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Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia This page has been left blank intentionally Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Edited by

A.C.S. Peacock Bruno De Nicola Sara Nur YIldIz University of St Andrews, UK © A.C.S. Peacock, Bruno De Nicola and Sara Nur Yıldız, and the contributors 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher.

A.C.S. Peacock, Bruno De Nicola and Sara Nur Yıldız have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the editors of this ork.w

Published by Ashgate Publishing Limited ashgate Publishing Company Wey Court East 110 Cherry Street Union Road Suite 3-1 Farnham Burlington, VT 05401-3818 Surrey, GU9 7PT USA England www.ashgate.com

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows: Islam and Christianity in medieval Anatolia / edited by A.C.S. Peacock, Bruno De Nicola and Sara Nur Yıldız. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-4724-4863-7 (hardcover) -- ISBN 978-1-4724-5635-9 (ebook) -- ISBN 978-1- 4724-5636-6 (epub) 1. Islam--Relations--Christianity. 2. Christianity and other religions- -Islam. 3. Islam--Turkey--History. 4. Christianity--Turkey--History. 5. Seljuks. I. Peacock, A. C. S. (Andrew C. S.) II. De Nicola, Bruno. III. Yıldız, Sara Nur. BP172.I8115 2015 297.2’8309561--dc23 2014037433

ISBN: 9781472448637 (hbk) ISBN: 9781472456359 (ebk – PDF) ISBN: 9781472456366 (ebk – ePUB)

Printed in the United Kingdom by Henry Ling Limited, at the Dorset Press, Dorchester, DT1 1HD Contents

List of Illustrations vii Acknowledgements xv Note on Transliteration and Place Names xvi Abbreviations xvii Notes on Contributors xix

Introduction 1 A.C.S. Peacock, Bruno De Nicola and Sara Nur Yıldız

Part I Christian Experiences of Muslim Rule

1 Christians in the Middle East, 600–1000: Conquest, Competition and Conversion 23 Philip Wood

2 Christian Views of Islam in Early Seljuq Anatolia: Perceptions and Reactions 51 Alexander D. Beihammer

3 Patterns of Armeno-Muslim Interchange on the Armenian Plateau in the Interstice between Byzantine and Ottoman Hegemony 77 S. Peter Cowe

4 the Rape of Anatolia 107 Scott Redford

5 liquid Frontiers: A Relational Analysis of Maritime Asia Minor as a Religious Contact Zone in the Thirteenth-Fifteenth Centuries 117 Johannes Preiser-Kapeller

6 the Greek Orthodox Communities of Nicaea and Ephesus under Turkish Rule in the Fourteenth Century: A New Reading of Old Sources 147 Johannes Pahlitzsch vi Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Part II artistic and Intellectual Encounters between Islam and Christianity

7 Byzantine Appropriation of the Orient: Notes on its Principles and Patterns 167 Rustam Shukurov

8 other Encounters: Popular Belief and Cultural Convergence in Anatolia and the Caucasus 183 Antony Eastmond

9 thirteenth-Century ‘Byzantine’ Art in Cappadocia and the Question of Greek Painters at the Seljuq Court 215 Tolga B. Uyar

10 an Interfaith Polemic of Medieval Anatolia: Qāḍī Burhān al-Dīn al-Anawī on the Armenians and their Heresies 233 A.C.S. Peacock

11 ‘What Does the Clapper Say?’ An Interfaith Discourse on the Christian Call to Prayer by ʿAbdīshōʿ bar Brīkhā 263 Salam Rassi

Part III the Formation of Islamic Society in Anatolia

12 sunni Orthodox vs Shiʿite Heterodox?: A Reappraisal of Islamic Piety in Medieval Anatolia 287 Rıza Yıldırım

13 Mevlevi-Bektashi Rivalries and the Islamisation of the Public Space in Late Seljuq Anatolia 309 Judith Pfeiffer

14 Battling Kufr (Unbelief) in the Land of Infidels: Gülşehri’s Turkish Adaptation of ʿAṭṭār’s Manṭiq al-Ṭayr 329 Sara Nur Yıldız

15 Islamisation through the Lens of the Saltuk-name 349 Ahmet T. Karamustafa

Bibliography 365 Index 409 List of Illustrations

Colour Plates

Plate 1 Saint Theodore and Saint George slaying the dragon. Wall painting, west wall, Church of Stratelates at Başköy (Mavrucan), Cappadocia (photo: Tolga B. Uyar) Plate 2 Saint Theodore and Saint George slaying the dragon. Wall painting, west wall, Church of Stratelates at Başköy (Mavrucan), Cappadocia (photo: Yıldız Ötüken) Plate 3 Saint Theodore and Saint George slaying the dragon, detail. Wall painting, west wall, Church of Stratelates at Başköy (Mavrucan), Cappadocia (photo: Tolga B. Uyar) Plate 4 Saint George slaying the dragon. Wall painting, niche on exterior wall, Church of Saint George at Belisırma (Kırkdamaltı Kilise), Ihlara, Cappadocia, (photo: Tolga B. Uyar) Plate 5 Saint Theodore and Saint George slaying the dragon. Wall painting, west wall, Karşı Kilise at Gülşehir, Cappadocia (photo: Tolga B. Uyar)

Maps

Map 1 The Byzantine eastern Mediterranean and neighbouring regions: Armenia, the Caucasus, the Jazira and Mesopotamia under the Abbasids, c.1050 xi Map 2 Anatolia c.1144: Byzantium, the Rūm Seljuqs, and other Turco- Muslim principalities (Danishmendids, Mengüjekids, Saltuqids, and Artuqids) xii Map 3 Thirteenth-Century Mongol-Dominated Seljuq Anatolia, c.1280 xiii Map 4 Anatolia c.1330: Byzantium, Turkish Beyliks, and the Ilkhanate xiv

Black and White Figures

5.1 The network of land and sea routes in Southern Anatolia: Nodes are sized according to their betweenness centrality values (J. Preiser- Kapeller, 2013; created with QuantumGIS) 123 5.2 The embedding of Anatolia into the international web of commerce of the fourteenth century according to Francesco Pegolotti’s Handbook (nodes being localities from which or to which merchandise traded in the Anatolian cities found its way). Nodes viii Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

are scaled according to their betweenness centrality (J. Preiser- Kapeller, 2013; created with QuantumGIS) 130 5.3 The web of entanglements created by the Venetian galley of 1414 on the basis of the mobility of its crew and of the ship itself (nodes of localities sized according to the number of oarsmen coming from there) (J. Preiser-Kapeller, 2013; created with QuantumGIS) 135 5.4 Connections between Famagusta and the Mediterranean world on the basis of links to the places or origin of merchants who came there to trade with slaves in 1300/1301 (J. Preiser-Kapeller, 2013; created with QuantumGIS) 139 5.5 Connections between Famagusta and the Mediterranean world on the basis of links to the places from or via which slaves came who were traded in Famagusta in 1300/1301 (J. Preiser-Kapeller, 2013; created with QuantumGIS) 140 5.6 Connections between Candia and the Mediterranean world on the basis of links to the places of origin of merchants who came there to trade with slaves in 1305/1306 (J. Preiser-Kapeller, 2013; created with QuantumGIS) 141 5.7 Connections between Candia and Anatolia, the Aegean and the Black Sea on the basis of links to the places or origin of slaves who were traded there in 1305/1306 (J. Preiser-Kapeller, 2013; created with QuantumGIS) 142

8.1 Tower of Mamkhatun (Tower 63), Ani. 1219. Photo: author 183 8.2 Tower 5, Ani, showing crosses. Thirteenth century. Photo: author 187 8.3 Ulu Baden (Tower 31), Amid (Diyarbakır). 1207/8. Photo: author 189 8.4 Yedi Kardeş (Tower 39), Amid (Diyarbakır). 1207/8. Photo: author 190 8.5 Gate at Konya. c.1219–21. C. Texier, Description de l’Asie Mineure faite par Ordre du gouvernement Français de 1833 à 1837 (Paris: Didot Frères, 1839–49), plate 97. (Photo: Courtesy of the Institute of Classical Studies, University of London) 193 8.6 Bāb al-Ṭalsim [Talisman gate], Baghdad. 1221. Photo: Friedrich Sarre, courtesy Fine Arts Library, Harvard College Library 194 8.7 Ankara. Roman herms and altars re-employed in city walls. Photo: author 195 8.8 Ankara. Inscription re-employed in city walls. Photo: author 196 8.9 Astrolabe of al-Ashraf Mūsā, made by ʿAbd al-Karīm. Front. 1227–78. Photo: Museum of the History of Science, University of Oxford 200 8.10 Astrolabe of al-Ashraf Mūsā, made by ʿAbd al-Karīm. Reverse. 1227–78. Photo: Museum of the History of Science, University of Oxford 201 8.11 Astrological Treatise, National Manuscript Centre, Tbilisi A-65, fol. 352r: Aries. Photo: National Manuscript Centre, Tbilisi 203 8.12 Pseudo-Galen’s Kitāb al-Diryāq (Book of Antidotes), Paris BNF, MS Arabe 2964, fol. 15. 1199. Photo: BNF 204 List of Illustrations ix

8.13 Astrological Treatise, National Manuscript Centre, Tbilisi A-65, fol. 376r: Sagittarius. Photo: National Manuscript Centre, Tbilisi 205 8.14 Coin with Sagittarius. Nāṣir al-Dīn Artuq Arslan. Mardin 1202–03. The David Collection, Copenhagen, Inv. C 191. Photo: Pernille Klemp 206 8.15 Mars in Scorpio on Tower 11, Amid (Diyarbakır), twelfth century (?). Photo: author 207 8.16 Pisces, Aries, Taurus on the Bridge at Jazira ibn ʿUmar (Cizre), 1164. Photo: Courtesy of the Gertrude Bell Archive, Newcastle University (M_087) 208 8.17 Mirror. Seljuq, 1153. Museum of Islamic Art, Cairo 209 8.18 Talismanic bows, made for Zayn al-Dīn. Syria, 1224. Museum für Islamische Kunst, Berlin inv. I.3633. Photo: bpk / Museum für Islamische Kunst, SMB / Georg Niedermeiser 210 8.19 Hystera amulet. Byzantine, twelfth century. The Menil Collection, Texas. Inv. 490.824. Recto © The Menil Collection, Houston. Photo: Paul Hester. Verso © The Menil Collection, Houston. Photo: Taylor and Dull, NY 211

9.1 T’amar, donor portrait (1282–1295 or 1302–1310). Wall painting, west wall, Church of Saint George at Belisırma (Kırkdamaltı Kilise), Ihlara, Cappadocia, (photo: Tolga B. Uyar) 220 9.2 Shamhurash, dragon-slaying angel (mid to late thirteenth century). Miniature illustration from Daqā’iq al-ḥaqā’iq, BNF MS pers. 174, fol. 83 (photo: Bibliothèque nationale de France) 223 9.3 Dragon and lion slaying riders (late twelfth – early thirteenth century). Stucco relief from Konya Palace. Museum of Turkish and Islamic Arts, Istanbul 2831 (photo: Museum of Turkish Islamic Arts) 224 9.4 Map of Byzantine Cappadocia (based on Hild, Das byzantinische Strassensystem) 224 9.5 Saint Theodore and Saint George slaying the dragon. Wall painting, west wall, Church of Stratelates at Başköy (Mavrucan), Cappadocia (photo: Tolga B. Uyar) 226 9.6 Saint Theodore and Saint George slaying the dragon. Wall painting, west wall, Church of Stratelates at Başköy (Mavrucan), Cappadocia (photo: Yıldız Ötüken) 226 9.7 Saint Theodore and Saint George slaying the dragon, west wall, Church of Stratelates at Başköy (Mavrucan), Cappadocia (drawing based on Yıldız Ötüken’s photo) 227 9.8 Saint Theodore and Saint George slaying the dragon, detail. Wall painting, west wall, Church of Stratelates at Başköy (Mavrucan), Cappadocia (photo: Tolga B. Uyar) 228 9.9 Saint Theodore and Saint George slaying the dragon, detail. Wall painting, west wall, Church of Stratelates at Başköy (Mavrucan), Cappadocia (photo: Tolga B. Uyar) 228 x Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

9.10 Saint George slaying the dragon. Wall painting, niche on exterior wall, Church of Saint George at Belisırma (Kırkdamaltı Kilise), Ihlara, Cappadocia, (photo: Tolga B. Uyar) 230 9.11 Saint Theodore and Saint George slaying the dragon. Wall painting, west wall, Karşı Kilise at Gülşehir, Cappadocia (photo: Tolga B. Uyar) 230

13.1 Map of Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā’s endowments in Anatolia 311 Map 1 The Byzantine eastern Mediterranean and neighbouring regions: Armenia, the Caucasus, the Jazira and Mesopotamia under the Abbasids, c.1050 Map 2 Anatolia c.1144: Byzantium, the Rūm Seljuqs, and other Turco-Muslim principalities (Danishmendids, Mengüjekids, Saltuqids, and Artuqids) Map 3 Thirteenth-Century Mongol-Dominated Seljuq Anatolia, c.1280 Map 4 Anatolia c.1330: Byzantium, Turkish Beyliks, and the Ilkhanate Acknowledgements

This volume arises from discussions at a workshop entitled ‘The Reception of Islam in Anatiolia in the 12th–15th centuries’ held at the Koç University Research Center for Anatolian Civilisation (RCAC) in Istanbul in September 2013. The workshop was funded by the European Research Council through the European Union’s Seventh Framework Programme (FP/2007–13) / ERC Grant Agreement n 208476, ‘The Islamisation of Anatolia, c. 1100–1500’, whose financial contribution the editors gratefully acknowledge. We would also like to thank the then director of the RCAC, Scott Redford, for his assistance with the practical arrangements and for hosting the workshop. We are also grateful to John Smedley and the staff at Ashgate for seeing this book through the press. Note on Transliteration and Place Names

Any volume attempting to bring together materials in Arabic, Armenian, Greek, Latin, Persian, Syriac and Turkish brings formidable editorial problems, and the readers’ indulgence is begged if we have not invariably been able to achieve consistency. For place names, to aid ready identification on a map we have generally given the modern Turkish version in addition to the Greek or Armenian versions where authors have preferred these. The index contains comprehensive cross-references to variant forms used in this volume. Arabic and Persian follow the standard forms of transliteration in English language publications; for Turkish names, the modern Turkish orthography has generally been preferred except in the case of some eleventh- and twelfth-century Turkish names which are much more familiar in their Arabised guise (e.g. Tughril, Duqaq, Qutlumush, not Tuğrıl, Dukak, Kutlumuş). Vowel length is not indicated on Turkish words. Abbreviations

CEEOC The Concise Encylopedia of Eastern Orthodox Christianity, ed. John Anthony McGuckin (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014). EQr Encyclopedia of the Qur’an, ed. Jane Dammen McAuliffe (Leiden: Brill, 2001–2006). EI2 Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition, ed. P. Bearman, Th. Bianquis, C.E. Bosworth, E. van Donzel and W.P. Heinrichs (Leiden: Brill, 1960–2005). EI3 Encyclopaedia of Islam, Third Edition, ed. Kate Fleet, Gudrun Krämer, Denis Matringe, John Nawas and Everett Rowson (Leiden: Brill, 2007–). EIr Encyclopaedia Iranica, ed. Ehsan Yarshater (London: Routlege and New York: Bibliotheca Persica Press, 1983– and www.iranicaonline.org). GEDSH Gorgias Encyclopedic Dictionary of the Syriac Heritage, ed. Sebastian P. Brock, Beth Mardutho et. al. (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2011). İA İslâm Ansiklopedisi (Istanbul: Milli Eğitim Basımevi, 1978–86). TDVİA Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı İslam Ansiklopedisi. (Istanbul: Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı, Islâṁ Ansiklopedisi Genel Müdürlügü, 1988–2013). This page has been left blank intentionally Notes on Contributors

Alexander D. Beihammer, PhD (1999), Vienna, is Associate Professor of Byzantine History at the University of Cyprus. He has published on Byzantine diplomatics and on political and cross-cultural relations between Byzantium and the Muslim World and is currently preparing a monograph on the Seljuq conquest of Asia Minor.

S. Peter Cowe is Narekatsi Professor of Armenian Studies at the University of California, Los Angeles. His research interests include medieval Armenian intellectual history and modern Armenian nationalism. The author of five books in the field and editor of nine, he contributes regularly to scholarly journals and is the past co-editor of the Journal of the Society for Armenian Studies.

Bruno De Nicola is Research Fellow in Middle Eastern Studies in the School of History, University of St Andrews, UK. His publications include ‘Women’s role and participation in warfare in the Mongol Empire’, in Soldatinnen. Gewalt und Geschlecht im Krieg vom Mittelalter bis Heute, edited by K. Klaus Latzel, S. Satjukow and F. Maubach (Schöningh, 2010), 95–112; ‘Ruling from tents: The existence and structure of women’s ordos in Ilkhanid Iran’, in Ferdowsi, The Mongols and Iranian History: Art, Literature and Culture from Early Islam to Qajar Persia, edited by R. Hillenbrand, A. Peacock and F. Abdullaeva (I.B. Tauris, 2013), 116–36; ‘The Ladies of Rūm: A Hagiographic View on Women in the 13th and 14th Century Anatolia’, Journal of Sufi Studies (2014); as editor (with Y. Mendel and H. Qutbbudin) Knowledge and Language in Middle Eastern Societies (Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2010).

Antony Eastmond is AG Leventis Reader in the History of Art at the Courtauld Institute of Art, University of London. His books Royal Imagery in Medieval Georgia (1998) and Art and Identity in Thirteenth-Century Byzantium: Hagia Sophia and the Empire of Trebizond (2004) have explored many aspects of interaction between the cultures of the Caucasus and the Pontos and their neighbours. He is currently editing a book, Viewing Inscriptions in the Late Antique and Medieval World, and holds a two-year major research fellowship from the Leverhulme Trust to complete a book on women, power and identity from the Mediterranean to Mongolia in the thirteenth century.

Ahmet T. Karamustafa is Professor of History at the University of Maryland, College Park, USA. His expertise is in the social and intellectual history of Sufism in particular and Islamic piety in general in the medieval and early modern periods. He has also conducted research on Islamic cartography as well as religious literature. His publications include God’s Unruly Friends (University of Utah Press, 1994) and Sufism: The Formative Period (Edinburgh University Press xx Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia and University of California Press, 2007). He is currently working on a book project titled Vernacular Islam: Everyday Muslim Religious Life in Medieval Turkey.

Johannes Pahlitzsch is Professor for Byzantine Studies at the Johannes Gutenberg- Universität Mainz, Germany. He published a monograph on the history of the Greek Orthodox patriarchate of Jerusalem in the crusader period, and is co- editor of Christian–Muslim Relations: A Historical Bibliography and has published numerous articles on the situation of oriental Christians under Muslim rule in the Middle Ages and the relations between Byzantium and the Islamic world. He has been awarded fellowships of the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton and the Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collections, Washington DC, and is member of the board of the Leibniz Science Campus Mainz ‘Byzantium between Orient and Occident’.

Andrew Peacock is Reader in Middle Eastern Studies in the School of History, University of St Andrews, UK. His main publications include Mediaeval Islamic Historiography and Political Legitimacy: Bal‘amī’s Tārīkhnāma (Routledge, 2007); Early Seljūq History: A New Interpretation (Routledge, 2010); The Great Seljuk Empire (Edinburgh University Press, 2015), and as editor (with Sara Nur Yıldız), The Seljuks of Anatolia: Court and Society in the Medieval Middle East (I.B. Tauris, 2013). He is Principal Investigator of the European Research Council-funded research project ‘The Islamisation of Anatolia, c. 1100–1500’.

Judith Pfeiffer is Associate Professor of Arabic at the University of Oxford. Her research focuses on the intellectual history of the later middle and early modern periods of Islamic history. She has published on religion and politics and in particular conversion processes in the Ilkhanid, Timurid, Ottoman, and Safavid contexts and is editor or co-editor of History and Historiography of Post- Mongol Central Asia and the Middle East: Studies in Honor of John E. Woods (Wiesbaden 2006, with Sholeh A. Quinn), Theoretical Approaches to the Transmission and Edition of Oriental Manuscripts (Würzburg 2007, with Manfred Kropp), and Politics, Patronage and the Transmission of Knowledge in 13th–15th Century Tabriz (Leiden/ New York, 2014).

Johannes Preiser-Kapeller, DPhil in Byzantine Studies at the University of Vienna, is researcher at the Austrian Academy of Sciences, Institute for Medieval Research, Division of Byzantine Research. His main research fields are Byzantine history in global comparison and entanglement within the medieval world, social network analysis and complexity theory as well as social, economic and environmental history. He has authored the monograph Der Episkopat im späten Byzanz. Ein Verzeichnis der Metropoliten und Bischöfe des Patriarchats von Konstantinopel in der Zeit von 1204 bis 1453 (Saarbrücken, 2008) and (co)-edited a variety of volumes on the medieval history of South-Eastern Europe and the Eastern Mediterranean (see also http://oeaw.academia.edu/JohannesPreiserKapeller and http://oeaw. academia.edu/TopographiesofEntanglements). Notes on Contributors xxi

Salam Rassi is a doctoral candidate at the University of Oxford whose research focuses on the cultural, social and political experiences of Christian communities living under Muslim rule in pre-modern times, particularly in the Ilkhanid period. His thesis examines the written legacy of the late medieval Syriac Christian polymath ʿAbdīshōʿ of Nisibis and his philosophical and theological contacts with the Islamic world. He has taught courses on Islamic history at the Royal Holloway, University of London and has recently contributed a forthcoming chapter entitled ‘Between ʿaṣabiyya and ecumenism: ʿAbdīshōʿ bar Brīkhā’s attitudes towards other Christians’ to an edited volume on Syriac Christianity in its multicultural context (Peeters).

Scott Redford is Nasser D. Khalili Professor of the Art and Archaeology of Islam, Department of Art and Archaeology, School of Oriental and African Studies, London. His most recent book is Legends of Authority: The 1215 Seljuk Inscriptions of Sinop Citadel, Turkey (Koç University Press, 2014).

Rustam Shukurov (PhD, DSc in History) works in History Department of Moscow State University. His research interests include Byzantine, Seljuq and Ottoman, Central Asian history and culture. He is the author of the monograph The Grand Komnenoi and the Orient (1204–1461) (St Petersburg, 2001) and more than 100 articles on Byzantine-Oriental relations.

Tolga B. Uyar (PhD University Paris 1, Panthéon-Sorbonne, 2011) specialises in Byzantine art, architecture and archaeology, with special emphasis on the monumental painting of Cappadocia. His broader research interests include the methodological questions related to the ‘archaeology of art’, the interactions between visual, written, oral and material cultures in the medieval Mediterranean, popular piety across religions, and the issues of identity as they relate to artistic production. In 2013–14 he was a Fellow in residence at Dumbarton Oaks where he worked on a book project on the cultural residue of the Greek-speaking Orthodox communities of central Anatolia after the end of Byzantine rule. He is currently a Postdoctoral Research collaborator in the ‘Towards an institutional and social history of Byzantine Asia Minor on the evidence of seals and other sources (7th–13th centuries)’ project at the Academy of Athens.

Philip Wood is Associate Professor at Aga Khan University, Institute for the Study of Muslim Civilisation, which is based in London. He teaches the History of Late Antiquity and the Study of Religion. He also coordinates the MA in Muslim Heritage for a student body that is drawn from across the ‘Muslim world’, Europe and America. He researches Christians in the Roman and early Islamic Near East and has published two monographs, ‘We Have No King but Christ’: Christian Political Thought in Greater Syria on the Eve of the Arab Conquest (c.400–585) (Oxford, 2010) and The Chronicle of Seert: Christian Historical Imagination in Late Antique Iraq (Oxford, 2013). xxii Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Riza Yıldırım is Associate Professor of Ottoman and Safavid History at TOBB University of Economics and Technology, Ankara. He specialises in the history and religiosity of Alid-tinged Sufi groups in the Ottoman and Safavid Empires with particular reference to Qizilbash/Alevi and Bektashi communities. He published a number of books and articles on the socio-cultural and religious history of Qizilbash/Alevis, Bektashis, Akhis, and related socio-religious groups.

Sara Nur Yıldız is a Research Fellow at University of St Andrews employed on a European Research Council-funded research project entitled ‘Islamisation of Anatolia, c. 1100–1500’ and is affiliated with the Orient-Institut Istanbul. Dr Yıldız received her PhD from the University of Chicago in 2006. Her research encompasses the political, religious and cultural history of medieval Anatolia spanning the Seljuq, Mongol, beylik and early Ottoman periods.

Introduction

A.C.S. Peacock, Bruno De Nicola and Sara Nur Yıldız

The eleventh-century invasions of the Seljuq Turks affected to some degree almost every part of the Middle East. Nowhere, however, was their legacy as profoundly transformative as in the Anatolian peninsula. Up to the mid- eleventh century, Anatolia had been an almost entirely Christian land, populated largely by Greeks and Armenians and smaller numbers of Georgians and Syrian Christians. Anatolia represented the core territories of the Byzantine empire upon which Constantinople relied for revenue, and many emperors were themselves of Anatolian origins, whether Greek or Armenian. Over the seventh to tenth centuries, Byzantium had resisted, more or less successfully, Arab attacks that had reached on occasion as far west as Constantinople itself. Indeed, in the late tenth and early eleventh century, Byzantium started to expand eastwards, incorporating Arab territories around Lake Van and even in northern Syria. There was little clue that the infiltration of Turkish nomads of Central Asian origin, whose leaders had recently founded the Seljuq empire in Iran and Iraq in the 1040s, would lead to the sudden collapse of the Byzantine empire in Asia in the wake of the great Turkish victory at Manzikert in 1071. By the 1080s, however, Turkish Muslims controlled most of Anatolia; Byzantine territories were reduced to a few coastal outposts. Byzantium at times regained some coastal and western parts of Anatolia, but it was never able to challenge Turkish suzerainty in the Anatolian interior. Although Byzantium survived, much weakened, until the conquest of Constantinople by the Ottomans in 1453, it never recovered from the loss of its Anatolian heartland. Nonetheless, Muslim rule in medieval Anatolia was never monolithic (see Maps 1–4). Alongside the best known Turkish dynasty, the Seljuqs (r. in Anatolia c.1081–1307), existed a host of other Muslim dynasties, such as the Artuqids of the Diyar Bakr, the Mengüjekids of Erzincan and the Danishmendids of central Anatolia.1 The situation was further complicated by the dominance in Anatolia from the mid- thirteenth to the mid-fourteenth centuries of the Mongols, whose early rulers,

1 The standard survey of this period in a Western language remains Claude Cahen, La Turquie pré-ottomane (Istanbul, 1988), which is to be preferred to the earlier and later English versions of this book that lack references (idem, Pre-Ottoman Turkey: A General Survey of the Material and Spiritual Culture and History c.1071–1330, trans. J. Jones-Williams (New York: Taplinger Publishers Co., 1968); The Formation of Turkey: The Seljuqid Sultanate of Rūm: Eleventh to Fourteenth Century, trans. and ed. Peter M. Holt (Harlow, UK and New York: Longman, 2001)). The standard work in Turkish remains Osman Turan, Selçuklular Zamanında Türkiye, Siyâsi Tarih Alp Arslan’dan Osman Gazi’ye (1071–1318) (Istanbul: Turan Neşriyatı, 1971, and many reprints). For a sample of more recent scholarship on the Seljuq dynasty in Anatolia see The Seljuks of Anatolia: Court and Society in the Medieval Middle East, ed. A.C.S. Peacock and Sara Nur Yıldız (London: I.B. Tauris, 2013). 2 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia and many of their troops, were pagan. In the wake of Mongol collapse, Muslim Anatolia was divided into numerous different Turkish principalities (beyliks) in the fourteenth century, of which the leading ones were the Karamanids of south- central Anatolia, and the Aydınids in the southwest. It was out of this complex political situation that the Ottoman beylik first arose in northwestern Anatolia.2 The Byzantine legacy was remembered in the name the Muslims gave to Anatolia, Rūm (i.e. Rome; the Byzantines identified themselves as Rhomaioi or ‘Romans’, alluding to their own claim to inherit the legacy of the Roman empire). The branch of the Seljuq dynasty that established itself in Rūm sought to appropriate the classical and Byzantine heritage.3 Indeed, the ensuing social and cultural transformation of Anatolia was much less rapid than the political change. However, over the course of the Middle Ages, the dominant religion became Islam, spread not just by the settlement of the Turkish migrants but also by the conversion of local Christians, and Islamic languages – Persian and Turkish – came to supplement, and eventually replace, Greek and Armenian as the main lingua francas of the Anatolian cities (Arabic remained reserved largely for religious purposes, and Greek and Armenian continued to be important in many rural communities).4 Although the final transformation of Anatolia into an almost entirely Muslim, Turkish-speaking land did not take place until the First World War and its immediate aftermath, it was during the period between roughly 1100 and 1400 that Islam achieved its position of dominance. The Anatolian territories that the Ottomans conquered in the fifteenth century were ones where, even if still inhabited by numerous Christians, perhaps often a majority of Christians, society was dominated by not just the faith of Islam, but more generally by Muslim institutions and culture. The Turkish invasions did not, therefore, suddenly destroy Christianity in Anatolia, any more than the Arab invasions of other parts of the Middle East in the seventh century had led to sudden and wholescale conversions to Islam. Islam and Christianity long coexisted. Although no doubt the political and cultural supremacy of Islam made it at times an attractive choice for converts, there must have been other, more complex reasons for its appeal: in Anatolia, we have some of the earliest evidence anywhere in the Middle East for the conversion

2 On the rise of the Ottomans, see Colin Imber, The Ottoman Empire, 1300–1481 (Istanbul: Isis, 1990); Elizabeth Zachariadou (ed.), The Ottoman Emirate, 1300–1389 (Rethymon: Crete University Press, 1993). The complexities of Anatolian history in the wake of the Mongol period are treated by Rudi Paul Lindner, ‘Anatolia, 1300–1451’, in The Cambridge History of Turkey, vol. 1: Byzantium to Turkey, 1071–1453, ed. Kate Fleet (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 138–91. 3 On this point see Scott Redford, ‘The Seljuks of Rum and the Antique’, Muqarnas 10 (1993): 148–56 in addition to the chapters by Alexander Beihammer and Antony Eastmond in this volume. 4 As the Greek and Turkish vocabulary found in the works of the late thirteenth-century Anatolian Persian poet Sulṭān Walad suggests, all three languages must have coexisted to a degree. Certainly Muslims also knew Greek. See the discussion in Rustam Shukurov, ‘Harem Christianity: The Byzantine Identity of Seljuk Princes’, in The Seljuks of Anatolia: Court and Society in the Medieval Middle East, ed. A.C.S. Peacock and Sara Nur Yıldız (London: I.B. Tauris, 2013), 129–32. Introduction 3 to Islam of Mongol soldiery in the mid-thirteenth century,5 suggesting political dominance was not the sole, or even necessarily the decisive factor in prompting conversions. The nature of this coexistence, and the gradual process of cultural, religious and societal transformation which medieval Anatolia experienced, have been surprisingly rarely investigated. In part, research has doubtless been deterred by both the apparent lack of sources – we have very few Muslim chronicles of Anatolia, and the documentation of Christian communities under Muslim rule is often extremely sparse – as well as the linguistic diversity of those that are known.6 The purpose of this volume is to bring together contributions by specialists in both the Christian and Muslim societies of medieval Anatolia to offer fresh perspectives on the relationship between the two faiths, and the emergence of Islamic society there in this formative period of c.1071–1400. Later in this introduction we shall survey these contributions. First, however, it is worth reflecting on the state of the art in research on the theme of this volume.

The Historiography of ‘Turkish Islam’ in Medieval Anatolia and Christian-Muslim Relations

In terms of theoretical approaches, scholarship on Islam and Muslim–Christian relations in medieval Anatolia has until very recently been largely static. The prevailing scholarship, especially that produced in Turkey, remains stubbornly entrenched in nineteenth-century theoretical paradigms and notions regarding religion and thus largely unaffected by current international trends in religious studies and history due to the Turkish nationalistic framework in which these paradigms have been embedded. Indeed, an ossified nationalist discourse, devised to confirm the Turkish state’s ‘natural’ rights to its territorial holdings in Anatolia, leaves little room for paradigmatic shifts. Thus, these outdated paradigms and notions continue to define medieval Anatolian Islam, as well as its relationship to Christianity, in both Turkish and western scholarship.7 Nevertheless, recent years have seen a shift in approach by some scholars and the attempt to create alternative narratives for the religious history of Muslim Turkish Anatolia is now well underway.

5 Judith Pfeiffer, ‘Reflections on a “Double Rapprochement”: Conversion to Islam among the Mongol Elite during the Early Ilkhanate’, in Beyond the Legacy of Genghis Khan, ed. Linda Komaroff (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 369–89, esp. 373, 375–6. 6 For some of these issues in the historiography see A.C.S. Peacock and Sara Nur Yıldız, ‘Introduction’, in Peacock and Yıldız, Seljuks of Anatolia, 6–10. 7 A salient example of the static nature of the field is Ahmet Yaşar Ocak’s long chapter on the religious, social, cultural and intellectual life of Anatolia (1071–1453), in the recently published vol. 1 of The Cambridge History of Turkey, which, in its survey of the historiography and overview of the period, makes no acknowledgement of perspectives lying outside the Köprülü paradigm (Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, ‘Social, Cultural and Intellectual Life, 1071–1453’, in The Cambridge History of Turkey, vol. 1: Byzantium to Turkey, 1071–1453, ed. Kate Fleet [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009], 353–422). 4 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Here we will briefly survey the prevailing scholarship of the religious history and interfaith relations of late medieval Anatolia, addressing the question of how scholars have conceptualised Islam as it was established in Anatolia following the Seljuq invasions to the rise of the early Ottoman dynastic state. We likewise review the role given to Sufism and its main actors, charismatic dervishes, in the spread of Islam in Anatolia, as well as the dynamics of Muslim–Christian interaction and the influence Christianity has exerted on the shaping of Anatolian Islam.

Nineteenth- and Early Twentieth-Century Modernist Discourses on Monotheistic Religion: Pagan Residues, Religious Authenticity and Heterodoxy

In order to understand better how Islam has been conceptualised in medieval Anatolia, it would be helpful to review notions regarding religion and religious history circulating in both the popular imagination and academic circles in the nineteenth-century. Since its conception, the field of religious studies has been shaped by tension between the study of revealed religion based on scripture, designated as ‘high’, and popular or ‘natural’ religion, defined by practices found outside scripture and designated as ‘low’.8 Equally important to the modernist conceptualisation of religious history are Darwinian evolutionary models and the notion of primitive religion and its residues in monotheisms. Discourses of modernity not only emphasise the essence and boundaries of phenomena, but also their origins. Thus, within this nineteenth-century modernist evolutionary perspective of religious development, one of the most popular themes in the history of monotheistic religions such as Christianity and Islam was that of pagan residues, which Durkheim worked systematically into sociological theory. Durkheim’s notion of the primitive origins of religion, which sees pagan residues in all religions, was in turn assimilated by Orientalists such as Ignaz Goldziher. Indeed, the brilliant Goldziher, whose formulations laid the foundations of the modern academic study of Islam,9 in the 1880s examined pagan residues and customs found in various Islamic practices such as the veneration of saints and the visiting of sacred shrines.10 Long before scholars specialising in the languages and history of Islamic Turcophone Anatolia began to lay down the foundations of their field, popular ideas influenced by modernist discourse on religion circulated among Europeans with various (and often, colonial) interests in Anatolia. Nineteenth-

8 E.E. Evans-Pritchard, Theories of Primitive Religion (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1965), 1–5. 9 Lawrence I. Conrad, ‘The Dervish’s Disciple: On the Personality and Intellectual Milieu of the Young Ignaz Goldziher’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland, New Series, 2, no. 2 (1990): 225. 10 Ignaz Goldziher, ‘On the Veneration of the Dead in Paganism and Islam’, in idem, Muslim Studies (Muhammedanische Studien), ed. S.M. Stern and trans. C.R. Barber and S.M. Stern, vol. 1 (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1967), 209–238; idem, ‘Veneration of Saints in Islam’, in idem, Muslim Studies (Muhammedanische Studien), ed. S.M. Stern; trans. C.R. Barber and S.M. Stern, vol. 2 (London: George Allen & Unwin Ltd, 1971), 255–341. Introduction 5 century and early twentieth-century Europeans and Americans travelling and living in Ottoman Anatolia and the Balkans interpreted their encounter with Islam according to these emergent modernist discourses on religion. Whether archaeologists, classicists, New Testament scholars, Protestant missionaries or geographers on state-sponsored missions, these European travellers were keen to seek out pagan residues and heretical practices among Muslim communities in Anatolia.11 Indeed, the notion of heterodoxy, a term which came to be applied quite widely to local practices of Islam in Anatolia, rose out of modernist discourses of essences, origins and boundaries, which distinguished pure authentic forms of religion from those which were less so; supposedly less pure forms thus constituted heterodoxies tainted with unauthentic and incompatible elements.12

The Köprülü Paradigm

In the early twentieth century, the Turkish scholar Mehmed Fuad Köprülü, thoroughly steeped in the works of Durkheim, applied these modernist discourses in his creation of an alternative narrative for Anatolian Islam cast within a Turkish nationalist framework.13 In this act of reappropriation of what he considered his national history, he interpreted pagan or Christian residues in Islam as shamanistic traces originating from a largely imagined ancient Turkish

11 The ascription to Anatolian Muslims as heretics had political consequences, as Ayfer Karakaya-Stump argues in a fascinating study of Protestant missionaries who ‘discovered’ Qizilbash/Alevis long before scholars in the mid-nineteenth century. Employing ‘a discourse which differentiates between authentic/original religions and those which are less so (heterodox)’, American Protestant missionaries considered these heretics prime candidates for conversion, or reconversion, since they saw them as ‘primordial Anatolians’ who had been forcibly converted by Muslim Turkish invaders. Since Alevis fell outside the proper fold of Sunni Islam, and thus had the status of heretics, Protestant missionaries could legally direct their proselytising efforts towards them without fear of retribution on the part of Ottoman officials. See Ayfer Karakaya-Stump, ‘The Emergence of the Kızılbaş in Western Thought: Missionary Accounts and their Aftermath’, in Archaeology, Anthropology and Heritage in the Balkans and Anatolia: The Life and Times of F.W. Hasluck, 1878–1920, ed. David Shankland, vol. 1 (Istanbul: The Isis Press, 2004), 329–354. 12 For recent critiques of the use of the term ‘heterodoxy’ for the Islamic context, for which there is no equivalent expression in Arabic, see M. Brett Wilson, ‘The Failure of Nomenclature: The Concept of “Orthodoxy” in the Study of Islam’, Comparative Islamic Studies 3, no. 2 (2007): 169–4; Robert Langer and Udo Simon, ‘The Dynamics of Orthodoxy and Heterodoxy. Dealing with Divergence in Muslim Discourse and Islamic Studies’, Welt des Islams 48 (2008): 273–88; Markus Dressler, ‘How to Conceptualize Inner-Islamic Plurality/Difference: “Heterodoxy” and “Syncretism” in the Writings of Mehmet F. Köprülü (1890–1966)’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 37, no. 3 (2010): 241–260, esp. 252. 13 For more on how modernist discourse was assimilated by Köprülü, see Dressler, ‘How to Conceptualize Inner-Islamic Plurality/Difference’. 6 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Central Asian past, and characterised heterodox folk Islam as harbouring the true unchanging essence of Turkishness over time and geography.14 The Köprülü paradigm, as it has recently come to be referred to by its critics, has remained dominant up to the present, passed on more or less intact by subsequent generations of scholars examining Anatolian Islam and Sufism, such as Irène Mélikoff and her student, Ahmet Yaşar Ocak. Scholarship produced according to the Köprülü paradigm conceives of popular religion as a static, unchanging and undynamic construct, and maintains a strict dichotomy between high and low Islam, with conformist urban Sufis contrasted with non- conformist rural Sufis. For instance, Ocak maintains that the ‘non-Sunni’ Sufi order of the Qalandariyya broadly appealed to the Turkmen of the thirteenth century because they were only superficially Islamised, and its practices better accommodated local pre-Islamic beliefs and traditions. For, as Ocak points out, Sufism probably meant little more for the Qalandariyya ‘than a form of social life, rather than being a means of attaining any mystic goals’.15 The Köprülü paradigm likewise accommodates the dichotomy between the Anatolian hinterland, the centre of power characterised by Perso-Islamic urban and court culture and ‘high’ Islam, and the western frontier (and, in particular, the Balkans during the early Turkish conquests), populated by Turkish raiders or ghāzīs waging holy war against the Christians. According to this perspective, popular Turkish Islam flourished in this frontier society; indeed, far away from the control mechanisms of the centre, the frontier was the ideal environment for heterodox Islam.16 Both Paul Wittek’s foundational ghāzī thesis explaining the rise of the Ottoman state and Rudi Paul Lindner’s counter argument based on tribal rather than religious solidarity as the motivating force behind the

14 Köprülü’s international standing as a scholar was first established with the dispute he had in 1922 with Franz Babinger with the latter’s article, ‘Der Islam in Kleinasien’, one of the earliest scholarly attempts to appraise the religious environment of medieval Anatolia, posing the basic question as to when Islam first appeared in Anatolia and when it became the religion of its inhabitants. Rejecting Babinger’s conclusion that the Anatolian Seljuqs were Shi‘ite, Köprülü, in a long article on Islam in Anatolia, proposed an alternative nationalistic narrative. Köprülü, however, had elaborated this framework earlier in his Türk Edebiyatı İlk Mutasavvıflar (Early Mystics in Turkish Literature), a work dating from 1918 (Franz Babinger, ‘Der Islam in Kleinasien. Neue Wege der Islamforschung’, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morganländischen Gesellschaft 76 [1922], 126–152; [Mehmed] Fuad Köprülü, ‘Türk istilâsından sonra Anadolu tarih-i dînisine bir nazar ve bu tarihin menbaları’, Darülfünûn Edebiyat Fakültesi Mecmuası [1388/1922], 1–129; idem, Anadolu’da İslamiyet, ed. Mehmed Kanar (Istanbul: İnsan Yayınevi, 1996); idem, Islam in Anatolia after the Turkish Invasion (Prolegomena), trans. and ed. Gary Leiser (Salt Lake City, UH: University of Utah Press, 1993); idem, Türk Edebiyatı İlk Mutasavvıflar (1918; 9th edn Ankara: Akçağ Yayınevi, 2003); idem, Early Mystics in Turkish Literature, trans. and ed. Gary Leiser and Robert Dankoff (London and New York: Routledge, 2006). 15 Ocak, ‘Social, Cultural and Intellectual Life, 1071–1453’, 392. 16 Cemal Kafadar, Between Two Worlds: The Construction of the Ottoman State (Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California, 1995), 37. Introduction 7

Ottoman conquests, seamlessly fit within this paradigm which construes a strict dichotomy between hinterland and frontier society as first proposed by Köprülü.17 Over the past few decades, a few critics, generally scholars working outside Turkey and often in the United States, have questioned aspects of the Köprülü paradigm.18 In an attempt to work outside the binary constructs of orthodoxy and heterodoxy, Cemal Kafadar revisited the question of Anatolian and Balkan Islam along the frontier in his monograph Between Two Worlds: The Construction of the Ottoman State.19 Characterising the practice of Islam as fluid as the frontier itself, Kafadar replaces the orthodox-heterodox division with the notion of metadoxy (defined as ‘a state of being beyond doxies’) to describe the frontier’s religious complexity.20 A new generation of students, largely inspired by Kafadar’s reconceptualisation of the fluid and flexible structures of the western frontier, have begun more systematically to chip away at the edifice of the Köprülü paradigm. The edifice, however, remains wholly intact in Turkish academia.21

Christian-Muslim Relations: Violent Ruptures or Latent Continuities?

Scholarship on Christian-Muslim encounters and interaction in late medieval Anatolia has been dominated by two principal paradigms: Speros Vryonis’s narrative of the decline and destruction of Byzantine Christianity in Asia Minor through the invasions and conquests of Muslim and often nomadic Turks and the establishment of Turkokratia in Anatolia, and F.W. Hasluck’s conceptualisation

17 See Cemal Kafadar’s overview of Wittek’s ghāzī thesis and Lindner’s counter argument in chapter 1 of his Between Two Worlds, 29–58. 18 For a discussion and critique of the Köprülü paradigm, see Devin Deweese, ‘Foreword’, in Köprülü, Early Mystics in Turkish Literature, viii–xxix. Although his earlier studies of Anatolian Sufism accommodate the Köprülül framework, such as his master’s thesis on the pre-Islamic survivals in the Velayet-name, Ahmet T. Karamustafa contests the two-tiered model of religion of a high (normative) and low (antinomian) Islam in his God’s Unruly Friends. Karamustafa points out that the methodological poverty of this model is demonstrated by its failure to generate any explanatory analysis; rather, it denies popular religion a historical dimension (Ahmet T. Karamustafa, God’s Unruly Friends: Dervish Groups in the Islamic Later Middle period, 1200–1550 (Salt Lake City, UH: University of Utah Press, 1994), 9. In his review of Mélikoff’s Hadji Bektach: Un mythe et ses avatars. Genèse et évolution du soufisme populaire en Turquie (Leiden: Brill, 1998), Hamid Algar writes that Mélikoff approaches Bektashism ‘as an archaeological undertaking, one that involves the excavation of successive layers of influence, borrowing and adaptation. The deepest layer, she maintains, is “an ancient phenomenon we can describe as an Islamized shamanism”’ (Hamid Algar, review, International Journal of Middle East Studies 36 (2004): 687). 19 However well received Kafadar’s Between Two Worlds has been, it is not without its critics. See Colin Imber’s scathing review, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 60, no. 1 (1997): 212. 20 Kafadar, Between Two Worlds, 76. 21 For a revisionist history of Alevism by one of Kafadarʼs students, see Ayfer Karakaya- Stump, ‘Subjects of the Sultan, Disciples of the Shah: Formation and Transformation of the Kizilbash/Alevi Communities in Ottoman Anatolia’, PhD dissertation, Harvard University, 2008; eadam, ‘The Vefāʾiyye, the Bektashiyye and Genealogies of “Heterodox” Islam in Anatolia: Rethinking the Köprülü Paradigm’, Turcica 44 (2012–13): 279–300. 8 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia of Muslim–Christian syncretism, with a focus on shared sacred spaces and the emergence of an Islamic ‘heterodoxy’ in interaction with Christianity. These two paradigms are diametrically opposed to one another; indeed, Hasluck’s anthropological model of peaceful religious accommodation and continuity contrasts sharply with Vryonis’s nationalistically tinged historical narrative of violent ruptures. Vryonis’s massive tome, The Decline of Medieval Hellenism in Asia Minor and the Process of Islamisation from the Eleventh through the Fifteenth Century, is perhaps the most cited single work on Muslim–Christian interaction in the late medieval era.22 Vryonis argues that the Turkish conquest resulted in the destruction of a vital Christian society based predominantly on a medieval Greek cultural element. Constant military strife throughout four centuries caused dislocation and destruction to the Christian and Hellenic culture of Byzantine Anatolia. In an attempt to understand the transformative process by which Hellenistic Asia Minor, or Anatolia, becomes Islamised by the Turks, Vryonis documents the massive devastation rendered by incessant raids throughout the Turkish conquest, occurring in two phases, with the first from the late eleventh to mid- twelfth century, and the second from the mid-thirteenth to the fourteenth century. Vryonis stresses the physical destruction of towns, the uprooting of the Christian population, the decline of agriculture, and the resulting hardship brought upon the local Christian communities. He likewise provides documentation of conversions from the late eleventh and the twelfth century, accompanied by a description of Turkmen and their way of life. Vryonis concludes that during the first phase, the Turks constituted ‘a small but powerful minority.’23 It was during the second phase of the Turkish conquest which continued until the fourteenth century that a large-scale conversion to Islam among Christian communities occurred in parallel to the destruction of the church administration under Turkokratia. Vryonis’s narrative presents us with short- sighted bureaucratic politicians based in Constantinople with little concern for the provinces while marauding nomadic Turks brought about the destruction of Christian urban centres and towns, and their ecclesiastical structures. Vryonis relegates his discussion of Islam and conversion to a brief chapter, accounting for Christian conversion to Islam as a result of the second-class position relegated to Christians as dhimmī under Muslim rule.24 Vryonis draws upon the secondary literature of both Western and Turkish scholars regarding the role of dervish orders in the spread of Islam (principally the Bektashi and Mevlevi), and reviews syncretism between Islamic and Christian beliefs (giving some space to the Hasluck paradigm). Vryonis likewise touches upon the themes of dervish toleration and the role of akhīs (Turk. ahi, members of urban fraternal religious guilds) in conversion, wholesale adopting Ömer Lüfti Barkan’s notion that dervish orders were instrumental in making converts to Islam (which

22 Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism. 23 Ibid., 181. 24 This discussion is relegated to chapter 5, entitled ‘Conversion to Islam’, the shortest chapter in the work (ibid., 351–402). Introduction 9 appears to have been possibly, if not indirectly inspired by Hasluck’s emphasis on so-called ‘heteredox’ proselytising dervishes associated with shared shrines). Yet, with its highly Byzantine-centric perspective, Speros Vryonis’ study of the decline of Hellenism and the Islamisation of Anatolia imparts little information about Anatolian Islam and its cultural dynamics. Rather, it is a dense account that documents the purportedly massive devastation accompanying the Turkish raids and conquest beginning in the late eleventh and extending into the mid- fourteenth century. Although Vryonis succeeds in detailing the decline and demise of ecclesiastical dioceses in Anatolia, he presents a rather one-sided picture. Thus, while the work is ostensibly in part about the Islamisation of Byzantine society, we learn little about the actual process. Vryonis’ paradigm has been challenged by recent studies of fifteenth- century Christian communities based on Ottoman archival documentation, such as Heath Lowry’s study of the Lesbos and Tom (Anastasios) Papademetriou’s recent work on Ottoman tax farming and the Greek Orthodox church.25 Arguing in contrast to the Vryonis thesis that posits non-Muslim status as a distinct disadvantage in Muslim Anatolia, Heath Lowry demonstrates that Christian populations remained intact during the early Ottoman period largely because of the important services they provided the Ottoman state during the period of consolidation of conquests, a policy referred to as accommodation, or istimalet.26 According to Lowry, the Ottoman state in fact was forced to rely on the highly skilled Christian population in the administration of conquered Christian lands as a result of the ‘chronic shortage in manpower’.27 However, the best known, and certainly most influential, alternative to the Vryonis approach is the work of Frederick W. Hasluck (1878–1920). Although his contribution has only recently started to be recognised as it deserves,28 perhaps no one has had as much influence in shaping the course of scholarship on Christian-Muslim interaction in Anatolia, and in particular, the resulting

25 Heath Lowry, The Nature of the Early Ottoman State (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 2003); Anastasios G. Papademetriou, ‘Ottoman Tax Farming and the Greek Orthodox Patriarchate: An Examination of State and Church in Ottoman Society (15–16th Century)’, PhD dissertation, Princeton University, 2001. 26 Halil İnalcık is the original proponent of istimalet as an Ottoman administrative strategy (Halil İnalcık, ‘Ottoman Methods of Conquest’, Studia Islamica 2 (1954): 103–129, esp. 112, 115–117). 27 Despite his reliance on İnalcık’s concept of istimalet, Lowry presents a new paradigm of Ottoman rule, one by which ‘local society and practice define the centre, rather than one which featured a centralized bureaucracy imposing its will on the state’ (Lowry, Nature of the Ottoman State, 101). 28 For a reassessment of Hasluck’s vast influence on the field, see the three-volume collection of articles dedicated to F.W. Hasluck’s work and career: Archaeology, Anthropology and Heritage in the Balkans and Anatolia: The Life and Times of F.W. Hasluck, 1878–1920, ed. David Shankland, 3 vols (Istanbul: The Isis Press, 2004–2013), and, in particular, idem, ‘The Life and Times of F.W. Hasluck (1878–1920)’, in ibid., vol. 1, 15–67. This edited volume has redirected new attention toward the largely marginalised scholar, the work of whom, Shankland points out, ‘anticipated some of the most important insights of the Malinowski school nearly two decades before they became apparent …’ (ibid., 15). 10 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

‘Turkish’ Islam shaped by this interaction. Hasluck’s monumental study, Christianity and Islam under the Sultans,29 published posthumously, laid down the framework of syncretic developments in Muslim Turkish Anatolia. His model is grounded in early anthropological theory which emphasises cultural continuity over discontinuity and change: that cultures endure and are intrinsically resistant to change constitutes a major assumption.30 Hasluck’s approach brings to the fore religious continuity in Anatolia by focusing on the transference of sacred space and sites through intermediary cultic figures in Anatolia.31 Christian-Muslim syncretism not only resulted in the sharing of saints, shrines and sacred space, but also brought about the emergence of Christian-influenced Muslim heterodoxies particular to ‘Turkish’ Islam, and a corps of ‘heterodox’ dervishes associated with these shrines shared by Muslims and Christians alike. Thus, whereas Vryonis emphasises the destructive effect of the Turkish invasions, which ultimately led to conversions in the face of a weakened Christian church, Hasluck conceives of Islamisation as occurring in shared sacred spaces where Christians were receptive to tolerant forms of syncretic Islam. Through intimate contact and accommodation, Islam was in turn shaped by Christian practices, beliefs and sensibilities. Much of subsequent scholarship on Anatolian Islam, and in particular, the Bektashis, is a merging of the Köprülü paradigm with Hasluck’s notions of shared sacred space, ambiguous saints and shrines, and Bektashism as an intermediary form of Islamisation, a ‘way station’ between Christianity and Islam.32 The heterodox dervish plays a leading role in both concepualisations, as well as the differentiation between urban Sunni orthodox Islam and rural Islamic practices.33 According to Hasluck’s conceptualisation, Bektashism constituted the quintessential religious syncretism, where Bektashi saints or awliyāʼ (Turk. evliya) replaced Christian ones, which in turn could be traced to even more ancient cults. As Tijana Krstić observes, Hasluck considered the ambiguous sanctuary claimed by both Muslims and Christians ‘a distinct stage of development – the period of equipoise – in the transition both from Christianity to Bektashism …’.34

29 F.W. Hasluck, Christianity and Islam under the Sultans, 2 vols (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1929). 30 Joel Robbins, ‘Continuity Thinking and the Problem of Christian Culture: Belief, Time and the Anthropology of Christianity’, Current Anthropology 48, no. 1 (2007): 5–6. 31 F.W. Hasluck, ‘Plato in the Folk-Lore of the Konia Plain’, Annual of the British School at Athens 18 (1911–1912): 265–269. 32 Irène Mélikoff’s scholarship in fact is a complete fusion of the Köprülü paradigm with the Hasluck model. 33 Irène Mélikoff acknowledges that Hasluck was the first scholar, although not a specialist in the field, to make clear the differentiation between rural and urban Islam in Anatolia (Irène Mélikoff, ‘Hasluck’s Study of the Bektashis and its Contemporary Significance’, in D. Shankland (ed.), Archaeology, Anthropology and Heritage, vol. 1, 298). 34 Tijana Krstić, ‘The Ambiguous Politics of “Ambiguous Sanctuaries”: F. Hasluck and Historiography of Syncretism and Conversion to Islam in 15th- and 16th-century Ottoman Rumeli’, in Archaeology, Anthropology and Heritage in the Balkans and Anatolia: The Life and Times of F.W. Hasluck, 1878–1920, ed. David Shankland, vol. 3 (Istanbul: The Isis Press, 2013), 252. Introduction 11

Michel Balivet likewise conceptualises Anatolian and Balkan Islam according to the fusion of the Hasluck and Köprülü models. In his Romanie byzantine et pays de Rûm turc: histoire d’un espace d’imbrication gréco-turque,35 Balivet points out that since Sufism was highly receptive to non-Muslim influences, it was attractive to Christians, and thus was the usual venue of conversion. According to Balivet, heterodoxy and syncretism were prerequisites for a tolerant rapport between Christianity and Islam.36

Krstić’s Challenge: Rethinking Syncreticism and Tolerance

In the context of the nature of Anatolian and Balkan Islam as well as Muslim–Christian relations, Tijana Krstić’s work presents a significant challenge not only to the Köprülü paradigm and its various binaries, but also to notions of shared space and saints as a form of religious toleration.37 Krstić’s reinterpretation of the concept of syncretism (a term which Hasluck never actually used, but which became associated with his ideas) leads her to question some of the most firmly established analytical categories of the field, such as the iconic proselytising frontier dervish, who populates popular hagiographical literature such as Hacı Bektas’s Velayet-name and the Saltuk-name.38 Not only does Krstić reject the widely held notion that dervishes were the main agents of conversion and representatives of heterodox Islam, but she also criticises the widely held notion that incomplete or superficial conversions to

35 Michel Balivet, Romanie byzantine et pay de Rûm turc: histoire d’un espace d’imbrication gréco- turque (Istanbul: Isis, 1994). In this work, Balivet steers clear of theorising, but rather uncovers as many facts as can be drawn from the sources to serve as a starting point for subsequent analysis. Thus we have a hodge-podge of Christian–Muslim encounters in medieval Anatolia and the Balkans, ranging from syncretic religious influences on the popular level to inter- dynastic and elite alliances and assimilation. 36 Balivet, Romanie Byzantine et pay de Rûm Turc, 248, n. 5. 37 In addition to a focused critique of Hasluck in her article, ‘The Ambiguous Politics of “Ambiguous Sanctuaries”’, Tijana Krstić’s monograph Contested Conversions to Islam: Narratives of Religious Change in the Early Modern Ottoman Empire (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2011) presents a fresh look at Islamisation and conversion in the Ottoman lands by taking into account the narrative source base, which she views through Brian Stock’s concept of interpretative communities: ‘The spread of Islam in the Ottoman domains entailed the formation of multiple “textual” or interpretative communities – microsocieties organized around common understandings of a “text”’. Krstić explains that two distinct yet intertwined aspects of Islamisation were at work: ‘the universalizing impulse’, which was expressed primarily through prescriptive texts, and the ‘indigenizing impulse’, or how Islam was interpreted and practised according to local conditions. Pointing out that the second impulse has often been addressed in terms of syncretism, or ‘Islam’s absorption of elements from local belief systems’, Krstić’s concern is with the impact ‘indigenization had on relations within the Muslim community and the texts that they produced as a result’ (ibid., 27–8). Krstic likewise focuses on the experience of Rumeli, where ‘conquest became the central experience, a shared ‘text’ around which interpretative communities of different social, religious, and political outlook evolved’ (ibid., 43). 38 Krstić, ‘The Ambiguous Politics of “Ambiguous Sanctuaries”’, 252. 12 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Islam resulted in a syncretic and tolerant form of the religion which provided an easy transition into Islam for those newly converted from Christianity.39 Krstić proposes that the phenomenon of ambiguous shrines was ‘an instance of Islamisation of space rather than people’.40 Questioning how peaceful the coexistence of Islam and Christianity was in the early Ottoman empire, Krstić reinterprets shared sacred space (or ambiguous sanctuaries, to use Hasluck’s phrase) as ‘sites of intense inter-religious negotiation’, where ‘religious differences are upheld rather than collapsed’.41 Krstić argues that these shared shrines are sites of perpetual competition and negotiation, which need to be understood in terms of local power relations: ‘the deeply competitive aspect of ambiguous shrines and thus as points of intense interfaith polemics rather than reconciliation is often lost to modern students of the Ottoman empire’.42 Krstić grounds her argument in a masterful critique of the hagiographic sources, hitherto used by historians as evidence of heterodoxy and religious tolerance. For instance, Krstić rereads the frontier warrior-dervish epic, the Saltuk-name43 not as an example of ‘Ottoman syncretism and conciliatory attitudes towards Christians’44 as A.H. Akalın proposes in his interpretation of Sarı Saltuk’s preaching to Christians from a supposedly original and unaltered Gospel containing the announcement of Muḥammad’s prophethood. Krstić alternatively interprets this passage as a condemnation of Christianity via the accusation of taḥrīf, or the changing of scripture. Krstić characterises early Ottoman Turkish narratives such as the Saltuk-name and the Velayet-name as ‘anti-sycretic texts par excellence’ which, in their narratives of violence and ‘great converting zeal’, demonstrate ‘ideological investment in a firm upholding of religious boundaries’.45 Krstić concludes that the task of the historian is to approach these syncretic forms of Islam with a critical eye by taking into account of the competitive aspects of the ‘politics of religious synthesis’.46 Through a thorough investigation of not only the concepts and theoretical approaches lying behind the historiography of Anatolian and Balkan Islam, but primarily through a close rereading of the sources, paying attention to their rhetorical and polemical constructs, Krstić presents us with a compelling re-evaluation of the phenomenon of Islam in the Ottoman world as well as new analytical tools by which to view Muslim–Christian relations and, in particular, the phenomenon of conversion.

39 Ibid., 248. 40 Ibid., 252. 41 Ibid. 42 Ibid. 43 A.H. Akalın, (ed.), Saltuk-name (1987; new edition, Ankara: Milli Kültür Bakanlığı, 1993), vol. 1: 35–8; quoted in Krstić, ‘The ambiguous politics of “ambiguous sanctuaries”’, 253. 44 Krstić, ‘The ambiguous politics of “ambiguous sanctuaries”’, 253. 45 Ibid., 255–256, 258. 46 Ibid., 260. Introduction 13

Convivencia: The Andalusian Paradigm

Recent scholarship on religious diversity in Anatolia has also looked for inspiration across the Mediterranean, to the societies of Muslim Spain (al-Andalus) and Sicily.47 Although the political, economic and social context differed across the medieval Mediterranean, the methodological and conceptual frameworks used in other regions, the individual case studies and even the sporadic encounters between the western and eastern Mediterranean can contribute to a better understanding of the historical processes in the whole area. In addition, scholarship on medieval Iberia has tended to be more sophisticated than that on Anatolia, as well as benefiting from a more accessible source base, and can inform debates on religious diversity in the eastern Mediterranean. Conquered during the first wave of Arab invasion in the early eighth century, the history of Islamic Iberia has been the subject of extensive research.48 Likewise, the process of Christian Reconquista that gathered strength from the mid-eleventh century has also caught the attention of historians.49 There is a general view that Islamic Iberia (al-Andalus) was the peak of religious tolerance defined byconvivencia between Christians, Jews and Muslims, and a recent conference on Byzantium sought to appropriate the Spanish term convivencia (lit. ‘living together’ or ‘coexistence’),50 developed to describe Muslim, Christian and Jewish coexistence in al-Andalus. The notion, in particular, plays a prominent role in the work of Sergio La Porta on twelfth- to thirteenth-century Armenia. La Porta understands convivencia as meaning ‘a practical modality of coexistence between different religious and ethnic groups that neither prejudices nor presumes modern notions of tolerance or of multiculturalism’.51 It thus worth pausing to briefly consider, for comparative purposes, the approach of scholarship on Spain and Sicily. In recent times, the term convivencia has become politically charged and has spread beyond the field of history to permeate political discourse aiming to offer a somewhat mythical vision of tolerance and to address modern concerns about religious intolerance.52 However, convivencia has been commonly used

47 Balivet, Romanie byzantine et pays de Rûm Turc, 8–11. 48 See among many others Pierre Guichard, Al-Andalus: estructura antropológica de una sociedad islámica en Occidente (Granada: Universidad de Granada, 1998); Hugh Kennedy, Muslim Spain and Portugal: A Political History of al-Andalus (London and New York: Longman, 1996); María Isabel Fierro, ʻAbd al-Rahman III: The First Cordoban Caliph (Oxford: Oneworld, 2005). 49 See Joseph F. O’Callaghan, Reconquest and Crusade in Medieval Spain (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003); Angus MacKay, Spain in the Middle Ages: From Frontier to Empire, 1000–1500 (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1977). 50 Negotiating Coexistence: Communities, Cultures and Convivencia in Byzantine Society, ed. Sergio La Porta and Barbara Crostini (Trier: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag Trier, 2013). 51 Sergio La Porta, ‘Re-constructing Armenia: Strategies of Co-existence amongst Christians and Muslims in the Thirteenth Century’, in Negotiating Co-existence: Communities, Cultures and Convivencia in Byzantine Society, ed. Barbara Crostini and Sergio La Porta (Trier: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag Trier, 2013), 251, n. 3. 52 Darío Fernández-Morera, ‘The Myth of the Andalusian Paradise’, The Intercollegiate Review 41, no. 2 (2006): 23–31. 14 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia in academia since the mid-twentieth century to refer to interaction between different faiths in the Iberian Peninsula. The term was originally coined by the Spanish historian Américo Castro who, in his exile from Franco’s Spain, theorised about the uniqueness of the historical development of Spain that was cemented in inter-religious tolerance between Muslims, Jews and Christians which was encouraged by Muslim rulers.53 According to Castro, this ‘ideal world’ came to an end with the conquest of Granada in 1492, which resulted in centuries of Christian intolerance towards the other minorities who were eventually expelled from the Peninsula.54 Castro’s idealistic approach was subject to scholarly criticism from the first, especially given the existence of several examples of violence, persecution and conflict between the three religions in al-Andalus.55 Indeed, some of the earliest objections came from another Spanish exile, Claudio Sanchez-Albornoz.56 Sanchez-Albornoz’s criticism, however, mostly focused on where the origins of Spain lay (according to him in Roman times) rather than on the debate over the existence of convivencia in al-Andalus, which he saw as a less relevant period in the formation of modern Spain. Ever since the mid-twentieth century, these two historians have marked the two opposite poles in the theoretical debate about Islamic Spain and the applicability of the term convivencia to define this historical period. Castro’s paradigm remains alive and well, especially in Spanish academia. The existence of violence has been explained away as a product of ‘external influence’ – the Almoravids and Almohads from North Africa, or Christians from northern Spain.57 However, some studies have attempted to demystify the Andalusian ‘paradise of tolerance’ by highlighting how contemporary source material records intolerance, violence and persecution not only between members of different religious confessions but also in different groups within Muslim, Jewish and Christian communities living in the peninsula far before the arrivals of the Maghrebi dynasties.58 The debate is far from coming to an end but

53 Américo Castro, España en su historia: cristianos, moros y judíos (Buenos Aires: Editorial Losada, 1948); idem, La realidad histórica de España (Mexico City: Porrúa, 1954). 54 On the expulsion of the Iberian Jews see Norman Roth, Conversos, Inquisition and Expulsion of the Jews from Spain (Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 1995); Mark R. Cohen, Under Crescent and Cross: The Jews in the Middle Ages (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994); on the expulsion of the moriscos, see, among others, Los Moriscos: Expulsion y diaspora, ed. Mercedes Garci ́a-Arenal and Gerard Albert Wiegers (Valencia: Publicaciones de la Universidad de Valencia, 2013); and Kevin Ingram, The Conversos and Moriscos in Late Medieval Spain and Beyond, vol. 2 (Leiden: Brill, 2012). 55 See Eduardo Manzano Moreno, ‘Qurtuba: Some Critical Considerations of the Caliphate of Cordoba and the Myth of Convivencia’, Awraq 7 (2013): 226–246. 56 Claudio Sanchez-Albornoz, España, un enigma histórico (Buenos Aires: Editorial Sudamericana, 1956). 57 Maria Rosa Menocal, The Ornament of the World: How Muslims, Jews, and Christians Created a Culture of Tolerance in Medieval Spain (Boston, MA: Little, Brown, c.2002); Chris Lowney, A Vanished World: Muslims, Christians, and Jews in Medieval Spain (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006). 58 David Nirenberg, Communities of Violence: Persecution of Minorities in the Middle Ages (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1999), especially the second part of the book; Introduction 15 a certain general consensus on the existence of both convivencia and violencia in medieval Iberia seems to be emerging. In a recent article, Anna Akasoy argued that the exceptionalism of a place’s historical circumstances can be challenged by expanding the geographical spectrum of analysis. Certainly, if we look to Muslim Sicily, al-Andalus no longer looks so exceptional.59 Byzantine-controlled Sicily was conquered by the Muslims and later taken over by the Normans in the second half of the eleventh century.60 The amalgamation between Byzantine, Arab and Latin cultural trends and the changing status of three different religious affiliations (Orthodox Christianity, Islam and Catholicism) has attracted the attention of scholars trying to address the question of how these religions interacted (or not) with one another. The general view on the Islamisation of Sicily is that the Christian-Italo-Greek population acculturated and Islamised in the coastal regions of the isle, leaving the inner areas somewhere in between both cultures, where coexistence of Arabo-Islamic, Greco-Christian and Arabised Jews survived.61 Yet, Alex Metcalfe has shown that after the Arab invasion of Sicily, there was a planned re- population of the main towns with people brought from Ifrīqiya (North Africa) while the changes in rural areas seems to have followed a more slower process of progressively assimilating Arabic as a second language or converting to Islam in the course of a ‘few generations’.62 Despite the reestablishment of Christian rule in Sicily by Roger I (Count of Sicily, d. 1101), the persistence of the Arabic language among the population and the adaptation of an Islamic administrative system under the Normans also contributed to the interaction between cultural and religious diversity in twelfth- and thirteenth-century Sicily.63 Akasoy’s claim can be also applied to the religious encounters of medieval Anatolia. Akasoy mentions that occasionally, certain Christian communities in al-Andalus expressed the idea that they were living in a situation similar to

Alex Novikoff, ‘Between Tolerance and Intolerance in Medieval Spain: An Historiographical Enigma’, Medieval Encounters 11 (2005): 7–36. 59 Anna Akasoy, ‘Convivencia and its Discontents: Interfaith Life in Al-Andalus’, International Journal of Middle East Studies 42, no. 3 (2010): 489–499. 60 For a general account of Muslim populations under Norman rule in Sicily see, among others, David Abulafia, ‘The End of Muslim Sicily’, Muslims under Latin Rule 1100–1300, ed. J.M. Powell (Princeton NJ: Princeton University Press, 1990), 103–133; Alex Metcalfe, Muslims and Christians in Norman Sicily: Arabic Speakers and the End of Islam (London: Routledge, 2003); idem, Muslims of Medieval Italy (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2009). 61 Jeremy Johns, ‘The Greek Church and the Conversion of Muslims in Norman Sicily’, Byzantinische Forschungen 21 (1995): 152. See also, Charles Dalli, ‘From Islam to Christianity: The case of Sicily’, in Religion, Ritual and Mythology: Aspects of Identity Formation in Europe, ed. Joaquim Carvalho (Pisa: Pisa University Press, 2006), 157. 62 Alex Metcalfe, ‘The Muslims of Sicily under Christian Rule’, in The Society of Norman Italy, ed. Graham A. Loud and Alex Metcalfe (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 289–290. 63 Especially interesting is the fact that the Norman rulers of Sicily might have adopted not the administrative system of amirate of Sicily but a reformed version of the administration of Fatimid Egypt, suggesting a search for a projection of their own royal image rather than administrative efficiency. See Jeremy Johns, Arabic Administration in Norman Sicily: The Royal Diwan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002). 16 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia that of Christians in Anatolia.64 While direct interaction between the Iberian and Anatolian peninsulas deserves further research, we can cite some well-known links –Ibn ʿArabī, the great thirteenth-century Muslim mystic of Murcian origin who made Seljuq Anatolia his home for several years is the most famous example.65 However, in terms of historical development and religious diversity, both peninsulas share certain features. The circumstances of Christian communities changed, sometimes dramatically, from period to period. Orthodox Greek communities in Anatolia experienced different conditions under the Seljuqs of Rūm, Mongol domination or the Beylik period in the same way that, for example, Mozarabs (Christians living in al-Andalus) had different experiences of Muslim rule under the Umayyad Caliphate, the various taifa kingdoms or in the kingdom of Granada.66 Being aware of these contextual specificities helps to escape the polarisation of the debate either in the case of Anatolia or the Iberian Peninsula and suggests approaching issues of identity and processes of acculturation and Islamisation as a transformative process that occurred over a prolonged period of time and in different stages.

The Current Volume

The scholarship surveyed above suggests that, after nearly a century of dominance, the study of Islam and Christianity in medieval Anatolia is beginning to move beyond the dominance of the paradigms of Köprülü and Hasluck. Nonetheless, the field remains under the shadow of Vryonis’s great but problematic work, and progress has been impeded by the fact that few specialists are able to master both the Christian and Muslim source materials, and only rarely have scholars from across the disciplinary divide sought to collaborate. The present volume aims to fill this lacuna, focusing on the relations between Islam and Christianity and the development of Islam in Anatolia in this formative period from the Turkish invasions to the early Ottoman period (c.1071–1400).67 One of the most critical issues to improve our understanding of the issues of Islamisation and interfaith relations in medieval Anatolia is to broaden our source base beyond the scant Muslim chronicles in Persian which exist for the

64 Akasoy, ‘Convivencia and its Discontents’. 65 On Ibn ʿArabī’s career in Anatolia, see Sara Nur Yıldız and Haşim Şahin, ‘In the Proximity of Sultans: Majd al-Din Ishaq, Ibn ‘Arabī and the Seljuk Court’, in The Seljuks of Anatolia, ed. Peacock and Yıldız, 173–205. For works on contacts between the two peninsulas, see Semra Prescot, Hispano-Turkish Literary, Cultural, and Political Relations (1096–1499) / İspanyol-Türk Edebi, Kültürel ve Siyasi Münasebetleri (1096–1499) (Ankara Turk Tarih Kurumu, 2011); also Bruno De Nicola, ‘Islamisation and Christianisation: The Reception of a Fourteenth Century Anatolian Account in 16th Century Spain’ (forthcoming). 66 Akasoy, ‘Convivencia and its Discontents’, 492. On the situation of Christians during the Beylik period see Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 229. 67 An earlier edited volume sought to address this problem with regard to political, religious and dynastic history, mainly from the late twelfth to late thirteenth century: Peacock and Yıldız, Seljuks of Anatolia. Introduction 17 period. Accordingly, contributions draw on a wide range of written sources, ranging from unpublished manuscript material (the contributions of Peacock and Rassi both contain editions and translations of previously unpublished texts), other published sources which have rarely been brought to bear on the problem in a cogent and convincing manner (for example the medieval Turkish literary texts used by Yıldız and Karamustafa), and archival documents such as the waqfiyyas (endowment deeds) referred to by Redford and Pfeiffer. Other contributions (e.g. Beihammer, Shukurov, Cowe) make use of Christian sources in Latin, Greek, and Armenian, which are little known to specialists on Muslim Anatolia. The volume demonstrates that the written sources are rather richer than is often imagined; but valuable insights can also be gained from material culture. The art historical contributions of Eastmond and Uyar illustrate the potential for art and architecture to offer new perspectives and to shed light on the nature of inter-confessional interaction outside the elites who remain the focus of the literary texts. The volume is divided into three parts. The first of these, ‘Christian Experiences of Muslim Rule’ opens with a chapter by Philip Wood which sets the experience of Anatolian Christians in its historical perspective, investigating more generally the fate of Christian communities under Muslim rule in the first centuries of Muslim domination, up to the eve of the Turkish invasion. Wood (following Chase Robinson) suggests that for some, Muslim rule ushered in what he describes as an ‘Indian summer’, but he also investigates the processes by which conversion to Islam spread. His suggestion that archaeology offers a way of reaching surer conclusions about the rate of conversion assuredly has much to commend it, although current circumstances in parts of the Middle East as well as the continuing disdain of many archaeologists for later periods mean that its realisation is still a long way off. Pahlitzsch likewise notes the importance of archaeology for filling the gap left by the silence of the written sources regarding the fate of Christian communities in Anatolia. Wood argues that four main factors can explain the gradual conversion of Christians to Islam in the pre-Turkish Middle East: cultural pressure, taxation, discrimination and intermarriage. Certainly all these elements were present in medieval Anatolia too, but their relative degree of importance is much less clear. Several contributions in this volume highlight the role of cultural pressure in creating an environment conducive to conversion (see in particular, Peacock, Yıldız and Karamustafa). Taxation, on the other hand features much less prominently in scholarship. This may, of course reflect our sources, as we have very little financial data relating to medieval Anatolia. Certainly some Christian communities continued to thrive, but they existed in an Islamic legal framework, and even churches and monasteries were made into waqf, which was in part a mechanism for avoiding tax. On occasion Seljuq rule is actually said to have been more favourable to Christians than Byzantine;68 but how general this was

68 Consider, for instance, the well-known case of the Christians of Lake Beyşehir who found more favourable tax conditions under Seljuq rule than Byzantine: Cahen, La Turquie pré- ottomane, 31, 115; ibid., 133ff. further on the taxation regime in Seljuq Anatolia. 18 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia must be debated; assuredly there were financial consequences to remaining an unbeliever in Muslim-ruled Anatolia at times – under, for instance, the Mongol Timurtash. But as yet we really do not understand how representative either of these extremes was. Discrimination also doubtless occurred in certain times and places, notwithstanding the prestigious offices held by some Christians, but again it hardly features in the research presented here. The final element, intermarriage, is also debatable. As Scott Redford notes in his contribution, Turkish scholarship has tended to favour the idea of mass-migration of Turks rather than intermarriage as contributing to Anatolia’s Islamisation, while other scholars have often seen marriage as producing a syncretic culture, and to a certain Christian-Muslim symbiosis. The contribution by Alex Beihammer opens the volume’s examination of the consequences of the Turkish invasions, concentrating on Anatolia in the late eleventh and early twelfth century. Beihammer’s use of Latin, Greek, Syriac and Armenian sources illustrates their potential to shed light on not just the fate of Christians under Turkish rule in a period almost entirely neglected by Muslim texts, but also on the emergence of Muslim society in Anatolia. Peter Cowe’s contribution concentrates on the relations between Armenians and Muslims over the eleventh to fourteenth centuries, showing how Armenian culture was profoundly affected by its encounter with Islam, its literature and even social structures permeated by Islamic influences. Redford’s chapter approaches the status of Christians from another perspective: in contrast to scholarship to date which has seen the spread of Islam as a result of Muslim intermarriage with Christian women as well as Turkish settlement, Redford uses thirteenth-century waqfiyyas to argue that unconverted Christian women played an important part in economic and social life in Muslim society in Seljuq Anatolia, as did other ‘marginal’ groups such as slaves. Slaves and economic life also feature in Preiser-Kapeller’s chapter, which, drawing on tools of network analysis, shows the complexity of the commercial relationships into which Anatolia was drawn in the thirteenth to early fifteenth centuries, and their consequences in producing ethnically and religiously diverse communities in emporia like Antalya on the Mediterranean coast. The contribution by Pahlitzsch, in contrast, focuses on a single confession, the Greek Orthodox community in Ephesus under the rule of the Turkish Aydınid dynasty, and in Nicaea under the early Ottomans. Pahlitzsch’s chapter illustrates the deficiencies of Vryonis’ paradigm of decline, and suggests – in line with Wood’s comments for the pre-Turkish period – that some Christian communities continued to prosper under Muslim domination. His chapter reinforces the impression that we must approach lamentations as to the disastrous consequences of Turkish rule in some Christian sources with a degree of circumspection. The second part of the volume examines ‘Artistic and Intellectual Encounters between Islam and Christianity’. The opening chapter by Rustam Shukurov argues that Byzantium was only open to Islamic cultural influences in a very limited and tightly controlled manner, although the situation may have changed somewhat by the fourteenth century. Eastmond, on the other hand, drawing Introduction 19 on artistic and architectural evidence from eastern Anatolia, the Caucasus, the Jazira and neighbouring regions of the Middle East largely from the late twelfth to thirteenth centuries, argues for the existence of, at least at a popular level, a common cultural vocabulary shared between members of different faiths and confessions. Uyar examines the artistic legacy of thirteenth-century Cappadocia, a Christian-dominated region under Seljuq control, and shows how Christian painters were esteemed at the court and introduced Christian imagery into the manuscripts illustrated for their Turkish patrons. The final two chapters in this part turn from material culture to textual evidence. Peacock’s contribution examines interfaith relations from the perspective of an anti-Armenian polemic in an early thirteenth-century Persian text from Anatolia. Despite its polemical nature, the text suggests a profound knowledge on the part of the author concerning Armenian hagiography and legend as well as contemporary confessional debates at a time when the expansion of the Armenian kingdom of Cilicia in south-eastern Anatolia was threatening Seljuq interests. Rassi, on the other hand, shows how Christian theology was profoundly affected by its encounter with Islam, examining an early fourteenth-century Arabic treatise by Bishop ꜤAbdīshō‘ which highlights the extent to which the language of the Qurʾan and of Muslim theology influenced even tracts aimed at defending Christian practices. Together, the essays illustrate the diversity of exchanges, while underlining, as Shukurov does, that not every confession was equally open to Muslim influences. As Cowe’s earlier essay shows, Armenian culture (as well as Georgian) shows a much more obvious Islamic imprint than Byzantine does. The underlying reasons for these differing responses within Christianity should be investigated more thoroughly in the future. The concluding part of the volume turns to the formation of Islamic society in Anatolia, and in particular the role of Sufis and Sufism. Yıldırım, concentrating on western Anatolia in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, examines the nature of Anatolian Islam, in particular as conceptualised by Köprülü and his critics, and argues against the clear distinction between Sunni and Shiʿite Islam that others have perceived in medieval Anatolia. Pfeiffer focuses on the central Anatolian town of Kırşehir under Mongol rule in the late thirteenth century, suggesting how the patronage of the Mongol commander Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā (Turk. Cacaoğlu) facilitated the development of Islamic institutions, and his relationship with Sufi groups. The final two chapters concentrate on Turkish sources. Yıldız examines the poet Gülşehri’s Turkish adaptation of the famous Persian poem, the Manṭiq al-Ṭayr by ʿAṭṭār. She argues that Gulşehri’s reworking of the Persian classic of Sufism adopts the tone of a religious polemic, perhaps with the intention of inciting Muslims to combat kufr, unbelief, in the predominantly Christian region of Cappadocia. The final chapter, by Karamustafa, looks at the prose epic vita of the largely legendary Sufi saint Sarı Saltuk (late thirteenth century?) and examines it as a source for Muslim attitudes towards Christianity and Islamisation, suggesting that for the author of this text, becoming Muslim was simply a matter of shedding a few superficial aspects of practice. Christians – even the Pope – are depicted as secret Muslims, and religion is reduced to ‘communal political allegiance’. As Karamustafa puts it, ‘[s]alvation is 20 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia simply a matter of right belonging, and yesterday’s ‘cursed’ Christians suddenly become today’s ‘righteous’ believers simply by uttering the testimony of faith’. Such attitudes must have played a significant part in making conversion to Islam more attractive to non-Muslims, for all the lack of understanding or interest in Christianity they evince. Clearly a volume such as this cannot do more than aspire to offer some snapshots of religious diversity and inter-confessional relations at different times and places within medieval Anatolia under Muslim rule. It is hoped, however, that this book will serve to illustrate the progress that is currently being made both in developing new conceptual frameworks for studying the great historical transformation that is the Islamisation of Anatolia, and in uncovering new sources and fresh approaches to them. Part I Christian Experiences of Muslim Rule This page has been left blank intentionally Chapter 1 Christians in the Middle East, 600–1000: Conquest, Competition and Conversion Philip Wood

For the Christian communities of the Middle East, the Turkish invasions of the eleventh century were the second time that their political order had been overturned by an alien foe. The seventh century had already seen the complete redrawing of the political map of the region, as the Persian and Roman empires were catastrophically defeated by the forces of the nascent caliphate. When the dust had settled, the Persian realms had been entirely absorbed by the new Arab state, and the Roman empire was reduced to an impoverished rump state in Anatolia and the Balkans. Yet Christians continued to live and prosper in the conquered territories. There was no sudden conversion to Islam that accompanied conquest.1 In this chapter I would like to set out some of the evidence for the continuation and transformation of Christian social and political life under Muslim rule. This is significant firstly because it sets the scene for later developments in Anatolia after the battle of Manzikert (1071). But the earlier period also merits investigation because the period of early Islamic rule in the Middle East suggests a number of different models for how the processes of conversion, political accommodation and inter-confessional competition might work in different circumstances. The religious conversion of the Middle East is a vast subject. I can only really scratch the surface here. But I do wish to emphasise the variety of the Christian experience, whether by confession, by region or by institution. I begin by setting out the confessional diversity of the Middle East as a whole, before discussing the aftermath of the Arab conquests and their different effects in Syria and in northern and southern Mesopotamia.2 Finally, I turn to the elements of Arab- Islamic culture and jurisprudence that might allow us to explain the gradual conversion of parts of the Middle East to a new religion.3

1 My thanks go to Harry Munt and Sarah Savant for their advice. 2 A useful general survey is provided by A. Eddé, F. Micheau and C. Picard (eds), Communautés chrétiennes en pays d’Islam: du début de VIIe siècle au milieu de IXe siècle (Paris: SEDES, 1997). 3 I recognise that the categories ‘Islam’ and ‘Christianity’ are neither homogeneous nor stationary, i.e. that mutual influence meant that neither category remained the same. Therefore, when we speak of conversion to Islam in the seventh century or in the ninth we are actually speaking of different phenomena. Cf. R. Bulliet, ‘Process and Status in Conversion and Continuity’, in Indigenous Christian Communities in Islamic Lands. Eighth to Eighteenth Centuries, ed. M. Gervers and R.J. Bikhazi (Toronto, ON: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1990), 1–12, at 3. 24 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

The Sixth Century: Three Christian Confessions

The Roman Middle East that fell to Arab arms in the seventh century was no homogeneous territory. As well as Jews, polytheists and Samaritans, the region played host to numerous different Christian confessions. The Chalcedonians were the most numerous of these. This group, intellectual ancestors of the modern Greek Orthodox, derived their theology from the formulae of the 451 Council of Chalcedon, in particular their emphasis on the independent human and divine natures of Christ (a Dyophysite Christology). This was the faith of the emperor and of the four great patriarchates of the east in Constantinople, Alexandria, Antioch and Jerusalem. It was the only Christian group in the east to enjoy relatively close relations with the Pope in Rome and its adherents were scattered across the eastern Mediterranean. The Chalcedonians of the caliphate are often referred to as Melkites, and I shall use this term here.4 The second major Christian confession were the Miaphysites, those who asserted a single unified nature of Christ. This group is sometimes referred to as the anti-Chalcedonians, because they rejected the Council of Chalcedon and viewed this as their main point of departure from the Melkites. Here I shall use the term ‘Jacobite’, the name they were most commonly given by Arabic authors after the missionary bishop, Jacob Baradeus. Whereas the Melkites had been the direct recipients of imperial patronage, the Jacobites had been subject to periodic persecution throughout the sixth century at the hands of impatient patriarchs of Constantinople. In reaction to this persecution, and to their exclusion from a great deal of imperial patronage, they retreated into the countryside in their main strongholds of Egypt, Mesopotamia and northern Syria. They retained the structures of the Chalcedonian church, however, even if their councils and synods were convened in rural monasteries rather than in cities, and they continued to celebrate the imperial patronage they had received in recent in earlier eras.5

4 On the different confessions in general terms see I. Dorfmann-Lazarev, ‘Beyond Empire I: Eastern Christianities from the Persian to the Turkish Conquests, 604–1071’, in The Cambridge History of Christianity, vol. 3: Early Medieval Christianities, c.600-c.1100, ed. Thomas F.X. Noble and Julia M.H. Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 65–85. For developments in the Islamic period see S. Griffith, ‘“Melkites”, “Jacobites” and the Christological Controversies’, in Syrian Christians under Islam: The First Thousand Years, ed. D. Thomas (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 9–57. 5 M.M. Mango, ‘The Production of Syriac Manuscripts, 400–700 AD’ in Scritture, libri e testi nelle aree provinciali di Bisanzio. Atti del seminario di Erice (Tp) (18–25 settembre 1988), ed. G. Cavallo, G. De Gregorio, and M. Maniaci (Spoleto: Fondazione Centro italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo, 1991), 162–79, at 167 on the dominance of monasteries in Miaphysite intellectual life; Philip Wood, ‘We Have No King but Christ’: Christian Political Thought in Greater Syria on the Eve of the Arab Conquest (c.400–585) (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 167; J. Tannous, ‘Syria between Byzantium and Islam: Making Incommensurables Speak’, PhD dissertation, Princeton University, 2010, 7, on monasticism as the preserver of an alternative ‘Romanitas’. On Miaphysite theology, note the useful introduction by R.C. Chestnut, Three Monophysite Christologies: Severus of Antioch, Philoxenus of Mabbug and Jacob of Serug (London: Oxford University Press, 1976). On the sixth-century background see V.-L. Menze, Justinian and the Making of the Syrian Orthodox Church (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008). Christians in the Middle East, 600–1000 25

Modern historians have occasionally represented the Syrian Jacobites as a fifth column, eager to welcome the Arab invaders and expel their Chalcedonian persecutors.6 However, these interpretations place rather too much weight on sources written or compiled long after the invasions themselves.7 Sixth-century sources offer a much more nuanced view, in which the Jacobites represent themselves as servants of the emperor and as an ‘orthodoxy in waiting’, until such time as he would restore their exiled bishops to their rightful place.8 The third major confession that I will discuss here is the Church of the East, often referred to as the Nestorian church. This was the Christian church of the Sasanian empire, which adopted a heavily Dyophysite Christology that could occasionally be reconciled with the Council of Chalcedon. Christians in the Sasanian world endured periodic persecution at the hands of the state authorities, but this was interspersed by various experiments by the Sasanian state to give authority to the bishop of Ctesiphon and to try to influence Christian behaviour through institutional structures.9 Relations between all three groups varied substantially across the sixth century. All three could look to important moments of rapprochement or points of conflict in their shared histories, and the sixth century would offer a crucial phase that later historians would look back on, in order to chart contemporary identities. It is, perhaps, ironic, that the closest they came to reconciliation was with the aftermath of the reign of the emperor Heraklios (d. 641). His defeat of the Persian empire in 628 and his representation of the Sasanians as pagan enemies of God offered the possibility of Christian unity.10 Supported by his allies from the Christian Caucasus, the emperor returned the True Cross to Jerusalem

6 G.E.M. De Ste Croix, The Class Struggle in the Ancient World (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1980), 444. 7 e.g. Michael the Syrian, Chronique de Michel le Syrien, ed. and trans. J.-B. Chabot (Paris: Leroux, 1899–1924), 4 vols, XI, v–vii (vol. 4, 414–6/ vol. 2, 419–24) has a negative tone that presents the Romans as a tyrants, unsympathetic to Syria, and emphasises the favourable treatment of the Miaphysites by the Arabs. Dionysius of Tel-Mahre, reconstructed and trans. A. Palmer with S. Brock and R. Hoyland, The Seventh Century in the West Syrian Chronicles (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1993), using the Chronicle of 1234, ed. J. Chabot, Chronicon Anonymum ad Annuum Christi 1234 Pertinens (CSCO 81–2; Leuven: Typographeo Linguarum Orientalium, 1916–20), reports the ‘unspeakable crimes’ of the Romans during their retreat from Syria (§66, 250/ 157) and asserts that the Coptic patriarch Benjamin collaborated in the Muslim conquest out of enmity towards the Melkites (§69, 251–2/ 158). There is no direct statement of collaboration for Christians in Syria, unlike the Samaritans or the Jarajima of Antioch (al-Balādhurī, Futūḥ al-buldān, ed. M. de Goeje (Leiden, 1901) and trans. P. Hitti, The Origins of the Islamic State (New York: Columbia University, 1916), 158–9). 8 Wood, ‘We Have No King but Christ’, 175. 9 P. Wood, The Chronicle of Seert: Christian Historical Imagination in Late Antique Iraq (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), esp. 21. 10 M. Whittow, The Making of Orthodox Byzantium (Basingstoke: Palgrave-Macmillan, 1996), 69–82; J. Howard-Johnston, Witnesses to a World Crisis: Historians and Histories of the Middle East in the Seventh Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 435–45; Wood, The Chronicle of Seert, ch. 7. Note the positive reception of Heraklios’ image as a Christian monarch in the Caucasus, where his coins were widely imitated: M. Tsotselia, ‘Recent Sasanian Coin Findings on the Territory of Georgia’, Histoire et mesure, 17 (http://histoiremesure.revues.org/document888.html). 26 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia after its capture by the Persians and received communion with the Nestorian patriarch Isho‛yahb II.11 Where theologians had long failed to get different confessions to cooperate, the field of battle may have offered a more direct indication of God’s will. Of course, with the hindsight of subsequent events, we know that Heraklios’ plans came to nothing with the Arab invasions of Syria and Iraq. God, it seemed, had other human agents in mind and other theologies to favour. But the fact that Heraklios came so close to establishing compromise should remind us of two things. Firstly, that any theologian conscious of his history would be aware of the real possibility of the union of the churches. And, secondly, that relations between different Christian confessions were also deeply intertwined with secular affairs, and that God’s hand was seen in the deeds of emperors as much as in the internal workings of the church.12

The Effects of the Conquest

Large parts of the Roman Middle East fell to the Arabs very quickly indeed. This was not the long, drawn out struggle that characterised the fall of parts of the Roman West.13 Al-Balādhurī reports that the Greeks fled cities like Homs and Damascus for the safety of Roman Cyprus, and that the Arab conquerors were permitted to live in their houses.14 But the levels of population displacement and the destruction of property during the conquests appear to have been low. The archaeologist Alan Walmsley observes how rare it is to find signs of destruction

11 B. Flusin, Saint Anastase le Perse et l’histoire de la Palestine au début du VIIe siècle, 2 vols (Paris: Editions du Centre national de la recherche scientifique, 1992), vol. 2, 312–19; Wood, Chronicle of Seert, 213–5. 12 The excerpted works of earlier historians were often translated into Arabic (e.g. The Chronicle of Seert, ed. and trans, Addai Scheer as ‘Histoire nestorienne inédite: Chronique de Séert’, Patrologia Orientalis 4 (1908), 5 (1910), 7 (1911) 13 (1919)) or embedded into later florilegia (quotation collections). M. Conterno, ‘Culto e memoria di Constantino nelle tradizioni sire. Agiografia constantiniana nella liturgia e nella storiografia’, in Constantino I. Enciclopedia Constantiniana sulla figura immagine dell’imperatore del cossidetto editto di Milano (Rome: Instituto della Enciclopedia Italiana, 2013), II: 425–39 discusses the treatment of the figure of Constantine as a touchstone of orthodoxy in the different oriental traditions. 13 e.g. C. Wickham, Framing the Early Middle Ages: Europe and the Mediterranean 400–800 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 31 for the effects of the Persians and Arabs in Anatolia; 34–5 for the Goths and Lombards in Italy. S. Vryonis, The Decline of Medieval Hellenism in Asia Minor and the Process of Islamization from the Eleventh through Fifteenth Centuries (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1971), 451, contrasts the rapidity of the conquest of Trebizond to the rest of Anatolia and suggests that this is one explanation for the survival of Christianity in this region. 14 Al-Balādhurī, Futūḥ, 127, for the flight of ‘Rūm’ from Tripoli, with the comments of H. Kennedy, ‘Syrian Elites from Byzantium to Islam: Survival or Extinction?’ in Money, Power and Politics in Early Islamic Syria: A Review of Current Debates, ed. J. Haldon (Farnham: Ashgate, 2010), 181–200, at 189–92. Also note Ibn ‘Abd al-Ḥakam, Futūḥ Miṣr, ed. C. Torrey as The History of the Conquest of Egypt, North Africa and Spain (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1922), 130–1 for the occupation of houses in Alexandria abandoned by ‘Rūm’. Christians in the Middle East, 600–1000 27 in the cities of Syria and Palestine.15 The conquest seems to have been swift and relatively tightly controlled.16 For several of the Christian confessions of the Middle East, the seventh century may have represented something of an ‘Indian Summer’, to use Chase Robinson’s term.17 Probably because they simply lacked the administrative manpower to closely monitor the conquered population, the caliphate seems to have allowed many local aristocrats, bishops and monasteries substantial powers to provide justice for their co-religionists18 and relied on them to raise taxes on behalf of the state.19 Numismatists have also suggested that similar groups took on the responsibility of minting imitations of Roman coins, when sufficient coin stock was no longer being imported from elsewhere or being produced by the state.20 In Egypt we see Christian elites exploiting the absence of central government to raise much higher taxes on the agricultural population than had occurred under Roman rule.21 In other words, the seventh century witnessed an absence of upper level government that was exploited by men on the spot.22 Another feature of this absence of state control is the remarkable progress made by Christian missionary activity and monastic building in the former Sasanian world in the same period. The entries for the years c.580–730 in the patriarchal chronicle of ʿAmr ibn Matta see a boom in the commemoration of monastic founders.23 These foundations are clustered in northern Iraq, around

15 A. Walmsley, Early Islamic Syria: An Archaeological Assessment (London: Duckworth, 2007), 47. 16 F. Donner, ‘Centralized Authority and Military Autonomy in the Early Islamic Conquests’, in The Byzantine and Early Islamic Near East, vol. 3: States, Resources and Armies, ed. Averil Cameron (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995), 337–60, comes to the same conclusions from the literary sources. 17 C. Robinson, Empire and Elites after the Muslim Conquest: The Transformation of Northern Mesopotamia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 50–62. 18 On the provision of justice by dhimmī religious leaders see U. Simonsohn, A Common Justice: The Legal Allegiances of Christians and Jews under Early Islam (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011) and N. Edelby, ‘L’autonomie législative des chrétiens en terre de l’Islam’, Archive de l’histoire du droit orientale 5 (1951): 307–51. Tannous, Syria, 459 gives the example of one Theodota of Amida, whose Life records that the Arabs gave him legal authority over ‘all the Christians of Amida’ (a local coup, therefore, for the Miaphysites). 19 Robinson, Empire and Elites, 91–117; P. Sijpesteijn, ‘Landholding Patterns in Early Islamic Egypt’, Journal of Agrarian Change 9 (2009): 120–33 on the retention of Christian pagarchs until the Marwanid period. Al-Ṭabarī, Ta’rīkh al-rusul wal-mulūk, ed. M. De Goeje (Leiden, 1879–98), vol. 2, 458 notes the use of dihqāns to collect taxes. 20 M. Bates, ‘Byzantine Coinage and Its Imitations, Arab Coinage and Its Imitations: The Byzantine-Arab Coinage’, Aram 6 (1984): 381–403, at 393–4. 21 John of Nikiu, Chronicle, trans. R. Charles (London and Oxford: William Norgate, 1916), CXXI, 5. 22 The tyrannical powers of the shahregan of northern Iraq, and their eventual destruction by the Arabs, is a strong theme of the Life of Maranemmeh, preserved in Thomas of Marga, The Book of Governors, ed. and trans. E. Wallis-Budge (London: K. Paul, Trench, Trübner & Co., 1893), 149–53/ 307–12. 23 Amr, Kitab al-Magdal, ed. and trans. H. Gismondi, Maris, Amri et Salibae: De Patriarchis Nestorianorum Commentaria (Rome: de Luigi, 1899), 44/22–61/35, noting the lists of foundations 28 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia the great monastery of Izla, but they extend into Central Asia, and into Daylam on the shores of the Caspian. This general impression is also confirmed by archaeological evidence from the Persian Gulf, where a series of monasteries and churches have been recently re-dated to the early Islamic period, having long been thought to be Sasanian in date.24 And in Palestine, ‘Christian life went on both sides of the Jordan, not as an ebbing survival, but as the expression of a flourishing, self-assured and self-organised community.’25 Christian expansion in the seventh century may seem counter-intuitive, but we should bear in mind that Islam was, at that time, a religious opinion held by very few people indeed, and that they ruled the Middle East as a small and dispersed population, drawing on the resources and expertise of a much larger non-Muslim population. Moreover, the regions of Iraq and Iran were in an unusual position as former territories of the Sasanian empire, whose official Zoroastrian religion had suddenly and fatally lost its ability toretain adherents with the collapse of the empire.26 The monastic history of Thomas of Marga describes a situation where most of the Christian converts in this era bear Iranian names, often with Zoroastrian connotations. These men were also powerful aristocrats, dehqāns and shahregān in the language of the text, and they seem to have facilitated the seventh-century expansion in monasticism through gifts of money and political protection.27 The relative freedom of Christians to proselytise Zoroastrians and pagans and expand monastic structures would remain continuous features of the seventh and eighth centuries.28 But we should note that the independence of Christian at the end of each section. They peter out after the entry for Pethion. 24 R.A. Carter, ‘Christianity in the Gulf during the First Centuries of Islam’, Arabian Archaeology and Epigraphy 19 (2008): 71–108. Note also R. Payne, ‘Monks, Dinars and Date Palms: Hagiographical Production and the Expansion of Monastic Institutions in the Early Islamic Persian Gulf’, Arabian Archaeology and Epigraphy 22 (2011): 97–111, who integrates this archaeological study into the hagiographical evidence. 25 Quotation from L. Di Segni, ‘Christian Epigraphy in the Holy Land: New Discoveries’, Aram 15 (2003): 247–67, at 247. Walmsley, Early Islamic Syria, 124–6 has emphasised the enormous expense involved in the construction of mosaics in churches in Palestine and the Transjordan in the early-to-mid eighth centuries. See further M. Picirillo, Mosaics of Jordan (Amman: American Center of Oriental Research, 1993); M. Picirillo and E. Alliata, Umm al-Rasas- Mayfa’ah I. Gli scavi del complesso di Santo Stefano (Jerusalem: Studium Biblicum Franciscum, 1994). 26 M. Morony, Iraq after the Muslim Conquest (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1984), 297–302. Cf. T. Daryaee, ‘Marriage, Property and Conversion among the Zoroastrians: From Late Sasanian to Early Islamic Iran’, Journal of Persianate Studies 6 (2013): 91–100, who suggests that close-kin marriage was promoted as a means of keeping property within a shrinking community. 27 e.g. Thomas of Marga, The Book of Governors, II, xliii, 136–7/282–3 on Hugairabad. See the discussions of C. Villagomez, ‘The Fields, Flocks and Finances of Monks: Economic Life at Nestorian Monasteries, 500–850’, PhD dissertation, University of California at Los Angeles, 1998, and, drawing on this, Wood, Chronicle of Seert, 163–70. 28 e.g. narratives in Thomas of Marga, The Book of Governors, xxxii, 110–1/ 242–3 (on Golai in northern Iraq); Chronicle of Seert, in Patrologia Orientalis 13 (1919), XLV, L, LIV, LXXVI (missions to the Kurds and Arabs); Life of John of Daylam, ed. and trans. S. Brock, Parole de l’Orient 10 (1982), 123–90, §19, 25, 39 (missions in Daylam and Fars). Christians in the Middle East, 600–1000 29 leaders, especially their bishops, was eventually curtailed. In the last decade of the eighth century, the caliph ʿAbd al-Malik began reforms to tighten the remit of the state and to restrict the behaviour of local elites. It was in his reign that we first hear of a census and land survey being conducted, even in rural districts such as northern Mesopotamia.29 Similarly, the same period witnessed a strong crack-down on the high nobility (shahregān) of northern Iraq by local governors in Mosul: the aristocratic dominance and conspicuous consumption of the previous century was being brought to heel by a stronger and more centralised caliphate.30 This centralisation of the state, and the revenue that it brought, was also used to fuel a deliberate articulation of the state’s Arabic and Islamic character. Epigraphic coinage, bearing the Arabic shahāda, was issued for the first time, and bureaucracy was increasingly conducted in Arabic, rather than in Greek and Persian.31 The construction of Islamic monuments in Damascus and Jerusalem also proclaimed the religious identification of the state to a Christian population and to visitors from the still unconquered Byzantine world.32 To both interest groups, this must have been a stark statement of cultural difference and the rejection of a Roman way of doing things. These cultural-religious statements took place against a background of military victory over the Byzantines and rival caliphs, and there was a strong expectation that Constantinople’s fall, and possibly the end of the world, were both imminent.33

29 Chronicle of Zuqnin, ed. J. Chabot, Incerti auctoris chronicon anonymum pseudo-Dionysianum vulgo dictum (Paris: Typographeo Reipublicae, 1927–33) and trans. A. Harrak, The Chronicle of Zuqnin, Parts III and IV, A.D. 484–775 (Toronto, ON: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1999), 154/ 147–8. 30 Thomas of Marga, The Book of Governors, III, viii, 163/ 329–30 (for Maranemmeh’s condemnation of the shahrig Zadhai) with comments in P. Wood, ‘Christians in Umayyad Iraq’ in A. Marsham and A. George, Power, Patronage and Memory in Early Islam: Perspectives on Umayyad History (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, forthcoming). 31 J. Bachrach, Signs of Sovereignty: The Shahada, Qurʾanic Verses and the Coinage of ‘Abd al-Malik (65–86 AH/685–705 CE) (forthcoming). For the background to this coinage reform, seen in terms of numismatic experimentation, see A. Walmsley, ‘Coinage and the Economy of Syria-Palestine in the Seventh and Eighth Centuries CE’, in Haldon, Money, Power and Politics, 21–44. For changes in the administration in Egypt in this period see P. Sijpesteijn, Shaping a Muslim State: The World of a Mid-Eighth Century Egyptian Official (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014). 32 C. Robinson, ‘Abd al-Malik (Oxford: Oneworld, 2005), esp. 77 and 116–7 on construction in Jerusalem and the creation of uniform infrastructure. Studies in F.B. Flood, The Great Mosque of Damascus: Studies on the Makings of Umayyad Visual Culture (Leiden: Brill, 2001) and in J. Johns and J. Raby (eds), Bayt al-Maqdis: ‘Abd al-Malik’s Jerusalem (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993). 33 e.g. G. Reinink, Die syrische Apokalypse des Pseudo-Methodius (Leuven: E. Peeters, 1993), CSCO 540–1, English translation in P. Alexander, The Byzantine Apocalyptic Tradition (Berkeley, CA: California University Press, 1985), 36–51. Note the comments in G. Reinink, ‘Ps-Methodius: A Concept of History in Response to the Rise of Islam’, in idem, Syriac Christianity under Late Sasanian and Early Islamic Rule (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005), vol. 9, and other chapters in this volume. These ideas were shared by many Muslims: D. Cook, Studies in Muslim Apocalyptic (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2003). For the Byzantine military failures of this period: Whittow, Making of Orthodox Byzantium, 136–8; Howard-Johnston, Witnesses, 474–81. 30 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Regional Identity and the Christians

Local chronicles composed in Syriac provide a rich vein of material for Christian attitudes to the competing powers of Byzantium and the caliphate. A particularly interesting example is the Chronicle of Zuqnin, composed in a monastery in northern Mesopotamia between the 730s and the 770s by a number of different monks working in the same monastery.34 The first composers of this Chronicle speak of the Arabs in undifferentiated terms as tyrants and oppressors sent from God, while considerable praise is heaped upon the emperors Leo III and Constantine V. This is all the more striking because the Zuqnin chroniclers were almost certainly Jacobites. Even after ʿAbd al-Malik’s striking defeat of the Byzantines, and the persecutions suffered by his sixth-century co-religionists, the Byzantine empire remained a seat of God’s providence, and the deeds of its emperors an obvious topic of interest for an ecclesiastical historian, even one writing beyond the borders of the empire. However, the account of the emperors is also rather ignorant of their theological innovations: to any Greek-speaking historian these emperors were famous as Iconoclasts.35 However, authors writing around the middle of the century offer considerably more space to the Arab rulers of Mesopotamia as the Byzantine emperors recede from view. The Umayyad caliph Marwān II is particularly prominent for making his capital in Harran, and the chronicler presents him as an attractive military hero, whose deeds will be an obvious point of interest for his listeners.36 These stories pave the way for a sympathetic perspective on the cause of the Umayyads during the third fitna. This is seen primarily in ‘racial’, rather than religious terms: the Abbasids are Persians, and are characterised by their black skin and black clothes, and the negative effects of the first decades of Abbasid rule include their importation of large numbers of foreigners: Sindis, Khurasanis, Persians and Medians. By this stage, it seems that the early wave of Arab conquerors had become familiar to the chroniclers.37 The writers of the 760s seem more able to differentiate between different groups of foreigners than their predecessors. Even if is only on a principle of ‘better the devil you know’, they increasingly felt sympathy for local Arabs who were subject to the same oppressive taxation

34 On this text note C. Cahen, ‘Fiscalité, propriété, antagonismes sociaux en Haute- Mésopotamie au temps des premiers Abbasides d’après Denys de Tell-Mahré’, Arabica 1 (1954): 136–54 (for economic issues) and W. Witakowski, The Syriac Chronicle of Pseudo-Dionysius of Tel- Mahre: A Study in the History of Historiography (Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell International, 1987); P. Wood, ‘The Chroniclers of Zuqnin and Their Times (c.720–75)’, Parole de l’Orient 36 (2011): 549–68. 35 Chronicle of Zuqnin, 157–60/150–2 (on Leo III); 207/ 189–90 (on Constantine V). Contrast the negative portrayal given in Theophanes, Chronographia, ed. and trans. Cyril Mango and Robert Scott as The Chronicle of Theophanes Confessor (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), e.g. AM 6232 (412/572) and AM 6244 (427/ 591). 36 e.g. Chronicle of Zuqnin, 188–9/174–5. 37 Ibid., 229/206. The chronicler observes that many of this army are worshippers of fire and idols: the emphasis is on the alien nature of the caliph’s army and on the signs of the apocalypse, rather than on the caliph as a Muslim per se. Christians in the Middle East, 600–1000 31 regime as they were themselves.38 A reference to the Abbasids removing Arabs from the villages of the ‘Syrians’ (Suryaye), where they had settled and intermarried with local women, suggests that this sympathy stems from some measure of social integration on the ground, though it is unclear whether such intermarriage had led to conversions in either direction.39 The final section of this regional chronicle is the longest, and also heavily weighted towards an eschatological understanding of history, filled with images of the apocalypse. It is only in this section, written in 776, that the Arabs and Persians are clearly identified as Muslims, rather than merely as foreigners. Here the frontier wars between the caliph and Byzantium are understood as a war between Christianity and Islam. The caliphal forces are described in the terms of Israel’s opponents in the Old Testament as the cupbearers of Sennacherib: ‘Where are now the kings of Egypt, Africa, the Nubians and the Moors? … The deeds of the Persians were all in vain because the help of the Romans was the Lord.’40 The presentation of the war as a religious conflict may stem from the first apostasies that occurred within nearby communities in the time of the last of Zuqnin chroniclers. The Chronicle concludes with the celebration of the local martyr, Cyrus of Harran. Though Cyrus is celebrated for his steadfastness, the chronicler is still forced to admit that he has been killed for his return to Christianity, after a spell of time as a Muslim. Other accounts of Christian apostates are much freer to condemn those who leave their faith. In one moving scene, the chronicler describes the apostasy of a priest who ignores the entreaties and presents of his friends to renounce his faith, even adding additional curses against Christ and the Virgin that had not been requested by his Arab patrons. After saying the shahāda, the chronicler informs us that the Holy Spirit left his mouth in the form of a dove and flew away, a warning to anyone who would renounce their faith.41

Christians as Citizens of the Caliphate

Two key issues that emerge from the Zuqnin Chronicle are the increasing identifications with local Arab settlers and, perhaps paradoxically, increasing awareness of the government and its servants as Muslims, and, in some cases, religiously motivated opponents of the Christians. On one hand it shows that this border region was especially sensitive to the political rhetoric of Byzantium and the caliphate, but, on the other, the chronicler was clearly capable of

38 Ibid., 316/273. 39 Ibid., 256/ 226; On Arab settlement in Iraq in general see F. Donner, Early Islamic Conquests (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1981), ch. 5. 40 Chronicle of Zuqnin, 232–3/209. 41 Ibid., 393ff./ 330ff. Note discussion of A. Harrak, ‘Christianity in the Eyes of Muslims of the Jazirah in the Eighth Century’, Parole de l’Orient 20 (1995): 337–56. 32 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia sympathy for Arabs and Muslims, either as fellow Syrians or as fellow objects of government oppression. Much of the literature has concentrated on modern historians’ ability to quantify religious change and to understand the pressures to convert or to retain one’s religion,42 but before addressing this, I would like to emphasise the impact of the new regime on intra-Christian relationships. That is, my focus is on how the interplay between different parts of the caliphate came to affect relations between different Christian groups and between the clergy and the laity. The Chronicle of Zuqnin shows a situation where the chronicler and his milieu remains peripheral throughout the Roman and Islamic periods. Though the Tur ʿAbdin did become a border zone, and this gave it a certain kind of salience, it was never an economic powerhouse that attracted the particular attention of the caliphal state.43 A very different situation existed for Syria and Iraq. In Syria, the Abbasid revolution saw the disappearance of familiar patronage, which the region had enjoyed under both the Romans and the Umayyads. The Life of Timothy of Kakushta describes the situation in rural northern Syria before the Byzantine reconquest of the region, and I believe that it provides significant insights into the effects of this retreat of patronage on relations between the higher clergy and the uneducated laity of the countryside. One of the most interesting scenes in this Life is the confrontation between Timothy and the patriarch Theodoret, which occupies the third quarter of the Life after Timothy’s reputation as an ascetic and wonder worker has already been firmly established.44 The first scene in the relationship between holy man and patriarch sees the saint condemn a prominent layman in Kakushta for committing adultery, The patriarch intercedes to ask Timothy to forgive him, but the saint refuses: to do so, would be to nullify the laws of God.45 Later in the year, the patriarch himself comes to visit the region and stops at Kakushta to pay his respects to the saint. But Timothy is less than accommodating. He points out that the patriarch carriage and his fine robes were not used by any of the disciples. Timothy tells the patriarch that he has had a vision in which he appeared in the midst of the apostles. But while they wore robes of glory, he appeared wearing lowly clothes and with the face of an Indian.46 Initially, Theodoret agrees to change his ways, but he soon relapses and renounces any pretences to asceticism. However, he receives his just desserts when the troops of the caliph arrest him as he consecrates the myron (holy oil) on Maundy Thursday. In a desperate bid for help, the patriarch bribes his captors to allow him to visit Timothy on his way to prison. Timothy promises to use his

42 Especially R. Bulliet, Conversion to Islam in the Medieval Period: An Essay in Quantitative History (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979). 43 See, in general, A. Palmer, Monk and Mason on the Tigris Frontier: The Early History of the Tur ‘Abdin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990). 44 Life of Timothy of Kakhushta, ed. and trans. J. Lamoureaux and C. Cairala as ‘The Life of Timothy of Kâkhushtâ: Two Arabic Texts Edited and Translated’, Patrologia Orientalis 48 (2000), Paris Manuscript (P) 18, 20, 22 (for his healing miracles and his ability to forgive sins). 45 Ibid., P 22.1–2. 46 Ibid., P 27.1–2. Christians in the Middle East, 600–1000 33 parrhēsia with God (his powers of intercession) to ensure Theodoret’s safety and tells him not to accept any rewards from the caliph, but to ask him to consider the poor with regard to the jizya, to give you a document ‘about the freedom to follow the laws of the churches and that they be built and repaired and that no monk be accosted in any way- in accordance with what is enjoined on them [the Muslims] in the pact drawn up by their master [Muḥammad]’.47 In Baghdad, Timothy’s promises come true. Theodoret is condemned to death, but the executioner is unable to kill him after his hand miraculously withers up. Next, the caliph’s concubine asks him to make Theodoret his doorkeeper instead of killing him. While serving the caliph in this capacity, Theodoret’s opportunity arrives when the caliph’s son falls sick and he cannot be cured by any of the doctors of Baghdad: Theodoret anoints the boy with ‘baraka’, holy oil that has been blessed by Timothy, and the boy is cured.48 After this miracle Theodoret is offered ludicrous wealth by the caliph. But this time he remembers Timothy’s warning and askes instead for a reduction in the jizya for the caliph’s Christian subjects and a guarantee of the rights to build churches and monasteries. The subtext of this Life is an environment where Melkite Syria had been robbed of its patriarchal centres of Antioch and Jerusalem. The centres of power were moved to Iraq with the Abbasid revolution and the foundation of Baghdad.49 And Antioch itself, once a mighty city, had been badly affected by the shift in trade routes to the east and its proximity to the Byzantine frontier.50 It is notable that another tenth-century saint’s Life describing the election to the patriarchate of Antioch, remarks that the candidates came from Baghdad and Samarra, rather than from the region around Antioch.51 In such an environment, we should remember that the patriarch was no longer likely to be a local man, recruited from monasteries enmeshed in regional politics. Furthermore, the patriarch’s ability to represent the wider Melkite community rested on his ability to make his presence felt at the court of the caliph, requiring both his physical absence from the Levant and a public display of wealth and learning. It was this kind of

47 Ibid., S. 33. 3–5 (this passage is missing in the Paris manuscript due to a break in the manuscript, but the scene is present in the later Seidnaya manuscript). 48 Ibid., P. 27. 5–11 and S. 33. 6–11. 49 On the Melkites in general note H. Kennedy, ‘The Melkite Church from the Islamic Conquest to the Crusades: Continuity and Adaptation in the Byzantine Legacy’, in 17th International Byzantine Congress: The Major Papers (New Rochelle, NY: A.D. Caratzas, 1986), 325–43 and J.-M. Fiey, ‘“Rum” à l’est de l’Euphrate’, Le Muséon 90 (1977): 365–420. On the Christian presence in Baghdad see M. Allard, ‘Les chrétiens à Bagdad’, Arabica 9 (1962): 375–88, esp. 377–9. 50 Wickham, Framing, 448–9. 51 H. Zayat (ed. and trans.), ‘Life of Christopher of Antioch’, Proche-Orient chrétien 2 (1952): 17–38 and 333–66, at 23. The Jacobites also experienced tensions from this eastward shift in power, which robbed the monasteries of Qenneshre and Gubba Baraya of their traditional roles as nurseries of future patriarchs: see the discussion of the sources in M. Oez, ‘Cyriacus of Takrit and his Book on Divine Providence’, DPhil thesis, Oxford University, 2010, ch. 1. For the ‘Nestorians’, of course, this same shift in power brought them great importance, since the caliphal capital was now located in its traditional heartland: Wood, Chronicle of Seert, 227–8 and 236–8. See further below. 34 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia representation that allowed clerics to claim a role in protecting the rights of fellow dhimmīs before the authorities.52 The requirements of the court at Baghdad made the patriarch, and other higher clergy, vulnerable to the kind of ascetic criticism levelled by Timothy. The Life passes over a number of opportunities to criticise Muslims and Islam. Though Muslims occasionally request miracles from the saint he assures them that he will not ask them to change their religion.53 And though the caliph’s actions against Theodoret are clearly tyrannical, this is not where the emphasis of the story lies. Indeed, Muhammad is invoked as a kind of guarantor of Christian rights.54 Instead the focus of the saint’s invective is the local moral order and the failure of the higher clergy. Moreover, a significant twist to this narrative lies in the hagiographer’s claim that Christians should thank Timothy for their low levels of tax rather than the patriarch: the patriarch’s legitimacy as a defender of the people has been stripped away, undermining any claim that his worldly lifestyle might be justified.

A Shift in Power: The Rise of Iraq

The sources from Syria and northern Mesopotamia suggest a world where direct contact between the central government and church leaders had become an opaque process, and therefore one open to criticism from local leaders. But a very different trend emerges from the sources composed in Syriac and Arabic in Iraq in the ninth and tenth centuries. Iraq’s Church of the East had once enjoyed an important relationship with the Sasanian shahs, a relationship that had often been celebrated in hagiographies and histories composed in the sixth century. But this close link between church and state seems to have reached an apogee in the reign of the catholicos Timothy (d. 823), who played a major role in theological discussions at the court of the caliph and sponsored the translation of texts between Greek, Syriac and Arabic.55 Timothy’s reign began shortly after the transfer of the patriarchate of the east to the new capital of Baghdad, and he seems to have received a share of the massive wealth that was generated by the new city, which was soon adorned by a large number of churches and monasteries. Two of his letters refer to gifts of

52 P. Wood, ‘Christian Authority under the Early Abbasids: The Life of Timothy of Kakushta’, Proche-Orient chrétien 61 (2011): 258–74, at 269–70. 53 Life of Timothy, P 36. 54 Cf. Chronicle of Seert, in Patrologia Orientalis 13 (1919), CIV (619–23). 55 V. Berti, ‘Libri e biblioteche cristiane nell’Iraq dell’VIII secolo. Una testimonianza dell’epistolario del patriarca siro-orientale Timoteo I (727–823)’, in The Libraries of the Neoplatonists: Proceedings of the Meeting of the European Science Foundation Network ‘Late Antiquity and Arabic Thought’, ed. C. D’Ancona (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 307–17; S.P. Brock, ‘Two Letters of the Patriarch Timothy from the Late Eighth Century on Translations from Greek’, Arabic Sciences and Philosophy 9 (1999): 233–46. Christians in the Middle East, 600–1000 35 land from the caliph for church-building and the funding of missions to the east by the patriarch.56 The wealth of the Church of the East in this period seems to have an immediate effect on its ability to describe its own history, or rather, on Baghdad’s ability to tell the history of the whole church from its perspective. The patriarchal chronicles are particularly rich for the period 750–900, corresponding to a growth in the sponsorship of history-writing.57 In a similar vein, the synodicon of the church, with its collections of older canons and ‘secular’ legislation was made in the ninth century, beginning with the efforts of Timothy himself.58 These were not naïve efforts to record the past, but systematic attempts to invoke antiquity to justify the increased centralisation of the ninth-century church and magnify the dominance of the catholicos.59 Though centralising tendencies had always been present in the Sasanian church, we know from contemporary hagiographies that they were often resisted at a local level.60 Timothy’s efforts look like a much more comprehensive attempt to use history to claim rights in the present, especially by linking the codification of law to a simultaneous effort to codify history and to underscore the patriarch’s own rights as a lawgiver. Timothy’s reign also saw a reworking of the ecclesiology of the Church of the East, where the church’s institutional structures caught up with its missionary expansion in the past centuries. A church that had been limited to Iraq and Iran in the sixth century now stretched from western China to Cyprus and Melitene. The Church’s expansion east is often highlighted in general studies, keen to demonstrate that Christianity’s importance as an Asian religion long predated the European age of exploration.61 But we might equally place an emphasis on the presence of Nestorian bishops well inside the former Roman empire. The caliphate united the prosperous provinces of Iran, Iraq, Syria and Egypt, which had long since been separated by a political frontier.62 And this new unity facilitated trading and economic connections between previously separate regions. The caliphate saw the spread of Melkites in Merv and Herat, Nestorians in Damascus and Amida and Takriti Jacobites in the monasteries of lower Egypt.63

56 Wood, Chronicle of Seert, 236–7. 57 Ibid., 229–41. 58 See V. Berti, Vita e Studi di Timotheo I (823), patriarca cristiano di Baghdad. Richerche sull’epistolario e sulle fonti contigue (Paris: Peeters, 2009, Cahiers de Studia Iranica 41) on Timothy in general. On his role in collecting the synodica see W. Selb, Orientalisches Kirchenrecht: vol. 1: Die Geschichte des Kirchenrechts der Nestorianer (von den Anfängen bis zur Mongolenzeit) (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1981), esp. 165. 59 See Timothy’s Letter 26, with discussion in F. Briquel-Chattonet, et al., ‘Lettre du patriarche Timothée à Maranzekhā, évêque de Nineve’, Journal asiatique 288 (2000): 1–13. 60 e.g. Acts of Mar Miles, ed. P. Bedjan, Acta Martyrorum et Sanctorum (Paris: Harrassowitz 1896), vol. 2, 260–76. 61 e.g. C. Baumer, The Church of the East: An Illustrated History of Assyrian Christianity (London: I.B. Tauris, 2006), 168–74. 62 J. Dauvillier, ‘Les provinces chaldéennes de “l’extérieur” au môyen âge’, in Mélanges Cavallera (Toulouse: Bibliotheque de l’Institut Catholique, 1948), 261–316, esp. 273–4. 63 J.-M. Fiey, ‘Les diocèses de maphrianat syrien, 629–1860’, Parole de l’Orient 5 (1974): 133–65; J. Nasrallah, L’église melchite en Iraq, en Perse et en Asie Centrale (Jerusalem: [s.n.], 1976); 36 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

In a way that had not been possible before, Christian institutions were offered new opportunities for expansion, opportunities that those near the wealth and patronage of the urban centres of Iraq were able to take full advantage of.

Explaining Conversion: A Shared Culture

Sidney Griffith has stressed the neutrality of high level religious discussion and the vibrancy of Christian rebuttal of Muslim theological arguments. He lays an emphasis on the importance of kalām for such debates, that is, of a logical framework derived from Aristotle that did not respect the primacy of any revealed texts.64 And Jean-Maurice Fiey has stressed the high social position achieved by a Christian ‘middle class’ at Baghdad, and the close cooperation between prominent patriarchs and their Muslim rulers.65 Yet, as Griffith also observes, the history of Christians in the Middle East is also one of ‘continual, if gradual, diminishment’.66 Even if individual Christians found prominent employment and courtly honours, the overall pattern in the longue durée, is of a subaltern status, where Christianity could not be allowed the public prestige of the state religion and where one purpose of state legislation and the rulings of individual jurists was to discriminate between Muslims and non-Muslims.67

J.-M. Fiey, ‘Chrétientés syriaques du Horasan et Ségestan’, Le Muséon 86 (1973): 75–104; M. Immerzeel, ‘The Stuccoes of Deir al-Surian: A waqf of the Takritans in Fustat?’ in Coptic Studies on the Threshold of a New Millennium, ed. M. Immerzeel and J. Van der Vleit, vols 1–2 (Leuven: Peeters, 2004), 1303–20. Contrast the marked retraction of Christian bishoprics that has been observed for tenth Sicily (Eddé, Micheau and Picard, Communautés chrétiennes, 45) or fifteenth-century Anatolia (Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 288–310). 64 S. Griffith, The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque: Christians and Muslims in the World of Islam (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2008), 64. See also idem, ‘The Syriac Letters of Patriarch Timothy I and the Birth of Christian Kalām in the Muʿtazilite Milieu of Baghdad and Basrah in Early Islamic Times’, in Syriac Polemics: Studies in Honour of Gerrit Jan Reinink, ed. A. Van Bekkum, J.-W. Drijvers and A.C. Klugkist (Leuven: Peeters, 2007), 103–32; D. Sklare, Samuel ben Ḥofni Gaon and his Cultural World: Texts and Studies (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 47–61, discusses the influence of kalām, and the Muʿtazilite ideas of primary rationalism on Jewish thought in Baghdad in this period. Interestingly, he observes that Jewish intellectuals were most innovative, and open to their surrounds, when gaonic institutions were in decline (96). 65 J.-M. Fiey, Les chrétiens syriaques sous les Abbassides surtout à Bagdad, 749–1258 (Leuven: Secretariat du Corpus SCO, 1980). This was particularly true for the Church of the East (130). More specifically see C. Cabrol, ‘Les fonctionnaires d’etat nestoriens a Bagdad du temps des ‘Abbassides (III/IXe–IV/X s.)’, in ‘Abbasid Studies vol. 2, ed. J. Nawas (Leuven: Peeters, 2010), 191–211; R. Le Coz, Les médecins nestoriens au Moyen Âge. Les maîtres des Arabes (Paris: Harmattan, 2005); H. Putman, L’église et l’islam sous Timothée I (Beirut: Dar el-Machreq, 1986), 93–108; S. Dadoyan, The Fatimid Armenians: Cultural and Political Interaction in the Near East (Leiden: Brill, 1997), chs 4–5. 66 S. Griffith, ‘Christians under Muslim Rule’, in Noble and Smith (eds),Cambridge History of Christianity, vol. 3, 197–212, at 209. 67 See further below. Christians in the Middle East, 600–1000 37

One source of this ‘gradual diminishment’ is to see the process, perhaps paradoxically, as the result of the success of individual Christians and Jews in seeking employment in an Arabophone world. The caliph ʿAbd al-Malik initiated the Arabicisation of the bureaucracy and, even for non-Muslims, success in this world would have required the use of large numbers of religious formulae derived from the Qurʾan and ḥadīth.68 And the success of this programme also meant that Arabic gradually became a suitable language for the Christian elite.69 Arabic could, of course be used as a Christian language, and it may be that Christians in the caliphate were able to draw on an earlier history of the pre- Islamic use of Arabic by Christians.70 And being able to deploy Arabic in elite contexts allowed Christians to play an important role as translators of Greek philosophy into Arabic, often through the intermediary of Syriac.71 However, this cultural proximity also had a downside, in that it rendered the crossing of religious boundaries relatively easy. The Chronicle of Zuqnin remarks that early converts to Islam were ostracised both from Christians and from Arab Muslims, and formed communities of their own, labelled ʿAydouli.72 And Arab sources from the Umayyad era imagine that conversion would be accompanied by the adoption of an Arab lineage as a client, or mawla, of an Arab tribe.73 But the disappearance of these sorts of interstitial identities for converts suggests the proximity of Christians and Muslims rendered them unnecessary in a later era. In any internal power struggle within a Christian group, whether we are speaking of secular aristocrats or of members of the clergy, conversion to Islam represented a strategy that would have given them new allies with connections to the state.74 Even to individuals who were not prepared to convert outright, the increasingly Islamic tone of the state, and of public religious discussion, may

68 For religious formulae, note the numerous examples in A. Grohmann, From the World of Arabic Papyri (Cairo: Al-Maaref Press, 1952); Sijpesteijn, Shaping a Muslim State. For the language shift in the dīwān, al-Balādhurī, Futūḥ, 193. 69 C. Robinson, ‘Abd al-Malik, 73–4 and 124–6. 70 S. Griffith, ‘From Aramaic to Arabic: The Languages of the Monasteries of Palestine in the Byzantine and Early Islamic Periods’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 51 (1997): 11–31; S. Griffith, ‘When did the Bible become an Arabic Scripture?’, Intellectual History of the Islamicate World (2013): 7–23. 71 Tannous, Syria, 31–59 on the circles of translators that surrounded Ḥunayn ibn Isḥāq. His work is an important corrective to D. Gutas, Greek Thought, Arabic Culture: The Graeco-Arabic Translation Movement in Baghdad and Early ’Abbāsid Society (2nd–4th / 8th–10th Centuries) (London: Routledge, 1998), which tends to ignore the Syriac contribution. 72 Chronicle of Zuqnin, 392/ 329. 73 P. Crone, Roman, Provincial and Islamic Law: The Origins of the Islamic Patronate (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), esp. 40 and 91; H. Kennedy, The Prophet and the Age of the Caliphates: The Islamic Near East from the Sixth to the Eleventh Century (London: Longman, 1986), 94–6; Crone, Slaves on Horses: The Evolution of the Islamic Polity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980), 52. 74 S. Goitein, A Mediterranean Society, 6 vols (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1967–93), vol. 3, 12 observes for Fatimid Cairo that Jewish converts to Islam tended to be those with professional connections to prominent Muslims, such as successful doctors. 38 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia have led individuals to suppress doctrines that differentiated Christians from other monotheists. A ninth-century Summa Theologica in Arabic complains about those who make evasive statements about their faith or issue unitarian statements: ‘What compels us to say Father, Son and Spirit and to maintain that the Messiah is God? We are content with that with which the Israelites were content, that God is one.’75 Similar attitudes are reported for the shahregān of Mosul, whose wish for political independence from the caliph’s government was coupled with a bid for intellectual independence from the clergy: ‘Although they were nominally Christian, they confessed that Christ was an ordinary man, and said “He was as one of the Prophets.” And the bishops of the country worked amongst them, but they did not accept the orthodox doctrine.’76 Such sentiments might be read as forms of religious code-switching, where individuals did not change their confessional identity, but made compromises with the dominant discourses that surrounded them.77 However, if such ideas acquired popularity in the long term, this may have eased the conversion of Christian laymen into Islam.78 And for elites already familiar with Arabic (and popular Islamic slogans) from its use in administration and theology, it would not have been hard to retain the cultural capital of aristocratic lineage or valuable skills after conversion, whether this cultural capital was military, medical or literary.79

Explaining Conversion: Taxation

An obvious area where the state differentiated between religious communities, and demonstrated the subaltern status of the dhimmīs, was the area of taxation. The level of taxation, and the terminology in which it was expressed seems highly ambiguous in the early period. It probably varied considerably from place

75 S. Griffith, ‘The First Christian Summa Theologica in Arabic: Christian Kalām in Ninth- century Palestine’, in Conversion and Continuity: Indigenous Christian Communities in Islamic Lands, Eighth to Eighteenth Centuries, ed. M. Gervers and R.J. Bikhazi (Toronto, ON: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1990), 17–25, at 21–3. 76 Thomas of Marga, The Book of Governors III, iii (151/ 309–10). 77 I borrow the term ‘code-switching’ from Tannous, Syria, who draws on descriptions of multilingualism to describe the religious landscape of the seventh-century Middle East. 78 We should note that the drift of religious conversion due to such compromises need not have always been one way. Krisztina Szilagyi, ‘Muslim Converts to Christianity in the Islamic World and Their Legacy, 700–1000 AD’, Converting the Isles, ed. R. Flechner and M. Ni Mhaonaigh (Turnhout: Brepols, forthcoming, 2016), suggests that some of the ninth century disputation literature may have been composed by Muslim converts to Christianity. She points to Christians’ cultural prestige, the prospect of a Christian reconquest and the existence of a large Christian population into which converts could disappear as facilitating factors. Cf. also T. Sizgorich, ‘For Christian Eyes Only? The Intended Audience of the Martyrdom of Antony Rwaḥ’, Islam and Christian-Muslim Relations 20 (2009): 119–35; Wood, ‘Christians in Umayyad Iraq’. 79 Compare the employment of Christian elites under the Turkish Beyliks: Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 229. Christians in the Middle East, 600–1000 39 to place and included a poll tax, land tax and labour corvée.80 The reports of later Muslim jurists and historians of the futūḥ do seem to conceive of differential taxation for the dhimmīs, and envisage that dhimmīs might seek to convert to alleviate their tax burden.81 Lena Salaymeh has argued that payment of ṣadaqa or zakāt (charity tax) was a public statement of full membership of the Muslim community. She has argued that payment of poll tax can be understood as an acknowledgement of partial citizenship, where the state acknowledged its duty to defend the dhimmī and accepted their legitimate presence within the caliphate.82 In a similar vein, we might also see the poll tax as a sign of ritual exclusion, just as the ṣadaqa was a sign of membership of the Muslim umma.83 If payers of the poll tax were to be defended by the state, then they could also be seen as an ‘unmilitary class’, in an empire that was rapidly expanding and where God’s favour was shown through conquest. Irrespective of the monetary levels of the tax, the Qurʾan imagines the tax paid by the dhimmīs as an act of humiliation: ‘Fight against those who disbelieve in God and the last day … who do not follow the religion of truth from among those who have been given the Book, until they pay the jizya in exchange for the benefaction granted to them, since they have been humiliated.’84

80 M. Legendre and K. Younes, The use of terms ğizya and ḫarāğ in the first 200 years of hiğra in Egypt (http://hum.leiden.edu/lias/formation-of-islam/topics-state/study.html) emphasise both the ambiguity of the term jizya in the first Islamic century and the varying levels at which it was raised. Note also the general comments of P. Heck, ‘Taxation’, in Encyclopedia of the Qurʾan, ed. J. McAuliffe (Leiden: Brill, 2001–6), on both jizya and ṣadaqa. 81 Crone, Slaves on Horses, 52; S. Goitein, ‘Evidence on the Muslim Poll Tax from Non-Muslim Sources’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 6, no. 3 (1963): 278–95 saw the jizya as a substantial burden by the Fatimid period in Egypt. M. Levy-Rubin, ‘New Evidence Relating to the Process of Islamization in Palestine in the Early Muslim Period: The Case of Samaria’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 43 (2000): 268–9, notes that economic distress was an important stimulus to Samaritan conversion. For the jizya on the dhimmīs in the medieval period see S. Heidemann, ‘Charity and Piety for the Transformation of Cities. The New Direction in Taxation and Waqf Policy in Mid-twelfth Century Syria and Northern Mesopotamia’, in Charity and Giving in Monotheistic Religions, ed. Y. Frenkel and Y. Lev (Berlin: W. de Gruyter, 2009), 153–74. 82 L. Salaymeh, ‘Taxing Citizens: Socio-legal Constructions of Late antique Muslim Identity’ (forthcoming article); Sijpesteijn, Shaping a Muslim State, 181–99. 83 The case of the Banu Taghlib, Christian Arabs who had fought alongside the Muslims, seems to illustrate this. Al-Balādhurī reports that they objected to paying the jizya (here, poll tax) and agreed to pay a double ṣadaqa. I take the implication to be that they avoided the shaming rituals associated with the jizya paid by the dhimmīs, and paid through the same ritual that was used by Muslim Arabs. The scene also suggests that ṣadaqa was set at a lower level than jizya at this time (al-Balādhurī, Futūḥ, 181–2). 84 C.E. Bosworth, ‘Dhimma in Early Islam’, in idem, The Arabs, Byzantium and Iran (Aldershot: Variorum, 1996), at 41, citing Qurʾan 9: 29. However, we should note that the poll tax attested in the seventh-century papyri is not termed jizya, and the association of the tax with the Qurʾanic jizya is circumstantial at this date: Sijpesteijn, Shaping a Muslim State, 72–3. The payment of jizya is clearly associated with shaming in the sources on the Arab conquest of Iran: S. Savant, New Muslims of Post-Conquest Iran: Tradition, Memory and Conversion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 201. 40 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Chase Robinson has argued that the payment of jizya was connected to the placement of seals around the necks of the dhimmīs, who were forced to wear marks to show that they had paid the jizya that simultaneously affirmed their semi-citizenship, and their exclusion from the political and arms-bearing class. These drew on earlier Near Eastern traditions of the sealing of slaves and war-captives, but were employed in the eighth and ninth centuries as a mark of dhimmī status and subjection to the jizya.85 Against such a background, it is understandable that socially mobile individuals, especially military elites, might have sought conversion as a means of preserving status and deriving the social and economic benefits of the caliphate’s expansion.86 There is also another way in which we might envisage state taxation indirectly leading to religious conversion. This is land flight, whereby peasants fled land that had been registered to pay tax to live elsewhere, whether in cities, in previously unsettled and unregistered land or on estates whose landlords would undertake to protect peasants from the tax. We might expect any of these behaviours when the tax burden was perceived to be especially high, such as the late eighth and early ninth centuries.87 All of these are behaviours that have long precedent in the Roman period, particularly in Egypt.88 However, in an environment where large cities were founded as specifically Muslim settlements (amṣār),89 flight away from the countryside may have also involved displacement into a Muslim majority area, where conversion was a means of ‘getting ahead’ that it did not represent in longer established settlements. Such migration may also have been accelerated by the effects of war, disease or economic change in the countryside.90 This may

85 C. Robinson, ‘Neck Sealing in Early Islam’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 48 (2005): 401–40. 86 e.g. the conversion of the people of Qazvin in Iran, al-Balādhurī, Futūḥ, 321. 87 Chronicle of Zuqnin (290–8/253–9) for northern Mesopotamia; History of the Patriarchs trans. B. Evetts, Patrologia Orientalis 1 for Egypt; Michael the Syrian, Chronique, XI. xxvi (vol. 4, 476–7/ vol. 2, 526) for exactions near Mosul and Qinnasrin, which triggered a famine. For the complex administrative attempts of the caliphate to prevent land flight in the Marwanid period, especially the issuing of passports (sijl), see Robinson, ‘Neck Sealing’, 429. Our understanding of ‘tax’, need not be restricted to the official exactions of the state, and might also include the seizure of land and wealth by elites, however these were legitimated. e.g. the seizures of ‘Amran bar Muhammad in Beth Bozai in northern Iraq: Thomas of Marga, The Book of Governors, IV, xxi, 239/ 450. 88 R. Bagnall, Egypt in Late Antiquity (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993), 167 and 219–25 discusses the role of aristocrats protecting peasants from taxation and the issue of land flight. Brett, ‘Egypt’, in New Cambridge History of Islam, vol. 1, 541–80, at 549, and F. Trombley, ‘Sawirus ibn al-Muqaffa’ and the Christians of Umayyad Egypt, in Papyrology and the History of Early Islamic Egypt, ed. P. Sijpestiejn and L. Sundelin (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 199–226 at 207–8 discuss land flight in the Islamic era. 89 H. Kennedy, ‘From Shahrestan to Medina’, Studia Islamica 102 (2006): 5–35, at 23–7; Sijpestiejn, Shaping, 77 on Fustat, emphasising its role as an entrepot. 90 e.g. A. Walmsley, ‘Urban Trends in Palestina Secunda’, in Le Proche-Orient de Justinien aux Abbasides. Peuplement et dynamiques spatiales, ed. A. Borrut et al. (Turnhout: Brepols, 2012), 271–85 on the contraction of Pella and Jerash after the eighth century; Wickham, Framing, 448–9 on economic decline in the Limestone Massif of northern Syria; M. Levy-Rubin, ‘New Christians in the Middle East, 600–1000 41 be a way of reading the famous anecdote of the Iraqi governor al-Ḥajjāj driving would-be converts into the marshes.91 These men were probably at the lowest end of Iraqi rural society, seeking to improve their social standing and their economic prospects by migration and conversion. Such a scenario may have been more common in Iraq than Syria, because Arab Muslim settlement tended to be in discrete centres, separated from the rest of the population, where Muslims constituted a local majority. A change of landlord may have also led to the breakdown of religious adhesion. In the Roman world, it was often considered to be a duty of the landlord to provide (and oblige) orthodox practice on the part of his tenants and to maintain churches on his estates.92 The same argument would hold true for an even greater extent for monasteries. If the new landowner was a Muslim then rural tenants would not have experienced this level of religious patronage or obligation. With this in mind, the acquisition of lands by Muslim, whether by force93 or purchase,94 might have removed part of the support structures of rural Christianity.95 In both Egypt and the Jazira, Muslim Arab landownership outside the amṣār seems to have started in the third quarter of the eighth century.96

Evidence’, 257–76, at 260 for ninth-century plague in Samaria opening the land to subsequent Muslim settlement, which was followed by Samaritan mass conversion. 91 Al-Ṭabari, Ta’rīkh, II, 1435. The spread of Islam among slaves (and the conquered population in general) was dangerous to the conquest elite because it gave them a language with which to challenge the status quo: P. Crone, ‘Imperial Trauma: The Case of the Arabs’, Common Knowledge 12 (2006): 107–16, at 114. Al-Hajjāj was alleged to have (tyranically) levied the jizya even on former dhimmīs who had converted to Islam, which should be read as much as an attempt to preserve Arab Muslim status as secure tax revenues. 92 L. Dossey, Peasant and Empire in Christian North Africa (Berkeley, CA: California University Press, 2010), 188–9 for the guidance/ coercion of Donatist and Catholic landlords over their coloni. Augustine credited church charity with ‘making Catholics where there were none before’ at Fussala: B. Shaw, Sacred Violence: African Christians and Sectarian Hatred in the Age of Augustine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 394. For estate owners in Egypt funding religious infrastructure see R. Mazza, ‘Households as Communities? Oikoi and Poleis in Byzantine Egypt’, in Political Culture in the Greek City after the Classical Age, ed. O. Van Nijf and R. Alston (Leuven: Peeters, 2011), 263–86 at 278. 93 e.g. al-Balādhurī, Futūḥ, 129 describes how lands seized by Mu‛āwiya during the conquest of Syria were sold to oil-sellers from Kufa; Thomas of Marga, The Book of Governors, III, iv, 153–4/ 313–4; IV, xxi, 239/450 for the attempts of the monks of Beth ‘Abe to protect their lands from appropriation by Muslim Arab elites. 94 For the growth of long distance landowning following the Arab conquests: Wickham, Framing, 241–2. 95 As well as spiritual support, the church might also act as an important source of relief from famine, which might otherwise drive migration to the cities (e.g. History of the Patriarchs of Alexandria, Patrologia Orientalis 5 (1910): 19). 96 Egypt: Sijpesteijn, ‘Landholding Patterns’, 123–4. Muslim pagarchs are more frequently attested from the second quarter of the century (127). Iraq: C. Robinson, ‘Al-ʿAttaf b. Sufyan and Abbasid Imperialism’, in Festschrift for Ahmad Mahdavi Damghani (Berlin, forthcoming). The phenomenon of settlement of the countryside may be associated with the wider de- militarisation of Muslim society: H. Kennedy, The Armies of the Caliphs: Military and Society in the Early Islamic State (London: Routledge, 2001), 77. 42 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Flight to peripheral land to escape tax collection may have also had significant demographic effects, which, in the long term, would have altered the balance of Muslims and Christians. Martin Brett has argued that this is what we find in Egypt, where the tax burden was high enough to provoke desperate anti-government revolts in the late eighth and early ninth centuries. He notes that monasteries on the more prosperous west bank of the Nile were progressively abandoned, and suggests that Christians were driven onto less fertile land that could not support earlier population levels.97 This scenario seems most plausible for Egypt, with its stark gradient between fertile and infertile land, but something similar could have operated elsewhere as well. Thus, even if one were to reject the thesis that taxation on the dhimmīs was actually heavier than on Muslims, there is still reason to suppose that the increasingly effective tax regime of the Marwanids and Abbasids served to break up the links between Christian tenants and their patrons.98 And where dhimmīs migrated into majority Muslim areas, confession of a new religion would have been a good way of securing good will, and possibly accommodation, employment or gifts of money.99

97 M. Brett, ‘Population and Conversion to Islam in Egypt’, in Egypt and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid and Mamluk Eras, ed. U. Vermuelen and J. Van Steenbergen (Leuven: Peeters, 2005), 1–32, esp.18–20. Note especially his critical review of earlier literature and its reliance on selected passages in the medieval chronicles to make broader generalisations. See also M. Brett, ‘Egypt’, in New Cambridge History of Islam I, 541–80, at 554–6, emphasising the demographic effects of marriage between Muslim men and Christian women. 98 The link between taxation, failed rebellion and conversion is made strongly in I. Lapidus, ‘The Conversion of Egypt to Islam’, Israel Oriental Society 2 (1972): 248–62. On the highly monetised fiscal system of the caliphate see Kennedy, The Armies of the Caliphs, 70–73 and 76–81. Robinson, Empire and Elites, 156–8, comments on the increased ‘bite’ of the tax system under the Abbasids. Idem, ‘Al-ʿAttaf. b. Sufyan’ observes that the extended fiscal reach of the Abbasids was tied to their ability to gather information so successfully about the rural hinterlands of cities such as Mosul. Cf. also W. Kadi, ‘Population Census and Land Surveys under the Umayyads, 61–132/ 660–750’, Der Islam 84 (2008), 338–413. 99 The association between migration and conversion is made by Crone, Slaves on Horses, 51–2. Such dangers are the theme of the mid-eighth century Life of Elias of Damascus (R. Hoyland, Seeing Islam as Others Saw It: A Survey and Evaluation of Christian, Jewish and Zoroastrian Writings on Early Islam (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997), 363–5). Elias was believed to have converted because he loosened his zunnār (the belt that Christians were obliged to wear) to dance at a party. Notably he was not accused of apostasy in his home-town of Heliopolis, but only when he returned to Damascus many years later. For gifts of money to new converts note the example of Ibn Qutayba at Bukhara, who gave two dirhams to all who attended Friday prayers (History of Bukhara, trans. R. Frye (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1954), 47–8). R. Stark, The Rise of Christianity: A Sociologist Reconsiders History (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1996) has emphasised how modern religious converts are often recent in- migrants without strong local networks. Christians in the Middle East, 600–1000 43

Explaining Conversion: Shaming and Discrimination

Sidney Griffith quotes a famous scene from a provincial Muslim traveller who visits the majlis of the caliph al-Mahdī, and is stunned to find that no individual Scripture is accorded any precedence and that Muslims are forced to debate with Christians, Manichees and atheists solely on the grounds of reason.100 It is indeed a powerful image of the tolerance of the caliph’s court. But the traveller’s shock also illustrates that this was not the norm: we should probably not assume that the tolerance of the majlis was replicated in the cities of the provinces, especially those dominated by Muslims. Throughout the caliphate as a whole, Jews, Christians and Samaritans were subject to a series of discriminatory measures in law that emphasised their subject status. While the conquerors had initially established generous terms with individual cities that surrendered, Muslim jurists increasingly sought a single systematic formula that might be applied to all of the dhimmī.101 The most famous of these is the shurūṭ ʿUmar (the Pact of ʿUmar), which was first applied as a whole in the reign of the caliph al-Mutawakkil (847–61) and was (improbably) attributed to the caliph ʿUmar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb. Its stipulations are as follows:

Not to build new churches or monasteries or cells in our cities or neighbourhoods, nor repair, by day or night, any that fall into ruin or that are situated in the quarters of the Muslims. Give lodging to Muslims and refuse help to the spies of the enemy. Not to teach the Qurʾan to our children. Not to manifest religion in public, attempt conversion of Muslims or prevent conversion to Islam. To respect Muslims and rise from our seats when they enter a room. Not to seek to resemble Muslims by imitating their garments. Not to use saddles [as opposed to pack-saddles] while riding or bear weapons. Not to use Arabic seals. Not to sell fermented drinks. To cut the forelocks. Always dress the same, wherever we may be. Always wear the zunnār. Not to display crosses or have religious processions. To beat the nāqūs softly. Not to have loud funeral processions. Not show lights at the markets of Muslims. Not to take slaves allotted to Muslims. Not to build houses higher than those of Muslims.

100 Scene in S. Griffith, \he Church in the Shadow of the Mosque, 63. 101 Though conquest agreements might still strongly incentivise conversion: e.g. al- Balādhurī, Futūḥ, 130 where the ‘Rūm’ are expelled from Baalbek unless they convert. 44 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

This list is paraphrased from Milka Levy-Rubin’s adaptation of Bernard Lewis’ translation of the version of the shurūṭ given by al-Ṭurṭūshi (d. 1126).102 We should note that it occurs in several variants, but that the substance of most of these stipulations is confirmed in the continuation of the Samaritan Chronicle of Abū’l-Fatḥ and its account of the reign of al-Mutawakkil, which seems to confirm the tradition surrounding theshur ūṭ.103 To the list of restrictions on the dhimmīs in the shurūṭ we might also add the stipulations of Abbasid-era jurists on the lower levels of blood money paid to the family of murdered a dhimmī;104 the various injunctions to Muslims against greeting Jews or Christians;105 the lower value placed on the testimony of dhimmīs in courts of law;106 or the restrictions on dhimmīs living in the Arabian peninsula.107 However, we should be very wary of presuming that the shurūṭ were imposed before al-Mutawakkil’s reign. The jurist Abū Yūsuf (d. 798), while he is keen to maximise the duties of the dhimmī to pay jizya and erode localised claims for exemption,108 offers much more tolerant stipulations. For instance, the dhimmī are only banned from taking pigs into areas where Muslims are in the majority, rather than from owning pigs altogether, and they are only banned from striking the nāqūs during the adhan. His emphasis is on the need to build loyalty among the dhimmī.109 This stance may reflect his sense of the Muslims’ numerical weakness and the proximity of a resurgent Byzantine enemy, as well as the need to justify higher levels of tax.110 Yet another attitude to the dhimmīs is apparent in the works of al-Shāfiʿī. He laid emphasis on the danger of the subversion of Muslims by Christians and of the fornication of Muslim women with dhimmīs. He shows a concern for physical and moral purity that seems to have faded by the time of the shurūṭ, and devoted

102 M. Levy-Rubin, Non-Muslims in the Early Islamic Empire: From Surrender to Coexistence (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 171–2. 103 Ibid., 59–60 and 105–7. The only parts that are not mentioned are the sections on teaching and studying the Qurʾan, which may simply be because the Samaritan community in Palestine had not traditionally done this. 104 Edelby, ‘L’autonomie législativeʼ, 342. 105 M. Kister, ‘Do Not Assimilate Yourselves … lā tashabbahū’, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 12 (1989): 321–71; T. Sizgorich, Violence and Belief in Late Antiquity: Militant Devotion in Christianity and Islam (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009), ch. 8. 106 Bosworth, ‘Dhimma’, 49; Tritton, The Caliphs, 178–81; A. Fattal, Le statut légal des non- musulmans en pays d’Islam (Beirut: Impr. catholique, 1958), 113ff. Discrimination against dhimmīs might also overlap with the rich tradition of (often sexual) slanders against non-Arabs, e.g. S. Bashear, Arabs and Others in Early Islam (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1997), 79–80 on the Nabaṭ. 107 H. Munt, ‘No Two Religions: Non-Muslims in the Early Islamic Ḥijāz’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 78 (2015). 108 N. Calder, Studies in Early Muslim Jurisprudence (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), 137–44. 109 Levy-Rubin, Non-Muslims, 70–8. 110 For Byzantine resurgence in the end of the Umayyad period see Whittow, Making of Orthodox Byzantium, 142–4. This situation was reversed in the early Abbasid period, culminating in the sack of Amorium in 838: Whittow, Making of Orthodox Byzantium, 145–51; C.E. Bosworth, ‘Byzantium and the Syrian Frontier in the Early Abbasid Period’, in idem, The Arabs, Byzantium and Iran, XII. Christians in the Middle East, 600–1000 45 much effort to the problem of dhimmīs selling pork, blood or carrion to Muslims or publicly professing the divinity of Jesus.111 All three legal texts emphasise the need to distinguish between Muslims and dhimmīs in terms of dress, and these sumptuary restrictions seem to be based on the detailed regulation of the hierarchy of the Sasanian Empire.112 Like the tax regime, the purpose of this legislation was to differentiate between ‘full citizens’ and ‘semi-citizens’, but the agendas of the jurists differed over time. Abū Yūsuf envisages an environment where Muslims lived in enclaves without Christian neighbours, while al-Shāfiʿī fears that an influx of Christians will subvert Muslims from their religion or lead to heteropraxy.113 The shurūṭ seems to mark a further shift, where the intention was to deliberately humiliate the dhimmī, prevent the maintenance of religious buildings and block the social mobility of groups that had become as capable in Arabic as the Arabs. However, I think we should be wary of imagining that al-Mutawakkil’s discriminatory laws represented a new norm for the caliphate. The shurūṭ may have been a legal paradigm that rigorists might appeal to in later years, but the continued building of churches and the employment of Christians in the administration suggests that it was not systematically applied. I would argue that the fact that the patriarchal chronicle singles out one caliph, al-Mutawakkil, as particularly opposed to the Christians, suggest that the shurūṭ was only applied periodically, by weak caliphs who sought to appeal to the lowest common denominators of public opinion.114 In addition, we should remember that caliphs in this period were probably not unitary lawgivers on the model of Roman emperors: the caliphate enjoyed a number of different legal orthodoxies in this period, and different jurists may have varied considerably in their attitudes to dhimmīs.115

Explaining Conversion: Marriage

A specific area where Muslim legislation emphasises the inferior status of the dhimmī is their differential treatment in sexual matters. The Qurʾan is explicit that dhimmī may not marry Muslim women, while their women are permitted

111 Levy-Rubin, Non-Muslims, 80–2. 112 Ibid. ch. 5; Tritton, The Caliphs, 115–26. 113 Krisztina Szilagyi has argued that the highly detailed apologies for Christianity written in this period were written by converts from Islam, so al-ShafiꜤi’s fears may have been justified. 114 Mari, Kitāb al-magdal, vol. 2, 78–80/ 69–71 (Theodosius). On the political weakness of this caliph (following the Mu’tazilite controversy), see Fiey, Chrétiens syriaques, 85–94. Cf. Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 224–6 on the patchy imposition of the shurūṭ in Anatolia. 115 For Abbasid legal pluralism and the state of ‘permanent negotiation’ between the state and jurists see M. Tillier, ‘Legal Knowledge and Local Practices under the Early Abbasids’, in History and Identity in the Late Antique Near East, ed. Philip Wood, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 187–204, criticising the position of B. Jokisch, Islamic Imperial Law: Harun al-Rashid’s Codification Project (Berlin: Walter De Gruyter, 2007). 46 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia to Muslim men.116 This stipulation ensures, in a patriarchal society, that mixed marriages will result in an expansion in the Muslim population.117 The Qurʾanic injunction may also imply that much greater care needs to be taken in safeguarding the ‘virtue’ of Muslim females: this is certainly the implication of later laws that give lower penalties for fornication of Muslims with a female dhimmī than a female Muslim,118 or the death penalty inflicted on dhimmī for the latter offence.119 These legal stipulations, which underscore the relative value of Muslim and dhimmī women, were mirrored in narratives of the ideal behaviour of Muslim men in protection of their women. Ibn Isḥāq’s Sīrat Rasūl Allāh describes how an assault by a Jew on a pious Muslim woman legitimated the expulsion of the Jews from Medina in the lifetime of the Prophet.120 We find a similar narrative narrated some four centuries later in the region of Aleppo, when an accusation by a Muslim woman against a ‘Christian tavern owner’ prompted the community to destroy the tavern.121 By the same token, Christian claims to celibacy and virtue were commonly discounted in Muslim Arabic poetry. Elizabeth Campbell has emphasised how monasteries and nunneries were stereotyped as sites of debauchery, where religious garments and rituals only served as trappings for the drunken orgies of their occupants.122 In a similar vein, Tom Sizgorich suggested that monasteries were a centrepiece of ‘Muslim imperial fantasy’, inhabited by ‘metonyms of an essentialised Christianity’.123 Monasteries were a common motif for Muslim poets, but frequently the stories ‘secularize the monastery, turning the sacred Christian space … to a place of leisure and indulgence for Muslims. They discredit claims to piety [by] inverting the goals of monastic life … The celebration of attractive Christian youths and unveiled women asserts Muslim dominance over passive and available Christians’.124

116 Qurʾan 5.5. 117 See discussion in A. Tritton, The Caliphs and Their Non-Muslim Subjects: A Critical Study of the Covenant of ‘Umar (London and Bombay: Oxford University Press, 1930), 12 and Fattal, Le statut légal, 129–34. 118 Tritton, The Caliphs, 189. This may be comparable to the discrepancy in the payment of blood money. 119 Levy-Rubin, Non-Muslims, 80. 120 Ibn Ishaq, Life of Muhammad, trans. A. Guillaume (Lahore: Oxford University Press, 1967), 363. 121 E. Campbell, ‘A Heaven of Wine: Muslim-Christian Encounters at Monasteries in the Early Islamic Middle East’, PhD dissertation, University of Washington, 2009, 152. Cf. The criticism of the Abbasid Ibrāhīm ibn Yahyā for allowing the violation of ‘Arab Muslim women’ by his black soldiers in Mosul: al-Maqrīzī, Book of Contention, §120, trans. C.E. Bosworth (Manchester: University of Manchester, 1983), 93. 122 Campbell, ‘Heaven of Wine’, 150–2. 123 T. Sizgorich, ‘Monks and Their Daughters: Monasteries as Muslim-Christian Boundaries’, in Muslims and Others in Sacred Space, ed. M. Cormack (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 193–216, at 194. 124 Campbell, ‘Heaven of Wine’, 115–6. Cf. N. El-Cheikh, Byzantium Viewed by the Arabs (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004), 123–9. Christians in the Middle East, 600–1000 47

Poets skirted on the edge of blasphemy in their presentation of the monastery as a site of licentiousness: ‘I call on God as my witness … that I desire music and song, to drink wine and to bite the cheeks of nubile youths’.125 Sometimes this could even spill over into homosexual desire:126 ‘Monks in their monastery intoned their prayers … wearing the zunnār on their waists … there was many a boy amongst them with a pretty face and eyelids painted with kohl … I followed him with longing glances ’til he acquiesced in obedience, promising to meet me with the wink of an eye.’127 The sexual submission of Christian men and women in a monastery was also a re-enactment of the military defeat of their ancestors, their own contemporary powerlessness and the supersession of their religion. A case in point is the visit of the caliph al-Mutawakkil to a monastery near Homs to view ruins. Here he is greeted by one of the monks who introduces him to his daughter Saʿānīn. Instead of protecting her from male visitors he allows her to drink with them. As the caliph became enraptured she led them to an upper room to overlook the churches, brought them food and sang them a Christian song on the lyre. Ultimately the caliph convinces her to convert to Islam and marries her.128 The anecdote presents the Christian girl as exotic, indulging in behaviour that would be impossible for a Muslim woman (singing, drinking and being alone in male company). But this exoticism also emphasises the caliph’s victory: he shows his own moral superiority and that of Islam by converting the girl and marrying her, two actions that tame both her unguarded behaviour and her religion. Poetry is, of course, no clear guide to specific deeds. It should go without saying that the relationship between al-Mutawakkil may be no more than the fantasy of a tenth-century author. But it does suggest an environment where Christians and their religion were not accorded the same respect as Muslims, and where this was particularly manifested in assumptions about the body and sexuality, which were imagined a field for Muslims to re-enact the dominance of Islam. Such poetry, then, may have served to legitimate the different treatment of the dhimmīs, and it is possible that such attitudes filtered down into actual day-to-day behaviour.

Conclusions: The Challenge of Quantification

We have been able to chart several areas where Christians were reminded of their inferior status in an Islamic state. Taxation emphasised their military powerlessness and legislation on dress and behaviour underscored their social inferiority to Muslims, using a symbolic language that had been inherited from

125 Cited in Campbell, ‘Heaven of Wine’, 118. 126 Khaled El-Rouayheb, Before Homosexuality in the Arab-Islamic World 1500–1800 (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 2005), 24 emphasises that pederasty was not considered immoral: the penetrator was considered socially superior to the penetrated. 127 Cited in Campbell, ‘Heaven of Wine’, 134. 128 Ibid., 147–8. 48 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Sasanian Iran. And the Muslim poetic imagination reiterated the availability of Christian women to their ‘conquerors’. All of these factors might have encouraged the abandonment of the Christian community, especially where Christians migrated to cities that were dominated by Muslims. Our ability to quantify this process of conversion is limited. Richard Bulliet’s study of biographical dictionaries identified the middle ninth century as the era of mass conversions, but his data only really applies to north-eastern Iran. It is very unclear how far his study might be applied to the Levant or Iraq, where the presence of large numbers of Jews or Christians makes it harder to identify non-Muslims (because they often shared the same names), and because Judaism and Christianity did not experience the same kind of haemorrhage of prestige as Zoroastrianism.129 In a similar vein, literary texts, such as saints’ lives and chronicles, often only provide anecdotal evidence, and it is hard to know where one can safely generalise from such comments, either for the rate of conversion or the motivations ascribed to converts.130 It may be that conversion at a local level was often sudden: when local elites converted, we might imagine that their patronage networks swiftly followed.131 In textual terms, two possible indicators might be the emergence of saints’ lives that complain about apostasy and liturgical rites for the re-inclusion of apostates, both of which are features of the mid-eighth century.132 Architectural evidence may be the best way of tracing the conversion of the wealthy elites who would fund Christian churches and monasteries where the cultural reproduction of Christianity could occur. The pilgrimage complex of Qalʿat Simʿān in northern Syria133 and the Church Mary in Edessa (Urfa) were both flattened by earthquakes in the early eleventh century.134 This was not an infrequent occurrence, but on previous occasions they had always been rebuilt,

129 Bulliet, Conversion to Islam. He dates the emergence of a Muslim majority to the ninth century in Iran and to the tenth in Syria and Egypt. For criticisms see M. Morony, ‘The Age of Conversions: A Reassessment’, in Gervers and Bikhazi (eds), Indigenous Christian Communities, 135–50 and Tannous, Syria, 482–3, note 1143. For the Levant, C. Cahen, ‘An Introduction to the First Crusade’, Past & Present 6 (1954): 6–30, at 6–7 has argued that the region retained a Christian majority until the period of the Crusades. 130 Note Brett’s warnings (‘Population and Conversion to Islam in Egypt’) on the over- reliance on al-Maqrīzī by Copticists. 131 This model is suggested by studies of Ottoman Palestine: F. Tramontana, ‘Payment of the Poll Tax and the Decline of the Christian Presence in the Palestinian Countryside (17th Century)’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 56 (2013): 631–52. 132 Hoyland, Seeing, 336–86 on saints’ lives; Christian–Muslim Relations: A Bibliographical History, vol. 1: (600–900), ed. D. Thomas and B. Roggema (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 821–4 on abjuration rituals. 133 J.-L. Biscop, ‘The “kastron” at Qal‘at Sim‘ān’, in Muslim Military Architecture in Greater Syria: From the Coming of Islam to the Ottoman Period, ed. H. Kennedy (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 75–83. 134 R.S. Humphreys, ‘Christian Communities in Early Islamic Syria and Northern Jazira: The Dynamics of Adaptation’, in Money, Power and Politics, ed. J. Haldon (Farnham: Ashgate, 2010), 45–57 at 47–8. Cf. R. Schick, The Christian Communities of Palestine from Byzantine to Islamic Rule: An Historical and Archaeological Study (Princeton, NJ: Darwin Press, 1995), 123. Christians in the Middle East, 600–1000 49 presumably by local Christian merchants and landowners.135 On this occasion, no repair was undertaken. Similarly, in the topographic accounts of Damascus made by Ibn ʿAsākir, of the 14 churches that existed in the city at the time of the conquest, four were seized by the Muslims by the eighth century, a further seven fell into ruin, and two more were seized in the eleventh century, leaving only two in use.136 As Stephen Humphreys notes, even if we take into account the general lack of investment into Syria after c.800, the attenuation of the urban Christian community here is striking.137 If we accept that church repair is a good proxy for the existence of a Christian elite that was willing or able to fund the kinds of institutional structures that could reproduce Christian identity for the next generation, then the next step in answering this question may be the detailed mapping of the fate of church buildings in the Middle East. Given current political problems, this will, of course, be a long way off.138 Finally, it is worth reiterating that we should find it surprising that Jews and Christians survived in the Middle East at all. A sideways glance at the fate of Buddhism in Sind, conquered by Arab armies in the early eighth century, may be a salutary reminder of what might have been. Here a state that was now clearly identified as ‘Muslim’ encountered a sophisticated religious ‘other’ that it classified as pagan. The region was Islamised quickly enough that when intellectuals in the Abbasid period began to write about Buddhism there seem to have been no Buddhists left in Sind: our only sources for the religion come from archaeology.139 Christianity and Judaism were both known and, to some extent, respected in the Qurʾan, and this granted Christians and Jews rights as well as disabilities. In other words, the importance of the ‘old religions’ for

135 Some of these figures retained considerable wealth and the ability to engage in patronage far afield (e.g. Edessa: Wickham, Framing, 241; Takrit: Lucy-Anne Hunt, ‘Stuccowork at the Monastery of the Syrians in the Wādī Natrūn: Iraqi-Egyptian Artistic Contact in the ‘Abbasid Period’, in Christians at the Heart of Islamic Rule: Church Life and Scholarship in ‘Abbasid Iraq, ed. D. Thomas (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 93–128 and M. Immerzeel, ‘The Stuccoes of Deir al-Surian’. 136 Eddé, Micheau and Picard, Communautés chrétiennes, 215–25; Schick, Christian Communities, 130 observes that it is not common to see churches converted into mosques in the Umayyad period. Conversion to domestic use and the theft of masonry is much more common. Fattal, Le statut légal, 174–202 gathers examples for the construction and demolition of churches across the caliphate until the Ottoman conquest of Syria. 137 R.S. Humphreys, ‘Consolidating the Conquest: Arab-Muslim Rule in Syria and the Jazirah, 630–775 CE’, in Inside and Out, ed. J. Dijkstra and G. Fisher (Ottawa: Peeters, 2015). Cf. idem ‘Early Islamic Syria (634–970)’ New Cambridge History of Islam, vol. 1, The Formation of the Islamic World, Sixth to Eleventh Centuries, ed. Chase Robinson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 506–40, at 532–3, where he points to the effects of Arab tribal migration to the region of Homs in the late eighth century, and its effects on religious demography. 138 E. Keser-Kayaalp, ‘Church Architecture of Northern Mesopotamia, AD 300–800’, DPhil thesis, Oxford University, 2011, and the articles collected in Borrut, Debié et al., Le Proche-Orient de Justinien aux Abbasides offer an important start. 139 C.E. Bosworth, ‘Sind’, EI2. Al-Balādhurī, Futūḥ, 437 for the destruction of a large Buddhist temple in Daibul and the killing of the priests, and 439 for the later ruling that Buddhist temples should be treated like churches or synagogues. Cf. C.E. Bosworth, ‘The Coming to Islam to Afghanistan’, in idem, The Arabs, Byzantium and Iran, XVI. 50 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia the self-definition of Islam helped to ensure their preservation.140 ‘Cultural proximity’ to the centres of caliphal power; shared religious narratives;141 the acknowledgement of alternative religious practices142 and respected professional status143 shielded Christians and Jews from direct pressure to convert, especially as long as Muslims remained in a minority.

140 I am influenced here by A. Jacobs, The Remains of the Jews: The Holy Land and Christian Empire in Late Antiquity (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2004), who emphasises the importance of the Jews for the self-definition of fourth- and fifth-century Christians and suggests that this allowed the Jews to escape the fate of the Empire’s ‘pagan’ populations. 141 e.g. I. Goldziher, ‘Influences chrétiennes dans la littérature religieuse de l’Islam’, in Ignaz Goldziher. Gesammelte Schriften, ed. J. Desomogyi (Hildesheim: Olms, 1968), vol. 2, 302–21. The local histories of Christian populations may have also play an important role in generating the regional identities of their Muslim conquerors: A. Talib, ‘Topoi and Topography in the Histories of al-Ḥīra’, in Wood, History and Identity, 123–47; H. Omar, ‘“The Crinkly-Haired People of the Black Earth.” Examining Egyptian identities in Ibn ‘Abd al-Ḥakam’s Futūḥ’, in Wood, History and Identity, 149–67. 142 Tannous, Syria, 460–3. 143 e.g. L. Richter-Bernberg, ‘Gondēšāpur: ii. History and Medical School’, EIr, on the esteem given to Christian physicians in Iraq. Chapter 2 Christian Views of Islam in Early Seljuq Anatolia: Perceptions and Reactions

Alexander D. Beihammer

A basic problem in exploring the earliest stages of the Turkish penetration of Byzantine Asia Minor and the emergence of Islam in this region between the middle of the eleventh and the end of the twelfth century certainly is the paucity or, in many respects, complete absence of contemporary or near-contemporary narrative sources expressing the perspective of the nascent Turkish-Muslim elites. The surviving examples of twelfth-century Seljuq dynastic historiography, the origins of which perhaps may be traced back to the time of Sultan Alp Arslan (1063–72), and its later derivatives, are almost exclusively devoted to the Iranian and Iraqi branches of the ruling house, while Muslim local and universal historians writing in the urban centres of Syria and Iraq refer to Anatolia and the Byzantine empire only in a few cases which were of direct relevance for their own regions. A specific Anatolian Muslim historiography based on Iranian literary traditions did not make its appearance before the Ilkhanid period of the late thirteenth century.1 Its focus on the thirteenth century Seljuq sultanate means that for the period preceding the death of Sultan Kılıç Arslan II of Rūm (d. 1192) we cannot dispense with the disparate and linguistically highly diverse material written by outsiders – the Frankish, Byzantine and Eastern Christian historians who deal with the political, cultural and religious aspects of Turkish presence in Anatolia.2 This chapter presents selected key issues of the emergence of Islam in Anatolia, as reflected in the accounts of Christian narrative sources, focusing on their perceptions and interpretations of the transformation wrought by the gradual establishment of Turkish-Muslim hegemonial groups, political entities and religious institutions in Anatolia. In this context, the first question we must address is to what extent the Turkish invaders and migrants were perceived as

1 The most recent monograph on Muslim-Anatolian historical and hagiographical sources is Şevket Küçükhüseyin, Selbst- und Fremdwahrnehmung im Prozess kultureller Transformation. Anatolische Quellen über Muslime, Christen und Türken (13.–15. Jahrhundert) (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2011). For the reasons of the delayed development of a local Muslim literary tradition, see esp. 81–107. For the period of Mongol rule, see Charles Melville, ‘Anatolia under the Mongols’, in The Cambridge History of Turkey, vol. 1: Byzantium to Turkey 1071–1453, ed. Kate Fleet (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 51–101. For a new analysis of the earliest layers of Seljuq historiography, see A.C.S. Peacock, Early Seljūq History: A New Interpretation, (London: Routledge, 2010), 16–46. 2 For the importance of Christian sources, see also, The Seljuks of Anatolia: Court and Society in the Medieval Middle East, ed. A.C.S. Peacock and Sara Nur Yıldız (London: I.B. Tauris, 2013), 1–22, esp. 7–8 (Introduction). 52 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia specifically Muslim and whether Islam appears as an ideological determinant for their activities in the region. A second aspect is the problem of the Islamisation of the indigenous population. The emergence of the first Turkish principalities based in urban centres of Anatolia during the 1080s and 1090s poses the question of the nature and scale of structural changes, including the introduction of Muslim institutions of worship, learning and public administration. How did Christian observers describe the integration of their own political and religious representatives into the newly established order? To which forms of coexistence and collaboration do they refer? Do they mention any kind of cultural and religious exchange and cross-fertilisation?3 Our ability to interpret statements of Christian authors on these questions is largely determined by our understanding of the pre-conquest situation in eleventh-century Byzantine Asia Minor. Modern views of this issue are frequently influenced by ideas and images of Greek and Turkish national history, presenting Anatolia either as a prosperous land deeply permeated by Constantinopolitan cultural values, the Greek language, and the Orthodox faith, or as a vast and devastated no-man’s land ripe to be seized by a new and vigorous power. Specialists in Byzantine history still disagree as to the nature and results of the eleventh-century political and economic crisis in Byzantium.4 Thus, the socio-economic environment and political circumstances in which the Turkmen raiders became permanent settlers and state founders are matters for debate. Moreover, it is important to be aware of geographic, chronological, and social differences. The Armenian provinces and the old Byzantine-Arab frontier stretching from Cilicia and Antioch to the Anti-Taurus Mountains in Upper Mesopotamia were characterised by an entirely distinct set of historical and topographical particularities from western Asia Minor; indeed, the Turkish penetration of the former developed quite differently from that of the latter region. Other areas, such as the central Anatolian plateau, Cappadocia, the Pontus region, and parts of the southern coastland, are only rarely mentioned

3 Other aspects of Christian perceptions of the Turks in Asia Minor have been treated by Alexander Beihammer, ‘Die Ethnogenese der seldschukischen Türken im Urteil christlicher Geschichtsschreiber des 11. und 12. Jahrhunderts’, Byzantinische Zeitschrift 102 (2009): 589–614; idem, ‘Feindbilder und Konfliktwahrnehmung in den Quellen zum Auftreten der Seldschuken in Kleinasien (ca. 1050–1118)’, Byzantion 79 (2009): 48–98. For a new analysis of perceptives and semantic fields concerning Seljuq identity, see Adem Tülüce, Bizans Tarih Yazımında Öteki Selçuklu Kimliği (Istanbul: Selenge, 2011). 4 For opposing views on Asia Minor, see Speros Vryonis, The Decline of Medieval Hellenism in Asia Minor and the Process of Islamisation from the Eleventh through the Fifteenth Century (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1971), 1–68; Ali Sevim, Anadolu’nun Fethi Selçuklular Dönemi (Başlangıçtan 1086’ ya kadar) (Istanbul: Turk Tarih Kurumu, 1988), 2–6, 15; Claude Cahen, The Formation of Turkey: The Seljukid Sultanate of Rūm: Eleventh to Fourteenth Century, trans. and ed. Peter M. Holt (Harlow, UK, and New York: Longman, 2001), 7–14. For opinions concerning the eleventh-century crisis in Byzantium, see Jean-Claude Cheynet, Pouvoir et Contestations à Byzance (963–1210) (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 1996), 337–77; Michael Angold, The Byzantine Empire, 1025–1204: A Political History (London and New York: Longman, 1997), 15–23, and the contributions collected in the volume, The Empire in Crisis (?), Byzantium in the 11th Century (1025–1081), ed. Vassiliki N. Vlyssidou (Athens: Ethniko Hidryma Ereunōn, 2003). Christian Views of Islam in Early Seljuq Anatolia 53 in the sources and their experience remains largely obscure. Likewise, most information relates to hegemonial groups, and we hardly hear anything about lower social strata and the broader masses of the urban and rural population. Apart from these limitations, it is crucial to contextualise Christian accounts of the Turkish penetration of Asia Minor within the intellectual, ideological and social environment in which they were composed. Byzantine historians primarily focus on the imperial government and the Constantinopolitan court aristocracy. Accordingly, their descriptions of the Turks frequently reflect certain attitudes towards the incumbents of the imperial throne or the political claims of seditious movements.5 Syriac and Armenian non-Chalcedonian historians mainly concentrate on the fate of their own communities, ecclesiastical leaders, and the monastic foundations in the great centres of the east.6 The monk Matthew of Edessa and the Jacobite Patriarch Michael the Syrian, for instance, present the oppressive measures of the imperial government, internal strife, and the moral decay of the Armenian aristocracy as reasons for God’s anger, thus triggering the Turkish raids as an instrument of divine punishment.7 A separate category of source is comprised of the large corpus of Latin Crusader chronicles that relate the crossing of Asia Minor by the forces of the First Crusade and other expeditions as well as the foundation of Frankish principalities in Antioch and Edessa (Urfa). The Franks arrived in the east as foreigners to both the indigenous Christian populations and the Turkish conquerors, and thus represent the perspective of independent outsiders. The idea of a divinely ordained armed pilgrimage destined for the liberation of Jerusalem unavoidably entailed a proclivity to overwhelming aggression against the inhabitants of Anatolia, both Christian and Muslim, who are often indiscriminately perceived as opponents to their mission.8

Religious Identities and Early Instances of Conversion

In the earliest stage of their emergence in Asia Minor, Turkish warrior groups presumably brought with them numerous religious ideas and attitudes they had adopted in the course of their migrations to Iran and the central Muslim lands.9 But did they already dispose of a clear Muslim self-consciousness comparable to the Sunni Orthodoxy projected by the Great Seljuq sultanate in Iran and Iraq with the aid of leading theologians and the Abbasid caliphate? The prevailing view in modern scholarship is that Islam, in one way or another, did play an important

5 For examples, see Beihammer, ‘Feindbilder’, 66–74. 6 For an overview of the demographic situation in the East, see Gilbert Dagron, ‘Minorités ethniques et religieuses dans l’Orient byzantin à la fin du Xe et au XIe siècle: l’immigration syrienne’, Travaux et Mémoires 6 (1976): 177–216. 7 Beihammer, ‘Feindbilder’, 60–65. 8 For the images and perceptions of Muslims in crusader sources in general, see Martin Völkl, Muslime, Märtyrer, Militia Christi: Identität, Feindbild und Fremderfahrung während der ersten Kreuzzüge (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2011). 9 For more details, see Peacock, Early Seljūq History, 99–127. 54 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia role during the Turkish conquests.10 One may think of parallels with Paul Wittek’s well-known ghāzī-theory, which presents Holy War as the ideological basis of the warriors involved in the formation of the early Ottoman emirate. In contrast to Ottoman studies, however, where this theory has repeatedly become the subject of severe criticism,11 the scholarly discussion on the Seljuq conquests still insists on the assumption that Islamisation (İslamlaşma) right from the start is an indispensable component of the Turkification Türkleşme( ) of Asia Minor. It is important to distinguish between the Turkmen warriors in Anatolia and the Seljuq elite in the Muslim lands. In the years between 1048 and 1071, Sultan Tughril Beg and his successors appear as the initiators and/or supreme commanders of large-scale invasions in the Armenian provinces and the frontier zone of northern Syria and the Upper Euphrates region. In 1086/87 Sultan Malikshāh took possession of Aleppo and the Byzantine strongholds of Antioch and Edessa (Urfa), thus strengthening his control over the entire region between the Mediterranean coast and the province of Diyarbakır. This policy also resulted in military expeditions aimed at incorporating the Turks in Asia Minor into the sultan’s sphere of influence and diplomatic contacts with the Byzantine imperial government seeking to establish inter-dynastic alliances. Another aspect of Seljuq involvement in Anatolia was manifested in the conflict between the Seljuq sultanate and the Fatimid rival caliphate of Cairo, in which Constantinople likewise became involved due to its close and generally amicable relations with the Fatimid rulers. The Fatimids and Seljuqs both promoted their claims to universal authority by demanding that the Friday prayer in the mosque of Constantinople be proclaimed in the respective caliph’s name. Hence, Sunni-Shiite disputes unavoidably had an impact on political relations between Constantinople, Egypt and Baghdad. Civil strife, which broke out in early 1093 as a result of the contention between the sons of the deceased sultan Malikshāh and the latter’s brother Tāj al-Dawla Tutush, caused a disintegration of the centralising system that had started to emerge in the Seljuq empire. After Tutush’s death in early 1095, there was a new distribution of zones of influence in the Muslim regions adjacent to the Byzantine borderland among the late ruler’s sons and other members of the Seljuq military elite. Henceforth, Seljuq sultans and their subordinates exerted some control over eastern Anatolia because of

10 Among Turkish historians it is mainly Osman Turan who supported the idea that the emergence of the Seljuq Empire brought about a revival and renewal of the cultural and religious dynamics of the Muslim World: Osman Turan, Selçuklular Târihi ve Türk-Islâm Medeniyeti (Istanbul: Boğazici, 1993), 281–357; idem, Selçuklular Zamanında Türkiye, Siyâsi Tarih Alp Arslan’dan Osman Gazi’ye (1071–1318) (Istanbul: Boğazici, 1993), esp. the introduction, xiii–xxxii. Claude Cahen (The Formation of Turkey, 8–9), supports the existence of a ghazī spirit among the Turks due to their Islamisation in the borderland of Central Asia. Vryonis (Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 351–402) considers the Turkish conquest and settlement of Anatolia a ‘long and disruptive affair that had brought enslavement, flight, plague, and famine’ and thus constituted negative factors encouraging cultural transformation and conversion to Islam. 11 For a recent discussion with a survey of the previous research on the subject, see Heath Lowry, The Nature of the Early Ottoman State (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 2003). Christian Views of Islam in Early Seljuq Anatolia 55 their proximity to Azerbaijan, but never again interfered with the affairs of Byzantium and central Asia Minor.12 When dealing with the Seljuq campaigns between the 1040s and the early 1070s, Muslim chronicles employ a terminology that increasingly draws on notions of jihad and the binary opposition between Muslim fighters and infidel foes. This tendency culminates in the Muslim descriptions of the battle of Manzikert in 1071, in which Sultan Alp Arslan appears as a Muslim-Iranian model king, fighting as champion of Islam and showing compassion to his defeated enemy.13 This image forms part of a general tendency to present the early Seljuq sultans as militant protectors of Sunni Islam in the context of the dynasty’s legitimising strategies related to the Abbasid caliphate. In contrast, Muslim accounts of Turkmen warrior groups of inferior standing scarcely mention any religious motives.14 They are usually depicted as cruel pillagers and skilful politicians who established alliances with local potentates in the context of internal power struggles, but there are no allusions to a specific Muslim ideology. This is in line with the Christian reports, which, in their descriptions of the Turkish raids, show no interest in the enemies’ Muslim faith, but rather refer to ethnographic stereotypes relating to the nomadic tribes of the steppes. Eleventh-century authors like Michael Attaleiates and John Skylitzes draw a sharp distinction between the ‘Turks’ or ‘Huns,’ who emerged as new political power from the northeastern breeding grounds of barbarian tribes, and the ‘Saracens’, a term comprising both Arabs and Persian Muslims, who came to be subdued by the new power. The Byzantine historians Attaleiates and later Anna Komnene further distinguish between Turkish warriors labelled ‘Turks’ and members of the Seljuq nobility designated as ‘lords of Persia’.15 The categorisation

12 For the details of these events, see Turan, Selçuklular Târihi, 129–38, 150–57, 160–91, 201–07, 227–38; C.E. Bosworth, ‘The Political and Dynastic History of the Iranian World (A.D. 1000–1217)’, in The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 5: The Saljuq and Mongol Periods, ed. J.A. Boyle (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1968), 42–110; Wolfgang Felix, Byzanz und die islamische Welt im frühen 11. Jahrhundert (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1981), 114–23, 161–81; Erdoğan Merçil, Büyük Selçuklu Devleti, Siyasi Tarihi, 4th edn (Istanbul: Nobel Yayın, 2012), 27–35, 45–58, 60–70, 76–87, 93–109. 13 For the development of this motif in the Muslim historical tradition, see Carole Hillenbrand, Turkish Myth and Muslim Symbol: The Battle of Manzikert (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2007). In addition, see Muharrem Kesik, 1071 Malazgirt, Zafere Giden Yol (Istanbul: Timaş Yayınları, 2013). 14 See, for instance, Ibn al-Athīr’s extensive account on the Turks of Arslan ibn Saljūq and their activities in eastern Iran, Iraq and the Diyarbakır province: Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kamil fī l-tarīkh, 9 vols (Beirut: Mu’assasat al-Ta’rīkh al-‘Arabī, 1994), 7:38–46; trans. D.S. Richards, The Annals of the Saljuq Turks: Selections from al-Kamil fī’l-Ta’rīkh of ʽIzz al-Dīn Ibn al-Athīr (London and New York: RoutledgeCurzon, 2002), 13–25. Other instructive examples are the activities of Atsız, the sons of Qutlumush and other Turkish amirs in Syria during the early 1070s: Sıbt İbnü’l- Cevzî Şemsüddin Ebû’l-Muzaffer Yusuf ibn Kızoğlu, Mir’âtü’z-zeman fî Tarihi’l-âyan, ed. Ali Sevim (Ankara: Turk Tarih Kurumu, 1968), 157–8, 169, 171–6. For details, see Ali Sevim, Suriye ve Filistin Selçukluları Tarihi (Ankara: Turk Tarih Kurumu, 1989), 35–84; idem, Ünlü Selçuklu Komutanları: Afşin, Atsız, Artuk ve Aksungur (Ankara: Turk Tarih Kurumu, 1990). 15 For details, see Beihammer, ‘Ethnogenese’, 608–10; for the categorisation of non- Byzantines on the basis of linguistic criteria, see Johannes Koder, ‘Sprache als Identitätsmerkmal 56 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia of the Muslim sources thus reappears under different terms in contemporary Byzantine narratives. The Byzantines obviously perceived the Great Seljuq sultan and the Turkmen warlords on Anatolian soil as different entities. Things changed in the decades following Alexios I’s accession to the imperial throne with the beginning of the crusades and the gradual consolidation of Turkish principalities in Asia Minor. The earliest allusions to ideas of jihad in Anatolia occur among the Artuqids of Diyarbakır during their conflicts with the Franks of Edessa shortly after 1100.16 In Greek sources, it is the panegyric poems composed by Theodore Prodromos on the occasion of John II’s campaigns in the east during the 1130s that for the first time clearly identify the empire’s Turkish adversaries with the ‘descendants of Hagar’ and ‘the offspring of Ismail’, i.e., the Muslims.17 Accordingly, the Byzantine emperors are presented as God-chosen saviours of the state and defenders of the Christian faith. Over the twelfth century this tendency became increasingly pronounced in the works of Komnenian historians such as Anna Komnene and Niketas Choniates, and in official speeches delivered by leading court rhetoricians.18 Hence it was only gradually, over several decades, that the topic of ‘religion’ permeated the historical discourse about the conquest period. Eastern Christian accounts of the early Turkish raids in the 1050s and 1060s are full of descriptions of endless bloodshed and pillaging in their attempt to emphasise the apocalyptic character of God’s anger, but they very rarely refer to religiously motivated violence. A case in point is the martyrdom of a courageous Christian compatriot in the city of Melitene as related by Michael the Syrian in his report about the first Turkish attack on Melitene in 1057.19 Reliable historical facts are combined with an account of the heroic death of the deacon Peter, a scribe and school master, who was found in his scriptorium with his manuscripts by marauding Turks. Associating the precious manuscripts with power, the Turk bei den Byzantinern: Auf –isti endende sprachenbezogene Adverbien in den griechischen Quellen’, Anzeiger der philosophisch-historischen Klasse 147 (2012): 5–37. 16 Ibn al-Athīr, al-Kamil fī l-tarīkh, 7: 448–50; The Chronicle of Ibn al-Athir for the Crusading Period from al-Kamil fi’l-Ta’rikh, Part 1: The Years 491–541/1097–1146: The Coming of the Franks and the Muslim Response, trans. D.S. Richards (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005), 90–91. The account of the death of Suqmān ibn Artuq, lord of Mardin and Hisn Kayfa, in 498/1104–05 provides the following information: Suqmān was summoned by Fakhr al-Mulk ibn ʽAmmār of Tripolis to support him in his struggle against the Franks. On his way he fell seriously ill, but refused to return, saying: la yaranī llah tathaqaltu ʽan qital al-kuffar khawfan min al-mawt, wa-in adrakanī ajalī kuntu shahīdan sa’iran fī jihad, ‘God shall not see me being unwilling to fight against the infidels in fear of death; if my fate overtakes me, I will be a martyr marching to jihad.’ Although it is not possible to ascertain the authenticity of this piece of information, it certainly reflects a prevailing ideological attitude at the Artuqid court which most probably goes back to the time of the first clashes with the crusaders. 17 For details, Alexander Beihammer, ‘Orthodoxy and Religious Antagonism in Byzantine Perceptions of the Seljuq Turks (Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries)’, Al-Masaq: Islam and the Medieval Mediterranean 23 (2011): 15–36, at 23–6. 18 Ibid., 27–35. 19 Michael the Syrian, Chronique, ed. and trans. Jean-Baptiste Chabot, 4 vols (Paris: Ernest Leroux, 1899–1910), vol. 3, 159 (trans.), vol. 4, 572 (Syriac text). Christian Views of Islam in Early Seljuq Anatolia 57 mistook him for the ‘head of all Christians,’ and started torturing him, forcing him to desecrate the holy cross. Peter resisted, but met a horrible death. The literary presentation of this event draws on the juxtaposition of cruel barbarians and a steadfast Christian, who was strong enough to keep his faith even under the most adverse conditions. Peter the Deacon thus serves primarily as an edifying model for Jacobite Christians who, living under Turkish-Muslim rule, had experienced violence, desecrations of religious objects, apostasies, and forced conversions during the wars between Turks, Armenians, and the crusaders. The episode can hardly be regarded as evidence for religious fanaticism among the early Turkish invaders.20 Anna Komnene, in line with the ideology and rhetorical strategies of the men of letters serving the Komnenian court, praised the emperors’ exploits in successfully defending the Roman state and Christian faith against the Turkish foes. In this context she repeatedly employs the motif of religious identity and conversion, as we see in her discussion of Charatikes, the ruler of the coastal town of Sinop in Paphlagonia. The Seljuq emissary Siaous (i.e., Siyāwush) was ‘an intelligent man born from a Georgian mother and a Turkish father’, who at the time of Malikshāh’s Syrian campaign in 1086 had been sent to Constantinople to conduct negotiations with the emperor. Siaous used a sultanic decree ordering all Turkish commanders to surrender if a treaty had been concluded with the emperor to force Charatikes to hand Sinop over to the imperial troops. Anna presents the whole procedure as a clever ruse of Alexios I, who persuaded Siaous to become baptised and to enter his service.21 Anna’s Charatikes is frequently linked with a fictitious character called Karatekin, who appears in the Turkish epic tale Danişmend-name.22 In its present form this narrative consists of several layers of text composed between the thirteenth and the sixteenth century relating the story of Muslim champions spreading Islam in the lands east of the Kızılırmak.23 The worldview of the epos certainly reflects much later realities, but there seems to be a common substratum of historical memories. In the eleventh section (meclis) Artuhi, one of Danişmend Gazi’s chief companions, while searching for his beloved Efromiya, meets Karatekin, who expresses the wish to join him. The latter’s

20 See also Beihammer, ‘Feindbilder’, 64–5. 21 Anna Komnene, Alexias 6.9.4–6, ed. Diether Roderich Reinsch and Athanasios Kambylis (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2001), 187–8. As for the name Siaous, as rendered by Anna Komnene, Claude Cahen, ‘La première pénétration turque en Asie-Mineure (seconde moitié du XIe s.)’, Byzantion 19 (1946–48): 5–67, at 50–51, explains it by the Turkish word tshaush (çavuş), ‘sergeant.’ Turan, Selçuklular Zamanında Türkiye, 86, relates it to the Persian name Siyāwush, which is certainly much closer to the pronounciation of the Greek spelling. 22 See, for example, Turan, Selçuklular Zamanında Türkiye, 86, n. 11. 23 Modern editions: Irène Mélikoff (ed.), La geste de Melik Danişmend. Étude critique du Danişmendname, vol. 1: introduction et traduction; vol. 2: édition critique avec glossaire et index (Paris: A. Maisonneuve, 1960) (hereafter cited as Danişmend-name, ed. Mélikoff); Necati Demir (ed.), Dânişmend-nâme (Ankara: Akcağ, 2004) (hereafter cited as Danişmend-name, ed. Demir). For the textual history and the manuscripts, see Danişmend-name, ed. Mélikoff, vol. 1: 53–70; Danişmend-name, ed. Demir, 18–24. 58 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia father, a Muslim merchant, had been forced to convert to Christianity in order to marry the daughter of a Christian priest. The couple and their two sons lived undisturbed as faithful crypto-Muslims within a Greek environment, until the Prophet Muḥammad summoned Karatekin in a dream to lend support to Artuhi. The two heroes released Efromiya in Manquriya/Çankırı, where she was imprisoned, and took possession of the town. Karatekin became its new beg and married Meryem, a Christian girl from the indigenous aristocracy. Together they transformed the city into a model Muslim principality.24 Despite their differences in time and viewpoint, Anna Komnene and the Danişmend-name both present religious zeal as the main impetus for their protagonists’ course of action. In Anna’s version, Charatikes, after destroying the Church of the Theotokos in Sinop, was punished by a demon, who took possession of him. Conversely, Siaous was rewarded for his conversion by being appointed doux of Anchialos.25 The author contrasts a failed infidel and a successful convert and presents the emperor as the driving force behind conversion to the true faith. In the same way, the Danişmend-name portrays Karatekin and Meryem as converts who were won over by divine visions and the exemplary behaviour of Danişmend’s followers and who thereafter distinguished themselves as leaders of the nascent Muslim community in newly acquired territories.26 In both texts, the conversion of enemies serves both to affirm religious identity and as a means of territorial expansion, while converts act as instruments of social change and political transformation. In local Muslim memory, Karatekin became a point of reference for the emergence of Islam in Paphlagonia, as is demonstrated by his tomb (türbe) in the castle of Çankırı. On stylistic grounds, this building has been dated to the second half of the twelfth century.27 For the purpose of comparison, let us turn to cases of conversion to Islam recorded in western crusader chronicles, which constitute another category of religiously charged texts. Robert the Monk’s Historia Iherosolimitana recounts the episode of Rainald, the commander of the People’s Crusade’s contingent advancing towards Nicaea in September 1096.

Their leader Rainald concluded a secret treaty with the Turks, preferring to hold onto the temporary life rather than suffer such a martyr’s death for Christ. So, drawing up his forces, he pretended to launch an attack on the enemies; but soon, as he came out, he changed direction towards them with many others … he shrank from suffering martyrdom and renounced profession of the Christian faith despite being in good shape, on horseback and armed. It

24 Danişmend-name, ed. Mélikoff, vol. 1, 176–92 (text), vol. 2, 361–76 (trans.); Danişmend- name, ed. Demir, 187–9. 25 Anna Komnene 6.9.5–6, p. 188, ll. 33–4 (δαίμονι καθάπέρ τινι ἀλάστορι ἐκ θείας προνοίας παραδοθεὶς ἔκειτο ἀφρίζων), ll. 40–41 (τοῦ θείου βαπτίσματος τετυχηκὼς καὶ πολλῶν δωρεῶν ἐαπολαύσας δοὺξ Ἀγχιάλου προχειρίζεται). 26 Danişmend-name, ed. Mélikoff, 1: 183 (text) (Ol Hatun kim adı Meryem idi Kara Tegine nikah helallığa verdi … mescid bina edüb Islam erkanın yürütdiler). 27 Alev Çakmakoğlu Kuru, ‘Çankırı Fatihi Emir Karatekin’in Türbesi’, Bilig 43 (2007): 63–84. Christian Views of Islam in Early Seljuq Anatolia 59

was only fitting that he deserved to lose God’s grace and fall to the lot of he who chose to reside in the North.28

The report relays all the characteristics of a high-ranking nobleman’s defection to the enemy’s camp: advance negotiations securing a successful outcome; the enemy’s readiness to include the defector in his own ranks; conversion to the enemy’s religion; and the condemnation of the apostate on the part of his former coreligionists. In particularly precarious situations, both high-ranking leaders and rank and file soldiers in crusading armies were tempted to escape unbearable hardship or death in battle by switching sides. On the other hand, Turkish warrior groups seeking to strengthen their fighting force must have been at pains to include foreign warlords in their own ranks irrespective of ethnic identity and religion.29 While none of these actions was in its origin religiously motivated, Robert the Monk was eager to explain Rainald’s behaviour as a betrayal of the Christian faith and the crusading ideal. Rainald’s apostasy is thus attributed to his personal inadequacy and moral failure. A different case is that of a German nun from a convent in Trier mentioned by Albert of Aachen.30 After being released from Turkish captivity, she admitted that she had intercourse with a Turk and his companions, but obtained forgiveness from Duke Godfrey and the papal legate. The Turk, however, ‘who had been inflamed by passion for the nun’s inestimable beauty’, invited her to come back to him, even promising to become a Christian. Eventually the nun rushed back ‘for no other reason than the intolerability of her lust. ’ Albert no doubt inserted this story as a warning of the moral dangers posed by contact with infidels in conjunction with uncontrollable passion. From our modern point of view, the episode is especially appealing precisely because of its lack of any political and ideological motivation, reflecting the desires of two people of inferior social standing who were ready to sacrifice their religious identity for the sake of passion. Unlike their Byzantine and later Muslim counterparts, however, Frankish authors do not present apostasy as a means of establishing political supremacy. All sources nevertheless agree that conversion and apostasy played an important role in transforming the religious landscape of Asia Minor. The fact that these stories do not appear in the oldest eyewitness accounts of the First Crusade, but only in later versions written between 1106/07 and the 1120s,31 indicates that conversion and apostasy were not the predominant experiences among Franks

28 Robert the Monk, Historia Iherolomitiana 1.9, Recueil des historiens des croisades, historiens occidentaux 3 (Paris: Imprimerie Royale, 1866), 734; Carol Sweetenham (trans.), Robert the Monk’s History of the First Crusade, Historia Iherosolimitana (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005), 86. 29 For examples of collaboration with Muslim potentates, see the sources cited above, n. 14. 30 Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana: History of the Journey to Jerusalem. ed. and trans. Susan B. Edington (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 126–9: ‘quedam sanctimonialis femina de cenobio Sancte Marie ad Horrea Treverensis ecclesie … et abhominabili cuiusdam Turci et ceterorum commixtione habuisse conquest est … quod ad eundem Turcum reversa sit in exilio quo erat, non alia de causa, nisi propter libidinis sue intolerantiam.’ 31 Sweetenham, Robert the Monk’s History, 4–7; see also below, p. 66. 60 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia in their initial encounters with Turks. Parallel to the Byzantine and Eastern Christian experience, the twin phenomena of conversion and apostasy became increasingly important as the crusader principalities consolidated their position in the newly conquered territories.

Byzantine-Armenian Aristocrats under Turkish Rule

Unlike the Armenian provinces in the east and the Anti-Taurus region, which ever since the 1060s and 1070s had been transit zones for Turkmen warrior groups or had come under the control of Turkish rulers, the south western section of the borderland stretching from the Cilician plain over the mountainous areas of the Ceyhan and Euphrates Valleys to the Diyar Mudar province around Edessa continued to be dominated by Christian lords. The Byzantine-Armenian potentate Philaretos Brachamios managed to maintain a semi-independent status vis-à-vis the imperial government from the early 1070s onwards by integrating a large part of the local aristocracy, the most important urban centres, and the ecclesiastical hierarchy in the region under the umbrella of his authority. His territory was thus an important barrier to the intrusion of Turkmen groups into these areas.32 It was only with the centralising policy of the much more powerful forces of Sultan Malikshāh and the firm establishment of Seljuq rule in northern Syria that the Byzantine-Armenian principality of Philaretos Brachamios was ruined. When he failed to be recognised as the sultan’s vassal after the loss of Antioch to the Seljuq Sulaymān ibn Qutlumush in late 1084, and retreated to Maraş, most of his territories were quickly seized either by Seljuq commanders acting on behalf of Malikshāh or by Turkish potentates coming from Cappadocia or central Anatolia.33 Nevertheless, one can hardly speak of a full-scale conquest of these regions. What actually happened was a gradual disintegration which was largely determined by the accessibility of the individual regions: the cities of the Cilician plain were seized by the warriors of Sulaymān ibn Qutlumush and other Turkish chiefs from Anatolia. Within months of Malikshāh’s campaign, Antioch and Edessa became the residences of Seljuq commanders. The situation was much more complicated in the adjacent mountainous regions. There impregnable strongholds served as refuges for local Byzantine-

32 For Philaretos Brachamios and his lordship in general, see C.J. Yarnley, ‘Philaretos Brachamios: Armenian Bandit or Byzantine General’, Revue des Études Arméniennes 9 (1972): 331–53; Gérard Dédéyan, Les arméniens entre grecs, musulmans et croisés: Étude sur les pouvoirs arméniens dans le Proche-Orient méditerranéen (1068–1150), 2 vols (Lisbon: Fundacão Calouste Gulbenkian, 2003), vol. 1, 287–357; Mehmet Ersan, Selçuklular Zamanında Anadolu’da Ermeniler (Ankara: Ataturk Kultur, Dil ve Tarih Yuksek Kurumu, 2007), 37–42. 33 Matthew of Edessa, Armenia and the Crusades, Tenth to Twelfth Centuries. The Chronicle of Matthew of Edessa, trans. Ara Edmond Dostourian (Lanham, N.Y. and London: University Press of America 1993), 152–3 (henceforth Matthew of Edessa, Chronicle); Michael the Syrian, Chronique, 15.4, vol. 3: 173 (trans.), vol. 4: 580–81 (Syriac text); see also Ersan, Ermeniler, 42; Alexander Beihammer, ‘Defection Across the Border of Islam and Christianity: Apostasy and Cross- Cultural Interaction in Byzantine-Seljuk Relations’, Speculum 86 (2011): 616–17. Christian Views of Islam in Early Seljuq Anatolia 61

Armenian aristocrats who had originally belonged to the entourage of Philaretos Brachamios. This aristocracy’s political attitudes and strategies were shaped by the powerful Seljuq presence in northern Syria and Upper Mesopotamia and, from 1097/1098 onwards, by the establishment of the crusader principalities in Antioch and Edessa, which came to form a third influential power factor in the region. This group maintained its independence, developed forms of cooperation with the Turkish-Muslim elite and the Frankish potentates, and integrated itself into the Seljuq-Muslim political and administrative structures by a variety of mechanisms and behavioural patterns. We see Christian garrisons fighting side by side with Muslim forces, Armenian or Greek dignitaries being appointed as governors on behalf of Turkish overlords, and Armenian patriarchs securing the rights of their flock from the Seljuq sultan. Warfare certainly continued or was resumed from time to time, but the primary objective of the Turkish rulers in the period of consolidation after 1086 was the implementation of a workable modus vivendi and effective administrative structures for the purpose of securing revenue and stability. These efforts should be seen in connection with the general framework of Sultan Malikshāh’s centralising policy and his attempts to create a stable balance of power among the Seljuq potentates in Syria and Upper Mesopotamia. As a result, the sultanate and the Abbasid caliphate became the central point of reference for religious matters and the basic principles of political ideology. Most intriguingly, Christian subjects living in Seljuq territories were obviously involved in this process and, if need be, could resort to the sultan’s supreme authority.34 The Chronicle of Matthew of Edessa transmits the most detailed accounts of these matters. In contrast to its often extremely negative and emotionally charged descriptions of the Turkish raids in the previous decades, the Chronicle frequently praises the Muslim rulers in the 1080s. Sultan Malikshāh is depicted during his Syrian campaign not as a merciless conqueror like his father Alp Arslan, but as a man full of ‘benevolence, gentleness, and compassion for the Christians,’ who ‘showed fatherly affection for all the inhabitants of the lands’.35 Likewise, Aqsunqur of Aleppo is characterised as ‘benevolent and pacific, kind to everyone, and a benefactor of peoples’,36 and Malikshāh’s maternal uncle Ismāʿīl ibn Yāqūtī is depicted as ‘a benevolent and very merciful man,’ who, after being appointed governor of Armenia, made the land ‘prosper once again’ and protected all monasteries.37 An exception was Yaghi Siyan of Antioch, who is

34 For Malikshāh’s centralizing policy in Syria and Upper Mesopotamia, see Bosworth, ‘History’, 67, 96–8; for the Abbasid caliphate during Malikshāh’s reign, see Eric J. Hanne,Putting the Caliph in His Place: Power, Authority, and the Late Abbasid Caliphate (Madison, WI: Teaneck, 2007), 102–26; for the Christian subjects, see the examples mentioned below, pp. 62–4. 35 Matthew of Edessa, Chronicle, 2.86, 153. The author articulates a similar opinion on the occasion of the sultan’s death: ibid. 2.97, 158. 36 Ibid., 2.86, 154. 37 Ibid., 2.98, 158. See also ibid. 2.103, 160: ‘… a benefactor of all the Armenians; moreover, he was an embellisher of monasteries and a supporter of monks, besides which he protected the [Christian] faithful against harassment from the Persians … the Armenians lived in happiness [and security]’. 62 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia portrayed as ‘a vicious, vile, invidious and savage-minded man’.38 Yaghi Siyan does not figure very prominently in Matthew’s chronicle. His role as defender of Antioch during the siege by the crusaders is not especially emphasised,39 and there are only few other occasions in which he comes to the foreground. Most likely, his role as loyal companion of Tutush in the civil strife with Berkyāruq explains his bad reputation. In particular, the chronicle mentions an assault on an otherwise unknown Armenian castle called Zarinak/Zōrinak, where Yaghi Siyan is said to have ‘slaughtered an innumerable amount of Christians.’40 It is also remarkable that the transition from Christian to Muslim rule in some cases is presented as a positive event causing ‘great rejoicing’. In the city of Edessa, for instance, ‘the wicked Philaretos’ is said to have appointed a Greek eunuch bearing the title of parakoimomenos as governor, who in turn was assassinated by a certain Parsama. This man had to face the three-month siege of the city by the Turkish commander Buzan, which caused famine and despair among the inhabitants. Accordingly, Parsama’s surrender on the basis of a guarantee of safety for the townspeople is described as a joyful event.41 It is certainly an exaggeration to interpret these statements (as Turkish scholars have done) as an indication that Armenian Christians actually favoured Turkish-Muslim rule instead of the crusaders,42 yet they point to workable forms of coexistence, in which local monasteries and clerics managed to secure conditions of safety and economic prosperity. Besides conquest, political allegiance to Turkish lords was frequently established through negotiations and voluntary submissions by the Christian authorities, although these efforts did not always have the anticipated outcome. After the loss of Antioch in 1084, Philaretos tried to secure at least the remaining parts of his territories by paying him homage in person before Sultan Malikshāh, bearing loads of precious gifts. According to Matthew, the sultan treated him with such contempt that Philaretos out of despair adopted the Muslim faith.43 The actual circumstances of his conversion cannot be reconstructed. Michael the Syrian suggests that Philaretos’ abjuration of Christianity was a strategy to obtain diplomas granting him his lands on the part of the sultan and the caliph.44 Both authors agree that the apostate eventually had no profit from his conversion and, according to Michael, ‘having lost both his faith (haymanūṯa) and his principality (rēšanūṯa)’, he ended his life in Maraş.45

38 Ibid.,2.86, 154. 39 Ibid., 2.113, 167. 40 Ibid., 2.104, 161. 41 Ibid., 2.85, 152: ‘the illustrious Roman official, who was theparacoemomenus , a benevolent and pious eunuch’, 2.88, 154. 42 Turan, Türkiye, 110–11; for a more moderate interpretation, see Ersan, Ermeniler, 34–5. 43 Matthew of Edessa 2.85, 152–3. The connection between the murder of the parakoimomenos in Edessa and the sultan’s contempt for Philaretos no doubt is a narrative construction of the historian. 44 Michael the Syrian, Chronique, 15.4, vol. 3: 173 (trans.), vol. 4: 580–81 (Syriac text). 45 For further details, see Beihammer, ‘Defection’, 616–17. Anna Komnene, Alexias, 6.9.2, 186–7, ll. 65–84 (καθ’ ἑκάστην δὲ τῶν Τούρκων ληιζομένων τὰ πέριξ … ἐσκέψατο προσελθεῖν Christian Views of Islam in Early Seljuq Anatolia 63

More successful seems to have been the mission of another Greek governor appointed by Philaretos, Gabriel of Melitene (Gaḇra’īl).46 Gabriel is reported to have sent his wife to the caliphal court of Baghdad in order to obtain a letter granting him the city of Melitene (kṯaḇa ḏ-mezdqīn lēh rēšanūṯa ḏ-Mīlīṭīnī).47 The reason given is that ‘the Turks have defeated the Greeks’, a laconic phrase which perfectly summarises the results of the breakdown of the Byzantine administration in the region. Philaretos’ principality had vanished; the Upper Euphrates region had turned into a transit zone for Turkmen warrior groups moving back and forth between central Anatolia and northern Syria. The last legitimising authority respected by the Muslim potentates in the region was the court of Baghdad. In this way Gabriel managed to secure his position despite a series of external threats and discord with the Syriac population until the city was conquered by Danişmend Gazi on 18 September 1101.48 In Edessa, the Turkish amir Buzan appointed a Turkish officer (sālar) called Khulukh in 1087.49 When Tāj al-Dawla Tutush captured the city during the Seljuq succession struggle in 1094, he installed Theodore (Tʽoros), the son of Hetʿum, obviously the same person who had previously served as lieutenant of Philaretos in Melitene.50 Gabriel and Theodore, apart from their common bonds of allegiance with Philaretos, were also relatives by marriage, for Gabriel was either Theodore’s father- or brother-in-law.51 Just like the murdered parakoimomenos a decade earlier, Theodore held a Byzantine court title, that of kouropalates. The Byzantine-Armenian nobility living in Philaretos’ former principality evidently preserved a strong sense of cohesion based on their close family relationships and a common tradition in matters of faith – they were Orthodox in contrast to the overwhelming majority of the local populace who adhered to the non- Chalcedonian Armenian dogma. The persistence of elements pertaining to the Byzantine court hierarchy also points to a common political ideology rooted in Constantinopolitan imperial concepts. Just as Gabriel managed to obtain a diploma of appointment issued by the caliph, Theodore was invested by Tutush,

τοῖς Τούρκοις καὶ περιτμηθῆναι) provides a different version, according to which Philaretos, even before the fall of Antioch, considered converting to Islam; accordingly his son summoned Sulaymān to come and conquer the city. The illogical nature of this argument notwithstanding, Anna’s account agrees with the other versions that the conversion resulted from the enemies’ military pressure. 46 For more details concerning this individual, see Claude Mutafian, L’Arménie du Levant (XIe–XIVe siècle), 2 vols (Paris: Editions Belles Lettres, 2012), vol. 1, 56–7; Ersan, Ermeniler, 73–6. He was the last of a series of known commanders in this city, namely Theodore, the son of Hetoum (Todorūs bar Hetūm), who is called a ‘Greek’, i.e., an Armenian of the Chalcedonian denomination, the Armenian Hāreb and a certain Balaṭīnūs. See Michael the Syrian, Chronique, 15.4, vol. 3: 173–4 (trans.), vol. 4: 581, col. A (Syriac text). 47 Michael the Syrian, Chronqiue, 15.6, vol. 3: 179 (trans.), vol. 4: 584, col. B (Syriac text). 48 Ibid., 15.8, vol. 3: 188 (trans.), vol. 4: 590, col. B (Syriac text). 49 Matthew of Edessa, Chronicle, 2.88, 154. 50 Ibid., 2.104, 161; Michael the Syrian, Chronique,15.7, vol. 3: 183 (trans.), vol. 4: 587, col. A (Syriac text). 51 Matthew of Edessa, Chronicle, 2.108, 163–4; see also Mutafian, L’Arménie, vol. 1: 56, who, because of Theodore’s advanced age, assumes that he must have been his brother-in-law. 64 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia whom he recognised as the legitimate sultan of the Seljuq empire. By switching allegiance from Constantinople to the political authorities in Syria and Iraq, these remnants of the Armeno-Byzantine aristocracy in the Upper Euphrates region became a part of the new institutional framework established by the Seljuq sultanate, although retaining their social networks, religious tenets and political identity inherited from Byzantine traditions. Similar processes were at work in the Church: the Armenian patriarch of Ani, Barsegh Pahlavouni (1081–1105), in 1090 set off for a mission to Sultan Malikshāh accompanied by a numerous dignitaries and bearing many gifts.52 If we are to believe Matthew’s account, the endeavour was crowned by the greatest success possible. In the face of harassment and heavy tax exactions on churches, monasteries, and bishoprics, the catholicos was reprieved through the granting of written guarantees exempting Armenian clergymen and monks from all dues and confirming the privileges of both the Church and the elite associated with the patriarch. Thus he achieved not only an improvement of the status of the Armenian church under Seljuq rule, but also the elevation of his own position, allowing him to present himself as a spiritual leader endowed with the sultan’s special favour and respect. After his return from the Seljuq court, Barsegh travelled throughout the provinces under his jurisdiction, from the Ceyhan district to Edessa, Antioch, and Caesarea in Cappadocia. Ecclesiastical representatives proved to be an important instrument for the consolidation of Seljuq rule in the former marches of the Byzantine Empire. Matthew’s praise for Malikshāh and other Turkish rulers should not be regarded as mere lip service to new political authorities or as evidence of the Christians’ enthusiasm for liberal Muslim rule, but rather as statements reflecting the successful integration of the old Byzantine-Armenian secular and ecclesiastical elite into the emerging structures of the Seljuq administration. Matthew’s rejoicing certainly refers to the Armenian Christians as a whole, but has also much to do with the power, wealth, and status of the ecclesiastical hierarchy. In addition, these statements reveal Matthew’s awareness, following the collapse of Byzantine government, of the importance of the protection which the sultanate in the framework of the new order granted to the Church; in exchange, the ecclesiastical leaders supported the implementation of Muslim rule.

Crusader Reports on the Turks and Christian–Muslim Encounter in Asia Minor

Additional information on the early establishment of Turkish lordships in Asia Minor can be gleaned from Latin eyewitness accounts and later narratives of the First Crusade, especially for the period between the arrival of the so-called People’s Crusade under Peter the Hermit in Bithynia in August 1096 and the defeat of Kirbuqa outside the gates of Antioch on 28 June 1098. These accounts include a considerable amount of near-contemporary material and thus allow

52 Matthew of Edessa, Chronicle, 2.92, 156–7; see also Ersan, Ermeniler, 34–5. Christian Views of Islam in Early Seljuq Anatolia 65 important insights into the first years of the existence of Turkish lordships in Asia Minor.53 Some crusader narratives, especially the Gesta Francorum and its derivatives, present the Turks of Anatolia, as they do the Arab Muslims of Syria and Palestine, as the embodiment of an evil and infidel force opposing Christian pilgrims, the chosen people fulfilling God’s plan.54 According to the propagandistic agenda of these texts portraying the crusaders’ armed pilgrimage as an exemplary act of penitence pleasing to God and leading to salvation, the Turks’ ferocity is emphasised as well as their moral inferiority and aggressive attitude towards all adherents of the Christian faith.55 The Turks are, as the anonymous author of the Gesta Francorum asserts, an accursed folk, unbelievers and abominable enemies of God and Christianity; it is their custom to loot churches, houses, and other places; they are innumerable in number, and howl and shout like demons in battle.56 Despite such hostile and emotionally charged language, the author admits that the Turkish warriors were highly dangerous adversaries, notable for their effective battle technique. The Turks had defeated the Arabs, Saracens, Armenians, Syrians, and Greeks; they even claimed to be of common stock with the Franks, and indeed, one could not find braver, stronger, or more skilful soldiers, even among good Christians.57 The Turks’ military strength was recognised by all participants in this expedition and indeed actually constitutes a recurring motif that highlights the invincibility of the God-protected Christian army. Describing Kılıç Arslan I’s flight after his defeat in the battle of Dorylaion, for instance, the Gesta Francorum report a speech the Seljuq commander is said to have delivered in front of a group of Arab warriors which describes how the Turks were terror-stricken because of the innumerable army of the crusaders

53 For the problem of first-hand knowledge in crusader sources, see Elizabeth Lapina, ‘The Problem of Eyewitnesses in the Chronicles of the First Crusade’, Viator 38 (2007), 117–39. 54 For the image of Muslims in crusader sources in general, see John Victor Tolan, ‘Muslims as Pagan Idolaters in Chronicles of the First Crusade’, in Western Views of Islam in Medieval and Early Modern Europe: Perceptions of Other, ed. Michael Frassetto and David R. Blanks (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1999), 97–117; Nikolas Jaspert, ‘Die Wahrnehmung der Muslime im lateinischen Europa der späten Salierzeit’, in Salisches Kaisertum und neues Europa: Die Zeit Heinrichs IV. und Heinrichs V., ed. Bernd Schneidmüller and Stefan Weinfurter (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2007), 307–40; Martin Völkl, Muslime, Märtyrer, Militia Christi, 161–214. 55 For theoretical approaches to the construction of images of the enemy, see Völkl, Muslime, pp. 161–6, esp. 164: ‘Anhand dieser negativen Attribuierungen zeigt sich die intendierte Wirkung des Feindbildes und damit die Hauptzielsetzung der Feindbildproduktion im Rahmen jeder Kriegspropaganda: Durch die dem Gegner unterstellte existentielle Bedrohung der Eigengruppe sollen Angst und vor allem Hass gegenüber dem identifizierten Feind hervorgerufen werden.’ 56 Rosalind Hill (ed. and trans.), Gesta Francorum: The Deeds of the Franks and the Other Pilgrims to Jerusalem (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1962), 3.9, 18: videns innumerabiles Turcos procul, stridentes et clamantes demoniaca voce, 19: illa excommunicata generatione, 20: incredulos Turcos; 4.10, 22: iniquissimi Turci; 6.14, 32: Turci denique, inimici Dei et sanctae christianitatis; 4.10, 23: spoliabant ecclesias et domos et alia omnia. For the broader context of these stereotypes, see Völkl, Muslime, 178–214. 57 Gesta Francorum 3.9, 21. 66 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia which filled the mountains, hills, and valleys.58 By putting these words into the enemy’s mouth, the message which the author conveys to his readership is unambiguous: even though the Turks dispose of an awe-inspiring strength, there is no doubt that the faithful Christian soldiers will prove stronger. Other crusader authors of the early twelfth-century like Fulcher of Chartres (writing between 1100/01 and 1127) and Albert of Aachen (writing between 1102 and the 1130s) and later, William of Tyre (writing between 1170 and 1184) express more nuanced views of the Turkish enemy. They certainly consider the Seljuq ruler, his military chiefs, and their warriors in Nicaea, Antioch, and other fortified places to be highly dangerous opponents, hostile to the pilgrims and the Christian faith. At the same time, they refer to them with respect and compared to earlier historians give much more detail regarding the extent of the Turks’ realm, the size and strength of their troops, and their military skills.59 Later historians also expound upon aspects of the internal organisation of the Turkish principalities in Asia Minor and comment on the broader historical framework in which these political entities came into being. In the second half of the twelfth century, William of Tyre was the first author in Latin historiography to offer his own original explanation for the emergence of the Turks and their rise to become a leading political power in the Near East.60 Despite ample opportunities to gain insights into the situation of Anatolia during their march, the crusaders do not seem to have been especially interested in the internal ruling structures of the Turkish-Muslim elites and warrior groups they were facing. Unlike Anna Komnene and other Byzantine observers who had a keen eye for the power constellations in the Turkish principalities and sought to exploit them to forge favourable alliances, the crusaders regarded the Turks of Asia Minor as a more or less homogeneous group of enemies and conquerors, who had managed to extend their sway over the whole of Romania, i.e., the eastern provinces of the empire stretching from the Euphrates River to Nicaea, Nikomedeia, and the shores of the Propontis. Indicative of this perception are Fulcher of Chartres’ words referring to the advance of the crusading army towards Nicaea after the defeat of Peter the Hermit’s people:

This city [i.e., Nicaea] at that time was in the possession of the eastern Turks, highly skilful archers. These people already fifty years ago coming from Persia had crossed the Euphrates River and had subjugated the entire land of Romania as far as the city of Nikomedeia.61

58 Ibid., 4.10, 22: vidi tam innumerabilem gentem eorum … timentes tam mirabiliter, ut vix evaserimus de illorum manibus, unde adhuc in nimio terrore sumus. 59 For the ideological context of these ideas, see Völkl, Muslime, 245–53. 60 On the image of the Turks in William of Tyre’s chronicle, see Alan V. Murray, ‘William of Tyre and the Origin of the Turks: Observations on Possible Sources of the Gesta Orientalium Principum’, in Dei gesta per Francos: Études sur les croisades dédiées à Jean Richard / Crusade Studies in Honour of Jean Richard, ed. Michel Balard, Benjamin Z. Kedar and Jonathan S.C. Riley-Smith (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2001), 217–29. 61 Fulcher of Chartres, Historia Hierosolymitana (1095–1127), mit Erläuterungen und einem Anhange, ed. by Heinrich Hagenmeyer (Heidelberg: Carl Winters Universitatsbuchhandlung, Christian Views of Islam in Early Seljuq Anatolia 67

Fulcher is quite accurate in terms of chronology, for counting 50 years back from 1097 actually brings us to the time of the first Turkish raids in the Armenian borderland. However, his comments on the Turks’ origins and identity are superficial, remarking merely that they are ‘pagans from Persia’.62 He also notes that a key characteristic of the Turks was the use of the bow, their basic weapon of war with which they harassed Frankish armies, covering them with veritable clouds of arrows and causing high losses even before close combat began.63 Fulcher’s report gives us the impression that the crusader troops were confronted with Turkish enemies throughout their advance from Bithynia to Antioch, yet it hardly distinguishes between individual potentates and their respective positions in the conquered regions. As a result, Fulcher mistakenly describes Soliman, the emir of Nicaea and Romania, as holding supreme authority over all the Turks in Anatolia.64 Likewise, the Gesta Francorum refer to ‘Solimanus their leader, the son of old Solimanus’, and Albert of Aachen mentions ‘the territory of the city of Nicaea and the kingdom of Solimannus’, ‘a magnificent man, the lord and prince of the Turks’, and ‘Solimannus, one of the princes of the Turks, a very noble man but also a heathen’.65 The Turkish ruler’s name in the crusader accounts results from a conflation between Sulaymān ibn Qutlumush, founder of the Seljuq principality in Anatolia, and the actual Seljuq chief after 1093, his son and successor Kılıç Arslan I. Given that these statements reproduce contemporary first-hand knowledge, they suggest that the father completely overshadowed the son. The distinction made by the Gesta Francorum between an elder and a younger Sulaymān is also reminiscent of the common Muslim usage to designate the son by his father’s name like Ibn Sulayman. Despite the interlude of Apelchasem (Abu’l-Qāsim) in the years 1086–93, the historical memory of Sulaymān’s deeds was still alive among foreign and Turkish observers alike and served Kılıç Arslan to assert his own claims to the father’s realm, thus introducing a sort of dynastic continuity among the Turks of Asia Minor. Another remarkable aspect of the crusader descriptions of Seljuq rule in Asia Minor is the equation between Sulaymān’s realm and Romania, one of the traditional Greek designations of the Byzantine Empire. In this way Sulaymān and his successors appear as heirs of a country inhabited by Roman people and

1913), 1.9.4, 179–80: quam urbem Turci Orientales tunc possidebant, acres nimis et arcubus sagittarii. Hi quidem de Perside iam a L annis, Euphrate fluvio transito, terram Romaniae totam usque Nicomediam urbem sibi subiugarant. 62 Fulcher, Historia, 1.11.4, 193: congregatis sibi Turcis, scilicet paganis Persicis. 63 See also Völkl, Muslime, 247–8. 64 Fulcher, Historia, 1.11.4, 192–3: Turci, quorum et admiratus et princeps erat Soliman, qui Nicaeam urbem et Romaniam in potestate sua tenebat, congregatis sibi Turcis, scilicet paganis Persicis. 65 Gesta Francorum 4.10, 22: Solimanus dux illorum, filius Solimani veteris; Albert of Aachen, Historia, 1.16, 32: in terram Nicee urbis et regni Solimanni ducis Turcorum … castellum quoddam Solimanni viri magnifici, ducis ac principum Turcorum. 2.21, 94: Solimannus unus de principibus Turcorum, vir nobilissimus sed gentilis. In addition, see William of Tyre, Chronique, ed. R.B.C. Huygens (Turnhout: Brepols, 1986), 150: Solimannus Turcorum princeps … Solimannus vero illius regionis dux et moderator. For the designations used for Muslim-Turkish rulers in crusader sources, see Völkl, Muslime, 227–30. 68 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia deeply permeated by a Roman cultural and political identity. Hence, we come across the first traces of a merging between the notions of Turkish dominion and Roman lands in the collective memory of Frankish observers. This also reminds us of the aforementioned observations regarding the new rulers’ forms of self-representation which combine Byzantine and Muslim elements. Just as in the case of individual potentates, contemporary observers noticed a similar process on the level of structural changes. Territories and ruling elites gradually developed into new entities characterised by a mixed identity drawing on pre- existing substructures and newly imported institutional patterns.66 The most detailed description of Sulaymān’s authority can be found in the chronicle of William of Tyre. He presents the picture of a well-established principality which was based on firmly controlled territories and a functioning administration, drawing its legitimacy from the conferral of rights of sovereignty by ‘the greatest sultan of the Persians’ Belfetoh (= Abū’l-Fatḥ, i.e., Alp Arslan). The latter in the time of Romanos Diogenes had conquered all provinces between the Hellespont and Syria and had conceded them to Sulaymān, who ruled over them on the basis of property rights with his officials levying customs duties from transients within the sight of Constantinople and taxes from the entire region.67 The late twelfth-century crusader historian thus adopts the idea of Sulaymān’s appointment by Alp Arslan, which also appears in the chronicle of Michael the Syrian and in later works of Seljuq dynastic historiography.68 All these versions form part of a broader discourse on legitimating strategies which intended to portray the Anatolian Seljuq lineage as endowed with sovereignty by a supreme authority of Islam and thus entitled to lay claim to the legacy of the Byzantine Empire. The fact that this detail does not appear in older Frankish narratives shows that it was not derived from the historical tradition of the First Crusade and that we are dealing with a later construct, most likely originating from the sultanate of Konya at the time of its crystallisation and ideological consolidation in the middle of the twelfth century. Obviously, the image of Sulaymān’s dominion extending over the whole of Asia Minor belongs to the same context. Anna Komnene, William of Tyre, and the later Seljuq dynastic chroniclers project the notion of an all-embracing royal authority exerting control over large parts of Asia Minor, as was the case in the Seljuq sultanate of Konya from

66 For comparison, see the thoughtful observations on Byzantine-Turkish title making in eastern Anatolia in Rustam Shukurov, ‘Turkoman and Byzantine self-identity: Some Reflections on the Logic of the Title-making in Twelfth- and Thirteenth-century Anatolia’, in Eastern Approaches to Byzantium, ed. Antony Eastmond (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2001), 259–76, at 265–75. 67 William of Tyre, Chronique, 3.2, p. 198: predicti Solimanni patruus Belfetoh nomine, maximus Persarum soldanus, tempore Romani … occupaverat violenter et easdem predicto ex plurima parte tradiderat Solimanno. Possidebat ergo et iure proprietatis vendicabat sibi universas provincias a Tarso Cilicie usque ad Ellespontum. 68 Raşīd al-Dīn Fażlallāh, Camiʽ al-tavarīẖ (Metin), II. Cild, 5. Cüz, Selçuklular Tarihi, ed. Ahmed Ateş (Ankara: Turk Tarih Kurumu, 1960), 27; Feridun Nâfiz Uzluk (ed.), Anadolu Selçukluları Devleti Tarihi III: Histoire des Seldjoukides d’Asie Mineure par un anonyme (Ankara: [s.n.], 1952), 36–7 (Persian text), 23–4 (trans.); Michael the Syrian, Chronique, 15.4, vol, 3: 172 (trans.), vol. 4: 579–80 (Syriac text). Christian Views of Islam in Early Seljuq Anatolia 69 the time of Masʿūd I (1116–55) and Kılıç Arslan II (1155–92). Accordingly, William characterises Sulaymān as ‘an extremely powerful commander of the Turks … who was also called Ssa, which in the language of the Persians means ‘king’.69 The author must have been acquainted with the Persian title of shah, which in Seljuq sources is sometimes added to Sulaymān’s name in the form of Sulayman-shah. That William actually refers to this title suggests that he may have had access to an informant or a written source closely associated with the environment of the Seljuq court. In another passage William comes back to the issue of the distribution of territories among the sultan’s commanders.70 The sultan of the Persians, Belfetoh – the author does not distinguish between Alp Arslan and Malikshāh – conferred all the provinces he had conquered on his nephews and companions. Besides Sulaymān, he explicitly mentions Yaghi Siyan of Antioch (Acxianus), Duqaq of Damascus (Ducac), and Aqsunqur of Aleppo (Assungur). The relationship between the sultan and his subordinate commanders is explained through bonds of loyalty which the latter were obliged to maintain in return for the sultan’s favour.71 Consequently, the author uses terms pertaining to the semantic field of feudal links between a senior and his vassals. Moreover, William refers to the title of sultan (soldanatus et nomen et dignitatem), stating that it has been awarded to Sulaymān and Duqaq as a special distinction due to their exposed position close to dangerous neighbours, i.e., the Greeks of the empire of Constantinople and the Fatimids. The rank of sultan thus is associated with especially demanding military tasks in certain border regions but not conceived of as a title expressing political independence. William of Tyre is the only crusader historian to offer this comprehensive view of Seljuq political hierarchies, which despite all the inaccuracies and the strong influence of western feudal concepts still reflects some knowledge of genuine Muslim elements. The early twelfth-century authors of the First Crusade are rather inconsistent in their presentation of the Turkish commanders with whom the Frankish troops had dealings. Yaghi Siyan is Aoxianus or Darsianus, ‘the lord and emir’ or even ‘the king of Antioch’. Kirbuqa is Curbaram, Corbagath, or Corbahan, ‘the leader and satrap’ or in Albert of Aachen’s account ‘a friend and favourite at the royal court and second to the king in the kingdom of Khurasan’.72 In a list of combatants fighting in the battle of Antioch on 28 June 1098, Fulcher

69 William of Tyre, Chronique, 3.2, 198: quidam Turcorum potentissimus satrapa … cognomento Ssa quod Persarum lingua ‘rex’ interpretatur. 70 Ibid., 4.11, 248–9. 71 Ibid., 4.11, 249: ut tantorum beneficiorum memores perpetuo sibi fidelitatis nexu tenerentur obligati. 72 Gesta Francorum, 9.21, 49: Curbaram princeps militiae soldani Persiae; Fulcher, Historia, 1.15.7, 220: misit Aoxianus, Antiochiae princeps et admiratus, filium suum, nomine Sanxadonem, ad Soltanum, scilicet imperatorem Persidis; 1.19.1, 242: cuius gentis [the army sent by the sultan] Corbagath dux fuit et satrapa. Albert of Aachen, Historia, 3.34, 194: Darsianus princeps et caput civitatis; 3.34, 196: regis Darsiani; 4.26, 286: Darsianus vero rex Antiochie; 4.5, 254: Corbahan vero familiaris et primus in aula regis et secundus a rege in regno Corruzana. 70 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia mentions a number of Turkish officers by name, but they cannot easily be identified with individuals known from other sources.73 Like William of Tyre, earlier crusader narratives also refer to a supreme authority of all Turks located in Persia or Khurasan. The author of the Gesta Francorum speaks of the ‘sultan of Persia’ and, in a fictitious letter written by Kirbuqa, he has the Seljuq overlord be addressed as ‘our king, the lord sultan, that most valiant warrior’. Fulcher defines the sultan as ‘emperor of Persia’ or ‘king of the Persians’. Albert of Aachen describes Khurasan (Corruzan) in a speech put into the mouth of Yaghi Siyan of Antioch as ‘the land and kingdom of our [the Turks’] birth’ and characterises the sultan or king of Khurasan as ‘the head and prince of the Turks’.74 According to these definitions, the sultan was both the ruler of a vast realm in the Muslim lands beyond Romania, i.e., Asia Minor, and a powerful military leader who was able to muster huge armies from among the Turks and other nations living in the Muslim world. In some sources the sultan figures along with a calipha apostolicus, who is a supreme spiritual authority of all Muslims with special competences, such as the prerogative to issue a licence to kill all Christians.75 The Frankish authors situate Khurasan, from which the first Turkmen hordes spread into the central Muslim lands after crossing the Oxus River and in which the centre of their political power was to be located, somewhere in the east beyond Syria and the Euphrates River, but none gives a definition of its geographical position. The provinces of eastern Iran obviously were not associated with a specific area within the worldview of these authors. Like the regions north of the Caucasus Mountains or the territories beyond the Araxes River, Khurasan remained a mythical breeding ground of barbarian nomadic tribes.76 Anna Komnene draws on the same geographical dichotomy between a Turkish principality based in the eastern provinces of Romania and a vast Turkish dominion in the remote areas of Khurasan.77 Unlike the crusader sources which present these two entities as a common threat to the advance of the Christian army, Anna Komnene perceives them as two distinct powers which affected Alexios I’s attempts to re-establish imperial rule in the eastern provinces in

73 Fulcher, Historia, 1.21.5, 249–50: principes Turcorum multi erant, quos admiratos praenominabant. Hi sunt: Corbagath, Maleducat, Amisoliman et multi alii, quos nominare perlongum est. This edition enumerates a long list of variants in the manuscripts adding additional names. The identifications proposed by Hagenmeyer in most cases are rather doubtful. For the battle, see Asbridge, First Crusade, 232–40. 74 Gesta Francorum 9.21, 49: militiae soldani Persiae; 9.21, 52: ac nostri regi domino Soldano militia fortissimo; Fulcher, Historia, 1.19.1, p. 242: Soltanus, rex scilicet Persarum, see also the quotation above, n. 72. Albert of Aachen, Historia, 4.2, 248: Corruzan in terram et regnum nativitatis nostre … de Corruzan soltano, qui caput et princeps est Turcorum; 4.4, 252: rex de Corruzana. 75 Gesta Francorum 9.21, 49, 52. For the identification of the caliph with the pope, see Völkl, Muslime, 230. 76 For details concerning the Turkish homeland, see Margaret Meserve, Empires of Islam in Renaissance Historical Thought (Cambridge, MA, and London: Harvard University Press, 2008), 123–42. 77 Anna Komnene, Alexias, 6.12.4, p. 195, l. 94 (πρέσβεις τὸν Χοροσὰν κατέλαβον), 6.12.8, 197, l. 38 (τὸν τοῦ Χοροσὰν σουλτάν), 11.4.3, 332, l. 23 (τῷ τοῦ Χοροσὰν σουλτάν). Christian Views of Islam in Early Seljuq Anatolia 71 different ways. The sultan of Khurasan, i.e., the Great Seljuq sultan, is frequently depicted as at odds with the Turks of Asia Minor and as trying to win the emperor over to join an alliance against the rebellious Turkish warrior groups in his provinces. Decisions implying an acknowledgment of Turkish rulers, instead, are closely related to diplomatic contacts and treaties with the emperor or the bestowal of Byzantine court titles. Through this process of legitimisation, the Turks were gradually integrated into the Byzantine concepts of imperial rule, in which the source of authority is the emperor himself. As regards the nature of Turkish rule in Anatolia, crusader texts sometimes stress the illegitimate character of the conquests, distinguishing between the lawful claims of the Byzantine emperor and the unjust violence by which the Turks took possession of these territories. Nicaea, in Albert of Aachen’s opinion, was unjustly seized from the emperor by a heathen force of Turks, whereas originally the city was subject to the emperor by hereditary law.78 In contrast to Byzantine attitudes from 1081 onwards, which at least in practice recognised the status quo created by the Turkish expansion in Asia Minor,79 these texts reflect the Frankish claims emanating from the agreements between Emperor Alexios I and the leaders of the crusade and thus present the emperor as the only legitimate lord of Romania. The violence by which the Turks had overthrown the emperor’s rule serves as justification for the war waged upon the newly established lordships.80 The cities and provinces of Anatolia were not just labelled Romania because of their being a part of the Byzantine Empire, but also because of their overwhelmingly Christian and Greek-speaking population. This is another aspect frequently emphasised by crusader narratives referring to the people living under Turkish rule. Albert of Aachen, for instance, explicitly states that the followers of Peter the Hermit, while wandering about the environs of Nicaea, ‘plundered the herds of cattle, oxen, and sheep, flocks of goats which belonged to Greek subjects of the Turks’.81 Likewise, the regions of Philomelion (modern Akşehir), Konya and Herakleia (modern Ereğli) which the crusading army passed during its march to the east were inhabited by Christian citizens subject to the Turkish forces of Solimannus, i.e., Kılıç Arslan.82 In Cilicia and northern Syria, there are references to the role of the local Armenian and Syriac population living in the cities attacked by the Franks. A case in point is the city of Samosata

78 Albert of Aachen, Historia, 2.20, pp. 90–92: civitatem Niceam, quam gentilis virtus Turcorum imperatori iniuste ereptam suo subiugavit dominio; 2.37, 124: in manus imperatoris Constantinopolis, sub cuius conditione urbs primitus hereditario iure serviens habebatur. 79 Beihammer, ‘Defection’, 609–10; the main source is Anna Komnene 3.11.4–5, 116. 80 For the theoretical basis of these propagandistic elements, see Völkl, Muslime, 179: ‘Die funktionale Umsetzung dieses Hasses in militärisch nutzbare Aggressivität und damit in die Bereitschaft, sich selbst an kriegerischen Auseinandersetzungen mit dem propagierten Feind zu beteiligen, ist ebenfalls eines der Hauptziele jeglicher Kriegspropaganda.’. 81 Albert of Aachen, Historia, 1.16, 32: depredati armenta, boves et oves, hyrcos, greges Grecorum Turcis famulantium. 82 Ibid., 3.2, 140: ad urbes Finiminis, Reclei et Stancona descendit, in quibus Christiani cives habitabant Turcis viris Solimanni subiugati. 72 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

(modern Samsat) at the Euphrates, which was in the hands of a Turkish ruler called Balduk. William of Tyre describes him as an ‘infidel man, a Turk by nation, strong in arms, but devious and worthless’; he oppressed the citizens by imposing tribute, taxation and compulsory labour upon them while taking their children hostage. As a result, the inhabitants summoned Baldwin, upon his installation in Edessa, to help them against their lord. Eventually, Balduk sold the city to Baldwin for the sum of 10,000 gold coins.83 Likewise, William describes Balak of Sarūj (modern Suruç) as a ‘satrap of the Turks’, who did injustice to the inhabitants and oppressed them. The latter therefore asked Baldwin for peace, accepting a governor appointed by him and an annual tribute in exchange for guarantees for their security.84 Another example is the fortress of Artāḥ near Antioch, in which, according to Albert of Aachen’s report, Armenian Christians lived under the yoke of the Turks. When the crusading army was approaching, these people attacked and killed the Turks in revenge for the oppression they had endured, cut off their heads, and threw them from the windows and walls, inviting the Franks to enter the town.85 Because of the overall tendency to perceive the historical context of the crusader movement in terms of Christian-Muslim antagonism, these texts stress the frictions between oppressed Christians and the Turkish conquerors in order to present the crusading forces as saviours liberating the local population from evil tyrants. The Christians are depicted as suffering from various forms of oppression, which make them rebel against their Turkish lords as soon as the Franks arrive. As will be shown below, however, there were also references to forms of collaboration between indigenous Christians and Turks against the Franks, suggesting that even crusader historians did not present the relations between the two groups in a uniform manner. William of Tyre describes Antioch as a bulwark of the Christian faith surrounded by Muslim foes.86 It was less than 14 years, William relates, since the city had been handed over to the enemies of Christianity. Therefore, when the crusader army arrived in 1097, almost all of its inhabitants were still Christians, but had no power in the city. They were free to engage in trade and crafts, but only Turks and Muslims were allowed to become soldiers and to hold higher offices. The Christians were forbidden to bear weapons, and during the siege of Antioch, their freedom of movement within the city was restricted to several hours a day. William’s presentation of the relationship between Christians and Turks in Antioch in the years after the conquest probably applies to most towns subjugated to Turkish rule at that time. The new rulers did not interfere in the pre-existing social fabric and economic structures, allowing the townspeople to pursue their crafts and professions as before. Rather the changes they imposed affected the ruling elite, which was replaced by Turkish commanders and

83 William of Tyre, Chronique, 4.4, 237 and 4.5, 239. 84 Ibid., 4.6, 239: Turcorum satrapa Balac nomine. 85 Albert of Aachen, Historia, 3.28, 182–4: Turci manentes Armenicos Christianos servili iugo subegerant. For Artāḥ, see Asbridge, Antioch, 25–6. 86 William of Tyre, Chronique, 5.11, 285–6; for the siege of the city, see Asbridge, Antioch, 25–33; idem, First Crusade, pp. 153–211. Christian Views of Islam in Early Seljuq Anatolia 73 soldiers, although, as a result of the latter’s manifold alliances with the Christian aristocracy, it may be assumed that the division was not as strict as William’s report may suggest. There certainly were numerous local people who acted as intermediaries between the Turkish rulers and their Christian subjects. William refers to the Beni Zerra family (Banū Darrāʿ, i.e., ‘sons of the cuirass smith’), who were allocated a tower near the Gate of St George in order to pursue their craft. One of them called Emirfeirus gained a powerful position due to his close relations with the local ruler Yaghi Siyan and became a notary in the emir’s palace.87 This did not prevent him from secretly establishing contact with Bohemond and informing him about the state of affairs in the city.88 The Christian inhabitants of Antioch, Greeks, Armenians, and Syrians alike, greatly suffered during the siege, and with the increasing pressure of the besieging army, their situation deteriorated. The indigent who could not be fed by their relatives were expelled from the city. People of higher standing who had sufficient supplies were allowed to stay, but had to endure other forms of mistreatment such as heavy taxes and compulsory labour. They were forced to build catapults and carry heavy beams and boulders, as well as being beaten and insulted. Allegedly, the commanders even decided to kill all Christians in the city, but the execution of the plan was postponed because of an eight-day armistice during which negotiations were to be carried out.89 Likewise, it was the Greeks, Syriacs and Armenians who in 1098 opened the gates of Antioch to Bohemond and his troops, allowing him to seize parts of the city and plant his banner on one of the towers. During the ensuing massacres many Christians are said to have lost their lives because Turkish soldiers maintained their resistance on the towers and shot many non-combatant people with their arrows. At the same time, the Franks indiscriminately killed Muslims and Christians alike in the dark of night, since many Turks, pretending to be Christians, took to using the language of one of the Christian communities or carrying the cross.90 According to William of Tyre, it was difficult to distinguish between Turks/Muslims and the indigenous Christian population. Moreover, he refers to a great number of spies (exploratores) who were sent to the Frankish camp outside Antioch in order to gather intelligence about the customs, virtues, and goals of such a large army. It was evidently very easy for them to mingle with the inhabitants of the camp, for they were well versed in their customs and languages and could pretend to be Christians through their outward appearance, their behaviour, and their idiom. The leaders of the Frankish army seem to have been aware of the difficulties of recognising these infiltrators and thus resolved to

87 There are various versions in the crusader sources concerning the identity of this figure. See Asbridge, First Crusade, 200–201. 88 William of Tyre, Chronique, 5.11, 286–7. 89 Ibid., 5.19, 296–7. 90 Albert of Aachen, Historia, 4.23, 282–4: Greci, Syri, Armenici, cives et viri Christiane professionis … corporibus Christianorum tam Gallorum quam Grecorum, Syrorum et Armenicorum admixtis … nam voce et signo Christiane professionis Turci et Sarraceni timore mortis plurimi acclamantes. 74 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia make their decisions known to fewer persons in order to avoid the dissemination of sensitive information to their enemies. A particularly drastic measure of deterrence was taken by Bohemond, who ordered some Turkish prisoners to be slain, roasted, and prepared as a meal, presenting this as the usual treatment of spies who were discovered.91 There also were Turkish collaborators among the Armenians and Syriac Christians who, pretending to take refuge at the Frankish camp, passed on information about the state of affairs in the crusader army to the Turks of Antioch.92 If we are to believe the Gesta Francorum, these Armenians and Syriacs also took advantage of the Franks’ lack of supplies. When the people in the camp faced increasing difficulties in gathering food in the vicinity, the indigenous Christians were still able to buy grain and provisions because of their knowledge of local conditions, and sold them at tremendously high prices, thus causing the death of poorer people who did not have the means to pay them.93 These details clearly illustrate that within a few years of the conquest the local population and the Turkish military class had become closely assimilated in clothing, habits, and even language. As a result, the Franks, who were alien to both Turks and Eastern Christians, had difficulties in distinguishing between them. In spite of institutional and religious divides, there was a broad contact zone in everyday life, administrative matters and commercial transactions. Members of the local Christian communities, in turn, were ready to collaborate with their new lords on various levels. They lent support to the Turks against the Frankish invaders despite the latter being coreligionists, and did not even shrink from profiting at the crusaders’ expense. The tremendous quantities of provisions needed during the crusaders’ march through Asia Minor and the siege of Antioch inevitably imposed demands, which could hardly be covered by the local production of foodstuff and cereals in the regions affected by the Frankish presence. The eight-month siege of Antioch by the crusading forces exhausted the whole region economically and led to food shortages and famine, thus offering opportunities of great profit for all those who still were able to cover the needs of the starving people. In such circumstances, ethnic and religious identities certainly were of secondary importance. What mattered was a modus vivendi regulating the coexistence of subjects and rulers and a strategy of survival facing the manifold threats emanating from the attacks of the crusading forces. There is no doubt that the crusaders’ siege and conquest of Antioch in 1097–98 had much more destructive effects on the city’s populace and institutions than the quick and unspectacular takeover of Sulaymān ibn Qutlumush in late 1084. Taken together, crusader chronicles give us numerous insights into various aspects of the encounter between Turks and Christians in Anatolia in

91 William of Tyre, Chronique, 4.23, 265–6: Nec erat difficile huiusmodi hominibus inter nostros latere, cum linguarum habentes commercium alii Grecos, alii Surianos, alii Armenios se esse confingerent et verborum idiomate et moribus et habitu talium personas exprimerent … non facile erat a castris expellere, quoniam a predictis nationibus lingua, moribus et habitu penitus erant indifferentes. 92 Gesta Francorum 5.12, 29: Hermenii et Suriani qui erant intus in urbe exeuntes et ostendentes se fugere. 93 Ibid., 6.14, 33. Christian Views of Islam in Early Seljuq Anatolia 75 the time of the First Crusade. Although their perception of the Turks shares common elements with that of the Byzantine authors with regard to the political structures and geographical circumstances of the Turkish sphere, the crusader chronicles nevertheless express independent views about the customs, behavioural patterns, and martial virtues of the Turks. Despite their adoption of a religiously motivated aggressive tone, Frankish authors acknowledged the Turks’ exemplary military skills and sought to understand them, albeit through the prism of their western preconceptions. Unlike Byzantine and Armenian observers, who reflect the different viewpoints of indigenous groups, the Franks distance themselves from both the local Christians and the Turkish Muslims and thus are able to perceive and comment on aspects neglected by others. They take note of numerous forms of interaction between Turks and indigenous Christians in the context of military conflicts and peaceful contacts resulting from the new administrative and institutional patterns of the post-conquest environment. Perhaps more than other sources, these texts bear witness to the fact that processes of acculturation that led to a blurring of cultural, linguistic and religious divides between Turks and Christians started at quite an early stage after the permanent establishment of Turkish groups in the urban centres of Asia Minor.

Conclusion

The first hundred years of the Turkish-Muslim presence in Asia Minor have left hardly any material traces, nor do we have any literary works, however brief, by Muslims living on Anatolian soil in this period. Brief statements provided by Muslim authors from the central lands of Islam, as well as reconstructions by later chroniclers associating fourteenth- and fifteenth-century realities with the legendary past of the first Seljuq conquerors cannot make up for this lack of first-hand information. Hence, the Christian eyewitness accounts often represents the only sources for the emergence of Islam in Asia Minor and its early encounter with the Christian population. These accounts, with all their biases and preconceived literary conventions, certainly do not disclose the actual characteristics of the first Muslim settlers or the nature of their Islamic faith, yet they shed much light on the contemporary discourse about the Christian-Muslim encounter, and the ensuing conflict, mutual influence, and conversion arising from these contacts. Eastern, Byzantine and Latin Christians tried to make sense of the Turks’ arrival and the ensuing formation of Islamic political powers in regions shaped by a centuries-long tradition of Byzantine social, ecclesiastical and administrative structures. The multilayered transformative process which was engendered by the settlement of Turkmen nomads, the expansionist tendencies of warrior groups, and the gradual intrusion of Turkish-Muslim elements into the urban spaces of Asia Minor induced the indigenous Christians to reflect on the identity of these ‘barbarian’ newcomers, to become aware of the religious and cultural differences between the self and the other, and to develop mechanisms of preserving their 76 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia own traditions in matters of faith and political allegiance. Incidents of apostasy and conversion were regarded as symptoms of moral failure and weakness in faith which were to be condemned; nevertheless, these phenomena can also be interpreted according to a framework of power politics as markers of political superiority or as manifestations of ideological competition. Another frequently occurring theme concerns modes of accommodation, which were explained as a means to secure the personal freedom, status, and wealth of Christian elite members who came under Muslim rule. This process is clearly illustrated by Armenian secular and ecclesiastical lords in Cilicia and the Upper Euphrates region and the relations they maintained with the Turks in their vicinity, the Great Seljuq sultanate and the Abbasid court of Baghdad. By collaborating, the Armenian elite managed to maintain a high degree of independence vis-à-vis local Muslim and crusader lords and, at the same time, hold onto their own political and religious traditions stemming from their Byzantine heritage. We do not have at our disposal comparable historical narratives for other regions of Asia Minor, but we may assume that in areas where elements of the local Christian aristocracy survived either under direct Seljuq rule or in a semi-independent status very similar processes were at work. Byzantine local lords in the Pontus region or Christian officials at the Seljuq court of Konya seem to have arranged their relations with the Turks in the same manner.94 In other regions of central and western Asia Minor, families of the old landholding military aristocracy disappeared in the course of the eleventh century, but this phenomenon had already begun before the Turks became a prevailing factor in these regions and should be seen in connection with the civil wars of the 1050s and 1070s, the influx of various foreign mercenary groups, and the general decay of central imperial power.95 Crusader historians brought new perspectives which differ from those of both the local Christians and the Turks. They focus on the sacred goals of the armed pilgrimage, the hardships of the journey, fierce battles, exhausting sieges, and all forms of violence. While the background of all these events is situated in the regions between Bithynia and the Euphrates, the Muslim Turks of Asia Minor, one way or another, represent the most dangerous opponents of the Christian endeavours. In spite of this, the crusader perception of the Turks is by no means limited to the stereotypes of hostile depictions of the enemy. We also learn much about what these westerners (or: the crusaders) knew about these early Turkish political entities. These works are likewise notable for the insight they provide into Christian-Muslim coexistence, including details of daily interaction and the living conditions of Greeks under Turkish rule. All in all, the Christian views and experiences of the emergence of Islam in Anatolia certainly cannot fully compensate for the lack of internal Muslim statements. They nevertheless provide valuable information regarding the early processes of Islamisation in Asia Minor.

94 Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 223–44 with numerous examples mainly from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. 95 This process has been thoroughly analysed by Jean-Claude Cheynet, Pouvoir et contestation à Byzance (963–1210) (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 1996), 336–57. Chapter 3 Patterns of Armeno-Muslim Interchange on the Armenian Plateau in the Interstice between Byzantine and Ottoman Hegemony

S. Peter Cowe

Modern scholarly narratives of the development of Anatolia from the medieval period onwards have generally reflected a nationalist focus, while many of the primary sources from the region feature a clear religious perspective. However, investigation reveals that not only the larger imperial projects of the ninth- eleventh and fifteenth-sixteenth centuries, but also most of the smaller-scale states whose rise and fall occupies the interim are both polyethnic and religiously diverse. This finding must therefore problematise the rigid application of such categories to the data under review as conceptions of social identity like other boundaries and borders of the time could be much more porous. As we shall see, often pragmatic considerations could be more determinative than broader ideological concerns and change more prevalent than stable continuity. Moreover, the resulting pluralism emerges not only in the synchronic but also the diachronic dimension. Thus, while it is patent at the macro level that an elemental demographic transformation is underway from a majority Christian to Muslim polity and from the regional dominance of Greek, Armenian, and Syriac entities to that of a Turkish and Kurdish population, nevertheless the process under investigation manifests en route a panoply of changing alliances, mutual influences, and mercantile and cultural exchange that reveals patterns of symbiosis and interdependence at more micro levels. Consequently, greater attention must be paid to the diversity of differentials and the varying dynamics at work in specific regions, communities, and socio-economic environments to figure those trajectories into our overall mapping of the contours of development at higher levels. This chapter seeks to illustrate the multiple roles Armenians adopted in their engagement in this regional interchange and to highlight the factors that impacted the latter’s patterns of metamorphosis over this time frame. The availability of source materials and corpus of previous research dictates its focus will be directed more towards the earlier period than the later, though there, too, I will foreground an important aspect of the Armenian community’s transition in self-understanding, which was destined to feature prominently in the new debate on identity that emerged in the early modern period.1 The term Armenian Plateau employed in the title refers to the upland stretching

1 On this subject, see S.P. Cowe, ‘Print Capital, Corporate Identity, and the Democratization of Discourse in Early Modern Armenian History’, Le Muséon 126, nos. 3–4 (2013): 333–62. 78 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia from around Sivas (Sebasteia) over eastern Anatolia into the area of southern Caucasia circumscribed by the Arpaçay (Akhurian), Aras (Arak‘s) and Kura (Kur) rivers south of Iberia.2 Geographically it defines the territory of the polity of Greater Armenia, which, however, was frequently divided administratively between east and west along fluctuating boundaries.3 This division is salient in our period since although various larger- and smaller-scale initiatives united or strove to unite its expanse at various junctures, the contrasts in the modality of government exercised in the two spheres and the relation between rulers and ruled emerge as more significant and once again anticipate developments in the eighteenth century.4

Prolegomena

Before passing to the main exposition, there are a few points I should like to address by way of introduction. The first is to emphasise that early and medieval Armenian society was primarily centrifugal, valorising loyalties to local aristocratic families over central rule and often preferring the suzerainty of distant emperors to submitting to the dictates of their own monarch.5 The second is to underscore the importance of the Armenian diaspora, a widespread phenomenon of our own time, during the period under review, one engendered by a range of factors from deportation, to exodus from invasion, to trade networks, as well as migration from the hinterlands to large cities, both within the Armenian Plateau and frequently beyond it.6 The third is that in the context of Christian–Muslim exchange it is vital to recall that Armenia entered the domain of the Dār al-Islām in the 640s first under the Umayyads with a high degree of autonomy, before becoming increasingly integrated into the Abbasid caliphate, so that its religious and cultural perceptions differ from those of western Asia Minor in our period.7 Moreover, the country’s demography had already been diversified by the creation of various Arab and Kurdish tribal amirates in the late eighth and ninth centuries as part of caliphal policy to undermine the cohesion

2 R.H. Hewsen, Armenia: A Historical Atlas (Chicago, IL: Chicago University Press, 2001), map 6, 19. 3 Hewsen, Armenia: A Historical Atlas, 45 (63 CE, Treaty of Rhandeia), 65 (387, Peace of Akilisene), 90 (591, Treaty after Byzantino-Persian War), etc. 4 Cowe, ‘Print Capital, Corporate Identity, and the Democratization of Discourse in Early Modern Armenian History’. 5 C. Toumanoff, ‘Armenia and Georgia’, in The Cambridge Medieval History, vol. 4: The Byzantine Empire, Part 1: Byzantium and its Neighbours, ed. J.M. Hussey, D. Nicol and G. Cowan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1966), 595–9. 6 For the categories, see R. Cohen, Global Diasporas: An Introduction (Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press, 1997), and, for an application to the Armenian setting, Cowe, ‘Print Capital, Corporate Identity, and the Democratization of Discourse’, 320–21. 7 Hewsen, Armenia A Historical Atlas, 104 (654, Umayyad Armenia) 106 (750 ‘Abbasid Armenia). Patterns of Armeno-Muslim Interchange on the Armenian Plateau 79 of the main Armenian aristocratic families.8 Significantly, on the ground this resulted in a number of inter-ethnic alliances and several cases of intermarriage with attendant conversions in both directions.9 Similarly, the caliph’s elevation of the rank of the Bagratid princes to that of monarch (t‘agawor/malik) in c.884 was a strategy to counterbalance the escalating ambitions to independence of the Sajid Kurdish governor of the united province of Armīniya in Bardha‘a in the gradual abeyance of strong central government.10 Furthermore, the protection Arab rule afforded was largely appreciated by the Armenian Church, whose non-Chalcedonian creed had been continually challenged during Byzantine campaigns of the sixth-seventh centuries.11

The Seljuq Invasion of the Armenian Plateau

Since at least the ninth century, Armenians participated in the economic upswing in the broader Eurasian sphere, giving rise to a new phase of urbanisation in Ani, Kars, Artsn, and the rebuilt capital of Dvin, their construction and layout differing little from those of Islamic cities of the Near East.12 The process was associated with an expansion of the merchant and artisan classes, which also peopled several of the cities around Sebastia and Cappadocia that had been reconquered by the Macedonian dynasty.13 As the Middle Byzantine project advanced, over a half-century (1021–1071) it annexed Armenia’s two western kingdoms, transferring the monarchs with much of their retinue to the same areas of Sebastia and Caesarea, the latter lying outside traditional Armenian territory.14 Moreover, the army that executed this policy featured a class of Armenian aristocrats who exploited their martial and equestrian skills as commanders of various districts, many adopting Byzantine orthodoxy to secure their position.15 To facilitate the longer-term process of integrating the bulk of this Armenian community in the area into the surrounding population, the

8 See A. Ter Ghevondyan, The Arab Emirates in Bagratid Armenia, trans. N.G. Garsoïan (Lisbon: Livraria Bertrand, 1976), 123–230: H. Manandyan, The Trade and Cities of Armenia in Relation to Ancient World Trade, trans. N.G. Garsoian (Lisbon: Livraria Bertrand, 1965), I: 87–90. 9 Ter Ghevondyan, The Arab Emirates in Bagratid Armenia, 147–63. 10 S.B. Dadoyan, The Armenians in the Medieval Islamic World: Paradigms of Interaction: Seventh to Fourteenth Centuries (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, c.2011–2014), I, 113–14. The resulting situation in which the Bagratid king ruled under the suzerainty of the caliph broadly paralleled that of Armenia’s preceding Arsacid dynasty that reigned under Roman or Persian suzerainty (63–428 CE). 11 On this, see N.G. Garsoïan, L’église arménienne et le grand schisme d’orient (Leuven: Peeters, 1999). 12 Manandyan, The Trade and Cities of Armenia, 136–50. 13 S.P. Cowe, ‘Armenian Immigration Patterns to Sebastia, Tenth-Eleventh Centuries’, in Armenian Sebastia/Sivas, ed. R.G. Hovannisian (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda Press, 2004), 111–16. 14 Cowe, ‘Armenian Immigration Patterns to Sebastia’, 120–29. 15 It is this class that gave rise to a number of Greek provincial aristocratic families of Armenian descent, for which see P. Charanis, The Armenians in the Byzantine Empire (Lisbon: Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation, 1963). 80 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia emperor was on the point of disbanding their catholicate as the institution, after the monarchy, most symbolic of Armenian distinctiveness as a collective in the lead up to the Seljuq invasion.16 This is the situation that met the Seljuq leaders in the 1060s as they pushed west from Baghdad after revolting against their Ghaznavid overlords. As one would expect, the small northern Armenian kingdoms of Loṙi-Tashir and Kars accepted their suzerainty,17 while there are records of Armenians deserting the Byzantine army and others actually joining the invading forces.18 Typical of the range of incursions into Anatolia that punctuate our period (Crusaders, Khwarazmians, Mongols, Golden Horde, Mamluks, and finally Timur) the Seljuq invasion caused major disruption to both the cities and their hinterlands, destroying civil and religious structures and trade links, inducing flight of the indigenous population to Cappadocia, while others sought greater security under Georgian aegis.19 Other repercussions included contingents of women and children being sold as slaves, their large numbers sometimes glutting the market and causing the medium price to plummet, and the forced conversion of boys as ghulāms to be trained for the Seljuq military.20 At the same time, it is important to bear in mind the temporary aspect of such disruptions and the fairly rapid recovery that succeeded them at least up to the mid-fourteenth century.

The Proliferation of Seljuq and Armenian Statelets in the Aftermath of Manzikert

Administratively, the impact of Byzantine defeat at Manzikert was to undermine the pre-existing command structure, leading several of the Armenian commanders in south-eastern Anatolia to establish independent statelets, which bore no resemblance to the previous pattern of Armenian noble houses and land holdings.21 Rather, one notes close parallels with Seljuq developments, in which the generals who carved out fiefdoms as atabegs loyal to Alp Arslan, gradually gained independence after the death of Malikshāh (d. 1092).22 The internal development of these two structures also reveals interesting typological similarities in terms of internecine conflicts marked by alliances frequently across religious divides. Ultimately, these are then incorporated into or

16 Cowe, ‘Armenian Immigration Patterns to Sebastia’, 130–35. 17 Hewsen, Armenia: A Historical Atlas, 127. 18 S. Vryonis, The Decline of Medieval Hellenism in Asia Minor and the Process of Islamisation from the Eleventh through the Fifteenth Century (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1971), 234, n. 548. 19 Manandyan, The Trade and Cities of Armenia, 174. 20 Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 240–44. For the case of Armenian youths and girls being sold on the market in Kayseri for only 50 dirhams after hostilities on the marches between Rūm and Cilicia in 1214 see Ibn Bībī, Die Seltschukengeschichte des Ibn Bībī, trans. Herbert W. Duda (Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1959), 74. 21 Hewsen, Armenia: A Historical Atlas, 127. 22 Ibid., 128. Patterns of Armeno-Muslim Interchange on the Armenian Plateau 81 subordinated under the two most powerful states in either sphere, the sultanate of Rūm and the Armenian principality, then kingdom, of Cilicia. In view of the Armenian concentration in Cappadocia we observed above, it is striking that in the Danişmend-name, the epic romance characterising the establishment of the Danishmendid house in the area of Sivas, Kayseri, and Niksar (c.1077–1178), a number of the hero’s associates appear as Armenians, while some scholars contend that the protagonist himself is presented as a Muslim Armenian.23 In this connection, it is worth bearing in mind the reference in several other sources to the presence of Christian Armenians and Muslim converts in the Seljuq army.24 Moreover, it is significant that Danishmendid coins employ both Christian and Muslim images, suggestive of symbiosis between the communities.25 The importance of this phenomenon for our consideration lies precisely in the depiction of a recognisable type of ethnic Armenian Muslim military leader. One of the most crucial post-Seljuq states in Syria was the Zangid atabegate of Mosul, which was to become a major regional force in the second half of the twelfth century. To deter their aggression, the Artuqids entered into an alliance with the Norman Joscelin of Edessa (Urfa), which had the effect of directing Zangid ire against the latter, capturing the city in 1144.26 We shall have cause to return to the Mengüjekid state based on Erzincan, whose majority Armenian urban population exemplifies several categories of interaction with the local Muslim community. Meanwhile, as the name suggests, the Turkish amirate of the Shah-i Armans in Ahlat ruled over a large Armenian population on the western shore of Lake Van and included Armenians, Greeks, and Georgians in its army.27 By 1194 these states had largely been incorporated into or under the sultanate of Rūm. The corresponding set of Armenian statelets includes the particularly noteworthy example of Melitene (Malatya) and Germanikeia (Maraş) under Philaretos Brachamios (Vahram), who had adopted Byzantine orthodoxy to secure a commission that later included Antioch within its jurisdiction.28 Protecting his western flank by recognising the suzerainty of the emperor Nikephoros III, he later accepted Islam and the overlordship of the atabeg of Mosul to guard his possessions in the east. Meanwhile, the two main dynastic

23 See Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 230, and I. Mélikoff (ed.), La geste de Melik Danişmend. Étude critique du Danişmendname, vol. 1: Introduction et traduction, vol. 2: Édition critique avec glossaire et index (Paris: A. Maisonneuve, 1960), 126–9. 24 Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 226, 235 n. 548. For information on mercenaries, see O. Turan, ‘Les souverains seldjoukides et leur sujets non-musulmans’, Studia Islamica 1 (1953): 87. 25 For the history of the state, see Dadoyan, The Armenians in the Medieval Islamic World, vol. 2, 50–56. 26 A. Atamian Bournoutian, ‘Cilician Armenia’, in The Armenian People from Ancient to Modern Times, ed. R.G. Hovannisian (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1997), vol.1, 278–9. 27 R. Bedrosian, ‘Armenia during the Seljuq and Mongol Periods’, in The Armenian People from Ancient to Modern Times, ed. R.G. Hovannisian, vol. 1 (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1997), 248–52. 28 Dadoyan, The Armenians in the Medieval Islamic World, vol. 2, 56–8. 82 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia houses in the geographic region of Cilicia – the Het‘umids in the southwest and the Rubenids in Vahka to the north – promoted pro- and anti-Byzantine policies throughout the twelfth century.29 One of the decisive repercussions of the Seljuq victory at Myriokephalon in 1176 was to lend the advantage to the Rubenids. Nevertheless, Het‘umid opposition continued into the following century despite attempts at reconciliation through intermarriage.30 Equally important for our consideration is the presence of militant Muslim Armenian factions in upper Mesopotamia and Greater Syria in the late eleventh century such as the fiefdom of the Bēnē Boghusaks in Severek and that of the nāwakīya Turkmen in Greater Syria.31 Together with them we should mention the community of Badr al- Jamālī that relocated from that area to Egypt at this time and served to maintain Fatimid rule for another century under a series of both Christian and Muslim Armenian viziers.32 In the eastern sphere of the Armenian Plateau Georgia was emerging as the major power. First united as a state in 1008, it was left autonomous after the Seljuq invasion and gradually came to dominate southern Caucasia over the next century.33 Under its suzerainty a new cadre of Armenian aristocratic houses (Dop‘ean, Vachutean, Proshean, Hasan-Jalalean)̌ rose to prominence. They were joined by the Georgian family of the Ōrbēlean, which moved to southeast Armenia after 1171 where it became identified entirely with Armenian mores and creed and sustained its fiefdom into the fifteenth century. Mediating between these lower nobility and the Georgian crown were the brothers Ivanē and Zak‘arē Erkaynabazuk, who hailed from Kurdish stock that had entered the service of the Armenian kingdom of Loṙi-Tashir in the eleventh century where they converted to Christianity.34 In time Ivanē identified with the Byzantine orthodoxy of the Georgian church, while Zak‘arē continued to follow the Armenian creed. Entrusted with the earlier Armenian Bagratid capital of Ani taken from the Shaddadids in 1199, they played a key role in extending Georgian suzerainty over the Shah-i Armans, Erzurum, and Erzincan. As mentioned above, some displaced Armenians settled in the Georgian territories, where they formed a crucial element in the urban (merchant and artisan) middle class.35 Meanwhile, in the west, both the sultanate of Rūm and the Armenian state of Cilicia began their gestation in the central hill country before gradually extending their reach toward the seacoast and links with the Italian maritime states. Inevitably, both were demographically very diverse. In addition to the Armenian community Cilicia featured Greeks, Seljuqs, Franks, Arabs, and

29 Atamian Bournoutian, ‘Cilician Armenia’, 277–80. 30 Ibid., 280–83. 31 Dadoyan, The Armenians in the Medieval Islamic World, vol. 2, 59–64. 32 See S.B. Dadoyan, The Fatimid Armenians: Cultural and Political Interaction in the Near East (New York: Brill, 1997). 33 R.G. Suny, The Making of the Georgian Nation (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1988), 32–41. 34 Hewsen, Armenia: A Historical Atlas, 129. 35 Suny, The Making of the Georgian Nation, 35–6. Patterns of Armeno-Muslim Interchange on the Armenian Plateau 83

Jews.36 Moreover, though the Greek community still maintained its status as the majority population in Rūm, the incorporation of the Malatya area by Kılıç Arslan II in 1177 introduced an significant West Syrian component, while the annexation of Sivas and Kayseri in the same decade and Erzincan and Erzurum in the 1230s expanded Armenian representation.37 Despite a certain exodus to Cilicia, there remained a tangible Armenian presence in the area that made a diverse contribution to the development of the Seljuq state. Indeed, whereas Vryonis demonstrates how the Greek hierarchy’s abandonment of their flock for Constantinople facilitated their community’s more rapid Islamisation and Turkification, Armenian bishoprics are documented in the Anatolian cities of Kayseri, Erzincan, Amasya, Tokat, Maraş, Basean, Kemah (Kamakh), Kiǧi (K‘łi), Çemeşgezek (Ch‘mshkatsak) and Raban in the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries, as well as those of Sivas (Sebasteia), Malatya, Niksar (Niksart), and Göksün (Cocosus) in the Seljuq realm, which expand to Bursa and Kütahya by 1307 and Konya in 1342, keeping pace with the expansion of the Armenian communities in those locales.38 The sedentary Christian population in the hinterlands coexisted alongside the Islamised Turkmen, while in the cities, especially from the 1220s onwards, they interacted with the more sophisticated Persianate urban elite driven westwards before the Khwarazmian and Mongol invasions.

Rūm’s Transition from Landlocked State to Sea Power

As already mentioned, access to the sea was a significant aspect of Seljuq trade strategy, in which policy Armenians provided valuable assistance. After Alexios Grand Komnenos of Trebizond ceded Sinop to ʿIzz al-Dīn Kaykāʾūs I in 1214, the sultan set the city with its Greek and Turkmen communities under the Armenian raʾīs (governor) Het‘um.39 Under the latter’s supervision the city’s trade relations with Byzantium and the Italian states gradually attained their former volume once more. While Cahen is inclined to view Het‘um as a Muslim convert, it is important to bear in mind a number of cases of Christian officials in this period like Manuel Maurozomēs who held positions in Seljuq service without being compelled to change their religion. After the death of emperor Manuel I in 1180 a number of Armenian nobles who had governed sections of the Isaurian coastline under Byzantine administration exploited the moment to transfer their allegiance to the Cilician principality, which was expanding its territory under prince Levon II.40 It seems that one of

36 See F. Hild and H. Hellenkemper, Kilikien und Isaurien, part 1 (Vienna: Austrian Academy of Sciences, 1990), 99–103. 37 Claude Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey: A General Survey of the Material and Spiritual Culture and History, c.1071–1330 (New York: Taplinger Publishing Company, 1968), 202–15. 38 See Claude Cahen, The Formation of Turkey, The Seljuqid Sultanate of Rum: Eleventh to Fourteenth Century, trans. by P.M. Holt (Harlow: Longman, 2001), 130. 39 Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey, 123; idem, The Formation of Turkey, 54–5. 40 Atamian Bournoutian, ‘Cilician Armenia’, 279–83. 84 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia them was Sir Atan, who later attained a position of the highest importance in the Cilician realm. He is listed as controlling several fortresses in the region from Seleucia (Silifke) to Kalonoros (Alanya), while his son KeṙVard appears in charge of the fief of Kalonoros in the list of vassals attending King Levon I’s coronation in 1198.41 When Kayqubād’s siege of the fortress began to have effect, KeṙVard was moved to cede it in exchange for the fief of Akşehir, on the road from Ephesus to Konya, sealing the agreement by offering his daughter to the sultan in marriage.42 She is recorded as Māhparī Khātūn, and, as certain sources report, bore the next sultan Kaykhusraw II. KeṙVard’s brother, meanwhile, is stated as controlling the nearby castle of Alārā, which was similarly added to Seljuq territory along with the rest of Pamphylia. In this way, Armenians played pivotal roles in assisting in Seljuq coastal expansion and the development of trade links.

Armenian Involvement in International Trade via Anatolia

Geographically Anatolia is situated at the convergence of two well established lines of long-distance international trade, the east-west trajectory from East Asia overland via Central Asia to the Near East through the hub of Baghdad in Abbasid times and westward via Erzurum, Erzincan, and Sivas to Byzantium43 and the north-south route uniting the Mediterranean basin with the Black Sea and onwards from the Crimea by river transport into the Russian steppes.44 Naturally, the contours of those lines of communication were subject to continual reconfiguration in response to political, economic, and environmental forces, the ready flexibility of capital facilitating this process.45 These therefore dynamically impacted the growth and transformation of the network of Armenian commercial communities both on the Armenian Plateau and at different nodes along the maritime and overland routes in this period from Aragon to Zayton (briefly in the fourteenth century) and Kiev to Yemen.46 This era therefore laid the foundations for the much more extensive and much better

41 Smbat, Smbatay Sparapeti Taregirk‘ [Smbat Constable’s Chronicle], ed. G. Shahnazarean (Paris: I gortsatan K.V. Shahnazareantsʻ, 1859), 209–10. 42 Osman Turan, ‘Les souverains seldjoukides et leur sujets non-musulmans’, Studia Islamica, 1 (1953): 82. 43 Manandian, The Trade and Cities of Armenia, 184. 44 C. Cahen, ‘Le commerce anatolien au début du XIIIe siècle’, Turcobyzantina et Oriens Christianus (London: Variorum Reprints, 1974), 91. 45 Thus, we hear of the wealthy Armenian merchant Umek from Erzurum who relocated to Tbilisi in 1242 in advance of the Mongol destruction of the city. See Manandian, The Trade and Cities of Armenia, 186. 46 The existence of an Armenian community in Yemen in this period is still conjectural, however the inclusion of Armenian as one of the component languages in a Rasulid lexicon implies relatively frequent long-term contacts with Armenians in this major transit centre on the spice route, on which, see Peter B. Golden, ed. and trans., The King’s Dictionary: the Rasûlid Hexaglot (Leiden: Brill, 2000). Patterns of Armeno-Muslim Interchange on the Armenian Plateau 85 known and researched pattern of Armenian trade colonies in the seventeenth- eighteenth centuries.47 Since at least the tenth century Armenian merchants were involved in overland transit commerce from the Levant via centres like Kayseri (Caesarea), Sivas (Sebasteia), Erzincan (Erznka), and Erzurum to Black Sea destinations like Sinop (Sinope) and Trabzon (Trebizond). In this connection, a twelfth-century Slavic vita records a settlement of Armenians in the Byzantine colony of Sudak on the Crimea, which continued to grow over the next century and hence would have been impacted by the Seljuq naval expedition there to create a protectorate defending merchants from Russian attack.48 In parallel with this, we observe an acceleration of trade with Black Sea during the thirteenth century via Trebizond, where an Armenian community developed, and with the Crimea in association with the important Venetian and Genoese colonies there.49 The advances in Seljuq trade in the same century are paralleled by the Armenian kingdom in Cilicia, which begins to grant commercial concessions to the Italian maritime republics and thereafter to the other major Mediterranean states, establishing communities in several of those reciprocally. Both Cilicia and Rūm benefited from the acceleration of overland exchange with Central Asia under Mongol rule. As Tabriz replaced Baghdad as the primary hub over the second half of the thirteenth century and first decades of the fourteenth, this coincided with the heyday of the Cilician port of Ayas as the main convergence of land and sea routes in the aftermath of Mamluk encroachments on Antioch (1268) and Acre (1291).50 While the northern route via Anatolia had been favoured in the thirteenth century, it began to yield to the southern (Erzincan-Erzurum- Alashkert-Artses-Manzikert [Malazgirt]-Muş) in the first half of the fourteenth century, transferring some of the wealth associated with it to centres like Ahlat.51 However, the instability in Ilkhanid rule, which began to be felt undermined maintenance of the roads, led to a higher incidence of robbers and bandits, and crippled the merchants by the high tax regime.52

47 See S.D. Aslanian, From the Indian Ocean to the Mediterranean: the Global Trade Networks of Armenian Merchants from New Julfa (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2011). 48 A.G. Abrahamyan, Hamaṙot urvagits’hay gałt‘avayreri patmut‘yan [Concise Overview of the History of Armenian Colonies] (Erevan: Armenian Academy of Sciences, 1964), vol. 1, 161. 49 On this, see A. Terian, ‘The Armenian Ties to Medieval Trebizond’, in Armenian Pontus: The Trebizond-Black Sea Communities, ed. R.G. Hovannisian (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda Publishers, 2009), 98–102. Genoa also entered into a trade agreement with the majority Armenian city of Kars in the early thirteenth century, on which, see Manandian, The Trade and Cities of Armenia, 186. 50 For this trade route, see Cahen, ‘Le commerce anatolien’, 92–3, and W. von Heyd, Histoire du commerce du Levant au moyen âge (Leipzig: Harrassowitz, 1936), vol. 2, 77. 51 Manandian, The Trade and Cities of Armenia, 195. 52 Ibid., 198–9. 86 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Rūm Construction Projects and Architecture

Like their Armenian counterparts on the eastern Plateau,53 the Seljuqs encouraged trade by constructing fortifications, bridges, and caravanserais along the various routes.54 While the vast majority of these were initiatives by the ruling family, two were erected by representatives of the ʿulamāʾ, one by a merchant, and one further (the Hekim Han caravanserai) by a doctor.55 Built en route between Malatya to Sivas, the latter is unique in featuring inscriptions in three languages, Arabic, Syriac, and Armenian. It was erected in 1218–19 by a patron originating from Malatya whom Cahen interprets as an Armenian and other sources deem a Muslim convert. It is the Armenian inscription ironically that clarifies his identity as a Syrian Christian, as one might expect from his provenance. The inscriptions are also intriguing socio-linguistically in that each contains a different message and seems to be addressing different communities and concerns.56 The Armenian highlights the reader’s identity (‘he who enters here and rests’), implying that Armenians were also included among the merchants traversing this road. Similarly, in view of the Armenian tradition of building in central Asia Minor under the patronage of indigenous monarchs and princes, it is highly plausible that their heirs continued the process now under Seljuq aegis. With that in mind, inscriptions and historical accounts inform us of a series of Armenian architects employed in Seljuq constructions, Galust at Divriği in 1229, T‘agvor, son of Step‘an, in Malatya, Kaloyan of Konya (arguably) in Sivas, Ashot at Zor, and Kalous (Galust) in Konya itself.57 These objective data may afford a basis for discussing issues of form, style, and ornamentation and the degree of artistic interchange (as, for example the Seljuq türbe (kümbet) structures and Armenian ecclesiastical domes (gmbet), and grave steles and Armenian cross-stones (khach‘k‘ars).58 Similarly, Seljuq parallels have been observed in the architecture of twelfth- and thirteenth-century structures erected in the Armenian-majority city of Ani.59

53 On this, see V.M. Harut‘yunyan, Miǰnadaryan Hayastani k‘aravanatnern u kamurǰnerə, [The Caravansaries and Bridges of Medieval Armenia] (Erevan: Haypethrat, 1960), 185. 54 H. Crane, ‘Notes on Saldjuq Architectural Patronage in Thirteenth Century Anatolia’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 36 (1993): 17. 55 Ibid., 6. 56 U. Bates, ‘An Introduction to the Study of the Anatolian Türbe and its Inscriptions as Historical Documents’, Sanat Tarihi Yıllığı 4 (1970–71): 72–84. 57 On these figures, see M. Yevadian, ‘Les Seldjouks et les architectes arméniens’, in Des serviteurs fidèles. Les enfants de l’Arménie au service de l’état turc (Lyon: Sources d’Arménie, 2010), 27–37. Additionally, Vryonis mentions the case of the architect Kalūk ibn ʿAbdallāh in Konya who may have been of Armenian origin in Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 237. In this connection, one should note the later designation of the Balian family as architects to the Sublime Porte over several generations, on which see P. Tuğlacı, The Role of the Balian Family in Ottoman Architecture (Istanbul: Yeni Çığır, 1990). 58 For a study of this characteristically Armenian art form, see A. Ayvazian, Jułayǐ xachʻkʻarerě [The Cross-stones of Julfa] (Erevan: Husharjan, 1993). 59 See Manandian, The Trade and Cities of Armenia, 183. Patterns of Armeno-Muslim Interchange on the Armenian Plateau 87

The Urban Artisan Class

As indicated already, Armenians formed an important component in a number of cities in Anatolia within the Seljuq sphere, such as Sivas and Kayseri, and constituted the majority in others like Erzincan and Erzurum,60 as well as in those further east like Ani and Kars. Cahen and Ocak note the important role their artisan population played in those urban economies,61 though this field has yet to be investigated in detail. Vryonis highlights the role of Armenians and other minorities in the textile and rug industry,62 while we encounter other professions in some of the martyrologies, a tradesman in Kayseri (1204), a leatherworker in Bitlis who had been the apprentice of a Muslim master craftsman (1390), and a smith (1432), among others. However, perhaps the best insight into the life and work conditions of medieval Armenian artisans is provided by the material culture of Ani, especially the subterranean section, which still preserves their spaces for manufacturing, storage, and sales.63 Apparently, tradesmen and merchants possessed some form of corporate representation in the city, though formal guild structures with by-laws do not develop for several centuries.64 The significance of the urban Armenian artisan class continued into Ottoman times and was paralleled on the eastern section of the Armenian Plateau under Persian control.65 Since Islam formally prohibited the production and sale of wine, it follows that where this practice was tolerated, it became by default the monopoly of Christians or Jews. In our period wine production in Cilicia was appreciated for its quality.66 Similarly, there are reports from the Crimea of Armenians engaging in viticulture and wine export.67 Likewise, much disapproval of wine and pork

60 Cahen, The Formation of Turkey, 204. 61 Ibid., 212, and A.Y. Ocak, ‘Social, Cultural and Intellectual Life’, in The Cambridge History of Turkey, vol. 1: Byzantium to Turkey 1071–1453, ed. Kate Fleet (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 376. 62 Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 238. 63 See A. Zaryan, ‘Ani souterraine’, in Ani World Architectural Heritage of the Medieval Armenian Capital, ed. S.P. Cowe (Leuven: Peeters, 2001). 64 Although Ottoman Armenian artisans maintained their own guilds, they were also eligible for acceptance into Ottoman guilds. The initiation, however, bore certain resemblances to the Sufi-inspired rituals of the thirteenth-century futuwwas, which implied acknowledgement of Islam. Consequently, as an eighteenth-century source informs us, the process led to a certain degree of conversion within that section of the Armenian population. See Y.S. Anasean, T‘urk‘akan futuvvat‘ə ew hayerə, [The Turkish Fütüvvet and the Armenians] (Vienna: Mkhitarist Press, 1985), 98–113. 65 Worthy of special mention are the seventeenth-eighteenth century silversmiths of Sivas, Kayseri and Tokat (T‘ok‘at‘) and the potters of Kütahya. In the Persian sphere, for example, Armenians formed only 20 per cent of the population of Erevan, capital of the khanate of the same name, yet they dominated the various artisan professions and trade. 66 Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 239. 67 P. Heine, Weinstudien Untersuchingen zu Anbau, Produktion und Konsum des Weins im arabisch-islamischen Mittelalter (Wiesbadan: Harrassowitz, 1982), 53. 88 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia consumption by the large local Armenian community is voiced by Muslim commentators in Erzincan during the thirteenth century.

Cosmology and Medicine

Interestingly, the savant Yovhannēs Erznkats’i is an excellent embodiment of his advice to follow wisdom wherever it is to be found and to be prepared to learn from any source.68 In addition to his standard studies of theology, grammar, and the other subjects on the curriculum of the medieval monastic academy, and his futuwwa constitution (discussed below), he composed a widely-circulated treatise on cosmology that draws heavily on the Ismaʿili corpus, The Letters of the Brethren of Purity.69 At the same time, despite the common impression conveyed by general introductions to the Armenian Cilician state that its courtly ambience was largely defined by Frankish or West European norms,70 it should be noted that commissions of indigenous works or translations in the areas of medicine and the practical sciences were exclusively drawn from Arabic and Persian sources, a process which largely continued into the seventeenth century.71

Sufism and the Spread of Islam

Granted the relation, both metaphorical and actual, between intoxication and spiritual ecstasy, it is hardly surprising that Rūmī’s biographer Aflākī refers to his master’s visit to an Armenian inn in Konya, drawn by the sounds of a stringed instrument emanating from it by night. The result is that the group of Armenian wine bibbers visited Rūmī’s tekke next day and intimated their desire to become his pupils.72 In his famous description of the poet’s funeral several years later the author also highlights the presence of such Christian and Jewish pupils who maintained they understood the master’s teaching better than their Muslim counterparts.73 Hence, it is hardly surprising that Armenian ecclesiastics should have imbibed the spirit of Sufism in the thirteenth century when the

68 See S.B. Dadoyan, ‘The Constitution for the Brotherhood of Erznkay (1280) by Yovhannēs Erznkac‘i: An Armenianization of the Futuwwa Reform Project and Literature of Abbasid Caliph Al-Nāṣir li-dīn Allāh (d. 1225)’, Revue des études arméniennes 29 (2003–4): 117–65. 69 Arevshatyan, ‘Hovhannes Erznkats’i imastasirakan anhayt ashkhatutyunə’. 70 See, for example, Manandian, The Trade and Cities of Armenia, 175, and G. Dédéyan, Histoire des arméniens (Toulouse: Privat, 1982), 313–24. 71 For the characteristics of the medieval Armenian medical tradition, see S.P. Cowe, ‘“On Nature” by Išōx/Išō‘: Study of a 13th Century Cosmographical Treatise in its Linguistic and Cultural Milieu’, in Calliope, Mélanges offerts à Francine Mawet, ed. S. Vanséveren (Leuven: Peeters, 2010), 101–10. For the parallel reliance on the Arabic scholarly tradition on the past of the Turks of Anatolia, see Ocak, ‘Social, Cultural and Intellectual Life’, 342. It is significant that the Armenian physician and scholar Amirdovlat‘Amasiats’i (c.1420–96) became the private physician to Ottoman sultan Mehmet II. 72 Ocak, ‘Social, Cultural and Intellectual Life’, 359. 73 On this interchange, see ibid., 405. Patterns of Armeno-Muslim Interchange on the Armenian Plateau 89 movement was at its zenith. Rūmī’s settling in Konya provided an imposing centre from which the waves of influence radiated far and wide. Indeed, his son Sulṭān Walad composed verses in Turkish and Greek to disseminate Sufism among wider audiences, building on the common underlying Neoplatonic tradition.74 Moreover, as in the case of certain strands of Christian spirituality, it derived from roots in Gnosticism and Neoplatonism, which rendered the Sufi closer to monks than to his legalistic co-religionists. This explains Rūmī’s own spiritual discussions with the abbot of the nearby monastery of St Chariton. Thus, we note the impact of Sufic imagery, tone, symbolism, and theoeroticism on the Christian mystical expression of poets like Kostandin Erznkats’i of the thirteenth-fourteenth century. The Sufi made himself God’s willing slave and sought most of all to achieve unity (tawḥīd) with Him. That Kostandin, in borrowing the imagery of the tavern, sought thereby also to give it a particularly Christian focus seems justified by the final verse before the takhalluṣ of one of his poems. The union and pledge of allegiance is to be a nshan or sign: ‘When I drink the full glass of pomegranate wine which resembles your appearance.’ The clear allusion is to Holy Communion, when the believer, in uniting with the holy symbols, participates in the reality they make present, while this in turn becomes a type of its fulfilment in the heavenly banquet.75 Thus for the poet, in Sufi terms, the mosque becomes the tavern rather than its antithesis. For Kostandin, the realms of nature and grace are inextricably intertwined. In accord with this, his tavern poem begins with the variegated spring flowers opening and massing together in a single garden. Then the scene shifts to the poet and his friends where he invites all those in love to enter the garden. Restating this in its original terms, he says he has a firmān that all the flowers should appear before the Sultan-rose.76 The Sufi image of intoxication which he employs points beyond itself to the ecstasy of unmediated experience of the divine as interpreted philosophically by al-Ghazālī’s doctrine of intuitive cognition. Thus ʿilm (intellectual knowledge) is rejected in favour of maʿrifa (insight). Kostandin expresses this in his own terms in another verse: ‘Whoever has infinite knowledge is praised by men, but whoever lacks equal love, which is established as the base of knowledge, in his proud spirit has no inkling of divine knowledge … whoever loves God from a pure heart, him befits the door of wisdom and understanding.’77 Only by renunciation of the will can one overcome one’s alienation and attain that state. The cosmic significance of love is apparent in another stanza:

74 For the further spread of Islam in Anatolia through mixed marriages, see Ocak, ‘Social, Cultural and Intellectual Life’, 364. 75 There is naturally no indication of the Sufi doctrine of fanāʾ, or annihilation of the individual devotee in the process of union with the divine, in the works of Kostandin. 76 Kostandin Erznkats’i, Tałer [Poems], ed. A. Srapyan (Erevan: Armenian Academy of Sciences, 1962), 154. 77 Ibid., 160. 90 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

You are the original foundation of love, Of your love you gave a portion to men. Through love the sea remains within bounds, As you are the one to set it in bounds.

This unity with the life-giving force all pervasive in the universe is well expressed in another poem:

Today I became a spring breeze, I sing with love in the garden … Today my tale is stirred like the fountain, which issued from the rock … For Spring has come to all in common. Prison and confinement are no more.78

Kostandin also inaugurates a distinct Armenian poetic tradition developing the Persian trope of the Rose and the Nightingale that exploits imagery and symbolism akin to that of Sufi treatments like ʿAṭṭār’sManṭiq al-Ṭayr (Conference of Birds) in sustained allegorical compositions structured according to the prosody and rhyme schemes of practitioners of Turkish syllabic verse like Yunus Emre.79

The Impact of Persian Epic and Romance on Armenian Literature

As mentioned above, the westward displacement of Persian administrators and men of letters led to the wide dissemination of Persian culture in Anatolia over the thirteenth century. The civic munificence of the Mengüjekid family in Erzincan seems to have mirrored that of the sultans of Rūm in miniature. Their patronage of Persian literature is well illustrated by the dedication of Niẓāmī’s Makhzan al-Asrār to the ruler Bahrāmshāh in 1176. It is against this backdrop that we should view the parallel Armenian reception of Persian themes and structures and their integration into indigenous forms, some of which are witnessed by later Armenian poets of the same city. As the Seljuqs inscribed verses from the Shāh-nāma on the walls of Konya and Sivas and named their sons after some of its heroes, so we learn of reciters of the epic active in intoning portions of it in the presence of members of the Erzincan confraternity, who then asked Kostandin to compose something in the same mathnawī mutaqārib metre.80 We can presume that, in making the request, they had in mind a work in similar vein eulogizing heroic exploits and the delights of feasting and love. However, the result is the exact opposite, as

78 i.e. of winter. See ibid., Tałer, 131. 79 For this tradition, see S.P. Cowe, ‘The Politics of Poetics: Islamic Influence on Armenian Verse’, in Redefining Christian Identity: Cultural Interaction in the Middle East since the Rise of Islam, ed. J.J. Van Ginkel et al. (Leuven: Peeters, 2005), 391–6. 80 Kostandin Erznkats’i, Tałer, 209. Patterns of Armeno-Muslim Interchange on the Armenian Plateau 91 the opening invocation of the Trinity intimates. In fact, the whole is a cleverly constructed condemnation of such worldly pursuits. In Sufi terms the poet denounces being a slave to the body and the illusory transience of life. The cupbearer (sāqī), who is acknowledged as the guide to religious knowledge, in this case proffers worthless values, and the wine he purveys contains deadly poison. Yet in their heart’s concupiscence men do not perceive their imprisonment. Regardless of the outward attributes of bodily strength, status, and beauty, which they had been expecting to be extolled, those who follow that path end up as dry bones. Subsequently, the Armenians elaborated their own folk adaptation of sections of the Persian epic in the Ṙostam Zal, introducing into it characters and traits borrowed principally from the indigenous oral epic Sasna Tsṙer (Daredevils of Sasun). Like the latter, this too was only transcribed towards the end of the nineteenth century.81 We have already had occasion to note Niẓāmī’s connections with Erzincan. His romances Khusraw and Shīrīn and Layla and Majnūn enjoyed great celebrity at this time. Indeed the genre as a whole was so popular that we might expect it to have left some trace in contemporary Armenian literature. One of the most striking examples is a humorous satire of its lofty conventions in a stridently vernacular idiom82 composed by Yovhannēs Erznkats’i who pokes fun at himself in the work by portraying the protagonist as a homonymous celibate priest like himself who transgresses both ethnic and religious borders in addition to his monastic vow in his infatuation with the provocative daughter of a mullah in the work Yovhannēs and Asha.83 To maintain verisimilitude, the couple’s dialogue is generally rendered in Turkish. At the same time, the moral of the tale is clearly to shore up the community boundaries the hero has trampled on in the heat of passion as expressed in a more serious vein in some of the author’s other writings. Another Armenian poem set within a completely Persianate environment between the spheres of Mesopotamia and Khurasan (like those of Media and Merv in Vis and Ramin) that developed into its current form between the thirteenth

81 See B. Khalat‘eants’, Irani herosnerə hay žołovrdi mēǰ [The Iranian Heroes Among the Armenian People] (Paris: Banasēr Press, 1901), 45–79. 82 Kostandin is even less inhibited in using the Armenian dialect of Erznka, as is manifest, for example, from the rhymes indicating loss of diphthong. His language also incorporates many Arabic, Persian and Turkish terms which are clearly not the result of literary borrowing, but rather reflect the local Armenian speech patterns, on which, see A. Pisowicz, ‘How Did New Persian and Arabic Words Penetrate the Middle Armenian Vocabulary? Remarks on the Material in Kostandin Erznkac‘i’s Poetry’, in New Approaches to Medieval Armenian Language and Literature, ed. J.J.S. Weitenberg (Leiden: Rhodopi, 1995), 95–109. 83 For the text, see Yovhannēs Erznkats’i, Hovhannes Erznkats’in: usumnasirut‘yun ev bnagrer [Yovhannēs Erznkac‘i: Studies and Texts], ed. A. Srapyan (Erevan: Armenian Academy of Sciences, 1958), 163–71, and for an annotated English translation, Cowe, ‘The Politics of Poetics’, 400–03. 92 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia and fifteenth centuries is the Story of the Youth Farman.84 This work, which has been unwarrantedly neglected, is the earliest extensive verse treatment of the theme of secular love in Armenian between the protagonists Farman and his beloved Shahishapnur. Moreover, the close camaraderie between Farman and P‘ayp‘aṙ recalls that of Avtandil and Tariel in Rustaveli’s Man in the Panther’s Skin. Meanwhile, other facets of the piece are reminiscent of the third cycle of the Armenian oral epic treating David of Sasun in terms of the significance granted the hero’s martial exploits and the heroine’s agency in initiating their relationship. One might suspect that the Armenian tradition of scriptural transmission would be rather conservative as a repository of their unique religious identity, but here too cross-cultural contacts are perceived in Erzincan. As a further token of his prestige and authority, Bishop Sargis commissioned a sumptuous manuscript in 1269, still known as the Erznka Bible. Analysis of its programme of illumination reveals the painter’s eclectic tendencies. While he follows models emanating from the Cilician kingdom in figural composition, his approach to decorative floral marginalia, palm interlace and other ornamentation approximates more closely to Islamic styles.85

Professional Bards

In contrast to the figure of the court poet composing in Persian is a typeof bard often referred to by the Turkish term ozan in the fourteenth-fifteenth centuries in both the Turkic and Armenian traditions in addition to the older nomenclature of gusan.86 Although the brief generalised image recurring in Armenian ecclesiastical literature is of a bard singing disreputable bawdy songs, usually to the accompaniment of a stringed instrument, at various festivals and gatherings, the martyrology of Yovhannēs Khlat‘ets’i affords us a fascinating vignette into the life and practice of one of these singers.87 A 20-year-old youth from the important commercial centre of Ahlat (Khlat‘),88 he straddles the local ethno-religious divide in performing equally for the Armenian public as well

84 For the text, see S. Nazaryan (ed.), Patmut‘iwn Farman Mankann [Story of the Youth Farman] (Erevan: Armenian Academy of Sciences, 1957), 51–185. 85 B. Narkiss, Armenian Art Treasures of Jerusalem (Jerusalem: Massada Press, 1979). 66–74. 86 S.P. Cowe, ‘Models for the Interpretation of Medieval Armenian Poetry’, in New Approaches to Medieval Armenian Language and Literature, ed. J.J.S. Weitenberg (Leiden: Rhodopi, 1995), 43. 87 See Y. Manandean and H. Achaṙean, Hayots’nor vkanerə (1155–1883) (Val̷arshapat, 1903), 284–98, and Cowe, ‘Martyrology of the Youth Yovhannēs Xlat‘ec‘i’, in Christian–Muslim Relations: A Bibliographical History, vol. 5: (1350–1500), ed. D.R. Thomas (Leiden and Boston, MA: Brill, 2013), 370–74. 88 The significance of the Armenian community there is highlighted by a flourishing school of manuscript illumination. Patterns of Armeno-Muslim Interchange on the Armenian Plateau 93 as the Kurdish amīr Sayf al-Dīn,89 introducing Armenian liturgical works into his repertoire to acclaim before the latter. However, it is suggested that this prominence was problematic for members of the Kurdish community who fabricated the charge before the amīr’s son that he had had intercourse with a Muslim woman dancer. The youth’s familiarity with both religious traditions and his ability to negotiate his path between them is another intriguing element of the narrative. While following a strict Armenian fast, he is able to prevaricate before some officials who pressure him to share table fellowship with them by responding that he was devoting himself to Khiḍr for a few days, the source of poetic inspiration in the Islamic tradition.90

Mongol Rule on the Plateau (1243–1335)

Reception of the Mongol invasion played a major role in determining Anatolian history from the mid-thirteenth to the mid-fourteenth centuries. Whereas the Georgians and Seljuqs, after a period of significant expansion, chose to decide the issue on the battlefield, Armenians in both the east and west remained true to their tradition of accepting external oversight and benefited appreciably from this policy.91 In both cases this meant exchanging local suzerainty for one more distant and finding themselves united within the borders of a larger state which privileged communications and interchange. For the kingdom of Cilicia this meant transferring the Seljuq suzerainty the state had borne from at least 1228 initially for that of the Great Khan in Qaraqorum and then the Ilkhan in Sultaniyya/Tabriz from 1256. Moreover, the Rubenid-Het‘umid royal house was permitted internal autonomy in contrast to the multi-tiered administrative structure set in place in the sultanate of Konya, dividing the realm between heirs under the oversight of the Mongol-appointed regent (parwāna). In external affairs, the Mongol sack of Baghdad in 1258 and the near contemporary rise of the Mamluks in Egypt rendered it inevitable that a power struggle should ensue over control of Greater Syria, already reflected in the battle of ʿAyn Jālūt. Moreover, unresolved issues of delineating the border between the Ilkhanate and the Golden Horde led to the latter’s alliance with the Mamluks,92 while discontented elements among the Seljuq leadership in Rūm migrated to Egypt where they added their voice to the emergent anti-Ilkhanid alliance. The violent clash that erupted between the two sides in the second half of the 1270s highlighted some of the underlying contrasts in Armenian and

89 For the Kurdish population in eastern Anatolia, see Ocak, ‘Social, Cultural and Intellectual Life’, 361. 90 See T. van Lint, ‘The Gift of Poetry: Khidr and John the Baptist as Patron Saints of Muslim and Armenian Āšiqs–As̄ułs’, in Redefining Christian Identity: Cultural Interaction in the Middle East since the Rise of Islam, ed. J.J. Van Ginkel et al. (Leuven: Peeters, 2005), 335–78. 91 See Bedrosian, ‘Armenia during the Seljuq and Mongol Periods’, 259–67. One important consideration was the lack of a supervisory viceroy position like that of the parwāna representing Mongol interests directly either in Cilicia or in the east of the plateau. 92 C. Melville, ‘Anatolia under the Mongols’, in The Cambridge History of Turkey, 63. 94 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Seljuq relations with the Ilkhans best illustrated by the unfolding of events in the thriving cosmopolitan merchant and artisan centre of Erzincan (Erznka). To understand the deeper significance of the tensions between the parwāna Muʿīn al-Dīn Sulaymān and the Armenian Bishop Sargis it is necessary to contextualize the latter’s stance within its longer trajectory.

Armenian Elite Landholding Patterns: From Principality to Bishopric

Granted the significant disruption to the traditional pattern of Armenian aristocratic land holding in the western region of the Armenian Plateau and the demographic change associated with the relocation of the Bagratid monarchs and their court to Byzantine estates in Cappadocia in the eleventh century, the long-standing relation between those noble families and the largely coterminous ecclesiastical sees had been severed. However, a number of them took the step of constituting their holdings as a religious waqf93 under the oversight of the episcopal office, which was then transmitted in succession from uncle to nephew. Needless to say, the ethos of these prince-prelates (parontēr) differed from that of their purely ecclesiastical counterparts as they played a role closer to that of ethnarch as their community’s civil and religious leader. Since the local aristocracy, as has been noted, formed the traditional core of the Armenian polity, it is therefore at this social level rather than that of kingship that the imperative of striving both diplomatically and militarily to maintain autonomy was most keenly felt. The values of this class are well represented in the characterisation of the protagonist of a popular poem devoted to a representative of this class from this period who was famed for his horsemanship and martial training and actively engaged in political issues of the day which brought about his early demise.94 That Bishop Sargis belongs to this dynastic class is established by several colophons, such as one from 1266 copied ‘in the episcopate of the Lord Sargis the Great and under our Christ-crowned prince Paron Yovhannēs’.95 The relationship between the two men is spelled out in another of 1269 describing Yovhannēs as Sargis’ lawful son and mentioning his grandsons Nersēs and Grigoris, the former of whom was to succeed him.96 That the see remained in family hands is suggested by colophons of 1391 and 1477. Meanwhile, a colophon of 1272 categorises the period as one of ‘peace for the Christians’ and hence beseeches that ‘their days be prolonged’.97 This is supported by Sargis’ ability to rebuild the diocesan cathedral and install

93 For the recognition of non-Muslim waqfs in Islamic society, see Ocak, ‘Social, Cultural and Intellectual Life’, 378. 94 A. Mnats’akanyan (ed.), ‘Miǰnadaryan hayrenasirakan mi norahayt poem’ [A Newly Discovered Medieval Patriotic Poem], Banber Matenadarani 8 (1967): 291–317. 95 A.S. Mat‘evosyan, Hayeren jeṙagreri hishatakaranner žg dar [13th Century Armenian Manuscript Colophons] (Erevan: Armenian Academy of Sciences, 1984), 340. 96 Mat‘evosyan, Hayeren jeṙagreri hishatakaranner žg dar, 376. 97 Ibid., 426. Patterns of Armeno-Muslim Interchange on the Armenian Plateau 95 a cross on the dome.98 Moreover, an encounter between the bishop and the Seljuq official Shams al-Dīn Yavtash back in 1261 is also revealing in detailing Armenian Theophany celebrations marked by processions of armed men with crosses atop their lances marching in solemn procession to the river Euphrates in commemoration of Christ’s baptism to the loud peel of bells. While Yavtash’s protestations against such open display of piety are rejected by the Ilkhan’s emissary accompanying him, the bishop informs them that on paying their annual tax assessment they were free to act as they pleased. It is significant that though the city of Erzincan under Sargis’ jurisdiction featured an Armenian majority, the broader region had been under Mengüjekid rule in the aftermath of Manzikert and since the 1240s had passed into the possession of the vizier Muhadhdhab al-Dīn, who was now succeeded by his son the parwāna Muʿīn al-Dīn (1261–1277). Hence, the bishop’s request to Abaqa Khan that the city be granted to him by an iqṭāʿ in return for the services of 500 horsemen per annum led to an inevitable collision with the parwāna in the context of the larger anti-Ilkhanid ferment of the time associated with Sultan Baybars’ campaigns in Syria (1275) and Cilicia (1276) and Rūm (1277) in which the parwāna’s complicity is implied. The latter first sought to discount the bishop’s appeal by arguing he was passing off many of his people as monastics to avoid his tax responsibilities and then arranged the execution of Sargis and his son for insubordination.99 While Baybars defeated the local Mongol troops at Elbistan in spring 1277 and retreated, when Abaqa Khan reached Anatolia in the month of July he suppressed the remaining opposition, eliminating the parwāna in the process. Significantly, Juwaynī’s mission to settle affairs in Rūm later that year incorporated Erzincan into the list of territories under direct Mongol command.100 Mongol troops were also stationed there for a few years to ease lingering tensions among the Turkmen. It is this aftermath that witnessed a reconstruction and redirection of the Armenian urban confraternity of Erzincan in 1280.

Urban Militia/Confraternities and Their Reformation

As they acquired a reputation for debauchery and loose living at the same time, a reform was instituted by caliph al-Nāṣir in the early thirteenth century. Since urban defence remained in the hands of these groups after the 1270s,101 the Armenian confraternity of Erzincan underwent a reform in the aftermath of the Mamluk campaign in the region and the tension between the Armenian bishop and the parwāna and local Turkmen forces. There the image of young manhood of the futuwwa, akhī and manuk in the Armenian instance was afforded a more

98 With this one might compare the similar achievements of Mkrtich‘Nałash, Armenian archbishop of Amida (1430-c.1469) who was also a lyric poet. 99 Melville, ‘Anatolia under the Mongols’, 66. 100 Ibid., 71. 101 See ibid., 100. 96 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia moral and spiritual interpretation encoded in a written constitution emphasising exemplary acts of benevolence under the close supervision of the hierarchy in contrast to their previous decadent hedonist culture.102 The latter lifestyle seems to have included intermarriage with the Turkish community, which in general must have been a much more widespread occurrence than Armenian sources might lead us to believe. The regulations governing communal affairs find close parallels in the provisions of a similar reform document in Persian composed by Nāṣirī for a Turkish confraternity in Sivas in the following decade.

Transformation in Religious Dynamics

In contrast to the reprisals provoked by the overtly political activities of Bishop Sargis in Erzincan with its majority Armenian population, in other situations with a different demographic balance the Christian minority gradually became more liable to arbitrary treatment by the local Muslim population.103 Emblematic of this trend is the case of the Armenian clergy of Harput (Kharberd) in 1290. The city was attacked during a series of campaigns prosecuted against targets in Syria and Anatolia by Sultan Qalāwūn and his son al-Ashraf that were to encompass Acre in 1291 and Hromgla (Rum Kale), seat of the Armenian catholicate, in 1292. Having seized the brother of the Persian commander Kharband Āghā to take into captivity in Egypt, the Mamluk general summoned the leading men to the palace hall to determine the amount of ransom to be levied on the city. While gathered there, the roof suddenly collapsed, killing the whole assembly. According to the martyrology, a group of Muslims singled out the Armenians as a scapegoat for the army’s ire, arguing that they had polluted the sanctity of the mosque by hanging a dog’s carcass at the door and placing its severed head in the mihrab. The upshot was that the local clergy were tortured and put to death, while the same fate awaited a group of 45 Armenian magnates but for the timely arrival of an armed force under the Mongol commander T‘at‘łara presumably dispatched by Arghun Khan to restore order.104

102 On the constitutions and its provisions, see R. Goshgarian, ‘Beyond the Social and Spiritual: Redefining the Urban Confraternities of Late Medieval Anatolia’, PhD dissertation, Harvard University, 2007; Rachel Goshgarian, ‘Opening and Closing: Coexistence and Competition in Associations Based on Futuwwa in Late Medieval Anatolian Cities,’ British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 40 no. 1 (2013): 36–52; and eadem, ‘Futuwwa in Thirteenth Century Rum and Armenia: Reform Movements and the Managing of Multiple Allegiances on the Seljuk Periphery’, in The Seljuks of Anatolia: Court and Society in the Medieval Middle East, eds A.C.S. Peacock and Sara Nur Yildiz (London: I.B. Tauris, 2013), and S.B. Dadoyan, ‘The Constitution for the Brotherhood of Erznkay (1280) by Yovhannēs Erznkac‘i: An Armenianization of the Futuwwa Reform Project and Literature of Abbasid Caliph Al-Nāṣir li-dīn Allāh (d. 1225)’, Revue des études arméniennes 29 (2003–4): 117–65. 103 This marks a development from the inauguration of Seljuq rule when catholicos Barseł Anets’i received a firman from Malikshāh in 1090 exempting the Armenian Church from taxes. See Turan, ‘Les souverains seldjoukides et leur sujets non-musulmans’, 69–70. 104 See Manandean and Achaṙean, Hayots’nor vkanerə, 104–18 and Cowe, ‘Dawit‘erēc‘Baluec‘i’, in Christian–Muslim Relations: A Bibliographical History, ed. D.R. Thomas, vol. 4 (1200–1350) (Leiden Patterns of Armeno-Muslim Interchange on the Armenian Plateau 97

Although the first anti-Christian massacres orchestrated by Nawrūz occurred soon after the political embrace of Islam by Arghun’s son Ghazan at his inauguration in 1295, I would argue that we need to revisit the older scholarly consensus of interpreting this as a precipitate and comprehensive watershed in Ilkhanid policy regarding Christianity. Among other factors supporting a more gradual transition in orientation is his brother and successor Öljeitü’s continuing appeals to Europeans for an anti-Mamluk entente. It is rather in the 1320s–30s as central Ilkhanid rule declined that sources indicate more intrusive measures such as compelling Armenian Christians to wear distinctive blue apparel and the application of the poll tax.105 Moreover, the more extreme anti- Christian outbursts that occurred periodically tended to be the machinations of ‘rogue’ commanders exploiting the prevailing unstable conditions. A powerful illustration of this transition is the tumultuous career of Timurtash, a scion of the Chupanid family whose influence grew during this final period of Ilkhanid rule. Appointed Mongol viceroy in Rūm in 1319, Timurtash sought to create an independent power base there and took advantage of the death of King Ōshin in 1320 to mount an abortive attack against Cilicia, perhaps coordinated with the campaign of the Mamluk sultan al-Nāṣir Muḥammad, a move which should be interpreted within the context of his broader pro-Mamluk leanings. His next acts characterise the more insubordinate and arbitrary treatment of Muslim officials toward Christians, which gradually becomes more frequent.106 Turning his attention to Greater Armenia, he looted the town of Vałarshapat and burned its cathedral, one of the iconic early centres of Armenian Christianity, a procedure he then repeated in Kayseri. Another facet of the interreligious tension that begins to emerge at this time is rivalry between local authority figures as qadis seek to assert their supremacy over the Armenian bishop of the city. Thus in 1321 Timurtash granted the qadi of Erzurum an edict to arrest and interrogate the Armenian bishop Grigor. When Grigor refused to apostasise after subjection to various tortures, Timurtash finally pronounced the death sentence upon him by the sword.107 A parallel case later in the century is the conduct of the equally independent qadi Burhān al- Dīn of Sivas (Sebasteia) against archbishop Step‘annos on the basis of a report in circulation regarding the prelate’s complicity in a failed revolt of 1387 to counter Burhān al-Dīn’s own coup against the local administrator to ensconce himself in power.108 When the hierarch and his entourage rejected the qadi’s demands to convert, he issued summary judgement to have them decapitated and instituted

and Boston, MA: Brill, 2012), 620–23. 105 On Timurtash demanding distinct clothing regulations for Christians and Jews in 1322, see Turan, ‘Les souverains seldjoukides et leur sujets non-musulmans’, 95. 106 Melville, ‘Anatolia under the Mongols’, 92. 107 See Manandean and Achaṙean, Hayots’nor vkanerə, 121–8, and Cowe, ‘Martyrology of Bishop Grigor of Karin (Erzurum)’, 794–7. This martyrology is particularly valuable for its discussion of the poll tax and the process of Armenian migration to Cilicia to escape those adverse conditions. 108 Melville, ‘Anatolia under the Mongols’, 96–7. 98 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia extortions against the clergy and the pillaging and destruction of church and monastery property.109 As noted already, the situation of purely ecclesiastical prelates differed in important respects from their counterparts like Bishop Sargis of Erzincan who represented older princely lines and continued to administer the remnants of their estates. Most of the latter were located in the east of the Plateau, which had experienced much less upheaval. Consequently, despite King Sennekerim’s relocation to Sebasteia in 1022, the once noble, now royal Artsruni family remained closely associated with the area south-east of Lake Van. There they constituted themselves a distinct catholicate in 1113 with jurisdiction over the surrounding dioceses, the office passing down in their line from uncle to nephew in unbroken succession until the see’s dissolution in the Hamidian massacres of 1895. While the Artsruni dynasty’s land capital at Ostan later became the seat of a Kurdish amirate, the family retained their control over the island of Aghtamar, which remained an Armenian enclave for several centuries. As such it could serve as a refuge for Armenians who fell foul of the Islamic authorities.110 In this connection the case of Tamar Mokats’i in 1397 is instructive. Becoming the object of the affections of a Kurd who planned to kill her husband and wed her himself, she moved to Aghtamar for security. However, she was recognised by some of the Kurdish population on a visit to Ostan who insisted that she was Muslim and had her stoned when she protested her Christian faith.111 Nevertheless, the island also became the site of a religious ‘turf war’ between the qadi of Ostan and catholicos Zak‘aria II in 1393. The judge wanted to leave his satchel in the catholicos’ residence for safekeeping, presumably as a token of his jurisdiction there and as a pretext for further interventions. Surrounded by a throng of Armenians, he retreated to the mainland where he immediately censured the hierarch to the amīr ʿIzz al-Dīn. When Zak‘aria refused the amīr’s demand to convert, the mob seized him and tortured him to death.112 Similarly, Siwnik‘ in the southeast of the Plateau had been a significant province whose aristocratic dynasty that had been elevated royal status in the early Middle Ages (987–1170). Thereafter it was inherited by two new noble houses, the Khałbakians and Ōrbēlians, the latter of Georgian origin that first operated under the aegis of the Georgian crown through the intermediate authority of the Erkaynabazuk family before accepting Mongol suzerainty in the 1240s. The Ōrbēlians in particular thrived under their rule, gaining the privilege of inju land tenure under direct Mongol administration and enjoying close relations with a succession of Ilkhans. In parallel with their secular

109 See Manandean and Achaṙean, Hayots’nor vkanerə, 137–50, and Cowe, ‘Martyrology of Archbishop Step‘annos Sebastac‘i’, 199–202. 110 The text highlights the increasing significance of majority Armenian enclaves at this time. Apart from Aghtamar, the city of Bitlis to the north-west of Lake Van is also frequently mentioned in this regard. 111 See Manandean and Achaṙean, Hayots’nor vkanerə, 186- 97, and Cowe, ‘Martyrology of T‘amar Mokac‘i’, 250–53. 112 See Manandean and Achaṙean, Hayots’nor vkanerə, 170–83 and Cowe, ‘Martyrology of Zak‘aria, Catholicos of Ałt‘amar’, 216–19. Patterns of Armeno-Muslim Interchange on the Armenian Plateau 99 administration of the region they gradually acquired ecclesiastical jurisdiction, so that the judgements of their metropolitans carried the weight of the family’s temporal power. Hence, it is understandable that on learning that one of his monks had fallen in love with a local girl and that they had decided to find refuge in a nearby Muslim village where the former monk had approached the qadi about accepting Islam, archbishop Step‘annos immediately rode there with a large force, forcibly returning the monk to his monastery and placing the woman in a nunnery. At some point complaints against his highhandedness were voiced to Khalīl, the brother of Yaʿqūb, son and successor of Uzun Ḥasan of the Aqquyunlu in Tabriz in the late 1470s, who summoned him to the palace on the pretext of honouring him, thereafter subjecting him to various tortures for about five years before his sister’s appeal to the Begum, the ruler’s mother, was successful in securing his release.113

Christian–Muslim Debate

The Armenians’ early encounter with Islam in the context of the caliphate was mentioned at the outset. In fact, the historian Sebēos writing in the second half of the seventh century provides one of the first external accounts of the rise of the religion.114 Moreover, the epistolary exchange between the Byzantine emperor Leo III and caliph ʿUmar II and the account of the debate between the Nestorian catholicos Timothy and the caliph al-Mahdī that occurred in c.782 were translated into Armenian along with other similar materials at quite an early stage.115 Nevertheless, apart from brief exchanges between the noble Grigor Magistros and an amīr Ibrāhīm who was Armenian on his mother’s side and Muslim on his father’s in the mid-eleventh century,116 there is little substantive discussion of religious questions at issue between the two communions until the second half of the fourteenth century. From the beginnings of Christian anti- Muslim polemic, one facet of the movement had always been inner confessional apologetics to bolster the swithering allegiance of the faithful by revealing the implausibility of the other community’s account of the supernatural or miraculous and pointing out the logical inconsistencies in their argumentation. It is likely that both were factors in inspiring these works, as evidenced by accounts of the 1420s from the Van region that indicate the degree to which the matter had become one of existential concern. The more heightened incidence of conversion in this period is illustrated by the case of the priest Petros from the town of Hizan (Khizan) with a large Armenian population and the celibate

113 See Manandean and Achaṙean, Hayots’nor vkanerə, 313–19, and Cowe, ‘Martyrology of the Confessor Step‘annos’, 549–52. 114 Thomson, The Armenian History Attributed to Sebeos, 95–114. 115 See Jeffrey, ‘Ghevond’s Text of the Correspondence between Umar II and Leo III’, 269–332, and Cowe, ‘Preliminary Investigation of the Earliest Extant Version of the Dialogue between Nestorian Catholicos Timothy 1 and Caliph al-Mahdī’. 116 See Grigor Magistros, Grigor Magistrosi t‘łt‘erə [Gregory Magistros’ Letters], ed. K‘. Kostaneants’(Alexandrapol: Tparan Georg Sanoyeantsi, 1910), 170–201. 100 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia priest Step‘annos from the nearby monastery of Gamaliēl who decided to renounce their faith for unspecified reasons, causing several of the local Armenian community to follow suit.117 A rare exception to the trend is provided by the married Armenian layman from the village of Tatvan on the southern shore of Lake Van who was determined to leave his family in order to visit the monasteries in the region. On learning that the Kurdish amīr Shamshaddin (Shams al-Dīn) of the Rusaki dynasty in Bitlis was ill-disposed to Christians and sought to convert them to Islam, he decided to challenge the leader to a debate in which he displayed knowledge of the fundamental issues usually addressed in such exchanges. The first of the two primary texts referred to above was composed by the scholar Matt‘ēos Jułayets’ǐ on the island of Aghtamar in Lake Van in 1390 at the request of Abisołom, a member of the lower gentry, who had been harassed on the subject of his faith and religious practices by the mulla Dānishmand ʿAlī. The seven points it addresses may be subdivided into two Christian doctrines (Christ’s divinity and his title as ‘Son of God’) rejected by Islam together with the Muslim acknowledgement of Muḥammad’s prophethood denied by Christians followed by four ritual issues, one Christian rite (prostration towards the East) rejected by Muslims and three Islamic rites (circumcision, ablution, and the Ramadan fast) opposed by Christians.118 The second, which embraces sixteen points, was composed as part of the first volume of Grigor Tat‘ewats’i’s Book of Questions of 1397 in which the author treats the errors of non-Christian religions. The issues handled beyond those of Matt‘ēos include the belief in God as the common source of good and evil, that of the mortality of angels and the physicality of the resurrection as well as the ritual rejection of wine, opposition to religious representation by means of the cross and images, and dietary regulations.119 It is significant that both authors are associated with some of the most important monastic academies of the era in the east of the Plateau in the southern region of Siwnik‘ under the patronage of the Ōrbēlian house, one of the areas to maintain continuity throughout this period and into the next.

Religious Minorities’ Secondary Status

As Muslims became the majority in most regions of the Plateau and the dynamics between the communities changed, under which religious minorities were accorded a secondary status, any perception of undue prominence or major

117 Both later recanted for which suffered the death penalty. See Manandean and Ačaṙean, Hayots’nor vkanerə, 245–62, and Cowe, ‘Martyrology of Mirak‘Tawrizec‘i’, 346–50. 118 See S.B. Dadoyan, ‘Islam and Armenian Political Strategies at the End of an Era: Matt‘eos Jowlayec‘i and Grigor Tat‘ewac‘i’, Le Muséon 114 (2001): 305–26. A critical edition of this text is currently in progress. 119 See S.B. Dadoyan, ‘Grigor of Tatev: Treatise against the Tajiks’, Islam and Christian–Muslim Relations 7 (1996): 193–204. For the later debate in Safavid times, see Yovhannēs Jułayets’i,̌ Girk‘vichabanut‘ean aṙ Shah Slēmann Parsic‘[Book of the Debate before the Persian Shāh Sulaymān] (Calcutta: Yovsep‘ Stepanosean Press, 1797). Patterns of Armeno-Muslim Interchange on the Armenian Plateau 101 initiative on the part of the latter was liable to provoke an intolerant response. One example of this is afforded by Yovhannēs, the reformist Armenian bishop of Muş, north-west of Lake Van, who in the 1460s set about rebuilding the churches in his seat at the venerable monastery of St John the Baptist. This conspicuous activity attracted the attention of the local Kurdish community, some of whom complained to the amīr Khalīl that, in the process, he had demolished a mosque to provide building materials. Certainly, the original church erected in the fourth century occupied the site of an imposing pagan temple complex.120 More recently, too, it was widespread practice to reemploy masonry from Christian churches in constructing mosques (e.g. the Sahip Ata Camii of 1258 in Konya and the Zazadin Han of 1235–36 that utilised classical materials and Christian tombstones). Transferred for trial to the amīr of Bitlis of the Rusaki dynasty, he was summarily sentenced to death, the judgement swiftly carried out by the mob.121 Another case relates to Mirak‘, a wealthy Armenian magnate of Tabriz, in 1486 who, it appears, had been successful in rebuilding one of the Armenian churches in the city by means of lavish bribes to officials after it had been demolished by the Muslim authorities and in protecting it from further demands for its destruction by gifts of even greater largesse. Regarding this as an affront to Islam, one of the courtiers demanded that Mirak‘ convert and, upon his refusal, decapitated him by the sword, while the mob attacked the church. However, the Aqquyunlu maintained relations with Christian states, including Trebizond, Uzun Ḥasan’s wife being Theodora Megale Komnena, who was now begum during the reign of her son Yaʿqūb. Thus, when the Armenians appealed to her, she informed her son, who in turn exacted the same punishment from his courtier for insubordination. Meanwhile, a second courtier, disconcerted at the pomp of Mirak‘’s burial, orchestrated an even more elaborate funeral for the first courtier, whom he proclaimed a martyr. However, he, too, along with his troops, was dishonoured by facial disfigurement and sentenced to death. These events well illustrate the key niche that merchants like Mirak‘ occupied in the economy and the importance of such considerations in determining the priorities of contemporary heads of states.

Competing Models of Armenian Corporate Identity

In this era we also observe the matrix of the subsequent debate of the early modern period regarding the fundamental characteristics of the Armenian collective either as a people with a tradition of monarchy and statehood and an active hope in their future reestablishment or as a religious community constituted by its tradition of faith and praxis, viewing its goal as union with the

120 See Manandean and Achaṙean, Hayots’nor vkanerə, 322–8, and Cowe, ‘Martyrology of Mirak‘Tawrizec‘i’, 553–6. 121 See Manandean and Achaṙean, Hayots’nor vkanerə, 299–304 and Cowe, ‘Martyrology of Yovhannēs bishop of Tarōn’, 478–80. 102 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia divine in this world and the next. One of the most influential texts embodying the former perspective is the lament on the fall of Edessa to the Turkmen forces of Zangī in 1144 by Nersēs Shnorhali, brother of the contemporary Armenian catholicos.122 Although it might initially appear self-serving to direct attention from the destruction of the Crusader County, the impulse for the Second Crusade, to an evocation of the ancient Armenian dynasty of the Arsacids (ll. 116–129) and the more recent Bagratid kingdom and its capital at Ani (ll. 130–173), there are several grounds for this identification. The city’s current Armenian population was very large, perhaps even the majority, while the Normans under Baldwin of Boulogne had gained possession of it from an Armenian commander T‘oros. Moreover, by the fifth century, Armenians had redacted the Syriac legend of the city’s Christianisation as a basis for their own, and the later historian Movsēs Khorenats’i had integrated Edessa into the received tradition to such a degree that both the city and its ruler King Abgar (d. AD 50) were deemed Armenian.123 Similarly, later tiers of symbolism had associated the apostle Addai (Thaddaeus), traditionally the evangelizer of Edessa, with the fourth-century coordinator of Armenian Christianity, St Gregory the Illuminator.124 Shnorhali’s work also belongs to the twelfth-century genre of Armenian apocalyptic speculation concerning the role of the Franks in bringing about the ultimate liberation of the Christian nations from Muslim oppression (ll. 958–1017).125 The poem’s popularity was such that it fuelled several embassies to the pope and Christian monarchs over the sixteenth-eighteenth centuries.126 The core constituency that sustained those efforts was the descendants of the Ōrbēlian family in Siwnik‘, which, ironically, as we have mentioned above, was of Georgian origin. Emerging from the mayhem of Timur’s three catastrophic campaigns at the turn of the fifteenth century, their scions gained the support of the Qaraquyunlu leader Iskandar, who appointed one of them as his subordinate in Erevan with jurisdiction over the Ayrarat province, which largely corresponds to the territory of the later Khanate of Erevan and the current post-Soviet Armenian Republic. Meanwhile, his son Jihānshāh restored several other representatives of the house to their positions in other parts of Siwnik‘ and what is now Karabagh, constituting the nucleus of the Armenian aristocratic element that was to militate for the reinstitution of a dynastic monarchy in the

122 St Nerses Shnorhali, ‘Elegie sur la prise d’Edesse’ in Recueil des Historiens des Croisades: Documents arméniens (Paris: Académie des inscriptions et belles-lettres, 1869), vol. 1, 226–68; English trans. in Theo van Lint, ‘Seeking Meaning in Catastrophe: Nerses Shnorhali’s Elegy on Edessa’ in East and West in the Crusader States, vol. 2: Contexts, Contacts, Confrontations, ed. K. Cigaaar and H. Teule (Leuven: Peeters, 1999), 29–106. 123 R.W. Thomson, Moses Khorenatsi: History of the Armenians (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1978), 163–79. 124 On this, see Girk‘t‘łt‘ots’ (Tiflis: 1901), 78, 189. 125 For further details, see Z. Pogossian, The Letter of Love and Concord: A Revised Diplomatic Edition with Historical and Textual Comments and English Translation (Leiden and Boston, MA: Brill, 2010). 126 S.P. Cowe, ‘Print Capital, Corporate Identity, and the Democratization of Discourse in Early Modern Armenian History’, Le Muséon 126, nos. 3–4 (2013): 343–5. Patterns of Armeno-Muslim Interchange on the Armenian Plateau 103 traditionalist mold in discussions first with various West European powers and then with Russia under Peter the Great.127 The contrastive view of Armenians forming an ecclesiastical polity is clearly espoused by the mid-fifteenth-century scholar-bishop Mkrtich‘ Nałash of Diyarbakır, who reflects on the demise of the Rubenid dynasty in Cilicia as follows: ‘God’s providence removed from us fleshly government, for, if earthly monarchical rule were a good thing, Christ himself would have participated in fleshly monarchical rule, but [instead] he disdained it and preached the cross and torments for his followers.’128 However, I would argue that its roots are to be detected in a unique approach to interpreting the Alexander Romance by the abbot Khach‘atur Kech‘aṙets’i in the 1320s. Since Late Antiquity, texts regarding the Macedonian conqueror had begun to infiltrate various literatures (including Armenian) from the Greek tradition and via the Syriac version, then entered Arabic, Persian, Middle Mongolian (thirteenth century), and Ottoman Turkish (fourteenth century).129 In those contexts, the protagonist emerges as a skilful tactician, fighter, and administrator, as reflected in allusions to him by the continuator of the tenth-century Armenian historian T‘ovma Artsruni who avers with calculated hyperbole that the design and execution of King Gagik I’s capital at Ostan surpass Alexander’s achievements in Alexandria.130 In similar vein the Mamluk sultan al-Ashraf (d. 1293) is likened to the Macedonian on some of his monuments in Cairo. Khach‘atur’s point of departure may reflect the decline in Armenian fortunes alluded to above with the demise of central Ilkhanid rule, the repeated Mamluk attacks on Cilicia, the more insistent papal demands for Armenian doctrinal and liturgical conformity, and the ascendancy of Islam in the east. Rather than further develop Alexander’s emblematic status as a model for future warriors and statesmen, Khach‘atur proposes a new hermeneutic, viewing the hero as a typological anticipation of the divine economy of salvation in Christ as New Testament writers perceived figures and events in the Old, approaching the romance from a perspective comparable to Philo’s Platonic interpretation of the Old Testament account of the patriarchs or Eusebius’ reading of pre-Christian history as a Praeparatio evangelica. He explores this viewpoint in a series of verses commenting on the original prose text and recapitulating the symbolism

127 A. Hovhannisyan, Drvagner hay azatagrakan mtk‘i patmut‘yan [Episodes in the History of Armenian Liberation Thought], vol. 1 (Erevan: Armenian Academy of Sciences, 1956), 44–9. 128 Cowe, ‘Print Capital, Corporate Identity, and the Democratization of Discourse’, 345. 129 For three versions of the Armenian Alexander Romance, see H. Simonyan (ed.), Patmut‘iwn Ałek‘sandri makedonats’woy [History of Alexander of Macedon] (Erevan: Armenian Academy of Sciences, 1989), 69–489, and for an English translation of one in widest circulation, A. Wolohojian, The Romance of Alexander the Great by Pseudo-Callisthenes Translated from the Armenian Version (New York: Columbia University Press, 1969). 130 See R.W. Thomson, Thomas Artsruni: History of the House of the Artsrunik‘ (Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press, 1985), 90–91. 104 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia in an appendix enumerating nineteen facets in which Alexander prefigures the incarnation.131 The growing alignment between ethnic and confessional signifiers is manifested in the martyrology of the simple Armenian peasant Amēnawag Derjants’i from the village of Kaṙnberdak near Erzurum in 1335. His court case before a certain Amīr Maḥmūd and qadi Amīr Ḥasan resulted from an altercation with a Muslim creditor who wanted to impound his pack animal as a surety for his repayment of the debt. Witnesses contended that his statements could be construed as renouncing his faith despite his continued protestation that he had always been Armenian and Christian, his resoluteness leading to the enforcement of the death penalty.132 Later ecclesiastics pursued such confessional insights to their logical conclusion, arguing for modelling the Armenian community on the type of theocracy embodied in ancient Israel. Thus the views of Mkrtich‘ Nałash in the fifteenth and Karapet Bałishets’i in the following century clearly espouse an Islamic concept of Armenian corporate identity that emerged particularly in the west of the Plateau as a non-territorial religious entity. This outlook, which adumbrates the Ottoman category of millet as applied to the dhimmīs,133 was to enter into dialogue with the preceding aristocratic perspective and other more modernist paradigms depending on the Enlightenment that circulated in diasporas outside the Armenian Plateau in the course of the renewed debate on Armenian identity in the second half of the eighteenth century.134

Conclusion

In the foregoing I have tried to argue for the importance of periodicity and the application of a developmental model in seeking to grasp the course of Armeno- Islamic relations over the period under review and the need to coordinate data at the micro level with the broader sweep of events at the macro level. While documenting the inevitable decrease in Armenian political autonomy especially in the west of the Armenian Plateau, I have sought to demonstrate some of the multiple ways in which Armenian communities, families, and individuals retained agency, to maximise their potential to exploit opportunities within the increasingly Islamic majority culture. Finally, I would maintain that the

131 On this, see Khach‘atur Kech‘aṙets’i, Khach‘atur Kech‘aṙets’i XIII–XIV dd. [Khach‘atur Kech‘aṙets’i 13th–14th cc.], ed. M.T‘. Avdalbegyan (Erevan: Armenian Academy of Sciences, 1956), 169–88 and H.A. Simonyan, Hay miǰnadaryan kafaner (X–XVI dd.) [Medieval Armenian Kafa Verses 10th–16th cc.] (Erevan: Armenian Academy of Sciences, 1975), 64–84. 132 See Manandean and Achaṙean, Hayots’nor vkanerə, 129–33, and S.P. Cowe, ‘Yovhannēs vardapet’, in Christian–Muslim Relations: A Bibliographical History, ed. D.R. Thomas, vol. 4 (1200–1350) (Leiden and Boston, MA: Brill, 2012), 911–13. 133 See M. Ashjian, ‘The Millet System’, in Armenian Church Patristic and Other Essays (New York: The Armenian Prelacy, 1994), 241–8. 134 For the general contours of the debate, see Cowe, ‘Print Capital, Corporate Identity, and the Democratization of Discourse’, 333–62. Patterns of Armeno-Muslim Interchange on the Armenian Plateau 105 patterns of interchange revealed in this period shed valuable light on Armeno- Turkish and Armeno-Persian relations on the Plateau in the succeeding era of Islamicate empires.135

135 G. Bournoutian, ‘Eastern Armenia from the Seventeenth Century to the Russian Annexation’, in The Armenian People from Ancient to Modern Times, ed. R.G. Hovannisian, vol. 2 (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1997), 85–9, 91–3, and Barsoumian, ‘The Eastern Question and the Tanzimat Era’, in The Armenian People from Ancient to Modern Times, ed. R.G. Hovannisian, vol. 2 (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1997), 182–99. This page has been left blank intentionally Chapter 4 The Rape of Anatolia Scott Redford1

This chapter aims to cast a critical eye on the way relations between ruler and ruled, Muslim and Christian, and men and women are recounted in modern accounts of the history of medieval Anatolia. It consists of two parts: first a critique of scholarship, and second, an attempt to use a particular kind of contemporaneous source, the waqfiyya, to provide an alternative point of view. While the subject of rape, used literally, or metaphorically to mean prolonged or institutionalised sexual subjugation of women by men is not often treated in the Islamic scholarly literature, rape is such a prominent feature of classical antiquity, and mythological tales like that of Zeus and Io took place (at least partially) in Anatolia itself, that reference will also be made here to the scholarship on this subject in classical studies.2 A collection of essays entitled Rape in Antiquity was published in 1997 provides a link between the classical and the medieval. Edited by two classicists, this volume contains articles addressing, among other things, rape as represented in Greek vase painting, in Roman drama, bestiality, homosexual rape, and the presentation of rape by Greek historians. With rape of humans and animals a not uncommon activity on the part of some of the gods of the Greco-Roman pantheon, the subject of sexual coercion of women by men and the outcome of these rapes are prominent enough subjects to demand and justify scholarly investigation, despite the repugnance of the topic and the word. And, since prominent stories of divine–human rape involve metamorphosis of gods or mortals into animals or birds, the transformative effects of rape, in the form of the outcome of these couplings, is another part of the subject matter of rape in classical antiquity. I will briefly take up this aspect of the subject at the end of this chapter. Only two of the 12 papers in Rape in Antiquity concerned the post Greco- Roman world. Of the two papers dealing with subjects in the post-classical world, one was authored by a classicist, Keith Hopwood, with an abiding interest in medieval Anatolia, and a knowledge of both Turkish and Greek language source material. Hopwood’s paper in this volume is entitled ‘Byzantine princesses and lustful Turks,’ and largely, although not exclusively, consists of a critique of the

1 Author’s note. In addition to the editors, I would like to thank Kevin Reinhart. 2 Most of the literature I have been able to find is not related to historical or cultural studies, but rather legal/theological studies, see, e.g. Delfina Serrano, ‘Rape in Maliki Legal Doctrine and Practice (8th–15th Centuries C.E.)’, Hawwa: Journal of Women of the Middle East and the Islamic World 5, nos 2–3 (2007): 166–207. 108 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia work of Anthony Bryer on dynastic intermarriage between Turks and Greeks.3 Of course imperial or royal princesses have, in many dynasties, and many civilisations, been married, against their will, in order to seal alliances between both friend and foe alike. The Byzantines were no strangers to this practice, but, until the last centuries of Byzantine rule, Byzantine emperors never married women of the royal household to rulers who were non-Christians. Specifically, Hopwood objects to Bryer’s comparison of Turkish–Greek political relations in the late Byzantine period to those of Turkish men and Greek women.4 As elsewhere, in the medieval Islamic world, military and sexual conquest often went hand in hand. In the thirteenth century, Seljuq sultan ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn Kayqubād married one of his wives, Mahparī Khātūn, after her father, the Christian ruler of Kalonoros (Alanya), had surrendered the town to him. Later in his reign, he married his cousin, ʿIṣmat al-Dunyā wa’l-Dīn, after conquering Erzurum, where she lived, from its ruler, her brother, whom he likely killed.5 The major chronicler of the Seljuq dynasty in Anatolia, Ibn Bībī, also associates the two kinds of conquest. He describes the marriage of Sultan ʿIzz al-Dīn Kaykāʾūs and the Mengücekid princess Saljūqī Khātūn using military imagery: on his wedding night, the sultan ‘plants his standard in the city of pleasure’ – a metaphor closely connected to descriptions in the same chronicle of victorious troops planting the sultanic banner on the walls of a conquered city. The opposite was also true: an inscription of the thirteenth-century Ayyubid queen Ḍayfa Khātūn from Aleppo calls her ‘the elevated veil, the impervious ḥijāb’; these adjectives are most often used at the time to describe fortifications difficult to overcome.6

3 Keith Hopwood, ‘Byzantine Princesses and Lustful Turks’, in Rape in Antiquity, ed. Susan Deacy and Karen Pierce (London: Duckworth, 1997), 231–42. The works of Anthony Bryer that Hopwood quotes in this article are ‘Greeks and Turks’, in Greece Old and New, ed. Tom Winnifrith and Penelope Murray (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1983) and ‘Greek Historians on the Turks: The Case of the First Byzantine-Ottoman Marriage’, in Anthony Bryer, People and Settlement in Anatolia and the Caucasus, (London: Variorum, 1988). 4 Hopwood, ‘Byzantine Princesses’, 239: ‘To use forced marriage as a hermeneutic of the narrative of Byzantine decline or to work with the metaphor, is to sidestep the issue of Byzantine women’s own experiences when Byzantium was ceasing to be.’ 5 Scott Redford, ‘Paper, Stone, Scissors: ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn Kayqubād, ʿIṣmat al-Dunyā wa’l-Dīn, and the Writing of Seljuk History’, in The Seljuks of Anatolia: Court and Society in the Medieval Middle East, ed. A.C.S. Peacock and S.N. Yıldız (London: I.B. Tauris, 2013), 151–70. 6 Ibn Bībī, El-Evāmirü’l-‘Alā’iyye fi’l-Umūri’l-‘Alā’iyye (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1956), 181: ʿalam-i sulṭān bih shahr-i dhawq bifirisht. See Ernst Herzfeld, Matériaux pour un Corpus Inscriptionum Arabicarum, deuxième partie, Syrie du nord: inscriptions et monuments d’Alep (Cairo: Imp. de l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale, 1954–56), vol. 1, Part 2, 297–8, for the text in which the Ayyubid Queen Ḍayfa Khātūn refers to herself in the foundation inscription of the Firdaws Madrasa (1236) as al-sitr al-rafīʿ wa’l-ḥijāb al-manīʿ, literally the elevated veil and the impervious ḥijāb. Herzfeld translates this as ‘le voile vertueux, la voilée chaste’, but writes on 298, n. 3, after quoting a dictionary definition of manīʿ as chaste, the following: ‘Mais il faut savoir que n’a ce sens qu’en figuré, de meme que rafiʿ. Les deux termes sont des termes de fortification.’ Ḍayfa Khātūn was born in the Aleppo citadel and married her cousin al-Ẓāhir al- Ghāzī, the main constructor of the citadel’s walls and towers, so the terms probably describe her life, both in general as a secluded royal woman, and in particular due to the construction activity during her husband’s reign. The Rape of Anatolia 109

I will not dwell further on the subject of dynastic marriage, coerced or uncoerced, because élite marriage is not the subject of this chapter.7 Here, I aim to talk in more general terms of the place of women and family in medieval Anatolia. Still, I begin with Hopwood’s paper for two reasons. First, it questions the assumption that underlying cultural and religious transformation in medieval Anatolia are only two bodies, that of a Muslim Turkish man and a Christian Greek woman. Second, it offers some sense of historical choice for women, albeit elite Byzantine women, whose persons were offered up for war and peace. Despite its élite focus, near its end, Hopwood’s article contains the following sentence: ‘(Even so), we must not forget the nameless Theodosias, Marias, and Irenes, in towns and villages across Asia Minor, who contributed their persons, genes, and culture to the making of Turkey.’8 In other words, in the end, Hopwood, despite his scepticism, accepts the cliché of a larger conquest and domination of a female Christian Anatolia by a male Turkish Muslim invader, and a role for women defined by childbearing and childrearing. What, you might say, was there a choice? Was Anatolia not conquered from Christians by Muslims? Does not Islamic law forbid the opposite, that is, the marriage of a non-Muslim man to a Muslim woman without his converting to Islam? Twentieth-century historians of medieval Anatolia – and they are mostly male, accept this ‘truth’, although for their own ideological or intellectual reasons. When women occur in the chronicles of the time, they are members of the upper classes, with once again, their role is defined by marriage and motherhood. Speros Vryonis accepts the truth of what he always refers to as ‘marriage’ between Christian Greek women and Muslim Turkish men. Although he does not state this in reference to Byzantine accounts of the ‘lustful Turks’ of Hopwood’s title, despite admitting their exaggeration, he notes a ‘substantial and significant truth’ in contemporaneous Byzantine accounts of wars and battles in medieval Anatolia.9 In talking of mixovarvaroi (children of Turkish fathers and Christian mothers), he writes the following: ‘Though this phenomenon of intermarriage and the appearance of a new generation of mixovarvaroi is only briefly mentioned by the sources, one must assume that it was no rare or isolated occurrence.’10 In sum, Vryonis maintains that widespread intermarriage on non-élite levels of society

7 Rustam Shukurov, ‘Harem Christianity’, in Peacock and Yıldız, Seljuks of Anatolia, 115–50, is the latest word on the role of élite Christian women in the Seljuq harem. For a recent study of élite Muslim women in the area at this time, please see Bruno De Nicola, ‘The Ladies of Rūm: A Hagiographic View of Women in Thirteenth and Fourteenth Century Anatolia’, Journal of Sufi Studies 3, no. 1 (2014): 132–56. 8 Hopwood, ‘Byzantine Princesses’, 239–40. 9 S. Vryonis, The Decline of Medieval Hellenism in Asia Minor and the Process of Islamisation from the Eleventh through the Fifteenth Century (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1971), 145. 10 Ibid., 176. 110 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia caused Greek and Christian traditions to affect what Vryonis calls the Tiefkultur, the folk practices, of Anatolian Muslims.11 Osman Turan, the founder of Seljuq historical studies in Turkey, offered his own interpretations based on concepts of race and nation. In an article published in 1959, he attributed the growth of the Turkish population of Anatolia to natural increase and immigration, and not conversion and intermarriage. Nevertheless, at the end of the article, he allows that the resultant population consisted 30 per cent of Islamised Anatolian populations and 70 per cent of Turkish immigration.12 As he does in this and an earlier article, Turan mentions intermarriage between Seljuq sultans and Orthodox women, as the sources indicate, in the context of a general tolerance towards Christianity both at the Seljuq court and in Seljuq domains, and relates this to Turkic traditions.13 In his Turkish language works, culminating in his 1971 Selçuklular Zamanında Türkiye, Turan only mentions intermarriage between Seljuq sultans and Byzantine noblewomen when events and chronicles force him to, and in general ignores entirely or minimises the issue of the sexual congress between Muslim men and Christian women and the resulting social transformation based on their children. He emphasises two things in his writings: first, the use of pagan Qipchaq Turks off the steppes north of the Black Sea (and less so local Christians) as slave soldiers and commanders and second, the presence of Christian Turks in Anatolia dating to pre-conquest days. The muddle and overlap of ethnic and religious categories found in the sources is explained in this manner, thus preserving concepts of Turkishness and racial purity so precious to him and his time.14 Claude Cahen was a Marxist historian of medieval Islam, especially of social and institutional history.15 His Pre-Ottoman Turkey was published in 1968, just a few years before Turan’s last major work, and the titles of both books, in using the word ‘Turkey’ instead of ‘Anatolia’, display a similar interest in demographic

11 Ibid., 228–9: ‘Thus intermarriage of Muslims and Christians at every level of society played a very important role in the integration and absorption of the Greek Christian elements into Muslim society.’ 12 Osman Turan, ‘L’Islamisation dans la Turquie du Moyen Age’, Studia Islamica 10 (1959): 152. 13 For example, Osman Turan, ‘Les souverains seldjoukides et leurs sujets non-musulmans’, Studia Islamica 1 (1953): 81. 14 Turan, ‘L’islamisation’, 146, Osman Turan, Selçuklular Zamanında Türkiye (Istanbul: Turan Neşriyat Yurdu, 1971) is as much a chronicle as a work of history. Near its beginning is an extraordinary section entitled ‘Anadolu’nun Türkleşmesi’, the Turkification of Anatolia (37–46) which, in almost ahistorical terms, mentions the ‘flood’ of Turkish tribes and peoples that swept into Anatolia to make it a Turkish homeland. Immigration is the only explanation furnished for this phenomenon. For earlier mentions of pagan Kıpçaks and Christian Peçenegs, see Turan, ‘L’islamisation’, 146; Osman Turan, ‘Selçuk Devri Vakfiyeleri: I. Şemseddin Altun Aba, Vakfiyesi ve Hayatı’, Belleten 11 (1947): 214–16; and Osman Turan, ‘Celaleddin Karatay, Vakıfları ve Vakfiyeleri’, Belleten 12 (1948): 67–71. 15 Michel Cahen, ‘L’historien et le politique: Engagement et pensée chez Claude Cahen’, in Itinéraires d’Orient: hommages à Claude Cahen, ed. Raoul Curiel and Rika Gyselen (Bures-sur- Yvette: Groupe pour l’Étude de la Civilisation du Moyen Orient, 1994) (=Res Orientales 6 [1994]), 385–442. The Rape of Anatolia 111 and social transformation. In Pre-Ottoman Turkey, Cahen avoids the more obvious biases of Vryonis and Turan. Nonetheless, Cahen, too, has a crack at the issue of mixed unions, and the resulting offspring, and in doing so once again conjures up the rape of Christian women by Muslim men, while trying to make it, and its consequences, into a social phenomenon. After postulating that a ruling people (i.e., Muslim Turks) can be encouraged to have more children due to their dominance, and a ruled people (i.e. Christian Greeks), the opposite, he states the following:

Moreover, it is certain that, either by abduction or, more commonly, because the heads of native families hoped in return to be left in peace by the conquerors, many of the young native women must by right or by force have ben taken into the victors’ beds, and consequently, their children being brought up as Turks, it was the Turks who benefited by their progeny, at the expense of native society.16

In his writings, Cahen only mentions women in the context of dynastic marriages or other elite activities, and, following the sources, very matter-of-factly writes a male history of medieval Anatolia. If one is going to write political, economic, and social history of the period, how can that history help but be restricted to men? Given the overall biases of the sources – élite, religious, and cultural – and those of these three major twentieth-century historians of the period, it is perhaps not surprising that as late as 2010 it was possible for architectural historian Doğan Kuban to pen the following lines concerning Seljuq Anatolia:17

Symbiotic history does not mean only a setting for interaction. Nor is it a ‘coexistence.’ It is the peculiar circumstances of the Anatolian Middle Ages and the experiences of shared living of two societies that were different at the beginning of the centuries-long duration of that process. This is not a syncretism either. However it may have had some syncretic scenes in the beginning. The marriage of a Turkish man with a Greek woman, Christian- converts to Islam attaining positions in the state administration, multinational armies, arms, etc., are among elements of this symbiosis.

He continues: ‘I am of the opinion that a Turkish man’s setting up house with a Greek woman is an important sign of a symbiosis. I think that the common living

16 Claude Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey: A General Survey of the Material and Spiritual Culture and History, c.1071–1330 (New York: Taplinger Publishing, 1968), 144. In refuting Turan’s claim (without naming him), he notes that none of the Christian sources referred to a devşirme-like policy, which certainly would have had it existed. 17 Doğan Kuban, ‘Afterword’, in Proceedings of the First International Sevgi Gönül Byzantine Studies Symposium (Istanbul: Vehbi Koç Foundation, 2010), 639–44, at 639. 112 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia process of marriages between Christian locals and Turks is the phenomenon that describes the symbiosis in the earliest way.’18 In Kuban’s article, the metaphor of the male rape of a female land is replaced with that of the patriarchal household. However, Kuban’s imagined family reminds me a bit of the ideal, modern family of early Kemalist Turkey: very much a twentieth-century nuclear family, with a husband, a stay-at-home wife, and children.19 In the continuation of the passage quoted above, he imagines this household of mixovarvaroi, with a Muslim Turkish father and a Christian Greek mother co-inhabiting, and mentioning cooking, weaving, childrearing, and a babble of languages. Because the interaction stays in the house, it does not go further, with language used for works of the imagination.

Women as Property Owners

In what follows, I will use the same sources known to all of these scholars to try and break down the straitjacket dualities used by all of the authors quoted above, propose different kinds of families or households, and allow for a measure of social presence, economic force, and with it, entitlement and choice to women in thirteenth-century Seljuq towns. Interest in the role women played is not a new one for research on the ruling classes of medieval Mediterranean societies, where class trumps gender, and several scholars have worked and continue to work profitably in this vein.20 Instead, I would like to look for evidence of women – Christian and Muslim, as well as perhaps some in between, actively participating in shaping thirteenth-century Anatolian societies, and not limited to doing so by somehow entering into union with Muslim Turkish men, giving birth to their children and raising them. Although these women were not part of the ruling classes of Seljuq Anatolia, it must be admitted that they cannot be considered to be representative of women at the time: after all they owned property, but it is this very quality that cause them to be mentioned. The towns in question are those covered by waqfiyyas, foundation documents, so my evidence comes largely from Sivas, Kırşehir, Konya, Kayseri, and İskilip, the last a town in the present-day Çorum province. The documents in question are interested in establishing sources of income for the upkeep and staff salaries of buildings (madrasas, mosques, caravanserais) built by the founder. In describing the land and income-producing buildings (like caravanserais and bathhouses)

18 Ibid. 19 For concepts of the Kemalist family, see, e.g. Yeşim Arat, ‘The Project of Modernity and Women in Turkey’, in Rethinking Modernity and National Identity in Turkey, ed. Sibel Bozdoğan and Reşat Kasaba (Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press, 1997), 100 and 105–106. 20 Even though I dispute some of its conclusions, the most extended consideration of the place of women in a religious setting in medieval Anatolia is Ethel Sara Wolper’s chapter entitled ‘Women as Guarantors of Family Lines: Dervish Lodges and Gender Representation in Pre-Ottoman Anatolia’, in Ethel Sara Wolper, Cities and Saints: Sufism and the Transformation of Urban Space in Medieval Anatolia (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2003). The Rape of Anatolia 113 endowed for these purposes, these documents perforce mention their locations, neighbouring buildings and parcels of land, and their owners. As such, even though they are not intended as documents of social and/or urban history, it is possible to use them in this manner. All of the waqfiyyas I consulted showed women as property owners. In 1272, Yavaş Khātūn owns a vineyard outside Kırşehir and Karamiye Khātūn owns land in İskilip.21 In 1251, Qutlugh Khātūn owns land outside Kayseri, as does Snor Sitti, daughter of ʿUmar, whose forename implies that she is Armenian, despite her father’s name.22 In 1271, Mama Khātūn, wife of Fakhr al-Dīn Sübashı, as well as Sāra Khātūn, ʿArab Khātūn, and Malika Khātūn all own property in Konya.23 We learn that in Sivas in 1280, Terken Khātūn, Nāz Khātūn, and ‘the daughter of ḥammāmjī (bathhouse owner) ʿAlī’ all own property.24 In Konya in 1201, the Altun Aba waqfiyya mentions one Dhimra (i.e. Zümre) Khātūn twice. First, we learn that she owns a khān (caravanserai) there, that her father is a Christian amīr named Bar Muni, and that she is ‘al-Qūnyawiyya’, that is, from Konya. The second time she is mentioned, we learn even more about her – she also owns land outside town, and she is called ‘al-Qūnyawiyya, al-Rūmiyya, al-Maṣīḥiyya, al-Ṣāʾigha.’ The first term we understand. The second term, ‘al-Rūmīyya’ may refer to her Christianity. The same document refers to a farmer (fallāḥ) named ‘Tadyos bin Yān bin Almān’ as ‘al-Rūmī’ as well, even though he is likely of German extraction. If ‘Rūmī’ or ‘Rūmiyya’ denotes Christian, why is Zümre Khātūn also-called ‘Maṣīḥiyya’ here? This is unknown, for I have not come across this term in other waqfiyyas; but this particular one is unusual for both its early date, and the fact that, in the document, religion and conversion to Islam seems to be a major concern. Finally, Zümre Khātūn is given a profession, the only one attested in these documents – she is called ‘al-ṣāʾigha’ – jeweller or goldsmith. Thanks to these two brief mentions, Zümre Khātūn is the medieval Anatolian Christian woman we know the most about from a waqfiyya.25 So, while women are not mentioned a lot in these documents, when they are, it is as a matter of course: it seems to be taken for granted that they owned land and other property. We have a couple of hints of the elite status of three of them,

21 Ahmet Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu Nur el-Din’in 1272 Tarihli Arapça-Moğolca Vakfiyesi (1959; Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1989), 30 for Yavaş Khātūn, and 55 for Karāmiyya Khātūn. 22 Turan, ‘Celaleddin Karatay’, 92 and 93 respectively. 23 Sadi Bayram and Ahmet Hamdi Karabacak, ‘Sahib Ata Fahrü’d-Din Ali’nin Konya İmaret ve Sivas Gökmedrese Vakfiyeleri’,Vakıflar Dergisi 13 (1981): 39 and 57. A note of caution must be sounded at this point. First of all, in general, we know little of Anatolian Seljuq women’s names. Specifically, in giving information about these two endowments, I am relying on a modern Turkish language summary of documents that are a complex mixture of original and copy, in varying degrees of preservation. 24 Bayram and Karabacak, ‘Sahib Ata’, 54 and 57. 25 Turan, ‘Şemseddin Altun Aba’, 232, ‘Khān Dhimra Khātūn bint al-Amīr Bar Muli al-Qūnawiyya’ (the caravanserai of Zümre Khātūn daughter of Amir Bar Muli [sic]) and 233, ‘Dhimra Khātūn bint al-Amīr Bār Mūnī al-Qūnawiyya al-Rūmiyya al-Maṣīḥiyya al-Ṣā’igha’ (Zümre Hatun, daughter of Amir Bar Muni, [these last three adjectives, being in the feminine, refer to Zümre:] the Rūmi, the Christian, the Jeweller.’ The mention of Tadyos bin Yan is on the same page. 114 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia as daughters or wives of amīrs, and among them there is at least one, perhaps two, who are Christians. For both of these, though, the clear bipolarity noted above does not exist – one, if she is Christian, has a father with an Islamic name. The other is Christian, but her father was a high-ranking state bureaucrat. In addition to being property owners, some of the women mentioned in these foundation documents established waqfs, or charitable foundations themselves. The 1280 Sivas Gök Medrese waqfiyya founded by Fakhr al-Dīn Ṣāḥib ʿAṭā is particularly interesting in this respect. Here, there are three waqfs bearing women’s names – therefore presumably founded by women: the generic Khānum Khātūn waqf, and also the Mushta-yi Khātūn waqf, and the Mushtarī Khātūn waqf.26 Once again, these women must have been wealthy, although not members of the highest ranks of Seljuq society. This document also mentions, quite matter-of- factly, two Christian waqfs, the Kanisa and Manastır (or Church and Monastery) foundations.27 The 1272 Cacaoğlu waqfiyya also mentions a church waqf, ‘waqf al- bīʿa,’ in Kırşehir in passing.28 These church foundations furnished ways in which Christian women might have played significant societal roles as well. In Sivas, too, this document mentions the existence of a double bathhouse, with separate areas for men and women, giving us at least one delimited social space outside the household for women to interact. As for education, the Altun Aba, Cacaoğlu, and Sivas Gök Medrese documents all mention lending libraries in these madrasas in Konya, Kırşehir, and Sivas respectively. Is it beyond the realm of possibility to postulate that, for instance, ʿArab Khātūn, or another female property owner, might want to teach her daughters to read and write in her native language, and do so by borrowing books from the madrasa her son attends? May we even generalise more about how the practice of lending works of Islamic theology, law, and other topics affected the religious and intellectual life of all sectors of literate urban society then?

Slaves and Other Families

Another way to break down dualities, and expand or nuance the role of women, and conceptions of family, is to consider the issue of amirial slave retinues. As is well known, many members of the Seljuq elite, and of medieval Seljuq society in general, were of slave origin, presumably of Anatolian Christian origin, although it is often impossible to tell. Jalāl al-Dīn Karatay is one whom we do know as ‘Rūmī,’ that is of Anatolian origin. The waqfiyya of Ṣāḥib ʿAṭā’s Gök Medrese gives a list of those who should be fed at the dār al-ḍiyāfa across from the madrasa: it is a list, but I take it as a list of the order in which people get served. First mentioned are sharīf, descendants of the Prophet Muḥammad, then ʿAlī, followed by fuqahāʾ and ṣulaḥāʾ (jurists and religious scholars), and only then the fuqarāʾ (the poor,

26 Bayram and Karabacak, ‘Sahib Ata’, 56 for Mushtarī Khātūn waqf, and 54 for the other two waqfs discussed here. 27 Ibid., 54 for Manastır waqf and 56 for Kilise waqf. 28 Temir, Kırşehir Emiri, 27. The Rape of Anatolia 115 amongst whom must have been found women and children).29 By contrast, the waqfiyya of Jalāl al-Dīn Karatay’s caravanserai stipulates that ‘everyone coming to stay at the caravanserai, whether they be Muslim or non-Muslim, man or woman, free or slave,’ be given the same meal.30 Of course hierarchy is still present in this list, too. It is always dangerous to read personal intent into what is after all a legal document, and we do not have another caravanserai waqfiyya with which to compare it, but still I think that we can note enough personal involvement of the patron in his other surviving waqfiyya to argue reasonably that there might have been some here, and that list reflects some of the difficulty of social movement from its tail to its head. The fact that that Muslim and non-Muslim, men and women, and free and slave were served the same meat stew and pile of bread is another important point – on feasts after the holy days before the month of Ramadan, those now called kandil in Turkey, the poor of Sivas, and only the poor, were fed by having bread pitched at them from one of the minarets of the Gök Medrese.31 Even though Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā (Turk. Cacaoğlu), governor of Kırşehir, was not of slave origin, it is interesting to see the care with which he provided for his household slaves in his waqfiyya. Fully one-seventh of the income of the waqf is slated to be distributed to his ʿutaqāʾ, his freed slaves, and many of them sign the document as witnesses, albeit in a section separate from the signatures of the other witnesses, and under the heading ghulāmān, slaves. From these names, as well as the list of freed slaves given in the foundation document itself, we know some of their jobs: two of them were food tasters, two of them were guards – ṣilāḥī – one a cook, one a servant, and one a sharābī or wine steward. Khwāja Miftāḥ was presumably the doorkeeper and Khwāja ʿAnbar in charge of the storeroom.32

29 Bayram and Karabacak, ‘Sahib Ata’, 53. 30 Osman Turan, ‘Celaleddin Karatay’, 95. 31 Katia Cytryn-Silverman, The Road Inns (Khans) in Bilad al-Sham (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2010), 8, reproduces the text of the inscription of the caravanserai at al-ʿAtni north-east of Damascus that is attributable to the early thirteenth century and which notes that the caravanserai was erected for the use of ‘Muslims and others whatever they believe in’. Other Mamluk caravanserais are more implicitly ecumenical in mentioning that they were erected for travellers without mentioning their religion. The inscription of the Anatolian Seljuq Kırkgöz caravanserai, which can be dated to the years 1243–46, also states that it is for the use of all travellers, see Scott Redford, ‘The Inscription of the Kırkgöz Hanı and the Problem of Textual Transmission in Seljuk Anatolia’, Adalya 12 (2009): 347–59. Even though I am comparing two different kinds of documents, inscriptions on one hand and a waqfiyya on the other (Karatay did not leave an inscription of his own on the caravanserai that bears his name), I nonetheless think that the ecumenism found in Karatay’s waqfiyya can be related to his personal experience. For a consideration of this issue based on the inscriptions of another of Karatay’s buildings, see Scott Redford, ‘Intercession and Succession, Enlightenment and Reflection: The Inscriptional Program of the Karatay Madrasa, Konya’, in Viewing Inscriptions in the Late Antique and Medieval World, ed. Antony Eastmond (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press [forthcoming]). 32 Temir, Kırşehir Emiri, 70 and 80. 116 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Osman Turan has maintained that only childless amīrs appointed their freed slaves to important administrative positions.33 It is true that no male offspring are mentioned in the foundation documents of Altun Aba and Karatay, but they are in the Cacaoğlu waqfiyya, although his sons may have been young, as they are unnamed, and he himself is to direct his own foundation. Still, the solicitude shown in all of the documents for the household slaves of the endower is striking. With or without wives and children, can we not think of the slaves – of foreign religious and linguistic origin, cooking, pouring, storing, opening and closing, tasting, guarding – as part of one kind of medieval Anatolian family? And, with homosexuality a part of the system that takes young men away from their families and places them in the care of older men, can we not at least hypothesize the possibility of one reason for the appointment of one of the slaves in each of these madrasas as nāẓir or supervisor, a position higher, and higher- paid, than the rest?

Conclusion

In this chapter, I have attempted to break down oppositional dualities of ruler and ruled, Muslim and Christian, male and female, and free and slave that lie beneath or on the surface of so much scholarship on medieval Anatolia. A large part of the ‘official’ or ‘institutional’ urban interface between Seljuq rulers and their subjects was intermediated by slaves, freed or otherwise. This chapter has tried to argue that we need to examine our assumptions and preconceptions about male–female relations, the social role of women, and family, Muslim, Christian, and in between, before, or while, studying religious and social change. If we look at the way that sexual violence had a transgressive, transformative, and metamorphic role in Greco-Roman society, perhaps we can even follow these changes from the social and institutional realms to the imaginative, and even divine. In this respect, I find most of what I know of the written culture of medieval Anatolian Islamic society, however accomplished it may be, lacking. Instead of the domain of the written word, it is in the visual sphere, in some works of medieval Anatolian and southern Caucasian Christian and Islamic architecture, that I encounter some of the transformative power born of the disruptions of the age.34

33 Osman Turan, ‘Şemseddin Altun Aba’, 200: ‘Kölelikten yetişen birtakım ricalin evladsız olması her halde bu sistemle alakalı bir meseledir’. 34 Many works of medieval Christian and Islamic art from medieval Anatolia display evidence of different traditions. However, few of them transform divergent and different traditions into something new. I am thinking of buildings like the Great Mosque and Hospital complex at Divriği and the Church of the Hagia Sophia in Trabzon (Trebizond). For the former see, e.g. Oya Pancaroğlu, ‘The Mosque-Hospital Complex in Divriği: A History of Relations and Transitions’, Anadolu ve Çevresinde Ortaçağ 3 (2009): 169–98, and for the latter, Antony Eastmond, Art and Identity in Thirteenth Century Byzantium: Hagia Sophia and the Empire of Trebizond (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004). Chapter 5 Liquid Frontiers: A Relational Analysis of Maritime Asia Minor as a Religious Contact Zone in the Thirteenth-Fifteenth Centuries1

Johannes Preiser-Kapeller

Ports and coastal zones constituted the most important points of interaction between the interior of Anatolia and the Mediterranean world. Along the 600 kilometre-long coast of Lycia and Pamphylia alone, for instance, medieval sources refer to almost 100 ports and landing places.2 As a result of the advance of the Seljuqs towards the coast and the increasing presence of Italian merchants in the harbours of the Aegean, the Black Sea and the Levant, maritime Asia Minor became a zone of intensive contacts between Byzantines, Armenians, Turks, Persians and Arabs and ‘Latins’ or ‘Franks’, and thus also between the Orthodox, Oriental and Western Churches as well as Islam in its various forms. The number of zones of interaction increased, but so did conflict, in the wake of the Seljuq defeat by the Mongols in 1243 and the expansion of Turkish emirates, especially into western Asia Minor towards the Aegean, as well as with the establishment of Italian colonies (including ‘Catholic’ bishoprics) in coastal towns and offshore islands and of the Knights Hospitallers on Rhodes. At the same time, Venetians, Genoese and other commercial communities integrated all these locations and regions as hubs and nodes into their commercial networks and into the late medieval ‘World System’.3 With Ottoman expansion, these territories were absorbed into one imperial framework once more, which eventually also included the remaining Western colonies. During the Late Middle Ages, however,

1 I would like to thank Andrew Peacock, Sara Nur Yıldız and Bruno De Nicola for the invitation to this most fascinating workshop and them as well as Scott Redford for the wonderful hospitality at the Koç Research Center for Anatolian Civilizations in Istanbul in September 2013. In addition to the seven black and white figures, the text is also accompanied by 17 colour figures, which can be accessed via https://www.academia.edu/6184666/Networks_of_Slavery. 2 Hansgerd Hellenkemper and Friedrich Hild, Lykien und Pamphylien (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2004), 288–93. 3 Janet L. Abu-Lughod, Before European Hegemony: The World System A.D. 1250–1350 (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989); Kate Fleet, European and Islamic Trade in the Early Ottoman State: The Merchants of Genoa and Turkey (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 1–12; Dirk Hoerder, Cultures in Contact: World Migrations in the Second Millennium (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2002), 28–30. Cf. Philip D. Curtin, Cross-Cultural Trade in World History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 115–19, especially also on the notion of trade diasporas. For the far-reaching connections through the mobility of individuals across Eurasia after the Mongol conquest, cf. esp. Thomas T. Allsen, Culture and Conquest in Mongol Eurasia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001). 118 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

‘no other region of Europe or the Mediterranean became a cynosure of so many ethnicities in such a small place’.4 Some aspects of interfaith interaction along these coasts, such as the intensive trade between Venetian Crete and the emirates in south-western Anatolia, or the Genoese and the Turks in the fourteenth and fifteenth century,5 the military conflict between Crusaders and Turks in the 6 Aegean, the establishment of Latin monastic communities and bishoprics in the region,7 or the encounter between Orthodox and Muslim communities8 have been analysed in greater detail elsewhere. The same is true for religious transformations (especially conversion to Islam) in the region in the early modern period,9 as well as in the late medieval centuries, but less so for maritime aspects of the organisation, identity and dynamics of various religious groups.10 As I argue in this chapter,

4 Steven A. Epstein, Purity Lost: Transgressing Boundaries in the Eastern Mediterranean 1000–1400 (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2007), 110–11, especially reflecting on the Aegean in the century, a ‘period of maximum complexity’. 5 Elizabeth A. Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade: Venetian Crete and the Emirates of Menteshe and Aydin (1300–1415) (Venice: Hellenic Institute of Byzantine and Post-Byzantine Studies, 1983); Fleet, European and Islamic Trade. 6 Norman Housley, The Avignon Papacy and the Crusades 1305–1378 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986); Norman Housley, The Later Crusades, 1274–1580: From Lyons to Alcazar (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), 49–79; Michael Carr, ‘Motivations and Response to Crusades in the Aegean: c.1300–1350’, PhD thesis, Royal Holloway, University of London, 2011. 7 Jean Richard, La Papauté et les missions d’Orient au moyen age (XIIIe–XVe siècles) (Rome: de Boccard, 1977). 8 Dimitri Korobeinikov, ‘Orthodox Communities in Eastern Anatolia in the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries, Part 1: The Two Patriarchates: Constantinople and Antioch’, Al-Masaq: Islam and the Medieval Mediterranean 15, no. 2 (2003): 197–214; and idem, ‘Orthodox Communities in Eastern Anatolia in the Thirteenth to Fourteenth Centuries, Part 2: The Time of Troubles’, Al-Masaq: Islam and the Medieval Mediterranean 17, no. 1 (2005): 1–29; Johannes Preiser-Kapeller, Der Episkopat im späten Byzanz. Ein Verzeichnis der Metropoliten und Bischöfe des Patriarchats von Konstantinopel in der Zeit von 1204 bis 1453 (Saarbrücken: Verlag Dr. Müller, 2008); Johannes Preiser-Kapeller, ‘Conversion, Collaboration and Confrontation: Islam in the Register of the Patriarchate of Constantinople (14th Century)’, International Review of Turkish Studies 1, no. 4 (2011): 62–79; Ekaterini Mitsiou and Johannes Preiser-Kapeller, ‘Übertritte zur byzantinisch- orthodoxen Kirche in den Urkunden des Patriarchatsregisters von Konstantinopel (mit 10 Tafeln)’, in Sylloge Diplomatico-Palaeographica I, ed. Christian Gastgeber and Otto Kresten (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2010), 233–88. 9 Molly Greene, A Shared World: Christians and Muslims in the Early Modern Mediterranean (Princeton and New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 2000); Bartolomé Bennassar and Lucile Bennassar, Les Chrétiens dʼAllah. Lʼhistoire extraordinaire des renégats XVIe et XVIIe siècles (Paris: Librairie Académique Perrin, 2006); Marc David Baer, Honored by the Glory of Islam: Conversion and Conquest in Ottoman Europe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008); Tijana Krstić, Contested Conversions to Islam: Narratives of Religious Change in the Early Modern Ottoman Empire (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2011); Gilles Grivaud and Alexandre Popovic (eds), Les conversions à lʼIslam en Asie Mineure et dans les Balkans aux époques Seldjoukide et Ottomane (Athens: Ecole française d’Athènes, 2011). 10 For a more ‘maritime’ perspective, cf. Epstein, Purity Lost. For Anatolia in general, see also S. Vryonis, The Decline of Medieval Hellenism in Asia Minor and the Process of Islamisation from the Eleventh through the Fifteenth Century (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, Liquid Frontiers 119 a view from the sea towards the coasts of Anatolia opens perspectives beyond the overlapping of competing territorial claims. Instead, we detect a multitude of potential nodal points within the late medieval network of socioeconomic interactions, which often modified or even overcame lines of religious, ethnic or political differentiation.11 In order to survey and map such entanglements, I use tools and concepts of social network analysis.12 The tools of network analysis enable us to integrate information on the interactions, communications and affiliations of individuals into ‘social topographies’ which show the complexity of these entanglements beyond selective or serial depictions of data.13 Furthermore, network analysis can be combined with tools of cartography and Historical Geographical Information Systems (HGIS), thus establishing the connection between social and geographical topography.14 At the same time, quantitative network analysis

1971); Klaus-Peter Todt, Kaiser Johannes VI. Kantakuzenos und der Islam. Politische Realität und theologische Polemik im palaiologenzeitlichen Byzanz (Altenberge: Echter Verlag GmbH, 1991); Sevket Küçükhüseyin, Selbst- und Fremdwahrnehmung im Prozess kultureller Transformation. Anatolische Quellen über Muslime, Christen und Türken (13.-15. Jahrhundert) (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2011); Preiser-Kapeller, ‘Conversion, Collaboration and Confrontation’, 62–79. 11 Cf. also Johannes Preiser-Kapeller, ‘Webs of Conversion: An Analysis of Social Networks of Converts across Islamic-Christian Borders in Anatolia, South-eastern Europe and the Black Sea from the 13th to the 15th Cent.’, in Proceedings for the International Workshop: ‘Cross-Cultural Life-Worlds in Pre-Modern Islamic Societies: Actors, Evidences and Strategies’, University of Bamberg (Germany), 22–4 June 2012, ed. Birgitt Hoffman and Sevket Küçükhüseyin (in press). 12 Cf. Johannes Preiser-Kapeller, Visualising Communities. Möglichkeiten der Netzwerkanalyse und der relationalen Soziologie für die Erfassung und Analyse mittelalterlicher Gemeinschaften (Vienna: Working Paper for a presentation for the SFB ‘Visions of Community’, 2012) (for the encounter of Venetian and Greek aristocratic families in fourteenth-century Crete) and ‘Webs of Conversion’ (both papers are online: http://oeaw.academia.edu/JohannesPreiserKapeller/ Papers). See also http://oeaw.academia.edu/TopographiesofEntanglements. 13 Claire Lemercier, ‘Formale Methoden der Netzwerkanalyse in den Geschichts- wissenschaften: Warum und Wie?’, in Historische Netzwerkanalysen, ed. Albert Müller and Wolfgang Neurath (Innsbruck, Vienna and Bozen: Studienverlag, 2012), 22. Cf. also Bonnie H. Erickson, ‘Social Networks and History: A Review Essay’, Historical Methods: A Journal of Quantitative and Interdisciplinary History 30, no. 3 (1997): 149–57; and Lothar Krempel, Visualisierung komplexer Strukturen. Grundlagen der Darstellung mehrdimensionaler Netzwerke (Frankfurt and New York: Campus Verlag, 2005) (for the value of network visualisation); and Johannes Preiser-Kapeller, ‘Letters and Network Analysis’, in Companion to Byzantine Epistolography, ed. Alexander Riehle (Leiden: Brill, 2015). 14 Daniel Dorling, The Visualization of Spatial Social Structure (Chichester: Wiley, 2012); Johannes Preiser-Kapeller, ‘Civitas Thauris: The Significance of Tabrīz in the Spatial Frameworks of Christian Merchants and Ecclesiastics in the 13th and 14th Century’, in Politics, Patronage and the Transmission of Knowledge in 13th–15th Century Tabriz, ed. Judith Pfeiffer (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 251–99. For a similar approach cf. also Francisco Javier Apellaniz, ‘Transgressing Boundaries in Cross-Cultural Trade: Lower-Rank Merchants in the Medieval Eastern Mediterranean’, Journal of Interdisciplinary History 44/ii (2013): 157–79 and his project ‘MEDALEX – Cooperating in Complex Environments: Cross-cultural Trade, Commercial Networks and Notarial Culture in Alexandria (Egypt): 1360–1450’: http://www.eui.eu/DepartmentsAndCentres/HistoryAndCivilization/ People/Fellows/Profiles/Apellaniz.aspx. 120 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia is only one aspect of the theoretical framework of relational analysis. The field of relational sociology has highlighted the relevance of the more qualitative aspects of social networks for the embedding and even construction of identities and relationships.15 Identities are understood as constructs of communication; they only emerge in the process of communication and gain profile by their embedding in the web of communications.16 The utility of such a relational and flexible approach to the fluid character of religious or ethnic identities has also recently been demonstrated for the medieval Hindu-Muslim frontier zone in India by Finbarr B. Flood.17 Mapping the embedding of individuals or localities in multiple networks across allegedly fixed boundaries shows the potential for the modification – be it affirmation or accommodation – of religious or ethnic identities. Likewise, in late medieval maritime Asia Minor, we do not encounter ‘precise linear divisions’ of boundaries, but ‘frontiers … where limits of cultural and political authority overlapped and were continuously negotiated, whether by belligerent rulers or itinerant merchants, pilgrims, and travellers’.18 Such frontier zones permit the emergence of what Richard White has famously called ‘the Middle Ground’.19 We observe the emergence of such ‘Middle Grounds’ across Christian–Muslim frontiers in Anatolia from their beginning, expressed in the poems on Digenis Akritas, for instance.20 Sara Nur Yıldız has described the formation of a Christian Seljuq- Komenian elite in thirteenth-century Seljuq Anatolia.21 Heath Lowry and Karen

15 Cf. Richard White, The Middle Ground: Indians, Empires, and Republics in the Great Lakes Region 1650–1815 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991); Jan Fuhse and Sophie Mützel (eds), Relationale Soziologie. Zur kulturellen Wende der Netzwerkforschung (Wiesbaden: VS Verlag für Sozialwissenschaften, 2010). 16 Harrison C. White, Identity and Control: How Social Formations emerge (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2008); Johannes Preiser-Kapeller, ‘Luhmann in Byzantium. A Systems Theory Approach for Historical Network Analysis’, Working Paper for the International Conference ‘The Connected Past: People, Networks and Complexity in Archaeology and History’, Southampton, 24–25 April 2012 (online: http://oeaw.academia. edu/J. PreiserKapeller/Papers/). 17 Finbarr B. Flood, Objects of Translation: Material Culture and Medieval ‘Hindu-Muslim’ Encounter (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2009), 3; cf. also Hoerder, ‘Cultures in Contact’, 15–21, and Christiane Harzig and Dirk Hoerder with Donna Gabbacia, What is Migration History? (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2009), 79–82, for a network approach to migration history. 18 Flood, ‘Objects of Translation’, 24; on the frontier in maritime Asia Minor cf. also A.C.S. Peacock, ‘Sinop: A Frontier City in Seljuq and Mongol Anatolia’, Ancient Civilizations from Scythia to Siberia 16 (2010): 103–104. 19 White, Middle Ground, IX–XV. Cf. also Epstein, Purity Lost, 135, using this term for our period and region. 20 Epstein, Purity Lost, 141–4. 21 Sara Nur Yıldız, ‘Manuel Komnenos Mavrozomes and His Descendants at the Seljuk Court: The Formation of a Christian Seljuk-Komnenian elite’, in Crossroads between Latin Europe and the Near East: Corollaries of the Frankish Presence in the Eastern Mediterranean (12th–14th Centuries), ed. Stefan Leder (Würzburg: Ergon Verlag, 2011), 55–77. For further concepts and examples cf. also Antony Eastmond, Art and Identity in Thirteenth-Century Byzantium: Hagia Sophia and the Empire of Trebizond (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004); Johannes Pahlitzsch, ‘Mediators between East and West: Liquid Frontiers 121

Barkey have highlighted the relevance of ‘network building’ across frontiers for the emergence of the Ottoman state in Bithynia and later for its expansion in south-eastern Europe.22 The coastlands as such constituted a frontier between the terrestrial landscape and the sea, where possibilities for the control of mobility of individuals and objects were much more limited.23 Christer Westerdahl has described the emergence of peculiar ‘maritime communities’: ‘the people who in their daily practice engage with the sea in roles such a fishermen, coastal traders, seafarers, and shipbuilder’ and construct their identities often in deliberate differentiation from the ‘landsmen’.24 Other studies have called for the study ‘of communities of mariners aboard ships, or shipboard societies’, also integrating Michel Foucault’s notion of the ‘ship as the heterotopia par excellence’, capable ‘of juxtaposing different places that are in themselves incompatible in a single real place’.25 Thus, maritime zones constitute frontiers of a specific, even more ‘liquid’ quality. As I demonstrate in this chapter, mapping and visualising these entanglements provides a new perspective on various aspects of maritime Asia Minor’s functioning as a religious contact zone, fragmentary and imperfect although our models may be.

Hubs of Traffic and Commerce in Late Medieval Anatolia: The Case of Antalya (Attaleia)26

When Sultan Kaykhusraw I conquered Antalya in March, 1207 and thus won for the Seljuq state its first important port on the Mediterranean, the city was already an established hub of international trade which had attracted Byzantine, Muslim, Jewish and Armenian merchants since the tenth century,

Christians under Mamluk Rule’, Mamluk Studies Review 9, no. 2 (2005): 31–47; Rustam Shukurov, ‘The Byzantine Turks: An Approach to the Study of Late Byzantine Demography’, in L'Europa dopo la caduta di Costantinopoli: 29 maggio 1453 (Spoleto: Fondazione Centro italiano di studi sull’alto Medioevo, 2008), 73–108; Alexander D. Beihammer, ‘Defection across the Border of Islam and Christianity: Apostasy and Cross-Cultural Interaction in Byzantine-Seljuk Relations’, Speculum 86 (2011): 597–651; Küçükhüseyin, ‘Selbst- und Fremdwahrnehmung’; Sara Nur Yıldız, ‘Reconceptualizing the Seljuk-Cilician frontier: Armenians, Latin, and Turks in Conflict and Alliance during the Early Thirteenth Century’, in Borders, Barriers, and Ethnogenesis: Frontiers in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, ed. Florin Curta (Turnhout: Brepols, 2005), 91–120; V. Mecit Tekinalp, ‘Palace Churches of the Anatolian Seljuks: Tolerance or Necessity?’ Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 33, no. 3 (2009): 148–67. 22 Heath W. Lowry, The Nature of the Early Ottoman State (New York: State University of New York Press, 2003); Karen Barkey, Empire of Difference: The Ottomans in Comparative Perspective (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008). 23 Cited after Robert Van de Noort, North Sea Archaeologies: A Maritime Biography, 10,000 BC to AD 1500 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 1. 24 Christer Westerdahl, ‘The Maritime Cultural Landscape’, The International Journal of Nautical Archaeology 21, no. 1 (1992): 5–14; citation in Van de Noort, North Sea Archaeologies, 25. 25 Van de Noort, North Sea Archaeologies, 33–5. 26 For the history of Antalya (Attaleia) in this period in general, cf. Hellenkemper and Hild, Lykien und Pamphylien, 308–17. 122 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia and Venetians, Genoese and Pisans since the end of the eleventh.27 When the Byzantine Empire collapsed in 1204, the Italian Aldobrandini had taken control of Antalya, presumably with the consent of the leading families of the city; but the mistreatment of Muslim merchants from Egypt by the ‘Franks’ in 1206 was used by Kaykhusraw I as occasion to lay siege to the city.28 Shortly after the conquest, the Venetians negotiated new treaties in order to secure their trade privileges in Antalya which had originally been conferred on them by the Byzantine emperors. They did the same in 1220, after Sultan ʿIzz al-Dīn Kaykāʾūs I reconquered the city in 1216 following a rebellion in 1212 of the Christian population with the support of the Crusader kingdom of Cyprus.29 Despite these conflicts, commercial interests proved stronger, and not only the Venetians, but also other ‘Latin’ groups such as the Pisans and Provençales, as well as the King of Cyprus30 himself, all concluded agreements with the sultan shortly after 1216. Antalya, now under Seljuq rule, continued to be an important node in the network of international trade until the fourteenth century. An analysis of the network of routes at land and sea connecting localities in the south of Anatolia helps to understand the structural aspect of Antalya’s central position. Based on the reconstruction of the routes in the volumes of the Tabula Imperii Byzantini on Cilicia as well as on Lycia and Pamphylia, I created a network model in which localities constitute the nodes and the land and sea routes the links between them.31 I visualised the network on a map of the region (Figure 5.1). I then calculated the ‘betweenness centrality’ values for all nodes; betweenness centrality measures the extent to which a node lies on paths between other nodes and indicates the relative significance of a node as ‘intermediary’ within a network due to its position on many (or a few) possible shortest routes between other nodes.32 In the visualisation, nodes are scaled

27 Cf. Hellenkemper and Hild, Lykien und Pamphylien, 303. 28 Claude Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey: A General Survey of the Material and Spiritual Culture and History, c.1071–1330 (New York: Taplinger Publishing, 1968), 120–22; Hellenkemper and Hild Lykien und Pamphylien, 308. 29 Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade, 185; Hellenkemper and Hild, Lykien und Pamphylien, 308–309. 30 Cf. Griechische Briefe und Urkunden aus dem Zypern der Kreuzfahrerzeit. Die Formularsammlung eines königlichen Sekretärs im Vaticanus Palatinus Graecus 367, ed. and trans. Alexander Beihammer (Nicosia: Zyprisches Forschungszentrum, 2007), nr 20, 171–2 (Greek text) and 260–61 (German translation). 31 Hild and Hellenkemper, Kilikien und Isaurien, 128–42; Hellenkemper and Hild, Lykien und Pamphylien, 244–93. The network model is based on the scheme for the systems of routes at land and sea in the Byzantine period as depicted in these volumes. It does not takes into account the actual distance (and travel costs) between localities; therefore, the model is only a first rough approximation towards a more accurate model of the transport system (cf. also Graßhoff and Mittenhuber, ‘Stadiasmos von Patara’, for a more sophisticated model for Lycia). 32 Cf. Larry J. Gorenflo and Thomas L. Bell, ‘Network Analysis and the Study ofPast Regional Organization’, in Ancient Road Networks and Settlement Hierarchies in the New World, ed. Charles D. Trombold (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 80–98; Jean Paul Rodrigue with Claude Comtois and Brian Slack, The Geography of Transport Systems (London and New Liquid Frontiers 123

Figure 5.1 The network of land and sea routes in Southern Anatolia: Nodes are sized according to their betweenness centrality values (J. Preiser-Kapeller, 2013; created with QuantumGIS) according to their betweenness values (Figure 5.1). As the visualisation illustrates, Antalya clearly emerges as the most central node within the network along the southern coast of Asia Minor, providing the shortest connections between the inland centres and regional sea routes. The Seljuq sultans also tried to strengthen this structural position by building a number of caravanserais along the routes from Antalya to the interior of their realm.33 The second most central node along the coast in our model is the city of Ayas (Aigaiai, or Lajazzo), which competed with Antalya for the position of most important harbour of southern Anatolia during the thirteenth and fourteenth century (until its conquest by the Mamluks in 1337) and sometimes outperformed it, especially during periods of internal unrest in the Seljuq state from the second half of the thirteenth century onwards.34 Our network model suggests a structural background for this competition.

York: Routledge Chapman & Hall, 2013), 22–30, 307–17; Johannes Preiser-Kapeller, ‘Networks of Border Zones – Multiplex Relations of Power, Religion and Economy in South-eastern Europe, 1250–1453 CE’, in Proceedings of the 39th Annual Conference of Computer Applications and Quantitative Methods in Archaeology, ‘Revive the Past’ (CAA) in Beijing, China (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2012), 381–93. 33 Hellenkemper and Hild, Lykien und Pamphylien, 303; cf. also Constable, ‘Housing the Stranger’, 256. 34 Hellenkemper and Hild, Lykien und Pamphylien, 310; Hild and Hellenkemper, Kilikien und Isaurien, 161–2. 124 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

The competition between Antalya and Ayas is also reflected in the famous Pratica de la mercatura [Handbook of Merchandise] of Francesco Pegolotti from the 1330s. For Pegolotti, Lajazzo was definitely the more important harbour, also due to its position as starting point of the then flourishing trade route through Eastern Anatolia towards Tabriz, the centre of Mongol Ilkhanid rule in Persia.35 ‘Setalia in Turchia’ [i.e. Antalya] is also discussed in a chapter of its own in Pegolotti’s work.36 Pegolotti also mentions the second important port along the western Pamphylian coast at that time, Alanya (which he calls Candelloro), under Seljuq rule since 1221 and – like Antalya – a seasonal residence of the sultans.37 We find Antalya and Alanya have commercial relations with regional ports, both those under Turkish rule such as Ayasuluk (Ephesus; emirate of Aydın) and ones under ‘Latin’ control such as Candia (Venetian Crete), Famagusta (Lusignan Cyprus) and Rhodes, centre of the Hospitallers (who also had a consul in Antalya).38 Within the Muslim world, Antalya had traditionally strong commercial connections with Syria and especially Egypt, which imported wood, for instance.39 From the western Mediterranean, merchants from Venice, Genoa, Pisa, Florence and southern France traded, among other things, textiles from northern France which, according to Pegolotti, found buyers in Antalya.40

35 Cf. Jacques Paviot, ‘Les marchands italiens dans lʼIran mongol’, in LʼIran face à la domination mongole, ed. Denis Aigle (Tehran: Institut Français de Recherche en Iran, 1997), 71–86; Hild and Hellenkemper, Kilikien und Isaurien, 161–2; Preiser-Kapeller, ‘Civitas Thauris’; Kurt Weissen, ‘Dove il Papa va, sempre è caro di danari: The commercial site analysis in Italian Merchant Handbooks and Notebooks from the 14th and 15th Centuries’, in Kaufmannsbücher und Handelspraktiken vom Spätmittelalter bis zum beginnenden 20. Jahrhundert. Merchantʼs Books and Mercantile Pratiche from the Late Middle Ages to the Beginning of the 20th Century, ed. Markus A. Denzel, Jean Claude Hocquet and Harald Witthöft (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2002), 63–74; cf. also Robert S. Lopez and Irving W. Raymond, Medieval Trade in the Mediterranean World: Illustrative Documents (new edn, New York: Columbia University Press, 2001), 278–9 (nr 146), for an example of Italian merchants travelling and doing business on this route in 1280. 36 Francesco Pegolotti, La pratica della mercatura: Book of Descriptions of Countries and Measures of Merchandise, ed. Allan Evans (Cambridge, MA: Medieval Academy of America, 1936), 57–8 and also 55, 92, 104, 370, 376. For the commodities traded to and from Antalya and Alanya cf. also Hellenkemper and Hild, Lykien und Pamphylien, 184–8, 588–9. 37 Hellenkemper and Hild, Lykien und Pamphylien, 587–92; Yıldız, ‘Seljuk-Cilician Frontier’, 106–107; Pegolotti, ed. Evans, 92; Tekinalp, ‘Palace Churches’, 148–54, 160–5 (also on the existence of a chapel near the Seljuq palace within the citadel in Alanya). Ibn Baṭṭūṭa also praises Alanya and its connections to Egypt and Syria, which receive timber from there, cf. Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, Die Reisen des Ibn Battuta, trans. Hans Jürgen Grün, vol. 1 (Munich: Buch & Media, 2007), 278; cf. also Hellenkemper and Hild, Lykien und Pamphylien, 175 and 185. 38 Anthony Luttrell and Elizabeth A. Zachariadou, Sources for Turkish History in the Hospitallers’ Rhodian Archive 1389–1422 (Athens: National Hellenic Research Foundation, 2008), 118 (nr 44). 39 Cf. also Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, trans. Grün, 278–9. The connections between Anatolia and Mamluk Egypt in this period definitely need further systematic research, as became clear during discussions at the workshop in September 2013. 40 Pegolotti, ed. Evans, 58; cf. also Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade, 169–70, for Pegolotti’s description of cloth from Narbonne, Perpignan and Toulouse being popular in Ayasuluk, and Liquid Frontiers 125

The presence of merchants from so many regions added to the already existing mosaic of religions and ethnicities in Antalya. Around the same time as Pegolotti was composing his handbook, the famous Ibn Baṭṭūṭa visited the city as one of his first stops on his tour through Anatolia and provides us with a most interesting description:

It is one of the finest of cities, enormous in extent and bulk, among the most handsome of cities to be seen anywhere, as well as the most populous and best organized. Each section of its inhabitants live by themselves, separated from each other section. Thus, the Christian merchants reside in a part of it called al-Mīnā and are encircled by a wall, the gates of which are shut upon them at night and during the Friday prayer service; the Rum, who were its inhabitants in former times, live by themselves in another part, also encircled by a wall; the Jews in another part, with a wall round them; while the king and his officers and mamlūks live in a separate township, which also is surrounded by a wall that encircles it and separates it from the sections that we have mentioned. The rest of the population, the Muslims, live in the main city, which has a congregational mosque, a college, many bath houses, and vast bazaars most admirably organized.41

The picture Ibn Baṭṭūṭa draws is one of segregation. While the accuracy of Ibn Baṭṭūṭa’s description of the topography of Antalya may be doubted,42 the existence of a walled enclosure as a quarter for the Christian merchants (funduq or fundacio) was a common solution for their presence in many other cities under Muslim rule. Clauses stipulating the existence of the funduq were allotted the greatest importance in treaties between European merchant communities and local rulers, Byzantine or Muslim.43 Such clauses were also included in treaties between Venice and the emirs of Menteşe for the port of Balat (Milet) and the emirs of Aydın for the port of Ayasuluk (Ephesus), where there was also

Fleet, European and Islamic Trade, 95–111, in general for the trade of cloth in Anatolia. 41 Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, The Travels of Ibn Battuta, trans. H.A.R. Gibb (London: Cambridge University Press, 1956), 417–18; trans. Grün, 279. Cf. also Hellenkemper and Hild, Lykien und Pamphylien, 332. 42 Scott Redford harbours doubts regarding the reliability of Ibn Baṭṭūṭa’s description of Antalya on the basis of a survey of the actual topography and archaeology of the city, especially with regard to the division of the city in various quarters by walls (cf. also Scott Redford and Gary Leiser, Victory Inscribed: The Seljuk Fetihname on the Citadel Walls of Antalya, Turkey (Istanbul: Zero Produksiyon, 2008). Andrew Peacock (in a personal communication) has expressed his suspicion that this paragraph in the text of Ibn Baṭṭūṭa may actually have been mixed up with passages on the city of Antioch (Antakya). Therefore, this passage may more reflect an ‘ideal of segregation’ of religious groups than actual topographical realities in fourteenth- century Antalya. I would like to thank Scott Redford and Andrew Peacock very much for their comments on this text. 43 Cf. Olivia Remie Constable, Housing the Stranger in the Mediterranean World: Lodging, Trade, and Travel in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003) (in general and in detail on this phenomenon), and Epstein, Purity Lost, 102–103. 126 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia a large Genoese and Pisan presence at the time.44 These regulations were in the interests of both sides. Muslim authorities were able, to a degree, to control and limit the movement of the foreign residents and their interaction with the local population, especially during times of religious significance such as the Friday prayer, but also for the purpose of taxation.45 The merchants in turn could establish a secured area for living and storage, which also permitted the practice of their faith – in Venetian treaties with Menteşe a church of St Nicholas is always mentioned as an integral part of the Venetian quarter. In addition, the funduq gave merchants a certain amount of autonomy under their own consul, who also represented the community before the local authorities.46 Yet as detailed recent studies have also highlighted, Europeans and Muslims enjoyed many occasions for interaction and commerce beyond the borders of the funduq (even more, if a wall actually did not exist, cf. fn. 42 above), by establishing partnerships and engaging in common commercial ventures.47 The community of European traders had in Antalya a parallel association of Muslim merchants and craftsmen

44 Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade, 125–31; Andreas Külzer, ‘Ephesus in byzantinischer Zeit: ein historischer Überblick’, in Byzanz. Das Römerreich im Mittelalter, part 2: Schauplätze, ed. Falko Daim and Jörg Drauschke (Mainz: Verlag des Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseums, 2010), 529–30. 45 See Constable, ‘Housing the Stranger’, 265–9, and 115–16, also for a fourteenth- century fatwā from the Egyptian jurist al-Subkī (d. 1355) on the legitimacy of the presence of foreign Christian merchants in Muslim lands, regarding their legal protection under the conditions of a safe-conduct (amān) or treaty as weaker than that of endogenous Christians possessing the status of ahl al-dhimma; see also Dominique Valérian, ‘Les marchands latins dans les ports musulmans méditerranéens: une minorité confinée dans des espaces communautaires?’ Revue des mondes musulmans et la Méditerranée 107–10 (2005): 437–58. Cf. also Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade, 134–6 and 153–8 for restrictions and taxation of trade by Muslim authorities, and Fleet, European and Islamic Trade, 74–9, from an Islamic point of view on restrictions and the taxation of trade with the problematic commodity of wine along the coasts of Anatolia. 46 Constable, ‘Housing the Stranger’, 112–26, 133–47 and 281–90 (on consuls and the administration of Christian fondacos in Muslim cities), 275–6 (‘access to their own law, religion, and food-ways while in a Muslim city’); Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade, 125–31, 137–9 (also on the Venetian consuls in Balat and the Genoese ones in Ayasuluk); Fleet, European and Islamic Trade, 262–3. For a magisterial study on Venetian consuls in Alexandria in Egypt in the fifteenth century cf. Georg Christ, Trading Conflicts: A Venetian Consul in Mamlûk Alexandria at the Beginning of the 15th Century (Leiden: Brill, 2012). 47 Cf. Constable, ‘Housing the Stranger’, passim, for examples from various regions of the Islamic Mediterranean, esp. 280–81, 287–8, as well as Lopez and Raymond, ‘Medieval Trade’, 170–71 (nr 79), and Valérian, ‘Les marchands latins’ and idem, ‘Le recours à l’écrit dans les pratiques marchandes en context intercultural: les contrats de commerce entre chrétiens et musulmans en Méditerranée’, in L’autorité de l’écrit au Moyen Âge (Orient- Occident). XXXIXe Congrès de la SHMESP (Le Caire, 30 avril-5 mai 2008) (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 2009), 59–72, and for our region in particular many examples in Fleet, European and Islamic Trade, 22–121, esp. 109 on one case of collaboration between a Muslim and an ‘infidel’ to circumvent the paying of customs on the import of cloth by non-Muslims. For further examples from fourteenth-century Herakleia on the Black Sea and fifteenth- century Constantinople, cf. also Preiser-Kapeller, ‘Webs of Conversion’. For an interesting comparison with the strategies of ‘Ottoman’ merchants when entering the ‘Venetian’ Liquid Frontiers 127

(futuwwa), as described by Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, who was its guest, and mentions that it consisted of 200 Muslim manufacturers.48

The Commercial ‘Middle Ground’ in Fourteenth- and Fifteenth-Century Anatolia

The geographical, linguistic, ethnic and religious diversity that was present in maritime Asia Minor as a whole becomes apparent if we visualise the information Pegolotti provides on the cities of Anatolia and the merchandise exchanged between them and localities across the Mediterranean and western Europe (Figure 5.2). The perspective of the Florentine merchant is of course a selective one, missing the important connections between western Asia Minor and Venetian Crete, for instance, as well as the routes across the Black Sea and between southern Anatolia and Mamluk Egypt. Still, the geographical range of the network of commercial exchange that Anatolia’s cities engaged with is impressive, stretching from London to Tabriz and from Tana (Azov) on the Don to Seville. If we scale the nodes according to their number of connections within the network (‘degree’), the ports of Ayas, Ayasuluk, Constantinople, Antalya and Trebizond49 emerge as the central hubs in Pegolotti’s web. While only two of them (Ayasuluk and Antalya) were under Turkish rule at this time, all of them provided opportunities for exchange on the commercial middle ground across borders. The increase in the number of contact zones, especially on the basis of commerce, opened paths to border- crossing also for other, non-aristocratic members of society.50 In commercial terms, connections to individuals beyond the immediate ‘close-knit’ community to those of other religious backgrounds, could be a priori advantageous, both for an entire merchant community (such as for the Venetians between Egypt and western Europe, for instance) as well as for individuals.51 Commercial interests opened a middle ground beyond religious or ethnic antagonisms. As Kate Fleet states in her study of Genoese and Ottoman trade: ‘money largely formed the basis of the relationship between the Genoese and the Turks and this, rather than any religious scruple, dictated relations’.52

Adriatic Sea from the fifteenth century onwards, cf. Maria Pia Pedani, ‘Ottoman Merchants in the Adriatic: Trade and Smuggling’, Acta Historiae 16, no. 1–2 (2008): 155–72. 48 Rachel Goshgarian, ‘Opening and Closing: Coexistence and Competition in Associations Based on Futuwwa in Late Medieval Anatolian Cities’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 40, no. 1 (2013): 36–52; Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey, 338–9; Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, trans. Grün, 280–81. 49 On the relations between the Empire of Trebizond and its Turkish neighbours, cf. Rustam Shukurov, ‘Between Peace and Hostility: Trebizond and the Pontic Turkish Periphery in the Fourteenth Century’, Mediterranean Historical Review 9, no. 1 (1994): 20–72, and Serge Karpov, Istoriia Trapezundskoi imperii (Saint Petersburg: Aleteia, 2007). 50 Cf. Preiser-Kapeller, ‘Webs of Conversion’, for examples. 51 Curtin, ‘Cross-cultural Trade’. 52 Fleet, European and Islamic Trade, 141. 128 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Figure 5.2 The embedding of Anatolia into the international web of commerce of the fourteenth century according to Francesco Pegolotti’s Handbook (nodes being localities from which or to which merchandise traded in the Anatolian cities found its way). Nodes are scaled according to their betweenness centrality (J. Preiser-Kapeller, 2013; created with QuantumGIS)

Yet, as Elizabeth A. Zachariadou has demonstrated for the relations between Venetian Crete and the emirates of Menteşe and Aydın,53 this middle ground had to be frequently renegotiated and confirmed, as it was not only geographically but also ideologically on the edge of the spheres of Christendom and Islam. The Papacy, for instance, frequently forbade trade with ‘infidels’, especially in strategic material such as iron, timber, slaves or horses (a similar measure was taken by the Ottoman Sultan Bayezid I against the Hospitallers on Rhodes in 1392, obviously with more success, since the Hospital was forced to make expensive purchases of foodstuff elsewhere).54 Propagandists for a new crusade,

53 Cf. Paul Wittek, Das Fürstentum Mentesche. Studie zur Geschichte Westkleinasiens im 13.-15. Jh. (Istanbul: APA, 1934), 24–87, Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey, 303–13, and Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade, 109–16 for an overview on the history of these dynasties. 54 Stefan K. Stantchev, ‘Embargo: The Origins of an Idea and the Implications of a Policy in Europe and the Mediterranean, ca. 1100 – ca. 1500’, PhD thesis, University of Michigan, 2009, 175–260 for our period; Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade, 125–36, esp. 126–7 also for Christian as well as Muslim voices in favour of commerce with the ‘infidels’; Guillelmus Ade, Tractatus quomodo sarracenos extirpandi, ed. and trans. Giles Constable (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Res Lib, 2012), 9; Marino Sanudo Torsello, Liber Secretorum Fidelium Crucis, ed. Jacques Bongars (Hanover: Typis Wechelianis, 1611; reprint, Toronto 1972), vol. 3, 11, 6; Marino Sanudo Torsello, The Book of the Secrets of the Faithful of the Cross: Liber Secretorum Fidelium Crucis, trans. Peter Lock (Farnham: Ashgate, 2011), 327–8; Luttrell and Zachariadou, Sources for Turkish Liquid Frontiers 129 such as Guillelmus Ade (d. 1338–39, temporarily Bishop of Smyrna) or Mario Sanudo Torsello (d. 1338, a Venetian statesman who travelled widely in the east), men who were very well informed about the situation on the maritime frontiers of Anatolia, argued for an embargo against Muslim powers as precondition for a successful re-conquest of the Holy Land, illustrating that familiarity does not necessarily imply sympathy. They denounced by name those Italian merchants who did intensive business with the ‘enemy’ as bad Christians and ‘ministers of hell’.55 The Venetian or Genoese centre often preferred to have agreements with the emirs of Anatolia negotiated by local representatives such as the Dux of Candia (Crete) or the shareholders of the Maona of Chios, in part because of their familiarity with local conditions, but also in order to avoid direct involvement with the Muslim powers. Thus, the middle ground was established at the peripheries.56 And even the Papacy was frequently forced to allow the

History, 95 (nr 5) for Bayezid’s embargo against the Hospitallers, and Hellenkemper and Hild, Lykien und Pamphylien, 137, for a more general Ottoman embargo against the islands of Lesbos, Chios, Lemnos and Rhodes in 1399–1400. Cf. also the project ‘Trade Embargoes in a Changing World. Formulation – Enforcement – Coping Mechanisms in Northern Europe and the Eastern Mediterranean (1291–1400)’ under the supervision of Georg Christ at the University of Heidelberg: http://www.uni-heidelberg.de/transculturality/georg_christ.html. 55 Guillelmus Ade, Tractatus, trans. Constable, 2–3, 5–6, 26–35 (ch. 1), 48–9 (ch. 4). Pointing out that ‘our men, Lombards, Venetians, and Genoese, and the Hospitallers already hold many islands, towns, estates and forts adjacent to the lands of the Greeks and the Turks’, Guillelmus Ade, in particular, also argues for an invasion of the ‘treacherous’ Byzantine empire as well as of Turkish-controlled western Asia Minor, using Chios as a base, an island which, was at the time under the control of the Geonese Zaccaria family, whom he praises as successful fighters against the Turks (cf. also Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade, 8–9; Johannes Koder, Aigaion Pelagos (Die nördliche Ägäis) (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1998), 144–5; Epstein, Purity Lost, 67–70; Carr, ‘Motivations and Response to Crusades’, 86–103. Ade thus argues for a modification of the contact zone, allowing inappropriate commerce between Western Christians and their enemies in a battle zone, cf. 52–4, 62–9. Cf. also Charles Kohler, ‘Documents relatifs a Guillaume Adam archevêque de Sultanieh, puis dʼAntivari, et a son entourage (1318–1346)’, Revue de lʼOrient latin 10 (1903–04), 16–56, on Ade. A counterpart would be Ibn Baṭṭūṭa’s praise of Umur of Aydın as warrior for Islam by plundering the Aegean sea and fighting against the crusaders who occupied parts of Smyrna (Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, trans. Grün, 300; Marino Sanudo Torsello, Book, II, 4, 13, trans., Lock, esp. 117, on the other side not only argued for an alliance with the Ilkhans of Iran against the Mamluks (as did Guillelmus Ade), but also for a commercial agreement with the Turkish rulers of Makre in Lycia and Alanya in Pamphylia in order to provide provisions (wood, pitch, and animals) for the crusader army on its way to Egypt. Cf. also Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade, 13; Hellenkemper and Hild, Lykien und Pamphylien, 588. On this issue see also Angeliki Laiou, ‘Marino Sanudo Torsello, Byzantium and the Turks: The Background to the Anti-Turkish League of 1332–1334’, Speculum 45 (1970): 374–92; Evelyn Edson, ‘Reviving the Crusade: Sanudoʼs Schemes and Vesconteʼs Maps’, in Eastward Bound: Travel and Travellers 1050–1550, ed. Rosamund Allen (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 2004), 131–55; Epstein, Purity Lost, 162–6; Carr, ‘Motivations and Response to Crusades’, 10–12, on ‘the interplay between religious and commercial motivations’. 56 Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade, xxxiv; Epstein, Purity Lost, 98, 113. 130 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Crusaders of the region par excellence, the Hospitallers of Rhodes, to trade with their Turkish neighbours for grains and horses in time of need.57 As Zachariadou has highlighted, besides the establishment or maintenance of a special quarter for their merchants, headed by a consul of their choice and including a church building, Venetian treaties with the emirs included provisions for the safety of naval vessels and for the general security of the life and property of traders.58 Yet, as Epstein has illustrated for these and several other Christian–Muslim agreements, besides a common language – in the case of the Christian–Turkish treaties in the fourteenth and fifteenth century, it normally was still Greek, which often also implied the usage of Greek diplomatic personnel59 – a common ground had to be defined for the corroboration of these treaties in order to bind partners within their respective religious systems.60 The texts of the various treaties edited by Zachariadou provide a fascinating insight into the solutions found by the representatives from the religious spheres of Christianity and Islam. Of special interest is a treaty from 1346 most probably concluded between the Hospitallers of Rhodes and Emir Hızır of Aydın, two powers who considered themselves at the forefront of Holy War for their respective religious communities. Here I transcribe and translate the Greek text of the treaty’s invocation, oath and corroboratio.61

Oath of the Muslims for the Christians

(1) Peismilla eir rachoumanē racheim; ollachi bopillachi botallachi; laï lacha illalachou Mouchamettoun rasoul ilia; Allachoumou selē alaa Mouchamettoun bola ali Muchammet. Koul ouallaachou achatoun Allachou ssemetou lem gelēt bolem gioulet bolem giekoun lechou kouph ouen achat.62

57 Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade, 11–12, 82. Cf. for instance also Luttrell and Zachariadou, Sources for Turkish History, 120 (Papal decrees of 1363 and 1381) and 108 (nr 26; purchase of barley by the Hospitaller garrison of the fortress of Saints Peter and Paul [= Bodrum] in October 1409; yet we learn from another document from December of the same year that the soldiers in Bodrum attacked the Turks on their own account shortly after this transaction, cf. 109 [nr 27]). For the situation after the fall of Constantinople in 1453 cf. also Theresa M. Vann, ‘Christian, Muslim, and Jewish Mariners in the Port of Rhodes, 1453–1480’, Medieval Encounters 13 (2007): 158–73. 58 Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade, 178–9; cf. also Wittek, Mentesche, 71–2. 59 Cf. for instance Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade, 83, 184–6. 60 Epstein, Purity Lost, 96–136, eps. 111–12. Cf. also Valérian. ‘Le recours à l’écrit’, for Christian–Muslim commercial agreements, and Diana Gilliland Wright and Pierre A. MacKay, ‘When the Serenissima and the Gran Turco Made Love: The Peace Treaty of 1478’, Studii Veneziani 53 (2007): 261–77, for the Ottoman-Venetian treaty of 1478. 61 Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade, 201–204 (edition of the Greek text; transcription and translation by myself). 62 According to Zachariadou Arabic transcribed in Greek, including the common invocatio, the triple oath by God, the Muslim confession of faith and the benediction for the prophet and his family, cf. Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade, 200, n. 759. Liquid Frontiers 131

(2) I, Emir Tzialalatin Chētēr Pegēs Tzalapes, son of the most blissful Great Emir, the deceased Boumperizaatin Mouchamat Peg Aïtin, promise and swear before God to you, the most noble commander of that castle and its leaders.

(3) that by God, by God, by God, who has created heaven and earth and sea and everything in these, by God, the living and immortal, who neither died nor was killed, by God, who has neither a beginning nor an end, by God, who has the power above life and death, by God, who neither has procreated nor was procreated, by God, who has created his angels and archangels, by God, who had given the blessing and the abundance to the people of the Muslims, by God who has sent into the world the 124,000 prophets,63 as first one Adam and later Moamed, the son of Abdoula, the great prophet rasoulēs and apostle of God, who has founded the great faith and law of the Muslims, by Mekke, the great house of God, which is the tomb of our Prophet Moamed, by God, who has sent from heaven on the world the four books, the old one of Moses, which is called Tabret, the Psalter of David, which is called Zapour, the Gospel of Jesus, which is called Intzil, the Phourkan of Moamed, the seven koressa and musaphia, the great religion and law of the Muslims, on which I have put my hand and swear before God and by God, who has given to me the leadership and power over the Muslims, that I will have the right love, a true agreement and a pure and steadfast love with you on land and on the sea from the present day …

(4) … But if I do not abide by this my oath, which I swear, but break and destroy it, then God should also destroy me, my house, my children, my leadership, my cities, my army and my people so that I renounce the great religion of the Muslims and I destroy with my own hands Mekke, the great house of God … and that I am separated from the great prophet rasoul and apostle of God, Moamed, and his law and teaching.64

One could have defined a ‘middle ground’ between the two monotheistic religions by establishing the entire treaty in the name of the one God both sides could accept. But in order to bind the Muslim ruler within his own religious- legal framework, the Christian negotiators demanded his strong commitment in the specific Islamic forms of oath-taking to the God of the Muslims and were eager to translate this into the common language and later also into the Latin version; ‘this oath speaks clearly in Muslim terms, ones the Venetians knew and understood to be valid for their partner in this treaty’.65 The ‘Christian’

63 Cf. Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade, 199, n. 755a. 64 Cf. also ibid., 205–10, for a treaty with Hızır preserved in the Latin language and containing very similar passages, and Wright and MacKay, ‘Serenissima and the Gran Turco’, 272, for a similar oath used by Sultan Mehmed II in the treaty with the Venetians in 1478. 65 Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade, 178–85, and Epstein, Purity Lost, 97–8, also for Muslim legal traditions in principle prohibiting longer lasting agreements and truces with the ‘infidel’, and 114–15 (for the citation). 132 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia counterpart in the form of the oath of the Venetian authorities on Crete, for instance, we find in a later treaty with Emir Hızır of Aydın from April 1353:66

I, Maurinus Mauroceno, Dux of the island of Crete, together with our council swear by God, who has created heaven and earth and the sea and everything in these, and by the Holy Gospel and the precious and life-giving cross that we will have a correct, faithful and true peace, the entire community of the Venetians and of Crete and our entire population and all our retainers and subjects and all our islands … .67

As we can see, the Muslims expected the same obligation toward ‘their’ God from the Christians in order to secure these commitments across the frontier.

Deliberate and Forced Mobility in the Seas around Late Medieval Anatolia

So far, we have focused on static hubs, attracting traders from elsewhere to Asia Minor. However, a central aspect of these connections is the mobility of individuals (and objects) who travelled on ships in the seas around Anatolia. Besides those who deliberately set out for the purpose of commerce, work, diplomacy, pilgrimage or travel and thereby (sometimes unintentionally) became entangled in the complex web of cross-frontier networks, there were also hundreds and thousands who, as a result of the slave trade, were displaced from their origins against their will. In this section, we discuss such examples of deliberate as well as forced mobility. Above, we introduced the notion of ‘shipboard societies’, combined with Michel Foucault’s concept of the ship as ‘heterotopia’. Indeed, ships, regardless of the flag under which they were sailing, served as mobile contact zonesof individuals of different religious or ethnic backgrounds. For instance, Ibn Baṭṭūṭa came to Anatolia on board of a Genoese ship (on route from Latakia in Syria to Alanya), whose captain treated him with respect, he writes, and left on an ‘Greek’ vessel from Sinop to the Crimea.68 An even more ‘exotic’ passenger was the East Syrian (Nestorian) clergyman Rabban Sauma, born in China, who in 1287 travelled as ambassador for the Ilkhan Arghūn from Persia via Trebizond on a ship with ‘more than 300 souls’, most of them ‘Romans’ (= Byzantines) to Constantinople and from there (most probably on an Italian ship) to Italy. During his passage over the Black Sea, Rabban Sauma ‘consoled the passengers

66 Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade, 215–16, ll. 183–8 (my translation). 67 For a parallel cf. the oath of King Hugo I of Cyprus towards the Seljuq Sultan in 1216, Griechische Briefe, ed. and trans. Beihammer, nr 20, 171–2 (Greek text) and 260–61 (German translation); this treaty also secured the freedom of merchants and ships from the Seljuq realm to come to Cyprus. 68 Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, trans. Grün, 277 and 316; Hellenkemper and Hild, Lykien und Pamphylien, 588–9. Liquid Frontiers 133 every day with homilies about the faith’, turning the vessel into a place of ‘inter- confessional’ dialogue (if we are to believe his biographer).69 More common than these ‘special’ guests on board were joint ventures of Christians and Muslims who let their merchandise be transported on ‘Latin’ vessels. From a document from the year 1411, we learn that even the ships of merchants from Hospitaller Rhodes were carrying goods for the Mamluk sultan of Egypt from Anatolia to Alexandria. In this case, the Rhodian ship was boarded by a Genoese near Alanya. Later, the malefactor was seized by the Hospitaller garrison in Bodrum and brought to Rhodes, from where the sultan’s goods were immediately transported to Egypt by other Genoese, since the disgruntled sultan had already imprisoned several Rhodians active in Alexandria out of suspicion that he had been betrayed by their fellow countryman.70 Soon after this event, the captain of the same garrison of Bodrum was ordered to return to two vessels of the Maona of Chios the Turkish traders from Ayasuluk (Ephesus) and their merchandise. The latter had been transported on board of the Chiote ships and their seizure by the Hospitallers was illegal since there was a truce between Rhodes and the country of origin of these Turks, the emirate of Aydın, which had been reconstituted by Timur after his defeat of the Ottomans in 1402.71 These two episodes illustrate the daily routine – and its unwelcome interruption – of cross-frontier contacts on board ships offshore Anatolia.72 Besides temporary passengers, ship crews always consisted of individuals from many areas along the Mediterranean shores. The manpower necessary to man a ship, especially a large galley with 200 oarsmen, could only be found by attracting hands from many different places.73 A special issue of the journal Medieval Encounters in 2007 is devoted to the theme of cross-cultural encounters on the high seas. Contributions illustrate the multi-religious and multi-ethnic composition of crews on board ships of Latin, Byzantine and Muslim fleets during the Middle Ages.74 For our period, Bernard Doumerc has illustrated the ‘cosmopolitanism on board Venetian ships’ and Theresa M. Vann has done the same for Rhodes between 1453 and 1480, showing that the Hospitallers tried to

69 Mar Yahballaha III, Un ambassadeur du Khan Argun en Occident. Histoire de Mar Yahballaha III et de Rabban Sauma (1281–1317), trans. Giorgio Borbone and Egly Alexandre (Paris: Harmattan, 2008), 89–91; Idem, Die Mönche des Kublai Khan. Die Reise der Pilger Mar Yahballaha und Rabban Sauma nach Europa, trans. by Alexander Toepel (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2008), 73 and 75. 70 Luttrell and Zachariadou, Sources for Turkish History, 112–13 (nr 32). 71 Ibid., 113–14 (nr 33–4). Cf. also Koder, ‘Aigaion Pelagos’, 144–8, and Epstein, Purity Lost, 70–71, for the trade of Chios, and Fleet, European and Islamic Trade, 64, for the presence of Turkish merchants on Chios at that time. 72 Cf. also Vann, ‘Christian, Muslim, and Jewish Mariners’, 160–63, for the continuation of such practices even after the Ottoman capture of Constantinople in 1453, also by the Hospitallers especially in their relations with Egypt. In general on such partnerships cf. Valérian, ‘Le recours à l’écrit’. 73 Bernard Doumerc, ‘Cosmopolitanism on Board Venetian Ships (Fourteenth-Fifteenth Centuries)’, Medieval Encounters 13 (2007): 78–95. Cf. also Diana Gilliland Wright, ‘Vade, sta, ambula. Freeing Slaves in Fourteenth Century Crete’, Medieval Encounters 7, no. 2 (2001): 208. 74 Medieval Encounters 13 (2007), ed. Kathryn L. Reyerson. 134 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia control strictly who was allowed to disembark when a shop put into port, given its potentially very diverse crew, including individuals regarded as potential threats to the security of the fortress.75 A Venetian account book provides a list of names and places of origin of many of the oarsmen working on a ship which sailed from Venice to Jaffa and back also along the southern Anatolian coast between 9 May and 15 August 1414 under the command of Francesco Querini.76 If we enter this data into a network model, we can visualise how the ship connects the places of origin of its crew with the localities on its route from Venice to the east. This data also allows us to visualise the relative significance of localities on the basis of the respective number of oarsmen who originated from them. The largest numbers originated from Venetian possessions and other sites in Dalmatia and Albania as well as from further inland of the western Balkans, but also from the Italian hinterland of Venice, Hungary and Germany, as well as from the eastern and western Mediterranean (Figure 5.3).77 This social network of the ship in 1414 is of course a mobile one, so that this assemblage of people and their places of origin connect to all ports on its route from Venice to Jaffa, establishing a complex web of individual entanglements across the entire Mediterranean. The ship thus emerges as a ‘heterotopia’, capable ‘of juxtaposing different places that are in themselves incompatible in a single real place’ (Figure 5.3).78 This mobile multi- ethnic and multi–religious network in turn interacted and overlapped with the trans-frontier networks, which we described for the various ports and maritime contact zones, adding to their diversity and structural complexity. A striking result of these entangled phenomena is of course the emergence of the lingua franca of Mediterranean seafaring in the late medieval and early modern period.79 Maritime Asia Minor was equally embedded in networks of intensive slave trading.80 The main sources of slaves were prisoners of war and the captives

75 Doumerc, ‘Cosmopolitanism on Board Venetian Ships’; Vann, ‘Christian, Muslim, and Jewish Mariners’, 159–60. 76 Alan M. Stahl, ‘Michael of Rhodes: Mariner in Service to Venice’, in The Book of Michael of Rhodes: A Fifteenth-Century Maritime Manuscript, ed. Pamela O. Long (Cambridge, MA, and London: MIT Press, 2009), 42–3. 77 For this geographical distribution cf. also Doumerc, ‘Cosmopolitanism on Board Venetian Ships’. For Greek sailors on Italian and on Turkish ships cf. also Georgios Makris, Studien zur spätbyzantinischen Schiffahrt (Genoa: Istituto di Medievistica, 1988), 118–27. 78 Van de Noort, North Sea Archaeologies, 33–4. On the common route from Venice to Cilicia, Cyprus or Syria cf. also Doris Stöckly, Le système de lʼIncanto des gales du marché à Venise (fin XIIIe–milieu XVe siècle) (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 119–30. 79 Henry Kahane, Renée Kahane and Andreas Tietze (eds), The Lingua Franca of the Levant: Turkish Nautical Terms of Italian and Greek Origin (Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press, 1958); Makris, Studien zur spätbyzantinischen Schiffahrt, 112–17. 80 For on overview of the significance of Kaffa and the Black Sea in the slave trade cf. Epstein, Purity Lost, 55–67, Nicola Di Cosmo, ‘Mongols and Merchants on the Black Sea Frontier in the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries: Convergences and Conflicts’, inMongols, Turks and Others: Eurasian Nomads and the Sedentary World, ed. Reuven Amitai and Michal Biran (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 391–424 (also for the relations between the Western merchants and/or the Mongol/Muslim overlords) and Annika Stello, ‘La traite d’esclaves en Mer Noire au début du Liquid Frontiers 135

Figure 5.3 The web of entanglements created by the Venetian galley of 1414 on the basis of the mobility of its crew and of the ship itself (nodes of localities sized according to the number of oarsmen coming from there) (J. Preiser-Kapeller, 2013; created with QuantumGIS) from conquered or raided areas.81 Slavery also implied the establishment of new social connections (from the perspective of the slave, an unintended and often painful situation) and a modification and relocation of social networks, first via exposure to the invading captors, then through those involved in the sale and transport of slaves and finally through slave owners and their households (which could include also slaves from other or similar backgrounds). Slaves might be resold or ransomed by kinsmen or fellow countrymen and repatriated. Integrating slaves of very different religious, linguistic or ethnic backgrounds also affected the social environment of their owners.82 Thus the slave trade also produced a series of social networks across frontiers due to the forced mobility of individuals, who, could be displaced from Asia Minor both to regions very near to their homeland, in the Latin colonies on the islands and in mainland

XVe siècle’, published online in Medieval Mediterranean Slavery: Comparative Studies on Slavery and the Slave Trade in Muslim, Christian, and Jewish Societies (8th–15th Centuries) (http://med-slavery. uni-trier.de: 9080/minev/MedSlavery/publications/Traite Esclaves Mer Noire.pdf: April 2009), for slave trade at the coasts of Anatolia esp. Fleet, European and Islamic Trade, 37–58. 81 Cf. also Makris, Studien zur spätbyzantinischen Schiffahrt, 195–210. 82 Cf. also Wright, ‘Vade, sta, ambula’, 212, and Epstein, Purity Lost, 81–2, on this issue. 136 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Greece, but also in the centres of European commerce in Italy, in Mamluk Egypt or in Ilkhanid Persia.83 The sources allow us to partly reconstruct this recombination of social networks for two island hubs near Anatolia for two specific time periods: Famagusta on Cyprus (1300–1301) and Candia on Crete (1305–06). For 1300–1301, Ahmet Usta has systematically analysed the documents dealing with the slave trade in the acts of the Genoese notary, Lamberto di Sambuceto, active in Famagusta between 1296 and 1307, at that time dominated by Genoese traders. The documents in most cases record the ethnic and or religious background of the slaves (at least as attributed to them by their sellers) and also of their sellers and buyers as well as the place(s) from or via which they came to Cyprus.84 We have used this data to capture the ethnic, religious and gender composition of a group of 37 slaves and of 50 sellers and buyers.85 From this we have created network models of slaves, owners and localities in order to survey and visualise the manifold entanglements emerging from the capture, relocation and sale of slaves. Of the 37 slaves, seven definitely came from Anatolia: five ‘Turks’ (two females and three males), one ‘Greek’ (via Smyrna) and one ‘Armenian’ woman (via Ayas).86 One of the ‘Turkish’ slaves was Ali, who came from Kayseri in Cappadocia and presumably was transported via one of the ports of southern Anatolia to Famagusta, where he was sold by Gandulfus de Staeria (from Genoa) to Palmerio de Florenzola (from Florence) on 27 July 1301.87 As his name indicates, Ali was a Muslim – in contrast to other ‘Turkish’ slaves, who had been given (literally) Christian names and also may have been baptised. We do not know if his new owner transported Ali to another locality within the eastern Mediterranean (to re-sell him?) or took him to his home city of Florence. Although the number of slaves from the east brought to Italy in the fourteenth and fifteenth century was not insubstantial, the number of ‘Turk’ slaves sold in Italy seems to have been relatively small, at least later in this period. Sally McKee has conducted a statistical analysis of the slaves traded in Genoa between 1390 and 1500 and found a total of 46 ‘Turkish’ slaves, amounting to between three and 16 per cent of all slaves sold (and recorded by McKee) over these decades.88 In any event, the document for the sale of Ali illustrates inland Anatolia’s connections to

83 Cf. also Anthony Luttrell, ‘Slavery at Rhodes: 1306–1440’, Bulletin de l’Institute historique belge de Rome 46–47 (1976–77): 81–100. See also the very useful website of the ‘Medieval Mediterranean Slavery’-project at the University of Trier: http://med-slavery.uni-trier.de/ minev/MedSlavery. 84 Ahmet Usta, ‘Evidence of the Nature, Impact and Diversity of Slavery in 14th Century Famagusta as Seen through the Genoese Notarial Acts of Lamberto di Sambuceto and Giovanni da Rocha and the Venetian Notarial Acts of Nicola de Boateriis’, MA thesis, Gazimağusa, Eastern Mediterranean University, 2011, 114–19 (table 1). For Cyprus in this period cf. also Epstein, Purity Lost, 80–93. 85 See https://www.academia.edu/6184666/Networks_of_Slavery, figs 1–3. 86 See https://www.academia.edu/6184666/Networks_of_Slavery, figs 4–5. 87 See https://www.academia.edu/6184666/Networks_of_Slavery, fig. 6. 88 Sally McKee, ‘Domestic Slavery in Renaissance Italy’, Slavery and Abolition, no 3. Liquid Frontiers 137

Mediterranean commerce both near (Cyprus) and far away (Genoa, Florence).89 An even more impressive geographical range emerges if we visualise all connections between Famagusta and the Mediterranean world on the basis of links to the places or origin of merchants who came there to trade with slaves in 1300–1301 (Figure 5.4): as expected, Genoa and cities in northern Italy are predominant, but we also encounter traders from Asia Minor, Syria and Egypt as well as from the Crimea, Sicily, Libya, southern France and the Iberian Peninsula.

Figure 5.4 Connections between Famagusta and the Mediterranean world on the basis of links to the places or origin of merchants who came there to trade with slaves in 1300/1301 (J. Preiser-Kapeller, 2013; created with QuantumGIS)

Not less far ranging was the forced mobility of the slaves. This becomes apparent if we map the connections between Famagusta and the Mediterranean on the basis of links to the places from or via which slaves came who were traded in Famagusta (Figure 5.5). Besides ‘nearby’ and ‘common’ markets such as Anatolia, the Black Sea and the Aegean, slaves from Dalmatia (via Italy) and from the Maghreb (via Spain) found their way from the west to the east.90

89 See https://www.academia.edu/6184666/Networks_of_Slavery, fig. 7. 90 Cf. also Epstein, Purity Lost, 81–3. 138 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Figure 5.5 Connections between Famagusta and the Mediterranean world on the basis of links to the places from or via which slaves came who were traded in Famagusta in 1300/1301 (J. Preiser-Kapeller, 2013; created with QuantumGIS)

All of this adds up to a ‘multi-coloured’ web of connections between slaves and traders on the market of Famagusta in 1300–1301.91 We find a Jewish merchant, Raffael de Palermo from Sicily, ransoming from a Genoese trader five Jewish slaves displaced from Candia on Crete, on the condition that they would repay Raffael’s expenses. An Ugolinus from Messina sells an (unnamed) Muslim ‘Moor’ from the Maghreb, who came to Cyprus via Spain, to Iohannes de Pando from the same city, who also buys a ‘Saracen’ named Abraam from a Jewish merchant names Mossa from Tripolis in North Africa, who had brought Abraam from Alexandria in Egypt. We do not know what Iohannes de Pando did with the two slaves, but this example illustrates how a systematic survey of connections emerging from series of documents, for instance, can open perspectives on the connections both of individuals of very diverse Islamic backgrounds, not to speak of the general multiplicity of religious, ethnic, and or linguistic identities who were connected (albeit forcibly) within this framework.92 Diana Gilliland Wright has surveyed an even larger number of transactions of slave trade in her analysis of slavery on Venetian Crete in the fourteenth

91 See https://www.academia.edu/6184666/Networks_of_Slavery, fig. 8. 92 Cf. also Epstein, Purity Lost, 82–3 and 90, on the various sales documented by Sambuceto. Liquid Frontiers 139 century. We have selected from her material 81 slaves traded in Candia in 1305–06 between 125 individuals. In this period, slaves were an abundant commodity in the Aegean due to frequent warfare in western Anatolia on the part of various Turkish groups, who sold some of their captives to (mostly) Italian traders at various ports along the coast.93 In order to repel the invaders, Emperor Andronikos II Palaiologos in 1303 recruited the Catalan Company, which despite military successes, proved to be equally damaging to the Byzantine provinces and an equally active slave trader of both Greek and Turk captives. After returning to Thrace and a breakdown of relations with the emperor, the Catalans (joined also by Turkish forces) plundered the European provinces of the empire, establishing a large market for their human booty in Gallipoli at the Dardanelles.94 This historical background is also documented in the statistics for the slaves traded in Candia in that period: the overwhelming majority (90 per cent) of slaves were of ‘Greek’ origin from one of the (former) province of the Byzantine Empire in Anatolia or Europe.95 We know the identity of the captors of 42 slaves: 71 per cent were enslaved by Turks, 17 per cent by Catalans and 10 per cent by Italians (who also executed raids on the possessions of their Turkish, Byzantine as well as Italian rivals).96 One of the three ‘Turk’ slaves sold in Candia in that period was Iohannes de Castamoni (Kastamonu) in Paphlagonia,97 who had been transported to Crete via Constantinople. In Crete he was sold by the Candiote Marcus Sclavo to the Orthodox papas Nikolaos; even before, ‘Iohannes’ (in contrast to Ali from Kayseri on Cyprus, see above) had received a ‘Christian’ name and may have been baptised (this did not affect his status as slave, although baptism was sometimes used by owners as precondition for manumission)98. If we visualise the network

93 For ‘Greek’ slaves in Turkish service in western Asia Minor in the early fourteenth century, cf. for instance Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, trans. Grün, 284–5, 298–9; Fleet, European and Islamic Trade, 40. Ibn Baṭṭūṭa received some of these as presents from local rulers and also bought some of them (of both sexes), one in Ayasuluk, for instance. Two of these tried to escape to (at this time again Byzantine-controlled) Phokaia (Foça) when Ibn Baṭṭūṭa was in Magnesia (Manisa), but were captured again before arriving on the coast, cf. Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, trans. Grün, 301; Fleet, European and Islamic Trade, 55. 94 Cf. Wright, ‘Vade, sta, ambula’, for the material and the historical background. See also Luttrell, ‘Slavery at Rhodes’, 81–2, and Fleet, European and Islamic Trade, 251–2. For the status of slaves on Venetian Crete in general see Sally McKee, ‘Inherited Status and Slavery in Late Medieval Italy and Venetian Crete’, Past and Present 182 (2004): 33–44. 95 See https://www.academia.edu/6184666/Networks_of_Slavery, fig. 9. 96 See https://www.academia.edu/6184666/Networks_of_Slavery, fig. 11. Cf. also Wright, ‘Vade, sta, ambula’, 202–203 (without exact numbers), Epstein, Purity Lost, 54–5, and Fleet, European and Islamic Trade, 39–40. See also McKee, ‘Inherited Status’, 40, for the modification of this composition of origins of slaves from predominantly ‘Greek’ to people from the Black Sea region towards the end of the fourteenth century. 97 Klaus Belke, Paphlagonien und Honōrias (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1996), 228–9. 98 Wright, ‘Vade, sta, ambula’, 204, with n. 20, on the issue of renaming and of (re-) baptism, also of eastern Christians by Latins; McKee, ‘Domestic Slavery’, 313–14, for general papal regulations (which allowed the continuation of enslavement of converts, but decreed the 140 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia of individuals and localities emerging between Iohannes and Marcus Sclavo as well as the other four slaves sold by him in Candia in 1305–06, we see that Sclavo otherwise only sold ‘Greeks’ from western Asia Minor and the Aegean to ‘Italian’ customers in Candia,99 so that Iohannes, a ‘Turk’ sold to a ‘Greek’, has a somewhat special position. Among the ports of western Anatolia, that of Ayasuluk (in 1304 first occupied by the Catalans and then conquered by the Turks)100 is the most prominent source of slaves in the data from Candia. From there, exclusively ‘Greek’ slaves were transported to Candia and sold mostly to ‘endogenous’ Italian buyers (but also one ‘Greek’, buying a ‘Greek’ woman)101 and one from Ancona. This highlights the intensive connections between the Venetian colony and the emirates of western Anatolia right from their emergence.102 If we map the connections between Candia and the Mediterranean world on the basis of links to the places of origin of merchants who came there to trade with slaves in 1305–06, due to the predominance of Venetian traders from Venice or Crete, we observe a network geographically less far-reaching than that of Famagusta, but still a market attracting merchants from as far as Majorca, Alexandria, Syria and the Crimea for its ‘commodity’, stemming mainly from its Aegean neighbours to the east and to the west.103 This becomes apparent if we draw the connections between Candia, Anatolia and the Black Sea on the basis of links to the places of origin of slaves who were traded there in 1305–06 (Figure 5.7). We also get an impression of the dense web of connections between Crete and western Anatolia.104 While the Venetian element was predominant, slaves in Candia were also traded between Italians and ‘Greeks’. Both ‘Turk’ as well as ‘Greek’ slaves were traded, as we have already seen; one Greek, Michael Ocomninos from the Lycian town of Makre, was even active in the transport of Greek slaves from the port of Anaia to Candia.105 Further deals took place between a Latin Christian and a release of any slave found to be of Latin rite before her or his enslavement. This was also a main cause why the ethnic and or religious origin of slaves was documented on the occasion of their sale); cf. also Luttrell, ‘Slavery at Rhodes’, 84–6, for the Hospitaller’s regulations regarding the baptism of slaves, and 88 for a proclamation by Pope Urban V from between 1362 and 1370 that Greek Orthodox slaves should be manumitted after seven years of service. 99 See https://www.academia.edu/6184666/Networks_of_Slavery, fig. 13 (see also the map, fig. 14, for the geographical range of Sclavo’s activity). 100 Cf. Külzer, ‘Ephesus in byzantinischer Zeit’, 528; Preiser-Kapeller, Episkopat im späten Byzanz, 105. 101 See https://www.academia.edu/6184666/Networks_of_Slavery, figs 12 and 10. 102 Cf. also Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade. 103 For the connections to Egypt cf. also Georg Christ, ‘Sliding Legalities: Venetian Slave Trade in Alexandria and the Aegean’, in Slavery and the Slave Trade in the Mediterranean Region during the Medieval Period (1000–1500), ed. C. Christoph and Reuven Amitai (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013). 104 Wright, ‘Vade, sta, ambula’, 200; See also Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade, 160–63, and Fleet, European and Islamic Trade, 37–8. 105 Cf. also Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade, 3–5, and Hellenkemper and Hild, Lykien und Pamphylien, 705, on the significance of the trade between Venetian Crete and Makre before and after 1300. Liquid Frontiers 141

Figure 5.6 Connections between Candia and the Mediterranean world on the basis of links to the places of origin of merchants who came there to trade with slaves in 1305/1306 (J. Preiser-Kapeller, 2013; created with QuantumGIS)

‘iudeus’ (buying a ‘Greek’ man)106 and between an Italian and a Muslim from Syria (buying a ‘Greek’ woman).107 As we have seen for Cyprus and the case of Iohannes de Castamoni, slaves were integrated in various combinations of religious and ethnic backgrounds via their owners. In Candia, slaves of Muslim background (coming from ‘Turchia’, but also from the Black Sea) mostly became members of households consisting of Latin Christian owners and a majority of Greek Orthodox slaves. All of them had received ‘Christian’ names when appearing in our documents.108 While the combined web of slaves, sellers and buyers emerging from the Famagusta data is a very fragmented one, in the Candiote network we observe

106 In another case in Crete, a Greek female slave with a clearly Christian name (Ebdochia de Romania) was declared to be Jewish, ‘presumably in order to justify’ her sale to a Jew, cf. Luttrell, ‘Slavery at Rhodes’, 81, with n. 3. In 1438, a Jewish couple on Rhodes also needed a special permission to own a female ‘Saracen’ slave, cf. Luttrell, ‘Slavery at Rhodes’, 87. For the status of Jews on Venetian Crete in general cf. Joshua Starr, ‘Jewish Life in Crete under the Rule of Venice’, Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 12 (1942): 59–114. 107 See https://www.academia.edu/6184666/Networks_of_Slavery, fig. 15. 108 See https://www.academia.edu/6184666/Networks_of_Slavery, fig. 16. Cf. also Epstein, Purity Lost, 55. 142 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Figure 5.7 Connections between Candia and Anatolia, the Aegean and the Black Sea on the basis of links to the places or origin of slaves who were traded there in 1305/1306 (J. Preiser-Kapeller, 2013; created with QuantumGIS) one large component, connecting 63 slaves and owners.109 Within the structure of this component, the most active traders of slaves are the central nodes; but we can also see how the trade of some slaves connects three otherwise unconnected groups of traders: the sale of the female Saracen Bona established a commercial link between a cluster centred around the de Grado family and one centred around the Macamurdi family. And the sale of another Turk ‘Iohannes’ (who, like the one from Kastamonu, was transported to Candia via Constantinople) connected the Macamurdi-cluster with the Habramo family respectively with the cluster of the very active slave trader Hemanuel Venetando.110 Interestingly enough, the rare commodity of Muslim slaves has a special place within the commercial network in Candia at this time. Slaves, of course, were a special commodity, and while owners and slaves could be of the same religious or ethnic background, as we have seen, there existed

109 See https://www.academia.edu/6184666/Networks_of_Slavery, fig. 17. 110 See https://www.academia.edu/6184666/Networks_of_Slavery, fig. 17. Liquid Frontiers 143 certain reservations towards delivering co-religionists to ‘infidels’. Guillelmus Ade, for instance, wrote about the spiritual danger of selling Christians to Muslims: ‘The miserable Greeks are sold and become slaves of every nation, that is, of the Saracens, the Tartars, and the Jews, and each of them follows the sect professed by his master.’111 This issue became even more critical when slaves escaped across the frontier to an area under the control of fellow Christians or Muslims. In such cases, compensation was agreed upon in the treaties of Venetian Crete with Menteşe and Aydın, for instance, while the restitution of an enslaved co-religionist to the ‘infidels’ was expected neither by the Christian nor the Muslim partner. The Ottomans and Genoese followed the same principles in their agreement in 1387.112 We have other examples. In April 1372, the Synod of Constantinople had to deal with the case of a priestmonk (hieromonachos) from Pharos on the European shore of the Bosphorus.113 When a group of Christian slaves who had escaped from Ottoman captivity took refuge there in the church of Hagios Georgios, the priestmonk together with the inhabitants of Pharos not only violated the church asylum and expelled the fugitives from the church, but handed them over to the Turks, who killed several of them. Obviously, the people of Pharos feared the retaliation of the Ottomans, who at this time already could enter the hinterland of Constantinople more or less at will. Nevertheless, the Synod assigned penance for homicide to the laymen of Pharos; the priestmonk was deposed and lost his priesthood.114 The Hospitallers, however, in 1392–93 declined a demand from the Ottoman Sultan Bayezid to return all slaves from the Ottoman realm who had escaped either to Smyrna (whose function as a safe refuge for Christian fugitives is also emphasised in a grant of an indulgence to finance repairs to its walls from Pope Clement VII in 1390) or to Rhodes and to allow the sultan’s subjects to have free access to the slave market of Rhodes in order to buy and sell both ‘infidel’ and Christian slaves of both sexes.115 At the same time, too strong a presence of slaves of ‘enemy’ background was also considered a threat to security. In 1341 the Venetian Senate decreed that

111 Guillelmus Ade, Tractatus, ed. and trans. Constable, 78–9 (ch. 4); at 28–9 (ch. 1), he denounces the sale of ‘Greeks, Bulgars, Ruthenians, Alans, and Hungarians from lesser Hungary, who all rejoice in the Christian name’ by Genoese and other merchants to Muslims, esp. the Mamluks of Egypt. The large scale enslavement of Greek Orthodox by Latins was also cause for a complaint by the Byzantine delegate Barlaam before the Pope in Avignon in 1339, cf. Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade, 160. 112 Fleet, European and Islamic Trade, 56–7; Epstein, Purity Lost, 114. Cf. also Constable, ‘Housing the Stranger’, 284, for Mamluk protests in 1420 against Venetians capturing Muslims and selling them as slaves to the Duke of Naxos. 113 Andreas Külzer, Ostthrakien (Eurōpē) (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2008), 585. 114 Franz Miklosich and Joseph Müller, Acta patriarchatus Constantinopolitani MCCCXV– MCCCCII e codicibus manu scriptis Bibliothecae Palatinae Vindobonesis, vol. 1 (Vienna, 1860; reprint Aalen: Scientia, 1968), 592–3 (nr 329); Preiser-Kapeller, ‘Conversion, Collaboration and Confrontation.’ Cf. also Epstein, Purity Lost, 169, for a similar case in Genoese Kaffa on the Crimea in 1420. 115 Luttrell and Zachariadou, Sources for Turkish History, 43, 96 (nr 6), and 94 (nr 3) for the papal indulgence; Fleet, European and Islamic Trade, 41. 144 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Turkish slaves should not be present on Crete for more than six months and should then only be transported further on to the west, away from the frontier. In 1363, we learn about measures against merchants who tried to circumvent such restrictions by declaring Turkish slaves to be ‘Greeks’ (who were – due to the weakness of Byzantine power – more or less ‘harmless’).116 A statute of the Hospitallers on Rhodes stipulated in 1357 that, for security reasons in the event of a Turkish attack, no slave of Turkish origin should be in the service of any knight of the Order living within the fortified town of Rhodes.117 As so often, we observe the friction between the utilisation of the potential of contacts across the frontier and the necessity for control. Instruments of control were, of course, of limited effectiveness under pre-modern conditions, and almost useless in the face of crises: when the armies of Timur devastated Anatolia after the Ottoman defeat at Ankara in 1402, both ‘Latins’ from Ayasuluk and Turci innumerabiles fled from the mainland to islands such as Samos.118

Conclusion

As our case studies illustrate, there were various and manifold channels of encounters across religious borders in maritime Asia Minor. Their systematic survey and mapping, beyond the individual cases presented in this chapter, can contribute to a further contextualising of the processes of political, economic and religious transformation in Anatolia in these centuries within the late medieval Mediterranean and Islamic world, complementary to existing projects such as ‘The Islamisation of Anatolia’.119 Such ‘entangled histories’ of course demand the cooperation of specialists of the various polities, ethnicities, religious and linguistic groups engaged in these communications, exchanges and conflicts. At the same, discourses of distinction and separation focused on the crossing of boundaries likewise should be surveyed and analysed in detail.120 Objections were voiced against contacts, commercial or otherwise, across the frontier, as we have seen. Similarly, we observe deep suspicions toward the results of such ‘inappropriate’ exchanges – individuals of (religiously, ethnically) mixed origins, such as hybrids between ‘Latins’ and ‘Greeks’ (‘Gasmouloi’), ‘Latins’ and local Christians in Syria (‘Poulains’), ‘Latins’ and ‘Turks’ (‘Turcopoles’) or ‘Greeks’ and ‘Turks’ (‘Murtati’). One of the crusading treatises of the earlier fourteenth century, the Directorum ad passagium faciendum, contains detailed chapters on the spiritual and personal deficits of these groups and why one has to beware of them (as well as from all other alien Christian and Muslim groups in the east, but also from newly baptised Turks and Saracens, the ‘Baptizati’). For the Gasmouloi,

116 Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade, 163, n. 683 (with sources); Fleet, European and Islamic Trade, 44. 117 Luttrell, ‘Slavery at Rhodes’, 86–7; Fleet, European and Islamic Trade, 43. 118 Luttrell and Zachariadou, Sources for Turkish History, 100–101 (nr 13). 119 Cf. https://www.islam-anatolia.ac.uk/. 120 Cf. for instance Küçükhüseyin, Selbst- und Fremdwahrnehmung. Liquid Frontiers 145 the author provides an interesting description of such what we would call today ‘transcultural’ identities: ‘When they are with Greeks, they show themselves as Greeks, and when with Latins, as Latins.’121 By combining such evidence with an analysis of the actual structural embedding of individuals into social networks, we can achieve a better understanding of the emergence and dynamics of religious or ethnic identities on the level of individuals as well as for larger communities within the medieval world. Future studies along these lines therefore will contribute to a deeper understanding of the social dynamics of the period.

121 Directorum ad passagium faciendum, in: Recueil des Historiens des Croisades: documents arméniens (Paris: Académie des inscriptions et belles-lettres, 1869-1906), vol. 2, 490–95. Cf. also Marino Sanudo Torsello, Book, III, 8, 2, trans. Lock, 289–90; Epstein, Purity Lost, 6, 14–15, 39, 109–10. On the actual, also demographic significance of such groups on Venetian Crete, where children fathered by a free Latin man with a female slave automatically became free themselves, see for instance McKee, ‘Inherited Status’, 33–44. For the image of eastern Christianity in western sources of the time cf. also Von den Anna-Dorothee Von den Brincken, Die ‘Nationes Christianorum Orientalium’ in Verständnis der lateinischen Historiographie von der Mitte des 12. bis in die zweite Hälfte des 14. Jahrhunderts (Cologne and Vienna: Böhlau, 1973); On ‘transcultural identities’ cf. Ekaterini Mitsiou, ‘Feinde, Freunde, Konkurrenten – Die Interaktion zwischen Byzantinern und Lateinern im Spätmittelalter,’ Historicum. Zeitschrift für Geschichte Sommer/ Herbst (2011, published 2012): 48–55. This page has been left blank intentionally Chapter 6 The Greek Orthodox Communities of Nicaea and Ephesus under Turkish Rule in the Fourteenth Century: A New Reading of Old Sources

Johannes Pahlitzsch

As a rule, the account of the history of the Greek Orthodox Church in Anatolia in the fourteenth century follows the narrative of oppression and expulsion by the Muslim Turkish conquerors and a resultant decline that led ultimately to Christians constituting a minute minority in Anatolia by the late fifteenth century. This narrative was shaped particularly by Speros Vryonis’s seminal work, The Decline of Medieval Hellenism in Asia Minor and the Process of Islamisation from the Eleventh through the Fifteenth Century published in 1971.1 One of the main reasons for this decline, according to Vryonis, was the destruction of the Orthodox Church ‘as an effective social, economic and religious institution.’2 Vryonis’s work was criticised on various occasions. Claude Cahen already called into question the emphasis of the Byzantine perspective,3 and more recently Anthony Kaldellis has recently pointed out Vryonis’s Greek-nationalistic picture of Byzantium.4 Nevertheless, Vryonis’s book continues to be of great importance through its extensive reappraisal of the source material, at least for Byzantine research into the history of Anatolia in the fourteenth century. In particular with regard to the

1 Speros Vryonis, The Decline of Medieval Hellenism in Asia Minor and the Process of Islamisation from the Eleventh through the Fifteenth Century (Berkeley, CA: University of California, 1971). 2 Ibid., 499. 3 Claude Cahen, review of Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, International Journal of Middle East Studies 4, no. 1 (1973): 112–17. Cahen criticises Vryonis, among other things, for dealing too little with the fact that in Anatolia, with the Armenians and Syrians, there were other, non-Byzantine Churches which certainly continued to exist. The ethno-linguistic and religious diversity of Anatolia is thus neglected by Vryonis. For Vryonis’ response to Cahen’s critiques, see his ‘The Decline of Medieval Hellenism in Asia Minor and the Process of Islamisation from the Eleventh through the Fifteenth Century’, Greek Orthodox Theological Review 27 (1982): 225–285 here 247f. 4 Anthony Kaldellis points out that Vryonis refers to Byzantines as Greeks throughout his book; even when he quotes sources, he makes them refer to Greeks and the Greek nation. Indeed, the title of Vryonis’s work, Decline of Hellenism, illustrates this rather Greek perspective. Kaldellis argues that the Byzantines did not define themselves in accordance with ethnic categories, but rather on the basis of their ‘being Roman’ (Anthony Kaldellis, Hellenism in Byzantium: The Transformations of Greek Identity and the Reception of the Classical Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 114 n. 220). 148 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia situation of the Orthodox Church, his interpretation has remained decisive. Only recently Tom Papademetriou questioned this narrative of decline. This picture of the Church and its bishops as ‘powerless victims’ of the Turkish invaders is not, in his opinion, in accordance with the complexity of the relations between the local Orthodox bishops and the new rulers.5 This chapter presents two case studies examining the fate of the Greek Orthodox communities of Ephesus and Nicaea in the fourteenth century, when Ephesus was under the rule of the Aydınoğlu and Nicaea was under Ottoman rule. The source situation is rather meagre. The records of the Turkish conquerors, if they are at all useful for this question, would require their own critical approach, which should be left to the specialists on Turkish history and literature of this time.6 This chapter is based mainly on Byzantine sources, such as the writings of local bishops, for example, Matthew of Ephesus and Theopanes of Nicaea, or documents from the register of the Patriarchate of Constantinople. In fact, Vryonis has already thoroughly examined most of these sources. Nevertheless, it seems profitable to subject these texts to a close reading once again taking account of their specific characteristics.

Ephesus

According to the Byzantine historian George Pachymeres, Byzantine Ephesus was captured by the Turkish commander, Sasa Beg in 1304. Pachymeres informs us that most of its population (οἱ πλείους) was deported to nearby Thyraia/Tire to avoid any insurgencies against the new rulers. But Pachymeres reports also that a great number of others (ἄλλους δὲ πλείστους) was killed without pity.7 Shortly after that, the Turkish commander Aydınoğlu Mübariz al-Din Mehmed,

5 Tom Papademetriou, ‘The Turkish Conquests and Decline of the Church Reconsidered’, in Church and Society in Late Byzantium, ed. Dimiter G. Angelov (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 2009), 186–200, here 183. 6 Rudi Paul Lindner, ‘Anatolia, 1300–1451’ in The Cambridge History of Turkey, vol. 1, Byzantium to Turkey, 1071–1453, ed. Kate Fleet (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 102–37, here 104–6. The history of the Aydınid principality, with a focus on the reign of Umur Beg, is chronicled by the mid-fifteenth century Turkish work, Enveri’s Düstur-name. See Irène Mélikoff-Sayar’s French translation,Le Destan d’Umur Pacha (Düsturname-i Enverî) (Paris: Presses Universitaires, 1954), Paul Lemerle’s examination of the text, L’émirat d’Aydin: Byzance et l’occident. Recherches sur La geste d’Umur Pacha (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1957), and Halil İnalcık’s study, ‘The Rise of the Turcoman Maritime Principalities in Anatolia, Byzantium, and the Crusades’, Byzantinische Forschungen 9 (1985): 179–217. For a detailed analysis of the sources on Rūm Seljuq history see Şevket Küçükhüseyin, Selbst- und Fremdwahrnehmung im Prozess kultureller Transformation. Anatolische Quellen über Muslime, Christen und Türken (13.–15. Jahrhundert) (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2011) as well as Alexander Beihammer, ‘Feindbilder und Konfliktwahrnehmung in den Quellen zum Auftreten der Seldschuken in Kleinasien (ca. 1050–1118)’, Byzantion 79 (2009): 48–99. 7 Georgios Pachymérès, Relations historiques, vol. 4, Books X–XIII, ed. and trans. Albert Failler (Paris: Institut Français d’Études Byzantines, 1999), Book XIII, c.13, 647, 649 (646, 648 French trans.). The Greek Orthodox Communities of Nicaea and Ephesus under Turkish Rule 149 in the service of the Germiyanid ruler based in Kütahya, seized the region and established an independent emirate or principality.8 In the fourteenth century, the majority of the population lived in the settlement of Ayasuluk (today Selçuk) which lies on the hill to the north-east of ancient Ephesus in the vicinity of the Basilica of St John. In fact, the name Ayasuluk is derived from Hagios Theologos, the epithet for St John.9 New archaeological evidence indicates that the area around the Church of Mary in the ancient city of Ephesus may have also been occupied at this time.10 Aydınoğlu Mehmed Beg (r. c.1308–34) who resided in Pyrgion (Birgi), the capital of the emirate, divided his territory among his sons: Hızır received Ephesus about 1325, but was subordinate to his father, and then to his brother Umur Beg (r. 1334–48). In 1348, after Umur’s death, Hızır (r. 1348–c.1360) came to the head of the principality, but resided in Ayasuluk, the emirate’s most important city. Just like his father had founded a mosque and madrasa at his base in Birgi, Hızır established foundations for the advancement of religious erudition in Ephesus, obviously in an attempt to create the Islamic institutions that were obligatory for an Islamic city and the residence of a Muslim ruler.11

8 The main Turkish source for these events, Enveri, however, differs somewhat to Pachymeres’s account in the presentation of these events. Enveri tells us that Sasa, the son- in-law of the ruler of the Menteşe principality, was sent to the region to lead a ‘cleaning-up operation’ in cooperation with the Germiyanid Turks after the sudden withdrawal of the Catalan forces earlier that year. Sasa Beg first took Birgi (Pyrgion) and then, moving through the Meander river valley towards the coast, seized Tire (Thyraia). The Germiyanid commander and founder of the Aydınid principality, Mehmed Beg seized Ayasuluk and its vicinity. Between 1305 and 1307 Sasa Beg died in battle with Mehmed Beg (Paul Lemerle, L’Émirat d’Aydın: Byzance et l’Occident. Recherches sur ‘La Geste d’Umur Pacha (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1957), 16–17, 20–26). See also Paul Wittek, Das Fürstentum Mentesche: Studie zur Geschichte Westkleinasiens im 13.–15. Jh. (Istanbul: Universum Druckerei, 1934; reprint Amsterdam: Oriental Press, 1967), 35–41; Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 227, 251f., 257; Clive Foss, Ephesus after Antiquity: A Late Antique, Byzantine and Turkish City (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), 144; Andreas Külzer, ‘Ephesus in byzantinischer Zeit: Ein historischer Überblick’, in Byzanz. Das Römerreich im Mittelalter, part 2: Schauplätze, ed. Falko Daim and Jörg Drauschke (Mainz: Verlag des Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseums, 2010), 521–39, here 528. See Elizabeth Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade: Venetian Crete and the Emirates of Menteshe and Aydin (1300–1415) (Venice: Istituto Ellenico di Studi Bizantini e Postbizantini, 1983), 112–16 for prosopographical notes on the Aydınids. 9 Andreas Pülz, ‘Das Stadtbild von Ephesus in byzantinischer Zeit’, in Byzanz. Das Römerreich im Mittelalter (cf. above note 8), part 2, 562–4, 567f. 10 Sabine Ladstätter, ‘Ephesus in byzantinischer Zeit’, in Byzanz. Das Römerreich im Mittelalter (cf. above note 8), part 2, 541–571, here 515 f. 11 Foss, Ephesus, 146f. For waqf in Anatolia in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries and its importance for the Islamisation of the region cf. Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 251–5; Klaus-Peter Todt, Kaiser Johannes VI. Kantakuzenos und der Islam: Politische Realität und theologische Polemik im palaiologenzeitlichen Byzanz (Würzburg: Echter, 1991), 601; Onur Yıldırım, ‘Pious Foundations in the Byzantine and Seljuk States: A Comparative Study of Philanthropy in the Mediterranean World during the Late Medieval Era. The Diataxis of Michael Attaleiates and the Waqfiyya of Celaleddin Karatay’,Rivista di Studi Orientali 73 (1999): 27–52; J. Michael Rogers, ‘Waqf and Patronage in Seljuk Anatolia: The Epigraphic Evidence’, Anatolian Studies 26 (1976): 69–103; Ethel Sara Wolper, ‘Politics of Patronage: Political Change and Construction of Dervish 150 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Indeed, the Turkish conquest of Ephesus had deep repercussions for the Christian population and the Orthodox Church. When, according to his vita, St Sabas the Younger briefly stayed in Ephesus in around 1310, he saw only the remains (λείψανα) of the Christian city’s erstwhile prosperity. These remains of the Basilica of St John, as well as the general condition of the city and its surroundings, recounts St Sabas, would have only aroused astonishment (θαύματος) and grief (πένθους).12 The Basilica of St John was converted into the city’s congregational mosque. The traveller Ibn Baṭṭūta described the building as ‘one of the most magnificent mosques in the world and unequalled in beauty’.13 As becomes obvious from Ramon Muntaner’s chronicle about the Catalan Company the church treasure, or at least important parts of it, evidently also fell into the Turks’ hands. Ramon Muntaner reports that, during the plundering of the town of Phokaia (Foça), a town lying to the north of Smyrna that was still under Byzantine control, three extremely precious relics were carried off, which John himself had originally deposited on the altar of the church in Ephesus: a piece of the True Cross, which John had removed from the cross at the place where Christ’s head had touched it; a piece of cloth woven by Mary, the mother of God, for John; and a manuscript of the Apocalypse written by John in his own hand. These treasures came to Phokaia when the Turks had bartered them for grain with the residents of Phokaia.14 The German pilgrim to Jerusalem, Wilhelm of Bodensele, who made his journey between 1332 and 1335, even reports that the Christians had been expelled from the town, killed or sent into slavery.15 In contrast to the Christian authors, the reports by Ibn Baṭṭūta, who visited the city in 1333, and the fourteenth century Arab geographer al-ʿUmarī convey the impression that Ephesus or Ayasuluk, respectively, was a flourishing city in Hızır’s day. Christians are only mentioned by Ibn Baṭṭūta in this connection as slaves.16 Admittedly, no concrete conclusions can be drawn from this about

Lodges in Sivas’, Muqarnas 12 (1995): 39–47; Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, ‘Social, Cultural and Intellectual Life 1071–1453’, in The Cambridge History of Turkey, ed. Fleet (cf. above note 6), vol. 1, 353–422 , here 377–80. For the similar case of Orhan in Nicaea, cf. below 158. 12 Philotheos Kokkinos, ‘Bios hagiou Saba’, in idem, Hagiologika erga. A´ Thessalonikeis hagioi, ed. Demetrios G. Tsames (Thessaloniki: Kentron Byzantinon Ereunon, 1985), chapter 16, 189. 13 Ibn Baṭṭūta, Voyages d’Ibn Batoutah, vol. 2, ed. Charles Defrémery (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1949), 308f. (with a French translation); English trans.: idem, The Travels of Ibn Battuta: A.D. 1325–1354, vol. 2, trans. Hamilton A. Gibb (London: Hakluyt Society, 1962), 444. 14 Ramon Muntaner, Crònica, vol. 2, ed. Marina Gustà (Barcelona: ed 62, 1979), 114. Lemerle, L’émirat d’Aydin, 26 n.1; Foss, Ephesus, 144f. 15 William of Boldensele, ‘Itinerarius Guilielmi de Boldensele’, in Karl L. Grotefend, ‘Die Edelherrn von Boldensele oder Boldensen’, Zeitschrift des Historischen Vereins für Niedersachsen 1852 (1855), 209–286, here 240: ‘Christianis inde expulsis, occisis et in servitutem redactis’. Cf. in general for the genre of travel reports Gerhard Wolf, ‘Die deutschsprachigen Reiseberichte des Spätmittelalters’, in Der Reisebericht. Die Entwicklung einer Gattung in der deutschen Literatur, ed. Peter Brenner (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1989), 81–116; for Wiliam and Ludolf of Sudheim cf. ibid., 90–92. 16 For Ibn Baṭṭūta’s report cf. above note 13. Cf. al-ʿUmarī’s report about Anatolia in his work Masālik al-abṣār fī mamālik al-amṣār, ed. Franz Taeschner (Leipzig: Otto Harrassowitz, 1929), 45f.; Foss, Ephesus, 146f. Cf. also Lemerle, L’émirat d’Aydin, 26–39. The Greek Orthodox Communities of Nicaea and Ephesus under Turkish Rule 151 the position of Christians in Ephesus, as in general Ibn Baṭṭūta had only a slight interest in the Christian population of Anatolia.17 The German pilgrim Ludolf of Sudheim (Suchem) visited Ephesus on his way to the Holy Land in between 1336 and 1341. He informs us that the Muslim Turks charged the Christians one dinar for admission to the tomb of St John which was now located inside the congregational mosque of Ayasuluk.18 Accordingly, Christians in Ephesus, either as residents of the city or as pilgrims, regularly visited this holy site. Even the annual miracle of dust might have still been celebrated, as the report by Matthew, the metropolitan of Ephesus, from the 1350s also suggests.19 Ludolf observes further that the ancient city was completely deserted (deserta). Previously, presumably under Byzantine rule, it had belonged to one single man until, after the Turkish conquest, a Turk by the name of Zalabin had acquired the ancient city. Now only the Greek widow of the Byzantine still lived there who had herself told Ludolf of her fate and who with Zalabin’s permission sold wine to traders.20 As mentioned above, the archaeological evidence indicates that ancient Ephesus was still inhabited until the fourteenth century, so that Ludolf was probably exaggerating in describing the city as deserta.21 It might be speculated, in view of the fact that the widow was a Christian, that the ancient city was still inhabited primarily by Christians. The letters of Matthew of Ephesus represent an important source for the situation of the Orthodox community of Ephesus in the mid-fourteenth century. Matthew, whose secular name was Manuel Gabalas, was consecrated as metropolitan of Ephesus in 1329, apparently after a longer vacancy. Matthew, however, resided in Constantinople until 1339. Whether he was banned from going

17 However Ibn Baṭṭūta, Voyages, 2: 255 (idem, Travels, 2: 415), says himself that numerous Christians were still living in western Anatolia: ‘Why it is called after the Rūm is because it used to be their land in olden times, and from it came the ancient Romans and Greeks (al-rūm al-aqdamūna wa-l-yūnāniyya). Later on it was conquered by the Muslims, but in it there are still large numbers of Christians under the protection of the Muslims the latter being Turkmen (taḥt dhimmat al-muslimīn min al-turkmān).’ The status of the Christians as dhimmīs is clearly expressed here. 18 Ludolf of Sudheim, De itinere terrae sanctae liber, ed. Ferdinand Deycks (Stuttgart: Litterarischer Verein, 1851), 24. 19 For the miracle of the dust cf. Foss, Ephesus, 127. For Matthew of Ephesus cf. below 153. 20 Ludolf of Sudheim, De itinere terrae, 25. 21 Cf. above note 10. Clive Foss already questioned whether this is a realistic description of conditions. As for Byzantine authors, only the fate of the Christians was of interest without taking the general development of the region into consideration. Under the rule of the Aydınid dynasty, precisely Ephesus, as a centre for trade of the newly established amirate, with its port of Panormos about four miles west from the town, experienced a new upturn. Foss, Ephesus, 145 and 149f. with note 1 for the location of the harbour. Anne Simon, ‘Of Smelly Seas and Ashen Apples: Two German Pilgrim’s View of the East’, in Eastward Bound: Travel and Travellers, 1050–1550, ed. Rosamund Allen (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2004), 196–220, here 204, states that Ludolf often mentions monumental remains from the Crusader period or also individual Christians, whom he still met there and who reported of the Christian past. Ludolf’s pilgrimage report thus ‘documents architectural and human traces on the landscape which serve, amongst other things, as both memorial to and reinforcement of the Christian claim to it’. 152 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia to Ephesus by the Turkish rulers or chose to delay taking up his appointment there remains an open question. In any event, in 1339 he was sent by Emperor Andronicus III to Smyrna to deliver a letter to the Aydınid ruler, Umur Beg, as well as to request permission to take up residence in Ephesus. By sending Matthew to Ephesus, perhaps Andronicus III had the intention of renewing the Byzantine-Aydınid alliance of 1335/36.22 As Matthew relates in his first letter, he was received only when it became known that he was bearing valuable gifts for Umur. After these had been handed over, he then received permission to travel onto Ephesus.23 Papademetriou interprets the handing over of gifts to Umur as ‘a sign of loyalty and obeisance’; as a result the ‘relationship between the two changed from entirely antagonistic to a somewhat protectionist one’.24 When Matthew reached Ephesus, he recited a prayer on the occasion of his entrance into the city, the text of which is still extant. In his prayer, he asks God to grant him the same power as the apostles whom He sent to ‘foreign nations (τὰ ἔθνη)’. In general, the prayer requests the salvation of the oppressed Christians with reference to different biblical motives.25 This liturgical text, however, does not provide information about the actual situation of the Christians, but rather represents an expression of church ideology. The three letters Matthew wrote while in Ephesus are more informative in this regard. In his first letter, Matthew reports what he experienced when he first arrived in Ephesus. Bearing a letter from Umur Beg as well as gifts, Matthew was sent to the Aydınid governor of Ephesus, Umur Beg’s brother Hızır. After longer negotiations, Hızır assigned a small church and an ‘inadequate’ piece of land to him. Hızır, however, could not turn over the Basilica of St John to Matthew, since it had been transformed into a mosque, nor what had formerly been the city’s bishop’s residence, for it was presently occupied by the ‘archpriest of his imposture (πλάνης)’, as Matthew puts it, perhaps implying that he was the local qadi or imām. Assigned a house close to the former Basilica of St John, Matthew became especially dejected when he had to witness every day ‘how these corybants leapt on the roof and shouted aloud the utterances of their worship’.

22 Cf. Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade, 38–40. 23 Matthew of Ephesus, letter no. 55, in Die Briefe des Matthaios von Ephesus im Codex Vindobonensis Theol. Gr. 174, ed. Diether R. Reinsch (Berlin: Mielke, 1974), 175f., and 344f. German translation; Todt, Kaiser Johannes VI, 608f.; Otto Kresten, ‘Pyrgion: Peripetien in der kirchlichen Rangordnung einer kleinasiatischen Metropolis’, Anzeiger der philosophisch-historischen Klasse der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften 138 (2003), 5–81, here 19; Johannes Preiser-Kapeller, Der Episkopat im späten Byzanz: Ein Verzeichnis der Metropoliten und Bischöfe des Patriarchats von Konstantinopel in der Zeit von 1204 bis 1453 (Saarbrücken: VDM Verlag Dr. Müller, 2008), LV, 110. In general on Matthew of Ephesus, cf. Johannes Pahlitzsch, s.v. ‘Manuel Gabalas’, in Christian–Muslim Relations: A Bibliographical History, vol. 5, ed. David Thomas et al. (Leiden: Brill 2013), 71–5. 24 Papademetriou, ‘Turkish Conquests’, 191. Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 344f., interprets this merely as an attempt of Matthew to bribe Umur. 25 Max Treu, Matthaios, Metropolit von Ephesus. Über sein Leben und seine Schriften (Potsdam: Druck der Kramer’schen Buchdruckerei , 1901), 51f. The Greek Orthodox Communities of Nicaea and Ephesus under Turkish Rule 153

Matthew’s account gives the overall impression that his congregation consisted mostly of captives and slaves of the Muslims, in addition to priests and monks.26 In his second letter, the metropolitan states explicitly that he was sent to ‘the land of the barbarians’. He reports rather vividly how he was molested by a group of Muslims who tried to kill or at least expel him. But he states also that Hızır protected him, if only during the day; this, however, did not prevent stones from being thrown at his house at night. According to Matthew the only reason for throwing the stones was that those, who were considered by the Muslims as their priests, felt endangered by the mere presence of the bishop and his priests.27 Thus, it appears that while the Aydınid ruler was concerned with protecting the Christian community for political reasons, the religious leaders of the Muslim community who perceived Matthew’s presence in the region as threatening, incited the population against the metropolitan. This was a common phenomenon of the period likewise seen in Mamluk Syria and Egypt.28 Matthew also alludes to disputes he had with the Muslim religious leaders.29 In his last extant letter from Ephesus, the metropolitan seems to be in better spirits. While Matthew states that while he could not enjoy Ephesus as such because of the rule of the ‘barbarians’, he nevertheless was able to appreciate it very much in a spiritual regard, for its sacredness could not be destroyed by the Muslims. He refers in this context to a stone which has a depiction of Christ and his disciple John, identifying it as one of the stones that gushed forth from the grave of St John, together with the dust. This is obviously a reference to the dust miracle that took place at the grave of John the Apostle.30 The letters can be understood as an expression of a certain development. While at first his life was threatened, Matthew’s last letter reflects a more secure situation. Regardless of whether the handing over of presents to Emir Umur and the ruler of Ephesus, Hızır, did in fact play a role as a symbolic act of submission and as a profession of loyalty, Matthew was evidently in a position to achieve a kind of modus vivendi and was, according to Papademetriou’s interpretation, under the Muslim ruler’s protection. Matthew’s letters nevertheless present a rather desolate situation for the Christian communities under Turkish rule. The metropolitan’s lamentation about the Christians’ poor situation in the province, however, represents a literary topos typical of the letters of bishops who had to reside outside of Constantinople as Clive Foss has already pointed out.31 One must

26 Matthew of Ephesus, letter no. 55, 175–8; (344–9 in the German translation). 27 Matthew of Ephesus, letter no. 54, 173f. (342f. German trans.). 28 Johannes Pahlitzsch, ‘Mediators between East and West: Christians under Mamluk Rule’, Mamluk Studies Review 9, no. 2 (2005): 31–47, here 38 with n. 24. 29 Matthew of Ephesus, letter no. 54, 173 (342 German trans.): ‘κἄν εἰς λόγους ἐγχειρήσωσιν ἰέναι’. 30 Matthew of Ephesus, letter no. 57, 183 (355 German trans.); Foss, Ephesus, 127; cf. above 151. Todt, Kaiser Johannes VI, 612, presumes that this was an antique relief. 31 Foss, Ephesus, 149. On this literary topos cf. Margaret Mullett, ‘Originality in the Byzantine Letter: The Case of Exile’, in Originality in Byzantine Literature Art and Music, ed. Antony R. Littlewood (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 1995); reprint in eadem, Letters, Literacy and Literature in Byzantium (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), 39–58. According to Mullett (ibid., 41) who provides a list 154 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia thus exercise a certain caution in regarding these letters as reliable evidence of actual conditions.32 That Matthew had succeeded, after an apparently difficult initial phase, in safeguarding his position is confirmed by documents from the register of the Patriarchate of Constantinople. The long-lasting dispute between the Churches of Ephesus and Pyrgion about the rank of the latter will not be dealt with in detail here.33 But, in the context of this dispute, the Patriarch of Constantinople sent emissaries to Ephesus and Pyrgion to investigate certain accusations. During this investigation, a letter that Matthew had written to Umur in order to persuade the emir to expel his opponent from Pyrgion was disclosed. How this letter came into the hands of the investigators is not known, however, the synod disapproved of Matthew’s having addressed the Muslim ruler as ‘his dear (καλόν) son’ and describing himself as the emir’s father. The synod likewise found objectionable the way he referred to the priests of Pyrgion as ‘his [Umur’s] papades’. The synod declared on this: ‘He should not have done this, because for the bearers of the archpriestly dignity it is fitting to observe such a matter towards such persons exactly, and not to use the same appropriate names analogously towards the faithful and heathens and infidels.’34 Matthew had obviously adapted quite well to life under Turkish rule and tried to influence the local ruler for his own purposes. The swindler and confidence man Paul Tagaris represents a definitely comparable case here. Posing as the Patriarch of Jerusalem, he travelled throughout Asia Minor, performing consecrations of metropolitans and bishops in exchange for payment. Whenever a bishop refused payment, Paulos would denounce him to the local emir, thus forcing him to pay.35 With regard to Matthew of authors of such letters, bishops, be they official exiles or those that considered that ‘their posting intellectual and socially constituted exile’, represented the largest group of authors. 32 Thus for instance in Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 344: ‘… the information that Matthew records is of greater significance for the actual fate of the ecclesiastical establishment in Asia Minor.’ Preiser-Kapeller, Episkopat im späten Byzanz, LV, also describes Matthew’s letters as being some of the most illustrative and best-known examples for the state of the church after the Turkish conquest. 33 In detail on this Kresten, ‘Pyrgion’, 18–37. 34 Das Register des Patriarchats von Konstantinopel, vol. 2: Edition und Übersetzung der Urkunden aus den Jahren 1337–1350, ed. Herbert Hunger (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1995) (abbreviated in the following as PRK II), no. 144, 322f.; Kresten, ‘Pyrgion’, 33–6; Johannes Preiser-Kapeller, ‘Conversion, Collaboration and Confrontation: Islam in the Register of the Patriarchate of Constantinople (14th Century)’, International Review of Turkish Studies 1, no. 4 (2011): 62–79, here 69f. Preiser-Kapeller provides other examples in which bishops attempted to push through their interests in a similar manner with the help of the Turkish rulers. 35 Paulos Tagaris presented his unusual path in life in a general confession to the patriarch and the synod of Constantinople in 1394 (Herbert Hunger, ‘Die Generalbeichte eines byzantinischen Mönches im 14. Jahrhundert’, in Studien zum Patriarchatsregister von Konstantinopel II, ed. Herbert Hunger and Otto Kresten (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1997), 193–218, here 196, 201 German trans.; Donald M. Nicol, ‘The Confessions of a Bogus Patriarch: Paul Tagaris Palaiologos, Orthodox Patriarch of Jerusalem The Greek Orthodox Communities of Nicaea and Ephesus under Turkish Rule 155 of Ephesus, Papademetriou states in this respect quite correctly that ‘the attempt to make Metropolitan Matthew of Ephesus a case study of Turkish oppression of the hierarchy raises more questions about the relationship between ruler and ruled than it answers’.36 Hızır died in about 1360 and was succeeded by his brother Isa who ruled the emirate for 30 years, until the Ottomans incorporated the emirate of Aydın into their territory. Under Isa’s rule Ephesus reached the height of its prosperity. It was the most important market in the area for Venice.37 In spite of this, two synodic acts of 1368 and 1387 present a picture of the further decline of the Orthodox Church of Ephesus. In 1368, the Church of Pyrgion was translated to the Church of Ephesus kat’ epidosin38 as ‘all its possessions were destroyed after the conquest by the Barbarians and it is (therefore) not in a position to offer its archpriest the bare essentials’.39 Thus it was decreed that all the revenues of Pyrgion should go to the metropolitan of Ephesus.40 This assignment was confirmed in 1387. The document begins with a well-known lament by the metropolitan of Ephesus, Myron, about the situation of the churches under Turkish rule stating that:

Earlier, this metropolis of his made a great show with many goods, when the affairs of the Rhomaioi also flourished and thrived, and peace prevailed everywhere in the oikoumenē; around it there was a large quantity of movable and immovable property which it was not easy to count … But since then, every city and (every) tract of land has become the booty of the heathen peoples, and the (cities) have been completely destroyed: In the case of some, one does not even recognise from their name that they were once cities, in the case of the others, one recognises that still on account of a few remains; they (now) have a quite easily counted (number) of Christian inhabitants and they can not only not nourish a metropolitan or bishop, but not even a priest for the poor or the beggars.41

and Catholic Patriarch of Constantinople in the Fourteenth Century’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 21 (1970): 289–99; Pahlitzsch, ‘Mediators’, 45f. 36 Papademetriou, ‘Turkish Conquests’, 191. However, not least because of this letter to Umur, Matthew lost the case against the bishop of Pyrgion whose see was acknowledged as having the status of a metropolis. After this defeat, which also had economic consequences for the Church of Ephesus, Matthew probably preferred to stay in Constantinople until he was deposed as metropolitan of Ephesus in 1351 because of his anti-Palamite stance, Kresten, ‘Pyrgion’, 38f. 37 Foss, Ephesus, 153–7. For Venetian trade in this area in general cf. Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade. 38 The term κατ’ ἐπίδοσιν designates a translation of a vacant bishopric to another bishop in order to support the latter economically (cf. Preiser-Kapeller, Episkopat im späten Byzanz, 59–63). 39 Edited in Kresten, ‘Pyrgion’, 70 (73 German trans.). 40 For more on this document see Kresten, ‘Pyrgion’, 53–7; Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 316. 41 Edited in Kresten, ‘Pyrgion’, 75 (77 German trans.). 156 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Without doubt the Orthodox Church of Anatolia was severely affected in its previous structure as imperial church through the loss of a large part of its possessions and income as a result of the Turkish conquests. Vryonis came thus to the conclusion that for the Orthodox Christian communities the fact that they were deprived of the direction of their leaders, ‘constituted a serious impairment to Christian esprit in the communities, hindered ordinations, and led to a general relaxation of their social cohesion and cultural bonds’.42 This hypothesis, however, should be re-evaluated. We should not take at face value the information provided by documents issued by the synod of Constantinople. Certainly it is true that the diminished churches of Anatolia were not able to support the same kind of ecclesiastical administration as that in lands still under Byzantine rule. But this kind of administration, that was an integral part of the political structure of the Byzantine Empire, had become obsolete under the new conditions. The Christian communities in Turkish territory needed a new infrastructure to serve two objectives: first, to provide the necessary liturgical services; and secondly, to guarantee the legal autonomy that was conceded to them as dhimmīs by having a representative who acted also as judge in their internal affairs.43 So the task the communities were charged with was to restructure themselves instead of trying to preserve their old status. However, the patriarchs and clerics in the capital competing for posts do not seem to have been interested in restructuring the church administration under Turkish domination according to these new conditions. Consequently this re- enforced the traditional reluctance of the members of the higher clergy, who had spent most of their career in Constantinople, to move to the provinces. A striking example is the Metropolitan of Smyrna who was admonished several times in 1363 to take up his residence in Smyrna, as he had promised. It is stated explicitly that many Christians lived there who needed him and expected him.44 We get the sense of a considerable and even thriving Christian community in Smyrna in need of guidance in stark contrast to Metropolitan Myron’s

42 Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 350. 43 On the dhimmī status in legal respect cf. in general Antoine Fattal, Le statut légal des non-musulmans en pays d’Islam (Beirut: Imprimerie Catholique, 1958); Johannes Pahlitzsch, Der arabische Procheiros Nomos. Untersuchung und Edition der arabischen Übersetzung eines byzantinischen Rechtstextes (Forschungen zur Byzantinischen Rechtsgeschichte 31), forthcoming; Uriel I. Simon, A Common Justice: The Legal Allegiances of Christians and Jews under Early Islam (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011). Whereas in the thirteenth century under Seljuq rule the provisions of Islamic law with regard to the dhimmīs were probably only applied to a limited extent, in the fourteenth century a tightening up in this respect seems to have started: cf. Osman Turan, ‘Les souverains seldjoukides et leurs sujets non-musulmans’, Studia Islamica 1 (1953): 65–100; Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 224–6; Ocak, ‘Social, Cultural and Intellectual Life’, 387–90. 44 Das Register des Patriarchats von Konstantinopel, vol. 3: Edition und Übersetzung der Urkunden aus den Jahren 1350–1363, ed. Johannes Koder, Martin Hinterberger and Otto Kresten (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2001), no. 271, 599 (with a German translation); Hélène Ahrweiler, ‘L‘histoire et la géographie de la région de Smyrne entre les deux occupations turques (1081–1317)’, Travaux et mémoires 1 (1965): 1–204, here 108; Preiser- Kapeller, Episkopat im späten Byzanz, 416. The Greek Orthodox Communities of Nicaea and Ephesus under Turkish Rule 157 lamentation about the decline of his flock in Ephesus. Obviously, one needs to treat the documentation with caution, taking into consideration the purpose the respective document should serve. So maybe the problem consisted more in the focusing of the Orthodox Church on Constantinople and in the fact that most of the bishops preferred to continue residing in the capital, endowed with an income they considered as appropriate to their status, rather than take up a provincial post. Indeed, Turkish and western as well as archaeological sources provide ample evidence for the wealth of the inhabitants of Ephesus in the second half of the fourteenth century, Muslims and Christians. Although these Christians were mainly Italian merchants, future research in the Venetians archives might further reveal the identity of Greeks who were involved in the Venetian trade in Ephesus. Greek expertise was indeed sought out by the Turkish begs, as the example of Michael Doukas, the grandfather of the historian Doukas who fled from Constantinople to Smyrna in 1346 during the Byzantine civil war, proves. Since he was erudite in medicine he was welcomed by Isa, received with honour at Isa’s court and granted an income.45

Nicaea

Nicaea surrendered to the Ottoman ruler Orhan in March 1331, after a two- year siege. According to the Byzantine historian Nicephoros Gregoras, Orhan allowed the translation of the relics of two women saints, as well as icons and manuscripts to Constantinople against the payment of a ransom.46 Aşıkpaşazade, an Ottoman author writing at the end of the fifteenth century, emphasises the peaceful nature of the conquest. When Nicaea’s inhabitants offered the Ottoman sultan capitulation under the condition that ‘anyone who wants to move away, can move away and anyone who wants to remain, can remain’, Orhan accepted. Depicted by Aşıkpaşazade as an ideal warrior against infidels (ghāzī), Orhan is attributed with the utterance: ‘Magnanimity is the most splendid form of religious struggle’, which led immediately to the conversion of many inhabitants to Islam. The Byzantine governor, designated as tekür, and his retinue were

45 Doukas, Istoria turco-bizantinăurco-b–1462), ed. Vasile Grecu (Bucureşti: Editura Academiei Republicii Populaire Romîne, 1958), 45–7; for the French translation see idem, Histoire turco-byzantine: Introduction, traduction et commentaire, ed. Jean Dayantis (Lille: Atelier national de reproduction des thèses, 2004), 16f.; Demetrios I. Polemis, The Doukai: A Contribution to Byzantine Prosopography (London: Athlone Press, 1968), 196; Foss, Ephesus, 162; Prosopographisches Lexikon der Palaiologenzeit; CD ROM-Version, ed. Erich Trapp and Christian Gastgeber (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2001), no. 5697. 46 Nicephoros Gregoras, Byzantina historia, vol. 1, ed. Ludwig Schopen (Bonn: Weber, 1829, 458 [German trans.: idem, Rhomäische Geschichte. Teil 2, Halbband 2, Kapitel VIII–XI, ed. Jan Louis van Dieten (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1979)], 239. 158 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia granted safe conduct, but ‘the population remained behind, and even most of the knights did not leave’.47 This heavily biased account by Aşıkpaşazade can certainly not be regarded as a faithful report of the actual events.48 And in fact, Ibn Baṭṭūta, who visited the city just a few months after the conquest in October or November 1331, offers a different picture. Nicaea had evidently suffered more under the two- year siege than Aşıkpaşazade, who suggests a smooth, almost harmonious transition from Byzantine to Ottoman rule, would like to have one believe. In Ibn Baṭṭūta’s account, Nicaea is ‘in a mouldering condition and uninhabited, except for a few men in the sultan’s service’. Large tracts of land within the city walls were apparently used for agriculture.49 Christians are not mentioned, as in his description of Ephesus, yet this silence is also probably in accordance with the author’s interests. Nicaea, however, seems to have recovered again soon. According to Aşıkpaşazade, Orhan resided in the city for some time and converted Nicaea’s main church, the Hagia Sophia, into the Friday mosque and a monastery into a madrasa, and endowed further pious foundations.50 But as in the case of Ephesus, these activities were most likely not aimed at the conversion of the Christian population. Rather it was the new rulers’ intention to take possession of the newly conquered space by Islamising it, but not the inhabitants.51 And indeed, two letters from the Patriarch of Constantinople, John XIV Kalekas, show that Christians were still living in Nicaea, even if conversions to Islam apparently represented a serious threat for the weakened Christian community. In his first letter to the Christians of Nicaea from 1338, John Kalekas

47 Aşıkpaşazade, Vom Hirtenzelt zur Hohen Pforte. Frühzeit und Aufstieg des Osmanenreiches nach der Chronik ‘Denkwürdigkeiten und Zeitläufte des Hauses ʿOsman’ vom Derwisch Ahmed, genannt ʿAşık-Paşa-Sohn, ed. Richard F. Kreutel (Graz: Styria, 1959), 67f. Clive Foss, with the collaboration of Jacob Tulchin, Nicaea: A Byzantine Capital and Its Praises (Brookline, MA: Hellenic College Press, 1996), 84; Michael Angold, ‘The City Nicaea, ca. 1000 – ca. 1400’, in Iznik Throughout History, ed. Işıl Akbaygil, Halil İnalcık and Oktay Aslanapa (Istanbul: Türkiye Bankası, 2003), 27–55, here 44; Preiser-Kapeller, Episkopat im späten Byzanz, 318f.; Osman Turan, ‘L’Islamisation dans la Turquie du Moyen Age’, Studia Islamica 10 (1959): 13–52, here 152. 48 On Aşıkpaşazade cf. Halil Inalcik, ‘How to Read Aşık Paşazāde’, in Studies in Ottoman History in Honour of Professor V.L. Ménage, ed. Colin Heywood and Colin Imber (Istanbul: The Isis Press, 1994), 139–56, as well as Angold, ‘The City Nicaea’, 44 n. 147. 49 Ibn Baṭṭūta, Voyages, 2: 322–4 (idem, Travels, 2: 452f.). Angold, ‘The City Nicaea’, 45. Foss, Nicaea, 84. 50 Aşıkpaşazade, Vom Hirtenzelt zur Hohen Pforte, 69. 51 On the expansion of Bursa, see Howard Crane, ‘Art and Architecture, 1300–1453’, in The Cambridge History of Turkey, ed. Fleet (cf. above note 6), vol. 1, 266–352, here 274–6. The measures, which Saladin implemented after the conquest of Jerusalem in 1187, can be regarded as a comparable Islamisation of a conquered city by a Muslim ruler; cf. Johannes Pahlitzsch, ‘The Transformation of Latin Religious Institutions into Islamic Endowments by Saladin in Jerusalem’, in Governing the Holy City: The Interaction of Social Groups in Medieval Jerusalem, ed. Lorenz Korn and Johannes Pahlitzsch (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2004), 47–69. Here, too, no missionary work was started among the remaining indigenous Christian in the city. On the other hand, Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 351f. and 402, sees in the Islamic institutions financed by pious foundations (waqf) an important reason for the spread of Islam; cf. above note 11. The Greek Orthodox Communities of Nicaea and Ephesus under Turkish Rule 159 deals explicitly with this issue, stating that: ‘But now, with the toleration of God, through the great number of sins, the attack of the Ismaelites has overwhelmed us. They have taken many of our people prisoner, reduced them to servitude and dragged them away with force so that (as a consequence of this) – woe betide us! – they also chose their wickedness and godlessness.’52 According to this statement Christians had been oppressed who then converted to Islam, most likely to improve their social status. However, it is not said that they were forced to convert, as Vryonis has suggested.53 But when these apostates became aware of what evil they had been caught up in, they had turned to Christianity again. Therefore John Kalekas assured them that those who had abandoned their faith would nevertheless obtain salvation if they were to repent and return to Christianity. And those who did this in public, and thus would suffer for having done so, were promised the crown of martyrs as a reward. But also those who, out of fear of punishment, want to live as Christians by themselves and in secrecy would obtain salvation.54 Here the patriarch is apparently referring to apostates. Indeed, on no account can one draw the conclusion that Christians were only able to follow their faith in secret, as crypto-Christians. It was only those who had converted to Islam who would have risked their lives with a return to Christianity.55 In a second letter from the same patriarch to the clergy and people of Nicaea from 1340 they are encouraged to keep to their faith: ‘Even when the enemies rule about you, you are the lords of your own souls and your own will. It is your choice to preserve the Good.’ Furthermore the patriarch mentions that he has learned from their judge (kritēs) that they always adhere to the rules of the Christian faith.56 So this letter could be interpreted as the description of a modus vivendi that had been established by then. A certain social structure had been created. Forced conversion is not the problem, but rather the temptation

52 PRK II, no. 116, 134f.: ‘Ἐπεὶ οὖν παραχωρήσει Θεοῦ διὰ πλῆθος ἁμαρτιῶν ὑπερίσχυσε καθ’ ἡμῶν ἡ τῶν Ἰσμαηλιτῶν ἐπίθεσις καὶ πολλοὺς οὗτοι τῶν ἡμετέρων χειρωσάμενοι καὶ καταδουλώσαντες παρεβιάσαντο καὶ παρέσυραν, φεῦ, ὥστε καὶ τὰ τῆς ἑαυτῶν κακίας καὶ ἀθεότητος ἑλέσθαι.’ The translation of ‘ὥστε’ by ‘damit’ chosen in the PRK establishes a direct causality which does not seem to correspond with the text’s intentions. 53 Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 341f. Angold, ‘The City Nicaea’, 46, seems to exaggerate when he interprets the letter’s statement that many Christians (πολλούς) were oppressed and had consequently converted to Islam in the sense that mass conversions to Islam had taken place. 54 PRK II, no. 116, 36f. Preiser-Kapeller, ‘Conversion’, 66. 55 It is, for instance, wrongly stated in Foss, Nicaea, 85: ‘According to these texts, the open profession of Christianity seems not to have been an available alternative.’ Cf. also the case of the fourteenth-century St Theodore the Younger, who had converted in his youth to Islam then returned to Christianity, however, decided not to publicly confess his new faith but instead lived reclusively as a shepherd revering God only in private, cf. Johannes Pahlitzsch ‘Byzantine Saints in Turkish Captivity in 14th Century Anatolia’, in Union in Separation. Diasporic Groups and Transcultural Identities in the Eastern Mediterranean (1100–1800), ed. Georg Christ, Franz Julius Morche, Alexander Beihammer, Stefan Burkhardt, Wolfgang Kaiser and Roberto Zaugg (Heidelberg, in press). 56 PRK II, no. 126, 186–9. 160 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia to improve one’s status by converting to Islam. The presence of a bishop was obviously not necessary as long as there was some substitute present. It seems that this function was performed by the judge who was in contact with the bishop.57 Indeed we know of a kritēs in Jerusalem from the beginning of the twelfth century who acted as head of the Greek Orthodox community in legal and spiritual matters, since the Greek patriarch had been expelled by the Latins.58 The impression that the Christian communities had established stable structures by the middle of the fourteenth century is confirmed by the metropolitan of Thessaloniki, Gregory Palamas. In his letter to his flock in Thessaloniki, he gives a detailed account of his Ottoman captivity from March 1354 until spring 1355.59 Palamas begins his letter stating that his falling into captivity was due to God’s providence. His captivity was not only a punishment for his sins, but also a part of God’s plan to show the Barbarians the truth about Jesus Christ so that they would have no excuse at the Last Judgement for not knowing about the true religion. It seems that Palamas also interpreted the fact that the Christians lived side by side (ἀναμίξ) with the Turks in this way.60 While in captivity of the Turks, before finally arriving at Nicaea, Palamas came into contact with various Christian communities as he passed through western Anatolia. Everywhere he went he found himself looked after by members of the Christian communities who were eager to profit from the unexpected presence of one of the leading Orthodox scholars of the time and who took care of him. The military superiority of the Turks was of major concern for these Christians. While in Pegai (Biga), where he resided among the local Christians, Palamas found himself under the care of a certain Maurozoumēs, the head of the Christian community holding the title of hetaireiarchēs.61 Palamas

57 Angold, ‘The City Nicaea’, 46f. 58 Johannes Pahlitzsch and Dorothea Weltecke, ‘Konflikte zwischen den nicht-lateinischen Kirchen im Königreich Jerusalem’, in Jerusalem im Hoch- und Spätmittelalter: Konflikte und Konfliktbewältigung – Vorstellungen und Vergegenwärtigungen, ed. Dieter Bauer, Klaus Herbers and Nikolas Jaspert (Frankfurt am Main and New York: Campus-Verlag, 2001), 119–145, here 128f. On a judge in Edirne in the mid-fifteenth century by the name of Nicolas Isidoros see Jean Darrouzès, ‘Lettres de 1453’, Revue des études byzantines 22 (1964): 72–127, here 104f. Admittedly, only little is known about his position and duties. 59 Johannes Pahlitzsch, s.v. ‘Gregory Palamas’, in Christian–Muslim Relations (cf. above note 24), vol. 5, 101–108. 60 A. Philippidis-Braat, ‘La Captivité de Palamas chez les Turcs: Dossier et Commentaire’, Travaux et Mémoires 7 (1979): 109–221, here § 3, 137 (136 French trans.). Certainly it was not Palamas’s aim to show how peacefully Christians and Muslims lived together, as is sometimes assumed. Cf. Daniel J. Sahas, ‘Captivity and Dialogue: Gregory Palamas (1296–1360) and the Muslims’, Greek Orthodox Theological Review 25 (1980): 409–36, here 432; Sahas assumes that Palamas perceived ‘Islam as the means through which the Muslims relate directly to God through word and spirit.’ Cf. also John Meyendorff, A Study of Gregory Palamas, trans. George Lawrence (Crestwood, New York: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1974), 104; Philippidis-Braat, ‘La Captivité de Palamas’, 204. 61 Hetaireiarchēs was by the fourteenth century a lowly court title, cf. Mark. C. Bartusis, Land and Privilege in Byzantium: The Institution of Pronoia (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 2012), XXXVI. The Greek Orthodox Communities of Nicaea and Ephesus under Turkish Rule 161 even preached in the local church.62 Through the mediation of Orhan’s Greek physician, Taronites, Palamas was then transferred to Nicaea, where he was able to move quite freely and associate with anyone he wanted. He resided in the area around the monastery of St Hyakinthos in the south-eastern quarter of the city where most of the Christians lived.63 In contrast to the accounts presented above, Palamas provides us with ample evidence of the presence of Christians in these regions. Indeed, in his account, Christians are to be found everywhere, in every city and even at the sultan’s court. Palamas also provides details on the internal structure of these communities: while in Pegai the local community was under the direction of a secular dignitary, the hetaireiarchēs Maurozoumēs, whereas in Nicaea the Christians lived in their own quarter, probably still under the direction of a kritēs. Perhaps Theophanes of Nicaea, the metropolitan of Nicaea from about 1364 until 1380, accepted this modus vivendi and thus never attempted to take up his see in Nicaea. A bishop sent out from Constantinople represented Byzantium in a quite different manner than the head of a local community.64 In addition, Theophanes was deeply involved in the politics of Constantinople and a productive theological author. So it seems quite likely that he preferred to stay in the capital. However, he did write three letters to his community.65 Although he did not expressly mention Islam and the Muslims, nevertheless he did intimate that his community was in great danger on account of its Islamic surroundings. With recourse to a common cliché of anti-Islamic polemic, Theophanes exhorts the Christians in Nicaea not to let themselves be tempted into a depraved way of life through their dealings with godless, sinful men.66 He warns expressly of the ‘Arabian wolves’ (λύκοι Ἀρραβικοί) who approached them in sheepskin, and by which one could easily be deceived by associating carelessly with these enemies in just the same way as with friends.67 Probably correctly, Angold sees in these

62 Philippidis-Braat, ‘La Captivité de Palamas’, § 9–11, 143, 145 (142, 144 French trans.). 63 Ibid., § 19, 151, 153 (150, 152 French trans.). For the monastery of St Hyakinthos cf. ibid., 150 n. 30, and Angold, ‘The City Nicaea’, 46. For a map of Ottoman Nicaea/İznik cf. Heath Lowry, ‘Ottoman Iznik (Nicaea) through the eyes of travellers & as recorded in administrative documents, 1331–1923’, in Iznik throughout History (cf. above note 47), 135–74, here 165. 64 So Papademetriou, ‘Turkish Conquests’, 190, also asks with regard to Matthew of Ephesus: ‘Why should a Turkish emir allow a metropolitan, who, in theory, was clearly aligned with the enemy state, to take place within his own beylik?ʼ Angold, ‘The City Nicaea,’ 47, speculates with regard to the kritēs named in John Kalekas whether the judge was not perhaps afraid that through the sending of a new bishop his relationship with the Ottoman ruler would be endangered. 65 Klaus-Peter Todt, s.v. ‘Theophanes of Nicea’, in Christian-Muslim Relations (cf. above note 24), vol. 5, 191–5. According to Preiser-Kapeller, Episkopat im späten Byzanz, 321, Theophanes held office from 1365 until 1380–81. Ioannis D. Polemis, noting that the letters contained practically no information of historical value (Theophanes of Nicaea: His Life and Works (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1996, 15f.; 25–30), misquotes Vryonis (ibid., 60f.; compare Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 327 with n. 206). 66 Theophanes of Nicaea, ‘Epistola I’, in Patrologia Graecae (=PG), vol. 150, ed. C. Ponce de Leon (1865; reprint, Turnhout: Brepols, 1978), col. 289CD and 292CD. 67 Ibid., col. 292A. 162 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia statements Byzantine stereotypes of Muslim societies which reflect the absent bishop’s disquiet about the fact that his community had evidently found its place in Ottoman Nicaea.68 Theophanes’s third letter is addressed to the priests and the clergy of his diocese. He informed them that he yearned very much to be with them personally, but that he was prevented from doing so by the prevailing circumstances. Therefore he could only instruct them in letters. In the following detailed theological remarks, Theophanes emphasises in particular that the priest, who administers baptism, pronounces the forgiveness of sins and administers the Eucharist, as mediator between God and man, was of decisive importance for achieving salvation.69 If the priests and clerics now strictly observed the provisions of ecclesiastical law, then they would save themselves and those who listen to them.70 This letter is especially interesting since it provides some evidence of how an absent bishop tried to maintain ecclesiastical discipline. Furthermore one can conclude that there were still priests in the diocese who tended to pastoral needs and administered the sacraments without hindrance. In conclusion, if one compares the two cities dealt with here, clear agreements are to be seen, although Ephesus was forcibly conquered and subject to the Aydınoğlu, whereas Nicaea, after a long siege, finally voluntarily opened its gates to the Ottoman sultan. In both cases, the Turkish conquest undoubtedly initially resulted in a sharp decline of the Orthodox Christian population, even if the statements by the sources that no Christians lived in either city any more are hardly credible. Indeed, the greatest problem in studying Orthodox communities under Turkish rule lies in the fact that the sources, whether Byzantine or Muslim, are not interested in imparting information about these seemingly insignificant communities. Orthodox Christians are generally absent in the sources. And when the sources do mention Christians, their biases make interpretation difficult. For the rest of the fourteenth century, we have a few texts which shed some light on the Orthodox Christian communities in Ephesus and Nicaea. These sources seem to contradict Vryonis’s thesis of a breakdown of the ecclesiastical structure, which in turn led inevitably to the decline of Christianity in this part of Anatolia. In the case of Nicaea there are clues that, contrary to Vryonis’s opinion, the presence of a bishop or metropolitan was not an indispensable

68 For Angold, ‘The City Nicaea’, 49, Theophanes’s letters show ‘how out of touch he was with the realities of the life of the Christian community at Iznik.’ The statement by Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 440, that Theophanes’s letters referred to the practice of being able to preserve one’s faith as crypto-Christians is not supported by the texts and Vryonis himself does not quote any concrete sources on this. In the same way the letters could not be understood as a striking confirmation of the process of religious conversion in north-western Asia Minor as Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 343, supposes also without any specific quotation of a source. 69 Theophanes of Nicaea, Epistola III, in PG 150, cols. 338C–344A. 70 Ibid., col. 349BC. The Greek Orthodox Communities of Nicaea and Ephesus under Turkish Rule 163 prerequisite for the maintenance of Christian life.71 The Crusader states present a parallel case here, for there was no Orthodox patriarch present in Jerusalem nearly throughout the twelfth century; the absence of the patriarch, however, did not lead to a profound decline of the Orthodox community there.72 The documents in the register of the Patriarchate of Constantinople represent a special group of texts which was extensively used by Vryonis. These documents, issued by the synod of the patriarchate, require particularly careful interpretation.73 The Anatolian Churches appear in the register of the patriarchate mainly within the context of disputes between bishops about rank and the distribution of revenues or, as Johannes Preiser-Kapeller has pointed out, when a local cleric or bishop cooperated with a Muslim ruler to change the ecclesiastical order for his own benefit, for instance, to take possession of a bishopric.74 This was a very common problem in the Oriental patriarchates just at the same time, as the example of Lazaros, the Patriarch of Jerusalem in the 1340s, demonstrates.75 The Church of Constantinople was indeed concerned about the

71 Cf. e.g. Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 208, who states in regard to the situation in the twelfth century and the measures taken by Manuel I Komnenos: ‘Given the central importance of religion in the society of that time, the hierarchical structure served as an important element of Byzantine administration and of Byzantine influence. In addition, the bishops and metropolitans were indispensable to the organised life of the Christian communities. It was they who maintained Christian discipline and the faith among the communities, not to mention their importance in education and charity.’ He continues by quoting a decree of Manuel Komnenos, in Jus Graecoromanum, vol. 1: Novellae et aureae bullae imperatorum post Iustinianum, ed. Zacharia von Lingenthal, Ioannes Zepos and Panagiotes Zepos (1931; reprint Aalen: Scientia, 1962), 351f.: ‘Behold! the souls of the Orthodox are in danger, especially of the more simple minded. The head of the Orthodox is the holy clergy. So long as the priesthood is in a sound state, its whole body and members are worthily directed. But if on the other hand this [clergy] falls ill, the whole body is disposed to complete destruction. Behold, accordingly, Christianity is endangered as the ecclesiastical situation declines daily …’ (translation by Vryonis). Again Vryonis seems to adopt the standpoint of his sources too much as he does in the case of the letters of Matthew of Ephesus or the acts of the synod of Constantinople. Preiser-Kapeller, in his ‘Conversion’, 68f., also still follows Vryonis’s reading. 72 Cf. Johannes Pahlitzsch, Graeci und Suriani im Palästina der Kreuzfahrerzeit. Beiträge und Quellen zur Geschichte des griechisch-orthodoxen Patriarchats von Jerusalem (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 2001). Certainly Jerusalem’s function as a major place of pilgrimage also played a role here, however, as mentioned, precisely this can also apply for Ephesus. 73 Herbert Hunger, ‘Zum Stil und zur Sprache des Patriachatsregisters von Konstantinopel. Rhetorik im Dienste der orthodoxen Hierarchie’, in Studien zum Patriarchatsregister von Konstantinopel I, ed. Herbert Hunger (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1981); 11–60; idem, ‘Zur scheinbaren Nonchalance der Kanzleisprache des Patriarchatsregisters. Verschleierung, Absicherung und Ironie in Urkunden des Patriarchats von Konstantinopel’, in Studien zum Patriarchatsregister von Konstantinopel II, ed. Herbert Hunger and Otto Kresten (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1997), 11–43. 74 Preiser-Kapeller, ‘Conversion’, 69–71, quotes various such cases on the basis of the register of the Patriarchate of Constantinople. 75 At the instigation of a Jerusalem monk, Lazaros was declared deposed with the consent of the Mamluk sultan and the monk was appointed patriarch instead (Pahlitzsch, ‘Mediators’, 36–8); and in general idem, ‘Networks of Greek Orthodox Monks and Clerics between Byzantium 164 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia increasing independence of the Anatolian Churches, as was also emphasised by Papademetriou.76 It is precisely for this reason that it is mentioned in the patriarchal register that, without the direction of a bishop, Christians would be deprived of sanctification (ἁγιασμός) through the sacraments.77 It seems that maintaining control was in this regard the main concern of the Church of Constantinople. Along the same line of argument, the constant lamentation about Christian communities of Anatolia, bereft of bishops and thus converting ultimately to Islam78 can be interpreted as a means of enforcing the hierarchy’s claim to leadership. As the sample cases presented here indicate, it seems justified, more than 40 years after Speros Vryonis established his narrative of decline in such a masterly manner, to develop an alternative narrative which accounts for how the Christian communities under Muslim Turkish rule were involved in a constant and developing process of accommodation. A comprehensive re-evaluation of the known sources would be the first step in developing such an alternative narrative. Likewise, the narrative needs to be enriched with evidence drawn from archaeological investigations shedding light on settlement patterns or cultural continuities. Indeed, archaeology could provide an important corrective for the silences of the written sources regarding Christian communities in Anatolia.79

and Mamluk Syria and Egypt’, in Everything is on the Move: The ‘Mamluk Empire’ as a Node in (Trans) Regional Networks, ed. Stefan Conermann (Göttingen: V&R Unipress [u.a.], 2014) 127–44. 76 Papademetriou, ‘Turkish Conquests’, 186f. 77 PRK II, no. 96, 544–5; compare also PRK II, no. 49, 328–9. 78 For examples of such lamentations, see Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 340. 79 Cf. for instance Nurettin Arslan and Beate Böhlendorf-Arslan, Assos: Living in the Rocks (Istanbul: Homer Kitabevi, 2010), 137–67; Beate Böhlendorf-Arslan, ‘Byzantinisches Leben im Naturraum Troas: Siedlungsverdichtung vs. Einöde’, in Manifestationen von Macht und Hierarchien in Stadtraum und Landschaft, ed. Felix Pirson (Istanbul: Ege Yayınları, 2012), 277–98; especially focusing on the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries: Beate Böhlendorf-Arslan, ‘Surveying the Troad: Byzantine Settlements and its Pottery’, in Fact and Fiction in Medieval and Post-Medieval Ceramics in the Eastern Mediterrranean: The First Meeting on Byzantine and Ottoman Archaeology, University of Amsterdam 21–3 October 2012, ed. Joanita Vroom (Turnhout: Brepols [in print]). Here too, the example of the Crusader states shows how productive an archaeological approach can be, cf. Ronnie Ellenblum, Frankish Rural Settlement in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). Part II Artistic and Intellectual Encounters between Islam and Christianity This page has been left blank intentionally Chapter 7 Byzantine Appropriation of the Orient: Notes on its Principles and Patterns Rustam Shukurov

Byzantium and the Muslim world coexisted for more than eight centuries as rivals and partners. The emergence and subsequent evolution of the Islamic world can hardly be correctly understood without taking account of the Byzantine legacy there, as well as subsequent constant flow of cultural information from Byzantium to the East. Likewise, it is impossible to imagine Byzantine culture after the 630s without the constant presence of the Muslim world on its political, cultural and economic horizons. Moreover, for most of its history, Byzantium stood facing the Persian and Arab East, which retained and increased its high cultural potential, with its back to the poor and barbarised West. It is true that Byzantium adopted relatively little from the Muslim world, especially in comparison with the Byzantine contribution to Islamic cultures. Byzantium contributed more to other cultures than it took from them. Nonetheless, some of the literary, scientific, occult, economic and technological achievements of the Muslim world were transferred to Byzantium, as will be discussed later in this chapter. Therefore we must consider whether we can define these eastern influences upon Byzantine culture as specifically Islamic ones; or, to putthe question more provocatively, can we talk of a sort of latent ‘Islamisation of Byzantium’ in the course of Byzantine–Oriental interchange? To address this question, we must firstly consider what we mean by the terms ‘Islamic’ and ‘Oriental’. Strictly speaking, in scholarly discourse ‘Islamic’ refers to the artefacts, practices or concepts directly pertaining to the faith of Islam with its specific dogmas and rituals. However, in practice we often use expressions such as ‘Islamic culture’, ‘Islamic art’, ‘Islamic manuscripts’, ‘Islamic metalwork’, even sometimes ‘Islamic literature’ and the like to refer to the intellectual and material production of the Muslim peoples. Such a usage risks being somewhat misleading. While such ideas, texts and artefacts were certainly produced by those who identified themselves as Muslim or lived under the rule of Muslim political power, they may have been shaped by secular and even pre-Islamic intellectual and artistic concepts.1 ‘Orient’, on the other hand, is meant here to refer more broadly to the world not just of Islam but more generally to the Near and Middle

1 Following a similar logic, Marshall G.S. Hodgson has suggested the term ‘Islamicate’, which ‘… would refer not directly to the religion, Islam, itself, but to the social and cultural complex historically associated with Islam and the Muslims, both among Muslims themselves and non- Muslims living in the Islamic world’ (Marshall G. S. Hodgson, The Venture of Islam: Conscience and History in a World Civilization, vol. 1 (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1974), 57–60 and especially 59). 168 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

East, to India – to the territories broadly designated by Byzantines as ‘Asia’. We will have more to say about this definition in due course. This chapter will attempt to examine whether the Byzantines were able to discern what was specifically Islamic in textual and material objects originating from the Orient. To what extent were the Byzantines sensitive to the Islamic meanings of such texts and artefacts? The recent flourishing of theories of cultural interaction and, in particular, the idea of ‘transferts culturels’ (Michel Espagne) with its subsequent elaboration and emendation and the concept of ‘cultural translation’ (Peter Burke),2 provides an effective analytical instrument. There is no doubt now that information, in all its possible forms, is not simply transferred into a new environment, but undergoes an inevitable process of adaptation and domestication. The information, leaving its native cultural environment, when transplanted from one socio-political environment into another, must also be subjected to a process of decontextualisation and dissimilation in order to be recontextualised and assimilated in the target culture. Thus, firstly, the reception of new cultural practices or textual and material objects is always an active process; secondly, the recipient culture predefines the range of desirable and acceptable external borrowings and screens and blocks undesirable and unacceptable elements. The present piece represents an initial attempt to assess the Byzantine reception of foreign information from the East. Conclusions here, of course, are of a preliminary character and deserve further elaboration, revision or supplementation.

Modes of Transfer

My starting point is the eloquent example of the Oneirocriticon, the famous Byzantine dreambook traditionally ascribed to a certain Achmet. The work has been comprehensively studied over the last decades, in particular by Steven A. Oberhelman and Maria Mavroudi.3 The Oneirocriticon was compiled by an anonymous Byzantine author at the end of the ninth or in the tenth century on the basis of several contemporary Arabic dreambooks. It is unclear whether the author of the Oneirocriticon was the actual translator of the Arabic texts used as its sources or only made use of the existing Greek translations. The Oneirocriticon is a paradigmatic text for my purposes: it covers a vast spectrum of themes and subjects from everyday life to theological issues which originated in the Muslim Orient.

2 See for instance Michel Espagne, Les transferts culturels franco-allemands (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1999); Peter Burke, ‘Translating Knowledge, Translating Cultures’, in Kultureller Austausch in der Frühen Neuzeit, ed. M. North (Köln: Bohlau, 2009), 69–77. 3 Franciscus Drexl (ed.), Achmetis Oneirocriticon (Leipzig: Teubner, 1925), hereafter cited as Achmetis Oneirocriticon, ed. Drexl; Steven M. Oberhelman (ed.), The Oneirocriticon of Achmet: A Medieval Greek and Arabic Treatise on the Interpretation of Dreams (Lubbock, TX: Texas Technical University Press, 1991); Maria V. Mavroudi, A Byzantine Book on Dream Interpretation: The Oneirocriticon of Achmet and Its Arabic Sources (Leiden: Brill, 2002). Byzantine Appropriation of the Orient 169

We can discern three major types of transfer of information from the original Arabic source(s) by the Byzantine author(s) of the Oneirocriticon. The first and most complex type, which I refer to as ‘dissimilating transfer’, concerns specifically Islamic topics and notions which are absent in Christianity, such as the Prophet Muḥammad, the Muslim conception of Jesus, mosque, the minbar, and Islamic taboos such as pork-eating, alcohol consumption, and the like. Curiously, in these cases, the Greek translator substitutes specifically Islamic subjects of dreams with the closest Christian equivalents. For instance, in the Greek, the interpretation of dreams involving Christ is based on the Arabic interpretations of Muḥammad, the interpretation of churches is modelled on the interpretations of mosques, and the interpretation of pork and alcohol consumption is cleansed of the negative connotations found in the Arabic original.4 This conscious de-Islamisation of the original Arabic contents incorporated into the Oneiricriticon was further emphasised by removing all references to the Qurʾan, ḥadīth and sayings of other Muslim religious authorities, and replacing them with quotations of appropriate passages from the Christian Bible. Thus, these texts were incorporated into Byzantine literary culture only after the process of dissimilating them from their original cultural context, and their re- sacralisation in the traditions of the recipient culture. Some religious topics such as Resurrection of the Dead, Paradise and Hell, biblical prophets, and angels, which were common to both Christianity and Islam, remained in the same form in the Greek dreambook as in the Arabic primary source, although they too were first dissimilated from their original Islamic contexts (or decontextualised) and re- sacralised in a new Christian context (or recontextualised). This deliberate screening of Islamic-specific material is also reflected in other types of transfer. The second type of transfer is the ‘transplanting transfer’ of foreign information. All the entries in the Oneirocreiton concerning dreams relating to common non-religious items and situations (for instance, natural objects, animals, household items, clothes, and parts of the human body) were transferred into the Greek recipient text without serious alteration.5 This sort of foreign information was simply transplanted in Byzantine soil. No new or foreign themes were introduced into the Byzantine cultural space thereby, since all of them were similar to existing ones and needed no special procedure of adaptation beyond its translation from Arabic to Greek. Much of the Oneirocriticon’s content is common to both the Muslim and Christian worlds. The third type of transfer, ‘complementing transfer’ involves the almost unaltered inclusion of alien themes, motifs, ideas and notions in the Greek text. For instance, the Oneirocriticon contains 13 short anecdotes to illustrate some dream interpretations. Mavroudi has uncovered the Arabic equivalents for seven of these anecdotes. Four of them are historical events in Muslim history relating to the caliph al-Ma'mūn predicted by the dream interpreter Ibn Sīrīn.6

4 Mavroudi, Byzantine Book, 256–374 (chapters 7 and 8). 5 Ibid., 168–236, 385–91. 6 Ibid., 376–85. However, in the passage of Ibn Sa‘ad, under ‘Muḥammad’s mosque’ (masjid al-nabī) the mosque of Muḥammad in Medina is meant, not Mecca as Mavroudi assumes 170 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

For instance, in one story the caliph al-Ma'mūn dreamt that he had urinated in the two corners outside the Kaʿaba (or ‘the temple of Mecca’ as the Greek text calls it). The dream interpreter explains that this signifies that the caliph’s two children would become successors to his throne and empire.7 Although the Kaʿaba is not directly named, it is accurately described as the Meccan temple and, significantly, designated as ‘the Tabernacle of Abraham’ (σκηνῇ τοῦ Ἀβραάμ).8 It is unlikely that the original Arabic source of the Oneirocriticon would have provided such a clarification since the association of the Kaʿaba and Abraham’s Temple to the One God would have been universally understood by a Muslim audience.9 It seems that the Byzantine translator, in a display of a rather subtle knowledge of Islamic belief added this clarification for his Byzantine audience. In any case, it is understandable why this and similar ‘historical’ stories were adopted unchanged: although they mention alien religious objects such as Mecca, the Kaʿaba and caliph, they were thematically secular subjects and regarded as amusing and didactic historical anecdotes from the exotic Orient and, therefore, acceptable for incorporating in the Byzantine cultural space. Thus the complementary transfer of thematic and factual material introduces entirely new information which complements an already existing subset of cultural knowledge, often imparting to the Byzantine cultural space exotic themes and motifs in literature, art and architecture. The three types of transfer and reception of new information as outlined above may be applied to most cases of Byzantine ‘borrowing’ from the Orient. However, one should keep in mind that these modes of absorption are ideal types and are often displayed in particular textual and material objects in a mixed form: different pieces of information in the same text or even passage may be treated differently. It is worth noting, however, that Byzantine literature adopted surprisingly little from the Orient. In fact, we know of only three literary texts to have been thematically influenced by Persian and Arabic literature: the Byzantine moralistic and hagiographic tale, Barlaam and Ioasaph, which goes back to the story of Gautama Buddha; the moralistic collection of tales The Book of Syntipas, which is based on the Arabic motif of ‘The Seven Viziers’ (also known as ‘Seven Wise Masters’ and Sinbād-nāma in the West and the Orient); and, finally, the collection of stories called Stephanites and Ichnelates, which ultimately is a rendition of the Arabic Kalīla wa Dimna. Of these three, two of the works reached Byzantium through the mediation of the eastern Christian texts and not directly from any Arabic, Persian or Indian source. Barlaam and Ioasaph was translated into Greek from the Georgian text known as Balavariani by Euthymios

(Mavroudi, Byzantine Book, 377). 7 Mavroudi, Byzantine Book, 376. 8 Achmetis Oneirocriticon, ed. Drexl, 46, 3–4. 9 On the association between the Kaʿaba and Abraham, the Kaʿaba and the Tabernacle in Muslim temenology (i.e., Henry Corbin’s term ‘téménologie’, or the ‘science of studying temples’), see Sharif Shukurov, Obraz Khrama. Imago Templi (Moscow: Progress-Traditsiya, 2002), 122–4, 138–42, 241. Byzantine Appropriation of the Orient 171

Hagioreites (c.955–1028), and The Book of Syntipas was rendered from Syriac by Michael Andreopoulos from Melitene (end of the 11th c.). Only Stephanites and Ichnelates was in all probability translated into Greek directly from Arabic by the famous Symeon Seth at the request of Alexios I Komnenos (1081–1118).10 Stephanites and Ichnelates and Syntipas share many common features in their handling of Oriental literary material.11 Both novels closely follow the main plot of the original. In both, the Oriental flavour is consciously preserved in the key characters of the narration, in the plot structure and in the spatial localisation. The key characters of Syntipas are the king Cyrus and his chief philosopher and his son’s tutor, Syntipas; the action takes place in Persia. In the same way, the main storyline of Stephanites and Ichnelates is built around the Indian king Abesalom and his unnamed philosopher. These cases demonstrate a typical instance of ‘exotic complementation’: the plot and its key characters are new and foreign to the Byzantine cultural space and confer a manifestly exotic flavour to the narration. However, unlike the al-Ma'mūn anecdotes, these foreign plots have undergone a considerable formal revision, being cleansed of many everyday details, proper and geographical names, occasional Muslim religious formulas which are found in Arabic original, thus undergoing a certain measure of dissimilating adaptation. However, the dissimilating components here can be explained not only by the screening of the undesirable Islamic flavour, but also by the attempt to adjust literary style to the Byzantine reader’s taste and conventions. In this sense, the case of Barlaam and Ioasaph, is remarkable: though preserving the original plot, it underwent a strong dissimilating elaboration and de-contextualisation of its original moralistic and didactic message. It is the combination of dissimilating and complementing procedures that transformed the Oriental moralistic tale into a specifically Christian hagiographical text.12 In the same way, the Islamic themes also represent a combination of dissimilating and complementary types of transfer in the epic Digenes Akrites, especially in its second and third books. For instance, in Book Two, in the form of a letter sent by the amīr’s Muslim mother to her son, the Digenes’ father who converted to Christianity, the epic poem imitates a Muslim discourse on virtue mentioning the Muslim law embedding in ‘Prophet’s words’ (λόγους/νόμους τοῦ Προφήτου) and the devastating Muslim raids on Byzantine lands.13 Book Three contains a rather curious description of the Prophet’s grave, uttered by the same amīr’s mother, as she attempts to convince her son to return home and re-embrace Islam.14 Put into the mouth of a Muslim, these words suggest

10 H.-G. Beck, Geschichte der byzantinischen Volksliteratur (Munich: C.H. Beck, 1971), 35–48. 11 L.-O. Sjöberg, Stephanites und Ichnelates. Überlieferungsgeschichte und Text (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1962); Michaeli Andreopuli Liber Syntipae, ed. V. Jernstedt (St. Petersburg: Tip. Imperatorskoĭ akademīi nauk, 1912). 12 Historia animae utilis de Barlaam et Ioasaph, ed. R. Volk, parts 1–2 (Berlin and New York: De Gruyter, 2006–2009). 13 Digenis Akritis: The Grottaferrata and Escorial Versions, ed. and trans. Elizabeth Jeffreys (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), vol. 2, 53–98 and especially 68, 108. 14 Jeffreys, The Grottaferrata, part 3, 132–57; Trapp, Synoptische Ausgabe, 110–11. For an examination of the possible Arabic influences on Digenes Akrites see also V. Christides, ‘Arabic 172 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia a surprisingly neutral attitude towards the Muslim faith, as do some other descriptions in which Muslims are mentioned. However, despite the narrator’s seeming tolerance (or indifference) with its references to Muslim beliefs, customs and sanctuaries, they are nevertheless presented in a desacralised form as adopted by the Greek rhapsodist, most likely, through oral transmission. Thus, while the inclusion of Islamic motifs and the incorporation of Arabic vocabulary15 imparts a sense of exoticism in the Greek epic, it does not reduce its essentially Christian message.16 We may cite other examples of other Byzantine works characterised by variations and combinations of the modes of transfer described above. The phenomenon of transplanting transfer in particular played an important role in shaping the massive corpus of Byzantine scientific and occult works which, from the late tenth century onwards, made more and more extensive use of information originating from the Orient. Byzantine treatises on mathematical astrology, medicine, and mathematics include original compilations drawing on Islamic scientific knowledge through the intermediary of Syriac or Latin, or directly from Arabic or Persian works. Works on the occult sciences, such as dream interpretation, predictive astrology, and geomancy likewise drew on Arabic or Persian works. As a rule, such material transferred to the Byzantine cultural space remained unchanged from its original form apart from the exclusion of specifically Islamic formulas such as the basmalla at the beginning of the text.17 Transplanting transfer likewise characterises the inclusion of factual information on Muslim adversaries in Byzantine historiography, political geography, hagiography, epistolography and similar genres, beginning with Theophanes’s Chronography. Accumulated knowledge about the Muslim world is reflected in the considerable number of technical terms from the social and political life of the Muslim world, such as σουλτάν (sulṭān), ἀμηρᾶς (amīr) and ἀμηρεύω (‘to rule as amīr’), μασγήδιον (masjid, mosque), μουσούριον (manshūr, royal diploma), χαράτζιον (kharāj, land-tax), χότζιας (khwāja/hoca, lord, teacher), χαζηνᾶς (khazīna, treasury), γιανίτζαρος (Janissary) and the like, as well as hundreds of names of Muslim historical figures (rulers, commanders, administrators, etc.).18 The Byzantines knew much about their Muslim

Influence on the Akritic Cycle’, Byzantion 49 (1979): 100–107. 15 In the passages narrating on the Arabs or if the events taking place in Arab territory, the poem stregthens its exotic flavour in particular, by using the words of Oriental origin (Arabic, Persian, Turkic) (R. Dietrich, ‘Style-Switching in the Grottaferrata Text of Digenes Akrites’, Revue des études byzantines 64–5 (2006–2007): 366–8). 16 P. Magdalino, ‘Digenes Akrites and Byzantine Literature: The Twelfth-century Background to the Grottaferrata Version’, in Digenes Akrites: New Approaches to Byzantine Heroic Poetry, ed. R. Beaton and D. Ricks (London: Centre for Hellenic Studies, King’s College, 1993), 7–8. 17 K. Vogel, ‘Byzantine Science’, in Cambridge Medieval History, vol. 4 Part 2 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1967), 265–305; Mavroudi, Byzantine Book, 392–428; Anne Tihon, ‘Science in the Byzantine Empire’, in The Cambridge History of Science, vol. 2 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 190–206. 18 See Gyula Moravcsik, Byzantinoturcica, vol. 2 (Leiden: Brill, 1983), 359–65. Byzantine Appropriation of the Orient 173 neighbours, but this historical and geographical knowledge, being akin to ‘technical’ scientific knowledge, can hardly be considered as the result of any specific ‘Islamic influence.’ Knowledge changes one by broadening one’s mental horizons and rendering one’s experiences more sophisticated, but it does not necessarily assimilate its holder with the object of cognition. Moving from texts and language to the world of material objects, similar types of appropriation can be noted. The late Oleg Grabar, in his very informative and conceptually packed (albeit rather succinct) article on the ‘Islamic’ impact on Byzantine art notes: ‘Islamic influences hardly ever occur in religious art and never affect style and expression, the formal means by which Byzantine art differentiates itself from other medieval traditions. In other words, Islamic forms played almost no role in the Byzantine visual expression of Christianity. Islamic themes are most apparent in the secular art of emperors and in many aspects of material culture …’. Grabar further comments: ‘Thus, the Islamic impact was first thematic, then functional or technical, and more rarely formal.’19 Grabar’s points resonate with the terminological framework I propose in this piece. Grabar observes that specifically Islamic motifs do not appear to have affected the core of Byzantine artistic self-representation; rather, Oriental transfers mostly represented a sort of complementary exoticism. In art and material culture as well, religiously oriented themes and forms underwent the process of dissimilating, and as a result lost all traces of their original specifically Islamic tint. Grabar’s remarks may be applied, in particular, to Middle and Late Byzantine vocabulary which contains dozens of Oriental borrowings for clothes, tissues, household items, and luxury goods. The Oriental lexical borrowings of this sort entered the Byzantine empire along with the borrowed objects of everyday life through international trade. As I have shown elsewhere, the objects adopted, along with their foreign names, related to practical science (medicine, botany, zoology, geography etc.), fabrics and clothes (often of a luxurious quality), accessories, and trade techniques.20 Most of these adopted objects were of ‘thematic’, ‘functional or technical’ nature or, in other words, represented the ‘transplanting’ and ‘complementary’ types of transfers.

Islamic or Oriental?

The Byzantines were sensitive to the difference between ‘Islamic’ and ‘Oriental’, that is, between religiously centred confessional discourses and religiously neutral cultural discourses, between theology on the one hand, and general human wisdom and craftsmanship on the other. If so, how did they define the

19 O. Grabar, ‘Islamic Influence on Byzantine Art’, in Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium, ed. A. Kazhdan et al., vol. 2 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 1019. On Oriental impact on Byzantine visual culture see Walker, The Emperor and the World. 20 R. Shukurov, ‘On Some Oriental Borrowings in Middle Greek (11th–15th Centuries)’, in Change in the Byzantine World in the 12th–13th Centuries: First International Sevgi Gönül Byzantine Studies Symposium (Istanbul: Vehbi Koç Vakfı, 2010), 151–6. 174 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia information – that is ideas, concepts, techniques, words, forms and material objects, – adopted from the Muslim Orient? As is well known, geographically, the Byzantines inherited from the classical tradition the notion of the partition of the inhabited oikoumene into three major parts: Europe, Asia and Libya (Εὐρώπη, Ἀσία, Λιβύη), of which the division into Europe and Asia was primary and more ancient; modern conventions of imaginary borders between Europe and Asia are similar to the classic and Byzantine ones.21 Asia was usually designated also as the ‘East’ or the ‘Orient’ (ἀνατολή or in plural ἀνατολαί, or ἕως).22 However, as opposed to modern usage, the Byzantines normally did not generally use ‘Orient’ and ‘Oriental’ (ἀνατολικός, ἀνατόλιος, ἑῷος) as an abstract term for the origin of material and intellectual objects, in particular, due to the role of the ‘south-north’ axis in their ethno- cultural systematisation.23 ‘Eastern’ was normally used as a spatial definition. The information taken from the Islamic Orient was, as a rule, almost exclusively qualified throughethno-geographical terms and never, I would emphasise, through religious ones. Foreign wisdom was attributed as Persian, Indian, Egyptian, Chaldean, or Babylonian. A late Byzantine astrological treatise, copied in the seventeenth century, describes its source as the production of the ‘Babylonians, Persians, Chaldaeans and Arabs’ (οἱ Βαβυλωνῖται, οἱ Πέρσαι, οἱ Χαλδαῖοι, οἱ Ἀράπηδαις).24 Medical works are referred to as ἰατρικὴ τέχνη τῶν Πέρσων (‘medical craft of the Persians’).25 In the same way, the author of Oneirocriticon chooses to categorise diverse and sometimes contradictory interpretational material through its ethno-geographical provenance, such as ‘from the Indians’, ‘from the Persians’ and ‘from the Egyptians’.26 As we can see, ethno-geographical identity here plays the important role of a systematisation tool. Many other such examples may be cited. The translated Oriental authorities are most frequently identified as Persian in the Greek texts, which is generally accurate. Sometimes, however, Byzantine authors were not accurate in the geographical and ethnic identifications of their sources. For example, one such author attributes a translated medical treatise to ‘the wisest who is called by the Indians Alle Ebni

21 J.B. Harley and D. Woodward (eds), The History of Cartography, vol. 1 (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 266–7. 22 See, for instance, entries ανατολή and ἀνατολικός in Kriaras, Dictionary (online version at http://www.greek-language.gr/greekLang/medieval_greek/kriaras/index.html). 23 For the classical interpretations of south–north axis in cultural differences see, for instance M. Riley, ‘Science and Tradition in the “Tetrabiblos”’, Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 132, no. 1 (1988): 76; Y.A. Dauge, Le barbare: Recherches sur la conception romaine de la barbarie et de la civilisation (Brussels: Latomus, 1981), 806–10; for its Byzantine implementation see Eustathius Thessalonicensis, ‘Commentarium in Dionysii periegetae orbis descriptionem’, in Geographi Graeci Minores, ed. K. Müller, vol. 2 (Paris: A. Firmin Didot, 1861), 258, 265, 339; Georges Pachymérès, Relations Historiques, ed. A. Failler, vol. 1 (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1984–2000), III, 3, 236–7, esp. 237. 3–7). 24 Catalogus codicum astrologorum graecorum, vol. 10 (Brussels: Lamertin, 1910), 201. 25 J.L. Ideler, Physici et medici Graeci minores, vol. 1 (Berlin: Reimer, 1841–1842), 293; vol. 2, 305. 26 Achmetis Oneirocriticon, ed. Drexl, 1, 6 and passim: ἐκ (τοῦ λόγου) τῶν Ἰνδῶν, ἐκ τῶν Περσῶν, ἐκ τῶν Αἰγυπτίων. Byzantine Appropriation of the Orient 175

Sina, that is Alle the Son of Sina, or Auicene by the Italians’,27 implying Abū ʿAlī Ibn Sīnā (Avicenna) who was eastern Iranian (Tājīk)28 and wrote in Arabic and Persian. Plausibly, Ibn Sīnā is given this ‘Indian’ identity here because he lived in Central Asia, on the extreme east of the Iranian world on the borders of the Indian cultural space. Rarer in occurrence were the references to Arab identity (or its synonym, Saracen).29 The confessional designation, Hagarene, is extremely rare in Byzantine texts and seems to be just an author’s slip of pen or a substitute for the terms Arabian or Persian.30 It is evident that the translators and users of such practical, information saw it as a product of Oriental wisdom and skill but not of the Islamic theology and practice. Byzantine references to the provenance of wisdom – Egypt, Baghdad (Βαβυλών), Iraq (Χαλδαία), Persia, India – cover the major regions and nations of the civilised East regardless of their actual religious affiliation. It was ἔθνη / ‘nations’ (Persians, Egyptians, Arabs, Indians), but not ἄπιστοι / ‘unbelievers’ (Ἰσμαηλῖται, Ἁγαρηνοί, Μουσουλμάνοι), who were the true creators of Oriental wisdom. The Byzantines thus distinguished between the Oriental and the Islamic. Islamic connotations were always undesirable and unambiguously negative in the Byzantine cultural space. Here I confine myself to just one eloquent historical anecdote showing how effective this deliberate cultural screening against specifically Islamic meanings was. Michael VIII Palaiologos had a very complex and ambiguous relationship with the Constantinopolitan Patriarchate due to many reasons. In particular, the emperor’s relations with the Patriarch John XI Bekkos (1275–1282) suddenly deteriorated. During the Feast of the Presentation of Jesus at the Temple, on 2 February 1279, according to custom, the patriarch presented the emperor with an exquisite plate with traditional κόλλυβον (sweet wheat kernels). However, his rivals reported to the emperor that the plate was covered with ‘Egyptian’ – that is Arabic – inscriptions (γράμμασιν Αἰγυπτίοις) glorifying Muḥammad’s name (ὄνομα φέρειν εἰς ἔπαινον). Evidently the plate was an imported piece of the

27 Ideler, Physici et medici, vol. 2, 286: σοφωτάτου παρὰ μὲν Ἰνδοῖς Ἄλλη Ἔμπνι τοῦ Σινᾶ ἤτοι Ἄλλη υἱοῦ τοῦ Σινᾶ, παρὰ δὲ Ἰταλοῖς Ἀβιτζιανοῦ. 28 On Ibn Sīnā’s life and role for shaping Eastern Iranian scientific tradition see Richard Frye, ed., The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 4 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), especially 143, 154, 431–4; D. Gutas, ‘Avicenna II. Biography’, EIr (with further bibliography). In applying the ethno-cultural term ‘Tājīk’ to East Iranian intellectuals of the Middle Ages I follow, in particular, Maria Eva Subtelny, ‘The Symbiosis of Turk and Tajik’, in Central Asia in Historical Perspective ed. B.F. Manz (San Francisco and Oxford: Westview Press,1994), 45–61; M.E. Subtelny, Timurids in Transition: Turko-Persian Politics and Acculturation in Medieval Iran (Leiden: Brill, 2007), passim. 29 D. Pingree, The Astronomical Works of Gregory Chioniades [Corpus des Astronomes Byzantins] (Amsterdam: Gieben, 1985), 36.19–20: οἱ τῶν Ἀράβων καὶ Περσῶν ἐπιστήμονες; A. Tihon, ‘Tables islamiques à Byzance’, in Études d’astronomie byzantine, ed. A. Tihon (Aldershot: Variorum, 1994), 406: ‘a book of the Saracens’. 30 Simeonis Sethi, Syntagma de alimentorum facultatibus, ed. B. Langkavel (Leipzig: Teubner: 1868), 1. 2–3: Symeon Seth starts his ‘Syntagma’ with a reference to the writing on the subject of ‘Persians, Hagarenes, and Indians’ (οὐχ Ἑλλήνων μόνον, ἀλλὰ καὶ Περσῶν καὶ Ἀγαρηνῶν καὶ Ἰνδῶν περὶ τροφῶν δυνάμεων συγγραψαμένων). Here evidently ‘Hagarenes’ stands for more correct ‘Arabs’ or ‘Saracens’. 176 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Mamluk metalwork. The patriarch’s enemies pointed out that that plate ‘because of the abominable character of the inscription, was not only inappropriate for blessing, but inflicted the extreme measure of defilement.’ To confirm that the inscription contained Muḥammad’s name, the parakoimomenos of the chamber, Basileios Basilikos, was summoned because of his knowledge of the ‘Muslim script’ (γραμμάτων Ἀγαρηνῶν). Basilikos, who had spent much time at the Seljuq court in Anatolia, read the inscription and confirmed the presence of the praises to Muḥammad in it. The patriarch thus was accused of a lack of piety and even intentionally insulting the emperor.31 As we see, the crucial semantic opposition here is that between the acceptable ethno-geographic designation ‘Egyptian’ and the unacceptable religious ‘Hagarene.’ One may doubt the abilities of Basilikos to read correctly the inscription: as any museum curator in Islamic art knows, the reading of such inscriptions requires a special training in epigraphy, language and culture, since often a medieval decorative inscription is not so much to be ‘read’ but can only be grasped integrally as a sort of hieroglyph. We can only guess how well Basilikos knew Arabic and the Mamluk calligraphy and whether he had any systematic training in Arabic and Persian textual culture, as would be necessary to read decorative inscriptions correctly. It is not impossible that Basilikos, relying on his authority as an expert in the ‘Muslim script’, just pretended to read the inscription in order to give the accusers the verdict they desired. This incident suggests that the Byzantines were not indifferent to the meaning of decorative calligraphy on Oriental objects. The Patriarch Bekkos regarded the exquisite Mamluk plate as an instance of ‘exotic complementation’ of ethnic ‘Egyptian’ origin, while the ‘professional’ expertise, on the contrary, proved that it contained a specific ‘Hagarene’ meaning. The latter was an unquestionable obstacle for free circulation in Byzantine space, since the piece of Oriental metalwork, naturally, could not have been subjected to dissimilating adaptation. Judging by this passage from Pachymeres’s History, it is clear that the Byzantines avoided using Oriental objects that bore Islamic sacred names and formulas. However, medieval Oriental metalwork, arms and armoury, pottery and textiles often were decorated with non-religious inscriptions including poetry, good wishes, and proverbs.32 Seemingly, it was these types of artefacts with ‘secular’ epigraphy that predominantly circulated in Byzantium – or at least were the most desirable and acceptable. Digenes Akrites refers to an exquisite ‘Arab’ spear decorated with gold inscriptions, as well as to turbans with golden writing, although the meaning of inscriptions is not specified.33 It is unclear

31 Pachymérès, Relations Historiques, VI, 12 (vol. 2, 573–5). 32 See for instance A.S. Melikian-Chirvani, Islamic Metalwork from the Iranian World, 8th–18th Centuries (London: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1982); O. Pancaroğlu, ‘The Contents of Samanid Epigraphic Pottery’, in Studies in Islamic and Later Indian Art from the Arthur M. Sackler Museum, Harvard University Art Museums (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Art Museums, 2002). 33 Jeffreys, The Grottaferrata, part 4, line 922: τέσσαρα χρυσογράμματα φακεώλια ἄσπρα (about wedding gifts to Digenes); Trapp, Synoptische Ausgabe, IV, line 1535–1536: τὸ δόρυ ἐδοκίμαζεν τῇ δεξιᾷ χειρί του | πράσινον, ἀραβίτικον, μετὰ χρυσῶν γραμμάτων (Digenes’s spear); VII, line 3446: φακιόλι ἐφόρει πράσινον μετὰ χρυσῶν γραμμάτων (Maximo’s headgear). Byzantine Appropriation of the Orient 177 also whether the turbans were made in Byzantium or imported from the East; if they were of Byzantine origin, the inscription could have been either Greek or some meaningless pseudo-Arabic script. This is the case with another eleventh- century turban with gold inscriptions, which was mentioned in the testament of the nun Maria (Kale Pakouriane) to the monastery of Iviron (1098).34 Of course, the example of the Patriarch Bekkos also clearly indicates that the Byzantines may have used Oriental objects without paying attention to the semantic meanings of their calligraphic decoration. However, only ignorance in foreign languages may have made these objects acceptable. In any case, as far as I am aware, we have no direct contrary evidence of the conscious use by the Byzantines of objects bearing sacred Islamic inscriptions. Similar instances of the unreserved rejection of anything Islamic are well known from Byzantine sources. Muslim presence in Christian sacred ritual space was regarded with particular antipathy, as the well-known story of the 1162 earthquake of Constantinople indicates. The Constantinopolitan clergy and the emperor Manuel I Komnenos attributed this natural disaster to God’s unwillingness to allow the visiting Seljuq sultan Kılıç Arslan to take part in the Byzantine triumphal procession (θρίαμβος), which, according to the tradition, involved the presence of Christian sacred objects such as icons of saints and Christ.35 In the late 1260s, the Patriarch Arsenios was accused by Michael VIII of canonically inadmissible conduct towards the infidel Seljuq sultan Kaykāʾūs II and his sons: the patriarch allowed them to attend a Christian liturgy and church bath, as well as receive communion.36 In the same way, the Patriarch Athanasios I was outraged by the Muslim foreigners in Constantinople who ‘openly climb up on high, as is the custom in their land, and shout forth their abominable mysteries’, that is, openly recited the Islamic call to prayer (adhān).37 These cases demonstrate how important it was to the Byzantines to preserve the religious purity of their cultural space from even occasional intrusions of Islam.

34 Actes d’Iviron, ed. J. Lefort, N. Oikonomidès, D. Papachryssanthou and H. Métrévéli, vol. 2 (Paris: P. Lethielleux, 1985–1995), 179.23: φακιόλιόν μου τὸ ἔχον χρυσὰ γράμματα. On Oriental objects mentioned in Byzantine documents see also: M.G. Parani, ‘Intercultural Exchange in the Field of Material Culture in the Eastern Mediterranean: The Evidence of Byzantine Legal Documents (11th to 15th Centuries)’, in Diplomatics in the Eastern Mediterranean 1000–1500: Aspects of Cross-Cultural Communication, ed. A.D. Beihammer, M.G. Parani and Chr.D. Schabel (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 349–71. 35 Nicetas Choniates, Historia, ed. J.A. van Dieten, vol. 1. (Berlin, New York: De Gruyter, 1975), 119.49–52; Kinnamos, Ioannis Cinnami Epitome rerum ab Ioanne et Alexio Comnenis gestarum / ad fidem codicis vaticani recensuit Augustus Meineke (Bonnae: Impensi ed Weberi, 1836), 206–207. 36 Pachymérès, Relations Historiques, vol. 2, 339.9–12, 349. 10–12; L. Schopen and I. Bekker (eds), Nicephori Gregorae Byzantina historia, vol. 1 (Bonn: Impensis B. Weberi, 1829–1855), 94, 13–14. 37 The Correspondance of Athanasius I, Patriarch of Constantinople: Letters to the Emperor Andronicus II, Members of the Imperial Family, and Officials, ed. A-M. Talbot, vol. 1 (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1975), 84.23–6, n. 41. 178 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Islam on the Inside (Some Exceptions)

An impressive corpus of Byzantine polemical literature concerning Islam developed over the centuries.38 Starting with John of Damascus (d. 749) or even earlier, Byzantines expounded on the Islamic conceptions of God, the Holy Scripture, Christology, Mariology, Islamic attitudes toward Christian doctrine of Trinity, as well as Islamic notions of prophetology and eschatology, and Islamic ritual and habits. Byzantine polemical works dealing with Islamic dogma, including the alleged Greek translation of Qurʾan,39 were subjected to dissimilating transfer. Rather than assert any influence over Christian conceptions, Islamic dogma, concepts and themes rather were decontextualised and desacralised in a Christian religious space via this polemical reception. Indeed, Islamic knowledge acquired by Byzantine theologians had a defensive purpose, serving as a theoretical basis for the prevention of Islamic infiltration into Byzantine religious and cultural spaces. The cleansing of the Byzantine Greek texts of specifically Islamic content as seen in the above examples was an immediate result of the practical implementation of the Byzantine knowledge of Islam. It would be tempting to suggest that Muslim religious practice could have prompted the adoption of the Iconoclastic dogma by Byzantine theological thought in the seventh and eighth centuries. However, so far such a transfer of Iconoclasm from the Islamic to Christian milieu has yet to be proven. One may suspect the presence of Islamic mystico-theological motifs in Niketas Stethatos’ conception of Paradise, as well as in the mystical writings of his master, Symeon the New Theologian; this, however, remains unproved and not properly investigated.40 Byzantine subjects were barred from claiming affiliation to Islam, which was considered to be paganism in the eyes of the Church and State.41 The mosques built in Constantinople, and possibly in other parts of the empire, from the eighth and possibly through the beginning of the fifteenth century, were intended exclusively for foreign subjects, who were variously prisoners of war, refugees, hostages, diplomats, mercenaries and merchants granted

38 The number of studies dealing with anti-Islamic polemics in Byzantium and Eastern Christianity is no less impressive. I mention here only general studies and some recent scholarship: A. Th. Khoury, Polémique byzantine contre l’Islam (Leiden: Brill, 1972); H.-G. Beck, Kirche und theologische Literatur im byzantinischen Reich (Munich: Beck, 1959); J.V. Tolan (ed.), Medieval Christian Perceptions of Islam (London and New York: Routledge, 1996) (especially chapter 1 with the contributions of J.C. Lamoreaux and C.L. Hanson). 39 E. Trapp, ‘Gab es eine byzantinische Koranübersetzung?’ Diptycha 2 (1980–81): 7-17 See also M. Ulbricht, ‘La première traduction du Coran du VIIIe/IXe siècle et son utilisation dans la polémique de Nicétas de Byzance (IXe siècle) avec le titre “Réfutation du Coran”’, in Chronos – Révue d’histoire de l’Université de Balamand 25 (2012): 33–58. 40 Nicétas Stéthatos, Opuscules et lettres (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1961), 154–226 (Oratio 2: De paradiso). 41 Nonetheless some intellectuals, like Manuel I Komnenos, may have had doubts about this, proclaiming that Christians and Muslims worshipped the same God. See C.L. Hanson, ‘Manuel I Comnenus and the “God of Muhammad”: A Study in Byzantine Ecclesiastical Politics’, in Medieval Christian Perceptions of Islam, ed. J.V. Tolan (New York: Garland, 1996), 55–82. Byzantine Appropriation of the Orient 179 the status of temporary foreign resident.42 These foreign residents thus fell outside Byzantine juridical space and, for this reason only, were allowed to practice Islam. It should be emphasised that an indigenous Islamic community did not, and could not exist in Byzantium; neither could Islamic juridical, administrative or educational, institutions function in Byzantine territory. All Muslim newcomers who were incorporated into Byzantine society, whether they were prisoners of war, mercenaries, refugees, or hostages, underwent a process of ‘naturalisation’ through conversion into Christianity.43 Thus, there were no compromises in the question of Islamic affiliation in any form for Byzantine subjects or institutions. The sources, however, give us curious and sometimes puzzling examples of the Muslim presence inside Byzantine cultural space, which require special attention. The first example concerns a rather complex case of internal apostasy. Demetrios Chomatenos alludes to an individual who, while subject to Byzantine political and canonical jurisdiction, seems to have apostatised from Christianity to Islam.44 The former ‘Hagarene’ Turk ʿAlīshēr (Ἀλισέριος), who was baptised in his youth, for many years was a good Christian. On day he found himself in such need that his faith was shaken and he uttered blasphemy against God, and trampled on the honest and life-giving cross. In the end, however, he repented and appeared before the ecclesiastical authorities, which imposed on him a penance. It is difficult to imagine that Chomatenos meant any ‘atheist’

42 M. Balivet, Romanie byzantine et pays de Rûm turc: Histoire d’un espace d’imbrication gréco- turque (Istanbul: Éditions Isis, 1994), 35–6; S.W. Reinert, ‘The Muslim Presence in Constantinople, 9th–15th Centuries: Some Preliminary Observations’, in Studies on the Internal Diaspora of the Byzantine Empire, ed. by H. Ahrweiler, A.E. Laiou (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1998), 125–50; Nevra Necipoğlu, ‘Ottoman Merchants in Constantinople During the First Half of the Fifteenth Century’, in Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 16 (1992), 158–69; G.D. Anderson, ‘Islamic Spaces and Diplomacy in Constantinople (Tenth to Thirteenth Centuries C.E.)’, in Medieval Encounters 15 (2009): 86–113; O.R. Constable, Housing the Stranger in the Mediterranean World: Lodging, Trade, and Travel in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 147–50. 43 Some temporary exceptions could be made for newly annexed Muslim territories in Syria and elsewhere. Although the majority of Muslims were forced to immigrate outside the empire, some of them chose to remain under Byzantine rule (C.E. Bosworth, ‘The City of Tarsus and the Arab-Byzantine Frontiers in Early and Middle ‘Abbāsid Times’, Oriens 33 (1992): 278–9). Byzantine authorities made considerable efforts to assimilate the Muslims falling under their jurisdiction and offered substantial benefits to those who accepted baptism. According to Constantine Pophyrogennetos, the thematic protonotarioi were ordered to pay newly christianised Saracens, who were allotted lands by the authorities, considerable funds in gold for food and purchase of inventory. Saracen settlers were released from taxes for three years. Temporary tax immunity was also granted to locals who admitted baptised Saracen sons-in- law to their households (Constantini Porphyrogeniti imperatoris de cerimoniis aulae Byzantinae libri duo, ed. J.J. Reiske (Bonn: Impensis ed Weberi, 1829), vol. 1, 694.22–696: Περὶ τῶν αἰχμαλώτων Σαρακηνῶν τῶν ἐπὶ θέματι βαπτιζομένων; Speros Vryonis, ‘Byzantine and Turkish Societies and their Sources of Manpower’, in idem, Studies on Byzantium, Seljuks, and Ottomans (Malibu, CA: Udena Publications, 1981), 130). 44 Demetrii Chomateni Ponemata diaphora, ed. G. Prinzing (Berlin and New York, 2002), 402–403; Moravcsik, Byzantinoturcica, vol. 2, 63. 180 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia rebellion, which was hardly possible for a person of that time educated either in the Islamic or Christian or in both traditions. More likely, Chomatenos implied that ʿAlīshēr cursed the Christian conception of God and trampled on the cross as the key symbol of Christianity and, for some time, returned to the fold of Islam. Interestingly, it was not the case of some religious ‘duality’: ʿAlīshēr went through a spiritual crisis, reembraced Islam and then returned to Christianity. This case indicates that, in the thirteenth century, return to Islam for a former Muslim (even if in secret) inside the Byzantine canonical jurisdiction was possible. A similar case of the secret apostasy of a group of former Muslims is known from the Pontic region at the turn of the fifteenth century.45 The instances of crypto-Islam, albeit very rare, show that Byzantine cultural space was not so solidly anti-Islamic. Individuals and groups of newly naturalised immigrants from the Orient might have been susceptible to re-embracing their former religion. However, these marginal groups, to my knowledge, had no resonance in Byzantine culture. Another example is suggested by the Islamic ritualistic practices which were openly performed inside the imperial palace and in which Christian visitors to and residents of the palace were involved. Gregoras’s History contains a story criticising the corruption of the Christian morality of John VI Kantakouzenos. This story was related to Gregoras in the end of 1352 or in the beginning of 1353 by his friend Agathangelos. The latter complained about the habits of the imperial court that some barbarians (that is, Anatolian Muslims), were constantly arranging noisy processions there whenever they wanted. During the palace church services, the barbarians ‘sing and dance in a ring in the palace halls, shouting down [the liturgy] by singing and dancing intricate dances, with unintelligible yells they cried out odes and hymns to Muḥammad thus attracting more listeners than the reading of the Holy Gospel, sometimes everybody and sometimes only some are gathered there [at these dances]’. Moreover, the barbarians do the same ‘at the emperor’s table, often with cymbals and stage musical instruments and songs’.46 Agathangelos identifies the ‘barbarians’ engaged in such disruptive practices as ‘spiritual leaders and chiefs (μυσταγωγοὶ καὶ πρόεδροι) of the impious religion’, who lead a ‘simple and celibate’ life, but indulge themselves in gluttony and consumption of undiluted wine. No doubt Anatolian Sufi mystics or dervishes are implied here. The reference to ‘ring-dances’ (χορούς) and ‘intricate dances’ (γυμνικὴν ὄρχησιν) most likely points to the adepts of the Mevlevi Order of whirling dervishes. The singing of religious ‘odes and hymns’ and the use of musical instruments may indicate the Mevlevi samāʿ. The presence of the Mevlevi Sufis at the imperial palace may have been somehow connected with the ‘pro-Hesychast’ mystical preferences of

45 R. Shukurov, ‘The Crypto-Muslims of Anatolia’, in Anthropology, Archaeology and Heritage in the Balkans and Anatolia or the Life and Times of F.W. Hasluck (1878–1920), ed. David Shankland, vol. 2 (Istanbul: Isis, 2004), 135–57. 46 Nicephori Gregorae Byzantina Historia, vol. 3, 202.12–203.4. Byzantine Appropriation of the Orient 181

John Kantakouzenos.47 Intercourse between the Mevlevi Sufis and mystically oriented Orthodox Christians and monks in Anatolia are well known.48 It nevertheless remains a mystery as to why the dervishes were present at the Byzantine emperor’s palace in the first place. The important point is that inside Constantinople and even inside the palace religiously active groups of unassimilated Muslims were present. What had changed in Byzantine society and identity in the fourteenth century that Christians could openly ignore the sacred liturgy in preference to the dervishes’ rituals at the palace of the Christian emperor, in clear violation of Byzantine custom? What had to happen in the minds of those Greeks who, without fear of one other, inside the palace of the world’s most Christian emperor, openly violated generally accepted customs? The case of the dervishes at John Kantakouzenos’s court suggests a broader trend. By the fourteenth century, Byzantine culture had undergone a sea change in its attitude to Islam as a religious system, although the nature of this transformation is still elusive. These latent changes must have been the result of more frequent, intimate and intense contacts with the Anatolian Muslims, which naturally would have resulted in the accumulation of more detailed and precise information about Islam. However, this change of attitude at the imperial court does not seem to have resulted in any tangible transformation in the textual and material products of Byzantine culture. In conclusion, the Byzantines were consistently selective in adopting new objects from the Orient. Far from being indifferent to the specifically Islamic content of imports, Byzantines were meticulous in purifying the adopted texts of religiously based information and avoided material objects decorated with Islamic-specific messages. The Byzantines defined the information and objects which they acquired from their eastern neighbours exclusively according to the ethno-geographical terms of ‘Persian’, ‘Arab’, ‘Indian’, and ‘Egyptian’. Taking this into account, one must to be very cautious in modern scholarly discourse in classifying the Oriental (Arabic, Persian, Turkic etc.) contribution in Byzantine culture as ‘Islamic.’ In general, Byzantium was open to the non- religiously marked Orient as a source of wisdom, skill and exquisite material goods and not receptive to any form of alien religious penetration, or, as one may put it, for any kind of ‘latent Islamisation.’ However, in the fourteenth

47 See, for instance, Donald M. Nicol, The Reluctant Emperor: A Biography of John Cantacuzene, Byzantine Emperor and Monk, c.1295–1383 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), especially 134–60 (chapter 7: ‘Monk, historian and theologian’) and the more recent article with further references, Ivan Drpić, ‘Art, Hesychasm, and Visual Exegesis: Parisinus Graecus 1242 Revisited’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 62 (2008): 217–47. 48 Frederick W. Hasluck, Christianity and Islam under the Sultans, vol. 2 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1929), 370–8; Michel Balivet, ‘Miracles christiques et islamisation en chrétienté seldjoukide et ottomane entre le XIe et le XVe siècle’, in idem, Byzantins et Ottomans: Relations, interaction, succession (Istanbul: Éditions Isis, 1999) 217–23; Michel Balivet, ‘Chrétiens secrets et martyrs christiques en Islam turc: Quelques cas à travers les textes (XIIIe–XVIIe siècles)’, in idem, Byzantins et Ottomans: Relations, interaction, succession (Istanbul: Isis, 1999), 231–54. 182 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia century, some vague traces of change in the traditionally rigorous anti-Islamic stance in Byzantium become apparent. This phenomenon deserves to be the object of a separate study. Chapter 8 Other Encounters: Popular Belief and Cultural Convergence in Anatolia and the Caucasus*

Antony Eastmond

In 1219 ce, an Armenian woman named Mamkhat‘un, who is otherwise unattested, left money in her will for the construction of a tower (tower 62) on the north-eastern ramparts of the city of Ani, the former capital of Armenia. (Figure 8.1) The military capacity represented by this tower was formidable. By encasing the pre-existing Armenian and Shaddadid stonework in a new, thicker skin of masonry, and more than doubling its height, the tower became part of an invigorated, more forbidding obstacle to invaders that encircled the medieval city.1 However, the protection that the wall represented was conceived in other

Figure 8.1 Tower of Mamkhatun (Tower 63), Ani. 1219. Photo: author

* The research for this paper was funded by a Leverhulme Major Research Fellowship. 1 Jean-Pierre Mahé, Nicholas Faucherre and Beyhan Karamağaralı, ‘L’enceinte urbaine d’Ani (Turquie Orientale): Problèmes chronologiques’, Comptes Rendus de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 143, no. 2 (1999): 731–56. 184 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia ways as well. These additional defences looked beyond the physical scale and innovations in military engineering incorporated into the architecture of the tower to create other, less solid but no less potent obstacles to attackers. Those intangible elements are represented on the tower by words and images, in this case the donor’s inscription in Armenian and a pair of serpent-like dragons that encircle the tower. The words and the beasts drew power from a world of popular, semi-official beliefs and ideas that lay outside the mainstream religious practices of the Christian and Islamic worlds: a realm of talismans, apotropaic and prophylactic reliefs as well as astrological imagery and magical objects. They were able to harness spiritual powers that could affect the lives of those who encountered them for good or evil. These beliefs in the active power of images were shared across the region, among people of different religions and of different linguistic, ethnic and cultural backgrounds. The aim of this chapter is to explore the presence of these less conventional symbols and the popular beliefs that they represented. Whilst the nature of the imagery discussed means that it cannot have contributed directly to the Islamisation of Anatolia, it reveals forms of cultural convergence that facilitated and mediated the gradual transformation of the region.2 Mamkhat‘un’s gift was one of the last acts in the larger scale reconstruction and enlargement of the defences of the city that had been undertaken over the past two decades. In 1199 Ani had been captured from its Muslim Shaddadid rulers by a combined Christian army of Georgians and Armenians led by the brothers Zakare and Ivane Mkhargrdzeli.3 The frequent changes of rulership in the city (no less than six different religious, ethnic and cultural groups between 1045 and 1236) epitomises the constant interlacing and intertwining of populations in the region. Ani fits a broader pattern of interchange across eastern Anatolia, the Caucasus and the Jazira in the early thirteenth century. Of the nearby Armenian city of Ahlat on the northern shore of Lake Van, the eleventh-century Persian writer and traveller Nāṣir-i Khusraw had described it thus: ‘This city is the border town between the Muslim and the Armenians … In the city of Ahlat they speak three languages, Arabic, Persian, and Armenian. It

2 These are forms of belief are only mentioned in passing in Speros Vryonis, The Decline of Medieval Hellenism in Asia Minor and the Process of Islamisation from the Eleventh through the Fifteenth Century (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1971), or Claude Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey: A General Survey of the Material and Spiritual Culture and History, c.1071–1330 (New York: Taplinger Publishing, 1968); contrast Frederick William Hasluck, Christianity and Islam under the Sultans (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1929), vol. 1, 105–12, 175–225, 237–49. 3 Raymond H. Kévorkian, Ani. Capitale de l’Arménie en l’an mil (Paris: Paris Musees, 2001), 110–16; Nikolai I. Marr, Ani. Knizhnaia istoriia goroda i raskopki na meste gorodishcha (Leningrad: Gosudarstvennoe sotsialʹnoekonomicheskoe izdatelʹstvo, 1934), 38–44; Claude Mutafian, ‘Ani After Ani, Eleventh to Seventeenth Century’, in Armenian Kars and Ani, ed. Richard G. Hovannisian (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda Publishers, 2011), 155–70; Robert Bedrosian, ‘Armenia during the Seljuk and Mongol Periods’, in The Armenian People from Ancient to Modern Times, ed. Richard G. Hovannisian (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1997), 241–72. Other Encounters: Popular Belief and Cultural Convergence in Anatolia and the Caucasus 185 is my supposition that this is why they named the town Ahlat.’4 His supposition was based on a mistaken etymology of Ahlat /Akhlāṭ coming from the Arabic root, kh-l-ṭ, ‘to mix’, but the evidence that he saw of mixed populations, multi- lingual competences, international trade, common architectural traditions and intermarriage, surely means his error was well-founded. Although eastern Anatolia and the southern Caucasus were predominantly ruled by Muslim dynasties from the twelfth century on, they presided over populations that were still largely Christian. In the mid-thirteenth century, William of Rubruck reckoned that nine out of ten inhabitants in Turchia (i.e. Anatolia) were either Greek or Armenian, and only one-tenth of the population was Turkish.5 Even allowing for his selective assessment of the figures, it is clear that the Christian population of the region was extensive. There were also Syrian Orthodox and Nestorian Christians, long established in the southeast of Anatolia, but with important settlements as far north as Ahlat, where Solomon, the future Nestorian bishop of Basra was born,6 and where ‘Abdishō’ Bar Brikha, the Nestorian bishop of Nisibis, compiled his Marganitha [Pearl].7 Ahlat also lay within reach of the army of Georgia (which approached its walls in 1210), and the city was eyed on the Muslim side in turn by the Ildegüzids, Mengüjekids, Ayyubids and Seljuqs of Anatolia. The babble of languages and religions that must have been spoken in Ahlat was reflected in the different names each community gave to the city, and the different dating systems they employed. Ahlat was also Akhlāṭ, Khlat and Khilāṭ, and the communities used at least six different dating systems between them. This was a world that required a degree of flexibility and a facility with dealing with different cultures. The courts of the region employed people of all religious and cultural backgrounds: Muslims found employment and advancement at Christian courts, and vice versa.8 Ibn Bībī reports that in c.1200 Zakarīya (probably a Greek given his name – Zacharias), the chamberlain [ḥājib] of the Seljuq sultan, Kaykhusraw I, was fluent in the five languages of Anatolia: presumably Greek, Armenian, Persian, Turkish and Arabic.9 It is against

4 Naser-e Khosraw, The Book of Travels [Safarnama], trans. Wheeler M. Thackston (New York: SUNY Press, 1986), 6; F. Taeschner, Ahlat, EI2. 5 William of Rubruck, The Mission of Friar William of Rubruck: His Journey to the Court of the Great Khan Möngke, 1253–1255, trans. Peter Jackson (London: The Hakluyt Society, 1990), 276; Vryonis, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 183. 6 Best known for the Book of the Bee, a theological treatise on everything from the creation of the world to the last judgement: Solomon, Bishop of Basra, The Book of the Bee: The Syriac Text, edited from the manuscripts in London, Oxford, and Munich with an English translation, ed. by E.A. Wallis Budge (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1886). 7 ‘Abdisho’ bar Brikha, ‘Marganitha or Pearl: The Truth of the Faith’, in The Nestorians and Their Faith: vol. 2, trans. George Percy Badger (London: J. Masters, 1852), 422 where he names Ahlat ‘the blessed city’. 8 Speros Vryonis, ‘The Byzantine Legacy and Ottoman Forms’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 23–4 (1969–1970): 268–9. 9 Ibn Bībī, Die Seltschukengeschichte des Ibn Bibi, trans. H.W. Duda (Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1960), 37; discussed in Rustam Shukurov, ‘Harem Christianity: The Byzantine identity of Seljuk Princes’, in The Seljuks of Anatolia: Court and Society in the Medieval Middle East, ed. Andrew C.S. Peacock and Sara Nur Yıldız (London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2013), 131–2. 186 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia this background of intertwined populations, international trade, and inter- religious and intercultural exchange that the materials discussed in this chapter must be placed, for they provide evidence of common interests and beliefs that lay outside the normal list of differences that are cited as means to separate and distinguish the communities from each other.

Defences Visible and Invisible

At Mamkhat‘un’s tower in Ani, the additional defences were made visible by a number of devices incorporated into the stonework. The first of these was the inscription naming Mamkhat‘un as donor. The inscription runs over five lines, and the two stones it is carved on were carefully set into the fabric of the tower in a recessed frame to ensure the protection of the carving from the elements and its permanent association with this tower. Set off to the right hand side of the tower, it was located to be visible from the closest gate into the city, the so- called Chequerboard Gate. Twenty-two other Armenian inscriptions are known from the walls of Ani, and a number of other towers have framed plaques set into them that were intended to be inscribed, although texts were never carved (it is possible that they may have housed painted inscriptions, now lost).10 It is clear that the presence of words was considered an important factor in the design and build of the walls. Monumental writing was very important in Armenian culture, and is a conspicuous feature of many city walls and churches. The creation of the Armenian alphabet was intimately linked with the conversion of the Armenians to Christianity and so its presence declared a Christian identity for the walls and their defences.11 This was underscored elsewhere on the walls by the incorporation of crosses into the fabric of the walls, recalling the power of the cross as a symbol of military victory since the days of Constantine the Great (Figure 8.2). The contents of Mamkhat‘un’s inscription provided further supernatural defence:

In 668 [=1219], by the grace of Christ I Mamkhat‘un, daughter of Khach‘eres Lorets‘i, went to Christ unexpectedly. From the halal [i.e. legitimately earned] money of my father which he had given to me, so that I would not be forgotten, I built this tower in memory of me before Christ. Now I beg you who read [this], plead for our forgiveness from Christ.12

10 I.A. Orbeli, Corpus Inscriptionum Armenicarum, vol. 1 (Erevan: Akademii Nauk Armianskoi SSR, 1966), nos 1–23; trans. K.J. Basmadjian, Les inscriptions arméniennes d’Ani, de Bagnaïr et de Marmachèn (Paris: Firmin-Didot et cie, 1931), from Revue de l’Orient Chrétien 1920–1930, nos. 7, 24, 26, 34–8, 41–7, 51–7. 11 Jannic Durand, Ioanna Rapti, and Dorota Giovannoni (eds), Armenia Sacra. Mémoire chrétienne des Arméniens (IVe-XVIIIe siècle) (Paris: Musée du Louvre, 2007), 39–47. 12 Orbeli, Corpus Inscriptionum Armenicarum, no. 5; trans. Basmadjian, Les Inscriptions, no. 52. Other Encounters: Popular Belief and Cultural Convergence in Anatolia and the Caucasus 187

Figure 8.2 Tower 5, Ani, showing crosses. Thirteenth century. Photo: author 188 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

The text is partly a memorial to the individual, written as a plea for her personal salvation and a request for intercession on the part of all those that read it. However, it also acts as a means to cement the walls with piety, suborning the support of Christ in the defence of the city. Such calls on Christ and Christian belief were common in Christian defence: the walls of nearby Kars, completed in 1234, declare themselves to have been built ‘by Christians’ and ‘against foreigners’.13 A final layer of defence visible on the tower had no equivalent military rationale or religious sanction. It is found in the sculptural decoration of the tower: Mamkhat‘un’s tower is encircled by serpent-like dragons. The rope-like bodies of the beasts recall the iron hoops or ties on a barrel that bind the masonry together to give it extra strength. Ferocious beasts, dragons were known to lurk around thresholds, destined forever to lie on the boundary between inside and out, between real and mythic, between order and disorder.14 The ox, whose head is poised between the two dragons’ open mouths, is presumably meant to represent the fate of any potential assailant of the walls. A second tower, just to the west of this, that was commissioned by another woman, possibly Mamkhat‘un’s mother, has an identical arrangement of inscription and serpents.15 This combination of physical protection with figural and textual symbols of defence was by no means unique to Ani; every element that is visible at Ani can be paralleled in the defence of other cities in the region. The walls erected by the Artuqids at Amid (Diyarbakır), at just the same time employed the same range of physical and talismanic defences.16 The massive Ulu Baden tower at the southwest corner of the city dominates this section of the city along with its partner the Yedi Kardeş. The imposing bulk of the Ulu Baden tower (Figure 8.3), the most formidable in the 4-km circuit of walls, was similarly reinforced by texts and images.17 The layout of the inscription, with its long second line that stretches round the tower and shorter opening and closing phrases in a three-line block in the centre, all enclosed in a heavy, moulded frame, resembles a protective belt with its buckle constraining the mass of the tower to keep it in place. It encircles the tower much like the serpents at Ani. The naskh text, laboriously carved in relief, shows an even greater care for the presence of the written word than at Ani. After 800 years its letter forms remain crisp and legible. The inscription invokes both divine and royal aid in the defence of the city, calling upon Allah and listing the qualities of its builder, the Artuqid sultan, al-Ṣāliḥ Nāṣir al-Dīn Artuq Arslan:

The kingdom is to Allah, the unique, the powerful. This is what our master has ordered to make, the Sultan al-Malik al-Ṣāliḥ, the wise, the just, the present,

13 I.A. Orbeli, ‘Armianskie nadpisi na kamne’, in Izbrannye Trudy (Erevan: Akademii Nauk Armianskoi SSR, 1963), 470–71. 14 Sara Kuehn, The Dragon in Medieval East Christian and Islamic Art (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 23–30. 15 Orbeli, Corpus Inscriptionum Armenicarum, no. 8; trans. Basmadjian, Les Inscriptions, no. 51. 16 Max van Berchem, Amida. Matériaux pour l’épigraphie et l’histoire musulmanes du Diyar-Bakir (Heidelberg: Carl Winter’s Universitätsbuchhandlung, 1910). 17 Berchem, Amida, 88–91. Other Encounters: Popular Belief and Cultural Convergence in Anatolia and the Caucasus 189

Figure 8.3 Ulu Baden (Tower 31), Amid (Diyarbakır). 1207/8. Photo: author

the victorious, the conqueror, the embodiment of justice, Nāṣir al-Dunyā wa’l- Dīn, the Sultan of Islam and Muslims, the glory of kings and sultans, the king of emirs, the support of the imam, the protector of men, the subject of the magnificent Caliphate, the orb of high qualities, Abu’l-Fatḥ Maḥmūd, son of Muḥammad, son of Kara Arslan, son of Dāʾūd, son of Sökmen, son of Artuq, the support of the emir of the believers, may Allah strengthen his victories and redouble his power … in the year 605 [1207–8] … Ibrahim, son of Jaʿfar built this …18

The inscription is surrounded by a series of protective beasts both real and fantastical, sphinxes, a lion and a bull, surmounted by a double-headed eagle. The inscription on the neighbouring Yedi Kardeş tower is slightly less elaborate, but follows the same model (Figure 8.4).19 Its Arabic inscription incorporates Turkic vocabulary naming the sultan as a falcon [bayghu], transforming the double-headed raptor that provides the centrepiece of both towers into a kind of crypto-portrait or emblem of the ruler (an idea reinforced by its appearance on contemporary Artuqid coins). All these visual devices can be traced back in the city to the slightly earlier Urfa gate of 1183–84, whose foundation inscription is joined by a falcon and by serpents.20

18 Berchem, Amida, 88. 19 Ibid., 91–3. 20 Ibid., 75–87. 190 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Figure 8.4 Yedi Kardeş (Tower 39), Amid (Diyarbakır). 1207/8. Photo: author

Such imagery could only work if it was part of a shared visual culture throughout the region. There would be little point in the Armenians employing serpents and dragons, or the Artuqids displaying lions and eagles, to defend their city if their foes who were likely to attack the walls could not recognise their meaning and vice versa. Equally, although the languages in the inscriptions may not have been mutually comprehensible to all who saw them, the presence of writing was also part of this act of display and symbolic protection. In both cases it drew on the divine associations of the word in the two most powerful religions of the Book. The inscriptions also drew on more esoteric beliefs in the written word as vehicle for containing and channelling power.21 Although the languages of the inscriptions and the style in which the beasts were carved were different, it is clear that both two cities’ defences shared the same structural approach to the concept of protection. The walls demonstrate a form of visual syncretism across eastern Anatolia and the Caucasus,22 but both obviously ran the danger of irrelevance. Were their texts and images anything

21 Persis Berlekamp, Wonder, Image, and Cosmos in Medieval Islam (New Haven, CT, and London: Yale University Press, 2011), 144–9. For later Armenian examples of the word having prophylactic power, see Frédéric Feydit, Amulettes de l’Arménie Chrétienne (Venice: S. Lazzarro, 1986). 22 The syncretism I refer to here is purely visual, a convergence of outward forms, not necessarily related to the underlying beliefs in how these images might work. For a critique of the term see Tijana Krstić, ‘The Ambiguous Politics of “Ambiguous Santuaries”: F. Hasluck and Historiography on Syncretism and Conversion to Islam in 15th- and 16th-Century Ottoman Rumeli’, in Archaeology, Anthropology and Heritage in the Balkans and Anatolia: The Life and Times of F.W. Hasluck, 1878–1920, ed. David Shankland, vol. 3 (Istanbul: Isis Press, 2013), 247–62. Other Encounters: Popular Belief and Cultural Convergence in Anatolia and the Caucasus 191 more than simple adornments, or did they have greater resonance? In other words, where did the power come from that gave these images their role as active players in the defence of a city, rather than as mere decoration on its defences? The status of the images and symbols on these towers is a problematic one. They were official only in that they were either commissioned or sanctioned by the rulers of each city. They had no theological or other rationalised justification that could give them any power. Of all the religions and confessions in the region, only the Orthodox Christianity practised in Georgia and Byzantium had a theology that gave to images divine approval and an ability to act, but this was limited to one particular class of religious image, icons, whose power came from the relationship between the likeness in the image and the prototype (i.e. saint) to which it related. Whilst the Armenian Apostolic Church celebrated images produced in conjunction with texts (primarily miniatures in manuscripts), it was more hostile to monumental images, and did not credit them with the same efficacy that the Orthodox Christians believed in.23 Stepannos Orbelian, writing in the late thirteenth century, describes the expulsion in 969 of Vahan, the catholicos of Armenia, for introducing images ‘like the Georgians’ and thereby threatening to ‘insinuate the heresy of the Greeks’ into the Church.24 The absence of figural imagery in Anatolian mosques and madrasas demonstrates the general Muslim desire to exclude imagery from its formal worship.25 It was not, therefore, possible to turn directly to God as the source of these images’ efficacy. However, despite this absence of scriptural support, there is plenty to suggest that the images such as those on the towers of Ani and Amid were accorded status and power. They were not simple adornments, but were indeed perceived as playing an active part in each city’s defences. The evidence for this comes from the popular traditions associated with monumental images and their reception and use in local custom. This is very different from their elevated theological interpretation. There is no simple terminology to define these practices: all the modern terms we now apply, such as magic, occult or superstition, have negative connotations which do not match their medieval usage.26 The range of practices I discuss is very broad, and many have little in common with each other (indeed, the practitioners and followers of any one of these beliefs may well have scorned the potency of the others).27 Some aspects of this semi-official world were accompanied by extensive scholarly literature. Astrology, for example, drew on

23 Sirarpie Der Nersessian, ‘Image Worship in Armenia and its Opponents’, in Études Byzantines et Arméniennes, vol. 1 (Louvain: Impr. Orientaliste, 1973), 405–15 reprinted from Armenian Quarterly 1 (1946): 67–81; Thomas F. Mathews, ‘Vrt‘anēs K‘ert‘oł and the Early Theology of Images’, Revue des études arméniennes 31 (2008–2009): 101–26. 24 Stepannos Orbelian, Histoire de la Siounie par Stéphannos Orbélian, trans. by Marie Félicité Brosset (St Petersburg: Eggers, 1864), vol. 1, 166–7. 25 Attitudes to image-making are explored in Oya Pancaroğlu, ‘Concepts of Image and Boundary in a Medieval Persian Cosmography’, Res: Anthropology and Aesthetics 43 (2003): 31–41. 26 Michael W. Dols, Majnūn: The Madman in Medieval Islamic Society (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992), 261–3; Paul Magdalino and Maria Mavroudi (eds), The Occult Sciences in Byzantium (Geneva: La Pomme d’Or, 2006), 11–15. 27 Magdalino and Mavroudi, The Occult Sciences, 13. 192 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia scientific observation of the stars and lengthy theoretical and practical tracts to justify its claims.28 Others, such as the wearing of talismans, or beliefs in the efficacy of images and statues, depended on long-standing traditions and had no equivalent literature to defend or rationalise them, although belief in their potency was often related to their association to astrology.29 To call these beliefs ‘popular’ is not to impose any kind of class limits on them, they were followed by kings, sultans, bishops, and qadis, and were practised everywhere from the court to street corners.30 Rather, ‘popular’ denotes the non-official nature of these beliefs that lay outside the formal teachings of both Islam and Christianity, and had no explicit theological sanction. When people viewed the reliefs of animals and fantastic creatures on the walls of Ani and Amid they did not just see them in isolation. Rather they viewed them as part of a broader range of public art, some of which was widely credited with possessing particular powers. Thus, Ibn Shaddād noted that a tower on the city walls of Harran, the Ayyubid capital of the Jazira, was surmounted by two bronze statues of jinns, and that these were regarded as talismans against snakes.31 They were perhaps analogous to the jinns carved in stone over one of the gates of Konya, probably in the reign of Kayqubād I (1219–21) (Figure 8.5).32 Elsewhere in Ayyubid Syria, a village near Aleppo contained statues which were held to hold special powers: the nose of the statue of a black man was rubbed by women to ensure they would become pregnant; elsewhere a statue of a scorpion kept snakes and scorpions away.33 The surprise here is not so much the nature of the superstitions, or the ascription of power to the images, as the existence and survival of the statues on which to focus them. In the 1220s, Harran was ruled by the Ayyubid prince, al-Ashraf Mūsā, who also ruled in Ahlat. He was notoriously conservative in his theology and his opposition to ideas from outside Islam. When he took possession of Damascus in 1229 he dismissed all those who pursued the study of logic and the philosophy of the ancients and other ‘rational sciences’.34 We might expect, then, that he would oppose crediting statues with

28 For example, al-Kabīsī ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz ibn ʿUthman, The Introduction to Astrology, trans. Charles Burnett, Keiji Yamamoto and Michio Yano (London: Warburg Institute, 2004). 29 Yahya J. Michot, ‘Ibn Taymiyya on Astrology: Annotated Translation of Three Fatwas’, Journal of Islamic Studies 11, no. 2 (2000): 160; Berlekamp, Wonder, Image, and Cosmos in Medieval Islam, 119–20. 30 For references see Maria Mavroudi, ‘Occult Science and Society in Byzantium: Considerations for Future Research’, in The Occult Sciences in Byzantium, ed. Paul Magdalino and Maria Mavroudi (Geneva: La Pomme D’or, 2006), 91. Saliba, ‘The Role of the Astrologer’, 62. 31 Mirian Frenkel, ‘Constructing the Sacred: Holy Shrines in Aleppo and its Environs’, in Egypt and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid and Mamluk Eras: Proceedings of the International Colloquium Organized at the Katholieke Universiteit Leuven: vol. 6, ed. U. Vermeulen and K. D’Hulster (Leuven: Uitgeverij Peeters, 2010), 70; Cahen, ‘La Djazira’, 111. See also Sibṭ ibn al-ʿAjamī, ‘Les trésors d’or’ de Sibṭ ibn al-ʿAjami, ed. Jean Sauvaget (Beirut and Paris: A. Maisonneuve, 1950), 2. 32 Charles Texier, Description de l’Asie Mineure faite par Ordre du gouvernement Français de 1833 à 1837 (Paris: Didot Frères, 1839–1849), pl. 97. 33 Ibn Shihna, ‘Les Perles Choisies’ d’Ibn ach-Chihna, ed. J. Sauvaget (Beirut: Imprimerie Catholique, 1933), 135–7; Frenkel, ‘Constructing the Sacred’, 70. 34 H. Sauvaire, ‘Description de Damas [VII]’, Journal Asiatique, IXe série 6 (1895): 263. Other Encounters: Popular Belief and Cultural Convergence in Anatolia and the Caucasus 193

Figure 8.5 Gate at Konya. c.1219–21. C. Texier, Description de l’Asie Mineure faite par Ordre du gouvernement Français de 1833 à 1837 (Paris: Didot Frères, 1839–49), plate 97. (Photo: Courtesy of the Institute of Classical Studies, University of London) 194 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia such a power, but the survival of such active art works in his former capital suggests a tenacity of belief that even he could not overcome. On the other side of the religious frontier in Armenia, the chronicler Kirakos Gandzaketsi, writing in the 1240s, reports the existence of a statue of two dragons (or rather, two dragons that were turned to stone in the eighth century, but ‘they exist today’) that produced water from their bellies that cured snake-bites.35 As Sara Kuehn’s recent book on dragons has shown, it is possible to extend such talismanic imagery throughout the region: from the serpent gate in the citadel at Aleppo, to the Bāb al-Ṭalsim [Talisman Gate] at Baghdad of 1221, built by the caliph Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh (Figure 8.6).36

Figure 8.6 Bāb al-Ṭalsim [Talisman gate], Baghdad. 1221. Photo: Friedrich Sarre, courtesy Fine Arts Library, Harvard College Library

35 Kirakos Gandzaketsi, Deux historiens arméniens: Kiracos de Gantzac, XIIIe siècle, Histoire d’Arménie; Oukhtanès d’Ourha, Xe siècle, Histoire en trois parties, trans. Marie Félicité Brosset (St Petersburg: Eggers, 1870), 36. 36 Kuehn, The Dragon, 23–30; Aleppo: Yasser Tabbaa, Constructions of Power and Piety in Medieval Aleppo (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1997), 72–8; Baghdad: Sarre, Friedrich Paul Theodor, and Ernst Herzfeld, Archäologische Reise im Euphrat- und Tigris- Gebiet (Berlin: D. Reimer, 1911), vol. 1, 34–42; 2: 151–5; inscription: Répertoire chronologique d’épigraphie arabe, vol. 10 (Cairo: Institut français d’archeologie orientale, 1939), no. 3873. Other Encounters: Popular Belief and Cultural Convergence in Anatolia and the Caucasus 195

The Talisman Gate elaborates the iconography in one significant way by depicting the caliph as the controlling force of the dragons’ fearsome power. He calmly grasps their tongues in his hands, leaving the dragons as little more than pet guard dogs. A similar device was used a decade or so later when the atabeg of Mosul, Badr al-Dīn Luʾluʾ, built a caravanserai to the west of Sinjar, with similarly sinuous dragons, this time being speared in the mouth by a bearded man.37 Elsewhere, the cities of the Seljuqs of Rūm adapted these forms of supernatural defences to make the most of the Roman antiquities that surrounded them at each site. They embedded classical statues and reliefs in the walls as apotropaic devices. At Konya a nude Herakles was set up by one gate, but with his head removed; and at Ankara Roman altars and herms were built into the walls (Figure 8.7).38

Figure 8.7 Ankara. Roman herms and altars re-employed in city walls. Photo: author

37 Sarre and Herzfeld, Archäologische Reise im Euphrat- und Tigris-Gebiet, vol. 1, 13–15; dated by them to AH 631 or 637 – 657 [1233/9 – 1258]; Conrad Preusser, Nordmesopotamische Baudenkmäler altchristlicher und islamischer Zeit (Leipzig: J.C. Hinrichs, 1911), plate 17. 38 Scott Redford, ‘The Seljuqs of Rum and the Antique’, Muqarnas 10 (1993): 148–56; Finbarr Barry Flood, ‘Image Against Nature: Spolia as Apotropaia in Byzantium and the dār al-Islām’, The Medieval History Journal 9, no. 1 (2006): 143–66. 196 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Clearly this latter case of reuse was partly dictated by pragmatic concerns, and a desire not to waste available materials, but the care with which the antiquities were placed suggests other less material concerns were at issue as well. The herms are all defaced and placed on their sides, just as nearby marble slabs with Greek and Latin inscriptions were incorporated into the walls upside down (Figure 8.8). In each case it shows a desire to constrain and harness any ancient powers they might contain, and use it to bolster rather than subvert the defences of each city.

Figure 8.8 Ankara. Inscription re-employed in city walls. Photo: author

The desire to instil reliefs and statues with magical powers was a Hellenistic legacy of the region that had been adopted by its Roman and then Christian inhabitants. There is a long tradition of statues in Constantinople being imbued with magical powers that often worked capriciously and so needed to be treated carefully.39 This lasted into the thirteenth century: on the eve of the Fourth Crusade which saw the city fall to the Latins in 1204, the populace smashed a 10-metre high statue of Athena, which they believed was beckoning to the Crusaders to the west of the city to invade (although the chronicler Niketas Choniates laments that this work, possibly the last surviving work by Pheidias, actually faced south).40 Beliefs in the powers of images could be replenished from many sources. In the first third of the thirteenth century, the Khwarazmians expanded into Iran

39 Liz James, ‘“Pray Not to Fall into Temptation and Be on Your Guard”: Pagan Statues in Christian Constantinople’, Gesta 35, no. 1 (1996): 12–20. 40 Niketas Choniates, Niketas Choniates, Historia, ed. J.L. van Dieten (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1975), 558–9; Harry Magoulias (trans.), O City of Byzantium: The Annals of Niketas Choniates (Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press, 1984), 305–6. Other Encounters: Popular Belief and Cultural Convergence in Anatolia and the Caucasus 197 and then the Caucasus and Anatolia, sacking Tbilisi in 1227 and taking Ahlat after a prolonged siege in 1230. They introduced just such a new custom, which originated in some of the shamanistic practices of Central Asia that had been incorporated into Khwarazmian culture with the arrival of many Turkmen and Qipchaq tribes, who accompanied the powerful Qipchaq princess, Terken Khātūn, on her marriage to the Khwārazmshāh in the late twelfth century.41 Al-Nasawī’s history of Jalāl al-Dīn Khwārazmshāh claims that he had to rescue a timthāl – a three-dimensional image of some kind – that his father (the son of Terken Khātūn) had buried, probably in the grounds of the caliphal palace in Baghdad.42 It had been placed there to influence the caliph’s actions, but by 1220 was believed to have backfired, bringing ruin instead upon the Khwarazmians.43 What exactly this timthāl was is unclear: it could have been either a physical likeness or a symbolic representation (something bearing names, titles, insignia). It could be imbued with powers to destroy, and was usually made with particular materials and accompanying rites at auspicious times determined by astrological readings. The power attributed to this particular statue derived from the esoteric knowledge of its maker, one Sirāj al-Dīn Abū Yūsuf Yaʿqūb al-Sakākī, who was believed to be able to bewitch the stars (in other words, he could not just read the future in the stars, but alter it), as well as having the power to reverse the movement of the stars through the night sky; with his breath he could halt the flow of rivers.44 The statue had been buried in Baghdad by Jalāl al-Dīn’s father during his wars against the combined forces of the caliphate and the Ismaʿilis. But now the statue was, like so many statues across the medieval world, acting unpredictably and turning against those that made it. Jalāl al-Dīn had to send an agent to try to retrieve it, but he was unable to find it, probably due to new building work in the palace.

Astrological Imagery

The predominantly Greco-Roman and Orthodox Christian ideas about the latency of power in images provided one means by which statues and reliefs were thought to have the capacity to act in society. These became intertwined with a second, pervasive belief in extra-terrestrial power: the power of the stars

41 Muhammed al-Nasawi, Histoire du Sultan Djelal ed-Din Mankobirti, Prince du Khwarezm, par Mohammed en-Nasawi, trans. O Houdas (Paris: E. Leroux, 1895), 72–3; Clifford E. Bosworth, ‘The Political and Dynastic History of the Iranian World (AD 1000–1217)’, in The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 5: The Saljuq and Mongol Periods, ed. by John Andrew Boyle (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1968), 189–91; Jürgen Paul, ‘The Role of Hwarazm in Seljuq Central Asian Politics, Victories and Defeats: Two Case Studies’, Eurasian Studies 6 (2007–8): 10–17. 42 al-Nasawi, Histoire du Sultan Djelal ed-Din Mankobirti, 249–50. 43 Isabel Miller, ‘Occult Science and the Fall of the Khwarazm-Shah Jalal al-Din’, Iran 39 (2001): 249–56. 44 al-Nasawi, Histoire du Sultan Djelal ed-Din Mankobirti, 249–50. 198 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia and planets, as revealed by astrology.45 Astrology held a semi-detached position in relation to both Christianity and Islam: both religions contained men who condemned it, but also those that used it and followed its prognostications. It is easy to see how astrology could be accommodated within both religions.46 Christianity and Islam each taught that humans, God’s greatest creation, were at the heart of the cosmos. They lived on earth, the heavenly body around which the seven planets (the Sun, Moon, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn) were believed to revolve. Thus the very make-up of the universe was understood to reinforce this idea of the centrality of man. This was the natural order put into place by God. As a result all external cosmic forces had to be rationalised in relation to man. In the same way that the planets affected the physical world, most obviously the weather or the tides, so too could they affect the characters, emotions and actions of men. Given that the movement of the planets through the heavens was regular, and that the planets were each believed to have particular characteristics, it was therefore possible to predict the future by anticipating the position and influence of each planet at any particular moment.47 On the other hand, belief in astrology undermined concepts such as free will, which were central to Christian ideas about the relationship between man and God.48 For every scholar that disparaged astrology, it is possible to find a writer who celebrated it. At the eastern end of the Christian world, the history of Bar Hebraeus (the Syriac primate of the East, d. 1286) blamed natural disasters in 1284 on the conjunction of the stars in the house of Aquarius with the planets in Capricorn.49 But one of his predecessors, Michael the Syrian (patriarch, 1166–99) made his views very clear in a particularly verbose chapter title in the chronicle he composed at the end of the twelfth century:

Book XXI. Chapter IV: Of the period in which, according to the astronomers, a dragon should come, who would destroy the entire land, as had happened before with the flood at the time of Noah; but as it never came, the astrologers, with their vain hopes, were reduced to confusion. Other events which did take place in this period.50

45 Stefano Carboni, Following the Stars: Images of the Zodiac in Islamic Art (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2005); Saliba, ‘The Role of the Astrologer in Medieval Islamic Society’, 53. 46 Abd al-’Azīz ibn ‘Uthman, The Introduction to Astrology. 47 Abu’l-Rayhan Muhammad ibn Ahmad al-Biruni, The Book of Instruction in the Elements of the Art of Astrology, trans. R. Ramsay Wright (London: Luzac & Co., 1934), 230–56 (paras 379–440). 48 Utto Riedinger, Die heilige Schrift im Kampf der griechischen Kirche gegen die Astrologie: Von Origenes bis Johannes von Damaskos; Studien zur Dogmengeschichte und zur Geschichte der Astrologie (Innsbruck: Universitätsverlag Wagner, 1956); for the early Armenian reaction: Robert W. Thomson, ‘“Let Now the Astrologers Stand Up”: The Armenian Christian Reaction to Astrology and Divination’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 46 (1992): 305–12. 49 Bar Hebraeus, The Chronography of Gregory Abu’l Faraj, the Son of Aaron, the Hebrew Physician Commonly Known as Bar Hebraeus Being the First Part of His Political History of the World, trans. by E.A. Wallis Budge (Oxford: Oxford University Pres, 1932), 555. 50 J.-B. Chabot (trans.), Chronique de Michel le Syrien, patriarche jacobite d’Antioche (1166–1199) (Paris: E. Leroux, 1905), vol. 3, 396 (chapter 4). Other Encounters: Popular Belief and Cultural Convergence in Anatolia and the Caucasus 199

But this world-weary sarcasm only serves to underline how central it was in many people’s lives. It is false to see a dichotomy between astrology and the religions of the region: religion influenced the development of astrology and vice versa.51 It could be simultaneously condemned and practised, with no need for consistency.52 The status accorded to astrology is evident from the instruments produced to study it. Two astrolabes were commissioned for al-Ashraf Mūsā from ʿAbd al-Karīm, one of the most noted makers of scientific instruments of his day.53 Such objects have tended to be studied by historians of science, who stress the technological and scientific acumen that they embody, rather than the functions for which they were used.54 As a result, they have become divorced from astrology, although this was a major factor in their commissioning. The astrolabe that is now in the Museum of the History of Science in Oxford, made for al-Ashraf in 1227, while he still ruled in Ahlat, was clearly designed to be used for astrological study as much as for astronomical research (Figures 8.9 and 8.10).55 The reverse, with its depictions of lunar mansions, and handy reckoners for the association of the zodiac with the four elements (the muthallathāt, shown in the inner quadrant of the device) is certainly more concerned with the ends to which astronomical observations can be put than with the position of the stars themselves.56 With a diameter 278 mm, and weighing 3.75 kg, al-Ashraf’s astrolabe was a prestige, rather than a functional object, blurring the distinction between his royal power and authority and that of the stars themselves. This is made evident by the extensive royal inscription that runs round the circumference of the object, which echoes the royal proclamations on the walls of Amid. At the other end of the social scale, astrology was practised in the street. Mamluk laws for Syria and Egypt at the start of the fourteenth century could not ban astrology, and so resorted instead to pragmatic measures, such as restrictions dictating that astrologers work out of doors, and only on main streets (to protect the moral standing of the many women who wanted to consult them).57

51 Mavroudi, ‘Occult Science and Society in Byzantium’, 67; Paul Magdalino, L’orthodoxie des astrologues: La science entre le dogme et la divination à Byzance, VIIe–XIVe siècle (Paris: Lethielleux, 2006); Saliba, ‘The Role of the Astrologer’, 51–2. 52 Michot, ‘Ibn Taymiyya on Astrology’, 153, demonstrates the inconsistency of belief even among those that wrote against astrology. 53 Rachel Ward, ‘The Inscription on the Astrolabe by ‘Abd al-Karim in the British Museum’, Muqarnas 21 (2004): 345–57. 54 See, for example, R.T. Gunther, The Astrolabes of the World: Based upon the Series of Instruments in the Lewis Evans Collection in the Old Ashmolea Museum at Oxford, With Notes on Astrolables in the Collections of the British Museum, Sir J. Findlay, Mr. S.V. Hoffman, the Mensin Collection, and in Other Public and Private Collections, vol. 1: The Eastern Astrolabes (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1932). 55 http://www.mhs.ox.ac.uk/astrolabe/catalogue/browseReport/Astrolabe_ID=149.html (accessed 1 February 2014). 56 The 12 rings are described by Willy Hartner, ‘The Principle and Use of the Astrolabe’, in A Survey of Persian Art from Prehistoric Times to the Present, vol. 3, ed. by Arthur Upham Pope (London and New York: Oxford University Press, 1939), 2547–50, see also Gunther, The Astrolabes of the World, 233–6, no.103. For the muthallathāt see al-Biruni, The Book of Instruction, 230 [para 379]. 57 Saliba, ‘The Role of the Astrologer’, 61–2. 200 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Figure 8.9 Astrolabe of al-Ashraf Mūsā, made by ʿAbd al-Karīm. Front. 1227–78. Photo: Museum of the History of Science, University of Oxford Other Encounters: Popular Belief and Cultural Convergence in Anatolia and the Caucasus 201

Figure 8.10 Astrolabe of al-Ashraf Mūsā, made by ʿAbd al-Karīm. Reverse. 1227–78. Photo: Museum of the History of Science, University of Oxford 202 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Astrology had an equally strong following in the Christian world, and in eastern Anatolia it took much of its lead from Arabic and Persian sources. In 1188 an illustrated astrological treatise was copied in Georgia (now Tbilisi, National Centre of Manuscripts A-65) (Figure 8.11). Giving the salient characteristics of each of the eight zodiac signs that survive in the manuscript, it is indebted to Arabic sources in many ways. This is evident in the surviving page of the opening bi-folio, which starts with Aries. The Georgian text is little more than a paraphrase of Arabic, as is evident from the heading above the image: ‘Verdzi (i.e. Aries), which is called Hamali [i.e. al-ḥaml in Arabic]’.58 The title script in Arabic, with its angular forms and tall risers and its foliate background is similar to those in the Jaziran-made copy of pseudo-Galen’s Kitāb al-Diryāq (Book of Antidotes) (Paris BNF Arabe 2964) of 1199 (Figure 8.12). The style of the image, a delicate pen drawing, looks to the tradition of line drawings that accompany manuscripts of al-Ṣūfī’s Book of Fixed Stars.59 Some pages borrow specific local iconographies: the figure of Sagittarius shooting an arrow at its own dragon-headed tail echoes the coins of the Artuqid ruler of Mardin, Nāṣir al-Dīn (580–597/1184–1200) (Figures 8.13 and 8.14).60 Translations into Armenian of astrological and other magical texts were also made in the 1220s in Ani, such as the ‘explanation of dreams’, erazahan’, dating from 1222.61 At the same time, however, the law code of Mkhit‘ar Gosh legalised divorce in cases where magic had been employed.62 And in the twelfth century, Benjamin of Tudela described his encounters with astrologer rabbis in both Mosul and Tiberias.63 Astrology was also a force in diplomacy: both al-Ashraf and his brother al- Kāmil are recorded as sending celestial globes to the emperor Frederick II during the negotiations over the status of Jerusalem in the 1220s, although now only the gift from al-Kāmil survives.64 Al-Ashraf’s gift to the Holy Roman emperor Frederick II in Italy was a ‘planetarium in which astral bodies worked in gold

58 Akaki Shanidze, Etlta da shwidta mnatobtatwis. Astrologiuri tkhzuleba XII saukunisa (Tbilisi: Tbilisi University Press, 1948), 16. 59 Moya Carey, ‘Mapping the Mnemonic: A Late Thirteenth-century Copy of al-Ṣūfī’s Book of the Constellation’, in Arab Painting: Text and Image in Illustrated Arabic Manuscripts, ed. Anna Contadini (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 65–71. 60 Estelle J. Whelan, The Public Figure: Political Iconography in Medieval Mesopotamia (London: Melisende, 2006), 110–13, figs 61–3, year 599/1202; S. Lane Poole,Catalogue of Oriental Coins in the British Museum (London: British Museum, 1875–1890), vol. 3: #429–37. 61 Robert W. Thomson, ‘The Eastern Mediterranean in the Thirteenth Century: Identities and Allegiances. The Peripheries: Armenia’, in Identities and Allegiances in the Eastern Mediterranean after 1204, ed. by Judith Herrin and Guillaume Saint-Guillain (Farnham: Ashgate, 2011), 207. 62 Mkhit‘ar Gosh, The Lawcode [Datastanagirk’] of Mxit’ar Goš, trans. Robert W. Thomson (Amsterdam and Atlanta, GA: Rodopi, 2000), 209–10 (ch. 145). 63 Saliba, ‘The Role of the Astrologer’, 62; Benjamin of Tudela, The Itinerary of Benjamin of Tudela, ed. M.A. Signer, trans. M.N. Adler (Malibu: J. Simon, 1983), 45, 52, 80. 64 Emilie Savage-Smith, Islamicate Celestial Globes: Their History, Construction, and Use (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1985), 25–6; no. 3. Other Encounters: Popular Belief and Cultural Convergence in Anatolia and the Caucasus 203

Figure 8.11 Astrological Treatise, National Manuscript Centre, Tbilisi A-65, fol. 352r: Aries. Photo: National Manuscript Centre, Tbilisi 204 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Figure 8.12 Pseudo-Galen’s Kitāb al-Diryāq (Book of Antidotes), Paris BNF, MS Arabe 2964, fol. 15. 1199. Photo: BNF Other Encounters: Popular Belief and Cultural Convergence in Anatolia and the Caucasus 205

Figure 8.13 Astrological Treatise, National Manuscript Centre, Tbilisi A-65, fol. 376r: Sagittarius. Photo: National Manuscript Centre, Tbilisi 206 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Figure 8.14 Coin with Sagittarius. Nāṣir al-Dīn Artuq Arslan. Mardin 1202–03. The David Collection, Copenhagen, Inv. C 191. Photo: Pernille Klemp and jewels moved in their orbits by a hidden mechanism’.65 Conradus de Fabaria, abbot of St Gall, was told by Frederick that only his son, Conrad, was more precious than this ‘astronomical heaven, of gold stellated with gems’, which had ‘within itself the course of the planets’.66 Al-Ashraf received an albino bear and peacock in return for this gift, but the device was lost during Frederick II’s attack on Parma in 1248; an attack, curiously, which was promoted by his soothsayers and astrologers (likened to the servants of Beelzebub and Ashtaroth), who were all killed during the assault.67 When the Ayyubids invested Amid in 1232 in their final and successful attempt to conquer the city from the Artuqids, astrological calculations and related imagery were used by both sides. The Ayyubid army was led by al-Ashraf Mūsā with his brother, al-Kāmil. They employed a number of full-time astrologers on their staff, and the timing of the attack against Amid was determined by the astrologer Shams al-Dīn Yūsuf, who calculated the most auspicious moment.68 (Presumably al-Ashraf’s astrologers also advised him on the most favourable time for the trepanning to relieve ‘boils within the head’ that led to his death in 1237.)69 But equally, the Artuqid-ruled city itself was protected by astrological

65 J.D. North, ‘Opus quarundam rotarum mirabilium’, Physis 8 (1966): 337–72; reprinted in J.D. North, Stars, Minds and Faith: Essays in Ancient and Medieval Cosmology (London: Hambledon Press, 1989), 162–3. 66 Conradus de Fabaria, ‘Casus S. Galli Continuatio III’, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica. Scriptores, vol. 2, ed. by Georg Heinrich Pertz (Leipzig: Hiersemann, 1829), 178 (ch. 14). 67 Philipp Jaffé (ed.), ‘Carmina triumphalia de victoria urbe eversa’, Monumenta Germaniae Historica. Scriptores, vol. 18 (Leipzig: Hiersemann, 1863), 796; Hiroshi Takayama, ‘Frederick II’s Crusade: An Example of Christian–Muslim Diplomacy’, Mediterranean Historical Review 25/2 (2010): 169–85, n.91. 68 Cahen, ‘La Djazira’, 116. 69 Sauvaire, ‘Description de Damas [VII]’: 266–7; Saliba, ‘The Role of the Astrologer’, 59. Other Encounters: Popular Belief and Cultural Convergence in Anatolia and the Caucasus 207

Figure 8.15 Mars in Scorpio on Tower 11, Amid (Diyarbakır), twelfth century (?). Photo: author symbols. In addition to the talismanic imagery on the great towers other reliefs, such as one on tower 11 showing Mars in Scorpio (echoing images of Mars on contemporary coins of Yuluq Arslan in Mardin), called upon the most warlike of the planets to protect the city (Figure 8.15). The invocation of astrology in the defence of the walls at Amid lacks any consistency and no other towers make such explicit reference to it. However, astrological protection is evident in a more organised form on other structures: on the bridge at Jazirat ibn ʿUmar (modern-day Cizre), completed in 1164, for example, images of the seven known planets as well as the eighth pseudo-planet Jawzahr, visualised as a double-headed serpent once supported the piers of the crossing over the river Tigris (Figure 8.16).70 The reliefs at Amid and Jazirat ibn ʿUmar show that there was slippage between the protection afforded by decisions made on astrological advice, and the protection afforded by astrological images themselves. Although images associated with astrology were primarily illustrative – to describe the stars of the zodiac – the fact that such stars had agency on earth meant that there was a blurring between such images and the powers associated with their prototypes. Astrology provided a route by which images more widely could be associated with extra-terrestrial powers. A Seljuq mirror, made in 1153 (now in the Museum of Islamic Art in Cairo), with images of the seven planets, conflates its images with the powers that the

70 Preusser, Nordmesopotamische Baudenkmäler, pl. 40. 208 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Figure 8.16 Pisces, Aries, Taurus on the Bridge at Jazira ibn ʿUmar (Cizre), 1164. Photo: Courtesy of the Gertrude Bell Archive, Newcastle University (M_087) planets had over earthly events in just such a way (Figure 8.17).71 In this case it was made to aid a woman’s health, because of the auspicious alignment of the sun when it was made:

Bismallah. This blessed mirror was made in the ascendant of blessed augury and it will serve for curing the paralysis of the mouth, alleviate the pains of childbirth and also other pains and sufferings, if Allah permit. This was achieved in the months of the year 548 … It was made of seven metals as the Sun passed through the sign of Aries.

The curative power of the bowl was embedded in the materials of which it was made, and conveyed both by the inscription and by the images of the

71 David Storm Rice, ‘A Seljuq Mirror’, in Proceedings of the First International Congress of Turkish Art (Ankara: Turk Tarih Kurumu Basımevi, 1961), 288–90; Arthur Upham Pope, A Survey of Persian Art from Prehistoric Times to the Present (London: Oxford University Press, 1964), vol. 6, pl.1301. Other Encounters: Popular Belief and Cultural Convergence in Anatolia and the Caucasus 209

Figure 8.17 Mirror. Seljuq, 1153. Museum of Islamic Art, Cairo planets that adorned its reverse. The overlapping of all three elements means that it is impossible to distinguish between them and so difficult to isolate the healing element. Rather all three parts partake of the power conferred by the conjunction of planets and stars.72 The slippage between astrology, images and magical powers is even more evident on a number of objects made especially for magical purposes. The constellations and planets were invoked to benefit talismanic bowls, such as that made for Zayn al-Dīn, a qadi in Syria, in 1224 (Figure 8.18).73 Like the towers in Ani and Amid, this employed both words and images to effect its power, in this case explicitly described in the main inscription on the bowl: to counteract the poisons of snakes and scorpions, bites from rabid dogs, as well as numerous other illnesses.74 The inscriptions appear in Arabic, but also in various pseudo-inscriptions, written in Greek letters. These all have parallels

72 Compare Berlekamp, Wonder, Image, and Cosmos in Medieval Islam, 119–49. 73 Éric Delpont (ed.), L’Orient de Saladin: L’art sous les Ayyoubides (Paris: Institut du monde arabe, 2002), cat. 224. 74 Almut von Gladiss, ‘Medizinische Schalen. Ein islamischen Heilverfahren und seine mittelalterlichen Hilfmittel’, Damaszener Mitteilungen 11 (1999): 155. 210 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Figure 8.18 Talismanic bows, made for Zayn al-Dīn. Syria, 1224. Museum für Islamische Kunst, Berlin inv. I.3633. Photo: bpk / Museum für Islamische Kunst, SMB / Georg Niedermeiser in the Christian world, such as the magical amulets made in the eleventh and twelfth centuries to ward off hystera, which also employed apotropaic images and magical texts (Figure 8.19).75 These final examples from the Orthodox Christian world allow us to complete the circle that imbued images with power and status. Other amulets employed images of Christ and the saints as part of their protective arsenal. These then combined the magical element with the Orthodox belief in the efficacy of icons and their ability to act on behalf of their viewers. Icons were a central part of religious veneration in Byzantium and in Georgia, and its effects were felt in the

75 Jeffrey Spier, ‘Medieval Byzantine Magical Amulets and Their Tradition’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 56 (1993): 25–62. Other Encounters: Popular Belief and Cultural Convergence in Anatolia and the Caucasus 211

Figure 8.19 Hystera amulet. Byzantine, twelfth century. The Menil Collection, Texas. Inv. 490.824. Recto © The Menil Collection, Houston. Photo: Paul Hester. Verso © The Menil Collection, Houston. Photo: Taylor and Dull, NY.

Muslim courts of the region. In Syria, the wonder-working icon at Saidnaya was venerated equally by the Christian and Muslim pilgrims that went to the site.76 Scott Redford has published the tale of a Seljuq sultan, probably Kayqubād I, who attended church in Antalya in expectation of witnessing a miracle similar to that of the Blachernitissa in Constantinople (even if apocryphal, the story was clearly intended to be plausible).77 Kaykāʾūs II is also recorded as openly venerating icons during his time in Constantinople in the 1260s (albeit by a Christian source).78 Gurjī Khātūn, the granddaughter of queen Tamar of Georgia who became wife of Kaykhusraw II, brought icons with her to Konya on her marriage, and a series of later stories concerning the power of images were centred on her.79 One story tells of the failed attempts of a Greek, Christian artist to capture the true likeness of Mawlānā Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī for Gurjī Khātūn – a story which evokes the Abgar legend and artists’ inability to portray Christ.80 A second story about the same artist concerns his theft of an icon of the Virgin from Constantinople: the icon then spoke to Mawlānā, and thereby persuaded the thief to convert to

76 Michele Bacci, ‘A Sacred Shrine for a Holy Icon: The Shrine of Our Lady of Saydnaya’, in Hierotopy: The Creation of Sacred Spaces in Byzantium and Medieval Russia, ed. Alexei M. Lidov (Moscow: Indrik, 2006), 373–87. 77 Scott Redford and Gary Leiser, Victory Inscribed: The Seljuk Fetihnāme on the Citadel Walls of Antalya, Turkey (Antalya: Vehbi Koç Vakfı, 2008), 143–4. 78 Nikephoros Gregoras, Nikephoros Gregoras: Rhomäische Geschichte, ed. and trans. J.L. Van Dieten (Stuttgart: Anton Hiersemann, 1973), I: 110–11. 79 Antony Eastmond, ‘Art and Frontiers between Byzantium and the Caucasus’, in Byzantium: Faith and Power (1261–1557): Perspectives on Late Byzantine Art and Culture, ed. Sarah T. Brooks (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 154–69. 80 Antony Eastmond, ‘Un’eco della leggenda del Mandylion nell’Islam’, in Intorno al Sacro Volto. Genova, Bisanzio e il Mediterraneo (secoli XI–XIV), ed. Anna Rosa Calderoni Masetti, Colette Dufour Bozzo and Gerhard Wolf (Florence: Marsilio, 2007), 175–80. 212 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Islam.81 Contemporary chronicles also describe a coin issued by Kaykhusraw II in Sivas. The coin bears zodiacal imagery (Leo beneath the Sun), but the image was wilfully misinterpreted as showing his Christian wife’s dominance over him (as the subjugated lion beneath the sun).82 The story epitomises, however mistakenly, the impact of Christian ways of interpreting art in a Muslim court. The proximity of the Christian and Islamic worlds in this region means that overlaps were perhaps unavoidable and inevitable. Oya Pancaroğlu has traced the visual convergence of dragon-slaying imagery, as in the late-thirteenth-century compilation of astrological treatises from Kayseri or Aksaray (Daqāʾiq al-Ḥaqāʾiq, now in Paris, BNF, MS Persan 174), as well as other areas of popular belief, such as Muḥammad Ṭūsī’s story of a talismanic statue of ʿAlī, Muḥammad’s son-in- law, hidden in Constantinople.83 Although the stories around these images, the purposes to which they were put and the meanings attributed to them changed between their Christian and Muslim viewers, all referred to the same visual types. Even the more esoteric corners of the divinatory arts had a presence in both the Islamic and Christian worlds. Thus the geomantic calculator of 1242 in the British Museum84 belonged to the same world as the Byzantine emperor Andronikos I Komnenos (1184–6), who practised geomancy whilst in office, before abandoning it ‘as being both more common and more obscure in revealing future events’, only to take up hydromancy instead.85 The role these pervasive beliefs that existed in all the cultures of Anatolia played in the region’s Islamisation is not clear. They certainly could not have had any direct effect on belief in the dogmas of the Muslim faith. However, if Islamisation is taken more broadly to mean a cultural phenomenon that was rooted around a faith, but also extended to include effects on language, culture and custom, then the role of these practices becomes more relevant. They provided a set of ideas about the ways in which words and images could embody supernatural power that were shared across the region. They drew on some elements of the Orthodox Christian belief in the efficacy of images, and at the same time they drew on astrological ideas about the impact of the planets on human behaviour that were being developed by Islamic scholars. These combined to give monumental texts and images in the public sphere an authority that could be shared by all that looked at them, and which minimised

81 Shams al-Dīn Ahmad-e Aflaki,The Feats of the Knowers of God (Manaqeb al-`arefin), ed. John O’Kane (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 292–3, 382–3. 82 Gary Leiser, ‘Observations on the “Lion and Sun” Coinage of Ghiyath al-Din Kai-Khusraw II’, Mésogeios 2 (1998): 96–114. 83 Oya Pancaroğlu, ‘The Itinerant Dragon-Slayer: Forging Paths of Image and Identity in Medieval Anatolia’, Gesta 43, no. 2 (2004): 155; Marianne Barrucand, ‘The Miniatures of the Daqa’iq al-Haqa’iq (Bibliothèque Nationale Pers. 174): A Testimony to the Cultural Diversity of Medieval Anatolia’, Islamic Art 4 (1990–1991): 113–42. 84 Emilie Savage-Smith and Marion Bush Smith, Islamic Geomancy and a Thirteenth-Century Divinatory Device (Malibu, CA: Undena Publications, 1980). 85 Choniates, Historia, 168–9; trans. Magoulias, Annals of Niketas Choniates, 96. For a possible Byzantine divinatory bowl see Alicia Walker, ‘Meaningful Mingling: Classicizing Imagery and Islamicizing Script in a Byzantine Bowl’, Art Bulletin 90: 1 (2008): 32–53. Other Encounters: Popular Belief and Cultural Convergence in Anatolia and the Caucasus 213 external, visible differences between rival religions and communities. They therefore could have acted as a mediating factor in the gradual transformation of Anatolia from the twelfth century on. This page has been left blank intentionally Chapter 9 Thirteenth-Century ‘Byzantine’ Art in Cappadocia and the Question of Greek Painters at the Seljuq Court

Tolga B. Uyar

For the period between the seventh and eleventh centuries, Cappadocia was a strategic province along the eastern margins of the Byzantine Empire. There, countless troglodytic monuments still survive amid the rocky landscape. Churches (many of which contain extensive wall paintings), monasteries, and secular settlements, exhibit tangible evidence of the area’s importance within the artistic traditions and material culture of the eastern Christian world during the Middle Ages.1 Toward the end of the eleventh century, however, the long- established Byzantine rule over Cappadocia was interrupted. The Seljuq Turks burst onto the political scene with successive raids that pushed into the heart of Asia Minor. In a relatively short period of time, their advance led to the conquest of much of Anatolia. Following the establishment of the sultanate of Rūm, with Konya as its capital, the Anatolian plateau witnessed a period of incessant warfare during the twelfth century. This chaotic situation was due primarily to the rivalries among the various Turkic rulers and internal strife within the Seljuq dynasty.2 While Greek Cappadocia seems to have been disputed between the Danishmendids and Seljuqs, its artistic production declined radically and, despite various hypotheses proposed by German scholars, no painted decoration can be dated with certainty to the twelfth century.3 By the end of the century, the Seljuqs had united Asia Minor under their rule, and by the first decades of the thirteenth century they had achieved remarkable prosperity and cultural development.4 This socioeconomic and political stability also affected the Greek-speaking Christian communities of Cappadocia. After the artistic hiatus of the twelfth

1 G. de Jerphanion, Une nouvelle province de l’art byzantin: Les églises rupestres de Cappadoce, 2 vols (Paris: Geuthner, 1925–1942); C. Jolivet-Lévy, Les églises byzantines de Cappadoce: Le programme iconographique de l’abside et de ses abords (Paris: Editions du Centre national de la recherche scientifique, 1991); and R. Ousterhout, A Byzantine Settlement in Cappadocia (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2005). 2 C. Cahen, La Turquie pré-ottomane (Istanbul and Paris: L’Institut français d’études anatoliennes d’Istanbul, 1988), 22–65; D. Korobeinikov, ‘Raiders and Neighbours: The Turks (1040–1304)’, in The Cambridge History of the Byzantine Empire (500–1492), ed. J. Shepard (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 711–17. 3 N. Thierry, ‘De la datation des églises de Cappadoce’, Byzantinische Zeitschrift 88 (1995): 419–55. 4 Cahen, La Turquie pré-ottomane, 66–99, 114–28, 204–8. 216 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia century, Christian painting reappears in Seljuq-ruled Cappadocia. The mural decorations of nine rock-cut churches can be dated to the thirteenth century by inscriptions, and twenty-two other related monuments are attributed to the same period. This important but understudied corpus of Cappadocian murals bears witness to the first political reunification of the Anatolian plateau since the Byzantine period, this time under Muslim rule with its particular civilisation and culture. These paintings are almost the only surviving material evidence of the artistic expression and the popular piety of an important Greek community living in Rūm.5 The Greek communities of Cappadocia under the Seljuqs had a profound spiritual attachment to Byzantium, which formed a significant part of their communal identity. The ‘Byzantine element’ in thirteenth-century Cappadocian painting is marked by two important characteristics. First is a general conservatism, by which the painters demonstrate their respect for the local Byzantine heritage through the formal characteristics, iconography, and programmatic arrangement of images within church space. Second, uncommon formulae appear that seem to have many different origins and that indicate contacts with cultural currents outside the region. These trends in Cappadocia – the emergence of newly developed visual and scriptural formulae and the revival of some traditional images (e.g., the Virgin and Child in majesty or the Holy Riders) – seem to be common to many Christian cultures of the eastern Mediterranean.6 Due to the morphology of the Cappadocian landscape, and partly to a rather self-sufficient economy, it is likely that the Greek enclaves in the area of rock- cut monuments were relatively isolated. The consequences of daily life within a ‘closed circuit’ encouraged the continuity of the Greek Orthodox, or, as I would argue, ‘Byzantine’ identity. Nevertheless, it in no way excludes contacts with the essentially urban Seljuq civilisation. Similarly, the Greek Orthodox settlements of Cappadocia seem to have been in close contact with the nomadic communities of the rural pastoral grazing land of the Anatolian plateau, homeland of Turks and Greek-speaking Christians.7 A posteriori, this intermixing of communities and religions inevitably led to cultural hybridisation. There is little doubt that Greek painters developed and used a common visual language. These craftspeople assimilated images from their surroundings, some of which, although seemingly foreign to their identity, paradoxically became integral to their cultural self-definition. The social and economic integration of Greek Orthodox elites into Seljuq society is well known.8 Greek artists – painters

5 Tolga B. Uyar, ‘Art et Société en Pays de Rūm: Les peintures ‘byzantines’ du XIIIe siècle en Cappadoce’, unpublished PhD dissertation, Université Paris I Panthéon Sorbonne, 2011. 6 Uyar, ‘Art et Société en Pays de Rūm’, 221–6, 370–79, 517–27. 7 A recent assessment of the scholarship on the Islamic and non-Islamic identity of the Turks can be found in Seljuks of Anatolia: Court and Society in the Medieval East, ed. A.C.S. Peacock and Sara Nur Yıldız (New York and London: I.B. Tauris, 2013), 10–11. 8 S. Vryonis, The Decline of Medieval Hellenism in Asia Minor and the Process of Islamisation from the Eleventh through the Fifteenth Century (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1971), 229–37, and Cahen, La Turquie pré-ottomane, 136, 230. Thirteenth-Century ‘Byzantine’ Art in Cappadocia 217 in particular – may have followed a similar trend in their contact with other representational modes, whether shared or distinct.

Greek Painters According to Muslim Textual Sources

Greek painters are documented in Rūm in a few suggestive sources. Al-Futūḥāt al- Makkiyya (The Meccan Illuminations), Ibn ʿArabī’s treatise on mystical philosophy and Sufi practices, describes his encounter in 1203 with a Byzantine painter in the Seljuq capital Konya:

It is from the divine Name, the Creator … that there derives the inspiration to painters in bringing beauty and proper balance to their pictures. In this connection I witnessed an amazing thing in Konya, in the land of the Rum. There was a certain painter whom we proved and assisted in his art in respect of a proper artistic imagination, which lacked. One day he painted a picture of a partridge and concealed in it was an imperceptible fault. He then brought it to me to taste my artistic acumen. He had painted it on a large board, so that its size was true to life. There was in the house a falcon which, when it saw the painting, attacked it, thinking it to be real partridge with its plumage in full colour. Indeed all present were amazed at the beauty of the picture. The painter, having taken the other into his confidence, asked my opinion on his work. I told him, I thought the picture was perfect, but for one small defect. When he asked what it was, I told him, that the length of his legs were out of proportion very slightly. Then he came and kissed my hand.9

The proselytising narrative was undoubtedly produced to illustrate that faith alone – in this case, Muslim faith – could allow the perception of a reality close to perfection. However, the choice of a ‘Byzantine’ painter as the protagonist is suggestive in many ways, to test, above all, the sensibility and insight of a great figure of Islam. First, it indicates that Greek artists were considered the most masterful in Rūm. Indeed, the result attained by the painter must have been close to perfection, for so realistically was the partridge portrayed that, according to the story the falcon, an animal known for its sharp eyesight, could not distinguish the image from a live bird. Second, there is a certain aesthetic complicity between indigenous Greek artists and intellectuals of Seljuq Anatolia. They were able to discuss art intellectually, even if that discussion was limited to the sphere of ‘naturalistic’ painting, at least according to this story. Finally, it is perhaps possible to suggest that a naqqāsh-khāna (imperial atelier for artistic production) was linked with the imperial palace of the capital of Konya, where Ibn ʿArabī’s story takes place, even if this is not attested by written sources. The protagonist of the narrative of Ibn ʿArabī might have been a Greek painter connected with the imperial atelier.

9 R.W.J. Austin (ed.), Sufis of Andalusia: The ‘Rūh Al-Quds’ and ‘Al-Durrat Al-Fākhirah’ of Ibn ʻArabī (London: Routledge, 1971), 40–41. 218 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Two other Greek painters, well known among the circles of intellectuals and aristocrats in thirteenth-century Konya, are the subject of the following extensive narrative in the Shams al-Dīn Aḥmad Aflākī’s Manāqib al-ʿĀrifīn (The Feats of the Knowers of God), a collection of hagiographic biographies of the first Mevlevi Sufi masters:

Report: It is transmitted that Kālūyān-e Naqqāsh and ʿEyn al-Dowla were both Greek painters and they were unrivalled in this art and in making pictures. They had become disciples of Mavlānā Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī. It happened that Kālūyān one day recounted: ‘In Istanbul a picture of Mary and Jesus has been painted on a tablet, which like Jesus and Mary themselves, has no equal. Painters have come from all over the world but are not able to fashion anything like this picture.’

Then, out of infatuation for these pictures, ʿEyn al-Dowla undertook a journey. For a year, he resided in that great monastery in Istanbul and rendered services to the monks of that place. One night having found the opportunity, he placed the tablet under his arm and departed. When he reached Konya, he had the honour of visiting Mowlānā who said: ‘Where have you been?’ He reported the story of the tablet just as it had happened. Mowlāna said: ‘let us gaze upon this spirit-enhancing tablet.’ It was indeed painted with great beauty and subtlety.

After looking at it a long time, Mowlānā said: ‘These two beautiful images are complaining greatly about you, saying: ‘He is not honest in his love for us and he is a false lover’ ʿEyn al-Dowla said: ‘How is this?’ Mavlānā replied: They say: ‘We never sleep and eat, and we continually stay awake at night and fast during the day. ʿEyn al-Dowla leaves us at night and goes to sleep, and during the day he eats. He does not as we do’. ʿEyn al-Dowla said: ‘Sleeping and eating are absolutely impossible for them, nor can they speak and say things. They are figures with soul.’

Mowlānā said: ‘You who are a figure with a soul and know so many arts and have been fashioned by the Painter whose handiwork consists of the world, Adam, and everything on the earth and in the sky – is it permissible than you abandon Him and make yourself into a lover of a figure without soul and without higher meaning? What can result from these unaware images, and what profit can you acquire from them?’

ʿEyn al-Dowla immediately repented. He lowered his head and became a Muslim.10

The background of the tale is conventional in Islamic mysticism – the wisdom of a holy man leading to the conversion of one of his followers- although his

10 Shams al-Dīn Aḥmad Aflākī, The Feats of the Knowers of God: Manāqeb al-ʻārifīn, trans. John O’Kane (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 382–3 (hereafter referred to as Aflākī, ed. O’Kane). Thirteenth-Century ‘Byzantine’ Art in Cappadocia 219 rhetoric, which uses the Orthodox image theory against itself, is quite unusual.11 On the other hand, the story gives tangible information on the situation of indigenous Greek painters in Anatolia, even if not taken literally. Above all, the author states that the two Greek artists in question are considered among the best in the land of Rūm, while stressing that they were excellent in the field of human figures, which probably distinguished them from their Muslim counterparts. Second, the story of the painter Kaloioannes or, Kālūyān-i Naqqāsh, his journey to Constantinople, and his one-year stay in a monastery in the Byzantine capital during the lifetime of Mawlānā should correspond to the second half of the thirteenth century. This suggests that Greek painters of Rūm were well acquainted with Byzantine art through direct contact with Constantinople from 1261 onwards. Even if the story’s background were a mere figment of the author’s imagination, unlikely as this may have been, in my opinion, the fact remains that Constantinople is acknowledged as the centre of artistic production and as a store of ‘treasures’ of art; which in itself points to a high awareness of Byzantine affairs in Seljuq Anatolia, not only among the Greeks, but also Muslim elites and intellectuals. Finally, the Sufi master’s comment upon receiving the icon brought from Constantinople (‘let us gaze upon this spirit-enhancing tablet’) is suggestive of the Muslim appreciation of the aesthetics of Christian painting. Another account of the Greek painter Kaloioannes includes a person that could be related to the Cappadocian monuments: Gurjī Khātūn or T’amar, a Georgian princess, whose identification as the principal donor of the Church of St George at Belisırma remains uncertain12 (Figure 9.1). T’amar, the spouse of Kaykhusraw II, who kept her Christian faith at least for a short period after her marriage, was among the fervent followers of the great Sufi master Mawlānā Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī in Konya.13 According to Aflākī, T’amar commissioned a Greek artist to paint the holy man’s portrait so that she might take it with her on her travels:

In that era there was a painter who was a second Manes when it came to portrait painting [ṣūratgarī] and the depiction of beings endowed with form. He used to say: ‘In his art Manes would be at a loss before our drawing.’ And he was called ʿEyn al-Dowla-ye Rūmī. Gorjī Khātūn gave him presents and ordered him to make a drawing of Mowlānā’s appearance on a sheet of paper and to depict him and draw him as required in the extreme of beauty. That way the drawing

11 A. Eastmond, ‘Art and Frontiers between Byzantium and the Caucasus’, in Byzantium: Faith and Power (1261–1557): Perspectives on Late Byzantine Art and Culture, ed. S.T. Brooks (New York and New Haven, CT: Metropolitan Museum of Art, Yale University Press, 2006), 165. 12 S. Vryonis, ‘Another Note on the Inscription of the Church of St. George of Belisırma’, Byzantina 9 (1977): 18–20; Jolivet-Lévy, Les églises byzantines de Cappadoce, 318 n. 126; Eastmond, ‘Art and Frontiers’, 154 n. 2, 167 n. 38; R. Shukurov, ‘Iagupy: Tyurkskaya familiya na vizantiiskoi sluzhbe’, in Vizantiniiskie Ocherki (St Petersburg: Aleteiia, 2006), 205–29; and Uyar, ‘Art et Société en Pays de Rūm’, 625–6. 13 On the Christian faith of T’amar and her conversion to Islam, see Histoire de la Géorgie depuis l’antiquité jusqu’au XIXe siècle, part 1: Histoire ancienne, jusqu’en 1469 de J.-C., trans. Marie-Félicité Brosset (St Petersburg: Imprimerie de l’Académie Impériale des Sciences, 1849), 501–2, 524. 220 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Figure 9.1 T’amar, donor portrait (1282–1295 or 1302–1310). Wall painting, west wall, Church of Saint George at Belisırma (Kırkdamaltı Kilise), Ihlara, Cappadocia, (photo: Tolga B. Uyar) Thirteenth-Century ‘Byzantine’ Art in Cappadocia 221

would be her consoler on her travels. Thus ʿEyn al-Dowla came to Mowlānā with several officials to inform him of this matter. He lowered his head and stood at a distance. Before he said anything, Mowlānā exclaimed: ‘It’s alright if you’re able.’ ʿEyn al-Dowla brought some sheets of makhzanī paper, took his pen in his hand turned to face Mowlānā who was standing up. The drawer took a look and began to depict his appearance. He drew a very lovely picture on a sheet of paper. The second time he looked, he saw that what he had seen was not same. On another sheet of paper he drew another drawing. When he was finished with the picture, Mowlānā displayed a different form again. In the end, he sketched different pictures on twenty sheets of paper, and as often as he looked he beheld a different portrait of the figure. He was taken aback in bewilderment, let out a shout, and fell into a swoon. He broke his pens. Like someone who is helpless, he prostrated himself …14

In addition to its symbolic and ethical meanings that fall within the traditional hagiography of the mystic,15 the narrative provides significant historical evidence on Greek painters in Seljuq Anatolia. Above all, ʿAyn al-Dawla (ʿEyn al-Dowla) is clearly identified as the best painter in the Rūm. The perfection of his art is such that he is compared to Manes, a figure who is commonly referred to in Islamic literature as the painter par excellence. Second, according to the narrative, ʿAyn al-Dawla is accompanied by several high-ranking officials of the court (amīn). One might ask where an artist of that skill, famous in the circles of the imperial court, would practise his art, if not at a naqqāsh-khāna? Although the content of these accounts may be read as topoi recurring in different cultural and religious contexts at different times, in any event, they offer tangible evidence of the social, cultural, and professional integration of indigenous Greek painters, who are constantly referred to as the uncontested masters of painting in Seljuq Anatolia. Furthermore, on the basis of new archaeological evidence, it has been recently argued that churches were kept, and even built, within the Seljuq palaces in Konya and Alanya for the Christian spouses of the sultan and other Christian associates and servants of the court.16 One assumes that in these churches were found paintings, icons, and perhaps illuminated manuscripts, some of which may have been the work of indigenous Greek artists. Yet what do we know about the identity of these painters, their training, and their origins?

14 Aflākī, ed. O’Kane, 292–3. 15 Eastmond, ‘Art and Frontiers’, 165. 16 V.M. Tekinalp, ‘Palace Churches of the Anatolian Seljuks: Tolerance or Necessity?’ Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 33, no. 2 (2009): 148–67; R. Shukurov, ‘Harem Christianity: The Byzantine Identity of Seljuk Princes’, in The Seljuks of Anatolia: Court and Society in The Medieval East, ed. A.C.S. Peacock and Sara Nur Yıldız (London: I.B. Tauris, 2013), 115–50; idem, ‘Churches in the citadels of Ispir and Bayburt: An Evidence of “Harem Christianity”?’ in Polidoro: Studi offerti ad Antonio Carile, ed. G. Vespignani (Spoleto: Fondazione Centro italiano di studi sull’alto Medioevo, 2013), 713–23. 222 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Manuscript and Archaeological Evidence

A possible relationship between a Cappadocian mural and a painting in the unique Anatolian illuminated manuscript known as Daqāʾiq al-Ḥaqāʾiq may give us an important clue to this discussion.17 The Seljuq manuscript, containing five Persian texts about astrology and magic, was dedicated to Sultan Ghiyāth al-Dīn Kaykhusraw III. It was composed in Aksaray and Kayseri in 1272–73, probably by an important workshop linked to the Seljuq court.18 Scholars agree that Greek painters, or at least Christian painters, worked on the illumination of the manuscript. In fact, the depiction of the angel Shamhurash on horseback slaying a dragon betrays a close affinity to Byzantine dragon-slayer iconography [Figure 9.2]. However, the weapon of combat is a sword rather than the traditional spear. Though the messages conveyed are significantly different, the use of a sword recalls the iconography of the stucco relief from the Seljuq palace in Konya, which is dated to around 1200 (Figure 9.3). In broad terms, the decorative panel from Konya expresses the secular notion of authority and rulership, while the dragon-slaying angel in the manuscript delivers a more religious message, that is, the eternal combat between Good and Evil.19 It seems that the Greek painter of the Daqāʾiq al-Ḥaqāʾiq manuscript used the common Byzantine equestrian saint iconography in the main layout of the composition; nevertheless in place of the figure of the holy horseman, Theodore or George, he substituted an angel, in accordance with the talismanic subject of the text, like the imagery of Byzantine amulets, in which a demon-slaying Holy Rider (Solomon or Sisinios) is associated with an angel. With this ‘Byzantine’ iconographic formula the artist juxtaposes another, derived from the royal imagery of a mounted warrior carrying a sword, which is frequently used in Seljuq Anatolia from the twelfth century but which is absent from traditional Christian art in Byzantium. An unpublished wall painting in a Cappadocian rock-cut church offers a persuasive parallel for the dragon-slayer iconography found in the imperial Seljuq manuscript. The church, most likely dedicated to St George Stratelates, is situated in Mavrucan (today Güzelöz), near Seljuq Develi Karahisar (today Yeşilhisar), formerly Byzantine Kyzistra, about 50 kilometres south-west of Kayseri (Figure 9.4).

17 Paris, Bibliothèque nationale, MS Persan 174. 18 F. Richard, Catalogue des manuscrits persans 1, Anciens fonds, Bibliothèque Nationale (Paris: Bibliothèque nationale de France, 1989), 191–5; M. Barrucand, ‘The Miniatures of the Daqa’iq al-Haqa’iq (Bibliothèque nationale Pers. 174): A Testimony to the Cultural Diversity of Medieval Anatolia’, Islamic Art 4 (1991): 113–28. 19 O. Pancaroğlu, ‘The Itinerant Dragon Slayer: Forging Paths of Image and Identity in Medieval Anatolia’, Gesta 43, no. 2 (2004): 157–8; see also S. Kuehn, The Dragon in Medieval East Christian and Islamic Art (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 101–2. Thirteenth-Century ‘Byzantine’ Art in Cappadocia 223

Figure 9.2 Shamhurash, dragon-slaying angel (mid to late thirteenth century). Miniature illustration from Daqā’iq al-ḥaqā’iq, BNF MS pers. 174, fol. 83 (photo: Bibliothèque nationale de France) 224 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Figure 9.3 Dragon and lion slaying riders (late twelfth – early thirteenth century). Stucco relief from Konya Palace. Museum of Turkish and Islamic Arts, Istanbul 2831 (photo: Museum of Turkish Islamic Arts)

Figure 9.4 Map of Byzantine Cappadocia (based on Hild, Das byzantinische Strassensystem) Thirteenth-Century ‘Byzantine’ Art in Cappadocia 225

The painted panel of note (see Figure 9.5 and Plate 1) can be dated to 1256–57 by an invocation that Guillaume de Jerphanion recorded in 1913: Δέησ[ις] του δούλου τοῦ Θ(εο)ῦ […] κε […] πιμινιου ἔτους ςφξε´ ἰνδ(ικτιῶνος) ιε´.20 Today the painting is heavily damaged, primarily due to the collapse of the vault sometime in the 1980s. However, a photo taken in the late 1970s and kept in a personal archive preserves almost the entire panel, including the details of the composition and the invocation (Figure 9.6 = Plate 2, and Figure 9.7). On the right portion of the panel St George is on horseback carrying a sword in his right hand and preparing to attack the dragon. The conventional iconography usually shows the raised arm of the saint poised to thrust a spear diagonally. The iconographic pattern of the Cappadocian painting, in which the spear is substituted with a sword, remains, to my knowledge, unique in the visual culture of the Christian East at this time, including Byzantium, Armenia, Georgia, and even Syria and Egypt. Therefore, the Seljuq manuscript and the Cappadocian mural must be considered to have been closely related. The geographical proximity of the production sites, the contemporaneous dates in the third quarter of the thirteenth century, and the similarity of the stylistic and iconographic features suggest that both the illumination and the wall painting were created in a common artistic environment where painters drew from the cross-cultural visual repertoire of medieval art in Anatolia. Among the striking iconographic features are the realistic representation of the dragon – the heightened contrast between the red scales of the back and the white skin of the belly, the threatening mouth showing the fangs, the pretzel-like knot of its midsection – as well as of the horse harnesses, offer close parallels to the art of the Seljuq manuscript (Figures 9.8, 9.9 and Plate 3). In thirteenth-century Cappadocia, the image of the holy riders slaying a dragon is probably the most relevant iconographic type to support the hypothesis of visual interaction between the Byzantine tradition and the surrounding culture. The composition is rather conventional: two saints on horseback, Theodore and George, defeating the dragon depicted below them. However, this representation may have been influenced by the art of Iranian- Turkic world, not only in terms of costume and equipment, but also with regard to the attitudes of the saints and the iconography of the monsters. Note first the high boots worn by St George. These boots featured kneepads with fasteners at the top that allowed them to be kept in place by attaching to the belt. This type of pad seems to descend from an ancient tradition of Central Asia and Persia, and was reintroduced in Asia Minor during the migration of nomadic tribes.21 The Islamic military clothing of Iran and the Seljuq Turks in Anatolia also used this so-called mūza knee

20 Jerphanion, Une nouvelle province de l’art byzantin, 2, 237. The inscription consists of a standard invocation: ‘prayer of the servant of God … in the year 6765, indiction 15. 21 H. Seyrig, ‘Armes et costumes iraniens de Palmyre, Antiquités Syriennes’, Syria 18, no. 1 (1937): 53–5, figs 2 and 8. 226 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Figure 9.5 Saint Theodore and Saint George slaying the dragon. Wall painting, west wall, Church of Stratelates at Başköy (Mavrucan), Cappadocia (photo: Tolga B. Uyar)

Figure 9.6 Saint Theodore and Saint George slaying the dragon. Wall painting, west wall, Church of Stratelates at Başköy (Mavrucan), Cappadocia (photo: Yıldız Ötüken) Thirteenth-Century ‘Byzantine’ Art in Cappadocia 227

Figure 9.7 Saint Theodore and Saint George slaying the dragon, west wall, Church of Stratelates at Başköy (Mavrucan), Cappadocia (drawing based on Yıldız Ötüken’s photo)

(provided with fasteners to attach to the belt).22 It is also well known in the miniatures of the manuscript Varqa and Gulşāh (Istanbul, Topkapı Palace Museum Library, MS H. 485), generally held to be a product of early thirteenth-century Seljuq Anatolia. In the context of the thirteenth-century representations of holy riders in Cappadocia we can also observe a custom concerning the fastening of the horse’s tail in a knot (Figure 9.10 and Plate 4). This practice, of complex origins and probably pre-dating the period of our interest, is also found in the art of different religious communities of the medieval Mediterranean. Nevertheless, in Seljuq Anatolia it may be related to particular symbolic rituals performed by warriors before combat, and could be considered as a kind of insignia of power or sovereignty.23

22 D. Nicolle and C. Cook, Saracen Faris, 1050–1250 AD (London: Osprey, 1994), 56–7, pl. F8, I11. 23 Ibn Al-Athīr, in his chronicle of the battle of Manzikert, records Sultan Alp Arslan’s prayer and address that preceded the battle: ‘When that hour came, he (the sultan) led them in prayer. The sultan, and all the army with him wept, and he called upon God and they did too. He said to them, “Whoever wishes to depart, let him depart, for here there is no sultan to command and forbid.” He threw down his bow and arrows and took up his sword and mace, he tied his horse’s tail with his own hand and his army did likewise. He put on white, anointed his body and said, “If I am killed, then this is my winding-sheet.”’(Ibn al-Athīr, The Annals of the Saljuq Turks: Selections from al-Kāmil fīʻl-Taʾrīkh of ʻIzz al-Dīn Ibn al-Athīr, trans. D.S. Richards (London and New York: RoutledgeCurzon, 2002), 171). 228 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Figure 9.8 Saint Theodore and Saint George slaying the dragon, detail. Wall painting, west wall, Church of Stratelates at Başköy (Mavrucan), Cappadocia (photo: Tolga B. Uyar)

Figure 9.9 Saint Theodore and Saint George slaying the dragon, detail. Wall painting, west wall, Church of Stratelates at Başköy (Mavrucan), Cappadocia (photo: Tolga B. Uyar) Thirteenth-Century ‘Byzantine’ Art in Cappadocia 229

In the composition of the combat of the holy riders in the Church of Stratelates, another iconographic element clearly derives from the cross-cultural milieu of thirteenth-century Anatolia: the representation of the dragon (see Figures 9.8 and 9.9). This realistic representation evokes the fantastic bestiary frequently represented in the decorative repertoire of Seljuq art. The way in which the serpent-like bodies of the dragons interlace may have also been inspired by the visual vocabulary of medieval Anatolia, where the shape of the knots had special connotations. Moreover, in other thirteenth-century Cappadocian examples, the arrangement of the serpents, whose heads are symmetrically opposed, follows the iconographic scheme of the ‘double faced dragon’, which is extremely common in Islamic art of Iran and of northern Mesopotamia, and especially in eastern and central Anatolia during the thirteenth century (Figure 9.11 and Plate 5).24 A symbol of celestial sovereignty in the cosmology of the Iranian-Turkic world and an apotropaic, magical, and protective figure, the dragon was frequently featured on coins and on the façades of major Seljuq foundations, both secular and religious. While it is difficult to know what these images actually represented for the Greeks of Cappadocia, it is certain that they encountered them in their daily lives; the dragon was a powerful iconic reference to the visual imagery of the interfaith society of medieval Anatolia. The protective or apotropaic superstitions ascribed to the dragon would translate between different religions, languages, places, and contexts. The Cappadocian mural of the Church of Stratelates is a part of a larger group of five pictorial ensembles executed by the same workshop.25 The intensity of the activity of this workshop should be interpreted, in my opinion, as an evidence of its local Cappadocian origin. Therefore, I would like to argue that Greek artists, including our Cappadocian painters, simultaneously maintained their Byzantine identity in technique, style, and iconography while investing in the broader artistic culture. More specifically, they were performing within an artistic environment that may have been linked to the Seljuq imperial workshops of Rūm.

Conclusion

This observation raises significant questions about the interpretation of the paintings and the perceptions of the Cappadocian Greek community. One might ask if the donor of the Cappadocian panel was a Greek landlord, or possibly an officer, a commander of some local Christian detachments, the existence of which is a subject of controversy. As for the discussion on the military identity of the local Greeks in Cappadocia, it is worth mentioning that the title Stratelates, which commonly referred to a general, was still in use in

24 For an overview of the examples, see A. Caiozzo, Images du ciel d’Orient au Moyen Âge (Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris Sorbonne, 2003). See also most recently, Kuehn, The Dragon, 159–63. 25 Uyar, ‘Art et Société en Pays de Rūm’, 447–91. 230 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Figure 9.10 Saint George slaying the dragon. Wall painting, niche on exterior wall, Church of Saint George at Belisırma (Kırkdamaltı Kilise), Ihlara, Cappadocia, (photo: Tolga B. Uyar)

Figure 9.11 Saint Theodore and Saint George slaying the dragon. Wall painting, west wall, Karşı Kilise at Gülşehir, Cappadocia (photo: Tolga B. Uyar) Thirteenth-Century ‘Byzantine’ Art in Cappadocia 231 the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries in Byzantium and was also applied to Byzantine high-ranking soldiers. The association of this honorific title to St George, which remains exceptional in Byzantine art, could be indeed related to the donor and to his high social rank in Anatolian society.26 Is the inclusion of an insignia of political authority and rulership – the male figure fighting with a sword – in the traditional apotropaic and protective icon of mounted holy warriors slaying the dragon motivated by the donor’s initiative? Does this represent some form of cultural, political, or ideological relationship between local Christians and the Seljuq Rūm society? Or is it evidence of aesthetic syncretism and common fashions in Anatolia? I believe the answers to all of these questions should be affirmative, and that the strong contextual parallels with the Daqāʾiq al-Ḥaqāʾiq (MS Persan 174) may be best understood as a manifestation of the shared apotropaic beliefs and chivalric cultures of that time.

26 On the depiction of St George slaying the dragon in the west wall of Kırkdamaltı Kilise (St George in Belisırma) at Ihlara the title Stratelates associated with the saint has hitherto escaped notice (Uyar, ‘Art et Société en Pays de Rūm’, 87). This page has been left blank intentionally Chapter 10 An Interfaith Polemic of Medieval Anatolia: Qāḍī Burhān al-Dīn al-Anawī on the Armenians and their Heresies

A.C.S. Peacock

The sources for the study of the relationship between Muslims and non-Muslims in medieval Anatolia are overwhelmingly Christian. The Muslim world of course had a rich tradition of writing about non-Muslims, through both specialised works like heresiographies and polemics as well as more general literature such as history and poetry. Indeed, such specialised works were often composed in areas which probably did not have much of a Christian population at all. For instance, ʿAbd al-Jabbār’s Tathbīt Dalāʾil al-Nubuwwa, produced in Buyid Rayy in the late tenth century, shows a profound knowledge of Christian doctrine, and discusses the Bible, church rituals and Christian claims to miracles.1 Naturally, works dealing with Christianity were also regularly produced in areas with a significant Christian population, such as Spain, as has been meticulously documented by David Thomas and Alex Mallet in their Bibliographical History of Christian–Muslim relations.2 Anatolia, however, is, as with some other genres of literary production in Arabic and Persian, something of a desert in this respect. Christians appear only fleetingly in our Persian chronicles; they are slightly more visible in the waqfiyyas, but the nature of such documents means these constitute rarely much more than passing references. Christians do feature prominently in the Turkish epic literature, in the Danişmend-name, Dede Korkut or the Saltuk-name, but again the nature of such works, with their complex transmission histories and their depictions of Christians as the object of ghazw – religiously inspired raiding – will rarely satisfy the curiosity of historians seeking to investigate interfaith relations throughout the period that concerns us, when Anatolia remained largely Christian in population, especially outside the towns. Yet the extensive Muslim literature that was produced in Seljuq Anatolia, whether in Arabic, Persian or Turkish, concentrates overwhelmingly on the Muslim faith in virtual isolation. The religious sciences, fiqh, and Sufism dominate; but rarely do the works of, say, the famous thirteenth-century scholar and theologian Ṣadr al-Dīn Qūnawī contain much indication of concern with Anatolia’s non-Muslim majority. Indeed, only the emergence from the fourteenth century of more popular works, especially in Turkish, aimed at introducing the

1 ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Critique of Christian Origins, ed. and trans. Gabriel Reynolds and Samir Khalil Samir (Provo, UH: Brigham Young University Press, 2010). 2 David Thomas and Alex Mallet (eds), Christian–Muslim Relations: A Bibliographical History (Leiden: Brill, 2009–2013). 234 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia fundamentals of fiqh, for example, to a wider audience, perhaps only recently converted to Islam, implies a more fluid situation. The evidence from the Christian side is much richer, offering insights not just into Christian views of Muslims, but also attesting the existence of dialogue and debate between Muslim and Christian intellectuals. To give just two examples, Grigor Magistros, on the eve the Turkish invasions, composed his verse summary of the Bible in Armenian in response to debates in Constantinople in 1044–45 with the Abbasid emissary Abū Naṣr al-Manāzī over the relative superiority of the Bible and the Qurʾan.3 Rather later, in the fourteenth century we have Gregory Palamas’s accounts of his debates with the Turks over the nature of Christianity and Islam.4 The topic of the current chapter provides an unusual exception to this absence of evidence from the Muslim side. The as yet unpublished Anīs al-Qulūb (‘Hearts’ Companion’) held in the Süleymaniye Library in Istanbul offers a unique insight into medieval Muslim–Christian relations in Anatolia through the author’s polemical description of the Armenian Church.5 Although the existence of the work has been known ever since Mehmet Fuad Köprülü published a description of it in 1943, it has generally been neglected.6 Köprülü appended to his description an edition of the last few hundred lines of the Anīs al-Qulūb which contain information on the Great Seljuqs’ rise to power, none of which is particularly original, but the rest of the manuscript has not been investigated by scholars.7 The reason is not hard to find. The topic of the text is superficially one that would be of little interest to most historians, for it purports to be a versified history of Muslim Prophets (qiṣaṣ al-anbiyā’). In addition, the text is extremely long – 428 folios in total, with a total of around 24,000 bayts (verses). This makes it rather longer than Firdawsī’s Shāh-nāma, and at one point (fol. 67b) – fairly early on, at the end of the first book – the author himself doubts whether he will ever finish his mammoth undertaking; the reader is liable to share the sentiment. The relevant portions of the text dealing with the Armenians and their beliefs

3 Magnalia Dei, Biblical History in Epic Verse by Grigor Magistros, ed. and trans. Abraham Terian (Leuven: Peeters, 2012). 4 Daniel Sahas, ‘Captivity and Dialogue: Greogory Palamas (1296–1360) and the Muslims’, Greek Orthodox Theological Review 25 (1980): 409–36; idem, ‘Gregory Palamas on Islam’, The Muslim World 73 (1983): 1–21. 5 Istanbul, Süleymaniye Library, MS Ayasofya 2984. 6 M. Fuat Köprülü, ‘Anadolu Selçukluları Tarihi’nin Yerli Kaynakları: I. Anis al-Ḳulûb’, Belleten 7 (1943): 459–522. A brief description of the work was also published by Mujtabā Mīnuwī, ‘Az khazāyin-i Turkīya – 3’, Majalla-yi Dānishkada-yi Adabiyāt 3 (1340), 1–29, at 15–19. I have previously published a very brief preliminary discussion of some of aspects of the work, which is superseded by the present chapter: A.C.S. Peacock, ‘Local Identity and Medieval Anatolian Historiography: Anavi’s Anis al-qolub and Ahmad of Niğde’s al-Walad al-shafiq’, Studies on Persianate Societies 2 (2004): 115–25. In 2008, I heard that an Iranian doctoral student, Amir (Alireza) Emami, was preparing a complete edition of the work, but so far it has not been completed as far as I have been able to ascertain, nor do I have any news as to whether work is still in progress. 7 Köprülü, ‘Anadolu Selçukluları Tarihi’nin Yerli Kaynakları: I. Anis al-Ḳulûb’, 497–519. An Interfaith Polemic of Medieval Anatolia 235 are buried in the midst of this, appended to the section dealing with the story of Jesus, and do not seem to have previously been noticed. Before discussing the polemical section of the work, let us consider the work in general, and, in particular, what we know of its author, Burhān al-Dīn al- Anawī, himself a native of the largely Armenian town of Ani, which stands today in ruins on the Turkish side of the Turkish-Armenian border.

The Anīs al-Qulūb: An Overview of the Manuscript, its Author and its Contents

The Süleymaniye manuscript is apparently unique; nor, as far as I am aware, are there any references to the text or the author in any other literary sources. The author, Qadi Burhān al-Dīn Abū Naṣr ibn Manṣūr al-Anawī, was born around 538/11428 and was still alive in 619/1222, when he appears in a waqf document as qadi of Malatya.9 In 1211, he tells us, he presented the Anīs al-Qulūb to the Seljuq Sultan of Anatolia, ʿIzz al-Dīn Kaykāʾūs I, on the occasion of his accession. ʿIzz al-Dīn is praised at regular intervals throughout the manuscript (e.g. fols 67b, 69b, 132a, 259a) and praised (inaccurately) for his descent from Alp Arslan (fol. 67b) (as we shall see, owing to al-Anawī’s ancestors having settled in Ani in the wake of Alp Arslan’s conquest, that ruler may have seemed especially important to the author). The surviving unique manuscript is most likely a close relative of this royal presentation copy. The script and decoration of the frontispiece (fols 1b-2a) suggest a date somewhere between 1250 and 1350, and are calligraphed and illuminated in a style one might associate with a royal library. They introduce the author as ‘sulṭān al-kalām wa-mafkhar al-aqlām, afḍal al-hukamāʾ, nūr aʿyān al- ʿulamāʾ, malik al-muḥaqqiqīn … Burhān al-Milla wa’l-Ḥaqq wa’l-Dīn al-Qāḍī Abū Naṣr ibn Masʿūd al-Anawī, raḥmat Allāh ʿalayhi’. The concluding formula confirms that the author was dead when the manuscript was copied, but the distinguished titles he is given suggest he enjoyed an enduring reputation. Although the manuscript is elegantly written, the text contains numerous copying errors. The only indication of ownership is a waqf statement by the Ottoman Sultan Mahmud from the nineteenth century (fol. 1a). Thus this was no mass circulation madrasa text. The work was dedicated to a royal patron, its author was rewarded with a state appointment as qadi, and it enjoyed the kind of limited circulation we typically associate with court literary texts. Al-Anawī states (fol. 5b) that he drew on three classics of the qiṣaṣ al-anbiyāʾ (lit. stories of prophets) genre by al-Ṭabarī (d. 310/922, author of the famous Arabic Taʾrīkh al-Rusul wa’l-Mulūk, ‘History of Prophets and Kings’), al-Thaʿlabī (d. 429/1038, known for his ʿArāʾis al-Majālis fī Qiṣaṣ al-Anbiyāʾ) and al-Kisāʾī (d. c.500/1100, author of a well-known work entitled simply Qiṣaṣ al-Anbiyāʾ). These are certainly the most famous representatives of the genre of qiṣaṣ al-anbiyāʾ, and

8 For his date of birth, as will be discussed below, al-Anawī tells us on fol. 4b of the MS he was 24 years old in 562/1166–7, which gives us approximately this date of birth. 9 See further below, note 12. 236 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia were widely imitated and translated into Persian and Turkish. Yet al-Anawī’s work differs from the other such works by virtue of being in verse, written as it is in the epic mutaqārib metre, most famously used in Persian for the Shāh-nāma, but also popular from the twelfth century for didactic works such as the poems of Sanāʾī and ʿAṭṭār. We will have cause to return to this peculiarity of the Anīs al-Qulūb in the conclusion, but for now it is worth noting simply that al-Anawī is distinctly defensive about the form chosen for his work. He states that, before starting the Anīs al-Qulūb, he consulted with the religious leaders (imāmān u pīrān-i ān ruzgār/ kih budand dar dīn ṣudūr-i kubār), and repeatedly insists that his purpose is not frivolous, but to present these stories of prophets in an attractive form (bi-kiswat-i laṭīf; fols 4a, 176a). He also says that only the tales of the greatest prophets had been gathered in one place, many having been scattered apart, but his aim was to collect them all together (fol. 155a). As for the reasons why a royal patron might have been interested in the theme of the Anīs al-Qulūb, no specific reason is given beyond the general statement that it will serve as his guide (rahbar) (e.g. fol. 254b). Indeed, al-Anawī remarks that it took him 46 years to complete the work, which he had begun in 562/1166–67 at the age of 24 (fol. 4b), which suggests that the work existed in some draft for long before it was dedicated to the sultan. However, at times al-Anawī specifically links his royal patron with earlier prophets or sacred figures. Sultan ʿIzz al-Dīn Kaykāʾūs’s appearance is like ʿAlī’s son (andar ṣifat pūr-i Bū Ṭālib-ast, fol. 196a), his behaviour (sīrat) is like that of Muḥammad (Aḥmad). A broader reason for Seljuq interest in Isrāʾīliyyāt (stories of the prophets of ancient Israel) may have been their own ancestry: the Anatolian branch of the family were descended from Qutlumush ibn Arslan Isrāʾīl ibn Seljuq, and Ibn Bībī alludes to this Turkish ‘Israelite’ heritage.10 The Banu Israʾil could thus be linked to Seljuq rulers in more ways than one. At any rate, each daftar commences and ends with lavish praise of Sultan ʿIzz al-Dīn Kaykāʾūs I, and al-Anawī boast that his verse will spread the fame of the sultan as far as Khwarazm (fol. 69a). The Anīs al-Qulūb is divided into seven books (daftar), the contents of which may be summarised as follows:

Daftar 1 (fols 2b–67b): Introduction, story of Adam, Adam and Eve, Cane and Abel, Seth, Idrīs, Noah, Hūd, Ṣāliḥ, Nimrod, Abraham, Ismail, Abraham and Ismail, Building of the Kaʿaba, Lot, Death of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Joseph and Zulaykha, Joseph’s Brothers, Joibn. Daftar 2 (fols 68b–132a): Pharoah, Shuʿayb, Moses, the Israelites’ worship of the Golden Calf, Qārūn, Moses and Khiḍr, Samuel, Saul and David. Daftar 3 (fols 138a–195a): Solomon, Bilqīs and Solomon, Ilyās (Elijah), Ilyasuʿ, Dhū’l-Kifl (sometimes identified with Ezekiel), Jonah, Jerusalem and the Prophets, Rehoboam, Shayʿa [Isaiah], Nebuchanezzar, Daniel, Armiya, ʿUzayr (Ezra?).

10 Ibn Bībī, al-Awāmir al-‘Alā’iyya fī’l-Umūr al-‘Alā’iyya, prep. Adnan Erzi (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1956), 3. An Interfaith Polemic of Medieval Anatolia 237

Daftar 4 (fols 195b– 258a): Luqmān, Buluqiya, Dhū’l-Qarnayn, Zachariah, John and Jesus. Daftar 5 (259b–320a): Aṣḥāb al-Kahf (Seven Sleepers), Jirjis (St George), Samson, Aṣḥāb al-Ukhḍūd and Aṣḥāb al-Fīl (both stories of Yemen on the eve of Muhammad’s birth); the Prophet Muḥammad. Daftar 6 (fols 320b–382a): ʿUmar; the Miʿrāj of the Prophet; the Prophet’s 37 Miracles (muʿjizāt), his battles (ghazawāt), the Battle of Badr. Daftar 7 (fols 383b–428a): The Prophet’s battles (ghazawāt); the Caliphates of Abū Bakr, ʿUmar, ʿUthmān, ʿAlī, Ḥasan, Muʿāwiya, Yazīd and the killing of Ḥusayn; the rebellion of ʿAbdallāh ibn al-Zubayr; the Umayyad and ʿAbbasid Caliphs up to al-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh. The accounts of the later ʿAbbasid Caliphs are in fact dominated by the deeds of the Seljuqs, and Alp Arslan’s conquest of the author’s home town of Ani is recounted at length. None the less, the ‘historical’ section contains little in the way of new factual information unattested in other sources.

The intermingling of Israelite and Arab prophets like Hūd was common in qiṣaṣ al-anbiyāʾ; less usual, however, is the addition of a specifically historical section such as we find in Daftar 7; even al-Ṭabarī, the main author to attempt to intermesh stories of prophets with those of secular rulers, is fairly sketchy about events of his own day. Generally, qiṣaṣ al-anbiyāʾ went no further than ‘the seal of the Prophets’, Muḥammad. At the same time, the Anīs al-Qulūb offers no attempt to integrate Prophetic history with the Iranian past, as we find in al- Ṭabarī. Al-Anawī’s focus until Daftar 7 remains firmly on the Isrāʾīliyyāt, and the career of Muḥammad. The other unusual feature is the information author provides about himself and his background, of which extracts in the original and translation may be found in the Appendix to this chapter. Although autobiographical notices sometime found their way into literary works and even histories, they are not typical of the qiṣaṣ al-anbiyāʾ genre; however, few works of qiṣaṣ al-anbiyāʾ were destined quite so explicitly for a royal dedicatee. In common with literary works the autobiographical sections are doubtless intended to explain the circumstances of the work’s composition and to strengthen the author’s claim to a reward from his would-be patron. At the same time the remarkable detail al-Anawī gives in his introduction regarding his ancestry, his education and even the circumstances of his birth (for the full text and translation, see Appendix) provides an unparalleled Muslim description of what it was like to grow up in a Christian majority town, in striking contrast to the almost total absence of Christians from so much Muslim Anatolian literature. Al-Anawī tells us he was born in the city of Ani in Armenia from which his nisba derives, to a Kurdish mother and a Turkish father who was a commander in the Seljuq army. Right from the start we get an impression of an author who is not overfond of his Christian compatriots (fol. 3b):

Know who I am and why I say this, and why I have suffered so much. If you have heard, in Armenia there are two towns near to one another, 238 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

The name of one is Kars, the other Ani, that is how they are known by people. But Ani is a great region where unbelievers are very strong and powerful. Before Islam was revealed, they had built its foundations over unbelief. The kings in the Armenian nation that were world-conquering through their devilry, [l. 10] Had their place and base there, and raised their heads to the heavens [in pride]. That people of infidel speech built one thousand and one churches there. In a town where there were so many churches, see how great was the prosperity of unbelief!

Al-Anawī recounts how after Alp Arslan’s conquest of the city in 1064, Muslims had started to settle in Ani, among them his ancestors. His father was a Turk, his mother a Kurd. He then goes on to describe in detail the circumstances of his birth and upbringing. Despite his hostility to kufr so vividly expressed a few lines before, al-Anawī tells us that during his youth he studied both the Old and New Testaments and learned to read and write the language of other religious groups, which he terms millat:

I made a start on the Torah and Gospels, I knew them back to front [bidānastam ān-rā az aṣl u furūʿ]. By good fortune I learned both the writing and tongue of each millat.

This presumably means Armenian, Persian and, as we shall see, perhaps Georgian. Al-Anawī goes on to describe how when he had reached the age of 18, Ani was struck by disaster in the form of a Georgian invasion. This must refer to the sack of the city in 1161, and al-Anawī recounts how he was led off into captivity in Georgia. Due to his knowledge of the New Testament and the Christians’ ways, he was able to engineer an escape:

The evil king entered the city, accompanied by such a great and ill-disposed army. They seized and killed and carried off, and many men died by the sword and dagger, Muslim men and women, both old and young, were seized and carried off as prisoners My family and I fell, weak and moaning, fell into the hands of the Georgians, Because I knew the script of the gospels [khaṭṭ-i injīl], I could talk very well like them. This knowledge of mine became the cause of my escaping from the claws of these dragon-like infidels. I ended up far from that land, one day I appeared in the region of Rūm.

As a result of a dream, al-Anawī started his studies of shariʿa and ḥadīth, returning to Armenia to pursue them (where, exactly, he does not say). He subsequently became a wāʿiẓ or preacher, and went to Tabriz (fol. 4a), where he encountered a learned man who persuaded him that composing a work in verse on the prophets An Interfaith Polemic of Medieval Anatolia 239 would both win him fame in this world and save him from Hell in the next. It was this that inspired him to compose the Anīs al-Qulūb. It is not until the end of the work, the conclusion of Daftar 7, that al-Anawī gives us further information about his career. When he was around 50 years old, al-Anawī was in the service of Sayf al-Dīn Beg Tīmūr, Turkmen ruler of the Shah-i Arman dynasty of Ahlat, for whom he acted as ambassador to Baghdad in 588–85/1188–89. Al-Anawī tells us that he returned from his audience with the Caliph al-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh with a manshūr and sanjaq, a letter of investiture and a standard, as well as gifts, signifying the caliph’s official recognition of Sayf al- Dīn.11 There appear to be no references to Burhān al-Dīn al-Anawī or his poem in any other literary works of the period (or indeed, any later period). We do, however, have one piece of information that gives us a clue both as to his subsequent career and to the reception of his work. He is named as qadi of Malatya on the waqf document dated 619/1222 endowing the burial place of Sultan ʿIzz al-Dīn Kaykāʾūs, the dār al-shifāʾ in Sivas. Part of the endowment consisted of villages around Malatya, the boundaries of which were verified by al-Anawī as the local qadi.12 His appointment as qadi of the important town of Malatya suggests that he was regarded with favour by the sultan, as do the elaborate titles he is given in the waqf document: al-qāḍī al-imām al-ʿālim al- ʿāmil Burhān al-Dīn sharaf al-islām, shams al-quḍāt wa’l-ḥukkām Abī Naṣr Masʿūd ibn Muẓaffar al-Anawī al-ḥākim bi-kūrat Malaṭiya.

The Polemic against the Armenians

Despite – or perhaps because of – his studies of the Gospel and his upbringing in the religiously and ethnically mixed city of Ani, al-Anawī expresses a disdain for Christianity. Among the prophets he discusses in his book is Jesus, recognised by Islam as a Prophet, and after a conventional Muslim account of Jesus’ life (fol. 221bff), al-Anawī examines the Christians of his own day. Greeks, Georgians and Franks are dismissed in a couple of contemptuous verses, although Nestorians get a more favourable write-up: ‘There are Christians in the world who are Nestorians. They are more honourable than the others’ (fol. 254b). Al-Anawī believed they were the closest in practices to Muslims, maintaining, according to him, ritual washing and circumcision. This sort of more favourable view of Nestorians on the part of Muslims was quite common. Nestorian doctrine was widely considered rather closer to Islam in its emphasis on Christ’s humanity.13

11 See the sections edited by Köprülü, ‘Anadolu Selçukluları Tarihi’nin Yerli Kaynakları: I. Anîs al-ḳulûb’, 515–6. 12 Refet Yinanç, ‘Sivas Abideleri ve Vakıfları’, Vakıflar Dergisi 22 (1991): 15–44 at 28–9, 38. 13 Irfan Shahid, ‘Islam and Oriens Christianus: Makka 610–623’, in The Encounter of Eastern Christianity with Early Islam, ed. Emmanouela Grypeou, Mark Swanson and David Thomas (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 20–22; Benjamin Jokisch, Islamic Imperial Law: Harun al-Rashid’s Codification Project (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2007), 318–9; ‘Abd al-Jabbar, Critique, lxx; Gabriel Said Reynolds, A 240 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

In addition, Nestorians held a privileged position vis-à-vis other Christians in the Abbasid caliphate. It seems then that this comment is thus a reflection of a more general Islamic prejudice imported from Iraq or Syria rather than an expression of a specifically Anatolian Muslim attitude. Nor, of course, does it reflect the reality. Al-Anawī’s wrath, however, is reserved for the Armenians, whom he describes as ‘the filthiest, most unclean and ill-fated of all the Christians (waʾz ān jumla hast Armanī sakhttar/palīd-and ū nā-pāk ū bad-bakhttar, fol. 254a). He then launches into a polemic against and exegesis of Armenian beliefs that occupies both sides of more than three large folios, saying, ‘There is a reason why this people are drunk on their ignorance’. This long and intriguing passage has no obvious parallels in Muslim literature. According to al-Anawī, Armenian beliefs originated with a man called Ṭiyāṭūs (fol. 254a):

وز آن جمله هست ارمنی سخت تر پلیدند و ناپاک و بدبخت تر مر آن قومرا هم سبب نیز هست کزین گونه هستند در جهل مست ز پیشینیان انک دانا بدند که در راه دانش توانا بدند که کردند نیرنگها آشکار ازان گونه که گفتم دو صد کار یکی بود اندر میان چاره ساز فسون آور و رنگ و نیرنگ باز طیاطوس خواندند اورا بنام بجلدی و حیلةگری بد تمام شنیدم بقولی که در گور نیز بخواندندی اورا ز راه تمیز کجا ملت ارمنی آشکار ازو گشت وافزود در کار کار نگه کرد بر کارهای جهان همی دید احوالها از نهان که سرگشته بودند در کار عام ز نادانی و جهل در کار خام همی هرچ گفتندی آن مهتران کسی را نبودی گزیری بران

The Armenians are the worst of these, the filthiest, most unclean and ill-fated There is a reason why this people is drunk with ignorance. [It is] from their ancestors, who were wise, they were capable in knowledge. They played tricks, and two hundred such things which I have already related. There was among them a deceitful man, an enchanter, a magician, They called him Ṭiyāṭūs by name, he was a master of tricks and boldness. I have heard a rumour that even in the grave, they called him in wisdom. Through him the Armenian nation (millat-i Armanī) everywhere appeared, and added trouble to trouble. He looked on the affairs of the world, he saw secretly what was going on, That the ordinary people were perplexed in their, they were engaged in vain affairs as a result of their ignorance Whatever elders men said, people had no choice but to do.

Ṭiyāṭūs decided to put this ignorance to his own use. He thus disguised himself as a an ascetic, binding himself in iron and dispensing with clothes, and taking refuge on a mountain top near Rayy in Iran. Having gained a reputation for

Muslim Theologian in the Sectarian Milieu: ‘Abd al-Jabbar and the Critique of Christian Origins (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 203–6. An Interfaith Polemic of Medieval Anatolia 241 asceticism (zuhd), Ṭiyāṭūs now set off for Rūm, for the city of Caesarea (Kayseri). Here he teamed up with another ‘doctor’ (ḥakīm) from his own land who was ‘his accomplice’ (hamkār-i ū). Daubing his face with an indelible paint to forge a wound on it, Ṭiyāṭūs pretends to collapse unconscious on the road outside the town; his body having been brought into the city on the king’s orders, his accomplice persuades the Caesareans that their city will become famous by holding his tomb. On the seventh day, however, Ṭiyāṭūs, rises (fol. 254b end). The entire people of the city welcome their new saint; Ṭiyāṭūs then begins to tell the tale of his vision he experienced when a hermit living in a zāwiya. Jesus appeared to him and charged him with bringing a message to the city dwellers. Ṭiyāṭūs, however, protests that they will never believe him – ‘they will want a sign and proof from me’ (fol. 255b top). Jesus then puts this indelible scar on Ṭiyāṭūs’ face to act as proof. The people rush to touch it, proclaiming ‘This is a sign left by Jesus’ hand!’ Ṭiyāṭūs then starts to reveal Jesus’ message to the people. Initially he just urges them to penitence; but after a year he starts to reveal a more radical message, revealed to him by an angel. He tells the people:

[Christ said] ‘Dear servants! You all know with your minds and discernment That I am your true God, and I was your God from the first. I came into the world for a few years, and liberated departed souls from their fetters. Then I returned to the heavens. I am exactly in the same form that I was. All of you recognise me as God, I am your pure creator … [l. 20] I have chosen you by my unlimited mercy out of all of the people of creation I sent my servant to you with good tidings to give you news of fear and hope … I have forgiven your sins, I have mended your torn deeds. You have a sign of my good will, three favours [lit. khalʿat, cloaks] I have sent down from the heavens. Now I have removed three things that hurt you.’

These three consist of (fols 256b–257a): the abolition of circumcision; the abolition of ritual ablutions; and the abolition of restrictions on fasting, allowing the consumption of bread and fruits. Al-Anawī goes on to comment (fol. 257a):

The Christians and people of different millats endeavoured to be virtuous [l. 10] They did not accept these three innovations [bidʿat], which they considered to be fraud, hypocrisy and impertinence. Those others who were lazy and impure were pleased by hearing this type of legal opinion [fatwā].

In other words, it was only the Armenians who were convinced by the swindler. Ṭiyāṭūs continued his activities in Caesarea, subsequently introducing further divinely inspired rules. He introduced baptism and made eating pork licit. Later, he introduced a third set of innovations, insisting on the compulsory 242 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia confession of sins to a priest and that the Eucharist must be given to the dying. Al-Anawī comments:

In this way this man of tricks [mard-i ḥīlat-namāy] played a hundred tricks and lies. And whatever he said in the world, the Armenians accepted it as if it was very valuable, Because Armenians are the worst of all, completely lacking in discernment and rough.

When Ṭiyāṭūs died the kings of the world competed for possession of his bones. One hand was buried in castle on the borders of Syria called qalʿa-yi Khurram ‘the castle of Felicity’, where:

There is an arrogant and presumptuous priest there who is the khalīfa in the Armenian millat, he keeps that hand next to himself, from which he gains a great status. [l. 30] Armenians in both east and west are all subordinate to this hand They come to him from all over the world, in search of reverence and honour For in every country he has appoints a deputy to be the leader there Good and evil, unbelief, and what is licit and illicit [ḥalāl u ḥarām] they know completely from him.

Al-Anawī then concludes by apologising for his long digression, but says that he was obliged to introduce it due to the falsehoods these people said about Jesus.

The Possible Sources for and Influences on al-Anawī’s Anti-Armenian Polemic

The account of Ṭiyāṭūs is evidently intended more broadly to discredit Armenians in the eyes of the reader, and, perhaps most importantly, the sultan. Al-Anawī distinguishes between the Armenians and other Christians above all on the basis of what he claims to be the distinctive features of Armenian Christianity. Despite the polemical nature of the passage, it is clear that al-Anawī does draw on a corpus of Armenian material, whether transmitted to him orally or through written sources. Indeed, the reference in his autobiography to Ani as the town of a ‘thousand and one churches’, suggests this reliance on Armenian material: the same term is used by the Armenian chronicler Matthew of Edessa,14 but not, as far as we know, by any Muslim sources. The story of Ṭiyāṭūs seems to be broadly inspired in its outline by the traditional Armenian account of the conversion of Armenia to Christianity in

14 Armenia and the Crusades, Tenth to Twelfth Centuries: The Chronicle of Matthew of Edessa, trans. Ara Dostourian (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1993), 102. An Interfaith Polemic of Medieval Anatolia 243 the early fourth century by St Gregory the Illuminator.15 The relic of the hand in the qalʿa-yi Khurram must be connected with St Gregory, for by the twelfth century the legend that Gregory’s hand was buried at Hromgla (Rum Kale) in south-eastern Anatolia started to circulate. Such Armenian legends attributed Gregory’s hand with miraculous powers,16 just as in al-Anawī’s text. Khurram looks like an attempt to transliterate Hromgla, although the place’s normal medieval Muslim name is Qalʿat al-Rūm. The khalīfa of the Armenian millat who guards the hand must be meant to be the Armenian Patriarch who was based at Hromgla in the period. The reference to competition between kings over the relics perhaps alludes to the fact that Gregory’s relics, highly prized for the sanctity with which they could endow a holy place, were themselves dispersed, parts being seized and taken to Constantinople in the seventh and eighth centuries, and by tradition some being taken to Italy, where they were kept in the Church of San Gregorio Armeno in Naples. The right hand was found in Cilicia, where it was being venerated by the early twelfth century.17 Further specific details of the legend also point to a connection to St Gregory. St Gregory is closely associated in Armenian tradition with Caesarea, which was both his home town and the city in which he was probably consecrated. Gregory was also linked to King Trdat, the Armenian king whom he converted to Christianity, as is mirrored in the several allusions in our text to the king who is also convinced by Ṭiyāṭūs. Ṭiyāṭūs’ career of preaching and teaching reflects that of St Gregory himself, while his insistence on the introduction of baptism (fol. 256a), also reflects Gregory’s fame for baptising King Trdat and his court reflected in his epithet of ‘Illuminator’. The reference to Ṭiyāṭūs living out his days in a zāwiya may relate to legends that Gregory spent his final years as a hermit on Mt Sepuh near Erzincan. How, however, can we explain the distortion of Gregory into Ṭiyāṭūs? The word might represent a transliteration of the Greek θεατής (viewer, contemplator), which in turn might refer to the Greek etymology of Gregory’s name γρηγόριος (wakeful, watchful), alluding to Gregory’s witnessing of visions of Christ.18 Ṭiyāṭūs may also mask elements of a different account of Armenia’s conversion, the word representing an attempt to transcribe into Persian the name of Thaddeus who is said to have brought Christianity to Armenia in Pawstos Buzand’s Epic Histories.19

15 I am especially grateful to Peter Cowe for discussing with me the allusions to the career of St Gregory, which has informed the following analysis. For the classic Armenian account of St Gregory’s life see The Lives of Saint Gregory: The Armenian, Greek, Arabic, and Syriac Versions of the History Attributed to Agathangelos, trans. Robert W. Thomson with introduction and commentary (Ann Arbor, MI: Caravan Books, 2010). 16 M. van Esbroeck, ‘Temoignages littéraires sur les sépultures de S. Gregoire l’Illuminateur’, Analecta Bollandiana 89, nos 3/4 (1971): 387–418. 17 On the relics of St Gregory see Dickran Kouymjian ‘The Right Hand of St Gregory and Other Armenian Arm Relics’, in Les objets de la mémoire. Pour une approche comparatiste des reliques et de leur culte, ed. Philippe Borgeaud and Youri Volokhine (Geneva: Peter Lang, 2005), 215–40. 18 I am very grateful to Peter Cowe for these points. 19 The Epic Histories Attributed to P‘awstos Buzand, trans. Nina Garsoian (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989). 244 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Thaddeus, variously identified by Armenian tradition as one of the 12 apostles or one of Jesus’ 70 disciples, remained a crucially important figure, for it was on the basis of his death in Armenia, along with that of St Bartholomew, that the Armenians justified their claim to having an independent, autocephalous church.20 As we shall see, this claim was especially important to Armenians in the late twelfth to early thirteenth century. These Armenian legends, in their doubtless deliberately distorted forms, are accompanied by numerous Islamic elements. Although Ṭiyāṭūs’ cell is on one occasion described as a ṣawmaʿa, a word we would usually find in a Christian context, it is more usually called a zāwiya, a Muslim, especially Sufi term. Ṭiyāṭūs spends his time preparing to be a hermit in Rayy, and at one point he claims to the people to have received his first revelation from Jesus in Bakka, an archaic variant of Mecca. The association of Ṭiyāṭūs with Rayy is intriguing, for an Armenian anti-Muslim tract entitled ‘History of the Birth and Upbringing of the anti-Christ Mahamad and His Reign’ claimed that Muhammad was born in Rayy. The date of this text is uncertain, with the earliest manuscript from the sixteenth century, but it may be that al-Anawī’s polemic intended to refute and subvert this story by associating Rayy with Ṭiyāṭūs, the arch-deceiver of the Armenians.21 If so, this would be a further indication of the Armenian sources underlying the work. The polemical elements in the story, however, doubtless draw on non-Armenian sources (either written, or more likely, oral). There was a rich tradition of anti- Armenian polemic among the Christian communities of Anatolia, and Syriac, Greek and Georgian polemics are known.22 The closest parallels to al-Anawī’s account of Ṭiyāṭūs are in Georgian anti-Armenian polemics, for a well-documented hostility existed between the Chalcedonian Georgian and non-Chalcedonian Armenian Churches.23 The Georgian church council convoked by David the Builder in 1103 had condemned the Armenians as heretics who should be baptised on conversion just like ‘pagans’ (i.e. Muslims).24 Georgian sources also discuss a certain Peter, a discredited bishop who they claim invented his own religion which was well received in Armenia.25 Peter has obvious affinities with Ṭiyāṭūs, although there are also significant discrepancies: in the fullest version of the Peter legend (fourteenth century), Peter is accompanied by a dog, and eventually is killed, both elements

20 Zaroui Pogossian, The Letter of Love and Concord: A Revised Diplomatic Edition with Historical and Textual Comments and English Translation (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 97, 99, 102–3, 112–3. 21 Robert W. Thomson, ‘Muhammad and the Origin of Islam in Armenian Literary Tradition’, in Armenian Studies in Memoriam Haig Berberian, ed. Dickran Kouymjian (Lisbon: Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation, 1986), 829–58, esp. 856–7; reprinted in Robert W. Thomson, Studies in Armenian Literature and Christianity (Aldershot: Variorum, 1994). 22 For examples of some Syriac anti-Armenian polemics see Christopher MacEvitt, The Crusades and the Christian World of the East: Rough Tolerance (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2008), 173–7. 23 Bernadette Martin-Hisard, ‘Le discours des Géorgiens sur leur orthodoxie: Les hérétiques arméniens et Pierre le Foulon’, Rivista di Studi Bizantini e Neoellenici 47 (2010): 195–264. 24 Ibid., 201–3. 25 Ibid., 225–6. An Interfaith Polemic of Medieval Anatolia 245 with no parallel in the Ṭiyāṭūs legend. Equally, there is no suggestion that Ṭiyāṭūs had been a bishop in al-Anawī, while Peter has no association with Rayy. While Ṭiyāṭūs may owe something to Peter, the connection is hardly clear-cut. Significantly, one of the versions of the story of Peter’s deceit of the Armenians was written by the Patriarch of Mtskheta, Arsenes. The latter was originally from Samts‛khe, the region slightly to the west of Ani, and his text has been dated by its most recent editor to the late eleventh-early twelfth centuries.26 At the very least, this implies that Georgian legends recording the Armenians’ adherence to this false priest were circulating near the area where al-Anawī lived shortly before his birth. A different tradition, recorded by Arsenes of Iqalto around the same date, has the initiator of the Armenians’ heresy as a certain Sergius.27 Evidently there was a surfeit of candidates for chief heretic of the Armenians. The polemic was joined in the late twelfth century by the Armenian author Mkhitar Gosh (c.1140–1213), best known for his law code, who lived in the Mkhargrdzeli domains which comprised Ani and its surroundings. Writing around 1200 Mkhitar Gosh composed a letter to the Georgians defending Armenian ecclesiastical traditions, including Armenian fasting and Eucharistic preparations28 – some of the elements also singled out by al-Anawī (fols 255b–256a). The Armenian historian Kirakos Gandzaketsi records that the Mkhargrdzelis’ Georgian soldiers insulted their Armenian colleagues over the differences in liturgical practices.29 In other words, these polemics existed on a popular level; they were not simply the product of some ecclesiastic milieu, but were circulated among soldiers. Thus it is entirely possible that al-Anawī encountered these anti-Armenian polemics in some form during his Georgian captivity. However, for an audience in the Seljuq lands in the early thirteenth century, there was also a more immediate historical context to which a legend involving a ‘Ṭiyāṭūs’ might be related. In about 1203 the Armenian bishop Anania of Sebasteia/Sivas, failing to win support for his bid to become Armenian Patriarch based in Hromgla, had anyway declared himself to be catholicos with the support of the Seljuq Sultan Rukn al-Dīn Sulaymānshāh. The ‘anti-catholicos’ Anania made Caesarea/Kayseri his base, where Armenian sources suggest he was warmly received by the populace. During his stay in Caesarea, a young man named Theodorus, an Armenian Christian who had been forced to become a Muslim to escape from a debt he was unable to pay, was martyred for apostasy from Islam. As a miraculous divine light descended on Theodorus’ body, the sultan, alarmed at the prospect of a new martyr, ordered Anania to have the corpse buried.30 Ṭiyāṭūs represents a credible transliteration for Theodorus. In

26 Ibid., 236–7. 27 Ibid., 251–3. 28 Pogossian, Letter of Love and Concord, 37–9. 29 Sergio La Porta, ‘Re-constructing Armenia: Strategies of Co-existence Amongst Christians and Muslims in the Thirteenth Century’, in Negotiating Co-Existence: Communities, Cultures and Convivencia in Byzantine Society, ed. Barbara Crostini and Sergio La Porta (Trier: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag Trier, 2013), 269–70. 30 See on these events, H. Berbérian, ‘Le patriarcat arménien du sultanat de Roum: L’anti- Catholicos Anania’, Revue des études arméniennes NS 3 (1966): 233–43, esp. 235–6; also Peter 246 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia this case, al-Anawī’s account might on one level represent an attempt to defuse the story of this evidently embarrassing martyrdom by representing Theodorus as a fraud and his followers in Caesarea as gullible dupes. Al-Anawī’s text can thus be understood on three levels: as a distorted reflection of Armenian tales of St Gregory the Illuminator, and possibly St Thaddeus; as indebted to polemics such as the Georgian ones current in Ani in the period which represented Armenians as heretics and dupes; and as a response to the recent martyrdom of Theodorus in Caesarea. In a sense Ṭiyāṭūs may be intended to be a sort of composite of all these figures. However, there was also a broader historical context of Armenian–Seljuq political tensions against which the text must be read, to which we will now turn.

The Historical Context

The detail and length of al-Anawī’s anti-Armenian polemic suggests that this was not merely a personal prejudice. The author must have had good reason to emphasise his hostility to the Armenians to the sultan. One reason, of course, given Anawī’s origins, his confessed knowledge of Christian scripture, and his period in Georgian captivity is that there may have been some doubt about his commitment to Islam. Renegades from Islam to Christianity were not unknown, even if they hardly seem to have been common.31 Yet while these factors may have contributed to elements of the polemic, the fact that it is specifically anti- Armenian rather than generally anti-Christian suggests the question does not admit such a simple resolution. Why would an anti-Armenian polemic have appealed to Sultan ʿIzz al- Dīn Kaykāʾūs? The Anatolian Seljuqs at this date had little involvement in al- Anawī’s homeland. Their main adversaries in north-east Anatolia had been the Georgians, who had defeated Sultan Rukn al-Dīn Sulaymānshāh at the Battle of Basiani (Basean) in 1201. Ani itself was under the control of the Armeno- Georgian family of the Mkhargrdzelis, who held their lands from the Georgian crown.32 However, the Seljuq sultanate of Rūm did not have a direct border with the Mkhargrdzelis, for Erzurum, the easternmost major Muslim-controlled outpost, was ruled by a cadet branch of the Seljuq family under Mughīth al-Dīn Ṭughrilshāh, whose relations with his Konya relatives were cool. Further west, Erzincan and Divriği were under the control of the Muslim Mengüjekid dynasty.

Cowe, ‘The Armenian Community of Konia in the Seljuq Period’, in Armenian Communities of Asia Minor, ed. R. Hovannisian (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda Press, forthcoming). The Armenian source for the martyrdom is discussed by Peter Cowe, ‘The Martyrology of T‘eodoros Kesarac‘i’, in Christian–Muslim Relations: A Bibliographical History, ed. David R. Thomas, vol. 4 (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 99–103. 31 David Cook, ‘Apostasy from Islam: A Historical Perspective’, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 31 (2006): 248–88. 32 On the Mkhargrdzelis see Sergio La Porta, ‘“The Kingdom and the Sultanate were Conjoined”: Legitimizing Land and Power in Armenia during the 12th and Early 13th Centuries’, Revue des études arméniennes 34 (2012): 73–118. An Interfaith Polemic of Medieval Anatolia 247

In short, after Rukn al-Dīn Sulaymānshāh’s death in 1204, the Seljuqs showed no interest in expansion in the region until ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn Kayqubād’s annexation of the Mengüjekid lands in 1228 and Erzurum in 1230.33 In the south-east, however, in Cilicia, there existed an Armenian state which at the beginning of the thirteenth century represented a very substantial concern to the Seljuqs of Rūm. Tensions had developed over the second half of the twelfth century, as the Seljuq sultanate expanded, and the Turkmen increasingly encroached on Cilicia.34 An alliance between the Seljuqs and the Ayyubids aimed to prevent Cilician attempts to threaten Antioch. Levon (Baron, r. as king 1198–1219), the first monarch of the Armenian Kingdom of Cilicia, had expanded at the Seljuqs’ expense in the late twelfth and early thirteenth century, seizing numerous fortresses. He rebuffed a Seljuq attack in 1201, but the subsequent truce was broken by a joint Seljuq-Ayyubid attack on Levon’s territories in 1208–09.35 Levon’s response was to enlist the aid of the neighbouring Crusader military orders, the Teutonic Knights and especially the Hospitallers, on whom in 1210 he bestowed lands on his western frontier – including the Seljuq-controlled town of Larende (Karaman). By granting lands he did not actually control he aimed to encourage the Crusaders to expand at the expense of his Seljuq enemies. It seems that between 1210 and 1216 Karaman and surrounding lands actually came under Hospitaller control.36 Thus just as the Anīs al-Qulūb was being dedicated to the new Sultan ʿIzz al- Dīn, the Seljuqs faced a crisis of growing Armenian encroachment on territories that lay in fairly close proximity to their capital of Konya. This Armenian expansion was facilitated by collaboration between Armenians and Crusaders, an alliance which was itself encouraged by the growing rapprochement between the Armenian Church in Cilicia and the Church of Rome, although these efforts towards union were met with considerable suspicion by Armenian monks in Greater Armenia.37 Especially significant for our understanding of Anawī’s text is the literary context in which these ecclesiastical and political relationships

33 A.C.S. Peacock, ‘Georgia and the Anatolian Turks in the 12th and 13th Centuries’, Anatolian Studies 56 (2006): 127–46, esp. 133–8. 34 Vahan Ter-Ghevondyan, L’Arménie cilicienne et les pays arabes du Proche-Orient (Erevan: Editions de l’Université d’Erevan, 2005), 65, 74–6, 99. 35 For these events see ibid., 84, 97–9, and Sara Nur Yıldız, ‘Reconceptualizing the Seljuq- Cilician Frontier: Armenians, Latins and Turks in Conflict and Alliance during the Early Thirteenth Century’, in Borders, Barriers and Ethnogenesis: Frontiers in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, ed. Flora Curtin (Turnhout: Brepols, 2005), 91–120, esp. 94–101. For a survey of Cilicia in the period see Pogossian, Letter of Love and Concord, 7–22, with references to the earlier literature. 36 See Marie-Anna Chevalier, ‘L’ordre de l’Hôpital en Arménie cilicienne du debut du XIIe siècle à la fin du regne de Het‘oum Ier: Aspects generaux de la question’, in L’Église arménienne entre Grecs et Latins fin XIe – milieu XVe siècle, ed. Isabelle Augé and Gerard Dédéyan (Paris: Geuthner, 2009), 79–106, esp. 91–2. 37 For an overview of these efforts see Pogossian, Letter of Love and Concord, 22–44; on the opposition in Greater Armenia see ibid., 33, n. 98; also Peter Cowe, ‘The Armenians in the Era of the Crusades (1050–1350)’, in The Cambridge History of Christianity, vol. 5: Eastern Christianity, ed. M. Angold (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 404–29. 248 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia were developed. The legend of St Gregory and Trdat played an important part in the Cilician Kingdom’s efforts to portray itself as an equal partner to Rome. The Letter of Love and Concord, an Armenian text composed between approximately 1190 and 1204,38 relates the alleged fourth-century visit of St Gregory and Trdat to Rome, where, it claims, Gregory was ordained Patriarch and Trdat was granted his kingdom by Constantine.39 The text thus underlines the longevity of the Roman–Armenian alliance, and emphasises to an Armenian audience the benefits that could accrue from tying themselves to Rome, despite the loss of ecclesiastical autocephaly – namely the elevation of Levon’s principality to the status of a kingdom, and the potential recognition of the Armenian catholicos as Patriarch of Antioch.40 Similar concerns prompted the composition of several other texts dealing with St Gregory and Trdat in late twelfth-/early thirteenth- century Cilicia. Meanwhile, Armenian sources both implicitly and explicitly identify King Levon with Trdat.41 The Letter of Love and Concord stressed how Constantine had granted Trdat rule over vast territories in the east. Many of these are very general, ‘Africa and Egypt’, ‘Palestine and Arabia’, but considerably more detail is given about Anatolia. As well as Cilicia, Phrygia, Pamphylia, Cappadocia, Bithynia, Galatia and Pontus are all named as territories granted by Constantine to Trdat.42 A document issued by the Cilician court in 1212 went even further, depicting Levon as the universal protector of Christians, the king who would bring about a final victory over Islam and recapture Jerusalem.43 In other words, the legend of Gregory and Trdat provided a powerful justification for Levon’s encroachment on Seljuq territories. In addition to these broader geopolitical factors, however, ʿIzz al-Dīn Kaykāʾūs would have had his own personal reasons for feeling ill-disposed towards Levon. His accession after Ghiyāth al-Dīn’s death had been opposed by his brother ‘Alā’ al-Dīn Kayqubād (the future sultan, r. 1219–37).44 ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn had been supported by, among others, Levon, to whom he had promised Kayseri (Qayṣariyya-rā bidū nāmzad kard) where he was besieging ‘Izz al-Dīn. The governor of Kayseri, Jalāl al-Dīn Qayṣar, doubtless fearing for his own future, was, however, able to negotiate with Levon, offering him the vast sum of 12,000 dinars as naʿlbahā (protection money) and promising him more when ʿIzz al-Dīn gained power. Levon agreed to raise the siege in return for further assurances:

38 Pogossian, Letter of Love and Concord, 119–25. 39 Ibid., 95, 345, 387–97. 40 Cowe, ‘The Armenians in the Era of the Crusades’, 416. For another interpretation see Pogossian, Letter of Love and Concord, 125. 41 On the other texts, see Pogossian, Letter of Love and Concord, 48–9; on the association of Levon with Trdat by contemporary Armenian authors see ibid., 19–20, 70–71. 42 Ibid., 347–9. 43 Sergio La Porta, ‘Conflicted Coexistence: Christian–Muslim Interaction and its Representation in Medieval Armenia’, in Contextualizing the Muslim Other in Medieval Christian Discourse, ed. Jerold C. Frakes (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2011), 113. 44 The events described below are recounted in Ibn Bībī, al-Awāmir al-‘Alā’iyya, 114–19. An Interfaith Polemic of Medieval Anatolia 249

If Sultan ʿIzz al-Dīn, during his sultanate and rule, will not harm my [Levon’s] castles or lands, and his victorious armies will not enter my land for the purpose of conquest, and he fulfils what the emir Jalāl al-Dīn has promised [i.e. the further cash payment] and sends a treaty [ʿahdnāma] to this effect, then I will depart from this place to my kingdom.45

On receipt of the written treaty, Levon’s forces departed silently in the night, leaving their allies in the lurch. ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn’s attempt to seize the sultanate collapsed, and ʿIzz al-Dīn rewarded Jalāl al-Dīn Qayṣar with the senior office of parwāna. ʿIzz al-Dīn thus owed his throne to Levon; but he evidently chafed bitterly at the terms of the treaty. In 1216 – the year in which Levon finally achieved his dream of capturing Antioch – ʿIzz al-Dīn launched a major, but abortive, attack on the Cilician fortress of Gaban.46 Furthermore, the question of Roman–Armenian church union may well have impinged on Armenians in the Seljuq realm. One of the few bishops to support the proposal for church union that was brought to the Council of Tarsus in 1197 was none other than Anania, bishop of Sebasteia, and soon to be the Seljuq-backed ‘anti-catholicos’.47 Moreover, the centre of opposition to union with Rome came from the region around Ani, al-Anawī’s homeland. A treatise by St Nerses of Lampron, who worked tirelessly for unity and who translated several theological works from Latin into Armenian, defends the new Latinising practices of Cilicia against their opponents from the monastery of Tsoroyget near Ani.48 Among these practices which Nerses singles out for defence are the liturgy, the Eucharist and confession, all of which he claims are lacking among his Tsoroyget opponents.49 Indeed, Nerses attacks his Armenian opponents ‘who regard the Turk as his brother’.50 Addressing the king, he describes the ‘Oriental’ way of life followed by Tsoroyget’s opponents of unity with Rome:

Moreover the people of Tsoroyget cause not only us to shun the Latins but also you, and do not want us to adopt their customs, but [those of the] Persians, amongst whom they are themselves and they follow their habits. Now we and the princes and this people of Armenia are one in faith; you of the flesh and us of the spirit. Just as you ordered us that we should be following in the footsteps of our forefathers, so, likewise you in yours. Do not be bareheaded like

45 Ibid., 117. 46 Ter-Ghevondyan, L’Arménie cilicienne, 98–9; Yıldız, ‘Reconceptualizing the Seljuq-Cilician Frontier’, 101–4. 47 Berberian, ‘Le patriarcat armenien’, 234–5. 48 St Nerses de Lampron, ‘Lettre addressée au roi Leon II’, in Recueil des Historiens des Croisades: Documents arméniens (Paris: Académie des inscriptions et belles-lettres, 1869), vol. 1, 579–603. 49 Ibid., 587–8; also ibid., 599–600. Further on the similarity of Latin and Armenian Eucharistic practices see St Nerses de Lampron, ‘Extraits de l’ouvrage intitule Reflexions sur les institutions de l’église et explication du mystère de la messe’, in Recueil des Historiens des Croisades: Documents arméniens, vol. 1, 572. 50 St Nerses de Lampron, ‘Lettre addressée au roi Leon II’, 588. 250 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

the princes and kings of the Latins, which Armenians say is a sign of madness but put on a sharp‘ush, as your ancestors. Grow hair and beards, as your fathers. Wear a wide and thick duṙay [598] and not the mantle [p‘ilon] nor the long tunic [patmuchans] tied close together. Ride on horses saddled with chushan and not on horses without saddles and with Latin lehl. Grant the honour of titles of amir and marzpan and spaysalar and similar ones; and not sir and prōk‘simos, gundustapl and maraǰaxt and jiavor and lech which is the fashion of the Latins. You, exchange these Latin costumes and titles for the costumes and titles of the Persians and Armenians in accordance with your fathers, and embellish your royal court with the customs of the ancients and we shall agree with the people of Tsoroyget and we shall exchange ours; we shall perform the sacrament with the sak‘ulay [large hood] and the vełar of two cubits. We shall roll up the silk clothing and we shall come before God in fur and a monkish habit; we shall wear sackcloth for the sacrament, as those ones want, and not linen, as [599] God commanded Aharon to make, and his sons, the long linen tunics [patmuchans] extending to the feet, which these ones disparage in their ignorance. We shall be eaters of meat publically and fellow drinkers with the Turks, something they themselves are and their chosen one, the Anets’i [the one from Ani].51

This passage, rich in sarcasm, suggests that for Nerses, then, his anti-Latin opponents are suspiciously closely allied to the Turks in their customs and predilections. The intent is of course polemical; but for a polemic to hit home it has to be based on some form of fact. It is entirely credible that al-Anawī, with his knowledge of Armenian and scripture, would have heard the complaints of traditionalist Armenians in the Ani region about the infiltration of Latin practices further south. Conversely, Greek writers lumped together all Armenians and Franks. An attempted rapprochement between the Armenian and Byzantine churches had broken down in 1197,52 leading to disillusionment on both sides. Byzantine dislike of the Armenian Church is suggested by a Greek polemic written shortly after 1204 by Constantine Stilbes. The text is first and foremost a denunciation of Roman Christianity, doubtless inspired by the Fourth Crusade’s capture of Constantinople, but Stilbes frequently compares the Latins’ practices to those of the Armenians,53 and some of the topics of his polemic are reminiscent of al-Anawī’s. Constantine singles out the disgusting eating practices which the Latins and the Armenians hold in common – their love for pork fat and bacon – just as al-Anawī claims that Ṭiyāṭūs made ‘pig and boar’ licit. In both instances the reader is doubtless intended to be revolted. Stilbes also highlights the similarity of Armenian and Roman communion and baptismal practices,54 suggesting, as al-Anawī’s text

51 Ibid., 597–9. I am very grateful to Tim Greenwood for providing this translation of the Armenian text. 52 Pogossian, Letter of Love and Concord, 16–17, 123–4. 53 Jean Darrouzès (ed. and trans.), ‘Le memoire de Consantin Stilbès contre les Latins’, Revue des études byzantines 21 (1963): 50–100, esp. 59. 54 Ibid., 79–80, 87–8. An Interfaith Polemic of Medieval Anatolia 251 does, these were part of the common currency of polemical discourse in early thirteenth-century Anatolia. Stilbes even mentions the issue of communion for the dying to which al-Anawī refers, criticising the Romans for not using proper consecrated bread.55 The correct preparation of the Eucharist had been a major bone of contention in Armenian ecumenical negotiations with both Rome and Byzantium,56 and is an issue also singled out by Mkhitar Gosh in his defence of Armenian practices.57 Stilbes also denounces the Roman practice of offering absolution for sins,58 which seems to refer to the debates regarding confession. The final revelation of Ṭiyāṭūs thus seems to refer to the spread of these Latin practices. Indeed, it is possible that some such practices, perhaps precisely the personal confession and final communion referred to here, had recently been introduced into the Seljuq territories by the pro-Union anti-catholicos Anania. Given the precarious position the Seljuq sultanate found itself in vis- à-vis Cilician Armenia in 1211, al-Anawī’s message may have been intended not simply to disassociate ʿIzz al-Dīn from the Armenians to whom he owed his throne, but also to warn the sultan of the dangers of supporting any future pro- Union claimants to the Catholicosate. The evidently embarrassing if obscure circumstances of the martyrdom of Theodorus under Anania’s Catholicosate provided a further reminder that this party was not to be trusted.

Conclusion

Al-Anawī’s text can thus be read on a variety of levels. In a sense it might be intended as a riposte to Levon’s expansionist ambitions and his encroachment on Seljuq territory. By discrediting the St Gregory–Trdat myth, it may have been intended to undermine the ideological basis for Cilician expansionism. Equally, these passages in the Anīs al-Qulūb may have been intended as warning to the author’s royal patron to abandon his alliance with Levon by stressing Armenian untrustworthiness, but it may also have been intended to dissociate not just its author but also his patron from whisperings at court that they were too close to the Armenians. To a contemporary audience, both Ṭiyāṭūs and the town of Caesarea may have had a variety of contemporary resonances. While Ṭiyāṭūs must have brought to mind St Gregory, St Thaddeus and Theodorus, Caesarea was not just the site of St Gregory’s mission, but also the base of Anania’s anti- Catholicosate, Theodorus’ martyrdom and ʿIzz al-Dīn’s victorious emergence as sultan thanks to Levon’s abandonment of his siege – but also the city which had very nearly ended up as part of Levon’s realm, had ʿIzz al-Dīn’s rival and brother ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn Kayqubād won the succession struggle, as payment for Levon’s services.

55 Ibid., 64. 56 Pogossian, Letter of Love and Concord, 24–6. 57 Ibid., 38. 58 Darrouzes, ‘Le memoire’, 69. 252 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

It is easy to see how al-Anawī, with his background in the anti-Union Armenian stronghold of Ani, his captivity among the Georgians, his professed knowledge of the Christians’ languages and sacred texts, would have been in a position to write such a polemic, weaving together a variety of oral, legendary and contemporary sources and polemics. How many, though, of these resonances, can al-Anawī’s patron reasonably be expected to have understood? Clearly an anti-Armenian polemic of would have been appropriate for the circumstances in which ʿIzz al-Dīn Kaykāʾūs found himself; but to what extent could the royal patron understand the allusions to these Armenian legends of Christianisation, to the contemporary ambitions of Levon, and to the Roman influences in the Armenian church? The length and detail of the narrative suggest it is far from being a casual interpolation by the author, and a work must have a meaning for the audience to which it destined. There would be little point in an elaborate denunciation of Armenian beliefs drawing on these multiple strands of imagery if the audience were to be oblivious of them. There were certainly avenues by which such the sultan might have been informed about Cilician and Armenian affairs. There was a significant Armenian community in Kayseri and Konya and plenty of Armenians in Seljuq service, and it has been suggested there was an Armenian-language section of the Seljuq chancery which was responsible for dealings with Cilician Armenia.59 Ibn Bībī tells us that Jalāl al-Dīn Qayṣar, the governor of Kayseri, was able to negotiate with Leon because of ‘frequent correspondence and friendship with him’ (murāsalāt wa muṣādaqāt-i bisyār).60 A senior emir under ʿIzz al-Dīn, Ḥājib Asad al-Dawla Arslan ibn Smpat, seems to have been an Armenian judging by his name (he also called one of his sons by the typically Armenian name Smpat, suggesting he was no convert). Ḥājib Asad al-Dawla Arslan’s wealth and influence is suggested by the caravanserai, bridge and supporting waqf near Sivas that he endowed in 610/1213.61 Through such channels, it seems that ʿIzz al-Dīn must have come to some appreciation of Levon’s claims – otherwise the polemic would simply not have made sense. If the waqf document mentioning al-Anawī’s role as qadi of the largely Armenian town of Malatya is anything to go by, this kind of polemical message met with sultanic approval, resulting in the author’s appointment to this important position.

59 Dimitri Korobeinikov, ‘A Greek Orthodox Armenian in the Seljuqid Service: The Colophon of Basil of Melitene’, in Mare et Littora: Essays Presented to Sergei Karpov for his 60th Birthday, ed. R.M. Shukurov (Moscow: Indrik, 2009), 709–24, esp. 722. In general on Armenians in Seljuq Anatolia, see Mehmet Ersan, Selçuklular Zamanında Anadolu’da Ermeniler (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 2007), although the work largely presents a political history of relations between the Seljuq sultanate and Cilicia. See also Cowe, ‘Armenian Community in Konia’, and the chapter by Peter Cowe in this volume. 60 Ibn Bībī, al-Awāmir al-‘Alā’iyya, 116. 61 For his waqfiyya, see Refet Yinanç, ‘Sivas Abideleri ve Vakıfları (2)’,Vakıf Dergisi 23 (1994): 5–18. The editor identifies him as Georgian, but Smpat sounds more Armenian, as Osman Turan had previously noted: Osman Turan, Türk Cihan Hakimiyeti Mefkuresi (Istanbul: Turan Neşriyat Yurdu, 1969), vol. 2, 145. An Interfaith Polemic of Medieval Anatolia 253

The Anīs al-Qulūb gives the lie to any cosy notion of convivencia: despite growing up among Armenians, apparently knowing their language and reading the scriptures, interfaith harmony seems far from al-Anawī’s mind. The only Christians deemed acceptable are those who are basically Muslims, according to his description, the Nestorians, while the Christians he knows best, the Armenians among whom he grew up, and with whom he must have had dealings in Tabriz and as servant of the Shah-i Arman of Ahlat, are denounced in vitriolic terms. Even if, as argued above, al-Anawī’s particular target is the pro-Union party of Armenians, he does not make any distinction between these and their enemies, the traditionalist, allegedly pro-Turkish party of Tsoroyget. Yet one must wonder if ultimate the whole idea of composing the Anīs al-Qulūb is inspired by Armenian precedents. Verse ‘tales of the prophets’ are extremely rare in Arabic and Persian; the only other versified qiṣaṣ al-anbiyāʾ mentioned by Storey in his survey of Persian literature comes from the very alien (and also in a sense only partially islamised) background of sixteenth-century India.62 In Armenian, however, several verse epics on Biblical themes were composed. The earliest was Grigor Magistros’s Magnalia Dei, of the mid eleventh century, but the most famous, written shortly before al-Anawī’s work, was Nerses Shnorhali’s Jesus the Son; and a verse epic summarising the Bible was also compiled by the thirteenth-century Erzincan poet Kostadin Erznkats’i. The intent of these works was to rebut Muslim claims of the inimitability of the Qurʾan by showing the authors’ ability to put Christian tales into elegant verse.63 Although al-Anawī’s verse can hardly be called elegant, the most obvious precedents for the Anīs al- Qulūb are these (admittedly much shorter) Armenian epic poems on religious themes, not anything known to us from Muslim literature. Was the Anīs al-Qulūb intended as a riposte to this Armenian literary tradition, while borrowing its form? Such a thesis takes us into the realms of speculation; but the text certainly demonstrates that Muslims could have much more profound knowledge and understanding of Armenian culture, and even of its own internal debates, than has hitherto been appreciated.

Appendix: Texts and Translations excerpted from the Anīs al-Qulūb

Note on the text Al-Anawī’s verse is far from elegant or correct; furthermore, the copyist has introduced a number of additional mistakes. The text has only been emended when it is clear the fault lies with the copyist rather than the author, and such emendations are noted in the notes. I hope to publish a fuller edition of further selections from the text in the future.

62 C.A. Storey, Persian Literature: A Bio-Bibliographical Survey, vol. 1, Part 1 (London: Luzac and Co., 1953), 167. However, another example not mentioned by Storey is the Persian verse Anbiyā-nāma attributed to ‘Iyānī, which is preserved in MS Istanbul, Süleymaniye Library, Ayasofya 3355, a manuscript apparently dating to the end of the fifteenth century. 63 Magnali Dei, 5–6, 10–11, 15–16. 254 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Excerpt A: Al-Anawī’s Autobiography

Fol. 3b, l. 7 بدان من که بودم چرا گفتم این ز بهر چرا رنج بردم چنین در ارمینیه گر شنیدی خبر دو شهرست نزدیک 64 یکدگر مران هر دورا قرس و انیست نام بیکدیگر ایشان شناسند عام ولی هست انی بجثه بزرگ درو کافرانی قوی و سترگ ازان پیش که اسالم گردد عیان نهادند در65 کفر بنیاد ان ملوکی که در ملت ارمنی جهانگیر بودند از اهرمنی l. 10 مکان و مقام اندرو داشتند همی سر بگردون برافراشتند بکردند آن مردم کفرگوی کنیسه هزار و یکی اندروی بشهری که چندین کنیسه بود ببین رونق کفر تا چون بود درازست آن شهر را داستان مرا هست مقصود دیگر دران علی الجمله اسالم چون شد قوی فزون گشت هر ساعتی از نوی همان دور دولت بترکان رسید که اقبال سلجوقیان شد پدید زاوالد سلجوق الپ ارسالن که باداش در خلد اعلی مکان همین شهر انی بزور و بقهر ستد کرد کام عدو پر ز زهر شدند اهل اسالم در وی مقیم در اسالم آن بود فتح عظیم غرض آمد ز ]؟[ اجداد ما کزیشان فزودست اعداد ما l. 15 ازان جای ماندست ما را نژاد زآنی نبود ویشان بزاد مرا نیز جد و پدر ترک بود بمردانگی هر یکی گرگ بود بدیدم پدر را بنعمت بسی چه دانم مگر بوده باشد کسی سپهدار و لشکرکش و گرد بود پدر ترک بود و مادرش کرد بود ازو مادرم پنج دختر بزاد خدایش ازو یک نرینه نداد بهنگام پیری پس از شصت سال چو فرمان رسید از یکی ذوالجالل همان مادرم زار و بیمار شد زآماس شخصش گرفتار شد زآماس ورنجی که بودش گران زآبستنی کس نبودش گمان سرانجام چون گشت رنجش عظیم بگرمابه بردش بقول حکیم قضا]را[ خدا بند بسته گشاد مرا هم بگرمابه اندر بزاد l. 20 ز مادر چو اندر جهان آمدم خالف دگر کودکان آمدم ابو نصر نامم وز ایام عصر بسی یافتم ز بهی فتح و نصر هنوزم نَبُد پنج سالی تمام که نظم سخن را بدادم 66 نظام چنان خاطرم داده بد کردگار که بد چون درختی که گوهرش بار چو طبعم بتیزی روان شد بنظم فدا کردم اندر ادب لحم و عظم شکستم درآموختن استخوان کنون خود ندارم زدانش نشان بتوریت و انجیل کردم شروع بدانستم آنرا زاصل و فروع زطالع بیاموختم در بیان ز هر ملتی هم خط و هم زبان ز اعمال و اشکال طب و نجوم بسی کردهام حاصل اندر علوم ز هر ترهاتی بمن می فزود کزین هرچ هستم گمان نبود l. 25 چو سالم ز دوران بهژده رسید یکی واقعه ناگه آمد پدید زکفار ابخاز بدرای و کیش سپاهی بیامد زاندازه بیش نهادند بر شهر آنی حصار گرفتند شهر و بشد کارزار بشهر اندر آمد شه بدکنش چنان لشکری بزرگ و بدمنش گرفتند و کشتند ورفتند و برد بتیغ و بخنجر بسی مرد ُمرد مسلمان زن و مرد برنا و پیر گرفتند و بردند یکسو اسیر من و جمله خویشان من زآن میان گرفتار در دست گرجی نوان مرا چون که بد خط انجیل یاد در احوال ایشان تلفظ اوستاد سبب گشت این علم گشتم رها ز چنگال کفار چون اژدها فتادیم دور از همان مرز و بوم برون آمدم من در اقلیم روم

نزدیکی MS 64 دیر MS 65 بدادنی MS 66 An Interfaith Polemic of Medieval Anatolia 255

Know who I am and why I say this, and why I have suffered so much. If you have heard, in Armenia there are two towns near to one another, The name of one is Kars, the other Ani, that is how they are known by people. But Ani is a great region where unbelievers are very strong and powerful. Before Islam was revealed, they had built its foundations over unbelief. The kings in the Armenian nation who were world-conquering through their devilry, [l. 10] Had their place and base there, and raised their heads to the heavens [in pride]. That people of infidel speech built one thousand and one churches there. In a town where there were so many churches, see how great was the prosperity of unbelief! The story of that town is long, and my intention is different. To summarise, when Islam became strong, and every hour was increasing, The turn of the Turks’ state came, and the fortune of the Seljuqs became apparent. One of the sons of Seljuq, Alp Arslan – may he abide in eternal heaven – Seized this town of Ani with force and violence, and ruined the enemies’ aspirations. The Muslims started to live there, it was a great victory in Islam. I mean by all of this that our ancestors – from whom our numbers have increased – came from [? illegible name],67 [ l. 15] Our origin is from there, it was not from Ani, but there they gave birth. My grandfather and father were Turks, they were both like wolves in courage. I saw my father had much good fortune, I do not know, maybe he was an important person. He was commander, general and hero, his father was Turkish and his mother Kurdish. My mother had five daughters by him, God did not give her a single son by him. When he was old, more than sixty years old, a command arrived from the Glorious King [God], My mother became weak and sick; she was seized by pains in her stomach. No one had any suspicion that the pain and suffering that she was suffering from was due to pregnancy. In the end when her pain was very great, she was taken to the hot bath on the doctor’s instructions. By chance God loosened the knot which was tied, she gave birth to me in the hot bath. [l. 20] When I arrived in the world from my mother, I came in a different way from other children. My name is Abū Naṣr [Father of Victory], and from the days of the age I have found enough of the goodness of conquest and victory [naṣr]. I was not even five years old when I started ordering words in verse. In this way the Omnipotent inspired my mind which was like a tree the fruit of which is jewels. When my ability became fluent in verse, for literature I sacrificed flesh and bone. I broke my bones on learning, but now I have no fame for my knowledge. I made a start on the Torah and Gospels, I knew them back to front. By good fortune I learned both the writing and tongue of each millat.

67 The text of this line in Persian is not clear, but something like this appears to be the general meaning. 256 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Much did I learn of the science, concerning different types and practices of medicine and astronomy, From each small thing I increased [in learning?], no one had any doubt about what I am.68 [l. 25] When I reached the age of eighteen, suddenly an event happened. An innumerable army of evil-minded, impious infidel Georgians came. They besieged the town of Ani, a fight began. The evil king entered the city, accompanied by such a great and ill-disposed army. They seized and killed and carried off; and many men died by the sword and dagger, Muslim men and women, both old and young, were seized and carried off as prisoners My family and I fell, weak and moaning, fell into the hands of the Georgians, Because I knew the script of the gospels, I could talk very well like them. This knowledge of mine became the cause of my escaping from the claws of these dragon- like infidels. I ended up far from that land, one day I appeared in the region of Rūm’.

Excerpt B: The Preaching of Ṭiyāṭūs to the People of Caesarea

Fol. 256b, l.15 و زآن پس بگفتا که ای خاص و عام ز عیسی شما را درود و سالم ز رحمت بسی داد امید و نوید شمارا بدو باد بی مر امید همی گوید ای بندگان عزیز بدانید جمله بعقل و تمیز که من مر شمارا خدایم درست خدای شما من بدم از نخست بدنیا فرود آمدم سال چند رهانیدم ارواح رفته ز بند دگر باره رفتم سوی آسمان ازان سان که بودم همانم همان69 شناسید یکسر مرا کردگار شمارا منم پاک پروردگار برین بادتان زندگانی و مرگ که یابید در اخرت ساز و برگ بدانید دیگر که من بر شما کرم دارم و لطف بی منتها l. 20 شمارا من از رحمت بی شمار گزیدم ز جمله زمین آشکار فرستادم این بنده را با نوید که بدهد خبرتان ز بیم و امید شماراست بر جمله روی زمین بفخر و شرف سرافرازی بدین گناه شما من عفو کرده ام دریده عملتان رفو کرده ام ز خوشنودی خود شما را نشان سه خلعت فرستادم ز آسمان کنون بر گرفتم سه رنج از شما که رنج شما من ندارم روا یکی ختنه کردن که بر کودکان بود رنج بسیار و بار گران کنون از شما ختنه برداشتم ُمسلم درین کار بگذاشتم ازین پس نباید دگر ختنه کرد که رسته شود کودکانتان 70 ز درد دوم روزه را چون بدارید نیز نباشید ازین گونه ناخورده چیز l. 25 همه روزها تشنه و گرسنه مرا هیچ سودی درآن روزه نه کنون بعد ازین روزه را آنچنان بدارید کاکنون حاللست 71 نان بپرهیز باشید آن روزگار از چیزی که از خون شود اشکار دگر هرچ باشد نبات زمین ز تخم و ز میوه که باشد جزین شما را سراسر بکردم حالل بدان روزه دارید در ماه و سال مباشید تا شب در آن انتظار خورید انچ یابید لیل و نهار سوم رحمت و شفقتم بر شما همانست از خلق عالم جدا کزین هر زمان شستن دست و روی ز بهر جنابت دویدن بجوی

68 The text and meaning of this line is obscure. از آن سان که بودم همانم همانم MS 69 کودکانشان MS 70 حالست MS 71 An Interfaith Polemic of Medieval Anatolia 257

شمارا بود رنج دائم درآن که غسل وضو هست کار گران من آن نیز برداشتم از کرم که من بندگانرا برون ننگرم چو باشد درون یار من از صدق راست برون گرچه ناشسته باشد رواست l.30 کنون این سه رنج از شما کم ببود مرا بر شما لطف و رحمت فزود چو زین پس بطاعت سرافگندگی بیارید وافزون شود بندگی نمایم دگر رحمت بی شمار کنم بر شما لطف خویش آشکار بگفتار این بنده خاص من که دارد فدا بهر من خویشتن ازین گونه آن مرد دستاننواز فرو خواند این داستان دراز همه خلق در گفت او داده گوش ببسته بفرمان او عقل و هوش بشکرانه بر خاک تیره همه نهادند سرها شبان 72 و رمه Fol. 257a, l.1 که از ختنه و روزه و آب سرد برستند و هر سه نبایست کرد بگفتند کین رحمتی بد یقین که افتاد از آسمان بر زمین که یارست گفتن که او ادمیست ویا زین نگارندگان)؟( زمیست دگرباره آن مرد سالوس رای بگفتا که رفتم کنون بار جای مرا تا که رخسار عیسی پاک بدیدم چه خواهم من از آب و خاک کنون از من این همه درگذشت تن من کنون همچو جان پاک گشت ندارم کنون من بعالم نیاز بخواهم سوی جای خود رفت باز بگفتم شمارا پیامی که بود اگر بار دیگر بیاید فرود l. 5 بگویم دگر آنچ گوید بگوی نمایم شما را دگر باره روی وگر نه مرا نیز زی خود برد روانم چو مرغی بر او پرد بگفت این و آمد ز منبر فرود سوی مسکن خود روان گشت زود یکی خلق در پی بجوش و خروش که کر شد فلک را از آشوب گوش برفتند و او روی بنهفت باز دگر باره در کرد بر خود فراز کسانی که در زهدشان بود سر مجاور بماندند بیرون در پراکنده شد گفت او در جهان یکی کفر پیدا شد ناگهان بگفتند عیسی ز لطف و کرم سه رنج از خالیق بکردند کم کنون ختنه و روزه و غسل رفت کسی را نباید درین رنج تفت نصاری و بعضی ز هر ملتی کشان بود اندر هنر همتی l. 10 نکردند این هر سه بدعت قبول شمردند زرق و نفاق و فضول دگر آنچ کاهل بدند و پلید خوش آمد کزین گونه فتوی شنید همان مرد سالوس سالی دگر بحیلت بیاورد آنجا بسر دگر ره بدین رنگ و نیرنگ و ساز کزین پیشتر با تو گفتیم باز برون آمد و خویشتن را نمود بگفتا که عیسی شما را شنود چنین و چنین و چنین گفت باز فروخواند هم داستانی دراز وزان بار این شستن کودکان که شویند و چربش کنند آن زمان که در ملت کفر هست آن عظیم همه کافران زو بترس و بیم که هر کودکی کو کشیشی نشست درآن کافری نیست دینش درست بیاموخت این و دگر گفت باز که دارم اجازه بخوک و گراز ازان باز آمیخت این رنگ و رفت دگر باره در مسکن خویش تفت l.15 سوم بار رخساره بنمود باز چه گیرم بتو ٔقصه او دراز بران خلق بنمود راهی دگر فزود از سخن پایگاهی دگر بگفتا بفرمود عیسئ روح چو آمد بر من بوقت صبوح که باید کزین پس زن و مرد پاک هرآن کس که هستند بر روی خاک بهر سالی باری و یا خود دو بار ویا چون شود رنجکی آشکار کشیشان خود را بخوانید باز بریشان گشایید پوشیده راز همه هرچ کردید اندر جهان همی داشتید از خالیق نهان همه با کشیشان بگویید باز گناهان خود را مدارید راز که گویند ایشان سزا و جزا بدانند هر ٔکرده را سزا l.20 شفاعت کنند آنگهی مر مرا که تا من کنم آن گنه را رها وگرنه نیامرزم از هیچ سان اگر راز دارید ازیشان نهان دوم وقت مردن چو جان عزیز بحلق آید و بس نماندست چیز

شبنان MS 72 258 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

ز قوة جهان نان و باده بهم بباید همی خوردن از بیش و کم که گرنه چنین میرد او نیست پاک چو مردار افگنده باید بخاک ازین گونه آن مرد حیلت نمای بیاورد صد مکر و افسون بجای وزو هرچ میگفت اندر جهان پذیرفت ازو ارمنی همچو جان کجا ارمنی زان همه بدترست بیکبارگی بی تمیز و خرست برفت او و ماند این همه زو مقیم همی روز تا روز گشتی عظیم چنان تا بدان زاویه در بمرد روانرا بقعر جهنم سپرد l.25 چو از مرگ او آگهی یافتند جهان جمله در کار بشتافتند که از بهر آن استخوانهای اوی جهانی فتادند در جست جوی بشورید با هم ملوک جهان ربودی همی آن ازین این ازان گه ازبهر خود قبلهگه73 ساختند زمانی ز خدمت نپرداختند بسرحد روم آن کجا او رسید بکردند آن کالبد ناپدید ولی این زمان آنچ دانم کجاست بماندست ازوی یکی دست راست یکی قلعه هست اندرین مرز شام که خوانند او را خرم قلعه نام کشیشی بدو در بکبر و منی خلیفه است در ملت ارمنی نگه دارد آن دسترا نزد خویش که او را ازانست مقدار بیش l. 30 بشرق و بغرب ارمنی هرچ هست همه باشد آن دسترا زیردست زاطراف عالم بنزدیک اوی روند از پی حرمت و آب روی که او هر یکی را بهر کشوری نیابت دهد تا شود رهبری بد و نیک و کفر و حالل و حرام ازو باز دانند ایشان تمام ازین گونه بودست احوال کار که هستند این قوم گمراه و زار واال ز عیسی مریم نبود که چندین بدی در جهان رخ نمود که او جز کالم خداوند پاک نگفت و نفرمود کفر و هالک

Then he [Ṭiyāṭūs] said, ‘Oh people high and low! Greetings from Jesus! He gave great hope and tidings of mercy; you should have boundless hope of him. He says, ‘Dear servants! You all know with your minds and discernment That I am your true God, and I was your God from the first. I came into the world for a few years, and liberated departed souls from their fetters. Then I returned to the heavens. I am exactly in the same form that I was. All of you recognise me as God, I am your pure creator. You should pass your life in this way so that you find reward in the hereafter. Know also that I have unlimited mercy and generosity towards you. [l. 20] I have chosen you by my unlimited mercy out of all of the people of creation I sent my servant to you with good tidings to give you news of fear and hope Through him you should exalt all over the world in honour and glory. I have forgiven your sins, I have mended your torn deeds. You have a sign of my good will, three favours [lit. khalʿat, cloaks] I have sent down from the heavens. Now I have removed three things that hurt you, for I do not hold hurting you right. One is circumcision, which is a great pain and a heavy burden for children. Now I have removed [the obligation of] circumcision from you, we have left you exempt from this task. After this, circumcision should be done no more, so that children should be free from pain. The second is when you fast, you should not prohibit eating in this way, [l. 25] Constantly hungry and thirsty; there is no benefit to me in that fasting. Henceforth do not have such a fast, for now bread is permissible.

قلبه MS 73 An Interfaith Polemic of Medieval Anatolia 259

At that time [fasting] avoid anything that is appears from blood. Otherwise, anything else which is plants of the ground, of seeds and fruit, I have made all these permissible for you. You can eat them while fasting through the month and year, Do not wait until evening, eat what you find night and day. Thirdly, my mercy and compassion for you is so great, apart from the [other] people of the world: Constantly washing your hands and face, on account of ritual uncleanliness running to the stream – You constantly suffer from this, for ritual ablutions [wuḍūʾ] are a heavy task. Out of my generosity I have also relieved you of this, for I do not look at the outside [appearance/behaviour] of my servants. While the heart accompanies me out of true sincerity, if the outside is not washed it is permissible. [l. 30] Now these three obligations have become less on you, my grace and mercy upon you have increased. Henceforth, when you bow your head in obedience and your servitude increases, I shall show you again boundless mercy, I will make my grace apparent to you, Through the speech of this special servant of mine, who would sacrifice himself for me’. In such a way did this teller of tales relate this long story. All the people listened to him, mind and intellect subject to his command. All the people put their heads on the black earth in thanks, both shepherd and flock. [fol. 257a] For they were freed of circumcision, fasting and cold water, and all three didn’t have to be done [any more]. They said, ‘For sure this was mercy, which fell out of the skies onto the earth.’ For who could dare say that he is human or he is one of those who labour on earth? Once more that deceitful man said, ‘Now I am going to the royal Court [of heaven] Since I saw the face of pure Jesus, what should I want of earth and water? Now all this has left me behind; my body, like my soul, has become pure. I no longer have any need of the world, I will return to my place. I told you the message that there was. If he comes again, [l. 5] Whatever he tells me to tell you, I will show you again my face. Otherwise, he will take me to himself and my soul will fly like a bird to him.’ So he said, and came down from the pulpit [minbar], he quickly went to his dwelling. A group of people followed him in such a tumult that it deafened the heavens. He hid his face again; again he shut his door on himself. People who were inclined to asceticism [zuhd] remained in the vicinity, outside the door. His speech spread in the world, unbelief [kufr] suddenly became apparent. They said, ‘Jesus, out of his grace and mercy, had made three burdens less upon people. Now circumcision, fasting and washing have gone, nobody need bother with them’ The Christians and people with different millats endeavoured to be virtuous [l. 10] They did not accept these three innovations [bidʿat], which they considered to be fraud, hypocrisy and impertinence. Those others who were lazy and impure were pleased by hearing this type of legal opinion [fatwā]. 260 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

This same deceitful man deceitfully stayed there one more year. Again with this fraud, magic and deceit, most of which I have told you [before], He came out and showed himself, saying, ‘Jesus has heard you.’ He said such and such and such and such, he told a long story, Concerning the burden of washing of children, whom they wash and anoint at that time Which in the millat of unbelief [kufr] they hold to be important, all the infidels are fearful and frightful of it. For each child, which is not washed by a priest, does not have the right religion in that unbelief [kāfirī]. So he taught, and said once more, ‘I have permission for [eating] the pig and the boar’. He played this trick once more and then left, again he hastened to his house. [l. 15] For the third time he showed his face again, I tell you this story although it is long To those people he showed a different way, with his speech he increased his stature. He said ‘Christ the spirit said, when he came to me in the morning time, ‘Henceforth pure men and women, everyone there is on the face of the earth, Once or twice each year, or when you are in trouble, You should call your priests and open up to them your hidden secrets. Everything you have done in the world, you kept secret from people. You should tell everything to the priests, do not keep your sins secret, For they will say the condign punishment and recompense, they know the recompense for each deed. [l. 20] They will intercede [shifāʿat] with me so that I will forgive them for that sin. If not I will not forgive them at all, if they have secrets hidden from them [the priests] Secondly, at the time of dying: when you are about to die, and there is nothing left, From the aliment of the world you must consume bread and wine together. If a man dies without doing this, he is not pure, like carrion he must be thrown to earth.’’ In this way this man of tricks played a hundred tricks and lies. And whatever he said in the world, the Armenians accepted it as if it was very valuable, Because Armenians are the worst of all, completely lacking in discernment and rough. He departed, and all this was left behind, it became great day by day. Such was it until he died in his zāwiya, and his soul was entrusted to the depths of hell. [l. 25] When they found out about his death, the whole world hastened to work. On account of those bones of his, the world fell to seeking them. The kings of the world competed with each other, each one stole from the other, Sometimes they built a holy place (qibla) for themselves, they did not rest from its service even for a while. When the body reached the border of Rūm, they hid it, But at this time what I know is where it is, a right hand remains of it. There is a castle on the borders of Syria which is called the castle of Khurram [Khurram- qalʿa] There is an arrogant and presumptuous priest there who is the khalīfa in the Armenian millat, he keeps that hand next to himself, from which he gains a great status. [l. 30] Armenians in both east and west are all subordinate to this hand They come to him from all over the world, in search of reverence and honour For in every country he has appoints a deputy to be the leader there An Interfaith Polemic of Medieval Anatolia 261

Good and evil, unbelief, and what is licit and illicit [ḥalāl u ḥarām] they know completely from him. This is the situation; it tells why these people are misled and wretched. For sure it was not from Jesus son of Mary that so much evil showed its face in the world, For he said nothing but the word of the pure Lord, and did not command unbelief and perdition.

Acknowledgements

The research leading to these results has received funding from the European Research Council under the European Union’s Seventh Framework Programme (FP/2007–13) / ERC Grant Agreement n 208476, ‘The Islamisation of Anatolia, c. 1100–1500’. I am very grateful to Peter Cowe, Tim Greenwood and Zara Pogossian for their numerous comments and suggestions on Armeniological aspects, and am especially thankful to Tim Greenwood for translating the passage from Nerses of Lampron. I also thank Leili Vatani for checking the transcription and translation of the Persian text and making useful suggestions. All have saved me from numerous errors but of course are absolved of responsibility for those that remain. This page has been left blank intentionally Chapter 11 ‘What Does the Clapper Say?’ An Interfaith Discourse on the Christian Call to Prayer by ʿAbdīshōʿ bar Brīkhā

Salam Rassi

In the wake of the Ghazan’s seizure of power from the Ilkhan Baidu on 1 Dhū’l-Ḥijja 694/19 October 1295, the Persian historian and vizier Rashīd al-Dīn reported that, ‘by imperial command … the destruction of temples, Christian churches, and Jewish Synagogues was begun, and temples in which idols were housed, clappers, and crosses were entirely eliminated from the region of Azerbaijan’.1 Similarly, the anonymous Syriac biographer of the Nestorian catholicos Yahballāhā III informs us that the order came from Nawrūz (Ghazan’s chief ally) that, ‘churches shall be uprooted and the altars overturned, and the celebrations of the Eucharist shall cease, and the hymns of praise, and the sounds of the calls to prayer shall be abolished.’2 Opportunistic attacks against non- Muslims in these turbulent times – which culminated in the official adoption of Islam by the Mongol Ilkhanate after decades of mainly non-Muslim rule – would cease once Ghazan (r. 695–703/1295–1304) had consolidated his rule, at least for the realm’s Christian and Jewish population.3 Nevertheless, the portrayals of these attacks occupy a special significance in both accounts of Ghazan’s rise to power. As court historian and panegyrist to the Ilkhans, Rashīd al-Dīn is keen to highlight the sincerity of Ghazan’s conversion to Islam and the restoration of Islamic sovereignty to Iran, of which attacks on non-Muslims were by-products.4

I would like to thank Harry Munt, Sara Nur Yıldız and Andrew Peacock for their invaluable comments on and corrections to previous drafts of this chapter. I would also like to thank Andrew Peacock for inviting me to an international workshop held in Istanbul which inspired the title of this contribution. It goes without saying that any remaining errors are my own. 1 Rashīd al-Dīn Faẓl Allah, Jami’u ’t-Tawarikh = Compendium of Chronicles, 3 vols, trans. Wheeler M. Thackston (Cambridge, MA: Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilisations, 1999), vol. 2, 627. 2 E.A. Wallis Budge (trans.), The Monks of Ḳûblâi Khân, Emperor of China (London: The Religious Tract Society, 1928), 210; Pier Giorgio Borbone (ed.), Tashʿītā d-Mār Yahballāhā wa-d- Rabban Ṣawmā (n.p.: Lulu, 2009), 46. 3 Buddhist lamas living in Iran on the other hand were given the choice of converting to Islam or returning to Kashmir, India and Tibet. For Ghazan’s policy towards Buddhism, and the treatment of Buddhists in the wake of Ghazan’s coming to power, see Ronald E. Emmerick and Prods Oktor Skӕrvø, ‘Buddhism’, EIr; Peter Jackson, ‘The Mongols and the Faith of the Conquered’, in Mongols, Turks and Others: Eurasian Nomads and the Outside World, ed. Reven Amitai and Michal Biran (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 274–5. 4 For an analysis of Rashīd al-Dīn’s account of Ghazan’s rise to power and ensuing events, see Charles Melville, ‘Padshah-i Islam: The Conversion of Sultan Mahmud Ghazan Khan’, 264 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

The biographer of Yahballāhā III on the other hand maintains that the hardships endured by non-Muslims were not a consequence of Ghazan’s conversion to Islam but rather of the cruelty and rapacity of Nawrūz and others advising the Ilkhan.5 Yet, in both accounts, the difficulties faced by non-Muslims during these uncertain times are memorialised by the targeting of visible and auditory aspects of their presence within Islamicate society – principally, religious buildings and the sounds emanating therefrom.

The Kitāb Uṣūl al-Dīn: Its Cultural Environment and Apologetic Agenda

My contribution to this volume addresses one aspect of the latter issue, that is, the Christian call to prayer by means of a percussion instrument known as nāqūs (pl. nawāqīs) in Arabic and Persian, henceforth referred to as the clapper.6 In a recent article on the regulation of the Muslim call to prayer by the Christian rulers of Aragon after the Council of Vienna in 1309, Olivia Remie Constable has shown that the ‘acoustic environment’ shared by Christians and Muslims in medieval Spain was often contentious, as ‘concerns expressed by both Muslims and Christians about the religious noise and public rituals of minority communities (whether the mosque call, the ringing of bells, or local pilgrimage) demonstrate inter-religious tensions in the Mediterranean World at the turn of the fourteenth century’.7 This chapter examines these inter-religious tensions as reflected in an Arabic theological compendium written in rhymed prose (sajʿ) entitled the Kitāb Uṣūl al-Dīn, composed in 701–2/1302–3 by ʿAbdīshōʿ bar Brīkhā (d. 7171/1318), a Nestorian8 Christian polymath and churchman whose literary

Pembroke Papers 1 (1990): 159–77, where it is shown convincingly that the persecution of Christians and Jews was most likely a temporary measure to raise much-needed cash, since Ghazan would later normalise relations with the Ilkhanate’s Christians once his rule had become firmly established (see esp. 170). 5 These themes are discussed by Heleen Murre-van den Berg, ‘The Church of the East in Mesopotamia in the Mongol Period’, in Jingjiao: The Church of the East in China and Central Asia, ed. Roman Malek (Sankt Augustin: Institut Monumenta Serica, 2006), 387–9. 6 See infra for further discussion of the definition of this term. 7 Olivia Remie Constable, ‘Regulating Religious Noise: The Council of Vienne, the Mosque Call and Muslim Pilgrimage in the Late Medieval Mediterranean World’, Medieval Encounters 16 (2010): 64. 8 The term ‘Nestorian’ has been highly contested by members of today’s Church of the East, and has been a subject of debate among modern scholars. Most notable among those who discourage its use in modern scholarship has been Sebastian P. Brock, ‘The ‘Nestorian’ Church: A Lamentable Misnomer’, in The Church of the East: Life and Thought, ed. James F. Coakley and Kenneth Parry (Manchester: John Rylands University Library, 1996), 23–35, while recent attempts at a rehabilitation of the term have been made by Nikolai Seleznyov, ‘Nestorius of Constantinople: Condemnation, Suppression, Veneration, with Special Reference to the Role of His Name in East Syriac Christianity’, Journal of Eastern Christian Studies 62, no. 3–4 (2010): 165–90. My decision to use the term is informed by the fact that ʿAbdīshōʿ himself designates his own confession as that of the ‘Nestorians’, madhhab al-naṣātira, in his Uṣūl al-Dīn (Beirut, Bibliothèque Orientale, MS 936, 53b). For a discussion of ʿAbdīshōʿ’s use of the term in an untitled Arabic profession of faith, see Salam Rassi, ‘Between ʿaṣabiyya and Ecumenism: ‘What Does the Clapper Say?’ 265 activities mainly took place in the region of today’s south-eastern Turkey, in the cities of Nisibis (where he served as a metropolitan of the Church of the East), Jazīrat ibn ʿUmar, and further north in Ahlat.9 Better known for his Syriac works,10 ʿAbdīshōʿ’s Uṣūl al-Dīn is preserved in a unique manuscript held at the Bibliothèque Orientale of the University of Saint Joseph, Beirut.11 The Uṣūl al-Dīn is an apologetic text intended to educate Christians about the foundational aspects of their religion, while instructing them on how their faith could be presented as wholly reasonable to hypothetical Muslim critics, in ways which will become clear further on. In terms of scope and aim, the Uṣūl al-Dīn belongs to a genre of Christian Arabic systematic theology which had been in development since early Abbasid times, although works of this kind by later authors have received far less attention in modern scholarship.12 The work is divided into 18 chapters, dealing first with theoretical topics such as the authenticity of the Christian scriptures and the doctrines of the Trinity and Incarnation, and moves on to address such devotional matters as the veneration of the Cross, fasting and prayer to the east. Included in the latter is a discussion of the use of the clapper in Christian worship. I aim to show here that by appealing to both Syriac and Arabic literary traditions, our author weaves a rich apologia for the use of the clapper as a valid and commendable means for calling the faithful to worship. To my knowledge, discourses on the church

ʿAbdīshōʿ bar Brīkhā’s Attitudes to Other Christians’, in Syriac in its Multi-Cultural Context, ed. Elif Keser-Kayaalp et al. (Leuven: Peeters, forthcoming). I also employ the terms ‘East Syrian’ in reference to adherents of the Church of the East, in contradistinction to ‘Jacobite’ or ‘West Syrian’ for followers of the Jacobite or Syrian Orthodox Church. 9 For a useful summary of the few facts we possess about ʿAbdīshōʿ’s life, see Hubert Kaufhold, introduction to The Nomocanon of Metropolitan Abdisho of Nisibis: A Facsimile Edition of MS 64 from the Collection of the Church of the East in Thrissur, ed. István Perczel (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2005), xvii–xxiv. 10 ʿAbdīshōʿ is best perhaps best remembered for his metrical catalogue of ecclesiastical writers, which was first published in Europe by Abraham Ecchelensis in 1653, thus laying the foundations for the systematic study of Syriac literature by later modern scholars. On the significance of ʿAbdīshōʿ’s catalogue in the early history of European Orientalism, see Hubert Kaufhold, ‘Abraham Ecchellensis et le Catalogue des livres de ‘Aḇdīšō‘ bar Brīḵā’, in Orientalisme, science et controverse: Abraham Ecchellensis (1605–1664), ed. Bernard Heyberger (Turnhout, Belgium: Brepols, 2010), 119–33. 11 Oxford, Bibliothèque orientale, MS 936 (hereafter referred to as MS Beirut 936). For a description of this manuscript and others (now lost), see Georg Graf, Geschichte der christlichen arabischen Literatur, 5 vols (Rome: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1944–1953), vol. 2, 216 and Ignace Abdo-Khalifé and François Baissari, Catalogue raisonné des manuscrits de la Bibliothèque orientale de l’Université Saint Joseph (seconde série), Mélange de l’Université Saint Joseph, vol. 29, fasc. 4 (Beirut: Imprimerie Catholique, 1951–52), 104–105. For a summary of the Uṣūl al-Dīn’s contents, see Bénédicte Landron, Chrétiens et Musulmans en Irak: Attitudes Nestoriennes vis-à- vis de l’Islam (Paris: Cariscript 1994), 127–8 and Herman G.B. Teule, ‘ʿAbdishoʿ of Nisibis’, in Christian–Muslim Relations: A Bibliographical History, vol. 4: (1200–1350), ed. David Thomas and Alex Mallett (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 759–60. 12 For the early phase of this genre’s evolution, see Sidney H. Griffith, The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque: Christians and Muslims in the World of Islam (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2008), 175–105. 266 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia clapper are something of a rarity in medieval Christian Arabic apologetic texts and systematic theologies,13 and it is not addressed in a better known theological work by ʿAbdīshōʿ, the Syriac Book of the Pearl.14 As such, I have included the text of the Uṣūl al-Dīn’s section on the clapper as an appendix to this chapter, followed by a translation. The Uṣūl al-Dīn was written in an environment where Christians lived as a political – if not a numerical – minority. Stephen Humphreys has shown that by the late-fourth/tenth century Christians maintained a strong presence in the northern Jazira (the region in which ʿAbdīshōʿ flourished), as attested by the geographers Ibn Ḥawqal and al-Muqaddasī, and often served as officials to Muslim rulers, although instances of this became markedly less by Ayyubid and Mamluk times.15 Nevertheless, Christians continued to flourish in the region by the time Mongol suzerainty had been established following Hülegü’s northward advance in 657–8/1259–60, after which much of the Jazira was ruled by vassal states, such as the Artuqids based in Mardin, Nisibis and later Āmid and Mayyāfariqīn (today Silvan), and the Ayyubids of Hisn Kayf (today Hasankeyf). Both the Church of the East and the Jacobites maintained thriving ecclesiastical provinces in and around the centres of Mardin, Nisibis and Āmid:16 ʿAbdīshōʿ’s

13 Sydney Griffith has identified two themes in medieval Christian Arabic apologetic literature: ‘primary topics’, which address the theoretical aspects of Christian belief, such as the Trinity and the Incarnation, while ‘secondary topics’ tend mostly to address matters of religious practice, such as the baptism, Eucharist and veneration of the Cross: Sydney H. Griffith, ‘Faith and Reason in Christian Kalām: Theodore Abū Qurrah on Discerning the True Religion’, in Christian Arabic Apologetics during the Abbasid Period (750–1258), ed. Samir Khalil Samir and Jørgen S. Nielsen (Leiden: Brill, 1994), 33–4. Similarly, Landron, in her masterful survey of Nestorian apologetic literature, limits her ‘secondary topics’ (similarly defined as ‘pratique religieuse’) to circumcision, ablution, prayer, prayer to the east, pilgrimage, veneration of the Cross and the cult of images: Landron, Chrétiens et Musulmans en Irak, 225–39. Although most of these themes are treated in the Uṣūl al-Dīn, I have been unable to find treatments of the church clapper in similar Christian Arabic works, at least not in those of Nestorian provenance. For example, the K. Uṣūl al-Dīn of the Nestorian catholicos Elias II ibn al-Muqlī (d. 526/1132), though similar in scope to ʿAbdīshōʿ’s own work, does not address the call to prayer. For Elias II’s discussion of Christian devotion, see Gianmaria Gianazza (ed.), Elie II: Kitāb Uṣūl al-Dīn, 2 vols (Beirut: CEDRAC, 2005), vol. 2, 339–67. 14 The Pearl limits its discussion of devotional practices to prayer, fasting, the veneration of the Cross, the Eucharist, prayer to the east, and the fastening of the prayer belt – without any mention of the striking of the clapper: for the Pearl’s sections on cultic practices, see ʿAbdīshōʿ bar Brīkhā, Ktābā d-metqre margānītā d-ʿal shrārā d-kresṭyānūtā, ed. Yōsip Qellāytā, 2nd edn (Mosul: Matbaʿtā ʾĀtōrāytā d-ʿĒdtā ʿAttīqtā d-Madinḥā, 1924), 45–54; see also English translation in Percy Badger, The Nestorians and Their Rituals, 2 vols (London: Joseph Masters, 1852), vol. 2, 413–18. 15 Stephen Humphreys, ‘Christian Communities in Early Islamic Syria and Northern Jazira: The Dynamics of Adaption’, in Money, Power and Politics in Early Islamic Syria, ed. John Haldon (Farnham: Ashgate, 2010), 48, 55. 16 For the Nestorian metropolitan see of Nisibis, which historically comprised many suffragan dioceses across the Jazira, see Jean Maurice Fiey, Nisibe. Métropole syriaque orientale et ses suffragants des origines á nos jours (Leuven: Peeters, 1977), esp. 104–105 for the seventh/ thirteenth to eighth/fourteenth centuries. For Jacobite ecclesiastical centres in the same ‘What Does the Clapper Say?’ 267 own metropolitan see of Nisibis and Armenia extended as far north as the city of Ahlat, on the shores of Lake Van, where he wrote his influential Book of the Pearl.17 Christians could also still be found among the region’s governing class. Even after the Ilkhanate’s official conversion to Islam under Ghazan, we hear from the biography of Yahballāhā that a high-ranking Christian amīr from the administration of Āmid (amīrā rabbā mhayman dubbār malkūtā), probably a Nestorian, travelled to Maragha in 703/1304 to visit the catholicos at the monastery of St John the Baptist.18 Vested power, however, was not always enough to guarantee peace and security for the region’s Syriac Christians, many of whom maintained a vulnerable existence. In 696/1297 the Jacobite bishop of Āmid was imprisoned and beaten and the Church of the Mother of God was sacked and burnt to the ground following an uprising against the Artuqid ruler Manṣūr Najm al-Dīn Ghāzī.19 By the late eighth/fourteenth century, it was not unknown for individual Syriac authors to attract unwanted attention from Muslim authorities. In 785/1383 the Jacobite writer Daniel al-Suryānī al-Mardīnī was incarcerated, tortured and later ransomed in Mardin after an apologetic treatise he wrote fell into the hands of a Muslim jurist.20 Although it is not known whether ʿAbdīshōʿ witnessed or experienced any such hardship, the context to the Uṣūl al-Dīn’s section on the church clapper is no less charged. The subaltern status of Christians living under Islamic rule by the turn of the eighth/fourteenth century meant that the sound of the clapper in times of prayer could not hope to enjoy the same cultural and legal standing as the adhān, the Muslim call to prayer. The conditions that defined the status of non-Muslims living under Islamic rule provided some Islamic scholars with the opinion that the clapper should be ‘struck only lightly’, as expressed, for example, in the ḥisba manual of the Egyptian Ibn Ukhuwwa (729/1329).21 Similarly, a letter to the Rūm Seljuq sultan ʿIzz al-Dīn Kaykāʾūs I by the Sufi thinker Ibn ʿArabī (d. 638/1240), who had settled in Anatolia after leaving his native al-Andalus, exhorts the former to take a hard line against the striking of church clapper by his Christian subjects, in accordance with the Pact of ʿUmar.22 Although the application of such legal provisions often depended on the disposition of the region, see Jean Maurice Fiey, Pour un Oriens Novus. Répertoire des dioceses syriaques orientaux et occidentaux (Beirut: Steiner, 1993), 157–63. 17 Kaufhold, introduction, xxi. 18 Borbone, Tashʿītā d-Mār Yahballāhā, 62; Budge, The Monks of Ḳûblâi Khân, 252–3. 19 Gregory John Bar Hebraeus, The Chronography of Gregory Abû’l Faraj the Son of Aaron, the Hebrew Physician Commonly Known as Bar Hebraeus, trans. E.A. Wallace Budge, 2 vols (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1932), vol. 1, 509, although here the Artuqid ruler is referred to by his epithet ‘al-Malik al-Ṣāliḥ’. 20 We learn of this incident from Daniel’s own testimony in an autobiographical note, edited by François Nau, ‘Rabban Daniel de Mardin, auteur syro-arabe du xive siècle’, Revue du orient chrétien 10 (1905): 314–18. 21 Muḥammad ibn Muḥammad al-Qurashī ibn Ukhuwwa, Maʿālim al-qurba fī aḥkām al-ḥisba, ed. Muḥammad Maḥmūd Shaʿbān (Cairo: al-Hayʾa al-Miṣriyya al-ʿĀmma li-al-Kitāb, 1976), 94. 22 The letter is preserved in Muḥammad ibn ʿAlī ibn Muḥammad ibn al-ʿArabī, al-Futūḥāt al-makkiyya, ed. ʿUthmān Yaḥyā, (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir, n.d.), vol. 4, 547. 268 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia ruler, the sounding of the clapper could be severely restricted in times political upheaval, as has been seen in the case of Ghazan’s rise to power in the Ilkhanate, thus laying bare tensions that existed between Christians and Muslims living in close proximity. However, while Muslims and Christians in such circumstances could often share a contentious acoustic space, so too did they share in what might be described as a ‘literary space’. A close, albeit preliminary, reading of the Uṣūl al-Dīn’s section on the church clapper reveals that by making use of literary genres known to educated members of both communities, ʿAbdīshōʿ selectively appropriates aspects of Arabic poetry and Islamic wisdom literature to vindicate the use of a devotional instrument known largely to be the province of a marginalised religious minority in the Islamicate world. My aim here is to present the Uṣūl al-Dīn’s discourse on the clapper as a form of proof-texting, whereby the traditional Syriac Christian understanding of the call to prayer is enhanced by proofs from outside the Syriac tradition. As such, ʿAbdīshōʿ not only engages with Arabic and Islamic sources to justify the use of the clapper against Muslim objections, but also uses them to elucidate his Church’s own teaching on the matter to a Christian readership, thus hinting at a catechetical purpose. Before proceeding any further, I think it necessary to qualify my rendering of the term nāqūs as ‘clapper’, since its meaning is not immediately obvious. Although often defined as ‘bell’ in Modern Arabic,23 the word nāqūs (deriving from the Syriac nāqōshā) is more appropriately described in its pre-modern sense as a wooden – and less frequently, brass – sounding board, struck with a mallet by priests and monks in times of prayer and liturgy,24 and is synonymous with the Greek semantron, an instrument which continues to be used today in some Eastern Orthodox monasteries.25 Its use is attested as early as Late Antiquity,26 and continued among Christian communities living under Islam throughout the Middle Ages.27 It would be gradually replaced by the church bell, a Latin Christian invention thought to have been introduced into Eastern Christendom by the

23 For modern meanings, see, for example, Hans Wehr, A Dictionary of Modern Written Arabic (Arabic-English), 4th edn (Otto Harassowitz: Wiesbaden, 1994), 1162; Martin Hinds and El-Said Badawi, A Dictionary of Egyptian Arabic: Arabic-English (Beirut: Librairie de Liban, 1986), 880. 24 For basic definitions of nāqūs, as well as references to the word’s Syriac etymology, see Georg Graf, Verzeichnis arabischer kirklicher Termini (Leuven: Imprimerie Orientaliste L. Durbecq, 1954), 110 and Frants Buhl, ‘Nāḳūs’, EI2. 25 For its use today in Mt. Athos and oth Eastern Orthodox monasteries, see Dimitri Conomos, ‘Semandron’, in The Concise Encylopedia of Eastern Orthodox Christianity, ed. John Anthony McGuckin (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2014), 559. 26 An early instance in Syriac sources occurs in the Lives of the Eastern Saints written in the 560s by John of Ephesus: E.W. Brooks, ed. and trans., John of Ephesus: Lives of the Eastern Saints (Patrologia Orientalis, vol. 17, fasc.1; Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1923), 254. Gratitude is owed to Sebastian Brock for providing me with this reference. 27 For early Byzantine Greek sources, particularly hagiographies, which mention semantra, see Edmund Venables, ‘Semantron, or Semanterion’, in A Dictionary of Christian Antiquities, ed. William Smith and Samuel Cheetham, 2 vols (Torronto: Willing and Williamson, 1880), vol. 2, 1879. ‘What Does the Clapper Say?’ 269

Crusaders, although this process has not been well documented.28 The nāqōshā is described by the Syriac lexicon of Ḥasan bar Bahlūl (fl. mid-fourth/mid-tenth century) as a symbol of the cross (zqīpā) on which Christ was nailed, presumably a reference to its wooden manufacture.29 While bells appear to have enjoyed an earlier adoption by Mozarabic Christians in al-Andalus,30 by the turn of the eighth/fourteenth century Christian communities in the eastern Mediterranean were still known by their Muslim neighbours to employ clappers. The Arabic lexicographer Muḥammad ibn Mukarram ibn Manẓūr (d. 711/1311/12), for example, defines nāqūs as the ‘striking board (miḍrāb) of the Christians, which they strike to [signal] the times of prayer’,31 further elaborating that it comprises a long plank of wood (al-khashaba al-ṭawīla) and a short wooden mallet (al- wabīla al-qaṣīra)32 – although his definitions can be sometimes conservative and prescriptive, relying as they do on earlier sources.33 Nevertheless, it would appear that the nāqūs continued to be known as a wooden percussion instrument in the eastern Islamicate world until the introduction of the bell, as is suggested from the secretarial manual of Shihāb al-Dīn al-Qalqashandī (d. 821/1418), which informs us that, ‘When Christians wish to pray, they strike a clapper, which is an oblong plank of wood of a certain length, struck with a small piece of wood, and thus they gather.’34

28 To my knowledge, precious few studies have examined the gradual disappearance of clappers in churches throughout the Middle East due to the increasing popularity of bells. One attempt has been made by Habib Zayat, Les couvents chrétiens en terre d’Islam. Extrait du Machriq (Beirut: Imprimérie Catholique, 1938), 98–9. Here Zayat reasons that bells must have been introduced to the region no earlier than the Crusades, though this must necessarily remain speculative in the absence of documentary and material evidence. Zayat does, however, provide evidence from late-medieval and early modern European travel accounts which attest to the persistence of clappers and the rarity of bells among Christian communities in Mount Lebanon and Egypt as late as the seventeenth century (Zayat, Les couvents chrétiens, 99). 29 Rubens Duval (ed.), Lexicon Syriacum auctore Hassano bar Bahlule e pluribus codicibus edidit et notulis instruxit, 2 vols (Paris: e Reipublicæ typographæo, 1901), vol. 2, 1272. The Syriac-Arabic glossary of ʾῙshōʿ bar ʿAlī simply gives us the definition ‘that which is found in monasteries’ (alladhī fī l-diyārāt): Richard J.H. Gottheil (ed.), The Syriac-Arabic Glosses of Isho‘bar ‘Ali. Part 2 taw- nūn, Edited from the Manuscripts of Oxford, London, Paris, Berlin, Leyden and Rome (Rome: Tipografia della R. Accademia dei Lincei, 1908), 92. 30 As might be suggested by Eulogius of Cordoba (d. 859), who describes Muslim attitudes to the Christian call to prayer in the following way: ‘As soon as they hear the sound of clanging metal in their ears, as if beguiled by a false superstition, they begin to exercise their tongues in all kinds of swearing and foulness.’ Translated by Edward P. Colbert, The Martyrs of Cordoba (850– 859) (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1962), 256–7, quoted by John H. Arnold and Caroline Goodson, ‘Resounding Community: The History and Meaning of Medieval Church Bells’, Viator 43, no. 1 (2012): 113. 31 Muḥammad ibn Mukarram ibn Manẓūr, Lisān al-ʿarab, 20 vols (Cairo: al-Ṭabʿa al-Kubrā al-Miṣriyya, 1300–1308/1882–1891), vol. 8, 126. 32 Ibn Manẓūr, Lisān al-ʿarab, vol. 8, 126. 33 Ibn Manẓūr’s definition appears to be reliant on Abū Manṣūr b. Aḥmad al-Azharī (d. 370/980), Tahdhīb al-lugha, 15 vols (Beirut: Dār Iḥyāʾ al-Turāth al-ʿArabī, 2001), vol. 12, 312. 34 Quoted in Zayat, Les couvents chrétiens, 90. 270 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

The Clapper between Bellelettristic Prose and Biblical Apocrypha

ʿAbdīshōʿ’s exposition of the church clapper can roughly be divided into two parts: it begins by outlining the Church’s traditional explanation of its origins and reason for its use by Christians, followed by a reflection on the spiritual significance of the clapper’s sounds. Beginning with clapper’s origins, ʿAbdīshōʿ sets out the premise that the Church is modelled on the Ark of Noah (al-safīna al-nūḥiyya), and explains that it is necessary to ‘make silent its caller’ (yajʿala munādīyahā ṣāmitan), as revealed (ʿan waḥyin) by God.35 Before continuing, it should be noted that ʿAbdīshōʿ refers to God here by the epithet ‘Owner of All’, mālik al-mulk, which is better known for its use in the Qurʾan to convey God’s uncontested sovereignty over creation,36 thus lending the language of ʿAbdīshōʿ’s Christian apologia what Sydney Griffith has referred to in other medieval Arabic Christian texts as a ‘Muslim caste.’37 This strategy is employed in an earlier work by ʿAbdīshōʿ, a rhymed Arabic translation of the Syriac gospel readings from the East Syrian breviary, arguably to challenge the purported inimitability of Islam’s revealed scripture.38 The Qurʾanic stylisation of the Uṣūl al-Dīn’s Arabic is interesting since ʿAbdīshōʿ is far less willing to engage with Arabic literary forms in his Syriac works. In fact, he expresses outright disdain for what he perceives as the arrogance of Arab poets and rhetoricians in the preface to his famous Syriac work of poetry, the Paradise of Eden. In order to demonstrate the superiority of the Syriac language, he composed 50 poetic discourses to rival the 50 popular maqāmāt of Abū Muḥammad al-Qāsim al-Ḥarīrī (d. 516/1122).39 Yet, the very adoption of rhymed prose in ʿAbdīshōʿ’s Uṣūl al-Dīn suggests an attempt to frame Christian doctrine in a style that conformed to the literary sensibilities of the Arabic-speaking audience of his day, for the genre of maqāmāt frequently employs rhymed prose and had by the seventh/thirteenth century attained a high level of popularity and prestige in elite circles.40 The adoption therefore of rhymed Arabic prose in the Uṣūl al-Dīn – reminiscent of both the Qurʾan and maqāmāt – indicates an

35 MS Beirut 936, 124b. 36 Q 3: 26; cf. 36: 83; 39: 6; 64: 1; 67: 1: Alexander D. Knysh, ‘Possession and Possessions’, in Encyclopaedia of the Qurʾān 5 (2004): 184–7, esp. 184. 37 This description is applied to early Abbassid Christian Bible translations that employ terms which, ‘though not perhaps exclusively Islamic, are thoroughly Muslim in resonance’ (Sydney H. Griffith, The Bible in Arabic: The Scriptures of the ‘People of the Book’ in the Language of Islam [Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2013], 137). 38 See Samir Khalil Samir, ‘Une réponse implicite à l’i‘ǧāz du Coran: l’Évangéliaire rimé de ‘Abdišū‘’, Proche-Orient Chrétien 35 (1985): 225–37. 39 ʿAbdīshōʿ bar Brīkhā, Pardaysā da-ʿden d-sīm b-mēʾmrē tqīlay b-mushshḥātā, ed. Yosip d-Qellaytā, 2nd edn (Mosul: Maṭbaʿtā ʾĀtōrāytā d-ʿĒdtā d-Madnḥā, 1928), 3–4. The significance of this passage is discussed by Naoya Katsumata, ‘The Style of the Maqāma: Arabic, Persian, Hebrew, Syriac’, Arabic and Middle Eastern Literatures 5, no. 2 (2002): 122–3 and Helen Younansardaroud, ‘ʿAḇdīšōʿ bar Brīḵā’s († 1318) Book of Paradise: A Literary Renaissance?’ in The Syriac Renaissance, ed. Herman G.B. Teule et al. (Leuven: Peeters, 2010), 203, note 37. 40 For the popularity of maqāmāt and other forms of rhymed-prose in post-classical literature, see Muhsin Musawi, ‘Pre-modern Belletristic Prose’, in Arabic Literature in the Post- ‘What Does the Clapper Say?’ 271 attempt to dispel doubts about the legitimacy of a particular tradition (in this instance, the use of the church clapper) by employing language intended to convince and compel.41 Returning now to our text, we learn that the divine revelation mentioned above is that given to the prophet Noah. ʿAbdīshōʿ relates an ‘ancient tradition’ (fī ʿatīqatin min al-akhbār) that the Biblical patriarch was instructed to fashion a clapper (nāqūs) from wood (min al-khashaba) according to ‘well-attested proportions and simple design (ʿalā nisbatin maʿlūma, wa-rutbatin mafhūma)’42 and to strike it in order to fulfil two objectives. The first was to assemble his workmen during the Ark’s construction and to signal the times of meals (li- tanāwuli l-qūt).43 Once the Ark was completed and the flood underway, the latter function of the clapper was to bring people to safety from the flood, whilst Noah called out, ‘Whosever enter is saved! Whosoever enters is saved! (man jāʾa najā, man jāʾa najā).44 In this narrative, the Ark serves as an analogy of the Church as salvation from drowning in this life and the hereafter, vividly illustrated in the following way:

And just as He saved those entering the Ark from the actual drowning [al- gharq al-maḥsūs] while destroying those persistent in transgressing the Law, so too are those entering steadfastly into the houses of worship saved from the metaphorical drowning [al-gharq al-maʿqūl] while He destroys those persisting in the erroneous belief that entry is unprofitable. And just as the clapper on the Ark was a call to meet for [its] construction and the provision of food in the first instance, while warning those unmindful of the destructive flood in the second instance, so does the clapper also incite the faithful, in the first instance, to meet in purity of mind and to perform religious good works, and provides knowledge and the Divine Mysteries which strengthen the pursuit of godly obligation that brings [the hearer] closer to the Divine Presence. In the second instance, it exhorts the people to escape destruction in the deluge of sin and error which destroys the people of the world failing to worship the Revered Lord.45

Classical Period, ed. Roger Allen and Donald Sydney Richards (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 99–133. 41 For the centrality of rhymed-prose and poetic in the communication of ideas and the art of persuasion in post-Abbasid Arabic literature, see, for example, Thomas Bauer, ‘Mamluk Literature: Misunderstanding and New Approaches’, Mamlūk Studies Review 9, no. 2 (2005): 108–12. An earlier work, the Kitāb al-Majdal of ʿAmr ibn Mattā (fl. fifth/eleventh century), readily employs rhyme, rhetorical figures and Qurʾanic stock phrases in order to achieve a similar effect: Bo Holburg, ‘Language and Thought inKitāb al-majdal, bāb 2, faṣl 1, al-dhurwa’, in Christians at the Heart of Islamic Rule: Church Life and Scholarship in ʿAbbāsid Iraq, ed. David Thomas (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 159–75. 42 MS Beirut 936, 124b. 43 MS Beirut 936, 125a. 44 MS Beirut 936, 125a. 45 MS Beirut 936, 125a–125b. 272 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Although ʿAbdīshōʿ expresses these words in Arabic, the concept of the Church as spiritual salvation from the deluge of sin is most certainly an old one in the Syriac tradition. It is evidenced in such early writers as Ephrem the Syrian (fl. 306–373 ce), whose poetry presents a ‘soteriological archetype’ in the figure of the Biblical patriarch Noah, as put by Christopher Buck.46 However, the ‘ancient tradition’ cited by ʿAbdīshōʿ is in fact a retelling of the Biblical flood narrative in the Book of the Cave of Treasures, a collection of Syriac Apocrypha often (though erroneously) attributed to Ephrem the Syrian, thought by modern scholars to date as early as the fifth century.47 According to the Cave of Treasures, Noah is instructed by God to construct a clapper (nāqōshā) from boxwood that does not rot (qaysā d-ʾeshkārʿā d-lā mballaṭ), three cubits long and one and a half cubits in latitude – most likely the ‘well-attested proportions and simple design’ referred to by ʿAbdīshōʿ – and a mallet (ʾarezaptā) from the same type of wood.48 This clapper, the account continues, was to be struck three times a day:

Once in the morning to gather the workmen (ʾawmānē) together for the construction of the Ark (la-ʿbādā d-qēbūtā); in the middle of the day for food; and once at sunset so that they may rest. And when they hear the sound of the clapper and say to you, ‘What is this that you have made?’ you will say, ‘God has made a flood of water!’49

The Cave of Treasures narrative of the Ark’s construction recurs in later retellings of Biblical history, particularly in Syriac world chronicles. It is found, for example, in the West Syrian chronicle of Pseudo-Dionysius50 and the Anonymous Chronicle to 1234.51 But in order to better understand the apologetic agenda behind

46 Christopher Buck, Paradise and Paradigm: Key Symbols in Persian Christianity and the Bahāʾī Faith (Albany, NY: State University of New York, 1999), 206. One particular hymn by Ephrem reads: ‘[Noah’s] Ark marked out by its course the sign of its Preserver / the Cross of its steersman and the wood of its sailor / who has come to fashion for us the Church in the waters [of baptism]’ (reshmat b-yubbālēh nīshēh d-nāṭōrēh / ṣlībēh d-sappānēh w-qaysā d-mallāḥēh / d-ʾettā merkab ʿēdtā bgāw mayyā): Edmund Beck (ed.), Des heiligen Ephraem des Syrers Hymnen de Fide (Leuven: L. Durbecq, 1955), 157. 47 See Clemens Leonhard, ‘Cave of Treasures (M’arrat Gazze)’, in Gorgias Encyclopedic Dictionary of the Syriac Heritage (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2011), 90–91. 48 Su-Min Ri (ed. and trans.), Les caverne des trésors, 2 vols (Leuven: CSCO, 1987), vol. 1, 108–109 (Syriac text); vol. 2, 43 (French trans.); E.A. Wallis Budge (trans.), The Book of the Cave of Treasures: A History of the Patriarchs and the Kings, Their Successors, from the Creation to the Crucifixion of Christ (London: The Religious Tract Society, 1927), 100. 49 Ri, Les caverne des trésors, 108–11 (Syriac text); 43 (French trans.); 43; Budge, The Book of the Cave of Treasures, 100. 50 Jean-Baptiste Chabot (ed. and trans.), Incerti auctoris Chronicon Pseudo-Dionysianum vulgo dictum (Leuven: CSCO, 1927–1949), vol. 1, 8 (Syriac text); vol. 3, 5. For Pseudo-Dionysius’s account (with Latin translation), see also extract in Thomas Joseph Lamy (ed. and trans.), Dissertatio de Syrorum fide et disciplina in re Eucharistica (Leuven: Vanlinthout, 1859), 252. 51 Jean Baptiste Chabot (ed. and trans.), Anonymi auctoris Chronicon ad A.C. 1234, 4 vols (Leuven: CSCO, 1965–1974), vol. 1, 41; vol. 3, 22. I am much indebted to Andy Hilkens for this reference. ‘What Does the Clapper Say?’ 273

ʿAbdīshōʿ’s explanation of the clapper, we must look to its liturgical context, for it is in Syriac Christian liturgical commentaries that discussions about the call to prayer more frequently occur.52 The earliest of those produced under Muslim rule do not appear apologetic in nature. Commentaries on the Eucharist by West Syrian writers Jacob of Edessa (d. 89/708) and Moses bar Kepha (d. 290/903), for example, do not allude to the Muslim call to prayer, but rather offer a spiritual interpretation of the clapper, describing it as a trumpet call against evil53 – an argument likely to have been taken from a homily by Jacob of Serugh (c. 451–521), who incites the reader to do battle with Satan (qarbā d-ʿam Sāṭānā) upon hearing the clapper’s call, though there is no mention of Noah’s use of it.54 Similarly, a later text spuriously attributed to the Church of the East catholicos Simon bar Ṣabbāʿē (martyred fourth century ce) entitled Book of the Fathers, speaks of Noah as the clapper’s originator, who, ‘when he wished to announce to humanity of the chastisements to come, struck wood against wood’.55 However, in the commentary on the Eucharist by the polemicist and Jacobite bishop of Āmid, Dionysius bar Ṣalībī (d. 566/1171) we detect a far more combative tone as he alludes to Muslim rulers who would restrict the call to prayer of their Christian subjects. After citing by name Jacob of Serugh’s homily, he declares: ‘What will the enemies of the cross (bʿeldbābē da-ṣlībā) and those who forbid the clapper in their countries say against the word of the Doctors?’56 Dionysius then moves on

52 This is unsurprising since we have already observed in the above passage that ʿAbdīshōʿ likens the provision of food to Noah’s workmen, as signalled by the clapper, to the administering of the sacraments by the Church. 53 Sebastian P. Brock, ‘Jacob of Edessa’s Discourse on the Myron’, Oriens Christianus 63 (1979): 20–36; Richard Hugh Connolly and Humphrey William Codrington (ed. and trans.), Two Commentaries on the Jacobite Liturgy by George Bishop of the Arab Tribes and Moses Bar Kēphā: Together with the Syrac Anaphora of St James and a Document Entitled The Book of Life (London: Williams and Norgate, 1913), 25 (English trans.); 17 (Syriac text). For Moses bar Kepha’s reliance on earlier sources, see Baby Varghese, West Syrian Liturgical Theology (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004), 26. An unpublished liturgical commentary of the East Syrian Gabriel of Qatar (fl. early seventh century) also offers an explanation of the church clapper; however, I was unable to consult it in time for publication in this volume. For a summary of the contents of a single manuscript which preserves this work, see Sebastian P. Brock, ‘Gabriel of Qatar’s Commentary on the Liturgy’, Hugoye 6, no. 2 (2009): 197–248, esp. 203–204. I am most grateful to Sebastian Brock for bringing this reference to my attention. 54 The homily is unpublished, though it is cited in a commentary on the Eucharist by Dionysius bar Ṣalībī (d. 1171) (on whom more below): Dionysius bar Ṣalībī, Expositio liturgiae, Jérôme Lambourt (Leuven: L. Durbecq, 1955), 42 (Latin trans.); 14 (Syriac text); Dionysius Bar Ṣalībī, The Commentary of Dionysius Bar Salibi on the Eucharist, trans. Baby Varghese (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2011), 14. I have, however, managed to locate the Syriac text in Mardin, Church of the Forty Martyrs, MS 259, 191b–192a, thanks to recent digitising efforts by the Hills Manuscript Museum Library, St. John’s University. 55 Translated in Jean Parisot, Le Livres des Pères ou Ketabha dh’Abhahata (extrait de la Science Catholique, quatrième année, nos 5 et 6. Mai, juin 1890) (Paris: Delhomme et Briguet, 1890), 35. Parisot bases his reading on MS Berlin 108 (Sachau 360), which I was unable to consult in time for this publication. As such, I base my translation on Parisot’s. 56 Bar Ṣalībī, Expositio liturgiae, 42–3 (Latin trans.); 42–3 (Syriac text). 274 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia to state a clear preference for the church clapper as opposed to any other means of calling the faithful to prayer:

From where have learnt that the clapper shall be sounded in church? We say that it is written in many histories [tashʿyātā yattīrātā] thus: When God commanded Noah to build the Ark, [He] also [commanded him] to fashion a clapper. In the morning he struck it to assemble the workers of the Ark, then at midday so that they could eat, and then in the evening so that they could retire from work. Furthermore, we say that the clapper is made from wood because it reaches the hearing [rāhēṭ l-mashmaʿtā] faster than the human voice [qālā d-barnāshā] and invites the people to prayer.57

Although there is no discussion of Muslims in his Commentary, Dionysius may well have had the adhān in mind when expressing the inadequacies of the ‘human voice’. While ʿAbdīshōʿ does not allude to the difficulties faced by Christians in Muslim lands, he is no less uncompromising in his preference for the clapper above all other means of calling people to prayer, and even mentions the Muslim call to prayer by name. After outlining the tradition of Noah’s use of the clapper as the underlying rationale for the Christian practice, he concludes: ‘This is the reason why [we] use the clapper to know the times of prayer, without relying on the cry of the herald and the call to prayer of the muezzin (adhān al-muʾadhdhin).’ 58

The Clapper in Arabic Poetry and Islamic Wisdom Literature

In ʿAbdīshōʿ’s scheme, and arguably in Bar Ṣalībī’s, the role of the figure of Noah serves to firmly root the use of the clapper in prophetic authority and ancient tradition, thus arguing that it is worthy of Muslim respect and not simply a Christian innovation. This now brings us to the second part of the Uṣūl al-Dīn section on the clapper. In addition to its purported origins, we have observed its representation as an admonition to piety, exhorting the faithful to escape the spiritual deluge, just as Noah escaped the worldly deluge. This theme is elaborated upon when ʿAbdīshōʿ turns his attention to the meanings ‘encapsulated in the number of its knocks and the scale of its strikes’.59 Firstly, the sound made from the striking of this instrument is said to glorify God, expressing the ‘the Creator’s unity (waḥdāniyya), the power of His divinity, the majesty of His exaltedness, and the breadth of His power’.60 Secondly, ʿAbdīshōʿ continues, the clapper incites the hearer ‘to yearn for God’s forgiveness of us’.61 In an unexpected turn, however, ʿAbdīshōʿ rests the authority of this statement on the interpretation of ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib (d. 40/661), the son-in-law and cousin

57 Ibid., vol. 1, 13–15 (Latin trans.); 42–3 (Syriac text). 58 Ms. Beirut 936, 126a. 59 Ibid. 60 Ibid. 61 Ibid. ‘What Does the Clapper Say?’ 275 of the Prophet Muḥammad, fourth of the ‘Rightly Guided’ caliphs and the first Shiʿite imam, whom our author refers to by name and even applies the salutation raḍīya llāhu ʿanhu, ‘may God be pleased with him.’62 The scene of ʿAlī’s interpretation begins with a transmission line of the narrators Muḥammad ibn Mūsā ibn al-Sukkarī, Aḥmad ibn ʿAbd al-Raḥmān and Ibn al-Kawwāʾ.63 The latter, a companion of ʿAlī, reports that he was with the caliph outside the city of al-Ḥīra when they heard the sound of the clapper being struck. Ibn al-Kawwāʾ proceeded to mock it (wa-jaʿaltu utʿisahu), only to rebuked by ʿAlī for not knowing that the clapper was in fact ‘speaking’ (yatakallamu). After expressing puzzlement, ʿAlī declares to him, ‘By He Who split the seed and created the living being, every blow that falls upon blow and knock upon knock does naught but speak a parable and provide knowledge.’64 To this Ibn al-Kawwāʾ asks, ‘So what does the clapper say?’ ʿAlī’s response is given in the following lines of poetry:

Glorious is God, truly, truly the Lord alone remains. He judges us, kindly, kindly, for without his love we’d despair. We’ve forsaken the house unending and settled in a house of ruin. None among the living remains Except in death closest to Him. The world has deceived us and seduced us and beguiled us. Not a day goes by that doesn’t attack our cornerstone, This world’s dead, generation, generation, moving, moving, burying, burying. O world’s son, slowly, slowly Increase in good works and you’ll reap love. O Lord, we’ve exceeded our bounds; we have transgressed and slackened. Your mercy has rewarded us, Thus, we have awoken; have mercy on us!65

These verses of poetry follow a rare convention in Classical Arabic prosody known as daqq al-nāqūs, ‘the knock of the clapper’, as it was thought to be

62 Ibid. 63 Ibid. 64 Ibid. 65 Ibid., 126b–127a. My translation closely follows that of a similar account of ʿAlī by Tahera Qutbuddin (ed. and trans.), A Treasury of Virtues: Sayings, Sermons and Teachings of ʿAlī with One Hundred Proverbs Attributed to al-Jāḥiẓ (New York: New York University Press, 2013), 152–5, which will be discussed in further detail below. 276 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia imitative of its sound and rhythm.66 It is based on a very regular pattern of eight syllables (two equally short ones per word) in each hemistich, illustrated by the anapaests faʿlun faʿlun faʿlun faʿlun / faʿlun faʿlun faʿlun faʿlun;67 or in this case, clap- clap, clap-clap, clap-clap / clap-clap, clap-clap, clap-clap, clap-clap! Something of a rarity in Arabic poetry, there has been some debate over daqq al-nāqūs’s precise definition within the traditional scheme of Classical Arabic metrics.68 In most instances, however, variations of the above poem are cited in medieval works of Arabic prosody to illustrate the metrical scheme of daqq al-nāqūs.69 But of greater relevance to this discussion is the monotonous rhythm of daqq al-nāqūs, which perhaps moved the prosodist Yaḥyā ibn ʿAlī al-Tibrīzī (d. 502/1109) to describe it as qaṭr al-mīzāb, ‘the dripping of the drainpipe’.70 Geert van Gelder has recently noted the sense of gloom and foreboding that this metre evokes,71 a mood which would fit well with the moralising character of

66 For a recent and thorough discussion of daqq al-nāqūs’s typology and use in Classical Arabic poetry, see Geert Jan van Gelder, Sound and Sense in Classical Arabic Poetry (Leipzig: Harrassowitz, 2012), 108–23. 67 I borrow here the metrical scheme’s illustration by Abū al-Qāsim Maḥmūd ibn ʿUmar Zamakhsharī, al-Qisṭās al-mustaqīm fī ʿilm al-arūḍ, ed. Bahīja al-Ḥasanī (Baghdad: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 1969), 232–3. 68 For example, Zamakhsharī (d. 538/1144) considers this metre a type of mutadārik, the sixteenth metre added to the Khalīlian system of metrics (added to the al-Khalīl’s original 15 metres by al-Afkhash), as does ʿAbd al-Wahhāb ibn Ibrahīm Zanjānī (d. 660/1261) (Zamakhsharī, al-Qisṭās al-mustaqīm, 232, ʿAbd al-Wahhāb ibn Ibrahīm Zanjānī, Miʿyār al-nuẓẓār fī ʿulūm al-ashʿar, ed. Muḥammad Rizq al-Khafājī, 2 vols (Cairo: Dār al-Maʿārif, 1119/1991), vol. 1, 84. Yaḥyā ibn ʿAlī al-Tibrīzī (d. 502/1109), on the other hand, definesdaqq al-nāqūs as a kind of mutaqārib, the fifteenth metre in the Khalīlian system: Yaḥyā ibn ʿAlī al-Tibrīzī, al-Kāfī fī al-ʿarūḍ wa-al-qawāfī, ed. Shams al-Dīn Ibrahīm (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 2003), 97. On mutadārik and its types, see more generally M. Ben Cheheb, ‘Mutadārik’, EI2. Geert Jan van Gelder, however, has recently called into question the definition ofdaqq al-nāqūs as a kind of mutadārik, or indeed as any kind of metre, arguing that ‘[T]raditional Arabic poetry is metrical, on a quantitative basis, which means that there is a pattern of longs and shorts – the word ‘pattern’ if there are only longs and shorts: there is merely a drab uniformity. A prosody based on quantity without distinction between quantities, short and long, is a contradiction in terms. The perfect uniformity, the regularity and the symmetry of LLLLLLLL run counter to the essence of Arabic prosody’ (Van Gelder, Sound and Sense, 113). 69 Zamakhsharī cites only two verses of the poem, without attribution (Zamakhsharī, al- Qisṭās al-Mustaqīm, 232–3). Abū al-ʿAlāʾ al-Maʿarrī (d. 449/1058) has one Abū Mālik al-Ashajʿī as the tradition’s narrator, with ʿAlī reciting a variant of the poem in al-Ḥīra after returning heavy- hearted from the Battle of Ṣiffīn (Abū ʿAlāʾ al-Maʿarrī, Risālat al-ṣāhil wa-al-shāhij, ed. ʿĀʾisha ʿAbd al-Raḥmān bint al-Shāṭiʾ [Cairo: Dār al-Maʿārif, 1975], 24–5). Al-Tibrīzī also provides a poem attributed to ʿals though equally varied (al-Tibrīzī, al-kāfī fī al-ʿarūḍ, 97). Muḥammad ibn ʿImrān al-Marzūbānī (d. 384/994) attributes a similar poem as Abū al-ʿAṭāhīya (d. 130/748)) (Muḥammad ibn ʿImrān al-Marzūbānī, al-Muwashshaḥ fī maʾʼkhūdh al-ʿulamāʾ ʿalā al-Shuʿarāʾ, ed. Muḥammad Ḥusayn Shams al-Dīn [Cairo: al-Maṭbaʿat al-Salafiyya, 1343/1924], 256). 70 al-Tibrīzī, al-kāfī fī al-ʿarūḍ, 97; cf. Zayat, Les couvents chrétiens, 93, Van Gelder, Sound and Sense, 114. 71 Van Gelder, Sound and Sense, 114, making an apt comparison between the famous lines from John Donne’s Meditations upon Emergent Occasions ‘never send to know for whom the bells tolls; they toll for thee!’ and the interpretation of the clapper attributed to ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib. ‘What Does the Clapper Say?’ 277

ʿAbdīshōʿ’s discourse. It is perhaps also worth mentioning that the lines of verse attributed to ʿAlī are representative of the ‘ubi sunt qui ante nos fuere’ motif of pre- Islamic and Islamo-Arabic poetry associated with the late antique Arab Christian city of al-Ḥīra, which remained strong in the literary imagination and cultural memory of later medieval writers.72 These themes often reflect on the transience of this world and exhort the listener to contemplate life in the next. In one such narrative, set during a hunting expedition in al-Ḥīra, the Christian Arab poet ʿAdī ibn Zayd (d. 600 ce) offers exhortatory ‘interpretations’ of the wisdom of certain inanimate objects, namely a tree and a gravestone, to the Lakhmid king al-Nuʿmān ibn Mundhir, moving the latter to convert to Christianity and become an ascetic.73 ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib’s meditation on the clapper’s wisdom is featured in an earlier source the Dustūr al-Maʿālim wa’l-Ḥikam of Abū ʿAbd Allāh Muḥammad ibn Salāma al-Quḍāʿī (d. 454/1062), although it contains notable divergences from the tradition cited by ʿAbdīshōʿ. For example, no transmission line is given and the companion to whom the clapper is interpreted is al-Ḥārith al-Aʿwar.74 ʿAlī is known in such accounts for his renown in the art of Arabic eloquence and ascetic piety, occurring not only in works of medieval prosody but also Arabic wisdom literature, which transmits many of the his aphorisms and spiritual teachings.75 It is perhaps unsurprising therefore that ʿAbdīshōʿ finds such an ideal interpreter of the church clapper in the figure of ʿAlī, given the emphasis placed on repentance in the Flood narrative. And yet the Uṣūl al-Dīn’s engagement with ʿAlī’s ethical teachings is not without its contentions, as ʿAbdīshōʿ himself points out that some unnamed Muslims accuse Christians of inventing the tradition ‘to improve the image of the clapper (li-taḥsīni amri l-nāqūs)’. However, he does not attempt to refute the claim with any evidence, perhaps suggesting that it is not Muslims he seeks to convince but rather Christians who require assurance that their call to prayer is grounded in tradition. I am not aware of any such explicit objections to the tradition’s authenticity, but it should be noted here that it does not occur in the Nahj al-Balāgha of al-Sharīf al-Raḍī (d 406/1016), a collection of ʿAlī’s sermons and narrations which remains popular to this day.76 Nor is it discussed by two

72 See Adam Talib, ‘Topoi and Topography in the Histories of al-Ḥīra’, in History and Identity in the Late Antique Near East, ed. Philip Wood (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 7–47. 73 Quoted and discussed by Ṭālib, ‘Topoi and Topography’, 131–2. 74 Qutbuddin, A Treasury of Virtues, 152–5. 75 Several studies have addressed the ethical and spiritual dimensions of ʿAlī’s teachings. See, for example, Dimitri Gutas, ‘Classical Arabic Wisdom Literature: Nature and Scope’, Journal of the American Oriental Society 101, No. 1 (1981): 49–86, esp. 60; Leonard Lewisohn, ‘ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib’s Ethics of Mercy in the Mirror of the Persian Sufi Tradition’, in The Sacred Foundations of Justice in Islam, ed. Ali Lakhani (New York: I.B. Tauris, 2007), 109–46; Tahera Qutbuddin, ‘The Sermons of ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib: at the Confluence of the Core Islamic Teachings of the Qurʾan and the Oral, Nature-Based Cultural Ethos of Seventh Century Arabia’, Anuario de estudios medievales 42, no. 1 (2012), 201–28. 76 For a general overview, together with references to its corpus of commentaries, see Moktar Djebli, ‘Nahj al-Balagha’, EI2. 278 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia of the Nahj al-Balāgha’s best-known seventh/thirteenth century commentators, Ibn Abī al-Ḥadīd (d. 656/1258) and Maytham al-Baḥrānī (d. 698/1299).77 A later version of it occurs in an anonymous eighth/fourteenth century collection of ʿAlī’s sayings, at the end of which a Christian monk converts to Islam after hearing the imam’s words, declaring, ‘I have found in the Torah that after the final prophet [i.e. Muḥammad], what the clapper says would be explained’78 – thus presenting ʿAlī’s sermon as an exhortation to Islamic conversion rather than a general reflection on piety. In a similar vein, theManāqib Amīr al-Muʾminīn of the Shiʿite traditionist Muḥammad ibn Sulaymān al-Kūfī (fl. third/tenth century) reports one tradition in which Muḥammad praises ʿAlī’s spiritual perfection by warning him against Muslims who might preserve as a relic the dirt on which he trod, in the manner of the Christians, implying that such practices be viewed with suspicion.79 Moreover, a legal treatise by the Egyptian jurist Taqī al-Dīn al- Subkī (d. 755/1355) invokes a tradition mentioned by al-Ṭabarī that during his caliphate, ʿAlī banished the Christian population from Kūfa and forced them to settle in al-Ḥira – cited as justification for the strict application of the dhimma where the building and repair of churches in Muslim cities is concerned.80 The question of whether ʿAbdīshōʿ was aware of ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib’s purported antagonisms towards Christians cannot be answered here. However, we may note that the figure of ʿAlī as a paragon of ascetic virtue had gained wide currency in Islamicate society by ʿAbdīshō’s lifetime. Accounts of ʿAlī’s words and deeds enjoyed a broad readership among Muslims in Islamicate society of the later middle period (1258–c.1500), and not only among Shiʿites. As Marshall Hodgson has noted, the Nahj al-Balāgha was treated ‘almost as a secondary scripture after the Qurʾan and ḥadīth even among many Jamāʿī-Sunnis’.81 Alid

77 ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd ibn Hibat Allāh Ibn Abī al-Ḥadīd, Sharḥ nahj al-balāgha, ed. Ḥasan Tamīm, 5 vols (Beirut: 1963–1964); Maytham ibn ʿAlī al-Baḥrānī, Sharḥ nahj al-balāgha, 5 vols (Beirut: Dār al-ʿĀlam al-Islāmī, 1981). 78 The account is transmitted in Abū Muḥammad al-Daylamī, Irshād al-qulūb al-munjī man ʿamila bi-hā min ʿalim al-Iʿqāb, ed. Hāshim Mīlānī, 2 vols (Tehran: Dār al-Uswa, 1375/1996) vol. 2, 252–3. However, this has been shown to be a misattribution, though, according to David Bertaina, ‘it can be inferred that the author was a Shīʿī and was active in Yemen in the 14th century’. See Etan Kohlberg, ‘Abū Moḥammad Ḥasan Deylamīʼ, EIr; cf. David Bertaina, ‘An Anonymous Treatise about the Excellences of ʿAlī’, in Christian–Muslim Relations: A Bibliographical History, vol. 4: (1200–1350), ed. David Thomas and Alex Mallett (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 804–807. ʿAlī’s ‘interpretation’ of the clapper is not mentioned in Bertaina’s article. 79 The same tradition is related several times in the same work by al-Ḥāfiẓ Muḥammad ibn Sulaymān al-Kūfī, Manāqib al-imām amīr al-muʾminīn ʿAlī ibn Abī Tālib, ed. Muḥammad Bāqir al-Maḥmūdī, 3 vols (Qom: Majmaʿ Iḥyāʾ al-Thaqāfa al-Islāmiyya, 1412/1991), vol. 1, 251, vol. 1, 459, vol. 1, 494, vol. 2, 215. 80 Seth Ward, ‘Construction and Repair of Churches and Synagogues in Islamic Law: A Treatise by Taqī al-Dīn ʿAlī ibn ʿAbd al-Kāfī al-Subkī’, PhD dissertation, Yale University, 1984, 184–5. For the tradition itself, see Seth Ward, ‘A Fragment from an Unknown Work by al-Ṭabarī on the Tradition “Expel the Jews and Christians from the Arabian Peninsula (and the Lands of Islam)”’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 53, no. 3 (1990): 407–20, esp. 417. 81 On the pan-confessional popularity of the Nahj al-Balāgha, see Marshall G.S. Hodgson, The Venture of Islam: Conscience and History in a World Civilisation, 3 vols (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1977), vol. 2, 38. ‘What Does the Clapper Say?’ 279 tendencies also ran strong within Sufi groups, especially those whose masters, shaykhs or pīrs, traced their spiritual lineage to ʿAlī, regardless of confessional affiliation.82 Equally celebrated among ʿAlī’s virtues were his military heroism and chivalric honour. Members of futuwwa movements, such as were common across the Rūm Seljuq sultanate in Anatolia, often regarded ʿAlī as the archetypal fatā (valiant youth), and their leaders, akhīs, would also claim descent from him.83 In the Ilkhanate, Ghazan showed a special reverence for descendants of ʿAlī by instituting dār al-siyādas (lodging houses for descendants of the prophet) across Mesopotamia and Iran. His brother Ӧljeitü (r. 703/1304–715/1316) continued the practice and would eventually embrace Twelver Shiʿism after having been born a Christian, raised a Buddhist, and converting to Sunni (Ḥanafī then Shāfiʿī) Islam.84 Given the cultural and political cachet of Alid loyalism in this period, it is not difficult to understand why ʿAlī might be considered a worthy champion of the church clapper in a text intended to vindicate its use. The story of the clapper’s use in the Flood is in essence a Christian one, with no corresponding tradition in any Islamic narrative.85 What better way to respond to the clapper’s marginal status in Islamicate society than to invoke the authority of a figure much-revered among Muslims?

Concluding Remarks

The foregoing analysis has shown that the Uṣūl al-Dīn’s discussion of the clapper constitutes a creative response to Muslim anxieties about the Christian call to prayer. ʿAbdīshōʿ first addresses this issue by expounding the Church ofthe East’s position on the clapper’s significance, and then affirms it by drawing on the pious wisdom of ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib. It is tempting therefore to think of the Uṣūl al-Dīn as a kind of acculturated theology, whereby the admixture of ecclesiastical doctrine and Islamic literature seems almost inevitable in an environment where Christians and Muslims lived in close proximity. But despite ʿAbdīshōʿ’s bilingualism and willingness to express himself in both Arabic and Syriac,

82 For the growth of Alid loyalism within Sufi ṭarīqas in the later middle period, which helped give Sufism its ‘catholic appeal’, see Hodgson,The Venture of Islam, vol. 2, 204–20, 462–7. 83 Claude Cahen, ‘Le problème du Shī‘isme dans l’Asie Mineure Turque préottomane’, in Le Shî‘isme imamate. Colloque de Strasbourg (6–9 mai 1968) (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1970), 115–29, esp. 121–2. 84 The socio-political implications of Ilkhanid patronage of the dār al-siyādas has recently been discussed by Judith Pfeiffer, ‘Confessional Ambiguity vs. Confessional Polarization: Politics and the Negotiation of Religious Boundaries in the Ilkhanate’, in Politics, Patronage, and the Transmission of Knowledge in 13th–15th Century Tabriz, ed. Judith Pfeiffer (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 143–50. 85 Despite certain aspects of the Flood narrative found both in Islamic and Syriac Christian traditions, such as the landing of the Ark in Mt. al-Jūdī in the Qurʾan (= Qardū in the Peshitta), the story of the clapper is found only in the latter. For Noah in the Qurʾan, prophetic ḥadīth, medieval Qurʾanic exegesis and the qiṣas al-anbīyāʾ genre, see Roberto Tottoli, Biblical Prophets in the Qurʾān and Muslim Literature, trans. Michael Robertson (Richmond: Curzon, 2002). See more generally B. Heller, ‘Nūḥ’, EI2. 280 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia his interaction with genres of Arabic literature and poetic tropes is far from passive. Now it may well be the case that the synthesis of ʿAlī’s teachings into the Uṣūl al-Dīn was due to ʿAbdīshōʿ’s admiration for his eloquence and spiritual exemplarity. However, we must also bear in mind that he does not express the same admiration for the dominant Arabic-speaking culture of his day in any of his Syriac works, and even attacks the notion of Arabic eloquence in an earlier work. It is more useful, I believe, to think of ʿAbdīshōʿ’s engagement with non- Syriac literary models as an apologetic exercise, arising from a need to defend Christian doctrine in a sometimes hostile environment. This strategy – in which catechesis was often intertwined with apologia – was well-established in Arabic texts since Abbasid times. Concerning the didactic strategies of the Melkite theologian Theodore Abū Qurra (d. c.213/829), Mark Swanson observed that ‘he writes for a Christian audience – but always seems to imagine Muslims reading over their shoulders or listening in the background’.86 In a similar vein, ʿAbdīshōʿ actively seeks a shared literary space with Muslims to present as acceptable the practice of striking the clapper in times of prayer to a Christian audience who might be convinced otherwise.

Appendix 1: Text of Uṣūl al-Dīn, Bāb 16, On the Clapper 124aǀ الباب السادس عشر في الناقوس ]تقديم[ )1( ّإن المخلوق الجسيم من حيث هو كذلك لم يكن ًعالما بالحوادث قبل حدوثها إذا كان اقريبً منه• وال يشعر بها حال وقوعها إذا كان ًبعيدا عنه• إ ّلا بمود يؤدي ذلك اليها• ومنادّ يعرض االخبار الوقائع عليه• ّوألن اوقات إجتماع المؤمنين ببيوت العبادات• في احايين الصلوات• القامة وظائف الطاعات• كسنن المفترضات• كانت على المذكورين ما احتيج الى مود منّاد يكون ًمشعرا الناس• بحضور الوقت والجماعة للصلواة ّوالقداس• وهذا نداء ينبغي أن ّيتضمن ٍمعان كثيرة• في اصوات قصيرة• ]سبب اتخاذ الناقوس[ )2( فإن 124bǀ ازدحام المعاني يدعو87 الناس الى اعتبار• تلك االسرار• وقصر االصوات• يمنع من اشغال االوقات• بما هو دون الفرض والواجبات• ّولما كانت البيعة في مذهب النصرانية• ُمضاهية في قصوى الغرض للسفينة النوحية• وجب أن يجعل مناديها صامتًا على ما كان في الفُلك• عن وحي من مالك ُالملك• وذلك أن ًنوحا حين أُوعز اليه باتخاذ السفينة للنجاة من الغرق بالماء مع االشرار• )3( اُلهم في ضمن ذلك على ما ورد في العتيقة من االخبار• أن يتخذ من الخشب ًناقوسا على نسبة معلومة• ورتبة مفهومة• ليكون ّاو ًلا ًمشعرا للفعلته88 لها باوقات االجتماع• ّإما للمساعدة على تحريك 125a ǀ اجزائها بمقتضى الصناعة واالوضاع• ّواما لتناول القوت• للقوة على القيام بمصالح السفينة التي هي تابوت• )4( ًوآخرا ضرب به بامر هللا ليجتمع الناس والوحوش والبهائم• التي امر بدخولها للسفينة ّفارةً من الغرق ونوازل النقائم• قائالً من جاء نجا• من جاء نجا• وهو لسان حال الناقوس• )5( فكما أن والجي السفينة تميّزوا عن االثمة وخلصوا من غرق الماء• كذلك الداخلون الى البيعة يتميّزون عن ابناء

86 Mark N. Swanson, ‘Apologetics, Catechesis, and the Question of Audience in “On the Triune Nature of God” (Sinai Arabic 154) and Three Treatises of Theodore Abū Qurrah’, in Christian and Muslims in Dialogue in the Islamic Orient of the Middle Ages, ed. Martin Tamcke (Beirut: Orient-Institut, 2007), 123. .in MS يدعوا Corrected from 87 .in MS للفعله Corrected from 88 ‘What Does the Clapper Say?’ 281

الدنيا الظلماء• الخائضين في بحار الخطايا والفحشاء• ويتخلصون من الغرق بسخط اله السماء• )6( وكما خلص من دخل السفينة من الغرق المحسوس• وهلك من ّاصر على المعاصي باخراقة الناموس• كذلك 125bǀ ينجوا من يلج بيوت العبادة في الغرق المعقول• ويهلك المقيم على عقيدة االنقطاع بأن ال فائدة في دخول• )7( وكما أن الناقوس في السفينة كان حاثاً على االجتماع للمصالح وتناول القوت في البداية• ومنبهًا للغافلين عن الطوفان المهلك على دخول السفينة في النهاية• كذلك الناقوس ًايضا يحث المؤمنين في بداية امره على اجتماع بخلوص النية• للقيام بالمصالح الدينية• وتناول العلم واالسرار المارانية• المقوى على أداء الفرائض االلهية• المقرب الى الحضرة القدسية• ّويحض الناس ًايضا في نهاية امره على الفرار89 من الهالك بطوفان الخطايا والذنوب• المهلك الهل الدنيا المتشاغلين عن عبادة الرب المرهوب• )126aǀ)8 هذا هو السبب في اتخاذ الناقوس للتعريف باوقات الصلوات• دون االعتماد على نداء منّاد واذان ّمؤذن ظاهر الكلمات• ]معاني اصواته[ )9( ّوأما ما ّيتضمن من المعاني المودعة عدد نقراته• ووزن ضرباته• فإنّه يشعر ّاو ًلا بوحدانية البارئ تعالى ّوعزة ربوبته• وجالل عظمته• وسعة قدرته• ّثم يدعونا الى قبح االفعال• وتغلغلنا في مشابكة هذا العالم الختوم عليه بالزوال• ّ ثميحثنا على الرغبة الى هللا في مسامحتنا• والصفح عنّا وحسن إعانتنا• حسب ما ّفسره علي بن ابي طالب رضي هللا عنه• وال يجوز ِلذي عقل ّوتأمل دفعه وال ابطال شيء منه• )10( وذلك حدث محمد بن موسى السكري عن احمد بن عبد الرحمن• قال 126bǀ حدثني ابي عن ابن الكواء• قال فكنت مع امير المؤمنين ّعلي بن أبي طالب ّكرم هللا وجهه• وكان في نفر من اصحابه بظاهر الحيرة• إذ سمعنا صوت الناقوس يُ َضرب• )11( فجعلت اتعسه• فقال علي َصه يا ابن ّالكواء ألنّك ال تدري ما يقول الناقوس• فقلت يا امير المئمنين الناقوس يتكلّم• فقال والذي فلق الحبّة• وبرأ النسمة• ما من ضربة تقع على ضربة• وال نقرة على نقرة• إ ّلا وهي تحكي مث ًلا• وتؤدي ًعلما• قلت فما يقول الناقوس• فال يقول:

سبحان هللا حقًّا حقّا ّإن المولى فرد يبقى يحكم فينا رفقًا رفقا لو ال حلمه كنّا نشقى انا بعنا ًدارا تبقى واستوطنا دارا ْتفنَى ما من حيّ فيها يبقى إ ّلا ْادنى منه موتا إن الدنيا قد غرتنا واستغوتنا 127aǀ واستهوتنا ما من يوم يمضي عنّا إ ّلا يهدم منّا ركنا تفنى الدنيا قرنًا قرنا نق ًلا نق ًلا دفنًا دفنا يابن90 الدنيا مه ًلا مهال فازدد ًخيرا تزدد حبّا يا موالنا قد اسرفنا قد فرطنا وتوانينا حلمك عنّا قـد اجزانا فتداركنا واعف عنّا

)12( وكم من مسلم يقف على هذا التفسير فينكره• قائ ًلا• ّبأن ذلك منسوب الى علي إذ لم يكن ًصادرا عنه• وإنّما نسبته النصارى اليه لتحسين أمر الناقوس عند المسلمين• وازالة القباحة ّعما عليه كانوا مصطلحين• وانا منبّه من كان ]على[ هذه السجية•

.in MS فرا Corrected from 89 .in MS تامن Corrected from 90 282 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Appendix 2: Translation of Uṣūl al-Dīn, Bāb 16, On the Church Clapper

Chapter XVI: On the Church Clapper

[Introduction]

(1) The created being, insofar as he is such, would not know of events before their occurrence while near to them, nor be aware of the time of their occurrence while far from them, were it not for the aid of a caller to announce their occurrence to him. Because the times of meeting for believers to pray and perform rituals of obedience are obligated by tradition, it is on account of the above mentioned who require callers that the people be made aware of the time for meeting and liturgy. It is necessary that this call encapsulate many meanings in brief sounds.

[The Reason for the Clapper’s Use]

(2) Thus a cluster of meanings call the people to contemplate those mysteries, while a brevity of sounds prohibits the filling of hours with what is devoid of [religious] obligation and duty. Since the Church in the Christian faith is modelled in its ultimate purpose on the Ark of Noah, it is necessary to make silent its caller for all upon the vessel, as revealed by God – that is to say, when Noah was instructed to use an Ark to escape drowning in the flood alongside the sinful.

(3) He was inspired to do so as recounted in an ancient tradition that he fashioned a clapper from wood, according to well-attested proportions and simple design, so that, firstly, the times of meeting would be known to his workmen to help move and put down parts [of the ship] and to distribute food [to them] to sustain their efforts during the building of the ship, which is [God’s] Covenant.

(4) Secondly, he struck it by God’s command to gather the people and beasts whom he ordered into the Ark to escape the deluge and descending terror, calling out, ‘Whosoever comes is saved! Whosoever comes is saved!’ This is the [underlying] expression of the clapper.

(5) Thus, just as those entering the Ark are set apart from the sinful and saved from drowning in the water, those entering the houses of worship are set apart from the erring people of the world plunging in seas of sin and baseness, and are saved from the displeasure of the God of Heaven.

(6) And just as He saved those entering the Ark from the actual drowning while destroying those persistent in transgressing the Law, so too are those entering steadfastly into the houses of worship saved from the metaphorical drowning while He destroys those persisting in the erroneous belief that entry is unprofitable. ‘What Does the Clapper Say?’ 283

(7)And just as the clapper on the Ark was a call to meet for [its] construction and the provision of food in the first instance, while warning those unmindful of the destructive flood in the second instance, so does the clapper also incite the faithful, in the first instance, to meet in purity of mind and to perform religious good works, and provides knowledge and the Divine Mysteries which strengthen the pursuit of godly obligation that brings [the hearer] closer to the Divine Presence. In the second instance, it exhorts the people to escape destruction in the deluge of sin and error which destroys the people of the world failing to worship the Revered Lord.

(8) This is the reason why [we] use the clapper to know the times of prayer, without relying on the cry of the herald and the call to prayer of the muezzin.

[The Meaning of its Sounds]

(9) As for what is encapsulated by the number of its knocks and the metre of its strikes, it [the clapper] firstly expresses the Creator’s unity, the strength of His divinity, the majesty of His exaltedness, and the breadth of His power. But then [the sinful] call us to the worst of actions and we are immersed in the confusion of this world, the end of which lies ruin. However, [the clapper] incites us to seek God’s forgiveness and betterment of our lot, according to how ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib (may God be pleased with him!) interpreted it. Any possessing reason and reflection cannot find fault in him, nor is there any falsity from him.

(10) And thus it was narrated by Muḥammad ibn Mūsā al-Sukkarī concerning Aḥmad ibn ʿAbd al-Raḥmān, who said, ‘My father told me about Ibn al-Kawwāʾ’, who said, ‘I was with the Prince of the Faithful ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib (may God exalt his face!) whilst among a small crowd of his companions in al-Ḥīra when we heard the clapper being struck.

(11) So I started to ridicule it, and he said, ‘Quiet, Ibn al-Kawwāʾ, for you do not know what the clapper says!’ I asked, ‘O Prince of the Faithful, the clapper speaks?’ He said, ‘By Him Who split the seed and created the living being, every blow that falls upon blow and knock upon knock does naught but speak a parable and provide knowledge. So I asked, ‘What does the clapper say?’ He said:

‘Glorious is God, truly, truly the Lord alone remains. He judges us, kindly, kindly, for without his love we’d despair. We’ve forsaken the house unending and settled in a house of ruin. None among the living remains Except in death closest to Him. The world has deceived us 284 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

and seduced us and beguiled us. Not a day goes by that doesn’t attack our cornerstone, This world’s dead, generation, generation, moving, moving, burying, burying. O world’s son, slowly, slowly Increase in good works and you’ll reap love. O Lord, we’ve exceeded our bounds; we have transgressed and slackened. Your mercy has rewarded us, Thus, we have awoken; have mercy on us!’

(12) How many Muslims use this interpretation yet deny it, saying that that it is [falsely] attributed to ʿAlī since it does not [truly] come from him but rather the Christians ascribed it to him in order to improve the image of the clapper among the Muslims and to remove the slander which they have placed upon it? I am alerting [the reader] to those of this opinion. Part III The Formation of Islamic Society in Anatolia This page has been left blank intentionally Chapter 12 Sunni Orthodox vs Shiʿite Heterodox?: A Reappraisal of Islamic Piety in Medieval Anatolia

Rıza Yıldırım

Owing to the scarcity of contemporary sources, we have but an incomplete knowledge of the forms and patterns of Islam as practiced amongst the masses of medieval Anatolia during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Modern scholarship on the era has relied largely on later Ottoman historical writing produced in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, works written in conjunction with and in the context of the development of an Ottoman imperial culture. Thus our view of the earlier period has been shaped by later Ottoman biases, back-projections and anachronistic distortions inherent in official court-centred Ottoman historiography.1 Our understanding of medieval Anatolia likewise suffers from distortions resulting from modern nationalistic historiography, the frameworks and perspectives of which developed as part of the Turkish state- building process during the Republican era. This nationalist approach to the medieval Anatolian past was to a large part determined by the works of Mehmed Fuad Köprülü (d. 1966). In addition to the nationalistic framework, Köprülü’s conceptual devices, taxonomies, and methodological tools have left an indelible imprint on modern Turkish historiography. As far as the religious history of medieval Anatolia is concerned, Köprülü’s most influential legacy has been a binary framework, which postulates two separate traditions of Islamic understanding and practice. This paradigm has dominated the field since it was first established almost a century earlier, and has been subject to virtually no criticism or revision until recently.2

1 For a general assessment of early Ottoman historiography, see Halil İnalcık, ‘The Rise of Ottoman Historiography’, in Historians of the Middle East, ed. Bernard Lewis and P.M. Holt (London: Oxford University Press, 1962), 152–67; V.L. Ménage, ‘The Beginnings of Ottoman Historiography’, in Historians of the Middle East, 168–79; Cemal Kafadar, Between Two Worlds: The Construction of the Ottoman State (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1995), 60–117. 2 Köprülü’s almost canonised views have recently became subject to criticism by a newly emerging avenue of scholarship, the most recent being a comprehensive critical review of Köprülü’s writings and summary of the earlier literature by Markus Dressler, Writing Religion: The Making of Turkish Alevi Islam (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2013). See also Devin DeWeese, ‘Foreword’, in Mehmed Fuad Köprülü, Early Mystics in Turkish Literature, trans. and ed. Gary Leiser and Robert Dankoff (London and New York: Routledge, 2006), viii–xxvii; Markus Dressler, ‘How to Conceptualize Inner-Islamic Plurality/Difference: “Heterodoxy” and “Syncretism” in the Writings of Mehmet F. Köprülü (1890–1966)’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, 37, no. 3 (2010): 241–60; Ahmet T. Karamustafa, ‘Yesevlik, Melâmetîlik, Kalenderîlik, 288 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

According to Köprülü’s conceptualisation, the religious landscape of medieval Anatolia was composed of two diametrically opposed manifestations of Islam: ‘orthodoxy’ and ‘heterodoxy’. Orthodoxy represents classical high Islam, which flourished in urban centres, while heterodoxy corresponds to various syntheses of Islamic precepts with pre-Islamic Turkish beliefs among the masses of rural Turkmen. The Köprülü paradigm assumes an innate bond between orthodoxy and Sunni Islam on the one hand, and heterodoxy and Shiʿism and Alevism on the other. In an influential article published in 1922, Köprülü postulated that Sufism manifested itself in medieval Anatolia in two distinct forms: the ‘great tradition’ of classical Islam as practiced in urban ‘high cultural’ centres, and a ‘little tradition’ as represented by local Islamic practices predominant among the rural illiterate Turkish masses. Lacking the sophistication to comprehend the complex concepts of the ‘great tradition’ of Sufism, followers of this ‘little tradition’ developed, under a thin veneer of Islam, alternative modes of Sufi practice and belief in interaction with their pre-Islamic beliefs and practices.3 According to the Köprülü paradigm, a constitutive element of the ‘little tradition’ was its essentially Shiʿite and bāṭinī character, whereas the great tradition represented Sunni Islam.4 Köprülü’s orthodoxy-heterodoxy paradigm was borrowed and used extensively by Irène Mélikoff, who likewise identified Sunni Islam with orthodoxy and conceived of Alevism as a Turkish Islamic heterodoxy. One of her foremost contributions to the field was the further development of the contents of these

Vefâîlik ve Anadolu Tasavvufunun Kökenleri Sorunu’, in Osmanlı Toplumunda Tasavvuf ve Sufiler, ed. Ahmet Yaşar Ocak (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 2005), 61–88; Ahmet T. Karamustafa, ‘Hacı Bektaş Veli ve Anadolu’da Müslümanlık’, in Hacı Bektaş Veli: Güneşte Zerresinden, Deryada Katresinden, ed. Pınar Ecevitoğlu, Ali Murat İrat and Ayhan Aylçınkaya (Ankara: Dipnot Yayınları, 2010), 42–8; idem, ‘Kaygusuz Abdal: A Medieval Turkish Saint and the Formation of Vernacular Islam in Anatolia’, in Unity and Diversity: Mysticism, Messianism and the Construction of Religious Authority in Islam, ed. Orhan Mir-Kasimov (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 329–42. 3 [Mehmed] Fuad Köprülü, ‘Anadolu’da İslamiyet: Türk İstîlâsından Sonra Anadolu Tarih-i Dînîsine bir Nazar ve Tarihinin Menba’ları’, Dârülfünûn Edebiyat Fakültesi Mecmuası 4 (1338/1922): 281–311; 5 (1338/1922): 385–420; 6 (1339/1923): 457–86. Köprülü’s articles, which were first published as series, were later republished in the following work: Franz Babinger and [Mehmed] Fuad Köprülü, Anadolu’da İslâmiyet, ed. Mehmet Kanar (İstanbul: İnsan Yayınları, 1996). For the English translation of Köprülü’s article, see Mehmed Fuad Köprülü, Islam in Anatolia after the Turkish Invasion (Prolegomena), trans. and ed. Gary Leiser (Salt Lake City, UH: University of Utah Press, 1993). The references here will be made to the English edition. 4 Köprülü, Islam in Anatolia, 9–15, 30–31. Köprülü believed that the Turkmen babas who led the Baba’i revolt in 1243 and other successive socio-religious movements were extremist Alevis, and that the Bektaşhi Sufi tradition assumed a bāṭinī nature ever since the time of its eponymous founder. See Mehmed Fuad Köprülü, Osmanlı İmparatorluğunun Kuruluşu, 2nd edn (1959; reprint, Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1972), 168; English translation: M. Fuad Köprülü, The Origins of the Ottoman Empire, trans. and ed. Gary Leiser (New York: State University of New York Press, 1992), 103–105); Köprülü, Islam in Anatolia, pp. 28–30; Fuad Köprülü, ‘Bektaş, Hacı Bektaş’, İA, vol. 2, p. 461. For a further developed version of Köprülü’s binary conceptualisation, see Hilmi Ziya Ülken, Türk Tefekkürü Tarihi (Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları, 1982), 109, 255–6. Sunni Orthodox vs Shiʿite Heterodox? 289 two terms, hence entrenching the dichotomy.5 Ahmet Yaşar Ocak expanded on the paradigm with a focus on heterodoxy, identifying it primarily with Alevism.6 Characterising Alevism as existing completely outside the perimeters of Sunni Islam, Ocak attributes its ideological framework to Ismaʿili roots.7 One of the foremost critics of the Köprülü paradigm, Ahmet T. Karamustafa has objected to examining the Islamisation of Anatolia according to the twofold approach of the ‘great’ and ‘little traditions’, claiming that it hinders us from arriving at an accurate picture of what was a much more complicated process.8 In a recent article on Kaygusuz Abdal, Karamustafa takes a fresh look at this issue by examining the language of the sources. He describes alternative manifestations of Islam as being a kind of ‘vernacular Islam’ that he associates with ‘abdal piety’ and characterises as provincial, latitudinarian, reactionary (to the mainstream), simple, and predominantly rural, and finds expression in the linguistic medium of vernacular Turkish. Mainstream Islam, however, stands in direct opposition to vernacular Islam as urban, metropolitan, cosmopolitan, authoritative and authoritarian, shariʿa-based, elitist, and Arabo-Persian in medium. The former fell in the domain of abdals, Turkish-speaking dervishes, while the latter was cultivated by learned elites who installed themselves as the official arbiters of religious interpretation. Karamustafa argues that vernacular Islam explicitly and consciously situated itself against the ostentatious, authoritarian, formal, and even sometimes hypocritical forms of ‘metropolitan’ Islam. Vernacular Islam was thus not only an inner criticism against corrupted forms of metropolitan Sufism, but also rather a complete rejection of it. Hence, he proposes a distinct line of development for Sufi ‘vernacular Islam’, which developed in dialectical interaction with urban mainstream Sufism. As opposed to shariʿa-centred urban traditions, abdal piety was totally uninterested in prescribed rituals or legalistic forms. Rather, elements of rural vernacular Islam included the divinisation of man, the veneration of ʿAlī, and distaste for Islam’s legal prescriptions.9 According to Karamustafa’s paradigm, as an urban elite culture took shape in Anatolia from the thirteenth to the fifteenth centuries, abdal piety emerged as a rural vernacular reaction.

5 This view is abundantly clear in Mélikoff’s writings collected in Sur les traces du soufisme turc. Recherches sur l’Islam populaire en Anatolie (Istanbul: ISIS Press, 1992); eadem, De l’épopée au mythe. Itinéraire turcologique (Istanbul: ISIS Press, 1995); eadem, Au banquet des quarante. Exploration au coeur du Bektachisme-Alevisme (Istanbul: ISIS Press, 2001). 6 Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, Babiler İsyanı: Alevîliğin Tarihsel Altyapısı Yahut Anadolu’da İslâm-Türk Heterodoksisinin Teşekkülü (Istanbul: Dergah Yayınları, 1996), 172–214; idem, La révolte de Baba Resul ou la formation de l’hétérodoxie musulmane en Anatolie au XIIIe siècle (Ankara: Imprimerie de la Société Turque d’Historie, 1989), pp. 87–134. 7 Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, ‘Islam’s Second Aspect in Turkey’s History: Rethinking the Shî‘a Element in Anatolia, or Some Comments on the İsma’îlî Influences’, in Hoca, ‘Allame, Puits de Science: Essays in Honor of Kemal H. Karpat, ed. Kaan Durukan, Robert W. Zens and Akile Zorlu- Durukan (Istanbul: Isis Press, 2010), 11–26. 8 Ahmet T. Karamustafa, ‘Early Sufism in Eastern Anatolia’, in Classical Persian Sufism: From its Origins to Rumi, ed. Leonard Lewisohn (London and New York: Khaniqahi Nimatullahi Publications, 1993), 175–7. 9 Karamustafa, ‘Kaygusuz Abdal’, 338–9. 290 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

It was in this ‘process of vernacularisation’ that ‘shariʿa-centred discourses and practices of Islam became a casualty, and they were largely ignored or discarded’.10 Karamustafa also notes that the process of vernacularisation, i.e., the development of abdal piety, remained outside the control and authority of the scholarly class, but rather was continuously reproduced and imparted to its adherents through communal rituals. Karamustafa proposes an innate connection between abdal piety and the greater Alevi-Bektashi tradition, arguing that abdal piety must have been one of the sources, if not the main one, nourishing the development of Alevism among nomadic and newly settled Turkish speakers.11 Thus, concludes Karamustafa, abdal piety ‘found a receptive audience primarily among newly Islamizing nomads and recently settled “new peasants”, and it was re-fashioned by them into forms of religiosity that eventually came into view in the twentieth century under the name Alevis’.12 An entirely different line of scholarship is offered by Claude Cahen’s work on the ‘Shiʿite tinge’ of medieval Anatolian Islam. Not entangled in the orthodox- heterodox dichotomy, Cahen concludes in his investigation of the character of Islamic piety at the time that there was no Sunni-Shiʿite differentiation in the religious landscape of medieval Anatolia. Rather, he argues, the Islamic perception and practices of the time, despite a ‘philo-Alid’ orientation, should be located within the horizons of Sunni Islam.13 This study aims to build on Cahen’s general framework, albeit with some recalibrations. With the exception of Cahen’s work, the binary approach to Islam in medieval Anatolia remains more or less unchallenged, although the particular binaries may vary. Thus, we have on the one hand Sunni Islam, which is orthodox, mainstream, urban, literate, shariʿa-centred, and rational. On the other hand, there is Alevism and Shiʿite Islam, defined as heterodox, peripheral, rural, oral, mystical, illiterate, and supra-rational. This chapter challenges this binary approach on two fronts with a focus on thirteenth- and fourteenth-century Anatolia. First of all, it argues that multiple manifestations of Islamic piety in medieval Anatolia do not fit a linear-binary differentiation model. Rather it exposes a heterogeneous landscape of religiosities, which were shaped according to various parameters such as location, literacy, institutional infrastructure, charisma, political structures and practises, and modes of subsistence. Therefore, binary thinking, which highlights one parameter while subjugating the others, if not totally disregarding them, does not capture the wide spectrum of different forms of religious manifestation. In order to evaluate religious differentiation among different segments of society, we need to operate within a multidimensional paradigm instead of a linear one.

10 Ibid., 338. 11 Ibid., 331, 338. 12 Ibid., 339. 13 Claude Cahen, ‘Le problème du Shi’isme dans l’Asie Mineure turque préottomane’, in Le Shî’isme Imâmite: Colloque de Strasbourg (6–9 mai 1968) (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1970), 115–29. Sunni Orthodox vs Shiʿite Heterodox? 291

Secondly, the twofold categorisation of Islam conflates two discrete conceptual planes: it does not distinguish between the form and content of belief. Thus, rather than presuming an essentialist correlation between religiosity and doctrine as does the two-strand conceptualisation of Islam (which associates Sunnism with orthodoxy or mainstream Islam, Shiʿism and Alevism with heterodoxy and vernacularism), I argue that, in order to better grasp Islamic piety of the time, we must first differentiate the ‘cognitive-mental structures’ from the ‘dogmatic contents’ of a given belief. Whereas cognitive- mental structures are profoundly shaped by and closely tied to socio-cultural codes, mental habits, and modes of subsistence, dogma usually emerges as a result of political, ideological, and, above all, theological disputations. For the sake of analytical simplicity, I refer to cognitive-mental structures or forms as ‘religiosity’ and the set of dogmatic contents as ‘doctrine’. The two-strand conceptualisation of Islam presumes an essentialist correlation between religiosity and doctrine, identifying Sunnism with doctrinal orthodoxy and mainstream practices of Islam on the one hand, and Shiʿism and Alevism with doctrinal heterodoxy and popular or vernacular religiosity. I critique this essentialist correlation by arguing that the distribution of Sunni and Shiʿite elements of creed amongst the Muslim masses of medieval Anatolia presents us with a rather uneven and complicated picture of practice. Hence, I propose evaluating the multiple manifestations of Islamic religiosity and Sunni-Shiʿite creeds according to separate analysis.

Orthodox-Heterodox Dichotomy or a Heterogeneous Landscape of Religiosity?

According to the binary approach of the prevailing scholarship, the urban, literary-grounded, rationalised, legal-oriented religiosity was enmeshed in a bureaucratising hierarchical polity and fostered by a formally educated class of scholars. On the other hand, rural, orally-grounded, supra-rational, and mystical religiosity was antagonistic to the bureaucratic state, current among those deprived of formal education, and cultivated by intoxicated ascetic dervishes. Indeed, consistent correlations of affinity can be found between certain parameters. For instance, urban culture is more likely to find literary expression than is rural culture. Similarly, one would expect urban religiosity to be more legalistic than rural religiosity. However, these discrete sets of parameters that influence religiosity are not necessarily always in line with one another. The scrutiny of any specific religiosity requires a separate and multidimensional discussion of these parameters within the particularities of each specific case, allowing for different sets of affinities. A study of the Islamic beliefs and practices in medieval Anatolia within the perspective of such a multidimensional and heuristic approach would reveal that there was not a hierarchical orthodox- heterodox polarisation. As will be discussed below, the available sources present a rather heterogeneous landscape of religious manifestations. 292 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

The Phenomenon of Babas, Dedes and Other Mystically Oriented Figures As acknowledged in general by the prevailing scholarly literature, the main actors shaping the forms and tones of popular religiosity were dervishes, referred to under a variety of names such as baba, dede, abdal, and kalendar.14 It was these mystical figures who held sway in fashioning the religious life of the vast masses. The description of Baba Isḥāq and his followers by the late thirteenth-century chronicler of the Anatolian Seljuqs, Ibn Bībī, provides a good example. He portrays Baba Isḥāq,15 who launched a major rebellion against the Seljuq state in 1239, as a juggler and magician who posed as a dervish and sought out disciples. Although condemning him as a fraud, Ibn Bībī nevertheless depicts Baba Isḥāq according to the standard paradigm of the holy man: weepy and mournful, a recluse and ascetic, a man of God detached from all worldly affairs and concerns. He did not earn a living, and although he helped those who sought him out with sacred utterances and amulets, he never accepted anything in return for spiritual services. His extreme ascetic practices and devoutness created such an aura that people considered him a great saint and his fame quickly spread.16 Ibn Bībī’s description thus sheds light on the late thirteenth-century urbanite perspective towards rural mystical religiosity. The adherents of Baba Isḥāq were, it seems, predominantly Turkmen.17 Ibn Bībī points out that the baba’s propaganda proved especially successful among illiterate tribal Turks who were easily fooled by his false aura of saintliness.18 He notes that baba’s followers, during the uprising, were accompanied on the battlefield by their women, children, and possessions, indicating their nomadic-tribal make-up.19

14 Ahmet T. Karamustafa, God’s Unruly Friends: Dervish Groups in the Islamic Later Middle Period, 1200–1550 (Salt Lake City, UH: University of Utah Press, 1994), 51–84; Köprülü, Origins, 88–108; Halil İnalcık, ‘Osmanlı Tarihine Toplu bir Bakıs’, in Osmanlı, vol. 1, ed. Güler Eren (Ankara: Yeni Türkiye Yayınları, 1999), 48–50. 15 Ibn Bībī describes Baba Isḥāq as the leader of the rebellion and makes no mention of Baba Ilyās. However, other sources show that the spiritual leader of the Babaʾ’ī uprising was indeed Baba Ilyās, Baba Isḥāq being his foremost deputy and commander in the battlefield. It appears that Ibn Bībī conflated Baba Isḥāq with Baba Ilyās. Nevetheless, the depiciton of Baba Isḥāq may well be ascribed to his spiritual master Baba Ilyās. For a comprehensive study of Babaʾ’ī uprising, see Ocak, La révolte de Baba Resul. 16 Ibn Bībī, al-Awāmir al-‘alā’iyya fī’l-umūr al-‘alā’iyya, facsimile edition by Adnan Erzi, el- Evāmirü’l-‘Alā’iyye fī’l-Umūri’l-‘Alā’iyye (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Basımevi, 1956), 498–504 (hereafter referred to as Ibn Bībī, al-Awāmir, ed. Erzi). Ibn Bībī’s account provides us with one of the most vivid descriptions of Baba Isḥāq, or most probably of Baba Ilyās. With the exception of Baba Ilyās’s grandson Elvan Çelebi’s mid-fourteenth-century hagiography, other contemporary and near contemporary sources depict the shaykh along similar lines. For a succinct summary of those sources, see Karamustafa, ‘Early Sufism in Eastern Anatolia’, 179–83. 17 Claude Cahen, ‘Baba Ishaq, Baba Ilyas et quelques autres’, Turcica, 1 (1969): 81–91; Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, La révolte de Baba Resul, 72–5. 18 Ibn Bībī’s reference to Baba Isḥāq’s followers specifically as tawāʾif-i atrāk (tribes of Turks) points to their tribal makeup (Ibn Bībī, al-Awāmir, ed. Erzi, 498). 19 Ibn Bībī, al-Awāmir, ed. Erzi, 503–504. Sunni Orthodox vs Shiʿite Heterodox? 293

Bar Hebraeus’ report independently confirms the observation that Baba Isḥāq’s followers came primarily from the Turkmen.20 The Kitab-i Gunya, an Old Anatolian Turkish work presumably from the fourteenth or early fifteenth century, also hints at how urban Muslims perceived Turkmen practices of Islam. İmam Kadı, the author of this Islamic manual of law, touches upon the linguistic difficulties facing Turcophone Muslims in the recitation of their ritual prayer in Arabic.21 After explaining the mandatory recitation of Qurʾanic verses while performing the ritual prayer according to the Shafiʿite practice, İmam Kadı states that, according to the Hanafi rite, if a person is unable to recite the required Arabic verses from the Qurʾan, it would be acceptable for him or her to perform the namaz (ritual prayer) ‘like a Turkmen’ who are ‘incapable of [reciting the Arabic]’.22 Elsewhere in the text, while discussing the rules of sacrifice (kurban), İmam Kadı refers to three distinct social groups: city dwellers (şehirlüler), villagers (rüstayi), and Turkmen, whom he characterises as ‘brutish’ or ‘wild’ (yabani).23 Thus, as we see from medieval authors writing from an urban perspective such as Ibn Bībī and İmam Kadı, there were perceived differences between the urban and rural practices of Islam. Indeed, these differences were not based on doctrinal issues but rather on cultural differences. Nevertheless, other sources also suggest that there was not such a watertight distinction between urban and rural practices of Islam in Anatolia. The North African traveller Ibn Baṭṭūṭa’s testimony reveals the fluidity and heterogeneity of Muslim society and provides us with an important record of many aspects of early fourteenth-century Anatolian cultural and religious life, providing evidence of the latitudinarian practice of Islam among both the ruling elite and the urban population as well as among Turkmen. For instance, he observes that the people of Rūm showed no

20 Ernest A. Wallis Budge (trans.), The Chronography of Gregory Abu’l-Faraj, 1225–1286: The Son of Aaron, the Hebrew Physician, commonly known as Bar Hebraeus, vol. 1 (1932; reprint, London: Oxford University Press, 1976), 405. As Mehmed Fuad Köprülü already noted, a similar approach to the rural Turkish population is apparent in Rumi’s and Sulṭān Walad’s writings. Köprülü states that they used the term ‘Turk’ to denote nomadic Turkish groups who were not subjected to the central authority and constantly caused trouble. On the other hand, for the more ‘cultured’ townspeople, most of whom were also ethnically Turk, they used the term ‘Rūmī.’ See [Mehmed] Fuad Köprülü, The Seljuks of Anatolia: Their History and Culture According to Local Muslim Sources, trans. Gary Leiser (Salt Lake City, UH: University of Utah Press), 60. 21 Muzaffer Akkuş (ed.), Kitab-ı Gunya (Ankara: Türk Dil Kurumu Yayınları, 1995). Akkuş reads the date in the sole manuscript’s colophon as 781/1379–80. However, a closer examination reveals that this dating is dubious. A more accurate dating of this copy would be 1187/1773–4. The late naskh hand of the manuscript likewise suggests a later date (I thank Sara Nur Yıldız for bringing this to my attention). The text’s linguistic features, however, are typical of Old Anatolian Turkish, with a fusion of Oğuz and Qipchaq elements, indicating a composition date in the fourteenth or early fifteenth century (Kitab-i Gunya, ed. Akkuş, 13). 22 ‘Eğer kimesnenün dili Kurʾan okumağa dönmez olsa nitekim Türkmenler gibi namaz reva olur. Anunçum kim ʿaciz dururlar bular öğrenmeğe. Kaçan kamu namaz fiʿilin yirine getürse namaz reva olur’ (Kitab-ı Gunya, ed. Akkuş, 294). 23 ‘Rüstayı dimek yaʿni köylü dimek olur ve Türkmen dimek dahı yabani dimek olur’ (Kitab-ı Gunya, ed. Akkuş, 356.) 294 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia disapproval towards the consumption of hashish, without any concerns for its lawfulness.24 Indeed, the consumption of hashish was widespread throughout all of Rūm and presumably throughout all classes. Ghazi Çelebi, the governor of Sinop,25 was well known for his excessive use of hashish, which eventually led to his death while on horseback under the influence. To his consternation, Ibn Baṭṭūṭa witnessed in Sinop a group of officers and their men openly consuming hashish a spoonful at a time by the gate of the congregational mosque.26 In a similar vein, Ibn Baṭṭūṭa was astonished by the liberal attitudes among Anatolian Muslims with respect to their women, who did not veil and received guests in their homes as if they were family members (in contrast to standard Muslim practice whereby the women of the household would never encounter any male guests except for close relatives).27 Indeed, the rural-urban differentiation of religious practice does not hold up in view of religious behaviour among different social classes. The first contact with Islam by various Turkmen beys (rulers) was often through the teachings of charismatic Sufi masters and dervishes.28 According to contemporary sources, the Ottoman ruler Orhan Beg was a devotee of Geyikli Baba who is depicted as a typical antinomian dervish mastering wild stags, engaging in holy war and conquering lands, rejecting worldly pleasures, and not bound to the dictates of religious law (shariʿa).29 The picture of Geyikli Baba as presented by contemporary sources is more or less the same for other mystics of the period. For example, Abdal Musa, who was later elevated to the rank of one of the founding fathers

24 Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, Riḥlat Ibn Baṭṭūṭa (Beyrut: Dār al-Nafā’is, 2004), 284. Also, for the English translation, see H.A.R. Gibb, The Travels of Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, A.D., 1325–1354, vol. 2 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1962), p. 467. 25 The identity of Ghazi Çelebi (d. 1322) has been debated by several scholars. See Elizabeth Zachariadou, ‘Gazi Celebi of Sinope’, in Oriente e Occidente tra Medioevo ed età moderna: Studi in onore di Geo Pistarino, ed. Laur. Balletto (Geneva: G. Brigati, 1997), 1271–1275; A.C.S. Peacock, ‘Sinop: A Frontier City in Seljuq and Mongol Anatolia’, Ancient Civilizations from Scythia to Siberia 16 (2010): 109–10. 26 Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, Riḥla, 319–20; Gibb, The Travels of Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, 467. 27 Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, Riḥla, 283; Gibb, The Travels of Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, 416. 28 A typical description of these dervishes is recorded in the Anonymous History of the Ottoman Dynasty: One day while infidel soldiers were enjoying themselves drinking, a half-nude (uryan) dervish with a wooden sword in his hand stood before the group and invited them to convert to Islam. The soldiers did not take him seriously and started to mock him. Nevertheless, at the end of the day, the dervish’s wooden sword proved sharp enough to kill some of those infidel soldiers while others were barely able to escape. According to the Anonymous History, the half-nude dervish consequently settled in this region after conquering it in the name of Islam (Anonim Tevârîh-i Âl-i Osman, ed. Nihat Azamat [Istanbul: Edebiyat Fakültesi Basımevi, 1992], 13–14). 29 Geyikli Baba Menkabesi, Başbakanlık Osmanlı Arşivleri, Musa Çelebi Dosyası, document 6. A transliteration of this document has been published by Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, Osmanlı İmparatorluğu’nda Marjinal Sûfîlik: Kalenderiler (XIV-XVII. Yüzyıllar) (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1999), 248–51. Also see Aşıkpaşazade, Tevârih-i Âl-i Osman, ed. Nihal Atsız (Istanbul: Türkiye Yayınevi, 1949), 122–3 (hereafter referred to as Aşıkpaşazade, Tevârih-i Âl-i Osman, ed. Atsız). For a summary of sources and secondary literature on Geyikli Baba, see Karamustafa, ‘Early Sufism in Eastern Anatolia’, 184–6; Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, ‘Geyikli Baba’, TDVİA, 14 (1996): 45–7. Sunni Orthodox vs Shiʿite Heterodox? 295 in the Bektashi order, is similarly portrayed. In the service of the Ottomans (and was present at the conquest of Bursa), Abdal Musa was known for his miracle- working powers as well as his relaxed attitudes to the legal prescriptions of the religion.30 Another early prominent Bektashi shaykh, Seyyid Ali Sultan, alias Kızıldeli, was depicted along the same dervish typology. He appears in the sources as a master Sufi shaykh with many disciples, working miracles and engaging in holy war, and not strictly observing the statutes of religious law.31 Hacı Bektaş, perhaps the most enigmatic figure of Turkish Sufism, provides us with another good example of the religious fluidity of medieval Anatolia.32 On the one hand, the incompatibility of his actions with religious law is persistently noted by the sources. On the other hand, even his adversaries recognised that he was a great saint who commanded miracle-working powers and possessed mystical knowledge of God. Arguably the most succinct portrayal of Hacı Bektaş can be found in one short sentence by Aḥmad Aflākī: ‘Hacı Bektaş had a heart filled with the knowledge of God (maʿrifa); however, he was not compliant with the prescriptions of the shariʿa’.33 Elsewhere in his text, Aḥmad Aflākī describes him as working miracles but not respecting outward aspects of the religion, and repeats that Hacı Bektaş did not observe the rules of the shariʿa such as performing the ritual prayer (namaz) five times a day.34 Aşıkpaşazade provides

30 The legendary image of Abdal Musa, as matured in the collective memory of the dervish milieu was later committed to writing. See Abdurrahman Güzel (ed.), Abdal Musa Velâyetnâmesi (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1999). 31 For a biography of Seyyid Ali Sultan (a.k.a. Kızıldeli), see Riza Yıldırım, Seyyid Ali Sultan (Kızıldeli) ve Velâyetnâmesi (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 2007). Indeed, we have good reasons to believe that these saintly figures (abdals) played decisive roles in both the religious and political arena. Aşıkpaşazade reports that it was akhīs and Sufi saints who presided over the succession process in the early Ottoman period. For instance, upon the death of Osman, the eponymous founder of the Ottoman dynasty, the religious figure Ahi Hasan, who fought in the siege of Bursa as well as in other gazas (ghazās), and other charismatic Sufi leaders (aziz) were summoned to determine Osman’s successor. In the end, the Ottoman prince Alaeddin withdrew his claim to rulership and his brother Orhan was installed on the Ottoman throne. See Aşıkpaşazade, Tevârih-i Âl-i Osman, ed. Atsız, 115. 32 For a revisionary approach to Hacı Bektaş Veli’s role in the political and mystical environment of the medieval Anatolia, see Riza Yıldırım, ‘Hacı Bektaş Veli ve İlk Osmanlılar: Aşıkpaşazâde’ye Eleştirel Bir Bakış’, Türk Kültürü ve Hacı Bektaş Veli Araştırma Dergisi 51 (2009): 107–46. 33 Aḥmad Aflākī, Manāqib al-ʿĀrifīn, translated into Turkish by Tahsin Yazıcı as Ariflerin Menkıbeleri (İstanbul: Kabalcı Yayınevi, 2006), 320 (hereafter cited as Aflākī, Manāqib al- ʿĀrifīn, trans. Yazıcı). Aflākī provides us with a similar description for Ahmed Fakih, another prominent ecstatic Sufi, saying, ‘He spoke of hidden knowledge but violated the proscriptions of the shariʿa.’ (Aflākī, Manāqib al-‘Ārifīn, trans. Yazıcı, 343). For a discussion of Ahmed Fakih’s place in the history of Anatolian Sufism, see Rıza Yıldırım, ‘Rum’da Öksöğüyü Tutan Kimdi?: Saltukname ve Hacı Bektaş Veli Velayetnamesi’nde Yer Alan Bir ‘Menkıbe’ye Göre Rum Erenleri’, in Hitit Üniversitesi Hacı Bektaş Veli Araştırma ve Uygulama Merkezi I. Uluslararası Hacı Bektaş Veli Sempozyumu Bildirileri (7–9 Mayıs 2010, Çorum), vol. 2, ed. Osman Eğri, Mehmet Evkuran, Muammer Cengil and Adem Korukçu (Ankara: Hitit Üniversitesi Hacı Bektaş Veli Araştırma ve Uygulama Merkezi, 2011), 595–633. 34 Aflākī, Manāqib al-ʿĀrifīn, trans. Yazıcı, 394. 296 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia a description of him parallel to that of Aflākī: ‘[Hacı Bektaş Veli] was an ascetic irrational saint (meczup-budala aziz) who had nothing to do with the shaykh- disciple relationship (şeyhlikten ve müritlikten fariğ)’.35 The insider view of Hacı Bektaş as seen through the eyes of his followers confirms the picture painted by outsiders. The legendary account of his vita presents us with a typical dervish of latitudinarian religiosity, aloof from the legal prescriptions of the shariʿa yet elevated to the highest levels of sainthood.36 Sarı Saltuk (alternatively, Sarı Saltık) is depicted along the same lines in contemporary accounts. The earliest available source for Sarı Saltuk, the Tuffāḥ al-Arwāḥ, written in Arabic in 716/1316 by Kamāl al-Dīn Muḥammad al-Sarrāj al-Rifāʿī,37 reports that Saltuk was an ascetic, antinomian, miracle-working Sufi who had been a disciple of Maḥmūd al-Rifāʿī. Stereotypically, he periodically spent time in seclusion on mountain tops, miraculously converted Christians to Islam and commanded ‘the waters of the sea’. Yet, he appears to have not been approved of by the legalistically minded who demanded stricter conformity with the religious law.38 Ibn Baṭṭūṭa’s nearly contemporary testimony concurs with al-Sarrāj’s account. When passing through Babadağ,39 in 1334, some two decades after the death of Sarı Saltuk, Ibn Baṭṭūṭa heard stories about the shaykh. The traveller records, ‘they believe that he had miracle-working powers; nevertheless, the things they attribute to him do not abide by the basic laws of the religion’.40 Once again we see another such venerated saint noted for latitudinarian religiosity. Likewise, Sarı Saltuk’s alleged spiritual successor (Ar. khalīfa, Turk. halife), Barak Baba, was another dazzling example of this type of antinomian piety.41 Moving to a slightly different socio-cultural provenance, it is worth considering briefly Aşık Ali Paşa (d. 733/1332), an author representative of

35 Aşıkpaşazade, Tevârih-i Âl-i Osman, ed. Atsız, 238. 36 For ample evidence, see Hacı Bektaş Veli, Hünkâr Hacı Bektaş Velî Velâyetnâmesi, ed. Hamiye Duran and Dursun Gümüşoğlu (Ankara: Gazi Üniversitesi Türk Kültürü ve Hacı Bektaş Veli Araştırma Merkezi, 2010) (hereafter cited as Hacı Bektaş Veli, Velâyetnâmesi, ed. Duran and Gümüşoğlu). 37 This work is first cited by Yūsuf ibn Ismāʿīl al-Nabhānī (1849–1932) inhis Jāmiʿ Karāmāt al-Awliyāʾ (Miṣr: Dār al-Kutub al-Gharbīyah al-Kubrā, (1329/1911)). In his article on Sarı Saltuk, Machiel Kiel extensively used an unpublished copy of this work housed in Berlin Staatsbibliothek. See Machiel Kiel, ‘Sarı Saltuk: Pionier des Islam auf dem Balkan in 13. Jahrhundert’, in Aleviler=Alewiten, vol. 1: Kimlik ve Tarih=Identität und Geschichte, ed. İsmail Engin and Erhard Franz (Hamburg: Deutsches Orient-Institut, 2000–2001), 253–88. Kiel provides a German translation of the parts of al-Sarrāj’s work that deals with Sari Saltuk in his article. For this study I rely on his translation. As his name indicates, al-Sarrāj was a Sufi affiliated to the Rifāʿī order founded by Aḥmad al-Rifāʿī (d. 1189). 38 Kiel, ‘Sarı Saltuk’, 262–6. 39 Babadağ, the site of a türbe (mausoleum) associated with Sarı Saltuk, is located today in northern Rumania in the region of Dobruja (Gary Leiser, ‘Ṣarı Ṣalṭūḳ Dede’, EI2). 40 Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, Riḥla, 345. For more on Sarı Saltuk, see Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, Sarı Saltık: Popüler İslâm’ın Balkanlardaki Destânî Öncüsü (XIII. Yüzyıl) (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 2010). 41 For a succinct summary of primary and secondary accounts of Barak Baba, see Karamustafa, ‘Early Sufism in Eastern Anatolia’, 193–6. Sunni Orthodox vs Shiʿite Heterodox? 297 the nascent literary language of Anatolian Turkish, which seems to have first arose in the urban cultural milieu of early fourteenth-century western Anatolia (diyar-ı Rum). The grandson of the famous Baba Ilyās of the Baba’i rebellion, Aşık Ali Paşa was a native of the city of Kırşehir, which spearheaded the burgeoning of literate Turkish urban culture in the late thirteenth and early fourteenth century.42 Aşık Ali Paşa’s Garib-name (composed 730/1329–30), a mathnawī on Sufi Islam of a didactic nature, constitutes the first comprehensive literary work written in western or Old Anatolian Turkish, after that of Gülşehri’s Mantıku’t- tayr (composed 1317), a free translation or adaptation of Farīd al-Dīn ʿAṭṭār’s Persian work of the same name.43 The work thus should be regarded as one of the earliest specimens of Turkish religious writings composed in the context of a blossoming Turkish urban religiosity. Aşık Paşa’s voluminous work, four volumes in its printed version, deals with a range of mystical topics such as the spiritual path, divine love, the Light of Muḥammad, cosmology and cosmogony, Creation, the sacred history of man, ethics, codes of behaviour, ideal rulers, and so forth. What is important for the sake of our discussion is the recognisable twofold classification of religious understanding as shariʿa and ṭarīqa (the Sufi path or mystical way) that permeates the whole text. Evidently Aşık Paşa does not regard these two manifestations of Islam as exclusive or contradictory to each other, but rather as complementary. Nevertheless, as a Sufi shaykh, he stresses theṭarīqa aspect of the religion, which was cultivated and represented by awliyāʾ or saints as opposed to the ahl-i ʿilm or religious scholars. The theme of the Garib-name is that Truth (ḥaqīqa) can only be attained by following the path of the awliyāʾ and that the primary force motivating the wayfarer along the path to knowledge of God (maʿrifa) is love (ʿishq). Indeed, the author’s adoption of the penname ‘Aşık’ is indicative of the preeminent role the poet gives to divine love.44 Although the Garib-name presents the shariʿa as being fundamental to Islam, it lays little stress, if any at all, on legal prescriptions and proscriptions.45 This following couplet reflects Aşık Paşa’s disinterest in legal prescriptions vis-à-vis his version of intoxicated Sufism:46

42 See Mehmet Fuad Köprülü, ‘Aşık Paşa’, İA. 43 For a general outline of intellectual and religious view of the time, see Kemal Yavuz, ‘Giriş’, in Aşık Paşa, Garib-nâme, ed. Kemal Yavuz, vol. 1, part 1 (Istanbul: Türk Dil Kurumu Yayınları, 2000), XIII–LXIV (hereafter referred to as Aşık Paşa, Garib-nâme, ed. Yavuz). 44 See, for example, Aşık Paşa, Garib-nâme, ed. Yavuz, vol. 1, part 1, 113–19, 161, 177, 181, 185, 221–2, 227, 228–37, 263, 287, 359–73, 387, 405, 425–41, 477–89. 45 For example, namaz (Islamic ritual prayer) is mentioned twice in the entire work. The first mention of namaz occurs in the story of the Prophet Muḥammad’s heavenly ascension, when it was reduced to five times a day. The second one is found in a section praising the Prophet (Aşık Paşa, Garib-nâme, ed. Yavuz, vol. 1, part 1, 31–5; vol. 2, part 2, 517–25, 775). Fasting, alms, and pilgrimage are mentioned only once in the work (Aşık Paşa, Garib-nâme, ed. Yavuz, vol. 2, part 2, 775, 785. 46 In ‘intoxicated’ Sufism, in which the adept is referred to as being intoxicated with divine love, the adept passes into a state of ecstatic rapture while contemplating God and becomes conscious of nothing but Him, including the legalistic prescriptions of the outward practice of the religion. For an in-depth discussion of the roots of the distinction between sober and 298 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

‘There is no anxiety of blasphemy and religion (küfr u din) for the people of love / The man of love transcends religion for the sake of his beloved.’47 Thus, parallel to this lack of concern for a strict legalistic practice of Islam, was a piety largely infused by the precepts and practices of intoxicated Sufism, along with the popularity of vernacular Turkish didactic religious verse texts coloured by love- oriented Sufism as we see with Aşık Paşa’s Garib-name.

Latitudinarian Religiosity Yet the question as to whether this latitudinarian stance was a conscious and conspicuous challenge to the shariʿa is an intriguing one. It is important to note that the religious mentality governing various expressions of religiosity in this heterogeneous landscape divulges no categorical rejection of the basic precepts of the shariʿa such as prayer (namaz) and Ramadan fasting. On the contrary, heroes are portrayed as performing namaz from time to time, pursuing an ascetic life, and even abstaining from alcohol consumption. According to Saltuk-name, Sarı Saltuk rejects the offer of alcohol by an infidel king during an undercover mission posing as a Christian, presenting a stomach ailment as an excuse. Similar scenes are not infrequent in the Danişmend-name, where its protagonists, Melik Ahmed and Battal Gazi are depicted as being well-versed in the Islamic sciences and spending their nights in study and prayer.48 The hagiographic literature attributed to Bektashi shaykhs presents us with more or less the same picture. The Velayet-name, the hagiography of Hacı Bektaş, the alleged founder of the Bektashi Sufi order, depicts the saint as performingnamaz more than once, usually as a way of demonstrating his miracle-working power.49 According to the Velayet-name, upon his arrival in the town, Hacı Bektaş stayed in the mosque of Sulucakarahöyük (today Hacıbektaş) for a period.50 Likewise, Hacı Bektaş’s composition, the Makalat, makes clear references to the basic requirements of Islamic law, such as prayer, fasting, the alcohol ban, etc. In intoxicated Sufism, see Jawid A. Mojaddedi, ‘Getting Drunk with Abū Yazīd or Staying Sober with Junayd: The Creation of a Popular Typology of Sufism’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 66, no. 1 (2003): 1–13. 47 Aşık Paşa, Garib-nâme, ed. Yavuz, vol. 1, part 1, 235. The piety of Yunus Emre as reflected in his extant works is perfectly in line with that of Aşık Paşa, with the stress on the role of love (aşk) while downplaying but not refuting a strict observation of the law. See, for example, Ahmet T. Karamustafa, ‘İslam Tasavvuf Düşüncesinde Yunus Emre’nin Yeri’, in Yunus Emre, ed. Ahmet Yaşar Ocak (Ankara: T.C. Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlığı, 2012), 287–304; Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, ‘Yunus Emre: 13–14. Yüzyıllar Arasında “Bir Garip Derviş-i Kalender-reviş” Yahut Önce Kendi Zaman ve Zemininin İnsanı’, in Yunus Emre, ed. Ahmet Yaşar Ocak (Ankara: T.C. Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlığı, 2012), 183–98. 48 Ebu’l-Hayr-i Rumi, Saltukname, ed. Fahir İz (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University, 1974); Necati Demir, ed., Dânişmend-nâme (Ankara: Akçağ Yayınları, 2004); Yorgos Dedes, Battalname: Introduction, English Translation, Turkish Transcription, Commentary and Facsimile, Part 1: Introduction and English Translation (Cambridge: The Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations, Harvard University, 1996). 49 Hacı Bektaş Veli, Velâyetnâmesi, ed. Duran and Gümüşoğlu, 75, 90–91, 93. 50 Ibid., 263. Sunni Orthodox vs Shiʿite Heterodox? 299 a similar vein, the Velayet-name of Seyyid Ali Sultan portrays the shaykh and his companions performing namaz on several occasions.51 Many other sources produced within the realm of rural religiosity similarly refer to the adherence to the legal precepts of Islamic law on the part of dervishes. Indeed, as examined above, a scrutiny of the reports of relatively shariʿa-minded writers such as Ibn Baṭṭūṭa reveals that they do not consider those dervishes outside the ‘true religion’ even when making mention of their latitudinarian religious practices. Indeed, there is no evidence that this behaviour was an avatar of an alternative theology or set of dogmas challenging mainstream doctrines.52 Perhaps the overlooking of questionable Islamic practices originates in an entirely Islamic attitude regarding practice versus dogma, as Norman Calder has pointed out. According to Calder, the Hanafi Sunni tradition does not define a Muslim strictly according to practice: ‘In order to achieve salvation as a Muslim, one has to have right belief in some sense or another. If one has right belief, wrong actions are not a barrier to achieving salvation.’53 Thus, the failure to pray five times a day, for instance, would not disqualify one as a Muslim, as long as one does not deny ‘the incumbency to pray five times a day’.54 Above all, in the absence of a clearly defined ‘orthodoxy’, it is difficult to attest to the existence of heterodoxies or aberrancies. Cemal Kafadar’s conceptualisation stands appropriate in describing the kind of religiosities discussed in this chapter:55

Maybe the religious history of Anatolian and Balkan Muslims living in the frontier areas of the period from the eleventh to the fifteenth century should be conceptualised in part in terms of a ‘metadoxy’, a state of being beyond doxies, a combination of being doxy-naive and not being doxy-minded, as well as the absence of a state that was interested in rigorously defining and strictly enforcing an orthodoxy. None of the frontier powers seem to have had that kind of an interest. It was much later that a debate emerged among Ottoman scholars and statesmen with respect to the correctness of some of the practices of their ancestors.

We may conclude that the emergence of these multiple religiosities with various combinations of parameters did not rest upon a differentiation in the sphere of creed and doctrine, i.e. doxies.

51 Yıldırım, Seyyid Ali Sultan (Kızıldeli) ve Velâyetnâmesi, 161, 168, 173. 52 For a similar observation on Yunus Emre’s piety, see Karamustafa, ‘Yunus Emre’nin Yeri’, 299–300. 53 Norman Calder, ‘The Limits of Islamic Orthodoxy’, in Intellectual Traditions in Islam, ed. Farhad Daftary (London and New York: I.B. Tauris Publishers, 2001), 66–7. 54 Ibid., 67. 55 Kafadar, Between Two Worlds, 76. 300 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Sunni-Shiʿite Dichotomy or an Alid-tinged ‘Loose’ Sunnism?

This study above all rejects the notion of an intrinsic essential bond between ‘heterodoxy’ and the Alevi creed. This idea was first systematized by Mehmed Fuad Köprülü and has influenced the scholarship ever since.56 Köprülü’s view regarding the existence of Shiʿism in early Anatolian Sufism deserves to be rejected as it is not corroborated in any of the sources. This study likewise agrees with the general lines of Claude Cahen’s argument that there was no clear- cut separation between Shiʿite and Sunni ideas in Anatolia before the official reorganisation of Shiʿism in the sixteenth century under the Safavids.57 Cahen’s argument nevertheless stands in need of further refinement. Cahen claims that the atmosphere of religious tolerance created by Mongol rule blurred the strict sectarian boundaries that were in force during the Seljuq era and encouraged close interaction between Sunnis and Shiʿites, especially in the context of Sufism.58 Although an adherent of the Köprülü school, Irène Mélikoff nevertheless aligns herself with Cahen’s framework in regard to the ‘Shiʿite question’ in medieval Anatolia. Citing both Baba Ilyās and Hacı Bektaş as examples, Mélikoff labels the deviance of specific Sufi groupings as an ‘Anatolian heterodoxy’, yet denies, like Cahen, that this was of a Shiʿite nature. And, although the love for the House of the Prophet and the memory of Karbala were widespread among Turkmen, according to Mélikoff, this cannot be taken as a sign of Shiʿism.59 Considering the dominance of Köprülü’s views in these matters, Mélikoff’s separation of ‘heterodoxy’ and the Shiʿite/Alevi creed was indeed a remarkable achievement. Nevertheless, she fell short of both systematizing her arguments and substantiating them with historical evidence. Indeed, these cornerstone arguments are only stated in passing in her writings, and thus were not picked up on by later scholars, including her prominent student, Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, who adopted Köprülü’s position which presumes an Ismaʿili bāṭinī substratum for this Anatolian ‘heterodoxy’ which came to be known as the Alevi-Bektaşi tradition. Ocak even attributes latitudinarian attitudes of dervish groups in ritual matters such as prayer and Ramadan fasting to Ismaʿili influence.60 Mainstream scholarship traces the spiritual genealogies of the late fifteenth- and early sixteenth-century movements of Alevism and the Qizilbash as well as the Bektashi order to earlier Sufis such as Baba Ilyās, Hacı Bektaş Veli, and Sarı Saltuk, while at the same time ascribing a Shiʿite/Alevi creed to these same

56 Köprülü, Islam in Anatolia, 14–15, 30–31; [Mehmed] Fuad Köprülü, Türk Edebiyatında İlk Mutasavvıflar, 4th edn (Ankara: Diyanet İşleri Başkanlığı Yayınları, 1981), 207–15; idem, Early Mystics, 199–201, 230–37. 57 Claude Cahen, The Formation of Turkey: The Seljukid Sultanate of Rūm: Eleventh to Fourteenth Century, trans. and ed. P.M. Holt (London and New York: Longman, 2001), 165. 58 Cahen, ‘Le problème du Shi’isme’, 127. 59 Irène Mélikoff, ‘L’origine sociale des premiers Ottomans’, in eadem, Sur les traces du soufisme turc, 130. 60 Ocak, ‘Islam’s Second Aspect’, 22–5. Sunni Orthodox vs Shiʿite Heterodox? 301 charismatic figures.61 However, the examination of contemporary sources does not substantiate this assumption; indeed, earlier sources provide no evidence of Shiʿite/Alevi inclinations on their part. I argue that the attribution of Shiʿite/ Alevi creeds to these alleged forerunners of the Qizilbash/Alevi-Bektashi tradition is an anachronistic back-projection that has its roots in official sixteenth-century Ottoman discourse. As contemporary sources indicate, the Muslim population of Anatolia during the medieval period considered themselves entirely within the fold of Sunni Islam. Nevertheless, the boundaries of what was acceptable in Sunni Islam during this time were sufficiently loose and broad that many Alevi dogmas, which were only later deemed as Shiʿite, easily came to be accommodated within it. If we turn to the orally grounded Turkish epic and hagiographic sources such as the Maktel-i Hüseyin, Ebu Müslim-name, Saltuk-name, and Battal-name, we see that sympathisers of the ahl al-bayt, or ‘House of the Prophet’, considered ‘true’ Muslims in these texts, are consistently referred as ‘Sunni.’ This particular popular usage of the label of Sunni does not completely overlap with the conventional meaning of the term.62 Nonetheless, the fact remains that sympathisers of the ahl al-bayt considered themselves part of the greater ‘Sunni’ constituency, no matter how much Alid-tinged their piety was. Ibn Baṭṭūṭa’s contemporary observations fit this general framework. Writing from the perspective of a Maliki scholar, Ibn Baṭṭūṭa points out that it was Sunni Islam that prevailed in Anatolia: ‘All the people of this land belong to the school of Imām Abū Ḥanīfa … and are firmly attached to the Sunna – there is not a Qadarī, nor a Rāfiḍī, nor a Muʿtazilī, nor a Khārijī, nor any innovator amongst them.’63 In fact, Ibn Baṭṭūṭa describes the Muslim population of Sinop as rather hostile to the ‘rāfiḍī’ or practitioners of legally grounded Shiʿism, i.e. the Twelver Shiʿite sect.64

61 For a recent critique of this linear back-projecting of history, though not specifically addressing the question of Shiʿism, see Dressler, Writing Religion, 11–19. 62 For a preliminary examination of these texts as a source for history and of their religious content, see Riza Yıldırım, ‘Beylikler Dünyasında Kerbela Kültürü ve Ehl-i Beyt Sevgisi: 1362 Yılında Kastamonu’da Yazılan Bir Maktelin Düşündürdükleri’, in Kuzey Anadolu’da Beylikler Dönemi Sempozyumu Bildiriler, Çobanoğulları, Candaroğulları, Pervaneoğulları, 8–3 Ekim 2011 Katamonu-Sinop-Çankırı, ed. Halil Çetin (Çankırı: Çankırı Karatekin Üniversitesi Yayınları, 2012), 344–72. For the particular meaning of ‘Sunni’ in this literature, see especially 358–72. 63 Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, Riḥla, 273–4; Gibb, The Travels of Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, 416; See Cahen’s evaluation of this comment, ‘Le Problème du Shi’isme’, 125. Ibn Baṭṭūṭa clearly had quite a negative attitude towards Twelver Shi’ism or heretics (rāfiḍī, rāfaḍa) as he refers to them. He describes the rāfiḍīs of the Syrian town of Maʿarra near Ḥamā as people of vulgar temperament (ṣinf min al-rāfaḍat ʿarjās) and condemns them for having destroyed the tomb of the Umayyad caliph ‘Umar bin ‘Abd al-‘Azīz. Indeed, they hated the Ten Great Companions of the Prophet and anyone with the name ‘Umar, especially ʿUmar ibn ‘Abd al-‘Azīz, although they venerated ʿAlī ibn Abū Ṭālib (Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, Riḥla, 67). 64 Ibn Baṭṭūṭa found himself in trouble when the people of Sinop suspected him of being a Shiʿite (rāfiḍī) after observing the particular way he performed the ritual prayer. It was because, explains Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, ‘some of the people of Sinop had been in Iraq and the Hijaz and saw Shiʿites performing the prayer in a similar way. For that reason, they accused me of being 302 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

A careful examination of the sources on Baba Ilyās and his spiritual successor (khalīfa) Baba Isḥāq brings us to a similar conclusion. There is no evidence for linking Baba Ilyās with any form of Shiʿism in either internal or external sources. First of all, the shaykh’s own great-grandson Elvan Çelebi, in his spiritual biography of Baba Ilyās, does not attribute any Shiʿite character to the shaykh and his followers, including Hacı Bektaş. On the contrary, not only does Elvan Çelebi mention the four ‘Rightly Guided’ caliphs with veneration, a distinguishing feature of Sunni sects,65 but he also reveres Abū Ḥanīfa, the eponymous founder of the Hanafi sect.66 Furthermore, as Mélikof points out,67 that one of Baba Ilyās’s sons was named ʿUmar and one of his prominent disciples was named ʿUthmān points to the absence of Shiʿite influence on Baba Ilyās’s doctrinal stance. Outsider observations likewise corroborate this. For instance, despite his apparent contempt for the baba, Ibn Bībī, the city- dwelling bureaucrat of the Sunni Seljuq polity, does not accuse his adversary of the slightest Shiʿite attributes; one might expect the accusation of Shiʿism to have been used as a powerful weapon of propaganda against the baba if indeed he had such proclivities. Similarly, Bar Hebraeus’ account of Baba Ilyās makes no mention of philo-Alid beliefs.68 We should also add that none of the later sources attributes Shiʿite/Alevi faith of any kind to Baba Ilyās and his followers.69 Further evidence of the Baba Ilyās’s Sunnism may be seen in the writings of his descendants, who presumably carried on the baba’s beliefs. Thus Baba Ilyās’s son Aşık Ali Paşa (d. 733/1332), the author of Garib-name, composed a work in the typical conventions of any Sunni text, starting with the invocation of God, the salutation of the Prophet, and the praise of the four ‘Rightly Guided’ caliphs, a Sunni creed that is obstinately rejected by Shiʿite fractions.70 Aşık Ali Paşa likewise holds the founders of the four Sunni sects in high reverence.71 Indeed, the Garib-name has no Alid colouring even in a form that can easily be accommodated within the Sunni framework. Its reference to ʿAlī ibn Abū Ṭālib in conjunction with the other three caliphs is typical of texts produced within a

Shiʿite (rāfiḍī) and anxiously questioned me. Although I tried to explain that this is the way of Malikis and I had nothing to do with Shiʿism, their suspicion did not disappear.’ It was only after eating the meat of rabbit, which was forbidden to Shiʿites, that they were persuaded of his Sunnism, and only then did they become friendly (Ibn Baṭṭūṭa, Riḥla, 320). 65 Elvan Çelebi, Menâkıbu’l-Kudsiyye fî Menâsıbi’l-Ünsiyye: Baba İlyas-ı Horasânî ve Sülâlesinin Menkabevî Tarihi, ed. İsmail E. Erünsal and A. Yaşar Ocak (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1995), 120, 122, 139. 66 Ibid., 24. 67 Mélikoff, ‘L’origine sociale des premiers Ottomans’, 130. 68 Budge, The Chronography of Gregory Abu’l-Faraj, 405. 69 For a succinct summary of these sources, see Karamustafa, ‘Early Sufism in Eastern Anatolia’, 179–83. 70 For the praise of the four ‘Rightly Guided’ caliphs, see Aşık Paşa, Garib-nâme, ed. Yavuz, vol. 1, part 1, 51–5, 61, 439. 71 In a section explaining the ‘ten friends’ of the man, Aşık Paşa depicts the four sect founders as great guides who opened up the truths of religious knowledge to the people (Aşık Paşa, Garib-nâme, ed. Yavuz, vol. 2, part 2, 777–9). Sunni Orthodox vs Shiʿite Heterodox? 303

Sunni context.72 Nor does the Garib-name make any reference to the ahl al-bayt or the privileges of the Prophetic offspring.73 Its chapter on the Light of Muḥammad likewise is strictly Sunni in tone: unlike Alevi authors of the sixteenth century such as Yemini and Virani, Aşık Paşa strictly limits this light to the eternal essence of the Prophet, leaving no room for the velayet (Ar. walāya) of ʿAlī or the guiding spirit of the ehl-i beyt (Ar. ahl al-bayt). His vision remains completely within Sunni perimeters.74 The situation of Hacı Bektaş, who appears as one of the disciples of Baba Ilyās, is no different. Perhaps the earliest document relating to Hacı Bektaş’s thought from an internal Bektashi point of view is the Makalat, a relatively short treatise attributed to Hacı Bektaş himself, which exists in a Turkish text produced in 812/1409 by a certain Hatiboğlu, allegedly a translation of the lost Arabic original.75 Although the attribution of this work to Hacı Bektaş is still a matter of dispute, the fact remains that from the early fifteenth century on, if not earlier, the Makalat has been accepted by the Bektashis as a genuine work of the shaykh. Therefore, even if it was not written or dictated by Hacı Bektaş himself, the work certainly reflects the religious ideas of his followers since then. As far as doctrinal orientation is concerned, the Makalat’s vision concurs squarely with that of the Garib-name. Like the Garib-name, it venerates the four ‘Rightly Guided’ caliphs;76 it does not attribute any privileges to ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib,77 nor does it make any mention of the ahl al-bayt or of the names of any of the Prophet’s offspring. On the other hand, the picture drawn by the Velayet-name, Hacı Bektaş’s hagiography produced at a much later date, is somewhat confusing.78 The first half of the compilation, which relates Hacı Bektaş’s immigration to Anatolia,

72 The only mention of ʿAlī outside the context of the four ‘Rightly Guided’ caliphs appears in a section arguing for knowledge’s superiority over wealth. Here Aşık Paşa recites the famous prophetic tradition that ‘I am the city of knowledge and ʿAlī is its gate’ (Aşık Paşa, Garib-nâme, ed. Yavuz, vol. 2, part 2, 739–67). 73 It is important to remember that Aşık Paşa was the grandson of celebrated Baba Ilyās. 74 Aşık Paşa, Garib-nâme, ed. Yavuz, vol. 1, part 1, 311–47. The Shiʿite/Alevi view, which appears only by the late fifteenth century in the Ottoman realm, considers the eternal essence of ʿAlī and the ehl-i beyt (ahl al-bayt), the family of the Prophet Muḥammad, as part of the Light of Muḥammad. Yemini’s well-known work, the Faziletname (composed 1519), presents us with a full-fledged version of this belief. For an anlysis of Yemini’s religious ideas, see Riza Yıldırım, ‘Abdallar, Akıncılar, Bektaşîlik ve Ehl-i Beyt Sevgisi: Yemînî’nin Muhiti ve Meşrebi Üzerine Notlar’, Belleten 75 no. 272 (2011), 51–85. 75 On the Makalat, see Hacı Bektaş Veli, Makalat, ed. Esad Coşan (Ankara: Seha Neşriyat, 1982). 76 Hacı Bektaş Veli, Makalat, ed. Coşan, 78. 77 Indeed, ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib is mentioned two times in whole text. The first time occurs after mention of the first three caliphs, and the second time in the section explaining ʿAlī’s famous tradition ‘I do not worship anyone but I see!’ (Hacı Bektaş Veli, Makalat, ed. Coşan, 70). 78 The Velayetname has been published in several different editions:Vilâyet-nâme : Menâkıb-ı Hünkâr Hacı Bektâş-ı Veli, ed. Abdülbaki Gölpınarlı (İstanbul: İnkılâp Yayınları, 1995); Hacı Bektaş Veli, Velâyetnâme, ed. Hamiye Duran (Ankara: Türkiye Diyanet Vakfı Yayınları, 2007); Hacı Bektaş Veli, Velâyetnâmesi, ed. Duran and Gümüşoğlu. 304 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia displays recognisable Shiʿite/Alevi motifs whereas the second part, which consists of short stories of events that allegedly occurred in and around Sulucakarahöyük, surprisingly lacks such motifs. Bearing in mind the fact that the Velayet-name is a compilation of oral traditions transmitted and accumulated throughout two centuries, and first written down in the late fifteenth century, its complex multilayered content deserves further scholarly treatment than it has so far received.79 External reports about Hacı Bektaş conform with the Makalat’s (non-)sectarian outlook. Elvan Çelebi’s Turkish verse hagiography of his grandfather Baba Ilyās, the Menakibu’l-kudsiyye, considers Hacı Bektaş among the Sufi master’s prominent spiritual successors, mentioning him three times by name. No indication of a pro-Alid stance is detected in these passages.80 Relatively short but informative descriptions by Aflākī in his Persian hagiography of Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī, Manāqib al- ʿĀrifīn, presumably representing the current views of the Mevlevi dervish milieu in the mid-fourteenth century, support our argument. Aḥmad Aflākī was critical of Hacı Bektaş and his followers. Indeed, his two reports on the shaykh are set within the backdrop of rivalry between Mevlevi and Bektashi Sufi groups. Hence his aim in these two short records was to prove the undisputed superiority of the eponymous founder of the Mevlevis, Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī, over Hacı Bektaş by belittling the latter’s spiritual qualities. Although Aflākī centres his criticism exclusively on the latitudinarian behaviour of Hacı Bektaş, claiming that the Sufi shaykh did not abide by the shariʿa, by no means does he accuse the shaykh of Shiʿite inclinations.81 Had Hacı Bektaş have any connection with Shiʿism, wouldn’t Aflākī have used this to further alienate Hacı Bektaş, and thus reduce the latter’s prestige amongst Mevlevi dervishes who were his primary audience? The absence of Shiʿite colouring in his accusations indeed points to the lack of a detectable Shiʿite doctrinal presence in Bektashi milieus. Aşıkpaşazade’s account provides us with further evidence. I argue elsewhere that Aşıkpaşazade’s work may be read as a polemic against Bektashi circles in the late fifteenth century. When his chronicle is read side by side with the final chapters of the Velayet-name of Hacı Bektaş, it appears that Bektashi groups were disputing with the newly emerged Sufi elites of Istanbul over who had played a more prominent role in the early Ottoman conquests and state-building initiatives. As part of this dispute, Aşıkpaşazade, situating himself against Bektashis, aimed to diminish Hacı Bektaş’s role by refuting his capacity as a Sufi

79 For an examination of how the second part of Velayetname appears to be much closer to historical facts see Rıza Yıldırım, ‘Anadolu’da İslâmiyet: Gaziler Çağında (XII–XIV. Asırlar) Türkmen İslâm Yorumunun Sünnî-Alevî Niteliği Üzerine Bazı Değerlendirmeler’, Osmanlı Araştırmaları / The Journal of Ottoman Studies, 43 (2014): 93–124. 80 Elvan Çelebi, Menâkıbu’l-kudsiyye, ed. Erünsal and Ocak, 169–70. 81 Aflākī, Manāqib al-‘ārifīn, trans. Yazıcı, 320–21, 394. Sunni Orthodox vs Shiʿite Heterodox? 305 shaykh.82 Aşıkpaşazade’s derogatory descriptions likewise do not include any mention of Shiʿite proclivity on the part of Hacı Bektaş.83 Nevertheless, the Sunnism that prevailed in medieval Anatolia, especially in the frontier regions, was far from identical to the classical Ottoman Sunnism that was gradually emerging by the late fifteenth century. It was loosely weaved in terms of both legal prescriptions and doctrinal boundaries. This character made it capable of harbouring libertarian praxes and pro-Alid sentiments, which would otherwise be excluded by the well-grounded, legalist Sunnism. It should be noted, however, that pro-Alid sentiments become most conspicuous not amongst Babaʾis and Bektashis, who are assumed to be the forerunners of the later Qizilbash-Bektashi communities, but amongst akhīs and associated groups. As a matter of fact, sources regarding the akhīs or futuwwa groups, be they internal or external, present us with a noticeably Alid-tinged Sufi piety. Meanwhile, this mood of Islamic piety was by no means limited to akhī groups but extended over rather greater segments of Muslim society. As Köprülü observed long ago, the most popular stories read and performed amongst the vast masses of medieval Anatolia were Turkish epics highlighting the centrality of the ahl al-bayt in perception and practice of ‘true Islam’, such as stories of ʿAlī, as well as the Ebu Müslim-name, Battal-name, Danişmend-name, and the Maktel-i Hüseyin.84 Since I discuss the Alid content of Anatolian Islam elsewhere, a succinct summary will suffice here.85 When looking closer at the creedal content of this sentimental heroic Sufi-tinged piety, one is struck by the domination of ʿAlī’s image as the archetype of ideal saint and warrior. He was not only the paragon of akhī/futuwwa groups as the ideal young man, but also the epitome of ghāzīs, or holy warriors. As the fountainhead of velayet (Ar. walāya), he likewise was the ideal prototype for dervishes. Given the currency of the idea of holy war and the widespread culture of Sufi saints at this time, this image of ʿAlī became pervasive. The second conspicuous feature of Alid-tinged Islamic piety is its great stress on the role of the House of the Prophet as representatives and guides of true faith. According to this perspective, ʿAlī and his sons, Ḥasan and Ḥusayn, represented the locus of the rightful Islamic path, second in place only to the Prophet. Closely linked to this belief, the acts of the Umayyads are firmly denounced. The tragedy of Karbala, regarded as one of the peaks of the eternal clash between forces of evil and good, in particular constitutes the emotional nucleus of this piety. Stereotypical characters fighting in revenge for the unjust

82 For a further discussion of Aşıkpaşazade’s account of Hacı Bektaş, see Yıldırım, ‘Hacı Bektaş Veli ve İlk Osmanlılar’. 83 A scrutiny of early sources on Sarı Saltuk, Barak Baba, Geyikli Baba, and similar figures who were later subsumed into the Alevi-Bektaşhi tradition would lead us to similar conclusions. For reasons of space, however, I limit my examination to these two paragons of ‘rural religiosity’. 84 Mehmed Fuad Köprülü, ‘Türkler (Türk Edebiyatı)’, İA, vol. 12, part 2 (1988), 536. 85 Yıldırım, ‘Anadolu’da İslâmiyet’. 306 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia murder of Ḥusayn, such as Abū Muslim, were not perceived merely as heroes of the past but rather as ever-living prototypes shaping popular piety.86 The important point to be emphasised here is that, however much Shiʿite/ Alid tone is reflected in dogmatic content of this particular piety, we have good reason to accept that these people regarded themselves within the fold of Sunni Islam; this ahl al-bayt-centred Islamic perception in fact does not reject any of the principal tenets of the Sunni creed, such as the veneration of the other three ‘Rightly Guided’ caliphs. Likewise, the concept of Imāma as conceived by Twelver or Ismaʿili Shiʿism is entirely absent in this literature.87 With this, we conclude that in medieval Anatolia there was no conscious alienation between Sunni and Shiʿite creeds, but rather clusters of faiths in which Sunni and Shiʿite elements intermingled.

Conclusion

We may conclude that, in terms of religiosity, a binary differentiation is not discernible in late thirteenth- and fourteenth-century Anatolia; hence it is difficult to refer to orthodoxy and heterodoxy in this context. Rather, one of the most important features of Islam in medieval Anatolia was the fluidity and looseness of the boundaries of its practice as opposed to the boundary- assertiveness of later Ottoman Sunnism. Although recognisably different religious perceptions and practices were present in medieval Anatolia, these different formations nevertheless were interactive and dynamic. Moreover, these various religious groupings and interpretations were not aligned within an economy of ‘universally’ centralised-hierarchical discourse. The Islamic outlook of medieval Anatolia rather reflects a heterogeneous landscape of multiple pieties. A similar observation is valid for the ‘doctrinal’/sectarian orientation. As far as the religious topography of medieval Anatolia is concerned, no visible Sunni-Shiʿite/Alevi bi-polarisation is observable. Since a binary alignment of religiosities and doctrinal/sectarian expressions did not exist, the idea of a linear, one-to-one correspondence between various religiosities and sectarian manifestations, such as orthodox-Sunni vs heterodox-Shiʿite/Alevi, is simply not applicable. Rather, in such a multilayered, multifaceted, and heterogeneous landscape of religious embodiments, Alid-bent beliefs were distributed unevenly amongst different groupings. Many Alid elements of faith, which would later become excluded from the Ottoman Sunnism, were thus accommodated within this Sunni-labelled Islamic piety. One may argue that it was only by the sixteenth century, when a legally minded Sunnism developed in conjunction with the increasing bureaucratisation of the Ottoman empire, that a bi-polarisation on lines of theology and socio-politics

86 For a detailed analysis of piety within the Sunni-Shi’i spectrum, see Yıldırım, ‘Anadolu’da İslâmiyet’. 87 For further details and sources, see Yıldırım, ‘Anadolu’da İslâmiyet’. Sunni Orthodox vs Shiʿite Heterodox? 307 began to emerge. Connected to the centralisation of political power, Ottoman Sunnism assumed stricter boundaries which excluded both latitudinarian practices and Alid-tinged elements. In response, Alid sentiments and beliefs found a warm reception amongst political outcasts. Two separate but interconnected processes, i.e. the rise of the centre and periphery on the one hand, and the differentiation of Sunni and Shiʿite elements of creed on the other, conflated in the course of the late fifteenth and early sixteenth century into an increasingly narrow legalistically minded Ottoman Sunnism and Sunni-exclusive Safavid Shiʿism. Concomitantly, this period also experienced a gradual homogenisation and hierarchisation of the heterogeneous landscape of religiosity. In response to this centralisation, hierarchisation and homogenisation, some segments of society practicing the earlier heterogeneous religiosity, especially in the rural regions of the Ottoman empire, became receptive to Shiʿite/Alevi doctrines, developing into the Qizilbash synthesis. This page has been left blank intentionally Chapter 13 Mevlevi-Bektashi Rivalries and the Islamisation of the Public Space in Late Seljuq Anatolia1

Judith Pfeiffer

This chapter ought to begin with a disclaimer and a clarification: its title may be taken to suggest that there existed Mawlawiyya and Bektashiyya ṭarīqas in the thirteenth century, either in Anatolia, or elsewhere. That was not the case. For the thirteenth century, we cannot speak of Sufi ‘ṭarīqas’ in the same sense as the full-fledged ṭarīqas of the fifteenth century. It was the eponymous founders – Hacı Bektaş Veli (d. c.1271) and Mawlānā Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī (d. 1273) who lived during this period.2 However, there were certainly powerful groups of individuals surrounding them who carried on their work. For example, in the case of Rūmī, the leadership of the Sufi congregation in Konya was passed on to his successor Ḥusām al-Dīn Chalabī, and Rūmī’s legacy as a poet was continued by his son, Sulṭān Walad (d. 1312), who composed three works in the style of his father’s famous Mathnawī. His Ibtidāʾ-nāma contains several hundred lines in Arabic, Greek, and Turkish in addition to Persian, which is worth mentioning as part of the setting of this chapter in a volume that seeks to shed light on the multi-lingual, religiously eclectic, and politically decentralised landscape of thirteenth-century Anatolia. Like his father Rūmī, Sulṭān Walad was close to the rulers. He composed panegyric poetry as well, and we shall return below to the relationship of these men to the political powers to be. They need to be taken into account as an important factor in the Islamisation of Anatolia, though, as we shall also see, their agency was only one among several factors in this process. In a recent article that is dedicated to a set of endowment deeds from central Anatolia that were drafted in the name of Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā in 1272, around the time of the deaths of Hacı Bektaş and Rūmī, I have analysed the ways in which endowments facilitated tax evasion, and how in this case 75 per cent of the funds were instead funnelled back into the endower’s own family for generations to

1 An earlier version of this chapter was presented at the workshop ‘The reception of Islam in Anatolia in the 12th–15th centuries’, Research Centre for Anatolian Civilizations, Istanbul, Turkey, 6–7 September 2013. I am grateful to the participants for their valuable questions, comments, and feedback. I am particularly indebted to Evrim Binbaş for reading and commenting on the final draft of this chapter before submission,and to Johannes Preiser- Kapeller for designing the map included in this chapter. All remaining errors are, of course, my own. Funding for research for this chapter was made available by the European Research Council under the European Union’s Seventh Framework Programme (FP7/2007–2013) / ERC Starting Grant 263557 IMPAcT. 2 On the death dates of Hacı Bektaş and Rūmī see the references below. 310 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia come (at least that was the plan).3 I have argued that in late thirteenth-century Anatolia where there existed a set of well-defined political hierarchies, with the Mongol Ilkhans at the top and several vassals operating at the local level, the endower, Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā who may have gained his vast fortunes partially through overland trade, invested his assets deliberately in areas that were remote both from the political power of the Seljuq rulers in Konya, and at a safe distance from areas where Mawlānā Rūmī and his followers were particularly firmly established. Despite the fact that he apparently owned large amounts of properties in Konya, this is not where Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā reinvested his funds. Instead, he invested the proceeds of his endowments in remote towns such as Eskişehir and in areas that were less immediately under Seljuq rule than Konya, such as İskilip near the Black Sea, or Kırşehir, where he himself was appointed governor for part of his life.4 In the latter case, Nūr al-Dīn took a considerable risk, at least on the surface of it, as it was near Kırşehir that the Mongol army of the region had its winter camps.5 The endowment deeds were issued as Arabic and Mongolian bilingues, at a time when the Chinggisid rulers were Buddhist and it was not at all evident that they would eventually convert to Islam. It was also a time when the non- Chinggisid Mongol commoners were engaged in a tug-of-war with the Chinggisid Ilkhans, who were, ultimately, dependent on the former’s military support. The endowment deeds were signed by those in charge on the ground, namely the representatives of the Mongol military elite in Anatolia, suggesting that Nūr al- Dīn had a sound understanding of the power relationships of his time. In the endowment deeds, the longest of which measures 12 metres, a large number of places and place names are mentioned. These include both income- producing and income-receiving places, buildings, and institutions in Anatolia. On the income-producing side of the endowment, we find a large number of properties and buildings, including orchards, vineyards, various types of irrigated

3 Judith Pfeiffer, ‘Protecting Private Property vs. Negotiating Political Authority: Nūr al- Dīn ibn Jājā and his Endowments in Thirteenth-century Anatolia’, in Ferdowsi, the Mongols and the History of Iran. Art, Literature and Culture from Early Islam to Qajar Persia, ed. Robert Hillenbrand, A.C.S. Peacock and Firuza Abdullaeva (London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2013), 147–65. 4 According to the Mevlevi hagiographer Aflākī, Nūr al-Dīn was the well-regarded deputy of the Parwāna and governor in Kırşehir (nāʾib-i muʿtabar-i Parwāna wa ḥākim-i wilāyat-i Qīrshahr). Aflākī,Manāqib al-ʿĀrifīn, ed. Tahsin Yazıcı (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1959), vol. 1, 497; trans. John O’Kane, The Feats of the Knowers of God (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 343. See also Āqsarāʾī, Müsâmeret ül-ahbâr: Moğollar Zamanında Türkiye Selçukluları Tarihi, ed. Osman Turan (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1944), 75. 5 We learn from Āqsarāʾī that the environs of Kırşehir were the winter camp of the Jalāyir Tohu, the commander of all of Anatolia on behalf of the Mongol overlords of the Seljuqs (Müsâmeret ül-ahbâr, 113). Tohu was also one of the witnesses of Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā’s endowment deed. See Ahmet Temir (ed. and trans.), Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu Nur al-Din’in 1272 Tarihli Arapça-

Moğolca Vakfiyesi (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Yayınları, 1959), K1, line 65, and ibid., 216–17. This name is alternatively rendered in the Arabic script as Tuqu (Toqu, Toqa, Toqai) Noyan; see Reuven Amitai-Preiss, Mongols and Mamluks: The Mamluk-Ilkhanid War, 1260–1281 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 161. Mevlevi-Bektashi Rivalries and the Islamisation of the Public Space 311

Figure 13.1 Map of Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā’s endowments in Anatolia and dry gardens, wine, fruit, or oil presses, mills, water mills, bathhouses, shops, an ice-house (mujammida), ovens/bakeries (furn), and entire market quarters in Kırşehir, İskilip, Ankara/Talımeğini, Koçhisar, Konya, and Aksaray.6 In Kırşehir alone the income-receiving institutions included a madrasa, built by the endower, a mosque next to the madrasa, a khānqāh, a zāwiya, a maktab, a dār al-ṣulaḥāʾ, a tomb (turba) for the endower, and another tomb for the endower’s sister.7 Nūr

6 For attempts to identify the place names and the names of quarters and bazaars that are mentioned in the deed with still extant buildings and quarters in modern-day Kırşehir, see Mahmut Seyfeli, ‘Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu Nur el Din’in 1272 Tarihli Arapça-Moğolca Vakfiyesi’nde Geçen Kırşehir’e Ait Yer Adlarının Bugünkü Durumu Üzerine Bir İnceleme’, Tuncer Gülensoy Armağanı (Kayseri: 1995); Ahmet Akşit, ‘Cacaoğlu Vakfiyesine göre Kırşehir’de iskan ve mahalleler’, in 60. Yılına ilim ve Fikir Adamı Prof. Dr. Kâzım Yaşar Kopraman’a Armağan, ed. Semih Yalçın (Ankara: Berikan, 2003), 119–28. For a thorough, condensed summary of the (historical) endowments and endowed properties, regardless of whether these are still extant or not, see Aynur Durukan, ‘Anadolu Selçuklu Sanatı Açısından Vakfiyelerin Önemi’, Vakıflar Dergisi 26 (1997), 26–44, at 34–7. Zafer Bayburtluoğlu has provided a useful list and table of buildings built or endowed by Nūr al-Dīn, but its interpretation remains superficial, and fails to identify some of the individuals mentioned – ʿAbd Allāh al-Badawī, e.g., to whom the khānqāh in Eskişehir is dedicated, remains a mystery. Bayburtluoğlu, ‘Caca Oğlu Nureddin’in Vakfiyesi’nde Adı geçen Yapılar’, Vakıflar Dergisi 25 (1995): 5–8. For a study of ice houses, albeit in Iran, see Hemming Jorgensen, Ice Houses of Iran (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda, 2012). 7 The above and following examples are based on Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, 287–8, referring to all three core deeds: İ, K1 and K2. 312 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia al-Dīn also established endowments in Talımeğini in the administrative district of Ankara, where he had built a madrasa as well as a mosque (both explicitly built by the endower), and especially in Sultan Öyüğü (Eskişehir), which was in terms of the number of buildings erected or repaired the greatest beneficiary of all, as Nūr al-Dīn had built a new mosque (masjid), had repaired another 17 existing mosques, had repaired the zāwiya of a certain Shaykh ʿAbd Allāh al-Badawī, and had built from scratch a khān (hostel or caravanserai), together with a masjid in the khān. Nūr al-Dīn also established smaller endowments in Kayseri, where he had repaired the Friday mosque (masjid al-jāmiʿ) of Niẓām al-Dīn al-Mustawfī, and he built a madrasa in İskilip. It is noteworthy that he supported very few Sufi institutions. With one exception, these – a zāwiya and a khānqāh – were found in the town where he was directly in charge himself, Kırşehir. The resulting overall picture suggests that Nūr al-Dīn did not necessarily reinvest the largest sums of money in those areas that generated the most income: rather, he appears to have deployed these consciously in areas that were far away from the centres of political power, and, as we shall see, also at a safe distance from some of the most prominent and vociferous holders of spiritual authority – Mevlevi shaykhs. His endowments were at the same time conveniently located along trade routes. The representatives of the Mongol military contingents who signed the deed did not benefit in any way from it. Their function was to protect its stipulations and abide by them. So, one may ask, if the Seljuq and Mongol taxation systems were bypassed by these endowments, and if neither Mongol nor Seljuq individuals nor members of the Mevlevi environment derived benefits from them, who did? In other words, this article is dedicated to the remaining 25 per cent of the funds made available through Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā’s endowments that did not go back into the pockets of Nūr al-Dīn’s family, either through inheritance (50 per cent) or as an indemnity for administrative efforts in running the endowments quamutawallī (25 per cent).

The Human Geography of Central Anatolia during the Late Thirteenth Century

The contents of the surviving endowment deeds of Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā provide exceptional details about the human geography of central Anatolia during the second half of the thirteenth century. Several groups that are mentioned in them and which are of particular interest in the context of the present volume are local non-Muslim non-Mongol groups and individuals who did not, with one exception, actively participate in signing the contract and also did not benefit from it, but their properties are mentioned in the deed, often as demarcations of the properties owned by Nūr al-Dīn. These are the Christians and, to a lesser extent, the Jews of inner Anatolia, about whom we know very little for this period. The endowment deed contains ample references to properties formerly or presently owned by them, and is therefore a valuable testament to their presence in inner Anatolia during this period. Mevlevi-Bektashi Rivalries and the Islamisation of the Public Space 313

Thus, there are several references in the deed to Armenians and an ‘Armenian Bazaar’ in Kırşehir (sūq al-Arminiyīn; sūq al-Arāmina, İ, lines 173; 177),8 an ‘Armenian cemetery’ (maqābir al-Arāmina) in Konya,9 and an Armenian hamlet or market or hostel (Arman Khān), consisting of 16 households, in Konya (İ, line 302). The deed also refers to property owned probably by either Armenian or Greek Orthodox Christians; thus, it refers to an Amīr Qusṭanṭīn (İ, line 456), and a mill belonging perhaps to a different Qusṭanṭīn (İ, line 487) in İskilip. Indeed, there is also an individual called Markos/Margos among the signatories of the deed.10 Some of the landlords in İskilip may have been Jewish. For instance, the deed refers to property owned by a certain Dānyāl (İ, line 454), and a certain ‘Yahūdī’ (İ, line 487), both in İskilip. Among the villages in the vicinity of Ankara are mentioned Pelenish and Sarkis/Sergis Aʿlā/Oghlu (İ, line 255). In the vicinity of Konya are found the villages Sirahorlu (İ, line 299), and Kalahorlu (İ, line 299), and there is a place name ‘Ayostefanos’ in Kırşehir.11 These are only a few examples from a list of names that could be easily extended. This presence of non-Muslim groups in thirteenth-century central Anatolia deserves a more systematic investigation, though the difficulty of identifying religious denomination merely through names and toponyms is well known, and is methodologically problematic.12 The perhaps more surprising evidence emerging from this document is that of an apparent Islamisation and Turkification at that time: many of the names referring to owners of certain properties are Muslim, and some are Turkish, and for some of them their recent conversion to Islam is explicitly pointed out (‘mulk Yaʿqūb al-muhtadī,’ İ, line 489). We hear that there is a Türkmen Bazaar in Kırşehir (sūq Turkamān bāzār),13 and there is also a ‘Turkmanbeg’ mentioned in parallel with the ‘Atābeg’ (pp. 40/115, İ, line 272), who may be identical with the Shams al-Dīn Turkmanbeg who is mentioned earlier in the same document (İ, line 159, pp. 29/110). The description of the borders of the 16-household strong hamlet or market/ hostel ‘Arman Khan’ near Konya is representative: according to the deed, its borders were delineated by the properties of Satılmış (a Turkish name), Harok (an Armenian name), and ʿUmar (an Arabic/Islamic name; İ, line 304). The names of the many individuals mentioned in the deed, in combination with the contemporary narrative sources and biographical dictionaries, would lend themselves to a prosopographical study, including of the names of women owners (e.g., ‘mulk Yavāsh Khātūn,’ İ, line 166; ‘mulk ʿĀʾisha,’ İ, line 213; ‘al-sitt al- khalīla al-muṣawwana Dawlat Khātūn bint al-Amīr Bahāʾ al-Dīn Jājā,’ İ., line 408, ‘mulk Karrāmiyya Khātūn,’ İ, line 457, etc.). Presumably it is these populations, and to a greater extent the Muslims among them, who benefited from the kind of

8 Here and below the references (in round brackets) refer to the endowment deeds as published by Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu. 9 Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, 42/115, İ, line 286. 10 Ibid., K1, Mongol part, 160, line 27; 197. 11 Ibid., 45/117, İ, line 315. 12 For an example, see Richard W. Bulliet, Conversion to Islam in the Medieval Period: An Essay in Quantitative History (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979). 13 Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, 36/113, İ, lines 236–7. 314 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia institutions that Nūr al-Dīn built or supported with the proceeds of his endowed properties: whereas the neighbourhoods from which his income derived were multi-denominational, the majority of the endowments into which his wealth was channelled back were specifically Muslim institutions such as mosques and madrasas. By contrast, institutions that might have been of benefit to the population at large, such as caravanserais, soup kitchens for the poor, or hospitals that would presumably also have been accessible to non-Muslims, were in the minority. Endowments and building activities such as these did thus indirectly contribute to the Islamisation of Anatolia, both visually, and by providing an exclusively Muslim public infrastructure and space of expression. It is noteworthy that Nūr al-Dīn paid particular attention to education. An instructor (mudarris) in one of his madrasas earned twice as much (1,200 dirham annually) as the shaykh in the khānqāh (600 dirham annually), and almost thrice as much as the shaykh in the zāwiya (420 dirham annually). The private teacher instructing Nūr al-Dīn’s children was to be remunerated with 1,000 dirham annually, and even the librarian of the madrasa library received an annual salary of 360 dirham. In other words, teaching, and in particular madrasa teaching, was clearly given a higher value than Sufi ceremonial, and presumably the instructor himself had to have reached a higher level of education than the shaykh. Unlike the shaykhs of the zāwiya and khānqāh, the teachers whom Nūr al-Dīn employed in the madrasas were therefore in all likelihood ʿulamāʾ.14 This distinction is important, since the ʿulamāʾ of Anatolia during this period were much less visible, less vociferous, and probably also less well organised as a group than their contemporary counterparts in the Mamluk Sultanate, or indeed, the Sufi groups present in Anatolia at this time.15 They probably had a less strong socio-religious network to draw on, and were therefore more directly dependent on and controllable by individuals like Nūr al-Dīn. Their presence in endowment deeds is therefore all the more important. In the long run the effect that these institutions had on the public space and the society that inhabited it was arguably of greater import than the financial gain that it brought to the individual members of Nūr al-Dīn’s family who were running them – especially since Nūr al-Dīn does not appear to have had dynastic or other long-term aspirations for his family. In other words, these 25 per cent of the proceeds of Nūr al-Dīn’s endowments that went into public buildings had a longer lasting and deeper effect than the 75 per cent of the proceeds that flowed straight back into the pockets of Nūr al-Dīn’s family.

14 Ibid., 99–100. 15 On the ʿulamāʾ in Seljuq Anatolia, albeit during an earlier time, the first half of the thirteenth century, see Sara Nur Yıldız and Haşim Şahin, ‘In the Proximity of Sultans: Majd al-Dīn Isḥāq, Ibn ʿArabī and the Seljuk Court’, in The Seljuks of Anatolia: Court and Society in the Medieval Middle East, ed. A.C.S. Peacock and Sara Nur Yıldız (London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2013), 171–205. Mevlevi-Bektashi Rivalries and the Islamisation of the Public Space 315

Sufi Networks, Sufi Rivalry, and Political Sufism in Thirteenth-Century Anatolia

Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā’s properties were distributed over a vast geography. So were the properties he endowed. As Ethel Sara Wolper points out:

In thirteenth- and fourteenth-century Anatolia, where control over newly available land was directly related to acquisition of political power, the patronage of architecture was one means by which amīrs were able to hold on to property. The three most prolific building patrons from this period – the pervāne Muʿīn al-Dīn, the wazīr Fakhr al-Dīn ʿAlī, and the atabeg Jalāl al-Dīn Qarāṭay – and their descendants were highly successful in quickly converting private property into protected waqf. Through this method, they were able to establish semi-independent rule over entire regions.16

Given the value and extent of Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā’s endowments, his name should be added to this list. Further elaborating on the function and politico-religious advantages of such endowments for the endowers, Wolper continues:

To [the] patrons, dervish lodges were much more than simple tax shelters … local leaders chose to build dervish lodges, as opposed to mosques and madrasas, because dervishes had an enormous influence over the local population and the Türkmen groups. This second reason was important because, by the second half of the thirteenth century, amīrs could no longer rely upon Seljuk forces to protect their cities from external threats or to quell rebellions. Thus, they wanted to form alliances with leaders of resident groups to provide local military support and to help ensure their popularity.17

Wolper’s book – and her interpretation – focuses on Sufi groups, which were major political players in late thirteenth-century Anatolia indeed. However, the case of Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā shows that there were exceptions to the rule: he only supported one already previously existing khānqāh in the most outlying area where he made endowments, Eskişehir,18 and another khānqāh and a zāwiya in

16 Ethel Sara Wolper, Cities and Saints: Sufism and the Transformation of Urban Space in Medieval Anatolia (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2003), 27. For a detailed study of this phenomenon, see Halil İnalcık, ‘Autonomous Enclaves in Islamic States: Temlîks, Soyurghals, Yurdluḳ-Ocaḳlıḳs, Mâlikâne-Muḳâtaʿas and Awqāf’, in History and Historiography of Post- Mongol Central Asia and the Middle East: Studies in Honor of John E. Woods, ed. Judith Pfeiffer and Sholeh A. Quinn (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2006), 112–34. 17 Wolper, Cities and Saints, 27. 18 The part of the text of the endowment that pertains to this khānqāh was published as early as 1934 by [E.] İhsan; already then the original building had been destroyed. See [E.] İhsan, ‘Eskişehir Kitabeleri’, Türk Tarih, Arkeologya ve Etnografya Dergisi 2 (1934): 262–8, at 263. This khānqāh was attached to a certain Shaykh ʿAbd Allāh al-Badawī, who does not appear to have belonged to either the Mevlevi or Bektashi groups with whom Nūr al-Dīn was otherwise in contact, or at least he does not appear to have played a major role, as his name is not found in the indices to contemporary or close to contemporary sources, such as Sipahsālār’s Risāla- 316 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Kırşehir, but had built from scratch and endowed not only one, but two madrasas and three mosques in Kırşehir, İskilip, Talımeğini near Ankara, and Sultan Öyüğü (Eskişehir). He also had repaired a further 19 mosques and one further madrasa in these and other cities, including Kayseri. What is more, Nūr al-Dīn also seems to have cared very little for the support he might have gained through endowing more of his property to dervish lodges – quite to the contrary. Before turning to this matter in more detail, a few words are in place on the Sufi presence in thirteenth-century Anatolia. As Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, Ahmet Karamustafa, and others have demonstrated, the Sufi landscape of thirteenth- century Anatolia was exceedingly variegated.19 Among the Sufi groups active in thirteenth-century Anatolia the qalandars, akhīs, and (proto-) Wafāʿiyya, Yasawiyya, Ḥaydariyya, and Bektashiyya groups had apparently a particularly large following both in the cities and in the countryside,20 whereas more ‘high- brow’21 and literalist Sufi groups such as the (proto-) Kubrawiyya, Suhrawardiyya, and Mawlawiyya were more widespread in larger towns, such as Konya, Kayseri, Sivas, and Tokat.22 Other groups, such as the Aḥmadiyya/Rifāʿiyya which originated in Iraq, spread into neighbouring areas, including Anatolia, especially after the Mongol conquest of Baghdad and Iraq, as Ibn Baṭṭūṭa encountered yi Sipahsālār, Rūmī’s letters, Aflākī’s Manāqib al-ʿĀrifīn, Hacı Bektaş’s Velayet-name, Yazıcızāde ʿAlī’s Tevārīh-i Āl-i Saljūq, the anonymous Tārīkh-i Āl-i Saljūq dar Ānāṭūlī, Āqsarāʾī’s Musāmarat al-Akhbār, al-Qūnawī’s Rawḍat al-Kuttāb, or relevant secondary literature, such as, e.g., Mikâil Bayram’s 1991 Ahi Evren ve Ahi Teşkilâtının Kuruluşu, a book that would certainly not have missed to point out the names and roles of individuals who were involved with either Mawlānā or the akhīs; Ahmet T. Karamustafa’s 1994 God’s Unruly Friends, or Ahmet Yaşar Ocak’s 1996 Türk Sufiliğine Bakışlar, which covers all major players related to the followers of Aḥmad Yasawī, Mawlānā Rūmī, Yūnus Emre, Hacı Bektaş Veli, the akhīs, and the Alevi-Bektashis. Given that the Egypt-based eponymous founder of the Badawiyya, Aḥmad al-Badawī, did not die until 675/1276, it is unlikely, though not impossible, that there is a relationship between the ʿAbd Allāh al-Badawī of Eskişehir and his partial namesake Aḥmad in Ṭanta. We know from Ibn Baṭṭūṭa that the Rifāʿiyya, of which the Badawiyya was an offshoot, was very active in Anatolia during his visit half a century later, although further research is needed on this topic. 19 On antinomian Sufi trends of this period, see Ahmet T. Karamustafa,God’s Unruly Friends: Dervish Groups in the Islamic Later Middle Period, 1200–1550 (Salt Lake City, UH: University of Utah Press, 1994); Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, Türkiye’de tarihin saptırılması süreçinde Türk Sûfiliğine bakışlar: Ahmed-i Yesevî, Mevlânâ Celâleddin-i Rûmî, Yunus Emre, Haci Bektaş-i Velî, ahîlik, Alevîlik-Bektaşîlik: yaklaşım, yöntem ve yorum denemeleri (Istanbul: İletişim, 1996). For a slightly later period, see idem, Osmanlı İmperatorluğunda Marjinal Sûfîlik: Kalenderîler (xiv–xvii. Yüzyıllar) (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1989), and idem, Osmanlı Toplumunda Zındıklar ve Mülhidler: 15–17. Yüzyıllar (Istanbul: Tarih Vakfı Yayınları, 1999). 20 Ocak, Türk Sûfiliğine bakışlar; idem, ‘Zaviyeler’, Vakıflar Dergisi12 (1978): 257–69 at 255–61. 21 A. Yaşar Ocak has referred to the Mevlevis as an ‘aristokrat tarikat’ (Ocak, ‘Zaviyeler’, 261). 22 At about the same time as Mawlānā, another circle of highly literate Sufis, surrounding Ibn ʿArabī’s foremost disciple and exegete Ṣadr al-Dīn al-Qūnawī, were also active in Konya, as well as in the wider region. On the latter, and for an example of his literary production, see Gudrun Schubert, al-Murāsalāt bayna Ṣadr al-Dīn al-Qūnawī wa-Naṣīr al-Dīn al-Ṭūsī / Annäherungen: der mystisch-philosophische Briefwechsel zwischen Ṣadr ud-Dīn-i Qōnawī und Naṣīr ud-Dīn-i Ṭūsī (Beirut and Stuttgart: Steiner, 1995). See also Yıldız and Şahin, ‘In the Proximity of Sultans’. Mevlevi-Bektashi Rivalries and the Islamisation of the Public Space 317

Rifāʿī shaykhs in İzmir, Bergama, Amasya, and Konya during the first half of the fourteenth century.23 Tensions between the Sufi groups and the state, but also among the Sufi groups themselves, were not uncommon,24 and political unrest was often couched in religious terms already before the thirteenth century, but was further exacerbated under Mongol rule. Thus, in 1239–41, the famous Baba Ilyās al-Khurāsānī, who claimed to be a prophet, organised, out of his Sufi lodge near Amasya, and drawing on the Turkmen population of Anatolia, a major religio-political uprising that led to the weakening of Seljuq power. According to Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, who thoroughly investigated the event and its context, this contributed to facilitating the Mongol takeover of much of eastern and central Anatolia in 1243.25 Subsequently, the followers of Baba Ilyās were particularly active in towns in the north eastern parts of central Anatolia, such as Tokat, Kırşehir, and Çorum.26 Eventually the followers of Hacı Bektaş absorbed many of the followers of Baba Ilyās,27 who were active in much of the same area, in such towns as Amasya, Tokat, Çorum, Sivas, and Kırşehir, but also in Konya, Ankara, Harput, Erzurum, and Antalya.28 While it can be assumed that there was a good amount of demographic change and geographical overlap between various Sufi groups, location certainly mattered, with Mawlānā/Rūmī and his followers at the centre of power in the Seljuq capital Konya, where they were in close contact with the governors, viziers, and Seljuq sultans, in contrast to the more off-road, off-centre group around Akhī Evren in Kırşehir, and the even further off-road group around the eponymous founder of the Bektashiyya, Hacı Bektaş in Sulucakarahöyük (Hacıbektaş) at a distance of 41 km (26 miles) from Kırşehir,29 around whom the offshoots of the 1239–41 Babaʾi rebellion and Akhī Evren’s uprising apparently eventually rallied. Ahmet Yaşar Ocak has argued that Kırşehir, where Nūr al-Dīn was stationed as governor for part of his life, was not on the main roads, and therefore more secluded from the political power holders than Konya, which permitted it to

23 Ocak, ‘Zaviyeler’, 260; 269. 24 Even by the 1290s some of the futuwwa and akhī groups in Konya had apparently thousands of (possibly armed?) followers. For instance, Aflākī speaks of the thousands of ‘junūd wa runūd’ [or: troops and ruffians] who were at the disposition of the leader of the futuwwa movement in Konya in the 1290s, Akhī Aḥmad-Shāh (Aflākī,Manāqib al-ʿĀrifīn, vol. 2, 611; trans. O’Kane, The Feats of the Knowers of God, 419). 25 Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, La Révolte de Baba Resul ou la formation de l’hétérodoxie musulmane en Anatolie au XIIIe siècle (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1989), and the expanded second edition of the same in Turkish, Babaîler İsyanı. Alevîlığın Tarihsel Altyapısı Yahut Anadolu’da İslam-Türk Heterodoksisinin Teşekkülü (Istanbul: Dergah Yayınları, 1996). See also, idem, ‘Zaviyeler’, 255. 26 Ocak, ‘Zaviyeler’. 255. 27 Ibid., 256. 28 Ibid., 261. 29 See the concise, but to date probably best, study on Hacı Bektaş by Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, ‘Anadolu Heterodoks Türk Sûfîliğin Temel Taşı: Hacı Bektaş-i Veli el-Horasânî’, in idem, Türk Sufiliğine Bakışlar, 148–68. Ocak points out the physical distance between the centres of power and Hacı Bektaş, and the different intellectual circles that were present in, e.g., Sulucakaraöyük, and the capital Konya. 318 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia develop an independent intellectual tradition,30 and a different kind of Sufism around Hacı Bektaş,31 Akhī Evren,32 and others in the Anatolian hinterland, in distinction to, e.g., Mawlānā/Rūmī and his followers in Konya.33 The latter interacted regularly with the Seljuq sultans and, if we are to believe the hagiography, met at several occasions with the non-Muslim Mongol rulers of the time,34 with whom they were overall on friendly terms. The competition between different Sufi groups drew in the Seljuq officials and kept occupied their Mongol overlords at various levels. Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā as the governor and Seljuqs’ ‘executive’ in Kırşehir was deeply involved in this, which is probably one of the reasons why he tried to keep his private property out of the line of fire by endowing it in areas remote from the centre of power Konya. In contrast to Rūmī, who is generally seen as close to the Seljuq and Mongol political establishment, other groups, possibly including the followers of Akhī Evren (d. either c.1261 or c.1317),35 apparently staged an uprising in Kırşehir in 1261 against the Seljuq Sultan Rukn al-Dīn Kılıç Arslan IV.36 While the sources

30 İsenbike Togan has argued along similar lines in her article ‘Beylikler Devri Anadolu Tarihinde Yöntem Sorunları: Germiyan’dan Örnekler’, in Uygurlardan Osmanlıya. Şinasi Tekin’in Anısına, ed. Günay Kut and Fatma Büyükkarcı (Istanbul: Simurg, 2005), 704–20. 31 On Hacı Bektaş Veli and his death date, see Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, ‘Hacı Bektâş-ı Velî (ö. 669/1271 [?])’, TDVİA 14 (1996), 455–8; at 455; 247. See also Irène Mélikoff,Hacı Bektaş Efsaneden Gerçeğe (Istanbul: Cumhuriyet, 1998); Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, ‘Anadolu Heterodoks Türk Sûfîliğin Temel Taşı: Hacı Bektaş-i Veli El-Horasânî’, in idem, Türk Sufiliğine Bakışlar (Istanbul: İletişim, 1996), 148–68, at 159–61. 32 On Akhī Evren, see Franz Taeschner, ‘Beiträge zur Geschichte der Achis in Anatolien (14.–15. Jht.) auf Grund neuer Quellen’, Islamica 4, no. 1 (1929): 1–47, here 31–4; idem, ‘Legendenbildung um Achi Evran, den Heiligen von Kırşehir’, in Festschrift Friedrich Giese aus Anlass des siebzigsten Geburtstags überreicht von Freunden und Schülern (Leipzig: Deutsche Gesellschaft für Islamkunde, 1941), 61–71; idem, ‘Akhī Ewrān’, EI2. 33 On Rūmī, see Franklin Lewis, Rumi: Past and Present, East and West: The Life, Teaching, and Poetry of Jalâl al-Din Rumi (Oxford: Oneworld, 2000). See also A.C.S. Peacock, ‘Sufis and the Seljuk Court in Mongol Anatolia: Politics and Patronage in the Works of Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī and Sulṭān Walad’, in The Seljuks of Anatolia: Court and Society in the Medieval Middle East, ed. A.C.S. Peacock and Sara Nur Yıldız (London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2013), 206–26. 34 For examples, see the long and detailed introduction by Tahsin Yazıcı to the modern Turkish translation of Aflākī’s Manāqib al-ʿĀrifīn; Âriflerin Menkibeleri (Istanbul: Milli Eğitim Bakanlığı, 1995), especially vol. 1, 61–140. 35 On Akhī Evren’s death date, see İlhan Şahin, ‘Ahî Evran’, TDVİA 1 (1988), 529–30. 36 The politics of inner Anatolia during this time are exceedingly complex. What some sources – and scholars – have described as rural Turkmen uprisings against the urban Seljuq elite, others have chosen to portray as religio-political unrest fuelled by ‘heterodox’ groups against the ‘orthodox’ Islam of the Seljuqs. Amidst all this it is not clear whether such ‘uprisings’ as the one in Kırşehir in 659/1261 were mobs taking advantage of the political instability that had come about during the prolonged shared kingship of the Seljuq brothers ʿIzz al-Dīn Kaykāʾūs II and Rukn al-Dīn Kılıç Arslan IV, whose territories had been divided east and west of the Kızılırmak river respectively, or whether the ‘rebels’ had merely decided to side with the wrong contender for the Seljuq throne, as ʿIzz al-Dīn Kaykāʾūs II had to flee, after 659/1261, to Constantinople to seek refuge with the Byzantine Emperor, after which Rukn al- Dīn Kılıç Arslan reigned supreme – at least for a short while. For a brilliantly clear synopsis of the rather complicated political landscape during this period, see Ali Sevim’s introduction to Mevlevi-Bektashi Rivalries and the Islamisation of the Public Space 319 remain vague about the degree of organisation of those involved in the uprising, Mikâil Bayram and Halil İnalcık have argued that as the governor of Kırşehir and leader of the military forces which overturned an akhī rebellion in Kırşehir on behalf of the Seljuqs in 1261,37 Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā was involved in suppressing this movement, and it is possible that Akhī Evren was killed during these events.38 Returning to Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā and Ethel Sara Wolper’s observation that during the second half of the thirteenth century the support of dervish lodges was both more within the economic reach of amīrs like Nūr al-Dīn than mosques and madrasas, and a preferable means for them to rally local Sufi support, Nūr al-Dīn’s case appears to be the exact opposite. Rather than forging an alliance with Sufis – themselves constantly at odds with each other – he sought the endorsement of his endowment deed directly from the top levels of the Mongol military elite for the support of institutions that were both more expensive to build and run, and presumably transcended inner-Sufi rivalries, such as mosques and madrasas.39 As for his treatment of Sufis, if he was indeed involved in the killing of Akhī Evren, Nūr al-Dīn would thus have been directly involved in suppressing the most politically active Sufi group in his very own home town, Kırşehir.40 his edition of Abū Bakr al-Zakī al-Qūnawī’s Rawḍat al-Kuttāb wa Ḥadīqat al-Albāb (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Basımevi, 1972), Introduction, 1–2, n.1. 37 Bayram, Ahi Evren ve Ahi Teşkilâtının Kuruluşu, 55, 61, 62, 102, 104, 105, 110–11, 115, 122. Bayram estimated that Akhī Evren was killed in 1261: ibid., 115, and idem, ‘Ahi Evren’in Öldürülmesi ve Ölüm Tarihinin Tesbiti’, Tarih Enstitüsü Dergisi 12 (1982): 521–49. Halil İnalcık followed Bayram’s assessment, though his formulation is more cautious, as the matter requires further investigation, and he thus only stated that Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā was ‘probably’ involved in the execution of Akhī Evren in Kırşehir: ‘Kırşehir emaretine tayin olunan Nureddin Caca Bey (Mevlânâ’nın müridi) bölgede idare karşıtı Türkmen ve isyan eden Kırşehir ahîlerini şiddetle kırdı geçirdi. Ahî Evren’in de bu öldürülenler arasında bulunduğu tahmin olunmaktadır (1261).’ İnalcık, ‘Ahîlik, Toplum, Devlet, II.’ Uluslar arası Ahîlik Sempozyumu Bildirileri (Kültür Bakanlığı Yayınları, Ankara, 1999), 189. 38 Bayram, Ahi Evren ve Ahi Teşkilâtının Kuruluşu, 115. 39 Pfeiffer, ‘Protecting Private Property’. 40 It would have made for a logical narrative if we could assert that Nūr al-Dīn first removed from Kırşehir the akhīs, their institutions, and the kind of Islam that they represented in the 1260s and then, once he had created a tabula rasa, built from scratch in the same town new institutions that he could populate with persons of his choice in the 1270s. However, the evidence is thin, and Bayram’s assertions speculative: none of the primary sources that he referred to bears out his assertions in unequivocal terms, and other sources, in particular Gülşehri, seem to indicate that Akhī Evren was still alive around 1317. See Taeschner, ‘Legendenbildung um Achi Evran’, and İlhan Şahin, ‘Ahî Evran’, 529–30. See also Baki Yasa Altınok, ‘Yeni Vesikalar Işığında Ahî Evran ile Arkadaşlarının Sürgün ve Şehit Edilmesi’, in I. Ahî Evran-ı Veli ve Ahîlik Araştırmaları Sempozyumu (Ahîlik Araştırma Merkezi Yayınları, Kırşehir, 2005), 72. Bayram bases part of his argument of Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā’s involvement in the killing of akhīs in Kırşehir in 659/1261 on Āqsarāʾī, Müsâmeret ül-ahbâr, 75. While the relevant passage indeed states that ‘Nūr al-Dīn Jājā’ was appointed to the imārat of Kırşehir, and that he subsequently went out with his army and killed several khawārij, this does not seem to have been directed against the akhīs per se, but rather against an insurrection mentioned in the previous paragraph, under the leadership of a certain ‘Asad, the stable master’ (‘Asad, amīr ākhur’) of the citadel Sālima in the vicinity of Aksaray (ibid., 74), which Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā first besieged, and then extracted the leader and his followers 320 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

On the other hand, this does not mean that Nūr al-Dīn was ‘out of touch’ with Sufi groups. On the contrary: he appears to have received Sufi attention without necessarily seeking it, precisely because of the military and political authority invested in his office. We possess two letters that the eponym of the Mevlevis, Jalāl al-Dīn ‘Mawlānā’ (Turk.: ‘Mevlana’) Rūmī (d. 672/1273), apparently addressed to Nūr al-Dīn, and a third letter in which Rūmī refers to him.41 Nūr al- Dīn ibn Jājā is also mentioned in the fourteenth-century Mevlevi and fifteenth- century Bektashi hagiography. In the hagiographic sources, the fourteenth- and fifteenth-century rivalries between these two groups are projected back into the thirteenth century, converging on the militarily, politically, and economically powerful Nūr al- Dīn. Thus, the Mevlevi hagiography claimed Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā as an adept, relating that he had originally been close to the rival Sufi Hacı Bektaş, but then ‘converted’ and became a devoted follower of Mawlānā (murīd-i mukhliṣ-i Mawlawī) instead.42 Nūr al-Dīn’s real or imagined connections to Hacı Bektaş, and the Mevlevi-Bektashi rivalries over his figure, are also reflected in the Bektashiyya’s hagiographic Velayet-name, which portrays Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā as a man who sinned by doubting Hacı Bektaş’s magic powers and repented too late, wherefore he was punished by prison, exile, and death far away from home.43 from the citadel, and killed them: ‘bā lashkar bar sar-i ū āmad wa muddatī muḥāṣarat namūdand wa ū-rā az qalʿa qalʿ kardand wa khawārij ki mutābaʿat-i ū namūda būdand ʿalā ḥaddihi ba-qatl raftand’ (ibid., 75). Another source that Bayram uses is al-Qūnawī, letters no. 24 and 25, 98–102 of the Persian text; 44–5 of the Turkish summary (see n. 41 below for bibliographical details). Unfortunately, the first letter does not mention anything that would implicate either Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā or any akhī, and especially the second letter is written in such a cryptic style that even the editor had to conclude that unfortunately, it is impossible to identify people and events referred to in the letter with people and events mentioned in the contemporary sources. Further research is required to address the matter, though since Nūr al-Dīn was in charge of Kırşehir at that time, it is likely that he was involved in the quelling of uprisings, including akhī uprisings, there. An example of how these might have arisen from rivalries over the running of a khānqāh is given in this article. 41 Maktūbāt-i Mawlānā Jalāl al-Dīn ([Tehran]: Intishārāt-i ʿilmī, Tābistān sh.1363/Summer 1982 [reprint of the 1937 İzbudak/Uzluk edition]), 29, Letter No. 23; 31–2, Letter No. 25; 57–8, Letter No. 51. For a modern Turkish translation, see Rūmī, Mevlânâ Celâleddîn Mektuplar, trans. Abdülbâki Gölpınarlı (Istanbul: İnkilap ve Aka Kitabevleri, 1963), 39–40; 42–3; 80–81. In two of these letters, Rūmī addresses a petition to ‘Nūr al-Dawla wa’l-Dīn’, interceding on behalf of a certain Niẓām al-Dīn, who has been identified as the son-in-law of Rūmī’s associate, Ḥusām al-Dīn Chalabī; in the third, Rūmī mentions Nūr al-Dīn’s name. M. Feridun Nafiz Uzluk, who edited Rūmī’s letters, identified this ‘Nūr al-Dawla wa’l-Dīn’ as Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā, based on the time when the letters were presumably written, the position that Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā held, and parallels in the honorifics with which he is addressed in the letters and the surviving inscription on Nūr al-Dīn’s madrasa in Kırşehir. It should be pointed out that while Uzluk (Rūmī, Mevlânanın mektupları, 172), Gölpınarlı (Rūmī, Mevlânâ Celâleddîn Mektuplar, 255–6), and Temir (Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, 201; 299) appear to have been firmly convinced that the ‘Nūr al- Dawla wa’l-Dīn’ who is mentioned in the letters is identical with Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā, the terms ‘Jājā’ or ‘Ibn Jājā’ do not appear in them. 42 For a detailed interpretation, see Judith Pfeiffer, ‘Turning Blood into Water: Mawlavi- Bektashi Rivalries in Seljuq Anatolia under Mongol rule’ (in preparation). 43 Pfeiffer, ‘Turning Blood into Water’. Mevlevi-Bektashi Rivalries and the Islamisation of the Public Space 321

Whatever the hagiographical sources may claim, together with Rūmī’s letters to Nūr al-Dīn, they suggest that the latter interacted in one way or another with these two Sufi groups, who were prominent in the area between Konya and Kırşehir during his time. As the following examples also show, Sufi groups were directly competing with each other, and not only over attracting adepts. Rūmī’s letters and petitions furnish evidence for the rivalry between Rūmī and his followers on the one hand, and certain akhīs or akhī groups on the other, over the running of potentially lucrative semi-public institutions, khānqāhs. This rivalry concerned in particular several khānqāhs in Konya and other towns, a rivalry in which the Seljuq officials were also deeply involved. One of Rūmī’s petitions shows him supporting his associate and later successor Ḥusām al-Dīn Chalabī in gaining authority over the Khānqāh-i Ḍiyāʾ in Konya, which had been endowed by the vizier Ḍiyāʾ al-Dīn. This is a rare instance where contemporary letters and a later hagiographical account correspond and partially confirm each other: the Mevlevi hagiographer Aflākī mentions the same incident, relating that is was indeed one of the amīrs, Tāj al-Dīn Muʿtazz,44 who had taken the initiative to place under Ḥusām al-Dīn’s authority the Ḍiyāʾ al-Dīn khānqāh, which had previously been run by an (unnamed) ‘great shaykh’. Because the Sufi rivalries are described so poignantly in this passage, which is, moreover, a very good example of the involvement of various officials from the level of amīrs all the way up to the Seljuq Sultan in the decision about who was going to control a khānqāh that had originally also been endowed by a vizier (the vizier Ḍiyāʾ al-Dīn), it is quoted here in full:

In the time of Mowlānā there was a great shaykh who was a shaykh in two khānaqāhs. As fate would have it, this dervish departed from the world. Amīr-e Kabīr Tāj al-Dīn Moʿtazz saw it as appropriate to have the vizier Ḍiyāʾ al-Dīn Khānqāh registered in the name of Chalabī Ḥosām al-Dīn and to obtain a royal patent [farmān – JP] from the sultan. After the royal patent had arrived, Amīr Tāj al-Dīn arranged an immense gathering and held a peerless inauguration ceremony. Mowlānā was informed that the vizier Ḍiyāʾ al-Dīn Khānqāh had come under the charge of Chalabī. Khodāvandgār [Mawlānā – JP], along with all the companions, rose and set out [for the vizier Ḍiyāʾ al-Dīn Khānqāh – JP] … Akhī Aḥmad, one of the tyrants of the age and the foremost among the fearsome rogues (rendān), had come to this inauguration ceremony with extreme spite,

44 On Tāj al-Dīn al-Muʿtazz, who was the son of Muḥyī al-Dīn Ṭāhir ibn ʿUmar, the ambassador of the Khwārazmshāh Jalāl al-Dīn to ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn Kayqubād I, see Āqsarāʾī, Müsâmeret ül-ahbâr, 65, 73; Osman Turan, Selçuklular Zamanında Türkiye (Istanbul: Boğaziçi Yayınları, 1993), 493, 525; Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey, 1968, 283–4; 332. The connection between all three – Tāj al-Dīn al-Muʿtazz, Mawlānā, and Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā – is confirmed by Aflākī, who relates how one day, ‘all the commanders of the city [Konya] such as Fakhr al-Dīn, Moʿīn al-Dīn the Parvāna, Jalāl al-Dīn-e Mostowfī, Amīn al-Dīn Mīkāʾīl, Tāj al-Dīn Moʿtazz and the sons of Khaṭīr, Bahāʾ al-Dīn the ruler of the coasts, Nūr al-Dīn the son of Jījā, Majd al-Dīn Atābak, and others – God make their earth light – with one accord came to visit Mowlānā’ (Aflākī, Manāqib al-ʿĀrifīn, trans. O’Kane, The Feats of the Knowers of God, 94). In another passage Aflākī calls him ‘Amīr-e kabīr Tāj al-Dīn Moʿtazz;’ ibid., 526. 322 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

partisan zeal and the innate envy he possessed. And he did not want Chalabī to become shaykh in that khānaqāh. Suddenly he rose and, folding up the prayer rug [of Ḥusām al-Dīn Chalabī – JP], he handed it to someone and said: ‘We do not accept him in these parts for the office of the shaykh!’ At that the people of the world were thrown into confusion. The akhīs of good repute who were affiliated with the family of the parents and ancestors of Akhī Tork and Akhī Bashshāra, akhīs such as Akhī Qeyṣar, Akhī Chūbān, Akhī Moḥammad-e Sayyedvārī [read probably: Sabzawārī – JP] and others, took hold of their swords and their knives, and the commanders who were disciples (morīd) attempted to kill the rebellious (marīd) rogues. Great discord arose and many a heart-sore dervish in an ecstatic state uttered the saying: ‘Discord is asleep. God curse whoever wakes it up!’ A tumult which accorded with: ‘Discord is worse than murder!’ then erupted. And Mowlānā said nothing.45

Mikâil Bayram has suggested that the unnamed deceased shaykh was Mawlānā’s rival Akhī Evren, and that the akhīs in the above story were his followers, and that this is an example of the Mevlevi takeover of akhī possessions.46 While several individuals with the epithet akhī were involved in the unrest that is described in the above story, it is not at all clear that there existed indeed an akhī ‘organisation’ at that time.47 Research by Devin DeWeese and others has taught us to be cautious about later projections of organisations – called ṭarīqa or otherwise – into the past, and as usual, the story is complicated. The sources on which Bayram based his theory of the Mevlevi takeover of akhī possessions

45 Aflākī,Manāqib al-ʿĀrifīn, trans. O’Kane, The Feats of the Knowers of God, 526–7. In a different passage in the same source, this Mevlevi ‘takeover’ was premonitioned by Mawlānā, who is portrayed as having almost willed the death of the previous shaykh of the khānqāh, whose death came about through his own arrogance. Ibid., 386. See also, Aflākī, Manāqib al-ʿĀrifīn, ed. Yazıcı, vol. 1, 558; vol. 2, 754–8. The above quotation also sheds light on the hierarchies among various officials, and the importance of location, if it does indeed portray these hierarchies accurately: while Tāj al-Dīn Muʿtazz was, according to some sources, apparently in Ilkhanid service, he still appears to have felt the need to appeal for support from the Seljuq Sultan (‘Amīr-e Kabīr Tāj al-Dīn Moʿtazz saw it as appropriate to have the vizier Ḍiyāʾ al-Dīn Khānqāh registered in the name of Chalabī Ḥosām al-Dīn and to obtain a royal patent from the sultan’). Once again, this particular source is a hagiographic source written many years after the events, so may simply project those hierarchies that it wishes to promote, and further research is needed into this matter. 46 Bayram, Ahi Evren ve Ahi Teşkilâtının Kuruluşu, 98–101. Aflākī,Manāqib al-ʿĀrifīn, ed. Yazıcı, vol. 1, 558; vol. 2, 754–8; trans. O’Kane, The Feats of the Knowers of God, 386; 526–9. 47 If this was indeed the case, some of the individuals called ‘akhī’ seem to have taken the side of Ḥusām al-Dīn Chalabī and Rūmī in the above conflict. While this needs to be taken with a grain of salt, as the story itself is found in a Mawlawī hagiographic source, the relationship between Mawlānā and the akhīs appears to have been less polarised and more complex than the theory of a binary opposition between Mawlānā and the akhīs would allow for. Franz Taeschner has posited that Ḥusām al-Dīn Chalabī was related to Akhī Turk, and has established that some of the literary (and possibly samā‘) traditions of later authors with the epithet ‘akhī’ show a strong influence by Rūmī’s Mathnawī (Taeschner, ‘Das anatolische Achitum des 13./14. Jahrhunderts und seine Beziehung zu Mevlâna Celâleddin Rumi’, in VI. Türk Tarih Kongresi, Ankara, 1961 [Türk Tarih Kurumu Basımevi, Ankara, 1967], 230–35). Mevlevi-Bektashi Rivalries and the Islamisation of the Public Space 323 only mention the opposition of Akhī Aḥmad,48 together with other akhīs, such as Akhī Chūbān, Akhī Qayṣar, and Akhī Muḥammad Sabzawārī, against the takeover of the running of the khānqāh by Mawlānā’s associate and successor Ḥusām al- Dīn during the official ceremony when thekhānqāh was going to be handed over.49 However, the sources do not say that the khānqāh had previously been run by Akhī Evren, or his followers, or that they existed qua organised group. Moreover, and as an indication of just how complex the sources and probably also the situation on the ground were, Aflākī tells us in a later part of the same story that Akhī Aḥmad, who was rejected by Mawlānā as a disciple, almost lost his life for his actions, had not Mawlānā himself interceded on his behalf.50 In other words, here the very beneficiary of the ‘Mevlevi takeover’, Mawlānā himself, saved his opponent Akhī Aḥmad’s life, though since the story occurs in a Mevlevi hagiographic source – Aflākī – it has to be used with caution. As this example shows, it is exceedingly difficult to establish historical facts on the basis of such sources. What does seem to emerge regardless, however, is that there existed a strong, at times even militant, rivalry between these groups at the latest by the fourteenth century, when the story was recorded. As mentioned, Aflākī’s narrative can be complemented with one of Mawlānā Rūmī’s petitions to an (unfortunately unnamed) high-ranking official (amīr-i ajall – possibly Tāj al-Dīn Muʿtazz) about precisely the same khānqāh – the khānqāh of Ḍiyāʾ al-Dīn Wazīr. Mawlānā wrote this petition in support of Ḥusām al-Dīn Chalabī (‘shaykh-i ajall-i kabīr, amīn al-qulūb, Junayd-i zamān, walī Allāh, Ḥusām al- Ḥaqq wa’l-Dīn [Chalabī]’),51 maintaining that his own, Mawlānā’s, interference in the restoration of the khānqāh to Ḥusām al-Dīn was merely undertaken with the aim of pleasing both Ḍiyāʾ al-Dīn (the endower) and Ḍiyāʾ al-Dīn’s God: ‘ki Ḍiyāʾ al-Dīn wa khudā-yi Ḍiyāʾ al-Dīn az-ān rāẓī khwāhad būd’.52 Not only does this petition show that the initiative did not originate with the amīr, as suggested by Aflākī, but that Rūmī took apparently very active steps in getting the amīr involved in establishing Ḥusām al-Dīn’s authority over the said khānqāh. It also offers us insights into the kind of arguments that he used, and this is revealing indeed. In pleading for the ‘Mevlevi takeover’ of the khānqāh, the core of Rūmī’s argument in his petition to the amīr-i ajall was based on a polemical juxtaposition of the moral qualities of his associate Ḥusām al-Dīn vis-à-vis those of the individual(s) currently in charge of the khānqāh. He did so by referring to the stipulations of the endowment deed of the Khānqāh-i Ḍiyāʾ. The endowment deed

48 A. Yaşar Ocak has identified this Akhī Aḥmad with a certain ‘Akhī Aḥmad Shāh’, who was a leader in the futuwwa movement in Konya, and had apparently thousands of followers; ‘Zaviyeler’, 259. See also Aflākī, Manāqib al-ʿĀrifīn, ed. Yazıcı, vol. 2, 611–13; trans. O’Kane, The Feats of the Knowers of God, 419. Mikâil Bayram has identified Akhī Aḥmad as a follower (murīd) of Awḥad al-Dīn Kirmānī (d. 635/1238); Bayram, Şeyh Evhadüʾd-Din Hâmid el-Kirmânî, 105–106. 49 Bayram, Ahi Evren ve Ahi Teşkilâtının Kuruluşu, 117. 50 Aflākī, Manāqib al-ʿĀrifīn, ed. Yazıcı, vol. 2, 754–8; trans. O’Kane, The Feats of the Knowers of God, 526–9. Ocak, ‘Zaviyeler’, 259, with further references to Aflākī; Bayram, Ahi Evren ve Ahi Teşkilâtının Kuruluşu, 99. 51 Rūmī, Maktūbāt-i Mawlānā Jalāl al-Dīn, Letter no. 124, 129. 52 Ibid., 128–9. 324 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia itself is not extant, but from Rūmī’s references to it we can infer that apparently it made the moral probity of those in charge a condition for their appointment, as Rūmī argued that the khānqāh should be run by those devoted to God and religion, not by money-loving pretenders. As he put it, it should be run by the: ‘banda-yi ḥaqq, na banda-yi daqq, wa yār-i khāṣṣa, na yār-i kāsa, wa ʿāshiq-i dīndār, na ʿāshiq-i dīnār, wa darwīsh-i jān-dār, na darwīsh-i nān-khwār’.53 Thus, speaking both in general terms, and with this specific example in mind, where inter-Sufi fights broke out over an endowment that had been made by the vizier Ḍiyāʾ al-Dīn, someone of a very similar stature to Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā himself, there was very little incentive for someone like Nūr al-Dīn to establish Sufi endowments in the highly charged and competitive atmosphere in Konya. As a close analysis of his endowment deed shows, he did not make any endowments in this city, but rather made the proceeds from his properties in Konya over to his endowments in other cities in provincial towns, far away from the reach of both the Seljuqs, and the Mevlevis – but closer to the non-Chinggisid Mongol military commanders stationed in the area of Kırşehir, who wielded the real power on the ground, and who signed the endowment deed in the dozens. If Nūr al-Dīn intended for his family to remain in charge of these properties in the long run, the preferred option – and indeed the option he chose – was to set up his endowments not only far away from inter-Sufi rivalries, but also in an environment in which moral judgement by dervishes would not be decisive for who was in charge of a given endowment. He would also want his endowments to be sufficiently remote from the long arm of the Seljuq rulers who could wrest it from him or his descendants if the local Sufi group in power could just make a strong enough argument against him with the Sultan or his servants. Hence, in the light of the contemporary rivalries at Konya, it makes very much sense that Nūr al-Dīn did not establish any endowments in that city, but transferred all the proceeds of the properties that he did own there to more remote areas, such as Eskişehir, İskilip, and indeed Kırşehir, where he was directly in charge himself. In the light of the above, and given that Hacı Bektaş died around 1271 and his rival Rūmī only two years later, in 1273, and given that the first draft and signatures on Nūr al-Dīn’s endowment deed were executed in 1272 and then renewed in 1273–74, it is perhaps not far-fetched to suggest that the drafting of this deed was very timely, and that it reflected the crucial changes in the religious leadership in central Anatolia at the time. Similarly significant changes occurred at the exact same time in the political realm. Not only were the top Mongol military leaders in Anatolia replaced in 1274, but the royal Chinggisid–Hülegüid line (represented by Abaqa’s brother Ajai) was replaced by a Mongol commoner – the Jalayir Tohu – among the

53 Ibid. It should be pointed out that in his letter, Rūmī expressed his hope that the reading of the royal farmān would result in an amicable withdrawal of those who had laid eyes on the khānqāh (‘chūn farmān-rā muṭālaʿa farmāyīd barādharāna wa dūstāna dast-i īshān-rā az-ān mard-i ḥaqq [Ḥusām al-Dīn Chalabī – JP] kutāh kunad.’ Ibid., 129. Mevlevi-Bektashi Rivalries and the Islamisation of the Public Space 325 signatories.54 This was a sea change from Hülegüid to Jalayirid, from royal (Chinggisid) to commoner (Mongol) authority in the region, and Nūr al-Dīn played his cards well by first collecting more than a hundred signatures for his endowment deed from Turco-Mongol commanders at the top military echelons in 1272, and by having them subsequently renewed in 1274 by those who were put newly in charge then. That two of the major and competing Sufi leaders of the region also died at this time may have been a coincidence, but contributed to the instability in the region, as is reflected in the competition for the running of zāwiyas under Rūmī’s successors. It made the drafting of the deed even more of a necessity, as it gave Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā more control over his properties, and less control to tax collectors in Seljuq and Mongol service, or to potential pious zealots from the entourage of Rūmī who worked fairly aggressively on gaining control over local khānqāhs. With a new generation of successors to the Sufi leaders coming to power who might be fighting out another proxy war over the religious and indeed economic landscape of inner Anatolia, it was a safe bet to draft a very detailed endowment deed and have it signed by the highest authorities in charge, the representatives of the Mongol military elite in the region, thereby bypassing both Sufi and Seljuq interference, and avoiding struggles between them. This is not to suggest that this was the reason why the deed was drafted, but timing was important, and had without a doubt an impact on how it was formulated. In phrasing his endowment deed in the way he did, Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā showed both political acumen and cold-bloodedness: rather than making his endowment vulnerable to the interference of politically shrewd Sufis or tax collectors in Seljuq or Mongol service, Nūr al-Dīn used a two-pronged approach: he spelt out, for each generation of his male descendants and after them his manumitted slaves, which individuals would be in charge of the endowments, and did not provide any other conditions beyond descent (such as moral probity, which, as we have seen, would immediately have opened the door to arguments similar to those levelled by Rūmī against those in charge of two khānqāhs in Konya). The second part of his strategy was even stronger: Without losing any time by appealing to Seljuq sultans or local governors, Nūr al-Dīn went straight to the highest military authorities in central Anatolia: he had several dozens of the top level Mongol amīrs sign his endowment deed in 1272, and when the Ilkhan Abaqa replaced the top military men in Anatolia in the following year, Nūr al-Dīn collected once again the signatures of the top Mongol leaders in Anatolia (the second group of signatory amīrs in K1), asking them to add their signatures to the previous list of Mongol signatories of the endowment deed in 1274, which they did. By ‘marrying’ the shariʿa (the stipulations in the Arabic part of the deed) with the solemn oath of the Mongol military elite in Anatolia that was put underneath the deed to confirm it, Nūr al-Dīn constructed the strongest

54 The Jalāyir Tohu, the commander of all of Anatolia on behalf of the Mongol overlords of the Seljuqs, was the most prominent witness of Nūr al-Dīn’s endowment deed in the year of the rooster (1273–74), immediately after Tohu had replaced the commander Samaghar Noyan and the Hülegüid Ajai in that function. See, Temir, Kırşehir Emiri Caca Oğlu, K1, line 65 (161, 165). 326 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia conceivable legal deed possible at that time. Clearly, he was an astute politician, and his endowment deed is an eloquent witness to this.

Summary and Conclusions

The double connection of Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā with two competing Sufi groups in the areas around Konya and Kırşehir is intriguing, and his links with both via their respective hagiographic traditions suggest that he was very well ‘connected’ to both of these Sufi groups indeed – even if not necessarily in positive terms. It seems as though it was in part the inter-Sufi rivalries, and their all to close relations with the Seljuq officials, that drove Nūr al-Dīn away from zāwiyas, khānqāhs, and Sufi shaykhs, and led him to support mosques, madrasas, and the ʿulamāʾ instead. In late thirteenth-century Anatolia, the latter showed a much lower degree of communal organisation than the Sufis and were thus – qua comparatively isolated individuals – much more directly dependent on Nūr al- Dīn’s patronage than the well-connected and quarrelsome Sufi shaykhs. As the analysis of Nūr al-Dīn’s endowments has shown, he did not make over as waqfs any of his properties to institutions or individuals close to Mawlānā, or even anywhere in Konya, despite the fact that he owned property there, and despite the fact that the Mevlevi hagiography claimed him as a faithful follower. Quite to the contrary, Nūr al-Dīn used his properties in Konya to build, support, and consolidate institutions in faraway Eskişehir, Ankara, and Kırşehir, closer to the place where Mawlānā’s rivals Hacı Bektaş as well as Akhī Evren were particularly active, though it has also been suggested that Nūr al-Dīn’s relationship with Hacı Bektaş and his followers appears to have been overall more strained than that with Rūmī and his followers, and there is no evidence that he made endowments to them, either. The reverse side and condition of Nūr al-Dīn’s success is the devolution of central political authority. The deeds drafted in his name during this time of vibrant religious and political experimentation provide exceptional insights into this local governor’s vision of politics and cast light on the otherwise still rather unexplored and difficult to explore alliances in late thirteenth-century inner Anatolia which were, at the local level, very much driven by Sufi groups. This does not mean, however, that the Sufi groups were the sole players in the field, or the exclusive beneficiaries of the political instability or endowments such as Nūr al-Dīn’s. On the contrary: as far as Nūr al-Dīn is concerned, and given the intra-Sufi rivalries that he had probably ample opportunities to observe, it was supra-Sufi religious institutions that ultimately won his support – mosques and madrasas, which were open to all Muslims regardless of their madhhab or Sufi orientation, and, he may have hoped, less subject to armed fights than Sufi lodges. These institutions being both religious and devoted to Islamic learning – as opposed to ‘secular’ and multi-denominational institutions, such as hospitals, soup kitchens, or caravanserais, which Nūr al-Dīn could also have supported – they ultimately contributed to the Islamisation of Anatolia by providing a public Mevlevi-Bektashi Rivalries and the Islamisation of the Public Space 327 space that stood outside and above petty Sufi rivalries or Seljuq politics, but was also decidedly Muslim. In conclusion, Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā’s endowment deeds shed light on the political, social, economic, and religious dynamics in Seljuq Anatolia under Mongol rule, and on the relative independence of the mid-level members of the Seljuq military and administrative elite in the Anatolian hinterland. At a time when the ruling Seljuq dynasty was politically and economically weakened, the alliance of the military and local religious elites strengthened the economic power base of the latter, and created a public space exclusively dedicated to Muslims and Islam in Anatolia. Depending on their personal preferences and the situation on the ground, wealthy individuals from the military elites might make over their endowments to Sufi institutions, though as the example of Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā shows, non-Sufi institutions, such as mosques andmadrasa s, were equally viable options, and Nūr al-Dīn’s preference for the latter over Sufi lodges appears to have been a deliberate one, as it gave him greater control over his endowments. What was greater control to him meant greater visibility for Islam in the long term: the story of Nūr al-Dīn’s endowments is also one of the Islamisation of Anatolia. Income generated through ‘secular,’ non-denominational property – such as orchards, bath and ice houses, mills, and water rights – was converted almost exclusively into religious institutions and their symbols – mosques and madrasas. If the case studied in this chapter is in any way representative of what was occurring in neighbouring towns, it would go a long way in explaining the Islamisation of Anatolia. This page has been left blank intentionally Chapter 14 Battling Kufr (Unbelief) in the Land of Infidels: Gülşehri’s Turkish Adaptation of ʿAṭṭār’s Manṭiq al-Ṭayr

Sara Nur Yıldız

Introduction

If the Shaykh devotes himself to these locks, he’ll gird his Sufi cloak around them as if it were a Christian belt1 For whenever I reveal the unbelief of my hair, I make a Christian out of many a Muslim.2

The poetic image of the power of the Christian beauty’s seductive locks, enticing the believer into kufr (unbelief), illustrates a central theme in Gülşehri’s Mantıku’t-Tayr (Speech of the Birds),3 an early fourteenth-century Anatolian Turkish4 adaptation of ʿAṭṭār’s5 Persian mystical mathnawī of the

1 Kemal Yavuz (ed.), Gülşehri’nin Mantıku’t-Tayr’ı (Gülşen-nāme). Metin ve Günümüz Türkçesine Aktarma, vol. 1 (Ankara: Kırşehir Valiliği Yayınları, 2007) (hereafter cited as Gülşehri, Mantıku’t- Tayr, ed. Yavuz), 68, line 456: Şeyh eger bu zülfe ikrar eyleye / Hırkasın bu zülfe zünnar eyleye. All English translations are my own unless otherwise specified. 2 Gülşehri, Mantıku’t-Tayr, ed. Yavuz, couplet 458: Çün saçum küfrini peyda eyleyem / Çok Müsülmanları Tersa eyleyem. 3 In addition to Kemal Yavuz’s recent edition, this work has been published in various formats: Agâh Sırrı Levend (ed.), Gülşehri. Manṭiḳu’ṭ-ṭayr. Tıpkıbasım (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Basımevi, 1957), (hereafter as Gülşehri, Mantıku’t-Tayr, ed. Levend); and Aziz Merhan, (ed.), Die ‘Vogelgespräche’ Gülşehris und die Anfänge der türkischen Literatur (Göttingen: Pontus-Verlag, 2003), (hereafter as Gülşehri, Mantıku’t-Tayr, ed. Merhan). 4 For an overview of the Oğuz or western Turkish variety spoken and written in medieval Anatolia, usually referred to as Anatolian Turkish, or Old Anatolian Turkish (in distinction to Ottoman Turkish, which did not technically exist until the late fifteenth century, if not later), as well as its relationship to the classical Persian literary tradition, see Barbara Fleming, ‘Old Anatolian Turkish Poetry in its Relationship to the Persian Tradition’, in Turkic-Iranian Contact Areas: Historical and Linguistic Aspects, ed. Lars Johanson and Christiane Bulut (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2006), 49–68. 5 We know little about the life of Farīd al-Dīn Muḥammad al-ʿAṭṭār (d. 1221), author of the original Persian Manṭiq al-Ṭayr (‘Speech of the Birds’, or ‘Conference of the Birds). A native of Nishapur and pharmacist by trade, he is believed to have died during the Mongol sack of Nishapur (John Andrew Boyle, ‘The Religious ‘Mathnavīs’ of Farīd al-Dīn Aṭṭār’, Iran 17 (1979): 9; J.T.P. de Bruijn, ‘Comparative Notes on Sanāʾī and ʿAṭṭār’, in Classical Persian Sufism: From its Origins to Rumi, ed. Leonard Lewisohn (London and New York: Khaniqahi Nimatullahi Publications, 1993), 362–4). 330 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia same name.6 Among the many dangers lurking on the spiritual path to divine unity in the shape of alluring idols, the Christian beauty was one of the most lethal. Even the most faithful Muslim was in danger of her charms, as Gülşehri illustrates with his account of Abdürrezzak, the Shaykh of Sanʿān, who apostasises in order to win the heart of a beautiful Byzantine princess.7 The shaykh returns to his faith only with the intercession of the Prophet Muḥammad, obtained through the collective prayer and acts of repentance by his disciples. Although Gülşehri’s Turkish adaptation remains faithful to the essence of ʿAṭṭār’s masterpiece,8 it significantly differs from the Persian original in content and structure. In this chapter, I examine Gülşehri’s treatment of unbelief, arguing that his emphasis on the Muslim struggle against kufr, especially in the Christian context, is unique to his work. Gülşehri’s almost obsessive concern with kufr is particularly striking in his rendering of the legend of the Sīmurgh, the account of the Prophet Muḥammad and Ṣafwān (an episode which is original to Gülşehri’s text), and his rewriting of the story of the Shaykh of Ṣanʿān, the pivotal narrative episode in both Gülşehri’s and ʿAṭṭār’s work. Gülşehri’s particular reshaping of the Speech of the Birds, one of the earliest datable works in Anatolian Turkish,9 may be attributed in part to his geographical and historical

6 ʿAṭṭār, Farīd al-Dīn Muḥammad ibn Ibrāhīm Nishābūrī, Manṭiq al-Ṭayr, ed. Muḥammad- Riżā Shafīʿī-Kadkanī (Tehran: Intishārāt-i Sukhan, 7th edn, sh.1389/2010), hereafter referred to as ʿAṭṭār, Manṭiq al-Ṭayr, ed. Shafīʿī-Kadkanī. English translations of ʿAṭṭār’s Manṭiq al-Ṭayr include: Afkham Darbandi and Dick Davis (trans.), Farid ud-Din Attar: The Conference of the Birds (London: Penguin, 1984); Peter Avery (trans.), The Speech of the Birds: Concerning Migration to the Real, the Manṭiqu’ṭ-ṭair. Farīdu’d-Dīn ʿAṭṭār (Cambridge: Islamic Texts Society, c.1998). 7 The story of the Shaykh of Sanʿān’s apostasy induced by his burning passion for a beautiful Christian girl reveals a Muslim deep-seated fear of conversion at the hands of Christians, The Qurʾan warns Muslims of the danger of Christians (or Jews) as agents of apostasy (Qurʾan 2: 109): ‘Many of the People of the Scripture long to make you disbelievers after your belief, through envy on their own account, after the truth hath become manifest unto them’ (Marmaduke William Pickthall (trans.), The Meaning of the Glorious Koran: An Explanatory Translation (London and New York: Penguin Meridian, 1997), 42). 8 In view of the lack of a comprehensive comparative study between ʿAṭṭār’s and Gülsehri’s versions, scholars have had only an impressionistic understanding of how the two works differ. For instance, Christopher Shackle points out that Gülşehri’s translation follows ʿAṭṭār’s work in metre and ‘appears to be quite faithful in style, although in places divergent in content’ (Christopher Shackle, ‘Representations of ʿAṭṭār in the West and in the East: Translations of the Manṭiq al-ṭayr and the Tale of Shaykh Ṣanʿān’, in Attar and the Persian Sufi Tradition: The Art of Spiritual Flight, ed. Leonard Lewisohn and Christopher Shackle (New York and London: I.B. Tauris, in association with The Institute of Ismail Studies, 2006), 176). I am grateful to Andrew Peacock for bringing this publication to my attention. 9 In the absence of dated or datable works and manuscripts, it is difficult to say when Old Anatolian Turkish first emerged as a written language. Turkish scholars generally place this phenomenon in the thirteenth century, following Mehmed Fuad Köprülü’s claims in his Early Mystics in Turkish Literature and other publications. Based on rather tenuous textual evidence of several undated works and manuscripts, Mecdut Mansuroğlu advanced Köprülü’s hypothesis that there was a rich Turkish literary tradition in the thirteenth century (Mecdut Mansuroğlu, ‘The Rise and Development of Written Turkish in Anatolia’, Oriens 7, no. 2 [(1954]): 251). See also Battling Kufr (Unbelief) in the Land of Infidels 331 circumstances. Composing the Turkish Speech of the Birds in 1317 in the north- western Cappadocian town of Gülşehir, Gülşehri recasts ʿAṭṭār’s religious allegory within an Anatolian, or Rūmī10 context, addressing the concerns of the Muslim mystical adept striving for spiritual unity in a land populated by a Christian majority. Gülşehri’s Anatolian Turkish rendering of the Speech of the Birds thus emphasises the ever present danger of alluring Christian idols in the spiritual battle against unbelief in a way not seen in ʿAṭṭār’s original.

Gülşehri, a Rūmī Poet

In this highly personalised text, Gülşehri combines the role of narrator of the tale of the birds with that of the shaykh in the form of the Hoopoe bird; thus the Hoopoe not only represents the alter-ego of the poet-narrator, but also takes on the guise of the shaykh who guides wayfarers along the path to divine unity, paralleling in the worldly sphere the role of Muḥammad as spiritual guide. The merging of the narrator’s voice with that of the Hoopoe/shaykh becomes particularly apparent in the second part of the text. Here the Hoopoe the introduction of idem, Ahmet Fakih. Çarhname (Istanbul: İstanbul Üniversitesi Yayınları, 1956); idem, ‘Anadolu Türkçesi (XIII. Asır) Şeyyad Hamza’ya Ait Üç Manzume’, Türk Dili ve Edebiyatı Dergisi 1, nos. 3–4 (1946), ): 180–95; idem, ‘Anadolu’da Türk Dili ve Edebiyatının İlk Mahsulleri’, Türk Dili ve Edebiyatı Dergisi 1, no. 1 (1946), ): 9–25; idem, ‘In Connexion with the Language of the Şarḥu ‘l-Manār, an Old Anatolian Turkish Manuscript’. Oriens 15 (1962), ): 315–24; Zeynep Korkmaz, ‘Selçuklular Çağı Türkçesinin Genel Yapısı’, in idem, Türk Dili Üzerine Araştırmalar I (Ankara: Türk Dil Kurumu Yayınları, 1995), 274–86. Recently, in the light of new manuscript evidence, Mustafa Koç has revisited this question, claiming that for the first time we can ascertain the date of a thirteenth-century Turkish composition. Koç identifies the previously unknown author of the Turkish Behcetü’l-hadayık as a certain Fahrüddin ibn Mahmud ibn al- Hüseyn el-Tebrizi, who notes in the manuscript in question (Istanbul, Süleymaniye, MS Yazma Bağışlar 4040, fol. 133), that he began to compose the work in Karahisar Develü in 669/1270 and completed it in 685/1286 (Mustafa Koç, ‘Anadolu’da İlk Türkçe Telif Eser’, Bilig 57 (2011): 164–6). Indeed, the question of the emergence of Anatolian Turkish as a literary language needs to be completely re-evaluated based on manuscript evidence, solid codicological methods, and in the absence of the nationalistic anxieties motivating earlier Turkish scholars. 10 In regard to their political and cultural identities, fourteenth-century Turcophone Muslims of medieval Anatolia may be described as Rūmīs, although at present it is impossible to identify satisfactorily exactly how this identity was constituted. For more on Rūmī as an identity among Turcophone Muslims of Anatolia, see Cemal Kafadar, ‘A Rome of One’s Own: Reflections on Cultural Geography and Identity in the Lands of Rum’, Muqarnas 24 (2007): 7–25. For the earlier medieval period, in the Muslim context, Stephen R. Humphreys points out that Rūmī was used to designate Christians from Anatolia, either Armenian or Greek (Stephen R. Humphreys, Islamic History: A Framework for Inquiry (1991; London and New York: I.B. Tauris, 1995), 137). For discussions of how this term has evolved and changed, see Demetrius J. Georgacas, The Names for the Asia Minor Peninsula and a Register for Surviving Anatolian Pre-Turkish Placenames (Heidelberg: Carl Winter Universitatsverlag, 1971), 61–3; and Nikolai Serikoff, ‘Rūmī and Yūnānī: Towards the Understanding of the Greek Language in the Medieval Muslim World’, in East and West in the Crusader States: Context – Contacts – Confrontations. Acta of the Congress held at Hernen Castle in May 1993, ed. K. Ciggaar, A. Davids and H. Teule (Leuven: Peeters, 1996), 169–94. 332 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia instructs the birds through dialogue in the form of questions and answers, the content of which is original to Gülşehri’s text.11 Furthermore, Gülşehri’s Hoopoe and the bird murīds are clearly Rūmī, or Anatolian, residents. When a bird asks the Hoopoe about the necessity of leaving behind one’s family and loved ones when one embarks on the mystical path, the Hoopoe answers that, even if he were padişah, he would abandon his rulership and depart Rūm for Mount Qāf (Rum ilinden kuh-ı Kaf’a gideyem).12 Let us briefly digress with a particular idiosyncrasy of Gülşehri’s mathnawi – his abundant use of his poetic pen-name. Through constant reference to himself, Gülşehri establishes an authorial presence throughout the text, coupled with the claim of being a shaykh of the highest station along the spiritual path. Not only does the poet identify himself as author at the beginning of his work:

As for the rest, Gülşehri put the words together And thus the Mantıku’t-Tayr (Speech of the Birds) came into being.13

But, in fact, Gülşehri ends every section of his work with a self-reflective couplet or two containing his penname, often boasting of his poetic skills and mystical gifts:

Is there anything sweeter on earth like justice? Is there in the world any name like Gülşehri?14 Who is superior to Gülşehri – who could be? [For he is] the seal of those illustrious strivers on the path.15

The historical identity of the early fourteenth-century Anatolian Sufi poet known by the pen-name of Gülşehri nevertheless has long eluded scholars. The poet’s actual name has even been subject to dispute.16 Likewise speculative are

11 Franz Taeschner selectively studies several chapters from the second half of Gülşehri’s Speech of the Birds in his Gülscherîs Mesnevi auf Achi Evran, den Heiligen von Kırschehir und Patron der türkische Zünfte (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner, 1955), esp. 49–66. Among the topics of discussion in the second part of the text are: aşkbazi (meditation through gazing at exemplary beauty), maşuk, knowledge, justice, slander and falsehood, the Enlightened Knower/Knowing One (arif), what a shayh is, adab-i tarikat (guide to the behaviour of the one on the Sufi path),futuwwa , God’s forgiveness of sins, the taming of the nefs, anger, loyalty, wisdom, şeria, tarikat, and hakikat. For a survey of the text see Selim S. Kuru, ‘Gülşehri, the Seventh Sheikh of the Universe: Authorly Passions in Fourteenth Century Anatolia’, Journal of Turkish Studies 40 (2013): 279–87. 12 Gülşehri, Mantıku’t-Tayr, ed. Yavuz, 560, line 3782. 13 Ibid., line 17: Girü Gülşehri sözi saz eyledi / Mantıku’t-Tayr’ı hoş agaz eyledi. 14 Gülşehri, Mantıku’t-Tayr, ed. Yavuz, 394, line 2651: Tatlulık gibi cihanda dad mı var/ Dünyada Gülşehri gibi ad mı var? 15 Ibid., line 4362: Kim ola Gülşehri’den yig kim ola / Namdar erenlerüñ hatmı ola. 16 Although Mehmed Fuad Köprülü, drawing on evidence from a manuscript of the Mantıku’t-Tayr (Istanbul, Archaeology Museum MS 1360), believed that his name was Ahmed, Franz Taeschner argued it was Süleyman, citing the frequent mention of the name Süleyman in Gülşehri’s Mantıku’t-Tayr, and pointing to the existence of a türbe (mausoleum) in Kırşehir Battling Kufr (Unbelief) in the Land of Infidels 333

Gülşehri’s supposed Mevlevi associations.17 Whatever his actual identity may have been, clearly the poet was a Sufi shaykh, as internal evidence of hisSpeech of the Birds indicates.18 His chosen pen-name Gülşehri19 likewise draws attention to his regional identity as a poet from the town of Gülşehir. The town of Gülşehir was located in the north-western corner of Cappadocia, lying in between the larger towns of Hacıbektaş to the north and Nevşehir to the south, on the south bank of the Kızılırmak River (Halys) at an important crossing of the river along a well- travelled Roman road. During the Seljuq and Ottoman periods, this region was part of the province of Kırşehir; today, however, the village is administratively tied to the Cappadocian province of Nevşehir.20 Lying between the two important Seljuq centres of Aksaray and Kayseri in central Anatolia, Cappadocia retained its centrality during the period of Mongol domination of the Seljuq realm. The winter grazing lands of the Mongol generals based in Anatolia were centred in the north-western Cappadocian steppe along the rivers of the province of Kırşehir. Some of the best pastoral lands in the region were found in the valley of the Delice River (Kanak Suyu, or Kappadox River), an important branch of the Kızılırmak (Halys River).21 To the south and south-west were Christian communities with their rock-hewn churches interspersed and mixed with Muslim settlements. Experiencing its heyday during the late-Seljuq and Ilkhanid period between c.1240–1340, the city of Kırşehir (Mokissos) and its vicinity developed into an important mystical-religious centre.22 The presence of diverse Sufi orders and groups such as the Mevlevis, Bektashis, Baba ʾis, and the Kalenderis in the city and outlying villages led to a dynamic and competitive atmosphere of constructed in the name of a likewise unidentified Şeyh Süleyman (Mustafa Özkan, ‘Gülşehri’, TDVİA 14 (1996): 250; Gülşehri, Mantıku’t-Tayr, ed. Merhan, 30). 17 The bookseller and bibliophile Raif Yelkenci (1894–1974) identified Gülşehri with Şeyh Süleyman-i Türkmani, a disciple of Sulṭān Walad sent to Kırşehir in 1297 to establish a Mevlevi dervish lodge. Subsequent scholars, however, have dismissed this attribution to Şeyh Süleyman-i Türkmani, for he died in 710/1310, and thus could not have written the Mantıku’t- Tayr, a work completed in 1317. In the light of no direct proof that he was a Mevlevi, the literary historian Mustafa Özkan opens up a new line of speculation by claiming that it was more probable that Gülşehri was a disciple of Akhī Evren (or Evrān) (Özkan, ‘Gülşehri’, 250). 18 Later Anatolian and Ottoman authors such as Ahmedi, Hatiboğlu and Kemal Ümmi refer to Gülşehri as a prominent shaykh at the head of a zāwiya with many followers in the Cappadocian town of Gülşehir (Özkan, ‘Gülşehri’, 250). 19 In addition to his Turkish Mantıku’t-Tayr, Gülşehri composed works in Persian, such as his Falak-nāma (1301) and ‘Arūż-i Gulshahrī. A Turkish Keramat-i Ahi Evran has likewise been attributed to him; however, the authorship of this is disputed. 20 Zoropassos is identified with the Koropassos of Strabo. Zoropassos was known as Yarapsun or Arapsun in the late nineteenth century (William Mitchell Ramsay, ‘Unedited Inscriptions of Asia Minor’, Bulletin de correspondance hellénique 7 (1883): 323). For reference to the crossing of the Halys at Zoropassos, see J.B. Bury, ‘Mutasim’s March through Cappadocia in A.D. 838’, The Journal of Hellenic Studies 29 (1909): 123, 128, 129; Nicholas Adontz, Armenia in the Period of Justinian: The Political Conditions Based on the Naxarar System, trans. Nina G. Garsoïan (Lisbon: Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation, 1970), 60. 21 Today it forms a natural border between the modern provinces of Yozgat and Kırşehir. 22 Franz Taeschner, ‘Ḳırshehir’, EI2. 334 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia mystical practice and learning. The region has been referred to as the ‘Kaʿaba of Bektashism’ (Bektaşiliğin kabesi) and the ‘qibla of the akhīs.’ 23 Indeed, it does appear that akhī groups, the most famous being the community associated with the semi-legendary Akhī Evren (alternatively, Ewrān or Evran),24 played an important role in the dynamic religious life of Kırşehir. One manifestation of this religious dynamism was the production of Turkish vernacular Sufi texts aimed at popular audiences. Some of the earliest examples of literary Anatolian Turkish are found among this corpus, the most celebrated being Aşık Paşa’s Garib-name, a work composed in 1335.

Gülşehri’s Warnings against Idol Worship in the Legend of the Sīmurgh

Gülşehri’s Manṭiḳu’ṭ-ṭayr, as an adaptation of Farīd al-Dīn Muḥammad al- ʿAṭṭār’s Persian mystical mathnawi, Manṭiq al-Ṭayr, is a religious allegory framed around the tale of the quest of the mythical Sīmurgh (phoenix), symbolic of the Deity/Truth, interspersed with didactic anecdotes and stories and replete with allusions to the Qurʾan, ḥadīth and Sufi traditions.25 As with ʿAṭṭar’s work, Gülşehri’s Turkish adaptation tells the story of the soul’s journey to its origins and union with its Creator, with the soul represented by birds of various species, and the Creator by the mythical bird, Sīmurgh. One can trace the metaphorical use of birds for man’s soul in Islamic philosophical and mystical literature to the early eleventh century. ʿAṭṭār’s Manṭiq al-Ṭayr has been described as a ‘grandiose poetic elaboration’ of Aḥmad al-Ghazālī’s (d. 1126) Risālat al-Ṭayr (‘Epistle of the Birds, or Spiritual Flight’),26 which in turn draws on Ibn Sīnā’s (d. 1037) Risālat al-Ṭayr.27 The title Manṭiq al-

23 Cevat Hakkı Tarım, Kırşehir Tarihi Üzerine Araştırmalar, vol. 1 (Kırşehir: Kırşehir Vilāyet Matbaası, 1938), 7. The relationship between the large numbers of Christian communities in this part of Cappadocia with the establishment of the centre of Bektashism, with its so-called Christian-influenced rituals, at Kırşehir just to the north deserves further investigation. 24 Akhī Evren, came to Kırşehir where he established a dabbagh-khāna (slaughterhouse) and zāwiye. He was later supposedly killed by Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā, the Seljuq commander of Kırşehir, in 1261. Ottoman records tell us that there were 28 malikane-status (mixed timar- vakıf) villages in the vicinity of Kırşehir endowed to the Akhī Evren zāwiye (M. Akif Erdoğru, ‘Anadolu’da Ahiler ve Ahi Zaviyeleri’, Türk Dünyası İncelemeleri Dergisi 4 (2000): 47). 25 Fatemeh Keshavarz, ‘Sewn Together with the Thread of the Sun: Religion and Literature as a Discipline’, Religion and Literature 41, no. 2 (2009): 38; B. Reinert, ‘al-ʿAṭṭār Farīd al-Dīn Muḥammad’, EIr; Dick Davis, ‘The Journey as Paradigm: Literal and Metaphorical Travel in ʿAṭṭār’s Manṭiq al-Ṭayr’, Edebiyāt 4, no. 2 (1993): 173; John Andrew Boyle, ‘The Religious ‘Mathnavīs’ of Farīd al-Dīn Aṭṭār’, Iran 17 (1979): 9. 26 Helmut Ritter, ‘ʿAṭṭār, Farīd al-Dīn Muḥammad ibn Ibrāhīm’, EI2. 27 Ibn Sīnā’s works in his mystical trilogy dealing with the soul’s return to its origins, the Recital of Ḥayy ibn Yaqẓān, Recital of the Bird, and Recital of Salāmān and Absāl, served as models for later authors. His Recital of the Bird (Risāla al-Ṭayr) introduces the metaphor of the bird for the soul (Firoozeh Papan-Matin, Beyond Death: The Mystical Teachings of ʿAyn al-Quḍāt al-Hamadhānī (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 53, 61–6). For more on these works by Ibn Sīnā, see Henry Corbin, Avicenna and the Visionary Recital, trans. Willard R. Trask (New York: Pantheon Books, 1960), and William Battling Kufr (Unbelief) in the Land of Infidels 335

Ṭayr is based on the Qurʾanic phrase manṭiq al-ṭayr (sura 27: 16), which refers to the Prophet Solomon’s ability to understand the speech of birds, a faculty metaphorically understood as Solomon having been graced by God with special esoteric knowledge.28 The original frame story involves a group of birds who express a desire to seek out their legendary king, Sīmurgh. With the Hoopoe as their leader, the same bird who guided King Solomon across the desert to Bilqīs, the Queen of Sheba of the Yemen,29 the birds undergo an arduous journey through seven valleys, representative of the seven stages of mystical awakening.30 Only 30 birds, however, manage to make it to Sīmurgh’s abode, the final mystical stage of annihilation in God. Although they do not actually find Sīmurgh, ‘they feel themselves immersed in an indescribable presence’, as they become united with the Divine One.31 Through the allegory of the birds’ journey to Sīmurgh, ʿAṭṭār’s Manṭiq al-Ṭayr demonstrates how purification through renunciation of all worldly possessions and ties leads to mystical union with God, releasing the soul from its earth-bound body and allowing its return to its source in the divine realm.32 In his version of this religious allegory, Gülşehri retains ʿAṭṭār’s notions of the soul and its journey to the divine source, as can be seen in the opening lines: ‘The merciful and all-knowing God (karim and alim), created the world first, and then man from His own divine light (nur).ʼ The author exhorts man not to remain apart from the Creator, nor to depart from the path to him, for ‘it is a shame to forget your origins: don’t you wonder where you were before this transitory life of a few years?’33 The goal of the spiritual aspirant should be breaking lose the bonds of the material worldly existence so that one’s soul may return to its original state: ‘Our souls are descended from the heavens – how can those [souls] which stay on the earth return to the heavens?34 Gülşehri notes that it is in Heaven where one achieves unity with the Divinity in contrast to ‘Hell, the furthest point from God’.35 Sīmurgh, the metaphor for God, is cast as the monarch (padişah) of all the birds.

E. Gohlman (trans.), Avicenna: The Life of Ibn Sina. A Critical Edition and Annotated Translation (New York: State University of New York Press, 1974), esp. 57–63. Later works referring to the bird metaphor of the soul include Abū’l-Rijāʾ al-Jājī’s (d. 1122), Rawḍat al-Fariqayn, ʿAyn al-Quḍāt al-Hamadānī’s Tamhīdāt (d. 1131), Shihāb al-Dīn al-Suhrawardī’s (d. 1191) Ṣafīr-i Sīmurgh, Najm al-Dīn al-Rāzī Dāya’s (d. 1256) Risālat al-Ṭuyūr, and ʿIzz al-Dīn Maqdīsī’s (d. 1280), Kashf al-Asrār ʿan Ḥikam al-Ṭuyūr wa’l-Ashjar (ʿAṭṭār, Manṭiq al-Ṭayr, ed. Shafīʿī-Kadkanī, 29–36). 28 Boyle, ‘The Religious “Mathnavīs”’, 9–10. 29 Ibid., 10. Solomon’s Hoopoe Yaʿfūr had the special ability to locate underground water sources in the desert. See Abū Isḥāq Aḥmad al-Thaʿlabī, ʿArā’is al-majālis fī qiṣaṣ al-anbiyā’ as Recounted by Abu Isḥāq Aḥmad ibn Muḥammad ibn Ibrāhīm al-Thaʿlabī, trans. William M. Brinner (Leiden, Boston and Cologne: Brill, 2002), 519 ff. 30 Boyle, ‘The Religious “Mathnavīs”’, 10. 31 Fatemeh Keshavarz, ‘Sewn Together with the Thread of the Sun: Religion and Literature as a Discipline’, Religion and Literature 41, no. 2 (2009): 38. 32 B. Reinert, ‘al-ʿAṭṭār Farīd al-Dīn Muḥammad’, EIr. 33 Gülşehri, Mantıku’t-Tayr, ed. Yavuz, 2, lines 7–8. 34 Ibid., 2, line 9. 35 Ibid., 2, line 11. 336 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Yet, the perilous journey to Sīmurgh residing at the distant Qāf mountain cannot be undertaken on one’s own: one needs a guide, the Hoopoe (hudhud; Turkish hüdhüd).36 Gülşehri often reminds his audience of the importance of a guide on the mystical quest for unity, primarily through the voice of the Hoopoe, who serves as shaykh to his bird murīds who have agreed to venture on the spiritual journey together. Indeed, Gülşehri merges his own persona of poet-narrator with that of the hoopoe – his metaphorical alter-ego. Thus, in emphasising the importance of spiritual guidance, Gülşehri/Hoopoe repeats to the birds throughout the text that if they attempt to reach the true Lord without his help, they will fail, for they will inevitably mistake a lesser lord (beg) dressed in silk and mounted on a horse for the true Lord (padişah):

I’ll show you who the Sultan is amongst the begs For it is I who will recognise Him.37

Kufr, or unbelief, occurs when God’s Oneness goes unrecognised or is obscured and His multiple attributes are worshipped separately as idols. The emphasis of the twin themes of idol worship and unbelief in Gülşehri’s adaptation of the Speech of the Birds becomes apparent in his choice of verse as well as the selection and placement of illustrative stories and parables, resulting in a work substantially different from ʿAṭṭār’s original. With the legend of the mythical bird Sīmurgh, placed immediately after the prologue meditating on God’s unity of being,38 Gülşehri explains how this mythical bird symbolises God’s creation of His creatures as a manifestation of the incarnation of souls. Derived from the Persian sī murgh, ‘thirty birds’, Sīmurgh represents the notion of 30 birds united with the Godhead. Sīmurgh appeared to the world when, suddenly one night, he radiantly passed over a city in China.39 ʿAṭṭār’s description of Sīmurgh’s appearance in the world emphasises His unveiling of Himself to the world, which ʿAṭṭār interprets as a metaphor for creation: ‘All these traces of creation originate from His kingly glory, all souls from the markings of His feather.’40 In contrast, Gülşehri reworks the legend to demonstrate how, from this momentous cosmic

36 Ibid., 2, lines 11–12; 4, lines 15–16. 37 Ibid., lines 1572–1575: Begler ortasında size sultan / Gösterem zira ki bilürem anı. 38 Ibid., 4–8, lines 18–42. 39 A comparison of the texts reveals Gülşehri’s very similar wording: Bir gece Çin şehri üstinden meger / Nagehan Simurg geçdi cilveger (Gülşehri, Mantıku’t-Tayr, ed. Yavuz, 4, line 18) with that of ʿAṭṭār’s phrasing: Ibtidā-yi kār-i Sīmurgh ay ajab! / Jilvahgār bi-guzasht bar Chīn nīmshab (ʿAṭṭār, Manṭiq al-Ṭayr, ed. Shafīʿī-Kadkanī, 108). 40 Helmut Ritter translates ʿAṭṭār’s verses as: ‘One time the Sīmurgh cast off a feather in China and thereby unleashed confusion in all countries. Everyone formed an image of this feather. Everyone who saw the image began another action. The feather is kept today in China. That’s why one should seek knowledge even in China. If the image of this feather hadn’t become public, there wouldn’t be all this noise and strife in the world. All these traces of creation originate from His kingly glory, all souls from the markings of His feather’ (Helmut Ritter, The Ocean of the Soul: Men, the World and God in the Stories of Farid al-Din Attar, trans. John O’Kane (Leiden and Boston, MA: Brill, 2003), 627). Battling Kufr (Unbelief) in the Land of Infidels 337 event, kufr first appeared among people lacking knowledge about the truth of God’s unity. As the legend goes, one night in China, when Sīmurgh first appeared in the world and was spotted soaring in the skies, one of his feathers floated to earth. Different groups of people abandoned their original religion and took to worshipping the beautiful images (nakş) found on that magnificent feather.41 Gülşehri recounts how the worship of different idols (put) arose among different groups, each choosing different images to hold sacred:

One worshipped an idol saying ‘it is my Beloved Lord’, Another a cross, saying ‘it is my Purpose’.42

Gülşehri’s reshaping of the legend of Sīmurgh depicts the origins of idol worship as a response to Sīmurgh’s appearance in the world, when he left the trace of one of his feathers. Out of ignorance, people began to selectively worship different signs or decorations on the feather rather than seeing them for what they were: mere fragments of His being. Gülşehri thus defines an infidel: ‘He who worships an idol on one of the feathers [of Sīmurgh] is an infidel’ (Bir kanat nakşın tapan kafır-durur).43 Gülşehri’s concludes his account of the legend of Sīmurgh with a warning to his audience about the worship of idols, the deceptive outward forms of the fragmented being of the Divine. Only Muslims, i.e., true believers (mümin), recognised Sīmurgh in his entirety and true full being:

Whereas the believer/faithful one believes in the bird’s unity/oneness The infidel assumes that the bird is an image on the feather44 Don’t be deceived by the image on a feather Don’t confuse the bird for its feather.45 Don’t be the lover of thousands of different images from one [mere] feather Of that which has 100,000 more feathers.46

Believers are thus distinguished from unbelievers for having refrained from worshipping one of Sīmurgh’s thousands of different feathers in their various manifestations. Muslims alone are able to discern the divine whole.47 While bringing to the fore the relationship between idol worship and the appearance of Sīmurgh in the beginning of the text, Gülşehri nevertheless presents the creativist aspect of Sīmurgh’s very initial appearance, as emphasised by ʿAṭṭār, much later in the text when further edifying the birds

41 Gülşehri, Mantıku’t-Tayr, ed. Yavuz, 6, lines 19–36. 42 Gülşehri, Mantıku’t-Tayr, ed. Merhan, 151 line 24: Biri puta tapdı mabudum didi / Biri haça tapdı maksudum didi. Cf. the Yavuz edition, 4, line 24: Biri haça halk-ı maksudum didi. 43 Gülşehri, Mantıku’t-Tayr, ed. Yavuz, 6, line 12. 44 Ibid., 6, line 29: Mümin ol kuş birliğine inanur / Kafir ol kuşı kanat nakşın sanur. 45 Ibid., 6, line 31: Bir kanaduñ nakşına aldanmagıl / Ol kuşı ol bir kanadı sanmagıl. 46 Ibid., 6, line 37: Bir kanatdan olmagıl biñ nakşa yar / Kim anuñ yüz biñ kanadı dahı var. 47 Ibid., 34, line 232. 338 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia on their relationship to Sīmurgh, their Creator, in one of the many question answer sessions:

When Sīmurgh flew felicitously over the world, And opened his wings auspiciously down to the earth.48 Sīmurgh’s shadow fell upon the world; That shadow was the world’s source.49 All birds took on form thanks to that shadow. They likewise arose from that source.50

Gülşehri’s rearrangement of the legend of Sīmurgh in his Speech of the Birds presents a striking example of how his emphasis on kufr leads to the reshaping and modification of ʿAṭṭār’s material. Now let us look at how Gülşehri inserts new material into his text out of the similar thematic considerations regarding idol- worshippers.

The Prophet Muḥammad and Ṣafwān’s Conversion to Islam51

Of the 30 different anecdotes, tales and parables included in his work, Gülşehri only makes use of only seven from ʿAṭṭār’s Speech of the Birds, thus presenting a considerably different corpus of illustrative stories.52 Thus, rather than reproduce ʿAṭṭār’s set of stories, Gülşehri borrows from a variety of sources including Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī’s Mathnawī-yi Maʿnawī53 and Kalīla and Dimna.54 One story original to Gülşehri’s Speech of the Birds is that of the Prophet Muḥammad

48 Ibid., 226, line 1526: Çün cihan üstine Simurg uçdı hoş / Aleme kanatlarını açdı haş. 49 Ibid., line 1527: Düşdi Simurguñ cihana sayesi / Alemüñ ol sayedür sermayesi. 50 Ibid., line 1529: Kamu kuşlar sūreti ol sayeden / Hasıl oldı vü hem ol sermayeden. 51 Ibid., lines 78–241. 52 Kemal Yavuz, ‘Çeşitli Yönleri İle Mantıku’t-Tayr ve Garib-nāme Mesnevileri’, Türk Dili ve Edebiyatı Dergisi 31 (2004): 348; Vesile Albayrak Sak, ‘Eski Türk Edebiyatında Tercüme Geleneği ve bu Gelenekte Mantıku’t-Tayr Tercümeleri’, Turkish Studies 7, no. 4 (2012): 658–9 (655–69). Gülşehri makes use of a total of 30 anecdotes, whereas ʿAṭṭār’s work contains around 180. Gülşehri took the following stories from ʿAṭṭār: (1) the Prophet’s intercession with God on behalf of the umma (2) Sultan Maḥmūd (of Ghazna) and his slave, Ayas (3) Şeyh Abdürrezzak (equivalent to Shaykh Ṣanʿān) (4) The governor (vali) and Hızır (5) The legendary bird called the kaknus (6) The lover who notices the white of his beloved’s eye (7) The moth and the candle. Gülşehri also reduces the number of specific birds engaging in dialogue with the Hoopoe to eight, as opposed to ʿAṭṭār’s 10 birds, and substitutes different birds for some of ʿAṭṭārs’. In Gülşehri's text, the following birds present the Hoopoe with excuses for not joining the spiritual journey: the nightingale (bülbül), parrot (tuti), peacock (tavus), phoenix (hüma), goose (bat), white falcon (şahbaz), partridge (kebk), and owl (bum). 53 Sak, ‘Eski Türk Edebiyatında Tercüme Geleneği’, 658–9. 54 Berrin Uyar Akalın, ‘The Poets Who Wrote and Translated Mantiku’t Tayr in Turkish Literature’, International Journal of Central Asian Studies (Prof. Dr. Mustafa Canpolat Armağanı) 10, no. 1 (2005): 171. Battling Kufr (Unbelief) in the Land of Infidels 339 and the Qurayshī leader, Ṣafwān, a rather late Meccan convert to Islam.55 The story of Ṣafwān ibn Umayyad, one of the Prophet Muḥammad’s most difficult conversions, is recounted in the second longest anecdote in Gülşehri’s work, and precedes the work’s longest story, the Shaykh of Ṣanʿān. The story appears at the beginning of the work, immediately after the first 18 introductory lines of the prologue, embedded in the praise for the prophet section (Dastan-ı Muhammed Mustafa Aleyhi’s-Selatu ve’s-Selam).56 Gülşehri’s account of Ṣafwān appears to be an expansion of one line in ʿAṭṭār’s work in the section praising Muḥammad (Dar naʿ‘t-i Rasūl)57 to which the Prophet’s mission in destroying the idols of Mecca is obliquely referred.58 Gülşehri’s account of Ṣafwān begins with a description of Muḥammad’s cleansing of Mecca and the Kaʿaba of idols and idol worship:

All these idols should be destroyed; They should be gathered up and sold to the ironsmith.59 The heads of the idol-worshippers should be cut off, With their idols hanging from their necks.60 We’ll befriend the believer in faith, We’ll cleanse the Kaʿaba of idols.61

The people of Mecca defended their paganism against Muḥammad’s attempt to cleanse Mecca of idols, declaring that they were not the only people worshipping idols, and pointing out that the entire world worships the images of idols: ‘Kamu alemdür putuñ nakşın öpen’.62 Gülşehri then introduces Ṣafwān, a ruler (beg) of the outlying desert around Mecca, a man of noble lineage and bearing, and a leader who faithfully served his people. Refusing to forsake their idols, the people of Mecca complained to Ṣafwān about Muḥammad.63 Ṣafwān became incensed when he learned of Muḥammad’s assault on the religious traditions of the Meccan cults. Accompanied by his supplicants, he set out for Mecca, vowing to split Muḥammad in half with his sword (Kılıç-ıla anı iki böleyim).64 Arriving in the city, Ṣafwān inquired about the young man (oğlan) ‘who spit out fire instead of words when he opened his mouth’ and the ‘one who hurls insults on the gods Hubel,

55 This Ṣafwān can be identified with the historical Qurayshī leader, Ṣafwān ibn Umayya ibn Khalaf of Jumaḥ (W. Montgomery Watt, Muḥammad at Medina (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1956), 19; A. Guillaume, The Life of Muḥammad: A Translation of Isḥāq’s Sīrat Rasūl Allāh (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1955), 318). 56 Gülşehri, Mantıku’t-Tayr, ed. Yavuz, 12, lines 78–241. 57 ʿAṭṭār, Manṭiq al-Ṭayr, ed. Shafīʿī-Kadkanī, 89, lines 265–408. This section is immediately followed by praise for each of the first four caliphs, which is absent in Gülşehri’s work. 58 Ibid., 91, line 330: biʾthat-i ū sar nigūnī-yi butān (‘His mission was that of overturning the idols’). 59 Gülşehri, Mantıku’t-Tayr, ed. Yavuz, 14, line 85: Bu kamu bütleri uşatmak gerek / İltüben demürçiye satmak gerek. 60 Ibid., line 87: Büt-perestüñ başını kesmek gerek / Kendü bütin boynına asmak gerek. 61 Ibid., line 88: Mümini imanda yar idiserüz / Kaabe-yi bütlerden arıdısaruz. 62 Ibid., 18, lines 115–18. 63 Ibid., 18–20, lines 118–30. 64 Ibid., 18, line 120. 340 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Manāt, Lāt and ʿUzzā’.65 He was told that Muḥammad was a master of witchcraft (cadulıg) and magic (sihir), no more than a penniless beggar (geda) dressed in rags and with nothing to eat.66 Having abandoned the visible gods, Muḥammad worshipped an invisible God (Bu görinür tañrıları kim koya / Vara görmedügi Tañrı’ya uya).67 Thus expecting to find a beggar, when Ṣafwān spied the Prophet at a graveyard, he was immediately struck by Muḥammad’s majestic appearance: ‘I have not seen a man like this; I have not run across the likes of such a man’ (‘Ben bunuñ şeklinde adem görmedüm / Buña beñzer ademiye irmedüm.’).68 As if burned by the fire in Muḥammad’s eyes, Ṣafwān became enraptured by the Prophet, and there and then understood that Muḥammad was not a magician casting spells but the true Prophet.69 Gülşehri has Ṣafwān admit that out of ignorance he had erred by attempting to hunt down the Prophet. He however realised that it was he who was the ‘prey’.70 The story climaxes with Ṣafwān prostrating himself before Muḥammad and declaring his belief in him and his religion.71 Muḥammad then orders Ṣafwān back to his own land where he was to spread the faith and to lead the holy war against the infidels (Sen olısarsın gaza sazın düze / Var ilünde ehl-i iman olisar).72 Gülşehri concludes the story with spiritual advice:

Whichever path the intelligent one chooses to take, There is no better companion on the way than Muḥammad.73

Gülşehri’s story of Ṣafwān, which concludes with the Qurayshī chief’s mission of jihad in the name of Muḥammad against the infidels in order to expand the Dar al-Islām, must have resonated with a Muslim Rūmī, or Anatolian, audience. Indeed, Gülşehri’s composition of this work is contemporary to the ongoing expansion of the Dār al-Islām into Byzantine-held lands under the Turks.

The Tale of Shaykh Ṣanʿān: Battling the Kufr of the Beloved

The tale of Shaykh Ṣanʿān, one of the seven anecdotes Gülşehri adapted from ʿAṭṭār, is a pivotal story placed strategically in the narrative, put in the mouth of the Hoopoe to motivate the birds to embark on the mystical journey. This story is also of exceptional length, comprising nearly one-tenth of the entire narrative, with 409 couplets in ʿAṭṭār’s work, and 371 couplets in Gülşehri’s, making it the longest anecdote in both versions of the Speech of the Birds.74 Gülşehri calls ʿAṭṭār’s

65 Ibid., line 121. 66 Ibid., 20, lines 122–36; 30, line 204. 67 Ibid., 22, line 137. 68 Ibid., 24, line 154. 69 Ibid., 24–6, lines 157–63. 70 Ibid., 32, lines 210–16. 71 Ibid., line 217. 72 Ibid., 34, line 232. 73 Ibid., line 321: Ne yola vara aceb akıl kişi / Kim Muhammed’den yig ola yoldaşı. 74 Shackle, ‘Representations of ʿAṭṭār in the West and in the East’, 165. Battling Kufr (Unbelief) in the Land of Infidels 341

Shaykh Ṣanʿān Şeyh Abdürrezzak: both names refer to the historical figure, ʿAbd al-Razzāq al-Ṣanʿānī. Although clearly drawing on ʿAṭṭār’s work in his rendering of the story of Shaykh Ṣanʿān, sometimes word for word from the Persian original, Gülşehri claims to be retelling a story (dasitan) that had been previously badly composed in Turkish in a very confused manner (key çepürdük),75 with faulty metre and broken grammar.76 Since the story, however, was beautiful in essence, the less than competent poetic form in which it had been cast did it no justice. As Gülşehri puts it, this clumsy Turkish composition was like a heavenly beauty (hüri) dressed in old rags, or a moon-like beauty donning goat-hair rather than silks.77 Gülşehri boasts of having now dressed this moon-like beauty in newly tailored clothes suitable for a lady of high station.78 Thus transformed, explains Gülşehri, the story could be appreciated by scholars, now that it properly commemorated the power of God and celebrated the Prophet, and in such a colourful and sweet way that you would think it was the story of Khusraw and Shīrīn.79 Gülşehri thus boasts that not only does he provide mystical edification, but he does so with elegance, boldly comparing himself to the master Persian poet, Niẓāmī of Ganja.80 Gülşehri’s predecessor, the author of the poorly composed Turkish version of the story of Şeyh Abdürrezzak, remains unidentifiable.81 Yet, Gülşehri’s critique

75 Gülşehri, Mantıku’t-Tayr, ed. Yavuz, 110, line 748: İlla lafzın key çepürdük söylemiş (‘Someone told this story, but made the words very complicated’). I have corrected çöpürdek in Yavuz’s edition (there is no such word documented in Old Anatolian Turkish) to çepürdük, or alternatively çipürdük, or çıpurduk meaning ‘confused’ (Türk Dil Kurumu, Tarama Sözlüğü, vol. 2, 2nd edn (Ankara: Ankara Üniversitesi Basımevi, 1996), 859). See also Köprülü’s analysis of this section (Köprülü, Early Mystics in Turkish Literature, 251–2 n. 77). 76 Gülşehri, Mantıku’t-Tayr, ed. Yavuz, 112, line 750: Vezn-içün lafzuñ gidermiş harfini (He left out letters for the sake of the metre). 77 Ibid., 110, line 749: Eski bezden hürriye ton eylemiş / Bir keçeden aya pilven eylemiş. 78 Ibid., 112, line 751: Şimdi Gülşehri geyürdi bu aya / Lefkari tonlar ki benzetdi baya. 79 Ibid., 112, lines 753–5. 80 Niẓāmī of Ganja wrote Khusraw u Shīrīn, the second work of his Khamsa, in the name of Sultan Tughril ibn Arslan (1177–1194) in between the years 1180/81–1191. See Jerome W. Clinton and Kamron Talattof (eds), Nizami Ganjavi: His Time, His Life, and His Poetry (St. Martin’s Press, 2000). 81 Aziz Merhan identifies and provides a transliterated edition of one such alternative early Turkish versions of the story of Şeyh Abdürrezzak (Aziz Merhan, ‘Şeyh Abdurrezzak (Şeyh San’an) Destanının Eski Anadolu Türkçesindeki İlk Çevirisi (Mi?)’, Türkiyat Mecmuası 22 (2012): 123–54). See also Yusuf Babür, ‘Şeyh-i San’ān Kıssasına Dair’, Turkish Studies 8 no. 13 (2013): 511. Merhan proposes that this earlier Turkish account of the legend must have been the object of Gülşehri’s criticism. The work in question, part of a multiple-work codex (Istanbul, Süleymaniye, MS Hacı Mahmud Ef. no. 4311, fols 254b–261a), entitled Dastan eş-Şeyh Abdürrezzak, exists in manuscript form and consists of 254 couplets. A quick perusal of the text reveals no direct correspondence to either ʿAṭṭār’s or Gülşehri’s versions. Merhan identifies the author/copyist of this version as a certain Ahmedi whom he speculates is to be identified as Ahmed-i Rumi (c.1271–1349), a Mevlevi poet who composed in Persian. This attribution is clearly wrong, for upon further inspection it is apparent that manuscript codex in question was copied in Antakya by a certain Ahmedi Muhsinoğlu Antaki, who furnishes the date of 939/1532–33 in the second work of the codex (fol. 207). The codex consists of works such as al- 342 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia of this earlier Turkish version, as well as his reference to Shaykh Ṣanʿān as Şeyh Abdürrezzak, does indicate an awareness of alternative accounts of the story and a wider circulation of this legend independent of ʿAṭṭār’s work. The story of Shaykh Ṣanʿān appears to have had a wide following among medieval Muslims. There is considerable evidence that different versions of the story were in circulation before ʿAṭṭār composed his Speech of the Birds. According to Mujtabā Mīnuwı, ʿAṭṭār took the Shaykh Ṣanʿān tale from al-Ghazālī’s Tuḥfat al-Mulūk. ʿAbdalḥusayn Zarrīnkūb, however, argues that its true source is to be found in Ibn al-Jawzī’s Kitāb Dhamm al-Hawī, which relates how the shaykh ʿAbd al-Razzāq al-Ṣanʿānī committed the great offense of unbelief by having fallen in love with a Christian woman. The shaykh later repented and returned to his former state.82 Nevertheless, despite the similarity of name and circumstances, ʿAṭṭār’s Shaykh Ṣanʿān has little to do with the historical figure, ʿAbd al-Razzāq ibn Hammām ibn Nāfiʿ al-Ṣanʿānī (744–827). Of Iranian family origins and the leading scholar of the Yemen of his time, ʿAbd al-Razzāq’s fame attracted students from all over the Islamic world, including Aḥmad ibn Ḥanbal (d. 855).83 Thus, rather than being a Sufi shaykh with 400 murids from the Ḥaram in Mecca, ʿAbd al-Razzāq was a renowned traditionalist who became a key figure in the isnāds of some of the most important Sunni ḥadīth compilations and likewise was author of al-Muṣannaf fī’l-Ḥadīth, and Tafsīr al-Qurʾān al-ʿAzīz.84 Although he must have been aware of alternative versions of the widely circulated story of Shaykh Ṣanʿān, as his use of the name Abdürrezzak indicates, Gülşehri nevertheless follows ʿAṭṭār’s version in its basic framework; the opening lines are almost a word for word translation. As the story progresses, however, Gülşehri modifies it with an emphasis on the theme of kufr and casts it in a particularly Rūmī context: In Gülşehri’s version, the Christian beauty to whom Şeyh Abdürrezzak loses his heart is not just any Christian girl, but the daughter of a Christian Rūm ‘sultan’. The Beauty cast as the daughter of a local Christian ruler in Anatolia, attainable only after a great struggle, was a common

Kisāʾī’s Arabic Qiṣaṣ al-Anbiyāʾ, al-Wāqidī’s Futūḥ al-Shām, likewise in Arabic, followed by a series of Turkish works, such as an unknown Turkish history of Constantinople (Konstantiniyye) and Konyalı Hüseyin’s Dastan-i Cümcüme (Legend of the Skull King). Further evaluation of these works, and their apocryphal content, would be revealing in the connection between the qiṣaṣ al-anbiyāʾ genre and stories such as Cümcüme and Abdürrezzak. See also Favziye Abdullah Tansel, ‘Cümcüme Sultan: Ottoman Translations of the Fourteenth Century Qipchaq Turkish Story’, Archivum Ottomanicum 2 (1970): 252–69; Michele Bernardini, ‘Solṭan Jomjome et Jesus le Paraclet’, in Les traditions apocalyptiques au tournant de la chute de Constantinople, ed. Benjamin Lellouch and Stéphane Yerasimos (Paris: Harmattan, 1999), 35–53; and Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, Türk folklorunda Kesikbaş: Tarih-Folklor İlişkinden Bir Kesit (1989; Istanbul: Dergah Yayınları, 2013). 82 ʿAṭṭār, Manṭiq al-Ṭayr, ed. Shafīʿī-Kadkanī, 52–4. 83 H. Motzki, ‘al-Ṣanʿānī, ʿAbd al-Razzāḳ ibn Hammām ibn Nāfiʿ, Abū Bakr al-Yamanī al- Ḥimyarī’, EI2. 84 ʿAṭṭār, Manṭiq al-Ṭayr, ed. Shafīʿī-Kadkanī, 54; Yusuf Babür, ‘Şeyh-i San’ān Kıssasına Dair’, Turkish Studies 8 no. 13 (2013): 511. Battling Kufr (Unbelief) in the Land of Infidels 343 literary topos in medieval Anatolia, as the popular Turkish epic the Danişmend- name attests.85 Gülşehri begins by describing how, in the city of Ṣanʿān, there was a great man ‘whose heart was an ocean full of pearls’, a friend of God named Abdürrezzak, who had spent 50 years at the Kaʿaba as a shaykh. The shaykh had 400 disciples and many intimate companions, fellow travellers on the path to God, all of whom were the very model of ascetic self-denial. In addition to having performed the Pilgrimage 50 times, he was deeply knowledgeable about religious duties and obligations (sunnat ve farz), and his ritual prayer and fasting had no limits. His esoteric knowledge was as extensive as his exoteric learning. His illumination was endless, his miracles numerous, his abstinence complete and his spiritual station high (maqamat-ı azim). In addition, he could cure people with his breath; yet, while performing such miracles, he never transgressed into unbelief (literally: he remained clean of infidel belief).86 In short, he was a model Sufi shaykh. One night, when his heart was full of knowledge (ilm-ile tolu), he had a dream in which he travelled from the Ḥaram (of the Kaʿaba in Mecca) to the land of Rūm where he witnessed himself prostrate before an idol,87 ‘kissing it in such a way you would think he was worshipping God’.88 Interpreting this dream as a bad omen foretelling future hardships and difficulties, and that fitna (disturbances) were convening around him, he felt as if he had arrived at a dangerously narrow pass (akabe) along the spiritual journey to which he had devoted his life.89 Feeling it was better to sacrifice his life than his faith, his only recourse was to confront this danger by seeking it out in Rūm and get someone there to interpret the dream (Baña bir iş düsdi gelüñ gidelüm / Rum’a vü bu müşkili hall idelüm / Bize bir Rum iline varmak gerek / Bu düşüñ tabirini sormak gerek’).90 He thus set off on the journey with his entourage of disciples and companions in tow, enjoying it as a pleasant excursion through the Anatolian countryside (Rum ilini hoş teferrüc itdiler),91 oblivious of the sufferings that were in store for him. He thus ‘passed through every garden and city like a nightingale’,92 and circumambulated the land with ease (Rum ilini hoş tavaf eylediler),93 as if he were making a circuit about the Kaʿaba at Mecca, until finally arriving at the city of the ruler of Rūm (şehr-i kayser).94 It was there that he laid eyes on a girl of indescribable beauty, the daughter of

85 The heroine of the Danişmend-name, the Christian beauty Efrumiyye (Efromiya) was the daughter of the Christian ruler of Amasya. She converts to Islam after marrying Artuhi, a Muslim convert in the service of Melik Danişmend (Necati Demir (ed.), Dânişmend-nâme (Ankara: Akçağ, 2004), 71 ff). 86 Gülşehri, Mantıku’t-Tayr, ed. Yavuz, 50, lines 330–31. 87 Ibid., lines 332–3. 88 Ibid., line 334. 89 Ibid., lines 335–9; 52, lines 340–43. 90 Ibid., lines 343–4. 91 Ibid., line 346. 92 Ibid., line 347. 93 Ibid., line 348. 94 Ibid., line 350. 344 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia the Rūm sultan. With the usual litany of poetic conceits, the poet describes her physical attributes, with her bow-like long and sweeping eyebrows, her ruby lips, pearly white teeth and moon-like face so radiant that the sun was dim in comparison.95 ‘What the Shaykh would not give for that beauty!’ exclaims Gülşehri. Indeed, ‘whoever was to set eyes on her, would sacrifice his life for her’.96 In addition to having a face as beautiful as that of a Turk, the infidel girl was endowed with spiritual qualities: ‘Although immersed in unbelief (küfr), she was quite pious (ruhani-sıfat) / and well versed in the knowledge of the spirit of God’ (Ruhullah’a yüz marifet)’.97 The poet continues: ‘Even a believer (mümin) would burn for desire and gird the zünnar of her locks’.98 Setting sight on just a little of her unbelief would render 100,000 believers into Christians.99 Enflamed with passionate desire for the infidel girl, the Shaykh abandoned all reason and submitted to all of her humiliating demands. He sacrificed his belief for her unbelief, and abandoned Islam to become a Christian (‘Terk ider İslam’ı vü tersa olur’).100 Whereas in ʿAṭṭār’s Manṭiq al-Ṭayr, the Christian beauty’s locks merely drive the shaykh mad,101 Gülşehri imparts greater emphasis on the motifs of belief and unbelief, and conversion and apostasy. In verse replete with the imagery of Christianity, Gülşehri describes how the shaykh, driven crazy with passion for the girls’s seductive locks, descended into the state of unbelief with his conversion:

They baptised the shaykh in the monastery And transformed a Muslim into a devil.102 They branded his heart with the fire of unbelief And girded his waist with the belt [of Christianity].103 And when the shaykh wrapped the Christian belt around himself His unbelief became famous throughout town and country.104 An idol looted his faith; The hair of unbelief turned him into a Christian.105

95 Ibid., 52–4, lines 349–55, 363–4. 96 Ibid., 54, line 358. 97 Ibid., line 359. Compare with ʿAṭṭār’s version: dukhtarī tarsā wa rūḥānī-ṣifat / dar rah-i rū-Allahish ṣad maʿrifat (Frank Lewis’s translation of this couplet: ‘A Christian girl of spiritual qualities / deeply versed in the knowledge of the way of God’s spirit’ (Franklin Lewis, ‘Sexual Occidentation: The Politics of Conversion, Christian-love and Boy-love in ‘Attār’, Iranian Studies 42, no. 5 (2009): 697). 98 Gülşehri, Mantıku’t-Tayr, ed. Yavuz, 54, line 362–3. Zünnar (Ar. zunnār) refers to the distinctive cord-like belt Christians wore as a sumptuary marker in Muslim lands. 99 Ibid., line 362. 100 Ibid., line 366; 56, lines 371, 379; 60, line 404. 101 ʿAṭṭār, Manṭiq al-Ṭayr, ed. Shafīʿī-Kadkanī, 132, line 1318: Gar bi-zulfam shaykh iqrār āvard / har damash dīvānagī bār āvard. 102 Gülşehri, Mantıku’t-Tayr, ed. Yavuz, 78, line 520: Deyr içinde şeyhi vaftiz itdiler / Bir Müsülmanı bir iblis itdiler. 103 Ibid., line 521: Küfr odıyla göñlini tagladılar / Bilini zünnar-ıla bagladılar. 104 Ibid., line 522: Şeyh çün zünnarı bagladı bile / Küfri meşhur oldı şehre vü ile. 105 Ibid., 86, line 583: Bir büt imanını yagma eyledi / Saçı küfri anı tersa eyledi. Battling Kufr (Unbelief) in the Land of Infidels 345

In this involuntary state of madness, the Shaykh did a thing unimaginable for a Muslim: not only did he burn his Sufi cloak, but he also put to flame the sacred pages of the Qurʾan (Hırkasın yandurdı vü dinin kodı Mushaf’ın dahı köyindürdi odı).106 Aware of the perfidy of these acts, yet unable to prevent himself from committing them, the shaykh laments the abject condition to which he had descended. In addition to his apostasy, this included drinking wine, and girding the Christian belt (zünnar) around his waist. Indeed, with his religion gone, taken away by the Christian beauty, and his belief replaced with unbelief, his soul was bound to burn in hell.107 The shaykh regrets that ‘the fifty years of my obedience [to the Islamic obligatory acts] have been for naught!’ The wretchedness of the shaykh reaches a climax when he agrees to the infidel girl’s most humiliating demand:

The Shaykh of the Kaʿaba, the master of the age Elected to serve as pig herder for a year.108

The shaykh’s disciples and companions who had accompanied him to Rūm remained powerless to prevent the shaykh’s ignoble descent into unbelief and returned to their homes. Upon their return, the shaykh’s most devoted disciple – the one disciple who had not initially joined him on the journey – learned of his master’s fate. After berating the other disciples for having failed to save the shaykh through prayer, the devoted disciple, together with the others, set off for Rūm, where for 40 days they collectively prayed for the shaykh’s soul. They also did penitence in a cave for 40 days, wailing and writhing with tears in their eyes. In the end, the Prophet Muḥammad appeared before the most devoted disciple in a dream and informed him that their prayers had secured the Lord’s forgiveness. The shaykh’s heart thus would be cleansed of unbelief so that he could return to his previous pious state.109 That night, when the party of disciples set out to return home with the shaykh, who had donned his Sufi cloak once again and had been completely cured of unbelief, the infidel girl had a dream in which the sun came before her and informed her that the shaykh had left. The sun implored her to go to him and take up his religion, saying that ‘although you diverted him from the right path, now you take the path of him who has returned to Islam’.110 The girl awoke from the dream with her heart filled with divine light and, burning like a candle, she began to cry bloody tears as passionate love for the shaykh filled her heart. She set off in search of him, barefoot and bare headed, wandering in bewilderment, lost in her grief. Likewise in his dreams, the shaykh was informed by a vision from God of the Christian girl’s miserable state. When he and his disciples found her writhing in the mud somewhere on a mountain, she was so beyond help in her wretchedness

106 Ibid., 78, line 523. 107 Ibid., lines 525–33. 108 Ibid., 82, line 554: Pir-i Kaabe şeyh-i sadr-ı rüzigar / Bir yıl eyler hukbanlık. 109 Ibid., 88–96, lines 593–641. 110 Ibid., 96–102, lines 642–90. 346 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia that she begged for release from her life with the sole desire of reuniting with the shaykh in the other world. The story concludes with the repentant girl dying upon the prayers of the shaykh.111

Conclusion

The stories of Sīmurgh, Muḥammad and Ṣafwān, and Şeykh Abdürrezzak (i.e., Shaykh Ṣanʿān) are striking examples of how Gülşehri’s thematic emphasis on kufr and idol worship give particular shape to his version of the Speech of the Birds. The legend of Sīmurgh appearing over China provides the backdrop to the emergence of idol worship during the pre-Islamic era. Gülşehri’s story of Ṣafwān and the Prophet Muḥammad illustrates the Prophet’s battle against the idol worship, and his success in cleansing Mecca of unbelief and converting even the most obdurate infidel to Islam. Finally, the long account of Shaykh Ṣanʿān demonstrates that, in the face of seductive and irresistible idols, one could muster divine assistance in the spiritual battle against kufr by supplicating the Prophet. Linking literary works with the political, religious, socio-economic and historical contexts in which they were produced proves to be one of the greatest methodological challenges facing scholars of cultural history. Making connections between literary works and material culture proves to be equally difficult. Evidence from the thirteenth century indicates that Christians were the majority in Seljuq Anatolia.112 Gülşehir, like much of Cappadocia, was home to medieval Christian churches carved out of the soft volcanic turf and elaborately decorated with colourful frescoes. The Church of St John of Gülşehir (today Karşı Kilisesi), a two-storey structure built in the shape of a cross with one apse, complete with a wine cellar, graves, water channels, and living quarters, seems to have been a local aristocratic family’s private chapel with a pictorial programme is dated at 1212–13.113 Situated three kilometres in the distance is Açık Saray, a site of extensive rock cuttings, with Roman tombs and churches from the ninth to the eleventh century. That it served as an important bishopric indicates that there was once a thriving Christian community here. Yet, we know virtually nothing about this region during the Muslim period, and how its Christian communities fared under Seljuq and Mongol rule. Although scholars of Muslim medieval Anatolia have focused on the history of Muslim rule and Muslim communities, without knowledge of the Christian communities sharing the same space with Muslims, we have only half the picture.

111 Ibid., 104–10, lines 691–746. 112 Speros, Decline of Medieval Hellenism, 445–6, 450. 113 Nota Karamouna, Nilüfer Peker and Tolga B. Uyar, ‘Female Donors in Thirteenth- century Wall Paintings in Cappadocia: An Overview’, in Female Founders in Byzantium and Beyond, ed. Lioba Theis, Margaret Mullett, Michael Grünbart, Galina Finarova and Matthew Savage, (Vienna: Böhlau Verlag, 2014), 235; Günter Paulus Schiemenz, ‘Zur politischen Zugehörigkeit des Gebietes um Sobesos und Zoropassos in den Jahren um 1200’, Jahrbuch der Österreichischen Byzantinischen Gesellschaft 14 (1965): 209 (207–38). Battling Kufr (Unbelief) in the Land of Infidels 347

Finally, I conclude with the suggestion that what appears to shape the Turkish author’s re-adapation of the Persian original is the subtext of an underlying religious polemic against Christianity, presenting it as a dangerous form of kufr, or unbelief. More research on late thirteenth-century and early fourteenth- century Muslim–Christian polemics composed or circulated in Anatolia may allow us to better contextualise the textual communities in which Gülşehri possibly participated or by which he may have been influenced.114

Acknowledgements The research leading to these results has received funding from the European Research Council under the European Union’s Seventh Framework Programme (FP/2007–13) / ERC Grant Agreement n 208476, ‘The Islamisation of Anatolia, c.1100–1500’.

114 The genre of qiṣaṣ al-anbiyāʾ, which serves to assimilate Old Testament scripture into the Muslim context, appears to be connected with Muslim antichristian polemics, similar to the case of Old Testament material used in Christian and Jewish polemics (see Frank Talmage, ‘Polemics, Christian-Jewish’, in Dictionary of the Middle Ages, ed. Joseph Strayer (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1988), vol. 10, 1–7). Also see Chapter 10 by Andrew Peacock in this volume. Likewise, the relationship between polemical literature, apocalyptic literature and religious conversion deserves further attention. This page has been left blank intentionally Chapter 15 Islamisation through the Lens of the Saltuk-name

Ahmet T. Karamustafa

A marked increase in the production and dissemination of Arabic, Persian, and Turkish popular literatures took place during the thirteenth, fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. An extremely rich body of oral popular literature (romances/ epics, cycles of tales, popular hagiographies) in the three major Middle Eastern Islamic languages appear to have been recorded in writing for the first time in this period.1 In the process, old genres were refashioned, new genres emerged, and written popular literary traditions developed side by side existing oral tales and epics. This corpus of popular literature, which preserved its vitality and continued to grow well into the modern period, is without doubt the richest mine of information on popular beliefs and habits of thinking in premodern Middle Eastern Muslim communities. The present chapter is an attempt to explore the conceptions of and knowledge about Islam that are reflected in one major exemplar from this wider corpus, the Saltuk-name.

Methodological Observations

Any attempt to study aspects of premodern Muslim popular cultures on the basis of popular literary texts is hampered by several difficulties. First and foremost among such obstacles is the confusion that surrounds the use and definition of the term ‘popular’.2 Without engaging the multiple debates that

1 For detailed surveys and general observations for Arabic, see Peter Heath, ‘Arabische Volksliteratur im Mittelalter’, in Orientalisches Mittelalter, ed. Wolfhart Heinrichs with the contribution of J. Christoph Bürgel (Wiesbaden: AULA-Verlag, 1990), 423–39, and Charles Pellat, ‘Ḥikāya’, EI2; for Persian, Jirí Cepjek, ‘Iranian folk-literature’, in History of Iranian Literature, ed. Jan Rypka (Dordrecht: D. Reidel Publishing Company, 1968), 607–709; J.T.P. de Bruijn, ‘Die Perschiche Volksliteratur im Mittelalter und ihr Verhältnis zur klassischen Literatur’, in Orientalisches Mittelalter, 465–74; and William Hanaway, ‘Formal Elements in the Persian Popular Romances’, Review of National Literatures 2, no. 1 (1971): 139–60; and for Turkish, Pertev Naili Boratav (with contributions by İlhan Başgöz and Helga Uplegger), ‘Die Volksliteratur’, in Philologiae Turcicae Fundamenta, vol. 2 (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1965), 1–170 and idem, ‘Ḥikāya, iii. The Narrative Genres of Turkish Literature and Folklore’, EI2 as well as Barbara Flemming, ‘Das Verhältnis von Hoch- und Volksliteratur im Türkischen’, in Orientalisches Mittelalter, 475–81. 2 A valuable and still useful survey of scholarly views on popular culture from different disciplines is Approaches to Popular Culture, ed. C.W.E. Bigsby (Bowling Green, OH: Bowling Green University Popular Press, 1976). Not represented in this collection are debates within the discipline of history of religions, for which see Catherine Bell, ‘Religion and Chinese Culture: 350 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia have occurred in a variety of disciplines on this topic, ‘popular’ here will be used as the intermediate category in a tripartite paradigm of premodern Middle Eastern Islamic cultures, the two terminal areas of which are ‘elite’ and ‘folk’. According to this paradigm, the distinguishing feature of popular culture is its accessibility to, and dissemination among, a majority of the population within any given cultural region or set of regions. While access to and spread of elite and folk cultures are restricted along various axes, access to popular culture is relatively open and its spread almost continuous throughout the whole of society in a specified cultural region. All three cultures require specialisation atthe production end (though folk culture also harbours generalists and amateurs), but only popular culture entails diversification at the reception end. In the realm of literature, for instance, while oral compositions and literary texts are produced mostly by specialists in all three areas, only popular literature is aimed at a general audience, as opposed to, on the one hand, the literate and, on the other hand, the strictly local audiences of elite and folk literatures respectively.3 A second obstacle in a research project based on the study of premodern popular literary texts is the traditional prejudice of scholars against popular culture in general and popular literature in particular. Until recently, literary scholars – Muslim and non-Muslim, premodern and modern – considered popular, ‘low’ culture inferior to elite, ‘high’ culture. Due to this ingrained bias, popular literature has received a disproportionately low ratio of scholarly attention and has been confined to the margins of mainstream literary research. As a result, popular literary texts remain much less accessible and much less studied than their elite counterparts.4 A third difficulty, which is a direct corollary of the previous one, is related to the use of popular texts as historical sources. Although it is legitimate to see this literature as in some sense a reflection of popular mentality, the exact modality of this reflection cannot be ascertained, if at all, until the texts in question are subjected to literary analysis on their own terms.5 It is essential to emphasise

Toward an Assessment of ‘Popular Religion’, History of Religions 29 (1989): 35–57 and Jacques Berlinerblau, ‘Max Weber’s Useful Ambiguities and the Problem of Defining “Popular Religion”, Journal of the American Academy of Religion 69 (2001): 605–26. 3 I have developed this paradigm on the basis of Peter Heath, The Thirsty Sword: Sīrat Antar and the Arabic Popular Epic (Salt Lake City, UT: University of Utah Press, 1996), 43–51, and Fred E.H. Schroeder, ‘The Discovery of Popular Culture Before Printing’, in 5000 Years of Popular Culture: Popular Culture Before Printing, ed. idem (Bowling Green, OH: Bowling Green University Popular Press, 1980), 4–15. For other approaches to popular culture in pre-modern Islamic civilisation, see Boaz Shoshan, ‘High Culture and Popular Culture in Medieval Islam’, Studia Islamica 73 (1991): 67–107; idem, Popular Culture in Medieval Cairo (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1993); and Jonathan Porter Berkey, Popular Preaching and Religious Authority in the Medieval Islamic Near East (Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press, 2001). 4 Analogous situations abound in other fields; see, for instance, the preface to The Popular Literature of Medieval England, ed. Thomas J. Heffernan (Knoxville, TN: The University of Tennessee Press, 1985). 5 A clear statement of this point appears in Peter Heath, ‘A Critical Review of Modern Scholarship on Sīrat ʿAntar ibn Shaddād and the Popular Sīra’, Journal of Arabic Literature 15 (1984): 39–40. Islamisation through the Lens of the Saltuk-name 351 here that for the majority of these popular works, even the first phase of such analysis, namely, the attempt to recover the historical and literary contexts of texts, remains unaccomplished. With specific reference to literary context, for instance, the determination of ‘generic horizons’ is the crucial step in the critical approach to a text, since the generation of literary meaning is inextricably bound with generic operations and conventions.6 The generic profiles of most premodern Islamic popular literary texts, however, in particular, that of the long narrative cycles, remain blurred.7 In practical terms, this fuzziness of generic horizons seriously hampers the attempt to reconstruct aspects of the popular worldviews these texts reflect on the basis of information extracted from them. In the absence of fundamental literary analyses of the primary source material used here, this paper will simply present the results of an initial attempt to cull indices or markers concerning Muslims and Islam from one Turkish ‘religious- heroic prose tale’ and to make some observations about what these markers indicate about Islamisation. Expressed differently, our major concern will be to probe the role Muslim identity and Islam played in the social and mental contexts of the popular literary text in question.

The Saltuk-name and its Historical Context

Even though the premodern popular epic tradition in Anatolian Turkish is extensive, it would be fair to state that four epic cycles have attracted more attention from researchers than all the others: these are Kitab-i Ebu Müslim, Battal-name, Danişmend-name, and Saltuk-name.8 In this presentation, I will focus exclusively on the Saltuk-name.

6 For the concept of ‘generic horizons’, see Alastair Fowler, Kinds of Literature: An Introduction to the Theory of Genres and Modes (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982), 259. 7 Two studies by Peter Heath are noteworthy exceptions: Thirsty Sword (note 3) and ‘Romance as Genre in The Thousand and One Nights’, Journal of Arabic Literature 18 and 19 (1987 and 1988): 1–21 and 1–26, respectively. In this context, one should also mention Hanaway, ‘Persian Popular Romances’ (note 1), and Marina Gaillard, Le Livre de Samak-e ʿAyyār: Structure et idéologie du roman persan médiéval (Paris: Publié avec le concours du Centre national de la recherche scientifique et de l’Association pour l’avancement des études iraniennes, C. Klincksieck [distributor], 1987). Following scholarly custom, I continue to use the terms ‘popular romance’ for the works in question here, even though the meaning and scope of this genre remains to be established. 8 Irène Mélikoff, Abu Muslim, le ‘Porte-Hache’ du Khorassan dans la tradition épique Turco- Iranienne (Paris: Librairie d’Amerique et d’Orient Adrien Maisonneuve, 1962); eadem (ed.), La Geste de Melik Dânişmend (Paris: A. Maisoneuve, 1960); Yorgos Dedes, Battālnāme: Giriş, İngilizce Tercüme, Türkçe Metin, Yorum ve Tıpkıbasım, 2 vols (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University, Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations, 1996); Ebu’l-Hayr Rumi, Saltuk-nâme, ed. Şükrü Halûk Akalın, 3 vols (Ankara: Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlığı Yayınları, 1988–90). There is also a facsimile edition of the text on the basis of one manuscript copy, ed. Fahir İz, 7 vols (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University, Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations, 1984); for a summary of the narrative, see Kemal Yüce, Saltuk-nâme’de Tarih, Din ve Efsanevî Unsurlar (Ankara: Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlığı Yayınları, 1987). 352 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

First, a few words about Sarı Saltuk, the hero of the Saltuk-name.9 Sarı Saltuk (or Saltık) is the most famous ‘warrior-saint’ associated with the Islamisation and Turkicisation of Rumelia (the Ottoman Balkans). His historical personage is shrouded in obscurity, and the most that can be asserted about his historical life, though not with complete certainty, is that he was a prominent figure who played a significant role in the large-scale migration and settlement of Turkish nomadic clans from north-western Anatolia to the region of Dobruja south of the Danube in present-day Bulgaria and Romania in the 660s/1260s.10 It is not possible to disentangle the saintly from the warrior Sarı Saltuk on the basis of the meagre historical evidence we have about him. His spiritual lineage was later linked to such famous Turkish Anatolian saints of the seventh/thirteenth century as Barak Baba, Taptuk Emre, and the poet Yunus Emre, but this may be more attribution than actual linkage.11 As for his image as a warrior hero, this no doubt developed in the shadow of such epic figures as Ebu Müslim, Battal Gazi, and Melik Danişmend, all protagonists of the heroic narratives that were popular among Turkish speakers of Anatolia and Southeast Europe, yet it is impossible to state with any degree of certainly that he actually was a warrior.12 A third dimension to Sarı Saltuk’s image that is equally impervious to historical scrutiny outside the narrative context of the Saltuk-name is his versatility in the complex cultural environments of north-west Anatolia and south-east Europe. At present, it is hardly possible to know whether or not the historical Sarı Saltuk was indeed at home in at least some aspects of the ethnically, linguistically and religiously variegated milieu of these regions as his epic hagiographical tale would suggest, yet the idea that he himself may have been a product of this highly porous multicultural environment is certainly attractive. The warrior-saint-cultural chameleon was, in any case, the image captured in the Saltuk-name, the only surviving ‘epic hagiographical wonder-tale’ about Sarı Saltuk, which was compiled between 878–85/1473–80 by a certain Ebu’l- Hayr-i Rumi for the Ottoman prince Cem (d. 900/1495). Even though it would be foolhardy to make an attempt to place the events narrated in the Saltuk-name

9 The following few paragraphs as well as the selection from the Saltuk-name have been previously published as ‘Sarı Saltık Becomes a Friend of God’, in Tales of God’s Friends: Islamic Hagiography in Translation, ed. John Renard (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2009), 136–44. 10 The most comprehensive, and recent, scholarly study on Sarı Saltuk is Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, Sarı Saltık: Popüler İslâm’ın Balkanlar’daki Destanî Öncüsü (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 2002); see also Machiel Kiel, ‘Sarı Saltuk’, TDVİA 36 (2009), 147–50. For concise accounts in English, see G. Leiser, ‘Ṣarı Salṭūk Dede’, EI2; and Ahmet T. Karamustafa, ‘Early Sufism in Eastern Anatolia’, in Persian Sufism: From its Origins to Rumi, ed. Leonard Lewisohn (London: Khaniqahi Nimatullahi Publications, 1994), 190–93. 11 Ahmet T. Karamustafa, ‘Barāq Baba’, EI3 and Edith G. Ambrose, ‘Yūnus Emre’, EI2. For a recent historiographical essay on early Anatolian Sufism, see Ahmet T. Karamustafa, ‘Origins of Anatolian Sufism’, in Sufism and Sufis in Ottoman Society: Sources, Doctrine, Rituals, Turuq, Architecture, Literature and Fine Arts, Modernism, ed. Ahmet Yaşar Ocak (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 2005), 67–95. 12 Ḡ.Ḥ. Yūsofī, ‘Abū Moslem Korāsānī’, EIr and T. Yazıcı ‘Dānešmand’, EIr. On Battal, see Dedes, Battālnāme. Islamisation through the Lens of the Saltuk-name 353 in precise historical context, the narrative was likely woven around a historical core that can be roughly dated to the middle two quarters of the thirteenth century and connected to the north-west Anatolian, south-east European and Ukrainian/Crimean coastal regions of the Black Sea. This is the era, on the one hand, of the Latin Empire of Constantinople (1204–61) and Byzantine Empire of Nicaea (1204–61), followed by the restoration of Constantinople to Byzantine control during the reign of the Byzantine emperor Michael VIII Palaiologos (r. 1259–82) and, on the other hand, the vigorous expansion of the Seljuq sultanate of Rūm in central Anatolia during the first half of the century, followed by its diminution and tenuous survival under direct and indirect Mongol control during the second. It is important to note here that while the narrative is threaded around this vague historical core, it ranges widely over a much wider geographical area that takes its hero to practically all regions around the Mediterranean basin, the Horn of Africa, the Arabian Peninsula, South and Central Asia (but not Iran) as well as southern and south-central Europe, not to mention mythical subterranean and extra-terrestrial domains, notably the vast expanse around Mount Qāf. Similarly, although the narration is seemingly anchored by references to the Muslim sultan (some actual Seljuq rulers are cited by name) and the Christian caesar (normally identified not by name but simply as kaysar-i rum) as well as many other purportedly historical figures (whose names are cited, as a rule, in garbled form), the narrative includes many non-human actors, ranging from the immortal Muslim saints Khiḍr (Khaḍir), and Ilyās to jinns, demons, sorcerers, mythical beasts, fairies, angels and the Devil himself. The Saltuk-name is as much a wonder-tale as it is a heroic epic and a hagiography. In structural terms, the Saltuk-name fits easily into the general narrative framework of Islamicate popular romance, which can be identified as the ‘Heroic Cycle’, normally consisting of the following four phases: (1) the Rise of the Hero; (2) the Love Story; (3) Heroic Service; and (4) the Death of the Hero.13 While the Heroic Cycle is readily discernible in the Saltuk-name (as it is in all four of the Anatolian Turkish epic cycles mentioned earlier), it is noteworthy that the narrative places the emphasis squarely on Heroic Service and marginalises, even excludes, the Love Story altogether. Clearly, the Saltuk-name is a ‘religious- heroic cycle,’ in the sense that the protagonist is at the exclusive service of a higher, normally communal, cause (in this case ‘true religion’), as opposed to an ‘amorous-heroic cycle,’ where higher causes such as communal identity and valour in battle are subordinated to the Love Story, which dominates the plotline. In the Saltuk-name, Sarı Saltuk appears as the ultimate religious hero who possesses superior physical strength and unmatched fighting skills, exceptional intelligence and cunning, unwavering faith and profound scholarly knowledge, as well as all the supernatural powers of sainthood. As a descendant of the Prophet Muḥammad, he is of distinguished religious lineage, and his Islamic credentials are established through his special contacts with saintly figures (Khiḍr, Ilyās) and supernatural beings. He is a formidable warrior and, at

13 Both the phrase ‘Heroic Cycle’ and its outline, much shortened, is adapted from Heath, Thirsty Sword, 67–88 (see note 3). 354 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia the same time, also a picaresque, trickster-like figure (paralleling the ʿayyār in Persian cycles). He toils ceaselessly for the faith throughout Eurasia, West and South Asia, the Middle East and North Africa, but he is especially attached to the western half of the Black Sea coastal regions from Rumelia in the south to Crimea in the north, and the brunt of his zealous struggles on behalf of Islam is often, but by no means exclusively, directed towards Christians (Muslim heretics and pagans of all kinds also receive their fair share of Sarı Saltuk’s salvific touch). He propagates Islam both by the sword on the battlefield and by a peculiar and highly colourful form of one-upmanship in religious expertise, even bravura: he often disguises himself as a Christian monk or a priest, displays stunning skills in scholarly debate and ritual performance in foreign languages, then reveals his true identity to his Christian audiences (typically clergy and aristocracy) and invites them to Islam. Before going further with our analysis of Islam in the Saltuk-name, it is appropriate to convey something of the flavour of this colourful work with a selection from the beginnings of the narrative that captures the story of Sarı Saltuk’s sanctification as an 18-year-old during his first foray into Christian Rumelia. At this early stage in the narrative, Sarı Saltuk’s heroic credentials have already been marshalled. He has been hailed as a descendant of the Prophet Muḥammad both as a seyyid (Ar. sayyid; descendant of Muḥammad through his grandson Ḥusayn) and a şerif (Ar. sharīf, descendant of Muḥammad through his grandson Ḥasan), and, indeed, both of these titles are used throughout the text to refer to him. His lineage has been linked also to Battal Gazi, who functioned as the premier Muslim warrior hero for all Turkish speakers of Anatolia. His proper name has been cited as Hızır, which is a move that associates him permanently with Khiḍr the immortal prophet-saint of Islam, at whose hand Saltuk is initiated into sainthood in the episode translated below.14 The name Saltuk, which, we are told in the text itself, means ‘mighty man’, though this is almost certainly not an accurate etymology, was bestowed on him by a Christian opponent whom he defeats and converts to Islam. This ‘blond’ Saltuk (sarı literally means ‘yellow’) is now venturing for the first time into Rumelia, which is Christian territory formerly unpenetrated by Muslims.15

A Selection from the Saltuk-name

Şerif immediately headed into Rumelia.16 He arrived at a place called Migalkara,17 where there was a large church. He entered the church and greeted the clergy.18 The monks asked him, ‘Where are you coming from?’ He said, ‘I’m coming from

14 A.J. Wensinck, ‘al-Khaḍir (al-Khiḍr)’, EI2. 15 The section translated here is pages 29–36 in the Akalin edition of the Saltuk-name (see note 8). 16 The original text does not have any paragraphs. 17 Present-day Malkara in Turkey. 18 Throughout the text, the words for clergy, priest, and monk are used interchangeably. Islamisation through the Lens of the Saltuk-name 355

the town of Kilaşpol [Gelibolu?].’ The priests said, ‘Did the patriarch Filyon of the Franks cross over?’19 Şerif replied, ‘I heard that they set sail to go back.’ Suddenly, a man appeared and informed the priests that the patriarch was about to arrive. The priests told Şerif, ‘You were saying that he wasn’t coming and yet here he is – you fooled us.’

They welcomed the patriarch with gifts and presents and honoured him. The patriarch came directly to the church. The lords arrived with wine and they sat down to eat and drink. Şerif busied himself with serving them. As the infidels got totally drunk, the patriarch said, ‘Get up and close the church door so that no one can enter in on us.’ Şerif rose from his place and closed the door. The patriarch offered the wine cup in his hand to Şerif. Şerif took the cup but set it down and did not drink. The patriarch said, ‘Why don’t you drink?’ Şerif replied, ‘I have some trouble with my stomach, and I was told not to drink wine. I’m being cautious and refraining from it.’ Filyon said, ‘So be it, young man.’

After they all got drunk they fell asleep. Şerif took this opportunity to knock them out. He carried the patriarch outside the church and tied him up to a tree by the stream. When morning came, the patriarch opened his eyes and saw Şerif standing opposite him with a bare sword in his hand like Mars [the icon of the planet Mars was a standing man wielding a drawn sword]. Gathering his wits, Filyon then said, ‘Who are you to put me into this state?’ Şerif replied, ‘I’m Şerif. Proclaim the [true] faith fast or I’ll destroy you.’ The patriarch said, ‘O Şerif, for the sake of the religion you follow, I’m not an infidel. I secretly hold [that] religion. I came here only because infidels in great numbers gathered around me. I pledge not to mobilise troops against Muslims from now on.’ Şerif said, ‘No, proclaim faith in front of me so that I believe you.’ The patriarch said, ‘If I do as you say, I’ll lose my country, instead let me give you a thousand gold coins annually as tribute.’ Şerif insisted, ‘Profess in front of me so that I hear you.’ The patriarch said, ‘I’ll lose face.’ Şerif said, ‘I won’t mention it to anyone if you don’t tell anyone that I was here.’ Filyon perforce came to the [true] faith. Şerif said, ‘I’ll leave you here and go inform your army.’

He returned to the infidels and said, ‘Saltuk arrived and tied up your ruler to a tree in such-and-such-a place and he is torturing him, hurry!’ The lords rushed and found him tied up to the tree; they untied him and brought him to his post. Soon afterwards, some infidels arrived in an agitated state and announced, ‘Last night, Şerif Saltuk the magician came and knocked out the priests of the church!’ The patriarch immediately wrote a letter and sent it to the king in Istanbul, saying, ‘I saw with my own eyes that Saltuk crossed the sea to this side and penetrated inland. Don’t be heedless; he’s after you. I [myself] escaped [from him] by a trick; you should take precautions.’

19 Although he is referred as the patriarch (pap) in the text, this ‘Filyon’ appears to be a Frankish king. 356 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

When the letter reached the king, he became terribly frightened. He left Istanbul and went directly to the fortress of Endriyye.20 It is reported that close to Istanbul, in a distance of four-day travel, there was an old fortress built by Edrin son of Islam, son of the prophet Adam.21 His son Endriyye dug a moat around it. Surrounded by marshes, with a river on one side, and equipped with drawbridges, it was impenetrable. In it there was a mighty glass church built by the Roman emperor Cevher, which all infidels visited. Jesus had completed a 40-day retreat there. Infidels came to the church, made 40-day retreats, circumambulated the church and gave alms. They called this town Endriyye. It was located at the heart of Rumelia. The king entered the town without delay, closed its gates, and began to reside there.

Then the patriarch too came to the fortress of Endriyye from Migalkara with his Frankish Latin soldiers. The patriarch, accompanied by the Latin prince Mihal Miryanos, came to the fortress and joined the king. Together, they walked to that church. Şerif himself was among the Latin soldiers and arrived at the church dressed as a priest. He saw that the church was in the centre of the town, and infidels were rubbing their faces to its walls. Şerif thought [of a stratagem]. There was a renowned priest in Latin lands, and the name of this accursed cleric was Calut (Goliath).22 He flew in the sky by the use of magic, and all the infidels had faith in him. Şerif had heard of his renown. He stepped forward, kissed the hand of the king, and saying, ‘My father Calut (Christ’s blessings on him) sends you his greetings.’ He took out a letter from his head[cover] and presented it to the king. The king opened the letter and read it. Şerif read and wrote in 12 languages. The patriarch, the Latin prince and all the accursed infidels uncovered their heads. Şerif ascended to the pulpit and recited from the Gospels in a full and beautiful voice. All the infidels wept and were beside themselves [with ecstasy].

When he descended from the pulpit, they brought delicious foods and wine at the king’s orders. Şerif did not eat the food, except for some olives, nor did he drink any wine.23 He said, ‘These are harmful for one who’s observing a diet.’ The patriarch glanced at Şerif and thought he looked familiar. He said to the military commanders, ‘I’m afraid that this man might be Şerif.’ The king said, ‘This is a man of religion, do not think of him otherwise.’ Then one of the commanders rose from his place, sat down beside Şerif and said, ‘There are Latins here who know you, and they say that you are not the son of Calut.’ Şerif got agitated by his words but remained silent. That Frankish commander got up from his place, came to the patriarch, the king and the lords and said, ‘I know for sure this person is Şerif. He is an enemy of our religion.’ Then,

20 Present-day Edirne in Turkey. 21 Edirne was rebuilt by the Roman emperor Hadrian and renamed Hadrianapolis, or Adrianople. 22 The biblical Goliath appears as Jālūt (Turkish ‘Calut’) in the Qurʾan. 23 Olives are mentioned in the Qurʾan. Islamisation through the Lens of the Saltuk-name 357

the patriarch said to the king, ‘Let’s capture him by trickery.’ They prepared a sweet drink, which they drugged and placed it in front of Şerif who was seated by the pulpit. Şerif took that drugged drink from their hands and drank it. After a while he lost consciousness. They immediately tied him up, took him to prison and incarcerated him.

When he came to his senses in the morning and saw himself in chains, he sighed but did not object to his fate. Just then, the executioners arrived and took Şerif to the king’s court. The king said, ‘O Şerif Saltuk the Magician, see how my fortune has brought you to my feet! What kind of a ruse will you perform [now] that what I will do to you will be a lesson to the whole world?’ Then he ordered firewood to be piled up in front of the town and Şerif to be burnt. They were in the habit of burning those with whom they were incensed. They kept Seyyid Saltuk Şerif imprisoned for 10 days while they built a mangonel with which to throw him into the fire. They started such a [an immense] fire with the pile of wood that no one could go near it. Then they brought out Şerif, placed him into the mangonel and threw him into the blaze.

Now, it is said that across from that town there was a hill, which Hızır visited, and some Sunni jinns also frequented that place. It so happened that Hızır was seated on the hill [that day] and Minuçihr the Jinn of the Sunni jinns was on his way to pay a visit to Hızır. As he was making his way with his soldiers, he suddenly saw a human youth, all tied up, flying into a fire. He immediately swooped down, snatched him, and brought him to Hızır’s presence. He placed Şerif down in front of Hızır. When Hızır saw Şerif, he got up from his place, untied his hands and said, ‘Don’t worry, Oh Şerif, death is not decreed for you just yet. There will be no death for you so long as water doesn’t appear as fire to your eyes. This will be the sign [of your impending death], so don’t be startled [when you see it].’ Şerif, Hızır and Minuçihr the Jinn all sat down. They watched the fire burn in front of the town.

Suddenly, the prophet İlyas also arrived.24 They stepped forward, greeted him and sat back down. İlyas asked Şerif how he was. Then, Şerif said, ‘What are you [all] doing among these infidels?’ Hızır said, ‘This location is the place of Şerif in Rumelia. This is Eden on earth. It will become the hearth of the warriors for the faith. From now on for forty years, we will pray the morning prayer in this place. Whoever prays and fasts for forty days and prays the morning prayers here will become righteous; we will appear to them and they will benefit from us.’ Nowadays, they call this location the station of Hızır-İlyas. Hızır and İlyas got up to leave. Hızır bade farewell to Şerif and said to him, ‘From now on, have no fear. Open your mouth.’ Şerif opened his mouth, and Hızır placed of his own saliva in it and said, ‘From now on have no fear, and march on!’ Şerif gained as much additional strength as he already had, and he entered into [the realm

24 A.J. Wensinck and G. Vajda, ‘Ilyās’, EI2. He and Khaḍir functioned as the ultimate powers of saintly initiation in the popular imagination. 358 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

of] sainthood and charismata. The veils were lifted from his eyes and his heart [and] all secrets became apparent. Afterwards, the prophet İlyas taught Şerif the prayer of spirits –which is the greatest name of God – and Hızır taught him the prayer of the angels. Then Hızır and İlyas departed. Minuçihr the Jinn told Şerif, ‘O Şerif, do not omit me from your prayers.’ The seyyid replied, ‘Be my sibling in this world and the next.’ Minuçihr the Jinn too taught Şerif a prayer and said, ‘Whenever you say this prayer, I will come to your presence with my soldiers.’ Minuçihr the Jinn too asked permission to leave and departed.

Şerif rose from his place and went down to the town. Just before [arriving at the] town, he came to a bridge, where an infidel looked at Şerif and said, ‘This youth really looks like Saltuk whom they threw into the fire today.’ One of his companions said, ‘These Turks know magic, and they don’t burn in fire. Didn’t you hear [told] in books how many times they burnt Seyyid Battal and he came back to life and how they threw him down a well and he came back up? Since this Saltuk is his son, it is not strange [that he didn’t burn].’ Şerif stepped forward and said, ‘Young men, tell me what your conversation is about because I too would like to know.’ Those infidels said, ‘Where are you coming from?’ Şerif said, ‘I’m coming from Serbia; I’m travelling.’ They replied, ‘Young man, we were talking about how a Turkish youth named Şerif appeared around here and made much trouble for us. He spilled the blood of many Christians. It was the king’s fortune that he was captured when he came with his own feet, and today they burnt him, so he was destroyed. That’s what we were talking about.’ Şerif said, ‘May the fortune of the king increase – he has eliminated the enemies of religion.’

Then he headed towards town and directly entered the fortress. On the ramparts right above the gate they were playing drums and feasting. The news of Şerif’s burning spread everywhere. Muslims heard [the news] and grew dismayed. As Şerif entered the fort, on that side [of town] there was a church close to the gate of the fortress. Other than that large church, this was the second important church, and infidel travellers alighted there. Şerif went straight to the church and settled down. They asked him, ‘Where are you coming from?’ He said, ‘I’m Şem‘un son of the priest Rahval. I came here to debate with the priests of this place who, they say, are unmatched in knowledge, so that it will be known who is truly qualified, and [thus] I will be honoured and respected by the king, the patriarch and the princes and will acquire some property and a few coins. The lords too might give me something.’ Those priests were pleased – they went to the king and conveyed his words. The king went to the patriarch and said, ‘O Filyon, what’s happening is that the son of a priest has arrived in the lower church, and he is engaged in debating.’ The patriarch, the king and the lords rode down to the church and sat down. Şerif stood up, honoured the lords, and said, ‘O community of Christ, whoever among you is superior in knowledge should come forward so that we [may] debate and converse.’ Three hundred monks and priests stepped forward and debated. Şerif bested them all. Afterwards, he climbed the pulpit and started to preach and interpret the Islamisation through the Lens of the Saltuk-name 359

Gospels. All the infidels wept and were beside themselves [in ecstasy]. The king turned to the patriarch and said, ‘That Turk we burnt should have been alive now. He would have answered this [man] if he had debated him.’ The patriarch replied, ‘This young man too is perfect [in knowledge].’

Religion and Religious Identity

This selection from the beginning of the Saltuk-name should be sufficient to evoke the tone of the narrative, and we can now move on to an analysis of the text for conceptions of religious identity and practice, with a particular focus on Islam and ‘Muslimness’. However, it will not be lost on any reader that in the narrative world of this hagiographical wonder-tale Muslim identity is inextricably interwoven with Christian identity, so much so that no analysis of the former will be complete without a simultaneous scrutiny of the latter. We will, therefore, start with a brief consideration of Christians and Christianity. Christians fall under the general category of kafir (Ar. kāfir, literally ‘ingrate’ but normally used in the narrative to refer to all non-Muslims, thus meaning ‘infidel, unbeliever’), though they are normally identified specifically, either directly by the designation nasrani (Ar., naṣrānī) or inferentially by the use of other Christianity-specific cultural markers such as references to churches (deyr, kilise), clergy (ruhban, rahib, papaz, patrik, keşiş used interchangeably), the New Testament (İncil, Ar. Injīl), and Jesus Christ (İsa; Ar. ʿĪsā, and Mesih; Ar. Masīḥ). The focus is squarely on prominent political rulers and military figures: governors (tekfur or tefür), lords and commanders (mihal, ban), kings (kıral), emperors (kaysar-i rum, padişah)]; and high-level clergy, such as bishop or archbishop (patrik, filyon), and pope (pap). Sarı Saltuk does have frequent encounters with Christian common folk, but these tend to be very brief transitional elements in the unfolding plot line, with no substantive verbal exchange between the two parties. The narrative’s unwavering concentration on holders of political and military power as well as clergy is quite telling about the assumed goal of Sarı Saltuk’s ceaseless heroic labour, which emerges unequivocally as the establishment of the political hegemony of Islam. The Muslim hero is as adept in converting people of power and authority to the ‘right religion’ by persuasion, ruse or force, as he is in dispensing with them by the sword or the dagger when they refuse to declare allegiance to Islam. By losing their political and religious leaders to Islam through either conversion or destruction at the hands of Sarı Saltuk, Christian communities emerge as the clear losers. According to this perspective, Christianity is less a web of religious belief and practice than it is a brand of communal political affiliation. The political supremacy of Islam, as rendered evident by the establishment of Muslim rule over particular areas, is the ultimate meaning of ‘true religion’, and Christianity simply happens to be a particularly persistent and widespread yet nevertheless utterly wrong form of political allegiance. This narrowly political understanding of religion is evinced equally clearly by the narrative’s total lack of interest in matters of Christian belief and 360 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia practice. Christian doctrines of the Trinitarian or Christological variety that could be expected to generate Muslim ire and consternation are conspicuous by their absence, and Christian practice is brought into view only incidentally when Sarı Saltuk impersonates clergy, and then identified only generically, and often inaccurately, by the use of explicitly Islamic terminology such as erbain (the 40-day retreat), tavaf (circumambulation), or sadaka (charity). The only exception to this rule is baptism, which is referred to by the expression meftuz etmek but never described in any detail. Indeed, to judge by the Saltuk-name, the quintessential Christian practices would appear to be recitation of the Gospels and consumption of wine in the church! Clearly, neither the narrator nor the audience of the wonder-tale had much interest in actual Christian belief or ritual. It should be observed that this nakedly political perspective on religion is not particular to Christianity; it also extends to Islam itself, which is reduced to explicit allegiance to Sunni Islam of the Hanafi legal school (this emphasis on Hanafi Sunnism is probably the result of later Ottoman spin). The narrative is remarkably devoid of explicit references to Muslim ritual practice. Sarı Saltuk prays only very rarely, and even though he does undertake the pilgrimage, his primary activity in the holy towns of Mecca and Medina is to cleanse them of their many heretics. And the Ramadan fast is nowhere in sight. Nor is there much evidence of theological and legal doctrine, or, even more strikingly, of Muslim religious scholars or religious professionals themselves; indeed, the only such religious specialist to appear every now and then, and more often than not in a negative light, is the judge or qadi. Instead, much attention, once again of the narrowly political type, is paid to Shiʿite heretics (rafizi), who, much like the Christians, are subjected to the relentless salvational rigour of the energetic hero Sarı Saltuk. Significantly, since religion is reduced to communal political allegiance, individual human actors are not portrayed as inherently good or incorrigibly evil. Salvation is simply a matter of right belonging, and yesterday’s ‘cursed’ Christians suddenly become today’s ‘righteous’ believers simply by uttering the testimony of faith. The boundaries of the ‘right religion’ are infinitely porous, and numerous infidels cross over into Sunni Islam through these pores by the irresistible magnetic attraction generated by Sarı Saltuk. Conversion, then, is a relatively painless and cost-free undertaking, and the only habitual behaviours that a Christian has to shed in this process are wine-drinking (which is always portrayed as a most unfortunate activity with dire consequences) and consumption of pork. Converting unbelievers to Islam, in other words, is an eminently feasible and realistic goal, and Sarı Saltuk is not some misguided idealist swimming against the tide but a practical realist working towards an achievable goal. If, according to the Saltuk-name, many Christians are thus excellent Muslims in potentia, surprisingly others who live as respectable Christians actually turn out to be Muslims in esse! During his ceaseless adventures in Christian territories disguised as a Christian, Sarı Saltuk at times encounters clergy as well as political rulers who are crypto-Muslims. These figures reveal their true confessional identity to Sarı Saltuk, and while a number of them proceed to facilitate the Islamisation through the Lens of the Saltuk-name 361 hero’s achievements with, naturally, modest contributions, more commonly, they quickly ask for his help in an attempt to alleviate their own personal difficulties. The most spectacular, even shocking, instance of such encounters with crypto-Muslims takes place in Ezentimariyya, or Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome, where the Pope takes Sarı Saltuk down into a hidden chamber under the church equipped with a mihrab indicating the sacred direction and furnished with a prayer-rug, and proceeds to reveal himself to be a Muslim! Oddly, Sarı Saltuk is not at all surprised by this revelation, but he does ask why the Pope does not ‘come out’ as a Muslim. In response, the Pope provides a full explanation for the phenomenon of crypto-Muslim clergy and political rulers, according to which this practice dates back to the conquest of Syria during the time of the second caliph ʿUmar, when Emperor Heraklios and an unnamed patriarch secretly convert to Islam after witnessing angels fighting alongside Muslims in battle. Since then, it becomes customary for there to be ‘40’ crypto-Muslims among eminent Christian figures at any given time, who all know one another and whose ranks are continually replenished as some members die. This most curious belief in the existence of a company of 40 Muslims hidden in Christian garb, which was most likely an adaptation of one specific aspect (‘the 40abdal ’) of the widespread Muslim belief in a hidden hierarchy of saints, further underscores the porous nature of the perceived boundary between the two religious traditions in the Saltuk-name. More significantly, it demonstrates in strikingly clear fashion that what differentiates Christian from Muslim was, in the eyes of the audience of this wonder-tale, not, so to speak, a constitutional difference in human nature but, rather, a mere question of ‘right’ communal allegiance coupled with only a few distinctively Christian and distinctively Muslim social habits.

Holy Wars

What does the Saltuk-name reveal about Muslim perspectives on religious militancy in general and jihad and the Crusades in particular? The epic figure Sarı Saltuk is a religious hero whose life activity is directed unambiguously to the establishment of the political hegemony of Islam over all religions, and it is the underlying assumption of the narrative that Christianity perfectly mirrors Islam in this respect. Christian leaders, just as much Muslim ones, are motivated by the desire to subdue their politico-religious adversaries, and this ambition finds explicit expression at several points in the tale in the form of dialogues, group conversations or written correspondence in which Christian figures urge one another to put up a united Christian front in order to attack and defeat the ‘Muhammadans’ or the ‘Turks’ (it is noteworthy that these terms, preferred by Christians, are never used by the narrator or the ‘Muslims’ themselves). When, for instance, Sarı Saltuk falls ill with a high fever and he is temporarily rendered insane because of a drink that a Jewish physician administers to him, the ruler in Constantinople wastes no time in dispatching a letter to the pope, in which he writes, ‘Şerif has gone mad. Let us get together and attack the Turks!’ Unfortunately for the ‘Tekvur’ of Constantinople, the pope’s response to this 362 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia letter is most disconcerting. He informs the Tekvur that even though he, the pope, obviously cherishes the goal of defeating the ‘Turks’, he was told in a dream by Christ himself that the Christians will not be able to realise this goal until the appearance of a blond warrior with green eyes from beyond Russia who will inflict a crushing defeat on the Turks. This interesting episode, complete with its curious Turkish refraction of a version of the Prester John legend, certainly suggests that the narrator(s) and the audience of the Saltuk-name were only too familiar with Christian ambitions of mounting united campaigns against the Muslims; indeed, in their eyes, the only true barrier against the realisation of the ultimate goal of Christian militancy was the presence of the Muslim super hero Sarı Saltuk! Such echoes of the Crusades and Crusades-related ideas are found elsewhere in the narrative, as when, at the very beginning of the Saltuk-name, seven Frankish kings collaborate with nine of their Rūmī or Anatolian counterparts to mount an offensive against the ‘Muhammadans’ with the goal of destroying them and ‘re-stuffing their Mecca with idols’. Remarkably, here and elsewhere, when such echoes are heard, they are totally devoid of any references or allusions to Jerusalem; instead, the Christian goal steadfastly remains the mirror image of its Muslim counterpart, which is, as we have seen, the establishment of political hegemony over the rival religious community. On a related note, it could be added that the Saltuk-name evinces at least superficial familiarity with a dizzying array of European Christian ethno- political identities, ranging from Venetian, Genoese, French and German to Bosnian, Serbian, Hungarian, Wallachian, Moldavian, Czech and Russian. It is possible that a careful analysis of the way in which these Christian communal identities are depicted would yield some ‘traces’ of specific instances of Christian and Muslim militancy in the regions covered by the narrative during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Nevertheless, the use of such forms of cultural identification in the narrative appears to be highly generic and at best evocative in nature rather than descriptive, and at this stage this line of inquiry does not appear very promising.

Conclusion

In conclusion, it is appropriate to address the thorny question of audience, circulation and reception of the Saltuk-name. Who was the audience of this late example of medieval Turkish religious-heroic epic, how and in what circles did it circulate, and do we know anything about its reception? To put it in other words, whose views about religion and religious identity have we just distilled from this narrative? For the modern historian, the historical Sarı Saltuk remains a most elusive figure. He did, however, have a lively and most colourful afterlife, which comes into view from the first few decades of the fourteenth century and is traceable in narrative and documentary sources as well as material culture well into late Ottoman times. This Sarı Saltuk of historical memory, equally elusive, is a Islamisation through the Lens of the Saltuk-name 363 multifarious figure that appears with the faces of the saint, warrior, cultural chameleon and trickster, either singly or in many combinations. The Saltuk- name is a particular distillation of this potent mythic brew effected by the late- fifteenth century Ottoman compiler Ebu’l-Hayr-i Rumi at the urging of a very young Ottoman prince Cem who was born in Edirne where the memory of Sarı Saltuk was very much alive. We have no information on how this particular compilation may have been used or whether it was even presented to Cem, even though the thought that this Ottoman prince who spent more than a decade in European exile in France and Rome until his death in 1495 may have had a copy of the adventures of Sarı Saltuk with him is rather appealing. However, the first extant manuscript of the work, clearly touched-up in certain places, surfaces only in 1591. What, then, can we say about the social and cultural milieu within which the stories of Sarı Saltuk collected by Ebu’l-Hayr-i Rumi circulated? The first step of this exercise, namely peeling off the editorial work of the late sixteenth-century copyist, is perhaps also the easiest. Ottoman Turkish prose styles, not to mention the language itself, underwent considerable change between the late fifteenth and late sixteenth century, and a literary analysis of the text suggests that the copyist had made little to minimal literary intervention in the text. On the other hand, there are strong overtones of Ottoman-Safavi rivalries during the sixteenth century in the 1591 copy, and it is highly probable (at times certain) that Sarı Saltuk’s Sunni Hanafi credentials and his zeal against the heretical Shiʿa were either added or, more likely, significantly played up by the copyist. Indeed, the testimony of the narrative itself suggests not only that Sarı Saltuk harboured clear Shiʿite allegiances (he is depicted as staying in mourning for three days in the month of Muharram and conversing with the spirit of ʿAli in the well in which ʿAli is said to be buried), but also that he entered into very close spiritual associations with dervishes who could hardly be described as respectable urban Sunni Sufis (he becomes brothers with the famous qalandar Jamāl al-Dīn al-Sāwī [d. c.630/1232], at whose zāwiya, or dervish lodge, he stays for 70 days, and he is said to be a disciple of Maḥmūd-i Ḥayrānī). Unfortunately, all of the remaining steps in our exercise in the reception history of the text are more complicated and laborious. The compiler Ebu’l- Hayr-i Rumi clearly worked with existing epic and hagiographical materials, including most notably the Battal-name and the Danişmend-name as well as a series of fifteenth-century hagiographical narratives, all of which pose their own distinct challenges to the historian. Yet, there is no detour around a detailed and careful comparative analysis of all these late medieval Turkish texts. Progress on this front has been at best modest, and much remains to be done. The relevant corpus of late medieval Turkish prose works is quite large, and the analysis of these epic/hagiographical tales poses unique challenges to cultural historians ranging from palaeographical and linguistic difficulties to thematic and stylistic considerations. There are also historiographical hurdles along the way. It is noteworthy, for instance, that over the past two decades, the question of the audience for medieval Anatolian Turkish religious-heroic epic and hagiography has been addressed, if at all, almost exclusively by historians of the Ottoman empire in the context 364 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia of a particular historiographical debate about the role of ghazā (Turk. gaza), or holy war in origins of Ottoman political power.25 In this debate, there emerged a notable tendency to view the religious-heroic epics as ‘frontier narratives’. In a nutshell, the working assumption behind the use of this designation appears to be that the heroic epics in question were clearly linked with the distinctive frontier ethos present in Anatolia and the Balkans from the battle of Manzikert in 1071 to the definitive establishment of a centralised Ottoman imperial tradition around the turn of the fifteenth century. The epics, in other words, somehow reflect the attitudes and views of Turkish-speakingghāzī s (Turk. gazis), ‘warriors for the faith’, who were ubiquitous in this environment during this time span. This presumed ‘association’ between heroic epics and Turkish ghāzīs may indeed represent some progress in the attempt to answer the question of audience, yet because the exact social and cultural referents of the designation ghāzī are not easy to determine (especially since the meaning of the terms ghāzī and ghazā continuously evolved and shifted during this period), we may actually still be at square one, not able to make more than the bare assertion that such epics were popular among speakers of the Turkish vernacular! The situation with respect other historical evidence on the topic is not much better. While there is a slowly growing body of art historical, architectural and, very rarely, archaeological evidence that can and should be brought to bear upon our understanding of the textual sources for the thirteenth, fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, disciplinary and area boundaries have proven difficult to cross for individual researchers from both sides of the divide. The same applies to the documentary record for this period, which, in any case, is thin in comparison to the incomparable treasures that are found in archival collections for later Ottoman history. Under these circumstances, it seems prudent to acknowledge the difficult challenges ahead and tackle them head-on while refraining from tempting generalisations about ‘the frontier ethos’ that remains impervious to social and cultural historical scrutiny. The question of audience for the Saltuk- name, in other words, still remains unanswered.

25 For the most recent publication on this debate, with copious citations, see Linda Darling, ‘Reformulating the Gazi Narrative: When was the Ottoman State a Gazi State?’ Turcica 43 (2011): 13–53. Bibliography

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References to illustrations are indicated in italics. References to footnotes consist of the page number followed by the letter ‘n’ followed by the number of the footnote, e.g. 6n14 refers to footnote no. 14 on page 6.

Abaqa Khan 95, 324, 325 ahl al-bayt (House of the Prophet) 301, 303, Abbasid Caliphate 30–34, 42, 44, 55, 61, 78, 240 305, 306 ʿAbd al-Jabbār, 233 Ahlat 184–5, 192, 197, 199 ʿAbd al-Karīm 199, 200–201 Aḥmadiyya 316 ʿAbd al-Malik 29, 30, 37 Ahmed Fakih 295n33 ʿAbd al-Razzāq al-Ṣanʿānī 340, 342 Ahmedi 333n18 see also Abdürrezzak, Shaykh of Sanʿān Aigaiai (Ayas, or Lajazzo) 85, 123–4, 127 Abdal Musa 294–5 Akalın, A.H. 12 abdals 289–90, 295n31 Akasoy, Anna 15–16 ‘Abdishō’ Bar Brikha Akhī Aḥmad 323 Book of the Pearl (Marganitha) 185, 266, 267 Akhī Evren 317, 318–19, 322, 323, 326, 333n17, Paradise of Eden 270 334 see also Kitāb Uṣūl al-Dīn (‘Abdishō’ Bar Akhī Turk 322n47 Brikha) akhīs Abdürrezzak, Shaykh of Sanʿān 330, 339, and ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib 279, 305 340–345, 346 city-based and rural following 316, Abgar, King 102 317n24 Abū Ḥanīfa 301, 302 and conversions to Islam 8 see also Hanafi Sunnism and khānqāhs (dervish lodges) 321–3 Abū Muslim 306 in Kırşehir 334 Abū Qurra, Theodore 280 and Mevlevis 320, 321–3 Abū Yūsuf 44, 45 and Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā 319n40 Abu’l-Fath, Samaritan Chronicle 44 and Ottoman succession process 295n31 Abu’l-Qāsim (Apelchasem) 67 and reformation of urban militia 95–6 accommodation (istimalet) 9 Aksaray 212, 222, 311, 319n40, 333 Achmet, Oneirocriticon 168–70, 174 ‘Alā’ al-Dīn Kayqubād, Sultan, see Kayqubād I Ade, Guillelmus, see Guillelmus Ade (or (or ‘Alā’ al-Dīn Kayqubād), Sultan William of Adam) Alanya (Candelloro) 124 adhān (Muslim call to prayer) 44, 177, 264, Albert of Aachen 59, 66, 67, 69, 70, 71, 72 267, 274 Aleppo, serpent gate 194 ʿAdī ibn Zayd 277 Alevi-Bektashi tradition 290, 300–301 Aflākī, Shams al-Dīn Aḥmad Alevism 5n11, 288, 289, 290, 300–301, 303 on Akhī Aḥmad 323 Alexander Romance 103 on futuwwas 317n24 Alexander the Great 103 on Gurjī Khātūn (or T’amar) 219 Alexandria, Chalcedonians 24 on Hacı Bektaş Veli 295–6, 304 Alexios I Komnenos, Emperor 56, 57, 70–71, 171 Manāqib al-ʿĀrifīn 218, 304 Algar, Hamid 7n18 on Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā 310n4 ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib, Caliph 274–5, 277–80, 302–3, on Rūmī 88, 304 305–6, 363 on Rūmī and Ḥusām al-Dīn Chalabī, see also Alevism 321–2, 323 Almohads 14 Aghtamar, island of 98, 100 Almoravids 14 ahi, see akhīs Alp Arslan, Sultan Ahi Hasan 295n31 410 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

battle of Manzikert (1071) 55 Anbiyāʾ-nāma (ʿIyānī) 253n62 conquest of Ani (1064) 238 al-Andalus (Islamic Iberia) 13–16 and Kaykāʾūs I 235 Andreopoulos, Michael 171 and Malikshah 61, 69, 80 Andronicus III, Emperor 152 and Qutlumush 68 Andronikos I Komnenos, Emperor 212 and Seljuq dynastic historiography 51 Andronikos II Palaiologos, Emperor 139 Amasya 83, 317, 342 Angold, Michael 161–2, 161n64 ambiguous sanctuaries/shrines 10, 12 Ani see also shared sacred space/shrines and Anīs al-Qulūb (al-Anawī) 235, 237–8, Amid (Diyarbakır) 242, 246, 249–50 conquest of (1232) 206 conquest of by Alp Arslan (1066) 238 Mars in Scorpio (Tower 11) 207, 207 sack of (1161) 238 Ulu Baden tower 188–9, 189 Tower 5 187 Yedi Kardeş tower 188, 189, 190 Tower of Mamkhatun 183–4, 183, 186, 188 Amirdovlat’ Amasiats’i 88n71 Anīs al-Qulūb (al-Anawī) and the Armenian ʿAmr ibn Mattā, Kitāb al-Majdal 27, 271n41 Church amulets chapter overview 19 and dragon-slaying imagery 222 Christian vs. Muslim sources 233–4 hystera amulets 210, 211 overview Anania, Bishop (Armenian bishop of author 237–9 Sebasteia, anti-catholicos) 245, 249, manuscript 234–6 251 summaries of seven books 236–7 Anatolia polemic against the Armenians Christian-Muslim relations, scholarship analysis 239–42 on 7–11 historical context 246–51 from Christianity to Islam (brief history) possible sources and influences 242–6 1–3 summary and conclusion 251–3 commercial ‘Middle Gound’ in 127–32, 128 texts and translations excerpted from hinterland vs. frontier society 6–7 253–61 human geography of Central Anatolia Ankara 312–14 endowments 311, 312, 313, 316 international trade with and Armenians city walls 195–6, 195 84–5 battle of (1402) 144 languages used in Muslim Anatolia 2 Anonymous Chronicle to 1234 272 Mongol rule 1–2, 353 Anonymous History of the Ottoman Dynasty Rūm, Muslim name for 2 294n28 and Seljuqs 1, 2, 54–5 Antalya (Attaleia) 121–7, 123 see also Anatolian Islam; popular beliefs Antioch and cultural convergence in Caucasus and Chalcedonians/Melkites 24, 33 and Anatolia; rape of Anatolia Frankish principality 53, 61 Anatolian Islam and Philaretos Brachamios 81 chapter overview 19 siege/battle of (1097-98) 61–2, 69–70, 74 heterogeneous religious landscape 291 Turkish conquest of 54, 60, 74 latitudinarian religiosity 298–9 Turks/Christians relations in 72–4 socio-cultural and religious fluidity 292–8 see also Yaghi Siyan of Antioch summary and conclusion 306–7 Apelchasem (Abu’l-Qāsim) 67 Sunni-Shiʿite dichotomy and modern apologetic literature, Christian Arabic 266 scholarship apostasy, see conversions to Christianity; Cahen and challenge of binary conversions to Islam approach 290–291, 300 appropriation, see Byzantine appropriation of Köprülü paradigm, followers and the Orient critics 287–90, 300 Āqsarāʾī 310n5 Sunni- Shiʿite dichotomy vs ‘loose’ Aqsunqur of Aleppo 61, 69 Sunnism 300–306 Arabic language 2, 29, 37 al-Anawī, Qadi Burhān al-Dīn Abū Naṣr ibn Arabic poetry Manṣūr 235–6, 237–9, 246 al-Hira tradition 277 see also Anīs al-Qulūb (al-Anawī) and the daqq al-nāqūs 275–6 Armenian Church Arabic wisdom literature 277 Index 411

Arabs Armeno-Muslim relations aka Saracens 175 chapter focus 77–8 attacks against Byzantine empire 1 chapter overview 18 Banū Taghlib (Christian Arabs) 39n83 characteristics of Armenian society 78–9 as perceived in Zuqnin Chronicle 30–31 Christian-Muslim debate 99–100 Aragon, Muslim call to prayer 264 construction projects and architecure 86 archaeology cosmology and medicine 88 and study of Christians in Anatolia 17, 164 international trade with Anatolia 84–5 see also Cappadocia and 13th-century landholding patterns of Armenian elite ‘Byzantine’ art 94–5 architecture models of Armenian corporate identity and Armeno-Seljuq relations 86 101–4 as evidence of conversion to Islam 48–9 Mongol rule (1243-1335) 93–4 as historical source 17 Persian epic/romance and Armenian patronage of and property 315 literature 90–92 archival documents 17 professional bards 92–3 Arghun Khan 96 proliferation of Seljuq and Armenian Aristotle, and primacy of revealed texts 36 statelets after Manzikert 80–83 Armenia religious minorities’ secondary status Armenian Plateau 100–101 definition 77–8 Seljuq invasion of Armenian Plateau Seljuq invasion of 79–80 79–80 and Seljuqs 246–9, 251–2 Sufism and spread of Islam 88–90, 91 Turkish conquest of 54 transformation in religious dynamics Turkish raids into 53 96–9 see also Ani; Armenian Church; transition from Seljuq landlocked state to Armenians; Armeno-Muslim relations sea power 83–4 Armenian Church urban artisan class 87–8 Anatolian bishoprics 83 urban militia/confraternities and their and Church of Rome 247–8, 249, 251 reformation 95–6 persecutions of Armenian clergy in Arsacids 102 Harput (Kharberd) 96–8 Arsenes of Iqalto 245 and protection of under Arab rule 79 Arsenios, Patriarch 177 and religious images 191 art, as historical source 17 and Seljuq rulers 64 artisan class, Armenian 87–8 and taxes 96n103 Artsruni dynasty 98 see also Anīs al-Qulūb (al-Anawī) and the Artsruni, T‘ovma 103 Armenian Church Artuqids 1, 56, 81, 188, 206–7, 266 Armenian language, use of in rural al-Ashraf Khalīl, Sultan 96, 103 communities 2 al-Ashraf Mūsā, Sultan 192, 199, 200–201, 202, Armenian literature, influence of Persian 206 epic/romance on 90–92 Asia Minor Armenians Crusader reports on Turkish lordships in Anatolia 1 64–75 Armenian diaspora 78 see also Anatolia, Maritime Asia Minor Byzantine-Armenian aristocrats under Aşık Ali Paşa 296–7 Turkish rule 60–64 Garib-name 297–8, 302–3, 334 in Cappadocia 80, 81 Aşıkpaşazade 157–8, 295–6, 295n31, 304–5 conversions to Islam 99–110 astrolabes 199, 200–201 and endowment deeds 313 astrology in Georgia 80, 82 and Christianity/Islam 197–9, 212–13 Hamidian massacres (1895) 98 coin with Sagittarius 202, 206 intermarriage between Armenians and and diplomacy 202, 206 Turks 96 hystera amulets 210, 211 see also Anīs al-Qulūb (al-Anawī) and and icons 210–12 the Armenian Church; Armenia; instruments 199, 200–201 Armenian Church; Armeno-Muslim Jazirat ibn ʿUmar bridge 207, 208 relations Mars in Scorpio (Amid, Tower 11) 207, 207 412 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

and military battles/defence structures Barsegh Pahlavouni 64 206–7 Barsel Anets’i, catholicos 96n103 and popular beliefs 191–2 Basiani (Basean), battle of (1201) 246 Seljuq mirror 207–9, 209 Basilica of St John (Ephesus or Ayasuluk) 149, talismanic bowls 209–10, 210 150, 152 treatises and other magical texts 202, Basilikos, Basileios 176 203–5 bathhouses, women-only 114 see also Daqāʾiq al-Ḥaqāʾiq Battal Gazi 298, 352, 354 astronomy, instruments 199 Battal-name 301, 305, 351, 363 Athanasios, Patriarch 177 Baybars, Sultan 95 Athena, statue of (Constantinople) 250 Bayezid I, Sultan 128, 143 Attaleia (Antalya) 121–7, 123 Bayram, Mikâil 319, 319n40, 322–3, 323n48 Attaleiates, Michael 55 Beihammer, Alexander D. 17, 18, 51 ʿAṭṭār, Farīd al-Dīn Muḥammad ibn Ibrāhīm Bektashis Nishābūrī 19, 90, 236 Alevi-Bektashi tradition 290, 300–301 see also Manṭiq al-Ṭayr (ʿAṭṭār) Algar on Mélikoff’s views on 7n18 awliyāʾ (or evliya) 10, 297 and Baba’i rebellion 317 Ayas (Aigaiai, or Lajazzo) 85, 123–4, 127 and dervish typology 295 Ayasuluk, see Ephesus (Ayasuluk, today Hasluck on 10 Selçuk) in Kırşehir 334 Aydınids (or Aydınoğlu) 2, 148–9, 152, 153, 162 large following 316 Aydınoğlu Mübariz al-Din Mehmed 148–9 and Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā 320 ʿAydouli communities 37 Qizilbash-Bektashi communities 305 ʿAyn al-Dawla (ʿEyn al-Dowla) 218-219, 221 Vryonis on 8 Ayyubids 185, 192, 206, 247, 266 see also Hacı Bektaş Veli; Mevlevi-Bektahi rivalries and Islamisation of public Baba Ilyās 292n15, 297, 300, 302–3, 304, 317, space 353 bells (in churches) 268–9 Baba Isḥāq 292–3, 302 Bēnē Boghusaks 82 Babaʾi uprising (1239) 292n15, 297, 317 Benjamin of Tudela 202 Babaʾis 305, 333 Bertaina, David 278n78 Babinger, Franz 6n14 beyliks (Turkish principalities) 1–2, 56, 66 al-Badawī, Aḥmad 315n18 Bible Badawiyya 315n18 Abbasid translations 270n37 Badr al-Dīn Luʾluʾ 195 Erznka Bible 92 Badr al-Jamālī community 82 and Grigor Magistros 234 Baghdad and Kostandin Erznkats’i 253 Abbasid revolution and foundation of and Oneirocriticon (Achmet) 169 33, 34 Bilqīs, Queen of Sheba 335 Bāb al-Ṭalsim (Talisman Gate) 194–5, 194 birds Christians’ social position in 36 Hoopoe bird 331–2, 335–6, 338n52, Mongol sack of (1258) 93 340–341 Bagratid princes 79, 94, 102 in Islamic literature 334–5 Bahrāmshāh 90 Birgi (Pyrgion) 149, 154, 155, 155n36 al-Baḥrānī, Maytham ibn ʿAlī 278 Bitlis Balak of Saruj 72 Armenians and relations with the Kurdish Balduk 72 Rusaki dynasty of 101 Baldwin I of Edessa (born Baldwin of Kurdish Rusaki dynasty of 100 Boulogne) 72, 102 region in eastern Anatolia 110n98, 87 Balivet, Michel 11 Book of Fixed Stars (al-Sufi) 202 Banu Israʾil 236 Book of Questions (Grigor Tat‘ewats’i) 100 Banu Taghlib (Christian Arabs) 39n83 Book of Syntipas, The 170–171 Bar Hebraeus, Gregory John 198, 293, 302 Book of the Cave of Treasures 272 Barak Baba 296, 305n83, 352 Book of the Fathers (Simon bar Ṣabbāʿē) 273 bards 92–3 Book of the Pearl/Marganitha (‘Abdishō’ Bar Barkan, Ömer Lüfti 8–9 Brikha) 185, 266, 267 Barkey, Karen 120–121 Brett, Michael 42 Barlaam and Ioasaph 170–171 Bryer, Anthony 108 Index 413

Buck, Christopher 272 calipha apostolicus 70 Buddhism caliphate and Chinggisids 310 absence of upper level government 27 and Ghazan’s rule 263n3 centralisation of state 29 and Islamisation of Sind 49 and Christian confessions 35–6 see also Gautama Buddha Christians as citizens of the 31–4 Bulliet, Richard 48 discriminatory laws against Christians Burke, Peter 168 43–5 Bursa 83, 158n51, 295, 295n31 as perceived by Christians 30–31 Byzantine appropriation of the Orient victory over Persian and Roman empires chapter overview 18–19 23 definitions and key issues 167–8 call to prayer, see Christian call to prayer Islam in Byzantine territory 178–81 (clapper); Muslim call to prayer Islamic vs. Oriental 167–8, 173–7 (adhān) modes of transfer Campbell, Elizabeth 46 analysis of Oneirocriticon (Achmet) Candelloro (or Alanya) 124 168–70 Candia (Venetian Crete) complementing transfer 169–70, 171, slave trade 136, 138–42, 141, 142, 143–4, 173 346 dissimilating transfer 169, 171, 173, trade 124, 127, 128–9, 131–2 178 Cappadocia18, 52, 60, 64, 136, 331, 333, 334n23 transplanting transfer 169, 172, 173 Armenian community in 79, 80, 81 world of material objects 173 Bagratid monarchs 94 writings influenced by Oriental Cappadocia and 13th-century ‘Byzantine’ art literature 170–173 chapter overview 19 summary and conclusion 181–2 cultural/historical background 215–17 Byzantine art Greek painters in Muslim textual sources and Islamic motifs 173 217–21 see also Cappadocia and 13th-century Greek-speaking Christian communities ‘Byzantine’ art 215-216, 229 Byzantine empire manuscript and archaeological evidence debate on 11th-century crisis 52–3 222–9 as defender of Christian faith 56 Church of Saint George wall painting Islam within Byzantine territory 178–82 230 loss of Anatolian heartland to Turks 1 Church of Stratelates, Cappadocia as perceived in Chronicle of Zuqnin 30 wall painting 222, 225, 226, 227, reliance on Anatolia for revenue 1 227, 228, 229 Rhomaioi or ‘Romans’ 2 Karşı Kilise (or Church of St John in Byzantine literature on Islam 178 Gülşehir) wall painting 230 Byzantine material culture, and transfer from Konya Palace stucco relief 222, 224 Orient 173 Shamhurash, dragon-slaying angel Byzantine occult works, and information (Daqāʾiq al-Ḥaqāʾiq) 222, 223, 225 transfer from Orient 172 map of Byzantine Cappadocia 224 Byzantine scientific works, and information perceptions of Greek community 229, 231 transfer from Orient 172–3 cartography, and network analysis 119 Castro, Américo 14 Cahen, Claude Catalan Company 139, 150 English versions of La Turquie pré-ottomane Caucasus, see popular beliefs and cultural 1n1 convergence in Caucasus and on ghāzī spirit 54n10 Anatolia on Hekim Han caravanserai 86 Cem, Prince 363 on Het‘um 83 Central Asia, Christian monasteries in 28 on intermarriages (Christian Greek/ Chalcedonians (or Melkites) 24, 33–4, 35, 244 Muslim Turk) 110–111 Charatikes 57, 58 on Shiʿite/Sunni interaction 290, 300 China, and Nestorian church (or Church of the on urban artisan class 87 East) 35 on Vryonis’s Greek perspective 147 Chinggisids 310, 324–5 Calder, Norman 299 Chomatenos, Demetrios 179–80 414 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Choniates, Niketas 56, 196 Christian merchants, walled enclosures Christian Arabic apologetic literature 266 for 125–6, 130 Christian call to prayer (clapper) Christian-Muslim intermarriages and chapter overview 19 Qurʾan 45–6 Ghazan and persecution of non-Muslims Christian-Muslim relations, scholarship 263–4 on 7–11 Kitāb Uṣūl al-Dīn (‘Abdishō’ Bar Brikha) Christian slaves 143, 150–151, 153 clapper and cultural background Christian women, Muslims› perception 264–9 of 47 clapper as explained in text 270–274 and convivencia (Spain) 13–16 clapper in Arabic poetry and Islamic in Gülşehir 331, 346 wisdom literature 274–9 in Jazira 266–7 summary and conclusion 279–80 Lake Beyşehir Christians 17n68 text of ‘On the Clapper’ extract under Mamluk rule 153 280–281 Mozarabic Christians 16, 269 translation of ‘On the Clapper’ extract in Palestine 28 282–4 in Saltuk-name 233 Christian views of Islam and Seljuq rule 17–18 chapter overview 18 study of and archaeology 17, 164 chapter sources and main issues 51–3 see also Christian call to prayer (clapper); crusader reports on Turkish lordships in Christian views of Islam; Christianity; Asia Minor 64–75 Christians in Middle East (600-1000); religious identities and early instances of dhimmīs conversion 53–60 Christians in Middle East (600-1000) role of Byzantine-Armenian aristocrats chapter overview 17–18 under Turkish rule 60–64 chapter summary 23 summary and conclusion 75–6 Christian confessions in 6th century 24–6 Christianity Christians and effects of Islamic conquest al-Anawī’s disdain for 239 26–9 and astrology 197–9, 212–13 Christians and regional identity 30–31 Christian-Muslim debate and Armenia Christians as citizens of the caliphate 99–100 31–4 coexistence with Islam 2–3, 12 conversions dominance of up to mid-11th century 1 challenge of quantification 47–50 and Ilkhanid rule 97 and marriage 45–7 missionary activity during Sasanian and shaming and discrimination 43–5 empire 27–8 and shared culture 36–8 monasteries, as perceived by Muslims and taxation 38–42 46–7 rise of Iraq 34–6 monasteries, building of during Sasanian Chronicle of Zuqnin 30–2, 37 empire 27–8 chronicles respect for in Quran 49–50 Latin Crusader chronicles 53 in Saltuk-name 359–62 Muslim chronicles 3, 17, 55 superseded by Islam 2 patriarchal chronicles 35 and trade with ‘infidels’ 128–30 Syriac local chronicles 30 see also Armenian Church; Bible; Christian Chronique de Michel le Syrien 25n7 call to prayer (clapper); Christian see also Michael the Syrian, Patriarch views of Islam; Christians; Christians church bells 268–9 in Middle East (600-1000); Church church clappers, see clappers of Rome; crusades; Greek Orthodox Church Mary (in Edessa) 48–9 Church; Nestorian church (or Church Church of Rome, and Armenian Church 247–8, of the East); Orthodox Christianity; 249, 251 Papacy; syncretism Church of Saint George (in Belisırma, Christians Cappadocia), wall painting 230 as agents of apostasy in Quran 330 Church of St John (or Karşı Kilisesi, in in Antioch 72–4 Gülşehir, Cappadocia) 346 in Baghdad 36 Church of Stratelates (in Cappadocia), wall Christian merchants and crusaders 129 painting 222, 225, 226, 227, 227, 228, 229 Index 415

Church of the East (or Nestorian church), see and Islamisation of Anatolia 2 Nestorian church (or Church of the of Jews 37n74 East) and marriage 45–7 Cilicia, principality/kingdom of of Mongols 2–3, 263, 267 and Baybars’ campaigns 95 in Nicaea under Orhan 157–60 and Erznka Bible 92 and Patriarchate of Constantinople 164 and Mamluks 103 of Philaretos Brachamios 62, 81 and Mongol rule 93 of Ṣafwān ibn Umayyad 338–40 and proliferation of Armenian statelets in Saltuk-name 360 81, 82–3 and shaming and discrimination 43–5 and Rubenid dynasty, demise of 103 and shared culture 36–8 and Seljuqs 247–9, 251–2 study of and archaeology 17 and Timurtash 97 and Sufism 11 and trade 85 and syncretism 12 wine production in 87 and taxation 38–42 city walls, see defence walls and Turkokratia 8 clappers 264, 265–6, 267–8, 270–274 and Zuqnin Chronicle 31 see also Christian call to prayer (clapper) convivencia 13–16 coastal zones Çorum 112, 317 and interfaith interaction 117–21 cosmology, and Armenian community 88 see also Maritime Asia Minor cosmopolitanism, on ships 132–4, 135 coins Council of Tarsus (1197) 249 issued by Kaykhusraw II 212 Council of Vienna (1309) 264 with Sagittarius 202, 206 Cowe, S. Peter 17, 18, 19, 77 with shahāda 29 Crete, see Candia (Venetian Crete) commerce, see Maritime Asia Minor; trade crosses, on defence walls 186, 187 Comnena, Anna, see Komnene, Anna Crusades complementing transfer 169–70, 171, 173 and Armenia 247 confraternities 95–6 and church bells 268–9 Conradus de Fabaria 206 crusader reports on Turkish lordships in Constable, Olivia Remie 264 Asia Minor 64–75 Constantine the Great 186, 248 First Crusade 64, 68, 69, 75 Constantine V, Emperor 30 Fourth Crusade 196, 250 Constantinople and jihad 56 1162 earthquake 177 Latin Crusader chronicles 53 and Chalcedonians 24 People’s Crusade 58, 64 commercial activity 127 in Saltuk-name 361–2 conquest of by Ottomans (1453) 1 and trade with ‘infidels’ 128–30 fall of (1204) 196, 250 crypto-Islam 180, 361 and Jacobites 24 ‘cultural translation’ concept 168 mosques for foreign subjects 178–9 Cyprus Patriarchate of Constantinople 148, 154, and Antalya (Attaleia) 122 158–9, 163–4, 175 Famagusta and slave slave 136–8, 137, 138 statue of Athena 196 and Nestorian church 35 conversions to Christianity 38n78, 179, 246 Cyrus of Harran 31 of Abdürrezzak 330, 344–5 of King Trdat 243 Damascus conversions to Islam construction of Islamic monuments 29 of Armenians 99–100 decrease in number of churches after and artisan guilds 87n64 conquest 49 in Byzantine territory 179–80 and Nestorian church 35 and challenge of quantification 47–50 Daniel of Mardin (or Daniel al-Suryānī al- and culture pressure 17 Mardīnī) 267 and dervish orders 8–9, 11 Danishmendids 1, 81, 215 early examples of 57–60 Danişmend Gazi 63, 352 of ʿAyn al-Dawla (Eyn al-Dowla) 218–19 Danişmend-name 57–8, 81, 233, 298, 305, 351, of Heraklios, Emperor 361 363 of Het‘um (possibly) 83 Daqāʾiq al-Ḥaqāʾiq 212 416 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Shamhurash, dragon-slaying angel 222, Di Segni, L. 28n25 223, 225, 231 Digenes Akrites 120, 171–2, 176–7 daqq al-nāqūs (Arabic poetry) 275–6 Dionysius bar Ṣalībī 273–4, 273n54 Dar al-Islām Dionysius of Tel-Mahre 25n7 and Armenia 78 diplomacy, and astrology 202, 206 and Gülşehri’s story of Ṣafwān 340 Directorum ad passagium faciendum 144–5 dār al-ḍiyāfaʾ (hostel), in Sivas 114 discriminatory laws, and conversions to Islam dār al-shifāʾ (hospital), in Sivas 239 43–5 dār al-siyāda (hostel for sayyids) 279, 279n84 dissimilating adaptation 171, 176 dār al-ṣulaḥāʾ (dervish lodge), in Kırşehir 311 dissimilating transfer 169, 171, 173, 178 Daredevils of Sasun (Sasna Tsṙer) 91 Ḍiyāʾ al-Dīn Wazīr 321, 323, 324 Darwinianism, and modernist Diyarbakır, see Amid (Diyarbakır) conceptualisation of religion 4 Dorylaion (Eskişehir), battle of (1097) 65–6 Daryaee, T. 28n26 Doukas, Michael (historian) 157 David the Builder, King of Georgia 244 Doumerc, Bernard 133 Ḍayfa Khātūn, Queen 108 dragons 184, 188, 194–5, 212, 222, 223, 225, Daylam, Christian monateries 28 229 al-Daylamī, Abū Muḥammad 278n78 Duqaq of Damascus 69 Dede Korkut 233 Durkheim, Émile 4, 5 defence walls dust miracle 151, 153 Amid, Ulu Baden tower 188–9, 189 dynastic marriages 107–9, 111 Amid, Yedi Kardeş tower 188, 189, 190 Dyophysite Christology 24, 25 Ani, Tower 5 187 Ani, Tower of Mamkhatun 183–4, 183, Eastmond, Antony 17, 19, 183 186, 188 Ebu Müslim 352 Ankara city walls 195–6, 195 Ebu Müslim-name 301, 305 Baghdad, Bāb al-Ṭalsim (Talisman Gate) Ebu’l-Hayr-i Rumi 352, 363 194–5, 194 Edessa (Urfa) crosses 186, 187 conflicts with Artuqids 56 figural symbols/images 188–92, 194–7 ‘Elegy on Edessa’ (Nerses Shnorhali) 102 inscriptions 186, 188–91, 196 Frankish principality 53, 61 Kars 188 siege of (1144) 81 Konya, gates of 192, 193, 195 Turkish conquest of 54, 60, 62 dehqāns 28 Egypt dervishes and Badr al-Jamālī 82 Abdal Musa 294–5 and caliphate 35 abdals 289–90, 295n31 Jacobites (or Miaphysites) 24, 35 and ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib 305 Mamluks, rise of 93 Baba Isḥāq 292–3 taxation and anti-government revolts 42 dervish typology 294–5 taxation and land flight 40 and endowment deeds 315–16, 319, 324 taxation of Christian communities 27, Geyikli Baba 294 39n81 Hacı Bektaş Veli 295–6 El-Rouayheb, Khaled 47n126 and Islamic law 298–9 Elbistan, battle of (1277) 95 and John VI Kantakouzenos 180–181 Elias II ibn al-Muqlī, Kitāb Uṣūl al-Dīn 266n13 Sarı Saltuk 296, 363 Elvan Çelebi 302, 304 and spread of Islam 8–9, 11 endowment deeds (waqfiyyas) terms referring to 292 as historical source 17, 107, 233 and urban Sunni vs rural practices 10 and Islamisation of public space 309–16, DeWeese, Devin 322 311, 319, 324–7 dhimmīs and women as property owners 112–16 discrimination against 43–5 see also Mevlevi-Bektahi rivalries and and intermarriage 46–7 Islamisation of public space; property legal status of 156 Enveri 149n8 and millet system 104 Ephesus (Efes, in vicinity of Ayasuluk, today protection of the rights of 34 Selçuk) second-class position of 8, 151n17 after battle of Ankara (1402) 144 and taxation 38–40, 42 commercial hub 127 Index 417

commercial links with Antalya and gaza (or ghazā, ghazw) 364 Alanya 124 see also ghāzīs commercial links with Venice 126, 155, 156 Gelder, Geert Jan van 276, 276n68 debate on Greek Orthodox Church under Genoese trade 117, 118, 126, 127, 129 Muslim Turks 147–8 slave trade 136–7, 143 Greek Orthodox community of 148–57, geomancy 212 162–4 Georgia slave trade 140 and Anatolian Seljuqs 246 Ephrem the Syrian 272 and Armenian aristocratic houses 82 Epstein, Steven A. 118n4, 130 Armenian community in 80, 82 erazahan’ (‘explanation of dreams’) 202 Georgian anti-Armenian polemics 244 Erkaynabazuk family 82, 98 sack of Ani (1161) 238 Erzincan (Erznka) Georgians, in Anatolia 1 and Armeno-Ilkhan relations 94 Germanikeia (Maraş) 60, 62, 81, 83 and Armeno-Persian cross-cultural Germiyanids 149 contacts 90–92 Gesta Francorum 65–6, 67, 70, 74 reformation of 95–6 Geyikli Baba 294, 305n83 under Sargis’ jurisdiction 95, 96 ghazā (or gaza) 364 Erznka Bible 92 al-Ghazālī, Abū Ḥāmid Muḥammad 89, 342 Eskişehir 310, 312, 315 see also Dorylaion al-Ghazālī, Aḥmad, Risālat al-Ṭayr 334 Espagne, Michel 168 Ghazan 97, 263–4, 267, 268, 279 Eulogius of Cordoba 269n30 Ghazi Çelebi 294 Eusebius 103 ghāzīs 6–7, 54, 305, 364 Euthymios Hagioreites 170–171 ghazw 233 evliya (or awliyāʾ) 10, 297 Ghiyāth al-Dīn Kaykhusraw III, see exotic complementation 170, 171, 173, 176 Kaykhusraw III, Ghiyāth al-Dīn, ʿEyn al-Dowla see ʿAyn al-Dawla Sultan Ghiyāth al-Dīn, Sultan, see Kaykhusraw I, Fakhr al-Dīn ʿAlī 315 Ghiyāth al-Dīn, Sultan Famagusta, Cyprus, and slave trade 136–8, Gnosticism, and Sufism 89 137, 138 Goitein, S. 37n74, 39n81 Fatimids 54, 82 Goldziher, Ignaz 4 Fiey, Jean-Maurice 36 Grabar, Oleg 173 fiqh 233, 234 Greater Armenia 78 Firdawsī, Shāh-nāma 90, 234, 236 Greater Syria First Crusade 64, 68, 69, 75 Mongols vs Mamluks 93 Fleet, Kate 127 Muslim Armenian factions 82 Flood, Finbarr B. 120 Greek language Foss, Clive 151n21, 153, 159n55 for commerce and diplomacy 130 Foucault, Michel 121, 132 in rural communities 2 Fourth Crusade 196, 250 Greek Orthodox Church, narrative of decline Frankish principalities 53, 61 147–8, 156, 162–3, 164 Frederick II, Emperor 202, 206 Greek Orthodox communities (Ephesus and frontier ethos/narratives 364 Nicea) frontier society, vs hinterland 6–7 chapter overview 18 Fulcher of Chartres 66–7, 69–70 debate on Orthodox Church under al-Futūḥāt al-Makkiyya/The Meccan Illuminations Muslim Turks 147–8 (Ibn al-ʿArabī) 217 Ephesus 148–57, 162–4 futuwwa 87n64, 88, 95–6, 279, 305, 317n24, Nicaea 157–64 323n48 Greeks in Anatolia 1, 16 Gabriel of Melitene 63 dynastic intermarriage between Turks Gabriel of Qatar 273n53 and Greeks 108 Gagik I, King 103 Greek communities of Cappadocia 216–17, Galen, see Pseudo-Galen 229, 231 Gandzaketsi, Kirakos 194, 294 Greek dignitaries and Seljuq rulers 61 Garib-name (Aşık Ali Paşa) 297–8, 302–3, 334 Greek Orthodox Christians and Gautama Buddha 170 endowment deeds 313 418 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Greek painters in Seljuq Anatolia 217–21 Hatiboğlu 303, 333n18 Greek slaves 139–41 Ḥaydariyya 316 Islamisation and Turkification of 82–3 Hekim Han caravanserai 86 see also Greek Orthodox communities Heraklios, Emperor 25–6, 361 (Ephesus and Nicea) heresy, and modernist discourses on religion Gregoras, Nicephoros 157, 180 5 Gregory Palamas 160–161, 234 heterodoxy Gregory the Illuminator, Saint 102, 243, 246, and Alevism 300 251 and Christian-Muslim relations 11 Griffith, Sydney H. 36, 43, 266n13, 270 and Köprülü paradigm 6, 288–9, 290–291, Grigor, Bishop 97 299 Grigor Magistros 99 and modernist discourses on religion 5 Magnalia Dei 234n3, 253 heterotopia, ship as 121, 132, 134 Grigor Tat‘ewats’i, Book of Questions 100 Het’um 83 Gubba Baraya monastery 33n51 Het‘umids 82 Guillaume de Jerphanion 225 al-Ḥīra, Arabic poetry of 277 Guillelmus Ade (or William of Adam) 129, 143 Historical Geographical Information Systems Gülşehri, on Akhī Evren 319n40 (HGIS) 119 Gülşehri’s adaptation of Manṭiq al-Ṭayr historical sources 3, 16–17, 51, 53, 233–4 chapter overview 19 historiography, see scholarship general comparison with ʿAṭṭār’s version ‘History of the Birth and Upbringing of the 329–31 anti-Christ Mahamad and His Reign’ identity of poet 331–4 244 legend of the Sīmurgh, kufr and idol Hızır, the prophet, see Khiḍr, the prophet worship 334–8 Hızır of Aydın 130, 132, 149, 150, 152–3, 155 Muḥammad and Ṣafwān’s conversion to Hodgson, Marshall G.S. 167n1, 278 Islam 338–40 holy riders 222, 223–4, 225, 226–8, 227, 229, 230, Shaykh of Sanʿān (Abdürrezzak) story 231 340–345 holy wars, see crusades; ghazā (or gaza); ghāzīs; summary and conclusion 346–7 jihad Gülşehir, Cappadocian town 331, 333, 333n18 homosexuality Christian community 346 and Muslim perception of Christian wall painting 230 monasteries 47 Gurjī Khātūn (or T’amar) 211, 219, 220, 221 and slaves in Anatolian family 116 gusan (bard) 92 Hoopoe bird 331–2, 335–6, 338n52, 340–341 Hopwood, Keith 107–8, 109 Hacı Bektaş Veli Hospitallers, see Knights Hospitallers and Baba Ilyās 302, 303 House of the Prophet (ahl al-bayt) 301, 303, dervish 295–6 305, 306 doctrinal orientations of 303–5 Hromgla 96, 243 influence of 309 Hülegü 266 Makalat 298, 303, 304 Hülegüids 324–5 Mélikoff on 300 Humphreys, Stephen R. 49, 266 and Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā 317–18, 320, 326 Ḥusām al-Dīn Chalabī, 309, 320n41, 321–2, in Velayet-name 11, 298, 303–4 322n47, 323 see also Bektashis Ḥusayn ibn ʿAlī 306 Hacıbektaş (town) 298, 317, 333 hydromancy 212 Hagarene 175, 176 hystera amulets 210, 211 Hagia Sophia (Nicaea) 158 al-Ḥajjāj 41 Ibn Abī al-Ḥadīd 278 Hamidian massacres (1895) 98 Ibn al-ʿArabī, Muḥammad 16, 267, 316n22 Hanafi Sunnism 299, 301, 302, 360, 363 al-Futūḥāt al-Makkiyya (The Meccan al-Ḥarīrī, Abū Muḥammad al-Qāsim 270 Illuminations) 217 Harput (Kharberd), persecutions of Armenian Ibn al-Athīr 227n23 clergy 96–8 Ibn ʿAsākir 49 Harran, city walls 192 Ibn Baṭṭūṭa hashish consumption 293–4 on Alanya 124n37 Hasluck, Frederick W. 7–8, 9–11, 16 on Antalya 125, 127 Index 419

and concept of shipboard society 132 and Seljuq empire 1 on dervishes 299 shahregān 27n22, 28, 29, 38 on dhimmīs 151n17 and Zoroastrian religion 28 on Ephesus 150–151 İsa of Aydın 155, 157 on hashish consumption 293–4 Isḥāq, see Baba Isḥāq on Muslims’ perception of Christian Isho’yahb II 26 women 294 Iskandar (Qaraquyunlu)102 on Nicaea 158 Islam on Rifāʿiyya 315n18, 316–17 in 7th cen tury 28 on Sarı Saltuk 296 and astrology 197–9, 212–13 and slaves 139n93, 150 Byzantine literature on 178 on Sunni vs Shi’a Islam 301 in Byzantine territory 178–81 on Umur 129n55 Christian-Muslim debate and Armenia Ibn Bībī 108, 185, 236, 252, 292, 293, 302 99–100 Ibn Ḥawqal 266 Christianity superseded by 2 Ibn Isḥāq, Sīrat Rasūl Allāh 46 coexistence with Christianity 2–3, 12 Ibn Manẓūr, Muḥammad ibn Mukarram 269 crypto-Islam 180, 361 Ibn Sa‘ad 169n6 and dervish orders 8–9, 11, 298–9 Ibn Shaddād 192 ‘high’ vs. ‘low’ Islam 6, 7n18, 288 Ibn Sīnā 175 and inter-faith marriage 109 Risālat al-Ṭayr 334 and Köprülü paradigm 5–6, 288 Ibn Sīrīn 169 in Life of Timothy of Kakushta 34 Ibn Ukhuwwa 267 and metadoxy 7 Ibtidā-nāma (Sulṭān Walad) 309 and Nestorian church 239–40 Iconoclasm 178 and orthodoxy vs heterodoxy 288–9, icons 191, 210–212 290–291, 299 identities, as constructs of communication and paganism 5–6, 178 120 and religious images 191 idol worship 30n37, 343, 346 in Saltuk-name 360–2 and kufr (unbelief) 336–8, 339, 346 and Seljuqs 6n14, 68 Ildegüzids 185 urban vs. rural practices 10 Ilkhanid rule vernacular Islam vs Sufism 289–90 and ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib 279 and wine production/sale 87–8 and Armenia 103 see also Anatolian Islam; Christian views and Baybars 95 of Islam; convivencia; Dar al-Islām; and Christianity 97 dervishes; idol worship; Islamisation; and endowment deeds 310 jihad; kufr (unbelief); Muslims; and Ghazan 263, 267, 268 Shiʿa Islam; Sufism; Sunni Islam; and Mamluks 93–4 syncretism and trade 85 Islamic, vs. Oriental 167–8, 173–7 see also Mongols Islamic Iberia (al-Andalus) 13–16 Ilyās, see Baba Ilyās Islamic literature images, and religions 191 metaphorical use of birds in 334–5 İnalcık, Halil 9n26, 319 see also Hoopoe bird intermarriages 18, 45–6, 96, 108, 109–11 Islamisation interpretative communities, concept of 11n37 and endowment deeds 313 Io, Zeus and Io myth 107 of Greeks 82–3 Iran of the Ottoman Balkans and Sarı Saltuk and caliphate 35 352 mass conversions to Islam 48 and Turkification 54 and Nestorian church 35 see also Mevlevi-Bektahi rivalries and and Seljuq empire 1 Islamisation of public space; Saltuk- and Zoroastrian religion 28 name and Islamisation Iraq Ismaʿīl ibn Yaqutī 61 and caliphate 35 Ismaʿili Shiʿism 289, 300, 306 Christian monasteries 27–8 Isrāʾīliyyāt (stories of prophets of ancient Christians under the caliphate 32–3 Israel) 235–6, 237 rise of 34–6 istimalet (accommodation) 9 420 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Italian trade, see Genoese trade; Venetian trade John of Damascus 178 Iviron monastery 177 John II Komnenos, Emperor 56 ʿIyānī, Anbiyā-nāma 253n62 John VI Kantakouzenos, Emperor 180–181 Izla monastery 28 John XI Bekkos, Patriarch 175–6, 177 ʿIzz al-Dīn Kaykāʾūs I, see Kaykāʾūs I, ʿIzz al- John XIV Kalekas 158–9, 161n64 Dīn, Sultan Joscelin of Edessa (Urfa) 81 ʿIzz al-Dīn Kaykāʾūs II, see Kaykāʾūs II, ʿIzz Judaism al-Dīn, Sultan respect for in Qurʾan 49–50 see also Jews Jacob Baradeus 24 Juwaynī 95 Jacob of Edessa 273 Jacob of Serugh 273 Kafadar, Cemal 7, 299 Jacobites (or Miaphysites) 24–5, 27n18, 30, kalām 36 33n51, 35, 266, 267 Kaldellis, Anthony 147 Jacobs, A. 50n140 Kalenderis (or Qalandariyya) 6, 316, 333 Jalāl al-Dīn Qayṣar 248–9, 252 Kalīla wa Dimna 170–171 Jalāl al-Dīn Khwārazmshāh 197 Kaluyan-e Naqqash (or Kaloioannes) 218–19 Jalāl al-Dīn Qarāṭay 315 al-Kāmil 202, 206 Jalāyirids 325 Karakaya-Stump, Ayfer 5n11 Jamāl ad-Dīn al-Sāwī 363 Karamanids 2 Jazira 184, 192, 266–7 Karamustafa, Ahmet T. 7n18, 17, 19–20, Jazirat ibn ʿUmar (today Cizre), astrological 289–90, 316, 349 imagery on bridge 207, 208 Karapet Bałishets’i 104 Jerusalem Karbala, battle of 300, 305 Chalcedonians/Melkites 24, 33 Kars, defence walls of 188 conquest of (1187) 158n51 Karşı Kilise (or, Church of St John, in Gülşehir) construction of Islamic monuments 29 230, 346 Greek Orthodox community and absence Kaygusuz Abdal 289 of patriarch 163 Kaykāʾūs I, 'Izz al-Din Sultan negotiations over status of (1220s) 202 and Anīs al-Qulūb (al-Anawī) 235, 236, 239, Jesus Christ 239 246, 247–9, 251–2 and defence walls 188 and Antalya 122 and Oneirocriticon (Achmet) 169 and Christian call to prayer (clapper) 267 Jesus the Son (Nerses Shnorhali) 253 and Sinop 83 Jews wedding night (Ibn Bībī) 108 as agents of apostasy in Quran 330 Kaykāʾūs II, ʿIzz al-Dīn, Sultan 177, 211, 318n36 conversions to Islam 37n74 Kaykhusraw I, Ghiyāth al-Dīn, Sultan 121–2, and convivencia (Spain) 13–14 185, 247 and discrimination in law under the Kaykhusraw II, Ghiyāth al-Dīn, Sultan 84, 211, caliphate 43, 44 212, 219 and endowment deeds 313 Kaykhusraw III, Ghiyāth al-Dīn, Sultan 222 and Ghazan’s rule 263 Kayqubād I, ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn, Sultan 84, 108, 192, punishment for assaulting Muslim 211, 247, 248–9, 251 women 46 Kayseri (Caesarea) 80n20, 81, 83, 85, 87, 87n65, success of in Arabophone world 37 97, 112, 113, 136, 139, 212, 222, 241, survival of after Muslim conquest 49–50 245, 248, 252, 312, 316, 333 see also Judaism Kemah 83 jihad Kemal Ümmi 333n18 and Artuqids 56 Kemalist family, concept of 112 and Gülşehri’s story of Ṣafwān 340 KeṙVard 84 in Saltuk-name 361–2 Khach‘atur Kech‘aṙets’i 103–4 and Seljuq campaigns 55 khānqāhs (dervish lodges) 321–4, 325 Jihānshāh 102 Khiḍr, the prophet (also Khaḍir, Hızır) 93, 236, jizya 33, 39–40, 44 338n52, 353, 354, 357-358, John, Saint Khurasan, 69–71, 90, 91 tomb of 151, 153 Khurasanis 30 see also Basilica of St John (Ephesus or Khwarazmians 196–7 Ayasuluk) Kılıç Arslan I, Sultan 65, 67, 71 Index 421

Kılıç Arslan II, Rukn al-Dīn, Sultan 51, 69, 83, Kostandin Erznkats’i 89–91, 253 177 Krstić, Tijana 10, 11–12 Kılıç Arslan IV, Rukn al-Dīn, Sultan 318, Kuban, Doğan 111–12 318n36 Kubrawiyya 316 Kirakos, see Gandzaketsi, Kirakos Kuehn, Sara 194 Kirbuqa 64, 69, 70 al-Kūfī, Muḥammad ibn Sulaymān 278 Kırşehir kufr (unbelief, Turkish küfr) 19, 238, 259, 260, as a literary and mystical-religious centre 298 329, 329n2, 330, 331, 336–8, 339, 297, 332n16, 333–4, 333n17, 334n23, 342, 344, 344n103, 344n104, 344n105, 334n24 346 as a province and administrative centre Kütahya 83, 87n65, 149 during the period of Mongol rule 19, 112, 113, 115, 310, 310n4, 310n5, 312, La Porta, Sergio 13 317, 318, 318n36, 319, 319-320n40, Lajazzo (Ayas, or Aigaiai) 85, 123–4, 127 321, 324, 326 Lake Beyşehir Christians 17n68 in the Cacaoğlu waqfiyya 113, 310-314, 316 land flight, and taxation 40 al-Kisāʾī 235, 341n81 Landron, Bénédicte 266n13 Kitāb al-Diryāq (Book of Antidotes, pseudo- languages, used in Muslim Anatolia 2 Galen) 202, 204 Latin Crusader chronicles 53 Kitāb al-Majdal (ʿAmr ibn Mattā) 27, 271n41 latitudinarian religiosity 296, 298–9 Kitab-i Ebu Müslim 351 Lazaros, Patriarch of Jerusalem 163 Kitab-i Gunya (İmam Kadı) 293, 293n21 legal discrimination, and conversions to Islam Kitāb Uṣūl al-Dīn (‘Abdishō’ Bar Brikha) 43–5 clapper and cultural background 264–9 lending libraries, and female property owners clapper as explained in text 270–274 114 clapper in Arabic poetry and Islamic Leo III, Byzantine Emperor 30, 99 wisdom literature 274–9 Letter of Love and Concord 248 summary and conclusion 279–80 Letters of the Brethren of Purity, The 88 text of ‘On the Clapper’ extract Levon I, King of Cilicia 84, 247, 248–9, 251–2 280–281 Levon II, Prince 83 translation of ‘On the Clapper’ extract Levy-Rubin, Milka 39n81, 44 282–4 Lewis, Bernard 44 see also ‘Abdishō’ Bar Brikha libraries, and female property owners 114 Kitāb Uṣūl al-Dīn (Elias II ibn al-Muqlī) 266n13 Life of Christopher of Antioch 33n51 Kızıldeli (i.e. Seyyid Ali Sultan) 295, 299 Life of Elias of Damascus 42n99 Knights Hospitallers 117, 124, 128, 129–30, Life of Maranemmeh 27n22 133–4, 143–4, 247 Life of Timothy of Kakushta 32–3, 34 Koç, Mustafa 330n9 Lindner, Rudi Paul 6–7 Komnene, Anna 55, 56, 57, 58, 62n45, 66, 68, 70 lingua franca (of Mediterranean seafaring) 134 Konya Loṙi-Tashir, Armenian kingdom of 80, 82 gates of 192, 193, 195 Lowry, Heath 9, 120–121 Palace stucco relief 222, 224 Ludolf of Sudheim (Suchem) 151 Rūmī’s settling in 89 and Sufi groups 311, 313, 315, 317, 318, al-Maʿarrī, Abū al-ʿAlāʾ 276n69 321, 324, 326 McKee, Sally 136 Sultanate of 68–9, 76, 88–9, 93, 215 madrasas walls of 90 and endowment deeds 312, 314, 316, 319, Köprülü, Mehmed Fuad 326, 327 and Alevism/Shi’ism 300 and figural imagery 191 and Anīs al-Qulūb (al-Anawī), description Maghrebi dynasties 14 of 234 Magnalia Dei (Grigor Magistros) 234n3, 253 and Gülşehri (poet) 332n16 al-Mahdī, Caliph 43, 99 Köprülü paradigm 3n7, 5–7, 10, 11, 16, 19, Maḥmūd al-Rifāʿī 296 287–91, 299 Maḥmūd-i Ḥayrānī 363 scholarship critical of 287n2 Maḥmūd (of Ghazna), Sultan 338n52 and meaning of term ‘Turk’ 293n20 Mahmud [II], Ottoman Sultan 251 and Old Anatolian Turkish 330n9 Māhparī Khātūn 84 and Turkish epics and ʿAlī 305 Makalat (Hacı Bektaş Veli) 298, 303, 304 422 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Maktel-i Hüseyin 301, 305 Mars, imagery on defence towers and coins Malatya see Melitene 207, 207 Malikshah, Sultan 54, 60, 61, 62, 64, 69, 80, Marwān II 30 96n103 Marwanids 42 Malinowski, B. 9n28 al-Marzūbānī, Muḥammad ibnʿImrān 276n69 Mallet, Alex 233 Masʿud I, Sultan 69 Mamluks material culture, and transfer from Orient 173 and astrology 199 Mathnawī-yi Maʿnawī (Rūmī) 309, 338 and Christians 153 Matt‘ēos Jułayets’ǐ 100 and Cilicia 103 Matthew of Edessa 53, 61–2, 64, 242 and Cilician trade 85 Matthew of Ephesus 148, 151–5, 161n64 and Jazira Christian community 266 Maurozomēs, Manuel 83 and Knights Hospitallers ships 133 Mavroudi, Maria 168, 169–70 metalwork 176 Mawlānā Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī, see Rūmī, Mawlānā and Mongols 93 Jalāl al-Dīn and Öljeitü 97 Mawlawiyya 316 see also Mevlevis and Timurtash 97 Meccan Illuminations/ al-Futūḥāt al-Makkiyya al-Ma’mūn, Caliph 169–70, 171 (Ibn al-ʿArabī) 217 Man in the Panther’s Skin (Rustaveli) 92 Medians 30 Manāqib al-ʿĀrifīn (Aflākī) 218, 304 medicine, and Armenian community 88 al-Manāzī, Abū Naṣr 234 Mehmet II, Ottoman Sultan 88n71 Manes 219, 221 Melik Ahmed 298 Manṣūr Najm al-Dīn Ghāzī 267 Melik Danişmend, see Danişmend Gazi Mansuroğlu, Mecdut 330n9 Mélikoff, Irène 6, 7n18, 10n32, 10n33, 288–9, Manṭiq al-Ṭayr (ʿAṭṭār) 329–31 300, 302 legend of Sīmurgh 334, 335, 336, 337, 338 Melitene (Malatya) 35, 56–7, 63, 81, 83, 86, 171, Muḥammad and Ṣafwān’s conversion to 235, 239, 252 Islam 338, 339 Melkites (or Chalcedonians) 24, 33–4, 35, 244 Shaykh of Sanʿān (Abdürrezzak) story Melville, Charles 263n4 340, 344 Mengüjekids 1, 81, 90, 95, 185, 246–7 see also Gülşehri’s adaptation of Manṭiq merchants, Christian al-Ṭayr and crusaders 129 Manuel I Komnenos, Emperor 83, 163n71, 177, walled enclosures for 125–6, 130 178n41 Merhan, Aziz 341n81 manuk 95–6 Mesopotamia Manzikert, battle of (1071) 1, 23, 55, 80, 95, census and land survey 29 227n23, 364 Chronicle of Zuqnin 30–31 maqāmāt 270–271 Jacobites (or Miaphysites) 24–5 Marganitha/Book of the Pearl (‘Abdishō’ Bar Muslim Armenian factions 82 Brikha) 185, 266, 267 Seljuq presence in Upper 61 Maria (Kale Pakouriane) 177 metadoxy 7, 299 Maritime Asia Minor Metcalfe, Alex 15 chapter overview 18 Mevlevi-Bektashi rivalries and Islamisation of coastal zones and interfaith interaction public space 117–21 chapter overview 19 commerce hub of Antalya (Attaleia) endowment deeds 309–12 121–7, 123 human geography of Central Anatolia commercial ‘Middle Ground’ in Anatolia 312–14 127–32, 128 inter-Sufi rivalries 315–21, 325–6 mobility in the seas khānqāhs (dervish lodges) 321–4, 325 cosmopolitanism on ships 132–4, 135 summary and conclusions 326–7 slave trade 134–44, 137, 138, 141, 142 Mevlevis suggestions for future research 144–5 and akhīs 320, 321–3 maritime communities 121 and Gülşehri 333 marriage and John VI Kantakouzenos 180–181 and conversions to Islam 45–7 in Kırşehir 333 dynastic marriages 107–9, 111 in Manāqib al-ʿĀrifīn (Aflākī) 218, 304 intermarriages 18, 45–6, 96, 108, 109–11 and Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā 320–321 Index 423

Vryonis on 8 and figural imagery 191 see also Mevlevi-Bektashi rivalries and for foreign subjects in Constantinople Islamisation of public space 178–9 Miaphysites 24–5, 27n18 Movsēs Khorenats’i 102 Miaphysites (or Jacobites) 24–5, 27n18, 30, Mozarabic Christians 16, 269 33n51, 35, 266, 267 Muhadhdhab al-Dīn 95 Michael the Syrian, Patriarch 25n7, 53, 56–7, Muḥammad, Prophet 62, 68, 198 and Abdürrezzak’s conversion to Michael VIII Palaiologos, Emperor 175–6, 177, Christianity 330, 345 353 in Anīs al-Qulūb (al-Anawī) 237 Michot, Yahya J. 199n52 in ‘History of the Birth and Upbringing Middle East, see Christians in Middle East of the anti-Christ Mahamad and His (600-1000) Reign’ 244 ‘Middle Ground’ in Life of Timothy of Kakushta 34 commercial ‘Middle Ground’ in Anatolia and Oneirocriticon (Achmet) 169 127–32, 128 and Ṣafwān’s conversion to Islam 330, concept of 120 338–40, 346 militias 95–6 and Sarı Saltuk 353, 354 millet system 104 Muʿīn al-Dīn Sulaymān the parwāna 94, 95, 315 miracle of dust 151, 153 Mullett, Margaret 153n31 Mirak‘ 101 Muntaner, Ramon 150 mirror, Seljuq, and astrology 207–9, 209 al-Muqaddasī 266 missionaries, Christian Muslim call to prayer (adhān) 44, 177, 264, Protestant missionaries and Qizilbash/ 267, 274 Alevis 5n11 Muslim chronicles 3, 17, 55 during Sasanian empire 27–8 Muslims mixovarvaroi 109–10, 112 Christian-Muslim intermarriages and Mkhargrdzeli, Ivane and Zakare 184 Qurʾan 45–6 Mkhargrdzelis 245, 246 Christian-Muslim relations, scholarship Mkhit‘ar Gosh 202, 245, 251 on 7–11 Mkrtich‘ Nałash 95n98, 103, 104 and convivencia (Spain) 13–16 modernism (19th-/early 20th-century) dynasties ruling in Anatolia 1–2 and Köprülü paradigm 5–6 liberal attitudes towards women and monotheistic religion 4–5 (Anatolia) 294 modes of transfer perception of Christian women 47 complementing transfer 169–70, 171, 173 perception of monasteries/nunneries dissimilating transfer 169, 171, 173, 178 46–7 transplanting transfer 169, 172, 173 Rumis, term for Turcophone Muslims monasteries, Christian 331n10 building of during Sasanian empire 27–8 see also Armeno-Muslim relations; Islam; as perceived by Muslims 46–7 Oriental Mongols al-Mutawakkil, Caliph 43, 44, 45, 47 and Armenians (1243–1335) 93–4 Myriokephalon, battle of (1176) 82 conversions to Islam 2–3, 263 Myron of Ephesus 155, 156–7 in Erzincan 95 and Jazira Christian community 266 Nahj al-Balāgha (al-Sharīf al-Raḍī) 277–8 paganism 2 nāqūs (pl. nawāqīs) 264, 268, 269 rule in Anatolia 1–2, 353 see also clappers sack of Baghdad (1258) 93 al-Nasawī Muḥammad 197 victory over Seljuqs (1243) 117 Nāṣir al-Dīn Artuq Arslan, coin with see also Ilkhanids Sagittarius 202, 206 monotheistic religion, and modernism 4–5 Nāṣir-i Khusraw 184–5 Moses bar Kepha 273 al-Nāṣir li-Dīn Allāh, ‘Abbasid Caliph 95, 194, mosques 239 built from Christian church masonry 101 al-Nāṣir Muḥammad, Mamluk Sultan 97 churches converted into 49n136 Nāṣirī 96 and endowment deeds 312, 314, 316, 319, nationalism 326, 327 and Köprülü paradigm 5–6, 287–8 424 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

and Turkish scholarship 3, 287 Orthodox Christianity, and religious images nāwakīya Turkmen 82 191 nawāqīs (sg. nāqūs) 264, 268, 269 Orthodox Church, see Greek Orthodox Church see also clappers orthodoxy, and Köprülü paradigm 6, 288–9, Nawrūz 97, 263, 264 290–291, 299 neck sealing 40 Ōshin, King 97 Neoplatonism, and Sufism 89 Ottoman empire Nerses of Lampron, Saint 249–50 akhīs’ role in succession process 295n31 Nerses Shnorhali and Christian populations 9 ‘Elegy on Edessa’ 102 conquest of Constantinople (1453) 1 Jesus the Son 253 first Anatolian Beylik 2 Nestorian church (or Church of the East) rise of Ottoman state 6–7 in 6th century 25–6 slave trade 143 al-Anawī’s views on 239–40, 253 and syncretism 12 debate about term ‘Nestorian’ 264n8 Ottoman historiography, impact on modern in Jazira 266 scholarship 287 Nestorian apologetic literature 266n13 Ottoman Sunnism 306–7 Nestorian settlements 185 ozan (bard) 92 Nestorians’ high social position in Özkan, Mustafa 333n17 Baghdad 36n65 and patriarchate of Antioch 33n51 Pachymérès, Georges 148, 176 and the rise of Iraq 34–5 Pact of ʿUmar (shurūṭ ʿUmar) 43–4, 45, 267 and Roman empire 35 paganism 2, 4–6, 178 network analysis 119–21 Pahlitzsch, Johannes 17, 18, 147 Nicaea (İznik) Palestine debate on Orthodox Church under flourishing Christian life 28 Muslim Turks 147–8 taxation and Samaritan conversion 39n81 Greek Orthodox community of 157–64 Pancaroğlu, Oya 212 Nikephoros III, Emperor 81 Papacy Niẓāmī of Ganja 90, 91, 341 and Chalcedonians 24 Noah’s Ark, and Kitāb Uṣūl al-Dīn (‘Abdishō’ Bar Pope in Saltuk-name 361–2 Brikha) 270, 271–4 and trade with ‘infidels’ 128, 129–30 nunneries, as perceived by Muslims 46 Papademetriou, Tom (Anastasios) 9, 148, 152, Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā 309–12, 313–16, 317, 153, 155, 161n64, 164 318–21, 324–7, 334n24 Paradise of Eden (‘Abdishō’ Bar Brikha) 270 map of his endowments 311 Parma, battle of (1248) 206 patriarchal chronicles 35 Oath of the Muslims for the Christians 130–132 Patriarchate of Constantinople 148, 154, Oberhelman, Steven M. 168 158–9, 163–4, 175 Ocak, Ahmet Yaşar P‘awstos Buzand 243 on Akhī Aḥmad 323n48 Peacock, A.C.S. 1, 17, 19, 125n42, 233 and Köprülü paradigm 3n7, 6, 289, 300 Pegolotti, Francesco, La pratica della mercatura on Mevlevis 316n21 124–5, 127, 128 on Sufism 316, 317–18 People’s Crusade 58, 64 on urban artisan class 87 Persian empire, defeated by caliphate 23 occult works, and information transfer from Persian epic and romance, impact of on Orient 172 Armenian literature 90–92 Oğuz Turkish 293n21, 329n4 Persian Gulf, Christian monasteries 28 Old Anatolian Turkish 293, 297, 329n4, 330n9, Persian language, as lingua franca 2 334, 341n81 Persians Öljeitü 97, 279 under Abbasid rule 30 Oneirocriticon (Achmet) 168–70, 174 as perceived in Chronicle of Zuqnin 31 Ōrbēleans 82, 98–9, 100, 102 Peter the Hermit 64, 66, 71 Orhan 157–8, 161, 294, 295n31 Pfeiffer, Judith 17, 19, 309 Oriental Pheidias 196 vs. Islamic 167–8, 173–7 Philaretos Brachamios 60–61, 62–3, 81 see also Byzantine appropriation of the Philo 103 Orient Polemis, Ioannis D. 161n65 Index 425 poll tax 39, 97 and Christians (or Jews) as agents of see also taxation apostasy 330 Pope, see Papacy Greek translation of 178 Pophyrogenitos, Constantine 179n43 and Grigor Magistros 234 popular beliefs and cultural convergence in and Kitāb Uṣūl al-Dīn (‘Abdishō’ Bar Brikha) Caucasus and Anatolia 270–271 chapter overview 19 and manṭiq al-ṭayr phrase 335 cultural/historical background 184–6 and Oneirocriticon (Achmet) 169 see also astrology; defence walls and respect of Christianity/Judaism 49–50 popular culture/texts, and scholarship 349–51 and tales of the prophets 253 Pratica della mercatura, La (Francesco Pegolotti) and tax on Christians as act of 124–5, 127, 128 humiliation 39 Preiser-Kapeller, Johannes 18, 117, 154n32, Qutlumush 60, 67–9, 74, 236 154n34, 161n65, 163, 163n71 Prester John legend 362 Rainald 58–9 property Rape in Antiquity (essays, 1997) 107–8 and patronage of architecture 315 rape of Anatolia and women 112–14, 313 chapter overview 18 see also endowment deeds (waqfiyyas); critique of scholarship on rape 107–12 Mevlevi-Bektashi rivalries and female property owners 112–14 Islamisation of public space slaves and other families 114–16 prophets Rashīd al-Dīn Faḍl Allah 263 Isrāʾīliyyāt (stories of prophets of ancient Rassi, Salam 17, 19, 263 Israel) 235–6, 237 Redford, Scott 17, 18, 107, 125n42, 211 qiṣaṣ al-anbiyā’ (lit. stories of prophets) regional identity, and Christians 30–31 235–6, 237, 253, 347n114 relational sociology 119–20 see also ahl al-bayt (House of the Prophet) religious images 191 Protestant missionaries, and Qizilbash/Alevis religious studies, ‘high’ vs. ‘low’ religion 4, 6 5n11 Rhodes, Knights Hospitallers 117, 124, 128, Pseudo-Dionysius, chronicle 272 129–30, 133–4, 143–4, 247 Pseudo-Galen, Kitāb al-Diryāq (Book of Rhomaioi (or ‘Romans’) 2 Antidotes) 202, 204 al-Rifāʿī, Maḥmūd 296 public space, see khānqāhs (dervish lodges); Rifāʿiyya 315n18, 316 Mevlevi-Bektashi rivalries and Risālat al-Ṭayr (Aḥmad al-Ghazālī) Islamisation of public space Risālat al-Ṭayr (Ibn Sīnā) 334 Pyrgion (Birgi) 149, 154, 155, 155n36 Ritter, Helmut 336n40 Robert the Monk, Historia Iherosolimitana 58–9 Qāf (mountain) 332, 334, 353 Robinson, Chase 17, 27, 40 Qalandariyya (or Kalenderis) 6, 316, 333 Roman empire Qalʿat Simʿān 48 defeated by caliphate 23 Qalāwūn, Sultan 96 and Nestorian church 35 al-Qalqashandī, Shihāb al-Dīn 269 and Syria 32 Qenneshre monastery 33n51 Romania 66, 67–8, 71 Qipchaq Ṙostam Zal 91 language 293n21 Rubenid-Het‘umid royal house 93 tribes, tribal forces, warriors 110, 197 Rubenids 82, 103 qiṣaṣ al-anbiyā’ (lit. stories of prophets) 235–6, Rukn al-Dīn Kılıç Arslan I, see Kılıç Arslan I, 237, 253, 347n114 Rukn al-Dīn, Sultan Qizilbash 5n11, 300–301, 307 Rukn al-Dīn Kılıç Arslan II, see Kılıç Arslan II, Qizilbash-Bektashi communities 305 Rukn al-Dīn, Sultan al-Quḍāʿī, Abū ʿAbd Allāh Muḥammad ibn Rukn al-Dīn Kılıç Arslan IV, see Kılıç Arslan IV, Salāma 277 Rukn al-Dīn, Sultan Querini, Francesco 134 Rukn al-Dīn Sulaymānshāh, see Suleiman II, al-Qūnawī, see Ṣadr al-Dīn al-Qūnawī Sultan Qurʾan Rūm, name for Anatolia 2 and Christian-Muslim intermarriages Rūm, sultanate of, see Seljuqs 45–6 Rum Kale see Hromgla Rūmī, Mawlānā Jalāl al-Dīn 426 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Aflākī on 88, 304, 321–2, 323 Sargis, Bishop 92, 94–5, 96, 98 and Akhī Aḥmad 323 Sarı Saltuk (or Sarı Saltık) ‘failed painting of’ story 211–12, 218–19, historical context 352, 362–3 221 and latitudinarian religiosity 296, 298 and Ḥusām al-Dīn Chalabī 321–2, 323–4 as portrayed in Saltuk-name 359, 360–361 Kalīla and Dimna 338 as portrayed in Saltuk-name (translated and khānqāhs (dervish lodges) 323–4, 325 excerpt) 298, 354–9 Mathnawī-yi Maʿnawī 309, 338 and Sunni-Shi’ite dichotomy 300, 305n83 and Nūr al-Dīn ibn Jājā 309–10, 317–18, see also Saltuk-name and Islamisation 320–322, 326 al-Sarrāj al-Rifāʿī, Kamāl al-Dīn Muḥammad, settling of in Konya 89 Tuffāḥ al-Arwāḥ 296 see also Mevlevis Sasa Beg 148 Rūmīs, term for Turcophone Muslims 331n10 Sasanian empire Rusaki dynasty 100, 101 Christian missionary activity and Rustaveli, Man in the Panther’s Skin 92 monastic building 27–8 collapse of and Zoroastrian religion 28 Sabas the Younger, Saint 150 and dhimmīs 45 ṣadaqa (or zakāt) 39 and Nestorian church 25, 34, 35 Ṣadr al-Dīn al-Qūnawī 233, 316n22 Sasna Tsṙer (Daredevils of Sasun) 91 Safavid Shiʿism 307 Sauma, Rabban 132–3 Ṣafwān ibn Umayyad 330, 338–40, 346 Sayf al-Dīn (Kurdish amīr of Ahlat) 92–3 Sagittarius (on coin) 202, 206 Sayf al-Dīn Beg Tīmūr (Turkmen ruler, Shah-i Sahas, Daniel J. 160n60 Arman dynasty of Ahlat) 239 Saidnaya, wonder-working icon 210 Schick, R. 49n136 Saladin 158n51 scholarship Salaymeh, Lena 39 Christian-Muslim relations (Vryonis vs. al-Ṣāliḥ Nāṣir al-Dīn Artuq Arslan, Sultan 188 Hasluck) 7–11 Saltuk-name convivencia (Andalusian paradigm) 13–16 ahl al-bayt and Sunnis in 301 historical sources 3, 16–17, 51, 53, 233–4 Christians in 233 Köprülü paradigm 5–7, 287–9 Sarı Saltuk in 298, 354–9, 360–361 Krstić (syncreticism and tolerance) 11–12 and syncretism 11, 12 modernism and monotheistic religion 4–5 see also Saltuk-name and Islamisation nationalism and Turkish scholarship 3, Saltuk-name and Islamisation 287 chapter overview 19–20 overview of current volume 16–20 popular culture/texts and scholarship and popular culture/texts 349–51 349–51 rape 107–12 reception, circulation and audience 362–4 scientific instruments, for astrological study text 199, 200–201 historical context 351–4 scientific works, and information transfer translated excerpt 354–9 from Orient 172–3 text analysis Scorpio, Mars in (Amid, Tower 11) 207, 207 religion and religious identity 359–61 Sebēos 99 religious militancy and holy wars segregation (of religious groups), in Antalya 361–2 (Attaleia) 125–6 Samaritan Chronicle (Abu’l-Fath) 44 Selçuk, see Ephesus (or Ayasuluk, today Samaritans Selçuk) and discrimination in law under the Seljuqs caliphate 43 and Ahlat 185 taxation and religious conversion 39n81 and Anatolia 1, 2, 54–5 Sambuceto, Lamberto di 136 and Antalya (Attaleia), conquest of 121–2 Sanāʾī 236 and Armenia 79–80, 246–9, 251–2 Sanchez-Albornoz, Claudio 14 and Armenian Church 64 Sanudo Torsello, Mario 129 and Banu Israʾil 236 Saracens and Baybars’ campaigns 95 conversions to Christianity 179n43 and Byzantine-Armenian aristocracy meaning Arabs 175 60–64 vs Turks 55 and Cappodocia 215–17 Index 427

and Christians 17–18 Shaykh of Sanʿān, see Abdürrezzak, Shaykh of and Cilicia 247–9, 251–2 Sanʿān construction projects and architecure 86 Shiʿa Islam in crusader reports 67–70 and Alevism 300–301 and Fatimids 54 Ismaʿili Shiʿism 289, 300, 306 and Georgia 246 Safavid Shiʿism 307 and Greek dignitaries 61 in Saltuk-name 360, 363 and Ilkhanate 93–4 and Seljuqs 6n14 and intermarriage 110 Sunni-Shiʿite dichotomy and modern and Islam 6n14, 68 scholarship and Islamisation/Turkification 54 Cahen and challenge of binary from landlocked state to sea power 83–4 approach 290–291, 300 in Mesopotamia (Upper) 61 Köprülü paradigm, followers and mirror and astrology 207–9, 209 critics 287–90, 300 and Mongols, defeated by (1243) 117 Sunni-Shiʿite dichotomy vs ‘loose’ and Philaretos Brachamios 60 Sunnism 300–306 proliferation of Seljuq and Armenian Sunni-Shiʿite disputes 54 statelets after Manzikert 80–3 Twelver Shiʿism 279, 301, 306 in Saltuk-name 353 see also Anatolian Islam; Sufism Seljuq army, Christian Armenians and shipboard societies 121, 132 Muslim converts in 81 ships, cosmopolitanism on 132–4, 135 Seljuq dynastic historiography 51 Shukurov, Rustam 17, 18–19, 167 and Shāh-nāma 90 shurūṭ ʿUmar (Pact of ʿUmar) 43–4, 45, 267 and Shi’a Islam 6n14 Sicily, and convivencia 15 slave origin of elite 114 Simon, Anne 151n21 and Sunni Islam 55 Simon bar Ṣabbāʿē, Book of the Fathers 273 in Syria, north of 61 Sīmurgh, legend of 330, 334–8, 346 and trade 83–4, 85 Sinbād-nāma 170 Turkmen warriors vs Seljuq elite 54 Sind, Islamisation of 49 semantron 268 Sindis 30 Sennekerim, King 98 Sinop, and trade under Het‘um 83 serpents 188, 189, 190, 194, 229 Sir Atan 84 see also dragons Sīrat Rasūl Allāh (Ibn Isḥāq) 46 Seth, Symeon 171, 175n30 Sivas (Sebasteia) 78, 81, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, ‘Seven Viziers/Wise Masters’ 170 87n65, 90, 96, 97, 113, 114, 115, 212, Sevim, Ali 318n36 239, 245, 252, 316, 317 Şeyh Süleyman-i Türkmani 333n17 Sizgorich, Tom 46 Şeyh Abdürrezzak, see Abdürrezzak, Shaykh Skylitzes, John 55 of Sanʿān slaves Seyyid Ali Sultan (alias Kızıldeli) 295, 299 and Anatolian family 114–16 Shackle, Christopher 330n8 Christian slaves 143, 150–151, 153 Shaddadids 82, 184 slave trade al-Shāfiʿī 44–5 Candia, Crete 136, 138–42, 141, 142 Shah-i Arman dynasty 239, 253 Famagusta, Cyprus 136–8, 137, 138 Shāh-nāma (Firdawsī) 90, 234, 236 and mobility in the seas 132, 134–6 shahāda 29, 31 Turkish slaves 136, 144 shahregān 27n22, 28, 29, 38 Smyrna (İzmir), Christian community in Shamhurash, dragon-slaying angel (Daqāʾiq 156–7 al-Ḥaqāʾiq) 222, 223, 225, 231 social network analysis 119–21 shaming, and conversions to Islam 43–5 Soliman, Emir of Nicaea and Romania 67 Shams al-Dīn Yūsuf 206 Solomon, Bishop of Basra 185 Shamshaddin (Shams al-Dīn, Kurdish amīr of Solomon, Prophet 335 the Rusaki dynasty) 100 Spain, Andalusian Paradigm 13–16 Shankland, David 9n28 Speech of the Birds (Manṭiq al-Ṭayr), see shared sacred space/shrines 8, 9, 10, 11–12 Gülşehri’s adaptation of Manṭiq al- see also syncretism Ṭayr; Manṭiq al-Ṭayr (ʿAṭṭār) al-Sharīf al-Raḍī, Nahj al-Balāgha 277–8 Step‘annos, Archbishop 97–8, 99 Stephanites and Ichnelates 170–171 428 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

Stethatos, Niketas 178 and caliphate 35 Stilbes, Constantine 250–251 Christians under the caliphate 32–3 Stock, Brian 11n37 Jacobites (or Miaphysites) 24–5 Storey, C.A. 253 Mongols vs Mamluks (Greater Syria) 93 Story of the Youth Farman 92 Muslim Armenian factions (Greater Syria) al-Subkī, Taqī al-Dīn 126n45, 278 82 al-Ṣūfī, Book of Fixed Stars 202 Qalʿat Simʿān 48–9 Sufism Seljuqs in northern Syria 61 and ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib 278–9 Turkish conquest of 54 and Armenian culture 88–90, 91 Zangid atabegate of Mosul 81 and Aşık Ali Paşa 297–8 Syriac local chronicles 30 and Islamisation of public space 315–26 Syrians, in Anatolia 1 and John VI Kantakouzenos 180–181 Szilagyi, Krisztina 38n78, 45n113 and Köprülü paradigm 6, 288 in Muslim literature of Seljuq Anatolia 233 al-Ṭabarī 235, 237, 278 and Neoplatonism 89 Tabula Imperii Byzantini 122 and syncretism 11 Taeschner, Franz 322n47, 332n11, 332n16 vs vernacular Islam 289–90 Tagaris, Paul 154 see also Anatolian Islam; Shiʿa Islam; Sunni Tāj al-Dīn Muʿtazz 321 Islam talismanic bowls 209–10, 210 Suhrawardiyya 316 T’amar (or Gurjī Khātūn) 211, 219, 220, 221 Sulaymānshāh, Rukn al-Dīn, Sultan 245, 246, Tannous, J. 27n18, 38n77 247 Taptuk Emre 352 Suleyman II, see Sulaymānshāh, Rukn al-Dīn, taxation Sultan and Armenian Church 96n103 Sultan Öyüğü see Eskişehir and Christian elites after Islamic conquest Sulṭān Walad 2n4, 89, 333n17 27 Ibtidā-nāma 309 of Christian merchants 126 Summa Theologica (in Arabic) 38 and conversions to Islam 38–42 Sunni Islam and endowment deeds 309–10, 312 and Aşık Ali Paşa 302–3 and land flight 40 and Baba Ilyās 302 poll tax 39, 97 and dervish orders 10 Tbilisi, sack of (1227) 197 and early Seljuq sultans 55 Teutonic Knights 247 and Hacı Bektaş Veli 303–5 Thaddeus, Saint 243–4, 246, 251 Hanafi Sunnism 299, 301, 302, 360, 363 al-Thaʿlabī 235 Ottoman Sunnism 306–7 Theodore of Edessa 63–4 and Qizilbash/Alevis 5n11 Theodore Prodromos 56 in Saltuk-name 360, 363 Theodore the Younger, Saint 159n55 Sunni-Shiʿite dichotomy and modern Theodorus, martyrdom of 245–6, 251 scholarship Theodota of Amida 27n18 Cahen and challenge of binary Theophanes, Chronography 172 approach 290–291, 300 Theophanes of Nicaea 148, 161–2 Köprülü paradigm, followers and Thomas, David 233 critics 287–90, 300 Thomas of Marga 28 Sunni-Shiʿite dichotomy vs ‘loose’ al-Tibrīzī, Yaḥyā ibn ʿAlī 276, 276n68, 276n69 Sunnism 300–306 Timothy, Catholicos 34–5, 99 Sunni-Shiʿite disputes 54 Timur 102, 144 see also Anatolian Islam; Sufism Timurtash 18, 97 al-Suryānī al-Mardīnī, Daniel, see Daniel of Ṭiyāṭūs, story of 240–246, 250, 251 Mardin (or Daniel al-Suryānī al- Tohu (or Tuqu, Jalāyirid commander), 310n5, Mardīnī) 324–5 Swanson, Mark N. 280 Tokat 83, 87n65, 316, 317 Symeon the New Theologian 178 tolerance syncretism 8, 10, 11–12, 111, 190, 231 and convivencia 13–16 see also convivencia and syncretism 11–12 Syria trade and Baybars’ campaigns 95 and Antalya (Attaleia) 121–7, 123 Index 429

Armenian involvement in international and Edessa (Urfa), conquest of 54, 60, 62 trade with Anatolia 84–5 in Gesta Francorum 65–6 Armenians’ contribution to Seljuq trade intermarriage (dynastic) with Greeks 108 83–4 intermarriage with Armenians 96 Christianity and trade with ‘infidels’ meaning of term ‘Turk’ 293n20 128–30 and Metilene, attack on (1057) 56–7 commercial ‘Middle Gound’ in 14th/15th- nāwakīya Turkmen 82 century Anatolia 127–30, 128 and Rūmī as an identity 331n10 see also Genoese trade; Maritime Asia vs Saracens 55 Minor; Venetian trade and Syria, conquest of 54 ‘transferts culturels’ concept 168 Turkish slaves 136, 144 see also modes of transfer Turkmen warriors’ religious identity transplanting transfer 169, 172, 173 53–4, 55–7 Trdat, King 243, 247–8, 251 see also Seljuqs Trebizond 26n13, 85, 101, 127 al-Ṭurṭūshī 44 Tuffāḥ al-Arwāḥ (Kamāl al-Dīn Muḥammad Ṭūsī, Muḥammad 212 al-Sarrāj al-Rifāʿī) 296 Tutush, Sultan 54, 62, 63–4 Tughril Beg, Sultan 54 Twelver Shiʿism 279, 301, 306 Ṭughrilshāh, Mughīth al-Dīn 246 Tuqu, see Tohu ʿUmar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb, Caliph 43, 99, 361 Tur ʿAbdin 32 al-ʿUmarī 150 Turan, Osman 1n1, 54n10, 110 Umayyads 16, 30, 32, 49n136, 78, 305 Turkey Umek 84n45 nationalism and Köprülü paradigm 5–7 Umur Beg, Aydınid ruler 129n55, 149, 152, 153, nationalism and scholarship 3, 287 154, 155n36 Turkification/Turkicisation urban artisan class, Armenian 87–8 and endowment deeds 313 urban militia/confraternities 95–6 of Greeks 82–3 Urfa, see Edessa (Urfa) and Islamisation 54 Usta, Ahmet 136 of the Ottoman Balkans and Sarı Saltuk Uṣūl al-Dīn, see Kitāb Uṣūl al-Dīn (‘Abdishō’ Bar 352 Brikha) Turkish language Uyar, Tolga B. 17, 19, 215 as lingua franca 2 Old Anatolian Turkish 330n9, 334 Vann, Theresa M. 133–4 Turkmen Varqa and Gulshāh 227 communities, tribes, tribal forces, Velayet-name 11, 12, 298–9, 303–4, 320 warriors 52, 54, 55, 56, 60, 63, 70, 83, see also Hacı Bektaş Veli 95, 151n17, 197, 247 Venetando, Hemanuel 142 communities under Armenian rule 83 Venetian trade followers of Baba Iṣḥāq and Baba Ilyās and Antalya (Attaleia) 122 293, 317 and Asia Minor 117, 118 forces of Zangī 102 and cosmopolitanism on ships 133–4, 135 religious beliefs and practices 6, 288, and Ephesus 155, 157 288n4, 293-294, 300, 315 and merchants’ walled enclosures 126, settlement of 75 130 unrest in Anatolia 318n36 Venetian Crete (Candia) 124, 127, 128–9, Turkokratia 7, 8 131–2 Turks slave trade 136, 138–42, 141, 142, 143–4 and Antioch, conquest of 54, 60, 74 Virani (sixteenth-century Alevi author) 303 and Antioch, relationships with Vryonis, Speros Christians after conquest 72–4 on conversions to Islam in Nicaea 159 and Armenia, conquest of 54 on decline of the Orthodox Church 147–8, and Armenia, raids into 53 156, 162–3, 164 Beyliks (Turkish principalities) 1–2, 56, 66 on Greek bishops’ abandonment of their Byzantine-Armenian aristocrats under flock 83 Turkish rule 60–64 on intermarriages (Christian Greek/ crusader reports on Turkish lordships in Muslim Turk) 109–10 Asia Minor 64–75 on Matthew of Ephesus 154n32 430 Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia

misquoted by Ioannis D. Polemis 161n65 Muslims’ perception of Christian women overview of his work on Byzantine 47 Christianity 7–9, 16, 18 Muslims’ perception of nunneries 46 on Theophanes of Nicaea 162n68 property owners 112–14, 313 on Trebizond 26n13 women-only bathouses 114 on Turkish conquest of Anatolia 54n10 see also marriage; rape of Anatolia on urban artisan class (textile and rug Wood, Philip 17–18, 23 industry) 87 ‘World System’ 117 on waqfs 158n51 Wright, Diana Gilliland 138–9

Wafā’iyya 316 Yaghi Siyan of Antioch 61–2, 69, 70, 73 Walmsley, Alan 26–7, 28n25 Yahballāhā III, Catholicos, biographer of 263, waqfiyyas (endowment deeds) 264, 267 as historical source 17, 107, 233 Yasawiyya 316 and Islamisation of public space 309–16, Yelkenci, Raif 333n17 311, 319, 324–7 Yemen 84, 237, 277n78, 335, 342 and women as property owners 112–16 Yemen, and Armenian community 84n46 see also Mevlevi-Bektashi rivalries Yemini (sixteenth-century Alevi author) 303 and Islamisation of public space; Yıldırım, Rıza 19, 287 property Yıldız, Sara Nur 1, 17, 19, 120, 329 waqfs (charitable foundations) 17, 114, 115, Yovhannēs, Bishop of Muş 101 158n51, 315 Yovhannēs Erznkats’i 88, 91 Westerdahl, Christer 121 Yovhannēs Khlat‘ets’i 92–3 White, Richard 120 Yunus Emre 90, 298n47, 299n52, 352 Wilhelm of Bodensele 150 William of Adam, see Guillelmus Ade (or Zachariadou, Elizabeth A. 128, 130 William of Adam) Zak‘aria II, Catholicos 98 William of Rubruck 185 zakāt (or ṣadaqa) 39 William of Tyre 66, 68–70, 72–3 Zalabin 151 wine production/sale, and Islam 87–8 Zamakhsharī 276n68, 276n69 wisdom literature 277 Zangid state 81 Wittek, Paul 6–7, 54 Zanjānī, ʿAbd al-Wahhāb ibn Ibrahīm 276n68 Wolper, Ethel Sara 112n20, 315, 319 Zayat, Habib 269n28 women Zeus, Zeus and Io myth 107 Anatolian Muslims’ liberal attitudes Zoroastrian religion 28, 48 towards 294 Zuqnin Chronicle 30–32, 37 Plate 1. Saint Theodore and Saint George slaying the dragon. Wall painting, west wall, Church of Stratelates at Başköy (Mavrucan), Cappadocia (photo: Tolga B. Uyar)

Plate 2. Saint Theodore and Saint George slaying the dragon. Wall painting, west wall, Church of Stratelates at Başköy (Mavrucan), Cappadocia (photo: Yıldız Ötüken) Plate 3. Saint Theodore and Saint George slaying the dragon, detail. Wall painting, west wall, Church of Stratelates at Başköy (Mavrucan), Cappadocia (photo: Tolga B. Uyar) Plate 4. Saint George slaying the dragon. Wall painting, niche on exterior wall, Church of Saint George at Belisırma (Kırkdamaltı Kilise), Ihlara, Cappadocia (photo: Tolga B. Uyar) Plate 5. Saint Theodore and Saint George slaying the dragon. Wall painting, west wall, Karşı Kilise at Gülşehir, Cappadocia (photo: Tolga B. Uyar)