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Otherness in the Middle Ages
 9782503594026, 2503594026

Table of contents :
Front Matter
Hans-Werner Goetz and Ian Wood. Introduction
Nikolas Jaspert. The Mediterranean Other and the Other Mediterranean
Martin Borýsek. Strangers in the House of Israel
Clemens Gantner. Between a Rock and a Hard Place?
Sophie Gruber. The Construction of Allegiance and Exclusion in Erchempert’s Historia Langobardorum Beneventanorum
Sylvia Huot. Other Genders, Other Sexualities
Astrid Kelser. The Jew as the ‘Other’ in Word and Deed
Nike Koutrakou. Layers of ‘Otherness’
Fabian Kümmeler. The ‘Others’ from Within
Eduardo Manzano Moreno. Assimilating ‘Otherness’ in Early Islam
Patrick S. Marschner. The Familiar Stranger
Ralph W. Mathisen. Not ‘the Other’
Meghan Mattsson McGinnis. How ‘Other’ Was the Viking Otherworld?
Yu Onuma. Otherness as an Ideal
Maria Portmann. Distinctive Signs and Otherness
Roland Scheel. ‘It Was the Law Back Then’
Felicitas Schmieder. The Other Part of the World for Late Medieval Latin Christendom
Tiago João Queimada e Silva. The Muslim Archother and the Royal Other
Miriam Tveit. ‘Otherness’ Within?
Back Matter

Citation preview

‘Otherness’ in the Middle Ages

INTERNATIONAL MEDIEVAL RESEARCH Volume 25 Editorial Board Axel E. W. Müller, University of Leeds — Executive Editor John B. Dillon, University of Wisconsin, Madison Richard K. Emmerson, Manhattan College, New York Christian Krötzl, University of Tampere Chris P. Lewis, University of London Pauline Stafford, University of Leeds / University of Liverpool with the assistance of the IMC Programming Committee Previously published volumes in this series are listed at the back of the book.

‘Otherness’ in the Middle Ages

Edited by Hans-Werner Goetz and Ian Wood

F

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

© 2021, Brepols Publishers n. v., Turnhout, Belgium. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher. D/2021/0095/92 ISBN 978-2-503-59402-6 eISBN 978-2-503-59403-3 DOI 10.1484/M.IMR-EB.5.122905 ISSN 2294-8783 eISSN 2294-8791 Printed in the EU on acid-free paper.

Table of Contents

Introduction The Many Facets and Methodological Problems of ‘Otherness’ Hans-Werner Goetz and Ian Wood11 The Mediterranean Other and the Other Mediterranean Perspectives of Alterity in Medieval Studies Nikolas Jaspert37 Strangers in the House of Israel Confronting the Problems of Inner Diversity in Jewish Communal Ordinances at the End of the Middle Ages Martin Borýsek75 Between a Rock and a Hard Place? South-Italian Portrayals of Franks and Byzantines in the Ninth Century Clemens Gantner93 The Construction of Allegiance and Exclusion in Erchempert’s Historia Langobardorum Beneventanorum Sophie Gruber117 Other Genders, Other Sexualities Crises of Identity in Medieval French Ovidian Narratives Sylvia Huot139 The Jew as the ‘Other’ in Word and Deed Astrid Kelser165 Layers of ‘Otherness’ Appearance Defining and Disguising ‘Otherness’ in Byzantine Monasticism Nike Koutrakou183 The ‘Others’ from Within Herders between Rural Communities and Venetian Governance on Late Medieval Korčula Fabian Kümmeler215

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Assimilating ‘Otherness’ in Early Islam Eduardo Manzano Moreno235 The Familiar Stranger Biblical Perception and Depiction of Muslims in Christian Chronicles of the Iberian Peninsula, c. 900 Patrick S. Marschner253 Not ‘the Other’ Barbarians and the End of the Western Roman Empire Ralph W. Mathisen275 How ‘Other’ Was the Viking Otherworld? Meghan Mattsson McGinnis289 Otherness as an Ideal The Tradition of the ‘Virtuous’ Indians Yu Onuma319 Distinctive Signs and Otherness The Depiction of Prophets, in the Late Fourteenth Century in the Cathedral of Toledo (Spain) Maria Portmann339 ‘It Was the Law Back Then’ The Viking Age as the Other in Medieval Scandinavian Legal Thought Roland Scheel371 The Other Part of the World for Late Medieval Latin Christendom Felicitas Schmieder395 The Muslim Archother and the Royal Other Aristocratic Notions of Otherness in Fourteenth-Century Portugal Tiago João Queimada e Silva415 ‘Otherness’ Within? The Sámi in Medieval Scandinavian Law Miriam Tveit437 General Index

457

Index of Names and Subjects Related to Otherness

472

List of Illustrations

Sylvia Huot Figure 6.1 Narcissus at the fountain. © British Library Board, London, BL, Harley MS 4431, fol. 104r, c. 1410/14.147 Figure 6.2 Narcissus and Echo. © British Library Board, London, BL, Harley MS 4431, fol. 134r.147 Figure 6.3 Apollo and ‘Ganymede’. © British Library Board, London. London, BL, Harley MS 4431, 119v.152 Figure 6.4 Adonis and the boar. © British Library Board, London, BL Harley MS 4431, 124v.154 Figure 6.5 Cupid and a young knight. © British Library Board, London, BL, Harley MS 4431, 117r.155 Figure 6.6 Achilles unmasked by Ulysses. © British Library Board, London, BL Harley MS 4431, 127v.158 Meghan Mattsson McGinnis Figure 13.1 An unwelcome encounter with the dead – Gudrun accosted by the ghost of þorkell in Laxdæla Saga. 1898 illustration by Andreas Bloch from Vore fædres liv, ed. Nordahl Rolfsen (PD).290 Figure 13.2 An example of the spatial relationship between gravefields and farmsteads, Vallentuna kommun, Sweden. GIS rendering by the author.297 Figure 13.3 Trollakistan, Skåne, Sweden – Neolithic passage grave with Viking Age deposits of cremated bone. Photo by Ingrid Bergquist, Frosta härads hembygdsförening (PD).298 Figure 13.4 The islet of Holmen off the southern tip of Helgøya (‘the holy island’) in Lake Mjøsa, Norway – Site of grave mound and hof reachable by foot part of the year. 1885 photo by Jacob Tollesen Hoel, Domkirkeodden Samling (PD).299 Figure 13.5 Chamber grave Bj 581 – burial of the now famous female warrior. Illustration by Evald Hansen based on the original plans of Hjalmar Stolpe’s excavations at Birka (PD).300 Figure 13.6 Shoe spikes found by the feet of the skeleton in Birka grave Bj.918. Photo by Yliali Asp, Swedish Historical Museum; license CC-BY 2.5 SE.301

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Figure 13.7a Tjelvar’s Grave, Bronze Age ship setting on Gotland, Sweden. Photo by Mårten Stenberger, Swedish National Heritage Board (PD).303 Figure 13.7b Viking Age ship settings at Lindholm Høje, Denmark. Photo by Gunnar Bach Pedersen, Wikimedia Commons (PD).303 Figure 13.8 Reconstruction of grave FII from Stengade, Denmark — double burial of noble and sacrificed thrall. Photo by the staff at Viking Museum Ribe, used with kind permission.304 Figure 13.9a Detail of the deviant double burial in mound 29 at Bollstanäs, Sweden – two male skeletons found decapitated and placed in a prone position heads to feet. Photo by Ove Hemmendorff, Swedish National Heritage Board; license CC-BY 2.5 SE.306 Figure 13.9b Plan of the Gerdrup Grave — Denmark, a woman buried with three large stones placed atop her beside a bound man with a broken neck. Illustration Mette Høj, Museum Organization ROMU, used with kind permission.306 Figure 13.10 Part of the Viking Age cemetery at Tuna, Västerljung, Sweden with south-west portals highlighted. Plan after Gräslund, A.-S. ‘Living with the Dead’, 2001: 227, figure 1, additional markings by the author.308 Figure 13.11 The ‘offering mound’ discovered in grave-field Raä 223, Lilla Frescati, Stockholm – round stone setting enclosing small stone cairns and deposits of fire-steel shaped amulet rings. Plan by Erik Sörling, Stockholms Stadsmuseum; license CC-BY 2.5 SE.309 Figure 13.12 Some of the over 200 amulet rings from the Vendel period cult place recently discovered in connection with grave-field RAÄ 122:1, Spånga, Sweden. Photo by Ingela Harrysson, Stiftelsen Kulturmiljövård, used with kind permission.309 Figure 13.13 Memorial ritual (muistajaiset) at the festival of Semyk, 2002 – Shorunzha, Morki, Mari Republic. Photo by Lehtinen Ildikó, Finnish National Board of Antiquities — Musketti, Finnish-Ugrian picture collection; license CC-BY 4.0.311 Figure 13.14 Ög 66 Bjälbo kyrkogård — runestone inscribed ‘Ingevald raised this stone after Styvjald, his brother, an excellent young man, Spjalbude’s son of the dynasty. But I perfected it’. Photo by Bengt A. Lundberg, Swedish National Heritage Board, license CC-BY 2.5 SE.312 Figure 13.15 Heirloom (c. 300 ce) pendant found in the Viking Age mound at Aska, Hagebyhöga, Sweden. Photo by Christer Åhlin, Swedish Historical Museum; license CC-BY 2.5 SE.313 Figure 13.16 A hole cut in the roof of the burial chamber of the Oseberg ship by grave re-openers. After Shetelig, H., Falk, H. and Brøgger, A. W. Osebergfundet, 1917: 32, fig. 11.314

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Maria Portmann Figure 15.1 Scenes from the Genesis (Genesis 1–4): from God’s spirit sw ept over the face of the waters of creation until Cain Killing Abel, after 1288, Valencia, Cathedral, Porch of the Charity. Photo © Maria Portmann.346 Figure 15.2 Scenes from Jesus’ Childhood, 1388, Toledo, Cathedral, Southern Porch. Photo © Urs Portmann.346 Figure 15.3 Creation of the Birds; the Sun, Stars, Moon; the Angels; the Fall of the Rebel Angels; the Creation of Adam, 1388, Toledo, Cathedral, Choir Screen. Photo © Urs Portmann.348 Figure 15.4 Scenes from the Genesis after the Expulsion from the Paradise: God with Adam and Eve Wearing Fig Leaves; God with Adam and Eve (naked); The Expulsion from the Paradise; Eve and Adam Working; Cain Killing Abel; Cain Hiding Abel’s body; God Rebuking Cain, 1388, Toledo, Cathedral, Choir Screen. Photo © Urs Portmann.349 Figure 15.5 Scenes from the Genesis: Abraham with the Three Angels at Mamre; Sacrifice of Isaac; Sacrifice of the Ram, 1388, Toledo, Cathedral, Choir Screen. Photo © Urs Portmann.351 Figure 15.6 Scenes from the Exodus: The Meal of the Hebrews, the Plague of the First Born; The Crossing of the Red Sea; The Drowning of Pharaoh and his Soldiers in the Red Sea; The Producing of Water by Striking the Rock, 1388, Toledo, Cathedral, Choir Screen. Photo © Urs Portmann.354 Figure 15.7 Italian and Spanish painters from Starnina’s Workshop, Detail of The Annunciation c. 1395–1404, Toledo, Cathedral, St Blaise Chapel. Photo © Urs Portmann.354 Figure 15.8 Scenes from the Exodus: Killing of the Idolaters; Moses holding the Tablets of the Law; Adoration of the Tabernacle in the Wilderness, 1388, Toledo, Cathedral, Choir Screen. Photo © Urs Portmann.358 Figure 15.9 Ferrer Bassa’s workshop, Detail of the Prophets with Moses holding the Tablets of the Law from the panel of All the Saints Adoring the Trinity, c. 1420, New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, Fletcher Fund, prov. Monastery of Valldecrist. Photo © Maria Portmann. 359 Figure 15.10 Moses assembles the Hebrew and Moses receives the Torah (Exodus 24 and 34), 1388, Valencia, Cathedral, Porch of the Charity. Photo © Maria Portmann.360

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Roland Scheel Map 16.1 Territorial dominions (‘ríki’, marked in grey) in Iceland around ad 1200 and localities of Family Sagas most likely written before 1262/64; Axel Kristinsson, ‘Lords and Literature’, p. 5. © 2003 The Historical Societies of Denmark, Finland, Iceland, Norway and Sweden, reprinted by permission of Informa UK Limited, trading as Taylor & Francis Group, www.tandfonline.com on behalf of The Historical Societies of Denmark, Finland, Iceland, Norway and Sweden.387 Felicitas Schmieder Map 17.1 Velletri- or Borgia map, anon. 1402–1453, old print from Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana Borgia XV.403 Map 17.2 Velletri- or Borgia map, anon. 1402–1453, old print from Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana Borgia XV.404 Map 17.3 Velletri- or Borgia map, anon. 1402–1453, old print from Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana Borgia XV.406

Hans-Werner Goetz and Ian Woo d

Introduction The Many Facets and Methodological Problems of ‘Otherness’

The Multiple Meanings and Uses of ‘Otherness’ The present volume results from the IMC 2017 which had ‘Otherness’ as its ‘special strand’. ‘Otherness’ is a comprehensive theme that covers a great number of different facets, all of which, according to the congress habits and the Call for papers, should ideally be represented among the IMC papers. Within this frame, the papers were expected to deal with (any kind of) ‘Otherness’ in the Middle Ages rather than referring to ‘Otherness’ in the sense of pursuing non-traditional themes on the ‘Other Middle Ages’, as, for example, in the programmatic title of Jacques Le Goff ’s Un autre Moyen Âge,1 a book that was concerned with non-traditional, non-political research themes, such as time, work/labour or dreams. (‘Otherness’, of course, could also have been an important aspect of his programme, as a non-traditional theme, although, naturally, it was not yet considered in his collection of essays from the late 1970s). Similarly, although this aspect was not excluded, the conference was not intended primarily to focus on the problem of the ‘alterity’ of the epoch, ‘the Otherness of the Middle Ages’,2 as compared to modern or contemporary models. There will certainly always be controversy regarding opinions between the ‘alterity’ of the Middle Ages (and medieval studies) on the one hand and its ‘topicality’ on the other; however, both

1 Jacques Le Goff, Pour un autre Moyen Âge, Temps, travail et culture en Occident. 18 essais (Paris: Gallimard, 1978). 2 Cf. Joachim Kuolt, Harald Kleinschmidt, and Peter Dinzelbacher, eds, Das Mittelalter – unsere fremde Vergangenheit (Stuttgart: Helfant, 1990). The concept of alterity is sharply criticized by the contributions (mostly from German literary studies) in Manuel Braun, ed., Wie anders war das Mittelalter? Fragen an das Konzept der Alterität, Aventiuren, 9 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht unipress, 2013), because alterity is a successful term on a weak theoretical foundation (thus Braun in his introduction, p. 8). Nevertheless, an alterity of the Middle Ages just cannot be denied or even substituted by a concept of ‘égalité’, and to draw on constants (forming the second part of the book) would be unhistorical. Rather, there always remains the necessity of a (medieval – modern) comparison. Hans-Werner Goetz  •  is professor emeritus of medieval history at the University of Hamburg, Germany. Ian Wood  •  is professor emeritus of medieval history at the University of Leeds. ‘Otherness’ in the Middle Ages, ed. by Hans-Werner Goetz and Ian Wood, IMR 25 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2021), pp. 11–35 © FHG10.1484/M.IMR-EB.5.123584

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aspects are not really or necessarily antagonisms. At any rate, the great majority of the papers given at the IMC as well as in this volume focus on different aspects of ‘Otherness in the Middle Ages’. It is evident that this comparatively new theme needs some methodological reflection (which we will attempt to give below), since it is far from easy to describe precisely what ‘Otherness’ really means. It is an ‘open term’ that covers many facets. ‘Others’ can be found everywhere: outside one’s own community or horizon (from foreigners up to non- or half-human monsters) as well as inside (for example, religious or social minorities or individual newcomers to towns, villages, or at court, but possibly also present in any deviating from current ‘norms’ of life and thought). And, of course, one should not forget gender and transgender perspectives, perhaps not so much with regard to the fundamental aspect of differences between the sexes3 as to the question of the extent to which these can lead to the perception of the other gender as ‘the Other’. In addition, there is the issue of any deviation from ‘gender norms’ being considered as not normal or even abnormal. Further, one can encounter ‘Others’ while travelling, but also by reading, writing, or thinking about them. One can judge ‘the Others’ or behave towards them in particular modes, just because they are different (plainly ‘Others’). They can be integrated or even become friends, but they may opt to remain outside or be deliberately excluded and be or remain enemies. Thus, inclusion and exclusion are important factors.4 They can be regarded with curiosity, supported, tolerated, rejected, or persecuted. The demarcation of ‘Others’ applies to all areas of life, to concepts of thinking and ‘mentalité’ as well as to social reality and social intercourse, to a rejection and refutation of their convictions and writings as well as to a transmission and appropriation of their knowledge and opinions. There are certainly many more possibilities and approaches towards ‘Others’ (and one may ask why the term can be used so multifacetedly). So much seems to be clear: ‘Otherness’ is not just there, not an ‘objective’, but a subjective phenomenon depending on personal views and ascriptions. Any investigation should take this ‘subjectivity’ into consideration. It must further be acknowledged that the term takes on different meanings in various modern languages and that it took a long time before ‘Otherness’ or ‘the Other’ (both normally and significantly still placed in inverted commas) found their way into an applicable English language use; formerly, in fact not so long ago, ‘other’ always needed a ‘sustaining noun’, and could not be used in an abstract sense.



3 Cf. the groundbreaking study of Joan Cadden, Meanings of Sex Difference in the Middle Age: Medicine, Science and Culture, Cambridge History of Medicine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993). 4 Cf., from a sociological perspective, Robert Stichweh, Inklusion und Exklusion. Studien zur Gesellschaftstheorie, 2nd edn (Bielefeld: transcript, 2016); Julia Karin Patrut and Herber Urlings, eds, Inklusion/Exklusion und Natur: theoretische Perspektiven und Fallstudien von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart (Köln: Böhlau, 2013); the applicability on different epochs and in different disciplines is tested by the contributions in Peter Weibel and Slavoj Žižek, eds, Inklusion – Exklusion. Probleme des Postkolonialismus und der globalen Migration, 2nd edn (Wien: Passagen-Verlag, 2010). For the Middle Ages, cf. Anja Eisenbeiß and Lieselotte E. Saurma-Jeltsch, eds, Images of Otherness in Medieval and Early Modern Times: Exclusion, Inclusion, Assimilation (München: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 2012).

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And until today, it remains fairly ambiguous. German studies prefer to use ‘fremd’ or ‘Fremdheit’ which is not really the same, but may be considered as being a particular nuanced or more intensive level of ‘Otherness’ (‘Anderssein’), which has no real English equivalent; it can mean ‘foreign’ or ‘strange’ (or both), but it rather expresses a demarcation, a sense of separating something, someone or some group (in some respect) from oneself or from those people (or things, or ideas) with which one is familiar. All of this therefore necessitates a methodological discussion.

Research on ‘Otherness’ in the Middle Ages Before discussing the values, dangers, and characteristic features of ‘Otherness’, it is worth briefly considering what has so far been done on an international level, because ‘Otherness’ is an international theme that should not be restricted to research in certain languages. Medievalists began to be interested in these themes in the course of the great shift from political and social history towards cultural history (in a modern sense), which started in the 1980s but did not increase significantly until the late 1990s. Here, the French collective volume on L’étranger au Moyen Âge, resulting from a conference of the ‘Société des Historiens Médiévistes de l’Enseignement supérieur Public’ held in Göttingen in 1996, might be mentioned as an exemplary model,5 or, even earlier, the collective volume edited by Jean-Pierre Jessenne on The Image of the Other in North-Western Europe from 1996,6 as well as the 2002 volume by Albrecht Classen on Meeting the Foreign in the Middle Ages, with a literary focus.7 An even older volume was Fremde der Gesellschaft which looked at ‘Strangers of Society’ from a social and legal perspective; it had particular concerns that were indeed innovative at that time, but it was not particularly focused on the Middle Ages.8 These (and others) are certainly not the first publications on the subject, but they may mark a turning-point of increasing interest, not least in cultures remote from 5 L‘étranger au Moyen Âge. XXXe Congrès de la S.H.M.E.S. (Göttingen, juin 1999), Série Historie Ancienne et Médiévale, 61 (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 2000). 6 Jean-Pierre Jessenne, ed., L’image de l’autre dans l’Europe du Nord-Ouest à travers l’histoire, Histoire et littérature du Septentrion (IRHiS), 14 (Villeneuve d’Ascq: Publications de l’Institut de recherches historiques du Septentrion, 1996). 7 Albrecht Classen, ed., Meeting the Foreign in the Middle Ages (New York: Routledge, 2002). Classen’s own long introduction (‘The Self, the Other, and Everything in Between: Xenological Phenomenology of the Middle Ages’, pp. xi–lxxxiii) provides a splendid survey of themes and approaches, focusing on miraculous ‘Others’, remote peoples, infidels, and outsiders. The contributions circle mostly on the ‘margins’ of society. 8 Marie Theres Fögen, ed., Fremde der Gesellschaft: historische und sozialwissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zur Differenzierung von Normalität und Fremdheit, Ius Commune. Studien zur Europäischen Rechtsgeschichte. Sonderhefte, 56 (Frankfurt am Main: Klostermann, 1991). The contributions (in several languages) approach ‘Fremdheit’ from different disciplinary angles in order to explain and dissolve the antagonism between ‘normality’ and ‘Otherness’, or, in the words of the editor (p. viii) to convey the idea that what is self-evident really is improbable and that ‘Self ’ really is ‘the Other’. However, the volume, orientated towards theory and legal history, deals with different times and cultures.

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medieval Europe like China9 and in ‘Experiences with the Other’,10 often based on travel reports.11 Many more studies followed. For a long time there has been an almost unmanageable number of books and articles on ‘other’ groups, above all religious groups: for example, on Jews, anti-Jewish treatises and anti-Judaism,12 and on the perception of Muslims (‘Saracens’ in medieval nomenclature).13 Most of them dealt with Christian perceptions of or relations with just one other religion,14 and many other subjects. Nevertheless, they hardly ever embark on a deliberate enquiry into their ‘Otherness’ as such (albeit with some exceptions).15

9 Folker Reichert, Begegnungen mit China. Die Entdeckung Ostasiens im Mittelalter, Beiträge zur Geschichte und Quellenkunde des Mittelalters, 15 (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1992). 10 Cf. the survey by Folker Reichert, Erfahrung der Welt. Reisen und Kulturbegegnung im späten Mittelalter (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2001). 11 Cf. Marina Münkler, Erfahrung des Fremden. Die Beschreibung Ostasiens in den Augenzeugenberichten des 13. und 14. Jahrhunderts (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2000); Irene Erfen and Karl-Heinz Spieß, eds, Fremdheit und Reisen im Mittelalter (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1997), with contributions from various disciplines, but primarily from literary history. 12 Cf., to name just a few examples, after the initial study by Bernhard Blumenkranz, Juifs et chrétiens dans le monde occidental 430–1096, École Pratique des Hautes Études. Sixième Section: Sciences économiques et sociales. Études juives, 2 (Paris: Mouton, 1960), the numerous works by Anna Sapir Abulafia, e.g., Christians and Jews in Dispute: Disputational Literature and the Rise of Anti-Judaism in the West, c. 1000–1150, Variorum Collected Studies Series, 621 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998); Anna Sapir Abulafia, Christian-Jewish Relations, 1000–1300: Jews in the Service of Medieval Christondom, The Medieval World (Harlow: Longman, 2011); Gilbert Dahan, La polémique Chrétienne et les Juifs au Moyen Âge (Paris: Michel, 1991); Robert Chazan, Medieval Stereotypes and Modern Antisemitism (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997); more recently Robert Chazan, Jews of Medieval Western Christendom 1000–1500 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006). In favour of an approchement of the two cultures, cf. Israel Yuval, Two Nations in Your Womb: Perceptions of Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006; original Hebrew edition: Tel Aviv 2003). 13 Cf., after the initial works by Norman Daniel and Richard William Southern: John V. Tolan, Saracens: Islam in Medieval European Imagination (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002). 14 For a comprehensive survey on the perception of all other religions (with an abundant bibliography), cf. Hans-Werner Goetz, Die Wahrnehmung anderer Religionen und christlich-abendländisches Selbstverständnis im frühen und hohen Mittelalter (5.–12. Jahrhundert) (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2013); an English version is in preparation. 15 Cf., for example, concerning pagans as ‘Others’: Ian N. Wood, ‘The Pagan and the Other: Varying Presentations in the Early Middle Ages’, Networks and Neighbours, 1 (2013), 1–22; Richard Broome, ‘Pagans, Rebels and Merovingians: Otherness in the Early Carolingian World’, in The Resources of the Past in Early Medieval Europe, ed. by Clemens Gantner, Rosamond McKitterick, and Sven Meeder (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), pp. 155–71, who characterizes the pagans as ‘the most definite other for Carolingian authors’ (Broome, ‘Pagans, Rebels and Merovingians’, p. 157); Timothy Barnwell, ‘Fragmented Identities: Otherness and Authority in Adam of Bremen’s History of the Archbishops of Hamburg–Bremen’, in The Resources of the Past in Early Medieval Europe, ed. by Gantner, McKitterick, and Meeder, pp. 206–22, who underlines the complex and shifting perceptions of ‘Otherness’ of just one author; James T. Palmer, ‘The Otherness of Non-Christians in the Early Middle Ages’, in Christianity and Religious Plurality, ed. by Charlotte Methuen, Andrew Spicer and John Wolffe (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2015), pp. 33–52, who underlines that, for early medieval Christian authors, pagans represented ‘the closest and clearest “other”’.

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The number of pertinent studies on medieval ‘Otherness’ depends, therefore, on what is being considered. If all types of ‘Others’ are regarded, a whole book would not suffice to print a bibliography (which could never effectively be compiled anyway). If one concentrates on studies that explicitly inquire into ‘Otherness’ (under this title), however, the result is far from being overwhelming. The IMB lists thirty-nine titles that feature ‘Otherness’ in their headline. Admittedly there would be considerably more ‘hits’ if other keywords (such as strangers, foreigners, Jews, pagans, monsters, etc.) were included into the search, but ideally those thirty-nine studies (or at least a part of them) would have deliberately reflected on or inquired into ‘Otherness’ as such. The same applies to German studies on ‘Fremdheit’, with various publications16 (the IMB lists thirty-two titles, ten of which, however, are contributions to just two edited volumes).17 Most titles are concerned with Western perceptions of ‘the Others’, but at least some take a view from the ‘other’ side.18 A closer look at these and other titles (and studies) confirms our impression: the vast majority concentrate on a limited number of subjects, namely on faraway cultures and the perception of foreign peoples,19 on magic worlds or fantasies20 and

16 To name just a few: Alexander Demandt, ed., Mit Fremden leben. Eine Kulturgeschichte von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart (München: Beck, 1995), from antiquity to the present; Wolfgang Harms and Stephen Jaeger, eds, Fremdes wahrnehmen – fremdes Wahrnehmen. Studien zur Geschichte der Wahrnehmung und zur Begegnung von Kulturen in Mittelalter und früher Neuzeit (Stuttgart: Hirzel, 1997); Volker Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde. Identität und Fremdheit in den Chroniken Adams von Bremen, Helmolds von Bosau und Arnolds von Lübeck, Orbis mediaevalis. Vorstellungswelten des Mittelalters, 4 (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2002); Andreas Gestrich and Lutz Raphael, eds, Inklusion/Exklusion. Studien zu Fremdheit und Armut von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart, Inklusion/ Exklusion. Studien zu Fremdheit und Armut von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart, 5 (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2004). For the legal position of strangers in Byzantium and Italy, cf. Laurent Mayali and Maria M. Mart, eds, Of Strangers and Foreigners (Late Antiquity – Middle Ages), Studies in Comparative Legal History (Berkeley: The Regents of the University of California, 1993). With an intercultural perspective: Manshu Ide and Albrecht Classen, eds, Japanisch-deutsche Gespräche über Fremdheit im Mittelalter. Interkulturelle und interdisziplinäre Forschungen in Ost und West, Stauffenburg Mediävistik, 2 (Tübingen: Stauffenburg, 2018), exclusively on literary sources. The Japanese contributions on ‘Fremdheit’ concentrate mostly on aspects in Japan that may seem ‘unfamiliar’ for a European audience. 17 Erfen and Spieß, eds, Fremdheit und Reisen; Fögen, ed., Fremde der Gesellschaft. 18 Cf., concerning Byzantium, Angeliki E. Laiou, Cécile Morrisson and Rown Dorin, eds, Byzantium and the Other: Relations and Exchanges, Variorum Collected Studies Series, 1005 (Farnham: Ashgate 2012); concerning the inner/interior society: Dion C. Smythe, ed., Strangers to Themselves: The Byzantine Outsider. Papers from the Thirty-Second Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies. University of Sussex, Brighton, March 1998, Society for the Promotion of Byzantine Studies. Publications (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000). For the Islamic perception of Europeans (but not focusing on religion), cf. Daniel König, Arabic-Islamic Views on the Latin West: Tracing the Emergence of Medieval Europe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015). Cf. also Suzanne Preston Blier, ‘Imaging Otherness in Ivory: African Portrayals of the Portuguese ca. 1492’, Art Bulletin, 75 (1993), 375–96. 19 See fn. 9–11 above. 20 Cf., for example, Timothy S. Jones and David A. Sprunger, eds, Marvels, Monsters, and Miracles: Studies in the Medieval and Early Modern Imaginations, Studies in Medieval Culture, 42 (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications, 2002).

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on the perception of other religions.21 Some offer a broader spectrum, focusing on ‘The Images of Otherness’ (primarily from an art history perspective),22 but most are smaller pieces on particular theological23 or literary texts.24 For example, in illuminated manuscripts of the chronicle of William of Tyre from the thirteenth century, the ‘Otherness’ of the ‘Saracens’ is made visible by their skin colour, weapons, and emblems or gestures.25 However, even entries that have ‘Otherness’ or ‘the Other’ in the title do not necessarily reflect on this theme, but frequently presume it to be a ‘given’ (notwithstanding, of course, that numerous studies with different titles may say something about this theme, too).

Modern Theories and Medieval Conditions This large divergence26 already indicates that ‘Otherness’ is a theme that is as interesting as it is ‘problematic’: interesting for its topicality and its still innovative character, its wide range and numerous facets, problematic because of the vagueness of a term in need of clarification prior to any research on the theme, and also because of a certain ambiguity between modern theories on ‘Otherness’ and their applicability to remote epochs. Modern theories are one (well-established) way to approach the Middle Ages (and other remote times), but we should not ignore that they hold and provoke further dangers. Modern theories may certainly sharpen our minds and questions, but they can never simply be applied to former epochs without pertinent reflections and without being challenged, because they are normally unhistorical and often enough they are even supposed to be ahistorical, precisely while they are

21 To mention only some further titles with ‘Otherness’ in their heading: Svetlana I. Luchitskaya, ‘Muslims in Christian Imagery of the Thirteenth Century: The Visual Code of Otherness’, Al-Masāq, 12 (2000), 37–67; Manuel Núñez Rodriguez, ‘Iconografia de uma marginalidade: o repúdio do “outro”’, Signum: Revista da ABREM (Assoçião Brasileira de Estudos Medievais), 2 (2000), 43–78; Jay T. Lees, ‘Confronting the Otherness of the Greeks: Anselm of Havelberg and the Division between Greeks and Latins’, Analecta Praemonstratensia, 68 (1992), 224–40. 22 Cf. Eisenbeiß and Saurma-Jeltsch, eds, Images of Otherness, primarily on visual techniques of ‘Othering’, rightly emphasizing the great variety of perspectives; recently Maria Portmann, ed., ‘Otherness’ in Space and Architecture: Jews, Muslims and Christians in Western European Art (1200–1650) (Bern: Lang, 2021). 23 Cf., just for example, Enrica Ruato, ‘God and the Worm: The Twofold Otherness in PseudoDionysius’s Theory of Dissimilar Images’, American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly, 82 (2008), 581–92; Gillian R. Evans, ‘Sources of the Notion of “Otherness” in Twelfth-Century Commentaries on Boethius’ Opuscula sacra’, Archivum Latinitatis Medii Aevi (Bulletin Du Cange), 40 (1977), 103–13. 24 Cf. Cyril Aslanov, ‘The Comic as a Factor of Integration: The Rehabilitation of Otherness in the Song of William’, Crusades, 7 (2008), 1–11; Alan S. Ambrisco, ‘“It lyth nat in my tonge”: occupatio and Otherness in the Squire’s Tale’, Chaucer Review: A Journal of Medieval Studies and Literary Criticism, 38 (2004), 205–28. 25 Cf. Lutchiskaya, ‘Muslims’. 26 Cf. Susan Yi Sencindiver, Maria Beville and Marie Lauritzen, eds, Otherness: A Multilateral Perspective (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2011), underlining the variety of themes (including sexual otherness or non-human otherness, however, not dealing with the Middle Ages).

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claiming a universal validity. Edward Said’s theory of ‘Orientalism’ may serve as a famous example here that has often been discussed; however, theories of a constant antagonism or a ‘clash of civilizations’ (Samuel P. Huntington) can never explain the diversity of medieval cultural relations.27 In fact, however and without doubt, numerous modern theories exist (deriving from sociology, ethnology, philosophy, cultural sciences, and also biology and psychology, religious studies and other sciences or approaches, such as postcolonial studies).28 These theories touch on certain aspects which could also become important for inquiries into ‘Otherness’, for example, theories about society as a whole (such as Niklas Luhmann’s ‘system theory’), social groups or marginalization, inclusion and exclusion, ‘in-groups’ and ‘out-groups’, about individuals, identity, identification and ‘Othering’, to name just a few important ones. They all provide useful ideas or at most a kind of frame rather than a direct approach to ‘Otherness’ in the Middle Ages itself, and have to be applied and discussed in individual contributions, but cannot be presented in a brief introduction which should rather avoid a possible theoretical disequilibrium by favouring a certain theory. While it is impossible to discuss all those theories here, to predetermine a certain theory would inadequately configure comprehension, base what are very diverse studies on the same (modern) theoretical platform, and would limit the many possible approaches, where it is necessary to remain open to a great many influences and interpretations. Moreover, we should never forget that these are modern theories which are not universal (although they often claim to be), and whose validity for former epochs can and should be checked but should not be pre-assumed. Otherwise, they would measure the Middle Ages against a completely modern background and thus obscure genuine medieval understanding, feelings, or categories. For example, ‘sex difference’ is not merely (or even primarily) biological, but it is always a social and cultural phenomenon, and thus changes over time and according to cultural context (and the same is true for every other aspect of ‘Otherness’). Postcolonial theory rightly reminds us of the need to destabilize hegemonic identities, and of the domination of Christianity in the Occident, and it may counteract a European centred view.29 Critical

27 For (modern) concepts of cultural difference and postcolonialism one may refer to the collection of essays by Homi K. Bhabha, The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994). For anthropological theories (and modern examples), cf. Gerd Baumann and Andre Gingrich, eds, Grammars of Identity/ Alterity: A Structural Approach, EASA Series, 3 (New York: Berghahn, 2004), particularly Gerd Baumann, ‘Grammar of Identity/Alterity: A Structural Approach’, in Grammars of Identity/Alterity, ed. by Baumann and Gingrich, pp. 18–50. 28 Not really an ‘introduction’ into postcolonial studies (as the title promises), but a discussion of three early protagonists (Said, Spivak, Bhabha) and of criticisms of postcolonial theory is provided by Maria do Mar Castro Varela and Nikita Dhawan, Postkoloniale Theorie. Eine kritische Einführung, Cultural Studies, 12 (Bielefeld: transcript, 2005). An attempt to apply postcolonial theory on the Middle Ages is made by the contributions in Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, ed., The Postcolonial Middle Ages, The New Middle Ages (New York: St Martin’s Press, 2000). 29 These are three of the characterizations of postcolonial theory given by Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, ‘Introduction: Midcolonial’, in The Postcolonial Middle Ages, ed. by Cohen, pp. 1–17 (pp. 6–7). More recently, even the word ‘transdifference’ was invented; cf. Doris Feldmann and Ina Habermann,

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Race Theory, originally intended to expose the racism of modern white Americans, reminds us to give due weight to non-white people in our research and insists that ‘race’ should be considered as an essential historical category.30 Nevertheless, one may add that all this has long before been recognized before by medievalists.31 In general, applying modern views to the Middle Ages may be misleading where we inquire into medieval concepts of ‘Otherness’,32 because, for example, medieval people in the West were not thinking of ‘race’, but of (other) peoples, kingdoms, regions or religions, and in Christian countries they had a deep conviction of Christianity being the only right religion, or, in Islamic countries, of Islam being the right religion.33 Apart from that, there is still another problem of applying modern theories without scrutinizing them: although there are many theories that touch upon the problem of ‘Otherness’, it is, in fact, hard to find any theory explicitly focusing on ‘Otherness’ as such. Consequently, pertinent studies on ‘Otherness’ still have to find their own way. Some reflections deliberately concentrating on ‘Otherness’ in the Middle Ages may be helpful here.

Some Problems with Research on ‘Otherness’ Apart from the applicability of modern theories and from absent or insufficient reflection, another problem arises from oversimplifying the great variety of ‘Othernesses’. In an enlightening article, Paul Freedman has underlined the enormous spectrum of ‘Otherness’, in which ‘monstrous races’ at the margins of the world represent only the

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eds, in collaboration with Dunja Mohr, Theorizing Cultural Difference and Transdifference, with Contributions on the Theory of Transdifference, Negotiations of Age in Literature, Religious Philosophy and Sound Studies = Journal of the Studies of British Cultures, 13.2 (2006). Cf. Thomas Kendall, ed., Critical Race Theory: The Key Writings that Formed the Movement (New York: New Press, 1995). Cf. the paper of Nikolas Jaspert in this volume, with an abundant bibliography concerning the Mediterranean countries. In fact, simply by way of example, in the papers in the volume The Postcolonial Middle Ages, ed. by Cohen, one can easily find misunderstandings of medieval thinking and conditions. The same is true to an uncritical application of the ‘Critical Race Theory’ on the Middle Ages. Geraldine Heng, The Invention of Race and the European Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018), wants to show, for example, that race mattered in the Middle Ages, but never questions whether medieval authors were aware of this problem. In fact, for them, ‘race’ was not a criterion, and, consequently, Heng’s examples, never being quoted from the sources, really deal either with ‘religion’ or with ‘peoples’ (or both), which, of course, could be equally depreciated. In fact, very distinct from modern opinions (perverted in Nazi Germany), Jews were never regarded as a ‘race’ in the Middle Ages. Similarly, M. X. Vernon, The Black Middle Ages. Race and the Construction of the Middle Ages, The New Middle Ages (Cham: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018), underlines similarities of late medieval perceptions of black people with the opinions of nineteenth- and twentieth-century authors, but neglects the differences. It is not by chance that medieval Latin did not even have a word for ‘race’. Moreover, the Islamic world has never been a ‘colony’, but the leading culture in many medieval countries. We have long since known about manifold contacts between the two worlds, but also about the deprecatory perception of the other religion on both sides.

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‘most other’ end of a large scale, and he complains that most medieval studies would not sufficiently differentiate between the many types of ‘Otherness’.34 Freedman sees three great dangers of oversimplification when applying ‘Otherness’ to the Middle Ages (which are exemplified by more recent modern studies): first, the totalization of all unfavourable ascriptions ( Jews, Saracens, monstrous races, women, homosexuals, heretics or peasants) into one single model of alterity; second, the treatment of ‘Others’ as stable, ignoring differences over time and distinctions between groups; and third, the assumption that elite society is determined to despise peoples on the margins of humanity.35 While we are not so sure about the third issue — social ‘Otherness’ can be regarded from both sides of the social strata —, we might add a fourth danger: while the theoretical problems mentioned above, such as those relating to individual and group, inclusion and exclusion, in-group and out-group and so on, undoubtedly have a great effect on Otherness, it would be misleading to assume that these different approaches are identical. One need not be an ‘Other’ to be excluded (and vice versa). These studies cannot offer more than a contribution to the (independent) approach to ‘Otherness’. There is still a dilemma. On the one hand, there remains an uneasiness when applying modern theories to the Middle Ages, at least when they are applied uncritically without the intention of reconsidering their applicability. On the other hand, the vague subject-matter of ‘Otherness’ necessarily calls for a theoretical as well as, or even more, a methodological foundation and conceptual basis: What is meant when we apply the term ‘Otherness’? And how can we approach an inquiry into (any kind of) ‘Otherness’ in a distant period such as the Middle Ages? Moreover, to make it even more complicated, it is not enough to bear in mind that medieval comprehensions of ‘Otherness’ probably do not conform to ours. Likewise, a look into medieval sources reveals a great variability of attitudes towards what we may call ‘Otherness’. A brief look at the Gesta Karoli Magni imperatoris of the monk Notker of St Gallen shows that ‘the Other’ can refer to uncivilized peoples (like the Vikings)36 as well as nations that are considered to be so poor (like the Africans in Notker) that they had to be supported by Charlemagne with corn, oil and wine,37 but also to sophisticated and yet strange cultures (like Byzantium).38 However, Byzantine silks are not disdained by Notker because they are strange, but

34 Paul Freedman, ‘The Medieval Other: The Middle Ages as Other’, in Marvels, Monsters, and Miracles: Studies in the Medieval and Early Modern Imaginations, ed. by Timothy S. Jones and David A. Sprunger (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications, 2002), pp. 1–24. 35 Freedman, ‘The Medieval Other’, pp. 8–12. The second section of the paper deals consequently with the persecution of internal ‘Others’, arguing against theories of an increasing intolerance since the Middle Ages: the last section is concerned with the alterity of the Middle Ages, pleading for demonstrating the alterity without separating the Middle Ages from modern times: ‘The Middle Ages is different from the contemporary, but its alterity is not that of a single world’ (Freedman, ‘The Medieval Other’, p. 24). 36 Notker of St Gallen, Gesta Karoli imperatoris magni II. 12, ed. by Hans F. Haefele, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores rerum Germanicarum, nova series, 25 vols (München: MGH, 1922–2010), 12, 2nd edn (1980), p. 70. 37 Notker of St Gallen, Gesta Karoli imperatoris magni II. 9, ed. by Haefele, pp. 62–63. 38 Notker of St Gallen, Gesta Karoli imperatoris magni II. 6, ed. by Haefele, pp. 54–55.

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because they are unpractical and expensive.39 In contrast, the Persians under their king Harun (although they are Muslims, a point, however, which is concealed by Notker) are respected as representatives of a former world empire.40 Even in one and the same author, ‘Otherness’ is not a criterion of unequivocal assignment.

Some Methodological Considerations on ‘Otherness’ in the Middle Ages Consequently, a methodological reflection on what we (today) understand by ‘Otherness’ and what else may be comprehended by this term is indispensable when working on this complex and complicated theme. In a brief introduction, it is impossible to ponder all problems and preliminary considerations relating to all kinds of ‘Otherness’: such consideration would need to be adapted heavily to each particular theme. The following remarks are confined to some general but, as we think, nevertheless important aspects in order to indicate some of the inherent structural and methodological problems that we face when dealing with ‘Otherness’. They do not claim to present a (still lacking) ‘theory of Otherness’. But they hopefully offer some (very preliminary) building blocks to it from a historical perspective, applicable to the Middle Ages, and sharpen our methodological reflection.41 First, since ‘Otherness’ includes numerous variations, the distinction of several kinds, or models, of ‘Otherness’ which may lead us nearer to medieval concepts of ‘Otherness’ has long been established.42 For example, one can distinguish between – political (being a foreigner, a migrant or refugee, or just referring to different kingdoms or duchies, etc.), – ethnic (belonging to a different people or/and speaking a different language), – social (belonging to a minority, a different status, rank, class, or caste, or, German ‘Stand’, which means, for example, being noble or ‘ignoble’), – religious (being of a different faith, including deviation from the ‘true’ faith, thus, in the Catholic Middle Ages, also comprising Christian heretics and Greek ‘Orthodox’ Christians), – cultural (belonging to a different culture, with different customs and mindsets), – sexual ‘Otherness’ (including the difference of the other gender as well as deviations from ‘gender norms’).

39 Notker of St Gallen, Gesta Karoli imperatoris magni II. 17, ed. by Haefele, pp. 86–87. 40 Notker of St Gallen, Gesta Karoli imperatoris magni II. 8, ed. by Haefele, pp. 61–62. 41 References for similar considerations might probably have been given for each of the following statements. However, it rather seemed preferable to sum up the various (and dispersed) statements to a coherent general survey. 42 One possible, useful scheme is that of Jerzy Strzelczyk, ‘Die Wahrnehmung des Fremden im mittelalterlichen Polen’, in Die Begegnung des Westens mit dem Osten. Kongreßakten des 4. Symposiums des Mediävistenverbandes in Köln 1991 aus Anlaß des 1000. Todestages der Kaiserin Theophanu, ed. by Odilo Engels and Peter Schreiner (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1993), pp. 203–20 (p. 204), who distinguishes between a regional, an ethnic-political, a religious and a social ‘strangeness’ (‘Fremdheit’).

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In addition, from a different perspective, one can focus on the ‘Otherness’ of ‘the unknown’ or simply unfamiliar, including remote lands or peoples as well as the ‘theological’, complete ‘Otherness’ of God and ‘the Other World’ (or ‘the beyond’),43 or, for example, revenants.44 Or, to characterize and group, again, from a slightly different perspective, ‘Otherness’ can derive from different origins (remote places, peoples, countries, nations, regions, or even towns), different faith, social rank, customs, appearance, language, gender, but also from a failure to integrate, or into the appropriate status within society (as an ‘internal Other’). In concrete situations, these categories may (and certainly do) overlap, but it is nevertheless important to distinguish between these (and further) perspectives: a ‘political Other’ (from a different country) may, but need not be an ethnic, or religious, or cultural ‘Other’, a social ‘Other’ is not necessarily (and in most cases is not) a religious ‘Other’, and so on. Helpful as these differentiations are, they nevertheless need to be examined with regard to their applicability to the Middle Ages (simply because of the ‘Otherness’ of this period). In a schematic visualization, this situation might be illustrated like this: Diagram 1 kind of Otherness

character/reason of Otherness political

origin

ethnic

(un-)familiarity

social

OTHERNESS

(non-)integration

religious

faith cultural

customs

Distinctions like the aforementioned may be easily comprehensible. However, there are many others. Moreover, second, even within those categories just mentioned, ‘Otherness’ is not a stable phenomenon to be equally applied everywhere. Rather, it is certainly a cultural designation, or ascription, that is different in every culture: it differs according to epoch (it is different in every age), society (it is different in each class or group), and in the last analysis it is a subjective problem that may differ in

43 Cf., for example, Aisling Byrne, Otherworlds: Fantasy and History in Medieval Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016); Sylvia Huot, ‘Others and Alterity’, in The Cambridge Companion to Medieval French Literature, ed. by Simon Gaunt and Sarah Kay (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), pp. 238–50. 44 Cf. Aline G, Hornaday, ‘Visitors from Another Space: The Medieval Revenant as Foreigner’, in Meeting the Foreign in the Middle Ages, ed. by Classen, pp. 71–95.

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every individual. There may even exist a ‘temporary Otherness’, as has been claimed.45 ‘Otherness’ is not only dependent on given pre-conditions, situations, knowledge, attitudes, and experience, but it is also determined by stereotyped concepts and representations. The awareness of ‘Otherness’ is complex and multi-layered, equivocal and ambivalent as well as dynamic. A further, third distinction derives from spatial distance, which again overlaps completely with the aforementioned categories: the ‘Other’ can live far away, even at the edges of the world (that medieval people thought to be the living environment of ‘monsters’ or ‘monstrous races’),46 thus inevitably also being religiously and culturally different. However, the ‘Other’ may likewise come as a visitor (not a tourist, in the Middle Ages), a merchant coming from far away (but also from not so far away) or as a pilgrim (who is not a religious ‘Other’ as long as pilgrimage is directed to Christian sanctuaries) — and it is no coincidence that ‘peregrinus’, the expression for a ‘stranger’ or ‘foreigner’ par excellence, soon became the favourite term to designate a pilgrim. Moreover, the delimitation can even be much ‘closer’ than that: the ‘Other’ can just be an inhabitant of a different region (duchy, county), town, parish, or village in the same country, a member of a different monastic order or simply of a different monastery, of a different guild or seigneurial system, or even an inhabitant of the same town or village who had moved there from another town or village and therefore was regarded as a ‘stranger’ (in the later Middle Ages often being named after the place where he came from). In other words, the ‘Other’ can be familiar or unfamiliar. Fourth, in the same context, the situation of ‘meeting the Other’ matters: whether it is by encounters or any form of communication or social intercourse, during travels or embassies (on both sides), or in quarrels, conflicts, disputes, wars, or persecutions. This includes (and affects) different forms of relationship between one’s own and other groups, ranging from peaceful coexistence through (voluntary or forced) segregation and animosities up to hostile attitudes and attacks. Again, however, the reason for a certain behaviour is a crucial point: are Jews or heretics, for example, persecuted for (or primarily for) their ‘Otherness’? If so, for their religious, ethnic, cultural or social ‘Otherness’ (or does this not matter)? To draw on a lamentable modern example: the extermination of Jews during the German Nazi period did certainly not derive from religious reasons (and, in fact, many of the murdered ‘Jews’ were emancipated Christians). 45 Cf. Nirmal Dass, ‘Temporary Otherness and Homilectic History in the Late Carolingian Age: A Reading of the Bella Parisiacae urbis of Abbo of Saint-Germain-des-Prés’, in Difference and Identity in Francia and Medieval France, ed. by Meredith Cohen and Justine Firnhaber-Baker (Farnham: Ashgate, 2010), pp. 99–113. However, since ‘temporary’ is an ambivalent term, it should be emphasized that the author does not mean ‘momentary’ or ‘at times’, but rather ‘transient’: that ‘Otherness’ can change and be lost in the course of time. 46 Cf., for example, one of the earliest representations of this aspect, John Block Friedman, The Monstrous Races in Medieval Art and Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981). Also David Williams, Deformed Discourse: The Function of the Monster in Medieval Thought and Literature (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 1996), pp. 13–14. But see also Ian Wood, ‘Where the Wild Things Are’, in Visions of Community in the Post-Roman World: The West, Byzantium and the Islamic World, 300–1100, ed. by Walter Pohl, Clemens Gantner, and Robert Payne (Farnham: Ashgate, 2012), pp. 531–42.

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Moreover, fifth, it is almost needless to say that, as in any historical study, the bias, the horizon, the conceptions and the world-view of the authors of our sources are not merely an important factor in terms of source criticism, but, furthermore, reveal in themselves the authors’ perceptions and concepts of ‘Otherness’ and thus lead to its medieval understanding. ‘Otherness’ is not just there; it is a matter (and process) of mindset and construction. That is why more and more recent studies prefer to speak of ‘Othering’ rather than ‘Otherness’ in order to emphasize the process of making someone an ‘Other’ or constructing someone as an ‘Other’ rather than being an ‘Other’ or recognizing the (existing) ‘Other’ as such (although both are possible). No less important are the ‘practical’ manifestations of this ‘theoretical’ background, namely the attitudes and behaviour towards ‘Others’, as well as the relationship between these two manifestations, for instance, to mention just one prominent example: is there a correlation between anti-Jewish writings and thinking and the persecution or pogroms of Jews (as they climaxed during the Crusades or the late medieval times of the Black Death)? Thus, in addition, sixth, there are certainly different ‘grades’ of ‘Otherness’: from being somehow different from ‘normality’ (that is, again, what is thought to be normal) and from what is known and familiar in certain regards but different in others, up to being (or, rather, being thought to be) completely unknown or totally different in every respect, with many graduations, shades, and nuances in between. To ‘misuse’ poor George Orwell: All ‘Others’ are ‘Others’, but some are more ‘other’ than others. It is not possible to establish a clear scale where concrete cases or applications can be ‘ranked’ and classified, but nevertheless we have to be aware of the wide spectrum that is comprised within this term, indicating the intensity of ‘Otherness’. Methodologically, it therefore does not suffice just to name ‘the Other’, but we have also to ask ‘How “other” is “the Other”?’ and further: ‘Why is someone classified as being “the Other”?’ ‘Which features make him or her appear as “the Other”?’ Thus it is not so much the ‘discovery’ or ‘detection’ of ‘Otherness’ that is interesting, but rather the indicators, criteria, and reasons of demarcation. Finally, seventh, ‘Otherness’ may be used more or less neutrally, but normally there is some inherent assessment that, again, may range from just being (somehow) diverse, through being distinctly different, up to being absolutely intolerable. Accordingly, one’s own behaviour and attitude can vary between curiosity and admiration on the one end of the scale and contempt and hostility on the other. Thus, in most cases ‘Otherness’ comprises an assessment which need not necessarily be negative — we may time and again observe a kind of fascination towards very different cultures —, but surely it often is.47 Again, however, there are many grades and nuances within the possible assessments, from seemingly neutral descriptions up to strong disdain,

47 Cf. Ortfried Schäffter, ed., Das Fremde. Erfahrungsmöglichkeiten zwischen Faszination und Bedrohung (Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1991); Herfried Münkler, ed., Furcht und Faszination. Facetten der Fremdheit, Studien und Materialien der interdisziplinären Arbeitsgruppe ‘Die Herausfordung durch das Fremde’ an der Berlin-Brandenburgischen Akademie der Wissenschaften (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1997).

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combined with distinct repudiation. Here we have to ask whether, how, and why ‘the Other(s)’ is or are appraised as such. In all these cases, however — and this has been generally accepted —, ‘Otherness’ is a relative or rather relational term, not one that has a ‘value’ or meaning in itself. It distinguishes others from the speaker (and his or her society):48 being ‘the Other’ means being someone (or something) different from oneself.49 There is no ‘Other’ without ‘Self ’ (and vice versa). This has repercussions on all the different approaches to ‘Otherness’ mentioned above which, in fact, all derive from or at least are dependent on this close relationship. A classification of ‘Otherness’ results from a comparison with oneself and one’s own identity or identity group(s). Actually, forms and concepts of the ‘Other’ and attitudes towards ‘Others’ both imply and reveal concepts of ‘Self ’, self-awareness, and identity (which may be constructed, but in any case are shaped or sharpened by viewing ‘the Other’), whether expressed explicitly or implicitly, consciously or unconsciously. Precisely for this reason, inquiring into ‘Otherness’ is at the same time an interesting approach to— unconscious — medieval concepts of ‘Self ’, identity, and individuality. Therefore, it is very important to comprehend these terms in their respective correlation. ‘Otherness’ is a label that classifies and segregates, a label that the ‘Other’ might agree to (while on his or her part seeing the same or rather different distinctions, possibly or probably with inverse assessments), but is likely to reject as soon as it is combined with derogatory attitudes and behaviour. ‘Otherness’ is an expression of (respective) personal feelings (towards others), it is by no means an ‘objective’ term, even if it is meant in a neutral manner. Again, however, the relationship between ‘Self ’ and ‘the Other’ is complex and versatile50 and there are many different ways of distinguishing between them.51 This may even go so far as to see the ‘Self as Other’.52 In other words, the correlation between ‘Self ’ and ‘Other’ helps to explain the existence of ‘Otherness’, but it can never spare us from distinguishing between all those different forms, subjects, distinctions, and approaches mentioned above (and certainly many more). 48 Cf., from a sociological perspective, Karlheinz Ohle, Das Ich und das Andere. Grundzüge einer Soziologie des Fremden, Sozialwissenschaftliche Studien. Schriftenreihe des Seminars für Sozialwissenschaft der Universität Hamburg, 15 (Stuttgart: Fischer, 1978). In fact, this has already been emphasized in 1908 by Georg Simmel, ‘Exkurs über den Fremden’, in Der Gast, der bleibt. Dimensionen von Georg Simmels Analyse des Fremdseins, ed. by Almut Loycke, Edition Pandora, 9 (Frankfurt am Main: Campus, 1992; first printed in 1908), pp. 9–16. 49 For a pertinent discussion, cf. Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde, pp. 10–15. 50 Scior, Das Eigene und das Fremde, pp. 332–40, detects in the three chroniclers that form the basis of his study (Adam of Bremen, Helmold of Bosau, Arnold of Lübeck), three different models of a relationship between ‘Self ’ and ‘the Other’. 51 Stephen Greenblatt, Marvellous Possessions: The Wonder of the New World (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991), p. 135, concerning travel reports, distinguishes a range that reaches ‘from radical alterity […] to a self-recognition that is also a mode of self-estrangement’. 52 Cf. Torfi H. Tulinius, ‘The Self as Other: Iceland and Christian Europe in the Middle Ages’, in Nordic Civilization in the Medieval World, ed. by Vésteinn Ólason, Gripla, 20 (Reykjavik: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar, 2009), pp. 199–216, concerning Christian Icelandic retrospective on the pagan prehistory of their own people. Nevertheless, past and present Icelanders are distinguished by their different religion; thus the former Icelanders as ‘Self ’ and as ‘Others’ result from different categories.

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Schematically, although this is necessarily a simplification, we might sketch this manifold relationship with its consequences and repercussions like this: SELF

↔ THE OTHER

manifest, for example, in coming from or belonging to:

one’s own place

↔ from other places

one’s own group one’s own institution one’s own religion identity

↔ different groups

from remote parts of the earth, other countries, regions, towns, villages, seigneurial systems; migrants other class, status; minorities

↔ from other institutions

lordship, monastery, etc.

↔ different religion/faith

pagans, Jews, Muslims, heretics, Greeks

self-awareness human

↔ delimitation

different culture, habits, appearance, language ↔ depreciation from admiration to contempt and persecution ↔ non-human / half-human / differently human

Or, judging from ‘reasons’ for repercussions of ‘Otherness’: epoch; culture origin, space, faith, class etc. mindset / attitudes THE ‘OTHER’

derives from

perception / construction (any) delimitation from ‘Self’

assessment This

leads to behaviour

What has been alluded to above, will certainly not include all possible differentiations; there are many more. However, it may be appropriate to illustrate the complexity as well as the difference of this approach: modern studies of certain religious (pagan, Jewish, Islamic) or other groups or descriptions of remote peoples and countries will certainly touch upon their being different and upon the perceptions of the authors. But

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they can well be written without focusing on ‘the Other’, while studies on ‘Otherness’ take these groups, authors or other themes as their examples (or case studies) of investigation in order to discuss their ‘Otherness’ in its various possible aspects. Doing this, the above remarks should equally have sharpened our eye in our own research: how important it is, when inquiring into ‘Otherness’, not only to make clear what we (want to) understand by ‘Otherness’ (or how medieval authors comprehended it) and how we use it. But it is no less crucial to clarify what kind of ‘Otherness’ we are investigating, to distinguish between different categories, relationships to ‘self ’, grades of being different and of assessing that difference appropriately. Lack of this precision can easily create misunderstandings. Even more, we should test our own observations by critically asking ‘Is this really (meant as) “Otherness” (or are we reading our understanding into the sources)?’ ‘Otherness’ (of any kind) can certainly become a social problem, but primarily, in being ‘created’, it is not so much a ‘social’ but rather a ‘mental’ phenomenon, a matter of perception and categorization rather than of (clear or precise) existence, an issue of ‘imagination’ and experience rather than ‘reality’ (notwithstanding, of course, that in a certain age and culture, the agreement of the great majority concerning ‘Others’ can lead ‘Otherness’ to be thought to be ‘real’, and taking measures against ‘Others’ can make ‘Otherness’ a social and political problem). Nevertheless, in the first instance, this is a personal, or individual, phenomenon, which, however, increases to become a social, or corporate, one (of a certain group, a certain region, a certain epoch) where it extends to being widespread and predominant. Moreover, as a rule, this is a mutual perception: whoever regards others as ‘the Other’ will normally likewise be regarded by them as ‘the Other’ (although not necessarily in the same manner or for the same reasons). It is also a matter of feeling which has repercussions for the individual: someone may not only be regarded as a stranger, but can equally feel himself or herself to be a stranger (among all the strangers). These multiple facets of ‘Otherness’ imply that, at least in an edited volume, we cannot (and should not) give a precise definition or expected requirements, when each author (and contribution) has to find out from the specific theme and perspective what ‘Otherness’ might mean, where it begins and where it ends, what are its particular features and why something or someone is felt to be an ‘Other’. ‘Otherness’ is not only a substantive, but first of all it is a methodological problem. Knowing that the modern researcher has a modern perspective, in order to avoid a complete misunderstanding of medieval conditions and perceptions, we would always be well advised to check how far our impressions and results conform to medieval standards and categories (and where they do not).

Some Preliminary Remarks on the Medieval Terminology and Comprehension of ‘Otherness’ When investigating medieval concepts of ‘Otherness’ (which is necessary to avoid hypermodern interpretations), medieval terminology may be a precious means, but it certainly does not solve all inherent problems. On the one hand, it is the

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context rather than the term that tells us that the author is implying ‘Otherness’ or what kind of ‘Otherness’ is implied; on the other hand, people can be described as or felt to be ‘Others’ without using corresponding words. There are several Latin terms for the ‘Other’, which, however, each bear several meanings that do not directly correspond with our notion of ‘Otherness’; this may be illustrated by the most current terms:53 – ‘peregrinus/peregrina’, originally someone without a complete legal capacity, is generally a traveller, and specifically the pilgrim, in a foreign land or region, outside the familiar environment, a ‘stranger among strangers’, but not necessarily ‘different’ (and not necessarily ‘charged’ with a pejorative meaning); on the contrary, ‘peregrini’ are also objects of care and charity, although their clothes, language, behaviour, etc. may seem ‘unusually strange’; – ‘advena’ is normally someone coming from (somewhere) outside, that is, someone not indigenous, in order to stay and live in a different community (thus already Isidore of Seville), possibly to be integrated soon or later on; – ‘extraneus/extranea’ seems to mean almost the same, but, in fact, is quite different: first of all, the term is the opposite to ‘proprius’ (or ‘proprium’ where objects are concerned), meaning one’s own. In medieval polyptychs, it marks a person living on the land of a seigneur but beyond his jurisdiction. Thus, ‘extranei’ are also foreigners (outside their homeland), who could nevertheless become conquerors and lords of foreign countries or regions; – finally, ‘alienus/aliena’ again seems fairly similar but is applied to every kind of delimitation from one’s own (including third party property, different law, someone else’s goods or even someone else’s wife or husband or the church of another bishop). ‘Alienus’ also refers to different gods and religions. Thus it can almost refer to everything beyond one’s own property, or, as ‘alienigenus’, one’s own community, but it means neither ‘alien’ nor ‘Other’ in our sense. Or, if we look at ‘alteritas’, which seems to be the equivalent of alterity (and thus of ‘Otherness’ in a different definition),54 this is a really good example to demonstrate the ‘Otherness’ of a medieval understanding of ‘Otherness’: medieval theologians may well place it in the context of ‘pluralitas’ which derives ‘ex alteritate’.55 However, ‘alter’ is just the other as distinguished from someone (‘unus’), including Self, but also from others (as a third party), but normally from just two persons or objects. Consequently, this is not ‘the Other’ in our sense, unless it is explicitly characterized as being different.

53 There is hardly any study on the corresponding medieval Latin terms for ‘Otherness’; for a preliminary insight, see Hans-Werner Goetz, ‘“Fremdheit” im früheren Mittelalter’, in Herrschaftspraxis und soziale Ordnungen im Mittelalter und in der frühen Neuzeit. Ernst Schubert zum Gedenken, ed. by Peter Aufgebauer and Christine van den Heuvel, with the collaboration of Brage Bei der Wieden, Sabine Graf, and Gerhard Streich (Hanover: Hahn, 2006), pp. 245–65, with references to sources for the following observations. 54 In this sense, for a medieval theological perspective, cf. Evans, ‘Alteritas’. 55 Cf. Evans, ‘Alteritas’, pp. 105–06, concerning Gilbert of Poitiers.

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So, if words are a reflection of concepts (and if wording and contexts are a reflection of mindset), we may cautiously conclude from these few remarks that medieval people had a comprehension of ‘Otherness’ that certainly reveals some parallels, but on the whole is fairly different from ours. All these terms — which, moreover, do not occur too frequently in medieval sources —, in spite of their range, seem much more specific than modern ‘Otherness’. However, they all include a notion of ‘Otherness’ in the sense that they delimit from ‘Self ’ and imply a notion of someone coming from somewhere else, but, again, this can mean: coming from far away or nearby; it can be good or bad, normal or strange, imply an ethnic, religious, cultural or social distinction. Thus the different categories of ‘Otherness’ mentioned above are always inherent, but they do not correspond to specific medieval terms in contrast to others. Moreover, these terms do not necessarily mean being ‘completely different’: the ‘Other’ can well be part of one’s own society. Therefore, ‘Otherness’, in medieval terms, should not be restricted to barbarian peoples living far away in remote countries or to people of other creeds (‘unbelievers’ in medieval Christian diction), the two favourite themes of modern studies on medieval ‘Otherness’. Nevertheless, the pertinent expressions each comprise a certain semantic field, and lay emphasis on specific aspects of distinction from ‘self ’ rather than ‘Otherness’ as such. Consequently, ‘Otherness’ cannot simply be deduced from medieval terms, but exclusively from their context. Equally, xenophobia existed, but it is not conveyed simply by these Latin expressions themselves. However, these are very preliminary observations, and we are still in need of a comprehensive analysis of these (and other) medieval terms of ‘Otherness’ before we can dare to advance to passably grounded conclusions.56

On the Present Volume Taken all that has been alluded to together, one may conclude that, while ‘the Other’ is also a matter of marginalization, ‘Otherness’ as such is far from being marginal. In fact, ‘Otherness’ is completely common and existent everywhere in every society, albeit with many different forms, facets, and nuances. Considering this, it should be evident that there are too many forms and manifestations, grades and judgements of and approaches to ‘Otherness in the Middle Ages’ to be covered by just one volume. The aim of this collection of articles is rather to demonstrate the great diversity of the theme and its differences, manifestations, and perspectives as well as different approaches to the theme to be explored. The volume contains the four keynote lectures given by Sylvia Huot, Nikolas Jaspert, Eduardo Manzano Morena and Felicitas Schmieder, and a further fourteen selected papers (from more than 660 papers on ‘Otherness’ that had been accepted and given at the IMC in 2017). The contributions consider the vast theme of ‘Otherness’ in the Middle Ages from distinct angles and with different

56 Cf., on the perceptions of two chroniclers of the twelfth century (although not on the medieval terms): Anna Aurast, Fremde, Freunde, Feinde. Wahrnehmung und Bewertung von Fremden in den Chroniken des Gallus Anonymus und des Cosmas von Prag (Bochum: Winkler, 2019).

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approaches respectively, each on a specific topic and not least written by contributors from different disciplines (history, literary history, art history, archaeology), from various countries (Austria, Britain, Finland, Germany, Greece, Japan, Norway, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, the United States of America) and dealing with different areas (Western Europe, Scandinavia, Italy, Croatia, Crete, the Mediterranean, Christian and Islamic Spain and Portugal, Byzantium, India), perspectives (religion, law, social order, the past, a sea), and with diverse kinds of sources (documents, historiography, fiction, legal sources, maps, graves, paintings). Important aspects will certainly be missing. The editors had to choose from papers presented at the IMC. Nevertheless, we hope to have collected an interesting, multifaceted choice of contributions in order to demonstrate the wide range and fruitfulness of the theme as well as the possibilities of medieval research by inquiring into ‘Otherness’ (inside and outside a certain community), but also problematizing and relativizing common approaches or opinions, thus opening ways for further research. It might be advisable here to recall the genesis of this volume. The IMC is not a conference on a certain theme, carefully prepared by a sophisticated concept of the organizer(s) along which the contributions are expected to discuss their particular topic. On the contrary, the Call for papers invites researchers to cover as many aspects as possible. Consequently, the papers were written before this introduction which, we repeat, is intended to offer an access to the whole theme of ‘Otherness’ as such, including the many problems it raises, rather than being a mere opening to this volume. The authors of the papers subsequently had the opportunity to read the introduction, but were never expected to conscientiously consider and discuss all the ‘problems of Otherness’ as they have been raised above. An introduction of this kind seems the more necessary and helpful for further discussion as an equivalent methodological and theoretical survey has been lacking so far. Nevertheless, each contribution (consciously unconsciously) was confronted with at least some of the inherent problems that are mentioned here, and touches on them according to its particular subject, thus further sharpening our academic intuition for inquiring into ‘Otherness’ in the Middle Ages. Since each contribution has its own perspective (or, rather, perspectives) that not only focuses on a certain theme, but at the same time aims at a certain methodological approach, it would be misleading to subdivide the contributions under certain aspects and categories mentioned above, such as pagan, Jewish or Muslim ‘Otherness’, legal, historical or literary ‘Otherness’, or else ‘Otherness’ outside or inside one’s own community. Equally misleading would be a subdivision according to chronology, distance and other grades of ‘Otherness’, or its assessment, or else according to methodological approaches. Each decision would not only demand a different order of the papers respectively, but all this would mean having to choose one of several overlapping aspects dealt with in nearly every paper of this volume. Therefore, we decided to print the papers simply in alphabetical order, with the exception of Nikolas Jaspert’s article, which we placed at the beginning on account of its explicit methodological concerns. The changing approaches in modern and contemporary research and the plurality of possible manifestations and forms of ‘Othering’ through the example

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of Mediterranean studies ( Jaspert) serves as a welcome inauguration of the whole volume, because, while focusing on one (very large) region, this is also a splendid introduction into modern perspectives (and dissolutions) of ‘Otherness’. The other contributions deal with different kinds of ‘Otherness’ and of Others, how they are perceived and how they are dealt with in society, law, and religion, with different and yet ‘rationalized’ (linguistic) expressions of anti-Judaism (Kelser), or how Jewish ‘Otherness’ is represented in objects of art (Portmann). When looking into one’s own (pagan) past, the ‘Otherness’ (or the ‘Othering’ of the past) is obvious, but at the same time it gets blurred when this is one’s own past (Scheel on Scandinavian law), while, in comparison, the past pagan burial customs and their (archaeological) representations reveal fluid concepts of death, the ‘Otherworld’ and dealings with the dead ancestors (Mattson McGinnis), whereas contemporary (Scandinavian) laws might have ‘othered’ certain ethnic groups in the same kingdom in rather different manners (Tveit). Other contributions differentiate in distinct respects: how different ethnic groups (Greeks and Franks) were ‘othered’ by the same (South-Italian) early medieval authors, while at the same time the Frankish emperor was ‘samed’ (Gantner), or how and for which reasons ‘internal Others’ were properly excluded from a ‘community identity’ (Gruber), or how, on the contrary, ethnic as well as religious ‘Others’ could be assimilated in the course of time (Manzano, at the same time emphasizing the dynamics and changing attitudes towards ‘Others’ inside and outside). Further contributions investigate how remote ‘Others’ are represented (and, as a parallel, equally changing) in mappae mundi, with a shift of the antagonistic ‘Other’ from Asia to Africa and the Middle East (Schmieder). Several contributions demonstrate where traditional views and explanations do not suffice: for example, late antique and early medieval barbarians are not simply (and not really) the cultural ‘Other’, as Roman ideology (and modern research!) tend to see them (Mathisen), how internal political enmities can even ‘overarch’ traditionally ‘jammed’ antagonisms towards religious ‘Others’ (Silva) or how gender-related and sexual ‘Otherness’ still maintains common ground with one’s own identity in literary discourses (Huot). Thus they partly also look at ‘the Other’ inside one’s own society (Borýsek on immigrating Jews in Crete, Kümmeler on attitudes towards herdsmen in conflicts on Korčula) or even at ‘Othering’ inside monasticism, for very different reasons, from wearing different clothes up to holiness (Koutrakou). ‘Others’ (such as Muslims) can be delimitated and at the same time ‘integrated’ into the Christian world order by explaining their existence through biblical terminology (Marschner). Contributions like these help to relativize a strict dichotomy between ‘the Self ’ and ‘the Other’ and to dissolve a strict contrast between inside and outside. And, of course, representatives of a different (and remote) culture, such as the Indian philosophers, need not be assessed negatively, but could even become an ideal in Western thought because of their virtue (Onuma). The impression of ‘Otherness’ is not necessarily linked with xenology, nor is ‘Otherness’ confined to religious aspects; there are many forms of ‘segmentary Otherness’, while internal ‘Otherness’ may also dissolve through acculturation ( Jaspert). Certainly, the present volume is not, and as being an edited volume, cannot be a summary or a representative choice of the modern state of research, but the contributions, each in its own specificity, contribute to such a claim. It is an aperture

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towards an important, comparatively new theme rather than a concluding ‘harvest’, a methodological as well as a thematic attempt. Nevertheless, one may assert, without humility, that this volume is so far the most comprehensive attempt to tackle this huge problem concerning the Middle Ages. So it hopefully will stimulate a vivid discussion. The editors are grateful to all contributors for providing and preparing extended written versions of their papers, for helping to accelerate the printing process by observing the deadlines, and for a congenial collaboration. They equally wish to thank the IMC office and the Editorial Board of this series, both under the direction of Axel Müller, for every possible help as well as the publishers and their publishing manager, Guy Carney, for a very agreeable and constructive cooperation. May reflection on ‘Otherness’ help to bring people together in a world that seems to be tending more and more towards egotism and isolation.

Works Cited Primary Sources Notker of St Gallen, Gesta Karoli imperatoris magni II. 12, ed. by Hans F. Haefele, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores rerum Germanicarum, nova series, 25 vols vol. 12, 2nd edn (München: MGH, 1980) Secondary Works Abulafia, Anna Sapir, Christian-Jewish Relations, 1000–1300: Jews in the Service of Medieval Christondom, The Medieval World (Harlow: Longman, 2011) ———, Christians and Jews in Dispute: Disputational Literature and the Rise of Anti-Judaism in the West, c. 1000–1150, Variorum Collected Studies Series, 621 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998) Ambrisco, Alan S., ‘“It lyth nat in my tonge”: occupatio and Otherness in the Squire’s Tale’, Chaucer Review: A Journal of Medieval Studies and Literary Criticism, 38 (2004), 205–28 Aslanov, Cyril, ‘The Comic as a Factor of Integration: The Rehabilitation of Otherness in the Song of William’, Crusades, 7 (2008), 1–11 Aurast, Anna, Fremde, Freunde, Feinde. Wahrnehmung und Bewertung von Fremden in den Chroniken des Gallus Anonymus und des Cosmas von Prag (Bochum: Winkler, 2019) Barnwell, Timothy, ‘Fragmented Identities: Otherness and Authority in Adam of Bremen’s History of the Archbishops of Hamburg–Bremen’, in The Resources of the Past in Early Medieval Europe, ed. by Clemens Gantner, Rosamond McKitterick, and Sven Meeder (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), pp. 206–22 Baumann, Gerd, ‘Grammar of Identity/Alterity: A Structural Approach’, in Grammars of Identity/Alterity. A Structural Approach, ed. by Gerd Baumann and Andre Gingrich, EASA Series, 3 (New York: Berghahn, 2004), pp. 18–50 Baumann, Gerd, and Andre Gingrich, eds, Grammars of Identity/Alterity: A Structural Approach, EASA Series, 3 (New York: Berghahn, 2004) Bhabha, Homi K., The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994)

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Blier, Suzanne Preston, ‘Imaging Otherness in Ivory: African Portrayals of the Portuguese ca. 1492’, Art Bulletin, 75 (1993), 375–96 Blumenkranz, Bernhard, Juifs et chrétiens dans le monde occidental 430–1096, École Pratique des Hautes Études. Sixième Section: Sciences économiques et sociales. Études juives, 2 (Paris: Mouton, 1960) Braun, Manuel, ed., Wie anders war das Mittelalter? Fragen an das Konzept der Alterität, Aventiuren, 9 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013) Broome, Richard, ‘Pagans, Rebels and Merovingians: Otherness in the Early Carolingian World’, in The Resources of the Past in Early Medieval Europe, ed. by Clemens Gantner, Rosamond McKitterick, and Sven Meeder (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), pp. 155–71 Byrne, Aisling, Otherworlds: Fantasy and History in Medieval Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016) Cadden, Joan, Meanings of Sex Difference in the Middle Age: Medicine, Science and Culture, Cambridge History of Medicine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993) Chazan, Robert, Jews of Medieval Western Christendom 1000–1500 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006) ———, Medieval Stereotypes and Modern Antisemitism (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997) Classen, Albrecht, ed., Meeting the Foreign in the Middle Ages (New York: Routledge, 2002) ———, ‘The Self, the Other, and Everything in Between: Xenological Phenomenology of the Middle Ages’, in Meeting the Foreign in the Middle Ages, ed. by Albrecht Classen (New York: Routledge, 2002), pp. xi–lxxxiii Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome, ‘Introduction: Midcolonial’, in The Postcolonial Middle Ages, ed. by Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, The New Middle Ages (New York: St Martin’s Press, 2000), pp. 1–17 ———, ed., The Postcolonial Middle Ages, The New Middle Ages (New York: St Martin’s Press, 2000) Dahan, Gilbert, La polémique Chrétienne et les Juifs au Moyen Âge (Paris: Michel, 1991) Dass, Nirmal, ‘Temporary Otherness and Homilectic History in the Late Carolingian Age: A Reading of the Bella Parisiacae urbis of Abbo of Saint-Germain-des-Prés’, in Difference and Identity in Francia and Medieval France, ed. by Meredith Cohen and Justine Firnhaber-Baker (Farnham: Ashgate, 2010), pp. 99–113 Demandt, Alexander, ed., Mit Fremden leben. Eine Kulturgeschichte von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart (München: Beck, 1995) Eisenbeiß, Anja, and Lieselotte E. Saurma-Jeltsch, eds, Images of Otherness in Medieval and Early Modern Times: Exclusion, Inclusion, Assimilation (München: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 2012) Erfen, Irene, and Karl-Heinz Spieß, eds, Fremdheit und Reisen im Mittelalter (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1997) Evans, Gillian R., ‘Sources of the Notion of “Otherness” in Twelfth-Century Commentaries on Boethius’ Opuscula sacra’, Archivum Latinitatis Medii Aevi (Bulletin Du Cange), 40 (1977), 103–13 Feldmann, Doris, and Ina Habermann, eds, in collaboration with Dunja Mohr, Theorizing Cultural Difference and Transdifference, with Contributions on the Theory

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of Transdifference, Negotiations of Age in Literature, Religious Philosophy and Sound Studies = Journal of the Studies of British Cultures, 13.2 (2006) Fögen, Marie Theres, ed., Fremde der Gesellschaft: historische und sozialwissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zur Differenzierung von Normalität und Fremdheit, Ius Commune. Studien zur Europäischen Rechtsgeschichte. Sonderhefte, 56 (Frankfurt am Main: Klostermann, 1991) Freedman, Paul, ‘The Medieval Other: The Middle Ages as Other’, in Marvels, Monsters, and Miracles: Studies in the Medieval and Early Modern Imaginations, ed. by Timothy S. Jones and David A. Sprunger (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications, 2002), pp. 1–24 Friedman, John Block, The Monstrous Races in Medieval Art and Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981) Gestrich, Andreas, and Lutz Raphael, eds, Inklusion/Exklusion. Studien zu Fremdheit und Armut von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart, Inklusion/Exklusion. Studien zu Fremdheit und Armut von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart, 5 (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 2004) Goetz, Hans-Werner, ‘“Fremdheit” im früheren Mittelalter’, in Herrschaftspraxis und soziale Ordnungen im Mittelalter und in der frühen Neuzeit. Ernst Schubert zum Gedenken, ed. by Peter Aufgebauer and Christine van den Heuvel, with the collaboration of Brage Bei der Wieden, Sabine Graf, and Gerhard Streich (Hanover: Hahn, 2006), pp. 245–65 ———, Die Wahrnehmung anderer Religionen und christlich-abendländisches Selbstverständnis im frühen und hohen Mittelalter (5.–12. Jahrhundert) (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2013); English version in preparation. Greenblatt, Stephen, Marvellous Possessions: The Wonder of the New World (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991) Harms, Wolfgang, and Stephen C. Jaeger, eds, Fremdes wahrnehmen – fremdes Wahrnehmen. Studien zur Geschichte der Wahrnehmung und zur Begegnung von Kulturen in Mittelalter und früher Neuzeit (Stuttgart: Hirzel, 1997) Heng, Geraldine, The Invention of Race and the European Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018) Hornaday, Aline G., ‘Visitors from Another Space: The Medieval Revenant as Foreigner’, in Meeting the Foreign in the Middle Ages, ed. by Albrecht Classen (New York: Routledge, 2002), pp. 71–95 Huot, Sylvia, ‘Others and Alterity’, in The Cambridge Companion to Medieval French Literature, ed. by Simon Gaunt and Sarah Kay (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), pp. 238–50 Ide, Manshu, and Albrecht Classen, eds, Japanisch-deutsche Gespräche über Fremdheit im Mittelalter. Interkulturelle und interdisziplinäre Forschungen in Ost und West, Stauffenburg Mediävistik, 2 (Tübingen: Stauffenburg, 2018) Jessenne, Jean-Pierre, ed., L’image de l’autre dans l’Europe du Nord-Ouest à travers l’histoires, Histoire et littérature du Septentrion (IRHiS), 14 (Villeneuve d’Ascq: Publications de l’Institut de recherches historiques du Septentrion, 1996) Jones, Timothy S., and David A. Sprunger, eds, Marvels, Monsters, and Miracles: Studies in the Medieval and Early Modern Imaginations, Studies in Medieval Culture, 42 (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications, 2002) Kendall, Thomas, ed., Critical Race Theory: The Key Writings that Formed the Movement (New York: New Press, 1995)

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König, Daniel, Arabic-Islamic Views on the Latin West: Tracing the Emergence of Medieval Europe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015) Kuolt, Joachim, Harald Kleinschmidt, and Peter Dinzelbacher, eds, Das Mittelalter – unsere fremde Vergangenheit (Stuttgart: Helfant, 1990) L’étranger au Moyen Âge. XXXe Congrès de la S.H.M.E.S. (Göttingen, juin 1999), Série Historie Ancienne et Médiévale, 61 (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 2000) Laiou, Angeliki E., Cécile Morrisson, and Rown Dorin, eds, Byzantium and the Other: Relations and Exchanges, Variorum Collected Studies Series, 1005 (Farnham: Ashgate 2012) Le Goff, Jacques, Pour un autre Moyen Âge, Temps, travail et culture en Occident. 18 essais (Paris: Gallimard, 1978) Lees, Jay T., ‘Confronting the Otherness of the Greeks: Anselm of Havelberg and the Division between Greeks and Latins’, Analecta Praemonstratensia, 68 (1992), 224–40 Luchitskaya, Svetlana I., ‘Muslims in Christian Imagery of the Thirteenth Century: The Visual Code of Otherness’, Al-Masāq, 12 (2000), 37–67 Mar Castro Varela, Maria do, and Nikita Dhawan, Postkoloniale Theorie. Eine kritische Einführung, Cultural Studies, 12 (Bielefeld: transcript, 2005) Mayali, Laurent, and Maria M. Mart, eds, Of Strangers and Foreigners (Late Antiquity – Middle Ages), Studies in Comparative Legal History (Berkeley: The Regents of the University of California, 1993) Münkler, Herfried, ed., Furcht und Faszination. Facetten der Fremdheit, Studien und Materialien der interdisziplinären Arbeitsgruppe ‘Die Herausfordung durch das Fremde’ an der Berlin-Brandenburgischen Akademie der Wissenschaften (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1997) Münkler, Marina, Erfahrung des Fremden. Die Beschreibung Ostasiens in den Augenzeugenberichten des 13. und 14. Jahrhunderts (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2000) Ohle, Karlheinz, Das Ich und das Andere. Grundzüge einer Soziologie des Fremden, Sozialwissenschaftliche Studien. Schriftenreihe des Seminars für Sozialwissenschaft der Universität Hamburg, 15 (Stuttgart: Fischer, 1978) Palmer, James T., ‘The Otherness of Non-Christians in the Early Middle Ages’, in Christianity and Religious Plurality, ed. by Charlotte Methuen, Andrew Spicer, and John Wolffe (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2015), pp. 33–52 Patrut, Julia Karin, and Herber Urlings, eds, Inklusion/Exklusion und Natur: theoretische Perspektiven und Fallstudien von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart (Köln: Böhlau, 2013) Reichert, Folker, Begegnungen mit China. Die Entdeckung Ostasiens im Mittelalter, Beiträge zur Geschichte und Quellenkunde des Mittelalters, 15 (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1992) ———, Erfahrung der Welt. Reisen und Kulturbegegnung im späten Mittelalter (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2001) Rodriguez, Manuel Núñez, ‘Iconografia de uma marginalidade: o repúdio do “outro”’, Signum: Revista da ABREM (Assoçião Brasileira de Estudos Medievais), 2 (2000), 43–78 Ruato, Enrica, ‘God and the Worm: The Twofold Otherness in Pseudo-Dionysius’s Theory of Dissimilar Images’, American Catholic Philosophical Quarterly, 82 (2008), 581–92 Schäffter, Ortfried, ed., Das Fremde. Erfahrungsmöglichkeiten zwischen Faszination und Bedrohung (Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1991)

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Scior, Volker, Das Eigene und das Fremde. Identität und Fremdheit in den Chroniken Adams von Bremen, Helmolds von Bosau und Arnolds von Lübeck, Orbis mediaevalis. Vorstellungswelten des Mittelalters, 4 (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2002) Sencindiver, Susan Yi, Maria Beville, and Marie Lauritzen, eds, Otherness: A Multilateral Perspective (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 2011) Simmel, Georg, ‘Exkurs über den Fremden’, in Der Gast, der bleibt. Dimensionen von Georg Simmels Analyse des Fremdseins, ed. by Almut Loycke, Edition Pandora, 9 (Frankfurt am Main: Campus, 1992; first printed in 1908), pp. 9–16 Smythe, Dion C., ed., Strangers to Themselves: The Byzantine Outsider. Papers from the Thirty-Second Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies. University of Sussex, Brighton, March 1998, Society for the Promotion of Byzantine Studies. Publications (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000) Stichweh, Robert, Inklusion und Exklusion. Studien zur Gesellschaftstheorie, 2nd edn (Bielefeld: transcript, 2016) Strzelczyk, Jerzy, ‘Die Wahrnehmung des Fremden im mittelalterlichen Polen’, in Die Begegnung des Westens mit dem Osten. Kongreßakten des 4. Symposiums des Mediävistenverbandes in Köln 1991 aus Anlaß des 1000. Todestages der Kaiserin Theophanu, ed. by Odilo Engels and Peter Schreiner (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1993), pp. 203–20 Tolan, John V., Saracens: Islam in Medieval European Imagination (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002) Torfi H. Tulinius, ‘The Self as Other: Iceland and Christian Europe in the Middle Ages’, in Nordic Civilization in the Medieval World, ed. by Vésteinn Ólason, Gripla, 20 (Reykjavik: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar, 2009), pp. 199–216 Vernon, Matthew X., The Black Middle Ages: Race and the Construction of the Middle Ages, The New Middle Ages (Cham: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018) Weibel, Peter, and Slavoj Žižek, eds, Inklusion – Exklusion. Probleme des Postkolonialismus und der globalen Migration, 2nd edn (Wien: Passagen-Verlag, 2010) Williams, David, Deformed Discourse: The Function of the Monster in Medieval Thought and Literature (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 1996) Wood, Ian N., ‘The Pagan and the Other: Varying Presentations in the Early Middle Ages’, Networks and Neighbours, 1 (2013), 1–22 ———, ‘Where the Wild Things Are’, in Visions of Community in the Post-Roman World. The West, Byzantium and the Islamic World, 300–1100, ed. by Walter Pohl, Clemens Gantner, and Robert Payne (Farnham: Ashgate, 2012), pp. 531–42 Yuval, Israel, Two Nations in Your Womb: Perceptions of Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006; original Hebrew edition: Tel Aviv 2003)

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The Mediterranean Other and the Other Mediterranean Perspectives of Alterity in Medieval Studies

The End of a Dream? Xenology at the Crossroads of Historical Research The turbulent times we are living in have immediate repercussions on the research field that stands in the focus of this volume: For arguably xenology1 — that is the scientific analysis of otherness, othering, and further aspects of alterity — has been thrown into crisis by current events worldwide. One might even go as far as to ask if historians of alterity studies are experiencing the end of a dream. For the upswing of xenological studies in the 1990s was marked by a certain optimism generated by globalization and reflected in postcolonial studies.2 Intensified and accelerated





1 On the term ‘xenology’ see: Alois Wierlacher, ‘Kulturwissenschaftliche Xenologie’, in Konzepte der Kulturwissenschaften: theoretische Grundlagen – Ansätze – Perspektiven, ed. by Ansgar Nünning and Vera Nünning (Weimar: Metzler, 2003), pp. 280–306; Christian Bremshey, ed., Den Fremden gibt es nicht: Xenologie und Erkenntnis, Kulturwissenschaft, 2 (Münster: Lit, 2004); Bernhard Waldenfels, ‘Xenologie, Wissenschaft vom Fremden’, in Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophie, vol. 12, ed. by Joachim Ritter, Karlfried Gründer, and Gottfried Gabriel (Basel: Schwabe, 2004), pp. 1105–10; Alexander Kozin, ‘Xenology as Semiotic Phenomenology’, Semiotica, 171 (2008), 171–92; Albrecht Classen, ‘Introduction’, in East Meets West in the Middle Ages and Early Modern Times: Transcultural Experiences in the Premodern World, ed. by Albrecht Classen, Fundamentals of Medieval and Early Modern Culture, 14 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2013), pp. 1–219, pp. 5–12. Many thanks to Lea Dortschy and Sebastian Kolditz (Heidelberg) for their advice and assistance as well as to Hans-Werner Goetz and Ian Wood for their valuable suggestions. 2 To name just two German major third party funded projects conducted in that period: Sonderforschungsbereich 541 ‘Identitäten und Alteritäten. Die Funktion von Alterität für die Konstitution und Konstruktion von Identität’ at the University of Freiburg, with its publishing series ‘Identitäten und Alteritäten’, and the project ‘Die Herausforderung durch das Fremde’ at the Berlin-Brandenburgische Akademie der Wissenschaften (1994–1997): Herfried Münkler, ed., Die Herausforderung durch das Fremde, Interdisziplinäre Arbeitsgruppen. Forschungsberichte 5 (Berlin: Akademie, 1998). Historical overviews on otherness in medieval studies: Paul H. Freedman, ‘The Nikolas Jaspert  •  Ph.D. (1995), is Professor of Medieval History at the University of Heidelberg. He has published on the history of the Iberian Peninsula, Mediterranean history, the Crusades, medieval religious orders, and urban history. ‘Otherness’ in the Middle Ages, ed. by Hans-Werner Goetz and Ian Wood, IMR 25 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2021), pp. 37–74 © FHG10.1484/M.IMR-EB.5.123585

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mobility and digital communication opened hitherto unknown modes of exchange, but also posed new challenges.3 These in turn heightened interest in the fashioning of self and others in earlier periods of human history, generally with the more or less overt aim of overcoming differences.4 Due to this correlation, the last three decades have experienced an enormous activity in the field of alterity studies. But now, we seem to be experiencing a backlash. Societal divisions are growing, not diminishing. Political barriers are being raised or re-established instead of being abolished. Nationalism is returning, not to speak of the many forms of religious demarcations that are being drawn in many parts of the world. We are all observing a strong tendency to reshape identities that some had believed overcome. One could state that we are currently awakening from the dream that boosted xenology some time ago; but then again, these recent developments make the subject of alterity more topical than ever before.





Medieval Other: The Middle Ages as Other’, in Marvels, Monsters, and Miracles: Studies in the Medieval and Early Modern Imaginations, ed. by Timothy S. Jones and David A. Sprunger, Studies in Medieval Culture, 42 (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications, 2002), pp. 1–24; Elizabeth Hallam and Brian V. Street, eds, Cultural Encounters: Representing ‘Otherness’ (London: Routledge, 2000); Albrecht Classen, ed., Meeting the Foreign in the Middle Ages (New York: Routledge, 2002); Gilles Ferréol, Dictionnaire de l’altérité et des relations interculturelles (Paris: Colin, 2004); Nikolas Jaspert, ‘Eigenes und Fremdes im Spätmittelalter: Die deutsch-spanische Perspektive’, in ‘Das kommt mir Spanisch vor’. Eigenes und Fremdes in den deutsch-spanischen Beziehungen des späten Mittelalters, ed. by Klaus Herbers and Nikolas Jaspert, Geschichte und Kultur der Iberischen Welt, 1 (Münster: LIT, 2004), pp. 31–61; Alessia Bianco, ed., Otherness – alterità, Saggistica Aracne, 259 (Roma: Aracne, 2012); Anja Becker and Jan Mohr, eds, Alterität als Leitkonzept für historisches Interpretieren, Studien und Quellen, 8 (Berlin: Akademie, 2012), particularly Anja Becker and Jan Mohr, ‘Einleitung’, in Alterität als Leitkonzept für historisches Interpretieren, ed. by Becker and Mohr, pp. 4–58 (pp. 4–46); Manuel Braun, ed., Wie anders war das Mittelalter?: Fragen an das Konzept der Alterität, Aventiuren, 9 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013); Pamela A. Patton, ‘The Other in the Middle Ages: Difference, Identity, and Iconography’, in The Routledge Companion to Medieval Iconography, ed. by Colum Hourihane (London: Routledge, 2016), pp. 492–503. A statistical analysis of alterity studies shows a peak in the decade between 1995 and 2005: Manuel Braun, ‘Alterität als germanistischmediävistische Kategorie: Kritik und Korrektiv’, in Wie anders war das Mittelalter?: Fragen an das Konzept der Alterität, ed. by Manuel Braun, Aventiuren, 9 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013), pp. 7–40, pp. 8–11. Cf. the systematic introduction to this volume by Hans-Werner Goetz and Ian Wood. 3 Programmatic: Arjun Appadurai, Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization, Public Worlds, 1 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996). The relationship between globalization and xenology has not lost its momentum: Christoph Wulf, ed., Exploring Alterity in a Globalised World (New York: Routledge, 2017). 4 Hallam and Street, Cultural Encounters: Representing ‘Otherness’; a case in point is the overt correlation between the domestic challenges posed by German reunification (‘Wiedervereinigung’) and interest within German academia for issues of alterity, integration and demarcation: Alexander Demandt, ed., Mit Fremden leben. Eine Kulturgeschichte von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart (München: Beck, 1995); Wolfgang Harms and Stephen C. Jaeger, Fremdes wahrnehmen – fremdes Wahrnehmen. Studien zur Geschichte der Wahrnehmung und zur Begegnung von Kulturen in Mittelalter und früher Neuzeit (Stuttgart: Hirzel, 1997); Herfried Münkler, ed., Furcht und Faszination. Facetten der Fremdheit (Berlin: Akademie, 1997); Münkler, Die Herausforderung durch das Fremde.

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In the course of this article I will repeatedly return to this correlation between the current state of the world and the repercussions it is having on historical research. But this paper’s main focus will be on the Mediterranean, and its prime aim will be to tackle a question: Which are the contributions that ‘mediterraneanism’5 (the systematic study of a particular region defined by its maritime coherence) and medieval studies on the Mediterranean as a particular subfield within this line of research have made to xenology in the past and might make in the future. This is befitting for a volume on otherness and othering, because there is hardly a region of historical research more intimately tied to alterity studies than precisely the Mediterranean. The medieval Crusades and other forms of religiously motivated or legitimized warfare between Muslims and Christians, religious polemics between Christians, Muslims, and Jews and many instances more — all this has made the high and late medieval Mediterranean the very epitome of othering. It is true that in the early Middle Ages other, less Mediterranean groups were frequently othered — barbarians, Christian heretics, pagan others, or monstrous races.6 But for the period between 1000 and 1500, the Great Sea can be justly considered a prominent area of discursive division.



5 Nikolas Jaspert, Sebastian Kolditz and Jenny Oesterle, ‘Mediävistik’, in Handbuch der Mediterranistik, ed. by Mihran Dabag, Dieter Haller, Nikolas Jaspert, and Achim Lichtenberger, Mittelmeerstudien, 5 (Paderborn: Schöningh-Fink, 2014), pp. 303–24. 6 David A. Williams, Deformed Discourse: The Function of the Monster in Mediaeval Thought and Literature (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 1996); Walter Pohl, ‘Die Namen der Barbaren: Fremdbezeichnung und Identität in Spätantike und Frühmittelalter’, in Zentrum und Peripherie: gesellschaftliche Phänomene in der Frühgeschichte, ed. by Herwig Friesinger, Mitteilungen der Prähistorischen Kommission der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 57 (Wien: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2004), pp. 95–104; Hans-Werner Goetz, ‘“Fremdheit” im früheren Mittelalter’, in Herrschaftspraxis und soziale Ordnungen im Mittelalter und in der frühen Neuzeit: Ernst Schubert zum Gedenken, ed. by Peter Aufgebauer and Christine van den Heuvel, Veröffentlichungen der Historischen Kommission für Niedersachsen und Bremen, 232 (Hannover: Hahn, 2006), pp. 245–65; Gerald Krutzler, Kult und Tabu. Wahrnehmungen der Germania bei Bonifatius, Anthropologie des Mittelalters, 2 (Wien: Lit, 2011); Jonathan D. Perl Garrido, ‘¿Un Paganismo Germánico?: representaciones de la alteridad religiosa en el mundo temprano Carolingio, siglo VIII’, Intus-Legere Historia, 6.1 (2012), 19–44; Ian N. Wood, ‘The Pagans and the Other: Varying Presentations in the Early Middle’, Networks and Neighbours, 1 (2013), 1–22; Oliver Schipp, ‘Römer und Barbaren: Fremde in der Spätantike und im Frühmittelalter’, in Fremd und rechtlos? Zugehörigkeitsrechte Fremder von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart: ein Handbuch, ed. by Altay Coskun and Lutz Raphael (Wien: Böhlau Verlag, 2014), pp. 121–52; Richard Broome, ‘Approaches to Community and Otherness in the Late Merovingian and Early Carolingian Periods’ (PhD, University of Leeds, 2014), http://etheses.whiterose.ac.uk/8541/; Richard Broome, ‘Pagans, Rebels and Merovingians: Otherness in the Early Carolingian World’, in The Resources of the Past in Early Medieval Europe, ed. by Clemens Gantner, Rosamond McKitterick, and Sven Meeder (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), pp. 155–72; Jason R. Berg, ‘How Monstrosity and Geography Were Used to Define the Other in Early Medieval Europe’ (PhD, University of Leeds, 2015), http://etheses.whiterose. ac.uk/11353/; Jorge López Quiroga, Michail Michajlovic Kazanski, and Vujadin Ivaniševic, eds, Entangled Identities and Otherness in Late Antique and Early Medieval Europe: Historical, Archaeological and Bioarchaeological Approaches, BAR International Series, 2852 (Oxford: BAR, 2017); Henrik Janson, ‘Pictured by the Other: Classical and Early Medieval Perspectives on Religions in the North’, in The Pre-Christian Religion of the North: Research and Reception, vol. i: From the Middle Ages to c. 1830, ed. by Margaret Clunies Ross (Turnhout: Brepols, 2018), pp. 7–40.

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There is of course a counter-narrative. The notion of the Mediterranean as an interconnecting sea can be traced back to antiquity but it has received its most important impulses since the nineteenth century, when navigation became easier and easier due to technological progress. Fernand Braudel’s famous vision of an interlocked zone of common human experience has been momentous for Mediterranean Studies and has led to a number of more recent comprehensive works.7 Such a perspective has been strengthened in recent years by transcultural studies that lay particular emphasis on entanglements and mutual cross-pollination, thus heightening awareness for Mediterranean ‘connectivity’.8 Seen from the perspective of xenology, the narrative of an interconnected sea of flowing exchange seems to tie up well with notions of interfaith harmony across maritime and religious divides. But despite this line of research, to which I will return shortly, the ‘Mediterranean other’ continues to take pride of place within alterity studies.9 This holds true for the two main modes of enquiry within medieval xenology, that is both for studies on the perception and construction of the other as well as for







7 Fernand Braudel, La Méditerranée et le monde méditerranéen à l’époque de Philippe II, 2 vols (Paris: Colin, 1949); Jean Carpentier and François Lebrun, eds, Histoire de la Méditerranée (Paris: Seuil, 1998); Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell, The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History (Oxford: Blackwell, 2000); Thierry Fabre and Robert Ilbert, eds, Les représentations de la Méditerranée, 10 vols (Paris: Maisonneuve Larose, 2000); Dionigi Albera, Anton Blok, and Christian Bromberger, eds, L’anthropologie de la Méditerranée = Anthropology of the Mediterranean (Aix-en-Provence: Maison méditerranéenne des sciences de l’homme, 2001); Hatem Akkari, ed., La Méditerranée médiévale: perceptions et représentations (Paris: Maisonneuve et Larose, 2002); William V. Harris, ed., Rethinking the Mediterranean (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005); John Julius Norwich, The Middle Sea: A History of the Mediterranean (London: Vintage, 2007); David Abulafia, The Great Sea : A Human History of the Mediterranean (London: Lane, 2011); Barry Cunliffe, On the Ocean: The Mediterranean and the Atlantic from Prehistory to ad 1500 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017). 8 Brian A. Catlos and Sharon Kinoshita, eds, Can We Talk Mediterranean? Conversations on an Emerging Field in Medieval and Early Modern Studies, Mediterranean Perspectives, 2 (Cham: Springer, 2017). On Mediterranean connectivity see: Horden and Purcell, The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History, pp. 53–88; Peregrine Horden, ‘Situations Both Alike? Connectivity, the Mediterranean, the Sahara’, in Saharan Frontiers: Space and Mobility in Northwest Africa, ed. by James McDougall and Judith Scheele (Indiana: Indiana University Press, 2012), pp. 25–38; Sebastian Kolditz, ‘Horizonte maritimer Konnektivität’, in Maritimes Mittelalter: Meere als Kommunikationsräume, ed. by Michael Borgolte and Nikolas Jaspert, Vorträge und Forschungen, 83 (Ostfildern: Jan Thorbecke, 2016), pp. 59–107; Peregrine Horden, ‘Mediterranean Connectivity: A Comparative Approach’, in New Horizons: Mediterranean Research in the 21st Century, ed. by Mihran Dabag, Dieter Haller, Nikolas Jaspert, and Achim Lichtenberger, Mittelmeerstudien, 10 (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 2016), pp. 211–24; Sebastian Kolditz, ‘Connectivity and Sea Power – Entangled Maritime Dimensions in the Medieval Mediterranean’, in The Sea in History: The Medieval World / La mer dans l’histoire. Le Moyen Âge, ed. by Michel Balard (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2017), pp. 58–69. 9 Nedret Kuran-Burçoglu and Susan Gilson Miller, eds, Representations of the ‘Other/s’ in the Mediterranean World and their Impact on the Region (Istanbul: Isis, 2005); Beate Burtscher-Bechter, Peter W. Haider, Birgit Mertz-Baumgartner, and Robert Rollinger, eds, Grenzen und Entgrenzungen: historische und kulturwissenschaftliche Überlegungen am Beispiel des Mittelmeerraums, Saarbrücker Beiträge zur vergleichenden Literatur- und Kulturwissenschaft, 36 (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2006); Patrick Crowley, ed., Mediterranean Travels: Writing Self and Other from the Ancient World to Contemporary Society (London: Legenda, 2011).

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studies on the dealings with, the conduct towards the other. Evidently, both modes of inquiry about otherness and othering only function in correlation with studies on sameness and belonging, for both in conjunction construct identities, that is the social subjectivities of persons and groups of persons — subjectivities based on ascriptions by selves as well as by others.10 Let us consider the first mode of enquiry, the cultural construction of the other.11 Within mediterraneanism, the majority of studies presented in this field of research refer to the perception of religious communities. Over the last decades, an enormous number of empirical case studies, general reflections, and theoretical analyses have revitalized a traditional line of research on Christian images of Islam and Judaism12 through similar studies on Islamic or Jewish views of Christianity, Jewish views of Islam or Islamic views of Judaism.13 Upon closer scrutiny, these works show that in 10 Silke Winst, ‘Identity vs. Difference – Sameness as a Concept of Identity Formation in Medieval Literature’, in Text or Context: Reflections on Literary and Cultural Criticism, ed. by Rüdiger Kunow and Stephan Mussil (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2013), pp. 129–52; Kate Mason Cooper and Conrad Leyser, eds, Making Early Medieval Societies: Conflict and Belonging in the Latin West, 300–1200 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016); Günther Schlee and Alexander Horstmann eds, Difference and Sameness as Modes of Integration: Anthropological Perspectives on Ethnicity and Religion, Integration and Conflict Studies, 16 (Oxford: Berghahn, 2018). Cf. the introduction to this volume by Hans-Werner Goetz and Ian Wood. 11 Hans Martin Krämer, Jenny Oesterle and Ulrike Vordermark, eds, Labeling the Religious Self and Others: Reciprocal Perceptions of Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists and Confucians in Medieval and Early Modern Times, Comparativ, 20 (Leipzig: Leipziger Universitäts-Verlag, 2010); Anja Eisenbeiß and Lieselotte E. Saurma-Jeltsch, eds, Images of Otherness in Medieval and Early Modern Times: Exclusion, Inclusion and Assimilation (Berlin: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 2012). 12 Norman Daniel, Islam and the West: The Making of an Image (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1960); Richard William Southern, Western Views of Islam in the Middle Ages (Cambridge, MA.: Harvard University Press, 1962); Norman Daniel, Heroes and Saracens: An Interpretation of the ‘Chansons de geste’ (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1984); Samir Khali and Jørgen S. Nielsen, eds, Christian Arabic Apologetics During the Abbasid Period: (750–1258), Studies in the History of Religions, 63 (Leiden: Brill, 1994); John Victor Tolan, ed., Medieval Christian Perceptions of Islam: A Book of Essays, Garland Reference Library of the Humanities, 1768 (New York: Garland, 1996); David R. Blanks and Michael Frassetto, eds, Western Views of Islam in Medieval and Early Modern Europe: Perception of Other (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1999); Dominique Iogna-Prat, Order Exclusion: Cluny and Christendom Face Heresy, Judaism, and Islam (1000–1150) (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2002); John Victor Tolan, Saracens: Islam in the Medieval European Imagination (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002); Debra Higgs Strickland, Saracens, Demons, and Jews: Making Monsters in Medieval Art (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2003); Emmanouela Grypeou, Mark N. Swanson, and David Richard Thomas, eds, The Encounter of Eastern Christianity with Early Islam, The History of Christian-Muslim Relations, 5 (Leiden: Brill, 2006); Suzanne Conklin Akbari, Idols in the East: European Representations of Islam and the Orient, 1100–1450 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2009); Irven M. Resnick, Marks of Distinction: Christian Perceptions of Jews in the High Middle Ages (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2012); Pamela A. Patton, Art of Estrangement: Redefining Jews in Reconquest Spain (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2012). 13 Hanne Trautner-Kromann and James Manley, Shield and Sword: Jewish Polemics Against Christianity and the Christians in France and Spain from 1100–1500, Texts and Studies in Medieval and Early Modern Judaism, 8 (Tübingen: Mohr, 1993); Thomas E. Burman, Religious Polemic and the Intellectual History of the Mozarabs, c. 1050–1200, Brill’s Studies in Intellectual History, 52 (Leiden: Brill, 1994);

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the Middle Ages, these constructions of otherness in the Mediterranean seldom dealt with religions themselves in the systematic sense of the word — Christianity, Judaism, or Islam — but were much more often ascriptions of individuals or groups — Christians, Jews, and Muslims. This is an important differentiation, because ever since the collective singular term ‘religion’ became firmly established in the age of Enlightenment,14 scholars tend to conceptualize interfaith relations as communication between holistic systems of belief and tend to overlook that most medieval authors wrote about people and their religious practices, not about the foundation of their respective belief systems. Singular scholars like Nicolaus of Cues who embraced a wider understanding of religion were an exception to the rule.15 Precisely in current times, in which media, politics, and

David Nirenberg, Communities of Violence: Persecution of Minorities in the Middle Ages (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996); Hava Lazarus-Yafeh, ed., The Majlis: Interreligious Encounters in Medieval Islam, Studies in Arabic Language and Literature, 4 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1999); Abdelilah Ljamai, Ibn Ḥazm et la polémique islamo-chrétienne dans l’histoire de l’islam, The Medieval and Early Modern Iberian World, 17 (Leiden: Brill, 2003); Muslim-Christian Polemic During the Crusades: The Letter from the People of Cyprus and Ibn Abi Ṭalib al-Dimashqi’s Response, ed. by Rifaat Y. Ebied and David Thomas, The History of Christian-Muslim Relations, 2 (Leiden: Brill, 2005); Daniel J. Lasker, Jewish Philosophical Polemics Against Christianity in the Middle Ages (New York: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2007); Sidney Harrison Griffith, The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque: Christians and Muslims in the World of Islam, Jews, Christians, and Muslims from the Ancient to the Modern World (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008); Sidney Adams Weston, Islam Corrects Judaism: The Polemics of a Thirteenth Century Jewish Convert, Analecta Gorgiana, 47 (Piscataway: Gorgias, 2007); Alexandra Cuffel, Gendering Disgust in Medieval Religious Polemic (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2007); Yaacov Deutsch, Michael Meerson, and Peter Schäfer, eds, Toledot Yeshu (The Life Story of Jesus) Revisited: A Princeton Conference, Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism, 143 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012); Michael Meerson and Peter Schäfer, eds, Toledot Yeshu: The Life Story of Jesus, vol. i: Introduction and Translation, Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism, 159 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014); Michael Meerson and Peter Schäfer, eds, Toledot Yeshu: The Life Story of Jesus, vol. ii: Critical Edition, Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism, 159 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014); Mònica Colominas Aparicio, The Religious Polemics of the Muslims of Late Medieval Christian Iberia: Identity and Religious Authority in Mudejar Islam, The Medieval and Early Modern Iberian World, 64 (Leiden: Brill, 2018). 14 Karen Armstrong, The Great Transformation: The Beginning of our Religious Traditions (New York: Knopf, 2006); Ernst Feil, Religio 3: Die Geschichte eines neuzeitlichen Grundbegriffs im 17. und frühen 18. Jahrhundert, Forschungen zur Kirchen- und Dogmengeschichte, 79 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2001); Ernst Feil, Religio 4: Die Geschichte eines neuzeitlichen Grundbegriffs im 18. und frühen 19. Jahrhundert, Forschungen zur Kirchen- und Dogmengeschichte, 91 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007); Rudolf Schlögl, Alter Glaube und moderne Welt: europäisches Christentum im Umbruch 1750–1850 (Frankfurt: Fischer, 2013). 15 Recent studies have illustrated how seldom medieval contemporaries conceptualized religion as a belief system when dealing with the religious other: Reinhold Glei and Stefan Reichmuth, ‘Religion between Last Judgement, Law and Faith: Koranic Din and its Rendering in Latin Translations of the Koran’, Religion, 42 (2012), 247–71; Hans-Werner Goetz, Die Wahrnehmung anderer Religionen und christlich-abendländisches Selbstverständnis im frühen und hohen Mittelalter (5.–12. Jahrhundert), 2 vols (Berlin: Akademie, 2013); Knut Martin Stünkel, Una sit religio: Religionsbegriffe und Begriffstopologien bei Cusanus, Llull und Maimonides (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2013); Hervé Pasqua, ed., Infini et altérité dans l’œuvre de Nicolas de Cues (1401–1464), Philosophes médiévaux, 64 (Bristol: Peeters, 2017).

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the famous man or woman in the street are all too ready to speak about ‘Islam’, but also about ‘Judaism’ or ‘Christianity’, it is our obligation as medievalists to call to mind that such an abstract and potentially essentialist notion of religious traditions is not a matter of course and is in fact often anachronistic, because it corresponds to modern, not medieval mindsets. Focusing the intellectual construction of religious groups instead of presupposing an oftentimes erroneously abstract notion of ‘religion’ approximates this mode of enquiry to the second one I just mentioned, one more indebted to social history because it studies the practical ways that the other was treated in the medieval Mediterranean. Here too, established approaches have been substantially amplified in recent years. The concrete shaping of the famous Dhimma-status within different regions of the dār al-Islām at different periods in time is now much better known,16 as are the social living environment of subjected Muslims in Christian territories,17 Muslim lifeworlds which can now be been compared with the better-known and

16 Antoine Fattal, Le statut légal des non-musulmans en pays d’ Islam, Recherches publiées sous la direction de l’Institut de Lettres Orientales de Beyrouth, 10 (Beyrouth: Imprimerie Catholique, 1958); Uri Rubin and David J. Wasserstein, eds, Dhimmis and Others: Jews and Christians and the World of Classical Islam, Israel Oriental Studies, 17 (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1997); Yohanan Friedmann, Tolerance and Coercion in Islam: Interfaith Relations in the Muslim Tradition, Cambridge Studies in Islamic Civilization (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003); Robert G. Hoyland, ed., Muslims and Others in Early Islamic Society, The Formation of the Classical Islamic World, 18 (Burlington: Ashgate Variorum, 2004); Nurit Tsafrir, ‘The Attitude of Sunni Islam toward Jews and Christians as Reflected in some Legal Issues’, Al-Qantara, 26 (2005), 317–36; Sidney Harrison Griffith, ‘Christians under Muslim Rule’, in The Cambridge History of Christianity, vol. iii: Early Medieval Christianities, c. 600–1100, ed. by Thomas F. X. Noble and Julia M. H. Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), pp. 197–212; Jacob Lassner, Jews, Christians, and the Abode of Islam: Modern Scholarship, Medieval Realities (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012); Julie Chapuis and Sébastien Boussois, eds, Être non musulman en terre d’islam: Dhimmi d’hier, citoyen d’aujourd’hui?, Collection MEDEA (Paris: Cygne, 2013); Maribel Fierro and John Victor Tolan, eds, The Legal Status of Ḏimmi-s in the islamic West: second/eighth – Ninth/Fifteenth Centuries, Religion and Law in Medieval Christian and Muslim Societies, 1 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013); Milka Levy-Rubin, Non-Muslims in the Early Islamic Empire: From Surrender to Coexistence, Cambridge Studies in Islamic Civilization (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011); Benjamin Braude, ed., Christians Jews in the Ottoman Empire (Boulder: Lynne Rienner, 2014). 17 Maria Teresa Ferrer i Mallol, Els sarraïns de la corona catalano-aragonesa en el segle XIV: segregació i discriminació, Anuario de estudios medievales. Anex, 16 (Barcelona: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1987); James M. Powell, ed., Muslims under Latin Rule, 1100–1300 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990); Syed Z. Abedin and Ziauddin Sardar, eds, Muslim Minorities in the West (London: Grey Seal, 1995); Isabel A. O’Connor, A Forgotten Community: The Mudejar Aljama of Xàtiva, 1240–1327, The Medieval Mediterranean, 44 (Leiden: Brill, 2003); Brian A. Catlos, The Victors and the Vanquished: Christians and Muslims of Catalonia and Aragon, 1050–1300, Cambridge Studies in Medieval Life and Thought, Ser. 4, 59 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004); Ibn Taymiyya, Muslims under Non-Muslim Rule, trans. by Yahya Michot (Oxford: Interface, 2006); Kathryn A. Miller, Guardians of Islam: Religious Authority and Muslim Communities of Late Medieval Spain (New York: Columbia University Press, 2008); Stéphane Boissellier, François Clément, and John Tolan, eds, Minorités et régulations sociales en Méditerranée médiévale (Rennes: Presses Université de Rennes, 2010); Brian A. Catlos, Muslims of Medieval Latin Christendom, c. 1050–1614 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014).

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more intensively studied living conditions of Jews under Christian or Islamic rule.18 The impulses provided by postcolonial and subaltern studies have changed many perspectives and opened up new lines of research which call for a new understanding of inter-minority relations, subaltern polemics, and many issues more.19

Re-Dimensioning Religion But what catches the eye when observing recent medieval research into the construction of Mediterranean alterities is a striking preponderance: that of religion as a demarcational device.20 Alterity in the Mediterranean is generally reduced to interfaith relations between Christians, Muslims, and Jews, the Mediterranean is constructed as a ‘Sea of Faith’.21 This reduction — it should suffice to recall the many different forms of ‘otherness’ and ‘other’ explicated in this volume’s introduction — is arguably the result of several historical circumstances and traditions. First, the Mediterranean was indeed strongly marked by monotheistic religions during the medieval millennium, particularly since the advent of Islam. This is undeniably a significant trait and an 18 Daniel Frank, ed., The Jews of Medieval Islam: Community, Society, and Identity, Etudes sur le judaïsme médieval, 16 (Leiden: Brill, 1995); Shlomo Simonson, The Jews in Sicily, 18 vols (Leiden: Brill, 1997– 2010); David S. H. Abulafia, ‘The Servitude of Jews and Muslims in the Medieval Mediterranean: Origins and Diffusion’, Mélanges de l’Ecole française de Rome. Moyen age, 112 (Roma: École Française, 2000), 687–713; Ross Brann, Power in the Portrayal: Representations of Jews and Muslims in Eleventhand Twelfth-Century Islamic Spain (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002); Mosheh Gil, Jews in Islamic Countries in the Middle Ages, Études sur le judaïsme médiéval, 28 (Leiden: Brill, 2004); Jonathan Ray, The Sephardic Frontier: The ‘reconquista’ and the Jewish Community in Medieval Iberia, Conjunction of Religion and Power in the Medieval Past (Ithaca: Cornell Univ. Press, 2006). 19 David Nirenberg, ‘Muslim-Jewish Relations in the Fourteenth Century Crown of Aragon’, Viator, 24 (1993), 249–68; Boissellier, Clément and Tolan, eds, Minorités et régulations sociales en Méditerranée médiévale; Meerson and Schäfer, eds, Toledot Yeshu: The Life Story of Jesus, vol. i: Introduction and Translation; Meerson and Schäfer, eds, Toledot Yeshu: The Life Story of Jesus, vol. ii: Critical Edition. 20 Wolfgang Eßbach, ed., Wir – Ihr – Sie. Identität und Alterität in Theorie und Methode, Identitäten und Alteritäten, 2 (Würzburg: Ergon, 2001); Gerd Baumann and Andre Gingrich, eds, Grammars of Identity/Alterity: A Structural Approach, EASA series, 3 (New York: Berghahn, 2004); Christian Frevel and Christophe Nihan, ‘Introduction’, in Purity and the Forming of Religious Traditions in the Ancient Mediterranean World and Ancient Judaism, ed. by Christian Frevel and Christophe Nihan, Dynamics in the History of Religions, 3 (Leiden: Brill, 2012), pp. 1–46. 21 Stephen O’Shea, Sea of Faith: Islam and Christianity in the Medieval Mediterranean World (New York: Walker, 2006); Adnan Ahmed Husain and Katherine Elizabeth Fleming, eds, A Faithful Sea: The Religious Cultures of the Mediterranean, 1200–1700 (Oxford: Oneworld, 2007); Euangelia K. Hatzetryphonos, ed., Routes of Faith in the Medieval Mediterranean: History, Monuments, People, Pilgrimage Perspectives (Thessalonike: University Studio Press, 2008); Michele Bacci and Martin Rohde, eds, The Holy Portolano: The Sacred Geography of Navigation in the Middle Ages, Veröffentlichungen des Mediävistischen Instituts der Universität Freiburg, Schweiz, 36 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014); Brian A. Catlos, ‘Ethno-Religious Minorities’, in A Companion to Mediterranean History, ed. by Peregrine Horden and Sharon Kinoshita (Chichester: Wiley Blackwell, 2014), pp. 361– 77; Nikolas Jaspert, Christian Neumann, and Marco di Branco, eds, Ein Meer und seine Heiligen. Hagiographie im mittelalterlichen Mediterraneum, Mittelmeerstudien, 18 (Paderborn: Schöningh-Fink, 2018).

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unusual one in global comparison which had far-reaching implications, not the least in the field of warfare, because military conflicts in the Mediterranean were frequently conceptualized and conducted as religious wars. That being said, warfare between coreligionists was at least as regular if not even more endemic in the medieval Mediterranean than conflicts between Christian and Muslim forces. Second, learned authors of the Middle Ages tended to use religion as a demarcational device, a notion often picked up uncritically or thoughtlessly within academic medieval studies, thereby overlooking or side-lining the many instances of cohabitation, accommodation, and cooperation that characterized everyday life within multireligious societies or in frontier areas. Finally, modern European history has also been influential in this respect. Christianity was a prime indicator of European and more generally Western expansion and colonialism in the Mediterranean during the early modern and modern era, often coalescing with equally influential notions such as civilization and in more recent times, democracy and freedom.22 Religion has therefore readily been accepted in the modern age as the absolutely singular or even sole foundation for constructions of the Mediterranean other in past times, particularly during an era believed to have been as utterly dominated by religion as the Middle Ages. All this, what one might call the ‘monumentalization’ of religion within alterity studies of the medieval Mediterranean, invites us to rethink, perhaps re-dimension the importance of religion — or better of ‘systems and practices of transcendent belief ’ — for our work as historians. For current research and debate within the field of religious studies should make us more cautious as to the importance of religion for Mediterranean history. To begin with, warnings have been voiced concerning the tendency to apply religion as a normalizing concept to analyse non-Christian societies. Some have even declared religion an invention of Western scholarship geared at establishing and maintaining political, cultural, and discursive dominance, particularly in the age of colonialism and imperialism.23 We might therefore query the often uncritically voiced presupposition 22 Alexandre Pons, La nouvelle Église d’Afrique ou Le catholicisme en Algérie, en Tunisie et au Maroc depuis 1830 (Tunis: Namura, 1930); Jeremy Black, ‘The Mediterranean as a Battleground of the European Powers, 1700–1900’, in The Mediterranean in History, ed. by David Abulafia (London: Belser, 2003), pp. 251–81; Jan Jansen, ‘Erfindung des Mittelmeerraums im kolonialen Kontext. Die Inszenierung eines “lateinischen Afrika” beim “Centenaire de l’Algérie française” 1930’, in Der Süden. Neue Perspektiven auf eine europäische Geschichtsregion, ed. by Benjamin Schenk and Martina Winkler (Frankfurt: Campus, 2007), pp. 175–205; Manuel Borutta and Sakis Gekas, eds, A Colonial Sea: The Mediterranean, 1798–1956, European Review of History: Revue européenne d’histoire, 19 (London: Routledge, 2012); Manuel Borutta and Fabian Lemmes, ‘Das Mittelmeer in der Neuesten Geschichte und Zeitgeschichte’, in Handbuch der Mediterranistik, ed. by Dabag and others, , pp. 325–51. 23 Russell T. McCutcheon, Manufacturing Religion: The Discourse on sui generis Religion and the Politics of Nostalgia (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997); Derek R. Peterson and Darren R. Walhof, eds, The Invention of Religion: Rethinking Belief in Politics and History (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2002), especially Derek R. Petersen and Darren R. Walhof, ‘Rethinking Religion’, in The Invention of Religion: Rethinking Belief in Politics and History, ed. by Derek R. Peterson and Darren R. Walhof (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2002), pp. 1–16; Tomoko Masuzawa, The Invention of World Religions: Or, How European Universalism was Preserved in the Language of Pluralism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005).

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that belief systems and practices were the essential or even singular divide in medieval Mediterranean societies. Indeed, in recent years heated scholarly debates have been led concerning this question and the extent of interstitial cultural spaces between religious groups.24 Then again, perhaps the problem is not only that medieval studies exaggerate the importance of systems and practices of transcendent belief, but it also derives from an interpretation of the religious field as a force that exclusively polarizes, segregates and others. This oppositional understanding is ultimately part of an age-old and often artificially binary discussion about the relationship between politics and religion. The first, politics, is credited with rationality, pragmatism, or cultural accommodation, while religion in contrast is linked to irrationality and segregation.25 Seen from this perspective, medieval agents of transcultural exchange for example acquire a certain secular hue. They not only bypassed contemporary religious norms in order to act as they did, as transcultural mediators, but are implicitly depicted as if they had done so deliberately, as liberals avant la lettre so to speak.26 But in reality, belief systems in the medieval Mediterranean allowed for both cohabitation and war, not to speak of the varying manifestations the religious field might have exerted within the biographical lifetime of any one individual. Mediterranean societies — Jewish, Christian, and Muslim — indeed reproduced ideas of religious difference time and again, no matter what moralizing adherents of interfaith harmony may hope for. But these ideas also provided the base for interfaith relations. There is no need to suppose that agents of transcultural exchange were less ‘religious’ than their contemporaries. Furthermore, even when using the term with all due caution, we need to bear in mind that the notion of religion cannot fully reflect but rather tends to conceal the immense diversity within any one religious community — diversity of practices, loyalties, beliefs, doctrinal variations, and individual commitments. Most importantly, it tends to obliterate the extremely powerful intra-religious demarcational lines drawn within belief systems — between different confessions, schools of belief, etc. While early medieval studies generally pay due credit to doctrinal difference, xenological research on the high and late Middle Ages still very much focusses on the numerically dominant confessions within Europe, that is: Latin and Greek Christianity and

24 See the reactions to Jerold C. Frakes, ed., Contextualizing the Muslim Other in Medieval Christian Discourse (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), such as the review by Sharon Kinoshita published online in The Mediaeval Review, 8 (2012). 25 Jerome B. Schneewind, The Invention of Autonomy: A History of Modern Moral Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998); Enrique Dussel, ‘World Religions and Secularization from a Postcolonial and Anti Eurocentric Perspective’, in The Invention of Religion: Rethinking Belief in Politics and History, ed. by Derek R. Walhof and Darren R. Peterson (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2002), pp. 179–89, on the political usage of this dichotomy in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. 26 Claudia Moatti and Wolfgang Kaiser, eds, Gens de passage en Méditerranée de l’Antiquité à l’époque moderne: procédures de contrôle et d’identification (Paris: Maisonneuve et Larose, 2007); Marc von der Höh, Nikolas Jaspert and Jenny Oesterle, eds, Cultural Brokers at Mediterranean Courts in the Middle Ages, Mittelmeerstudien, 1 (Paderborn: Schöningh-Fink, 2013).

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Sunni Islam.27 This one-sided perspective has had a lasting impact on the study of interreligious relations in the medieval Mediterranean. Admittedly, my call to re-dimension belief systems within alterity studies bears an only thinly veiled political backdrop, for doing so actually signifies attempting to counter the detrimental effect of religious fundamentalism in our times. This might appear to be a moralizing approach to othering, and such moralizing approaches are often both boring and useless. But I do believe that our field of research requires a certain refocusing in order to put the enormous quantity of relevant source material that the Mediterranean has to offer to a more comprehensive use. For lessening or changing our focus on religion does not mean limiting our field of research, quite the contrary: it actually opens our eyes to the many other forms and agents or othering, to the many other Mediterranean others, the many other fields of subjectivity and ascriptions such as gender, sexuality, race, aesthetics, etc. that marked societies around ‘The Great Sea’.28 It also recalibrates the relation between identity and alterity, that is between belonging and otherness. This is a necessary undertaking, because there is a tendency within the study of medieval Mediterranean otherness — and perhaps also within cultural studies in general — to discuss identity in terms of difference rather than in terms of belonging.

Modalities of Othering Even when focusing difference, classifications can and must be made. Lately, attempts have been undertaken to categorize modalities of selfing and othering. According to the German anthropologist Gerd Baumann,29 three such socially shared classificatory structures can be distinguished: orientalization, segmentation, and encompassment. All three of these modalities are based on the assumption that the self is not only different from, but also superior to the other. The first picks up Edward Said’s term orientalism30 in order to designate a binary opposition to the other which — perhaps

27 Dorothea Weltecke, ‘Space, Entanglement and Decentralisation: On How to Narrate the Transcultural History of Christianity (550 to 1350 ce)’, in Locating Religions: Contact, Diversity and Translocality, ed. by Reinhold Glei and Nikolas Jaspert, Dynamics in the History of Religions, 9 (Leiden: Brill, 2016), pp. 315–44. 28 This is not to say that gender, sexuality, race, aesthetics have not been amply treated in recent years with reference to the Mediterranean. To name but some recent studies: Cuffel, Gendering Disgust in Medieval Religious Polemic; Miryam Eliav-Feldon, Benjamin Isaac and Joseph Ziegler, eds, The Origins of Racism in the West (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009); Geraldine Heng, The Invention of Race in the European Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018); Alexandra Cuffel, Ana Echevarria and Georgios T. Halkias, eds, Religious Boundaries for Sex, Gender, and Corporeality (London: Routledge, 2018). 29 For the following paragraph see: Gerd Baumann, ‘Grammars of Identity/Alterity: A Structural Approach’, in Grammars of Identity/Alterity: A Structural Approach, ed. by Gerd Baumann and Andre Gingrich, EASA series, 3 (New York: Berghahn, 2004), pp. 18–50. 30 Edward Said, Orientalism (New York: Vintage, 1955); Alexander L. Macfie, ed., Orientalism: A Reader (New York: New York University Press, 2000); Bharat Bhusan Mohanty, Edward W. Said’s Orientalism: A Critique ( Jaipur: Rawat, 2005).

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surprisingly — can go with a reverse mirrored image which makes the opposite desirable. For example, the other can be constructed as barbarian and backward, but at the same time as more authentic and closer to nature than the self. Exclusion and exoticized appreciation thus go hand-in-hand. The second modality, segmentation, is characterized by a logic of opposition at a lower level of segmentation which is overcome at a higher level. For example, local communities might frequently and fiercely oppose each other on regional issues, but unite against the state when they consider themselves threatened. The other is thus potentially a foe and an ally, depending on context; segmentation is therefore a particularly flexible form of othering. The third modality, encompassment, designates selfing by appropriation. It marks out difference and hierarchy, but simultaneously claims that the other is in fact part of one’s own group — albeit on a lower hierarchical level. For example, English might look down on Scots but nevertheless often encompass them through the notion of Britishness. Applied to the medieval Mediterranean, one can — hardly surprisingly — observe all three modalities at work. To illustrate this with some famous examples: The twelfth-century Syrian Lord Usama ibn Munqid31 or the contemporary Iberian traveller Muhammad ibn Jubayr32 used a typically orientalistic mode when referring to some Christians by aggressively denigrating them and simultaneously identifying certain values which supposedly ibn Munqid’s and Ibn Jubayr’s Islamic coreligionists had lost or were in danger of losing.33 Well-known examples for segmentary othering in turn are those cases in which traditionally opposed societal orders like high medieval Italian city states united when they came under shared pressure from outside, for example by the Emperor to-be whenever he crossed the Alps and entered Mediterranean politics.34

31 Philip Khuri Hitti, An Arab-Syrian Gentleman and Warrior in the Period of the Crusades: Memoirs of Usamah Ibn-Munqidh Kitab al-I'tibar, Records of Civilization. Sources and Studies, 10 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1929); Kitab al-iʿtibār, ed. by Philip Khuri Hitti, Princeton Oriental Texts, 1 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1930); Paul M. Cobb, The Book of Contemplation: Islam and the Crusades (London: Penguin, 2008). 32 The Travels of Ibn Jubair, ed. by William Wright and Michael Jandel Goeje, ‘E. J. W. Gibb Memorial’ Series, 5 (Leiden: Brill, 1907); Abu’l-Husayn Muhammad Ibn Ahmad Ibn Jubayr, The Travels of Ibn Jubayr: Being the Chronicle of a Mediaeval Spanish Moor Concerning his Journey to the Egypt of Saladin, the Holy Cities of Arabia, Baghdad the City of the caliphs, the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, and the Norman Kingdom of Sicily, trans. by R. J. C. Broadhurst (London: Jonathan Cape, 1952). 33 Wadi Z. Haddad, ‘The Crusaders through Muslim Eyes’, The Muslim World, 73 (1983), 234–52; Carole Hillenbrand, The Crusades: Islamic Perspectives (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1999), pp. 259–63. 34 Giancarlo Andenna, ‘Gli imperatori svevi e le leghe delle città lombarde’, Tabulae del Centro di Studi Federiciani di Jesi, 15.2 (1999), 19–58; Christoph Dartmann, ‘Reichsherrschaft? Zum Eingreifen der Staufer in die regionale Politik des kommunalen Italiens’, in Der ‘Zug über Berge’ während des Mittelalters: neue Perspektiven der Erforschung mittelalterlicher Romzüge, ed. by Christian Jörg and Christoph Dartmann, Trierer Beiträge zu den historischen Kulturwissenschaften, 15 (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2014), pp. 111–34; Peter Herde, ‘Guelfen und Gibellinen beim Romzug Heinrichs VII’, in Rom 1312: die Kaiserkrönung Heinrichs VII. und die Folgen: die Luxemburger als Herrscherdynastie von

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Finally, encompassing the other as an inferior member if one’s own group was practised by both Muslims and Christians — from the Islamic notion of the ahl al-Kitāb, the people of the book,35 over Tertullian’s momentous claim that Roman pagans had an ‘anima naturaliter christiana’ — were Christians at heart36 — to images of the Prophet Mohammad as a Christian heretic.37 All such forms of othering claimed that the religious self and other actually shared common roots, the other had only lost the ability to discern the truth or had strayed from a mutual path. This however often did not make the offence less reprimandable. For example, most medieval thinkers believed heresy to be a worse offence than adhering to a different creed altogether. All three modalities described above can be observed empirically in a myriad of cases in the medieval Mediterranean, and they were applied flexibly. But conspicuously, in research on the medieval Mediterranean, of the three modalities, orientalization has received particular attention. This is probably a result of the binary, antagonistic interpretation of belief systems outlined above. I propose that the more flexible, context-dependant segmentary system merits more attention than it receives, and we need not explore it in interfaith relations alone.

gesamteuropäischer Bedeutung, ed. by Sabine Penth and Peter Thorau, Forschungen zur Kaiser- und Papstgeschichte des Mittelalters, 40 (Mainz: Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur, 2016), pp. 43–58. 35 Ignaz Goldziher, ‘Ueber muhammedanische Polemik gegen Ahi al-kitâb’, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft, 32.2 (1878), 341–87; Heinz Otto Luthe, ‘“Ahl al-kitab” – “Frères devant Dieu”: quelques prises de position sur les relations islamo-chrétiennes’, in Relations islamo-chrétiennes: bilan et perspectives, ed. by Heinz Otto Luthe and Marie-Thérèse Urvoy, Collection Studia arabica, 4 (Versailles: Éditions de Paris, 2007), pp. 101–24; Hikmet Yaman, ‘The Criticism of the People of the Book (ahl al-kitab) in the Qur’an: Essentialist or Contextual?’, Gregorianum, 92 (2011), 183–98. 36 Bernhard Lang, ‘Homo religiosus’, in Handbuch religionswissenschaftlicher Grundbegriffe, vol. iii: Gesetz – Kult, ed. by Hubert Cancik, Burkhard Gladigow, and Günter Kehrer (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1993), pp. 164–72; Holger Strutwolf, ‘Anima naturaliter Christiana – Beobachtungen zum philosophischen und theologischen Hintergrund der Seelenlehre Tertullians’, in Studies on the Text of the New Testament and Early Christianity: Essays in Honour of Michael W. Holmes on the Occasion of his 65th Birthday, ed. by Daniel Gurtner, Jr., Daniel Hernández, and Paul Foster, New Testament Tools, Studies and Documents, 50 (Boston: Brill, 2015), pp. 594–614. 37 Stephan Hotz, Mohammed und seine Lehre in der Darstellung abendländischer Autoren vom späten 11. bis zur Mitte des 12. Jahrhunderts: Aspekte, Quellen und Tendenzen in Kontinuität und Wandel, Studien zur klassischen Philologie, 137 (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 2002); Ekkehart Rotter, ‘Mohammed in Bamberg: Die Wahrnehmung der muslimischen Welt im deutschen Reich des 11. Jahrhunderts’, in Aufbruch ins zweite Jahrtausend. Innovation und Kontinuität in der Mitte des Mittelalters, ed. by Achim Hubel and Bernd Schneidmüller, Mittelalter-Forschungen, 16 (Ostfildern: Jan Thorbecke, 2004), pp. 283–344; Edeltraud Klueting, ‘“Quis fuerit Machometus?” Mohammed im lateinischen Mittelalter (11.–13. Jahrhundert)’, Archiv für Kulturgeschichte, 90 (2008), 283–306; Goetz, Die Wahrnehmung anderer Religionen, i, 293–316, 377–95; Avinoam Shalem and Michelina Di Cesare, eds, Constructing the Image of Muhammad in Europe (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2013); Christiane Gruber and Avinoam Shalem, eds, The Image of the Prophet Between Ideal and Ideology: A Scholarly Investigation (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014); Alberto Saviello, Imaginationen des Islam: bildliche Darstellungen des Propheten Mohammed im westeuropäischen Buchdruck bis ins 19. Jahrhundert (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2015).

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Societies of Segmentary Othering One form of segmentary othering — here within the Latin medieval Mediterranean — that requires more research from a xenological perspective is the immense world of sworn communities. As is well known, voluntary corporations united by oath pervaded medieval society in Latin Europe and represented a powerful alternative to other means of constructing notions of identity, sameness, and belonging.38 Religious charitable confraternities and economic guilds are only the best known of these institutions, but in fact, many similar groupings provided an opportunity for units to socialize, to form in-groups and to thereby mark out-groups. In the late Middle Ages, knights founded chivalric societies which drew demarcational lines to other societal groups, clerics could form intercessory networks bound by oath, patricians distanced themselves from both simple burghers and aristocrats alike by forming corporations of their own, craftsmen founded guilds, so did merchants (thereby excluding craftsmen), the list could be prolonged and diversified. Such societies were generally segmentary by nature, because different societies and their members would regularly unite on a higher level if need be — as parishioners, town dwellers, subjects of a temporal lord or adherents of a common faith. The example of voluntary communities forcefully reminds us that the medieval Mediterranean offers an immense number of alternative groupings to those based on religious, ethnic, or political allegiance. Such voluntary groupings provide fascinating insights into moulds and models of self-fashioning, the construction of sameness as well as otherness, and they also redraw our attention to other directions and flows of contact and exchange than the traditional north-south or south-north dimension predominant in studies on Muslim-Christian-Jewish relations in the Mediterranean. Just as important from a xenological perspective were those in-groups that resulted from West-Eastern und East-Western mobility within the dār al-Islām or in Latin or Greek Europe. To give an example: in 1493, the learned German doctor and humanist Hieronymus Münzer embarked on a trip that took him to the Iberian realms.39 While in Barcelona, he

38 Pierre Michaud-Quantin, Universitas. Expressions du mouvement communautaire dans le moyen-âge latin, L’église et l’état au moyen âge, 13 (Paris: Vrin, 1970); Gilles Meersseman, Ordo Fraternitatis. Confraternite e pietà dei laici nel medioevo, 3 vols (Roma: Herder, 1977); Peter Johanek, ed., Einungen und Bruderschaften in der spätmittelalterlichen Stadt, Städteforschung A, 32 (Köln: Böhlau, 1993); Gerhard Krieger, ed., Verwandtschaft, Freundschaft, Bruderschaft: Soziale Lebens- und Kommunikationsformen im Mittelalter (Berlin: Akademie, 2009); Monika Escher-Apsner, ed., Medieval confraternities in European towns / Mittelalterliche Bruderschaften in europäischen Städten: Funktionen, Formen, Akteure, Studien zu Fremdheit und Armut von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart, 12 (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 2009); Konrad Eisenbichler, ed., A Companion to Medieval and Early Modern Confraternities, Brill’s Companions to the Christian Tradition, 83 (Leiden: Brill, 2019). 39 Ludwig Pfandl, ‘Itinerarium Hispanicum Hieronymi Monetarii 1494–1495’, Revue Hispanique, 48 (1920), 1–179; Hieronymus Münzer, Viaje por España y Portugal: (1494–1495), El espejo navegante, 8 (Madrid: Ediciones Polifemo, 1991); Albrecht Classen, ‘Die iberische Halbinsel aus der Sicht eines humanistischen Nürnberger Gelehrten. Hieronymus Münzer, Itinerarium Hispanicum (1494–1495)’, Mitteilungen des Instituts für Österreichische Geschichtsforschung, 111 (2003), 317–40; Klaus Herbers, ‘Die “ganze” Hispania: der Nürnberger Hieronymus Münzer unterwegs – seine Ziele und Wahrnehmung

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was invited to dinner by a group of compatriots. Münzer was astounded to find that these southern German merchants had taken on Catalan customs, adapting their eating habits to the Mediterranean diet, or living ‘more Catalanorum’, as he put it.40 This reference to culinary customs is a point well worth underlining, as food was and still is a prime mark of difference.41 Münzer’s German hosts appear to have been well integrated into their new surroundings; they even wrote their trade-manuals in a hybrid language, a sort of Catalano-German lingo.42 But at the very same time, contemporary Barcelonese documents reveal tensions between parts of the local population and groups of foreigners,43 and just before Münzer’s visit, these German emigrants had founded a confraternity of their own, the ‘confraternitas Alemanorum’, where a compatriot was employed to preach and say mass in German, where the society’s members gathered to socialize and to commemorate

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auf der Iberischen Halbinsel (1494–1495)’, in Grand Tour. Adeliges Reisen und europäische Kultur vom 14. bis zum 18. Jahrhundert, ed. by Rainer Babel and Werner Paravicini, Francia, Beihefte, 60 (Ostfildern: Jan Thorbecke, 2004), pp. 293–308; René Hurtienne, ‘Ein Gelehrter und sein Text. Zur Gesamtedition des Reiseberichts von Hieronymus Münzer, 1494/95 (Clm 431)’, in Erlanger Editionen. Grundlagenforschung durch Quelleneditionen: Berichte und Studien, ed. by Helmut Neuhaus (Erlangen: Palm & Enke, 2009), pp. 255–72; Nikolas Jaspert, ‘Hieronymus Münzers deutsche Gastgeber auf der Iberischen Halbinsel: Archivnotizen und Ergänzungen’, in Zwischen Rom und Santiago: Festschrift für Klaus Herbers zu seinem 65. Geburtstag, ed. by Claudia Alraum, Andreas Holndonner, and HansChristian Lehner (Bochum: Winkler, 2016), pp. 79–98. A new edition of the text by Klaus Herbers (Erlangen) is in press. Pfandl, ‘Itinerarium Hispanicum Hieronymi Monetarii 1494–1495’, p. 13: ‘Qui inenarrabiles nobis honores exibuerunt. Inuitati ad eorum domos ex solo auro et argento et bibimus et commedimus more Catelanorum. Astiterunt continuo musici cum diuersis generibus instrumentorum, ut recrearemur. Fecerunt coreas, saltaciones more Maurorum. Quid plura? Credo baronem aut comitem in Almania honorem talem non posse exibere. Quot eduliis, quot fructibus, quam vario vino reficeremur, non est opus narrare. Vtinam in personis eorum aut filiis aut amicis eorum possemus refundere’. David M. Freidenreich, Foreigners and their Food: Constructing Otherness in Jewish, Christian, and Islamic Law (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011); on Mediterranean food’s unifying attributions see Gisela Welz, ‘Taste the Mediterranean: Food, Culture and Heritagisation’, in New Horizons, ed. by Dabag and others, Mittelmeerstudien, 10 (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 2016), pp. 407–26. Nikolas Jaspert, ‘Catalunya, els catalans i el català a l’Imperi Romanogermànic (segles XIV i XV)’, in Els catalans a la Mediterrània medieval. Noves fonts, recerques i perspectives, ed. by Lluís Cifuentes i Comamala, Roser Salicrú i Lluch, and Maria Mercè Viladrich i Grau (Roma: Viella, 2015), pp. 229–49, drawing on Kurt Kohler, ed., Handelsakten der Ulmer Gesellschaft Färber-Ehinger um 1495, Beiträge zur schwäbischen Geschichte, 6 (Böblingen: Schlecht, 1968). Marina Mitjà, ‘Dificultades de la industria y comercio alemanes para abrirse paso en Barcelona hasta 1410’, Spanische Forschungen der Goerresgesellschaft – Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Kulturgeschichte Spaniens, 13 (1958), 188–228; Jordi Rubió i Balaguer, ‘Integración de los impresores alemanes en la vida social y económica de Cataluña y Valencia en los siglos XV y XVI’, Spanische Forschungen der Goerresgesellschaft – Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Kulturgeschichte Spaniens, 20 (1962), 103–22; Máximo Diago Hernando, ‘Los mercaderes alemanes en los Reinos Hispanos durante los siglos bajomedievales: Actividad de las grandes compañías en la Corona de Aragón’, in España y el ‘Sacro Imperio’. Procesos de cambios, influencias y acciones recíprocas en la época de la ‘europeización’ (Siglos XI–XIII), ed. by Julio Valdeón, Klaus Herbers, and Karl Rudolf (Valladolid: Ediciones Universidad de Valladolid, 2002), pp. 299–327.

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their departed brothers and sisters.44 In principle, such expatriates were just as much Mediterranean others as Jewish or Muslim groups, not to speak of more surprising communities such as the confraternities of freed sub-Saharan ex-slaves that can be traced in contemporary Iberian documentation.45 Analytical toolkits such as the one provided by Hans-Werner Goetz and Ian Wood in this volume’s introduction need to be employed to such groups in order to adequately differentiate different ranges and grades of otherness and othering as well as their changing usage over time.

The Other Mediterranean After having attempted to differentiate the ‘Mediterranean other’ and ways of approaching it, it is fitting to turn to the ‘other Mediterranean’ that figures so prominently in this paper’s title. To do so, we need to move from people to places, from societies to space. There is no need here to dwell on the enormous impact the so-called spatial turn — and for that part the material turn — has provided to cultural studies in general and medieval studies in particular.46 In the meantime, we are all well aware to which extent people construct spatial settings according to social, economic, political, or cultural criteria. But precisely because this has now become an established and accepted fact, it would be counterproductive to overlook the specifics of maritime space or forget the material, that is physical side of our natural environment, past and present.47 This has nothing to do with traditional geographical 44 Nikolas Jaspert, ‘Ein Leben in der Fremde: Deutsche Handwerker und Kaufleute im Barcelona des 15. Jahrhunderts’, in Ein gefüllter Willkomm. Festschrift für Knut Schulz zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. by Franz J. Felten, Stephanie Irrgang, and Kurt Wesoly (Aachen: Shaker, 2002), pp. 450–78, with an edition of relevant documents on pp. 476–77. In general on merchant communities in foreign lands in the Mediterranean see: Kathryn L. Reyerson, ‘The Merchants of the Mediterranean: Merchants as Strangers’, in The Stranger in Medieval Society, ed. by F. R. P. Akehurst and Stephanie Cain Van D’Elden (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1998), pp. 1–13; Nikolas Jaspert, ‘Corporativismo en un entorno extraño: las cofradías de alemanes en la Corona de Aragón’, in XVIII Congrés Internacional d’Història de la Corona d’Aragó: Actes, ed. by Rafael Narbona Vizcaíno (Valencia: Universitat de València, 2005), pp. 1785–806; Uwe Israel, Fremde aus dem Norden: transalpine Zuwanderer im spätmittelalterlichen Italien, Bibliothek des Deutschen Historischen Instituts in Rom, 111 (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 2005). 45 Antoni Albacete Gascón, ‘Les confraries de lliberts negres a la Corona Catalanoaragonesa’, Acta historica et archaeologica mediaevalia, 30 (2009/2010), 307–31. 46 Jörg Döring and Tristan Thielmann, eds, Spatial Turn: das Raumparadigma in den Kultur- und Sozialwissenschaften (Bielefeld: transcript, 2008); Barney Warf and Santa Arias, eds, The Spatial Turn: Interdisciplinary Perspectives, Routledge Studies in Human Geography, 26 (London: Routledge, 2009); Moritz Csáky and Christoph Leitgeb, eds, Kommunikation – Gedächtnis – Raum: Kulturwissenschaften nach dem ‘Spatial Turn’ (Bielefeld: transcript, 2009); Susanne Rau, Räume: Konzepte, Wahrnehmungen, Nutzungen, Historische Einführungen, 14 (Frankfurt am Main: Campus, 2013); Robert T. Tally, ed., The Routledge Handbook of Literature and Space (New York: Routledge, 2017). 47 Frederic L. Cheyette, ‘The Mediterranean Climate’, in A Companion to Mediterranean History, ed. by Peregrine Horden and Sharon Kinoshita (Chichester: Wiley Blackwell, 2014), pp. 11–25; Michael Borgolte and Nikolas Jaspert, eds, Maritimes Mittelalter: Meere als Kommunikationsräume, Vorträge

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determinism, but it has a lot to do with common sense. I believe it is futile to argue against the notion that intrinsic logics of the sea influenced the inhabitants of maritime spaces to a larger or lesser extent. Disciplines which mediate between the humanities and natural sciences — especially archaeology and geography — have made this blatantly obvious. If we apply this insight to xenology, we can extend the range of potential ‘others’ to the non-human world.48 For seen from a xenological standpoint, and in principle, not only groups or individuals can be othered, but so can a sea. This claim might come as a surprise, as one could object that a common ground is needed to separate something from something else. But in principle, if the sea can be approximated to humans — for example by underlining shared origins (both were believed to have been created by God), by constructing it as a ‘mare nostrum’, by comparing the sea to the world or to life (a notion already found in patristic texts) or by gendering the sea —,49 then it can also be othered. So, to put it bluntly: how ‘other’ is the Mediterranean Sea as a maritime space? Which images does this sea conjure today, which associations and desires does it evoke? Some compatriots of mine might think of nineteenth-century romanticism as represented by authors such as Johann Wolfgang Goethe or artists such as the ‘Nazarenes’ (‘Nazarener’),50 for most central Europeans however, other images spring to mind: pictures of beaches, of holidays. More important for this paper’s subject: both romanticists like Goethe and modern philo-Mediterraneans embrace and appropriate the distant sea as a space of yearning and desire.51 The Mediterranean however also evokes other, less cheerful associations, images of migration and refugees, notions of borders under attack and humanitarian

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und Forschungen, 83 (Ostfildern: Jan Thorbecke, 2016); Gerhard van den Heever, ‘Spatializing Practices at the Intersections: Representations and Productions of Spaces’, in The Routledge Handbook of Literature and Space, ed. by Robert T. Tally (New York: Routledge, 2017), pp. 70–81. Francisco de Asís García García, ed., Animals and Otherness in the Middle Ages: Perspectives across Disciplines (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2013). Sebastian I. Sobecki, The Sea and Medieval English Literature, Studies in Medieval Romance, 5 (Cambridge: Brewer, 2008), pp. 16–47; Dieter Richter, Das Meer: Geschichte der ältesten Landschaft (Berlin: Wagenbach, 2014); Cunliffe, On the Ocean, pp. 1–28. A transcultural comparison of concepts of the sea: John Mack, The Sea: A Cultural History (London: Reaktion, 2011), pp. 72–98. Klaus Gallwitz and Ingrid Sattel Bernardini, eds, Die Nazarener in Rom: ein deutscher Künstlerbund der Romantik (München: Prestel, 1981); Willi Hirdt and Birgit Tappert, eds, Goethe und Italien, Studium Universale, 22 (Bonn: Bouvier, 2001); Laura Auteri and Margherita Cottone, eds, Deutsche Kultur und Islam am Mittelmeer, Göppinger Arbeiten zur Germanistik, 725 (Göppingen: Kümmerle, 2005), particularly: Anna Chiarloni, ‘Goethe und der Islam: Formen eines Zusammentreffens’, in Deutsche Kultur und Islam am Mittelmeer, ed. by Auteri and Cottone, pp. 237–56. Frithjof Benjamin Schenk, ed., Der Süden: neue Perspektiven auf eine europäische Geschichtsregion (Frankfurt am Main: Campus, 2007); Dieter Richter, Der Süden: Geschichte einer Himmelsrichtung (Berlin: Wagenbach, 2009); John Baldacchino, Makings of the Sea: Journey, Doubt and Nostalgia, On Mediterranean Aesthetics, 1 (Piscataway: Gorgias, 2010); Andreas Eckl, ‘Méditerranée? Mediterranistische Diskurse um Mittelmeerwelten und -räume aus forschungsgeschichtlicher Perspektive’, in New Horizons, ed. by Dabag and others, pp. 109–53; Meike Meerpohl, ‘Kontrast und Konstruktion: Die Produktion von Bildern und Wissen durch Reiseaktivitäten im Mittelmeerraum’, in New Horizons, ed. by Dabag and others, pp. 333–59.

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catastrophes. The Mediterranean is therefore presently not so much imagined as a space of desire, but also and perhaps predominantly as an area of fear and danger. This novel feeling of threat will arguably change scholarly images of the Mediterranean as a maritime space. Although the Mediterranean is a comparatively calm sea, for centuries it was still dangerous enough. But in modern times, it had become tamed thanks to the inventions of modern seafaring.52 Until recently, Europeans’ associations of the Mediterranean hardly took its potential threats into account any more. Today however, the Mediterranean is experiencing a negative reappraisal, a regressive ascription. It is once again perceived as a dangerous space, as a wet grave that has taken many thousands of lives this year alone (2019).53 One of the consequences of the humanitarian catastrophe we are currently experiencing will arguably be a sharpened awareness for the particularities of the Mediterranean Sea as a maritime physical space not only in the present, but also in the past.54 We are also experiencing a ‘maritimization’ of the sea in the sense that historians are increasingly perceiving it not only as a space between lands, but as a zone with its own logics and challenges.55 Our perspective as historians is taking to sea, and this too will have consequences for medieval studies on alterity. Formulated

52 David M. Williams, ‘Humankind and the Sea: The Changing Relationship since the Mid-Eighteenth Century’, International Journal of Maritime History, 22 (2010), 1–14; Lincoln P. Paine, The Sea and Civilization: A Maritime History of the World (New York: Knopf, 2013), pp. 508–45. 53 Peter H. Liotta, The Uncertain Certainty: Human Security, Environmental Change, and the Future EuroMediterranean (Lanham: Lexington Books, 2003); Nicholas De Genova, ed., The Borders of ‘Europe’: Autonomy of Migration, Tactics of Bordering (London: Duke University Press, 2017); Marion Boulby and Kenneth Christie eds, Migration, Refugees and Human Security in the Mediterranean and MENA (Cham: Springer, 2018); Yasser Elhariry and Edwige Tamalet Talbayev, eds, Critically Mediterranean: Temporalities, Aesthetics, and Deployments of a Sea in Crisis, Mediterranean Perspectives, 5 (Cham: Springer, 2018). 54 By way of example: Alexander Berner, Jan-Marc Henke, Achim Lichtenberger, Bärbel Morstadt, and Anne Riedel, eds, Das Mittelmeer und der Tod: mediterrane Mobilität und Sepulkralkultur, Mittelmeerstudien, 13 (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 2016), especially pp. 299–382; Norbert Fischer, ‘Zur Historisierung des maritimen Todes: Die Nordseeküste als Gedächtnislandschaft’, in ‘Das ungeheure Wellen-Reich’: Bedeutungen, Wahrnehmungen und Projektionen des Meeres in der Geschichte, ed. by Rudolf Holbach, Oldenburger Schriften zur Geschichtswissenschaft, 15 (Oldenburg: BIS-Verlag der Carl von Ossietzky Universität Oldenburg, 2014), pp. 87–98. 55 Jerry H. Bentley, Renate Bridenthal, and Kären Wigen, eds, Seascapes: Maritime Histories, Littoral Cultures, and Transoceanic Exchanges (Honolulu: University of Hawai Press, 2007); Barry W. Cunliffe, Europe between the Oceans: Themes and Variations: 9000 bc–ad 1000 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2008); Mack, The Sea: A Cultural History; Paine, The Sea and Civilization; Peter N. Miller, ed., The Sea: Thalassography and Historiography (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2013); Rudolf Holbach, ed., ‘Das ungeheure Wellen-Reich’: Bedeutungen, Wahrnehmungen und Projektionen des Meeres in der Geschichte, Oldenburger Schriften zur Geschichtswissenschaft, 15 (Oldenburg: BIS-Verlag der Carl von Ossietzky Universität Oldenburg, 2014); Borgolte and Jaspert, eds, Maritimes Mittelalter: Meere als Kommunikationsräume; Silvia Marzagalli, ‘Maritimity: How the Sea Affected Early Modern Life in the Mediterranean World’, in New Horizons, ed. by Dabag and others, pp. 309–31; Nikolas Jaspert and Sebastian Kolditz, eds, Entre mers – Outre-mer: Spaces, Modes and Agents of IndoMediterranean Connectivity (Heidelberg: Heidelberg University Publishing, 2018), especially Nikolas Jaspert and Sebastian Kolditz, ‘Entre mers – Outre-mer: An Introduction’, pp. 7–30.

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as a question: how does research into Mediterranean othering change, if we observe the Mediterranean not from a terrestrial, but rather from a maritime viewpoint? Maritime navigation in the Middle Ages was closely linked to the experience of danger. Storms and adverse weather conditions, distress and shipwrecks, pirate attacks and the loss of orientation on the high seas, but also stranding on a foreign coast — these and other motifs are often found in reports and literary narratives from the various cultural and religious areas of the Mediterranean — from the Geniza documents56 to pilgrims’ accounts.57 The medieval Mediterranean was an area of conflict, there can be no doubt about that. It was indeed a sea of fear, an arena for warfare, raids, and captivity, and as a consequence, it was critically separated from human lifeworlds, it was othered. But which of the modalities I have just described — orientalization, segmentation, or encompassment — were hereby applied, and how was the divide between us and them bridged, if ‘they’ was a sea? In fact, the dangers of the sea brought forth specific brokers who mediated between nature and man. On the one hand, these were the professionals of the sea — sailors, captains, etc.58 On the other hand, and less apparently, Christians — more than the

56 Shelomo Dov Goitein, A Mediterranean Society: The Jewish Communities of the Arab World as Portrayed in the Documents of the Cairo Geniza, 6 vols (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967–1993); Shelomo Dov Goitein, ‘Mediterranean Trade in the Eleventh Century: Some Facts and Problems’, in Studies in the Economic History of the Middle East: From the Rise of Islam to the Present Day, ed. by M. A. Cook, School of Oriental and African studies (London: Oxford University Press, 1978), pp. 51–62; Moshe Gil, ‘Shipping in the Mediterranean in the Eleventh Century A.D. as reflected in Documents from the Cairo Geniza’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies, 67 (2008), 247–92; Jessica L. Goldberg, Trade and Institutions in the Medieval Mediterranean: The Geniza Merchants and their Business World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012). 57 John Kenneth Hyde, ‘Navigation of the Eastern Mediterranean in the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries According to Pilgrims’ Books’, Papers in Italian Archaeology, 1 (1978), 521–40; Michel Mollat, Europa und das Meer (translation of L’Europe et la mer, Paris 1993) (Wien: Büchergilde Gutenberg, 1995), pp. 241–63; Margaret E. Mullett, ‘In Peril on the Sea: Travel Genres and the Unexpected’, in Travel in the Byzantine World, ed. by Margaret E. Mullett (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002), pp. 259–84; Christiane Villain Gandossi, ‘Au Moyen Age, le domaine de la peur’, in La mer – terreur et fascination, ed. by Alain Corbin and Hélène Richard (Paris: Bibliothèque Nationale de France, 2004), pp. 103–26; Nikolas Jaspert and Sebastian Kolditz, eds, Seeraub im Mittelmeerraum. Piraterie, Korsarentum und maritime Gewalt von der Antike bis zur Neuzeit, Mittelmeerstudien, 3 (Paderborn: Schöningh-Fink, 2013); Cunliffe, On the Ocean, pp. 1–35; Michel Balard and Christophe Picard, La Méditerranée au Moyen Âge. les hommes et la mer (Paris: Hachette, 2014), pp. 211–33. 58 Rosalba Ragosta, ed., Le Genti del mare Mediterraneo, 2 vols, Biblioteca di storia economica, 5 (Napoli: Pironti, 1981); Marco Tangheroni, ‘La vita a bordo delle navi’, in Artigiani e salariati. Il mondo del lavoro nell’Italia dei secoli XII–XV, Centro italiano di studi di storia e d’Arte, 10 (Pistoia: Presso la sede del Centro, 1984), pp. 155–87; Mollat, Europa und das Meer, pp. 173–223; Teresa-María Vinyoles Vidal, ‘La vita quotidiana della gente di mare (esempi barcellonesi dei secoli XIV e XV)’, Medioevo, 21 (1996), 9–36; Lawrence V. Mott, Sea Power in the Medieval Mediterranean: The Catalan-Aragonese Fleet in the War of the Sicilian Vespers (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2003); Dirk Meier, Seafarers, Merchants and Pirates in the Middle Ages (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2006); Ornella Pittarello, ed., Algune raxion per marineri: un manuale veneziano del secolo XV per gente di mare, Ricerche. Facoltà di lettere e filosofia dell’Università di Venezia, 42 (Padova: Poligrafo, 2006); Anna Unali, Marineros, piratas y corsarios catalanes en la Baja Edad Media, Isla de la Tortuga, 8 (Sevilla: Renacimiento, 2007); Pinuccia Franca Simbula, ‘Andar per mare nel Medioevo: marinai, mercanti, guerrieri e pellegrini

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members of other belief systems — called on maritime saints for mediation: St Nicholas of Bari, St Nicholas of Tolentino, Saint Eloy, and others who fulfilled this very task, not to speak of the Virgin Mary.59 Celestial mediators did not accommodate the sea permanently, but could punctually mitigate its otherness. If one approaches the sea from a xenological perspective, one necessarily needs to investigate its perception and the construction of maritime imagery. One might then ask if Mediterranean societies developed a particular understanding of or attitude towards the sea. A comparative reading of Latin, Hebrew, and Arabic sources reveals that in all three societies the medieval Mediterranean assumed the role of a — quite variable — symbol. It could stand for the temptations of the devil, for death and evil, but above all it was symbol for danger. This binary form of constructing the sea actually reveals an orientalistic mode of othering, because it fits the waters into a dualistic relationship of good or evil, peaceful or dangerous.60 In other cases, the Mediterranean was constructed as a medium to illustrate the omnipotence of God or the power of holy men, and (less often) women. These venerated individuals miraculously paralysed ships on the open sea, tamed the waves,

sulle rotte del Mediterraneo’, in Andar per mare, ed. by Paola Massa and Pinuccia F. Simbula (Genova: De Ferrari, 2009), pp. 9–42; Roser Salicrú Lluch, ‘Sobre las fuentes y bibliografia para el estudio de los enrolamientos de tripulación, los armamentos, la construcción naval y los salarios maritimos en la Cataluna bajomedieval’, in ‘Il re cominciò a conoscere che il principe era un altro re’: il principato di Taranto e il contesto mediterraneo (secc. XII–XV), ed. by Gemma Teresa Colesanti, Fonti e studi per gli Orsini di Taranto, 2 (Roma: Nella sede dell’Istituto, Palazzo Borromini, Il Principato di Tara), pp. 329–42; Balard and Picard, La Méditerranée au Moyen Âge, pp. 234–70; For the early modern period: Maria Fusaro, Bernard Allaire, Richard Blakemore, and Tijl Vanneste, eds, Law, Labour and Empire: Comparative Perspectives on Seafarers, c. 1500–1800 (Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015). 59 André Vauchez, ‘L’homme au péril de la mer dans les miracles médiévaux’, in Colloque L’homme face aux calamités naturelles dans l’Antiquité et au Moyen Âge, ed. by Jacques Jouanna, Jean Leclant, and Michel Zink, Cahiers de la Villa Kérylos, 17 (Paris: Boccard, 2006), pp. 183–96; Luciano Fanin, ed., Dio, il mare e gli uomini, Quaderni di storia religiosa, 15 (Verona: Molino, 2008); Antonio Ive, ‘Le “Sante Parole” tratte da un codice florentino del sec. XV’, Zeitschrift für romanische Philologie, 34 (1910), 315–30; Michele Bacci, ‘Portolano sacro: santuario e immagini sacre lungo le rotte di navigazione del Mediterraneo tra tardo medioevo e prima età moderna’, in The Miraculous Image: In the late Middle Ages and Renaissance, ed. by Erik Thunø and Gerhard Wolf, Analecta Romana Instituti Danici. Supplementum, 35 (Roma: L’Erma di Bretschneider, 2004), pp. 223–48; Christophe Picard, ‘La mer et le sacré en Islam medieval’, in La mer et le sacré en Islam médiéval, ed. by Christophe Picard, Revue des mondes musulmans et de la Méditerranée, 130 (Aix-en-Provence: PUP, 2011), pp. 13–32; Valentina Ruzzin, ‘La Bonna Parolla. Il portolano sacro genovese’, Atti della società ligure di storia patria, n.s., 53.2 (2013), 21–59; Bacci and Rohde, The Holy Portolano; Immacolata Aulisa, ed., I santuari e il mare, Associazione internazionale per le ricerche sui santuari, 2 (Bari: Edipuglia, 2014); Jaspert, Neumann, and di Branco, Ein Meer und seine Heiligen. 60 An overview of appropriate narratives — travel accounts, hagiographical texts, etc. — can be found in: Abraham Malamat, ‘The Sacred Sea’, in Sacred Space: Shrine, City, Land, ed. by Benjamin Z. Kedar and R. J. Zwi Werblowsky (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1998), pp. 45–54; Mathias Jeschke, Meeresgeschichten der Bibel (Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 2004); Nikolas Jaspert, ‘Zur Hagio-Geographie des Mittelmeerraums: Ein Meer und seine Heiligen’, in Ein Meer und seine Heiligen. Hagiographie im mittelalterlichen Mediterraneum, ed. by Nikolas Jaspert, Christian Neumann, and Marco di Branco, Mittelmeerstudien, 18 (Paderborn: Schöningh-Fink, 2018), pp. 11–29. An ample study of the ways the Mediterranean was perceived in the early Middle Ages will be presented by Sebastian Kolditz (Heidelberg).

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walked over the water, in short: lifted the rules of nature out of their joints and thus showed their proximity to God. Here the sea is constructed as an intermediate space, a transitory zone between the human world and transcendence. It is therefore seldom depicted as an independent agent, but as a variable tool of divine agency. In these cases, we can observe the modality of encompassment: both the sea and humans are actually subordinate to God’s superior will and his choice of hierarchy, in which humans are superior to nature, to the sea. But does the fact that medieval writers generally bereaved the Mediterranean of agency imply that modern historians should, too? If we take the catchword of ‘the other Mediterranean’ seriously, then scholars need to explore under which circumstances the sea itself contributed to processes of othering. Giving the sea a voice would be a different form of subaltern studies. We could explore under which circumstances the waters facilitated processes of exchange due to very concrete and physical characteristics like currents and winds, with all the effects this heralded upon societies’ constructions of themselves and others.61 Under which circumstances in contrast did the sea impede such contacts, thus triggering quite different forms of self-fashioning? We know that maritime connectivity not only facilitated commerce and other forms of interaction, but also the spread of diseases, of plants and animals.62 Lately, multispecies research, eco-criticism, and further collaborative approaches fostered in the growing field of environmental humanities have significantly broadened our theoretical and methodological toolkit.63 In the age of the Anthropocene, we do well to invert the perspective when studying nature in order to explore, how the 61 John Wainwright and John B. Thornes, Environmental Issues in the Mediterranean: Processes and Perspectives from the Past and Present, Routledge Studies in Physical Geography and Environment, 1 (London: Routledge, 2004); J. Donald Hughes, The Mediterranean: An Environmental History, Nature and Human Societies (Santa Barbara: ABC-CLIO, 2005); Dominik Faust and Christoph Zielhofer, eds, The Last 15ka of Environmental Change in Mediterranean Regions – Interpreting Different Archives, The Journal of the International Union for Quaternary Research, 181 (Amsterdam: Elsevier, 2008); Sylvie Shaw and Andrew Francis, Deep Blue: Critical Reflections on Nature, Religion and Water (Hoboken: Taylor & Francis, 2014); Robert Hofrichter, Janina Goetz and Christoph Pum, ‘Ozeanographie’, in Handbuch der Mediterranistik, ed. by Dabag and others, , pp. 365–93. 62 Robert Sallares, ‘Disease’, in A Companion to Mediterranean History, ed. by Peregrine Horden and Sharon Kinoshita (Chichester: Wiley Blackwell, 2014), pp. 250–62; Jodi Frawley and Iain McCalman, eds, Rethinking Invasion Ecologies from the Environmental Humanities (New York: Routledge, 2014). 63 Alfred Kentigern Siewers, ed., Re-imagining Nature: Environmental Humanities and Ecosemiotics (Lanham: Bucknell University Press, 2014), particularly part II on ‘medieval natures’, pp. 109–59; Jorge López Quiroga, Michail Michajlovic Kazanski, and Vujadin Ivaniševic, eds, Entangled Identities and Otherness in Late Antique and Early Medieval Europe: Historical, Archaeological and Bioarchaeological Approaches, BAR International Series, 2852 (Oxford: BAR, 2017); Ursula K. Heise, Jon Christensen, and Michelle Niemann, eds, The Routledge Companion to the Environmental Humanities (New York: Routledge, 2017). Robert S. Emmett and David E. Nye, The Environmental Humanities: A Critical Introduction (London: MIT Press, 2017); Alexander Elliott, James Cullis, and Vinita Damodaran, eds, Climate Change and the Humanities: Historical, Philosophical and Interdisciplinary Approaches to the Contemporary Environmental Crisis (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2017); cf. the volumes of the Environmental History series, ed. by Mauro Agnoletti (Cham: Springer, 2013–2020), which however rarely with the Middle Ages.

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non-human or the other-than-human formed the human. This understanding of medieval alterity would indeed be the result of focusing on a different, on yet another Mediterranean. And it would be a step towards further pluralizing the Mediterranean Sea as an object of historical research. The medieval Mediterranean thus both relates to and is informed by pressing current issues, that have provided the frame for my paper — neo-nationalisms, religious fundamentalisms, refugee crises, and ecological challenges. They all have a more or less strong bearing on the ways historians of the 21st century deal with the constructions of otherness in the Middle Ages. To recognize this relationship need not mean dismissing it, quite the contrary: for Mediterraneanists as for any other scholar, realizing the contemporary contexts of current research questions is part and parcel of academic research. This also holds true for the different modes of interaction between maritime space and human space as a novel field of xenological inquiry in the humanities. The Mediterranean Sea continues to offer an enormously wide spectrum of questions, sources and approaches directly related to medieval otherness, othering and alterity, and it will probably continue to do so for many years to come.

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Rubin, Uri, and David J. Wasserstein, eds, Dhimmis and Others: Jews and Christians and the World of Classical Islam, Israel Oriental Studies, 17 (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1997) Rubió i Balaguer, Jordi, ‘Integración de los impresores alemanes en la vida social y económica de Cataluña y Valencia en los siglos XV y XVI’, Spanische Forschungen der Goerresgesellschaft – Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Kulturgeschichte Spaniens, 20 (1962), 103–22 Ruzzin, Valentina, ‘La Bonna Parolla. Il portolano sacro genovese’, Atti della società ligure di storia patria, n.s., 53.2 (2013), 21–59 Said, Edward, Orientalism (New York: Vintage, 1955) Salicrú Lluch, Roser, ‘Sobre las fuentes y bibliografia para el estudio de los enrolamientos de tripulación, los armamentos, la construcción naval y los salarios maritimos en la Cataluna bajomedieval’, in ‘Il re cominciò a conoscere che il principe era un altro re’: il principato di Taranto e il contesto mediterraneo (secc. XII–XV), ed. by Gemma Teresa Colesanti, Fonti e studi per gli Orsini di Taranto, 2 (Roma: Nella sede dell’Istituto, Palazzo Borromini, 2014), pp. 329–42 Sallares, Robert, ‘Disease’, in A Companion to Mediterranean History, ed. by Peregrine Horden and Sharon Kinoshita (Chichester: Wiley Blackwell, 2014), pp. 250–62 Saviello, Alberto, Imaginationen des Islam: bildliche Darstellungen des Propheten Mohammed im westeuropäischen Buchdruck bis ins 19. Jahrhundert (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2015) Schenk, Frithjof Benjamin, ed., Der Süden: neue Perspektiven auf eine europäische Geschichtsregion (Frankfurt am Main: Campus, 2007) Schipp, Oliver, ‘Römer und Barbaren: Fremde in der Spätantike und im Frühmittelalter’, in Fremd und rechtlos?: Zugehörigkeitsrechte Fremder von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart: ein Handbuch, ed. by Altay Coskun and Lutz Raphael (Wien: Böhlau, 2014), pp. 121–52 Schlee, Günther, and Alexander Horstmann, ed., Difference and Sameness as Modes of Integration: Anthropological Perspectives on Ethnicity and Religion, Integration and Conflict Studies, 16 (Oxford: Berghahn, 2018) Schlögl, Rudolf, Alter Glaube und moderne Welt: europäisches Christentum im Umbruch 1750–1850 (Frankfurt: Fischer, 2013) Schneewind, Jerome B., The Invention of Autonomy: A History of Modern Moral Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998) Shalem, Avinoam, and Michelina Di Cesare, ed., Constructing the Image of Muhammad in Europe (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2013) Shaw, Sylvie, and Andrew Francis, Deep Blue: Critical Reflections on Nature, Religion and Water (Hoboken: Taylor & Francis, 2014) Siewers, Alfred Kentigern, ed., Re-imagining Nature: Environmental Humanities and Ecosemiotics (Lanham: Bucknell University Press, 2014) Simbula, Pinuccia Franca, ‘Andar per mare nel Medioevo: marinai, mercanti, guerrieri e pellegrini sulle rotte del Mediterraneo’, in Andar per mare, ed. by Paola Massa and Pinuccia F. Simbula (Genova: De Ferrari, 2009), pp. 9–42 Sobecki, Sebastian I., The Sea and Medieval English Literature, Studies in Medieval Romance, 5 (Cambridge: Brewer, 2008) Southern, Richard William, Western Views of Islam in the Middle Ages (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1962) Strickland, Debra Higgs, Saracens, Demons, and Jews: Making Monsters in Medieval Art (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2003)

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Strutwolf, Holger, ‘Anima naturaliter Christiana – Beobachtungen zum philosophischen und theologischen Hintergrund der Seelenlehre Tertullians’, in Studies on the Text of the New Testament and Early Christianity: Essays in Honour of Michael W. Holmes on the Occasion of his 65th Birthday, ed. by Daniel Gurtner, Jr. Daniel Hernández, and Paul Foster, New Testament Tools, Studies and Documents, 50 (Leiden: Brill, 2015), pp. 594–614 Stünkel, Knut Martin, Una sit religio: Religionsbegriffe und Begriffstopologien bei Cusanus, Llull und Maimonides (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2013) Tally, Robert T., ed., The Routledge Handbook of Literature and Space (New York: Routledge, 2017) Tangheroni, Marco, ‘La vita a bordo delle navi’, in Artigiani e salariati. Il mondo del lavoro nell’Italia dei secoli XII–XV (Pistoia: Presso la sede del Centro, 1984), pp. 155–87 Tolan, John Victor, ed., Medieval Christian Perceptions of Islam: A Book of Essays, Garland Reference Library of the Humanities, 1768 (New York: Garland, 1996) ———, Saracens: Islam in the Medieval European Imagination (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002) Trautner-Kromann, Hanne, and James Manley, Shield and Sword: Jewish Polemics Against Christianity and the Christians in France and Spain from 1100–1500, Texts and Studies in Medieval and Early Modern Judaism, 8 (Tübingen: Mohr, 1993) Tsafrir, Nurit, ‘The Attitude of Sunni Islam toward Jews and Christians as Reflected in Some Legal Issues’, Al-Qantara, 26 (2005), 317–36 Unali, Anna, Marineros, piratas y corsarios catalanes en la Baja Edad Media, Isla de la Tortuga, 8 (Sevilla: Renacimiento, 2007) Vauchez, André, ‘L’homme au péril de la mer dans les miracles médiévaux’, in Colloque L’homme face aux calamités naturelles dans l’Antiquité et au Moyen Âge, ed. by Jacques Jouanna, Jean Leclant, and Michel Zink, Cahiers de la Villa Kérylos, 17 (Paris: Boccard, 2006), pp. 183–96 Vinyoles Vidal, Teresa-María, ‘La vita quotidiana della gente di mare (esempi barcellonesi dei secoli XIV e XV)’, Medioevo, 21 (1996), 9–36 Wainwright, John, and John B. Thornes, Environmental Issues in the Mediterranean: Processes and Perspectives from the Past and Present, Routledge Studies in Physical Geography and Environment, 1 (London: Routledge, 2004) Waldenfels, Bernhard, ‘Xenologie, Wissenschaft vom Fremden’, in Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophie, vol. 12, ed. by Joachim Ritter, Karlfried Gründer, and Gottfried Gabriel (Basel: Schwabe, 2004), pp. 1105–10 Warf, Barney, and Santa Arias, eds, The Spatial Turn: Interdisciplinary Perspectives, Routledge Studies in Human Geography, 26 (London: Routledge, 2009) Weltecke, Dorothea, ‘Space, Entanglement and Decentralisation: On How to Narrate the Transcultural History of Christianity (550 to 1350 ce)’, in Locating Religions: Contact, Diversity and Translocality, ed. by Reinhold Glei and Nikolas Jaspert, Dynamics in the History of Religions, 9 (Leiden: Brill, 2016), pp. 315–44 Welz, Gisela, ‘Taste the Mediterranean: Food, Culture and Heritagisation’, in New Horizons: Mediterranean Research in the 21st Century, ed. by Mihran Dabag, Mihran Haller, Nikolas Jaspert, and Achim Lichtenberger, Mittelmeerstudien, 10 (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 2016), pp. 407–26

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Wierlacher, Alois, ‘Kulturwissenschaftliche Xenologie’, in Konzepte der Kulturwissenschaften: theoretische Grundlagen – Ansätze – Perspektiven, ed. by Ansgar Nünning and Vera Nünning (Weimar: Metzler, 2003), pp. 280–306 Williams, David A., Deformed Discourse: The Function of the Monster in Mediaeval Thought and Literature (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 1996) Williams, David M., ‘Humankind and the Sea: The Changing Relationship since the MidEighteenth Century’, International Journal of Maritime History, 22 (2010), 1–14 Winst, Silke, ‘Identity vs. Difference – Sameness as a Concept of Identity Formation in Medieval Literature’, in Text or Context: Reflections on Literary and Cultural Criticism, ed. by Rüdiger Kunow and Stephan Mussil (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2013), pp. 129–52 Wood, Ian N., ‘The Pagans and the Other: Varying Presentations in the Early Middle’, Networks and Neighbours, 1 (2013), 1–22 Wulf, Christoph, ed., Exploring Alterity in a Globalised World (New York: Routledge, 2017) Yaman, Hikmet, ‘The Criticism of the People of the Book (ahl al-kitab) in the Qur’an: Essentialist or Contextual?’, Gregorianum, 92 (2011), 183–98

Martin Borýsek

Strangers in the House of Israel Confronting the Problems of Inner Diversity in Jewish Communal Ordinances at the End of the Middle Ages

In the spring of 1642, the elders of the Jewish community in the island of Corfu, then an overseas possession of the Venetian Republic, issued a number of decrees on various matters of the religious and public life in their community. The Jewish leaders issued the ordinances in the name of ‘the two communities which are here in Corfu, may God protect them’ (‫)אנחנו ממוני שני הקהלות קדשות שבקורפו יע”א‬, thus making claim to represent both Jewish communities that were at that time resident on the island, th indigenous Greek-speaking Romaniots and the more recent Jewish immigrants from Italy. However, later on in this introductory paragraph we read: ‫להשמיע להם כל הנרשם אנחנו ממוני ק”ק איטליאנו עם הנגידים המבוררים שלחנו לקרוא‬ ‫לממונים ומובחרים מק”ק אחר כדי למשמיע ולפרסם לפני כלם הנז’ […] וגבירי הק”ק אחר‬ ‫פצו פה ענו ואמרו שאין רצונם להיות [ברצון אחד עמנו] אלא כל איש הישר בעיניו יעשה‬ (To let them know everything recorded here, we, the deputies of the Italian holy community, with our chosen leaders have sent messengers to call for the deputies and leaders of the Other holy community […], but the elders of the Other holy community1 answered that they did not wish to be of one mind with us but rather that each man shall do as he sees fit).2 The rivalry which this text suggests and perhaps even more so the choice of words indicate a certain degree of internal tensions within the Corfiot Jewish community stemming from its inner diversity. Within late medieval and early modern Jewish society, this was not an isolated incident. In this article, I shall attempt to track the inner divisions within the European Jewish population of the later Middle Ages and the early modern period, utilizing selected extant excerpts from the internal byelaws



1 That is to say, the Romaniot one. 2 Louis Finkelstein, Jewish Self-Government in the Middle Ages (New York: Philipp Feldman, 1964), p. 316. Martin Borýsek  •  ([email protected], born 1983) gained his PhD at the University of Cambridge in 2015 and currently works as a postdoctoral researcher at the University of Potsdam. ‘Otherness’ in the Middle Ages, ed. by Hans-Werner Goetz and Ian Wood, IMR 25 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2021), pp. 75–92 © FHG10.1484/M.IMR-EB.5.123586

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of Jewish communities. The main objective of this survey will be to examine how the dominant Jewish settlement of a given time and place regarded Jewish newcomers from another place and of a different cultural and/or linguistic background. I will examine to what extent the Jews, in many respects the prototypical ‘other’ of premodern European society, could approach their own coreligionists as their own, ‘internal others’, and what the consequences of such approach were.

The Jewish Minority in the World of Medieval Christendom When social historians of medieval Europe attempt to provide a classification of medieval European society, they often end up putting the Jews, together with other marginal groups, into the intriguing category of ‘people on the edge of society’. There are valid grounds for such classification, although there is now general consensus that we must not overemphasize the Jews’ standing apart from the rest of the society, whilst overlooking their often deep connections to the non-Jewish world that surrounded them.3 In particular, the recent scholarly discussion of the Jews’ marginalization in premodern European society assessed critically the previously widely accepted notion that ‘otherness’ as a social stigma has been forced on the helpless Jewish community from the outside, with little or no choice on the Jews’ part.4 Directly connected to this problem are the attempts to find a scholarly sound alternative to the so-called ‘lachrymose conception of Jewish history’, now viewed as an inadequate interpretation of the Jews’ place in majority society. In a nutshell, this conception postulated the long time between the collapse of the autonomous Jewish state in Palestine in the first century ad and the advent of political, economic, and intellectual emancipation of the Ashkenazi Jewry at the close of the eighteenth century as a ‘dark period’ characterized mainly by the universal discrimination to which the Jews were generally exposed. Accordingly, the Jewish historical experience during this period tended to be viewed as an unbroken series of calamities, or, conversely, as a heroic struggle against prejudice and oppression. The roots of this conception of Jewish history can be traced to the very beginning of modern Jewish historiography, in the works of the great pioneering authors of the nineteenth-century ‘Wissenschaft des Judentums movement’ such as Leopold Zunz or Heinrich Graetz. Whereas up

3 See Jacob Katz, Tradition and Crisis: Jewish Society at the End of the Middle Ages (Syracuse, New York: Syracuse University Press, 2000), p. 26. 4 For the dynamics between integration and separation in the relations between premodern Jews and the majority society, see Jonathan Elukin, Living Together, Living Apart: Rethinking Jewish-Christian Relation in the Middle Ages (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2007). His observations are certainly enlightening in that he brings to light the importance of the widespread co-operation between the Jewish and non-Jewish communities in medieval Europe, but he sometimes tends to the opposite extreme, smoothing over the undeniable existence of systemic anti-Judaism in many aspects of the European Christendom. The importance of theological debate and polemics in JewishChristian relations is emphasized in Israel Yuval, Two Nations in Your Womb: Perceptions of Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages (Berkeley: California University Press, 2006; Hebrew original published 2000).

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to this day, Zunz rightly enjoys universal acknowledgement as the founding figure of Jewish studies as a rigorous scholarly discipline, he did lend his great authority to cementing the view of universal decline of Jewish culture with the coming of the Middle Ages and promoting the belief that it is a modern intellectual’s duty to help to ‘lead the Jews out of the Ghetto’.5 The problematic aspects of the lachrymose conception were pointed out as long ago as in 1928,6 but the tendency to view the pre-Emancipation period mainly as a time where Jews faced persecution by default, and where any intellectual or material achievement was necessarily accomplished in face of fierce opposition remains a temptation of which scholars must be aware. This situation has been made more complicated because some more recent concepts of Jewish history in the Middle Ages and the early modern period that seek to correct the lachrymose conception seem to err in the opposite direction. Scholars like Robert Chazan or María Rosa Menocal7 correctly emphasize the importance of cooperation between the Jews and the Christian or Muslim majority in whose midst they lived, but they tend to underestimate the deep impact and far-reaching consequences of the legally inferior status reserved for the Jews in every country of their residence, Christian or Muslim, before the end of the eighteenth century at the very earliest. Especially in this context, it is important to consider what role the viewing of specific segments of society as ‘others’ played in Jewish history. Designating a chosen segment of society, groups of individuals or whole social classes, as ‘others’, i.e. fundamentally different from the society’s mainstream (which is acting as the judge of ‘otherness’), has been described as a potent self-affirming mechanism especially associated with premodern societies. Alongside real or imagined threats from the outside, such as hostile foreign powers or visitors from barely known, exotic countries, it was the marginal groups living in the midst of the majority society which were an obvious target of ‘othering strategies’. The Jews were arguably among the most attractive and most readily available targets to be singled out as wilfully, obstinately and harmfully different from ‘the ordinary people’, i.e. those making the judgement and assigning the otherness. Considering the burden of becoming the ‘default other’ that the Jews arguably bore in the Middle Ages and deep into the early modern era, one may perhaps be tempted to view them mostly through the lenses of this status. However, if we take a closer look at the Jewish community at specific places during the later Middle Ages and during the early modern period, we encounter a society which was far more than a uniform ‘reference point’ satisfying the majority’s need of self-definition and self-affirmation. We shall find that the Jewish community was a vibrant, diverse, and complex component of the European population which engaged in a lively inner debate about a wide variety of issues relating to its place in the society. In my paper, I shall try to explore to what extend the Jews themselves were open to using

5 See Leopold Zunz, Etwas über Rabbinische Literatur (Berlin: Maurer, 1818). 6 See Salo W. Baron, ‘Ghetto and Emancipation’, reprinted in The Menorah Treasury, ed. by Leo W. Schwarz (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1964), pp. 50–63. 7 See Robert Chazan, The Jews of Medieval Western Christendom 1000–1500 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006); María Rosa Menocal, The Ornament of the World: How Muslims, Jews and Christians Created a Culture of Tolerance in Medieval Spain (Boston: Little, Brown, 2002).

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‘othering strategies’ as a means of strengthening the sense of their communal identity. The particular problem I shall address will be the Jewish communities’ reaction to an encounter with Jews of different cultural backgrounds visiting the community or settling there. Such ‘other’ Jews naturally caught the attention and, at times, caused apprehension in the eyes of the indigenous Jewish community. That these Jewish-Jewish encounters can today raise questions about the possible character of the Jews’ place in premodern society reflects the need for a more nuanced view of the inner diversity of the Jewish population.

Jewish Communal Organization and the takkanot ha-kahal In the fabric of medieval European society, the Jews generally stood apart, not fitting into the system of social orders. This distinctiveness stemmed from the Jews’ religious identity as well as from their status as a stateless minority, whose members were perceived as a foreign element in every country in which they dwelt. I shall explore the question of whether and how the Jews singled out their own coreligionists as potential ‘others’ in a set of events concerning different Jewish-Jewish encounters which took place in different European (and in one case, North African) Jewish communities between the late Middle Ages and mid-seventeenth century. The wide geographical as well as temporal range requires some explanation. A unifying motif that binds the seemingly disparate communities together is provided by the source type, which imparts knowledge of the described events: communal ordinances of (semi-) autonomous Jewish communities. These ordinances are known in Hebrew as takkanot ha-kahal (‘the communal council amendments’). The existence of communal statutes to which the state’s authorities granted a measure of recognition and legal power was enabled by a special legal regime under which the Jews of pre-Enlightenment times lived. On the one hand, the Jews’ inferior legal status meant that they were permanently exposed to state-sponsored discrimination (which from the state’s perspective could play the useful role of arresting popular anti-Jewish sentiments in a way the authorities could control). On the other hand, however, the very same state’s authorities were generally prepared to offer Jews legal protection, making them ‘servi camerae’ directly subject to the sovereign’s jurisdiction, thus ensuring oversight over the Jewish presence in their respective lands and, crucially, control over the economic potential of the Jewish merchants and moneylenders, who as a valuable asset were, at least theoretically to be protected from unauthorized harassment. This legal arrangement opened the space for limited autonomy for the whole Jewish populace (‘universitas Iudaeorum’)8 living under the jurisdiction of a given



8 ‘Universitas’ as a term denoting a specific community as whole has its roots in Roman legal terminology. The phrase ‘universitas Iudaeorum’ in the sense of ‘Jewish community’ appears already in the sixth-century East Roman legal code Corpus iuris civilis, cf. Dorothea Rohde, Zwischen Individuum und Stadtgemeinde. Die Integration von ‘collegia’ in Hafenstädten (Mainz: Verlag Antike, 2012), p. 25.

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sovereign, as well as for the individual Jewish communities, usually on a municipal basis. The historical roots of Jewish communal autonomy vis-à-vis the state are lost in obscurity, but the institution of ‘kahal’ or an executive communal council9 and its power to issue takkanot or locally binding ordinances was certainly known and discussed as a theoretical concept in the religious literature of the so-called Geonic period (roughly sixth to eleventh centuries).10 Although no texts of actual communal takkanot are preserved from any period before the high Middle Ages, at the latest by the thirteenth century, there is already reliable information of established communal institutions functioning on a regular basis in several areas throughout Europe and the Mediterranean. The issuing of communal takkanot is attested for example from the populous thirteenth-century Jewish communities of Rhineland. Takkanot ha-kahal are legislative texts concerning the functioning of a specific Jewish community or, especially during the early modern period, larger groups of neighbouring or culturally close Jewish communities. Within the wider discourse of Jewish religious literature and Jewish religious law (‘halakha’), their place is rather peculiar. Unlike in the realm of Biblical exegesis, Talmudic commentaries and legal decisions in matters of general religious significance, the authority of the Jewish communal ordinances is not derived from the author’s erudition in religious law or his status as a rabbi, but from the legitimacy of the community’s executive council and the respect enjoyed by its members in the eyes of the wider Jewish population of the place.11 The exact legal nature of a local community in Jewish religious law and the legal authority of its representatives are matters of intensive scholarly research, discussion of which is beyond the scope of this article.12 It may suffice to state that takkanot ha-kahal stand in a way apart from the discourse of ‘halakha’ not only in the different ultimate source of their authority, but also in that they did not claim universal legal power, but were devised on purpose for the community where they were written, and were easily and frequently amended or entirely replaced by new statutes. Given the collective nature of Jewish communal administration, communal takkanot were statements issued jointly in the name of the community’s leading council, and as such are the textual expression of the community’s corporate authority over its individual members.

9 For the definition and various uses of the term ‘kahal’ see Gershon David Hundert, The Jews in a Polish Private Town: The Case of Opatów in the Eighteenth Century (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press), pp. 85–88. 10 See Aharon Nachalon, The ‘kahal’ and its Enactments in the Geonic Period ( Jerusalem: The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2001) [in Hebrew]. 11 For a concise overview of the communal council and its legal history, see Menachem Elon, The Principles of Jewish Law ( Jerusalem: Encyclopaedia Judaica, 1975), pp. 71–73, 654–62. 12 For the discussion of the character of political discourse within medieval Jewish communities, see Menachem Lorberbaum, Politics and the Limits of Law: Secularizing the Political in Medieval Jewish Thought (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2001).

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Jewish Self-Government and the ‘End of the Middle Ages’ The texts which I am going to discuss in the following paragraphs were written over several centuries during the late Middle Ages and the early modern period. This raises an important question of continuity of Jewish historical existence during the Middle Ages and into the early modern era. The persistence of the Jews’ legal inferiority and forced legal separation from the majority constitutes a cause for the notion that lies at the heart of Jacob Katz’s lastingly influential study Tradition and Crisis, first published in Hebrew in 1958. Central to the book’s thesis is the notion of ‘end of the Middle Ages’ which, according to the author, lasted for the Jews up until the latter half of the eighteenth century.13 By approaching this long period as a one essentially continuous epoch of Jewish history, Katz insightfully emphasizes the wide and far-reaching consequences of the legally inferior status of European Jews, which emerged in the Middle Ages and remained in force until the far-reaching social reforms inspired by the Enlightenment. However, we must not forget that Katz’ thesis of Jewish Middle Ages stretching deep into the early Modern Age is applicable only on certain aspects of their historical experience, namely the legal status and institutional autonomy, while in many other areas of private and public life, the Jews were an integral part of the larger, increasingly modernized society. We must also be careful about his implications that the old order of legally separated Jewish communities, with a clearly recognizable and widely respected set of legal rules and moral maxims, ‘collapsed’ with the coming of the Enlightenment and had to be replaced by a freshly created new one. The reality was arguably to a much greater degree characterized by gradual evolution of ideas and ever-renewed series of specific ad hoc negotiations with the non-Jewish government authorities, both on the local and state level. More recent studies of Jewish public discourse (and especially communal autonomy) in the early modern period tend to emphasize a more gradual and pragmatic process of adaptation and accommodation of old structures to new circumstances. A powerful new impulse for a critical scholarly study of Jewish communal institution in this era is Andreas Gotzmann’s Jüdische Autonomie in der frühen Neuzeit, in which the author advocates a new approach to relevant sources, focusing on continual development and reassessment of social structures and hierarchies within Jewish communities, which enabled its members to find a functioning modus vivendi with the emerging early modern states.14 Nevertheless, the notion of the long ‘end of the Middle Ages’ does retain its usefulness and merits, because it rightly reflects the continuing importance and legal power of the premodern institutions whose authority evolved during the Middle Ages. Likewise, the continuity of this importance was dependent on the continuing existence of a certain model of the relations between Jews and the majority, which

13 See Katz, Tradition. 14 Andreas Gotzmann, Jüdische Autonomie in der frühen Neuzeit. Recht und Gemeinschaft im deutschen Judentum (Göttingen: Wallstein, 2008). See especially the Introduction (pp. 6–22), where the author explains his methodology and offers a critical assessment of the research thus far in the field.

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was established in the Middle Ages and retained throughout the early modern period. However, we define the changes that affected the European and Mediterranean Jewry in the Enlightenment era, the fact remains that the legal power of Jewish autonomous communal councils and their takkanot no longer had a place in a world where Jews started to be systematically incorporated into a newly equalized, civic society. For our purposes, it means that the ‘long end of the Middle Ages’ was an era which produced a textual medium that enables us to consider the impacts of the Jews’ premodern legal status on the Jewish-Jewish encounters caused by the Europe-wide migrations throughout Europe between the fourteenth and seventeenth centuries.

The Sephardic Immigrants in Late Medieval Morocco The first sample text, which will enable us to consider the approaches of the Jewish communal leaders to their coreligionists of a different cultural background, will take us out of the geographical reaches of Europe itself, but is very closely connected to the political and cultural history of European Jewry at one of the crucial moments of the late Middle Ages. The following is an excerpt from the book of communal takkanot created by the members of the émigré Sephardic community in the Maghreb, on the north-western shore of Africa in the territory of today’s Morocco. The adjective Sephardic can sometimes be used rather broadly, as for example in modern Israeli usage it often denotes almost all Jews of non-Ashkenazi extraction. However, it is important to emphasize the original sense of the term, denoting exclusively the Jewish community which evolved in the Iberian Peninsula (‘Sepharad’ in Hebrew) after the Muslim conquest of 711 and whose descendants dispersed around the Mediterranean during the later Middle Ages, with the emigration wave culminating after the final expulsions of all Jews from Spain and Portugal at the close of the fifteenth century. The example I am going to examine was written in May of 1494, barely two years after all the Jews of Spain were unconditionally ordered to leave. This event was a culmination of a lengthy process of mounting oppression of the once prominent Jewish community in ‘Reconquista’ Spain which set into motion a mighty emigration wave of Jewish refugees, who created a network of exile communities around the Mediterranean and beyond. What sets the North African Sephardic émigrés apart from other Jewish refugees from other areas of medieval and early modern Europe is that they came to their new homeland as representatives of the highly advanced Jewish culture of the old ‘Sepharad’ and, though ‘strangers in the House of Israel’, were perceived as such by the members of the local Arab-speaking Jewish community, which opened the way for their eventual cultural hegemony in their new home as well. The following text comes from the book of communal takkanot of the Sephardic Jewish community in Fez, the most important centre of the Sephardic settlement in Morocco. The extant text is based on the collection put together at the end of the seventeenth century by the local rabbis and communal leaders descended from the first generations of the Sephardic immigrants and subsequently revised and amended in the eighteenth. The cited text follows the critical edition, published in

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Israel in 1990.15 The collection contains statutes issued between 1494 and 1753 and its linguistic profile reflects the gradual assimilation of the Sephardic community into its new environment. Whereas all of the documents are written in Hebrew, the oldest are accompanied also by Spanish translations or summaries (in Hebrew characters), while later on the translations are omitted and, in contrast, towards the end of the seventeenth century are replaced by Judeo-Arabic renditions. The following ordinance, recorded both in Hebrew and in Spanish with numerous Hebrew loanwords (the Spanish component of the second paragraph is marked by italics), was issued on the 12 Sivan of the Jewish year 5294/ 17 May 149416 and sets the rules under which betrothals and marriages may be conducted in the community: :‫תיקנו חכמינו הקדושים זכרונם לברכה‬ ‫ ובתוכם חכם‬.‫ כי אם דווקא במניין עשרה‬,‫ששום בר ישראל לא יקדש לשום בת ישראל‬ ‫ ואם יהיה באופן‬.‫ או דיין מדייני העיר; וכן בכניסתם לחופה‬,‫מחכמי העיר המפרעים מהקהל‬ .‫ מפקיעין אותם הקידושין‬,‫אחר מעתה‬ ‫ סאלב’ו‬,‫ קי נינגון בר ישראל נון סיאה מקדש אנינגונא בת ישראל‬,‫פרימיראמינטי אורדינארון‬ ‫ או דיין מדייני העיר; וכן‬,‫ ובתוכם חכם מחכמי העיר דילוש אשאלרייאדוס‬,‫במניין עשרה‬ .‫בכניסתם לחופה; אין אוטרה מאנירא מעתה אנו מפקיעין לוס טאליס קידושין‬ (Our holy sages [i.e. rabbis] of blessed memory decreed: That no son of Israel shall be betrothed to any daughter of Israel, unless a quorum of ten is present, among them one of the town’s rabbis, namely one of the most eminent ones the community possesses, or one of the town’s rabbinic judges. The same shall apply for the couple’s admission to the wedding canopy. Should that from now on happen in any other manner, such a betrothal shall be nullified).17 On the surface, this text does not refer to any Jewish-Jewish encounter or even conflict, and even less so any possibility that the authors of this statute viewed their Moroccan Jewish neighbours as a potential ‘other’. However, when we ponder the implications of this ‘takkanah’, we see that the statutes’ requirements go beyond the strict word of the ‘halakha’, which demands simply the presence of two witnesses for a marriage contract to be valid. It is therefore eminently plausible that the statute’s agenda is to protect the Sephardic community’s control over the choice of life partners among its younger generation, thus keeping a wary eye on the relations with the native community, which may have been seen as less than reliable in properly observing the particularities of religious law. The extension of the number of witnesses to ten is known from other parts of the Mediterranean world (as we shall see below) and cannot be considered a Sephardic speciality, but it always occurs in circumstances in which the community’s leaders are afraid of improper relations between the young

15 Sefer Hataqanot: Spanish and Portuguese Jews in Morocco (1492–1753), ed. by Shalom Bar Asher ( Jerusalem: Academon, 1990). 16 The Christian date is given according to the Julian calendar, since the Gregorian calendar reform occurred only in the late sixteenth century. 17 Sefer Hataqanot, ed. by Bar Asher, p. 48.

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couple before the actual wedding and/or when there are implicit or explicit fears that unwelcome outside elements could penetrate the community and make the control over its affairs difficult for its leaders. The cited text comes from the first section of the Fez book of takkanot, which contains an interesting later testimony both to the continuing institutional distinction between the local and the immigrant Jewish communities, and to their growing closeness. A later statute, agreed by fourteen representatives of the Sephardic community on 14 March 1535, contains a marginal remark by the community’s scribe, Abraham Valense,18 who states that after securing the official agreement of the rabbis from the five ‘synagogues of the Expelled’ (i.e. Sephardic Jews) he also went to the ‘synagogue of the local residents’ and duly obtained the approval of its own rabbi.19 In the text, both communities are referred to with the conventional Hebrew eulogy ‘may their Rock protect them and grant them long life’, which suggests smooth and friendly relations, which aim to enable peaceful coexistence of the two Jewish communities that nevertheless maintain their distinct identities. That the regulation of ten witnesses necessary for a proper celebration of marriage could have a far less benign background, and could have laid bare the underlying tensions between the Jewish community’s mainstream and ‘strangers’ living in its midst, is revealed by another collection, produced in a different Jewish community, from which I am going to cite.

Jewish Communal Elders in Venetian Crete and the Problem of ‘those who Have Come Recently’ The community in question is Candia, the capital of Crete during the time when the island was ruled by the Venetian Republic (1211–1669), and the communal ordinances and other documents concerning the community’s administration are preserved in a collection called Takkanot Kandiyah,20 which documents the proceedings of the community’s executive council through most of the Venetian era. The statutes concern a wide variety of topics from all areas of the everyday and public life in the Candiot Jewish community, which contained Jews of many cultural backgrounds, reflecting the island’s strategic position in the midst of the Eastern Mediterranean commercial crossroads. The 121 texts contained in Takkanot Kandiyah, issued between 1228 and 1583, address a wide variety of issues from all areas of private and public life, concerning

18 Thus I transcribe the Hebrew ‫אברהם בלנסי‬, a name which seems to allude to Abraham’s family’s origins in Valencia. 19 Sefer Hataqanot, ed. by Bar Asher, pp. 62–63. 20 The one extant manuscript of the collection is deposited in the Jewish National and University library in Jerusalem as MS Heb 28°7203. For a critical edition, see Statuta Iudaeorum Candiae eorumque memorabilia, ed. by Elias S. Artom and Umbertus M. D. Cassuto ( Jerusalem: Mekize Nirdamim, 1943). The following citations from Takkanot Kandiyah (TK) refer to the chapters and lines of this critical edition.

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religious practices, economic activities of the community’s members, their mutual relations as well as their dealings with their Christian neighbours and (to a certain degree) with the Venetian government authorities. For our purposes, it is important to note that the ordinances in Takkanot Kandiyah contain not only general rules and instructions for proper conduct, but very often react to specific incidents and give a great deal of background information. A large number of such incidents concern encounters between the inhabitants of the Candiot community with Jews who came from afar to live there. From the actual contents of such statutes and, crucially, also from the tone in which they are written and the occasional direct comments we may reconstruct how the community’s establishment perceived the newcomers’ influence on law and order in the community, and how this perception evolved between the late fourteenth and the late sixteenth centuries. The majority of the Candiot Jews was of the Romaniot heritage, belonging to the indigenous Jewish population, settled in the Greek cultural area since Late Antiquity, and were to a high degree adapted to Greek culture, speaking Greek among themselves. However, there is ample evidence in Takkanot Kandiyah and other sources that Jews from other cultural areas were present in the city from the thirteenth century on. Some of the individual members mentioned in Takkanot Kandiyah have names indicating their Italian, Ashkenazi, Middle-Eastern, or Sephardic origin. The lastly named group especially became an increasingly prominent presence in Candia, hugely increased by the worsening persecutions of Jews in Spain after 1391 and especially after the expulsions of 1492/1496. Nevertheless, it seems that for most of the Venetian period, the Romaniot rite and culture remained the norm.21 To illustrate how the challenges of inner diversity are reflected in one of the most extensive collections of communal takkanot, I will cite two incidents recorded in Takkanot Kandiyah in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Both show the community’s councillors acting as self-appointed moderators of the relations between Jews of different cultural backgrounds. The Jewish elders saw it as their natural duty to be the speakers of their people as well as guardians of the community’s religious and moral well-being, as perceived by them. The selected texts will show, on the one hand, an undeniable air of suspicion and mistrust towards the ‘Jewish strangers’, but, on the other hand, a pragmatic acceptance of their presence as a reality with which the community must come to terms. The former example forms a direct link with the situation we observed in the Fez community as it concerns intermarriages between ‘local Jews’ and ‘outsiders’, viewed clearly as a most sensitive and potentially dangerous issue. In the latter case, on the other hand, the authors of the statutes actively intercede on behalf of the newcomers, protecting them against ridicule and discrimination by the indigenous Candiot Jews.22 21 For more details on the composition of the Candiot Jewish community, see Simon Marcus, ‘The Composition of the Jewish Population in Crete during the Venetian Rule’, Sinai, 60 (1967), 63–76 [in Hebrew]. 22 I have described the inner tensions in the Candiot community in more detail in Martin Borýsek, ‘The Jews of Venetian Candia: The Challenges of External Influences and Internal Diversity as Reflected in Takkanot Kandiyah’, Al-Masāq, 26 (2014), 241–66.

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In many of the communal takkanot, issued in Candia from the late fourteenth century onwards, we find remarks that reprehensible practices (such as negligent attendance of Sabbath services or less than rigorous observation of the laws of ‘kashrut’ in the meat trade) are especially common among ‘those who have come recently’ (‫)חדשים מקרוב באו‬, thus reflecting a general mistrust towards them and perhaps also some level of institutionalized prejudice. On the other hand, there is relatively little evidence of similar mistrust or actively ‘othering’ approach to the Jews’ Greek neighbours, who are usually mentioned only in passing as an inevitable component of everyday life that is nevertheless quite easy to ignore. This approach can be explained by the statutes’ role in the community’s life, which is to comment on and regulate internal Jewish affairs. Among the few documents that do imply (or openly state) contentious relations with the Christian Greeks are statutes concerning the consumption of wine suspected of being made ritually impure by Christian wine traders23 or, most prominently, the only chapter of the collection which depicts an outright violent confrontation between the city’s Jews and Christians in June 1538.24 Nevertheless, the most frequent addressees of the communal councillors’ distrustful remarks are Jewish newcomers, seen as a potentially disruptive element threatening the community’s way of life. Apart from these remarks, Takkanot Kandiyah contains also a number of accounts of specific incidents that provoked the community’s leaders to a response in the form of a communal statute, which introduced new rules reacting to what was seen as unacceptable behaviour and describing in full details the events which moved them to action. Such events often involved Jews from foreign countries. A case concerning a Sephardi Jew named Abraham Tofer provides a telling illustration of behaviour that provoked the communal leaders’ wrath. The statute, recorded in December 1439 by the community’s then leader Jeremiah Capsali, attacks Tofer, a recent immigrant without any relatives in Candia, for an unlawful attempt to marry a Candiot girl called Kali (whose Greek name identifies here as a part of the ‘indigenous’ community) despite the fact that she had already been engaged to another man three years before. Capsali informs about a committee which he swiftly summoned to investigate the matter.25 The subsequent enquiry found the betrothal null and void and declared any witnesses Tofer may have had unreliable. Kali is released from the alleged union with the Sephardic Jew and declared free to marry, presumably her original fiancé, without the need of a divorce certificate.26 At face level, this seems like a relatively routine matter of a municipal authority intervening in a rather difficult family dispute. However, the decree betrays an apparent a priori bias against Tofer, who is called ‘this worthless man’ (‫)הזה לעילבה שיאה‬27 and from the very beginning is presented as a disruptive element and a danger to the established order. However, beyond forbidding Tofer from Kali’s presence, the



23 The oldest among them is TK XXXIII from March 1363. 24 See TK XCIX written in June 1541, three years after the intended pogrom. 25 TK LXXVI, 15. 26 TK LXXVI, 15. 27 TK LXXVI, 36.

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decree does not seek to punish him further. The matter is mentioned once again, in a later summary of past memorable deeds in the Candiot Jewish community, written in the sixteenth century by Jeremiah Capsali’s descendant Elijah. Here it is stated that Tofer approached the Venetian governer’s office in an attempt to have his illicit marriage approved by the state’s authorities, but that this request was denied thanks to Jeremiah Capsali’s intervention.28 Once again, we cannot say with certainty what lies under the surface of these revealed facts. Was this a measured and timely action protecting a young woman from an unwanted marriage with a truly unworthy partner? Could that be, on the contrary, a case of an attempted elopement? Did Kali actually want to marry Tofer, possibly to rid herself of the previous fiancé? Was it her parents who initiated the public inquiry (since the decree says that the affair was announced to the councillors by ‘a certain woman’, there is room for speculation as to the precise manner in which it caught the public attention)? Did Tofer’s foreign origin prejudice the community’s officials against him, and were his witnesses disregarded unjustly? None of these questions is asked explicitly in the decree, let alone answered, but the community’s collective displeasure over the incident, as the author of the decree wishes to convey it to the readers, is beyond doubt. We may never know the exact nature of the affair, but we do know what immediate effect it had for the Candiot Jewish community. The decree declares that in the future ten witnesses shall be required for marriage and betrothals to be valid, thus making the same arrangement we witnessed in the Fez community, where it was used by the Sephards strengthening their community’s control over possible external interventions. It is therefore obvious that the communal council in Candia did feel the need to increase its power to decide who entered into marriage and it is not difficult to conclude that this need was indeed motivated by the uneasiness about the Jewish newcomers and their activities in the host community. On the other hand, the decree does not pronounce any ban of such ‘mixed’ marriages, nor does it declare them undesirable. All in all, we witness here an attempt to come to terms with a reality which in the early fifteenth century meant an increased presence of Jewish migrants, who may not have been accepted without reservations, but were accepted nevertheless.29 The second case from the Venetian Candia which I will cite here shows the suspicions and mistrust of Jewish newcomers, again of Sephardic extraction, and the communal authorities’ approach to such sentiments in yet another light. The three documents we shall consider were written in the late 1560s and concern the fate of the ‘anusim’ refugees newly arrived in Candia. ‘Anusim’ (Hebrew for ‘the coerced’) or ‘conversos’ were Spanish and Portuguese Jews who under the growing anti-Jewish repressions during the fifteenth century were forcedly converted to Christianity, as

28 TK XLVI, 21–24. 29 For a more general discussion of the early waves of Sephardic immigration to Crete, see Rena Lauer, ‘Cretan Jews and the First Sephardic Encounter in the Fifteenth Century’, Mediterranean Historical Review, 27 (2012), 129–40.

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well as their descendants who continued to live in the original homeland after the expulsions of 1492/1496. They soon began to be seen as a distinct community by the Christian majority, suspected as possible ‘Judaisers’ and indeed, they often practised Judaism in secret. During the sixteenth century they became the target of increasing hostility and many of them were forced to exile, where they usually openly returned to Judaism and sought to join local Jewish communities. Those, in their turn, were often hesitant to embrace the re-converted Jews and viewed their religious sincerity with suspicion not dissimilar to that which the ‘anusim’ had suffered by their Christian neighbours in Spain (without the associate threat of violent persecution). The three documents in Takkanot Kandiyah, a communal statute issued in Candia probably in 1568 and two Rabbinic responsa which support it, show how tumultuous the reaction of the host Jewish community could be, and how its leaders might react to the ensuing conflict. We learn from the statute that the refugees had been met with enmity by many in the community and routinely called ‘meshumadim’, a highly offensive term which brands the converted Jews as willing apostates, rather than victims of religious persecution.30 In stark contrast to the statute concerning Abraham Tofer, where the community’s representatives show a less than enthusiastic approach to the immigrants, in the 1560s decree they put their support unequivocally behind the refugees. Supported by the Rabbinic letters, the communal statute uncompromisingly declares such behaviour unacceptable and threatens excommunication to all who continue this practice. Both letters, sent to Candia from Egypt and (probably) the Land of Israel, express the highest indignation over the situation and condemn the wrongdoers as ‘wicked men and sinners in the eyes of the Lord, those who sow discord in the midst of our people’.31 Accordingly, the communal statute forbids the continued use of the offensive words under the harsh penalty of excommunication: ‫ארור הוא בלילה‬, ‫ארור הוא ביום‬, ‫בעולם הזה ובעולם הבא‬, ‫יהיה מוחרם ומנודה לשמים ולבריות‬ .‫ומחה ה ‘את שמו מתחת השמים‬, ‫והבדילו ה ‘לרעה מכל שבטי ישראל‬, ‫לא יאבה ה ‘סלוח לו‬, ([Any transgressor] shall be expelled and excluded from Heaven and from the fellowship of Creation, in this world and in the world to come, and a curse shall be upon him day and night. May the Lord not vouchsafe to forgive him, but banish him from all tribes of Israel in payment for his evil deeds, and may He erase the transgressor’s name from the face of the Earth).32 What may on the surface appear as an overreaction to the use of somewhat stronger language is in fact an expression of the deepest concern for preserving the social fabric of the community so that it may fulfil one of its basic functions, i.e. to provide basic security for practising Jewish faith. The statute’s authors clearly show that they see themselves as the natural protectors of those who seek refuge in order to lead Jewish lives. We should by no means romanticize the authors’ actions or overlook the fact that here, too, a strong pragmatic element is present: a community torn by violent 30 See TK CXII–CXIV. 31 TK CXIV, 5–6: ‫אנשים רעים וחטאים לה' מאוד מכרעי עמנו‬. 32 TK CXIV, 11–13.

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internal struggles with presumably a significant section of its members effectively ostracized is undoubtedly far more difficult to manage than one in which a basic level of calm and unity is secured. It is also telling that the penalty of excommunication is here used as a prospective sanction, not a punishment for offences already committed, and the community’s leaders show more interest in improvement of the situation than in retribution. These sixteenth-century documents show persuasively that despite a certain level of protectionism and conservative preference for the established communal order which had traditionally formed part of the Candiot community’s ethos, its leaders were prepared to go against the current of popular sentiments when they deemed it their moral, religious, and political duty.

‘The Other Holy Community’ in Venetian Corfu I shall end this survey of Jewish communal takkanot from the late medieval and early modern Mediterranean by returning to the text from the island of Corfu, which I cited at the very beginning, to give an example of the communal takkanot’s potential to inform us about the mutual rivalries and feeling of strangeness that could arise among various Jewish communities living side by side. Whereas the Candiot statutes were occupied with the wrongdoing of foreign individuals, in Corfu, likewise a Greek island controlled by the Venetian Republic, we witnessed what appears to be a more large-scale and possibly long-term disagreement between two whole communities. The short set of Corfiot statutes from spring 1642 was issued, as we saw, by the leaders of the island’s Italian-speaking community, but with the aspiration to speak for the city’s Jewish population as a whole. The preserved text contains twelve relatively short decrees, half of which concern particularities of marital arrangements, with a heavy emphasis on the transparency of marriage arrangements and the conduct of engaged couples before the marriage. This specific problem is dealt with in some detail, and relative strictness, forbidding betrothed couples from visiting each other’s house or, in the last month before the marriage, even from meeting unaccompanied at any place. A later item pronounces a ban against Jewish women hiring themselves out as professional mourners at Jewish or Christian funerals. There are also more general arrangements, for example exhorting women to dress modestly and ‘not in the Gentile fashion’,33 and encouraging the terminally ill to confess their sins before the hour of their death comes. As we saw in the above cited excerpt from the takkanot’s introduction, the text reveals internal frictions within the community, the ambitions and modus operandi of the community’s leaders and their approach to the state authorities. When the Italian Jewish leaders approached the elders of the Romaniot Jews on the island, they were surprised by the ‘other community’s’, as they were pleased to call it, refusal to accept

33 The Hebrew expression ‫( םיוגה גהנמכ‬lit. ‘as is the custom of the nations’) uses the traditional reference to non-Jews, belonging to the ‘nations of the Earth’, as opposed to the sons of Israel.

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the proposed takkanot as binding. The reaction of the Italian community’s leaders shows their self-confident persuasion that it is they who were entitled to speak and act for the island’s Jewry as a whole. Accordingly, they show a keen sense of practical political dealings with those in power. Having met with the refusal of the ‘other’, or Greek, community to join them in a co-ordinate action, the elders turned directly to the Venetian authorities: ‫כשמענו את הדבר הזה קמנו ונתעודד כיד ה’ הטובה עלינו להלוך ולילות אילוסאריסימו‬ ‫ריגימנטו יר”ה ולהתנפל לפניהם יתפייסו לכתוב ולחתום תית שולי ההסכמה […] כדי להקים‬ ‫[…] ההסכמה הקדומה מחודשת כדי שיהיה לה כח רשות‬ (Having heard that, we stirred ourselves, and, the good hand of the Lord laying upon us, turned to the ‘illustrissimo regimento’, hastened to fall upon our faces before them and persuade them to give a written and sealed affirmation to the tenor of this statute, to give the ancient ordinance authority).34 Two interesting points may be gleaned from this brief paragraph. Firstly, the set of decrees claims to be a renewal of an ‘ancient’ legal arrangement, thus making a claim for legitimacy by renewing an implicitly better state of affairs, irrespective of the fact that some of the specific decrees are clearly immediate reactions to specific problems bothering the community at the time of writing (a conservative argument often found in other communal takkanot as well). Secondly, we see that, when attempts to achieve an agreement on a policy binding for the whole community, the Italian Jewish community did not hesitate to take a unilateral step and approach the Venetian administration of Corfu directly, perhaps taking advantage of their linguistic proximity and better knowledge of the ‘Italian ways’. Although the text does not explicitly mention whether their wish was granted, it is plausible to assume it was, because many of the provisions given in the Corfiot takkanot (such as marrying without a sufficient number of witnesses) are made punishable not only by public naming and shaming of the culprit or, in extreme cases, excommunication, but also by financial sanctions, which in the context of Venetian Republic the Jewish community could hardly impose without the consent of the government. It would be a fruitful topic for a further research to examine the reasons why the Italian-speaking community in Corfu seems to have dominated over the Romaniots (if it indeed was the case, as our text seems to suggest), while in Crete the Graecophone Jews remained throughout the Venetian period the cultural hegemon of the community, to whose customs and language the Jewish newcomers of other traditions seem to have assimilated. In any case, the difference in situations in both Venetian possessions shows us that no segment of the Jewish community had a guaranteed privileged position or was immune to the danger of becoming the ‘internal other’ in the eyes of their fellow Jews, simply because it belonged to a specific cultural tradition.

34 Finkelstein, Jewish Self-Government, p. 316.

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Conclusion A shared motif in the three sets of communal ordinances we examined is the a priori wariness demonstrated by the established, culturally advanced Jewish community towards their Jewish neighbours of a different background, which, however, was not necessarily tantamount to open hostility. When we consider the Sephardic immigrants in the late fifteenth-century Morocco, the indigenous Greek-speaking community in Crete, or the Italian community in seventeenth-century Corfu, we observe that their leaders were acutely aware that the mixed character of the Jewish population presented them with a challenge regarding the internal unity of their communities and preserving the communal identity (as the leaders understood it). In this article, I tried to present the genre of takkanot ha-kahal as an historical source with great potential to shed new light on the functioning of the early modern Jewish communal autonomy. The three sets of communal takkanot from various areas of the Mediterranean world offer us an insight into the various impacts that inner diversity had on the social and religious life in the Jewish communities. The communal leaders could use the medium of takkanot ha-kahal as a means of reinforcing the institutional distinctness of the immigrant community from the older Jewish population, without openly antagonizing it, as the Moroccan example shows. On the other hand, the Cretan texts concerning Abraham Tofer and other ‘newcomers who know not our ways’ shows that open antagonism, too, had its place among the tools Jewish elders used to enhance the social cohesion in their community, as it showed the ‘established’ Jewish population the perceived worth of their shared identity. However, this antagonism did know its boundaries, and we saw that the Cretan elders could intervene with great fervour on behalf of ‘the other Jews’, if they sensed that the newcomers had become the target of unacceptable discrimination, as was the case of the ‘anusim’ immigrants to Crete. In such cases, the elders’ allegiance to the unity of the people of Israel, and sense of duty towards the newcomers’ physical and spiritual well-being, overweighed the immediate discomfort caused by their presence in the midst of the indigenous community. Lastly, the cited texts show us also the potential of the takkanot ha-kahal texts to inform us about details of political struggles between various fractions of communal representatives, in which some of the actors were able and prepared to exploit their own cultural affinity with the Christian government, using ‘othering’ strategies not only towards individuals, but a whole community, as it happened in Venetian-ruled Corfu. As the editors of the present volume argue in the introductory paper, trying to tackle the elusive notion of ‘Otherness’ when applied to premodern realities is a difficult business. They rightly point out that constituting ‘the Other’ in the eyes of the majority society is not so much a matter of ‘objective reality’ but rather a role to which one is assigned. The texts discussed in this paper provide us with a valuable opportunity to evaluate what ‘Otherness’ could mean for a particular minority within the medieval and early modern society that so often has been the target of ‘othering’ strategies by others. The cited texts, however, show a more nuanced

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and multi-layered reality, a world in which the various Jewish communities appear as dynamic, inwardly diverse and hierarchically structured societies that not only become ‘Others for the others’ but can (and perhaps must) just as readily identify ‘Others of their own’, that is, among themselves. As my texts testify, these ‘Others’ can be found not only in the non-Jewish world, but within the House of Israel itself — thus pointing out the importance of bearing in mind the possibility of the term being related to the ‘known Others’ as well as the ‘unknown’. Furthermore, ‘othering’ can far too easily be confused with social marginalization of the weaker by the stronger members. While this can, of course, be the case also in the encounter with the ‘inner Other’ within Jewish society, we have witnessed the opposite in the shape of the protection of the forcedly baptized Sephardic refugees in Crete by the local Jewish elites. The texts from Corfu and Maghreb also showed a rather different facet of coming to terms with the ‘Other’ than the familiar clash between a privileged ‘Self ’ and a disadvantaged ‘Other’. What we witness in both cases is a negotiation between two segments of Jewish population, approaching the other as a power to be reckoned with, not necessarily hostile but nevertheless a potential source of uneasiness. The setting of these internal encounters within a minority society presents us with new challenges which offer possible new insight into hitherto understudied dimensions of ‘Otherness’ in the Middle Ages. It is my hope to have shown that using one type of such specifically Jewish texts, such as the communal takkanot, has revealed interesting and insightful information about the issues that could become major concerns within the community, and specifically on how those in the position of authority in the Jewish community related to the practical and moral dimensions of their office vis-à󠅛-vis Jews of a different cultural and/or linguistic background. We have seen that the texts related to the management of Jewish communities can have much to say about the frequently overlooked topic of the inner diversity within the Jewish community and the mutual encounter of its various sections, caused by historical events that led them to share new homes alongside one another.

Works Cited Manuscripts and Archival Sources Jerusalem, Jewish National and University Library, MS Heb 28°7203 Primary Sources Sefer Hataqanot: Spanish and Portuguese Jews in Morocco (1492–1753), ed. by Shalom Bar Asher ( Jerusalem: Academon, 1990) TK: Statuta Iudaeorum Candiae eorumque memorabilia, ed. by Elias S. Artom and Umbertus M. D. Cassuto ( Jerusalem: Mekize Nirdamim, 1943)

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Secondary Works Baron, Salo W., ‘Ghetto and Emancipation’, in The Menorah Treasury, ed. by Leo W. Schwarz (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1964), pp. 50–63 Borýsek, Martin, ‘The Jews of Venetian Candia: The Challenges of External Influences and Internal Diversity as Reflected in Takkanot Kandiyah’, Al-Masāq, 26 (2014), 241–66 Chazan, Robert, The Jews of Medieval Western Christendom 1000–1500 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006) Elon, Menachem, The Principles of Jewish Law ( Jerusalem: Encyclopaedia Judaica, 1975) Elukin, Jonathan, Living Together, Living Apart: Rethinking Jewish-Christian Relation in the Middle Ages (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2007) Finkelstein, Louis, Jewish Self-Government in the Middle Ages (New York: Philipp Feldman, 1964) Gotzmann, Andreas, Jüdische Autonomie in der frühen Neuzeit. Recht und Gemeinschaft im deutschen Judentum (Göttingen: Wallstein, 2008) Hundert, Gershon David, The Jews in a Polish Private Town: The Case of Opatów in the Eighteenth Century (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 1991) Katz, Jacob, Tradition and Crisis: Jewish Society at the End of the Middle Ages (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2000) Lauer, Rena, ‘Cretan Jews and the First Sephardic Encounter in the Fifteenth Century’, Mediterranean Historical Review, 27 (2012), 129–40 Lorberbaum, Menachem, Politics and the Limits of Law: Secularizing the Political in Medieval Jewish Thought (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2001) Marcus, Simon, ‘The Composition of the Jewish Population in Crete during the Venetian Rule’, Sinai, 60 (1967), 63–76 [in Hebrew] Menocal, María Rosa, The Ornament of the World: How Muslims, Jews and Christians Created a Culture of Tolerance in Medieval Spain (Boston: Little, Brown, 2002) Nachalon, Aharon, The ‘kahal’ and its Enactments in the Geonic Period ( Jerusalem: The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2001) [in Hebrew] Rohde, Dorothea, Zwischen Individuum und Stadtgemeinde. Die Integration von ‘collegia’ in Hafenstädten (Mainz: Verlag Antike, 2012) Yuval, Israel, Two Nations in Your Womb: Perceptions of Jews and Christians in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages (Berkeley: California University Press, 2006) Zunz, Leopold, Etwas über Rabbinische Literatur (Berlin: Maurer, 1818)

Clemens Gantner

Between a Rock and a Hard Place? South-Italian Portrayals of Franks and Byzantines in the Ninth Century*

This contribution aims to take a closer look at important actors in the political arena in Southern Italy who were perceived as outsiders in the region. Special attention will be given to Emperor Louis II of Italy (840–875) and his Byzantine counterpart Basil I (867–886), who were rather prominent figures in the historiographical accounts of the day. The article will not merely show the depiction of these Others in the texts. It will rather examine how the dynamic concepts of Othering and Sameing worked in them. The terminology employed here has been developed in the context of postcolonial studies and a short introduction is necessary in order to explain how it is applied in the particular case here.

Othering and Sameing as Concepts for Medieval Studies Postcolonial theory is still a relatively young theory: though its influences go back to early twentieth-century philosophical currents, its actual origin was the work of Edward W. Said, the world-famous Palestinian-American scholar.1 In the wake of his work, Gayatri Spivak2 and Homi K. Bhabha3 have also contributed considerably to the development of this theoretical approach. It is certainly no coincidence that

* I have received considerable advice and input for this contribution by Walter Pohl, Kordula Wolf and Sophie Gruber. The article also incorporates feedback at the Leeds IMC 2017 by Luigi Andrea Berto and Rosamond McKitterick. Many thanks to all of them. 1 Edward Said, Orientalism (London: Penguin, 2003, 1st edn 1978). 2 Most well-known work: Gayatri C. Spivak, ‘Can the Subaltern Speak?’, in Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture, ed. by Cary Nelson and Lawrence Grossberg (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1988), pp. 271–313. 3 Homi K. Bhabha, The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994). His most important input to research were probably his concepts of ‘mimicry’ (Bhabha, The Location of Culture, pp. 121–31) and ‘hybridity’ (Bhabha, The Location of Culture, pp. 112–14). Clemens Gantner  •  ([email protected]) works as a postdoctoral researcher at the Institute for Medieval Research of the Austrian Academy of Sciences in Vienna. His research is focused on Carolingian Italy and cultural contact around the Mediterranean. ‘Otherness’ in the Middle Ages, ed. by Hans-Werner Goetz and Ian Wood, IMR 25 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2021), pp. 93–115 © FHG10.1484/M.IMR-EB.5.123587

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all these key researchers in postcolonial studies did most of their scholarly work at the interactions of literature theory and philosophy, not least influenced by Marxist theory — Antonio Gramsci’s work was often used.4 Said’s approach, especially, has received some spirited criticism, opposition, and even refutation — and some of the criticism is certainly justified.5 Notwithstanding, the theory has been taken up by historians — and even in Medieval Studies.6 In our field, postcolonial approaches are used for various purposes, but most commonly with the goal of shedding light on interactions between in-groups and out-groups, hence about various forms of the Other. And it is precisely in this field where the approaches of some postcolonial thinkers are very helpful indeed. This contribution will draw upon Bhabha’s ideas on ambivalence and hybridity, but even more upon Spivak’s theory of ‘Othering’ and its subsequently developed counterpart ‘Sameing’. It has to be conceded, however, that Spivak’s approaches do not form the centre of her research interest but can rather be seen as by-products in her bigger scheme.7 All these ideas need to be adapted when applied in this contribution to early medieval studies.8 The biggest problem with the use of postcolonial issues in Medieval Studies lies already in the core elements of our modern models: the theory was developed against the background of strong (western/European/etc) dominating forces, often seen as imperial as in the British Empire, opposed to colonized people. Even though Spivak and Bhabha, especially, have always cautioned their readers against this ‘bipolar’ model,9 many historians have nevertheless actively sought out cases where comparable relationships can be found, or, more often, attempted to construct such relations.10 The sources from the Middle Ages, however, more often than not prevent such a comparison, especially with the British Empire as is frequently done. These realities were far more complex, with a more equal distribution of power resources. Central Italy, for example, was the home of the former colonizing culture for most of the Mediterranean area. On the other hand, large parts of the peninsula were dominated at least in a cultural sense by the new centre of the Roman Empire in

4 Antonio Gramsci, Quaderni del carcere. Edizione critica dell’Istituto Gramsci, ed. by V. Gerratana, Collana NUE, 164, 4 vols (Torino: Enaudi, 1975). 5 See for example the criticism regarding detail by Daniel Martin Varisco, Reading Orientalism: Said and the Unsaid (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2007). Consider also the long bitter and publicly fought controversy between Said and the Princeton Orientalist Bernard Lewis. 6 See the journal ‘Postmedieval’, or, for example, the contributions to The Postcolonial Middle Ages, ed. by Jeffrey Jerome Cohen (New York: Palgrave, 2000). 7 See the pages on Spivak in Maria Do Mar Castro-Varela and Nikita Dhawan, Postkoloniale Theorie. Eine kritische Einführung (Bielefeld: transcript, 2015), pp. 151–218, where this part of her theory only figures on p. 164. 8 See Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, ‘Introduction: Midcolonial’, in The Postcolonial Middle Ages, ed. by Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, pp. 1–17; Clemens Gantner, Freunde Roms und Völker der Finsternis. Die päpstliche Konstruktion von Anderen im 8. und 9. Jahrhundert (Wien: Böhlau, 2014), pp. 48–57. 9 Castro-Varela and Dhawan, Postkoloniale Theorie, esp. pp. 153–55 and 222–29. 10 For excellent as well as less suitable examples, see the collected volume The Postcolonial Middle Ages, ed. by Cohen.

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the east, a development starting in the fourth century.11 Also in postcolonial theory, Bhabha has most explicitly broken up the dichotomies that are still prolonged in the use of postcolonial theory by medievalists and historians in general. There is no absolute colonial power and subsequently no absolute colonized role in his theory. Rather, there is always a strong ambivalence in the attitude of both ‘sides’ towards each other, so much so that this leads to forms of ‘hybridity’ that make it impossible altogether to distinguish two clearly separated groups.12 In this contribution, I want to take a closer look less at the status of otherness but rather at the dynamic process of ‘Othering’, in which the perception of others is one facet among many. Admittedly, as in all approaches developed in the postcolonial framework, ‘Othering’, too, has first and foremost colonial and postcolonial modern societies in its focus,13 which means that the basic concept needs to be adapted to the Middle Ages. For our subject, we must define two modes or representations of otherness in our sources: 1. the Others, as they were ‘really’ perceived by our authors and their environment and how they were interpreted using the tools at hand — mostly older texts, religious, historiographical and ethnographical, as well as personal knowledge; 2. the purposeful construction and manipulation of the image from number 1, directly by our authors or the people working with their text. Both categories are not easy to distinguish and they are not mutually exclusive. The second category proves to be the easier one to handle analytically. This article accordingly focusses on this second form, which can again be divided into two phenomena: 2a. Othering: Alterity is emphasized, puffed up or, in the most extreme case, invented. It is in any case employed purposefully, though the goal varies. In many cases it will be employed to estrange an ‘Other’, a family, a kin group or a ‘gens’. In other cases, it may mainly serve a narrative purpose, or be employed to provide an ‘I’ or ‘We’ with a stronger profile. 2b. Sameing:14 The opposite strategy. An ‘Other’ (perceived as such either by the author or his peers) is made the same by various rhetorical strategies. Differences are downplayed to create a sense of community. This is often 11 Gantner, Freunde Roms, pp. 68–70, on the example of the city of Rome. 12 See Bhabha, The Location of Culture, esp. pp. 112–14. The basis for hybridity lies in mimicry (Bhabha, The Location of Culture, p. 87) and in ambivalence (in Bhabha’s sense rather the non-existent separation between colonizers and colonized). See Castro-Varela and Dhawan, Postkoloniale Theorie, pp. 222–37. 13 Gayatri C. Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason. Towards a History of the Vanishing Present (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), p. 113. Castro-Varela and Dhawan, Postkoloniale Theorie, p. 164. 14 Terminology follows Mohja Kahf, Western Representations of the Muslim Woman: From Termagant to Odalisque (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1999), p. 53. For a concept of Sameing, albeit without using the terminology, see Andreas Ackermann, ‘Das Eigene und das Fremde: Hybridität, Vielfalt und Kulturtransfers’, in Friedrich Jäger and Jörg Rüsen, eds, Handbuch der Kulturwissenschaften, vol. iii (Stuttgart: Metzler, 2004), pp. 139–50 (p. 147: translation between cultures).

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applied in combination with Othering of an out-group in order to accentuate the alienating effect of the latter strategy.15 In both cases, it needs to be possible within the prevailing discourse to define the object of Sameing or Othering as an Other in the first place.16 In the case of Sameing, it is even necessary for an Other to be perceived as such already, otherwise the act would be futile, even unthinkable. We have to be cautious on several levels though: our medieval texts frequently do not offer a clear definition of the persons and groups they describe. Often, it is likewise not clear, for what purpose a text or a section of it was written. Many authors do not define Others as such, and their texts do not offer consistent images of these others either. The Otherness we encounter in our sources is never an absolute: a person or a group of people could be perceived as Other under one aspect, whereas they could be seen as belonging to the in-group under another.17 A good example for this might be the ‘Greeks’ living in Rome between the seventh and the ninth century: from a cultural point of view, in which language could have been the most important marker, they were clearly part of a minority in Rome. They were perceived as outsiders and, even if they had been born in Rome, as foreigners. From a theological and religio-political viewpoint, some were the most Roman of all Romans, however, and were presented as champions of Roman orthodoxy.18 This and many examples that follow show us, that Otherness — similar to its positive form, identity — be it ascribed or not, very much depended on the situation. Otherness thus had different degrees of salience — and various aspects of Otherness likewise had changing degrees of salience, always depending on the situation, context, and the viewpoint of the author.19 What an author could write then also had to fit the reigning discourse, an unwritten set of rules governing what could be said or not and even what could be thought or was unthinkable.20 Our sources also reflect this: Others are not very often clearly defined as such; they are seldom called aliens, strangers, and so on in a generalizing sense, but are rather identified by some more precise markers, most often by their ethnic or regional

15 On the above, see Gantner, Freunde Roms, pp. 48–59, esp. 56–57. 16 Gantner, Freunde Roms, p. 51. See Walter Pohl, ‘Introduction: Strategies of Identification. A Methodological Profile’, in Strategies of Identification: Ethnicity and Religion in Early Medieval Europe, ed. by Walter Pohl and Gerda Heydemann (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), pp. 1–64, esp. p. 29, for a good and concise explanation of the concept, and, of course, Michel Foucault, L’ordre du discours (Paris: Gallimard, 1971). On Foucault’s theories, see also Sophie Gruber’s contribution in this volume. 17 See the introduction to this volume for a very comprehensive range of possible forms of otherness. 18 Gantner, Freunde Roms, esp. pp. 88–100. 19 Walter Pohl, ‘Introduction: Strategies’, pp. 1–64 (esp. pp. 51–52): Pohl’s findings on ethnic identity apply in the case of otherness as well. 20 Pohl, ‘Introduction: Strategies’, p. 51: ‘A complex and, to a large extent, implicit set of rules governs the way in which members of a given society can decide, not only what is true or false, but also what is possible or impossible, what exists and what is an illusion, what can be said and what cannot, what is desirable and what should be disapproved’. See also above, n. 16.

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origin (a Frank, a Greek, or a person from Naples or Constantinople), but also by other elements of distinction, like office or status (e.g. monks and secular clergy).21 Otherness, apart from all these admittedly fuzzy characteristics, also worked on a scale. An Other could be closer or farther from a speaker’s in-group. This is the key element in the concept of Otherness employed here. It leads us back to the dynamic elements described, Othering and Sameing: only if we take degrees of Otherness into account, we see the shift brought about in and sometimes by our sources. Othering can therefore be found in our sources in every narrative, every choice of terminology, but also every act reported, which pushes an individual or a group (defined as such by the author/speaker and by the discourse he was working in) further away from the in-group on our imagined scale. Sameing would then be the opposite process, pulling an Other closer to the in-group by downplaying or negating difference.

Southern Italy in the Early Middle Ages – A Contact Zone For a long time now, Southern Italian affairs in the ninth and early tenth century have been viewed mainly under two aspects: First, many publications have dealt with the big struggle for the region between Christians and Muslims. Especially the Emirate of Bari has inspired researchers for centuries — and rightly so, given that it is a quite well-documented case in Latin and to a certain extent also in Arabic sources, even though one has to concede that other Muslim strongholds in the region, like Taranto, may have actually been more important politically and strategically.22 Second, there are the internal animosities. And indeed, the history of the region was one of constant strife between the local potentates, which is no wonder, given that these local powers consisted of up to three Lombard principalities, Benevento, Salerno, and Capua, several ex-Byzantine city-states, such as Naples, Amalfi, and Gaeta and, as we have already seen, two Muslim city-states. By the eighth century, the dominant power in the region was the Lombard duchy of Benevento. After the

21 On many of these markers of distinction see Walter Pohl, ‘Introduction’, in Strategies of Distinction: The Construction of Ethnic Communities, 300–800, ed. by Walter Pohl and Helmut Reimitz, The Transformation of the Roman World, 2 (Leiden: Brill, 1998), pp. 1–15; and Walter Pohl, ‘Telling the Difference: Signs of Ethnic Identity’, in Strategies of Distinction, ed. by Pohl and Reimitz, pp. 17–69. 22 Kordula Wolf and Klaus Herbers, eds, Southern Italy as Contact Area and Border Region during the Early Middle Ages: Religious-Cultural Heterogeneity and Competing Powers in Local, Transregional and Universal Dimensions, Beihefte zum Archiv für Kulturgeschichte, 80 (Köln: Böhlau, 2017); Kordula Wolf, ‘Auf dem Pfade Allahs. Ğihād und muslimische Migrationen auf dem süditalienischen Festland (9.–11. Jahrhundert)’, in Transkulturelle Verflechtungen im mittelalterlichen Jahrtausend. Europa, Ostasien, Afrika, ed. by Michael Borgolte and Matthias M. Tischler (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2012), pp. 120–66. Kordula Wolf and Marco di Branco, ‘Terra di conquista? I musulmani in Italia meridionale nell’epoca aghlabita (184/800–269/909)’, in ‘Guerra santa’ e conquiste islamiche nel Mediterraneo, VII–XI secolo, ed. by Marco di Branco and Kordula Wolf (Roma: Viella, 2014), pp. 125–65. See Giosuè Musca, L’emirato di Bari, 847–871 (Bari: Dedalo, 2nd edn, 1978, 1st edn 1967).

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hostile takeover of the Lombard kingdom in the north by Charlemagne and his Franks in 774 and the following years Benevento gradually became an independent ‘principality’ under its rulers Arichis II (758–787) and Grimoald III (788–806). In 817, Sico, the provincial official (‘gastaldus’) of Acerenza, launched a rebellion against Grimoald IV (806–817) and took over the principate. He ruled until 832 and was succeeded by his son Sicard. Sicard’s reign is among the better documented in the South. He was in near permanent conflict with many of his neighbouring city-states.23 The armistice called Pactum Sicardi from 836 could not stop these animosities.24 After Sicard captured Amalfi, a small but important harbour city south of Naples in 838, he fell victim to a plot organized by the Amalfitans. This caused a civil war in the principate, fought between his formerly exiled brother Siconulf, who held the second fortified city, Salerno, and one of the conspirators, Radelchis, who resided in Benevento. This war raged on for nearly a decade until the principate was divided in 848 more or less evenly between the rivals, with both sides keeping their capital city. During the war, both contenders had constantly enlisted the help of Saracen warriors, who had not only devastated the land, but also conquered two significant harbours.25 A group obviously under the control of the Aghlabid emirate in North Africa took Taranto in 842. By 847 at the latest, Bari was under the control of a group of more independent Berber military entrepreneurs.26 They had come to stay; both strongholds became an important factor in ninth-century south-Italian politics, dominated by violence throughout the century.27 Both Muslim strongholds had fallen under the control of the Byzantine Empire by the end of the century, however. The East Romans had in fact never really ceased to be a political factor in the Italian South, large parts of which showed strong influence of Greek culture anyway. The Byzantines had entertained excellent relations with Grimoald III at the beginning of the century. They had then lost their grip on the region for a few decades: we know of no significant support for the coastal cities in their war against Sicard, for example, and neither do we have any information that the Byzantines even tried to influence the Beneventan civil war that ensued, even though this would have been a good opportunity to regain influence in the region. The reason for this was quite certainly that the ruling Amorian dynasty had their hands full with their core area in the east; in 838, even their home city Amorion was 23 Barbara M. Kreutz, Before the Normans: Southern Italy in the Ninth and Tenth Centuries (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1991), pp. 18–20. 24 On the document, see Jean-Marie Martin, Guerre, accords et frontiers en Italie méridionale pendant la haut Moyen Âge. Pacta Liburia, Divisio principatus Beneventani et autres actes (Roma: École français de Rome, 2005), esp. pp. 185–200. 25 The term ‘Saracens’ will be employed in this contribution for individuals or groups described as such in medieval Latin sources. Most Saracens will have been Muslims by the ninth century. In the case of Southern Italy, Arabs and Berbers will have been present. See John V. Tolan, Saracens: Islam in the Medieval European Imagination (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002). 26 Musca, Emirato di Bari, is still the classic literature; see Kreutz, Before the Normans, pp. 20–27; see more recently Wolf, ‘Auf dem Pfade’, esp. pp. 136–44. 27 Christopher Heath, ‘Third/Ninth-century Violence: “Saracens” and Sawdān in Erchempert’s Historia’, Al-Masāq: Journal of the Medieval Mediterranean, 27.1 (2015), 24–40.

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destroyed by the Abbasid army.28 The ‘Greeks’, however, were back in the game in Southern Italy by the late 860s, and they were to remain a force to be reckoned with until the Norman conquests. In the meantime, they were forced to let another strong player take the field: the Franks. The Franks had taken over the Lombard kingdom and, with it, large parts of the Italian peninsula in 774. Charlemagne and his son and sub-king Pippin of Italy had failed to get the South under control, just as most kings of the Lombards had before them. The early decades of the ninth century saw a diminution of interest on the part of the Franks.29 It was re-ignited by a strengthened ducal family in the duchy of Spoleto. The duchy of Spoleto had traditionally been strong in the South, especially so under the Guidones, who had been instated by Emperor Lothar I, who ruled Italy for his father Louis the Pious from 817 onwards. Guy I (842–c. 859) was an important power broker in southern affairs from the beginning of his office. He may have been granted his office with that very objective, given that he was married to a sister of the late Sicard and the pretender to the throne Siconulf.30 In 844, Emperor Lothar organized a military expedition that was first directed to Rome, but quite probably also had the goal of intervening in Benevento.31 The expedition was led by the young sub-king of Italy Louis II (840–875), Lothar’s oldest son. The intervention was bought off by Siconulf, who came to Rome together with Guy of Spoleto, submitted to Louis II and paid a large amount of silver to cover due tribute for the past decades.32 However, the big expedition from the north was only postponed. In 848, in the aftermath of the 846 Saracen raid of Rome, a far more sizeable army of Franks from Italy and north of the Alps was indeed sent south. Its objective was to bring order to the region; Emperor Lothar already envisioned a division of the principate in the capitulary he issued in spring 847, which ordered a military intervention to be made in Benevento.33 The capitulary still left room for a solution by negotiation. Guy of Spoleto and several other Italian potentates were charged with the task, but 28 For the Byzantine side: J. Signes Codoñer, The Emperor Theophilos and the East, 829–842: Court and Frontier in Byzantium during the Last Phase of Iconoclasm (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2014), pp. 323–28. 29 See Rudolf Schieffer, ‘Die Politik der Karolinger in Süditalien und im Mittelmeerraum’, in Southern Italy as Contact Area, ed. by Wolf and Herbers, pp. 65–78 (pp. 65–71). 30 Tommaso di Carpegna Falconieri, ‘Guido’, in Dizionario biografico degli Italiani, vol. 61 (2004). Online: http://www.treccani.it/enciclopedia/guido_res-6761ef83–87ee-11dc-8e9d–0016357eee51_ (Dizionario-Biografico) (retrieved 11 September 2018). 31 Werner Ohnsorge, ‘Das Kaiserbündnis von 842–844 gegen die Sarazenen. Datum, Inhalt und politische Bedeutung des Kaiserbriefes aus St Denis’, Archiv für Diplomatik, Schriftengeschichte, Siegel- und Wappenkunde 1 (1955), 88–131 (pp. 126–27 with n. 139); Schieffer, ‘Die Politik’, and Clemens Gantner, ‘A King in Training? Louis II of Italy at Rome in 844’, in After Charlemagne: Carolingian Italy and its Rulers, ed. by Clemens Gantner and Walter Pohl (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020), pp. 164–81. 32 Gantner, ‘A King in Training?’. Schieffer, ‘Die Politik’, pp. 71–72. 33 Tommi P. Lankila, ‘The Saracen Raid of Rome in 846: An Example of Maritime Ghazw’, in Travelling through Time: Essays in Honour of Kaj Öhrnberg, ed. by Sylvia Akar, Jaakko Hämeen-Anttila, and Inka Nokso-Koivisto (Helsinki: Finnish Oriental Society, 2013), pp. 93–120; Clemens Gantner, ‘The Saracen Attack on Rome in 846 and its Impact on the Italian Carolingian Empire’, in Social Cohesion and its Limits, ed. by Walter Pohl and Andreas Fischer (in press, Wien: Austrian Academy Press).

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their efforts seem to have been in vain. Hence, Benevento was taken by siege in the summer of 848. The captured Saracens were put to the sword and Radelchis was forced to accept the division of the principality. The Divisio ducatus Beneventani was drawn up in due course, most likely in the second half of the same year. Officially, as a result of a grant by Radelchis, who was after all lord of Benevento, to his rival Siconulf, the principality was practically split in half.34 Salerno got the less dangerous and thereby ‘better’ half, which both reflects Radelchis’ failure to agree to a peace during the negotiations 847 and the military situation in the South before Benevento’s fall.35 Emperor Lothar, and after him his son Louis II, were now the protectors of the preeminent southern monasteries Montecassino and San Vincenzo al Volturno. In the principalities themselves, too, the suzerainty of the Franks was recognized and felt at times. In 852, Louis II launched a limited campaign against Bari — and nearly took it.36 And in 865/866, a large Frankish expedition went south once again, this time in order to conquer Bari, which actually fell in early 871.37 It was during this phase, when Louis II was at the brink of taking control of the South, that the Byzantines returned to the scene. At first, the new emperor Basil I (d. 886), who had murdered and succeeded Michael III in 867, cooperated with Louis at the siege of Bari. But soon there were discords, culminating in a diplomatic fallout, about which we are informed in a letter from Louis II himself, preserved as a copy in the Chronicle of Salerno.38 This letter was written at the moment of triumph, when it seemed as if the establishment of Carolingian overlordship throughout the whole of the South was just a matter of time. In late summer 871, Louis was taken prisoner by Adelchis of Benevento (854–878), who led a rebellion backed by many southern potentates. Louis was set free after some 40 days, but never regained his old strength in the South again.39 The vacuum he left was then filled by ‘the Greeks’. In 876, Bari was taken by a Byzantine force, and in 882, Taranto also fell to the eastern empire. Gradually, the Byzantine empire expanded in the district (‘thema’) that was now called Longobardia. Between 892 and 895, a Byzantine official even ruled in

34 Divisio principatus Beneventani, ed. by Jean–Marie Martin, Guerre, accords et frontières en Italie méridionale pendant le haut Moyen Âge. Pacta de Liburia, Divisio principatus Beneventani, Sources et documents d’histoire du Moyen Âge, 7 (Roma: École française de Rome, 2005), pp. 201–17; Regesta imperii, vol. 1,3,1, ed. by Herbert Zielinski (Köln: Böhlau, 1991), no. 55 (p. 22): Louis was personally present when the document was drawn up, hence the dating. 35 Kreutz, Before the Normans, pp. 32–34. Note: The financial revenue will have been rather equally distributed. But Benevento got the far more dangerous share. 36 Musca, L’emirato, pp. 127–32. See Clemens Gantner, ‘“Our common enemies shall be annihilated!” How Louis II’s Relations with the Byzantine Empire Shaped his Policy in Southern Italy’, in Southern Italy as Contact Area, ed. by Wolf and Herbers, pp. 295–314. 37 Kreutz, Before the Normans, pp. 40–45. 38 Chronicon Salernitanum, ed. by Ulla Westerbergh, Acta Universitatis Stockholmiensis, Studia Latina Stockholmiensia, 3 (Lund: Almquist & Wiksell, 1956), pp. 107–21. 39 See Thomas Granier, ‘La captivité de l’empereur Louis II à Bénévent (13 août – 17 septembre 871) dans les sources des IXe–Xe siècles’, in L’écriture de l’histoire, de la fausse nouvelle au récit exemplaire, ed. by Claude Carozzi and Huguette Taviani-Carozzi (Aix-en-Provence: Publications de l’Universite de Provence, 2007), pp. 13–39.

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Benevento, which shows the dramatic power shift that had occurred. The Byzantines were clearly a power to be reckoned with for the coming century.40 The Franks and the Byzantines are the two forces I refer to in the title, the two outside Christian powers one could cooperate with and call upon in case of need, but one could equally also be at odds with. We will now have a look at how these outside forces and their respective narrative protagonists were seen in the historiographic sources from the region.41

The Franks and their Early Attempts to Dominate the South The first historian we have to look to for our period and region is Erchempert, a monk from Montecassino, who wrote a detailed and quite personal History of Southern Italy from the times of Arichis II (774–787), first prince of Benevento until the year 888/889, a text he called Historiola, little history. Erchempert was very critical of the state his region was in.42 He was also very critical of the Franks, who time and again tried to oust Arichis II and his immediate successors. In his chapter 6, Erchempert commented on the Frankish attacks on the Beneventan principality in the early ninth century: Charlemagne often approached Benevento now for battle, accompanied by his children whom he had already made kings and an immense procession of warriors; but God still cherished us and decided the issue on our behalf, so that Charlemagne had to turn back several times without glory after countless numbers of his men were destroyed by plague.43 Erchempert fully identifies with ‘his’ southern Lombards here and rejoices in the emperor’s withdrawal. He even has Grimoald III (788–806), Arichis’ son and heir, make the following statement before fighting against Charlemagne’s son Pippin of Italy: ‘Free and noble was I born of both parents; Free shall I always be, I believe, with God’s protection’.44 The early sections of the Historiola show us the clearest expressions of the Lombard identity of the Beneventan duchy and of course also of the author himself. It is no coincidence that this identity is clearly laid out against the background of a 40 Kreutz, Before the Normans, esp. pp. 62–67. 41 Southern Italy as Contact Area, ed. by Wolf and Herbers. 42 See Sophie Gruber’s contribution in this volume. On Erchempert, see also Walter Pohl, Werkstätte der Erinnerung. Montecassino und die Gestaltung der langobardischen Vergangenheit, Mitteilungen des Instituts für österreichische Geschichtsforschung, Ergänzungsband 39 (Wien: Oldenbourg, 2001); Luigi Andrea Berto, ‘Erchempert, a Reluctant Fustigator of His People: History and Ethnic Pride in Southern Italy at the End of the Ninth Century’, Mediterranean Studies, 20.2 (2012), 147–75. 43 Erchempert, c. 6, ed. by Berto, Erchemperto, Piccola Storia dei Longobardi di Benevento (Napoli: Liguori, 2014), pp. 92–93; ‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards of Benevento: A Translation and Study of its Place in the Chronicle Tradition’, trans.by Joan Rowe Ferry (unpublished PhD, Rice University, 1995), p. 128. 44 Erchempert, c. 6, ed. by Berto, pp. 92–93; trans. by Ferry, p. 129.

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Frankish threat to the region, given that the Carolingians as representatives of the big hegemonial power were the logical foil against which to develop it. The Franks therefore at this point had to take the role of the dangerous Other, who threatened the freedom of Benevento. Charlemagne is not shown as the legitimate ruler of the South, even though both as king of the Lombards and as emperor of the West, and with the legal situation of Benevento as an old duchy subordinate to northern Lombard kingdom, northern onlookers would have seen things differently. The Franks are shown here as an outside aggressor instead, a quite clear sign of Othering, albeit a mild form, on the part of our author.

Louis II as Saviour in the ‘Historiola’ That was a quite stark contrast to Erchempert’s portrayal of Louis II. Louis had become king of Italy in 840, appointed already by his grandfather and senior emperor Louis the Pious (814–840). In 850, he had been crowned co-emperor of his father Lothar I (840–855), upon whose death five years later he became sole emperor of the West. Despite that, he could only directly rule the kingdom of Italy and small strips of land north of the Alps.45 Erchempert simply called Louis emperor (‘augustus’) when introducing him to his text in chapter 19.46 There, he gives the young Frank credit for killing Saracens at Benevento, which he had taken by siege in 848, and for ending the civil war amongst the southern Lombards by dividing the principality in the same year: Coming quickly, he [Louis] had all foreigners of profane race separated by force from the city and here killed by sword; and with all the Lombards present, he ordered the whole province of Benevento to be divided between Radelgis and Siconolf by even portions, under sworn oath.47 Erchempert excludes all previous history of the campaign of 848 from his text and does not link it with the Saracen attack on Rome either. He does not connect Louis with the Franks or Frankish overlordship in the north, but has him remain strangely aloof of factions. To the contrary, he introduces Louis as someone who is responsible for the South and who can be appealed to — in his case the appeal is attributed to the count of Capua, other south-Italian sources have other supplicants.48 Louis must

45 François Bougard, ‘Ludovico II’, in Dizionario biografico degli Italiani, vol. 66 (2006), (accessed 6 September 2018). 46 Which has by the way led to erroneous dating of the events described there in much of the available modern literature, when really they all took place in 848, see Gantner, ‘The Saracen Attack’. Erchempert gets his chronology wrong here. 47 Erchempert, c. 19, ed. by Berto, p. 119; trans. by Ferry, p. 152 (modified according to Erchempert). 48 Erchempert, c. 19, ed. by Berto, p. 119; cf. John the Deacon, Gesta episcoporum Neapolitorum, c. 61, ed. by Georg Waitz, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores rerum Langobardicarum et Italicarum (Hannover: Hahn, 1878)pp. 398–439 (p. 433), has Sergius I, ‘dux’ of Naples ask Louis for

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have commanded an army, which is not explicitly mentioned and not associated with the Franks. It is quite clear from the text that Louis ‘comes quickly’ from the outside, but our author strangely leaves open whence he actually came. The same holds true for the Gesta of the bishops of Naples, for example.49 Louis seems to have come back into the view of Erchempert and of most southern onlookers only much later, but then he re-appears like a bombshell. The years 866 to 871 saw Louis’ great south-Italian expedition, the biggest any Frank was ever to launch there and arguably the largest military operation the region had seen in centuries. The goal of the mission was to get the South under control and it seems to have been clear from the outset that this was not planned for only one campaigning season. We do have a document, a capitulary, transmitted from 865/866 that shows the general call to arms for all subjects of the emperor, though it does not explicitly state the size of the expedition, maybe as a precaution to avoid desertion or elusion.50 The sheer scope of the operation becomes clear from its initial development: this time around, Louis did not go directly for one city, unlike 848 and unlike 852, when he had tried and failed to re-take Bari.51 This time, in contrast, Louis got the south-Italian potentates in line first. He intervened in Capua and went as far south as Salerno, always offering a friendly solution but clearly demanding support for his campaign.52 Even then, campaigning against the Saracens proper took from 867 to February 871, when Bari was taken from its last amir, Sawdan, with the help of a Slavic fleet. But Louis stayed on in Italy in keeping with his project to get the whole region (possibly even Sicily) under control: we learn that Taranto was already held under siege and Apulia was largely under Frankish control. Louis himself still resided in Benevento, which, probably not without merit, was perceived by the local nobles as a claim to direct rule in the South. Prince Adelchis of Benevento thus became the leader of a rebellion. He took Louis captive and only released him after extracting an oath never to return south again. These actions caused a big scandal throughout Italy and the Frankish world, reactions and explanations are registered in nearly all sources dealing with the late-ninth-century Carolingians.53 Erchempert had his ideas about these matters. After summarizing the highlights, as it were, of the long expedition against Bari, he reports the grievous events afterwards. He found himself forced to sharpen his image of Louis, which is now surprisingly favourable: the emperor is called a ‘holy man’ and ‘the apparent saviour of the province

help against the Saracens, for example. 49 John, Gesta episcoporum Neapolitorum, c. 61, ed. by Waitz, p. 433. 50 Regesta imperii, 1,3,1, ed. by Zielinski, no. 249 (p. 104). See also Chronica Sancti Benedicti Casinensis, I, c. 3, ed. by Georg Waitz, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores rerum Langobardicarum et Italicarum (Hannover: Hahn, 1878), pp. 467–88 (pp. 469–71). 51 On the latter, limited campaign, see Prudentius, Annales Bertiniani, a. 852, ed. by Félix Grat (Paris: Société de l’histoire de France, 1964), p. 65. See also Gantner, ‘“Our common enemies”’, pp. 312–13. 52 Regesta imperii, 1,3,1, ed. by Zielinski, nos 249–73 (pp. 105–13). 53 Granier, ‘La capitivité’.

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of Benevento’.54 Arguably, we have there the most positive characterization of any worldly potentate in the whole Historiola.55 In the same breath, intriguingly, the Franks are presented as having triggered the rebellion by harassing the poor Beneventans. The emperor stays aloof of these accusations at this point, however.56 It is only a little later in the chronicle, after Louis’ death (where he is again ‘of Divine memory’) is reported, that Erchempert felt the need to explain why such a good man had to fail in the end, at least in the South. He did this in a section that left no room for interpretation: Louis had been punished by God for two mistakes. The first one was Louis’ siege of Rome and of the pope in 864, including an unfortunate attack on a litany by some of his troops.57 We should note in passing that Erchempert was interpreting this event to the best of his abilities. In fact, the pope seems to have fulfilled most of Louis’ demands, and Louis seems to have had a very strong position in the city of Rome afterwards. The public reception, however, was indeed very negative everywhere outside of Louis’ core lands in northern Italy.58 The second mistake in Erchempert’s eyes was Louis sparing the life of Sawdan, the amir of Bari, in 871. Indeed, in many south-Italian sources, the Saracen leader is depicted as being the main instigator behind the insurrection.59 Erchempert, however, presented his interpretation at a predominantly moral level and stated that even a good man like Louis could be punished by God, just as the conspirators of the summer of 871 had been punished by a Saracen invasion soon thereafter. Thus, Erchempert’s assessment of Louis II is quite inconsistent. There may have been some time between the composition of the two chapters under study here, possibly the explanatory section was inserted as an afterthought on Louis’ time in the South. One could also argue, however, that Louis’ image always had to fit the narrative the author chose at various points, and thus at one time Louis needed to be a hero, whereas at another a different image would be opportune: Erchempert certainly used Louis II as a foil against which to measure the potentates of Southern

54 Erchempert, c. 34, ed. by Berto, pp. 142–43; trans. by Ferry, p. 178. Note that Ferry changes the sentence structure a lot in her rendering; she does convey the general sense of the section, however. We will return to this chapter below. 55 On this question, see also Sophie Gruber’s contribution in this volume. 56 Erchempert, c. 34, ed. by Berto, pp. 142–43. 57 Erchempert, c. 37, ed. by Berto, pp. 150–51. 58 The very negative account by Hincmar of Reims in the Annals of St Bertin has mostly been used by modern historians. See Hincmar, Annales Bertiniani, a. 864, ed. by Grat, pp. 104–16.; But at least one later source, the Libellus de imperatoria potestate, shows a very different picture. See Libellus de imperatoria potestate in urbe Roma, ed. by Giuseppe Zucchetti, Il chronicon di Benedetto, Monaco di s. Andrea del Soratte e il Libellus de imperatoria potestate in urbe Roma, Fonti per la storia d’Italia, 55 (Roma: Tipografia del Senato, 1920), pp. 189–210; See also Clemens Gantner, ‘Louis II and Rome: On the Relationship of the Carolingian Emperor of Italy with “his” Popes Nicholas I and Hadrian II’, in Through the Papal Lens: Shaping History and Memory in Late Antique and Early Medieval Rome, 300–900, ed. by Mark Humphries and Giorgia Vocino, Translated Texts for Historians Series (in press, Liverpool: Liverpool University Press). 59 Granier, ‘La Captivité’.

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Italy. The pious emperor was presented as flawed as well, yes, but still set a benchmark of good governance that the Lombard princes clearly failed to meet in our historian’s critical eye.60 Even in criticizing the emperor, Erchempert stays mild and seems to be looking honestly for an explanation why God would permit a man so great in the author’s eyes to fail in the end. It is still quite clear that both related pictures only show different degrees of Sameing, as we will now see.

The Emperor vis-à-vis the Franks The Franks in general were a different matter, as we have seen briefly, but the list could certainly be extended: they are often styled as intruders, tending to abuse the locals, even the Beneventans, who are certainly not generally exculpated by Erchempert in his Louis II-narrative. The best example for this is again the section on Louis’ captivity in Benevento, which starts off with the following sentences: Now that I have finished with these matters, let me tell as I promised earlier how the devil, seeing his followers eliminated and everyone restored to Christ, renewed his front lines and lamented his losses to the lower world. Through his inspiration, the Franks began to gravely persecute and cruelly distress the Beneventans; because of this Adelchis rose up deceitfully against the emperor Louis with his men.61 The Franks left in and around Benevento thus are inspired by the devil after all and are clearly made partly responsible for the emperor’s captivity, as they persecuted and attacked the Beneventans. It shows Erchempert’s full mastery of storytelling, that he still managed to point to the treacherous nature of Adelchis’ actions, while partly blaming them on the Franks, all while not putting any blame on Emperor Louis. The Franks are openly Othered in this chapter, intriguingly it is they, after all, who succumb to the devil’s tricks, something that does not happen to members of the author’s in-group.62 Despite the Franks providing at least the backbone, most probably the majority of Louis’ army, our author still separates the emperor from them and makes him the true victim of the events in late summer 871. Admittedly, the Franks who were perceived as a homogeneous group by our author, are not mentioned very often in Erchempert’s Historiola — or in any other southern text for that matter. We have seen right at the beginning, however, that when they appear in the narrative, they tend to be presented as dangerous, bellicose Others. Individual Franks were heavily criticized by Erchempert, too, the best example being the various dukes of Spoleto. Guy I, for instance, is shown as both greedy and

60 See Berto, ‘Erchempert, a Reluctant Fustigator’, esp. pp. 151–58. 61 Erchempert, c. 34, ‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards of Benevento’, trans. by Ferry, p. 178, see however the different clause position in ed. by Berto, pp. 142–43. 62 Which was itself a quite flexible concept, see Sophie Gruber’s contribution in this volume.

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treacherous during the Lombard civil war.63 His older son and immediate successor Lambert is first identified as a traitor against Louis II, as he had chosen to support the Beneventan insurrection. Interestingly, at this point he is not clearly identified as a Frank, possibly because in the eyes of our author he was acting just like the southern potentates — or because he had already associated Lambert with Frankish troops earlier in his work.64 Later, Lambert is again shown rather unfavourably, intervening on the side of the counts of Capua. Here Lambert and the Spoletans are clearly identified as Franks, probably to illustrate that Capuan factions would enlist the help of outside forces readily if need be.65 This is an interesting observation, as Lambert could also rightfully have been considered as half-Lombard, as his mother had been from an old noble family. Hence probably the need for Erchempert to mark out Lambert’s difference more clearly is also a form of Othering.66 It is intriguing to see that other south-Italian sources present a quite similar, if less clear picture. First and foremost, we have two relevant sources from Naples: the Vita of Bishop Athanasius I and the History of the Neapolitan bishops by John the Deacon (d. 910).67 In Athanasius’ Vita Louis II is of course not the protagonist, but as Thomas Granier summed up perfectly a few years ago, he is counted amongst the righteous, who are prosecuted by the evil doers.68 Once again, Louis II’s captivity in 871 provides the perfect test case. The anonymous author of the Vita described the situation in 871 as follows: ‘The Beneventans, inspired by a demon and by persons pretending to be men of God, instigated by their zeal, apprehended the pious man Emperor Louis, who was the liberator of the Beneventan province, and handed him over to the jailers’.69 Later, after the release of the emperor, the author has Bishop Athanasius I approach Louis together with Bishop Landulf of Capua and beg him for help against the new Saracen invasion in late 871 with the following words: ‘Come Lord and liberator of our fatherland. Ignore those who have sinned against you, just as the Lord did his persecutors. For with the swift and strongest divine help, you will be the victor and glorious in the whole world’.70 In the same sections, the Franks in general seem to be rather neutral, only figuring as the entourage of the emperor.

63 Erchempert, cc. 17 and 18, ed. by Berto, pp. 114–17. Di Carpegna Falconieri, ‘Guido’. See also Gantner, ‘A King in Training?’. 64 Erchempert cc. 33 and 35, ed. by Berto, pp. 142–43 and 146–49. 65 Erchempert, c. 42, ed. by Berto, pp. 158–59. 66 The same holds true for his brother and successor Guy (II./III., later emperor), who, however, is even less associated with the Franks; his intervention in the north and quest for power in the empire is criticized as hubris, see Erchempert, c. 79, ed. by Berto, pp. 200–01. 67 John, Gesta episcoporum Neapolitanorum, ed. by Waitz, p. 435: pius augustus. 68 Vita Athanasii, c. 8, ed. by Georg Waitz, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores rerum Langobardicarum et Italicarum, 1 vol. (Hannover: Hahn, 1878)pp. 439–49 (p. 448). 69 Vita Athanasii, c. 8, ed. by Waitz, p. 448: ‘Benebentani inspirati a demone et ab emulis viri Dei, animati zelo eius, comprehenderunt Lodoycum augustum pium virum, liberatorem scilicet Benebentanae provinciae, et custodiis manciparunt’. 70 Vita Athanasii, c. 8, ed. by Waitz, p. 448: ‘Veni, domine et liberator patriae nostrae. Ignosce peccantibus in te, sicut Dominus pro persecutoribus suis. Nam divino adiutorio fretus fortissimo, victor eris et gloriosus in universo mundo’.

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The History of the bishops of Naples, however, shows them fleeing the scene after Louis is taken by the Beneventans, which may not be the best possible light to be depicted in after all.71 The Chronicle of Salerno from the second half of the tenth century is far more nuanced than the Neapolitan texts: here the blame for Louis’ captivity — and the author may be quite right — is put partly on Louis himself.72 The emperor, the author argues, had after all tried to govern the South himself and to take Benevento as a capital and had treated the inhabitants of the city badly. What is more, his wife Angilberga is accused of having acted even worse, taunting the Beneventans for not being able to defend themselves.73 So in this respect, Louis is portrayed as a tyrant and unfair ruler. The Chronicle is, however, far from one-sided when it comes to Louis and his Franks: when he helps the Southerners against the big Saracen army after his release he is in turn depicted very favourably indeed, and is called ‘most clement emperor’.74 The south-Italian sources show a marked tendency to incorporate the one Carolingian emperor, who was relevant for their narrative in the second half of the ninth century as belonging to ‘us’. Louis II is thus the object of various degrees of Sameing. This does not prevent the same authors from emphasizing the otherness of the Franks. The dukes of Spoleto from the family of the Guidones, who were of Frankish stock, as we have seen, and had been instated by Emperor Lothar I in the 830s, were depicted as such by Erchempert, and even the emperor’s wife is shown unfavourably as an outside force by the Salernitan chronicler, in a section where he clearly delivers a take on events that differs greatly from that of Erchempert, whose text he knew.75 Erchempert is the most interesting author for us, because he had a very clear agenda when telling his story: Louis II is deliberately distinguished from the Franks, in a manner that cannot be coincidence or south-Italian ‘zeitgeist’. That his Sameing of Louis II did not necessarily aim at building up a hero for his readers (mostly, we should assume, in Montecassino),76 does not invalidate this finding. The other authors portray the Frankish emperor as someone who is not part of a group but rather is above peoples’ or regional identities. This may very much be in accordance with the ideas Louis II himself had of his office.77

Basil and the Greeks A strangely similar picture emerges when we look at the emperor Basil I, who reigned from 867–886, and the Byzantines/Greeks in general. Basil is the first eastern emperor 71 John, Gesta episcoporum Neapolitanorum, ed. by Waitz, p. 435. 72 Granier, ‘La Captivité’. 73 Chronicon Salernitanum, c. 109, ed. by Westerbergh, pp. 121–22. 74 Chronicon Salernitanum, c. 117, ed. by Westerbergh, p. 129. 75 Pohl, Werkstätte, p. 64. 76 See Sophie Gruber’s article in this volume. Pohl, Werkstätte, pp. 33–42. 77 See Gantner, ‘“Our common enemies”’, esp. pp. 312–14.

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for quite some time to figure prominently in south-Italian texts, probably reflecting the Byzantine rise to new military, political, and cultural significance in the region during his reign. Our Latin south-Italian sources tend to be very critical of the East Romans indeed, as Luigi Andrea Berto has instructively shown quite recently.78 Berto aptly summarizes the viewpoint of three southern authors, Erchempert, the Chronicon Salenitanum and the so-called Continuatio codicis Vaticani. He asserts hostility towards the Greeks as a general trait of south-Italian historiography, be it Lombard or later. Most writers who perceived themselves as Lombards employ all kinds of Othering against a group of people shown like a monolith:79 They were depicted as cruel, as religiously or culturally diverse, even as possessed by the devil. Greeks are thus a perfect example for us. They were very well known in the Italian South, they had, after all, been part of this region since before Roman times. Still, they were easy to distinguish: not only did they speak a very different language (which was admittedly probably spoken by some as a second language, as befitted a cultural contact zone), they were also in certain forms culturally diverse, culturally ‘Greek’, by which I mean a combination of language, dress, religious, and everyday customs, tax and legal status, to name but the most important factors.80 It must have been difficult, however, given the amount of diversity, not to allow for positive reports about the Byzantines in general and Greek individuals in particular. This is the main reason to assert that the ‘Greeks’ were consequently and wilfully Othered by most southern authors. This does not hold entirely true for Erchempert, however, who is again more nuanced than any other comparable author. At first, he shows no real animosity towards the Byzantines, not even when they take over Bari in 876, a fact he reports as necessary to protect the city against the Saracens.81 The Greeks are portrayed as normal players in the southern political theatre even when they act contrary to Beneventan interests. Their actions are reported in a matter-of-fact way, no active shaping of the image of the other is employed. Later in his text, however, Erchempert starts to voice dislike vis-a-vis the Greeks culminating in the following assessment in his penultimate chapter: ‘Now the Greeks, as in appearance they are similar to beasts, so are they equal in spirit; in name they are Christians, but in practices sadly like Agareni’.82 Erchempert wrote this in connection with an episode of Saracen military success in the fight for Sicily, but clearly also in reaction to Byzantine pressure on the Lombard principalities further north83 and as

78 Luigi Andrea Berto, ‘The Image of the Byzantines in Early Medieval South Italy: The Viewpoint of the Chroniclers of the Lombards (9th–10th Centuries) and Normans (11th Century)’, Mediterranean Studies 22.1 (2014), 1–37. 79 Berto, ‘The Image of the Byzantines’, esp. pp. 1–11 and 26. 80 For more on the topic, albeit focusing on the city of Rome, see Clemens Gantner, ‘The Label “Greeks” in the Papal Diplomatic Repertoire in the Eighth Century’, in Strategies of Identification, ed. by Pohl and Heydemann, pp. 303–49. 81 Erchempert, c. 38, ed. by Berto, pp. 152–53. 82 Erchempert, c. 81, ed. by Berto, pp. 202–03; trans. by Ferry, p. 249. 83 Berto, ‘The Image of Byzantines’, esp. p. 26.

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a result of Greeks participating in trade, especially, it seems, slave trade with north Africa. The latter, one has to concede, was probably not an invention by the author, as the slave trade was certainly important in the region at the time, and was certainly also practised by Greeks.84 It is therefore all the more interesting that Erchempert chose to depict Emperor Basil in positive light, even though he actually had ordered many of the very actions for which the Greeks were criticized. He was still shown as a sympathetic and pious ruler, remarkable for an author who tended to be very outspoken and very critical towards worldly potentates. In chapter 48, Erchempert tells the story of Gaideris (or Guaifer), the short-time prince of Benevento (878–881), who fled to the Byzantines at Bari after having been deposed as a result of a conspiracy: ‘Gaideris […]slipped away into flight and reached Bari, where there were Greeks staying; he was sent by them to the royal city [Constantinople], to the pious emperor Basil, by whom he was honoured and enriched with imperial gifts, and he received the city of Oria, to live there as the emperor’s guest’.85 Basil is called pious: even though the epithet is of course one that went with the imperial title, it bears religious connotations. These in turn are in obvious and stark contrast to the passage above, where the Greeks are ‘Christians only in name’. Basil does not figure often in our text after this episode. At his death, we learn that ‘the most serene emperor Basil died at this time’ and was succeeded by two of his sons.86 Again, we receive very little information, no résumé of his reign for example, but he is ‘serenissimus augustus’ also at this point, which is again, clearly a usual epithet, but still one that shows the emperor in favourable light. The general picture provided for the Byzantine emperor is even more striking when we take into consideration that it was surely known in the West that Basil had ascended the throne in Constantinople by murdering his patron and predecessor Michael III. It will, however, have helped him that Michael seems to have been rather unpopular in Italy, at least with the Carolingians and especially the papacy.87 Also, 84 See Itinerarium Bernardi Monachi, ed. by Josef Ackermann, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Studien und Texte, 67 vols (Hannover: Hahn, 1991–2020), l (2010), pp. 113–35 (pp. 117 and 129) (translation); Michael McCormick, Origins of the European Economy: Communications and Commerce, ad 300–900 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), pp. 134–38 (Bernard/slaves) and 741–77 (slave trade); Clemens Gantner, ‘New Visions of Community in Ninth-Century Rome: The Impact of the Saracen Threat on the Papal World View’, in Visions of Community in the Post-Roman World: The West, Byzantium and the Islamic World, 300–1000, ed. by Walter Pohl, Clemens Gantner, and Richard Payne (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2012), pp. 403–21. 85 Erchempert, c. 48, ed. by Berto, pp. 166–67; trans. by Ferry, p. 203. 86 Erchempert, c. 52, ed. by Berto, pp. 170–71; trans. by Ferry, p. 209. 87 See Klaus Herbers, ‘Der Konflikt Papst Nikolaus’ I. mit Erzbischof Johannes VII. von Ravenna (861)’, in Diplomatische und chronologische Studien aus der Arbeit an den Regesta Imperii, ed. by Paul-Joachim Heinig, Beihefte zu Regesta Imperii, 8 (Köln: Böhlau, 1991), pp. 51–66; Klaus Herbers, ‘Papst Nikolaus und Patriarch Photios. Das Bild des byzantinischen Gegners in lateinischen Quellen’, in Die Begegnung des Westens mit dem Osten, ed. by Odilo Engels and Peter Schreiner (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1993), pp. 51–74; Klaus Herrbers, ‘Rom oder Westfranken? Papst Nikolaus I. (858–67) in Überlieferung und Erinnerung’, in Erinnerungswege. Kolloquium zu Ehren von Johannes Fried, ed. by Janus Gudian, Johannes Heil, Michael Rothmann, and Felicitas Schmieder, Frankfurter Historische Abhandlungen, 49 (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2018), pp. 25–35. See also Clemens Gantner,

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Basil at first got rid of Patriarch Photios and reinstated Ignatios, something that could only be applauded in western ecclesiastical circles. Photios’ eventual re-instatement in 878 is not blamed on Basil in the short report on his death and succession, but strangely rather on Pope John VIII, who had agreed to this move.88 In the Chronicon Salernitanum, the image of the emperor is also rather positive, albeit always citing Erchempert in these instances, even the verdict on Photios is taken from this source.89 The Chronicon, however, also includes Louis II’s very aggressive letter sent to Basil in 871, reproaching the Byzantines for many problems and failed communications that had occurred over the past years in Southern Italy. If I may say so: A little vanity was also part of the problem on both sides. The author included the letter in its full text (without the ‘eschatocol’).90 This was in essence an unfavourable move towards Basil, whereas Louis II was permitted, a century after the events, to present his side of the story of the reconquest of Bari.

Conclusion As expected at the outset to this article, both the Byzantine Greeks and the Franks to a certain extent remained outsiders and thereby distinct Others in Lombard southern Italian texts. Even the dukes of Spoleto, whose role would certainly merit a detailed study of its own, remained just that, despite exerting some real influence and despite kin relations with the southern Lombards. True, the Saracens in general remained the ultimate Other in Southern Italy.91 The Greeks were to come a close second in Latin sources from the region around the turn of the tenth century, with the cited outburst by Erchempert as a first example. Likening the Greeks to beasts and the Saracens was a very obvious form of Othering indeed. The case of the Greeks is especially instructive, as it shows that even in one text, Erchempert in this case, Othering was dynamically applied when the author felt it was necessary. It is interesting that both Franks and Greeks were subject to quite consequent Othering in some of our texts. The Othering was certainly more consequently applied to the Greeks, but the Frankish test case has proven equally intriguing: Several sources neatly distinguish Emperor Louis II from his own supporters and his army.

‘Ludwig II. von Italien und Byzanz’, in Menschen, Bilder, Sprache, Dinge. Wege der Kommunikation zwischen Byzanz und dem Westen, vol. ii: Menschen und Worte, ed. by Falko Daim, Christian Gastgeber, Dominik Heher, and Claudia Rapp (Mainz: Schnell und Steiner, 2018), pp. 103–12 (pp. 107–08). 88 Erchempert, c. 52, ed. by Berto, pp. 170–71; trans. by Ferry, p. 209. See Dorothee Arnold, Johannes VIII. Päpstliche Herrschaft in den karolingischen Teilreichen am Ende des 9. Jahrhunderts, Europäische Hochschulschriften, 797 (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 2005), pp. 214–18. 89 Chronicon Salernitanum, c. 131, ed. by Westerbergh, p. 143, is a near verbatim reproduction of Erchempert, c. 52, for example, as is Chronicon Salernitanum, c. 129, ed. by Westernbergh, p. 142, with the Gaideris/Guaifer episode on Basil and Constantinople (Erchempert c. 48). 90 Chronicon Salernitanum, c. 107, ed. by Westerbergh, pp. 107–21. 91 Gantner, Freunde Roms, pp. 244–81; Wolf, ‘Auf dem Pfade’; ‘Guerra santa’, ed. by Di Branco and Wolf.

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A general reverence for the imperial office will have influenced our authors, above all, it seems, Erchempert of Montecassino. This also shows in the favourable, if lightly indifferent image of Emperor Basil in the same work. However, whereas Basil only remained detached from troubles with Greeks in general, his counterpart Louis II is a different case: he is the object of Sameing by several authors. Divisive elements tended to be concealed or downplayed. The notion that Louis II was an emperor from the outside is certainly there at times in the sources, but in general, he tended to be presented as rightful emperor of all the West and as responsible for south-Italian affairs.92 This Sameing was even reinforced by separating him as far as possible from the Frankish Other. In his case, we may go as far as to say that Sameing and Othering required each other. This stands in contrast to the case of Basil, where the Greeks could be Othered while simply excluding their emperor. Erchempert’s text is the one where we get the clearest picture of how an author consciously shaped the image of the Other, certainly to further his narrative, but also to shape the opinions of his audience — in this sense, other historiographers in the region, like the anonymous author from Salerno, followed a quite different scheme, laying more emphasis on the ambivalence they found. Erchempert interestingly also applied his narrative strategy to enemies within his southern Lombard community — we will see that in the contribution by Sophie Gruber in this volume. In reaction to his hybrid and complex South Italian environment, Erchempert tried to categorize the Others he encountered as good or bad if at all possible and thereby to convey a clearer sense of order in his text.

Works Cited Primary Sources Annales Bertiniani, ed. by Félix Grat (Paris: Société de l’histoire de France, 1964) Chronica Sancti Benedicti Casinensis, ed. by Georg Waitz, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores rerum Langobardicarum et Italicarum, 1 vol. (Hannover: Hahn, 1878), pp. 467–88 Chronicon Salernitanum, ed. by Ulla Westerbergh, Acta Universitatis Stockholmiensis, Studia Latina Stockholmiensia, 3 (Lund: Almquist & Wiksell, 1956) Divisio principatus Beneventani, ed. by Jean-Marie Martin, Guerre, accords et frontières en Italie méridionale pendant le haut Moyen Âge. Pacta de Liburia, Divisio principatus Beneventani, Sources et documents d’histoire du Moyen Âge, 7 (Roma: École française de Rome, 2005), pp. 201–17 Erchempert, Ystoriola, ed. by Luigi Andrea Berto, Erchemperto, Piccola Storia dei Longobardi di Benevento (Naples: Liguori, 2014)

92 See again Ackermann, Das Eigene, p. 147: ‘Denn die Identifikation mit dem Vertrauten bringt die Andersheit des Anderen zum Verschwinden und verhindert so jegliche Fremderfahrung’.

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‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards of Benevento: A Translation and Study of its Place in the Chronicle Tradition’, trans. by Joan Rowe Ferry (unpublished PhD thesis, Rice University, 1995) Itinerarium Bernardi Monachi, ed. by Josef Ackermann, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Studien und Texte, 67 vols (Hannover: Hahn, 1991–2020), l (2010) John the Deacon, Gesta episcoporum Neapolitorum, ed. by Georg Waitz, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores rerum Langobardicarum et Italicarum (Hannover: Hahn, 1878), pp. 398–439 Libellus de imperatoria potestate in urbe Roma, ed. by Giuseppe Zucchetti, Il chronicon di Benedetto, Monaco di s. Andrea del Soratte e il Libellus de imperatoria potestate in urbe Roma, Fonti per la storia d’Italia, 55 (Roma: Tipografia del Senato, 1920), pp. 189–210 Vita Athanasii, ed. by Georg Waitz, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores rerum Langobardicarum et Italicarum (Hannover: Hahn, 1878), pp. 439–49 Secondary Works Ackermann, Andreas, ‘Das Eigene und das Fremde: Hybridität, Vielfalt und Kulturtransfers’, in Handbuch der Kulturwissenschaften, ed. by Friedrich Jäger and Jörg Rüsen, vol. iii (Stuttgart: Metzler 2004), pp. 139–50 Arnold, Dorothee, Johannes VIII. Päpstliche Herrschaft in den karolingischen Teilreichen am Ende des 9. Jahrhunderts, Europäische Hochschulschriften, 797 (Frankfurt-am-Main: Lang, 2005) Berto, Luigi Andrea, ‘Erchempert, a Reluctant Fustigator of His People: History and Ethnic Pride in Southern Italy at the End of the Ninth Century’, Mediterranean Studies, 20.2 (2012), 147–75 ———, ‘The Image of the Byzantines in Early Medieval South Italy: The Viewpoint of the Chroniclers of the Lombards (9th–10th Centuries) and Normans (11th Century)’, Mediterranean Studies, 22.1 (2014), 1–37 Bhabha, Homi K., The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994) Bougard, François, ‘Ludovico II’, in Dizionario biografico degli Italiani, vol. 66 (2006), Castro-Varela, Maria Do Mar, and Nikita Dhawan, Postkoloniale Theorie. Eine kritische Einführung (Bielefeld: transcript, 2015) Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome, ‘Introduction: Midcolonial’, in The Postcolonial Middle Ages, ed. by Jeffrey Jerome Cohen (New York: Palgrave, 2000), pp. 1–17 ———, ed., The Postcolonial Middle Ages (New York: Palgrave, 2000) di Branco, Marco, and Kordula Wolf, eds, ‘Guerra santa’ e conquiste islamiche nel Mediterraneo, VII--XI secolo (Roma: Viella, 2014) di Carpegna Falconieri, Tommaso, ‘Guido’, in Dizionario biografico degli Italiani, vol. 61 (2004), Foucault, Michel, L’ordre du discours (Paris: Gallimard, 1971)

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Gantner, Clemens, Freunde Roms und Völker der Finsternis. Die päpstliche Konstruktion von Anderen im 8. und 9. Jahrhundert (Wien: Böhlau, 2014) ———, ‘A King in Training? Louis II of Italy at Rome in 844’, in After Charlemagne: Carolingian Italy and its Rulers, ed. by Clemens Gantner and Walter Pohl (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020), pp. 164–81 ———, ‘The Label “Greeks” in the Papal Diplomatic Repertoire in the Eighth Century’, in Strategies of Identification: Ethnicity and Religion in Early Medieval Europe, ed. by Walter Pohl and Gerda Heydemann (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), pp. 303–49 ———, ‘Louis II and Rome: On the Relationship of the Carolingian Emperor of Italy with “his” Popes Nicholas I and Hadrian II’, in Through the Papal Lens: Shaping History and Memory in Late Antique and Early Medieval Rome, 300–900, ed. by Mark Humphries and Giorgia Vocino, Translated Texts for Historians Series (in press, Liverpool: Liverpool University Press) ———, ‘Ludwig II. von Italien und Byzanz’, in Menschen, Bilder, Sprache, Dinge. Wege der Kommunikation zwischen Byzanz und dem Westen, vol. ii: Menschen und Worte, ed. by Falko Daim, Christian Gastgeber, Dominik Heher, and Claudia Rapp (Mainz: Schnell und Steiner, 2018), pp. 103–12 ———, ‘New Visions of Community in Ninth-Century Rome: The Impact of the Saracen Threat on the Papal World View’, in Visions of Community in the Post-Roman World: The West, Byzantium and the Islamic World, 300–1000, ed. by Walter Pohl, Clemens Gantner, and Richard Payne (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2012), pp. 403–21 ———, ‘“Our common enemies shall be annihilated!” How Louis II’s Relations with the Byzantine Empire Shaped his Policy in Southern Italy’, in Southern Italy as Contact Area and Border Region during the Early Middle Ages: Religious-Cultural Heterogeneity and Competing Powers in Local, Transregional and Universal Dimensions, ed. by Kordula Wolf and Klaus Herbers, Beihefte zum Archiv für Kulturgeschichte, 80 (Köln: Böhlau, 2017), pp. 295–314 ———, ‘The Saracen Attack on Rome in 846 and its Impact on the Italian Carolingian Empire’, in Social Cohesion and its Limits, ed. by Walter Pohl and Andreas Fischer (in press, Wien: Austrian Academy Press) Gramsci, Antonio, Quaderni del carcere. Edizione critica dell’Istituto Gramsci, ed. by V. Gerratana, Collana NUE, 164, 4 vols (Torino: Enaudi, 1975) Granier, Thomas, ‘La captivité de l’empereur Louis II à Bénévent (13 août – 17 septembre 871) dans les sources des IXe–Xe siècles’, in L’écriture de l’histoire, de la fausse nouvelle au récit exemplaire, ed. by Claude Carozzi and Huguette Taviani-Carozzi (Aix-enProvence: Publications de l’Universite de Provence, 2007), pp. 13–39 Heath, Christopher, ‘Third/Ninth-century Violence: “Saracens” and Sawdān in Erchempert’s Historia’, Al-Masāq: Journal of the Medieval Mediterranean, 27.1 (2015), 24–40 Herbers, Klaus, ‘Der Konflikt Papst Nikolaus’ I. mit Erzbischof Johannes VII. von Ravenna (861)’, in Diplomatische und chronologische Studien aus der Arbeit an den Regesta Imperii, ed. by Paul-Joachim Heinig, Beihefte zu den Regesta Imperii, 8 (Köln: Böhlau, 1991), pp. 51–66 ———, ‘Papst Nikolaus und Patriarch Photios. Das Bild des byzantinischen Gegners in lateinischen Quellen’, in Die Begegnung des Westens mit dem Osten, ed. by Odilo Engels and Peter Schreiner (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1993), pp. 51–74

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———, ‘Rom oder Westfranken? Papst Nikolaus I. (858–67) in Überlieferung und Erinnerung’, in Erinnerungswege. Kolloquium zu Ehren von Johannes Fried, ed. by Janus Gudian, Johannes Heil, Michael Rothmann, and Felicitas Schmieder, Frankfurter Historische Abhandlungen, 49 (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2018), pp. 25–35 Kahf, Mohja, Western Representations of the Muslim Woman: From Termagant to Odalisque (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1999) Kreutz, Barbara M., Before the Normans: Southern Italy in the Ninth and Tenth Centuries (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1991) Lankila, Tommi P., ‘The Saracen Raid of Rome in 846: An Example of Maritime Ghazw’, in Travelling through Time: Essays in Honour of Kaj Öhrnberg, ed. by Sylvia Akar, Jaakko Hämeen-Anttila, and Inka Nokso-Koivisto (Helsinki: Finnish Oriental Society, 2013), pp. 93–120 Martin, Jean-Marie, Guerre, accords et frontiers en Italie méridionale pendant la haut Moyen Âge. Pacta Liburia, Divisio principatus Beneventani et autres actes (Roma: École français de Rome, 2005) McCormick, Michael, Origins of the European Economy: Communications and Commerce, ad 300–900 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001) Musca, Giosuè, L’emirato di Bari, 847–71 (Bari: Dedalo, 2nd edn 1978, 1st edn 1967) Ohnsorge, Werner, ‘Das Kaiserbündnis von 842–44 gegen die Sarazenen. Datum, Inhalt und politische Bedeutung des Kaiserbriefes aus St Denis’, Archiv für Diplomatik, Schriftengeschichte, Siegel- und Wappenkunde, 1 (1955), 88–131 Pohl, Walter, ‘Introduction’, in Strategies of Distinction: The Construction of Ethnic Communities, 300–800, ed. by Walter Pohl and Helmut Reimitz, The Transformation of the Roman World, 2 (Leiden: Brill, 1998), pp. 1–15 ———, ‘Introduction: Strategies of Identification. A Methodological Profile’, in Strategies of Identification: Ethnicity and Religion in Early Medieval Europe, ed. by Walter Pohl and Gerda Heydemann (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), pp. 1–64 ———, ‘Telling the Difference: Signs of Ethnic Identity’, in Strategies of Distinction: The Construction of Ethnic Communities, 300–800, ed. by Walter Pohl and Helmut Reimitz, The Transformation of the Roman World, 2 (Leiden: Brill, 1998), pp. 17–69 ———, Werkstätte der Erinnerung. Montecassino und die Gestaltung der langobardischen Vergangenheit, Mitteilungen des Instituts für österreichische Geschichtsforschung, Ergänzungsband, 39 (Wien: Oldenbourg, 2001) Regesta imperii, vol. 1,3,1, ed. by Herbert Zielinski (Köln: Böhlau, 1991) Said, Edward, Orientalism (London: Penguin, 2003, 1st edn 1978) Schieffer, Rudolf, ‘Die Politik der Karolinger in Süditalien und im Mittelmeerraum’, in Southern Italy as Contact Area and Border Region during the Early Middle Ages. Religious-Cultural Heterogeneity and Competing Powers in Local, Transregional and Universal Dimensions, ed. by Kordula Wolf and Klaus Herbers, Beihefte zum Archiv für Kulturgeschichte, 80 (Köln: Böhlau, 2017), pp. 65–78 Signes Codoñer, J., The Emperor Theophilos and the East, 829–842: Court and Frontier in Byzantium during the Last Phase of Iconoclasm (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2014) Southern Italy as Contact Area and Border Region during the Early Middle Ages: ReligiousCultural Heterogeneity and Competing Powers in Local, Transregional and Universal

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Dimensions, ed. by Kordula Wolf and Klaus Herbers, Beihefte zum Archiv für Kulturgeschichte, 80 (Köln: Böhlau, 2017) Spivak, Gayatri C., ‘Can the Subaltern Speak?’, in Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture, ed. by Cary Nelson and Lawrence Grossberg (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1988), pp. 271–313 ———, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason: Towards a History of the Vanishing Present (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1999) Tolan, John V., Saracens: Islam in the Medieval European Imagination (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002) Varisco, Daniel Martin, Reading Orientalism: Said and the Unsaid (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2007) Wolf, Kordula, ‘Auf dem Pfade Allahs. Ğihād und muslimische Migrationen auf dem süditalienischen Festland (9.–11. Jahrhundert)’, in Transkulturelle Verflechtungen im mittelalterlichen Jahrtausend. Europa, Ostasien, Afrika, ed. by Michael Borgolte and Matthias M. Tischler (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2012), pp. 120–66 Wolf, Kordula, and Klaus Herbers, eds, Southern Italy as Contact Area and Border Region during the Early Middle Ages: Religious-Cultural Heterogeneity and Competing Powers in Local, Transregional and Universal Dimensions, Beihefte zum Archiv für Kulturgeschichte, 80 (Köln: Böhlau, 2017) Wolf, Kordula, and Marco di Branco, ‘Terra di conquista? I musulmani in Italia meridionale nell’epoca aghlabita (184/800–269/909)’, in ‘Guerra santa’ e conquiste islamiche nel Mediterraneo, VII–XI secolo, ed. by Marco di Branco and Kordula Wolf (Roma: Viella, 2014), pp. 125–65

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The Construction of Allegiance and Exclusion in Erchempert’s Historia Langobardorum Beneventanorum*

Introduction: The Historia Langobardorum Beneventanorum Near the end of the ninth century, the monk Erchempert wrote a History of the Beneventan Lombards, the Historia Langobardorum Beneventanorum (or, as Erchempert himself called it: Historiola).1 From the text he composed, we learn that he belonged to the community of Montecassino, and that he was a ‘grammaticus’ — meaning

* I would like to thank Clemens Gantner and Walter Pohl for the valuable feedback from which this article has benefited enormously. I also want to thank Rutger Kramer for his corrections and precious feedback, and Thom Gobbitt for proofreading this article. My deepest gratitude goes to the editors of this volume for all their suggestions. This article is partly a product of my work for the Special Research Program ‘Visions of Community’ in the sub-project on early medieval Europe, funded by the Austrian Science Fund (FWF): F42–G18. 1 Erchempert, Historia Langobardorum Beneventanorum, ed. by Georg Waitz, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores rerum Langobardicarum et Italicarum, 1 vol. (Hannover: Hahn, 1878), pp. 234–64. Since Erchempert’s chronicle was edited by Waitz under this title (and therefore will be cited accordingly, or briefly Historia, in the footnotes). Erchempert himself called his work Historiola, a title that will be used in the text. On Erchempert cf. Faustino Avagliano, ‘Erchempert von Montecassino’, in Lexikon des Mittelalters, vol. iii (München: Artemis, 1986), cols 2124–25; Luigi Andrea Berto, ‘Erchempert, a Reluctant Fustigator of His People: History and Ethnic Pride in Southern Italy at the End of the Ninth Century’, Mediterranean Studies, 20.2 (2012), 147–75; Giorgio Falco, ‘Erchemperto’, in Albori d’Europa. Pagine di Storia medievale (Roma: Edizioni del lavoro, 1947), pp. 264–92; Joan Rowe Ferry, ‘Erchempert’s ‘History of the Lombards of Benevento’: A Translation and Study of its Place in the Chronicle Tradition’ (Unpublished dissertation, Rice University, 1995), pp. 43–48; Walter Pohl, Werkstätte der Erinnerung. Montecassino und die Gestaltung der langobardischen Vergangenheit, Mitteilungen des Instituts für Österreichische Geschichtsforschung, Ergänzungsband, 39 (Wien: Oldenbourg, 2001), pp. 33–42. Sophie Gruber  •  ([email protected]) studied Theatre, Film, and Media Studies, German Philology and History at the University of Vienna. From 2015 to 2019 she coordinated an ERC grant at the University of Vienna and a Special Research Programme at the University of Vienna and the Austrian Academy of Sciences. Since 2019 she has been working as ‘Referent’ at the Faculty of Historical and Cultural Studies at the University of Vienna. She is preparing her Ph.D. in history at the University of Vienna. ‘Otherness’ in the Middle Ages, ed. by Hans-Werner Goetz and Ian Wood, IMR 25 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2021), pp. 117–137 © FHG10.1484/M.IMR-EB.5.123588

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he was both well-educated and had a large corpus of essential texts at his disposal.2 The Historiola also shows how he was involved in the political dynamics of the world around him, and that he acted as a representative of his community in Montecassino to help resolve conflicts with other players in the region.3 The Historiola survives in a single manuscript produced near the end of the thirteenth century, the Codex Vaticanus latinus 5001, and covers the period from the fall of the Lombard kingdom in 774 to around the year 889, where it abruptly ends.4 The composition of the Historiola is strongly connected to the hopeless situation within which Montecassino found itself due to the political instability around the monastery. A part of the Historiola was most likely written while the monks of Montecassino were in exile at Teano and Capua, following the destruction of their monastery by the Saracens in 883.5 Other than that, not much can be said with certainty, especially with regard to the author, possible revisions, or sponsors.6

2 Ferry, ‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards’, pp. 45–46. 3 As you can see in Erchempert, Historia, c. 69, ed. by Waitz, p. 261: ‘qua de re missus ab Angelario venerabili abate ego ipse vestifia apostolorum, adii Stephanum summum pontificem, postulaturus pro rebus nostris ablates’; cf. Pohl, Werkstätte, pp. 34–35. Erchempert appears a second time in the Historiola. In Erchempert, Historia, c. 44, ed. by Waitz, p. 254, Erchempert was taken captive and robbed when Pandenolf stormed the fortress of Pilanus together with Neapolitan troops. 4 See Pohl, Werkstätte, especially pp. 14–33: The Codex Vaticanus latinus also contains the Chronicon Salernitanum and other miscellaneous sources such as catalogues, funerary inscriptions, contracts, and poems. 5 For assumptions on the dating of the writing process and the source see: Christopher Heath, ‘Third/Ninth–Century Violence. “Saracens” and Sawdān in Erchempert’s Historia’, Al–Masaq, 27.1 (2015), 24–40; Pohl, Werkstätte, pp. 9–13, 33–42; Walter Pohl, ‘Fragmente der Erinnerung. Die Historiographie von Montecassino, 9. bis 11. Jahrhundert’, in Fragmente. Der Umgang mit lückenhafter Quellenüberlieferung in der Mittelalterforschung, ed. by Christian Gastgeber, Christine Glassner, and others, Denkschriften der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Phil.–hist. Kl., 415 (Wien: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2010), pp. 161–66; Luigi Andrea Berto, ‘The Image of the Byzantines in Early Medieval South Italy: The Viewpoint of the Chroniclers of the Lombards (9th–10th Centuries) and Normans (11th Century)’, Mediterranean Studies, 22.1 (2014), 1–37 (p. 5): Berto points out the fact that the Byzantines are portrayed extremely harsh at the end of the Historiola. This may show that these lines were been written while the Byzantines occupied Benevento in the 890s. For explanations why the destruction of the monastery was barely mentioned: Berto, ‘Erchempert’, p. 158; Armand O. Citarella, ‘The Political Chaos in Southern Italy and the Arab Destruction of Monte Cassino in 883’, in Montecassino: Dalla prima alla seconda distruzione. Momenti e aspetti di storia cassinese (Secc. VI–IX), ed. by Faustino Avagliano, Miscellanea Cassinese, A cura dei monaci di Montecassino, 55 (Montecassino: Montecassino, 1987), pp. 163–80 (pp. 163, 173); Pohl, Werkstätte, p. 175; Walter Pohl, ‘History in Fragments: Montecassino’s Politics of Memory’, Early Medieval Europe, 10.3 (2001), 343–74 (p. 367). 6 Regarding possible sponsors see Pohl, Werkstätte, pp. 37–42: The dedication poem in the same manuscript was originally created for Aio prince of Benevento (884–890) and belongs to the Historiola. Erchempert changes his opinion on Aio and on Atenolf of Capua and of Benevento (900– 910) in the text. Atenolf is the only contemporary who is praised by Erchempert in the Historiola. In opposition to that, Erchempert does not even mention Aio’s death. This makes a planned revision of the poem in favour of Atenolf likely.



The Co n s t r u ct i o n o f Al l eg i a n c e a n d E xclu si o n i n Erche mpe rt

The Historiola presents the situation in late eighth- and early ninth-century Benevento, under Arichis II and his successors, Grimoald III and Grimoald IV, as a time of unity (758–817) — a rhetorical conceit that makes it appear as if the text and its author were connected to the rulers of a united Benevento, or, more likely, to a united and thus stable reign which guaranteed Montecassino’s safety.7 This portrayal changes from the rule of Sico (817–832) and his successors Sicard (832–839) and Siconolf (839–849). The civil war under the latter’s rule in Benevento ended and led to the ‘divisio’ of 848, when the principality of Benevento was split into the dominions of Benevento and Salerno. As the ninth century continued, a third Lombard dominion, centred on Capua, emerged, ruled by the successors of Landolf I (840–843), who were involved in permanent conflicts within the family until the end of the ninth century.8 Bishop Landolf II (863–879) ousted his rivals within the family and dominated Capua for some time, and is the most prominent negative figure in Erchempert’s Historiola.9 Due to the ‘divisio’ in 84810 the Frankish emperor Louis II became the patron of Montecassino until his death in 875.11 After that, Montecassino was unable to find a similarly reliable protector. Towards the end of the ninth century the power of the Byzantine Empire in Southern Italy began to

7 See for example Erchempert, Historia, c. 2, ed. by Waitz, p. 235 (english translation by Ferry, ‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards’, pp. 122–23): Arichis rules as ‘princeps’ and is ‘a most Christian man and greatly distinguished and energetic in matters of warfare’ (vir christianissimus et valde illustris atque in rebus bellicis strenuissimus). In Erchempert, Historia, c. 3, ed. by Waitz, p. 236 (trans. by Ferry, ‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards’, pp. 124–25), Arichis built a church ‘as a man who loved god’ (Deo amabili viro). Erchempert, Historia, c. 5, ed. by Waitz, p. 236 (trans. by Ferry, ‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards’, p. 127): in chapter 5 his successor Grimoald III is portrayed as a man in opposition to the Franks, he could never understand how to scope with the wildness of the barbaric Franks (‘Hoc quidem callide licet egerit, efferitatem tamen supradictarum barbararum gentium sedare minime quivit’). In the same passage it is mentioned that he gets divorced from his Byzantine wife who has been moved back ‘to her own home’ (‘ad proprios lares eam vi transvexit’). Both events draw a line to the Franks and the Byzantines and imply an in-group. 8 On the ‘divisio’, see Clemens Gantner, ‘“Our Common Enemies Shall Be Annihilated!” How Louis II’s Relations with the Byzantine Empire Shaped his Policy in Southern Italy’, in Southern Italy as Contact Area and Border during the Early Middle Ages: Religious Cultural Heterogeneity and Competing Powers in Local, Transregional and Universal Dimensions, ed. by Kordula Wolf and Klaus Herbers (Köln: Böhlau, 2017), pp. 295–314 (p. 308). 9 Berto, ‘Erchempert’, pp. 151 and 153. 10 Divisio principatus beneventani, in Jean–Marie Martin, Guerre, accords et frontières en Italie méridionale pendant le haut Moyen Âge: Pacta de Liburia, Divisio principatus Beneventani et autres actes, Sources et documents d’histoire du Moyen Âge, 7 (Roma: École française de Rome, 2005), pp. 201–17. 11 Gantner, ‘“Our Common Enemies”’, pp. 308–09; Paolo Delogu, ‘Lombard and Carolingian Italy’, in The New Cambridge Medieval History, vol. ii: c. 700–c. 900, ed. by Rosamond McKitterick (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), pp. 290–319 (pp. 311–12); Chris Wickham, Early Medieval Italy: Central Power and Local Society, 400–1000 (Basingstoke: Macmillan 1981), p. 62; Barbara M. Kreutz, Before the Normans: Southern Italy in the Ninth and Tenth Centuries (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1996), pp. 33–35.

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grow stronger.12 The situation was also worsened through the expansive leadership of Athanasius of Naples (878–898).13 All of these new powers contributed to a very dynamic political situation. This short description of the basic historical background should reveal that Erchempert’s Historiola is very much a product of its time: the author’s overarching goal was to explain the decline of Lombard authority, and to give an ‘exemplum’ by narrating how you should not act as the leader of a people.14 The Historiola focuses on the Lombard rulers of Southern Italy, the military conflicts they had, and the shifting alliances between them. According to these circumstances, the text provides many different, sometimes contradictory points of view, as the dynamic structure of the Historiola appears to mirror the politically instable, confusing, and insecure times for the Lombard citizens and especially for the community of Montecassino. These dynamics also apply to the strategies employed by Erchempert to express the idea of the ‘Us’ within the narrative and the idea of the monks of Montecassino as the ‘in-group’. Opinions about different groups and individuals found within the text seem to change from time to time, which at its most basic level implies that the Historiola went through various redaction phases, and was most likely written over a long period, during which the political situation had regularly changed.15 One way of reading the Historiola as a series of interconnected events composed under continuously changing circumstances is to take a closer look at the way the text expresses various strategies of exclusion and inclusion. Specifically, it is interesting to look more closely at how various forms of allegiances are described, and how these allegiances serve to relate the ‘in-group’ of Montecassino to the various ‘others’ — including the notion of an ‘in-group’ or ‘Us’ that is produced in the course of defining differences. Although the Historiola reflects the dynamics of the region at its moment of writing, we can say for certain that the author employs a wide range of narrative strategies to cover various constellations of political and military allies within the Lombard principalities and their surrounding regions.16 The most obvious ‘Other’, and object of strategies of ‘othering’ in ninth-century Southern Italy are the ‘Saracens’, who were a familiar and threatening presence

12 Kreutz, Before the Normanns, p. 57 mentions the year 873 and the attack on a Saracen group in Otranto as ‘reappearance of Byzantium on the scene’. 13 On the conflict regarding the succession in Capua, see Dorothee Arnold, Johannes VIII. – Päpstliche Herrschaft in den karolingischen Teilreichen am Ende des 9. Jahrhunderts, Europäische Hochschulschriften, XXIII/797 (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 2005), pp. 217–21. See also Erchempert, Historia, c. 44 and 46–50, ed. by Waitz, pp. 251 and 254–56. 14 Erchempert, Historia, c. 1, ed. by Waitz, p. 234; Berto, ‘Erchempert’, 147. 15 Compare Pohl, Werkstätte, pp. 33–42. 16 Contributions which have dealt specifically with ‘others’ in the Historiola and other sources in this region: Luigi Andrea Berto, ‘The Others and their Stories, Byzantines, Franks, Lombards and Saracens in Ninth-Century Neapolitan Narrative Texts’, The Medieval History Journal, 19.1 (2016), 34–56; Luigi Andrea Berto, ‘The Image of the Byzantines in Early Medieval South Italy: The Viewpoint of the Chroniclers of the Lombards (9th–10th Centuries) and Normans (11th Century)’, Mediterranean Studies, 22.1 (2014), 1–37; Luigi Andrea Berto, ‘The Muslims as Others in the

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in the area as Muslim mercenaries and raiders. Perceptions of these Muslims are already well-researched.17 What is most remarkable about them that in spite of strong anti-Saracen stereotypes, textual strategies of othering are less consistent and sometimes more ambivalent than we would assume. Two further groups of foreigners, Greeks and Franks, receive a full treatment in Clemens Gantner’s paper in this volume. The present paper focuses on a different aspect of ‘othering’ in Erchempert’s text: strategies of in- and exclusion within Southern Italian Lombard society that is, in a social world familiar and more or less close to the author. This analysis leads us into a small world of shifting allegiances, small-scale political conflict, scathing critique of corrupt or inefficient rulers and personal grudges. It worked on several levels: first, the author’s attempt to affirm his community’s identity by highlighting the otherness of individuals and/or groups. Of course, otherness on this level is often constituted by reference to religious visions, and by demarcating the community’s belief from (in their eyes) sinful or heretical tendencies of other groups or individuals.18 Second, in a wider scale of the never-ending conflicts and wars within the principality of Benevento, political critique is often accentuated by what may well be regarded as strategies of ‘othering’. Individuals and groups within a community which Erchempert explicitly regarded as ‘Us’ are not only criticized, they are marked off as enemies of the community, even their princes are tendentially excluded from it. Due to the low social cohesion of an ‘othering’ there could be a strategy to sort out ‘good’ Christians from ‘bad’ Christians within the community of the Lombards. Thus, the focus of this contribution is to explore to what extent the mechanism of ‘othering’ may also work within a given society in times of heavy conflicts. Erchempert belongs to the community of the Christian people, to the community of the Lombards, and to the community of Montecassino. We will consider in what way his strategy towards ‘other’ bad Christian rulers from the wider community of Beneventan Lombards is at the same time an attempt to reaffirm the identity and the authority of the community of Montecassino, which serves as a basis for his ‘pastoral concept’.

Chronicles of Early Medieval Southern Italy’, Viator, 45.3 (2014), 1–24; Berto, ‘Erchempert’; Clemens Gantner, Freunde Roms und Völker der Finsternis. Die päpstliche Konstruktion von Anderen im 8. und 9. Jahrhundert (Wien: Böhlau, 2014); Heath, ‘Third/Ninth–Century Violence’. 17 Berto, ‘The Others and their Stories’, pp. 47–50; Berto ‘The Muslims as Others’. 18 Hans-Werner Goetz, Die christlich-abendländische Wahrnehmung anderer Religionen im frühen und hohen Mittelalter. Methodische und vergleichende Aspekte, Wolfgang-Stammler-Gastprofessur für Germanische Philologie, Vorträge, 23 (Berlin: De Gruyter 2013), pp. 11–46 (p. 13 and pp. 20–23): Goetz points to ‘religious visions’ which influences the author’s way of thinking and he also underlines that religion can become secondary (e.g., when Saracens become allies); on pp. 27–28 and p. 45 he refers to heresy and that excluded individuals or groups are consciously marked as infidels; see to strategies of identification: Walter Pohl, ‘Introduction: Strategies of Identification. A Methodological Profile’, in Strategies of Identification: Ethnicity and Religion in Early Medieval Europe, ed. by Walter Pohl and Gerda Heydemann (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), pp. 1–64 (p. 49).

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Setting the Stage and Defining Terms of ‘Otherness’ Theoretical Framework

‘Othering’ here is also partly based on Gantner’s approach, who defined the pope and his entourage according to his source material as an ‘in-group’.19 ‘Others’, according to Gantner, are defined by being placed outside this ‘in-group’. Moreover, in his analysis, different grades of otherness exist, which means that some individuals or groups are closer to the pope and his community and some further away. Gantner also points out that differences and similarities are applied situationally to individuals and groups, and also that in his example it was the papacy that shaped the discourse; something that can also be assumed about the community of Montecassino, which was an important participant in Christian discourse, especially because of the Regula Benedicti, which left a deep imprint on its surroundings.20 Another point is that, although there are diverse interests in one ‘in-group’, there can also be a common strategy by which one group constructs ‘others’. Montecassino also operates, argues, and exists as a mode of Christian discourse, integrating manifold sources.21 Christian 19 Gantner, Freunde Roms, pp. 13, 48–59. 20 For the significance of Montecassino and the cultural importance of the Regula Benedicti, see for an overview of the discussion: Albrecht Diem, ‘Inventing the Holy Rule: Some Observations on the History of Monastic Normative Observance in the Early Medieval West’, in Western Monasticism ante litteram: The Spaces of Monastic Observance in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, ed. by Hendrik Dey and Elizabeth Fentress, Disciplina Monastica, 7 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2011), pp. 53–84 (pp. 54–55 and 67–76); Albrecht Diem, ‘The Carolingians and the Regula Benedicti’, in Religious Franks. Religion and Power in the Frankish Kingdoms: Studies in Honour of Mayke de Jong, ed. by Rob Meens, Dorine van Espelo, Bram van den Hoven van Genderen, Janneke Raaijmakers, Irene van Renswoude, and Carine van Rhijn(Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2016), pp. 243–61, pp. 245–49; Pohl, Werkstätte, p. 79; Diem, ‘Inventing the Holy Rule’, pp. 75–76: Diem concludes that the Regula Benedicti and Montecassino ‘were combined into a powerful master–narrative, which served as a major tool for monastic reform.’; Johannes Fried, Der Schleier der Erinnerung. Grundzüge einer historischen Memorik (München: Beck, 2012), pp. 344–57; Mayke de Jong, ‘Carolingian Monasticism: The Power of Prayer’, in The New Cambridge Medieval History 2: c. 700–c. 900, ed. by Rosamund McKitterick (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), pp. 622–53, p. 630: ‘When Carolingian rulers and their ecclesiastical advisers sought to establish religious unity in the realm of the Chosen People of the Franks, they turned to the Roman abbot [= Benedict of Nursia], and to Monte Cassino’. Rutger Kramer, Great Expectations: Imperial Ideologies and Ecclesiastical Reforms from Charlemagne to Louis the Pious, 813–22 (Amsterdam: Ridderkerk, 2014), pp. 280–95. For the Terra Sancti Benedicti, see Michela Cigola, ‘La Terra Sancti Benedicti. Origine e sviluppo del territorio governato da Montecassino’, in La Vie dei Mercanti. Rappresentare il Mediterraneo, ed. by Carmine Gambardella, Massimo Giovannini, and Sabina Martusciello (Napoli: La Scuola di Pitagora, 2008), pp. 501–06; Herbert Bloch, Monte Cassino in the Middle Ages, 3 vols (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1986), pp. 167–464 and 631–73 (on privileges to Montecassino by popes from 858). 21 On the influence of patristic texts on Western Christendom and especially on the texts of the Church Fathers, which are an important influence for the institutionalization and formation of Christianity also in regard of building a new ‘genealogy of power’ (Peter Brown, Autorität und Heiligkeit. Aspekte der Christianisierung des Römischen Reiches (Stuttgart: Reclam, 1998)) in the Latin West, see Peter Brown, The Rise of Western Christendom. Triumph and Diversity, A.D. 200–1000, The Making of Europe, 2nd edn (Oxford: Blackwell Wiley, 2003), pp. 190–216; Peter Brown, Macht und Rhetorik in

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culture serves as a strong basis for the ‘process of othering’. This is linked to the construction of a monastic or institutional identity and finally helps to emphasize special characteristics, a particular perspective, which differentiates ‘others’ from the ‘Us’. Thus, ‘others’ should be taken to mean all who cannot be counted among the community of Montecassino in a broader sense, for which Christianity was a defining factor.22 In his monograph Werkstätte der Erinnerung, Walter Pohl argued that the ‘WirGefühl’ of the monks of Montecassino was linked to their confrontation with the Saracens which evoked a ‘spiritual battle against a profane pagan infestation’.23 This is also Erchempert’s most important motivation for writing the Historiola: conserving an autonomous status and seeking a powerful patron to provide protection against the devastating situation facing the community, which was attacked and finally expelled from its ‘power centre’ by Saracens. The flight of the community in 883, as will be shown, and its powerless situation is not simply related to the Saracen threat, it is multi-causal, and the Historiola is far too complex and contradictory to offer simple solutions. Therefore, the focus of interest is the ‘process of othering’ elaborated in the source, which includes the questions of why and how certain groups or individuals were singled out to be excluded, what defines the ‘Us’ of the monks and why it is important for them to exclude others, and which rhetorical strategy is used to build allegiances or to exclude others from the specific identity they construct. In order to define more precisely the concept of the community’s identity, the ‘Us’, within the text, and its rhetorical strategy, we need to analyse what cannot be the actual or constant in-group in the narrative and, more generally, which ‘in’- and ‘out-groups’ the author constructs to show allegiances and exclusion. With reference to the beginning of the narrative which indicates close association with the Beneventan ruler Arichis II and his successors, the potential ‘Us’ in the text would be the Lombards living in a united Benevento.24 This includes the monastic community of Montecassino which provided the vantage point from which Erchempert was writing his Historiola. The nearby abbey of San Vincenzo al Volturno can be counted as part of this wider ‘in-group’ but also has to be seen as an autonomous entity. Potential ‘out-groups’ which appear in the source would then be the neighbours of this united Benevento. Some ‘duces’ of Spoleto are of Lombard origin as well or have kinship relationship with Lombard Beneventans, so they cannot be completely excluded from a wider ‘in-group’. This shows that we have to differentiate among the ‘Lombards’ as well.

der Spätantike. Der Weg zu einem christlichen Imperium (München: dtv Wissenschaft, 1995), pp. 97–99; Brown, Autorität und Heiligkeit, pp. 23–25, p. 35; Conrad Leyser, ‘The Memory of Gregory the Great and the Making of Latin Europe, 600–1000’, in Making Early Medieval Societies: Conflict and Belonging in the Latin West, 300–1200, ed. by Conrad Leyser and Kate Cooper (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), pp. 181–201; Conrad Leyser, Authority and Asceticism from Augustine to Gregory the Great (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), pp. 65–80. 22 This passage is based on Gantner, Freunde Roms, pp. 48–59. 23 Pohl, Werkstätte, p. 175. 24 The ‘united’ Benevento is regarded to a not fragmented Lombard political unity in Benevento before the ‘divisio’.

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Rome and the papacy are politically and geographically ‘outsiders’, but here the ‘strategy of othering’ also has to be differentiated. Nominally, the papacy itself is strongly related to the abbey of Montecassino. However, individuals in this group, such as Pope John VIII, are criticized by the author. The nominally Byzantine coastal towns of Naples, Gaeta, and Amalfi, which became more and more autonomous, are a kind of ‘real’ outsiders, in which Athanasius II of Naples plays an important part for the perception of this group. Linked to them is the Byzantine Empire as a political player which can also be seen as ‘out-group’; nevertheless, individuals in this entity can be framed nearer to the in-group (in Erchembert’s construction) than to the group to which they really belonged. The same is true for the Frankish Empire, in which individuals such as Louis II, the protector of Montecassino, are framed very benevolently by the author.25 Saracens, who were not only ‘the other’ in a political, but also in a cultural sense, are formally seen as clear ‘out-group’, but are also portrayed with a bit more diversity than we might expect. ‘Othering’ here works more through a strategy of distinction, especially when individual actors are singled out and framed differently from the group to which they ostensibly belonged. Individual groups are weighted differently, some show clearer traces of alliance and some individuals represent a group and are in- or excluded by their actions in relation to Montecassino. Of course, due to formal criteria, Capua has a different relationship with the ‘in-group’ than, for example, Naples, and the demands on these potential ‘in-’ and ‘out-groups’ are weighted differently. From this relatively static point of departure, the distinction between ‘in-’ and ‘out-groups’ becomes more muddled after the division of united Benevento into the Capuans, the Salernitans, and, of course, the Beneventans. The Historiola navigates through the ever-changing political configurations in the Lombard principalities by anchoring itself to the community of Montecassino — which in the end seems to be the only constant ‘Us’ in the text, as shall be shown step by step in the analysis. Othering for this text works especially by relating individuals and groups to the text’s identity, which is given through the ‘Us’ of the monks of Montecassino. Especially the temporary exclusion of Lombard rulers shows that this text must have been written for its own, that is, monastic purposes. The Text’s Christian Principles and Rhetorical Strategy

Erchempert implies that the community had a collective ‘divine mission’, which explained its position and involvement in the unfolding events, as we will see. He juxtaposes political diversity to the essential unity of the monastery itself.26 Yet this unity was not immune to the internal conflicts of its members which were 25 On Louis II, see Clemens Gantner’s contribution in this volume. 26 Especially in the Cronicae Sancti Benedicti Casinensis (CSBC) there is a lot of evidence of the importance of the community, their abbots, who are also named as pastors, and the Holy Benedict and his Rule. Compare: CSBC, c. 1, ed. by Georg Waitz, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores rerum Langobardicarum et Italicarum, 1 vol. (Hannover: Hahn, 1878), p. 468; CSBC, c. 6, ed. by Waitz, p. 472 and c. 22, p. 480.

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also assigned to different political fractions.27 The rhetorical strategy is aimed at effectuating changes for the situation of Montecassino, which found itself in a rather powerless position caused by the ongoing power struggles and the Saracen attacks. The author of the text has to deal with a complex web of loyalties and identities due to the permanently changing political situation in the region. Although Erchempert takes care to highlight the monks’ connection to a Lombard identity, as analysis also will show, this represents a monk’s point of view and should not be seen as reflecting a Lombard ‘gens’ per se. This mode of identification, full of self-awareness, is actually a part of the Christian argumentation and pastoral rhetoric within the Historiola, and reflects the use of the many different identities the author had at his disposal. Above all, the ‘Us’ of the monastic community is defined through the common Christian identity and mission, which overlays the individual political intentions some people in that community might have. To build this ‘Us’ requires a strong Christian rhetoric, which is applied through the text in many different ways. Foucault coined the concept of ‘pastoral power’. Pastoral power means a specific way of leading individuals by relating their doing to God’s will and the holy precepts of the Bible and Jesus Christ. In simplified terms it can be described through the relation between ‘shepherds’ and their flocks, one in which the shepherds are also part of the flock. This leads to the scenario in which a ‘pastor’, in the form of a political or clerical leader (such as an abbot) guides the souls of a Christian community, defined through a common belief (a belief that is strengthened by ‘monastic rituals’ and collective memory), by employing a Christian rhetoric and exerting Christian rules (which also apply to the ‘pastor’), developed in Late Antiquity and in the early Middle Ages by various Church Fathers, as Foucault pointed out. An important point is that the role of controlling the Christian flock is assigned to all within the flock, including the shepherd. The whole flock is connected through a relationship of responsibility.28 Foucault underpinned his concept with sources such as the Regula Pastoralis by Gregory the Great, and the Regula Benedicti.29 The Historiola does, at

27 Compare Pohl, Werkstätte, p. 52 and p. 55; Pohl, ‘History in Fragments’, p. 373, who points to the tension between deacon Dauferius and Erchempert (Dauferius appears in Erchempert, Historia, c. 65, c. 80) which can be interpreted as political rivalry within the community. 28 Or the development of the concept of pastoral power, see Michel Foucault, Sicherheit, Territorium, Bevölkerung. Geschichte der Gouvernementalität, I, stw, 1808, 3rd edn (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2014), pp. 173–200 and pp. 217–67. A contribution which deals with ‘pastoral power’ in the contexts of the Carolingian Empire can be found here: Monika Suchan, Mahnen und Regieren. Die Metapher des Hirten im früheren Mittelalter, Millennium–Studien zu Kultur und Geschichte des ersten Jahrtausends n. Chr., 56 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2015); Monika Suchan, ‘Der gute Hirte. Religion, Macht und Herrschaft in der Politik der Karolinger- und Ottonenzeit’, Frühmittelalterliche Studien, 43 (2009), 95–112; Marianne Pollheimer, ‘Of Shepherds and Sheep: Preaching and Biblical Models of Community in the Ninth Century’, in Strategies of Identification: Ethnicity and Religion in Early Medieval Europe, ed. by Pohl and Heydemann, pp. 233–56. 29 Foucault, Geschichte der Gouvernementalität, i, 224, and on 243–44 he points to more sources, i.e.: De sacerdotio by John Chrysostom, the letters by Cyprianus, De officiis ministrorum by Ambrosius and Collationes patrum by Cassianus; Michel Foucault, Analytik der Macht, stw, 1759, 5th edn (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2013), p. 190: Foucault refers in particular to the Regula Benedicti, in which this

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different moments, imply this kind of power strategy through the use of pastoral rhetoric, as we will see in the following passage.

Analysis Allegiance in Political Confusing Times The Community of Montecassino

For defining allegiances, there needs to be a strong anchor point. Members of the community of Montecassino rarely appear on the scene, but when they do, they show a strong presence, which can be seen for example in the story in which the abbot Bassacius, together with the abbot of San Vincenzo, begs the ‘most pious emperor’ Louis II to help them against the Saracens raiding Benevento and Salerno.30 Louis, who is portrayed as a part of a wider ‘in-group’, helps them, which shows how monks played an important role in gaining help against the Saracen threat. Louis loses this sublime position later in the text, but remains the only ruler who is portrayed as a ‘pastor’, which puts him in a close allegiance with the community.31 In another story, during the civil war between the Capuans after Bishop Landolf II’s death, the abbot Bertharius and the bishop of Teano asked Pope John VIII not to consecrate Pandonolf ’s brother Landonolf as the bishop of Capua. This was mostly because the city already had a bishop in Lando’s son Landolf, and the ensuing schism would be sinful and destroy the land. They predicted that a great fire would come if the

‘individualizing power’ that wants to direct individuals ‘continuously and permanently’, is strongly emphasized. He also points to the fact that in the Regula Benedicti the abbot’s task is compared to that of a shepherd. 30 Erchempert, Historia, c. 20, ed. by Waitz, p. 242. 31 Erchempert, Historia, c. 34, ed. by Waitz, p. 247: ‘Impletusque est sermo Domini ex prophetia sumptus: “Percute”, inquid, “pastorem, et dispergentur oves gregis”. Consistente itaque augusto in custodia, excitavit Deus spiritum Hismaelitum, eosque ab Africa regione protinus evexit, ut ulciscerentur augusti obprobrium, sicuti Filii Dei passionem Vespasianus et Titus ulti sunt. Set defensio Domini dilatata est in annos 42, iuxta prophetiam Elisei, qui 42 pueros, a quibus illusus est, duobus ursis dedit in commestionem; huius autem contemptum nec in 40 distulit dies. Ex quo datur intelligi, quali quantusve vir iste fuerit, qui tam cito defensus est’ (trans. by Ferry, ‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards’, pp. 178–79: ‘And the word of God taken from prophecy was fulfilled: “Persecute the shepherd, and the sheep of his flock will be dispersed”. With the emperor in custody, God roused the spirit of the Ismaelites and immediately raised them up from Africa, so that he might avenge the disgrace of the emperor, just as Vespasian and Titus took vengeance for the passion of the Son of God. But the defense of the Lord was delayed for forty-two years, rather like the prophecy of Elijah, who gave forty-four boys, by whom he had been ridiculed, to two bears to be eaten; however, the contempt of the emperor was not prolonged for even forty days. From this it can be understood what sort of man and how great a man was the emperor, who was defended so quickly’). Also see Clemens Gantner’s contribution in this volume.

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pope were to invest Landonolf as bishop.32 The monks again represent reasonable Christian behaviour for everyone’s welfare. However, the pope, who was a corrupt and sinful person in the eyes of the author, did not listen to them and the abbot’s prophecy came true. In these examples, the monks thus show their moral superiority, which according to Erchempert also gave them a powerful voice in contemporary political discourse. Their monastic way of life proved to be a stabilizing force in a turbulent period. We cannot ignore that these scenes of active participation by members of the community in the political arena are very rare.33 This leads to the conclusion that in Erchempert’s eyes the community asserted its identity more through a pastoral rhetoric in the text than through active involvement in public affairs. The Beneventans

Erchempert makes clear in chapter 1 that he wants to write the story of the ruin of the Lombards at Benevento; he seems to be emotionally involved by mourning the Beneventans falling apart when he notes that all these events draw ‘a profound sigh’ from his ‘innermost heart’.34 This shows allegiance to the Beneventan Lombards and an ‘Us’ of the monastic community’s identity that is tightly connected with Lombard Benevento in the beginning.35 For instance, when Charlemagne marched against Benevento, Erchempert notes that God fought for us and decided the issue on our behalf (set Deo decertante pro nobis, sub cuius adhuc regimine fovebamur, innumerabilibus de suis peste perditis’).36 Similarly, while Sergius of Naples fought a war against Capua it happened exactly ‘Nam octavo Ydus Maias quo beati Michahelis archangeli sollempnia nos sollempniter celebramus, quo etiam die priscis tem­poribus a Beneventanorum populis Neapolites fortiter cesos legimus’ (on the eighth day before the Ides of May, on which we solemnly celebrate the ceremonies of the blessed Archangel Michael, and on which […] the Neapolitans were boldly killed by the people of Benevento).37 Erchempert draws a very gloomy picture in chapter 75, where he reflects on passages from the Bible (such as Revelation 18. 6: ‘Pay her back as she herself has paid back others, and repay her double for her deeds; mix a

32 Erchempert, Historia, c. 47, ed. by Waitz, pp. 254–55; trans. by Ferry, ‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards’, p. 201: ‘imploring him with supplication not to perform so grave a sin, from which there would doubtless come ruin of the land and bloodshed. The abbot distinctly told him: “Surely, if your power is used for this, you will light such a fire there that it will reach all the way to you […]”’. 33 Monks and abbots appear in the following chapters of the Historiola: 13, 20, 31, 32, 47, 61, 65, 69, 78, and 80. 34 Erchempert, Historia, c. 1, ed. by Waitz, pp. 234–35; trans. by Ferry, ‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards’, pp. 120–22. 35 Berto has worked out all ‘us’ and ‘we’ references in the Historiola, see Berto, ‘The Muslims as Others’, p. 4. Berto examines that Erchempert uses ‘us’, ‘we’, ‘our people’ even though it is not always clear to which group the term refers. 36 Erchempert, Historia, c. 6, ed. by Waitz, p. 236; trans. by Ferry, ‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards’, p. 128. 37 Erchempert, c. 27, ed. by Waitz, p. 244‘; trans. by Ferry, ‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards’, p. 164.

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double portion for her in the cup she mixed’). Then, he makes a digression: he asks himself how he could interpret the apostle’s words: ‘Is not the one who robs also the one who shall have profited?’ (Isaiah 33. 1). He concludes: ‘Sicuti enim Neapolites vastantur, qui vastarunt, ita et nos forsan devorabimur, qui nunc devorantes sumus. Beati ergo, qui Domino custodiente immunes ab hac seculi procella existent, ubi omne malum et nullum sine Domino bonum regnat’ (Indeed just as the Neapolitans are ravaged, who are themselves ravaging, thus also may we perhaps be devoured, who are now devourers. Blessed therefore are those who by the watchfulness of the Lord are immune from this stormy age […]).38 This passage shows Erchempert’s ambivalent position to this extended ‘Us’ consisting of the monastic community and the Beneventan Lombards — the seemingly obvious, but blurred in-group. The Lombard ‘gens’ amalgamates effortlessly with the monastic community’s ‘Us’ here, although it is not clear if Erchempert’s ‘we’ refers to all Beneventan Lombards or to his righteous readers. This contrasts neatly with other instances where Lombards, or at least their leaders, are strictly excluded from the ‘in-group’ of Montecassino as well, as shall be shown soon.39 Another example of how the community builds allegiance is when Guaiferus of Salerno is portrayed as an ‘anointed of the Lord’, who gains God’s support in an intrigue against him set by the Capuans Pando and Bishop Landolf in the early 860s.40 Connected to these examples is also the question of the audience. The fact that the community of Montecassino and its members are portrayed in a purely positive way leads to the assumption that this text might be intended as a self-confidence boost for a community in a difficult situation. The pastoral rhetoric also gives the impression that the readers (among whom may also be rulers) should be convinced by the monk’s moral superiority and listen to his ‘admonitio’. The community seems to adopt the role of the pastoral voice in the turbulence around it, and allegiances work with this rhetoric. Exclusion Sicard

Contrary to the Beneventan rulers Arichis II and his successors, Sico and his son Sicard had lost divine favour. Erchempert records that Sicard is a man ‘[…] Beneventanos bestiali efferitate persequitur, atque se superstite filium suum Sicardum nomine heredem principatu effecit, virum satis lubricum, inquietum et petulante animique elatione tumidum’ (who would persecute the Beneventans with beastly wildness,

38 Erchempert, Historia, c. 75, ed. by Waitz, p. 263; trans. by Ferry, ‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards’, p. 242. 39 See Berto, ‘Erchempert’, pp. 151–58 for the ‘bad’ Lombard rulers in this source. 40 Erchempert, Historia, c. 28, ed. by Waitz, p. 245; for a better translation cf. Erchemperto, Piccola Storia dei Longobardi di Benevento / Ystoriola Longobardorum Beneventum degentium, ed. and trans. by Luigi Andrea Berto (Napoli: Liguori, 2013); see footnote 169: most probably Guaiferius is the anointed one.

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a quite lewd man, unquiet and puffed up with impudence and exaltation of will).41 In another passage, Sicard began out of inconstancy of character [...] to persecute with beastly greed the people entrusted to him, and cruelly tear them to pieces (coepitque populum sibi commissum ex levitate animi beluina voracitate insequi ac crudeliter laniare).42 Sicard is portrayed as a danger for his own people, the Beneventans, even as a threat for his flock. With Sico and Sicard Erchempert starts to criticize Lombard rulers. In Erchempert’s representation it becomes clear that those rulers acted against the ‘holy rules’ by persecuting their own people and forging intrigues.43 Interestingly, Erchempert does not label Sico as ‘foreigner’ as the author of the Chronicon Salernitanum does.44 This would give the critique of this ruler’s family a stronger link to ‘othering’. Nevertheless, the ‘bad’ Lombard rulers are framed differently from a ‘good’ Christian ‘in-group’ in the Historiola. Erchempert never tires of telling his readers about Sicard’s wickedness. Sicard commits another wrongdoing:45 he prefers Rofridus, ‘[…] cuius consilii subversione multa sacrilega ac blasmia patrabat’ (by whose ruinous council he carried out many irreverent acts and desecrations against God).46 Sicard carries out misdeeds such as the assassination of loyal companions, making irrational and wrong decisions, and banning his brother Siconolf. Sicard’s wrongdoing has consequences for the Beneventans: ‘Tuncque factum est ingens periurium in Benevento, ex quo conicitur, iram Dei primum fore provocatam ad perdendam terram’ (At that time a great perjury was accomplished at Benevento, from which it may be conjectured that for the first time the anger of God was called forth for the destruction of their land).47 As far as Erchempert could discern, the moral collapse in Benevento was thus caused by Lombard leadership. Things had become so bad that God’s anger was aroused and He was forced to punish the Beneventans. The destiny of Benevento was therefore caused by the failure of its leaders, making the fall of the Beneventans inevitable at this point. When Sicard ‘out of greed’ removed Abbot Deusdedit of Montecassino (828–834) from his pastoral office and arrested him (besides stealing property from the church of Montecassino, Christian communities, aristocrats, and simple persons) the situation could not become worse. Sicard died, according to Erchempert, as a result of God’s vengeance for his misdeeds and those committed by his father Sico, who was guilty of Grimoald’s death. Sicard’s was ‘heaven-struck in spirit as well as in flesh’ and by 41 Erchempert, Historia, c. 10, ed. by Waitz, p. 238; trans. by Ferry, ‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards’, p. 135. 42 Erchempert, Historia, c. 12, ed. by Waitz, p. 239; trans. by Ferry, ‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards’, p. 138. 43 Berto, ‘Erchempert’, pp. 151–52. 44 Pohl, Werkstätte, p. 167. 45 His wrongdoing is juxtaposed with a passage in the Bible. It is the same misdeed which was made by Asuerus with Ama. This is probably a reference to the book Esther in the Old Testament. 46 Erchempert, Historia, c. 12, ed. by Waitz, p. 239; trans. by Ferry, ‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards’, p. 139. 47 Erchempert, Historia, c. 12, ed. by Waitz, p. 239; trans. by Ferry, ‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards’, pp. 139–40.

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‘God’s swift retribution’, as well as ‘God’s punishment’.48 The implications of this interesting line in the text need to be drawn out: the source preaches and admonishes by pointing to the Beneventan Lombards’ misdeeds and the justice brought by God, who punishes all sinners. One focus is on what Sicard did to the abbot and the Church. This passage marks the first climax of the beginning of the end, with the ‘divisio’ of 848 as its consequence. Bishop Landolf

The text generally casts a sorrowful eye on such developments within the Beneventan flock, by pointing out the evil coming from in- and outside, which threatened the salvation of the people. Even worse, this unstable situation also threatened the powerful position of the community at Montecassino, which nonetheless became ever more vulnerable to the whims of the elite, even while their own immediate influence was decreasing. Bishop Landolf of Capua serves as an anti-hero par excellence acting against the community of Montecassino, the people of Capua and true Christian belief. Princes acted against the interests of the monastery, and at the same time they were involved in increasing inner conflict on several levels, threatening the peace and prosperity of the country. Erchempert’s strategy of exclusion goes beyond simple critique of rulers. He identifies the interests of the country, those of Montecassino and of Christendom altogether, and thus pinpoints bad princes as enemies of all three communities, as true outsiders. This demarcation of a wrong way of believing is most clearly shown in the portrayal of Bishop Landolf who is, although a bishop and a Lombard, strictly excluded from all that Montecassino stands for. Erchempert dedicates a whole chapter full of defamations to Landolf. He was ‘[…] more exalted than it is possible to believe, and an attacker and plunderer of monks, […]’. He also ‘acted against the precept of the apostle, who said: “Put yourself under all authority, whether of the king on high, or of leaders sent by him”’. And Erchempert concludes: ‘There is no power unless from God; therefore whoever resists power resists the command of God’.49 By the ‘most righteous judgement of God’ Landolf would be tormented in the future, however: in fact, he is the only person doomed to Hell in the entirety of the Historiola.50 His sin

48 Erchempert, Historia, c. 13, ed. by Waitz, p. 239: ‘Prius enim quam obiret, ut cumulus suae perditionis iustius augeretur, pro amore pecuniae spectabilem et Deo dignum virum, sanctitate conspicuum, Deus dedit nomine, beatissimi Benedicti vicarium, a pastorali monasterio monachorum seculari magis potentia quam congrua ratione deposuit ac custodiae mancipavit. Cuius que nunc usque cineres, quo recubat humatus, nonnullos febre retentos variisque langoribus oppressos ex fide poscentes creberrime curare noscuntur / ipse caelitus spiritu pariter et carne perculsus interiit […] Deo iuste retribuente […] ulciscente Deo’; trans. by Ferry, ‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards’, pp. 140–41. 49 Erchempert, Historia, c. 31, ed. by Waitz, p. 246; trans. by Ferry, ‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards’, pp. 173–74. 50 Berto, ‘Erchempert’, p. 157.

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is abusing his Christian authority, pretending to follow shared Christian values, but in fact counter-acting the version of Christianity represented by the communities’ pastoral voice. The special position of the community and the monks as representatives of a wider community is emphasized. They are holders of Christian morality and thereby represent pure belief. The text teaches us that the bishop of Capua, who should act as a ‘pastor’ of the Christian people, fell into sin because he, too, became caught up in the politics of his time. Instead of supporting monastic communities or adopting his role as a shepherd, he rather operated as a political figure with a vested interest in worldly power. That is why his behaviour is characterized as the worst in the source.51 The pastoral voice expressed in Erchempert’s text retrospectively excludes Landolf from the community of true Christians. One thing that becomes clear when looking at the particular expression of ‘Us’ in passages such as these is the special connection Erchempert creates between his community and God: God’s judgement and especially the expression of a morally blameless lifestyle in regard to the Scripture are a leitmotif in the source, which is applied especially to people of influence, such as dukes, bishops, or kings, but less frequently to an entire people. Those who do not fit into this pattern are excluded in the sense of not belonging to the version of Christianity represented by the Benedictine community. Moral fortitude becomes an identity marker here just as pastoral power. In fact, this strategy predominantly excludes the community’s enemies, or all who worsen their situation, and includes their sponsors and protectors. Pastoral Power as a Rhetorical Strategy

Before the ‘divisio’ of 848, during the heavy battles between Siconolf and Radelgis, Benevento is described as a place of sin. Erchempert draws a picture which culminates in a scenario where people wandered ‘like beasts without a shepherd’ into the wilderness. The Lombards were in a permanent state of civil war, and an ‘utmost loss of spirit and heart’ occurred, especially because Saracens living in Benevento troubled the local aristocracy whom they whipped and commanded like ‘incompetent servants’.52 In short, it was poor or missing leadership that had brought the Christian people of Benevento to this hopeless situation. The text exposes this misbehaviour and simultaneously illustrates how those events could have been avoided, for instance by listening to the principles of God and his shepherds, Jesus and his apostles, and

51 Berto, ‘Erchempert’, p. 156, describes him as ‘antihero par excellence’. 52 Erchempert, Historia, c. 17, ed. by Waitz, p. 241: ‘Erat autem adhuc inter Siconolfum et Radelgisum frequentissima pugnae concertatio et cotidiana litium seditio, unde et ex diversa parte quibus via iustitiae displicebat alternatim ab uno in alterum confugiebant, fiebantque crebra par rapinae incestaeque fornicationes. Erant siquidem universi erranei et ad malum prompti, quasi bestiae sine pastore oberrantes in saltum. Set cum iugiter civili bello invicem inter se lacerarentur essetque omnium pernicies et, ut ita dicam, animae et cordis extrema perditio, maxime quia Saraceni Benevento degentes, quorum rex erat Massari, intra extraque omnia funditus devastavit, ita ut etiam optimates illius pro nihilo ducerent atque ut ineptos servulos taureis duriter flagellarent’; trans. by Ferry, ‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards’, p. 151.

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by internalizing and fulfilling God’s plan for the salvation of the flock. The raiding Saracens are one consequence of Beneventan mismanagement and, as Berto has argued, the fact that the Lombard nobles were commanded like incompetent servants by them expresses the poor opinion Erchempert had of the Lombard elites.53 This can be also interpreted as a strong image of the moral collapse ensuing from this missing ‘true’ Christian leadership. Saracens, a term that actually included many different groups, are the closest we get to an ‘other’ in the traditional sense of the term. The text also differentiates between different groups of Saracens.54 In the Historiola they appear or do evil because God sent them as a punishment for his Beneventan people’s misbehaviour, or because Lombard counts had actually given them the opportunity to raid, murder, and capture citizens of opposing factions by hiring them as mercenaries. For example, in the Historiola, the Lombard Pando55 is a ‘traitor’ to ‘gens’ and ‘patria’, because he gave the Saracens the opportunity to kill Christian citizens by stationing them near Bari.56 Saracens thus became important allies to nearly all parties involved in southern Italian conflicts in the ninth century.57 On the other hand, Erchempert compares Saracens with vipers,58 and writes that they are ‘[…] ut sunt natura callidi et prudentiores aliis in malum […]’ (by nature clever and more skilled in evil).59 Their belief and the different cultural background is, in comparison with the portrayal of the Lombards, a characteristic that he uses to exclude them. In comparison to Lombards they are never given the chance to become part of the ‘in-group’, as Erchempert uses their nature to mark them out. Thus, they can also serve to emphasize the incompetence and the failure of other excluded individuals or groups.

53 Berto, ‘Erchempert’, p. 153. 54 The text mentions a variety of Muslim groups and different terms are used: Arageni, Saraceni, Aegyptii, Spanish Ismaelites (‘Hismaelitas Hispanos’), Libyan Agareni (‘Agarenos Libicos’), Seductors — stationed in Sicily, Bari, and Northern Africa. See Berto, ‘The Others’, pp. 47–50 (footnote 63). 55 No further information exists on Pando. His name points to an inheritance relation to a Landolf and Pandolf, thus to the Capuan dynasty. One of Landolf ’s sons, Pando, is ‘dux’ in Capua from 861–862. 56 Erchempert, c. 16, ed. by Waitz, p. 240: ‘supradictum vero proditorem gentis et patriae […]’; trans. by Ferry, ‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards’, p. 146. 57 On Saracens in Southern Italy see: Marco Di Branco and Kordula Wolf, ‘Terra di conquista? I musulmani in Italia meridionale nell’epoca aghlabita (184/800–269/909)’, in “Guerra santa” e conquiste islamiche nel Mediterraneo (VII–XI secolo), ed. by Marco Di Branco and Kordula Wolf, I libri di Viella, 179 (Roma: Viella, 2014), pp. 125–66, pp. 152–59; Giosuè Musca, L’emirato di Bari, 847–871, Nuova Biblioteca Dedalo. Serie Nuovi saggi, 138, 2nd edn (Bari: Dedalo, 1992), pp. 35–36; Heath, ‘Third/Ninth–Century Violence’, pp. 31–34; Kreutz, Before the Normans, pp. 18–74; Berto, ‘The Muslims as Others’, pp. 1–24; Clemens Gantner, ‘New Visions of Community in Ninth–Century Rome: The Impact of the Saracen Threat on the Papal World View’, in Visions of Community in the Post–Roman World. The West, Byzantium and the Islamic World, 300–1100, ed. by Walter Pohl, Clemens Gantner, and Richard Payne (Burlington: Routledge, 2012), pp. 403–21 (pp. 411–12). 58 Erchempert, Historia, c. 15, ed. by Waitz, p. 240: ‘[…] cum quibusdam de genere Seductorum, animo et gente crudelibus viperis […]’; trans. by Ferry, ‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards’, p. 144. 59 Erchempert, Historia, c. 16, ed. by Waitz, p. 240; trans. by Ferry, ‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards’, p. 146.

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This can be also seen in the passage where Guaiferius of Salerno started a war with the Capuans and raided them with the help of Saracen mercenaries. Because of this, and again through God’s will, an African Saracen was summoned. His encouragement united the Saracens, and they moved to Calabria in 884 and killed all Greeks at Santa Severina.60 This passage shows perfectly that although Saracens are also represented as strangers committing cruel deeds, they are not the main problem. They can be helpful allies, mercenaries, or — important for my approach — adaptable as a punishment of God for the people Erchempert identifies as the real problem, the real threat to Lombard unity. Moreover, the ‘Agarenus’ who ends up conquering Calabria is even able to bring his people together, in stark contrast to the inability of the Lombards to establish unity because they lack a strong leader or ‘pastor’. The Saracens are used here as a foil for the audience to emphasize the Christian ruler’s inability of fulfilling his role. The real problem the text wants to focus on is the corrupt leadership of the incompetent Lombard leaders, who were in fact responsible for the decline of the abbey of Montecassino.

Conclusion One of the main strategies of exclusion employed by Erchempert is his emphasis on superior Christian morality, and the claim that monks, and especially those of Montecassino, were the most perfect examples of ‘proper’ Christian behaviour. They voiced the concerns of the people suppressed by their political leaders, although often to no avail. The pastoral rhetoric, the claim to admonish all involved parties and to judge the deeds of the rulers and groups through God’s name corresponded to the high ambition of the monastic community and is applied to various situations in the Historiola. This strategy of distinction is strongly related to the particular holiness of the community and its prestige. It is based on the ‘collective memory’ of the community of Montecassino, its influence and importance in Christian culture. Surrounded by enemies and misfortunes, Erchempert can only react by contracting his sense of identity to the moral high ground of a monastic community with a glorious past, and by maintaining the pretence of its unity. Nevertheless, of course, within this community we can assume that there was diversity, and individuals of different political origin with different interests.61 Interestingly, the text excludes the darkest hours of Montecassino. When their abbey was plundered, destroyed and the abbot and monks were killed in 883, Erchempert just mentions this in passing and without giving details. Maybe the Historiola was 60 Erchempert, Historia, c. 51, ed. by Waitz, p. 256: ‘Tunc nutu Dei, a quo omne procedit bonum, quendam Agarenum ab Africa evocans, regia de stirpe generi sui procreatumc, Agropolim, inde Garilianum, quo residebant agmina Hismaelitica, misit, atque omnium illorum mentem accendens, eius hortatus universi Saraceni tam de Gariliano quam de Agropoli comuniter collecti, Calabriam, qua residebat Graecorum exercitus super Saracenos in sancta Severina commorantes, properarunt’; trans. by Ferry, ‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards’, pp. 207–08. 61 Pohl, Werkstätte, pp. 53–55.

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intended to emphasize the strength of the community of Montecassino, not its weakness; which leads to the conclusion, that it was a text of a community eager to gain power (again), and written for the purpose of convincing the readers of its moral strength. It is also imaginable that Erchempert recognizes that the strength of the monastery lay not in its buildings but in its monks, the individuals whose beliefs kept the community together, and in their will to admonish and to preach as a pivot of Christianity. It seems clear that the community was eager to find a strong patron after Louis II.62 The political origin of this person, who should primarily serve the community, was not important. The text shows its allegiance to those who fight for the common goal: a united Lombard principality under strong leadership, or rather: a safe surrounding for the community of Montecassino to prosper again. The community’s version of ‘belief ’ is its strongest weapon. Erchempert’s criticism of his own people serves to strengthen these beliefs and to reassure his community in times of trouble. Otherness works here from the viewpoint of a wider ‘in-group’, including all good Christian Lombards. The basis for the assessment who is good (included) and who is bad (excluded) seems to lie in the community of Montecassino’s particular claim to Christian authority. This approach shows how many identities actually are in an assumed identity (or group) and how a strategy of identification can work, and be used dynamically by political actors. The Historiola reveals that identities were permanently in the making. Using Christian religion and its rhetoric of pastoral authority was employed for strategies of ‘othering’, for staking claims, and for proposing strong visions of inclusion and exclusion within a society that was in fact deeply entangled.63

Works Cited Primary Sources CSBC: Cronicae Sancti Benedicti Casinensis, ed. by Georg Waitz, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores rerum Langobardicarum et Italicarum (Hannover: Hahn, 1878), pp. 467–88 Erchempert, Historia Langobardorum Beneventanorum, c. 69, ed. by Georg Waitz, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores rerum Langobardicarum et Italicarum (Hannover: Hahn, 1878), pp. 234–64 ———, Piccola Storia dei Longobardi di Benevento / Ystoriola Longobardorum Beneventum degentium, ed. and trans. by Luigi Andrea Berto (Napoli: Liguori, 2013) Divisio principatus beneventani, in Jean-Marie Martin, Guerre, accords et frontières en Italie méridionale pendant le haut Moyen Âge: Pacta de Liburia, Divisio principatus Beneventani et autres actes, Sources et documents d’histoire du Moyen Âge, 7 (Roma: École française de Rome, 2005), pp. 201–17

62 Pohl, Werkstätte, p. 72. 63 Pohl, ‘Introduction: Strategies of Identification’, p. 49.

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Secondary Works Arnold, Dorothee, Johannes VIII. – Päpstliche Herrschaft in den karolingischen Teilreichen am Ende des 9. Jahrhunderts, Europäische Hochschulschriften, XXIII/797 (Frankfurt-amMain: Lang, 2005) Avagliano, Faustino, ‘Erchempert von Montecassino’, in Lexikon des Mittelalters, ed. by Robert-Henri Bautier, Gloria Avella-Widhalm, Ulrich Mattejiet, and Robert Auty, vol. iii (München: Artemis, 1986), cols 2124–25 Berto, Luigi Andrea, ‘Erchempert, a Reluctant Fustigator of His People: History and Ethnic Pride in Southern Italy at the End of the Ninth Century’, Mediterranean Studies, 20.2 (2012), 147–75 ———, ‘The Image of the Byzantines in Early Medieval South Italy: The Viewpoint of the Chroniclers of the Lombards (9th–10th Centuries) and Normans (11th Century)’, Mediterranean Studies, 22.1 (2014), 1–37 ———, ‘The Muslims as Others in the Chronicles of Early Medieval Southern Italy’, Viator, 45.3 (2014), 1–24 ———, ‘The Others and their Stories, Byzantines, Franks, Lombards and Saracens in Ninth-Century Neapolitan Narrative Texts’, The Medieval History Journal, 19.1 (2016), 34–56 Bloch, Herbert, Monte Cassino in the Middle Ages, 3 vols (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1986) Brown, Peter, Autorität und Heiligkeit. Aspekte der Christianisierung des Römischen Reiches (Stuttgart: Reclam, 1998) ———, Macht und Rhetorik in der Spätantike. Der Weg zu einem christlichen Imperium (München: dtv Wissenschaft, 1995) ———, The Rise of Western Christendom: Triumph and Diversity, A.D. 200–1000, The Making of Europe, 2nd edn (Oxford: Blackwell Wiley, 2003) Cigola, Michela, ‘La Terra Sancti Benedicti. Origine e sviluppo del territorio governato da Montecassino’, in La Vie dei Mercanti. Rappresentare il Mediterraneo, ed. by Carmine Gambardella, Massimo Giovannini, and Sabina Martusciello (Napoli: La Scuola di Pitagora, 2008), pp. 501–06 Citarella, Armand O., ‘The Political Chaos in Southern Italy and the Arab Destruction of Monte Cassino in 883’, in Montecassino: Dalla prima alla seconda distruzione. Momenti e aspetti di storia cassinese (Secc. VI–IX), ed. by Faustino Avagliano, Miscellanea Cassinese, A cura dei monaci di Montecassino, 55 (Montecassino: Montecassino, 1987), pp. 163–80 Delogu, Paolo, ‘Lombard and Carolingian Italy’, in The New Cambridge Medieval History, vol. ii: c. 700–c. 900, ed. by Rosamond McKitterick (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), pp. 290–319 Di Branco, Marco, and Kordula Wolf, ‘Terra di conquista? I musulmani in Italia meridionale nell’epoca aghlabita (184/800–269/909)’, in “Guerra santa” e conquiste islamiche nel Mediterraneo (VII–XI secolo), ed. by Marco Di Branco and Kordula Wolf, I libri di Viella, 179 (Roma: Viella, 2014), pp. 125–66 Diem, Albrecht, ‘The Carolingians and the Regula Benedicti’, in Religious Franks. Religion and Power in the Frankish Kingdoms: Studies in Honour of Mayke de Jong, ed. by Rob

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Meens, Dorine van Espelo, Bram van den Hoven van Genderen, Janneke Raaijmakers, Irene van Renswoude, and Carine van Rhijn (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2016), pp. 243–61 ———, ‘Inventing the Holy Rule: Some Observations on the History of Monastic Normative Observance in the Early Medieval West’, in Western Monasticism ante litteram: The Spaces of Monastic Observance in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, ed. by Hendrik Dey and Elizabeth Fentress, Disciplina Monastica, 7 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2011), pp. 53–84 Falco, Giorgio, ‘Erchemperto’, in Giorgio Falco, Albori d’Europa. Pagine di Storia medievale (Roma: Edizioni del lavoro, 1947), pp. 264–92 Ferry, Joan Rowe, ‘Erchempert’s History of the Lombards of Benevento: A Translation and Study of its Place in the Chronicle Tradition’ (Unpublished dissertation, Rice University, 1995) Foucault, Michel, Sicherheit, Territorium, Bevölkerung. Geschichte der Gouvernementalität, I, Suhrkamp Taschenbuch Wissenschaft, 1808, 3rd edn (Frankfurt-am-Main: Suhrkamp, 2014) ———, Analytik der Macht, stw, 1759, 5th, edn (Frankfurt-am-Main: Suhrkamp, 2013) Fried, Johannes, Der Schleier der Erinnerung. Grundzüge einer historischen Memorik (München: Beck, 2012) Gantner, Clemens, Freunde Roms und Völker der Finsternis. Die päpstliche Konstruktion von Anderen im 8. und 9. Jahrhundert (Wien: Böhlau, 2014) ———, ‘New Visions of Community in Ninth-Century Rome: The Impact of the Saracen Threat on the Papal World View’, in Visions of Community in the Post-Roman World: The West, Byzantium and the Islamic World, 300–1100, ed. by Walter Pohl, Clemens Gantner, and Richard Payne (Burlington: Routledge, 2012), pp. 403–21 ———, ‘“Our Common Enemies Shall Be Annihilated!” How Louis II’s Relations with the Byzantine Empire Shaped his Policy in Southern Italy’, in Southern Italy as Contact Area and Border during the Early Middle Ages: Religious Cultural Heterogeneity and Competing Powers in Local, Transregional and Universal Dimensions, ed. by Kordula Wolf and Klaus Herbers (Köln: Böhlau, 2017), pp. 295–314 Goetz, Hans-Werner, Die christlich-abendländische Wahrnehmung anderer Religionen im frühen und hohen Mittelalter. Methodische und vergleichende Aspekte, WolfgangStammler-Gastprofessur für Germanische Philologie, Vorträge, 23 (Berlin: De Gruyter 2013) Heath, Christopher, ‘Third/Ninth-Century Violence. “Saracens” and Sawdān in Erchempert’s Historia’, Al–Masaq, 27.1 (2015), 24–40 Jong, Mayke de, ‘Carolingian Monasticism: The Power of Prayer’, in The New Cambridge Medieval History 2: c. 700–c. 900, ed. by Rosamund McKitterick (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), pp. 622–53 Kramer, Rutger, Great Expectations: Imperial Ideologies and Ecclesiastical Reforms from Charlemagne to Louis the Pious, 813–822 (Amsterdam: Ridderkerk, 2014) Kreutz, Barbara M., Before the Normans: Southern Italy in the Ninth and Tenth Centuries (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1996) Leyser, Conrad, Authority and Asceticism from Augustine to Gregory the Great (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007)

The Co n s t r u ct i o n o f Al l eg i a n c e a n d E xclu si o n i n Erche mpe rt

———, ‘The Memory of Gregory the Great and the Making of Latin Europe, 600–1000’, in Making Early Medieval Societies: Conflict and Belonging in the Latin West, 300–1200, ed. by Conrad Leyser and Kate Cooper (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), pp. 181–201 Musca, Giosuè, L’emirato di Bari, 847–871, Nuova Biblioteca Dedalo Serie Nuovi saggi, 138, 2nd edn (Bari: Dedalo, 1992), Pohl, Walter, ‘Fragmente der Erinnerung. Die Historiographie von Montecassino, 9. bis 11. Jahrhundert’, in Fragmente. Der Umgang mit lückenhafter Quellenüberlieferung in der Mittelalterforschung, ed. by Christian Gastgeber, Christine Glassner, Kornelia HolznerTobisch, and Renate Spreitzer, Denkschriften der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Phil.–hist. Kl., 415 (Wien: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2010), pp. 161–66 ———, ‘History in Fragments: Montecassino’s Politics of Memory’, Early Medieval Europe, 10.3 (2001), 343–74 ———, ‘Introduction: Strategies of Identification. A methodological profile’, in Strategies of Identification: Ethnicity and Religion in Early Medieval Europe, ed. by Walter Pohl and Gerda Heydemann (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), pp. 1–64 ———, Werkstätte der Erinnerung. Montecassino und die Gestaltung der langobardischen Vergangenheit, Mitteilungen des Instituts für Österreichische Geschichtsforschung, Ergänzungsband, 39 (Wien: Oldenbourg, 2001) Pollheimer, Marianne, ‘Of Shepherds and Sheep: Preaching and Biblical Models of Community in the Ninth Century’, in Strategies of Identification: Ethnicity and Religion in Early Medieval Europe, ed. by Walter Pohl and Gerda Heydemann, ed. by Pohl and Heydemann (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), pp. 233–56 Suchan, Monika, ‘Der gute Hirte. Religion, Macht und Herrschaft in der Politik der Karolinger- und Ottonenzeit’, Frühmittelalterliche Studien, 43 (2009), 95–112 ———, Mahnen und Regieren. Die Metapher des Hirten im früheren Mittelalter, Millennium– Studien zu Kultur und Geschichte des ersten Jahrtausends n. Chr., 56 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2015) Wickham, Chris, Early Medieval Italy: Central Power and Local Society, 400–1000 (Basingstoke: Macmillan 1981)

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Other Genders, Other Sexualities Crises of Identity in Medieval French Ovidian Narratives

This essay seeks to explore late medieval French reflections on human gender and sexuality — in particular, the relationship between gender and sexuality and the ways that the one may inflect the other — as areas that all too easily lapse into forms of otherness perceived as deeply disturbing: otherness from the natural world, otherness from the rational paradigm of ideal humanity, otherness even from oneself.1 Within this vast topic, I will focus on examples of Ovidian myths retold and glossed in the fourteenth-century Ovide moralisé (henceforth OM), in which the entire Metamorphoses (henceforth Met.) is subjected to elaborate moral and theological glossing; and Christine de Pizan’s Epistre Othea (c. 1400), a collection of 100 mythological exempla with illustrations and moral and allegorical commentary, which drew on the OM along with other sources.2 My discussion of Othea will include the evidence of illustrations from one of the earlier manuscripts — British Library, Harley 4431 — in which the iconography was influenced by Christine herself.3 I will also touch on the treatment of some of these figures in Evrart





1 I am grateful to Blake Gutt and Charlotte Cooper-Davis for their comments on earlier drafts of this paper. 2 I cite the following editions: Ovide moralisé. Poème du commencement du quatorzième siècle, ed. by Cornelius de Boer, Martina G. de Boer, and Jeannette Th. M. van ‘t Sant, Verhandelingen des Koninklijke Akademie van Wetenschappen te Amsterdam. Afdeeling Letterkunde, Nieuwe Reeks, 15 (1915), 1–374; 21 (1920), 1–394; 30 (1931), 1–303; 37 (1936), 1–478; 43 (1938), 1–429; and Christine de Pizan, Epistre Othea, ed. by Gabriella Parussa, Textes Littéraires Français, 517 (Genève: Droz, 2008). All translations are mine unless otherwise stated. 3 Christine’s role in the preparation of her manuscripts has long been recognized. For detailed studies of the Othea illustrations, see Sandra Hindman, Christine de Pizan’s ‘Epistre Othéa’: Painting and Politics at the Court of Charles VI, Studies and Texts, 77 (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1986); Marilynn Desmond and Pamela Scheingorn, Myth, Montage, and Visuality in Late Medieval Manuscript Culture: Christine de Pizan’s ‘Epistre Othea’ (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2003); Charlotte E. Cooper, ‘Learning to Read Christine de Pizan’s Epistre Othea’, Pecia. Le Livre et l’écrit, 17 (2014), 41–63. Hindman notes that each of the three earliest surviving manuscripts, all produced during the first decade of the fifteenth century, ‘has autograph features. The first and second were penned by Christine and the third was supervised by her. It can now be demonstrated that she also determined the contents of the pictures in all three manuscripts’ (p. i). Sylvia Huot  •  is Professor Emeritus of Medieval French Literature and an Emeritus Fellow of Pembroke College, at the University of Cambridge. ‘Otherness’ in the Middle Ages, ed. by Hans-Werner Goetz and Ian Wood, IMR 25 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2021), pp. 139–163 © FHG10.1484/M.IMR-EB.5.123589

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de Conty’s Livre des Eschez amoureux moralisés (c. 1390–1405) (henceforth EAM), a voluminous prose commentary on the fourteenth-century verse Eschéz d’Amours.4 The aura of ‘otherness’ attached to the characters I will examine is imposed by the medieval authors, for whom divergence from cultural norms of exogamy, heteronormativity, and fixed gender identity can only be seen as unacceptable deviance. This, then, is an otherness conjured up only to be condemned and deplored; but also, if possible, to be resolved through a change of perspective into a configuration that conforms to cultural norms after all. The principal means through which this is accomplished is that of allegorical gloss. By presenting a reading of fictional events as other than what they literally appear to be, these authors can transform lamentable or unspeakable deviance into a more readily articulated lesson in proper or improper behaviour, or even an admirable moral or spiritual truth: what is seen as ‘unnatural’ may comprise the shameful otherness of sin, or the awe-inspiring otherness of the divine. Yet the underlying, unspoken interpretation still lurks in the background, so to speak, such that one, unequivocal meaning can emerge. In the end, these tales offer multiple forms of erotic, moral, and spiritual ‘otherness’, both implicit and explicit. Human sexualities and gender identities are often defined in ancient and medieval texts with recourse to ‘nature’ and animal models, yet this never works as seamlessly as the literary characters invoking the naturalistic trope might wish; human otherness from animals is in fact unavoidable. As an example I take the motif of incest. Myrrha, great-grand-daughter of Pygmalion, falls hopelessly in love with her father; and wrestling with her conscience, she thinks longingly of the freedom of animals. In the OM she laments that ‘Li bues o sa fille s’assamble; / L’eque au cheval qui l’engendra. / […] / La loi et li drois nous desvoie / Ce que nature nous otroie’ (10. 1179–80, 1188–89) (The bull mates with his daughter; the mare with the stallion that sired her […] Law and justice divert us from what nature allows us).5 But people are not animals, and the very means by which this incestuous maiden seeks to satisfy her desires shows up that difference: passionate love pleas, agonizing moral dilemmas, attempted suicide, and deceptive disguises are not found in the animal kingdom. Misplaced desire leads ultimately to a loss of human form, as the weeping Myrrha becomes a tree that ‘weeps’ droplets of myrrh. Yet her human subjectivity lives on in the form of eternal mourning. One might draw an analogy of sorts with medieval texts like Guillaume de Lorris’s Roman de la Rose, where a narrative love quest gives way to the stasis of



4 Evrart de Conty, Le Livre des Eschez amoureux moralisés, ed. by Françoise Guichard-Tesson and Bruno Roy, Bibliothèque du Moyen Français, 2 (Montreal: CERES, 1993). For the poem itself, see Les Eschéz d’Amours: A Critical Edition of the Poem and Its Latin Glosses, ed. by Gregory Heyworth and Daniel E. O’Sullivan, with Frank Coulson, Medieval and Renaissance Authors and Texts, 10 (Leiden: Brill, 2013). 5 Ovid’s Myrrha makes much the same complaint: ‘nec habetur turpe iuvencae / ferre patrem tergo, fit equo sua filia coniunx / […] / […] humana malignas / cura dedit leges, et quod natura remittit, / invida iura negant’ (Met. 10. 325–26, 329–31) (nor is it thought base for a heifer to endure her sire, nor for his own offspring to be a horse’s mate […] Human civilization has made spiteful laws, and what nature allows, the jealous laws forbid). I cite text and translation from Ovid, Metamorphoses, ed. and trans. by Frank Justus Miller, Loeb Classical Library, 2 vols (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1977).

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an endlessly reiterated lyric lament. This is an experience so fundamentally human as to be featured in love poetry throughout the millennia, yet Myrrha’s trajectory is inflected in a way that alienates its perpetrator from human society, indeed from the human race. In the end Myrrha prays to be excluded from both the living and the dead: ‘Pour ce que les mors ne les vis / Ne corrompe o m’iniquité / Ne la tache de ma vilté, / Tolez moi vie sans morir’ (OM 10. 1921–24) (So that I do not corrupt the dead nor the living with my iniquity and the stain of my vile behaviour, take my life without letting me die).6 Within the original Ovidian narrative, this is the way the story ends, unravelling into the mystery of impossible desire. Just as Myrrha is ultimately excluded from both life and death, she is also excluded from both nature and culture. A person who attempts to follow a code appropriate only for irrational animals ends up in a kind of limbo, not quite human and yet not quite anything else, either, for trees do not naturally weep tears of contrition, or give birth to human children. Incest reaches the same dehumanizing culmination in the tale of Byblis, who initially attempted to justify her love for her brother by noting that incest is permitted to the gods — ‘Li dieu vaudrent lor suers avoir’ (OM 9. 2172) (the gods are able to have their sisters) — before conceding that mortals and immortals do not operate according to the same code: ‘Moult seroit folz qui se vaudroit / Aus diex comparager ne prendre’ (OM 9. 2184–85) (Whoever wishes to compare themselves to the gods is foolish indeed).7 In the end her ceaseless weeping leads to her transformation into an endlessly flowing fountain. Like Myrrha, she neither lives nor dies, but simply passes into the natural world in a form that both continues her human subjectivity — her unending production of metaphorical tears — while also excluding her from human society, indeed, from human identity of any kind. As sites of trauma posing as natural features of the landscape, both girls inhabit an uneasy space of irreducible otherness that hovers between human culture and raw nature, without being assimilable to either one. But while the OM poet retains the narrative trajectories found in Ovid, he imposes both meaning and closure with his glosses.8 On the one hand, allegory is a means of redeeming taboo desires, as the story is subjected to a theological reading. Since the logic of divinity is not that of humanity, the very concept of incest becomes meaningless. Ironically, in this sense, Byblis was right: neither God, nor gods, are







6 The same despairing wish is voiced by Ovid’s Myrrha: ‘sed ne violem vivosque superstes / mortuaque exstinctos, ambobus pellite regnis / mutataeque mihi vitam necemque negate!’ (Met. 10. 485–87) (but lest, surviving, I offend the living, and, dying, I offend the dead, drive me from both realms; change me and refuse me both life and death!). 7 The justification is adapted directly from Ovid’s Byblis: ‘di nempe suas habuere sorores’ (Met. 9. 497) (But surely the gods have loved their sisters); ‘quid ad caelestia ritus / exigere humanos diversaque foedera tempto?’ (Met. 9. 500–01) (Why should I try to measure human fashions by divine and far different customs?). 8 See Stefania Cerrito, ‘Histoires de femmes, jeux de formes et jeux de sens’, in Nouvelles Etudes sur l’Ovide moralisé, ed. by Marylène Possamaï-Pérez, Essais sur le Moyen Age, 42 (Paris: Champion, 2009), pp. 72–97 (pp. 90–96).

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bound by human laws.9 As the OM poet explains, Myrrha is Mary, bride of God the Father; Byblis is Divine Sapience, ‘wedded’ to humanity in the Incarnation of Christ. On the other hand, remaining within the human realm, their transformation is rewritten as Christian penance: the death that Myrrha avoids is not bodily death, but the spiritual death of eternal damnation. True contrition, after all, allows even the worst of sinners to redeem their fallen humanity and to be subsumed back into the community of the saved — a transformation, as Sarah Kay has noted, far more fundamental than the mere adaptation of bodily form to express more fully a person’s inner character.10 The OM poet reminds us that no human soul can be excluded from divine judgement. People may behave like animals, but they cannot die like animals. Whether in Heaven or in Hell, their fundamentally human nature lives on. The tales and their glosses probe without really resolving the paradoxical condition of human beings, who partake both of the divine and of the animal, without quite belonging to either.

The Ambiguity of Gender I move now to stories touching on the enigma of gender and its role in sexuality, an even more fraught arena, and one that both epitomizes and problematizes human exceptionality in the cosmos. Here too, an appeal may be made to the animal world, though not necessarily in justification of what are seen as ‘unnatural’ desires. Directly following the tale of Byblis in Ovid’s Metamorphoses is that of Iphis: a girl who was raised from birth as a boy, and whose situation erupts into crisis when she, or he, is betrothed to another girl, Ianthe, who assumes that her intended husband is male. The two are in love, but Iphis can see no way forward: ‘Quel vache seult vache requerre / Ne quel eque autre eque atoucher? / Les brebis ont le moton cher, / Et la vache dou tor s’acointe’ (OM 9. 2934–36) (What cow seeks out another cow, and what mare couples with another mare? The ewes desire the ram, and the cow is intimate with the bull).11 In lamenting her condition, Iphis, still identifying herself with a female subject position, considers herself more depraved, more irrational even than Pasiphaë, whose desire for the bull at least targeted a male creature with whom she had the possibility for a fruitful mating, however monstrous the result.



9 The final conclusion is that reached by Ovid’s Byblis: ‘sunt superis sua jura’ (Met. 9. 500) (But the gods are a law unto themselves!). The Byblis of the OM similarly reflects that ‘Il loit aus damediex à faire / Quanqu’il lor plaist, soit tort, soit droit’ (OM 9. 2182–83) (the gods are permitted to do whatever they please, be it wrong or right). 10 For reflections on the ways in which the OM seems both to deny and to affirm the inviolable uniqueness and stability of the human being, see Sarah Kay, The Place of Thought: The Complexity of One in Late Medieval French Didactic Poetry (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007), pp. 42–69. 11 The lamentation is almost identical to that found in Ovid: ‘nec vaccam vaccae, nec equas amor urit equarum: / urit oves aries, sequitur sua femina cervum’ [Met. 9. 731032] (Cows do not love cows, nor mares, mares; but the ram desires the sheep, and his own doe follows the stag).

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In the whole of the animal kingdom, she cannot find another species in which the female lusts after another female like herself. Yet Iphis of all examples turns out to be able to marry the girl she loves after all, as through the intervention of Isis, she miraculously becomes the man that, in effect, she — he — always already was in all but bodily form. Ovid’s account explicitly portrays Iphis as undergoing a transformative change of gender, while nonetheless also implicitly suggesting that humans differ from animals not only in their different structures of family and kinship, and their different uses of artifice and language, but also in having a gendered identity that may be distinguishable from bodily sex markers such as musculature, facial appearance, stance and stride, and — though he does not mention it explicitly — genitalia. Perhaps indeed a cow does not desire another cow, but if one of the cows is really a bull, then their mutual attraction is no cause for surprise. And while animal gender and sexual identity may seem straightforwardly grounded in the body and in heterosexual reproduction, at least within the economy of the Ovidian text and its medieval adaptations, such is clearly not the case with the far more complex human psyche, which may require the body to adapt to it rather than the other way around. Again, as with incest and the structuring of lineage, humans stand strangely apart from the animal world: contained within nature on the one hand, as the story confirms that two girls cannot marry; yet not entirely or seamlessly part of it, on the other, as one of the girls may turn out not to be a girl after all. Though Iphis has always ‘passed’ successfully as a boy and presumably has, at least in some sense, a masculine bearing, Ovid insists upon deep-seated, visible changes to the body: the miracle wrought by Isis is not portrayed as a restoration of true identity, but as a metamorphosis, albeit a welcome one. As he explains, Iphis now walks ‘maiore gradu, nec candor in ore / permanet, et vires augentur, et acrior ipse est / vultus, et incomptis brevior mensura capillis’ (Met. 9. 787–89) (with a longer stride … Her face seemed of a darker hue, her strength seemed greater, her features sharper, and her locks, all unadorned, were shorter than before).12 The OM poet repeats the same details: Hyphis, sa fille, la sivoit A plus grant pas qu’el ne seult faire, S’a mains de blanchour ou viaire Qu’elle n’y avoit ains eüe. Force et fierté li est creüe, Et si chevoul sont abregié. (OM 9. 3082–87)

12 The feminine pronouns used in the English translation are those of Miller, translator of the Loeb edition; Latin grammar allowed Ovid to leave the question of gender unspecified in these verses. I have nonetheless retained Miller’s usage in view of Ovid’s explicit insistence that Iphis does indeed undergo a radical transformation from female to male identity, which might at this point still be in process. It is worth noting that the OM poet made a similar choice in his use of feminine pronouns for this passage, switching to masculine pronouns only after that point, as my continued discussion shows.

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(Iphis, her daughter, followed her with a longer stride than she had been accustomed to, and her face was less white than it had been before. Her strength and proud confidence grew, and her hair was shorter). Ovid further highlights the transformation as his narrator apostrophizes Iphis: ‘nam quae / femina nuper eras, puer es!’ (9. 790–91) (In fact, you who but lately were a girl are now a boy!). The OM poet similarly dwells on the miracle as a watershed moment when one identity is replaced by another: Tout ot son estat et son estre Et sa nature femeline Chanchiee, et prise masculine: Yphis fille est devenus filz. (OM 9. 3092–95) (His entire stature and being and feminine nature was changed, and become masculine: Yphis the daughter has become a son). The shift from the feminine pronoun ‘elle’ or ‘el’ — still used with reference to Yphis in vv. 3085 and 3090 — to the masculine ‘devenus’ of v. 3095, clearly marks this moment as transformative. Iphis, then, is portrayed as struggling with a conflicted identity, in which she was in some sense ‘other’ not only from the natural world, but from her very self: female in body, but a heterosexual male in terms of emotions, desires, and cultural conditioning. The resolution does suggest that cultural and emotional identity is the more powerful factor, winning out in the end, even as it also implies that the body itself is the ultimate determinant of gender: however masculine her character, Iphis remains ‘femina’ until her body takes on a fully male physiology. That this process is possible, however, belies the fears of an Iphis who still regards herself as — tragically — female, and thus even more maddened than Pasiphaë. The Cretan queen’s body remained stubbornly non-bovine and thus of no interest to the bull she longed for, until she resorted to artificial means and, with the ruse of an ingeniously constructed cow costume, finally consummated her desire. The OM poet, perhaps nervous about recourse to outright gender malleability as a solution to the cultural taboo against same-sex love and desire, first adapts Iphis to this model: she was a sinful young woman inflamed with lust for another, more innocent, girl. Driving the point home, he stresses that this desire arose despite the unequivocally female status of her person — ‘Tout n’eüst elle point de vit / Ne de membre a ce convenable’ (9. 3130–31) (even though she had no penis nor other member appropriate to this) — and that she resorted to a fraudulent disguise, using a dildo (‘membre apostis’ [9. 3149]) to deceive the unfortunate object of her desire. The medieval poet uses the story to condemn same-sex desire as well as the refusal to conform to the gendered identity implied by one’s bodily sex, linking the one with the other.13

13 On the OM poet’s treatment of Iphis, see Robert Mills, Seeing Sodomy in the Middle Ages (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015), pp. 98–120.

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Insofar as he is willing to consider transgender identity, it is — like incest — only possible in the realm of allegory, transposing gender into the purely human arena of moral character and spiritual development: to become male is to ascend to a superior state of virtue. Iphis’s parents, he explains, are God the Father and Mother Church. The Father initially damns the sinful soul, gendered female: ‘Dona sentence amere et dure / Contre femeline nature, / C’est contre l’ame pecherresse’ (OM 9. 3201–03) (he passed a harsh and bitter sentence on female nature, that is, on the sinful soul). But the nurturing of the Church allows errant souls to repent and, through penance, to become ‘Filz Dieu’ (9. 3242) (sons of God). Transgendered identities are only acceptable for the OM poet, indeed they are only conceivable at all, if they are carefully detached from sexuality and from the body in general. We see a similar use of Iphis with Christine de Pizan’s famous allegorical account of her own ‘sex change’ in La Mutacion de Fortune (1403), whereby she became a man after the death of her husband: in other words, she acquired the spiritual fortitude and intellectual vigour to take charge of her life and to pursue the career of writer, thinker, and philosopher that had been denied to her as a woman.14 Though Christine does state that her body became stronger and her voice deeper, it is clear that these masculine traits form part of the allegory of the sea voyage, whereby she was enabled to assume control of the ship after its pilot, her husband, fell overboard. The real point of her transformation is her greater confidence and the ‘fort et hardi cuer’ (1359) (strong and bold heart) that allow her to pursue the career that will sustain her financially, intellectually, and emotionally. Christine further takes care to assure us that, despite these changes, she retains the affections of her mother ‘Qui tousjours m’ot esté amie’ (1425) (who has always been a friend to me), and that she continues to rely on the feminine moral attributes that her mother had taught her as a girl. Indeed, referring back to the allegorical voyage, she notes that ‘certes par leur vertu vins / A port’ (1446–47) (it was certainly by virtue of these that I returned to port). Somewhat differently from Iphis, Christine has not so much abandoned femininity as she has enhanced it by taking on selective traits normally reserved for men. Still, her account comes uncomfortably close to acknowledging the OM poet’s assertion that a movement from female to male represents a process of moral progression and spiritual renewal. Crucially, Christine’s account includes the loss of her wedding ring. Having become in some sense a man — ‘A parler selon methafore’ (1033) (to speak metaphorically), as she puts it — she is placed beyond the possibility of marriage or amorous liaisons, whether with a new husband or with a wife. And her account of Iphis, offered as a parallel to her own experience, acknowledges the marriage but omits all of Iphis’s

14 Le Livre de la Mutacion de Fortune, ed. by Suzanne Solente, Société des Anciens Textes Français, 4 vols (Paris: Picard, 1959–1966). Christine describes her frustrated desire to emulate her father’s scholarly life (413–68) before narrating the metaphorical sex change that finally allowed her to do so (1025–1416).

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introspective love monologues and expressions of anguished desire.15 Christine’s effort to redefine femininity in terms compatible with behaviour traditionally coded as masculine, which pervades her entire oeuvre, decidedly excludes any possibility whatsoever of homoerotic relations — literal or metaphorical — between either women or men. For these medieval writers, the renegotiation of gender must take place outside the domain of sexuality, as an androgynous figure cannot be paired with either a male or a female partner.16 A fixed gender binary may be either affirmed or questioned in these texts, then, but they share a common ground of compulsory heterosexuality: a trait so thoroughly naturalized and so essential that gender itself may shift in order to preserve sexual difference within a couple, and no couple can be formed if gender identity remains uncertain or liminal. But if a ‘manly woman’ can be admired, the same is not true of an effeminate man. In the masculine domain, gender ambiguity is equated with a loss of virility and moral integrity. For Christine, in particular, male effeminacy can become a screen that allows her to condemn homoerotic desire without having actually to name it. I would like now to focus on the implicit or explicit treatment of this delicate issue across a range of Ovidian characters, as figured in the medieval adaptations under discussion. My first example is the well-known tale of Narcissus. Christine would have known Narcissus not only from Ovid and the OM but also from numerous other vernacular texts. Most of these portray him as gripped with desire for a figure that he perceives as male; a notable exception is the twelfth-century Lai de Narcisse, in which Narcissus perceives the figure in the water as female, wondering only if it is ‘ninphe’, ‘duesse’, or ‘fee’ (685–86) (nymph, goddess, or fairy).17 In Othea, Christine likewise portrays Narcissus in terms of deviation from heterosexual desire, though without dwelling on his choice of a male love object. It is standard to condemn Narcissus for his rejection of Echo, but Christine chooses to include his story twice, in separate exempla, first presenting Narcissus as a negative exemplum of pride and self-love (Fig. 6.1), and later criticizing him for his lack of mercy towards Echo (Fig. 6.2).18

15 See Renate Blumenfeld-Kosinski, Reading Myth: Classical Mythology and Its Interpretations in Medieval French Literature (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997), pp. 176–83; Judith L. Kellogg, ‘Transforming Ovid: The Metamorphosis of Female Authority’, in Christine de Pizan and the Categories of Difference, ed. by Marilynn Desmond, Medieval Cultures, 14 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1998), pp. 181–94; Mills, Seeing Sodomy, pp. 121–28. 16 For a discussion of how a necessarily heterosexual orientation informs the gender identity of the heroines in the thirteenth-century Roman de Silence and Chanson d’Yde et Olive, see my ‘Self and Society’, in A Cultural History of the Human Body in the Medieval Age, ed. by Linda Kalof (Oxford: Berg, 2010), pp. 203–18, 257–58 (pp. 206–11). 17 Pyrame et Thisbé, Narcisse, Philomena, ed. and trans. by Emmanuèle Baumgartner (Paris: Gallimard, 2000). 18 All images are published under the Creative Commons Public Domain license of the British Library. The complete Harley 4431 manuscript can be accessed on the British Library website: . © British Library Board, Harley 4431.

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Figure 6.1 Narcissus at the fountain. © British Library Board, London, BL, Harley MS 4431, fol. 104r, c. 1410/1414.

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Figure 6.2 Narcissus and Echo. © British Library Board, London, BL, Harley MS 4431, fol. 134r.

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The inclusion of an image of Narcissus specifically rejecting Echo, and a discussion of that event as a separate episode, is a little unusual. The most ubiquitous images of Narcissus in the later Middle Ages were in manuscripts of the Roman de la Rose. This text does cite — and indeed condemn — his rejection of Echo. As in the Lai de Narcisse — and unlike Ovid’s version, where Narcissus is pursued by male and female admirers and finally cursed by a spurned youth — she is apparently his only would-be lover and the one responsible for his anguished experience at the fountain. But she is rarely included in the illustrations; there, the focus is usually on Narcissus’s desire for what he sees reflected in the water, as in Christine’s first image.19 The Rose does, however, note that after his ‘desdaing’ [scorn] and ‘fierté’ (pride or arrogance) towards Echo (1448), Narcissus was captivated by the vision of ‘un esfant bel a desmesure’ (1486) (an overwhelmingly beautiful boy).20 And if the Lover of the Rose seems, at least most of the time, to be pursuing a female love object, the text nonetheless carries innuendos of auto-eroticism or homoeroticism in his unwitting imitation of Narcissus, his desire to grasp the phallic rose bud on its stiff stem, and his infatuation with the male-gendered Bel Acueil.21 The OM, which closely adapts a number of lines from Guillaume de Lorris’s summary of the story, remains true to Ovid in having Narcissus spurn both male and female admirers, including of course Echo, before finally succumbing to what he thinks is a beautiful boy just beneath the surface of the water.22 Narcissus’ overall trajectory, however, departs subtly from Ovid and more closely resembles Guillaume’s account in portraying Narcissus as having turned, specifically, from rejection of women to infatuation with a young man. Ovid insists on the illusory nature of Narcissus’s love object, but the OM poet expands on this with a line that reminds us of the absence of any specifically female beloved: ‘Or l’a si fole amours conquis, / Qu’il aime […] Et cui? […] Ce qui n’est mie. / Il aime et si n’a point d’amie’ (3. 1616–18) (Now foolish love has so overpowered him that he loves […] And whom? […] Something that does not exist. He loves and yet he has no girlfriend). And while Ovid’s Narcissus merely comments that nymphs have loved him, offering this as evidence that he is indeed a ‘good catch’, the Narcissus of the OM stresses the singular and special quality of his love for the mysterious ‘enfes’ (boy) in noting that these many female suitors had failed to arouse his interest: ‘M’ont aimé dames et puceles / Plusieurs, moult plesans et moult beles, / Mes n’avoie d’eles que faire’ (3. 1701–03) (Many ladies and maidens have loved me, very agreeable and beautiful, but I had no interest in any of them).

19 Digital copies of Rose manuscripts, most of which include at least one miniature depicting Narcissus, can be consulted at (accessed 9 February 2018). 20 Guillaume de Lorris and Jean de Meun, Le Roman de la Rose, ed. by Félix Lecoy, Classiques Français du Moyen Age, 3 vols (Paris: Champion, 1965–1970). 21 See Simon Gaunt, ‘Bel Acueil and the Improper Allegory of the Romance of the Rose’, New Medieval Literatures, 2 (1998), 65–93; and my Dreams of Lovers and Lies of Poets: Poetry, Knowledge, and Desire in the ‘Roman de la Rose’, Research Monographs in French Studies, 31 (London: Legenda, 2010), pp. 66–78. 22 See OM 3. 1541–42 and Rose, 1463; OM 3. 1546 and Rose, 1466; OM 3. 1547 and Rose, 1468; OM 3. 1551 and Rose, 1525; OM 3. 1577–79 and Rose, 1487–89.

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Even more explicitly than Guillaume de Lorris, the OM poet presents Narcissus as one who refused heterosexual liaisons only to commit himself whole-heartedly to homoerotic love. The moral commentary, however, ignores this point, portraying Narcissus first as a figure of worldly vanity who failed to value a good reputation, as represented by Echo, the disembodied voice; and then as one who, like the fallen angels of old, shunned God in preference for the ephemeral and illusory beauty of worldly things: ‘Pert la grant joie pardurable, / Et se mire ou tenebrous font / D’enfer et d’asbisme parfont’ (3. 1900–02) (he loses eternal joy and gazes into the dark pit of Hell and the deep abyss). Narcissus’s preference for same-sex love is not, then, itself the point of the exemplum; rather, this turn from hetero- to homoerotic desire becomes a metaphor for the turn from spiritual to worldly goods, and the misdirection of love from God to mere vanities, and ultimately to Hell itself. To be male in body, while exhibiting a form of desire that the medieval poet would identify as feminine, is treated as a perversion of the natural order: one that can be allegorized as the otherness of sin itself. Christine, with her wish to promote the love and honour of women, appropriates this model of male homoeroticism as an allegory for pride and misdirected desire, while sharpening the focus on misogyny and disdain for women and their emotional needs. Christine follows the Rose in making Echo responsible for the prayer that caused Narcissus’s fateful and fatal love. She also reverses the order of events, such that the account of Narcissus spurning Echo (Othea 86) comes considerably after we have already seen him gazing rapturously at his own (male) image (Othea 16). The image of Narcissus turning away from Echo even includes the fountain in which he enjoys his beloved image, despite the fact that in most other accounts, the misadventure at the fountain occurred well after Echo’s death — and always after Narcissus spurned her. In Othea, it could almost seem not that Narcissus was punished with irrational, eroticized self-love because he refused Echo, but that he wanted nothing to do with the love of a lady because he was already besotted with his own image. Here, then, his crime emerges even more clearly as that of indifference to a female love object, in preference for a vision of masculine beauty. And while Christine does not make that point explicitly, glossing Narcissus only as a figure of pride and hard-hearted cruelty towards one in need of mercy, the implicit identification of these faults with misogynistic homoerotic bonding cannot be missed. Christine builds on a long tradition in which pride is the common ground linking the misdirected love of Narcissus to the Satanic defiance of God that informs all human sin, and more specifically to the defiance of Nature exemplified by the sodomites who, according to Jean de Meun’s Genius, scorn reproductive sex because of their ‘orgueil’ (Rose 19611). The fourteenth-century Eschéz d’amours, a recasting of the Rose, describes the Garden of Love as containing not just the Fountain of Narcissus, but also that of Hermaphroditus, who rejected the love of Salmacis but came into his famously intersex identity when her body fused permanently with his in the fateful pool (EA 3084–3100). Both pools are perilous: the former causes an overwhelming but ultimately sterile and fatal love for one’s own reflection, while the latter ‘fait l’omme en son venir / Femme a moitïé devenir, / Et du tout femme le feroit / Se longuement

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y demouroit’ (3091–94) (causes the man who comes there to become half-woman, and it would transform him completely into a woman if he stayed there for long). The juxtaposition of the two fountains is telling, for in fact one could see the Fountain of Narcissus as effecting a subtle gender change as well: a site for the punishment of a man who, we know, rejected the love of a lady, but then replicated her experience of loving an unresponsive man. If Narcissus is an exemplar of male same-sex desire, one could also see him as adumbrating a confusion of gender: his behaviour, already stereotypically feminine in its haughty resistance to love, culminates in obsessive desire for a masculine love object. The pool of Salmacis similarly punishes men unreceptive to feminine love objects, again by making them into a feminine figure themselves — though in this case the ambiguity is located in bodily fusion rather than in mirrored desire. In both cases, resistance to heterosexual love robs a man of his masculine nature, resulting in a state where he is somehow both self and other. Such an interpretation is implied in the EA poet’s comment that when a man gazes into the Fountain of Narcissus, ‘amours tout le desfigure’ (3086) (love completely deforms him). Mythographers often shied away from explicitly condemning Hermaphroditus for his disinterest in Salmacis; after all, male celibacy was more commonly seen as a virtue, not a vice. The OM poet, for example, ignores the fact that Hermaphroditus resisted Salmacis, and glosses him as a young man corrupted by lascivious pleasures. His gender transformation is not identified with the supposed effeminacy of homosexuality, but with the moral degradation caused by consorting with loose women. Salmacis is not defended in the same way that Echo often is, or even granted a positive allegorical role: she is glossed as a ‘fole feme’ (OM 4. 2276) (wanton temptress), ‘assez plus perilleuse / Que serpent male et cavilleuse’ (2280–81) (craftier and more malicious than a serpent), and is even identified with ‘cele pute / … / dont dist l’Apocalipse’ (2291–93) (that whore spoken of in the Apocalypse). This reading is also prominent in Evrart de Conty’s commentary on the Echéz d’amours. Despite having explained that Hermaphroditus steadfastly refused Salmacis’s advances, Evrart ends up glossing him as ‘les jones damoiseaux qui ont l’oeil et le cuer as vanités du monde […] qui se veulent tous plongier en la fontaine de delectation’ (EAM, 412–13) (young men whose eye and heart are set on worldly vanities […] who wish to plunge completely into the fountain of pleasure). Christine, with a very different bent, presents Hermaphroditus in Othea as one who arrogantly rejected the love of a maiden, displaying cruelty and rudeness; she further identifies him with Narcissus by inventing the detail that it was after a day of hunting that he came upon Salmacis and her pool (Othea, Glose 82). As with Echo, she refrains from any criticism of Salmacis, sharply criticizing Hermaphroditus for refusing something that he should by all rights have done: ‘laide chose est et villaine reffuser ou ottroyer a grant danger ce qui ne peut tourner a prejudice ne a vice ester ottroyé’ (Othea, Glose 82) (it is a vile and despicable thing to refuse, or to grant only with great reluctance, something that can be granted without disrepute or vice). A man who cannot respond to the love of a virtuous maiden, it would seem, is something other than a real man. Christine once again avoids any explicit mention of homoeroticism, but her implicit condemnation of it comes

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through; that she considers Hermaphroditus to be stained with some unspeakable sin is clear in her comment that he was ‘plain de felonnie’ (Othea, Glose 82) (full of wickedness). Christine normally condemns illicit love affairs, placing a high value on feminine modesty.23 The fact that she valorises the initiative — one might even say aggression — of both Echo and Salmacis, alerts us to the fact that the real stakes here are the inability of both Narcissus and Hermaphroditus to respond sexually to a woman. For her, Narcissus and Hermaphroditus are implicitly linked as exemplars of an unnatural resistance to ‘proper’ love born not of pious chastity, but of pride, an effeminate preoccupation with one’s own delicate beauty, and misogyny. Like the OM poet in his glosses on Narcissus, however, she refrains from making this the explicit point, instead allowing the implications of homoerotic disdain for women to act, in both cases, as the vehicle for a lesson about mercy and compassion. Echo’s tragic fate teaches the knight that ‘il doit avoir pitié des souffreteux qui le requierent’ (Glose 86) (he should take pity on the unfortunates who implore him), while the fusion of Hermaphroditus with Salmacis indicates that ‘cellui ne peut proprement reconforter le dolent qui ne s’accorde a sa douleur’ (Allegorie 82) (he who does not share in the pain of those suffering cannot comfort them properly).

Dangerous Desires and Unspeakable Acts Christine also suppresses explicit homoerotic elements from the story of Hyacinthus, whom she calls ‘Ganymede’, thereby conflating two young men loved by gods whose stories are juxtaposed in the song of Orpheus. Ganymede was snatched up to Mount Olympus by Jove’s eagle, where he served as lover and cup-bearer to Jove; Hyacinthus, beloved of Apollo, was accidentally killed in a game of discus-throwing with the god, or in Christine’s account in Othea, tossing an iron bar. In Christine’s gloss, the death of Hyacinthus/Ganymede arose because he dared to vie with one stronger than himself: a classic instance of hubris. As with Narcissus, her treatment results in an implicit condemnation of homosexual love. The use of the name ‘Ganymede’ already carries a powerful association with homoeroticism, which is even more explicit in the Ovidian tale of Ganymede himself than in that of Hyacinthus, and it is impossible that Christine was not fully aware of this. The OM poet explicitly condemns same-sex desire in his historical gloss on Ganymede, noting that Jupiter ‘mainte fois se deporta / Avuec lui par non de luxure, / Contre droit et contre nature’ (10. 3383–85) (many times disported himself with him in the name of lust, contrary to law and nature). As with other examples we have seen, this deviant behaviour is 23 See for example Christine’s Livre du duc des vrais amans, ed. by Thelma S. Fenster, Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies (Binghamton: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies, 1995). Fenster’s Introduction provides an excellent survey of Christine’s pro-marriage agenda and her critique of illicit love affairs (19–33). Charlotte Cooper, ‘Présences, publics et portraits ambigus du manuscript British Library Harley 44431’, Le Moyen Français, 78–79 (2016), 1–15, discusses Christine’s warnings in Othea against following Venus, as underscored by subtle iconographic details.

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Figure 6.3 Apollo and ‘Ganymede’. © British Library Board, London. London, BL, Harley MS 4431, 119v.

redeemed only in the realm of allegory, as the poet offers first a meteorological and then a theological reading that de-sexualize the tale completely.24 The moral Christine draws from Ganymede/Hyacinthus is that ‘soy jouer avec les hommes de malgracieux gieux est signe d’orgueil et fine communement par yre’ (Othea, Glose 53) (to play at distasteful games with other men is a sign of pride, and commonly ends badly); this could be read as referring either to any sort of inappropriate athletic games, or more specifically to ‘distasteful’ sex play, while the identification with pride might remind us of both Narcissus and Hermaphroditus. The Othea manuscripts made under Christine’s supervision depict ‘Ganymede’ being struck in the eye by an iron tossed by Apollo (Fig. 6.3). As critics have noted, this adds erotic overtones to the scene by assimilating him to the Lover in the Rose, struck in the eye by Cupid’s arrow: ‘et tret a moi par tel devise / que par mi l’ueil m’a ou cuer mise / sa saiete’ (1691–93) (and he shot me in such a way that his arrow struck me in the eye and lodged in my heart).25 24 See Mills, Seeing Sodomy, pp. 227–28. For a discussion of allegory and metaphor throughout the OM poet’s treatment of the song of Orpheus, see Virginie Minet-Mahy, Esthétique et pouvoir de l’oeuvre allégorique à l’époque de Charles VI, Bibliothèque du XVe Siècle, 58 (Paris: Champion, 2005), pp. 107–45. 25 See Desmond and Scheingorn, Myth, Montage, and Visuality, pp. 112–18, for a comparison of Christine’s iconography with that of the Rose on the one hand, and the depictions of Ganymede and Hyacinthus in OM manuscripts on the other. I do not concur with Desmond and Scheingorn’s reading of Christine’s image as sympathetic to homoerotic love.

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In Christine’s image, the poses of both men are sensuous, bending towards each other as if in mutual attraction; Apollo reaches out to the boy, who seems about to fall into his arms. But Christine implies no sympathy for this image of male sexual domination of a younger man; indeed, it is portrayed as lethal. The moral she draws about distasteful sport, which is not found in her sources, is in direct response to Apollo’s lamentation in the original story, in which he reassures himself that neither his sport with Hyacinthus nor his love for the youth can be considered a crime: ‘Ce jeus et ce que je t’amoie / N’est apelez coulpe et pechié!’ (OM 10. 837–38) (This game and the fact that I loved you cannot be called fault or sin).26 Though Christine refutes only half of Apollo’s lament, her response to the other half is easily discernible. One can also discern an implicit association here with Adonis, the mythological figure known for having died because he hunted excessively ferocious beasts. Like Christine’s Ganymede/Hyacinthus, Adonis was guilty of a prideful confrontation with one much stronger than himself. Adonis also, somewhat like Narcissus and later Hermaphroditus, spurned the advice of the woman who loved him — point that is highlighted when his story is told in the Rose, where he is presented as a warning to those who might doubt the word of their lady: Vos qui ne creez voz amies, Sachiez mout fetes granz folies; […] Se cist s’amie eüst creüe, Mout eüst sa vie creüe. (Rose, 15723–24, 15733–34) (You who do not believe your girlfriends, be sure that you’re committing a great folly; if this man had believed his girlfriend, his life would have been much longer). Venus’s admonition against hunting dangerous animals features prominently in Christine’s account (Othea, Glose 65). And anyone who knew the Ovidian text, which surely included all of Christine’s readers, would know that like Hyacinthus and Narcissus, Adonis metamorphosed into a flower. Christine identifies Adonis as one too much given over to the idle pleasures of the hunt, but places emphasis on his wilful pursuit of excessively dangerous prey with her admonition that if a knight must hunt, it is best that ‘il se gard de tel chace dont mal lui puist venir’ (Othea, Glose 65) (he refrain from hunts that could cause him harm). That is really the point that is underscored in the miniature, where a dead Adonis is menaced by a huge boar with prominent tusks (Fig. 6.4). Like the portrayal of Apollo and Ganymede/Hyacinthus, this depiction of Adonis has subtly erotic innuendos, with the exposure of his undergarment and the suggestive position of the boar’s snout and tusks. 26 Ovid’s Apollo similarly asks: ‘quae mea culpa tamen, nisi si lusisse vocari / cupla potest, nisi culpa potest et amasse vocari?’ (Met. 10. 200–01) (Yet what is my fault, unless playing can be called a fault, unless loving can be called a fault?).

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Figure 6.4 Adonis and the boar. © British Library Board, London, BL Harley MS 4431, 124v.

Again, we might think of the extremely well-known example of the Rose, where the Lover is hunted down by Cupid, is shot full of arrows that cause him to collapse on the ground, and submits wholly to him. In contrast to the Rose, when Christine does portray the God of Love the image is not one of aggressive domination, but of courteous cooperation (Fig. 6.5). And the love in question is not the forceful pursuit of a hunter, but a measured and respectful affection for a virtuous lady: ‘il ne messiet point a jeune chevalier estre amoureux de dame honoree et sage, ains en peuent mieulx valoir ses condicions, mais que le moyen y sache garder’ (Othea, Glose 47) (it is not unfitting for a young knight to be in love with an honourable and modest lady, indeed it can increase the worthiness of his character, as long as he can do it in moderation). Christine’s view, repeated throughout her oeuvre, is that love should ennoble a man, not humiliate him; it should inspire respect for women, not sexual exploitation or misogynistic disdain; it should support, rather than undermine, the institution of marriage.27 By recalling the rapacious and irresponsible love of the infamous Rose in the portrayals of ‘Ganymede’ and Adonis, while transforming the God of Love himself

27 See for example Poems of Cupid, God of Love: Christine de Pizan’s ‘Epistre au dieu d’Amours’ and ‘Dit de la Rose’, Thomas Hoccleve’s ‘The Letter of Cupid’, with George Sewell’s ‘The Proclamation of Cupid’, ed. and trans. by Thelma S. Fenster and Mary Carpentar Erler (Leiden: Brill, 1990); and the analysis

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Figure 6.5 Cupid and a young knight. © British Library Board, London, BL, Harley MS 4431, 117r.

into an overtly pederastic figure and a violent boar respectively, Christine suggests that both youths are submitting to a sinister and soul-destroying form of lust: one associated, as she explains, with ‘l’ennemi’ (Allegorie 65) (the devil). Adonis is clearly not homosexual, but the boar is after all male, and that is the figure he decides to pursue despite Venus’s pleas to the contrary. The OM poet eroticizes Adonis’s behaviour with a gloss that identifies the boar as ‘l’ordure / De luxure et de lecherie’ (OM 10. 3733–34) (the filth of lust and lechery), and tells us that Adonis’s transformation into a trembling, wind-blown flower arising from his blood represents the contamination and degradation that takes place through association with men of ill repute: ‘Adonis florete devint / Sanguine, ce est home vilz, / Qui contamine, ce m’est vis, / Cel qui l’acompaignent et suivent’ (OM 10. 3737–40) (Adonis became a blood-red flower, that is, a base man who, as I see it, contaminates those who associate with him). The corrupting influence of dissolute companions can lead to any sort of sexual dalliance; but the fragility of the anemone blossom implicitly recalls the widespread stereotype of male homosexuals as effeminate and cowardly. As is so often the case, Adonis’s behaviour becomes positive only in the inverted realm of

of the Epistre and the Dit de la Rose by Kevin Brownlee, ‘Discourses of the Self: Christine de Pizan and the “Romance of the Rose”’, in Rethinking the ‘Romance of the Rose’: Text, Image, Reception, ed. by Kevin Brownlee and Sylvia Huot (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1992), pp. 234–61.

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allegory, where he becomes a figure for Christ: one whose willing embrace of shame, degradation, and death led to spiritual redemption and glorification. The OM poet’s assessment of Adonis as representing the harmful effects of ill-chosen companions is echoed in Christine’s gloss on ‘Ganymede’ about avoiding distasteful sporting with the wrong sort of men. In effect, Christine has not only conflated the two juxtaposed exemplars of homoerotic desire — Hyacinthus and Ganymede — but further associated this fused pair with Adonis by adapting the gloss formerly applied to him. Christine thus establishes an implicit thread connecting these figures, all of whom appear in the song of Orpheus (Met. 10. 155–61 [Ganymede]; 162–219 [Hyacinthus]; 519–739 [Adonis]). This is no surprise; she would undoubtedly have seen that legendary originator of pederasty, renouncing the love of women in favour of boys, as celebrating a male homosocial disdain for women extending to the sinister and for her unspeakable otherness of homoeroticism: a corruption of masculine virtue into degenerate effeminacy. Indeed, Orpheus himself figures in Othea as an exemplar of the corrosive effects of effete sensual pleasures. In her warning to shun the seductive music of Orpheus’s lyre, Christine notes that ‘tieulx instrumens assottent souvent les cuers des hommes’ (Glose 67) (such instruments often degrade the hearts of men), and ‘moins est stimuli des aguillons de la char le solitaire qui ne frequente point en la frequentise des voluptez’ (Allegorie 67) (he who does not frequent voluptuous company is less affected by the goads of the flesh). Her reflections on the danger of unsavoury companions have led from Apollo and Ganymede/Hyacinthus to Orpheus himself, while passing through Adonis, the figure to whom that warning was originally applied in her most important source text. Similarly, her warning against the enjoyment of ‘instrumens ne autres oysivitez’ (Glose 67) (musical instruments or other idle pleasures) links the Orphic lyre both to the pleasures of the hunt — the pastime of Narcissus, Hermaphroditus, and Adonis among others, repeatedly condemned by Christine as ‘oysivité’ (idleness) — and the sodomites denounced by Genius in the Rose for leaving women to be sexually ‘oiseuses’.28

Conclusions There are different possible threads here, then, linking the mythological figures under discussion as the authors endeavour to understand, condemn, or explain away the ‘otherness’ of their fictional characters, and the dangers it poses to received social conventions. One thread, discernible in the OM glosses, highlights the lethal effects of overpowering desire for an unattainable object, be it Narcissus’s love of worldly rather than spiritual beauty, Iphis’s love for a partner with whom she could never hope to establish a legitimate marriage or to produce children, or Adonis’s pursuit

28 See Christine’s comments on Diana (Glose 63), Adonis (Glose 65), Acteon (Glose 69). Genius, in his tirade against the sodomites, notes that Nature did not provide men and women with metaphorical pens and tablets ‘por estre oiseuses’ (Rose 19602) (to remain idle).

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of inappropriate prey. Hermaphroditus in turn represents the opposite danger: a man ruined by the all too easy accessibility of a wanton seductress. Evrart de Conty takes a similar view of Hermaphroditus, as we have seen. And he reads Adonis as representing — among other things — the ill-advised love of a man for an implacably resistant woman: Les bestes donc crueles … nous pevent donner a entendre qu’il y a ou vergier amoureux dessusdit dames et damoiselles de grant fierté et de grant resistence, qui n’ont cure d’amer […] Il ne faut pas bon donc telx dames assaillir ne trop metre y son cuer. (EAM, 407) (The cruel beasts tell us that in the aforementioned garden of love there are ladies and damsels of great pride and resistance, who do not care for love […] It is not good to pursue such ladies, nor to set one’s heart on them). Even Narcissus, though briefly identified as a man so absorbed in his own perfection that he had no interest in ladies (EAM, 590), is portrayed at greater length as deceived by a woman who feigned interest as a means of exploiting her admirer. Noting that ‘la femme est aussi come le ymage et la similitude de l’homme’ (EAM, 592) (woman is, as it were, the image and likeness of man), Evrart further elaborates an interpretation of Narcissus as the victim of misdirected heterosexual desire: On pourroit bien aussi raisonablement dire que cely aime son umbre et son ymage, qui aime celle ou il ne peut trouver amour correspondant ne riens de ce que on desire en amours, quant a vraie existence, se n’est par apparence deceptoire et come umbre inutile […] Et telle amour, selon verité, est en femme trouvee moult souvent. (EAM, 592) (He who loves a lady in whom he cannot find a reciprocal love nor anything that is desired in love, in terms of real existence, but only in deceptive appearance and like a useless reflection, can reasonably be said to love his own reflection and his own image […] And such love, in truth, is often found in women). Within this framework, the overall emphasis is on the pitfalls of sexual — nearly always heterosexual — desire; and its potential failure, through the absence or impossibility of reciprocal love and Holy Matrimony, to produce a future in the form of lineage. Even when the stories feature men who rejected their female admirers or refused their wise advice, the culprits blocking the ‘natural’ progression and fulfilment of love most often turn out to be women, whose capricious natures, at once lustful and cruelly resistant, are frequently highlighted by the commentators. Another thread, more prominent in Othea, exonerates the women while highlighting the ‘unnatural’ behaviour of the men, linking Narcissus, Hermaphroditus, and Hyacinthus/Ganymede as figures for the effeminizing effects and ultimate sterility of excessive male homosocial, and implicitly homoerotic, desire. And while Adonis is not identified as desiring a male love-object, he is nonetheless one who died because he spurned the counsel of his lady, and pursued a hyper-masculine object of competition or desire — one specifically forbidden by the goddess of

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Figure 6.6 Achilles unmasked by Ulysses. © British Library Board, London, BL Harley MS 4431, 127v.

love herself. The OM does associate him subtly with that other hunter, Narcissus, by noting that he delighted in his own beauty and was thereby inflamed with lust: ‘Cil fu biaus, si se delitoit / En sa biauté. Venus estoit / S’amie, quar luxure habite / En biau cors qui trop se delite’ (OM 10. 3710–13) (He was handsome, and delighted in his own beauty. Venus was his beloved, because lust resides in one who takes too much pleasure in being beautiful). Christine’s sources contained a wealth of material with which, through subtle changes and careful juxtapositions, she could construct her warnings about the emasculating and corrupting effects of misogyny, arrogant self-absorption, and homoerotic indulgences. Finally, I touch briefly on a figure that Christine seems to have included in Othea as a counter-example to these ‘failed’ men: Achilles, who lived for a time in female disguise because of his mother’s efforts to prevent him from joining the war against Troy. The wily Ulysses unmasked the fake princess, or in Christine’s account the fake Vestal Virgin, by offering the assembled ladies gifts that included feminine fashion accessories and chivalric weaponry.29 The real women went for the former, but Achilles reached for the latter: ‘Et adont, comme toute chose traye a sa nature, les dames coururent aux joyaulx et Achilés saisi les armes’ (Glose 71) (And then, since 29 Classical sources, chief of which is the Achilleid by Statius, state that Achilles’s mother disguised him as a princess or lady-in-waiting at the court of Lycomedes, king of Skyros. Christine, however, taking her cue from the OM, asserts that his mother ‘voiler le fist comme nonne en l’abbaye la deesse Vesta’ (Othea, Glose 71) (had him take the veil as a nun in the abbey of the goddess Vesta).

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each thing is attracted according to its nature, the ladies ran for the pretty ornaments and Achilles seized the weaponry). Christine also notes that while living in the temple, he had fathered a son with one of the other ladies, and she refrains from condemning what was clearly an illicit, non-marital affair. Her point is that true masculinity or femininity lie within, and are revealed in values and behaviour, not in clothing or crafted presentation. Narcissus, Adonis, and Hyacinthus/Ganymede are all portrayed as exemplars of high-fashion aristocratic masculinity, and they engage in manly sport and dangerous hunting; but in the end, their preference for idle pleasures, their disdain of women, their infatuation with male beauty or their sensuous submission to a more powerful, predatory man show that they are not, in fact, ‘real men’. Achilles, on the other hand, may be dressed as a nun and posing as such, but his preference for chivalric warfare and his heterosexual potency absolve him of any suspected effeminacy, assuring us that he is, indeed, a prime specimen of aristocratic manhood. The ‘otherness’ exhibited by the cross-dressed Achilles is in fact only a passing disguise. That of the other characters discussed above, though masked for a time by their overt presentation of masculine garb and athleticism, is ultimately far more damaging and irreversible in its effects. The motif of cross-dressing offers an intriguing parallel to a key moment in Christine’s Cité des dames (1404–1405), completed two years after the Mutacion and five years after Othea. In a now famous passage, Christine — having succumbed to a crisis of self-loathing brought on by her internalization of the misogyny she encountered everywhere in her studies — is chastised by the personification of Reason, who compares her to ‘le fol … qui en dormant au molin fu revestu de la robe d’une femme et au resveiller, pour ce que ceulx qui le moquoyent lui tesmoignoient que femme estoit, crut mieulx leur faulx dis que la certaineté de son estre’ (46/48) (the fool who while sleeping at the mill, had his clothing replaced with a woman’s dress and when he awoke, because those mocking him insisted he was a woman, believed their false words more than the certainty of his own being).30 Christine has gone too far towards embracing a socially determined male identity that is, itself, flawed and incompatible with her innate femininity. Reason and her allegorical companions explain that Christine must reconnect with her own feminine nature, uncompromized by her adoption of certain activities culturally coded as masculine. In effect, she must ‘feminize’ her writing to produce an exposition of the virtues and valuable cultural contributions of women throughout the ages: the Cité des dames itself.31 The comparison with the fool confused by his feminine garb becomes stronger if we imagine it as mediated by a figure such as Achilles: despite his dress, he retains full awareness of his masculine identity, his sexual attraction to women, and his identity as warrior. One could imagine him replacing Iphis as the model for Christine’s own trajectory, which might now be seen not as a change of gender but simply as a new

30 Christine de Pizan, La Città delle dame, ed. by Earl Jeffrey Richards, trans. by Patrizia Caraffi (Milano: Luni, 1998). 31 On this point, see my ‘Seduction and Sublimation: Christine de Pizan, Jean de Meun, and Dante’, Romance Notes, 25 (1985), 361–73.

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understanding of the gendered identity she has had all along. Christine may have been aware of departing from classical sources in placing Achilles among the Vestal Virgins, whom she considers nuns, and who are depicted as such in the manuscripts made under her supervision. No longer posing as a princess at court, he runs no risk of an arranged marriage to another man and thereby avoids the predicament faced by Iphis. With the changed perspective of a vantage point two years beyond the Mutacion, Christine sees the pitfalls of a way of life that would hopelessly estrange her from herself. Iphis’s ambiguous marriage, so scathingly criticized by the OM poet and redeemed only if understood allegorically as a leap from feminine inferiority to masculine exaltation, in fact reflects Christine’s own wholesale internalization of male literary traditions and cultural biases. Shaking off such misconceptions, she must freely and confidently pursue the poetic and scholarly avocation to which she is suited, not despite her feminine character but because of it. Just as Achilles publicly embraced his hitherto closeted masculinity and assumed his natural role as warrior, Christine must stop trying to be a man and assert herself as a female writer. Initially portrayed as a traumatic but inescapable othering of her very self, Christine’s career is now revealed to be the truest and most positive realization of her natural potential. Christine, then, prefers not to confront openly the question of homoerotic desire; unlike the OM poet and both authors of the Rose, she does not even acknowledge its potential existence to the extent of condemning it.32 But among them, these figures, with their glosses, create a composite and implicit critique — and a fairly savage one at that — of an unspoken but obviously well-known sexual practice. This unnamable love, or lust, is associated with arrogant misogyny and the rejection of legitimate feminine love. Christine’s views, though much farther-reaching in their negative judgement, are reflected in Noah Guynn’s assessment of male homosocial and homosexual desires in the Rose, which he sees as informed by ‘a clerical ideology predicated on male solidarity and the exclusion and subordination of women’.33 Homosexual liaisons, in her presentation, are a form of corruption and degradation visited by older, more powerful men onto younger ones. Since the heterosexual model is inescapable even at the expense of binary gender stability, the attentions of a dominant male lover feminize the love object, be they male or female in body, just as betrothal to a maiden imparts masculinity to the one who loves her; resistance to the love of a lady robs the male culprit of his manhood. For Christine, this failure or misdirection of masculinity is identified with idleness and indulgence in sensual, worldly pleasures — improper

32 Though Guillaume de Lorris does not explicitly criticise same-sex love in connection with Narcissus, he does include a warning against make-up, adapted from Ovid’s Ars amatoria, in the God of Love’s instructions to the Lover: this practice, he says, is only for ladies or ‘cels de mauves renon, / qui amors par male aventure / ont recovrees sanz droiture’ (2160–62) (those of ill repute who have, through unfortunate circumstances, entered into an illegitimate love). The allusion to homosexuality is even clearer in the numerous manuscripts bearing the variant ‘ont trovee contre nature’ (have found [a love] contrary to nature) for v. 2162. Jean de Meun inserts condemnations of male homosexuality into the discourses of Reason (4313–15) and, famously, Genius (19599–658). 33 Noah Guynn, Allegory and Sexual Ethics in the High Middle Ages (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007), p. 195 n. 62.

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games, seductive music, hunting — at the expense of more edifying and constructive pursuits. It is also identified with inappropriate longing for something one cannot possibly have, something that lies outside the bounds of ‘natural’ desire. As she says with reference to Orpheus: ‘bien quiert Euridice en enfer qui quiert chose impossible […] Ce meismes dit Solon: “Somme follie est de querre ce qui est impossible a avoir”’ (Glose 70) (he surely seeks Eurydice in Hell, who seeks the impossible […] Solon says the same: ‘It is the highest folly to seek that which cannot be had’). For all that, however, Christine, like the OM poet and many others, believes that gender can be inflected for the better when a woman is capable of taking on stereotypically masculine traits; and like other contemporary writers, she is careful to de-sexualize this. In both the OM and the Mutacion de Fortune, Iphis is praised when she is read as a woman who exceeds the natural limitations of her gender; the marriage is not so much the ‘happy ending’ as it is the narrative device allowing for the story to unfold and yield up its true allegorical significance of moral improvement, intellectual rigour, and spiritual redemption. She is condemned only in the OM, in an alternative gloss that reads her as a woman seeking to gratify her lust for a female love-object. For a man, however, effeminacy is inevitably a sign of moral degeneracy and carries implicit overtones of same-sex desire, or at least of haughty resistance to heterosexual love. In either case, gender malleability in the service of homoerotic attraction, like the redefinition of blood kinship necessary for the realization of incestuous love, is taken as a sign of human alienation from nature. Only in the realm of allegory can these ‘unnatural’ desires and identities be comprehended as moral or spiritual transformation, or indeed as the manifestation of sacred — and thus equally ‘unnatural’ — mysteries: the Incarnation of divinity in human flesh, the mystical love of God for a sinless virgin who is at once his daughter, his mother, and his bride. Human beings, with their rational, immortal, yet also sinful souls, are themselves a site of otherness within the natural world — one that can lift them above, or plunge them below, the moral condition of other animals. When the effort to negotiate the complexity of human sexuality goes awry, the unfortunate subject takes on an otherness that sets him or her apart from what authors like Christine or the OM poet see as the very essence of humanity. For Christine in particular, this deviation from what she regards as the natural trajectory of heterosexual love and marriage can lead to identities that lie beyond the reach of explicit discourse itself: a queer sort of otherness, we might say, whose name she dares not speak.

Works Cited Primary Sources Christine de Pizan, La Città delle dame, ed. by Earl Jeffrey Richards, trans. by Patrizia Caraffi (Milano: Luni, 1998) ———, Dit de la Rose, in Poems of Cupid, God of Love: Christine de Pizan’s ‘Epistre au dieu d’Amours’ and ‘Dit de la Rose’, Thomas Hoccleve’s ‘The Letter of Cupid’, with George Sewell’s ‘The Proclamation of Cupid’ ed. and trans. by Thelma S. Fenster and Mary Carpentar Erler (Leiden: Brill, 1990), pp. 92–101

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———, Epistre au dieu d’Amours, in Poems of Cupid, God of Love: Christine de Pizan’s ‘Epistre au dieu d’Amours’ and ‘Dit de la Rose’, Thomas Hoccleve’s ‘The Letter of Cupid’, with George Sewell’s ‘The Proclamation of Cupid’ ed. and trans. by Thelma S. Fenster and Mary Carpentar Erler (Leiden: Brill, 1990), pp. 34–89 ———, Epistre Othea, ed. by Gabriella Parussa, Textes Littéraires Français, 517 (Genève: Droz, 2008) ———, Le Livre de la Mutacion de Fortune, ed. by Suzanne Solente, Société des Anciens Textes Français, 4 vols (Paris: Picard, 1959–1966) ———, Livre du duc des vrais amans, ed. by Thelma S. Fenster, Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies (Binghamton: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies, 1995) Les Eschéz d’Amours: A Critical Edition of the Poem and Its Latin Glosses, ed. by Gregory Heyworth and Daniel E. O’Sullivan, with Frank Coulson, Medieval and Renaissance Authors and Texts, 10 (Leiden: Brill, 2013). Evrart de Conty, Le Livre des Eschez amoureux moralisés, ed. by Françoise Guichard-Tesson and Bruno Roy, Bibliothèque du Moyen Français, 2 (Montreal: CERES, 1993) Guillaume de Lorris and Jean de Meun, Le Roman de la Rose, ed. by Félix Lecoy, Classiques Français du Moyen Age, 3 vols (Paris: Champion, 1965–1970) Ovid, Metamorphoses, ed. and trans. by Frank Justus Miller, Loeb Classical Library, 2 vols (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1977) Ovide moralisé. Poème du commencement du quatorzième siècle, ed. by Cornelius de Boer, Martina G. de Boer, and Jeannette Th. M. van ‘t Sant, Verhandelingen des Koninklijke Akademie van Wetenschappen te Amsterdam. Afdeeling Letterkunde, Nieuwe Reeks, 15 (1915), 1–374; 21 (1920), 1–394; 30 (1931), 1–303; 37 (1936), 1–478; 43 (1938), 1–429 Pyrame et Thisbé, Narcisse, Philomena, ed. and trans. by Emmanuèle Baumgartner (Paris: Gallimard, 2000) Secondary Works Blumenfeld-Kosinski, Renate, Reading Myth: Classical Mythology and Its Interpretations in Medieval French Literature (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997) Brownlee, Kevin, ‘Discourses of the Self: Christine de Pizan and the “Romance of the Rose”’, in Rethinking the ‘Romance of the Rose’: Text, Image, Reception, ed. by Kevin Brownlee and Sylvia Huot (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1992), pp. 234–61 Cerrito, Stefania, ‘Histoires de femmes, jeux de formes et jeux de sens’, in Nouvelles Etudes sur l’Ovide moralisé, ed. by Marylène Possamaï-Pérez, Essais sur le Moyen Age, 42 (Paris: Champion, 2009), pp. 72–97 Cooper, Charlotte E., ‘Learning to Read Christine de Pizan’s Epistre Othea’, Pecia. Le Livre et l’écrit, 17 (2014), 41–63 ———, ‘Présences, publics et portraits ambigus du manuscript British Library Harley 44431’, Le Moyen Français, 78–79 (2016), 1–15 Desmond, Marilynn, and Pamela Scheingorn, Myth, Montage, and Visuality in Late Medieval Manuscript Culture: Christine de Pizan’s ‘Epistre Othea’ (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2003)

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Gaunt, Simon, ‘Bel Acueil and the Improper Allegory of the Romance of the Rose’, New Medieval Literatures, 2 (1998), 65–93 Guynn, Noah. Allegory and Sexual Ethics in the High Middle Ages (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007) Hindman, Sandra, Christine de Pizan’s ‘Epistre Othéa’: Painting and Politics at the Court of Charles VI, Studies and Texts, 77 (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1986) Huot, Sylvia, Dreams of Lovers and Lies of Poets: Poetry, Knowledge, and Desire in the ‘Roman de la Rose’, Research Monographs in French Studies, 31 (London: Legenda, 2010) ———, ‘Seduction and Sublimation: Christine de Pizan, Jean de Meun, and Dante’, Romance Notes, 25 (1985), 361–73 ———, ‘Self and Society’, in A Cultural History of the Human Body in the Medieval Age, ed. by Linda Kalof (Oxford: Berg, 2010), pp. 203–18, 257–58 Kay, Sarah, The Place of Thought: The Complexity of One in Late Medieval French Didactic Poetry (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007), pp. 42–69 Kellogg, Judith L., ‘Transforming Ovid: The Metamorphosis of Female Authority’, in Christine de Pizan and the Categories of Difference, ed. by Marilynn Desmond, Medieval Cultures, 14 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1998), pp. 181–94 Mills, Robert, Seeing Sodomy in the Middle Ages (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015) Minet-Mahy, Virginie, Esthétique et pouvoir de l’oeuvre allégorique à l’époque de Charles VI, Bibliothèque du XVe Siècle, 58 (Paris: Champion, 2005)

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Astrid Kelser

The Jew as the ‘Other’ in Word and Deed

Introduction1 The medieval period, and particularly the crusading age of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, is often portrayed as xenophobic. In particular, tracts written in the ‘adversus Iudaeos’ (against the Jews) tradition, most notably Peter the Venerable’s Against the Inveterate Obduracy of the Jews,2 support the misconception that all medieval theologians hated the Jews and branded them as ‘Others’. This unpalatable impression has itself contributed to the ‘Othering’ of the medieval age by modern readers, who actively distance themselves from the unsavoury attitudes of that era by dismissing them as atavistic. Indeed, our unspoken response to ‘adversus Iudaeos’ texts is that while medieval theologians reacted poorly against what they did not understand, we as a modern society are different and would never react so ‘illogically’ to the unknown. Such fallacies are not restricted to the modern age; Humanist thinkers first perpetuated the false dichotomy contrasting the ‘dark’ medieval period with their ‘enlightened’ present. This paradigm burdened both historiography and public perception for centuries: Lucie Varga lamented in 1931 that the ‘Dark Middle Ages’ (‘finsteres Mittelalter’) was tantamount to a ‘catchphrase’ (‘Schlagwort’) in the popular imagination.3 In recent years, medievalists have picked away at this cliché by either demonstrating that the medieval world held more ‘progressive’ attitudes than are usually imagined, or by questioning our right to call the past ‘dark’, given that the modern West is not quite as inclusive as its proponents claim. Kyle Harper belongs to the former camp, highlighting that even though the medieval period did entail widespread social disintegration and oppression, its cultural vitality means that



1 I would like to thank Irene Malfatto for her input on the earliest drafts of this paper, which was originally presented during Session 1623 of the 2017 Leeds International Medieval Congress, as well as Hans-Werner Goetz and Ian Wood for their patient advice on revising the manuscript for publication. 2 Peter the Venerable, Adversus Iudeorum inveteratam duritiem, ed. by Yvonne Friedman, Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Medievalis, 58 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1985). 3 Lucie Varga, Das Schlagwort vom ‘finsteren Mittelalter’ (Baden: R. M. Rohrer, 1932). Astrid Kelser  •  ([email protected], BA, King’s College London) is a Presidential Scholar on the Ancient History track in the Department of Classics at Harvard University. ‘Otherness’ in the Middle Ages, ed. by Hans-Werner Goetz and Ian Wood, IMR 25 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2021), pp. 165–182 © FHG10.1484/M.IMR-EB.5.123590

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the misnomer ‘Dark Ages’ is inaccurate, being ‘hopelessly redolent of Renaissance and Enlightenment prejudices’.4 One of the strongest voices in the latter group is Norman Daniel, who suggests that Islamophobia has been a constant in so-called ‘intellectual’ discourse from the Crusades to the present day.5 In this chapter, my intention is not to point out that seemingly ‘medieval’ anti-Judaism persists in the present world. I will instead explore how we can evaluate the extent to which medieval texts were anti-Judaic, and in what ways we can present a more nuanced view of the Jew as the ‘Other’ in medieval literature. For even though it is unquestionable that the texts chosen for this case study — theological letters and dialogues on the subject of the Jewish community by Bernard of Clairvaux, Peter Abelard, and Thomas Aquinas — were anti-Judaic in their outlook, it is worth determining how their authors reconciled such a polemical approach to their professed scholasticism, a system of thought based on Aristotelian logic rather than blind prejudice. Before embarking on this analysis, it is necessary to establish what is meant by ‘anti-Judaism’ in a medieval context. This term was coined by Gavin Langmuir, who characterized ‘anti-Judaic’ sentiment as hate emanating from Christians towards Jews on account of competing religious systems, as opposed to ‘anti-Semitic’ feelings, which stem from perceived racial differences between Jewish and Christian populations. These pseudo-biological distinctions often manifest in the exaggerated facial features of Jews in medieval art, for example the hook-nosed caricatures which populate manuscript illuminations of Old Testament figures, as well as in negative archetypes such as the immortal and monstrous ‘Wandering Jew’.6 Langmuir views such stereotypes as coetaneous to the spread of anti-Semitic thought and dates both phenomena to 1300.7 According to these definitions, the twelfth and thirteenth century theological writings discussed in this chapter are ‘anti-Judaic’ rather than ‘anti-Semitic’. Hence, I shall focus on the former phenomenon, which Langmuir thus outlines in detail: Anti-Judaism I take to be a total or partial opposition to Judaism — and to Jews as adherents of it — by people who accept a competing system of beliefs and practices and who consider certain genuine Judaic beliefs and practices as inferior […]





4 Kyle Harper, The Fate of Rome: Climate, Disease, and the End of an Empire (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2017), p. 12. 5 Norman Daniel, Islam and the West: The Making of an Image (Oxford: Oneworld, 2009). 6 For caricatures, see e.g. British Library Additional MS 48985, fol. 7r; on the Wandering Jew as a negative archetype — this figure is said to have cursed Christ on the cross, following which he was condemned to wander the world as an ‘Other’ for all time — see Richard I. Cohen, ‘The “Wandering Jew” from Medieval Legend to Modern Metaphor’, in The Art of Being Jewish in Modern Times, ed. by Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett and Jonathan Karp (Philadelphia: The University of Pennsylvania Press, 2008), pp. 147–75; cf. also the essays in Galit Hasan Roqem and Alan Dundes, eds, The Wandering Jew: Essays in the Interpretation of a Christian Legend (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1986). 7 Gavin I. Langmuir, Toward a Definition of Antisemitism (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), p. 61.

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The Christian acceptance of Jewish scripture and the Christian claim to be the true Israel meant that, for Christians, Jews were the central element of God’s providential plan. Moreover the continued existence of Judaism after Jesus was the physical embodiment of doubt about the validity of Christianity. Unlike pagan anti-Judaism, Christian anti-Judaism was a central and essential element of the Christian system of beliefs. The elaboration of anti-Judaic doctrine and polemics and the effort to prove that Christianity was foreshadowed in the Old Testament would be a major theological enterprise for centuries. Christian anti-Judaism can be separated into three aspects: the doctrinal, the legal, and the popular.8 Although I concur with Langmuir’s conceptualization for the most part, especially his characterization of anti-Judaic thought as a religious rather than socio-cultural phenomenon, my argument diverges from his theory in two respects. First, I do not see anti-Judaism as necessary — ‘central and essential’ — to the Christian world-view. Instead, as the theological texts analysed in this chapter highlight, anti-Judaic rhetoric was a carefully moderated strategy which could be emphasized or minimized based on an individual theologian’s needs. It is not a foregone conclusion that every Christian writer must denigrate the Jews in order to promote his or her own belief system. Moreover, Langmuir sub-divides anti-Judaism into three categories, namely ‘the doctrinal, the legal, and the popular’; he identifies the first of these as intellectual ‘justifications’ against the Jewish faith, the second as measures and prohibitions which restricted the freedom of Jews throughout Western Christendom, and the third as an unquantifiable ‘sentiment’ which pervaded Christian societies in the medieval period.9 In practice, however, it is difficult to cleanly distinguish between these categories. To name but one example, the practice of forcing Jews to wear a distinct ‘habitus’, or ‘style of dress’, results from all three categories of anti-Judaism; the thirteenth-century legal code of southwest Germany, the Schwabenspiegel (mirror of the Swabians), harnessed popular sentiments against Jews and employed doctrinal rationalizations to legally impose the wearing of funnel-shaped hats upon local Jewish populations.10 Hence, in this chapter I will instead partition the broad concept of anti-Judaism into two components: anti-Judaic wording and exhortations toward anti-Judaic actions. The former refers to the use of nouns, adjectives, and adjectival participles to denigrate Jewish characters, and the latter to the advocacy or endorsement of actions meant to cause harm — be it bodily, psychological, or financial — to members of the Jewish community or obstruct Jewish religious practice more generally. This alternative approach, which emphasizes the often wide gulf between anti-Judaic ‘words’ and ‘deeds’, is more suited to the literary 8 Langmuir, Toward a Definition of Antisemitism, pp. 57–58. 9 Langmuir, Toward a Definition of Antisemitism, pp. 58–61. 10 Eric Silverman, A Cultural History of Jewish Dress (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2013), p. 56. The Swabians were far from the only medieval community to impose restrictions on Jewish daily life. Further examples include the law code of Castile, which by 1313 mandated by Jewish men could only choose from a restricted pool of names; on which see Irven Resnick, ‘Race, Anti-Jewish Polemic, Arnulf of Séez, and the Contested Papal Election of Anaclet II (A.D. 1130)’, in Jews in Medieval Christendom: Slay Them Not, ed. by Kristine T. Utterback and Merrall L. Price, Études sur le judaïsme médiéval, 60 (Leiden: Brill, 2013), pp. 45–70 (p. 49).

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analysis which this chapter provides and will therefore help to qualify the degree to which each of the analysed texts demonstrates anti-Judaic tendencies. In a theological context, anti-Judaic wording is the use of negatively connoted nouns, adjectives, and adjectival participles to denigrate Jewish characters. It can either be applied to individual characters who have been identified as Jewish or, in the case of Bernard of Clairvaux, utilized against the Jewish people as a whole. Bernard refers to Jews as ‘enemies’ by quoting Psalm 58: ‘Ostendit mihi super inimicos meos, ne occidas eos’ (God shall let me see over my enemies; slay them not).11 This saying is nevertheless devoid of exhortations toward anti-Judaic actions. Bernard’s point is that the Jews should not be killed, even though he considers them ‘enemies’; as he emphasizes, ‘slay them not’, and so his words do not fall into this category. Indeed, anti-Judaic wording and exhortations are not always correlated with one another. What is more, that Bernard, in a seemingly paradoxical manner, utilizes anti-Judaic wording in order to discourage anti-Judaic actions indicates that these two types of anti-Judaism can even go some way to cancelling each other out. As we have seen, his reference to Jews as ‘enemies’ is an anti-Judaic expression; this hostile and indeed militarized appellation suggests that the Jews are a population to be fought and killed. However, as his prohibition to kill them indicates, he possesses a lesser level of anti-Judaic exhortation than implied by his choice of words, and so his overall level of anti-Judaism is moderate at most. It is worth emphasizing, however, that just because Bernard is less anti-Judaic than his wording indicates does not render his choice to call Jews ‘enemies’ wholly insignificant. Even though neither Bernard of Clairvaux nor Peter Abelard exhort anti-Judaic actions in the aforementioned works, their wording reveals that they tolerated Jews to very different degrees. By calling them ‘enemies’, Bernard advances the idea that Jews are inherently opposed to the Christians, even though he makes clear that this is not sufficient reason to murder them. In contrast, Abelard utilizes pro-Judaic wording; he avoids vitriolic appellations and endows his Jewish interlocutor with eloquent speech, thus portraying Jews in general as intellectual figures with whom constructive debates on faith and dogma could be held.12 Authors can likewise promote anti-Judaic actions without displaying any anti-Judaic wording. Aquinas’ choice of words for the Jews is neutral, unlike that of Bernard, but by advocating that they be bound by sumptuary laws he persecutes that group far more directly than Bernard does.13 This approach is not without its limits. Even though subtle gradations between anti-Judaic wording and action add nuance to the viewpoints expressed by medieval theologians, these variations should not disguise the fact that all three texts discussed in this chapter are anti-Judaic to at least some extent. Bernard exhorts Christians to defend Jews because he views the latter as a marginalized population requiring 11 Bernard of Clairvaux, Epistola 363, in Sancti Bernadi Opera, ed. by Jean Leclercq and Henry M. Rochais, vol. viii (Roma: Ed. Cistercienses, 1975), pp. 311–17. All translations in this chapter are my own. 12 Peter Abelard, Collationes, ed. by John Marenbon and Giovanni Orlandi, Oxford Medieval Texts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001). 13 Thomas Aquinas, Opuscula Omnia S. Thomae Aquinatis, ed. by Pierre Mandonnet (Paris: Lethielleux, 1927).

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external assistance; similarly, Abelard casts his Jew as a debate opponent who expouses a divergent — and ultimately inferior — point of view as opposed to those of the Philosopher and Christian, and Aquinas’ letter is written because the Jews are legally so distinct from Christians that they require unique legislation.14 By thus enforcing the legal and socio-cultural barriers between the Jewish minority and the overwhelming Christian majority, each theologian operates within an overall framework that places Jews at an inherent disadvantage; this principle permeates their writings even if their wording and message is pro-Judaic in parts. The ostracism which they impose upon Jewish characters is moreover intriguing because it clashes with the seemingly rational genres of didactic colloquia (Abelard) and epistolography (Bernard, Aquinas). Bernard’s Letter 363 is a persuasive tour-deforce, circulated to European potentates in order to muster support for the Second Crusade,15 Abelard’s Dialogue between a Philosopher, a Jew, and a Christian is Platonic in style and therefore draws upon a long tradition of philosophical reasoning,16 and Aquinas’ On the Government of the Jews is a carefully-articulated, point-by-point response to questions asked by his aristocratic patroness.17 In what follows, therefore, apart from exploring the anti-Judaic undercurrents of medieval theology which are presented within these texts, I will also determine whether anti-Judaism can ever be rationalized within the frameworks and strictures of scholastic philosophy. Bernard of Clairvaux: Wording versus Intention

The first text in my analysis is Bernard of Clairvaux’s famous encyclical, circulated as part of his 1146 campaign for the Second Crusade of 1147–1149 and commonly known under the title Sermo mihi ad vos (My speech to you).18 Numerous versions of this text were sent out to key decision-makers across Europe, ranging from high-ranking clergymen such as Bishop Manfred of Brescia and to secular rulers including Duke Wladislas of Bohemia.19 The version analysed in this chapter was sent out to the Kingdom of Germany, a territory rich with both political and historical significance.20 It is immediately apparent that this letter does not exhort its readers toward anti-Judaic actions, for Bernard’s key point is that Christians should also come to the

14 Bernard of Clairvaux, Epistola 363, ed. by Leclercq and Rochais; Peter Abelard, Collationes, ed. by Marenbon and Orlandi; Thomas Aquinas, Opuscula, ed. by Mandonnet. 15 Jonathan Phillips, The Second Crusade: Extending the Frontiers of Christendom (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007), pp. 61–79. 16 Aryeh Leo Motzkin, Philosophy and the Jewish Tradition: Lectures and Essays (Leiden: Brill, 2012), p. 33. 17 Shadia B. Drury, Aquinas and Modernity: The Lost Promise of Natural Law (Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield, 2008), p. 63. 18 On this conflict see Phillips, The Second Crusade, pp. 1–16. 19 Brian Patrick McGuire, A Companion to Bernard of Clairvaux (Leiden: Brill, 2011), p. 292. 20 Robert Edwin Herzstein, The Holy Roman Empire in the Middle Ages: Universal State or German Catastrophe? (Lexington: Heath, 1966), p. 9.

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aid of the persecuted Jews during their conquest of the Holy Land.21 The justification for this intervention is expressed in roundabout terms; while Bernard appears to be more concerned with the pollution of Christian holy sites by the Muslims than with the well-being of Jewish inhabitants, the emphasis which he places on the verb ‘depopulari’ (to ravage, but literally to massacre) suggests that he is not solely concerned with preserving historical sites, but also the people who inhabit the region:22 Depopulantes in ore gladii terram benedictam, terram promissionis. Prope est, si non fuerit qui resistat, ut in ipsam Dei viventis irruant civitatem, ut officinas nostrae redemptionis evertant, ut polluant loca sancta, Agni immaculati purpurata cruore. ([The invaders] are ravaging with the edge of the sword the blessed land, the land of promise. If there is no resistance, they will soon break forth into the very city of the living God, and destroy the workshops of our redemption, polluting the sacred places which have been stained purple with the blood of the immaculate Lamb).23 More explicitly, in another section of his letter, Bernard states that the Jews should ‘neither be persecuted nor killed nor even routed’ and argues that they must be protected as ‘living signs of the Lord’s passion’: Non sunt persequendi Iudaei, non sunt trucidandi, sed nec effugandin quidem. Interrogate eos divinas paginas […] Vivi quidam apices nobis sunt representantes jugiter Dominicam passionem: propter hoc dispersi sunt in omnes regiones, ut, dum iustas tanti facinoris poenas luunt, testes sint nostrae redemptionis. Unde et addit in eodem psalmo ecclesia: ‘Disperge illos in virtute tua, et depone eos, protector meus Domine’. Ita factum est: dispersi sunt, depositi sunt; duram sustinent captivitatem sub principibus Christianis. (The Jews should neither be persecuted nor killed nor even routed. Look upon those divine pages […] They are living signs to us, continually representing the Lord’s Passion. For this reason, they have been scattered into all the provinces, so that, until they should pay the just penalty for such a great crime, they will remain as witnesses of our redemption. Hence, the Church has added in that same Psalm [58]: ‘Scatter them in your virtue, and place them down, Lord my guardian’. So it was done; they were scattered and placed down, and now undergo a harsh captivity under Christian princes).24

21 Alex Carmel, Ottoman Haifa: A History of Four Centuries under Turkish Rule (London: Tauris, 2010), pp. 16–17 identifies up to fifty Jewish settlements in the Holy Land during the eleventh and twelfth centuries, thus suggesting that Bernard’s exhortations were grounded in real necessity and not simply invented for rhetorical purposes. 22 On the force of the related noun ‘depopulatio’ in medieval battle discourse, see Karl Leyser, ‘The Battle at the Lech, 955. A Study in Tenth-Century Warfare’, History: The Journal of the Historical Association, 50 (1965), 1–25 (p. 5). 23 Bernard of Clairvaux, Epistola 363, ed. by Leclercq and Rochais, p. 316. 24 Bernard of Clairvaux, Epistola 363, ed. by Leclercq and Rochais, p. 317.

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This passage encapsulates Bernard’s attitude towards the Jews of the Holy Land. Just as in the quotation discussed in the Introduction to this chapter, where he equated Jews with the ‘enemies’ (inimicos) of Psalm 58, he employs a high level of anti-Judaic wording. To name but a few examples, he reduces Jews into ‘signs’ (apices), thus classifying them as objects whose main purpose is to remind Christians of their salvation. This objectification contributes greatly to their perceived ‘Otherness’, for instead of being autonomous and individual, they are massed together and defined solely by their collective difference from Christians; as Ann Cahill observes, drawing upon the theories of Martha Nussbaum and Rae Langton, Objectification […] is a degrading reduction, treating a person (who is bodyplus-something-else) not only as reduced, but as reduced to the least important part of the equation.25 Furthermore, Bernard openly admits that the Jews are second-class citizens throughout Western Christendom, subject as they are to a ‘harsh captivity’ (duram […] captivitatem) and having been ‘scattered’ and ‘brought down’ (dispersi, dispositi) without a stable place of habitation.26 He does not mention these sufferings out of sympathy for the Jewish people, nor does he advocate changes in their living situation. On the contrary, he considers their present struggles to be insufficient recompense for the ‘great crime’ of executing Christ (‘tanti facinoris’). Nevertheless, as we have seen, Bernard emphasizes that the Jews should not be harmed by being left in the path of the Saracens and goes as far as to identify their rescue as a key objective of the Second Crusade. Hence, his letter promotes a far lower level of anti-Judaic action than its wording suggests at first glance. Abelard: Surface Inclusivity, Intellectual Exclusivity

In contrast, the second text to be analysed in this chapter, Peter Abelard’s ‘Dialogue between a Philosopher, a Jew, and a Christian’ (Dialogus Inter Philosophum, Iudaeum, et Christianum), demonstrates a low level of anti-Judaic wording but a comparatively higher level of anti-Judaic actions.27 This work, written in the late 1130s under the title Collationes (Comparisons), is designed to prove, through ‘rational’ debate, that Christianity is superior both to Judaism and to the Philosopher’s paganism.28 This 25 Ann J. Cahill, Overcoming Objectification: A Cultural Ethics, Routledge Research in Gender and Society (London: Routledge, 2011), p. 19. 26 By emphasizing this narrative of dispersal, Bernard may be echoing medieval Jewish discourse, which centers upon the themes of ‫( הָצּו ּפְת‬diaspora) and ‫( תּו ּלָג‬exile), a state which began after the destruction of the Second Temple (ad 70) and which, according to some, has continued to this day; see Eliezer DonYehiya, ‘The Negation of Galut in Religious Zionism’, Modern Judaism, 12 (1992), 129–55; William Safran, ‘The Jewish Diaspora in a Comparative and Theoretical Perspective’, Israel Studies, 10 (2005), 36–60. 27 Peter Abelard, Collationes, ed. by Marenbon and Orlandi. 28 ‘Collationes’ in the plural is a sensible title, for the title translated as ‘Dialogue’ today in fact prefaces a text divided into two parts: one conversation between a Jew and a philosopher, and another between a Christian and the philosopher; see Marilyn McCord Adams, ‘Introduction’, in Peter Abelard. Ethical Writings, ed. by Paul Vincent Spade (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1995), pp. vii–xxvii.

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work is a medieval anomaly in terms of its characterization: Abelard’s Jew is invested with an extraordinary amount of personal and intellectual agency, for he participates in the dialogue as a walking, talking, philosophizing character.29 The unorthodoxy of this depiction reflects Abelard’s renegade authorial persona, which permeates the work given that the dialogues are presented as his ‘dreams’.30 This frame narrative suggests that everything which follows is part of Abelard’s imagination, and indeed he ‘resort[s] to the dialogue form as a way of exploring his thoughts, allowing each of his characters […] to develop to their full the implications of their positions’.31 As part of this process, Abelard eloquently words the speeches of the Jewish interlocutor. In sharp contrast to Bernard’s ‘objectification’ of the Jews, Abelard’s character possesses, to quote Shakespeare’s Shylock, ‘hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions’:32 Ecce inter quales nostra exsulat peregrinatio et de quorum nobis est patrocinio confidendum! (Look at the kind of people our wandering banishes us to live among, and in whom it is necessary for us to place our trust for patronage!)33 This impassioned exclamation bears testament to Abelard’s conception of the fictional Jew as a sympathetic figure, invested with human emotions, a strong sense of self, and an independent voice with which he expresses his feelings and identities. Moreover, his use of the possessive pronoun ‘nostra’ (our) and the dative pronoun ‘nobis’ (for us) constructs a sense of personal agency which is simply not found in Bernard’s descriptions of Jews in the Holy Land, where they constitute, by comparison, a huddling and nameless mass who are put upon by the Saracens and who should be rescued by Christian knights.34 As Table 7.1 indicates, moreover, the high frequency of imperative verb forms in the dialogue accorded to the Jew, as opposed to the lines spoken by the Christian, demonstrate Abelard’s commitment to presenting both characters on equal terms, at least from a linguistic point of view.

29 Perhaps due to his unusual keenness of mind, Abelard’s Jew has received extensive scholarly attention. Most influential are Hans Liebeschutz, ‘The Significance of Judaism in Peter Abaelard’s “Dialogus”’, Journal of Jewish Studies, 12 (1961), 1–18 and Anna Sapir Abulafia, ‘“Intentio Recta an Erronea”? Peter Abelard’s Views on Judaism and the Jews’, in Medieval Studies in Honour of Avrom Saltman, ed. by Giles Constable (Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1995), pp. 13–30. See also Peter von Moos, ‘Les Collationes d’Abélard et la “question juive” au XIIe siécle’, Journal des Savants, 2 (1999), 449–89. 30 Peter Abelard, Collationes, ed. by Marenbon and Orlandi, pp. 1–7. On Abelard as an ‘intellectual renegade’, see Nancy A. Jones, ‘By Woman’s Tears Redeemed: Female Lament in St Augustine’s Confessions and the Correspondence of Abelard and Heloise’, in Sex and Gender in Medieval and Renaissance Texts: The Latin Tradition, ed. by Barbara K. Gold, Paul Allen Miller, and Charles Platter (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1997), pp. 15–39 (p. 24). 31 John Marenbon, The Philosophy of Peter Abelard (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), p. 67. 32 Spoken by Shylock in Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, Act III Scene I. 33 Peter Abelard, Collationes, ed. by Marenbon and Orlandi, p. 20. 34 For examples of how grammatical forms can change both discourse and public opinion, see Julia M. Allen and Lester Faigley, ‘Discursive Strategies for Social Change: An Alternative Rhetoric of Argument’, Rhetoric Review, 14 (1995), 142–72.

t h e j e w as t h e ‘ot he r’ i n wo rd and d e e d Table 7.1.  The Number of Paragraphs Which Abelard’s Jew and Christian Use Imperative Verb Forms (A) Expressed as a Percentage of the Number of Paragraphs in Which They Speak (B)35

Character Number of Paragraphs in Which the Character Uses Imperative Verb Forms (A)

Number of Paragraphs Ratio of A to B, in Which the Character Expressed as a Speaks (B) Percentage (%)

Jew Christian

28 107

5 2

17.86 1.87

Column A contains the number of paragraphs in which Abelard assigns imperative verb forms — to name but one example, ‘collige’ (gather)36 — to the speech of the Jew and the Christian. To avoid ambiguity, iussive subjunctives, ‘ut’ clauses, or other constructions with which commands can be issued in Latin have not been counted as ‘imperative verb forms’. Also excluded are imperative forms that do not carry a direct command, such as ‘esto’, which properly derives from the second-person future active imperative of ‘esse’ (to be) but is more often used to mean ‘although’ in Abelard’s dialogue.37 This term has therefore lost its imperative force, and no longer serves as a reliable indicator of agency and authority, attributes which are typically connoted by the use of the imperative mood.38 As Table 7.1 indicates, even though the Christian speaks almost four times as often, the Jew uses imperative verb forms in five paragraphs, while the Christian only does so in two paragraphs.39 The ratio of passages containing imperative verb forms to total passages in which each character appears is therefore 5: 28 (17.86%) for the Jew and 2: 107 (1.87%) for the Christian; when the former does speak, therefore, his speech is 8.6 times more heavy in imperative forms than that of the latter. These conclusions are somewhat problematic in that only a very specific subset of the imperative has been chosen for analysis; hence, they are no substitute for a full semantic analysis which takes into account other ways in which the imperative might be constructed. However, the Jew’s speech indubitably takes on a certain forcefulness from his

35 In the edition of the Collationes, ed. by Marenbon and Orlandi, there are 227 numbered paragraphs in total. For the purpose of comparison, paragraphs with more than one instance of the subjunctive are still counted as ‘one’ paragraph under Column A. The Philosopher has not been included in this comparison as he functions as a moderator in the debate, and therefore his aggressiveness in performing that duty cannot be used as a metric for Abelard’s views on paganism. 36 Peter Abelard, Collationes, ed. by Marenbon and Orlandi, p. 56. 37 See e.g. Peter Abelard, Collationes, ed. by Marenbon and Orlandi, p. 20. Similarly, quotations (e.g. on pp. 44–45) containing imperatives have not been counted. 38 For cross-linguistic analyses of the imperative mood, see Troni Y. Grande, Marlovian Tragedy: The Play of Dilation (Lewisburg: Bucknell University Press, 1999), p. 105; Alexandra Yurievna Aikhenvald, ‘Multilingual Imperatives: The Elaboration of a Category in North West Amazonia’, International Journal of American Linguistics, 74 (2008), 189–255, and Alexandra Yurievna Aikhenvald, Imperatives and Commands (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). 39 Peter Abelard, Collationes, ed. by Marenbon and Orlandi.

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relatively frequent use of imperative verb forms. Hence, while Bernard objectifies Jews by describing them using the word ‘enemies’ and reducing them to passive objects, Abelard can be said to empower the character of the Jew by placing him at the forefront of a philosophical-theological debate. Nevertheless, as Anna Sapir Abulafia has argued, it would be inaccurate to suggest that Abelard wholly tolerates Judaism.40 While his language cannot be termed anti-Judaic — not only because of the agency granted to the Jew-figure, as discussed above, but also since the Philosopher character criticizes both Jews and Christians41 — the underlying purpose of his dialogue is to refute Judaism altogether and, by extension, to convert educated Jews away from their creed and deter Christians from embracing Judaism. This intention is evident from the ultimate defeat of the Jew by the pagan Philosopher, who is in turn defeated by the Christian: Abelard thus presents a hierarchy of thought in which Judaism is at the very bottom and Christianity at the very top. Hence, Abelard in fact encourages a greater degree of anti-Judaic actions than Bernard does, for while the latter encourages Christians to save the Jews as part of their conquest of the Holy Land, the former instead sets out to attack Judaism by demonstrating its weaknesses. Peter von Moos thus perceives Abelard’s dialogue to be so anti-Judaic in sentiment that it epitomizes the ‘adversus Iudaeos’ tradition: On peut constater que, dans cette première Collatio, les arguments du Philosophe se réduisent à l’opposition entre le ritualisme traditionaliste des Juifs et la valeur permanente et universelle de la loi naturelle, ce qui n’aurait rien d’original, comparé aux lieux communs de l’apologétique médiévale ‘adversus Iudaeos’ […] Gilbert Dahan n’a pas entièrement tort de classer ce dialogue parmi les oeuvres polémiques contre le judaïsme, pour la seule raison qu’il contient une démonstration implicite de l’insuffisance et de l’inactualité de l’Ancien Testament […] Le judaïsme y est surtout attaqué en tant que symbole d’une mentalité rétrograde, qui, loin de lui être particulière, se retrouve également dans le christianisme. (We can see that, in this first Collatio, the Philosopher’s arguments are reduced to the opposition between the traditionalist ritualism of the Jews and the permanent and universal value of natural law, an argument which is not original [since] it is one of the themes featuring frequently in the medieval apologetics of the ‘adversus Iudaeos’ tradition […] Gilbert Dahan is not entirely wrong to classify this dialogue among the polemical works against Judaism, for the sole reason that it contains an implicit proof of the inadequacy and outdatedness of the Old Testament […] In particular, Judaism is attacked as a symbol of a retrograde mentality, [a flaw] which, far from being original to that belief system, is also found in Christianity).42

40 Abulafia, ‘Peter Abelard’s Views on Judaism’, p. 21. 41 Peter Abelard, Collationes, ed. by Marenbon and Orlandi, pp. 4–5: Comperi Iudeos stultos, Christianos insanos (I found the Jews to be crazy, and the Christians mad). 42 Von Moos, ‘Les Collationes d’Abélard’, p. 468.

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By refuting Judaism, Abelard casts its adherents as ‘Others’. This alienation does not only occur on a religious level, but also on a social one: as non-conformists to the Christian faith, a religion advocated by the social and political macrostructures of medieval Western Europe, Jews also find themselves outside these very institutions. As we have seen, moreover, Abelard draws up an intellectual barrier between Jews and Christians. By proving wrong the Jew in his so-called logical argument, and having that character lose not just to the Christian (indirectly) but also directly to the pagan Philosopher, Abelard excludes them from the intellectual framework of medieval discourse.43 This result may seem surprising given that Abelard does not exhibit anti-Judaic wording, but it is precisely the false linguistic equality drawn up between the Jew and Christian which completes the former’s alienation. For even though the Jew has had ample opportunity to present his case, his belief system still fails in the face of pagan philosophy and Christian rationality. Abelard’s readers can only infer, therefore, that Judaism is an inferior and even invalid belief system, which cannot defend itself in what seems to be a ‘fair’ debate.44 The take-away from this analysis is that there is no correlation between anti-Judaic wording and exhortation toward anti-Judaic actions; just as in Bernard’s Letter 363 an excess of the former does not necessitate the presence of the latter, in Abelard’s Dialogus the eloquent and powerful speech of the Jew intensifies the ultimate defeat of that character’s viewpoint by pagan and Christian thought. Aquinas and Rationalizing Anti-Judaism

The third text analysed in this chapter is by Thomas Aquinas, who lived more than a century after Bernard and Abelard; his major work involving the question of Judaism was accordingly written late in the thirteenth century, at some point between 1270 and 1271. It variously been known as De regimine Iudaeorum, ‘On the Government of the Jews’, and Epistola ad Ducissam Brabantiae, ‘Letter to the Duchess of Brabant’; often both titles are cited, although the former is far more preferable, as the latter is historically inaccurate.45 As Leonard Boyle explains, Aquinas was actually writing to Margaret II, Countess of Flanders, but not Margaret the Duchess of Brabant. This Duchess was also known as Margaret of Flanders, but only married into the Duchy of Brabant in 1273, two years after this letter was written.46 43 This conclusion is an uncommon one, but it is nevertheless compatible with the common acknowledgement that Abelard’s Jew is allowed to develop, to the full, the implications of his position; on which cf. Marenbon, The Philosophy of Peter Abelard, p. 67. 44 The key word here is ‘belief system’; as Von Moos, ‘Les Collationes d’Abélard’, p. 469 cautions, it is against the religion and not the Jewish people that Abelard polemicizes. 45 Bernhard Blumenkranz, ‘Le De regimine Iudaeorum: Ses modèles, son exemple’, in Aquinas and the Problems of His Time, ed. by Gérard Verbeke and Daniël Verhelst (Louvain: Leuven University Press, 1976), pp. 101–17. 46 Leonard E. Boyle, ‘Thomas Aquinas and the Duchess of Brabant’, Proceedings of the Patristic, Mediaeval, and Renaissance Conference, 8 (1983), 25–35 (pp. 25–30). This confusion has most likely arisen due to scribal misattribution, which itself stems from the coincidence that both women were named Margaret and connected to Flanders. The conflation between the two Margarets has given

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Due to its explicatory tone and itemized format, Aquinas’ letter appears to have been written in response to a now-lost list of questions by Margaret — the Countess of Flanders — on how she should treat the Jews in her realm. Aquinas’ letter is comparatively moderate in terms of anti-Judaic wording. He does not call Jews anything other than ‘Iudaei’, a neutral term in Latin not unlike the English noun ‘Jew’. This appellation is far milder than Bernard’s use of ‘inimic[i]’, enemies, to designate the Jewish population.47 However, Aquinas’ language is far from pro-Judaic: he associates Jews with negative gerundives, most notably ‘puniendus Iudaeus’ (The Jew must be punished).48 Aquinas’ letter explicitly exhorts its readers towards anti-Judaic actions; most notably, it advocates for the imposition of sumptuary laws on the Jewish communities in Margaret’s domain. More specifically, Aquinas advocates for the identification of Jews using distinctive garments, thus forcibly drawing attention to their religious Otherness through visual differentiation:49 Iudaei utriusque sexus in omni christianorum provincia et in omni tempore aliquo habitu ab aliis populis debent distingui. ( Jews of each sex in every Christian province and at all times should be distinguished from other peoples by their dress).50 While justly unpalatable to the twenty-first century reader, Aquinas’ measure would not have been considered extreme within the medieval Christian milieu in which it was proposed.51 Sumptuary laws targeted at Jews were common during this period, and even help to explain why theologians such as Bernard, Abelard, and Aquinas were able to publicly display anti-Judaic wording and/or exhortations toward anti-Judaic actions without compromising, at least in their own opinion and in that of their readers, the Christian value of universal brotherhood as well as the rational thought demanded by scholastic philosophy: When one starts out to study scholasticism […] it may be tempting to organize one’s analysis in the way of a scholastic query. This then is how one might proceed.

47 48 49

50 51

rise to further conjecture, for example Hyacinthe François Dondaine’s argument that the letter was addressed to either Adelaide of Burgundy or Marguerite of France (‘Preface’, Leonine, 42 (1979), 360–78 (pp. 360–62)). This theory is nevertheless far less convincing than Boyle’s, not least because of the style of Aquinas’ letter. Both Adelaide and Marguerite ruled as temporary regents, but Aquinas clearly addresses a female ruler who possessed permanent power, as is perceptible from how he closes his letter with a stock phrase for lifelong seat-holders: Valeat dominatio vestra per tempora longiora (May your rule flourish for a long time; Thomas Aquinas, Opuscula, ed. by Mandonnet, p. 488). Bernard of Clairvaux, Epistola 363, ed. by Leclercq and Rochais, p. 317. Thomas Aquinas, Opuscula, ed. by Mandonnet, p. 488. Theorists of shame draw attention to the alienating effect of forced dress codes; as Victor H. Matthews, ‘Avoiding Shame in Ancient Israel’, in The Shame Factor: How Shame Shapes Society, ed. by Robert Jewett, Wayne Alloway, and John G. Lacey (Eugene: Wipf and Stock, 2011), pp. 117–42 (p. 127) points out with relation to clothing laws in ancient Israel, a person ‘takes on the outward appearance of their social status’. Thomas Aquinas, Opuscula, ed. by Mandonnet, p. 489. Norman Roth, Daily Life of the Jews in the Middle Ages (Westport: Greenwood Press, 2005), p. 67.

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One launches a thesis or a so-called ‘quaestio’, which is often divided into various articles, each representing specific aspects of the central question […] Next the tension is resolved in a reply (‘responsio’), a kind of synthesis which follows the general drift of the arguments.52 Anti-Judaic measures did not clash with this tendency towards evidence-based analysis and argument, since they were — to many medieval philosophers — defensible through legal precedent. Aquinas’ recommendation that Jews should be marked out through clothing thus derives its authority from Canon 68 of the Fourth Lateran Council (1215): Statuimus ut tales utriusque sexus, in omni christianorum prouincia et omni tempore, qualitatem habitus publice ab aliis populis distinguantur. (We have decreed that [ Jews] of both sexes, in every Christian province and at all times, should be publicly distinguished from other peoples by the type of their dress).53 This decree reverberates both linguistically and ideologically in Aquinas’ recommendation, which contains eighteen words, twelve of which, reproduced in bold, are identical to Canon 68; a further three words (italicized) are synonyms, with only small morphological differences such as that between the jussive subjunctive ‘distinguantur’ (Canon 68) and the modal construction ‘debent distingui’ (Aquinas), both of which translate as ‘they should be distinguished’. The three new words which Aquinas adds — ‘aliquo’, ‘Iudaei’, and the ‘in’ before ‘omni tempore’ — are merely used to clarify the meaning of the sentence. These concordances make clear that Aquinas’ proposal of sumptuary law for the Jewish community possesses the sanction of ecclesiastical authority. He likewise rationalizes his conception of the Jew as ‘Other’ by citing Scripture; in a parallel to Leviticus 25. 33, ‘ne accipias usuras’ (do not receive usurious money), Aquinas stereotypes the Jew as ‘having nothing besides usurious money’ (cum nihil habeat praeter usuras).54 Apart from biblical law, it is also easy to see how medieval theologians might have thought anti-Judaic measures ‘defensible’ through historical precedent. As early as 1200, local parishes were requiring Jews should distinguish themselves through their dress; the council of Alais in France was one of the first assemblies to pass such a resolution.55 These measures intensified following the Fourth Lateran Council, so that by 1217, the Jews of Paris wore white or yellow ‘rotae’ (wheels) sown on their garments.56 Sumptuary laws against Jews were first introduced by lay authorities in 1269, when King Louis IX of France required all members of the Judaic community from thirteen or fourteen years of age onwards to either wear ‘wheels’ or pay a 52 Willemien Otten, ‘Medieval Scholasticism: Past, Present, and Future’, Dutch Review of Church History, 81 (2001), 275–89 (p. 277). 53 Fourth Lateran Council, Canon 68, in Disciplinary Decrees of the General Councils: Text, Translation, and Commentary, ed. by Henry Schroeder (St Louis: Herder, 1937), p. 239. 54 Thomas Aquinas, Opuscula, ed. by Mandonnet, p. 489. 55 Roth, Daily Life, pp. 67–69. 56 Israel Abrahams, Jewish Life in the Middle Ages (Mineola: Dover Publications, 2004), p. 299.

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fine of ten livres (= 240 deniers).57 For most of the Jewish population, this would have been a choice in name only; while comparing medieval prices is notoriously challenging due to the high rate of inflation, the average wage of a French tradesman (blacksmith) in 1307 — four deniers a day — indicates that he would have to work sixty days just to bring in ten livres in revenue, much of which would, in reality, have been consumed by workers’ wages, operating costs, food, clothing, and other bills.58 Having ten livres at hand would therefore be out of reach for most, if not all, of the thirteenth- and fourteenth-century Jews affected by Louis IX’s edict. These legislative precedents indicate that by the time of Aquinas, imposing clothing restrictions upon the Jews of her realm was not at all abnormal. Such a suggestion would not have been viewed as particularly cruel or illogical, but as a way to bring Flanders’ laws in line with those enacted across Western Europe. Sumptuary laws would moreover have operated in tandem with related legislation — most notably the Synod of Oxford’s 1222 declaration forbidding new synagogues from being built59 — which isolated Jews as ‘Others’ by portraying their religious and community structures as illegitimate.

Conclusion By drawing upon these precedents and contemporary laws either implicitly or explicitly, medieval theologians enabled themselves to openly denigrate the Jew as ‘Other’ without compromising their scholastic values. Within their social and legal milieu, anti-Judaism was not an emotional reaction, but a position endorsed by both civil and ecclesiastical authorities. This link between academic reasoning and religious discrimination sits uncomfortably with modern readers; however, as Table 7.2 emphasizes there is no clear correlation between anti-Judaic wording and exhortations toward anti-Judaic actions in medieval theology. Table 7.2. Presence or Absence of Anti-Judaic Wording and Level of Exhortations toward Anti-Judaic Actions as Observed in Selected Works by Bernard of Clairvaux, Peter Abelard, and Thomas Aquinas

Theologian

Anti-Judaic Wording

Exhortations towards AntiJudaic Actions

Bernard of Clairvaux Peter Abelard Thomas Aquinas

Present (‘inimici’) Absent Present (‘puniendus’)

Low High High

57 Rebecca Rist, Popes and Jews, 1095–1291 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), p. 171. 58 For these and other economic statistics concerning medieval France see Jean–Michel-Constant Leber, Essai sur l’appréciation de la fortune privée au moyen age (Paris: Chez Guillaumin et Compagnie, 1847). 59 Shmuel Almog and Nathan H. Reisner, eds, Antisemitism Through the Ages ( Jerusalem: Pergamon Press, 1988), pp. 113–14.

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These findings carry significant implications not only for our study of medieval literature but also for that of anti-Judaic attitudes in the present. By remaining aware that the content of medieval tracts about Judaism is not always as negative nor as positive as their wording suggests, we as medievalists learn to read between the lines, and even against the lines, when analysing theologians’ tracts on the Jew as ‘Other’. In addition, my rereading of these texts by Bernard, Abelard, and Aquinas constitutes a cautionary tale against associating scholastic philosophy with modern-day conceptions of rationality, which we take to mean a mode of ‘objective’ analysis that precludes religious discrimination. The point might moreover be made that the objectivity which we attribute to ourselves is, to some extent, a mirage: that Pope Benedict XVI still found it necessary to specify in a 2011 publication that Jews should not be accused of deicide by Christians highlights that anti-Judaic attitudes, stemming from perceived religious injustices, persist in some quarters of contemporary society.60 In the course of this investigation, I introduced a novel framework for the study of anti-Judaism in medieval literature, which is based on comparing relative levels of anti-Judaic wording and exhortations toward anti-Judaic actions at the intratextual level. I have also applied this method to three medieval texts portraying Jews as ‘Others’ by Bernard of Clairvaux, Peter Abelard, and Thomas Aquinas. In so doing, I have demonstrated how and why the logic-based methods of argument which modern readers typically associate with scholastic philosophy were used to reinforce anti-Judaic positions: Medieval scholasticism considered unbelievers or non-Christians from the viewpoint of the intellectual difficulties that they possessed concerning the truths of Christianity. Scholastic theologians applied scholastic philosophy with its problem-solving methods to confrontation and conversion of nonbelievers. Reason in scholastic philosophy demonstrated and validated the existence of Christian revelation, but it also was extended to the defense of Christian faith against rival religious systems.61 Indeed, the intellectual sphere which Bernard of Clairvaux, Peter Abelard, and Thomas Aquinas inhabited was an environment where anti-Judaic attitudes were not only common but also widely accepted. This exclusionary mindset, which authors perpetuated by citing scriptural and historical precedent, thus constitutes an integral puzzle-piece in our analyses of medieval literature. Only by reminding ourselves of its existence are we able to fully explore the ‘Othering’ of Jews in medieval Europe and to defuse the ostracizing assumptions from which anti-Judaic rhetoric derives its power.

60 Pope Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth: Holy Week: From the Entrance into Jerusalem to the Resurrection (San Francisco: Ignatius, 2011), pp. 183–85. 61 Robert E. Goss, ‘The First Meeting of Catholic Scholasticism with dGe-Lugs-Pa Scholasticism’, in Scholasticism: Cross-Cultural and Comparative Perspectives, ed. by José Ignacio Cabezón (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1997), pp. 65–90 (p. 69).

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Works Cited Primary Sources Bernard of Clairvaux, Epistolae, ed. by Jean Leclercq and Henry M. Rochais, Sancti Opera, vol. viii (Roma: Ed. Cistercienses, 1975) Disciplinary Decrees of the General Councils: Text, Translation, and Commentary, ed. by Henry Schroeder (St Louis: Herder, 1937) Peter Abelard, Collationes, ed. by John Marenbon and Giovanni Orlandi, Oxford Medieval Texts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001) Peter the Venerable, Adversus Iudeorum inveteratam duritiem, ed. by Yvonne Friedman, Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Medievalis, 58 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1985) Thomas Aquinas, Opuscula Omnia S. Thomae Aquinatis, ed. by Pierre Mandonnet (Paris: Lethielleux, 1927) Secondary Works Abrahams, Israel, Jewish Life in the Middle Ages (Mineola: Dover Publications, 2004) Abulafia, Anna Sapir, ‘Intentio Recta an Erronea? Peter Abelard’s Views on Judaism and the Jews’, in Medieval Studies in Honour of Avrom Saltman, ed. by Giles Constable (RamatGan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1995), pp. 13–30 Aikhenvald, Alexandra Yurievna, Imperatives and Commands (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010) ———, ‘Multilingual Imperatives: The Elaboration of a Category in North West Amazonia’, International Journal of American Linguistics, 74 (2008), 189–255 Allen, Julia M., and Lester Faigley, ‘Discursive Strategies for Social Change: An Alternative Rhetoric of Argument’, Rhetoric Review, 14 (1995), 142–72 Almog, Shmuel, and Nathan H. Reisner, eds, Antisemitism Through the Ages ( Jerusalem: Pergamon Press, 1988) Blumenkranz, Bernhard, ‘Le De regimine Iudaeorum: Ses modèles, son exemple’, in Aquinas and the Problems of His Time, ed. by Gérard Verbeke and Daniël Verhelst (Louvain: Leuven University Press, 1976), pp. 101–17 Boyle, Leonard E., ‘Thomas Aquinas and the Duchess of Brabant’, Proceedings of the Patristic, Mediaeval, and Renaissance Conference, 8 (1983), 25–35 Cahill, Ann J., Overcoming Objectification: A Cultural Ethics, Routledge Research in Gender and Society (London: Routledge, 2011) Carmel, Alex, Ottoman Haifa: A History of Four Centuries under Turkish Rule (London: Tauris, 2010) Cohen, Richard I., ‘The “Wandering Jew” from Medieval Legend to Modern Metaphor’, in The Art of Being Jewish in Modern Times, ed. by Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett and Jonathan Karp (Philadelphia: The University of Pennsylvania Press, 2008), pp. 147–75 Daniel, Norman, Islam and the West: The Making of an Image (Oxford: Oneworld, 2009) Don-Yehiya, Eliezer, ‘The Negation of Galut in Religious Zionism’, Modern Judaism, 12 (1992), 129–55

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Dondaine, Hyacinthe François, ‘Preface’, Leonine, 42 (1979), 360–78 Drury, Shadia B., Aquinas and Modernity: The Lost Promise of Natural Law (Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield, 2008) Goss, Robert E., ‘The First Meeting of Catholic Scholasticism with dGe-Lugs-Pa Scholasticism’, in Scholasticism: Cross-Cultural and Comparative Perspectives, ed. by José Ignacio Cabezón (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1997), pp. 65–90 Grande, Troni Y., Marlovian Tragedy: The Play of Dilation (Lewisburg: Bucknell University Press, 1999) Harper, Kyle, The Fate of Rome: Climate, Disease, and the End of an Empire (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2017) Hasan Roqem, Galit, and Alan Dundes, eds, The Wandering Jew: Essays in the Interpretation of a Christian Legend (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1986) Herzstein, Robert Edwin, The Holy Roman Empire in the Middle Ages: Universal State or German Catastrophe? (Lexington: Heath, 1966) Jones, Nancy A., ‘By Woman’s Tears Redeemed: Female Lament in St Augustine’s Confessions and the Correspondence of Abelard and Heloise’, in Sex and Gender in Medieval and Renaissance Texts: The Latin Tradition, ed. by Barbara K. Gold, Paul Allen Miller, and Charles Platter (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1997), pp. 15–39 Langmuir, Gavin I., Toward a Definition of Antisemitism (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996) Leber, Jean-Michel-Constant, Essai sur l’appréciation de la fortune privée au moyen age (Paris: Chez Guillaumin et Compagnie, 1847) Leyser, Karl, ‘The Battle at the Lech, 955. A Study in Tenth-Century Warfare’, History: The Journal of the Historical Association, 50 (1965), 1–25 Liebeschütz, Hans, ‘The Significance of Judaism in Peter Abaelard’s Dialogus’, Journal of Jewish Studies, 12 (1961), 1–18 Marenbon, John, The Philosophy of Peter Abelard (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997) Matthews, Victor H., ‘Avoiding Shame in Ancient Israel’, in The Shame Factor: How Shame Shapes Society, ed. by Robert Jewett, Wayne Alloway, and John G. Lacey (Eugene: Wipf and Stock, 2011), pp. 117–42 McCord Adams, Marilyn, ‘Introduction’, in Peter Abelard: Ethical Writings, ed. by Paul Vincent Spade (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1995), pp. vii–xxvii McGuire, Brian Patrick, A Companion to Bernard of Clairvaux (Leiden: Brill, 2011) Motzkin, Aryeh Leo, Philosophy and the Jewish Tradition: Lectures and Essays (Leiden: Brill, 2012) Otten, Willemien, ‘Medieval Scholasticism: Past, Present, and Future’, Dutch Review of Church History, 81 (2001), 275–89 Phillips, Jonathan, The Second Crusade: Extending the Frontiers of Christendom (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007) Pope Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth: Holy Week: From the Entrance into Jerusalem to the Resurrection (San Francisco: Ignatius, 2011), pp. 183–85 Resnick, Irven, ‘Race, Anti-Jewish Polemic, Arnulf of Séez, and the Contested Papal Election of Anaclet II (A.D. 1130)’, in Jews in Medieval Christendom: Slay Them Not,

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ed. by. Kristine T. Utterback and Merrall L. Price, Études sur le judaïsme médiéval, 60 (Leiden: Brill, 2013) pp. 45–70 Rist, Rebecca, Popes and Jews, 1095–1291 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016) Roth, Norman, Daily Life of the Jews in the Middle Ages (Westport: Greenwood Press, 2005) Safran, William, ‘The Jewish Diaspora in a Comparative and Theoretical Perspective’, Israel Studies, 10 (2005), 36–60 Silverman, Eric, A Cultural History of Jewish Dress (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2013) Varga, Lucie, Das Schlagwort vom ‘finsteren Mittelalter’ (Baden: R. M. Rohrer, 1932) Von Moos, Peter, ‘Les Collationes d’Abélard et la “question juive” au XIIe siècle’, Journal des Savants, 2 (1999), 449–89

Nike Koutrakou

Layers of ‘Otherness’ Appearance Defining and Disguising ‘Otherness’ in Byzantine Monasticism

This paper starts with the suggestion that monks themselves constituted an issue of ‘otherness’ in Byzantium. Although monks are not among those usually considered as ‘others’ in Byzantine studies, there are several figures of Byzantine monasticism which would fit such a description; similarly, forms of exclusion and inclusion were not absent from Byzantine coenobitic monasticism:1 monks were considered both as part of society and as outsiders. Through their role and influence, especially during ecclesiastical/political conflicts, such as the Christological controversies of the first Christian centuries, the Iconoclast crisis of the eighth/ninth century, or the ‘Hesychast’ movement in Late Byzantium, monks constituted an integral part of Byzantine society.2 At the same time, however, monks by their very nature, which involved withdrawal from society, were perceived as ‘others’, that is, as a specific segment of the Byzantine population. From the very beginning of monasticism in early fourth-century Egypt where the Greek word for a monk, ‘monachos’,



1 Cf. the examples in Margaret Mullet, ‘The “Other” in Byzantium’, in Strangers to Themselves: The Byzantine Outsider. Papers from the Thirty-Second Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies. University of Sussex, Brighton, March 1998, ed. by Dion C. Smythe, Society for the Promotion of Byzantine Studies. Publications (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000), pp. 1–22 (pp. 8, 12–14). 2 Bibliography on Byzantine Church and Byzantine monasticism is extensive. For an introduction see The Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium, ed. by Alexander P. Kazhdan, Alice-Mary Talbot, Anthony Cutler, Timothy E. Gregory, and Nancy P. Ševčenko (New York: Oxford University Press 1991), s.v. Monk, Monasticism, Monastery, ‘Koinobion’, Hermit; Alice-Mary Talbot, ‘An Introduction to Byzantine Monasticism’, Illinois Classical Studies, 12 (1987), 229–41. For a comprehensive account see Joan M. Hussey and Andrew Louth, The Orthodox Church in the Byzantine Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). Nike E. Koutrakou  •  ([email protected]) is a byzantinist and diplomat. She holds a PhD degree with Honours in History from the Université de Paris I (Sorbonne) with a thesis on Byzantine imperial propaganda (published Athens 1994). Since 2005 she has been an external collaborator with the Program ‘Hagiography of the Late Byzantine Period’ of the Institute of Historical Research at the National Hellenic Research Foundation, Athens. Her scholarly interests include the history of ideas and mentalités, diplomatic and military affairs and foreign relations (in particular Byzantium and the Arabs), women’s studies and hagiography. ‘Otherness’ in the Middle Ages, ed. by Hans-Werner Goetz and Ian Wood, IMR 25 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2021), pp. 183–213 © FHG10.1484/M.IMR-EB.5.123591

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literally ‘solitary’,3 was applied to the desert fathers, and in the later development of coenobitic monasticism, more widespread in Palestine, Syria, and Asia Minor, monks were set apart from the rest of the population. They were distinguished both by their external appearance, characterized by a particular attire (a hermit’s garments or a distinctive monastic habit — in Greek monastic ‘Schema’, a word which also alludes to a specific attitude), and by their character displaying specific behavioural patterns defined by well-known monastic virtues (in Greek ‘Ethos’). High morals, orthodox faith, prayers, humility, abstinence, and obedience to the monastic superior were expected signs of monastic ‘Ethos’. Behaviour based on the above morals as well as the monastic garb defined the monks’ ‘otherness’ in Byzantium. The monks’ abode, be it as anchorites and hermits or as coenobitic monks following the specific rules of their monastic communities was also an element of ‘otherness’. Renouncing the world for the love of God and a life of prayer and virtue, cutting all links with previous life, abandoning family, friends, and worldly goods, was in the Byzantine mentality the foremost impulse of the ascetic monk. It was visualized by the simplicity of the monks’ external appearance, which, however, should be substantiated by the corresponding spiritual aspirations and monastic virtues;4 the latter were necessary since monks, despite withdrawal from the world, as well as monasteries in their role as spiritual, cultural, artistic, and economic centres, continued to impact on Byzantine society.5 Theodore, the famous eighth/ ninth-century abbot of the Constantinopolitan Stoudios monastery expressed this attitude in a homily, underlining that external appearance without the ‘Ethos’ did not, by itself, confer the monastic condition: ‘you think […] that to be monks means





3 Edwin Arthur Judge, ‘The Earliest Use of Monachos for Monk and the Origin of Monasticism’, Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum, 20 (1977), 73–86; Marilyn Dunn, The Emergence of Monasticism: From Desert Fathers to the Early Middle Ages, 2nd edn (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2003). On the ideology of renouncing the world and its promotion through scriptural exegesis: Elisabeth A. Clark, Reading Renunciation: Asceticism and Scripture in Early Christianity (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999). On its political repercussions: Dimitrios Moshos, ‘The Emperors and the Desert – the Attitude of Egyptian Monasticism towards Constantine and the Prospect of a Christian Empire’, in Tsveti Tsar Konstantini i Christianstvo (Saint Emperor Constantine and Christianity), International Conference Commemorating the 1700th Anniversary of the Edict of Milan, ed. by Dragiša Bojovič, vol. i (Niš: The Centre of Church Studies, 2013), pp. 157–64. 4 Adorning saintly monks with all virtues became commonplace in hagiographical literature: Thomas Pratsch, Der hagiographische Topos. Griechische Heiligenviten im mittelbyzantinischer Zeit, Millenium Studies, 6 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2005), pp. 205–12. 5 On the various approaches to Byzantine Monasticism see, among others, Peter Charanis, ‘The Monk as an element of Byzantine Society’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 25 (1971), 61–84. Demosthenes Savramis, Zur Soziologie des byzantinischen Mönchtums (Leiden: Brill, 1962); Albert Failler, ‘Le monachisme byzantin aux XIe-XIIe siècles. Aspects sociaux et économiques’, Cahiers d’Histoire, 20 (1975), 279–302; Alexander P. Kazhdan, ‘Hermitic, Cenobitic and Secular Ideals in Byzantine Hagiography of the Ninth to Twelfth Centuries’, The Greek Orthodox Theological Review, 30 (1985), 473–87.

lay e rs o f ‘ot he rne ss’

merely to put on black clothing, to cut your hair or to grow a long beard?’6 Byzantine monasticism’s inherent spirituality to which members or the secular clergy often aspired,7 conferred a sense of superiority and authority to the bearers; it was easily perceived by the general population and sublimely externalized when a priest/monk acceded to a high ecclesiastical office, bishop or archbishop,8 as often happened in Late Antiquity and Byzantium.9 By the same token, if one or several features of the monks’ ‘Ethos’ and virtues which conditioned it ceased to exist (or to be displayed by the bearer as in the following example of monks’ fake ‘marriages’) monastic ‘otherness’ ceased to be perceived as such. Most notably, when Byzantine authorities viewed monks as opponents to their (usually ecclesiastical, but also other) policies and wanted to negate monastic ‘otherness’ they targeted specific monastic features and virtues such as abstinence: the fake ‘marriage ceremonies’ of iconophile monks organized by the iconoclast Emperor Constantine V in the Hippodrome of Constantinople as recorded in the Chronicle of Theophanes constitute a most obvious example of such action designed to nullify one of the basic tenets of monasticism. It was an attempt to discredit the iconophile opposition by dishonouring and thus negating the distinct external elements of the solitaries’ appearance (by presenting them hand in hand with women in marriage) as well as the specific monastic virtue of abstinence.10 The Emperor nullified the monks’ ‘otherness’, making them appear as members of the laity and

6 Theodore Studite, Magna Catechesis, Sermo 82, ed. by Ioseph Cozza-Luzi, in Nova Patrum Bibliotheca, ed. by Angelo Mai and Ioseph Cozza-Luzi, vol. x i (Rome: Typis Sacri Consilii Propagando Christiano Nomini, Typisque Vaticanis, 1905), p. 25. On Theodore the Studite see Prosopographie der mittelbyzantinischen Zeit (henceforth PmbZ), Abteilung 1 (641–867), ed. by Ralph-Johannes Lilie, Claudia Ludwig, Thomas Pratsch, Ilse Rochow and Beate Zielke, in collaboration with Wolfram Brandes and John Robert Martindale, vol. iv (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2001), # 7574, pp. 429–33, and recently Torstein Theodore Tollefsen, St Theodore the Studite’s Defence of the Icons: Theology and Philosophy in Ninth-Century Byzantium (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018). 7 Michel Kaplan, ‘Les moines et le clergé séculier à Byzance’, in Moines et monastères dans les sociétés de rite grec et latin, ed. by Jean Loup Lemaitre, Michel Dmitriev, and Pierre Gonneau, École Pratique des Hautes Études, IVe Section, Études médiévales et modernes, 76 (Genève: Librairie Droz, 1996), pp. 293–311 (pp. 306–07); Armin Hohlweg, ‘Bischof und Stadtherr im frühen Byzanz’, Jahrbuch der Ȍsterreichischen Byzantinistik, 20 (1971), 51–62. 8 Andrea Sterk, Renouncing the World Yet Leading the Church: The Monk-Bishop in Late Antiquity (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004); throughout Byzantine history several monks/ bishops were venerated as saints and eulogized as such by hagiographers: Claudia Rapp, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity: The Nature of Christian Leadership in an Age of Transition (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005), pp. 290–98. 9 Claudia Rapp, Holy Bishops, pp. 56–99, particularly pp. 95–99. 10 Theophanis, Chronographia, ed. by Carolus de Boor, vol. i (Leipzig: Teubner, 1883), pp. 437–38; Peter Brown, The Body and Society: Men, Women and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988), pp. 213–84. On Theophanes: Panagiotis Yannopoulos, Théophane de Sigriani le confesseur (759–818). Un héros orthodoxe du second iconoclasme, Collection Histoire, 5 (Bruxelles: Editions Safran, 2013), esp. pp. 215–82. On Theophanes’ authorship of the Chronographia, see also the relevant chapters in Studies in Theophanes, ed. by Marek Yankowiak and Federico Montinaro, Travaux et Mèmoires, 19 (Paris: Association des Amis du Centre d'Histoire et Civilisation de Byzance, 2015), esp. pp. 9–117.

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discredited them in the eyes of their iconophile brotherhood. As apparent from the above, external signs (monastic habit and specific character/behaviour and morals) identified monks as following a vocation which set them apart from society and made them part of a spiritual family, that is, their own monastic brethren. I would term this form of ‘otherness’ a ‘normal’ one for medieval mentalities, easily perceived and accepted by the society at large.

Monks’ ‘Particular Otherness’ versus ‘Normal Otherness’: Some Methodological Considerations In this paper I propose to discuss types of ‘otherness’ which went beyond the ‘normal’ one and differentiated monks as belonging to a particular type of ‘other’. I submit that there were many different cases of what I would term ‘particular otherness’ throughout Byzantine History, but for reasons of space I will deal with the more striking ones, leaving out the case of heresies and heretics which did not, in principle, depend on appearance. Thus I will discuss cases in which ‘otherness’ in a monk was perceived as outside the ‘normal’ one, as more ‘extreme’, more ‘separate’ than usual, although not as ‘abnormal’. As already underlined in the Introduction there are several questions to be addressed in the context of ‘otherness’: for instance, did the monks’ provenance, nationality or origin play a role, even a secondary one, in their being considered ‘other’ by the laity, their local community, or other monks? Or were they subsumed by their characteristics of ‘Ethos’ and ‘Schema’? Which differentiating elements defined a monk’s more specific ‘otherness’? Did they disguise or cover a deeper ‘otherness’? Was the perception of a ‘particular otherness’ limited to one type or were there more than one perceived simultaneously as in layers by the same person(s) or by different persons? Often appearance and character/ behaviour which did not conform to the idea of what a monk should be or do according to his superiors, his peers, the authorities, or the average Byzantine man, marked him as ‘other’. If so, how were such non-conformity elements recorded in Byzantine texts and what social customs and mentality did they denote? And were the monks in question consciously assuming their ‘otherness’ or was it imposed upon them? I will discuss the above issues by using specific examples in which monks were perceived as ‘others’ in various contexts: by their own confraternity in the first place and by the society in which they found themselves in the second place, in order to address specific features of ‘particular otherness’, their evolution and the degree of recognition (negative, positive, ambivalent) they received by mainstream Byzantine society. ‘Otherness’ based on race, language, origins was easily perceived in Byzantine Greek through a terminology combining the word ‘ἄλλος’, other: such as ‘ἀλλότριος’ different, ‘ἀλλογενής’, of different origin, ‘ἀλλόφυλος’, of different race, ‘ἀλλόγλωσσος’ of different language, etc. These terms that denoted ‘otherness’ were often used in conjunction with ambivalent words such as ‘ξένος’ meaning foreign/strange and ‘παράδοξος’, in the sense of strange/miraculous, or ‘θαυμάσιος’ which could mean strange/wonderful/miraculous. The terminology implies that ‘otherness’ could be

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perceived and acknowledged in different ways, accepted or rejected by different people or societal strata. As is well known, the most common sources on Byzantine monks and society, barring historiography, are hagiographical texts,11 mostly Lives of saintly monks which I shall use as primary sources for this paper. In fact Byzantine hagiographical literature underlined, throughout the centuries, a saint/monk’s ‘otherness’, that is, whatever distinguished him/her from the common man. Other sources, such as treatises or letters exchanged between monastic men, describing a monk’s ‘particular otherness’, and usually referring to examples of monks who, in one way or another, transgressed the monastic ‘Ethos’ or the expected monastic behaviour will be used on a case-by-case basis. The early ninth-century Patriarch Nikephoros I of Constantinople, for instance, disparaging the worldly attitudes of iconoclast monks and prelates and their interest in the pleasures of food and sexual intercourse,12 thus infringing the usual monastic abstinence, presents an obvious example of such ‘particular otherness’: iconoclast monks’ display of such non-monastic traits should be condemned by devout (in this case, iconophile) monks and Christians in general. Another example of a specific form of ‘otherness’, this time viewed with affection rather than condemnation, is a ‘jolly’ wandering monk named Elias for whom the eleventh-century intellectual and statesman Michael Psellos wrote letters of introduction to several of his correspondents, in particular provincial judges. Psellos in a letter to the judge of Thrakesion presented Elias as a person with ‘a glib tongue, a pleasant disposition and knowing how to render a service’, who ‘would make [the judge] laugh and fill [him] with every pleasure and delight’.13 In another letter Psellos presented Elias as recalling ‘not Mount Carmel or some other place of retreat but all the brothels in the City, all the taverns’,14 while for another correspondent he described Elias as ‘singing a great

11 For a general overview see Alice-Mary Talbot’s General Introduction, in Holy Women of Byzantium: Ten Saints’ Lives in English Translation, ed. by Alice-Mary Talbot (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 1996), pp. vii–xvi and recently the various articles, in The Ashgate Research Companion to Byzantine Hagiography, vol. i, Periods and Places, ed. by Stephanos Efthymiadis (Farnham: Ashgate, 2011) as well as The Ashgate Research Companion to Byzantine Hagiography, vol. ii, Genres and Contexts, ed. by Stephanos Efthymiadis (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014). 12 Nicephori Patriarchae, Antirrheticus III, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series graeca, ed. by JacquesPaul Migne, 161 vols (Paris, 1857–1866), 100 (1865), col. 488 Β–C: ἀκρατεῖς […] φιλήδονοι μᾶλλον ἤ φιλόθεοι […] κόσμῳ καὶ τοῖς ἐν τῶ κόσμῳ ἡττώμενοι καὶ […] ὅσα περὶ τὴν γαστέρα σπουδάζοντες; another contemporary source, the Life of Stephen the Younger called the iconoclasts, echoing St John Damascene, ‘belly minded and stomach enslaved’ (La Vie d’Étienne le Jeune par Étienne le Diacre, Introduction, édition et traduction, ed. by Marie-France Auzépy, Birmingham Byzantine and Ottoman Monographs, 3 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1997), § 28, p. 126 (henceforth: Life of Stephen the Younger); underlining their gluttony and absence of monastic abstinence; Nike Koutrakou, ‘Defying the Other’s Identity: Language of Acceptance and Rejection in Iconoclastic Byzantium’, Byzantion, 69 (1999), 107–18. 13 George T. Dennis, ‘Elias the Monk, Friend of Psellos’, in Byzantine Authors: Literary Activities and Preoccupations: Texts and Translations dedicated to the Memory of Nicholas Oikonomides, ed. by John W. Nesbitt, The Medieval Mediterranean, 49 (Leiden: Brill 2003), pp. 43–62 (p. 53). 14 Dennis, ‘Elias the Monk, Friend of Psellos’, p. 55.

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deal and delighting in rhythms and melodies’.15 Obviously this Elias was regarded as ‘other’ when judged by the usual monastic standards, more like a ‘friar Tuck’ or as J. Ljubarskij called him in his study on Psellos, a ‘Rabelaisian monk’,16 quite different from the average Byzantine monk. In the above example Elias’ behavioural pattern was alien to what was expected from a monk as expressed in the ‘typika’, that is the rules governing each monastic foundation: the monk was to profess, in the stability of his chosen path, poverty, humility and obedience,17 as well as abstinence from all bodily pleasures; he was expected to offer hospitality, to pray and to achieve in the ‘hesychia’, supreme tranquillity, fasting and absence of earthly distractions, a state of ‘parrhēsia’ i.e. of a kind of freedom to address God, of intimacy with God (derived from the meaning of the Greek word ‘boldness of speech’), who received and granted the monks’ prayers and requests. Deviation from the above which constituted a form of ‘particular otherness’ in a monk’s case would scarcely meet with approval. In Elias’s case it was tolerated, even treated with a kind of grumpy affection by Psellos, probably because Elias was viewed as a friend and presented features which linked him to the direct line of another type of ‘particular otherness’, the holy fool whose mocking and provocative behaviour, variously interpreted as madness and/or as signs of sanctity, was not rejected by the Byzantines.18

Monks’ ‘Otherness’ and Monastic Communities: Inclusion and Exclusion If Elias did not meet with rejection for his transgressions, this was not the case when a monk was perceived as ‘other’ by his own confraternity. A brief story recorded in the Life of Euthymius, a fifth-century abbot, illustrates this ‘particular otherness’: it is a scene from the daily life in the monastic community, the ‘Lavra’ established by Euthymius in Palestine, where a monk, ‘an Asian by race named Auxentius’, refused 15 Dennis, ‘Elias the Monk, Friend of Psellos’, p. 57. 16 Jakov N. Ljubarskij, Michail Psell. Lichnost’ i Torchestvo. K Istorii Vizantijskogo Predgumanizma (Moscow: Nauka, 1978), Greek Translation by Argyro Tzelesi, Η προσωπικότητα και το έργο του Μιχαήλ Ψελλού, 2nd revised edn (Athens: Kanakis, 2004), pp. 119–25 (p. 125). 17 Professing such virtues was the norm in monastic rules as stated, in the teachings of Euthymius, the fifth-century Palestinian saint, according to his sixth-century hagiographer Cyril of Scythopolis: ‘Those who renounce this life must not have a wish of their own but […] acquire humility and obedience’: Life of Euthymius, ed. by Edward Schwartz, Kyrillos von Skythopolis. Texte und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur, 49/2 (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1939), pp. 5–86 (§ 9, p. 17); English translation by Richard M. Price in Cyril of Scythopolis: The Lives of the Monks of Palestine, ed. by John Binns, Cistercian Studies Series, 114 (Kalamazoo: Cistercian Publications, 1991), pp. 1–83 (§ 9, p. 13). On Cyril of Scythopolis and his works, see John Binns, Ascetics and Ambassadors of Christ: The Monasteries of Palestine 314–631, 2nd edn (: Oxford University Press, 1996), pp. 23–34, as well as Bernard Flusin, ‘Palestinian Hagiography’, in The Ashgate Research Companion to Byzantine Hagiography, vol. i, Periods and Places, ed. by Stephanos Efthymiadis (Farnham: Ashgate, 2011), pp. 199–226 (pp. 208–09). 18 Sergey A. Ivanov, Holy Fools in Byzantium and Beyond (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), pp. 104–38 (p. 123).

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to act as muleteer and go to Jerusalem to buy provisions. As the hagiographer Cyril of Scythopolis tells the tale, the steward of the ‘Lavra’ asked Auxentius to undertake the office of muleteer because of his aptitude as ‘a practical man’. Auxentius however declined. He stated as reason for his refusal ‘first, lack of acquaintance with the country and ignorance of local language, secondly fear of fornication and thirdly fear that such distractions […] would prevent me from […] enjoying “hesychia”’.19 The dialogue comprises various elements of ‘otherness’ which distinguished Auxentius from the other monks: one element was his Asian origin, foreign to the Palestinian region of the monastery, as implied by the ignorance of local customs and language; another was his character, which was assessed as more inclined to practical matters. The latter gave rise to a fear of failing in spiritual matters, in following the expected sexual abstinence and of achieving the state of tranquillity required for reaching for God. Auxentius’s form of ‘particular otherness’ as perceived by his monastic community included a transgression of monastic rules, especially of the rule of obedience, by his refusal to act as a muleteer. It subjugated more usual elements of ‘otherness’ such as race, language and customs and overlaid the ‘normal otherness’ of a monk’s condition. Also, in this case ‘otherness’ coincided with ‘self-otherness’ according to the self-assessment of the person in question, the monk Auxentius himself, a fact that accentuates his being perceived as ‘other’ within a monastic community. Origins and local customs as features of a person’s ‘otherness’ were also at the root of a ‘particular otherness’ perceived in one of the correspondents of ninth-century Patriarch Photius of Constantinople, a Sicilian monk by the name of Mark. In his letters to Mark, Photius adopted a tone of censure, reminding him of the old gods, namely Saturn, Venus, and Persephone, venerated in the West ‘at the time of impiety’, that is in pagan times. The patriarch closed his letter with the remark that Mark ‘being of Western origin, did not have anything wise to do or to say’ and he would need most strenuous efforts and studies in order to reform the customs obtained in his native land.20 The patriarch did not explain in what respect Mark needed to reform his ways and thinking. However, the reference to pagan gods having to do with body desires points towards a perception of Mark as ‘other’ because of the latter’s non-conformity with monastic virtues and, possibly, of his adherence to some pagan traditions presumably surviving in Sicily. In his case ‘otherness’ was assumed not proven. It was also a case of double ‘otherness’, one of provenance and behaviour, Mark’s Western origins marking him as a transgressor of monastic ‘Ethos’.21 His ‘otherness’ met with rejection rather by association with his origins than by personal condition.

19 Life of Euthymius, § 18, ed. by Schwartz, p. 28; English translation by Richard M. Price in Cyril of Scythopolis, ed. by Binns, p. 24. 20 Photii patriarchae Constantinopolitani, Epistulae et Amphilochia, ed. by Basil Laourdas and Leendert G. Westerink (Leipzig: Teubner, 1983), letter 85, vol. i, p. 125: εἰ καὶ σὺ τὸ γένος ἔλκων ἐξ ἑσπέρας […] μεγίστῃ γὰρ σπουδῇ καὶ πόνοις καὶ μελέταις τὰ ἐξ ἔθους καὶ πατρίδος μόλις ποτὲ φιλεῖ μεταρρυθμίζεσθαι. 21 Stephanos Eftymiadis, ‘Le “premier classicisme byzantin”: mythes grecs et reminiscences paiennes chez Photios, Léon VI le Sage et Aréthas de Césarée’, in Pour l’amour de Byzance. Hommage à Paolo Odorico, ed. by Christian Gastgeber, Charis Messis, Dan Ioan Muresan, and Filippo Ronconi (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 2013), pp. 99–114, (p. 105).

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As suggested by the previous cases, perception of a monk’s ‘particular otherness’ occurred primarily within the Church or within one’s own community, which was the first to react to differences in ‘Schema’ and or ‘Ethos’. Byzantine hagiography contains several such examples of ‘particular otherness’. The reactions presented various forms at different stages, ranging from marginalization and punishment to gradual acceptance and reverence. A brief story about the entrance to the monastery of a ninth-century Byzantine saint, Euthymius the Younger, illustrates this point. According to his tenth-century Life, the saint, in contrast to the usual ‘topos’ of one’s introduction to monastic life,22 was presented by his abbot-to-be and subsequently perceived by other monks as a murderer when he first arrived to a monastery in Bithynia and asked to be allowed to become a novice.23 Euthymius the Younger joined the assembled monks ‘ἐν σχήματι λαικῷ’, bearing the ‘Schema’, the garb of laity. As a newcomer he was unknown to the other monks who, when asked by the monastery’s abbot, Ioannikios, denied knowing him. Their abbot decided to test Euthymius’s monastic vocation, his obedience and his willingness to endure in humility: he claimed that the young novice was a murderer trying to escape secular justice and he should be kept behind bars.24 So it was done and when young Euthymius bore everything without complaint, Abbot Ioannikios accepted the young man among the brethren, explaining that since a novice still untrained and coming from the society could bear to be accused of a crime with such forbearance, it boded well for his success in monastic endeavours.25 In terms of monastic normalcy the test proved the novice’s renunciation of will, as required in coenobitic monasticism. In terms of ‘otherness’ the test constituted a reversal of the usual perception of a monk relying on the ‘Schema’, the external appearance, and the ‘Ethos’, the monastic behavioural pattern, purposefully placing the tested person apart as a murderer, at the margins of the Christian community. Moreover, in external appearance Euthymius still presented himself as part of the society he should have renounced, that is, he still bore the dress of laity. However, in his soul he was a monk and his ‘Ethos’, his behaviour, followed the monastic patterns of humility and obedience to the monastic superior. This is an example of several layers of ‘otherness’, variously perceived by the abbot, who devised the test, the assembled monks who saw and heard only what was in front of them, and the audience to which Euthymius’s forbearance was a sign of future sanctity, in a game of perceived ‘otherness’ on the hagiographer’s part.

22 On the hagiographical ‘topos’ of one’s introduction to monastic life: Pratsch, Der hagiographische Topos, pp. 118–27. 23 Life of Euthymius the Younger, ed. by Louis Petit, ‘Vie et Office de saint Euthyme le Jeune’, Révue de l’Orient Chrétien, 8 (1903), 155–205, 503–36 (§ 7, 174). 24 Life of Euthymius the Younger, ed. by Petit, p. 174. 25 Life of Euthymius the Younger, ed. by Petit, p. 175.

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‘Extreme Otherness’ in ‘Schema’: Hermits, Wild Men, and Wild Women The most usual form of monks’ ‘particular otherness’ perceived in casual encounters, relied on external appearance and attitude, seen as not in conformity with what was expected. Holy hermits and the holy fools probably constitute the most obvious examples of such ‘particular otherness’, which produced varying reactions. Byzantine hagiographical literature, following relevant Old Testament examples,26 included depictions of monks’ physical ascetic appearance which inspired fear and awe. Scenes of fearsome saints/hermits making their appearance in front of travellers are often found in hagiography. In the above cited Life of Euthymius by Cyril of Scythopolis, the saint and a companion of his met some herdsmen from a nearby desert village who were frightened by the monks’ appearance. According to the Life’s tale, ‘the fathers understood their panic and called to them […] saying “do not fear brethren: we are men like yourselves but inhabit this place for our sins”’.27 The solitary monks resembled wild men and frightened those they encountered. This kind of ‘particular otherness’ in ‘Schema’, external appearance of wild men, quite usual in hermits and other ascetics,28 overlaid the usual ‘otherness’ of the monastic life. The story, in the choice of words used by the monks which recall those of Archangel Gabriel to the Virgin asking her not to be afraid of his appearance,29 contains also a hint to a third layer of ‘otherness’: the saintly, angelic one, since the monks had chosen the ‘angelic Schema’ that is the monastic way of life. This kind of encounter with the ‘other’ in the wilderness became a ‘topos’ in hagiographical literature. In such encounters, especially in cases of female solitaries, the boundaries between civilized and wild man became blurred, and the solitaries’ ‘particular otherness’ as a ‘wild one’ was emphasized. For instance in the Life of Mary of Egypt, the well-known story of the repentant harlot who lived in the desert, attributed to the seventh-century patriarch Sophronios of Jerusalem, there is a scene about one

26 Derek Krueger, ‘The Old Testament and Monasticism’, in The Old Testament in Byzantium, Byzantine Symposia and Colloquia. Selected Papers from a Symposium held December 1–3, 2006 at Meyer Auditorium of Freer Gallery, ed. by Paul Magdalino and Robert Nelson (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 2010), pp. 199–229. 27 Life of Euthymius, § 8, ed. by Schwartz, p. 16; Cyril of Scythopolis, ed. by Binns, p. 11. 28 Several examples in Otto A. Meinardus, Monks and Monasteries of the Egyptian Deserts, 3rd revised en (Cairo: The American University in Cairo Press, 1999); Janet Rutherford, ‘Byzantine Asceticism – a Stranger to the Church?’, in Strangers to Themselves: The Byzantine Outsider. Papers from the ThirtySecond Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies. University of Sussex, Brighton, March 1998, ed. by Dion C. Smythe (Aldershot: Ashgate 2000), pp. 39–46; Nancy Ševčenko, ‘The Hermit as Stranger in the Desert’, in Strangers to Themselves, ed. by Smythe, pp. 75–86; most recently from a different perspective, Arietta Papaconstantinou, ‘The Desert and the City: The Rhetoric of Savagery and Civilization in Some Early Byzantine Narratives’, in Identity and the Other in Byzantium: Papers from the Fourth International Sevgi Gönül Byzantine Studies Symposium, ed. by Koray Durak and Ivana Jevtič (Istanbul: Koç University and Stavros Niarchos Foundation, Center for Antique and Byzantine Studies, 2016), pp. 83–92. 29 Luke 1. 30.

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of her encounters with Zosimas, a priestly monk.30 He ‘saw the shadowy illusion of a human body appear to the right of where he was […]’. The apparition induced fear in the onlooker who took it for a ‘demonic phantom’ but then understood that it was someone walking ‘in a southward direction’. The description of that person is quite awful: Zosimas saw ‘a naked figure, whose body was black […], by the scorching of the sun. It had on its head “hair white as wool” (Revelation 1. 14) and even this was sparse’.31 He followed the creature ‘in the hope of meeting something extraordinary’. When finally he overtook it, they spoke across a ravine and Mary told him her story. The above scene presents several types and several layers of ‘otherness’ in cross-cutting patterns: the ‘normal otherness’ of Zosimas, a monk behaving in conformity with his monastic rules which specified his going to pray in the desert, as well as the more ‘extreme otherness’ of Mary, an anchorite who, with the appearance of a wild creature, was fleeing ‘normalcy’ both in acts and signs. In the development of the story, Zosimas will recount a vision of Mary ‘elevated about one cubit above the earth’,32 that is as another kind of ‘other’, a saint, performing miracles. As a literary device, Zosimas’ ‘normal otherness’ served by contrast to underline Mary’s ‘extreme otherness’, as a wild woman having left behind the civilized human condition and itself concealing a third kind of ‘otherness’, that is her holiness, which is the focus of the story. The understanding of Mary’s ‘holy otherness’ comes gradually, only at the end, by Zosimas, who initially believes her a demon, while the reader has some hints about her holiness from the expectation of ‘παράδοξον’ the extraordinary and unexpected, that Zosimas was pursuing. The ‘topos’ of the encounter with the unexpected was used as a literary device in order to underline a saint monk’s entering the scene, and to set him apart not only from the common man but also from other monks or men performing various heroic deeds, in order to underline his ‘otherness’. The first reaction to it was initially fear and the last, gradually, reverence towards holiness. Thus this type of encounter scene was repeated twice in the early tenth-century Life of Theoktiste of Lesbos, by Niketas Magistros, inspired by the above-cited Life of Mary of Egypt: first in the appearance of a saintly hermit by the name of Symeon on the Cycladic island of Paros, where Theoktiste died after she escaped from the Arab raiders33 who had captured her on Lesbos and taken her to Paros, and second in the appearance of Theoktiste who told her story to Symeon, who in turn reported it to the author of the Life, Niketas 30 Life of St Mary of Egypt, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series graeca, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 161 vols (Paris, 1857–1866), 87 (1865), cols 3697–726. English translation by Maria Kouli in Holy Women of Byzantium: Ten Saints’ Lives in English Translation, ed. by Alice-Mary Talbot (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 1996), pp. 70–93 (§ 10–32, pp. 76–88). On the repentance and redemption of ‘holy harlots’ see Lynda L. Coon, Sacred Fictions: Holy Women and Hagiography in Late Antiquity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1997), pp. 71–94. 31 Life of St Mary of Egypt, ed. by Migne, col. 3705; English translation of the Life of St Mary of Egypt, § 10, trans. by Kouli, p. 76. 32 English Translation of the Life of St Mary of Egypt, § 15, trans. by Kouli, p. 79. 33 On the Arab raids in the Aegean, see Vassilios Christides, ‘The Raids of the Moslems of Crete in the Aegean Sea, Piracy and Conquest’, Byzantion, 51 (1981), 76–111; Panagiotis Yannopoulos, ‘Byzantins et Arabes dans l’espace grec aux IXe et Xe siècles selon les sources hagiographiques locales et

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Magistros. The monk Symeon himself looked like a hermit of long standing: ‘a monk who emerged from the wilderness … his face was pale, his cheeks drawn, his feet bare […]. He was as hairy as a beast, as kind as an angel’. The description hints at an unsubstantial being who lived ‘in a world like the abode of virtues, or even of God himself ’.34 In the hagiographical depiction, the monk’s extreme ‘otherness’ loses its fleshy nature and reaches a kind of ‘Godlike’ nature. Similarly, in Symeon’s tale, the woman he encountered, Theoktiste, presented the same features of ‘particular otherness’. She had ‘the shape of a woman but the appearance of a superhuman being. Her hair was white, her face black […]. The skin alone kept the bones in place […]. She was almost a shadow […]’.35 In both cases ‘particular otherness’ was extreme and easily perceived both by whoever encountered it and by the listener/reader of the tale. It transgressed humanity and became a sign of holiness, of sainthood. The monk Symeon as well as Theoktiste shared the external appearance, the ‘Schema’, of a solitary hermit in the desert; also they both presented the bearing (‘Ethos’) of beast and angel. Their ‘otherness’ was finally perceived as the ‘otherness’ of the holy. Thus, taken to the extreme, ‘otherness’ defying conformity was stressed in Byzantine hagiography as a kind of external sign of holiness.

Extreme ‘Otherness’ in ‘Ethos’: Stylites and Holy Fools This was not limited to solitary hermits in the desert. It also concerned monks returning to the city to pursue their ascetic endeavours in contact with people living in society, a fact already marking them as ‘other’ in relation to a monk’s ‘normal otherness’. There were even more specific examples of such ‘otherness’: the extreme asceticism and mortification of flesh of the ‘Stylites’, the pillar saints, living high on their columns in the outskirts of the city, or the ‘dendrites’ living on their trees, etc.; The Life of Symeon Stylites the Elder († 459/460), the first pillar saint, calling his lifestyle ‘ξένον καὶ παράδοξον’ (foreign/strange and miraculous/strange),36 provides a significant example of the ‘otherness’ that was perceived in the behaviour of such solitaries: on

contemporaines’, in East and West, Essays on Byzantine and Arab worlds in the Middle Ages, Gorgias Eastern Christian Studies, 15, ed. by Juan-Pedro Monferrer-Sala, Vassilios Christides, and Theodoros Papadopoulos (Piscataway: Gorgias, 2009), pp. 91–105. 34 Life of Theoctiste of Lesbos, in Acta Sanctorum […] collegit, digestit, notis illustruuit J. Bollandus, operam et studium contulit G. Henschenius (Antuerpiae-Bruxellis [Antwerpen-Bruxelles]: typis regiis, 1643– 1940) (henceforth Acta Sanctorum), Novembris IV, pp. 224–33 (§ 5, p. 226); ‘Life of St. Theoktiste of Lesbos’, trans. by Angela Hero, in Holy Women of Byzantium : Ten Saints’ Lives in English Translation, ed. by Alice-Mary Talbot (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 1996), pp. 101–16 (p. 105). On Theoctiste: PmbZ, vol. 4 (2001), # 8027, pp. 571–72. 35 Life of Theoctiste of Lesbos, § 13, p. 228. , ‘Life of St. Theoktiste of Lesbos’ § 17, trans. by Hero, p. 110. 36 Life of Symeon Stylites, ed. by Athanasios Papadopoulos-Kerameus, Συλλογὴ Παλαιστίνης καὶ Συριακής Ἁγιολογίας, i, 1907 (repr. Thessalonica: Pournaras, 2001), pp. 60–74 (§ 1, p. 60). On Symeon Stylites’ extreme asceticism which gave birth to various traditions and local legends including those concerning the veneration of his bodily remains: Béatrice Caseau, ‘Syméon Stylite l’Ancien entre puanteur et parfum’, Revue des Études Byzantines, 63 (2005), 71–96 (pp. 86–92)); recently also Volker

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the basis of their external appearance and lifestyle they were immediately perceived as different, ‘other’, both by other monks and by the general population. However reactions to them varied. Usually they were accepted by the men in their vicinity, including other monks, but only after they had established themselves on their columns or in their abodes, and in fact, had proved themselves (usually by miracles), so that their eccentricity was perceived as induced by the grace of God and consequently accepted. In fact, with their acceptance, their ‘particular otherness’ was almost ‘normalized’, returned within the boundaries of what the Church accepted from a monk. The Church historian Evagrius reports how Symeon Stylites was initially perceived as ‘other’ within his own monastic community: the historian depicts a scene in which the elders of the desert and local abbots sent a messenger to the saint’s pillar in Telanissa near Antioch, to test Symeon by asking him to come down from it.37 When Symeon started to obey, that is, when he established a kind of ‘normalcy’ by demonstrating his willingness to come back to conformity by obeying the monastic elders, he was left on his pillar to follow behavioural patterns of extreme fasting and prayers. Symeon’s ‘otherness’, by way of his endurance, was finally perceived by everyone as a sign of holiness. His death and especially the ‘translatio’ of his remains to Constantinople at the time of Emperor Leo I (457–474) which is described in the Life of another pillar saint, Daniel ‘Stylites’, became public events. The Stylites’ ‘otherness’ as something strange and unexpected which produced a kind of shock to the onlooker and was interpreted as a sign of celestial Grace is best illustrated in a short story about a certain Titus, a former mercenary soldier, inserted in the Life of Daniel Stylites, heir to Symeon’s ‘παράδοξον’, strange lifestyle. In this story, Titus, ‘beholding the holy man (Daniel), marvelled at the strangeness of his appearance “τὸ ξένον τοῦ σχήματος” and his endurance’; inspired by the Stylites’ example, he abandoned his military career, converted on the spot and joined the followers of Daniel as a monk.38 Thus, in the end the Stylites’ ‘particular otherness’ was recognized as provoking feelings of wonderment and admiration. Perceived and acknowledged by public opinion as a sign of holiness, it became almost ‘normalized’. However, the culmination of ‘particular otherness’, and its most easily perceived type in a Byzantine monk was, arguably, that of a ‘salos’, the holy fool who assumed the guise of madness and scandalizing behaviour for purposes of his own salvation and the edification of others. The appearance and behaviour of the holy fools were

Menze, ‘The Transformation of a Saintly Paradigm: Simeon the Elder and the Legacy of Stylitism’, in Religious Identities in the Levant from Alexander to Muhammed: Continuity and Change, ed. by Michael Blömer, Achim Lichtenberger, and Rubina Raja (Turnhout: Brepols, 2015), pp. 213–26. 37 Evagrius, The Ecclesiastical History, ed. by Joseph Bidez and Léon Parmantier (London: Methuen, 1898), i, 13, pp. 20–22 (p. 21); Hippolyte Delehaye, Les Saints Stylites, Subsidia Hagiographica, 14 (Bruxelles: Société des Bollandistes, 1923), p. xviii. 38 S. Danielis Stylitae Vita, ed. by Hippolyte Delehaye, in Les Saints Stylites, §58 and § 60, Subsidia Hagiographica, 14 (Bruxelles: Société des Bollandistes, 1923), pp. 56–57 and 58–59. On Titus’ even more strange stylites’ schema see Michel Kaplan, ‘L’espace et le sacré dans la vie de Daniel le Stylite’ in Le sacré et son inscription dans l’espace à Byzance et en Occident, ed. by Michel Kaplan, Byzantina Sorbonensia, 18 (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 2001), pp. 199–217 (p. 210).

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considered ‘other’, that is strange, not only within monastic communities but by everyone. They developed as a specific religious phenomenon.39 Not only did they not conform to the accepted rules and expected behaviour for monks, but their adoption of provocative attitudes often defied common logic. A sixth-century monk, St Symeon the Fool, for instance, is described, while in the town of Emesa in Syria, as adopting provocative attitudes on purpose in order to irritate everyone and ‘in particular the monks’.40 He was going around naked, thrown out of women’s public baths, eating meat during fasting periods, consorting with courtesans and prostitutes and dancing publicly with them, tripping and hitting the passers-by, etc.41 He walked in strange ways, sometimes copying cripples and at other times jumping and dancing around, declaiming, occasionally in blasphemous words, his ideas to all who wanted to listen. He did all that on purpose, commenting in fact that the declaiming attitude was the most useful to those who simulated madness.42 According to his mid-seventh-century biographer, Leontios of Neapolis, the saint strove to hide his working miracles by doing something incongruous and illogical and, in a paradox of logical thought, by moving his home to a different neighbourhood till people had forgotten his miraculous intervention.43 This kind of ‘other’, in the sense of ‘strange’, mode of life was met with ambivalent reactions. Many people considered Symeon simply mad, while others acknowledged his holiness and sought his advice. An episode from his Life aptly illustrates this dual perception: when two elders from a nearby monastery sought him for advice on issues related to the teachings of Origen, they were discouraged from doing so because, as the people said, Symeon Salos offered offences, hit, and ridiculed everyone. Despite that judgement they proceeded to put their question to Symeon who answered them in riddles, which, however, also contained hints of an answer as to Origen’s theology. Symeon’s ‘otherness’ was thus perceived as comprising several layers: the ‘otherness’ of ‘μωρία’ madness and innocence was a veil assumed on purpose, in order to disguise his ‘otherness of holiness’. It was 39 Ivanov, Holy Fools, p. 134. On the vocabulary used for the phenomenon: Caroline Macé and Thomas Wauters, ‘“Les mots et la chose”: Quelques réflexions sur le vocabulaire de la folie chez Maxime le Confesseur et Jean Damascène’, Byzantinische Forschungen, 32 (2016), 383–89 (pp. 385–86); from a literary perspective: Julie van Pelt, ‘Saints in Disguise: Performance in the Life of John Kalyvites (BHG 868), the Life of Theodora of Alexandria (BHG 1727) and the Life of Symeon Salos (BHG 1677)’, in Storytelling in Byzantium. Narratological approaches to Byzantine Texts and Images, ed. by Ch. Messis, Margaret Mullet, and Ingela Nilsson, Acta Univesitatis Upsaliensis, Studia Byzantina Upsaliensia, 19 (Uppsala: Uppsala Univesitet, 2018), pp. 137–57 (pp. 152–54). 40 Leontios of Neapolis, Life of Symeon Salos, ed. by Lennart Rydén, Das Leben des heiligen Narren Symeon von Leontios von Neapolis, in Leontios de Néapolis, Uppsala 1963, reprint in André Jean Festugière, Vie de Syméon le fou et de Jean l’Aumonier (Paris: Librairie Orientaliste Paul Geuthner, 1974), p. 87: κατ’ἐξαίρετον δὲ τοὺς μοναχούς. 41 Analysis in Ivanov, Holy Fools, pp. 104–21, esp. pp. 117–19. 42 Leontios of Neapolis, Life of Symeon Salos, ed. by Rydén, Symeon, in Festugière, Vie de Syméon, p. 89: Ἔλεγεν γὰρ […] συμβάλλεσθαι τὸ τοιοῦτον σχῆμα τοῖς προσποιουμένοις μωρίαν. 43 Leontios of Neapolis, Life of Symeon Salos, ed. by Rydén, Symeon, in Festugière, Vie de Syméon, p. 81; Vincent Déroche, Études sur Leontios de Neapolis, Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis, Studia Byzantina Upsalensia, 3 (Uppsala: Almqvist and Wiksell, 1995), with special analysis of the salos’ spirituality of innocence as well as his miracles and sanctity.

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recognized on both levels: his irrational behaviour was ‘other’ in contrast to what should have been the logical behaviour of an average person, and it challenged social decency; at the same time his ‘otherness of holiness’, that is, his simulated madness for ascetic and educational purposes,44 the salvation of his soul and that of others, and thereby his status as a saint in the making, was acknowledged by many of his contemporaries, and finally the Church and his hagiographer.

‘Otherness’ in Disguise: Transvestites and Agents As attested by the story of the ‘salos’, a ‘particular otherness’ was not only what could define a monk/saint in the perception of others. It was also what could disguise him and disguise his endeavours in his way to sanctity. However, the most usual ‘particular otherness’ in the context of disguise produced by Byzantine hagiography is to be found in the ‘topos’ of the disguised saint or the transvestite nun. One of the oldest such tales relates the case of a couple, Andronikos and Athanasia who followed their monastic vocation in separate monasteries in Egypt. After years, they met on their way to the Holy Land, while Athanasia was dressed ‘ἐν σχήματι ἀνδρικῷ’ as a male monk. She recognized her husband, while he failed to recognize her, because ‘her beauty had withered away due to her asceticism and she looked like an Ethiopian’.45 After their return they lived side by side as monks, in complete silence. Only after her death Athanasia was recognized as a woman and as Andronikos’s wife because of a letter she wrote to him and entrusted to their abbot with the request to give it to Andronikos after her demise.46 For her endurance she was recognized as holy by their monastic community and was joined in burial and holiness by her husband. A similar story has survived and is related in a short notice in the tenth-century Synaxarium of Constantinople: it is the story of a certain Anastasia, of patrician descent, who, according to that pious tale, at the time of emperor Justinian fled the world — and incidentally the envy of empress Theodora — and found refuge in a monastery in Alexandria, as a monk, with the full knowledge of its abbot, the ‘hegoumenos’ Daniel.47 The

44 Ivanov, Holy Fools, p. 7. On the ambivalent appreciation of the Holy Fool: Christopher D. L. Johnson, ‘“Base but nevertheless holy”: Lessons in Liminality by Symeon the Holy Fool’, Studies in Religion/ Sciences religieuses, 43 (2014), 592–612. An inter-disciplinary analysis of the Holy Fool phenomenon and the example of Symeon Salos is provided by Youval Rotman, Insanity and Sanctity in Byzantium: The Ambiguity of Religious Experience (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2016), pp. 15–16, 27–33. 45 Life of Andronikos and Athanasia: De SS. Andronico et Athanasia Confessoribus in Aegypto, in Acta Sanctorum, Octobris IV (Bruxellis typis regiis, 1780), pp. 997–1001 (p. 999C). On the Life of Andronikos and Athanasia and on marital life and asceticism in hagiography, see Ann P. Alwis, Celibate Marriages in Late Antique and Byzantine Hagiography: The Lives of Saints Julian and Basilissa, Andronikos and Athanasia and Galaktion and Episteme (London: Continuum, 2011). 46 Life of Andronikos and Athanasia, p. 1000E. 47 Synaxarium Ecclesiae Constantinopolitanae e codice Sirmondiano, ed. by Hippolyte Delehaye (Mensis Martius dies X) (Brussels: apud socios Bollandianos, 1902), p. 526: [The abbot] ἐνέδυσεν αὐτὴν στολὴν ἀνδρῴαν, ὀνομάσας αὐτὴν Ἀναστάσιον τὸν εὐνοῦχον.

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abbot presented her as a eunuch by the name of Anastasios and ordered that she lived in a cave near the monastery, without contact with other monks. The abbot protected her from the emperor’s search and maintained the perception of her as a eunuch monk even after her death: only he and a monk who helped bury her knew that she was a woman. The usual form taken by such stories, often preserving elements of popular folklore48 is that of saintly women who joined monasteries disguised as men and persisted in their apparent identity even when falsely accused of rape, such as the one encountered in the Life of St Mary or St Marinos; the preserved text of this Life dates to the tenth century although the story goes back to a sixth-century Vita prior. In this case Mary had joined the monastery as a monk, when her father did so, at her own initiative, having cut her hair and in man’s clothes;49 accused of rape, she was expelled by her abbot and was condemned to live outside the gates of the monastery.50 Eventually at Mary/Marinos’s death she was discovered to be a woman, obviously innocent in the matter and subsequently venerated as a saint. What is of interest in all the above stories is the multiple ‘otherness’ of the female protagonist. It is not a banal case of mistaken identity, as it can be surmised in the tale of Andronikos and Athanasia. The transvestite nun assumes the identity of a male monk with the willingness to be perceived as such, as ‘other’ within the monastic community and everywhere. She makes her ‘otherness’ a cover of normality as a monk among other monks, before being perceived as ‘other’ again, and put outside the common fold (in Mary/Marinos’ case both literally and figuratively) on account of a transgression. Similarly, Athanasia lives under a vow of silence and Anastasia dwells apart from other monks; they both assume outward signs of ‘otherness’ in comparison to the monks of their monastic communities. So, in the case of the transvestite nun several layers of ‘otherness’ converge: first as a person living a double life, that is as a monk in a monastic community of men, in which she was in reality ‘other’ because of her sex; second as perceived ‘other’ in behaviour by the superior and the brotherhood, that is, either as someone who had transgressed the code of conduct of abstinence or as someone assuming a different form of asceticism. Finally, through her death, sometimes as in Anastasia’s case

48 André Jean Festugière, ‘Lieux communs littéraires et thèmes de folklore dans l’Hagiographie primitive’, Wiener Studien, 73 (1960), 123–52. On transvestism disguising holy womanhood in such hagiographical stories see Crystal Lynn Lubinsky, Removing Masculine Layers to Reveal a Holy Womanhood: The Female Transvestite Monks of Late Antique Eastern Christianity, Studia Traditionis Theologiae, 13 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013). pp. 109–85. 49 Léon Clugnet, ed., ‘Vie et office de sainte Marine’, Revue de l’Orient Chrétien, 6 (1901), 572–92, text of Life A pp. 575–77 (p. 575): οὐκ εἰσελεύσωμι ἐν γυναικείῳ σχήματι ἀλλὰ ἀποθρίξουσα τὴν κεφαλήν μου καὶ ἀνδρικῷ σχήματι ἐνδυσαμένη, συνεισέλθω σοι ἐν τῷ μοναστηρίῳ᾿. ‘Life of St. Mary/Marinos’, trans. by Nicholas Constas in Holy Women of Byzantium: Ten Saints’ Lives in English Translation, ed. by AliceMary Talbot (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 1996), pp. 7–12. On the custom of cutting one’s hair when embracing the monastic life recently: Daniel Oltean, ‘Les origines de la tonsure monastique. Les sources grecques’, Byzantion, 87 (2017), 259–97 (pp. 277–81). 50 Clugnet, ed., ‘Vie et office de sainte Marine’, p. 576; ‘Life of St. Mary/Marinos’, trans. by Constas, p. 9.

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accompanied by a miracle of light,51 she is perceived as something entirely ‘other’, that is, as a saint. In the above cases of the transvestite nuns the monk’s ‘Schema’ was a willing disguise and the outward signs of alterity assumed, served to disguise a deeper ‘otherness’ of female sex, under the apparent normalcy of a monk’s ‘normal otherness’. There was a will of the person in question to be perceived as ‘other’, relying on the ‘otherness’ of non-conformity in order to disguise a different ‘otherness’. ‘Otherness’ perceived by exterior signs, which could be used deliberately as a disguise, was not employed solely by the transvestite nuns. The story of a stratagem played by iconoclast emperor Constantine V on the iconophile monk faction headed, according to the iconophile tradition by St Stephen the Younger, illustrates this point. It is reported by Stephen the Deacon, an iconophile author who wrote the Life of Stephen the Younger, one of the most influential texts of the iconoclast era,52 around 807–809.53 The emperor used as an ‘agent provocateur’ a young courtier named George Synkletous, whom he planted among the saint’s monastic followers, in order to trick St Stephen the Younger into openly defying iconoclast policy, and thus give him reason for persecution. George arrived at the monastery, pretended that he had repented of his iconoclast ways and infiltrated the saint’s followers; then he came back to Constantinople, in monk’s habit, to be used by the emperor as proof of iconophile proselytism and conspiracy against iconoclast policy, in a public display during which he abandoned the monastic garb and adopted again court attire. What is of interest for this study is George’s ‘particular otherness’ within his apparent ‘normal otherness’ as a monk. He was accepted as a repentant iconoclast by the iconophile monks, although recognized as coming from the imperial (iconoclast) court by his external appearance: he was close shaved as was the fashion

51 Synaxarium, ed. by Delehaye, pp. 526–27. 52 Joseph Gill, ‘The Life of Stephen the Younger by Stephen the Deacon: Debts and Loans’, Orientalia Christiana Periodica, 6 (1940), 114–39. Other saints’ Lives as for instance the Lives of Theophylaktos of Nicomedia, Makarios of Pelekete, Nikephoros of Sebaze or Theophanes the Confessor copied scenes, dialogues, and argumentation from the Life of Stephen the Younger. The Life of Saint Andrew in Crisi used it as a blueprint: Marie-France Auzépy, ‘De Philarète de sa famille et de certains monastères de Constantinople’, in Les Saints et leur Sanctuaire à Byzance, Textes, images et monuments, ed. by Catherine Jolivet-Lévy, Michel Kaplan, and Jean-Pierre Sodini (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 1993), pp. 117–35 (pp. 129–31); see also, Alexander P. Kazhdan, Lee F. Sherry and Christine Angelidi, A History of Byzantine Literature, (650–850), Research series, 2 (Athens: The National Hellenic Research Foundation, Institute for Byzantine Research, 1999), pp. 183–98 and most recently, Dmitry Afinogenov, ‘Integration of Hagiographic Texts into Historical Narrative: The Cases of the Lives of St Stephen the Younger and Niketas of Medikion’, in Byzantine Hagiography, Texts, Themes & Projects, ed. by Antonio Rigo, in collaboration with Michele Trizio and Elefterios Despotakis, Byzantios, Studies in Byzantine History and Civilization, 13 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2018), pp. 325–40. 53 Auzépy, La Vie d’Étienne le Jeune par Étienne le Diacre (in the introduction of the Life of Stephen the Younger), pp. 9 and 18; Vincent Déroche, ‘Note sur la Vie d’Étienne le Jeune et sa chronologie interne’, Revue des études byzantines, 60 (2002), 179–88, dates the Life of Stephen the Younger to 807.

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for iconoclasts,54 possibly in order to underline a more virile appearance. However, the Life of Stephen the Younger also presents George as being of a rather effeminate appearance by the use of his surname — Synkletous is a form used in Greek for a female of the Senate. This might have been noted by the iconophile author, as the editor of the Life pointed out, in order to allude to and to castigate the emperor’s alleged homosexual tendencies.55 It might also, easily, have been part of the emperor’s stratagem: a calculated risk, consciously choosing someone of inoffensive appearance whose ‘otherness’ once recognized, as it happened, could be assumed by Stephen the Younger’s followers to be easily changeable and become the monks’ ‘normal otherness’, that is, George’s embracing the monastic condition. That this happened on purpose, as a disguise, on the part of George constitutes a case in which a layer of monk’s ‘normal otherness’ covered a deeper one: the ‘otherness’ of iconoclast agent among iconophiles.

‘Otherness’ in Mobility: Wandering Beggars, Peregrinating Monks, and Espionage Suspects Byzantine hagiography also offers cases of ‘otherness’ in the meaning of non-conformity with the monks’ standards of external appearance and behaviour, regardless of the perceived person’s intention. It was a type of ‘otherness’, connected to differentiating elements such as origin, language, race, etc., and was observed in cases of travelling monks who were perceived as ‘others’, almost ipso facto as a result of their being foreigners and unknown in the locality in which they found themselves. Normally, one of the characteristics of behavioural patterns for a monk was stability, meaning that when he renounced the world and joined a monastery it was for the rest of his life. He was not to leave his abode, except for the needs of the monastery or to live as a solitary. He was not supposed to travel around, again with the exception of departing to visit an elder or in some cases in order to establish or join another monastic community, or to go for a pilgrimage to the Holy Land or to a specific site.56 However, in the tradition of beggars of Late Antiquity, another type of monks’ ‘otherness’ developed: that of the wandering beggar-monk, who, by living in extreme poverty and begging alms made obvious his rejection of worldly goods; thus, following the example of 54 Life of Stephen the Younger, § 38, ed. by Auzépy, pp. 137–38. For the impact of the Life of Stephen the Younger on the formation of a perception of Byzantine monasticism as ‘other’, that is, as being diverse from the prevailing iconoclast monasticism of that period, and as the mainstream opposition to the iconoclast movement, cf. Marie-France Auzépy, L’hagiographie et l’Iconoclasme byzantin: le cas de la vie d’Etienne le Jeune, Birmingham Byzantine and Ottoman Studies 5 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999). On the author of this Life, Stephen the Deacon, see, most recently, the remarks by A. Binggeli and S. Efthymiadis in their edition of the Life of Bacchos the Younger written by the same author: ‘Vie et Passion de Bacchos le Jeune par Étienne le Diacre’, ed. by André Binggeli and Stéphanos Efthymiadis, in Les Nouveaux Martyrs à Byzance, ed. by André Binggeli and Sophie Métivier, Byzantina Sorbonnsia, 31 (Paris: Éditions de la Sorbonne, 2021), pp. 7–211 (pp. 53–55). 55 Life of Stephen the Younger, ed. by Auzépy, p. 232 n. 249. 56 Pratsch, Der Hagiographische Topos, pp. 156–59.

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the Apostles, he acquired a measure of spiritual authority and by accepting alms also bestowed it on his benefactors.57 This view was hardly unanimous. Byzantines called such monks, when encountered in the Empire’s towns, ‘ἀγοραίους’ ‘those of the market place’ and ‘γυραβαγούς’ ‘wanderers’ and, already in Late Antiquity, there were voices, such as Neilos of Sinai’s, disparaging their aimless wanderings which often provoked the indignation of urban populations and caused them to hate the previously admired monastic life.58 This quite critical attitude towards wandering monks probably reflected the sentiments of most of the Byzantine population who viewed them as ‘pseudo-monks’ (in the words of Neilos of Sinai), who had abandoned the spiritual aspirations of their vocation. However in Byzantine hagiography, travelling and wandering monks are not a rare phenomenon: despite reservations their habit provided them with a measure of protection and hospitality from locals in return for prayers and possibly for news or for knowledge of medicine, and for aid to the uneducated in writing letters; so they became one of the most mobile segments of the Byzantine population: some texts even hint at them being hired out as guides to other travelling pilgrims.59 On the other hand, a travelling monk was almost by definition ‘other’, in the sense of stranger, for local populations and he was viewed with suspicion, especially in troubled times. Thus, the story of a saint, usually a wandering monk, arrested as a spy, came to be almost commonplace in middle-Byzantine hagiography, especially in the context of Arab-Byzantine relations. There are several such examples, three of them being quite striking: St Gregory Dekapolites, from Asia Minor when he found himself in Otranto, in Southern Italy, St Elias the Younger from Sicily and his disciple Daniel in Butrint on the Adriatic coast, and St Basil the Younger in the Byzantine heartland of the mountains of Asia Minor. According to the text of his Life, St Gregory Dekapolites arrived in Otranto from Syracuse during the Iconoclastic controversy and the Arab-Byzantine conflicts of the ninth century; he was almost lynched by the local population, who accused him of having come to Otranto ‘ἐπὶ προδοσίαν χριστιανῶν’ as a traitor to Christians.60 After having put a ‘soudarion’, that is a kind of turban, on his head the inhabitants of the town were ready to put him to death. However, the saint persuaded them to desist and to bring him to the local bishop for judgement. Finally Gregory left the town

57 Daniel Caner, Wandering, Begging Monks: Spiritual Authority and the Promotion of Monasticism in Late Antiquity, Transformation of the Classical Heritage, 33 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002); Peter Brown, Poverty and Leadership in the Later Roman Empire, The Menahem Stern Jerusalem Lectures (Hanover: University of New England Press, 2002), pp. 45–73, (pp. 49–53). 58 Neilos of Sinai, Letter 119, in S. Nili Epistolarum Liber III, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series graeca, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 161 vols (Paris, 1857–1866), 79 (1865), col. 437C: ὁ πρώην περιπόθητος […] τῶν μοναζόντων βίος νῦν βδελυρὸς γέγονε […] βαροῦνται μὲν πᾶσαι πόλεις καὶ κῶμαι ὑπὸ τῶν ψευδομονάχων, περιτρεχόντων μάτην καὶ ὡς ἔτυχεν […]. 59 Hippolyte Delehaye, ʻVita S. Pauli Junioris in Monte Latro’, Analecta Bollandiana, 11 (1892), 5–74 and 136–82 (§ 3, 22). 60 Life of Gregory Dekapolites, in Ignatios Diakonos und die Vita des hl. Gregorios Dekapolites, ed. by Georgios Makris, Byzantinisches Archiv, 17 (Leipzig: Teubner, 1997) § 33, pp. 96–98 (p. 96). On Dekapolites: PmbZ, ed. by Lilie and others, ii, # 2486, pp. 96–99, and on his hagiographer Ignatios Diakonos, PmbZ, ed. by Lilie and others, ii, # 2665, pp. 166–72.

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unmolested, evaded a Saracen ambush, crossed the sea, and reached Thessalonica. The above scene has been read differently by various scholars. Cyril Mango61 postulated that the saint was mistaken for an Arab spy, and that the action of the inhabitants was due to their fear that he would pass information on the town’s defences to an Arab raiding fleet nearby, something of particular importance to the city of Otranto at a time when the Arab naval raids in the region were quite common.62 Also, the next scene in the Life depicts St Gregory escaping death at the hands of an Arab raider somewhere near Otranto,63 which seems to strengthen the interpretation of a wandering monk being perceived as ‘other’, that is as a spy, foreigner, and enemy. The importance of the external appearance of the ‘Schema’ — in this case emphasized by the Oriental style headdress instead of a monk’s hood — in establishing a person’s ‘otherness’ and in distinguishing friend from foe, is further substantiated by a small story concerning another, somewhat later (tenth/eleventh century) saintly monk, Neilos the Younger, of Grottaferrata. St Neilos, while in Calabria, encountered a small party of cavalrymen dressed and armed as Saracens. He expected to be made prisoner but instead the horsemen expressed their respect,64 and removed their Saracen headdresses revealing themselves as Byzantine soldiers scouting the region.65

61 Cyril Mango, ‘On the Re-Reading the Life of Gregory the Decapolite’, Byzantina, 13.1 (1985), 633–46, (637). 62 Saracen raids were a recurrent Leitmotiv in Byzantine hagiographical texts from Southern Italy echoing the dangers of the time: Enrica Follieri, ‘I santi dell’Italia greca’, Rivista di studi bizantini e neoellenici, 34 (1997), 10–28 (reprint in Histoire et culture dans l’Italie Byzantine, ed. by André Jacob, Jean-Marie Martin, and Ghislaine Noyé, Collection de l’École française de Rome, 363 (Roma: École française de Rome, 2006), pp. 103–21; also, Stephanos Efthymiades, ‘Les saints d’Italie méridionale (IXe–XIIe s.) et leur rôle dans la société locale’, in Byzantine Religious Culture: Studies in Honor of Alice-Mary Talbot, ed. by Denis Sullivan, Elizabeth A. Fisher, and Stratis Papaioannou, The Medieval Mediterranean, 92 (Leiden: Brill, 2012), pp. 347–72 (pp. 349, 365); most recently Vera von Falkenhausen, ‘Il mare nell’agiografia italogreca (con un’appendice di Vivien Prigent)’, in Ein Meer und seine Heiligen. Hagiographie im mittelalterlichen Mediterraneum, ed. by Nikolas Jaspert, Christian A. Neumann, and Marco di Branco (Leiden: Wilhelm Fink, 2018), pp. 137–57, esp. pp. 142–43. On the narrative motifs of hagiographical texts from Southern Italy: Mario Re, ‘Italo-Greek Hagiography’, in The Ashgate Research Companion to Byzantine Hagiography, vol. i, Periods and Places, ed. by Stephanos Efthymiadis (Farnham: Ashgate, 2011), pp. 227–58 (pp. 238–41). 63 Life of Gregory Dekapolites, § 34, ed. by Makris, p. 98. 64 Life of Neilos the Younger, ed. by P. Germano Giovanelli, Βίος καὶ Πολιτεία τοῦ Ὁσίου πατρὸς ἡμῶν Νείλου τοῦ Νέου. Testo originale Greco e Studio introduttivo (cod. Greco criptense B.b II) (Grottaferrata: Badia greca di Grottaferrata, 1972), § 30, p. 77. 65 Life of Neilos the Younger, § 30, ed. by ed. by Germano Giovanelli, p. 77. On this Life: Vera von Falkenhausen, ‘La Vita di S. Nilo come fonte storica per la Calabria bizantina’, in Atti del Congresso internazionale su s. Nilo di Rossano (28 settembre-1ottobre 1986) (Rossano-Grottaferrata: Scuola tipografica italo-orientale ‘S. Nilo’, 1989) pp. 271–305; Andrea Luzzi, ‘La vita di San Nilo da Rossano tra genere letterario e biografia storica’, in Les Vies des saints à Byzance. Genre littéraire ou biographie historique? Actes du IIe colloque international philologique ERMHNEIA, Paris 6–7–8 juin 2002, ed. by Paolo Odorico and Panagiotis A. Agapitos, Dossiers Byzantins, 4 (Paris: Centre d’Études byzantines néo-helléniques et sud-est européennes, 2004), pp. 175–89, (pp. 176–77); most recently several articles in Greek Monasticism in Southern Italy: The ‘Life of Neilos’ in Context, ed. by Barbara Crostini and Ines Angeli Murzuku (London: Routlege, 2017).

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Another explanation of Gregory’s adventure in Otranto could be that the enmity of the inhabitants was due to the saint’s iconophile persuasion, at a time when the prevailing ‘orthodoxy’ (followed by the local bishop) was the imperial one of Iconoclasm. In both cases the scene denoted that foreigners were suspect in the eyes of local populations. The headdress which was imposed on the saint emphasized his alien provenance, his foreign/Arab/Oriental external appearance, and made evident his ‘otherness’. This monk from Dekapolis in Southern Asia Minor was quite a traveller and was perceived as ‘other’ almost everywhere, beginning with the monastery he first joined in his native region; the abbot of that monastery was an iconoclast and Gregory took upon himself to debate with him and to call him unworthy to bear the monastic habit.66 Afterwards, he had to leave that monastery and take refuge with an abbot of an iconophile monastery, who was a relative of his. Anyway, his ‘otherness’ as far as his religious persuasion was concerned, was perceived by the other monks in Dekapolis in the same way in which his ‘otherness’ in being a foreigner, iconophile and/or presumed spy was perceived by the heathen/iconoclasts (‘κακοδαίμονες’, i.e. evil, demonic) inhabitants of Otranto. St Gregory had a similar adventure when he left Asia Minor and crossed to the Ainos region in Thrace, where a young man, apparently insane, almost killed him by beating him savagely, asking who he was, and what were his beliefs — something that implies a guard testing for signs of ‘otherness’.67 The author of this Life, Ignatios the Deacon was a repentant iconoclast, so we can hypothesize that Gregory’s ‘otherness’ which was easily perceived by those he encountered, probably had to do both with his external appearance and with his ‘Ethos’, relating not only to monastic virtues but also to his professed iconophile beliefs that the author wanted to stress. Possibly, also his ‘otherness’ was stressed by other external signs such as the way he spoke, since Greek dialectal accents were quite different from East to West. Presumably, the way he spoke sounded foreign to the people of Southern Italy. His case is of particular interest because it exemplifies the multiple layers of perceived ‘particular otherness’ in a Byzantine monk: otherness in persuasion (iconophile among iconoclasts), in provenance (from the East while in the West), of presumed race (Arab and enemy spy) possibly in language, all within a monk’s ‘normal otherness’ of monasticism in a society which understood it and covering the ‘otherness’ of holiness perceived by his disciples. Something similar happened, according to his Life, to another Byzantine wandering monk, the Sicilian St Elias the Younger, travelling with a disciple from Sparta to Italy around ad 880/881. When the travellers reached the port of Butrint, opposite the island of Corfu, from where they wanted to cross the Strait of Otranto, they found themselves under investigation by the local authorities. A local deputy of the governor — someone with judicial authority since he could order them to be

66 Life of Gregory Dekapolites, § 5, ed. by Makris, p. 66. 67 Life of Gregory Dekapolites, § 20, ed. by Makris, p. 84. On the usual identifying questions in Byzantium, see, most recently, Anthony Kaldellis, ‘Byzantine Identity Interrogated, Declared, Activated’, in Identities: Proceedings of the 7th International Symposium ‘Days of Justinian I’, ed. by Mitko Panov (Skopje: Institute for National History, 2020), pp. 21–36 (pp. 25–26).

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imprisoned — called them Agarenes and impious, and accused them of being ‘spies of towns’.68 The circumstances underline that it was quite easy for someone to be perceived as an enemy spy especially in cases of strangers without local links, although the Life states that the saint was known to the military governor of the place, but that the accuser overruled him in this matter. The accusation of ‘Agarene’ possibly was due to the saint’s provenance from Enna in Sicily, which at the time was mostly in Arab hands, since the Sicilian capital Syracuse had fallen to the Arabs of Gaffar ibn Mohammed in 878.69 The hagiographer, referring to the accuser who imprisoned the monks, underlined that he was wicked of soul and so he had no discernment and was confused in his perceptions.70 Fortunately, the following day the accuser died in a horse-riding accident, which was seen as divine retribution by the local population.71 The locals are presented in this case as being on the side of the monks, who were liberated, and crossed to Corfu and then to Calabria. The fact that the local population rejoiced in the monks’ liberation implies that their ‘otherness’ was not perceived in the same way by everyone. Possibly, it was again an issue of language. The Sicilian accent would have been known in those parts, thus making Elias appear less ‘other’, since there was continuous travelling (and probably refugees fleeing the Arab advance in Sicily, although mostly they went to Calabria)72 between Sicily and both the coasts of the Ionian Sea, despite the Arab raids in the region. The case of St Basil the Younger is similar. His Life describes how the saint was mistaken for a spy at the time of emperor Leon VI (886–912): some imperial agents happened to meet him while taking a shortcut through the mountains in Asia Minor. The saint’s rather ‘strange’ ‘ξένον’ aspect (according to the Latin translation of the Life he was wearing a hermit’s woollen garment) both in ‘Schema’ and ‘Ethos’ did not inspire confidence as to his intentions. So, perceiving him as ‘other’ and as a possible threat, they interrogated him about his origins and his reason to be there and upon receiving no answer, arrested him, and led him directly to the capital.73 The text does not provide many details about the arrest. However,

68 Life of Elias the Younger, ed. by Giuseppe Rossi-Taibbi, Vita di sant’ Elia il Giovane, Testi 7 (Palermo: Istituto siciliano di studi bizantini e neogreci, 1962) § 28, p. 42. 69 Bruno Lavagnini, ‘Siracusa occupata dagli Arabi e l’epistola di Teodosio monaco’, Byzantion, 29–30 (1959–1960), 267–79. 70 Life of Elias the Younger, § 28, ed. by Rossi-Taibbi, p. 42. 71 Life of Elias the Younger, § 29, ed. by Rossi-Taibbi, p. 44. 72 von Falkenhausen, ‘il mare nell’agiografia italogreca’, pp. 137–59. 73 Life of St Basil the Younger, in The Life of St Basil the Younger. Critical Edition and Annotated Translation of the Moscow Version, ed. by Dennis F. Sullivan, Alice-Mary Talbot, and Stamatina McGrath, Dumbarton Oaks Studies, 45 (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 2014), § 4, p. 70: Ὁρῶντες οὖν τὸ ξένον τοῦ ἤθους καὶ τοῦ σχήματος αὐτοῦ, ἐπηρώτων αὐτὸν λέγοντες ‘τὶς εἶ καὶ πῶς ἐνταῦθα διατρίβεις’; version in Latin, Vita S. Basillii Iunioris, Acta Sanctorum Martii III (Antuerpiae-Bruxellis [AntwerpenBruxelles]: typis regiis, 1668), pp. 668–81 (§ 2, p. 668). On the importance of external appearance in such adventures cf. Anthony Kaldellis, ‘Etnicity and Clothing in Byzantium’, in Identity and the Other in Byzantium, Papers from the Fourth International Sevgi Gönül Byzantine Studies Symposium, ed. by Koray Durak and Ivana Jevtič Jevtič (Istanbul: Koç University and Stavros Niarchos Foundation, Center for Antique and Byzantine Studies, 2016), pp. 41–52 (p. 42).

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the terms ‘magistrianoi’ and ‘exploratores’ used for the imperial agents suggest a reconnaissance mission, probably in preparation for a Byzantine expedition. Any encounter during such a mission could be suspect. This is further substantiated as the text proceeds with the story of the saint in Constantinople. He was brought to Samonas, a high-ranking Byzantine official of Arab origin and one of Emperor Leo VI’s most trusted collaborators, often involved in sensitive Arab-Byzantine negotiations.74 Samonas, according to St Basil the Younger’s Life, asked the saint questions aiming at providing identifying elements such as his name, origins, and the purpose of his being where he was apprehended. The ensuing dialogue in the hagiographical text, although following the hagiographical ‘topos’ of a saint’s confrontation with a tyrant, is one of a continuous double entendre: Samonas asked realistic questions and even stated that the saint was arrested on a charge of espionage, while the saint either remained silent or answered metaphorically that he was a stranger not to a country or town but to mortal life. The questions were aimed at identifying elements that might expose him as ‘other’, while Basil’s answers introduced a different element of ‘otherness’, pertaining to the monastic condition and to the tenet that all mortal beings are in fact ‘strangers’ in relation to Heaven. There was a difference in the perception of ‘otherness’ itself between Basil and his interrogators, which can be inferred as an element in the formation of his being perceived as ‘other’, superseding the saint’s ‘otherness’ in origins, appearance, and behaviour which caused his imprisonment.75 The perception of ‘otherness’ was double-edged. That a monk was defined as ‘other’ in relation to society in general, by his external appearance and an expected behavioural pattern also meant that his identity as a monk could be counterfeit, that is, that persons not being in fact in holy orders could present themselves as such. This accounts for the suspicion which met Byzantine monks travelling around in Byzantine lands and abroad. There are also testimonies concerning espionage missions, in which Byzantine monks acted as agents. For instance, the Chronicle of the Continuator of Theophanes preserves a small story, probably echoing a folktale, about John the Grammarian, a ninth-century intellectual monk, and preceptor of Emperor Theophilos (829–842), and later the last Iconoclast patriarch (837–842),76 who conducted several diplomatic missions on behalf of 74 Samonas, possibly due to his feud with members of the Byzantine aristocracy of the time, is presented as a rather ‘shady’ figure in Byzantine chronicles: trying to flee to Arab lands, engineering the downfall of general Andronikos Doukas, involved in the forced retirement of Patriarch Nicholas I of Constantinople, etc.: Theophanes Continuatus in Scriptores post Theophanem. Theophanes Continuatus, Ioannes Cameniata, Symeon Magister, Georgius Monachus, ed. by Immanuel Bekker, Corpus Scriptorum Historiae Byzantinae (Bonn: Weber, 1838), pp. 368–77; Romilly J. H Jenkins, ‘The “Flight” of Samonas’, Speculum, 23 (1948), 217–35. 75 Life of St Basil the Younger, ed. by Sullivan and others, pp. 74–78; Vita S. Basillii Iunioris § 4–5, pp. 668–69. 76 On John the Grammarian: PmbZ, ed. by Lilie and others, ii, # 3199, pp. 322–27; also Paul Lemerle, Le premier humanisme byzantin. Notes et remarques sur enseignement et culture à Byzance des origines au Xe siècle (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1971), pp. 135–47; Louis Bréhier, ‘Un patriarche sorcier à Constantinople’, Revue de l’Orient Chrétien, 9 (1904), 261–68; Ralph-Johannes Lilie, ‘Ioannes VII.

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the emperor.77 In one of those he joined a group of Iberian pilgrims, and reached Baghdad where, disguised as a mendicant, he made contact with a Byzantine defector, General Manuel, on the pretext of asking for alms, and passed him the emperor’s safe-conduct letter which enabled the general to come back to the Byzantine side.78 This episode, as well as other hagiographical evidence, indicates awareness as to what ‘otherness’ in visiting monks might imply. It was again a form of ‘particular otherness’, the one of a wandering monk, in conjunction with the ‘otherness’ of a foreigner, a pilgrim from a foreign land, as well as the ‘otherness’ of a beggar monk, all within the ‘normal otherness’ of monks and covering a third type of ‘other’: the secret agent. This type of ‘otherness’ of a spy/agent within the ‘otherness’ of the wandering monk, itself being within the ‘normal otherness’ of the monastic condition persisted in Byzantine hagiographical literature till the end of the empire. Sabas the Younger of Mount Athos, constitutes a very prominent such example from Late Byzantium. He was a fourteenth-century peregrinating saint, who visited, among others, Cyprus, Jerusalem, and the nearby desert, possibly Egypt, Damascus and Antioch, Crete, Thrace, and Constantinople before returning, after twenty years, to the Athonite monastery of Vatopedi, which he had left in 1308. Sabas had adopted, at different times during his peregrinations, several types of ‘particular otherness’: he had embraced the extreme nudity or the rags of desert hermits, the vow of absolute silence of the ‘hesyhasts’ or even the simulated madness of the holy fools.79 His nudity and impoverished appearance made him suspect in the eyes of the inhabitants of Cyprus who followed the Latin Church, both friars whose hospitality he sought, and who refused him,80 and men in authority. It was his ‘otherness’, obvious in his strange external appearance which induced a local nobleman to suspect him, ‘τὸ τοῦ σχήματος ὑποπτεύσας’ and ask for him to be identified. He asked his followers to identify Sabas. Their answer, that ‘to judge by appearances, “ἀπὸ τοῦ φαινομένου”, he must be a spy’, is indicative of the perception of ‘otherness’ held by local populations. For them Sabas’s ‘otherness’ in wearing a strange kind of habit made of woollen rags and a hood, functioned as a

Grammatikos (21. Januar 838–4. März 843)’, in Die Patriarchen der ikonoklastischen Zeit. Germanos I. – Methodios I. (715–847), ed. by Ralph-Johannes Lilie, Berliner Byzantinische Studien, 5 (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 1999), pp. 169–82. 77 Nicolas Drocourt, Diplomatie sur le Bosphore. Les ambassadeurs étrangers dans l’empire byzantin des années 640 à 1204 (Leuven: Brill, 2015), vol. 2, pp. 678 ns 3232, 709, 719. 78 Theophanes Continuatus, pp. 119–20. On Manuel: Juan Signes Codoñer, ‘Dead or Alive? Manuel the Armenian’s (after) life after 838’, in Pour l’amour de Byzance. Hommage à Paolo Odorico, ed. by Christian Gastgeber, Charis Messis, Dan Ioan Muresan, and Filippo Ronconi (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 2013), pp. 231–42 (p. 235). 79 Ivanov, Holy Fools, pp. 225–32. 80 Philotheos Kokkinos, Life of Sabas, in Φιλόθεος Κόκκινος, Πατριάρχης Κωνσταντινουπόλεως, Αγιολογικά έργα Α’, ed. by Demetrios Tsamis, Θεσσαλονικεῖς Βυζαντινοί συγγραφεῖς, 4 (Thessalonica: Aristoteleion University of Thessalonica, 1985), pp. 161–325, (pp. 206–07) accessed through the Database ‘Hagiography of the Late Byzantine Period’, of the National Hellenic Research Foundation: byzhadb.eie.gr/26.06.2021.

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disguise, and he must therefore be a spy who came from abroad, and who simulated being a holy fool in order to deceive the citizens.81 In conclusion, Byzantines were used to perceiving monks’ as ‘others’ both positively and negatively. Elements of their ‘otherness’, the ‘Schema’ and the ‘Ethos’, designating external appearance and character/behaviour, as well as expressed beliefs and ideas, could both define a monk as ‘other’ and disguise his being ‘other’, by underlining one or more features, creating what was perceived as a ‘particular otherness’. The perception of the latter depended on the viewer and how he/she felt as to what a monk should be and what he/she considered him to be: madman, wonderworker, spy, or all of the above. Thus, the monks ‘normal otherness’, distinguished by their habit and their mode of life, which defined them as being apart from society, could be perceived as double or multiple, disguising other types of ‘otherness’, as in cases of transgressors of monastic rules and females in monks’ habits. Furthermore, when monks’ ‘otherness’ reached extreme heights of asceticism as in cases of solitaries of wild appearance, pillar ascetics, and holy fools, society reacted: in these cases their ‘otherness’ was perceived as a double one, the second being their holy character. The assessment was a positive one: their ‘otherness’ became a sign of holiness if not of sainthood, and was stressed as such. In other words, one kind of ‘otherness’ functioned directly or indirectly, consciously or unconsciously as a cover for an ‘otherness’ of another type. There were layers of ‘otherness’, each pertaining to different identifying signs creating different identities of the person concerned in the eyes of the viewer, answering to different needs and stimulating different perceptions. The more close-knit a community the more easily signs of ‘otherness’ were perceived, as it happened with signs of ‘particular otherness’ within monastic communities. However, ‘otherness’ in monks could be assessed in a negative way, as a sign of deception, if not of enmity. In this case ‘otherness’ had to be explained, and its elements were those investigated for every foreigner: identification of origins, family, purpose, and precepts. Reactions were conditioned by the answers. In both cases manipulation of ‘otherness’ for political or other purposes was possible: in the positive case, in order to underline a holy character of a saint and his interaction with local societal elements as in the case of saints accused of spying and safeguarded by the population of the region. In the negative perception the possibilities of manipulation were even greater, as indicated by the near lynching of Gregory Dekapolites in Otranto, or by John the Grammarian’s making undercover contact with Manuel in Baghdad. Thus, the monks’ condition in Byzantium allowed for different types of ‘otherness’, within what I termed their ‘normal otherness’, to be elaborated and perceived by the Byzantine population. There were layers upon layers of ‘otherness’. Monks being viewed both as ‘ξένοι’ strangers/foreigners (to the world and to specific circumstances) and of ‘παράδοξον σχῆμα’, strange/miraculous appearance, in cases of non-conformity to people’s usual expectations, their ‘otherness’ was almost a given. Monastic ‘otherness’ could and did impact on Byzantine mentality, producing or exacerbating behavioural patterns ranging from distrust of foreigners in action (and, especially in times of 81 Philotheos Kokkinos, Life of Sabas, ed. by Tsamis, pp. 198–210, 214.

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troubles and wars, of their perception as enemies), to forms of worship of holiness. After all ‘otherness’ was in the eye of the beholder.

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Life of Neilos the Younger, ed. by P. Germano Giovanelli, Βίος καὶ Πολιτεία τοῦ Ὁσίου πατρὸς ἡμῶν Νείλου τοῦ Νέου. Testo originale Greco e Studio introduttivo (cod. Greco criptense B.b II) (Grottaferrata: Badia greca di Grottaferrata, 1972) Life of Paul the Younger on Mount Latros, ed. by Hippolyte Delehaye, ʻVita S. Pauli Junioris in Monte Latro’, Analecta Bollandiana, 11 (1892), 5–74 and 136–82 Life of Sabas the Younger: Philotheos Kokkinos, Life of Sabas, ed. by Demetrios Tsamis, Φιλόθεος Κόκκινος, Πατριάρχης Κωνσταντινουπόλεως, Αγιολογικά έργα Α’, Θεσσαλονικεῖς Βυζαντινοί συγγραφεῖς, 4 (Thessalonica: Aristoteleion University of Thessalonica, 1985), pp. 161–325 Life of Stephen the Younger, ed. by Marie-France Auzépy, La Vie d’Étienne le Jeune par Étienne le Diacre, Introduction, édition et traduction, Birmingham Byzantine and Ottoman Monographs, 3 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1997) Life of Symeon Salos: Leontios of Neapolis, Life of Symeon Salos, ed. by Lennart Rydén, Das Leben des heiligen Narren Symeon von Leontios von Neapolis, in Leontios de Néapolis, Uppsala 1963, reprint in André Jean Festugière, Vie de Syméon le fou et de Jean l’Aumonier (Paris: Librairie Orientaliste Paul Geuthner, 1974) Life of Symeon Stylites, ed. by Athanasios Papadopoulos-Kerameus, Συλλογὴ Παλαιστίνης καὶ Συριακής Αγιολογίας, i, 1907 (reprint Thessalonica: Pournaras, 2001), pp. 60–74 Life of Theoctiste of Lesbos : Vita S. Theoctistae, in Acta Sanctorum […] collegit, digestit, notis illustruuit J. Bollandus, operam et studium contulit G. Henschenius (Antuerpiae-Bruxellis [Antwerpen-Bruxelles]: typis regiis, 1643–1940), Novembris IV, pp. 224–33; ‘Life of St. Theoktiste of Lesbos’, trans. by Angela Hero, in Holy Women of Byzantium : Ten Saints’ Lives in English Translation, ed. by Alice-Mary Talbot (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 1996), pp. 101–16 Nicephori Patriarchae, Antirrheticus III, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series graeca, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 161 vols (Paris, 1857–1866), 100 (1865), cols 375–534 Neilos of Sinai, Letters, in S. Nili Epistolarum Liber III, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series graeca, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 161 vols (Paris, 1857–1866), 79 (1865), cols 364–544 Photii patriarchae Constantinopolitani, Epistulae et Amphilochia, ed. by Basil Laourdas and Leendert G. Westerink (Leipzig: Teubner, 1983) Synaxarium Ecclesiae Constantinopolitanae e codice Sirmondiano, ed. by Hippolyte Delehaye (Bruxelles: apud socios Bollandianos, 1902) Theodore Studite, Magna Catechesis, Sermo 82, ed. by Ioseph Cozza-Luzi, in Nova Patrum Bibliotheca, ed. by Angelo Mai and Ioseph Cozza-Luzi, vol. x i (Roma: Typis Sacri Consilii Propagando Christiano Nomini, Typisque Vaticanis, 1905) Theophanes Continuatus in Scriptores post Theophanem. Theophanes Continuatus, Ioannes Cameniata, Symeon Magister, Georgius Monachus, ed. by Immanuel Bekker, Corpus Scriptorum Historiae Byzantinae (Bonn: Weber, 1838) Theophanis, Chronographia, ed. by Carolus de Boor, vols i–ii (Leipzig: Teubner, 1883– 1885)

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Secondary Works Afinogenov, Dmitry, ‘Integration of Hagiographic Texts into Historical Narrative: The Cases of the Lives of St Stephen the Younger and Niketas of Medikion’, in Byzantine Hagiography, Texts, Themes & Projects, ed. by Antonio Rigo, in collaboration with Michele Trizio and Elefterios Despotakis, Byzantios. Studies in Byzantine History and Civilization, 13 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2018), pp. 325–40 Alwis, Ann P., Celibate Marriages in Late Antique and Byzantine Hagiography: The Lives of Saints Julian and Basilissa, Andronikos and Athanasia and Galaktion and Episteme (London: Continuum, 2011) Auzépy, Marie-France, L’hagiographie et l’Iconoclasme byzantin: le cas de la vie d’Etienne le Jeune, Birmingham Byzantine and Ottoman Studies, 5 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999) ———, ‘De Philarète de sa famille et de certains monastères de Constantinople’, in Les Saints et leur Sanctuaire à Byzance, Textes, images et monuments, ed. by Catherine JolivetLévy, Michel Kaplan, and Jean-Pierre Sodini (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 1993), pp. 117–35 Binggeli, André, and Stéphanos Efthymiadis, ‘Vie et Passion de Bacchos le Jeune par Étienne le Diacre, éditée, traduite et commentée par André Binggeli et Stéphanos Efthymiadis’, in Les Nouveaux Martyrs à Byzance, ed. by André Binggeli and Sophie Métivier, Byzantina Sorbonensia, 31 (Paris: Éditions de la Sorbonne, 2021), pp. 7–211 Binns, John, Ascetics and Ambassadors of Christ: The Monasteries of Palestine 314–631, 2nd edn (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996) Bréhier, Louis, ‘Un patriarche sorcier à Constantinople’, Revue de l’Orient Chrétien, 9 (1904), 261–68 Brown, Peter, The Body and Society: Men, Women and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988) ———, Poverty and Leadership in the Later Roman Empire, The Menahem Stern Jerusalem Lectures (Hanover: University of New England Press, 2002) Caner, Daniel, Wandering, Begging Monks: Spiritual Authority and the Promotion of Monasticism in Late Antiquity, Transformation of the Classical Heritage, 33 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002) Caseau, Béatrice, ‘Syméon Stylite l’Ancien entre puanteur et parfum’, Revue des Études Byzantines, 63 (2005), 71–96 Charanis, Peter, ‘The Monk as an Element of Byzantine Society’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 25 (1971), 61–84 Christides, Vassilios, ‘The Raids of the Moslems of Crete in the Aegean Sea, Piracy and Conquest’, Byzantion, 51 (1981), 76–111 Clark, Elisabeth A., Reading Renunciation: Asceticism and Scripture in Early Christianity (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999) Coon, Lynda, L., Sacred Fictions: Holy Women and Hagiography in Late Antiquity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1997) Crostini, Barbara, and Ines Angeli Murzuku, eds, Greek Monasticism in Southern Italy, The Life of Neilos in Context (London: Routlege, 2017) Delehaye, Hippolyte, Les Saints Stylites, Subsidia Hagiographica, 14 (Bruxelles: Société des Bollandistes, 1923)

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Dennis, George T., ‘Elias the Monk, Friend of Psellos’, in Byzantine Authors: Literary Activities and Preoccupations: Texts and Translations dedicated to the Memory of Nicholas Oikonomides, ed. by John W. Nesbitt, The Medieval Mediterranean, 49 (Leiden: Brill 2003), pp. 43–62 Déroche, Vincent, Études sur Leontios de Neapolis, Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis, Studia Byzantina Upsalensia, 3 (Uppsala: Almqvist and Wiksell, 1995) ———, ‘Note sur la Vie d’Étienne le Jeune et sa chronologie interne’, Revue des études Byzantines, 60 (2002), 179–88 Drocourt, Nicolas, Diplomatie sur le Bosphore. Les ambassadeurs étrangers dans l’empire byzantin des années 640 à 1204, 2 vols (Leuven: Brill, 2015) Dunn, Marilyn, The Emergence of Monasticism: From Desert Fathers to the Early Middle Ages, 2nd edn (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2003) Eftymiadis, Stephanos, ed., The Ashgate Research Companion to Byzantine Hagiography, vol. i, Periods and Places (Farnham: Ashgate, 2011) ———, ed., The Ashgate Research Companion to Byzantine Hagiography, vol. ii, Genres and Contexts (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014) ———, ‘Le “premier classicisme byzantin”: mythes grecs et reminiscences païennes chez Photios, Léon VI le Sage et Aréthas de Césarée’, in Pour l’amour de Byzance. Hommage à Paolo Odorico, ed. by Christian Gastgeber, Charis Messis, Dan Ioan Muresan, and Filippo Ronconi (Frankfurt-am-Main: Lang, 2013), ———, ‘Les saints d’Italie méridionale (IXe–XIIe s.) et leur rôle dans la société locale’, in Byzantine Religious Culture: Studies in Honor of Alice-Mary Talbot, ed. by Denis Sullivan, Elizabeth A. Fisher, and Stratis Papaioannou, The Medieval Mediterranean, 92 (Leiden: Brill, 2012), pp. 347–72 Failler, Albert, ‘Le monachisme byzantin aux XIe-XIIe siècles. Aspects sociaux et économiques’, Cahiers d’Histoire, 20 (1975), 279–302 Falkenhausen von, Vera, ‘Il mare nell’agiografia italogreca (con un’appendice di Vivien Prigent)’, in Ein Meer und seine Heiligen. Hagiographie im mittelalterlichen Mediterraneum, ed. by Nikolas Jaspert, Christian A. Neumann, and Marco di Branco (Leiden: Wilhelm Fink, 2018), pp. 137–57 ———, ‘La Vita di S. Nilo come fonte storica per la Calabria bizantina’, in Atti del Congresso internazionale su s. Nilo di Rossano (28 settembre-1ottobre 1986) (Rossano-Grottaferrata: Scuola tipografica italo-orientale ‘S. Nilo’, 1989), pp. 271–305 Festugière, André Jean, ‘Lieux communs littéraires et thèmes de folklore dans l’Hagiographie primitive’, Wiener Studien, 73 (1960), 123–52 Flusin, Bernard, ‘Palestinian Hagiography’, in The Ashgate Research Companion to Byzantine Hagiography, vol. i, Periods and Places, ed. by Stephanos Efthymiadis (Farnham: Ashgate, 2011), pp. 199–226 Follieri, Enrica, ‘I santi dell’Italia greca’, Rivista di studi bizantini e neoellenici, 34 (1997), 10–28; reprint in Histoire et culture dans l’Italie Byzantine, ed. by André Jacob, JeanMarie Martin, and Ghislaine Noyé, Collection de l’École française de Rome, 363 (Roma: École française de Rome, 2006), pp. 103–21 Gill, Joseph, ‘The Life of Stephen the Younger by Stephen the Deacon: Debts and Loans’, Orientalia Christiana Periodica, 6 (1940), 114–39

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Hohlweg, Armin, ‘Bischof und Stadtherr im frühen Byzanz’, Jahrbuch der Ȍsterreichischen Byzantinistik, 20 (1971), 51–62 Hussey, Joan M., and Andrew Louth, The Orthodox Church in the Byzantine Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010) Ivanov, Sergey A., Holy Fools in Byzantium and Beyond (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006) Jenkins, Romilly J. H, ‘The “Flight” of Samonas’, Speculum, 23 (1948), 217–35 Johnson, Christopher D. L., ‘“Base but nevertheless holy”: Lessons in Liminality from Simeon the Holy Fool’, Studies in Religion/Sciences religieuses, 43 (2014), 592–612 Judge, Edwin Arthur, ‘The Earliest Use of Monachos for Monk and the Origin of Monasticism’, Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum, 20 (1977), 73–86 Kaldellis, Anthony, ‘Byzantine Identity Interrogated, Declared, Activated’, in Identities: Proceedings of the 7th International Symposium ‘Days of Justinian I’, ed. by Mitko B. Panov, (Skopje: Institute for National History, 2020), pp. 21–36 ———, ‘Ethnicity and Clothing in Byzantium’, in Identity and the Other in Byzantium: Papers from the Fourth International Sevgi Gönül Byzantine Studies Symposium, ed. by Koray Durak and Ivana Jevtič (Istanbul: Koç University and Stavros Niarchos Foundation, Center for Antique and Byzantine Studies, 2016), pp. 41–52 Kaplan, Michel, ‘L’espace et le sacré dans la vie de Daniel le Stylite’ in Le sacré et son inscription dans l’espace à Byzance et en Occident, ed. by Michel Kaplan, Byzantina Sorbonensia, 18 (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 2001), pp. 199–217 ———, ‘Les moines et le clergé séculier à Byzance’, in Moines et monastères dans les sociétés de rite grec et latin, ed. by Jean Loup Lemaitre, Michel Dmitriev, and Pierre Gonneau, École Pratique des Hautes Études, IVe Section, Études médiévales et modernes, 76 (Genève: Librairie Droz, 1996), pp. 293–311 Kazhdan, Alexander P., ‘Hermitic, Cenobitic and Secular Ideals in Byzantine Hagiography of the Ninth to Twelfth Centuries’, The Greek Orthodox Theological Review, 30 (1985), 473–87 Kazhdan, Alexander P., Lee F. Sherry and Christine Angelidi, A History of Byzantine Literature, (650–850), Research series, 2 (Athens: The National Hellenic Research Foundation, Institute for Byzantine Research, 1999) Koutrakou, Nike, ‘Defying the Other’s Identity: Language of Acceptance and Rejection in Iconoclastic Byzantium’, Byzantion, 69 (1999), 107–18 Krueger, Derek, ‘The Old Testament and Monasticism’, in The Old Testament in Byzantium, Byzantine Symposia and Colloquia: Selected Papers from a Symposium held December 1–3, 2006 at Meyer Auditorium of Freer Gallery, ed. by Paul Magdalino and Robert Nelson (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 2010), pp. 199–229 Lavagnini, Bruno, ‘Siracusa occupata dagli Arabi e l’epistola di Teodosio monaco’, Byzantion, 29–30 (1959–1960), 267–79 Lemerle, Paul, Le premier humanisme byzantin. Notes et remarques sur enseignement et culture à Byzance des origines au Xe siècle (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1971) Lilie, Ralph-Johannes, ‘Ioannes VII. Grammatikos (21. Januar 838–4. März 843)’, in Die Patriarchen der ikonoklastischen Zeit. Germanos I. – Methodios I. (715–847), ed. by Ralph-Johannes Lilie, Berliner Byzantinische Studien, 5, (Frankfurt-am-Main: Lang, 1999)

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Ljubarskij, Jakov N., Michail Psell. Lichnost’ i Torchestvo. K Istorii Vizantijskogo Predgumanizma (Moscow: Nauka, 1978); Greek Translation by Argyro Tzelesi, Η προσωπικότητα και το έργο του Μιχαήλ Ψελλού, 2nd revised edition (Athens: Kanakis, 2004) Lubinsky, Crystal, L., Removing Masculine Layers to Reveal a Holy Womanhood: The Female Transvestite Monks of Late Antique Eastern Christianity, Studia Traditionis Theologiae, 13 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013) Luzzi, Andrea, ‘La vita di San Nilo da Rossano tra genere letterario e biografia storica’, in Les Vies des saints à Byzance. Genre littéraire ou biographie historique? Actes du IIe colloque international philologique ERMHNEIA, Paris 6–7–8 juin 2002, ed. by Paolo Odorico and Panagiotis A. Agapitos, Dossiers Byzantins, 4 (Paris: Centre d’Études byzantines néohelléniques et sud-est européennes, 2004), pp. 175–89 Macé, Caroline, and Thomas Wauters, ‘“Les mots et la chose”: Quelques réflexions sur le vocabulaire de la folie chez Maxime le Confesseur et Jean Damascène’, Byzantinische Forschungen, 32 (2016), 383–89 Mango, Cyril, ‘On Re-Reading the Life of Gregory the Decapolite’, Byzantina, 13/1 (1985), 633–46 Meinardus, Otto A., Monks and Monasteries of the Egyptian Deserts, 3rd revised edition (Cairo: The American University in Cairo Press, 1999) Menze, Volker, ‘The Transformation of a Saintly Paradigm: Simeon the Elder and the Legacy of Stylitism’, in Religious Identities in the Levant from Alexander to Muhammed: Continuity and Change, ed. by Michael Blömer, Achim Lichtenberger, and Rubina Raja (Turnhout: Brepols, 2015), pp. 213–26 Moshos, Dimitrios, ‘The Emperors and the Desert – the Attitude of Egyptian Monasticism towards Constantine and the prospect of a Christian Empire’, in Tsveti Tsar Konstantini i Christianstvo (Saint Emperor Constantine and Christianity): International Conference Commemorating the 1700th Anniversary of the Edict of Milan, ed. by Dragiša Bojovič, vol. i (Niš: The Centre of Church Studies, 2013), pp. 157–64 Mullet, Margaret, ‘The “Other” in Byzantium’, in Strangers to Themselves: The Byzantine Outsider. Papers from the Thirty-Second Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies. University of Sussex, Brighton, March 1998, ed. by Dion C. Smythe, Society for the Promotion of Byzantine Studies, Publications (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000), pp. 1–22 Oltean, Daniel, ‘Les origines de la tonsure monastique. Les sources grecques’, Byzantion, 87 (2017), 259–97 The Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium, ed. by Alexander P. Kazhdan, Alice-Mary Talbot, Anthony Cutler, Timothy E. Gregory, and Nancy P. Ševčenko (New York: Oxford University Press 1991) Papaconstantinou, Arietta, ‘The Desert and the City: The Rhetoric of Savagery and Civilization in Some Early Byzantine Narratives’, in Identity and the Other in Byzantium: Papers from the Fourth International Sevgi Gönül Byzantine Studies Symposium, ed. by Koray Durak and Ivana Jevtič (Istanbul: Koç University and Stavros Niarchos Foundation, Center for Antique and Byzantine Studies, 2016), pp. 83–92 Pratsch, Thomas, Der hagiographische Topos. Griechische Heiligenviten im mittelbyzantinischer Zeit, Millennium Studies, 6 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2005)

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The ‘Others’ from Within Herders between Rural Communities and Venetian Governance on Late Medieval Korčula

Introduction On 30 April 1440, the Venetian governor on Korčula was informed by the communal ‘gastaldiones’ of the village of Blato of a complaint brought to them by Ser Scimonetus Vidoscy, a local patrician who claimed the loss of two of his sheep. Led to the place where the sheep had allegedly been stolen, the four rural law-enforcement officials encountered two herders. By virtue of their office, which temporarily entrusted them with extensive investigative and executive powers, they interrogated both herders as to whether they had an ‘alien animal’ among their herds.1 The first herder, Antonius Ghagletich, answered that no foreign animal had entered his goat shed and that he did not know about the sheep, since he was not a shepherd but a goatherd. The other herder, Antonius Misigovich, tending the flock of sheep belonging to Petrus Simchovich, a local priest, likewise claimed that he had no foreign animals among his sheep, but that he would immediately consider himself culpable if one were to be identified. Mistrusting the herders’ statements, the four ‘gastaldiones’ asked Ser Scimonetus Vidoscy and another herder to search the flocks of the accused herders for the two missing sheep. Shortly thereafter, the village officials and the herders



* The research for this article was partially funded by the Austrian Science Fund (FWF): F42 Visions of Community. 1 Zadar, Državni Arhiv u Zadru [Croatian State Archive in Zadar], Općina Korčula (1338–1797), Commune insulae et civitatis Curzolae, box 7, fascicle 10.2 (hereafter HR-DAZD-11: 7/10.2), fol. 19v: ‘si aliquod animal habent alienum inter ipsorum animales’. On the medieval holdings of the Croatian State Archive in Zadar, cf. Sascha Attia and Fabian Kümmeler, ‘A Gem Hidden Under the Dust of Centuries: The State Archive in Zadar’, News On The Rialto, 33 (2014), 27–30; Oliver Jens Schmitt, ‘L’apport des archives de Zadar à l’histoire de la Méditerranée orientale au XVe siècle’, in Venise et la Méditerranée, ed. by Sandro G. Franchini, Gherardo Ortalli, and Gennaro Toscano (Venezia: Istituto Veneto di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti, 2011), pp. 45–54; Elisabeth Gruber, Christina Lutter, and Oliver Jens Schmitt, eds, Kulturgeschichte der Überlieferung im Mittelalter: Quellen und Methoden zur Geschichte Mittel- und Südosteuropas, UTB Geschichte, 4554 (Wien: Böhlau, 2017), pp. 397–401. Fabian Kümmeler  •  is APART-GSK Fellow at the Institute for Habsburg and Balkan Studies (IHB) at the Austrian Academy of Sciences, Vienna.* ‘Otherness’ in the Middle Ages, ed. by Hans-Werner Goetz and Ian Wood, IMR 25 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2021), pp. 215–234 © FHG10.1484/M.IMR-EB.5.123592

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quarrelled about whether or not some of their herds’ brandings resembled those of the missing animals. Meanwhile, Ser Scimonetus Vidoscy began arguing with Petrus Simchovich and accused him of having broiled and eaten his sheep. Although doubting the truthfulness of his accusations, the priest told Ser Scimonetus Vidoscy that he would sooner trust him as a patrician than believe the words of a shepherd: ‘magis credo tibi quam pastoribus’.2 Taking the incident of the two allegedly stolen sheep as our starting point, this contribution addresses herders as the ‘Others’ within the communal society of the Dalmatian island of Korčula (‘Curzola’) in the fifteenth century. Following a brief introduction, the contribution delves into both the island’s communal statutes, dating back to the thirteenth century, and its abundant administrative and juridical records compiled on Korčula under Venetian suzerainty in the fifteenth, which today are held in the Croatian State Archive in Zadar. As a first step, it analyses the statutory and contractual legal basis upon which animal husbandry was practised, and scrutinizes how the island’s laws already laid the foundation for the ‘Otherness’ of herders within Korčula’s complex social fabric. As a second step, the focus shifts towards the conflicting dynamics of the islanders’ socioeconomic interaction and rural communal life, studying the fluid communitarian dimensions of conflict and exploring the circumstances under which herders constituted the close ‘Other’ to both rural communities and Venetian governance on fifteenth-century Korčula.

Between Venice and the Western Balkans: Korčula in the Fifteenth Century Late medieval Korčula, from both an Adriatic and a wider Southeast European perspective, was well connected within both the region’s trade network and socio-political sphere of communication within and beyond the Venetian realm.3 The political, legal, and socioeconomic peculiarities of Korčula’s medieval history up to 1420 have been elucidated in great detail by Vinko Foretić, Ludwig Steindorff, and Serđo Dokoza.4 By contrast, the history of Korčula as part of the Venetian Stato da mar from 1420 onwards did not receive much scholarly attention until Oliver Jens Schmitt’s pioneering lecture



2 HR-DAZD-11: 7/10.2, fol. 19v. 3 Cf. Oliver Jens Schmitt, ‘Das venezianische Südosteuropa als Kommunikationsraum (ca. 1400– ca. 1600)’, in Balcani occidentali, Adriatico e Venezia fra XIII e XVIII secolo / Der westliche Balkan, der Adriaraum und Venedig (13.–18. Jahrhundert), ed. by Gherardo Ortalli and Oliver Jens Schmitt (Venezia: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2009), pp. 77–101. 4 Cf. Vinko Foretić, Otok Korčula u srednjem vijeku do godine 1420. (Zagreb: Tisak Narodne Tiskare, 1940); Ludwig Steindorff, Die dalmatinischen Städte im 12. Jahrhundert: Studien zu ihrer politischen Stellung und gesellschaftlichen Entwicklung, Städteforschung, A/20 (Köln: Böhlau, 1984); Ludwig Steindorff, ‘Hvar und Korčula – der Aufstieg zweier Städte an der Adriaostküste’, in Tusculum slavicum: Festschrift für Peter Thiergen, ed. by Elisabeth von Erdmann, Aschot Isaakjan, Roland Marti, and Daniel Schümann, Basler Studien zur Kulturgeschichte Osteuropas, 14 (Zürich: Pano, 2005), pp. 725–37; Serđo Dokoza, Dinamika otočnog prostora: Društvena i gospodarska povijest Korčule u razvijenom srednjem vijeku, Biblioteka znanstvenih djela, 161 (Split: Književni Krug, 2009).

t he ‘ot he rs’ f ro m w i t hi n

series on ‘Power, Economy, and Everyday Life on Fifteenth-Century Korčula under Venetian Suzerainty’ at the Collège de France in 2011.5 Most recently, a comprehensive study of Korčula’s rural communities from 1420 to 1499 unveiled fresh insights into socio-cultural, judicial, administrative, and economic practices of rural dwellers in relation to both urban dwellers and Venetian governance.6 Throughout the Middle Ages, the town of Korčula — the island’s administrative, economic, and social centre — sat on a tiny peninsula on the island’s north-eastern tip, while four villages (the largest of them the abovementioned village of Blato) and several seasonal hamlets spread across its rural area. In addition to traditional Dalmatian export goods such as wine, figs, almonds, and fish, the island’s port registries show an export growth of rural products like pinewood-based pitch, cheese, animal skin, and wool. Offering not only extensive resources and lands for cultivation and pasture, but also habitation for major parts of the island’s population, Korčula’s rural area constituted a socioeconomic counterpoint to the town and its harbour. Moreover, intensive trade relations across the Adriatic Sea — predominantly with Venice and its ports of trade in the Eastern Mediterranean on a north-south axis, to the East with Albania and the Neretva Delta and to the West with Apulia and the Marches — fostered a prevalence of Venetian dialect use in addition to the Slavic vernacular among both Korčula’s commercial elite and large parts of its rural population. Furthermore, Korčula’s statute transcended urban boundaries by largely incorporating rural regulations into its legal code, notably underlining the socioeconomic significance of winegrowers, farmers, and herders.7 After the patricians of Korčula submitted the island to the Most Serene Republic on 24 April 1420, Korčula was integrated into the Venetian Commonwealth, like most Dalmatian and many Italian mainland cities before it.8 On 12 September 1420, after

5 Cf. Oliver Jens Schmitt, Korčula sous la domination de Venise au XVe siècle: Pouvoir, économie et vie quotidienne dans une île dalmate au Moyen Âge tardif (Paris: Collège de France, 2011), DOI: 10.4000/ books.cdf.1501 [references given according to the PDF pagination]. See also Oliver Jens Schmitt, ‘Storie d’amore, storie di potere: La tormentata integrazione dell’isola di Curzola nello Stato da mar in una prospettiva microstorica’, in Venezia e Dalmazia, ed. by Uwe Israel and Oliver Jens Schmitt (Roma: Viella, 2013), pp. 89–109; Oliver Jens Schmitt, ‘“Altre Venezie” nella Dalmazia tardomedievale? Un approccio microstorico alle comunità socio-politiche sull’isola di Curzola/Korčula’, in Il Commonwealth veneziano tra 1204 e la fine della Repubblica: Identità e peculiarità, ed. by Gherardo Ortalli, Oliver Jens Schmitt, and Ermanno Orlando (Venezia: Istituto Veneto di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti, 2015), pp. 203–33. 6 Cf. Fabian Kümmeler, Korčula. Ländliche Lebenswelten und Gemeinschaften im venezianischen Dalmatien (1420-1499), Südosteuropäische Arbeiten, 165 (Berlin: De Gruyter Oldenbourg, 2021). 7 Cf. Kümmeler, Korčula, pp. 112–14, 145–55; Sabine Florence Fabijanec, ‘Le rôle économique des îles croates médiévales’, in Proceedings of the 4th Mediterranean Maritime History Network Conference: Barcelona, 7–9 May 2014, ed. by Jordi Ibarz Gelabert, Enric García Domingo, Inma González Sánchez, and Olga López Miguel (Barcelona: Museu Marítim de Barcelona, 2017), pp. 857–76; Schmitt, Korčula, pp. 17, 33–34, 46–50; Dokoza, Dinamika, pp. 127–48; Foretić, Otok Korčula, pp. 268–303. 8 On the concept of the Venetian Commonwealth, cf. Gherardo Ortalli, ‘The Genesis of a Unique Form of Statehood, between the Middle Ages and the Modern Age’, in Il Commonwealth veneziano tra 1204 e la fine della Repubblica: Identità e peculiarità, ed. by Gherardo Ortalli, Oliver Jens Schmitt, and Ermanno Orlando (Venezia: Istituto Veneto di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti, 2015), pp. 3–11; Benjamin Arbel, ‘Venice’s Maritime Empire in the Early Modern Period’, in A Companion to Venetian History,

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months of negotiations, the Korčulan patricians and the Venetian Doge concluded a treaty in which the degrees of Venetian suzerainty and Korčula’s communal autonomy were codified. Corresponding to the Venetian ideal of peace and justice, Venice guaranteed to preserve the island’s statutes and customary laws, including its power and administrative structures and distribution of property. In return, Korčula accepted a Venetian representative as the island’s governor and supreme judge.9 Both the contractual nature and the consensual pattern of Venetian statehood reflected back onto Korčula’s daily life, whose inhabitants, ‘in a variety of ways, acted as guarantors […] and allowed these dry legal agreements to work in practice’.10 First codified under the auspices of Venice in the thirteenth century (1214/1265), by the fifteenth century, Korčula’s communal statutes served as a fundamental guideline for organizing public and private life and individual legal claims, and as a prime reference for socio-cultural interaction on the island. Reflecting general developments of urban legal culture in Italy and the Adriatic realm, Korčula’s statutory ‘communitas’, as a legal abstractum, addressed both a social and a spatial dimension: on the one hand, Korčula’s constitutional ‘communitas’ denoted a collective social entity of either all of the island’s inhabitants or the more narrowly defined ‘commune’ of citizens and patricians who had sworn an oath of loyalty and in return enjoyed substantial rights of political participation. On the other hand, the term ‘communitas’ conceptually encompassed the whole island as a legally and politically framed communal space, manifested in both judicial and administrative practices and in architecture and material culture.11 Accordingly, the social interaction of Korčula’s rural population unveiled a 1400–1797, ed. by Eric R. Dursteler, Brill’s Companions to European History, 4 (Leiden: Brill, 2014), pp. 125–253; Schmitt, Korčula, pp. 5–6; Oliver Jens Schmitt, ‘Venezianische Horizonte der Geschichte Südosteuropas: Strukturelemente eines Geschichtsraums in Mittelalter und Früher Neuzeit’, Südost– Forschungen, 65–66 (2006–2007), 87–116 (pp. 100–13). 9 For Korčula’s ‘actus deditionis’ and the ‘privilegium communitatis Curzole’, see Statuta et leges civitatis et insulae Curzulae (1214–1558), ed. by Jaromir J. Hanel, Monumenta historico-juridica slavorum meridionalium, 1 (Zagreb: Academia Scientiarum et Artium Slavorum Meridionalium, 1877), pp. 138–43; Gli accordi con Curzola, 1352–1421, ed. by Ermanno Orlando, Pacta Veneta, 9 (Roma: Viella, 2002), pp. 54–89. 10 Monique O’Connell, ‘The Contractual Nature of the Venetian State’, in Il Commonwealth veneziano, ed. by Ortalli, Schmitt and Orlando, p. 61. 11 A full edition of Korčula’s statutes is provided by Statuta et leges, ed. by Hanel, and Korčulanski statut: Statut grada i otoka Korčule iz 1214. godine, ed. and trans. by Antun Cvitanić (Zagreb: Jugoslavenska Akademija Znanosti i Umjetnosti, 1987). On the fundamental role of Korčula’s statutes, cf. Gherardo Ortalli, ‘Il ruolo degli statuti tra autonomie e dipendenze: Curzola e il dominio veneziano’, Rivista storica italiana, 98 (1986), 195–220; Ludwig Steindorff, ‘Pravo kao sredstvo stvaranja gradskog identiteta: Slučaj dalmatinskih gradova’, in Splitski statut iz 1312. godine: Povijest i pravo, povodom 700. obljetnice, ed. by Željko Radić, Marko Trogrlić, Massimo Meccarelli and Ludwig Steindorff, Biblioteka knjiga mediterana, 84 (Split: Književni Krug, 2015), pp. 53–67; Ermanno Orlando, ‘Politica del diritto, amministrazione, giustizia: Venezia e la Dalmazia nel basso medioevo’, in Venezia e Dalmazia, ed. by Israel and Schmitt, pp. 9–61; Ludwig Steindorff, ‘Städtische Lebensformen im Spiegel spätmittelalterlicher istrischer und dalmatinischer Statuten’, in Die Urbanisierung Europas von der Antike bis in die Moderne, ed. by Gerhard Fouquet and Gabriel Zeilinger, Kieler Werkstücke, E 7 (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 2009), pp. 173–90; Antun Cvitanić, ‘Korčulansko statutarno pravo’, in Iz dalmatinske pravne povijesti, ed. by Antun Cvitanić (Split: Književni Krug, 2002), pp. 575–620.

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dynamic fabric of multiply-entangled communities which was interpersonally and institutionally closely interwoven with both the political elite and the urban milieu.12 In the social practice of both Korčula’s urban and rural communities, therefore, a variety of social rituals, conflicts, and litigations were used to construct, enact, negotiate, and consolidate the social cohesion, collective solidarity, shared values, and joint visions of community and the communitarian belonging of individuals and/or groups. Disputes about belonging accordingly triggered not only a ‘highly emotional discourse (“we” and the “other”, existential fears)’, but also constantly referred to Korčula’s statutory law when evoking idealized visions of community and calling for judicial mediation of conflicts.13 Analysing the complex interplay between statutory norms and their adaptation in social practice is thus of crucial importance when examining processes of ‘Othering’ on a late medieval Dalmatian island. Since Korčula was no isolated microcosm, ‘Otherness’ can easily be analysed in the islanders’ myriad encounters and conflicts with foreigners (‘forenses’) — predominantly merchants, sailors, pilgrims, mercenaries, and pirates — in the island’s harbours. Korčula’s statutory laws contrasted these short-term visitors as ‘foreigners residing outside the island’ (forenses habitantes extra insulam) with native islanders and permanent residents (alicuius Curçulensis, seu habitatoris insule).14 In social and legal practice, however, once foreigners settled and permanently contributed to communal life, for example as craftsmen, merchants, surgeons, notaries, and teachers, they were soon labelled ‘habitatores’ and usually experienced extensive social, legal, and economic integration on Korčula. The ‘Otherness’ of such newcomers consequently faded into the island’s multi-layered fabric of community, which on the surface nevertheless reflected a rather homogenous communal identity, since neither Jews, nor Orthodox Christians, and only a very few marginalized people are documented in Korčula’s fifteenth-century archival records.15

12 Cf. Kümmeler, Korčula, pp. 215–416. 13 Oliver Jens Schmitt, ‘Addressing Community in Late Medieval Dalmatia’, in Meanings of Community across Eurasia: Comparative Approaches, ed. by Eirik Hovden, Christina Lutter, and Walter Pohl, Brill’s Series on the Early Middle Ages, 25 (Leiden: Brill, 2016), pp. 125–47 (p. 140). Cf. Kümmeler, Korčula, pp. 215–416. See also the interdisciplinary volume Practising Community in Urban and Rural Eurasia (1000–1600): Comparative and Interdisciplinary Perspectives, ed. by Fabian Kümmeler, Judit Majorossy, and Eirik Hovden (Leiden: Brill, 2021). 14 Statuta et leges, ed. by Hanel, pp. 50, 127. Cf. Antun Cvitanić, ‘Pravni položaj stranaca u srednjovjekovnoj korčulanskoj komuni’, in Iz dalmatinske pravne povijesti, ed. by Cvitanić, pp. 643–60 (p. 648), first publ. in Zbornik Pravnog fakulteta u Zagrebu, 36 (1986), pp. 591–605; Tomislav Raukar, ‘Cives, habitatores, forenses u srednjovjekovnim dalmatinskim gradovima’, Historijski zbornik, 29–30 (1976–1977), 139–49 (p. 141). 15 On the role of foreigners on Korčula, see Fabian Kümmeler, ‘The World in a Village: Foreigners and Newcomers on Late Medieval Korčula’, in Towns and Cities of the Croatian Middle Ages: The City and the Newcomers, ed. by Irena Benyovski Latin and Zrinka Pešorda Vardić (Zagreb: Croatian Institute of History, 2020), pp. 195–211; Schmitt, ‘Adressing Community’, pp. 141–43. On early modern Dalmatia see Egidio Ivetic, ‘Tolerance towards the “Others” in the Cities of Venetian Dalmatia (1540–1645)’, in Tolerance and Intolerance on the Triplex Confinium: Approaching the ‘Other’ on the Borderlands. Eastern Adriatic and beyond, 1500–1800, ed. by Egidio Ivetic and Drago Roksandić (Padova: Cleup, 2007), pp. 265–81. On medieval terminology, perceptions, and concepts of alterity, otherness and ‘Fremdheit’

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Instead, in analysing herders as ‘Others’ from within Korčula’s island society,16 this paper focuses on the island’s intersecting layers of communal belonging. ‘Otherness’ thus cannot be understood as an antagonistic, albeit relational, concept opposing the ‘Self ’ of its beholder to the unfamiliar ‘Other’ of any kind, but is used as ‘a relative term [that …] is only understandable as a reference to another [whose …] being is not (like) the being of the other’, but still is an integral part of the own familiar socio-cultural sphere.17 As such, ‘Otherness’ mirrors notions of community, since it interconnects dimensions of belonging and alterity as much as it presupposes the need to define a close ‘Other’ and to identify the ‘Self ’ also within a community. This paper thus addresses both notions of the ‘Other’ and processes of ‘Othering’ towards herders within Korčula’s island society instead of focusing on its encounters with foreigners. Aiming at avoiding an indiscriminate ‘“fetishization of alterity” that imposes a convenient name on a more complex reality’, it analyses the legal and situational (and localized) ‘Otherness’ of herders within Korčula’s communal society and how such close ‘Otherness’ was articulated and exploited in socioeconomic conflicts with fellow villagers on the basis of a common legal framework.18

see the introduction to this volume by Hans-Werner Goetz and Ian Wood; further Hans-Werner Goetz, ‘Sarazenen als “Fremde”? Anmerkungen zum Islambild in der abendländischen Geschichtsschreibung des frühen Mittelalters’, in Fremde, Feinde und Kurioses: Innen- und Außenansichten unseres muslimischen Nachbarn, ed. by Benjamin Jokisch, Ulrich Rebstock, and Lawrence I. Conrad, Studien zur Geschichte und Kultur des islamischen Orients (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2009), pp. 39–66 (pp. 43–46); Martin Baisch, ‘Alterität und Selbstfremdheit: Zur Kritik eines zentralen Interpretationsparadigmas in der germanistischen Mediävistik’, in Die Aktualität der Vormoderne: Epochenentwürfe zwischen Alterität und Kontinuität, ed. by Klaus Ridder and Steffen Patzold, Europa im Mittelalter, 23 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2013), pp. 185–206 (pp. 187–91); Nikolas Jaspert, ‘Fremdheit und Fremderfahrung: Die deutschspanische Perspektive’, in ‘Das kommt mir Spanisch vor’: Eigenes und Fremdes in den deutsch-spanischen Beziehungen des späten Mittelalters, ed. by Klaus Herbers and Nikolas Jaspert, Geschichte und Kultur der Iberischen Welt, 1 (Münster: Lit, 2004), pp. 31–62; Hans-Henning Kortüm, ‘“Advena sum apud te et peregrinus”: Fremdheit als Strukturelement mittelalterlicher “conditio humana”’, in Exil, Fremdheit und Ausgrenzung im Mittelalter und früher Neuzeit, ed. by Andreas Bihrer, Sven Limbeck, and Paul Gerhard Schmidt, Identitäten und Alteritäten, 4 (Würzburg: Ergon, 2000), pp. 115–35; Marina Münkler, Erfahrung des Fremden: Die Beschreibung Ostasiens in den Augenzeugenberichten des 13. und 14. Jahrhunderts (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2000), pp. 147–60; Kathryn L. Reyerson, ‘The Merchants of the Mediterranean: Merchants as Strangers’, in The Stranger in Medieval Society, ed. by F. R. P. Akehurst and Stephanie Van D’Elden, Medieval Cultures, 12 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997), pp. 1–13. 16 On medieval island societies and the concept of insularity in the Mediterranean and the Indian Ocean, cf. Roxani Eleni Margariti, ‘An Ocean of Islands: Islands, Insularity, and the Historiography of the Indian Ocean’, in The Sea: Thalassography and Historiography, ed. by Peter Miller (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2012), pp. 198–229 (pp. 200–11). 17 Gergely Tibor Bakos, On Faith, Rationality, and the Other in the Late Middle Ages: A Study of Nicholas of Cusa’s Manuductive Approach to Islam, Princeton Theological Monograph, 141 (Eugene: Pickwick, 2011), p. 177. Cf. Goetz, ‘Sarazenen’, p. 43; Julia Kristeva, Étrangers à nous-mêmes (Paris: Fayard, 1988), pp. 153–86. 18 Paul Freedman, Images of the Medieval Peasant (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999), p. 301, quoting from Nicholas Thomas, Colonialism’s Culture: Anthropology, Travel and Government (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), p. 159. For the concept of close ‘Otherness’, cf. Justyna Wubs-Mrozewicz, ‘The Close “Other”: Medieval and Modern Perspectives on Hollanders and the Hanse’, German History, 31.4 (2013), 453–72 (pp. 454–55).

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Herders as Legally and Contractually Shaped ‘Others’ from Within In late medieval Dalmatia, sedentary herders pastured their livestock in the coastal hinterland and on the various islands and islets, while transhumant herding communities of Vlachs and Morlachs, after grazing their herds on meadows in the Dinaric Alps in summer, seasonally migrated to warmer coastal areas in winter. Vlach and Morlach shepherds thus intermingled with local Dalmatian herders, renting pastures in karst areas and entering into business relations with people in the hinterland of Zadar, Trogir, and Šibenik. While historiography often instrumentalized the former for narratives of ethnic and national origins, the latter have — until very recently — been studied only secondarily either by legal historians analysing the genesis of statutory law or by economic historians quantifying the economic impact of animal husbandry.19 On fifteenth-century Korčula, by contrast, animal husbandry can indeed be considered the most important branch of the island’s economy, but the island was too small to practise long-distance transhumance and, apart from that, its vast archival records reveal no evidence of the presence of Vlach or Morlach shepherds on the island. Instead, Korčula’s herders were sedentary villagers who pastured their animals in the island’s rural area and on its surrounding islets. Although no feudalism limited personal freedom on Korčula — and in 1418 the island’s Grand Council incorporated a law into the statutes prohibiting engaging in and even aiding slave trading20 —, rural dwellers often substantially depended on the economic strength of local patricians. Transcending urban boundaries by largely incorporating rural law regulations, Korčula’s communal statutes therefore protected herders with a special legal status unparalleled by other professions and crafts, regulating their pasturing rights and legal obligations in great detail. Against that background, herders predominantly tended and bred sheep and goats on behalf of wealthier islanders, with whom they entered 19 A comprehensive historiographical bibliography is to be found in Fabian Kümmeler, ‘Herdsmen as a Socio-Professional Community in Late Medieval Dalmatia’, in Comunità e società nel Commonwealth veneziano, ed. by Gherardo Ortalli, Oliver Jens Schmitt, and Ermanno Orlando (Venezia: Istituto Veneto di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti, 2018), pp. 111–27. Cf. Dana Caciur, ‘Considerations Regarding the Status of the Morlachs from the Trogir’s Hinterland at the Middle of the 16th Century: Being Subjects of the Ottoman Empire and Land Tenants of the Venetian Republic’, Res Historica, 41 (2016), 95–110; Kristijan Juran, ‘Doseljavanje Morlaka u opustjela sela šibenske Zagore u 16. stoljeću’, Povijesni prilozi, 46 (2014), 129–60; Esad Kurtović, ‘“Ad usum boni pasculatoris et boni viri”: Uzgoj konja u dubrovačkom zaleđu kroz prizmu ugovora o uzgoju’, in Spomenica Ibrahima Karabegovića: Zbornik radova, ed. by Husnija Kamberović (Sarajevo: Institut za istoriju, 2013), pp. 35–68; Zef Mirdita, Vlasi: Starobalkanski narod od povijesne pojave do danas (Zagreb: Hrvatski institut za povijest, 2009); Drago Roksandić, ‘The Dinaric Vlachs/Morlachs in the Eastern Adriatic from the Fourteenth to the Sixteenth Centuries: How many Identities?’, in Balcani occidentali, ed. by Ortalli and Schmitt, pp. 271–85; Mladen Ančić, ‘Srednjovjekovni Vlasi kontinentalne Dalmacije’, in Dalmatinska zagora: Nepoznata zemlja, ed. by Vesna Kusin and others (Zagreb: Galerija Klovićevi dvori, 2007), pp. 161–67; Grga Novak, ‘Morlaci (Vlasi) gledani s mletačke strane’, Zbornik za narodni život i običaje Južnih Slavena, 45 (1971), 579–603; Nicoară Beldiceanu, ‘Sur les Valaques des Balkans slaves à l’époque ottomane (1450–1550)’, Revue des études islamiques, 34.1 (1966), 83–132. 20 Statuta et leges, ed. by Hanel, p. 105.

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into mutual herding contracts in order to secure both the animal owner’s investment of livestock and the herder’s reward for his service and to share wool, milk, cheese, offspring, and other profits gained during the herder’s care.21 Until the summer of 1417, both owners and herders preponderantly followed customary law traditions when arranging joint herding contracts, although Korčula’s statutes had already contained a foundational normative framework for the practice of animal husbandry since the thirteenth century. On 22 August 1417, the Grand Council of Korčula passed a statute that provided a comprehensive legal basis for the arrangement, conclusion, and termination of herding contracts and determined legal obligations arising from such agreements. Labelled ‘ad pasculandum’ or ‘ad pascendum’, these herding contracts were based on the principle of mutual partnership, by which both owners of livestock and herders joined together ‘in societate animalium’.22 Despite often significant differences in social status and wealth among the parties, within such a contract-based herding society both animal owners and herders met, from a legal perspective, as mutual business partners on an (almost) equal footing. It is precisely on the level of mutual partnership that the contractual herding societies (‘societates animalium’) differed most from other agricultural working contracts on Korčula, usually referred to as ‘conventiones’.23 Many of the latter working contracts, emphasizing the pivotal economic role of agriculture, were officially documented in writing in the communal chancery and are thus well represented in Korčula’s archival holdings. In contrast to continental Dalmatia, where emphyteutic traditions of decade-long land leases and work obligation prevailed, the average period of agricultural working contracts on Korčula was approximately three years, albeit slightly longer when the cultivation of cereals was concerned. Two types of agricultural working contracts have been distinguished: whereas contracts ‘ad plantandum’ were assigned either for planting vineyards and fig, olive, and almond trees or to cultivate grain and vegetables on untilled plots, contracts ‘ad laborandum’ referred to maintaining existing plantations, mostly vineyards, fig, and olive trees.24 The binary typology of agricultural working contracts, however, hardly reflects the complexity of Korčula’s archival records: for instance, in 1448, Mihovil Marcovich from Žrnovo and his brothers accepted an eight-year contract on a plot of land for sowing, committing themselves ‘ad ipsum plantandum, laborandum totum et gubernandum ad modum et laudem boni laboratoris dandum sibi portionem suam secundum consuetudinem Curzole’.25 Altogether, the three types of contract reflected Korčula’s constitutional trisection of agricultural space, based on the soil’s fertility, into areas to be either farmed as

21 Cf. Dokoza, Dinamika, pp. 100–11; Schmitt, Korčula, pp. 22–23, 33–34. 22 Statuta et leges, ed. by Hanel, p. 65. Cf. Statuta et leges, ed. by Hanel, pp. 52, 101; Schmitt, Korčula, pp. 33–36; Dokoza, Dinamika, pp. 103–07. 23 HR-DAZD-11: 6/6.3, fol. 40r. Cf. Statuta et leges, ed. by Hanel, p. 65. 24 Cf. Dokoza, Dinamika, pp. 75–87, 103–08; Foretić, Otok Korčula, pp. 270–81; Kurtović, ‘Ad usum’, pp. 37–44; Josip Defilippis, Dalmatinska poljoprivreda u prošlosti, Biblioteka znanstvenih djela, 114 (Split: Književni Krug, 2001), pp. 17–38. 25 HR-DAZD-11: 9/12.2, fol. 81v.

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fields (‘pro seminationibus’), planted with vineyards, fig, olive, and almond trees (‘pro plantationibus’), or used for pasturing animals (‘pro pasculis animalium’).26 Interestingly, the records contain relatively few herding contracts compared to a myriad of agricultural working contracts, in spite of the herders’ overall economic significance and their strong general presence in the archival documents. Vinko Foretić and Serđo Dokoza explained this ‘discrepancy’ in terms of the predominant role of verbal agreements in the island’s rural area.27 In contrast, however, the 1417 statute suggests another explanation for this apparent paradox, obliging animal owners to ‘make a tally stick’ (tessera) immediately when handing over their livestock to herders.28 Conversely, it is not the lack of written herding contracts that is remarkable, but the documentation of relatively many agreements with respect to both the statutory norm and the extensive use of tally sticks in the fifteenth century. As legal tools fluctuating between literacy and orality, split tallies granted weather-proof protection against unilateral forgery and thus were considered a proto-written legal document on Korčula, proving the herding contract’s legal validity, value, and herd size. The herder had to check the notches on the tally stick before it was split in two between both contractual partners, the owner keeping the larger half of the split tally and the herder wearing its smaller half on his belt while pasturing.29 In the case of legal dispute, litigants had to take their split tallies to court in order to prove the legitimacy of both their claim and the controversial contract. Such was the case in August 1427, when the herder Xivoe Tonixich rejected the claim of a wealthy priest who demanded his share of annual herding profits. Xivoe argued that he had not been working for him as a herder, nor could the priest legally support his claim of a herding contract with a tally stick, and hence he, Xivoe, was not obliged to share his profits with him. Xivoe instead suggested the court summon a herder called Parvosius, ‘with whom he, the priest, had formed a contract-based herding society […] and with whom he also had a tally stick as is the custom of herders’.30 Other than farmers and lesser rural workers, Korčula’s herders moreover enjoyed the statutory privilege of extending their bilateral contract-based ‘societas animalium’ with an owner of livestock. On the one hand, herders could accept further herders

26 Statuta et leges, ed. by Hanel, pp. 159–60. On the organization of rural space on late medieval Korčula cf. Fabian Kümmeler and Johann Heiss, ‘Balancing a Community’s Food and Water Supply: The Social Impact of Rural-Urban Interdependencies in Dalmatia and Yemen’, in Practising Community in Urban and Rural Eurasia (1000–1600), ed. by Kümmeler, Majorossy, and Hovden , pp. 76–102. 27 Dokoza, Dinamika, p. 100: ‘najveći nerazmjer’. Cf. Dokoza, Dinamika, p. 104; Foretić, Otok Korčula, p. 281. 28 Statuta et leges, ed. by Hanel, p. 64: ‘facere tesseram’. 29 Cf. Statuta et leges, ed. by Hanel, pp. 64–65; Ludolf Kuchenbuch, ‘Kerbhölzer in Alteuropa – Zwischen Dorfschmiede und Schatzamt’, in The Man of Many Devices, Who Wandered Full Many Ways: Festschrift in Honor of János M. Bak, ed. by Balázs Nagy and Marcell Sebők (Budapest: CEU Press, 1999), pp. 303–25; Moritz Wedell, Zählen: Semantische und praxeologische Studien zum numerischen Wissen im Mittelalter, Historische Semantik, 14 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011), pp. 288–304. 30 HR-DAZD-11: 6/6.3, fol. 32r: ‘cum quo dictus habuisse societatem […] et cum ipso numquam habuisse tesseram ut moris est pastorum’.

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into their herding society as subcontractors. Upon the owner’s approval, the initial herder formally became chief herder of the society, referred to as the ‘celnich’, and was thus responsible for remunerating his subcontractors, referred to as ‘socii’. The statutes promoted such extended herding partnerships by capping the annual tithe to either one lamb or one goat, to be collected by the bishop in person only. On the other hand, herders were also legally entitled to form their own herding societies without formally involving an owner of livestock as the contracting party. Against that background, in 1435, two herders from the village of Blato, who already ‘mutually kept all their animals under one brand’, demanded written documentation of their agreement to ‘keep and faithfully guard their animals jointly for the next three years’ in a herding society.31 Despite its broad regulatory efforts, Korčula’s statutes left essential contractual elements open for negotiation, such as the contract period, the herder’s remuneration, and the apportionment of mutual profits. In most cases, contracts were set up for periods from one to seven years, including annual profit and loss accounts at the end of each herding season. Moreover, three typical components of remunerating herders for their services can be identified: first and foremost, natural produce in kind, often by sharing herding profits like milk, wool, cheese, and offspring, but also wine, grain, and vegetables; secondly, money, mostly as wages and rarely as interest-free loans; and thirdly, temporary herding assistance of shepherd boys paid by the owners of livestock. Based on the statutory principle of partnership, herders and owners assembled these components according to their individual needs and preferences. In 1428, for instance, the herder Bogdan Tulia agreed to pasture a flock for five years, receiving as remuneration a total of eight ‘quartas’ of wine, the same amount of millet, and one goat and one sheep for the first year and for the remaining contract period solely one animal per year.32 In 1431, the herder Paulus Letilovich and his brothers agreed with a local patrician in the town’s chancery that they would pasture his animals and cultivate his lands in return for twenty-five ‘yperpera’, five ‘modi’ of barley, and ten animal skins for each of the brothers.33 In 1447, Anthonius Dobrichievich, moreover, accepted an interest-free loan of thirty-three ‘yperpera’, repayable after five years, and an annual share of his herding profits in kind in exchange for pasturing the livestock of Archdeacon Junius for five years ‘well, diligently and faithfully according to the custom of herders’.34 A year later, finally, the herder Milat accepted an offer to pasture twenty-five animals jointly with his own herd, while the

31 HR-DAZD-11: 7/8.1, fol. 12r: ‘ambo posuerunt ad invicem omnia eorum animalia minuta sub uno signo […] tenere ipsa animalia minuta utriusque partis usque ad tres annos proxime futuros et fideliter custodire ipsa animalia’. Cf. Statuta et leges, ed. by Hanel, p. 80; Foretić, Otok Korčula, p. 254; Dokoza, Dinamika, pp. 103–04. 32 HR-DAZD-11: 6/6.3, fol. 40r. 33 HR-DAZD-11: 6/6.8, fol. 13v. 34 HR-DAZD-11: 9/12.1, fols 106v–107r:‘ad pasculandum animalia […] a modo usque quinque annos proxime futuros secundum consuetudinem pastorum bene diligenter et fideliter’.

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owners, Mixa and Zuane de Piero, agreed to cover his expenses for food and garments and to pay him an annual salary of eight ‘yperpera’.35 As a result, herders often tended livestock from various owners and pastured them together with their own animals, often accumulating significant numbers of animals, varying from several dozen to up to 500 animals per herd. When grazing, according to local custom, herders used bells and brands on the animals’ ears in order to find the animals and identify their owners. In 1440, however, a herder complained that identifying brands was difficult, as too ‘many brands on Korčula resembled each other’.36 Korčula’s preserved fifteenth-century herding contracts furthermore indicate that herders and owners, besides relying on the notches on split-tallies, also occasionally preferred to document complex herding agreements in written form. In light of the paramount significance of statutory law and the outstanding acceptance of Venetian jurisdiction in Korčula’s rural area, it seems that both expected a higher degree of legal certainty when invoking notary records rather than tally sticks in litigation.37 Legal certainty in fact constituted a crucial prerequisite for coping with contractual issues and socioeconomic conflicts, making statutory law both a basis and a reference for the dynamics of ‘Othering’ towards herders in social interaction within Korčula’s late medieval island society. Every year on 15 August, the feast of St Mary, herders were statutorily obliged to join their split-tallies with their contract partner, count the herds, and render their accounts of the herding year. Whereas profits were shared pursuant to individual contracts, the statutes, moreover, defined a fixed indemnification rate for livestock losses of either two unbranded young animals or the sum of eight ‘grossi’ per capita. Owners were obliged to claim for compensation within a year, while herders, if unable to provide compensation, had the right to compensate with offspring bred later during the remaining contract period.38 Just like many legal codes of various Italian cities, Korčula’s statutes determined that, in all disagreements on herding accounts, the owner should be granted ‘a summary procedure (“ius summarium”) against his herder or herders […] at any time and day’.39 In jurisdictional practice, however, even though both owners and herders very often took their disagreements on herding accounts to court, exacerbated by mutual accusations of inaccuracy and fraud, applying summary procedure was hardly compatible with the pivotal role of law in Korčula’s rural area. This statutory deadlock for instance

35 HR-DAZD-11: 12/20.1, fol. 23v. 36 HR-DAZD-11: 7/10.2, fol. 123v: ‘quod multa signa in Corcula similia’. 37 Cf. HR-DAZD-11: 12/20.2, fol. 123v; Statuta et leges, ed. by Hanel, pp. 23, 42–43; Kümmeler, Korčula, pp. 349–64; Kuchenbuch, ‘Kerbhölzer’, p. 306. 38 Statuta et leges, ed. by Hanel, pp. 64–66, 92–93. 39 Statuta et leges, ed. by Hanel, pp. 65–66: ‘ius summarium […] contra pastorem seu pastores […] omni tempore et die’. On the ius summarium and its restricted application on Korčula, cf. Kümmeler, Korčula, pp. 358–60; Statuta et leges, ed. by Hanel, pp. 65–70, 116–17, 124; Sven Ufe Tjarks, Das ‘venezianische’ Stadtrecht Paduas von 1420: Zugleich eine Untersuchung zum statuaren Zivilprozess im 15. Jahrhundert, Studi, N.F., 7 (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2013), pp. 264–79; Sarah R. Blanshei, Politics and Justice in Late Medieval Bologna, Medieval Law and Its Practice, 7 (Leiden: Brill, 2010), pp. 408–98.

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arose in the summer of 1426, when the aforementioned herder Xivoe Tonixich, at that time working as ‘celnich’ for a patrician widow, was sentenced to compensate for four lost animals ‘by paying eight “grossi” per capita according to the custom of Korčula’.40 Torn between apparently contradictory laws, the Venetian governor did not restrict the herder’s plea pursuant to the ‘ius summarium’, but granted him the ‘right to take action and have recourse against his subcontractors’.41 Against that background, the particular statutory status of Korčula’s herders set the stage for both fierce socioeconomic conflicts and emotively charged patterns of ‘Otherness’ in their social interaction within the island’s late medieval rural communities.

The ‘Others’ from Within: Conflicts between Herders and Villagers In social practice, Korčula’s late medieval rural society was manifested as a complex and dynamic social fabric, characterized by multiple, at times competing layers of community that were closely interwoven with both the island’s urban milieu and its political elite. Within rural lifeworlds, Korčula’s village communities played a key administrative, legal, and socio-cultural role: while the Venetian governor, as the island’s supreme judge, also directed its communal administrative and judicial system, local villagers carried out extensive administrative and executive tasks as communal officials. As statutory communities of rights, liability, and protection, villagers engaged in legal transactions and litigated jointly, just as they were collectively liable as a village community. Also periodically used as places of jurisdiction, the island’s villages moreover provided a territorial link to overlapping layers of community, whose concepts of ‘Otherness’ merged with the village’s internal dynamics of conflict, solidarity, and communication.42 Throughout the year, Korčula’s herders followed a versatile seasonal routine, reaching its annual climax, both legally and in customary tradition, on the feast of St Mary, when contracts started and expired and the partners met for accounting. In September, herders started to prepare their winter pastures, referred to as ‘simiaca’, which they often shared with fellow herders, again by forming a contract-based ‘societas’. These pastures were fenced enclosures on communal lands, mostly equipped with wooden stables, in which up to several hundred animals were kept during the cold season. In order to safeguard cultivation areas from escaping animals, herders had to keep a buffer zone of at least half a mile ‘to the four winds’.43 In spring, sheep and goats were shorn, highly dependent on weather conditions, from a few days before Saint George’s Day (April 23), which traditionally marked the beginning of spring, 40 HR-DAZD-11: 6/6.3, fol. 10r: ‘solvendo secundum consuetudinem Corzule ad rationem grosso VIII quodlibet’. 41 HR-DAZD-11: 6/6.3, fol. 10r: ‘ius agendi et habendi regressum contra eius socios’. 42 Cf. Kümmeler, Korčula, pp. 215–318, 417–34; Schmitt, ‘Storie d’amore’, pp. 91–109. 43 Statuta et leges, ed. by Hanel, p. 120: ‘in alijs vero villis per miliare dimidium a quatuor ventis’. Cf. Statuta et leges, ed. by Hanel, pp. 119–20.

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until mid May. In the warm season, statutory law barred herders from crossing the territorial borders of their village district and from pasturing livestock in the vicinity of the island town or other major zones of agriculture. In May and June, however, herders were allowed to graze the herds on their contractor’s private lands while farming a share of his land in their own favour.44 In search for patterns of rural ‘Othering’, seasonal routine represents a distinctive feature that subdivided Korčula’s late medieval rural population. Due to their unsteady and itinerant, albeit sedentary lifestyle, and the economic unreliability ascribed to them, fellow urban and rural dwellers held the island’s herders in rather low esteem. This can be observed in a letter from the Venetian Doge Francesco Foscari, dated 26 February 1441, concerning grievances of the Franciscan friars from the islet of Badija, located opposite the town of Korčula. Referring to a privilege from 1394 that allegedly granted them the right to ‘peacefully and quietly’ inhabit their islet, the friars had complained that ‘now there are indeed several [people] who disparage the honour of the Almighty God and the glorious Virgin [Mary] by pasturing their goats and animals on the islet’ — emphasizing the harassment caused by the herders’ seasonal routine and the noise, dirt, and stench of their sheep and goats.45 However, in addition to their legally-framed seasonal routine that differed significantly from both the villages’ farmers and fishermen, emotive patterns of ‘Othering’ against herders were particularly stirred up by the structural fact that communal pastures lay mostly scattered and dispersed throughout the island’s rural area. Hence herders, constantly traversing cultivated arable land in search of fresh pastures, regularly became drawn into conflicts over compensation for crop damage.46 In order to balance agricultural and pastoral interests, Venetian governance attempted to control the conflicting dynamics of overlapping land use, repeatedly decreeing that fields and vineyards needed to be fenced so that neither large nor small animals could enter, and that nobody was to pasture animals within the villages’ settlement area, in its surrounding vineyards, or along its roads.47 Within Korčula’s rural realm itself, a close-knit network of communal officials — local villagers biannually appointed by the island’s Grand Council — enforced the rule of law, market regulations, and taxation. In every village, four ‘gastaldiones’ monitored the village and conducted criminal investigations, a herald (‘plazarius’) conveyed proclamations, judgements and council decisions, and a judicial officer (‘iustitiarius’) implemented judgements and recovered debts. Moreover, varying numbers of vineyard guards (‘pudarii’) and field guards (‘posticii’) protected vineyards, grain fields, and fruit-bearing tree plantations from straying livestock and ensured the compensation for crop damage. Being predominantly local villagers, the administration of village officials, although remunerated by the community and 44 Cf. Kümmeler, Korčula, pp. 335–49. 45 Statuta et leges, ed. by Hanel, p. 156: ‘quiete et pacifice […] nunc uero nonnulli sunt, qui honorem omnipotentis Dei ac gloriosissimae Virginis paruipendentes, capras et animalia sua ad pascendum super ipsum scopulum mittere’. Cf. Foretić, Otok Korčula, pp. 342–48; Josip Belamarić, ‘Franjevačka crkva i samostan na otoku kod Korčule’, Prilozi povijesti umjetnosti u Dalmaciji, 23 (1983), 149–91. 46 Cf. Kümmeler, Korčula, pp. 335–64. 47 Cf. HR-DAZD-11: 10/13.1, fol. 183r.

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subordinated to the Venetian governor, nevertheless often interfered in the village community’s private social conflicts. A plethora of lawsuits directed against herders for crop damage and animal theft consequently demonstrate not only a high level of administrative and jurisdictional activities, but also a huge gap between statutory norms and everyday socioeconomic practice in Korčula’s rural area.48 From these lawsuits, conflicts with herders over crop damage and animal theft emerge as emotive stimuli for both patterns of ‘Othering’ and social tensions within Korčula’s village communities. This is reflected in the verdict De animalibus non tenendis prope casalia by the Venetian governor Alvise Barbarigo of 23 June 1485. Barbarigo’s ‘decisio’ was the result of fierce complaints by numerous patricians and villagers concerning how the ‘herders of the villages pasture their animals in the villages to the great detriment both of many people and in gardens, crops, vineyards and other fruit-bearing plants in the villages’.49 Furthermore, the plaintiffs portrayed the herders as a threat to the community’s subsistence and survivability, claiming that they not only caused severe crop damage with their animals, but also violated statutory law by contaminating the ponds and wells used by the village communities for potable water. Korčula’s herders, however, rejected the accusations after collectively electing an advocate who ‘tamquam aduocato ipsorum pastorum’ claimed in vain that the herders’ customary practices outranked economic damage to fellow islanders.50 Rural patterns of ‘Othering’ thus reflected the conflict lines of agriculture, pastoralism, and governance. In conflicts over crop damage, for instance, three key players can be identified: first, farmers as the damaged party; second, herders as damagers; and third, village officials. While herders and farmers competed economically and topographically, both parties relied on communal officials and Venetian jurisdiction in litigations. Korčula’s communal village officials, representing Venetian jurisdiction in the island’s rural area, were however caught in-between, as their administration not only satisfied farmers seeking compensation for damage, but also fuelled social tensions with herders, whom the rural guards prosecuted for damaging crops while pasturing their herds. Beyond the pastures, these tensions reflected back onto the village’s communal life, fuelling intra-communal conflicts, since farmers, herders, and rural officials often lived together in the same village and were thus integral members of its community. In everyday interaction, these economic conflicts and social tensions, driven by the low esteem in which herders were held, could easily turn even a mere encounter between villagers and herders into violent confrontations both on the island’s pastures and within its villages. The latter was the case in December 1443, when two herders accused four fellow villagers from Blato of attacking them with knifes, throwing stones at them, beating them with their fists, and pulling their hair, leaving them bleeding from many wounds, while insulting them badly right within the village. Several

48 Cf. HR-DAZD-11: 16/31.5, fols 52r–61v; Kümmeler, Korčula, pp. 174–99, 215–47. 49 Statuta et leges, ed. by Hanel, p. 199: ‘pastores casalium pasculari eorum animalia in casalibus in graui damno quam plurimarum personarum tam in hortis, bladis, uineis et alijs nascentibus in casalibus fructibus’. 50 Statuta et leges, ed. by Hanel, p. 199.

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witnesses confirmed that the two herders were about to pasture their animals outside the village when they took a shortcut through the village and by the house of one of the perpetrators. The accused villagers by contrast argued that they had initially gathered to go on a hare hunt when the herders attempted to break in through the roof and attacked them with a knife so aggressively that ‘sparks of fire were emitted when the knife struck the stone wall’.51 The herder Micula Mratinovich of Smokvica, on the other hand, experienced violence on a peripheral pasture area in April 1461, when he coincidentally met an itinerant shoe seller from the village of Blato and his companion while pasturing a flock of sheep in the border area between the village territories of Smokvica and Blato. Xifcus, the shoe seller, impetuously urged the herder to give him a lamb and the sachet that he carried on his belt, which Micula refused to do. Consequently losing his temper with the herder, Xifcus first knocked him down, then pounded him with a stone with the effect that his leg became swollen and finally seized his knife from its sheath just to torture his hands with its handle, causing Micula great agony and harm. Whereas Xifcus denied all charges brought against him, his companion confirmed that Xifcus had knocked down the herder, taken his knife, and fought with him, but insisted that it all happened in jest (‘iocandi’) and that nobody was injured.52 The villagers’ propensity for violence towards herders certainly reflects not only personal motives, but also a distinct general disdain for them as a common pattern of ‘Othering’ within Korčula’s village communities. In both cases, herders experienced disdain, hostility, and violence when herding animals, that is in conflict settings connected to their pastoral profession, whereas they were otherwise constitutive members both of their respective village community and of the island’s comprehensive statutory community. Against that background, in the latter case, the Venetian count condemned Xifcus to pay a fine of three ‘yperpera’ to the island’s community and to cover the herder’s medical expenses.53

Conclusion As sedentary villagers, herders on late medieval Korčula were constitutive members of the island’s village communities and yet situationally confronted as ‘Others’ from within by fellow villagers. Given that statutory and customary law served as a key reference for everyday social interaction on the island, its laws already formed a basis for the ‘Otherness’ of herders within Korčula’s rural society. Herders stood out from fellow villagers particularly due to their special legal status, regulating their pasturing rights and legal obligations and enabling them to form contract-based herding societies as equal partners with the island’s economic elite. Whereas both wooden split-tallies and written contracts served as legal proof for herding agreements in court, the latter

51 HR-DAZD-11: 10/13.1, fol. 37v: ‘cum ipsa cultella percussit in lapidem emittens vi ictus ex lapide ignem’. 52 HR-DAZD-11: 16/30.6, fol. 19v. 53 Cf. HR-DAZD-11: 16/30.6, fol. 19v; Schmitt, ‘Addressing Community’, p. 128.

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reflected the affinity of Korčula’s rural society to written legal culture, while the former served as a distinctive mark in social interaction, symbolizing the statutory ‘Otherness’ of herders within the island’s village communities. Against this background, the herders’ mobile, albeit sedentary seasonal routine was largely met with disdain, since it differed significantly from that of fellow islanders, who were mostly engaged in farming, fishing, crafts, and trade. Myriad socioeconomic conflicts over crop damage and lost animals moreover exacerbated the stigmatization of herders as the ‘Other’ interfering with the agricultural supply and economic subsistence of Korčula’s rural communities. The situational patterns of ‘Othering’ directed against herders essentially reflected the conflicting dynamics of the triangular antagonism between pastoralism, agriculture, and governance, whose protagonists often jointly lived in the same village. It is thus the villages and their surrounding rural area that set the scene for condescending attitudes of mistrust and disdain and situational violent behaviour towards the island’s herders, turning economic disputes into social conflicts in which herders were perceived as adversaries by fellow villagers, and thus embodied an ‘Other’ from within Korčula’s communal society in the fifteenth century.

Works Cited Manuscripts and Archival Sources Zadar, Državni Arhiv u Zadru [Croatian State Archive in Zadar], Općina Korčula (1338– 1797), Commune insulae et civitatis Curzolae (referred to as HR-DAZD-11), boxes 6, 7, 9, 10, 12, 16 Primary Sources Gli accordi con Curzola, 1352–1421, ed. by Ermanno Orlando, Pacta Veneta, 9 (Roma: Viella, 2002) Korčulanski statut: Statut grada i otoka Korčule iz 1214. godine, ed. and trans. by Antun Cvitanić (Zagreb: Jugoslavenska Akademija Znanosti i Umjetnosti, 1987) Statuta et leges civitatis et insulae Curzulae (1214–1558), ed. by Jaromir J. Hanel, Monumenta historico-juridica slavorum meridionalium, 1 (Zagreb: Academia Scientiarum et Artium Slavorum Meridionalium, 1877) Secondary Works Ančić, Mladen, ‘Srednjovjekovni Vlasi kontinentalne Dalmacije’, in Dalmatinska zagora: Nepoznata zemlja, ed. by Vesna Kusin and others (Zagreb: Galerija Klovićevi dvori, 2007), pp. 161–67 Arbel, Benjamin, ‘Venice’s Maritime Empire in the Early Modern Period’, in A Companion to Venetian History, 1400–1797, ed. by Eric R. Dursteler, Brill’s Companions to European History, 4 (Leiden: Brill, 2014), pp. 125–253

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Attia, Sascha, and Fabian Kümmeler, ‘A Gem Hidden Under the Dust of Centuries: The State Archive in Zadar’, News On The Rialto, 33 (2014), 27–30 Baisch, Martin, ‘Alterität und Selbstfremdheit: Zur Kritik eines zentralen Interpretationsparadigmas in der germanistischen Mediävistik’, in Die Aktualität der Vormoderne: Epochenentwürfe zwischen Alterität und Kontinuität, ed. by Klaus Ridder and Steffen Patzold, Europa im Mittelalter, 23 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2013), pp. 185–206 Bakos, Gergely Tibor, On Faith, Rationality, and the Other in the Late Middle Ages: A Study of Nicholas of Cusa’s Manuductive Approach to Islam, Princeton Theological Monograph, 141 (Eugene: Pickwick, 2011) Belamarić, Josip, ‘Franjevačka crkva i samostan na otoku kod Korčule’, Prilozi povijesti umjetnosti u Dalmaciji, 23 (1983), 149–91 Beldiceanu, Nicoară, ‘Sur les Valaques des Balkans slaves à l’époque ottomane (1450–1550)’, Revue des études islamiques, 34.1 (1966), 83–132 Blanshei, Sarah R., Politics and Justice in Late Medieval Bologna, Medieval Law and Its Practice, 7 (Leiden: Brill, 2010) Caciur, Dana, ‘Considerations Regarding the Status of the Morlachs from the Trogir’s Hinterland at the Middle of the 16th Century: Being Subjects of the Ottoman Empire and Land Tenants of the Venetian Republic’, Res Historica, 41 (2016), 95–110 Cvitanić, Antun, ‘Korčulansko statutarno pravo’, in Iz dalmatinske pravne povijesti, ed. by Antun Cvitanić (Split: Književni Krug, 2002), pp. 575–620 ———, ‘Pravni položaj stranaca u srednjovjekovnoj korčulanskoj komuni’, in Iz dalmatinske pravne povijesti, ed. by Antun Cvitanić (Split: Književni Krug, 2002), pp. 643–60 (first publ. in Zbornik Pravnog fakulteta u Zagrebu, 36 (1986), pp. 591–605) Defilippis, Josip, Dalmatinska poljoprivreda u prošlosti, Biblioteka znanstvenih djela, 114 (Split: Književni Krug, 2001) Dokoza, Serđo, Dinamika otočnog prostora: Društvena i gospodarska povijest Korčule u razvijenom srednjem vijeku, Biblioteka znanstvenih djela, 161 (Split: Književni Krug, 2009) Fabijanec, Sabine Florence, ‘Le rôle économique des îles croates médiévales’, in Proceedings of the 4th Mediterranean Maritime History Network Conference: Barcelona, 7–9 May 2014, ed. by Jordi Ibarz Gelabert, Enric García Domingo, Inma González Sánchez, and Olga López Miguel (Barcelona: Museu Marítim de Barcelona, 2017), pp. 857–76 Foretić, Vinko, Otok Korčula u srednjem vijeku do godine 1420. (Zagreb: Tisak Narodne Tiskare, 1940) Freedman, Paul, Images of the Medieval Peasant (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999) Goetz, Hans-Werner, ‘Sarazenen als “Fremde”? Anmerkungen zum Islambild in der abendländischen Geschichtsschreibung des frühen Mittelalters’, in Fremde, Feinde und Kurioses: Innen- und Außenansichten unseres muslimischen Nachbarn, ed. by Benjamin Jokisch, Ulrich Rebstock, and Lawrence I. Conrad, Studien zur Geschichte und Kultur des islamischen Orients (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2009), pp. 39–66 Gruber, Elisabeth, Christina Lutter, and Oliver Jens Schmitt, eds, Kulturgeschichte der Überlieferung im Mittelalter: Quellen und Methoden zur Geschichte Mittel- und Südosteuropas, UTB Geschichte, 4554 (Wien: Böhlau, 2017)

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Ivetic, Egidio, ‘Tolerance towards the “Others” in the Cities of Venetian Dalmatia (1540– 1645)’, in Tolerance and Intolerance on the Triplex Confinium: Approaching the ‘Other’ on the Borderlands. Eastern Adriatic and beyond, 1500–1800, ed. by Egidio Ivetic and Drago Roksandić (Padova: Cleup, 2007), pp. 265–81 Jaspert, Nikolas, ‘Fremdheit und Fremderfahrung: Die deutsch-spanische Perspektive’, in ‘Das kommt mir Spanisch vor’: Eigenes und Fremdes in den deutsch-spanischen Beziehungen des späten Mittelalters, ed. by Klaus Herbers and Nikolas Jaspert, Geschichte und Kultur der Iberischen Welt, 1 (Münster: Lit, 2004), pp. 31–62 Juran, Kristijan, ‘Doseljavanje Morlaka u opustjela sela šibenske Zagore u 16. stoljeću’, Povijesni prilozi, 46 (2014), 129–60 Kortüm, Hans-Henning, ‘“Advena sum apud te et peregrinus”: Fremdheit als Strukturelement mittelalterlicher “conditio humana”’, in Exil, Fremdheit und Ausgrenzung im Mittelalter und früher Neuzeit, ed. by Andreas Bihrer, Sven Limbeck, and Paul Gerhard Schmidt, Identitäten und Alteritäten, 4 (Würzburg: Ergon, 2000), pp. 115–35 Kristeva, Julia, Étrangers à nous-mêmes (Paris: Fayard, 1988) Kuchenbuch, Ludolf, ‘Kerbhölzer in Alteuropa – Zwischen Dorfschmiede und Schatzamt’, in The Man of Many Devices, Who Wandered Full Many Ways: Festschrift in Honor of János M. Bak, ed. by Balázs Nagy and Marcell Sebők (Budapest: CEU Press, 1999), pp. 303–25 Kümmeler, Fabian, ‘Herdsmen as a Socio-Professional Community in Late Medieval Dalmatia’, in Comunità e società nel Commonwealth veneziano, ed. by Gherardo Ortalli, Oliver Jens Schmitt, and Ermanno Orlando (Venezia: Istituto Veneto di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti, 2018), pp. 111–27 ———, Korčula. Ländliche Lebenswelten und Gemeinschaften im venezianischen Dalmatien (1420-1499), Südosteuropäische Arbeiten, 165 (Berlin: De Gruyter Oldenbourg, 2021) ———, ‘The World in a Village: Foreigners and Newcomers on Late Medieval Korčula’, in Towns and Cities of the Croatian Middle Ages: The City and the Newcomers, ed. by Irena Benyovski Latin and Zrinka Pešorda Vardić (Zagreb: Croatian Institute of History, 2020), pp. 195–211 Kümmeler, Fabian, Judit Majorossy, and Eirik Hovden, eds, Practising Community in Urban and Rural Eurasia (1000–1600): Comparative and Interdisciplinary Perspectives (Leiden: Brill, 2021) Kümmeler, Fabian, and Johann Heiss, ‘Balancing a Community’s Food and Water Supply: The Social Impact of Rural-Urban Interdependencies in Dalmatia and Yemen’, in Practising Community in Urban and Rural Eurasia (1000–1600): Comparative and Interdisciplinary Perspectives, ed. by Fabian Kümmeler, Judit Majorossy, and Eirik Hovden (Leiden: Brill, 2021), pp. 76–102 Kurtović, Esad, ‘“Ad usum boni pasculatoris et boni viri”: Uzgoj konja u dubrovačkom zaleđu kroz prizmu ugovora o uzgoju’, in Spomenica Ibrahima Karabegovića: Zbornik radova, ed. by Husnija Kamberović (Sarajevo: Institut za istoriju, 2013), pp. 35–68 Margariti, Roxani Eleni, ‘An Ocean of Islands: Islands, Insularity, and the Historiography of the Indian Ocean’, in The Sea: Thalassography and Historiography, ed. by Peter Miller (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2012), pp. 198–229

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Mirdita, Zef, Vlasi: Starobalkanski narod od povijesne pojave do danas (Zagreb: Hrvatski institut za povijest, 2009) Münkler, Marina, Erfahrung des Fremden: Die Beschreibung Ostasiens in den Augenzeugenberichten des 13. und 14. Jahrhunderts (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2000) Novak, Grga, ‘Morlaci (Vlasi) gledani s mletačke strane’, Zbornik za narodni život i običaje Južnih Slavena, 45 (1971), 579–603 O’Connell, Monique, ‘The Contractual Nature of the Venetian State’, in Il Commonwealth veneziano tra 1204 e la fine della Repubblica: Identità e peculiarità, ed. by Gherardo Ortalli, Oliver Jens Schmitt, and Ermanno Orlando (Venezia: Istituto Veneto di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti, 2015), pp. 57–72 Orlando, Ermanno, ‘Politica del diritto, amministrazione, giustizia: Venezia e la Dalmazia nel basso medioevo’, in Venezia e Dalmazia, ed. by Uwe Israel and Oliver Jens Schmitt (Roma: Viella, 2013), pp. 9–61 Ortalli, Gherardo, ‘The Genesis of a Unique Form of Statehood, between the Middle Ages and the Modern Age’, in Il Commonwealth veneziano tra 1204 e la fine della Repubblica: Identità e peculiarità, ed. by Gherardo Ortalli, Oliver Jens Schmitt, and Ermanno Orlando (Venezia: Istituto Veneto di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti, 2015), pp. 3–11 ———, ‘Il ruolo degli statuti tra autonomie e dipendenze: Curzola e il dominio veneziano’, Rivista storica italiana, 98 (1986), 195–220 Raukar, Tomislav, ‘Cives, habitatores, forenses u srednjovjekovnim dalmatinskim gradovima’, Historijski zbornik, 29–30 (1976–1977), 139–49 Reyerson, Kathryn L., ‘The Merchants of the Mediterranean: Merchants as Strangers’, in The Stranger in Medieval Society, ed. by F. R. P. Akehurst and Stephanie Van D’Elden, Medieval Cultures, 12 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997), pp. 1–13 Roksandić, Drago, ‘The Dinaric Vlachs/Morlachs in the Eastern Adriatic from the Fourteenth to the Sixteenth Centuries: How many Identities?’, in Balcani occidentali, Adriatico e Venezia fra XIII e XVIII secolo / Der westliche Balkan, der Adriaraum und Venedig (13.–18. Jahrhundert), ed. by Gherardo Ortalli and Oliver Jens Schmitt (Venezia: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2009), pp. 271–85 Schmitt, Oliver Jens, ‘Addressing Community in Late Medieval Dalmatia’, in Meanings of Community across Eurasia: Comparative Approaches, ed. by Eirik Hovden, Christina Lutter, and Walter Pohl, Brill’s Series on the Early Middle Ages, 25 (Leiden: Brill, 2016), pp. 125–47 ———, ‘“Altre Venezie” nella Dalmazia tardo-medievale? Un approccio microstorico alle comunità socio-politiche sull’isola di Curzola/Korčula’, in Il Commonwealth veneziano tra 1204 e la fine della Repubblica: Identità e peculiarità, ed. by Gherardo Ortalli, Oliver Jens Schmitt, and Ermanno Orlando (Venezia: Istituto Veneto di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti, 2015), pp. 203–33 ———, ‘L’apport des archives de Zadar à l’histoire de la Méditerranée orientale au XVe siècle’, in Venise et la Méditerranée, ed. by Sandro G. Franchini, Gherardo Ortalli, and Gennaro Toscano (Venezia: Istituto Veneto di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti, 2011), pp. 45–54 ———, Korčula sous la domination de Venise au XVe siècle: Pouvoir, économie et vie quotidienne dans une île dalmate au Moyen Âge tardif (Paris: Collège de France, 2011), DOI: 10.4000/books.cdf.1501

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———, ‘Storie d’amore, storie di potere: La tormentata integrazione dell’isola di Curzola nello Stato da mar in una prospettiva microstorica’, in Venezia e Dalmazia, ed. by Uwe Israel and Oliver Jens Schmitt (Roma: Viella, 2013), pp. 89–109 ———, ‘Venezianische Horizonte der Geschichte Südosteuropas: Strukturelemente eines Geschichtsraums in Mittelalter und Früher Neuzeit’, Südost–Forschungen, 65–66 (2006–2007), 87–116 ———, ‘Das venezianische Südosteuropa als Kommunikationsraum (ca. 1400–ca. 1600)’, in Balcani occidentali, Adriatico e Venezia fra XIII e XVIII secolo / Der westliche Balkan, der Adriaraum und Venedig (13.–18. Jahrhundert), ed. by Gherardo Ortalli and Oliver Jens Schmitt (Venezia: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2009), pp. 77–101 Steindorff, Ludwig, Die dalmatinischen Städte im 12. Jahrhundert: Studien zu ihrer politischen Stellung und gesellschaftlichen Entwicklung, Städteforschung, A/20 (Köln: Böhlau, 1984) ———, ‘Hvar und Korčula – der Aufstieg zweier Städte an der Adriaostküste’, in Tusculum slavicum: Festschrift für Peter Thiergen, ed. by Elisabeth von Erdmann, Aschot Isaakjan, Roland Marti, and Daniel Schümann, Basler Studien zur Kulturgeschichte Osteuropas, 14 (Zürich: Pano, 2005), pp. 725–37 ———, ‘Pravo kao sredstvo stvaranja gradskog identiteta: Slučaj dalmatinskih gradova’, in Splitski statut iz 1312. godine: Povijest i pravo, povodom 700. obljetnice, ed. by Željko Radić, Marko Trogrlić, Massimo Meccarelli, and Ludwig Steindorff, Biblioteka knjiga mediterana, 84 (Split: Književni Krug, 2015), pp. 53–67 ———, ‘Städtische Lebensformen im Spiegel spätmittelalterlicher istrischer und dalmatinischer Statuten’, in Die Urbanisierung Europas von der Antike bis in die Moderne, ed. by Gerhard Fouquet and Gabriel Zeilinger, Kieler Werkstücke, E 7 (Frankfurt-amMain: Lang, 2009), pp. 173–90 Thomas, Nicholas, Colonialism’s Culture: Anthropology, Travel and Government (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994) Tjarks, Sven Ufe, Das ‘venezianische’ Stadtrecht Paduas von 1420: Zugleich eine Untersuchung zum statuaren Zivilprozess im 15. Jahrhundert, Studi, N.F., 7 (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2013) Wedell, Moritz, Zählen: Semantische und praxeologische Studien zum numerischen Wissen im Mittelalter, Historische Semantik, 14 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011) Wubs-Mrozewicz, Justyna, ‘The Close “Other”: Medieval and Modern Perspectives on Hollanders and the Hanse’, German History, 31.4 (2013), 453–72

Eduardo Manzano Mor eno

Assimilating ‘Otherness’ in Early Islam

Introduction During Late Antiquity, the disappearance of the classical legacy fostered the emergence of an increasing number of different and usually conflicting communities. As the cloak of ‘romanitas’ gradually wore out, new garments were hastily tailored that marked out specific groups from the rest. Communities came to be defined either by ethnic and cultural traits, or by the new political entities that had replaced the Roman Empire. Although not all of their members had the same social status and, therefore, not everyone shared their cultural or political values to the same degree, it is also true that a strong sense of belonging to these new communities shadowed previous forms of social alignment. In this connection, it is significant that religious affiliation to the novel forms of monotheism that emerged in this period became one of the main markers which expressed identity.1 In some cases, these religious affiliations tended to mould (and be moulded by) existing cultural, ethnic, or political divisions, as witnessed by the role played by Arianism in the characterization of peoples like the Visigoths or the Lombards, or the religious specificity that was increasingly championed by the Byzantine empire. One of the outcomes of this multiplication of communities is that they drew stark boundaries by interacting among themselves. An obvious result of this interaction was the creation of a new kind of ‘otherness’, an element that clung to medieval societies as a signal of their fragmentation; as a feature that described their conflictive making. In fact, recognition of ‘otherness’ increasingly entailed the articulation of these societies in a way that was radically different from those of Classical Antiquity, where more often than not the ‘others’ were comfortably confined beyond the physical or mental frontiers of empires or civilizations. In contrast, during the Middle Ages the ‘others’

1 Walter Pohl, ‘Introduction. Strategies of Identification: A Methodological Profile’, in Strategies of Identification: Ethnicity and Religion in Early Medieval Europe, ed. by Walter Pohl and Gerda Heydemann (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), pp. 21–22. Eduardo Manzano Moreno  •  is research professor at the Instituto de Historia of the Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas (CSIC) in Madrid and Global History Research Professor at the University of St Andrews. ‘Otherness’ in the Middle Ages, ed. by Hans-Werner Goetz and Ian Wood, IMR 25 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2021), pp. 235–252 © FHG10.1484/M.IMR-EB.5.123593

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could become a constituent part of many societies that witnessed social and cultural processes of exclusion, coexistence, exchange, or assimilation, and that promoted the undeniable dynamism that is a feature of this period.­­ The advent of Islam in the seventh and eighth centuries was a crucial event in these processes, as it fostered a double long-lasting effect: on the one hand, the sharp definition of a frontier against Christianity, which was not only physical but also polemical, helped to shape the complex territorial configuration and ideological reaffirmation of the medieval world in the Mediterranean. On the other hand, Islam also had to deal with ‘otherness’ in its own realm, as lands conquered by the Arab expansion were home to Christian and Jewish communities, whose pacts with the conquerors granted them the possibility of living under the new rule, thus laying the foundations of the characteristic multiculturalism that was the landmark of Islamic societies in medieval and modern times. Therefore, ‘otherness’ was a crucial factor in the formation of Arab-Muslim societies. Islam became a different faith by portraying itself as the final abrogation of previous creeds, a narrative that began with the preaching of the prophet Muḥammad in a hostile environment and culminated after a long-lasting process of elaboration that occurred in a social milieu characterized by religious diversity. The Arab conquests extended across huge regions, in which the conquerors encountered a whole variety of populations and cultures that forced them to implement social and political frameworks in order to manage this diversity. It is my contention that these circumstances left an indelible mark on the definition of Islamic and Arab identity. In the following pages, I will tackle the issue of ‘otherness’ taking both the emergence of Islam and the early Arab conquests as a point of departure, and the case of Muslim Iberia, al-Andalus, as a point of arrival. This land was on the fringe of the Arab Empire after its conquest in ad 711 (91 ah), but came to display the same powerful identities that were prevalent in the central lands of Islam vis-à-vis both the external and the internal ‘others’. My analysis is based on the idea that the early conquests resulted in a process of Arab ethnogenesis that emerged as the outcome of a sharp definition of ethnic and cultural boundaries against other communities. This process went hand in hand with the formulation of a salvation creed that also needed to differentiate itself from previous monotheist religions. In these processes early Islam ended up dealing with ‘otherness’ using institutional and conceptual tools that were inherited from the world of Late Antiquity. These tools were originally adapted to meet the novel situations created by the Arab expansion, but became firmly embedded in later Muslim tradition, even though social conditions had totally changed in relation to those that had prevailed in the early period.

The Dominated ‘Others’ Modern scholars like Robert Hoyland or Greg Fisher have addressed the difficult issue of whether an Arab identity widely shared by populations living in the

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Arabian Peninsula existed in the pre-Islamic period.2 Language may be considered a distinctive sign of such identity, but the almost complete absence of records written in Arabic script before the sixth century, and the scarcity of epigraphic texts makes it difficult to assess how the Arabs viewed themselves before their expansion. This lack of evidence runs in parallel with a powerful but also late narrative that portrayed the Arabs before the advent of Islam as a destitute and impoverished people while other peoples enjoyed worldly wealth. Ninth-century works like the life of caliph ‘Umar by the Egyptian ‘Abd Allāh b. ‘Abd al-Ḥakam (d. 829/214 ah) or a contemporary work of polemic against Christians stressed the idea that the revelation of God to his Prophet was a divine gift bestowed on the Arabs who suddenly became exalted ‘while the others were deprived of the bounties and advantages that they had previously possessed’.3 The idea that the Arabs were outcasts who became the masters of others, who had previously dominated them, also resonates in some early reactions to the conquests by Christian writers: in the middle of the seventh century Maximus the Confessor speaks of the ‘barbarous people of the desert overrunning another´s lands as though they were their own’, whereas several decades later the Chronicler of Zuqnin acknowledged that ‘because we sinned, slaves gained authority over us’.4 However, and notwithstanding how evocative the notion that God’s revelation changed the misfortunes of Arab peoples is, or how suggestive the lamentations of monks who were terrified by the unexpected arrival of these conquerors are, it is puzzling to see how rapidly these destitute ‘slaves’ and ‘barbarians’ became the able and efficient administrators of the newly founded empire. As early as 643, for instance, the Arab conquerors of Egypt were issuing bilingual papyri written in Arabic and Greek, which dealt with the collection of taxes or the supplying of the army. P. Sijpensteijn has pointed out that the use of a terminology reflecting a distinctive scribal tradition means that ‘the ideas, habits, and approaches that the Arabs brought with them could deal with the administration of such a highly developed and extensive entity as Egypt’.5







2 Robert Hoyland, ‘Epigraphy and the Emergence of an Arab Identity’, in From al-Andalus to Khurasan: Documents from the Medieval Muslim World, ed. by Petra Sijpesteijn, Robert G. Hoyland, Jonathan J. Price, and David J. Wasserstein (Leiden: Brill, 2007), pp. 217–42 (pp. 234–37); also Robert Hoyland, ‘Arab Kings, Arab Tribes and the Beginnings of Arab Historical Memory in Late Roman Epigraphy’, in From Hellenism to Islam: Cultural and Linguistic Change in the Roman Near East, ed. by Hannah M. Cotton, Lennart Sundelin, Sofía Torallas Tovar, and Amalia Zomeño (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), pp. 374–400 (pp. 388–91); Greg Fisher, Between Empires: Arabs, Romans, and Sasanians in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), pp. 144–53. 3 Milka Levy-Rubin, Non-Muslims in the Early Islamic Empire: From Surrender to Coexistence (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), p. 94; ‘Abd Allāh b. ‘Abd al-Ḥakam, Sīrat ‘Umar b. ‘Abd al-‘Azīz, ed. by Aḥmad ‘Ubayd (Beirut: ‘Ālam al-Kutub, 1984), pp. 65–66; Dominique Sourdel, ‘Un pamphlet musulmane anonyme contre les Chrétiens’, Revue des Etudes Islamiques, 34 (1966), 1–33 (p. 26). 4 Robert Hoyland, Seeing Islam as Others Saw It: A Survey and Evaluation of Christian, Jewish and Zoroastrian Writings on Early Islam (Princeton: The Darwin Press, 1997), pp. 77–78 and p. 412. 5 Petra Sijpensteijn, Why Arabic? (Leiden: Leiden University Press, 2012), pp. 15–16.

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Therefore, there seems to have been a pre-existing and distinctive Arab culture that was seamlessly adopted by the new empire as its uncompromising political identity. This culture rapidly became the backbone of the imperial programme of expansion that was executed during the conquests. It was boosted by a number of decisions that were taken at this early period, which were designed to prevent assimilation of the conquerors by populations that clearly outnumbered them. Paramount among these decisions was the decree by the Umayyad caliph ‘Abd al-Malik (685–705/65–86 ah) in which he ordered the arabization of the administration of the empire.6 We do not really know how this bold resolution was enforced and how it came to be shared ultimately by broad sections of the conquered populations, but the fact is that, despite their very different languages, historical backgrounds, and cultural traditions, ‘Abd al-Malik’s decision was hugely successful among them. The result was that they became integrated into the Arab imperial project, whose final and more durable final byproduct was the creation of the ‘dār al-islām’, i.e. the ‘abode of Islam’. In this connection, post-conquest Iberia is an excellent example of the implementation of this policy. Al-Andalus was conquered in ad 711 (91 ah), six years after the death of ‘Abd al-Malik. One of the first things the conquerors did was to start issuing golden coinage which had Latin inscriptions proclaiming the unity of God and the prophetic mission of Muḥammad. This coinage, however, was shortlived. As early as 716–717 (98 ah) inscriptions were bilingual (Arabic and Latin) and less than a decade later ‘dirhams’ minted in al-Andalus were displaying the same typologies displayed by the reformed coinage that had been also decreed by caliph ‘Abd al-Malik and was already circulating in the central lands of the empire.7 The message was unequivocal: notwithstanding the huge distance that separated al-Andalus from the centre of the caliphate and notwithstanding the fact that the conquerors were a minority in this territory, they were not ready to compromise with the locals, who found themselves in a position which obliged them to understand Arabic. The same purpose of breaking with former structures is conveyed by accounts, which show a distinctive pattern of behaviour by virtue of which the conquerors fiercely tried to distinguish themselves from the customs and practices of the conquered. In the same way as Persians coming to visit caliph ‘Umar in Medina were struck by the simplicity of his dress and style of living that was so different from the apparatus of their former empire, a well-known story in the Latin Chronicle of 754 recounts what happened to ‘Abd al-‘Azīz b. Mūsà, the son of the conqueror Mūsà b. Nuṣayr, who succeeded his father as governor of the new territory: having married the widow of King Rodericus, who had been defeated and killed in the battle of Guadalete, he yielded to the insistent petitions of his wife secretly to wear a crown, as the Visigothic kings had done; this was discovered by a member of the army and



6 Chase F. Robinson, ‘Abd al-Malik, (Oxford: Oneworld, 2005), pp. 174–75; Wadād al-Qāḍī, ‘The Names of Estates in State Registers Before and After the Arabization of the Dīwāns’, in Umayyad Legacies: Medieval Memories from Syria to Spain, ed. by A. Borrut and P. Cobb (Leiden: Brill, 2010), pp. 255–56. 7 Eduardo Manzano Moreno, Conquistadores, emires y califas. Los omeyas y la formación de al-Andalus (Barcelona: Crítica, 2006), pp. 56–59.

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provoked the killing of the governor by his companions, who deemed his conduct utterly unacceptable to their values.8 The elaboration of the monotheist creed of the conquerors also sported a programme of religious salvation that was based on a similar unwillingness to compromise. A good number of Muslim traditions that are said to go back to the Prophet instructed the believers to follow a number of ritual and daily life practices that were explicitly different from those performed by Jews, Christians, or Zoroastrians. Muslims, for instance, were enjoined to pray in a way that was different to pagans, were told by the Prophet to shave their curls ‘because this was the fashion of the Jews’, and were ordered to greet each other ‘with the shaking of hands and the greeting of “salām”’. The rationale behind these admonitions was expressed in a widely circulated utterance of the Prophet that said: ‘do not assimilate yourselves’ (la tashabbahū). According to Kister, these traditions originated at an early period and reflected a social milieu of religious diversity in which Muslims were concerned with the possibility of being absorbed by pre-existing communities.9 Therefore, many aspects that defined the daily practices of Muslims took shape with the explicit aim of drawing boundaries with neighbouring communities at a time when they were a minority and had become so dispersed that the danger of being absorbed by Christians or Jews was acutely felt by the new rulers. Again, it is significant to learn that similar injunctions were duly followed in al-Andalus. One of the earliest Andalusi treatises of law is a work called al-‘Utbiyya, which was composed by a scholar called al-‘Utbī (d. 869/255 ah) and gathers legal questions addressed to fellow scholars, who answered them following the principles that had been established by the Medinese scholar, Mālik b. Anas (d. 795/179 ah), whose rulings had become predominant in the territory of al-Andalus. As A. Hernández Félix has shown, a number of these questions, or ‘masā’il’, have regard to the topic of the ritual purity of Muslims and how this could be polluted by contacts with Jews and Christians. The latter in particular were considered as ‘najas’, or liable to transmit ritual impurity in their contact with Muslims. Hence questions like whether it was acceptable to make ritual ablutions with water used by Christians, or to buy sandals from them, or to wear clothes made by them, ‘bearing in mind that they consume wine’ (no sandals and yes for clothes, according to Mālik). Some of the questions came down to precise points of detail: can the Christian father of a Muslim son wash his corpse if he dies? and what if the supply of meat is scarce and the only butchery belongs to a Jew, is it permissible to buy from him (Mālik did not like the idea)?10 These and other examples show that the need to organize daily life in social milieus marked by religious diversity, and the need to establish a visible hierarchy among the different communities were the cause of considerable elaboration by early Muslim 8 Crónica mozárabe de 754. Continuatio Isidoriana Hispana, ed. by José Eduardo López Pereira (León: Centro de Estudios e Investigación San Isidoro, 2009), pp. 232 and 234. 9 Meir J. Kister, ‘Do not assimilate yourselves: lā tashabbahū’, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam, 12 (1989), 321–71 (p. 340). 10 Ana Hernández Félix, Cuestiones legales en el islam temprano: La ‘Utbuyya y el proceso de formación de la sociedad andalusí (Madrid: CSIC, 2003), pp. 438–58.

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scholars, who were the continuators of a late antique reflection concerning the definition of rigid boundaries among religious communities. As early as the fourth century, for instance, John Chrysostom had lambasted those Christians who went to the synagogue to watch Jews blowing trumpets or joined them in their festivals, and in the fifth century the councils of Elvira and Laodicea forbade Christians from receiving gifts from Jews or to eat with them on the occasion of their festivals.11 The peculiarity of Islam lies in the fact that this stark definition of the community’s boundaries became a distinctive hallmark of its ethos. Similar concerns regarding the possibility of assimilation of Muslims by their neighbours were still expressed in twelfth-century al-Andalus, at a time when they had ceased to be a minority. The Christians who lived under Muslim rule in al-Andalus celebrated the Nativity (‘mīlād’) and the beginning of the new solar year. Men and women, we are told in religious rulings or ‘fatwas’, prepared exquisite meals and exchanged expensive presents on those days, and Muslims joined Christians in their celebratory mood. Muslim scholars, however, unanimously condemned these practices and considered them as dangerous innovations. They also drew support for this view from an utterance of the Prophet which said: ‘Whoever imitates those peoples, he becomes one of them’; or as a companion of the Prophet was reported to have said: ‘A Muslim must beware of becoming a Jew or a Christian without even noticing’.12 As I have already remarked, the origins of this elaboration were initially triggered by the fact that in the early period Muslims were a minority in the lands they had just conquered; however, it is also important to bear in mind that they were also a dominant minority, whose relations with the conquered were the subject of considerable debate. The conquests had resulted in agreements that had granted ‘protection’ or ‘dhimma’ to the conquered communities now under their Muslim rule. These agreements had provided them with a legal status, but had not regulated daily dealings between Muslims and non-Muslims. This matter was addressed in a text known as the Šurūṭ ‘Umar, or the ‘Stipulations of Umar’, which included specific rulings concerning how the conquered should behave vis-à-vis the conquerors. Although the rulings are attributed to the Umayyad caliph ‘Umar II (d. 720/101 ah), the text in its present form dates from the end of the eighth century, but nevertheless it tells us a lot about the issues that were raised as a result of the interaction with the conquered communities.13 Apart from restrictions regarding the construction or restoration of churches, or the public display of their religion, ‘dhimmis’ were ordered not to prevent anyone from converting to Islam; they were banned from imitating the garments of Muslims, wearing turbans, or having their hair parted as Muslims did. Non-Muslims were also forbidden from mounting on saddles, from engraving Arab inscriptions on their seals, from selling fermented drinks, from burying their 11 Robert Wilken, John Chrysostom and the Jews: Rhetoric and Reality in the Late 4th Century (Berkeley: University of California, 1983), pp. 71–72. 12 Fernando de la Granja, ‘Fiestas cristianas en al-Andalus (Materiales para su estudio)’, al-Andalus, 35 (1970), 119–42 (pp. 134–38). 13 Mark Cohen, ‘What Was the Pact of ‘Umar? A Literary-Historical Study’, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam, 23 (1999), 100–57 (p. 128).

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dead near the Muslims, and from keeping pigs in their vicinity. Christians were also told to wear a belt called ‘zunnar’ around their waist so that they would be easily recognized, and also to rise from their seat whenever Muslims wanted to sit, thus showing respect for them. All these boundaries may strike us as being particularly harsh, but it is interesting to note that again Muslims were not innovating in this regard. Milka Levy Rubin has shown that Byzantine law included restrictions and prohibitions regarding the building or restoration of synagogues, the marriage of Christians with Jews, or conversion to Judaism, all or which incurred very heavy penalties. Also, according to this legislation, Christian dogma and practices had to be respected by Jews, very much in the same way that Muslims demanded consideration for their interdictions on food and drink. Concerning the distinguishing marks that the Šurūṭ ‘Umar imposed on non-Muslims, Levy Rubin has found them inspired by Sasanian social practices that also established strong class distinctions and rigid codes regarding clothing, arms bearing, property of authority seals, or etiquette.14 The late antique pattern by virtue of which citizens were divided according to their religious identity was taken over by Muslims, who adapted pre-existing social and religious practices of discrimination in order to build a new hierarchy dominated by their own creed. It is obvious that the enforcement of this hierarchy and the marking of these distinctions vis-a-vis the ‘others’ differed very much depending on time and place. But what it is paradoxical is the fact that these sharp boundaries had to be set up, in part because of the relative weakness of the conquerors, who had dispersed across huge territories, but also because they were the dominant players in the new social and political landscapes that the conquests brought about. The outcome of these situations was as contradictory as the new political and social order of the conquerors. A telling anecdote concerning an Arab chieftain called al-Ṣumayl, who had settled in al-Andalus a few decades after the conquest, describes him passing by a teacher who was instructing children to recite verse 140 of the Quranic sūra number 3, known as ‘The Family of ‘Imrān’, which reads: ‘If a wound afflicts you, a like wound has already afflicted those people; and We make such vicissitudes rotate among mankind, so that Allāh may ascertain those who have faith, and that He may take martyrs from among you, and Allāh does not like the wrongdoers’. Al-Ṣumayl stood by, but could not resist the temptation of correcting the teacher: surely he was wrong, because the verse did not refer to ‘mankind’ but to the ‘Arabs’. When the teacher told him that this was not the case and that the verse had been revealed referring to mankind, he exclaimed: ‘Then, by God, it means we are associated with serfs, scum and scoundrels’.15 This haughty perception of the ‘others’ was part and parcel of the process of ethnogenesis that defined a strong Arab identity, which was shared by the new elite

14 Levy-Rubin, Non-Muslims, pp. 121–36 and 144–62. 15 Ibn al-Qūṭiyya, Ta’rīkh iftitāḥ al-Andalus, ed. by Pascual de Gayangos, Eduardo Saavedra, and Francisco Codera, and trans. by Julián Ribera (Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia, 1926), pp. 40–41; English trans. by David James, Early Islamic Spain: The History of Ibn al-Qūṭiya (Abingdon: Routledge, 2009), p. 77.

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that had emerged triumphant from the conquests and was fully aware of its dominant position vis-à-vis the conquered peoples. In this situation, the conquerors considered themselves not only as the spearhead of an Arab empire that had a programme of universal dominion, but also as members of a community of believers, who were the recipients of a message of salvation that, notwithstanding the fact that many of its aspects had not as yet been fully developed, still had a number of essential traits that were very well defined, like the idea that the final revelation had been bestowed upon an Arab prophet, the staunch belief in the unity of God, and a number of straightforward ritual prescriptions.16 The new rulers were also in control of the administration and had to ensure that taxes were paid, roads were safe, and that the lives and properties of the conquered were respected, if they agreed to abide to the new rules. Crucially, they performed these and many other tasks from cities recently occupied or founded, which centralized the administration. As a matter of fact, instead of the usual map that portrays the early Islamic expansion as a uniform and instant layer covering huge territories from Central Asia to Iberia, we should consider a cartography based on the emergence of multiple urban hubs increasingly connected by land and sea routes that were first threaded by conquering armies, then by administrators, and finally by scholars (ulamā’) and traders. Once it was settled in these hubs, the new dominant class was mainly concerned with those who had submitted to its rule and was less interested with those who had rejected it, as far as they did not disturb the new status quo. An Arab account of the beginning of Christian resistance in northern Iberia in the 720s describes how the conquerors decided not to chase Pelayo, the local chieftain who had taken shelter in the Asturian mountains with his followers, because they did not seem to pose an immediate threat on their rule.17 The interconnection among these hubs and their local expansion resulted in a network of shared ideological and socio-cultural traits that defined the ‘dār al-islām’ as a distinctive unity, which overran political boundaries. The ‘dār al-islām’ was, therefore, the creation of urban communities, which elaborated the theory and practice of the new cultural and religious systems of expression and belief. There are two aspects that are particularly striking in this process: first, the high degree of homogeneity which this cultural shift achieved across distant regions — even sectarian movements in early Islam agreed on a number of fundamental aspects with the rest of the community —; and second, how rapidly this cohesion was accomplished. Again, the case of Iberia is particularly telling, as this was a land that had been conquered only 91 years after the ‘Hijra’ by conquerors who were outnumbered by the local population, but who still managed to arabize and islamize a territory that not only was far away from the central lands of Islam, but also had severed its political links with the ‘Abbāsid caliphate four

16 Fred Donner, Muhammad and the Believers: At the Origins of Islam (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2010), pp. 203–12. 17 Akhbār Majmū‘a, Colección de tradiciones, ed. by Lafuente Alcántara (Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia, 1867), p, 28 among others; Eduardo Manzano Moreno, ‘La rebelión de los astures en las fuentes árabes’, Mainaké, 36 (2016), 279–88 (pp. 283–87).

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decades after its conquest. The feat is even more remarkable if we bear in mind the fact that the conquerors included a considerable number of North African Berbers in their ranks, who at this early stage were only superficially islamized and arabized. To make things even more difficult, the neighbouring Maghrib al-aqṣà was only superficially islamized in this period — even in the tenth century Andalusi writers still referred to the land on the other side of the Straits of Gibraltar as a place where there was ‘no science or culture’ (lā ‘ilm wa lā adab) — so that cultural and economic links had to be established with the main hubs of Ifrīqiya or Egypt, like Qayrawān or Alexandria.18 ‘Hispania’ became ‘al-Andalus’, among other reasons, because of the fact that the conquerors managed to create a tightly knitted and well-defined Arab and Muslim community that had stronger cultural and political links with the central and distant cities of the Near East than with the neighbouring Christian territories that were impregnated with a culture and a religion, which were increasingly deemed as alien and hostile.

The Assimilated Others In the long run, however, and this is essential for my argument, neither the religious nor even the ethnic community remained closed to members of conquered groups and this opened the door for their assimilation. Conversion was an obvious choice for Jews or Christians willing to enrol in the ranks of the religion that had come to end with all other religions. What is interesting, though, is that early conversions followed the same pattern of political domination and social discrimination that we have seen prevailing during the formative period of Islam. When a non-Arab wanted to convert to Islam, he had to do so by also becoming the client of an Arab who sponsored his conversion. This was called ‘walā’’ and it ensured that the new Muslim became the client or ‘mawlà’ of that Arab, thus becoming personally attached to him. The patron gained certain rights over the client or ‘mawlà’, like the possibility of inheriting from him if he died without heirs. These ‘mawālī’ were considered as inferiors and, at least in theory, were prohibited from marrying Arab women and deemed unsuitable for holding positions in government.19 These discriminations rapidly dissolved and some of them were never really enforced. But they show again how early Islam used institutional tools borrowed from the legacy of Late Antiquity, in this case patronage, in order to build a new political and social hierarchy in relation to the others. The ‘walā’’ system also generated an unexpected effect. Despite the subaltern status of the new converts, many of them held dominant positions in their original 18 Ibn Ḥayyān, al-Muqtabis fī akhbār balad al-Andalus, ed. by ‘Abd al-Raḥmān ‘Alī al-Ḥaŷŷī (Beirut: Dār al-ḥikma, 1965), p. 160; trans. by Emilio García Gómez, El califato de Córdoba en el Muqtabis de Ibn Ḥayyān. Anales Palatinos del califa de Córdoba al-Ḥakam II por ‘Īsà ibn Aḥmad al-Rāzī (360–64 = 971–75 J.C.) (Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia: 1967), p. 200. 19 Patricia Crone, Roman, Provincial and Islamic Law: The Origins of the Islamic Patronate (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), pp. 89–91; Encyclopaedia of Islam, ed. by P. Bearman, Th. Bianquis, C. E. Bosworth, E. van Donzel, and W. P. Heinrichs, 2nd edn (Leiden: Brill, 1960–2007), s.v. ‘mawlà’.

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communities: their wealth, their learning, or their social standing did not vanish, even though now they were considered to be inferior to the conquering Arab Muslims. The logic of social processes and interactions tended to prevail, and the result was that the hierarchy that the ‘walā’’ system was trying to enforce, met with a much more complex social reality, something that helps to explain some of the tensions that affected Muslim societies in the eighth and ninth centuries. In the course of time, these tensions led to significant changes in prevailing political and social conditions and, in turn, this resulted in the disappearance of the mechanisms of hierarchization that had existed during the formative period. But the memory of institutions like the ‘walā’’ still remained, and later legal and political commentators were well aware of their importance in the early period. By the tenth century, for instance, someone who converted to Islam did not become the client of an Arab any longer, but an Andalusian legal scholar still felt it necessary to make it clear that the witness who was present at the act of conversion did not become the patron of the new Muslim, nor did he have any legal claim to his inheritance.20 At that time, the gate of conversion was fully open, social hierarchies depended on other factors, and there was no need to keep using the preventions against the ‘others’ that had prevailed during the formative period, but the identity mark that had been forged at the early stages of Islam was still well remembered. Whereas islamization allowed converts to knock down boundaries across religious communities, arabization affected the whole society. This also tended to blur the early supremacy of the Arabs. ‘Serfs, scum and scoundrels’ adopted Arab language, Arab culture, or even Arab identity, in some cases very rapidly. Although claiming pristine Arab ethnic origins was always a handy argument in terms of social competition, something that kept genealogists busy, the trend towards the definition of most conquered societies as Arab — with the notable exception of Iran — was overwhelming. Al-Andalus is again a good example of this. Berbers from north Africa who had arrived in the ranks of the Arab army at the time of the conquest and the indigenous population gradually joined the conquerors to create a society which, notwithstanding the diverse origins of its members, came to be defined by unmistakably Arab and Muslim patterns. We can assess this outcome in the case of religious scholars or ‘ulamā’’, whose number increased in some regions of al-Andalus from the middle of the eighth century onwards. Take the case of a certain Abū Mūsà al-Hawwārī, a Berber who lived in the second half of that century (he died in 796/180 ah) and was described as someone who had mastered the knowledge of the Arabs (‘‘ilm al-‘arab’) and the knowledge of religion (‘‘ilm al-dīn’). Also noteworthy was the case of Yaḥyà b. Yaḥyà b. Kathir b. Wislas, a Berber who had been born in c. 769/152 ah His great-grandfather had converted less than a century before, which means that after three generations Yaḥyà had such a good command of Arabic and such an in-depth

20 Ibn al-‘Aṭṭār, Kitāb al-wathā’iq wa l–sijillāt, ed. by Pedro Chalmeta (Madrid: Instituto Hispano Árabe de Cultura, 1983), p. 410; study and translation by by Pedro Chalmeta y Marina Marugán, Formulario notarial y judicial andalusí (Madrid: Fundación Matritense del Notariado, 2000), p. 637.

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knowledge of Islam as to make him one of the most prominent Mālikite scholars of his time.21 Examples like these reveal an extraordinary capacity of integration of other communities, something that helped Muslim converts to overcome ethnic boundaries. By the tenth century the assimilation process had gone so far, that the caliph al-Ḥakam II (961–976/350–366 ah) showed his surprise when a judge he had just appointed did not hide the fact that his ancestors were indigenous: the caliph recognized that a simple fabrication of a bogus genealogy would have linked him to pure Arab origins.22 By the eleventh century Berber rulers in al-Andalus were claiming Arab origins with no one contradicting their claims. Muslims of non-Arab origin were not the only ones to become arabized. Christian and Jewish communities also became assimilated. A well-known indicator of this arabization is a famous text by a ninth-century Christian writer from Cordoba, called Alvarus, who complained that only one among a thousand Christians was able to write a letter in Latin. Young Christians in Cordoba preferred the beauty of poetry to the study of religious texts and were obsessed with reading the works of the Arabs. Exactly the same anxieties were expressed by the Egyptian writer of the tenth-century text known as Apocalypse of Samuel Calamun, who also lamented the use of Arabic by Copts: ‘Disaster, double disaster! In these times they [the Copts] imitate the Muslims. They give their children Muslim names…and they do something so terrible that your hearts will definitively fill with sadness if I tell you about it: they abandon the beautiful Coptic language, teaching their children from an early age to speak Arabic’.23 These complaints hardly made any impact. By the tenth century the Gospels, the Psalms and even the proceedings of the Christian councils were being translated into Arabic in al-Andalus, an indication that bears witness that even among Christian populations that language was more widespread than was Latin. Jewish communities were also deeply arabized. But here a significant difference should also be borne in mind. In a short but thought-provoking article, David Wasserstein has argued that the emergence of Islam and the early Arab conquests saved Judaism from extinction. His argument is that in the sixth and seventh centuries Jewish communities across the Mediterranean and the Middle East were on the brink of disappearance, due to widespread persecution, forced conversion to Christianity, and an increasing isolation due to the decline of regular contacts across the sea. The expansion of Islam helped Jews to survive, first because it granted them the status of ‘dhimmis’, which despite enforcing a subaltern status, still conferred on them a protection they had been denied before, and second, because the making of the ‘dār

21 Maribel Fierro, ‘Yaḥyà b. Yaḥyà (m. 234/848), El inteligente de al-Andalus’, in Biografías y género biográfico en el occidente islámico, ed. by María Luisa Ávila Navarro (Madrid: CSIC, 1997), pp. 269–344 (pp. 277–78). 22 al-Khushanī, Kitāb al-quḍāt bi Qurṭuba, ed. and trans. by Julián Ribera, Historia de los jueces de Córdoba por Aljoxani (Madrid: Ibérica, 1914), pp. 239 and 192. 23 Albarus, Indiculus Luminosus, ed. by Juan Gil, Corpus Scriptorum Muzarabicorum (Madrid: CSIC, 1973), pp. 270–315 (pp. 314–15); Samuel Calamoun, Apocalypse, ed. and trans. by Joseph Ziadeh, ‘L´Apocalypse de Samuel, supérieur de deir-elqalamoun’, Revue de l´Órient Chrétien, 20 (1915–1917), pp. 379 and 394–95. The English translation I quote is by Sijpensteijn, Why Arabic, p. 17.

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al-islām’ as a homogeneous cultural realm allowed Jewish communities to gradually restart communicating among themselves.24 Wasserstein’s interpretation would explain why, in contrast with the resistance of some Christians to Arabization, Jews welcomed it or, at least, made creative use of it. Esperanza Alfonso has shown the existence of a distinctive pattern among Jewish poets in al-Andalus, who praised bilingualism of Hebrew and Arabic, as demonstrated by a much-quoted poetic fragment by a tenth-century Jewish poet called Dunash ben Labrat, which says: ‘May the garden of our delights be the sacred books, and your orchard the books of the Arabs’.25 Even authors who were mainly interested in the description of the Hebrew language as a sign of identity of the Jews, were influenced by the development of the sophisticated considerations that Arab grammarians were making on Arabic as a sacred language.26 In this connection, it is possible to assess an identity reaffirmation of the ‘others’, in this case the Jewish communities, who took elements from the dominant group in order to build a new sense of belonging that could confront the challenges posed by increasing processes of islamization. Therefore, and in the same way that Romanization integrated the ‘others’ into the structures of the Roman Empire, ‘arabization’ and ‘islamization’ also managed to assimilate ‘otherness’. The early phase in which the conquerors drew a sharp political and ideological divide with the conquered, did not last long, as new situations were rapidly evolving. Neither the religious nor even the ethnic community remained closed to members of other groups and this opened the door for an assimilation that took different and, sometimes, contradictory paths. There is an increasing trend to call these societies ‘islamicate’ following the neologism coined by Marshall Hodgson to refer to those regions where Muslims were culturally dominant but not unique, as other cultures came to coexist with them.27 Once the ‘dār al-islām’ had been formed, the definition of boundaries against the external others was just a matter of adapting a very well-established narrative.

The External Others One of the most enduring consequences of the Arab expansion was the long-lasting fragmentation of the Mediterranean; a fragmentation that was not only political but also cultural and, to some degree, social. The initial programme of universal rule 24 David Wasserstein, ‘¿Cómo salvó el islam a los judíos?’, Hesperia. Culturas del Mediterráneo, 10 (2015), 223–28. (pp. 227–28). 25 Quoted by Esperanza Alfonso, Islamic Culture Through Jewish Eyes: Al-Andalus from the Tenth to the Twelfth Century (Abingdon: Routledge, 2008), p. 12. 26 Alfonso, Islamic Culture Through Jewish Eyes, p. 12. 27 Marshall Hodgson, The Venture of Islam: Conscience and History in a World Civilization (Chicago: The Chicago University Press, 1974), pp. 57–60.

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stopped at the medieval frontiers or ‘thugūr’ that emerged in Iberia, Anatolia, Central Asia, and the Indian sub-continent. Beyond these limits, a disparate set of peoples, cultures and religions confronted the unity that was defined by the ‘dār al-islām’. In the same way as the Roman frontier or ‘limes’ separated imperial lands from the foreigners or ‘barbarians’, the ‘thugūr’ also defined a precise political and ideological division. Muslim legal experts and political theorists of the classical period drew a stark distinction between the lands of the so-called ‘dār al-islām’, the abode of Islam, and those pertaining to the ‘dār al-ḥarb’, or abode of war, where Islamic law was not observed, the lives and properties of Muslims had no security, and the practice of Holy War (‘jihād’) was legitimate. This division was reminiscent of the sharp distinction that classical authors perceived between the Roman Empire and the ‘externae gentes’, usually portrayed as enemies of the ‘humanitas’ that characterized Roman society and safely kept in check on the other side of the imperial ‘limes’. As a matter of fact, it is striking to realize how Romans and Muslims shared a similar perception of the peoples who lived beyond their boundaries. Authors like Cicero linked the terms ‘barbarus’, ‘barbaria’ or ‘homines barbari’ to a number of moral and cultural traits that included an instinctive and savage life, a rudimentary technology, ignorance, or moral debauchery. Horace went even further by insisting that the main duty of Rome was to fight against the barbarians and to avoid being contaminated by them. This perspective explains why there are so few descriptions by Roman authors of peoples and lands that lay outside the ‘limes’, Tacitus’ De origine et situ Germanorum being a notable exception.28 A similar pattern can be discerned in the intellectual production of Islamicate societies several centuries later. The few Arab descriptions of kingdoms and populations living outside the ‘abode of war’ were dominated by stereotypes, hostility, and terseness at least until the late Middle Ages. In Iberia, for instance, Arab chroniclers mention dozens of military expeditions of Muslim armies against the Christian north from the eighth century onwards, but they never bother to describe who were these enemies: only the lands are identified (‘Jillīqiya’, ‘Alaba wa l-Qila’, ‘Ifranj’) and occasionally the rulers with whom the Muslims engaged on war, but the identities of the peoples were covered by general epithets, like ‘‘ulūj’, or ‘rude, ignorant men’ (which seems to be an exact translation of ‘barbarus’) or ‘rūm’, which is mentioned in the Quran to designate the Byzantines and is employed by Andalusi authors to refer to the northern Christians.29 In the same vein, Arab geographers described the ‘dār al-islām’ as occupying the central climate of the seven climate zones into which the earth was divided, while other peoples lived in less favoured areas, something that resulted in their lack of science and civilization. In his Ṭabaqāt al-umam, the eleventh-century Andalusian writer Ibn Ṣā‘id al-Andalusī (d. 1070/462 ah) described the inhabitants of

28 Yves Albert Dauge, Le Barbare. Recherches sur la conception romaine de la barbarie et de la civilisation (Bruxelles: Latomus, 1981), pp. 127–31 and 161; Rudolph Peters, Islam and Colonialism: The Doctrine of Jihad in Modern History (Den Haag: Mouton, 1979), pp. 11–12. 29 Eva Lapiedra Gutiérrez, Cómo los musulmanes llamaban a los cristianos hispánicos (Valencia: Instituto de Cultura Juan Gil-Albert: 1997), pp. 114–40 and pp. 189–243.

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the West as dominated by ignorance, tyranny, and violence, whereas other peoples of the past and the present, like the Indians, the Persians, the Chaldeans, the Greeks, the Romans, the Egyptians, the Arabs, and the Hebrews, certainly did cultivate science.30 Many other examples of the classical period could be drawn from Arab writers which display a splendid contempt for strangers that is not very different from the disdain that those who lived within the boundaries of the ‘Romanitas’ showed for the barbarians. Obviously, I am not suggesting that Arab authors were familiar with the works of antiquity, not even that there was a line of thought that survived across the centuries connecting both perceptions. The point I am trying to make is that both Roman and Arab cultures showcased a similar self-confidence and a sense of cultural superiority that deemed ‘otherness’ as an inferior form of humanity. The Roman abhorrence of the barbarians has never been a matter of judgement in our days, as a widespread contention tends to support their own idea that their values and civilization were far superior than those held by the ‘externae gentes’ who lived beyond their frontiers. Islam has been less fortunate. The discussion of how Muslims viewed peoples living beyond Islamic societies in the so called ‘dār al-ḥarb’ has become a controversial topic since Bernard Lewis wrote The Muslim Discovery of Europe, a book in which he claimed that the medieval Muslim world hardly knew anything about Europe due to a mixture of arrogance, indifference, and self-indulgence. According to Lewis, this long-lasting view had devastating consequences when the economic development of the West began, and the long-term consequences of its political expansion took by surprise Muslim societies, which tried to react to it when it was too late.31 There are many reasons to criticize Lewis’ views, as authors like Edward Said and many others have rightly shown.32 Broad generalizations on the one hand, and far-fetched comparisons between the Muslim East and the West on the other make up an argument full of implicit and explicit political implications, but also void of a proper analysis of the consequences that entailed Western political, economic, and cultural expansionism in the colonial era. In a recent work, Daniel König has advocated a view that leaves aside stereotypes and concentrates on the ‘perceptions’ produced by different contexts, which also require specific analysis.33 This approach is correct and there is no doubt that in different times and places, and for a variety of reasons, medieval Islamicate societies had a vested interest on what was happening beyond their frontiers. However, and instead of trying to identify any shred of evidence that can lead us to dismiss the ‘moral’ charge against medieval Islam for having shown a distinctive haughtiness vis à vis the others, it is more interesting to analyse the issue from a 30 Ibn Ṣā‘id al-Andalusī, Kitāb ṭabaqāt al-umam, ed. by Louis Cheikho (Beirut: Imprimerie Catholique, 1912), pp. 7–8. 31 Bernard Lewis, The Muslim Discovery of Europe (London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson, 1982), pp. 296–302. 32 Edward Said, ‘Orientalism Reconsidered’, Cultural Critique, 1 (1985), 89–107 (p. 96). 33 Daniel König, Arabic-Islamic Views of the Latin West: Tracing the Emergence of Medieval Europe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), p. 23.

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strict historical perspective — no need therefore to draw post facto conclusions à la Lewis — and to accept that in the early period the ‘dār al-islām’ certainly became a self-contained cultural and ideological realm that hardly needed additional inputs from peoples who lived outside its limits; in this connection, a telling parallel can be established between the wide circulation of peoples, ideas, and goods within the realm of Islam and the sporadic and dire contacts with the West. * In this paper I have tried to explain why this was the case. If the configuration of early Islam and the great Arab conquests can be compared to a physical process, this would be that of the Big Bang, in which elements and particles attracted or repelled each other in a variety of forms and under a number of different circumstances, thus giving way to the cosmological stages of a universe that was constantly evolving. The same holds true for the rapid changes that we see from the middle of the seventh century onwards. At a first stage strict religious and ethnic boundaries were drawn, because the conquerors were hastily configuring new identities in a hostile environment. The concepts that defined this early opposition to the ‘others’ owed a good deal to ideas and practices that were inherited from Late Antiquity. As a result of this early stage, by the time that Muslims were no longer a minority and to be an Arab did not necessarily mean to be a member of the ruling elite, boundaries had been drawn and enforced in more or less restrictive ways depending on times and places. In the long run, however, the implementation of these boundaries changed. Language, descent, or culture no longer belonged only to the Arabs, as these qualities could also be shared by ‘others’; Islam had an undisputable social and political pre-eminence, but it was not infrequent to see Arabized Christians or Jews in top-ranking positions of the administration or even dominating the social scale. These conditions reflected some fundamental changes in Islamicate societies that gradually became more homogeneous as artisans, traders, bureaucrats, officials, scholars, and other urban classes formed their backbone irrespective of their religious affiliation. However, and this is important, the differentiating mechanisms and criteria remained in place, as they became embedded in notions that were still extant even though social conditions were not any longer those that had prevailed at the formative period. In the Middle Ages, those notions were ignored, reworked, or implemented depending on changing political or social circumstances, as they were not essential traits that determined reality. From all this there is still a further conclusion that might be useful for us today. Western views on the history of Islamicate societies have frequently been based on unacceptable generalizations and essentialist notions. The extraordinary dynamism of these societies and their social and cultural evolution has been denied or, even worse, has been considered as incomprehensible and irrational. The more we know about them, however, the more it becomes clear that they were deeply transformed by comprehensible and fascinating historical factors.

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Works Cited Primary Sources ‘Abd Allāh b. ‘Abd al-Ḥakam, Sīrat ‘Umar b. ‘Abd al-‘Azīz, ed. by Aḥmad ‘Ubayd (Beirut: ‘Ālam al-Kutub, 1984) Albarus, Indiculus Luminosus, ed. by Juan Gil, Corpus Scriptorum Muzarabicorum (Madrid: CSIC, 1973), pp. 270–315 Akhbār Majmū‘a, Colección de tradiciones, ed. by Emilio Lafuente Alcántara (Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia, 1867) Crónica mozárabe de 754. Continuatio Isidoriana Hispana, ed. by José Eduardo López Pereira (León: Centro de Estudios e Investigación San Isidoro, 2009) Ibn al-‘Aṭṭār, Kitāb al-wathā’iq wa l–sijillāt, ed. by Pedro Chalmeta (Madrid: Instituto Hispano Árabe de Cultura, 1983); study and translation by Pedro Chalmeta and Marina Marugán, Formulario notarial y judicial andalusí (Madrid: Fundación Matritense del Notariado, 2000) Ibn Ḥayyān, al-Muqtabis fī akhbār balad al-Andalus, ed. by ‘Abd al-Raḥmān ‘Alī al-Ḥaŷŷī (Beirut: Dār al-ḥikma, 1965); trans. by Emilio García Gómez, El califato de Córdoba en el Muqtabis de Ibn Ḥayyān. Anales Palatinos del califa de Córdoba al-Ḥakam II por ‘Īsà ibn Aḥmad al-Rāzī (360–64 = 971–75 J.C.) (Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia, 1967) Ibn al-Qūṭiya, Ta’rīkh ifititāḥ al-Andalus, ed. by Pascual de Gayangos, Eduardo Saavedra, and Francisco Codera, and trans. by Julián Ribera (Madrid: Real Academia de la Historia, 1926); English trans. by David James, Early Islamic Spain: The History of Ibn al-Qūṭiya (Abingdon: Routledge, 2009) Ibn Ṣā‘id al-Andalusī, Kitāb ṭabaqāt al-umam, ed. by Louis Cheikho (Beirut: Imprimerie Catholique, 1912) al-Khushanī, Kitāb al-quḍāt bi Qurṭuba, ed. and trans. by Julián Ribera, Historia de los jueces de Córdoba por Aljoxani (Madrid: Ibérica, 1914) Samuel Calamun, Apocalypse, ed. by Joseph Ziadeh, ‘L´Apocalypse de Samuel, supérieur de deir-elqalamoun’, Revue de lÓrient Chrétien, 20 (1915–1917), 374–404 Secondary Works Alfonso, Esperanza, Islamic Culture through Jewish Eyes: Al-Andalus from the Tenth to the Twelfth Century (Abingdon: Routledge, 2008) Al-Qāḍī, Wadād, ‘The Names of Estates in State Registers Before and After the Arabization of the Dīwāns’, in Umayyad Legacies: Medieval Memories from Syria to Spain, ed. by A. Borrut and P. Cobb (Leiden: Brill, 2010), pp. 255–80 Cohen, Mark, ‘What Was the Pact of ‘Umar? A Literary-Historical Study’, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam, 23 (1999), 100–57 Crone, Patricia, Roman, Provincial and Islamic Law: The Origins of the Islamic Patronate (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987) Dauge, Yves Albert, Le Barbare. Recherches sur la conception romaine de la barbarie et de la civilisation (Bruxelles: Latomus, 1981)

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Donner, Fred, Muḥammad and the Believers: At the Origins of Islam (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2010) Encyclopaedia of Islam, ed. by P. Bearman, Th. Bianquis, C. E. Bosworth, E. van Donzel, and W. P. Heinrichs, 2nd edn (Leyden: Brill 1960–2007) Fierro, Maribel, ‘Yaḥyà b. Yaḥyà (m. 234/848). El inteligente de al-Andalus’, in Biografías y género biográfico en el occidente islámico, ed. by María Luisa Ávila Navarro (Madrid: CSIC, 1997), pp. 269–344 Fisher, Greg, Between Empires: Arabs, Romans, and Sasanians in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011) Granja, Fernando de la, ‘Fiestas cristianas en al-Andalus. (Materiales para su estudio)’, alAndalus, 35 (1970) 119–42 Hernández Félix, Ana, Cuestiones legales en el islam temprano: La ‘Utbuyya y el proceso de formación de la sociedad andalusí (Madrid: CSIC, 2003) Hodgson, Marshall, The Venture of Islam: Conscience and History in a World Civilization (Chicago: The Chicago University Press, 1974) Hoyland, Robert, ‘Arab Kings, Arab Tribes and the Beginnings of Arab Historical Memory in Late Roman Epigraphy’, in From Hellenism to Islam: Cultural and Linguistic Change in the Roman Near East, ed. by Hannah M. Cotton, Lennart Sundelin, Sofía Torallas Tovar, and Amalia Zomeño (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), pp. 374–400 ———, ‘Epigraphy and the Emergence of an Arab Identity’, in From al-Andalus to Khurasan: Documents from the Medieval Muslim World, ed. by Petra Sijpesteijn, Robert G. Hoyland, Jonathan J. Price, and David J. Wasserstein (Leiden: Brill, 2007), pp. 217–42 ———, Seeing Islam as Others Saw It: A Survey and Evaluation of Christian, Jewish and Zoroastrian Writings on Early Islam (Princeton: The Darwin Press, 1997) Kister, Meir J., ‘Do not assimilate yourselves: lā tashabbahū’, Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam, 12 (1989), 321–71 König, Daniel G., Arabic-Islamic Views of the Latin West: Tracing the Emergence of Medieval Europe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015) Lapiedra Gutiérrez, Eva, Cómo los musulmanes llamaban a los cristianos hispánicos (Valencia: Instituto de Cultura Juan Gil-Albert: 1997) Levy-Rubin, Milka, Non-Muslims in the Early Islamic Empire: From Surrender to Coexistence (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011) Lewis, Bernard, The Muslim Discovery of Europe (London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson, 1982) Manzano Moreno, Eduardo, Conquistadores, emires y califas. Los omeyas y la formación de al-Andalus (Barcelona: Crítica, 2006) ———, ‘La rebelión de los astures en las fuentes árabes’, Mainaké, 36 (2016), 279–88 Peters, Rudolph, Islam and Colonialism: The Doctrine of Jihad in Modern History (Den Haag: Mouton, 1979) Pohl, Walter, ‘Introduction. Strategies of Identification: A Methodological Profile’, in Strategies of Identification: Ethnicity and Religion in Early Medieval Europe, ed. by Walter Pohl and Gerda Heydemann (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013)

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Robinson, Chase F., ‘Abd al-Malik (Oxford: Oneworld, 2005) Said, Edward, ‘Orientalism Reconsidered’, Cultural Critique, 1 (1985), 89–107 Sijpesteijn, Petra, Why Arabic? (Leiden: Leiden University Press, 2012) Sourdel, Dominique, ‘Un pamphlet musulman anonyme d’epoque ‘abbāside contre les Chrétiens’, Revue des Etudes Islamiques, 34 (1966), 1–33 Wasserstein, David, ‘¿Cómo salvó el islam a los judíos?’, Hesperia. Culturas del Mediterráneo, 10 (2015), 223–28 Wilken, Robert, John Chrysostom and the Jews: Rhetoric and Reality in the Late 4th Century (Berkeley: University of California, 1983)

Patrick S. Mar schner

The Familiar Stranger Biblical Perception and Depiction of Muslims in Christian Chronicles of the Iberian Peninsula, c. 900

Introduction When I came up with the title for my paper, I only later discovered that ‘the familiar stranger’ was in fact the name of a theory by Stanley Milgram, who, with reference to one of his students, defines ‘the familiar stranger’ as follows: ‘To become a familiar stranger a person (1) has to be observed, (2) repeatedly for a certain time period, and (3) without any interaction’.1 This last point raises an essential difference with what I wanted to call a ‘familiar stranger’ here. It simply does not fit with the encounter of Christians and Muslims around the year 900, because they did interact. Nevertheless, mere interaction is not the only way to get to know the cultural and religious ‘Other’, who in the case of this paper are the Arabs depicted by Christian chroniclers. Another kind of perceived familiarity could be transmitted knowledge. This is what I want to focus on.2 To begin, it is necessary to give a brief introduction to the history of the Umayyad conquest of the Iberian Peninsula, to bring to mind the contemporary circumstances as well as occurrences that caused the chroniclers to depict their history as they did. In 711, the Visigothic kingdom fell in the face of the Umayyad invasion of the Peninsula. The last Visigothic king, Roderic, died in battle trying to defend his

1 Stanley Milgram, ‘The Familiar Stranger: An Aspect of Urban Anonymity’, in The Individual in a Social World: Essays and Experiments, ed. by John Sabini and Maury Silver, McGraw-Hill Series in Social Psychology (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1992), pp. 68–71 (p. 68). 2 Thus, what I am going to explain here is similar to the third distinction of ‘Other’ in the introduction. Yet, the short distanced ‘Self ’ that seems foreign, thematized in the introduction, differs from the here investigated ‘Other’, coming from far away but nevertheless seeming familiar. In any case, this study predominantly deals with the introductions’ fifth distinction of ‘Other’, the world-view based conceptions of ‘Otherness’ and, furthermore, the process of their emergence. Dr Patrick S. Marschner  •  ([email protected]) worked for the FWF-project ‘Bible and Historiography in Transcultural Iberian Societies, 8th to 12th centuries’ at the Institute for Medieval Research of the Austrian Academy of Sciences and wrote his PhD thesis at the University of Vienna on the biblical elements in Christian-Iberian historical writing. ‘Otherness’ in the Middle Ages, ed. by Hans-Werner Goetz and Ian Wood, IMR 25 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2021), pp. 253–274 © FHG10.1484/M.IMR-EB.5.123594

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kingdom. By the 730s nearly the entire Iberian Peninsula was under Umayyad rule. Only the territories in the Northwest remained under Christian control. In the first third or perhaps middle of the eighth century, the Asturian kingdom emerged.3 Abd ar-Rahman I established the Emirate of Córdoba in 756.4 Hence, from then on there were two rival political powers in the Peninsula. Shortly before the foundation of the Emirate, the earliest surviving ChristianLatin chronicles after the Umayyad invasion were written in the South of the Iberian Peninsula. They already thematized the conquest and the cultural and religious ‘Other’, but in a manner that was, in comparison with later historiographical testimonies, very careful and non-polemical.5 After a gap of over one hundred years, the next surviving chronicles were written at the court of the Asturian King Alfonso III in 881 and 883. They are known as the Chronicle of Albelda6 and the Prophetic Chronicle.7 These works will be the main points of reference for the argument I would like to present

3 Ludwig Vones, Geschichte der Iberischen Halbinsel im Mittelalter (711–1480): Reiche – Kronen – Regionen (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1993), p. 35. 4 Vones, Geschichte, p. 28. 5 These are the Chronica anni 741 vel Chronica Byzantia Arabica, ed. by Juan Gil [Fernández], in Chronica Hispana saeculi viii et ix, Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Mediaevalis, 65 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2018), pp. 307–23, and the Chronica anni 754 vel Chronica Muzarabica, ed. by Juan Gil [Fernández], in Chronica Hispana saeculi viii et ix, Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Mediaevalis, 65 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2018), pp. 325–82. 6 Chronica Albeldensis, ed. by Juan Gil [Fernández], in Chronica Hispana saeculi viii et ix, Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Mediaevalis, 65 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2018), pp. 435–84. 7 Chronica Prophetica, ed. by Yves Bonnaz, in Chroniques Asturiennes (Fin ixe Siècle), Sources d’histoire médiévale, 20 (Paris: Editions du Centre national de la recherche scientifique, 1987), pp. 2–9. The first, who identified and edited the Prophetic Chronicle as independent text was Manuel Gómez-Moreno, ‘Las primeras crónicas de la Reconquista: El ciclo de Alfonso iii’, Boletín de la Real Academia de la Historia, 100 (1932), 562–628 (pp. 575–76). The discussion about the independence of the Prophetic Chronicle continues until today. Examples of scholars, who exclude the Prophetic Chronicle from the Chronicle of Albelda are Jan Prelog, Die Chronik Alfons’ iii: Untersuchung und kritische Edition der vier Redaktionen, Europäische Hochschulschriften, Reihe III, Geschichte und ihre Hilfswissenschaften, 134 (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 1980), pp. cxliii–cxlvi; Yves Bonnaz, Chroniques Asturiennes (fin IXe siècle), Sources d’histoire médiévale, 20 (Paris: Éditions du Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, 1987), pp. lx–lxiii; Alexander Pierre Bronisch, Reconquista und Heiliger Krieg: Die Deutung des Krieges im christlichen Spanien von den Westgoten bis ins frühe 12. Jahrhundert, Spanische Forschungen der Görresgesellschaft, zweite Reihe, 35 (Münster: Aschendorff, 1998), p. 145, who pleads for the separation of the Prophetic Chronicle due to its independent appearance in the famous Codex of Roda; Rodrigo Furtado, ‘The Chronica Prophetica in MS. Madrid, RAH Aem. 78’, in Forme di accesso al sapere in età tardoantica e altomedievale 6: Raccolta delle relazioni discusse nell’incontro internazionale di Trieste, Biblioteca Statale, 24–25 settembre 2015, ed. by Lucio Cristante and Vanni Veronesi, Polymnia. Studi di filologie classica, 19 (Trieste: Edizioni Università di Trieste, 2016), pp. 75–100 (pp. 77–80). The main opponent to the independence of the Prophetic Chronicle, who recently revived the discussion, is Juan Gil [Fernández], Chronica Hispana saeculi viii et ix, Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Medievalis, 65 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2018), pp. 212–15. I will not commit myself to one of these standpoints. Since my approach to the Asturian testimonies differs essentially from these scholars, the actual independence or non-independence of the Prophetic Chronicle plays no role in my argumentation. Nevertheless, every time the name ‘Prophetic Chronicle’ is mentioned in this article, I refer to those passages of the text corpus called the Chronicle of Albelda that some

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here. They belong to the group of chronicles, known as Asturian Chronicles, which also involve the different redactions of the Chronicle of Alfonso III. Since the Chronicle of Albelda and the Prophetic Chronicle do not differ essentially from the strategies of identifying the cultural and religious ‘Other’ and together form one text corpus, it is appropriate to first describe the emergence of the biblical depiction in these texts. Afterwards, this article will investigate how these strategies of identification were advanced in the Chronicle of Alfonso III, composed some years later at the same court. It is common opinion in modern scholarship that the authors of these ‘Asturian Chronicles’ made use of reports about the martyrs of Córdoba. Such reports could have been brought to the North by Mozarabic refugees — or at least migrants — fleeing the repression against them following political changes in the Emirate of Córdoba in the middle of the ninth century.8 Christian-Muslim encounters also took place on the frontiers of the Asturian kingdom. These two facts — Christian-Muslim encounters and the knowledge of the situation of the Mozarabs, brought from the South to the North of the Peninsula — can be classified as the category of ‘empirical ways’ to make a stranger familiar. They are based on experience. Yet, as we will see, the depiction of the cultural and religious ‘Other’ in the historical writing of the Asturian kingdom was not only based on these experiences. It was also combined with Bible-based ‘traditional knowledge’ of ‘Others’, which I will explore in what follows.

The Ethnonyms for the Foreign Rulers in Ninth-Century Asturian Historical Writing Saracens

The Chronicle of Albelda offers at least two narrative threads. One of them draws a line from Roman history, beginning with Romulus as founder of Rome, via the classical Roman emperors and the Byzantine emperors to the Visigothic kings, who are mentioned partly in parallel.9 This combined order of Byzantine emperors and Visigothic kings ends with the reigns of the Emperor Leo in Constantinople and,

identify as independent text. Furthermore, I chose the edition of Yves Bonnaz, since the style of the Prophetic Chronicle differs a lot from the other parts of the Chronicle of Albelda and, therefore, his separate edition of the respective passages is more practical for the present study. 8 Cf. Thomas Deswarte, ‘La prophétie de 883 dans le royaume d’Oviedo: attente adventiste ou espoir d’une liberation politique?’, Mélanges de Science Religieuse, 58 (2001), 39–56 (p. 47). See also Ann Christys, Christians in al-Andalus (711–1000), Culture and civilization in the Middle East (Richmond: Curzon Press, 2002), pp. 92–94. Furthermore, Igor Pochoshajew, Die Märtyrer von Cordoba: Christen im muslimischen Spanien des 9. Jahrhunderts (Frankfurt am Main: Lembeck, 2007), pp. 157–60. See also Christofer Zwanzig, ‘Monastische Migration aus dem Andalus im 8.–10. Jahrhundert: Selbst- und Fremdwahrnehmungen’, in Von Mozarabern und Mozarabismen: Zur Vielfalt kultureller Ordnungen auf der mittelalterlichen Iberischen Halbinsel, ed. by Matthias Maser, Klaus Herbers, Michele Camillo Ferrari, and Hartmut Bobzin, Spanische Forschungen der Görresgesellschaft, zweite Reihe, 41 (Münster: Aschendorff, 2014), pp. 217–33 (p. 217). 9 Cf. Chronica Albeldensis, cap. xiii, ed. by Gil [Fernández], pp. 444–54.

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depending on the manuscript, the Kings Wittiza and Roderic in Hispania.10 In four surviving manuscripts the cultural and religious ‘Other’ is mentioned for the first time during Leo’s reign: ‘Tunc Sarraceni Spania obtenta regnum Gotorum exterminator’ (At that time, the Saracens occupied Hispania and destroyed the kingdom of the Goths),11 and ‘Tunc Sarrazeni (sic) Spaniam possederunt et regnum Gotorum era dcclii’ (At that time, in the era 752, the Saracens occupied Hispania and the kingdom of the Goths).12 Apparently, the invaders are called ‘Saracens’ in the Chronicle of Albelda. This, so far, offers no concept of identification, other than the fact that the chronicler had an ethnonym for the invading group. The meaning of this specific ethnonym in the Chronicle of Albelda will be clarified below. The next passage, referring to the cultural and religious ‘Other’, can be found in the description of the reign of King Sisebut, which is already in the second narrative thread that deals with the kings of the Goths and the Visigoths.13 The final sentence on the reign of Sisebut states: ‘Tunc nefandus Mahomat in Africa nequitiam legis stultis populis predicabit’ (At that time, the abominable Muhammad preached his law of worthlessness in Africa to a foolish people).14 Although, this statement has no concept of identification per se, yet it is a judgement that is important for the author’s understanding of the following terms of identification. At the end of the list of Gothic and Visigothic kings the chronicler writes about the last Visigothic king Roderic: Rudericus rg. an. iii. Istius tempore era dcclii farmalio terre Sarraceni euocati Spanias occupant regnumque Gotorum capiunt, quem aduc usque ex parte pertinaciter possedunt. Et cum eis Xp̅iani die noctuque bella iniunt et cotidie confligunt […]. (Roderic reigned for three years. During that time, in the era 752, the Saracens, profiting from unrest in the kingdom, occupied Hispania and took the rule over the kingdom of the Goths, which they kept occupied continuously until today. And the Christians fight against them every day and night […]).15

10 Chronica Albeldensis, cap. xiii, § 69, ed. by Gil [Fernández], p. 454. 11 If not mentioned otherwise, all translations by Patrick S. Marschner. Latin text in Chronica Albeldensis, cap. xiii, § 69 EPS, ed. by Gil [Fernández], p. 454. 12 Latin text in Chronica Albeldensis, cap. xiii, § 69 A marg., ed. by Gil [Fernández], p. 454. The Spanish Era is an alternative calender. The era 752 corresponds to the year ad 714. In the Asturian Chronicles it was common but false opinion that the last Visigothic king Roderic ruled for three years and died in 714, whereas he died in his first year in 711. For the reasoning of this false statement on the length of his reign see Juan Gil [Fernández], ‘Judíos y Cristianos en Hispania (s. viii y ix)’, Hispania Sacra, 31 (1978–1979), pp. 9–88 (p. 66). See also Prelog, Die Chronik, pp. 152 and cli; Bronisch, Reconquista, pp. 383–85; Furtado, ‘The Chronica Prophetica’, pp. 81–82 and Gil [Fernández], Chronica Hispana, pp. 219–20. 13 Cf. Chronicla Albeldensis, cap. xiv, § 24, ed. by Gil [Fernández], p. 458. 14 Latin text in Chronica Albeldensis, cap. xiv, § 24, ed. by Gil [Fernández], p. 458. Cf. Bronisch, Reconquista, p. 141. 15 Latin text in Chronica Albeldensis, cap. xiv, § 34, ed. by Gil [Fernández], p. 460.

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This is basically a revision of the abovementioned passage, adding only the reign of Roderic to it. The continuation of this passage is important for the further investigation. In three of the surviving manuscripts we read: ‘dum predestinatio usque diuina dehinc eos expelli crudeliter iubeat’ (until the divine predestination commands that they will be cruelly damned).16 This addition points towards an Ezekiel-based prophecy that is part of the Prophetic Chronicle, in which it is predicted that the enemies of the Chosen People will soon be expelled from the Promised Land due to God’s order.17 This will be thematized later. What can be seen so far, is that from the chronicler’s point of view God played a major role in the interaction with the transcultural and religious ‘Other’ invading the former Visigothic kingdom. Therefore, the identification of the Saracens somehow relates to religious knowledge. Ishmaelites and Hagarenes

The next reference to the Saracens in the Chronicle of Albelda occurs in the description of Pelayo and his rebellion against the foreign rulers. Et postquam a Sarracenis Spania occupata est, iste primum contra eis sumsit reuellionem in Asturias, regnante Iuzeph in Cordoba et in Iegione cibitate Sarracenorum iussa super Astures procurante Monnuzza. Sicque hab eo hostis Ismahelitarum cum Alcamane interficitur et Oppa episcopus capitur postremoque Monnuzza interficitur. Sicque ex tunc reddita est libertas populo Xp̅iano. Tunc etiam qui remanserunt gladio de ipsa oste Sarracenorum in Libana monte ruente iudicio Dei opprimuntur et Astororum regnum diuina prouidentia exoritur. (And after Hispania has been occupied by the Saracens, he was the first, who started a rebellion against them in Asturias while Yusuf ruled in Córdoba and Munuza commanded over Asturias from Gijón, the city ruled by the Saracens. Thus, the Ishmaelite enemy was killed by him along with Alqamah, bishop Oppa was captured and finally Munuza was killed. In such way, freedom returned to the Christian people. At that time, those of the hostile Saracens, who could escape his [Pelayo’s] sword, were buried by an avalanche near Liébana, by divine judgement. Afterwards, the kingdom of the Asturias rose due to divine providence).18

16 Latin text in Chronica Albeldensis, cap. xiv, § 34 A Vat Moiss, ed. by Gil [Fernández], p. 460. 17 Cf. John Wreglesworth, ‘The Chronicle of Alfonso III and its Significance for the Historiography of the Asturian Kingdom 718–910 ad: A Critical Study of the Content, Purpose and Themes of a Late 9th-Century Historical Text’ (Unpublished PhD thesis, University of Leeds, 1995), p. 195 (available online at . 18 Latin text in Chronica Albeldensis, cap. xv, § 1, ed. by Gil [Fernández], pp. 463–64. Concerning the presumably false dated reign of Yusuf see Juan Gil Fernández, Cronicas Asturianas. Crónica de Alfonso III (Rotense y ‘A Sebastián’), Crónica Albeldense (y ‘Profética’), Universidad de Oviedo, publicaciones del Departemento de Historia Medieval, 11 (Oviedo: Universidad de Oviedo, Servicio de publicaciones, 1985), p. 247 n. 233.

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The chronicler does not seem to differentiate between Ishmaelites and Saracens. In the narration, the Saracens invaded Hispania and Pelayo rebelled against the Saracens. Yet, in this passage the term ‘Ishmaelites’ appears. Nevertheless, it cannot be understood as different group with a different name. Additionally, the following explanation from the Chronicle of Albelda shows the synonymous meaning of ‘Saracens’ and ‘Ishmaelites’ in the context of the Asturian chronicles. Sarraceni perberse se putant esse ex Sarra; uerius Agareni ab Agar et Smaelite ab Smael […]. (The Saracens perversely think themselves to be descended from Sarah. In truth, they are Hagarenes from Hagar and Ishmaelites from Ishmael).19 According to this definition, which is clearly influenced by Isidore’s Etymologies,20 in the textual corpus that constitutes the Chronicle of Albelda the Saracens are equal to the Ishmaelites as well as to the Hagarenes, yet, in the opinion of the chronicler, they just gave themselves a wrong name. Apparently, the basis of the chronicler’s identification is biblical knowledge. The ‘Ishmaelites’ are the descendants of Ishmael, the son of Abraham and Hagar. This is also why the ‘Ishmaelites’ are ‘Hagarenes’. Finally, the chronicler identifies the ‘Ishmaelites’ and the ‘Hagarenes’ with the so-called ‘Saracens’, assuming that this ethnonym was chosen wrongly by themselves according to the biblical story of Abraham, his wife, his bondwoman, and his two sons, each born from one of the women.21 He correlates the contemporary cultural and religious ‘Other’ with a biblical figure. Furthermore, he disagrees with the use of the ethnonym ‘Saracens’, knowing that in Christian tradition the Jews, and also the Christians, were the descendants of Isaac, the son of Sara, who was the wife of Abraham and not just his bondwoman. The reason for arguing against using the ethnonym ‘Saracens’ for the invaders could be based on a hierarchy of the women

19 Latin text in Chronica Albeldensis, cap. xvi, § 1, ed. by Gil [Fernández], p. 474; trans. by Kenneth B. Wolf, ‘Chronica Prophetica’, in Medieval Texts in Translation [accessed 12 June 2017]. For the sake of uniformity, I turned ‘Agarenes’ in Wolf ’s translation into ‘Hagarenes’. 20 Isidore of Seville, Etymologiarum sive Originum Libri xx, ed. by Wallace Martin Lindsay, in Isidori Hispalensis Episcopi Etymologiarum sive Originum Libri xx, 1 (Oxford: E. Typographeo Clarendoniano, 1987), ix, ii, 6: ‘Ismael filius Abraham, a quo Ismaelitae, qui nunc corrupto nomine Saraceni, quasi a Sarra, et Agareni ab Agar’ (A son of Abraham was Ishmael, from whom arose the Ishmaelites, who are now called, with corruption of the name, Saracens, as if they descended from Sarah, and the Hagarenes from Hagar). English translation: The Etymologies, trans. by Stephen A. Barney, W. J. Lewis, J. A. Beach, and Oliver Berghof, in The Etymologies of Isidore of Seville, ed. by Stephen A. Barney, W. J. Lewis, J. A. Beach, and Oliver Berghof (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), pp. 33–406 (p. 192). For the sake of uniformity, I changed ‘Agarenes’ and ‘Agar’ into ‘Hagarenes’ and ‘Hagar’. Cf. Hans-Werner Goetz, Die Wahrnehmung anderer Religionen und christlich-abendländisches Selbstverständnis im frühen und hohen Mittelalter (5. – 12. Jahrhundert), vol. i (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2013), p. 251. 21 Cf. Genesis 16 and 21. 1–21. The same interpretation appears already in the works of Jerome. Cf. Dolores Oliver Pérez, ‘Sarraceno: su etimología e historia’, Al-qantara: Revista de estudios árabes, 15.1 (1994), 99–130 (pp. 100 and 104).

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from the biblical story and their sons in Christian tradition. The hierarchical interpretation of Sara and Hagar, respectively Isaac and Ishmael, appears in Paul’s Letter to the Galatians: scriptum est enim quoniam Abraham duos filios habuit unum de ancilla et unum de libera sed qui de ancilla secundum carnem natus est qui autem de libera per repromissionem quae sunt per allegoriam dicta haec enim sunt duo testamenta unum quidem a monte Sina in servitutem generans quae est Agar Sina enim mons est in Arabia qui coniunctus est ei quae nunc est Hierusalem et servit cum filiis eius illa autem quae sursum est Hierusalem libera est quae est mater nostra scriptum est enim laetare sterilis quae non paris erumpe et exclama quae non parturis quia multi filii desertae magis quam eius quae habet virum nos autem fratres secundum Isaac promissionis filii sumus sed quomodo tunc qui secundum carnem natus fuerat persequebatur eum qui secundum spiritum ita et nunc sed quid dicit scriptura eice ancillam et filium eius non enim heres erit filius ancillae cum filio liberae itaque fratres non sumus ancillae filii sed liberae qua libertate nos Christus liberavit. (For it is written, that Abraham had two sons, the one by a bondmaid, the other by a freewoman. But he who was of the bondwoman was born after the flesh; but he of the freewoman was by promise. Which things are an allegory: for these are the two covenants; the one from the Mount Sinai, which gendered to bondage, which is Hagar. […] Now we, brethren, as Isaac was, are the children of promise. But as then he that was born after the flesh persecuted him that was born after the Spirit, even so it is now. Nevertheless what said the scripture? Cast out the bondwoman and her son: for the son of the bondwoman shall not be heir with the son of the freewoman. So then, brethren, we are not children of the bondwoman, but of the free).22 Thus, in the Chronicle of Albelda the Saracens are identified with the Ishmaelites and the Hagarenes and all three of these ethnonyms are used synonymously, even though the chronicler protests against the Saracens calling themselves like this. Since biblical knowledge produced this identification, one can state that the appearance of the cultural and religious ‘Other’ has been adapted to a story of ethnic identification, which was already known, or which the chronicler was familiar with. Furthermore, in the so-called Prophetic Chronicle, written at the Asturian court in 883, ‘Ishmaelites’ is a term used to identify the Saracens. The following passage marks the beginning of the text. Factum est uerbum Domini ad Ezechiel dicens: Fili hominis, pone faciem tuam contra Ismael et loquere ad eos dicens: ‘Fortissimum gentibus dedi te […] Verumtamen, quia dereliquisti Dominum Deum tuum, circumagam te, et derelinquam te […] et finibus Libyae peries, tu et omnia agmina tua […]’.

22 Galatians 4. 22–31.

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(The word of the Lord was made known to Ezekiel, saying: Son of man, set your face against Ishmael and speak to them saying: ‘I gave you power over the other people […] But because you forsook your Lord God I will turn you about, I will forsake you […] and in the territory of Libya you and all of your multitude will perish […]’).23 This is an alleged quote from the book of Ezekiel. The original Ezekiel verse reads: et factus est sermo Domini ad me dicens fili hominis pone faciem tuam contra Gog terram Magog principem capitis Mosoch et Thubal et vaticinare de eo et dices ad eum haec dicit Dominus Deus ecce ego ad te Gog principem capitis Mosoch et Thubal et circumagam te et ponam frenum in maxillis tuis et educam te et omnem exercitum tuum equos et equites vestitos loricis universos multitudinem magnam hastam et clypeum arripientium et gladium. (The word of the Lord came to me saying: Son of Man, set your face towards Gog […] and say: thus says the Lord God: I am against you, Gog […] I will turn you round and put hooks into your jaws […]).24 Obviously, the chronicler adapted this quote to the Iberian situation. Neither Ishmael nor the Ishmaelites appear in the book of Ezekiel. In the Bible, the word of God should be made known to ‘Gog’, a negatively connoted people, a punishment of God, coming from the North to bring foreign rule over the Promised Land. Therefore, the role of the contemporary enemy has been allocated to the biblical enemy of the Chosen People. Simultaneously, the role of Iberian Christians has been allocated, too: due to this depiction of the ‘Other’, they became the new Chosen People, punished for their sins and their own history was depicted in a biblical context to bring substance to a moral statement with essential political consequences and to identify the cultural and religious ‘Other’ as well as the ‘Self ’.25 Consequently, in the Prophetic Chronicle the ethnonym ‘Ishmaelites’ is also loaded with negative connotations. The conquerors 23 Latin text in Chronica Prophetica, ed. by Bonnaz, p. 2; trans. by Wolf, Chronica Prophetica. 24 Ezekiel 38. 1–4. 25 Additionally, one has to mention, that the ‘good people’ in the quote of the Prophetic Chronicle are Gog, whereas in Ezekiel they are the Israelites. Latin text in Chronica Prophetica, ed. by Bonnaz, p. 2: ‘Et ingredieris terram Gog pede plano, et concides Gog gladio tuo, et pones pedem in ceruicem eius, et facies eos tibi seruos tributaries’ ([…] and so that you would enter the land of Gog on foot and kill Gog with your sword and put your foot on his neck and make them tributaries to you […]), trans. by Wolf, Chronica Prophetica. The reason for this is the tradition of an etymological coherence between ‘Gog’ and the ‘Goths’, going back to Ambrose and later put in words again by Isidore. Cf. Herwig Wolfram, Die Goten: Von den Anfängen bis zur Mitte des sechsten Jahrhunderts, Entwurf einer historischen Ethnographie (München: Beck, 2009), pp. 39–40. The chronicler himself reminds on this: ‘Gog quidem gens Gothorum est et sicut pro omne genus Ismaelitarum solus Ismael suprascribitur cum dicit propheta: “pone faciem tuam contra Ismael”, ita et pro omne genus Gothorum Gog nominator’ (Certainly Gog is to be understood as the people of the Goths and just as Ishmael is written above to signify all of the race of the Ishmaelites when the prophet says, ‘Set your face against Ishmael’, so Gog represents all of the people of the Goths); Latin text in Chronica Prophetica, ed. by Bonnaz, p. 2; trans. by Wolf, Chronica Prophetica.

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of the Iberian Peninsula are twice identified with an Old Testament people — first, nominally, with the descendants of Abraham’s son Ishmael and second, analogously, with the people of Gog, sent by God to punish his Chosen People for having sinned against him. The alleged Ezekiel quote implies the regaining of Christian rule over the Iberian Peninsula. It appears as a threat of punishment against the Ishmaelites and refers to a biblical passage, in which the addressees of this threat actually lose against God’s Chosen People. Since passages with exactly this subject embrace the rest of the text, this statement of the imminent end of foreign rule is the main topic of the Prophetic Chronicle. The texts ends stressing this eschatological thought: Remanent usque ad diem Sancti Martini iii idus novembris, menses vii, et erunt complete anni clxviiii, et incipiet annus centesimus septuagesimus quo, dum Sarraceni complerint, secundum praedictum Ezechielis prophetae superius adnotatum, expectabitur ultio inimicorum advenire et salus christianorum adesse. Quod praestet omnipotens Deus ut, sicut filii eius Domini nostril Iesu Christi cruore universum mundum dignatus est a potestate diabolic redimere, ita, proximiori tempore, Ecclesiam suam iubeat ab Ismaelitarum iugo eripere; ipse qui vivit in saecula saeculorum. Amen. (They [that is, the Saracens] will remain until St Martin’s Day, the third day of the Ides of November; in seven months they will have completed 169 years, and the one hundred seventieth year will have begun, the year when the Saracens will have completed [their allotted time], according to the above-noted prediction of the prophet Ezechiel. [At that time] we expect vengeance against our enemies to come and the salvation of the Christians to begin. Omnipotent God commands this so that just as the unclean universe was deemed worthy to be ransomed from the power of the devil by the blood of His Son, Our Lord Jesus Christ, so in the coming year he will order his church to be snatched from the yoke of the Ishmaelites. He who lives and rules forever and ever. Amen).26 Hence, the author argues for the imminent end of foreign rule with two arguments — the true fate in Christ and the reference to an authoritative text, the Old Testament. Its content was understood as foretelling the course of history. Therefore, the adaptation of Ezekiel to current circumstances justified the statement of the upcoming demise of the Saracens. The biblical story, combined with the role allocation of the Saracens as a contemporary Gog, was understood as a pre-announcement of their ‘own’ course of the history.27

26 Latin text in Chronica Prophetica, ed. by Bonnaz, p. 9; trans. by Wolf, Chronica Prophetica. 27 Generally on ethnonyms and biblical elements in the Prophetic Chronicle cf. Patrick Sebastian Marschner, ‘The Depiction of the Saracen Foreign Rule in the Prophetic Chronicle Through Biblical Knowledge’, Journal of Transcultural Medieval Studies, 5.2 (2018), 215–39.

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Chaldeans

While describing the contemporary circumstances in the Emirate of Córdoba during the reign of Emir Muhammad I in the late ninth century, the author of the Chronicle of Albelda adds another ethnonym: Mahomat qui nunc rex in Cordoua extat, sub quo Caldeorum regnum dirutum erit, si Domino placuerit. (Under Muhammad, who now is king in Córdoba, the realm of the Chaldeans has been ruined, as it delights the Lord).28 Muhammad I was an Umayyad, ruling over those, who already were called ‘Saracens’ or ‘Ishmaelites’. Thus, ‘Chaldeans’ is another ethnonym for that same group of people. Again, it is an ethnonym of biblical origin. Almost every time the Chaldeans appear in the Bible they play a negative role. They are a punishment, sent by God against his Chosen People.29 Through this identifier the foreign rule in the Iberian Peninsula as well as the invasion back in 711 was perceived as being the punishment of God.30 A further insight, besides the synonymous use of now four ethnonyms and the depiction of the cultural and religious ‘Other’ as punishment from God, is the self-identification involved with this designation. In identifying the foreign rulers with the Chaldeans, a scourge of God against the Israelites, the chronicler identifies the cultural and religious ‘Self ’ as the new Chosen People. Through this depiction of the ‘Other’, Iberian Christians became the spearhead of Christianity against the threat of rival peoples and, furthermore, the focus of salvation history. For the chronicler, the role of the leading people in salvation history has been transferred to the Asturian kingdom.31 This fits perfectly into the structure of the Chronicle of Albelda, which explains universal history from the creation to Roman history and its rulers to Iberian History and the Iberian Christians, understood as the new Chosen People. The identification of the cultural and religious ‘Other’ with the Chaldeans also appears in the Prophetic Chronicle. Here, the author stresses the parallels to the Chaldeans by adding a biblical quote to the description of the conquest of the Iberian Peninsula. Occulto quoque Dei iudicio qui olim per prophetam dixerat: ‘Ecce ego suscitabo super uos Chaldaeos gentem amaram et uelocem, ambulantem super latitudinem terrae, ut possideat tabernacula non sua, cuius equi uelociores lupis uespertinis et facies eorum, uentus urens, ad arguendos fideles et terram in solitudinem redigendam’, nocere eos permittit. (God, with his inscrutable judgement who once said through the prophet: ‘For behold I will raise up the Chaldeans, a bitter and swift people, wandering

28 29 30 31

Latin text in Chronica Albeldensis, cap. xvi, § 43 EPS, ed. by Gil [Fernández], p. 475. Cf. for instance iv Kings 24. 2; iv Kings 25. 8–10; Job 1. 17; Isaiah 23. 13. Concerning the understanding as punishment, see Goetz, Die Wahrnehmung, p. 247. Cf. Johan Chydenius, Medieval Institutions and the Old Testament, Societas Scientiarum Fennica, Commentationes humanarum litterarum, 37, 2 (Helsinki: Suomen Tiedeseura, 1965), pp. 12 and 67.

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over the breadth of the earth, to possess the tents that are not their own, whose horses are swifter than evening wolves, and their appearance like the burning wind, reducing the land to emptiness as a demonstration to the faithful’ permitted them to inflict injury).32 This quote is taken from the book of Habakkuk:33 quia ecce ego suscitabo Chaldeos gentem amaram et velocem ambulantem super latitudinem terrae ut possideat tabernacula non sua horribilis et terribilis est ex semet ipsa iudicium et onus eius egredietur leviores pardis equi eius et velociores lupis vespertinis et diffundentur equites eius equites namque eius de longe venient volabunt quasi aquila festinans ad comedendum omnes ad praedam venient facies eorum ventus urens et congregabit quasi harenam captivitatem. (For behold, I will raise up the Chaldeans, a bitter and swift nation, marching upon the breadth of the earth, to possess the dwelling places that are not their own. They are dreadful, and terrible: from themselves shall their judgment, and their burden proceed. Their horses are lighter than leopards, and swifter than evening wolves; and their horsemen shall be spread abroad: for their horsemen shall come from afar, they shall fly as an eagle that maketh haste to eat. They shall all come to the prey, their face is like a burning wind: and they shall gather together captives as the sand).34 In addition, in this case the ‘Chaldeans’ offer a biblical example to depict the contemporary Iberian circumstances. They are a negatively connoted people, sent by God as a punishment, taking away the Promised Land from the Chosen People, who had sinned. From the chronicler’s point of view, the historical role of the Saracens corresponds with the role of this scourge from the Old Testament. This strategy not only identifies the cultural and religious ‘Self ’ and ‘Other’ but also situates present and historical protagonists within salvation history. In the chronicle, ‘Chaldeans’ remains an identifier for the Emirate of Córdoba as the following example shows. Tunc Abadella, ipse qui Mahomat iben Lup, qui semper noster fuerat amicus sicut et pater eius, ob inuidiam de suos tios, cui rex filium suum Ordonium ad creandum dederat, cum Cordouenses pacem fecit fortiamque suorum in hostem eorum misit. Sicque hostis Caldeorum, in terminos regni nostril intrantes, primum ad Celloricum castrum pugnauerunt et nicil egerunt, sed multos suos ibi perdiderunt. (Then Ababdella — also known as Muhammad ibn Lope, who had always been, like his father, a friend to us — made peace with the Cordobans and sent the strongest of his men to their army out of envy for his uncles to whom the king Alfonso had entrusted his son Ordoño to be reared. Thus the army

32 Latin text in Chronica Prophetica, ed. by Bonnaz, p. 5; trans. by Wolf, Chronica Prophetica. 33 Cf. Bronisch, Reconquista, p. 151 n. 533. 34 Habakkuk 1. 6–9.

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of the Chaldeans, entering the confines of our kingdom, first attacked the fortress at Cellorigo but accomplished nothing except to lose many of their own men).35 The ethnonym ‘Chaldeans’ as used in these texts is a novelty. Until the Chronicle of Albelda, this ethnonym has not been used to depict or denominate the invaders or foreign rulers in post-conquest Christian-Iberian historical writing. Even though this term may appear once in each of the earliest Christian chronicles after the Umayyad invasion, in these cases it does not refer to the cultural and religious ‘Other’. It is far rather an attribute of the city Ur, which admittedly originates from the Bible,36 but does not correlate with any contemporary group in eighth-century Hispania. In these chronicles the mentioned city is named ‘Ur, (city) of the Chaldeans’.37 Therefore, ‘Chaldeans’ does not become a new category of identification in Christian-Iberian historical writing before the ninth century. Since this ethnonym appears only three times in the Chronicle of Albelda, and once in the Prophetic Chronicle, it was not as entrenched as ‘Saracens’ or ‘Ishmaelites’, both of which appear distinctly more often in these texts. As will be explained below, however, ‘Chaldeans’ becomes the most important ethnonym in the Chronicle of Alfonso III. Arabs

In the Chronicle of Albelda, the invaders are given another ethnonym, albeit this one is not of biblical origin.38 Arabes tamen, regionem simul cum regno possessam, omnis decor Gotice gentis pabore uel ferro periit […] Vrbs quoque Toletana, cunctarumque gentium uictrix

35 Latin text in Chronica Albeldensis, cap. xv, § 13, ed. by Gil [Fernández], p. 470; English translation: Chronicle of Albelda (883), trans. by Kenneth B. Wolf, in Medieval Iberia: Readings from Christian, Muslim, and Jewish Sources, ed. by Olivia Remie Constable, The Middle Ages Series (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012), pp. 67–74 (pp. 71–72). 36 Cf. Genesis 11. 28 and 31; Genesis 15. 7. 37 The Byzantine-Arab Chronicle of 741, trans. by Robert G. Hoyland, in Seeing Islam as Others Saw It: A Survey and Evaluation of Christian, Jewish and Zoroastrian Writings in Early Islam, Studies in Late Antiquity and Early Islam, 13 (Princeton: Darwin Press, 1997), pp. 612–27 (p. 622): ‘[…] which lies between Ur of the Chaldees […]’. Latin text in Chronica Byzantia Arabica, § 34, ed. by Gil [Fernández], p. 319: ‘[…] que inter Vr Caldaeorum […]’; English translation: The Chronicle of 754, trans. by Kenneth B. Wolf, in Conquerors and Chroniclers of Early Medieval Spain, Translated Texts for Historians, 9 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2011), pp. 91–128 (p. 101): ‘[…] between Ur of the Chaldeans […]’. Latin text in Chronica Muzarabica, § 28, ed. by Gil [Fernández], p. 342: ‘[…] inter Vr Chaldaeorum […]’. 38 Even though the Arabs appear in the Bible (cf. ii Paralipomenon 17. 11, ii Paralipomenon 22. 1, ii Paralipomenon 26. 7, Esra 4. 7, i Maccabees 11. 17, i Maccabees 11. 39, ii Maccabees 5. 8, ii Maccabees 12. 11, Acts 2. 11), there is no indication that this ethnonym is based on the Bible or used in a biblical manner in the here investigated texts. Cf. Ekkehart Rotter, Abendland und Sarazenen, Das okzidentale Araberbuld und seine Entstehung im Frühmittelalter, Studien zur Sprache, Geschichte und Kultur des islamischen Orients, Beihefte zur Zeitschrift ‘Der Islam’, Neue Folge, 11 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1986), pp. 77–122.

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Ismaeliticis triumfis uicta subcumbuit eisque subiecta deseruit. Sicque peccatis concruentibus Ispania ruit […]. (But, when the Arabs simultaneously occupied the region and the realm, all the glory of the Gothic people was gone due to fear and iron […] Furthermore, the city of Toledo and the entire people were defeated by the Ishmaelites and are now submissively serving them).39 This again is a recap of the invasion of the former Visigothic kingdom. This is the third example of the description of this event, yet it offers the third ethnonym for the invaders. Therefore, in this text corpus the ethnonyms ‘Arabs’, ‘Ishmaelites’, and ‘Saracens’ are connected to the same event in Iberian history. Hence, these denominations were synonyms either for the author or at least for the compiler of the Chronicle of Albelda. Also the term ‘Chaldeans’ — as shown in the quotes above — belongs to this array of ethnonyms used to identify the cultural and religious ‘Other’ on the Iberian Peninsula in late ninth century. They all refer to the foreign rulers, specifically to the Emirate of Córdoba.40 What attracts attention is that, with the exception of ‘Arabs’, all the ethnonyms referring to the emirate or to foreign rulers, are of biblical origin.41 The culturally- and religiously-different rival power in the Iberian Peninsula was depicted as a biblical enemy of the Chosen People. This connection with biblical names as well as the quotation of biblical texts during the description of the Iberian history adapts the Christian author’s own history and contemporary circumstances to salvation history. Accordingly, this depiction of the foreign rulers, denominating them by biblical ethnonyms and quoting from the Bible while describing events in which they were involved, is both an interpretation of salvation history and a role-allocation of the protagonists in this history. The author connected the identification of the ‘Other’ with knowledge about the course of history. Even though these ‘Other’ might have been unknown from a certain point of view when they arrived in Hispania in the early eighth century, they were familiar as soon as the chroniclers chose a biblical approach for their identification. This world-view or strategy of interpretation made it possible to see the historical events in the Iberian Peninsula as echoes of the Bible.

Typology as Principle for Connecting One’s Own History and Salvation History This form of parallelization between past and present, which includes a meaningful connection drawn between two events or phenomena separated in time and space, with 39 Latin text in Chronica Albeldensis, cap. xvii, § 3a, ed. by Gil [Fernández], p. 477. 40 Also the terms ‘Moors’ and ‘Getules’ appear occasionally in the composition of the Chronicle of Albelda, yet they do not refer to the same group as the ethnonyms investigated above. They denominate the Berbers, who are strictly distinguished from the Arabs by the chronicler. Hence, they are not relevant for this article. Concerning the synonymous use of the above-analysed ethnonyms, cf. Goetz, Die Wahrnehmung, p. 255. 41 Concerning ‘Arabs’ see above, fn. 38.

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one being the pre-announcement42 and the other its fulfilment, is called typology.43 With this way of thinking it was possible to give a religion-based interpretation of historical events, and therefore to find orientation in history. Additionally, typology offered ways to identify the ‘foreigners’, who did not believe in Christ as the son of the Lord and, yet, who still invaded the Iberian Peninsula and overthrew the Christian Visigothic kingdom. With the certainty, or better, the belief, that the events in profane history should be understood as fulfilments of earlier pre-announcements, which can be found in the Bible, the chroniclers could answer the question of who the Arabs were and why they were able to defeat the Visigothic kingdom. In typological thinking history is a net of connected events, each being a pre-announcement or fulfilment of another. Seeing history through the eyes of biblical typology must have been comforting for the chroniclers, because they were able to classify the cultural and religious ‘Other’ into both the familiar genealogy of peoples and salvation history. Furthermore, the typological connection to specific biblical books hints of the purpose of expressing hope. Ezekiel and Habakkuk not only offered fitting comparisons between contemporary history and Holy Scripture. Both of these books tell the story of the Chosen People losing and regaining their status before God. The punishment of the Chosen People always comes to an end. Equally, the main statement of the Prophetic Chronicle, which is so named because of its foretelling that the foreign rule over Hispania would end during the reign of Alfonso III, is that, since they remain the new Chosen People of God, even though Iberian Christians sinned and were punished by God, this punishment will end. Times will get better, when they have atoned for their errors. The beginning of the Prophetic Chronicle as well as the little addition about the reign of Roderic in three manuscripts of the Chronicle of Albelda correlate with this typological understanding of history and therefore stress the hope for an end to the foreign rule.

Further Biblical Elements In the Chronicle of Albelda, a comment on the coronation of King Ramiro, the grandfather of Alfonso III, may contain a Biblical allusion, which hints at a turn of eras. ‘Ramiro ruled for seven years. He had a just sceptre’.44 Alexander Pierre Bronisch states that the formula ‘just sceptre’ (virga iustitiae) was based on the Letter to the

42 Not to be confused with the term ‘prophecy’, which in deed is foretelling, whereas a preannouncement per se does not aim to give a prediction. Rather, it is a phenomenon, which reappears in a different form later. Only retrospectively, can one realise the connection between pre-announcement and fulfilment. 43 Cf. Friedrich Ohly, ‘Probleme der mittelalterlichen Bedeutungsforschung und das Taubenbild des Hugo de Folieto’, in Friedrich Ohly, Schriften zur mittelalterlichen Bedeutungsforschung (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1977), pp. 32–92 (p. 42). 44 Latin text in Chronica Albeldensis, cap xv, § 10, ed. by Gil [Fernández], p. 466: ‘Ranemirus rg. an. vii. Virga iustitie fuit’.

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Hebrews.45 He connects this phrase to this passage: ‘ad Filium autem thronus tuus Deus in saeculum saeculi et virga aequitatis virga regni tui’ (But to the Son: Thy throne, O God, is for ever and ever: a sceptre of justice is the sceptre of thy kingdom).46 If, on account of the term ‘virga’, this correlation with the Bible is appropriate, then the meaning would not only be that Ramiro was a just ruler, but it would also imply an eschatological argument. The beginning of the Letter to the Hebrews describes the contemporary situation of the biblical Israelites as the ‘last days’: Multifariam et multis modis olim Deus loquens patribus in prophetis novissime diebus istis locutus est nobis in Filio quem constituit heredem universorum per quem fecit et saecula. (Long ago God spoke to our ancestors in many and various ways by the prophets, but in these last days he has spoken to us by a Son, whom he appointed heir of all things, through whom he also created the worlds).47 Thus, the connection to the Letter to the Hebrews implies the expectation of a decisive turning point in the chronicler’s near future, which in this case is not to be understood as the end of the world, but rather as a significant change in the political circumstances in the Iberian Peninsula. With Ramiro being the grandfather of Alfonso III, this passage could hint to the prophecy from the Prophetic Chronicle, declaring that Alfonso III would become the king of the entire Iberian Peninsula, ending the foreign rule of the Saracens. The salvation, thematized in this letter, in that case was the pre-announcement for the regaining of a certain status of the Iberian Christians, in terms of their own salvation, contextualized in a contemporary situation of hostile interaction with the cultural and religious ‘Other’. A clear allusion to the Bible is the denomination of the former Visigothic kingdom in the Prophetic Chronicle. The author states that due to the sins of the Visigoths and the inability of Roderic to do adequate penance, their kingdom fell, and so they lost their ‘promised land’. Arabes tamen regionem simul cum regno possessam, omnis decor Gotice gentis pabore vel ferro periit. Quia non fuit in illis pro suis delictis digna penitentia, et quia dereliquerunt precepta Domini et sacrorum canonum instituta, derelinquid illos Dominus ne possiderent desiderabilem terram. (The Arabs took control of the region along with the kingdom. All of the beauty of the Gothic people perished through both panic and the sword because they had not performed appropriate penance for their sins. And because they forsook the precepts of the Lord and the laws of the sacred canons, the Lord forsook them so that they would no longer retain their beloved territory).48

45 Cf. Bronisch, Reconquista, p. 143. 46 Hebrews 1. 8. 47 Hebrews 1. 1–2. 48 Latin text in Chronica Prophetica, ed. by Bonnaz, p. 7; trans. by Wolf, Chronica Prophetica.

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This translation of ‘terra desiderabilis’ with ‘beloved territory’ by Wolf is not a good choice. Rather it is a biblical term, referring to the Promised Land of God’s Chosen People. The term ‘terra desiderabilis’ appears several times in the Old Testament, each time with exactly this meaning.49 What Israel is in the Old Testament, the former Visigothic kingdom is in Christian-Iberian historical writing. This terminology depicts the Iberian Christians as the new Chosen People and in conclusion, their enemies, the foreign Saracen rulers in the Iberian Peninsula, are the enemies of the Chosen People. As the quote above shows, the loss of their ‘Promised Land’ was caused by their sins. Thus, the Saracens appear as a tool of God to punish his Chosen People — just as he punishes the Israelites several times in the Old Testament.

Strategies of Identification in the Chronicle of Alfonso III The strategies of identifying the cultural and religious ‘Other’ in the Chronicle of Albelda as well as the Prophetic Chronicle basically do not differ from those in the Chronicle of Alfonso III,50 also written at the Asturian court and composed in relation to the aforementioned historiographical works.51 The ethnonyms used remain the same, only the numeric proportion between the ethnonyms differs. Regardless of which redaction of the Chronicle of Alfonso III one refers to, the ethnonym used most often is ‘Chaldeans’, which occurs more often than the term ‘Saracens’. Hence, the depiction of the foreign rulers as ‘Chaldeans’ seemed more important in the early tenth century, when at least the second redaction of the Chronicle of Alfonso III was most likely written.52 In contrast with the term ‘Ishmaelites’, which is the term most frequently used in the Prophetic Chronicle, because of its reference to the alleged Ezekiel quote, where ‘Israel’ is represented by the Asturians, named ‘Gog’, and the biblical ‘Gog’ is changed into ‘Ishmael’, ‘Chaldeans’ lacks genealogical character and is rather a judgemental denomination. Based on the amount that each ethnonym was used, the depiction of the cultural and religious ‘Other’ as divine punishment and the avowed enemy of the Chosen People was more important than their genealogy. Therefore, ‘Chaldeans’ reached the peak of its use in the post-conquest Christian-Iberian historical writing in the Chronicle of Alfonso III. In neither the earlier chronicles nor in any later chronicle did this ethnonym achieve the same significance. The basic strategy of

49 Cf. Psalms 105. 24; Jeremiah 3. 19; Azariah 7. 14; Malachi 3. 12. 50 Chronica Adephonsi III, ed. by Juan Gil [Fernández], in Chronica Hispana saeculi viii et ix, Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Mediaevalis, 65 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2018), pp. 383–433. 51 Cf. Prelog, Die Chronik, pp. cxliii–clxii; Wreglesworth, ‘The Chronicle of Alfonso III’, pp. 261–66; Gil [Fernández], Chronica Hispana, pp. 211–17. 52 Cf. Thomas Deswarte, ‘The Chronicle of Alfonso III’, in Christian-Muslim Relations: A Bibliographical History, vol. i (600–900), ed. by David Thomas and Barbara Roggema, History of Christian-Muslim Relations, 11 (Leiden: Brill, 2009), pp. 882–88 (pp. 883–84).

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identification through biblical terminology remained, but the choice of specific ethnonyms changed. Yet the other ethnic denominations also appear in the Chronicle of Alfonso III, although they differ only in a numeric proportion from the earlier chronicles. Apart from the use of biblical ethnonyms, the Chronicle of Alfonso III also depicts the cultural and religious ‘Other’ as the fulfilment of biblical phenomena, adapting events of the post-conquest Iberian Peninsula to biblical episodes. Perhaps the most famous is the narration of the battle of Covadonga. The chronicle reports that Pelayo, former swordbearer of the Visigothic kings Wamba and Roderic, lead a small group of Christian rebels in the mountains north of Oviedo. In the cave called the Covadonga 187,000 Saracens lead by Alqamah surrounded this small group. Bishop Oppa, a collaborator and companion of the Saracens, tried to convince Pelayo to surrender. Yet Pelayo, praying to God, refused and therefore provoked the attack of the superior Saracen force. As the author states, 124,000 Saracens died in battle and 63,000 fled, but were buried by an avalanche. The chronicler himself interprets the event as follows: Non istud inannem aut fabulosum putetis, sed recordamini quia, qui Rubri maris fluenta ad transitum filiorum Israhel aperuit, ipse hos Arabes persequentes eclesiam Domini immenso montis mole oppressit. (Do not think this to be unfounded or fictitious. Keep in mind that he who once parted the waters of the Red Sea so that the children of Israel might cross, has now crushed, with an immense mass of mountain, the Arabs who were persecuting the church of God).53 Clearly, the event has been connected to the Old Testament story of the Egyptians chasing the Israelites through the Red Sea, yet drowning in the floods.54 Another redaction of the chronicle correlates the end of the battle of Covadonga with the book of Exodus even more precisely, mentioning the Egyptians.55 Again, Christian-Iberian historical writing after the Umayyad invasion of the former Visigothic kingdom connects the ‘Other’ with a familiar episode from the Old Testament. Thus, the chroniclers were able to organize the foreign rulers into a context of salvation history, which was already known from biblical knowledge.56 Furthermore, the numeric proportions of the encountering armies are reminiscent of a specific biblical story. Gideon, the judge from the Old Testament, was able to win with only 300 men against the kings of Midian and their army

53 Latin Text in Chronica Adephonsi iii, Rotense version, cap. 10, ed. by Gil [Fernández], p. 408; English translation: The Chronicle of Alfonso III, trans. by Wolf, pp. 129–43 (p. 136). 54 Cf. Exodus 13. 17–14. 31. 55 Chronica Adephonsi iii, Ovetense version, cap. 10, ed. by Gil [Fernández], p. 409: ‘Non istud miraculum inane aut fabulosum putetis, sed recordamini quia, qui in Rubro mari Egyptios Israhelem persequentes dimersit, ipse hos Arabes eclesiam Domini persequentes immenso montis mole oppressit’. 56 Cf. Goetz, Die Wahrnehmung, pp. 292–93.

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of 120,000 soldiers.57 Accordingly, the chronicler not only gave the Saracens a role as new Egyptians, but he also connected the Covadonga story with another Old Testament episode of the Chosen People vanquishing a hostile superior force — another episode of hope and salvation for God’s people. In a typological manner, everything that happened at Covadonga was interpreted as if it was familiar, foretold by the Bible.

Conclusions The ethnonyms that were used by the Asturian chroniclers to name the Arabs were: ‘Saracens’, ‘Hagarenes’, ‘Ishmaelites’, ‘Chaldeans’, and, of course, ‘Arabs’. The last ethnonym is the only one used without any biblical allusion. Through the terms ‘Hagarenes’ and ‘Ishmaelites’ it was possible to classify the cultural and religious ‘Other’ within Old Testament genealogy. The question of who the invaders are, therefore, was answered by biblical knowledge.58 Moreover, the ethnonym ‘Chaldeans’ not only signalled who they were, but also why they came and conquered the Visigothic kingdom. They were understood as God’s punishment, which was especially obvious when the chronicler connected the book of Habakkuk to the Iberian situation. In addition, allocating the role of the people of Gog from the book of Ezekiel to the ‘Ishmaelites’ is based on the same motivation. Biblical knowledge was drawn upon to depict a contemporary phenomenon as divine punishment. The quote was adapted to the chronicler’s situation so that he could argue that already in the Bible the ‘Ishmaelites’ appear as punishment for the Chosen People. Thus, the depiction and identification of the ‘Other’ was likewise a depiction and identification of the ‘Self ’ and the role of the Chosen People was relocated to the Christians of Hispania.59 To sum up, the book of Genesis — in particular the story of Abraham, Sara, Hagar, Isaac, and Ishmael — offered a genealogical reference to identify the Arabs. Most likely, the Epistle to the Galatians was a resource of knowledge to create a hierarchy of the sons of Abraham and therefore their descendants: the Christians thus became the descendants of Isaac and the Muslims the descendants of Ishmael. The book of Habakkuk enabled an explanation for the demise of the Visigothic kingdom and the foreign rule of the Arabs. This in turn allowed an identification of them as the Old Testament Chaldeans, and therefore as the punishment of God. Finally, connecting the foreign rulers with the people of Gog from the book of Ezekiel has the same implications as the citation of the ‘Chaldeans’ — a divine punishment, brought on by the sins of the (new) Chosen People, that however

57 Cf. Judges 8. 4–10. See also José Álvarez Junco, Historia y mito: Saber sobre el pasado o cultivo de identidades (Madrid: Universidad Complutense Madrid, 2011), p. 12. 58 Speaking with the words of Hans-Werner Goetz and Ian Wood in this volume’s introduction: ‘“Otherness” is a label’. 59 Cf. the Introduction.

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would end someday. Thus, these biblical tropes do not just build a typological connection to the biblical past and, in doing so, help contemporaries understand their world; they also created hope for the future of the Iberian Peninsula in the representation of the chroniclers. The realization of the cultural and religious ‘Other’ from a Christian-Iberian point of view was, in conclusion, based on two elements: experience and traditional knowledge. Around 190 years after the Umayyad invasion of the Iberian Peninsula, Christian chroniclers, of course, knew a lot about the ‘foreign’ rulers from experience (both their own and the experiences of refugees from the south, coming to the Asturian kingdom and disseminating their knowledge). Through this experience as well as from knowledge of Arab sources, the ‘stranger’ became more and more known. Yet, due to biblically-oriented modes of thought, it was possible to categorize the religious and cultural ‘Other’. Accordingly, the Bible was a repository of knowledge and therefore a reference for interpreting and perhaps construing the contemporary present, and a medium of justification. The Bible was the resource that made it possible to identify the Arabs genealogically and as a phenomenon of salvation history. No matter how ‘strange’ the ‘Other’ were, due to traditional and biblical knowledge, the chroniclers ‘knew’ them. They were convinced of a tradition-based image. Consequently, this biblical categorization and identification made the cultural and religious ‘Other’ ‘familiar’.

Works Cited Primary Sources The Byzantine-Arab Chronicle of 741, trans. by Robert G. Hoyland, in Seeing Islam as Others Saw It: A Survey and Evaluation of Christian, Jewish and Zoroastrian Writings in Early Islam, Studies in Late Antiquity and Early Islam, 13 (Princeton: Darwin, 1997), pp. 612–27 Chronica Adephonsi iii, ed. by Juan Gil [Fernández], in Chronica Hispana saeculi viii et ix, Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Mediaevalis, 65 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2018), pp. 383–433 Chronica Albeldensis, ed. by Juan Gil [Fernández], in Chronica Hispana saeculi viii et ix, Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Mediaevalis, 65 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2018), pp. 435–84 Chronica anni 741 vel Chronica Byzantia Arabica, ed. by Juan Gil [Fernández], in Chronica Hispana saeculi viii et ix, Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Mediaevalis, 65 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2018), pp. 307–23 Chronica anni 754 vel Chronica Muzarabica, ed. by Juan Gil [Fernández], in Chronica Hispana saeculi viii et ix, Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Mediaevalis, 65 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2018), pp. 325–82 Chronica Prophetica, ed. by Yves Bonnaz, in Chroniques Asturiennes (Fin ixe Siècle), Sources d’histoire médiévale, 20 (Paris: Editions du Centre national de la recherche scientifique, 1987), pp. 2–9

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Chronicle of Albelda (883), trans. by Kenneth B. Wolf, in Medieval Iberia: Readings from Christian, Muslim, and Jewish Sources, ed. by Olivia Remie Constable, The Middle Ages Series (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012), pp. 67–74 The Chronicle of Alfonso III, trans. by Kenneth B. Wolf, in Conquerors and Chroniclers of Early Medieval Spain, Translated Texts for Historians, 9 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2011), pp. 129–43 The Chronicle of 754, trans. by Kenneth B. Wolf, in Conquerors and Chroniclers of Early Medieval Spain, Translated Texts for Historians, 9 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2011), pp. 91–128 Isidore of Seville, Etymologiarum sive Originum Libri xx, ed. by. Wallace Martin Lindsay, in Isidori Hispalensis Episcopi Etymologiarum sive Originum Libri xx, 2 vols (Oxford: E. Typographeo Clarendoniano, 1911, repr. 1987) ———, The Etymologies, trans. by Stephen A. Barney, W. J. Lewis, J. A. Beach and Oliver Berghof, in The Etymologies of Isidore of Seville, ed. by Stephen A. Barney, W. J. Lewis, J. A. Beach and Oliver Berghof (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), pp. 33–406 Secondary Works Álvarez Junco, José, Historia y mito: Saber sobre el pasado o cultivo de identidades (Madrid: Universidad Complutense Madrid, 2011) Bonnaz, Yves, Chroniques Asturiennes (fin ixe siècle), Sources d’histoire médiévale, 20 (Paris: Éditions du Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, 1987) Bronisch, Alexander Pierre, Reconquista und Heiliger Krieg: Die Deutung des Krieges im christlichen Spanien von den Westgoten bis ins frühe 12. Jahrhundert, Spanische Forschungen der Görresgesellschaft, zweite Reihe, 35 (Münster: Aschendorff, 1998) Christys, Ann, Christians in al-Andalus (711–1000), Culture and civilization in the Middle East (Richmond: Curzon Press, 2002) Chydenius, Johan, Medieval Institutions and the Old Testament, Societas Scientiarum Fennica, Commentationes humanarum litterarum, 37, 2 (Helsinki: Suomen Tiedeseura, 1965) Deswarte, Thomas, ‘The Chronicle of Alfonso III’, in Christian-Muslim Relations: A Bibliographical History, vol. i (600–900), ed. by David Thomas and Barbara Roggema, History of Christian-Muslim Relations, 11 (Leiden: Brill, 2009), pp. 882–88 ———, ‘La prophétie de 883 dans le royaume d’Oviedo: attente adventiste ou espoir d’une liberation politique?’, Mélanges de Science Religieuse, 58 (2001), 39–56 Furtado, Rodrigo ‘The Chronica Prophetica in MS. Madrid, RAH Aem. 78’, in Forme di accesso al sapere in età tardoantica e altomedievale 6: Raccolta delle relazioni discusse nell’incontro internazionale di Trieste, Biblioteca Statale, 24–25 settembre 2015, ed. by Lucio Cristante and Vanni Veronesi, Polymnia. Studi di filologie classica, 19 (Trieste: Edizioni Università di Trieste, 2016), pp. 75–100 Gil [Fernández], Juan, Chronica Hispana saeculi viii et ix, Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Medievalis, 65 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2018) ———, Cronicas Asturianas. Crónica de Alfonso III (Rotense y ‘A Sebastián’), Crónica Albeldense (y ‘Profética’), Universidad de Oviedo, publicaciones del Departemento de Historia Medieval, 11 (Oviedo: Universidad de Oviedo, Servicio de publicaciones, 1985)

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———, ‘Judíos y Cristianos en Hispania (s. viii y ix)’, Hispania Sacra, 31 (1978–1979), 9–88 Goetz, Hans-Werner, Die Wahrnehmung anderer Religionen und christlich-abendländisches Selbstverständnis im frühen und hohen Mittelalter (5. – 12. Jahrhundert), 2 vols (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2013) Gómez-Moreno, Manuel, ‘Las primeras crónicas de la Reconquista: El ciclo de Alfonso III’, Boletín de la Real Academia de la Historia, 100 (1932), 562–628 Hoyland, Robert G., Seeing Islam as Others Saw It: A Survey and Evaluation of Christian, Jewish and Zoroastrian Writings in Early Islam, Studies in Late Antiquity and Early Islam, 13 (Princeton: Darwin Press, 1997) Marschner, Patrick Sebastian, ‘The Depiction of the Saracen Foreign Rule in the Prophetic Chronicle Through Biblical Knowledge’, Journal of Transcultural Medieval Studies, 5.2 (2018), 215–39 Milgram, Stanley, ‘The Familiar Stranger: An Aspect of Urban Anonymity’, in The Individual in a Social World: Essays and Experiments, ed. by John Sabini and Maury Silver, McGraw-Hill Series in Social Psychology (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1992), pp. 68–71 Ohly, Friedrich, ‘Probleme der mittelalterlichen Bedeutungsforschung und das Taubenbild des Hugo de Folieto’, in Friedrich Ohly, Schriften zur mittelalterlichen Bedeutungsforschung (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1977), pp. 32–92 Oliver Pérez, Dolores, ‘Sarraceno: su etimología e historia’, Al-qantara: Revista de estudios árabes, 15.1 (1994), 99–130 Pochoshajew, Igor, Die Märtyrer von Cordoba: Christen im muslimischen Spanien des 9. Jahrhunderts (Frankfurt-am-Main: Lembeck, 2007) Prelog, Jan, Die Chronik Alfons’ III.: Untersuchung und kritische Edition der vier Redaktionen, Europäische Hochschulschriften, Reihe iii, Geschichte und ihre Hilfswissenschaften, 134 (Frankfurt-am-Main: Lang, 1980) Rotter, Ekkehart, Abendland und Sarazenen, Das okzidentale Araberbuld und seine Entstehung im Frühmittelalter, Studien zur Sprache, Geschichte und Kultur des islamischen Orients. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift ‘Der Islam’, Neue Folge, 11 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1986) Vones, Ludwig, Geschichte der Iberischen Halbinsel im Mittelalter (711–1480): Reiche – Kronen – Regionen (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1993) Wolf, Kenneth Baxter, Conquerors and Chroniclers of Early Medieval Spain, Translated Texts for Historians, 9 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2011) Wolfram, Herwig, Die Goten: Von den Anfängen bis zur Mitte des sechsten Jahrhunderts. Entwurf einer historischen Ethnographie, 5th edn (München: Beck, 2009; 1st edn 1979) Wreglesworth, John, ‘The Chronicle of Alfonso III and its Significance for the Historiography of the Asturian Kingdom 718–910 ad: A Critical Study of the Content, Purpose and Themes of a Late 9th-Century Historical Text’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of Leeds, 1995) Available online at Zwanzig, Christofer, ‘Monastische Migration aus dem Andalus im 8.–10. Jahrhundert: Selbst- und Fremdwahrnehmungen’, in Von Mozarabern und Mozarabismen: Zur Vielfalt kultureller Ordnungen auf der mittelalterlichen Iberischen Halbinsel, ed. by Matthias Maser, Klaus Herbers, Michele Camillo Ferrari, and Hartmut Bobzin, Spanische Forschungen der Görresgesellschaft, zweite Reihe, 41 (Münster: Aschendorff, 2014), pp. 217–33

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Internet Resources Wolf, Kenneth Baxter, ‘Chronica Prophetica’, in Medieval Texts in Translation

Ralph W. Mathisen

Not ‘the Other’ Barbarians and the End of the Western Roman Empire

Past studies of Romans and barbarians presume that in very significant ways barbarians and Roman were different. Indeed, something of a cottage industry has grown up focusing on creating models for understanding barbarian ‘otherness’.1 Particular attention has been given to barbarian ‘ethnogenesis’, the process by which barbarians created this ‘other’ sense of ethnic identity.2 Michael Kulikowski even has created

1 e.g., Iain Ferris, ‘Insignificant Others: Images of Barbarians on Military Art from Roman Britain’, in TRAC 94: Proceedings of the Fourth Annual Theoretical Roman Archaeology Conference, ed. by Sally Cottam, David Dungsworth, Sarah Scott, and Jeremy Taylor (Oxford: Oxbow, 1994), pp. 24–31; Jacob Neusner and Ernest S. Frerichs, eds, ‘To See Ourselves as Others See Us’: Christians, Jews and ‘Others’ in Late Antiquity (Chico: Scholars, 1985); Yves A. Dauge, Le barbare. Recherches sur la conception romaine de la barbarie et de la civilisation (Bruxelles: Latomus, 1981), pp. 393–66, 648–53; Henry Kahane and Renée Kahane, ‘On the Meanings of “Barbarus”’, Hellenika, 37 (1986), 129–32; Edmund Lévy, ‘Naissance du concept de barbare’, Ktema, 9 (1984), 5–14; Dennis B. Saddington, ‘Roman Attitudes to the “externae gentes” of the North’, Acta classica 4 (1961), 90–102 (p. 91); Lieven van Acker, ‘“Barbarus” und seine Ableitungen im Mittellatein’, Archiv für Kulturgeschichte, 47 (1965), 125–40; Lorenzo Viscido, ‘Sull’uso del termine barbarus nelle “Variae” di Cassiodore’, Orpheus, 7 (1986), 338–44 (p. 343); Barbara Funck, ‘Studie zu der Bezeichnung bárbaros’, in Soziale Typenbegriffe. Untersuchungen ausgewählter altgriechischer sozialer Typenbegriffe und ihr Fortleben in Antike und Mittelalter = Soziale Typenbegriffe im alten Griechenland und ihr Fortleben in den Sprachen der Welt, ed. by Elisabeth Welskopf, vol. iv (Berlin: Akademie, 1981), pp. 26–51; Greg Woolf, Tales of the Barbarians: Ethnography and Empire in the Roman West (Chichester: Wiley Blackwell, 2011). 2 e.g., Walter Pohl, ‘Strategie und Sprache – zu den Ethnogenesen des Mittelalters’, in Entstehung von Sprachen und Völkern, ed. by Sture Ureland (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1985), pp. 93–102; Lotte Hedeager, ‘The Creation of Germanic Identity: A European Origin-Myth’, in Frontières d’empire: Nature et signification des frontières romaines, ed. by Patrice Brun, Sander van der Leeuw, and Charles R. Whittaker (Nemours: Ed. de l’Association pour la promotion de la recherche archéologique en Ile-de-France, 1993), pp, 121–31; David Chappell, ‘Ethnogenesis and Frontiers’, Journal of World History, 4 (1993), 267–75; Walter Pohl, ‘Tradition, Ethnogenese und literarische Gestaltung: eine Zwischenbilanz’, in Ethnogenese und Überlieferung. Angewandte Methoden der Frühmittelalterforschung, ed. by Karl Brunner and Brigitte Merta (München: Oldenbourg, 1994), pp. 9–26; Charles R. Bowlus, ‘Ethnogenesis Models and the Age of Migration: A Critique’, Austrian History Yearbook, 26 (1995), 147–64. Ralph W. Mathisen  •  is professor of history, classics and medieval studies in the Department of History at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. ‘Otherness’ in the Middle Ages, ed. by Hans-Werner Goetz and Ian Wood, IMR 25 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2021), pp. 275–287 © FHG10.1484/M.IMR-EB.5.123595

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a useful taxonomy of three models of barbarian ethnicity:3 (1) The views of what is termed the ‘Vienna School’, in which barbarians are culturally heterogeneous until elite families bearing a ‘Traditionskern’, a ‘genuine ethnic memory’, acquire larger followings that adopt this same set of traditions,4 (2) What he calls a ‘stable identity […] widely spread through a broad class of warrior freemen’ who identified as Goths, Franks, Vandals, and so on, and (3) An evanescent ‘situational construct’, ‘available for the using as individuals found it worthwhile to do so’.5 These models, and others like them, speak of barbarian ethnicity in hushed and reverent tones and piously presume that barbarians were so different that Greek and Roman authors did not even have a sufficient vocabulary or sense of ethnic sensitivity to be able to discuss barbarian ethnicity usefully. From this perspective, we are led to believe, one cannot possibly bridge the gap between Greco-Roman social values and the infinitely different barbarian world of otherness. What one might propose, however, is that barbarians were not ‘the other’ but an integral part of the Roman world. Barbarians, one might argue, were just one more group, like women, slaves, rural populations, and non-elite provincials, that fell outside the social circles of elite male authors. Of course, when such writers discussed these other categories of individuals they manifested their own standards, prejudices, and agendas, but there was nothing inherent in barbarians that made them any different in the way they were treated by elite authors. Thus, one might suggest that if we can usefully make corrections in our interpretations of elite perceptions of women, slaves, and provincials, we likewise certainly can do the same regarding ancient perceptions of barbarians. We do not need to worship at the altar of barbarian ‘otherness’ to such an extent as to presume that we cannot learn anything useful about them from classical authors. Thus, Kulikowski perhaps overstates the case when he characterizes Hans Hummer’s suggestion that Ammianus’ accounts can give insights into the barbarian world as a ‘bizarre assertion’.6 In the past, the Roman government had settled hundreds of thousands of barbarians on Roman territory. In the early third century the historian Cassius Dio, speaking of the first century ce, had commented, ‘The barbarians […] were adapting themselves to the Roman world. They were setting up markets and peaceful meetings. They did not find it difficult to change their life, and they were becoming different without



3 Michael Kulikowski, ‘Nation vs. Army: A Necessary Contrast?’, in On Barbarian Identity: Critical Approaches to Ethnicity in the Early Middle Ages, ed. by Andrew Gillett (Turnhout: Brepols, 2002), pp. 69–84. 4 As Reinhard Wenskus, Stammesbildung und Verfassung. Das Werden der frühmittelalterlichen Gentes (Köln: Böhlau, 1961), and Walter Pohl, ‘Conceptions of Ethnicity in Early Medieval Studies’, in Debating the Middle Ages: Issues and Readings, ed. by Lester K. Little and Barbara H. Rosenwein (Oxford: Blackwell, 1998), pp. 13–24 (p. 16). 5 As Patrick Geary, ‘Ethnic Identity as a Situational Construct in the Early Middle Ages’, Mitteilungen der Anthropologischen Gesellschaft in Wien, 13 (1988), 15–26. 6 Kulikowski, ‘Nation’, p. 71: ‘Apart from Jordanes, I know of only one claim for a barbarian voice from antiquity, viz. the bizarre assertion of Hans. J. Hummer’, citing Hans J. Hummer, ‘The Fluidity of Barbarian Identity, the Ethnogenesis of Alemanni and Suebi, ad 200–500’, Early Medieval Europe, 7 (1998), 1–27.

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realizing it’.7 These barbarians were not ferocious invaders but migrants from one part of the wider Roman world to another. In 212 ce, the Antonine Constitution made nearly all provincials, including resident barbarians, into Roman citizens. Barbarian immigrants gained the opportunity to make full use of Roman civil law. They were property owners, paid taxes, and served in the Roman military. Subsequent barbarian immigrants likewise had the benefits of Roman citizenship8 and assimilated the Roman cultural heritage.9 The frontier served more as a highway than a barrier to cultural interaction, and barbarians and Romans passed freely back and forth. In 361, for example, a king of the Alamanni crossed the Rhine, chatted with the Roman military commander, and was invited to dinner.10 Barbarians would have looked and behaved little differently from frontier Romans. They were not ‘outsiders’.

Deconstruction of Segregating Factors Recent scholarship has seen several revisions in conceptualizations of cultural factors that supposedly separated barbarians and Romans during Late Antiquity. (1) For example, it often was suggested that settlements of invading barbarians could be localized by their use of ‘Reihengräberfelder’ (row grave cemeteries) in which male graves contained arms and weapons. But it now is clear that such graves developed on the Roman side of the frontier, and that that this burial style was adopted later by barbarian newcomers.11 7 Cassius Dio, Hist. Rom. 56.18.2: Gulielmus Xylandrus, ed., Dionis Cassii Nicaei Romanae historiae libri (tot enim hodie extant) XXV nimirum a. XXXVI ad LXI (Lyon: Gulielmus Rovillius, 1559). 8 Ralph W. Mathisen, ‘“Peregrini”, “Barbari”, and “Cives Romani”: Concepts of Citizenship and the Legal Identity of Barbarians in the Later Roman Empire’, American Historical Review, 111 (2006), 1011–40; Ralph W. Mathisen, ‘Barbarian Immigration and Integration in the Late Roman Empire: The Case of Barbarian Citizenship’, in Minderheiten und Migration in der Antike: Rechtliche, religiöse, kulturelle und politische Aspekte, ed. by Patrick Sänger (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 2016), pp. 153–67; Ralph W. Mathisen, ‘Becoming Roman, Becoming Barbarian: Roman Citizenship and the Assimilation of Barbarians into the Late Roman World’, in Migration and Membership Regimes in Global and Historical Perspective, ed. by Ulbe Bosma, Gijs Kessler, and Leo Lucassen (Leiden: Brill, 2013), pp. 191–217; Ralph Mathisen, ‘Concepts of Citizenship in the Late Roman Empire’, in Oxford Handbook of Late Antiquity, ed. by Scott Johnson (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), pp. 744–63. 9 Ralph W. Mathisen, ‘“Provinciales”, “Gentiles”, and Marriages between Romans and Barbarians in the Late Roman Empire’, Journal of Roman Studies, 99 (2009), 140–55; Ralph W. Mathisen, ‘Les mariages entre Romains et Barbares comme stratégie familiale pendant l’Antiquité tardive’, in Les stratégies familiales dans l’Antiquité tardive, ed. by Christophe Badel and Mireille Corbier (Paris: De Boccard, 2012), 153–66. 10 Ammianus 21.4.3 (p. 361): ‘Transgressus Vadomarius flumen […] viso praeposito militum ibi degentium, pauca locutus ex more […] ad convivium eius venire promisit’ (Vadomarius, having crossed the river […], visited the commander of the soldiers stationed there and having conversed a bit, as was customary […], he promised to come to have dinner with him). 11 Guy Halsall, ‘The Origins of the Reihengräberzivilisation: Forty Years On’, in Fifth-Century Gaul: A Crisis of Identity?, ed. by John Drinkwater and Hugh Elton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), pp. 196–207; also Dieter Quast, ‘Vom Einzelgrab zum Friedhof. Beginn der

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(2) Secondly, whereas it once was thought that the use of elaborate ‘fibulae’ betrayed barbarian artistry and was a sign of barbarian origin, it now is clear that such ‘fibulae’ had a long history in the Roman world and that many stylish ‘fibulae’ found in ‘barbarian’ contexts were presented to barbarian chieftains by the Roman government.12 (3) In addition, one of the most persistent stereotypes about barbarians, that they were unable or unwilling to engage in literary activities, the characteristic pastime of the Roman elite, now is seen as a canard. Barbarian ‘litterati’ such as the mid fifth-century Master of Soldiers Merobaudes, the author of poetry and panegyrics, participated enthusiastically in late Roman literary culture.13 (4) Moreover, it long was assumed that a law of 373 placed a ban on marriages between Romans and barbarians. But this law in fact applied only to barbarian auxiliary soldiers on the North African frontier. Otherwise, barbarians and Romans were free to marry, up to and including the imperial family.14 (5) In addition, the most cited case of Roman-barbarian segregation, Roman Nicene Christianity versus barbarian Arian Christianity, was, on the ground, not much of an issue at all, for so-called barbarian Arianism was not Arianism at all but rather homoian Christianity, which had been legitimated in a law of 386.15 Homoian

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Reihengräbersitte im 5. Jahrhundert’, in Die Alamannen, ed. by Karlheinz Fuchs, Martin Kempa, Rainer Redies, Barbara Theune-Grosskopf, and André Wais (Stuttgart: Theiss, 1997), pp. 171–90; Frauke Stein, Alamannische Siedlung und Kultur: Das Reihengraberfeld in Gammertingen (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1991); and Patrick Périn and Michel Kazanski, ‘Identity and Ethnicity during the Era of Migrations and Barbarian Kingdoms in the Light of Archaeology in Gaul’, in Romans, Barbarians, and the Transformation of The Roman World: Cultural Interaction and the Creation of Identity in Late Antiquity, ed. by Ralph Mathisen and Danuta Shanzer (Farnham: Ashgate, 2011), pp. 299–330: ‘The so-called Reihengräberfelder (row grave fields) in which they are found represent a new, unique frontier culture uncharacteristic of either the barbarian or Roman homelands’. Michael Frassetto, The Early Medieval World: From the Fall of Rome to the Time of Charlemagne (Santa Barbara: ABC-Clio, 2013), p. 339: ‘The Visigoths and Lombards especially were influenced by imperial models of jewelry’; Peter Wells, The Barbarians Speak: How the Conquered Peoples Shaped Roman Europe (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999), p. 158: By the first century ce, ‘fibulae no longer served as bearers of information about the wearer’s identity’. For Merobaudes as a Frank, probably a descendant of Fl. Merobaudes, the Frankish western Master of Soldiers between 365 and 388, see The Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire: Volume 2, AD 395– 527, ed. by J. R. Martindale (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1971), pp. 756–58, ‘His name suggests that he was descended from the Fl. Merobaudes who was “mag.mil.” under Gratian […] if so, he was presumably of Germanic descent’; also Frank M. Clover, Flavius Merobaudes. A Translation and Historical Commentary (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1971), p. 7: ‘The rhetorician was a Romanized Frank of high birth, perhaps originally from Gaul’. Another fifth-century barbarian ‘litteratus’ was the Master of Soldiers Flavius Valila qui et Theodobius: see Helmut Castritius, ‘Zur Sozialgeschichte der Heermeister des Westreichs nach der Mitte des 5. Jh.: Flavius Valila qui et Theodovius’, Ancient Society, 3 (1972), 233–43; and Helmut Castritius, ‘Zur Sozialgeschichte der Heermeister des Westreiches: Einheitliches Rekrutierungsmuster und Rivalitäten im spätrömischen Militäradel’, Mitteilungen des Instituts für österreichische Geschichtsforschung, 92 (1984), 1–34. Mathisen ‘Provinciales’; Mathisen, ‘Les mariages’. Ralph W. Mathisen, ‘Ricimer’s Church in Rome: How an Arian Barbarian Prospered in a Nicene World’, in The Power of Religion in Late Antiquity, ed. by Noel Lenski and Andrew Cain (Farnham: Ashgate, 2009), pp. 307–26; Ralph W. Mathisen, ‘Barbarian “Arian” Clergy, Church Organization, and

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barbarians participated in mainstream Christian life. Thus, in the 460s the homoian barbarian Master of Soldiers Ricimer endowed the apse decoration of what later became the church of Sant’Agata in Rome.16 (6) All of this raises the matter of barbarian ‘identity’, and the widespread supposition that concepts of barbarian and Roman self-identity were very different from each other. But this idea is difficult to sustain given that the designation ‘Roman’ itself no longer was an indicator of ethnic identity. Romans and barbarians now self-identified on the basis of their geographical, national, or citizenship origin.17 Thus, one could be, ‘by nationality’, a Greek, a Thracian, a Spaniard, or a Hermundurus; or a citizen of Greece, Pannonia, the Alamanni, or the Franks. In late antique contexts, the term ‘barbarian’ became a generic means of describing persons whose family had originated outside the imperial frontiers but who also were part of the Roman world. Just as the Roman Empire initially had been populated by ‘citizens’ and ‘provincials’, during Late Antiquity it was inhabited by ‘Romans’ and ‘barbarians’, all of whom were part of the ‘Roman’ population. None of these considerations are what one would expect from two fundamentally incompatible populations whose interactions were primarily manifestations of their otherness. Nor were they. By the onset of Late Antiquity (c. 250–750 ce), barbarians had lived in close contact with the Roman world for centuries and had become an integral part of it.

Barbarians and the End of the Roman Empire So, if there was no great cultural divide separating Romans and barbarians, if, in practice, barbarians were not really ‘the other’, what does that say about traditional ideas regarding the role of barbarians in the end of the western Roman Empire? Ever since antiquity, barbarians have been perceived as skin-clad savages who defeated Roman armies and beat down the gates of Rome, who not only brought down the western empire but also created a period of cultural barrenness still known as the

Church Practices’, in Arianism: Roman Heresy and Barbarian Creed, ed. by Guido Berndt and Roland Steinacher (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014), pp. 145–92. 16 Mathisen, ‘Ricimer’s Church’. 17 Charlotte Roueché, ‘Asia Minor and Cyprus’, in The Cambridge Ancient History, ed. by Averil Cameron, Bryan Ward-Perkins, and Michael Whitby, vol. 14 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), pp. 570–87 (p. 572), ‘by the sixth century many people chose to describe themselves as inhabitants of their province — as “the Lydian” or “the Cappadocian” — rather than as citizens of particular towns’; Ralph W. Mathisen, ‘“Natio”, “Gens”, “Provincialis”, and “Civis”: Geographical Terminology and Personal Identity in Late Antiquity’, in Shifting Genres in Late Antiquity, ed. by Geoffrey Greatrex (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014), pp. 277–89; Ralph W. Mathisen, ‘Le statut personnel et juridique de provincialis pendant le Bas-Empire’, in Confinia: Confins et périphéries dans l’Occident romain, ed. by Robert Bedon (Limoges: Presses Universitaires de Limoges, 2014), pp. 35–46.

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‘Dark Ages’. And ever since the fifth century scholars and theologians have tried to explain how this could have happened. Salvian of Marseille reasoned, Si […] deus […] curat […] cur nos […] vinci a barbaris patitur? […] brevissime […] nos perferre haec mala patitur quia meremur ut ista patiamur. (If God […] cares for us […] Why does he suffer us to be conquered by the barbarians? […] To answer very briefly […], he suffers us to endure these trials because we deserve to endure them).18 In this model, Romans were just getting what they deserved for their sinfulness. In the modern day, the end of the western empire still is seen as resulting from a underlying animosity between ‘barbarians’ and ‘Romans’. The so-called ‘Catastrophe’ Model can be traced back to Edward Gibbon, who in the late eighteenth century spoke of ‘the triumph of barbarism and religion’. In modern models, barbarians still get the blame, with barbarian hordes engaging in ‘waves of invasion’ that caused the decline and fall of a feeble western Roman Empire. In a book ominously entitled, The Fall of Rome and the End of Civilization, a distinguished Oxford scholar recently proposed, ‘The civilization of Greece and Rome was destroyed in the West by hostile invasions’.19 Recent decades, moreover, have seen the development of a different model, the ‘Transformation Model’, which sees largely peaceful integration and assimilation of barbarian peoples in the Roman world.20 Both models, however, presume that there was a fundamental adversarialness, a condition of otherness, between barbarians and Romans.21 But if, as just suggested, that underlying otherness was not there, if there was in fact a great degree of common ground between Romans and barbarians, how are we to explain the end of the western Roman Empire without hostile antagonistic culturally differentiated barbarians as one of the primary causative factors? What does this say about the barbarian ‘conquest’ of the western Roman Empire?

18 Salvian, De gubernatione dei 4.12. 19 Bryan Ward-Perkins, The Fall of Rome and the End of Civilization (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), p. 1. 20 See, e.g., Donald Kagan, The End of the Roman Empire: Decline or Transformation? (Lexington: Heath, 1978); Samuel Barnish, ‘Transformation and Survival in the Western Senatorial Aristocracy, c. A.D. 400–700’, Papers of the British School at Rome, 56 (1988), 120–55; Leslie Webster and Michelle Brown, eds, The Transformation of the Roman World ad 400–900 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997); Mathisen and Shanzer, eds, Romans, Barbarians, pp. 43–53; Rob Collins, ‘Decline, Collapse, or Transformation? The Case for the Northern Frontier of Britannia’, in Social Dynamics in the Northwest Frontiers of the Late Roman Empire: Beyond Decline or Transformation, ed. by Nico Roymans, Stijn Heeren, and Wim De Clercq (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2017), pp. 203–20. 21 Thus, even authors such as Goffart who downplay the extent of adversarialness, ‘antagonism cannot be the last word’, still implicitly subscribe to the theme of the barbarian invasions, ‘Costly barbarian invasions undeniably took place’: Walter Goffart, ‘Rome’s Final Conquest: The Barbarians’, History Compass, 6.3 (2008), 855–83 (pp. 858, 870).

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Problems with the ‘Barbarian Conquest’ Model One thus next might like to take a quick look at what traditionally have been called the ‘barbarian invasions’ and the ‘barbarian conquest’ of the western Roman Empire. Popular models of a weak Roman Empire overcome by invading barbarians have some significant issues: (1) Even Peter Heather, a powerful advocate for the role of barbarians in the ‘fall’ of the western empire, identifies only two periods of barbarian invasions, the settlement of the Visigoths in 376, and the invasions of Radagaisus [in 405] and the Vandals, Burgundians, Alans, and Suevi [in 406] during 405–406.22 But the Visigoths entered the eastern not the western empire, and the invasion by Radagaisus in 405, not to mention that of the Huns in 451–452, failed and left little lasting legacy. And given that Heather characterizes the ‘decade of glory’ of Attila the Huns as a ‘sideshow in the drama of western imperial collapse’, we are left with only a single successful invasion of the western empire, the crossing of the Rhine in 406.23 It thus is difficult to find evidence for waves of barbarian invasions that brought down the western empire. (2) Another problem with the ‘barbarian invasion’ model is that the end of the western empire came seventy-five years after the only successful western invasion. Although Heather suggests that ‘the two phenomena are causally connected’,24 this still is a very long time to argue for cause and effect. (3) It also is hard to find examples of barbarians conquering anything. Most of the marquee battles, such as Pollentia (402), Faesulae (406), Vicus Helena (440s), and the Mauriac Plain (451),25 were won by the Romans. Indeed, one can point to only a few significant western battles, such as the defeat of Litorius in 439 and Cap Bon in 468, both of which were defensive rather than offensive battles, won by barbarians. One does note, moreover, that as of the 440s, Roman victories often were won with the aid of barbarian auxiliaries, such as the Visigoths and Franks. (4) Nor were barbarians particularly destructive. The genteel ‘Sack’ of Rome in 410, for example, and the Vandal sack of Rome in 455 were old-fashioned lootings, akin

22 Peter Heather, The Fall of the Roman Empire. A New History of Rome and the Barbarians (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), pp. 435, 445–46. 23 Heather, The Fall of the Roman Empire, p. 435. 24 Heather, The Fall of the Roman Empire, p. 434. 25 For general histories of the period, note, e.g., John Moorhead, The Roman Empire Divided, 400–700 (London: Longman, 2001); Averil Cameron, The Later Roman Empire. ad 284–430 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993); John R. Bury, History of the Later Roman Empire from the Death of Theodosius I to the Death of Justinian (London: Macmillan, 1923); Ernst Stein, Geschichte des spätrömischen Reiches vom römischen zum byzantinischen Staate (284–476 n. Chr.) (Wien: Seidel, 1928) = Histoire du Bas-Empire. Tome premier. De l’état romaine à l’état byzantine (284–476), trans. by Jean-Rémy Palanque (Paris: Brouwer, 1959; repr. Amsterdam: Hakkert, 1968).

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to the lootings that occurred during Roman civil wars, as in 69 and 238.26 Neither caused much actual destruction.27 There is very little evidence for barbarians destroying much of anything. In general, barbarians like the Vandals, Visigoths, and Franks prevailed more by persistence, by infiltration, and by taking advantage of Roman lack of preparedness then by military conquest. (5) Nor does a model based on barbarian invasions explain why for 750 years the Romans had been able to deal with any barbarian threats quite effectively. Why was it only in the fifth century that the west collapsed in the face of supposed barbarian onslaughts? All of these considerations suggest that there was something else going on in the end of the western empire. The lack of evidence for a military conquest and the evidence that barbarians were not just ‘the other’, and that there was a great deal of common ground between persons and peoples traditionally described as ‘Romans’ and ‘barbarians’, now seems too overwhelming to be consistent with a model for the end of the western empire based so heavily on adversarialnesss. For an alternate model, one might consider the primary venue in which barbarians and Romans encountered each other and created a composite culture: the Roman military, which was increasingly dependent on the recruitment of barbarian soldiers, especially after the Battle of Adrianople in 378. In this context, we encounter Hariulfus, ‘a prince of the Burgundian people’, who served as a ‘Protector domesticus’, that is, as a member of the imperial guard, in the late fourth century.28 At about the same time, an unnamed Frank described himself as ‘a citizen of the Franks, but a Roman soldier in arms’.29 One might suggest that what in the past have been called ‘barbarian invasions’ in fact were either civil wars or consolidations of authority by what one could call ‘Independent Military Contractors’, leaders of bands of mostly barbarian auxiliary troops — including individuals ranging from Alaric, Odovacar, and Theoderic the Great to Count Boniface, Aegidius, and Ecdicius — who them 26 Sack of 455: e.g., Malchus, Chronicon 366: The Fragmentary Classicising Historians of the Later Roman Empire: Eunapius, Olympiodorus, Priscus, and Malchus, ed. by R. C. Blockley, 2 vols (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1981–1983); sack of 69 ce: Aur. Vict. Caes. 8.5: Sexti Aurelii Victoris de caesaribus liber, ed. by Franz Pichlmayer (Leipzig: Teubner, 1892); Tac. Hist. 3.71–83; 4.1: Cornelii Taciti Historiarum liber, ed. by Charles D. Fisher (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1922); sack of 238 ce: HA Maximini duo 10.4–8; also HA Severi 7.3: Scriptores historiae augustae, ed. by Hermann Peter (Leipzig: Teubner, 1894). 27 e.g., Ralph W. Mathisen, ‘Roma a Gothis Alarico duce capta est’: The Sack of Rome in 410 ce’, in 410 – The Sack of Rome, ed. by Johannes Lipps, Philipp von Rummell, and Carlos Machado (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2013), pp. 87–102. 28 Corpus inscriptionum Latinarum 13: Inscriptiones trium Galliarum et Germaniarum Latinae, ed. by O. Hirschfield, C. Zangenmeister, A. von Domaszewski, O. Bohn, and E. Stein (Berlin, 1899–1943, repr. Faenza, 1979), 3682: ‘Hariulfus protector / domesticus filius Han/havaldi regalis genti/s Burgundionum qui / vicxit annos XX et men/sis nove(m) et dies nove(m) / Reutilo avunculu/s ipsius fecit’. 29 Corpus inscriptionum Latinarum, Vol.11: Inscriptiones Aemiliae, Etruriae, Umbriae Latinae, ed. by E. Bormann (Berlin, 1888–1926; repr. Faenza, 1979), 3576 = H. Dessau, Inscriptiones Latinae selectae (Berlin, 1892–1916), 2814: ‘Francus ego cives, Romanus miles in armis’.

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selves could be either barbarians or Romans.30 Perhaps it was only an accident of history that the western empire fragmented into barbarian kingdoms as opposed to breakaway Roman enclaves. Which brings one back to the prevalent concept of ‘otherness’ that often has been used to define and explain relations between barbarians and Romans during Late Antiquity. It was suggested above that a model for the interactions between Romans and barbarians, and for the end of the Roman Empire in the west, that is based on adversarialness and difference just does not work. Not when all the evidence suggests that barbarians were not ‘the other’ in the late Roman world but rather were included under a wide umbrella that incorporated all the peoples living within and on the fringes of the imperial frontiers. A model that incorporates the lack of barbarian ‘otherness’ might be better equipped to explain not only the tenor of Roman-barbarian interactions during the last century of the western empire but also the nature of the transformation of the Roman world to the medieval world than a model based on hostility, difference, and otherness.

Works Cited Primary Sources Cornelii Taciti Historiarum liber, ed. by Charles D. Fisher (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1922) Corpus inscriptionum Latinarum, Vol.11: Inscriptiones Aemiliae, Etruriae, Umbriae Latinae, ed. by E. Bormann (Berlin, 1888–1926; repr. Faenza, 1979) Corpus inscriptionum Latinarum 13: Inscriptiones trium Galliarum et Germaniarum Latinae, ed. by O. Hirschfield, C. Zangenmeister,. A. von Domaszewski, O. Bohn, and E. Stein (Berlin, 1899–1943, repr. Faenza, 1979) Dessau, H., Inscriptiones Latinae selectae (Berlin, 1892–1916) The Fragmentary Classicising Historians of the Later Roman Empire: Eunapius, Olympiodorus, Priscus, and Malchus, ed. by R. C. Blockley, 2 vols (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1981–1983) Gulielmus Xylandrus, ed., Dionis Cassii Nicaei Romanae historiae libri (tot enim hodie extant) XXV nimirum a. XXXVI ad LXI (Lyon: Gulielmus Rovillius, 1559) The Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire: Volume 2, AD 395–527, ed. by J. R. Martindale (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1971) Scriptores historiae augustae, ed. by Hermann Peter (Leipzig: Teubner, 1894) Sexti Aurelii Victoris de caesaribus liber, ed. by Franz Pichlmayer (Leipzig: Teubner, 1892)

30 See Ralph W. Mathisen, ‘The End of the Western Roman Empire in the Fifth Century ce: Barbarian Auxiliaries, Independent Military Contractors, and Civil Wars’, in The Fifth Century: Age of Transformation, ed. by Noel Lenski and Jan-Willem Drijvers (Bari: Edipuglia, 2019), pp. 137–56.

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Secondary Works Barnish, Samuel, ‘Transformation and Survival in the Western Senatorial Aristocracy, c. A.D. 400–700’, Papers of the British School at Rome, 56 (1988), 120–55 Bowlus, Charles R., ‘Ethnogenesis Models and the Age of Migration: A Critique’, Austrian History Yearbook, 26 (1995), 147–64 Bury, John R., History of the Later Roman Empire from the Death of Theodosius I to the Death of Justinian (London: Macmillan, 1923) Cameron, Averil, The Later Roman Empire. ad 284–430 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993) Castritius, Helmut, ‘Zur Sozialgeschichte der Heermeister des Westreichs nach der Mitte des 5. Jh.: Flavius Valila qui et Theodovius’, Ancient Society, 3 (1972), 233–43 ———, ‘Zur Sozialgeschichte der Heermeister des Westreiches: Einheitliches Rekrutierungsmuster und Rivalitäten im spätrömischen Militäradel’, Mitteilungen des Instituts für österreichische Geschichtsforschung, 92 (1984), 1–34 Chappell, David, ‘Ethnogenesis and Frontiers’, Journal of World History, 4 (1993), 267–75 Clover, Frank M., Flavius Merobaudes: A Translation and Historical Commentary (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1971) Collins, Rob, ‘Decline, Collapse, or Transformation? The Case for the Northern Frontier of Britannia’, in Social Dynamics in the Northwest Frontiers of the Late Roman Empire: Beyond Decline or Transformation, ed. by Nico Roymans, Stijn Heeren, and Wim De Clercq (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2017), pp. 203–20 Dauge, Yves A., Le barbare. Recherches sur la conception romaine de la barbarie et de la civilisation (Bruxelles: Latomus, 1981) Ferris, Iain, ‘Insignificant Others: Images of Barbarians on Military Art from Roman Britain’, in TRAC 94: Proceedings of the Fourth Annual Theoretical Roman Archaeology Conference, ed. by Sally Cottam, David Dungsworth, Sarah Scott, and Jeremy Taylor (Oxford: Oxbow, 1994), pp. 24–31 Frassetto, Michael, The Early Medieval World: From the Fall of Rome to the Time of Charlemagne (Santa Barbara: ABC-Clio, 2013) Funck, Barbara, ‘Studie zu der Bezeichnung bárbaros’, in Soziale Typenbegriffe. Untersuchungen ausgewählter altgriechischer sozialer Typenbegriffe und ihr Fortleben in Antike und Mittelalter = Soziale Typenbegriffe im alten Griechenlandund ihr Fortleben in den Sprachen der Welt, ed. by Elisabeth Welskopf, vol. iv (Berlin: Akademie, 1981), pp. 26–51 Geary, Patrick, ‘Ethnic Identity as a Situational Construct in the Early Middle Ages’, Mitteilungen der Anthropologischen Gesellschaft in Wien, 13 (1988), 15–26 Goffart, Walter, ‘Rome’s Final Conquest: The Barbarians’, History Compass, 6.3 (2008), 855–83 Halsall, Guy, ‘The Origins of the Reihengräberzivilisation: Forty Years On’, in Fifth-Century Gaul: A Crisis of Identity?, ed. by John Drinkwater and Hugh Elton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), pp. 196–207 Heather, Peter, The Fall of the Roman Empire: A New History of Rome and the Barbarians (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005)

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Hedeager, Lotte, ‘The Creation of Germanic Identity: A European Origin-Myth’, in Frontières d’empire: Nature et signification des frontières romaines, ed. by Patrice Brun, Sander van der Leeuw, and Charles R. Whittaker (Nemours: Ed. de l’Association pour la promotion de la recherche archéologique en Ile-de-France, 1993), pp, 121–31 Hummer, Hans J., ‘The Fluidity of Barbarian Identity, the Ethnogenesis of Alemanni and Suebi, ad 200–500’, Early Medieval Europe, 7 (1998), 1–27 Kagan, Donald, The End of the Roman Empire: Decline or Transformation? (Lexington: Heath, 1978) Kahane, Henry, and Renée Kahane, ‘On the Meanings of “Barbarus”’, Hellenika, 37 (1986), 129–32 Kulikowski, Michael, ‘Nation vs. Army: A Necessary Contrast?’, in On Barbarian Identity: Critical Approaches to Ethnicity in the Early Middle Ages, ed. by Andrew Gillett (Turnhout: Brepols, 2002), pp. 69–84 Lévy, Edmund, ‘Naissance du concept de barbare’, Ktema, 9 (1984), 5–14 Mathisen, Ralph W., ‘Barbarian “Arian” Clergy, Church Organization, and Church Practices’, in Arianism: Roman Heresy and Barbarian Creed, ed. by Guido Berndt and Roland Steinacher (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014), pp. 145–92 ———, ‘Barbarian Immigration and Integration in the Late Roman Empire: The Case of Barbarian Citizenship’, in Minderheiten und Migration in der Antike: Rechtliche, religiöse, kulturelle und politische Aspekte, ed. by Patrick Sänger (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 2016), pp. 153–67 ———, ‘Becoming Roman, Becoming Barbarian: Roman Citizenship and the Assimilation of Barbarians into the Late Roman World’, in Migration and Membership Regimes in Global and Historical Perspective, ed. by Ulbe Bosma, Gijs Kessler, and Leo Lucassen (Leiden: Brill, 2013), pp. 191–217 ———, ‘Concepts of Citizenship in the Late Roman Empire’, in Oxford Handbook of Late Antiquity, ed. by Scott Johnson (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), pp. 744–63 ———, ‘The End of the Western Roman Empire in the Fifth Century ce: Barbarian Auxiliaries, Independent Military Contractors, and Civil Wars’, in The Fifth Century: Age of Transformation, ed. by Noel Lenski and Jan-Willem Drijvers (Bari: Edipuglia, 2019), pp. 137–56 ———, ‘Les mariages entre Romains et Barbares comme stratégie familiale pendant l’Antiquité tardive’, in Les stratégies familiales dans l’Antiquité tardive, ed. by Christophe Badel and Mireille Corbier (Paris: De Boccard, 2012), 153–66 ———, ‘“Natio”, “Gens”, “Provincialis”, and “Civis”: Geographical Terminology and Personal Identity in Late Antiquity’, in Shifting Genres in Late Antiquity, ed. by Geoffrey Greatrex (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014), pp. 277–89 ———, ‘“Peregrini”, “Barbari”, and “Cives Romani”: Concepts of Citizenship and the Legal Identity of Barbarians in the Later Roman Empire’, American Historical Review, 111 (2006), 1011–40 ———, ‘“Provinciales”, “Gentiles”, and Marriages between Romans and Barbarians in the Late Roman Empire’, Journal of Roman Studies, 99 (2009), 140–55 ———, ‘Ricimer’s Church in Rome: How an Arian Barbarian Prospered in a Nicene World’, in The Power of Religion in Late Antiquity, ed. by Noel Lenski and Andrew Cain (Farnham: Ashgate, 2009), pp. 307–26

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———, ‘Roma a Gothis Alarico duce capta est’: The Sack of Rome in 410 ce’, in 410 – The Sack of Rome, ed. by Johannes Lipps, Philipp von Rummell, and Carlos Machado (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2013), pp. 87–102 ———, ‘Le statut personnel et juridique de provincialis pendant le Bas-Empire’, in Confinia: Confins et périphéries dans l’Occident romain, ed. by Robert Bedon (Limoges: Presses Universitaires de Limoges, 2014), pp. 35–46 Moorhead, John, The Roman Empire Divided, 400–700 (London: Longman, 2001) Neusner, Jacob, and Ernest S. Frerichs, eds, ‘To See Ourselves as Others See Us’: Christians, Jews and ‘Others’ in Late Antiquity (Chico: Scholars, 1985) Périn, Patrick, and Michel Kazanski, ‘Identity and Ethnicity during the Era of Migrations and Barbarian Kingdoms in the Light of Archaeology in Gaul’, in Romans, Barbarians, and the Transformation of The Roman World: Cultural Interaction and the Creation of Identity in Late Antiquity, ed. by Ralph Mathisen and Danuta Shanzer (Farnham: Ashgate, 2011), pp. 299–330 Pohl, Walter, ‘Conceptions of Ethnicity in Early Medieval Studies’, in Debating the Middle Ages: Issues and Readings, ed. by Lester K. Little and Barbara H. Rosenwein (Oxford: Blackwell, 1998), pp. 13–24 ———, ‘Strategie und Sprache – zu den Ethnogenesen des Mittelalters’, in Entstehung von Sprachen und Völkern, ed. by Sture Ureland (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1985), pp. 93–102 ———, ‘Tradition, Ethnogenese und literarische Gestaltung: eine Zwischenbilanz’, in Ethnogenese und Überlieferung. Angewandte Methoden der Frühmittelalterforschung, ed. by Karl Brunner and Brigitte Merta (München: Oldenbourg, 1994), pp. 9–26 Quast, Dieter, ‘Vom Einzelgrab zum Friedhof. Beginn der Reihengräbersitte im 5. Jahrhundert’, in Die Alamannen, ed. by Karlheinz Fuchs, Martin Kempa, Rainer Redies, Barbara Theune-Grosskopf, and André Wais (Stuttgart: Theiss, 1997), pp. 171–90 Roueché, Charlotte, ‘Asia Minor and Cyprus’, in The Cambridge Ancient History, ed. by Averil Cameron, Bryan Ward-Perkins, and Michael Whitby, vol. 14 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), pp. 570–87 Saddington, Dennis B., ‘Roman Attitudes to the “externae gentes” of the North’, Acta classica 4 (1961), 90–102 Stein, Ernst, Geschichte des spätrömischen Reiches vom römischen zum byzantinischen Staate (284–476 n. Chr.) (Wien: Seidel, 1928) = Histoire du Bas-Empire. Tome premier. De l’état romaine à l’état byzantine (284–476), trans. by Jean-Rémy Palanque (Paris: Brouwer, 1959; repr. Amsterdam: Hakkert, 1968) Stein, Frauke, Alamannische Siedlung und Kultur: Das Reihengraberfeld in Gammertingen (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1991) van Acker, Lieven, ‘“Barbarus” und seine Ableitungen im Mittellatein’, Archiv für Kulturgeschichte, 47 (1965), 125–40 Viscido, Lorenzo, ‘Sull’uso del termine barbarus nelle “Variae” di Cassiodore’, Orpheus, 7 (1986), 338–44 Ward-Perkins, Bryan, The Fall of Rome and the End of Civilization (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005) Webster, Leslie, and Michelle Brown, eds, The Transformation of the Roman World ad  400–900 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997)

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Wells, Peter, The Barbarians Speak: How the Conquered Peoples Shaped Roman Europe (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999) Wenskus, Reinhard, Stammesbildung und Verfassung. Das Werden der frühmittelalterlichen Gentes (Köln: Böhlau, 1961) Woolf, Greg, Tales of the Barbarians: Ethnography and Empire in the Roman West (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2011)

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Meghan Mattsson McGinnis

How ‘Other’ Was the Viking Otherworld?

One thing that is quickly revealed when delving into Old Norse mortuary culture — whether from a religious historical, literary, or archaeological approach — is the wide range of practices and suggestions of diverse worldviews operating in parallel, intertwining, and even seemingly contradictory relations to one another. This includes hints of a great variety in the ways the living could relate to, and how they might define themselves in connection with or against, the dead. In Old Icelandic literature especially there are notable incidents both where deceased persons and areas associated with them appear to be seen as familiar and benevolent, and which point in the entirely opposite direction towards an attitude of alterity and fear (Fig. 13.1). The impression given, for example, by Skarp-Hedin and Hogni’s encounter with the hero Gunnar in his light-filled burial mound, singing, happy with ‘exultant face’ in Njäl’s Saga, and the bestial Aran with ‘blood streaming down from his mouth all the while he was eating’ and tearing Asmund’s ears off in his grave in the Saga of Egil One-Hand and Asmund Berserkers-Slayer could hardly be more different. In Viking Age Scandinavia1 the presence of the dead, both physically and psychologically, must have been a fact of daily life for most people, with grave-fields delimiting villages and avowed ancestral ties helping shape individual and group identities. What are we to make then of the fact that despite this nearness, deceased persons were also likely to be (if we take the sagas as reflecting earlier attitudes to some degree, and compare with other circumpolar cultures)2 perceived as dangerous

1 ‘Viking Age Scandinavia’ is taken to mean the areas of Scandinavia where the group(s) of North Germanic-speaking peoples now popularly known as ‘Vikings’ dwelt between the eighth and the twelfth centuries ce. 2 A comparative perspective employed here as it is now clear through the work of scholars such as Dag Strömback, Neil Price, Thomas DuBois, and Alexandra Sanmark that great similarities existed between Old Norse religion(s) and that of neighbouring northern peoples, particularly in regard to animistic and shamanistic aspects of indigenous ritual practices. Meghan Mattsson McGinnis  •  ([email protected]) completed her M.A. in archaeology at Stockholm University, specializing in the study of Viking Age ritual life. She is currently employed as a PhD student in archaeology at the Department of Archaeology and Classical Studies, Stockholm University, working on a project investigating Vendel and Viking period rituals involving amulet rings. ‘Otherness’ in the Middle Ages, ed. by Hans-Werner Goetz and Ian Wood, IMR 25 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2021), pp. 289–318 © FHG10.1484/M.IMR-EB.5.123596

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Figure 13.1 An unwelcome encounter with the dead — Gudrun accosted by the ghost of þorkell in Laxdæla Saga. 1898 illustration by Andreas Bloch from Vore fædres liv, ed. by Nordahl Rolfsen (PD).

h ow ‘ot h e r’ was t he vi k i ng ot he rwo rld?

or even monstrous? Were the dead seen as the ultimate ‘other’ or perceived as ideal insiders in Old Norse culture? Or could they be both? It is not easy on the basis of the scant written sources alone to pin down just how ‘other’ those people living in Viking Age Scandinavia considered their otherworld and its inhabitants to be, and what role they saw them as playing in the world of the living. The purpose of this paper is therefore to explore these questions by investigating what the archaeological record suggests about how the Viking Age dead were — or were not — integrated into their society. This is a task that will be accomplished by touching on certain pertinent archaeologically visible patterns of practice in how the dead, their resting places, and their possessions were treated during and after burial.

Identity, Otherness, and Archaeology Before delving into these specifics, however, the special problems and advantages entailed in investigating otherness and other issues of identity in archaeology must be understood. Questions about identity — or more precisely, the relationship between the material record and past identities — have been debated since the inception of the field. Though this issue has always been (and continues to be) one tied up with both theoretical and urgently practical and political controversies, it is nevertheless undeniably interwoven into the origins of archaeological thought and concerns at the very heart of the discipline. It is the study of identity that allows us to go beyond the creation of chronologies and typologies to personalize the past, moving analyses from the level of simply asking what a feature or artefact might be and how old it is towards deeper inquiries such as who made it (and/or used it, moved, buried or discarded it, etc.)? What else was it associated with and influenced/influenced by? And how/what might it have functioned and signified within the culture?3 The ‘archaeology of identities’ no matter — or rather exactly because of — how urgently problematic it can be forms part of ‘the total endeavor of archaeology […] part of a perilous, but necessary, search for the things that bind and divide human groups locally and globally. The issue is really whether one can actually have an archaeology that is not concerned with identity’.4 Archaeological theory and methodology do not come into being in a vacuum any more than any other aspect of academic inquiries. Thus prevailing late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century concerns with the categorization of races and building of nations were reflected in the flourishing of culture-historical approaches seeking to define historical societies in terms of discretely bounded ethnic groups.5 This is a

3 Adrian Maldonado and Anthony Russell, ‘Introduction: Creating Material Worlds’, in Creating Material Worlds: The Uses of Identity in Archaeology, ed. by Anthony Russell, Elizabeth Pierce, Adrián Maldonado, and Louisa Campbell (Oxford: Oxbow, 2016), pp. 1–15 (p. 1). 4 Timothy Insoll, ‘Introduction: Configuring Identities in Archaeology’, in The Archaeology of Identities: A Reader, ed. by Timothy Insoll (New York: Routledge, 2007), pp. 1–18 (p. 1). 5 Margarita Díaz-Andreu, A World History of Nineteenth-Century Archaeology: Nationalism, Colonialism, and the Past (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), p. 4.

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view of identities and their material expression that proved untenable. First through the shift towards a wider appreciation of the role of individual agency in creating and manipulating symbols in the post-processual archaeology of the 1980s and 1990s, and then in the growing recognition within the globalized and networked world of a post-modern twenty-first century that neither personal nor communal identity is ever fixed, but rather plural, fluid, and multi-scalar in nature.6 Archaeologists increasingly understand identity as both intersectional and situational, with each individual carrying an array of social identities that can be varyingly activated in different ways and to different degrees during the various encounters of their everyday life.7 The emphasis in the archaeological study of identities has therefore changed from the search for sameness to multiplicity, from the identification of imagined bounded ethnic and other categories to the exploration of how identity is constructed and maintained. It is as part of this wider endeavour — what Timothy Insoll describes as ‘the complex process of attempting to recover an insight into the generation of self at a variety of levels: as an individual, within a community and public and private contexts’8 — that archaeology has come to engage with ideas of ‘the other’ and ‘otherness’. For several decades anthropologists had already been employing and extending traditional philosophical and psychological notions of the ‘constitutive Other’ as the counterpart against whose presumed radical difference the ‘individual Self ’ is defined as a tool to help contextualize group awareness in living cultures.9 Archaeologists began to do the same for past communities in the early 1990s, attending more and more to how material culture could be deployed in creating and reproducing hierarchies, and demarcating in-groups and out-groups:10 looking for traces of what actions may have been employed to foster a sense of belonging in different contexts, or to exclude segments of a population from this belonging. Furthermore, since postcolonial and feminist critique has initiated much-needed work on the ways in which archaeology as a discipline has all too often been complicit in the imperialist project, the marginalization of certain groups, and the naturalization of categories and power relations, ‘othering’11 has become a topic of ethical discussion within the field with increasing frequency and intensity.12

6 Lynn Meskell, ‘Archaeologies of Identity’, in The Archaeology of Identities, ed. by Insoll, pp. 37–57 (p. 24). 7 Johan Callmer, Ingrid Gustin and Mats Roslund, ‘Identity Formation and Diversity: Introduction’, in Identity Formation and Diversity in the Early Medieval Baltic and Beyond: Communicators and Communication, ed. by Johan Callmer, Ingrid Gustin, and Mats Roslund (Leiden: Brill, 2017), pp. 1–16 (p. 5). 8 Insoll, ‘Configuring Identities’, p. 14. 9 J. Mitchell Miller, ‘Otherness’, in The Sage Encyclopedia of Qualitative Research Methods, ed. by Lisa M. Given (Thousand Oaks: Sage, 2008), pp. 588–90 (p. 2). 10 Gerritsen, Fokke, Local Identities: Landscape and Community in the Late Prehistoric Meuse-DemerScheldt Region (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2010) (p. 112). 11 As famously defined by Edward Said in the context of its use as a tool of colonialist oppression. 12 As discussed e.g. by Díaz-Andreu, A World History, Insoll, ‘Configuring Identities’, and Meskell, ‘Archaeologies of Identity’, among others.

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Despite this difficult history — or all the more because of it and the self-reflection it is now inspiring — archaeology today still brings its own unique and valuable perspective to understanding (pre)historical constructions and experiences of otherness. Archaeological methods and theory also offer tools for challenging received histories, and helping groups who have been and still are ‘other-ed’ in mainstream society recover and express their own views of the past.13 This should perhaps not be so surprising, ‘since the practice of archaeology has long been about the “categorization of others” — the denizens of the past — it follows that archaeology is a way of interrogating our own social structures in the present’.14 Just like historians, archaeologists are constantly grappling with the otherness of the past, with how much a contemporary person can truly hope to access of the world-view of people located in such different times and cultural milieu. This project is made even more complicated in instances where no or only very little direct testimony is preserved from the subjects of our study. But that we approach this problem from an explicitly material starting point is also our greatest strength.15 There is no better source than material culture for nuanced small-scale stories and varied perspectives, for ground-up information about specific situations and actions.16 This focus on materiality has also led to the essential insight that though identities are always in process — they are not endlessly mutable and untethered, but rather grounded in the material world in which they take shape —, their social malleability framed by the material fixity of the body and its surrounding environments.17 Identities are formed not only by abstract ideals but through performance. They are rooted in practice, and shaped, communicated, transformed, and conveyed through generations by material culture, and formed through reference to our own corporeality, and our embodied experience of other people, and things and places invested with cultural meaning.18 Archaeology contributes to our understanding of identities in the past by uncovering physical traces of the social practices that operated to form and reproduce them, and of the materialized worlds in which these practices were embedded. It gives us the most direct access possible to aspects of what Melanie Giles describes as the ‘web’ of relational identity, the ‘very substance of agents [and] set of material conditions under which connections can be established, and from which relations are

13 As discussed e.g by Alfredo González-Ruibal, ‘Vernacular Cosmopolitanism: An Archeological Critique of Universalistic Reason’, in Cosmopolitan Archaeologies, ed. by Lynn Meskell (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2009), pp. 113–39, and Sonya Atalay, ‘Multivocality and Indigenous Archaeologies’, in Evaluating Multiple Narratives, ed. by Junko Habu, Clare Fawcett, and John M. Matsunaga (New York: Springer, 2008), pp. 29–44. 14 Maldonado and Russell, ‘Introduction’, p. 3. 15 Åsa Berggren and Liv Nilsson Stutz, ‘From Spectator to Critic and Participant: New Role for Archaeology in Ritual Studies’, Journal of Social Archaeology, 10.2 (2010), 171–97 (p. 172). 16 Callmer and Roslund, ‘Identity Formation’, p. 7. 17 Meskell, ‘Archaeologies of Identity’, p. 27. 18 Howard Williams, ‘Hall of Mirrors: Death and Identity in Medieval Archaeology’, in Mortuary Practices and Social Identities in the Middle Ages: Essays in Burial Archaeology in Honour of Heinrich Härke, ed. by Duncan Sayers and Howard Williams (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 2009), pp. 1–22 (p. 2).

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“spun”’.19 It provides an opportunity to see just when, where, how, and in what way conceptions of self and other were practically activated within particular mesh-works of societal and material relations at specific moments in time.

Identity, Otherness, and Otherworlds Though everything from pots to farming techniques can play a part in the expression of social identities, mortuary practices have always occupied a uniquely prominent role in the archaeology of identity. On one level this focus is a matter of availability, it is most often in their graves that we encounter the inhabitants of the past whose identities we seek to explore. But it is also because burials have long been regarded in archaeology as special, not only because they are the remains of intentional and ritualistic processes, but because of their importance as contexts for the overt, discursive constitution and display of identities. Over the past three decades the relationship between death and identity, like the issue of identity in general, has been interrogated with ever increasing nuance. Earlier views of burial evidence as either a straightforward ‘mirror’ of social organization in the living community, or simply a ‘mirage’ of symbolic allusions with no grounding in real conditions are no longer taken for granted.20 New approaches to mortuary archaeology emphasize that all elements of burial ritual, as well as how the grave and body are treated subsequently, can play a role in the construction of identities. They recognize that at funerals varied aspects — both real and/or idealized — of group and individual identities are performed; both in regards to the deceased (for whom different treatments of their remains can highlight or mask different lived or imagined qualities), and to the surviving members of the community (whose collective status, piety, power, etc. are also reflected in the ceremony).21 They also open an arena for social contest, where identity conflicts between different groups may be brought to the fore and negotiated.22 These are negotiations which may have serious consequences not only for the redistribution of status and inheritance, but even the very boundaries of the community. Acts of shared mourning, for example, can frequently serve to both bring participants together in an emotionally charged sense of solidarity and at the same time also highlight who is not a part of the celebrating congregation.23

19 Melanie Giles, A Forged Glamour: Landscape, Identity and Material Culture in the Iron Age (Oxford: Windgather, 2012), p. 38. 20 Heinrich Härke, ‘The Nature of Burial Data’, in Burial and Society: The Chronological and Social Analysis of Archaeological Burial Data, ed. by Karen Høilund Nielsen and Claus Kjeld Jensen (Århus: Århus University Press, 1997), pp. 19–27 (p. 22). 21 Giles, A Forged Glamour, p. 125. 22 i.e. claims over critical resources such as the inheritance of wealth or land. 23 Chris Fowler, ‘Identity Politics: Personhood, Kinship, Gender and Power in Neolithic and Early Bronze Age Britain’, in The Archaeology of Plural and Changing Identities, ed. by Eleanor Casella and Chris Fowler (New York: Springer, 2005), pp. 109–34 (p. 121).

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Furthermore, death rituals also change relationships between individuals and their communities. As Howard Williams asserts, funerals are arenas of identity-shift too, where both the survivors and the deceased undergo ‘ontological, social and cosmological realignments as they deal with and selectively remember and forget aspects of the dead person’. They are events in which previous identities may be reinforced and/or new identities created: where individual and communal identities are both rooted in the past, and defined in relation to ‘aspired futures both in this world and the next’.24 The outcomes for persons implicated in rituals surrounding death can range from exaltation to being irrevocably other-ed. Designated heirs may for instance often take up prestigious positions vacated by the deceased and increase their standing, but there also a myriad of historical examples of the death of a spouse making the widow(er) an outcast. Similarly, passing on to their respective culture’s otherworld has changed many individuals into archetypical heroes revered by the lineages who claim association with them,25 but in other cases a change in personhood from healthy to sick and then living to dead means no longer even being considered a part of the same ethnic group.26 The relationally constructed identities of the dead, including their identification as insider or outsider, are in short just as negotiable as those of the living — or even more so. The position of dead persons in relation to the rest of the community to which they belonged in life is in many ways always an inherently paradoxical one. On the one hand, beliefs concerning ancestors frequently play a role in the formation of individual and group identities.27 The question of who identifies and/or is identified as belonging to a given kinship community or ethnic group is more often than not based at least in part on notions of descent (whether real or imagined) from shared forebears (whether documented or mythical). These forebears are typically idealized, and set up as archetypes of the traits and behaviours most highly valued by the community. Regardless of exactly how they are characterized, ancestors are always past personages that some segment of the living population identifies with on some level. But at the same time they are inexorably ontologically other. Our dead were once just like us, but no longer — this is what can make them at once beloved and familiar but also abhorred and alien. What our ancestors, whether immediate or distantly related, all have in common is that they are no longer alive — whatever

24 Williams, ‘Hall of Mirrors’, p. 3. 25 The classic statement of this idea is in Fustel de Coulanges, La Cité Antique: Étude Sur Le Culte, Le Droit, Les Institutions De La Grèce Et De Rome, Cambridge Library Collection – Classics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010, first published 1866). 26 i.e. as Judith Okely, ‘An Anthropological Contribution to the History and Archaeology of an Ethnic Group’, in Space, Hierarchy and Society: Interdisciplinary Studies in Social Area Analysis, ed. by Barry C. Burnham and John Kingsbury (Oxford: BAR, 1979), pp. 81–92, discusses in her 1979 study of Romani mortuary practices, which involve the expulsion of the dead from their society into the world of ‘gorgios’. 27 Eva Thäte, Monuments and Minds: Monument Re-Use in Scandinavia in the Second Half of the First Millennium ad (Lund: Institutionen för arkeologi och antikens historia, 2007), p. 32.

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‘living’ may be taken to mean in the given historio-cultural moment.28 Instead they have transitioned to a different state of being, and (in most cultures are supposed to have) crossed over into an-other world. Precisely how this ‘otherworld’ and its denizens are perceived as interfacing (or not) with the ‘everyday’ world of course varies between cultural communities, and sometimes even between individuals within a community. The traditional cosmologies of a number of circumpolar peoples, for example, propose that the world of the dead as the exact opposite of that of the living: as in several Sámi groups’ conceptions of an inverted otherworld, where the ancestors are ‘those who walk with their feet against our feet’, but who for all this difference may still be approached by those with the proper skills.29 The dead and their abode may be viewed as both otherworldly and still intimately connected to the affairs of the living, for good or ill, or even to varying degrees at different times, in different conditions, and/or contingent on the different ritual mechanisms at play. The ongoing relationship between a society and its dead can be — and most often is — an unstable and ambiguous affair. Which brings us back to the main issue at hand: the information we currently possess about the Old Norse world-view certainly suggests that just this sort of ambivalent attitude was probably current throughout the late Iron Age/early medieval north. But it is only through exploring the material evidence we have preserved from this period that we can really make inroads towards illuminating how the complicated connections taken to exist between the living and the dead in Viking Scandinavia were actually played out in practice. The treatment of the dead will always reveal much about the position of ancestors (and the deceased generally) in a society. Including the degree to which the dead were or were not materially other-ed by their surviving counterparts. This is a cognitive archaeological conundrum which will be approached in the remainder of this paper by investigating three broad aspects of Viking Age mortuary practice: where the dead were located physically (and in turn possibly cosmologically), burial (or lack thereof), and ritualistic acts involving the dead after initial funerary proceedings.

Over the Hills, or not so Far Away? Otherness is often communicated spatially, i.e. in the erection of boundaries around spaces considered sacred and/or taboo, or the segregation (whether self-imposed or enforced from without) of the homes of one group from the rest of a community. This frequently applies just as well to places reserved for the dead as the living; and thus spatial associations between grave sites and other areas (and between individual graves within a site) can indicate a good deal about attitudes towards the dead.30 In the case

28 Since, as discussed below, the line between living and dead is not necessarily straightforward in all cultures and may also encompass different ‘in between’ states. 29 Håkan Rydving, The End of Drum-Time: Religious Change among the Lule Saami, 1670s–1740s (Uppsala: Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis, 1995), p. 142. 30 Gerritsen, Local Identities, p. 146.

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Figure 13.2 An example of the spatial relationship between grave-fields and farmsteads, Vallentuna kommun, Sweden (white x’s indicate grave-fields, black x’s indicate farms, circles a 1 km radius). GIS rendering by the author.

of Viking Age Scandinavia burials are sometimes found singly, but were more usually arranged in ‘grave-fields’ — clusters of graves that can range from around a dozen or so burials gathered in ‘family plots’ attached to individual farms, up to the thousands occurring in the great cemeteries of early urban centres like Birka and Hedeby. On the Scandinavian mainland grave-fields were typically located relatively close to the houses of the living, on the border where the enclosed fields and meadows belonging to a settlement ended, and the pastures and other outlying land began: right on the boundary between the space belonging to a specific community and the ‘outside’ of common lands shared with other settlements and wilderness beyond (Fig. 13.2). Often several grave-fields surround a village, frequently located on ridges or other prominent locations in the landscape visible from a long way off. The dwellings of the dead, in other words, seem to be placed as an extended component of the inhabited area, forming the outside limit of the settlement’s ‘insider’ world both literally and symbolically, with ancestral graves standing as highly visible proof of descendants’ rights of ownership to the enclosed lands.31 This is a fact still reflected in later medieval laws, where the presence of graves is often cited as valuable evidence in land disputes. Such land claims involved not only the graves of the roughly contemporary deceased, but also the remains of what might be termed the ‘monumentalized ancestral dead’ as well, who formed a focus of intense interest throughout the Viking Age. Old Norse religion became very retrospective at this period, as displayed in the

31 Jan-Henrik Fallgren, ‘Farm and Village in the Viking Age’, in The Viking World, ed. by Stefan Brink and Neil Price (New York: Routledge, 2008), pp. 67–76 (p. 73).

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Figure 13.3 Trollakistan, Skåne, Sweden — Neolithic passage grave with Viking Age deposits of cremated bone. Photo by Ingrid Bergquist, Frosta härads hembygdsförening (PD).

development of a wide array of practices centred on grave sites from earlier periods, such as the repeated reuse of older burial monuments, or new graves and monuments being placed very near or even superimposed directly on top of old graves.32 For example Neolithic dolmens such as Trollakistan in Skåne (Fig. 13.3) were reused as burial places during the Viking Age,33 as were Migration Age stone-cists. Bronze Age mounds were especially favoured as central points for later monumental layouts, as in the site of Hojrup in Jutland, where an older mound was surrounded by a radiating construction of Viking Age graves.34 While the impulse to connect spatially with the ancient dead seems to have been so strong, at Gamle Lejre it overrode functional considerations. Both the Viking Age cemetery and settlement at this Danish site were constructed around Bronze Age ship settings and Neolithic and Bronze Age mounds respectively, even when placing the new constructions elsewhere in the area would have been more convenient in terms of avoiding erosion and having a better vantage point on the surrounding countryside.35

32 Anders Andrén, ‘The Significance of Places: the Christianization of Scandinavia from a Spatial Point of View’, World Archaeology, 45.1 (2013), 27–45 (p. 41). 33 Marten Strömberg, Der Dolmen Trollasten in St Köpinge, Schonen (Lund: Gleerup, 1968), p. 36. 34 Anne Pedersen, ‘Ancient Mounds for New Graves: An Aspect of Viking Age Burial Customs in Southern Scandinavia’, in Old Norse Religion in Long-term Perspectives, ed. by Kristina Jennbert, Anders Andrén, and Catharina Raudvere (Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2006), pp. 346–53 (p. 350). 35 Julie Lund and Elisabeth Arwill-Nordbladh, ‘Divergent Ways of Relating to the Past in the Viking Age’, European Journal of Archaeology, 19.3 (2016), 415–38 (p. 422).

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Figure 13.4 The islet of Holmen off the southern tip of Helgøya (the holy island) in Lake Mjøsa, Norway — Site of grave mound and hof reachable by foot part of the year. 1885 photo by Jacob Tollesen Hoel, Domkirkeodden Samling (PD).

Yet despite this very apparent desire for closeness with their distant and/or more immediate forebears, Viking Age sites also exist where a much more definitive separation seems to have been enforced between the lands of the dead and the living. For example in some cases local grave-fields are — while still being located very close to the corresponding settlements — separated from the village by a small stream or other watercourse. Large burial mounds such as those at Borre in southwest Norway were sometimes surrounded by ditches which would be flooded at certain times of the year (as evidenced by traces of pollen from water plants). Most strikingly of all are regions, notably in northern Norway, where large numbers of Viking graves have been discovered far from centres of habitation on so-called grave islets,36 located in the middle of lakes or offshore (Fig. 13.4): places which to access one would actually have to go far outside a settlement and travel in a boat — or in some cases, across a very narrow spit of land only sometimes visible.

36 Eldar Heide, ‘Holy Islands and the Otherworld: Places Beyond Water’, in Isolated Islands in Medieval Nature, Culture and Mind, ed. by Gerhard Jaritz and Torstein Jørgensen (Budapest: Central European University, 2011), pp. 57–80 (p. 60).

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Figure 13.5 Chamber grave Bj 581 — burial of the now famous female warrior. Illustration by Evald Hansen based on the original plans of Hjalmar Stolpe’s excavations at Birka (PD).

Given that the siting of monuments always reflects and shapes cognitive as much as physical landscapes, this duality present in the placement of Viking Age burial places in relation to living spaces raises the possibility of a corresponding paradox in the presumed cosmological location of the dead. This is an area of ambiguity also reflected in the literature. In some tales (for example Hervör, Njal’s, and Laxdaela sagas) dead individuals are portrayed as ‘living’ inside their burial sites, where they remain and watch over the nearby households — a concept coinciding with instances of graves that in fact seem to be fitted out like ‘houses’ for the dead. For example the elaborate chamber graves found at Birka in central Sweden in which the deceased was inhumed in a timber lined room complete with furniture, tapestries, food, and so forth (Fig. 13.5). But other stories (such as those surrounding the death of Balder) describe the dead as dwelling in faraway places like Valhalla or the underworld realm of Hel that can only be reached by a long journey, often across water. This is an idea which has its own support in the practice of boat burial (where the dead were inhumed or cremated inside a vessel), and the frequent occurrence of spiked footwear in Viking

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Figure 13.6 Shoe spikes found by the feet of the skeleton in Birka grave Bj.918. Photo by Yliali Asp, Swedish Historical Museum; license CC-BY 2.5 SE.

Age graves (Fig. 13.6) — as if the dead were expected to need to sail and/or walk across ice as a part of their afterlife journey.37 In terms of both the non-canonical nature of pre-Christian Nordic religion(s), and in light of ethnographic comparison, this double position of the dead is perhaps only to be expected. In Finnish-speaking areas, for example, parallel concepts of the graveyard as a ‘village’ where the dead ‘live’ and can be interacted with near the local living community and a distant realm of the dead requiring a long and arduous journey both appear in Kalevala poetry and have existed side-by-side in folk traditions into the last century.38 In fact in most indigenous religions the relationships between ancestral spirits and the living community is at once extremely intimate and characterized by a mixture of love, respect, and fear that encourages keeping the dead both nearby but also somehow apart and contained. Or as anthropologist R. Hertz puts it (as paraphrased by Sanmark), ‘Despite the fact that they are often supposed to dwell in some remote otherworld, [the dead] continue to appear among the living, as well as in or close to their graves, [and] as a consequence of this, death becomes nothing but a “temporary exclusion from society”’.39 However, as a closer look at the treatment of individual Viking Age dead displays, the level of fear, love, and exclusivity involved was hardly the same in every case.

37 Anna-Leena Siikala, Mythic Images and Shamanism: A Perspective to Kalevala Poetry (Helsinki: Academia Scientiarum Fennica, 2002), p. 147. 38 Siikala, Mythic Images and Shamanism, p. 139. 39 Alexandra Sanmark, ‘Living On: Ancestors and the Soul’, in Signals of Belief: Anglo-Saxon Paganism Revisited, ed. by Martin Carver, Alex Sanmark, and Sarah Semple (Oxford: Oxbow, 2010), pp. 162–84 (p. 164).

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To Be or not to Be Buried As aforementioned, burial rituals in Viking Age Scandinavia (as elsewhere) fulfilled a number of different but often interrelated social functions, such as expressing communal values, and making statements about or renegotiating the status of both the deceased and survivors. These functions could apparently be accomplished in a great variety of ways — a wide array of different choices are evidenced in Viking burials in regards to everything from the disposition of the body (both cremations and inhumations were, for example, rites practised simultaneously throughout the period, often literally found side-by-side), and the exact placement and position of human and animal remains, to the internal and external compositions of the grave site and the quantity and quality of grave goods (or lack thereof).40 One common theme identifiable within all this variability, however, is that a number of these mortuary trends also seem to have involved the reinvention of older rites and monument types. For example, ship settings and monumental cairns both first appear in Scandinavia during the Bronze Age (Fig. 13.7a), fall out of favour in the earlier Iron Age, and then begin to be built again in earnest during the Viking Age (Fig. 13.7b). Much like the placement of grave-fields near villages the particulars of individual burials could also serve as material citations that helped maintain relations to real (and/or reinvented) ancestors.41 Not all of the dead were, however, commemorated and implicated in the boundary-making and power-politicking of the living in this way — or even commemorated at all. Probably the most serious way an individual might be definitively other-ed in death in the Viking Age would be by not being given any memorial or burial rites. And this does indeed appear to have been what happened to a large proportion of the Viking Age populace; it is evident from settlement-burial correlations that in some places possibly up to 50% of the people in any given area of early medieval Scandinavia were not accorded a formal burial site,42 or at least, not one still visible to us in the material record. There have, for example, been as yet no securely identifiable instances discovered of thralls being buried in their own right, rather than as apparent sacrifices in the graves of other wealthier persons (Fig. 13.8). While some of this number may doubtless be accounted for by archaeologically invisible forms of funerary treatment — the iconic ‘Viking funeral’ on the water, for example, would leave little if any trace — it may be reasonably assumed that many (if not most) of these missing dead were slaves, very poor persons, or individuals who had otherwise been deemed ‘unworthy’ of being granted full rites of translation and memorialization.

40 To quote Neil Price, ‘Dying and the Dead: Viking Age Mortuary Behaviour’, in The Viking World, ed. by Brink and Price, pp. 257–73 (p. 257): ‘Perhaps the central element of Viking Age Scandinavian funerary ritual was its individual character. After more than a century of excavations there can remain no doubt whatever that we cannot speak of a standard orthodoxy of burial practice common to the whole Norse world’ (p. 257). 41 Lund and Arwill-Nordbladh, ‘Divergent Ways’, p. 431. 42 Price, ‘Dying and the Dead’, p. 259.

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Figure 13.7a Tjelvar’s Grave, Bronze Age ship setting on Gotland, Sweden. Photo by Mårten Stenberger, Swedish National Heritage Board (PD).

Figure 13.7b Viking Age ship settings at Lindholm Høje, Denmark. Photo by Gunnar Bach Pedersen, Wikimedia Commons (PD).

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Figure 13.8 Reconstruction of grave FII from Stengade, Denmark — double burial of noble and sacrificed thrall. Photo by the staff at Viking Museum Ribe, used with kind permission.

Even the most hallowed and monumentalized dead were not necessarily approached in a straightforward fashion. Very old graves and newer graves are for instance often treated quite differently within the same site. As Fredrik Fahlander observes, for example, in a number of Swedish grave-fields mounds from the Roman Iron Age or earlier are rebuilt during the Viking Age and added to in a more subtle fashion than more recent cremations, which are often cross-cut directly by later inhumations. This may reflect how perceptions of the past can encompass both genealogical history (involving the lineage of ancestors, ‘real’ history), and mythic history (evoking for example a distant, heroic, and supernatural past). The more recent dead might be therefore seen as more approachable as one’s specific and direct forebears. Those from the very distant past were experienced as something quite different, more ideal than personal, more supernatural, more ‘other’, perhaps even treated more as a powerfully magical materiality rather than the remains of individual agencies.43 In the cultures of pre/proto-historic Europe distinctions were evidently made between different kinds of human ancestors — and ancestry need not even be exclusive to humans.44 ‘Ancestors’ or ‘the dead’ generally can hardly be assumed to have been understood as one generic category during the Viking Age. Even if the criteria employed to distinguish among them are not always obvious to our modern eyes. 43 Fredrik Fahlander, ‘The Materiality of the Ancient Dead: Post-Burial Practices and Ontologies of Death in Southern Sweden ad 800–1200’, Current Swedish Archaeology, 24 (2016), 137–62 (p. 154). 44 Robert Wallis, ‘Animism, Ancestors and Adjusted Styles of Communication: Hidden Art in Irish Passage Tombs’, in Archaeological Imaginations of Religion, ed. by Thomas Meier and Petra Tillessen (Budapest: Archaeolingua, 2009), pp. 283–314 (p. 299).

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This is especially apparent when considering the remains of individuals who were given so-called ‘deviant burials’ (around which archaeological discussions of otherness and death have most frequently hinged).45 It is of course easy to imagine that, as the term suggests, these peculiar practices can be taken as straightforward evidence of their subjects having been viewed by the communities who buried them as definitively other. For instance, a number of these strange assemblages include evidence of decapitation and/or prone burial (Fig. 13.9a), or stones being placed on top of the corpse (Fig. 13.9b) — all actions which appear in literary and ethnographic accounts of apotropaic rites employed when a person was considered to have died a ‘bad death’, or committed a horrible crime, or had special powers or been otherwise odd in a way that made them particularly likely (if they had not already done so) to come back and trouble the living.46 But nevertheless, even such ‘deviants’ treated in these extreme fashions were buried, and seem to have not been so outcast as to necessitate their being quarantined in a separate cemetery — deviant burials are typically found right amongst other graves in ‘normal’ grave-fields.47 There was clearly diversity even in deviance, and the oddity of a particular grave need not necessarily signal that the people responsible for its composition regarded the deceased with contempt. As Leszek Gardela cautions, some acts — although violent and repulsive to modern Western minds — may have been seen by Viking Age people as sanctioned and necessary, and funerary violence might therefore signal not only fear, but also affection.48 Old Norse rituals surrounding death were after all religious rites of passage, and their spiritual dimensions cannot be discounted. They were acts directed both towards dealing with the changes death enforces in the social networks of the living and also in the ontological and physical status of the dead.49 This was a risky business in which ‘the afterlife and identity of the deceased (and their goodwill towards the living) was in jeopardy’.50 One of these ritual purposes was to integrate the deceased into their new state of existence in the otherworld, and some people may have been seen as needing more help than others in effecting a proper transition, both during and after their initial interment. Viking Age mortuary rites may be understood as a process

45 ‘Deviant burial’ is a rather amorphous term coined by modern archaeologists and applied to many different instances of burials which are considered unusual in one way or another. As Eva Thäte, Monuments and Minds, p. 27, defines it, ‘a burial has been regarded as “deviant” when it differed from the normative burial custom’, and within this category she includes the following aspects: marked variations of orientations, non-normative positions of bodies in graves, and multiple burials, re-used graves (within same period), or intersecting graves (within same period). 46 i.e. the escalating steps taken by Thorolf Twist-Foot’s family in Eyrbyggja saga. 47 Thäte, Monuments and Minds, p. 272. 48 Leszek Gardeła, ‘The Dangerous Dead? Rethinking Viking-Age Deviant Burials’, in Conversions: Looking for Ideological Change in the Early Middle Ages, ed. by Leszek Shepecki and Rudolf Simek (Wien: Fassbaender, 2013), pp. 99–136 (p. 120). 49 Howard Williams, ‘Death, Memory and Material Culture: Catalytic Commemoration and the Cremated Dead’, in The Oxford Handbook of the Archaeology of Death and Burial, ed. by Liv Nilsson Stutz and Sarah Tarlow (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), pp. 195–208 (p. 198). 50 Giles, A Forged Glamour, p. 213.

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Figure 13.9a Detail of the deviant double burial in mound 29 at Bollstanäs, Sweden — two male skeletons found decapitated and placed in a prone position heads to feet. Photo by Ove Hemmendorff, Swedish National Heritage Board; license CC-BY 2.5 SE.

Figure 13.9b Plan of the Gerdrup Grave — Denmark, a woman buried with three large stones placed atop her beside a bound man with a broken neck. Illustration Mette Høj, Museum Organization ROMU, used with kind permission.

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of making ancestors as well as memorializing them. Through these rituals a new relation was set up between deceased and survivors that acted to change the former from a once-living person and potentially dangerous ghost into an ancestor. This was a shift in being and status which ascribed new functions in the community (and new powers) to the dead, and new obligations (and potential boons) to the living,51 a new set of relationships that in turn entailed other, new avenues of maintenance and negotiation going forward.

After the Funeral and into Eternity It is these post-burial interactions with the dead and their places — how those considered as having completed their transition (or not) were treated and treated with in their new state — that may in fact be most evocative of the dead’s perceived continued involvement and integration in the community. There is ample evidence that grave sites, both old and new, were not just places for the negotiation of power and relationships to a hallowed past in the Viking Age, but were also cult sites viewed as active and effective in the present,52 places where the otherworld and this world were thought to intersect, and where the living habitually returned to carry out a number of different rituals outside of funerals.53 This attitude is evidenced in the traces of repeated depositions of objects in grave-fields, not just as a part of the primary burial sequence, but as both secondary deposits in graves and at other points in the cemetery entirely outside of burials themselves as well. For example, traces of fires, ceramics, and foodstuffs like animal bones and grains found in the surface layers of cemeteries (i.e. inside some of the massive ‘empty’ ship settings set among burials at Jelling in Denmark, and even as far afield as Finland) are probably the remains of commemorative feasts held at grave sites.54 In the Mälar valley in central Sweden a number of stone-edged features occur in grave-fields — either attached to the side of mounds and settings (as in the case of the so-called south-west portals; Fig. 13.10),55 or completely separate from any actual grave (Fig. 13.11)56 — that probably functioned as altars and/or

51 Chris Fowler, ‘Identities in Transformation: Identities, Funerary Rites, and the Mortuary Process’, in The Oxford Handbook of the Archaeology of Death and Burial, ed. by Stutz and Tarlow, pp. 511–26 (p. 511). 52 Leszek Gardela, ‘Worshipping the Dead. Viking Age Cemeteries as Cult Sites?’, in Germanische Kultorte. Vergleichende, historische und rezeptionsgeschichtliche Zugänge, ed. by Matthias Egeler, Münchner Nordistische Studien, 24 (München: Herbert Utz, 2016), pp. 169–205 (p. 117). 53 Andreas Nordberg, ‘Vägen till Hel går neråt och nordvart: om mytologi och ritual i yngre brandgravskick på Lovö’ (unpublished M.A. thesis, Stockholm University, 1997) (p. 9). 54 Anna Wessman, Death, Destruction and Commemoration: Tracing Ritual Activities in Finnish Late Iron Age Cemeteries (ad 550–1150), Iskos, 18 (Helsinki: The Finnish Antiquarian Society, 2010), p. 94. 55 Marianne Hem Eriksen, ‘Doors to the Dead. The Power of Doorways and Thresholds in Viking Age Scandinavia’, Archaeological Dialogues, 20.2 (2013), 187–214 (p. 200). 56 Lena Thålin-Bergman, Det vikingatida Frescati (Stockholm: Kungliga Vetenskapsakademien, 1984), p. 25.

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Figure 13.10 Part of the Viking Age cemtery at Tuna, Västerljung, Sweden with southwest portals highlighted. Plan after Gräslund, A.-S. ‘Living with the Dead’, 2001: 227, figure 1, additional markings by the author.

miniature ritual enclosures. Assemblages whose contents closely resemble offerings left at other places generally identified as cult sites were also frequently left by large earth-fast stones in cemeteries. They indicate that, just as objects left at other cult places were given as in request or thanksgiving to the gods or spirits venerated there, such networks of supernatural exchange involved the dead as well during the Viking Age. Depositions in and around graves might function among other things as gifts from mourners, either to close debts, or set up new ones and ensure the ancestors’ future favour.57 —Certain offerings like amulet rings (Fig. 13.12) — objects which may be connected with the oath-rings mentioned in various sagas, and have been found inside burials and at other points in Vendel and Viking period cemeteries all over middle Sweden — may even have been specifically created to act as mediating agents in contracts between the living and dead.58 All types of continual, repeated actions point to the dead (or more specifically some of those dead who were granted the rituals for transition) having being seen as still active components of their communities. They were objects of what Anne-Sofie

57 Giles, A Forged Glamour, p. 124. 58 Meghan Mattsson McGinnis, ‘Ring Out Your Dead: Distribution, Form, and Function of Iron Amulets in the Late Iron Age grave Fields of Lovö’ (unpublished M.A. thesis, Stockholm University, 2016), p. 50.

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Figure 13.11 The ‘offering mound’ discovered in grave-field Raä 223, Lilla Frescati, Stockholm — round stone setting enclosing small stone cairns and deposits of fire-steel shaped amulet rings. Plan by Erik Sörling, Stockholms Stadsmuseum; license CC-BY 2.5 SE.

Figure 13.12 Some of the over 200 amulet rings from the Vendel period cult place recently discovered in connection with grave-field RAÄ 122:1, Spånga, Sweden. Photo by Ingela Harrysson, Stiftelsen Kulturmiljövård, used with kind permission.

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Gräslund defines as ‘ancestor cult’: the ‘continuous worship of dead family members, [that] usually means a continuous feeling of solidarity and community with deceased ancestors, as well as dependence on and care of these past family members’.59 This is an animistic aspect of pre-Christian spirituality that, though initially rather neglected in studies of Old Norse religion, is now increasingly recognized as actually having played an extremely significant part in Viking Age ritual life.60 It has even retained influence in rural areas of Scandinavia into the modern day. According to Terry Gunnell, for example, people in the Norwegian countryside were still placing bread and beer on their local grave mounds at certain times of the year in order to ensure the well-being of the farm in the early twentieth century,61 and Louise Hagberg notes a similar custom in nineteenth-century Småland, Sweden.62 They are kinds of post-burial activities also engaged in by followers of indigenous Sámi and Finno-Ugric traditions, wherein the family as social unit is taken to contain members in both the living and other world. And the dead are thus treated as a distinct, but no less important, half of the kinship group, in constant interchange with their living counterparts through rituals like the exchange of offerings and memorial visits to grave sites (Fig. 13.13).63 They are able (depending on the state of relations) to either cause illness and suffering, or be helpful to their descendants, i.e. by guarding reindeer and children or give useful information in dreams,64 much as the dead occasionally do in Old Norse literature and law as well, where the practice of ‘útiseta’ (literally ‘sitting out’)65 on graves is cited as method for gaining hidden wisdom.66 Though burial places were clearly popular places for interchange with the departed in Viking Age Scandinavia, the dead could evidently also be made present in the community outside of their graves. For example, ancestors were, as is well known, invoked in textual and material citations on rune-stones,67 which carved in stone the memories of deceased relatives and asserted the continued link between them and the living, with all that could imply in matters of inheritance and prestige (Fig. 13.14). The conservation and display of heirlooms during the Viking Age period is visible, for example, in collections of objects in wealthy female graves,68 such as the rich

59 Anne-Sofie Gräslund, ‘Living with the Dead: Reflections on Food Offerings on Graves’, in Kontinuitäten und Brüche in der Religionsgechichte. Festschrift für Anders Hultgård zu seinem 65. Geburtstag, ed. by Michael Stausberg (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2001), pp. 222–35 (p. 224). 60 Sanmark, ‘Living On’, p. 163. 61 Terry Gunnell, ‘Hof, Halls, Godar and Dwarves: An Examination of the Ritual Space in the Pagan Icelandic Hall’, Cosmos, 17.1 (2001), 3–36 (p. 1). 62 Louise Hagberg, När döden gästar (Stockholm: Wahlström & Widstrand, 1937), p. 660. 63 Marja-Liisa Keinänen, ‘Feeding the Dead’, in Finnish Women Making Religion, ed. by Terhi Utriainen and Paivi Salmesvuori (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014), pp. 21–42 (p. 25). 64 Rydving, The End of Drum-Time, p. 140. 65 Also referred to as ‘sitja á haugi’ or ‘sit on a mound’, where ‘haugi’ is the root of the modern Scandinavian ‘haug’/‘hög’. 66 Stephen Mitchell, Witchcraft and Magic in the Nordic Middle Ages (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011), p. 80. 67 Ing-Marie Back Danielsson, ‘More Theory for Mortuary Research of the Viking World’, European Journal of Archaeology, 19.3 (2016), 519–31 (p. 523). 68 Lund and Arwill-Nordbladh, ‘Divergent Ways’, p. 423.

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Figure 13.13 Memorial ritual (muistajaiset) at the festival of Semyk, 2002 — Shorunzha, Morki, Mari Republic. Photo by Lehtinen Ildikó, Finnish National Board of Antiquities — Musketti, Finnish-Ugrian picture collection; license CC-BY 4.0.

grave from Aska, Sweden where several pieces of jewellery placed in this woman’s grave were already 100 to 200 years old at the time they were buried (Fig. 13.15). Post-burial interactions of this kind could even get extremely physical, involving the literal reopening of graves and removal of objects which would then come back into

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Figure 13.14 Ög 66 Bjälbo kyrkogård — runestone inscribed ‘Ingevald raised this stone after Styvjald, his brother, an excellent young man, Spjalbude’s son of the dynasty. But I perfected it’. Photo by Bengt A. Lundberg, Swedish National Heritage Board, license CC-BY 2.5 SE.

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Figure 13.15 Heirloom (c. 300 ce) pendant found in the Viking Age mound at Aska, Hagebyhöga, Sweden. Photo by Christer Åhlin, Swedish Historical Museum; license CC-BY 2.5 SE.

circulation among the living. Such activities are visible, for instance, at several of the most famous and wealthy of late Scandinavian Iron Age ‘royal’ cemeteries like Oseberg (Fig. 13.16), Vendel, and Gamla Uppsala. These acts were evidently not just a matter of straightforward robbing either, but could also be a means for collecting family ‘relics’ or deliberate provocation — with another family’s grave re-opened and/or objects taken as an offensive act within the wider context of feud.69 All of this again points to the continuing importance of the dead within the social network, as well as to the close connection taken to exist between the physical location and contents of graves and deceased persons as continued animate presences. The majority of Viking Age cremation burials do not even contain anything like the totality of the ash and bone that would result from burning a body, and theories as to the fate of the ‘missing bones’ involve their scattering in other ritually significant places such as sacred groves, the ritual enclosures known as ‘vi’, or even in the fields where crops

69 Alison Margaret Klevnäs, ‘“Imbued with the Essence of the Owner”: Personhood and Possessions in the Reopening and Reworking of Viking-Age Burials’, European Journal of Archaeology, 19.3 (2016), 456–76 (p. 470).

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Figure 13.16 A hole cut in the roof of the burial chamber of the Oseberg ship by grave re-openers. After Shetelig, H., Falk, H. and Brøgger, A. W. Osebergfundet, 1917: 32, fig. 11.

were grown.70 It is even possible some ‘missing’ bones employed as bone-coal used in steel-making, reconstituting the dead into weapons used by the living.71 In Viking Age Scandinavia the inhabitants of this and the otherworld were, in short, frequently in touch with each other in a very literal sense.

Conclusion – The Spectrum of Otherworldly Otherness In the end, what examining the kaleidoscope of diverse rites and relationships surrounding the dead, their abode, and artefacts brings most sharply into focus is that the otherness of the Viking Age otherworld was above all a contextual and contingent thing. Simply ‘crossing over’ did not confer any monolithic degree of otherness on the person in question, and the divide between this world and the other was seen as a fluid boundary at best. What the archaeological evidence reveals for us is a whole spectrum of ways in which the dead might be handled as more or less close or far away, insider or outsider, worshipped or unworthy, personal or hieratic, dangerous or familiar. It provides a glimpse of a world in which even interacting with those dead who were positioned as ancestors — those most ideal of insiders — was carried out in varying fashions, and taken to involve highly variable degrees of intimacy or safety. 70 Gunnar Andersson, ‘Among Trees, Tones, and Stones: The Sacred Grove at Lunda’, in Old Norse Religion in Long-term Perspectives, ed. by Kristina Jennbert, Anders Andrén, and Catharina Raudvere (Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2006), pp. 195–99 (p. 196). 71 Terje Gansum, ‘Role the Bones – from Iron to Steel’, Norwegian Archaeological Review, 37.1 (2004), 41–57 (p. 45).

h ow ‘ot h e r’ was t he vi k i ng ot he rwo rld?

For Viking Age Scandinavians the defining other(worldly) quality was, it seems, not the ontological fact of death in itself, but rather the perception of differences amongst the dead: differences which could result from a number of factors having to do with their former lives; circumstances of death, how their transition to the afterlife was seen to go, or their distance from the present and consequently varying perceived levels of importance to and/or activity and involvement in survivors’ current affairs. It was a state of affairs in fact wholly in keeping with the complex and diverse ways in which personhood and identity was evidently constructed in proto-historic Europe generally, where complex collapsing of temporalities, and imbrications of dead and living were invoked in the many ways deceased individuals (both whole and fragmentary) might be treated as having agency, and made figuratively and/or physically present in the life of their communities. And where the categories of ‘life’ and ‘death’ themselves overlapped, and past and present could not be neatly divided. Otherness in death, just like other aspects of identity formations in life, was situated on — or rather across — the boundaries of reality in Viking Age Scandinavian culture as no simple dichotomy, but was a shifting semantic field at once as persistent as memory and as hard to pin down as a ghost.

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Keinänen, Marja-Liisa, ‘Feeding the Dead’, in Finnish Women Making Religion, ed. by Terhi Utriainen and Paivi Salmesvuori (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014), pp. 21–42 Klevnäs, Alison Margaret, ‘Imbued with the Essence of the Owner’: Personhood and Possessions in the Reopening and Reworking of Viking-Age Burials’, European Journal of Archaeology 19.3 (2016), 456–76 Lund, Julie, and Elisabeth Arwill-Nordbladh, ‘Divergent Ways of Relating to the Past in the Viking Age’, European Journal of Archaeology, 19.3 (2016), 415–38 Maldonado, Adrian, and Anthony Russell, ‘Introduction: Creating Material Worlds’, in Creating Material Worlds: The Uses of Identity in Archaeology, ed. by Anthony Russell, Elizabeth Pierce, Adrián Maldonado, and Louisa Campbell (Oxford: Oxbow, 2016), pp. 1–15 Mattsson McGinnis, Meghan, ‘Ring Out Your Dead: Distribution, Form, and Function of Iron Amulets in the Late Iron Age Grave Fields of Lovö’ (unpublished M.A. thesis, Stockholm University, 2016) Meskell, Lynn, ‘Archaeologies of Identity’, in The Archaeology of Identities: A Reader, ed. by Timothy Insoll (New York: Routledge, 2007), pp. 37–57 Miller, J. Mitchell, ‘Otherness’, in The Sage Encyclopedia of Qualitative Research Methods, ed. by Lisa M. Given (Thousand Oaks: Sage, 2008), pp. 588–90 Mitchell, Stephen, Witchcraft and Magic in the Nordic Middle Ages (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011) Nordberg, Andreas, ‘Vägen till Hel går neråt och nordvart: om mytologi och ritual i yngre brandgravskick på Lovö’ (unpublished M.A. thesis, Stockholm University,