Metamorphosis in the Ifriqiyan Cocoon: Ḥafṣid State Formation

Metamorphosis in the Ifriqiyan Cocoon: Ḥafṣid State Formation,

Diplomacy, and Transformation, 1220-1450

Amel Bensalim

A thesis submitted to the graduate program in History

in conformity with the requirements for the

degree of Master of Arts

Queen’s University

Kingston, Ontario, Canada

August 2021

Abstract Over the course of three centuries, from 1229 to 1574, Ifriqiya was ruled by the Ḥafṣid dynasty. Claiming to be inheritors of the great Almohad administrative and ideological tradition, the Ḥafṣids came to power when the Islamicate world, and medieval Mediterranean in general, were particularly tumultuous. Although faced with economic hardship, foreign and domestic threats, diplomatic pressures, and other challenges, the Ḥafṣid state managed to weather them all and survive – in various forms – for several centuries. Using primary source chronicles, correspondences, treaties, and other documents, as well as a solid foundation of secondary scholarship, this thesis explores the phases of Ḥafṣid state formation and how they transformed and adapted over the course of three centuries. Contrary to previous assessments, the Ḥafṣid state was a dynamic polity that utilized diplomatic tactics, trade deals, and maritime activity in order to maintain their state and diplomatic interests. Periods of instability catalyzed transformation and adaptation that eventually yielded a more centralized state with sophisticated ideological, legal, and administrative structures.

Acknowledgements

أوالً، نشكر هللا عز و جل على نعمة العلم و بركة القدرة، ربي زدني علما. ثانيا، نشكر والد ّي، أمي و بوي، آمنة كريميد و صالح بن سليم، إ ّلي ديما يشجعو فيا. ال بد من دعمهم و دعائهم و مساعدتهم ألي مشروع أو إنجاز في حياتي. والحق هما يستحقو بعض من الشهادة هذه على خاطر كمية الترجمات إلي ساعدوني فيهم و األسئلة والمناقشات بخصوص دراستي إلي ح ّضروها معاي بكل تركيز و إهتمام. هللا يبارك فيهم!!

I can’t thank them, and my siblings – Ayah, Abdulrahman, Muhammed – enough for all their support, laughs, and well wishes. I would not be here without them, especially during such a difficult year. All major writing projects, theses, dissertations, have a veritable army of people and supporters behind it, but arguably none more so than the ones written in the last year, under the conditions of pandemic and quarantine. I would like to thank my mentor and supervisor at Queen’s University, Dr. Adnan Husain, whose knowledge, expertise, and erudition is only outstripped by his patience and understanding nature. I really could not have asked for a better supervisor! I would also like to thank Dr. Ariel Salzmann not only for reading and engaging with this thesis, but for all her mentorship and support over the course of my MA. I’d also like to extend my gratitude to Dr. Richard Greenfield, whose lectures, advice, and support were an invaluable aspect of my MA experience. Endless thanks to all the people and friends who listened to me rant and destress at whatever ungodly hour the phone notifications from me popped up on their screens – Muna, Jess, Layla, Katie, Nia, Ray, Jomaan, Ahmed, Younes, Ben Kato, Mous, Taha, Yasser, Sabrina, Emad, Fatma, Sarra. Huge thank you especially to Shatha for all her help! And to round off this important section, I am immensely thankful for all the support and ,Sarah, Hager, Dania, Nosaiba, Saba, Saja, Khayria :البهلوالت encouragement from my darlings Suroor, Sumaya, Mariam, Jomana, Amal, Ghofran, Aya, Muzaina, Sereen, Doua, Rudi, and Malaak <3

III

Contents Abstract ...... II

Acknowledgements ...... III

A Note on Translation and Transliteration ...... VI

Chapter 1 ...... 1

Introduction ...... 1

Chapter 2 ...... 10

The Ḥafṣids: The Generational Roots ...... 10

The Ḥafṣids and the Mediterranean World ...... 19

Chapter 3 ...... 40

Ḥafṣid Bildungsroman, 1277-1318 ...... 40

Novel Diplomacies ...... 59

Chapter 4 ...... 73

Doctrines, Diplomacy, and the Sea ...... 73

Chronicles and Catalysts ...... 87

Epilogue ...... 92

Bibliography ...... 94

Primary Sources ...... 94

Secondary Sources ...... 96

Appendix A ...... 102

Appendix B ...... 111

Appendix C ...... 113

Appendix D ...... 116

Figure 1. Western Mediterranean, circa the mid-thirteenth century.

Figure 2. Map of Ifriqiya and the Maghreb, with important urban centers marked1

1 Figure 1 from Ramzi Rouighi, “Ḥafṣids.” Map of Ifriqiya. In Encyclopaedia of Islam III, edited by Kate Fleet, Gudrun Krämer, Denis Matringe, John Nawas, Everett Rowson. Leiden: Brill, 2009. Figure 2 from Pascal Buresi, Hicham El Aallaoui, and Travis Bruce. “Governing the Empire. Provincial Administration in the Almohad Caliphate (1224-1269): Critical Edition, Translation, and Study of

A Note on Translation and Transliteration

This thesis covers the pre-modern Ifriqiya region, and uses a variety of primary sources, most especially documents in Arabic. Translations and transliteration of passages, terms, and letters in the main thesis and in the appendices follow a common standard. For terms or names with a commonly known and recognizable spelling – such as “Almohad” – I have stuck with the conventional spelling. The transliteration otherwise follows the Brill Encyclopedia of Islam

as الشمس system, although I have elected not to assimilate Solar letters (i.e. rather than render ash-shams, I would transcribe it as al-shams). See table below for a guide.

The English translations of Arabic sources provided in the appendices are based on printed transcriptions of those sources. The printings also included either Spanish or Italian translations of the original documents, but I have relied on my own reading of these documents, and have given my own original rendering of phrases and sentences. In any place where I used the provided translations for clarity on a particular term is noted in the footnotes.

Arabic Letter Transliteration Guide k ك ḍ ض d د a/ā أ/ا/آ

l ل ṭ ط dh ذ b ب

m م ẓ ظ r ر t ت

h ه ‘ ع z ز th ث

ū و gh غ s س j ج

ī/y ي f ف sh ش ḥ ح

ʾ ء q ق ṣ ص kh خ

Manuscript of the Husaniyya Library in Rabat Containing 77 Taqadim (“Appointments”), Brill 3 (2012). 85.

Chapter 1 Introduction

If the center of the medieval world was the Mediterranean, the Mediterranean’s own center was Ifriqiya, the region stretching from Tripoli, in modern Libya, to the east, and to Bijāya in present day Algeria (Figure 1). Connected to both the Sea and Sahara, the region’s importance is underscored by the bevy of empires, trade routes, travellers, and peoples that have passed through and left a mark on it. In the central Middle Ages, Ifriqiya and its urban centres became the seat of the Ḥafṣid dynasty, new and ambitious self-declared descendants of the Almohad

Empire. They adopted the caliphal title and ruled in the region for over three centuries, from

1229 to 1574, until the Ottoman Turks wrested the land from both Ḥafṣid and Spanish hands.

Over the course of those years, the state underwent a series of transformations and permutations in order to preserve itself. By analyzing both their internal circumstances, external pressures, and the interplay between them, this thesis describes the processes and phases of change that the

Ḥafṣid state underwent, as well as the tactics and strategies they used to adapt and preserve their place and status in the Mediterranean. Over the course of two centuries, the Ḥafṣids established themselves territorially and ideologically; they became caliphs, weathered a crusade and

Aragonese incursions, withstood rebels and dynastic struggles, piracy and maritime violence, restructured their administrative hierarchy, and survived the division of power into semi- autonomous urban polities. The Ḥafṣids reacted to these circumstances in order to maintain the existence of the Ḥafṣid state and potency of their dynasty, even if that meant courting European powers or ceding autonomy to municipal governors. Their strategies are best reflected in extant diplomatic documents and in the shifting rhetoric of chronicles patronized by the Ḥafṣid court.

The consolidation and centralization of the Ḥafṣid state in the fifteenth century has often been considered by scholars as a triumphant shift from the localization of power and instability that preceded it. But that process of gaining power centrally utilized the Ḥafṣid tactics and adaptations that were developed to withstand the tumultuous fourteenth century. In this way, this thesis challenges – but also builds upon – the assumptions and conclusions brought forth by medieval writers such as Ibn Khaldūn, as well as modern scholarship by historians such as

Robert Brunschvig and Ramzi Rouighi. This project is at once an original analysis of primary chronicles and diplomatic sources and a synthesis of secondary scholarship. It brings together facets of Ḥafṣid history to create a fuller image of how the dynastic state formed and functioned over the course of the centuries.

Between the 1220’s and the early fifteenth century, the Ḥafṣid state underwent three major transformations, and each period resulted in key diplomatic and geopolitical changes as the Ḥafṣids adapted. Chapter 1 considers the early period of the dynasty, under the rulership of

Abū Zakariyā Yaḥyā and his son al-Mustanṣir. This chapter weaves together several important factors in Ḥafṣid state development: their origins, establishment, religio-political identity, economics, and caliphal claims; the shifting orientation of Islamic North Africa away from centers of power in Iberia and Morocco towards multiple urban centers and especially towards

Tunis as a new caliphal capital; and the growing European secular and ecclesiastic involvement in the region. The Ḥafṣid naissance and their connection to the Almohads is vital to this story, as their political, familial, and doctrinal closeness with the Almohads shaped both the administrative structure and rhetoric of Ḥafṣid independence in the mid-thirteenth century. It also describes the development of Ifriqiya as an important diplomatic and political hub, the subsequent economic interest that drew increasing Latin religio-political intervention. These are

all important threads seldom discussed holistically in an integrated analysis of the Ḥafṣid state.

The decades after al-Mustanṣir (r. 1249-1277) are traditionally considered weak points in Ḥafṣid state authority because of the fierce dynastic struggles, the emergence of rebels, and competition for control in multiple urban centers. The second chapter, however, looks closely at this early fourteenth century period as a time of adaptation and transformation.

Focusing on the years between 1277 and 1318, Chapter 2 describes the intricate process of administrative change and rise of Bedouin tribes as political actors. The Ḥafṣid state was unconventional by both modern and pre-modern standards. It had an unconventional naissance and metamorphosed into an independent polity. A few decades afterward, in the face of internal power struggles and increasingly pressure from malevolent European neighbours, it began to function almost as a confederation of powerful cities, oscillating between local strength and regional control. Part of their ability to survive was their malleability and adaptability, as well as their unorthodox state structure. Rather than seeing moments of fracture as low points, they become instead part of the lifecycle of the state, and important periods of state policy and strategy creation. Other words, in all cases of local power or split capitals, the state itself was never at risk of collapse. Due to the nature of the Ḥafṣid dynasty’s emergence and the political and regional culture of Ifriqiya, a multi-capital state found fertile ground. This, in turn, shaped how the Ḥafṣids represented themselves diplomatically and how they navigated economic challenges and both internal and external military threats. Their location in the central

Mediterranean combined with their relative weakness militarily necessitated a foreign policy that was simultaneously compromising, opportunistic and self-aggrandizing. One approach that best reflected these features was state use of the piracy industry of the Medieval Mediterranean. This

thesis examines how the Ḥafṣids both dealt with the problem of and themselves sponsored piracy over the course of the fourteenth century.

The third and penultimate chapter continues the exploring of piracy and the Ḥafṣid state, but uses the topic to understand broader changes in the late fourteenth and early fifteenth century that revived central power of a resurgent Ḥafṣid dynasty. It demonstrates how the trends developed in the previous decades crystalized successfully for Ḥafṣid power. The religio- political ideology also shifted as it suited the state, from championing strict Almohad adherence, to an Umarian caliphate while slowly moving away from supporting Almohad religious doctrine as official policy of the state, and finally to sponsoring the rising Maliki Sunni school of thought.

This slow move away from Almohad norms became precipitous in the late fourteenth century as rulers turned to the power of Maliki scholars to recruit urban popular support. The Ḥafṣid state therefore adapted once more and dealt directly with the threats to their power. This process would have been impossible without the previous decades of struggle and state evolution in

Ifriqiya. Using and analyzing the rhetoric in chronicles written from around the 1340s to the early sixteenth century, one can see the gradual Ḥafṣid metamorphosis almost as it unfolded.

Historiography and Sources

Ḥafṣid Ifriqiya is not, alas, a source-rich region or period. That said, there is a variety of available primary sources, as well as secondary historiographic context that is important to elucidate. The foremost titan of historiography and primary sources is, unsurprisingly, Ibn

Khaldūn.

One cannot mention North African pre-modern history without at least a nod to Ibn

Khaldūn – and indeed, this thesis does far more than nod. Born in Tunis in 1332, Ibn Khaldūn

was descended from Andalusian nobility who themselves traced their roots to Yemeni Arabs and a companion of the Prophet Muhammad. Unusually for a chronicler from this time and region, quite a bit is known about his storied life and family history, most significantly because he wrote an autobiography Al-Ta’rif bi- Ibn Khaldūn wa Riḥlatih Gharban wa Sharqan, or “Getting to know Ibn Khaldūn and his Journey West and East.” In western scholarship, however, his most famous and influential work is the Muqaddima. Although often seen as his magnum opus, this

“introduction,” as the title translates, was only just that, an introduction to a voluminously and meticulously detailed world history, Kitāb al-‘ibar wa Diwān al-Mubtada’ wa al-Khabar fī

Tarikh al-‘Arab wa al-Barbar. Although I rely most heavily on the final two volumes of the

Kitab al-‘ibar, since they focus on North Africa and Ibn Khaldūn’s contemporary world, the worldview and sociological understanding of history articulated in the Muqaddimah shaped how his historical narrative unfolded. When reading his recounting of Maghrebi and Ifriqiyan history, it is important to keep that in mind. Moreover, this thesis directly challenges the conclusions and framing he put forth, as it relates to the Ḥafṣid state. It is important to note, then, the particular angles and goals of his work. A major aspect of Ibn Khaldūn’s study is the oscillation between dynastic central power and potent local rural leaders. Ibn Khaldūn’s political career often put him at the centre of such tensions. He was not an observer or bystander but was an active political player whose life and intrigues informed his writing. In his world view, power was fickle but predictable, it was wielded most effectively by groups that had the best ‘asabiyya, a term often translated as “group feeling,” “social cohesion,” or “espirit de corps.” Ibn Khaldūn was not just relaying facts but structuring and imbuing them with his contemporary context and socio-historical worldview.

This conception shaped his representation of the history he wrote, particularly since so much of it was related to those in power. In the context of the Ḥafṣids, whom he served, the representation of the urbanized Ḥafṣid dynasty as ostentatious and overly lavish, and perpetually or potentially unstable in the face Bedouin Arab tribes had a significant effect on how he and subsequent scholars have viewed the dynasty. Three centuries of Ḥafṣid rule have come to be seen as a long tug-of-war between a rather upstart dynasty and zealous local powers who were prone to agitating for local or even regional control. Superficially, this is quite true. What becomes a historiographic issue, however, is the interpretation of these varieties of power.

Centralized control is painted as the most stable and productive in contrast to moments of political fragmentation with a latent and impotent Ḥafṣid ruler in Tunis, surrounded by rebellious autonomous cities like Bijāya and Constantine. This, as the traditional narrative would have it, was neatly repaired by a determined Ḥafṣid leader, Abu al-‘Abbas (r. 1370-1394) and his son

Abu Faris (r. 1394-1434). In turn, one is led to assume that central control was normative and most conducive to economic, political, and diplomatic success.2 Ibn Khaldūn himself lived under

Abu al-‘Abbas, but was alive too early to fully grasp the changes ongoing in his lifetime. In his view, the surest way back to stability was via the tribal powers, and indeed his work was partly an appeal to the ruler for a possible solution to the problem of powerful, non-government groups.

As it turned out, the Ḥafṣid state defied a Khaldunian arch, as chapters 2 and 3 elucidate. Abu al-

‘Abbas instead worked against the tribes and turned to the emerging urban religious leaders and their popular Maliki school of thought. Together with Ibn Khaldūn, Chapter 3 also discusses other later chroniclers, such as al-Zarkashī and Ibn Qunfudh, and how their positions in court and

2 Subsequent chapters will address and challenge this dichotomy.

their particular historical contexts shaped their narratives and reflected the changes that eluded

Ibn Khaldun.

Together with the chronicles, there are a variety of Arabic sources used in this thesis.

Treaties and correspondences, such as those translated in the Appendices, provide important political context and insight into negotiation rhetoric and tactics, especially when Ḥafṣid diplomatics were flourishing. Travel and merchants’ logs, such as the writings of al-Tījānī or the anonymous Italian Zibaldone da Canal, provide insight into the geography and society of

Ifiriqiya in a minute and exacting manner. Together with Arabic sources, this thesis makes use of

Latin treaties, as well as the Catalan chronicle by mercenary Ramon Muntaner. Born in 1265,

Muntaner’s life and occupation – first as a mercenary, then as a governor in North Africa – took him across the Mediterranean. His Chronicle covers the years between 1205 and 1328, and deeply reflect his devotion to the Aragonese crown. Thus, while his bias and agenda are clear, his chronicle is still an invaluable insight into the European perspective on events and rulers in

Ḥafṣid Ifriqiya.

Modern scholarship on the Ḥafṣids – like many areas of historical studies on North Africa

– springboards off the work of an early twentieth-century French Orientalist. Robert Brunschvig

(1901- 1990) was a scholar of Arabic language and Islamic history who lived and taught both in

France’s then North African colonies and France itself. He was a prolific writer, but his two volume work La Berbérie orientale sous les Ḥafṣides: Des origines à la fin du XVe siècle

(volume I was published in 1940, with its follow up coming seven years later in 1947) is of particular interest here. The work is thoroughly researched, and Brunschvig’s access to and use of primary sources in various languages make it an invaluable resource. Although centered on the Ḥafṣids, peppered throughout the work is the Mediterranean connections between wider

North Africa and southern Europe, anticipating by a few years the Mediterranean outlook

Fernand Braudel would bring to the fore in his seminal work. Although not its explicit focus,

Brunschvig’s La Berbérie too saw the Mediterranean as a interconnected system. With the

Ḥafṣids as the focus, Brunschvig emphasized the importance of the broader Mediterranean context. As yet, outside of Brunschvig monumental and still unmatched work, there have been no studies of the Ḥafṣids within their medieval Ifriqiyan context. While Brunschvig’s work is still an invaluable source, the Hafsids, Ifriqiya, and the sources need a fresher analytical approach.

More recent studies, such as the work of Ramzi Rouighi or Michael Lower, have begun to approach Ifriqiya in an alternative way. Rouighi’s The Making of a Mediterranean Emirate:

Ifriqiya and Its Andalusis, 1200-1400 is of particular value here. The book accomplishes not only a deep study of the antecedent political fragmentation in Ḥafṣid Ifriqiya, but also deftly reassesses the extant sources while analyzing the very concept of Ifriqiya and its development and conception as a distinct region. Michael Lower’s work on the Tunis Crusade and the Ḥafṣid sultan Ibn al-Liḥyānī similarly makes creative use of the sources and places the events and actors of the region within a broader Mediterranean context. These studies form a historiographic foundation for this thesis, which utilizes and builds off some of their arguments.

The Ḥafṣids were ultimately important and influential both in medieval Ifriqiyan history and, as Rouighi argues, in the development and the identity of the region thereafter. Before that was possible, however, the Ḥafṣid state had to be established. In roughly the first half century of its existence, several key geopolitical, regional, and administrative developments took place that affected not only the immediate shape of the young dynasty and their governance, but also the

subsequent tensions and concerns of later centuries. Starting with their Almohad connections, the

Ḥafṣid family prominence dates back to the very early days of the Almohads.

Chapter 2 The Ḥafṣids: The Generational Roots

Although the Ḥafṣids did not become a ruling dynasty until the mid-thirteenth century, their familial power and influence goes back decades before that. Ḥafṣid ties with the Almohad empire began at the Almohad naissance. Their eventual eponymous ancestor was Abū Ḥafṣ

ʿUmar b. Yaḥyā al-Hintātī,3 an important and highly regarded member of Maghrebi Hintāta tribe.

Although his prominence grew as his connection and friendship with savant religious figure and

Almohad founder Ibn Tumart developed, he was already a well established and politically savvy tribal leader beforehand.4 He brought that expertise to the then infantile Almohad movement, and his role in both Almohad political unification and military expertise was key to their early survival. He played a seminal role in defeating their rival Almoravids in battle, and Ibn Tumart was quick to elevate Abū Ḥafṣ’ status in Almohad hierarchy. The two men remained close allies, and the Ḥafṣid family enjoyed prestige even under Ibn Tumart’s successors.5 Abū Ḥafṣ was also an important architect of Almohad imperial ambitions after Ibn Tumart died and as his successor took on the mantel of caliph. Abū Ḥafṣ was noted too for his loyalty and adherence to the

Almohad religio-political doctrine.

The doctrine was central both to Almohad early inception under Ibn Tumart and their later policies and practices as they began to expand over the Maghreb and Iberian peninsula. In brief, Ibn Tumart rejected mainstream Sunni Islam and its jurisprudential methods, declared

3 Abū Ḥafṣ’ original name was Faskat u-Mzal Inti, an Amazigh name, but Ibn Tumart renamed him after one of the companions of the Prophet Muhammad. He did this with all of his earliest and closest companions. 4 Alan J. Fromherz, “Abū Ḥafṣ ʿUmar b. Yaḥyā al-Hintātī,” in Encyclopaedia of Islam III, ed. Kate Fleet, Gudrun Krämer, Denis Matringe, John Nawas, Everett Rowson (Brill, 2009). 5 Jamil M. Abun-Nasr, A history of the Maghrib in the Islamic period (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 118.

himself the mahdi (the awaited messiah), and emphasized strict tawḥid (adherence to monotheism). Ibn Tumart became a rival of the ruling Almoravids, but their differences stemmed from more than just political agitation and territorial rivalry. His religious ideology put him at a crossroads not only with their political legitimacy, but their theological legitimacy and challenged the efficacy of their Islamic practice. In writings attributed to him, Ibn Tumart declared anyone who disbelieved in his messianism a kafir, or disbeliever. Ibn Tumart, in short, represented both a political and theological existential threat to the Almoravids and their entire

Sunni apparatus.6 Given these stakes, the importance of Abū Ḥafṣ’ early involvement in their survival and success cannot be understated, and the family came to be associated to early

Almohad origins and survival. Even as later Almohad caliphs moved away from the original doctrine, the Abū Ḥafṣ family managed to adapt in a way that maintained both their power and their avowal to that doctrine. Somewhat ironically, it was that loyalty to the doctrine that eventually caused the splinter between the Almohads and Ḥafṣids.

In a few short years, the Almohad caliphate had transformed significantly from the inchoate Ibn Tumart days. For one, it became a caliphate. In 1133, one of Ibn Tumart’s important followers and supporters, ‘Abd al-Mu’min, became his successor; he rose to power and spearheaded a military mobilization of the tribal groups already motivated by Ibn Tumart’s

6 For more on the Almohad naissance and doctrine, see Allen J. Fromherz, The Almohads: The Rise of an Islamic Empire, (London: I.B.Tauris, 2010); Mercedes Garcia-Arenal, Messianism and Puritanical Reform: Mahdis of the Muslim West, trans. Martin Beagles (Leiden: Brill, 2006); Amira K. Bennison, “Almohad tawhid and its implications for religious difference,” Journal for Medieval Iberian Studies 2 no. 2 (2010): 195-216; and Pascal Buresi, Hicham El Aallaoui, and Travis Bruce, “Governing the Empire. Provincial Administration in the Almohad Caliphate (1224-1269): Critical Edition, Translation, and Study of Manuscript of the Husaniyya Library in Rabat Containing 77 Taqadim (“Appointments”), Brill 3 (2012): 30-37. For Ibn Tumart’s religio-political writings, see Ibn Tumart, Le Livre de Mohammed Ibn Toumert, ed. I. Goldziher, (Algiers, 1903).

revolutionary message.7 He was able to conquer Marrakesh and bring even more disparate mountainous tribes under the Almohad umbrella. He stifled dissident tribes along the Atlantic coast and punctuated those military wins with the assumption of the caliphal title.8 This marked an important shift in the character of Almohad leadership which would eventually influence the early Ḥafṣids too. The preceding Almoravids had never claimed to be caliphs, and never used the moniker amīr al-Muʾminīn, or “commander of the faithful,” because they had recognized the

Abbasid caliphal claim; the Almohads decidedly did not. ‘Abd al-Mu’min’s reign initiated the

Mu’minid dynasty. It was also under his reign that the Arab tribes became important sources of support of ‘Abd al-Mu’min and his burgeoning dynasty. They occupied much of Ifriqiya and it was allegedly to court their continued support that Abū Ḥafṣ withdrew his claim to Almohad succession and recognized ‘Abd al-Mu’min’s son.9 The Almohad movement was now a hereditary caliphate led by a family dynasty.

By the mid-thirteenth century, the Almohad hold on North Africa had been weakening generally for quite a while. Although Almohad territory was at its most expansive between the later twelfth to early thirteen centuries, that same period was plagued by rebellion and shifting local allegiances. From 1204 to 1205, Almohad caliph al-Nasir (r. 1199-1213) himself led an army from Marrakesh to Ifriqiya in order to root out rebel leaders. He managed to not only stifle wayward rebel leaders but to also set the foundations for the later Ḥafṣid dynasty; before returning to Marrakesh, he appointed Abū Ḥafṣ’ son ‘Abdulwaḥīd as viceroy of Ifriqiya.10 The

7 Maribel Fierro, “The Almohads (524–668/1130–1269) and the Ḥafṣids (627–932/1229–1526),” in The New Cambridge History of Islam, vol. II: The Western Islamic World, Eleventh to Eighteenth Centuries, ed. Maribel Fierro (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 70. 8 Ibid., 71. 9 Amar S. Baadj, Saladin, the Almohads and the Banū Ghāniya, (Leiden: Brill, 2015), 59. 10 Abun-Nasr, A history of the Maghrib,101.

position, at ‘Abdulwaḥīd’s insistence in fact, was intended to be a three year long temporary appointment. Somewhat ironically, ‘Abdulwaḥīd was incentivised to stay in power by increased authority over the appointment of subordinate officials and organization of the army. His position thus became permanent. Moreover, his appointment gave the Ḥafṣid name added credit as vital players in suppressing rebellious instability. In this way, this Almohad strategy came to be a part of their own downfall a few years down the line. Ibn Khaldūn described the Ḥafṣid family as having “made themselves independent” before they even officially became autonomous (described below).11 The Almohads had a hand in this when they transferred their trust from an individual (Abū Ḥafṣ) to a lineage, and the Ḥafṣids were effectively made independent rulers of Ifriqiya in all but name.12

In the meantime, the Almohads continue to face challenges to their rulership, and they would not outlast the century. The crumbling of Almohad power was multifaceted and complex.

The Almohads never quite recovered from their 1212 loss at Las Navas de Tolosa in Iberia. As a result, North Africa descended into a strange liminal state of unstable and distant imperial power versus restless and ambitious local powers. This was only compounded a decade later by squabbles over Almohad succession. In 1227 there were two rival Almohad caliphs: Abū al-‘Ula

Idris al-Ma’mun and Yaḥyā ibn al-Naṣir. In a bid to consolidate his contested claim, al-Ma’mun made a deal with Castilian king Fernando III for military support and troops. Fernando III granted him a group of mercenaries, and with them al-Ma’mun successfully conquered

11 Ibn Khaldūn, Muqaddimah,vol. I: Tarikh Ibn Khaldūn, Kitāb al-’ibar wa al-diwan al-mubtada’ wa al- khabar I (Beirut: Dar al-Kotob al-Ilmiyah, 2016), 229; Ibn Khaldūn and Franz Rosenthal, Muqaddimah, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1967), 373. 12 The Almohads initially tried to prevent this by precluding ‘Abdulwaḥīd’s son from inheriting the position and appointing another high ranking official as governor. When this new governor died, his son took over, but proved too instable and tyrannical a ruler. He was replaced with an Abū Ḥafṣ descendent Abu Muhammad ‘Abdallah. He brought along his brother, Abū Zakariyā Yaḥyā, who would soon play a major role in Ḥafṣid dynastic history. See Buresi, “Governing the Empire,” 78.

Marrakesh, the center of Almohad power in North Africa. In exchange, and in compliance with his alleged promise to Fernando III, al-Ma’mun authorized the construction of a cathedral in

Marrakesh, allowed for church bells to ring, and sanctioned the establishment of a North African bishopric.13 This presented an ideological problem for the Almohad ruler. The Almohad doctrine was a reflection of early Islamic stories and practices, and Almohad Marrakesh was developed to be a reflection of the holy cities Makkah and Medina, which is one reason non-Muslims were forbidden from residing there. Al-Ma’mun not only threatened the sanctity of the city, but had inadvertently linked his ambitions and “Christian military aid to the Almohads with the advancement of Latin Christianity in Morocco.”14 He went a step further, however, and explicitly renounced tenets of the Almohad doctrine, particularly the claim that Ibn Tumart was the mahdi.

In doing so, he gave the Ḥafṣids the opportunity to present themselves as inheritors and upholders of the doctrine, in stark contrast to al-Ma’mun who rejected it and “polluted” their capital. Moreover, al-Ma’mun’s doctrinal break was punctuated with the massacre of officials and elites, including members of the Hintāta tribe, of which the late Abū Ḥafṣ and his then gubernatorial grandson, Abū Zakariyā Yaḥyā, were members. The Christian allegiance provided a handy pretence against which Ḥafṣids could maintain an air of Islamic superiority, and the

Mu’minid break from Almohad doctrine only strengthened their position. The Ḥafṣids, who already cultivated a reputation as the pacifiers of Ifriqiya, could now claim to be the final upholders of the original Almohad doctrine. Of course, a cynically pragmatic reading of this would see it as an opportunistic grab for authority that the family was poised and ready to take for a long time. Indeed, the “Ḥafṣid” entry in the second edition of the Brill Encyclopedia of

13 Allen Fromherz, “North African and the Twelfth-century Renaissance: Christian Europe and the Almohad Islamic Empire,” Islam and Christian-Muslim Relations 20, no. 1 (2009): 50. 14 Michael Lower, ‘The Papacy and Christian Mercenaries of Thirteenth-Century North Africa,” Speculum 89, no. 3 (2014): 610.

Islam calls this a “pretence.”15 In Governing the Empire, Buresi calls it a “pretext.”16 But one must consider that the Ḥafṣids found political success under the Almohads, and had a vested interest in upholding their authority and religio-political structure. Al-Ma’mun’s renunciation of their foundational doctrine and problematic allegiances with Christian powers gave the Ḥafṣids the opportunity for power, but they might have also been genuinely chagrinned at what was akin to cultural and religious betrayal and felt duty bound to rescue the vestiges of their ideals. In any case, it provided an unusually smooth transfer of power to the family.

Thus, on a Friday somewhere in November or December of 1229, al-Ma’mun’s name was omitted from the khuṭbas (sermon) in Ifriqiya, both a symbolic and effective signal of change which would have been immediately recognizable to mosque attendees, and quickly spread.17 The Ḥafṣids claimed to be the continuation of the Almohads, and Ibn Khaldūn called them “Almohads” throughout his writing.18 Abū Zakariyā Yaḥyā became an amīr for some years before his name appeared in the khuṭba and he “claimed the Almohad caliphal throne for Tunis,” thereby affirming his sovereignty. 19 Although Abū Zakariyā Yaḥyā never took the title of caliph, he still firmly established Ḥafṣid sovereign independence. In 1230 he conquered Bijāya and

15 H.R. Idris, “Ḥafṣid,” Encyclopaedia of Islam II, ed. P. Bearman, Th. Bianquis, C.E. Bosworth, E. van Donzel and W.P. Heinrichs (Brill, 2005). 16 Buresi, “Governing the Empire,” 79, 196. 17 This political dimension the khuṭba has a long and storied history, with the political and social importance of ritual public speechifying dating back to pre-Islamic times in Arabia. But in this medieval North African context, khuṭbas had the added significance cultivated from the Almohad use of the tradition. Foremost, sermons were an important vector for Almohad ideology. Because they were so foundational in not only disseminating but also in creating and articulating their ideology, deviation from or resistance to the Almohad khuṭba was seen as opposition to the dynasty. By the Hafsid period, that For more, see Linda G. Jones, “The Preaching of the Almohads: Loyalty and Resistance across the Strait of Gibraltar,” Medieval Encounters 13 (2013): 71-101. And Linda G. Jones, The Power of Oratory in the Medieval Muslim World (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2012). 18 Robert Brunschvig, La Berbérie orientale sous les Ḥafṣides: Des origines à la fin du XVe siècle vol. II (Paris, Adrien Maisonnueve, 1947), 8. 19 Ibn Khaldūn, Tarikh ibn Khaldūn, Kitāb al-’ibar wa al-diwan al-mubtada’ wa al-khabar vol. VII (Beirut: Dar al-Kotob al-Ilmiyah, 2016), 94.

Constantine to the east of Tunis, and by 1234 he had gone as far west as Tripoli and dealt with the persistent rebel Ibn Ghāniya. The Ifriqiyan territory and term came to be tied to Ḥafṣid authority, even when Ḥafṣid power within it fluctuated over the centuries and the Ḥafṣid domain sometimes stretched further west. Abū Zakariyā Yaḥyā, for instance, made inroads further west into Tlemcen, and even incorporated Ceuta and Sijilmassa for a time.20 Beyond military conquests, Abū Zakariyā Yaḥyā began to make political and diplomatic allegiances and inroads.

At times, juggling the local rivalries became problematic; he had, for instance, an alliance with the local leader of Tlemcen that turned awry when he tried to court another ally, seemingly not realizing the two had a rivalry. As a result, his name was erased from the speeches at the pulpits of Tlemcen, as Ibn Khaldūn described it.21 Expanding the Ḥafṣid sphere of power was therefore not simply a matter of military conquest; regional politics and local allegiances were a vital aspect of lasting and successful conquest. Ifriqiya itself was still brimming with elite families who, like Abū Ḥafṣ, had been appointed to position there by the Almohads, and had since build up political and social status. In response, and perhaps in an effort to avoid entanglements with families of uncertain loyalties, Abū Zakariyā Yaḥyā “encouraged immigration of elite

Andalusis” and began to furnish his troops with Andalusi soldiers to avoid uncertain allegiances and ensure he had an administrative and military base that was solely tied to him.22 In post-

Almohad North Africa, he had to contend not only with the emergence of dynasties like the

Marinids (1217-1465) or the neighbouring ‘Abd al-Wadids (1236-1555), but local families, tribal leaders, and former Almohad officials. He managed, however, to subdue key Arab and Amazigh

20 Buresi, “Governing the Empire,” 83. 21 Ibn Khaldūn, Kitāb al-’ibar, VII, 95. 22 Ramzi Rouighi, “Hafsids,” in Encyclopaedia of Islam III, ed. Kate Fleet, Gudrun Krämer, Denis Matringe, John Nawas, Everett Rowson (Brill, 2009).

tribes in the region.23 Abū Zakariyā Yaḥyā is credited with establishing the Ḥafṣid claim and wringing allegiances and acknowledgement of the dynasty from his North African fellows, including the Marinids, and the Nasrids in Iberia.

Despite changing some of the make up of the administration, the Ḥafṣid dynasty in this early period retained aspects of Almohad structures. Ibn Khaldūn noted that one of the most powerful government positions was the wazīr entitled “Shaykh of the Almohads,” a position with a long Almohad history. The shaykh (plural shuyūkh) was originally akin to that of a senator on a council, but after the Almohad movement became a caliphate, the position got demoted to advisor or subordinate to the governors who were appointed from among the ruling family. But that is not to say they were rendered powerless by the Almohad caliphate, and in some circumstances – like that of the Abū Ḥafṣ family – the shaykh enjoyed a very comfortable proximity to the caliph and to effective power. Under the Almohads, they were able to appoint and support one another for powerful administrative and military positions.24 The early Ḥafṣid caliphs modified the shaykh role, and they were no longer able to independently appoint officials. Although the Ḥafṣids would gradually move away from certain Almohad institutions and structures of government, the Shaykh of the Almohads had greater longevity.

As Ibn Khaldūn noted, Almohad-era elites and offices retained power within the Ḥafṣid bureaucracy for a time, before they were replaced or slowly made irrelevant by new offices and officials.25 He also mentioned that the Ḥafṣids particularly liked employing Andalusis in notarial, secretarial, and tax-related work. This early shift from prioritizing Almohad elites to preferring foreigners percolated down to several administrative offices over the course of their rule. The

23 Fierro, “The Almohads and the Ḥafṣids,” 89. 24 Brunschvig, La Berbérie orientale, II, 48. 25 Ibn Khaldūn, Muqaddimah, 191; Rosenthal, 318.

Ḥafṣid court thus slowly began its move away from Almohad norms, though they retained the same religio-political doctrine in this early period. The Shaykh of the Almohads was a strategic retention, reflective of a new elite that developed after the Ḥafṣid ascension. They were families, mostly connected to military aristocracy, whose positions were established by the Almohads.

Like the Ḥafṣids, they too claimed affinity to the Almohad doctrine and retained Almohad connections. These “Ḥafṣid Almohads,” as historian Michael Lower calls them,26 helped the regime come to power by providing the Alomhad continuity that was so necessary to the Ḥafṣid claim. Their presence extended beyond Tunis, with Ḥafṣid Almohads attested in Bijāya,

Constantine, and Tripoli.27 In later decades, as the next chapter will elucidate, this presented problems for the Ḥafṣid rulership. A group of elites who were once the penultimate authority, second only to the distant Almohad caliphs in Marrakesh, they were made redundant by a new ruler in Ifriqiya who kept them around in a much-diluted state. A clash between the Ḥafṣid central authority and these increasingly discontented elites was almost inevitable.

The Almohad dissolution was not only an opportunity for powerful men in North Africa to realize their ambitions, but also presented economic and political opportunities for European powers. Across the Mediterranean pond, changes in Iberia and political shifts in the papacy brought North Africa a new kind of European attention. As Tunis and other Ifriqiyan coastal cities became elevated by their centrality to Ḥafṣid power, they too became trade and diplomacy hubs. The Ḥafṣids geopolitical and strategic position in Ifriqiya was not always advantageous, however. Local elites and tribal confederacies in the region were now in closer proximity to a major capital than they had been in the Almohad era. As discussed in the second chapter, the

26 Michael Lower, “Ibn al-Lihyani: sultan of Tunis and would-be Christian convert (1311-18),” Mediterranean Historical Review 24, no. 1 (2009): 18. 27 Brunschvig, La Berbérie orientale, II, 50.

Ḥafṣids were often hard pressed to deal with them and retain their authority. At the same time, heightened interaction with Europe meant both the potential for unwelcome meddling and the need to present a strong and capable political face. Furthermore, ecclesiastic interest in North

Africa took on a new tone in the thirteenth century.

The Ḥafṣids and the Mediterranean World

The Ḥafṣid’s reorientation of the Mediterranean made Tunis their administrative capital, elevating it from simply a port city to an important diplomatic center.28 The above section stressed the politically poised position that led to Ḥafṣid independence. Geography was another major boon to Abū Zakariyā Yaḥyā. Ifriqiya had always been quite separate from the Almohad hubs of the far west, and even more so from the Iberian ones. It was also blessed with several important port locations, such as Tunis and Bijāya (which were where the Almohads had at one time stationed their fleet),29 and other notable cities like Mahdiya, Constantine, and Kairouan. As the dynasty developed into a sultanate, the strategic and enviable location became both a boon and a liability. The Ḥafṣid position both physically in Ifriqiya and their political and military contexts shaped both their internal and external policies in particular ways. This was especially apparent in their dealings with European powers. The late thirteenth century saw heightened interest from Europe, particularly as Latin Christendom began to take a new approach to crusader ideals.

28 As the next chapter will discuss, this relocation also made the longstanding Ifriqiyan disunity, particularly that of the Tripoli, a threat to the capital in a way that was more immediate than when the Almohads ruled with their power centered on the western Maghreb and Iberia. 29 This is only to further emphasize the importance and strategy of the locations. The Almohad fleets were by the thirteenth century if not totally defunct, impotent and often in need of supplementation from European counterparts.

European secular and ecclesiastic authorities were increasingly interested in North

Africa. With a new ruler, Tunis began to attract more diplomatic and economic attention from those on northern Mediterranean coasts, especially the Spanish and Italians. Iberian Muslims, as noted above, began to emigrate to Ḥafṣid Ifriqiya. Crucially, North Africa also became a location of interest for a revived crusading spirit, heightened only by diplomatic relations with Christian authorities based in Morocco.30 Franciscan orders became drawn to North Africa in the early thirteenth century, and tales of proselytizing friars on missions to Morocco abounded.31 The attention and gravity of their work was only heightened when, in 1220, a group of Franciscan friars in Marrakesh were killed.32 Their deaths not only made the missionary endeavours infamous but added a sense of sacrifice and zealous importance. The papacy became increasingly involved, with missionary programs launched in the 1220’s. Pope Innocent IV in 1246 called on several European kings, archbishops, and bishops to support the newly appointed bishop of

Morocco, Lope Fernandez, in his efforts to preach to and convert Muslims there.33 Christian missions served to support existing pockets of Christians in North Africa, but to also continue the work of conversion and to create formal dioceses and a stronger community out of the scattered and disparate Christians there. Moreover, monarchs like Fernando III had a long game, and yearned to extend the successes of the Christian monarchs against Muslim Iberian polities into

30 Olga Cecilia Méndez González, “Lope Fernández, Bishop of Morocco: His Diplomatic Role in the Planning of an Anglo-Castilian Crusade into Northern Africa,” in Thirteenth-Century England XIV: Proceedings of the Aberystwyth and Lampeter Conference, 2011, ed. Janet Burton, Phillip Schofield, and Björn Weiler (Woodbridge, UK: Boydell Press, 2013), 102. 31 The veracity of such tales is still up for debate, but the prevalence and influence of the martyrdom stories, and the friars’ subsequent lionization, highlight the growing attitude towards North Africa as a new frontier for the spread of Christendom. See González, “Lope Fernandez,” 101-104. 32 Michael Lower, “The Papacy and Christian Mercenaries of Thirteenth-Century North Africa,” Speculum 89, no. 3 (2014): 618. 33 Luke Wadding, Annales Minorum seu Trium Ordinum a S. Francisco intitutorum III (Florence, 1931), 154.

North Africa.34 That was never realized, and Lope Fernandez was never able to take up his post in Morocco,35 but these instances reflect the tenor and determination of secular Spanish and broader European ecclesiastic ambitions in North Africa. Episcopal missions became increasingly difficult as Almohad power waned, but the North African demand for mercenaries grew in parallel. The papacy began to see Christian mercenaries as a means for their long game of Christianizing North Africa.36 They went so far as to support plans for an “African Crusade,” and granted indulgences to any men who intended to participate.37 Christian or not, the papacy and mercenaries were certainly strange bedfellows.38 But the thirteenth century politics of North

Africa – perpetually disjointed and increasingly reliant on foreign troops – allowed ecclesiastic authorities to become increasingly hopeful and invested in their plans to Christianize it, even though it had not had a serious Christian stronghold in centuries.39 European ecclesiastic authorities had long sought to bolster a Christian presence in North Africa, as evidenced by the

34 González, “Lope Fernandez,” 104. 35 González, “Lope Fernandez,” 113. This was partly due to Almohad losses to the Marinids who, similarly to the Ḥafṣids, initially rejected the Almohad flirtation with Christian kings and mercenaries. It was too unstable and dangerous for Fernandez to travel there and spread “the good word.” 36 Lower, “The Papacy,” 603. 37 Ibid. And González, “Lope Fernandez,” 105. 38 For more on the transition between twelfth century papal prohibitions on aiding Muslims to their almost complete policy inversion by the late thirteenth, see Lower, “The Papacy,” 605-607. See also John V. Tolan, “Taking Gratian to Africa: Raymond de Penyafort’s legal advice to the Dominicans and Franciscans in Tunis (1234),” in A Faithful Sea: The Religious Cultures of the Mediterranean, 1200- 1700, ed. Adnan A. Husain and K. E. Fleming (Oxford: Oneworld Publications, 2007), 50-56. 39 Christianity in North Africa had a slow and protracted period of decline. By the twelfth century, it is difficult to ascertain if any significant indigenous Christian communities still existed in the region. For more, see Dominique Valerian, "La permanence du christianisme au Maghreb: L'apport problématique des sources latines," in Islamisation et arabisation de l'Occident musulman médiéval (VlIe-XIIe siècle), ed. Dominique Valerian (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 2011); Mark A. Handley, "Disputing the End of African Christianity," in Vandals, Romans , and Berbers: New Perspectives on Late Antique North Africa, ed. A. H. Merrills (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004); Mohamed Talbi, "Le christianisme maghrébin de la conquête musulmane à sa disparition: Une tentative d'explication," in Conversion and Continuity : Indigenous Christian Communities in Islamic Lands , Eighth to Eighteenth Centuries, ed. Michael Gervers and Ramzi Jibran Bikhazi, Papers in Mediaeval Studies 9 (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1990).

attempts at missionary intervention. In the thirteenth and going into the fourteenth century, mercenaries came to hold a significant ideological potential to the papacy. Along side mercenaries, diplomats, merchants, captives, and other transient Christians became an important religious population in North Africa, for whom the papacy became interested in assisting; they began a program of more formal deployment of clergy for pastoral care and began to make diplomatic overtures to Muslim leaders on behalf of Christians working, living, or languishing in captivity in North Africa.40

Thirteenth century popes began to develop policies with several goals in mind: first and foremost, they had a crusading and Christianizing prerogative; small Christian populations in

North Africa were seen as agents to this larger goal. Of course, the papacy had to ensure that these communities were supported and that they were not harmed by or absorbed into Muslim society. Popes and kings, like Fernando III, worked to ensure the mercenaries in North Africa had the ability to practice Christianity as freely as possible, particularly to avoid them feeling tempted to abandon it. As such, the aforementioned deal between Almohad caliph al-Ma’mun and Fernando III was a carefully constructed agreement inseparable from the trends highlighted above. When Pope Innocent IV dispatched Lope Fernandez, his directive was similarly part of a larger Christianization project. The Pope had his sights not only on Morocco, but explicitly mentioned Tunis and Bijāya, among others.41 Notably, this mission represented a new kind of

Christianizing tactic, as it had no violent directives. It was promoted to various secular and ecclesiastic authorities in Europe and called for support and participants in the way that a crusade was traditionally promoted but did not advertise a militaristic aspect. As well, the bishop was

40 Lower, “The Papacy and Christian Mercenaries,” 616-620. 41 Ibid., 623.

also expected to fulfill a diplomatic purpose by delivering a letter from the Pope to the then

Almohad caliph. In it, he praises Christian mercenaries who aided the Muslim ruler. The establishment of an independent state in Ifriqiya brought with it economic growth, which in turn attracted European traders and, in turn, the papacy’s pastoral and proselytizing attention.42

Abū Zakariyā Yaḥyā complemented his Ifriqiyan territorial strides with treaties and negotiations with the Italians, Spanish, and even French, evidenced by treaties signed with Pisa,

Genoa, Venice, Aragon, and Provence.43 He began paying tribute to Frederic II in order to facilitate maritime trade to Tunis. He signed peace treaties with Venice in 1231, Pisa in 1234, and Genoa in 1236.44 These treaties, and the many more that followed over the course of Ḥafṣid history, afforded merchants a significant level of protection and controlled integration into the

Ifriqiyan port cities. Christian merchants were promised safety on both land and sea.45 Legal restitution was promised to wronged Venetians, who were under the special protection of the diwān.46 To support the influx of European merchants, Abū Zakariyā expanded Ifriqiyan markets and constructed and expanded commercial institutions, such as the funduq (plural fanadiq), for

Christian merchants. The fanadiq boasted several amenities; first, they had an in-house consul who handled both trade and legal issues within the community, affording them a level of internal autonomy.47 As would become standard, the funduq also granted them an exclusive chapel,

42 John V. Tolan, “Taking Gratian to Africa: Raymond de Penyafort’s legal advice to the Dominicans and Franciscans in Tunis (1234),” in A Faithful Sea: The Religious Cultures of the Mediterranean, 1200- 1700, ed. Adnan A. Husain and K. E. Fleming (Oxford: Oneworld Publications, 2007), 47-56. 43 Fierro, “The Almohads and the Ḥafṣids,” 89. 44 Venice-Tunis 1231 Treaty in M. L. de Mas Latrie, Traites de paix et de commerce: Document divers concernant les relations de Chretiens aves les Arabes de l’Afrique septentrionale au Moyen Age, vol. II (New York: Burt Franklin, 1866), 196-199; Pisan-Tunis 1234 Treaty in Michele Amari, I Diplomi Arabi del R. Archivo Fiorentino (1863), 292-294, and in Mas Latrie, Traites de paix, II, 31-35; and in the 1236 treaty with Genoa can be found in Mas Latrie, Traites de paix, II, 116-118. 45 Venice-Tunis 1231, Mas Latrie, Traites de paix, II, 196. 46 Venice-Tunis 1231, Mas Latrie, Traites de paix, II, 196; Mas Latrie, Traites de paix, I, 85. 47 Venice-Tunis 1231, Mas Latrie, Traites de paix, II, 197.

cemetery, a communal oven, and weekly access to a bathhouse.48 The modern translation of funduq to “inn” or “hotel” does not fully reflect the medieval Mediterranean funduq. Rather, they are more accurately described as a compound or even a “kind of city.”49 Walled and situated near the bazaars or marketplaces, they were clearly not just lodging spaces but a way to insure as little foreigner free roaming as possible, while also facilitating valuable trade. Ḥafṣid authorities did want to encourage Christian commercial activity in Ifriqiya, and fanadiq provided foreign merchants with lodging and security, and a place to practice their religion separate from the rest of the city. This also gave the opportunity for Muslim rulers to monitor and control Christian merchants, ensure their wares were taxed, and keep them from unsupervised access to the local social and economic spheres.50 Christian treaty partners also made specific arrangements for their comfort, privacy, and safety within a particular city and within their compound. The

Christian treaty negotiators were meticulous in their stipulations, and in some cases inter-

Christian tensions made their way into treaty clauses. The 1234 Pisan treaty, for instance, allowed them to expand their funduq and build a wall between the Pisan and the Genoese compound to insure that “ne possint ire ad illos nec illi ad istos.”51 The treaties also mandated and governed additional fanaduq in other Ifiriqiyan cities, including Bijāya, Tripoli, Sfax,

“Bone,”52 Gabes, and Mahdiya. While references to cities indicated European desire to trade and set up mercantile roots and therefore the cities’ economic importance, geographic stipulations

48 Pisa-Tunis 1234, Mas Latrie, Traites de paix, II, 32; Olivia Constable Remie, Housing the Stranger in the Mediterranean World: Lodging, Trade, and Travel in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 129. These privileges are also attested in later fourteenth century treaties discussed in Chapter 2. 49 Mas Latrie, Traites de paix, I, 89. 50 Olivia Constable Remie, Housing the Stranger in the Mediterranean World: Lodging, Trade, and Travel in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 109. 51 Pisan-Tunis 1234, Mas Latrie, Traites de paix, II, 33. 52 Modern-day Annaba on the Algerian coast.

also allowed Abū Zakariyā Yaḥyā to assert the reach of his control and the expansiveness of his domains, as well as aspirations for further expansion. The 1236 document signed with Genoa, for instance, declared his control (and enforcement of the treaty) from “Tripoli de Barbaria usque ad fines regni Buzee [Bijāya]” and any more lands the Ḥafṣids would acquire.53 Beyond impressing upon his European partners the range of his authority and the promise of expansion, the expansion imperative highlighted the importance of continued consolidation of Ḥafṣid rule within Ifriqiya.54

At the time of Abū Zakariyā Yaḥyā’s death in 1249, his work had consolidated Ḥafṣid rule within Ifriqiya rather enviably and seemingly securely. His son Abu ‘Abdallah Muhammad al-Mustanṣir (r. 1249-1277) became ruler that year and was said to have enjoyed support from both established elites and the public.55 He made the bold move to take the caliphal title amīr al- mu’minīn al-Mustanṣir Bi’llah in 1253.56 Although Abū Zakariyā Yaḥyā claimed to be the legitimate heir to the Almohad caliphate, he never took the caliphal epithet explicitly. That said, his move towards independence did attract attention, especially from hagiographic chroniclers and supplicant allegiance-seekers, who used the epithet “caliph” in their appeals or panegyric about him.57 In al-Mustanṣir’s case, the timing and circumstances were ideal for the claim, which was also a declaration of his power and authority to Muslim rulers beyond Ifriqiyan shores. The

1250’s saw global changes which positively impacted his reign and made it an opportune

53 Genoa-Tunis 1236, Mas Latrie, Traites de paix, II, 116. The “regni Buzee” was not to exclude Bijāya from Ḥafṣid control as its own territory, but a reference to its historical importance as a port capital. 54 Not long afterward, in 1238, Abu Zakariya Yahya had to stifle a rebellion orchestrated by recalcitrant tribal leaders, administrative officials, and Almohads elites. Among their transgressions was harassment of travellers, precisely the kinds of occurrences the treaties above claimed to be able to prevent and prosecute. See Brunschvig, La Berbérie orientale, vol. I, 29-30. 55 Al-Zarkashi, Tarīkh al-dawlatayn al-Muwaḥidiya w al-Ḥafṣiya (Tunis: Librairie El Atika, 1998), 69. 56 The full name translates to “Commander of the Faithful, the one who seeks victory through God.” 57 Brahim Jadla, “Al-Mustanṣir billāh al-Ḥafṣi: Triumph and troubles of the Last Caliph of Islam,” The Journal of North African Studies 24, no. 4 (2020): 614-616.

moment to update his credentials; firstly, the other, once strong, claimants to caliph-ship, the

Abbasids, were in a state of collapse, having lost Baghdad to the Mongol invasions. To the west,

Islamic Iberia was similarly wracked by the Christian “reconquista” onslaught, and major cities like Córdoba and Seville were lost by the time al-Mustanṣir came to power. Across the Strait of

Gibraltar in the Maghreb, the remnants of the Almohads were in direct conflict with the Banu

Marin, which would eventually become the Marinid dynasty. Unlike Ḥafṣid Ifriqiya, however, the transfer of power was not smooth or bloodless, and the Almohad-Marinid struggle was compounded by local unrest and uprisings from other tribes. In contrast, Ḥafṣid Ifriqiya was both stable and in the hands of a family that had claims to Almohad legitimacy and doctrine, which still had traction among tribes and urban communities in North Africa. Rather than expand territorially as his father had, al-Mustanṣir worked on consolidating Ḥafṣid holdings in Ifriqiya and establishing the Ḥafṣid dynastic name. His reign saw increased diplomatic and economic overtures, with ambassadorial trips from as far as Norway and the African kingdom of Kanem and Bornu.58 He received a letter from the sherif of Mecca recognizing him as caliph, and the

Marinids sent a delegation to Ḥafṣid Tunis in recognition of al-Mustanṣir’s suzerainty. The dynasty, based in Tunis, was rather swiftly becoming a notable player in the Islamicate and broader Mediterranean world. These overtures were not necessarily just signs of Ḥafṣid influence or strength of claim, however. For the Marinids, who were still struggling to establish themselves, offering the Ḥafṣids their bay’a, or pledge of allegiance, was a layered strategy.

Urban communities, to whom religious legitimacy was a major factor in accepting overrule from any dynasty, were vehemently opposed to the Marinids and their attempts to rule over former

Almohad lands.59 By recognizing the Ḥafṣids, the Marinids could at once acknowledge and

58 Fierro, “The Almohads and the Ḥafṣids,” 89-90. 59 Abun-Nasr, A history of the Maghrib, 104.

attach themselves, albeit subserviently, to a non-Almohad entity with doctrinal legitimacy, while also avoiding direct conflict due to the distance from Ḥafṣid Ifriqiya.60 In this way, they could rebrand themselves to urban communities as reformers or upholders of an accepted religio- political tradition. Even with those contexts and motives, however, it suggests that the Ḥafṣid reputation had grown significantly by the time al-Mustanṣir came to power; the Marinids could only utilize Ḥafṣid influence and religious legitimacy if it had become not just known but accepted as widely as the far western Maghreb, and the Marinids maintained their acknowledgement of Ḥafṣid suzerainty until they conquered Marrakesh in 1269 and had a stronger foundation from which to make their own sovereign claims.61 Pledges from further afield reflect a similar progression in the Ḥafṣid dynastic influence and claim. By this point, then, the Ḥafṣid state was poised to shift its identity once more, this time to caliphate. The most significant in terms of religious and caliphal legitimacy was certainly the bay’a from Mecca, which likely arrived in writing to Tunis in 1258, after the fall of the Abbasids.62 Brahim Jadla, in a 2020 article, questions the authenticity of the document and suggests it was a Ḥafṣid forgery.63

This is certainly possible, the paucity of sources makes it difficult to ascertain. But even if a forgery, it still points both to the broadness of the Ḥafṣid claim and additions to their rhetoric and religious claims to legitimacy. The alleged forgery was also produced when they were receiving real and verified allegiances from various parts of the then Muslim world. Ibn Khaldūn reproduces the full letter, allegedly transcribed and brought to Tunis by a known Sufi scholar who had been banished from the capital.64 In it, al-Mustanṣir was declared the “caliph of the

60 Ibid. 61 Ibid. 62 Jadla, “Al-Mustanṣir billāh al-Ḥafṣi,” 617. 63 Ibid., 616-619. 64 Ibn Khaldūn, Kitāb al-’ibar, VI, 322-331.

whole community [millah], and this is the evidence, clearer than a fire on a mountain,”65 which was the central theme and purpose of the documents. The prose directly alluded to or borrowed the language of the holy book; in one section he was described as “severe in his power” shadīd al-baṭsh, a clear reference to the Qur’anic verse Ina baṭsha rabbika la shadīd “Indeed the crushing grip of your Lord is severe.”66 He was not only elevated as God’s caliph, but was described as a descendent of Umar, one of the Prophet’s closest companions and the second of al-Khulafāʾ al-Rāshidūn, or Rightly Guided Caliphs; the bay’a document was peppered with statements like “May God be satisfied his caliph, chosen from the line of Umar, companion of

His messenger.”67 It even went so far as to compare and relate al-Mustanṣir and his legitimacy, authority, and conduct to the companions and Prophet:

His [al-Mustanṣir’s] tradition [sunnah] is that of Muhammad, his conduct [sīrah] is that of Abu Bakr, his spirit [sarīrah] is that of ‘Ali, and his line of descent [silālah] is that of ‘Umar.68 Statements such as these not only give the Hafsids a noble lineage, they also subtly change the tenor of religious legitimacy away from the hitherto prevailing Almohad ideology. The

Almohad’s Ibn Tumart claimed to be the awaited mahdi, his successors took the mantle of caliph, and Ibn Tumart’s biographies were written in such a way as to mirror the sirah, or life, of the Prophet; by claiming Umarian descent, al-Mustanṣir at once moved away from that eschatological rhetoric while also affirming his claims to caliphate and inheritance from Ibn

Tumart; at the same time, they overrode the caliphal claims of the Mu’minid dynasty and remaining Almohads in the west. The Mu’minid dynasty and any Almohad survivors of their

65 Ibid., 325. 66 Qur’an, 85:12. 67 Ibn Khaldūn, Kitāb al-’ibar, VI, 323. 68 Ibid., 326.

struggles with the Marinids were implicitly relegated to the status of pretenders or illegitimate rulers. Of course, the Hafsids had already challenged Mu’minid legitimacy when they first took power in Ifriqiya, but this added layer of Umarian descent bolstered the Ḥafṣid claim and suggested that the family were not just upholding Ibn Tumart’s legacy, but that they had familial legitimacy in their own descent from a righteous caliph and companion of the Prophet. That al-

Mustansir was able to develop such claims also speaks to the Ḥafṣid geopolitical position and their readiness to shape their state and rhetoric according to their circumstances. This bay’a, with

Meccan authority behind it, associated the Ḥafṣids with a companion who was a fabled statesman and an important figure in the development of an Islamic empire in the early Middle

Ages, in a time of global Islamic political weakness.

The Ḥafṣids were therefore coming up in an Islamicate world newly bereft of either a western or eastern caliphate. Moreover, al-Andalus was under existential threat from Latin conquest, and the Mongol horde had subjected most of the Muslim East apart from the Levant and Egypt. In these circumstances, al-Mustanṣir found himself conceivably the most established and authoritative Muslim figure in the Islamic world. As will become a recurring strategy, the

Ḥafṣid state modeled itself based on its circumstances. Ḥafṣid dynasts calculated politically not only based on internal developments but also the broader global geopolitical context. Their decisions signaled great awareness of both the Mediterranean context and the broader changes in

Muslim state-ship than scholarly works often has recognized. The interconnections the Ḥafṣids achieved in such a short time are indicative of both their stable rise to power and their attention to their geopolitical position. Moreover, under al-Mustanṣir, diplomatic and commercial relations with Europe expanded significantly. Not long after al-Mustanṣir came to power, he concluded

two treaty negotiations with Italian states Venice and Genoa. He also began hiring Italian mercenaries for himself in Tunis.69

Part of the imperial and caliphal project was to create an economic and diplomatic hub out of Tunis. With al-Mustanṣir’s reign, Tunis became an important Mediterranean economic and diplomatic destination. Italian records over the period indicate the growing prominence of the Ḥafṣids, particularly after 1250 and al-Mustanṣir’s ascension.70 His reign created the opportunity to renew truces previously signed with the Italian republics. In October 1250, a treaty promising peace with “communi Janue et universis Januensibus” was signed.71 The

“communis Januenses” here were the Genoese community in Ifriqiya. A few months later, another was signed with Venice.72 With Sicily, the Ḥafṣid relationship went beyond merely peace and commerce treaties, and the Ḥafṣids became involved with Sicilian politics and allied with the Hohenstaufen side. Hohenstaufen loyalists initially sought refuge in Ḥafṣid Tunis.73

Sicily and Tunis became increasingly intertwined. In 1254, Pope Innocent IV appointed a

Sicilian consul in Tunis, “the city of the Saracens.”74 Ifriqiya was not necessarily a reluctant recipients to these attentions; in fact, they were increasingly in need of sea based trade and amicable agreements with various European powers. While religio-politically advantaged, the

69 Michael Lower, The Tunis Crusade of 1270: A Mediterranean History (New York: Oxford University Press, 2018), 43. 70 Dominique Valérian, “Commercial relations between the Hafsids and Christian powers under the reign of al-Mustanṣir,” The Journal of North African Studies 26, no. 4 (2021): 655. 71 Genoa-Tunis 1250, Mas Latrie, Traites de paix, 118-121. The treaty called al-Mustanṣir “Boadile,” a Latinization of his Arabic kunya Abu ‘Abdallah, and correctly identified his as “regem Tunexis.” Notably, however, it still referred to Moadinni, or Almohads, throughout. This is likely a reflection of the sense of closeness to the Almohads that the early Hafsids maintained. 72 Genoa-Tunis 1250, Mas Latrie, Traites de paix, 199-202. 73 Hussien Fancy, “Theologies of Violence: The Recruitment of Muslim Soldiers by the Crown of Aragon,” Past & Present 221, no. 1 (2013): 48. 74 Les Registres d’Innocent IV (1243–1254) recueil des bulles de ce pape. t. 3., ed. Elie Berger, (Paris: Thorin et Fontemoing, 1897), 539.

Ḥafṣids were struggling economically. The near century of sporadic conflicts in Ifriqiya – from the late twelfth for mid-thirteenth century – were devastating to the Ifriqiyan agricultural and textile industries, among others.75 The Saharan trade routes that were maintained by Almohad rulership were disrupted and the Ḥafṣids eventually lost them to the Marinids and a generally weak presence in the southern parts of Ifriqiya. Ibn Khaldūn, rather unsurprisingly, noted and disparaged the Ḥafṣid rulers’ life of luxury and ostentation and the decadent excesses involved in urban capital Tunis, all while the countryside had been long ravaged by decades of conflict and abuse from transient armies.76 By al-Mustanṣir’s time, the economic and agricultural productivity – outside of sea trade – was low, and the early Ḥafṣids did not do much to stoke it.

With European trade already going steadily for several decades, al-Mustanṣir focused on this established and promising economic opportunity. Part of his strategy was to invest heavily in the development of Tunis, with the construction of elaborate gardens, hunting grounds, pavilions, and palace renovations.77 This bolstered the prestige and reputation of the new caliph, while also constructing a new look for the capital city, which helped attract both diplomatic and economic interest from the wider Mediterranean. State money was also used to fund mercenaries and militias. These foreign fighters did not come cheap, and the Ḥafṣids had to extract taxes from the reluctant and neglected countryside. Tax collecting methods under Abū Zakariyā Yaḥyā were inefficient, unstandardized, and unstable; there was no standard method, amount, or method of recording taxation, and it was conducted by militias led by local leaders. On at least one occasion, al-Mustanṣir had a local tax collector executed on charges of cheating.78 The caliph

75 Patricia Kozlik Kabra, “Patterns of Economic Continuity and Change in Early Hafsid Ifriqiya” (PhD diss., University of California, Los Angeles, 1994), 263-305. 76 Kabra, “Patterns of Economic Continuity,” 263-305. 77 Ibid., 274. 78 Ibid., 275.

sought to reform and even overhaul the system, and mercenaries became one of the new regime tactics. Al-Mustanṣir began to dispatch Christian mercenaries to collect tax, and the fact that they were gathering their own salaries must have been no small incentive. In their depressed economic state, the already discontented countryside became ill at ease both with the Christian mercenaries and their taxation stress, which was compounded by the growing opulence of the caliphal palaces and grounds in Tunis. These tensions will become a theme in Ḥafṣid Ifriqiya for the next several decades, and it became increasingly necessary for the state to create strategies to balance both their claim to power in Tunis, their foreign relations, and internal discontent and even rebellion.

It became clear early in al- Mustanṣir’s reign that internal consolidation was far more urgent than outward expansion. Familial and Almohad elite tensions were compounded by growing Bedouin unrest. His caliphal year alone, 1253, saw three separate uprisings. The

Dawawida Bedouins tribe, that had once plagued his father, rose in rebellion once more, this time with aid of his own brother, Abū Isḥāq. The Hintātī governors appointed by Abū Zakariyā

Yaḥyā to manage Constantine themselves revolted; al-Mustanṣir himself was partly to blame for this, as he executed members of their family when their prominence in Constantine started to feel threatening.79 And just as troublesome, though rather differently motivated, was a rebellion led by a self-proclaimed messiah who sprung up in Saharan regions of Algeria.80 In all cases, various

Bedouin groups were involved with and propped up these agitations, proving the military and therefore political role armed Bedouin groups began to play in the distribution of power in

Ḥafṣid Ifriqiaya. Although occasionally Pyrrhic in victory, al-Mustanṣir did manage to quash, or

79 Rouighi, Mediterranean Emirate, 35. 80 Lower, Tunis Crusade, 61.

at least delay, all those uprisings. Over the course of the 1260’s, the caliph worked to marginalise and dissolve the rebellious Bedouin coalitions that had formed. He broke up the tribal groups by driving some factions away from their homelands and into the Sahara, while wheeling and dealing with others to win them to his side and use them to infiltrate tribal political factions. The

Dawawida Bedouins were fractured in just this way.81 As a final act, when a delegation from a branch of Dawawida that al-Mustanṣir had not reconciled with arrived to negotiate with the caliph and his new allies, which included members of the delegation’s kin, he had them executed and their severed heads displayed.82 His Christian mercenary soldiers were key to these operations. But if al-Mustanṣir still felt that he could maintain his rule without support and cooperation from Bedouin groups, he was soon disabused of that notion by an unlikely and unwelcome event: the 1270 Crusade.

The 1270 Crusade into Tunis headed by Louis IX, king of France, may initially seem a continuation – albeit a decidedly more aggressive one – of European military and religious intervention in Ifriqiya. But it was also an outcome of the noxious mix of all the elements I have sketched out in this chapter so far: Ḥafṣid religio-political prominence and promotion of their state as a caliphate and their capital Tunis as an urbanized Islamic centre, economic and agricultural weakness and dependence on European trade, the disjointed internal administration, disgruntled countryside and tribal leaders, and all the different types of European involvement in the region. Although the motives and events leading up to the crusade and choice of Tunis as a destination are still the subject of scholarly inquiry, there is no question that Ifriqiya’s meteoric growth in geopolitical prominence was a key factor. Ibn Khaldūn believed that it stemmed from

81 Ibid., 109. 82 Ibid.

a financial dispute involving the aforementioned cheating – and subsequently executed – tax collector:

…they [the Franks] decided to covertly move against Tunis in order to claim money. Merchants [residing in Tunis] from their lands claimed that they had lent money to al- Lulanyi [the condemned tax collector]. When the sultan had him executed, they asked the sultan for the owed amount, which was 300,000 dinars, and received no answer…they grew angry at this and complained to their tyrant, who resented this and sought to invade Tunis when it was beset by famine and plague. And so, the French sent the Tyrant of the Franks, named Saint Louis son of Louis [King Louis IX, son of Louis VIII] known as…the king of France. He sent word to the Christian kings, calling on them [to join] his invasion…83 In this narrative, a crusading expedition is represented as an inside job stemming from financial grievance connected intimately with Ḥafṣid administrative failures. Of course, the “Frankish tyrant” and plotting merchants were the malevolent protagonists, but there is too a sense of

Ḥafṣid culpability. Beyond the monetary conflict, treaties like those discussed above enabled the presence and, therefore, potential threat from Christian merchants. This could also be a reflection of Ibn Khaldūn’s own anxieties. Writing from hindsight in the mid-fourteenth century and with his particular socio-historical mindset, this crusading backstory, alongside his descriptions of

Tunisian urban opulence and the disconnect between the urban and the rural, falls squarely within his interpretation of a weakening ruler and polity. This rhetoric also served as excellent

Khaldunian foreshadowing for the dynastic troubles that would follow al-Mustanṣir, discussed in the next chapter. Thematically, he was not all off the mark: even if a crusade had not been launched, the Ḥafṣid state was taking shape in a manner that increasingly destabilized the caliph’s and the administration’s hold on power because they had not yet found a balance

83 Ibn Khaldūn, Kitāb al-’ibar, VI, 336-337.

between their rise to power in Ifriqiya and the local tribal dynamics; this all was occurring during a period of European diplomatic and political history that had its eye trained on North Africa.

As tidy as his crusade explanation seemed, Ibn Khaldūn was not privy to all the goings- on the Mediterranean, and particularly not to al-Mustanṣir’s own forays into regional politics.

Much of the caliph’s early choices – such as all the construction and cosmetic work on the capital – was a strategy to cultivate a reputation for himself and his dynasty on the Mediterranean stage. The antecedents of the 1270 crusade can be traced back to the earlier relationship between

Tunis and certain political actors in Sicily. The Ḥafṣid-Hohenstaufen partnership was established by Abū Zakariyā Yaḥyā, who paid tribute to them but retained independence.84 Unluckily for his son al-Mustanṣir, the eruption of Sicilian politics coincided with his reign. Ḥafṣid rulers had been involved for some time with Hohenstaufen mercenaries and exiles who ending up serving and living in their territories. But after Charles of Anjou invaded Italy in 1266, even disaffected

Angevin supporters used Tunis as a base from which to entreat Charles to invade.85 Al-Mustanṣir was drawn in further when he was asked to take part in an invasion of Angevin Sicily, firmly drawing him out of the hitherto ambiguous and unassuming status as middleman of the conflict.

Moreover, the economic risk from harbouring Hohenstaufen exiles was quickly becoming apparent, as Charles began to ban other states that harboured his rivals from trade with Sicily.

Given the Ḥafṣid dependence on Mediterranean trade and Sicily’s centrality in that network, this was a serious concern. What with the tense and still simmering domestic rebellions, he could not afford to send away valuable troops to fight Sicilian civil war. In the end he assigned as leader of

Tunis’ response a prominent Christian mercenary named Federico, who was only allowed to

84 Lower, Tunis Crusade, 55 85 Ibid., 60.

send a limited number of European fighters and a boat.86 Al-Mustanṣir was able therefore to appease his diplomatic partners while also maintaining some distance from actual official involvement.

This strategy initially served al-Mustanṣir well. Charles of Anjou won the power struggle, putting an end to the Hohenstaufen cause and direct line of rule in Sicily.87 In the aftermath,

Charles was notably iron fisted to cities that had and remained defiant, often crushing rebellions by putting entire populations to death.88 Federico and the European soldiers sourced from al-

Mustanṣir, however, were afforded more lenient treatment. Although they had fought on the

Hohenstaufen side, they were not Hohenstaufen loyalists per se, nor rebels with roots in Sicily.

Moreover, it seems Charles was attempting to forge a mutually beneficial relationship with al-

Mustanṣir. Allowing the fighters to return was certainly a diplomatic and amicable gesture.89 For his part, al-Mustanṣir was able to maintain an air of mystery surrounding his allegiances.

Because he did not send official support to the Hohenstaufen cause, he was not seen as an

Angevin foe. At the same time, he proved himself a serious political player in the region. A partnership had the opportunity to benefit them both: after the conflict, Charles was in need of gold, and agricultural crises and famine made Sicilian wheat as good as gold to the Ḥafṣids.

Through his clever diplomatic gamble, al-Mustanṣir was poised to have his (wheat) cake and eat it too.

86 Ibid., 65-66. 87 Lower, Tunis Crusade, 67. The fifteen-year-old would-be Hohenstaufen heir Conradin was tried for treason and publicly executed in Naples in late 1268. 88 Ibid., 68. 89 In this period, Charles’ treatment of Muslims was pragmatic, sometimes to the detriment of his reputation. When dealing with the rebellion in the multi-religious city Lucera, for instance, he had Christians executed but spared the Muslim armed groups, whose later utility during the crusade he predicted.

Suffice it to say, that did not happen. King Louis IX, crusading brother to Charles of

Anjou, was already in preparation for a second expedition, following his failure against the

Mamluks in Egypt twenty years earlier. His choice of Tunis has been the subject of scholarly debate for many years, as has the level of Charles’ awareness and involvement in the decisions.

Consensus on the latter is that Charles was not privy to the plan to strike at Tunis, which the budding relationship between Charles and al-Mustanṣir corroborates.90 Louis IX may have also mistakenly believed an attack on Tunis would hurt the Mamluks in Egypt. The appeal of an attack on Tunis was also precipitated by many of the factors discussed above. First, the location was ideal for its proximity to France and for its Mediterranean connections. Over the course of the decades leading up to 1270, Ḥafṣid Tunis had built up a reputation as a commercial powerhouse, suggesting rich rewards both immediate and potential. A conquest of Tunis was therefore a great way to obtain the necessary cash to fund an expedition to the Holy Land. Also significant was the military reputation, or lack thereof, of the Ḥafṣids. Ironically, al-Mustanṣir’s unaggressive forays into European politics cultivated an image of docility or at least non- aggression among his European fellows.91 As an added incentive and potential breakthrough for the cause of Christendom, Louis IX’s confessor alleged that the king believed al-Mustanṣir might convert to Christianity.92 And so, they set sail for an unassuming Tunis in July of 1270.

Here is where al-Mustanṣir’s policies of breaking up tribal groups, disenfranchising

Almohad elites, and peopling the halls of his administrative offices with Andalusis and Christian mercenaries all became huge liabilities. In trying to ensure power could not be held by disparate groups, the domestic support and allegiance he needed to face the French crusaders was no

90 Jonathan Riley-Smith, The Crusades: A History (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2014), 210. 91 Lower, Tunis Crusade, 107. 92 Riley-Smith, The Crusades, 210.

longer guaranteed. He had effectively alienated the Bedouins and Almohads, while the Andalusis and mercenaries were not as connected to the region. Their loyalty was based on political dependence on the caliph or money. Moreover, the question of Christian loyalties in the face of a religiously-tinged campaign like a crusade was a real concern. When crusade forces took

Carthage and the naval siege of Tunis continued for several months, al-Mustanṣir had no choice but to set up base and call for help from nearby allies and Bedouin groups. King Louis IX’s sudden death forestalled an official alliance and was certainly the serendipitous relief the Ḥafṣids needed. The crusader’s ability to invade and wreak havoc on the Ḥafṣids whose only reprieve came from the untimely death of the adversary demonstrated the weaknesses of the state and the necessity of Bedouin support.

In order to finally rid Ifriqiyan shores of crusaders and preserve his state, al-Mustanṣir had to sign a peace treaty and pay around 200 ounces of gold.93 He also had to pay the king of

Sicily 5 years worth of unpaid tribute. The treaty also made a series of concessions, such as prisoner release, safe conduct for travelers and merchants, a ban on harbouring enemies of the

French crown, and the right to build Christian houses of worship and for Latin Christians to practice rituals of their faith freely and openly on Ḥafṣid lands.94 Although the treaty was signed in a moment of weakness and in order to end a serious conflict, it reflects the Ḥafṣid strategies that were, I argue, key to their longevity. For one, it saved the capital from plundering and the dynasty from complete destruction. It was also an early iteration of a new method of Ḥafṣid diplomacy with Europe. The longevity of their state was the result of maintaining their economic relevance to stronger neighbours on both sides of the Mediterranean shores. In this way, no

93 Rouighi, Mediterranean Emirate, 36. 94 Brunschvig, La Berbérie orientale, I, 62.

matter the internal issues, the Ḥafṣids could over the coming decades still present a stable face to

Europeans via treaties that emphasized trade relations and projected Ḥafṣid authority by promising trade benefits all over Ifiriqiya, regardless of their actual authority in certain locales.

At the same time, however, this privileging of foreign relationships did sometimes come at the expense of internal stability and centrality, which the next chapter will discuss further. Going into the fourteenth century, Ḥafṣid policy and diplomacy followed these lines. Key concessions in merchants’ access and tribute paying were made, while Ḥafṣid sultans shored up their military and political power with help from the illicit: captives, corsairs, and mercenaries.

This chapter has attempted to sketch out several important layers of Ḥafṣid external and internal politics to help understand how administrative patterns and diplomatic relations unfolded in the later thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries. Although al-Mustanṣir made a valiant effort, centralizing power would prove unsustainable for a time. It begs the questions, how did the

Ḥafṣid dynasty and polity survive, and how did they adapt their state and diplomatic strategies to their new reality?

Chapter 3 Ḥafṣid Bildungsroman, 1277-1318

After the 1270 crusade, the Ḥafṣids were left in a confounding state. It was a caliphate, but had nearly succumbed to crusaders and was now paying tribute to Europeans; it was a mercantile hub, but was facing severe economic challenges; it was the seat of Ḥafṣid dynastic power, but local tribes were becoming increasingly involved in how power was held and distributed in Ifriqiya. Moreover, the trade with Europe that had been growing steadily over the years and that the Tunis-based Ḥafṣids so relied upon, contributed to an imbalance and redistribution of power among mercantile urban centers. The orientation and structure of the

Ḥafṣid state fluctuated often and significantly over the course of the late thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Scholars from Ibn Khaldūn to Brunschvig have interpreted the moments of local rulership as low points in Ḥafṣid administration, while times when a Ḥafṣid ruler was able to impose central rulership are presented as signs of strength and stability. But rather than adopt that view, it seems more useful to see the state and its policy as an adaptive and reactive entity that could respond to both circumstances. In other words, I will not be necessarily categorizing either central or local authority as the better or more stable scenario, at least not administratively nor diplomatically. Instead, the fourteenth-century Ḥafṣid state was a series of interconnected municipalities whose local powers had fluctuating relationships with the Ḥafṣid rulers in Tunis, who in turn developed state policies and rhetoric to respond to their circumstances without compromising their relationships with European partners. The Ḥafṣid dynasty maintained their status and the Ḥafṣid state was considered the regional power even if local leaders held sway in some cities. This was itself a Ḥafṣid adaptation to their circumstances, as this chapter will highlight.

The major coastal cities of Ifriqiya were not autonomous to the same level as the Italian city states, but they still occasionally exerted considerably autonomous power and authority over urban inhabitants. Although amīrs, or local governors, remained under the Ḥafṣid auspices, their relationship with “statehood” seems to have been indifferent to nominal Ḥafṣid rule. In other words, amīrs were more interested in asserting their interests in their localities than claiming autonomy against Ḥafṣid authority. They could rule and even deny tax revenues and enjoy effective rulership even if the caliph of Tunis was still technically their superior. In Rouighi’s words:

…the period between 1200-1400 is better understood in relation to two distinct but related processes. The first was characterised by the oscillation between two modes of Ḥafṣid political domination: the “regional” mode, in which the Ḥafṣid ruler of Tunis controlled all the major cities of Ifriqiya, appointed their governors, and received taxes from them; and the “local” mode, in which independent Ḥafṣid emirs withheld the taxes they collected for Tunis and raised strong enough armies to maintain themselves in power. The second process…was the gradual emergence of Emirism, an ideology that became dominant under the “regional” rule of Abu Faris.95 In this way, the Ḥafṣid state operated in a mode unconventional by both modern and pre-modern standards. Multiple cities of power coexisted at times, and the inclusion of Andalusis, Arab tribal leaders, and Latin mercenaries in the socio-political milieu complicated the structures of power.

This chapter will explore how the state shifted to accommodate and weather changes that had the potential to be existentially threatening, especially as Aragonese interference in Ḥafṣid politics grew, as well as how this was reflected in their diplomacy. Like al-Mustanṣir, his successors (and would-be usurpers) in Ifriqiya had to navigate both the difficult position as a growing

Mediterranean power that was military weak, and their state or personal political interests. There were various approaches to balancing power in Ifriqiya and courting European interests. These

95 Rouighi, Mediterranean Emirate, 26.

were influenced by where and how authority was concentrated. This becomes most pronounced after the reign of al-Mustanṣir and especially in the first half of the fourteenth century, as Ḥafṣid regional prominence grew and as the internal politics strayed from the traditional Almohad and centralized modes. In order to understand these changes, it is important to consider closely the administrative and hierarchical shifts that contributed to the transformation of the Ifriqiyan balance of power.

Al-Mustanṣir died in 1277, and with him went the centralized stability established by him and his father, though that crumbling was not as immediate. His son al-Wāthiq succeeded him the very night he died,96 and the Ḥafṣid Almohads had met and approved of al-Wāthiq, ensuring a smooth transition of power.97 However, that important base of support was shaken by some of the new caliph’s early appointment decisions. Al-Wāthiq populated his administration with several Andalusi men, both those whose families immigrated to Ifriqiya a generation or two before and those who were Andalusi-born recent arrivals, such as his chancellor in Bijāya, al-

Habbabar.98 Although the choice was in line with the trend toward Andalusi administrators, it would soon prove the catalyst for the disastrous end of al-Wāthiq’s reign and, consequently, significant changes in Ḥafṣid state structure. Ḥafṣid Almohads were already wary of the growing prominence of Andalusis in government. Al-Ḥabbabar’s avowed opposition to the Ḥafṣid

Almohads did not endear him to this still formidable sector of the noble hierarchy. He also allegedly had a Ḥafṣid Almohad nobleman tortured to death in pursuit of wealth.99 Ibn Shamma’

96 Al-Zarkashi, Tarīkh al-dawlatayn, 85 97 Ibn Khaldūn, Kitāb al-’ibar, VI, 343. 98 Ibid., 343; al-Zarkashi, Tarīkh al-dawlatayn, 86. Ibn Khaldūn refers to al-Habbabar by his kunya Abu al-Hassan. He is also known as al-Ghafiqi in some sources, mostly secondary ones, such as Abun-Nasr, A history of the Maghrib in the Islamic Period. For more on the immigration of Muslims from various Iberian cities and their transformation to “Andalusis” as a notarial and secretarial elite in Ifriqiya, see Rouighi, Mediterranean Emirate, 109-111. 99 Ibn Khaldūn, Kitāb al-’ibar, VI, 343-344.

characterized him as an overly influential but also frivolous and vain man who was more preoccupied with “things of little benefit, like types of dress and choosing furnishings, with no interest in improving any aspects of royal office or public service, and he performed like that [i.e. indifferently] except when it came to enriching himself.”100 Al-Ḥabbabar appointed his brother as overseer in Bijāya, with the particular job of monitoring finances. At the same time, Bijāya was under the al-Mustanṣir-appointed governorship of a man named Ibn Sa’id al-Hintātī. The name alone indicates his closeness to the old structures of power in the region. The Ḥafṣid

Almohad elites in Bijāya became increasingly affronted at the brothers’ conduct and treatment of them. According to Ibn Khaldūn, al-Ḥabbabar’s brother was similarly unsubtle in his disdain and confrontation with the Ḥafṣid Almohads. He wreaked havoc on the finances he was supposed to oversee and alienated other officials. This was enough to get him assassinated and his head thrown “for insects and buzzards to pick at.”101 Elites in Bijāya themselves began to conspire against al-Wāthiq as well, and sent for al-Mustanṣir’s exiled brother and al-Wāthiq’s uncle, Abu

Ishaq, who had a history of political agitation.102 Not unlike encircling buzzards, the Aragonese were also watchful spectators of this bloody familial spat, keen for their own opportunity to swoop into the fray.

While Aragon had initially been friendly with the Ḥafṣids, the relationship turned awry, partly due to Tunis’ location. Its proximity to Sicily made it a site of contention for the

Aragonese when Charles of Anjou’s interests spread further south. In response, Pedro III of

Aragon (r. 1276-1285) had tried to extort al-Wāthiq by claiming he owed the Aragonese tribute

100 Ibn Shamma’, al-Adilla, 75. Of course, this account must be taken with a grain of salt, given Ibn Shamma’ distance from the events discussed but more significantly, his political context and his agenda. See the introduction for discussion of his writing as a source. 101 Ibn Khaldūn, Kitāb al-’ibar, VI, 344. 102 Rouighi, Mediterranean Emirate, 37.

and deference to their suzerainty.103 According to the chronicle of contemporary Catalan mercenary Ramon Munanter, the king was affronted at the Ḥafṣid refusal to bow to his “old right of tribute” and sent four galleys to “sack and destroy all the ports” of Tunis and Bijāya.104 The

Aragonese also backed Abu Ishaq against al-Wāthiq.105 Abu Ishaq had been in Spain until al-

Mustanṣir’s death, after which he went to Tlemcen to bide his time until he could “demand what was owed him.”106 Abu Ishaq was in that relatively near-by city when al-Habbabar’s brother was killed, and the now traitorous nobility in Bijāya invited him to become their ruler, fearing retaliation from al-Wāthiq in Tunis. Abu Ishaq successfully rode into Bijāya on the day of Eid al-

Adha, 1280.107 Parts of Munanter’s chronicle gives a sense of the Spanish perception of this regime change.108 According to Munanter, Pedro III explained his plans to his advisors and admirals thus:

En Conrado [a naval admiral]…you went to Tunis to claim the tribute when Mostanzar [al-Mustanṣir] had died, who was a great friend of Our Father; and you know that they have not sent Us the said tribute; rather, it seems that they want to keep it. And so it is necessary that We should make them rue this and show them Our power. We have decided to depose him who is there now, and put in his place Mirabusac [Abu Ishaq], his brother,109 as Lord and King. And in this We shall be doing justice and it will always

103 Joseph F. O’Callaghan, A History of Medieval Spain (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1975), 384. 104 Ramon Muntaner, The Chronicle of Muntaner, trans. Lady Anna Kinsky Goodenough (Cambridge, Ontario: In Parentheses Publications, 2000), 41. Notably, Munanter does not note any significant naval resistance from Tunis (or Tlemcen, which they also raided), but does indicate that Moroccan “Sarracen galleys” put up a defence in the west. The Ḥafṣids were at a military disadvantage, on both land and sea, for a long while before and during this period, and the chronicle indirectly reaffirms this. This Ḥafṣid disadvantage was a significant factor in how their relationship to diplomacy and exercise of power developed in the fourteenth century. 105 Munanter, Chronicle, 62. Abu Ishaq is “Mirabosac” in the source. 106 Ibid. 107 Al-Zarkashi, Tarīkh al-dawlatayn, 90. 108 Of course, statements Munanter attributed to the king cannot be taken at face value, see the Introduction for more on his chronicle as a source. 109 Al-Mustanṣir’s brother.

rebound to the great honour of the House of Aragon, as everyone will be able to say that We have set up a king in Tunis[emphasis mine].110 Beyond the intention to impress Aragonese power upon Tunis and enjoy an undoubtedly rich tribute, Munanter’s explanation raises questions about the larger Aragonese ambitions in Ifriqiya.

Being responsible for installing a ruler in a territory was akin to having control and authority over it. The chronicle goes on to claim that the Aragonese king felt that he was acting righteously and in the interests of the deceased Al-Mustanṣir, who was a “great friend…and sent every year his tribute and many jewels.”111 Given that by this period the Ḥafṣids were a caliphate and one of the few well-established Muslim polities, the Aragonese exercising authority over them in this manner was potentially a territorial, ideological, fiscal, and status advantage. By claiming both acquaintance with and right of tribute over al-Mustansir, the Aragonese crown was attempting to assert a historic claim. Moreover, the implication that public knowledge of this Aragonese involvement would be beneficial and desirable harkens back to the Christianizing and crusade ambitions.112 That this notion was expressed by a contemporary Catalan further emphasizes the ubiquity and internalization of this aggressive military and ideological approach to Ifriqiya.

According to Muntaner, Pedro III dispatched En Conrado, the naval admiral, with twenty galleys and instructions to get an audience with Abu Ishaq and all “the Moabs who were in Gabes.”113

“Moabs” was Muntaner’s name for Almohads, referring to the Ḥafṣid Almohad elite and indicating their continued political relevance. That Muntaner highlighted them as one of the groups the king was interested in also suggests that the Aragonese were well aware of the inner hierarchy of power in Ifriqiya, and that although the old responsibilities and authority the Ḥafṣid

110 Munstanter, Chronicle, 63. 111 Ibid., 62-65. 112 Discussed in Chapter 1. 113 Muntaner, Chronicle, 65

Almohad elite enjoyed were being eroded, they were still an important and potentially formidable group. Moreover, the Aragonese confidence in pursuing them as allies suggests a significant schism between the Ḥafṣid dynasty and the Ifriqiyan elite. Ultimately, Abu Ishaq and his Aragonese backers’ were successful against al-Wāthiq. Al-Wāthiq had sent forces to Bijāya as soon as he was made aware of the situation, but they defected to Abu Ishaq. As a result of this and Pedro III and his fleet occupying Gabes and moving towards Tunis, al-Wāthiq realized the futility of his cause and abdicated to his uncle. Al-Wāthiq and all his sons (except one born later) were killed on the orders of his now reigning uncle.114 But if Abu Ishaq’s Aragonese allies expected friendlier treatment, they were soon disabused of that notion. Upon turning his attention to the Christian soldiers and commanders who entered Bijāya with him, he had them all gathered together and summarily killed.115 Ibn Khaldūn chalks this up to Abu Ishaq’s growing distrust of them, and his suspicion that they may plot against him.116 Perhaps he became increasingly aware of the nature of Aragon’s imperial interest in the region, the sentiments of which Muntaner expressed. In any case, so ended any question of Aragon enjoying dominion and tribute from the new Ḥafṣid sultan, Abu Ishaq.

Beyond ushering in a new ruler, this episode had two major consequences that would indelibly shape the Ḥafṣid state. First, the dynasty was shaken by a break in the primogeniture- based succession; future claimants and rebels alike would use this loss of dynastic surety to claim to be the true heirs, or connected to the immediate family, in their bids to gain power,

114 Ibn Khaldūn, Kitāb al-’ibar, VI, 346, 474. 115 Ibid., 346. 116 Notably, Abu Ishaq favoured Andalusis in his administration. In fact, he appointed Ibn Khaldūn’s grandfather and father as treasurer and hajib (vizier), respectively, in Bijāya. Though the family had already been well placed, these appointments no doubt catapulted them to the position that brought Ibn Khaldūn of fame the positions in life that afforded him such influence and scholarship.

support, and legitimacy. Second, elites in cities like Bijāya began to realize their own political potential, especially after they successfully leveraged their power against al-Wāthiq. For the next several decades, succession became a rife and contentious process, with increasing agitation from Ḥafṣid Almohads and rebellion from other local leaders, both of which were combined with

European meddling and interference. The increasing encroaching of Spanish powers in the politics of North Africa fomented important “diplomatic industries” between them, namely the use of mercenaries and negotiation of commercial and maritime relations, as well as captive negotiation. As in Abu Ishaq’s case, Christian mercenaries and military support became a viable source for would-be usurpers to impose their rule. Because the Ḥafṣid throne was no longer in the hands of the immediate heir, ambitious rebels could also appeal to familial and dynastic claims in order to usurp power. Often, European mercantile or expansionist ambitions played right into this trend. In other words, it became a symbiotic relationship. The Aragonese could take advantage of internal agitation and cultivate allegiances by supporting rebellions or rival claimants. As such, ambitious rebels came to see Aragonese support and Latin mercenaries as an important tool for their personal and political goals. For instance, when Abu Ishaq decisively dashed their hopes for tribute and a malleable Ifriqiyan ally, the Aragonese simply championed another man – and helped him confront Abu Ishaq. Furthermore, these developments aided and cultivated the growing municipal strength in Ifriqiyan cities other than Tunis. Together with

Bijāya, Tripoli and Constantine came to host their own revolutionary leaders and their forces, further exacerbating the break from central Tunisian authority.

Abu Ishaq’s reign was quashed in only one year. Bedouin groups and countryside dwellers proved themselves indifferent to the demands of the sultan, no matter how he installed himself or claimed legitimacy. They denied tax payments, and the regime only made itself more

unpopular by trying to shore up their treasury with harsher taxes imposed upon southern parts of

Ifriqiya.117 When a man named Aḥmed ibn Marzūq ibn Abī ‘Umara rebelled in Tripoli, possibly covertly aided by the Aragonese,118 those southern regions were among the first to support him and proclaim him caliph.119 In this instance, we see another reflection of the legitimizing claims rebels could make and use to garner serious military and political support. Ibn Abī ‘Umara was an enigmatic figure, and different from the usual rebel rousers who came from elite families. His family immigrated from the Maghreb to Bijāya, where he grew up. He worked there as a tailor before moving the western Maghreb, where he claimed to have supernatural powers and claimed to be the mahdi.120 When he was called to prove it with miracles and failed, he had to flee. He ended up in Tripoli, where a former member of al-Wāthiq’s court claimed to recognize Ibn Abī

‘Umara as al-Wāthiq’s true son and heir. His alliance with the Tripolitanian Dabbab tribe was based, at least in part, on convincing them of this prodigal son’s tale. Ibn Abī ‘Umara’s rise to power emphasizes the continued importance of revolutionary religious identity and legitimate

Ḥafṣid dynastic kinship. His claims to mahdism harken back to those of Ibn Tumart, and even though over a century passed and the circumstances changed, the revolutionary rhetoric clearly still had serious appeal. But perhaps most convincing to the tribes was the corroborated assertion that he was the only surviving son and therefore heir of the deposed caliph al-Wāthiq, who had been gruesomely executed by a man with Christian backers. Moreover, the added weight of caliphal identity made it imperative for Ḥafṣid dynasty supporters to try to reinstate someone from the family with the proper bay’a. Ibn Abī ‘Umara fabricated the story, and the identity of the man who supported him is uncertain, but it was convincing enough to tribes for whom the

117 Brunschvig, La Berbérie orientale, I, 84. 118 Abun-Nasr, A history of the Maghrib, 123. 119 Brunschvig, I, 84-85. 120 Rouighi, Mediterranean Emirate, 39.

stakes and implications were urgent. Abu Ishaq, while family, was from an indirect branch, had fallen out with al-Mustanṣir, used Aragonese backing and Christian mercenaries in order to take power, and imposed harsh taxes. Moreover, Abu Ishaq was the only ruler in Ḥafṣid Ifriqiya who did not take the title of caliph. Although he had a base of support from Bijāyan elites, in this period he could have never claimed to be caliph without the support of the Tunisian administrative and religious elite.121 Ibn Abī ‘Umara’s successes also underscore the vital and politically transformative power held by tribes in Ifriqiya. Their dissatisfaction with the ruler turned into outright agitation and insurrection when Ibn Abī ‘Umara provided them with an ideological claim, which catalyzed the creation militaristic tribal coalitions strong enough to directly confront the sultan in Tunis. After establishing himself and his base of support in

Tripoli, Ibn Abī ‘Umara was welcomed in Gabes, and eventually ruled in Kairouan and Sfax. His tribal supporters offered him their bay’a, and he declared himself caliph.122 Abu Ishaq’s troops defected and he, cornered and friendless, fled to Bijāya, his original base of support. Abu Ishaq’s son forced his abdication and, perhaps wary of making the same mistakes as his father, declared himself caliph too.123 Ḥafṣid Ifriqiya now had two caliphal rulers in its two most important cities, both with connection to the Ḥafṣid family and with their own backers. This was the first instance of a reorientation and splitting of the nucleus of power in Ifriqiya.

Almost concurrently, the Aragonese also encouraged the governor of Constantine, Abu

Bakr ibn al-Wazir, to rebel. He hailed from an elite Ḥafṣid Almohad family, but became governor of Constantine as a replacement for al-Mustanṣir’s appointee; the dynastic instability

121 In later years, the title of caliph becomes almost a rote epithet. Jadla, “Al-Mustanṣir billāh al-Ḥafṣi,” 618-619. 122 Rouighi, Mediterranean Emirate, 39. 123 Ibid.

between al-Wāthiq and Abu Ishaq apparently ignited his own ambitions.124 Alliance with him gave the Aragonese access to the Algerian coastal city Collo, which was the port city for

Constantine.125 Collo itself was a strategic location, as it gave them access not only to Ifriqiyan territory and a port city with significant mercantile traffic,126 but also to Sicily; in 1282, the

Aragonese landed in Collo, hoping to use it as a base from which to both conquer Angevin Sicily and establish dominion over Tunis. Muntaner does not paint as pragmatic a picture of Aragonese motives. Instead, his tale lines up with the religio-imperial imaginings of the Aragonese crown.

Ibn al-Wazir, according to Muntaner, appealed to Pedro III by saying that

…he would not be able to defend himself, unless it were by the hand of the Lord King of Aragon, and that he would let him know he wished to turn Christian through him, and that the said Lord King should come to Collo, which is the port city of the said place, Constantine; and that he would surrender to him the city of Constantine; and that, when he was at Collo, he should go on to Constantine, which is the strongest city in the world; and then he would become a Christian and would give him all the land he possessed and would become his man and his godson and vassal; and then he requested him, in the name of Jesus Christ, to accept this, and, if he failed in this, may God visit it upon him, upon his body and his soul [emphasis mine].127 In this passage, Muntaner suggested that the Aragonese imperative was a religious one, brought to their supposedly otherwise uninvolved ears by a Muslim governor. Even more than the previous desire to install a friendly ruler in Tunis, this references clearly and explicitly the undercurrent of a continuing Christianization discourse, for which Ifriqiya was a site of interest.

124 Ibn Khaldūn, VI, 347. 125 O’Callaghan, History of Medieval Spain, 384. Muntaner noted that it was the port city of Constantine, which is inland, Chronicle, 90. An Italian merchant’s log from the period noted that the distance between them was only “1 day’s journey by horse, and 2 by pack animal,” The Zibaldone da Canal: Merchant Culture in Fourteenth Century Venice, trans. John E. Dotson, (Binghamton: Center for Medieval and Early Renaissance Studies, 1994), 91. 126 There is a section on Collo, its trade, and currency conversion in a near contemporary Italian merchant’s notebook, which is discussed further below. The Zibaldone da Canal, trans. Dotson, 91 127 Muntaner, Chronicle, 90. Although this seems like a farfetched claim, and indeed there are no other primary sources that corroborate this claim from ibn al-Wazir, a later Ḥafṣid official does in fact proclaimed a desire to convert in order to court European allies, discussed below.

There is no explicit mention of Ibn al-Wazir’s conversion promise in any other sources (although he did allow them to land at Collo), and Muntaner’s account cannot be credited with any more than providing a narrative of events, his contemporary climate, and his own thoughts; perhaps, then, the repeated allusion to Aragonese “manifest destiny” in Ifriqiya was reflective of the political and ideological social subtexts he internalized. It is very unlikely Ibn al-Wazir made any such promises or expressed any desires to apostatize, but Christian conversion in Ifriqiya was clearly in the minds of the Spanish. And as we shall soon see, some ambitious Ifriqiyan men did perceive this conversion ambition and used it to their advantage.

Before that, however, Aragon was looking once again for someone to champion, in the way that a puppeteer allows a puppet an imitation of agency. Ibn al-Wazir’s play at rebellion was over by the time the Aragonese reached Collo in June of 1282.128 Abu Ishaq’s son Abu Faris had taken Constantine, forced his father to abdicate, and declared himself caliph. There was now a caliph Abu Faris in Bijaya, and a caliph, Ibn Abī ‘Umara, in Tunis. In 1283, the two concurrent caliphs met in battle in central Tunisia. Abu Faris died in the foray, and his brother was killed by

Ibn Abi ‘Umara personally; their heads, as well as the heads of Abu Faris’ other brothers and his nephew, were severed, impaled, and sent to Tunis to adorn the city walls.129 The only Ḥafṣid to survive was Abu Ḥafṣ, brother to al-Mustanṣir and Abu Ishaq, uncle to Abu Faris. The enigmatic

Ibn Abī ‘Umara managed to rule the Ḥafṣid state until 1284. He kept up a pious appearance by visiting shrines and building mosques and tried to bolster his reputation by cancelling unpopular

128 Abun-Nasr, A history of the Maghrib, 123. 129 Ibn Khaldūn, VI, 351. Abu Ishaq was executed later during a botched escape attempt, and he ended up in a similar beheaded-and-piked state as his unfortunate sons.

taxes.130 He could not, however, overcome the unmitigable state of the Ifriqiyan organization of power; similar to Abu Ishaq’s fatal post-conquest paranoia, Ibn Abī ‘Umara began to rid his administration of old Ḥafṣid officials, including Andalusis like Ibn Khaldūn’s grandfather, who was tortured and killed. He began appointing members of the Ḥafṣid Almohads, who advised him to jail Bedouin leaders. Ibn Abī ‘Umara’s reign was punctuated by arrests, alienation of the very people who brought him to power, and arbitrary executions. It was not long until the

Bedouin groups found a new champion to swear fealty to; the surviving Ḥafṣid, Abu Ḥafṣ. The tribes backed Abu Ḥafṣ and Ibn Abī ‘Umara was soon faced with the very forces that had once brought him power. In a very Khaldunian end, the tribal powers rallied around Abu Ḥafṣ, and

Ibn Abi ‘Umara’s own troops disbanded. The once caliph was found hiding in a shopkeeper’s house in Tunis, brought out in public to confess his crimes and fraud, and summarily decapitated.131

Although there was now a “true” Ḥafṣid at the helm, this wave of rebellion only affirmed the power and importance of local Bedouin tribes for any ruler of Ḥafṣid Ifriqiya. Moreover, the poles of power, the ever-growing port cities, were more disparate in their alliances than ever.

Even when Abu Ḥafṣ wrested authority back into the hands of the immediate Ḥafṣid family, his power was limited to Tunis. He was indebted to the military support from tribal supporters, but their allegiance was fickle and inconstant, making it impossible for him to march on Bijāya. The

Kingdom of Aragon chose that moment to move further into the region. Roger de Lauria, a vassal of Pedro III and ruler of Sicily, occupied the islands of Djerba and Qaraqna (Kerkenneh),

130 Ibn Qunfudh, Al-Farisiya fi mabadi’ al-dawla al-hafsiya, ed. Muhammad al-Shadhili al-Nayfar and ‘Abd al-Majid al-Turki (Tunis: Al-Dar al-Tunisiya li al-Nashr, 1968), 143-144; Rouighi, Mediterranean Emirate, 40. 131 Rouighi, Mediterranean Emirate, 39-40.

off the coast of Tunisia, in 1284 and 1285, respectively. The Aragonese were perilously close to the Ifriqiyan mainland and not far from the Ḥafṣid capital.

The islands were a strategic target. At once close enough to Ifriqiya to constitute a looming threat, but the distance from the capital and geographic disconnect from the mainland rendered them less of a priority to the still unstable Abu Ḥafṣ. Djerba was particularly noted for its useful position for maritime trade and access.132 Roger de Lauria was just the man for such an ambitious take over. By 1284, he had already accumulated an impressive curriculum vitae of naval military achievements. His connection to the royal family of Aragon went back to his childhood, itself a consequence of his father’s old loyalty and service to the Hohenstaufen cause some decades before. Pedro III appointed Roger as governor of Valencia in 1278, and part of his job was trade and diplomatic missions to North Africa, especially Ḥafṣid Tunis. His rise to fame as a naval admiral was facilitated in no small part by his involvement with Aragonese ambitions in Tunis. When Roger de Lauria took the islands of Djerba and Qaraqna in 1284, Abu Ḥafṣ was forced to capitulate.133

His position weak, the tribes looming, and Aragon uncompromising, Abu Ḥafṣ initiated a diplomatic mission with Aragon. In the Pyrenees, on June 2nd of 1285, Ḥafṣid envoys signed a now rather infamous treaty with Aragon. The treaty, preserved in Catalan and now housed in the

Archive of the Crown of Aragon, was a list of several dozen demands both for Aragonese subjects (including Sicilians) and for Christians in Ifriqiya.134 Much of it was a reproduction of

132 Brunchvig, La Berbérie orientale, I, 93. 133 Abun-Nasr, A history of the Maghrib, 123-124. 134 Transcribed in Mas Latrie, Traites de paix, II, 286-290.

the post-crusade treaty signed by al-Mustanṣir.135 It also seemingly mirrored the promises

Muntaner alleged Abu Ishaq was asked to make:

…as soon as he should be King of Tunis, he would pay to him [the King of Aragon] the whole of the tribute due until that day; and that from thenceforth and for ever the House of Tunis was bound to pay the said tribute to whoever was King of Aragon and count of Barcelona; and all the Moabs were to confirm this. And besides, that the chief alcaide put over the Christians in Tunis should always be a rich hom [man] or knight of the Lord King of Aragon, and that the Lord King of Aragon should appoint him and could always dismiss or change him as he wished, and that wherever they made war together with the king, or on their own account; that all should be bound to guard his banner as they would that of the King of Tunis…And, besides that the Lord King of Aragon should have the right to appoint a consul in Tunis, who shall give formal hearing and judgement to all Catalan merchants, masters of ships, and mariners who came to Tunis or all the dominions, and that likewise there be one in Bougie.136 Although Abu Ishaq never fulfilled these alleged promises, the 1285 document gave the

Aragonese the chance to push for the same demands and further their encroachment into Ifriqiya.

It included the typical economic and trade agreements, such as the right to establish fanadiq in any city they pleased, and the resumption on trade between the Aragonese and the Ḥafṣids, which had been disrupted since the 1270’s.137 Most significantly, however, was that the Ḥafṣids now had to pay tribute to the Kingdom of Aragon and recognized their occupation of the islands

Djerba and Qaraqna. As well, the Ḥafṣids had to allow the Aragonese to appoint their own consul, have guaranteed audience with the king, and build churches and practice Christianity publicly.138 With regards to religious practice, the treaty encompassed all Christians and not just

Aragonese merchants. Ultimately, the treaty and ascendancy of Aragon over Tunis re-opened the

135 Brunschvig, La Berbérie orientale, I, 94. 136 Muntaner, Chronicle, 65-66 137 Brunschvig, La Berbérie orientale, I, 95; Abun-Nasr, A history of the Maghrib, 124. 138 Aragon-Tunis 1285, Mas Latrie, Traites de paix, II, 289.

hopes of a Christianizing mission in Tunis, which had the potential to sweep Ifriqiya along with it. Eventually, that desire and the ambition of yet another rebellious man coincided.

At the turn of the century, Ḥafṣid power was centered in Tunis, with Bijāya and portions of the west fluctuating between nominal hold and outright independence. The administrative structure of Tunis still maintained the “shaykh of the Almohad” position, while continuing to sideline Ḥafṣid Almohads, who traditionally filled the role, in favour of Andalusi administrators, tribal leaders, and even Christian mercenaries.139 Thus, the Ḥafṣid Almohads went from near autonomous power in Ifriqiya, to demotion to second fiddle under a new administration, to losing all their military and governmental authority and becoming mere figureheads for Ḥafṣid doctrinal legitimacy. What the first Ḥafṣid caliph, Abū Zakariyā Yaḥyā, maintained for the sake of stability, was becoming yet another source of unrest. Not only that, but the splitting of power between municipalities and the conflicts of 1270-1285 reshaped the state. Authority was not monopolized by Tunis, power was more a function of Bedouin or military support rather than dynastic legitimacy, and the Crown of Aragon was a serious political actor. Notably, there does not seem to have been conflict about ideological legitimacy; in other words, usurpers like the ones discussed above or the rulers of Bijāya were not interested in taking Tunis and replacing the

Hafsid dynasty themselves. The Ḥafṣid Almohads were increasingly irrelevant, and so their approval and upholding of ideological norms and the foundational Almohad doctrine did not hold any legitimizing weight. Modes of power and succession were practical in the sense that access to force and support from local tribes was more important than simply being a member of the Ḥafṣid family, although that was still useful. This allowed the state to continue to exist in the midst of the tumult, if in a sometimes superficial way. There was no attempt to replace the

139 Abun-Nasr, A history of the Maghrib, 127-8

Ḥafṣid dynasty with a new one by any of the internal rebels or usurpers; they were simply taking over. Because there was no longer a need to project doctrinal purity, it was inevitable that yet another disgruntled and ambitious Ḥafṣid Almohad would ally openly with Aragon and use

Christian mercenaries to propel himself to the Ḥafṣid throne.

The trouble began with al-Mustanṣir’s uncle, Muhammad al-Liḥyānī.140 The tale is attested with various levels of detail in Ibn Khaldūn, al-Zarkashī, and Ibn al-Shamma’.141

According to Ibn Khaldūn al-Mustanṣir’s father and uncles had a good relationship;

The Amir Abu Zakariyya had two brothers: Muhammad, who was older than him and known as al-Liḥyānī on account of the length of his beard, and the other Abu Ibrahim, and between them there was much mutual and sincere friendship…142 Al-Zarkashī related that the good family feelings persisted at the beginning of al-Mustanṣir’s reign, since al-Liḥyānī helped spread word of his ascendency.143 The problem seems to have stemmed from al-Mustanṣir’s decision to appoint a rival, Muhammad ibn Abi Mahdi al-Hintātī, as his wazir. Ibn Khaldūn noted al-Hintātī was “great among his people,” but gave no other indication of connection to the higher socio-political echelons which al-Liḥyānī certainly was a member of.144 Al-Liḥyānī traveled to Tunis and secretly courted Ḥafṣid Almohad support, while attempting to simultaneously tempt Abi Mahdi al-Hintātī into treachery.145 But the sultan, through uncertain means, found out and sent out a small army and his qai’d, or commander, to deal with his meddlesome uncle. The commander, a man simply referred to as Dhafir, acted more as a targeted assassin. He killed Abi Mahdi al-Hintātī, tracked al-Liḥyānī down to his

140 Not to confused with his even more notorious son, appropriately known as Ibn al-Liḥyānī. 141 Ibn Khaldūn, Kitāb al-’ibar, VI, 318-320; al- Zarkashī, Tarīkh al-dawlatayn, 70-71; Ibn al-Shamma’, Al-adilla, 64. 142 Ibn Khaldūn, VI, 318. 143 Al-Zarkashī, Tarīkh al-dawlatayn, 69. 144 Ibn Khaldūn, VI, 318. 145 Ibid., 319.

home, killed him and his brother, and took their heads to the sultan. The homes of the involved

Ḥafṣid Almohads were also ransacked and destroyed.146 Al-Zarkashī reproduced the gory beheading details, although he alleged that it took place suddenly in a prayer hall, while Ibn

Shamma’ only says they died “by the sword of the mawla.”147 In any case, all three sources give one a sense not only of competing familial elites, but a network of both intrigue and increasing isolation of the sultan. Muhammad al-Liḥyānī was family of the sultan, yet did not reside in

Tunis, since he was said to have traveled to Tunis “in a rage.”148 Al-Mustanṣir chose another prominent Hintātī for the important role of wazir, despite the role al-Liḥyānī played in aiding a smooth succession. Finally, al-Mustanṣir employed a qai’d who is referred only by his first name, Dhafir. Dhafir acted as an assassin, violently killing al-Mustanṣir’s rebellious uncles.

Perhaps to save the family status and reputation as well as to separate himself from culpability, al-Mustanṣir turned on his agent Dhafir, accusing him of “killing his uncles for no reason.”149

Ibn Khaldūn related that Dhafir fled and joined a tribal coalition in Tripoli, which had long agitated against the Ḥafṣid government.150 The al-Liḥyānī agitation was therefore another example of both miniscule and major changes within the administrative structure and within the sultan’s circle.

Al-Liḥyānī’s son, known as Ibn al-Liḥyānī, was only a child when his father and uncle lost their heads. That family affair did not hinder his adult political career in the slightest. In

1295, the then sultan Abu ‘Asida appointed him shaykh of the Almohads. In this period, the office dealt with foreign relations. He came to be involved with high stakes deals, negotiating on

146 Ibid. 147 Ibn Shamma’, al-Adilla, 64. 148 Al-Zarkashi, Tarīkh al-dawlatayn, 70 149 Ibn Khaldūn, VI, 319. 150 Ibid.

the sultan’s behalf, as he did for a 1305 deal with Venice.151 The Aragonese were more involved with the Ḥafṣids than ever; together with trade relations, they supplied the Ḥafṣids with mercenary guards, which were at once necessary for the rulers in Tunis and an opportunity for

Aragon to entrench itself further within Ḥafṣid administration, since mercenaries were still under the jurisdiction of the King and served at his discretion.152 As Ibn al-Liḥyānī went between the sultan and his truce partners, he developed a knack for diplomacy and cultivated a close relationship with Aragonese king, James II (r. 1291-1327). James II singled out Ibn al-Liḥyānī in his letters, praising him and his noble and friendly character.153 When, in 1311, Tunis fell once more into a struggle over succession, Ibn al-Liḥyānī, then camped out in Tripoli, used his

European contacts and local Bedouin Arab tribes to take power himself. Frederick III, Aragonese king of Sicily, sent three battle ships to Tunis to support Ibn al-Liḥyānī’s assault on the capital.

Aragon had no qualm violating their previous 1301 peace treaty with the now deceased Abu

‘Asida, which was acknowledged and extended in a 1308 letter between Abu ‘Asida and James

II.154 Their decision to support a rival to the throne paid off, and Ibn al-Liḥyānī became caliph in

November of 1311. A month later, he triumphantly sent a letter to James II from “our capital,

Tunis,” adding that “there is no need to report on the friendship and affection we have for you, as it is commonly known and a continuing and understood thing.”155 Ibn al-Liḥyānī was well aware of his debt to and dependence on European and Bedouin support. His rule was threatened most significantly by a rival in Bijāya. But with that said, he was still able to take the control as amīr al-mu’minīn for 7 years, managing to balance the strength of the other major cities in Ifriqiya,

151 Mas Latrie, Traites de paix, II, 211-216. 152 Michael Lower, “Ibn al-Lihyani: sultan of Tunis and would-be Christian convert (1311-18),” Mediterranean Historical Review 24, no. 1 (2009): 18. 153 Ibid. 154 Appendix D; Cartas Árabes 124, Los Documentos Árabes, 277-278. 155 Cartas Árabes 126, Los Documentos Árabes, 279.

Ḥafṣid politics, and European relations. Reflective of his diplomatic experience, Ibn al-Liḥyānī’s government used certain rhetorical strategies to simultaneously court European powers and maintain their own interests, as much as was possible. This manifested in several ways: from territorial posturing in treaties, to promising Christian conversion, utilizing incidences of captivity and piracy in negotiations to abrogate or dictate treaties, and catalyzing the reshaping of the state’s political ideology.

Novel Diplomacies

Thus far, this chapter has sketched out the transformation of the Ifiriqiyan political landscape, and the position of the Ḥafṣids vis-à-vis the rest of the Mediterranean and especially in the face of Aragon’s increasingly probing imperial fingers and as the state took on a new shape. Power was no longer reliably monopolized by a single ruler based in Tunis; Bijāya was a rival capital, Tripoli was only nominally held, and the deeper inland areas were often as shifting as the Saharan sand they sat on. Moreover, the Ḥafṣids sat in the centre of a Mediterranean that was becoming rife with Aragonese ambitions and their naval and mercantile fleets, the ever- present crusader threats, and the indefatigable drive of Mediterranean mercantilism. Throughout the reign of Ibn al-Liḥyānī and continued by his successors, Ḥafṣid diplomacy had to navigate all of these obstacles as a regional underdog. Treaties and diplomatic correspondence display the rhetorical strategies used when addressing serious issues. To do this, they began to tap into the growing prominence of piracy and other criminal activity on the sea. As well, they articulated and projected a grander image of themselves through their rhetoric and tactically used the threat of maritime violence to exert implicit power in their correspondence. Whether or not the pen is actually mightier than the sword, for the early fourteenth-century Ḥafṣids, it had to be. Perhaps because of his previous stint in government and his difficult climb to power, Ibn al-Liḥyānī had

the skills and prescience to use his scribes’ pens to clever, if not cutting, effect. Ibn al-Liḥyānī, who ruled from 1311 to 1318, wrote to his European allies quite often, as attested by the surviving Arabic letters and treaties from his reign in Spanish and Italian archives.156

In 1313, Ibn al-Liḥyānī signed an economic treaty with Pisa. 157 The document is exhaustive in its consideration of Pisan merchants’ rights, tax rules, and other technical stipulations. It also provides an excellent vignette into diplomatic strategies utilized by Ibn al-

Liḥyānī and reflective of not only the unorthodoxy of his rise to power, but the emerging structure of the state. The first few clauses emphasized the territorial reach of the state, promised the Pisans privileges in several cities, and stressed the authorities’ ability to enforce tax in all its environs.158 Similar to the thirteenth century agreements mentioned in the previous chapter, this treaty affirms safety to Pisan merchants who arrive in Tunis or “any and all of the interior regions…and what so ever may be acquired in the future.”159 For an official treaty, such promises and projections of authority were of course important. For the Ḥafṣids, though, they were doubly so; they had to reassure their treaty partners of their ability to keep merchants safe and trade flowing. While doing so, they downplayed the reality of Ifriqiyan municipal autonomy. First, evidence suggests that al-Liḥyānī and his government were not as well placed to enforce taxes or ensure merchant comfort and access as the document suggests. Tripoli, for instance, was often listed as the western-most limit of Ḥafṣid territory, its important port included in their treaties, and treaties with European powers included the city in their demands

156 Many have been digitized or transcribed and printed. See, for instance, Michele Amari, I diplomi arabi del R. archivio fiorentino: testo originale con la traduzione letterale e illustrazioni. Firenze: Le Monnier, 1863; Los Documentos Árabes Diplomáticos del Archivo de la Corona de Aragón, ed. and trans. Maximiliano A. Alarcón y Santón and Ramón García de Linares, Madrid, 1940; and also the digitized Cartas Árabes in the Archivo de la Corono de Aragón, found online on the Portal de Archivos Españoles. 157 See Appendix A for full English translation of the document, and Amari, I diplomi, 86-97. 158 Appendix A. 159 Appendix A; Amari, I diplomi, 87.

for fanadiq locations. But despite having claimed conquest over Tripoli, the city had a long history of autonomy, even at times when it was not in outright rebellion. Historian Michael Brett has argued that Tripoli was functionally independent, bordering on a city-state, for nearly three centuries.160 After al-Mustanṣir’s death in 1277, the city was governed by a local council. Al-

Liḥyānī had visited the region before coming to power; he joined a man named al-Tijani on his journey to Makkah, who wrote extensively on his travels.161 Although ostensibly part of Ḥafṣid territory and welcoming to al-Tijani and Ibn al-Liḥyānī, the city was run autonomously by a counsel of elders and local leaders. Residents even had some say in allocation of their taxes, reserving some for the city’s defense and maintenance of the city walls. The council persisted during Ibn al-Liḥyānī’s reign.162 This is all to say that official treaties promising security, taxation, and fanadiq to Europeans could not actually enforce or enact those in the Tripoli region without the cooperation of the well-established administration. This was mirrored on the eastern part of Ifriqiya too.

Bijāya’s autonomy in this period is even better attested than Tripoli’s.163 Like Tunis,

Bijāya was a prominent mercantile destination and port city. Unlike Tunis, it was not the official capital of the Ḥafṣids, and Andalusi administrators faced less opposition from Ḥafṣid Almohads, who were less politically prominent in the city. That, together with the fiscal power of the city’s merchants, helped Bijāya develop effective independence. It was rich Bijāyans, in fact, that had taken the initiative to appeal to Abu Ishaq, and loaned him the money necessary for his coup.164

160 Michael Brett, “The City-State in Medieval Ifriqiya: The Case of Tripoli,” Cahiers de Tunisie 34 (1986): 80. 161 Al-Tijanī, Rihla al-Tijani, ed. Hassan Husni ‘Abd al-Wahab, (Tunis: Jami’ al-Huquq Mahfudhah, 1981). 162 Brett, “The City-State,” 87. 163 Rouighi documents this in great and compelling detail in his monograph, already cited several times in this work, Mediterranean Emirate, 2011. 164 Rouighi, Mediterranean Emirate, 41.

Although he never made a move against Tunis, Bijāyan notables had still effectively bought their independence. Rouighi classifies Bijāya in this period as an emirate, and in the early 1300’s it broke from the Ḥafṣids entirely.165 During Ibn al-Liḥyānī’s reign, Bijāya was held by his young dynastic rival, Abu Bakr. This, combined with Constantine’s fluctuating loyalties, made uncertain the Ḥafṣid hold on major portions of western Ifriqiya. Treaties, however, aggrandized the Ḥafṣid domain and their authority over it. The 1313 treaty repeated mentioned “Ifriqiya and all its territories,” “coastal areas of Ifriqiya and its related lands,” or referred explicitly to cities like Tripoli, Gabes, and Sfax.166 A note in a contemporary Italian merchant’s log reveals that the merchants who authored it conceived of the Ḥafṣids as the “kingdom of Barbary,” whose capital was in Tunis, and whose lands stretch from “Tripoli…to Bugia [Bijāya].”167 This was contrary to the reality of Ḥafṣid autonomous municipalities; clearly, the fourteenth-century Ḥafṣids were in the business of posturing to their political and economic partners. In a rather unexpected way, the

Italian merchant’s log sheds further light on this phenomenon.

The Zibaldone da Canal is a fourteenth century notebook of economic data and information, as well as miscellanea. Niccolò da Canal was a precocious youth who put his name on the text in 1422, but he was certainly not its author. The contents were written by an anonymous author (or authors) in the early fourteenth century, with a few pages tacked on at the end in the fifteenth. The bulk of the text discussed weights, measures, conversions, prices, and taxes for various goods, organized by city or mercantile destination. There is also a smattering of

165 Rouighi, Mediterranean Emirate, 41-43. 166 Appendix A; Amari, I diploma, 88, 89, 90, 91. 167 Zibaldone da Canal, 83.

notes on mathematics, astrology, poetry, proverbs, religion, medicine, and business.168 As the

1313 treaty suggested, merchants had to acquire and spend Tunis-made coins while conducting business. The treaty also emphasized taxes, with tax regulations listed at length. The zibaldone inadvertently challenged Ḥafṣid enforcement capabilities. It discussed a place called Jijel, a coastal town nestled well into supposedly firmly held Ḥafṣid territory. But the zibaldone noted it as an ideal landing spot for foreign merchants, because it was “not tax-farmed” and that buying and selling was relatively frictionless.169 In other words, there was no state monopoly in Jijel. By contrast, the city Annaba, often called Bona in sources, which was closer to Tunis, was taxed.170

It also interesting to note when the zibaldone author remarked on the quality of the people in each city. This strays into the realm of speculation, but if Jijel and Bijāya (and other cities not mentioned in the zibaldone) operated outside the confines of official Ḥafṣid rules, perhaps the uncharacteristic comments about the goodness of the men, that Constantine and its port city

Collo were “the good places in Barbary…where everyone wants to go,” or that in Bijāya “men are better than the men in Tunis” was reflective of the ease and lack of state interference enjoyed by merchants in those cities.171 In any case, the precarity of the Ḥafṣids during Ibn al-Liḥyānī’s reign and their reliance on economic agreements meant that territorial posturing and authority aggrandizement was necessary. The rhetorical strategies developed and utilized in this period are even more apparent in extant official correspondences.

168 John D. Dotson, “Introduction,” in The Zibaldone da Canal: Merchant Culture in Fourteenth Century Venice, ed. John D. Dotson (Binghamton: Center for Medieval and Early Renaissance Studies, 1994), 9- 11. 169 Zibaldone da Canal, 92. 170 Ibid., 90. 171 Ibid., 91, 93.

During his reign from 1311-1318, Ibn al-Liḥyānī wrote back and forth with various

European monarchs, just as he had during his tenure as shaykh of the Almohads. He transferred those same tactics in those diplomatic communications, and utilized piracy and captive negotiations in a novel and influential way. We see, for instance, a fascinating rhetorical and negotiating strategy in a 1314 letter. It began fairly typically, with a verbose and flowery greeting to James II of Aragon, and a comparatively short introduction to Ibn al-Liḥyānī

(referred to as ‘Abdallah Zakariyā). Before turning to the issue at hand, the letter asserted that the Ḥafṣids were committed to the friendly relationship between them and the Aragonese, but that it would only be possible to do so with dialogue about a recent “pending issue.”172 The issue was so severe that it “demanded deviation from the stipulations of the peace treaty.”173 Ḥafṣid shores had been plundered by rogue corsairs – pirates – who “appeared on [Ifriqiyan] shores and captured a group of Muslims and seized a large amount of their money and goods.”174 This is the extent of the detail offered about the attack. The letter goes on, however, and assert that the

Ḥafṣids were confident that the Aragonese would deal with this issue in a satisfactory manner, even if the resolution was “not mediated by a full contracted treaty,” because of the

“friendship…[with its] foundations established so firmly” between them.175 There were frequent referrals and reminders of their friendly relationship, with the implication that their relations should be governed by mutual consideration even if there is no official treaty and even in the case of “certain affairs…[that had] demanded deviation from…the peace treaty.”176 In this way, the Ḥafṣids signal that they expect courteous treatment even when there is no treaty binding

172 Appendix C; Cartas Árabes 129, Los Documentos Árabes, 286. 173 Ibid. 174 Appendix C; Cartas Árabes 129, Los Documentos Árabes, 285-287. 175 Appendix C; Cartas Árabes 129, Los Documentos Árabes, 286. 176 Ibid.

them, and that there was a shared understanding of “friendship” that was implied to be special and perhaps “off the books.” They take it upon themselves to helpfully suggest a game plan, based on how Frederick III of Sicily (r. 1295-1337) once dealt with piratical corsairs and Muslim captives:

One of these past few days there was an occurrence with your brother the sovereign…Frederick [III] King of Sicily, [a case which] shows his refined nobility and generous nature, so we decided to inform you of it. It is thus: Some Muslim traders arrived and reported that corsairs descended upon them, captured them, and took them to Sicily. The aforementioned king heard about this and ordered their release and had most of what was stolen from them returned. He clothed them and sent them back to us after hanging the corsairs in their presence and in their sight. And we received a signed record attesting to this. And nothing was known of this until after it occurred, and it is a great occurrence that must be recorded and deserves much gratitude.177 In this way, the Ḥafṣids used the corsair issue to first, suspend a previous treaty, make demands for another, and used previous arrangements with Sicily and appeals to friendship to dictate how they want the issue resolved and a new agreement drawn up. This allowed them to make demands without seeming demanding. And finally, the letter ended by asserting that the

Aragonese were surely just as noble and would “act on this issue [in a way that] affirms [the

Ḥafṣid] good opinions” of them.178 Though seemingly jovial, the clear implication was that if they deviated from this suggested approach, the Aragonese were not only breaching the unspoken bonds of diplomatic friendship between them and the Ḥafṣids, but also betraying their reputation, house, and “refined nobility” that the letter ties to the suggested course of action. In this way, the Ḥafṣids found a “soft power” way to assert their own interests and demands despite being the weaker party in negotiations with Aragon, and despite the competing centers of authority in Ifriqiya threatening their geopolitical weight. More than any Ḥafṣid ruler before him,

177 Appendix C; Cartas Árabes 129, Los Documentos Árabes, 286. 178 Appendix C; Cartas Árabes 129, Los Documentos Árabes, 286.

Ibn al-Liḥyānī’s mode of appealing to the Aragonese was significant. He called James II and

Frederick III of Sicily brothers and of a shared noble house, but he counted himself among the fraternity too. In letters to James II, he emphasized their closeness beyond just truces and allegiance and he even claimed that “he was a Christian in his heart and wanted to die a

Christian.”179 In this case of claims to inner Christian faith, there is evidence beyond Muntaner’s word; historian Michael Lower has identified and analyzed letters between Ibn al-Liḥyānī and

James II in which Ibn al-Liḥyānī’s explicitly dangled the prospect of conversion before a rapt

James II. He was unquestionably aware of the European desire for Ifriqiyan conversion expressed in sources like Muntaner’s chronicle. Some of the letters were written by a commander of the Christian guard in Tunis, Bernat de Fons, who assured James II that Ibn al-

Liḥyānī was “a very benign lord” whose “greatest wish in this world is that he could see [James

II] as the king of Sicily, because…the house of Tunis is [for James II].”180 Ibn al-Liḥyānī was determined to further stabilize relations with Aragon. He cemented his covert epistolary

Christian desires, for instance, by allowing the twice arrested and deported polymath and preacher Ramon Llull to come to Ifriqiya for a third time and preach publicly in Tunis.181 Ibn al-

Liḥyānī’s interests encouraged James II so much that he began a plan with Frederick II to bring

Tunis into Aragonese suzerainty.182 In this way, the Ḥafṣid adaptation courted the Aragonese in order to avoid confrontation, while also using diplomacy to uphold state interests. The Ḥafṣid position did not lend them to aggressive or particularly self-serving diplomatic strategies, but it

179 Lower, “Ibn Al-Lihyani,” 20. 180 From Lower, “Ibn Al-Lihyani,” 20. 181 Brunschvig, La Berbérie orientale, I, 462-465. 182 Lower, “Ibn Al-Lihyani,” 22.

was not all ingratiating letters and promises. Certain circumstances, such as piracy or captive negotiations, allowed the Ḥafṣids to assert their own interests.

Piracy and the Mediterranean are traditionally seen as going hand in hand. To be sure, that Sea was no stranger to maritime violence and illicit activity. There was nary a treaty that did not mention or deal with piracy in some way. There were joint agreements between Muslim and

Christian monarchs to fight against pirate vessels and prevent them from attacking merchants, and a concerted effort to prevent them from profiting off stolen goods.183 The 1236 Genoese –

Hafsid treaty even promised safe harbour in Ifriqiya for Genoese ships in the event they were pursued by hostile ships.184 It is important, however, to differentiate between types of small- scale maritime violence. Piracy was not simply a matter of criminals who spend their days on the sea, raiding coasts and terrorizing merchant ships. At times, the plundering was done by merchants or even state officials. There was some sense that governments could control or were at least liable for such infractions. A 1186 treaty between Pisa and the Almohads demanded that any Pisan man who robbed or harmed a Muslim at sea be punished as though he committed a crime against a fellow Pisan.185 The expectation was, then, that the Pisan officials be able to keep track of their subjects and their crimes as sea. In some cases, treaties allowed sanctioned retaliatory violence or even a break from peacetime in the event of piracy. The 1236 agreement with Genoa banned Genoese men from sailing on armed ships and from having Muslims onboard, and allowed that, if they should, the Muslim officials would not be bound to keep the

183 See, for instance, the 1234 treaty between the Ḥafṣids and Pisa, Mas Latrie, Traites de paix, II, 34; the 1313 treaty, Appendix A and Amari, I diplomi, 86-97; Ḥafṣid - Genoese treaties, such as that of 1236, Mas Latrie, Traites de paix, II, 115-117. 184 Tunis-Genoa 1236, Mas Latrie, Traites de paix, 117. 185 Amari, I diplomi, 18-19; Mas Latrie, Traites de paix, II, 29.

peace.186 In fact, one clause encouraged the Genoese to join Muslim officials in attacking rogue

Genoese seafarers.187 Piracy thus allowed the Ḥafṣids to respond with violence without suspending the state of peace between the states. When Roger de Lauria, for instance, was an active naval admiral in the Djerba area, he began to overextend his mandate and attacked the shores of the Ifriqiyan mainland. The Ḥafṣids wrote to Aragon, informing them that they must keep him under control.188 They expressed their unhappiness succinctly:

This admiral does not cease on his own [of his own volition] and the intention [of this letter] is that you send him a letter demanding he return from these places. If he [then] stops on his own, then good, that is the intended result. If he does not return and your answer arrives and he [still] does not cease at your order, then by God I will descend on Djerba myself, and we will destroy its crops, demolish its buildings, and we will not leave a single thing there for him to benefit from.189 This letter is interesting for several reasons. Although it is undated, it must have been in the early

1300’s, since Roger died in 1305, and so was before Ibn al-Liḥyānī’s tenure as sultan but during his time as shaykh of the Almohads. The tone was thus far more aggressive than anything from

Ibn al-Liḥyānī’s reign. But although it was very direct in its threats, it was still careful in its wording. It is all written in first-person by someone named Zakariyā ibn Ahmed, who must have been some sort of government official. In other words, the letter sounds as though it were the independent writings of Zakariyā ibn Ahmed, giving the Ḥafṣids some distance from his aggressive tone. Other letters were written in third person and featured elaborate introduction to or mention of the caliph. The letter’s promises of destruction and demolition were threats of piracy; they were made in what was framed as a personal letter, and there was no mention of treaty to discuss, renegotiate, or temporarily suspend. Moreover, piracy in the documents is often

186 Tunis-Genoa 1236, Mas Latrie, Traites de paix, II, 116 187 Ibid. 188 Appendix B; Cartas Árabes 128, Los Documentos Árabes, 284. 189 Ibid.

expressed in these same terms, without reference to “corsairs,” or the Arabic equivalent, qarāṣina. Descriptions of plunder or armed vessels were used instead, such as in the 1314 letter discussed above. As in that case, piracy became a bargaining tool. In the 1313 treaty with Pisa, for instance, the Ḥafṣids promised that no “threatening armed vessels” from Ḥafṣid lands would reach any of Pisa’s territories.190 The ambiguity of terms – when was a state liable for an act of piracy? In what circumstances could a state reliably get away with piracy? – at times lent the

Ḥafṣids space to negotiate. In 1314, for instance, they sent another letter to Aragon, and part of it appears to be responding to an issue regarding ships illegally taken or compounded. The

Aragonese seemed to have taken two Ḥafṣid ships, which the Aragonese claimed were “not taken during a period of peace, but during a period of war,” the implication being that taking ships – any ships – during a time of war was fair game.191 The Ḥafṣid letters concedes that one of them was taken during war time, but that the second was not. The letter then moves to Aragonese ships seized on Ḥafṣid shores. It stated that those ships were taken during a time of war “that occurred through your [Aragonese] actions.”192 That caveat suggests that the Ḥafṣids hoped to offset culpability for their aggression to the Aragonese for having provoked war conditions in the first place. Although impounding the ships would have technically been “allowed” because it had been a state of war, the Ḥafṣids were still the weaker party in negotiations. Instead of suggesting a solution in the letter, it said they would send “their servant, the noble, the honourable,

Fernando Chupin…to discuss with [the Aragonese] and finalize a peace treaty.”193 In this way,

190 Appendix A; Amari, I diplomi, 88. 191 Cartas Árabes 130, Los Documentos Árabes, 288. 192 Ibid. 193 Ibid.

the used what was clearly a European serviceman of some kind to present their case and interests for a new peace treaty, while trying to dictate the terms of naval seizure.

Beyond just responding to piracy, then, the Ḥafṣids began to dabble in it themselves.

They could use protection from piracy as an incentive, but they also used it to their advantage by either benefiting from it directly or ignoring it. As suggested by the 1314 letter, truce partners expected one another to repatriate kidnapped subjects. Increasingly in this period, however, the

Ḥafṣids neglected to do so.194 In one instance, a Catalan mother and daughter were captured by

“Ifriqiyan corsairs,” and then transported to the Ḥafṣid palace and harem, respectively.195 A captive’s ability to taste freedom became more dependent on their ability to pay a ransom, than the state’s ability or interest in honouring treaties and releasing them.196 To that end, negotiating leverage sometimes trumped the regular course of justice. Whereas the usual recourse was to demand that kidnapped subjects be repatriated without ransom, one letter agreed to pay Christian captives a ransom for kidnapped Muslims and then demanded that, in return, the Aragonese

“fulfill the terms of their peace treaty, as we have fulfilled them…[and control] the pirates from your territories [who have come here] and kidnapped people from our land.”197 Christian piracy provided the Ḥafṣids a chance to stress their own demands against a kingdom that held every advantage over them. In one 1315 case, the Ḥafṣids used captive negotiations, and the developing move away from expecting reciprocal repatriation, to reshape their own jurisdiction; that year, they sent a short missive to James II, responding to the king’s request that a group of

Christian captives be released from Ḥafṣid detention and given over to the Aragonese. In the

194 Mas Latrie, “Introduction,” Traites de paix, I, 96. 195 Charles-Emmanuel Dufourcq, L’Espagne Catalane et Le Maghreb aux XIIIe et XIVe siècles, (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1966),104 note 5. 196 Rouighi, Mediterranean Emirate, 91. 197 Cartas Árabes 131, Los Documentos Árabes, 291.

letter, the sultan informed the king that the Christian prisoners were not actually Christians but

Muslims, who publicly admitted to having pretended to be Christians. For that reason, the letter states, the Muslim authorities were not going to release them. It goes on to say that even if they were real Christians, the Ḥafṣids would continue to detain them because the Aragonese had in the past broken a peace time treaty between them. Once more, the Ḥafṣids used the application of a treaty and peace time to retroactively justify illicit and even piratical behaviour. The Ḥafṣid sultan effectively overrode the Aragonese king’s authority over the prisoners even if they had been Christian.198

In comparison to the mercantile power of the Italian states or the looming Aragonese, the

Ḥafṣids were not a regional powerhouse. In the early fourteenth century, the reshaping of their state demanded a reshaping of their diplomacy, especially in the face of the increasingly aggressive Aragonese. In the fourteenth century in particular, the Tunisian authority had to contend not only with these internal issues, but also with increasingly pressing diplomatic relations with Europe. The state began a tactic of territorial posturing, where their official correspondences emphasized regional control and almost omnipresence over both parts of the continent and islands within the sea. Piracy and captivity became important and lucrative industries, at once beyond the scope of legality but utilized by the Ḥafṣid state. Because piracy was somewhat of a jurisdictional outlier, the Ḥafṣids could use them to their advantage without risking the non-belligerency promises they made in their peace and commerce treaties. It is important to note that some of the most careful and creative negotiations happened under the reign of Ibn al-Liḥyānī, a sultan who balanced unstable relations with neighbouring cities and with the Aragonese, who he spent his reign trying to appease. He was aware of how power in

198 Cartas Árabes 134, Los Documentos Árabes, 294.

Tunis operated: he was dependent both on European support, and on keeping the Bedouins tribes on his side. For the former, he went so far as to promise Christian conversion. I have argued that treaties and correspondences from his reign utilized unorthodox diplomatic tactics in order to push Ḥafṣid interests without offending their treaty partners. For the latter, he continued the tradition of disempowering the Ḥafṣid Almohads. He was the first Ḥafṣid ruler to remove Ibn

Tumart’s name from the khuṭba. His ability to do so was of course reflective of the level of irrelevancy the Almohad connection and shuyukh had fallen to within the reigns of the first few

Ḥafṣids, but also reflective of a new tenor of Ḥafṣid statehood. Ibn al-Liḥyānī was therefore a far more influential and tide-turning figure in Ḥafṣid history. Though his reign was short and is often seen as a blip of a wily rebel, he arguably set the precedence for key diplomatic and doctrinal shifts in the Ḥafṣid state. His exclusion of the Almohad mahdi Ibn Tumart’s name from the khuṭba was not just a conscious break from their Almohad past, but a renunciation of their religio-political doctrine. This was a key element in the Ḥafṣid gradual move away from

Almohad doctrine and alignment with Sunni Malikism. His rule shaped not only Hafsid internal ideology in this way, but the use of piracy and diplomatic rhetoric continued even after he was driven out of Tunis in 1318.

Chapter 4 Doctrines, Diplomacy, and the Sea

ثم تراجعَ ت عن ذلك ق َّوة المسلمين في األَساطي ل ل ضع ف الدول ة و نسيا ن عوائ د البحر...وصار المسلمو َن فيه

كاألجانب…يبينتمب

“Then, the naval strength of the Muslims declined once more…[and] The Muslims came to be strangers to the Mediterranean…”199

So lamented Ibn Khaldūn in his Muqaddimah. He was correct, in a manner of speaking.

The North African dynasties were by his era at complete disadvantage when it came to naval prowess, especially in comparison to the southern Europeans. That said, the combination of diplomacy, the growth of piracy in the region, and its extrajudicial nature allowed the Ḥafṣids involvement in maritime activity. In this way, Ibn Khaldūn’s characterization was not fully accurate; it failed to take full consideration of phenomena he himself highlighted later in his work, discussed further in this chapter. Beyond just individual Muslims’ maritime mercantile endeavours that continued, the Ḥafṣids themselves became increasingly active in seafaring. This was not just an outcome of the developing regional norms, but a particular result of decades of

Ḥafṣid decentralization and external pressure resulting in foreign policy tactics best represented by the diplomacy of figures like Ibn al-Liḥyānī. If the years between 1277 - 1318 may be classified as a time of constant transformation of the state and its diplomatic tactics, the late fourteenth century represented a more aggressive Ḥafṣid approach to both internal and external policies. When Bijāya came back into the official Ḥafṣid sphere in 1318 with the triumph of Ibn al-Liḥyānī’s rival Abu Bakr, the development of such diplomatic strategies continued. If lack of

199 Ibn Khaldūn, Muqaddimah, 200; trans. Rosenthal, 328

productive agriculture in the thirteenth century partly drove the reliance on commerce and good relations with Europe,200 the increasingly powerful Bedouin factions and the rising difficulty in collecting tax drove the Ḥafṣids to add piracy to their roster of revenue collecting tactics.

Initially, Ḥafṣid official raids into the lands of reluctant taxpayers continued into the fourteenth century, with Ibn Khaldun leading some himself.201 After 1350, however, the Ḥafṣids were once more indebted to local Bedouin powers who drove out the invading Marinid forces, which made tax raiding and extortion difficult and a potential provocation of Bedouin factions. Consequently, the Ḥafṣids turned even more to piracy. From a means of diplomatic leverage, it became a source of wealth and proved a speedier source for it then traditional ventures like trade.202 With Bijāya back in the official orbit, the Ḥafṣids could take advantage of the growing piracy in and around the city. By the early fourteenth century, the city was a known “land of pirates” from which they would sail to European shores and take people captive; Bijāyan people would then gather to purchase them.203

Notable for the purposes of this thesis is not simply the prevalence of piracy in Ifriqiya or

Bijāya, but its use by the Ḥafṣid state, especially after the mid-fourteenth century. As the previous chapter noted, piracy, among other issues that needed diplomatic attention, was strategically used by the state to assert their interests. In a similar vein, the growth of piracy and the reincorporation of Bijāya initiated even more direct and active official involvement in the illicit practice. As Ifriqiya became a target for European pirates, Bijāya developed its own

200 As discussed in Chapter 1. 201 Rouighi, Mediterranean Emirate, 89. 202 Ibid. 203 Al-Ghubrini, ‘Unwan al-diraya fiman ‘urifa min al-‘ulama fi al-mi’a al-sabi’a bi-bijaya, ed. ‘Adil Nuwayhid, (Beirut: Lajnat al-Ta’rif wa-al-Tarjama wa-al-Nashr, 1969), 45.

“piratical fleet,”204 which conducted their own raids. Ibn Khaldun related this development succinctly:

…Muslims of coastal Ifriqiya became determined to raid their [European] lands. The people of Bijāya had started to do so thirty years [before 1390], gathering groups of pirates (ghuzāt al-baḥr),205 putting together a fleet, choosing the most heroic men, and then sailing to the Frankish coasts and islands at the moment of carelessness [i.e. when the Europeans were off their guard] and kidnapping however many people they could. They attacked any of the unbelievers’ ships that they encountered, often taking them away from them, and returning with booty, captives, and prisoners, until the coast of western Ifriqiya in Bijāya was filled with the prisons and the roads clanged with the rattling of their chains and shackles as they went about their tasks…206 This passage not only implied that these kinds of raids had been an organized Bijāyan effort for several decades, but also indicated that there was a distinction made between simple piracy and the tendency, since 1360, to gather and curate a group of rogues to conduct raids and take captives. This was contrary to previously established treaties and their stipulations regarding safe conduct, repatriating captives, and peace-time conduct more generally. Not coincidentally, the mid-fourteenth century saw the further reincorporation of Bijāya into the fold of Ḥafṣid dominion once more. Official access to and participation in piracy – and its loot and moneys – became a “precondition” of Bijāya’s participation in the Ḥafṣid state.207 Thus, Ḥafṣid notables and officials were intimately involved in the practice of piracy post-1360. The Ḥafṣid governor of Bijāya was aided by a Muhammad Ibn Abī Mahdi, whom Ibn Khaldun identified as the

“leader of the city” (za’īm al-balad) and the “commander of the fleet” (qāid al-usṭūl).208 There is no question of the nature of the fleet he commanded. Under Ibn Abī Mahdi, who eventually

204 Abun-Nasr, A history of the Maghrib, 131. 205 A more literal translation is “raiders of the sea,” the term and its implications are discussed further below. 206 Ibn Khaldūn, VI, 451. 207 Rouighi, Mediterranean Emirate, 89. 208 Ibn Khaldūn, VI, 448.

became effective ruler of the city, Bijāya became a Ḥafṣid piracy capital. Similarly, the Tunisian city Mahdiya became a base for state sanctioned and protected pirate fleets.209

The chronicle references above point to an active system of captive acquisition and distribution to markets, facilitated by a pirate fleet organized and administered by Ḥafṣid officials. Captives were sold as slaves or often ransomed back to European religious orders, to the fiscal benefit of the Ḥafṣids.210 The “loss” of captives was thus just as lucrative as the capturing and exploitation of them. This was in spite of a 1360 peace treaty that promised not to allow pirates to transact their European wares and captives on Ifriqiyan shores.211 At the same time, official missives from Tunis were still being sent out to treaty partners, complaining about

European piracy in Ifiriqiya. A letter written only three months after the 1360 treaty was ratified, for instance, detailed the actions of a one “Lait de Ransana” of Mallorca.212 Although the letter

qirṣān – it stressed the قرصان – ”does not use the Arabic term traditionally interpreted as “pirate criminality of his attacks and even mentioned that he attacked and commandeered the ships of other Europeans; this, it was implied, was a sure sign of his piracy. Allegedly, he was informed of the treaty, its importance, and how his actions violated it, but chose to brashly ignore it and continued plundering along the coast of Ifriqiya. With a clear air of beneficence, the Ḥafṣids claimed in the letter that they could have meted out harsh punishments against him, but did not in consideration of their peace accord and interest in bilateral problem solving. The letter closed with the expectation of swift punishment and remuneration of all he had looted.213 By framing

209 Abun-Nasr, A history of the Maghrib, 131. 210 James William Brodman, Ransoming Captives in Crusader Spain: The Order of the Merced on the Christian-Islamic Frontier, (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1986), 112. 211 Cartas Árabes 140, Los Documentos Árabes, 313-314. 212 Cartas Árabes 142, Los Documentos Árabes, 326. This is the Latinization provided in the Spanish .an altogether unusual and unclear name ,ليت درنصانة translation. The Arabic text calls him 213 Cartas Árabes 142, Los Documentos Árabes, 324-328.

the request and letter as a sign of their loyalty and diligence to the treaty, refusal of their terms for justice and repayment would have seemed like a violation of those principles of friendly diplomacy.214 These same demands and expectations were articulated in the earlier letters discussed in Chapter 2, suggesting that they developed into a standard negotiation method and rhetoric. Unfortunately, extant epistolary records between Ifriqiya and Europe run dry after the

1360s, but the problem of piracy persisted on both sides. This begs the question, by what logic could the Ḥafṣids not only allow but participate in piracy themselves, while having the face to question other monarchs about European piracy and continually use the instances of piracy to assert their treaty rights and make demands?

Here, the terminology used for maritime violence, and specifically for what is deemed piracy, in medieval Arabic sources is important. In the above letter, the European rogue was not

though the term was used in other Ḥafṣid letters to refer (القرصان labeled a corsair (Arabic qirṣān to European piracy and plunder.215 The mysterious de Ransana was simply described as having gone raiding and kidnapping, activities all associated with piracy. That accusation was further stressed by mentioning that he had targeted legitimate European vessels and disregarded the strictures and sanctity of the peace accords. There is no question, then, that when the Ḥafṣid letter referred to violated treaty stipulations, they were referring to those condemning piracy.

Qirṣān is often glossed in modern translations as pirate or corsair interchangeably, and occasionally privateer, although this is the most anachronistic and therefore most mistranslated of all.216 Qirṣān, or the plural qarāṣinah, were exclusively used to refer to Europeans associated

214 In at least one contemporary circumstance, the Ḥafṣids accused an Aragonese ambassador of not complying with such unwritten norms. Cartas Árabes 143, Los Documentos Árabes, 328-329. 215 See Appendix C. 216 Travis Bruce, “Piracy as Statecraft: The Mediterranean Policies of the Fifth/Eleventh-Century Taifa of Denia,” Al-Masaq: Islam and the Medieval Mediterranean 22, no. 3 (2010): 236, note 4.

with piracy, by which I mean they could be an ambiguous seafaring criminal, or someone of stature or an official who was engaging in raiding and kidnapping, as Roger de Lauria was accused of. The common denominator in each case was the illicitness of their actions, rather than necessarily the status or occupation of the culprit. In other words, if the Ḥafṣids felt that certain raiding was illegal – like, for example, if it took place during a period of peace – they could use the same label for and therefore charge the same crime against the perpetrator regardless of their social or official status. Therefore, a European elite or official acting criminally was given the same legal status and approach as a common pirate. Notably, the Ḥafṣid documents never seem to refer to maritime criminals using the myriad of other Arabic terms used in other contexts in the medieval Islamic world, such as luṣūṣ al-baḥr (thieves of the sea), ḥarāmiyat al-baḥr

(bandits of the sea), and others.217 While the seemingly most obvious reason for using qirṣān for

Europeans is simple etymology – the term originates from an Arabic corruption of the Italian corsale – the Ḥafṣid diction in correspondences and legal documents seems to have deeper legal implications. In this way, the Ḥafṣids created a special legal approach for European maritime crime which allowed them to stress the liability of their treaty partners and use the circumstance as negotiating leverage. By contrast, the Ḥafṣid rhetoric for their own piratical fleets did not imply the same level of criminality.

In the Arabic context, the terminology, and therefore conception and legal implications, shift. The perpetrators of the “state-sanctioned illicit maritime violence” employed by the

Ḥafṣids via places like Bijāya were referred to as ghuzāt al-baḥr (raiders of the sea) in the chronicle sources, a term that does not come up in the legal documents or official

217 Hassan S. Khalilieh, Islamic Law of the Sea: Freedom of Navigation and Passage Rights in Islamic Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019), 170-172.

correspondences assessed thus far. Their actions correspond to the descriptions of piracy in the

Ḥafṣid letters highlighted throughout this thesis. In other words, their actions and raiding in times of peace all lined up with the actions taken by Europeans that the Ḥafṣids raised their concerns over, but they were not legally conceived of as pirates. Ghuzāt al-baḥr on the one hand had connections to the official administration and provided fiscal and defensive benefits, but were also still technically “unofficial,” in that they were not a state navy. There also existed an old

Islamic legal precedent for maritime raiding and piracy, which did not automatically condemn the practice. Instead, piracy was sometimes seen as a licit form of jihad, provided it fell within the rules of war.218 This also provides one reason that Ibn Khaldūn framed the growth of piracy as a response to European aggression, despite the other documentary evidence that much of it was conducted during periods of supposed peace between the Ḥafṣids and non-Muslims polities.

It was true that the Ḥafṣids were attacked several times in the early to mid-fourteenth century. In

1354, a group of uncertain state affiliation from Genoa attacked Tripoli and pillaged all along the

Ifriqiyan coast. Given not only these threats but the then still considerable level of decentralization, it is no surprise that wealthy cities like Bijāya developed such unorthodox piracy fleets. By 1390, piracy fleets seem to have existed for several decades and gained official stature. And of course, European powers did eventually retaliate; Ifriqiyan piracy drew the ire of and attacks from the French, Genoese, and Spanish.219 But irrespective of the European reaction, what is notable here is that the Ḥafṣid foreign policy and diplomacy developed in 1277-1318 allowed them to use maritime conflict to their advantage and to gain negotiation leverage; decades later, with the shifting internal climate, they came to also develop maritime power and naval capabilities in a similarly unorthodox manner. What started as a defensive measure

218 Bruce, “Piracy as Statecraft,” 237. 219 Ibn Khaldūn, VI, 452.

burgeoned into its own aggressive institution for a state that had spent most of its existence in an insecure geopolitical position due, in part, to naval weakness.

There is, however, a very clear problem: if Ifriqiya-based pirates were able to operate through and with the state, how did the state maintain its credibility in the eyes of its trade and diplomatic partners? Particularly since the Ḥafṣids had been developing for decades a style of diplomacy meant to weather any internal issues they may have and any external threats. In other words, they had hitherto been the less advantaged party in peace dealings. This dilemma was solved by the then sultan, Abu al-‘Abbas (r. 1370-1394). On the one hand, the Ḥafṣids had to maintain some semblance of trustworthiness in order to continue striking peace and trade deals.

On the other, the integration of powerful cities and utilization of their piracy fleets became an important tool for the state. In a marriage of both needs, the piracy fleets targeted only ships from lands that did not have treaties with Ḥafṣids. This allowed them to operate within the shari’ah confines – those without a peace treaty were still considered to be in a state of ḥarb – while also creating incentive for economic deals. Of course, even with what seemed to be a logical legal apparatus, reality did not always fall in line; the late fourteenth century did see instances of violence between the Ḥafṣids and various Europeans. But that aside, the developments point to further important changes within the state itself.

The Ḥafṣid cultivation of piracy accompanied their continued diplomatic approach and suggests that utilizing piracy in a period of greater state unity and centrality was a natural outcome of the foreign policy and diplomatic practices they had been engaging in for decades since Ibn al-Liḥyānī, as outlined in the previous chapter. Moreover, the internal politics and shifting doctrinal ethos played a role. By the late fourteenth century, when the state began to sponsor, take a role in, and profit from these fleets and their activities, the Ḥafṣid ruler’s control

over the rich coastal cities and the Bedouin tribes was strengthening. The late fourteenth century ruler Abu al-‘Abbas went from being the Ḥafṣid ruler of a functionally autonomous Constantine, to becoming sole ruler over Ḥafṣid Ifriqiya and ushering in a period of both centrality and change.220 Long before Abu al-‘Abbas took control of Tunis, his time as ruler of Constantine gave him an intimate understanding of the mechanisms of power in Ifriqiya. He was himself beholden to the support of local Arab tribes, which supported him in Constantine. A few decades before he ascended in Tunis, the neighbouring Marinids invaded Ḥafṣid Ifriqiya twice, in 1347 and 1357.221 The first time, the Marinids succeeded in taking Bijāya and Constantine; but they were eventually forced to halt their progress and relinquish their hold on Ifriqiya due, in part, to the local Arab tribes, previously allied to the Marinid ruler, who grew “frustrated by his inability to meet their expectations of reward…[and] revolted.”222 A decade later, the Marinids took advantage of Ḥafṣid dynastic infighting and invaded once more, this time making it all the way to Tunis, the very Ḥafṣid heart. Once more, agitation from Arab tribes in Bijāya, Constantine, and Tunis became an incessant and intractable problem for the would-be new rulers. That, combined with troubles in the Marinid capital in the west, led to a Marinid retreat from

Ifriqiya.223 The Marinid episodes gave the Abu al-’Abbas regime two imperatives: the first was to abandon the multifaceted model of a state with multiple urban centers of power and unify and consolidate Ifriqiya under the rule of a Tunis-based government; and, second, to check the influence of the Arab tribes and their near-kingmaking abilities and status.224 In some urban

220 Rouighi, Mediterranean Emirate, 98. 221 Fernando Rodríguez Mediano, “The Post-Almohad Dynasties in al-Andalus and the Maghrib (seventh–ninth/thirteenth–fifteenth centuries),” in The New Cambridge History of Islam, vol. II: The Western Islamic World, Eleventh to Eighteenth Centuries, ed. Maribel Fierro (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 113-115. 222 Ibid, 114. 223 Ibid., 115. 224 Abun-Nasr, A history of the Maghrib, 130.

centers within Ifriqiya, like Tripoli and Gabes, the tribal families had grown so politically authoritative as to have their own peace and commerce treaties with Italian city states like

Venice.225 The Banu Makki family allowed their Venetian allies unprecedented access to trade ports, “duty-free” exports, and other exclusive privileges the Venetians were happy to take advantage of alone.226 Tripoli, Sfax, Gabes, Djerba, and swathes of southern Tunisia were in the irreverent hands of two brothers from the Banu Makki tribe. But instability and tribal infighting rendered authoritative tribal families unpopular with the local community. Abu al-‘Abbas had to of course ally with other tribes to bolster his support base and his armies, which included professional Andalusi and Ḥafṣid troops and mawali, or liberated Christian slaves.227 His military successes in those Banu Makki municipalities and in southern Tunisia were important victories, but military conquest alone in Ifriqiya proved time and time again to only confer a superficial semblance of power. Further consolidation was necessary, but Abu al-‘Abbas was wary of depending on Arab tribes, which were often fickle at best.228 It was becoming increasingly advantageous for the Ḥafṣids to undercut tribal authority by appealing to popular sentiments and a growing community of influential figures: Maliki religious leaders. Maliki figures had growing influence in both lay and official circles.

This “top-down” approach also initiated a turn in Ḥafṣid state policy and doctrine. As cities like Bijāya, Tripoli, Mahdiya, and Constantine and aspects of their economy and industries

– such as piracy – were incorporated into a politically centralized Ḥafṣid state, the state began to appeal to Malikism and move away from the Almohad doctrine. The most immediate benefit to

225 Brunschvig, La Berbérie orientale, I, 172-174. 226 Ibid., 174. 227 Ibn Khaldūn, Kitab al’-‘ibar VI, 439. 228 Abun-Nasr, A history of the Maghrib, 130.

this was to move away from reliance on tribal support; Malikism as a school of thought, or mathhab, had the potential to provide Ḥafṣid sultans with both ideological legitimacy, enable more aggressive foreign policy, and appeal to a growing base of popular support.

Although authors like Abun-Nasr mark 1370 (the year Abu al-‘Abbas’s reign began) as a moment of clear orientation change,229 which was true in some respects, the reality was as we have seen; certain features of the Almohad state legacy were slowly relinquished or discarded over the course of the fourteenth century. The office of the shaykh of the Almohads lost much of its duties, power, and status during those years. And as the previous chapters highlight, that trend was one of the reasons for the power struggles and tension within Hafsid Ifriqiya. Furthermore, modern scholarship has not adequately assessed ibn al-Liḥyānī’s role in Ḥafṣid political and religious ethos. His reign arguably initiated not only the diplomatic styles previously discussed, but also the doctrinal move away from Almohad dominance and ultimately a new Ḥafṣid ethos.

Erasing Ibn Tumart’s name from the khutba was a major shift, even if the state did not yet adopt

Malikism. It signaled a break from what was the foundational Ḥafṣid claim, which was their connection and continuation of the true Almohad doctrine. Although it was not until the late fourteenth century that Ḥafṣid rulership made more decisive changes away from the Almohad orientation, Ibn al-Liḥyānī’s reign represented the Hafsid’s “coming into their own,” or developing an ideology more appropriate to their geopolitical position and internal dynamics.

The centralization initiated by Abu al-‘Abbas had a significant and distinct element that previous attempts lacked; an appeal to the growing urban prominence of Malikism. The mathhab already had a strong foothold in North Africa. Although the earlier Ḥafṣids had not officially

229 Abun-Nasr, A history of the Maghrib, 132.

acknowledged it or its scholars, they were generally tolerant of it in Ifriqiya. Abu al-‘Abbas’ reign initiated state interest in Malikism, the urban prominence of which drew the attention of a regime that was interested in creating a more unified Ḥafṣid Ifriqiya.230 Tapping into the economic, cultural, and defensive power accumulated by cities like Bijāya and Constantine was an obvious motive, and Rouighi rightly points out that the desire to gain control over such powerful urban centers was the natural outcome of the trend of localized rebellious bursts, as outlined in the previous chapter. He calls this the emergence of “emirism” in Ḥafṣid Ifriqiya.231

Abu al-‘Abbas started his journey to the Ḥafṣid throne in a manner similar to those we have already seen; he was the ruler of a powerful city, intimately aware of how power was gained and maintained in Ifriqiya, and jumped on the opportunity to take Tunisia when it arose. But Abu al-

‘Abbas arguably sought to cement the unification more permanently via doctrinal transformation too. Maliki scholars and urban leadership long had an important role in popular religious practice. It was of such importance in Ifriqiya that Tunis became a centre of Maliki scholarship in the thirteenth century, even though the state had not officially recognized it until much later.232

Maliki scholars, or ‘ulama, came to hold important religious offices.233 Vitally, Malikism had a strong foothold in the local populace. Since at least the thirteenth century, Maliki leaders were so successful in their missionary work and the mathhab gained such social currency that disadvantaged and marginalized Amazigh communities began adopting it (along with the Arabic language) in an effort to elevate their social standing.234 Moreover, it also connected to the growing influence of Andalusis, who were Maliki Muslims. Just as Andalusis became

230 Abun-Nasr, A history of the Maghrib, 130. 231 Rouighi, Mediterranean Emirate, 97-99. 232 Abun-Nasr, A history of the Maghrib, 133. 233 Ibid. 234 Michael Brett, “Arabs, Berbers, and Holymen in Southern Ifriqiya, 650-750/1250-1350 AD,” Cahier de Tunisie 26 (1981): 554.

increasingly involved in government work, so too did Maliki religious leaders and scholars. And because many came from old local families, they did not attract the same suspicion and discomfort Andalusis had. Ḥafṣid sultans appointed them as judges, or qadis, of which there were several types. The sultan even took a direct hand in the appointment of municipal qadis, with advice from his qadi al-jama’a, or judge of the community. Abu al-‘Abbas and his successor Abu Faris (r. 1394 -1434) were closely involved with this process, even occasionally revoking the appointment of a municipal qadi that they did not approve of.235 The judges gave the sultans the opportunity to impress their interests and laws in several facets of society, especially since there were judges assigned to everything from moon sighting to the military.236

After 1370, virtually all qadis in every level were Maliki, whose influence on their local communities was considerable and played a key role in legitimizing the sultan in the eyes of the urban communities. In this way, the sultan’s interests became connected with Malikism. The qadis sat on weekly councils with other important figures to discuss legal issues. Their political importance by this period cannot be understated, both due to appointments from the sultan and from their background as established scholars and members of prominent families. They were often referred to as elders, “great men of the city,” or shuyukh. A small note in al-Zarkashi hints at how important city officials played in Abu al’Abbas’ unification endeavours; in a section summarizing the sultan’s crackdown on uprising in Gafsa, he noted that other cities were already under the authority of the sultan “in the view of their elders.”237 Their submission or acceptance of the sultan was clearly an important indicator of the leader’s success.

235 Brunschvig, La Berbérie orientale, II, 119-120. 236 Brunschvig, La Berbérie orientale, II, 119; Rouighi, Mediterranean Emirate, 137. 237 Al-Zarkashī, Tarikh al-dawlatayn, 230.

Abu al-‘Abbas and Abu Faris attended the councils, and were given legal advice from these Maliki qadis.238 This represented a significant move towards not only official recognition of the school of thought, but also adoption of Maliki legal traditions. Almohad doctrine had no real parallel when it came to a codified legal approach.239 Malikism gave the state the ideological foundation from which to transform their diplomatic approach, and create a state-sanctioned piracy program, rearrange their administrative hierarchy, and ultimately transform the Ḥafṣid ethos both internally and in their dealings with Europe. Aspects of Maliki tradition made the relationship between sultan and newly empowered religious scholar particularly symbiotic; going back to maritime issues, for instance, the Muwatta of Imam Malik, one of the foundational legal texts, gives authority to local imams in cases of uncertain identity in shipwrecked foreigners, which included making decisions related to looting.240 Moreover, local religious authorities had full jurisdiction over foreigner seafarers found on Islamic lands, which was particularly useful if they did not have written documents of safe conduct. An imam or qadi could decide whether they were to be let go, enslaved, or taken prisoner.241 The Muwatta did confirm that pledges of safe conduct to non-Muslims should be honoured,242 but there was considerable emphasis on the importance and benefits of jihad, including “raiding in the middle of the sea.”243 While one can not say definitively that Maliki judges directly cited such sections of the Muwatta, the law code still gives insight into the tenor and perspectives the qadis likely had. Moreover, the marked

238 Brunschvig, La Berbérie orientale, II, 141. 239 Rouighi, Mediterranean Emirate, 134. 240 Muwatta, Book 21 Number 21.7.16a. 241 Hassan S. Khalilieh, Islamic Maritime Law: An Introduction (Leiden: Brill, 1998),125-127. 242 Muwatta, book Book 21, Number 21.4.12, 3 243 Muwatta, Book 21, Number 21.18.39, 11.

change in state organization, foreign policy, and doctrine – which all happened around the mid- fourteenth century – were far more interconnected than secondary sources indicate.

Chronicles and Catalysts

Although Almohadism was so foundational to the Ḥafṣid claims, it had worn out its utility by the time sultans like Abu al-‘Abbas and his successor Abu Faris were in power and were restructuring both the policy and ideology of the state. This newest shift did not go unnoticed by contemporary chroniclers. The historian, polymath, and scholar Ibn Qunfudh (ca.

1340-1407) wrote a history of the Ḥafṣids, focusing on Abu Faris, who continued and sealed

Abu al-‘Abbas’ task of unifying all of Ifriqiya under the Tunis-based rulership.244 Indeed, Ibn

Qunfudh noted at the start of his chronicle that it had been written not only to sketch out the history and important accomplishments of the Ḥafṣids, but also in honour of Abu Faris, in recognition of his ascension to the Ḥafṣid throne in 1394.245 Although he wrote slightly before the herculean task of unification was achieved, his writing still reflected the tenor of the changes already well underway. First, the vestiges of the past municipal orientation were reflected in the work; Ibn Qunfudh’s chronicle put much emphasis on the greatness of Constantine, his birthplace, and its connection to royal Ḥafṣid stock. In his focus on Constantine, we see the persistence of the localized attitude that prevailed in the decades before, but the primacy of Tunis was still apparent. To emphasize his own closeness of the sultan and participation in court, he highlighted the erudite conversations he attended and was welcomed to in Tunis.246 His writing also supported the unification that was still underway, most especially by highlighting the great

244 Rouighi, Mediterranean Emirate, 156. 245 Ibn Qunfudh, Al-Farisiya fi mabadi’ al-dawla al-hafsiya, ed. Muhammad al-Shadhili al-Nayfar and ‘Abd al-Majid al-Turki (Tunis: Al-Dar al-Tunisiya li al-Nashr, 1968), 99. 246 Ibn Qunfudh, Al-Farisiya, 197.

new Ḥafṣid territorial acquisitions in mountainous regions.247 Moreover, he expressly framed conquest of parts of Ifriqiya as “recovery” or “return” to the natural order, both to the rulership of what he saw as the legitimate Ḥafṣid family, and most especially to their Tunis-centered state.248 Even more fascinating is how he conceived of the long periods of split Ḥafṣid urban capitals and changes in rulership: in a section on how the self-styled mahdi Ibn Abī ‘Umara (r.

1283-1284)249 came to power, he described the state as having almost gone into dormancy, still existing but hidden. After Ibn Abī ‘Umara was killed, the Ḥafṣid state “returned…to its original form, overt and covert [ẓāhir wa bāṭin].”250 Ibn Qunfudh perceived Ifriqiya and the Ḥafṣids’ place in it through the lens of the new Ḥafṣid modus vivendi, where unification and a nucleic

Tunis were the order of the day even as the project was on-going. Furthermore, he used that same lens to understand and write about the Ḥafṣid past, imagining a constant Ḥafṣid dynastic and authoritative thread existing dormant during periods of instability and rebellion. This also allowed him to write an “accurate” history without compromising the image and status of his ruler (and, presumably, patron) and the Ḥafṣid dynasty. As well, the rhetoric of “overt and covert” has some religious connotations, alluding to ideologies of mahdism and Sufism, which was like Malikism in its growth and prominence in Ifriqiya. The Ḥafṣid state was represented as the true caliphate simply receding and biding its time as usurpers threatened its unity. Moreover, that Ibn Qunfudh used this terminology in a section about Ibn Abī ‘Umara, who claimed to be the true mahdi and Ḥafṣid heir, not only delegitimizes him, but also solved the narrative issues that a fragmented political past posed for a hagiographic writer like Ibn Qunfudh. Rather than present that period as decades of Ḥafṣid weakness or loss, their latency instead reaffirms their

247 Ibid., 196. 248 Ibid., 197. 249 See Chapter 2 for more on this short reign. 250 Ibn Qunfudh, Al-Farisiya, 145.

indelible right and continued hold on Ifriqiya in the spiritual and ideological sense, always ready to become covert once more, when the right ruler emerged. Such a point of view cemented the notion that a unified Ḥafṣid Ifriqiya was always undercurrent in the past, and was inevitable for the future.

That future voice was supplied by the already oft-cited al-Zarkashī, who died circa 1526.

He spoke of Abu al-‘Abbas and Abu Faris with considerable hindsight. It is noteworthy, then, that when he described the then new sultan’s arrival to Tunis, he praised him as having “steadied that which shook, elevated that which was transformed, and lifted all manner of corruption from the country.”251 He noted the sultan’s piety, highlighting specifically his habit of reading Qur’an and weekly khatim, which refers to the act of reading the Qur’an in its entirety.252 If true, it was certainly an impressive feat. Another of Abu al-‘Abbas’ early career moves, according to al-

Zarkashī’s chronicle, was the appointment of four members of his “intimate elite” to important roles: a man from the notable Hintātī tribe became wazīr, one of the “elders of Constantine” was made head of secretariate, and the sultan’s “brother” became ṣaḥib Bijāya, or master of

Bijāya.253 Al-Zarkashī’s characterization points not only to the goodness of the leader, but of his rejuvenating effect on the state and politics in Tunis. He was represented as an almost maverick figure, poised to not only rule all of Ḥafṣid Ifriqiya, but as a key catalyst for a fundamental shift which, by al-Zarkashī’s time, had already come to fruition.

Of course, al-Zarkashī was not an “objective” or “neutral” observer; he was a Ḥafṣid official and worked in the chancery. His writing is unsurprisingly supportive of the Tunis-based

251 Al-Zarkashī, Tarikh al-dawlatayn, 216. The first two clauses of this quote are found almost verbatim in ibn Qunfudh, al-Farisiya, 177. 252 Al-Zarkashī, Tarikh al-dawlatayn, 218. 253 Ibid., 217. Al-Zarkashī omitted one of the names, which the editor provides in footnote 1 of the same page. Since they do not mention his role, it is likely not known.

Ḥafṣids, and privileges Tunis as a seat of power and focal point of the state. Given how much the center(s) of power oscillated throughout the previous decades of Ḥafṣid history, his narrative points to the success of Abu al-‘Abbas’ centralizing, unifying, and doctrine-shifting efforts.

Moreover, al-Zarkashī’s privileged position was itself a nod to just how far from Almohad norms the Ḥafṣids had moved; although he grew up with a good education, he was a man of humble origins compared to the typical courtly official, and was likely descended from a freed slave.254

All the chronicles used thus far – that of Ibn Khaldūn, Ibn Qunfudh, al-Zarkashī, and ibn al-

Shamma’ – were certainly products of their political environments as well as their own socioeconomic, family, and educational backgrounds.255 But the shifting perspectives also reflect the evolution of the Ḥafṣid government. Their narratives are evidence of a new understanding of state and legitimacy, and become an index of the success of different ideologies and basis of rule.

Ibn Khaldūn was the most visionary of them, and his sociopolitical background as an Andalusi, a statesmen, and a political actor gave him his particular – now famous – worldview, in which multiple urban centers and the power of tribes was a reflection of his teleological idea that all dynasty deteriorate in the same predictable way.256 Ibn Qunfudh’s history was less interested in a grand world narrative, but did reflect his contemporary place in a Ḥafṣid state that felt dynamic and transformative, and in some ways he was far more prescient than modern scholars give him credit. Finally, al-Zarkashī stood at the end of the spectrum and at the end of the scope of this study; he lived through what are now considered the Ḥafṣid “glory days.” Unification has long been privileged as the most stable and ideal situation for a state, and both pre-modern and many

254 Rouighi, Mediterranean Emirate, 160. Abu Faris was also noted for choosing from among his freedmen when appointing officials: H. R. Idris, “Ḥafṣids,” Encyclopedia of Islam II, 2005. 255 For more on Ḥafṣid chroniclers, their historical positions, and the nature of their narratives, see Rouighi, Mediterranean Emirate, 150-167. 256 See Introduction.

modern sources hold to that view. Al-Zarkashī’s mostly staid chronicle gives us glimpses of a maturity and stability of regime, under which the state developed, for instance, its own naval strategy and capabilities unique in form, function, and legal foundation, as well as a more self- assured geopolitical presence more generally. Ibn Khaldun was a pithy and insightful writer and political actor, but he lived too early to see and appreciate the Ḥafṣid state was changing, how his very homeland shifted away from the modes he based his world history study on.

Epilogue

Refuting the Khaldunian thesis may not sound particularly novel in of itself, but this thesis presents an alternative method and development of the Ḥafṣids, while also demonstrating that Ibn Khaldūn’s contemporary assessment of his lived circumstances turned out to be mistaken. His seminal work, though pithy and insightful, missed the forest for the trees. In the decades preceding his lifetime, the emergence and growth of the Ḥafṣid dynasty, compared to the issues they faced during his life, were probably a convincing parable for his worldview. Despite that, his work remains an invaluable source into the history of the Ḥafṣids. For over three centuries, Ifriqiya was ruled by this dynamic and adaptive polity. Emerging out of the formerly

Almohad environment, the Ḥafṣid family and dynasty took the reins of power in a relatively benign way. For a time, they were the most stable Islamic state, and took the opportunity to become a caliphate. The following decades were a series of Ḥafṣid adaptations and responses to the geopolitical circumstances in Ifriqiya. Fortunately for historians, chronicle sources are complemented by diplomatic and economic documents, which help sketch out the storyline put forth by this thesis. By the end of the fourteenth century, correspondences reflect the diplomatic and political maneuvering the Ḥafṣids were doing while they simultaneously dealt with the

Spanish and the new mode of power distribution in Ifriqiya. The state survived the reorientation of Ifriqiya, from an Almohad territory, to an independent polity, and then a caliphate with multiple and sometimes competing urban centers. As these circumstances changed, so too did the rhetoric and ideology of those in power, and those seeking it. As the Ḥafṣids attempted to disarm the Ḥafṣid Almohads and empower Andalusis, they slowly moved away from old modes of

Almohad administration and, eventually, from their doctrine. At the same time, power in Ifriqiya also depended on a base of support from those who could mobilize troops and win wars, like the

Bedouin tribes. Although he is oft forgotten in this aspect of the tale, Ibn al-Liḥyānī managed to strike a balance between all of these competing elements and remain in power for several years, during which he made the first decisive moves away from the Almohad doctrine and utilized his diplomatic experience to court European allies. In this period, we see Ḥafṣid negotiations maneuver around often unfavourable political circumstances. They appealed to notions of friendship with the Europeans while also making their own demands and renegotiating peace treaties. Activities like piracy became especially useful as negotiating tools.

Soon enough, piracy itself became a useful tool. Under Abu al-‘Abbas, the Ḥafṣids state transformed once more in order to shake off the influence of the Bedouin tribes and to reincorporate cities like Bijāya and Tripoli. They began to appeal to the ever-growing Maliki orientation in urban centers, once more demonstrating a willingness to transform doctrinally. In this way, Abu al-‘Abbas and his son and successor were continuing in the strategic trends that had kept the Ḥafṣids afloat for over a century. Although Ibn Khaldūn did not live to see it, later chroniclers knew they were living in a changed Ifriqiya, one where the Ḥafṣids were becoming more in-line with notions of a “successful” and unified state. They were forging a new cycle, one different from what Ibn Khaldun imagined, with Tunis as the nucleus of Ifriqiya, the center of the Mediterranean.

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Appendix A

This document outlines the stipulations of a peace and commerce agreement between the Ḥafṣid caliph Abu Yahya Zakariya ibn Abi al-‘Abbas and Pisa, represented by the ambassadors Giovanni Fagioli and Ranieri del Bagna, September 14th, 1313.

Transcribed and edited with Italian translation by Michele Amari in I Diplomi Arabi del R. Archivo Fiorentino (1863): 86-97. Unfortunately, I was not able to locate a digitization of the original document. A note on translation: I have attempted to stick as closely to the Arabic document attested in I Diplomi as possible. I have made note of the places were the Italian translation makes a significantly different interpretation, even if it does not affect the overall meaning or sense of the Arabic overmuch. In some cases, I relied on the Italian for the meanings of technical terms, which I have also noted. I have elected to follow Amari’s numeration of each treaty stipulation. The document itself does not number, but does have separate clauses that clearly demarcate tenets, and so numbering them adds clarity without imposing a structure unjustifiably.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In the name of God the beneficent, the merciful. Peace be upon our sayid Muhammad the noble messenger and on his family and companions.

This great treaty is established with the permission of our sayid and mawla257 the Caliph and imam – who carries out God’s commands, the victorious with God’s pleasure, Commander of the

Faithful, Abu Yahya Zakariyya son of our mawla the amir Abi al-Abbas son of the rightly guided commanders, whom God aided with his victory and fortified with his support and extended the longevity of their sovereignty and blessings for all the Muslims – with Giovanni

Fagioli and Ranieri del Bagna the messengers who have come to the exalted capital – whose prosperity God increases – Tunis – which God protects – on behalf of Ticcio count of Colle, representative of Federico count of Montefeltro, representative of the municipality of Pisa, and

257 The literal translation of these terms is “sir” and “lord,” but I have elected to leave them in the Arabic as their use is not quite interchangeable with those terms in this context.

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its leaders258, and its officials and all those in charge. The two messengers (represent the desires of those in charge) to strike an accord for the people of Pisa and its holdings so that their affairs run smoothly. And the great capital [Tunis] has agreed to their request and wrote – God watches over them – this accord for them. Thus, God decrees in their favour victory, power, and splendid success for a period of 10 consecutive solar years beginning in mid-September with constitutes the lunar month of Jumad al-Awal of the year 713 (1313) with the following terms:

1) That all Pisan merchants and their retinue who arrive to the splendid capital – God

nurtures it – and to any and all of the interior regions under the dominion and whatsoever

may be acquired in the future, God willing, are assured safety for their persons and their

affairs. Their territory is limited by this accord to a region in the Great Sea259 called

Corbo until a region called Civitavecchia, which includes the islands of Sardinia and its

fortifications Castel di Castro, and the island Corsica, and Pianosa, Elba, Capraia,

Gorgona, Giglio, and Monte Cristo.

2) And that threatening armed vessels from our lands will not reach their coastal lands or the

aforementioned islands for the duration of this accord.

3) In all the coastal regions of Ifriqiya and its connected lands there will be notice of their

[the Pisan merchants’] landing therein for the purposes of trade. They shall have

warehouses and fanadiq260 exclusively reserved for them and their trade and in which no

other Christian may lodge. And in every funduq there may be a chapel with a cemetery

258 In the Italian gloss, Amari calls them “men of the council” 259 The Mediterranean Sea 260 Plural of funduq, a type of lodging arranged for merchants and travelers. For more, see Chapter 1 of this thesis and Olivia Constable Remie, Housing the Stranger in the Mediterranean World: Lodging, Trade, and Travel in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages (New York: Cambrdige University Press, 2003).

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for their dead and an exclusive oven according to their old customs and they will have

exclusive access to the hammam261 one day per week.

4) And every commodity they have sold will be subject to a full tax262 at the moment of

departure.263 And those that do not depart and extend their stay, the tax will be levied 3

years after the date of their arrival. This is done to comply with the wishes they [the

Pisans] have expressed.

5) And, for whatever they buy from the capital Tunis, eight dirhams over every hundred

dinars will not be taken.264

6) And on minted gold and silver, they will pay half tax if they sold (?), if they did not sell

they can keep them/ re-export without paying any [tax] once that has been proven.265 And

if they bring dinars and dirhams of Christian mint the established customs will be

followed.

7) And if they shipwreck on one of the coasts of the Ifriqiyan coasts and its holdings, it is

incumbent upon near by inhabitants of these aforementioned territories to safeguard/host

them [the merchants and crew] free of charge until the ship is restored and they will not

be charged for transport of their goods anymore than is usual.

261 A bathing area, or public baths. 262 Called the Arabic ‘ushur, or tenth, and translated in Italian to the corresponding “decima.” 263 A more literal translation of this would be “when whomever of them wishes to depart departs” but that seems too verbose. 264 Very unclear. Amari’s Italian gloss says “Non si leveranno gli otto dirhem sopra igni cento dinar (di Prezzo, per le merci) che eglino fossero per comperare nella captiale Tunis.” Amari, I Diplomi Arabi, 89. 265 Presumably once it has been proven that no sales were made. This appears to be a stipulation related to currency exchange in the event that Pisan merchants use Ifriqiyan currency in their transactions.

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8) And the Pisans will give them surety for anything between them and their Christian

neighbours on the part of the capital [Tunis] and they will not be given surety for what

their enemies could do to them.266

9) And if there is conflict between a Muslim and Christian or between Christians, judge

them based on Islamic law.

10) And if they rent balances in order to weigh their merchandise, the customs [shall be

followed].

11) And when they are within the permissible coastal areas of Ifriqiya and its related lands

they will have the choice of where to stay and to carry out their duties and will not be

barred from purchasing whatever they need.

12) And for their merchandise that they arrive with, they can choose whether to disembark

with them or to send them back.

13) And if they are met with al-mustaghilun267 of the customs of other officers in any of the

aforementioned regions, neither the dragomen268 nor the crew may do anything to the

detriment [of the Pisans].

14) And all of the merchants will not be barred from traveling upon settling of accounts [with

customs] at our capital – which God has made prosperous – and the rest of its lands.

15) And if they arrive accompanied by other merchants [not Pisans], [those merchants] are

beholden to the same rules.

16) And their trade must not bar selling in the halqa whenever they request to, as is custom.

266 In other words, no insurance is promised by Tunis authorities for attacks from other Christians. 267 An official in charge of business affairs, an agent or bailiff of sorts. but transcribed in the Italian with the more التراجمة Interpreters or translators, written in Arabic as 268 technical turcimanni.

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17) And if they are unable to immediately transport the goods they bring to Ras el Silsila to

their funduq, and if it is [later] proven that they lost something of their wares, it is

required of the custodians of the place to pay them the value of the lost wares.

18) Whenever they request an accounting [of their accounts] with the diwan – which God

makes abundant – it will be granted, and they will not be charged more than what is

custom.

19) And if a Pisan has cleared his account with the diwan and pays all his debts, and acquires

a witnessed permit [attesting to that], then he will not be detained or diverted from his

trip, nor will he be asked to revisit that account, unless it becomes necessary, and he will

not be charged beyond what is customary.

20) And they will have in Bona269 – God protects it – a funduq exclusive for their lodging and

no other Christian [will be allowed use of that space]. And this same custom will apply to

Tunis – God protects it – and similarly in Gabes, Sfax, and Tripoli.

21) No tax will be taken on the wares the sell except that which they sell [to the people with

whom Tunis has no treaty].270

22) And for the goods which they pay tax and then it costs them [they incur financial loss] so

they take them to another place other than the one they were taxed, there will be no new

tax imposed, if [the circumstance] is proven.

23) And similarly, should a half tax be imposed on their gold and silver and if they want to

buy [other things] at the price of their taxed goods of their half taxed goods, there will be

no compelling [of further tax] on any of these, not in the capital [Tunis] nor any of her

other lands, if it is proven.

.ع ّنابة ,Former name of the Algerian city Annaba 269 270 This addition is added by Amari.

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24) The owners of the ships will not be obliged to pay the half tax on anything they buy with

the rental [monies] of their ships.

25) And whenever it is necessary that one of their ships the tax or other [fees] that is be taken

from every three ships, as designated by their consul.

26) And if any of them satisfied that tax on an amount [of money] that they did not end up

using to buy anything, they can freely give the sum to one of their party without

hindrance, provided that none of the money was used.

27) And regarding things sold within the halqa, the diwan will be liable for the price should

there be deception, and in the case of sales with [facilitated by] a dragoman, the

dragoman will be liable in the case of deception.

28) And if a Pisan bought or sold goods from the mustaghilīn or committed to buy goods

from the capital and there was a witnessed contract written to that effect, then this

contract will not be annulled to his detriment unless it involves fraud or interest.

29) And if a Pisan (or otherwise) escapes or wrongs the rights of the noble excellency [the

amir] or any Muslim, neither the Pisan consul nor the merchants will be called [to answer

for the crime] if they did not [before] give surety [for the individual] and only the

individual in question will be called forth.

30) And if a Pisan sells linen, cotton, or other weighed commodities, the seller will not owe

anything to the diwan or to the dragoman,

31) And if a Pisan peddles any goods in the diwan, he will not owe anything for them except

to a single dragoman.

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32) And if a Pisan arrives with goods that return to [the capital] they are not allowed to

remain for more than 10 days and the fees must be paid within this period or it will be

returned to the owner.

33) And there will be for their consuls a day every month for them to see the exalted on [the

amir] – whom God keeps elevated. And that the consuls will also meet with the

mushtaghil of every place they land in, one day a month.

34) And whenever someone departs from the territory of the Pisans or their aforementioned

islands and harms anyone from the people of Ifriqiya or of its related lands then it is the

duty of [the Pisans’] judges, elders, and consuls to seek justice, apprehend the guilty,

execute them, and seize their goods.

35) And they must not purchase goods or captives from anyone who harms Muslims or their

goods, and if any [Pisan] is found with goods or captives taken from Muslims, they shal

be confiscated without compensation.

36) And if there is any quarrel between them, only their consuls may judge them.

37) And all their operations with the diwan will follow the usual conventions.

38) Copies of this document will be made for every region of the capital that they [Pisans]

trade in.

39) It will not be forbidden for their merchants to buy goods from whoever they wish to

purchase from.

40) A Pisan will not be forbidden from purchasing goods from a Genoese or any other

Christian.

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41) If any of them buys goods sold on behalf of the government, no one may cancel the

purchase, not the mushtaghil who has sold the goods not his successor, as long as the sale

was not made by mistake or deceit, and that nothing was concealed of the price.

42) Everything bought in the diwan with a certificate and the seller ahs a signed certificate in

hand, the price must be covered by the diwan without asking the seller for any more

verification.

43) If any of them have credits or debts in the diwan, and has on hand a permit, what is for

him will count towards what he owes.

44) And similarly if any one of them incur a debt in any government establishment and if he

receives a credit in the same place then, if he has a permit, the credit shall be deducted

from the debt.

45) And indeed they [the Pisans] will be treated in all their affairs with respect and honour

just like other Christians [with whom Ḥafṣids have] peace treaties with.

46) And any Muslim under the jurisdiction of the great capital [Tunis] that enters a country of

Pisa or its islands or coasts will be safe – with God’s protection – in his person and

property.

The two aforementioned messengers – Giovani Fagiolo and Raniera del Bagno – have sworn that their clients [dispatchers?] have sworn [to honour] the stipulations of this treaty. They [the ambassadors] are of sound mind and free of action and authority. And serving them as interpreters are Muslims as is custom. And witness to the contraction of this treaty were some

Pisan merchants and the current consul: …271

271 The names are very unclear. I have transliterated them phonetically. Here is the gloss and additions provided by Amari: “Bengial B.r.kan (Vulcano?) – Giovan K.raia – Lam Ask.r S.l.b L.tar (Lami

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And on the oath taken by he who executes the noble commands…which God exalts, prospers, and keeps.

Date 21st of Jumad al-Awwal of the year 713, which corresponds to the 14th of September

(1313).

Scorcialupo di Lottario?) – Kaluse Dalnial (Calogero Daniele?) – Gik Aliat (Cecco Alliata?) – Gian B.n.k.n.t (Gian Bonconti) – Giul G.n.kin (Guilio Gingino?) – Ban Santilt.” Amari, I Diplomi Arabi, 97.

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Appendix B

Letter from Zakariya ibn Ahmed to King Jaime [II] of Aragon, demanding that the Aragonese take charge of Roger de Lauria and threatening to destroy Djerba if he does not. Exact date uncertain.

Digitized in Archive of the Crown of Aragon, Cartas árabes, no.128 http://pares.mcu.es/ParesBusquedas20/catalogo/description/4800491?nm Transcribed and edited with Spanish translation by Maximiliano A. Alarcón y Santón and Ramon Garcia de Linares, in Los Documentos Arabes Diplmaticos del Archivao de la Corona de Aragon, (Madrid, 1940): 284-285. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ [To] The king, the exalted, the respected, the mighty, the elevated, the celebrated, the noble. The accomplished, the most glorious, the most propitious, the chivalrous King of Aragon and

Valencia, Murcia, James [II]* son of the king, the exalted, the respected, the might, the elevated, and celebrated, the noble, the accomplished Pedro, May God guide him and support him.

The one who acknowledges his status and is knowledgeable of his power and his capabilities,

Zakariya ibn Ahmed, greets you with the fullest greeting. I am informing you that I have told you to write regarding the Admiral Luyir [Roger de Lauria] in order to forbid him from coming to the territories of Ifriqiya, for he has done much plundering in it over the last year. And he is of you [he is your vassal] and acts on your approval,272 so if you order him not to come to our territories, then he will stop on your command and will not transgress [the command].

Between us and your brother the sovereign Frederick [III] is a great friendship and amicable relations have been established between us, and I am gladdened by that. Thank God, the one who makes firm the loving feelings you and your ancestors possess.

272 The Spanish gloss translates this section as “And he is your vassal and must proceed to your satisfaction,” but I have opted to translate more literally.

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And the friendship with you is like it was from the beginning, and everyday it increases and doubles. May God guide you and support you, and peace be upon you.

Written on the 13th of May.

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Appendix C

Letter from Ḥafṣid ruler Abdallah Zakariya [Ibn al-Liḥyānī] to Jaime II concerning accusations of piracy against Muslims and suggestions for a path to resolution, August 1314

Digitized in Archive of the Crown of Aragon, Cartas árabes, no.129 http://pares.mcu.es/ParesBusquedas20/catalogo/description/4800492 Transcribed and edited with Spanish translation by Maximiliano A. Alarcón y Santón and Ramon Garcia de Linares, in Los Documentos Arabes Diplmaticos del Archivao de la Corona de Aragon, (Madrid, 1940): 285-287. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ All thanks and gratitude to God.

From Abdallah Zakariya Commander of the Faithful – whom Allah has given victory and fortified with His support – to the sovereign, the noble, the great, the celebrated, the elevated, the respected, the mighty, Jaime [II] King of Aragon, Valencia, Majorca and Murcia, Count of

Barcelona, and Captain General of the churches and of the Pope, Son of the Sovereign, the noble, the great, celebrated, the elevated, the respected, the mighty, Pedro King of Aragon, Valencia,

Majorca and Murcia, Barcelona, may God make his purpose righteous and guide him to the right path.

And with that said;

We have written this to you from our capital Tunis – God protects it. Our blessings from God – glory be to Him – are continuous. For this, we give thanks to Him, and for our gratitude we see increasing and novel blessings. Related, may God guide you and may the love, friendship, and good opinion between us remain; they require dialogue between us to resolve pending issues between us and consolidate these amicable relations. And if added to this is what is stipulated and concluded in a peace treaty, the reasons and intentions [for cordiality] are affirmed and maintained.

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Recently, certain affairs have clearly demanded deviation from the stipulations of the peace treaty. Corsairs273 from your area have appeared on these shores and captured a group of

Muslims and seized a large amount of their money and goods. We have formulated a claim based on what has reached us [about this issue] which we send with the bearer of this letter, Ali ibn

Muhammad al-Laqanti. We have commissioned him to discuss this with you and hear your response on it and [we expect] that we will reach as complete a solution as possible, God willing.

And we believe that even if the settlement of these matters is not mediated by a full contracted treaty, you would [still] fulfill our desires due to the friendship that mediates between us, [with its] foundations established so firmly and its causes so assured. How then should our peace resolution be conducted?

One of these past few days there was an occurrence with your brother the sovereign, the celebrated, the great, the exalted, the elevated, the respected, the mighty, Frederick [II] King of

Sicily, [a case which] shows his refined nobility and generous nature, so we decided to inform you of it. It is thus: Some Muslim traders arrived and reported that corsairs descended upon them, captured them, and took them to Sicily. The aforementioned king heard about this and ordered their release and had most of what was stolen from them returned. He clothed them and sent them back to us after hanging the corsairs in their presence and in their sight. And we received a signed record attesting to this. And nothing was known of this until after it occurred, and it is a great occurrence that must be recorded and deserves much gratitude.

And you are the first to follow such conduct to carry out such fine things, for the refined nobility from you both is uniform and the greatness of the house is shared between you. And you – God

قرصنة rather than قرصلة Misspelled, or perhaps archaically spelled, as 273

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willing – will act on this issue [in a way that] affirms our good opinions and that will soothe our eyes, through God’s will.

God suffices us and He is the best disposer of affairs.

Written on the 4th of Jumāda al-Awwal of the year 714, which corresponds to the 17th day of

August [1314].

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Appendix D

Letter to James II, August 1308

Digitized in Archive of the Crown of Aragon, Cartas árabes, no.124 http://pares.mcu.es/ParesBusquedas20/catalogo/description/4800487?nm Transcribed and edited with Catalan translation by Maximiliano A. Alarcón y Santón and Ramon Garcia de Linares, in Los Documentos Arabes Diplmaticos del Archivao de la Corona de Aragon, (Madrid, 1940): 277-278. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ All thanks and gratitude to God.

From the servant of God Muhammad [II] Commander of the Faithful, son of the Commander of the Faithful, son of the Commander of the Faithful – whom God aids to victory and has fortified with His support – to the sovereign, the enduring, the respected, the mighty, the celebrated, the elevated, King of Aragon, Valencia, and Murcia and Count of Barcelona James [II] son of the sovereign, the enduring, the respected, the mighty Peter – God assures his purpose and beautifies his righteous path. And with that said:

We have written this [letter] to you from out capital Tunis – God protects and blesses it. Our connection continues

… [Letter damaged and unclear]

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