor, 1999). Alexandria
was one of the three main Egyptian ports through which much of the international trade
534
and merchandise coming from the Red Sea passed (Abulafia, 1987). Al-Mina, situated on
the northern part of the Levantine coast, was also a significant port (Heyd, 1959: 133–134,
168–169). Sites that yielded fewer comparisons to the Acre “Mediterranean mix” assem-
blage, yet were also engaged in international maritime trade, are Kinet, Tripoli, Corinth,
and Split. Notably, Beirut and Istanbul yielded small quantities of the imported ceramic
subgroups found at Acre, although both are known to have been active international ports.
This could simply be due to the lack of excavations or publication of pottery assemblages
from these sites.
The two ceramic groups that were found at most Mediterranean ports during the twelfth
and thirteenth century are the glazed pottery produced at various locations in Greece
(GR.GL) and the Syrian soft- paste wares (SY.GL). It is not surprising that the glazed
wares from Greece were frequently circulated since these wares were also the most com-
mon in the shipwrecks of this period (Stern, 2012a: 152). This abundance is most likely
related to the extensive influence of the Byzantine Empire at that time and its diverse
maritime connections. The subgroup of Syrian soft-paste wares (SY.GL), however, seems
to have reached Acre and other sites by overland routes from their origin in central Syria;
their presence at other Mediterranean coastal sites was most likely the result of redistribu-
tion from Acre, Beirut, and various Syrian ports. Closely following are Proto-Maiolica
Ware (SIT .GL), found at ten sites, Port St. Symeon Ware (NSY.GL) and Zeuxippus
Wares (TUR/GR.GL), both found at nine sites. It seems that the high frequency of the
Proto-maiolica Ware from southern Italy and Sicily is due to both the significant involve-
ment of Italian merchants in the long-distance maritime trade during the twelfth and thir-
teenth centuries and the location of these regions on the main sea routes from the western
to the eastern Mediterranean that made them a natural stopping point on the way. Some
of the ports of southern Italy and Sicily were en route for ships sailing from Genoa, Pisa,
and Venice to other destinations, and goods were apparently loaded and unloaded there.
The distribution of the Port St. Symeon Ware from ports along the Syrian coast (just as the
Syrian soft-paste ware described above) is an indication of the great volume of Levantine
trade and the large number of ships that called frequently at these ports. Although the exact
provenance of Zeuxippus Ware is presently unknown, it is assumed that there was more
than one production region, presumably situated within the area of the Byzantine Empire
(Waksman and François 2005). As with the most frequent subgroup, GR.GL, discussed
above, the abundance of this ware can be explained by the continuation of trade with the
areas that were previously under control of the Byzantine Empire. The Cypriot thirteenth-
century glazed ware (CY.GL) was found at eight of the sites. Cyprus is situated on the
crossroads of the eastern Mediterranean and most ships sailing toward the Levantine coast
passed by the island. It seems that during the thirteenth century, the Paphos Region work-
shops were producing pottery targeted mainly to the Levantine market. Further to the north
at Kinet, Istanbul, and Corinth, Cypriot wares were not recorded, however, some small
fragments of glazed bowls of the Paphos region workshops were found at ten sites on the
southern coast of Asia Minor, but definitely not in the quantities as in the Latin Kingdom
(Böhlendorf-Arslan, 2014: 80–85, figs. 2–4). It thus seems that Cypriot wares were distrib-
uted mainly to markets southeast of Cyprus and not to its north or west, although they have
been found in very small quantities in major trading centers in the western Mediterranean
(Venice and Marseilles), where they were probably brought by merchants from those cities
who visited Cyprus (Stern, 2008, 2014).
535
Acre, Alexandria and Venice

What additional information can be gleaned from comparing selected imported ceramic
groups at medieval Mediterranean ports? For this, we must take a look at quantitative data
from Acre, Alexandria, and Venice. Imported glazed wares from excavations at Alexandria
(François, 1999: 155–162) and Venice (Saccardo, 1998: 66–70) were quantified in a similar
way to Acre (Stern, 2012a: 135–137), making them the only two port sites that could be com-
pared to Acre (Fig. 29.10; Table 29.3). The data indicates a great increase in glazed imports
to Alexandria during the thirteenth century, tripling from the twelfth to the thirteenth cen-
turies (François, 1999: 157, figs. 37, 38), similar to the accordance in Acre (Stern, 2012a:
25, tables 3.1, 3.2). However, Venice experienced an increase in imported glazed ceramics
at the end of the twelfth century and the beginning of the thirteenth century, followed by a
decrease in the second half of the thirteenth century, then the number of local glazed wares
increased and they appeared ten times more frequently than the imported wares (Saccardo,
1998: 68–70, tables 5–9). It seems, therefore, that the local glazed wares were the main
types of pottery in use during the late twelfth and thirteenth centuries at Venice. Thus, the
pattern of imported and local glazed wares observed at Acre and Alexandria differs from
that noted at Venice. As Fig. 29.10 clearly indicates, the imported glazed wares outnumber
the local ones in Acre (84.7%) and Alexandria (93%), while in Venice, the opposite was the
case: the local glazed (81.7%) wares outnumber the imported ones (18.3%).
100.00%
90.00%
80.00%
70.00%
60.00%
50.00%
40.00%
30.00%
20.00%
10.00%
0.00%
Acre Alexandria Venice
Local Wares Imported Wares
Figure 29.10 Quantitative comparison of glazed bowls from Acre, Alexandria and Venice.
Drawing: Nimrod Getzov.
536
Table 29.3 Quantitative comparison of glazed wares from Acre, Alexandria and Venice
(numbers=vessel rims)
Acre Alexandria Venice
Local wares 294 24 1123

Imported wares 2063 320 252
One would expect that in the main harbor and capital of a rich and prosperous maritime
power such as Venice, many types of foreign and exotic ceramic wares would have been
imported for the use of the inhabitants, especially the families of the merchants involved
in the long-distance trade. However, it has been demonstrated that Acre and Alexandria,
which served as transit ports through which a large volume of trade passed, had more
imported than local glazed ceramics. This may suggest that the presence of imported wares
is connected to the volume and the nature of trade going through the port, rather than to
the socioeconomic status or functional and commercial requirements of the inhabitants. At
transit ports such as Acre or Alexandria, the ships could have unloaded pottery in order to
load local products and goods in transit from distant locales, all destined for the western
Mediterranean. Consequently, it seems that ship owners rarely returned to their homeports
with ceramics as cargo, but with more expensive, lucrative goods.
CONCLUSIONS
Pottery was just one of the many products that circulated within the framework of the
Mediterranean maritime trade network, and certainly not a main one. However, its dura-
bility in the archaeological record as opposed to other perishable goods makes it into a
worthy representative of these. The reasons for maritime pottery trade seem to have been
quite practical and closely linked to the opening of the Mediterranean to maritime traffic
between East and West that could happen in the period following the First Crusade due
to the sophisticated maritime trade system that developed with the innovative navigation
methods, the establishment of sailing routes and the progress in ship construction. The
main agents responsible for distributing the pottery and the many other products were the
maritime merchants and seafarers involved in the bustling thirteenth-century maritime traf-
fic, mostly the Genoese, Pisans, and Venetians, as well as merchants from southern France,
Catalonia, Tunisia, and various other sites.
In summary, the ceramic evidence of maritime trade discussed above reveals the following
points:
•• Production sites: for the most these were situated on the coast, and in many cases nearby or
in important economic ports that were very active in the international maritime commerce.
•• Consumption sites: these were also situated on the coast, and most of them were also
the ports engaged in the maritime trade. In addition, some also had pottery workshops.
Consumption sites also include inland sites, however, there the quantities of the imports
are notably lower than at the coastal sites.
•• Correlation between production and consumption sites: there is a clear correlation
between the contemporary Mediterranean sailing routes that started from or passed
537
through major maritime centers and the origin of the majority of the ceramics that were
consumed at Acre, Jaffa, and other Mediterranean ports.
•• Correlation between pottery type and consumption: it seems that whether the pottery
was Cypriot, Levantine, Aegean, or Sicilian was of little concern to the traders and con-
sumers alike. They probably bought a glazed bowl for its function mainly.
•• Pottery as ballast: the ceramic wares in the ships were mostly secondary cargo or “sale-
able ballast,” although it should be kept in mind that smaller quantities of pottery may
also have traveled as personal property of merchants, sailors, or other individuals, such
as pilgrims who arrived at Acre.
With the suggestion to use ceramic evidence as yet another source for assessing and recon-
structing the patterns of maritime trade of the Latin East, I would like to direct attention to
the following information that emerged from the study of the imported ceramics:
•• Most of the pottery types imported to Acre and Jaffa originate from the Eastern
Mediterranean, from regions that were parts of the Byzantine sphere. This can indicate
the volume of trade from those areas.
•• Ports with the most similar “Mediterranean mix” types of pottery as Acre, namely al-
Mina, Paphos, Alexandria, Venice, Genoa, and Marseilles, may indicate a similar vol-
ume of trade.
•• The slight differences in the relative frequencies of imports at Jaffa and Acre, namely
slightly more imported glazed bowls at twelfth century Jaffa in contrast to slightly more
at thirteenth-century Acre, seem to indicate that more ships were attracted to Jaffa’s
harbor in the twelfth century and to Acre’s harbor during the thirteenth century.
As this information is coming from one study, these suggestions above should be taken with
caution and carefully further examined as quantitative data from other sites becomes avail-
able. Clearly, more data relevant for the study of maritime trade can be gleaned from the
study of the pottery assemblages. Hopefully, future studies will both develop the study of
traded ceramics and utilize the information available from the archaeological ceramic data
to study medieval maritime trade.
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CHAPTER THIRTY
DOMESTIC LIFE IN THE LATIN EAST

Adrian J. Boas
H ow well we have become acquainted with the military and religious activities of
the crusaders and Frankish settlers in the East. In a society in which so much activ-
ity centred around battlefields, fortifications and churches, and with the perception, not
infrequently encountered even today that matters of day-to-day life are predictable,
tedious and of little significance, it is hardly remarkable that scholars of the crusader
period often entirely circumvent the examination of domestic life. However, this trend
is slowly changing, and following a very brief discussion of daily life in the Kingdom
of Jerusalem published over four decades ago by Meron Benvenisti (Benvenisti 1970:
371–81) and a more expansive one by Urban Tignor Holmes which relied principally
on evidence in contemporary literature (Tignor Holmes, 1977), a growing number of
examinations of life under crusader rule, combining the written sources with archaeo-
logical evidence have begun to appear. In recent volumes of what might be regarded as
the most prestigious journal of the crusader studies today – Crusades – we find a handful
of papers on a range of domestic topics such as daily life in Acre (Jacoby, 2005), urban
development in Acre (Arad, 2006), the use of money (Kool, 2003), food (Bronstein,
2013), gambling and gaming (Lampina, 2013), disease (Wagner and Mitchell, 2011) and
death and burial (Riley-Smith, 2008). In 2010 I published a book dealing with domestic
architecture and day-to-day activities in the crusader states (Boas 2010a). An increasing
volume of publications dealing with all aspects of material culture are appearing and a
growing number of scholars working in the field of archaeological research are involved
in expanding such topics.
This slow but positive trend, might have been expected to come much earlier, as did
numerous European studies in the wake of Marc Bloch, Fernand Braudel and the Annales
School, but the Latin East had until recently remained something of a backwater in this
regard. It is chiefly the outcome of increasingly extensive archaeological work on crusader
sites and examinations of Frankish material culture carried out over the past three decades
that has brought about the realisation that such topics can contribute much to our under-
standing of historical events.
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— chapter 30: Domestic life in the Latin East —
URBAN LIFE
A number of descriptions of Frankish Jerusalem have been published examining different
aspects of life in the Holy City (Prawer, 1985, 1991; Pringle, 1990–91; Bahat, 1991; Boas,
2001). In his paper on everyday life in Frankish Acre, David Jacoby discussed various
urban activities and painted a multi-faceted picture of this cosmopolitan port city (Jacoby,
2006: 73–105; see also Boas, 2010b). However, daily life in other crusader cities has hardly
been touched upon, mainly because whereas both Jerusalem and Acre were described in
detail in various contemporary sources, among these some quite detailed accounts by visit-
ing pilgrims, this was not the case for most other cities. In addition, although recent archae-
ological work has added to our knowledge of certain aspects of daily life in some of the
lesser towns, notably, Jaffa (Peilstökker, 2011), Yoqne’am (Ben-Tor et al., 1996; Avissar,
2005) and Arsur-Apollonia (Roll and Tal, 1999; Tal and Roll, 2011), the volume of material
evidence from both Jerusalem and Acre far outweighs that of all the other towns together.
The outcome of this is that our acquaintance with day-to-day life in crusader cities is almost
entirely based on the two principal cities of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Indeed, each of these
cities provides information on aspects of daily life that the other is less informative on, and
the combined information from the two cities paints us a picture which covers a great many
aspects of urban life. Acre, for example, is a copious source of both written and archaeo-
logical evidence on all types of domestic buildings: palaces, merchant houses, private and
communal houses (Figure 30.1), while information on domestic architecture in Jerusalem
is comparatively slender and is almost limited to written sources (though of these there
are some of considerable interest). However, with regard to public commercial structures,
in particular market buildings, Jerusalem has the fore, with five twelfth-century covered
bazaars, standing and still in use (see below). Acre has only one, well-preserved but largely
hidden within modern structures (Kedar and Stern, 1995). A possible second bazaar can be
observed on early twentieth-century aerial photographs (Boas, 1997).
Living conditions
Living conditions in a city were influenced by its size and importance, by location, par-
ticularly with regard to its position on commercial or pilgrimage routes, by the wealth
or poverty of its inhabitants, by crowding and pollution, and by many other factors that
are often observable both in written sources and in archaeological remains. Acre, being
the chief port of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, its most cosmopolitan city and one which
was seasonally inundated with traders, pilgrims and soldiers, was, not surprising, severely
affected by overcrowding and pollution. Ibn (c. 1185) described Acre’s roads and streets as:
‘choked by the press of men, so that it is hard to put foot to ground’ (Ibn Jubayr, 1952: 318).
Archaeological evidence shows a steady process of expansion of domestic construction into
open areas, private or public, as space dwindled. Houses were raised to three or four storeys,
courtyards were built into (Boas, 2010a: 216) and in the outer parts of the city new houses
were constructed in formerly open gardens and fields, sometimes even protruding over the
city moat (Arad, 2006: 193–4). In the second half of the twelfth century, a Greek pilgrim
described appalling conditions in the city, placing the blame for this on the ‘enormous
influx of strangers’ who corrupted the air, causing the outbreak of various diseases and
frequent deaths (John Phocas, 1892: 11). Refuse from the markets and waste from the city’s
545
2m 1 0
x
COURTYARD
4
7
6
3
5
1
Figure 30.1 Plan of a courtyard house in Acre. Drawing: by author.
sewers and drains, including a large sewage system excavated under the Hospitaller com-
pound (Avissar and Stern, 1995), appears to have turned the enclosed port into a large open
sewer and explain why it became known in contemporary sources as ‘the Filthy Sea’ (lor-
demer in French, a mari quod dicitur immundum in Latin) (Jacoby 1993: 88–91). Although
Jerusalem also experienced a degree of crowding in the festive seasons, it was less prone to
such problems and in the twelfth century was probably much as it is described two centu-
ries later when Ludolf of Suchem described its ‘wholesome air’ (Ludolf of Suchem, 1895:
97). The same was probably true of other towns such as Sebaste (Samaria) and Nicosia in
Cyprus (Aerts, 2000: 209; Ludolf of Suchem, 1895: 42).
546
Urban layout
None of the crusader cities had much to show in the way of urban planning. Instead, like
medieval cities elsewhere in both the West and the East, they were full of narrow streets,
warrens and cul-de-sacs. With the exception of the small town that grew up outside the
Templar castle of Chateau Pelerin, all crusader towns had long histories, and those which
in classical times had shared the benefits of Hellenistic or Roman/Byzantine town plan-
ning had lost most traces of this long before the arrival of the Franks. None-the-less, a
limited degree of planned layout did exist, either where traces of the principal Roman/
Byzantine roads survived (albeit built over and subdivided as was the case in Jerusalem)
or in the Italian communal quarters in Acre and Tyre where a sort of standard plan was
used, based on certain urban components outlined in the terms of treaties – such as the
famous pactum Warmundi between the Venetians and the Patriarch of Jerusalem which
promised the Venetian commune that in every city it would have an ecclesia (church),
a ruga (street), platea (square), balnea (bathhouse), and a furna (bakery). In the case of
Acre a mill (molendina), scales and other installations are also mentioned (William of
Tyre, 1986: 12:25, I, 578; in English trans., I, 553). This model served as a prototype for
the other communes and this type of layout can still, to a certain degree, be observed in
the former Genoese quarter in Acre. Here the location of the quarter’s principal church,
San Lorenzo, has been identified with the present Greek orthodox church of St George;
the square, possibly with the open area that surrounds the church even today but covering
a larger area to the west and south; and the ruga with the vaulted street (apparently the
Genoese Via Cooperta) which extends from adjacent to the church in a roughly easterly
direction right across the quarter to what may have been the main north–south street of
the city, Via Publica (now Market Street) (Kedar and Stern 1995; Kool 1997). Along the
length of the vaulted street were some of the quarter’s principal palazi (large residential
buildings for merchants of the commune).
Planning, however, was difficult to maintain, particularly in a crowded port city like
Acre which experienced large influxes of population during and following the brief ship-
ping seasons known as the passagia, when the fleets arrived from the West twice a year.
At these times armies might arrive, and always merchants, mainly from Italy, as well as
vast numbers of Christian pilgrims. The German pilgrim Theoderich recalls seeing over
eighty pilgrim ships in the harbour of Acre when he visited the city in Easter week of 1169
(Theoderich, 1896: 60). Such seasonal crowding would have made municipal management
difficult and can be seen as the cause for much of the obstructive building and the pollution
which is recalled in written accounts of the period and later (John Phocas, 1892: 11; Ibn
Jubayr, 1952: 318).
In Jerusalem where so much public construction changed the face of the city, some
important projects were aimed at improving the city’s infrastructure for the benefit of the
general population. Examples of public works include the establishment of new and bet-
ter commercial centres in the city including covered market street constructed by Queen
Melisende in 1152 (Regesta, no. 278) (Fig. 30.2), the improvement of sewage and drainage
works such as that constructed outside the city walls in the east to carry winter rain water
in the Valley of Jehoshaphat out of the path of the Church of the Tomb of the Virgin Mary
(Seligman, 2012), major development of the city’s water supply and new burial grounds.
In 1152 Melisende enforced the clearance of the area before the principal gate into the city,
Porta David, and the removal of a mill constructed by the lepers of St Lazarus, which was
547
Figure 30.2 Twelfth-century market street in Jerusalem. Photograph: Author.
partly obstructing passage into the city (Regesta, no. 269). Even in the brief period in the
thirteenth century when the Franks regained the city following the Treaty of Jaffa (1229)
and until its final loss in 1244, some important public structures seem to have been estab-
lished, possibly including new market buildings that were even larger and more impressive
than those built by Melisende (Fig. 30.3).
Commercial activity
Forms of commerce varied, depending on the nature of the town. A vast range of goods
would have been available in coastal towns, specfically those that served international com-
merce, in particular Acre and Tyre. These ports had autonomous Italian communities and
separate quarters of other nationals, and the commodities passing through their markets
would have included products brought from the West, from Far Eastern and Middle Eastern
lands, alongside locally produced and manufactured goods. Such merchandise was intended
548
Figure 30.3 Possible thirteenth-century market street in Jerusalem. Photograph: Author.
not only for international trade but also for use by the city’s Italian merchants, crusaders,
local Franks, Eastern and Western Christian pilgrims, Moslems and Jews. In Jerusalem, a
city which, other than being an administrative centre, was largely involved in its role as the
centre of Christian pilgrimage, commercial activities focused on pilgrims’ needs for food,
clothing, keepsakes and devotional objects such as holy relics. Thus, if Acre’s markets
sold a variety of local and imported ceramics (Fig. 30.4), as archaeology has indeed shown
(Stern, 2012), glass vessels (Gorin-Rosen, 1997, 2013), metal objects, textiles, spices, raw
materials and so on, several of Jerusalem’s markets specialised in local produce, cooked
food, textiles and clothing, palm branches for processions, candles, holy objects and keep-
sakes (as, indeed, its markets largely do today).
Urban industrial activity

The peripheral areas of towns, both within and outside the walls, were the location of
certain urban industries. Such industries are recorded in written sources, identifiable
on occasion in site names that have occasionally been preserved, and are observable in
archaeological finds. In Jerusalem the name Tanners’ Gate, at the eastern part of the south-
ern city wall, identifies the location of this industry. Within the gate which was exposed in
excavations in the 1970s, a series of channels and plastered tanks of medieval date, pos-
sible remnants of the tannery, were uncovered. Similarly, plastered channels and basins
found in a structure excavated south of the citadel and adjacent to the royal palace may be
549
Figure 30.4 Imported ceramics from Acre. Collection of Israel Antiquities Authority.
Photograph © The Israel Museum, Jerusalem, by Avraham Hay.
remains of the dye works which were located in that area (Reem, 2002: 8). Indeed, a medi-
eval Jewish traveller, Rabbi Benjamin of Tudela, records Jewish dyers under the citadel
(Benjamin of Tudela, nd: 23). In Acre, a sugar mill was located outside the eastern city
wall (Imad ad-Din: 296) and near the old north wall a manufacturer of pilgrim keepsakes
(Syon, 1999). Other industries, mainly those that did not create foul smells and smoke,
were more centrally located, such as the gold and silversmiths who occupied workshops
in the heart of Jerusalem.
RURAL LIFE
We are now much better informed than in the past as to the extent, organisation and nature
of Frankish rural life in the East. Recent historical and archaeological studies (Ellenblum,
1998; Pringle 2000; Boas, 2003) have not changed our understanding that most of the
Frankish population in the crusader states lived, worked and died in the cities. However,
we are now more aware of the nature of their rural activities which, other than defence,
fall largely under three categories – administration, agriculture and industry. Each of these
activities left their different and distinctive marks on the landscape.
Rural estate centres

Being a minority consisting, as we have noted, of a largely urban population, the Franks
were dependent for their food and for many of their manufactured goods on a non-Frank-
ish peasant class, a substantial part of which was potentially hostile. Consequently, the
nature of rural administration in the crusader states had to be well organised and efficient.
A system of overseers in charge of running the rural economy, in particular in the col-
lecting of taxes and dues, was established early on, adopting some local customs but to a
large degree based on Western feudal customs. The backbone of this system was a large
550
number of rural administrative centres and depots. These centres appear to have altered
somewhat in size and form as conditions in the Latin East changed. This development
can best be observed in the twelfth century when the extent and effectiveness of settle-
ment activities and rural administration fluctuated according to political stability, external
threats and internal security (Boas, 2007). The earliest phase was that which developed
together with the occupation of the Holy Land after the initial conquest in 1099. The
Franks set up a network of fortified towers and small castles, the primary purpose of
which was defensive, but in many cases the structures were also intended to serve the
equally important task of enabling the Franks to achieve and retain a degree of control
over the local peasant population and to regulate agricultural activities and the collec-
tion of taxes. By the 1140s security conditions in parts of the kingdom had begun to
improve, to a large degree a result of the presence of these buildings together with a
growing number of larger fortresses. The most important of the latter were castles built
in problematic areas near major roads, frontier areas and particularly around the coastal
town of Ascalon which had remained a Muslim enclave in the Frankish territory and a
base for raids into the kingdom. The neutralising of this problem, especially with the
occupation of Ascalon in 1153 seems to have led to the first attempts at Frankish rural
settlement. It also meant that administrative buildings no longer needed to be fortified,
at least not to the same degree as in the past. The result of this was that from the middle
of the twelfth century a series of larger buildings, usually of a courtyard plan and often
with little or no defences, were constructed in important areas of agricultural activity.
Examples of these are found in densely populated regions around the larger cities but
also, on occasion, further afield. Perhaps the best-known and best-preserved example is
the Hospitaller building of Aqua Bella located on the road between Jerusalem and Jaffa,
7 km south-west of modern Jerusalem (Fig. 30.5). These buildings served a double pur-
pose. They were houses for the locators (rural overseers, representatives of the landown-
ers) and they were storage facilities for the goods and livestock collected as taxes from
the peasants. They also, on occasion, contained certain installations, feudal monopolies
of the lords such as mills which the farmers were required to use, and pay for their use.
When conditions within the kingdom’s borders deteriorated, notably at the time of the rise
to power of Salah ad-Din and his invasions into the kingdom from 1170 onwards, many
of these buildings were strengthened with fortifications. Quite possibly similar develop-
ments in rural areas occurred in the thirteenth century relating to the various ups and
downs in the security conditions, which became even more insecure after 1187, but of
these we are less informed from archaeological evidence.
Frankish villages
A large number of villages, often referred to as casals, appear in documents but of most
of these we know little or nothing at all. Quite frequently we are not even certain of their
location and whether or not they were settled by Christians, let alone Franks. Of these
settlements perhaps the most interesting are a small group of villages consisting of single
lines of narrow elongated houses set adjacent to one another along either side of a single
street (Figs 30.6, 30.7). This type of ‘street village’ or ‘string village’ was entirely new
to the region and at present, with only a handful of such sites, we are not at all certain
that this was a widespread phenomenon. Rather, at the present state of research it seems
that it may be a quite exceptional one and possibly geographically limited to the region
551
Figure 30.5 Aqua Bella. A rural administrative building. Photograph: Author.
between Jerusalem and Nablus. Various attempts at identifying similar layout at Akhziv
(Casal Imbert) (Benvenisti, 1970: 223) on the northern coast and near Belvoir Castle
above the Jordan Valley have come to nothing.
Frankish farms
A few isolated rural buildings appear to have been farms rather than administrative centres,
although in some cases they possibly served both functions. Together with domestic apart-
ments and some storage vaults, these buildings might have stables, cattle sheds, pig pens,
chicken coops and water reservoirs, and were surrounded by orchards and fields. A farm
at Khirbet Lowza, a few kilometres south-west of Jerusalem, which has been partly exca-
vated (Ellenblum et al., 1996) was constructed around a courtyard, with nearby fields and a
reservoir (Fig. 30.8). A farm at Har Hozevim to the west of Jerusalem consisted of a large
hall-house but also had two enclosed courtyards containing a small stable, animal pens and
a chicken coop.
Agricultural activities
One of the earliest examinations of rural settlement and agricultural activities in the Latin
East was a short dissertation written at the University of Pennsylvania at the turn of the
twentieth century (Preston, 1903). This was followed by a number of studies over the fol-
lowing years (Benvenisti, 1970: 213–67; Prawer, 1972: 355–81; 1980, 143–200; Smail,
1973: 80–88; Richard, 1985; Ellenblum, 1998; Boas, 1999: 60–90; 2003; Pringle, 2000).
Under the Franks numerous traditional crops were grown, viticulture underwent a revival
552
Figure 30.6 Al-Kurum. A Frankish street village near Jerusalem. Photograph: Author.
Figure 30.7 Reconstruction of street in al-Kurum. Drawing: Author.
553
Figure 30.8 Khirbat al-Lowza. A Frankish farm near Jerusalem. Drawing: by David Hully,
courtesy of Ronnie Ellenblum.
after centuries during which Islamic rule was not favourable towards the manufacture of
wine. Similarly there was no doubt an increase in the raising of pigs. With the development
of sugar refining and its expansion into a major industry, the growing of sugar cane prob-
ably greatly increased.
LIFE IN A CASTLE
Archaeology is a particularly useful source of information on aspects of life in a crusader
castle. Excavations and publication of finds from several major and minor castles has ena-
bled us to gain an insight into how life was lived by castle garrisons (Johns, 1997; Pringle,
1986; Harper and Pringle, 2000; Biller et al., 2006). The layout of domestic apartments in
castles is not difficult to follow, in particular in Hospitaller, Templar and Teutonic castles
where regular garrison life was modified by the monastic framework that the military orders
adopted.
Many finds from excavations of castles relate to daily life. Items relating to food prepa-
ration include mortars and pestles (Montfort, Belvoir), knives and spoons (wooden spoons
from Montfort), mixing bowls, cooking vessels and ceramic and glass tablewares are fre-
quent finds. Objects of dress are occasionally recovered, mainly buckles but occasionally
fragments of textiles and in one case footware (a child’s shoe and a sandal from Montfort,
now lost). Saddlery includes buckles, horseshoes, spurs and other items. Work tools include
hammers (Montfort), spades (Vadum Iacov, Chateau Pelerin, Montfort) axes, (Chateau
Pelerin, Montfort), sickles, picks, hoes and pruning knives (Vadum Iacov) pliers (Belvoir),
chisels and nails (Fig. 30.9).1
554
Figure 30.9 Spade recovered in excavations at Montfort Castle. Photograph: Author.
LIFE IN MONASTERIES AND IN THE

MILITARY ORDERS
Numerous monastic foundations were active in the Latin East, mainly Augustinian,
Benedictine, as well as a few Cistercian, Premonstratensian and other establishments. Most
of these retained for their houses, with few changes, the cloistral layout that had evolved and
been adopted by most of the monastic orders in Europe. Daily life of the monks and nuns
in the East would in most aspects have differed little from that of their brother and sister
foundations in the West (see Boas, forthcoming).
A typical cloistral monastic house in the Latin East was the Cistercian abbey of Belmont,
established on a hilltop south-east of Tripoli in 1157 (Fig. 30.10). Although it later passed
into Orthodox hands and has been largely rebuilt in modern times, its original layout can still
be observed, and a plan of it was published by Camile Enlart in 1923 (Enlart, 1923: plate
1 between pages 2 and 3). It followed the characteristic layout of Cistercian monasteries in
the West, with the church in the north of the cloister, the refectory and kitchen to the south,
the dormitory and chapterhouse to the east and the cellars to the west (Enlart, 1923: 4).
Monastic life within this physical framework was probably little different from that of mon-
asteries in the West with the daily round of prayer (prime, terce, sext, none, vespers and
compline) in the church, lessons and meetings in the chapterhouse, meals in the refectory,
and a variety of labours in the kitchen, bakery, cellars, garden, and scriptorium.
A new introduction in the East was the adaptation by military communities of monas-
tic rule and the cloistral setting. The establishment of the military orders was an original
and highly successful innovation of Frankish society in the East, one that Joshua Prawer
referred to as an exception to the rule that crusader society lacked innovation and originality
(Prawer, 1972: 252). Retaining very closely the monastic routine and the six prayer sessions
555
as the framework of daily life, the knight brothers of these orders introduced into it military
activities; combat training and taking care of their equipment and horses.
COMMERCIAL ACTIVITIES
Commerce in the Latin East thrived as a result of the activities of Italian merchant fleets
and the communes that they established in the towns of Acre and Tyre. The presence of
the communes gave the principal towns a distinctive cosmopolitan character which can be
observed in physical remains and written descriptions. The quarters in these towns were
inhabited by different ethnic communities, much more varied than in the internal towns,
and they seasonally hosted waves of soldiers, merchants and pilgrims, and consequently
were crowded, noisy and dirty. They contained numerous churches, hospices and hospitals,
money exchanges, manufacturing quarters and specialised markets.
INDUSTRY
A number of industries supplied goods for the Frankish population as well as items for
export by the Italian merchant fleets to the West. Some of these were traditional industries
of the region, including manufacture of glass, pottery and textiles, dyeing, wine and oil
manufacture. Others were entirely new developments of the twelfth and thirteenth centu-
ries, such as the refining of sugar which became one of the most profitable industries of the
crusader states. Prior to the twelfth century, the preparation of a primitive sweet from sugar
cane was a household activity. Under the Franks the refining of sugar was organised into
Figure 30.10 Plan of the Cistercian abbey of Belmont near Tripoli (after C. Enlart,
‘L’Abbayecistercienne de Belmont en Syrie’, Syria 4, 1923).
556
a large-scale, technically highly developed industry. The Franks built a large number of
refineries in the cane-growing regions along the coast and in the Jordan Valley (Stern, 1999)
and these were introduced in to Cyprus after the island came under their control in 1191
(Fig. 30.11). The process, from harvesting to grinding, cooking and the final manufacture
of liquid sugar (molasses) and crystalised sugar of varying qualities in ceramic moulds, has
been outlined in a number of recent studies (Stern, 1999; Peled, 2009). The products of this
industry were not only intended for export. Archaeological finds and written sources have
provided evidence for the extensive involvement of the Hospital of St John and, to a lesser
extent, the Teutonic Order in the refining of sugar which was not only a lucrative activity
but also had a practical use in preparation of medicines for use in their hospitals.
Glass manufacture was a traditional industry in the Syro-Palestine littoral and with the
increased trade from the Latin East to the West in this period it underwent an expansion
and development. Kilns for glass manufacture and workshops for decorating vessels with
enamel were established. For export and local consumption these produced drinking ves-
sels (Fig. 30.12), glass lamps and window glass, including stained glass. Analysis of stained
glass finds from Montfort Castle in the Western Galilee show them to have been locally
produced (Whitehouse et al., forthcoming).
Figure 30.11 The Hospitaller sugar refinery at Kolossi, southern Cyprus. Photograph: Author.
557
Figure 30.12 Glass (prunted beaker) from Beit She’an, manufactured in the Holy Land. Courtesy
of the Eretz Israel Museum, Tel Aviv Collection.
Another industry that took off in the crusader period was the manufacture of religious
items intended for pilgrims or for clergy looking for holy objects to take back to their mon-
asteries and churches. Not only the discovery or invention of holy relics, but the manufac-
ture of vessels (reliquaries) to contain them, developed into an important source of revenue.
Pilgrim keepsakes were manufactured in towns (above, Syon, 1999) and villages (a mould
for pilgrims’ cross pendants was found in the excavation of a village and pilgrim site near
Jerusalem – see Boas, 1999: 162) and sold to or acquired by visiting pilgrims (Fig. 30.13).
HOUSEHOLD WORK AND LEISURE

Although no cookbooks from the Latin East are known to have survived, references to
cooking occasionally appear in written sources. As in other activities, in preparing and serv-
ing food the Franks sometimes adopted local customs and habits. One interesting example
558
a) b)
Figure 30.13 Lead ampulae. Courtesy of the Eretz Israel Museum, Tel Aviv Collection.
is given by the Syrian writer Usāmah Ibn-Munqidh, who describes his visit to a retired
Frankish knight who, on observing the former’s hesitation to partake of a meal he had
prepared, informed him that he employed Egyptian cooks and served no pig flesh (Usāmah
Ibn-Munqidh, 1964: 169–70). Regarding food, cooking and meal-taking we can learn a
great deal from the statutes and rules of monastic institutions and the military orders. These
are a wealthy source of information on what foods were eaten by the brothers, when, where
and in what conditions (Bronstein, 2013).
No less informative is a wealth of archaeological evidence in the form of kitchens,
hearths, cooking and baking ovens, installations used in preparation of foodstuffs, olive
mills, grape presses, vessels of metal, stone, ceramic and glass used for storage or prepara-
tion of foods, tableware, cutlery (Fig. 30.14), and actual remains of foods (animal bones,
seeds, etc.). Meat consumption has been examined at a few sites including the Red Tower
(Burj al-Akhmar – Cartledge, 1986), Yoqne’am (Kolska Horowitz and Dahan, 1996) and
Margat (Kováts, 2012) and plant remains have been examined at the Red Tower (Hubbard
and McKay, 1986).
The local Frankish population living in the towns and villages in the Latin East enjoyed
pastimes and leisure activities that were traditional in the West but also adopted some local
ones. Hunting was a pastime or sport as much as a necessity for the Frankish population.
There are references to hunting and falconry in historical sources (John of Joinville, 1963:
292; Usāmah Ibn-Munqidh, 1964: 226, 239; Burchard of Mount Sion, 1896: 24, 43; on
Cyprus, see Edbury, 2005: 83–4). Fulk of Chartres refers to hunting with falcons and dogs
(Fulcher of Chartres, 1969: 298). Fulk of Anjou is recorded as having died falling from his
horse while chasing a hare near Acre (William of Tyre, 15:27, II, 134). John of Joinville
recorded lion hunting near Caesarea (John of Joinville, 1963: 289). Restrictions were occa-
sionally placed on hunting for members of the military orders (Upton-Ward, 1992: 32–3).
559
A few archaeological finds can be connected to hunting. An example is small balls of

red-clay, about 2.5 cm in diameter, found in excavations in Acre, which may possibly have
fi
been shots for slingshots used to wing birds (Boas and Melloni, forthcoming).
One partial influence of the East on the Frankish lifestyle was frequent visits to the bath-
house. This appears to have become a fairly widespread activity in both urban and rural
settlements. Whereas in Islam ritual bathing was an important part of religious life, with
the Franks, the bathhouse was for comfort and pleasure. In the Latin East public bathing
would seem to have been regarded with less ambivalence than in the West where the Church
sometimes remained hostile for fear of debauchery. The influence of Eastern culture on the
Franks of the Latin East may have played a role in changing Western attitudes in regard to
the importance of hygiene.
Even in the East, bathing could occasionally ignite the contempt of Church leaders, but
these were particularly outsiders, the best-known example being Jacques de Vitry who in
a general condemnation of the pullani (colts – a term which was used to designate native-
born Franks, and occasionally a derogatory term for children of Frankish father and Muslim
mother) referred to them as being: ‘more used to baths than battles’ (Jacques de Vitry, 1896:
64). John of Joinville, who accompanied Louis IX on the Seventh Crusade to the Holy Land
(1248–54), mentions taking a room near the bathes in Acre (John of Joinville, 1963: 266).
Some rather colourful and often quoted passages of Usāmah Ibn-Munqidh describe certain
Frankish practices in bathhouses (Hillenbrand, 1999: 276–82). There appear to have been
some rather inappropriate practices carried out by the brothers when accompanying donats
on their way from the bathhouse in Acre that necessitated a warning in the Hospitaller Rule
(Statute of Rr. Hugh Revel, no.19, King, 1934: 77–8). The custom of eating and sleeping at
the bathhouse was also looked askance upon as a statute of the Hospitaller Order suggests,
albeit of later date but possibly reflecting earlier attitudes (King, 1934: 107).
In Acre a Frankish bathhouse was excavated in the suburb of Montmusard (Smithline et
al., 2013). Heating was provided by a large furnace that distributed hot air through chan-
nels to each room with a hypocaust system of rectangular limestone pillars supporting a
marble floor. Other bathhouses of Frankish date have been found at Chateau Pelerin – ‘Atlit
(Johns, 1997 (II): 124–9), Mount Tabor (Battista and Bagatti, 1976: 65) and Jerusalem
(Boas, 2001: 161–3).
Figure 30.14 Wooden spoon from Montfort. Photograph: Mariana Salzberger. Courtesy
of IAA, Rockefeller Museum, Jerusalem.
560
Pursuits of leisure could take other forms. Franks frequented taverns and brothels
(Joinville, 1963: 292). Nobility were involved daily in jousting, games and tournaments
(Ludolf of Suchem, 1895: 52; Philip de Novare, 1936, vi (112), vii (113): 65–66). Games
and gambling were commonplace in taverns and private houses, castles and monastic
houses. John of Joinville mentions King Louis’s brothers playing dice in Acre (John of
Joinville, 1963: 278). Six bone dice were found at Chateau Pelerin (Fig. 30.15), and there
are occasional references to board games such as morelles, backgammon and chess. Games
were popular in all levels of society, no less among religious orders as among the general
Frankish population. Indeed, most examples of board games, dice, tokens and counters
found in excavations have come from monasteries and houses and castles of the military
orders (Boas, 1999: 168–70; 2006: 203–4; Sebbane, 1999; Lampina, 2013).
MUSIC
No serious study has been carried out regarding music in private and liturgical practices
in the Latin East and information on this aspect of daily life in the crusader states is not
extensive. No doubt there were local musicians, and certainly with the arrival of pilgrims
and in festive seasons the presence of foreign musician and minstrels would have become
noticeable. John of Joinville refers to minstrels from Greater Armenia, performing musi-
cians who performed acrobatic tricks (John of Joinville, 1963: 297). On the whole archae-
ology provides us only with minor evidence, although the major discovery of two musical
instruments in the grounds of the Church of Nativity in Bethlehem are important – an organ
and a carillon throw light on the use of music in sacred contexts. The organ consisted of
221 copper fistulae and the carillon had twelve different-sized bronze bells. These latter
were removed from the bell tower of the church in 1452 or perhaps earlier on the order of
Mohammed II and were buried nearby where three of them were discovered in 1863 and
Figure 30.15 Bone dice from Chateau Pelerin. Courtesy of IAA.
561
fourteen more in 1906. The largest bell had a dragon-shaped mount and the smallest was
inscribed with the words ‘Vox Domini’ (Voice of the Lord). The organ pipes apparently
came from a water-powered organ.
ILLNESS AND DEATH

Disease and injury, medical treatments and hospital care is an area of study which was largely
neglected until recent years but has now become the topic of some interesting and useful
publications. The evidence for various illness and injuries suffered by people in the Latin
East is obtained from human remains recovered from a number of crusader period sites; for
example, at Vadum Iacob and Jezreel (Tel Yizra’el). Examining human bone finds from these
sites (Mitchell, 1998; Mitchell et al, 2006) has indicated the types of injuries suffered, often as
the result of participation in battle, and, on occasion, something of the manner in which they
were treated. Microbiological material that has been recovered in excavations of latrines and
cesspools in Acre has enabled the identification of the various intestinal parasites that plagued
the inhabitants of the Hospitaller compound in Acre and has suggested something about the
nature of the food that the inhabitants of the city consumed and how it was prepared (Mitchell,
1998, 2008; Mitchell et al., 2008). These add to a number of informative studies based on con-
temporary sources and archaeological studies describing the Jerusalem hospital, an important
institution run by the Knights of the Hospital of St John which occupied a large area to the
south of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre (Kedar, 1998; Edgington, 1998, 2005). These stud-
ies not only enlighten us on the building itself but also on the activities carried out within it
and the conditions of care and treatment which the inmates of the hospital experienced.
Only a few investigations on the subject of death and burial customs in the Latin East
have been carried out. There are some important studies of the epigraphy of numerous
Figure 30.16 Grave marker in the Mamilla cemetery, Jerusalem. Photograph: Author.
562
tombstones found in the Kingdoms of Jerusalem and Cyprus (Chamberlayne, 1894; Claverie,
2013; Clermont-Ganneau, 1899: 106–11, 276–9, 279–90; Pringle, 2004, 2007; de Sandoli,
1974). Burial grounds and tombs have been uncovered in Acre, Caesarea, Jerusalem (Fig.
30.16) (Boas, 2001: 180–8; Reem, 1999) and Nazareth as well as in rural sites including Tel
Jezreel, al-Qubaiba (Baggati, 1993: 77–9), Bethany and Casale Santa Maria (Abud). Burials
have also been examined at Caesarea (Yule and Rowsome, 1994), Tel Jezreel (Bradley,
2006: 33; 1994: 63; Ussishkin and Woodhead, 1997: 56; al-Qubaiba (Bagatti 1993: 77–8)
and in the Kingdom of Cyprus (Enlart, 1899/1987; du Plat Taylor, 1938; Imhaus, 2004).
A few graves in the cemetery outside the faubourg of the Templar castle, Chateau Pelerin
(‘Atlit), were excavated by British archaeologist C.N. Johns in 1934 (Johns, 1997, I, 92–4).
A recent PhD dissertation examined the layout of the cemetery (Thompson, 2013) and
plans are underway for a more expansive study of this large burial ground which contains
over 900 tombs.
NOTE
1 Many of the small finds from Montfort Castle will be published in a monograph due for publication
in 2016. See Boas and Khamisy, forthcoming.
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567
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CONQUEST AND EUROPEANISATION:

THE ARCHAEOLOGY OF THE CRUSADES
IN LIVONIA, PRUSSIA AND LITHUANIA
Aleksander Pluskowski and Heiki Valk
INTRODUCTION
I n the early 1170s, a letter from Pope Alexander III addressed to Scandinavian magnates
offered indulgences to those who would fight against the pagans in Estonia (Fonnesberg-
Schmidt 2007: 59–61). This heralded the start of the crusades in the eastern Baltic, a series
of penitential wars sanctioned by the papacy with the aim of protecting Christian converts
and converting the indigenous population. Crusading here would begin in 1198 and then in
1200 under the leadership of bishop Albert of Buxhövden and authorised by Innocent III.
By 1230 much of the lands corresponding to the modern territories of Latvia and Estonia
had been militarily subjugated and parallel crusades had begun against the southern Baltic
tribes – the Prussians (see Christiansen 1997; Urban 1997). Fighting continued for many
decades, and whilst Prussia was officially subdued by 1283, resistance in Livonia continued
until 1290. The mechanism of crusading provided a regular supply of Christian armies to
the eastern Baltic, whilst conquered territories were secured by castles largely built by the
Teutonic Order. Between 1202 and 1236, the Sword Brothers – a military order formed by
Albert in Riga – had spearheaded the crusades into Latvia and Estonia, after which they suf-
fered a crippling defeat by a Samogitian army at Saule (Schaulen) and the remnants were
quickly incorporated into the Teutonic Order as its Livonian branch (or Livonian Order).
Northern Estonia was conquered by a Danish army in 1219 and remained under royal con-
trol until it was sold to the Order in 1346, following an unsuccessful indigenous rebellion
in 1343. The rest of the annexed territories were sub-divided between the Teutonic Order,
bishops and their cathedral chapters (Fig. 31.1). Throughout the fourteenth century, the
Teutonic Order waged a relentless war against the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and Samogitia,
which had remained independent and resisted Christianisation until it was accepted by the
Grand Duke in 1387. After the final collapse of the crusader states in the Latin East in 1291,
the eastern Baltic became the main theatre of crusading for the European knightly class.
Traditionally, our understanding of the Baltic crusades has been dominated by historians.
The events of the crusades were documented in a series of narratives written by German cler-
ics; Henry’s Chronicle of Livonia (Brundage 2004) and the anonymous Livonian Rhymed
568
— c h a p t e r 3 1 : T h e a rc h a e o l o g y o f t h e c r u s a d e s —
a)
Estonians
Rus’
Latgallians
Curonians
Semgallians
A
SE
IC
LT
BA
Samogitians
Lithuanians
Skalovians
Sambians
Nadruvians
Natangians
Warmians ns Sudovians Finno-Ugrians
Pomeranians r tia
Pogesanians Ba Transitional Balts
Galindians
Pomesanians Lubovia/ Prussians
Sansa
Kulmerland Masovians
100 kms
b)
Figure 31.1 The geopolitical situation in the eastern Baltic before (a) and after (b) the crusades.
Map: by Maria Smirnova.
569
— A l e k s a n d e r P l u s k o w s k i a n d H e i k i Va l k —
Chronicle (Smith and Urban 2006), written during the period of active crusading, whilst
Peter of Dusburg’s Chronicle of Prussia (Wyszomirski and Wenta 2011), later rendered
into German by Nicholas of Jeroschin (Fischer 2010), drew on earlier sources but was writ-
ten several decades after the official end of the Prussian Crusade. There is also a substantial
body of papal correspondence which sheds important light on the eastern Baltic within the
broader context of the crusading movement (Arbusow 1928; Fonnesberg-Schmidt 2007).
However, since the late nineteenth century, and particularly from the 1950s, archaeologi-
cal data have provided information on various aspects of the cultural transformations that
accompanied the crusades – the final phase of indigenous Baltic societies and the forma-
tion of Christian polities governed by a militarised Catholic theocracy, dominated by the

Teutonic Order. Investigations have been largely concerned with the fortifications built or
procured by crusaders, as well as the newly established towns supporting both military cam-
paigns and Christianisation. Crusading and commerce went hand in hand, and the events of
the thirteenth century sustained a war economy in the Baltic Sea region, contributing to the
development of the Hanse. However, the crusades, also laid the foundations for a type of
apartheid distinguishing much of the surviving indigenous populations from the colonists,
one that would become more pronounced in the later fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.
THE ARCHAEOLOGY OF THE CRUSADES

IN LIVONIA AND ESTONIA
The German conquest of the Eastern Baltic was initially driven by the interests of merchants
seeking to access the markets of the Rus’ principalities, alongside an emerging agenda of
Christianisation. It began in the territory of the Livs – a small Finnic ethnic group inhabit-
ing the lower course of the expansive Daugava River, the main inland waterway to the east.
From the Livs, whom the colonists met first, also originates the name of Livonia which
became a common nomination for the German-ruled area east of the Baltic Sea following
the crusades. The name Estonia was used for present-day northern Estonia; the Danish
province in the post-conquest period.
The attempts of Meynard, the first bishop of the Livs (1186–96), to Christianise the
indigenous population were of a peaceful character, but unsuccessful. Crusading activities
were launched in 1198 by his follower, Bishop Berthold, who organised the first crusad-
ing army and was killed that same year in a battle. The third bishop, Albert (1199–1229),
launched a full-scale crusade which ended with the conquest of those areas which largely
correspond to the present-day territory of Estonia and Latvia, that is, with the making of
medieval Livonia.
The geography and chronology of the Livonian crusades reflects the aim of taking con-
trol over the main communication and trading routes. First, control was established over the
Daugava waterway. The wars against the Livs ended in 1206/1210 and the Latgallians, settled
in the mid-course of the Daugava en route to the Rus’ Principality of Polotsk, had accepted
Catholic Christianity and German overlordship by 1208. Crusades against the Estonians were
launched in the same year, motivated by the need to take control over the territory leading to
Pskov, and ended in 1227 with the subordination of the Osilians (Saaremaa island), a danger-
ous maritime group in the eastern Baltic. Fighting against the Curonians of western Latvia
lasted from 1210 to 1267, and the wars against the Semigallians from 1220 to 1272/1290.
The archaeological record of medieval Livonia provides evidence of a clear watershed
between the colonists and the conquered natives of Livonia and Estonia (Mugurēvičs 1973;
570
ARE 2006: 159–92; 205–21; Šnē 2009b). The stone castles, towns and monasteries estab-
lished during and after the crusades follow a Latin European cultural pattern, while rural
settlements, local village cemeteries and sacred natural sites are indicative of the persistence
of indigenous traditions.
The settlement pattern and native inhabitants

Although villages were severely plundered during the crusades, as described in Henry’s
Chronicle, the conquest did not result in discontinuity in the settlement pattern in the ter-
ritory of Estonia. Here, the occupation layers of villages provide evidence of continuity
from the Final Iron Age to the medieval period. There are no signs of abandonment and
no distinct hiatus between the pre- and post-conquest period can be observed. Even if vil-
lages ceased to exist for a short time, they were soon re-established. A valuable source
concerning the settlement pattern during the period of the crusades in northern Estonia is
the Danish Census Book Liber Census Daniae (Johansen 1933), originating from about
1240 and documenting the numbers of plough-lands associated with villages. The villages
mentioned in the Liber have survived until the present day and their location can be iden-
tified archaeologically in the landscape. The emergence of several village cemeteries, in
areas where graves are not known from the Final Iron Age, provides evidence of settlement
expansion after the crusades. This process is also indicated by pollen data from southern
Estonia (Niinemets 2008; Valk et al. 2009: 138), which shows the occupation of formerly
uninhabited areas from the mid-thirteenth century onwards. In western Latvia, however, the
population was greatly reduced, partly due to population losses, partly due to emigration to
Lithuanian areas.
The situation of the native population after the conquest is relatively poorly reflected in
the written record (Ligi 1968: 153–13; Šterns 2002: 577–624; Šnē 2009a: 65–6; Selart and
Valk 2012: 63–73). The crusades resulted in substantial changes in land ownership, and vil-
lages were offered to new owners, partly of German, partly of native origin. Having its roots
in the Iron Age, a network of manors developed after the conquest of Livonia, first in core
areas. In Estonia, it developed most rapidly in Harrien, north Estonia, the area under Danish
rule. The subordinated natives, although personally free, preserving their own laws and the
right to bear arms, to have movable and immovable property and to inherit it, had accepted,
together with Christianity and the crusaders’ overlordship, a suite of new duties. These
included paying tithes and taxes, participating in the wars against pagans and Russians, and
assisting in the building of castles, churches and roads. Furthermore, the labour duty for
the agricultural requirements of manors and castles, although initially limited to only a few
days each year, also appeared in the mid-thirteenth century.
In contrast to Prussian territories occupied by the Teutonic Order, no rural colonisation
by German settlers took place in Livonia. The number of Germans remained small in the
countryside, being limited to the inhabitants of castles, manors and the newly established
semi-urban settlements which emerged alongside the castles.
The archaeology of conquest

Although the direct evidence of the crusades is hard to observe in the archaeological
record, the siege of Estonian Final Iron Age strongholds by crusading armies can be iden-
tified by finds of specific of crossbow bolts, typical for the 1210s–1220s, maybe also in
571
the 1230s–1240s, but not subsequently used (Mäesalu 1991: 170–4; bolt types AI: 1–2).
Such projectiles have been found at fourteen strongholds in Estonia (Fig. 31.2); also from
sites not mentioned in Henry’s Chronicle (Lang and Valk 2011: 293–6). The hill fort of
Lõhavere (Tõnisson 2008: 271–5), two-thirds of which has been excavated, was destroyed
by fire in the early thirteenth century crusades (Fig. 31.3); judging by Henry’s Chronicle,
either in 1215 or 1223. A craft and jewellery box was recovered from the context of the last
destruction phase (Laul and Tamla 2014). In Viljandi/Fellin the final siege of the hill fort
by the crusaders in 1223, described in Henry’s Chronicle (CHL XXVII: 2) is reflected in
the archaeological record (Valk 2001a; Lang and Valk 2011: 296–301; Valk 2015: 18–25).
Henry’s note, that the work of the besiegers’ trebuchets was strongly hindered by Estonian
crossbowmen, corresponds well to the fact that on the hills within 110–140 m of the strong-
hold the remains of trebuchet platforms have been discovered (Fig. 31.4). On one of the
hills (c. 100 m2), forty-one crossbow bolts, shot to hinder the builders of the platform,
alongside an iron spade, were found. In south-eastern Estonia the unfinished condition of
some hill forts enables us to connect the last stage of their fortification with the uprising
of 1223–24 (Lang and Valk 2011: 306–13) when Otepää, the central stronghold, together
with its hinterlands surrendered without a struggle. Furthermore, traces of digging out the
ramparts – a siege tactic mentioned by Henry – can be observed at some Estonian strong-
holds (Keava and Lohu). Henry’s note that in 1220 the Danes gave holy water to the peas-
ants in north Estonia, asking them to baptise themselves (CHL XXIV: 2) – given it was
important to precede the German priests with baptism for political reasons – may also be
Tallinn
Rakvere
Lohu
Äntu
Varbola
Keava
Kullamaa
Muhu Ripuka
Lihula Soontagana Lõhavere
Pöide
KaarmaValjala Tartu
Viljandi
Tõrva
Otepää
Karula
Izborsk
-1 -2 -3 -4 -5
Figure 31.2 Native strongholds in Estonia in the thirteenth century. 1, 3–5 – crusade period
strongholds, 2 – supposed crusade period stronghold, 3 – unfinished stronghold, constructed
or re-constructed probably for the uprising of 1223, 4 – Estonian strongholds mentioned in the
thirteenth-century written data, 5 – finds of crusaders’ crossbow bolts. Map: by Maria Smirnova.
572
Figure 31.3 Fortifications on the hill fort of Lõhavere, Estonia, burnt by the crusaders in 1215
or 1223: the reconstruction and archaeological reality (after Tõnisson 2008, figs. 67 and 131).
Figure 31.4 Sites of crusaders’ trebuchet platforms (A–E) from August 1223 in Viljandi, Estonia.
The system of moats was probably different at that time, but the origins of the east–west
directional moats/valleys are glacial. Map: by Maria Smirnova.
573
reflected in the archaeology. Numerous finds of “Hanseatic bowls” from the Danish area in
north Estonia, sometimes in sets of several items, may be evidence of this rushed baptism
(Tamla 1999).
The introduction of stone castles

Control over the conquered territories was established through a network of castles
(Tuulse 1942; Caune and Ose 2004). A significant innovation introduced during the
crusades was stone buildings constructed using lime mortar. The first stone castles of
Livonia, in Ikšķile and Martinsāla (Holm) on the Daugava River, were already built
before the crusades, c. 1185 and 1186 (CHL I: 6–8). Excavations on Ikšķile, Holm
(Caune and Ose 2004: 209–15, 442–6), as well as on Riekstu kalns in Cēsis (Wenden)
(Apala and Apals 2014), show that the earliest German castles were surrounded by a
stone wall, and this was also likely in Estonia. From Viljandi there is archaeological
evidence for the use of bricks already between 1215 and 1223 (Valk 2001a: 70). Beside
castles, fortified monasteries (Daugavgrīva and Kärkna) played an important role in the
forging of a new European society in Livonia.
As the resources of the crusaders were limited, the first stone castles were constructed
at the most strategic sites in terms of power and communications. They were often built on
the sites of local hill forts (e.g. Tartu, Otepää, Viljandi, Lihula, Tallinn in Estonia; Turaida,
Koknese, Tērvete, Embūte in Latvia), where the earlier timber fortifications were replaced
with stone walls, or in their immediate vicinity (Cēsis, Tērvete, Sigulda, Aizkraukle). In
Viljandi a set of mid-thirteenth-century capitals provides evidence of the magnificent inte-
rior of the first Livonian Order castle, replaced by the convent house c. 1300 (Alttoa 2015).
When the natives had accepted baptism, the most important strongholds were initially
manned jointly by them and German garrisons. This practice was ended in Estonia follow-
ing the major uprising in 1223 when German colonists were killed or captured in a perfidi-
ous way (CHL XXVI: 5–7).
The network of castles gradually expanded in Livonia during the thirteenth century. By
the end of the century their number was at least seventeen in Estonia, and in Latvia around
fifty have been mentioned, including timber castles and hill forts used in the post-conquest
period. Then, in addition to those mentioned above, in eastern Latvia (Mugurēvičs 1973:
34, table 1); for example, the castles of Riga, Adaži, Jelgava, Lielvārde, Sigulda, Valmiera,
Gaujiena and Daugavpils (Caune and Ose 2004), in western Latvia those of Ventspils,
Kuldīga, Grobiņa, Aizbute and Embute, and in Estonia those of Kuressaare, Pärnu, Karksi,
Helme, Põltsamaa, Haapsalu, Paide, Rakvere, Narva and Kirumpää were founded. Trial
excavations of the earliest occupation layers of Karksi castle, dated to the last two decades
of the thirteenth century, provide evidence of the colonising, German lifestyle of its first
inhabitants, marked for example by the lack of local wheel-thrown pottery and the use of
stave bowls (Valk et al. 2013a : 74–8). Although in Latvia there were several crusaders’
timber castles from the thirteenth century, in Estonia strongholds with timber fortifications
and of pre-conquest origin belonged mainly to the native nobility.
The fate of strongholds and the native elite

The fate of prehistoric strongholds was different following the Christianisation of dif-
ferent regions of Livonia, depending on local circumstances, the manner and conditions
574
of surrender and the role of the native elite in the new power structures. In western and
northern Estonia where part of the local nobility obtained the status of vassals in the
new feudal society (Valk 2009), some of the strongholds remained continuously in use.
The lack of traces of “European” cultural innovations in the archaeological record indi-
cates these sites continued to be used in a traditional, native way. Presently there exists
archaeological data indicating the post-conquest use in the thirteenth century of twelve
strongholds in Estonia – seven certain and at least five probable cases (Fig. 31.5). The
use of some strongholds in the 1230s and in the context of Estonian uprisings of 1260
Figure 31.5 Livonia after the end of the crusades: castles and churches around AD 1300 and
strongholds of post-conquest use (after EAA 2006; Latvian castles after Caune and Ose 2004;
Estonian post-conquest strongholds after Valk 2014; Latvian post-conquest strongholds
after Šnē 2009a and b and Mugurēvičs 1973). 1 – town, 2 – large urban settlement without
town rights, 3 – castle, 4 – timber castle or hill fort, 5 – church, 6 – monastery.
Map: by Maria Smirnova.
575
(Kaarma) and 1345 (the sites were not named, but probably were Karja Purtsa, Varbola
and Lohu) is also reflected in the written record (Valk 2014). In Varbola, the strongest
and largest of the Estonian Final Iron Age strongholds, the reconstruction of the gates
can be dated by coins from 1210/20 to 1288/90 (Valk 2014: 447). In Virumaa, Purtse hill
fort was in use in the late thirteenth or even early fourteenth century and a post-conquest
occupation seems also highly likely for the large hill fort at Pada. However, having lost
their former hinterlands, now split between various smaller vassals, the economic basis
of the large strongholds effectively collapsed. As timber fortifications required permanent
care, those sites which were not strategically important for the authorities of medieval
Livonia probably gradually lost their military significance. In Latvia, the share of vassals
of native origin was larger than in Estonia, where they even dominated in the thirteenth
century (Šterns 2002, 614–19; Šnē 2009a: 65). There also exist archaeological traces
or written data of the post-conquest use of prehistoric strongholds in Latvia alongside
the new German castles; for example, Asote, Cesvaine, Jersika, Rauna (Tanīsa kalns),
Sēlpils, Mežotne, Tērvete, Sabile and Sigulda/Satesele (Mugurēvičs 1973: 32; Šnē 2009a:
67; 2009b: 131–2; Zemītis 2014).
The continuity of power in the thirteenth century was, probably, the most pronounced
in Saaremaa (Mägi 2002: 148–50) which accepted Christianity without a final battle. There
the local elite preserved their place within the new power structures, and may also have
participated in the foundation of the first stone churches (Mägi 2004: 31–3; Markus et al.
2003: 11–12). The spatial connections between Late Iron Age stone graves and hoards, and
medieval manors, in Saaremaa are suggestive of the prehistoric origins of the latter (Mägi
2001). The situation was also similar in western and northern Estonia, Curonia and most
of eastern Latvia where stone castles were rare in the thirteenth century. The rights of the
natives remained particularly extensive in the peripheral border areas, as shown by finds
from the cemetery of Siksälä in south-eastern Estonia (Laul and Valk 2007; Valk and Laul
2014; Valk, Ratas and Laul 2014). There, grave goods – axes, spears and spurs – point to
the warrior status of the local men up to the fifteenth century.
The crusades and the genesis of towns

There were no towns within the territories of Estonia and Latvia before the crusades. Riga,
the first town in Livonia, founded in 1201, became the main centre for the crusaders. During
the thirteenth century, towns emerged only in the immediate vicinity of stone castles in
Livonia, in places suitable for long-term communication and trading (Fig. 31.5). From the
perspective of the natives, however, the town was a fortified site and this is reflected in the
name of the new phenomenon in both the Estonian and the Latvian language (Valk 2014:
101, 104). In addition to towns, some large urban settlements without town rights also
developed alongside castles.
Archaeological information concerning the earliest phase of Livonian towns has accu-
mulated unevenly. From Latvia there is a vast quantity of archaeological data relat-
ing to the earliest history of Riga (Caune 1984, 2007). In Estonia the process of early
urbanisation (Pärn 2004a) has been studied on the basis of the archaeological record in
Viljandi (Valk 2005; Haak and Russow 2013) and Haapsalu (Pärn 2004b, 2009), but
archaeological data from the thirteenth century is also rich from Tartu. In the material
culture of the thirteenth-century towns, the parallel existence of building traditions of
German and indigenous origin (houses of brick and timber-frame construction versus
576
cross-log houses) can be observed. The meeting of different cultures is also reflected
in the types of recovered artefacts (Mugurēvičs 1990). While German culture is char-
acterised by the use of stoneware and stave bowls, native traditions are represented by
ordinary w heel-thrown pottery. Human osteological data refers to the multi-ethnic com-
position of the early urban population (Kalling 1997: 55–7). In the early urban church-
yards the presence of the native population can also be observed on the basis of jewellery
and textile remains.
The crusades and the religion of the natives

The Livonian crusades resulted in the official baptism of the indigenous peoples and
the establishment of a network of churches (Fig. 31.5). Their number was quite large
in Estonia (c. 70 rural churches by around ad 1300) (EAA 2006), but little is known
about the formation of the network of parish churches within Latvian territory. Churches
were numerous in its core areas, but there were almost no stone churches in Curonia,
Semigallia and large eastern areas of Latvia during the Middle Ages (Caune and Ose
2010). Although the land was formally Christianised, the process of religious transfor-
mation remained unfinished and was limited by dual faith and syncretism (Valk 2003).
Sacred natural sites remained in use in Estonia and Latvia (Urtāns 2008), despite the cru-
sades and Christianisation. Sacred groves, trees, hills, stones and springs are remembered
until the present day, on the basis of continued use (e.g. Vaitkevičius 2004; Urtāns 2008),
and their network existed in parallel to and independently of the network of churches
and chapels (Valk 2004). In addition, crusading and Christianisation laid the foundation
for a network of rural chapels, which was densest in Livonia in the late medieval period.
Votive coins from St Nicholas’ hill, southern Estonia, situated at the historical military
and trade route from Cēsis to Otepää and Tartu, point to an already existing chapel in the
second quarter of the thirteenth century (Valk et al. 2013b, 121–2, 125–7). Located close
to the crusaders’ assembly and camp site, mentioned by Henry, the chapel was evidently
built on the place where common sermons for the Christian army took place before the
raids to Ugaunia.
Despite the official baptism, the system of local village cemeteries remained in use in
Livonia, in parallel to the newly founded churchyards, also following the conquest. The
background for this concession was the papal letters from 1214/1215 forcing the bishop
of Riga and the Sword Brothers to give the neophytes the right to choose burial accord-
ing to their will (Arbusow 1928: 296–7, 323). Although large grave goods mostly disap-
peared during the thirteenth century and Christian grave orientations became predominant
in Livonia, local village cemeteries with burials furnished with small grave goods (knives,
jewellery, coins, etc.) remained in use everywhere (e.g. Valk 2001b; Muižnieks 2011).
In Latvia no clear boundary between prehistoric and early medieval burial rites can be
observed during the thirteenth century, and in areas further from the centres even later
(Mugurēvičs 1973). In Estonia, where the rate of cremation and inhumation graves was
more or less balanced in late pre-Christian times (with certain regional differences), the
crusades and Christianisation prompted a rapid decrease in cremation practices: these
ceased completely in northern and western Estonia and were greatly reduced in the south.
In Curonia, however, cremation was widely practised up to the fifteenth century, and cre-
mations occurred sporadically up to that time in eastern Latvia and southern Estonia as
well, in the latter even up to the 1530s.
577
The archaeological record of the cemeteries has regional differences. In the Latgallian
areas of eastern Latvia and south-eastern Estonia (Muižnieks 2011, 54; Valk 2001a, 70–2)
a gender-based opposite orientation of male and female graves, having its roots in prehis-
toric times, can be observed. In western and northern Estonia the continuity of Iron Age
jewellery and fashion traditions can be observed both in village cemeteries and in rural
churchyards until the second half of the thirteenth century, but then it rapidly disappears
(Valk 2009: 4–279). Most likely, the principal change in costume and jewellery traditions
was caused by the transition to new, “European” fashions. The reason for this change might
be that the local native elite, involved in new power structures, was numerous enough to
mediate cultural innovations to the indigenous society. A similar situation can be suggested
also for most of Latvia where the rich sets of jewellery characteristic of the Iron Age disap-
peared from the graves by the late thirteenth century. In southern Estonia where the local
nobility, evidently mistrusted by the Germans after the rebellion of 1223, was not involved
in the vassal system, such profound changes cannot be observed. Southern Estonia and
eastern Latvia remained conservative, retaining jewellery traditions of Iron Age origin. The
cultural situation remained especially conservative in the eastern peripheries of Livonia
where the only innovation in burial rites linked to Christianisation was the decrease of cre-
mation practises: gender-based opposite orientation and burial with a rich set of jewellery
continued, whilst men were buried with weapons until the fifteenth century (Laul and Valk
2007). Grave finds indicate a similar situation also existed in the eastern periphery of Latvia
(Berga 2007). In the Middle Ages, graves furnished with jewellery also exist in the rural
churchyards of Livonia.
Thus despite officially accepting Christianity and being governed by a militarised theoc-
racy, the transformation of the indigenous population into the type of culture characteristic
of medieval Europe – of Christendom – remained incomplete up until post-medieval times
in Livonia. The old society adapted to the new situation and continued its existence in
parallel to the newly introduced centres and networks of “European” society – those of a
colonising origin. An important reason for this lack of assimilation was the segregation of
society into German and non-German (Estonians, Latvians, Livs) groups – the Undeutsch.
The roots of this differentiation stretch back to the crusades which laid the foundation for
the watershed between the German-speaking victors and the natives, subordinated by force.
THE ARCHAEOLOGY OF THE CRUSADE IN PRUSSIA

The Prussian Crusade was technically a series of crusades sustained over five decades. The
mid-point of these crusades was the Treaty of Christburg in 1249, which consolidated the
Teutonic Order’s hold over western Prussia. Conflict with western Natangia lasted until
1253 and the following year Barta and Galindia had been officially included within the
conquered territories. In 1255 Sambia was initially occupied with the aid of Ottokar II of
Bohemia, although it was not pacified until nearly a decade later, whilst eastern Natangia
was overwhelmed by the Order’s armies in 1256. The Great Prussian Uprising saw an
unlikely alliance with neighbouring Christian Pomerelia (eastern Pomerania) and endured
until 1274, after which Nadruvia and Scalovia were occupied and the Order’s armies pushed
further east again. Sudovia was finally occupied by 1283, when Peter of Dusburg (PD III:
221) notes the end of the wars with the Prussians. Archaeologically, a cultural transforma-
tion is evident over the course of the thirteenth century, albeit at a relatively low resolution
(for a detailed regional survey see Pluskowski 2012).
578
The destruction, re-use and construction of strongholds

The impact of the crusades can be linked with a chronological hiatus representing the final
occupation phases of many Prussian strongholds. A number of these sites appear to have
been abandoned before the crusades, perhaps as the result of Polish or Rus’ military activ-
ity. For example, the limited human activity in parts of Galindia after the eleventh century,
resulting from some internal demographic or economic crisis, has been connected with
Polish and later Danish incursions (Wróblewski et al. 2003: 168), although some areas
continued to be occupied as suggested by settlements such as Święta Góra near Staświny,
as well as palynological evidence for continued human impact on the landscape from
the eleventh century (Białuński 1996: 20; Wacnik et. al 2014). Further north, the distri-
bution of strongholds within the vicinity of Klaipėda that were destroyed or abandoned
in the thirteenth century provides dramatic evidence of the creation of a precarious fron-
tier with Samogitia (Fig. 31.6); the lack of indigenous sacred place names in this region
Figure 31.6 The distribution of strongholds (circles) abandoned during the thirteenth century in
western Lithuania (after Zabiela; www.piliakalniai.lt/index_en.php). Map: by Maria Smirnova.
579
may reflect the long-term impact of the crusades in southern Curonia (Vaitkevičius 2004).
Palynological studies at the stronghold and settlement of Impiltis have indicated the regen-
eration of woodland following the crusades, a general trend in this borderland giving rise to
a significant belt of wilderness referred to as Die Große Wildnis (Stančikaitė et al. 2009),
although ceramics recovered from sites such as Posejnele and Półkoty (Prussian Sudovia)
hint at the survival of sporadic communities in some parts of this largely depopulated zone
(Engel et al. 2006: 202).
The earliest castra constructed by the Teutonic Order were offensive structures, built
quickly with the aim of securing territorial gains and facilitating Christianisation (Arszyński
2000). The re-use of existing structures is described in Peter’s account for a number of the
Order’s castra (Poliński 2007b: 42, note 2), and archaeologically has been attested at a range
of sites (Kochański 2001: 468). The entry point of the crusades – the Kulmerland – had only
recently seen Prussian occupation, and here the Order established its bases within former
Slavic strongholds. This was repeated further down the eastern side of the Vistula val-
ley which had seen extensive Pomeranian colonisation in previous centuries. Excavations
at the Order’s castles in Toruń (Thorn), Pokrzywno (Engelsburg), Grudziądz (Graudenz)
and Rogózno (Rogasen) also revealed earlier, Slavic timber-earth structures dating to the
late twelfth/early thirteenth century (Poliński 2007b: 45). At the stronghold of Zamkowa
Góra in Stary Dzierzgoń (Alt Christburg), excavations in 2009 uncovered both Prussian and
Teutonic Order material culture, and German archaeologists working at the site in the 1930s
had speculated it was re-fortified in 1230 in response to the threat from the crusading host,
but the Order successfully attacked and occupied the stronghold (Szczepański 2010; Gazda
and Jezierska 2014). At Königsberg, the Order’s castle is assumed to have been constructed
on the site of the stronghold of Tuwangste, and this has been partially verified archaeo-
logically by excavations in Kaliningrad (Kulakov 1990), whilst other Sambian strongholds
have yielded both Prussian and Teutonic Order material culture (Wendt 2011).
Whilst there are certainly instances of re-used sites, there are also examples of newly
constructed buildings on fresh, unoccupied sites. The timber stronghold uncovered under
the outer bailey courtyard of the Order’s castle at Elbląg (Elbing) in 2012–13, incorporated
200-year-old oaks within its superstructure and several phases of construction were identi-
fied before the island fortification was replaced by the stone and brick convent (Fig. 31.7).
The thirteenth-century castrum was sited on a riverine island, exemplifying an acute
awareness of the broader landscape consistently demonstrated in the strategic location
of castles; overlooking rivers, close to or on major routes and making use of the natural
topography in much the same way as earlier communities had done. There is even some
evidence the Order utilised old trees as watchtowers and fortified points (Poliński 2007b:
43). The variety of forms during the crusading period indicates the construction of fortifica-
tions was tailored to the specific needs of the Order’s garrisons and associated settlements.
These included relatively simple, moated and embanked ring-works enclosing a courtyard
with a timber-framed building constructed on stone foundations. Some had fortified outer
baileys; others contained mottes of various sizes. Occasionally gate house or perimeter
towers were located at the edges of embankments (Kochański 2001). From the onset, these
strongholds functioned as key centres of administration, managing the Order’s newly
acquired territory which was sub-divided into Komturei or commanderies, each overseen
by a convent headed by a commander. Once a level of political and economic stability
had been established in Prussia, castles began to be built and re-built from more durable
materials, although even before 1280 there is evidence of field stones being combined with
580
Figure 31.7 Remains of the thirteenth-century timber castle excavated in Elbląg (Elbing) in 2012.
brick, whilst timber and earth structures continued to be built by the Order into the fifteenth
century (Poliński 2007a: 241). At Papowo Biskupie (Bischöflich Papau), the oldest known
regular quadrangular castle in Prussia was constructed between 1287 and 1292 largely from
field stones (Fig. 31.8).
Very little is known about the organisation of space in these early castles from the
fragmentary archaeological record. It is reasonable to speculate the internal organisa-
tion of these sites would have been tailored to the specific needs of the garrisons. Peter of
Dusburg’s descriptions of the Order’s thirteenth-century fortifications suggests the broth-
ers did practice a communal lifestyle, but until the development of the conventual castle
it is difficult to describe them as fortified monasteries. Archaeologically, it is possible to
distinguish three diachronic phases in castle design: the use of earlier structures; the intro-
duction of transitional fortifications combining the elements of early medieval strongholds
with those of later castles (such as residential towers); and the conventual castle built from
more durable materials (Poliński 2005). However, castles built during the crusading period
581
Figure 31.8 The castle at Papowo Biskupie. Photograph: Magnus Elander.
certainly played a role in the perceived spiritual war waged against the pagans: named after
Christ, the Virgin, angels and saints, with their chapels as repositories of relics, they vividly
mapped a Christian landscape onto the conquered tribal territories (Rozynkowski 2006:
229–40). When a standardised rectilinear plan was eventually adopted for castle building,
it was used in the majority of the Order’s Prussian convents, clearly promoting a corporate
identity revolving around a monastic lifestyle and the ideology of holy war (Herrmann
2007: 81–3).
The most dramatic outcome of the crusades was the realignment of core and peripheral ter-
ritories, which influenced the late medieval settlement pattern. The great castle of Marienburg
(Malbork) began to be constructed from brick from the 1270s, and would undergo a signifi-
cant programme of expansion after it was designated as the Order’s headquarters in 1309, fol-
lowing the annexation of Gdańsk and Pomerelia (Fig. 31.9). Located in the thirteenth-century
Pomeranian/Prussian borderlands, its commandery would become the heartland of the theo-
cratic polity and a major stimulus for colonisation of the Vistula fens. In contrast, where
the north-eastern extent of the Order’s territory stretched up the Curonian spit, the convent
of Memmel (Klaipėda), founded in 1252, would become a base for attacks into Samogitia,
coinciding with a collapse of the indigenous settlement pattern in this region (Zabiela 1995),
including the abandonment of the major trading hub at Palanga (Žulkus 2007).
Colonising Prussia
A defining feature of the Prussian Crusade was a deliberate, sustained process of colo-
nisation linked to the gradual development of an administrative structure to manage the
conquered territories. The western and southern borderlands with Prussia had seen earlier
582
a)
b)
Figure 31.9 View of Malbork castle (Marienburg) from the south-west (a) with examples of
the earliest brick courses in the Wendish bond from the lower north wall of the high castle (b).
Photographs: Author.
583
phases of Slavic colonisation, particularly associated with the expansion of the Polish state,
and this process was revived and intensified during the crusading period. Flourishing,
well-connected settlements contained a pool of skilled labour essential for constructing
and maintaining fortifications, generated wealth for the Order and provided military and
logistical support, particularly in terms of provisioning. Whilst the organisation of the cru-
sades in Prussia quickly became the responsibility of the Teutonic Order, these campaigns –
and the foundations of associated settlements – were very much a collaborative effort. For
example, Polish princes and the Burgrave of Magdeburg, together with the Order, founded
Thorn, Kulm and Marienwerder (Dygo 2009: 75), the crusading contingent of Henry III, the
Burgrave of Meissen, founded Elbing, whilst the Bohemian king Przemysl Ottokar II con-
tributed to the foundation of Königsberg, although the majority of investment here would
come from the Order (Czaja 2009).
The number of colonists coming into Prussia during the period of active crusading was
relatively small, and the majority established themselves within the protected confines of
settlements and towns attached to the Teutonic Order’s castles. The locations of colonies
established during the crusading era are described in written sources, however, only a few
are well known archaeologically. An exceptional rural site with a transitional occupation has
been located at Biała Góra just south of Malbork, and although no internal settlement plan
has yet been identified, the range of material culture indicated both a military and a mer-
cantile presence, with evidence for the exploitation of a diverse spectrum of environmental
resources (Pluskowski et al. 2014). The Order encouraged individual knights to promote the
process of colonisation in the Kulmerland and Pomesania following military conquest. In
1233, the Order built a watch tower 4 kilometres north of Marienwerder which three years
later was given to the German knight Dietrich of Tiefenau, along with 300 hufen (one hufe
or hide is around 40 acres) – a sizeable amount of land for a colonising settlement. By the
end of the decade this was augmented with additional territory between Marienwerder and
Christburg (Dygo 2009: 77). Excavations at the settlement revealed that the main tower of
Dietrich’s stronghold, framed by posts with walls of tightly packed oak beams, appears to
have combined the functions of a residence, defensive keep and observation post. The site
was destroyed during the First Prussian Uprising (1242–49), although occupation may have
continued for a few more decades (Haftka 2007). The volatility of the crusading period is
clearly archaeologically evident in massive fires that destroyed parts of Thorn in the 1260s
(Czacharowski 1983: 45) and Elbing in 1288 (Nawrolska 2001).
The next phase of colonisation only began after the suppression of the Second Prussian
Uprising, with the first peasant settlements documented from the 1280s (Czaja 2009). Few
colonists took their own initiative; all settlements were planned and financed by new land-
lords, whilst their appointed locators travelled to recruit settlers, and to ensure that key
occupations were represented in each colony. Incentives included a large farm free from
taxes for several years followed by lower permanent taxes, as well as aid with construct-
ing dwellings and tilling land. Buschinger and Olivier (2007: 131) estimate that between
10,000 and 15,000 colonists came to the lands occupied by the Order and Prussian bish-
ops at the turn of the fourteenth century, primarily focused on the Kulmerland, the lower
Vistula and the coastal zone leading up to the Sambian Peninsula. They were largely
Silesians and Germans from Brandenburg and Lübeck, with some individuals coming from
Scandinavia and Holland. The southern regions were colonised by many Poles, especially
in the Kulmerland where settlement was very intensive. Here, until c. 1343, some 328 rural
settlements are documented (Poliński 2003: 10). In contrast, comparatively few colonists
584
settled in Sambia where indigenous communities survived the longest. Archaeologically,

the increasing use of brick in buildings within the urban colonies can be dated to this phase
of colonisation, and Prussian town communities would develop their own distinct form of
material culture (Gaimster 2005).
Indeed, at the level of individual sites the process of colonisation following the crusades
is associated with distinctive types of material culture. The most striking is the appearance
of a new type of kiln firing technology, producing wheel-thrown, slender and diverse forms
of ‘grey ware’, fired in a reductive atmosphere at a temperature of 900°C, and contrasting
with both Slavic and Baltic ceramic traditions. This technology does appear earlier on the
fringes of Prussian lands, particularly in the Kulmerland from the first half of the twelfth
century; however, it is far more typical of the period of colonisation (Poliński 1996). The
largest and most studied assemblages of grey ware from a single site within Prussia have
been recovered from excavations in Elbląg, where their dating has been supported by den-
drochronology (Marcinkowski 2003). Here, one of the earliest structures associated with
ceramic production was a pottery kiln uncovered in the north-eastern part of the town near
the defensive earthen embankment. Nearby were the remains of a timber house, which dated
this complex to the turn of the 1280s until 1288, when it was destroyed by fire. Some 82,451
ceramic fragments of wheel-thrown, mostly flat-bottomed ‘grey ware’ were recovered from
the site, including pots, jugs, bowls, plates, covers, lamps, spindle whorls and fishing net
weights. The general absence of spherical bottoms, a form associated with Westphalia and
the Rhineland, was interpreted as reflecting the potter’s origins from Thuringia through
Silesia or from Upper Saxony. The appearance of greyware within Prussia is the most com-
monly used archaeological proxy of the crusading period and an indicator of the presence
of colonists, and/or the Teutonic Order. Other forms of material culture associated with the
earliest phases of colonisation include coins minted by the Order (e.g. dating the final phase
of the settlement complex at Kałdus; Chudziak 2003), the introduction of timber-framed
and brick housing, churches, heating systems and new forms of weaponry, especially cross-
bows (for an overview see Pluskowski 2012).
Individual settlements were organised (and re-organised) under a series of laws, two
drawn from the Holy Roman Empire – the Madgeburg and Lübeck laws – and two particular
to Prussia – the Kulm law and the Prussian law (Iura Prutenorum). The latter governed set-
tlements of indigenous Prussians, who were treated differently to incoming Christian colo-
nists. There is in fact relatively little written data on the ethnic diversity within medieval
Prussian settlements and disagreement between scholars on the levels of segregation. In the
commandery of Balga and in Sambia it appears that Prussians also lived in settlements under
the Kulm Law, and in the latter region they even functioned as colony locators (Długokęcki
2009: 205). This is perhaps one important area where future archaeological research has the
potential to further our understanding of the impact of the crusade on the indigenous popula-
tion. At present the persistence of indigenous communities is almost entirely known from
five cemeteries where burials with weapons and equestrian equipment continue, despite the
earlier prohibitions in the Treaty of Christburg (Shiroukhov 2012: 250).
THE ARCHAEOLOGY OF THE LITHUANIAN REISEN

The crusades in Prussia and Livonia resulted in the depopulation of the borderlands with
Samogitia and the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. Despite sustained attempts at unifying both
regions of the Baltic Ordensland, the Teutonic Order was only able to consolidate its hold
585
with the convent and town of Memel, situated at the northern end of the Curonian lagoon
at Klaipėda in modern western Lithuania. This frontier remained militarised and volatile
into the fifteenth century and the convent at Memel was unable to sustain itself from its
commandery due to persistent Lithuanian raids, requiring regular imports of food produce
(Žulkus 2002). Attacks across the border into eastern Prussia and southern Livonia also had
a significant impact on settlement; in the former region the process of colonisation was only
stabilised from the second half of the fourteenth century, whilst settlements in southern
Sudovia and Semigallia abandoned at the end of the thirteenth century would not be reoc-
cupied until the fifteenth century (Jarockis 2003).
At the same time, the Teutonic Order fostered a culture of crusading targeting Samogitia
and Lithuania which attracted the knightly class of Christendom, and resulted in the east-
ern Baltic becoming the destination par excellence for crusaders in the fourteenth century.
According to Peter of Dusburg, the war with Lithuania began immediately after the official
end of the Prussian Crusade in 1283. However, seasonal campaigns across the borderlands
which came to be known as Reisen and saw regular participation from European aristocrats
and their retinues, began in the early fourteenth century. The details of these, including the
participants, are known entirely from written sources (Paravicini 1989). The campaigns
were clearly framed in religious ceremonial, particularly related to the cult of the Virgin
(Dygo 1989), alongside spectacular chivalric trappings: banquets, hunts and pageantry.
This interwoven relationship between the secular and religious aspects of aristocratic cul-
ture defined the crusading movement in the fourteenth century.
From an archaeological perspective, the Reisen themselves remain largely intangible.
Settlement archaeology and palynology consistently indicate limited human activity in
the borderlands throughout the fourteenth century. The earliest phase of the easternmost
Prussian castle at Lyck (Ełk), a fortified timer structure dating to the early fifteenth century
and built on an island in one of the largest lakes in Masuria, is indicative of pressing security
concerns (Herman forthcoming). Alongside a series of border castles, the most important
base for launching these expeditions was Königsberg (Kaliningrad) (Paravicini 1989: 281).
However, the archaeology of its convent and associated three towns remains extremely lim-
ited to date. Wall paintings in the cathedral which no longer survive attested the presence of
visiting knights, some of whom were buried there and memorialised. Part of a wall painting
in the cathedral from 1360 (heavily modified during nineteenth-century restorations) repre-
sented pilgrims arriving in Prussia as crusaders (Nowakowski 1994: 34). In other cases, the
casualties of the Lithuanian frontier were shipped back to their homelands, as suggested for
the ‘St Bees Man’, identified as Sir Anthony de Lucy who died whilst fighting alongside the
Teutonic Order in Lithuania in 1386. He was buried wrapped in lead and beeswax-coated
shrouds in St Bees Priory in Cumbria, north England (Knusel et al. 2010). The regular pres-
ence of European military retinues had a significant economic impact on the urban complex
of Königsberg, although participants would also visit other convents, towns and smaller
castles en route to and from the frontier. Occasional finds, such as a fourteenth-century
sword pommel recovered during excavations in Frombork and decorated with a heraldic
eagle of Thuringian or Hessian origin (Chodyński 2003: 29) provide glimpses of European
knights moving through the Ordensland.
The official conversion of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania to Catholicism prompted an
ideological crisis within the Teutonic Order, which saw the Reisen intensify. Samogitia
was finally incorporated into the Ordensland in 1398, although this was followed by two
major uprisings and the borders in this region would not become fixed until the Treaty
586
of Melno in 1422. By this point the Teutonic Order was in terminal decline, severely
weakened after its defeat by the Polish-Lithuanian army at Grunwald (Tannenberg, 1410).
The loss of its raison d’être and the gradual reduction of its lands over the course of the
fifteenth century heralded the eventual secularisation of the Order: in Prussia in 1525 and
in Livonia in 1561.
CONCLUSION
The crusades in the eastern Baltic were a brutal and formative episode in the history of
north-eastern Europe, resulting in the transformation of indigenous tribal societies into

Christian polities governed by German theocratic elites, and in north Estonia by the Danish
crown until 1346. The archaeology of the thirteenth century across the eastern Baltic region
varies, with striking differences between Prussia and Livonia.
In Prussia and southern Curonia, indigenous power structures were completely
destroyed, reflected in the abandonment of strongholds and the re-alignment of political,
religious and economic authority to the Teutonic Order’s convents and episcopal centres
with their associated colonies. The indigenous population was not entirely eradicated
and remained particularly visible in eastern Prussia, although now re-organised, disen-
franchised and subject to taxation and tithes. The Prussian language was slowly replaced
by German (and in the southern regions also by Polish), and would become extinct by
the seventeenth century. From an archaeological perspective the indigenous population
becomes largely invisible after the thirteenth century. The exceptions, to date, are five east
Prussian cemeteries where earlier depositional practices continued into the fifteenth cen-
tury, although the tradition of ritual animal killing and deposition at such sites of public
cult activity was suppressed. Later written sources indicate that attempts at Christianising
the indigenous population here generally failed, and the proliferation of the new religion
was largely driven by incoming colonists who sponsored churches to meet their own
spiritual needs. Excavations over the last century have almost entirely focused on the
colonising culture established during and after the Prussian Crusade – castles and towns,
which have yielded a completely new range of material culture, including new kiln tech-
nologies, metalworking, coinage, architectural traditions and imported tableware, more
aligned with Catholic, Western European and particularly German-speaking Hanseatic,
rather than local Baltic, societies. Future archaeological research may yield new infor-
mation on the surviving indigenous population in the eastern regions of the Prussian
Ordensland, or at least problematise our understanding of the encounters between the
colonists and the colonised.
In Livonia, as a result of the crusades, some of the Late Iron Age central places were
developed into stone castles for the new German (in north Estonia, Danish) authorities, some
were destroyed or abandoned, but some continued to operate almost into the mid-fourteenth
century, reflecting a different relationship between the incomers and the indigenous popula-
tion. The regional differences depended on the manner and circumstances of subordination
and this also influenced the roles of the native social elite within the new power structures.
Evidently, the native elite mediated cultural innovations of European character among the
indigenous people. Although the crusades resulted in significant population losses, espe-
cially in southern Estonia and Semigallia, the rural population soon recovered at the local
level. In contrast to Prussia, the German colonisation of Livonia remained primarily lim-
ited to towns, manors, castles and monasteries, with no associated peasant immigration.
587
In Livonia, the native population preserved much of its social customs, religious and material
practices, clearly evident in the archaeology of rural settlements and cemeteries. Religious
practices, as represented in both the archaeological and the written record, provide evidence
of vernacular religion where rites of pre-Christian origin survived, in parallel to Christian
introductions, in a way that cannot be seen in the core areas of medieval Europe. This is
clearly visible in the use of local village cemeteries alongside churchyards, and by the use –
and large number – of sacred natural sites. The planned urban colonies were inhabited both
by colonists and by the indigenous population, and here native forms of architecture and
material culture could also be found. However, urban dwellers of indigenous origin appear
to have accepted Christianity more readily than people in the countryside. Future archaeol-
ogy will contribute further to our understanding of these cultural encounters and dynamics,
both in towns and in rural areas.
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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
INTESTINAL PARASITES IN THE

CRUSADES: EVIDENCE FOR DISEASE,
DIET AND MIGRATION
Piers D. Mitchell
INTRODUCTION
In recent years a number of archaeological excavations have identified latrines and cess-
pools at Frankish sites in the Latin East. These have been analysed in order to gain further
information about the contents when they were in use. This may include the intestinal para-
sites present in those using the latrine, the diet of these users, the rubbish that may be thrown
in, whether plant materials were used for personal hygiene, the types of fly that bred there,
the rodents that scavenged there, and the pollen present indicating the type of vegetation in
the region of the town (Mitchell et al., 2008a).
This chapter focuses on evidence for intestinal disease in crusaders and Frankish settlers
who used these latrines in the Latin East. First we will explain how we can detect ancient
parasites eggs, then summarise the positive results for parasites at crusader sites. With this
knowledge we can gain insights into levels of sanitation, diet and cooking efficacy, detec-
tion of migration from Europe, and the health consequences of parasitism upon those cru-
saders, pilgrims, merchants and settlers who suffered from them.
HOW TO DETECT ANCIENT PARASITES

Parasitic worms (helminths) that infect humans die and decompose soon after they are out-
side their host. However, the eggs of many species of parasites are extremely tough and
can survive in a recognisable form for long periods in archaeological contexts. They cease
to be infective after a few months, but can be identified from their preserved outer wall for
hundreds, and sometimes thousands, of years. Parasites that infect the soft tissues of the
body are usually only preserved in mummies, and these have not been found from crusader
contexts. However, the eggs of intestinal parasites can be found in latrines and cesspools, in
coprolites (preserved human stool), and in the pelvic soil of burials, where the intestines of
that individual were located during life. These sources of ancient faeces have the potential
to be recovered from crusader contexts.
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— Piers D. Mitchell —
In order to see if the remains of medieval faeces contain the eggs of intestnal parasites,
the material has to be suspended in a solution, known as disaggregation (Anastasiou and
Mitchell, 2013a). A number of different methods are available to then separate out the eggs
from the soil, including flotation, sedimentation and microsieves. My preferred technique is
that of microsieves, as it minimises the need for the use of chemicals that may cause envi-
ronmental polution after the analysis. The solution of ancient faecal soil is passed through
sieves of 300, 160, and 20μm diameter mesh size. As the eggs of instestinal worms are
generally 25–150μm in size, they will be trapped on the 20μm mesh. This material is then
mixed with glycerol, a drop placed on a microscope slide, and viewed with digital light
microscopy at x400–x600 magnification.

Eggs can be identified by their size, shape, colour and special characteristics and stand-
ard parasite identification texts can be consulted (Garcia, 2009; Gunn and Pitt, 2012). They
may be round, oval, lemon-shaped, have a lid at one end, have a protruding spine, or a
special texture to their surface coat. Eggs from intesinal worms are often stained brown
by the bile produced by the liver that is secreted into the intestines to aid digestion. Most
human intesinal parasites can be identified to species level from their appearance, but some
cannot. For example, oocysts of the pork tapeworm (Taenia solium), which is contracted by
eating undercooked pork, and the beef tapeworm (Taenia saginata), contracted by eating
undercooked beef, appear identical at this stage of their life cycle so cannot be differentiated
with light microscopy alone.
Single-celled parasites can be hard to detect using microscopy in archaeological sedi-
ments, as they are much more fragile than the eggs of intestinal worms. This means they are
easily damaged or deformed, and so hard to identify from their physical appearance. In con-
sequence, enzyme-linked immunosorbent assay (ELISA) can be used to detect the proteins
unique to each species. This technique has been used with success to detect the protozoal
organisms that cause dysentery, such as Entamoeba histolytica and Giardia duodenalis
(Goncalves et al., 2002, 2004).
If we want to understand the importance of any parasites at crusader sites, we first need
to know what parasite species were present in the Middle East before the time of the cru-
sades, and also what parasites were present in Europe and so would have infected the first
crusaders as they headed to the eastern Mediterranean. Once the range of species of parasite
is determined, we can use our knowledge of the parasite life cycle and their known distribu-
tion in the past to improve our knowledge of what it was like to live in the Frankish states
of the Latin East.
PARASITES IN THE MIDDLE EAST PRIOR

TO THE CRUSADES
Prior to the arrival of the crusaders, a number of species of parasites are known to have been
present in the Middle East. The earliest case of abdominal parasitism so far published from
the region is an individual with schistosomiasis dating from 4,500–4,000 bc (Anastasiou
et al., 2014). This was located at the site of Tell Zeidan in Syria, on the confluence of the
Euphrates and Balikh rivers. The flatworm Schistosoma haematobium lives in the bladder
and kidneys of people who wade in warm fresh water such as ponds and farming irriga-
tion chanels. It causes anaemia from blood loss in the urine. The parasite has also been
found in Egyptian mummies at sites along the River Nile (Deelder et al., 1990). While this
parasite does not seem to have ever been endemic along the coastal strip of the Levant, this
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— chapter 32: Intestinal parasites in the crusades —
means that crusaders and pilgrims travelling to Egypt or Syria would have been at risk of
contracting the parasite there.
A number of archaeological sites in the southern Levant have been analysed for intes-
tinal parasites. These include Iron Age Jerusalem 700–500 bc (Cahill et al., 1991), the
site of the Essenes sect 100 bc–ad 100 at Qumran (Harter et al., 2004; Zias et al., 2006),
and Nahal-Mishmar cave ad 160 (Witenberg, 1961). The species identified include round-
worm, whipworm, lancet liver fluke, hydatid worm, pinworm, and the beef/pork tapeworm.
Ectoparasites in the form of head lice and body lice have been recovered from the fortress of
Masada 100 bc–ad 800 (Mumcuoglu and Zias, 1988; Mumcuoglu et al., 2003) and Nahal-
Hemar cave 6900–6300 bc (Mumcuoglu and Zias, 1991).

In Egypt a range of mummies and jars of eviscerated organs have been analysed for
ancient parasites. Sites studied include Antinoe, Dakhleh Oasis, El-Deir, Hawara, Karnack,
Saqqara, Thebes West and the Valley of the Nobles, which date from 3000 bc to ad 500.
Species of helminths identified include roundworm, whipworm, Guinea worm, hydatid
worm, pinworm, threadworm, liver fluke, fish tapeworm, filarial worm, beef/pork tape-
worm, trichinosis and schistosomiasis. The single-celled parasites toxoplasmosis, visceral
leishmaniasis and falciparum malaria were also identified, as were head lice (Mitchell,
2013; Anastasiou and Mitchell, 2015).
In Cyprus the only sites where parasites have been studied date from prehistory, so the
species present at the time of the crusades may well have been rather different. However,
at Shilliourokambos (8300–7000 bc) and at Khirokitia (7000–6000 bc) the parasites found
included the roundworm, whipworm, beef/pork tapeworm, fish tapeworm and liver fluke
(Guilaine et al., 2005).
PARASITES IN EUROPE PRIOR TO

THE CRUSADES
A large range of archaeological sites across many European countries have been studied for
ancient parasites. Certain species are found right across the continent, while others seem to
be restricted to certain areas. This was often due to the contraints of the parasite life cycle
or to the dietary and culinary habits of different cultural groups. The earliest parasite egg
identified so far is roundworm, which was found in France and dates from 28,000 to 22,000
bc (Bouchet et al., 1996). Species of parasite infecting humans in Europe prior to the time
of the crusades include roundworm, whipworm, beef/pork tapeworm, hookworm, fish tape-
worm, liver fluke, bile duct flukes, dicrocoelium, capillaria, giant kidney worm, entamoeba
dysentery and giardia dysentery (Anastasiou, 2015).
We can see there is quite a difference in species between Europe and the Middle East/
Egypt, and this is in part due to the life cycle of many parasites. The Middle East and Egypt
are warm and support a range of insects that can transmit the single-celled parasites such as
leishmaniasis. A number of parasites from the Middle East cannot survive the cold winters
of Europe, such as schistosomiasis and the guinea worm. In Europe we see changes in spe-
cies over time, as the species we inadvertently contract from eating wild animals (such as
capillaria, giant kidney worm and dicrocoelium) become very rare by the medieval period.
However, other species spread by the fecal contamination of food (by fertilising crops with
human faeces and not washing hands before cooking food for others) become quite com-
mon in Europe by the medieval period. Key examples of such species are the roundworm
and whipworm.
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Some species were common in certain parts of Europe but absent in other regions. One
good example is the fish tapeworm, which was common in northern Europe but rare south
of the Alps. Fish tapeworm is acquired by eating raw, pickled, or smoked freshwater fish.
In the colder parts of northern Europe it was common to preserve fish by smoking, pickling
or drying it while this did not work so well in the warmer climate of the south (Yeh et al.,
2014). So far, all examples of entamoeba dysentery found in the world at sites that date to
before the medieval period were in Europe. This has led to the suggestion that Entamoeba
histolytica may have evolved as a species in Europe, before being spread around the world
by trade, migratons and wars (Le Bailly and Bouchet, 2015).
This overview helps us to appreciate which kinds of parasites crusaders and pilgrims
may have been infected with when they travelled to the eastern Mediterranean, and also
which species of parasite were already present in the East. It is clear that some parasites
were present in both regions, such as roundworm and whipworm. However, other parasites
were only found in one region or the other. This means that some Europeans may have
brought species with them that were not present in the Middle East at that time, while others
may have arrived and been exposed to new parasites they had never experienced before.
EXCAVATIONS AT CRUSADER SITES

Sarandra Kolones Castle
The Frankish castle of Sarandra Kolones (Forty Columns) was built to defend the port
of Paphos in Cyprus (Megaw, 1971; Rosser, 1985). The island was taken from Isaac
Comnenus by King Richard I of England in ad 1191, during the Third Crusade. Richard
sold the island in 1192 to Guy de Lusignan, the former king of Jerusalem, and the Lusignans
ruled the island until 1489. The exact date of the castle’s construction is unknown, but
must have been built between 1191 and 1222 when it was destroyed in an earthquake.
After the earthquake, the ground level shifted so that the medieval port at Paphos dried
up. In consequence, the castle was never rebuilt as it was no longer needed to defend the
harbour (Boas, 1999: 93–104; Nicole, 2007: 27). This means any parasites found here
must date from this narrow thirty-year period. It is the only example of a concentric castle
on the island, and its design included four large piers. In one pier there was a well for
drinkng water, but in each of the other three piers latrines were built (Figure 32.1). These
were located on upper and lower floors, with the faecal waste falling into a cesspool below
(Megaw, 1971; Rosser, 1985). Sediment from one of these cesspools was sampled and
analysed for the eggs of intestinal parasites.
The eggs of roundworm and whipworm were found in the cesspool soil, but no other
species of parasite were observed (Anastasiou and Mitchell, 2013b). Roundworm and whip-
worm are faecal oral parasites, as they are spread by the contamination of food by faeces.
These species of helminth were found across Europe and the Middle East by the medieval
period. The results indicate that at least some members of the garison of the castle were
infected with these worms, but as the faeces were mixed in a cesspool we cannot tell what
proportion of people were infected. The presence of these parasites would be compatible
with poor hand washing among cooks in the castle, or the consumption of food that had
been grown in fields fertlised using human faeces as manure.
While these two parasite species had been found in Cyprus in prehistory (Guilaine et al.,
2005), the other species from prehistory (beef/pork tapeworm, fish tapeworm and live fluke)
596
Figure 32.1 Latrine from Sarandra Kolones castle in Cyprus (Image Evilena Anastasiou).
were not. This may be a result of the random nature of the samples taken for analysis, and
more species may have been detected if the other two cesspools had survived in better con-
dition to permit their analysis. Alternatively, it may reflect changing lifestyle and diet from
prehistory to the medieval period, so that the species of parasites that commonly infected
people on the island may have changed over that 8,000-year period.
The complex of St John in Acre

The Order of St John built a large complex in the coastal city of Acre, in the Frankish
Kingdom of Jerusalem. This has been excavated in recent decades and the internal layout is
gradually becoming clear (Goldmann, 1994). Ongoing excavations have identified a latrine
block built on several floors. Thirty-five toilet seats (Figure 32.2) were arranged on two
floors, with a large cesspool beneath. An irrigation system collected rainwater from the roof
and washed throught the drainage shutes with water. The cystern was connected via a drain
to larger drains under the city. Samples of sediment were collected from the cystern and drain
at the time of its excavation, and underwent analysis for parasites, pollen, seeds and other
environmental indicators. Radiocarbon dating has shown that material from the base of the
cesspool dated from 1260 to 1310 ad. Since Acre was attacked and destroyed in 1291 ad,
the faecal material analysed from this cesspool probably dates from about 1260–91 (Mitchell
et al., 2008b).
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Figure 32.2 Toilet seats from the latrines of the Order of St John in Acre (Image Piers Mitchell).
Large numbers of fly pupae were recovered, highlighting how flies must have bred in the
cesspool. A bone from a small rodent was also recovered, showing how rats or mice must
have inhabited the drains and sewers (Mitchell et al., 2008a). Parasite analysis identified
the eggs of whipworm, fish tapeworm (Figs 32.3 and 32.4) and roundworm (Mitchell and
Stern, 2001). The protozoan parasites Entamoeba histolytica and Giardia duodenalis were
also identified using ELISA analysis, and these organisms can cause dysentery (Mitchell
et al., 2008b).
Private houses in Acre

Excavations at Acre have also identified cesspools in private houses dating from the time
of the crusader period. In contrast to the large multiseat, mutlifloor latrines of the military
orders, private houses generally had more modest cesspools with a single seat. Fewer peo-
ple would have been using these toilets (perhaps the members of just one family), so we
might expect the range of parasites to have been more limited.
A site at the corner of Ha-Amal and Ha-Gedod Ha-‘Ivri roads in Akko was excavated
in 2003, and this exposed a crusader period cesspool. It is thought to have been located
within a private house rather than within a military order or religious order complex.
Fragments of ceramics and five crusader coins indicate it was in use during the thirteenth
century. The pear-shaped chamber of the cesspool measured 1.77 m in height and 1.4 m
in diameter. Parasite analysis detected the eggs of whipworm and the oocysts of beef/pork
tapeworm (Figure 32.5) (Mitchell and Tepper, 2007). The samples were also tested with
ELISA for the organisms that cause dysentery, but the results were negative (Mitchell
et al., 2008b).
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Figure 32.3 Whipworm egg from latrines of the Order of St John in Acre (Image Piers Mitchell).
Egg dimensions 52x21μm.
Figure 32.4 Fish tapeworm egg from latrines of the Order of St John in Acre
(Image Piers Mitchell). Egg dimensions 60x45μm.
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Figure 32.5 Beef/pork tapeworm egg from private house excavated near Ha-Amal and Ha-Gedod
Ha-‘Ivri roads in Acre (Image Piers Mitchell). Oocyst dimensions 33x34μm.
Figure 32.6 Roundworm egg from cesspool in private house excavated near Weizman Street in
Acre (Image Piers Mitchell). Egg dimensions 48x37μm.
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Table 32.1 Species of Parasite Found in Crusader Period Cesspools

Parasite Location
Roundworm Sarandra Kolones Castle
(Ascaris lumbricoides) Acre, St John
Acre, house
Whipworm Sarandra Kolones Castle
(Trichuris trichiura) Acre, St John
Acre, house
Beef/pork tapeworm Acre, house

(Taenia saginata/solium)
Fish tapeworm Acre, St John
(Diphyllobothrium latum) Acre, house
Entamoeba dysentery Acre, St John
(Entamoeba histolytica)
Giardia dysentery Acre, St John
(Giardia duodenalis)
In 2007 a complex of crusader buildings were excavated adjacent to Weizman Street

in Akko. Again, these were thought to be in a residential quarter of the old city. Several
cesspools were identified, and one was sampled for parasite analysis. This cesspool meas-
ured 2.9 m long, 1.7 m wide and about 2 m deep. It was connected to the toilet seat above
via a vertical shute. Radiocarbon dating of a fragment of animal rib from the cesspool
indicated a likely date for the contents of between 1265 and 1303 ad to 84% probabilty.
Since the city was destroyed in 1291, it is likely the contents date from before then.
Parasite analysis showed the present of the eggs of roundworm (Figure 32.6) and the fish
tapeworm (Table 32.1) (Mitchell et al., 2011).
WHAT THESE DISCOVERIES TELL US

While a range of parasite species have been detected from different crusader sites, we can
see quite a variety at each location. No species of parasite has been found at every site. This
suggests that people living there were not all infected with the same range of species, and we
cannot assume that all people had intestinal parasites. However, our knowledge of the life
cycle of those parasites that have been found can help us to understand better the areas of san-
itation, diet, migration and health of those living in the Latin East at the time of the crusades.
Sanitation
Some of the species of parasite identified from these latrines indicate the level of effec-
tive sanitation for the population. Whipworm and roundworm are parasitic worms that are
spread by the accidental consumption of human faeces that contain the eggs (Garcia, 2009;
Gunn and Pitt, 2012). This may occur if food plants are eaten that were fertilised with
human faeces and not then cooked thoroughly afterwards. Transmission may also take place
if a cook prepares and served food without washing their hands thoroughly after going to
the toilet themselves. There is some evidence for the efficacy of sanitation in the Frankish
States of the Latin East. As we can see from the cases discussed above, the construction of
601
cesspools and latrines was fairly standard in the towns. We also know that some towns such
as Acre had a basic system of drains and sewers build under the city (Pringle, 1997; Syon et
al., in press). However, when the Muslim traveller Ibn Jubayr passed through Acre during
the twelfth century, he noted that the city was ‘full of refuse and excrement’ (Ibn Jubayr,
1952). It is not easy for us to know whether this indicates Acre was a particularly unsanitary
medieval city, or just that Ibn Jubayr wanted to make a point that he felt Muslim cities were
cleaner than those of the uncultured European invaders. Either way, it would at least sug-
gest that he was not struck by its cleanliness. Whipworm, roundworm or both were found in
each of the cesspools so far analysed at crusader period sites. This would indicate that levels
of sanitation allowed the spread of these helminths. However, comparison with medieval
towns across Europe shows a similar picture (Anastasiou, 2015), so there is no reason to
think that sanitation in Acre was any worse than was the case in Europe at that time.
Diet and cooking

Certain parasites can only be contracted by eating particular foods. For example, fish tape-
worm, beef tapeworm and pork tapeworm can only be acquired by eating fish, beef and pork
as their names imply. This means that when we find the eggs of these intestinal worms in
archaeological samples, we know that these foods were being eaten by the infected indi-
viduals. These parasites live for a number of years in the intestines so finding the eggs in
a crusader period latrine does not necessarily mean the parasites were contracted in the
same town. It is theoretically possible that the meat containing the eggs came from Europe
but was consumed in the East (Pryor, 1988), or that the person contracted the parasites in
Europe before traveling to the East. However, the recovery of butchered animal bones at a
number of crusader period sites in the East such as Belmont Castle, Sumaqa and Caymont
shows that a wide range of animals were being farmed or caught from the wild and eaten,
such as sheep, goat, cattle, pig, donkey, camel, deer, chicken, pigeon, goose and fish (Croft,
2000; Horwitz and Dahan 1990, 1996). Those species of parasite that are known to have
been present in the Middle East prior to the arrival of the crusaders could clearly have been
contracted from eating those local foods such as beef and pork.
The eggs of parasitic worms transmitted in food are killed by the heat of cooking. This
means that no one would have any fish, beef or pork tapeworms if they cooked these meats
thoroughly. People eating pickled, smoked or dried fish or meat consume parasite eggs that are
just as viable as the day the animals was killed and butchered. Similarly, no one would suffer
with dysentery from giardia or entamoeba if they boiled their drinking water thoroughly. While
people in the medieval period did not realise the health benefits of cooking parasite eggs before
they ate and drank, we can use this information to help us understand how food was being pre-
pared, stored and cooked. Written texts from the medieval Middle East show that indigenous
people there did not eat pickled, salt or dried fish or meat in that state. It was always cooked
before consumption (Lewicka, 2011; Rodinson, 2001; Zaouali, 2007). In contrast, northern
Europeans often ate smoked, pickled, dried or salted meat and fish (Yeh et al., 2014). This
would have put them at increased risk of contracting parasites contained within these foods.
Migration
The crusades were a series of events when large numbers of people travelled from Europe
to the East in sequential waves of migrations (Mitchell and Millard, 2009, 2013). Many
602
crusaders and pilgrims suffered with infectious diseases at some stage on their journey
(Wagner and Mitchell, 2011). It is not surprising that some spread these diseases from
Europe to the East, while others brought them back to Europe (Mitchell, 2011). When we
find the eggs of parasites in a new region for the first time, this often indicates that people
have migrated from an endemic area taking their parasites with them. Two groups of para-
sites seem to have been brought to the eastern Mediterranean by crusaders. Fish tapeworm
was common in northern Europe during the medieval period, but absent in southern Europe
and the Mediterranean region. The finding of fish tapeworm eggs in crusader period latrines
suggests that crusaders or pilgrims from northern Europe had travelled to the east with fish
tapeworms in their intestines (Mitchell et al., 2011). However, the fact that this parasite is
not indigenous to the region today suggests that its life cycle was probably not compatible
with the environment of the Middle East, and that it never became endemic there.
Similarly, the single-celled parasite Entamoeba histolytica that causes dysentery in
humans is thought to have originated in Europe (Le Bailly and Bouchet, 2015). It has never
been found in the Middle East prior to the crusades, but has been detected in the latrines of
the Order of St John dating from the thirteenth century (Mitchell et al., 2008b). Historical
accounts of the Seventh Crusade to Egypt record how in ad 1249 large numbers of the army
suffered with dysentery. Indeed, King Louis IX of France suffered so badly that he had the
lower part of his breeches cut away so he did not need to pull them down each time he had
diarrhoea (John of Joinville, 1955). It may well be that Europeans travelled to the East with
dysentery leading to such outbreaks, and so spreading it to the region.
Health
Infection with low to moderate numbers of some intestinal parasites seems to cause no ill
effects upon health. In a well-fed person, having a few roundworms, whipworms or a beef
tapeworm may well go unnoticed. However, heavier worm loads are known to cause energy
malnutrition and anaemia, especially in children who can then experience stunted growth
and reduced IQ (Goto et al., 2009; Stephenson et al., 2000). Not everyone with the protozoal
parasites entamoeba or giardia develop symptoms of dysentery. However, a proportion of
people infected will suffer with severe diarrhoea, and a proportion may die from it (Garcia,
2009, 274).
There were frequent descriptions of famine events during the crusades, sometimes due
to sieges, sometimes from natural disasters such as crop failures. Study of named individu-
als in a number of different two- to three-year-long crusade expeditions suggest that about
15–20% of nobles and clergy died from either malnutrition or infectious disease (Mitchell,
2004). We might expect even higher numbers of poor footsoldiers to have starved, since
they had less money and smaller reserves of food. In such circumstances, we would expect
that crusaders with intestinal parasites might be at higher risk of starvation if they had to
share what little food they had with their worms.
CONCLUSION
It has been shown that study of the contents of latrines and cesspools dating from the cru-
sader period can enlighten us regarding many aspects of life in the medieval period. While
information can be acquired from surviving fragments of food, pollen, fly pupae and rodent
remains, this chapter focuses on the eggs of intestinal parasites. We have shown evidence
603
for six species of parasites in crusader contexts, namely roundworm, whipworm, fish tape-
worm, beef/pork tapeworm, Entamoeba hystolytica and Giardia duodenalis that cause dys-
entery. The implications of each parasite for our understanding of diet, health, sanitation
and migration have been discussed in order to demonstrate the fascinating new information
that can be acquired from human waste.
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PART VII
ART AND LITERATURE

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
DECORATIVE ARCHITECTURAL
SCULPTURE IN CRUSADER JERUSALEM:
THE EASTERN, WESTERN, AND ARMENIAN

SOURCES OF A LOCAL VISUAL CULTURE
Nurith Kenaan-Kedar
S ince its beginnings, the study of architectural and monumental stone sculpture of the
Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem focused mainly on issues of style. It has tried to demon-
strate that crusader art depended mainly on French Romanesque and early Gothic art and
consequently considered it as an extension or a provincial version of artistic centers in
France. Such an approach was expressed by Camille Enlart in the 1920s, whose work on
crusader architecture and monumental stone sculpture remains indispensable (Enlart, 1928).
Enlart based his study on historical documents and immaculate pictorial comparative style-
analysis with Romanesque and Gothic art in various regions of France. In the 1930s Paul
Deschamps continued Enlart’s work and developed additional methods for stylistic study
(Deschamps, 1931). Both Enlart and Deschamps systematically defined any crusader form
alien to French and Western medieval sculpture as “Byzantine.”
Successive generations of scholars of crusader art have continued to investigate its
development in comparison with contemporaneous Western art. The study of monumental
sculpture in Jerusalem concentrated on the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, while the other
monuments were not always studied in detail. Consequently, whenever similar forms were
observed in the Holy Land, Apulia, France, or Sicily, links between specific Western and
Eastern objects were proposed. In 1973 I argued that local masons preserved local tradi-
tions in the crusader southern façade of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre (Kenaan, 1973).
Valentino Pace, however, introduced the concept of Frankish artists who, though born in
the Holy Land, remained connected to the traditions of the West (Pace, 1982). This chapter
focuses on one major issue: the role and meanings of the goudron frieze in the Crusader
churches of Jerusalem.
A NEW URBAN PANORAMA

I believe that in crusader Jerusalem, and mainly during the reign of Melisende as queen or
regent for her son (1131–61), one can differentiate between the monuments of the histori-
cal city the crusaders found when they arrived, reconstruction of old buildings such as the
Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and the construction of new projects.
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— Nurith Kenaan-Kedar —
The historical buildings, primarily the Templum Domini and the Templum Salomonis in
the Temple area, actually dictated the traditional panorama of the city and thus also served
as the model for the new construction undertaken in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
The crusaders, accustomed to regard Solomon’s temple as an ideal, literary prototype
of a church, were confronted in Jerusalem with an earthly Templum Domini built upon the
site of Solomon’s temple, as well as with Solomon’s palace, which was sometimes called
Templum Solomonis. At the same time they encountered the church of the Holy Sepulchre,
an age-old model for many churches in the West. The crusaders established manifold ties
between the temple and the sepulchre and their kings were prominently linked, as well as
to the palace of Solomon.

It is plausible to assume that this complex situation led to the choice of a dome for the
definite vaulting of the new crusader church of the Holy Sepulchre and to the construction
of the double portals, both charged with symbolic meaning (Kenaan-Kedar, 1986).
MELISENDE AS PATRON
Five of the newly constructed projects under the patronage of Queen Melisende created a
new urban landscape. The new buildings were constructed in various locations throughout
the city, thus bestowing the holy places with an additional layer that reflected the new power
and function of the kingdom and the attitudes and intentions of the royal patronage in creat-
ing a new urban panorama.
The five building projects and their pictorial language

These are the five main projects which were reconstructed, at least in great part, under the
patronage of Melisende and with her great support:
•• The Church of the Holy Sepulchre in the center of the city.

•• The Abbey Church of Saint Anne in the north-eastern corner of the city, near the eastern
city wall. According to William of Tyre, in 1140 she rebuilt the convent of Saint Anne
and later the convent of Bethany and endowed it with vast property. Her sister Yveta
was installed at Saint Anne as abbess until the convent in Bethany above the tomb of
Lazarus could be completed (Folda, 1995: 131–3, 246–9).
•• The Armenian Cathedral of Saint James in the south-western sector of the city. It was
probably built during her time, since John of Würzburg describes it in 1162 as completed.
•• The Armenian Church of the Archangels, not far from the Cathedral of Saint James.
•• The royal tombs of Morphia and Queen Melisende in the ancient Church of Saint Mary
in the Valley of Jehoshaphat outside the walls facing the eastern city wall which was
reconstructed in several parts in the twelfth century (Folda 1995).
I argue that the usage of the goudron frieze on four of these new projects, two Latin (the
Church of the Holy Sepulcre, and the Church of Saint Anne) and two Armenian, (the Saint
James Cathedral, the Church of the Archangels, and the Tomb of Queen Melisende in the
Church of the Assumption of the Virgin) is meaningful and reflects the queen’s involve-
ment in the patronage of these projects. It is a declaration of the attitudes and stances of
Queen Melisende as the common patron of both the Latin and the Armenian projects and
communities of Jerusalem.
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— c h a p t e r 3 3 : D e c o r a t i v e a rc h i t e c t u r a l s c u l p t u re i n J e r u s a l e m —
The repertory of forms of these churches, their architecture and ground-plans as well
as the system of supports such as domes, varied sorts of pillars, and capitals, in addition to
their decorative architectural sculpture reveal a wide range of pictorial sources and a distinct
relationship of the creators of each of the churches to a pictorial language and its sources.
However, even if the vocabulary of forms did vary, four of these projects, with the excep-
tion of the Church of Saint Mary in the Valley of Jehoshaphat, share the prominent appear-
ance of the goudron frieze on their façades.
THE GOUDRON FRIEZE: MEANING AND

ICONOGRAPHY
As the goudron frieze constitutes a prominent element in the decoration of the portals of
the southern façade of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, it was numerous times an issue
of discussion concerning its origins and character. While several scholars ignored it, most
scholars relating to it have considered the goudron frieze an “alien” and “foreign” form, and
are in agreement that it was a “Muslim” motif (Kenaan-Kedar, 1998: 83–5). It is believed to
have first appeared on the Bab-el-Futuh, the wall gate to the city of Cairo built in the elev-
enth century, a fact brought to support the argument for its Muslim origin. This long-held
view was repeated in a new context as late as 1998 (Folda, 1998: 248). However, the same
author changed his view in 2012 (Folda, 2012: 470).
I would like to contend that the goudron frieze is a meaningful form that poses its own
iconographical significance. Furthermore, I believe it to be an Armenian—or at least a
north-Syrian—form, and that its usage constitutes a deliberate declaration. By shedding
some light on Armenian art in the Holy Land of the twelfth century, I hope to demon-
strate that these Armenian forms were also present elsewhere in the East, but have not been
systematically studied. In the following I shall attempt to show that “Armenian” forms
belonged to the pictorial tradition of what constituted the Eastern Roman Empire and cannot
be defined as simply “local” or “crusader.”
However, I was not able to find the goudron frieze in Armenian monasteries, but only
similar forms. It was adopted in Syria, Egypt, and in the Holy Land (Utudjian, 1968), as
well as in a very few places in the West, as a meaningful symbol by patrons conscious of
its significance.
What are the origins of the goudron frieze? Its predecessors had appeared in endless formal
variations in Greater Armenia on church portals since at least the sixth century. One prominent
example is that from the gate tower of the monastery of Tatevi Egemidzin Gayiane dated to
885 CE (Thierry, 1989). It also appears in northern Syria, and indeed some scholars regard
this frieze as being typically north Syrian (Creswell, 1952: 210–11). Its representation on the
Bab-el-Futuh in Cairo in the eleventh century in the same form as in Jerusalem is of the utmost
significance. The goudron frieze was used here as an isolated element, as it would appear in the
future Armenian projects in Jerusalem. The Bab-el-Futuh, like the other gates of the eleventh-
century Cairo city walls, was built by Badr el-Djamali, the Fatimid commander-in-chief and
vizier (Tyerman, 2006: 128). Of Armenian ethnic origin and a former slave of the Syrian amir,
Djamal al-Dawla died in 1094 at over eighty years of age and we know very little about his
activities as governor. He provided Cairo with its second wall and its three strong city gates,
including the Bab-el-Futuh (Becker, 1960: 869–70; Pringle, 2014: 351). The use of the gou-
dron frieze here was no coincidence. By employing it as a major element in this triumphal gate
the governor of Egypt was firmly declaring his origins and ethnic inclinations.
611
THE GOUDRON FRIEZE IN TWELFTH-CENTURY

JERUSALEM
The goudron frieze has a different form and is placed in a different context in the Latin
and the Armenian projects. When it becomes part of the decorative architectural sculp-
ture of the two Latin churches, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and Saint Anne, both of
them symbolizing royal power, the goudron frieze is enframed by additional friezes with
motifs of classical origin and becomes thereby a local element, part of the routine traditional
vocabulary. The goudron frieze stands out on the southern façade of the Church of the Holy
Sepulchre, the main project of the Latin Kingdom, as a prominent architectural decoration.
It surrounds the double portal in the first floor and the double windows in the second floor,
accompanied by additional friezes: a rosette frieze on the double portal and a leaf frieze on
the double upper windows. Enframed by a palmette frieze, the goudron frieze appears on
the upper window of the abbey church of the Saint Anne Latin convent that was headed by
Yvetta, the queen’s sister, and supported by Melisende.
The Armenian projects the Cathedral of Saint James—in effect, the largest project
constructed in Jerusalem after the Church of the Holy Sepulchre—and the Church of the
Archangels. In the Cathedral of Saint James, the goudron frieze surrounds the monumental
portal leading from the narthex to the cathedral. It surmounts a smaller frieze in the shape
of a rope, installed in the inner portal’s tympanum. The form of each unit of the goudron
frieze is flatter than the voluminous units in the Latin projects, and may be compared to
the Armenian decorative systems in the monastery of Tatev (Thierry, 1989). The goudron
frieze in the Church of the Archangels surrounds its portal leading from the narthex to the
church, while its units are put very compactly together.
THE WORKSHOPS
Queen Melisende has been presented as the most prominent patron of the arts in Jerusalem
between 1131 and 1161, as well as being instrumental, inter alia, in getting the masons
from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre to work also for the Armenians. Thus the Cathedral
of Saint James has remained subject to the traditional belief that as the Church of the Holy
Sepulchre was the most prominent architectural project in twelfth-century Jerusalem, the
masons employed by the Armenians could have come only from this major project, and the
cathedral is of secondary importance (Folda, 1995: 249).
However, I believe that since Melisende was the patron of several building projects in
Jerusalem, there were several workshops operating in Jerusalem. These workshops had their
pictorial traditions, so that their repertory of forms presents their own significant forms, but
feature the goudron frieze at the same time as a prominent element of their façades.
The workshop of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was responsible for the southern
façade, whose two floors are unique in Jerusalem (Fig. 33.1). Even if they may be per-
ceived as Western, their pictorial language is totally different from the Romanesque pilgrim
churches with two-floor façades. In the west façade of Saint Sernin in Toulouse, the sur-
rounding window archivolts are built toward the window (Hearn, 1981: 139–41), while in
the Puerta de las Platerias in Santiago de Compostela the decorative archivolts have been
constructed toward the inner parts of the window enframed by a multilobed arch, a typical
Spanish form (Hearn, 1981: 142–6). In addition, a sculptural program is presented between
the two floors.
612
Figure 33.1 Southern façade of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem.
Photograph: Sarit Uzieli, courtesy of Nurith Kenaan-Kedar.
In the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, however, the friezes accompany the goudron frieze
while being installed on the edifice’s wall. Moreover, the workshop here is aware of the
classical heritage, deliberately employing not Romanesque elements but rather antique
forms at large. Outstanding are the cornices in a late antique style and installation: the
lower one above the double portal has the form of a meander, maintaining its secondary
decorative elements, while the upper one is above the second-floor windows. It is difficult
to know whether the installation of the lower cornice is a secondary usage or an imitation
of an antique cornice. The capitals recall Justinianic capitals and the rosette friezes relate to
antique traditions of the Holy Land. Above all, the double portal is carrying on a dialogue
with the double portals of the Golden Gate in the eastern city wall through which Christ was
believed to have made his triumphal entry (Kenaan, 1973).
Thus the façade demonstrates extensive use of antique elements. And then, in the mid-
dle of this program appears the goudron frieze (Kenaan, 1973). It is difficult to know who
initiated this pictorial program, but the work demonstrates great awareness of the classical
world at large. The appearance of the goudron frieze thus gains momentum in this façade
with decorative elements of antique sources.
The second workshop seems to have been employed on the church of Saint Anne. The
façade of the church of Saint Anne is medieval in character, and can be compared to diverse
churches in various regions in France, featuring a limited decorative repertoire with antique
elements. However, the goudron frieze appears on the single window in the upper part of the
façade accompanied by a palmette frieze (Fig. 33.2). The nave capitals of Saint Anne bear
no resemblance to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre; they are not chiseled but engraved,
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Figure 33.2 West façade of the Church of Saint Anne, Jerusalem.

and display great similarities to sixth-century Syrian capitals, and to capitals on the city wall
of Ani in Armenia (Cowe, 2001). Thus the mason workshop of the inner church of Saint
Anne presents an independent vocabulary of form, deviating from the façade and capitals
of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
The third and fourth workshops introduced to the Armenian projects a rich and complex
pictorial language of Armenian forms deviating completely from the Latin pictorial tradi-
tion. It seems plausible that the third workshop worked on the Cathedral of Saint James,
with its own repertory of forms for the inner dome, goudron frieze pillars and the capi-
tals. The fourth workshop worked on the goudron frieze of the portal of the church of the
Archangels, and on the capitals in its nave. Furthermore I believe that it worked on the
decoration of the outer dome of the Cathedral of Saint James with a series of blind arches
carried on twin columns. These Armenian projects represent an autonomous visual culture.
THE ARMENIANS IN JERUSALEM: ASPECTS OF

HISTORY AND VISUAL CULTURE
A brief overview of the Armenian community in Jerusalem is called for in order to present
the specific visual culture of their monuments (Pringle, 2014). The history of the Armenian
community in the Holy Land and Jerusalem goes back to early Christianity. Armenian tra-
ditions relate the existence of the community to the third century, while early Armenian
monasticism in the Holy Land has been documented at least from the fourth century.
614
Armenian tradition maintains that the head of St. James the Great was kept in the
c athedral, which subsequently became a most holy place of veneration. In addition, several
sixth-century mosaic pavements with Armenian inscriptions from sepulchral monuments
testify to Armenian awareness of their ethnicity and to artistic activity and active patron-
age. One example is the mosaic pavement still in situ near Nablus Road, with the Armenian
inscription “For the memory and salvation of all the Armenians, whose name the Lord
knows.” This mosaic pavement depicts vine scrolls stemming from an amphora, spread out
symmetrically, each one enframing a bird. Birds were often interpreted as images of the
believers’ souls. Other inscriptions refer to the monastery of the Armenians.
The relationship between the Armenian principalities and communities in the East,
although beyond the scope of this chapter, is a major component for understanding
Armenian culture and art in Jerusalem. Constant ties between diverse Armenian communi-
ties and the migration of their various populations from one center to another were a factor
throughout the Middle Ages. From the end of the eleventh and during the twelfth centuries,
the Armenians maintained extensive relations with the arriving crusaders. As was dem-
onstrated (Prawer, 1976), the Armenians enjoyed a privileged position among the other
local Christian communities. This was due to two reasons: the vast Armenian population
in the crusader principalities, mainly in Edessa and Antioch, and intermarriage between the
Frankish and Armenian royal houses and nobility. Baldwin I, first count of Edessa and then
king of Jerusalem, married Arda, the daughter of Prince Toros of Edessa, whom he later
settled in the Jerusalem convent of Saint Anne. The most influential marriage, however,
was that of Baldwin II, king of Jerusalem, to Morphia, the daughter of Gabriel, governor of
Melitene. Morphia gave birth to four daughters: Melisende, who was to become the most
prominent queen of Jerusalem; Hodierna, princess of Tripoli; Alice, princess of Antioch;
and Yveta, who had been a hostage in her childhood and therefore could not marry, but
became the Abbess of Saint Anne and later of the convent of St. Lazarus in Bethany through
the very strong support and lavish donations of Queen Melisende, her elder sister (Prawer,
1976; Kenaan-Kedar, 1998).
THE TWELFTH-CENTURY ARMENIAN

BUILDING PROJECTS
The Church of the Archangels
This church is a three-aisled basilica, preceded by a narthex. There is one portal leading
from the narthex to the church. The portal’s arch is enframed by the goudron frieze only,
with the units put together very compactly (Fig. 33.3). The nave of the church is supported
by piers which carry cross-ribbed vaults emerging from stepped machicouli (Fig. 33.4). The
capitals are very similar to the capitals bearing the blind arched decoration on the outer face
of Saint James dome. These machicouli can also be compared to several capitals from the
ninth-century monastery of Tatev.
The Cathedral of Saint James and the third workshop

The Armenian cathedral was the center of the Armenian community of Jerusalem. In a
Jerusalem which was not densely built, the cathedral presented a visual world and culture
completely different from that of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. It was not connected to
615
Figure 33.3 Goudron frieze framing the portal from the narthex to the church, Armenian Church
of the Archangels. Photograph: Garo Nalbandian, courtesy of Nurith Kenaan-Kedar.
the classical or Byzantine world, even if certain elements of its architecture were based on
them. Armenian pilgrims and travelers frequented the cathedral, in addition to the Church
of the Holy Sepulchre.
The twelfth-century Armenian Cathedral of Saint James has been surveyed and described.
However, interpretations of the meaning and function of the edifice, in the context of life
in the twelfth-century Armenian community in Jerusalem, have not been presented. The
cathedral was, however, described in detail and defined as having “an Armenian, that is
oriental design” (Folda, 1995: 247). It was also described as a middle Byzantine creation
(Kühnel, 1994).
The ground plan of the cathedral as well as its architectural elements demonstrate some
affinity with Byzantine and Armenian architectural traditions of the eleventh and twelfth
centuries, thus differing consciously from the crusader plan of the Church of the Holy
Sepulchre. Its narthex can be only partly evaluated, as the original façade was destroyed
in the seventeenth century. While it is Byzantine in origin, the pictorial language of its
portal, however, consists of the goudron frieze as its main decoration accompanied by a
small frieze in the portal’s tympanum. The particular flat form of the goudron frieze differs
616
Figure 33.4 Main nave, Armenian Church of the Archangels. Photograph: Garo Nalbandian,
courtesy of Nurith Kenaan-Kedar.
significantly from the one on the façade of the Holy Sepulchre church and can be compared
with Armenian decorative systems (Fig. 33.5).
The frieze accompanies the arches and is cut in the wall surfaces. On the walls beside it
are elbow capitals receiving the ceilings ribs and “elbow colonnettes.”
The most prominent element of the cathedral is its dome which presents completely dif-
ferent forms in its inner and outer forms (Figure 33.6). The inner dome is decorated with
six intersecting ribs which form a star on a square base with a decorative schematic gar-
land frieze, thus deviating from the Byzantine hemisphere dome. The supporting piers are
square, with four capitals on each side, suggesting the original existence of half columns
decorated with large smooth leaves.These capitals with animals carved on their leaves do
not show any similarity with the capitals of the other projects mentioned above. However,
the outer dome is decorated in a completely different pictorial language than the inner
one. The outer form of the dome and its decoration has not yet been considered by schol-
arly literature. This decoration consists of a series of blind arches carried alternatively by
small twin and single columns with uncarved capitals running all around the dome. Their
form is very similar to the blind arches decoration of the dome of the Redeemer Church at
Ani, from the eleventh century, which possesses the same form of capitals and columns;
it resembles also the capitals in the form of stepped machicouli of the central nave of the
Church of the Archangels. Evidently, this outer form of the dome, which is Armenian
and might even be considered archaic, was created by one of the Armenian workshops
(Figs 33.7 and 33.8). This decoration has no relationship to Latin architecture and pre-
sents a completely different perception compared to the dome of the Church of the Holy
617
Figure 33.5 Goudron frieze framing the portal from the narthex (the Etchimiadzin chapel) to the
Cathedral of Saint James. Photograph: Garo Nalbandian, courtesy of Nurith Kenaan-Kedar.
Sepulchre, which is a hemisphere and is decorated on its outer face with ninety-six corbels
(Kenaan-Kedar, 1992).
I believe that this form of dome is distinctly Armenian. Thus, the choice of two sets
of Armenian formal systems, one for the inner dome and one for the outer dome of the
Armenian cathedral, was no coincidence but must have been intentional and symbolical for
the Armenian community and Queen Melisende.
The Tomb of Melisende in the Church of Saint Mary in the

Valley of Jehoshaphat
Melisende was buried in the church of the Tomb of the Virgin Mary in the Valley of
Jehoshaphat, much patronized by the royal house (Kenaan-Kedar, 1998: 86–90; Folda,
1995: 324–6; Bagatti et al., 1975: 83–93). The queen supported the church with many gifts
during her reign, making the convent one of the richest in the kingdom.
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Figure 33.6 The inner dome, Cathedral of Saint James. Photograph: Sarit Uzieli, courtesy of
Nurith Kenaan-Kedar.
The Church of the Tomb of the Virgin Mary was probably founded in the fourth century.
However, it was rebuilt and enlarged in the twelfth century under the crusaders (Bagatti
et al., 1975: 84). It is known that the queen’s mother, the Armenian Queen Morphia, was
already buried there probably on the left side of the stairs. William of Tyre describes the
location of Melisende’s sepulchral chamber precisely: “The first chamber on the right when
descending the stairs” (William of Tyre, 1986: 18.32, 858).
The royal sepulchral chamber is entered through a large arch decorated with floral cas-
settoni recalling an antique arcosolium. The inner space of the chamber has been planned
with meaningful architectural elements. Two niches are situated in the southern and north-
ern walls of the chamber, for the placement of two sarcophagi. The niches are enframed
with quasi pediments cut with inner profiles, as is routine in Armenian architecture. The
chamber’s most outstanding element, however, is the domed lantern crowning its center.
The dome is built on a square ground plan with an octagonal base on squinches and
a round form in its upper part. It is thus a characteristic Armenian dome, like those in
619
Figure 33.7 Outer panorama of the dome of the Cathedral of Saint James. Photograph:
Sarit Uzieli, courtesy of Nurith Kenaan-Kedar.
Figure 33.8 Outer panorama of the dome of the Cathedral of Saint James: detail.
620
the monastery churches of Haphpat from the end of the eleventh century (Thierry, 1989:
534–5, fig. 734). The use of a dome for a sepulchral chamber is unique in itself. None of
the crusader kings were buried under a dome, nor any contemporaneous Western king, as
far as I am aware. Thus, the dome symbolizing eternity appears here again to be reflecting
a deliberate choice (Fig. 33.9).
It has been suggested that the sepulchral dome was derived from the dome of St. Helen
Chapel in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre (Bagatti et al., 1975: 131; Folda, 1995): The
dome of St. Helen, however, is a regular Byzantine hemispheric one and has no relation to
Melisende’s tomb. Thus, in the choice of an Armenian dome—recalling the dome crowning
the Armenian cathedral—for her own royal tomb, Melisende deliberately associated herself
with the Armenian cathedral.
THE GOUDRON FRIEZES: THEIR ROLE AND MEANING

IN THE NEW BUILDING PROJECTS
The goudron frieze reflects the work of different workshops and traditions. It stands out
most clearly on the façade of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. It is larger and more
voluminous while the accompanying friezes remain two-dimensional. In a similar form it
appears around the upper window on the west façade of Saint Anne. The flat and compact
goudron frieze in its particular Armenian form appears as the major decoration around the
central entrance portal from the southern narthex to the Cathedral of Saint James and the
Church of the Archangels introduces to Jerusalem Armenian architectural decoration, creat-
ing a local and unique visual panorama.
Figure 33.9 Dome of the Tomb of Melisende. Photograph: Garo Nalbandian, courtesy of
Nurith Kenaan-Kedar.
621
THE GOUDRON FRIEZE IN THE WEST

In the twelfth century, the goudron frieze made its first appearance in the West, in the
Church of Santa Maria del’Admiralio, the Martorana, in Palermo and in a little church in
Marignac (Saintonge). I believe that in these two places, too, the frieze was selected for its
significance, in this case via appropriation of meaning for a different place and purpose.
In the Martorana, the frieze appears only on the entrance bell tower. The church, as is
well known from surviving documents as well as from the imagery of its mosaic decoration,
was built by George of Antioch, admiral to King Roger II, as a sepulchral monument to his
mother, his wife, and himself. In his architectural analysis of the church, Slobodan Čurçič
suggested that a workshop from the Holy Land came to Palermo to work on the bell tower
and introduced the goudron frieze (Čurçič, 1990). I suggest that in the traditions of the east-
ern Mediterranean, George of Antioch, a Greek Orthodox, wished to display the goudron
frieze, a traditional symbol of eternal victory, on the church bell tower in order to inform
posterity of his Syrian origins.
An additional appearance of the goudron frieze is in the Church of Marignac, where it
decorates the inner arches of a triconch apse recalling the rotunda of the Church of the Holy
Sepulchre (Semur, 1984: 176). Consequently, this frieze may be regarded as proclaiming
the church patron’s association with the Church of the Holy Sepulchre as a pilgrim or a
crusader.
CONCLUSION
In this chapter, I have attempted to show that both Melisende as patron, and the work-
shops she employed, were familiar with Armenian and Western pictorial traditions and their
respective roles and meanings. The exclusive usage of prominent Armenian forms in the
Armenian projects in such a small distance from the Latin churches demonstrate the aware-
ness of the builders and the patron of the power and meanings of architectural images and
their decorations. This plural perception of the unique visual traditions of each of the com-
munities contributed to the new urban scenic view and panorama of Jerusalem.
REFERENCES
Bagatti, B., Piccirillo, M., and Prodomo, A. (1975) New Discoveries at the Tomb of Virgin Mary in
Gethsemane, Jerusalem: Franciscan Printing Press.
Becker, C.H. (1960) “Badr al-Djamali,” in the Encyclopaedia of Islam, vol. 1, Leiden and London:
Brill, 869–70.
Creswell, K.A.C. (1952) The Muslim Architecture of Egypt, 2 vols, Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Cowe, S.P. (2001) Ani: World Architectural Heritage of a Medieval Armenian Capital, Sterling, VA:
Peeters
Čurçič, S. (1990) “The architecture,” in E. Kitzinger (ed.), The Mosaics of St. Mary’s of the Admiral
in Palermo, Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks.
Deschamps, P. (1931) La sculpture française en Palestine et en Syrie a l’époque des Croisades, Paris:
Ernest Leroux.
Enlart, C. (1928) Les monuments des croisés: le royaume de Jérusalem: architecture religieuse
et civile, Paris: P. Geuthner.
Folda, J. (1995) The Art of the Crusaders in the Holy Land, 1098–1187, Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press.
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——— (1998) “The south transept façade of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem: an aspect
of ‘rebuilding Zion’,” in J. France and W.G. Zajac (eds), The Crusades and Their Sources: Essays
Presented to Bernard Hamilton, Aldershot: Ashgate, 239–57.
——— (2012) “Melisende of Jerusalem: queen and patron of art and architecture in the Crusader
kingdom,” in T. Martin (ed.), Reassessing the Roles of Women as “Makers” of Medieval Art and
Architecture, 2 vols, Leiden: Brill, 429–77.
Hearn, M.F. (1981) Romanesque Sculpture: The Revival of Monumental Stone Sculpture in the
Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries, Oxford: Phaidon.
Kenaan, N. (1973) “Local Christian art in 12th century Jerusalem,” Israel Exploration Journal, 23:
165–75, 221–9.
Kenaan-Kedar, N. (1986) “Symbolic meaning in Crusader Architecture,” Cahiers archéologiques,
34: 109–15.
——— (1998) “Armenian architecture in twelfth century crusader Jerusalem,” in Assaph, Studies in
Art History, Section b, 3: 77–91.
——— (1992) “The ninety-six corbels of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre,” Israel Exploration
Journal, 42, 1–2:103–13, figs. 1–13.
Kühnel, B. (1994) Crusader Art of the Twelfth Century: A Geographical, an Historical, or an Art
Historical Notion? Berlin: Gebr. Mann.
Pace, V. (1982) “Italy and the Holy Land: import and 2: the case of Apulia,” in J. Folda (ed.), Crusader
Art in the Twelfth Century, Oxford: B.A.R., 245–69.
Prawer, J. (1976) “The Armenians in Jerusalem under the Crusaders,” in M.E. Stone (ed.), Armenian
and Biblical Studies, Jerusalem: St. James Press, 222–35.
Pringle, D. (2014) “Crusader Castles and Fortifications: The Armenian Connection,” in G. Dédéyan
and C. Mutafian (eds.), La Méditerranée des Arméniens, XIIe–XVe siècle, Paris: Geuthner, 353–72.
Semur, F. (1984) Abbayes, prieurés et commanderies de l’ancienne France: Poitou-Charentes,
Vendeé, Bannalec: F. Semur.
Thierry, J.-M. (1989) Armenian Art, New York: Abrams.
Tyerman, C. (2006) God’s War: A New History of the Crusades, Cambridge: Belknap Press.
Utudjian, E. (1968) Armenian Architecture, Paris: Editions A. Morancé.
William of Tyre (1986) Guillaume de Tyr, Chronique, ed. R.B.C. Huygens, Corpus Christianorum,
Continuatio Mediaevalis LXIII, Turnhout.
623
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CRUSADER ART AND THE WEST:

THOUGHTS ON ASSESSING THE IMPACT
OF ART FROM THE CRUSADER EAST ON

MEDIEVAL ART IN WESTERN EUROPE,
ESPECIALLY IN CENTRAL ITALY
Jaroslav Folda
INTRODUCTION
I n attempting to address the complex issue of the impact of crusader art on the art of
western Europe in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, it is worth noting that this is a
topic very little discussed to date.1 Furthermore there are certain important problems that
are directly relevant to such a discussion which must be taken into account as research goes
forward. Looking at the second point first, it is clear that although the idea and existence of
what is perhaps most accurately called the art of the crusaders in the Holy Land, and also
known as crusader art for short, is now widely accepted, there are still dissenting views
about it. On the one hand, whereas the art of the crusaders in the Holy Land has been argued
to be a major chapter in the history of medieval art in the Mediterranean world between 1098
and 1291, the older more doubtful view, first voiced before 1957, is still occasionally found.2
And even though a wide consensus about the existence of crusader art and crusader artists
continues to grow and develop, the fact is that our understanding of what constitutes a work
of crusader art is also changing. Indeed as we learn more about the characteristics of certain
kinds of crusader art, most recently in particular, about icons and panel paintings, icons once
considered Byzantine have been reinterpreted to be crusader. Certain characteristics pertain-
ing to the overwhelming majority of works identified as crusader icon painting continue
to be recognized, namely the fundamental Byzantinizing tradition that the crusader artist
creates in his own idiom. But the subtlety and sophistication of the ways a crusader painter
could appropriate, emulate, and also reinterpret the artistic characteristics of Byzantine orig-
inals in certain innovative ways are increasingly coming to light. One of the most notable
examples of an icon formerly held to be Byzantine, but recently argued quite persuasively to
be crusader, is the well-known mosaic icon of the Virgin and Child Hodegetria (bust-length)
now in the Monastery of St. Catherine on Mount Sinai, probably done in Constantinople
624
— c h a p t e r 3 4 : C r u s a d e r a r t a n d t h e We s t —
sometime shortly after 1204, that is, shortly after the crusader conquest of the city (Fig.
34.1).3 Given our new understanding of this icon, we must first signal that there are other
Byzantine-looking icons like this one which are currently in the process of being reconsid-
ered and reinterpreted from differing points of view. And we must keep these dynamics in
mind as we attempt to consider the impact of crusader art on the West. The fact is that in
this chapter we can only offer some preliminary discussion about this issue and raise some
important questions, while the basic identification of works of art as “crusader” goes on, and
some new examples of ways crusader art appears to have had an impact on the art of western
Europe are proposed. Our focus here will therefore be on sharpening our understanding of
what characterizes certain crusader icons, and starting to assess the impact of crusader icon
painting on the medieval art of western Europe, especially central Italy.
At the outset we can recall that the attention of modern scholars to the existence of the
art of the crusaders in the Holy Land began in the 1950s. Between 1957 and 1976 new dis-
coveries in the field of crusader painting identified over twenty manuscripts for which argu-
ments were presented locating their place of production in Jerusalem, Acre, and Antioch
during the time of the crusader states in Syria/Palestine during the twelfth and thirteenth
centuries.4 Meanwhile approximately some 120 “western influenced icons” were identified
in the collection of the Holy Monastery of St. Catherine on Mount Sinai of which somewhat
less than half were published in a series of articles by Kurt Weitzmann between 1963 and
1982.5 These icons were argued to have been done by crusader artists and/or for crusader
Figure 34.1 Crusader icon of the Virgin and Child Hodegetria Dexiokratousa, bust-length, in
Mosaic, Constantinople or Sinai, Monastery of St. Catherine, Sinai, c. 1250s. (47.3 x 33.7 cm).
Photograph: Elizabeth Bolman and Jaroslav Folda, by permission.
625
— J a ro s l a v F o l d a —
patrons mainly at St. Catherine’s or in Acre. This newly identified material created a core of
work focused on painting, whereas the crusader presence in the Holy Land had previously
been largely identified through works of architecture and architectural sculpture, starting in
the second half of the nineteenth century. These discoveries also generated interest in the art
of the crusaders not only in the Holy Land, but also elsewhere, such as the existence of art
done for crusaders in the Latin Empire of Constantinople6 and on Cyprus.7 It also stimulated
study of other media, such as metalwork, coinage, fresco painting, mosaics, and glass, as
well as renewed interest in figural and decorative sculpture and architecture commissioned
by and/or for the crusaders. The result has been a series of broad-based studies which have
attempted to assess what is known about and document the art of the crusaders in the Holy
Land, and articulate the state of the question. Notable among these studies have been a four
volume study of the churches of the crusaders and two volumes on the art of the crusaders
in the Holy Land between 1098 and 1291.8
It was during this same period, when art commissioned by or produced by the crusad-
ers was coming into focus, between the 1950s and the early 1980s, that study of the art
of Byzantium had developed to a point where art historical scholarship also generated
renewed attention on the dynamics of East–West interchange and, in particular, the impact
of Byzantine art in the West. In 1970 Otto Demus published a volume entitled Byzantine
Art and the West, which was based on the Wrightsman Lectures given by him in 1966. The
purpose of that book was, “to show the role played by the art of Byzantium in the develop-
ment of Western art.”9 But it was a limited role, “not all the Byzantine elements,” but “only
those which have something to do with art in the proper sense of the term and especially
with the creation and the evolution of the artistic language in the figurative arts.”10 Demus
was, of course, not the first scholar to plunge into to this topic; Wilhelm Köhler had given
a famous paper with a slightly different title, “Byzantine Art in the West,” at the inaugural
symposium held at Dumbarton Oaks in 1940.11 But the six lectures published by Demus
represented a considerable expansion of scholarly inquiry into this field, not only by him,
but also by others.
These lectures by Demus were stimulated by or formed part of an ongoing then current
international discourse in examining the role of Byzantine art as having had an important
impact on the art of western Europe from the Carolingian period to the high Middle Ages.
Three other important and contemporary art historical events generated particular atten-
tion to the understanding of the Byzantine artistic tradition and how it was manifested and
participated in the development of medieval art in the West. First, there was the Council of
Europe exhibition in Athens in 1964, “Byzantine Art, a European Art,” with a Symposium
in Athens, from which seven papers were published in 1966.12 Second, there was the sym-
posium at Dumbarton Oaks in 1965 dealing with “The Byzantine Contribution to Western
Art of the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries.” Selected papers of this conference were pub-
lished in the Dumbarton Oaks Papers, vol. 20, for 1966.13 Third, there was an exhibition
entitled “The Year 1200” held at the Metropolitan Museum of Art from February to May,
1970, with a symposium held in March 1970. The papers given at that 1970 symposium
were overwhelmingly focused on art in the West—only one paper dealt at length with
Byzantine art as compared to twenty-four on works of art in western Europe—but these
papers could be said to have complemented and expanded the scholarship presented at the
earlier symposia in certain ways.14
The result was that by the 1970s a framework of understanding about the dynamics
and timing of the impact of the Byzantine artistic tradition on the Latin West had been
626
formulated with regard to the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Within this framework, we
can recognize the following overall assessment: “Byzantine art exerted its strongest, deep-
est, and most diverse influences upon the Latin West in the twelfth and thirteenth centu-
ries.”15 Kurt Weitzmann then distinguishes certain levels of impact, two of which we can
restate for purposes of introduction:
1 “The first level, that of the most direct impact of Middle Byzantine art, is found in those
centers where Byzantine artists were commissioned to execute large projects in their
own style and to emulate the high artistic standards of Constantinople.”16 Venice and
Sicily provide the key examples.

2 “The second level of penetration of Byzantine art can best be studied in Italian panel
painting of the Duecento.”17 Weitzmann goes on to say, “the sudden outburst and mass
production of panel painting in the thirteenth century in the Latin West and especially
in Italy … was obviously due to a strong stimulus from the Greek East.”18 “In this out-
burst of artistic activities … Byzantine icons played a major role.”19
Otto Demus agreed with Weitzmann, and he commented on it this way: “had it not been
for … Byzantine icon painting and the transfer of this art form to the West, the chief vehi-
cle of Western pictorial development [by which he meant Italian panel painting] would not
have existed or would have come into existence a good deal later.”20
But if both Weitzmann and Demus agreed that Byzantine icons were of major impor-
tance, the two of them, and Ernst Kitzinger as well,21 had major reservations and questions
about how the Italians could have known about the Byzantine icons. Indeed, specifically
what Byzantine icons could the Italians have known? How could the Italian painters have
learned about them and from them? What other ways might the Italian artists have learned
about the Byzantine tradition?
One issue they sought to assess therefore was what original Byzantine icons on wood
panels the Italian painters could have seen in Italy during the thirteenth century, that is,
icons surviving today that were known to be there before 1300. Kurt Weitzmann set out to
do this with the result that among the best known there were three of note. First, there is the
Virgin of Spoleto from the twelfth century, an icon which had formerly belonged to Petrus
of Alipha, a crusader of the entourage of Robert Guiscard.22 Second, there is the Virgin
Hagiosoritissa in Freising from the mid-thirteenth century.23 And third, there is the Virgin
Hagiosoritissa in the Cathedral of Fermo, from the second half of the thirteenth century. To
this number may be added a fourth, quite modest Byzantine icon, an image of the Virgin
and Child Hodegetria (bust-length) from the church of the Carmine in Siena, now in the
Pinacoteca Nazionale on deposit. It clearly appears to have been done in the early thirteenth
century and was apparently brought to Siena by the Carmelites shortly after it was done.24
This fourth example is important because, unlike the first three, it is an icon type widely
venerated in the East and West,25 and it was located in a center, Siena, known to be impor-
tant for the development of Tuscan painting in the thirteenth century.
Weitzmann’s assessment is, in any case, completely valid that the original Byzantine
icons known to be in Italy in the thirteenth century are “surprisingly limited in number” and
that “such imports were obviously too few in number to be held responsible for the start
of a mass movement of creating panel paintings in the style of the maniera greca.”26 With
this in mind, Weitzmann, Demus and Kitzinger considered—directly or indirectly—the
idea that crusader icons might have also played a role in this process, given their strongly
627
Byzantinizing character, despite the fact that at that time, in 1965, even fewer crusader
icons could be documented as being located in Italy in the thirteenth century.27 Ernst
Kitzinger proposed to identify the Virgin and Child Hodegetria Dexiokratousa now in
Grottaferrata as one such example, but of course we do not know exactly when it reached
Italy.28 Otto Demus himself, writing in 1970, was thinking along similar lines when he
said: “recent research in the art of the Crusader States, Jerusalem, Acre and Cyprus, by
Professor Buchthal and Professor Weitzmann suggests that the hybrid art which grew up
in these regions from the symbiosis of Byzantine, Armenian and Western artists may have
had much more important repercussions on Western art, and especially on Italian art, than
we were led to believe until now.”29 Weitzmann’s idea was that in effect since not many
Greek icons appear to have reached Italy at this critical time, the tradition of Byzantine
style and imagery became known mostly through what he called “intermediary copies.”30
Of the intermediary copies that might be possible, one can mention portable objects such
as sketches in model books and miniature paintings in manuscripts, intermediaries also dis-
cussed by Kitzinger and Demus.31 But the most interesting intermediaries that Weitzmann
proposed had to do with crusader icons, and in his 1984 article he discusses a small number
of specific examples.32
By briefly having retraced selected outlines of the arguments offered by these three
scholars, we arrive at the point where we can now entertain more fully the important idea
that to some extent crusader icons, and crusader painters, were responsible for transmitting
what I am calling the “Byzantinizing tradition” from the Byzantine and crusader East to
western Europe, and specifically to central Italy. And let me be clear: by “Byzantinizing tra-
dition” I refer to the Byzantine-inspired artistic ideas which the crusader painters appropri-
ated and reinterpreted to produce icon painting for their patrons which, while often strongly
Byzantine in character, combined innovative versions of the artistic form, the imagery,
the techniques and the content of their icons derived from their own ancestry, training and
experience to produce what we call crusader icon painting. “Byzantinizing” refers to the
hybrid combination of Byzantine, crusader and Western characteristics, which differenti-
ated a crusader icon from a pure Byzantine icon. The Byzantinizing tradition also refers
to the style, imagery and content of these icons as distinct from what came to be called
by Vasari and others much later as the maniera graeca in Italy. Whereas from an Italian
Renaissance point of view the maniera graeca was largely seen as a negative development
in earlier Italian painting, the “Byzantinizing tradition” of crusader icons and icon painters
and its impact on Italian panel painters was a positive development in medieval art that gen-
erated important stimulus and innovative ideas for the Italian artists, especially the central
Italian panel painters whose work we study in the period from c. 1225 to 1311, and some
of whose names we know, artists such as Coppo di Marcovaldo, Guido da Siena, Cimabue,
and Duccio.33 In sum, from the point of view of this discussion, it is important to understand
that whereas the influence of Byzantine art on the art of the medieval West has been an issue
of scholarly concern for some time, the realization that crusader art could be and often was
the vehicle for the transmission of Byzantine artistic ideas via the Byzantinizing tradition
is rather a more recent development. As we continue to understand more clearly the nature
and characteristics of the art of the crusaders in the period from 1099 to 1291, it is gradually
becoming possible to identify the various ways crusader art could and did have an impact
on medieval art in the West.
In order to demonstrate the characteristics of a newly identified crusader icon and
its Byzantinizing tradition as an innovative work in crusader terms and as a possible
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“intermediary copy” in Weitzmann’s terms, consider the well-known mosaic icon from
Sinai referred to above (Fig. 34.1).34 Initially this relatively small icon (34 x 23 cm, without
the frame) was attributed to Constantinople as the work of a Byzantine artist reflecting the
monumental style of the early thirteenth century. The artist worked in the most refined tech-
nique, with minute tesserae which, in the areas of flesh on the faces, hands, and feet of the
two figures are almost undiscernible by the naked eye. The individual tesserae, while tiny,
are however visible on the Virgin’s purple maphorion with chrysography, and in the decora-
tive background of stylized rosettes, which imitate cloisonné enamel. The imagery repre-
sents the Virgin and Child Hodegetria Dexiokratousa, a variation on the original type said
to have been painted by St. Luke, on which the Child appears on the Virgin’s left arm. One
also notes the inclination of the Virgin’s head toward the child is slightly more pronounced
than usual, suggesting a closer relation of Mary to Jesus, without impairing “the aloofness
and emotional restraint” of the Virgin. Also somewhat unusual is the way the Child braces
the scroll he holds against his knee with a closed fist. These points observed by Weitzmann
served to situate this icon in the scholarly discussion until a new interpretation was recently
proposed by Bissera Pentcheva.35
With regard to special characteristics in the imagery of this icon, Pentcheva goes beyond
Weitzmann’s observations to note three additional items which she links to distinctive
imagery that “proleptically evoke Christ’s crucifixion.” First, we see the bare feet of the
Child with the sole of one exposed to the viewer. Second, there is the special Greek bless-
ing gesture of Christ, and third, the fact that he turns his blessing hand toward his Mother.
These features appear to have been inspired by earlier images, exemplified by the fresco
of the Virgin and Child at Lagoudera, c. 1192, images not necessarily depicting the Virgin
and Child Hodegetria.36 The result here, as argued by Pentcheva, is that the fragility, the
vulnerability, the psychological complexity found in the Lagoudera image has appealed to
the patron and been introduced in the mosaic icon, possibly for a crusader patron, where
these qualities are combined skilfully with the stately and emotionally restrained aspects of
this Virgin type in the Byzantine tradition. What we have is a representation of the Virgin
and Child Hodegetria with a certain suggested emotional tenderness where the two figures
exist in a pictorial space for the viewer’s prayer and devotion. It is notable that neither
figure engages the worshipper or looks at each other, but rather they engage each other in
discreet prayerful dialogue by gesture. It is also notable that they appear before an elegant
decorative background, with equal-armed red crosses, and stylized rosettes in medallions
set against a gold ground, everything—the rectangular icon, the siglae medallions, the two
haloes—framed with red, white and black crenellations, a decorative repertoire linked to
that of Byzantine cloisonné enamels and imperial Byzantine art. The argument that these
special hybrid characteristics may indicate a crusader patron and possibly a crusader artist
who has worked hard to create an icon that reflects what I am calling the Byzantinizing tra-
dition seems valid and defensible. But there are additional aspects of this icon which clearly
indicate its crusader characteristics.
Pentcheva goes on to observe that on this icon the standard siglae found on an icon of
the Virgin and Child Hodegetria have been reduced to the abbreviated red medallions with
“Mater Theou” alone, without the abbreviated initials of Jesus Christ. These siglae clearly
place great emphasis on the Virgin as the Mother of God, an emphasis found in Byzantine
icons to be sure,37 but it is an emphasis which is given powerful visual expression here
with the introduction of chrysography over the maphorion of the Virgin, a feature which
is not found in Byzantine icons. Both figures are of course given a nimbus to indicate their
629
sanctity in the venerated Byzantine image type of the Virgin and Child Hodegetria, and
also here in this variation of the Dexiokratousa. But here, with regard to the use of chrys-
ography, there is a significant departure from the normal Byzantine practice. Jesus is given
chrysography on his tunic, which is the standard Byzantine imagery, but also Mary is given
chrysography on her maphorion, which is not. By giving Mary this chrysography she is
raised to the same status as that of her Child, Jesus, both of them radiant with divine light
of holiness. Indeed chrysography is virtually never seen on the Virgin of Byzantine icons of
the Virgin and Child Hodegetria. But significantly it is frequently found on crusader icons
of this classic type, but only rarely on the Dexiokratousa variation. A crusader icon of the
classic Hodegetria portrait now in the Monastery of St. Catherine on Mount Sinai provides
us with an excellent comparative example (Fig. 34.2).38
The Sinai crusader icon of the Virgin Hodegetria mentioned above (Fig. 34.2) is, of
course, normally dated into the third quarter of the thirteenth century, usually about 1260
and therefore much later, whereas the crusader mosaic icon (Fig. 34.1) has consistently
been attributed to Constantinople in the early thirteenth century. How can we understand
this new attribution and what is its significance? I see no reason to doubt the possibility
that this icon was produced in Constantinople by a first-rate artist; indeed, the artist may
have been “crusader,” but could well have been Byzantine. But given the choices made,
which include the unByzantine use of chrysography on the Virgin’s maphorion and other
Figure 34.2 Crusader icon of the Virgin and Child Hodegetria, bust-length, Sinai or Acre (?),
Monastery of St. Catherine, Sinai, c. 1260s. (37.3 x 27.9 cm). Photograph: Elizabeth Bolman and
Jaroslav Folda, by permission.
630
variations drawn from what appear to be a number of various possible sources, in order
to satisfy a non-Byzantine patron, it seems clear the patron was certainly very likely a
crusader. Finding a crusader patron in Constantinople in the early thirteenth century, of
course, also clearly suggests the possibility that this work was ordered and carried out
shortly after the Fourth Crusade took the city in 1204. And an important aspect of the
significance of this icon for our understanding of the development of crusader art is that
it is the earliest extant example of a crusader icon of the Virgin and Child Hodegetria on
which we see the innovative use of chrysography found on the Virgin’s maphorion to
indicate her radiant holiness as the human mother of Jesus, who was represented as both
divine and human.

In light of our proposal to see this icon as the result of a commission by a crusader patron
in Constantinople, between 1204 and c. 1210, what evidence can we see that this icon,
or a crusader image like this, could have served as an “intermediary copy” in relation to
central Italian panel painting in the thirteenth century? To start with, Kurt Weitzmann pro-
vided a striking thirteenth-century Byzantine example of the Virgin and Child Hodegetria
Dexiokratousa, the sort the crusader artist of the mosaic icon could have modeled his exam-
ple on.39 It is a large Byzantine icon, 117.3 x 79.5 cm, which is painted in tempera and gold,
not done in mosaic, but its imagery is similar to the crusader mosaic icon: in particular the
elements of Jesus blessing in the Greek manner, his bare feet and the sole of his left foot
exposed, and the fact that he holds a scroll resting on his leg—all are specifically compara-
ble. The Byzantine artist of course does not use chrysography on the figure of the Virgin,
and the angels in the paired medallions on the Byzantine icon are transformed into the siglae
of the Mater Theou on the crusader mosaic icon.
By comparison in the West, there are very few examples of the Virgin and Child
Hodegetria Dexiokratousa (bust-length) found in Tuscany and Umbria in the thirteenth
century. The one prominent example that does exist as a bust-length icon is in Pisa, the
so-called “Madonna di sotto gli Organi” (93 x 55 cm), currently on view on an altar in
the left transept of the Duomo (Fig. 34.3).40 It is also probably done in the first quarter of the
thirteenth century; it is also painted in tempera, not done in mosaic, it is roughly twice as big
as the Sinai mosaic icon, and, perhaps most significantly, the Virgin has no chrysography
on her garments. There are other differences as well: no siglae at all, the Child remarkably
holds an open book rather than a scroll,41 and his costume differs; the Virgin’s pose is more
upright and she has the equal-armed star crosses on her maphorion and tunic, whereas the
Virgin of the Sinai mosaic icon has none. Nonetheless there are certain details that the two
icons do hold in common which should be noticed: the depiction of the Virgin’s right hand
under the Child is the same, but not the same as the Virgin’s hand on the Byzantine model
mentioned above (note 39). Jesus and Mary look past each other, not at each other, and
the smallish round-headed pug-nose face of Jesus is quite similar. It is also notable that
the equal-armed cross star on the cuff of the Virgin’s tunic on the Pisan painting is a detail
found often on crusader images of the Virgin, not so often on Byzantine icons of the Virgin
Hodegetria during the thirteenth century.42 And the fact is that crusader artists did numerous
examples of the Virgin and Child Hodegetria Dexiokratousa (bust-length) in the thirteenth
century.43 Despite the fact that none of them includes chrysography on the maphorion of the
Virgin, except the crusader mosaic icon, the mixture of certain specific details such as those
mentioned above, seems to suggest there were many examples of this icon type in circula-
tion in the crusader East, one or more of which the artist of the Madonna in the Pisa Duomo
may have had access to and was inspired by.
631
Figure 34.3 Italian panel painting: Virgin and Child Hodegetria Dexiokratousa, bust-length,
known as the “Madonna di sotto gli Organi,” now in the cathedral in Pisa, first quarter of the
thirteenth century. Photograph: Genevra Kornbluth.
There were of course examples of the traditional Virgin and Child Hodegetria (bust-
length) images for which crusader examples again could have served as “intermediary cop-
ies.” There is in Siena a small (28 x 21.9 cm) and quite modest (no gold ground, yellow
painted nimbi, but nonetheless Jesus is given the standard chrysography) Byzantine icon
formerly in the church of the Carmine, and now on deposit in the Pinacoteca Nazionale,
as mentioned above. It probably was done in the first half of the thirteenth century and
brought to the West sometime by the mid-century.44 It reflects the basic image type which
a crusader artist would have known in Sinai or Acre who painted his own version,45 but
for which his patron commissioned him to give the Virgin copious chrysography, unlike
whatever Byzantine model(s) he might have been using. Examples of these kinds of icons,
both from the Byzantine tradition of the former type and from the Byzantinizing tradition
of the latter Crusader type—the “intermediary models”—must have been available to the
Tuscan artists who painted, for example, the devotional icon panels now in Pisa, inv. 1575
in the Museo Nazionale di San Matteo (86 x 57 cm) (Fig. 34.4)46 and the celebrated image
of the Madonna del Voto in the Duomo in Siena (112 x 82 cm) (Fig. 34.5).47 Both were done
c. 1265–70 in Pisa and Siena respectively. Both are hauntingly beautiful images which have
appropriated the use of chrysography on the figure of the Virgin from crusader painting
of the Byzantinizing tradition like the Sinai icon mentioned above (Fig. 34.2). In the case
of the Pisan panel, inv. 1575, there are aspects of the chrysography and the imagery that
suggest the artist could have known not only a Byzantine icon (e.g. the child blessing in
the Greek manner), but also a Crusader icon (the copious chrysography on the Virgin), and
632
Figure 34.4 Italian panel painting: icon of the Virgin and Child Hodegetria, bust-length, with
angels, now in the Museo Nationale, Pisa (inv. 1575), from the church of San Giovannino dei
Cavalieri, c. 1265–70 (?) (86 x 57 cm). Photograph: Genevra Kornbluth, by courtesy of the
MiBAC/Soprintendenza Pisa.
Pisan painting like the Pushkin Madonna (the chrysography is boldly designed and given a
number of Italian decorative forms including the numerous rhomboidal connectors on the
maphorion) (Fig. 34.6). With the Madonna del Voto in Siena (Fig. 34.5), this artist obvi-
ously may have seen the Byzantine icon in the church of the Carmine, mentioned above, and
the more restrained interpretation of the Virgin Hodegetria type is reflected in this artist’s
work. The presence of the chrysography on the figure of the Virgin also reflects influence
from a crusader work of the Byzantinizing tradition, although the Madonna del Voto art-
ist may also have seen Pisan work like the Pushkin Madonna. What is evident, however,
is that the Madonna del Voto master has refined the chrysography in terms of elegant and
decorative linear designs, including the copious miniaturized rhomboidal connectors found
now all over the Virgin, and indeed now the Virgin even has chrysography on her red coif,
something found often on Tuscan panel painting and also seen infrequently on crusader
images of the Virgin Hodegetria.48
It is striking however, that whereas there were relatively few examples of this specific
type of Virgin Hodegetria (bust-length), or the Virgin Hodegetria Dexiokratousa (bust-
length) icon that have survived in the West, there is another version of this greatly revered
type, the Virgin and Child Hodegetria enthroned full-length and flanked by angels, which
was widely produced by central Italian painters in the later thirteenth century. And for this
type we not only have many well-known Italian altarpieces extant, but also there are a num-
ber of crusader examples which we may evaluate as “intermediary copies.”
633
Figure 34.5 Italian panel painting: Virgin and Child Hodegetria (Madonna del Voto) by the Madonna
del Voto Master, c. 1265–70(?) (112 x 82 cm). Photograph: Foto LENSINI Siena, by permission.
Figure 34.6 Italian panel painting: Virgin and Child Hodegetria enthroned, with angels, the
Pushkin Madonna, from Pisa, now in the Pushkin Museum, Moscow, c. 1260. Photograph: Linda
Docherty, by permission.
634
The first of these examples is another example of an icon which was originally thought to
be Byzantine, which on the basis of further consideration can clearly be seen to be crusader.
I am referring to the medium-sized icon (34.5 x 26 cm) in the collection of the Monastery of
St. Catherine on Mount Sinai which Weitzmann attributed to “Constantinople, 1200–1250”
(Fig. 34.7), and where he drew attention to the fact that “the gold striation is an even more
conspicuous feature [than what is seen on the Sinai mosaic icon discussed above], which
has an abstracting as well as luminous effect. This technique was particularly popular in
the thirteenth century, when relations with the West and especially Italy were very close.”49
This icon later appeared in the great exhibition Byzantium: Faith and Power (1261 – 1557)
in 2004 where Elka Bakalova concluded her discussion in the catalogue by saying, “this
small icon of great artistic merit was probably painted in the ateliers of the Monastery of
Saint Catherine by a master painter working for the Crusaders.”50
Several additional specific features of this icon fully support this attribution to a possible
crusader artist. In the first place the two figures of the Virgin and Child Hodegetria appear
enthroned on a lyre-backed throne, about which Anthony Cutler commented that it is found
Figure 34.7 Crusader icon of the Virgin and Child Hodegetria enthroned on a lyre-backed throne,
with angels, Sinai or Acre (?), Monastery of St. Catherine, Sinai, c. mid-thirteenth century (35 x 26 cm).
Photograph: Elizabeth Bolman and Jaroslav Folda, by permission.
635
on crusader icons with the Virgin Hodegetria, but the Virgin Hodegetria is “never associ-
ated with the lyre-backed throne in medieval Greek art.”51 A second point is that the clarity
of organization and composition found on most middle Byzantine icons is here somewhat
blurred. For example, the gesture of the enthroned Virgin toward Christ “misses” him, in
effect, by pointing above his head, because here the Child is so tiny and seated down below
in her lap. Also the red inscriptions which provide the nomina sacrae are curiously all lined
up along the top of the panel, mixing the holy name of the Mater Theou with those of the
two archangels, Michael and Gabriel. The abbreviated letters of Mater Theou are only dif-
ferentiated at all by being very slightly enlarged in size. And conspicuously, the inscription
identifying Jesus Christ is again omitted, as it was on the earlier crusader mosaic icon. The
most remarkable feature, however, is certainly the copious chrysography, which covers not
only the Virgin and Child and the archangels, but also the lower part of the throne, its cush-
ion and its footstool. It is particularly notable on the figure of the Virgin, however, because
it covers her maphorion and her tunic, as well as the coif she wears under the veil of her
maphorion, a most unusual detail. These particular characteristics provide what I take to be
clear evidence that this icon was very likely done by a crusader artist for a crusader patron,
who may have been a pilgrim to the Holy Monastery of St. Catherine. With this possibility
in mind, it is important to recall that the monastery had originally been dedicated to Mary,
the Theotokos, “God-Bearer,” and continued to be known this way even after the relics of
St. Catherine were brought to the monastery in the middle Byzantine period.52
Given the wide variations of the dating of this icon found in the literature, and the dif-
ficulty of being very precise without further documentation, an attribution to mid-century
seems to be reasonable. And associated with this innovative example of a crusader artist
producing an icon of the Virgin and Child Hodegetria enthroned full-length and flanked by
angels we can recognize three additional more or less contemporary examples of crusader
work. The first is found on the central panel of what is known as the “Acre Triptych” (68.5
x 49.7 cm) probably dating from the late 1250s in Acre;53 the second is known as the Kahn
Madonna, a large icon (123 x 72 cm) probably produced in Constantinople c. 1260 now in
the National Gallery in Washington, DC,54 and the third is known as the Mellon Madonna,
a somewhat smaller icon (84 x 53 cm) also probably produced in Constantinople possibly
in the same workshop as the Kahn Madonna at about the same time, also in the National
Gallery in Washington.55 These four icons all also share the characteristic of Virgin figures
seated frontally on monumental thrones, albeit thrones of various interesting types. These
four icons done in the crusader East can all be considered as “intermediary copies” and con-
sidered as exemplifying crusader paintings that central Italian artists appear to have used as
models for important new commissions done from 1261 to 1311.56
Although these four icons I am proposing to be crusader examples from the years
around 1260 can be thought of as “intermediary copies,” they take on special importance
because there are so few contemporary Byzantine examples the crusaders—or the Italian
painters—could have seen. The fact is that the Byzantine examples from which they might
have been inspired are varied and widely spread out. Basically those Byzantine examples
which show full-length images of the Virgin and Child enthroned—for example, either
cult images such as the apse mosaic of Hagia Sophia in Constantinople, dated 867, or
devotional images such as the thirteenth-century illustration in a Greek Psalter, MS Gr.
61 in the library of the Monastery of St. Catherine, dating c. 127457—have the Virgin
seated frontally with the Child also on her central axis, and in any case they are mostly
not images of the Hodegetria type. Although there were icons of the full-length seated
636
Virgin Hodegetria in the pre-Iconoclastic period, in the post-Iconoclastic period the Virgin
and Child Hodegetria enthroned “was never generally accepted in Byzantium,” at least
not up until about 1300.58 This seems to indicate therefore that the crusader appropria-
tion of the Byzantine icon of the Virgin and Child Hodegetria in the thirteenth century
to produce these examples of the Virgin and Child Hodegetria enthroned full-length with
angels involved a creative and innovative merger. The Virgin and Child enthroned had,
of course, been a major feature of Western imagery in the twelfth and early thirteenth
century, in Romanesque and Gothic sculpture especially, particularly in France. But it was
the crusaders who explored this imagery in painting in works found in the Latin Kingdom
of Jerusalem, such as the icon on the Bethlehem nave column dated 1130, on the head-
piece in the Psalter of queen Melisende from Jerusalem, done c. 1135, and from the head-
piece in the Riccardiana Psalter, probably done in Acre c. 1225.59 And it was apparently
the crusader painters who produced the newly minted result of the traditional Hodegetria
type integrated with the imagery of the Virgin enthroned in the mid-thirteenth century, of
which the four examples cited above are extant, namely the Sinai icon, the Acre Triptych
central panel, the Kahn Madonna, and the Mellon Madonna. The possible reasons for this
creative work have not been examined as yet, but no doubt the transition from the smaller
Byzantine icon of the bust-length Virgin and Child Hodegetria, which functioned as a
devotional image, to the different needs of larger crusader panels, some of which must
have been used as altarpieces for the Latin liturgy (e.g., the Kahn Madonna and the Mellon
Madonna) is an important consideration.
These crusader panels with the Virgin and Child Hodegetria enthroned full-length with
angels therefore provide our most important evidence for sources that the central Italian
painters could have known about in the period around the years 1260 ff. for their new
altarpieces commissioned in Tuscany. The two earliest of these Tuscan panels appear to be
the Pushkin Madonna, done by a Pisan artist c. 1260, presumably in Pisa (Fig. 34.6), and
the Madonna del Bordone, painted by Coppo di Marcovaldo in Siena, commissioned by the
Servite Order for the church of Santa Maria dei Servi in 1261 (Fig. 34.8). These two works
seem to be effectively contemporary, but it is particularly important to note that the work
by Coppo is firmly dated 1261, and is therefore the earliest of these Tuscan panels given
this kind of documentation. If we ask the question whether either of these two early Tuscan
paintings appear to reflect the impact of crusader icons as exemplified by the four examples
cited above, the answer is that both of them do, but the specifics differ greatly in each case.
Bearing in mind the fact that the four crusader works all appear to be icons of various sizes
and different functions, and the Tuscan works both appear to be altarpieces, and thereby
placed in a distinctive Western liturgical context,60 we can consider just how these two
Tuscan panels seem to reflect the possible influence of crusader models as “intermediary
copies” in the Byzantinizing tradition.
With the Pushkin Madonna (173 x 84 cm)61 (Fig. 34.6) there are four aspects that seem
to be important reflections of the artist’s inspiration from a crusader model or models, quite
apart from the characteristic Pisan Byzantinizing style of the artist and some features of
the imagery, such as the bust-length flanking angels above. First the composition features
a Virgin seated in essentially a frontal position as characteristic of the four Crusader Virgin
Hodegetria icons mentioned above. Second, there is also the variation in her specific pose,
with her head slightly inclined toward her upright son, who is depicted as a diminutive ruler
blessing and holding a scroll upright on his leg. These aspects appear to draw on imagery
also found in the mosaic icon of the Virgin and Child Hodegetria Dexiokratousa from
637
Figure 34.8 Italian panel painting: altarpiece for the Church of the Servites in Siena: Madonna
del Bordone, by Coppo di Marcovaldo, 1261 (220 x 125 cm). Photograph: Genevra Kornbluth, by
permission of the Arcidiocesi di Siena.
Constantinople discussed above (Fig. 34.1), an iconographical type also noted as exceed-
ingly popular among crusader artists. Third, the Virgin’s throne is clearly given a lyre-back
as seen in a slightly more simplified version on the smaller Sinai icon from the mid-century
also discussed above. And fourth, the Pisan master has bathed the Virgin of the Virgin and
Child Hodegetria Dexiokratousa in chrysography as found uniquely on crusader icons from
the East. The presence of the chrysography can, I submit, be understood as having been
drawn from a crusader source, without being able to identify any one specific model, but the
formal characteristics of this chrysography also shows features already distinctively Italian;
for example, the remarkable number of rhomboidal connectors on the maphorion which
neither Byzantine nor Crusader chrysography employs.
With the much larger Madonna del Bordone (220 x 125 cm) done in 1261 (Fig. 34.8),62
the situation is somewhat different with regard to the impact of crusader icon painting.
Coppo’s commission from the Servite Order was apparently to create an image of the Virgin
as Queen of Heaven for a major liturgical altarpiece in their church. Coppo’s relationship to
the Byzantinizing tradition of crusader art or the slightly earlier works in Pisa as discussed
above, while clearly indebted to the crusader tradition with the use of the lyre-backed throne
and the boldly designed chrysography, is quite distinctive and has its own innovative char-
acteristics. Furthermore, Coppo’s Madonna was significantly altered in the early Trecento,
638
presumably shortly after 1311, with the repainting of the face and hands in a Ducciesque
style and the addition of the Duccio-type inner veil (replacing the original coif).
Among the new features introduced by Coppo in 1261 at the behest of his patrons, the
Servite Order in Siena, we notice the enormous size of this panel, responding to the new
function which this cult image was to serve. At 220 x 115 cm this altarpiece was over four
times bigger than the Sinai Crusader icon of the Virgin and Child Hodegetria enthroned
from c. 1260 (Fig. 34.7).
For the image of the Virgin and Child, Coppo appears to have combined the idea of a
crusader image of the Virgin and Child Hodegetria enthroned on a flat-topped lyre-back
throne, as seen in the Sinai panel, together with the distinctively Byzantine imagery of the
bare-legged and bare-footed child seated upright on his mother’s arm, wearing a blue har-
ness over his tunic, blessing (in the Latin manner) and holding a red scroll, as seen on several
thirteenth-century Byzantine icons linked to Cyprus in origin.63 Despite the impact of these
crusader and Byzantine sources, however, Coppo chose to depict the Virgin in a costume
that while it maintains the dignity and stature of the Byzantinizing tradition, it nonetheless
departs significantly from the standard garments that he would have known from any cru-
sader or Byzantine icon. Instead of the Virgin wearing the normal tunic Coppo introduces
here, for the first time in Tuscan painting, a Western-style maroon tunic/dress with a tightly
fitted bodice and torso with horizontal folds across her ribs, secured with a silver belt tied
in a bow at the center with tassels hanging down (Fig. 34.8). She has long fitted sleeves, a
full tunic-skirt below, and above, a high round and jeweled neckline no longer visible under
the white veil added in the early fourteenth century. Instead of a maphorion, this Virgin
wears a long regal blue cloak tied with white silk strands, also known from Gothic sources.
On her head this Virgin wears a splendid yellow silk veil perhaps represented as “cloth of
gold.” Furthermore it is lined in red silk, decorated with çintamani and given a hem of rich
red maroon with tiny pearls. On this scarf we also see medallions decorated with frontal
eagles featuring displayed wings, a remarkable, indeed unique, iconography first applied to
the person of the Virgin here, by Coppo. Under this scarf, originally Coppo included a coif
over her hair as seen in the Byzantinizing tradition, a coif now covered with a white inner
veil added later.
As argued by Lila Yawn-Bonghi, Rebecca Corrie, and Gianna Mina, this costume is
inspired by Gothic examples of the Virgin as Queen of Heaven found in contemporary
Gothic manuscript illustration and even early Gothic church sculpture.64 Mary here wears
a tailored bliaut or tunic/dress, red shoes, a regal cloak and a headscarf like the Queen of
Heaven, but without the crown so widely seen in Gothic France. This scarf represented in
yellow-gold silk is of course a Western Gothic idea, but the form the scarf takes on her head,
that is, the shapes of its folds formed in deep dark blues creates a remarkable maphorion-
like covering. In this way Coppo synthesizes East and West in this unique image, which sets
an important standard for Sienese images of the Virgin in the later Dugento, from Coppo to
his more famous colleagues slightly later, Guido da Siena and Duccio.
Coppo crystallizes his vision of the Virgin Hodegetria as Queen of Heaven by giving
her a radiance of the most remarkable chrysography. Far from emulating the configurations
of the Pushkin Madonna (Fig. 34.6), which seems not to have been very influential here,
or the crusader icons he might have been inspired by, such as the small Sinai panel with
its copious linear coverage, splashes and spikey rays (Fig. 34.7), he again takes the ideas
of his sources and reinvents them to produce a Virgin of impressive monumentality and
distinctive radiant character. As she holds her beloved Child, who is intensely radiant with
639
his red and blue garments covered with gold, and his blue harness belt, her chrysography
c omplements his by representing her as Queen and mother, who is both regally divine and
human. And the theme of their joint humanity is unified not only by the tender touch she
gives his foot, but also by his vulnerability expressed by his bare legs and feet, his chubby
baby-like body, the design of his striped belt harness with a flourished “proleptic knot,”
which leads our thoughts to the loin cloth he would eventually wear at his crucifixion, and
the abundant folds of the cloth he sits on, which foreshadows his shroud in the tomb.
In sum, we find realized on the Madonna del Bordone (Fig. 34.8) the remarkable
achievement of Coppo di Marcovaldo who carried out the special commission he
received from the Servite Order, perhaps from the first Sienese director general himself,
Fra Jacopo da Siena, in 1261. Coppo was able to draw on the resources of several tradi-
tions, Eastern and Western—that means, crusader, Byzantine and Gothic, as well as his
own Tuscan tradition—to produce a magnificent altarpiece that was truly original in the
way that he synthesized and harmonized these diverse traditions. But for our purposes
here I particularly want to make the special point that, among other things, Coppo was
brilliantly innovative in the way that he conceived, designed and executed the chrys-
ography on the figure of the Virgin. In doing this he was apparently the first artist in
Siena to produce a major altarpiece in the Dugento with a full program of radiance and
reflection in which the Virgin was depicted as the human Mother of God, Theotokos, as
the Hodegetria enthroned with Christ, and as the glorious Queen of Heaven. Valentino
Pace has argued that the imagery of Mary as the Queen of Heaven wearing a crown
was well known in Italy, especially in Rome, and south Italy, from very early on in
the Middle Ages. But it is also true that as he says, “in the territories of the Orthodox
Church, this message of royalty was never accepted,”65 at least not in the same terms.
But Coppo di Marcovaldo here in Siena in 1261 brilliantly succeeded in creating a new
image of the Regina Coeli, without a crown, but rather transformed and developed out
of the Byzantine and crusader imagery of the Theotokos and rooted fundamentally in the
traditional iconography of the Hodegetria.
These two Tuscan altarpieces stand at the beginning of a remarkable development of
liturgical images of the Virgin and Child Hodegetria enthroned full-length with angels,
or some few bust-length, seen especially in Siena and elsewhere in Tuscany and Umbria
between 1261 and 1311, all of which to some extent reflect the Byzantinizing tradition
from the crusader East. In each case careful analysis can reveal the extent to which the
painting from the crusaders in the Holy Land contributed to these works, but in every case
the Byzantine icon type of the Virgin and Child Hodegetria and the crusader innovation of
using chrysography as part of the essential imagery of the Virgin as Queen of Heaven is
found. We cannot explore these further examples here, because of limitations for the size of
contributions in this volume, but we can conclude with some important conclusions about
the impact of the art of the crusaders in the Holy Land on the art of western Europe.
First, we have seen that with regard to icons and panel paintings, work identified as cru-
sader in the thirteenth century is closely associated with Byzantine examples. It is important
therefore to reexamine carefully the Byzantine icons we have in order to clearly identify and
understand their Byzantine characteristics as distinct from those works by crusader artists
who were inspired by and emulated Byzantine originals.
Second, the work done by crusader artists is characterized by the synthesis of their
appropriation from the Byzantine tradition, the contribution made from their own training,
experience and development as artists in the West and/or as residents in the crusader East,
640
and their creative originality and innovation in formulating works for their patrons in what
we are calling the Byzantinizing tradition.
Third, even though we cannot as yet document crusader work and/or crusader artists in
central Italy independently by the existence of crusader icons in situ or specific evidence
about individuals found in written historical sources from the period, we can see the impact
of the Byzantinizing tradition on Tuscan panel painters in the years around 1260 as dis-
cussed above.
Finally, it is clear that systematic analysis of the contributions made by crusader painters
and artists working in other media, as well as architects, is yet to be carried out with regard
to medieval art and architecture in the European West in the twelfth and the thirteenth cen-
tury. This is a large task for future scholarship. But my hope is that the discussion in this
chapter will provide a sample of how scholars could proceed and offer some useful consid-
erations methodologically along with examples of the kind of results we can expect to find.
NOTES
1 See, for example, Kurt Weitzmann, “Crusader Icons and Maniera Greca,” in Byzanz und der Westen,
ed. Irmgard Hutter (Vienna: Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1984), 143–170;
Jaroslav Folda, “Crusader Art and its Impact on the West,” Epilogue for Crusader Art: The Art
of the Crusaders in the Holy Land, 1099–1291 (Aldershot and Burlington: Lund Humphries,
2008), 164–169; Rebecca Corrie, “Sinai, Acre, Tripoli, and the Backwash from the Levant,” in
Approaching the Holy Mountain: Art and Liturgy at St Catherine’s Monastery in the Sinai, eds.
Sharon Gerstel and Robert Nelson (Turnhout: Brepols, 2010), 415–448.
2 Steven Runciman, A History of the Crusades, vol. III (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1954), 367–386; see more recently, David Winfield, “Crusader Art: Sir Steven was right,” in
Byzantine Style, Religion and Civilization, Essays in honour of Sir Steven Runciman, ed. Elizabeth
Jeffreys (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 159–173.
3 Bissera Pentcheva, “8. Mosaic Icon of the Virgin Hodegetria,” in Holy Image, Hallowed Ground:
Icons from Sinai, eds. Robert Nelson and Kristen Collins (Los Angeles: The J. Paul Getty Museum,
2006), 140–143.
4 Hugo Buchthal, Miniature Painting in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem (Oxford: Clarendon Press,
1957); Jaroslav Folda, “A Crusader Manuscript from Antioch,” Atti della Pontificia Accademia
Romana di Archeologia: Rendiconti, XLII (1969–70), 283–298; Jaroslav Folda, Crusader Manuscript
Illumination at Saint-Jean d’Acre, 1275–1291 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1976).
5 Kurt Weitzmann, “Thirteenth Century Crusader Icons on Mount Sinai,” Art Bulletin, 45 (1963),
179–203; idem, “Icon Painting in the Crusader Kingdom,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 20 (1966),
51–83; idem, “An Encaustic Icon with the Prophet Elijah at Mount Sinai,” Mélanges offerts à
Kazimierz Michalowski (Warsaw, 1966), 713–723; idem,“Four Icons on Mount Sinai: New
Aspects in Crusader Art,” Jahrbuch der Österreichischen Byzantinistik, 21 (1972), 279–293;
idem, “Three Painted Crosses at Sinai,” Kunsthistorische Forschungen: Otto Pächt zu seinem 70.
Geburtstag (Salzburg: Residenz Verlag, 1972), 23–35.
6 Cecil L. Striker, “Fresco Cycle of the Life of St. Francis of Assisi,” in Kalenderhane in Istanbul,
the Buildings, Their History, Architecture and Decoration, Final Reports: 1966–78, eds.
C.L. Striker and D.G. Kuban (Mainz: Verlag Philipp von Zabern, 1997), 128–142.
7 T.S.R. Boase, “Ecclesiastical Art, The Arts in Cyprus,” in The Art and Architecture of the Crusader
States, ed. Harry W. Hazard, vol. IV of A History of the Crusades, ed. Kenneth Setton (Madison
and London: University of Wisconsin Press, 1977), 165–195, 343–348; Jaroslav Folda, “Crusader
Art in the Kingdom of Cyprus, 1275–1291: Reflections on the State of the Question,” 209–237,
and Annemarie Weyl Carr, “Art in the Court of the Lusignan Kings,” 239–274, in Cyprus and the
Crusades, eds. N. Coureas and Jonathan Riley-Smith (Nicosia: Cyprus Research Center, 1995).
641
8 Denys Pringle, The Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem: A Corpus, 4 volumes
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993, 1998, 2007, 2009); Jaroslav Folda, The Art of
the Crusaders in the Holy Land, 1098–1187 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995),
and idem, Crusader Art in the Holy Land, from the Third Crusade to the Fall of Acre, 1187–1291
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005).
9 Otto Demus, Byzantine Art and the West (New York: New York University Press, 1970), vii.
10 Ibid., 2.
11 This lecture was published a year later: Wilhelm Köhler, “Byzantine Art in the West,” Dumbarton
Oaks Papers, I (1941), 61ff.
12 Byzantine Art, An European Art, 9th Exhibition held under the auspices of the Council of Europe
(Athens: Department of Antiquities and Archaeological Restoration, 1964); and Byzantine Art,
An European Art, Lectures (Athens: Department of Antiquities and Archaeological Restoration,
1966), with papers by Steven Runciman, D. Talbot Rice, Hugo Buchthal, Anastasios Orlandou,
H.F. Volbach, Ernst Kitzinger, and Kurt Weitzmann.
13 Papers by Hugo Buchthal, Ernst Kitzinger, James Stubblebine, and Kurt Weitzmann were included.
The paper by Otto Demus given at the symposium was not published here, presumably because his
views were spelled out in some detail in his 1966 Wrightsman Lectures, mentioned above.
14 The Year 1200: A Centennial Exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, vol. 1, catalogue, ed.
and written by Konrad Hoffman (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1970); The Year 1200:
A Background Survey, vol. 2, ed. Florens Deuchler (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art,
1970), with an essay by Margaret Frazer, “Byzantine Art and the West,” 185–230; The Year 1200:
A Symposium, ed. Jeffrey Hoffeld (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1975), with an essay
by Kurt Weitzmann, “Byzantium and the West around the Year 1200,” 53–93.
15 Kurt Weitzmann, “Various Aspects of Byzantine Influence on the Latin Countries from the Sixth
to the Twelfth Century, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 20 (1966), 3.
16 Ibid., 20.
17 Ibid.
18 Kurt Weitzmann, “Crusader Icons and Maniera Greca,” in Byzanz und der Westen, ed. Irmgard
Hutter (Vienna: Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1984), 143.
19 Kurt Weitzmann, “Various Aspects of Byzantine Influence,” 20.
20 Demus, Byzantine Art and the West, 205.
21 Ernst Kitzinger, “The Byzantine Contribution to Western Art of the Twelfth and Thirteenth
Centuries,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 20 (1966), 34–37.
22 Weitzmann, “Crusader Icons and Maniera Greca,” 144 and n. 7.
23 Ibid. 145 and n. 8. This type, as Weitzmann points out, is quite unusual and was rarely copied. For
an explanation of the type, see: Nancy Sevcenko, “Virgin Hagiosoritissa”, Oxford Dictionary of
Byzantium, vol. III (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 2171.
24 Hans Belting, Likeness and Presence: A History of the Image before the Era of Art, trans. E.
Jephcott (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1994), 364, color pl. VI.
25 Ibid., 75–76.
26 Weitzmann,“Crusader Icons and Maniera Greca,” 3.
27 The issue of how the Italian artists may have known about crusader icons is a separate issue that
we are dealing with in a separate study. The fact is, however, that this remains as a significant
problem to be explained.
28 Kitzinger, “The Byzantine Contribution to Western Art,” 35, and Weitzmann agreed with this
identification, see idem, “Various Aspects of Byzantine Influence,” 75, and fig. 52.
29 Demus, Byzantine Art and the West, 30.
30 Kurt Weitzmann, “Various Aspects of Byzantine Influence,” 20.
31 Weitzmann, “Icon Painting in the Crusader Kingdom,” 74 ff., where he takes up the issue of
“transmission.” See also, Kitzinger, “The Byzantine Contribution to Western Art,” 34 ff; Demus,
Byzantine Art and the West, 29 ff.
642
32 Weitzmann, “Crusader Icons and Maniera Greca,” 143–170.

33 I examine this Byzantinizing tradition more fully in a book entitled Byzantine Art and Italian
Panel Painting: The Virgin and Child Hodegetria and the Art of Chrysography (New York:
34 Cf. above, n. 3.
35 Kurt Weitzmann, The Icon: Holy Images—Sixth to Fourteenth Century (New York: Braziller,
1978), 36, 102, pl. 32, and idem, “Crusader Icons and Maniera Greca,” 147–148; and Bissera
Pentcheva, “8. Mosaic Icon of the Virgin Hodegetria,” in Holy Image, Hallowed Ground: Icons
from Sinai, ed. Robert Nelson and Kristen Collins (Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum, 2006),
140–143.
36 Illustrated in the Pentcheva entry cited above, ibid., 141.
37 See, for example, the twelfth-century Icon of the Virgin Brephokratousa with Old and New
Testament figures now at Sinai: Titos Papamastorakis, “Icon of the Virgin Brephokratousa … ,” in
Mother of God, ed. Maria Vassilakis (Athens: Benaki Museum, 2000), 315, and a detailed discus-
sion by Father Justin Sinaites, “Sinai, MS GR. 2: Exploring the Significance of a Sinai Manuscript,”
in Approaching the Holy Mountain, 278–281.
38 Folda, Crusader Art in the Holy Land, 455, fig. 289, 534–535, no. 22.
39 Weitzmann, “Icon Painting in the Crusader Kingdom,” 81, fig. 66.
40 Lorenzo Carletti, “16. Icona,” in Cimabue a Pisa: La pittura pisana del Duecento da Giunta a
Giotto, eds. Mariagiulia Burresi e Antonino Caleca (Pisa: Pacini editore, 2005), 130–131. Scholars
have debated whether this icon in Pisa was done by a Tuscan painter or a Byzantine painter. See,
Valentino Pace, “Between East and West,” in Mother of God, ed. Maria Vassilaki (Athens: Benaki
Museum, 2000), 424–427. One might wonder if it was possible the artist had visited the Crusader
East in any case?
41 There is another Crusader icon in which the rare imagery of the Child holding an open book
appears, so it is a motif available from Crusader sources. See, Folda, Crusader Art in the Holy
Land, 140, fig. 76 (679).
42 See, for example, the Virgin on the Crusader diptych with St. Procopios and the Virgin and Child
Kykkotissa from the late thirteenth century (Folda, Crusader Art in the Holy Land, 445, fig. 272,
549ff., no. 110) and the Virgin on the Crusader Virgin and Child Hodegetria Dexiokratousa from
the early thirteenth century (Folda, Crusader Art in the Holy Land, 140, fig. 76, 540, no. 57). In
the case of the latter example, we see the only other example known to me where the Child holds
an open book in his hand, instead of the customary scroll.
43 I count six extant examples in my annotated handlist. See, Folda, Crusader Art in the Holy Land:
140, fig. 76 (679), 328, fig. 181 (55), 445, fig. 272 (1783), 535, fig. 360 (180), 542, fig. 375 (588),
558, fig. 414 (131).
44 Hans Belting, Image and Likeness, trans. Edmund Jephcott (Chicago and London: University of
Chicago Press, 1994), 341, 591 n. 32, colorplate VI.
45 Weitzmann, “Icon Painting in the Crusader Kingdom,” 81, pl. 67, and Folda, Crusader Art in the
Holy Land, 454–455, 534–535, colorplate 11.
46 Pisan panel inv. 1575: Lorenzo Carletti, “54.Icona: Madonna col Bambino e due angeli,” in
Cimabue a Pisa, 197; and E.B. Garrison, Italian Romanesque Panel Painting: An Illustrated
Index (Florence: Leo S. Olschki, 1949), no. 339, 128.
47 Madonna del Voto: Silvia Georgi, Duccio: Alle Origini della Pittura Senese, 54–55. I am as yet
unable to accept the attribution to Dietisalvi di Speme however, and prefer for the time being to
retain the name of this painter as the anonymous “Master of the Madonna del Voto”. See also,
Helmut Hager, Die Anfänge des italienischen Altarbildes (Munich: Anton Schroll & Co., 1962),
134–137, 152–153, figs. 187–189; and E.B. Garrison, Italian Romanesque Panel Painting: An
Illustrated Index (Florence: Leo S. Olschki, 1949), no. 650, 233.
48 See below, for example, the medium-sized Sinai icon of the Virgin and Child Hodegetria enthroned
full-length, flanked by angels, here interpreted to be a work of crusader art.
643
49 Kurt Weitzmann, “The Icons of Constantinople,” in The Icon, eds. Kurt Weitzmann, Manolis
Chatzidakis, et al. (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1982), 20, 66.
50 Elka Bakalova, “208.Icon with the Enthroned Virgin and Child,” in Byzantium: Faith and Power
(1261–1557), ed. Helen C. Evans (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2004), 348.
51 Anthony Cutler, “The Lyre-Backed Throne,” in Transfigurations (University Park and London:
Penn State Press, 1975), 34.
52 The dedications of the monastery that is known today as the Monastery of God-trodden Mount
Sinai, and popularly called the Monastery of St. Catherine, is discussed by many. Here I can cite
Father Justin Sinaites, “Sinai, MS GR. 2: Exploring the Significance of a Sinai Manuscript,”
in Approaching the Holy Mountain, 278, “described by Procopios in the sixth century as the
Monastery of the Holy Virgin.” In the thirteenth century we note that the German pilgrim,
Thietmar, on pilgrimage in 1216–17, made the clear distinction between the “beautiful church in
honour of Our Lady the Blessed Virgin,” and the tomb of St. Catherine “in the same church next
to the choir.” See, “Thietmar Pilgrimage (1216–1217),” in Pilgrimage to Jerusalem and the Holy
Land, 1187–1291, trans. Denys Pringle (Farnham and Burlington: Ashgate, 2012), 124–125.
53 The Acre Triptych: Folda, Crusader Art in the Holy Land, 310–318, figs. 155–163; Jaroslav Folda,
“216. Triptych with the Virgin and Child Enthroned, Scenes from the Life of the Virgin, and Saints
Nicholas and John the Baptist,” in Byzantium: Faith and Power (1261–1557), 357.
54 The Kahn Madonna: Rebecca Corrie, “The Kahn and Mellon Madonnas and their place in the
history of the Virgin and Child Enthroned in Italy and the East,” in Images of the Mother of God:
Perceptions of the Theotokos in Byzantium, ed. Maria Vassilaki (Aldershot and Burlington:
Ashgate, 2005), 293–303; Jaroslav Folda, “Icon to Altarpiece in the Frankish East: Images
of the Virgin and Child Enthroned,” in Italian Panel Painting of the Duecento and Trecento,
ed. Victor M. Schmidt, Studies in the History of Art, vol. 61 (Washington, DC: National Gallery
of Art, 2002), 127–132; Jaroslav Folda, “The Kahn and Mellon Madonnas: Icon or Altarpiece,”
in Byzantine East, Latin West: Art-Historical Studies in Honor of Kurt Weitzmann, eds. C. Moss
and K. Kiefer (Princeton: Department of Art and Archaeology, Princeton University, 1995),
501–510
55 The Mellon Madonna: Rebecca Corrie, “The Kahn and Mellon Madonnas and their place in the
history of the Virgin and Child Enthroned in Italy and the East,” in Images of the Mother of
God: Perceptions of the Theotokos in Byzantium, ed. Maria Vassilaki (Aldershot and Burlington:
Ashgate, 2005), 293–303; Folda, “Icon to Altarpiece in the Frankish East,” 127–132; Joseph
Polzer, “The ‘Byzantine’ Kahn and Mellon Madonnas … ” Arte Cristiana, XC (2002), 410.
Most recently he has declined to attribute both works to the same artist: idem, “Concerning
Chrysography … ,” Arte Medievale, IV serie, anno II (2012), 180; Jaroslav Folda, “The Kahn
and Mellon Madonnas: Icon or Altarpiece,” in Byzantine East, Latin West: Art-Historical Studies
in Honor of Kurt Weitzmann, eds. C. Moss and K. Kiefer (Princeton: Department of Art and
Archaeology, Princeton University, 1995), 501–510.
56 These four works by crusader painters all possibly done in the years around 1260 in the crusader
states or in Constantinople, and all four with distinctive chrysography, are discussed at length
in chapters 3 and 4 of my book, Byzantine Art and Italian Panel Painting. Due to appear from
Cambridge University Press in 2015. Due to limitations of space it is not possible to consider them
further here.
57 Jennifer Ball, “202.Greek Psalter,” in Byzantium: Faith and Power (1261–1557), 343–344, and
Nancy Sevcenko, “The Mother of God in Illuminated Manuscripts,” in Mother of God, ed. Maria
Vassilakis (Athens: Benaki Museum, 2000), 161.
58 Victor Lasareff, “Studies in the Iconography of the Virgin,” Art Bulletin, 20 (1938), 54. Lazarev
discusses this imagery at length noting that although it is “in no sense characteristic of the art of
Constantinople,” it does appear on seals and on ivory carvings and relief sculpture in other media.
He goes on to say that “in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, the seated Hodegetria appears
less frequently in the art of Byzantium than in the previous epoch.”
644
59 For all three of these images, see, Folda, “Icon to Altarpiece in the Frankish East,” 123–127.
60 Victor M. Schmidt, “Die Funktionen der Tafelbilder mit der thronenden Madonna in der Malerei
des Duecento,” Papers of the Netherlands Institute in Rome, 55 (1996), 44–72.
61 Victor Lasareff, “New Light on the Problem of the Pisan School,” Burlington Magazine, no. 395,
LXVIII (1936), 61–62, and see now the bibliographic outline of the citations and attributions by
Victoria Markova, in the catalogue entry (in Russian) of the State Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts:
Italy: VIII-XVI Centuries, Collection of Paintings (Moscow: Galart, 2002), 53, with further dis-
cussion on 51ff.
62 Gianna Mina has published an excellent article on the Madonna del Bordone based on her unpub-
lished 1992 PhD dissertation: eadem, “Coppo di Marcovaldo’s Madonna del Bordone: political
statement or profession of faith?,” in Art, Politics, and Civic Religion in Central Italy: 1261–1352,
eds. Joanna Cannon and Beth Williamson (Aldershot and Brookfield: Ashgate, 2000), 237–293;
Rebecca Corrie, “The Political Meaning of Coppo di Marcovaldo’s Madonna and Child in Siena,
GESTA, XXIX (1990), 61–75, and eadem, “Coppo di Marcovaldo’s Madonna del bordone and the
Meaning of the Bare-Legged Christ Child in Siena and the East,” GESTA, XXXV (1996), 43–65.
See also, Miklos Boskovits, “The Art of Coppo di Marcovaldo,” in The Origins of Florentine
Painting: 1100—1270 (Florence: Giunti Gruppo Editoriale, 1993), 116–130, and his entry on the
Madonna del Bordone, 510–523, with exhaustive bibliography. Most recently see Joseph Polzer,
“Concerning Chrysography in Dugento Tuscan Painting and the Origin of the Two Washington
Madonnas,” Arte Medievale, IV serie, anno II (2012), 172ff., and Joanna Cannon, Religious
Poverty, Visual Riches (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2013), 76–79. See also
the excellent study by Lila Yawn-Bonghi, “A Case of Careful Tailoring: Costume and Meaning
in Coppo di Marcovaldo’s Madonna del Bordone” (1990), MA thesis for the Department of Art,
University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.
63 Corrie, “Coppo di Marcovaldo’s Madonna del Bordone,” 50–51, and the publications of Doula
Mouriki which first focused attention on this special imagery. See, Doula Mouriki, “Thirteenth-
Century Icon Painting in Cyprus,” The Griffon, n.s. 1–2 (1985–86), figs. 2, 6, 26, 27, and eadem,
“A Thirteenth-Century Icon with a Variant on the Hodegetria in the Byzantine Museum in Athens,”
Dumbarton Oaks Papers, XLI (1987), 403–414, and fig. 1 (117.5 x 75 cm).
64 Lila Yawn-Bonghi, “A Case of Careful Tailoring: Costume and Meaning in Coppo di Marcovaldo’s
Madonna del Bordone” (1990), MA thesis for the Department of Art, University of North Carolina
at Chapel Hill, 37–39, figs. 21–23; See also, Corrie, “Coppo di Marcovaldo’s Madonna del
Bordone,” 70, n. 10, who interprets this costume as “a celestial version of the costume of a contem-
porary European queen,” and Mina, “Coppo di Marcovaldo’s Madonna del Bordone,” 238–239.
65 Valentino Pace, “Between East and West,” in Mother of God, 425–532.
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CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
NARRATOLOGICAL READINGS OF
CRUSADE TEXTS
Marcus Bull
NARRATIVE UNDERSTANDING AS A
TECHNICAL DISCIPLINE
M edieval history is, methodologically speaking, a house of many mansions. In large

measure because of the relative scarcity of primary evidence from the Middle Ages,
many of the types of sources that do survive are the subject of dedicated fields of study.
Examples include numismatics, sigillography, epigraphy, palaeography, codicology and
diplomatic. The need for in-depth technical training, a specialist vocabulary and the ability
to read significance into what to a non-specialist might seem very slight differentiations
within the source corpus, all these characterize such fields. A challenge that faces specialists
in these areas is to maintain, and deepen, the technical rigour of their respective disciplines
while navigating between two sets of scholarly demands and expectations. Are such areas
of study to be understood as ‘auxiliary sciences’, their primary function being to offer up
data for other scholars, perhaps themselves less technically accomplished in the fields con-
cerned, to work into syntheses that draw on multiple source types? Or are they self-standing
academic projects? In recent decades, the field of archaeology has perhaps done most to
confront this choice, resisting the once prevalent expectation that it was in the business of
feeding raw material into discussions of historical change and of material culture that were
predominantly framed in non-archaeological terms. Instead, archaeology is able to deliver
its own answers to its own questions, within discursive and methodological parameters that
certainly have affinities to other disciplines, such as anthropology, but have been developed
to be specific to it and are markers of a distinctive disciplinary identity. On a smaller scale,
prosopography has confronted a similar challenge: is it a facilitator of the study of social,
cultural and political history, or does it isolate a facet of human experience that is suffi-
ciently discrete, significant, and well served by the sources to merit its own self-standing
academic domain?
The aim of these opening remarks is to point up a contrast with another field of study,
narratology, that has never been part of the canon of historical auxiliary sciences, at least eo
nomine. By extension it has never needed to situate its identity in relation to historical study
in the round. There have in recent decades been some notable and productive conjunctions:
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— c h a p t e r 3 5 : N a r r a t o l o g i c a l re a d i n g s o f c r u s a d e t e x t s —
the study of ancient Greek and Roman history-writing has been particularly enriched by
narratologically informed readings (see Dewald 2005; Feldherr 2009; de Jong 2014). But
narratology’s disciplinary reach largely continues to reflect its origins in literary scholar-
ship, where indeed it has faced challenges of means-end definition closely analogous to
those we have just noted within the historical context. Is narratology a thing one ‘does’ in
itself, as one might ‘do’ New Historicism, queer theory, or postcolonialism? Or is it a set of
tools that facilitates something else? (See Fludernik 2005; Herman 2005.)
Narratology’s absence from most medieval historians’ methodogical toolkits or concep-
tual apparatus is noteworthy, given the important place of texts characterizable as narrative,
as well as of types of evidence that contain narrative elements, within the global corpus of
extant primary sources. Any in-depth study of the Middle Ages must engage with narrative
material in a number of genres. This is so much an obvious fact of life that it can stifle fur-
ther reflection on its implications. A defensive position on the part of a practising medieval
historian, wary perhaps of cluttering up the subject with ‘ologies’ and technical jargon,
might be that the close study of narrative sources has developed and grown successfully
over the past several centuries of historical inquiry. It can draw upon a suite of technical
(sub-)disciplines such as codicology, etymology and the study of rhetoric. It may not always
engage expressly with the concept of intertextuality, but it appreciates the value of identi-
fying a work’s regime of borrowing, adaptation, allusion and quotation for understanding
the textual culture of which the work is part. Moreover, this historian might argue, histori-
cal training inter alia involves a progressive honing of reading skills that need not come
freighted with jargon or informed by hard theory but are nonetheless effective in pragmatic
terms, flexible and adaptive. Such a training serves to refine an intuitive facility in a kind of
polymorphous inductive reasoning suitable for a wide variety of texts. The proof of this, our
putative historian might further argue, is the sheer volume and range of excellent scholarly
work either directly about narrative sources or based on them.
This line of argument is very compelling. Its grounding in experience and what seems
like professional common sense ultimately derives from the ubiquity of narrative in all
cultures. Young children maturate and learn to function as social beings in large part by
developing skills in understanding narratives and making narratives of their own. Narrative
is central to language acquisition and is deeply implicated in the development of memory.
Indeed, for many scholars narrative is not merely a necessary complement of selfhood but
also a major part of its constituent matter (e.g. Bruner 1986; Maynes et al. 2008; Randall
1995). Witness Oliver Sacks’s moving accounts of patients who, either because of pathol-
ogy or trauma, suffered damage to the brain that severely impaired their ability to remember
and tell stories; troubling reflections emerge from these cases about the vulnerability of
personal identity and self-possession when an individual’s narrative facility is lost (Sacks
1986). And what seems to be true of individuals has been scaled up to collective experience.
Societies remember with narratives; and narratives of many sorts, from myths of origin to
cultural scripts big and small, not only frame social experience but also in some measure
constitute it (Connerton 1989; Cubitt 2007; Fentress and Wickham 1992).
In such circumstances, narrative might appear to be too diffuse and multiform to be
reducible to a technical field. Even within the limited range of textual genres left to us by
medieval culture, it could be argued, narrative is self-evidently a much larger and looser
category than those types of objects, such as coins, seals and charters, that benefit from
the specialized approaches we noted above. The aim of this chapter is not to disprove this
line of argument, which appears wholly reasonable, but to turn it around: the ubiquity of
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— M a rc u s B u l l —
narrative in life ‘out there’ and its prominent place in our primary source repertoires are not
reasons to avoid technical or theoretical engagements. On the contrary, they are challenges
to see how much a field such as narratology can add to an already rich and deep reserve of
scholarly insight and experience. In specific terms, this chapter will explore these issues by
drawing upon three well-known crusade narratives chosen as a representative sample: the
anonymous Gesta Francorum from the First Crusade, the De expugnatione Lyxbonensi,
which recounts the conquest of Lisbon in 1147 and is now ascribed to an Anglo-Norman
cleric named Raol, and Robert of Clari’s narrative of the Fourth Crusade, La conquête de
Constantinople.
WHAT IS A NARRATIVE AND WHAT

IS NARRATOLOGY?
But before we consider these texts, some general remarks are necessary. First of all, what
is narrative? There are as many definitions as there are theorists who have pronounced
upon it. But a workable formulation that captures the essentials would be the representa-
tion of human action by means of signs. At the risk of straying into tautology, narratives
may also be defined as any communicative act that displays the quality of narrativity. In
its simplest terms, that is to say with regard to the briefest possible narrative utterances,
there is some debate among theorists as to what is necessary and sufficient for narrativity
to be present. Does one action suffice, for example, or must there be at least two? If the
latter, how close must the causal, temporal or other connection between the actions be?
Does narrative require some form of awareness, however low-level and left to inference,
on the part of human or human-like agents, or does an account of a herd of animals stam-
peding or a meteor hitting a forest possess narrativity? Such seemingly abstruse questions
about the minimum requirements of narrativity actually have a practical bearing upon the
medieval source base to a greater degree than might be supposed, because a number of
source types are on or near the margins of narrativity: many administrative, financial and
legal records, for example, offer up brief flashes of narrated human action, sometimes in
nothing more than a clause or participle. At a somewhat higher level of narrative com-
plexity one encounters many sources in which a short but recognizable, and more or less
coherent, narrative is present, even though the primary function of the source, its reason
for being, is not to tell a story as such. Dominique Barthélemy borrowed the term narra-
tivité to capture a recurrent feature of the eleventh- and twelfth-century charters from his
chosen area of central-western France, namely the documents’ narrative adumbration of
background circumstances, such as the twists and turns of a property dispute, or changes
in a pious donor’s familial circumstances and religious aspirations (Barthélemy 1993).
Similarly Joel Rosenthal has emphasized the narrative dimension within late medieval
English legal records (Rosenthal 2003).
Most narratological study, however, concerns itself with higher-order texts, complexes
of multiple units of minumum narrativity that may themselves be designated as a narra-
tive in the singular. Within the medieval source corpus, such texts would include saints’
lives, miracula, translationes and other hagiographical genres, as well as historiographi-
cal writings of all types. (The limit case here would be sets of annals comprising series of
individually laconic utterances that appear, at least on first reading, thematically uncon-
nected to one another but in fact possess underlying narrativity: cf. Foot 2005). And just
as texts characterizable as narrative in their generic make-up may contain passages of
648
non-narrative such as description and argument, so also complex, sometimes even lengthy,
sequences of narrative are to be found nested in texts such as doctrinal treatises, sermons
and letters that are not themselves principally narrative in their content, form and horizon
of reader expectations.
The study of the crusades is well served by narrative source survivals. As is well known,
the First Crusade was the stimulus for a rich florescence of narrative histories dedicated in
whole or in substantial part to the events of 1095/6–99 (and sometimes beyond). Although
good news for the historian of the First Crusade, the sheer richness of this body of mate-
rial has had the effect of making the narrative corpora relating to all later crusades seem
impoverished by comparison, even in those instances such as the Third Crusade and the
Albigensian Crusade where significant clusters of narrative sources survive. It is important
to stress how very unusual the First Crusade was as an historiographical phenomenon, for
reasons that have only recently begun to be explored systematically, and which have some-
thing to do with, but certainly do not boil down to, the novelty value of the First Crusade
as idea and experience. The First Crusade also lent itself to multiple retellings because it
fulfilled its principal objectives whereas other crusades, those to the East at any rate, never
attained the same level of satisfying narrative closure. On one level, then, the First Crusade
narrative corpus sets up expectations that subsequent bodies of crusade texts are bound
to disappoint, but subsequent crusade historiography is for all that a rich and variegated
resource: witness, for example, the manner in which Robert of Clari’s and Geoffrey of
Villehardouin’s narratives of the Fourth Crusade were at the forefront of the innovative
extension of Old French prose to the writing of contemporary history. Put another way,
the whole crusade corpus, not just that concerning the First Crusade, participated fully in
central and late medieval historiographical culture, and consequently the insights into it that
narratology may afford are potentially of similarly wide application.
But what, specifically, is narratology? (See Abbott 2010; Keen 2003; Rimmon-Kenan
2002.) The word’s etymology would suggest that it is the study of narrative and narration
in the round, but in practice its operational boundaries have been more tightly drawn. Nor
is it simply a synonym for ‘narrative theory’. Narratology is essentially a subset, or a sur-
vival, of Structuralism, and as such amounts to a collection of approaches to the study of
narratives in which the main categories of analysis reflect their structuralist inspiration in
their dyadic (or sometimes triadic) configurations. Narrative appears in all types of com-
municative media (hence the inclusion in the above definition of the phrase ‘by means of
signs’), but in practice most narratologists most of the time have worked on written texts.
(But see e.g. Lewis 1999 for the application of narratological approaches to visual mate-
rial.) Although theorists offer up an all-embracing vision of narratology’s applicability to
any and all species of narrative, in practice the discipline has concentrated on literary texts,
more specifically novels written between the eighteenth and twentieth centuries as well
as modernist and postmodernist texts that subvert the story-telling norms of the ‘classic’
novel in ways that neatly comport with narratological categories of analysis. Narratology’s
literary grounding is one reason for many historians’ wariness of it – as one very distin-
guished historian of medieval Europe exclaimed in a seminar a few years ago, there was
a grave danger of simply ‘treating sources just like novels’. More specifically, it raises
questions about the fit between historical and literary catagories of textual analysis. And
it thereby shades into debates about what, if anything, differentiates fictional from non-
fictional discourse. By extension, narratology gestures in the direction of postmodernist
critiques of historical writing’s claims to truth and extratextual referentiality; that is to say,
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attacks on mainstream history’s central premises most associated, of course, with the work
of Hayden White (see esp. White 1978, 1989, 1999). Limitations of space mean that it is
not possible to go into a detailed discussion of these wider debates. But one particular set
of remarks is in order.
Narratology’s roots in Structuralism mean that it can be isolated in large measure from
the implications of the later intellectual movements that to a large extent reacted against
structuralist paradigms. In other words, to apply narratological approaches to a given his-
torical text is not tantamount to smuggling in radical claims about the fictive basis of all
historiographical utterance and the historian’s thoroughgoing imposition of narrative order
upon the chaos of the world. This is not to say that narratology is ‘safe’ or ‘easy’, nor is it
necessarily ideologically neutral, but it does not carry the anti-historical (and, frankly, anti-
historian) baggage that characterizes a good deal of poststructuralist theory. In the last two
decades or so narratology has significantly expanded its range of critical and theoretical
engagements, informing, for example, feminist, postcolonial and queer-theory readings of
texts. This ability to go with the intellectual flow is doubtless a positive sign. But it is also
noteworthy how much textbook-type treatments of narratology, from the perspective of
this non-specialist at least (and this is anecdotally supported by several students’ remarks),
lose much of their expositional clarity and systemic sharpness when they shift from what
is sometimes termed ‘classical’ narratology to various of its recent theoretical applications
(see e.g. Bal 2009). The practising historian confronted with a narrative text, and seeking
some analytical purchase on it, is almost certainly not intending to become a fully fledged
narratologist. Nor, for that matter, is she or he aiming to enshrine the text in question in nar-
ratology’s canon (though this might prove a salutary indirect consequence down the line).
She or he is simply looking for tools; and classical narratology is the best place to find the
initial toolkit. In due course, the toolkit may, if research directions so suggest, be expanded
to embrace post-classical narratology’s broader suite of concerns, the thematic overlaps
with cultural historical inquiry suggesting many possible synergies.
Narratology’s own narrative of origins tends to begin with the linguistics of Ferdinard de
Saussure (1857–1913), and then works up through various schools and movements, such as
the Russian Formalists of the 1920s and 1930s and the Prague School of the 1930s, build-
ing towards its defining intellectual moment: French Structuralism of the 1960s and 1970s
as represented by such scholars as Roland Barthes, Algirdas Greimas, Claude Bremond,
Gérard Genette and Julia Kristeva. It was another of these theorists, Tzvetan Todorov, who
coined the term narratologie in his 1969 study of Boccaccio’s Decameron. Their insights
were extended and systematized between the 1970s and 1990s, in particular by theorists in
the United States and Israel, and it is largely from this body of work that classical narratol-
ogy has emerged within anglophone scholarship. (Other academic traditions, notably that in
the German-speaking world, have followed somewhat different trajectories.)
NARRATOLOGICAL SUBJECTS: TIME

What are classical narratology’s signature concerns? One is to ask what is fundamental,
and what simply incidental, to the workings of narrative. Action is central to all defini-
tions of narrative, so it is unsurprising that this has attracted a great deal of attention, in
particular insofar as action, even interior mental process, necessarily involves movement
through time. There is a pointed contrast to be made here with the typical narrative treat-
ment of space. Some narratives devote a good deal of attention to filling out the details
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of the settings in and through which their characters move, what is sometimes termed the
‘diegesis’ (a helpful but not altogether unambiguous term) or ‘storyworld’. But most nar-
ratives most of the time prove on close inspection to function with very little or even no
diegetic detail. It is true that reader inference goes to work even on – or especially on –
diegetically bald texts. To say that a crusader rode into battle, for instance, is to trigger the
reader’s mental conjuring up of a horse even if it is not explicitly mentioned. Most of the
implications that a narrative suggests are only trivially true, though much of the historian’s
task when engaged in close reading is constantly to be scanning for that subset of all pos-
sible inferences that might prove meaningful: ‘If X is the case, what does this imply that
the source is not mentioning?’ That said, the amplitude of the storyworld, that expressly
supplied and that left to inference, is very much at the mercy of the individual text, a point
well illustrated by crusade narratives.
For example, the account of the First Crusade in the Gesta Francorum (and the text
known as the Peregrinatio Antiochie which may have been its progenitor) focuses much
of its attention on the deeds not of the Franks collectively but on one of the crusade’s lead-
ers, Bohemond of Taranto. Indeed, the work may have originated in a material assembled
for a planned Gesta Boamundi, before the author’s expanding conception of the crusade
led him to enlarge his substantive and ideological frames of reference. Given Bohemond’s
importance within the plot of the Gesta Francorum, it is noteworthy how little we are told
about Bohemond himself, his appearance and physical presence. The nearest we come is the
fleeting mention of a no less fleeting wry smile that plays across Bohemond’s lips after he
is thwarted when the other crusade leaders spot his (rather telegraphed) attempt to deceive
them (Gesta Francorum 1962: 45). The Gesta Francorum is not unusual among crusade
narratives in its parsimonious realization of its storyworld. Other texts may include pas-
sages of dense description, but these tend to announce themselves as interludes precisely
because they are exceptional. This general tendency has important implications, inciden-
tally, for historians’ habitual inclination to privilege so-called eyewitness sources, of which,
of course, crusade historiography supplies many examples. But the diegeses that these eye-
witnesses construct are usually skeletal. And even when the eyewitness author’s own per-
ceptions are at play, this is often expressed obliquely. Robert of Clari, for example, does not
tell the reader that Venice and Constantinople are marvellous cities to behold on the basis
of his having seen them for himself; he says what it was like for the fourth crusaders (of
whom he was one) when they saw these places (Robert of Clari 1936: 39, 67; 2005: 10, 50).
If the world of visual (and other sensory) perception is only fitfully realized in narratives
such as crusade histories, the situation is altogether different with respect to the handling
of time. Time is embedded in all action itself as well as in the durative or punctual verbs
that express action; and the manner in which a narrative handles time is perhaps the single
most important guide to understanding that it offers the reader. Especially since Genette’s
groundbreaking work on Proust’s manipulation of time in A la recherche du temps perdu,
time has been a central focus of narratological study (see Genette 1980; also Chatman 1978:
62–84). Genette showed how ‘text time’ – a metaphor for the amount of space on the page
occupied by a given sequence – constantly dances around the notionally measurable pas-
sage of clock- or calendar-time that can be extrapolated from, or projected onto, the events
in the storyworld. Narratives can slow down time, speed it up, skip over it, describe once a
type of event that happened several times, or return several times to an event that happened
once. Genette’s predeliction for technical neologisms with Greek roots has left us with
perhaps his two most useful concepts: prolepsis, which is when a narrative flashes forward
651
to anticipate the future before returning to the moment in the main narrative arc that it had
reached, the ‘now’ of its storyworld; and analepsis, or flashback, often directed towards the
filling in of explanatory background. The latter device in particular, in the hands of a skilful
author, can send out powerful signals about the regime of causation, human motivation, and
interconnectedness between events that is brought to the fashioning of the text’s storyworld.
For example, Robert of Clari’s history of the Fourth Crusade includes substantial and well-
signposted analepses, reaching back more than twenty years and embracing the Latin East
as well as Byzantium, in order to explain the dysfunctional state of Byzantine imperial
dynastic succession in the period after the death of Manuel Komnenos, and the vengeful
animus felt by Boniface of Monterrat towards the Greeks (Robert of Clari 1936: 46–57,
59–66; 2005: 20–36, 40–8).
TIME, COORDINATION AND REFERENCE

Robert’s thoughtful handling of time helps to give the lie to the still persistent stereotype of
crusade narratives, in particular those written by participants, as unsophisticated accumula-
tions of loosely coordinated statements with little underlying sense of interconnection and
pattern. The textual feature most often adduced in support of this stereotype is parataxis, the
use of generally snappy main clauses featuring one or few subjects performing one or few
actions and linked by coordination rather than subordination. What parataxis ostensibly
loses is the scope for nuance, amplification and qualification that subordination offers. And
even within the system of coordination itself, extreme parataxis favours the more punctual
and neutral forms (‘and’, ‘then’, ‘next’) over those that imply, however dimly, the presence
of some connection or rationale (‘for’, ‘so’, ‘therefore’). Paratactical text would seem to
communicate a one-dimensional view of time in which one thing happens, then another,
then another, and in which the human scale of the action remains more or less constant:
such passages tend not to jump back and forth between small and large events, nor between
instantive occurrences and circumstantial background. As will be readily apparent, paratac-
tical delivery carries powerful associations with infantile speech patterns, and by extension
it can easily be read as evidence of unsophisticated literary craft. The presence of paratacti-
cal sequences in the Gesta Francorum, for example, has contributed to the persistent belief
that it is the work of a ‘simple’ crusader (whatever that means), probably a knight. Such
a characterization is demonstrably incorrect: the stylistic craft on show in the text and its
rich interlay of biblical quotation and allusion point to a quite well-educated author, almost
certainly a cleric. Moreover, the passages of sustained parataxis that have been taken to
be the text’s signature style in fact occupy only a fairly small proportion of the work as a
whole. In other words, parataxis represents a choice, an expression of literary creativity
(however modest), rather than the best rendering of action in time that an unsophisticated
author could manage.
Robert of Clari is another supposedly ‘simple’ author – he was a knight, after all – who
draws on parataxis. Again, however, authorial artifice is evident. For example, in narrating,
within an extended analepsis, the swift rise to power of the emperor Alexios III Angelos
(1195–1203), Robert states:
Afterwards it happened one day that the emperor [Isaac II Angelos] went hunting in the
forest, and what does Alexius his brother do but go into the forest where the emperor was
and take him by treason and put out his eyes. Then when he was done with this, he had
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him put in prison in such a way that no one knew anything about it. And when he had
done this, he came back to Constantinople and made them believe that the emperor his
brother was dead, and he had himself crowned emperor by force.
(Robert of Clari 1936: 57; 2005: 36)
Within the bald sequence of events that can be reassembled from this passage, time is lay-
ered in interesting ways. Beyond the framing event of the imperial hunt (the work of one
day, or several days spent away from Constantinople?), time in the longer term stretches
back to the putative origin of Alexios’s ambitions for power at his brother’s expense (which
the text has not mentioned up to this point). It could be argued that the passage permits a
reading of Alexios’s action as the result of a spur-of-the-moment, opportunistic impulse,
but this is not very plausible: Alexios’s pre-formed purpose is implied by our being told
of his going into the forest; and although this is the first point at which the reader is made
aware of Alexios’s apparently ‘true’ character, his behaviour is consistent with the negative
view of the instability of Byzantine political culture and public life that subtends the narra-
tive as a whole. Further questions are posed by the rendering of Alexios’s actions back in
Constantinople. What sort of act or acts of persuasion and deception are subsumed within
‘made them believe’ (fist acroire), and over how long a period? One speech or a sustained
campaign of misinformation? How long was the interval between Alexios’s return and his
coronation? How far ahead has Robert jumped by means of the construction ‘and he had
himself crowned’ (se fist couronner)?
These are questions that, in principle and to some extent in fact thanks to the availability
of other sources, could be answered with reference to modern historians’ reconstructions
of what happened in ‘real’ time in and around Constantinople in 1195. But it is important
to remember that the storyworld that Robert’s narrative calls forth is not that of modern
historical reconstruction, even if there happen to be numerous homologies between the
two, and even though Robert’s stated aim was to write the truth (see Robert of Clari 1936:
128; 2005: 132–4). Robert was not doing a bad job of being a modern-day historian: his
manipulations of time point to his crafting of a storyworld that faces inwards into the work-
ings of the text at least as much as, and probably more than, it attempts a correlation with
the chronological ordering of historical actuality as we would understand it. The jump in
time expressed by ‘and he had himself crowned’ is part of the meaning-making operations
of the text (whatever meanings we choose to read off it), rather than a case of Robert, so to
speak, looking at a calendar for 1195 and deciding to skip the space between two points on
it as a matter of convenience.
The important distinction at stake in this example is often missed in modern historians’
readings of medieval historical narratives, which tend to cut straight through the storyworlds
of the texts to the extratextual reference, to the extent at least that this can be retrieved
from the available evidence. Questions of a text’s historical ‘reliability’ and ‘value’ are
then posed and answered with reference to an external master-narrative. Illustrative in this
regard are the notes to the editions and translations of historical narratives that do such
helpful work as supplying dates (note that Robert does not specify when Alexios’s coup
took place), offering potted biographies, transposing the location of events onto modern
geography, and generally filling out the contextual background. It is salutary to remember
that, useful as such notes can be, their cumulative effect is to stage a confrontation between
the text in question and the modern historian’s master-narrative that envelops it, an unequal
contest that will always turn out in favour of the latter. Of the various approaches that fall
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under the umbrella of narratology, it is perhaps our ability to dissect a text’s handling of
time, deploying categories of analysis supplied by Genette and other scholars, that is most
useful in this regard. For this creates a constant Verfremdungseffekt reminding us that a
medieval historical narrative should be understood with respect to its own world-making
operations, not just the empirical world of the contextualizing footnote.
THE COMMUNICATIVE MODEL: IMPLIED

AUTHORS AND NARRATORS
This Janus-like quality of medieval historiography, looking both inwards into its own tex-
tual operations and outwards to the actuality of the past (or at least a decent approximation
to it), also bears upon another of narratology’s major concerns, namely how to understand a
text as a communicative act. How does a written text effect some illocutionary connection
between the author who writes it and the reader who reads it? The reader will probably not
have personal knowledge of the author. She or he may have some paratextual information to
bring to a reading of the text, such as generic markers in the title (if there is one) or famili-
arity with other works by the same author. But by and large the text itself must shoulder
the communicative burden, which is where the narratological focus on a work’s poetics, its
meaning-making operations, comes into play. Narratology’s approach has been to model
the communicative process as a series of moves, or textual levels, interposed between the
author and the reader and linked by directional markers representing the communication
flow. Different models have been proposed, but the neatest and best known is that devel-
oped by Seymour Chatman, in which everything between the real author and the real reader
is to be found within the pages of the text (Chatman 1978: 147–51):
real author > implied author > narrator > narratee > implied reader > real reader
Classical narratology has by and large devoted most attention to the entities on the left-
hand side of this diagram, although the recent growth of narratological interest in cognitive
poetics and forms of reception theory has shifted the centre of gravity somewhat further to
the right. Valuable, however, as are the levels on the right-hand side of the diagram in the
context of medieval historiography – for example, when thinking about a work’s intended
readership or the extent to which its manuscript transmission provides evidence for its cul-
tural impact – it is probably the left-hand side that has the potential to contribute more to an
understanding of medieval narrative sources.
Before we turn to the narrator, the single most important level, it is useful to consider the
implied author. There is lively scholarly debate over whether the implied author is some-
thing (or someone) planted within a text by the real author as a kind of persona or ‘front’.
Is it simply a secondary effect or incidental by-product of a narrative’s communicative
functions? Or is it a mental projection generated by the real reader’s cognitive processing of
what she or he is reading (in which case inferred author would be the more accurate term)?
(See Kindt and Müller 2006.) Viewed pragmatically as the solution to a kind of biographical
mystery, the implied author represents an anthropomorphized synthesis of all the various
answers that a text can be made to deliver to the question ‘What does this say about the
person who wrote it?’ Some of the answers to this question will relate to the author’s exter-
nal circumstances, such as where and when she or he lived, or to matters of cultural back-
ground, such as linguistic competence and knowledge of other texts. According, however,
654
to Wayne Booth, who first devised the concept of the implied author in his 1961 work The
Rhetoric of Fiction and whose formulation perhaps remains the most elegant and convinc-
ing, the implied author also has an ethical function as the perceived source of the values and
sensibilities that inform the text. Some theorists, such as Genette, would dispense with the
implied author altogether, arguing that it contributes nothing to an understanding of a text’s
communicative dynamic; but most scholars accept that, however difficult to pin down in
practice, it is a valuable addition to the communication model.
From the perspective of the practising medieval historian, the concept of the implied
author is especially useful as a warning-shot across the methodological bows, a reminder
to avoid the kind of conceptual short-cut that is nicely illustrated by two recurrent turns of
phrase. The first of these typically appears in ‘The Author’ sections of the introductions to
the editions or translations of historical texts, and is some variant on the form ‘Everything
that/most of what we know about the author has to be derived from the text itself.’ With
respect to the more or less objective biographical information that can be derived in this
way, the what and where of the author’s life, this is a perfectly sound move, though even
here we know so little about almost every medieval author that it is deceptively easy to
slip into ‘must have’ (stereo-)typing in an attempt to flesh things out. Booth’s notion of
the implied author as ethical source provides a valuable added dimension. For although
modern-day scholars are generally less confident than were their nineteenth- and early
twentieth-century predecessors about calling forth the character and personal qualities of an
author from the depths of the text, one regularly encounters the sort of conflation of work
and author in the second symptomatic formulation, which goes along the lines of ‘Orderic
Vitalis is our best source for late eleventh- and early twelfth-century Normandy.’ The fact
that this form of shorthand is so common, and feels so natural, illustrates the biographism
that still dominates much discussion of medieval historiography. The implied author is not
a stand-in or double for the real author, in such a way that to characterize the one is always
to get an accurate fix on the other. The implied author is a distillation or refinement of the
personal experience and ethical positioning of the real author. Biographist readings can lose
sight of this important distinction.
Modern-day scholarship has been very good at digging into medieval historical
texts themselves, in the process often arriving via more intuitive and less theoretically
freighted routes at the same sorts of insights that narratology and other branches of liter-
ary study afford. But when one moves from the text itself to the nexus between text and
the author, approaches tend to remain more old-fashioned. This explains, for example,
the persistence of the thesis that the author of the Gesta Francorum was a knight, a
position based on an invalid syllogism rooted in the old-fashioned assumptions of the
nineteenth-century historians Heinrich von Sybel and Heinrich Hagenmeyer, who came
up with it: simple texts are the work of simple authors (highly debatable); the Gesta
Francorum is a simple text (demonstrably incorrect); therefore the author of the Gesta
Francorum was a simple crusader, whose biographical circumstances as inferred from
the text demonstrate that he was a knight (almost certainly incorrect). The concept of the
implied author is a good protection against slipping into this sort of deterministic biog-
raphism. Texts do not write themselves, of course, and real authors are, and were, real
people moving in real historical time. But placing some distance between the implied
and real author is a good protection against the tendency to short-circuit debates about a
text’s significance by over-emphasizing the real author as against the other levels in the
communicative process.
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If the implied author is a debated concept, the figure of the narrator is even more so
(see Currie 2010). Simply put, the figure of the narrator responds to the feeling on the
part of an attentive reader that she or he is being told the story by a human or human-like
interlocutor. It is noteworthy how much the metaphorical language used to describe this
effect and the manner of readers’ awareness of it presupposes a close analogy between the
reading of a written narrative and oral communication: the reader ‘hears’ the ‘voice’ that
is ‘speaking’ or ‘telling’ the story. These metaphors also illustrate how easy it is, using
face-to-face conversation as the guide model, to project anthropomorphic qualities, even a
full persona, onto what is a textual effect. It must be emphasized that the narrator is not a
homunculus (or female equivalent) mysteriously at large within the pages of a book. Some
more rigorous-minded theorists attempt to get round the trap of easy anthropomorphism
by means of circumlocutions such as ‘narrating instance’ and the use of the pronoun ‘it’
rather than ‘she’ or ‘he’, though the results of such scrupulousness are seldom elegant or
indeed clearer than the traditional terminology. The persistence of the term ‘narrator’ in
scholarly discourse is reinforced, moreover, by the fact that almost all narratives almost
all of the time – including every medieval historiographical text above the level of the
most skeletal of annals – work to construct a sense of a consciousness controlling the con-
tent and form of the narrative. But, it might be asked, is this consciousness not simply that
of the (real) author? Why is the figure of the narrator necessary? Indeed, a sceptic might
be forgiven for wondering whether the narrator functions as a kind of free pass or alibi,
permitting scholars to argue in anthropomorphic terms when confronted with the traces
of human creativity and craft that narratives present on every page, while deferring to
critical strictures about the death of the author. But that certainly would be too jaundiced
a view, for narratologists make a strong case for the independent value of the concept of
the narrator.
Narrators come in a multitude of guises and equipped with a wide range of competences.
Is the narrator able to jump instantaneously across time and space, or does it appear to be
constrained by the same physical limitations that act on a real-world individual? Does the
narrator bring a God-like omniscience to its knowledge of its storyworld, or are there blind
spots and grey areas? Pari passu, is the narrator able to drill into characters’ brains to extract
what they are thinking and feeling, even the ‘mind stuff’ which is beyond their own con-
scious awareness? Or is the construction of characters’ rational and emotive states limited
by the same constraints that govern real-world social interactions? Is the narrator ‘reliable’
(another anthropomorphism), or has it either got its facts wrong or misunderstood the cor-
rect facts at its disposal? Is the narrator internally consistent, or does it flick between easy
omniscience and disavowals of knowledge? Most importantly of all, perhaps, where does
the narrator stand in relation to the storyworld that its own narrative is fashioning? Here,
once again, Genette’s Greek-based neologisms have become useful scholarly jargon. Thus,
for example, a homodiegetic narrator functions as a character within the storyworld, while
a heterodiegetic narrator speaks from outside it. A reading of crusade narratives reveals all
these sorts of distinctions at play.
In our three sample texts, as in crusade histories in general, the narratorial situated-
ness is broadly characterizable as heterodiegetic; the crusaders are spoken of in the third
person plural by a narrator to whom knowledge is mostly, as it were, spontaneously and
fully available, and who does not routinely disclose the sources of that knowledge, though
exceptions to this are made in mentions of specific interlocutors or documents, or in refer-
ences to disembodied rumour and common report. But there is also movement in and out
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of homodiegetic narration, typically signposted by a switching to the first person plural. To

give just one small example, the De expugnatione remarks that ‘we saw’ (vidimus) an unu-
sual fish, a species of ray, on an Iberian beach (De expugnatione 2001: 64–5). Presumably
the reader is meant to picture the author himself among those on the shore that day, but the
experience is generalized and abstracted by the use of the plural. First person singular narra-
tion is quite rare, much of what there is being concerned with brief, nested autobiographical
segments or disavowals of knowledge. Other than such disavowals, the scopes of the texts’
knowledge and understanding push outwards in the direction of omniscience: the narrator
of the Gesta Francorum, for instance, famously knows details of the conversation between
the Turkish generalissimo Kerbogha and his mother on the eve of the battle of Antioch
(Gesta Francorum 1962: 53–6); while Robert of Clari’s narrator knows how the inhabitants
of cities on the Adriatic coast reacted to the sight of the crusade fleet, and what high-status
Byzantine women felt and said to one another when they witnessed the crusaders’ chivalric
prowess in action from the windows and walls of Constantinople (Robert of Clari 1936: 43,
75; 2005: 16, 60).
Narrators can also imply that they have access to greater stores of knowledge than
appear on the page: the narrator of the De expugnatione reassures the reader that he has
edited out the more bumptous contributions to a debate among the crusaders, while ‘real-
ity effect’ moments of seemingly unmotivated precision, such as, in the same text, details
of the exact depth of the water over which the crusaders are sailing off Britanny and the
dimensions of a siege tower, evoke a narrator that is observant, precise, and authoritative
(De expugnatione 2001: 58–9, 100–1, 142–3). In places the absence of narratorial guid-
ance to the reader can be as significant as its presence. For example, Robert of Clari’s nar-
rator withholds explanation or comment when reporting that the people of Constantinople
did not recognize the imperial pretender Alexios when he was paraded before them by
the Venetians. The narrator usually supplies some rationale or motivation for the pay-off
in such narrative sequences, so why not here? Are Alexios’s credentials (he will fall out
with the Franks later in the narrative) being undermined in this passage? Other effects
that are present in these texts, as in many others, include the quickening of time across
‘slack’ periods, and at the other end of the scale the slowing down of narrative time by
means of compacted detail: one plot situation in which such temporal retardation seems
to have become conventional is the climactic moment in a siege in which the attack-
ers break through or surmount the defences, or a similar moment of touch-and-go ten-
sion. Narrators also signpost transitions in subject and theme, select examples to illustrate
recurrent events, and frame particular episodes as synecdoches of larger patterns of mood
and behaviour: the narrator of the De expugnatione, for example, makes such contextual-
izing remarks about the predispositions of the crusaders from Cologne and Flanders (De
expugnatione 2001: 170–1).
CONCLUSION
It should be emphasized that the foregoing discussion has covered only some of the
principal concerns of narratological study. Particular mention should also be made of
the question of focalization: this identifies the manner in which the narration of action
may be filtered through the consciousness of one or more observers present within the
diegesis or positioned outside it. In the Gesta Francorum, for example, the initial awa
reness of changes in situation is regularly routed through Bohemond’s eyes, as if his
657
perceptual acuity reflects a particularly shrewd appreciation of the crusaders’ circumstances

(e.g. Gesta Francorum 1962: 7, 18, 36). It should be emphasized that crusade texts are
not, in narratological terms, a class apart from other types of medieval historiography,
nor do they constitute a discrete genre that is characterizable by certain narrative conven-
tions. The fact that crusade histories almost always narrate movement over long distances
(as well as periods of stasis) means that their handling of the dynamic between space
and time, or ‘chronotope’ – present in, for example, choices about what to linger over in
descriptive detail and what to skip over, when to fast-forward and when to pause – can be
more overtly ‘exoskeletal’ than in some other types of historical writing. But this is not an
invariable. The fact that several crusade texts were written by those who had participated in
the events, at least to some extent, can problematize the construction of the narrator, who,
often within the space of a single text, can retreat into use of the third person and hetero-
diegetic non-visibility; adopt an intermediate series of positions expressed through the first
person plural, where the exact extent of the ‘we’ in any instance is usually unstated and is
at best left to inference from the story logic; or insert itself into the diegesis by means of the
first person singular. Even in this last case there are variables, however, for the first person
singular narrator can be fully involved in autobiographical mode as an actor within the
storyworld or strive for semi-detachment by appearing as an observer or checker of detail
after the fact. Again, these features can be interestingly foregrounded in crusade texts but
are not specific to them. All the above remarks would fully apply, for example, to Galbert
of Bruges’s eyewitness account of the events surrounding the murder of Count Charles the
Good of Flanders.
The figure of the narrator is especially interesting because it has become a focal point of
debates about the relationship between fictional and non-fictional writing. Scholars such as
Dorrit Cohn who have defended the separation of these two discourses against the critiques
of speech-act theorists and philosophers of history, foremost among them of course Hayden
White, have argued that the figures of the (real) author and narrator are co-extensive in
works of non-fiction such as history, but not in fiction (Cohn 1999; Doležel 2010). This
is a strong argument, but its drawback from a medievalist’s perspective is that it works
best with regard to historical writing in the academic idiom that has emerged since the
nineteenth century. It does not follow that because medieval historical writings stake out
some reference to events that existed beyond the text, and may even be accurate in many
of their truth claims, they must fall on the non-fictional side of a binary that is grounded in
post-medieval taxonomies. For their part, modern-day historians can be as invested as liter-
ary scholars in the preservation of this binary, which is why the claim that, say, there is a
narrator or narrators in texts such as the Gesta Francorum or the De expugnatione can seem
unsettling. But it is not a case of the authors of such works lying or of their pretending to
be someone or something else. And it is not about treating these texts as if they were novels
(cf. Otter 2005; Stein 2005). Narratology is not a theoretical creed or an end in itself, simply
a suite of analytical tools to be used in whatever permutations a given text warrants. These
tools are flexible: despite attempts to differentiate between stylistics and narratology, for
example, these clearly overlap, as they both do with rhetoric. But narratology is not a magic
key. It simply complements and extends the close reading of texts in ways that can invite
new insights, and it brings a technical vocabulary and conceptual precision to bear on that
reading. For these reasons it has the potential to enrich our understanding of crusading’s
extensive narrative source base.
658
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661
PART VIII
STUDYING THE CRUSADES

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
FROM SEPPHORIS TO NAZARETH: ASPECTS

OF CRUSADER HISTORIOGRAPHY AND
A NEW READING OF THE NAZARETH

SCULPTURE
Gil Fishhof
INTRODUCTION
F rom its beginning in the second half of the nineteenth century and through much of
the twentieth century, the study of crusader art concentrated on several major ques-
tions (Folda, 1995: 5–17). One such question related to identifying the origin of those art-
ists working at major crusader sites. For such French scholars as Camile Enlart or Paul
Deschamps, these origins were absolutely clear. For them, crusader art was above all an
extension, beyond the sea, of French art and architecture and constituted a sort of regional
school, equivalent to the great schools of French Romanesque art such as those of Burgundy
or Languedoc (Enlart, 1925–28; Deschamps, 1931). In a celebrated quotation, Enlart
claimed that if a church from the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem would have been transported
to the valleys of the Rhône, the Allier or the Garonne rivers, it would have been hard to
distinguish it from the indigenous churches (Enlart, 1925–28: I, 32).
From these early formulations of the origins of crusader art, several directions evolved.
Attempts were made to identify ever more accurately the origins and itineraries of specific
Western masters arriving in the Holy Land, the most notable of whom was a master work-
ing in Nazareth, whose style was identified on a capital in the church of Saint-Martin in
Plaimpied (Berry) and whose itinerary through the Rhone valley and from there to the Holy
Land was elaborately traced by Alan Borg (Borg, 1982).
At the same time, the understanding of the nature of crusader art became greatly
enriched. As early as the work of Thomas Boase in 1939, the impact of Byzantine art
on the art of the Latin Kingdom was recognized (Boase, 1939), especially in mural and
mosaic cycles such as those of Bethlehem. Examination of the complex connections
between Byzantine and crusader arts was later elaborated by Gustav Kühnel (Kühnel, G.
1988) and Annemarie Weyl Carr (Weyl Carr, 1982), while the artistic links between the
Latin Kingdom and southern Italy were studied by Helmut Buschhausen (Buschhausen,
1978) and Valentino Pace (Pace, 1982). Additionally, more nuanced and detailed studies
of workshops active in the Latin Kingdom were conducted by Zehava Jacoby, who devel-
oped the concept of the ‘Workshop of the Temple Area’ (Jacoby, 1979, 1982, 1985). This
663
— Gil Fishhof —
concept was later criticized by Lucy-Anne Hunt, who in place of an organized workshop
proposed, rather, the model of individual sculptors entering into partnerships for particular
projects (Hunt, 2000).
A major development took place in 1973, when Nurith Kenaan-Kedar began consider-
ing the local character and components in crusader sculpture (Kenaan, 1973), identifying
not only continuous local traditions but also specific local (Jerusalemite) models such as,
for example, the Golden Gate for the double portal of the southern façade of the Holy-
Sepulchre, or the two domes of the Temple Mountain for the two domes of the rebuilt
crusader church of the Holy-Sepulchre (Kenaan-Kedar, 1986).
In the 1990s, after more than a century of scholarship had greatly expanded our knowledge
of crusader sites, the time was ripe for new considerations of the general notion and devel-
opment of crusader art. Jaroslav Folda placed major emphasis on the evolution and chrono-
logical development of crusader art and, therefore, arranged the chapters of his 1995 volume
according to the reigns of the kings of the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem (Folda, 1995: 15).
Bianca Kühnel re-examined the very notion of crusader art, wondering if it should be
understood as a geographical, historical, or art historical notion (Kühnel, B., 1994). In the
very same years Denys Pringle began his monumental four-volume corpus of crusader
churches, providing extensive archeological analysis of all known crusader ecclesiastical
edifices (Pringle, 1993–2009). The hundreds of entries in Pringle’s indispensable corpus
include a wealth of textual sources, from charters to pilgrims’ accounts, as well as new
plans and sections of numerous churches. The time was also ripe for wide-scope studies on
both the urban and the institutional levels, and so Adrian Boas published comprehensive
studies of Jerusalem in the time of the crusades (Boas, 2001) and of the archaeology of
the military orders (Boas, 2006). In the first of these studies, Boas offers a wide-ranging
panorama of the physical setting of the crusader holy city, including its fortifications, quar-
ters, palaces, streets and squares, as well as churches, thus enabling a re-evaluation of the
visual culture of the city as a complex entity. The second of these studies is devoted to the
extensive building activity of the military orders, including the administrative centers in
Jerusalem and Acre, rural possessions, castle typology and design as well as specific ele-
ments of fortification.
Alongside these major contributions to the study of crusader monumental art and archi-
tecture, important contributions were also made to the study of the minor arts—especially
ivories and book illuminations. Cases in point are the famous ivory book covers of Queen
Melisende’s psalter, which contain a cycle of six scenes from the Life of David. These
have been interpreted as relating to Fulk V of Anjou—Melisende’s husband and king
of the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem—constituting a Kingly Statement (Norman, 1980;
Kühnel, 1991). Since the fundamental study of miniature painting in the Latin Kingdom
of Jerusalem by Hugo Buchtal (Buchtal, 1957), studies have been dedicated to specific
manuscripts (Mahoney, 2010), or to specific periods and places of production as well as
specific scriptoria (Folda, 1976). An additional important strand of scholarship focuses on
crusader imagery as it appears in monumental cycles in the West, in places such as Vézelay
(Katzenellenbogen, 1944), Auxerre (Denny, 1986), Poncé-sur-le-Loir (Lapina, 2009),
Le-Puy (Derbes, 1991), Saint-Gilles-du-Gard (O’Meara, 1977) and elsewhere.
One of the major developments in the study of crusader art, and one which was to
have a fundamental influence on the state of research in the late twentieth and early
twenty-first century, has been an increasing awareness of the role and involvement of
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— c h a p t e r 3 6 : H i s t o r i o g r a p h y a n d t h e N a z a re t h s c u l p t u re —
patrons—both ecclesiastical and secular—in the development of crusader art. Indeed,

the historiography of crusader art reveals a growing acknowledgment of the impor-
tance of tracing the attitudes and intentions of the patrons for the understanding of the
multilayered functions and meanings of crusader art. Central in this regard have been
the studies by Nurith Kenaan-Kedar on the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem (Kenaan-
Kedar, 1986), interpreting the symbolic meaning of its architecture in regard to the
multiple functions of the church, including its use for the coronation and burial of the
Kings of Jerusalem, as well as her studies on the Armenian architecture of Jerusalem
(Kenaan-Kedar, 1998) and on the Western donors and models of the cathedral of Sebaste
(Kenaan-Kedar, 1992).
ASPECTS OF CRUSADER HISTORIOGRAPHY

IN THE LATE TWENTIETH AND EARLY
TWENTY-FIRST CENTURIES: PATRONS,
VIEWERS AND IDENTITIES
One important aspect of the studies examining the role of the patron is that the particu-
lar choice of specific forms or styles began to be studied not only in terms of abstract
“influences,” or resulting only from practical considerations, but was perceived as an inten-
tional choice, interpreted as manifesting notions of cultural and historical identity or politi-
cal stance. This shift in focus, which places so much more emphasis on meaning than on
archaeological problems or on the origins of the artists, has opened the way in the late twen-
tieth and early twenty-first centuries to new questions, such as how specific forms or styles
were perceived by their spectators, and what sort of notions were they able to manifest. The
studies by Robert Ousterhout and Lucy-Anne Hunt demonstrate how different answers to
these questions have led to completely different views about the purpose and meaning of
architectural and sculptural forms.
Ousterhout begins his interpretation with the observation that the crusader church of the
Holy Sepulchre contains visible architectural disjunctions, and that although each of the
major building phases stands in stark opposition to the principal architectural concepts of
the earlier phases, each building phase nonetheless preserved large parts of its predeces-
sors. Rather than seeing this incorporation of earlier building parts as merely the result of
constructional needs or lack of resources, Ousterhout sees this as a meaningful choice by
the designers. In his explanation of this choice, Ousterhout places great emphasis on the
efficacy of a holy site, which results from its ability to provide a direct and tangible link
between ritual, place of veneration, and the sacred event it commemorates. According to
him, the preservation of the earlier building phases provided such a link to the historical
event, resulting in the fact that the structure of the Holy Sepulchre has become sacred, a
relic in itself, and so the stones of the Holy Sepulchre have been reused whenever possible
(Ousterhout, 2003).
With this notion in mind, Ousterhout turns to the sculpted friezes and capitals of the
southern façade of the Holy Sepulchre, focusing on use of the Late Antique style and on
the reuse of antique pieces incorporated into the fabric of the façade as spolia or (as has
been suggested) carved by the crusaders as a sort of “pseudo-spolia.” Following Kenaan-
Kedar (Kenaan, 1973), Ousterhout notes that many of the capitals and sculpted friezes of
the façade follow local models, among them fifth- or sixth-century Syro-Palestinian models,
665
— Gil Fishhof —
while yet other sculpted elements are based on western European models. What, however,
is the meaning of this mixture of Late Antique styles? For Ousterhout it is again the desire
to preserve the old stones, considered as relics, that stands behind this choice. For him the
use of the ancient stones or of sculptures carved in Late Antique style functioned to visually
connect and unite the sacred event and the architectural setting in which it was commemo-
rated. In Ousterhout’s interpretation, it was the very “antiqueness” and locality of the style
which were important and which were perceived and recognized as such by the designers
as well as the spectators.
A new direction was chosen by Lucy-Anne Hunt. Hunt similarly notes the diversity of
stylistic vocabulary on the southern façade, but while Ousterhout focuses mainly on the way
these forms were perceived as “ancient” and therefore created a connection to the sacred
past, Hunt interprets them in light of the relationship between the different Christian com-
munities in the Latin Kingdom and their position within the Holy Sepulchre, especially the
relations of the Eastern Christians with the Western settlers, stating that the Church of the
Holy Sepulchre was one of the prominent shrines in the Latin Kingdom in which the liturgy
was performed according to both the Orthodox and the Latin rites, and that the Armenians
and the Syrian-Jacobites possessed chapels in the church (Hunt, 1995a).
It is this coexistence of the different Christian communities that Hunt sees as the cause
of the different stylistic languages of the southern façade. For her, the decision to use these
diverse sculptural styles was the consequence of a necessity to coexist, which led to the
toleration or even acknowledgment of these artistic languages within the artistic program
sponsored by the Latins. Thus, if at the heart of Ousterhout’s interpretation lie the forms
of the southern façade being perceived by patrons and viewers as manifesting antique-
ness, according to Hunt they each had a special resonance for the community of Eastern
Christians who worshipped at the Holy Sepulchre. They were understood not as antique but
as bearers of notions of communal and religious identity.
THE SCULPTURAL PROGRAMS OF THE CHURCH

OF THE ANNUNCIATION IN NAZARETH:
ASPECTS OF HISTORIOGRAPHY
The sculptural programs of the Church of the Annunciation in Nazareth, which include
the celebrated five capitals discovered in 1908 by Father Prosper Viaud (Viaud, 1910:
55–56), as well as numerous additional fragments excavated by Bellarmino Bagatti in the
1950s–1960s (Bagatti, 1969: 31–70, 89–129), constitute a good example demonstrating the
significant shifts and changes of interests marking the historiography of crusader art.
Four of the Nazareth capitals are polygonal and one is rectangular. As is well known,
the four polygonal capitals present scenes from the lives of the Apostles Matthew, Thomas,
Peter, and James the Great, some of which display extremely rare iconography dedicated to
the mission of the Apostles to the East and to the far corners of the earth, such as the depic-
tion of the mission of Matthew to Ethiopia, and his struggle with sorcerers (Folda, 1986:
31–43). On the rectangular capital is depicted a crowned female figure leading a nimbed
male figure by the hand, in the midst of terrible demons holding bows and other weapons
(Figure 36.1). Often identified as an image of Ecclesia or Faith leading an apostle or a
believer, Jaroslav Folda has, however, identified the female figure as Mary, in connection to
the Greek tradition of the descent of the Virgin into Hell and her pleading on behalf of the
tormented souls (Folda, 1986: 43–51; Barasch, 1971: 146–153).
666
Figure 36.1 Church of the Annunciation, Nazareth, Rectangular capital, depicting Ecclesia/Mary
leading a sainted male, middle – second half of twelfth century, courtesy of the Studium
Biblicum Franciscanum.
Among the many archeological, stylistic, and iconographical questions which have
attracted scholarly attention, one of the most challenging was the explanation of the choice
of subjects on the capitals, especially the decision to depict a cycle of the Apostles on the
four polygonal capitals. An analysis of the different answers given to this question has much
to reveal in regard to the changing focus of the historiography of crusader art.
Interpreting the mission of the Apostles as a revered biblical model for the crusaders,
Moshe Barasch has seen the depiction of the Apostles in the East on the Nazareth capi-
tals as giving legitimation to the crusader settlement in the Holy Land; while the depic-
tion of the female figure leading the male figure out of harm’s way on the rectangular
capital emphasizes the redeeming power of faith and offered reassurance to the frightened
Christian inhabitants of Nazareth during the final years of the Latin Kingdom (Barasch,
1971: 150–154). The notion of using the mission of the Apostles as a revered biblical
model for the crusaders is well known (Katzenellenbogen, 1944); and recently William
J. Purkis has shown that the ideal of the imitation of the Apostles held a very important
place in crusader spirituality, including the notion of living in unanimity of spirit (Purkis,
2008). The suggestion by Barasch that the mission of the Apostles depicted on the capitals
legitimized the crusaders is thus very valuable. However, we should note that his inter-
pretation has remained general and does not relate to the specific concerns of the patrons.
Similarly, Lucy-Anne Hunt has suggested that the cycle as a whole should be interpreted in
the context of a mission to convert the Muslims—again a plausible but general interpreta-
tion (Hunt, 1995b). Zahava Jacoby, investigating the apostolic iconography in light of the
667
— Gil Fishhof —
more extensive iconographical program of the west portal, sees the capitals as expressing
the authority of the Church, within a program culminating in Christ’s triumphant Second
Coming and the Last Judgment (Jacoby, 1981, 1986). Thus, similarly to Barasch, Jacoby
does not attempt a more specific interpretation that takes into account also the political and
ecclesiastical circumstances in Nazareth.
The studies by Jaroslav Folda on the Nazareth sculpture, and especially his exten-
sive monograph published in 1986, mark a significant development in the historiogra-
phy of the capitals. Folda has suggested that the decision to embellish the Church of the
Annunciation was intended to increase its fame in comparison to the other major sacred
sites of the Holy Land, and that it was initiated by the Archbishop of Nazareth, Lethard
II (Folda, 1986: 20–21). Folda contended that the choice of scenes from the lives of the
Apostles for the capitals was motivated by Archbishop Lethard and that it was a part of
a claim to an apostolic foundation raised by Nazareth in order to acquire additional fame
and prestige, since of the three greatest holy sites, Nazareth was the least important for pil-
grims during the twelfth century, perhaps because it was difficult to access from Jerusalem
(Folda, 1986: 35–36).
Folda’s interpretation differs from previous suggestions in that it is anchored in the
specific circumstances of Nazareth, and not in general formulations of crusader ideol-
ogy. However, additional motivations can also be discerned, rooted in the political strug-
gles of the Archbishop of Nazareth and in the specific ecclesiastical circumstances of his
archbishopric.
THE ARCHBISHOP OF NAZARETH AND THE

SCULPTURAL PROGRAMS OF HIS CHURCH:
A NEW INTERPRETATION
My own interpretation of the Nazareth sculpture1 contends that it was part of an attempt by
the Archbishop of Nazareth to manifest and consolidate the legitimacy of his ecclesiastical
status in the face of internal diocesan challenges.
The images of St. Peter included within the cycle serve as a focal point of my interpreta-
tion, especially his depiction on a monumental jamb statue (Figure 36.2) discovered during
the excavation of 1966 (Bagatti, 1969: 102–105). St. Peter is depicted frontally, holding in
his right hand the Keys of Heaven and in his left a detailed model of a church. A prominent
feature of this church is its three rounded apses, resembling those of the crusader church in
Nazareth. Although the three apses of the actual crusader church were set into a rectangular
configuration at the eastern end, and so the round outline of the apses was not visible from
the outside—unlike the case of the model in St. Peter’s hand—depictions of church models
from early Christian art onwards indicate that there should be little doubt that St. Peter is
holding a model of the Church of the Annunciation itself.2
The tradition of portraying patrons and donors as holding a model of the church they
had built goes back to early Christian times. However, this iconography was usually
reserved for non-canonized donors and patrons, be they secular or ecclesiastical, who
were depicted presenting the model of the church to a saintly recipient (Lipsmeyer, 1981:
34–89). In Nazareth the situation is different. Rather than an ordinary patron it is the saint
himself who holds the model of the church. In Nazareth, therefore, an important shift in
meaning has occurred. Instead of the Archbishop of Nazareth presenting the church to
668
Figure 36.2 Church of the Annunciation, Nazareth, trumeau statue of St. Peter holding the keys
and the model of the church, middle – second half of twelfth century, courtesy of the Studium
Biblicum Franciscanum.
St. Peter, it is the saint himself who is portrayed as protector and as the source of authority
and prestige for the Nazareth church, and from whom the archbishop receives legitimacy
and authority.
This visual statement had a special and specific importance for Nazareth and for its
archbishop. Traditionally, Nazareth had been the seat of an Orthodox bishop (Hamilton,
1980: 60). However, in the first years after the Latin conquest no attempt was made to
reconstitute a diocesan organization in the Galilee, and Pope Paschal II granted the Abbot
of Tabor archiepiscopal authority throughout the region (Hamilton, 1980: 60; Pringle,
1993–2009: II, 64).
It was only gradually that the See of Nazareth rose back to prominence. At the instiga-
tion of Gibelin of Arles, papal legate and newly elected Patriarch of Jerusalem, the See of
669
— Gil Fishhof —
Nazareth was newly established and the newly appointed bishop, first appearing in the doc-
uments in 1109, enjoyed jurisdiction throughout the Galilee (Hamilton 1980: 60). Another
development took place in 1129, when William, the second Latin bishop of Nazareth, was
promoted to the rank of archbishop and Nazareth became the metropolitan see for Galilee
instead of Scythopolis (Bethsan), which was the metropolitan see in Orthodox times but had
become almost deserted by the twelfth century.3
I believe that the placement of St. Peter at the focal point of the west portal was meant
to manifest and consolidate the legitimacy of both the transfer of the bishopric from Mount
Tabor to Nazareth,and Nazareth’s new status as an archbishopric, both of which were insti-
gated or recognized by the papacy. Indeed, until a relatively late period, the crusaders were
well aware that the elevation of Nazareth to an archbishopric constituted a break from tra-
dition, and William of Tyre noted that “Scythopolis is the capital of Palestina Tertia …
It is also called Bethsan. Nowadays Nazareth, which is situated at the same diocese, enjoys
its prerogative” (William of Tyre, 1986: 1030). It thus seems that throughout the twelfth
century the status of the archbishop of Nazareth appeared to require explanation; and, per-
haps also from his own point of view, consolidation. The image of St. Peter and his unique
appearance holding the model of the Church of the Annunciation provided both.
Similarly to the image of St. Peter, the unique depiction of the crowned female figure
leading to safety the male figure attacked by demons, can also be interpreted in regard to the
concerns of Nazareth and of its archbishop.
As I have already mentioned, Jaroslav Folda identified the female figure as Mary, in con-
nection to the tradition of the descent of the Virgin into Hell and her intercession on behalf
of the anguished souls. According to Folda’s explanation, Nazareth suffered from a liturgical
problem resulting from the fact that the Feast of the Annunciation, celebrated on March 25,
usually fell in the Lenten season. Therefore, in Nazareth, there was a need to find a way to
harmonize the cult of the Virgin with the focus of Christianity on the Resurrection of Christ
in the period of Lent and Holy Week. The choice of the rare iconography of the capital, based
visually on the image of the Anastasias, responded to this need (Folda, 1986: 47).
SEPPHORIS AND ITS STRUGGLE FOR PILGRIMS

I wish to suggest an additional explanation for the choice of this unusual iconography, and
to contend that it served also to increase the prestige and importance of Nazareth, in the face
of growing competition by the developing site of Sepphoris.4
From early times Sepphoris had been associated with the Virgin and with her parents. In the
sixth century the Pilgrim from Piacenza refers to relics of the Virgin found at Sepphoris, which
included a basket, a flagon, and the chair on which she was sitting at the time of the Annunciation
(Pilgrim of Piacenza, 1965: 130). Twelft-century sources, including Theodoric and Fretellus,
mention that St. Anne was born at Sepphoris (Folda, 1991: 88; Pringle, 1993–2009: II, 211;
Grabiner, 2006: 116–117), while John of Würzburg recounts that it is said that the Virgin Mary
herself was born in Sepphoris (John of Würzburg, 1994: 80–81).
Sometime in the middle or second half of the twelfth century, a crusader church was built
in Sepphoris. Both Jaroslav Folda and Esther Grabiner claim that several characteristics of
the building suggest that it was more than just an ordinary parish church, and that it might
have been intended to mark the holy site of St. Anne’s house (Folda, 1991: 90–94; Grabiner,
2006: 114–115). Among these they mention the large size of the church and the unusual
670
richness of the architectural articulation and decoration. An important feature of the church
in this regard is the visible presence of the living rock, rising into the central apse. Crusader
architecture at important holy sites often reveals an attempt to incorporate parts of the natu-
ral landscape (caves, rocks), and in so doing create a visible link between the geography
of the holy site and the edifice built on that site (examples of rocks and caves visible in
crusader churches include the hill of Calvary; the grotto of the Nativity, and many others).
It is important to note, however, that Pringle has claimed that when taking into account the
floor level in the twelfth century, the rock would seem to have registered only minimally at
the time, if at all (Pringle, 1993–2009: II, 213).
Considering all this, a picture emerges according to which a holy site was established
at Sepphoris and traditions were cultivated that were directly in competition with those of
Nazareth—especially in the claim that the Virgin was born in Sepphoris. Indeed, contrary to
the claim raised at Sepphoris, Theodoric describes how in the grotto of Nazareth “there is an
arched structure having only a single cross engraved beneath it, in which the blessed mother
of God when she was born came out of her mother’s womb” (Wilkinson, 1988: 312). It is
important to note that the clash between the claims of both sites to being the birthplace of
the Virgin was noted by John of Würzburg, who, when mentioning that it is said that the
Virgin Mary was born in Sepphoris, also adds, however, that he knows from Jerome that the
Virgin was born in Nazareth (John of Würzburg, 1994: 80–81).
Returning to Archbishop Lethard II and his ambitious rebuilding and decoration of the
Church of the Annunciation, we can now ask whether the iconography of the rectangular
capital responds to the challenges of Sepphoris. I believe that the attempts of Sepphoris
to proclaim itself as an important Marian center (and as the birthplace of the Virgin) may
have played a part in the choice of this iconography, which places such emphasis on the
redemptive power of the triumphant Virgin. After all, as this capital was installed in the
Church of the Annunciation, the protective role of Mary which is referred to by this image
can be understood as directed toward the pilgrims arriving at this holy sanctuary, thus mak-
ing a strong visual claim regarding the benefits to be gained by those who visit the Virgin’s
sanctuary in Nazareth.
CONCLUSION
As I have sought to show, the historiography of crusader art in the last decades of the twen-
tieth century and the beginning of the twenty-first century reveals a growing interest in the
intensions of the patrons, as expressed via the iconographical and stylistic choices in the
monuments related to them. As the examples of Nazareth and Sepphoris reveal, the specific
political, economic, and regional interests of these patrons, and their struggles to achieve
influence and prestige, should also be considered as important factors in the development
of crusader art.
NOTES
1 My interpretation of the Nazareth sculpture is fully elaborated in (Fishhof, forthcoming, a).
2 As studied by Elizabeth Lipsmeyer, such models are often an abbreviation of the structure repre-
sented, and include a reduced number of repeated elements. They are often a combination of the
symbolic with the actual or realistic features of the represented building (Lipsmeyer, 1981).
671
— Gil Fishhof —
3 In a document from early 1129 William is named bishop, while in a document dated to March 1129
he is already named archbishop (Rozière, 1849: 138–139, note 67, and 81–83, note 44).
4 I examine the influence of the competition for pilgrims on the sculpture of Nazareth also in (Fishhof,
forthcoming, b).
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——— (1986) The Nazareth Capitals and the Crusader Shrine of the Annunciation, Philadelphia:
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——— (1991) “The Church of Saint Anne,” The Biblical Archaeologist, 54/2: 88–96.
——— (1995) The Art of the Crusaders in the Holy Land, 1098–1187, Cambridge: Cambridge
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Grabiner, E. (2006) “Les vestiges de l’église Franque de Séphorie,” Bulletin monumental, 164/1: 113–20.
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Jacoby, Z. (1979) “The tomb of Baldwin V, King of Jerusalem (1185–1186) and the Workshop of the
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——— (1981) “Le portail de l’église de l’annonciation de Nazareth au XIIe siècle—un essai de
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Antike und Christentum Ergänzungsband (Tesserae–Festschrift für Josef Engemann), 18: 340–57.
——— (1994) Crusader Art of the Twelfth Century: a Geographical, an Historical, of an Art
Historical Notion? Berlin: Gebr. Mann.
Kühnel, G. (1988) Wall Painting in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, Berlin: Gebr. Mann.
Lapina, E. (2009) “La représentation de la bataille d’Antioche (1098) sur les peintures murales de
Ponce-sur-le-Loir,” Cahiers de civilisation médiévale, 52: 137–57.
Lipsmeyer, E. (1981) “The donor and his church model in Medieval art, from early Christian times to
the Late Romanesque Period,” unpublished dissertation, Rutgers University.
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psalter book covers,” Revue de l’université d’Ottawa, 50/2: 192–201.
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Ousterhout, R. (2003) “Architecture as relic and the construction of sanctity: The stones of the Holy
Sepulchre,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, 62: 4–23.
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Crusader Art in the Twelfth Century, Oxford: BAR, 245–69.
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Turnhout: Brepols.
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Viaud, P. (1910) Nazareth et ses deux églises: de l’Annonciation et de Saint-Joseph, Paris: Picard.
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674
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
AFTER TWENTY-FIVE YEARS: JOSHUA

PRAWER’S CONTRIBUTION TO THE
STUDY OF THE CRUSADES AND THE

LATIN KINGDOM OF JERUSALEM
RECONSIDERED
Sophia Menache
T he crusader epos in the Holy Land, with all its images and metaphors, is part and parcel
of Israeli culture. Fructiferous scholarly investigation and popular publications, along
with an ever-increasing number of lectures and tours, are clear manifestations of the wide
interest displayed by Israeli society in the crusades. Such attention could easily be explained
by the visual impact of crusader remains throughout the country, with castles, strongholds,
cities, and villages being a ubiquitous component of daily life.1 The geographical land-
scape, notwithstanding its weight, cannot shadow the leading influence of Joshua Prawer
(1917–90), one of the most influential figures in the Israeli academia from the 1950s on, in
turning the crusades into a mainstream of Israeli culture. Though Prawer’s historiographical
contribution to our understanding of the crusades and the Latin East had enjoyed satisfac-
tory attention in recent decades,2 his influence from an Israeli perspective is less known.
This chapter is devoted, therefore, to an analysis of the fertile interchange between Prawer
and Israeli society as a whole, with special emphasis on his impact on the research of the
crusades and the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem.
Joshua Prawer was born to a prosperous Jewish merchant family in Bedzin, Polish
Silesia. From his youth, he excelled in his studies, especially mathematics and foreign lan-
guages, acquiring a wide knowledge of Polish, German, Hebrew, French, Latin, Yiddish,
and English. In a successful attempt to leave Poland prior to the Second World War (1936),
he registered at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem—a prerequisite to circumventing the
immigration limitations imposed by the British Mandate on Palestine. During Israel’s War
of Independence, he served as liaison officer with the Christian institutions in Jerusalem;
soon afterwards, began a successful career at the Hebrew University. There, under the
supervision of Richard Koebner—to whom he often referred as “my teacher and rabbi”—
Prawer began his research on crusader settlements and the colonization process in the Holy
Land, a subject matter that attracted his lifelong interest. He gradually acquired prestige as
an outstanding scholar and an inspiring, charismatic teacher. In parallel, he played an active
675
— Sophia Menache —
role in academic administration at the Hebrew University, officiating, inter alia, as dean
of the Faculty of Humanities (1961–65) and prorector; as such, he promoted the founding
of additional centers of higher studies in both the north of the country, the University of
Haifa (1963), and the south, Ben-Gurion University of the Negev (1969). Prawer was also
active beyond the “ivory tower,” fostering important reforms for Israeli secondary educa-
tion, the emergence of pre-academic units, and cultural agreements with institutions all
over the world. His creative academic career advanced his election to the Israeli Academy
of Sciences, and to the chairmanship of its Humanities section, and culminated in his being
honored as an Israeli Prize Laureate for the Humanities in 1969.
The many fields in which Prawer was active did not eclipse his most cherished goal,
of incorporating the crusades into mainstream Israeli culture. The physical environment
undoubtedly influenced and stimulated his work; as remarked by his colleagues: “Living, as
he did, on the scene of the events he described, he could fully exploit the advantage which
he held over his illustrious predecessors in this particular field. It sharpened his understand-
ing of the geopolitical context of the world in which the crusaders lived and of their, as
well as their opponents’, strategic concepts.”3 Prawer’s immediate knowledge of Israel’s
physical environment had distinct advantages, as was clearly reflected in both the map of
the crusading kingdom, which he produced with Meron Benvenisti,4 and his analysis of the
geographical factors and their weight in the crucial Battle of Hattin (1187).5 Moreover, as
chairman of the Jerusalem Institute for Israel Studies and a member of the board of both the
Israel Archaeological Society and the Yad ben Zvi Institute, Prawer fostered a wider aware-
ness of the influence of the crusader period on the history of the Holy Land. He also encour-
aged the creation of a new field of area studies that focused on the Land of Israel throughout
the ages, a subject that enjoys much popularity in Israel and worldwide to the present time.6
His great prestige and influence in political circles facilitated the allocation of extensive
government funding for the restoration of crusader sites, such as St. Louis’s walls and the
mural towers at Caesarea and the Hospitaller castle at Belvoir, allowing their accessibility
to the wide public.7 Aware of the importance of archeological research, Prawer strongly
supported the excavations in the City of David against the limitations advocated by extreme
religious groups. Benjamin Z. Kedar could therefore rightly claim, “It is difficult to think of
another historian who played so important a role in uncovering the physical remains of the
period with which he dealt.”8
As “a citizen of earthly Jerusalem,” in Sylvia Schein’s portrayal of the man,9 Prawer
devoted much attention to the historical development of the city before, during, and after
the crusader conquest, as well as to its unique status in all monotheistic religions.10 When
honored as a “Distinguished Citizen of Jerusalem” (1989), Prawer declared his personal
conviction that “Jerusalem of today is a universal city, belonging to all cultures.”11 Though a
fervent partisan of the Jewish State, Prawer was from a cultural perspective a true cosmopol-
itan, who easily adapted to foreign environments. His main merit in this regard was to make
Jerusalem a main center of crusader studies on the same level of well-known, older institu-
tions in France, England, and Germany. He succeeded in fostering interest among young
Israelis in the history of the crusades and the crusader states as a bridge between European
history and the Land of Israel. It would be no exaggeration to assert that most medieval
historians teaching at Israeli universities at the end of the previous and the beginning of the
present centuries have been among Prawer’s students at some stage of their careers.12 These
scholars eventually advanced the study of the crusades worldwide, notwithstanding the lack
of archives and primary sources in Israel. Such a chronic disadvantage dictated close links
676
— chapter 37: Joshua Prawer and the study of the crusades —
with the continent, where Prawer encouraged many of his students to pursue their PhD
studies. The close links he forged abroad gained Prawer recognition of his work worldwide.
He received an honorary doctorate from the University of Montpellier (1969), and his two-
volume Histoire du royaume latin de Jérusalem (1969–70) earned him the Prix Gustave
Schlumberger of France’s Académie des inscriptions et belles lettres. Prawer was appointed
a Corresponding Fellow of the Medieval Academy of America (1967) and a Visiting Fellow
at All Souls College, Oxford (1974). No wonder, therefore, that his death (Jerusalem, April
30, 1990) was widely regretted abroad, as well as in Israel.13 The question still arises: What
was the secret of Prawer’s personal magnetism? At the academic level, Prawer appears as
the rare mixture of an illuminating scholar, a brilliant teacher, and a most convincing writer,
whose language was accessible to a broad public.14 As his former student during the early
1970s, I clearly remember Prawer’s charming rhetoric, enhanced with a sophisticated sense
of humor, and his listening carefully to his students at all levels. Yet, he did not welcome
criticism, especially when coming from his students (non jurat ad verba magistri!); eventu-
ally, he was ready to accept some remarks, when satisfactorily proved, in a humoristic tone
(touché).15 Perhaps it was this peculiar combination that ensured Prawer’s extraordinary
influence on the study of the crusades.
When Prawer began his research on the crusades and the Kingdom of Jerusalem at the
mid-twentieth century, the subject had already become a traditional component of Western
culture. The massive publication of original sources throughout previous centuries created,
indeed, a solid base for research and findings that were better documented.16 It did not,
however, radically change the thirteenth-century baronial jurists’ perspective with regard
to an ideal feudal state, in which the monarch wielded a purely nominal authority as primus
inter pares. This approach was first undermined by M. Grandelaude’s research in the 1920s.
It was Prawer’s main merit—in parallel with the studies of leading French medievalists
of the time, first and foremost Claude Cahen and Jean Richard—to reveal the changing
interaction between the monarchy and the privileged groups in the kingdom, the nobility at
their head, but also the Military Orders, the Italian merchants, and the Frankish burgesses.17
Prawer argued that in the first decades of the crusader kingdom the kings of Jerusalem were
able to maintain a rather strong, stable position. The continuous state of war, however,
brought about some deterioration in the status of monarchy, which was forced to make
many compromises with its tenants-in-chief. Most of the early kings’ concessions—the
regalia mentioned in the Livre au roi—eventually eroded the status of the monarchy, with
the balance of power tilting in favor of the aristocracy, as clearly manifested in the Assise
sur la ligece of King Amaury. Frederick II’s problematic crusade reflects a turning point,
the nobility then being able not only to ignore royal rights but also to express far-reaching
claims on behalf of the High Court, composed by their vassals. Prawer thus concluded
that the thirteenth century provided one of the earliest examples of the development of a
Ständenstaat, with the different sociopolitical groups developing a sense of community,
strengthened by oath. In his book, Crusader Institutions (Oxford, 1980),18 Prawer further
developed former studies, clarifying the legal structure of the realm. He emphasized the
presence of marked non-feudal elements in the kingdom’s organization, and devoted much
attention to the development of the Cour des Bourgeois and the role played by the burgesses
in royal and seigniorial administration.
From a sociological perspective, Prawer expanded the conceptual framework of an
immigrant society at work, focusing on the importance of immigration, on the one hand,
and the peril of manpower shortage, on the other. Throughout a long series of articles and
677
four monographs,19 he examined almost every aspect of crusader history, providing a more
complex, yet still vivid reflection of crusader life. He devoted much attention to land pro-
jects and agriculture and urban settlements, and the role of the Italian communes.20 He did
not confine his research to the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, but also brought a refresh-
ing view of the agrarian/social history of the lordship of Tyre, based on the report of the
Venetian agent in Syria (1243).21 One of the most important assertions advanced by Prawer
related to the very essence of crusader society, which he encapsulated in the name of his
monograph on the subject, The Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem: European Colonialism in the
Middle Ages. Research on crusader society, especially its way of life, economy, and insti-
tutions, led Prawer to posit the existence of a colonial society, whose lack of knowledge
of or interest in its neighbors eventually brought about its collapse. Crusader society was
not, in this view, characterized by acculturation performs, but by the forced importation
of Western European practices to the Holy Land. A continuous lack of security and, most
especially, the crusaders’ situation as a minority surrounded by a powerful enemy, fur-
ther justified in Prawer’s eyes their concentration in fortified cities and fortifications; thus,
only the indigenous inhabitants lived in rural areas and engaged in agriculture.22 Prawer
concluded that the crusader kingdom was the first European colony established overseas,
characterized as it was by a strict, continuous apartheid between exploiting conquerors and
exploited natives. The sense of insecurity characteristic of crusader society as a whole,
moreover, did not arise solely from the external danger; it was generated from the potential
collaboration of the indigenous Christian and Muslim populations with external enemies, as
well. Prawer thus presented a Frankish society of immigrants, who lived in strict political,
social, and cultural segregation from the Syro-Christians and Muslims, a state of affairs that
he described as “apartheid.”
Toward the end of his life, Prawer published The History of the Jews in the Latin
Kingdom of Jerusalem,23 a subject to which he had devoted much attention throughout his
life.24 Basing his analysis on the rich documentation of the Cairo Geniza and the Hebrew
itineraries to the Holy Land, Prawer was able to reconstruct the major trends of community
life, first and foremost in Acre; later on in other major cities—Tiberias, Jaffa, Ashkelon, and
Gaza; and eventually in Jerusalem. He reached the unforeseen conclusion that a decade or
so after the slaughter that characterized the crusader conquest in 1099, the Jewish communi-
ties enjoyed relative security and comfort under the rule of the king and the Latin overlords,
to whom they paid taxes and whose laws they strictly obeyed. Like other subject peoples,
the Jews, as a corporation among many others of this kind, enjoyed religious freedom and
conducted their lives according to their own ritual laws. Fortified by a continuous current
of pilgrims, the Jews of the Crusader Kingdom were united by their age-old belief in the
forthcoming redemption of the Promised Land, a belief that revealed the crusaders to be a
punishment for the Jews’ sins (peccatis nostris exigentibus), but still a transitory phenom-
enon as had been the Greeks, the Romans, the Byzantines, and the Muslims before them.
Although Prawer’s conclusions were essentially based on his wide knowledge of medi-
eval sources and years of investigation spent at leading academic centers worldwide, they
provided food for controversy and sometimes also biased criticism. Thus, referring to
Prawer’s approach to the Crusader Kingdom as a colonial society, Josep Torró concludes,
rather deterministically: “De toute evidence, l’historien israélien parlait d’une situation
qui, à titre personnel, ne lui était pas étrangère.” Considering the policy of apartheid to be
a common denominator defining the crusaders then and the Israelis today, Torró did not
refrain from oversimplifications, further claiming in a footnote, “L’intérêt des médiévistes
678
israéliens pour le royaume de Jérusalem ne peut pas s’expliquer en fonction de la seule

coïncidence géographique.”25 The biased approach that characterized the Catalan historian
aside, the debate over Prawer’s main conclusions in fact embraces all fields of crusader
history. Although Prawer’s pioneering research left a mark on crusader historiography,
some of his premises were later questioned and eventually invalidated by younger Israeli
researchers, first and foremost by those who had previously been numbered among his stu-
dents. For the purposes of this study, we will focus on the main revisions of Prawer’s thesis
in four complementary fields: material conditions (especially fortresses and castles), art,
economy, and military organization.
New archeological evidence and documentary testimonies uncovered over the past thirty
years have revealed cross-cultural influences between the Latins and the different inhab-
itants in the area, not only Muslims, but also East Christians, Druzes, and Jews,26 thus
undermining one of the main pillars of Prawer’s apartheid thesis. Showing the shortcom-
ings of the colonialist–segregationist premise, Ronnie Ellenblum convincingly connects
Frankish military architecture to its local environment and to the medieval framework as a
whole.27 In his extensive survey and study of Frankish rural settlements, castles, and con-
struction techniques, Ellenblum reconstructs a considerable number of crusader agricultural
settlements, some of them close to those inhabited by Oriental Christians. In addition to
disclosing greater numbers of Latin settlers than those estimated by Prawer, he also found
strong evidence of the existence of Latin settlers living together with Syrians. According to
Ellenblum, moreover, crusader castles, too, should be regarded as the “most evident visual
expression of the cultural dialogue between East and West. Not because one of the sides
‘borrowed’ an architectural expression from the other, but because they were the outcome
of a lengthy, ongoing dialogue between two schools of military tactics and approaches.”28
The reconstruction suggested by Prawer with regard to the crucial Battle of Hattin, as
well, received new light from one of his most prominent students, Benjamin Z. Kedar.29
Discussing the road system and water resources at that site, Kedar contributed additional
information on the material-physical factors that influenced the battle and, in so doing, basi-
cally revised his former teacher’s thesis.30 Moreover, when investigating the meeting points
between opposing religions/cultures/societies, Kedar further weakened the foundations of
Prawer’s segregation thesis.31 Kedar’s book, Crusade and Mission: European Approaches
toward the Muslims (Princeton, 1984), faithfully reproduces the two main options facing
medieval Christendom: either mission by peaceful means as advocated by the Franciscans,
with Francesco d’ Assisi and Ramon Lull at their head, or a continuation of the bellum
sacrum in its most extreme manner in an attempt to purify the Holy Land of the Muslim
presence. Kedar convincingly proves that mission and crusade were not mutually exclusive
options, and there were many combinations of the two alternatives.
Yvonne Friedmann, too, analyzed additional aspects of the encounter between crusad-
ers and Muslims. Her illuminating monograph, Encounter between Enemies: Captivity and
Ransom in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem (Leiden, 2002), examines the customs, legal
codes, and socioeconomic mechanisms that evolved from the encounter between Christians
and Muslims. The book clarifies the main changes in Western mentality and acculturation
processes, from which the imperative to redeem captives eventually emerged and which
made payment of ransom to the heretic not only conceivable but also acceptable. It is rather
symbolic that Friedman’s book opens with the tragic story of the Israeli navigator Ron Arad,
who fell captive in Lebanon (October 1986) and for whom all ransom efforts unfortunately
failed (p. xi). The very mention of Arad hints at the link, which Friedman acknowledges
679
outright, between Israeli research of the crusades and current political reality.32 Such a link,
however, did not influence genuine research characteristic of historical investigation, rather
the contrary. Friedman also wrote a considerable number of articles on the various concepts
of ransoming captives from among the different social and religious groups that fought
one another in the Levant for the two hundred years marking the overall crusader period.33
Taking a more optimistic viewpoint, she is now advancing investigation of conciliation and
peace-making processes in the Crusader Levant, a subject that has not lost its validity in this
troubled region to this very day.34
The dialogue between the crusaders and the native population indeed impregnated every
facet of daily life; that it was reflected in crusader art comes as no real surprise and further
weakens Prawer’s apartheid concept. Faithful to his basic premise of the colonialist nature
of the Crusader Kingdom, Prawer regarded crusader art as lacking original or authentic ele-
ments of its own.35 With the improved access to crusader structures and fragments after the
Six Day War (1967), especially in Jerusalem, the “colonialist view” began to be challenged
by various Israeli art historians, led by Nurith Kenaan-Kedar.36 Her pioneering contribution
focuses on the discovery of a local crusader school in Jerusalem, which she saw as a faith-
ful reflection of its ethnic environment.37 The immediate contact with crusader sites and
remnants, no longer limited to Prawer, now began to play a key role in stimulating new,
challenging art perspectives on the meeting points between local innovation and foreign
influences.38
Important archeological developments in the past two decades, which were due in part
to extensive government funding through the Israeli Archeological Society, have revealed
additional facets of crusader history while further undermining Prawer’s segregation model.
The studies by Adrian Boas clarify various aspects of daily life in both urban and rural Latin
settlements, including domestic architecture and ceramics, as well as in fortifications.39 In
addition, new findings of ceramics and glass objects40 and about the sugar industry have
brought to light commercial ties in the geopolitical space and the development of tech-
nology in crusader times.41 Robert Kool produced a series of articles on the coins of the
Crusader Kingdom, their relation to Islamic jewelry, and their contribution to the develop-
ment of trade and its scope in the Levant.42
Prawer’s approach to the economy of the Latin Kingdom from a Eurocentric and colonial
perspective, and as such as having been underdeveloped and exploited by Western traders,
too, encountered severe criticism. It was the merit of another of Prawer’s former students,
David Jacoby, to prove the vitality and market-orientation of agriculture and industry, the
crucial role of local traders, and the importance of the service sector to the kingdom’s
economy.43 His focus on Mediterranean commerce and trade brought Jacoby closer to the
history of the Italian communes and the Frankish principalities in the Levant,44 which are
now viewed as having constituted a major factor in the development of medieval trade.
His new reading of published and unpublished primary sources, which he analyzed within
their contemporary context and in a comparative framework, provided a new perspective
of Mediterranean trade, with Venice in the lead, and the economy of the Frankish States.45
In his book on The Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem: European Colonialism in the Middle
Ages, Prawer devoted a most illuminating chapter to pilgrims and pilgrimage in the cru-
sader period, while putting emphasis on the emergence of a “sacred geography.”46 It was a
new reading of the geographical “reality” of the Holy Land, with its emphasis on the holy
places, real or imaginary. Another of Prawer’s disciples, the late Aryeh Grabois, presented
still newer perspectives in his book, Le pèlerin occidental en Terre Sainte au Moyen Âge
680
(Paris-Bruxelles, 1998). Dealing with challenging questions regarding both spiritual and
material factors that encouraged medieval people to leave their familiar homeland, Grabois
reveals in some depth the pilgrims’ encounter with the Holy Land, its fauna and flora, vis-à-
vis the biblical heritage, thus further clarifying additional facets of what Prawer had called
“sacred geography.” Indeed, throughout the two hundred years of the Crusader Kingdom of
Jerusalem, the never-ending search for the holy places where Jesus and the apostles lived
and preached, and where some of them also died, encouraged pilgrims to report their experi-
ences. The result was the development of a unique literary genre that became very popular
in the crusader period, the itineraries.47 Yvonne Friedman, as well, analyzed the spiritual
and ideological factors behind pilgrimages,48 while clarifying some practical matters, such
as the available road systems in the Holy Land.49
From a chronological perspective, Prawer focused on the “classical” period of the cru-
sades; namely, from Pope Urban II’s call in Clermont in 1095 until the fall of Crusader
Acre in 1291. He further restricted the definition of crusade to those expeditions led by the
papacy whose ultimate goal was to conquer or to secure Christian rule in the Holy Land
and, by extension, all places holy to Christianity in the Levant. Sylvia Schein, one of Joshua
Prawer’s closest students, extended research about the crusades up to 1314, thus expanding
by more than twenty years the chronological framework established by her teacher.50
Although Prawer was well aware of the importance of the Military Orders, to which
he devoted one chapter in his study The Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem: Colonialism in the
Middle Ages, he wrote but a single article on the subject.51 The Orders, however, received
much more attention in the work of some of Prawer’s former students, notably the author
of this chapter, who extensively wrote about the Templars, in both the Holy Land and
Europe,52 and the Military Order of Calatrava in Castile.53
Another subject that was considerably amplified by Prawer’s students was the Muslim
perspective of the crusades. Emmanuel Sivan, who investigated in depth the Muslims’ reac-
tions to the crusades, placed special emphasis on Islamic religious culture and values.54 He
provided a fresh view of the particular condition of Muslim and Oriental Christian commu-
nities under foreign rule and the place of Jerusalem in Islamic ideology during the crusader
period.55 Daniella Talmon-Heller, Reuven Amitai, Yaacov Lev, and Yehoshua Frenkel, to
name just a few among the Israeli scholars dealing with the subject, widened our under-
standing of the Muslim world in the crusader period by bringing new insights from the
perspectives of socioeconomic, political, and intellectual history. Several examples may
illustrate this point: Talmon-Heller focuses on Islamic piety and religion and the very con-
cept of public space in the crusader period.56 Yaacov Lev’s research on Fatimid Egypt,
Saladin, and Nur-al-Din has become an integral component of crusader bibliography.57 Of
great relevance to attaining a more comprehensive understanding of the political and mili-
tary world of the crusades are Reuven Amitai’s studies on the Mongols, their tactics, and
their varying relations with Christendom and the leading powers in the Levant.58
About twenty-five years after the death of Joshua Prawer, it is rather clear that Israeli his-
torians have reevaluated many of his premises and conclusions, altering some of them and
completely reversing others. This scholarly mechanism reveals the complete autonomy of
crusader research in Israel, free of ideological and political considerations. Despite super-
fluous arguments that Israeli research of the crusades is actually subject to extra-scholarly
considerations of the different contesting ideological wings that delineate the contempo-
rary Israeli public sphere,59 one can argue that such generalizations are detached from the
681
actual work of Israeli historians. Simply put, such claims do not justice to the work of these
scholars. The historiographical transformations in Israelis’ research of the crusades, their
causes and outcomes, do not reflect changing ideological or political fashions. Quite the
reverse. The continuous development of research on the crusades and the Latin Kingdom of
Jerusalem, in all its many and rich facets, is clearly rooted in the process of the accumulation
of and continuous improvement in historical knowledge gained from both written documen-
tation and archeological finds. When Prawer began his research, the native aspects of the
crusades were almost terra incognita. It was Prawer’s zeal that made this field a legitimate
and developing area of research. The limited scope of historical and archeological finds in
Prawer’s time—and not any ideological bias—dictated the segregation model. Later gen-
erations of Israeli historians and archeologists entered this newly formed field and added
their insights. Gradually, quantity became quality, and the scholarly perspective completely
changed. In the same vein, one may expect that future findings and interpretative paradigms
will again sustain new schools, and these in turn will argue with their predecessors as, at the
same time, they continue them.
NOTES
1 Ronnie Ellenblum, Crusader Castles and Modern Histories (Cambridge, 2007), 61. See, also,
Yael Katzir’s documentary films, such as A Walk in Crusader Jerusalem (1980), Christianity and
Christians in Jerusalem, (1981), In Quest of the True Cross, (1985), and In the Footsteps of the
Crusaders in Caesarea and St Jean d’Acre (1996).
2 Any attempt to offer a bibliographical summary of Prawer’s contribution to the history of the
crusades would prove exhausting. See, for instance, Jonathan Riley Smith, “History, the Crusades
and the Latin East, 1095–1204: A Personal View,” in Crusaders and Muslims in Twelfth-Century
Syria, ed. Maya Shatzmiller (Leiden, New York, 1993), 2.
3 Giles Constable, Kenneth M. Setton, and Hans Eberhard Mayer, “Memoirs of Fellows and
Corresponding Fellows of the Medieval Academy of America: Joshua Prawer,” Speculum 66,
3 (1991), 727–729. A similar view was expressed by Christopher Tyerman, The Invention of the
Crusades (Houndmills, 1998), 123.
4 “Crusader Palestine: Map and Index,” in Atlas of Israel (Jerusalem, 1960).
5 Joshua Prawer, “La bataille de Hattin,” Israel Exploration Journal 14 (1964), 160–179.
6 He strongly opposed, however, any analogy between the Crusader Kingdom and the State of
Israel, emphasizing the fact that modern Zionists settled and worked the land, whereas the crusad-
ers ruled over a conquered land worked by natives and that was too limited to ensure permanency.
Although he refrained from any scholarly writing on the subject, Prawer often expressed his
view in a series of interviews to the media in Israel and abroad. See, also, Jonathan Riley Smith,
The Crusades: A History (London, 2005), 304; and Ellenblum, Crusader Castles and Modern
Histories, 57.
7 Joshua Prawer, “The Archaeological Research of the Crusader Period,” in Thirty Years of
Archaeology in Israel. 1948–1978 (Jerusalem, 1981), 117–128.
8 Benjamin Z. Kedar, “Joshua Prawer (1917–1990): Historian of the Crusading Kingdom of
Jerusalem,” Mediterranean Historical Review 5 (1990), 113.
9 Sylvia Schein, Gateway to the Heavenly City: Crusader Jerusalem and the Catholic West (1099–1187)
(Aldershot, 2005), dedicatory page.
10 See, Joshua Prawer, “Jerusalem, Capital of the Crusader Kingdom,” in Judah and Jerusalem
(Jerusalem, 1957), 90–104 [Hebrew]; idem, Jerusalem – Living City (Jerusalem, 1968, trans-
lated into English, French, German, and Spanish); idem, “Jérusalem terrestre, Jérusalem celeste.
Jérusalem dans la perspective chrétienne et juive au haut moyen âge et à la veille de la première
682
croisade,” in Jérusalem: l’unique et l’universel (Vandôme, 1979), 17–27; idem, “Jerusalem in the
Christian and Jewish Perspectives of the Early Middle Ages,” in Settimane di studi sull’alto medio
evo (Spoleto, 1980), 1–57.
11 Liat Collins, “Expert on ‘Knights’ Honored,” The Jerusalem Post (17 November, 1989).
12 Among Prawer’s students who reached international recognition in the field, one should mention
David Jacoby, Aryeh Grabois, Benjamin Kedar, Emanuel Sivan, Yvonne Friedman, Sylvia Schein,
Sophia Menache, and Ronnie Ellenblum. On their research and critical revision of Prawer’s main
thesis, see below.
13 “Joshua Prawer, Renowned Scholar Dies at 73,” The Jerusalem Post (2 May, 1990); Hyam
Maccoby, “Obituary: Joshua Prawer,” The Independent (4 May 1990); David Abulafia, “A Crusa
ding Revisionist: Obituary of Joshua Prawer,” The Guardian (4 May 1990).
14 On the innovative character of Prawer’s use of the Hebrew language and its attraction, see, Kedar,
“Joshua Prawer (1917–1990),” 108–109.
15 Ibid., 110.
16 One should mention, inter alia, the pioneer studies of R. Röhricht, René Gousset, and Sir Steven
Runciman, as well as the work of Arthur Beugnot, Emmanuel G. Rey, Hans Prutz, Gaston Dodu,
and John La Monte. See, Christopher Tyerman, “Modern Historiography,” in The Crusades: An
Encyclopedia, ed. Alan V. Murray, 4 vols. (Sta. Barbara, 2006), II, 582–588.
17 Jonathan Riley-Smith asserted, along with Jean Richard, that Prawer “wrote institutional stud-
ies of lasting value and … rewrote the constitutional history of the Kingdom of Jerusalem.” The
Crusades: A History, 2.
18 The book includes eleven revised articles, five of them previously appearing in French and one in
Italian. Reviewed by Robert B. Patterson, The American Historical Review 86 (1981), 822.
19 A History of the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, 2 vols. (Jerusalem, 1963, 1971); The Latin Kingdom
of Jerusalem: Colonialism in the Middle Ages (London, 1972); Crusader Institutions (Oxford,
1980); A History of the Jews in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem (Oxford, 1988). For a complete
list of Prawer’s publications, see Outremer: Studies in the History of the Crusading Kingdom of
Jerusalem presented to Joshua Prawer (Jerusalem, 1982), 7–13.
20 See Prawer’s early studies in this regard, such as, “The Settlement of the Latins in Jerusalem,”
Speculum 27 (1952), 490–503; “Colonization Activities in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem,”
Revue belge de philologie et d’histoire 29 (1951), 1063–1118; “The Assise de Teneure and the
Assise de Vente: A Study of Landed Property in the Latin Kingdom,” Economic History Review
41 (1951–52), 77–87; “Les premiers temps de la féodalité dans le royaume latin de Jérusalem,”
Revue d’histoire du droit 22 (1954), 401–424; “La noblesse et le régime féodal du royaume latin
de Jérusalem,” Moyen âge 65 (1959), 41–74.
21 Joshua Prawer, “Etude de quelques problèmes agraires et socialux d’une seigneurie croisée au
XIIIe siècle,” Byzantion 22 (1952), 5–6, 23; (1953), 143–169.
22 Prawer, The Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, 524. Reviewed by James A. Brundage in Speculum
50–1 (1975), 145–147.
23 Reviewed by D. Richards, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 18 (1), 109–110.
24 Joshua Prawer, “The Jews in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem,” Zion 11 (1946), 38–82; “The
Jewish Population in Palestine: Arab Rule; the Crusaders; the Mameluk Period (640–1516),”
Three Historical Memoranda Submitted by the General Council of the Jewish Community of
Palestine (Jerusalem, 1947), 27–51; “The Friars of Mount Zion and the Jews of Jerusalem in the
Fifteenth Century,” Bulletin of the Jewish Palestine Exploration Society 14 (1948–49), 15–24;
“Jewish Resettlement in Crusader Jerusalem,” Ariel 19 (1967), 60–66; “Notes on the History of
the Jews in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem,” Immanuel 9 (1979), 81–87.
25 Josep Torró, “Contre les stéréotypes: Etudes sur la colonization et l’ésclavage – Jérusalem ou
Valence: La première colonie d’Occident,” Annales 55 (2000), 985.
26 See a critical review of Prawer’s premises and conclusions, along with important new data, by
Benjamin Z. Kedar and Muhammad al-Hajjuj, “Muslim Villagers of the Frankish Kingdom of
683
Jerusalem: Some Demographic and Onomastic Data,” in Itinéraires d’Orient: Hommages à

Claude Cahen, ed. Raoul Curiel and Rika Gyselen (Bures-sur-Yvette, 1994), 145–156.
27 Ronnie Ellenblum, Frankish Rural Settlement in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem (Cambridge,
1998), 3–38; idem, Crusader Castles and Modern Histories, 55 ff.
28 Ibid., 304.
29 See a brief biographical note and a list of publications in In Laudem Hierosolymitani: Studies
in Crusades and Medieval Culture in Honour of Benjamin Z. Kedar, ed. Iris Shagrir, Ronnie
Ellenblum, and Jonathan Riley-Smith (Aldershot, 2007), IX–XXIII.
30 Benjamin Z. Kedar, “The Battle of Hattin Revisited,” in Horns of Hattin, ed. Benjamin Z. Kedar
(Jerusalem and London, 1992), 190–207.

31 Benjamin Z. Kedar, Franks, Muslims, and Oriental Christians in the Latin Levant: Studies in
Frontier Acculturation (Aldershot, 2006). See, also, idem, “The Subjected Muslims of the Frankish
Levant,” in Muslims under Latin Rule, 1100–1300, ed. James M. Powell (Princeton, 1990),
135–174; idem, “Some New Sources on Palestinian Muslims before and during the Crusades,”
in Die Kreuzfahrerstaaten als multikulturelle Gesellschaft, ed. H. E. Mayer (Munich, 1997),
129–140; idem, “Multidirectional Conversion in the Frankish Levant,” in Varieties of Religious
Conversion in the Middle Ages, ed. J. Muldoon (Gainesville, 1997), 190–199.
32 Yvonne Friedman, “Crusades and Settlement – Crossroads and Paths in Research,” Cathedra 100
(2000), 264–268 [Hebrew].
33 Eadem, “Women in Captivity and Their Ransom in the Crusader Period,” in Cross-Cultural
Convergences in the Crusader Period, ed. M. Goodich, S. Menache, and S. Schein (New York,
1996), 75–87; eadem, “The Ransom of Captives in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem,” in Autour
de la Première Croisade, ed. M. Balard (Paris, 1996), 177–189; eadem, “The ‘Great Precept’
of Ransom: The Jewish Perspective,” in La Liberazione dei ‘captivi’ tra Christianità e Islam,
ed. G. Cipollone, Collectanea Archivi Vaticani 46 (Citta del Vaticano, 2000), 161–172; eadem,
“Captivity and Ransom: The Experience of Women,” in Gendering the Crusades, ed. S. Lambert
and S. Edgington (Cardiff, 2001), 121–139.
34 Eadem, “Gestures of Conciliation? Peacemaking Endeavors and Cultural Consequences,” in In
Laudem Hierosolymitani, 31–48; eadem, “Christian-Muslim Peacemaking in the Medieval Latin
East,” in Peace, War, and Violence, ed. Jost Duellfer and Robert Frank (Essen, 2009), 45–63.
35 Prawer, The Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, 416–468.
36 On her important contribution to the history of crusader art, see Gil Fishhof, “Reading Pictorial
Languages: Art as Text,” in Pictorial Languages and Their Meanings: Liber Amicorum in Honor
of Nurith Kenaan-Kedar, ed. Christine B. Verzar and Gil Fishhof (Tel Aviv, 2006), xxix–xxxi. Her
list of publications appears on xxxiii–xxxviii.
37 Nurith Kenaan-Kedar, “Local Christian Art in Twelfth-Century Jerusalem,” Israel Exploration
Journal 23 (1973), 167–175, 221–229; eadem, “Symbolic Meaning in Crusader Architecture: The
Twelfth-Century Dome of the Holy Sepulcher Church in Jerusalem,” Cahiers archéologiques 34
(1986), 109–117; eadem, “A Neglected Series of Crusader Sculpture: The Ninety-Six Corbels of
the Church of the Holy Sepulchre,” Israel Exploration Journal 42 (1992), 103–114; eadem, “The
Role and Meaning of Crusader Architectural Decoration: From Local Romanesque Tradition to
Gothic Hegemony,” Schriften des historischen Kollegs 37 (1997), 165–178; see, also, eadem,
“The Cathedral of Sebaste: Its Western Donors and Models,” in The Horns of Hattin, 99–120.
38 Esther Garbiner, “Israeli Research of Crusader Art and Its Local Character,” Mutar 7 (1999),
33–38 [Hebrew].
39 Adrian J. Boas, Crusader Archeology: The Material Culture of the Latin East (London, 1999);
idem, Jerusalem at the Time of the Crusades (London, 2001); idem, Domestic Settings (Leiden,
2010).
40 Y. Rosen, “Excavation of the Courthouse Site at ‘Akko: Medieval Glass Vessels (Area TA),” Atiqot
31 (1997), 75–85 [Hebrew]; Y. Gorin-Rosen, “The Glass Vessels,” in Tel Yoqne’am Excavations
on the Acropolis, ed. M. Avissar, IAA Reports 25 (2005), 103–109 [Hebrew]; Edna Stern, Trade
684
and Distribution of Ceramics in the Mediterranean during the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries
as Reflected in the Excavations of Crusader Acre (PhD dissertation, University of Haifa, 2007)
[Hebrew].
41 Edna Stern, “The Excavations at Lower Horvat Manot: A Medieval Sugar Production Site,” Atiqot
42 (2001), 277–308 [Hebrew]; eadem, The Sugar Industry in Palestine during the Crusader,
Ayubid, and Mamluk Periods in Light of Archeological Finds (MA thesis, Hebrew University of
Jerusalem, 1999).
42 Robert Kool, “The Khirbet Shatta Hoard: European and Latin Coins and Islamic Jewellery from
the Late Thirteenth Century,” in The Gros Tournois: Proceedings of the Fourteenth Oxford
Symposium on Coinage and Monetary History, ed. N. Mayhew (Oxford 1997), 257–278; idem,
“A Fatimid Amulet-Box with European Coins from the Eleventh Century,” American Journal
of Numismatics 11 (1999), 47–68; Robert Kool and Haim Gitler, “Coins in the Frankish East
(1099–1291),” in Terra Santa: Dalla Crociata alla Custodia dei Luoghi Santi Catalogo e mostra,
ed. M. Picherillo, S. Folda, and M. Arslan (Milan, 2000), 231–235, 241–243.
43 David Jacoby, “Mercanti genovesi e veneziani e le loro merci nel Levante crociato,” in Genova,
Venezia, il Levante nei secoli XII-XIV, ed. Gherardo Ortalli and Dino Puncuh, Atti della Società
Ligure di Storia Patria, n. s. 41 (115)/1 (2001), 213–256; idem, “The Economic Function of
the Crusader States of the Levant: A New Approach,” in Europe’s Economic Relations with the
Islamic World – 13th–18th Centuries, ed. Simonetta Cavaciocchi (Firenze, 2007), 159–191; idem,
“The Supply of War Materials to Egypt in the Crusader Period,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and
Islam 25 (2001), 102–132.
44 Idem, Société et démographie à Byzance et en Romanie Latine, (London, 1975); idem, Studies on
the Crusader States and on Venetian Expansion (Northampton, 1989); idem, Trade, Commodities,
and Shipping in the Medieval Mediterranean (Aldershot, 1997); idem, Byzantium, Latin Romania,
and the Mediterranean (Aldershot, 2001); idem, Commercial Exchange Across the Mediterranean
(Aldershot, 2005).
45 Idem, “A Venetian Manual of Commercial Practice from Crusader Acre,” in I comuni italiani nel
regno crociato di Gerusalemme, ed. Benjamin Z. Kedar and G. Airaldi (Genoa, 1986), 403–428;
idem, “Venetian Anchors for Crusader Acre,” The Mariner’s Mirror 71 (1985), 5–12; idem,
“The Venetian Presence in the Latin Empire of Constantinople (1204–1261): The Challenge
of Feudalism and the Byzantine Inheritance,” Jahrbuch der Osterreichischen Byzantinistik 43
(1993), 141–201; idem, “Venetian Settlers in Latin Constantinople (1204–1261): Rich or Poor?”
Biblioteca dell’Istituto Ellenico di Studi bizantini e postbizantini di Venezia 19 (Venice, 1998),
181–204; idem, “Pèlerinage médiéval et sanctuaries de Terre Sainte: La perspective vénitienne,”
Ateneo Veneto 24 (1986), 27–58.
46 J. Prawer, The Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, 200–227.
47 A. Grabois, “Les pèlerins occidentaux en Terre Sainte et Acre: d’Accon des croisés à Saint-
Jean d’Acre,” Studi Medievali 3, 24 (1983), 247–264; idem, “De la “géographie sacrée à la
‘Palestinographie’: Changements dans la description de la Palestine par les pèlerins chrétiens
au XIIIe siècle,” Cathedra 31 (1984), 43–54; idem, “Les pèlerins occidentaux en Terre Sainte au
Moyen Age: Une minorité étrangère à sa patrie spirituelle,” Studi Medievali 3, 30 (1989), 15–48.
48 Yvonne Friedman, “Pilgrimage to the Holy Land as an Act of Devotion in Jewish and Christian
Outlook,” in Rashi et la culture juive en France du Nord au moyen âge, ed. G. Dahan and
G. Nahon (Paris, 1997), 278–301; eadem, “Pilgrims in the Shadow of the Crusader Kingdom,”
in Knights of the Holy Land, ed. Silvia Rosenberg (Jerusalem, 1999), 100–110; eadem, “‘In the
Name of God and Profit’—Holy Land Itineraria in the Mamluk Period,” in Eretz Israel and
Jerusalem 4–5 (2007), 199–217.
49 Yvonne Friedman and Anat Peled, “Did the Crusaders Construct Roads?” Qadmoniot 20 (1988),
119–123 [Hebrew]; eadem, “The Map of Roads in Galilee in the Middle Ages,” in Hikrei Eretz:
Studies in the History of the Land of Israel, ed. Y. Friedman, Y. Schwartz, and Z. Safrai (Ramat
Gan, 1997), 323–341 [Hebrew].
685
50 Sylvia Schein, Fideles Crucis: The Papacy, the West, and the Recovery of the Holy Land (1274–1314)
(Oxford, 1991), passim.
51 Joshua Prawer, “Military Orders and Crusader Politics in the Second Half of the Thirteenth
Century,” in Die geistlichen Ritterorden Europas, ed. J. Fleckenstein and M. Hellmann
(Sigmaringen, 1980), 217–229.
52 Sophia Menache, “Contemporary Attitudes Concerning the Templars’ Affair: Propaganda Fiasco?”
Journal of Medieval History 8 (1982), 135–147; eadem, “The Templar Order: A Failed Ideal?”
The Catholic Historical Review 79 (1993), 1–2; eadem, “A Clash of Expectations: Self-Image
Versus the Image of the Knights Templar in Medieval Narrative Sources,” Analecta Turonensia
13 (2005), 47–58; eadem, “Elections in the Military Orders in the Late Middle Ages: An Achilles’
Heel?” Analecta Turonensia 14 (2007), 1–15; eadem, “Rewriting the History of the Templars
According to Matthew Paris,” in Cross-Cultural Convergences in the Crusader Period: Essays
Presented to Aryeh Grabois (New York, 1996), 183–213; eadem, “Jacques de Molay, the Last
Master of the Temple,” in Knighthood of Christ: Essays on the History of the Crusades and the
Knights Templar presented to Malcolm Barber on his 65th Birthday (Ashgate, 2007), 229–240.
53 Eadem, “La Orden de Calatrava y el Clero Andaluz (siglos XIII-XV),” in En la España medieval:
Estudios en memoria del Profesor D. Claudio Sánchez Albornoz, 5, 1 (1986), 633–653; eadem,
“A Juridical Chapter in the History of the Order of Calatrava: The Mastership of Don Alonso
de Aragón (1443–1444),” The Legal History Review 55 (1987), 321–334; eadem, “Una
personificación del ideal caballerezco en el medioevo tardío: Don Alonso de Aragón,” Revista
de la Universidad de Alicante 6 (1987), 9–29; eadem, “Medieval States and Military Orders: The
Order of Calatrava in the Late Middle Ages,” in In Laudem Hierosolymitani, 457–468.
54 Emmanuel Sivan, L’Islam et la croisade: Idéologie et propaganda dans les reactions musulmanes
aux croisades (Paris, 1968); idem, Modern Arab Historiography of the Crusades (Tel Aviv, 1973);
idem, “La genèse de la contre-croisade: Un traité damasquin du début du XIIe siècle,” in Les rela-
tions des pays d’Islam avec le monde latin du milieu du Xe siècle au milieu du XIIIe siècle, ed.
Françoise Micheau (Paris, 1966, 2000), 26–51; idem, “Muslim Representations of the Crusades,”
in Verso Gerusalemme, 125–133; idem, “Islam and the Crusades: Antagonism, Polemics,
Dialogue,” in Religionsgespräche im Mittelalter, ed. Bernard Lewis and Friedrich Niewohner
(Wiesbaden, 1992), 207–215.
55 Idem, “Notes sur la situation des chrétiens à l’epoque ayyubide,” Revue de l’histoire des religions
172, 2 (1967), 117–130; idem, “Le caractère sacré de Jérusalem dans l’Islam aux XIIe-XIIIe siècles,”
Studia Islamica 27 (1967), 149–182; idem, “Réfugiés syro-palestiniens au temps des croisades,”
Revue des études islamiques 35 (1967), 135–148.
56 Daniella Talmon-Heller, Islamic Piety in Medieval Syria: Mosques, Cemeteries, and Sermons
under the Zangids and Ayyūbids (Leiden, 2007); eadem, “Hanbalite Islam in 12th–13th Century
Jabal Nablus and Jabal Qasyun,” Studia Islamica 79 (1994), 103–120; eadem, “Religion in the
Public Sphere: Rulers, Scholars, and Commoners in Zangid and Ayyubid Syria (1150–1260),” in
The Public Sphere in Muslim Societies, ed. M. Hoexter, S. N Eisenstadt, and N. Levtzion (Albany,
2002), 49–64.
57 Yaacov Lev, State and Society in Fatimid Egypt (Leiden, 1991); idem, Saladin in Egypt (Boston,
1999); idem, Charity, Endowments, and Charitable Institutions in Medieval Islam (Gainesville,
2005); idem, “The Social and Economic Policies of Nur al-Din (1146–1174): The Sultan of
Syria,” Der Islam 81 (2004), 218–242; idem, “Aspects of the Egyptian Society in the Fatimid
Period,” in Egypt and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid, and Mamluk Eras, ed. U. Vermeulen and J.
Van Steenbergen (Leuven, 2001), 1–33; idem, “The Fatimids and Byzantium,” Graeco-Arabica
(2000), 156–169.
58 Reuven Amitai, “Mongol Raids into Palestine (A.D. 1260 and 1300),” Journal of the Royal
Asiatic Society (1987), 236–255; idem, “Mamlu‫‏‬k Espionage among Mongols and Franks,” Asian
and African Studies 22 (1988), 173–181; idem, “Mamluk Perceptions of the Mongol-Frankish
Rapprochement,” Mediterranean Historical Review 7 (1992), 50–65; idem, “The Mongols and
686
Karak in Trans-Jordan,” Archivum Eurasiae Medii Aevi 9 (1995–1997), 5–16; idem, “Foot Soldiers,
Militiamen, and Volunteers in the Early Mamluk Army,” in Texts, Documents, and Artifacts:
Islamic Studies in Honour of D. S. Richards, ed. Chase F. Robinson (Leiden, 2003), 232–249;
idem, “A Mongol Governor of al-Karak in Jordan? A Re-examination of an Old Document in
Mongolian and Arabic,” Zentralasiatische Studien 36 (2007), 263–275; idem, “Mongol Provincial
Administration: Syria in 1260 as a Case-Study,” in In Laudem Hierosolymitani, 117–143.
59 David Ohana, Neither Canaanites nor Crusaders (Jerusalem, 2008), 307–319 [Hebrew].
687
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
WHAT ARE THE CRUSADES?

Gary Dickson
A cynic might give an immediate answer—an academic industry, although there is

more than a grain of truth in such a response. The first, pamphlet-sized Bulletin of the
newly founded Society for the Study of the Crusades and the Latin East appeared in 1981.
Listed were 103 members. The 2012 issue of number 32 of the Bulletin listed 531 members,
according to my unscientific count. That represents a considerable jump in the membership.
What is even more impressive is how cosmopolitan the membership has become. Not only
do members come from all over Europe, North America, and the Middle East, but also from
Australia, Malta, Cyprus, Turkey, Russia, China, Japan, Iran, and Brazil. Truly it can be
said that the crusades now have a global audience.
When one supposes that very many of these members, probably the overwhelming major-
ity, are engaged in university teaching, that means a good number of undergraduate and post-
graduate students are studying the crusades, which also means that they need books on the
crusades. Some will be purchasing books on the crusades; some will be checking out library
books. Consequently, libraries, especially university libraries, will definitely be purchasing
books on the crusades. So are publishers interested in the subject? So will lecturers be writing
articles and books on the crusades? The total of recent publications completed by members
of the Society for 2012 climbs to approximately 313 essays and books, including encyclope-
dia entries. Proof, were it needed, that the crusades have entered the academic mainstream.
Moreover, there is an obvious subsequent question. How many of the postgraduates now
studying and doing doctoral research on the crusades hope to go on to teach their subject?
To those who know its history, the crusade trajectory is familiar, although dating the
steps in the process is likely to be contested. By the time the First Crusade became the
Second Crusade, a variety of other crusades were soon added, not only to the Holy Land, but
also beyond the frontiers of Christian Europe, and summoned for causes other than combat-
ting the Muslims. Thus, along with the idea of the crusade, still much debated by scholars,
came the crusading movement, a perception that the crusades would continue regardless of
how dispiriting the results were following any individual enterprise.
When the crusades began is nearly always (but not always) dated 1095. When it came
to an end is more controversial. Jonathan Riley-Smith affirmed in 1987 that “the crusading
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— c h a p t e r 3 8 : W h a t a re t h e c r u s a d e s ? —
movement ended with the fall of Malta on 13 June 1798,” not to a Muslim prince, but to
Napoleon Bonaparte (Riley-Smith, 2002: 89). That ringing declaration was modified some-
what in 2009, when our pre-eminent crusade historian volunteers: “I am much less ready
nowadays to provide a terminal date.” There are, he states, sixteenth- and seventeenth-
century possibilities, but even in the nineteenth century the crusades cast “a long shadow,” a
shadow which extends, as Riley-Smith is all too aware, into the twenty-first century (Riley-
Smith, 2009: 90–92). The nature of that “long shadow” provides one answer to the question
of what the crusades are.
Well before the crusading movement ceased, however—and while the idea of the crusade
was still very much alive—the crusades had become a plan, a program for future success.
At the time plans for the recovery of lost territory in the Holy Land were being composed,
Acre had not yet fallen (1291). Humbert of Romans (d. 1277), a preacher of Louis IX’s
ill-fated crusade to Damietta and former master general of the Dominican Order, wrote his
Opus tripartitum for the Second Council of Lyons (1274). In it, he attempted to deal with
public opinion adverse to the crusade, urged closer rapport or reunion with the Greeks, and
suggested ways of raising much-needed funds (Bird, 2006: II, 612–613). Humbert cited an
unforgotten example of an inspirational crusade preacher. “O shame on our times! … a poor
hermit, Peter, moved all of Christendom.” Another great one would incite others to such
fervor (Humbert of Romans, 1690: II, 200). Past triumphs led to messianic hopes.
Fidenzio of Padua (d. c. 1291) was an Italian Franciscan missionary to the Holy Land,
who knew the Muslim enemy well, having tended the Christian prisoners after Safed fell
(1266) and also at Antioch (1268). Fidenzio probably attended the Second Council of Lyons
where Pope Gregory X asked him to submit a written plan for the reconquest and retention
of the Holy Land which became his Liber recuperationis Terre sanctae, which he com-
pleted in 1291 a few months before the fall of Acre.
Fidenzio’s treatise is remarkable for its comprehensiveness, encompassing past and
future, military strategy and Christian morality. Sufficient, well-armed Christian forces
need to be virtuous and well commanded. An excellent captain must be found (dux populi
Xpistiani), an overall leader, not a luxury-lover, a man of regal qualities. Here again there
is crusade messianism, the search for a savior. Realism and utopian hope commingle in
Fidenzio’s recipe for crusade success (Grabois, 2006: II, 426–427; Fr. Fidenzio de Padua,
1913: II, 1–61).
Pierre Dubois (d. after 1321) probably wrote his De recuperatione Terre Sancte
(The Recovery of the Holy Land) around 1306. He was ill informed about European his-
tory and his knowledge of the Holy Land was based on what he read. What is interesting
in his proposal was its sweeping scope. For the Holy Land to be recovered and retained,
the Church had to be morally reformed; attractive, educated Christian women had to be
persuaded to marry Saracens and convert them; those Christians who made war in Europe
would be exiled to the Holy Land; the military orders would be combined; the political
rivalries in the empire and the Italian cities would be resolved. Finally, France would
emerge with a kingdom in the East and with increased sway in the West. In Dubois’s vision
a successful crusade would be a stepping stone to a utopian reordering of Christian Europe
(Pierre Dubois, 1956; Jacques Paviot, “Dubois, Pierre,” 2006: II, 366). Similarly, in some
of today’s “crusades” there is more than a hint of utopianism.
After Constantinople became Istanbul, the geo-political sphere of crusading continued
to expand. One modern scholar alleges that “the principal motivating factor responsible
for the discovery of the New World” was “the medieval crusading spirit.” He is discussing
689
— Gary Dickson —
“[Christopher] Columbus the crusader.” Bartolomé de Las Casas, who claims to have
recorded and paraphrased Columbus’s journal, quotes him directly in this passage “for so
I declared to Your Highnesses that all the gain of this my Enterprise should be spent in
the conquest of Jerusalem.” This was prior to 1492. Later, in 1503, he wrote a letter to the
Spanish Sovereigns, saying the Abbot Joachim prophesied that the rebuilder of Jerusalem
would be a Spaniard (Hamdani, 1979: 39–40, 44). Utopian hopes are grounded in a pro-
phetic future. That, too, has present-day resonances.
Fifteenth- and sixteenth-century exhortatoria urged renewed crusading warfare against
the Turks (Housley, 1992: 384–387). Then, when Jacques Bongars published his mighty
collection of chroniclers of the crusades in 1611, he chose the same ringing title for it that
Guibert of Nogent had given his chronicle of the first crusade in the early twelfth century—the
Gesta Dei per Francos. As exemplified by the canonized crusader-king Saint Louis, French
participation in the crusading movement defined a sense of French identity—an elect people
in the service of God and Christendom. Medievalists helped to perpetuate the memory of
that tradition. During the reign of Louis XIV, the great medieval Latinist Charles Du Fresne
Du Cange published his edition of Joinville’s Histoire de S. Louis de France, dedicating it to
the saint’s modern royal namesake (Du Cange, 1668), while the dedicatory epistle which the
Gallican, Jesuit historian Louis Maimbourg attached to his Histoire des croisades (1675–76)
likens Louis XIV to the heroic crusaders of France’s medieval past (Maimbourg, 1682).
Efforts to promote a new crusade in the seventeenth century were also endorsed by Leibniz,
the papacy, and French royal counselors (Dickson, 2010: 168). Thus the crusade remained a
living enterprise in the post-medieval world. Moreover, the possibility of its re-appearance
kept the memory of the crusades alive. That memory the twenty-first century retains.
The eighteenth-century philosophes, however, generally saw the crusades as wholly con-
signed to a medieval past, a past that, thankfully, was over and done with. In his History of
England, the Scottish philosopher David Hume summed up “the Crusades … which have
ever since engaged the curiosity of mankind, as the most signal and most durable monument
of human folly that has yet appeared in any age or nation. … [T]his universal frenzy …
spread itself by contagion throughout Europe” (Hume, 1786: 292). Here Hume directly bor-
rows from Voltaire’s maladie épidémique in his Histoire des croisades (Voltaire, 1752: 103).
Another Scottish historian, William Robertson, names the crusades as the most “singular
event” in “the history of mankind”, characterizing it as “an extraordinary frenzy of the human
mind” (Robertson, 1824: IV, 214). Then came Edward Gibbon, laying down his final verdict:
“the principle of the crusades was a savage fanaticism” (Gibbon, 1946: III, 2160). Irrational
to its the core, the crusades were the absolute antithesis of what Enlightenment intellectuals
advocated. Certainly, a negative picture of the crusades persists in the present, especially
among those who deplore warfare, religious zeal, and collective enthusiasm. Therefore, for
some people, the legacy of the philosophes defines the crusades today. Yet that is not the
whole eighteenth-century story.
Upon Voltaire’s historical foundations, Condorcet constructed his rationalist–progressivist
interpretation of the crusades. In his Sketch for a Historical Picture of the Progress of the
Human Mind (1795), Condorcet prepared the way for a rehabilitation of the crusades accord-
ing to Enlightenment principles by celebrating their inadvertently happy consequences.
“These wars, undertaken in the cause of superstition, served in destroying it.” To
Condorcet, the crusades were not so much an essential feature of the Middle Ages—the
general perspective of medievalists today—as a determining factor in the dissolution of
the medieval world (Condorcet, 1955: 92). Medievalists usually encounter this r elentlessly
690
modernist perspective only in connection with the Renaissance and the Reformation.
Nevertheless, Condorcet’s progressivist view of the crusades deserves credit for opening up
a host of interpretive strategies which would be exploited later on.
Bonaparte’s Egyptian campaign of 1798–99 did not lead to the recapture of Jerusalem.
Still, its galvanizing impact upon French orientalism (and with it the historiography of the
crusades) is not in doubt. Napoleon’s expedition to Egypt, rekindling, as it did, memories
of St. Louis’ Egyptian crusade, not only revivified interest in the crusading movement;
it also meant that a fresh look at crusade history was needed; for in the Napoleonic age,
the Enlightenment interpretation of the crusades began to look increasingly old-fashioned,
obstructing its proper integration into the history of France.

Challenging the assumptions of the Enlightenment was romantic medievalism, and
particularly the idealizing Catholic imagination of François René de Chateaubriand, who
published his Génie du Christianisme in 1802. In it he put forward as the only “two noble
subjects for epic poetry in modern times,” namely, “the crusades and the discovery of
the new world” (Chateaubriand, 1871: I, pt 2, 173–174). In the English-speaking world,
Chateaubriand’s contemporary, Sir Walter Scott, was romantic medievalism’s most illus-
trious spokesman. His best-known novel, Ivanhoe, was published in 1819. The two heroic
protagonists of the novel were King Richard I of England and Ivanhoe, both returning from
the Third Crusade, both exemplars of chivalry. Ivanhoe fought at Acre and acquited himself
well. Yet Cedric, Ivanhoe’s father, thinks that returning crusaders are “dissolute.” The vil-
lains of the story are Templars (Scott, 1988).
Scott’s later reflections on the crusades and chivalry are similarly ambiguous. “[Chiva
lry] … blazed forth with high vigour during the Crusades, which indeed may be considered
as exploits of national knight-errantry.” Nevertheless, “the genius alike of the age and of the
order tended to render the zeal of the professors of Chivalry fierce, burning, and intolerant.”
A Christian knight faced with an infidel who denied the doctrines of the faith should thrust
his sword “six inches into the accursed bowels’ of that infidel” (Scott, 1892: 14–15, 107).
Scott’s romantic medievalism, so warmly embraced by American southerners of the civil
war era, was tinctured with Scottish Enlightenment reservations. Nonetheless, romantic
medievalism still figures, unambiguously, in cinematic depictions of the Middle Ages, and,
in some instances, of the crusades as well.
In 1806 the History and Literature section of the Institut de France announced a new
prize competition. Its subject would be the crusades. Candidates were called upon “to exam-
ine … the influence of the crusades on the civil liberty of the peoples of Europe, on their
civilization, on the progress of enlightenment, on commerce and industry” (Franquet de
Franqueville, 1895–96: II, 402). As one would have expected, the phrasing of the question
is sober and judicious. There is no hint of Chateaubriand-style romantic idealization. Nor,
when it alludes to the progrès des lumières, does the Institut de France disavow the legacy
of the Enlightenment. Rather, historiographical continuity and change are nicely balanced.
Stripped of its Voltaire-inspired negations, Condorcet’s rationalist-progressivist interpreta-
tion opens the door to an ideologically uncontentious way of reconciling the French past
with the French present. The question-setters seem to be saying that another old-fashioned
assault upon the Middle Ages was no longer what was needed. What was desired instead
was a scholarly affirmation of the benefits brought by the crusades (sub-text: as dominated
by the French) to “the peoples of Europe,” their liberty, civilization and economic devel-
opment (sub-text: Europeans could expect analogous benefits to flow from an expanded
French role in the contemporary world).
691
Of the two essayists who split the prize, one was a Frenchman, Maxime de Choiseul-
Daillecourt, the other a German, A. H. L. Heeren. Neither essay merits attention. Never
theless, it is clear that the Institut de France, in reaffirming the significance of the crusades
for European history, were very much aware that the historical interpretation of the crusades
was moving in a new direction.
After the prize competition, the European significance of the crusading movement begins
to emerge as an important intellectual and historiographical problem. Indeed, the crusades
in some sense become one of the earliest bridges upon which the perceived chasm between
the Middle Ages and the modern world was to be crossed. So, perhaps, what is most inter-
esting about the phrasing of the question of our 1806 prize competition is what was omit-
ted. The role of papacy and Church was passed over in silence, effectively dechristianizing
the crusades. Thus the crusading movement was implicitly secularized. A secular modern
world was happy to cross a bridge to the Middle Ages, but only on its own terms. Religious
enthusiasm, the Christian fanaticism detested by the philosophes, no longer overshadowed
the crusades. But, paradoxically, the Middle Ages which proved accessible to modernity
had first to be modernized.
When a field of learning acquires its own history, it has come of age. For the study
of the crusades, that moment came in 1841, when Von Ranke’s student Heinrich von
Sybel initiated the historiography of the crusades with the publication of his Geschichte
des ersten Kreuzzuges. Von Sybel refers to the 1806 essay competition and its prize win-
ners (Von Sybel, 1861). So, too, do several influential nineteenth-century histories of Latin
Christianity. Throughout the nineteenth century and well into the twentieth, writers on the
crusades were expected to include a chapter on the significance and meaning of the crusad-
ing movement, invariably translated into the terms of the 1806 prize competition as influ-
ence, consequence, or significance.
Historical interpretations, as we would expect, vary, as do moral judgments. What is
interesting to observe is that, for many historians, the crusades represent more than a narra-
tive of events. In the late nineteenth century Thomas Archer and Charles Kingsford applaud
the crusading movement so enthusiastically that twenty-first century historians might find
their views problematic. “The Middle Ages were … as important and fruitful for man-
kind as any other epoch of the world’s history. The Crusades were their crowning glory of
political achievement” (Archer and Kingsford, 1894: 451). “Political achievement” sounds
strange if it refers to the Latin states of outremer. Could it mean the transitory co-operation
of European Christians of diverse regions in the crusading enterprise? Louis Bréhier in
1907 was also laudatory, but more balanced. “It would be unjust to condemn out of hand
these five centuries of heroism … which left behind in the consciences of modern peoples
a certain ideal of generosity and a taste for sacrifice … which the harshest lessons of reality
will never erase completely” (Bréhier, 1964: 87).
In the reprint of his Encylopaedia Britannica article of 1923, Ernest Barker begins with
the “significance of the crusades” and displays his moderate judgment with the comment
that Europe’s cultural debt to the crusades “has perhaps been unduly emphasized” (Barker,
1936: 6). Arnold Toynbee goes further. In accounting for “the Crusaders’ eventual fail-
ure” he states that “the Medieval Western Christian competitors for dominion over the
Mediterranean Basin were neither strong enough to subdue their neighbours nor cultivated
enough to captivate them” (Toynbee, 1964: 74). Hence the Western crusaders were defeated
both militarily and culturally.
692
Worse still, Sir Steven Runciman feels that the crusades were, morally and religiously,
“a tragic and destructive episode.” At the end of three volumes, he pronounces his last judg-
ment: “the Holy War itself was nothing more than a long act of intolerance in the name of
God, which is a sin against the Holy Ghost” (Runciman, 1955: III, 480). Runciman was a
philhellene in the nineteenth-century British mode. For Runciman, the crusaders’ sack of
Constantinople amounted to desecration.
Astonishingly, in our own time Runciman’s concluding condemnation has been echoed
by no less a personage than Joseph Ratzinger, Pope Benedict XVI. Without mentioning the
crusades, he unmistakably speaks of them. “The cruel consequences of religiously moti-
vated violence are only too evident to us all. Violence does not build up the kingdom of
God, the kingdom of Humanity. On the contrary, it is a favorite instrument of the Antichrist,
however idealistic its religious motivation may be. It serves, not humanity, but inhuman-
ity”1 (Joseph Ratzinger/Pope Benedict XVI, 1211: pt 2, 15).2 The pope who is speaking is
not, of course, Urban II. Still, it must be said that the legacy of the crusades, however inter-
preted, continues to be ambiguous as well as morally resonant.
In absolute contrast, for one extremely well-known Protestant preacher, the crusades
carried an entirely positive moral resonance. The celebrated American Christian evangelist
Billy Graham conducted over 400 US and world missions beginning in 1947 and only com-
ing to a triumphant halt in 2013. These evangelical preaching tours were witnessed by thou-
sands, while Graham vigorously urged members of his audience, potential converts among
them, to step forward. His well-publicized, well-attended services were widely broadcast
to millions on radio and television. His global missions were called Crusades (Strober and
Strober, 2006: xiv–xv, 39).
Consequently, what the crusades are is not necessarily what the crusades were historically
or historiographically. The point is what the crusades now signify. Crusade scholars continue
to wrestle with this question, for what the crusades now mean to them is what the crusades
now are, at least to them. What crusading means to the general public is a different matter.
Yet how scholars think of crusading governs how the crusades are now taught. Obviously, the
awareness of scholars-teachers of the historiography of the crusades allows for an overview
of previous interpretations, which can be passed on to students. Giles Constable offers the
best précis of crusade historiography, from its first days to the brink of the present, as well as
an excellent typology of academic approaches to the crusades. Crusade history has been and
continues to be reinterpreted; for, as Constable affirms, “both the learned world and the gen-
eral public show a voracious appetite for works on the crusades” (Constable, 2008: 3–43, 31).
In surveying the aftermath of the crusading movement, Hans Eberhard Mayer, another
outstanding contemporary crusade scholar, comes to this conclusion: “the consequences of
the crusades for both Western Christendom and Islam must be judged to be either insignifi-
cant or possibly harmful.” Concerning Eastern Christendom, he believes, it was definitely
the latter. All in all, what “the [crusades] cost in … human life was out of all proportion to
the goal that was sought.” That goal, Mayer insists, comes down to one thing: the recapture
of the Holy Sepulchre (Mayer, 1972: 280–283).3
As for the significance of the crusades, Norman Housley strongly disagrees with Mayer.
Housley argues that probably nobody would dispute (except for Mayer?) that “the crusades
played a central rather than a peripheral role in the development of medieval Europe.”
Futhermore, Housley examines the varied impact of the crusades on trade, papal and royal
power, papal taxation, the association of the Church with violence, the negative effect of the
693
crusades on “interfaith relations,” pogroms against the Jews, and holy wars against heretics
(Housley, 2006: 144–166).
To a greater or lesser degree, the crusades were involved in all these spheres. Both Mayer
and Housley touch upon the moral issues raised by crusading, but neither places them as
uppermost. At present, however, moral issues do come to the fore with the vexed question
over imperialism and colonialism between the West and the Islamic world. Nineteenth-
century European imperialism was perceived by Arab nationalists as the modern continua-
tion of the crusading movement (Hillenbrand, 1999). As Riley-Smith puts it, this perception
still casts “a long shadow” (Riley-Smith, 2009: 91–92). Added to that is the early-twenty-
first-century American “crusade against terror” which many Muslims perceive as directed
against them. In an editorial, the British newspaper The Independent on Sunday comments
that the “ideology” of “the so-called Islamic State … sees Western foreign policy as a cru-
sade against Muslims” (5 October 2014).
Certainly aggravating that issue is the acrimonious dispute between the Israelis and the
Palestinians over a territory, terra sancta, and especially a city, Jerusalem, which Jews,
Christians, and Muslims claim as historically, religiously and hence rightfully theirs.
Naturally, we would expect that for the scholars of Israel the history of the crusader state
would be central. Yet, just as in Jewish history the polarities of Galut (or Diaspora) and
Eretz Yisrael (the Holy Land) begins early (certainly from Philo’s Alexandria), so, too, do
the histories of the crusader state and that of medieval European Jewry intertwine. While
since 1948 the people of Israel have become the territorial legatees, touristic custodians, his-
torians and archaeologists of what once was the kingdom of the crusaders, no Israeli crusade
scholar can ignore the fact that the worst European persecutions the Jews suffered up to that
time, the Rhineland massacres of 1096, were inflicted upon them by crusaders en route to
conquer Jerusalem; and that virtually every popular crusading movement thereafter (apart
from the children’s crusade of 1212) slaughtered Jews, while official crusaders frequently
had to be prevented from doing so. Hence the lines of connection which normally function
in crusade scholarship between medieval Western Europe and Outremer carry a particular
meaning for the crusade historians of Israel.
The founding father, the Abraham, of Israel’s crusade historiography, was Joshua Prawer
(1917–90). Arriving as a young immigrant to Palestine in 1936, he went on to receive his
PhD at the Hebrew University. His teacher was the scholar of Roman, British, and French
imperialism, Richard Koebner (Koebner, 1961). Koebner’s intellectual influence would be
apparent in Prawer’s later interpretation of the crusader state. Decades afterwards, Prawer
“proudly accepted” the title of “Koebner’s pupil”, referring to Koebner as “my revered
teacher” (Prawer, 1992: 360–361).
Of his many books, perhaps the best known is The Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem:
European Colonialism in the Middle Ages (1972). Prawer’s international reputation
(founding President of SSCLE) and eminence in academic and civic society considera-
bly raised the profile of crusade studies in Israel. Benjamin Kedar has discussed very per-
ceptively how Prawer’s keen appreciation of the problems faced by the crusaders in their
new homeland impacted upon (and indeed was enriched by) his concerns for the security
and stability of Israel. In Kedar’s words, Prawer “loves his crusaders, identifies with
their worry about the future of their kingdom, and sounds genuinely angry with those
who did not offer [them] sufficient assistence” (Kedar, 1990: 109). Territorial security;
frontiers; worrying patterns of demography; settlements—all had special resonances for
an Israeli scholar.
694
In addition, what Sophia Menache writes is worth bearing in mind. “As the … father of
crusader studies in Israel, Prawer saw the crusader period as an integral part of the country’s
history. This was a bold act, for which he was repeatedly attacked.”4 Indeed, whether we real-
ize it or not, the crusades have a “Prawer thesis.” A stimulating symposium was devoted to it
(“The Crusading Kingdom of Jerusalem–the First European Colonial Society?”), chaired by
Giles Constable, and subsequently published in The Horns of Hattin (Kedar, 1992: 341–366).
Particularly valuable about Prawer’s reply to his critics was his broadening of political
and economic definitions of “colonialism” to include a “colonial mentality” and a “colonial
culture.” “For two hundred years,” Prawer insists, “they [the Frankish settlers] lived among
Muslims and Greeks, who had something to teach Europe—but the Crusader Kingdom …
never [became] a bridge, neither of Greek nor of Arab culture, to Europe. The bridges are in
Sicily, in Spain—never in the Holy Land” (Prawer, ‘The Crusading Kingdom of Jerusalem’:
365). This was Prawer the European medievalist, Prawer the cosmopolitan. Could he perhaps
have been also addressing his fellow countrymen, advising them to be guided by history—and
to choose another path? Thus does historiographical memory impinge upon the present.
When historical memory is transmuted into metaphor its diffusion over space and time
is guaranteed, although not without cost. The idea of a crusade as a heroic, high-minded
struggle between good and evil—the crusade as a controlling metaphor—is alive today.
American crusades were always metaphorical holy wars, stretching back to the days of
Thomas Jefferson’s “crusade against ignorance” through the nineteenth-century’s “holy
crusade for the abolition of slavery” to the Temperance movement’s “crusade against alco-
hol” (“the demon rum”) to Dwight D. Eisenhower’s Second World War memoirs, Crusade
in Europe (1948), right on to contemporary “crusades” against poverty and drugs and ter-
rorism (Dickson, 2003: XIV, 838; 2010: 8). Metaphorical crusading will insure that the
crusades have a present as well as a future. Once they become timeless, however, history,
oversimplified and distorted, will bear the cost.
NOTES
1 I owe this reference to my University of Edinburgh colleague, Owen Dudley Edwards.
2 For what follows I am much indebted to B.Z. Kedar’s, ‘Joshua Prawer (1917–1990), Historian of the
Crusading Kingdom of Jerusalem’, Mediterranean Historical Review, 5 (1990): 107–116. See also
B.Z. Kedar, H.E. Mayer, R.C. Smail (eds.), ‘Joshua Prawer--an Appreciation’, Outremer: Studies in
the History of the Crusading Kingdom of Jerusalem (Jerusalem, 1982), 1–4. Although I am deeply
grateful to Benjamin Kedar for his kind help, I alone am responsible for the views expressed here.
3 The 2nd edition, 1998, lacks chapter 15, “The Aftermath” of the first edition.
4 Sophia Menache, ‘Israeli Historians of the Crusades and their Main Areas of Research, 1946–2008’,
Storia della Storiografia, 53 (2008), 3–24. Sophia Menache thoughtfully forwarded me an off-print
of her article, for which I thank her.
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INDEX
a-Nasr Muhammad, sultan 401 532, 535, 538, 548, 550, 556, 559–560, 597,
Abaga Ilkhan 335–336 602, 626, 628, 632, 636, 681; catena 184;
Abbāsids 317–318, 352 Genoese quarter 547; German hospital 135;
Abbot Christian 150 Hospitaller compound of 3, 546, 562; fall of
Abd Allah ibn al-Mubarak 384–385 241; funda 182, 184; harbor 182; Kingdom of
Abd Allah b. Ubayy b. Salul 421 104; loss of 88; Montmusard 453; palace 225;
Abd al-Malik 172 Pisan quarter 185; plain of 463; siege of 78;
Abd al-Malik al-Muẓaffar 12 triptych 636; Venetian quarter 192
‘Abd al-Man‘am b. ‘Umar al-Jilyani 381 acrobats 561
‘Abd al-Mun‘im al-Jilyānī 367 Acropolites 284
‘Abd al-Raḥmān (al-Ghāfiqī, governor of Actus beati Francisci 243
al-Andalus) 316 Adalbert of Pomerania 145, 148
‘Abd al-Raḥmān al-Halhuli 383 Adana 440
Abu al-‘Aqil 380 Adaži 574
Abu ‘Ali al-Hasan al-‘Iarqi al-Juwayni 380 Adoptianism 166
Abu al-Fadl 381 Adoration of the Magi 505
Abu Ghosh 512, 517, n. 63 Adrian IV, pope 86
Abu Hurayra 422 Adrian/John Comnenos 292
Abu Ja‘far Muḥammad b. Jarīr al-Tabarī 365 Adriatic Sea 118, 284
Abu Shama, Damascene jurist and historian Aegean 268, 271, 526, 538
330, 363, 370, n. 5, 379, 382 aerial photographs 545
Abu’Umar Ibn Qudama 384–385 Afghanistan 328
Abu Yusuf Yu‘qub al-Mansur 428 Agenais 115
Abulstayn (modern Elbistan, Turkey) 335 agriculture 69, 72, 86, 92, 332, 550, 678
Achaia, principality of 120, 248 Agulani 70
Achilles Tatios 294 Ahmad al-Mustazhif 352
Acqui 11 Aḥmad ibn Faḍl Allāh alʽUmarī 330
Acre, 55, 57, 62, 68, 104, 105, 112, 128, 137, Aḥmad ibn al-Hamim 395
181, 189, 191–193, 205, 213–218, 226–227, Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal 40, n. 31
246, 296, 326, 330, 335–338, 391–392, 396, Aimery (Amalric), king of Jerusalem 208, 226,
405, 441, 448, 453, 520–521, 525, 528–529, 239, n. 3, 266–267, 292–293, 492, 513, 677
698
— Index —
Aimery Barlais 231 al-Mujahid of Homs 207

Aimery of Lusignan, constable of Jerusalem, al-Mukhtafī, caliph 318
lord of Jaffa, king of Cyprus (and Jerusalem) al-Mukhtār ibn al-Ḥasan ibn Buṭlān, Christian
199–200, 225–226, 229, 231, 393 physician 314
Aimery the Monk, patriarch 246 al-Nāṣir Yūsuf b. al-‘Azīz 326–329
Aix-en-Provence 11 al-Nasir Muhamad, sultan 401
Akkar (Gibelacar) 201 al-Nuwayrī, historian 326
Al-‘Āḍid, caliph 368 al-Qāḍī al-Fāḍil 368
al-Adil, sultan of Damascus 57, 63, 202, 207, al-Qadisiyya 381
464 al-Qalānisī 321

al-‘Ādil Abū Bakr II 326, 381 al-Rawḍatayn 363
al-Afdal 77, 101, 349, 357, 381 al-Sāliḥ Ayyūb, Ayyubid sultan of Egypt 59,
al-Amīn 365 325–327, 333–334, 369
al-Andalus 27, 34, 316, 419, 427 al-Salih Najm al-Din Ayyub 325
al-‘Arqala, poet 382 al-Sulami Alabes Abenraho 90, 316, 320–321
al-Ashraf Khalīl, sultan 215, 336, 338, 392, 396 Alamania 113
al-Aẓīmī, Aleppine chronicler 318, 318 Alarcos, battle of 428
al-Aziz ‘Uthman 381 albarelli 526
al-Badr 386 Albedo 473Albenga 116, 121
al-Bāhir 363 Albert of Aachen 7, 57, 68, 351–352
al-Barq al-Shāmī 363 Albert the Bear 147–148
al-Bi’na 214, 219 Albert, bishop of Buxhövden 150, 568
al-Dimashqi 403 Albert, patriarch of Jerusalem 205, 226
al-Fandalawi 383 Albert, bishop of Livs 570
al-Ḥakim 290, 313 Albert of Riga 568
al-Haram 483 Albertino Morosini, Venetian bailo in Acre 190
al-Kalawun 396 Albigensian war/crusade 115, 116
al-Kāmil, Sultan 102–103 Alcázar de San Juan Castle, Castile 116
al-Kāmil Muhammad 325–326 Alcherius, archbishop 40, n. 28
al-Kātib al-Isfahānī 363, 366 Aldegot, archbishop of Magdeburg 145
al-Lat 380 Aleppo 68–69, 196–197, 201–203, 207, 265,
al-Malik al-‘Adil 385 267, 329, 334, 445–446
al-Malik al-‘Adil Nur al-Din 382 Alexander (Aristotle) 315, 326
al-Malik al-Ashraf Khalīl 331 Alexander II, pope 13, 21
al-Malik al-Ashraf Mūsā 326 Alexander III, pope 91, 266, 426, 568
al-Malik al-Manṣūr 327 Alexander IV, pope 120, 273, n. 6
al-Malik al-Mu’aẓẓam 450, 452 Alexander VII, pope 177
al-Malik al-Mu’aẓẓam Tūrān-Shāh Ghiyath Alexander of Malonne, bishop of Pɫock 145
al-Dīn 59 Alexander River 464
al-Malik al-Muẓaffar 327 Alexandria 394, 399, 405–407, 429, 532, 538
al-Malik al-Muʽizz 327 Alexios I Comnenus/Komnenos 264, 267,
al-Malik al-Nāṣir Ṣalāh al-Dunyā wal-Dīn 364 278–279, 284, 285, 289, 318
al-Malik al-Ṣālih Ayyūb 324 Alexios III 266–269, 272, 652–653
al-Ma’mūn, caliph 317 Alexios IV 268
al-Mansur Muḥammad of Hamah 207 Alexios Branas, general 297
al-Must’aṣim, caliph 327 Alfonso I of Aragon 116, 169
al-Mas’ūdī 312–313–314 Alfonso II of Asturias 169
al-Mina 529, 538 Alfonso III of Asturias 171
al-Mu’ayad, sultan 394 Alfonso VI of Léon Castile 13, 21, 54, 173
al-Mu’aẓẓam Tūrānshāh 325 Alfonso VII, king of Castile 60, 173
al-Mughīth Umar, prince of Karak 327 Alfonso VIII, king of Castile 62, 84
699
— Index —
Alfonso IX of León 428 Annales School 484, n. 3, 544

Alfonso XI, king of Castile 176 Anne, queen of Cyprus 2
Alfonso X, king of Castile 427 Annunciation 505
Alfonso Buenhombre, Dominican friar 402–403 Ansaldo Bonvicini 186
Algeciras 176 Anselm, archbishop of Canterbury (Saint
Algeria 11 Anselm) 16–18, 39, n. 24
Alī ibn Tāhir al-Sulamī, Damascene jurisprudent Ansgar, abbot-bishop of Catania 37, n. 10
311, 383–384 anthropology 646
Alice, princess of Antioch 100, 615 Antichrist 61, 346, 348
Alice, countess of Blois 62 Antinoe 595

Alice de Ibelin, queen of Cyprus 181, 225–238, Antioch 57, 70–71, 79, 100, 196–209, 267, 290,
400 292, 337, 346, 361, n. 95, 391, 615; plain
Alliances 100, Christian/Muslim 99 199; principality of 85, 199, 235, 265, 338,
Almanzor 166, 172 445; siege of 73, 357, n, 2, 401; battle of 349
Almohads 14, 176, 427 Antony de l’Orsa 398
Almoravids (al-Murābiṭūn) 21, 28, 176, 427 Apamea 445
Almourol Castle 116 Apostles 666–667
alms collectors 121 apse 512
alp-Arslan 347 Apulia 11, 22, 113–114, 120, 529, 609
Alsace 114 Aqṭāy 327
altarpieces 633 Aqua Bella 551
Amalfi 319 Aquitaine 113
Amatus of Montecassino 21, 41, n. 34 Aquitainian friars 249
Amaury of Bethsan 231 Arabia 318Arabian Nights 317–318
Ambrogio Bon, milex 183 Arabic 403
Ambroise 483 Arabic art 401
Ambrose, abbot of St, Bartholomew on Lipari Aragon, kingdom of 19, 91, 117, 169, 171, 174,
37, n. 10 241, 426; crown of 177; kings of 90
Américo Castro 164 Arbel 467
amphorae 523, 525, 532 Arcadia 120
An-Nazir (Nasir) Mohammad, Mamluk sultan archaeology 2, 475, 484, 486, n. 24, 491, 511,
241, 247, 402 519, 522–523, 544, 574, 585, 593, 595, 646,
Anatolia 73, 291, 297, 327, 363 680
Anavarza 440, 445 archangels 636
Anba Michael, Coptic bishop in Cyprus 408 Archer, Thomas 692
Ancona 117, 121, 248–250 archers 92, 469;
Andalusia (al-Andalus) 12, 21, 164–166, 175, architecture 2, 511, 626
320 archuitectural culpture 612
Andreas da Gagliano 249 archivolts 517, n. 58, 612
Andrew II, prince of Hungary 209 Arda, wife of Baldwin of Edessa 615
Andrew II, king of Hungary 118, 229 Arles 114, 121
Androna (al-Andarīn) 442 Armengol VI, count of Urgel 41, n. 35, 172
Andronikos I Comnenos 268, 297 Armenia/Armenians 70, 114, 196–197,
Andronikos III 271–272 202–203, 205–209, 350, 404, 526, 611, 666;
anaemia 594 Greater Armenia 561; Armenian Church 199;
angels 582, 633 Armenian inscriptions 615; Mamluk invasion
Angelo da Clareno 243, 247, 250 of 250; Armenian mission 249; Armenian
Anjou 115, 117, 172 monasticism 614
Anna Komnene/Comnena 263–264, 279–280, armies 520
283–285, 290 armigeri 89
Annales Magdeburgensis 148 armour 151, 279
700
— Index —
army 58 Badin Goneme, Sir 400

Arnald, archbishop of Acerenza 16, 38, n. 21 Badr 380; battle of 424
Arnold of Lübeck 132 Badr el-Djamadi 611
Arnau Mir de Tost 172 Badr al-Dīn Lu’lu’, ruler of Mosul 327
‘Arqah/Arka 265, 445 Baetica 168
arrows 61, 70, 78, 314 Baghras Castle (Gaston) 197, 199–202,
arrowslits 450, 452–453 204–205, 207–208
Arsuf (Arsur, Apollonia) 456, 469, 545; battle Baghdad 10, 69, 209, 315, 318, 329, 336, 347,
of 3, 69, 75, 78–80, 88, 333, 337, 391, 441, 352, 381
443, 453, 461, 467–469, 473–475, 477–478, Bahā’ al-Dīn Ibn Shaddād 102, 363, 381, 464,
483–484, 512, 517, n. 52; forest 464, 485, n. 9
483–484 Baḥriyya 324, 326–328
art 2, 3, 4 bailiwicks 114, 115. 117–118
Artasia (Artāh) 445 baiulus 112, 184
Asad al-Dīn Shīrkūha 71, 363, 366 Balain of Ibelin, lord of Beirut 76, 88, 188–189,
Ascalon, 74, 328, 450, 514, n. 8, 551; battle of 215, 226, 237, 239, n. 5
73 Balain, lord of Sidon 234, 236, 239, n. 4
Ascension 505 Balaino de Porta, Genoese captain 400
ashlars 452 Baldric of Bourgueil 7
Asia 69, 339 Baldwin of Flanders 205
Asia Minor 131, 265, 271, 278, 521, 527 Baldwin Carew 464
Asote 576 Baldwin I, count of Edessa/king of Jerusalem
Assasins (Ismailis) 196–197, 207–208, 329 16, 98, 105, n. 1, 215–216, 282, 441, 615
Assisi 246 Baldwin II, king of Jerusalem 100, 182–184,
Assizes de la Cour des Bourgeois 404 190, 226
Asti 11 Baldwin III, king of Jerusalem 54, 59, 71,
Astorga 12 215–216, 219, 283, 292
Asturias-Leon, kingdom 167, 169–171 Baldwin IV, king of Jerusalem 74, 486, n. 21
Aṭābak 326 Baldwin V, king of Jerusalem 101, 239, n. 3
Athanasios Lependrenos, Greek merchant 403 Baldwin, archbishop of Canterbury 55
Atlantic 168, 170, 176 Balearics (al-Jazāʼir al-Sharqīyah) 11
Augustine (The City of God) 24–25; rule 493 Balikh River 594
Augustinian canons 245–246, 554 Balkans 121
Australia 688Austria 114, 117, 119 ballast 520, 522–523, 534
Auvergne 113, 115 ballistarii 92
Avignon 113–114, 121, 123, 402 ballistic weapons 474
awqāf (pl. of waqf) 339 balnea (bathhouse) 547, 560
axes 576 Baltic region 62, 64, 84–85, 113, 124, 568, 570,
‘Aybak al-Turkmānī 325–326 586; Sea 146
Ayn Jālūt 329–331, 334, 336 banquets 586
Ayyubids 3, 196, 203, 324, 326–327, 329, 336, Banu Daya 381
363, 385, 448, 492 Banū Khazrūn 11
Az-Zahir Ghazi, Ayyubid ruler of Aleppo Banu Qaynuqa‘ 421, 424
200–202, 207 Banu Qurayza 424
‘Azīziyya regiment 327 baptism 572, 574
Azerbaijan 328, 334, 347 Bar Hebraeus 197, 368
barbarians 280
Babayn, battle of 71 Barbastro campaign/siege 21, 40, n. 33, 165,
Bab-el-Futah, Cairo 611 172–173
Babylon, 103, 348 barbican 448, 450, 494
Badajoz (Baṭalyūs) 21 Barcelona 12, 19, 35, 169
701
— Index —
Barda Armenus 217 Berengaria of Navarre 57, 60

Bardi 113 Berenguer Ramon II, count 41, n. 35, 43, n. 59
Bari 10, 121 Berenguer Sunifred de Lluçà, bishop of Ausona-
Barlaam of Calabria 271 Vic 37, n. 9, 38, n. 18, 42, n. 54
Barlings Abbey 63 Bergamo 117
Ba‘rin 382 Bernard II, count of Besalú 41, n. 35
Barletta 113 Bernard, abbot of Clairvaux 54, 147, 517, n. 51
barley 122, 407 Bernard of Fuentes 90
barns 123 Bernard of Sédirac, archbishop of Toledo 16,
Barsbay, sultan 396–397 20, 36, n.7, 37, n. 12, 38, n. 20, 42, n. 53
Barta 578 Bernat, count of Besalú 37, n. 11, 40, n. 30, 42,
Bartenland 89 n. 54
Bartolomé de Las Casas 690 Berqyārūq 347
Barvaria 117 Bertha, empress57
basalt 470, 495–497 Berthold, bishop of Livs 570
Basil II, emperor 11 Bertrand, bishop of Barcelona 43, n. 59
Barthes, Roland 650 Bertrand of Cares 85
Baybars al Bunduqdarī (al Malik al-Ẓāhir), Berzé-la-Ville (Saône-et-Loire) 18
Mamluk sultan 104, 181, 190, 214–215, 219, Beth Gibelin (Eleutheropolis) 445
238, 331, 337, 363, 369, 391–392, 409, 452, Bethany 295, 610, 615
455, 492 Bethgibelin 511
Bayt Lahiya 384 bezants 353
bazaars 545 Bethlehem 242, 295, 514, n. 8; Church of
beans 430 Nativity 243, 267, 292, 294, 561
Beaufort 391, 441 Biala Góra 584
Beaulieu 113 Bīra 333–334, 337
Beauvais 115 birds 615
Becket, Thomas (Saint/archbishop of Birket el-Kurum 485, n. 14
Canterbury) 85; murder of 87 Birtha 445
bedouins 57, 335 Bishop Christian of Prussia 151
beer 187 Black Sea 326, 332, 334, 532
beeswax 586 Blanche, countess of Champagne 231
Beirut 74, 181, 395, 405, 407, 449, 529, 535 Blanche of Navarre 227
Beit etofa(al-Batuf) 467 Bloch, Marc 544
Béla III, king of Hungary 59, 268 Belchite blood 594
Castle 116 board games 561
bells 561 Boase, Thomas 663
Belmont Castle 445, 602 bocasine 407
Belmont Monastery 555 Boccaccio’s Decameron 650
Belvoir Castle 3, 437, 490–513, 552, 554, 676 Bohemia 61, 114, 119, 227–228
bended passageway 450, 453 Bohemond, Norman prince of Otranto/Taranto
belltower 494 73, 263, 265, 280, 651, 657
Belmont 517, n. 52 Bohemond III, prince of Antioch 196–199, 203,
Belver Castle, Portugal 116 208, 267
Benedetto Zaccaria 56 Bohemond IV, prince of Antioch, count of
Benedict of Como 271Benedict VIII, pope 12 Tripoli 196–200, 203, 205–207, 208–209,
Benedict XII, pope 122 229, 231–232, 235
Benedictines 111, 555 Bohemond V 198, 237
Benjamin of Tudela 550 Bohemond VII of Tripoli 338
Berbers 163, 170, 315 Bolesɫaw III Krzywousty 145–146
Berengaria , empress 60 Bolesɫaw IV 148
702
— Index —
Bologna 120 Caesarius of Heisterbach 9, 130

Boniface VIII, pope 56, 124 Cafardani 183
Boniface of Montferrat 234, 652 Cahors region 115
booty 422, 424 Caiaphus the High Priest, house of 245–246
Bordeaux 123 Cairo 11, 59, 313, 326, 330, 332–333, 347,
Bosra 71 363–364, 366, 369, 397, 400, 611
Bourges 115 Calabria 10, 22, 120
Bouvines 133 Calahorra 167
bows 92, 314, 585 Calatrava Order 86, 116, 681
Bozen on the Etsch 114 Calvary 244

Brabant 115, 426 camels 602
brass 534 camlets 397, 405, 407
Brass basin 401 Candia 406
Braudel, Fernand 544 candles 549
Brasil 688 canon of St. Basil 260
Bremond, Claude 650 Cantabrian mountains 168, 170
brick 580 Capatian expansion 115
bridles 430 Capernaum 294
Brie 15 capitals 611
British School of Archaeology in Jerusalem 439 Capua 113
Brittany 115 caravanserais 338
British 279 Carcassonne 115, 164
Brixeney/Precenicco 120 Carceran Suarez 397
Buddhists 335 cargo 521–522, 532–533, 537
building materials 3 Carmel 474
Bulgarians 300 Carmelites 627
Bullarium Cyprium 232 Carmine in Sienna, church 627
Būnah (ancient Hippo Regius) 12 Carolingians/Carolingian period 312, 317–318,
Burchard of Mount Sion 559 626
Bure 15 Casal Imbert (Akhziv) 215, 552
bureaucrats 69 Castel Lettere 248Castellani of Amposta for
burgenses 188 Aragón 113
Burgos 12 Castellote, Aragonese commandery, inventory
Burgrave of Magdeburg 584 of 86
Burgrave of Meissen 582 Castellum Regis 214–216, 219–220
Burgundia 226 Castile 28, 113, 116, 170–171, 174, 177, 427;
Burgundy 114–115, 663 crown of 176
burials 585, 593; burial grounds 494, 563 castles, 3 84, 123, 333, 335, 501, 587, 675
Burin 530 castrum 442, 446, 448, 455, 580
Burj al Akhmar (Red Tower) 559 Castrum S. Aegidii 441
Byzantium 132, 182, 184, 197, 259–273, 282, Catalans 61, 394–395, 399, 405–406, 419
285–286, 289, 299, 313, 315, 318, 626, Catalonia 116, 171, 173, 313, 521, 528–529,
636, 678; Byzantine Empire 183, 278, 280, 534, 537
290, 384, 521, 535; Byzantine sculpture Catherine of Siena 56
609; Byzantine propaganda 272; Byzantine cattle 122, 471, 602
Holy War 263; Byzantine-Persian War 262; cattle sheds 552
Byzantine world 616 Caucasus 326, 328, 334
Cavaillon 113
Cadiz 176 cavalry 40, n. 33, 70–71, 85, 282, 332, 419;
Caesarea 333, 337, 391, 439–440, 443, 448, cavalry charge 73, 76, 77
453, 467, 478, 559, 676 Caymont, see Yoqne’am
703
— Index —
celadon ware 528–529 Christians Christianity/Christiandom 2, 14–17,

Celestine III, pope 132, 139, n. 17, 259, 19–20, 24, 28, 30–31, 34, 43, n. 57, 61–64,
267–268, 299, 428 91, 99, 101–103, 122, 124, 144–146,
cellars 495, 555 148–149, 164. 168, 198, 216, 219, 243, 250,
Celts 279, 286, n. 3 259, 271, 285, 289–290, 298, 311, 313, 318,
Cemekar (Samagar), Mongol commander 335 320, 339, 346–347, 353, 357, 383, 399, 403,
cemeteries 578, 588 409, 419, 424, 427–428, 430–431, 576, 586,
centaurs 512 588, 678–679, 681, 693; Armenian Christians
Cerami, Battle of 21 63–64, 77, 90; Melkite Christianity 403–404;
ceramics 519–538, 559, 585, 680 Oriental Christians 86, 187, 399–400, 406,
Cerdaña 169 681
Cervera 12 Christianisation 574, 578, 580
cesspool 596–597 Christopher Columbus 690
Cesvaine 576 chrysography 629, 632–633
Chaghatayid Khanate 336 Chronica Polonorum 148
chamberlain 87; of Acre 218 Chronicle of Livonia 568
Champagne 113–114, 123, 230, 235–236 Chronicle of Prussia
Chanson de la croisade albigeois 61 Chronicon XXIV Generalium 248
Chanson de geste 136, 356 Chur 11
Chanson de Roland (The Song of Roland) 19 Church of God 14, 17, 35
chapels 3, 452, 494, 501–502, 513 churches 4, 515, 521, 556, 585
chapel of the Pharos 291 Cigala 396
chapterhouse 555 Cilicia 197, 331, 451
Charlemagne 169, 313, 316–317 Cimabue 628
Charles of Anjou, king of Sicily 190, 392 Cinca River 172
Charles the Good, count of Flanders 658 Cistercians 111, 120, 124, 150–151, 555
Charles IV, king of France 271 cisterns 242, 452, 472–473, 494, 596
Charles Martel 313 Civitot 359, n. 60; hospice for Latin pilgrims
Charlotte, queen 397–398 267
Chartres 506 Clarembald, viscount of Acre 217Clement III,
Chastel Arnaldi (Yālū) 441–442 pope 134
Chastel Blanc 337, 447 Clemens III 359, n. 41, 429
Chastel Neuf 442 Clement IV 270
Chateau Pelerin (‘Atlit Castle) 87, 437, 441, Clement V, pope 118
451–452, 516, 547, 554, 560 Clermont VI, pope 242, 247, 247–248, 402, 405
Châteauneuf 113 Clermont 278, 681
Cheɫmno 146, 151 Clermont, council of 17, 39, n. 26
Cheese 122 cloister 494, 555
Chems-ad-Daul (Sensadolus) 347 Clotild 313
chickens 602 Clunia 12
chicken coops 552 Cluny 17, 39, n. 26, 170; Cluniacs 111, 166, 267
children 58, 63 co-axial field system 477, 480Coimbra 12, 173
China 328, 528–529, 688 codicology 646–647
Chinggis Khan 328–329 coif 636
chivalry 136 coins/coinage 585, 626
Chivert, Templar lordship in northern Valencia Cologne 122, 130, 151, 657
86 colonists/colonization 580, 582
clothing 475, 549 combat training 556
Choziba monastery 291 Commanderies 112, 114
Christ 16–17, 24, 243, 244, 247, 295, 300, 409, commendator 112
506, 582, 629–630; Second Coming of 668 commerce 3, 319, 519, 526
704
— Index —
Comminges diocese, Gascony 115 Crato convent, Portugal 116

Comnenus Porphyrogenitus, emperor 293 crenellations 629
Comtat Venaissin commandery 113 Cresson, battle of 92, 101–102, 461
concentric castles 490, 492 Crete 315, 406
concubines 326 Crimean Peninsula 326, 332
Conder, Claude 213 Croatia 118
Conques portal 517, n. 49 Cronique de Terre Sainte 231
Conrad II, German emperor 290 crop failure 603
Conrad III 129, 147 Cross 324, 629; Holy Cross/True Cross 59, 76,
Conrad, king of Jerusalem, 282 102, 268, 295, 300, 463; taking the cross 62,
Conrad, king of Germany 280 133, 147
Conrad of Hildesheim 225 crossbows 92, 419
Conrad I of Mazovia 151 crossbowmen (ballistarii) 85, 88–89
Conrad of Montferrat 102, 186–187, 193, n. 3, Crown of Thorns 295
225–226, 297 crucibles 528
Conradin 102 crucifix 279
Constable, Giles 695 crucifixion 242, 629
Constance of Sicily 130 crusades, 34, 57, 60, 99, 135–136, 149, 603;
Constantine of Barberon 203, 209 First (Jerusalem) 3, 16, 35, 36, n. 8, 39, n.
Constantine Manasses 294 22, n. 26, 55, 57–58, 68, 73, 80, 84, 135,
Constantine Stilbes 301 146, 181, 260, 264–265, 278–280, 283–284,
Constantinople 121, 134, 182, 205, 263–264, 289, 290, 311–312, 315–316, 318, 320–321,
268–269, 278–279, 285, 290, 292, 295–296, 346–348, 353, 356, 383, 440, 520–521,
299, 440, 456, 627, 629, 631, 635–63, 638, 648–649, 651, 688–689; Second 16, 56, 58,
651, 657, 689; Latin Empire of 89, 196, 301, 73, 117, 129, 147, 260, 263–264, 279, 281,
626 283–285, 290, 292, 384, 688; Third 3, 16,
construction 3 55, 56, 58–61, 69, 75, 78, 80, 102, 121–122,
contracts 522 128, 134, 141, n. 56, 198, 208, 259–260,
convent 112 264, 279–283, 297, 299, 301, 363, 463–464,
converts 168, 396 473, 649, 691; Fourth 196, 200, 268–269,
cooking/cooks 3, 557–559, 505 282–283, 290, 298, 631, 648–649, 652; Fifth
cooking ware 528, 534, 554 57, 63, 88, 104, 133, 135, 187, 196, 203,
copper 407 229, 281, 299; Seventh 603; Albigensian 61,
Coppo di Marcovaldo 628, 637, 640 93 n. 2, 649; Baltic 142, n. 70; Byzantine
Copts 401, 406, 421 Crusade 265; Childrens’ 135; French crusade
corbels 618 against Aragon 61; German crusades134,
Cordillera Central 173 299; Prussian crusade 582, 587; Northern
Cordova 163, 167, 169–170, 172, 175, 317 144, 147, 153; Wendish 147–148
Corinth 535 Crusades (journal) 1
cornice 509 crusaders (crucesignata) 57, 59, 70, 72, 147,
Coron 120 285, 463; Oriental 86; French 449
Coronde 353 crusading 35
Corsica, 40, n. 28, 528 Cuenca, bishop of 90
cotton 407 Culm 87
Cour des Bourgeois 677 Cumans 326
Courts/courtyards 69, 491 curia 120
court of Majorca 248 Curonia 580, 582, 587
Covadonga, 171; battle of 168 customs dues 406–407
Crac des Chevaliers (Krak des Chevaliers) 90, cutlery 559
202, 204, 337, 391–392, 437–438, 441, 447, Cyprus 2, 3, 104, 120, 182, 196, 205,
450, 512, 517, n. 52 225–238, 250, 267, 296, 381, 393, 395–401,
705
— Index —
403–404–410, 520, 526, 528, 538, 557, 595, Divini dispenatione 147, 149
626, 628, 688 Diyarbakir 69
Cyril of Jerusalem 244 Djamāl alDawla 611
Czechs 62 Djamāl al-Dīn Moḥẓsin 59
doctrinal treatises 649
Dacia 13, 118 Dobin 148
daggers 430 dogs 559
Dagobert 313 Domenico Acotanto 186, 188, 191
Daibert, bishop of Pisa 36, n. 7 domes 611
diarrhea 603 Dominicans 111, 151, 254, n. 57, 430, 689

Dakhleh Oasis 595 Don Alonso 398
Damascus 69, 74–75, 103–104, 196, 325, donkeys 602
328–329, 334–335, 347, 363–364, 366, donzel 124
381–384, 394, 396, 400–401, 405, 442, 452 Dordogne 115
Damietta 57, 88, 102–103, 119, 187, 206, 324, dormitory 123, 491, 493–494, 555
395, 399, 405, 689 Dorylaeum 266; battle of 70, 73, 351. 359, n. 60
Daniel, abbot of Kiev 245 Dositheos, patriarch of Jerusalem 297–299
Daniel, prophet/book of 14, 15 double castrum 490
Danish crown 587; Danish fleet 148 Douzens 115
Danube River 118, 284 dowry 63
dār al-Islām 31, 314 drainage/drains 468, 596–597
Darbsak (Trapessac) 201 Druze 339, 679
Daugava River 570, 574 Dubois, Pierre, 14th century crusade
Daugavpils 574 propagandist 63
Dauphiné 115 Duccio 628, 639
David 24 Duero River 167, 174; valley 170, 173
Dayfa Khatun 207 dues 124
death 545, 563 Dugento 640
de Clercq, Louis 438 Duqaq (Dukak) of Damascus 73, 347–348, 359,
De recuperatione Terre Sancte 689 n. 49
de Saussure, Ferdinard 650 Dvina River 149
De constructione castri Saphet 452 dyeing 556; dye works 550
De expugnatione Lyxbonensi 4, 648, 657–658 Dyrrachium 265
De Interpretation Nominum 245 dysentery 596–597, 603
debts 63
deer 602 Eagle (Lincolnshire 124
demography 694 earthquakes 218, 450, 452, 596
demons 512 Ebro River 174
Denia (Dāniyah) 11 Ecclesia 666
Denmark 118, 147, 149 Edessa 122, 218, 266, 380, 386, 440, 445, 615
descent of the Virgin into Hell 666, 670 Edward, prince later king of England 57, 87,
Deschamps, Paul 438–439, 663 116, 335, 337
Dhayl Ta’rīkh Dimashq 316 Egypt 57, 59, 74–75, 80, 88, 103–104, 133,
dhimmis 421–422 164, 229, 290, 319–320, 326–328, 332–334,
Dieudamour Castle/St, Hilarion 235 348–349, 357, 364, 367–368, 386, 393,
diet 3, 597 395–396, 399–400, 404–406, 408, 492, 521,
Diet of Gelnhausen 130 534, 559, 595, 607, 611, 681
Diet of Mainz 131, 134 Einhard 317
Dietrich of Tiefenau 584 ‘Ein Ḥarōd 330
disease 544–545, 562 Ekkehard of Aura 7, 283
ditches (moats) 57, 456, 491, 494, 496, 545 ekphrasis 294
706
— Index —
El Deir 595 Eustorgius of Nicosia, archbishop 231

Elblg (Elbing) 580, 584 Excavations 580
elbow columns 517, n. 53 excommunication 117, 205, 264, 430
el Cid (Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar) 19, 22–24,
26–27, 29–31, 42, n. 52, 427 Fakhr al-Dīn ibn Shaykh al Shuyūkh, emir 59,
El Salado, battle of 176 324
Ela , countess of Salisbury 63 falconry 559
Elbe River 117, 135 Famagusta 230, 393, 395, 397–398, 400,
elbow columns 512 402–408
Eleanor of Aquitaine 56, 58, 225 Fāris al-Dīn Aqṭāy 327

Eleanor Castille 57 Faris al-Turkmani 397
Eli 24 farms 492
Elis 120 farmers 551
Elizabeth of Hungary 248 Fatimids 10, 290, 348, 352
Elvira of Castile 56 faubourg 443
Embrum 11 Feast of the Annunciation 670
enclosure castles 490 Felix, bishop of Urgel 166
England 90, 112–113, 116, 118, 123, 129, 245, Ferdinand, king of Naples 398
336, 409 Ferdinand III of Castile 29, 173, 175
Enlart, Camille 609, 663 Ferge (village) 215
Ephesus, council of 230 Fermo, cathedral of 627
Ephraim, monk 293 Fernando I of León-Castile 173
epigraphy 646 Fernando, king of Aragon 176–177
Epiros 269–270 Fertile Crescent 444
Episcopi 394, 409 Fidenzio of Padua 689
Epitaphios 295 fields 552
Eracles 101 fieldstones 580
Erard of Brienne 230–231 Field of Blood 71
Erdmann, Carl 8 Figares (Higares) 120
Ermengol IV, count of Urgell 37, n. 9, 42, First Prussian Uprising 584
n. 54 fish 122, 187, 596, 602
Ernoul, chronicle of 103 Flanders 39, n. 23, 115, 123, 657
Eschiva of Ibelin 226 Flores historiarum 91
Eschiva, lady of Tiberias 59 Flum Mort (Dead River) 464
esquires 92 Flum de Rochetaillé (Nahar al Falik) 464
Essenes 595 Flum Sal (Salty River) 464, 483
Estoire d’Eracles 133, 231, 353 Folda, Jaroslav 668, 670
Estonia 568, 572, 574–575, 578, 587; Estonian Folmar 130
uprising 576 food 57, 60, 523, 544, 559, 586, 596–597, 603
Essex 115 foot soldiers 73, 79
Ethiopia 666 forewall 452, 455
Etsch River 119 fortified monasteries 574, 581
etymology 647 fortresses – see castles
Eucharist 246–247, 427 foundations 496
Eudes of Paphos, bishop 405 France 11, 85, 112, 118, 235, 284, 315, 319,
Eugenius III, pope 147, 266, 426 336, 409, 425, 528, 609, 613
Euphrates River 325, 330, 333, 335, 594 Francia 113, 115
Europe 31, 55, 60, 92, 111, 121, 129, 146, 205, Francis of Assisi 243
313–314, 319, 337, 348, 356, 394, 405–407, Franciscans 2, 111, 241–251, 430, 689
456, 505, 596, 603, 649, 688 Francisco Franco 164
Eustathios of Thessaloniki 292, 294 Franconia 114, 119, 121–122
707
— Index —
Franks (ifranj)2, 3, 70, 75, 77, 78, 90, 105, 133, Genoa/Genoese 11, 12, 19, 56, 62–63, 104,
145, 213–215, 218–220, 230, 279, 299–300, 116, 118, 121, 191, 196, 319 328, 332, 338,
311–319, 333, 337, 346, 462–463, 473–475, 394, 396, 405–406, 450, 520–522, 529, 531,
502, 552, 557, 651 534–535, 537–538
fraticelli 249–250 Geoffrey le Tor 234
fratres 117 Geoffrey of Villehardouin 649
Fraymundo 250 George Acropolites, statesman 279
Fraxinetum 11 George of Antioch 622
Frederick Barbarossa 117, 119, 129–132, George Boustronios 400
134–137, 198, 259–260, 264, 280–283, George Deliono 406

298–299 George Metochites 270
Frederick II 118–119, 128, 133, 136, 181, 187, Georgenburg 89
189, 204, 209, 214, 232–235, 237, 245, 273, Gerald of Lausanne, patriarch 455
n. 6, 448, 453, 677; coronation 133 Gerald Odonis 242, 248, 250
Frederick of Swabia 137 Gerald of Wales 55
Freiburg im Breisgau 117 Gerard of Ridefort 90, 102
fresco painting 626 Gerhoh of Reichersberg 15
Fulcher of Chartres 7, 70, 215–216, 559 Gerland, bishop of Agrigento 36, n. 7, 37, n. 10,
Fulk of Anjou, king of Jerusalem 54, 100–101, n. 13
184, 193, n. 2, 266, 445, 492, 502, 513, 559 Germans 62, 285–286, n. 2, 298; Germany 112,
Fulk Nerra 172 114, 117–119, 133, 135, 149, 282; kingdom
furna (bakery) 537 of 128; German army 10; German castles
574, 576; German colonists 574; German
Galbert of Bruges 658 garrisons 574; German Empire 33–34
Galicians 313 Gerona 169
Galilee 75, 212–222, 452, 461–462, 467, 475, Gesta Boamundi 651
557; Sea of 465 Geste de Chiprois 400
Galindia 578 Gesta Francorum 4, 70, 648, 651–652. 655,
Gállego River 167 657–658
galleys 392, 405, 407, 429 Gesta Treverorum 130
gardens 545 Gilbert d’Assailly 491–493
Garigliano River 10, 263 Gilboa Mountains 330
garments 631 Gibbon, Edward 690
Garnierl’Aleman 234 Giblet 437, 441
Garnier de Naples 464 Gibraltar, Herculean Columns, Straits of 121,
Garonne 115 175–176, 284, 427
garrisons 554 Giustiniani 396
gates 444, 449 glacis 444–445, 452, 494
Gaton Stream 215 glass 549 , 556–557, 559, 626, 680
Gaujiena 574 glazed wares 526–528
Gauls 279 globus cruciger 147
Gawain of Cheneché 231 goats 602
Gaza 329–330, 334, 441, 448, 678 Godfri le Tor 218
Gazan Maḥmūd 336 Goitein, S.D, 32
Gdańsk 146, 582 Golan Heights 442
geese 602 Golden Horde 330–331, 334
Geikhatu 336 goldsmiths 550
Gela 529 Gomez, bishop of Burgos, Piacenza 37, n. 9
Genette, Gérard 650 Gormond of Picquigny, patriarch of Jerusalem
Geneva 11 182
Geniza 32 Gothic 609, 637, 639
708
— Index —
Gottfried of Viterbo 133 Hagenau 134

Gottfried of Würzburg 131, 134 Hagenmeyer, Heinrich 655
Goudron frieze 4, 609, 611–614 Haifa 219, 441, 455
Grail 137 Haimard 123
grain 122, 187, 407, 519 Hainault 115; count of 130–131
Granada 90, 165, 167, 173, 177 hall-house 552
grape press 559 Ḥalqa 332
Graus 172 Hamah 196–197, 202, 334, 446
graves 578 Hammadids 11
grave finds 578 Han de la Moze 406

grave goods 576 Hanoe (village) 187
Great Prussian Uprising 578 Hanseatic bowls 574
Great Saint Bernard Pass (Mons Iovis) 11 Haphpat monastery churches 621
Greece (Frankish) 233, 292, 526, 528, 534–535 Har Hozevim 552
Greeks 70, 269, 286, 312, 678; Greek art 636 harbors 337
Gregory VII, pope 13, 16, 19, 39, n. 25, n. 28, Ḥārim 446
40, n. 28 Harold Godwinson 198
Gregory VIII, pope 130–131, 139, n. 17 Harran, battle of 71
Gregory IX, pope 86, 151, 232–233, 235, 243, Hartmann von Aue 136
269–270, 273, n. 6 Hārūn al-Rashīd, caliph 316–317
Gregory X, pope 689 Ḥassan (‘Arqalah), poet 366
Gregory XI, pope 91 Hauran 442
Greimas, Algirdas 650 Hawara 595
Grenoble 11 Hebrew University of Jerusalem 675
Grudziadz 580 Helias de Nabinaeaux, archbishop of Nicosia
Grunwald 587 402
Guadalquivir valley 163, 167, 174–175 Helme 574
Guérin Victor 213 Henry the Lion, duke of Bavaria and Saxony
Guibert, abbot of Nogent 7, 9, 58, 349, 352, 690 129, 136, 139, n. 20, 147
Guida Contarini 185 Henry, bishop of Strasbourg 131
Guido of Amigdala 120 Henry, count of Champagne 185–187
Guido da Sienna 628, 639 Henry, prince of Galilee 39
Guifre the Hairy 171 Henry I Lusignan, king of Cyprus 229, 236,
Guillem, count of Cerdanya 37, n. 11, 40, n. 30, 273, 391, 393, 396, 401
42, n. 54 Henry I of Silesia 151
Guislabert, count of Roussilon 37, n. 11, 40, n. Henry II, king of Cyprus 392, 393
30, 42, n. 54 Henry II, king of England 87, 130, 136, 266
Gulf of Finland 149 Henry II, count of Champagne 225
guns 61 Henry III, king of England 87
Günther von Wüllersleben 118 Henry VI, emperor, son of Barbarossa 120, 128,
Guy de Bagnolo 401 130–131, 133–135, 140, n. 38, 199, 225–226,
Guy of Lusignan, king of Jerusalem 58, 74–77, 232–233
80, 101–102, 186, 231, 399, 462, 482, 596 Henry (Heinrich) of Kalden, imperial marshal
Guy of Mahón 513 131, 133
gypsum 495 Henry de Milly 218, 219
Henry of Livonia, priest 64
Haapsalu 574, 576 Henry of Troyes, count of Champagne 227
habitator 188 Heraclius, Latin patriarch 298
Hadera River 464 Herakleios 262
Hagar 25 heretics 133425
Hagarenes 26 Hermann of Salza, Teutonic Master 87, 118–119
709
— Index —
Herzliya 468 196, 203, 217, 219, 338, 391–393, 438,

Hethoum, king of Armenia 197 444–445, 448, 450, 463–464, 490–491, 503,
Hethoum II 250 510, 512–513, 523, 603; castles 554; master
Hethoum of Sason 198 of 88; statutes 86, 493, 560
High Court 226–227, 234, 237; of Cyprus hostels 521
231–234 houses 545, 561, 576, 585, 597
Hims 382 Housley, Norman 8, 9
Hisdesheim, abbey of 131 Hugeburc 318
Hisn Akkār (Gibelcar) 337 Hugh de la Baume, Sir 396
Hisn al-Akrad – see Crac des Chevaliers Hugh of Fagiano, archbishop of Nicosia 404
Hiṣn Kaīfā (modern Hasankeyf, Turkey) 59 Hugh of Falkenberg, lord of Tiberias 442
Historia de Expeditione 134 Hugh, count of Jaffa 100–101
Historia Orientalis 246 Hugh of Jubail 231
Historia Peregrinorum 131 Hugh of Narsac 90
Historia de septem tribulationum 247 Hugh of Puiset 100
historiography 651, 654, 666 Hugh of Semur, abbot of Cluny 17–18, 39, n. 26
Hodierna, princessof Tripoli 615 Hugh I, king of Cyprus 226–227, 230–231
Hohenstaufen Empire 118 Hugh II, king of Cyprus 391
Holland 584 Hugh III, king of Cyprus 181, 391–392, 400
Holme 574 Hugh IV, king of Cyprus 399–402
Holy Fire 404 Hugo, count of Ampurias 37, n. 11, 40, n. 30,
Holy Land 2, 57, 59–61, 63, 84–92, 93 n. 7, 42, n. 54
121, 144, 149, 237, 241–243, 249–250, 259, Hugues de Jouy 104
264–267, 269–272, 280, 291–292, 294, Hugues de Paiens 114–115
317–318, 402, 430–431, 551, 609, 611–612, Hülegu 329336
614, 625–626, 675, 678, 688–689 Humbert of Romans 689
Holy Roman Empire 585 Hume, David 690
Holy Spirit 25 Humphrey IV of Toron 225, 228
Holy Tile 295 Hunayn 380
Holy Towel 295 Hungary 85, 113, 117, 121
Holy Week 245 hunting 559–560, 586
Holy War 54, 98–99, 260, 263, 273, 289, 582, Hussites 61–62
695
homo grandaevus 351 Iberia 12–13, 16, 20, 25–26, 29, 31, 42, n. 56, 54,
Homs 196–197, 202, 265, 318, 334 84–85, 87, 89, 113, 163–178, 316, 428, 431
Honorius III, pope 120, 151, 229–230, 232, 273, Ibn ‘Abd al-Ḥakam, Egyptian historian 316
n. 6 Ibn Abī ‘Āmir 36
Horns of Hattin 460, 463, 467, 469, 473–474; Ibn Abi Zayd al-Qayrawani 421
battle of 3, 69, 75–77, 79, 92, 102, 129–30, Ibn ‘Alqamah 27, 29
181, 186, 214, 296, 363–364, 460–461, 467, Ibn ‘Asakir 383
472–473, 475, 477, 480, 676, 679; spring of Ibn al-Athīr 56, 75, 90, 98, 197, 363, 382, 385, 460
463 Ibn Bassām 27
horses 70, 72, 76, 100, 337, 463, 471, 478, 521, Ibn Buṭlān 315
556 Ibn Ḥayyān 21, 40, n. 33;
horse archers 69, 71, 75–76, 87, 331 Ibn Hazm al-Qurtubi 422
horsemen 335 Ibn Jubayr 216, 602
horseshoes 430 Ibn al-Kardabūs 29
hospices 556 Ibn Khurradādhbih 40, n. 33
hospitals 123, 125, 556 Ibn al-Lihyani 419Ibn al-Qalanisi 105, n. 1, 316,
Hospitaller Order/Hospitallers 73, 76, 79, 85, 424
87–89, 91–92 101, 104, 111–116, 118, 121, Ibn al-Qaysarani 380, 382
710
— Index —
Ibn Rushd al-Jadd 421–422, 424 Isolda Parewastrell 61

Ibn al-Sā‘ātī 368 Israel 3, 24, 481, 493, 650, 677
Ibn Shaddad 382 Israel Museum, Jerusalem 500, 513
Ibn Taghribirdi, historian 397, 399 Istanbul 531, 535, 689
Ibn Taymiyya 404, 409 Italy 11, 19, 112–114, 118, 123, 132, 279, 284,
Ibn Wāṣil, Syrian chronicler 324, 363, 366, 379, 409, 527–528, 534
383 Italian communes 678
Ibrāhīm b. al-Mahdī 365 Itinerarium 464
iconography 670–671 Itinerarium peregrinorum 56
icons 624–625, 627–628, 630–641, 635–637, 639 Ivanhoe 691

Iconium 134 Ivo Velos 503
iconography 506 Izz ad-Din abu Ishaq Ibrahim bin Muhammad
Idonea de Camville 63 bin Tarxan as-Suwayid 400
Ifrīqiyah 11
Ikšķile 574 Jabala 100
Ilkhanids 336 Jableh (Gabula) 202
Imād al-Dīn al Isfahānī 369, 381, 383, 385 Jacques Bongars 690
Imād al-Dīn Muḥammad al-Shāfi‘ī 363 Jacques de Vitry, bishop of Acre 62, 64, 103,
Inal, sultan 397 243, 246
India 319 Jacob’s Ford (Vadum Iacob/Chastellet) 74, 368,
indulgences 87 562
industry 550, 554, 557–558 Jacoby, David 236, 545
infantry 76–77, 79, 85, 233, 392, 464 Jacoby, Zehava 663
infirmary 495 Jaffa 78, 80, 337, 391, 455, 479, 520–521, 523,
Ingeborg 115 525, 528–529, 532, 538, 545, 551; county of
injury 562 226, 231, 328, 440–442; castellan of 337, 523
Innocent II, pope 92 Jalez 115
Innocent III, pope 62–63, 133, 150, 197, 202, Jāmadāriyya 324, 327
204–206, 226, 230, 239, n. 2, 266–269, 272, James I, king of Aragon-Catalonia 30, 171,
428, 430, 568 174–175, 178, n. 20 270
Innocent IV, pope 87, 118, 120, 428, 430 James II, king of Aragon 90
Innocent VI, pope 242, 401 James de Nores, Sir 396
intestinal parasites 3, 594; James le Petit, Sir 396
iqṭāʽāt 327, 332 James of Podio 243
Iran 12, 347, 688 James of Vitry 90, 513
Ireland 113, 116 James Singlitico 401
iron 122, 429 Janibeg 397
Isaac Comnenus 208 Janus, Cypriot king 391, 394–395, 397, 409
Isaac II Angelos 297–299, 301, 652 Japan 688
Isaac II, Byzantine emperor 259, 268, 281 Jean d’Ibelin (Livre de assises) 99
Isabel, queen of Jerusalem 59, 208, 225–226, Jean de la Tour 123
228–229, 232 Jelgava 574
Isabel II (Yolande) 227, 233, 238 Jericho 294
Isabella, queen of Castile 176 Jerome, bishop of Périgord 22, 23, 26–27, 42,
Isabella, queen of England 56 n. 52
Isabella de Ibelin 400 Jerusalem (Zion) 2, 8–10, 16, 20, 24–25, 56,
Isadore of Seville 403 59–60, 68, 75, 78–80, 102, 112, 122, 124, 129,
Isfahan 363 133, 204, 250–251, 263, 271, 290, 297–298,
Islam 2, 10, 12–14, 20, 28, 33–34, 43, n. 57, 72, 300, 317, 319, 349, 361, n. 95, 378, 380
80, 166, 170, 174, 316, 330, 347, 381, 385, 382–383, 386, 440, 445, 453, 478–479, 492,
397, 409, 693 512, 514, n. 8, 525–526, 530, 545, 550–552,
711
— Index —
595, 597, 609–611, 614, 616–617, 628, 668, John of Joinville 561, 69
694; al-Aqsa (Templum Salomonis) 380, 610; John Kamateros 300
Calvary 350, 671; Cathedral of Saint James John/Ioannes Kinnamos, imperial secretary
610, 612, 614, 616, 621; Cenacle 242, 244, 246, 279–280
249; Chapel of the Holy Spirit 242; Chapel of John Komnenos 265–266, 291
St. Thomas 242; Church of Saint Anne 610, John Mesarites 294–295
612, 614–615, 621; Church of the Archangels John of Montfort 181, 190–191
610, 612, 613, 621; Dome of the Rock 243; John of Parma 250
Golden Gate 612, 664; Golgotha 245, 292; John Phokas 245
Holy Sepulchre 60, 116, 149, 217, 219, 241, John Tzimiskes, Byzantine emperor 290
259, 264, 267, 280–281, 290, 292, 294, 296, John Vatatzes 266, 269, 273, n. 6
298, 300, 350, 357, 383, 609–613, 615–616, John of Würzburg 129, 138, ns. 4, 11, 610,
621, 664–665; kingdom of 54, 73–74, 78–79, 670–671
84–86, 98, 103. 181–183, 192–193, 196, 219, John Zonaras 261
225–226, 231, 233, 237, 266–267, 292, 338, Jordan River 74–75, 229, 294, 461
364, 393, 451, 461, 463, 492, 511, 519–520, Jordan Valley (al-Ghawr) 325, 493, 552, 557
535, 544, 612 663, 681–682; Mount of Olives Joscelin III de Courtenay 213, 216–217, 219,
244; Mount Sion (Zion) 2, 24, 241–242, 222, n.12
249, 402; Old City 241; patriarch of 401; jousting 561
pilgrimage 60; pilgrims’ hospice 241; porch Jubayl (Gibelet) 198
of Solomon 68; siege of 1187 60; royal palace Jucar 174–175
549; Tanners’ Gate 549; Temple (Templum Judaism 24, 32
Domini) 24, 68, 350, 610; Templar house 60, jugs 525–526
Temple Mount 246, 664; throne of 235, 237; Juqmaq, sultan 397
Tomb of the Virgin Mary in the Valley of jurists 420–422, 431
Jehoshaphat 242, 247, 547, 610–611, 618–619; Justinian I 444
Tower of David (Mihrab Da’ud) 350, 383, 549
jewelery box 572 Kafr Sabt 75–76
Jersika 576 Kahn Madonna 637
Jews 133, 187, 189, 301, 318–319, 381, Kaisum 445
421–423, 480, 550, 679, 694 Kalavun, sultan 392
Jewish Temple 245 Kalbids 11
Jezreel 562 Kaldus 585
jihād 1, 31, 68, 98–99, 261–263, 311, 331, 336, Kaliningrad 580
379, 384, 404 Karbuqa 347, 351–351, 353, 357, 357, n. 2
Joachim of Fiore 15 Karja Purtsa 576
Joanna (sister of Richard I of England) 57 Karksi 574
Jogaila, Grand Duke 152 Karnak 595
John II, lord of Jubail 404, 409 Karpass peninsula 409
John II, king 396–397 Kaykhusraw, Seljuk sultan of Rum 201
John XXII, pope 247–250, 402, 405 Kayseri 445
John the Evangelist 245 Kedar, Benjamin Zeev 17, 676, 679, 694
John l’Aleman of Casarea 219 keep 442, 453
John d’Alfonso 396 keepsakes 550
John of Bailleul 234 Kefar Saba 483
John of Brienne, king of Jerusalem 187–188, Kemal ad-Din 68
209, 226–227, 235, 238–239, n. 1, 453, 455 Kent 115
John the Circassian 408–409 Kerak (Karak) 74, 334, 443
John Doukas, Grand Hetaireiarch 293–294 Kerbogha 657
John of Ibelin, lord of Beirut 185, 226, 229, 233, Keys of Heaven 668
236, 449, 453 Kfar Shmaryahu 468
712
— Index —
khānqāhs 339 lances 79, 430

Khirokitia 595 Landfriede 131
Khwarizmians 492 Landkomture 114, 120
Khaybar, siege of 381 Landmeister 113, 118–119
khayl 40, n. 33 Lanercost Chronicle 242
Khirbat al-Lowza 554 Langeudoc 528
Khirokitia, battle of 391, 395–396 Lapithos Cyprus 408
Khorasan/Khurāsān 346–349, 352, 360, n. 67 Las Navas campaign 84, 175
Kibbutz Lavi 467 Last Judgement 505, 668
Kibbutz Shefayim 468 Last Supper 245, 505

Kiliç Arslan 265, 347–348, 350–352, 359, n. 60, Latakia 202, 405, 440
360, n. 68 Lateran council of 1179 91; of 1215 111
Kilij Arslan II 207 Latin 403
kiln 585 Latin East 1, 99, 226, 519, 551, 593, 597
Kinet 529, 531, 535 latrines 3, 495, 597, 602
Kingsford, Charles 692 Latvia 568, 576, 578
Kirumpää 574 Lausanne 11
Kisrā (village) 216–217, 219, 530 Lavra of St. Sabas 291
Kitbuga 330 Lawrence of Březová
kitchens 493–494 Lawrence, T.E. (Lawrence of Arabia) 15, 438
Kitab al-Jihad 384 lead 534, 586
Kitāb al Matīn 40, n. 33, 41, n. 33 leasure 561
Kitab al-Nawadir 421 Lebanon 525, 529, 679
Kitab al-Ruwdatayn 378 Legnano 129
Kitāb Ṣūrat al-‘Arḍ 315 Łękno 150
Klaipėda 579, 586 Lemba 394
Koblenz 114 Leo VI, emperor 261
Kokhav Plateau 493 Leo, king of Cilician Armenia 196–209
Kolossi 394 Leo Falier 191
Komturei 580 León 12, 113, 116
Königsberg 580, 584 León-Castile, kingdom of 19, 173
Konrad of Hildesheim 133 Léonard 114
knights (milites) 37, n. 11, 61, 70, 73, 76, 85–89, Leontios, Orthodox patriarch of Jerusalem 296
112, 124, 233, 237, 324, 392, 425, 462, 482, lepers 547
494, 556, 652; knighthood 136 Lesser Armenia 131
Krak (de Moab) 103 Leszek the White of Lesser Poland 151
Kristeva, Julia 650 Lethard II, archbishop of Nazareth 668, 771
Kühnel, Gustave 663 letters 649
Kuldīga 574 Levant 114, 116, 151, 263, 311, 320, 331, 336,
Kulmerland 118, 580, 584 339, 521, 530, 538, 595, 680
Kurds 325, 332 Lewis, Bernard 313
kurkar 467, 473 Leukippe and Kleitophon 294
lice 595
La conquête de Constantinople 4, 648 Liddel Hart, Basil 461
La Forbie 122, 492 Lielvārde 574
La Selve 115 Life of St. Wiliband 319
Lacock Abbey 63 Ligurian Sea 40, n. 28, ports 116, 529
Ladder of Tyre 212 Limassol 230, 232, 392, 394–396, 402, 409
Lajazo, Armenian port 393Lake Battle 73 lime mortar 574
Lambert Hals 217 limestone 495–497, 503–504, 506, 511
Lamego 173 Limoges chronicle (Chronicon Lemovicense) 85
713
— Index —
Limousin 115 madrasas 339

Lincolnshire 115 Magdeburg 148, 585
lions 506, 559 Magdeburg Charter 145–146
Lisbon 9, 648 magic 58
literacy 69 Maghrib 320, 431
literature 3 magistri 112, 118
Lithuania 62, 85, 121, 152, 569, 585–586 magnates 69
liturgy 244, 561 Mahallia (village) 184Maharona 183
livestock 551 al-Mahdiyyah 54
Livonia 62, 89, 91, 114, 118, 121, 150, 571, Mahmud Ghazan, sultan 338
574–575, 588 Mahomeria 441
Livonian Order 574 Maiolus, abbot of Cluny 11
Livonian Rhymed Chronicle 85, 570 Maimbourg, Louis 690
Livorno 40, n. 28 Mainz 131–132
Livre au roi 99, 226, 677 maison fortes 439
Livre de Assises 99, 185 Majestas Domini 505
Llobregat River 167 Malachi 25
locators 551 Malachow, siege of 148
Lõhavere 572 Malik-shāh 347
Lohu 576 Malregard 441
Lombard League 129 Malta 688
Lombardy 113–114 Mamlūks 3, 55, 80, 104, 214–215, 325–327,
London 115, 121, 123 330–331, 334–336, 369, 385, 391–410, 492,
Longobardia 263 513; Mamluk fleet 395
Lorraine 114–115, 121 manors 123, 587
Lothar II of Lotharingia 318 Manosque 122–124
Louis VII, king of France 56, 58, 264, 266–267, manticores 512
283, 290 Manuel Kamytzes 283
Louis IX, king of France (St. Louis) 29, 57, 59, Manuel I Comnenos/Komnenos, emperor 265,
63, 87, 105, 121, 174, 235, 238, 243, 248, 267–268, 271–272, 283, 286, n. 9, 290–297,
270, 324, 326, 337, 419, 441, 451, 453–455, 652
561, 603, 690 Manuel of Thessalonica 273, n. 6
Louis the Pious 313 Manueth 218
Louis of Toulouse 248 Manṣūra, battle of 63, 324, 327
Lubia 471–472 Manuel I Komnenos (Comnenus), Byzantine
Lübeck 585 emperor 57, 198, 285
Lucca 117 maphorion 636
Lucius III, pope 129–130, 139, n. 17 al-Maqrīzī 59
Lucklum 119 marble 517, n. 53, 522
Lucy, sister of Trinitarian Order 60 March of Brandenburg 117
Ludolph of Sudheim 60, 251, ns. 2, 9, 546 Marchius, Catalan envoy 399
Ludwig the Pious, landgrave of Thuringia 134 Marco da Montelupone 250
Lusignan dynasty 391, 393–394; fleet 392 Margaret, widow of John of Montfort 182
Lydda 478Lyons 270 Margaret of Beverley 60–61
Margaret of Hungary (former queen of England)
maces 324 59
machicouli 615, 617 Margaret of Provence 57
Mâcon 17 Margaret of Sicily 241
Mâconnais region 39, n. 26 Margaret, lady of Tyre 104, 338
Madonna del Bordone 637–638, 640 Margat Castle (Marqab) 85, 201–202, 208, 337,
Madonna del Voto in Siena 633 437, 450, 512
714
— Index —
margrave of Meissen 62 Memmel River 582

Marguerite, wife of King Louis IX 87 Men-at-arms (armigeri) 85
Maria Comnena 226, 230 merceneries 419–431
Marienberg/Malbork Castle 119, 582 merces de savurra 522
Marienwerder 584 merchants 519, 534–535, 549, 570
Marignac, the little church 622 Mergentheim 121
Marīnids 176 Mérida 169
Marino Sanudo 270, 407–408, 513 merlons 452
Mariona de Zipro 406 Mesagne 120
Marj ‘Ayun 74–75, 380 Mesarites 295

markets 521, 545, 548 Mesopotamia 329, 439–440
Marra (Ma‘arrat an-Nu‘mān) 445 Messina 113, 121
Marseilles 11, 531, 534, 538 metals 405, 559
Marsilio Zorzi 181–188, 194, ns. 1, 4, 5, 6, 7, metalwork 626
236, 238 metaphors 656
Martinsāla 574 Metz, bishop of 130
martyrs 62, 105, 289; martyrdom 64, 262, 289, Meynard, bishop of Livs 570
384 Mežotne 576
Mary of Champagne 205 mice 597
Mas-Deu 115, 123 Michael IV Autoreianos 261
Maskana 77, 463, 467, 469–471, 473, 485, n. 14 Michael Palaiologos 270
Masuria 586 Michael VIII Palaiologos 301
massacre 71 Michael VIII 268, 270–272
Maṣyāf 442–443, 445–446 Michael of Cesena 248–249
Material Culture 55, 475, 544, 576, 580, 584,- Michael Loulloudes 401
585, 587–588, 646 Middle Ages 1, 32–33, 70, 82, 84, 146,
Matilda, queen of England 115 164–167, 173–174, 176, 196, 252, 277, 286,
Matilda, countess of Tuscany 54 420, 422, 424, 444, 577, 615, 640, 646–647,
Matthew Blastares 261 678, 680–681, 691–692
Matthew Paris 88 Middle East 31, 69–72, 320, 325, 596, 602, 688
Maurienne (St Jean-de-Maurienne) 11 Mieszko III, duke of Poland 148
Mayer, Hans Eberhard 693 migration 3, 597, 602–604
Mecca 75, 353, 369, 380, 420 mihrab 320
Meccans 315 Mi’ilyā 214, 530
medicine 401 Milan 116, 121, 123
Medina 420 military orders 2, 73–74, 84, 87–88, 90, 93, 104,
Mediterranean Sea/region 11–14, 20, 31, 34, 43, 443, 456, 523, 559
n. 57, 62, 68, 90–91, 112–114, 121, 168, 198, milites Christi 136
212, 219, 271, 316, 318–319, 324, 367, 405, milk 187
420, 422, 429, 439, 461, 467, 474, 520–523, mill (molendina) 122–123, 187, 216, 547
528, 531, 535–537, 594, 603, 692; commerce millstones 522
680; policy 177 Mīmās 217
Mehmet II, sultan 397 minting 283
Meinhard, bishop of Üxküll 150 Miriam the Sash-Maker 317
Melisende (Milesende), queen of Jerusalem missionaries 49, 152–153
4, 54, 59, 216, 225–226, 229, 239, n. 3, Moab 447
547–548, 609, 612, 618, 622; psalter of 637, Moclín 91
664; tomb of 610 Modon 120
Melisende of Lusignan 208, 226 Mogunz 151
Mellon Madonna 637 Mohammed/Muhammad 353, 358, n. 12, 403,
Memel 85, 586 420–421
715
— Index —
mosaics 626 Mukhalid village 483

mosaic icon of the Virgin and Child Hodegetria Mukhtaṣar Kitāb al-Buldān 314
624, 627–633–640 multilobed arches 612
Moisy 115 mummies 593
molasses 407 Murūj al-Dhahab wa Ma’ādin al-Jawhar
monarchy 677 313–314
money 62, 87, 92, 430, 544, 556 mulberry trees 400
money fiefs 84, 88 Mūsā ibn Nuṣayr 163
Möngke, Great Khan 329 mushrikūn 320
Mongols 85, 123, 326, 328–331, 334–335, 337, musical instruments 187
339, 341, n. 21, 393, 409, 681; Chaghatayid musicians and minstrels 561
Mongols 334; Mongol slaves 397 Muslims 30, 59–61, 63, 77–79, 85–86, 89–90,
Monreal 103 100, 163, 170, 175, 243, 266–267, 312, 316,
monsters 512, 517, n. 51 319, 332, 357, 447, 461, 463–464, 469, 474,
Montreal Castle 437, 447 477, 482, 667, 678, 688; Muslim army 79
Montefiascone 120 Mustansir, emir of Tunis 419
Montferrand 235 Mu’ta 383
Montferrat, house of 267 Myriokephalon 265
Montfort Castle (al-Qurayn) 214–215, 219, 222, Mystikos 263
n. 15, 337, 438, 441, 452, 554, 557
Montgisard/Montguissard, battle of 71, 74, 368, Na Mercadera 61
486, n. 21 Nablus 328, 552
Montpèlerin 441–443, 445–446 Nahal-Mishmar 595
Montpellier 115, 120 Najam al-Dīn Ayyūb 366–367
Monzón Castle 115 Nantes 11
moonlight 469 Naples 241, 249, 398; convent of Santa Croce
Moors 54, 168–169, 171–172, 428 248
Moravia 114, 119, 121 Napoleon Bonaparte 691
morelles 561 narrative 647
Morphia, Armenian queen 615, 619; Morphia’s Narratology 649–658
tomb 610, 619 Narva 574
mortars and pestles 554 Nāṣir Khusraw, Persian traveller 320
mosaics 293 Naṣrid emirate 175
Moses 24, 404 Natangia 578
mosques 339, 515 Navarre, kingdom of 113, 116, 426
Mosteniza 120 nave 512
Mosul 69, 74, 209, 352, 380 navigation techniques 520
Mother of God 294, 640 Nazareth 221, n. 5, 294–295, 337, 530, 663,
Mount Meron 212 668, 670–671; church on Annunciation 4,
Mount Tabor 295, 337, 560 512, 666, 668–669, 671; capitals 666–667
Mountjoy 91 mountains 466
Mouzon Castle 139, n. 20 Neibla 176
Mozarabs 169–170 Neogene 493
Muḥammad 10, 365, 368, 379–380 neophytes 151
Muḥammad ibn Abī ‘Amir 12 Netherlands 114
Muḥammad b. As‘ad al-Juwayni 382 New Temple, London 115
Muhammad b. Idris al-Shaf‘i 423 New Testament 24
muhtasib (iusticiarius) 187 Nicaea 262, 269–270
Muḥyī al-Dīn Ibn ‘Abd al-Ẓāhir 214 Niccolo da Poggibonsi 242, 250, n. 9
Mujāhid ibn ‘Abd Allāh al-‘Āmirī 11 Nice 11
Mujir al-Din 381 Nicea 351; 359, n. 60, 361, n. 95
716
— Index —
Nicephorus Gregoras 400 Opus tripartitum 689

Nicetas Choniates, orartor 279, 298 Orange 113, 115, 121
Nicholas I, patriarch of Constantinople 262 Orderic Vitalis 7, 655
Nicholas II, pope 13, 21 Order of Christ 116
Nicholas IV, pope 336, 405 Order of Montesa 116
Nicholas of Jeroschin 570 orn 88
Nicholas of Manueth 218 Orthodox Church 263
Nicholas Mesarites 295, 300–301 Orvieto 120
Nicosia 250, 395, 400–402, 408–409, 546 Otepää 572
Nikephorus Phokas, emperor 260, 262, 289 Otranto 121

Nikephoros II 262 Otto of Bamberg, archbishop of Magdeburg
Niketas/Nicetas Choniates 264, 280, 290–292, 146–147
297–298 Otto of Brunswick 85
Niklot, Wendish ruler 148 Otto II, emperor 10, 11
Nile River 324, 364, 368 Otto IV Welf 135
Nimes 164 Ottomans 331, 391, 399, 405, 408–409
Nimra Mount 467 Ottokar II 578
nobles 87 Outremer 268, 271, 694
Non parum animus 149 overseers 550
Norbert of Xanten, archbishop of Magdeburg Oviedo 169
145 ox 506
Normandy 113, 115, 655
Normans 286, 292, 298 pack animals 76
North Africa 11, 16, 54, 315–316, 424, Pactum Warmundi 186, 547
427–428, 528 Pada hill fort 576
North America 688Norway 113 Padua 120
notary 91 pagans/paganism 62, 145, 147, 148–149, 153,
Notker the Stammerer 317 582
Novy Svet shipwreck 533 Pagan the Butler 447
numismatics 646 Pageantry 586
Nur al-Din 71, 122, 267, 317, 363–364, 370, n. paid troops (mercennarri) 2, 84, 86–87, 89, 91,
5, 381, 383, 446 93 n. 1
Nuremberg 119, 134 Paide 574
Nuṣayrīs 339 palaces 545Palermo, church of 39, n. 28
palaeography 646
oats 122 Palanga 582
Oberto 121 Palermo, Church of Santa Maria del’ Admiralio
Oder River 135 622
Oderisius, abbot of Monte Cassino 289 Palestine 17, 62, 79, 164, 236, 272, 294, 296,
Odo of Montbéliard 232, 236 328–329, 333, 336, 378, 400, 405, 429, 444,
Odoard, marshal of Champagne 228 448, 675, 694
Odonis 249 Pamplona 12
Ogerston 115 panel painting 624
oil 519, 556 Pantaleo Barbo 185–186, 188–189, 193, n. 6
oil lamps 525–526, 585 papacy/pope 13, 26, 129, 139, n. 14, 405
Old Temple, London 115 Paphos 230, 250, 394, 409, 528, 531, 534–535,
Old Testament 14, 15, 24, 149, 404 538, 596
Olive trees 400; oil 187; presses 216 Papowo Biskupie 581
Oliver of Paerbelargius 103 parasites 593–604
Olivi and Angelo Clareno 248 Paris 115, 123
Oliwa 150 Parma 120
717
— Index —
passagium 135, 137, 547 Philip of Majorca 248

pasture 122 Philip of Montfort, lord of Tyre/Toron 181,
patrons 401, 631 189–190, 236–237
Paul of Sidon 403 Philip of Novara 229, 231–232, 236–237
Peace and Truce of God 425 Philip de Picquigny 394
Peace of Venice 139, n. 24 Philip of Swabia 134–135
peacemaking 102 Philipp, archbishop of Cologne 129, 131
peasants 551 Philipp of Heinsberg, archbishop of Cologne
Pedro de Sotomayor, cardinal 403 130
Pelagius, cardinal, papal legate 103, 203, 206, Piast dynasty 146, 148, 151
229, 230 Picardy 115
Pelayo, king of Asturias 168, 171 Picassent 26
penance 85, P87 picks 554
Peñiscola Castle 116 Piedmont 11
Pentecost diet 131 Pierre Dubois 689
Pepin the Short 168 Pierre Mauclerc, count of Brittany 235
pepper 407 Pietro Diedo 399
Peralada, Aragon 61 Pietro Dulce (Dous) 190
Percival of Mar 409 Pietro Collivaccino 62
Peregrinatio Antiochie 651 Pietro Morosini 183
Pernes 113 Pietro Pantaleo 183
Perpignan 115 pigeons 602
Persians 315 pigs 320, 602
Pero Tafur 407 pig pens 552
Peruzzi 113 pilgrims/pilgrimage 3, 54, 59–61, 63–64, 124,
Peter of Cadeneto 249 133, 135, 241, 243, 245, 250, 265, 267, 279,
Peter Capuano 205 291–292, 311, 318–319, 402, 547–549, 556,
Peter the Chanter 427 558, 668, 681; pilgrimage accounts 245;
Peter John Olivi 250 pilgrim from Piacenza 670
Peter, Patriarch of Angoulême 201, 204–205 pilgrimage routes 545
Peter, bishop of Huesca 36, n. 7, 37, n. 9, n. 11, pillaging 426
42, n. 55 pillars 611
Peter I, king of Aragon 28 Pippin the Short 313, 317
Peter I, king of Castile 176 piracy/pirates 393–395, 429
Peter I, king of Cyprus 401, 406, 408 Pisa/Pisans 11, 12, 19, 54, 113, 121, 196, 319,
Peter II, Latin patriarch of Ivrea 202, 205 520–522, 529, 535, 537, 632, 638; Pisa
Peter the Hermit 280, 284, 351, 359, n. 60 Duomo 631; Pisan painting 631, 633
Peter Podocataro 397 Plaisance Embriaco 198
Peter Tudebode 7 Platani, village near Nicosia 408
Peter of Dusburg 62, 85, 87, 89, 92, 578, 586 platea (square) 547
Peter of Eboli 132 plunder 427
Peter of Marcerata 250 pogroms 694
Peter de la Palude 402 poison 57
Peter of Vielle Bride 492 Poitiers (Tours), battle of 316
Peter Zexomeno 407 Poitou 113–115
Petronella, viscount of Acre 217–218 Pokrzywno 580
Petrus of Alipha 627 Poland/Poles 117, 144–145, 150, 584
Philip II Augustus, king of France 59, 78, 87, pollen 597, 603
115, 130, 227, 231 pollution 545, 547, 594
Philip of Dreux, bishop of Beauvais 87 Põltsamaa 574
Philip of Ibelin 226, 229, 231–233 polytheists 364, 420–421
718
— Index —
Polyeuktos, patriarch 260 qāʾid 40, n. 33

Pomerania 146, 150, 580 Qal‘at al-Rūm 336
Pomerelia 578, 582 Qalāwūn, Mamluk sultan of Egypt 104,
Pomesania 584 181–182, 331–332, 334–335, 337–338
Pons, bishop of Barbastro 36, n. 7, 37, n. 9, n. Qaṣr Bardawīl 441–442
11 Qasr Bušīr 442
Pons de Melgueil 17 Qaymariyya 327
Pontius Pilate 245 Qaytbay, sultan 398
Pontresina (Pons Saracenorum)11 Qipchaq Turks 326, 332
Poppo von Osternohe, Teutonic Master 118 quarries 501

Poppo of Wertheim, count 122 Qumran 595
Poria 467 Qusair 401
Port St. Symeon Ware 534–535 Qur’an 320, 365, 385
portal 498, 504–506, 615 Quraysh of Mecca 420
ports 521 Quṭuz 327, 329
Portugal 113, 116, 173, 428
postal horses 332 Rabbān Ṣauma, Nestorian cleric 336
posterns 453, 491, 496 Radiocarbon dating 597
pots 585 Ragnit 85, 89
pottery 470, 522–523 Raḥba 333–334
Praetorium 245 Rainald of Haifa 234
Prague 61, 117; School 650 Rakvere 574
Prawer, Joshua 213, 439, 675–682, 695 Ralph of Bethlehem, bishop 292–293
preaching 55, 243 Ralph of Caen 7
preceptores 112–113, 118 Ralph of Soissons 237
prelates87 Rambaud de Voczon, Hospitaller prior for
Premonstatensian Order 111, 555 Hungary and Slavonia 118
priests 112, 123 Ramla, battle of 267
priores 112–113 Ramon Berenguer IV 174
prisoners 57, 68 Ramon Muntaner, 14th century Catalan writer 61
privileges 188, 192, 236, 521 ramparts 453
procuratores 112, 118, 120 ransom 59
production sites 529 Ranulf, archbishop of Nicosia 404
propaganda 259 Raol 648
Prophet 321 Raphania 440
Protestantism 153 Raqqa 445
Proto-Maiolica Ware 527, 534–535 rats 597
provenance analysis 528 Rauna 576
Provence 11, 113, 116, 122, 242, 406, 521 Raymond of Aguilers 7, 70
provinciales 114 Raymond, bailli of Antioch 202
Provins 115 Raymond, prince of Antioch 58, 198
Prussia 62, 85, 87, 89, 114, 118, 144–146, Raymond, archbishop of Nicosia 402
148–150, 153, 584, 587; Polish expeditions Raymond-Roupen 196, 199, 202, 206, 208
to 148 Raymond of St. Gilles 56, 264–265, 282, 441,
Przemysl Ottokar II 584 443
pseudo-spolia 665 Raymond of III Tripoli (lord of Tiberias) 75–76,
Ptolemy 312 90, 101–102, 129, 193, n. 3, 198, 462–463
pullani 560 Raynaud/Reynald de Châtillon 101, 267, 292,
Purtse hill fort576 463
Pushkin Madonna 633, 637, 639 Rayner, Lord, prior of St. Michael 103
Pyrenees 171 rearguard 79
719
— Index —
Recknitz River 146 Robert the Monk 7, 359

Reconquista/Restauratio 2, 15, 29, 164–165, Robert of Mileto 248
167–168, 170, 172, 175, 316 Robert of Naples 248
recruitment/recruits 92 Rochelle 115
Red Sea 528, 535 rodents 603
Redemer Church at Ani 617 Roderick, king 163
Redez 115 Rodez 115
Redwan, emir of Aleppo 347–348, 359, n. 49 Rodrigo the Campeador (prince) 25–27
refectory 123, 493, 555 Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar (see el Cid)
refugees 405 Rodrigo, archbishop of Toledo 427

regency of Majorca 248 Rodrigo, Visigothic king of Hispania (Roderic)
Regensburg 131, 134 27
Reims 122 Roger of Apulis 101
Reisen 586 Roger Guérin 241–242, 249–250
relics 244, 463, 549, 582 Roger of Howden 59
Renier Roger, bishop of Syracuse 37, n. 10
Renard, lord of Nephin 201 Roger I, king of Sicily 33
Renier of Montferrat 267 Roger II, king of Sicily 622
Renneville 115 Roger d’Hauteville, count 16
Resafa 445 Röhricht, Reinhold 213
Rey, Emmanuel 213, 437 Rolando Contarini 183–185, 188–189, 193, n. 2
Reynald of Chatîllon 75 Rolandslied 136
Rheims, archbishop of 130 Romain de Puy, lord of Outrejourdain 100
rhetoric 647 Romanesque 609, 637, 663
Rhine 117 Romanesque Pilgrim Churches 612
Rhineland 130 Romania (Greece) 114, 120, 269, 271, 346, 349,
Rhodes/Rhodians 60, 62, 91, 271, 315, 395, 351
398–399 Rome (rūmah/rūmiyah)/Romans 20, 40, n. 33,
Rhône Valley 11, 121, 663 41, n. 33, 113, 117, 168, 209, 235, 250, 283,
Riccardo Filangieri 187–188, 236 399, 678; Roman Church 199; Roman law 99;
Richard, Jean 235, 677 Roman Empire 285
Richard I, king of England (Lionheart) 3, 56–57, Roncesvalles 168–169
59, 68, 74, 78–80, 102, 132–133, 225, 364, Rothenburg 121
448, 463–464, 596, 691 Rouergue 115
Richard I, prince of Capua Roupen III, prince of Armenia 198–199
Richerenches 113, 115, 123 Roussillon 115
Ridwan of Aleppo 73 Ruad 89, 409
Riekstu kalns in Cēsis 574 ruga (street/quarter) 547
Riga 150, 574, 576 Ruggero di San Severino 190
Risāla Jāmi’a li-Funūn Nāfi’a fī Sharī al-Raqīq Rukn al-Dīn Baybars al-Bunduqdarī 327
wa Taqlīb al-‘Abid 315 Rule of St. Basil 248
rittertum 136 Rum 346, 359, n. 60
Rizzo di Marino 398–399 Runciman, Sir Steven 693
roads 477, 485, n. 19; Roman 76, 547 rye 122
Roaix 113, 115
Robert de Chesney, bishop of London 115 Saale 117
Robert of Clari 648–649, 651–652, 657 Sabile 576
Robert of Courson 426 Sacrament of Penance 16
Robert Crispin, Norman mercenary 41, n. 34, Sa‘d b. al-Mundhir 420
287, n. 10 saddles/saddlery 430, 554
Robert Guiscard d’Hauteville 11, 21, 22, 627 Saewulf 244
720
— Index —
Safed (Saphet) 334, 337, 441, 452, 492, 514, Santa Chiara in Naples 248
n. 8, 514, n. 8; Safed Castle 243; garrison 85; Santa María de Carrión 12
Mamluk governor of 190 Santa María de España, military order 91
Safītha/Safīta see Chastel Blanc Santa Maria in Domnica 120
Saforie/Sepphoris 2, 76, 469–470, 472, 477, Santarém (Shantarīn) 9
670–671; spring of 462 Santiago de Compostella 12, 116, 612
Sagrajas (Zallāqah), battle of 21 Santiago, Order of 87, 93 n. 6; master of 89; in
Sahl al-Bi’na 212 Germany 91
Sa‘id b. al-Harith 384 Santissima Trinità monastery at Palermo 120
Saif al-Din 493, 501 Santissima Trinità monastery in Venosa 113

sailing routes 520 Santissima Trinità monastery in Venice 120
sailors 534Saint Adalbert of Prague 150 Santo Stefano in Monopoli 113
saints 582 Saône Castle (Ṣahyūn) 437, 442–443, 446
Saint Francis 102–103 sapping 70
Saint Gilles 113–115 Saqqara 595
Saint-Paul-Trois-Châteaux 113 Saracens 70, 90, 102, 104, 300, 348, 353, 356,
Saint-Tropez, Provence 315 428, 689
Sainte-Eulalie-du-LarzacSainte Maria- Saranda Kolones 3, 596
Madeleine at Vézelay, Burgundy, Benedictine Sardinia 11, 12
abbey church 39, n. 27 Sartowitz 85
Sainte-Vaubourg 115 Saul 24
Saintonge 115 Saule, battle of the 91
saints 510 Saxo Grammaticus 147
Saladin (Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn) 2, 3, 58–61, 68–69, 71, Saxony 145
73–74, 76–77, 79–80, 101–102, 149, 181, Šayzar 446
185–186, 198–199, 207, 214, 259, 290, Scandinavia 117, 584
296–298, 301, 325, 362–364, 362–374, Schönau abbey 60
380–383, 386, 440, 443, 448–450, 461, 470, Sclaramanda of Foix 248
474, 478–479, 482, 503, 551 Scotland 113, 116
Salef River 282 scriptoria 495, 555
Salih ibn Yahya 394, 407 sculpture 3, 4, 626
Ṣāliḥiyya 339, n. 2 Scythians 300
salt 122, 407 Sea of Galilee 515
Salzburg 151 seamen 521
Samaria Hills 467, 474 Sebastia 512, 546
Sambia 585; Sambian strongholds 580; Sambian Second Council of Lyons 689
Peninsula 584 Second Prussian Uprising 584
Samogitia 568, 579 Second World War 69, 695
Samuel 24 seeds 597
San Giovanni de Pizonibus in Naples 113 Selim II, Ottoman sultan 391
San Leonard monastery 120 Seljuks 69, 129, 136, 197, 203, 207, 297, 335,
San Lorenzo, church in Acre 547 347–348, 352, 357
San Millan de la Cogolla 12 Semigallia 587Sempad the Constable 197
Sánchez Albornoz 164 Sens, archbishop of 87
Sancho, duke of Navarre 428 Sēpils 576
Sancho III, the Great of Navarre 173 Septimania 164, 168
Sancho IV of Castile 84 Sepūlveda 12
Sancia, queen 250 sergeants (servientes) 73, 85–86, 88, 91–92,
sand 467 112, 494
Sant Cugat del Vallès, monastery 12, 35 sermons 649
Sant’Euphemia in Calabria 113 servants 57
721
— Index —
Servite Order in Siena 639–640 Sir Antony de Lucy 586

sesame oil 187 Sis (Armenian capital) 19, 199
settlements 3, 694 Skythopolis 670
settlers 544Seville 165, 167, 397 slaves/slavery 59, 315, 325, 332, 397
sewers/sewage 546, 597 Slavonia 113
sex 57–58; sexual abuse 61; sexual temptation Slavs 312
54 Slobodan Čurçič 622
Shaizar 265, 267 snowstorm 201
Shajar (Shajarat al-Durr) 59, 325–327 soap 395, 408
Shams al-Khilafa, emir of Ascalon 98 Societas Vermiliorum 186

Shaqif Arnūn (Beaufort) 337, 447 Society for the Study of the Crusades and the
Sharaf ad-Din Muhammad, qadi in Jerusalem Latin East (SSCLE) 1, 688
241–242 Soffred Gaetani of Pisa 204
Sharon Plain 464, 467–468, 474, 477 soft paste wares 526, 529, 534–535
Shawbak 327 soldiers 69, 545, 556
sheep 122, 602 soldiers of Christ 280
Sheep Pool 245 Soliman 353
Shems-ad-Daul 350, 353, 359, n. 60 Song of Antioch 353, 360, n. 68
Shī‘īs 339, 347–348 Song of Roland 40, n. 29
Shilliourokambos 595 Sophia Philippi 402
Shiloh 24 Soqman ibn-Ortoq 349–350
ships 11, 332, 519–521, 523, 535, 538 Soure Castle 116
shipmen 519 spade 572
shipwreck 522, 527, 532–534 Spain 21, 86, 102, 104, 112, 114, 164, 409,
Shufayya (village) 217 427–428, 528, 695; Spanish chronicles 84
Sibt ibn al-Jawzi 379–380 Spanish Civil War 165
Sibyl of Armenia 209 spears 576
Sibyl of Lusignan 208, 225 ‘spices 187
Sicily, 11, 16, 20, 22, 34, 57, 113–114, 117, Spiral Ware 527
133, 233, 298, 315, 527–528, 534, 538, 609, Spiritual Andreas da Gagliano 249
695; Norman kingdom of 132, 232; Aghlabid Spirituals 249
conquest of 10; Sicilian fleet 79 Split 535
sickles 554 Spoleto 117
Sidon 392, 441, 449, 455; Sea Castle 456 spolia 511, 665
Siege towers 657 Spring of Elisha (‘Ain as-Sultan) 292
Siena 627, 632, 640 spurs 576’
sigillography 646 squinches 619
Sigismund, king of Hungary 61 squirrel fur 353
Sigüenza, bishop of 90 stables 123, 552
Sigulda 574, 576 staircases 495–496
Siksälä 576 Ständenstaat 677
Silifke (Seleucia) 208 Stefano Giustinian 185, 188
silk 639 Steinfurt 117
Silo 169Simancas 12 step lands/steppe 69, 72
silversmiths 550 Stephen, king of England 115
Simon de Montfort 61 Stephen de Lusignan 408
sin 57 Stephen Draperius, Genoese merchant 402
sinners 510 St. Anne 670
Sinai 327, 632 St. Antony 403; cathedral in Nicosia 408;
Sinnabra 75 church in Famagusta 408
Siponto 120 St. Bee’s Man 586; Priory 586
722
— Index —
St. Benham 408 Suḥmātā (village) 217

St. Catherine monastery on Mount Sinai suicide 58
624–626, 630, 635–636 Suleiman ibn-Kutulmish 347, 358, n. 12
St. Euthymios 293 Suleyman (Solimanus) 351
St. Gall 11 Sumaqa 602
St. George in Kythraea 400 sunlight 469
St. George de Labeyne 212, 219 Sunni Muslims 339
St. Gilles, prior of 88 swamps 467–468
St. James, cult of 170 Sweden 113, 118, 149
St. James at Andravida 120 Święta Góra 579

St. James the Great 615, 666 swine 122
St. John 506 Switzerland 11, 315
St. John by the River Jordan, monastery 292 Swords 324, 430
St. John the Theologian monastery on the island Swordbrethren Order (Fratres Militiae Christi)
of Patmos 296 91, 118, 150–152
St. Hildegund 60 von Sybel, Heinrich 655
St. Lazarus 547 Sybil, queen of Jerusalem 59
St. Macarius 401; monastery of Klima 408 Sybilla 129
St. Mark 506 Symeon II , patriarch of Jerusalem 264, 290
St. Martin, Montpellier 120 Syria 10, 75, 89, 164, 197, 205–206, 209, 272,
St. Martin in Plaimplied (Berry) 663 325–327, 329–334, 336, 337–338, 346, 348,
St. Mary of Carmel 530 349, 358, n. 12, 378, 385–386, 392–393, 395,
St. Mary, monastery on the island of Gorgona, 400–401, 405–406, 409, 429, 439–440, 442,
40, n. 28 520, 528, 535, 595, 611; Syrians 70; Syrian
St. Mary of the Valley of Jehoshaphat, abbey archers 89; Syrian Jacobites 666; Syria-
216–217 Palestine 2
St. Matthew 505, 666 Syriac 336
St. Maurice 11 Szczecin, Pomerania 148
St. Neophytos, Cypriot hermit 296
St. Peter 40, n. 28, 666, 670 Tafur 397
St. Peter Damian 253, n. 54 Tagus 174–175
St. Sabas 293; War of 189, 191, 328 taifas 175
St. Sernin in Toulouse 612 Taktika 261–262
St. Sophia, church 299 talab al-shahada 384
St. Stephen 244, 247, 402 talus 444
St. Theodosios 293 Tanhīb 314
St. Thomas 666 Taqi al-Din ‘Umar 381
St. Thomas Aquinas 403 Taranto 10, 121
St. Thomas at Barletta 120 Tarif Khalidi 385
St. Trophime in Arles 506 Tarifa 163, 176
stipendiarii 84 Tarīq Ibn Ziyād 163
stone 559 Tarraconensis Roman province 164
stone masons 516; masons workshop Tarragona 20–21, 28, 169, 173
Strasbourg 131, 134 Tarsus 40, n. 31, 440, 445
streets 547 Tartu 576
Structuralism 649–650 Tartus (Tortosa) 440–441, 443, 446–448, 452;
Styria 118–119 cathedral 202; Latin bishopric of 402
Sudan al-Mansuri 397 Tatevi Egemidzin Gayiane monastery 611–612,
sūfīs (mystics) 339 615
sugar 218, 407, 554, 556–557, 680; cane taverns 561
plantations 182, 191; refineries 219, 550 tavern keeper 406
723
— Index —
taxes/taxation 69, 187, 189, 193, n. 9, 405, tiles 526

550–551, 584, 693 timber 122, 405, 429, 576; timber castle 575;
Tegüder Aḥmad Ilkhan 335 timber fortifications 574–575
Tel Zeidan, Syria 594 tin glazed wares 527
Templar Order/Templars 73–74, 76, 85–87, Toghrul-bek 347
88–89, 91–92, 101, 111–118, 121, 123, 135, Toledo 13, 14, 16, 27–28, 42, n. 52, 58, 60, 163,
187, 196, 199, 202, 204, 208, 219, 246, 337, 169–170, 175; kingdom of 168
392, 393, 401, 409, 438, 444, 446–447, 451, Tomar, Portugal 116
461, 492, 515, 681; castles 554; chancery tombs 503
400; master of 88, 243, 462; Templar rule 73, Tommaso Dulce 186, 190
88, 90; Templar trial 90–92, 409 tools 554
Templar of Tyre 400 topography 477, 494
Temple Cressing 115 Toron 133, 442
Teofilo Zeno 192 Toros, prince of Edessa 615
Teresa, queen of Portugal 54 Tortosa 313, 393
Tērveta 576 Tortosa, Catalan convent of the Temple 90, 116,
tesserae 629 169, 175
Teutonic Order 62, 64, 85–89, 91–92, 111, torture 61–62, 196
113–14, 117–118, 120, 123, 144, 150, 152, Toruń (Thorn) 87, 580, 584
196, 207, 213, 217, 219, 337, 452, 580, Toulouse 61, 113, 115
584–587; castles 554; in Prussia 86 Toūr 514
textiles 397, 405, 544, 556 Touraine 115
Teyrfebne (village) 186 tournaments 561
Thebes 595 towers 452, 456, 494, 551
Theobald III, count of Champagne 227 towns 3
Theobald IV, count of Champagne/king of trade 62, 405, 519–521, 680, 693
Navarre 228, 235–236, 453 Transjordan 329
Theodemir, duke, lord of the region of Murcia 163 Transylvania 118
Theoderic 245, 547, 671 travellers 519
Theodora Comnena 197 treason 99–101
Theodore of Antioch 209 treasure 59
Theodore Balsamon 261 treasury 495
Theodore I Laskaris, Byzantine emperor of Treaty of Christburg 578, 585
Nicaea 208, 262, 266, 268–269, 273, n. 6 Treaty of Jaffa 548
Theodosios Goudeles 300 Treaty of Melno 586–587
Thessalonika 286, 294, 298 Treaty of Qalāwūn 515
Theuderic 313 trebuchet 572
Third Lateran Council 425 trees 580
Thomas, count of Acera 232 Treviso 117, 120
Thomas Becket 130 Trier 130–131
Thomas Berard 89 Tripoli 11, 79, 91, 104, 114, 196–197, 200,
Thomas of Celano 253, n. 54 202, 206–207, 320, 334, 337, 392, 456, 555;
Thomas Ficard 398 county of 181, 202, 229, 232–233, 235, 405,
Thomas of Froidmont 60 441–442, 512, 531; sack of 243
Thomas of Tolentino 250 Troina 21
Thoronne 113 Trois-Fontaines monastery 140, n. 35
Thoros, prince of Armenia 197 Troyes 114
Tiberias 58, 75–76, 214, 295, 463, 469, 477, Tughtigin of Damascus 105, n. 1
485, n. 14, 494 tunic 636
Tibnin 514 Tunisia 90, 419–420, 430, 523, 534, 537
Tigris River 365 Tupadel, Henry 92
724
— Index —
Turan 76–77, 462; Turan Mountain 466–467; Valladolid 120

spring 470; valley of 467 Valley of the Nobles 595
turbans 353 Vallombrosa, monks of 43, n. 58
Turin 1 Valmiera 574
Turcomen 71–72 van Berchem, Max 438
Turcopoles (turcoples) 71, 73, 76, 85–86, 90–92 vanguard 76
Turkey/Turks 62, 69–71, 73, 348, 353, 384, 528, Varbola 576
688 Varna 118
Turkmenistan 328 vassals 85, 576, 677
turris and castrum 442 vaults 496

Tuscany 117, 123, 637; Tuscan painting 627, veil 636
639–641 Venice/Venetians 19, 113, 118, 121, 181, 183,
Tuscia 120 185–193, 196, 271, 284–285, 319, 328, 332,
Tutush I, Seljuk sultan 358, n. 12 338, 394, 396, 398, 401, 405–407, 410,
tympanum 505, 506, 517, n. 49 520–521, 528–529, 531, 534–535, 537–538,
Tyre 59, 79, 102, 181, 183–184, 187–189, 191, 547, 627, 651; fleet 181; privileges 182; doge
193, 193, n. 7, 216, 219, 232, 236, 237, 392, 182; Venetian Council of Ten 401, 408
405, 441–442, 450, 455, 548, 556; Church of Ventspils 574
San Marco 183–184; harbor 184; lordship of Vercelli 116
2, 182, 184–186, 188, 190, 192; Pisan quarter Verdun, bishop of 130
184; royal funda 184; Royal mint 186 Verona 117, 130–31
Via Cooperta (covered street in Acre) 547
Uhud, battle of 421, 424 Via Publica (public street) 547
‘ulamā’ (religious scholars) 339 Viaud, Prosper, Franciscan monk 666
‘Umar ibn ‘Abd al-‘Aziz 378, 382–383 Victor III, pope 13
‘Umar ibn al-Khattab 378–379, 382 Vienne 11
‘Umāra, Yemenite poet 367 Viljandi/Fellin 572
‘Umayr b. Abi Wiqqas 380 Villa San Giovanni 10
Umayyads/Umayyad period 317, 380 villages 3, 182–183, 395, 439, 675
Union of the Churches, Lyons 270 Villedieu house 115
United States 650 Vincentius, bishop of Kraków 148–149
urban planning 547 vineyards 61, 187, 409
Urban II, pope 9, 13–21, 28, 31, 33–36, 36, n. Virgin and Child enthroned 636
7, 37, n. 9, n. 11, 38, n. 14, n. 18, 39, n. 23, Virgin Mary 64, 582, 629
40, n. 28, 42, n. 53, n. 54, 43, n. 58, n. 59, 55, Virgin of Spoleto 627
264, 278, 681 Virumaa 576
Urban III, pope 129–130, 139, n. 17 Viseu 173
Urban V, pope 61, 402 Visigoths 166, 168
Urgel 169 visitator 112
urine 594 Vistula River 146, 584; fens 582
Urraca, queen of León and Castile 54 Vitale Galafarius 185–186, 190
Usama ibn al-Munqidh 383, 559 Vitale Michiel, doge of Venice 184
Utrecht 117 Vitale Pantaleo (Malvisino)183–184
Üxküll on Duna River 150 Vitale Pantaleo, fief of 185
Uzbekistan 328 Viterbo 120
viticulture 552
Vadum Jacob 515, 554 Vivar 21
Valence 115 Vlademar II of Denmark 150
Valencia 21, 30, 116, 174, 428; cathedral 26, volcano 77, 481–482
33; Church of 27, 29–30; principality of 19, Voltaire 690
22, 23, 25–29 volunteers 89
725
— Index —
von Ranke 692 William of Tyre 7, 58, 68, 71, 88–89, 100–102,
von Sybel, Heinrich 692 197, 267, 445, 447, 619, 670
Vrana 118 William Rivet 231
William von Urenbach 118
Wadad al-Qadi 420 William de Villaret, Hospitaller Grand Master
Wadi al-Falik 473, 483 404
wages 425 William II, king of Sicily 198
wagons 76 William II of Dampierre, constable of
Wales 55, 80 Champagne 231
wall painting 586 wills 62

Walter IV of Brienne, count of Jaffa 235, 238 wind 473–474
Walter V 238 windows 512
Walter of Montbéliard 226–227 wine 119, 122, 187, 519, 556; presses 216
Walther von der Vogelweide 134, 136 Witham 115
warehouse 521 Wittelsbach family 121
warfare 2, 69–70 Wittiza, king 163
warriors 54 Wɫadysɫaw II Jagieɫɫo 152
Warwick 115 Wolfram von Eschenbach 136
waste 545 woods 122
water 57, 218, 466, 469–473, 494, 523, 547, women 54–55, 57–63, 689
552, 596 Word of God 103
waterholes 467 workshops 187
weapons 405, 422, 430, 493, 585 “Workshop of the Temple” 663
weavers 187, 193, n. 9 Würzburg 119, 122
Weitzmann, Kurt 625
Welf Otto IV 131 Xorazm 347
Wends 145–146, 149
Werner von Bolanden, imperial legate in Yaghi-Syan, emir of Antioch 346, 348,
Burgundy 130 350–351, 353, 359, n. 49
Western Church 33 Yarqon River 467
Weston 115 Yoqne’am 530, 559, 602
Westphalia 117 Yorkshire 115
wheat 122, 407, 430 Yveta (sister of Queen Melisende of Jerusalem)
Wichmann, archbishop of Magdeburg 130 610, 612
Wilbert of Ravenna 359
Wilbrand of Oldenburg 85, 197, 253, n. 44, 449 Zallāqah, battle of 28
wilderness 580 Zamkowa 580
Willehalm 136 Zamora 12, 120
Williamof Beaujeu, master of the Temple 88, Zangid 378, 382, 385
90, 104–105 Zantyr 150
William of Chartres 202 Zaragoza 168, 175
William Goneme, Augustinian friar 397 zāwiyas 339
William Longespee 63 Zahiri school 422
William of Malmesbury 7 Zayn al-Din al-Ḥāfiẓī 329
William of Messines, patriarch of Jerusalem 183 Zengi (Zangi), Imad ad-Din 100, 183, 380 74
William of Modena, papal legate 152 Zeuxippus Ware 528, 534–535
William of Montferrat 129, 282 Zirids 11
William of Nazareth, second bishop 670 Zoroastrians 313
William of Normandy 198 Zunzulino Gazel 189
726

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The Crusader World

Adrian J. Boas is Professor of Medieval Archaeology in the Departments of Archaeology

THE EARLY CHRISTIAN WORLD

Edited by Harriet Crawford

© 2016 Adrian J. Boas for selection and editorial matter; individual

ISBN: 978-0-415-82494-1 (hbk)

Typeset in Times New Roman

PART I: IDEOLOGY, CRUSADE, WARFARE

PART II: THE CRUSADER WEST

10 Christian expansion in medieval Iberia: Reconquista or crusade? 163

PART III: THE LATIN EAST

PART IV: MEDIEVAL BYZANTIUM

PART V: MEETING ISLAM

PART VI: ARCHAEOLOGY OF THE CRUSADES

PART VII: ART AND LITERATURE

35 Narratological readings of crusade texts 646

PART VIII: STUDYING THE CRUSADES

2.1 The priory chapel of Berzé-la-Ville (Saône-et-Loire), France: general

28.14 The bearded head and the head of youth 510

Beirut and its vicinity 526

31.7 Remains of the thirteenth-century timber castle excavated in Elbląg

36.1 Church of the Annunciation, Nazareth, Rectangular capital, depicting

Michael Angold is Professor Emeritus of Byzantine History at the University of Edinburgh.

Adrian J. Boas is Professor of Medieval Archaeology in the Department of Archaeology and

Jochen Burgtorf is Professor of Medieval History at California State University, Fullerton

Paul E. Chevedden (1986, UCLA) is an independent scholar specializing in the crusades

Nikolaos G. Chrissis (PhD London) is a Postdoctoral Research Fellow at the University

Yvonne Friedman is Lazarus Phillips Professor of General History in the Department of

Luis García-Guijarro Ramos is Reader in Medieval History at the University of Zaragoza

Darius von Güttner-Sporzyński is a Historian and Research Fellow at the University

Bernard Hamilton is Emeritus Professor of Crusading History in the University of

David Jacoby is Professor Emeritus of Medieval History at the Hebrew University,

Andrew Jotischky is Professor of Medieval History at Lancaster University, where he has

and cultural interactions, Orthodox influences on Western reform monasticism, pilgrimage

Nurith Kenaan-Kedar is Professor of Medieval Art History in the Department of Art

Raphael Y. Lewis is an archaeologist specialising in landscape archaeology and archae-

Piers D. Mitchell is a biological anthropologist, medical historian and physician who

Helen J. Nicholson is Professor of Medieval History at Cardiff University in Wales, and

Aleksander Pluskowski is Lecturer in Medieval Archaeology at the University of Reading

Vardit Shotten-Hallel is a PhD candidate at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, European

Daniella Talmon-Heller is a Senior Lecturer at the Department of Middle East Studies of

POPE URBAN II AND THE IDEOLOGY

There’s a battle outside and it is ragin’ …

MONISM VERSUS PERSPECTIVALISM

A MEDITERRANEAN POWER SHIFT

possible for us, the condition of the city.12

THE EXEGETE OF HISTORY

self-proclaimed “cooperator”18 in the actualization of these events. In addition, he uses his

POPE URBAN’S ESCHATOLOGICAL VISION

“preaching to the Muslims” (134). This reconstruction is a masterpiece of ingenuity and

CRUSADING IDEOLOGY: A GUIDE, NOT

PAPAL PARTICIPATION IN THE CRUSADES:

RODRIGO DÍAZ DE VIVAR (EL CID): CRUSADER

special privilege (specialis privilegii libertate).44

THE VALENCIA–ROME CRUSADING AXIS

an independent religious sovereign endowed directly by God with transcendent obligations

CRUSADER SOVEREIGN OR ṬĀʾIFAH KING?

the fact that he was a successful soldier of fortune.

10 Christian expansion in medieval Iberia: Reconquista or crusade? 163

35 Narratological readings of crusade texts 646

2.1 The priory chapel of Berzé-la-Ville (Saône-et-Loire), France: general

28.14 The bearded head and the head of youth 510

Beirut and its vicinity 526

31.7 Remains of the thirteenth-century timber castle excavated in Elbląg

36.1 Church of the Annunciation, Nazareth, Rectangular capital, depicting