Religion and Peace: Historical Aspects 9781315528335

Table of contents :
Dedication
Contents
List of figures
List of contributors
Preface
List of abbreviations
Introduction • Yvonne Friedman
1 Violence and nonviolence/peace: introduction to a holistic approach • Markus Fath
2 Religion and diplomatic peacemaking in the Middle Byzantine period • Nicolas Drocourt
3 The peace of God: demotic millennialism and the religious dynamics of the Central Middle Ages • Richard Landes
4 Learning the religious concepts of the Other: Muslim-Christian treaties in the Latin East • Yvonne Friedman
5 Islam as a peacemaking religion: self-image, medieval theory, and practice • Yehoshua Frenkel
6 Making peace with “God’s enemies”: the Muslim dilemma of treaty-making with Christians in the medieval Levant • Betty Binysh
7 Pursuit of peace in the service of war: papal policy, 1198–1334 • Sophia Menache
8 Holy women as spokeswomen for peace in late medieval Europe • Esther Cohen
9 The pursuit of peace in medieval Judaism • Daniel Roth
10 The development of religious tolerance in Poland: from the medieval period to the Reformation • Paweł Kras
Epilogue: Theology of forgiveness and peace: Christian culture of peace in the Roman Catholic Church after Vatican II • Bernard Ardura
Index

Citation preview

Religion and Peace

This volume represents a departure from the prevailing emphasis on religion and war in the medieval and early modern periods. Instead, the book explores the relationship between religion and peace in the context of Christianity, Islam, and Judaism, both as an ideal and on the practical level. The introduction, which proposes a holistic model for analysis of violence/ nonviolence-peace, provides a framework for understanding the various aspects of peacemaking during the period in question. The topics covered range from religion and diplomacy, peace movements grounded in religious ideals, the Muslim ideal of peace and actual peacemaking, Muslim-Christian treaties in the Latin East, papal policy in the Middle Ages and the twentieth century, the unique role of holy women who were spokeswomen for peace, the internal pursuit of peace in medieval Jewish society, and what fueled religious tolerance in sixteenth-century Poland. As a whole, these chapters reflect how different societies reacted to and treated the Other in the context of peacemaking and overcame the conceptual gap with their ideology that promoted the belief that they possessed the one and only truth. They demonstrate that religion and religious institutions can serve as a positive influence and agents of peace. Yvonne Friedman is Professor of General History and Land of Israel Studies at Bar-Ilan University.

Religion and Peace Historical Aspects

Edited by Yvonne Friedman

First published 2018 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2018 selection and editorial matter, Yvonne Friedman; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Yvonne Friedman to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Friedman, Yvonne, editor. Title: Religion and peace : historical aspects / edited by Yvonne Friedman. Description: 1 [edition]. | New York : Routledge, 2017. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2017041161 (print) | LCCN 2017044347 (ebook) | ISBN 9781315528335 (ebook) | ISBN 9781138694248 (alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Peace—Religious aspects—History. | Reconciliation— Religious aspects—History. | Religions—Relations—History. Classification: LCC BL65.P4 (ebook) | LCC BL65.P4 R443 2017 (print) | DDC 205/.6242—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017041161 ISBN: 978-1-138-69424-8 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-52833-5 (ebk) Typeset in Sabon by Apex CoVantage, LLC

To Zvi and Dena, my two pillars of strength

Contents

List of figures List of contributors Preface List of abbreviations Introduction

ix x xiii xiv 1

YVONNE FRIEDMAN

1 Violence and nonviolence/peace: introduction to a holistic approach

7

MARKUS FATH

2 Religion and diplomatic peacemaking in the Middle Byzantine period

25

NICOLAS DROCOURT

3 The peace of God: demotic millennialism and the religious dynamics of the Central Middle Ages

44

RICHARD LANDES

4 Learning the religious concepts of the Other: Muslim-Christian treaties in the Latin East

67

YVONNE FRIEDMAN

5 Islam as a peacemaking religion: self-image, medieval theory, and practice

84

YEHOSHUA FRENKEL

6 Making peace with “God’s enemies”: the Muslim dilemma of treaty-making with Christians in the medieval Levant BETTY BINYSH

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Contents

7 Pursuit of peace in the service of war: papal policy, 1198–1334

115

SOPHIA MENACHE

8 Holy women as spokeswomen for peace in late medieval Europe

129

ESTHER COHEN

9 The pursuit of peace in medieval Judaism

146

DANIEL ROTH

10 The development of religious tolerance in Poland: from the medieval period to the Reformation

159

PAWEŁ KRAS

Epilogue: Theology of forgiveness and peace: Christian culture of peace in the Roman Catholic Church after Vatican II

184

BERNARD ARDURA

Index

193

Figures

1.1 Actor-network/hybrid with characteristics “nonviolence/peace” 1.2 Actor-network/hybrid with characteristics “violence” 4.1 Muslims defecating inside the church 4.2 The crucifixion, Urban preaching at Clermont. Lower tier: pilgrim praying at the Holy Sepulcher, pagans adoring an idol.

21 22 68 68

Contributors

Bernard Ardura holds doctorates in theology and history, and is an ordained priest. A professor of dogmatic and spiritual theology, he has served as representative of the Holy See to the Culture Committee of the Council of Europe and as undersecretary and secretary of the Pontifical Council for Culture. He has authored several books and numerous articles. In 2009, he was appointed President of the Pontifical Committee of Historical Sciences by Benedict XVI. Betty Binysh is currently undertaking a PhD at Cardiff University titled “Living in Peace in the Latin East during the Crusades (1097 to 1291).” Her recent publications include “Massacre or Mutual Benefit: The Military Orders’ Relations with their Muslim Neighbours in the Latin East (1100–1300)” and “Give Me Three Good Reasons for a Muslim to End a Crusade: Saladin and the Third Crusade” (forthcoming). Her research interests include Muslim sources in Arabic relating to the Latin East. Esther Cohen is Professor Emerita of Medieval History at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. She has published on law, crime, pain, and culture in late medieval Europe. Among her publications are The Crossroads of Justice: Law and Society in Late Medieval France (1993); Peaceable Domain, Certain Justice: Crime and Society in Fifteenth-Century Paris (1996); and The Modulated Scream: Pain in Late Medieval Culture (2010). Nicolas Drocourt is Associate Professor of Medieval History at the University of Nantes. He recently published Diplomatie sur le Bosphore: Les ambassadeurs étrangers dans l’Empire byzantin des années 640 à 1204 (2015) and has edited several volumes on Middle Byzantine diplomacy, notably La figure de l’ambassadeur entre mondes éloignés: ambassadeurs, envoyés officiels et représentations diplomatiques entre Orient islamique, Occident latin et Orient chrétien (XIe au XVIe siècle) (2015). Markus Fath, MA (pedagogy, psychology, sociology) and PhD (pedagogy, law) was from 2008 involved in research and teaching at LudwigMaximilians-University, Munich. In 2017, he moved on to join QualityMinds GmbH. His research foci include violence and nonviolence/peace, theory development, and ethics. He is committed to passing on a more peaceful society to future generations.

Contributors

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Yehoshua Frenkel is Professor at the University of Haifa, where he teaches the premodern history of Muslim societies in Arabic-speaking lands. His recent research interests embrace popular culture, communal practices, social history, and legal discourse in medieval and early modern Egypt and Syria (1100–1700). At present, he is preparing an anthology of unpublished texts on these topics. A recent publication is his “In Search of Consensus: Conflict and Cohesion among the Political Elite of the Late Mamlūk Sultanate,” in the Medieval History Journal 19/2 (2016): 253–84. Yvonne Friedman is Professor of General History and Land of Israel Studies at Bar-Ilan University. She also currently chairs the board of the Israel Antiquities Authority. Her research foci include interreligious historical contacts and twelfth- and thirteenth-century Muslim-Crusader peace processes in the Middle East. Her book Encounter between Enemies: Captivity and Ransom in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem (2002) treated medieval ransom in the Middle East from an intercultural and interreligious perspective. Other fields of interest include medieval anti-Semitism, women in a fighting society, medieval geographical history, and medieval pilgrimage. Paweł Kras is Professor of Medieval History at the John Paul II Catholic University of Lublin and the Tadeusz Manteuffel Institute of History, Polish Academy of Sciences in Warsaw. He is vice president of the Polish subcommission of the Commission internationale d’histoire et d’études du Christianisme. He has authored some 100 publications related to the socioreligious history of the medieval and early modern periods, including studies of the Polish Hussites (Husyci w piętnastowiecznej Polsce, 1998), the medieval Inquisition (Ad abolendam diversarum haeresium pravitatem: System inkwizycyjny w średniowiecznej Europie, 2006), and the trial of the Beguines from Schweidnitz in 1332 (Proces beginek świdnickich w 1332 roku: Studia źródłoznawcze i edycja krytyczna, 2017). Richard Landes is a historian living in Jerusalem. His work focuses on apocalyptic and millennial beliefs at the turn of the first and second millennium (1000, 2000). Books include Relics, Apocalypse, and the Deceits of History: Ademar of Chabannes, 989–1034 (1996) and Heaven on Earth: The Varieties of the Millennial Experience (2011). He is currently writing While God Tarried: Disappointed Millennialism from Jesus to the Peace of God 33–1033 and They’re so Smart because We’re so Stupid: A Medievalist’s Guide to 21st Century. Sophia Menache is Professor Emerita of Medieval History at the University of Haifa. Her many publications treat the church and the papacy, propaganda and public opinion, the expulsion of Jews, the crusades, and the military orders. Recent articles address dogs in the Abrahamic religions and pet keeping in premodern societies. Among her books are The Vox Dei: Communication in the Middle Ages (1990), L’humour en chaire: Le rire dans l’Eglise médiévale (1994), Communication in the Jewish Diaspora (1996), and Clement V (1998).

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Contributors

Daniel Roth is a core faculty member of Bar-Ilan University’s Conflict Resolution, Management and Negotiation Graduate Program, where he received his PhD in 2013. His primary area of research is religious models of conflict resolution and peacebuilding, especially within Jewish texts and history. Roth is also the director of the Pardes Center for Judaism and Conflict Resolution and holds a MA in Talmud from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem.

Preface

The present volume grew out of a three-day international conference on Religion and Peace in the Monotheistic Religions. Held under the aegis of CIHEC (Commission Internationale d’Histoire Ecclésiastique Comparée), it took place in Jerusalem in 2011. The historical span of the conference covered the Bible to Vatican II with a strong emphasis on Christianity, which was only natural for a society like CIHEC whose members are primarily church historians. This book by no means reflects the entire range of the topics covered at the conference, and the chapters are clustered around the high and late Middle Ages. In addition, some of the chapters were especially commissioned for this volume and all of the others have been revised since their original delivery. I wish to acknowledge the generosity of the Lazarus Phillips Cathedra of General History and the Krauthammer Cathedra for the Land of Israel Studies at Bar-Ilan University that provided funding for this book project. I thank the contributors to the volume for their fine work and for their patience with the lengthy publication process. Insightful comments on the chapters were received from the readers for Ashgate, with whom this project originally started, and from Professor Betsy Halpern-Amaru. It is also my pleasant duty to thank the staff at Taylor & Francis for their assistance. Dena Ordan’s English editing skills greatly contributed to the quality of the chapters. I am most grateful for her goodwill and assistance in bringing the project to fruition. My debt to her is beyond words, but I am first and foremost grateful for years of her friendship. Jerusalem, May 2017

Abbreviations

AASS b. BnF CCCM CCSL m. MGH MGH SS MGH SSrerGer NRSV PG PL RHC Occ. RHGF t. y.

Acta Sanctorum Babylonian Talmud Bibliothèque nationale, Paris Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Mediaevalis Corpus Christianorum Series Latinae Mishnah Monumenta Germaniae Historica Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores Scriptores rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum separatim editi New Revised Standard Version J.-P. Migne, ed., Patrologia Gracae J.-P. Migne, ed., Patrologia Latina Receuil des historiens des croisades occidentaux Recueil des historiens des Gaules et de la France Tosefta Jerusalem Talmud

Introduction Yvonne Friedman

If war usually takes the front row in historical studies, this book of essays grants center stage to peace, more specifically, to the interaction between religion and peace. The chapters collected here create a picture of medieval peacemaking connected to, reinforced by, and conducted through negotiations based on religious concepts and laws and demonstrate that, despite the prevailing emphasis on religious war in historical research, religion and peace are not antithetical. Indeed, religion played an important role in peacemaking, on both the conceptual and practical levels. All three monotheistic religions shared the biblical heritage of peace as an ideal and a goal. This heritage depicted God not only as Sabaoth, a victorious, warlike leader but also as the one who made peace in the heavens and on earth (Lev. 26:5–6). Whether societal or personal, peace was a gift bestowed by God (Num. 6:26), not just a human act. Yet peacemaking was also a human responsibility. Deuteronomy mandates that before engaging in warfare against a city, the people must offer it terms of peace (20:10). It is nonetheless clear from the context that this call would be rejected and the text goes on to describe the laws governing siege warfare. But the most influential biblical prophecy on peace is undoubtedly Isaiah’s universal, eschatological vision: “They shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more” (Isa. 2:4), which is even today engraved as a motto in the United Nations Plaza as a message for all nations. The Christian church inherited the biblical, eschatological concept of peace as the sublime goal to be attained in the end-time. But the time when nations would cease to wield swords against each other and change their swords into plowshares was a millennial hope, not a guide for daily life and international relations. Isaiah’s prophecy “The wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the young goat” (11:6) described a situation in which the natural order of the world was miraculously changed. In trying to implement this irenic prophecy of wolves lying down with lambs, it might have seemed safer to be the wolf than the lamb. Accordingly, not only the wolf and leopard but also human beings would have to change their nature to establish universal peace, or let the ideal

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remain an eschatological dream. On the other hand, the call “blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God” (Matt. 5:9) laid a more tangible task on the shoulders of the believer – to make peace on earth as a human act. Augustine saw peace as the sublime good and the goal of any human society and viewed the attaining of peace as the task and raison d’être of the ruler. But living in a society where violence ruled, Augustine maintained that there were cases that necessitated use of force in order to achieve peace, blurring the border between war and peace. He even admitted that although Jesus’s invitation to join his festive meal that included the call to his disciples to “go out to the highways and hedges and compel people to come in, that my house may be filled” (Luke 14:23) might be understood as a call to join the church, it could be interpreted as the right to use force. Traditionally, church leaders, such as bishops and abbots, tried to intervene in conflicts and act as peacemakers, and the church itself was an asylum for fugitives and therefore a haven of peace. In the Merovingian period, bishops such as Gregory of Tours tried to mediate between the contesting parties, at times even offering to use church funds to prevent fighting and blood feuds between Catholics. But when it came to the Arian heretics or unbelievers, Gregory was less inclined to peacemaking. The use of force by the Carolingian Empire to extend the borders of Christendom received the blessing of the church, presumably because a strong, central ruler was better able to keep internal peace and defend the church. Thus, although the emperor’s task was to bring peace, the church condoned the use of force to achieve this goal. Several of the essays in this volume treat the role of the church and the church leadership in peacemaking efforts, as well as the involvement of laypersons. Islam also espouses peace as an ideal. But, in fact, for Islam peace is synonymous with, and accompanies, victory. Although internal peace between true believers was both a requirement and a goal, for those who refuse to see the truth, the inhabitants of Dār al-harb, peace was possible only after Islam was victorious. Conquering half the civilized world in the Middle Ages could hardly be described as a peaceful endeavor, but to see Islam only as a warlike religion would be simplistic. Its conquests notwithstanding, Islam could perceive itself as a peace-seeking religion, as shown in one of the contributions to this volume. For Judaism, the biblical heritage remained theoretical during the period considered here. As a group caught between the warring factions in the medieval age, one area in which they negotiated with the sides involved the ransoming of captives. This reality directed them to undertake communal fundraising and to assume responsibility for the fate of their coreligionists. However, in the absence of sovereign prerogatives, peace remained an internal ideal and Jewish peacemaking efforts were almost exclusively confined to the Jewish community. The contribution to this volume examines peacemaking and its status in medieval Jewish law and some of the mechanisms of internal peacemaking in Jewish society.

Introduction

3

From the early Middle Ages to the Peace of Westphalia in 1648, which established the principle cuius regio eius religio, war and religion, or religious wars, are seen as dominating relations between the three monotheistic religions. The biblical concept of holy war culminated in the perceptions of crusade and jihad and medieval societies fought each other in the name of their defining faith. Although some claim that the term “religion” can only be applied to modern times, nonetheless, even so-called secular Christians (that is, the clergy who were in charge of Christian life in the saeculum – the world) and their lay parishioners defined themselves as members of what in modern parlance is called a religion – that is, Christianitas. Christians, Jews, and Muslims might see themselves as part of a kingdom, members of a tribe or a family, but their self-identification and external definition was first and foremost as members of an ecclesia, a kehillah, or an umma, which is best translated as religious entity even though it encompassed feelings of national identity. Polemic, or even conflict with other religions, could also serve as a means of sharpening their identity. Perhaps our picture of the medieval world is skewed by the fact that most of the writers and documents originated with the clergy, as they were the ones who were literate, but even taking that into consideration it is not an overstatement to see the medieval period as ruled by religion. The violence that characterized the European Middle Ages, with its emphasis on faith, makes it a litmus test for the endeavor to examine meeting points between the two ostensibly disparate phenomena, religion, and peace. Markus Fath opens the book with a sociological definition of violence versus nonviolence/peace. His proposed holistic model sets a theoretical framework for consideration of the remaining papers. If, as he suggests, the One-and-Only-Principle leads to violence, does this mean that the monotheistic religions who believe truth resides only with them are inevitably destined to use violence and war? The “holy wars” of the medieval age provide a laboratory to test his thesis and for application of his model to some of the historical phenomena discussed in this volume. Fath maintains that war is not the inevitable outcome of religious conflict and ends his paper with an optimistic model for cooperation between religion and peace. The historical studies begin with the Christian East and the Byzantine emperors. Nicolas Drocourt shows how the Byzantine emperors, who had inherited the Christian ideology of peace and saw themselves as both rex and sacerdos, took a pragmatic view of peace. Although they possessed a huge army, Byzantine emperors were willing to open their coffers to purchase peace, and often preferred to employ diplomacy and religious rituals in order to attain and reinforce peace. This pragmatic approach, as evidenced in Byzantine relations with religious enemies like Muslims or Bulgars, Petchenegs, and other “heathens,” served as a precedent elsewhere for peacemaking negotiations and interreligious contacts. In the high and late Middle Ages, many diplomatic missions were based on what had been learned from the Byzantine example. Although it was the imperial court, not

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the church, that conducted the pursuit of peace, religious concepts were part of its peacemaking ideology. The focus then shifts to eleventh-century Western Europe. The eleventh century was the first time that peace as a goal became a demotic movement in the form of the Peace of God movement, as Richard Landes shows. He explores the unusual phenomenon of a grassroots European lay movement that used carefully orchestrated church councils to put pressure on knights and secular rulers to refrain from infighting and to bring the immediate realization of millennial peace on earth. This demand of Peace Now! created shockwaves throughout contemporary Western Europe. Skirting the fact that peacemaking and warmaking were royal prerogatives, this movement employed the influence of the church to persuade the medieval knight, whose social standing was grounded in his ability to fight, that it was incumbent on him to search for peace. This of course awarded the church power outside its usual sphere of influence. Church leaders were quick to seize the opportunity and lead the popular quest for peace through religious rituals and ceremonies. Landes shows how combined religious fervor and millennial hopes created the eleventh-century Peace of God movement, but also how these hopes faded and waned. Some scholars suggest that the Peace of God movement even became the basis for the ideology and organization of the crusades, the first “world war” between the Christian West and the Muslim East. Moving to the Levant, the interreligious conflict that accompanied the crusades in the Latin East did not prevent the sides there from entering into what can be termed “small peace.” Yvonne Friedman examines the mechanics of those treaties from the crusader side and shows the role played by growing familiarity with the religious Other and his beliefs to make durable peace treaties. The oaths needed to enforce the treaty were effective only if one knew the religious tenets of the Other. Notwithstanding greater cognizance of the Other’s truth, each side continued to believe in its one and only truth. Nonetheless, 120 treaties achieved over two centuries of conflict indicate that it was possible to overcome obstacles and make “small peace” in a holy war. Both Yehoshua Frenkel and Betty Binysh address the legal and ideological basis of Muslim peacemaking in the crusader period. Both note that the ideal of jihad did not exclude the possibility of negotiating peace as long as it was temporary and benefited the Islamic umma. Thus fighting on the battlefield did not contradict making a “small peace” and this pragmatic outlook facilitated treaty-making in the East. Frenkel surveys the Islamic self-image as a peaceful religion in its mnemohistory and shows how this formed the underpinnings of medieval Islam’s willingness to enter into peace agreements. He also analyzes two terms that were fundamental to, and functioned in, these peacemaking endeavors: hudna and maṣlaḥa. Bynish examines two famous Muslim-Christian peace agreements and tests the extent to which they complied with fiqh al-jihād, placing particular emphasis on the

Introduction

5

use of the term maṣlaḥa by Ibn Shaddad and what later made it possible for the Mamluks to choose expedience over jihad. Sophia Menache treats the policy of peace pursued by the medieval papacy. As heirs to the Prince of Peace, thirteenth- and fourteenth-century popes endorsed and preached crusade, at the same time engaging in intensive efforts to make peace between Christian monarchs in the West. Their standing as mediators between the contesting parties endowed them with the power to use religion in the service of peace. The chapter proposes that perhaps the decline of papal leadership in the late Middle Ages was an outcome of this pursuit of peace in the service of crusade. As both peace and war were mostly in the hands of male rulers, highborn laywomen traditionally had a role as peacemakers, often in a ritual setting, pleading for mercy for the defeated. Although women’s religious influence in the church was usually limited to the monastic sphere, religious women could achieve power and political influence as visionaries with a direct link to God and the saints. Esther Cohen provides a more nuanced picture of medieval Christian society by looking into preaching for peace by saintly medieval women whose spiritual power enabled them to cut through the social hierarchies and reach both popes and monarchs. Examined here are the careers of some of the most prominent spokeswomen for peace in the late Middle Ages. With Daniel Roth’s chapter, we leave the realm of the institutions of state or church and address Jewish society and its ideology of peacemaking in the Middle Ages. Jews lack of political power or statehood meant that Jews were usually victims, not protagonists, of religious wars, and their peacemaking endeavors were restricted to intrareligious peace within their families or communities. However, Roth’s examination of medieval halakhah reveals the importance of peace in Jewish tradition and the role of peacemakers in medieval Jewish society. Following a survey of Jewish legal sources, Roth provides concrete examples of peacemaking among Jews and even notes that “pursuers of peace” achieved official status in some Jewish societies. Although his examples of Jews in the role of mediators and peacemakers come almost exclusively from Jewish settings, he suggests that the sources may reflect possible intercommunal peacemaking by a rabbi. In contrast to official church policy, religious tolerance and peaceful relations between Catholic kings and religious minorities, such as Jews and Protestants, characterized late medieval/early modern Poland. Paweł Kras shows how the policy of tolerance enhanced internal peace in sixteenthcentury Poland, in stark opposition to the religious wars that tore apart contemporary Western Europe until the Peace of Westphalia. The religious situation in Poland can only be understood as part of a much larger debate on the political system of the commonwealth among the monarchy, the nobility, and the church. Despite the centrality of the Catholic Church in Poland, Poland’s multiethnicity, the power of the gentry, and the position of the monarchy led to developments that differed from the intolerance

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displayed by other contemporary Catholic monarchies. His article demonstrates the advantageous nature of peace and peaceful internal relations for the Polish commonwealth. As seen from the collected chapters, the Catholic Church could at the same time view itself as seeking and strengthening peace as a religious ideal and also be a “persecuting society.” As an epilogue to the different aspects of medieval religion and peace examined here, Bernard Ardura’s chapter on the modern church’s peacemaking up to Vatican II has been included in this volume. Perhaps not everyone will accept his depiction of Pope Pius XII as a champion of peace during the Second World War. I think that this chapter by the official historian of the Holy See showcases the church’s selfimage as the bearer of the Christian ideal of eternal peace and tolerance but also accentuates the problematic relations between religion and peace in the church. I am aware that this collection of chapters on religion and peace is far from exhaustive and that many other important topics could have been included. It is, however, an almost first endeavor of medieval historians to approach the period not from the perspective of war but of peace. With respect to the crusades, the ideal of total war did not prevent the sides from seeing the advantages of entering into alliances and treaties. Perhaps the crusaders were in fact influenced by the Muslim foundations of peacemaking, which rested in expedience and utility for the Muslim side. Notwithstanding the obvious military and economic benefits of reaching durable agreements, the parties to the conflict thought it necessary to explain why peace was essential at a certain point and stressed its temporary nature. In other words, they needed an excuse to make peace, whereas war was self-explanatory. This view of “small peace” explains the fact that in the thirteenth-century Middle East there were more years of peace than of war. Perhaps this exploration of peacemaking instead of warfare can serve as an initial step toward awarding peace a more prominent place in historical study.

1

Violence and nonviolence/ peace Introduction to a holistic approach Markus Fath*

Introduction What constitutes the difference between violence and nonviolence/peace? Although it is of course not always articulated in exactly these words, this is perhaps one of the oldest, most important questions facing humanity. To say that much has been written and researched on this topic is certainly a massive understatement. In fact, so many theories, studies, positions, and statements have been put forth in this field that simply listing them all would extend far beyond the scope of this chapter. Nevertheless, or perhaps precisely because of its vast range, an important gap remains in this field of research – namely, the lack of a holistic approach.1 Thus far, no theoretical model has been developed that allows an understanding or analysis of violence as a social phenomenon. The following chapter provides an introduction to such a model, which has been developed by the author in recent years. The chapter opens with a brief overview of the field of research on violence. This will be followed by an introduction to the author’s holistic approach through a description of the terminology used and a summary of the model’s essential points.2 The chapter closes with a brief demonstration of the applicability of this approach to the examination of the role of religion(s), or religious traditions, convictions, ideas, and values, with regard to the difference between violence and nonviolence/peace.

What is violence? As mentioned earlier, it is almost impossible to offer a precise overview of the field of research on the topic of violence. Nevertheless, it is possible to identify certain characteristic structures. To gain a better understanding of the requirements for the development of a holistic approach to violence and nonviolence/peace, two spheres have to first be considered: the forms of violence that have been discussed to date and the essence of the current explanatory approaches.

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Forms of violence Academic descriptions differentiate between five forms of violence: physical, psychical, subtle, structural, and legitimate/nonsanctioned violence. The first form, termed physical violence, means all physical harm caused to the human body by another person, either direct (weapons, objects) or indirect (neglect of a caring function).3 Intent to do harm to the victim is often highlighted; otherwise, the act would not be considered violence, but an accident. Certainly, as an obvious form of violence, this type does not require much explanation. The second form, termed psychical violence, means all human interactions that may not harm a person physically, but rather his/her mental wellbeing. The most popular appearance of psychical violence is what is called bullying or mobbing. To set the record straight, even if psychical violence does not involve immediate physical harm, in almost all cases, it carries physical consequences. The most severe are psychosomatic illnesses, suicidal tendencies, and suicide.4 It is readily apparent that it is not such a simple matter to differentiate between these two forms of violence. The third form, subtle violence, is a special form of psychical violence. The best example of subtle violence, which is well known in couples and family therapy, is termed emotional blackmail. This refers to all forms of communication that force one person within a relationship to take sole blame for all problems. It appears in simple sentences like: if you truly loved me, you would . . . The most brutal forms are harsh threats like: if you leave me, I will kill myself; I will burn down the house; you will never see your children again.5 As mentioned earlier with respect to physical violence, psychical violence is also based on harmful intentions. Subtle violence is also based on intentions, but these are primarily good intentions, as the people that commit it are convinced that they are saving the relationship. Nonetheless, the consequences are similar to those already mentioned for psychical violence: psychosomatic illnesses, suicidal tendencies, and suicide.6 What makes subtle violence so dangerous is that it is not usually viewed as a form of violence, but as normal everyday communication. But that has no effect on its consequences. It can perhaps be defined as a type of psychical accident (because it is not based on harmful intentions), but this does not obviate the need for its intense discussion. Where everyday actions have a harmful potential or a high risk of accidents (e.g., at construction sites, on highways) measures are always taken to minimize the risk of harm (e.g., protective clothing, speed limits). There is thus no reason why forms of communication with the potential to do harm should not be taken into serious account. The fourth form, structural violence, refers to the conditions under which social structures have a violent (harmful) impact on the people living under them. Unlike the case for the other forms of violence, this term was coined by a single person – namely, Johan Galtung. He describes structural violence as the inhibiting impact of social structures on the development of human

Violence and nonviolence/peace

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beings toward a state of personal well-being. The most popular example of structural violence is conditions in the so-called ghettos in large cities, where people are exposed to high levels of pollution and noise. Another example is very monotonous working conditions, often related to a high health risk. The fifth form, which can be termed legitimate/nonsanctioned violence, means all violence that is committed by a government body for which it is not prosecuted and receives no strictures. This form employs all forms of violence, but it is committed by the police, the armed forces, the judiciary, etc., and for that reason it is called legitimate/nonsanctioned violence. Note also that legitimating a violent act that causes suffering for somebody (like a prison sentence) is in any case an act of subtle violence.8 If someone is treated violently, and it is publicly announced that the suffering of this person is just and that this person deserves no pity, this increases the degree of suffering. No matter what position is chosen toward legitimate/nonsanctioned violence, one thing must be admitted in every case: every act of legitimate/nonsanctioned violence is a very brutal act. The discussion of these forms of violence readily shows that they cannot be easily differentiated. Thus, for example, when individuals are harmed by structural violence this enhances their vulnerability to acts of psychical violence. Acting out of this misery, the person engages in physical violence and is then confronted with legitimate/nonsanctioned violence. Neglect of any of these forms of violence will prevent us from gaining any understanding of the violent behavior committed by this person. Therefore, even though a differentiation among these forms of violence may be useful for scientific studies, it is not very close to reality. This short description underscores the need for a holistic approach that can take all describable forms of violence into consideration and can furthermore make a statement about their commonalities. Explanatory-theoretical approaches As noted earlier, it makes little sense to attempt to summarize all the existing explanatory approaches treating this topic. But examination of clusters in this field makes it possible, however, to categorize the wide range of theories into four core aspects, each of which highlights a single aspect as the crucial factor. The first framework considers violence as a means to an end. Here the already mentioned aspect of intention or motivation for violent behavior is underscored as the crucial factor. Explanatory approaches that belong to this theoretical stream assume that violence is always intentional and fulfills a certain purpose and/or serves as a strategy to reach a certain goal.9 Simply put, the essence of this theoretical stream is that violence will be chosen when it appears to be the most promising strategy. The second stream identifies violence as the result of loss of control. Here the ability to control a human being, or the ability of self-control, is highlighted as the crucial factor. Explanatory approaches that belong to this

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theoretical stream assume that violent behavior only occurs under certain conditions and/or within certain situations. A good example is control balance theory. This approach assumes two forms of control, an inner one (understood as the influence an individual has on shaping his or her social environment) and an outer one (understood as the influence of the social environment that shapes the individual). As long as these two forms of control are balanced, nothing occurs, but when balance is lost, the result is violence. Here it must be noted that which form of control overbalances is irrelevant.10 Moreover, the influence of structural and legitimate/nonsanctioned violence is explicitly taken into account by underscoring that the existence of a strong degree of these two forms of violence will lead to violent acts by the people affected by them. The third theoretical stream considers violence as fascination. Here an anthropological affiliation for violence is highlighted as the crucial factor.11 Explanatory approaches that belong to this theoretical stream assume that violence is a fundamental aspect of human nature or civilization. It is therefore simply a matter of time before human beings act violently; furthermore, human beings and human civilization need a certain degree of violence to survive. Civilization is considered as based on, and as reproducing itself through, violence.12 An inference from this argument is that a nonviolent/ peaceful society cannot be realized – it is some sort of utopia – and thus any efforts aimed at such a goal are ultimately doomed to failure. The fourth stream considers violence an alterable status within a process of development. Here the long-range perspective of individual development is highlighted as the crucial factor. Explanatory approaches that belong to this theoretical framework assume that violence is a behavioral pattern of which human beings learn to make use during their individual development. The most popular example is the labeling approach. This theory assumes that the reaction of the social environment toward an act of violence can serve to predict whether violent actions will again appear in the future. The crucial question is: does the social environment interpret the violent action of one individual with its personal characteristics? If this person is labeled (e.g., as bully or rowdy), it is most likely that he or she will again exhibit that behavior.13 In other words, this individual accepts and shares the interpretation that violent behavior is a part of his or her personality. Note, however, that consideration of this argument implies that if violence is a behavioral pattern that individuals learn to make use of, it is also possible to unlearn this pattern, or, to learn nonviolent/peaceful behavior patterns in replacement. A closer look at the essence of the four theoretical streams that have been very briefly characterized here leads to a conclusion similar to that drawn regarding the describable forms of violence. A differentiation between these four important factors may be useful for constructing scientific categories, but is not helpful in arriving at a realistic description. It rather seems more realistic to argue that all these factors – motivation and intention, the ability

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for (self-)control, a certain affinity of human nature and civilization to violence, and the effects of long-range developmental processes – always play an important role in the difference between violence and nonviolence/peace. Thus any attempt to decide which theoretical stream is more correct than the others is not helpful. It is rather more fruitful to search for a theoretical model that shows how all these factors are linked, how they reciprocally influence each other, and where they concur; in short, a closer look at the core elements of the four theoretical streams once again highlights the necessity for a holistic approach.

Holistic approach In the following, there will be a two-step introduction to such a holistic approach, as developed by the author. The first step is a brief definition of the prime terminology used for this approach, most of which has been derived from highly abstract, existing theoretical models. Such a level of abstraction is an inevitable necessity when aiming to develop a model applicable to all forms of violence on all social levels. The definitions that follow represent the meanings of the terms as used within this holistic approach, which do not always exactly match their original meanings. The second step will be a consolidation of this terminology and a description of the essence of the holistic approach. Terminology The following terms are drawn from system theory (especially by Niklas Luhmann), actor-network-theory (especially by Bruno Latour), the philosophical approach of Michel Serres (especially his book The Parasite), the results of the social-psychological experiments by Stanley Milgram, and quantum theory (especially the thought experiment Schrödinger’s cat). The terms most pertinent to the holistic approach are as follows: Contingency: This term means no more and no less than the realization that things need not be as they are, but could be different.14 In other words, it is a simple fact that reality is always much more complex than the aspects of it that we perceive and interpret. Complexity-Reduction: This term characterizes the way that human beings deal with the phenomenon of contingency. We reduce it to several, certain aspects, which become the foundation of our communications, decisions, and actions.15 In short, it is the basic principle of all human perception, interpretation, communication, decision, and action. Blind Spot: This term characterizes one important, inevitable consequence of the process of complexity-reduction – namely, that there are always certain aspects that are not taken into consideration and,

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equipment, and insignia (all of them nonhuman actors!). There is a very impressive, famous historical example for the important role of nonhuman actors in (especially military) actor-networks, even though it does not relate explicitly to nonhuman actors. Approximately 2,500 years ago, in his Art of War, Sunzi taught generals to pay particular attention to flags and banners.20 These nonhuman actors are indicators of army morale and discipline. If flags and banners are not held steady, this is taken as a sign that mutiny is at hand. Coloring/Colorizing Effect: This term (or pair of terms) is a further development of the terminology used by Michel Serres in his book The Parasite to describe basic principles of communication. Here it is used to achieve a better analytical understanding of how actornetworks change and what happens when they are confronted by the influence of a new actor. When an actor-network is confronted by a new actor, in any case, the initial effect is a short interruption of the action in progress.21 There are then three possible reactions by the actor-network: analytic, paralytic, and catalytic.22 The analytic effect means that the actor-network continues its action as before, but with an increased energy requirement. The paralytic effect means that the interruption is so severe that the actor-network disintegrates and new actor-networks are built. The catalytic effect means that the new actor is integrated into the actor-network, altering the actornetwork, which then gains a new range of possible actions. By way of illustration, I cite an example where the new actor is a nonhuman actor. During a presentation in a lecture room, a cell phone starts to ring. This will disrupt the action of presentation (even though very briefly). There are then three possible characteristic reactions: the presentation continues as before, but the presenter needs greater concentration and the audience has to focus harder to ignore the noise (analytic effect). Or the presenter loses his or her nerve, stops the presentation, and leaves the room. The audience will disintegrate: some go home to their families and others form small groups and discuss what has happened or what to cook for dinner. The lecturer seeks out a new, small audience (perhaps colleagues) to lament the lack of politeness in the audience (paralytic effect). Or somebody reacts and turns off the cell phone; the presenter uses the event as a good example of the everyday influence of nonhuman actors and different colorizing effects (catalytic effect). Thus, to sum up, the term coloring/colorizing effects (which can be analytic, paralytic, or catalytic) is used for an analytic description of the alteration of actor-networks through the influence and/or the integration of new actors. The original terms parasite/parasitic effects used by Serres are here replaced, especially for one crucial argument. The term parasite (Serres uses it in its etymological meaning: to sit close to somebody and eat23) is very often used as a metaphor for the enemy.24 So within an approach

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Markus Fath dealing with the difference between violence and nonviolence/peace, it is plainly and simply misplaced because it is a term that is already intensely linked to enemy stereotypes and to a tendency toward more violent conditions. In short, the term parasite is a factor for escalation, and precisely for that reason, I have replaced it with a more neutral term while retaining the basic definition. Agentic-Spectrum: The term is a further development of the term agentic state coined by Stanley Milgram, which represents the central conclusions stemming from the experiments he conducted. It designates a certain psychodynamic condition, which can be observed when people act violently and/or are in very stressful situations. It can be described as a deep feeling of self-estrangement, whereas in this condition, people conform to the situation and obey calls to action.25 They are also perceived as different beings by observers. Almost everybody is familiar with this condition and how it feels to be in such a situation, or to see someone else in that situation. It is connected to descriptions such as this is not me; I am not doing something like that; it is almost like I’m standing next to me and watching myself do this (the feeling of self-estrangement that comes, for example, with angry reactions). And if you have ever seen someone you know very well in a very angry state, you have the strong perception that you don’t recognize him or her any more. This is precisely what Milgram terms the agentic state, and it can be associated with the fight-or-flight-reaction; for that reason, it is highly likely that it is an important aspect when we speak of a tendency to violence within human nature.26 One of the earliest descriptions for this state was provided by Seneca (who was forced to commit suicide in 65 CE) in his famous De Ira,27 where he describes that nothing changes a human being like anger or wrath, and this becomes obvious through a glance at those who exhibit this change. Another famous example is The Book of Five Rings by Myamoto Musashi.28 The seventeenth-century samurai who was said to be invincible describes a strong feeling of becoming one with the weapon as the most important precondition for battle and triumph. It is quite interesting that a warrior does not fear this state but rather considers it a virtue. Accordingly, there is evidence that this state is well known in several cultures and eras as a crucial factor in acts of violence,29 feared by Roman philosophers, on the one hand, and praised by samurai preparing for the battlefield, on the other. However, here the term is further expanded to agentic-spectrum for one simple reason. It is far more realistic to assume that this psychodynamic (and physiologically based) condition is increased in intensity with a fluent transition, than that it would be a dichotomous category (which would conform to the interpretation: agentic state means total conformity; no agentic state means totally unaffected decisions). Another reason

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is that the term spectrum better harmonizes with the concept coloring/colorizing effects, and it is important to be precise in the language of a theoretical approach (remember the importance of replacing the term parasite!). Simultaneously existing potential worlds: This term is used as a holistic metaphor to describe violence and nonviolence/peace as phenomena per se.30 As used here, the term means that, at any time and in any situation, parallel violent and nonviolent/peaceful options are close at hand (within the contingency), even if they may not be visible. The term can also function as a constant reminder of the existence and the influence of blind spots and black-boxing on visibility. Furthermore, it opens the door to searching for as yet unseen, important aspects made visible by opening these black boxes.

Consolidation After this brief description of the terminology most pertinent to the proposed holistic approach, I now turn to a characterization of this theoretical model. All perception, interpretation, communication, and action are grounded on the complexity-reduction of contingency and necessarily produce an inevitable blind spot. Nonhuman actors co-act, black box, and provide inscriptions. By attracting conscious attention, new actors are integrated in an actor-network and its characteristics are altered. Extreme situations influence the psychodynamic condition of the human actors involved toward conformity to the situation and unreflecting obedience to instructions (including the inscriptions of nonhuman actors). At any given moment, the potentiality of violent and nonviolent/peaceful actions, decisions, and conditions coexist. This leads to some major conclusions. First of all, violence and nonviolence/peace are coexisting, potential conditions of one-and-the-same actornetwork (no matter how large it is or how many actors are integrated). Which condition is realized is grounded in the integration of actors, their different colorizing effects, and the psychodynamic condition of the human actors involved. Second, what is called violence is always linked to an ultimate reduction of complexity. For this phenomenon, it is necessary to introduce another term. This ultimate reduction of complexity is called the One-and-Only-Principle. No one has to be an expert to grasp the essence of this term. This principle states that of all aspects within a contingency only one aspect is perceived. When only one interpretation of all the possible interpretations is visible for this aspect, when of all possible motivations only one motivation remains, then of all possible actions and decisions only one is still visible and appears as the one and only realizable option. This option is characterized by violence. Whenever such immense reductions of possible aspects are intertwined, this is called the One-and-Only-Principle. And it is this

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principle that is linked to people acting violently and to their feeling that they are being treated violently.31 Finally, this terminology and consolidation also allows us to picture the four core aspects of the theoretical streams we have isolated thus far: the aspect of intention and motivation inheres especially in the inscriptions of nonhuman actors (e.g., certain values). The aspect of the ability of (self-) control is represented especially in the characteristics of the agentic-spectrum, linked to the intensity of the relationship to other (non-)human actors and the question of to what degree they colorize you and the availability of their inscriptions (/instructions). The aspect of fascination also falls within the characteristics of the agentic-spectrum and could be described as a strongly pointed agentic-spectrum. The aspect of a long-range developmental process inheres in the possibilities of alteration for actor-networks that always change their characteristics when new actors (which can be human or nonhuman) are integrated or already integrated actors disintegrate. Furthermore, the consolidation of these terms according their core aspects leads to a more global (holistic) coherence of all these aspects. Thus, the proposed theoretical model can function as a holistic approach to the difference between violence and nonviolence/peace. For a visualization of this model, see figures 1.1 and 1.2 in the appendix.

Catalysts: a historical consideration of the role of religion(s) In closing, I take a look at the historical role of religion(s), especially religious ideas, values, convictions, and traditions for consideration of the difference between violence and nonviolence/peace. There is no doubt that religious ideas and convictions can be a source of violence as well as a source of nonviolence/peace. A short look at everyday life reveals that one-and-the-same religious idea can be used as justification for violent and nonviolent/peaceful actions and decisions. What makes the difference? Answering that the right interpretation of religious ideas will lead to nonviolent/peaceful behavior and the wrong interpretation will lead to violent behavior is no answer at all. It would simply be the reproduction of one escalation factor, namely a worldview dividing everything into black and white, good and evil, and locating one’s own (group-)identity on the good side.32 This is why Johan Galtung points out that all strategies of conflict resolution must strictly separate actions from actors, ideas from the people representing them, and place the focus on ideas, actions, and decisions.33 This basic principle is well known in peacemaking practice. But up to now, there has been no theoretical approach that was able to depict this important difference. The holistic approach developed here can fulfill this requirement through its terminology, which also functions as a reminder that actions cannot be understood – and for that also cannot be regarded as identical – with only human actors, for there are always co-acting nonhuman actors. What conclusions

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emerge when we apply the perspective of the holistic approach to the role of religion(s) in the context of violence and nonviolence/peace? First of all, the influence of religion(s), religious traditions, and values can be described as nonhuman actors, as patterns shaping perception, interpretation, communication, and action by the calling of attention to certain aspects within the contingency to black-boxing, and inscriptions. Furthermore, which religious traditions are integrated in an actor-network is less important, as long as the relation of human actors to these traditions does not become a one-and-only-relation. This applies of course to all nonhuman actors (respectively all worldviews, values, principles, and so on). Religions per se are neither a danger nor an opportunity. That depends on the conditions and the characteristics of the actor-network into which they are integrated. The danger lies in the claim of exclusivity. If a religious value becomes a one-and-only-value, or if a religious idea becomes a one-and-only-idea, or a religious conviction becomes a one-and-only-conviction, and so on, this will then tip the actor-network in the direction of violence. This also applies if you are viewing a religion (or worldview) different from your own. If you reduce a religion and/or the people representing this religion to certain aspects and identify them with these aspects (remember the importance of separating actions and actors!), you are in danger of acting violently against them in the true belief that you are motivated by good intentions. For example, it is impossible to reduce a text or a book that is holy to someone to a certain phrase or passage, and then think you can understand from this information what this someone is like. More abstractly, this is one version of an ultimate reduction of complexity. However, there is also an important opportunity here. If religion(s), religious values, ideas, convictions, traditions, etc. are being integrated as new or additional actors (or of course as new/additional actor-networks) into already existing actor-networks, they will both increase complexity and the range of possible perceptions, interpretations, communications, decisions, and actions and thus lead an actor-network in the direction of nonviolence/ peace. For this reason, it is important for any actor-network to learn that the reaction to a new actor should be neither analytic nor paralytic but catalytic. It remains to illustrate the applicability of the proposed theory-model to historical analyses. There are several excellent examples in this volume that can stabilize the core theses of the theoretical model and vice versa: the respective analyses can be stabilized from the perspective of the theoretical model. It is very important to emphasize that only chosen aspects are indicated here and by no means are the other articles reduced to these aspects. The following is an exemplification of the theoretical model’s linkage and transferability to historical contexts. The versions of the speech of Urban II34 exemplify the ultimate reduction of complexity. The declared enemy is described as idolaters and a whole population is reduced to the aspect of being Muslim. This aspect is at once interpreted as contamination of the Holy Land. Reducing human beings to

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a one-and-only-aspect intertwined with reducing all options of interpretation to a one-and-only-option is exactly what is meant by the One-andOnly-Principle. Guibert of Nogent’s version of the speech, describing the postponement of the end of days,35 is a good example of the influence and importance of potential worlds, especially for expanding a movement from the micro- to the macro-level. Furthermore, the shift in the concept of the other from demonic person to military enemy as an important precondition for ceasefires and temporary truces36 underlines the importance of increasing complexity – the Other is not reduced to only one identity but is recognized as being part of the military as well – which counteracts the One-and-Only-Principle. Another example is what Landes describes as profound moral egalitarianism resulting from collective near-death experiences and terms demotic enthusiasm.37 Cataclysmic events such as earthquakes engendered changes in attitudes and actions toward caretaking and charity, intertwining the social micro- and macro-levels. This describes exactly what is meant by calling attention to a formerly not seen potential world – nothing less than the apocalypse being at hand – resulting in a catalytic colorizing effect. Furthermore, the thesis that the agentic-spectrum, manifested in attitudes, is highly dynamic also on the social macro-level is stabilized by the characteristically short-lived aspect of demotic enthusiasm. When there is relief from danger and the apocalypse has not occurred, people fall back into their old patterns. Nevertheless, the experience left an impact: the old patterns of actions now evoked stronger remorse,38 which is exactly what is meant by a potential world being black-boxed again and an analytic colorizing effect, where the former pattern can only be continued by using increased amounts of energy. Beyond that, it is remarkable that increased creativity responding to human suffering originates from a crisis of theodicy in eleventh-century Western Europe.39 This stabilizes the core thesis that decreasing approval of the claim of exclusivity facilitates the emergence of new actor-networks linked to new perspectives and alternatives. The importance of rejecting the claim of exclusivity, counteracting the One-and-Only-Principle as a precondition for more peaceful conditions, is clarified in the analysis of sixteenth-century Poland. The country gained a widespread reputation of being in a state of peaceful coexistence and religious toleration. Even though there was not a complete absence of violence, there was no organized persecution of religious dissidents.40 Just the opposite, the Kraków inhabitants who organized the anti-Jewish pogrom in 1407 were severely punished. This tradition of religious pluralism can be considered as groundbreaking for the principle of religious freedom.41 This underscores that actor-networks are not only highly dynamic but also that the alteration of actor-networks can stabilize predominantly peaceful conditions over a longer period. For a long time Catholics, Orthodox Ruthenians, Armenians, Jews, and Muslim Tartars lived together in peaceful coexistence in one state.42 This is exactly what is meant by integrating

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many different actors into an actor-network, leading to a consistently high degree of complexity and an alteration of the actor-network on a social macro-level toward nonviolence/peace. The extremely harmful potential of the claim of exclusivity comes clearly to light in the apostolic message of Innocent III to destroy without mercy all that was considered heresy. Cruel violence and bloodshed against Muslims, Jews, and Eastern Christians was justified as serving the greater good and everlasting pursuit of peace.43 This example also clearly demonstrates another realization of the One-and-Only-Principle, where there is a oneand-only-perspective (papal interpretation of Christianity), a one-and-onlyinterpretation (all are reduced to the question of whether they agree or not), a one-and-only-goal (peace among the faithful), and, finally a one-and-onlyoption-to-act: to enforce the goal at all costs, according to the interpretation that emerges from the perspective. Furthermore, the policy of the pursuit of peace among Christians (i.e., those who were considered to have the right interpretation of Christianity) and leading a merciless crusade against those who were considered infidels,44 once more reveals how an actor-network can expand to the social macro-level by aligning allies under an interpretation that ultimately reduces the complexity of reality. Beyond that, papal manipulation of peace treaties among the monarchies of Christendom in order to mobilize allies for a crusade turned out to be an important factor in the decline and marginalization of the papacy.45 Interpreting the papacy not as the one-and-only-arbiter-of-truth, but as a political party, can be well described as a paralytic colorizing effect that led to the disintegration of a macro-actor-network. The role of co-acting nonhuman actors can be clearly highlighted by the importance of relics. Whether envoys returned to their courts with relics as gifts or not could be considered as clear evidence for the mission’s success or failure.46 In more abstract terms, this means that special nonhuman actors fulfilled an important function in the action of reaching diplomatic agreements. Furthermore, this indicates that the role of a nonhuman actor depends on the actor-network into which it is integrated. For Christian courts, relics were a sacred part of faith and thus a gift of the highest value. For courts negotiating with Christian courts, the relics were also of very high value, not as religious symbols, but as signs of successful diplomacy. For Byzantine diplomacy, Christianity was essential to peace negotiations, but it was not necessarily the basic motivation. Political, military, and economic aspects often played a far more important role than religious ones.47 This again underlines the strong relation between the simultaneity of different perspectives and the alteration of actor-networks toward nonviolent/ peaceful conditions and concomitant actions. In the mid-Byzantine period, religion was an important way to establish peace. Yet it was not the exclusive one-and-only-way but rather one among several others.48 This once again clearly exemplifies that the difference between religion as source of violence or of nonviolence/peace is not located within right or wrong ideas

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but rather in the question of whether religious ideas become part of the One-and-Only-Principle or part of an actor-network with a high level of complexity. These examples suffice to demonstrate the mutual enrichment of historical analyses for the perspective of the introduced theoretical model and vice versa. Let me close this chapter by underscoring one last time the most significant conclusion, whose importance cannot be underestimated: for every actor-network – no matter under what conditions and on what social level – there is always the potentiality for nonviolence/peace, even if it is currently not perceived because of a blind spot or because of black-boxing. And because there is this potentiality, it is realizable. Nonviolence/peace is no utopia at all. It is a matter of perception, interpretation, communication, decision, and action.

Appendix

Figure 1.1 Actor-network/hybrid with characteristics “nonviolence/peace” Created by author

The large outer circle represents contingency. The star in the middle represents the central human actor. The small circles around it represent the other actors (which can be human or nonhuman) that are integrated by the central human actor. The dotted area represents the degree of complexity that is perceived by the actor-network, based on which the actor-network can interpret, communicate, decide, and act. Where this area has contact with the large circle, there is a visible potential world; where there is no contact between area and large circle, there is a blind spot or a black box. As you can see from the figure there are many actors integrated, the structure of the actor-network can be described as harmonic, the perceived complexity is high, and the blind spots or black boxes are small. The characteristics of the agentic-spectrum of the central human actor can be described as wide. The human actors involved in an actor-network with these characteristics decide and act nonviolently/peacefully and feel that they are treated nonviolently/peacefully.

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Figure 1.2 Actor-network/hybrid with characteristics “violence” Created by author

It is the same central human actor, but now the characteristics of the actornetwork have altered. Only a few actors are still integrated. The structure of the actor-network can be described as rigid. Consequently, the perceived complexity is ultimately reduced to several very narrow pathways. The central human actor has to fit into these pathways and conform to the situation. The central human actor is strongly colorized by the other actors. The characteristics of the agentic-spectrum of the central human actor can be described as pointed. The blind spots or black boxes are enormous. Only a few potential worlds are still visible. In this case, all these worlds are characterized by violence, and the intertwining of all these factors represents what is meant by the term One-and-Only-Principle. The integration of new/additional actors would change the characteristics by making potential worlds, that are black-boxed so far, visible and thus alter the actor-network toward the characteristics of nonviolence/peace. The human actors involved in an actor-network with these characteristics decide and act violently and feel that they are treated violently.

Notes * I would like to express my appreciation and gratitude to all the participants in this volume and the editors. More than words can say, I am deeply grateful to Franziska Metz, my dearly beloved Franzi, not only for her support and research in correcting this chapter, but simply for who she is. 1 Markus Schroer, “Gewalt ohne Gesicht: Zur Notwendigkeit einer umfassenden Gewaltanalyse,” in Gewalt: Entwicklungen – Strukturen – Analyseprobleme, ed. Wilhelm Heitmeyer and Hans-Georg Soeffner (Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp, 2004), 151–73.

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2 For a detailed description of this approach, see Markus Fath, Gewalt und Gewaltlosigkeit: Entwicklung eines Theorie-Modells (Münster: Lit, 2011). 3 Gertrud Nunner-Winkler, “Überlegungen zum Gewaltbegriff,” in Gewalt: Entwicklungen – Strukturen – Analyseprobleme, ed. Wilhelm Heitmeyer and HansGeorg Soeffner (Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp, 2004), 21–61. 4 Christa Kolodej, Mobbing: Psychoterror am Arbeitsplatz und seine Bewältigung (Vienna: Facultas, 2005); English trans., idem, Psychoterror in a Workplace and Its Overcoming (Charkow: Nauchny Mir, 2007). 5 Susan Forward and Donna Frazier, Emotional Blackmail: When the People in Your Life Use Fear, Obligation and Guilt to Manipulate You (New York: HarperCollins, 1997). 6 Ibid. 7 Johan Galtung, Strukturelle Gewalt: Beiträge zur Friedens- und Konfliktforschung (Reinbek: Rohwolt, 1975); idem, A Theory of Development: Overcoming Structural Violence (Oslo: Transcend University Press, 2010); Kathleen Ho, “Structural Violence as a Human Rights Violation,” Essex Human Rights Review 4/2 (Sept. 2007): 1–17. 8 Fath, Gewalt und Gewaltlosigkeit. 9 Ibid. 10 Günter Albrecht, “Jugend, Recht und Kriminalität,” in Handbuch Kindheitsund Jugendforschung, ed. Heinz-Hermann Krüger and Cathleen Grunert (Opladen: Leske and Budrich, 2002), 743–94. 11 Hans-Georg Soeffner, “Gewalt als Faszinosum,” in Gewalt: Entwicklungen – Strukturen – Analyseprobleme, ed. Wilhelm Heitmeyer and Hans-Georg Soeffner (Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp, 2004), 62–85. 12 Wolfgang Sofsky, Traktat über die Gewalt (Frankfurt a. M.: Fischer, 2005). 13 Albrecht, “Jugend, Recht und Kriminalität,” 743–94. 14 Niklas Luhmann, Soziale Systeme: Grundriß einer allgemeinen Theorie (Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp, 1987); English trans., idem, Social Systems, trans. John Bednarz with Dirk Baecker (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1995). 15 Niklas Luhmann, Die Gesellschaft der Gesellschaft (Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp, 1998); English trans., idem, Theory of Society, vols. 1–2, trans. Rhodes Barrett (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2012). 16 Niklas Luhmann, Einführung in die Systemtheorie (Heidelberg: Carl-Auer, 2004); English trans., idem, Introduction to Systems Theory, trans. Dirk Baecker (reprint, Cambridge: Polity, 2013). 17 Madeleine Akrich and Bruno Latour, “A Summary of a Convenient Vocabulary for the Semiotics of Human and Nonhuman Assemblies,” in Shaping Technology/ Building Society Studies in Sociotechnical Change, ed. Wiebe E. Bijker and John Law (London: MIT Press, 1992), 259–64. 18 Bruno Latour, Pandora’s Hope: Essays on the Reality of Sciences Studies (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999). 19 Andréa Belliger and David J. Krieger, “Einführung in die Akteur-Netzwerk-Theorie,” in Anthology: Ein einführendes Handbuch zur Akteur-Netzwerk-Theorie, ed. Andréa Belliger and David J. Krieger (Bielefeld: Transcript, 2006), 13–50. 20 Sunzi, Die Kunst des Krieges (München: Droemer Knaur, 2001); English trans., idem, The Art of War, trans. Thomas F. Cleary (Boston: Shambhala, 1987). 21 Michel Serres, The Parasite, trans. with notes by Lawrence R. Schehr (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1982). 22 For a better understanding of the three characteristic effects, see also Steve D. Brown, “Michel Serres: Translation and the Logic of the Parasite,” Theory, Culture & Society 19/3 (2002): 1–27. 23 Serres, The Parasite.

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24 Gert Sommer, “Feindbilder,” in Krieg und Frieden: Handbuch der Konfliktund Friedenspsychologie, ed. Gert Sommer and Albert Fuchs (Weinheim: Beltz, 2004), 303–16. 25 Stanley Milgram, Obedience to Authority: An Experimental View (London: Pinter & Martin, 2013). 26 Fath, Gewalt und Gewaltlosigkeit. 27 L. Annaeus Seneca, Moral Essays, vol. 1, trans. John W. Basore, Loeb Classical Library (London and New York: Heinemann, 1928). 28 Miyamoto Musashi, A Book of Five Rings, trans. Victor Harris (New York: Overlook, 1974). 29 For additional examples, see Fath, Gewalt und Gewaltlosigkeit. 30 For a detailed description of its origin, see Brigitte Röthlein, Schrödingers Katze. Einführung in die Quantenphysik (Munich: Dt. Taschenbuch-Verl., 2007); John Gribbin, In Search of Schrödinger’s Cat: Quantum Physics and Reality (New York: Random House, 2011). For a detailed description of its special pertinence for this approach, see Fath, Gewalt und Gewaltlosigkeit. 31 For a better understanding of this crucial difference between violence and nonviolence/peace, please consult the annotated figures in the appendix. These figures were originally published in Fath, Gewalt und Gewaltlosigkeit, 290–1. 32 Fath, Gewalt und Gewaltlosigkeit. 33 Johan Galtung, Transcend and Transform: An Introduction to Conflict Work (London: Pluto, 2004). 34 See Yvonne Friedman’s contribution in this volume. 35 Ibid. 36 Ibid. 37 See Richard Landes’s contribution in this volume. 38 Ibid. 39 Ibid. 40 See Paweł Kras’s contribution in this volume. 41 Ibid. 42 Ibid. 43 See Sophia Menache’s contribution in this volume. 44 Ibid. 45 Ibid. 46 See Nicolas Drocourt’s contribution in this volume. 47 Ibid. 48 Ibid.

2

Religion and diplomatic peacemaking in the Middle Byzantine period Nicolas Drocourt

Introduction The Byzantine Empire, a Christian state that lasted for more than 1,000 years (fourth to fifteenth centuries), viewed itself as the continuation of the Roman Empire in the eastern part of the Mediterranean world. The Byzantines referred to themselves as Ῥωµαῖοι (Rhomaoi), meaning “Romans,” and claimed adherence to Christianity from its adoption as the official state religion by the Roman Empire. This close link between being Roman and Christian remained alive until the end of the empire in 1453 and was an important aspect of Byzantine self-identity during what medievalists term the Middle Byzantine period – i.e., from the early seventh to the early thirteenth century – and the fateful crusader conquest in 1204.1 This chapter focuses on this period, more specifically on several cases of diplomacy dating from the ninth to the twelfth centuries. We must bear in mind that, during this period, the emperor was portrayed as having received direct divine instruction for his mission to rule and lead his Christian subjects. The emperor was “a sovereign to whom God had directly delegated the government and the salvation of men, and whom he had legitimated by unction.”2 This ideological aspect of power had numerous consequences, one of which is the fact that, whereas imperial power was often transmitted from father to son or relatives, on transmitting his power, the emperor was at times careful to inform the latter, “It is not I who have chosen you, it is God.” Another consequence pertinent to this chapter is that the basileus was the one who, as head of the state, promoted Christianity through various channels. This chapter examines aspects of one of these channels: peace established by diplomatic means and asks to what extent religion was involved in the establishment of peaceful relations between the emperor (and hence the empire) and his neighbors. This question is crucial, as these neighbors were numerous, changeable, and often presented in the Byzantine sources as potentially or actually attacking the empire. For a millennium, diplomacy constituted one of the major weapons against this threat.3 Whether or not associated with war, diplomacy contained all the “barbarian pretensions,” to use the Byzantine

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term.4 In the Middle Byzantine period, the empire employed different diplomatic means: one was gold – Byzantines preferred to purchase peace instead of risking war and sometimes paid large amounts of gold to do so; another was the granting of official Byzantine court titles, which were famous and made the one who possessed them famous, at least until the end of the twelfth century.5 Still another was the use of artifacts – automata around the imperial throne, musical instruments such as organs, gifts, and so on – during ceremonies in the Great Palace of Constantinople in order to dazzle foreign visitors, especially visiting ambassadors or princes. What was the place of religion in this diplomatic display whose aim always remained peace, at least for the empire and its inhabitants?6

The role of Christianity in diplomatic activity and official peace agreements Even a cursory glance reveals that Christianity is omnipresent in the diplomatic efforts made by the Byzantine emperors with a view to establishing and/ or maintaining peace on the borders of the empire. As the Byzantine Empire had a developed political ideology partly based on Christian ideas, some of its rhetorical aspects are worth noting. One not-to-be-neglected aspect of the political values and virtues of the basileus was his peaceful attributes. The emperors, in normative as well as narrative Greek texts, were often portrayed as eirenopoios, “peacemaker.” The famous mid-tenth century Book of Ceremonies, written under the patronage of Emperor Constantine VII, describes the people’s first acclamation of a newly crowned emperor as “Holy, holy, holy; glory to God in the highest and Peace on Earth,” as an invitation that the new reign be peacefully established.7 External as well as internal peace made by the Byzantine sovereign was included within the law.8 But most important for us is the fact that the emperor was honored as “peacemaker” by certain foreign ambassadors who visited and met him for the first time in the Great Palace of Constantinople. As described in the Book of Ceremonies, the Muslim ambassadors had to utter ritual phrases in front of him, some of which referred to his peaceful intentions.9 Thus only Muslim ambassadors, and not Christian ones, had to glorify the basileus as “very devoted to peace.”10 Matters linked to the image of a peaceful sovereign also appear in official correspondence between the Byzantine emperor and his Christian neighbors and partners. The relations between Constantinople and the Bulgarians in the early tenth century are illustrative. The Bulgarians had been Christians since 864 and the conversion of their king, Boris, who then joined Christendom through the mediation of Byzantine missionaries. Of course, this religious choice by Boris had political consequences: it placed the Bulgarians in a new relationship of dependence vis-à-vis the Byzantine emperor. Furthermore, this conversion did not occur through Roman missionaries and thus the Bulgarian territory came under the jurisdiction of the

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Constantinople patriarchate, not the Roman one. This new dependence created moral links, at least from the Byzantine perspective: the Bulgarian king could no longer attack his neighbor and introducer of the True Faith – i.e., the Byzantines. Unfortunately, for the Byzantines, the first part of the following century witnessed many wars between the two partners. A careful reading of the official correspondence produced by the Byzantine chancery reveals the extent to which rhetorical aspects, usually based on religious arguments, were addressed to the Bulgarian king in order to avoid military conflict. Numerous letters sent to Symeon, the Bulgarian sovereign who in 913 broke the official peace with, and then attacked the empire, show this to be the case. The first letter, dated summer 913, set the tone for the Byzantine reaction and subsequent letters from its chancery. The patriarch of Constantinople, acting at that time as imperial regent, explains that if Symeon acts thus he risks “the eternal disgrace . . . the dishonor and that inconsolable punishment which is the portion of them who set at naught the mighty name of our Christ and God.”12 From the Byzantine perspective, this was the case for two main reasons. First of all, as both Symeon and the Bulgarians were Christian, some Byzantines, such as the patriarch, adduced that becoming a Christian necessarily brought peace between the Romans and the Bulgarians.13 On the contrary, a war between the Byzantines and a Christian neighbor was considered a “civil war, the worst type of war.”14 Second, the Byzantine chancery condemned the Bulgarian attitude because the official peace between the two states had been established with mutual oaths. The Byzantine chancery insisted on that point: breaking the peace was blameworthy not only because it offended the diplomatic partner but also because it constituted an affront to God.15 To reinforce their ideological views and their Christian argumentation, the Byzantines also played on another theme. From the High Middle Ages, they developed the idea that the Byzantine emperor was at the head of an international hierarchy of princes.16 With the Bulgarian prince, and a Christian at that, the same chancery could then argue that breaking the peace and starting a war against the Byzantines was disloyal: a “spiritual son” should not act in this manner toward his “spiritual father.”17 In this case, the argument seems all the more solid because the Bulgarian king had converted to Christianity in 864 with the Byzantine emperor as his godfather. This ideological conception of foreign relations was reinforced by marriages between the imperial Byzantine family and foreign families, which created another kind of Christian dependence on the basileis.18 A recent study has demonstrated that marriage was frequently employed as a diplomatic means during the centuries under consideration here, much more so as compared to previous centuries.19 Another means that was important for establishing the notion of an emperor at the summit of a complicated hierarchy of states, including nonChristian ones, was the granting of Byzantine court titles. Obtaining one from Constantinople was considered prestigious; as mentioned earlier, it

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made the person receiving the title part of that Byzantine hierarchy.20 Even Muslim sovereigns were interested in such titles and officially requested them from the emperor.21 Beyond these aspects, there was another use of religion by the Byzantines in peacemaking attempts, which also had concrete manifestations. First, the sumptuous churches and sanctuaries played a role in Byzantine diplomacy, especially those in the capital that were shown to foreign visitors. The case of the Russian emissaries, still pagans at that time, sent by the Russian Prince Vladimir around 987 to visit some of their neighbors to inquire about their faith, remains well known. They then proceeded to Tsar’grad (Constantinople) and were welcomed with great honor by the emperor; the latter urged the patriarch to prepare a divine office “so that the Rus’ might behold the glory of the God of the Greeks,” as an Old Russian chronicle describes it. This source also indicates that the Rus’ were “astonished by what they saw” and that when they returned to Prince Vladimir, they explained to him that “the Greeks led us to the edifices where they worship their God” and that they did not know whether they were “in heaven or on earth.”22 Although this tale might be considered an overstatement, this type of display was not an isolated incident. In 968, Bishop Liudprand of Cremona, an envoy sent by Otto I, stated that he entered the important Church of the Holy Apostles in Constantinople and that he had seen relics of the True Cross in another church during his stay.23 The exhibition of these kinds of venerated Christian objects, which were part of Byzantium’s renown, is found again two centuries later when the emperor received King Louis VII in 1147,24 and Amaury I, Latin King of Jerusalem, in 1171.25 To Byzantium’s neighbors, more specifically the Christian ones, it was clear that Constantinople was the Christian capital of relics. This had theological implications for the city, at least as proclaimed by the Byzantines: from the time of Emperor Heraclius (the early seventh century), Constantinople was called “the New Jerusalem.” Furthermore, all these holy objects may have been judged important by both parties in concluding a military agreement, or in establishing or confirming the peace, as in the case of the king of Jerusalem in 1171. Relics offered as official gifts were also a way to reinforce a diplomatic agreement with Christian courts.26 Conversely, the fact that a foreign envoy did not return to his court with such a gift clearly illustrated the failure of his mission.27 Last but not least, other tangible aspects related to the close links between religion and Byzantine diplomatic peace were the persons directly involved. A glance at the social composition of the official embassies sent in the name of the Byzantine emperor reveals that these embassies were usually composed of members of the clergy.28 This was the case for numerous embassies sent to the Western Christian world, and conversely bishops, archbishops, or other clergymen were also frequently chosen in the West to lead or take part in an embassy to Byzantium.29 Nevertheless, it is also true that the empire sent clerics to its northern neighbors before the latter

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became Christians; furthermore, clergymen were also part of the delegations sent to Muslim territories, although to a lesser degree than those sent elsewhere.30 This preference for clerics is readily understandable. Religious questions frequently arose in the course of negotiations, and not only in the case of relations between Rome and Constantinople. Ambassadors had to be aware of the theological principles that could be central to, or in the backdrop of, mutual contacts between the Western and Eastern parts of Christianity. They also had to negotiate certain questions – for example, a matrimonial alliance – “which could be entangled in religious questions,” as Nike Koutrakou notes.31 Sent to northern and pagan neighbors, Byzantine ambassadors led missions that could end in conversion to Christianity.32 Even in the case of diplomatic discussions with Muslim partners, the question of religion was present in various ways: an ambassador might participate in a theological debate setting out the different values of Islam and Christianity, for instance, or the letter he carried might explain the dogmas of his faith, inviting the sovereign he met to convert.33 The negotiations sometimes concerned places of worship such as the Church of the Holy Sepulcher or the Constantinople mosques (during the eleventh and twelfth centuries).34 Finally, even if the envoys were not clergymen, they were still supposed to be religious in appearance and conduct. In the middle of the period under analysis here, for instance, a Greek text recommends that envoys should “have the reputation of being religious (εὐσέβεια).”35 This recommendation repeats what is found in an Arabic text also associated with diplomatic relations, without any direct link with the Greek text. In the treatise known as the Book of Messengers of Kings, Ibn al-Farrâ’ compiles advice regarding the choice of ambassadors: among other values, the ideal envoy should have “knowledge of religious duties [and] sacred custom.”36 In light of these considerations, it is clear that Christianity permeated every level of Byzantine diplomacy. From rhetorical to concrete reasons, Christianity seemed essential in the search for and establishment of peace. However, other situations clearly indicate that, for the Byzantines, religion was not the sole fundamental motivation when they acted to promote diplomatic peace.

The role of pragmatic (nonreligious) factors in Byzantine peacemaking The procedures that accompanied the ratification of peace open this aspect of our study. An official treaty was accepted by both parties when each swore an oath, which confirmed the solemn engagement in the eyes of God. This created no problems when the Byzantines dealt with monotheistic partners, Christian or Muslim, because they believe in and recognize the same God.37 But it could create problems with nonmonotheistic peoples: what was the value, for a Byzantine envoy negotiating peace, of an oath sworn in an unusual way, referring to gods unknown and rejected by him? In the

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Middle Byzantine period, the Byzantines were aware of this question, and it appears that they allowed pagan rituals to be observed when they concluded peace with pagan neighbors. In fact, they were sufficiently pragmatic to consider that this was the rule when dealing with pagan partners, as shown by the multiplicity of cases attested.38 During the reign of Heraclius, Khazar envoys sent to Constantinople swore mutual oaths with the Byzantines “each [one] according to his own law,” as a chronicler reports.39 In the early tenth century, the heathen Rus’ swore by Perun and Volos or by their weapons, whereas the Greeks swore on the cross and by the Trinity. But in the mid-tenth century, when another treaty was concluded (944), Christian Russians were more numerous and so the oaths became rather complex. At that date, the violator of the oath was declared subject to the wrath of both “[the Christian] God and Perun.” Other examples can be found in Greek texts, notably concerning the relations with the Pechenegs,40 or the Bulgarians before 864. In the latter case, a Greek source alleges that the emperor’s pact with the Bulgarians in 814 was confirmed by oaths sworn mutually on the gods of the other power, and so the Byzantine envoys swore on their weapons and on the body of a slaughtered dog.41 But did the Byzantines have a choice with their heathen neighbors? It appears clearly that, as D.A. Miller states, “the exigencies of foreign policy . . . could have overridden Christian exclusivism, in some cases,”42 and I should add that it also overrode Christian practices. Furthermore, the emperor himself could be accused of being a traitor to his oath. Usually this attitude was typically a non-Byzantine, or “barbarian,” attitude condemned by Greek authors.43 However, several emperors broke an official peace that had been confirmed by mutual oaths. Some Greek authors underscore and condemn such an attitude, even if the war was against Muslim neighbors. The case of Romanus III Argyros in 1030, as described by the contemporary Greek author Michael Psellos,44 is instructive. The emperor prepared a military attack, without any solid justification for a “just war,” simply to win glory on the battlefield. He thought that it was better to fight the Muslims rather than any Latin prince. Thus, he decided to lead his troops against the emirate of Aleppo in spite of the fact that this neighboring state had maintained peaceful relations with Constantinople for decades, paying yearly tribute. In Northern Syria, not far from Aleppo, the emperor received a delegation from that city. Its envoys explained to him how incomprehensible they found his warlike attitude, and that they respected both the peace treaties and their oaths. But Romanus III, as described by Psellos, sent this embassy away, dismissing its envoys “as well as he rejected the peace.”45 Psellos clearly condemns this reprehensible attitude and notes the defeat of Romanus’s troops alongside his disrespect for formal peace and oaths. By imperial choice, or when circumstances led to it, the Byzantines could disrespect previous oaths and peace, even if their attitude was equivalent to a renunciation of God: the emperor being a traitor to his oath. In 691, when another basileus, Justinian II, also broke an official peace agreement

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and attacked his Muslim neighbors, a Greek Christian chronicler did not hesitate to remark that this Byzantine army was “impious” (ἀνόσιος). Even though a peaceful delegation met the warlike emperor, the latter led a campaign that was also disastrous, and the empire lost its Armenian provinces as a result.46 As already noted, theological debates were part of the usual diplomatic encounters between Byzantines and Muslims. This is logical because envoys and ambassadors belonged to the intellectual elite47 and were thus prone to discussing religious faith and thereby demonstrating their superiority. Whereas Arabic and Greek texts preserve accounts of these dialogues and controversies, the religious dimension of peaceful contacts was not in fact the most important aspect of official encounters. The sources reveal that political, military, or even economic aspects of official peace negotiations and treaties were more important by far than religious ones.48 For the period preceding the seventh century, it has been shown that religious clauses remained secondary as compared to other clauses in the famous Perso-Byzantine treaty of 562.49 Military articles are much more numerous in this treaty, as well as in subsequent contacts and treaties between Byzantium and its eastern neighbors. Prisoner exchanges sparked travel by large embassies from Baghdad to Constantinople and vice versa, and historians enumerate 12 or 13 captive exchanges from the early-ninth to the mid-tenth century.50 The question of ownership of fortresses held by one of the two partners thanks to military campaigns and diplomacy also appears to be prominent in some cases of peaceful encounters described by the sources.51 These texts concern the delimitation of both territories and, therefore, the definition of a frontier, as in the case of the treaty concluded with the emirate of Aleppo in late 969.52 Territorial and military considerations may suffice to explain why religious aspects of the contacts remained secondary. There was also a cultural dimension to diplomatic contacts, far beyond the so-called opposition between Christian and Muslim states – and not just in the case of Byzantine diplomacy.53 Even when embassies and diplomatic contacts were originally grounded in religious questions, military or economic aspects could in the final analysis prevail. In 1009, the isolated persecution of Christians and their places of worship by Fatimid Caliph al-Hakîm naturally provoked tensions with the Byzantines. Of the Christian places destroyed by order of the caliph, the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem was certainly the most emblematic. In spite of these tensions, diplomatic contacts resumed several years later, as confirmed by Arabic, Persian, and Greek sources.54 Naturally, the rebuilding of the Holy Sepulcher was a central point in the course of the negotiations. Nevertheless, according to the Arabic-Christian author Yahyâ al-Antakî, Byzantine and Fatimid partners quickly moved to discussion of the economic and commercial dimensions of their mutual agreement.55 Less than two centuries later, in the late twelfth century, peaceful relations between Isaak II and Saladin led to the construction of a new mosque

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in Constantinople.56 Obviously, Arabic texts stress this religious-monumental aspect, but comparison to other Latin and Greek texts reveals the real aims of these well-known contacts. As historians have long recognized, these aims were political and military because the two sovereigns wanted to come to an agreement in order to fight common enemies: the Seljuq Turks and the Latin army of the Third Crusade.57 This well-known case of Christian-Muslim relations shows the extent to which the convergence of diplomatic and peaceful interests can bring together two partners, even though of different faiths.58 Nevertheless, recent and new interpretations of texts concerning the Third Crusade, especially Latin ones, tend to demonstrate that whereas Saladin and Isaak II indeed opposed that crusade, no real alliance existed between them against the Latins.59 A previous alliance did exist between these two rulers against the Seljuq Turks in Asia Minor.60 Hence, religion was not of prime importance in the course of diplomatic negotiations and the quest for peace: each ruler, and not just the Byzantine ones, acted to further his own ambitions and interests. These nonreligious but pragmatic choices sometimes had spectacular consequences. Around 924, for instance, while preparing a coalition against Byzantium, Fatimid and Bulgarian ambassadors returning from North Africa were captured by Byzantine ships moored in Calabria. Both ambassadors were taken to Constantinople, but the treatment meted out to them differed: whereas the Bulgarians were treated as prisoners, the Muslim ambassadors were sent back to North Africa with costly presents.61 The emperor here made a clear political choice thanks to his own interests at that time. To him, offending Christian ambassadors mattered less than treating Muslim ones honorably because this choice helped reduce the tribute paid by the Byzantines to the Fatimids by half. It is important to note that this Byzantine policy of entente with Muslim neighbors would be condemned by the Latins during the crusades, as the Latins considered that the Christian Greeks had acted perfidiously.62 Given the historical facts of Byzantine diplomacy, in which religious interests were often absent, we must pay attention to the way the sources depict some official contacts. Chroniclers and texts are quick to bestow a religious dimension on events, which must be considered strictly political. If we examine the Russo-Byzantine contacts in the late tenth century and read the Old Russian chronicle describing the conversion of Tsar Vladimir to Christianity, it would seem that religious considerations were uppermost in the Tsar’s choice. Yet in 988, Vladimir besieged and seized the Byzantine city of Kherson. Entering the town, he sent a message to the Byzantine emperor Basil II threatening to continue his policy against Byzantium unless Basil let him marry his unwedded sister. Frightened, the emperor answered him that in no way could a pagan prince marry a Christian and so Vladimir needed to be baptized, becoming “[his] companion in the faith.” Receiving the message, Vladimir decided to accept baptism because “the Greek faith and ritual . . . had pleased him well.”63 This version has long been accepted by historians.

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However, based on Greek as well as Arabic testimonies, it has been shown that Vladimir’s conversion was but one part of the military alliance he made with Emperor Basil II. At that time, the emperor was looking for an ally and troops to fight one of his rivals who had rebelled in the empire. Russian aid contributed to Basil’s victory over his rival Bardas Phokas. Therefore, at least from the Byzantine perspective, the marriage between the two courts and the conversion of Vladimir was one of the consequences of this alliance whose aim was not religious but rather military-pragmatic.64 One final aspect confirms the relative place of religion in Byzantine efforts to promote peace through diplomatic channels and concerning the main actors in these relations, the ambassadors. Even the Byzantines involved in the peace process demonstrated that the Byzantine idea of peace was more pragmatic than religious. As far as can be seen from the sources, these individuals were more often civil courtiers than members of the clergy, even though, as mentioned earlier, the choice of the latter remained frequent. Civil courtiers belonged to the elite and were usually linked to the emperor by their membership in the official hierarchy of dignitaries.65 Nevertheless, they were not always clerics, especially when an embassy was sent to Muslim territories. Furthermore, even clergymen could have been seen as civil servants acting for the benefit of the state because the Byzantine Church was considered one of the wheels of state.66

Conclusion Reading the sources, religion seems omnipresent and receives frequent mention in Byzantine efforts to establish diplomatic peace. But, reading between the lines and comparing Greek and non-Greek sources, it becomes clear that Christianity was used first and foremost rhetorically.67 Far from arguing that for the Byzantines religion was not an important factor in the establishment of peace, I would suggest here that, in fact, the Christian religion was one means, among others, of establishing peace. This peace was the one defined by the state – i.e., the emperors and their counselors, in line with their political and ideological interests. As such, I would agree with Anthony Kaldellis’s recent research on the Roman identity of the Byzantines and its ramifications for Byzantium’s foreign relations.68 For the period under examination here, Byzantium was not the only state to make use of religion in this fashion: for example, Muslim sovereigns sent Christian relics to the emperors as official gifts, in order to convince the Byzantines to pay greater attention to their demands.69 A kind of realpolitik seems to have prevailed during the Middle Byzantine period on this point. Even regarding the missionary dimension of Byzantine diplomacy, it was certainly not the initial means, and perhaps not the final aim, of this diplomacy. It is true that ambassadorial and missionary tasks overlapped in Byzantium, as recently noted by Sergey Ivanov.70 Nevertheless, Jean-Claude Cheynet argues that the mission of conversion to Christianity was rarely employed,

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or remained on the margins of the framework of Byzantine diplomacy.71 Byzantinists already know the extent to which religion was employed for political propaganda purposes within the empire.72 More than that, though, the spread of peace and Christianity outside the empire appeared to be promoted by the Byzantine ruling elite as a kind of substitute for war, at least by the end of the ninth century.73 Nevertheless, it remains true that along with realpolitik, some Byzantine writers, counselors, and representatives of the ruling elites largely promoted Christian peace in the framework of the official relations with the empire’s neighbors. From this perspective, they condemned alliances made by the basileus with heathen partners when these were detrimental to church interests. The condemnation uttered by Nicholas Mystikos when the imperial court confiscated church revenues to redistribute as gifts to the Turks and Pechenegs (ca. 915) demonstrates this: for him, this act was highly blameworthy because it was conceived as an alliance against God.74 Yet his position would not be followed because of the military and diplomatic interests of the empire at that time.75 Of course, Christian and Byzantine emperors felt they had to defend their faith, especially when faced with infidels. Diplomatic and peaceful contacts always remained a way to portray to the other party the superiority of one’s religion, even if those contacts also referred to other reasons to prefer peace to war – notably commercial reasons.76 Thus, the display of Christian churches or relics was not reserved only for Christian or pagan partners: in 906 or 907, the sacred objects of the Church of Hagia Sophia in Constantinople were shown to Muslim envoys, although Greek and Christian chroniclers thought that this had gone too far.77 As such, it remains an isolated diplomatic act. Yet it was also a way to demonstrate to Muslim partners that the Byzantines were the holders of the True Faith, and that their emperor deserved to be called by them “very devoted to Peace.”

Notes * I would like to express my warmest thanks to Diana Maloyan and to Cynthia Johnson for their careful reading of, and linguistic corrections to, this chapter. 1 The Byzantines’ Roman and Christian identities could overlap, but a recent study has shown that the former was certainly more important for the Byzantines themselves. See Anthony Kaldellis, Ethnography after Antiquity: Foreign Lands and People in Byzantine Literature (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013), 125–39. For a suggestive and methodological approach to this question, see Ioannis Stouraitis, “Roman Identity in Byzantium: A Critical Approach,” Byzantinische Zeitschrift 107 (2014): 175–220. 2 Gilbert Dagron, Emperor and Priest: The Imperial Office in Byzantium (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 2. 3 Comprehensive studies of Byzantine diplomacy remain rare. Among the numerous studies concerning more specific aspects, see Jonathan Shepard and Simon Franklin, eds., Byzantine Diplomacy (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1992) and, more recently, on the Middle Byzantine Period: Telemachos Lounghis, “Byzantine Diplomacy,” in Byzantine Diplomacy: A Seminar, ed. Stelios Lampakis, Maria

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Leontsini, Telemachos Lounghis, and Vasiliki Vlysidou (Athens: National Printing House, 2007), 17–82; see also Jean-Claude Cheynet, “La diplomatie byzantine,” in Byzantine Culture: Papers from the Conference ‘Byzantine Days of Istanbul’, ed. Dean Sakel (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 2014), 317–30. See, e.g., the phrase Psellos uses concerning Basil II’s reign (Michel Psellos, Chronographie, ed. Emile Renauld [Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1926–1928]), Bασιλειος Βʹ, 31.1.19 (τὸ πέριξ βαρβαρικὸν). Ibid., Κωνσταντινος Θʹ, 1.132 argues that there are “two things [that] ensure the supremacy of the Roman Empire . . . dignities and wealth.” This chapter proposes some general responses to this question, but one must keep in mind that Byzantium’s numerous neighbors were not all equivalent in strength or religion: the Byzantines had to deal with Christian as well as nonChristian partners. Constantinus Porphyrogenitus, De cerimoniis aulae Byzantinae libri duo (henceforth, De cer.), 1.38, ed. Albert Vogt (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1935–1940), 2.2: “῞Αγιος, ῞Αγιος, ῞Αγιος. Δόξα ἐν ὑψίστοις θεῷ καì ἐπì γῆς εἰρήνη.” See also ibid., 1.63, 90, when an emperor celebrates an anniversary of his accession to the imperial throne. For general consideration and precise examples between Byzantine emperors and the seekers of peace, see Jean-Claude Cheynet, “L’Empire romain d’Orient et la recherche de la paix,” in Imaginer la paix en Europe: De la Pax romana à l’Union européenne, ed. Jean-Luc Liez and Thomas Nicklas (Reims: Epure, 2016), 47–62. Ekloga, ed. Karl E. Zacharie von Ligenthal, Collectio librorum juris graecoromani ineditorum (Leipzig: Weigel, 1852), 10: “καì βιαίων συναλλάγµατων διαλύεσθαι στραγγαλίας . . . καì οὕτως ταῖς κατ´ἐχθρῶν νίκαις ὑπὸ τῆς αὐτοῦ παντοδυνάµου χειρὸς στεφανοῦσθαι ἡµᾶς . . . εἰρηναῖον τε ἡµῖν καθίστασθαι τὸ βασίλειον καì εὐσταθες τὸ πολίτευµα.” De cer., 2.47, 683, 685: “εἰρηνοποιε καὶ ἀγαθε βασιλεῦ” (. . .), or 683: “ἀνατελεῖ ἐν ταῖς ἡµέραις σου δικαιοσύνη καὶ πλῆθος εἰρήνης.” Ibid., 683: “εἰρηνικώτατε καì φιλάνθρωπε βασιλεῦ.” Roman or Bulgarian envoys, the two other kinds of ambassadors mentioned in that passage, did not have to use the same words. See Alexander Beihammer, “Die Kraft der Zeichen: Symbolische Kommunikation in der byzantinisch-arabischen Diplomatie des 10. und 11. Jahrhunderts,” Jahrbuch der Österreichischen Byzantinistik 54 (2004): 165–73. This led to tensions and active diplomacy between Rome, Constantinople, and Pliska, the Bulgarian capital. See Liliana Simeonova, Diplomacy of the Letter and the Cross: Photius, Bulgaria and the Papacy, 860s-880s (Amsterdam: A.M. Hakkert, 1998). See also Sergey A. Ivanov, “Pearls before Swine”: Missionary Work in Byzantium, adapted from a translation from the Russian by Deborah Hoffman, Monographies 47 (Paris: College de France – CNRS Centre de Recherche d’Histoire et Civilisation de Byzance, 2015), 95–100. Nicholas I. Patriarch of Constantinople, Letters, ed. Romilly James Heald Jenkins and Leendert Gerrit Westerink (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1973), no. 5, 37. Ibid., no. 8, 46, lines 17–24. More than that, Romanus Lecapenus, through Daphnopates, suggests to Symeon that they became, he and the Bulgarian king, “only one body” together, with the aim of being close to Christ. See Théodore Daphnopates, Correspondance, ed. Jean Darrouzès and Leendert Gerrit Westerink (Paris: Editions du CNRS, 1978), no. 6, 76–7. Earlier, the emperor had reminded Symeon that as “a real Christian” he has “to succeed in that venture which is peace” (ibid., no. 5, 67, lines 146–7). This was true not only with this neighbor, but also with others, such as the Magyars. See John Scylitzes, Synopsis

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Nicolas Drocourt Historiarum, ed. Johannes Thurn, Corpus Fontium Historiae Byzantinae 5 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1973), 239. See, e.g., Scylitzes, Synopsis Historiarum, 220, which recounts that Symeon and Romanus Lecapenus came to a peace agreement at a meeting in autumn 924. More broadly on this topic, see Alain Ducellier, Le drame de Byzance: Idéal et échec d’une société chrétienne (Paris: Hachette, 1976), 179–80, now rounded out by the works of Ioannis Stouraitis on this emphylios polemos, the Greek concept and words that can be translated as “civil war.” See his “Byzantine War against Christians: An emphylios polemos?” Byzantina Symmeikta 20 (2010): 85–110. Nicholas I, Letters, no. 5, 32, lines 115–21; no. 8, 52, lines 113–16. On the condemnation of a sovereign who broke an official peace established by mutual oaths, see Nicolas Drocourt, “Rompre la paix: entre l’idéologie de la paix et la réalité de l’irrespect des traités diplomatiques à Byzance (VIIe–XIe siècle),” Erytheia 24 (2003): 45–75 (at 56–63). See the classic studies of Franz Dölger, “Die ‘Familie der Könige’ im Mittelalter,” in Byzanz und die europaïsche Staatenwelt (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1964), 34–69; Georges Ostrogorsky, “Die byzantinische Staatenhierarchie,” Seminarium Kondakovianum 8 (1964): 41–61; idem, “The Byzantine Emperor and the Hierarchical World Order,” Slavonic and East European Review 35 (1956): 1–14 (at 5). See also Lounghis, “Byzantine Diplomacy,” 24–5, who argues that this idea remains true for the period 476–800, but that, after 800, it was more the pope who was considered a pater spiritualis, even by the Byzantine chancery. On the king or Tsar Symeon as a “spiritual son,” see Nicholas I, Letters, nos. 8, 10, and 20. Angelikè Panagopoulou, Οι διπλωµατικοί γάµοι στο Βυζάντιο (6ος-12ος αιώνας) [Diplomatic Marriages in Byzantium (6th–12th Centuries)] (Athens: Livanis, 2006). Peter Schreiner, “Die kaiserliche Familie: Ideologie und Praxis im rahmen der internationalen Beziehungen in Byzanz. Mit einem Anhang: Liste der dynastischen Eheverbindungen und –Projekte,” in Le relazioni internazionali nell’alto medioevo, Settimane di Studio della Fondazione Centro Italiano di Studi sull’alto Medioevo 58 (Spoleto: Fondazione Centro italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo, 2011), 735–73, including comprehensive bibliographical references. Muslim sovereigns did not conclude matrimonial alliances with Byzantium during the Middle Byzantine period (the sole request attested from 1092 was without results). See Panagopoulou, Οι διπλωµατικοί γάµοι, 235–6. See the conclusions and summary in Panagopoulou, Οι διπλωµατικοί γάµοι, 499–501. Ostrogorsky, “The Byzantine Emperor,” 6. Witness the case of the emir whose request for a title remained unanswered, due to the illness of the emperor who could not receive his delegates, leading the emir to attack the empire. See Scylitzes, Synopsis Historiarum, 388. On the context, see Wolfgang Felix, Byzanz und die islamische Welt im früheren 11. Jahrhundert: Geschichte der politischen Beziehungen von 1001 bis 1055 (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1981), 146–7. More broadly, see Alexander Beihammer, “Muslim Rulers Visiting the Imperial City: Building Alliances and Personal Networks between Constantinople and Eastern Borderlands (Fourth/Tenth-Fifth/Eleventh Century),” Al-Masāq: Islam and the Medieval Mediterranean 24 (2012): 157–77. Nestor, The Russian Primary Chronicle: Laurentian Text, trans. Samuel H. Cross and Olgerd P. Sherbowitz-Weitzor (Cambridge, MA: Medieval Academy of America, 1953), 110–11; one must remember that, according to the same text, “Greek” delegates had already come to meet Vladimir to present their faith and aspects of their religious beliefs, and “their words were artful, and

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it was wondrous to listen and pleasant to hear them.” Before 987 Russian delegates also were numerous in the Byzantine Empire, and some of them may have seen “the beauties of the churches, the Golden Palace, and the riches contained therein,” notably the “relics of our Lord’s Passion” (ibid., 68–9). See also Ivanov, “Pearls before Swine,” 128, 132–7 (and its use of a later source: the Narratio de Russorum ad fidem Christianam conversione). Liudprand of Cremona, Relatio de Legatione Constantinopolitana, 19, 49, in Liudprandi Cremonensis Opera omnia, ed. Paolo Chiesa, CCCM 156 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1998), 195, 209. In the case of the Church of the Holy Apostles, Liudprand met Bulgarian envoys and one of their members was still a catechumen at that date; the fact that such a person was shown this church by the Byzantines was certainly not accidental. Eudes de Deuil, De Ludovici VII profectione in orientem, vol. 4, ed. Henri Waquet (Paris: Académie des inscriptions et Belles–Lettres, 1949), 45, confirmed by a Greek account. See Ioannes Kinnamos, Ἱστορίαι, II, 17, ed. August Meineck (Bonn: Weber, 1836), 83. Guillaume de Tyr, Chronique, 20.22–23, ed. Robert B. C. Huygens, CCCM 63A (Turnhout: Brepols, 1986), 944–5; more generally, on the “politic of relics,” see Cyril Mango, “L’église du phare et les reliques de la Passion à Constantinople (VIIe/VIIIe–XIIIe siècles),” in Byzance et les reliques du Christ, ed. Jannic Durand and Bernard Flusin (Paris: Centre de recherche d’histoire et de civilisation de Byzance, 2004), 15–30. Even in Muslim territories, Christian and Byzantine delegations visited holy places and sanctuaries considered important by the Christians: for example, the case of emissaries returning from Baghdad toward Constantinople, after having hung candelabra in the sanctuary dedicated to Saint Thomas in Edessa. See Theophanes Continuatus, ed. Iohannes Becker (Bonn: Weber, 1838), 455. Reliquaries must be considered from the same perspective. See Peter Schreiner, “Diplomatische Geschenke zwischen Byzanz und dem Westen ca. 800–1200: Eine Analyse der Texte mit Quellenanhang,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 58 (2004): 251–82; Holger A. Klein, “Eastern Objects and Western Desires: Relics and Reliquaries between Byzantium and the West,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 58 (2004): 283–314. Other valuable Christian “objects,” such as the Gospel, can be considered from the same perspective; the Byzantine court sent one to the Bulgarian king, in order to encourage him to have a peaceful attitude toward the empire (Nicholas I, Letters, nos. 9, 66). The Gospel was also used for the ratification of a treaty, and more specifically when both parties swore an oath. See Anna Comnena, Alexiade, 13.9. 8 and 13.12. 27, ed. Bernard Leib (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1945), 120, 137 (in 1108, at the conclusion of the so-called Treaty of Deabolis [Devol] with Bohemond). As in the famous case of Liudprand, who returned from Constantinople in 969 with two roe deer (Legatio, 38, 203). See also Nicolas Drocourt, “Les animaux comme cadeaux d’ambassade entre Byzance et ses voisins (VIIe–XIIe siècle),” in Byzance et ses périphéries: Hommage à Alain Ducellier, ed. Bernard Doumerc and Christophe Picard (Toulouse: Presses universitaires du Mirail 2004), 67–93. Telemachos Lounghis, Les ambassades byzantines en Occident: Depuis la fondation des Etats barbares jusqu’aux croisades (407-1096) (Athens: Impr. K. Mihalas, 1980), 289–96, 335–45. The case of the bishops has been recently studied. See Benjamin Moulet, Evêques, Pouvoir et Société à Byzance (VIIIe–XIe siècle): Territoires, communautés et individus dans la société provinciale byzantine (Paris: Presses universitaires de la Sorbonne, 2011), 307–18. Daniel Nerlich, Diplomatische Gesandtschaften zwischen Ost und Westkaisern, 756–1002 (Bern: Peter Lang, 1999), 107–21; Lounghis, Les ambassades byzantines; and the comparative studies of Michael McCormick, Origins of the

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Nicolas Drocourt European Economy: Communications and Commerce, A.D. 300–900 (Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 138–47, 175–81; idem, “From One Center of Power to Another: Comparing Byzantine and Carolingian Ambassadors,” in Places of Power – Orte der Herrschaft – Lieux de Pouvoir, ed. Caspar Ehlers (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 2007), 45–72. See also Nicolas Drocourt, Diplomatie sur le Bosphore: Les ambassadeurs étrangers dans l’Empire byzantin des années 640 à 1204 (Leuven: Peeters, 2015), 92–123. For example, the case of Michael of Synada, who was sent to Harûn al-Rashîd in 806. See Theophanis Chronographia, ed. Karl de Boor (Leipzig: Teubner, 1883), 482; Benjamin Moulet, “Le personnel ecclésiastique au service de la diplomatie byzantine,” in Ambassadeurs et ambassades au cœur des relations diplomatiques: Rome – Occident médiéval-Byzance (VIIIe s. avant J.-C-XIIe s. après J.-C.), ed. Audrey Becker and Nicolas Drocourt (Metz: Centre de recherche universitaire Lorrain d’histoire, 2012), 333–49 (at 339–41, recalling that Michael was accompanied by an abbot named Peter). Nike Koutrakou, “Logos and Pathos between Peace and War: Rhetoric as a Tool of Diplomacy in Middle Byzantine Period,” Thesaurismata 25 (1995): 7 and for the discussion that follows. See the case previously described in endnote 23; Moulet, Evêques, Pouvoir et Société à Byzance (VIIIe–XIe siècle), 315–18. After their conversion, Bulgarian sovereigns received clerics from Byzantium as well; see, among other cases, Nicholas I, Letters, no. 9, 68; no. 19, 126–8; and no. 22, 154–6. It is true that an ambassador could act as a missionary and vice versa, as the life of Constantine the Philosopher, sent to Khazaria, demonstrates. See Ivanov, “Pearls before Swine,” 185 (and see below). There are numerous examples; among others, see Andreas Kaplony, Konstantinopel und Damaskus: Gesandtschaften und Verträge zwischen Kaisern und Kalifen, 639–750: Untersuchungen zum Gewohnheits-Völkerrecht und zur interkulturellen Diplomatie (Berlin: Klaus Schwarg Verlag, 1996), 207–51; Lettre du calife Hârûn al-Rashîd à l’empereur Constantin VI, ed. and trans. Hadi Eid (Paris: Carascript, 1992); Paul Gautier, “Lettre au sultan Malik-Shah rédigée par Michel Psellos,” Revue des Etudes Byzantines 35 (1977): 73–97. There is a vast literature on these two points; for a more recent treatment, see Claire G. Anderson, “Islamic Spaces and Diplomacy in Constantinople (Tenth to Thirteenth Centuries C.E.),” Medieval Encounters 15 (2009): 86–113; Felix, Byzanz und Islam, 41, 59, 73–4, 107; Yaacov Lev, “The Fatimids and Byzantium, 10th–12th Centuries,” Graeco-Arabica 6 (1995): 190–208; K. E. F. Thomson, “Relations between the Fatimid and Byzantine Empires during the Reign of the Caliph al-Mustansir bi’llah, 1036–1094/427–487,” Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 32 (2008): 50–62; Nikolas Jaspert and Sebastian Kolditz, “Christlich-Muslimische Außenbeziehungen im Mittelmeerraum: Zur räumlichen und religiösen Dimension mitterlalterlicher Diplomatie,” Zeitschrift für historische Forschung 41 (2014): 1–88 (at 30 and 44). Georges T. Dennis, trans. and ed., Περὶ Στρατηγίας [On Strategy]: Three Byzantine Military Treatises (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1985), 43.124–5. On the date of this treaty, see Philip Rance, “The Date of the Military Compendium of Syrianus Magister (Formerly the 6th-Century Anonymous Byzantinos),” Byzantinische Zeitschrift 100 (2008): 701–37 with references to earlier works. Diplomacy in the Early Islamic World: A Tenth-Century Treatise on ArabByzantine Relations: The Book of Messengers of Kings (Kitâb Rusul al-Mulûk) of Ibn al-Farrâ’, trans. from the Arabic and annotated by Maria Vaiou (London: I. B. Tauris, 2015), 66. See the similarities between the mutual oaths between Abbasids and Byzantines while both partners were concluding a prisoner exchange in 845, thanks to

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Arabic authors (Tabarî and Mas‘ûdî): Moslems pronounced the taqbir (“God is great”) and the Greeks “something resembling it.” See Aleksandr A. Vasiliev, Byzance et les Arabes, vol. 1: La dynastie d’Amorium (Brussels: Éd. de l’Institut de philologie et d’histoire, 1935), 311, 314, 336; Miller, “Byzantine Treaties,” 70 n. 60. In a broader perspective, see Jaspert and Kolditz, “Christlich-Muslimische Außenbeziehungen,” 23–4. Miller, “Byzantine Treaties,” 74, describes a Byzantine attitude which was “reasonable and realistic, often surprisingly so.” Ibid., 74, 74–6 and for the following discussion. Constantine Porphyrogenitus: De Administrando Imperio, Greek text ed. Gyula Moravcsik, English trans., Romilly James Heald Jenkins (Budapest, 1949 [reprint, Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection]), 8.16 (at 54–6). Chronographiae quae Theophanis Continuati nomine fertur Libri I-IV, ed. with an English trans., Michael Featherstone and Juan Signes Codoñer (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2015), L. I, § 20, 50–1; on this passage, read the analysis by Miller, “Byzantine Treaty,” 75. Dean A. Miller, “Byzantine Treaties and Treaty-Making, 500-1025 A.D.,” Byzaninoslavica 32 (1971): 75. See Drocourt, “Rompre la paix,” passim; non-Greek authors can be criticized thanks to the pacta sunt servanda: an old Roman principle applied in the Mediterranean area in subsequent centuries. See the contacts between Byzantines and Abkhazians during the reign of Basil II as described by an Arab-Christian author, Yahyâ al-Antâkî. See Yahyâ ibn Sa‘id d’Antioche, Histoire, ed. Ignati I. Kratchkovsky with a French trans. by Françoise Micheau, Patrologia Orientalis 47 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1997), 463, 467. Psellos, Ρωµανος Γ´, chaps. 7–8 (see Chronographie, Renauld ed., 1.36–7 and for the following discussion). Ibid., 8 (Renauld ed., 1.37). Psellos must be compared with other testimonies (Yahyâ, Scylitzes); see Drocourt, “Rompre la paix,” 54–7; Nike Koutrakou, “Psellus, Romanus III and an Arab Victory ‘beyond any reasonable expectation’: Some Remarks on Psellus’s Perception of Foreign Relations,” Graeco-Arabica 11 (2011): 319–45. George the Monk, Chronicon, PG, vol. 110, col. 900. Of course, the Abbasid chancery could officially condemn any Byzantine emperor who broke a peace, as shown by a letter from 796. See Lettre du calife Hârûn al-Rashîd, 81–3; Drocourt, “Rompre la paix,” 58–9. Koutrakou, “Logos and Pathos,” 7–13; McCormick, “From One Center of Power to Another”; Nicolas Drocourt, “Christian-Muslim Diplomatic Relations: An Overview of the Main Sources and Themes of Encounter [600–1000],” in Christian-Muslim Relations: A Bibliographical History, Volume 2 (900–1050), ed. David Thomas and Alex Mallett (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 59–60; Drocourt, Diplomatie sur le Bosphore, 37–160. For the first century of military and diplomatic contacts, see Kaplony, Konstantinopel und Damaskus. One can consult the regesten compiled by Alexander Beihammer, Nachrichten zum byzantinischen Urkundenwesen in arabische Quellen (565–811) (Bonn: Habelt, 2000), with references to diplomatic contacts on pages lxxvii–lxxxi, as well as the new edition of Franz Dölger, Regesten: Regesten der Kaiserurkunden des oströmischen Reiches, 1. Teil, 2. Halbband, Regesten von 867–1025, zweite auflage neu bearbeitet von Andreas E. Müller, unter verantwortlicher mitarbeit von Alexander Beihammer (Munich: Verlag C.H. Beck, 2003); idem, Regesten der Kaiserurkunden des oströmischen Reiches, 2. Teil, Regesten von 1025–1204, zweite, erweite und verbesserte Auflage bearbeitet von Peter Wirth (Munich: Verlag C.H. Beck, 1995).

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49 Miller, “Byzantine Treaties,” 70; Beate Dignas and Engelbert Winter, Rome and Persia in Late Antiquity: Neighbors and Rivals (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 138–48. For the previous century, note the remarks of Audrey Becker, Les relations diplomatiques romano-barbares en Occident au Ve siècle: Acteurs, fonctions, modalités (Paris: De Boccard, 2013), 125 who considers that “au Ve siècle, la diplomatie impériale n’est pas une affaire religieuse au sens strict du terme.” 50 For an overview of sources and questions raised by them, see Maria CampagnoloPothitou, “Les échanges de prisonniers arabes entre Byzance et l’Islam aux IXe et Xe siècles,” Journal of Oriental and African Studies 7 (1995): 1–56. 51 One can refer to Nasr ibn al-Azhar’s account of his mission to Constantinople in 860 (Tabarî in Vasiliev, Byzances et les Arabes, 1:320–2) or to the mission led by Ibn Shahrâm in 981–2, largely described by an Arabic author, ‘Abû Shujâ in his Dhaîl. See Alexander Beihammer, “Der harte Sturz des Bardas Skleros: Eine Fallstudie zu zwischenstaatlicher Kommunikation und Konfliktführung in der byzantinisch-arabischen Diplomatie des 10. Jahrhunderts,” Römische Historische Mitteilungen 45 (2003): 21–57. 52 Dölger, Regesten, no. 728a; Wesag Farag, “The Aleppo Question: A ByzantineFatimid Conflict of Interests in Northern Syria in the Later Tenth Century,” Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 14 (1990): 45–6, and the recent analysis of Catherine Holmes, “Treaties between Byzantium and the Islamic World,” in War and Peace in Ancient and Medieval History, ed. Paul de Souza and John France (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 141–57 (at 151–4). 53 As reviewed recently in detail by Michael Borgolte, “Experten der Fremde Gesandte in interkulturellen Beziehungen des frühen und hohen Mittelalters,” in Le relazioni internazionali nell’alto medioevo, Settimane di Studio della Fondazione Centro Italiano di Studi sull’alto Medioevo 58 (Spoleto: Fondazione Centro italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo, 2011), 945–92. For Byzantium and its neighbors, see Nicolas Drocourt, “Les contacts diplomatiques entre Byzance et ses voisins (VIIe–XIIe siècles): barrière ou pont culturel?” in Les échanges en Méditerranée médiévale: Marqueurs, réseaux, circulations, contacts, ed. Elisabeth Malamut and Mohamed Ouerfelli (Aix-en-Provence: Presses universitaires de Provence, 2012), 243–71; Nike Koutrakou, “Highlights in Arab-Byzantine Cultural Relations (IXth–XIth Centuries A.D.): An Approach through Diplomacy,” in Cultural Relations between Byzantium and the Arabs, ed. Yacoub Yousef Al-Hijji and Vassilios Christides (Athens: Institute for Graeco-Oriental and African Studies, 2007), 85–100. 54 See note 34 for the references, and also Thomas Pratsch, ed., Konflikt und Bewältigung: Die Zerstörung der Grabeskirche zu Jerusalem im Jahre 1009 (Berlin and New York: De Gruyter, 2011), esp. the studies of Alexander Beihammer and Bettina Krönung. 55 Yahyâ ibn Sa‘id d’Antioche, Histoire, 469; and the remarks of Felix, Byzanz und Islam, 74; Thomson, “Relations between the Fatimid and Byzantines Empires,” 54, 58 (treaty of 1054). One can find the same balance in Aleppo’s treaty of 969–70: beyond the frontier and military aspects, free circulation and respect for caravans crossing this frontier and the goods exchanged through commercial channels constituted two of the longer articles of the official text, transmitted by various Arabic authors, whereas religious matters appear briefly in only two parts; see the French translation of Marius Canard, Histoire de la dynastie des H’amdanides de Jazîra et de Syrie (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1953), 835–6. 56 Anderson, “Islamic Spaces and Diplomacy,” 102–3. Already in the time of Tughril-Beg, the rebuilding of the mosque in Constantinople was described as the

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outcome of the magnificent gifts the sultan sent to the emperor. See Ibn al-Athîr, The Annals of Saljuq Turks: Selections from al-Kâmil fî’l-Ta’rîkh of ‘Izz al-Dîn Ibn al-Athîr, trans. and annotated by Donald S. Richards (London: Routledge Curzon, 2002), 145. See Baha’al-Din Ibn Shaddad, Rare and Excellent History of Saladin (al-Nawadir al-sultaniyya wa’l-mahasin al-yusufiyya [Sirat Salah al-Din]), trans. Donald S. Richards (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2001), 121–2. Among the extensive literature on this topic, see Charles M. Brand, “The Byzantines and Saladin, 1185–1192: Opponents of the Third Crusade,” Speculum 37 (1962): 167–81; and more recently Alexander Beihammer, “‘Der byzantinische Kaiser hat doch noch nie was zustande gebracht.’ Diplomatische Bemerkungen zum Briefverkehr zwischen Kaiser Isaak II: Angelos und Sultan Saladin von Ägypten,” in Byzantina Mediterranea: Festschrift Johannes Koder zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. Klaus Belke, Ewald Kislinger, Andreas Külzer, and Maria A. Stassinopoulou (Vienna: Böhlau, 2007), 13–28. For other cases from previous centuries, see Drocourt, “Christian-Muslim Diplomatic Relations,” passim, and more specifically at 47–8. Jonathan Harris, Byzantium and the Crusades (London: Hambledon, 2006), 121–4, 128, 134–6; and the recent studies of Savvas Neocleous, “ByzantineMuslim Conspiracies against the Crusades: History and Myth,” Journal of Medieval History 36 (2010): 253–74 (at 265–71); idem, “The Byzantines and Saladin: Opponents of the Third Crusade?” Crusades 9 (2010): 87–106 (whom I thank for sending me a copy of his article); idem, “The Byzantines and Saladin: Some Further Arguments,” Al-Masāq: Islam and the Medieval Mediterranean 25 (2013): 204–21. Neocleous, “The Byzantines and Saladin,” 87. See also the broader views of Jonathan Harris, “Collusion with the Infidel as a Pretext for Western Military Action against Byzantium,” in Languages of Love and Hate: Conflict, Communication and Identity in the Medieval Mediterranean, ed. Sarah Lambert and Helen Nicholson (Turnhout: Brepols, 2012), 99–117. Scylitzes, Synopsis Historiarum, 264–5; Telemachos Lounghis, Byzantium in the Eastern Mediterranean: Safeguarding East Roman Identity (407–1204) (Nicosia: Cyprus Research Center, 2010), 153; Gioacchino Strano, “A proposito dell’alleanza bulgaro-arabe contro Bisanzio al tempo di Romano I Lecapeno,” Miscellanea di Studi Storici 15 (2008): 143–61. For the dating ca. 924, I follow John Howard-Johnston, “A Short Piece of Narrative History: War and Diplomacy in the Balkans, Winter 921/22–Spring 924,” in Byzantine Style, Religion and Civilization: In Honour of Sir Steven Runciman, ed. Elizabeth Jeffreys (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 349. Sometimes overstating this theme. See Neocleous, “Byzantine-Muslim Conspiracies against the Crusades,” 253–74. The Russian Primary Chronicle, 112. This story appears several lines after the reception of Russian envoys in Constantinople, who, as already mentioned, were dazzled by what they saw of the Christian churches. Andrzej Poppe, “The Political Background to the Baptism of Rus: ByzantineRussian Relations between 986–989,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 30 (1976): 195–244; Panagopoulou, Οι διπλωµατικοί γάµοι, 172–8. See McCormick, “From One Center of Power to Another,” and its final list, for instance, 70–2. Lounghis, Les Ambassades byzantines, 336 asserts that “l’Eglise orthodoxe [prête] main forte aux autorités séculières du début jusqu’à la fin de l’Empire byzantin.” See also Jaspert and Kolditz, “Christlich-Muslimische Außenbeziehungen,” 36–40 demonstrating that religion was not necessarily the first criterion of

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68

69

70

71

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Nicolas Drocourt choice of the persons who traveled between Christian and Muslim territories, be they ambassadors or not. Of course, linguistic skills could have been considered as an important criterion; see Nicolas Drocourt, “Une diplomatie sans langue? La question des échanges linguistiques dans la diplomatie médio-byzantine,” in Les langues de la négociation: Approches historiennes, ed. Stéphane Péquignot and Dejanirah Couto (Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2017), 25–61 (at 50–60). A recent article demonstrates the extent to which the propaganda under the Comnenian basileis portrays the antagonism between the Byzantines and the Turks in religious terms, whereas Greek authors framed the first decades of their military and diplomatic confrontation in the eleventh century as a more classical opposition between barbarians and Roman civilization. See Alexander Beihammer, “Orthodoxy and Religious Antagonism in Byzantine Perceptions of the Seljuk Turks (Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries),” Al-Masāq: Islam and the Medieval Mediterranean 23 (2011): 15–36. For Kaldellis, Ethnography after Antiquity, 131, “there is, in sum, little evidence that religion influenced Byzantine foreign policy, other than as a tool of diplomacy with other Christians when the odds were against the empire; as such it was quickly dropped, qualified, or just not invoked when the balance of power shifted. ‘Christians’ and ‘Romans’ were extensionally identical when the empire faced non-Christian enemies, but in facing Christian enemies the Byzantines showed their true Roman colors. All others were barbarians.” See the case of the Image of Edessa in 944 in Mark Guscin, The Image of Edessa (Leiden: Brill, 2009), passim; a relic of John the Baptist is also offered in 1032 by an emir of Aleppo; see Yahyâ ibn Sa‘id d’Antioche, Histoire, 528–9; a Qur’an was offered by the emperor to one of his Muslim neighbors, at the end of the tenth century; see Beihammer, “Symbolische Kommunikation,” 184; Jaspert and Kolditz, “Christlich-Muslimische Außenbeziehungen,” 29–30. Ivanov, “Pearls before Swine,” 185, relying on the case of Constantine the Philosopher: the saint volunteers to reach “Khazaria as a simple preacher, but the emperor [Michael III] reminds him of his ambassador’s official dignity” (and see the bibliographical references there). Cheynet, “La diplomatie byzantine,” 330. I would add, concerning the case of Constantine the Philosopher (see previous note), that if he failed with respect to the missionary aspect of his mission – because he did not succeed in his attempt to convert the Khazar sovereign to Christianity – the Khazars remained diplomatic allies of Byzantium for less than a generation. See Ivanov, “Pearls before Swine,” 90–1; Thomas S. Noonan, “Byzantium and the Khazars: A Special Relationship?” in Byzantine Diplomacy, ed. Simon Franklin and Jonathan Shepard (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1992), 114–15. Hans G. Beck, “Christliche Mission und politische Propaganda,” in La conversione al Cristianesimo nell’Europa dell’alto medioevo, Settimane di Studio della Fondazione Centro Italiano di Studi sull’alto Medioevo 14 (Spoleto: Fondazione Centro italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo, 1967), 649–74. Concerning religion as the opposite of an obstacle in a broader Mediterranean perspective, see now the reflections and conclusions of Jaspert and Kolditz, “Christlich-Muslimische Außenbeziehungen,” 23–33, 51–3. See also Benjamin Kedar, “Religion in Catholic-Muslim Correspondence and Treaties,” in Diplomatics in the Eastern Mediterranean 1000–1500, ed. Alexander D. Beihammer (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 407–21. As demonstrated by Stouraitis, “Byzantine War against Christians,” 98–9. Aspects of this issue were developed in Ioannis Stouraitis, Krieg und Frieden in der politischen und ideologischen Wahrnehmung in Byzanz (7.-11. Jahrhundert) (Vienna: Fassbaender, 2009), 232–44.

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74 Nicholas I, Letters, no. 183, 515–16; on the context, see Elisabeth Malamut, “L’image byzantine des Petchénègues,” Byzantinische Zeitschrift 88 (1995): 112. 75 Of course, this general overview of the Middle Byzantine period needs to be nuanced for other centuries; if we follow the general but suggestive presentation of diplomacy concerning the last centuries (1204–1453) by Nicolas Oikonomides, one has to underscore that, at that time, “the Church [had] a decisive say in foreign policy” of the empire. See Nicolas Oikonomides, “Byzantine Diplomacy, A.D. 1204–1453: Means and Ends,” in Byzantine Diplomacy, ed. Simon Franklin and Jonathan Shepard (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1992), 75. 76 This aspect does not appear clearly in the sources. Although this fact has already been studied in the framework of Rus’-Byzantine relations in the tenth century or with Italian cities and merchants two centuries later, Muslim partners should not be excluded, notably the Fatimids. See Jonathan Shepard, “Holy Land, Lost Lands, Realpolitik: Imperial Byzantine Thinking about Syria and Palestine in the Later 10th and 11th Centuries,” al-Qantara 33 (2012): 505–45. See also Drocourt, Diplomatie sur le Bosphore, 691–706. 77 Theophanes Continuatus, 374–5; Scylitzes, Synopsis Historiarum, 189. On the contrary, in 1161, when Manuel I Comnenos received the Seljuq Sultan Kiliç Arslan II in Constantinople, access to Hagia Sophia was strictly forbidden to the Muslim sovereign; see Kinnamos, Ἱστορίαι, 206; see also Beihammer, “Orthodoxy and Religious Antagonism,” 29–30.

3

The peace of God Demotic millennialism and the religious dynamics of the Central Middle Ages Richard Landes

Introduction According to the great German historian of the crusades, Carl Erdmann, the peace of God (ca. 980s–1030s) was “the first mass religious movement in the West.”1 There were, actually, a few earlier cases that one could also call “mass religious movements,” but most of these were led by charismatic, messianic, prophets, and they aroused intense, even violent hostility from both ecclesiastical and lay authorities.2 By contrast, this “new” mass movement, the Pax Dei, was the first one led and endorsed by the highest strata of the ruling elite of the day: archbishops, bishops, abbots, kings, dukes, and counts.3 Moreover, in contrast with the “magical” millennium of peace and plenty offered by earlier messiahs,4 this movement explored more concrete and realistic formulas for bringing an age of peace, techniques that significantly anticipate the emergence of modern civil polities.5 In vast assemblies those attending, especially the warrior aristocracy, took oaths restricting their use of violence against the unarmed. We have evidence of these open-air assemblies from the 980s to the 1030s in areas radiating from its early core (Aquitaine, Auvergne, Burgundy) and expanding to include an arc from Catalonia to Flanders – ad ultimas partes Franciae.6 The main goal of virtually all of these assemblies was the protection of the unarmed (inermes), which included not only the laboring classes and (some) clerics, but Jews and even aristocrats on pilgrimage. What to us moderns may seem like a sine qua non of civil polity – the protection of civilians who do not bear arms from the violence of weapons-bearers – was apparently, in those days, a quasi-messianic project. Indeed, most historians who bother mentioning this ephemeral and quixotic movement emphasize the Peace of God’s failure to bring anything resembling civil polity to medieval Europe.7 For many historians, it made little more than a dent in the endemic violence of eleventh-century Europe.8 As a result, medievalists have tended to relegate the Pax Dei to a curiosum without consequences even for those phenomena normally associated with it: church reform, crusades, and communes.9 Specific articles even

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question whether it was a movement at all, focusing on local dynamics, and highlighting the more routinized elements of the Pax Dei – especially the political and legal strategies of the ecclesiastical and lay leaders who presided over each specific assembly.10 Perhaps in response to the weight of the surviving archival evidence, historians have often turned discussions of the peace movement into reconstructions of a political landscape that differs little from what preceded or followed.11 But the anomalies of the peace movement, especially in its earlier and more active phases, render somewhat problematic those historiographical efforts to routinize and banalize ex post facto the motivations and deeds of the key players.12 Whereas such an effort may find justification in a documentation that itself privileges later concerns, it hardly means that this perspective should dominate our understanding of the movement at the time. To do so privileges a retroactive functionalism that may seriously misgauge the temper of the times. Here I would like to present a different dimension of the Pax Dei, one that focuses on the unusual presence and behavior of crowds of commoners at these assemblies and the role they played in the dynamics of the peace movement. Such an approach leads to conclusions that not only differ significantly from recent historiographical assessments, but also sheds light on some sociopolitical dynamics with possibly important implications for understanding the emergence of the modern West over the course of the subsequent millennium of Christian history. I begin with what I would identify as the major sociological and political anomalies of the movement in the context of post-imperial Europe (sixth century onward), the unprecedented or highly unusual aspects of the peace.

Sanctified peace assemblies: anomalous dynamics An examination of the primary characteristics of the “sanctified” peace assemblies shows how they transgress every sociopolitical and religious norm of early medieval (and especially Carolingian) society – certainly major anomalies to previous Church “councils.” They differ from conciliar norms gathered by the episcopate and the ruling aristocracy to discuss public and ecclesiastical matters in several ways: (1) people of all ages, sexes, and ranks not only came, but were invited; (2) organizers extensively used public display of many relics; (3) a marked (and remarked on) atmosphere of religious enthusiasm prevailed; (4) weapons-bearers took collective public oaths to restrain their use of violence, especially against the unarmed (inermes); and (5) councils often emphasized spiritual sanctions as the enforcing threat rather than physical coercion. The open-field venue, which accommodated the large crowds, was especially unusual for church councils. Indeed, outdoor venues seem so unusual to the historian that one, in an effort to deny any singularity to the peace movement or role for these crowds, insisted that all peace councils took place inside: “[The indoor council] is, doubtless, the way all the other peace

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assemblies took place . . . the people are spoken of, they do not speak.”13 And yet, in the unusual case when a council was held in a city and not outside in open fields, as in Limoges in 994, Ademar reports that the assembled filled the entire city.14 The presence of relics constitutes the signature aspect of the peace assemblies. Not only did the ecclesiastical participants – monastic and clerical – bring major relics to these gatherings, they also brought many other relics, from various places, thus literally “inviting” the crowds that predictably followed their processions. Whereas the Carolingians had approved of translationes, which animated crowds of faithful in their passage, the goal was reburial in crypts, with restricted access to relics once in place, especially to lay commoners.15 These early councils changed the rules: parading the relics through the countryside – delationes – organizers drew huge crowds, enthused by the miracles that occurred on the way, not to a new crypt but to a multi-day outdoor, political gathering.16 Descriptions of the crowds and the excitement elicited comparison with the children of Israel following Moses to the promised land.17 Anyone (and everyone) attended these assemblies. The presence of female commoners at these events especially suggests that either “church council” is a misnomer, or that these were among the most unusual councils in the history of the church. In the course of a few days, these commoners saw more people – thousands – than they might in the course of their entire lives, an unheard-of social experience, including unprecedented levels of socializing between clergy and laity. Monks in principle had no exposure to laity – especially women – and yet here, for days and nights, with no walls to cloister them, an unwonted proximity reigned between lay commoners, the saints, and their guardians.18 Similarly, peasants, normally isolated in their villages and markets, could exchange information about lords and their evil customs, an opportunity as subversive as bosses allowing workers to communicate freely.19 All this contrasts markedly with the norms of the prevailing political culture, when commoners petitioning for fair treatment might have their hands and feet chopped off.20 We do not know how often, or under what actual conditions, the aristocracy took the “peace oaths,” oaths that placed constraints on their use of violence. Some functionalist analyses downplay any novelty in the oaths which, they argue, worked to the advantage of those taking them, creating “a new order but not disorder” – as if the two options were mutually exclusive.21 Others see these oaths as one of the most remarkable aspects of the peace assemblies, whose rapid spread in a society normally hostile to lateral oaths represented a revolutionary change, “a genuinely and entirely new actuality, a phenomenon of the same nature, perhaps, as the [prohibited] sworn associations of the ninth century, but multiplied by a hundred and a thousand.”22 In fact, even the most “conservative” of the oaths taken by the weapons-bearers at these councils had them swearing oaths down the social hierarchy, publicly committing to respect the rights of unarmed commoners.

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Gerard of Cambrai, the conservative aristocratic bishop of Cambrai and Arras, denounced the wave of oath taking of 1033 as most dangerous. And, as if to prove him right, within five years, the archbishop of Bourges invited commoners to take oaths in order to form a peace militia that would fight the belligerent aristocracy: for the weapons-bearing classes, it was self-evident that one did not allow impotentes to organize their own defense.23 Furthermore, the Pax Dei was a Christian event characterized by intense religious fervor. Presided over by saints’ relics, whose cults, from their fifthcentury origins, had offered participants a profound sense of communal solidarity,24 the multiple references to the religious excitement, joy, and labile and voluble moods in these crowds, feature frequently in descriptions, even from laconic historians.25 The pattern they describe often follows the classic millennial dynamic of suffering from famine, plague, or war (three of the four horsemen), provoking public collective penitence, arriving at peace declared in collective joy.26 The miracles performed by the relics at these councils played a role in legitimating novel legislation (oaths, restrictions). The early (earliest?) peace council at Coler in the Rouergue in the 980s gathered to deliberate the problem of warrior violence.27 When such innovation occurred, it gave an almost constitutive role to the very crowds whose presence was so anomalous in the first place, whose collective enthusiasm framed (if not created) such miracles, and who so benefited from the constraints on the weapons-bearers. Most historians agree that the Peace of God failed for lack of “teeth” in its sanctions. The shift from peace of God to peace militias, to the truce of God, to the peace of the communes, to peace of the king, to the “peace of iron,”28 reflects realistic responses over several centuries to the failure of a voluntary peace, whose only sanctions were spiritual. Granted not all such spiritual sanctions lacked substance: the threat of excommunication or interdict could have social consequences.29 But they only work when commitment to the church as a salvific institution is high. Thus the fact that ecclesiastics relied so much and so long on religious sanctions to restrict aristocratic recourse to violence – some 40 to 50 years – suggests that the commitment to a salvific church remained high during those many decades.30 One might think that social historians of power relations would pay attention to these remarkable anomalies, any one of which alone deserves their attention. What moved the ecclesiastics to assemble masses and relics in violation of their own prudent norms? At what other time in history had clerical and lay elites gathered large crowds of commoners – the very people on whose immiseration they built their affluence – to participate in fundamental decisions about how to tame violence in society?31 What recklessness inspired leaders to deliberately assemble unhappy peasants in an atmosphere of religious fervor amidst images of liberation?32 Whether intended or not, the peace movement’s mobilizing of the populace played a key role in a radical transformation of the culture, at least according to Jan Dhondt:

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Richard Landes In fact, this [peace] movement constitutes for us the essential argument in favor of a transformation in the spontaneous behavior of individuals who based themselves on religious elements to reorganize the society. And all this vast movement in its duration, spread, and depth, becomes understandable only when we assume a powerful push from the people at its base.33

Indeed, none of the extensive “precedents” in Carolingian and local society pointed out by those who emphasize the movement’s “continuity” with the past involve the presence of large crowds of commoners who energized these aspects of peacemaking, and gave new meaning and direction to their deliberations. Unlike past elites who avoided rousing the multitude, the organizers of these assemblies went to great lengths to assure their presence and encourage their enthusiasm. The story of the “populace” in subsequent generations reveals what kind of subversion resulted when they let the popular genie out of the bottle.34 When viewed from the perspective of maintaining traditional forms of hegemony, the peace assemblies constituted a huge gamble. The downside for the aristocracy became poignantly clear when the archbishop of Bourges convened a Peace League in 1038 in which everyone over 15 years of age took oaths to fight the peacebreakers. These members of the peace militia saw themselves as new Israelites (and their aristocratic foes, by extension, as Canaanites to be exterminated).35 In short, however one chooses to reconstruct the actual versus perceived “anarchic violence” of the day to which these ecclesiastical measures were meant to respond, only a desperate church would resort to such wildly irresponsible actions.36

From apocalyptic fear to millennial hope: the eschatological genealogy of the peace of God Perhaps the most important issue for understanding both the daring and the desperation of the ecclesiastical and lay authorities throughout the 40-year period during which peace assemblies occurred with some regularity concerns apocalyptic expectations, that is to say expectations that the time for the last judgment and either the end of the world (good to heaven, bad to hell) or the advent of the millennial kingdom of peace and joy, heaven on earth, was about to happen.37 The earliest historian to tackle this topic systematically, Norman Cohn, noted that movements inspired by such ideas, especially those that foresaw the advent of an egalitarian perfection on earth, involved exceptional popular participation, often radical and subversive.38 As a result of a set of apocalyptic expectations of longue durée from the preaching of John the Baptist to the tenth century, Latin Christendom inherited a “millennial” dating system that targeted either a millennial year 1000 (onset of the sabbatical millennium) or the eschatological year 1033 (end of the millennium that Augustine insisted began with the Resurrection).39 And, indeed,

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the approach and passage of the first Christian millennium shows evidence of widespread apocalyptic expectations: signs (Halley’s comet 989, supernova 1006), wonders, terrors (earthquakes, plagues of “holy fire,” famines, invasions, destruction of the Holy Sepulcher), anticipatory apocalyptic dates (970, 981, 992), and political convulsions (end of the Carolingian line in West Francia, renovatio imperii romani in Ottonian Germany40), all of which played important roles in the wide range of apocalyptic scenarios available to Christians. Fear of God’s judgment: from public penitential assemblies to peace councils In this apocalyptic vortex, a mutation in behavior emerged. Normally, at the appearance of apocalyptic signs, crowds of penitents gathered and collectively promised (swore oaths?) to reform their lives.41 But often enough, these moments were short-lived, and, as John Chrysostom complained, within weeks, even days, the newly reformed started to slide back into old and evil ways.42 But the peace assemblies amplified all these apocalyptic social dynamics: they gathered for days at a time, drew people from many leagues all around, and oaths taken there had a far more political dimension concerning not personal, but public, vices. Participants turned these collective penitential events into social programs. Some of the earliest oaths taken by the aristocracy at these gatherings (e.g., Limoges 994) were taken in apocalyptic time and were probably considerably more radical than any promises these warriors might have made under more normal circumstances.43 Ademar describes the devastating plague of holy fire that led to first the gathering of relics and public fasts, followed by miraculous healings and an oath of “peace and justice” sworn by the duke and the magnates (principes). It is a sociopolitical vision of events framed by the oracles of Isaiah and Micah: the Aquitanian people, God’s new people, taught in the ways of peace, ascend the Mount of Joy to celebrate and to take oaths. For Ademar (and his audience?) this was a time when swords became plowshares and spears pruning hooks.44 Our sole evidence for the contents of these oaths comes from later councils where they are clearly the product of considerable negotiation and qualification, and concern primarily the regulation of private warfare and private justice.45 What they were like when they first emerged is harder to say. Historians, especially the ajustationistes (no dramatic change), tend to downplay their significance: overall, the peace councils look, ex post facto, like a big “win” for the castellans in which the pacified countryside accepted their exercise of authority, which they had only recently usurped from count, duke, and king as legitimate. As for the peasantry, the “end” result was a rather limited “win”; they went from a more anarchic to a more systematic oppression, or, in the words of Duby, who appreciated how monumental it was even in these terms: a shift “from plunder to exploitation.”46

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But such a perspective privileges the better-known, better-documented, long-term results and projects them back on the origins. The original, early oaths, sworn in apocalyptic time, probably contained more radical concessions by the warrior aristocracy, at their most intense (and millennial) a vision of society in which violence against others, especially the unarmed, was banned. Indeed, by the millennium of the Passion (1033), violence against anyone had become illegitimate; the weapons bearers swore to renounce even self-help justice and its required vengeance.47 Now given the pervasiveness of violence in European society at this time and for centuries to come, especially the violence of the weapons-bearing potentes both against each other and against impotentes, their innate desire for the rabies bellorum, the frenzy of war,48 and the rapacitas praedonum, the greed for plunder,49 such an aspiration might seem ludicrous, indeed messianic.50 As the premier historian of medieval violence noted regarding the twelfth century: “Clearly the peace of God was something which, in the words of the liturgy, passes human understanding.”51 And, outside of apocalyptic time, such aspirations were ludicrous and did surpass human understanding. Nonetheless, based as they are on egalitarian principles rendered acute by apocalyptic time, they were revolutionary in a very modern sense: they envisioned a society in which people engaged in voluntary relations, in which coercion, certainly of the most physical sort, was illegitimate. Whereas democratic constitutional states have made that rule-set the norm, in the power politics of warlords and the law of a hierarchy at a time when the powerful legitimately owned people, it constituted a radical program. The wave of peace assemblies in 1033 These speculations on the early councils find confirmation in the second, much more documented wave of councils that came in 1033, the millennium of the Passion. The main narrative for this wave of peace assemblies comes from the pen of the most remarkable of the several historians of the period, Rodulfus Glaber. According to his dramatic account, the previous three years there had been a famine so terrible that even the wealthy starved and some turned to cannibalism.52 “People thought that the natural order of things was returning to its original chaos.” But with the “millennium of the Passion of our lord,” the skies began to shine, and the earth gave forth abundant fruit. Assemblies gathered from southern France through Burgundy into Flanders, bringing together “innumerable relics” for the sake of reforming the peace and instituting the holy faith, attended by the entire populace [tota multitudo universae plebis] . . . unanimously prepared to follow whatever should be commanded them by the pastors of the church. A voice descending from heaven could not have done more.

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In the northeast of France in open fields between the monastery of Corbie and the city of Amiens, a recorded assembly illustrates Glaber’s description in considerable detail. In response to a terrible seven-year famine (fames septem annis regnasset atrociter), the leaders called a mass assembly: Driven by this necessity [the famines], they determined to provide a rapid remedy. God, that is, whom manifold evils had offended, by good deeds was placated. They understood that this judgment imposed from the heavens, was so that they should now serve peace, which God loves alone and orders to be loved . . . The relics were summoned from whatever place was nearby to be brought to the place. And there an inviolable pact of peace was confirmed . . . They tied themselves to this promise by a vow, they bound their vow to an oath.53 In response to the terrible famines at the approach of the millennium of the Crucifixion, the highest authorities took a previously local or regional practice of peace assemblies and turned it into a national movement (in ultimas partes franciae).54 The amanuensis of Gerald, bishop of Cambrai and Arras (i.e., on the edge of the council’s farthest reach, the border between Francia and the German Empire), expressed his patron’s disapproval of these novelties: The French bishops promulgated a decree for their subjects. One of them claimed he had a letter sent from heaven that demanded that peace on earth be renewed. He communicated this matter to the others and gave these issues to be conveyed to the people: no one should bear arms, or attack for plunder; an avenger of his own blood or of his neighbor’s should be compelled to forgive the murderers . . . And they should confirm by oath that they will observe these things; and those who refuse should be deprived of Christianity. And they passed many other rules that would be burdensome here to recount.55 This formula for peace – no one should bear arms, or attack for plunder; an avenger of his own blood or of his neighbor’s should be compelled to forgive the murderers – represents something much more radical than a mere taming of the warrior’s most flagrantly violent behavior, and has echoes in contemporary texts.56 These councils sought nothing less than to revoke the aristocracy’s birthright, the right to avenge wrongs, the “license to kill.”57 They sought, as Charlemagne had tried with no success in 802 (i.e., 6001 annus mundi), to banish self-help justice itself.58 The objections of Gerald of Cambrai to the radical nature of the gatherings – especially their promiscuous use of oaths in the service of so impossible a demand – offer a good illustration of a “sound mind” responding to the overheated enthusiasm of the French bishops.59 After all, “letters from heaven” had a long and highly suspicious history of millennial and heterodox

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behavior, and to have bishops(!) using them to ban war was most unusual. Had not Charlemagne ordered his subjects to burn “letters from heaven?”60 What could have led to such ambitious efforts? Indeed, the Miracula sancti Adalardi pose and answer precisely this question in a passage virtually paraphrased by Jules Michelet in his famous passage on “les terreurs de l’an mil”: Such was the custom naturally innate in the kingdom of Gaul, that they were wont above all other nations to engage in the madness of wars. How then did this [peace assembly] happen? It was no longer necessary to want to die in war, since they were dying from the sword of famine and plague. The world could not bear the wrath of the Judge. They undertook the counsel of the Ninevites. Peace and Justice came together as one: already it pleased the Saturnine rule to return. With all desperate, one counsel imposed itself for placating the wrath of the Judge on high to respond to the implorations of the Saints.61 Afraid that the God, who had just and justly punished them so terribly, would withdraw his grace if they should not repent and turn to him, they tried not merely to change each his or her individual ways, but collectively, to create a new, just and peaceful society. Like so many of the more spectacular peace assemblies, miracles played a critical role in infusing the gatherings of 1033 with enthusiasm and (through that enthusiasm) sanctifying the decisions of the council. Here, given the extreme nature of the conciliar demands, the miracles were indeed crucial to success. Glaber describes their impact: Everyone was overcome with such ardor [universi tanto ardore accensi], that, when the bishops raised their staffs to the heavens, they, with their palms extended to God, unanimously shouted “Peace! Peace! Peace!”62 The “everyone” here refers to the demos, the whole people omnis aeve utriusque sexus, maximi, mediocres ac minimi, of whom the vast majority – and the most unwonted of presences at the proceedings of church councils – were the minimi. Their cry of peace turned miracles into a miracle-demanding,63 sociopolitical fiat: Vox populi vox Dei. The historian Glaber takes us still further. Indeed, he takes us where virtually no other historian of his era brought his audience – namely, inside the experience of the masses: For them [the universi of the previous sentence], it was the sign of a perpetual covenant [signum perpetui pacti] with which they were marrying themselves to God [quod spoponderant inter se et Deum], promising that in five years they would renew this pact in the same admirable way.64

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In other words, these people believed that they were replicating the deeds of the ancient Israelites when they stood at Sinai and vowed a pact with God to create a just society. Ademar described a similar sense of covenant in 994 for Aquitaine: “This house of the God of Israel taught the Aquitanian nation; peoples previously given over to errors, began to walk in the paths of justice.”65 If we try to imagine what the participants in these councils experienced, it seems like they, believing that the time had come for the messianic age of “swords into plowshares and spears into pruning hooks,” collectively entered into a social covenant with God. And that covenant included everyone, creating a new “people of God,” who would henceforth live in the peace of God, the Pax Dei. Thus, behind Gerard of Cambrai’s explicit concern for the inability of the aristocrats to keep their vows may have lain a still more profound anxiety about the spread of public, collective, oath taking to the commoners as part of a messianic movement that any well-instructed Augustinian must oppose. In their own minds, the commoners constituted a “new Israel,” willing to accept God’s demands and gain his rewards – namely, accept egalitarian principles and enjoy the abundance of a land at peace (Deut. 11:14–24). This world turned upside down would produce, as Gerard’s cousin Adalbero of Laon lamented around the same time, “naked bishops endlessly plowing, singing the original song of our first parent,” a probable allusion to the later egalitarian battle cry of peasants in revolt: “When Adam delved and Eve span who was then the gentleman?”66 Glaber describes the economic effects of the assembly vows: In that very year there was such an abundance of grain and wine and other produce that one could not have hoped for in subsequent years. Every kind of food short of meat and the greatest delicacies sold for nothing. It was as if it was the beginning of the great Mosaic Jubilee. The next year, and the third and the fourth were no less abundant.67 Riding on the wave of abundance that followed the famine, this alliance of elites and commoners added a radical dose of positive-sum behavior to social interaction: trust, empathy, productive labor, mutual benevolence, renunciation of violence. And the result was one of the earliest clear manifestations of the kind of civil society that Western Europe would eventually generate on a stable basis, some eight centuries later.68

Ex post defectu: the aftermath of apocalyptic millennialism and the pieces of God The impact of believing that one faced the judge, naked and helpless to hide from his scrutiny, that one’s deeds hidden and public, repressed or suppressed, were now under inspection, may not have lasted long – at least as far as public behavior was concerned. And, as with Chrysostom’s flock in

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the late fourth century,69 backsliding was the order of the day in virtually every account. Glaber’s is perhaps the most extensive and eloquent, but he records the backsliding not after a few days, as with Chrysostom’s earthquake, but four years (!) after the climactic covenant of the millennium of the Passion: But alas! The human race, always unmindful of the beneficence of God, from its origins prone to evil, like a dog returning to its vomit, or a pig wallowing in its sty, in many ways [people] broke the oaths they had sworn . . . For those same magnates [primates] of both orders began to turn to greed and began to commit many rapacious acts – as they formerly had done only worse – of greed. And from them to the middling sort, and the lesser sort (minimes), by the example of the great, returned to their depraved behavior.70 As Thomas Hobbes wrote six centuries later, “And Covenants, without the Sword, are but Words, and of no strength to secure a man at all.”71 Moments of egalitarian messianic enthusiasm are short-lived because the most powerful generator of such moments – the belief in apocalyptic time that will bring on either a final judgment (eschatology) or a fundamental mutation in social dynamics (millennialism) – always proves wrong. Once the initial fire of collective commitment and mutual renunciation passes, and people begin to realize that neither the cosmic threats nor the promises will materialize, they undergo deep crises of cognitive dissonance and, finally, for most, backsliding.72 It took the French revolutionaries less than a decade to substitute propriété for fraternité.73 Glaber provides one detail that should hardly surprise either the historian or the political “scientist,” but whose honest admission puts him in an unusual category of medieval historians: the powerful were the first to renege on their commitments, followed by the middling sort, and, eventually, the poor (who, one might speculate, had the most to gain from this new dispensation). But the backsliding indicates that such moments did happen. And if so, what happened to those who had joined the messianic enthusiasm, especially those who got the raw end of the post-apocalyptic stick? Did the impotentes give up hope that this glorious event, of which they had just shared a spectacular, extended, if proleptic, taste, would happen in the near future?74 Did the potentes who backslid feel no guilt about the behavior to which they had returned, as both Isaiah and Glaber put it, like a dog to its vomit? Two generations later, at the time of the First Crusade, we have sharp testimony as to the condition of warriors who had been “injected” with “bad conscience,” who felt torn about doing what they were, from time immemorial, supposed to do – kill, in other words, warriors who took seriously the peace’s efforts to put an end to their license to kill.75 The backsliding, however, has led many historians to dismiss the peace movement (and most other apocalyptic moments) as insignificant (or

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nonexistent). Closer familiarity with apocalyptic movements, however, suggests something quite different. We are concerned now with the period marked by deep disappointment and cognitive dissonance, when the impact of the apocalyptic moment has worn off, and believers must confront the failure of their (previously certain) expectations. Some sought solutions that reshaped the Pax Dei by providing some “teeth.” In 1038, the archbishop of Bourges conducted a radical experiment in which everyone, commoner and warrior, joined a sworn militia that would enforce the Pax Dei on peacebreakers who were designated “rebels.” In this way they many times routed the faithless and brought their castles down to the ground. With the help of God they so terrified the rebels that, as the coming of the faithful was proclaimed far and wide by rumor among the populace, the rebels scattered. Leaving the gates of their towns open, they sought safety in flight, harried by divinely inspired terror. You would have seen [the faithful] raging against the multitude of those who ignore God, as if they [the faithful] were some other people of Israel. Presently they trampled [the rebels] underfoot so that they forced them to return to the laws of the pact which they had ignored.76 Despite its initial success, however, the oxymoronic movement of armed inermes77 soon broke its teeth on the rocks of feudal reality: the count of Déols’ men slaughtered them by the river Cher.78 This experiment in active millennialism was not, to our knowledge, repeated, unless one considers the communes as the next adventure in the commoner search for a Pax.79 Some of these deeply disappointed but deeply affected people continued to search for their vocation, for the meaning of this covenant they and their parents had sworn: they thronged “like bees to honey” to aristocrats who voluntarily renounced their power and status, and continued to do so for generations.80 Some of these charismatic leaders commanded large crowds who, precisely in this first century of the new millennium, stepped boldly “onto the stage of public events,” and whose “eminently respectable beginnings” (if not also continuations) began with the mobilization of populace in the Peace of God movement.81 And among the most fecund of these currents issuing from the millennial generation was that of pilgrimage, to Compostella, to Jerusalem, to the great European shrines, an ever-greater stream throughout the eleventh century, repeatedly punctuated by mass pilgrimages to Jerusalem in apocalyptic time (1033, 1064, 1096).82 Nor was the impact of the Pax Dei on eleventh-century society only on the behavior of crowds on the occasion of some renewal of apocalyptic time. The peace, whatever its failures, injected the society in which it occurred with heavy doses of demotic, egalitarian religiosity, even in “normal time.”83 This demotic identity involved both a commitment to the dignity of manual labor, and a sense of solidarity among believers that transcended clan,

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lineage, and especially a hierarchy constructed around the chasm between manual laborers and elites: in other words, an ideal formula for new “textual communities” that productively worked the land. In millennial terms, the marital oaths described by Glaber created a demos, a chosen (or choosing) people of God, a notion that transcended the zero-sum, stratified, dynamics so dominant in almost every aspect of medieval society. Indeed, in its inclusive sense – every Christian, laborer, scribe, and warrior is part of the people, the demos – one has a parallel to the process whereby Sieyès defined the “Third Estate” as “the Nation.”84 The eleventh century was an astonishingly creative century, a laboratory of people creating new ways to interact reliably: new “textual communities” (some hierarchical, some heretical), voluntary associations and religious orders, markets thriving on extensive credit, free cities, and assarting peasants clearing the forests and founding autonomous, productive, and self-sustaining communities, often incorporating technology like watermills and heavy plows.85 This “new period of peaceful conditions” reflects a remarkable self-confidence, initiative, and social trust. In terms of the peace movement discussed here, it seems that people from all walks of life refashioned the Pax Dei’s covenantal dimension in more manageable venues, this time with smaller, like-minded, and committed groups of fellows, based on mutual trust and cooperation (and often a mutual oath): corporations, contracts, and rural and urban communes. Notes Robert Lopez, Unstinting credit was the great lubricant of the Commercial Revolution . . . altogether a new phenomenon . . . a change that stems from the same cooperative attitude involved in the collaboration of men of all classes in the political struggle that lead eventually to the emergence of independent communes.86 Demotic religiosity had distinct economic advantages: in considering productive labor as a source of human dignity (rather than stigma), it encouraged making, not taking, voluntary association, not coercion.87 And its initial vigor (e.g., Glaber’s four “Jubilee” years after 1033) may have given this positive-sum dynamic an ability to resist the “inevitable” return of the dominating imperative.88 As the communes in their early forms show, this solidarity involved egalitarian principles rarely seen in post-imperial European society. As the nineteenth-century formula for the twelfth-century rule runs, in the communes, “city air makes you free.” These new and free cities founded themselves on the unusual principle that welcomed escapees of the seigneurial system: the serf who lived in the city for a year and a day – in other traditions, the time allotted to take vengeance – became a free man, a citizen. Notes Hägen Keller, “It is the idea of ‘Christian fraternity,’ it is the idea of Christian love and free association (Friedensgemeinschaft), that gave

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the Peace of God movement as well as the Commune movement their strength.”89 As a poem describing the commune of Bergamo in 1125 put it, “For golden peace firmly unites the citizens/By the peace covenant poor and rich alike live together in peace.”90 These are, of course, formulas, and most of the time, no reflection of actual conditions of the struggle of daily life, but they mean much more in apocalyptic time, often the time when the cities are founded. We can see this spirit at work in the early twelfth century in the reaction of the citizens of Lille in defense of someone whom the count’s men had identified as a runaway serf and sought to distrain. The townsmen armed themselves and came rapidly to his defense, chasing William Clito’s men out of town.91 This is much the same effrontery that the peace association of Le Puy, the Cappuciati, displayed some 50 years later. Not only is it a new wind blowing across the European landscape (one Weber considered an early and unusual sign of things to come) but also may well have its origin in a reading of one of the most demotic laws in the Hebrew Bible: “Do not return a slave to his master who has fled to you from his master. He will live among you in the place he shall choose in one of your gates. You will not oppress him” (Deut. 23:16–17). Janet Nelson argued a generation ago that the astonishing vitality and creativity of eleventh-century (Western) Europe stems from a crisis of theodicy92 and that the previously prevailing explanations for human suffering (and especially humanly inflicted suffering) no longer provided people with acceptable explanations. Much of the creativity generated in the second two-thirds of the eleventh century arose from addressing the problem of human suffering at a time when waiting for a future date, in particular a millennial date, when God would distribute justice to the just and the unjust alike, before the eyes of the whole world, no longer carried conviction. Thus the millennial generations, repeatedly drawn into apocalyptic time at the advent of the two years (1000 and 1033), participated in and witnessed what Glaber called nova – new things. In both cases, their hopes were disappointed, their efforts to bring the millennium failed, but that hardly made their labors inconsequential. Differently put, the eleventh century is filled with refugees from failed apocalyptic time, suffering from the cognitive dissonance of a failed, but immensely creative form of theodicy – that whole complex of beliefs including eschatological justice, apocalyptic fears, and millennial hopes. These refugees and their descendants and students, however bitter the disappointment, did not dismiss the millennial dream. Instead, like Marx and so many others,93 they refashioned it and prepared action for the newly recalculated apocalyptic date. Glaber describes the phenomenon at the passage of AD 1000, with almost clinical precision: After the many prodigies which had broken upon the world before, after and around the millennium of the Lord Christ [whose passage

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Some (if not almost all) of these industrious men of penetrating intellect tried to live an apostolic life – a life built on a radical demotic religiosity. An unusual number over the course of the eleventh century took to the roads and woods and became hermits and wandering teachers and preachers, with some founding, joining, and transforming monastic and clerical communities. Cluny manifested this dynamic precisely at the turn of the “second” millennium (1033): it developed a major liturgy about death addressed to all Christians95 and promoted a “Truce of God” that treated every weekend as a monastic (and hence nonviolent) meditation on the unfolding of the Passion from Thursday’s Last Supper to Sunday’s Resurrection. A century later, Guibert of Nogent describes a time when the roads were full of apostolic wanderers whose disciples provided a major recruitment pool for such exceptional ecclesiastical movements as those led by Bernard of Clairvaux and Norbert of Xanten, and the budding universities.96 Others, the most socially radical, created egalitarian textual communities that transgressed all the societies’ normative boundaries. Everyone, whether layperson or cleric, man or woman, laborer or aristocrat, shared the same dignity. For reasons that explain much of the post-peace dynamics of eleventh-century power politics – returning to their vomit like pigs in a sty – factions in both lay and clerical courts found the more radical lay apostolic communities intolerably heretical and launched the first major hunt and execution of commoner heretics in Latin Christendom.97 And still others hit the road and settled in the “peace” zones of commerce and trade and learning. They clustered in the protected zones of peace, free of arbitrary aristocratic violence. These zones grew in both number and independence over the course of the eleventh, newest of centuries. They form the core of both the urban and the rural communes. What they all had in common, I submit, was an apocalyptically induced sense that their participants were God’s chosen people, whose vocation was to do – to fulfill – God’s will on earth. Just like the catastrophe that killed the dinosaurs made a space for then tiny mammals to evolve into humans, the aristocracy’s fear of the millennium made a space, however brief, for civil society to emerge in a form sufficiently widespread and substantial that it could survive the counterattack of the elites and mutate over the centuries into full-fledged civil polities. In many cases, both spectacular and modest, these men and women undertook their novel labors to the resounding encouragement of an aroused people that now, even after the peace had failed, believed that they had been chosen to enact the salvific gesta Dei per populum suum.

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Notes 1 “Die erste, religiöse Massenbewegung im Mittelalter.” See Carl Erdmann, Die Entstehung des Kreuzzugsgedankens (Berlin: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1936), 66. 2 Aside from popular relic cults (which could hardly be called a movement), the only clear examples of popular enthusiasm for elements of Christianity were the millennial movements around apocalyptic prophets (“False Christ” of Bourges, 590s; Adalbert, 750s; Thiota, 848). See Aaron Gurevich, Medieval Popular Culture: Problems of Belief and Perception (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 39–77; Richard Landes, “Millenarismus absconditus: L’historiographie augustinienne et l’An Mil,” Le Moyen Age 98 (1992): 355–77. 3 Bishops, abbots, archbishops, counts, dukes, and, eventually, the king of France were sponsors/organizers. Indeed, much of the literature on the peace movement tries to insist that the authorities, especially the bishops, had this movement under control from beginning to end. See Hans W. Goetz, “Protection of the Church, Defense of the Law, and Reform: On the Purpose and Character of the Peace of God,” in The Peace of God: Social Violence and Religious Response in France around the Year 1000, ed. Thomas Head and Richard Landes (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1992), 259–79. 4 On the broader phenomenon, see Bryan R. Wilson, Magic and the Millennium: A Sociological Study of Religious Movements of Protest among Tribal and ThirdWorld Peoples (New York: Harper & Row, 1973); Richard Landes, Heaven on Earth: The Varieties of the Millennial Experience (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011); The Oxford Handbook of Millennialism, ed. Catherine Wessinger (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). 5 Georges Duby suggested that the three orders became a (dominant) commonplace at the time of the peace movement and that it had a genealogical relationship with the three estates of later French political thought. See Georges Duby, The Three Orders: Feudal Society Imagined, trans. Arthur Goldhammer (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1980), 1, 356. 6 The bibliography on the peace is extensive. Key introductory works include Hartmut Hoffmann, Gottesfriede und Treuga Dei, Schriften der Monumenta Germaniae Historica 20 (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1964); Herbert E. J. Cowdrey, “The Peace and the Truce of God in the Eleventh Century,” Past and Present 46 (1970): 42–67; The Peace of God, ed. Head and Landes. More recent work includes Thomas Gergen, Pratique juridique de la paix et trêve de Dieu à partir du Concile de Charroux (Frankfurt a. M.: Peter Lang, 2004); Thomas Head, “Peace and Power in France around the Year 1000,” Essays in Medieval Studies 23 (2006): 1–17; Claire Taylor, “Reform and the Basque Dukes of Gascony: A Context for the Origins of the Peace of God and the Murder of Abbo of Fleury,” Early Medieval Europe 15 (2007): 35–52; Theo Riches, “Bishop Gerard I of Cambrai-Arras, the Three Orders, and the Problem of Human Weakness,” in The Bishop Reformed: Studies in Episcopal Power and Culture in the Central Middle Ages, ed. John Ott and Anna Trumbore (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), 122– 36; Hans-Werner Goetz, “Pacem et iustitiam facere: Zum Rechtsverstandnis in den Gottes- und Landfrieden,” in Das Recht und seine historischen Grundlagen: Festschrift für Elmar Wadle zum 70. Geburtstag, ed. Tiziana Chiusi, Thomas Gergen, and Heike Jung (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 2008), 283–96; Jehangir Yezdi Malegam, The Sleep of Behemoth: Disputing Peace and Violence in Medieval Europe, 1000–1200 (Cornell: Cornell University Press, 2013); Richard Landes, “Can the Church Be Desperate, Warriors Be Pacifist, and Commoners Ridiculously Optimistic? On the Historian’s Imagination and the Peace of God,” in Center and Periphery: Studies on Power in the Medieval World in Honor of

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Richard Landes William Chester Jordan, ed. Katherine Jansen, Guy Geltner, and Anne Lester (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 79–92. A civil polity, as I use it here, “arises from a cultural project best described as the systematic substitution of consensual discourse of fairness for violence in dispute settlement.” See Richard Landes, “Civil Polity vs. Prime Divider Society,” Augean Stables, www.theaugeanstables.com/reflections-from-second-draft/ civil-society-vs-prime-divider-society/. “How different, indeed, are they from tenth-century violences?” (Stephen White, “The ‘Feudal Revolution,’” Past and Present 152 [1996]: 218). “Peace ideas were, at most, peripheral” to the knightly piety that eventually produced the crusades (Marcus Bull, Knightly Piety and the Lay Response to the First Crusade: The Limousin and Gascony, c. 970–c. 1130 [Oxford: Clarendon, 1993], 68). On the communes, see the following. One might even argue that historians have gone out of their way to dismiss the Peace’s significance and its connection to subsequent developments. “[T]he Peace councils were part of a complex set of negotiations and compromise, and thus of a piece with contemporary norms of conflict resolution” (Thomas Head, “The Development of the Peace of God in Aquitaine (970–1005),” Speculum 74 [1999]: 686). For similar conclusions, see Jeffrey Bowman, “Councils, Memories and Mills: The Early Development of the Peace of God in Catalonia,” Early Medieval Europe 8 (1999): 121. Some reject the very notion that these disparate councils constitute a “movement.” See Kathleen Cushing, Reform and the Papacy in the Eleventh Century: Spirituality and Social Change (New York: Macmillan, 2005), 44–5; Jane Martindale, “Peace and War in Early EleventhCentury Aquitaine,” in Medieval Knighthood, ed. Christopher Harper-Bill and Ruth Harvey (Woodbridge, Suffolk: Boydell, 1992), 147–76. “Les conciles de paix des évêques n’y sont pas une nouveauté radicale, ni leurs décrets, ni leur usage social des reliques, ni le mythe de l’apaisement de Dieu après ses avertissements terribles” (Barthélemy, L’an mil et la paix de Dieu [Paris: Fayard, 1999], 40). Normalizing studies focus on the bishops and counts. See Goetz, “Protection of the Church”; Bowman, “Councils, Memories and Mills,” 99–129. “C’est la, n’en doutons pas, le déroulement même de toutes les autres assemblées de paix . . . On parle du peuple, des pauvres, mais ils ne parlent pas eux-mêmes” (Barthélemy, L’an mil et la paix de Dieu, 370 [italics mine]). “E quibus totam videres urbem intus et per circuitum foris plenam” (Ademar, Sermo, PL, vol. 141, col. 118A). Paul Fouracre, “The Origins of the Carolingian Attempt to Regulate the Cult of Saints,” in The Cult of Saints in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, ed. James Johnston and Paul Hayward (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 143–68. One example comes from the first datable “sanctified” peace assembly at Charroux in 989. See Letaldus of Micy, Delatio corporis s. Juniani, PL, vol. 137, cols. 823–6. “Chartes et documents pour servir à l’histoire de l’abbaye de Charroux,” ed. P. Monsabert, Archives historiques du Poitou 39 (1910): 36–9, http://gallica.bnf.fr/ ark:/12148/bpt6k2095059/f93.image. See Bernard of Angers, Liber miraculorum sancte Fidis, ed. Luca Robertini, Biblioteca di Medioevo Latino 10 (Spoleto: Centro Italiano di Studi sull’Alto Medioevo, 1994), 2.4, unwonted familiarity even in the crypt at Conques. Christian Lauranson-Rosaz, “Les mauvaises coutumes d’Auvergne (fin Xe–XIe siècle),”Annales du Midi 192 (1990): 557–85. On subversion, see James C. Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts (Yale University Press, 1992); John Kautsky, The Politics of Aristocratic Empires (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina, 1984), chap. 13.

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20 As in the case of petitioners to Duke Richard, see Mathieu Arnoux, “Les paysans et le duc: Autour de la révolte de 996,” in La Normandie vers l’an mil, ed. François de Beaurepaire and Jean-Pierre Chaline (Rouen: Société de l’histoire de Normandie, 2000), 105–11. In 859, Frankish potentiores massacred the vulgus promiscuum who imprudently swore a coniuratio to defend against pillaging Northmen who coordinated troop movement with those potentiores. See Annales sancti Bertini, MGH SSrerGer 5 (Hannover, 1883), 51. 21 “Umordnung, nicht Unordnung.” Hans Werner Goetz, “Die Gottesfriedensbewegung im Lichte neuerer Forschungen,” in Landfrieden: Anspruch und Wirklichkeit, ed. Arno Buschmann and Elmar Wadle (Paderborn: Schöningh, 2002), 31–54. On the relationship of the peace oaths to the communes, see the following. 22 Jan Dhondt and Michel Rouche, Le haut moyen âge (Paris: Bordas, 1968), 253. See the recent discussion of oaths in Gergen, Pratique juridique, 61–9, 84–90, 195–202. 23 On Gerald’s problems with the peace oaths, see Duby, The Three Orders, 28–32; Riches, “Bishop Gerard I of Cambria–Arras, the Three Orders, and the Problem of Human Weakness.” On the peace militia of Bourges, see the discussion that follows. On the reaction of the weapons-bearers to commoners defending themselves in 859, see n. 20. 24 Peter Brown, The Cult of the Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1982). 25 “Unde leticia immensa omnes repleti sunt”(Ademar, Chronicon 3.35, ed. Pascale Bourgain, Richard Landes, and Georges Pon, CCCM 129 [Turnhout: Brepols, 1999], 157). See also Bernard of Angers, Liber miraculorum sancte Fidis, 1.28. 26 Richard Landes, Relics, Apocalypse, and the Deceits of History: Ademar of Chabannes, 989–1034 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995), 285–327. 27 Translatio s. Viviani episcopi in coenobium Figiacense et eiusdem ibidem miracula, chaps. 13–19 in Analecta Bollandiana 8 (1889): 263–65; Christian Lauranson-Rosaz (d. April 2016), “Le Concile de Coler dans les Miracula sancti Viviani,” in Autour de Gerbert d’Aurillac: Le Pape de l’an mil, ed. Olivier Guyotjeannin and Emmanuel Poulle (Paris: Ecole nationale des chartes, 1996), 120–4. 28 Aryeh Graboïs, “De la trève de Dieu à la paix du roi: étude sur les transformations du mouvement de la paix au Xlle siècle,” in Mélanges d’histoire médiévale dédiés à René Crozet, ed. Pierre Gallais and Yves-Jean Riou (Poitiers: Société d’Etudes Médiévales, 1966), 1:585–96; Frédéric Duval, De la paix de Dieu à la paix de fer (Paris: Paillard, 1925). 29 See the discussion in Landes, Relics, Apocalypse, and the Deceits of History, 34–8. 30 Warren Brown, Violence in Medieval Europe (New York: Routledge, 2010). 31 On elites and the “prime divider” between them and commoners, see Landes, Heaven on Earth, chap. 8. On the Carolingian warrior elite, see Timothy Reuter, “Plunder and Tribute in the Carolingian Empire,” in Medieval Polities and Modern Mentalities, ed. Janet L. Nelson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 231–50; Brown, Violence in Medieval Europe, 125–8; for sociological observations, see Kautsky, The Politics of Aristocratic Empires, 79–166. 32 The preceding discussion appeared in different form in Landes, “Can the Church Be Desperate,” 80–3. 33 Dhondt and Rouche, Le haut moyen âge, 252. See especially Rachel Fulton, From Judgment to Passion: Devotion to Christ and the Virgin Mary, 800–1200 (New York: Columbia University Press, 2005), 60–141. 34 Generally, Jean Musy, “Mouvements populaires et hérésies au XIe siècle en France,” Revue historique 253 (1975): 33–76; Robert I. Moore, “Family,

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37 38 39 40

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Richard Landes Community and Cult on the Eve of the Gregorian Reform,” Transactions, Royal Historical Society, 5th series, 30 (1979): 49–69; idem, The Origins of European Dissent (London: Allen Lane, 1977); Claire Taylor, “The Year 1000 and Those who Labored,” in The Year 1000, ed. Michael Frassetto (New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2002), 187–236. “You would have seen [the faithful] raging against the multitude of those who ignore God, as if they were some other people of Israel” (Miracula sancti Benedicti 5.2; discussed and translated by Thomas Head, “The Judgment of God,” in The Peace of God, ed. Head and Landes, 219–38; text in appendix, 340). Paul Freedman remarks to the contrary: “The Truce must not be thought of, therefore, as a desperate measure designed to substitute spiritual for secular enforcement of order; rather, it assumed that the two powers should act in concert” (The Diocese of Vic: Tradition and Regeneration in Medieval Catalonia [New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1983], 27; cited approvingly by Bowman, “Councils, Memories and Mills,” 114). Thus a remarkable pattern becomes, ex post facto, evened out. Landes, Heaven on Earth. Norman Cohn, The Pursuit of the Millennium: Revolutionary Millenarians and Mystical Anarchists of the Middle Ages (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970). Richard Landes, “The Historiographical Fear of an Apocalyptic Year 1000: Augustinian History Medieval and Modern,” Speculum 75 (2000): 131–8. Two collections of essays on the topic have appeared: The Year 1000: Religious and Social Response to the Turning of the First Millennium, ed. Michael Frassetto (New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2002); The Apocalyptic Year 1000: Religious Expectation and Social Change, 950–1050, ed. Richard A. Landes, Andrew C. Gow, and David C. Van Meter (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003). Most recently, Levi Roach, “Emperor Otto III and the End of Time,” Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 23 (2013): 75–102. For an excellent example, see Agathias, Historiae 5.5, ed. Rudolf Keydell, Agathiae Myrinaei Historiarum libri quinque in Corpus Fontium Historiae Byzantinae, vol. 2 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1967), 169–70; cited by Paul Magdalino, “The History of the Future and Its Uses: Prophecy, Policy and Propaganda,” in The Making of Byzantine History: Studies Dedicated to Donald M. Nicol, ed. Roderick Beaton and Charlotte Roueche (Aldershot: Variorum, 1993), 6. “As soon as there was some respite and relief from danger, most people reverted to their normal ways” (Chrysostom, In terrae motum, PG, vol. 50, cols. 713– 16). On the phenomenon of earthquakes in this period and their remarkable religious (apocalyptic) impact, see Brian Croke, “Two Early Byzantine Earthquakes and the Liturgical Commemoration,” Byzantion 51 (1981): 122–47; Frank Vercleyen, “Tremblements de terre à Constantinople: L’impact sur la population,” Byzantion 58 (1988): 155–73. The pattern of dramatic concessions made in moments of duress or enthusiasm, later watered down, extends from biblical times (Jeremiah 34:7–11) to the French Revolution and oaths of August 4, 1789 (Landes, Heaven on Earth, 256–9). On the Limoges council of 994, see Landes, Relics, Apocalypse, and the Deceits of History, 24–49. For the text of the two best-known oaths, see Roger Bonnaud-Delamare, Les institutions de la Paix en Aquitaine au XIe siècle (Brussels: Extrait de Recueils de la Société Jean Bodin 14: La Paix, 1962), 1:148–53. For an English translation of the oath of Béraud and Garin, see The Peace of God, ed. Head and Landes, 332–4.

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46 Georges Duby, The Early Growth of the European Economy, trans. Howard B. Clarke (Ithaca: Cornell, 1974), Part III. 47 See the following on the councils of 1033. 48 “Talis quippe consuetudo naturaliter innata est regno Gallorum, ut præter ceteras nationes semper velint exercere rabiem bellorum” (Ex Miraculis s. Adalhardi Corbeiensibus 4.8 [AASS, Jan. I, 119; PL, vol. 147, col. 1067D]). 49 “Prædonum rapacitate devastamur” (Acta s. Veroli, AASS Jun III, 387). 50 See the debate in Past and Present 152 (1996): 196–223 and 155 (1997): 177– 208; Feud, Violence and Practice: Essays in Medieval Studies in Honor of Stephen White, ed. Belle Tuten and Tracey Billado (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2010). Ian Miller argues in the introductory essay that this was a society in which “threat advantage” played a critical role in “negotiations” (see 9–28). As Richard Kaeuper puts it, “Knights worshipped at the altar of the demi-god ‘prowess’” (Chivalry and Violence in Medieval Europe [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999], 126). 51 Kaeuper, Chivalry, 15. 52 Rodulfus Glaber, Quinque libri historiarum 4.5.13, ed. and trans. John France, Rodulfus Glaber, Opera (Oxford: Clarendon, 1989); translations are mine. Other, completely independent sources – Ademar of Chabannes, the Gesta episcoporum cameracensium, and the Miracula sancti Adelardi – all confirm Glaber in significant details. See David Van Meter, “The Peace of Amiens-Corbie and Gerard of Cambrai’s Oration on the Three Functional Orders: The Date, the Context, the Rhetoric,” Revue belge de philologie et d’histoire 74 (1996): 633–57. 53 Ex Miraculis S. Adalhardi Corbeiensibus, MGH SS 15/2: 4.8, 861. 54 An early reference to France as a territory with national boundaries. At this point the common term is rex francorum, and only after the accession of Phillip II (Augustus) in 1180 do the royal documents speak of rex franciae. See John Baldwin, The Government of Philip Augustus: Foundations of French Royal Power in the Middle Ages (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1986), 360–1. 55 Gesta episcoporum Cameracensium 3.52; MGH SS 7.485f. 56 Glaber and the author of the Miracula sancti Adelardi both confirm this radical legislation (see the discussion in Van Meter, “The Peace of Amiens-Corbie,” 650–5). 57 Warren Brown, “Charlemagne, God and the License to Kill,” in Violence in Medieval Europe (New York: Routledge, 2010), 69–95. 58 See Capitulare Missorum Generale (802) §32, ed. Alfred Boretius, MGH Leges Capitularia regum francorum, 1:97. Although this assertion is based on vague language about the council’s legislation, the detailed language of the peace council of Narbonne in 1054 is quite explicit: Canon 18, Joannes D. Mansi, Sacrorum conciliorum nova amplissima collectio (Paris: Welter, 1926), 19.830–1. 59 Duby, The Three Orders, chap. 2; Van Meter, “The Peace of Amiens-Corbie.” 60 See Van Meter, “The Peace of Amiens-Corbie,” 646–50. Charlemagne ordered any such letters to be burned: Admonitio Generalis §78 (789 CE), ed. Alfred Boretius, MGH Leges Capitularia regum francorum, 1:60. Glaber may allude to this (rather heterodox) phenomenon in his phrase: “A voice descending from heaven could not have done more” (Quinque 4.5.14). 61 Ex Miraculis s. Adalhardi Corbeiensibus, MGH SS 15/2: 4.8, 861. Michelet paraphrases this text in his famous passage about “the terrors of the year 1000” (Jules Michelet, Histoire de la France, vol. 2, book 4 [Paris: Flammarion, 1893], 170–4, www.gutenberg.org/files/38244/38244-h/38244-h.htm). 62 Glaber, Quinque libri historiarum 4.5.16; France trans., 197. 63 As Eli Sagan dryly notes: “Paranoia is the problem. The paranoid position [rule or be ruled] is the defense. Democracy is a miracle, considering human

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psychological disabilities” (The Honey and the Hemlock [Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994, 22). 64 Glaber, Quinque libri historiarum 4.5.16; France trans., 197. 65 “Haec domus Dei Israel vias Dei gentem docuerat Aquitaniam, gentes erroribus olim deditae coeperant ambulare in semitis justitiae” (Ademar, Sermo, MS BnF lat. 2469, fol. 88v; PL, vol. 141, col. 118A). 66 Claude Carozzi, Adalbéron de Laon: Poème au roi Robert, Les classiques de l’Histoire de France au Moyen Age 32 (Paris: Les Belles lettres, 1979): Nudi pontifices sine fine sequantur aratrum, Carmina cum stimulo primi cantando . . .

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69 70 71 72

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75 76 77 78 79

On the identification of this poem with the “leveler” ditty that only shows up in texts of the later Middle Ages, see Paul Freedman, Images of the Medieval Peasant (Palo Alto: Stanford University Press, 1999), 61. Glaber, Quinque libri historiarum 4.5.17, France trans., 197. Richard Shelly Hartigan, “The ‘Peace of God,’ Chivalry, and the Emergence of the Civilian,” in Dissent and Affirmation: Essays in Honor of Mulford Q. Sibley, ed. Arthur Kalleberg, James Donald Moon, and Daniel Sabia (Bowling Green, OH: Bowling Green University Press, 1983), 67–79. On the role of positive-sum interactions embedded in demotic religiosity, see Richard Landes, “Economic Development and Demotic Religiosity: Reflections on the Eleventh-Century Takeoff,” in History in the Comic Mode: The New Medieval Cultural History, ed. Rachel Fulton and Bruce Holsinger (New York: Columbia University Press, 2007), 101–16. See n. 42. Glaber, Quinque libri historiarum 4.5.17, France trans., 197f. Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan (London, 1651), 1.17. On cognitive dissonance, see Leon Festinger, Henry W. Riecken, and Stanley Schachter, When Prophecy Fails (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1956); more recently, Joel Cooper, Cognitive Dissonance: Fifty Years of Classic Theory (Los Angeles: Sage Publications, 2007). Note that the sociologists who follow the more intense forms of cognitive dissonance focus on the dedicated few who do not give up, and pay little attention to the larger group that “merely” falls away (backslides). On the role of fraternité in the fêtes révolutionnaires which Michelet saw as the heart and soul of the revolution (“the tale of the most beautiful days of the Revolution, still credulous, fraternal, clement”), see Landes, Heaven on Earth, 258–9, 301. During the Second Empire, a 90-year-old manual laborer from Nantes, on his deathbed, “raised his eyes to the sky with a look of ecstasy and murmured ‘O sun of [17]93, I will then die without seeing your rays again!’” Story recounted by Gabriel Monod in his introduction to Albert Mathiez, Contributions à l’histoire de la révolution française (Paris: F. Alcon, 1957), i. Bull, Knightly Piety, 3–4; also Tomaž Mastnak, “From Holy Peace to Holy War,” in Crusading Peace: Christendom, the Muslim World, and Western Political Order (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), 1–54. Andrew of Fleury, Miracula sancti Benedicti 5.1–4. On the anomaly, see Head, “Judgment of God” (see n. 35), 221 n. 8. Head, “Judgment of God”; cf. Barthélemy, L’an mil et la paix, 414–16. Albert Vermeesch gives the Bourges Peace Militia a major role in the genesis of the commune movement a generation later in Le Mans (1064). See his Essai sur les origines et la signification de la commune dans le nord de La France (Xle et X/le siecles) (Heule: UGA, 1966), 28–34. More commonly, historians downplay

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the connection. See Hans-Werner Goetz, “Gottesfriede und Gemeindebildung,” Zeitschrift für Rechtsgeschichte, Germanische Abteilung 105 (1988): 133–4; Gerhard Oexle, “Friede durch Verschworung,” in Träger und Instrumentarien des Friedens im hohen und spaten Mittelalter, ed. Johannes Fried (Sigmarigen: Thorbeke Verlag, 1996), 121–3, 138–9; Barthélemy, La Paix de Dieu et l’an mil. See Frederick Paxton, “History, Historians, and the Peace of God,” in The Peace of God, ed. Head and Landes, 21–40. People like Richard of Saint-Vanne. See David Van Meter, “Count Baldwin IV, Richard of Saint-Vanne, and the Inception of Monastic Reform in EleventhCentury Flanders,” Revue Benedictine 107 (1997): 130–48. R. I. Moore, “Family, Community and Cult on the Eve of the Gregorian Reform,” 46. Note that, according to Glaber’s formulation, the commoners (minimes) were the last to abandon their commitments (see n. 70), suggesting that a) they were the most moved by the messianic fervor, and b) had most to lose in its collapse. On 1033, see Landes, Relics, Apocalypse, and the Deceits of History, 320–37; on 1064, see David Jacoby, “Bishop Gunther of Bamberg, Byzantium and Christian Pilgrimage to the Holy Land in the Eleventh Century,” in Zwischen Polis, Provinz und Peripherie, ed. L. Hoffmann, Mainzer Veröffentlichungen zur Byzantinistik 7 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2005), 267–85, www.mgh-bibliothek. de/dokumente/a/a139920.pdf. On the apocalyptic dimension of 1096, see Jay Rubenstein, Armies of Heaven: The First Crusade and the Quest for Apocalypse (New York: Basic Books, 2011), 1–17. On demotic religiosity and production, see Landes, “Economic Development”; on demotic millennialism, Landes, Heaven on Earth, chaps. 1, 8. Emmanuel Joseph Sieyès, Qu’est-ce que le tiers-état? (January, 1789). Brian Stock calls the new, early-eleventh-century “textual communities,” many of which were deemed heretical, “laboratories of social organization.” See his The Implications of Literacy: Written Language and Models of Interpretation in the 11th and 12th Centuries (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1983), 88. Robert Lopez, The Commercial Revolution of the Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976), 72–3. David S. Landes, The Wealth and Poverty of Nations: Why Some Are So Rich and Some Are So Poor (New York: Norton, 1999); Daron Acemoglu and James A. Robinson, Why Nations Fail: The Origins of Power, Prosperity, and Poverty (New York: Crown, 2013). Landes, “Economic Development,” 101–16. Hagen Keller, “Die Entstehung der italienischen Stadtkommunen als Problem der Sozialgeschichte,” Fruhmittelaterlichen Studien 10 (1976): 169–211 (at 204). Namque ligat stabili nodo pax aurea cives, pace manet pauper, pacis quoque foedere dives (Carmen from Bergamo [1125], Rerum Italicarum Scriptores, vol. 5, ed. Ludovico A. Muratori [Milan: A. Forni, 1724], 534, ll. 273–4; cited in Oexle, “Friede durch Verschworung,” 122). Full poem online www.rm.unina.it/ didattica/strumenti/fasoli_bocchi/testimonianze/test22.htm. Galbert of Bruges, The Murder of Charles the Good, vol. 93, trans. James B. Ross (New York: Columbia University Press, 2005), 137. Notes Van Caenegem: “the townsmen [were] defending the special peace that protected their market and was in fact one of its great attractions” (“Law and Power in Twelfth Century Flanders,” in Cultures of Power: Lordship, Status, and Process in TwelfthCentury Europe, ed. Thomas Bisson [Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1995], 153). Janet Nelson, “Society, Theodicy and the Origins of Heresy: Towards a Reassessment of the Medieval Evidence,” in Schism, Heresy and Religious Protest,

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Richard Landes ed. Derek Baker, Studies in Church History 9 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1972), 65–77. Landes, Heaven on Earth, chap. 10. Glaber, Quinque libri historiarum 4.1; France trans., 171. Dominique Iogna-Prat, Ordonner et exclure: Cluny et la société chrétienne face à l’hérésie, au judaïsme, et à l’Islam, 1000–1150 (Paris: Aubier, 1998); Frederick Paxton, The Death Ritual at Cluny in the Central Middle Ages, Studia Monastica, Series Fontes (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013). Guibert of Nogent, Monodies 2.8–9, ed. and trans. Joseph McAlhany and Jay Rubenstein, Monodies and On the Relics of Saints (London: Penguin Classics, 2011); Stephen Jaeger, The Envy of Angels: Cathedral Schools and Social Ideals in Medieval Europe, 950–1200 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1994). Richard Landes, “The Birth of Popular Heresy: A Millennial Phenomenon,” Journal of Religious History 24 (2000): 31–3.

4

Learning the religious concepts of the Other Muslim-Christian treaties in the Latin East Yvonne Friedman

If religious rhetoric created a seemingly unbridgeable gap between what each side considered the Other, when it came to the stage of treaty-making between Christians and Muslims in the adversarial arena of the Latin East, a more practical approach can be charted. One means of bridging lack of trust in, and suspicion of, the enemy involved employment of sureties, such as oaths, that required real knowledge of the adversary’s religious tenets. In combination with the ability of the stronger side to dictate treaty terms, enhanced knowledge of the other side’s religious mores made it possible to dominate the process of negotiating the oath that was indispensable to a medieval legal transaction. Additionally, the actual encounter with the enemy sparked a more nuanced approach to the Other, including to his religious beliefs. Before responding to Pope Urban II’s November 27, 1095, call to set out for the “Cross, the Blood and the Sepulcher”1 and free the Holy Land from the Muslim enemy, most crusaders had never set eyes on a Muslim and had only a hazy, distorted concept of the religious Other.2 Depictions of the enemy in crusader propaganda had a religious cast; in them, they are often designated pagans (see Fig. 4.1). Most versions of Urban II’s speech have him describing the enemy as idolaters whose very presence contaminates the holy places and the Holy Land. According to Guibert of Nogent’s version of the speech, their rule postpones the divine program of the arrival of the Antichrist and the end of days: “All this cannot be unless Christianity will be where paganism now is.”3 Regarding the Muslims as pagans and themselves as walking in the footsteps of Joshua, the Judges, and the Maccabees, as biblical heroes conquering the Holy Land, this made their war against the Muslim a total war in which no soul ought to be spared, a continuation of the biblical wars, and a religious war of Christendom against paganism.4 A similar viewpoint is reflected in the depiction of Urban II preaching the crusade in the opening illustration of the Eracles, the French translation of William of Tyre’s chronicle: the lower tier portrays Muslims adoring a statue while the Christians pray before the Holy Sepulcher (Figure 4.2).5

Figure 4.1 Muslims defecating inside the church, © British Library Board, MS Royal 16 G VI, Chroniques de Saint Denis, fol. 185v Printed by permission of the British Library

Figure 4.2 The crucifixion, Urban preaching at Clermont. Lower tier: pilgrim praying at the Holy Sepulcher, pagans adoring an idol. Estoire d’Eracles, Art Musem, Baltimore, MS W.137, fol. 1 Printed under a Creative Commons 3.0 license

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The message of the illustrations is clear – the crusade was a war of Christianity against idolatry.6 This led to depicting the Muslim enemy as demonic, blueskinned, and with distorted features.7 Made for the European reader, these illustrations could thus be seen as part of the message for Christians who were supposed to go on crusade or the audience that stayed behind, but not necessarily a depiction of the actual relations between the crusaders and their enemies: the Seljuk Turks, the Fatimids, Ayyubids, or Mamluks. The Muslim side, in contrast, had greater experience of relations with Christian powers prior to the crusades, and the centuries of war and treaties with the Byzantine Empire had created a working diplomatic reality.8 Christians were designated infidels, kuffar (heretics), and mushrikin (polytheists) but not demonic adversaries.9 In mentioning Frankish adversaries, the avid diplomat and storyteller Usama ibn Munqidh often adds “may Allah curse them,” but his descriptions evidence greater curiosity than hatred or fear as well as admiration for the Franks’s military prowess.10 The chronicler Ibn al-Athir, writing a century after the arrival of the crusaders in the East, calls them infidels and occasionally uses harsh words, but generally describes them as one of the various powers vying for primacy in the Middle East, an enemy with whom one could fight and also make treaties.11 He did, however, see the crusade as part of a general Christian assault on all sides of the Mediterranean. For his part, the preacher al-Sulami definitely viewed crusade and jihad as two types of religious war, even calling the crusade a jihad against Islam.12 If, however, al-Sulami gave his sermons in a small mosque outside Damascus and it is unclear how much influence he had on the general audience of his time, there is no doubt as to the wide impact of crusader sermons. Thus whereas the first crusaders arrived in north Syria with a background of seeing the enemy as a religious foe, the Seljuqs they met on the battlefield and at the negotiation table were more prepared to face superior powers in a realistic way even though they viewed them as infidels.

Meeting the Other on the battlefield A more complex picture emerges when we move from the sphere of preaching the crusade to the concepts of the first crusaders themselves. The letters of the first crusaders on their way from Constantinople until after the siege and victory at Antioch usually describe the enemy using the neutral term “Turks,” but when an attribute is needed, the word “pagan” creeps in as a valid appellation. Thus in his loving letters to his wife Adela, Steven of Blois describes the enemy in a neutral tone. In a long paragraph on the conquest of Nicea, he uses the word Turks eight times to describe the enemy without attaching any derogatory attribute,13 and in Antioch he calls them “courageous Turks.”14 However, he ends the letter by enumerating the dead “Turks and pagans.”15 In a contemporary letter about the same events, the papal legate Adhemar de Puy describes the Turkish forces as a “horde of pagans.”16 Describing a

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sermon given before the battle, Symeon, the fugitive patriarch of Jerusalem (and perhaps Adhemar de Puy) exhorts the Christian forces to “take away the crown from the sons of idolatry who are rising up against me.”17 The biblical story of Elijah and the contest with the prophets of Baal (1 Kings 18) resonates in Anselm of Ribemont’s description of the final battle outside Antioch: “As the next day dawned they called loudly upon Baphometh while we prayed silently in our hearts to God.”18 The fact that the first crusaders adhered to the notion of purifying the holy places of heathen defilement partially explains the unrestrained carnage they carried out in July 1099 following the conquest of Jerusalem19 and the pride with which the chroniclers described the butchering of women and children, with rivers of blood reaching the horses’ spurs.20 According to Ralph of Caen, Tancred de Hauteville conquered al-Aqsa (later to be renamed Templum Salomonis) and found there a great silver statue studded with precious stones, so heavy that six men were needed to move it. Understanding this as the statue of the idol Mohamet, Tancred smashed it and took the precious metal, and thus triumphed over the Antichrist in Jerusalem.21 The statue was described so graphically that even a modern historian was convinced of its existence and sought a Roman statue of Jupiter or Hadrian left on the Temple Mount from the days of Aelia Capitolina.22 More plausibly, Tancred, having heard the propaganda depicting the Muslims as believing in an idolatrous trinity of Apollo, Tergavan, and Muhammad, used this to cover up his looting of the silver lamps of al-Aqsa, which he probably did not want to share with his comrades.23 A heroic story of conquering heathen idolatry could thus serve as a cover for looting. Whereas the actual encounter with the Turks, the first Muslim enemy they met on the battlefield, did not necessarily change the Franks’s theological prejudices, it did change their perception of their adversaries. The Seljuk Muslim fighter was a worthy opponent, and the Christian European knight whose social mores most valued prowess and military competence could not but grudgingly admire the enemy warriors. The anonymous chronicler who wrote the Gesta Francorum even offered an explanation for their valiance – the Turkish warriors were of Frankish descent: If only they had stood firm in the faith of Christ and holy Christendom, and had been willing to accept One God in Three persons, and had believed rightly and faithfully that the Son of God was born of a virgin mother, that he suffered and rose from the dead and ascended in the sight of his disciples into Heaven, and sent them in full measure the comfort of the Holy Ghost and that he reigns in Heaven and earth, you could not find stronger or braver or more skillful soldiers.24 Quite a long list of religious tenets as a minimum requirement for a valiant warrior! Indeed, immediately after this description, which sums up the

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Battle of Dorylaeum (July 1, 1098), the fourth book starts with “after the Turks, who are enemies of God and holy Christendom, were defeated.”25 Its author assumes that the Muslim Turks were polytheists who “swear by Mohammed and by all the names of our gods.”26 The chronicler does not characterize the enemy as “Muslims” but according to a racial/ethnic category – as Turks. Thus as an enemy on the battlefield itself, the Turkish horseman could even be admired by the Christian knight, but the religious gap proved a deeper divide than the social correspondence. In illustrations, as, for example, Matthew Paris’s illustration of the Christian defeat at the Battle of Hattin, the enemy is portrayed realistically: as a military opponent, not a demonic devil. In this case, the moment of defeat has clear religious undertones, as it shows the fall of the True Cross from the hands of the Frankish king into Saladin’s triumphant hands, but the enemy is neither distorted physically nor depicted differently from his opponent. He does have what might be described as a semitic nose, but is crowned and regally clad, whereas the defeated Christian king has no special martyrological attributes, as he indeed lost the cross and the kingdom without dying in battle and was taken captive.27 This concept of the Other as a military enemy and not a demonic person is part of what enabled negotiations for ceasefires or temporary truces. The negotiations took place between individuals, who, although enemies, belonged to the same social stratum on both sides of the religious divide and often understood each other quite well. There existed a common language between the parties: the language and values of the fighting knight. This language was by definition male oriented.28 Christian sources also contain descriptions of the female Other. In some chronicles, we find the appearance of a sinister elderly Muslim woman with disheveled hair and unattractive appearance. She is the religious Other who recognizes that the Christians are right and even has a prophetic foreboding of what will transpire. One such woman is Kerbugha of Mosul’s mother, who in 1098 warns her son that the crusaders will achieve victory at Antioch. The Gesta Francorum characterized her warning as based on what she had seen in the stars and on what is written in the Qur’an – namely, that the Christians were going to be victorious. When her son refused to heed her warnings, she left the camp with all the goods on which she could lay her hands.29 Ernoul tells the story of an old Muslim woman riding on an ass, whom the Franks met on their way to the fateful Battle of Hattin. She had been hired by Saladin to curse the Frankish army: a clear reference to biblical Balaam and his task.30 She informed the Franks that she could lift the spell, but they failed to heed her warnings because she was a Saracen and, after burning her alive, they continued to their doom.31 This story sounds like a prophecy told with hindsight after the events (vaticinium ex eventu). Raymond d’Aguilers describes two Muslim sorceresses who put a spell on the crusaders’ mangonels in Jerusalem; luckily, they were killed and thus the Christian victory was achieved.32 In all these cases, the female Other

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possesses supernatural powers, but these are the menacing, dangerous powers of sorcery. On the other hand, both sides describe the female captive as young and beautiful, a conqueror’s trophy, but she was usually expected to convert and thus cease to be a threat.33 Therefore, the enemy, whether male or female, was perceived as a religious threat, not just a military one. How did this complex relationship find expression in treaty-making?

Negotiating peace Despite the aforementioned view of the adversary not only as a military but also as a religious threat, treaty-making between the sides was nonetheless feasible. Some 120 treaties were in fact reached between 1098 and 1291 in the Latin East and show that the parties involved recognized and understood the difference between religious rhetoric and realpolitik. The negotiations included diplomatic messages transferred by emissaries; trust-building gestures, such as gifts; and physical gestures, such as extending hands in a public show of good intentions, bowing, and laying down of weapons. The exchange of prisoners of war, who themselves sometimes functioned as negotiators, was another facet of trust-building contact. However, the most sensitive stage was that of signing the treaty. In the absence of trust between the sides, what was the worth of a written, signed treaty, especially in societies that primarily valued oral and visual ceremonies? Because no written treaties have survived from the first generations of encounters between the crusaders and the local rulers, it is impossible to reconstruct their wording. The Abbasids and the Seljuk Turks already had the experience of interreligious encounters with the Byzantines before 1095, and some crusader leaders may have been familiar with such contacts in Spain and with the Taifa states there,34 but, for most participants in the First Crusade, interreligious negotiations were a new experience. It may be that the vanquished side presented the terms of capitulation, and the crusaders simply accepted them; this perhaps explains why the terms of the early treaties as reported in the chronicles (but without the actual text) resembled those of earlier treaties in the East.35 However, even if the crusaders adopted the wording of the weaker Turkish side, the gestures of peacemaking were often dictated by the stronger side, then the crusaders.36 A treaty was only part of an agreement; other sureties were needed to strengthen its binding power on both sides. One such surety was hostage exchanges, preferably individuals dear to the ruler, whose lives he would hesitate to jeopardize.37 This was an effective surety, known to both Muslims and crusaders, but used mostly for open-ended agreements.38 But one of the main instruments of surety was the oath. For both sides to the agreement, the publicly taken oath formed a meeting point between a physical gesture to be seen and remembered by all, and a religious ritual that made God himself the guarantor that the peace would be kept. At the same time, it necessitated certain knowledge of the Other, his religious tenets and identity.

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Obviously, an oath sworn on the Christian God would have no value for a Muslim and vice versa; it would thus be completely useless. In order for an oath to be binding it had to be constructed according to the other side’s beliefs, making cheating impossible and ensuring that the oath taker would endanger himself by taking his God’s name in vain. This was true both for Christians and Muslims, as Vicens put it: Oaths as a legal proof were one of the foundations upon which medieval law rested. Within the community, oath formulas went to the core of one’s identity and place within society, as they defined the identity (Christian, Muslim or Jewish) of the individual taking the oath.39 Thus in civil law, both in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem and in Spain, there was a clear definition of how people of different religions were supposed to swear a binding oath. In both cases, however, the lawgiver assumed that the Christian notion of an oath as a ritual of swearing on a holy book or object would also be binding for other religions. The Latin assizes enumerate the books on which the different denominations have to swear: the Jews on their Torah, the Samaritans on theirs, the Muslims on the Qur’an, etc.40 The thirteenth-century Siete Partidas provides the following stipulation: “because oftentimes [disputes] arise on oaths, we want to show in this law the true form in which Christians must swear; and after, we will show how Jews and Muslims must swear.”41 The oath as surety was apparently part of the negotiations between the sides from their earliest encounters, although the sources provide only a shadowy picture of how this was accomplished. The Gesta Francorum describes the first Frankish diplomatic messenger: Peter the Hermit who was sent to negotiate with Kerbugha of Mosul outside the walls of Antioch in 1098. Notwithstanding Peter’s bragging report that he asked Kerbugha to convert to Christianity, he probably suggested that the future possession of the city be decided by knightly duels.42 The proposed surety was hostages and “an oath sworn on both sides – you in your god, they in theirs” (tu in deo tuo, ipsi in deo suo).43 As the offer was not heeded, we do not know how this oath was supposed to have been sworn. In 1099, Count Raymond made a treaty with the ruler of Shaizar while he was at Maarra and Kafartab and helped to conquer a nearby castle. “The garrison of the castle surrendered to the count, and gave him horses and refined gold and he swore on his Law (iurauerunt sua lege) that they would do no harm to the pilgrims.”44 If the ruler of Shaizar swore on the Qur’an that may mean that Raymond forced on him the European concept of an oath on a holy book or relic – a concept that was foreign to Muslims. The Western notion of an oath was a public, physical gesture linking a holy object and the words uttered. It was performed on relics, invoking the saint as guarantor of good faith, or on the Bible. Thus when the Bayeux tapestry depicts Harold’s oath to William of Normandy, he is shown placing

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his hands on two relics.45 This may be seen as a doubly strong oath, one that incidentally was not kept, or as a symbol of Harold’s duplicitous perjury.46 The origins of this corporeal oath (iuramentum corporaliter praestitum) – touching a holy scripture – lie in Justinian law, but achieved greater prominence in Frankish mores.47 The Muslim concept of an oath emphasized the invoking of the name of God, and a declaration of faith was an integral part of oath taking. This was also performed in public as, for example, by standing up in the mosque and reciting the formula “there is no God but God.” In this declaration of faith, the main force of the oath as a legal component of a treaty or a lawsuit inhered in the words recited, not in a physical object. In any event, the oath as part of treaty signing between two different groups and religions fostered a different attitude toward the Other. In order to make the oath an effective tool, it was imperative to know something of the Other’s beliefs and mores. At the very least, Christians had to know what objects Muslims regarded as holy if they wanted to enforce their concept of swearing on a holy book; for their part, Muslims had to know something about the religious tenets of the Franks. As the encounter between the enemies took place at different periods and under different balances of power, no one set of oaths became the norm. The Franks continued to require an oath on the Holy Scriptures, but after they learned the meaning of the Muslim oath as a declaration of faith and were forced to take such oaths, they too asked their Muslim partners to a treaty to swear in the same fashion. William of Tyre describes how the Fatimid caliph was forced to pronounce the oath syllable by syllable in 1167. If this means, as Köhler thought, that he swore in Latin, it fits the other part of the oath – extending his bare hand – both part of the Frankish mode of oath taking.48 But whereas forcing a Frankish gesture on the caliph was a show of power, using a Latin oath would be useless, as it would not be binding. It could have been that the caliph did in fact recite an Arabic oath, like the ahd Allah, and that it was spoken in a declaratory, slow manner so that the messenger, who probably knew some Arabic, could follow. According to Richard of Devizes, in 1192, Richard the Lionheart did not bother to read the text of the oath he was supposed to take and only gave his hand: apparently, the Muslim way of formulating an oath had little meaning for him.49 It seems less likely that he did not read the terms of the treaty, even if he was indeed sick at the time. The negotiation of terms was extended, with messengers going back and forth between the sides. Richard may have understood that he had been maneuvered by his men into signing the treaty, but would still have wanted to know the details. The oath as a declaration of faith might have had less importance in his eyes as he was not familiar with eastern mores. Oliver of Paderborn cites al-Kamil’s oath after the crusaders lost Damietta in the Fifth Crusade (1221):

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I Kamil, King of Babylon, from a pure heart and a good will, and without interruption, do swear by the Lord, by the Lord, by the Lord and my law, that I will in good faith observe all the things that this written paper contains which is placed under my hand; if I shall not do this, may I be separated from future judgment and the society of Muhammed, and may I acknowledge the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.50 Oliver’s narrative does not include the oath required of the Christian side, but he does detail the terms of the treaty and tries to make his readers think that, under the circumstances, trading Damietta for the Holy Cross and the captives was a good bargain.51 His comments on the threefold invocation of God’s name by the sultan and his men, in spite of their disbelief in the Holy Trinity, show a certain interest in their beliefs. In this case, the oath was clearly performed according to Muslim mores: swearing in God’s name alone. Although the “lex” is mentioned, the sultan did not place his hand on a Qur’an, but rather on the paper that included the treaty itself, perhaps a compromise between the Christian and Muslim customs of oath taking. From his account and his comment on the wording of the oath, it appears that Oliver may have witnessed the public ceremony of oath taking or heard from trustworthy witnesses what had been said. If we compare the details to later oaths for which we have written documentation, then the formulations seem plausible. Joinville describes the oath taking that accompanied the treaty between the captive king Louis IX and the Mamluk emirs (1250) as a structured ceremony: first the formula of the oath was recorded, and only after it was read and its formulation approved did the ceremony itself take place. This part required knowledge of the enemy’s beliefs: The emirs were to swear that if they did not observe their covenant with the king they should be held as dishonoured as a man who in penance for a sin he has committed, goes on a pilgrimage to Mohamet at Mecca, with his head uncovered, or as worthy of shame as a man who, after repudiating his wife, takes her back again . . . Their third oath was as follows: that if they broke with the king, they were to incur the same disgrace as a Saracen who has eaten pork.52 Note that these oaths have more to do with everyday conduct and popular religion than with the basic tenets of Islam and were linked to the honor of the emirs who gave the oath, unlike the oaths found in legal texts whose strength stems from the use of God’s name in a public ceremony.53 Clearly, in order to ask for such an oath, the crusaders had to know more details about their enemy than what they could have learned from the preaching in Europe, although by the mid-thirteenth century, knowledge of Muslim mores, for example, that they did not eat pork, was more widespread in Europe than it had been a century earlier. What is important here are the

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king’s perceptions and the role played by a Frankish priest: “The king was satisfied with these oaths . . . because Nicole d’Acre, a priest who knew their language, assured him that according to their law they could have devised no oaths that were stronger or more binding.”54 Although the aim was not to learn about the Other’s religion, the result was a better understanding achieved by a Frankish priest from the kingdom of Jerusalem, who was familiar with the mores and religious tenets of both sides. Whatever knowledge Louis IX may have brought with him from France, he wanted the assurances of a local Frankish priest. The oath that Louis IX was required to take was also put in writing and devised by “certain renegade priests who had gone over to the side of the Saracens.” Once again, familiarity with the beliefs and mores of the other side was imperative. The assumption was that only a former insider, a renegade Christian, would know enough about the enemy’s religious tenets to create a formula that would be binding and effective from his point of view. In this case as well, socioreligious aspects or even popular beliefs carried more weight than Christian dogma. Whereas Louis was willing to swear that if he did not keep the treaty “he would be dishonoured as a Christian who denies our Lord and His mother and becomes an outcast from the fellowship of His twelve apostles and all the saints,” he balked at the oath that he would be “as dishonoured as a Christian who denies God and His law and in contempt of Him spits on the cross and tramples it underfoot.”55 The saintly king refused to swear, even though he was being held captive at the time and his life was endangered. He consented only after the old patriarch, who had been severely tortured in order to put pressure on the king, took upon himself whatever sin was involved. The devotion to the cross weighed more heavily on the king’s conscience than the dogmatic formulations of basic Christian tenets. To be aware of such niceties there was a need for intimate knowledge of the other side, one that could not be learned from books. The old patriarch, who admittedly suffered greatly, probably assented to the oath because he saw it as normative and in no way exceptional in the East. Louis’s devotion to the cross and his recoil from using God’s name in vain are well attested elsewhere.56 It may be noted that sensitivity toward the cross as a relic formed the basis for the usual Western oath on a holy book or a relic. Joinville’s story was of course written to emphasize the saintly behavior of his king who remained steadfast even when facing death and torture (compare the description of the barnacle, a torture machine shown to the king that did not make him budge). But as Joinville was present at the time and oaths were staged and part of a drama, I tend to believe the good seneschal’s description. It seems that the texts of the oaths were formulated separately for each treaty. They reflect not just theological and social knowledge of the enemy but also the balance of power: not only could the stronger side dictate the terms of the treaty but could also determine the list of religious tenets each

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side would abrogate if it failed to keep the treaty. Thus in the last decades of the Latin Kingdom when the Mamluks were able to dictate the terms and oaths to the Christians, the oaths demanded of the Christians became more elaborately detailed and included many things that their enemies thought were vital to their faith and therefore a good surety when signing a treaty. Thanks to al-Qalqashandi’s handbook for the chancery, we have the written treaties between the Mamluk sultan Baybars and his heir alMansur Qalawun and various Latin entities (the Hospitallers in 1271, the Lady of Tyre in 1285, and the kingdom itself in 1283). By then it is clear that a written formula existed for the oath: Qalawun swore nine times by God and then detailed eight divine attributes, such as the Inaccessible, the Merciful, and the Compassionate. He swore by the truth of the Qur’an, Muhammad, and Ramadan. This was probably not defined by the other side, but rather exemplifies a regular Muslim oath, which is indeed a declaration of faith. The second part of the oath details what would happen if the truce was not kept and calls for 30 pilgrimages to Mecca barefoot, bareheaded, and fasting. The oath of al-Mansur Qalawun By God, by God, by God; By God, by God, by God; By God, by God, by God; By God the Inaccessible, He Who seeks out and overcomes, Who afflicts and favours, Who overtakes and destroys, Who knows what is manifest and what is hidden, Who knows what is secret and what is open, the Merciful, the Compassionate; By the truth of the Qur’ān, and Him who revealed it, and him to whom it was revealed, Muhammad b. ‘Abdallah (the blessing of God be upon him and peace); by what is said in it, chapter by chapter, verse by verse; By the truth of the month of Ramadan; I shall keep this blessed truth which has been established between myself and the kingdom of Acre. For its part, the oath of the Franks is long and very intricate. Although it necessitated detailed knowledge of Christianity, it is clearly modeled on the Muslim example. Thus in the list of things to be taken on by the one who abrogates the treaty the same 30 pilgrimages occur, barefooted and bareheaded, and among the religious tenets there is the great fast, clearly modeled on Ramadan. In other words, the Muslims, who had the upper hand, forced the Christians to take upon themselves a punishment that was meaningful mainly in the Muslim world.

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The oath of the Franks By God, by God, by God; By God, by God, by God; By God, by God, by God; By the truth of Christ, by the truth of Christ, by the truth of Christ; By the truth of the Cross, by the truth of the Cross, by the truth of the Cross, By the truth of the Three Persons of one Substance called the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, One God; By the truth of the venerated Divinity which was made man; By the truth of the pure Gospel and its contents; By the truth of the four Gospels brought by Matthew, Mark, Luke and John; By the truth of their prayers and benedictions; By the truth of the Twelve Disciples and the Seventy-two and the Three Hundred and Eighteen gathered for the Synod; By the truth of the Voice which came down from heaven upon the River Jordan and drove it back; By the truth of God, the Revealer of the Gospel to Jesus the son of Mary, the Spirit of God and His Word; By the truth of the Lady Mary, the Mother of the Light, Saint Mary, John the Baptist, Saint Thomas and Saint Matthew; By the truth of the Great Fast; By the truth of my religion and that which I worship, what I believe as a Christian, and what I have received from the fathers and priests in baptism; From this time and hour I intend sincerely and conscientiously to keep to the Sultan al-Malik al-Mansur and to his son . . . all that is contained in this blessed truce . . . If I violate it or abrogate it, I shall have abjured my religion, my belief and that which I worship; I shall be disobedient to the Church; I shall be obliged to make thirty pilgrimages to Jerusalem, barefoot and bareheaded; I shall be obliged to release a thousand Muslim prisoners from captivity with the Franks, and to set them free; and I shall have abjured the Divinity which was made man.57 Even if through the oaths each side learned about the Other, they reflect a mentality that remained strongly connected to their own society and its values. Where there was diplomatic will, compromises could be reached. Thus in a treaty between the Genoese ambassador Rodoano de Mauro and the Balearic ruler Abu Ibrahim ibn Muhammad ibn Ali in 1181, the formula was written in Latin, but was clearly translated literally from Arabic. The

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treaty begins with the words: In nomine Dei, qui est pius et misericors, a translation of the Bismallah, and continues with “may God bless all the prophets, peace be upon them.” This general opening, without the name of Muhammad, would make it possible for both Muslims and Christians to sign. Likewise, the name of one of the signatories, Homodei, was probably a translation of Abdallah.58 Similarly, the Christian side could use the name of God without mentioning Christ in order not to offend the Muslim recipient of the letter,59 and Pope Innocent III preferred to use the title Miramolinus for the Moroccan Almohad caliph, as he did not want to use the translation of amir el mu’minin (the leader of the faithful).60 In the commercial treaties between the Italian cities and the Muslims, however, there were instances in which even the problematic Islamic titles were retained. In the treaty between Pisa and Tunis in 1264, the Muslim side was described as “lo signore califfo grande et alto, per la gratia di Dio, elmire Momini Buabidelle” – that is, the title that the popes refused to use. In this case, too, the scribe did not translate elmire Momini as “leader of the faithful,” but did admit that by God’s grace he was the great and exalted caliph.61 Religion was therefore an important component in peacemaking in the medieval Latin East. However, whereas the stronger party could force the weaker to take an oath according to its own mores, it became clear that only by learning the Other’s beliefs would such an oath have any legal validity. Thus whereas the parties to the conflict in the Latin East by no means surrendered or changed their religious beliefs, their familiarity with the beliefs of the Other enabled peacemaking efforts backed by oaths. The original stereotypical portrayal of the adversary as idolaters who were to be eradicated became less prominent as the two sides engaged in agreements and treatymaking, giving way to more nuanced relationships between the parties. As reflected in oaths, they represent a process whereby each side acquired greater familiarity with the religious practices and tenets of the adversary.

Notes 1 Guibert of Nogent, Dei gesta per Francos et cinq autres textes, ed. Robert B. C. Huygens, CCCM 127a (Turnhout: Brepols, 1996), 113: “quid crucem, quid sanguinem, quid monumentum eruere.” 2 David R. Blanks and Michael Frasetto, eds., Western Views of Islam in Medieval and Early Modern Europe (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1999); Richard W. Southern, Western Views of Islam in the Middle Ages (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1978). 3 Guibert of Nogent, Dei gesta per Francos, 114. 4 John V. Tolan, “Muslims as Pagan Idolaters in Chronicles of the First Crusade,” in Western Views of Islam in Medieval and Early Modern Europe, ed. David R. Blanks and Michael Frasetto (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1999), 97–117. 5 Estoire d’Eracles (ca. 1300), Walters Art Museum, Baltimore, MS W.137, fol. 1, www.thedigitalwalters.org/Data/WaltersManuscripts/W137/data/W.137/sap/ W137_000005_sap.jpg. 6 Cf. the contemporary visual perceptions in sculpture in Ruth Bartal, “The Image of the Saracen in Romanesque Sculpture: Literary and Visual Perceptions,” in

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10 11

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14 15 16 17 18 19

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Yvonne Friedman Jerusalem the Golden: The Origins and Impact of the First Crusade, ed. Susan B. Edgington and Luis Garcīa-Guijarro (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), 329–45. For example, The Lutrell Psalter, Psalm 41, British Library, Add. MS 42310, fol. 82r, margin, in Debra Higgs Strickland, Saracens, Demons and Jews: Making Monsters in Medieval Arts (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2003), 167. Obviously, the illustrations are later than the First Crusade. Catherine Holmes, “Treaties between Byzantium and the Islamic World,” in War and Peace in Ancient and Medieval History, ed. Philip de Souza and John France (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 141–57; Nicolas Drocourt, “Passing on Political Information between Major Powers: The Key Role of Ambassadors between Byzantium and Some of Its Neighbours,” Al-Masāq: Islam and the Medieval Mediterranean 24 (2012): 91–112; see also his contribution to this volume. Niall Christie, Muslims and Crusaders: Christianity’s Wars in the Middle East, 1095–1382, from the Islamic Sources (London and New York: Routledge, 2014), 61, citing ‘Ali ibn Tahir al-Sulami, The Book of the Jihad of ‘Ali ibn Tahir alSulami (d.1106): Text, Translation and Commentary, ed. and trans. Niall Christie, Crusade Texts in Translation (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2015), 205, 212–13, 228–9. For example, Usama ibn Munqidh, The Book of Contemplation: Islam and the Crusades, trans. Paul M. Cobb (London: Penguin, 2008), 53, 127. Ibn al-Athīr, Al-Kamil fī’l-ta’rīkh, trans. Donald S. Richards as The Chronicle of Ibn al-Athīr for the Crusading Period (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006): e.g., “devil” (2.154), “God curse them” (1.21, 59, 108; 2.154). But cf. Niall Christie and Deborah Gerish, “Parallel Preachings: Urban II and al-Sulami,” Al-Masāq: Islam and the Medieval Mediterranean 15 (2003): 139–48. Both Chevedden and Christie and Gerish have compared al-Sulami’s book on jihad and the almost contemporary crusade propaganda. See Paul E. Chevedden, “The View of the Crusades from Rome and Damascus: The Geo-Strategic and Historical Perspectives of Pope Urban II and ‘Alī ibn Ṭāhir al-Sulami,” Oriens 39 (2011): 257–329; Christie and Gerish, “Parallel Preachings.” Heinrich Hagenmeyer, ed., Epistulae et chartae ad historiam primi belli sacri spectantes: Die Kreuzzugsbriefe aus den Jahren 1088–1100 (Innsbruck: Wagner, 1901), 140; Malcolm Barber and Keith Bate, trans., Letters from the East (Farnham: Ashgate, 2010), 16–17. Ibid., 23; Latin, 149. Ibid., 25; Latin, 152. Ibid., 18; Latin, 141–2. Ibid., 21; Latin, 147. Ibid., 29; Latin, 159. Penny J. Cole, “‘O, God, the Heathen Have Come into Your Inheritance’ (Ps. 78.1): The Theme of Religious Pollution in Crusade Documents, 1095–1188,” in Crusaders and Muslims in Twelfth-Century Syria, ed. Maya Shatzmiller (Leiden: Brill, 1993), 84–111. Benjamin Z. Kedar, “The Jerusalem Massacre of July 1099 in the Western Historiography of the Crusades,” Crusades 3 (2004): 15–76. Ralph of Caen, Gesta Tancredi in expeditione Hierosolymitana, ed. E. Martene and U. Durand, RHC Occ. 3 (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1866), 695–6. Translated as The Gesta Tancredi of Ralph of Caen: A History of the Normans on the First Crusade, by Bernard S. Bachrach and David S. Bachrach (Farnham: Ashgate, 2005), chaps. 129–30, 144: “A cast image, made from silver, sat on the highest throne. It was so heavy that six men with strong arms could hardly lift it, and ten barely sufficed to carry it . . . For it was an image of Mohamet, entirely

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28 29

30 31 32

33 34 35

36

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covered with gems, purple cloth and shining with gold. ‘Perhaps it is a statue of Mars or Apollo, for it could never be Christ. There are no insignia of Christ here, no cross, no crown, no key, no pierced side. Therefore this is not Christ but rather the first antichrist, the depraved and pernicious Mahomet.’” Xenia Muratova, “Western Chronicles of the First Crusade as Sources for the History of Art in the Holy Land,” in Crusader Art in the Twelfth Century, ed. Jaroslav Folda (Jerusalem: British School of Archaeology, 1982), 47–65. The next chapter describes division of booty with his soldiers, but not with the other groups in the crusader army. Rosalind Hill, ed. and trans., Gesta Francorum et aliorum Hierosolimitanorum: The Deeds of the Franks and the Other Pilgrims to Jerusalem (London: Thomas Nelson, 1962), 21. Ibid., 22. Ibid., 52. Matthew Paris, Chronica Majora, Cambridge Corpus Christi, MS 26, fol. 140r; Richard Vaughan, The Illustrated Chronicle of Matthew Paris (Dover, NH: A. Sutton, 1993), 99, www.warfare.gq.org/13/Chronica_Majora-Capture_of_the_ True_Cross_at_Hattin.htm?i=1. See Yvonne Friedman, “Masculine Attributes of the Other: The Shared Knightly Model,” forthcoming. Hill, Gesta Francorum, 53–6. See Natasha Hodgson, “The Role of Kerbogha’s Mother in the Gesta Francorum and Select Chronicles of the First Crusade,” in Gendering the Crusades, ed. Susan B. Edgington and Sarah Lambert (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2001), 162–76. Ernoul, La Chronique d’Ernoul et de Bernard le Trésorier, ed. M. L. de Mas Latrie (Paris: Renouard, 1871), #36; Margaret Ruth Morgan, ed., La Continuation de Guillaume de Tyr (1184–1197) (Paris: Paul Geuthner, 1982), 48. Ernoul, La Chronique d’Ernoul, #35; Morgan, La Continuation, 47–8. Raymond d’Aguilers, Historia Francorum qui ceperunt Iherusalem, trans. John H. Hill and Laurita L. Hill (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1968), 126. Allan Murray suggested at the conference on “Jerusalem and the Crusades: New Trends in the Study of the Crusading Movement and the Medieval Levant,” 6 December 2014, Jerusalem, that what Raymond described was women shouting (ululating) in order to encourage the defenders and that this was misunderstood by the crusaders as the incantation of a demonic spell. Yvonne Friedman, “Captivity and Ransom: The Experience of Women,” in Gendering the Crusades, ed. Susan B. Edgington and Sarah Lambert (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2001), 121–39. Thomas S. Asbridge, The Creation of the Principality of Antioch, 1098–1130 (Woodbridge, UK: Boydell, 2000), 48–9. Such was the situation during the seventh century when the Muslims conquered the same regions and the treaties were formulated by the conquered. See Milka Levy-Rubin, Non-Muslims in the Early Islamic Empire: From Surrender to Coexistence (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 32–50, 56–7. Yvonne Friedman, “Gestures of Conciliation: Peacemaking Endeavors in the Latin East,” in Laudem Hierosolymitani: Studies in Crusades and Medieval Culture in Honour of Benjamin Z. Kedar, ed. Iris Shagrir, Ronnie Ellenblum, and Jonathan Riley-Smith, Crusades: Subsidia 1 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), 31–48. Adam J. Kosto, Hostages in the Middle Ages (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 31–4. Ibid., 25–30. Belen Vicens, “Swearing by God: Muslim Oath-Taking in Late Medieval and Early Modern Christian Iberia,” Medieval Encounters 20 (2014): 117–51 (at 121).

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40 “Livre des Assises des Burgeois,” in Les Livres des assises et des usages du reaume de Jérusalem, ed. Eduard Heinrich von Kausler (Stuttgart: Krabbe, 1839), chap. 236, 273–4. 41 Robert I. Burns, ed., and Samuel Scott Parsons, trans., Las Siete Partidas (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2001), vol. 3, title xi, law xix. 42 Raymond d’Aguilers, 61, 63; Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana: History of the Journey to Jerusalem, ed. and trans. Susan B. Edgington (Oxford: Clarendon, 2007), IV.45, 319 (henceforth AA). 43 AA, 319. 44 Raymond d’Aguilers, 82. The castle was probably in al-Boukeia, which is described simply as the valley. 45 For the oath depicted on the tapestry, www.bayeuxtapestry.org.uk/Bayeux11. htm. 46 Jean-Claude Schmitt, “The Language of Gestures in the West: Third to Thirteenth Centuries,” in A Cultural History of Gesture, ed. Jan N. Bremmer and Herman Roodenburg (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991), 59–70. 47 Karl Heinz Ziegler, “The Influence of the Medieval Roman Law on Peace Treaties,” in Peace Treaties and International Law in European History: From the Late Middle Ages to World War One, ed. Randall Lesaffer (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 147–61. 48 William of Tyre, Guillaume de Tyr, Chronique, ed. Robert B. C. Huygens, CCCM 63, 63a (Turnhout: Brepols, 1981), 19.19; Michael A. Köhler, Alliances and Treaties between Frankish and Muslim Rulers in the Middle East: CrossCultural Diplomacy in the Period of the Crusades, trans. Peter M. Holt, ed. Konrad Hirschler (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 305. 49 Richard of Devizes, The Chronicle of Richard of Devizes of the Time of King Richard the First, ed. and trans. John T. Appleby (London: Thomas Nelson, 1963), 77–8. 50 “Ego Kemel, rex Babilonis, de puro corde et bona voluntate et absque interruptione iuro per Dominum, per Dominum, per Dominum et legem meam, me bona fide omnia firmiter observarum, que subiecta manui mee carta continent scripta, quod si non fecero, sim separatus a iudicio futuro ac societate Mahumeth et profitear Patrem et Filium et Spiritum sanctum.” See Hermann Hoogeweg, Schriften des Kölner Domscholasters, späteren Bischofs von Paderborn und Kardinalbischofs von S. Sabina Oliverus (Tübingen: Litterarischer Verein in Stuttgart, 1894), chap. 79, 275, translated by John J. Gavigan, The Capture of Damietta by Oliver Paderborn (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1948), 89. 51 “Commutationem optimam fecisse.” Ibid., chap. 80. 52 Jean Sire de Joinville, Histoire de Saint Louis: Credo et lettre à Louis X, ed. and trans. Natalis de Wailly (Paris: Librarie Hachette, 1874), #360–4, 197–8. English trans., Margaret R. B. Shaw, Joinville and Villehardouin: Chronicles of the Crusades (Harmondsworth, UK: Penguin, 1963), 254. 53 Cf. the tenets of faith in line with which a Muslim has to swear to according to Vicens, “Swearing by God,” 117–51. 54 Joinville, Histoire de Saint Louis #364; English trans., 254. 55 Ibid. 56 Bettina Lindorfer, “Peccatum Linguae and the Punishment of Speech Violation in the Middle Ages and Early Modern Times,” in Speaking in the Medieval World, ed. Jean E. Godsall-Myers, Cultures, Beliefs and Traditions 16 (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 23–42 (at 31). 57 Peter M. Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy (1260–1290): Treaties of Baybars and Qalāwūn with Christian Rulers (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 89–91. 58 Michele Amari, Nuovi ricordi arabici su la storia di Genova (Genova: Tipografica del R. Istituto sordo-muti, 1878), doc. I, 1–5, 45–75 (Arabic text; separate

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pagination, 1–29); idem, I Diplomi Arabi del R. Archivio Fiorentino (Florence: Le Monnier, 1863), Arabic doc. I, 1–6; Latin doc. VI, 255–6, cited by Alauddin Samarrai, “Arabs and Latins in the Middle Ages: Enemies, Partners and Scholars,” in Western Views of Islam in Medieval and Early Modern Europe, ed. David R. Blanks and Michael Frassetto (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1999), 137–45. 59 For example, the letter of Pope Gregory VII to the Berber ruler an-Nasir ibn Alennas. See Benjamin Z. Kedar, “Religion in Catholic-Muslim Correspondence and Treaties,” in Diplomatics in the Eastern Mediterranean, 1000–1500, ed. Alexander D. Beihammer, Maria G. Parani, and Christopher D. Schabel (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 408. 60 Ibid., 409. 61 Ibid., 415. Kedar explains the addition of Sancti Spiritu adsit nobis gratia. Ave Maria, gratia plene; Dominus tecum as a reaction of the scribe who used this kind of incantation “to ward off the consequences of having to write such sacrilegious sentences.” But he did write them nevertheless.

5

Islam as a peacemaking religion Self-image, medieval theory, and practice Yehoshua Frenkel

Introduction In recent decades, the relationship between the Franks and the various Muslim forces in the Eastern Mediterranean – including the rich details of war, accords, trade, and related topics as told in Muslim and Latin sources – has been thoroughly studied. These studies have led to a good understanding of the situation on the ground and support the argument that the Zangids, the Ayyubids, and the Mamluks did not see jihad against the Franks as a total war, preferring ceasefires and truces with the Latin Kingdom to conquest by force.1 Against the backdrop of the complicated reality in the medieval Near East, this chapter investigates the interplay between the medieval Muslim view of jihad as total confrontation and their willingness to enter into armistice negotiations with the non-Muslim enemy (muhadana). Part 1 deals with Muslim mnemohistory. Following a brief account of the popular remembrance of the emergence of the caliphate,2 I will focus on Muslim peace accords and truces with the Franks and their underlying juridical basis. Hence the chapter analyzes two terms systematically used to endorse and legitimate these agreements: hudna (the instrument of truce),3 and maṣlaḥa (the common good).4 It is crucial to stress, however, that these accords with non-Muslims did not aim to negotiate eternal peace. Rather, they were intended to conclude an armistice that would make it possible for the Muslims to come to terms with reality without relinquishing the notion of Islamic superiority. I show here that Muslim writers found it essential to draw a historical picture of Islam as a religion of tolerance that preferred truce to war, backing this image with pseudohistorical stories and documents. Certainly, military force was not the only instrument employed by Muslims to achieve their political goals.

Mnemohistory: Muslim memory of the emergence of the caliphate Islamic ethics relate human actions to the word of God. Muslims’ self-image is rooted in the belief that they are the chosen nation:5 a community graced by Allah and apart from other people (al-muslimunu ummatun duna al-nas/

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ukhrijat lil-nas). These Qur’anic verses and prophetic traditions constituted an important component in Muslims’ self-identity from the inception of the caliphate, and later generations of Muslims relied on them while developing the principle that they constituted the “best community” on earth. They were instrumental in shaping religious dogma and the attitude toward relations with non-Muslims.7 The Muslim collective’s self-image is well reflected in the pseudohistorical accounts of the emergence of Islam. These narratives, which project a picture of a confident community, reveal the belief (kerygma) that the successful military operations against the Byzantines and the Sassanids were a fulfillment of God’s promise to the prophet Muhammad and that these victories confirmed God’s assurances to his messenger. On the other hand, the writings also reflect the self-presentation of Islam as a compassionate religion. The narratives of the early Islamic conquests clearly claim that Muslims preferred a peaceful approach and refrained from brutality. The Islamic sources portray the early Muslims as a congregation of pious zealots who principally opted to choose nonviolent settlements and refrained from armed confrontation and savagery. The letters ascribed to the prophet Muhammad and the orders attributed to the caliph Abu Bakr mirror this vision of history. The so-called ʿUmar’s instructions to the army commanders who operated against the Byzantine and Persian empires encapsulate this attitude. Muslim literary sources tell the story of assumed contacts between the Byzantine basileus and the Arabs. One aspect of this story is an affinity between Heraclius and Muhammad, the prophet of Islam.8 The Byzantine ruler is said to have declared his willingness to convert; only the objections of his entourage blocked him from becoming a Muslim. The famous historian and Qurʾan interpreter al-Tabari (d. 935) narrates that the Byzantine emperor had a dream that he would beat the Sassanids; this vision was in line with a prophecy by Muhammad.9 Around this period, Heraclius purportedly received a letter from Muhammad. The biographer Ibn Saʿd recounts that, following the conclusion of the Ḥudaybiyya truce (6/628), the prophet Muhammad wrote an epistle to Caesar, calling on him to embrace Islam.10 It is difficult to accept the historicity of this narrative;11 nevertheless, for our purposes, it is sufficient to point out that the fiction was well received among medieval Muslims. Diḥya al-Kalbi is said to have been one of the ambassadors whom the prophet Muhammad dispatched to the neighboring emperors and monarchs.12 According to the important Damascene historian Ibn al-ʿAsakir, the prophet sent Diḥya to Heraclius (Hirqal), either following the Ḥudaybiyya truce (628) or the conquest of Khaybar (in 629). The ambassador was instructed to negotiate a truce (hudna) and to call on the emperor to convert to Islam. Heraclius is said to have confessed that he knew Islam was the true religion and even to have expressed readiness to convert. Only his courtiers’ reaction stopped him from embracing the “True Religion.”13

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Indeed, this semipacifistic tendency of the Muslim sources is noticeable in the traditions regarding the prophet Muhammad’s communications with communities along the edges of the Byzantine frontier. Thus, for example, the Prophet is said to have sent letters to the people of Adhruh, Miqna, and Eilat, promising them the protection of Allah and ensuring security (amān). Adding “the Messenger of Allah forgives you the wickedness you have done and for all the sins you have committed,” he promises them “and peace will be with you if you obey me.”14 According to these accounts, the Muslim conquerors of the Fertile Crescent favored reconciliation covenants (ṣulḥ) rather than conquest by force. Muhammad’s heir, the caliph Abu Bakr, is said to have instructed his army commanders with ten precepts (sic!). They included a ban on killing small children, elderly persons, or women: Ten precepts have I for you, remember them in my name. Do not betray. Do not embezzle or behave craftily. Do not disable. Do not kill a small child or an elderly person or a woman. Do not uproot palm trees and do not burn them. Do not fell a fruit-bearing tree. Do not slaughter sheep, steers, or camels unless it is for eating. When on your way, you will encounter those who have shut themselves up in monk’s cells, do not harm them and permit them to devote themselves to their chosen path. You will encounter people bearing vessels, offering you all kinds of foods. Invoke Allah for every dish. When you meet people who have shaved their heads in the middle and left a short halo around [i.e., monks], strike them with spears.15 Abbasid-period authors also ascribe to the caliph ʿUmar the sending of instructions to the Muslim commanders. He is said to have ordered the governors of the military districts: “Do not fight except for those who fight you; do not kill women and children. Collect the jizya only from adult men.”16 ʿUmar is also credited with granting security to the Christian residents of Jerusalem: To each person and his property, to their churches, their crosses, to the sick and the healthy, to all people of their creed . . . We shall not compel the people of Jerusalem to renounce their beliefs and we shall not do them any harm.17 This pseudoletter is in line with the tendency of the Muslim sources to depict the caliph as a benevolent commander who preferred peace and refrained from harassment of his subjects. Indeed, Muslim sources contain a number of idealistic presentations of the Muslim side as preferring peace. Such an idealistic presentation is even more noticeable in the so-called covenant of ʿUmar.18 In the stories about the conquest of Damascus by the Muslims, we are told that local Christians cooperated with the conquerors and facilitated

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their penetration of the walled, fortified city. Al-Baladhuri preserves and transmits this popular memory. He narrates that during the last phase of the siege of Damascus, a friend of the city’s bishop came to Khalid ibn al-Walid and informed him: It is the night of a feast for the inhabitants of the city and they were all busy. They blocked the eastern gate with stones and left it unguarded. He then suggested that Khalid should procure a ladder. Certain occupants of the convent, next to which Khalid’s army camped, brought him two ladders on which some Muslims climbed to the highest part of the wall, and descended to the gate which was guarded only by one or two men. The Muslims aided one another and opened the door. This took place at sunrise.19 Khalid ibn al-Walid is said to have provided the people of Damascus with a written document in which he stated: In the name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful. This is what Khalid grants to the inhabitants of Damascus, if he enters the city.20 He pledges to give them security (amān)21 for their lives, property and churches. Their city wall shall not be demolished; neither shall any Muslim be quartered in their houses. Thereunto they have the pact of Allah and the protection of his Prophet, the caliphs and the Believers. So long as they pay the poll-tax, nothing but good shall befall them.22 These and similar conquest stories reveal the semimythical dimensions of the Islamic sacred history of the emergence of the caliphate. The native population’s cooperation with the victorious armies is a prevailing topic. Often in these chapters, we also can read pseudodocuments that the Muslim commanders are said to have given to the defeated people. In most cases, they contain a version of nonviolence combined with provisions of security and coexistence. The inhabitants of the conquered land expected the coming of victorious Muslim armies. The texts certainly convey a portrayal of Islam as a peaceful religion and civilization. These pseudohistorical stories and documents are in line with the tendency of the Muslim sources to depict Islam as a benevolent religion that prefers peace and refrains from harassment of non-Muslim subjects. They argue that the “People of the Book” converted to Islam not because they were terrified by the threat of the sword, but because they were convinced that Islam is the ultimate, true religion.23 These accounts were not strange to the learned Muslims who experienced the religious war in Syria between the Franks and the armies of jihad, and also witnessed concords between the parties. Muslim jurists and chroniclers received them as factual narrative that should serve as a guideline.

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So far, I have dealt with mnemohistory, with Muslims’ memory and reception of stories of the spread of Islam, with the prevailing narrative of the emergence of the caliphate, and the image of conquerors driven by love of peace. These memories that were received as a factual story of the glorious past played a role in preparing the minds and hearts of the Muslim communities who faced the Latins. They facilitated the introduction of the idea of ceasefire, presenting it as an ideal. Their internalization of these pseudohistorical memories was a prerequisite for removing objections against ceasing to fight and promoting a search for political settlement instead.

Hudna Medieval Muslim realms were not isolated islands. Their rulers were forced to come to terms with reality and even to accept the legitimacy of nonMuslim powers. Commercial and diplomatic interests persuaded Muslim leaders to dispatch embassies to negotiate agreements with their neighbors, foes, and other non-Muslim forces. Muslim governors and jurists pondered the implications of border crossings by non-Muslims. This is demonstrated by numerous historical accounts as well as by the doctrine of Islamic international law.24 In addition to data about the ambassadors who carried out the missions, their conduct and manners, these reports also narrate various episodes that convey contemporary Muslims’ perceptions of non-Muslims. Yet the texts reveal that side by side with the rules of jihad, Muslim jurists provide a section on the regulations and stipulations of truce pacts with non-Muslims. The story of Abu Bakr al-Baqillani illuminates this point from two perspectives. The first is his polemical refutation of the basic doctrines of Christianity.25 The second can be detected in the accounts of his deeds while leading an embassy from Baghdad to Constantinople (in 371/981). On entering the palace of the Byzantine monarch, al-Baqillani learned that he was expected to kiss the ground before the emperor. He rejected that idea. In response, Emperor Basil the Second lowered the entrance gate so that alBaqillani would have to bend. However, the wise Muslim scholar entered the imperial presence backward. The emperor was surprised to see his rear first, and – according to the tale – expressed admiration of al-Baqillani’s wisdom.26 Muslim jurists comprehend as hudna (armistice or truce) a series of different interactions with the enemy. Ibn Qudama al-Hanbali, a well-known scion of a leading family from Damascus, explains what a hudna is, and clarifies the conditions for concluding such an arrangement: it is a temporary agreement (also called muhadana, muwadaʿa, and muʿahada) that Muslims conclude with a non-Muslim enemy (ahl al-ḥarb). The pause in fighting is permissible only until the Muslims regain strength. During this time, they can engage in negotiations with the enemy and establish

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commercial relations with them. Reports on these communications even mention amicable relations.27 This was not a new twelfth-century development. Accounts of gift exchanges with non-Muslims shed light on the arrival of Christian delegates to the central Islamic lands. In his book on gifts, Ibn al-Zubayr recounts the story of Queen Bertha of Tuscany who is said to have sent presents to the caliph al-Muktafi (293/906).28 From Italy, she shipped eunuchs, slave girls, dogs, and other items to Baghdad.29 In the story of King ʿUmar b. Nuʿman, which probably can be dated back to the thirteenth-century rendition of the Thousand and One Nights,30 we are told that he had a Greek concubine named Sophia, whom the Byzantine emperor had sent to Baghdad as a token of esteem.31 The pressing need for cross-border commerce encouraged Muslim jurists and rulers to issue safe-conducts (amān) that authorized non-Muslims to visit the Abode of Islam. In his “Book of Taxation [in Islam]” the Abbasidera qadi Abu Yusuf Yaʿqub ibn Ibrahim al-Ansari (113–182/731–798) poses a question: “O Commander of the Faithful, you asked me about an inhabitant of the Abode of War (ahl al-ḥarb) who departs his country and wishes to enter Dar al-Islam.”32 Al-Qadi Nuʿman quotes in his Pillars of Islam a tradition ascribed to ʿAli: No non-Muslim who enters a country inhabited by Muslims and seeks their protection, and later wishes to return [to his country of origin] shall be permitted to return with arms, that he bought in the land of Islam, since it can be used by him [to harm Muslims]. Nor shall he be permitted to carry away other things, which may enable him to fight [the Muslims].33 Similar clauses disclose that commercial negotiations with the lands beyond the frontier of the caliphate were a common practice.34 That these regulations and instructions were not merely letters in books but mirrored actual practices can be inferred from a paragraph in Kitab al-Majalis walMusayarat (The Book of Sessions and Excursions) that tells of the negotiations between a Byzantine ambassador, who brought the annual tribute (jizya) to Qayrawan, and the Fatimid Imam al-Muʿizz (932–975).35 The Byzantine emperor is said to have released a great number of prisoners and to have asked the imam (caliph) to refrain from attacking Byzantium and to agree to an armistice treaty (muwada‘a).36 During the conversation, the ambassador called on the Commander of the Faithful to agree on a perpetual truce (hudna mu’abbada). To this request the imam al-Mu‘izz answered: Religion and the canon law (al-sharīʾa) did not admit such a perpetual truce … Allah had sent his prophet Mohammed and set up the Imams after him from among his descendants in order to call mankind to His religion (dīn) and to make holy war (yujahiduna) against the

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Yehoshua Frenkel recalcitrant till they embraced the religion [i.e., Islam] or “they pay the tribute (jizya) readily, being subdued” [Qur’an, al-Tawba 9:29; Arberry trans.], accepting the sovereignty of the Imam of the Muslims and seeking his protection (dhimmatihi). Truce (muwadaʿa) is admissible for a fixed time only, according to what in the opinion of the Imam of the Muslims was convenient for them and served the interests of [their] religion. If a permanent [truce] were agreed upon, the holy war (jihād), which is a religious duty for all Believers, would fall into abeyance, the propagation of Islam would cease and the command of the Book [i.e., the Qur’an] would be contravened.

The ambassador asked al-Muʿizz for an extension of the period of the truce (hudna). The Fatimid caliph answered: As long as he [the Byzantine Emperor] keeps the terms which we propose and he accepts, we shall not open hostilities against him, till he breaks the agreement or till the expiration of the period of the truce (muwadaʿa) between us. We shall not act in a perfidious and treacherous manner as is your custom.37 Al-Qadi Nuʿman devotes a section in his Pillars of Islam to “reconciliation (ṣulḥ), truce treaty (muwada‘a) and poll-tax.” In the introduction to this passage, he provides the rationale for these paths of action: If [the Imam] deems it beneficial (khayran) for the Muslim, he may act accordingly [as did Muhammad in Ḥudaybiyya] on the condition that he receives tribute from the polytheists, or he may conclude treaties without demanding tribute [from the non-Muslims]. This truce (muwādaʿa) may be for a year or two. The maximum period for which a pact may be concluded with the polytheists is ten years, no more.38 The previous paragraphs illuminate Muslims’ perceptions of diplomacy, truce, and commerce in the precrusader centuries. That these were not merely words can be deduced from various accounts of the First Crusade.39 “At this time there were in our camp envoys from the King of Babylon (i.e., the Fatimid Imam),” wrote Raymond d’Aguilers, canon of Notre Dame du Puy-en-Velay, adding: These envoys, moreover, promised us favor and good will with their king; besides, they told of very many good deeds of their king toward the Egyptian Christians and our pilgrims. Thereupon, our envoys were sent back with them to enter upon a treaty and friendship with the King.40 Albert of Aachen mentions that Kerbugha/Kirbogha (Kürboğa in Turkish), the ruler (atabeg) of Mosul at the time of the First Crusade, did not refuse to

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receive Peter the Hermit and his interpreter Herluin, who were dispatched by Godfrey and Bohemond in an attempt to conclude an agreement.41 The numerous truces agreed upon between the Latins and Muslim rulers are well documented and have been studied by several scholars.42 It suffices here to provide a few examples. The Franks and ‘Umar of Tell Azaz agreed on collaboration already in 496/1102–3, only a couple of years after their arrival in Northern Syria.43 It seems that the first truce treaty and amicable relations (muhadana wa-muwadaʿa) between the Franks and Damascus was agreed as early as AH 502 (1108–9).44 A second agreement was signed in summer 504/1111.45 As the inner-Ayyubid conflict intensified, so did the readiness of members of this family to conclude cooperative agreements with others in order to fight their own flesh and blood. Thus, for example, ʿImad al-Din Ismail, the ruler of Damascus, and al-Malik al-Mansur Ibrahim, the ruler of Homs, sent to the Franks and offered them the entire coastal region of Palestine on condition that the crusaders join them in an attack on Ayyubid Egypt (in 642/1244). In one of the accounts of this coalition we read, “The Damascus troops marched beneath the banners of the Franks, with the Cross over the Muslims and carrying cups of wine in their hands.”46 Even if we dismiss this account merely as anti-Ayyubid propaganda, we should nevertheless pay attention to the fact that the author does not consider this an impossible development. Contemporary Arab authors reported the diplomatic exchanges between the Mamluk sultanate and the Franks.47 These measures followed earlier, Ayyubid, political maneuvers. Deeds of several of the agreements signed by the parties have been preserved in European archives.48 They tell of the agreement (ittifaq) between al-Malik al-Salih Ismaʿil, the Ayyubid ruler of Damascus, and the Franks. A principal item in the agreement dealt with the transfer of Jerusalem to the Franks.49 King Louis and the Muslims negotiated a ceasefire accord (ṣulḥ) in Damietta (Safar 648/May 1250).50 Al-Malik al-Ṣaliḥ Najm al-Din Ayyub (1240–49) sent Siraj al-Din alUrmawi to Italy to meet with Emperor Frederick.51 Several years later (in 659/1261), Baybars sent Muḥammad ibn Wasil to Barletta in Apulia to meet with Manfred, the son of the late Frederick. Ibn Wasil portrays the emperor as a remarkable man. During his conversions with Sir Berto, Manfred’s master of ceremonies (mihmandar), he learned of the conflict between the papacy and the Hohenstaufens. Yet, in addition to the information and episodes that he tells, Ibn Wasil uses his report to elevate Islam and debase Christianity.52 Ibn Wasil also reports on another meeting, which presumably took place between the emperor and Fakhr al-Din ibn al-Shaykh at Acre. The Muslim officer is said to have explained to the Christian king what the caliph is. On hearing the explanation, the emperor expresses his admiration of Islamic political theory and the role of ahl al-bayt, adding: But these stupid men, meaning the Franks, take a man from the dungheap, without any bond of blood or relationship with the Messiah,

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Yehoshua Frenkel ignorant and incapable of making himself understood, and they make him their Caliph, the representative of the Messiah among them, a man who could not possibly be worthy of such an office. Whereas your Caliph, a descendant of your Prophet, is clearly more worthy than any other man of the dignity invested in him.53

That this Islamic international policy continued after the crusades we learn from the account by the famous historian Ibn Khaldun, who served on several occasions as the Maliki judge of the Mamluk sultanate. He reports on his meeting with Timur (Tamerlane) in Damascus (in 803/1401) and provides, inter alia, another example of negotiations between the sultanate and nonMuslims. Ibn Khaldun describes Timur’s tent and the audience, as well as his conversation with the well-known warrior and the account he wrote for him.54

Common good (maṣlaḥa) A requisite for hudna is the Islamic principle of securing benefit for the congregation.55 Leading Muslim scholars argued that it is acceptable only if it is in the favor (naẓar) of the Believer, and hence should be well defined with a fixed time period.56 The famous Syrian scholar al-Nawawi scrutinizes the traditions concerning the Ḥudaybiyya accord between the prophet Muhammad and the polytheists of Mecca and deduces, “All these prophetic traditions indicate that a compromise (muṣalaḥa) with the heathen is possible if it is in the interests of common good (maṣlaḥa) and benefits [the Muslims]. Certainly its legitimacy is agreed in a situation of necessity (ḥaja).”57 This is also the opinion of al-Kasani, who states that compromise (muṣalaḥa) is possible only if urgent necessity (ḍarura) forces armistice or truce. This unavoidable ceasefire is only for the interim, until the Muslims are able to once again fulfill the duty of jihad.58 Ibn Hajar al-ʾAsqalani, the renowned Mamluk savant, claims that Muslims should conclude a truce only if forced to do so by necessity (ḍarura).59 Ibn Taymiyya follows a similar line of reasoning. Explaining the aims of jihad he states, in his exegesis of the Qurʾan, that the general interest of the Muslims might swing between war (qital) and armistice treaty (muhadana).60 In his voluminous collections of responsa, Ibn Taymiyya opens the chapter on truce treaties (hudna) with the statement, “It is permissible to conclude a truce. The head of the Muslims (imam) has the authority to conclude an unrestricted (mutlaq) treaty if this benefits [the Muslims].”61 The permission to accomplish these measures is grounded in the necessity to safeguard the Muslim. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya, a devoted disciple of Ibn Taymiyya, faithfully follows his master’s line of argumentation and elaborates further on the topic of peace accords. He says that if the head of the Muslim community opts to conclude a hudna truce, he can accomplish it completely, without

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qualifications or limitations. Ibn Qayyim argues, in line with his working methodology, that the precedent of Ḥudaybiyya demonstrates that the imam is authorized to search for reconciliation (ṣulḥ) and instigate an armistice concord with the enemy, if he assumes that this agreement would be favorable for the Muslims and benefits the public good. He can take the initiative and he is not supposed to linger until approached by the enemy.62 By conferring the initiative for an armistice on the Muslims, Ibn Qayyim indeed deviates from the path taken by other scholars who argue that such proposals should come from the enemy. These jurisprudents took as their point of departure the Qurʾanic verse: “If they [the enemy] are inclined towards peace (salm), do you too incline towards them. Trust Allah.”63 Yet even these scholars do not refute the legality (mashruʿiyya) of a treaty (muwadaʿa) with polytheists. The only restriction they pose is the question of seeking utility (intifaʿ).64

Conclusion Muslim thinkers did not rule out religious coexistence. Yet they could not state openly that war against non-Muslims was an irrelevant idea and that eternal peace should be dominant. This, however, should not lead us to conclude that the writers cited here opted in favor of endless wars, although they did not surrender the self-image of Islamic superiority. This can be traced even in the writings of contemporary Muslim theorists. For Hasan alBanna, for example, war against unbelievers is a religious duty of Muslims. Yet he does not object to the presence of non-Muslims within the Abode of Islam. However, they cannot be equal citizens and have to be reduced to the status of dhimmis (protected people).65 We should look at the history of encounters between Islam and the nonMuslims as a broad picture of a wide ocean, with its waves, peaks and dips, tides and ebbs. In other words, we should interpret Islam’s communication with the Other as a sequence of changing situations and conditions. In each chapter, the concrete historical situation should be investigated. There is no room for a general, sweeping simplification of a long and mutable narrative of the past. Certainly, it would be wrong to present the past as a story of ongoing clashes between the Abode of Islam and the Abode of War. To claim that Muslims were at all times ready to take to the battlefield, aspiring to use their swords in order to defeat their rivals, is simply wrong, just as it is ahistorical to claim that Islam is a religion of peace.66

Notes 1 Carole Hillenbrand, The Crusades: Islamic Perspectives (London: Routledge, 1999). 2 Jan Assmann, Moses the Egyptian: The Memory of Egypt in Western Monotheism (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998), 8–9.

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3 Gideon Weigert, “A Note on Hudna: Peacemaking in Islam,” in War and Society in the Eastern Mediterranean, 7th–15th Centuries, ed. Yaacov Lev (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 399–405; for a more general perspective, see Nir Eisikovits, “Truce!” in Justice, Responsibility and Reconciliation in the Wake of Conflict, ed. Alice MacLachlan and Allen Speight (New York: Springer, 2013), 13–30. 4 Wael B. Hallaq, “Considerations on the Function and Character of Sunnī Legal Theory,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 104 (1984): 686–7; Leor Halevi, “Christian Impurity versus Economic Necessity: A Fifteenth-Century Fatwa on European Paper,” Speculum 83 (2008): 937–8. 5 Qurʾan, Ấl ‘Imran, 3:110 (Arabic: kuntum haira ummatin). 6 Qurʾan, Ấl ‘Imran, 3:103. 7 This is clearly visible in al-Baqillani’s treatise on the stylistic inimitability (iʿjāz) of the Qurʿan. See Abu Bakr Muḥammad ibn al-Tayyib al-Baqillani (d. 1015), I‘jaz al-qur’ān (Cairo, 1951), 44–7; and in the writings of the qadi ‘Abd al-Jabbār al-Hamadhani (d. 415/1025). See David Thomas, Christian Doctrines in Islamic Theology (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 207, 211. 8 Nadia Maria El-Cheikh, “Muḥammad and Heraclius: A Study in Legitimacy,” Studia Islamica 89 (1999): 5–21. 9 Cf. Qurʾan, al-Rum, 30:1–5. 10 Muhammad Hamidullah, “La lettre du Prophète à Héraclius et le sort de l’original,” Arabica 2 (1955): 97–110. 11 Cf. Stefan Leder, “The Use of Composite Form in the Making of the Islamic Historical Tradition,” in On Fiction and Adab in Medieval Arabic Literature, ed. Philip F. Kennedy (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2005), 133. 12 Suliman Bashear, “The Mission of Dihya al-Kalbi and the Situation in Syria,” Der Islam 74 (1997): 64–91; Nadia Maria El-Cheikh, Byzantium Viewed by the Arabs (Boston: Harvard Middle Eastern Monographs, 2004), 43–7. 13 Abu al-Qasim ‘Ali Ibn ‘Asakir (499–571/1071–1176), Ta’rikh madinat dimashq wa-dhikr fadliha wa-tasmiyat man hallaha min al-amathil au ijtaza bi-nawahiha min waridiha au ahaliha, ed. M. al-‘Amrawi (Damascus: Dar al-Fikr, 1415/1995), 17:203–5, 208–9. 14 The letters have been preserved in al-Waqidi, Ibn Sa‘d and al-Tabari. See Moshe Gil, A History of Palestine, 634–1099 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 28–9. 15 Abu Ja‘far Muhammad b. Jarir al-Tabari (224–310/838–923), Taʾrikh al-rusul wal-muluk, ed. M. J. de Goeje (Leiden: Brill, 1879), 1:1850; Fred M. Donner, trans., The Conquest of Arabia (New York: SUNY, 1993), 16; see Gil, A History of Palestine, 35–6, 36 n. 35 (for a discussion of the tonsure). 16 Abu al-Faraj Qudama ibn Jaʿfar al-Khatib al-Baghdadi (d. 337/948), al-Kharaj wa-sinaʿat al-kitaba, ed. M. H. al-Zubaydi (Baghdad: Dar al-Rashid lil-nashr, 1981), 225. 17 al-Tabari, Taʾrikh, quoted in Gil, A History of Palestine, 53–4. 18 Arthur S. Tritton, The Caliphs and Their Non-Muslim Subjects: A Critical Study of the Covenant of ʿUmar (London: F. Cass, 1950). 19 Abu al-‘Abbas Ahmad b. Yahya b. Jabir al-Baladhuri (d. ca. 279/892), Futuh alBuldan, ed. Raḍwān M. Raḍwān (Beirut: Dar al-kutub al-ilmiyya, 1398/1978), 128. Cf. Philip Khuri Hitti, trans., The Origins of the Islamic State (reprint, Beirut: Khayat, 1966), 187. 20 This assurance by Khalid reproduces the words of a document he was supposed to give to citizens in southern Iraq. He stated, “You have the protection and the defense [of Islam]. If we defend you, the jizya is due to us, if we do not, it is not until we defend you” (al-Tabari, Ta’rikh [ed. Ibrahim], 3:368; Bernard Lewis, ed. and trans., Islam from the Prophet Muhammad to the Capture of Constantinople (New York: Harper & Row, 1974), 1:235.

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21 Majid Khadduri, War and Peace in the Law of Islam (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1955), 163–6. 22 al-Baladhuri, Futuh al-Buldan, 128; Hitti, The Origins of the Islamic State, 187. 23 Whereas the Muslim sources term the fighting of Islam futuhat (openings) and frame the victories as resulting from Allah’s intervention (nassar), the nonMuslims led aggressive wars (hurub). 24 ʿAli Hasan Jamal, Ahkam al-Hudna (San‘a: al-Iman University, 2004). 25 Wadi Z. Haddad, “A Tenth-Century Speculative Theologian’s Refutation of the Basic Doctrines of Christianity: al-Baqillani (d. A.D. 1013),” in ChristianMuslim Encounters, ed. Yvonne Y. Haddad and Wadī‘ Z. Haddad (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1995), 82–94 (at 85). 26 Abu al-Qasim ʿAli Ibn ʿAsakir (499–571/1106–1176), Tabyin kadhb al-muftari fima nusiba ila al-ashʿari, ed. Muhammad al-Kawthari (Cairo: al-Maktaba alAzhariyya lil-turath, 2010), 169–70; Thomas, Christian Doctrines in Islamic Theology, 120; Yusuf Ibish, “Life and Works of al-Baqillani,” Islamic Studies 4 (1965): 225–36; Camilla Adang, Muslim Writers on Judaism and the Hebrew Bible: From Ibn Rabban to Ibn Hazm (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 52. 27 Paul E. Chevedden, “The Islamic Interpretation of the Crusade: A New (Old) Paradigm for Understanding the Crusades,” Der Islam 83 (2006): 98–9; Taef El-Azhari, Zengi and the Muslim Response to the Crusades: The Politics of Jihad (London: Routledge, 2015), 85–6. 28 Bernard Lewis, “The Muslim Discovery of Europe,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 20 (1957): 412. 29 Rashid ibn al-Zubayr, al-Dhakhaiir wal-tuhaf (Kuwait: Dairat al-matbuʿat, 1959), 48 (no. 69; quoting Ibn Tahir Tayfur, Taʾrikh Baghdad); Ann Christys, “The Queen of the Franks Offers Gifts to the Caliph al-Muktafi’,” in The Languages of Gift in the Early Middle Ages, ed. Wendy Davies and Paul Fouracre (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 150–3. 30 Ulrich Marzolph, Richard van Leeuwen, and Hassan Wassouf, eds., The Arabian Nights Encyclopedia (Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-CLIO, 2004), 1:434. 31 William Hay Macnaghten, ed., The Alif laila or Book of the Thousand Nights and One Night (Calcutta: Thacker, 1839), 1:352 (Arabic); E. Powys Mathers, trans., The Book of the Thousand Nights and One Night (London: Routledge, 1993), 1:347; Richard F. Burton, trans., Plain and Literal Translation of the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments, Now Entitled the Book of the Thousand Nights and Night (London: Burton Club [for private subscribers only], 1885–1886), 2:79. 32 Abu Yusuf Yaʿqub ibn Ibrahim al-Ansari (113–182/731–798), Kitab al-kharaj (Beirut: Dar al-Maʿrifa, 1399/1979), 187; Edmond Fagnan, trans., Le livre de l’impot foncier (Kitab El-Kharadj) par Abou Yousuf (Paris: Librairie Orientaliste Paul Geuthner, 1921), 290. 33 Qadi Abu Ḥanifah Nu‘man b. Muhammad (d. 363/974), Da‘a’im al-islam, 1:378; Asaf A. A. Fyzee, trans., The Pillars of Islam [completely revised and annotated by Ismail K. H. Poonawala] (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002– 2004), 1:467–8. 34 al-Ansari, Kitab al-kharaj, 187; English trans.: Aharon Ben Shemesh, Abū Yūsuf’s Kitāb al-kharāj (Leiden: Brill, 1969), 141–2. 35 Qadi Abu Ḥanifah Nu‘man b. Muhammad, Kitab al-majalis wal-musayarat, ed. al-Ya‘lawi (Beirut: Dar al-Muntaẓar, 1997), 366–8; Samuel Miklos Stern, “An Embassy of the Byzantine Emperor,” Byzantion 20 (1950): 239–58. 36 Hadia Dajani-Shakeel, “Diplomatic Relations between Muslim and Frankish Rulers (1097–1153),” in Crusaders and Muslims in Twelfth-century Syria, ed. Maya Shatzmiller (Leiden: Brill, 1993), 211; Yohanan Friedmann, Tolerance and Coercion in Islam: Interfaith Relations in the Muslim Tradition (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 102.

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37 Translation based on Stern, “An Embassy of the Byzantine Emperor,” 245–6; slightly revised. 38 al-Qadi Abu Ḥanifah Nu‘man b. Muhammad, Da‘a’im al-islam, 1:379; Fyzee, Pillars of Islam, 1:468. 39 Dajani-Shakeel, “Diplomatic Relations,” 190–215. 40 August C. Krey, The First Crusade: The Accounts of Eye-Witnesses and Participants (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1921), 142. 41 Susan B. Edgington, ed. and trans., Albert of Aachen Historia Ierosolimitana: History of the Journey to Jerusalem, Oxford Medieval Texts (Oxford: Clarendon, 2007), 317–19; Edward Peters, ed., The First Crusade: The Chronicle of Fulcher of Chartres and Other Source Material, 2nd ed. (Philadelphia: Penn, 1998), 78–80. 42 Peter M. Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy, 1260–1290 (Leiden: Brill, 1995); Michael A. Köhler, Alliances and Treaties between Frankish and Muslim Rulers, trans. Peter M. Holt, ed. Konrad Hirschler (Leiden: Brill, 2012). 43 Ibn al-Adim, Zubda, ed. Suhayl Zakkar, in al-Mawsūʻah al-Shāmīyah fī tārīkh al-Ḥurūb al-Ṣalībīyah [The Comprehensive Encyclopaedia of the Crusaders’ Wars] (Damascus: Dar al-Fikr, 1993–2008), 16:7121. 44 Abu Ya‘la Hamza Ibn al-Qalanisi (470–555/1077–1160), Dhayl ta’rikh dimashq, ed. H. F. Amedroz (Leiden: Brill, 1908), 164; H. A. R. Gibb, trans., The Damascus Chronicle of the Crusades, University of London Historical Series 5 (London: Luzac, 1932), 92. 45 Ibn al-Qalanisi, Dhayl taʾrikh dimashq, 144; Gibb, Damascus Chronicle, 113. Cf. Alex Mallett, “Islamic Historians of the Ayyūbid Era and Muslim Rulers from the Early Crusading Period: A Study in the Use of History,” Al-Masāq: Journal of the Medieval Mediterranean 24 (2012): 246. 46 Ursula Lyons and Malcolm C. Lyons, eds. and trans., Ayyubids, Mamlukes and Crusaders: Selections from the Tarikh al-Duwal wa’l-Muluk of Ibn al-Furat (Cambridge: Heffer, 1971), 5–7 (Arabic)/4–6 (English). 47 Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy. 48 John Wansbrough, “A Mamluk Letter of 877/1473,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 24 (1961): 200–13; idem, “A Mamluk Ambassador to Venice in 913/1507,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 26 (1963): 503–30; idem, “Venice and Florence in the Mamluk Commercial Privileges,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 28/3 (1965): 483–523. 49 Lyons and Lyons, Ayyubids, Mamlukes and Crusaders, 1 (Arabic)/1 (English). 50 Ibid., 43 (Arabic)/35 (English). 51 Yehoshua Frenkel, “Muslim Responses to the Frankish Dominion in the Near East (1098–1291),” in The Crusades and the Near East, ed. Conor Kostick (London: Routledge, 2011), 27–54. 52 Konrad Hirschler, “Ibn Wāṣil: An Ayyūbid Perspective on Frankish Lordships and Crusades,” in Medieval Muslim Historians and the Franks in the Levant, ed. Alex Mallett (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 142–3. 53 Jamal al-Din Muhammad b. Salim Ibn Wasil (d. 697/1298), Mufarrij al-kurub fi akhbar bani ayyub, ed. H. M. Rabi‘ (Cairo: ]Dar al-Kutub], 1977), 4:251; Francesco Gabrieli, The Arab Historians of the Crusades (London: Routledge and Kegan, 1969), 279–80. 54 ‘Abd al-Rahman Ibn Khaldun, al-Ta‘rif bi-Ibn Khaldun wa-riḥlatihi gharban wa-sharqan, ed. M. al-Tanji (Cairo: Lajnat al-taʾlif al-tarjama wal-nashr, 1951), 366–83; English trans., Walter J. Fischel, Ibn Khaldun and Tamerlane (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1952); Ahmad Ibn Arabshah, Tamerlane or Timur the Great Amir, trans. John H. Sanders (London: Luzac, 1936), 296–8. 55 Knut S. Vikør, Between God and the Sultan: A History of Islamic Law (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 67–9. For a general survey, see Abdul Aziz bin

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63 64 65 66

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Sattam, Sharia and the Concept of Benefit: The Use and Function of Maslaha in Islamic Jurisprudence (London: I. B. Tauris, 2014). Muwaffaq al-Din Ahmad Ibn Qudama al-Maqdisi al-Hanbali (541–620/1146– 1223), al-Mughni, ed. A. al-Turki and A. al-Hilu (al-Riyad: Dar Alam al-kutub, 1417/1997), 13:154–5. Abu Zakariya Muhyi al-din Yahya b. Sharf al-Din al-Nawawi al-Shafiʿi (630– 677/1233–1277), Saḥiḥ muslim bi-sharḥ al-nawawi (Cairo: Qurtuba 1414/1994), 12 (kitab al-jihād): 198. ʿAlaʾ al-Din Abu Bakr al-Kasani (d. 587/1191), Badaʾiʿ al-ṣanāʾiʿ fī tartib al-sharāʾiʿ (Beirut: [Dar al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya], 1423/2003), 9 (kitab al-siyar), 420. Shihab al-Din Ahmad b. ‘Ali Ibn Hajar al-‘Asqalani (773–852/1372–1449), Fatḥ al-bari bi-sharh saḥiḥ al-bukhari, ed. ‘Abd al-‘Aziz b. Baz (Beirut: Dar al-Maʿrifa, 1379/1960), 6:275–6 (tradition no. 3173). Taqi al-Din Ahmad b. ‘Abd al-Halim Ibn Taymiyya al-Harani (661–728/1263– 1328), Majmu‘at al-fatawa, ed. Amir al-Jazzar and Anwar al-Baz (Mansura: Dar al-Wafa, 1426/2005), 15 (kitab al-tafsir, surat yusuf), 98, 100. Ibn Taymiyya, al-Fatawa al-kubra (Beirut: Dar al-Maʿrifa, 1409/1988), 5:542. Shams al-Din Muhammad b. Abi Bakr Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya al-Dimashqi (691–751/1292–1350), Zad al-maʿad fi hadi khiyar al-ʿibad, ed. Shuʿayb al-Arnaʾut and ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Arnaʾut (Beirut: Maktabat al-Manar/Maktabat al-Risala, 1417/1998), 4:129, 131, 266, 268, 270. Qurʾan, al-Anfal (the Spoils), 8: 61. Abu Bakr Muhammad b. Abd Allah Ibn al-ʿArabi (d. 543/1148), Aḥkam al-qurʾan, ed. Muhammad Ata (Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 1424/2003), 2:426–8. Bassam Tibi, “War and Peace in Islam,” in Islamic Holy War and the Fate of Non-Muslims, ed. Andrew G. Bostom (Amherst, NY: Prometheus, 2005), 336. For a critical review of the prevailing contemporary (twenty-first century) view that religion causes violence, see William T. Cavanaugh, The Myth of Religious Violence: Secular Ideology and the Roots of Modern Conflict (New York: Oxford University Press, 2009), 15–18.

6

Making peace with “God’s enemies” The Muslim dilemma of treatymaking with Christians in the medieval Levant Betty Binysh

To what extent did religious law place constraints on Muslim peacemaking with Western Christians in the medieval Levant? Although some portray Islamic law on jihad solely as a directive to wage war and all contact between crusaders and Muslims as antagonistic,1 Arabic, Latin, and Old French contemporary sources attest to more than 100 agreements made between 491–690/1097–1291.2 Did this disparity between law and praxis create a dilemma for Muslim rulers? This study examines how religion and particularly the Islamic legal rulings on jihad (fiqh al-jihād) restricted what peace agreements were possible between Muslims and Christians in the medieval Levant. It analyzes whether Arabic histories and treaty texts portrayed Muslim rulers as complying with these normative standards in practice. It first briefly reviews the Islamic rulings that defined the conduct of war and peace, notes the twelfth- and thirteenth-century consensus, and then examines to what extent two examples of actual peace agreements indicate compliance with these rulings. The truces considered here were reached in different historical circumstances. The first, the 1192 Treaty of Jaffa, represents a situation in which the participants had fought to a standstill and were evenly matched. This treaty between Saladin and Richard I of England, which ended the Third Crusade,3 was chosen because the negotiations were detailed by the religious magistrate of the army (qāḍī al-‘askar), and because it provides an opportunity to see if the qadi demanded or portrayed compliance with fiqh.4 On the other hand, the truces between the Franks and Mamluk sultans, which date from the early Mamluk period, represent a situation in which superior Muslim strength allowed them to dictate terms;5 in theory, we would expect the latter truces to be more likely to follow fiqh rules, if the ruler so desired. Thus the main question examined here is how compliance with fiqh is reflected in these two different situations: that of equilibrium between the antagonists and that of Mamluk superiority.

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The Islamic rules of war Fiqh al-jihād analyzed legal judgments governing treaties, truces, and rules of war. Notwithstanding the heated scholarly debate on the interpretation of the Qur’an and hadith, there was widespread Islamic consensus on the major requirements of a legal peace agreement. Thus the four main schools of Islamic jurisprudence active throughout the crusader era reflect different emphases on the question of reaching agreements with non-Muslims.6 The Hanafi view as represented by the Aleppan al-Kasani (d. 587/1191) was that a temporary ceasefire-agreement was possible only if compromise was an urgent necessity for the Muslims and then only until they could resume their duty of jihad, making it a truce (hudna) rather than a peace (ṣulḥ).7 The Hanbali Ibn Qudama (d. 620/1223), who participated in Saladin’s triumphal entry into Jerusalem and was Saladin’s “close advisor,”8 held that public interest (maṣlaḥa) must be considered and “should allow flexibility” in dealing with infidels;9 moreover, the head of the state had the right to conclude a truce with infidels if he considered it beneficial.10 Ibn Qudama viewed hudna as a temporary measure to remain in effect until the Muslims regained their strength, and he gave preferential consideration to Muslim “public interest.”11 The Shafi‘ite position, which underpinned the approach of Saladin and of the Mamluk rulers, is represented by the Damascene hadith-scholar al-Nawawi (d. 676/1277),12 who ruled that a compromise with non-Muslims was possible if in the “public interest.”13 Contemporary jurists were therefore in agreement that legal decisions could be based on the principle of maṣlaḥa, denoting the Muslim “public interest,”14 and I will argue that maṣlaḥa underpinned Ibn Shaddad’s justification of Saladin’s agreement with Richard. The Cordoban Maliki Ibn Rushd (Averroes, d. 595/1198) noted in his legal handbook the substantial scholarly agreement within fiqh al-jihād that the world was divided into Dār al-Islām, territory under the control of Islam, and Dār al-ḥarb, the territory with which they should be at war.15 Ibn Rushd reported the consensus that making permanent peace with Dār al-ḥarb was impermissible; there could, however, be truce, for a limited duration of no longer than Muhammad’s Pact of al-Ḥudaybiyya. But Muslim scholars disagreed whether this was three, four, or ten years.16 Most agreed that ideally the truce should be requested by the enemy and approved by the Muslims, and supported the granting of protection (amān).17 An amān was important for guaranteeing safe-conduct for Christian pilgrims traveling into Muslim territory. For our purposes, the Shafi‘ite position is the most important because it was the one followed by Saladin and the Mamluk sultans.18 Shafi‘ites argued for a third way, the territory of the pact or peace treaty (dār al-‘ahd or dār al-ṣulḥ).19 They taught that a truce should last from four months, when the Muslims were strong enough to fight, up to a maximum of ten years, when “in weakness and fear.”20 If the Muslims remained weak, the truce could

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be renewed for an additional ten years.21 Furthermore, many legal scholars agreed on the principle that the imam should have “enough flexibility to conclude peace and avoid war . . . (based on the consideration of Muslims’ [interests]).”22 Ibn Rushd repeated this, noting Shafi‘i’s view that a truce may be concluded “provided that the Imam deems it in the interest of the Muslims.”23 In effect, the imam had broad decision-making power: he could determine the terms and duration of the truce and when to break it, based on the principle of Muslim “public interest.”24 Briefly, as represented in the major Islamic schools of thought, the principles of fiqh al-jihād established that a truce should be temporary and ideally the request for peace should be made by the enemy. It granted the Muslim ruler the flexibility to make an agreement that promoted Muslim best interests. As we will see, the principle of maṣlaḥa or “best interest” was pivotal in the Muslim explanations of their rationale for entering into agreements.25

The Treaty of Jaffa, 1192 Our first case study examines whether the 1192 Treaty of Jaffa that eventually ended the Third Crusade met the Shafi‘ite requirements. Fortunately, Ibn Shaddad’s al-Nawādir provides an Arabic source that discusses the ideological rationale underpinning the treaty. As a Shafi‘ite jurist, Ibn Shaddad knew fiqh and was also concerned with reporting fiqh-considerations. Ibn Khallikan, who studied under him in the madrasa Ibn Shaddad founded after a career serving Saladin, recorded his attitudes on fiqh.26 As Saladin’s religious magistrate for the army and close advisor, Ibn Shaddad tried to ensure Saladin and his army complied with fiqh.27 He reported that Saladin’s daily routine involved their reading fiqh and hadiths together, casting Saladin as a devout ruler who respected Islamic law and further suggesting that Saladin’s treaties would comply with fiqh.28 On the one hand, Ibn Shaddad’s al-Nawādir is a particularly valuable source for our inquiry, as it is likely to mention any disapproval of the peace agreement based on fiqh-considerations, even if slight or indirectly expressed as defenses of Saladin’s difficult decisions. Asbridge argues that Ibn Shaddad’s “inherent bias is sometimes balanced by [his] desire to record his own experiences and reflect upon his personal involvement.”29 In portraying Saladin’s “unnecessary” granting of surrender, his preventing his troops from plundering Jaffa, and tardiness in ejecting the enemy from its citadel, which allowed its recapture by Richard, Ibn Shaddad did express some disagreement with Saladin.30 On the other hand, I argue that the sultan’s spiritual advisor and confidant tended to camouflage any noncompliance with fiqh, possibly to divert blame from Saladin and by implication from himself.31 Ibn Shaddad’s personal involvement makes this case different, because it could reinforce, rather than contradict, his predisposition to an overly sympathetic portrayal, spun to enhance Saladin’s reputation. Thus a careful reading of Ibn Shaddad’s inconsistencies and justifications

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of Saladin’s choices as in the Muslim “best interest” helps uncover his concerns as the qadi of the army and exposes those instances where his panegyric becomes unrealistic. Ibn Shaddad was not aiming for a neutral, factual history. Historians may perhaps be misled by Richards’s rendering of Ibn Shaddad’s title as The Rare and Excellent History of Saladin in his otherwise magisterial translation. Those words do not appear. Gabrieli’s more literal “Sultanly Anecdotes and Josephly Virtues” better reflects Ibn Shaddad’s aim of emphasizing Saladin’s religious virtues.32 Ibn Shaddad’s priorities as a religious scholar are reflected in the pun on al-Maḥāsin al-Yūsufiyya, which alludes to a hadith narrated in Saḥiḥ Muslim, one of the six canonical hadith collections, concerning the beauties of the prophet Joseph.33 Ibn Shaddad’s wordplay links Qur’anic Joseph’s beauties with the virtues or good deeds of Joseph, which was Saladin’s given name. Saladin’s commitment to jihad Ibn Shaddad emphasized Saladin’s religious virtues, particularly his zealous commitment to military jihad, devoting a section to it in al-Nawādir.34 The qāḍī al-‘askar entered Saladin’s service after writing The Virtues of the Jihad for him in which he expounded every Qur’anic verse and hadith on jihad. His biographical portrayal reflects Saladin’s very public espousal of jihad, which Saladin had used to unite Syria and Egypt under his rule, culminating in his conquest of almost the entire kingdom of Jerusalem.35 This public commitment is well demonstrated in the sermon chosen to be the first preached in the recaptured al-Aqsa mosque in Jerusalem (1187). Of the many written entries submitted for the honor of being the khuṭba preached before Saladin at the first Friday prayers in the reconsecrated mosque in Islam’s third holiest city,36 the one chosen urged Saladin to “maintain the holy war,” continuing: It is the best means which you have of serving God . . . Labour to expel the evil [which afflicts us] and tear up the enemy by the root; purify the rest of the land from this filth which hath angered God and his Apostle.37 Consequently, producing a fiqh-compliant justification for making peace required careful presentation of Saladin as unwillingly choosing peace over jihad. The common good or public interest (maṣlaḥa) Ibn Shaddad partly justifies Saladin’s peacemaking by repeatedly using the term maṣlaḥa to portray Saladin as choosing the public interest over his personal zeal for jihad. In translating al-Nawādir, Richards understandably chose to render the dense Arabic into its closest meaning in fluent

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English. This, however, obscures the repeated use of the term maṣlaḥa. Ibn Shaddad’s choice of language implies and emphasizes his justification of Saladin’s choice of making peace as fiqh-compliant because it promoted the public interest. After reporting the joyful reception of the announcement of peace, Ibn Shaddad appraises Saladin’s fears in making peace but concludes: “Nevertheless, [Saladin] saw the advantage (al-maṣlaḥa) in making peace (al-ṣulḥ)38 because the army was weary and showing signs of disaffection.”39 In discussing Saladin’s bravery, Ibn Shaddad claimed that Saladin “made peace (ṣālaḥa) at their [the crusaders’] request, for their weaknesses and losses were greater, although they were expecting reinforcements and we expected none.40 He reemphasized his assessment that there was advantage (maṣlaḥa) in making peace (al-ṣulḥ).”41 This does not necessarily reflect the reality. Ibn Shaddad asserted that Saladin acted in the Muslims’ best interests because the enemy expected reinforcements. In reality, it was unlikely the crusaders would at this stage receive help from overseas.42 Moreover, this claim is inconsistent with Ibn Shaddad’s reporting of Saladin’s assessment of the intelligence gathered between August 24 and 27, just days before the September 1 agreement. Saladin argued, “The king of England is seriously ill and the French without any doubt have set out to cross back over the sea. Their resources have dwindled.”43 Ibn Shaddad expanded, “Count Henry was going backwards and forwards between the king and the French to persuade them to stay, although they were unanimously determined to cross over the sea.”44 This shows Saladin’s understanding that the crusaders were leaving, not being reinforced.45 The claim that the Muslims were not expecting help conflicts with Saladin’s assertion of August 2. There was an element of truth in his negotiating stance that reinforcements could come to him, as a “winter” army differed from a “summer” army, and it was easy for him to stay in the middle of his own lands, where “whatever and whoever I want can come to me.”46 Using the improbable threat of imminent crusader reinforcements, Ibn Shaddad here constructs an image that emphasizes actual Muslim weakness, which was a genuine justification for peacemaking. Furthermore, this allowed Ibn Shaddad to portray Saladin as complying with fiqh because it was the enemy, not the Muslims, who requested peace. Throughout al-Nawādir, Ibn Shaddad reports Richard’s repeated proposals and the protracted negotiations leading to Richard’s message on August 8: “How many times shall I throw myself at the sultan’s feet while he still refuses me!”47 Ibn Shaddad recast Richard’s communications into language invoking maṣlaḥa. Thus he worded Richard’s appeal to Saladin around July 6 as follows: “We, you and we are ruined. Our best course is to stop the bloodshed . . . it is for the good of all (bal lil-maṣlaḥa).”48 Ibn Shaddad reported Richard’s reopening of negotiations on August 1 as follows: For God’s sake grant me what I ask for to make peace. This is a matter that must have an end. My lands over the sea are ruined. For this to go on is no good for us nor for you.49

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A more literal translation would be: “This is not to our or your maṣlaḥa.”50 In his reply, Saladin emphasized Richard’s position as a supplicant, beginning: “Since you have opened this approach.”51 By portraying Richard as petitioning for peace and invoking maṣlaḥa, Ibn Shaddad could provide the justification that this peace satisfied fiqh-requirements. In summarizing the underlying reasons for Saladin’s agreement to a peace on September 1, Ibn Shaddad again has recourse to maṣlaḥa: The sultan saw that this was for the best (maṣlaḥa) because of the weakness, scant resources and a longing for home that had overwhelmed our men, and . . . their lack of zeal at Jaffa . . . when . . . they would not [attack].52 Even when the term maṣlaḥa is not used directly, throughout al-Nawādir Ibn Shaddad lays the basis for a justification of peacemaking by repeated references to Saladin’s consideration of the Muslims’ military weakness and their best interests. This culminated with Saladin’s August 28 order: “If they give up Ascalon, make peace with them, for the army is tired of constant campaigning and their resources are exhausted.”53 Ascalon was of military importance because it allowed the crusaders to threaten Egypt, Jerusalem, and pilgrims from Damascus or Cairo bound for Mecca.54 It was imperative that this threat be removed and this had derailed the July negotiations, although Ibn Shaddad reported of July 9: “There was not one [of Saladin’s advisors] who did not advise conciliation and a conclusion of peace because of the fatigue, exhaustion and burden of debts from which the Muslims suffered.”55 By showing that all the advisors urged peace, Ibn Shaddad implies that there was widespread agreement that a settlement was in the Muslims’ best interest. Ibn Shaddad also shows that Saladin was under time pressure in juggling these difficult choices. Saladin was responding to Richard’s August 2 communication that if there were no agreement within six days, he would winter in the Holy Land.56 If the crusaders did not leave by September, they would miss the autumn window of opportunity when it was safer to cross the sea between Outremer and Europe. This created a problem for Saladin, because his tired army wanted to go home.57 It was so disaffected that Saladin’s troops refused his orders to attack Jaffa and Richard retook the town.58 Saladin feared that if the army disbanded, he would be left with a small force, too weak to resist the remaining crusaders. Ibn Shaddad’s comment on Saladin’s bravery highlights this problem: “At the beginning of winter he would grant [his army] leave to depart and remain himself with a small squadron, facing their vast numbers.”59 Persuading the crusaders to leave would give Saladin the chance to rest the army until they were strong enough to restart the jihad; moreover, Saladin knew that Richard was anxious to return home because there was trouble in his lands.60 Ibn Shaddad hints that Saladin was aware of the danger that he might die, leaving the

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coast in Frankish hands, when diminished enthusiasm for jihad and a Frankish resurgence could endanger the Muslims. Ibn Shaddad claims that God knew that peace was not Saladin’s preference. Rather, Saladin feared to make peace “not knowing what may become of me,” at a time when the enemy was growing stronger by capturing land, which meant potential ruin for the Muslims.61 This is broadly what happened after Saladin’s death six months later, when his successors lacked the stature to gather and motivate the diverse Muslim forces to resume jihad. Within five years, Henry VI’s German crusade had recaptured the coast between Tyre and Tripoli, creating a contiguous territorial strip, consolidating and strengthening the Frankish states.62 Ibn Shaddad portrays Richard as requesting and accepting Saladin’s terms for a three-year peace (al-ṣulḥ).63 Throughout his work, Ibn Shaddad refers to the peace agreement and making peace using the terms al-ṣulḥ and ṣālaḥa. In theory, ṣulḥ implies permanent peace rather than a temporary truce (hudna). Despite this terminology, it is clear that the agreement was temporary, which is one of the major requirements for an agreement to be fiqh-compliant. In his analysis of treaties between Frankish and Muslim rulers, Köhler also notes the problematic use of legal terms interchangeably by some Arabic authors.64 It was clear, however, to all the other participants recording it, from the Arabic of Imad al-Din al-Isfahani to the Old French of Ambroise and the Latin Itinerarium Peregrinorum, that this peace agreement was temporary.65 The truce would last for three years or, according to Imad al-Din, Saladin’s secretary who drafted the document, three years and eight months. The terms stated that the fortifications of Ascalon were to be demolished and neither Muslims nor Franks could reoccupy it for three years.66 The Muslims and Franks would share the tax and jurisdiction over areas between the port of Jaffa and Jerusalem in condominium.67 For their part, the Franks insisted on the inclusion of the northern crusader state of Antioch-Tripoli.68 And, despite Richard’s objections, Saladin allowed all who wished to complete their pilgrimage to Jerusalem to do so, explaining that he felt it was wrong to withhold this God-given opportunity.69 However, chronicles written by participants from Richard’s forces reported that, when they set out unarmed for Jerusalem, without a separate amān, they were threatened by some of Saladin’s forces.70 They claimed they were only saved from death when Saladin accepted the arguments of his brother al-Adil and overruled those who wanted to kill them. Did the peace agreement comply with fiqh? Did this truce comply with the requirements of fiqh al-jihād? To a large extent, it did. The caliph in Baghdad had delegated Saladin the authority to act as sultan; therefore, he could make a peace agreement in the Muslim public interest.71 Ibn Shaddad presents Saladin’s arguments that this served Muslim interests because the crusaders would leave, giving him time to

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remotivate and rest the army, strengthen Jerusalem’s defenses, remove the threat from Ascalon, and safeguard pilgrims.72 Allowing the crusaders to make their pilgrimage to Jerusalem helped ensure that they would leave and not overwinter in the region, when they might be able to defeat Saladin’s reluctant army.73 The limited duration reflected Muslim weakness, and Saladin’s desire to allow them time to recover to resume fighting.74 Note that only Christian, but not Muslim authors, report problems in traveling to Jerusalem, when there was a disagreement among the Muslims over whether the treaty document alone granted safe-conduct. Perhaps the document was poorly drafted and did not explicitly grant amān, or a separate document granting amān should have been provided. However, when Saladin ordered the proclamation that “peace has been arranged” in the Muslim camps and markets, it included an explicit announcement that whoever from “their lands” wished to enter “our lands” was allowed to do so and vice versa.75 It is more probable that this reluctance to honor Saladin’s protection of pilgrims was another symptom of his faltering control over his troops.

Truces between the Mamluk sultans of Egypt and the kingdom of Jerusalem The second case study examines truces between the Mamluk sultans of Egypt and the kingdom of Jerusalem entered into from 1268 until the fall of the kingdom, and the extent to which they complied with fiqh al-jihād. In 1268, following requests from the kingdom, Baybars sent them a truce (hudna) document to ratify which, although not then ratified, formed the basis of the 1272 agreement renewed in the 1283 truce with Qalawun. The fullest text of the truce has been preserved in al-Qalqashandi’s vast chancery encyclopedia completed in 1412, from a now-lost work by one of Qalawun’s chancery clerks.76 Despite Qalqashandi’s late date, it is useful here for analyzing the requirements of a peace agreement and providing texts of truces between “the rulers of Islam and the rulers of Unbelief [the Franks].”77 These truces demonstrate the thirteenth-century Mamluk implementation of fiqh and the conditions that peace agreements should be a temporary truce (hudna) rather than a permanent ṣulḥ and, following Shafi‘ite principles, range from four months when the Muslims were strong to up to ten years if they were “in weakness and fear.” Furthermore, the agreement must be to the Muslims’ advantage and not contain anything repugnant to Islam. These requirements parallel the legal requirements from Saladin’s day, where we also saw an emphasis on the limited duration of the truce. However, as compared to Saladin, the Mamluks adopted a more rigorous implementation of the principle that “Islam is exalted,” interpreting it as calling for the humiliation of other religions.78 Al-Qalqashandi continued, “the party with whom the truce is made will be the . . . enemy of his enemy . . . neither party will act to the other’s detriment” and each will restrain incomers and their own officers from hostile acts.79 These additional clauses

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in the truces with the Franks were designed to stop the Franks from helping crusaders or working together against the Mamluks. Political fragmentation within the thirteenth-century Frankish states meant that many individual groups, including the military orders and the rulers of Jaffa, Beirut, Tyre, and Antioch-Tripoli, negotiated separately with Baybars.80 Separate agreements were pursued by John of Ibelin, lord of Beirut (1261); Isabel, lady of Beirut (1264–9); John of Ibelin, count of Jaffa (1261); Guy of Ibelin, count of Jaffa (1266); Philip of Montfort, lord of Tyre (1266–7); the Hospitallers in 1261, 1265, 1266, and 1267; the Templars in 1263; and the kingdom of Jerusalem in 1261–3 and 1267–8.81 This stopped the Franks from acting jointly against Baybars, thus benefiting the Muslims. An analysis of the political context explains how these truces furthered Muslim interests at a time when they seemed strong enough to overwhelm the Franks. In 1258, Sunni Muslims were bereft when the Mongols sacked Baghdad and executed the caliph.82 Holt argues that Baybars saw the Mongols as a much more serious threat than the Franks and the Ayyubid princes,83 as an “abiding danger,” after the Mongol capture of Aleppo and Damascus (1260) and further incursions into Syria in 1271 and 1281.84 In 1260, the Frankish principality of Antioch-Tripoli allied itself with the Mongols, while the kingdom of Jerusalem remained neutral, allowing the Mamluk army to cross its territory and defeat the Mongols at ‘Ayn Jālūt. The Mamluk system’s unusual meritocracy, with its elite regiments of welltrained military slaves, meant that its leaders needed tenacity and charisma in order to court support in their bid for power.85 To help legitimize his rule, the aggressive, energetic Baybars declared jihad against the Mongols and their ally Antioch-Tripoli. He especially pleased religious scholars by installing an Abbasid caliph in Cairo to replace the caliph in Baghdad.86 This caliph, al-Ḥākim bi-Amri’llāh, preached a khuṭba telling the people “they should follow [Baybars] confidently in further warfare against the unbelievers.”87 In 1265, Baybars attacked the kingdom’s ports, destroying Caesarea, Haifa, and Arsuf, claiming they had broken a truce.88 In 1266, he captured the stronghold of Safed. According to the Templar brother Ricaut Bonomel, possibly writing in Safed shortly before its capture, Baybars had sworn to remove all Christians from the land.89 Using rhetoric probably intended to inspire help from Europe, Ricaut claimed to think resistance foolish as Caesarea and Arsuf had fallen and so much of the kingdom was lost that it would never recover. Muhammad spurred Baybars on, Ricaut asserted, so he had conquered and would conquer Franks, Mongols, Armenians, and Persians. In March 1267, Louis IX of France took the cross and began persuading others to join him. That year the kingdom of Jerusalem negotiated with Baybars without reaching an agreement. In March 1268, Baybars destroyed the port of Jaffa, captured Shaqīf Arnūn (Beaufort), and two months later sent shockwaves through the region when he took Antioch.90 Hugh III of Cyprus, as bailli and soon-to-be ruler of the diminished kingdom of Jerusalem, sued for peace in 1268.91 Hugh benefited from local

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experience but was outclassed by Baybars’s military might and thwarted by Frankish feuding. In July 1268, Hugh was brought a truce document to ratify by the head of Baybars’s chancery, Ibn Abd al-Zahir, who reported on the meeting in a hostile, arrogant tone in his approved biography of Baybars. He insultingly called Hugh “King of Acre” and dismissed the truce negotiations as a “trifling matter” with Acre shrunk to a mere 31 estates.92 He reported that Baybars “had instructed [his ambassadors] not to demean ourselves before [Hugh] in sitting or speech.”93 To assert Baybars’s status, his ambassadors insisted that they sit on thrones on the same level as the king and only hand his letter directly to Hugh. In explaining the reason, probably in Ibn Abd al-Zahir’s own words, Ibn Abd al-Zahir’s nephew alludes to the exaltedness of Islam:94 “Islam made [sitting lower] impossible for us, so we were raised up . . . [Hugh] proceeded to make mistakes, bringing one subject into another, so I [Ibn Abd al-Zahir] spoke to him harshly.” Hugh objected to the terms dictated, requesting a separate peace agreement for Cyprus and that “peace should continue as long as no foreign invader or overseas king arrived.”95 Hugh was aiming for a truce that would allow Cyprus and Acre to help King Louis’s crusade, if it arrived. The importance of the safe haven of Cyprus to the Franks is evident from the earlier crusader attack on Saladin at Acre, Louis’s 1249 crusade attack on Egypt, and in Lord Edward’s subsequent 1271 crusade that would be revictualed there.96 Baybars probably knew that Louis was gathering crusaders and that the Third Crusade had reconstituted the kingdom at a time when only the port of Tyre remained in crusader hands. Thus there was advantage to the Muslims in making a truce including Cyprus and preventing future crusaders from using Cyprus and Acre, especially as Acre was the only remaining port able to accommodate large, crusader-bearing ships. Indeed, Edward’s crusade landed there. Hugh’s reluctance to concede in 1268 was possibly astute, stalling for time, hoping that Louis’s crusade would rescue them. Yet al-Zahir reported dismissively that whenever Hugh “spoke he would say, ‘I am afraid of King Charles, brother of the king of France, and I cannot conclude a peace for fear of him.’”97 By July 1268, Charles of Anjou was king of Sicily by conquest, having killed Manfred in 1266, and was about to secure Sicily by executing Frederick II’s grandson Conradin.98 Conradin was also the legitimate king of Jerusalem and his death led to Hugh’s accession. Charles wanted the throne of Jerusalem, and in 1270 would exploit Louis’s crusade, redirecting it to Tunis. Thus Hugh had a legitimate concern in 1268 that Charles might oust him and that Louis would be more likely to agree to replace him if Hugh made peace with Baybars. Baybars knew of some of these developments, having sent an embassy to Manfred’s Sicilian court in 1261 under Ibn Wasil, who continued reporting on the 1265 “collaborative effort of the pope and the French king’s brother” to oust Manfred and his family.99 It was therefore advantageous for the Muslims to make a truce that was likely to split the Franks of Acre and the crusaders or dissuade Cyprus and Acre from helping crusaders.

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These negotiations failed, but formed the basis of the “ten years, ten months, ten days and ten hours” truce made in 1272.100 In 1272, Baybars had good reason to seek a truce. In 1271, the Mongols had attacked from the north and Edward’s crusaders from Acre. Baybars feared an alliance between Edward and Abagha Ilkhan, ruler of the Mongols in Iran, because each had sent envoys to the other in an attempt to coordinate their attacks.101 Some dismiss Edward’s crusade as ineffective, but his arrival checked Baybars’s planned attack on Tripoli, prompting a ten-year truce with Bohemond VI of Antioch-Tripoli.102 Fearing a Mongol-Frankish pincer movement, Baybars made the 1272 truce with the kingdom of Jerusalem, which documented Hugh’s reduced territory.103 Did this agreement from 1272 conform with fiqh al-jihād? To some extent, it did; in other respects, it did not. Baybars had been granted the authority by the caliph in Cairo to make an agreement that benefited Muslims.104 Baybars could argue that the truce served Muslim interests by removing the threat that Acre, and particularly Cyprus, would help the crusaders or side with the Mongols. The agreement crystallized Baybars’s territorial gains and encouraged Edward’s crusaders to leave the region. The duration of 10 years, 10 months, 10 days, and 10 hours was apparently rounded up to reconcile the 11-day difference between the Christian and Muslim calendars.105 However, under fiqh al-jihād the ten-year maximum was intended for times when the Muslims were weak, so this seems inappropriately long at a time of overwhelming Mamluk strength. Yet an argument could be made that it served Muslim interests for Baybars to concentrate on his most dangerous enemy, the Mongols, and the truce did neutralize the kingdom of Jerusalem, leaving it to be crushed later. Ten years later, in April 1283, new rulers on both sides renewed this truce.106 Qalawun had ousted Baybars’s sons and warded off the 1281 Mongol attack.107 Charles had pushed Hugh out of the kingdom of Jerusalem, exacerbating Frankish disunity while exercising weak control through his bailli, Roger of San Severino.108 Individual lords and the Templars and Hospitallers made separate truces with Qalawun.109 Charles instructed Roger to “keep peace at all costs with the Mamluks” because Charles was consumed with promoting Angevin power in the former Byzantine Empire.110 In 1282, Sicily rebelled and Charles recalled Roger, who left his seneschal, Odo Poilechien in charge. It was this deputy’s deputy, the Templar and Hospitaller masters, and the Teutonic deputy master who requested peace with Qalawun in 1283.111 The kingdom was a fragment of its former self, but 25 clauses tied it down:112 they were not to help Qalawun’s enemies in any way, including by advising prospective crusaders or providing military intelligence. They were supposed to give two-months warning of any plans for crusade and, most importantly, prevent anyone landing in Acre from harming any of Qalawun’s people. The concession to the “kingdom of Acre” allowing pilgrimage to nearby Nazareth, but not to the longed-for Jerusalem and Bethlehem deep in Muslim territory, brought the Muslims an income.113

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I return to the question of whether this agreement complied with fiqh al-jihād. In some ways this truce was fiqh-compliant, in others not. Acre was too weak to threaten the Mamluks. In 1283, Qalawun persuaded his council that Muslims benefited by keeping the kingdom of Acre because “Acre is a caravanserai to which our merchants resort, a place from which comes a wider range of choice for us.”114 Furthermore, Acre would not assist crusaders, providing instead useful intelligence and safeguarding against future crusades. However, “ten whole years, ten months, ten days, and ten hours” exceeded fiqh rules at a time when the Mamluks were extremely strong, having defeated the Mongols, and were obviously not “weak and in fear.”115 Yet 1289 saw a shift in Qalawun’s attitude. He had captured Tripoli and was looking for an excuse to abrogate the truce with Acre.116 There are various versions as to what happened in 1290, but someone killed Muslim merchants. When Qalawun’s councilors were reluctant to act, they were labeled old and lazy and Qalawun set his chancery officials to find a legal excuse to end the truce.117 This renewed jihad ended the existence of the kingdom of Jerusalem.

Conclusion These case studies suggest that even when the Muslims were at their strongest, fighting between Muslims and Christians was neither inevitable nor necessarily fueled by the Islamic law on jihad. In practice, fiqh al-jihād granted the sultan flexibility to make whatever agreements he saw as advantageous, as long as they could be justified as being in the Muslims’ best interest, and considerations of military security played a role in the truces of both Saladin and the Mamluks. In the case of Saladin, his partial success against the crusaders made him vulnerable to criticism, which Ibn Shaddad felt was undeserved. Thus Ibn Shaddad’s narrative was far more concerned with demonstrating that the truce complied with fiqh than those of the Mamluk biographers. In order to illustrate Saladin’s fiqh-compliance, Ibn Shaddad peppered his account with language referencing maṣlaḥa and portrayals of Saladin’s actions as promoting the public interest, balancing his portrayal of Saladin’s virtues and zeal for jihad against the reality of his making peace. In short, Ibn Shaddad sought to resolve the apparent dilemma of a virtuous Muslim ruler making peace with non-Muslims. Yet he could do so, it seems, because fiqh al-jihād provided the means to resolve the peacemaking dilemma by using the principle of promoting Muslim best interests. Under the Mamluks, truces had a longer duration than could be justified considering overwhelming Mamluk military strength. Mamluk willingness to enter into agreements with the infidels was also influenced by the desire for trade. Evidently, because the Mamluks were far more concerned with the Mongols and confident that they could destroy the Frankish states whenever they chose, they entered into agreements with these non-Muslim states and their “rulers of Unbelief” as long as it was to their benefit.118

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The Mamluks were able to force the Franks to agree to terms that were much more advantageous to the Muslims than those of Saladin’s truce with Richard. Mamluk success meant that, unlike Ibn Shaddad, Mamluk biographers did not feel a need to construct an overt portrayal of the truce’s advantages to justify their actions or to show that Mamluk rulers complied with the normative standards, nor do they employ the terminology of maṣlaḥa. Nonetheless, consideration of the truces with the crumbling kingdom of Jerusalem demonstrates how, even without explicit statement by their biographers, the Mamluks certainly took the principle of Muslim best interests into account in reaching truce agreements. Indeed, this principle played a surprisingly important role in determining what type of peace was possible.

Notes 1 See, among others, Samuel Huntington, The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of World Order (New York: Simon and Schuster, 2011); Bernard Lewis, “The Roots of Muslim Rage,” Atlantic Monthly, Sept 1990, www.theatlantic. com/magazine/archive/1990/09/the-roots-of-muslim-rage/304643/6/. 2 Michael A. Köhler, Alliances and Treaties between Frankish and Muslim Rulers in the Middle East: Cross-Cultural Diplomacy in the Period of the Crusades, trans. Peter M. Holt, ed. Konrad Hirschler (Leiden: Brill, 2013); Taeko Nakamura, “Territorial Disputes between Syrian Cities and the Early Crusaders: The Struggle for Economic and Political Dominance,” in The Concept of Territory in Islamic Law and Thought: A Comparative Study, ed. Yanagihashi Hiroyuki (London: Kegan Paul, 2000), 101–24; Yvonne Friedman, “Christian-Muslim Peacemaking in the Medieval Latin East,” in Peace, War and Gender from Antiquity to the Present, ed. Jost Dülffer and Robert Frank (Essen: Klartext, 2009), 50–1. 3 Bahā’ al-Dīn Ibn Shaddād, al-Nawādir al-sulṭāniyya wa‘l-maḥāsin al-yūsufiyya (Sīrat Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn), ed. al-Shayyāl (Cairo, 1964) (hereafter al-Shayyāl), 228–35; idem, The Rare and Excellent History of Saladin or al-Nawādir al-Sulṭāniyya wa‘l-Maḥāsin al-Yūsufiyya, trans. D. S. Richards (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002) (hereafter: Ibn Shaddād, Richards), 223–32. 4 Ahmad Ibn Khallikān, “The Kadi Baha ad-Din Ibn Shaddad,” in Wafayāt al-a‘yān wa-anbā’ al-zamān: Ibn Khallikan’s Biographical Dictionary, trans. McGuckin de Slane (Paris: Oriental Translation Fund of Great Britain and Ireland, 1871), 4:417–35; Richards, “Introduction,” in Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 2. 5 Peter M. Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy (1260–1290): Treaties of Baybars and Qalāwūn with Christian Rulers (Leiden: Brill, 1995), 69–91. 6 On the approaches of the different schools of thought, see the chapter by Yehoshua Frenkel in this volume. 7 P. Bearman et al., eds., Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd Edition (Leiden: Brill, 1960–2005) (hereafter EI2), 3:690; ʿAlaʾ al-Din Abu Bakr al-Kasani (d. 587/1191), Badaʾiʿ al-ṣanāʾiʿ fī tartib al-sharāʾiʿ (Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 1423/2003), 9 (kitab al-siyar): 420. 8 Carole Hillenbrand, The Crusades: Islamic Perspectives (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1999), 99. 9 EI2, 3:843; Hillenbrand, Crusades, 179. 10 Ibn Qudāma, Al-‘Umda, 280, cited in Hillenbrand, Crusades, 99. 11 Ibn Qudāma, Al-Mughnī, 13:154–5, in Yehoshua Frenkel’s contribution in this volume; EI2, Index, 272; 1:24; 3:546–7.

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EI , 7:1041–2. Al-Nawawi, Ṣaḥīḥ muslim, 12:198; see Frenkel’s contribution in this volume. EI2, Index, 386; 1:276; 2:254; 6:738; 9:324. Averroes, “The Legal Doctrine of Jihad: The Chapter on Jihad from Averroes’ Legal Handbook al-Bidāya,” in Rudolph Peters, Jihad in Classical and Modern Islam: Updated Edition with a Section on Jihad in the 21st Century, 2nd ed. (Princeton, NJ: Markus Wiener, 2005), 27–41; Majid Khadduri, War and Peace in the Law of Islam (Clark, NJ: The Law Exchange, 2007), 144–5; Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy, 3–4; Köhler, Alliances and Treaties, 278; EI2, 3:546–7. Averroes, “Chapter on Jihad,” 38–40 n. 47; Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy, 3–6. Averroes, “Chapter on Jihad,” 32, 38–40; Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy, 3–6; EI2, 3:547. Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy, 4; Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 2–3; Ahmad ibn al-Maqrīzī, A History of the Ayyūbid Sultans of Egypt, trans. Ronald J. C. Broadhurst (Boston: Twayne, 1980), xix, 200. Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy, 4; Khadduri, War and Peace in the Law of Islam, 144–5 n. 2; Míkel de Epalza, “AHD: Muslim/Mudejar/Morisco Communities and Spanish-Christian Authorities,” in Negotiating Cultures: Bilingual Surrender Treaties in Muslim-Crusader Spain under James the Conqueror, ed. Robert I. Burns and Paul E. Chevedden (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 209–10; Köhler, Alliances and Treaties, 278. Averroes, “Chapter on Jihad,” 39–40; Muhammad ibn al Hasan Shaybānī’, The Islamic Law of Nations: Shaybānī’s Siyar, trans. Majid Khadduri (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins, 1966), 70, 142 n. 1. Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy, 4. Muhammad ibn-Garir al-Tabari, al-Tabari’s Book of Jihad: A Translation from the Original Arabic, trans. Yasir S. Ibrahim (Lampeter: Edwin Mellen, 2007), 26, 73, 80. Averroes, “Chapter on Jihad,” 38. For further discussion of the fine distinctions between the different schools of thought, see Yehoshua Frenkel’s contribution in this volume. EI2, Index, 386; 1:276; 2:254; 6:738; 9:324. Ibn Khallikān, “The Kadi Baha ad-Din Ibn Shaddad,” 4:417–35; Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 2. Emile Tyan, “Judicial Organisation,” in Origin and Development of Islamic Law, ed. Majid Khadduri and Herbert J. Liebesny (Clark, NJ: The Lawbook Exchange, 2010), 270. al-Shayyāl, 28; Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 33. Thomas Asbridge, “Talking to the Enemy: The Role and Purpose of Negotiations between Saladin and Richard the Lionheart during the Third Crusade,” Journal of Medieval History 39/3 (2013): 6 n. 6. al-Shayyāl, 224–5, 229; Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 220, 225. al-Shayyāl, 217; Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 2, 211. Francesco Gabrieli, Arab Historians of the Crusades, trans. E. J. Costello (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984), xxix. “Saḥiḥ Muslim, Hadith No. 309,” Muslim ibn al-Hajjaj al-Naysaburi, www. sahihmuslim.com/sps/smm/. al-Shayyāl, 21–3; Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 28–9. Hillenbrand, Crusades, 172. Ibn Khallikān, “Muhy’ al-Dīn ibn al-Zakī, khutba preached in al-Aqsa, Jerusalem, 27 Rajab A.H. 583 (Oct. 1187),” in Wafayāt al-a‘yān wa-anbā’ al-zamān, Ibn Khallikan’s Biographical Dictionary, trans. McGuckin de Slane (Paris: Oriental

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37 38 39 40 41 42

43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71

Betty Binysh Translation Fund of Great Britain and Ireland, 1843), 2:634; Hadia Dajani-Shakeel, “Al-Quds: Jerusalem in the Consciousness of the Counter Crusade,” in The Meeting of Two Worlds: Cultural Exchange between East and West during the Period of the Crusades, ed. Vladimir P. Goss and Christine Verzár Bornstein (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications, Western Michigan University, 1986), 206. Ibn Khallikān, “Muhy’ al-Dīn ibn al-Zakī, khutba”, 2:637 [15], 639 [20], 634. ‫ﻟﻜﻦ راى اﻟﻤﺼﻠﺤﺔ ﻓﻲ اﻟﺼﻠﺢ‬ al-Shayyāl, 235 line 15; Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 232. ‫ ; ﻓﺼﺎﻟﺢ وھﻮ َﻣﺴْﺆول ﻣﻦ ﺟﺎﻧﺒﮭﻢ‬al-Shayyāl, 20 line 12; Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 27. ‫ ; وﻛﺎﻧﺖ اﻟﻤﺼﻠﺤﺔ ﻓﻲ اﻟﺼﻠﺢ‬al-Shayyāl, 20 line 13; Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 27. ‫ ; وﻟﻜﻨﮭﻢ ﻛﺎﻧﻮا ﯾﺘﻮﻗﻌﻮن اﻟﻨﺠﺪة وﻧﺤﻦ ﻻ ﻧﺘﻮﻗﻌﮭﺎ‬al-Shayyāl, 20 lines 12–13; Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 27; Ambroise, The History of the Holy War: Ambroise’s Estoire de la Guerre Sainte, vol. 2, Translation, ed. Marianne Ailes and Malcolm Barber (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2003), (hereafter Ambroise), 159; Helen J. Nicholson, Chronicle of the Third Crusade: A Translation of the Itinerarium Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis Ricardi (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1997), (hereafter It. Per.), [5:42–3], 320–1. Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 227. Ibid., 228. Ibid., 223–4. Ibid., 224. Ibid., 226. ‫ ; ﺑﻞ ﻟﻠﻤﺼﻠﺤﺔ‬al-Shayyāl, 218 lines 18–9; Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 212–13. al-Shayyāl, 228 lines 2–3; Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 223. My translation of ‫ وﻣﺎ ﻓﻲ دوام ھﺬا ﻣﺼﻠﺤﺔ ﻻ ﻟﻨﺎ وﻻ ﻟﻜﻢ‬wamā fī dawām hadhā maṣlaḥa lā lanā walā lakum. Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 224. ‫ ; وراى اﻟﺴﻠﻄﺎن ﻣﺼﻠﺤﺔ‬al-Shayyāl, 233 lines 15–17; Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 230. Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 228. Ibid., 228, 231; Ambroise, 11. ‫ﻓﻤﺎ ﻣﻨﮭﻢ اﻻ ﻣﻦ اﺷﺎر ﺑﺎﻟﻤﺤﺴﻨﺔ وﻋﻘﺪ اﻟﺼﻠﺢ ﻟﻤﺎ ﻛﺎن اﺧﺬ اﻟﻤﺴﻠﻤﯿﻦ ﻣﻦ اﻟﻀﺠﺮ واﻟﺘﻌﺐ وﻋﻼھﻢ ﻣﻦ اﻟﺪﯾﻮن‬, al-Shayyāl, 219 line 17; Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 214. Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 224. Ibid., 228, 230, 232. Ibid., 34, 225. Ibid., 26. Ibid., 226; Ambroise, 159; It. Per., 320–1. al-Shayyāl, 235 lines 12–14; Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 231–2. Edgar Johnson, “The Crusades of Frederick Barbarossa and Henry VI,” in A History of the Crusades, vol. 2: The Later Crusades, 1189–1311, ed. Kenneth M. Setton (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1969), 121. al-Shayyāl, 233 lines 12–14; Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 229. Köhler, Alliances and Treaties, 296. Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 226, 229; ‘Imād al-Dīn, Conquête de la Syrie et de la Palestine par Saladin (al-Fatḥ al-qussî fî l-fatḥ al-qudsî), trans. Henri Massé (Paris: Paul Geuthner, 1972), 391–94; Ambroise, 186; It. Per., 371. Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 230–32; Ambroise, 186; It. Per., 371. Ibid., 229–31; Ambroise, 186. Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 230. Ibid., 232–3; Ambroise, 186; It. Per., 371. Ambroise, 187–9; It. Per., 374–76; Lionel Landon, The Itinerary of Richard I, vol. 51, n.s. vol. 13 (London: Pipe Roll Society, 1935), 69. Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 90, 109.

Making peace with “God’s enemies” 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92

93 94 95 96

97 98 99

100 101

102 103 104 105

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Ibid., 228, 230, 232–3. Ibid., 232. Ibid. al-Shayyāl, 235 lines 6–7; Ibn Shaddād, Richards, 231. Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy, 2–3, 69–88. Ibid., 3–5. Yohanan Friedmann, Tolerance and Coercion in Islam: Interfaith Relations in the Muslim Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 34–5. Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy, 5. Ibid., 11–16. Ibid., 13–16. Peter Thorau, The Lion of Egypt: Sultan Baybars I and the Near East in the Thirteenth Century, trans. Peter M. Holt (London: Longman, 1992), 111. Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy, 12. Ibid., 68–9, 92–3. Thorau, Lion of Egypt, 28–30. Ibid., 91–105, 110–13, 134, 142–53, 270. Ibid., 116–17. Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy, 11–12, 69. Ricaut Bonomel, “I’re dolors s’es dins mon cor asseza,” in Poesie provenzali storiche, relative all’Italia, ed. Vincenzo de Bartholomaeis (Rome: Tipografia del Senato, 1931), 223–4. Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy, 12, 69. Ibid., 69–73. Ibid., 70–2; Ibn al-Furāt, Ayyubids, Mamluks and Crusaders: Sections from Tārīkh al-Duwal wa’l-Mulūk of Ibn al-Furāt, vol. 1: Text; vol. 2: Translation, trans. Ursula Lyons and Malcolm C. Lyons, notes by Jonathan S. C. RileySmith (Cambridge: W. Heffer and Sons, 1971) (hereafter Ayyubids), 1:164–5; 2:129–30. Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy, 70. Ibid., 2–3, 71. Ibid., 70. Jean de Joinville, “The Life of Saint Louis,” in Joinville and Villehardouin: Chronicles of the Crusades, trans. Margaret R. B. Shaw (Harmondsworth, UK: Penguin, 1963), III–IV; Michael Prestwich, “Edward I,” in Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Jan. 2008, www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/8517. Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy, 70. Jean Dunbabin, Charles I of Anjou: Power, Kingship and State-Making in Thirteenth-Century Europe (Abingdon: Routledge, 2014), 4–5. Jamal al-Din Muhammad b. Salim Ibn Wasil (d. 697/1298), Mufarrij alkurub fi akhbar bani ayyub, ed. H. M. Rabi‘ (Cairo: [Dar al-Kutub], 1977), 4:248–51. Cf. Abu l-Fida’, al-Mukhtasar fi akhbar al-bashar, ed. Muhammad Z. M. ‘Azab, Yahya S. Husayn, and Muhammad F. Wasif, 4:50 in Daniel G. König, Arabic-Islamic Views of the Latin West: Tracing the Emergence of Medieval Europe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 285. Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy, 72; Ayyubids, 1:199–200, 2:157–8. Reuven Amitai, “Edward of England and Abagha Ilkhan: A Re-Examination of a Failed Attempt at Mongol-Frankish Cooperation,” in Tolerance and Intolerance: Social Conflict in the Age of the Crusades, ed. Michael Gervers and James M. Powell (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 2001), 75–8. Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy, 17. Ibid., 12, 70–1; Thorau, Lion of Egypt, 134. Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy, 4. Ibid., 9.

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106 Ibid., 72. 107 Ibid., 3, 72; Abu’l-Fidā, The Memoirs of a Syrian Prince: Abu’l-Fidā, Sultan of Hamāh (672–732/1273–1331), trans. Peter M. Holt (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner, 1983), 16; Angus Stewart, “Between Baybars and Qalawun: Under-Age Rulers and Succession in the Early Mamluk Sultanate,” Al-Masāq: Islam and the Medieval Mediterranean 19/1 (March 2007): 47–54. 108 Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy, 72; Dunbabin, Charles I of Anjou, 97. 109 Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy, 58–68. 110 Dunbabin, Charles I of Anjou, 5–6, 97. 111 Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy, 74. 112 Ibid., 73–91. 113 Ibid., 86. 114 Ibid., 73. 115 Ibid., 74. 116 Ibid., 22, 141–2; Abu’l-Fidā, Memoirs of a Syrian Prince, 7, 14–15. 117 Holt, Early Mamluk Diplomacy, 22–3, 73. 118 Ibid., 12; Abu’l-Fidā, Memoirs of a Syrian Prince, 7.

7

Pursuit of peace in the service of war Papal policy, 1198–1334 Sophia Menache

From its very beginnings, Christianity heralded an ambiguous message with regard to peace. Jesus declared in his Sermon on the Mount: “Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called children of God . . . Love your enemies, and pray for those who persecute you” (Matt. 5:9, 44; Luke 6:27–32). Paul expressed a similar conviction when he asserted, “For God is not the author of confusion, but of peace, as in all the churches of the saints” (1 Cor. 14:33; cf. Eph. 2:14–15; Gal. 5:22). Declarations of this kind did not remain exceptional in the framework of a new faith fighting for its survival. On the contrary, the early apologists of the evangelic message, most notably Justin Martyr1 and Origen,2 voiced their pursuit of peace time and again. Augustine further elevated the pursuit of peace to the category of Final Good and bridged its manifestation with the holiest of cities, Jerusalem.3 The New Testament, however, also portrays a different, if not opposite, message with regard to peace: “Do not think not that I have come to bring peace to the earth: I have not come to bring peace, but a sword” (Matt. 10:34; Luke 12:51). Further, “And the one who has no sword, must sell his cloak and buy one” (Luke 22:36). Faithful to Jesus’s call “give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s” (Matt. 22:21), the apostles went a stage further, recognizing the unconditional right of the pagan state to use force. After establishing that “there is no power but of God,” Paul then asserted, “the authority does not bear the sword in vain! It is the servant of God to execute wrath on the wrongdoer” (Rom. 13:1–4). In the same vein, the Council of Arles (314) solemnly declared that to forbid “the State’s right to go to war is to condemn it to extinction.”4 Bearing in mind these ambivalent attitudes toward peace and the legitimization of the state’s right to resort to the use of force,5 this chapter tries to elucidate papal policy and the degree of support it enjoyed in medieval society. More specifically, emphasis will be placed on contemporary responses to the popes’ pursuit of peace among Christians, on the one hand, and their unconditional war against the infidel, on the other.6 For the purpose of analysis, the focus is on papal diplomacy with regard to England and France, the lynchpins of medieval Christendom and, as such, those that represented a condition sine qua non for the crystallization of the most holy war against

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the infidel: the crusades. The pontificate of Innocent III (1198–1217) provides a suitable terminus a quo, whereas the pontificate of John XXII (1316–34) on the eve of the Hundred Years War – its outbreak estimated as the gravest failure of papal diplomacy7 – supplies the terminus ad quem. It is the thesis of this study that the pursuit of peace among Christian rulers in the service of the crusade – which eventually did not always materialize – was yet another symptom of, if not a factor, in the decline of papal leadership in the late Middle Ages.

Innocent III Jonathan Riley-Smith has rather outspokenly declared that “it is no exaggeration to say that Innocent [III] was obsessed by the crusades.”8 Although the English historian also regarded the crusades as “an act of love” toward the Christian God,9 he was well aware of the many acts of violence, bloodshed, and cruelty that characterized the Christian enterprise, not only against Muslims but also against Jews and Eastern Christians.10 Many of the dramatic episodes that marked Innocent’s pontificate hint at a similar ambivalence and even disparity. On the one hand, the pope bestowed apostolic legitimization on a merciless war, including a crusade, against all those whom he considered enemies of the faith and/or a danger to the existence of a united Christendom. As the vicar of God on earth, it was Innocent who for the first time in medieval history declared a crusade against those declared “heretical sects,” such as the Albigensians.11 When the pope thought “the little boat of St. Peter was beaten by many storms,” he bestowed on the ecclesiastical elite of Gascony his full apostolic authority that, by whatever means you can, you destroy all these heresies and expel from your diocese all [those] who are polluted with them. You shall exercise the rigor of the ecclesiastical power against them and all those who have made themselves suspected by associating with them. They may not appeal from your judgments, and if necessary, you may cause the princes and people to suppress them with the sword.12 The apostolic message was unambiguous: heresy should be destroyed by all means, either by priests or secular princes, both receiving papal blessing for a merciless use of their respective swords. A similar, pitiless approach characterized apostolic policy against those Christian powers that challenged the papal course of action and/or interests, whether the Italian city-states or the king of England.13 In complete contrast, the same pope devoted his pontificate to an everlasting pursuit of peace among the faithful, especially its leaders. Indeed, Innocent brought all the prestige of the apostolic curia to bear in a futile attempt to avoid the outbreak of hostilities between Philip II Augustus of France and John I Lackland of England, thereby trying to restore a durable peace among the leading monarchies of Western Christendom. Papal

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intervention was most desired for the implementation of a new crusade, a few years after the shameful Christian downfall at the Horns of Hattin and the meager achievements of the Third Crusade.14 Although Innocent solemnly denied any intention to intrude on feudal matters – being well aware of Philip Augustus’s sensitivity – the pope nonetheless asserted his responsibility with regard to the establishment of a stable peace among Christians: We are thus entitled to wield the power to proceed in this manner in any criminal sin, in order to recall the sinner back from vice to virtue and from error to truth, and particularly so if sins are committed against peace [emphasis mine] which is the bond of charity.15 Papal intervention in the everlasting conflict between England and France was hardly an unprecedented act, and one can easily point to similar efforts made by Celestine III only a few years earlier, when the pope tried to enlist both Richard I Lionheart and Philip II Augustus for the Third Crusade.16 Yet Innocent’s abortive efforts did not restore peace, nor did they prevent the Capetian offensive that eventually brought about the eclipse of the Angevin Empire. Innocent’s achievements, however, should not be measured only according to short-range military or political criteria, as the pope’s major contribution remains in the field of ideas. Papal rhetoric turned the safekeeping of peace among Christians into an integral part of apostolic jurisdiction, on which Innocent bestowed canonical legitimacy. Innocent’s decretals, indeed, clearly connected the pursuit of peace among Christians with the apostolic judgment of “hard causes” (causae arduae) and sin (ratione peccati), together with the just punishment of all those involved in the violation of oaths, the profanation of the holy places, and/or the massacre of the faithful.17 All these criteria were indivisibly amalgamated in the legal foundations of the Petrine Theory and constituted the mainstay of papal monarchy. However, only ten years later, Innocent’s pursuit of peace among Christian rulers disappeared as though it had never been. By 1213, the same pope radically changed his approach toward the king of England and called on his old rival, the king of France – who by the turn of circumstances was returned to his glorified status of Rex Christianissimus – to fight a sacred war against John, because of the latter’s reluctance to admit Stephen Langton as the primate of England.18 Eventually, total royal acquiescence to the papal demands and the feudal submission of England and Ireland to the Holy See heralded a reversal in apostolic diplomacy, with the northern kingdom becoming a cherished target that Innocent and his successors tried to protect against all vicissitudes on both the internal and external fronts.19 The ambivalence of papal policy emerges again in Innocent’s proclamation of the Fifth Crusade. The pope, on this occasion, adjured the faithful: So rouse yourselves, most beloved sons, transforming your quarrels and rivalries, brother against brother, into associations of peace and affection; gird yourselves for the service of the Crucified One, not hesitating

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Sophia Menache to risk your possessions and your persons for Him Who laid down his life and shed his blood for you, equally certain and sure that if you are truly penitent you will achieve eternal rest as a profit from this temporal labour.20

Aware that general appeals of this kind would not enjoy a universal scope, Innocent mobilized the Fourth Lateran Council to proclaim and force a general peace among Christians: Because it is of the greatest necessity for the fulfillment of this undertaking that the princes of Christian people keep peace with one another, we decree, on the recommendation of the holy universal synod, that peace should be generally observed throughout the whole Christian world for at least four years, in such a way that by the agency of prelates of churches discords are resolved into unbroken peace or into the inviolable observance of steadfast truces.21 The pontificate of Innocent III thus hints at the ambivalent approach of the apostolic curia toward peace, a theoretical goal manipulated time and again according to changing papal interests, first and foremost, the implementation of the holy war against the Saracens. Innocent III’s proclamations further evince an indivisible link between the pursuit of peace among Christians and the most holy war led by the papacy against the infidel. Yet historical developments in Western Europe clearly show the powerlessness of the heir of St. Peter to either neutralize the political interests of contemporary Christian rulers or to elevate the needs of the Holy Land above those of their respective kingdoms. The question still arises, however, as to the support enjoyed by the postulates aired time and again by the vicar of God on earth on the ideological, long-range level. James of Vitry, a popular preacher and bishop of Acre, provides faithful testimony as to a complete, most extreme acceptance of the papal message. James indeed made a connection between the pursuit of peace and the crusades, on the one hand, and the Christians’ right to make just use of both options, on the other: If we were not resisting the Church’s enemies, the Saracens and heretics would have destroyed the whole Church. For this reason the poisonous limbs must be cut off and the decayed flesh must be cut out . . . Soldiering seems to have been instituted to repel violence, repulse injury, and proceed with justice against wrongdoers . . . So, when you are armed for battle, first remember this, that your strength, your physical strength itself, is the gift of God . . . We do not seek peace so that we may wage war, but we wage war so that we may attain peace [emphasis mine]. Christ taught that tribute should be paid to Caesar because

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on account of wars it is necessary to pay soldiers: salaries are given to fighting men because it is necessary to make certain provision, that they do not become thieves and go plundering to try to find the cost of their upkeep. Wars should not be fought from greed or cruelty, but from the desire for peace, to refrain the wicked and uphold the good.22 In the bishop of Acre’s reasoning, the crusades thus became a war of selfdefense whose ultimate justification was the Christian pursuit of peace.23 Moreover, while employing Augustinian argumentation and using the same pejorative terms enunciated by Catholic preachers against heresy and heretics, James justified the total extermination of those “poisonous limbs” and “decayed flesh,” which were threatening the Christian body.24 James of Vitry thus reflects the complete acceptance of papal argumentation in the realm of ideas. Still, such reasoning was in open contrast to the historical process – i.e., the continuation of internal conflicts among Christian rulers in Western Europe and the many truces and accommodations with the Muslims that characterized the crusaders’ strategy in Outremer.

Boniface VIII The fall of Crusader Acre on 18 May 1291 did not alter apostolic policy with regard to the justification of war against the infidel and/or the pursuit of peace among Christians. The plans for the recovery of the Holy Land, moreover, continued to have a significant impact on late medieval Christendom and kept the crusades alive,25 if not in actual practice at least in the public declarations of contemporary popes. The pontificate of Boniface VIII (1294–1303) witnesses a new stage in this regard, with the major claims of the Petrine theory canonically summarized in the masterpiece of the medieval papacy, the decretal Unam sanctam (1303).26 Boniface had categorically stated, at the beginning of his pontificate, that since ancient times, “laymen have been very hostile to the clergy” (February 5, 1296). This subtle declaration hints at the pope’s conflict with Western rulers with regard to their taxation of the clergy without previous papal consent.27 Nevertheless, the same pope was forced to nullify his belligerent policy after a year, while declaring that in cases of extreme necessity (si periculosa necessitas imminat), kings may tax the clergy at their own responsibility (July 1297).28 Boniface’s crucial retraction, although harming the prerogatives of the local clergy, undoubtedly improved the pope’s status at the political level and paved the way for the acceptance of papal arbitration in the persistent conflict between England and France.29 Papal mediation eventually brought about the Treaty of Montreuil (June 19, 1299) and the conclusion of a truce reinsured by double nuptials, between Edward I of England and Margaret

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of France, the youngest sister of Philip the Fair, whereas Edward’s son and heir was expected to wed Isabella, the only daughter of the king of France.30 The wedding treaties between the two royal dynasties represented a major achievement of papal diplomacy and, at first glance, the best guarantee of a durable peace between France and England. Approval of matrimonial alliances promoted by apostolic mediation, however, heralded neither wide acceptance of papal leadership nor general recognition of apostolic arbitration in international conflicts. A few examples reveal the prevailing ambivalent, manipulative approach to the vicar of God on earth, and the many weaknesses of the papal status in Christendom: thus Venice and Genoa, after a three-year conflict, turned down the truce ordered by Boniface while rejecting the pope’s attempts at mediation. More significant still, following Boniface’s efforts to mediate in the conflict with Scotland, the Parliament of Lincoln (1301) steadfastly refused to accept papal intervention “in the temporal affairs of England.”31 Such antagonism to papal intervention was not an isolated phenomenon and was in fact modulated according to whether papal intervention suited the changing interests of the parties in conflict. Philip the Fair himself, moreover, had regarded papal conciliatory efforts between England and France as an intrusion into royal prerogatives, asserting his great-grandfather’s claim that the king of the Franks neither recognized nor had any superior within the borders of his kingdom.32

Clement V Because of Isabella’s young age,33 coupled with the many crises that affected the last years of Boniface’s papacy, the wedding with the royal heir of England was postponed until the pontificate of Clement V. Soon after his election, the new pope declared his confidence that the marriage would lead “to the consolidation of peace between France and England”;34 this most cherished goal closely associated with the renewal of the crusade.35 Consequently, the papal nuncio, Peter the Spaniard, appeared before the Parliament of Carlisle and stressed the many advantages of peace (March 15, 1307).36 The next day or a day later, William Greenfield, archbishop of York, announced to the assembly that Edward I, the Prince of Wales, the archbishops and bishops, abbots and priors, earls and barons, the entire king’s council and the commonalty of the land agreed to the marriage.37 Pope Clement bestowed apostolic blessing on the wedding ceremony, which was held several months later (Boulogne, January 25, 1308).38 The marriage of Edward II and Isabella drew much attention among contemporary chroniclers,39 who recognized the positive influence of the apostolic curia in facilitating the matrimony. They further expressed their expectations for the cessation of hostilities and the renewal of long-lasting peace between France and England.40 Amalric Auger’s bitter complaint, that “because of this matrimony many scandals and endless adversities came to the kingdom of France,”41 was not only exceptional but also anachronistic

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because it hints at Edward III’s claim to the throne of France some 30 years later. Prophecies aside, the excellent relations of the former archbishop of Bordeaux with both courts undoubtedly facilitated the acceptance of papal mediation, although Clement was well aware of the fragile political balance that threatened his standing as an unbiased arbitrator. Accordingly, the pope cleverly declined to support Edward’s position during the difficult negotiations with France over the future of Gascony.42 The pope’s cautious attitude was not without foundation. Recognition and acceptance of papal mediation in the early fourteenth century was neither long-range nor universal. When Clement attempted to mediate between Edward II and the belligerent aristocracy of England (1312), the barons categorically refused to accept the papal letters with the excuse that they were not learned men, only such who had been taught arms and fighting. They therefore did not even trouble to read the letters. Then the barons were asked if they wanted to talk with the legates of the Holy See who had come to England to make peace. To this the barons replied that there were many bishops in the realm, both learned and honest, whose advice they were willing to accept though not that of foreigners who know nothing of the causes of their struggle. To emphasize their position, the barons emphatically concluded, “They would never permit a stranger from a foreign country to interfere in their affairs or in any business of theirs within the boundaries of their kingdom.”43 Such growing consciousness of political sovereignty represented a leading trend in Western Christendom in the late Middle Ages, one that posed a difficult challenge to the papal monarchy. Indeed, in a legal record written for Philip the Fair appears the extremist claim that the king of the Franks actually enjoys imperial power at the boundaries of his realm (Rex Francorum imperator est in regno suo).44 Pierre Dubois was among the earliest writers to discuss papal arbitration among rulers “who recognized no earthly authority above themselves.”45 The Norman lawyer unambiguously stated that he would rather prefer to transfer such arbitration to the framework of an ecumenical council – an extraordinary statement pronounced 100 years before the conciliar movement.46 At this point one may therefore claim that the emergence of centralizing monarchies, jealous of their independence, critically weakened the acceptability of papal arbitration, regarded as coming from a prejudiced, foreign political body outside the borders of the “national” kingdoms. The popes’ pursuit of peace among Christians, a vital condition for the renewal of the crusade, was furthermore suspiciously received; the holy war declared time and again by the popes remained unreal, an unfeasible project for remote lands of a hostile Orient, vis-à-vis the changing and most challenging political circumstances in Western Christendom.

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John XXII The pontificate of John XXII does not herald any shift either in apostolic policy or its acceptance in contemporary society. On the contrary, John continued the close alliance with the “Most Christian Kings,” helping the rising house of Valois to surmount the political and dynastical crises that accompanied the last years of Capetian rule.47 In open contrast, the pope displayed a very cautious attitude toward Edward II, an approach that earned the papal curia the applause of contemporary chroniclers. The growing opposition to the king of England thus enhanced the support of papal policy, which was depicted as a clever strategy that “sought to rehabilitate the peace in the kingdom and the Church, and the unity of the people.”48 Still, although the heightened struggle between Edward II and the aristocracy, alongside the royal matrimonial crisis, much required papal intervention, this eventually failed. As a contemporary chronicler appropriately notes, “the papal legates were received with great honor but achieved nothing besides, returning as they had come, despairing of bringing about peace.”49 The deposition of Edward II in 1327 and the accession of Edward III resulted in yet another change in the volatile relationship between rex et sacerdos in England, thereafter characterized by much more cordial, paternal relations between the young king and the aged pope.50 John XXII took an uncompromising pro-English stand in the conflict with Scotland, a course of action that gained him much support in the kingdom of England but much opposition and distrust beyond the northern border.51 The Declaration of Arbroath (1320), considered the first call for national independence in modern history, clearly hints at Scottish dissatisfaction with what they considered biased, pro-English papal policy: invoking the name of Christ, as whose vicar the pope should serve, the northern barons stressed the universal status of the Son of God, who showed no favor in the trial between Jews and Greeks, nor, therefore, should his vicar discriminate between English and Scots. The Scottish barons further urged the pope to bring about the cessation of this conflict between Christians and, in an unambiguous reproduction of papal rhetoric, further emphasized the serious harm it caused to the Christian enterprise Outremer. Pope John should not further ignore the just cause of the king of Scotland, who was crowned by the whole nation and through whose intervention the Scots hoped to receive the grace of God.52 Chroniclers from the kingdom of England, however, scorned the Scots’s fruitless pursuit of papal support, noting that the Scottish delegation to the Avignon curia returned empty-handed.53 Eventually, the peace treaty between England and Scotland fostered a long series of papal privileges on behalf of Robert Bruce and his son David.54 Such late gestures of goodwill, nevertheless, did not restore the apostolic curia’s lost

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credibility, nor did they prevent the Scots’s later appeal for arbitration to the king of France, in their estimation a much more reliable ruler.55 Pope John’s support of the English offensive only a few years later and Edward III’s victory at Halidon Hill (1333) amply justified Scottish suspicions. Chroniclers from England stressed the importance of the victory, which they depicted as a faithful reflection of divine predilection for their kingdom and their king.56 We can therefore conclude that medieval chroniclers were fully cognizant of the manipulative character of the apostolic policy with regard to the pursuit of peace among Christians, on the one hand, and the implementation of the most holy war against the infidel, on the other. Although monastic authors cannot be regarded as a trustworthy reflection of public opinion – such a concept being rather anachronistic – they still reflect important trends in the climate of opinion of late medieval Christendom, at least among the literate elite. The changing nature of papal policy was reciprocated by a no-less-opportunistic approach to papal intervention. Papal argumentation in favor of peace among Christians and the crusade, which did not always materialize, was cited only marginally; this was lip service to accepted norms, and chroniclers did not try to disguise the political opportunism behind papal policy; more often they opted for a critical attitude in this regard. Indeed, after underscoring the huge sums of money that had been contributed to the crusade, an anonymous fourteenth-century chronicler sarcastically dealt with the detrimental consequences of papal policy: “The pope guarded the money . . . and the king and all those who had accepted the cross remained here; and the Saracens live in peace there, and I believe they can continue to sleep in security.”57 From a political perspective, the forging of papal alliances with the kings of England and France was concurrent with the emergence of centralizing monarchies and, as such, a prerequisite to the revival of the crusades. Yet the oscillation that characterized apostolic policy did not improve the pope’s status but brought about instead a growing mistrust of the spiritual leader of Christendom, his shifting policy, and selfish goals. The reactions recorded in both kingdoms clearly reflect awareness of the benefits that could be derived from papal policy but do not suggest any support, even less any credibility, for the policy led by the Roman curia, first and foremost, its head. This leads to the conclusion that papal manipulation of peace treaties among the leading monarchies of Christendom for the sake of a crusade that did not materialize contributed to the marginalization of the papacy. The highest ruler of Christendom was regarded as an interested political party and, as such, one that had lost much of its former spiritual, universal halo. To sum up, the pursuit of peace in the service of war was yet another symptom of, if not a factor, in the decline of the papacy at the beginning of the Avignon period, which Petrarch defined so well as the “Babylonian captivity of the papacy.”

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Notes 1 The First Apology of Justin, chap. 110, ed. Thomas B. Falls, in Saint Justin Martyr: The First Apology, the Second Apology, Dialogue with Trypho, Exhortation on the Greeks, Discourse to the Greeks, the Monarchy or the Rule of God, Fathers of the Church Series (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1948, 1965), 254. 2 Origen, Against Celsus, part 4, chap. 33, trans. Frederick Crombie, Palestine Pilgrims Text Society 11 (London: AMS Press, 1971), 40. See also Charles Freeman, A New History of Early Christianity (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2009, 2011), passim. Similar concepts were voiced by both Tertullian (160–225) and Clement of Alexandria (c. 150–215). See Timothy D. Barnes, Tertullian: A Literary and Historical Study (Oxford: Clarendon, 1971, 1985), 67–86; Eric Osborn, “Arguments for Faith in Clement of Alexandria,” Vigiliae Christianae 48 (1994): 1–24. 3 Augustine, De civitate Dei contra paganos 19.11, trans. R. W. Dyson as The City of God against the Pagans (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 932–3. Thomas Aquinas could therefore conclude: “we are commanded to keep peace because it is an act of charity; and for this reason, too, it is a meritorious act” (Summa Theologica, Secunda Secundae partis, Q 29, trans. Fathers of the English Dominican Province [New York: Benzinger, 1947–1948], 1314–16). 4 Charles Munier, Concilia Galliae a. 314 – a. 506, CCSL 148 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1963), 15–24. 5 Regarding the coexistence of violence and nonviolence/peace, see Markus Fath’s contribution to this volume. 6 On the church’s gradual acceptance of violence and war from the tenth century onwards, see Tomaž Mastnak, Crusading Peace: Christendom, the Muslim World, and Western Political Order (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), 10–21, 74–90. 7 Bernard Guillemain, “Les tentatives pontificales de médiation dans le litige franco-anglais de Guyenne au XIVe. siècle,” Bulletin philologique et historique du comité des travaux historiques et scientifiques 57 (1958): 425–6. 8 Louise Riley-Smith and Jonathan Riley-Smith, The Crusades: Idea and Reality, 1095–1271, Documents of Medieval History 4 (London: E. Arnold, 1981), 22. For the extent of papal influence on the Fourth Crusade, see Alfred J. Andrea and Ilona Motsiff, “Pope Innocent III and the Diversion of the Fourth Crusade Army to Zara,” Byzantinoslavica 33 (1972): 6–25; Joseph Gill, “Innocent III and the Greeks: Aggressor or Apostle?” in Relations between East and West in the Middle Ages, ed. Derek Baker (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1973), 95–108. 9 Jonathan Riley-Smith, “Crusading as an Act of Love,” History 65 (1980): 177–92. 10 Jonathan Riley-Smith, The First Crusaders, 1095–1131 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 18–43. On the approach to violence as “a fundamental aspect of human nature,” see the chapter by Markus Fath in this volume. 11 Bernard Hamilton, “The Albigensian Crusade,” in Monastic Reform, Catharism and the Crusades (900–1300) (London: Variorum Reprints, 1979), article 8:1–40; Jacques Berlioz, “Tuez-les tous, Dieu reconnaîtra les siens”: La croisade contre les Albigeois vue par Césaire de Heisterbach (Portet-sur-Garonne: Loubatières, 1994), passim; Brenda M. Bolton, “Tradition and Temerity: Papal Attitudes to Deviants, 1159–1216,” in Schism, Heresy, and Religious Protest, ed. Derek Baker (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1972), 79–91; Raymonde Foreville, “Innocent III et la croisade des albigeois,” in Gouvernement et vie de l’Eglise au moyen âge (London: Variorum Reprints, 1979), 8:184–218.

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12 Innocentii III romani pontificis regestorum sive epistolarum, in PL, vol. 214, col. 71; English trans., “On Heresy: Letter to the Archbishop of Auch, 1198,” Fordham Medieval Sources, http://sourcebooks.fordham.edu/Halsall/source/ innIII-policies.asp. See also C. R. Cheney, The Letters of Pope Innocent III (Manchester: John Rylands Library, 1952), 23–43. 13 Elizabeth Kennan, “Innocent III and the First Political Crusade: A Comment on the Limitations of Papal Power,” Traditio 27 (1971): 231–49; John C. Moore, “Pope Innocent III, Sardinia, and the Papal State,” Speculum 62 (1987): 81–101. 14 “Post miserabile” (13–15 August 1198), Innocentii III romani pontificis regestorum sive epistolarum, in PL, vol. 216, col. 1001; Alfred Andrea, Contemporary Sources for the Fourth Crusade (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 10–19. See also Benjamin Z. Kedar, “The Battle of Hattin Revisited,” in The Horns of Hattin, ed. Benjamin Z. Kedar (Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi, 1992), 190–207. 15 “Novit ille,” Innocentii III romani pontificis regestorum sive epistolarum, in PL, vol. 215, cols. 325–9, trans. Bennett D. Hill, Church and State in the Middle Ages (New York: Wiley, 1970), 150–2. See also Michele Maccarrone, “La papauté et Philippe Auguste: La décrétale ‘Novit ille’,” in La France de Philippe Auguste: Le temps des mutations, ed. Robert-Henri Bautier (Paris: CNRS, 1982), 385–408. 16 Sidney Painter, “The Third Crusade: Richard the Lionhearted and Philip Augustus,” in A History of the Crusades, ed. Kenneth M. Setton (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1969–1989), 2: 45–85. 17 See Innocent’s main claims in “Per venerabilem,” Innocentii III romani pontificis regestorum sive epistolarum, PL, vol. 215, cols. 325–9; Deirdre CourtneyBatson, “Per venerabilem: From Practical Necessity to Judicial Supremacy,” in Pope Innocent III and His World, ed. John C. Moore (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999), 277–303. 18 Christopher R. Cheney, “England and the Roman Curia under Innocent III,” Journal of Ecclesiastical History 18 (1967): 173–86; idem, “King John and Papal Interdict,” in The Papacy and England, 12th–14th Centuries: Historical and Legal Studies (London: Variorum Reprints, 1982), 295–317; Alan Harding, England in the Thirteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 264–320. 19 Owing to his new status as overlord of England, Innocent called the insurgent barons to order while declaring the Magna Charta null and void. See “Etsi carissimus” (24 August 1215), Foedera, conventiones, literae . . . inter reges Angliae . . . ab ineunte saeculo duodecimo . . . ad nostra usque tempora [hereafter: Foedera], ed. Thomas Rymer (London: A. J. Churchill, 1704–1717), 1–1: 67–69; Innocentii III romani pontificis regestorum sive epistolarum, in PL, vol. 217, col. 245, trans. Thomas B. Costain, Conquering Family: A History of the Plantagenets (New York: Popular Library, 1962), 60. 20 “Quia maior” (19–29 April 1213), Georgine Tangl, Studien zum Register Innocenz’ III (Weimar: H. Böhlaus Nachfolger, 1929), 88–97, trans. Jonathan RileySmith, The Crusades, 121. 21 Innocent III, “Ad liberandam” (30 November 1215), Conciliorum oecumenicorum decreta, ed. Giuseppe Alberigo and Hubert Jedin (Basel: Herder, 1962), 243–7; trans. Jonathan Riley-Smith, The Crusades, 128–9. 22 Jacques de Vitry, Sermones vulgares, in Analecta Novissima, ed. Joannes B. Pitra (Paris: Jean Baptiste, 1888), 2:419–20; trans. Louise Riley-Smith and Jonathan Riley-Smith, The Crusades, 68–9. 23 Fernando Ortega, “La paz y la guerra en el pensamiento augustiniano,” Revista española de derecho canónico 20 (1965): 5–35.

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24 R. I. Moore, “Heresy as Disease,” in The Concept of Heresy in the Middle Ages, ed. Willem Lourdaux and Daniël Verhelst (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1976), 1–11. 25 Sylvia Schein, Fideles Crucis: The Papacy, the West, and the Recovery of the Holy Land (1274–1314) (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 74–139; Antony Leopold, How to Recover the Holy Land: The Crusade Proposals of the Late Thirteenth and Early Fourteenth Centuries (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000), 203–15; Jacques Paviot, “Comment reconquérir la Terre Sainte et vaincre les Sarrasins?” in Dei gesta per Francos: Etudes sur les croisades dediées à Jean Richard, ed. Michael Balard, Benjamin Z. Kedar, and Jonathan Riley-Smith (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2001), 79–85. 26 “Unam sanctam,” in Les Registres de Boniface VIII, ed. Georges Digard, Bibliothèque des écoles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome, 2nd series, 4 (Paris: E. Boccard, 1904), no. 5382, 888–90; “Extravagantes Communes,” 1.8.1, in Corpus Juris Canonici, ed. Emil A. Friedberg (Leipzig: Manu Scriptorum, 1897), 1245– 46; Walter Ullmann, Medieval Papalism: The Political Theories of the Medieval Canonists (London: Methuen, 1949), 178. 27 “Clericis laicos,” in Les Registres de Boniface VIII, nos. 1567, 1653. See Jeffrey H. Denton, “Taxation and the Conflict between Philip the Fair and Boniface VIII,” French History 11 (1997): 258–60. 28 “Etsi de statu,” in Les registres de Boniface VIII, nos. 2312, 2309, 2333; Simon Vigor, Histoire du différend d’entre le pape Boniface VIII et Philippes le Bel, ed. Pierre Dupuy (Paris: Sebastien et Gabriel Cramoisy, 1655), 39; Sophia Menache, “Un peuple qui a sa demeure à part: Boniface VIII et le sentiment national français,” Francia 12 (1985): 193–208. 29 Norman Housley, “France, England, and the ‘National Crusade’, 1302–1386,” in France and the British Isles in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance: Essays by Members of Girton College, Cambridge, in Memory of Ruth Morgan, ed. Gillian Jondorf and D. N. Dumville (Woodbridge: Boydell, 1991), 183–98. 30 The English monarchy consequently regained Guyenne and received £15,000 owed to Margaret, as well as the return of Eleanor of Castile’s lands in Ponthieu and Montreuil as a dower for Margaret and later on for Isabella. See Foedera, 1–2: 208–9, 1–4: 26; George P. Cuttino, English Diplomatic Administration, 1259–1339, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1971), 62–87; Annales de Wigornia, in Annales monastici, ed. Henry R. Luard, Rolls Series 36 (London: Eyre & Spottiswoode, 1864–69), 4:538; The Chronicle of Walter of Guisborough Previously Edited as the Chronicle of Walter of Hemingford or Hemingburgh, Royal Historical Society Camden Series 89 (London: Longmans, 1957), 317–22. 31 Foedera, 1–4: 5–6; Thomas Walsingham, Historia anglicana, Rolls Series 28 (London: H.M.S.O., 1863), 1881–2. 32 Quoted by Innocent III in “Per venerabilem” (see n. 17). See also Mastnak, Crusading Peace, 233–53. 33 John Carmi Parsons, “Mothers, Daughters, Marriage, Power: Some Plantagenet Evidence, 1150–1500,” in Medieval Queenship, ed. John C. Parsons (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1993), 66–8. 34 Original Papal Letters in England, 1305–1415, ed. Patrick N. R. Zutshi (Vatican City: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1990), no. 13, 8–9. On Clement’s concern for the peace process between the two countries, see his letter to Edward I in 1306, Calendar of the Close Rolls (1302–1307) (London: Eyre & Spottiswoode, 1908), 447; Gesta Edwardi de Carnavan, auctore canonico Bridlingtoniensi, in Chronicles of the Reigns of Edward I and Edward II, ed. William Stubbs, Rolls Series 76 (London: Longman, 1882), 2:32. 35 Sophia Menache, Clement V (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 101–28.

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36 Chronicle of Walter of Guisborough, 370–1. 37 H. G. Richardson and G. O. Sayles, “The Parliament of Carlisle, 1307: Some New Documents,” English Historical Review 53 (1937): 436–7. 38 Elizabeth Brown, “The Political Repercussions of Family Ties in the Early Fourteenth Century: The Marriage of Edward II of England and Isabelle of France,” Speculum 63 (1988): 573–95; Elizabeth Brown, “The Marriage of Edward II of England and Isabelle of France: A Postscript,” Speculum 64 (1989): 373–9. 39 Extraits d’une chronique anonyme intitulée Anciennes Chroniques de Flandre, RHGF 22 (Paris: Libraires associés, 1738–1855), 22:397–8; Chronicon Galfridi Le Baker de Swynebroke, ed. Edward M. Thompson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1889), 3; Chronicon de Lanercost, 1201–1346, ed. Joseph Stevenson (Edinburgh: Impressum Edinburgi, 1839), 211; La chronique métrique attribuée à Geoffroy de Paris, ed. Armel Divèrres, Publications de la Faculté des lettres de l’Université de Strasbourg 129 (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1956), lines 3251–68, 153; Flores historiarum/3, A.D. 1265 to A.D. 1326, ed. Henry R. Luard, Rolls Series 95 (London: Eyre and Spottiswoode, 1890), 140–2; Chronographia regum Francorum, ed. Henri Moranvillé, Société de l’histoire de France (Paris: Librairie Renouard, 1891–7), 1:177–9. 40 Clement V, “Romana curia consulente et procurante propter bonum pacis,” in Clementis V auctore Joanne canonico Sancti Victoris Parisiensis, in Vitae Paparum Avenionensium hoc est historia pontificum romanorum . . . ab anno Christi 1305 usque ad annum 1394, ed. Etienne Baluze, new ed., Guillaume Mollat, 4 vols. (Paris: Letouzey et Ané, 1916–28), vol. 1 (Paris, 1916), 10; Annales Londonienses, in Chronicles of the Reigns of Edward I and Edward II, 1:152; Flores historiarum, 141. 41 Amalric Augerii, Sexta Vita, in Vitae Paparum Avenionensium, 93. 42 Gascon Rolls Preserved in the Public Record Office, 1307–1317, ed. Yves Renouard and Robert Fawtier (London: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1962), no. 393; Cuttino, English Diplomatic Administration, 87–100; Jean Gaudemet, “Le rôle de la papauté dans le règlement des conflits entre états aux XIIIe et XIVe siècles,” Recueils de la société Jean Bodin 15 (1961): 98–9. 43 Walsingham, Historia anglicana, 134; John of Trokelowe, Annales, in Chronica monasterii S. Albani, ed. Henry T. Riley (Nendeln: Kraus, 1972), 3:78. 44 “Mémoire relatif au paréage de 1307: conclu entre l’évêque Guillaume Durand II et le roi Philippe-le-Bel,” in Bulletin de la société d’agriculture, industrie, sciences et arts du département de la Lozère, ed. Abel Maisonobe (Mende: A. Privat, 1896), 521. 45 Pierre Dubois, De Recuperatione Terrae Sanctae, ed. Angelo Diotti (Florence: L. S. Olschki, 1977), 121–2. 46 Conciliar principles found wide support in the kingdom of France from the end of the thirteenth century. See Charles Wood, “Celestine V, Boniface VIII, and the Authority of Parliament,” Journal of Medieval History 8 (1982): 45–62; Bryan Tierney, The Foundations of the Conciliar Theory: The Contribution of the Medieval Canonists from Gratian to the Great Schism (Leiden: Brill, 1998), passim. 47 Elizabeth Brown, “Reform and Resistance to Royal Authority in Fourteenth Century France: The Leagues of 1314–1315,” Parliaments, Estates, and Representation 1 (1981): 109–37; Guillaume Mollat, “Jean XXII et Charles IV, le Bel (1322–1328),” Journal des savants 2 (1967): 92–7. 48 Flores historiarum, 180. 49 Walsingham, Historia Anglicana, 178–9. 50 John XXII, Lettres communes de Jean XXII, ed. Guillaume Mollat, Bibliothèque des écoles francaises d’Athènes et de Rome (Paris: A. Fontemoing, 1904–1947), nos. 29594, 29625–8; Foedera, 2:3–4, 8, 11–12, 23, 44.

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51 Rosalind Hill, “Belief and Practice as Illustrated by John XXII’s Excommunication of Robert Bruce,” Studies in Church History 8 (1972): 135–8. 52 The Declaration of Arbroath, ed. James Fergusson (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1970), 6–8. 53 Annales Paulini, in Chronicles of the Reigns of Edward I and Edward II, 1:359; Galfridi le Baker, Chronicon, 119. 54 Foedera, 2:2–6, 11, 89, 95. 55 John XXII, Lettres communes, nos. 43230–1, 43139, 45373, 47164. 56 Adam Murimuth, Adae Murimuth Continuatio chronicarum, ed. Edward M. Thompson, Rolls Series 93 (London: Longman, 1889), 67; Annales Paulini, 1:357; Robert of Avesbury, De gestis mirabilibus regis Edwardi Tertii, ed. Edward Thompson, Rolls Series 93 (London: Longman, 1889), 296–7. 57 Fragment d’une chronique anonyme finissant en 1328, et continué jusqu’en 1340, puis jusqu’en 1383, RHGF 21 (Paris: Imprimerie Impériale, 1855), ad annum 1313, p. 150.

8

Holy women as spokeswomen for peace in late medieval Europe Esther Cohen

The period of the Babylonian Captivity (1309–77) and the ensuing Great Schism of the church (1378–1417) were the golden age of female prophecy in Christian Europe. During this period, several women visionaries had clear political agendas.1 Either by way of published revelations, as in the case of Birgitta of Sweden (1303–73) and Marie Robine (d. 1399), or through letters to popes, cardinals, friends, and city magistrates, as in the case of Catherine of Siena (1347–80), these women exhorted the powerful men of their time to settle disputes and make peace. Their reception ranged from polite disagreement to outright disbelief. Constance of Rabastens (fl. 1384–86) was even silenced by the Inquisition of Languedoc.2 The only one who could be said to have actively influenced contemporary politics was Catherine of Siena, empowered by Pope Gregory XI in 1377 to try to bring about peace between the papacy and the Tuscan cities: an attempt which failed. In 1378, Gregory’s successor, Urban VI, asked Catherine to come to Rome and resolve the schism between him and Pope Clement VII of Avignon.3 As we know, this attempt too ended in failure, and the schism was destined to last for decades to come. In fact, Catherine’s only success was in convincing Gregory XI to move from Avignon to Rome – a step that, according to Jean Gerson, he bitterly regretted on his deathbed. Nevertheless, the phenomenon is unique in the history of the Middle Ages. It is indicative of the highly serious impact that the Babylonian Captivity and the Great Schism had on the rank and file of believers. It is also indicative of the role achieved by some women in these crises. There were also men who took a stance in the crises, such as Petrarch and Vincent Ferrer (1350–1419), who left a highly prestigious post as a papal confessor to preach to the masses. Nevertheless, the women were visible and vocal, and some achieved public respect for their messages. It is notable, however, that only Catherine of Siena spoke in her own voice.4 True, in some of her letters, she relied on revelations, but most of her political message comes from “I, Catherine, servant and slave of the servants of Jesus Christ.” The rest of the fourteenth- and fifteenth-century women prophets followed the model of female prophecy set in the twelfth century.

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Women’s prophetic abilities were first recognized as orthodox and meaningful in the twelfth century. In a remarkable correspondence between Hildegard of Bingen (1098–1179) and Elizabeth of Schönau (ca. 1129–64), Hildegard sets out the parameters of justification for her prophetic gift and its dissemination through preaching. According to Hildegard, she was no more than a trumpet. The spirit was God’s, and he blew in the trumpet. Thus the prophet was a conduit of God’s words: “A trumpet only renders the sound and does not produce it unless another breathes into it in order to bring forth the sound.”5 It is highly unlikely that fourteenth-century visionaries knew Hildegard’s explanation, but they shared Elizabeth’s quandaries and were also, like her, objects of attacks by the male ecclesiastical establishment. Birgitta of Sweden recorded in her Revelations the antagonism with which her message was first received in Rome: Christ spoke to the bride, living in the monastery of Alvastra, thus: “go to Rome and live there, until you see the pope and the emperor, and you shall speak to them from me the words that I will tell you.” Therefore, the bride of Christ came to Rome at the age of forty-two, and lived there according to the divine precept fifteen years before the pope came, that is Urban V, and Emperor Charles of Bohemia, to whom she brought the revelations for the reform of the church and the rule. During those fifteen years that she lived in Rome before the coming of the High Pontiff and the Emperor, she had many revelations concerning the state of the city, in which our lord Jesus Christ claimed excesses and sins of the inhabitants with grave warnings of retribution. When these revelations were brought to the notice of the inhabitants of Rome, they reacted with savage hatred against the blessed Birgitta. Some of them threatened to burn her alive, others cursed her as being heretical and a witch.6 A friar denounced her from the pulpit, naming her visions errors and phantasms, ending his words with the statement, “It is neither credible, nor in accordance with Scripture, that God . . . should divulge his secrets to wonderworking women.”7 Birgitta was not alone. The Avignonese cardinals imprisoned Ursulina da Parma (1375–1408), and the Toulouse Inquisition silenced Constance de Rabastens on suspicion of heresy and witchcraft. Early in her visionary life, her confessor, Raymond de Sabanac, had had grave misgivings about her visions and refused to continue to write them down.8 Catherine of Siena’s biographer Raymond of Capua makes it clear in his Legenda Maior how many misgivings he originally had concerning his subject’s prophetic gifts.9 In fact, both Catherine of Siena and Constance de Rabastens had their own severe doubts as to their prophetic mission. Why would God have chosen a woman? Both received trenchant answers: Am I not the One who created the human race, dividing it into male and female? I spread the grace of my spirit where I choose. In front of me

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there is no male or female, no rich or poor, but all are equal, for I can do everything equally. Do not doubt, for I tell you that the time has come for the Son of Man to show his power, and it will be shown in you . . . for you are a woman, and through woman was the faith preserved, and through woman it will be revealed. And that woman is you.10 These women were almost all strangers in strange countries. Birgitta came from Sweden to Rome and remained there for the rest of her life. Catherine of Siena traveled first to Avignon and then to Rome, where she died. Ursulina of Parma walked from her home to Avignon and then to Rome and back to Avignon to mediate between competing popes. Marie Robine left her home in Gascony on pilgrimage to the tomb of Saint Peter of Luxemburg in Avignon, where she was miraculously cured of her lameness. Later, she left her hermit’s cell in Avignon to go to Paris and try to convince the king and his advisors not to withdraw their support from the Avignonese popes. She was sent back to Avignon by Queen Isabeau of Bavaria as a royal emissary to try to convince Antipope Benedict XIII of Avignon to resign.11 It is perhaps their liminal position as outsiders to the audience receiving their message that granted them added charisma, and as a result drew more criticism. They were not deterred by their lack of any formal standing in the eyes of the recipients of their messages. Marie Robine was denied access to the royal French council, but Ursulina of Parma did receive at least one audience with Clement VII of Avignon. They lived on the margins of the social world and considered it their duty to mediate between the sphere of holiness and that of politics. As Catherine of Siena put it: I find that to the real servant of God every place is the place and every time is the time. Therefore, when it is time to abandon one’s own consolation and embrace the fatigue for the honour of God, he does so; and when it is time to flee the forest for the need of the honour of God, he does so. And he goes to public places [. . .] This has always been the custom of the true servants of God, to go out in time of need and adversity; but not in time of prosperity; then they flee it [i.e., the world].12 The message of each of these women prophets was different and time specific. Because this survey covers the period from the beginning of the Avignon papacy (1309) to the end of the conciliar movement (1449), the issues involving the papacy shifted from time to time, and the appeals of the prophetic women changed accordingly. Obviously, there was a crucial difference between the two prophetesses of the Avignonese period and those of the Great Schism, as there was between those of the Schism and Francesca Romana, who lived during the late conciliar period. Nevertheless,

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the first prophetesses of the fourteenth century set the tone. As Bartolomei Romagnoli observed: The prophetic wave of the Avignonese era presents new and totally different characteristics, because it places itself directly in a polemic with the great political and ecclesiastical powers of the time and implies, on the part of these women, the conscious assumption of the role of a historic and spiritual guide of Christianity.13

Avignon period The first and emblematic prophetess was Birgitta of Sweden who, during the period of the Avignon papacy, constantly exhorted a series of popes – Clement VI, Urban V, and Gregory XI (who eventually did return to Rome and died there) – to engage in reform and return to Rome.14 Nevertheless, this was not her total message. Her first message to Clement VI, dated 1348 (two years before the Jubilee), still sent from the monastery of Alvastra in Sweden prior to her pilgrimage to Rome, calls on the pope to make peace between France and England.15 Indeed, as we shall see, other conflicts surfaced in the messages of other prophetesses. They viewed the pope’s role as the natural authoritative mediator who ought to settle wars between different countries. Birgitta’s message is couched in minatory language, castigating the pope for his weakness and passivity, and threatening divine retribution if he failed to achieve peace between the warring parties. Being only the trumpet for the divine message, she could afford to address popes in highly condemnatory terms. Yet her descriptions of ruined Rome and a church falling down are the most eloquent of her visions: “Oh Rome, oh Rome, your walls are destroyed, your gates unguarded, your vessels are sold and your altars deserted.” In a vision addressed to Urban V upon his arrival in Rome, God’s church is desolate: [T]he external hinges are full of rust and mud; the doorposts are bent to the ground because there is no room in the openings where the hooks which are supposed to hold them are fixed. The hooks are completely straight, not curved so that they can hold the posts. The pavement is all pitted and distorted into deep holes, resembling bottomless wells. The roof is smeared with tar, burning with a sulfurous fire that falls like dense rain. All the walls are stained with black, dense smoke rising from the abyss of the pits and the trickling from the roof, and so unrecognizable in color as to be reminiscent of blood mixed with pus and rot.16 The entire vision is a metaphor for the corrupt state of the church, with each ruined part symbolizing a different aspect. The misshapen hooks are the cardinals; the pavement bishops and secular clergy, and so forth. The pope is summoned to rebuild the ruined church by reforming it. Urban stayed

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in Rome for three years, and during this period, he approved the Brigittine monastic rule and granted Birgitta indulgences. Shortly before his return to Avignon, Birgitta tried to convince him to stay in Rome, “the seat of God on earth.”17 The vision has the Virgin speaking to both of her sons: Christ and the pope. Another vision, also of the Virgin, was addressed to Gregory XI, again preaching a return to Rome. It is a mark of Birgitta’s standing in Rome by this time (after 1370) that her letters to Avignon were carried by Roman and Italian noblemen and papal ambassadors. Unlike her earlier warnings to Clement VI, the letters to Gregory XI display a high degree of political sophistication. Birgitta warns that if the pope does not return, Italy will fall apart in an anarchy of competing tyrants.18 The pope’s return, therefore, is also a requirement of peace. By 1373 Birgitta, disillusioned with Gregory XI, sends him a fulminating invective, accusing him of arrogance and boldness, hatred of Christ, insatiable cupidity, lust, simony, distribution of church wealth to his friends, and robbing the poor. Inevitably, the missive closes with the injunction to return to Rome.19 Birgitta was not destined to see the fruit of her labors, for she died before Gregory XI returned to Rome. Birgitta’s near contemporary and fellow political messenger, Catherine of Siena, spoke in her own authority and voice, exhorting various personages in her numerous letters to make peace, return to Rome, and unite the church. Her letters ring a very different register from Birgitta’s. They are suffused with love, tears, and the blood of Christ. They are also highly emotional and affective, the effect heightened by their vernacular language. Often addressing the pope as Babbo mio dolce (Sweet Daddy), she ends several letters with “pace, pace, pace.”20 The corpus of Catherine’s letters is capacious. It includes letters to her mother, her confessor, her friends, and also the kings of France and Hungary, and two popes, Gregory XI and Urban VI. The main theme of her political correspondence is the return to Rome and the cessation of warfare among Christians in order to prepare a crusade aimed at freeing the Holy Land and converting the infidels.21 “Erect the standard of the Holiest Cross, because with the power of the Cross you will gain peace.”22 Thus, using warlike language, Catherine exhorts Gregory XI to make peace with the rebellious Italian city-states. Two months later, in March 1376, she repeats the message more emphatically: From war you will come to a very great peace, from persecution to a very great union . . . and you will erect the standard of the Holy Cross: for as we were freed by the Cross, as Paul says, so raising this standard, which seems to be a consolation for the Christians, we shall be freed – we of war, rift, and much iniquity, and the infidels of their infidelity.23 Making peace with the antipapal league was crucial for Catherine. On the one hand, she addressed the leaders of Florence, Siena, and Milan to submit to the pope.24 They are little sons (figliuoli) disobeying their father when

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they should obey him. On the other hand, she begs the pope to forgive his errant sons “and do not pay attention to the ignorance, blindness, and pride of your little sons.”25 Interspersed with her calls for peace and crusade is the constant repetition of the need to return to Rome. All the letters to Gregory XI repeat this urging. Catherine also traveled to Avignon in 1376, where she was received with great honor, but when facing the pope, she accused his entire court of corruption and lust, of smelling of the smoke of hell.26 Naturally, the letters to Gregory’s successor, Urban VI, who already resided in Rome, no longer need to urge this point. The latter letters are written in a supportive, morale-boosting tone to encourage the Roman pope in his fight against the Avignonese papacy and urging him to be patient.27 During the last two years of her life, Catherine wrote to a very wide circle of people calling on them to support Urban VI. These included laity and the clergy throughout Italy, including three Roman cardinals who were considering changing their allegiance. To do so, warns Catherine, would be heresy: “Oh fools, worthy of a thousand deaths! . . . Turn, turn, and do not await the rod of justice!”28 The letters reached out to the kings of France and Hungary, and to the queen of Naples, all of them calling for support for the Roman pope.29 These letters come back to the need for unity among Christians in order to mount a crusade and convert the infidels. Their tone, however, is much more bellicose than the letters mediating between the pope and the Italian cities. Instead of disobedient sons, those who support Avignon are heretics, servants of the devil, and masters of lies. There is no appeal to papal patience and forbearance toward supporters of Avignon. Catherine’s loyalty to the church was perhaps her most ardent love, for she identified the church with Christ.30 Birgitta and Catherine were undoubtedly the most famous prophetesses of the Avignon period and the outbreak of the schism. Their impact was immediate and powerful. Yet later theologians blamed both of them for having brought about the schism. This is clearest in the writings of Jean Gerson (1363–1429), who was much troubled by the phenomenon of female prophecy in general and by the activities of Birgitta of Sweden in particular. Birgitta is probably the only saint to have been canonized three times, largely due to the upheavals in the papacy. First, she was canonized in 1391 by the Roman pope Boniface IX, a second time in 1415 by the Pisan antipope Alexander V, and in 1419 by Pope Martin V, the legitimate surviving pope to emerge from the Council of Constance. It was during the debates about the second canonization that Jean Gerson (1363–1429), theologian and chancellor of the University of Paris, representing his institution, wrote his famous attack on the validity of spiritual experiences, partially moved by the recanonization of the visionary who had caused so much trouble.31 Gerson wrote three treatises directly condemning unauthorized and suspect visionaries, also referring venomously in his other works to the nefarious results of listening to visionaries. The tone of his works is heightened as time goes by. In “On Distinguishing True from False Revelations,” written

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first as a lecture and then as a letter in 1402 (already in mid-schism), Gerson was clearly preoccupied with the phenomenon of lay prophecy, but not with its political results. He laid down clear-cut criteria, which included the prophet’s manner of life and morals, his or her orthodoxy, stability (women are suspected of instability and madness more than men), and so on, but nowhere did he refer to the damage caused by specific seers. Thirteen years later, when the Council of Constance ratified the canonization of St. Birgitta of Sweden, Gerson’s tone changed. His much shorter, but far more acerbic essay “Concerning the Discernment of Spirits” (de probatione spirituum) not only repeated the rules for true visions and visionaries, but also named suspects. He expressed the wish to have had with him all the literature on verifying the orthodoxy of visions at the Council, “especially [in the case of] one named Birgitta, who claimed to have received visions not only from angels, but also from Christ, Mary, St. Agnes, and other saints.”32 What was one to do, he asked? Ought the Council to approve false, frivolous, and illusory visions? Conversely, if the Council disclaimed what several participants from several countries considered legitimate, it would inevitably cause scandal and widespread popular fear. In the continuation of his diatribe, Gerson insinuated that (unnamed) visionaries might have not only been deluded by the devil, but also drunk or insane – both dangers especially true for women. A true vision, maintained Gerson, was “chaste, peace-loving, modest, and persuasive, in agreement with the good, full of pity, bearing good results, and judging impartially.”33 Clearly, a loud contentious voice like Birgitta’s – barring her persuasiveness – failed to meet his criteria. As a rule, Gerson disapproved of visionaries whether they meddled in politics or not, but his anonymous accusations take the form of a clear political warning in a final, and most vitriolic treatise, “On the Examination of Doctrines” (1423). In a well-known passage there, Gerson describes the regrets of the dying Gregory XI for having listened to visionaries and returned to Rome, thus creating dissension in the church: We have often spoken with those who were present there (experti), and Pope Gregory XI was an ideal witness, though terribly slow. Here he was dying, holding the holy body of Christ in his hands, he asserted in front of all that they should beware people, both men and women, who invent visions out of their own heads, under the pretense of religion, because he was seduced by such and, having dismissed the rational advice of his people, that he might drag both himself and the church to division with the schismatics then present, unless Jesus, the merciful bridegroom of the church, would intervene. Which, alas, is exactly what happened.34 This, in 1423, was hindsight and invention of the past. Gregory XI died in 1378, and the number of witnesses Gerson could have rounded up 45 years after the events could not have been significant. Nor, by the way, had he

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himself been present at the pope’s deathbed. Nevertheless, what remained was the narrative of how the visionaries had precipitated a schism it had taken many decades to heal.

The great schism The popes of Rome were not the only ones to receive visionary support. Marie Robine abandoned her recluse’s cell in the cemetery of Saint Michel in Avignon and went to Paris in 1398 to try to dissuade the French general assembly of the clergy and king from withdrawing their obedience from the Avignon pope Clement VII. The visions, 12 in number, unveil the spiritual and political life of a poor, unlettered laywoman, who achieved local fame and underwent a transition from being a stipendiary and supporter of the Avignonese popes to becoming their condemnatory critic. In her first vision, she addressed a letter to King Charles VI, which contained her program of church reform and fidelity to Avignon. She proposed a rather startling, innovative reform: the king was to order the founding of three houses in each diocese, one for the poor and elderly, one for poor students, and one for the defense of the church against its enemies.35 The program shows a poor laywoman’s disgust with the corruption prevalent in the church and fosters the concept that church money should be directed to support the deserving poor. The last “house” is a clear indication of the echoes of the schism. Obviously, Marie saw the opponents of the Avignonese popes as the enemies of the church. If the king were to follow Marie’s injunctions, he would avoid purgatory and go straight to heaven. He would also triumph over his enemies, especially the Saracens. Like Catherine of Siena on the other side of the schism, Marie Robine saw the crusade as a unifying force for riven Christianity. The next two visions, preached openly to a crowd in the Avignon cemetery, show Marie’s growing disenchantment with clerical corruption. Both describe the near-destruction of the world, saved from Christ’s ire by the intervention of the Virgin.36 The fourth vision contains Marie’s mission to Paris and its failure.37 Whether Pope Benedict XIII had sent her or merely allowed her to go is not clear. Nevertheless, her journey is an indication of her growing reputation and her own self-fashioning as a seer. The sixth and seventh visions experienced in Paris show heaven and the futility of skeptical doctors of theology.38 Robine’s distancing from Avignon is visible in the eighth vision, which no longer speaks of the schism, but simply preaches peace and a virtuous life.39 The final break with Avignon comes in the ninth and tenth visions, when the dead pope Clement VII appears to her and she rejects his message and denounces him as a liar. She equally attacks the living Benedict XIII for not abdicating and prolonging the unjust war and the suffering of Christianity.40 The penultimate vision castigates the king for not reforming the church and announces his deposition by God. The last vision prior to Marie’s death prophesies the destruction of Paris.41

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Marie Robine is typical of the schism-period prophetesses in that she never achieved the fame and stature of the preschism prophetesses Catherine of Siena or Birgitta of Sweden. The schism visionaries enjoyed limited fame, both in terms of their period of public activity and in terms of their geographic renown. Of Marie Robine, we know a little more than her revelations, for she is mentioned in a papal grant of a pension and in the writings of Philippe de Mézières.42 In contrast, of Constance de Rabastens, we know nothing beyond the single manuscript of her visions, recorded by her confessor and probably translated into Catalan. She was a modest widow in a small town of southern France who had a daughter, and a son who was a monk in Toulouse.43 During the three years of her revelations (1384–86), she was accompanied by her confessor and secretary, Raymond de Sabanac, who believed in the veracity of her visions. He even went so far as to attach a preface to the visions largely repeating Gerson’s warnings about discerning true from false visions.44 When the inquisitor of Toulouse, to whom she had addressed her visions, forbade the continuation of the record,45 it seems that her son took over the task of writing from Raymond, but even that is not certain.46 Her early visions were personal, but they soon became political and controversial. Gradually, her fame grew. A nobleman from the Bordeaux region submitted a problem of conscience to her. Some Saracens had come to him with gifts and an offer of alliance, and he was conflicted as to his decision in the matter. Constance, guided by the voice that spoke to her, told him to summarily reject the offer.47 Sometime later, a cleric questioned her whether the end of the world was near, and the voice responded that indeed it was.48 Despite the inquisitorial prohibition, Raymond de Sabanac again took up the recording of her prophecies. Naturally, the war Constance wanted ended was not in Italy but in France: the Hundred Years’ War. She wanted the king’s uncle Bernard d’Armagnac out of the crown’s affairs,49 and she wanted King Charles VI (then still a minor) to assume his crown with the aid of Gaston Fébus, count of Foix.50 She also wanted the Avignonese popes deposed for good and the Roman popes to resume their unique role.51 In all those prophecies and requests, she saw the church as the one organ that could institute peace between England and France, within France, and among the Italian cities. Given her strong pro-Roman stance when the French crown supported Avignon, one can only conjecture that her modest status saved her from being interrogated by the Toulouse inquisitor and labeled a heretic. Her political messages are all couched not in her words, but in the words of the Voice that spoke to her.52 For example, her condemnation of the Avignon papacy was proclaimed as follows: [S]he was rapt, and the Voice said to her thus: the vision that you have seen is true . . . And one time I was crucified, and the other time they crucified me, and it is a greater offense than Pilate’s when he delivered

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The Voice is even sharper when speaking of the Armagnac party: Therefore know that Sir Bernard d’Armagnac and his brother have denied me and all my power and taken the Devil as their lord, so that they can give all the help and support to the king of England against the young tree [i.e., Charles VI], and the king of England to them.54 It is a straightforward accusation of treason and idolatry of one of the most powerful men in contemporary France. The case of Constance de Rabastens though, like the one of Marie Robine, raises several speculations. How many other devout women and men at the time had had visions of political import? How many were suppressed? Possibly many more people who had criticized the state of the papacy either through visionary or their own experience remained silenced. Constance addressed six letters to the inquisitor, but he apparently answered none, other than to order her to transmit her visions only to her confessor and to himself.55 She, on the other hand, kept requesting secretaries to take down her visions, for she had been divinely ordered to publish them. It is doubtful that she could be labeled an active peacemaker: her voice was too weak, too easily silenced. The final visionary of the schism also belongs to its earliest and bitterest years, and her influence was equally negligible. Ursulina of Parma was a simple Italian girl whose visions did not survive. All we have is her vita, written by a Carthusian monk. The vita, naturally, draws a miraculous portrait of a young woman who was born a saint and was destined to become Parma’s pride. Although her political activity was the high point of her life, the trip to Avignon was not her only voyage. In fact, she spent most of her adult life traveling with her mother as her faithful companion. After her Avignonese adventures, she went on pilgrimage to the Holy Land and was eventually exiled from Parma and died in Verona. Subsequently, her body was transferred back to Parma. The hagiographer’s view of her is of a bold, combative saint, “like another Judith.”56 This extraordinary infant refused the breast of an adulterous wet-nurse, spoke at four months, but did not walk until she was 6 years old.57 Her visions began at the age of 9, and by the age of 15, they were being taken down by local priests.58 Surprisingly, she refused to enter any monastic or tertiary order, “and therefore she never wanted to take on any monastic habit.”59 Like Catherine of Siena, she was miraculously learned in theology despite her illiteracy. A special vision bade her to go to the schismatic pope of Avignon and urge him to abdicate: “Do you now understand how much of a schism there is in all Christianity because of him?”60

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According to the vita, Ursulina was readily received by the “antipope,” having been aided by an introduction from the “pseudocardinal” Pierre du Puy. The pope received her alone, and she threatened him with hell unless he abdicated. She so frightened Clement VII that he refused to see her again on three occasions. Despite his wish to comply with her demands, his cardinals and the devil coerced him not to abdicate. After three fruitless attempts, Ursulina gave up and returned to Italy, but to Rome, not Parma. In Rome, she reported her efforts to Urban VI and his cardinals, and they were most impressed. As a result, Ursulina was sent back to Avignon with apostolic letters. This time she succeeded in seeing Clement VII once, convincing him and one cardinal to abdicate. At this point, all the other cardinals joined forces to silence her. She was imprisoned, questioned, accused of witchcraft, and threatened with torture. She, in turn, threatened the cardinals with eternal damnation. Balked, they tried to poison her, but to no avail. After imprisoning her for seven months, they released her on the death of Clement VII. Again, the story tells of the willingness of most cardinals to abdicate and return to the Roman fold, all barring the new antipope, Benedict XIII. Ursulina returned once more to Rome, and thence, rich with indulgences and permission to keep an oratory in her home, back to Parma.61 Ursulina was 19 years old when she finished her political career. She was destined to live another 14 years far from papal politics, but was remembered mostly as the young woman who, at the age of 17, twice undertook to walk from Parma to Avignon to Rome as a messenger of God and the Roman pope. She failed in her mission, but for the citizens of Parma, she was a hero of the Great Schism.

Conciliar movement period It is notable that the wave of female prophecy concerning the schism was at its most impressive during the first two decades of the rift between Rome and Avignon. Once the conciliar movement gained momentum, the women prophets seem to disappear. Whether they were silenced by the councils or simply felt that the matter of two (or three) popes was in the hands of theologians, and hence out of the powers of charismatic prophecy, is unknown. Nevertheless, the conciliar period saw one more prophetess, Francesca Bussa de’Ponziani, or as she is better known, Francesca Romana (1384–1440).62 For most of her adult life, Francesca was a devout visionary, a quiet, retiring holy woman. She kept her visions to herself as long as she could and did not speak of them. Her last confessor, Giovanni Mattiotti, forcibly extracted them from her, and he wrote them down.63 She spent her entire life in Rome, never going anywhere else, and was closely tied to the city.64 It is a measure of the turmoil into which Pope Eugenius IV plunged Rome that she began sending him her condemnatory visions.65 With the election of Martin V as pope in 1417, the schism was over. Elected by the Council, Martin lived in peace with conciliar authority until

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his death in 1431. Shortly before his death, he appointed the Council of Basel to deal with several pressing matters, such as heresy and reform. But no sooner was his successor elected than he tried to dissolve the Council, thereby creating a crisis. In her visions, Francesca castigated Eugenius IV for his intransigence and rigid adherence to absolute papal supremacy. If Marie Robine ended her visions with a revelation of the coming destruction of Paris, Francesca began her collection of visions (named by her scribe and editor tractatus de visionibus) with the revelation of Rome threatened by fire from heaven, and saved only by the intercession of Christ and his apostles.66 In a later vision, Saint Thomas ordered her in the name of God to go to Pope Eugenius, and tell him in God’s name that he should unite with the council of Basel, for there threatened the danger of a future schism. And on this subject he should consult some servants of God, who together with the cardinals must determine this matter. And that the pope must proceed according to the decision of those servants of God . . . he further exhorted God’s humble servant that it was supremely necessary to beg the most merciful Lord that he should not allow souls to perish because of the evil soon destined to come. And while this was happening, there was not yet a schism.67 In another vision, Pope Gregory the Great appeared to Francesca with another message to Pope Eugenius.68 Altogether, the tractatus de visionibus contains 109 visions, 5 of them addressing the crisis. Unlike the prophetesses of the schism period, obviously, Francesca did not spend a significant portion of her spiritual life involved in politics. Nevertheless, it was concern for Rome and the Romans that motivated her to fear another schism and to exhort the pope to flexibility in face of the Council. The end of the conciliar movement did not see the end of the political female visionaries. The late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries saw the rise in Italy of several holy women with political messages.69 Nevertheless, the living saints of the Renaissance were heirs to a rich tradition of prophesying women who saw as one of their missions in life the interference in high politics. Despite the variety of countries and agendas, some traits loom clear: the call for a crusade, the cessation of warfare and unification of Christendom, the defeat of the papal schism – all those issues recur in the visions and letters of all prophetesses. Unlike their twelfth-century predecessors, the peace-preachers of the Avignon, schism, and conciliar periods did not content themselves with having spiritual visions written down and published. They saw their role as a public duty. As Catherine of Siena put it, in times of need, people of God were duty bound to come out of their hermitages and speak with secular rulers, telling them God’s message. They were not many, nor very successful. Still, they left their mark on their times and broke a new path in the political role of women visionaries.

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Notes 1 Peter Dinzelbacher, “Figure femmenili della mistica medievale e loro influenza su chiesa e stato,” Nuovi studi cateriniani 3 (1987): 85–101; Renate BlumenfeldKosinski, Poets, Saints, and Visionaries of the Great Schism, 1378–1417 (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2006); Noël Valois and Amédée Pagès, “Les révélations de Constance de Rabastens et le Schisme d’Occident (1384–86),” Annales du Midi 8 (1896): 241–78. 2 Renate Blumenfeld-Kosinski, “Constance de Rabastens: Politics and Visionary Experience in the Time of the Great Schism,” Mystics Quarterly 25/4 (1999): 163 n. 5. One of the headings in her revelations mentions that she had been incarcerated at one time, but it is not clear that this was the Inquisition’s doing (see n. 8). Alessandra Bartolomei Romagnoli, “Mistica, profezia femminile e poteri alla fine del Medioevo,” in Il ‘Liber’ di Angela da Foligno e la mistica dei secoli XIII-XIV in rapporto alle nuove culture: Atti del XLV Convegno internazionale (Todi, 12–15 ottobre 2008) (Spoleto: Centro Italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo, 2009), 492 and n. 14. 3 Karen Scott, “St. Catherine of Siena, ‘Apostola’,” Church History: Studies in Christianity and Culture 61 (1992): 34. 4 Karen Scott, “‘Io Catarina’: Ecclesiastical Politics and Oral Culture in the Letters of Catherine of Siena,” in Dear Sister: Medieval Women and the Epistolary Genre, ed. Karen Cherewatuk and Ulrike Wiethaus (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1993), 87–121. 5 Kathryn Kerby-Fulton and Dyan Elliott, “Self-Image and the Visionary Role in Two Letters from the Correspondence of Elizabeth of Schönau and Hildegard of Bingen,” Vox Benedictina 2 (1985): 222. 6 “Christus loquebatur sponse, existenti in monasterio Aluastri, dicens: ‘Vade Romam et manebis ibi, donec videas papam et imperatorem, et illis loqueris ex parte mea verba, que tibi dicturus sum.’ Venit igitur sponsa Christi Romam anno etatis sue XLII, et mansit ibi iuxta diuinum preceptum quindecim annis antequam veniret papa, videlicet Urbanus quintus, et imperator Karolus Boemus, quibus optulit reuelaciones pro reformacione ecclesie et regulam. In illis siquidem quindecim annis, quibus mansit Rome ante adventum summi pontificis et imperatoris, habuit multas reuelaciones de statu urbis, in quibus arguebat Dominus noster Ihesus Christus excessus et peccata inhabitancium urbem cum graui comminacione vindicte. Que reuelaciones, ad noticiam inhabitancium Romanam urbem deducte, feralis odii contra beatam Birgittam fomentum ministrabant. Unde quidam eorum minibantur eam viuam incendere, alii eam erroneam et phitonissam blasphemabant.” (Birgitta of Sweden, Revelationes S. Brigittae olim a Card. Turrecremata recognitae, nunc a Consalvo Duranto a sancto Angelo in Vado . . . [Rome: Stephanus Paulinus, 1606], bk. 9, chap. 8, sections 1–4). Unless otherwise specified, all translations are by the author. 7 “Non est credibile, nec concordat Scripturae, quod Deus . . . ostendat secreta sua magnificis feminis” (Birgitta of Sweden, Revelaciones, ed. Birger Bergh, Hans Aili, and Carl-Gustaf Undhagen, 8 vols., Samlingar utgivna av Svenska fornskriftsällskapet, Ser. 2 [Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1967–2002], 6:249). See Alessandra Bartolomei Romagnoli, “Lotta politica e profezia: pellegrine e mistiche a Roma alla fine del medioevo,” Studi romani 52/1–2 (2004): 32–3; Dinzelbacher, “Figure femmenili,” 86. 8 Simone Zanacchi, “Vita beatae Ursulinae Parmensis,” in AASS, Aprilis 1 (Antwerp: Société des Bollandistes, 1675), 731–2; Valois and Pagès, “Les révélations de Constance de Rabastens,” 243, 248–51, 256–7; Bartolomei Romagnoli, “Lotta politica e profezia,” 38–9; Blumenfeld-Kosinski, “Constance de Rabastens,” 149.

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9 Dinzelbacher, “Figure femmenili,” 87; Raymond of Capua, “Vita Sanctae Catharinae Senensis,” AASS, Aprilis 1, 883–4. 10 Raymond of Capua, “Vita Sanctae Catharinae Senensis,” 892; Valois and Pagès, “Les révélations de Constance de Rabastens,” 269, cited by Alessandra Bartolomei Romagnoli, “Caterina e Robina: Profezia e antiprofezia al tempo del grande scisma d’occidente,” in La Roma di santa Caterina da Siena, ed. Maria Grazia Bianco (Rome: Edizioni Studium, 2001), 244 nn. 57–8. English trans., Blumenfeld-Kosinski, “Constance de Rabastens,” 163. 11 Matthew Tobin, “Le livre de révélations de Marie Robine (d. 1399): Étude et édition,” Mélanges de l’Ecole française de Rome: Moyen Age – temps modernes 98 (1986): 241; Zanacchi, “Vita beatae Ursulinae Parmensis”; Bartolomei Romagnoli, “Mistica”; Scott, “St. Catherine of Siena, ‘Apostola.’” 12 “[T]rovo, che al vero servo di Dio, ogni luogo gli è luogo e ogni tempo gli è tempo. Onde, quando egli è tempo d’abbandonare la propria consolazione e abbracciare le fadighe per onore di Dio, egli il fa; e quando egli è tempo di fuggire il bosco per necessità dell’onore di Dio, egli il fa; e vanne a’ luoghi publici [. . .]. Questo è sempre stato il costume de’ veri servi di Dio, d’escire fuore nel tempo della necessità e avversità; ma non nel tempo della properità: anco, la fuggono” (Catherine of Siena, Lettere, ed. Piero Misciattelli [Florence: Marzocco, 1939], Letter 328). 13 “L’ondata profetica in età avignonese presenta caratteristiche diverse e del tutto nuove, perché si pone direttamente in polemica con i grandi poteri politici ed ecclesiastici del tempo e implica da parte di queste donne l’assunzione consapevole di un ruolo di guida storica e spirituale del popolo cristiano” (Bartolomei Romagnoli, “Mistica,” 15). See also André Vauchez, “Les pouvoirs informels dans l’église aux derniers siècles du moyen âge: Visionnaires, prophètes et mystiques,” Mélanges de l’Ecole française de Rome: Temps modernes 96 (1984): 281–93. 14 Birgitta of Sweden, Tractatus de summis pontificibus, ed. Arne Jönsson (Lund: Lund University Press, 1997), 35–66. 15 For a detailed survey of Birgitta’s letters to the popes, see Blumenfeld-Kosinski, Poets, Saints, and Visionaries, 39–42. 16 Birgitta of Sweden, Revelaciones, bk. 3, chap. 27, section 19: “O Roma, o Roma, muri tui disrupti sunt. Ideo porte tue sunt sine custodia. Vasa tua venduntur. Ideo altaria tua desolata sunt.” Letter to Urban V one day before he entered Rome (15 October 1367), Tractatus de summis pontificibus, 38: “Quomodo,” inquit, “poterit intrare in sanctam Ecclesiam, in qua foramina cardinum sunt plena rubigine et terra? Ideo et postes inclinati sunt ad terram, quia in foraminibus non est locus, ubi uncini imprimantur, qui postes debent sustentare. Uncini quoque sunt extenti ad plenum nichilque curuati ad postes tenendum. Pauimentum vero totum effossum est et conuersum in foueas profundas ad modum puteorum profundissimorum, qui nullum omnino habent fundum. Tectum autem est linitum pice et ardet de igne sulfureo stillans quasi pluuia densa. De nigredine vero et spissitudine fumi, qui de abisso fossarum et de stillicidiis tecti ascendit, omnes parietes maculati sunt et ita deformes in colore ad intuendum quasi sanguis commixtus putrida sanie.” 17 “Sedis Dei in mundo,” Tractatus de summis pontificibus, 43. 18 Ibid., 49. 19 Ibid., 51–3. 20 For example, Catherine of Siena, Lettere, 11, 96, 208, 211, 367. 21 Ibid., 185, 211. 22 “Drizzate il gonfalone della Santissima croce, perocché coll’odore della croce acquisterete la pace” (ibid., 185; Letter to Pope Gregory XI, January 11, 1376).

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23 Ibid., 196: “Da guerra verrete a grandissima pace, da persecuzione a grandissima unione:. . . . E drizzate il gonfalone della croce santa: ché come per la croce fummo liberati (così disse Paolo), così levando questo gonfalone il quale mi pare refrigerio de’ Cristiani, saremo líberati, noi dalla guerra e divisione e molte iniquità, il popolo infedele dalla sua infidelità.” 24 Ibid., 28, 121, 171, 230. 25 Ibid., 209. 26 Dinzelbacher, “Figure femmenili,” 91. “. . . Sacra virgo conquesta est, quod in Romana curia, ubi deberet paradisus esse coelicarum virtutum, invenienbat foetorem infernalium vitiorum” (Raymond of Capua, “Vita Sanctae Catharinae Senensis,” 900). 27 Catherine of Siena, Lettere, 291, 302, 305–6. 28 Ibid., 310: “Ahi stolti, degni di mille morti! . . . Tornate, tornate, e non aspettate la verga della giustizia.” 29 Ibid., 235, 317, 350, 357. 30 Dinzelbacher, “Figure femminili,” 89. 31 Dyan Elliott, “Seeing Double: John Gerson, the Discernment of Spirits, and Joan of Arc,” American Historical Review 107 (2002): 28–30. Gerson had already written in 1401 concerning the problem of discernment of spirits in women. See Jean Gerson, “De distinctione verarum visionum a falsis,” in Oeuvres complètes, ed. Palémon Glorieux (Paris, Tournai, Rome: Desclée, 1968), 3:36–56. English trans., “On Distinguishing True from False Revelations,” in Jean Gerson: Early Works, trans. Brian Patrick McGuire (New York and Mahwah: Paulist Press, 1998), 334–64. See Gerson, “De examinatione doctrinarum,” in Oeuvres complètes, ed. Palémon Glorieux (Paris, Tournai, Rome: Desclée, 1973), 9:458–75; Gerson, “De probatione spirituum,” in Oeuvres complètes, ed. Palémon Glorieux, 9:177–85. 32 “Praesertim unius quae Brigittae nominatur, assueta visionibus quae nedum ab angelis, sed a Christo et Maria et Agnete et caeteris sanctis familiaritate jugi, sicut sponsus ad sponsam loquitur, se asserit divinitus suscepisse” (Gerson, “De probatione spirituum,” 179). 33 Ibid., 180. 34 “Experti pluries loquimur, et Gregorius XI papa testis fuit idoneus, sed tardus nimis. Hic positus in extremis, habens in manibus sacrum Christi corpus, protestatus est coram omnibus ut caverent ab hominibus, tam viris quam mulieribus, sub specie religionis visiones loquentibus sui capitis; quia per tales seductus esset, dimisso suorum rationabili consilio, ut se et Ecclesiam ad discrimen schismatis tunc imminentis traxerit, nisi misericors provideret sponsus Ecclesiae Jesus; quod horrendus usque adhuc nimis heu patefecit eventus” (Gerson, “De examinatione doctrinarum,” 469–70; Blumenfeld-Kosinski, Poets, Saints, and Visionaries, 34). 35 Tobin, “Le livre de révélations de Marie Robine,” 234. 36 Ibid., 236–8, 249–51. 37 Bartolomei Romagnoli, “Caterina e Robina,” 235–7; Tobin, “Le livre de révélations de Marie Robine,” 252. 38 Tobin, “Le livre de révélations de Marie Robine,” 239–41, 252–4. 39 Ibid., 241–2, 254–6. 40 Ibid., 243–4, 256–9. 41 Ibid., 246, 259–64. 42 Bartolomei Romagnoli, “Caterina e Robina,” 229, 232. 43 Blumenfeld-Kosinski, “Constance de Rabastens,” 148–9; Valois and Pagès, “Les révélations de Constance de Rabastens,” 251. 44 Valois and Pagès, “Les révélations de Constance de Rabastens,” 249–51. 45 Ibid., 256–7.

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Ibid., 273. Ibid., 260. Ibid., 267. Ibid., 259. Ibid., 258. Ibid., 272. For the prevalence of auditory as opposed to visual revelations in Constance and other women visionaries, see Blumenfeld-Kosinski, “Constance de Rabastens,” 150, 155. “. . . fu raubida, e la veu dix li: ‘La visio que has vista desus es vertadera . . . . . e una veu fou crocificat, e altre veu ells me han crucificat, e es maior la offensa que no fo de Pilat, quant me liuvra a mort, car lo Papa vertader que yo havia fet no han vulgut tenir, ans ne han fet un altre’” (Valois and Pagès, “Les révélations de Constance de Rabastens,” 272). “[C]ar sapies que En Bernat d’Ermanyach e son frare han reneguat mi e tot mon poder e pres lo diable per senyor, que tot secors e adjudori que poran donar al rey d’Englatera contre l’arbre jove donaran, e rey d’Englaterra a ells” (ibid., 250). Ibid., 256–7. Zanacchi, “Vita beatae Ursulinae Parmensis,” 722–35. Ibid., 722. Ibid., 723. Ibid. “Nonne intelligis quantum schisma est in universa Christianitate propter ipsum?” (ibid., 724). Ibid., 724–8. The literature on Francesca is vast. See Giovanni Mattiotti, Santa Francesca Romana: edizione critica dei trattati latini di Giovanni Mattiotti, ed. Alessandra Bartolomei Romagnoli, Storia e attualità 14 (Vatican City: Libreria editrice vaticana, 1994); Bartolomei Romagnoli, “Lotta politica e profezia”; Vittorio Bartoccetti, “Le fonti della visione di S. Francesca Romana,” Rivista storica benedettina 13 (1922): 13–40; Guy Boanas and Lyndal Roper, “Feminine Piety in Fifteenth-Century Rome: Santa Francesca Romana,” in Disciplines of Faith: Studies in Religion, Politics and Patriarchy, ed. Jim Obelkevich, Lyndal Roper, and Raphael Samuel, History Workshop Series (London: Routledge, 1987), 177–91; Dyan Elliott, “Dominae or Dominatae? Female Mysticism and the Trauma of Textuality,” in Women, Marriage, and Family in Medieval Christendom, ed. Constance M. Rousseau and Joel T. Rosenthal, Studies in Medieval Culture 37 (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 1998): 47–77; Arnold Esch, “Tre sante ed il loro ambiente sociale a Roma: S. Francesca Romana, S. Brigida di Svezia e S. Caterina da Siena,” in Atti del simposio internazionale Cateriniano-Bernardiniano (Siena, 17–20 Aprile 1980), ed. Domenico Maffei and Paolo Nardi (Siena: Academia senese degli intronati, 1982), 89–120; idem, “Die Zeugenaussagen im Heiligsprechungverfahren für S. Francesca Romana als Quelle zur Sozialgeschichte Roms im frühen Quattrocento,” Quellen und Forschungen aus italianischen Archiven und Bibliotheken 53 (1973): 93–151; Anna Esposito, “St. Francesca and the Female Religious Communities of Fifteenth-Century Rome,” in Women and Religion in Medieval and Renaissance Italy, ed. Daniel Bornstein and Roberto Rusconi (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 197–218; Placido T. Lugano, ed., I processi inediti per Francesca Bussa dei Ponziani (Santa Francesca Romana), 1440–1453, Studi e testi 120 (Vatican City: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1945); D. Mazzuconi, “Pauca quedam de vita et miraculis beate Francisce de Pontianis: tre biografie quattrocentenesche di santa Francesca Romana,” in Una santa tutta romana: Saggi e ricerche nel

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64 65 66 67

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VI centenario della nascità di Francesca Bussa dei Ponziani (1384–1984), ed. Giorgio Picasso (Siena: Edizioni l’Ulivo, 1984), 95–119; O. Moroni, “Le visioni di S. Francesca Romana tra Medioevo e Umanesimo,” Studi Romani 21 (1973): 160–78; Mario Pelaez, “Visioni di santa Francesca Romana: Testo romanesco del secolo XV, parte 1,” Archivio della società romana di storia patria 14 (1891): 65–409; 15 (1892): 251–73. Elliott, “Dominae or Dominatae?,” 68–76; Mattiotti, Santa Francesca Romana, 575, vision 42: “Et omnia ista verba beati Gregorii erant scripta in una carta, quam tenebat archangelus gloriosus sibi domesticus, de quo dictum est supra. Et illa anima Deo devota illa verba scripta legebat in illa carta et referebat suo patri spirituali, qui omnia scribebat, et, finitia scriptura, illa beata anima non vidit amplius illam cartam in manu archangeli.” Esch, “Tre sante ed il loro ambiente sociale a Roma,” 90–108; idem, “Zeugenaussagen,” 95–6, 116–20. For a full account of the crisis between Pope Eugenius IV and the council of Basel, see Mattiotti, Santa Francesca Romana, 259–68. Ibid., 403–4. Ibid., 508, visio 27: – “sibi iniunxit ex parte Domini quod iret ad papam Eugenium et ex parte Dei sibi diceret quod deberet se uniri cum consilio basiliensi, nam imminebat periculum de futuro scismate. Et super hac materia consuleret aliquos servos Dei, qui simul cum cardinalibus deberent hanc rem determinare. Et quod papa deberet procedere secundum determinationem factam per illos servos Dei . . . Adiunxit etiam illa humilis Christi ancilla quod esset summe necessarium humiliter supplicari misericordiosissimo Domino ne permitteret animas perire propter malum quod in proximo erat venturum. Et quando hoc fuit, nondum scisma erat.” Ibid., 575–7, visio 42. See, most notably, Gabriella Zarri, Le sante vive: cultura e religiosità femminile nella prima età moderna (Turin: Rosenberg & Sellier, 1990); Tamar Herzig, Savonarola’s Women: Visions and Reform in Renaissance Italy (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2008).

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The pursuit of peace in medieval Judaism Daniel Roth

According to rabbinic legend, shortly prior to the destruction of the Second Temple in the year 70 CE, the prominent rabbi Yoḥanan ben Zakkai risked his life to escape from the grasp of Jewish zealots controlling Jerusalem in order to make peace between the Jews and Rome.1 It is the same Ben Zakkai to whom the following quote is attributed: The person who makes peace between fellow individuals, between husband and wife, between city and city, between nation and nation, between family and family, between government and government . . . there shall not come upon him any harm.2 Roughly 1,000 years later, the medieval biblical commentator, Rabbi Shlomo Yitzḥaki (known as Rashi, 1040–1105, France), cites Ben Zakkai in his commentary on Exodus. However, the citation is only a partial one: it glaringly omits peacemaking between nations and governments.3 There is of course an important distinction between the two notions of peacemaking, as noted by Rabbi Chaim Hirschensohn (1857–1935; Palestine/USA).4 Hirschensohn distinguishes between the circumstances of the Jews in Rashi’s generation and that of Rabban Yoḥanan ben Zakkai. Living in the time of the First Jewish Revolt against Rome, Ben Zakkai felt it relevant to attempt to make peace between nations and governments as well as between people. Living in France at the time of the First Crusade, Rashi considered the pursuit of peace relevant only in an intracommunal context: between individuals and families within the Jewish community. In the absence of Jewish national sovereignty or any kind of national entity, medieval Jews had no means of effecting peace between nations or governments. In contrast to many of the other articles in this volume, this examination of the pursuit of peace in the Middle Ages focuses primarily on instances of intracommunal peacemaking in the medieval Jewish world. These historical case studies and events reveal an indigenous peacemaking tradition that can be significant to the pursuit of peace today.5 In exploring the pursuit of peace in interpersonal conflicts in the medieval Jewish community, this chapter engages in three main lines of inquiry.

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Where is the call to be a pursuer of peace found in medieval Jewish legal codes? What can be learned from case studies of “pursuers of peace” in medieval Jewish communities? Are there medieval precedents for pursuing peace outside the Jewish community?

The call to pursue peace in medieval Jewish legal codes The call to be a pursuer of peace appears in several early rabbinic texts; in turn, medieval rabbinic scholars rely heavily on these texts in their discussions of the pursuit of peace. One early set of sources speaks of biblical Aaron who was reputed for his peacemaking ways. The Mishnah (second century CE) cites the first-century sage Hillel as saying, “Be of the students of Aaron: a lover of peace and a pursuer of peace” (m. Abot 1:12). The later rabbinic work Abot de Rabbi Nathan (compiled in the seventh to ninth centuries) comments on this mishnah: Lover of peace and pursuer of peace” – Even if you pursue it from city to city, from district to district, from country to country, do not refrain from imposing peace. For it is equal in weight to all the other commandments in the Torah . . . And Scripture says, “Depart from evil and do good, seek peace and pursue it” [Ps. 34:15].6 Echoing that mishnah, the Talmud describes Aaron, as opposed to Moses, as one who “loved peace and pursued peace and made peace between people.”7 In post-talmudic literature (eighth century CE), the scope of Aaron’s pursuit of peace is described as being between “fellow individuals, between husband and wife, between families, and between tribes.”8 Other early sources relate to the rewards for peacemaking. The first mishnah in Tractate Pe’ah states, “Bringing peace between a person and his fellow” is one of the acts for which an individual merits reward both in this world and in the afterlife. B. Ta’anit 22a further tells the story of two simple jesters who merit a place in the world to come because “they took pains and worked to make peace between people.” Several medieval codifiers of Jewish law attempted to identify the 613 biblical commandments.9 Culled from the Pentateuch, these commandments are the basis for Jewish observance and many medieval Jewish legal codes; they are supplemented by the Oral Law, whose rabbinic regulations are often outgrowths of the original 613 commandments. Although all rabbinic directives are binding, a commandment attributed directly to the Torah carries more weight. Medieval scholars had difficulty in including the pursuit of peace in compendia listing versions of the 613 commandments,10 because the biblical verse – “seek peace and pursue it” – linked to peacemaking by the early rabbinic texts appears in Psalms, not in the Torah. Accordingly, peacemaking was not usually viewed as one of Judaism’s core commandments.

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Notwithstanding the absence of an explicit connection to the 613 Torah commandments, a number of medieval scholars address the matter of peacemaking, placing it in a positive context. The earliest medieval source that makes reference to such a commandment is Halakhot gedolot (attributed to Rabbi Simeon Kayyara, eighth/ninth century, Babylonia). There the “love of peace and true justice” is listed as positive commandment number 37.11 However, he engages in no further discussion of what this commandment entails or its scriptural source. Maimonides (1134–1204, Spain/Egypt), the renowned medieval philosopher and codifier of Jewish law, does not include the pursuit of peace in his list of biblical commandments. Nonetheless, he does mention the pursuit of peace in his legal code, the Mishneh Torah. Echoing the words of the earlier mishnah about Aaron, he writes that a Torah scholar should be a “lover of peace and a pursuer of peace,”12 further suggesting that a Torah scholar may have a special responsibility to pursue peace between others. The only medieval scholar other than Kayyara to count the pursuit of peace as one of the 613 biblical commandments is Rabbi Isaac of Corbeil (1210–80, France), who views the Leviticus command to love one’s neighbor as encompassing bringing peace: To love one’s fellow [person] as Scripture says, “And you shall love your neighbor as yourself” [Lev. 19:18]. And included in this is bringing peace between a person and his fellow, and judging him favorably . . . And King David wrote in his book, “Seek peace and pursue it” [Ps. 34:15].13 Corbeil’s interpretation imposes the obligation to fulfill the commandment of bringing peace on all individuals, not just Torah scholars.14 Corbeil was associated with the Jewish pietistic movement known as Ḥasidei Ashkenaz. For the members of this ascetic, mystical movement, founded in twelfthcentury Germany, the pursuit of peace may have been of special importance. Additional evidence of this interest is found in the writings of Rabbi Eliezer of Worms (1165–1240, Germany), one of the movement’s leaders. In his Sefer ha-Rokeaḥ, he advocates that a ḥasid (pious one) should “seek peace between a person and his friend.”15 He even dedicates a section of this work to “The Root of Good Character Traits: Bringing Peace.”16 A third rabbi deeply rooted in, and connected to, the Ashkenazic pietistic movement who promoted the value of pursuing peace was Rabbenu Jonah Gerondi (1200–63, Spain), one of the greatest medieval Spanish scholars of his day.17 In his ethical treatise, Sha’arei teshuvah (Gates of repentance), he writes, “Whoever does not engage in doing good and bringing peace transgresses [the commandment of] fearing God, and is considered one of the wicked for he fears not God.”18 In addition, Gerondi called upon the Spanish Jewish communal leaders to institutionalize peace as a value. Known as berurim, these selected or elected leaders in thirteenth-century Spain often held

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specific communal responsibilities, such as for communal finances or dealing with civil disputes between its members.19 Gerondi invokes the Talmud’s jesters who merit the world to come and who were not Torah scholars (b. Ta’anit 22a) in his other popular ethical work, Iggeret ha-teshuvah (Letter of repentance): [The people of] Israel are obligated to choose people who can render peace between a husband and wife, between a person and his fellow, who have the power to coerce and force people regarding peace. And these selected individuals (ha-berurim) should be joyful persons who know how to reconcile people and render peace.20 Thus Gerondi appears to be fusing the importance of peacemaking touted by the Ashkenazic pietists with the existing Sephardic convention of berurim. He charges these communal leaders with the task of peacemaking, ostensibly granting them the power to coerce people to make peace.21 Whether this coercion involved forcing two parties to be part of a peacemaking process or obliged them to accept a judgment is unclear. Whatever the case, Gerondi’s writings suggest an attempt to transform peacemaking from the grassroots effort it may have previously been in the Ashkenazic pietest movement to a formal communal function in the Sephardic community. This call upon the berurim to serve as communal pursuers of peace was echoed by the slightly later Sephardic scholar Rabbi Isaac bar Sheshet (Rivash; 1326–1408, Barcelona/Algeria). They [the berurim] should be wise, intelligent people, knowledgeable in communal matters, [the community’s] customs and enactments, lovers of justice, pursuers of peace, and acceptable to the majority of the community.22 Thus, whereas third-party pursuit of peace is not found in most medieval rabbinic legal works, several medieval scholars do indicate its ethical significance. Moreover, a number of distinct commandments or directives clearly place responsibility for its implementation on communal leaders – religious leaders (Maimonides) and lay leaders (Gerondi) – requiring that they take the initiative and engage as third-party pursuers of peace within the medieval Jewish community.

“Pursuers of peace” within medieval Jewish communities The role of the communal leader in peacemaking was one that was not taken lightly. Medieval literature, particularly the responsa literature, attests to the existence of individuals called “pursuers of peace.” In addition to recording rabbinic rulings of leading rabbis on legal issues addressed to them in the form of inquiries, responsa literature also opens a window on various

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communal conflicts, providing the modern reader with a view of the medieval community.23 Within the medieval responsa literature, the term “pursuers of peace” refers to individuals who attempted to pursue intracommunal peace. I explore three such examples, each of which demonstrates practical applications of peacemaking in medieval Jewish communities. The earliest source that mentions “pursuers of peace” appears in the responsa of Rabbi Isaac ibn Migash (1077–1141, Spain). The inquirer tells of a case involving a disagreement between a married couple about where to reside after their first year of marriage. The husband wants to live in a home attached to that of his parents in order to oversee his assets. Claiming that her mother-in-law would cause her suffering were she to live nearby, the wife wishes to live on her parents’ property, or at least in a rented home. According to the letter written to Ibn Migash, “pursuers of peace stepped in between them and [the husband] stayed with her in the rented home for another five years for twelve dinars a year . . . And every day conflicts arose between them.”24 The writer of the letter asks Ibn Migash whose claim is correct – that of the wife or the husband. In his answer, Ibn Migash backs the husband’s claim. He further notes that the pursuers of peace did not act correctly in supporting the preservation of the current situation (the husband renting a home for the couple): And what the pursuers of peace did to compromise between them, and his renting a home for her, this should only have been if she had been sharing a home with her mother-in-law, and it was indeed true that the mother-in-law was causing her suffering.25 The term “pursuers of peace” appears again in the responsa of Rabbi Joseph Colon Trabotto (Maharik; 1420–80, North Italy).26 Only part of the text has been preserved. Although the original question is missing, the response to the query indicates an inheritance dispute, with the deceased’s brother disputing the claim of the deceased’s wife and her brother. The conflict between the sides was settled by “distinguished [individuals], pursuers of peace and truth.” After the agreement was reached, the deceased’s brother attempted to appeal the decision, claiming that he had only agreed because the other parties threatened to transfer the case to the non-Jewish courts. At this point, Trabotto entered the discussion and ruled in favor of the widow, dismissing the brother-in-law’s claim. The ruling was due, at least in part, to a letter he received from one of the pursuers of peace, Chaim Chalfan, who was the community treasurer.27 Chalfan attested to the fact that the husband’s brother’s acceptance of the original agreement was not the result of threats but was rather in exchange for the cancellation of his other debts to his sister-in-law. A third reference to pursuers of peace appears in the responsa of Rabbi Israel of Bruna (1400–80, Germany).28 The case in question took place in 1456/7 in Prague, when some individuals attempted to broker peace in a

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clash between two rabbis. The rabbis involved were Rabbi Eliyah (called Mahara) of Prague, the sole rabbi and the elder of the community, and the young and relatively new rabbi, Rabbi Eliezer of Passau (called Maharal).30 The intervention is described in a letter sent from a well-respected scholar named Rabbi Peretz (or Mararif)31 to Rabbi Eliezer of Passau. In it, the writer demands that Rabbi Eliezer of Passau leave the city of Prague immediately because he is transgressing the prohibition against competing with one’s neighbor (hasagat gevul) and threatens Eliezer of Passau with excommunication if he does not comply. In surveying the evolution of the conflict, he mentions an attempt at reconciliation made by pursuers of peace. And it has been more than two years since this iniquity of yours began. And people of truth, pursuers of peace, stepped in in an effort to mediate and make peace between you. And they made between you a written [agreement] firmly bound with strong sanctions [against transgressing the agreement].32 The agreement itself, Rabbi Peretz notes, attempted to regulate the relationship between the two by effecting a division of roles between the two rabbis. However, it appears that the agreement was not clearly worded; soon after it was signed, conflict arose over its interpretation.33 These three cases are instructive for our attempt to discover what thirdparty peacemaking looked like in practice in medieval times. For instance, we can take a closer look at the identity of the peacemakers: did they hold an official position within the community? Did they work alone or in pairs or groups? Here the language used, the things left unsaid, and context can be our guides. Moreover, we can also assess the methods employed by the peacemakers: were they asked to mediate or did they act on their own initiative? Were they authorized to use some measure of coercion in their activities? Although we cannot always identify the pursuers of peace, the cases examined here provide some clues as to their identity. In the first case, the pursuers of peace were clearly not members of the local communal authority, as it was a local authority who later wrote to Ibn Migash; rather, they must have been respected members of the community, neutral enough that both parties were willing to accept their rulings. In the second case, the name of one of the peacemakers, Chaim Chalfan, is mentioned. Chalfan, the community treasurer, was a well-known community leader. In the third case, again, the peacemakers were not rabbis; we know this because there is no documentary evidence of the presence of any other rabbis in the Prague community at that time. However, they were clearly important members of the community; the relevant responsum refers to them as community leaders.34 In all of these cases the pursuers of peace are referred to in the plural, which indicates that more than one individual was working to broker agreements.

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In terms of the methods used, the language found in the sources is instructive. Terms such as “stepped in” (used in the first and third cases) indicate that the pursuers of peace acted on their own initiative. As to the extent of coercion used to reach an agreement, cases 2 and 3 suggest that peacemakers were unable to enforce their will without the consent of the sides; the parties willingly accepted rulings. Language such as “to attempt to make peace between you” and “that you accepted upon yourselves” is significant.35 Thus, despite geographical and generational differences, all three examples of the pursuit of peace in medieval rabbinic responsa share several elements. These examples are, of course, insufficient to serve as evidence of a larger phenomenon of “pursuers of peace” playing some kind of quasicommunal role in medieval Jewish communities, as may have later been the case in Jewish communities in Arab/Islamic lands.36 Nevertheless, they are significant; they reveal what pursuing peace may have meant for medieval Jewish communities.

Pursuing peace beyond the medieval Jewish community The medieval rabbinic legal codes and case studies discussed so far have all related to internal Jewish peacemaking. We turn now to the one recorded exception from medieval times in which peacemaking efforts reportedly extended beyond the Jewish community. The case involves Rabbi Joseph ben Abraham el-Syracusty (also known as Joseph Saragossi37), a talmudist and kabbalist (b. 1460, probably Spain; d. 1507, Safed). He appears to have been expelled from Sicily with the Jewish community in 1494 and to have lived temporarily in Sidon, where he was offered a tidy sum of money by the Jewish community and the local Mamluk ruler to serve as the communal rabbi. However, in 1495, Syracusty chose to move to Safed; he lived there until his death. He was one of the first rabbis to arrive in Safed, which at that time had a mixed population, composed primarily of Muslims and Jews. Rabbi Syracusty is documented as having played a leading role in trying to settle a major dispute among the Jerusalem rabbis regarding the determination of the sabbatical year.38 In a letter sent from the Safed rabbis to the Jerusalem rabbis, whose stated purpose was to help spread peace, Rabbi Syracusty, the eldest of the Safed rabbis, signed his name last, at the bottom of the letter.39 Two posthumous texts attest to Syracusty’s role as a pursuer of peace. The first is a powerful eulogy for Syracusty delivered by Rabbi Joseph Garson in Damascus, where Garson served as the communal rabbi. He states: This ḥasid who passed away, according to what we have heard of him, would work hard at the two types of peace. First, that he would make peace between individuals and between husband and wife. Second, that

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he would render peace between God and the poor . . . For whoever supports the poor makes peace between God and the poor person, for then the poor person will not utter accusatory words against God . . . Therefore, it is appropriate to refer to him as a student of Aaron for he loved peace, for even if others would fight with him, he always was among those who are insulted but do not insult others. And not only this, but he was also a pursuer of peace, rendering peace between a person and his fellow and between husband and wife . . . Therefore this ḥasid’s death created a great void in the land of Israel so that there will no longer be anyone who can render peace . . . and for us as well for he was one of the pillars of the world and sustained all the ends of the world through his peace; now this pillar will be missing from the world. Therefore it is fitting for us to eulogize him tremendously for the void left [by his death].40 Garson’s eulogy compares Syracusty to the high priest Aaron who, as we saw earlier, was the rabbinic prototype of a pursuer of peace. In addition, Garson mentions that he also sought to make peace between God and the poor, thereby expanding the scope of peacemaking to include attention to basic communal needs and justice. This is grounded in the mystical notion that when the poor are neglected they become angry with God.41 The second testament to Syracusty’s pursuit of peace is found later in Rabbi Eleazar Azikri’s (1553–1600, Safed) Sefer ḥaredim. In describing the importance of divine unity, averring that it is damaged by conflict and baseless hatred, Azikri writes that all Israelites “need to have great love and friendship with all the people of Israel and should also try and make peace in the world.” He then goes on to cite the mishnah (Abot 1:12) that one should be a student of Aaron, a lover of peace, and a pursuer of peace, meaning that people should learn from Aaron, since (pursuing peace) was his craft. He would cease from his studies and go to render peace both in his place and pursue peace in other places when he heard of conflict. And so it was here in Safed, that Rabbi Joseph Saragossi (Syracusty), the teacher of Rabbi David ben Zimra, would always render peace between fellow humans, between husband and wife, and even between non-Jews, and he merited to see Elijah the prophet.42 Azikri introduces a very important biographical fact about Syracusty: Rabbi David ben Zimra (Radbaz, 1479–1573), who would later become the leading rabbinic figure of Egyptian Jewry, was Syracusty’s student in Safed.43 Thus the focus of Azikri’s description here is on encouraging people not to stand idly by; they should proactively go out of their way to make peace rather than wait passively for conflicts to come to them, just as Aaron and the distinguished Rabbi Syracusty did.

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The statement that Syracusty would also make peace between non-Jews is not expanded upon here. Indeed, it may be read as a hyperbole intended to emphasize the lengths to which he was prepared to go in order to pursue peace. Nevertheless, we may infer from this brief anecdote that Syracusty felt it was within the scope of his responsibility to make peace even among non-Jews, and that he was well-enough respected by the non-Jewish community of Safed at the turn of the sixteenth century to be accepted by them as a peacemaker. Later rabbis cited Azikri’s description of Syracusty’s practice of peacemaking in their works. Rabbi Chaim David Azulai (Ḥida, 1724–1806, Hebron), himself very engaged in intercommunal Jewish peacemaking during his travels around the Jewish world, makes reference to Azikri’s words about Syracusty (referred to there as “Rabbi Saragossi”) in his biographical dictionary Shem ha-gedolim. However, he does not quote Azikri word for word; instead, he paraphrases, simply stating of Syracusty, “He would make peace and merited to see Elijah the prophet,” omitting the scope of his peacemaking.44 Other rabbis chose to emphasize the scope of Syracusty’s activities, viewing them as an important precedent for extending the scope of peacemaking to include non-Jews. Rabbi Pinḥas Elijah Horowitz (1765–1821, Vilna), cites Azikri’s description of Syracusty in his Sefer ha-berit (lit. “Book of the covenant”), first published in 1797. He too quotes Azikri a little differently, stating, “He [Syracusty] would always make peace between husband and wife, between fellow humans – among Israel, and he would also do so between the nations, and he merited to see Elijah the prophet.” For Horowitz, it seems, the primary innovation of Azikri’s description of Syracusty was that he would not only make peace within the Jewish community but rather would also do so among non-Jews. The context in which Horowitz quotes Azikri is part of his attempt to prove that “there is no distinction . . . between Jews and non-Jews” regarding loving one’s neighbor as oneself; to his mind, non-Jews are also considered “neighbors” and must therefore be treated equally in all interpersonal matters, including peacemaking.45

Conclusion As traced here, the institution of peacemaking reveals much about the medieval Jewish community. Although not a biblical directive, the pursuit of peace makes an appearance in many of the era’s legal codes and, in some countries, even becomes one of the specified roles of communal leaders, reflecting its perceived significance in that era. Moreover, at least one rabbi reputedly pursued peace outside the Jewish community. This reflects the changing political circumstances under which Jews found themselves. I conclude with the remarks of Rabbi Joseph Nissim ibn Edahan (d. 1925, Morocco) on Rabban Yoḥanan ben Zakkai’s statement. Although

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a twentieth-century figure, his comments nevertheless reflect Jewish reality during the centuries of exile: And this (Yoḥanan ben Zakkai’s statement) provides an answer to the nations of the world who say that the people of Israel do not seek their peace and well-being . . . For it explicitly wants to state to the nations of the world that the nation of Israel loves peace and pursues peace (with) all peoples . . . And may we be granted the ability to make peace between warring kings and for there to be peace in the world, for then we would sell all our household possessions, so that it would be declared “and the land rested (from war)” [e.g., Judges 3:11] and “nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore” [Isaiah 2:4; Micah 4:3].46

Notes 1 B. Gittin 55a – b. 2 Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael, Beḥodesh, 11, ed. Saul Horowitz and Israel Abraham Rabin (Jerusalem: Wahrmann, 1970), 244. Unless otherwise noted, all translations are by the author. 3 Rashi on Exod. 20:22: “Then in the case of one who makes peace between a man and his wife, between family and family, between a man and his fellow, how much certain is it that punishment will not come upon him (Mech.)” (translation cited from Chumash with Targum Onkelos, Haphtaroth and Rashi’s Commentary: Shemot, trans. and annotated by A. M. Silbermann in collaboration with M. Rosenbaum [Jerusalem: Feldheim, 1934]). Rashi comments here on the prohibition against using tools on the stones for the altar. The stones of the altar must remain complete (or in Hebrew, shelemot) and never be struck because they make peace (in Hebrew, shalom, using the same root) between the people and their father in heaven. He goes on to compare peace between man and God to peace between humans. (There are no textual variants to this passage.) 4 Chaim Hirschensohn, Nimukei Rashi, vol. 2 (Seini: Vieder, 1934), 101a. 5 See Marc Gopin, Between Eden and Armageddon: The Future of World Religions, Violence, and Peacemaking (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000); idem, “Judaism and Peacebuilding in the Context of the Middle East Conflict,” in Faith-Based Diplomacy: Trumping Realpolitik, ed. Douglas Johnston (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), 91–102; and idem, “Judaism and Peacebuilding,” in Religion and Peacebuilding, ed. Harold Coward and Gordon S. Smith (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2004), 115. See also Daniel Roth, “The Peacemaker in Jewish Rabbinic and Arab Islamic Traditions,” Journal of Religion, Conflict, and Peace 4/2 (Fall 2011), www.religionconflictpeace.org/volume-4-issue-2-spring-2011/ peacemaker-jewish-rabbinic-and-arab-islamic-traditions. 6 Abot de Rabbi Nathan, version B, chapter 24. Many of these earlier sources, in turn, appear to be based on Ps. 34:15, “Seek peace and pursue it.” Both the Jerusalem (y. Pe’ah, 1:1 [15d]), and the Babylonian Talmuds (b. Qiddushin 40a, b. Yebamot 109a–b) identify this verse as the source of the mishnah in Pe’ah (1:1). The verse also seems to underlie Hillel’s statement in m. Abot 1:12. 7 B. Sanhedrin 6b. See also t. Sanhedrin 1:2 and y. Sanhedrin 1:1 (18b). 8 Midrash agur, parashah 4, in Mishnat Rabbi Eliezer, ed. Hillel G. Enelow (Hebrew with English introduction; New York: Bloch Publishing Co., 1933), 73–4.

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9 The source for the existence of 613 biblical commandments is found in b. Makkot 23b. 10 Works that attempted to count these commandments include Rabbi Sa’adia Gaon’s Sefer ha-mitzvot (Book of commandments); Maimonides’s Sefer hamitzvot (Book of commandments); Rabbi Moses ben Jacob of Coucy’s Sefer ha-mitzvot ha-gadol (Large book of commandments, often referred to by the acronym SMaG). 11 Halakhot gedolot (Jerusalem: Machon Yerushalayim, 1992), introduction, commandment 37. 12 Mishneh Torah: Book of Knowledge, “Laws of Ethical Principles,” 5:7. In his “Laws of Robbery and Lost Objects,” 14:13, Maimonides expands, “He [the Torah scholar] brought peace between two people and added and subtracted from the statements each one of them made to heighten their feelings of closeness. Such deceptions are permitted.” 13 Rabbi Isaac Corbeil, Sefer amudei golah, also called Sefer mitzvot katan (Small book of commandments; Cremona: Vincenzo Conti, 1556). It is important to note that Rabbi Isaac of Corbeil did not write his book for purely scholastic purposes; it was intended for the general public and became widely popular. For a discussion of why Rabbi Isaac of Corbeil seems to define this commandment only in relation to interpersonal and not third-party peacemaking, see Daniel Roth, “The Tradition of Aaron Pursuer of Peace between People as a Rabbinic Model of Reconciliation” (Hebrew; PhD diss., Bar-Ilan University, 2013), 93 n. 65. 14 See Ephraim E. Urbach, The Tosaphists: Their History, Writings and Methods (Hebrew; Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1986), 571–4; Haym Soloveitchik, “Three Themes of Sefer Hassidim,” AJS Review 1 (1976): 325–7, which describes the notion of “acting for the common good” among Ḥasidei Ashkenaz. 15 Eliezer of Worms, Sefer ha-Rokeaḥ ha-gadol (Warsaw, 1880), introduction. 16 Ibid., “The Root of Good Character Traits,” 6. There he writes, “It does not say ‘seek’ except with respect to peace, seeking peace in your city, pursuing it outside of your city.” 17 Israel Ta-Shma, Talmudic Commentary in Europe and North Africa, Part Two: 1200–1400 (Hebrew; Jerusalem: Magnes, 2000), 19–21. 18 Jonah Gerondi, Sha’arei teshuvah (Vilna: Funk, 1911), 3:12. See also his commentary on m. Abot 1:12. 19 See Yom-Tov Assis, The Golden Age of Aragonese Jewry (London: Littman Library, 1997), 110–11. These berurim also had the authority to force their will upon the community. “The berurim and all other leaders, whatever their titles, enjoyed the authority vested in them by the ruler and the community. Specific charters were issued to different communities enabling their elected leaders to rule and take measures against members who failed to abide by their decisions” (p. 113). My thanks to Dr. Judah Galinsky for bringing this reference to my attention. 20 Jonah Gerondi, Iggeret ha-teshuvah (Farkasd: n.p., 1911), Day 2, Rule 4, p. 24. 21 For an example of how Gerondi here served as a precedent for third-party peacemaking in contemporary Jewish law, see Yitzḥak Ya’akov Fuchs, Halikhot beyn adam le-ḥavero (Jerusalem: Privately printed, 2004), 36 (1:18). Fuchs refers to Gerondi as the source for the following law: “It is worthy to appoint in every place men and women who should be ready to make peace between a person and his fellow, a husband and wife, and between parents and children, and they should be happy people who know how to appease and reconcile, and anyone who makes peace between people joyfully and goodheartedly is promised a share in the World to Come.” Note that Fuchs here omits the necessity noted by Gerondi that these individuals have the authority to enforce their peacemaking.

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22 Rabbi Isaac bar Sheshet, Shut ha-Rivash (Responsa of Rivash) (Vilna: Yehuda Leib Metz, 1879), no. 228. 23 For the role of rabbinic responsa literature in the study of history, see Haym Soloveitchik, Shut ke-makor histori (Responsa as a Historical Source) (Jerusalem: Shazar, 1991). 24 Rabbi Joseph ben Meir ibn Migash Halevi, Shut ha-R”Y Migash (Responsa of the R”Y Migash), (Warsaw, 1870), no. 101. 25 Ibid. 26 Rabbi Joseph Colon Trabotto, Shut u-fiskey Maharik (Responsa of Rabbi Joseph Colon Trabotto) (Jerusalem: Akiva Yosef Press, 1971), no. 185. 27 So it appears from a different inquiry found in Trabotto, Shut, no. 6, which describes a question regarding communal monies presumed to have been in Chaim Chalfan’s home after his death. 28 Rabbi Israel of Bruna, Shut Mahari Bruna (Responsa of Rabbi Israel of Bruna) (Jerusalem: Hershler, 1960), no. 78. 29 See Israel Yuval, Ha-ḥakhamim be-doram (The Sages in Their Generation) (Hebrew; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1989), 384 n. 157; Abraham Fuchs, “Historical Material in the Responsa of Rabbi Israel Bruna” (Hebrew; PhD diss., Yeshiva University, 1974), 38 n. 48. 30 Several similar conflicts were taking place in the region at this time; they reflect the transition from unofficial rabbis, who operated within the communities, to institutional rabbis appointed by communities. See Yuval, Ḥakhamim, 364–98; Fuchs, “Historical Material,” 16–43. 31 See Israel of Bruna, Shut, no. 78. The letter is signed by Rabbi Peretz. 32 Israel of Bruna, Shut, no. 78. 33 For further discussion on the content of the agreement and subsequent disagreement over its interpretation see Roth, “Tradition,” 35–8. 34 Israel of Bruna, Shut, no. 283. 35 For further evidence that the agreement was reached in a noncoercive manner, see Roth, “Tradition,” 37. 36 For sources that describe pursuers of peace in eighteenth- to twentieth-century Morocco as having a quasi-communal role, see Roth, “Tradition,” 42–6. 37 Rabbi Syracusty himself signed his name at the bottom of a letter from the rabbis of Safed to the rabbis of Jerusalem: “the one worn down by the times and fed up with the tumultuous nature of my life, Joseph, the son of my master the perfect scholar, Rabbi Abraham, el-Syracusty.” See Meir Benayahu, “Teudah min ha-dor ha-rishon shel megurashey Sefarad bi-Tzfat” (A Document from the First Generation of Spanish Exiles in Safed), in Sefer Tzfat, Part 1, ed. Yitzhak Ben-Zvi and Meir Benayahu (Jerusalem: Hebrew University/Machon Ben-Zvi, 1953), 114. Similarly, Rabbi Joseph Garson, in his eulogy (see the following), refers to him as “Syracusy.” However, he became known as “Saragossi” in later literature, such as in Eleazar Azikri’s Sefer ḥaredim (Venice: Daniel Zaniti, 1601); his tombstone in Ein Zitun near Safed says “Saragossi.” I have chosen, however, to refer to him the way he referred to himself: “Syracusty.” On the life of Rabbi Syracusty, see Heinrich Graetz, History of the Jews, ed. Bella Löwy (New York: Casimo, 2009; originally published in 1894), 4:399; Salomon A. Rosanes, Divré yemé Israel betogarma (Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1930), 189–92; Benayahu, “Teudah,” 114; idem, “Derushav she-le-Rabbi Yoseph ben Meir Garson” (The Sermons of Rabbi Joseph ben Meir Garson), Michael 7 (1982): 98–9. 38 Benayahu, “Teudah,” 122–4. 39 Benayahu, “Teudah,” 131. 40 Benayahu, “Derushav,” 162–4. 41 For further explanation and examples of Safed kabbalists making peace between the poor and God, see Benayahu, “Derushav,” 99.

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42 Azikri, Sefer ḥaredim, chapter 8, 15b. 43 Benayahu, “Teudah,” 114; idem, “Derushav,” 99. 44 Chaim David Azulai, Shem ha-gedolim (Livorno: G. Falorni, 1774), 42. See also Rabbi Menachem Mandiaonfli, Etzba ketanah (Izmir: Roditi, 1876), 3a, who writes that “because of this [the pursuit of peace] Elijah the prophet will come, and as a proof of this he quotes Azikri exactly and concludes, “Because of his merit (Rabbi Syracusty) in constantly making peace he merited to see Elijah.” 45 Pinḥas Eliyahu Horowitz, “Love of Neighbors” (article 13), in Sefer ha-berit, part 2, Divre emet (Brünn, 1797), 45. Horowitz’s words would be later brought as a proof by Rabbi Moshe Rozenson in his book Shalom aḥim (lit. “Brotherly Peace”; as part of a series of publications known as Marbe shalom [Vilna, 1870]), which was exclusively focused on proving that peacemaking was not an internal Jewish principle but includes Jews and non-Jews entirely as equals. See also Joseph Abraham Heller, Kuntras yehi shalom (New York: Empire Press, 1989), 6, who also quotes the same words of Azikri in the original and cites other very traditional sources that advance the notion that peacemaking and loving one’s neighbor include non-Jews. Joseph Nissim ibn Edahan, Sefer ma’aseh bereshit, part 4 (Jerusalem: Keter, 1986), 539, commandment 695, also restates nearly word for word Horowitz’s words in Sefer ha-berit. Although he does not reference him explicitly here, he does refer to him elsewhere throughout his book. 46 Joseph Nissim ibn Edahan, Sefer ma’aseh bereshit, part 1, 97, commandment 41.

10 The development of religious tolerance in Poland From the medieval period to the Reformation Paweł Kras The Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth was one of the first European countries to produce a statute of general toleration that protected its citizens’ religious freedom. The principle of religious toleration exercised there was a political compromise that resulted from the animated discussions and negotiations among Catholics and non-Catholics. Indeed, in sixteenth-century Europe, Poland had a widespread reputation as a state where religious toleration was practiced and no organized persecution of religious dissidents took place. In the eyes of the popes and the Roman curia, Poland became a “refuge of heretics,” where even the members of radical Protestant groups, persecuted throughout Europe, were allowed to settle and live in peace.1 Western European visitors were amazed by “the multitude of religions swarming” in the Polish territories. The report of English traveler Sir Edwin Sandys (1561–1629) bears witness to the unique multireligious composition of Polish society. In his diary, first published in 1605, Sandys comments with astonishment on the peaceful coexistence of various churches and religions in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. He claims that the presence of so many religious groups there should make it easy for anyone to find his preferred denomination, further informing us that failure to find a particular denomination in the commonwealth means that it does not exist.2 Polish sixteenth-century toleration has been characterized as a unique phenomenon in early modern European history.3 In this turbulent period of religious repression and bloody wars, the kingdom of Poland remained the sole country in Europe where nobody was burned for his beliefs and religious freedom was respected, at least with regard to the gentry. There were, however, sporadic, isolated acts of religious violence. The high estimation for Polish toleration is well reflected by the entry for Poland in the Great Encyclopedia of the French Enlightenment: It [Poland] is inhabited by people who took very little part in any of the religious wars which were going on in Europe in the 16th and 17th centuries. It did not cultivate a powder plot, a night of St. Bartholomew’s, the murder of senators, or regicide. Nor did it witness the armament of

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Religious tolerance in early modern Poland has long been a subject of intensive research. It suffices to mention several Polish and international historians such as Aleksander Brückner,5 Janusz Tazbir,6 Mieczysław Korolko,7 Marceli Kosman,8 Wacław Urban,9 Joseph Lecler,10 Ambroise Jobert,11 Gottfried Schramm,12 and, recently, Wojciech Kriegseisen,13 whose seminal works mark important steps in the thorough analysis of this phenomenon of religious toleration. Various reasons have been put forth for this phenomenon’s origins and historical background. Most scholars stress the dominant role of the gentry, who in the late Middle Ages had been granted extensive political and economic privileges. Their privileged position and freedoms made it impossible for the kings and leaders of the Roman Church to enforce any religious uniformity or persecute noble advocates of the Reformation. Nor did the spread of Reformation ideas provoke any major conflicts among the gentry and most Polish nobles were reluctant to spill blood in the name of God. They had little interest in theological disputes on the nature of Christ, Christ’s presence in the Eucharist, or the validity of church sacraments. That is why it was easier for them to accept various denominations provided that their adherents respected the laws of the commonwealth. In the first decades of the Reformation, many nobles traveled abroad, where they witnessed religious conflicts and experienced the atrocities of religious violence. For most of them, the prosperity of the commonwealth was a priority in their political activities. When discussing matters of religion, even Catholic nobles gave precedence to the welfare of the commonwealth over the interests of the Roman Church. In addition, it has been argued that the last Jagiellonian rulers neither wished, nor had the power, to conduct a policy of religious repression. In contrast to some European rulers who promoted the spread of the Reformation and actively participated in religious developments, the Polish rulers Sigismund I (1506–48) and Sigismund II Augustus (1548–72) tried to maintain order and peace, and distanced themselves from any form of religious radicalism. The present chapter aims to reexamine the medieval background of religious developments in sixteenth-century Poland. In the sixteenth century, the medieval traditions of religious pluralism paved the way for the principle of religious freedom, which became the cornerstone of the Polish legal system. The chapter follows in particular the main lines of political discussion among King Sigismund Augustus, Catholic bishops, and noble leaders in the 1550s and 1560s that abolished the ecclesiastical inquisition and guaranteed security to Polish and Lithuanian adherents of the Reformation. The religious situation can only be understood as part of a much larger debate on the political system of the commonwealth, relations between the monarch and the gentry, and the position of the Roman Church

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in Rzeczpospolita. Despite the centrality of the Catholic Church in Poland, Poland’s multiethnicity, the power of the gentry, and the position of the monarchy led to developments that differed from the intolerance displayed by other contemporary Catholic monarchies.

Pre-Reformation period Before the outbreak of the sixteenth-century Reformation, the Polish territories were inhabited by various ethnic and religious groups that had been granted special privileges in the Middle Ages. The baptism of Duke Mieszko I in 966 introduced Poland to Latin Christianity and facilitated the transfer of political institutions and socioreligious infrastructures from Western Europe. A long-term Christianization of Polish society accompanied a statebuilding process in which the Roman Church, with its doctrine, rituals, and clergy, became an integral part of the medieval Polish Kingdom. Under the protection, and thanks to the support of the ruling Piast dynasty, the Roman Church established the structure of bishoprics, parishes, and monasteries, which conducted intensive Christianization, rooting out pagan traditions, spreading Christian beliefs and morals, and constructing new churches across the country.14 Until the expansion of the Polish Kingdom into the East under Casimir the Great (1333–70), the last of the Piast monarchs, the privileged position of the Roman Church remained unchallenged by any other religion. The annexation of Red Ruthenia in the 1340s for the first time brought to the Polish state the vast population of Eastern Orthodox Ruthenians, who constituted roughly one-third of the population of the kingdom of Poland in the late Middle Ages. They dominated the southeastern provinces of the country, where the Eastern Orthodox Church had a well-developed structure of churches and monasteries.15 The encounter between Latin Christianity and the Eastern Orthodox Ruthenians in the Polish territories fostered cultural transfers between these two Christian traditions and put the principle of coexistence to the test. For more than two centuries the Eastern Orthodox were treated as second-class citizens in the Polish state, enjoying limited political rights.16 King Władysław Jagiełło (1386–1434), the last pagan grand duke of Lithuania and the founder of the Jagiellonian dynasty in Poland, was well acquainted with the Eastern Orthodox culture and highly respected its traditions. His mother was the Ruthenian princess Juliana (Uliana) of Tver (c. 1320–92), and he grew up in Lithuania, where the Eastern Orthodox Ruthenians constituted 75 percent of the population.17 Nevertheless, as the Catholic king of Poland and grand duke of Lithuania, Jagiełło implemented a policy favorable to the Roman Church. In Lithuania, he founded the new Catholic bishopric in Vilnius and almost a dozen parish churches.18 In Red Ruthenia Jagiełło pursued the same policy, providing resources for the construction of new Catholic cathedrals in Lviv and Chełm as well as for new parish churches and monasteries.19 Orthodox bishops (vladika) were

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never granted the same privileged position as their Catholic counterparts, and Orthodox boyars were banned from public office. Furthermore, mixed marriages between Catholics and Eastern Orthodox were banned, as was the construction of new Orthodox churches.20 It was not until as late as the 1560s, under the rule of Sigismund II Augustus, that most of these restrictions were canceled and the Orthodox boyars were granted full citizens’ rights.21 Alongside the Catholics and Orthodox Ruthenians, medieval Poland was inhabited by smaller minorities of Monophisite Armenians, Muslim Tartars, and Jews.22 The latter group, which started to flow into Poland from the mid-fourteenth century, was granted vast judicial and economic privileges. Thanks to the protection of the Polish king, the Jews developed governmental autonomy and monopolized trade outside the larger towns. Jewish communities (kahal) were established almost in every royal town in Lesser Poland and Red Ruthenia, maintaining synagogues, schools, ritual baths, community houses, and cemeteries. By the late sixteenth century, the kingdom of Poland had become the European state with the largest Jewish population.23 Polish rulers, Casimir the Great and Władysław Jagiełło in particular, played a crucial role in securing the system of religious toleration in medieval Poland. Casimir granted the Jews from all over Poland judicial autonomy and religious freedom, and also endorsed the rights of Ruthenians and Armenians in his kingdom. Jagiełło continued the policy of religious toleration toward non-Catholic populations, confirming earlier privileges.24 In the fifteenth century, the Roman Church maintained its dominant position in the kingdom, enjoying a separate judiciary, exemption from royal taxation, and economic privileges. Only Catholic bishops gained a unique political position in the kingdom of Poland, acting as members of the royal council, chancellors and vice-chancellors, and diplomats. Jagiełło and his successors endowed the Roman clergy and ecclesiastical institutions with lands and donations, protecting the Catholic Church’s privileged position. Nevertheless, at the same time they protected the rights of non-Catholic minorities and did their best to prevent any acts of religious violence.25 It suffices to mention here the harsh punishment of the Kraków inhabitants who organized the anti-Jewish pogrom in 1407.26 A long tradition of peaceful coexistence of various Christian denominations and non-Christian religions gave rise to a mechanism of mutual acceptance and cooperation, making it possible for many nations practicing different religions to respect their diversity and live side by side in peace.27 Neither the king nor the gentry, the political nation of the Polish Kingdom, questioned the rights of the Eastern Orthodox population or other religious minorities to develop their own religious practices. The only exceptions were the Polish Hussites, who in the fifteenth century were persecuted as heretics by the Roman Church and as enemies of the public order by the king. In line with the medieval concept of heresy, dissidents from the Roman Church

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could not be tolerated and should either be forced to abjure their errors and return to the Catholic Church or be exterminated. The provincial council of the Polish Church in Wieluń in 1420 set up guidelines for the treatment of heretics, and four years later King Jagiełło ordered that heretics, referring to the followers of the Hussite doctrine, should be punished by secular officials with death and confiscation of their property.28 Despite those harsh antiheretical laws no campaign of religious persecution was carried out to enforce Catholic uniformity in medieval Poland.

The Catholic Church in pre-Reformation Poland In the Middle Ages, the Roman Church gained a dominant position in Poland’s political and socioreligious life. Endowed with privileges and grants by rulers and nobles, it assumed a central place as one of the fundaments and main institutions in the Polish state.29 Being part of Latin Christianity, the Polish Church with its doctrine, rituals, and cult of patron saints like St. Adalbert and St. Stanislaus contributed to the rise of Polish national identity and strengthened the bonds linking the monarchs with their state and society. The Catholic clergy played an important role in promoting the new political concept of the united Polish Kingdom. They saw the lands of the corpus regni Poloniae as coexisting with the lands of the Polish Church (ecclesia Polonica). In the Middle Ages, the Polish national identity merged various ethnic, political, cultural, and religious elements. Among them centrality was awarded to the Polish language, the ruling dynasty (natural lords of Poland), and the Catholic faith. The church with its liturgy, sanctuaries, and cult of national patron saints became an integral part of the Polish historical tradition.30 Polish clergy played an important role in the administration of the Polish Kingdom. Catholic bishops, usually recruited from the royal court, were members of the royal council and acted as chancellors, vice-chancellors, diplomats, and advisors in the service of Polish rulers. From the late fifteenth century, they became senators in the upper chamber of the Polish parliament. The archbishop of Gniezno, who was at the same time primate of all Poland, had the exclusive right to crown the king of Poland, and had from 1572 acted as interrex during every interregnal period. The strong position of the Roman clergy was secured by numerous privileges and grants conferred on church institutions by Polish kings and dukes. In the thirteenth century, the clergy formed a separate social estate, which enjoyed autonomous jurisdiction and was exempted from general taxation. On the eve of the Reformation, the Polish Church had vast land estates which constituted around ten percent of the country’s arable land. The economic status of the clergy varied. On the one hand, most bishops belonged to the wealthiest group of Polish feudal lords; on the other, however, many parish priests, especially in eastern Poland, had to work on their farms to earn money for their living. In the fifteenth century, the wealth of the clergy and

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ecclesiastical jurisdiction over the laity gave stimulus to strong anticlerical sentiments among the gentry. In the program of the sixteenth-century Polish Reformation the privileged position of the Roman Church became a key target. The advocates of the Reformation demanded the secularization of church landed property and abolition of the clergy’s fiscal privileges. Their ideas gained much popularity not only among religious dissidents but also attracted those members of the gentry who supported a program of necessary political and fiscal reform. Thus the criticism of ecclesiastical privileges greatly contributed to the public debate on modernization of the Polish state and its relations with the Roman Church. In the vibrant discussion that broke out in the Polish parliament in the 1550s and 1560s, religious and political ideas became tightly intertwined. It may be argued that the sixteenth-century Reformation did not actually launch a completely new debate on the position of the Roman Church but rather added new dimensions to the discussion that had been ongoing for at least a century.31

Initial spread of the Reformation in Poland The first influx of the Reformation into Poland took place during the reign of Sigismund I the Old (1506–48) and encountered different responses from the Polish monarch, seniors of the Catholic Church, and the gentry. The intensive research of the early Polish Reformation has demonstrated how the transfer of new religious ideas from Germany to bigger Polish towns like Gdańsk, Toruń, or Kraków, and their further dissemination, took place across the country.32 First, the teachings of Martin Luther reached the German townspeople in the towns of Royal Prussia and Greater Poland. As a result of their strong national and commercial ties with Germany, German burghers in Prussia were the first to learn about Luther’s attack on indulgences and the spread of the religious movement it inspired. Some adhered to the ideas of the Lutheran Reformation, treating them as a chance for religious and social change.33 That is why the spread of the Reformation was associated with social turmoil in some Prussian towns. The lower classes of townspeople promoted the religious program of the Reformation in order to challenge the political and social system of government, which was dominated by wealthy patricians. The most dramatic events took place in Gdańsk, where in January 1525 crowds of townspeople rose in arms against the mayor Eberhard Ferber and the town council. Town authorities were overthrown and replaced by the advocates of the new faith; churches were turned over to Lutheran preachers, and monasteries closed. The rebellion of Gdańsk plebeians provoked the military intervention of King Sigismund I, who was dissatisfied with the social and religious unrest in his kingdom’s main Baltic port. In April 1526, Sigismund I, accompanied by 3,000 soldiers, arrived in Gdańsk to restore order and peace. The deposed mayor and town council were reinstated, and several rebels, including the leaders Johann Wendland and Peter Köning, were beheaded in the Gdańsk central market square.34

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The ideas of the German Reformation spread rapidly in the territory of the Teutonic Knights in Prussia. In 1523, Bishop Georg Polentz of Sambia declared his support for the Reformation and authorized the preaching of Johann Briesemann, a former Franciscan friar and Luther’s representative. The Lutheran doctrine also attracted Albrecht of Hohenzollern, Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights in Prussia. Two years after his meeting with Martin Luther in Wittenberg in November 1523, Albrecht of Hohenzollern decided to abandon the Roman Church and join the Reformation. In 1525, Teutonic knights converted to Lutheranism en masse and Albrecht himself became the first Lutheran duke of Prussia. The political and religious turnover in the Prussian Teutonic state was accepted by the Polish king Sigismund I, who acted as a suzerain of the Teutonic Knights.35 In the 1530s Poland became a place of refuge for various Protestant groups that had fled their homelands to avoid persecution. In the wake of the Schmalkaldic War, the Czech Brethren sought shelter in the Duchy of Prussia and in Greater Poland. They won converts among the aristocratic Ostroróg family of Greater Poland, who settled them on their estates in Leszno and provided them with a house of worship in Poznań.36 Several years later, German Anabaptists and Dutch Mennonites joined the Czech Brethren. The latter came to Żuławy Wiślane, the alluvial delta areas of the Vistula River, in the diocese of Warmia (Ermland).37 The Mennonites were famous for their agricultural skills and that is why Bishop Mauritius Ferber of Warmia settled them on his ecclesiastical estates. Even the Catholic bishop could turn a blind eye to the radical doctrine of the Dutch settlers who rejected the unity of the Holy Trinity and ignored all church sacraments. Their religious teaching was of secondary importance as long as they brought profits to the bishop’s treasury.38

Sigismund I the Old As we have seen, the arrival of the advocates of the Reformation did not undermine the religious status quo in Poland and Lithuania. Protestant newcomers were welcome to join the mixed society there and enjoyed the same protection as other denominations. Alongside political democracy, religious pluralism constituted the most important feature of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, the largest state in sixteenth-century Europe. The tolerant policy of the Jagiellonian kings Sigismund I the Old and his son Sigismund II Augustus facilitated the dissemination of Reformation ideas. Recent research has demonstrated that they played an important role in making sixteenth-century Poland “the state without stakes.”39 The two kings remained Catholic and evinced continued support for the Roman Church in many ways, but at the same time, conducted a policy of toleration that made it possible for religious dissidents to come to Poland and live there in peace.40 The piety of Sigismund I and his son was very conservative and traditional: they regularly attended mass, prayed to the Mother of God and

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saints, went on pilgrimage, and gave alms to the poor. Following their predecessors, they had their favorite cults, in particular those of the Holy Cross, the Eucharist, and the Holy Virgin. They used to visit the Pauline monastery in Częstochowa, the Benedictine monastery on Łysa Góra, and the St. Stanislaus Church in Kraków, to which they granted new privileges and offered rich liturgical items.41 The piety of Sigismund I was formed in the highly religious climate of the court of his father Casimir IV, in which his older brother Casimir, well known for his piety and canonized in 1602, grew up as well. Sigismund I was deeply attached to the traditional forms of Catholic liturgy he had learned in his childhood. He attended morning mass daily and spent much time in private prayer. Even when older and ill, the king devoted much energy to religious matters, and – as one of his courtiers reported – “no inconvenience of place or time could prevent him from worship.”42 As a peace-loving monarch and Renaissance ruler, Sigismund I was open to the humanistic ideas radiating from Italy, and receptive to the irenic philosophy of Erasmus of Rotterdam.43 His theological knowledge made him aware of the deficiencies of the church in his day.44 This sparked his interest in the discussions of church reform, but he saw nothing in Luther’s teachings that might serve such reform. In his opinion, Luther was not a reformer, but a troublemaker whose attack on the Roman Church challenged political stability and the public order. The king belonged to the group of Polish correspondents of Erasmus of Rotterdam and exchanged a couple of letters with him.45 In his letters to the Polish king and his courtiers, Erasmus rejected any forms of repression and violence against dissenters. Instead, he promoted dialogue and direct negotiations among Christians based on the Bible. His idea of religious peace gained the support of Sigismund I and a group of humanists at the royal court. In a May 17, 1527 letter, Erasmus emphasized Sigismund I’s concern with keeping the peace and avoiding bloodshed among Christians. In addition, he praised the king’s virtues: his love of God, magnanimity, and farsightedness, which restrained him from engaging in wars and conquest.46 As long as agreement between Catholics and Protestants was possible, Sigismund I was determined to promote religious toleration and rejected the use of force in matters of faith. The concept of religious peace among Christians appears to have been crucial to his understanding of church reforms. Throughout his long reign, peace and rejection of violence were two principles of Sigismund I’s religious policy. They are well illustrated in his letter from January 19, 1535, to Johannes Dobeneck (Cochlaeus), the Wrocław canon, who urged him to take harsh measures against the Lutherans. Responding to Dobeneck’s suggestions, the king declared that he wished to be “the shepherd of sheep and goats.”47 Until his death in 1548, Sigismund I remained ill-disposed to the Reformation. As an eager follower of Erasmian concepts and advocate of religious peace, he felt hostility toward the growing radicalism of the Reformation and the disintegration of Western Christianity. As a Catholic monarch, he took

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some precautions to prevent the spread of Lutheran ideas in Poland and Lithuania, and in the 1520s issued a series of decrees aimed at restricting the dissemination of Lutheranism. In two edicts from 1520 directed particularly at Prussian towns, where Protestant ideas had gained some adherents, Sigismund I prohibited his subjects to distribute the writings of Martin Luther on pain of exile and confiscation.48 These severe restrictions seem to have been ineffective, as two years later the king issued a new decree, in which he ordered the enforcement of his previous anti-Lutheran laws. At the same time, Sigismund expressed his disappointment with his officials’ leniency and complained that, contrary to his edicts, “heretical books were freely on sale, and, what’s more, Lutheran ideas were propagated in public.” A year later, he granted royal officials the right to search private houses for Protestant books and established the office of censorship, which was entrusted to the rector of Kraków University.49 No anti-Lutheran laws were put into effect and no Polish advocates of the Reformation were burned at the stake or had their property confiscated. It may be argued that the harsh royal decrees against Protestants were issued “rather for Rome than for Poland.”50 In his foreign policy, Sigismund I placed the interests of the Polish state above the universal aims of the Roman Church. His flexible policy toward the Lutheran Duchy of Prussia characterizes the way he handled matters of religion. The king turned a blind eye to the spread of Lutheranism in the territory of his Prussian vassal Albrecht of Hohenzollern and approved the secularization of the Teutonic Order. The aforementioned Kraków treaty of 1525 became a clear manifestation of the priority that political thinking took over the interests of the church in Sigismund I’s policy.51 It is worthwhile stressing that, as the first pact between a Catholic ruler and a Protestant duke, the Kraków treaty anticipated the future separation of political and religious affairs. It is also noteworthy that the treaty made no reference to the religious faith of the duke and his subjects and had only a vague provision that Catholics in Prussia would have the right to organize public worship.52 Despite vigorous protests by Pope Leon X, Emperor Charles V, and many other European rulers, the Polish king steadfastly defended the Kraków pact and the secularization of the Teutonic state. In order to explain the reasons for the king’s policy toward the Duchy of Prussia, Andrzej Krzycki, a famous Polish humanist, advisor to Sigismund I, and later archbishop of Gniezno and primate of all Poland, produced a treatise titled De negotio Pruthenico. In a well-structured, literate Latin work, Krzycki listed a number of religious and political arguments to endorse the secularization of the Teutonic Order. First, he expanded on the deep crisis and decline of religious life among the Teutonic knights, which the Holy See had done nothing to prevent. Further, he criticized the papacy for its continued political support of the Teutonic knights against the king of Poland. In his opinion, the treaty of Kraków had put an end to the prolonged conflict and restored

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peace among Christians. Another argument in De negotio Prutenico was related to the religious situation in Teutonic Prussia, where Lutheran ideas had gained much popularity. In Krzycki’s eyes, the secularization of Prussia had already been implemented prior to its formal acknowledgment by Sigismund I. Responding to vicious attacks on the Polish king for making a political deal with the Lutheran duke, Krzycki issued his well-known comments on the pluralistic composition of the Polish state. Krzycki argued that Poland had long been populated by various religious groups such as Orthodox Ruthenians, Armenians, Jews, and even Muslim Tartars, who had learned how to live peacefully with Catholics in one state. That is why he was convinced that there was also a place for Lutherans in such a multireligious society.53

Sigismund II Augustus Sympathy for the Reformation emerged in the first years of Sigismund II Augustus’s rule. Pro-Reformation gentry hoped that the new king would support their program of political and religious reform.54 They saw in Reformation ideas a very convenient weapon that might be effectively employed in their struggle for the revendication of public and state lands illegally held by magnates, known as the Execution of the Laws.55 Contrary to their expectations, in the first decade of his rule, Sigismund Augustus did little to facilitate the spread of the Reformation. Brought up in the atmosphere of Renaissance culture, the new king was closer to Erasmian concepts than to the doctrinaire ideas of Protestant theologians. There were, however, supporters of the Reformation in the young prince’s inner circle. His mother Bona’s confessor, the Italian Franciscan Francis Lismanino, and her physician George Blandrata were both advocates of Protestantism. The former, after having been sent in 1554 by Sigismund Augustus to Geneva on a book-buying mission, converted to the Calvinist faith and married. The latter became a leader of the radical anti-Trinitarian movement in Poland.56 At his Lithuanian court, where Sigismund Augustus ruled independently from 1544, two advocates of the Reformation, Jan of Koźmin and Wawrzyniec Discordia, took refuge from ecclesiastical jurisdiction and became court preachers. In their sermons to the burghers of Vilnius and the Lithuanian gentry, they criticized the abuses of the Catholic clergy and promoted Reformation ideas. As Sigismund Augustus’s librarian, Jan of Koźmin purchased a number of Protestant books for the king’s private collection.57 Despite their open sympathy for the Reformation, Sigismund II protected his courtiers against ecclesiastical censure and refused to remove them from his court.58 His four-year rule in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, where Lithuanians, Poles, and Ruthenians lived alongside Germans, Jews, Armenians, and Tartars, made a significant impact on Sigismund Augustus’s religious policy. Sigismund Augustus was very interested in the religious life of non-Catholic

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groups. While in Lithuania, he visited Orthodox churches and endowed them with privileges and properties. The young king learned to respect different religions and realized that only the maintenance of religious toleration would enable him to rule the multireligious population of Poland and Lithuania peacefully and efficiently. Anna Sucheni-Grabowska, a biographer of Sigismund II, has noticed, “The rich and complex mentality of Sigismund Augustus combined traditionalism and conservatism as well as openness to new currents both in policy and religious life.”59 Like his father, the king remained faithful to the Catholic Church. On various occasions, he stressed his strong attachment to the faith of his forefathers, whose tradition he cherished. For example, in his July 7, 1554, letter to Emperor Charles V, Sigismund Augustus declared his loyalty to the church to which “his ancestors had belonged and in which he was brought up.” At the same time, he expressed hostility to religious innovations.60 According to papal nuncio Berardo Bongiovanni’s 1560 report, Sigismund Augustus confessed annually, attended mass daily, received communion, listened to sermons on feast days, and loudly sang Introit, Gloria, Credo, Benedictus, and Agnus Dei together with a choir of Church singers.61 In his speech at the king’s funeral, his former secretary Jan Dymitr Solikowski, later archbishop of Lviv, pointed to the wisdom and prudence of the last Jagiellon who had managed to preserve peace in a country inhabited by many nations of different religions.62 Sigismund Augustus’s attitude toward non-Christian religions is well illustrated by his favorable policy toward Jews. The king permitted them to settle freely in the kingdom of Poland and in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, as well as making them responsible for his revenues. During his reign, the Jews enjoyed full autonomy and established their own parliament in Lublin (the Council of Four Lands, which became the supreme autonomous institution for all Jews in Poland and Lithuania).63 The king, who attempted to hinder anti-Jewish outbreaks, legally protected Jews. In the controversial trial of Dorota Łazęcka and three Jews from Sochaczew accused of host profanation in 1556, Sigismund Augustus took steps to obstruct the enforcement of the death penalty, stressing that Jews were under royal jurisdiction. The trial gained attention throughout Poland and provoked a rise in antiJewish sentiment. In order to curb these hostile emotions and prevent further excesses, Sigismund Augustus issued new edicts that guaranteed safety to all Jews in Poland. In addition, in January 1557, the king established a detailed procedure for examination of accusations against Jews of engaging in ritual offenses.64 The king’s open-mindedness also made him interested in Reformation ideas. In the eyes of his contemporaries, both Catholics and Protestants, his interest in Reformation doctrine went so far that they suspected that the king was planning to adhere to one of the Protestant denominations. Various attempts to convert Sigismund Augustus to Lutheranism were undertaken by Duke Albrecht Hohenzollern of Prussia. From his residence in Königsberg, the duke dispatched to Sigismund Lutheran theological

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treatises, religious hymns and psalms, published en masse in his printing presses.65 The religious preferences of the king were so unclear that in late 1550s papal nuncio Berardo Bongiovanni reported to Cardinal Giovanni Moroni that many Polish Catholics feared the possible conversion of the king to the Reformation. Bongiovanni himself denounced such gossip and provided an explanation, in which he characterized the king’s attitude toward current religious controversies. In his opinion, the king “did not have enough courage to convert to Protestantism and force the Catholic senators to follow in his footsteps in the same way as he did not want to suppress Protestants in order to keep peace and avoid troubles.”66 Facing the rapid growth of Protestantism in Poland and Lithuania, Sigismund Augustus had to choose a way of conduct in matters of faith. The king had various options: he could strengthen the position of the Catholic Church and introduce political reforms by persecuting the Protestants, a solution promoted by popes, their nuncios, and some eager Polish bishops.67 They exerted much pressure on the king to suppress Polish Protestantism by force. Or, following the example of the kings of England and Sweden, he might also declare his adherence to the Reformation. This could gain him the support of the gentry and let him subordinate the church to his will. This latter path was advocated by the Protestant szlachta, who pressed him to take control of matters of faith and convene a national synod.68 The controversy over the celibacy of the clergy triggered the first sharp conflict between the Protestants and the Catholic Church and became a springboard for parliamentary debates on the position of the Catholic Church in the state.69 In 1550, the noble deputies jointly declared their support for Stanisław Orzechowski, a Catholic priest and popular political writer. When in 1549 Orzechowski made public his opinions on clerical celibacy and announced his intention to marry, his ecclesiastical superior, Bishop Jan Dziaduski of Przemyśl, immediately excommunicated him. This harsh ecclesiastical punishment evoked much anger among the gentry, who protested Dziaduski’s actions, considering them a serious infringement of their freedoms. At the session of the Polish parliament in Piotrków in 1550 noble deputies made Orzechowski’s case the focus of public debate on ecclesiastical jurisdiction over the laity. During the session, Orzechowski made a long speech asking the deputies “to make his cause their own and not permit the bishops to threaten human life and welfare with such cruel anathemas.”70 These demands were presented to Sigismund Augustus who rejected them without any further debate. On December 12, 1550, the king issued a new anti-Protestant decree, declaring his intention to maintain the unity of faith and promising not to appoint adherents of Protestantism to the senate and other high offices. In addition, Polish adherents of the Reformation were threatened with infamy and exile unless they returned to the Catholic Church. Almost concurrently, he ordered his officials to search for and punish adherents of the Reformation in accordance with his father’s laws. As the protector of the Catholic Church he ordered his officials to protect the

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rights and privileges of the church, threatening those who failed to obey with the loss of royal favor. The officials were obliged to seek out and arrest those suspected of heresy. The persons condemned as heretics by the ecclesiastical courts were to be punished according to the law (death and confiscation of property).71 But these harsh measures against Polish Protestants were never put in force. Wojciech Kriegseisen has recently noted: Assuming that it was not the King’s intention to introduce religious uniformity . . . he [Sigismund Augustus] wanted to weaken the Reformation movement, which had started to undermine the power of state authorities, and to reduce it to the religious sphere without attacking Catholic structures; he hoped that the Protestants would be able to reach a compromise with a reforming Catholic party.72 The anti-Protestant laws disappointed most of the gentry and aroused their bitter resentment. At the parliament in 1552, deputies openly demonstrated their pro-Reformation sympathies by criticizing the king’s policy toward Protestants. The pressure was so strong that Sigismund Augustus decided to modify his strategy and suspended the enforcement of ecclesiastical verdicts in matters of faith for a year. Commenting on this decision, Bishop Andrzej Zebrzydowski of Kraków said, “If he were to be no longer allowed to judge heretics in Poland, he would wonder whether he was a bishop or an usher.” In reply, Jan Tarnowski, a Catholic and one of the leaders of the noble reformatory party, said “It might be more convenient for you to be an usher, than for me to be your slave.”73 It is worth mentioning that this suspension was never lifted, and from 1552, secular officials ceased to implement the decisions of the ecclesiastical courts.74 Encouraged by this success, dissident deputies made more ambitious demands at the parliamentary session of 1555. After long, stormy debate, the parliament, presided over by Mikołaj Sienicki, the leader of the Protestant party, accepted a compromise agreement which guaranteed equal rights for Catholics and Protestants. The Protestant gentry was granted the abolition of clerical celibacy, the right to choose priests, the introduction of the Polish language into religious services, and the administration of communion under both kinds. These provisions were to remain in force until the convocation of a national synod that would introduce a program of church reform.75 At the request of King Sigismund Augustus, a special delegation was sent to Rome to present the project of the national synod to Pope Paul IV and receive his consent. When the pope rejected these demands, the political debate on the Polish national church lost its momentum.76 The papal reply strengthened the king’s conviction that, for the time being, he should avoid direct involvement in religious controversies and let the denominations go their own way. From 1552, the policy of religious toleration implemented by Sigismund II was under attack by both church and gentry. The growth of Protestant

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influence in the 1550s and the concessions granted them by Sigismund Augustus alarmed the papacy and a conservative group of Catholic bishops. Alosio Lippomano, papal nuncio to Poland in 1555–57, argued that only the use of force would prevent further growth of the Reformation.77 His plans to protect the Roman Church put the king at the front line of a religious battlefield. Lippomano informed Sigismund Augustus of the activities of Polish Protestants and expected the king to play an active role in their repression. He wanted Sigismund II to punish the organizers of the Protestant synods in Pińczów and Secymin.78 Much to his disappointment the king did not bow to the papal nuncio’s demands. At the parliament of 1556–57, Sigismund found himself in an awkward position, when the szlachta requested the abolition of ecclesiastical jurisdiction, free preaching of “the pure word of God,” the right to have Protestant ministers on noble estates, and the extension of the same religious freedom to town burghers. On January 13, 1557, the king yielded to diverse pressures and issued an edict, in which he accepted the religious status quo in the country and prohibited any further changes.79 Despite its tolerant character, the new royal law failed to satisfy either party. Protestants resented the ban on the propagation of their faith as well as the fact that freedom of religion was not extended to other groups. The bishops and nuncio Lippomano regarded the king’s edict as another concession to the Polish Reformation. Lippomano reported to the pope that the Polish king had granted anyone the right to choose any religion.80 In fact, Sigismund Augustus respected the religious choices of his subjects and did not wish to be an arbiter in matters of faith, as he openly declared at the parliament in 1569. This principle of religious toleration was clearly adopted in his policy toward the Lutheran inhabitants of Gdańsk Pomerania (Royal Prussia). In 1557–58, the king granted full freedom of religion to the Lutherans in Gdańsk, Toruń, and Elbląg. This was later extended to other towns in Royal Prussia, with the exception of towns under the civil rule of bishops. The same religious freedom was given to Livonia, the Baltic province, which was annexed to Poland in 1561.81 Sigismund’s policy of religious toleration left its imprint on his attitude toward the inhabitants of the royal towns and villages. In his own domain, Sigismund Augustus enforced the principle of cuius regio eius religio and defended the position of the Catholic Church with the full power of a feudal owner. In 1556, he even ordered royal governors not to allow religious innovations in the royal towns and villages and to remove all Protestants from them. But, like other anti-Protestant edicts, this decree was not aimed at introducing religious persecution. Actually, the king remained flexible toward the religious demands of the non-Catholic inhabitants of the royal estates. Under his reign, the royal towns in Lithuania were granted religious freedom and their non-Catholic inhabitants were allowed to attend mass in either Eastern Orthodox or Protestant churches.82

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Local church policy Alongside King Sigismund Augustus’s policy of toleration, most Polish bishops observed the progress of the Reformation with patience. As long as the spread of the Reformation did not directly challenge the dominant position of the Roman Church or threaten the privileges of the clergy, they did not undertake any concerted counteraction. Many bishops were royal appointees who had spent long years in service to the king. Accordingly, they regarded their ecclesiastical duties through the prism of the political stability and welfare of the Polish state. Furthermore, faced with the popularity of the Reformation among the gentry, the older generation of bishops was skeptical regarding the chances of suppressing religious dissent by force. Toleration seemed to it a rational compromise or a temporary concession that might serve both parties. Starting in the early 1550s, the Polish clergy became more divided over the issue of the appropriate reaction to the Reformation. Some younger, Romeeducated clergy, who were inspired by the ideas of Counter-Reformation, like Stanislaus Hosius (1504–79), later bishop of Warmia and a cardinal, opposed the passivity of church leaders and demanded more radical steps against the Protestants. Hosius himself attempted to persuade Archbishop Nicholas Dzierzgowski of Gniezno, primate of Poland, to launch a campaign against the noble advocates of the Reformation. Dzierzgowski, however, defiantly and reluctantly refused to take action. In his reply to Hosius, the primate of Poland resignedly commented, “The army would be needed to bring the noble advocates of the Reformation back to the Catholic Church.”83 Undiscouraged, Hosius took further steps to encourage the bishops to oppose the Reformation and protect the Roman Church against further encroachment. At the provincial synod, which took place in Piotrków in June 1551, Hosius presented a complex program for combating “new heresy” to be adopted all across the metropolitan province of Gniezno. All ideas contrary to Church doctrine were to be proscribed and their followers put on trial. Furthermore, heretical books were to be confiscated, and it was forbidden to lease ecclesiastical lands to “heretics.” In every diocese, new inquisitors were to be appointed whose duties were to search out adherents of religious novelties.84 These regulations marked the turning point in the strategy of the Polish Catholic leaders toward the Reformation and heralded the beginning of the Counter-Reformation. Only a few Polish bishops tried to enforce them, and no general campaign of persecution against Polish Protestants followed. For some bishops, the results of their inquisitorial actions against dissidents turned out to be not only futile but also humiliating.85

The role of the gentry During the Reformation period, the nobles formed the political nation of the Polish Kingdom and, from 1569, of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, supervising the king and participating in the policy-making process, playing

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a crucial role in promoting toleration and religious peace. Their political role was the result of the unique legal and socioeconomic position that the Polish gentry had achieved in the late fifteenth century. From the mid-fourteenth century, they were granted vast political, jurisdictional, and economic privileges that limited royal power. After the death of the last natural lord of Poland – King Casimir the Great of the Piast dynasty – the szlachta began to regard themselves as the legitimate heirs to the Polish Kingdom. Under the rule of the Jagiellonian dynasty, Polish nobles evolved into the ruling class of the country which controlled the king and the policy-making process. The rights of the kingdom became coextensive with the privileges of the szlachta. New monarchs elected to the Polish throne by the nobles had to make increasing concessions to secure their rule. Every new king had to take an oath at his coronation to respect the privileges and rights of the gentry or he would lose his royal title. The judicial privileges of the gentry reduced the king’s right to imprison and punish a noble, and one crucial privilege provided that no noble could be imprisoned without an appropriate trial. For the szlachta, the Reformation period was one of self-confidence that fueled strong opposition to any attempt to curb their freedoms. Andrzej Kamiński has argued that the system of nobles’ democracy embodied the idea of civic society (res publica), where individual rights of the gentry were widely respected and protected by law.86 In the first decades after Luther’s attack on the indulgences the Polish gentry remained rather indifferent to the religious ideas radiating from Germany. Despite bitter disputes over taxation by the church, the abolition of tithes, and ecclesiastical jurisdiction over laymen, the gentry did not intend to confuse these demands with the installation of a new faith. For a long time Lutheranism was considered the German faith and as such was treated by the szlachta with some distance and skepticism. In the first decades, only several nobles adhered to the Lutheran doctrine in contrast to Calvinism, which gained much popularity among the Polish gentry and Lithuanian boyars. In a short time, the Calvinist party became a strong power in the commonwealth, especially in Lesser Poland and Lithuania.87 Even so, it attracted only a small proportion of the gentry, although its members were the best educated and politically most active representatives of this class. In Reformation demands, they saw a convenient weapon with which to conduct their struggle for the reform of the state. Moreover, their struggle was directed against the landed estates of the church and the clergy’s exemption from general taxation. A separate organization of the Protestant Church was established comparatively early. In 1554 the first synod of the Calvinist Church was held in Lesser Poland. This denomination was soon adopted by the majority of dissident gentry who objected to Lutheranism because of its nationally alien character and its submission to the ruler.88 Regardless of their religious preferences, the szlachta were determined to defend their privileges and rights. Any attack on the private freedom of one of its members was treated as an attack on the entire class. Most of its members opposed any persecution of Protestants by Catholic bishops or

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papal inquisitors. In defense of their freedoms, even Catholic nobles questioned ecclesiastical jurisdiction over the laity and obstructed inquisitorial trials against their members. The szlachta’s privileged position safeguarded them against ecclesiastical jurisdiction. Noble adherents of the Reformation could ignore a summons issued by a bishop and canonical sanctions. In facing prosecution by the church, they appealed to class solidarity. When in 1551 Bishop Ignatius Dziaduski of Przemyśl condemned the aforementioned priest Stanislaus Orzechowski for his marriage, Orzechowski appeared in the Przemyśl cathedral accompanied by hundreds of Ruthenian nobles. To the bishop’s consternation, Orzechowski mounted the pulpit and started to argue that he, and not the bishop, was in the right on the issue of clerical celibacy.89 The public discussion of Orzechowski’s marriage became a cause célèbre in the growing tensions between the gentry and the Catholic clergy during the period when Reformation ideas started to attract more and more adherents among the Polish nobles. On the one hand, this demonstrates the strong political position of the szlachta, which gave them a free hand in matters of religion. On the other, it reveals the gentry’s great class solidarity and determination to defend anyone belonging to their ranks. It is worth noting that in the same year Bishop Andrzej Zebrzydowski of Kraków summoned Konrad Krupka, one of noble protectors of Protestants in Lesser Poland, to face charges of heresy. On the day of interrogation, Krupka arrived at the bishop’s palace accompanied by a group of armed friends. This so terrified the bishop that he had the main gate locked and installed some canons at the entrance. After lengthy negotiations, Krupka was finally permitted to enter the palace and explain his beliefs to the bishop and the ecclesiastical court. During the interrogation, he steadfastly defended his Protestant opinions and resisted any attempts by the bishop to convert him to Catholic orthodoxy. As a result, Bishop Zebrzydowski declared Krupka a heretic and called on the brachium saeculare to punish him in accordance with the antiheretical laws. Despite the ecclesiastical condemnation, no force was used to arrest Krupka or confiscate his property. In the following years, he continued to support Protestant preachers and ignored the sanctions imposed on him by the bishop.90 For the Polish gentry the persecution of religious dissidents was not a matter of faith, but of personal freedom. Thus freedom of speech and religion became fundamental to the nobles’ democracy. Whatever a person thought or believed was considered his private affair. That is why the king and his officials were not allowed to interfere in the religious choices of their faithful, at least regarding the members of the political nation. Before the era of elected kings, the principle of religious toleration gained in standing and became a key element of the Polish legal system. Soon after the death of the last Jagiellonian king Sigismund II Augustus in July 1572, the gentry took some precautions to safeguard the religious status quo in the commonwealth. The gentry were terrified by the persecution of English Protestants by Mary Tudor and shocked by the slaughter of French Huguenots on the Night of

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St. Bartholomew in August 1572. Trying to prevent the outbreak of internal war among the dissidentes in religione, they made the principle of religious toleration an integral element of Polish law. Before the first free election of a new king in 1573, the noble deputies promulgated the Statute of General Toleration, known as the Warsaw Confederation. It guaranteed the gentry full religious freedom and forbade secular authorities to enforce the sentences of ecclesiastical courts.91 The acts of the Warsaw Confederation was inserted into the so-called Henrician articles (Articuli Henriciani) that were later presented to Henry of Valois, the first elected king of Poland. The Henrician Articles consisted of the most crucial laws of the country and privileges of the gentry, such as the free election of a king by all nobles, the rights of the parliament, and restrictions on taxation. From 1573, every newly elected king of Poland had to accept these articles on his coronation. When in 1574 Henry of Valois refused to take an oath to obey these regulations, the Polish nobles threatened that they would break off the coronation ceremony. Faced with their resistance, Henry swore to obey the articles and his successors to the Polish throne had to follow in his footsteps.92 In 1588, the principle of religious freedom was enhanced in the Third Statute of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, a major codification of law in that country. It secured the right of the nobles to choose whatever religious denomination they wished. The regulations of the Third Statute secured religious peace, which was considered one of the most crucial elements of Lithuanian sociopolitical stability. Anyone who provoked religious conflict was threatened with harsh punishment.93

Conclusion The principle of cuius regio eius religio, implemented in the Augsburg treaty of 1555, for a long time determined the religious status quo in most European countries. It secured the right of any ruler or landlord to impose his faith on all his subjects, securing religious uniformity in one country or landed estate. Contrary to this principle, in sixteenth-century Poland, and from 1569 in the Commonwealth of Poland and Lithuania, various churches and denominations were allowed to flourish, and the szlachta, members of the political nation, could choose their faith at will.94 The last Jagiellonian kings, Sigismund I and Sigismund II Augustus, pursued a policy of religious toleration that served to maintain internal peace and stability in their multicultural, multiethnic country. Sometimes, at their own initiative or under the pressure from the papacy they issued severe edicts against Polish Protestants, but no mass persecution of dissidents followed.

Notes 1 Franz Hipler and Vincenty Zakrzewski, eds., Stanislai Hosii S.R.E. Cardinalis, Maioris Poenitentiarii Episcopi Varmiensis (1504–1579) et quae ad eum scriptae sunt epistolae, tum etiam eius orationes, legationes, vol. 2 (Kraków: Academia Litterarum Cracoviensis, 1879), 225. Book 5 of Joseph Lecler’s Tolerance

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and the Reformation, vol. 1, trans. T. L. Westow (New York: Association Press, 1960) is titled “Poland, ‘Refuge of Heretics’ in the Sixteenth Century.” Sir Edwin Sandys, A Relation of the State of Religion and with What Hopes and Pollicies It Hath Been Framed, and Is Maintained in the Severall States of These Westerne Parts of the World (London, 1605), 2v; cited from Richard Mackenney, Sixteenth Century Europe: Expansion and Conflict (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1993), 12. See also Sebastian Świdziński, “Religionstoleranz-Phänomene in Polen 1517– 1663,” Kirche im Osten 13 (1970): 67–73. Cited from Janusz Tazbir, “The Specific Character of Polish Tolerance,” in Nation-Church-Culture: Essays on Polish History, ed. Adam Chruszczewski (Lublin: Catholic University of Lublin Press, 1990), 54. Aleksander Brückner, Różnowiercy polscy [Polish Dissidents] (Warsaw: Księgarnia Naukowa, 1905; 2nd ed., 1962). Among his numerous works, I note Janusz Tazbir’s magisterial A State without Stakes: Polish Religious Tolerance in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries, trans. A. T. Jordan, Library of Polish Studies 3 (Warsaw: Kosciuszko Foundation, 1973); idem, Dzieje Polskiej tolerancji [The History of Polish Tolerance] (Warsaw: Interpress, 1973); idem, Geschichte der polnischen Toleranz (Warsaw: Interpress, 1977); idem, Reformacja w Polsce: Szkice o ludziach i doktrynie [Reformation in Poland: Essays on Persons and Doctrine] (Warsaw: Ksia̜żka i wiedza, 1993); idem, Szlakami kultury staropolskiej [The Routes of Old-Polish Culture] (Warsaw: Państwowy Instytut Wydawniczy, 1986), esp. 164–73; idem, “Tolerancja w dawnej Polsce” [Tolerance in Old Poland], in Chrześcijaństwo w dialogu kultur na ziemiach Rzeczypospolitej [Christianity in the Dialogue of Cultures on the Territories of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth], ed. Stanislaw Wilk (Lublin: Wydawnictwo KUL, 2003), 52–61. Mieczysław Korolko, Klejnot swobodnego sumienia: Polemika wokół konfederacji warszawskiej w latach 1573–1658 [The Jewel of Free Conscience: Polemic around the Warsaw Confederation in 1573–1658] (Warsaw: PAX, 1974). Marceli Kosman, Protestanci i kontrreformacja: Z dziejów tolerancji w Wielkim Księstwie Litewskim XVI–XVII wieku [Protestants and the Counter-Reformation: On the History of Tolerance in the Great Duchy of Lithuania 16th–17th Centuries] (Wrocław: Zakład Narodowy im. Ossolińskich, 1978); idem, Protestanci w Polsce (do połowy XX wieku) [Protestants in Poland (to the Middle of the Twentieth Century)] (Kraków: Zakład Narodowy im. Ossolińskich, 1980). For example, Wacław Urban, Epizod reformacyjny [The Episode of the Reformation] (Kraków: Krajowa Agencja Wydawnicza, 1988). Joseph Lecler, Toleration and the Reformation, trans. T. L. Westow (New York: Association Press, 1960), 383–413. Ambroise Jobert, De Luther à Mohila: La Pologne dans la crise de la chrétienté 1517–1648 (Paris: Institut d’études slaves, 1974). Gottfried Schramm, Der polnische Adel und die Reformation 1548–1607 (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner, 1965). Wojciech Kriegseisen, Stosunki wyznaniowe w relacjach państw-kościół amiędzy reformacją a oświeceniem (Rzesza Niemiecka – Niderlandy – Rzeczpospolita polsko-litewska) [Denominational Factors in Church-State Relations between the Reformation and the Enlightment] (Warsaw: Semper, 2010), 411–60. Jerzy Wyrozumski, “Poland in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries,” in The New Cambridge Medieval History, Vol. 4/2, ed. David Luscombe and Jonathan RileySmith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 277–89; Przemysław Urbańczyk and Stanisław Rosik, “Poland,” in Christianization and the Rise of Christian Monarchy: Scandinavia, Central Europe and Rus’, c. 900–1200, ed. Nora Berend (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 263–300.

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15 Jan Drabina, “Koegzystencja religii i wyznań w Polsce w latach 1333–1370” [Coexistence of Religions and Denominations in Poland in the Years 1333– 1370], Studia religiologica 25 (1992): 37–50. 16 Juliusz Bardach, “Le recontre des Eglises catholique et orthodoxe sur les territoires orientaux du Royaume de Pologne et de Lithuanie aux XIVe–XVIe siècles,” in The Common Christian Roots of the European Nations: A International Colloquium in the Vatican (Florence: Le Monnier, 1982), 83–7; Ludomir Bieńkowski, “Mozaika religijno-kulturalna w Rzeczypospolitej XVII–XVIII w.” [Religious and Cultural Mosaic of the Commonwealth in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries], in Uniwersalizm i swoistość kultury polskiej, vol. 1, ed. Jerzy Kłoczowski (Lublin: Wydawnictwo KUL, 1989), 241–70; Jerzy Kłoczowski, Młodsza Europa: Europa Środkowo-Wschodnia w kręgu cywilizacji chrześcijańskiej średniowiecza [Younger Europe: East Central Europe in the Circle of Medieval Christian Civilization] (Warsaw: Państwowy Instytut Wydawniczy, 1998), 324–38; on the relations between religious and ethnic groups in Red Ruthenia, see Andrzej Janeczek, “Ethnicity, Religious Disparity and the Formation of Latin Europe: Integration,” in On the Frontier of Latin Europe: Segregation and Integration in Red Ruthenia, 1350–1600, ed. Andrzej Janeczek and Thomas Wünsch (Warsaw: Institute of Archaeology and Ethnology of the Polish Academy of Sciences, University of Constance, 2004), 15–46; idem, “Żydzi i Ormianie: dwie gminy religijno-prawne w krajobrazie etnicznym późnośredniowiecznej Polski” [Jews and Armenians: Two Religious and Legal Communities in the Ethnic Panorama of Late Medieval Poland], in Animarum cultura: Studia nad kulturą religijną na ziemiach polskich w średniowieczu: Struktury kościelno-publiczne, ed. Halina Manikowska and Wojciech Brojer, Colloquia Mediaevalia Varsoviensia 4 (Warsaw: Instytut Hisotorii PAN, 2008), 271–98. 17 On the ethnic structure of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania in the late Middle Ages and relations between pagan Lithuanians and Orthodox Ruthenians, see Zigmantas Kiaupa, Jūratė Kiaupienė, and Albinas Kuncevičius, The History of Lithuania before 1795, trans. Irena Zujienė (Vilna: Lithuanian Institute of History, 2000), 72–97. 18 Darius Baronas and S. C. Rowell, The Conversion of Lithuania: From Pagan Barbarians to Late Medieval Christians (Vilna: Institute of Lithuanian Literature and Folklore, 2015), 261–309. 19 Wladysław Abraham, Powstanie organizacyi Kościoła łacińskiego na Rusi [The Rise of the Structure of the Latin Church in Ruthenia], vol. 1 (Lwów: Naukł, 1904); Tadeusz M. Trajdos, Kościół katolicki na ziemiach ruskich Korony i Litwy za panowania Władysława II Jagiełły (1386–1434) [The Catholic Church on the Ruthenian Territories of the Crown and Lithuania under the Reign of Władysław II Jagiełło], vol. 1 (Wrocław: Zakład Narodowy im. Ossolińskich, 1983), 169–233; and recently Jan Drabina, “Religionspolitik von König Władysław Jagiełło im polnisch-lituanischen Reich in den Jahren 1385–1434,” Zeitschrift für Ostforschung 43 (1994): 161–73; Urszula Borkowska, “The Jagiellonians as Founders of Ecclesiastical Institutions in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and Poland,” in Die Jagiellonen: Kunst und Kultur einer europäischen Dynastie an der Wende zur Neuzeit, ed. Dietman Popp and Robert Suckale, Wissenschafliche Beibände zum Anzeiger des Germanischen Nationalmuseums 21 (Nürnberg: Germanisches Nationalmuseum, 2002), 123–30; idem, “Organisation und Geistigkeit der Polnischen Mission in Litauen,” in Kirchliche Reformimpulse des 14.15. Jahrhundert in Ostmittelauropa, ed. Winfried Eberhard and Franz Machilek (Köln: Böhlau, 2006), 143–56. 20 Antoni Mironowicz, Kościół prawosławny w państwie Piastów i Jagiellonów [The Eastern Orthodox Church in the State of the Piasts and Jagiellons]

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(Białystok: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu w Białymstoku, 2003); Trajdos, Kościół katolicki, 25–37; Baronas and Rowell, Conversion of Lithuania, 388–402. Wiktor Czermak, “Sprawa równouprawnienia schizmatyków i katolików na Litwie (1432–1563 r.)” [The Problem of Granting Equal Rights to Schismatics and Catholics in Lithuania (1432–1563)], Rozprawy Akademii Umiejętności Wydziału Historyczno-Filozoficznego, Series 2/19 (1903): 348–97; for a recent reexamination of the problem, see Leszek Ćwikła, Polityka władz państwowych wobec Kościoła prawosławnego i ludności prawosławnej w Królestwie Polskim oraz Rzeczypospolitej Obojga Narodów w latach 1344–1795 [The Policy of State Authorities toward the Eastern Orthodox Church and the Eastern Orthodox Population in the Polish Kingdom and the Commonwealth of Poland and Lithuania in the Years 1344–1795] (Lublin: Wydawnictwo KUL, 2006). Henryk Samsonowicz, “Grupy etniczne w Polsce XV w.” [Ethnic Groups in Fifteenth-Century Poland], in Ojczyzna bliższa i dalsza: Studia historyczne ofiarowane Feliksowi Kirykowi w sześćdziesiątą rocznicę urodzin, ed. Feliks Kiryk; Jacek Chrobaczyński; Andrzej Jureczko; Michael Śliwa (Kraków: Secesja, 1993), 461–9; see also recent overview by Andrzej Janeczek, “Ethnische Gruppenbildungen im spätmittelalterlichen Polen,” in Das Reich und Polen: Parallellen, Interaktionen und Formen der Akkulturation hohem und späten Mittelalter, ed. Thomas Wünsch and Alexander Patschovsky (Ostfildern: Thorbecke, 2003), esp. 401–6. A bibliographical overview of that problem is available in my article “Ethnic and Religious Minorities in Medieval Poland,” in Oxford Bibliographies Online/Medieval Studies, www.oxfordbibliographies.com/view/document/ obo-9780195396584/obo-9780195396584-0043.xml. Heiko Haumann, A History of East European Jews, trans. James Patterson (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2002), 3–10. On the spread of Jews in early modern Poland, see also Gershon D. Hundert, The Jews in the Polish Private Town: The Case of Opatow in the Eighteenth Century, Johns Hopkins Jewish Studies (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992); see also a classical study by Roman Grodecki, “Dzieje Żydów w Polsce do końca XIV wieku” [History of Jews in Poland to the End of the Fourteenth Century], in Polska piastowska: Pisma pośmiertne, ed. Jerzy Wyrozumski (Warsaw: PWN, 1969), 595–702; Henryk Samsonowicz, “The Jewish Population in Poland during the Middle Ages,” Dialectics and Humanism: Polish Philosophical Quarterly 16/11 (1989): 35–42. Recently Hanna Zaremska has reexamined the development of Jewish settlement and discussed the legal position of Jews in medieval Poland. See her Żydzi w średniowiecznej Polsce: Gmina krakowska [Jews in Medieval Poland: Cracow Community] (Warsaw: Instytut Historii PAN, 2011); see also the German edition, Juden im mittelalterlichen Polen und die Krakauer Judengemeinde (Osnabrück: Fibre Verlag, 2013). Drabina, “Koegzystencja religii i wyznań w Polsce,” 37–50. Jan Drabina, “Modele koegzystencji wyznaniowej w Polsce średniowiecznej [Models of Religious Coexistence in Medieval Poland], Studia Religiologia 27 (1994): 9–32. Jerzy Wyrozumski, “Żydzi w Polsce średniowiecznej” [Jews in Medieval Poland], in Żydzi w dawnej Rzeczypospolitej, ed. Andrzej Link-Lenczowski and Tomasz Polański (Wrocław: Zaklad Narodowy im. Ossolińskich, 1991), 129–35; Zaremska, Żydzi w średniowiecznej Polsce, 143–71. Kłoczowski, Młodsza Europa, 310–12. Pawel Kras, Husyci w piętnastowiecznej Polsce [Hussites in Fifteenth-Century Poland] (Lublin: Tow. Nauk. Katolickiego Uniwersytetu Lubelskiego, 1998); idem, “‘Pro fidei defensione contra modernos haereticos’: Hérétiques et inquisiteurs en Pologne au Moyen Âge,” in L’inquisition et la répression des dissidences

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religieuses au Moyen Âge, ed. Laurent Albaret, Heresis 40 (Carcassonne: Centre d’études cathares, 2004), 69–94. See the remarks by Jerzy Kłoczowski, A History of Polish Christianity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), esp. chap. 2. Jerzy Kłoczowski, ed., The Christian Community of Medieval Poland: Anthologies, trans. Krystyna Cenkalska, Polish Historical Library 2 (Wroclaw: Zakład Narodowy im. Ossolińskich, 1981) (see the articles of Aleksandra Witkowska, Jerzy Kłoczowski, and Eugeniusz Wiśniowski). Schramm, Polnische Adel, 220–32. Kriegseisen, Stosunki wyznaniowe, 430–52. For an overview of the spread of the Reformation in Poland, see James R. Palmitessa, “The Reformation in Poland and Bohemia,” in Companion to the Reformation World, ed. R. Po-chia Hsia (Oxford: Blackwell, 2006), 185–204; Andrew Pettergree and Karin Maag, “The Reformation in Eastern and Central Europe,” in The Reformation in Eastern and Central Europe, ed. Karin Maag, St. Andrews Studies in Reformation History (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1997), 2–18; Graeme Murdock, “Eastern Europe,” in The Reformation World, ed. Andrew Pettergree (London: Routledge, 2006), 190–209. Janusz Małłek, “The Reformation in Poland and Prussia in the Sixteenth Century: Similarities and Differences,” in The Reformation in Eastern and Central Europe, ed. Karin Maag (N.p.: Routledge, 2016), 182–91; Graeme Schramm, “Danzig, Elbing und Thorn als Beispiele Städtischer Reformation (1517–1558),” in Historia Integra: Festschrift für Erich Hassinger zum 70. Geburtstag, ed. Erich Hassinger, Hans Fenske, Wolfgang Reinhard, and Ernst Schulin (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 1977), 219–35. Jolanta Dworzaczkowa, “O genezie i skutkach rewolty gdańskiej 1525/26 roku” [On the Reasons for and Consequences of the Gdańsk Revolt in 1525/26], Roczniki Historyczne 28 (1962): 97–109; Udo Arnold, “Luther und Danzig,” Zeitschrift für Ostforschung 21 (1972): 94–121; Maria Bogucka, “Die Wirkungen der Reformation in Danzig,” Zeitschrift für Ostforschung 42 (1993): 195– 206. On Sigismund I’s policy toward the socioreligious rioting in Gdańsk, see Zygmunt Wojciechowski, Zygmunt Stary (1506–1548) (Warsaw: Państwowy Instytut Wydawniczy, 1946), 179–83. For a comprehensive study of socioreligious developments in Royal and Ducal Prussia, see Janusz Małłek, Dwie części Prus: Studia z dziejów Prus Książęcych i Prus Królewskich w XVI i XVII wieku [Two Parts of Prussia: Studies on the History of Ducal and Royal Prussia in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries] (Olsztyn: Wydawnictwo Pojezierze, 1987). Jolanta Dworzaczkowa, Bracia czescy w Wielkopolsce w XVI-XVII wieku [The Czech Brethren in Great Poland] (Warsaw: Wydawn, 1997), 18–38. Peter J. Klassen, A Homeland for Strangers: An Introduction to Mennonites in Poland and Prussia (Fresno: Center for Mennonite Brethren Studies, 1989). Tazbir, State without Stakes, 55; Kłoczowski, History of Polish Christianity, 103–4. See my recent overview of this problem: “The Religious Policy of Sigismund I and Sigismund II Augustus in the Reformation Period,” Acta Historica Universitatis Klaipedensis 29 (2014): 53–74. Pawel Kras, “Religious Tolerance in the Jagiellonian Policy in the Age of the Reformation (Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth),” in Die Jagiellonen, ed. Langer and Popp, 131–8; see also the remarks by Maria Bogucka, “Renesansowy władca a religia: Kilka refleksji na temat pobożności ostatnich Jagiellonów” [A Renaissance Monarch and Religion: Some Reflections on the Piety of the Last Jagiellons], in Ecclesia, cultura, potestas: Studia z dziejów kultury i społeczeństwa ofiarowane Siostrze Profesor Urszuli Borkowskiej, ed. Pawel Kras (Kraków: Societas Vistulana, 2006), 501–11.

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41 The question of Sigismund I’s piety has been examined by Urszula Borkowska, “Życie religijne polskich Jagiellonów: Zarys problematyki” [Religious Life of Polish Jagiellonians: An Outline of the Problem], in Chrzest Litwy: Geneza, przebieg, konsekwencje, ed. Marek T. Zahajkiewicz (Lublin: Redakcja Wydawnictw KUL, 1990), 149–80; see also Bogucka, “Renesansowy władca a religia,” 501–11. 42 Marcin Kromer, Mowa na pogrzebie Zygmunta I [The Speech Delivered at the Funeral of Sigismund I], ed. and trans. Jerzy Starnawski (Olsztyn: Wydawnictwo Pojezierze, 1982), 153. 43 Bogucka, “Renesansowy władca a religia,” 504–7. 44 Wojciechowski, Zygmunt Stary, 14–17. 45 Urszula Borkowska, “Humanism at the Court of the Jagiellons,” in Christianity in East Central Europe: Late Middle Ages, vol. 2, ed. Jerzy Kłoczowski, Pawel Kras, and Wojciech Polak (Lublin: Instytut Europy Środkowo-Wschodniej, 1999), 147–56, esp. 149–53. 46 Jobert, De Luther à Mohila, 22; Kras, “Religious Tolerance,” 132–3. 47 Jobert, De Luther à Mohila, 18; Kriegseisen, Stosunki wyznaniowe, 444. 48 Corpus iuris Polonici, ed. Oswald M. Balzer (Kraków: Akademia Umiejętności, 1900), vol. 3/234, pp. 579–80; no. 237, p. 584; for a recent analysis of these laws see Kriegseisen, Stosunki wyznaniowe, 440–4. 49 Corpus iuris Polonici, ed. Oswald Balzer (Kraków: Academia Litterarum, 1910), vol. 4/27, pp. 103–5. 50 Wojciechowski, Zygmunt Stary, 178. 51 Andrzej Wyczański, Zygmunt Stary (Warsaw: Zamek Królewski, 1985), 28–9. 52 Wojciechowski, Zygmunt Stary, 161–5. 53 Acta Tomiciana: tomus septimus decimus epistolarum, legationum, responsorum, actionum et rerum gestarum: Serenissimi Principis Sigismundi Primi Regis Poloniae et Magni Ducis Lithuaniae, ed. Stanisław Górski (Kórnik: Fundacja Działyńskich, 1857), 251–2. 54 Schramm, Polnische Adel, 232–51. 55 Anna Sucheni-Grabowska, Zygmunt August: Król polski i wielki książę litewski 1520–1562 [Sigismund Augustus: King of Poland and the Grand Duke of Lithuania, 1520–1562] (Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Krupski i S-ka, 1996), 150–62. 56 Tazbir, State without Stakes, 44; Kriegseisen, Stosunki wyznaniowe, 448–9. 57 Kazimierz Hartleb, Biblioteka Zygmunta Augusta [The Library of Sigismund Augustus] (Lwów: Tow. Miłośników Książki we Lwowie, 1928), 81–6; Alodia Kawecka-Gryczowa, Biblioteka ostatniego Jagiellona [The Library of the Last Jagiellon] (Wrocław: Zakład Narodowy im. Ossolińskich, 1988), 33, 58, 62–7. 58 Sigismundus Augustus Samueli Maciejowski (May 24, 1547) in Stanislai Hosii S.R.E. Cardinalis Episcopi Varmiensis Epistolae, vol. 1 (Kraków: Akademia Umiejętności w Krakowie 1889), 429–30; see also Marek Ferenc, Dwór Zygmunta Augusta: Organizacja i ludzie [The Court of Sigismund Augustus: Organization and People] (Kraków: Towarzystwo Wydawnicze Historia Iagellonica, 1998), 85–9. 59 Sucheni-Grabowska, Zygmunt August, 318. 60 Dyaryusze sejmów koronnych 1548, 1553 i 1570 [Diaries of the Seyms of the Polish Kingdom in 1548, 1553 and 1570], ed. Josef Szujski (Kraków: Akademia Umiejętności, 1872), 102. 61 Relacye nuncyuszów apostolskich i innych osób o Polsce od roku 1548 do 1690 [The Reports of the Papal Nuncios and Other Individuals about Poland from 1548 to 1690], ed. E. Rykaczewski (Berlin: Berlin Behr, 1864), 1:88. 62 Jan Dymitr Solikowski, In funere Sigismundi Augusti . . . oratio (Kraków: Scharfenberger, 1574). The same passage was quoted a century later by the Protestant writer Andrzej Lubieniecki, Poloneutychia, ed. Alina Linde et al. (Warsaw: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1982), 50.

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63 Sucheni-Grabowska, Zygmunt August, 318. 64 Janusz Tazbir, “Proces Doroty Łazęckiej” [Trial of Dorota Łazęcka], in Szlaki kultury staropolskiej (Warsaw: Państwowy Instytut Wydawniczy, 1986), 174– 85; see also Hanna Węgrzynek, “Czarna legenda” Żydów: Procesy o rzekome mordy rytualne w dawnej Polsce [“Black Legend” of Jews: Trials for Alleged Ritual Murders in Old Poland] (Warsaw: Wydawn, 1995), 44–5. 65 Sucheni-Grabowska, Zygmunt August, 308. 66 Relacye nuncyuszów, 1:88. 67 For further information, see the detailed study by Henryk D. Wojtyska on the political activity of papal nuncios in Poland from 1548–1563 (Papiestwo-Polska 1548–1563: Dyplomacja [Lublin: Redakcja Wydawnictw KUL, 1977], 35–53). 68 Sucheni-Grabowska, Zygmunt August, 303–14. 69 Brückner, Róznowiercy polscy, 73–9; for a recent overview of the problem and additional bibliography, see Kriegseisen, Stosunki wyznaniowe, 464–7. 70 Schramm, Polnische Adel, 64–8. 71 Tazbir, State without Stakes, 61–2; Sucheni-Grabowska, Zygmunt August, 304–9. 72 Kriegseisen, Stosunki wyznaniowe, 461; see also Sucheni-Grabowska, Zygmunt August, 308–13. 73 Tazbir, State without Stakes, 64. 74 Kriegseisen, Stosunki wyznaniowe, 477–9. 75 Tazbir, State without Stakes, 64–9; Kriegseisen, Stosunki wyznaniowe, 469–70. 76 Sucheni-Grabowska, Zygmunt August, 311–12. 77 Wojtyska, Papiestwo-Polska, 65–104. 78 Acta nuntiaturae Polonae, ed. Henryk D. Wojtyska, vol. 4/1: Aloisius Lippomano (1555–1557) (Rome: Institutum Historicum Polonicum Romae, 1993), no. 76, pp. 137–8. 79 Diariusz sejmu walnego warszawskiego z roku 1556/7 [Diary of the General Seym of Warsaw from 1556/7], ed. Stanisław Bodniak (Kórnik: Nakł. Biblioteki Kórnickiej, 1939), 138–40; see comments by Kriegseisen, Stosunki wyznaniowe, 473–5. 80 Relacye nuncyuszów, 1:68. 81 Tazbir, State without Stakes, 80–1; Kriegseisen, Stosunki wyznaniowe, 482–4. 82 Kosman, Protestanci, 62, 77. 83 Ibid., 62–3. 84 “Constitutiones Synodi Piotrcoviensis 1551 A.,” in Andrzeja na Więcborku Zebrzydowskiego biskupa włocławskiego i krakowskiego korespondencyja z lat 1546–1553, ed. Władysław Wisłocki (Kraków: W drukarni Władysława L. Anczyca i Spółki, 1878), 513–23. 85 Kriegseisen, Stosunki wyznaniowe, 462–3. 86 Andrzej S. Kamiński, Historia Rzeczypospolitej Wielu Narodów 1505–1795: Obywatele, ich państwa, społeczeństwo i kultura [History of the Commonwealth of Many Nations, 1505–1795: Citizens, Their States, Society, Culture] (Lublin: Instytut Europy Środkowo-Wschodniej, 2000), 9–19; idem, “The ‘Szlachta’ of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and Their Government,” in The Nobility in Russia and Eastern Europe, ed. Ivo Banac and Paul Bushkovitch (New Haven: Yale Concilium on International and Area Studies, 1983), 14–45; idem, “Espace civique dans l’histoire de la Res Publica de Plusieurs Nations,” in L’héritage historique de la Res Publica de plusieurs nations, ed. Jerzy Kłoczowski (Lublin: Towarzystwo Instytutu Europy Środkowo-Wschodniej, 2004), 38–49. 87 Marceli Kosman, “The Programme of the Reformation in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and How It Was Carried Through (ca. 1550–ca. 1650),” Acta Poloniae Historica 35 (1977): 21–50; Antanas Musteikis, The Reformation in Lithuania:

Religious tolerance in Poland

88 89 90

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92 93

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Religious Fluctuations in the Sixteenth Century, East European Monographs 246 (New York: Boulder, 1988). R. J. W. Evans, “Calvinism in East Central Europe: Hungary and Her Neighbours, 1500–1700,” in International Calvinism, 1541–1715, ed. Menna Prestwich (Oxford: Clarendon, 1986), 173–5; Palmitessa, The Reformation, 194–5. Tazbir, State without Stakes, 62. Henryk Barycz, “Proces Konrada Krupki Przecławskiego o wiarę w r. 1551” [The Trial of Konrad Krupka Przecławski in 1551], in Z epoki renesansu, reformacji i baroku: Prądy, idee, ludzie, książki (Warsaw: Państwowy Instytut Wydawniczy, 1971), 285–96. Korolko, Klejnot swobodnego sumienia, 14–35; Mieczysław Korolko and Janusz Tazbir, Konfederacja Warszawska 1573 roku, wielka karta polskiej tolerancji (Warsaw: PAX, 1980); Jerzy Kłoczowski, “La ‘Conféderation’ de Varsovie,” in L’acceptation de l’autre: de l’édit de Nantes à nous jours, ed. Jean Delumeau (Paris: Fayard, 2000), 63–71; idem, “La ‘Conféderation’ de Varsovie,” in L’héritage historique de la Res Publica de Plusiers Nations, ed. Jerzy Kłoczowski, François Bédarida, et al. (Lublin: Towarzystwo Instytutu Europy Środkowo-Wschodniej, 2004), 50–5. For an overview of this problem, see Stanisław Grzybowski, “The Warsaw Confederation of 1573 and Other Acts of Religious Tolerance in Europe,” Acta Poloniae Historica 40 (1979): 75–96. H. Wisner, “Kalwiniści litewscy i Rzeczpospolita I połowy wieku XVII” [Lithuanian Calvinists and the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth in the First Half of the Seventeenth Century], in Unia lubelska i tradycje integracyjne w Europie Środkowo-Wschodniej, ed. Jerzy Kłoczowski and Pawel Kras (Lublin: Instytut Europy Środkowo-Wschodniej, 1999), 99. Tazbir, Szlakami kultury, 164–73.

Epilogue Theology of forgiveness and peace: Christian culture of peace in the Roman Catholic Church after Vatican II Bernard Ardura The book that grew out of CIHEC’s initiative to organize an international conference on “Religion and Peace in the Monotheistic Religions” comes at an opportune time in this first quarter of the twenty-first century, so deeply marked by violence and war against the backdrop of religious fundamentalism. Those who espouse the opposite ideological perspective have leveled much uninformed and unfair criticism at Christianity, Judaism, and Islam, claiming that there is a link between faith in a single God and manifestations of intolerance, and have endeavored to depict all the faithful of such religions as extremists. History certainly offers us an opportunity to consider the relations between religion and peace with the distance necessary for serious, objective discussion. The historical perspective of the Roman Catholic Church is distinguished by what John Henry Newman has referred to as “doctrinal development” – namely, the fact that it unfolds in the historical dimension and progressively formulates the contents of its beliefs.1 In other words, whereas the revelation ended once and for all with the death of the last of the apostles, awareness and expression of its contents develop over time. In this short chapter, I would like to review the relationship between religion and peace in the context of the Roman Catholic Church in the previous century, more specifically, after the Second Vatican Ecumenical Council convened by Pope John XXIII in 1962.

Peace as a challenge to war This is a teaching especially imparted by the popes, although it also reflects the action of socially engaged Christian laypeople. It is a teaching sometimes taught even in the midst of war, a teaching often not welcomed, or even rejected, in the thrall of violence. This was the case for Pope Benedict XV, who spoke out innumerable times to come to the rescue of soldiers and civilians involved in battles during the First World War. On August 1, 1917, he addressed a letter to the heads of the warring nations in which he begged them to cease fighting and build peace. This appeal was unanimously rejected, in spite of the pontiff’s entreaty to put an end to “useless

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massacre.” Benedict XV’s initiative was misunderstood. Léon Bloy referred to him as “Pilate XV,” and Clémenceau called him “le pape boche”; in the other camp, Ludendorff dubbed him “the French pope.” Pius XII experienced an identical failure on the eve of the Second World War. In a radio address to the world on March 3, 1939, he attempted to ward off the danger of a new conflict and invited all to make peace in the following words: We invite you all to peace of conscience [. . .]; peace within the family [. . .]; peace among Nations through fraternal and mutual assistance; peace and finally, harmony which must be restored among Nations, in order for different peoples to accomplish happiness for the whole of the human family. [. . .] We have before our eyes the vision of the immense scourges afflicting humanity. [. . .] With Saint Paul, we cry out to all, “Listen to us!” In this hope, we trust that you shall not make vain our longing for peace.3 In a bid to keep Italy neutral, Pius XII received the king of Italy on August 24, 1939, to whom he declared, “Nothing is lost with peace, everything may be lost with war.” He used also this expression, on the same day, in a radio message aimed at preventing the outbreak of war. Once war was declared between Germany and the Allies, Pius XII turned to the king and to foreign minister Galeazzo Ciano, whom he thought less warmongering than Mussolini, in hopes of preventing Italy from entering the conflict. However, the defense of peace and the security of civil populations sometimes prevent one from acting openly, as Pius XII himself explained in 1940, in a letter to the bishop of Berlin: We must decide to what extent the risk of retaliation and pressure [. . .] advises reserve on our part to avoid greater evils, though there would be valid reasons warranting an intervention. This is one of the reasons why we have imposed some self-restraint on our statements.4 An incident that occurred in the Netherlands, however, tipped the balance regarding Pius XII’s decision not to openly condemn the terrible persecution of the Jews. In fact, when, on July 26, 1942, the Dutch Catholic bishops denounced the harsh persecution of their Jewish compatriots, the Nazis responded by escalating the deportation of Jews, even Jewish converts to Christianity. After this incident, Pope Pius burned the notes of a solemn pronouncement against Nazism on which he was working. Later, in June 1943, speaking to the College of Cardinals, he told the cardinals of the sense of helplessness “in front of doors that no key was able to open” and the fear that his every move would ultimately “make, even unwittingly, the situation of suffering more severe and unbearable.” However, at the same time, Pius XII gave strict instructions to encourage the silent action and subterfuges

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of those – convents, parishes, nunciatures, charities, religious orders, the Vatican itself – who were in those years trying in every way possible to save the victims marked for extermination.5 Once peace was restored, a group of Christian laypeople joined forces in order to ensure that Europe would enjoy a peaceful future based on reconciliation, cooperation, and sharing of raw materials and resources for heavy industry, notably coal and iron, as well as the metalworking industry in the Ruhr and in the Lorraine. The peace endeavor started by Robert Schuman, in collaboration with Jean Monnet and with the support of Konrad Adenauer and subsequently Alcide De Gasperi, has assured lasting peace for over 60 years, thanks to the initiative of these statesmen, who were permeated by Gospel principles. These men were, at the same time pragmatic and farsighted, realistic and spiritual. Robert Schuman, who was deeply religious, worked closely with Jean Monnet, who established the concrete elements of the Union Project. For the fathers of United Europe it was an absolute necessity to bring a defeated Germany back into the family of free nations to face the Soviet Union. For them, to build a new Europe meant above all to implement a spiritual project of brotherhood. Beyond the two economic and political axes of the May 10, 1950, declaration, the deep intuition of this document is in fact rooted in a spiritual dimension, because “Europe is not a natural unity, like Australia and Africa; it is the result of a long process of historical evolution and spiritual development.”6 For Robert Schuman the authentic European spirit involves . . . becoming conscious of the new realities, their possibilities and obligations. These enable us to see beyond our borders to our fellowship with others, beyond former hatred and jealousy . . . Interests are interdependent. It is true they cannot really find fulfilment except in the pooling of all necessary resources. It is necessary that everyone is totally convinced of that. We need each other for this task and this applies without distinction of any rank or power that we possess. We must face up to the bitter truth: our own means can no longer supply the shopping basket of our needs. We have no right to hide this fact from ourselves. There is no humiliation in recognizing it. We live in a changed world. If we refuse to fit in with this reality it will only signal our own dangerous egotism.7

Vatican II: a turning point However, the development of a culture of peace in the free world should not make us forget the tensions with the communist bloc, which ultimately led to the Cuban crisis of 1962. It was at that time that Pope John XXIII, a few weeks before his death, published his last and most famous encyclical, “Pacem in terris,” between the first and second sessions of the ecumenical

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Council Vatican II. Addressed not only to Catholics but also “to all men of good will,” the encyclical reminded them that human society must primarily be considered something pertaining to the spiritual. Through it, in the bright light of truth men should share their knowledge, be able to exercise their rights and fulfill their obligations; be inspired to seek spiritual values, mutually derive genuine pleasure from the beautiful of whatever order it be, always be readily disposed to pass on to others the best of their own cultural heritage and eagerly strive to make their own the spiritual achievements of others.8 When in 1965 Pope Paul VI appeared for the first time before the United Nations General Assembly, he did not hesitate to forcefully assert: Never one against the other, never, never again. Was not this the very end for which the United Nations came into existence: to be against war and for peace? . . . It is enough to recall that the blood of millions, countless unheard-of sufferings, useless massacres and frightening ruins have sanctioned the agreement that unites you with an oath that ought to change the future history of the world: never again war, never again war! It is peace, peace, that has to guide the destiny of the nations of all mankind!9 Paul VI’s address on peace, pronounced in the year in which Vatican II was concluded, takes into account the church’s conception of peace. More specifically, it takes up two fundamental human elements, namely culture and spirit. By culture, Paul VI means the particular way in which persons and peoples cultivate their relationship with nature and their brothers and sisters, with themselves and with God, so as to attain a fully human existence.10 Culture only exists through humankind, by humankind, and for humankind. It is the whole of human activity, human intelligence and emotions, the human quest for meaning, human customs, and ethics.11 The human spirit includes our intellect, emotions, fears, passions, and creativity. Through their spirit, human beings are naturally open to the invisible, to the realities that are not reducible to the material world. Paul VI moves in the direction of the Pastoral Constitution “Gaudium et spes” of the Council, to which the archbishop of Kraków, who would later become Pope John Paul II, had made a significant contribution in anthropological terms. Thus the Council states: Man comes to a true and full humanity only through culture, that is through the cultivation of the goods and values of nature. Wherever human life is involved, therefore, nature and culture are quite intimately connected one with the other.12

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One thing is certain: truces, armistice agreements, and peace treaties have no future if human beings do not develop a genuine culture of peace that takes into account all the dimensions of the person and his or her relationship with others and with the world.

A renewed vision of the person and of otherness The quest for peace calls for recognition of the legitimate diversity of cultures, to the extent to which they express and respect human dignity. Whereas the spontaneous reaction to one who is different is often mistrust or hostility, the Council invites us to understand that humans may develop holistically and harmoniously only within the context of culture. From this perspective, discovering a culture different from one’s own may become an enriching experience. The historical turning point begins with this statement concerning the value and dignity of the person, which has significant consequences. We can thus accept that we are challenged, but not alienated, by the otherness of those who are different. In recentering all of humankind around the person of Christ, the Council offered an invitation to recognize the sacred not in things, places, objects, or ideas, but in the Son of God. God is the sacred being par excellence, for he desacralizes idols. In Christian theology, the eternal being enters time and gives it an eternal thrust. When God’s grace penetrates human hearts and faculties, it restores freedom to them and delivers them from their inner chains. The basis of the Christian theology of forgiveness and peace is the certitude that God, whose otherness is perfect, wanted to establish an alliance with humans. This is why God cannot be alienated from humans; this is why those who are different, those whom we do not understand now, those who have perhaps been hostile to us, cannot be enemies forever. In going back to dialogue, a theme greatly emphasized by the Council, in the sense of dialogue with brothers in faith, dialogue with separated Christians, dialogue with non-Christian believers, and dialogue with nonbelievers, Pope Paul VI makes of “Ecclesiam suam,” his first encyclical, a charter of forgiveness and peace. From this perspective, difference cannot continue to be the motivation for separation. Instead, it must become the driving force behind a deep sense of solidarity. As noted, with the Second Vatican Council the Christian theology of forgiveness and peace has known a veritable renewal, a true refoundation. Vatican II presents the mystery of the church in the mystery of Christ, the expiatory victim of humans enslaved in violence, sin, and death, who seals an eternal covenant of love, bringing about forgiveness and reconciliation. In seeking to throw open the windows of the church through the Second Vatican Council, John XXIII inaugurated a new vision and a new language to explain the Christian relationship with others, namely those who are different. It is the language of Christ, which is capable of breaking the

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vicious circle of violence and death and of establishing a civilization of love, enabling humans to love those who are different but are fundamentally brothers and sisters. When Peter asks Jesus how many times he should forgive his brother or sister who sins against him, Jesus answers, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times,” in other words, countless times. Forgiveness is a corollary of, and condition for, peace, and when it is offered without ulterior motives, permanently, it is like intensive therapy that heals all of the body’s ailing parts and prepares for the reconciliation of brothers. Fifty years after the conclusion of the Second Vatican Council, the world has changed: older issues are still present, but are perhaps even more acute. One may rightly wonder whether these beautiful theories still have something to say or even to propose when confronted with the terrible challenges of war, violence, terrorism, and innumerable refugees. Although violence invades everyday life, and terrorism sows fear and anxiety, we are convinced that it is not the clash of cultures or the culture of conflict that can build coexistence among peoples and nations, but the culture of encounter, the culture of dialogue; this is the only road to peace. On Sunday, July 31, 2016, Pope Francis told a crowd of young people who gathered in Kraków: People may judge you to be dreamers, because you believe in a new humanity, one that rejects hatred between peoples, one that refuses to see borders as barriers and can cherish its own traditions without being self-centred or small-minded. Don’t be discouraged: with a smile and open arms, you proclaim hope and you are a blessing for our one human family, which here you represent so beautifully!13

A Christian culture of peace During his 27-year pontificate, on the strength of this anthropological conception of culture and of a theology of forgiveness and reconciliation, Pope John Paul II never ceased speaking out against all the conflicts and violence that ravaged the end of the last century and the early years of the twentyfirst century. This conception of the person, which takes into account culture and its relationship to grace, postulates a conception of peace integrating plurality and diversity. There is thus a typically Christian conception of peace which is not confined to the albeit necessary peace treaties or demands of a happy social life, but is rooted in the Gospels. This Christian culture of peace is rooted in biblical culture, according to which there can be no real peace without fairness and truth, justice and solidarity (see Isa. 11:4–5). Indeed, opus iustitiae pax, peace is the work of justice. In the Christian perspective and according to Saint Augustine, peace calls for harmony, which engenders inner peace. Instead, the peace achieved through war or violence is always fragile and precarious, as dramatically illustrated by the tragic aftermath of the First World War. Christian exegesis has always interpreted the event associated with Pentecost as the

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overturning of Babel. Through the gift of the Spirit, language differences are no longer an obstacle or a source of division, but a sign of intense renewed communion between human beings. The Spirit of God puts an end to the dispersion that shattered human fraternity at the foot of the Tower of Babel, a symbol of pride and of the will to prevail. The author of the Acts of the Apostles evokes the surprise and joy of the Mediterranean peoples gathered in Jerusalem: And how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language? Parthians, Medes, Elamites, and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene, and visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, Cretans and Arabs – in their own languages we hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power. (NRSV; Acts 2:8–11)

The need for peace Over the past century, from Pius X to Pope Francis, the moral and social teaching of the Catholic Church has not ceased to develop the theme of peace, in close connection with the person of Christ, the “Prince of Peace.” It is in this general context that we must understand Pope John Paul II’s many interventions, especially during the war in Bosnia and the wars that have caused such great bloodshed in Iraq. The pope’s goal was to avert the risk of violence, whose consequences are incalculable, and the always adverse repercussions that are likely to affect entire generations. Thus the quest for peace involves a certain heroism, as the builders of peace risk being misunderstood. In an address delivered on the occasion of the fiftieth anniversary of the end of the Second World War, John Paul II stated: The culture of peace is built by rejecting at the outset every sort of racism and intolerance, by withstanding racist propaganda, by keeping economic and political ambition within due limits and by decisively rejecting violence and all forms of exploitation.14 One of the most recent fruits of the Second Vatican Council was the Compendium of the Social Doctrine of the Church, which devotes an entire section to the issue of peace. The Compendium testifies to a significant change in the way the church relates to other religions: Moved solely by this faith, the Church intends to promote the unity of Christians and a fruitful cooperation with believers of other religions. Differences of religion must not be a cause of conflict; the shared quest for peace on the part of all believers is a vital source of unity among peoples.15

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Returning to the aforementioned biblical tradition, the Compendium states, “The Church teaches that true peace is made possible only through forgiveness and reconciliation,”16 while maintaining the link between peace, forgiveness and reconciliation, justice and truth. “Mutual forgiveness must not eliminate the need for justice and still less does it block the path that leads to truth. On the contrary, justice and truth represent the concrete requisites for reconciliation.”17 Since the Middle Ages and up to the present, some basic principles have remained in effect and continue to bear fruit in the field of the culture of peace. First of all, the concept of true or good peace is based on the combination of iustitia et pax, because true peace cannot exist outside of justice. Therefore, just peace is a concrete element of the bonum commune – the common good, and brings with it securitas – security; tranquillitas – tranquility; and unitas – unity. The concrete experience of war has contributed to the continuing development of the theory of just war – bellum iustum – in order to limit armed conflicts and their consequences. Scholars of war in the ancient and medieval worlds agree that the conversion of the Carolingian leaders to Christianity, even though they were still influenced by their former customs, meant that “the war between Christians may have lost a little of the harshness and bestial savagery which it possessed in the Merovingian era” and that “it was ‘divine mercy’ which had interrupted the carnage and pillage as well as inspiring pious conduct with regard to the dead and wounded and the pardon accorded to the fugitives.”18 Around the eleventh century, in southern France, a movement for peace emerged. Promoted by various ecclesiastical authorities, it aimed to reduce the chronic violence that characterized feudal society. From this perspective, we speak of the “Peace of God” and the “Truce of God,” which suspends fighting on several occasions according to the liturgical calendar. After centuries of war and violence, humankind has slowly developed a philosophy, theology, and ethic of peace, which must, however, daily confront violence. The same cultural roots gave birth to human rights. Now, we face a new challenge: the discovery that these values are not universally shared. The culture of peace presupposes education for peace to prevent conflicts and to promote postconflict reconciliation. Therefore, drawing on the sources of our cultures, we are invited to be promoters of peace, starting with the familial and educational environments.

Notes 1 For a discussion of the notion of doctrinal development, see http://newmanreader. org/works/development/. 2 Benedict XV, “Letter to the Heads of the Belligerent Nations,” Acta Apostolicae Sedis 9 (August 1, 1917): 421–3. 3 Pius XII, “Radio Address of His Holiness Pius XII to the Catholic World,” March 3, 1939.

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4 Pius XII, “Letter to the Bishop of Berlin, Msgr Konrad Von Preysing,” 30 April 1943, in Actes et documents du Saint-Siège relatifs à la Seconde guerre mondiale, ed. Pierre Blet, Angelo Martini, and Burkhart Schneider (Vatican City: Libreria editrice vaticana, 1993), 2:318, no. 105. 5 Andrea Tornielli, Pio XII: Un uomo sul trono di Pietro (Milan: Mondadori, 2007). 6 Christopher Dawson, The Making of Europe: An Introduction to the History of European Unity (London: Sheed & Ward, 1948), 1. 7 Robert Schuman, Pour l’Europe (Geneva: Les Éditions Nagel, 2000), 26–7; translation kindly provided by David Heilbron Price of the Robert Schuman Project (website www.schuman.info). 8 John XXIII, Encyclical “Pacem in terris,” 11 April 1963, no. 36, www.papalen cyclicals.net/John23/j23pacem.htm. 9 Paul VI, “Address to the United Nations on the Occasion of the 20th Anniversary of the Organization,” October 4, 1965, no. 5, w2.vatican.va/content/paulvi/en/speeches/1965/documents/hf_p-vi_spe_19651004_united-nations.html. 10 “Gaudium et spes,” 53. 11 Cf. Pontifical Council for Culture, Towards a Pastoral Approach to Culture (Washington, DC: United States Catholic Conference, 1999), 2. 12 Second Vatican Council, Pastoral Constitution “Gaudium et spes,” no. 53, www. vatican.va/archive/hist_councils/ii_vatican_council/documents/vat-ii_cons_ 19651207_gaudium-et-spes_en.html. 13 Pope Francis, “Santa Messa a conclusione della XXXI Giornata Mondiale della Gioventù al ‘Campus Misericordiae’ di Kraków, domenica,” July 31, 2016, http:// saltandlighttv.org/blog/world-youth-day/pope-in-poland-homily-during-wydclosing-mass. 14 John Paul II, “Message on the 50th Anniversary of the End of the Second World War in Europe,” 8 May 1995, www.ewtn.com/library/PAPALDOC/JP2WWII. HTM. 15 Pontifical Council for Justice and Peace, Compendium of the Social Doctrine of the Church (Vatican City: Libreria editrice vaticana, 2004), no. 516, www.vatican. va/roman_curia/pontifical_councils/justpeace/documents/rc_pc_justpeace_ doc_20060526_compendio-dott-soc_en.html. 16 Ibid., no. 517. 17 Ibid., no. 518. 18 Philippe Contamine, War in the Middle Ages, trans. Michael Jones (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1984), 265.

Index

Abagha, Ilkhan 108 Abot de Rabbi Nathan 147 Abu Bakr al-Baqillani 88 Acre 77, 91, 107–8, 118 actor-network/hybrid 12–13, 15–22 actor-network-theory 11 Adalbero of Laon 53 Ademar of Chabannes 46, 49, 53 Adhemar de Puy 69–70 agentic-spectrum state 14–15, 16, 18, 21–2 al-Ansari, Abu Yusuf Ya’qub ibn Ibrahim 89 al-Antakî, Yahyâ 31 al-Aqsa 70, 101 al-’Asqalani, Ibn Hajar 92 al-Baladhuri 87 al-Banna, Hasan 93 Albert of Aachen 90–1 Albrecht of Hohenzollern 165, 167 al-Din Ayyub, al-Malik al-Salih Najm 91 Aleppo 30–1 Alexander V, Antipope 134 al-Hakîm bi-Amri’llāh, Fatimid Caliph 31, 106 al-Hanbali, Ibn Qudama see Ibn Qudama al-Isfahani, Imad al-Din 104 al-Kalbi, Dihya 85 al-Kamil, al-Malik 74–5 al-Kasani, Hanafi scholar 99 al-Mu’izz, Fatimid Imam 89–90 al-Muktafi, Caliph 89 al-Nawawi, Shafi‘ite scholar 92, 99 al-Qalqashandi 77, 105 al-Salih Isma’il, al-Malik 91 al-Shaykh, Fakhr al-Din ibn 91–2 al-Sulami, ‘Ali ibn Tahir 69 al-Tabari 85

alterable status within a process of development, violence as 10 al-Urmawi, Siraj al-Din 91 al-Walid, Khalid ibn 87 amān 86–7, 89, 99, 104–5 Amaury I, Latin King of Jerusalem 28 Anabaptists 165 Anselm of Ribemont 70 Antichrist 67, 70 Antioch 69, 70, 73; Antioch-Tripoli 104, 106, 108–9 apocalyptic expectations in peace of God movement 48–53; aftermath of 53–8 Arbroath, Declaration of 123 Armenians 18, 106, 162 Art of War 13 Augsburg treaty 176 Augustine 2, 48, 115, 189 Avignon period 122–3, 129, 131–6, 138–40 Ayn Jalut, battle of 106 Azikri, Eleazar 153–4 Azulai, Chaim David 154 Babylonian Captivity 129 Baghdad 31 Baha al-Din see Ibn Shaddad Bardas Phokas, 33 basileus 25–6, 30, 34, 84 Basil the Second 88 Baybars 77, 91, 105–8 Benedict XIII, Antipope 131, 136, 139 Benedict XV, Pope 184 Ben Zakkai, Yohanan 146, 154–5 Bernard d’Armagnac, Duke 137–8 Bernard of Clairvaux 58 Bertha, Queen of Tuscany 89 berurim 148–9

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Birgitta of Sweden 129–35, 137 black-boxing 12, 15, 17, 18, 20, 21, 22 blind spot 11–12, 15, 20, 21, 22 Bloy, Léon 185 Bohemond VI 108 Bongiovanni, Berardo 169, 170 Boniface VIII, Pope 119–20 Boniface IX, Pope 134 Bonomel, Ricaut 106 Book of Ceremonies 26 Book of Five Rings, The 14 Book of Messengers of Kings 29 Boris, Khan of Bulgaria 26 Briesemann, Johann 165 Brigittine Order 133 Bruce, David 122 Bruce, Robert 122 Brückner, Aleksander 160 bullying 8, 10 Byzantine Empire, the 3, 33–4; introduction to 25–6; role of Christianity in diplomatic activity and official peace agreements of 26–9; role of pragmatic (nonreligious) factors in peacemaking in 29–33 Cairo 103, 106, 108 caliph 31, 74, 79, 86–7, 89–92; see also ‘Umar; Abu Bakr; al-Muktafi; al-Hakîm caliphate, Muslim memory of the emergence of the 84–8 captives 2, 75 Carolingians 45–6, 48 Casimir IV 166 Casimir the Great 161, 162, 174 catalysts 16–20 Catherine of Siena 129–31, 134, 136, 137, 138, 140 Catholic Church 5–6, 184; culture of peace after Vatican II 184–91; in pre-Reformation Poland 163–4; see also Christians; papal policy, 1198–1334 Celestine III, Pope 117 Chalfan, Chaim 150, 151 Charles IV, Emperor 130 Charles V, Emperor 167 Charles VI, King of France 136, 137–8 Charles of Anjou, King of Sicily and Jerusalem 107–8 Cheynet, Jean-Claude 33–4

Christians: concept of peace of 1–2; culture of peace in the Roman Catholic Church after Vatican II 184–91; exclusivism 30; influence of women on 5, 129–40; meeting the Other on the battlefield 69–72; Muslim dilemma of treaty-making with, in the medieval Levant 98–110; Muslim hudna and 88–92; negotiating peace with the Other 72–9; One-and-Only-Principle and 18–19; papal policy, 1198–1334, and 115–23; peace agreements with Muslims 4–5, 67–79; Reformation spread in Poland 164–5; renewed vision of the person and of otherness 188–9; role in diplomatic activity and official peace agreements in the Byzantine Empire 26–9; secular 3; see also Byzantine Empire; Catholic Church Chrysostom, John 49, 53–4 Church of Hagia Sophia 34 Church of the Holy Apostles (Constantinople) 28 Church of the Holy Sepulcher 28–9, 31 Ciano, Galeazzo 185 Clement V, Pope 120–1 Clement VI, Pope 132 Clement VII, Antipope 129, 131, 136, 139 Clito, William 57 Cluny 58 cognitive dissonance 54–5, 57 Cohn, Norman 48 coloring/colorizing effect 13–14 commoners 45–8, 53, 55, 58 common good 84, 92–3, 101–4 communes 44, 47, 55–6, 58 Compendium of the Social Doctrine of the Church 190 complexity-reduction 11, 15, 17 conciliar movement period 131, 139–40 Conradin 107 Constance de Rabastens 129, 130, 137–8 Constantine VII, Byzantine Emperor 26 Constantinople 26–32, 48, 69, 88 contingency 11, 15, 17, 21 control balance theory 10 Council of Basel 140 Council of Constance 134–5

Index crusade 3–6, 19, 32, 44, 67, 69, 92, 107–8, 116–21, 123, 133–4, 136, 140; First Crusade 54, 72, 90, 146; Third Crusade 32, 98, 100, 107, 117; Fourth Crusade 25; Fifth Crusade 74–5, 117 crusaders 6, 67, 69–72, 74–5, 90–1, 98–9, 102–10, 119 cuius regio eius religio 3, 172, 176 Czech Brethren 165 Damietta 75 Dar al-ḥarb (Abode of War) 2, 89, 99 Dar al-Islam (Abode of Islam) 89, 93, 99 demotic religiosity 56, 58 De negotio Pruthenico 167–8 Dhondt, Jan 47–8 Dorylaeum, battle of 70 Dubois, Pierre 121 Dziaduski, Jan (Ignatius), Bishop of Przemyśl 170 Dzierzgowski, Nicholas 173 Edahan, Joseph Nissim ibn 154–5 Edward I of England 107–8, 119–20 Edward II of England 120–1, 122 Edward III of England 121, 123 Eliezer of Passau 151 Eliezer of Worms 148 Eliyah of Prague 151 Elizabeth of Schönau 130 emotional blackmail 8 Eracles, Estoire de 67–8 Erasmus of Rotterdam 166 Erdmann, Carl 44 eschatological genealogy of the peace of God movement 48–53 Eugenius IV, Pope 139–40 explanatory-theoretical approaches to violence 9–10 fascination, violence as 10 Fatimids 32, 69 female Other 71–2 Ferber, Eberhard, Mayor of Gdansk 164 Ferber, Mauritius 165 fight-or-flight-reaction 14 fiqh al-jihād 4, 98–100, 104–5, 108–9; see also jihad First World War 184, 189 Fourth Lateran Council 118

195

Francesca Romana (d’Ponziani) 131, 139–40 Francis, Pope 189, 190 Franks 69–78, 84, 91, 98, 104–5, 109–10 Frederick II 107 Galtung, John 8–9 Garson, Joseph 152–3 Gasperi, Alcide de 186 Gaston Fébus, Count of Foix 137 Gerald, Bishop of Cambrai and Arras 51–2, 53 Gerondi, Jonah 148–9 Gerson, Jean 129, 134–5, 137 Gesta Francorum 70, 71, 73 Giovanni Mattiotti 139 Glaber, Rodulfus 50–1, 52, 54, 56, 57–8 Great Encyclopedia of the French Enlightenment 159 Great Schism 129, 131, 136–9 Greater Poland 164, 165 Greenfield, William 120 Gregory XI, Pope 129, 132–6 Gregory of Tours 2 Gregory the Great, Pope 140 Guibert of Nogent 18, 58, 67 Guy of Ibelin, Count of Jaffa 106 Harold 73–4 Henry, Count of Champagne 102 Henry of Valois, King of Poland 176 Henry VI, King 104 Heraclius, Emperor 28, 30, 85 heresy 116 Hildegard of Bingen 130 Hirschensohn, Chaim 146 Hobbes, Thomas 54 holistic approach to violence 11–15 holy war 3, 4, 90, 101, 115, 118 Horns of Hattin, battle of 71, 117 Horowitz, Pinḥas Elijah 154 Hospitallers 77, 106, 108 Ḥudaybiyya truce 85 hudna 84, 88–92 Hugh III of Cyprus (Hugh I of Jerusalem) 106–7 Hundred Years War 116, 137 Hussites 162 Ibn Abd al-Zahir 106–7 Ibn al-Athir 69

196

Index

Ibn al-Farrâ’ 29 Ibn al-Zubayr 89 Ibn Hajar al-ʿAsqalani 93 Ibn Khaldun 92 Ibn Migash, Isaac 150 Ibn Munqidh, Usama 69 Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya 92–3 Ibn Qudama, Hanbali scholar 88, 99 Ibn Rushd, Maliki scholar (Averroes) 99–100 Ibn Sa’d 85 Ibn Shaddad, Baha al-Din 5, 99–104, 109–10 Ibn Taymiyya 92–3 Ibn Wasil, Muhammad 91–2, 107 idolaters 17, 67, 79 Iggeret ha-teshuvah 149 Innocent III, Pope 79, 116–19 inscription 12, 15, 16, 17 Isaac of Corbeil 148 Isaak II, Byzantine Emperor 31–2 Isabeau of Bavaria, Queen 131 Isabel, Lady of Beirut 106 Isabella of France 121 Islam see Muslims Islamic law 98, 109; see also fiqh al-jihād Israel of Bruna 150–1 Itinerarium Peregrinorum 104 Ivanov, Sergey 33 Jaffa, Treaty of 98, 100–5 Jagiełło, Władysław 161, 162, 163 James of Vitry 118–19 Jan of Koźmin 168 Jerusalem 28, 31, 55, 70, 76, 78, 91, 99, 101–10, 115, 146, 152, 190; truces between Mamluks and kingdom of 105–9 Jesus 2, 78, 115, 129, 130, 135, 189 Jews: call to pursue peace in medieval legal codes of 147–52; concept of peace and 2; First Jewish Revolt 146; intracommunal pursuers of peace 149–52; One-and-Only-Principle and 18–19; peacemaking by 5; in Poland 169; pursuing peace beyond the medieval community of 152–4; pursuit of peace in medieval 146–55; realities during centuries of exile 154–5 jihad 3, 4, 5, 69, 84, 87–8, 90, 92, 98, 99; peace agreements complying with

fiqh 103–6; rules of 99–100, 109; Saladin’s commitment to 101 Jobert, Ambroise 160 John XXII, Pope 116, 122–3 John XXIII, Pope 186–7 John of Ibelin, Count of Jaffa 106 John of Ibelin, Lord of Beirut 106 John Paul II, Pope 190 Joinville, Jean de 75–6 Juliana of Tver, Ruthenian princess 161 Justinian II 30–1 Kaldellis, Anthony 33 Kamiński, Andrew 174 Keller, Hägen 56 Kerbugha of Mosul 73, 90; mother of 71, 73 khuṭba, sermon to Saladin in al-Aqsa 101; to Baybars in Cairo 106 Kitab al-Majalis wal-Musayarat 89 Köhler, Michael A. 74 Köning, Peter 164 Korolko, Mieczysław 160 Kosman, Marceli 160 Koutrakou, Nike 29 Kriegseisen, Wojciech 160, 171 Krzycki, Andrzej 167–8 labeling approach 10 Latour, Bruno 11 Łazecka, Dorota 169 Lecler, Joseph 160 Legenda Maior 130 legitimate/nonsanctioned violence 9 Leon X, Pope 167 Lippomano, Alosio 172 Liudprand of Cremona, Latin envoy to Constantinople 28 Lopez, Robert 56 loss of control 9–10 Louis VII 28 Louis IX, King of France 75–6, 106–7 Luhmann, Niklas 11 Luther, Martin 164, 165 Maimonides 148, 149 Manfred 107 Mamluk 5, 69, 70, 75, 77, 84, 98–9, 109–10, 152; truces with kingdom of Jerusalem 105–9, 152 Margaret of France 119–20 Marie Robine, 129, 131, 136–7, 138, 140

Index Martin V, Pope 134, 139–40 maşlaḥa 84, 92–3, 99–103, 101–4 Matthew Paris, 71 means to an end, violence as 9 Mennonites 165 Mézières, Philippe de 137 Michelet, Jules 52 Mieszko I, Duke 161 Milgram, Stanley 11, 14 Miller, D. A. 30 Miracula sancti Adalardi 52 Mishneh Torah 148 mnemohistory 84, 88 mobbing 8 Mongols 105, 106, 108–9 Monnet, Jean 186 muhadana 84, 88, 91, 92 Musashi, Myamoto 14 Muslims: Byzantine peacemaking and 30–2; concept of peace and 2; dilemma of treaty-making with Christians in the medieval Levant 98–110; hudna 84, 88–92; maṣlaḥa 84, 92–3; meeting the Other on the battlefield 69–72; memory of the emergence of the caliphate 84–8; negotiating peace with the Other 72–9; peace agreements with Christians 4–5, 67–79; peacemaking by 6; rules of war 99–100; self-image 84–8 muwādaʿa 88, 90, 91, 93 Mystikos, Nicholas 34 negotiations, peace 72–9 Nelson, Janet 57 Newman, John Henry 184 Nicole d’Acre 76 Night of St. Bartholomew 175–6 nonhuman actors 12, 13, 15, 16, 17, 19–20 Norbert of Xanten 58 Nu‘man, al-Qadi 90 Nu’man, King ‘Umar b. 89–90 oath 4, 27, 29–30, 44–7, 50–1, 53–4, 56, 67, 72–9, 117, 174, 176, 184 Odo Poilechin 108 Oliver of Paderborn 74–5 One-and-Only-Principle 3, 15–20, 21, 22 “On the Examination of Doctrines” 135

197

Orzechowski, Stanisław 170, 175 Other, the 4, 18, 67–9; met on the battlefield 69–72; negotiating peace with 72–9; renewed vision of the person and 188–9 Otto I 28 papal policy 1198–1334 115–23; Boniface VIII 119–20; Clement V 120–1; Innocent III 116–19; John XXII 116, 122–3 parasite 13–14 Parasite, The 11, 13 Paul IV, Pope 171 Paul VI, Pope 187 Pax Dei 44–5, 47, 55, 56; see also Peace of God Movement peace: as challenge to war 184–6; Christian culture of, after Vatican II 189–90; concept in three monotheistic religions 1–2; as ideal and goal 1; need for 190–1; negotiations with the Other 72–9 Peace of God movement 4, 5; aftermath of apocalyptic millennialism and 53–8; backsliding 54–5; eschatological genealogy of 48–53; introduction to 44–5; peace militia 47–8; sanctified peace assemblies in 45–8; wave of peace assemblies in 1033 50–3 peacemakers 149–52, 157; see also berurim Peace of Westphalia 3 Peretz, Rabbi 151 persecuting society 6 Peter the Hermit 73, 91 Petrine theory 117, 119 Philip of Montfort, Lord of Tyre 106 Philip the Fair 120 Philip II Augustus 117 physical violence 8 Piast dynasty 174 Pillars of Islam 89 Pius X, Pope 190–1 Pius XII, Pope 6, 185 Poland 5–6, 18–19, 159–61; Catholic Church in pre-Reformation 163–4; initial spread of the Reformation in 164–5; local church policy in 173; Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth 159, 165, 173; pre-Reformation 161–3; religious tolerance 158, 160; role of the gentry in 173–6; Sigismund I of

198

Index

160, 164–8; Sigismund II Augustus of 162, 168–72 Polentz, Georg 165 potential world 15, 18, 21, 22 pragmatic (nonreligious) factors in Byzantine peacemaking 29–33 pre-Reformation period in Poland 161–3; Catholic Church in 163–4 prisoners of war 71, 77; see also captives Psellos, Michael 30 psychical violence 8–9 Qalawun 77, 105, 108–9 qadi al-askar, religious magistrate of the army 98, 101 Ralph of Caen 70 Rare and Excellent History of Saladin, The 101; see also Ibn Shaddad Raymond, Count, and treaty with ruler of Shaizar 73 Raymond d’Aguilers, 71, 90 Raymond de Sabanac 130, 137 Raymond of Capua 130 reconciliation 83, 93, 151, 186, 188–9, 199 relics 19, 28, 33, 34, 73, 74, 76 religious ideas and convictions as catalyst for violence 16–20 religious tolerance in Poland see Poland responsa literature: Muslim 92; Jewish 149–52, 154 Revelations 130; see also Birgitta of Sweden Ruthenia, Red 161–2 Richard I, King of England 74, 98, 100–4, 110, 117 Richard of Devizes 74 Richard the Lionheart see Richard I Riley-Smith, Jonathan 116 Rodoano de Mauro 78 Roger of San Severino 108 Romagnoli, Bartolomei 132 Romanus III Argyros, Emperor 30 Rome 129, 131–2, 134, 136, 139–40 rules of war, Islamic 99–100; see also fiqh al-jihād Saint Thomas 140 Saladin 31–2, 71, 98, 109; commitment to jihad 101; common good and 101–4; peace agreement complying

with fiqh 104–5; Treaty of Jaffa and 100–1 sanctified peace assemblies 45–8 Sandys, Edwin 159 Saragossi see Syracusty schism see Great Schism Schmalkaldic War 165 Schramm, Gottfried 160 Schrödinger’s cat 11 Schuman, Robert 186 Second World War 6, 190 secular Christians 3 Sefer ha-berit 154 Sefer ḥaredim 153 Sefer ha-Rokeaḥ 148 self-control 9–10, 11 self-image, Muslim 84–8 Seneca 14 Serres, Michel 11, 13–14 Sha’arei teshuvah 148 Shafi’ites 99–100; Treaty of Jaffa and 98, 100–5 Shem ha-gedolim 154 Sienicki, Mikołaj 171 Siete Partidas 73 Sieyès 56 Sigismund I of Poland (Sigismund I the Old) 160, 164–8 Sigismund II Augustus 162, 168–72 simultaneously existing potential worlds 15 Solikowski, Jan Dymitr 169 Steven of Blois 69 structural violence 8–9 subtle violence 8 Sucheni-Grabowska, Anna 169 ṣulḥ 86, 90, 93, 99, 102, 104 Sunzi 13 Symeon, Patriarch of Jerusalem 70 Symeon, Tsar of the Bulgarians 27 Syracusty, Joseph ben Abraham el- 152–4 system theory 11 Tancred de Hauteville 70 Tarnowski, Jan 171 Tazbir, Janusz 160 Templars 106, 108 Temple Mount 70 Teutonic Order, 165, 167; deputy master 108 Torah 147–8 Trabotto, Joseph Colon 150

Index Treaty of Jaffa, 1192 98, 100–5 Treaty of Montreuil, 1299 119 truces 18, 47, 58, 71, 77–8, 84–6, 98–100, 102–10, 118–19, 188, 191 Tsar’grad see Constantinople Turks 32, 69–72 Unam sanctam 119 Urban, Wacław 160 Urban II, Pope 17, 67 Urban V, Pope 130, 132–3 Urban VI, Pope 129, 133–4, 139 Ursulina of Parma 130–1, 138–9 Vatican II 186–8 Vincent Ferrer, Saint 129 violence: as alterable status within process of development 10; consolidation of theoretical model of 15–16; defined 7–11; explanatorytheoretical approaches to 9–10; as fascination 10; forms of 8–9; holistic approach to 11–15; legitimate/

199

sanctioned 9; as means to an end 9; and meeting the Other on the battlefield 69–72; physical 8; religious ideas and convictions as catalyst for 16–20; as result of loss of control 9–10; structural 8–9; subtle 8 Virtues of the Jihad, The 101 Vladimir, Prince of Russia 28, 32–3 Warsaw Confederation 176 Wendland, Johann 164 William of Normandy 73–4 William of Tyre 67, 74 women, holy 5, 129–32; in the Avignon period 132–6; in the conciliar movement period 139–40; in the Great Schism 129, 131, 136–9; as the Other 71–2 Yitzḥaki, Shlomo (Rashi) 146 Zebrzydowski, Andrzej 171, 175 Zimra, David ben 153