Infidel Kings and Unholy Warriors: Faith, Power, and Violence in the Age of Crusade and Jihad
416
Infidel Kings and Unholy Warriors: Faith, Power, and Violence in the Age of Crusade and Jihad
416eBook
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Overview
An in-depth portrait of the Crusades-era Mediterranean world, and a new understanding of the forces that shaped it
In Infidel Kings and Unholy Warriors, the award-winning scholar Brian Catlos puts us on the ground in the Mediterranean world of 1050–1200. We experience the sights and sounds of the region just as enlightened Islamic empires and primitive Christendom began to contest it. We learn about the siege tactics, theological disputes, and poetry of this enthralling time. And we see that people of different faiths coexisted far more frequently than we are commonly told.
Catlos's meticulous reconstruction of the era allows him to stunningly overturn our most basic assumption about it: that it was defined by religious extremism. He brings to light many figures who were accepted as rulers by their ostensible foes. Samuel B. Naghrilla, a self-proclaimed Jewish messiah, became the force behind Muslim Granada. Bahram Pahlavuni, an Armenian Christian, wielded power in an Islamic caliphate. And Philip of Mahdia, a Muslim eunuch, rose to admiral in the service of Roger II, the Christian "King of Africa."
What their lives reveal is that, then as now, politics were driven by a mix of self-interest, personality, and ideology. Catlos draws a similar lesson from his stirring chapters on the early Crusades, arguing that the notions of crusade and jihad were not causes of war but justifications. He imparts a crucial insight: the violence of the past cannot be blamed primarily on religion.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780374712051 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Farrar, Straus and Giroux |
| Publication date: | 08/26/2014 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 416 |
| File size: | 4 MB |
About the Author
Brian A. Catlos, a professor of religious studies at the University of Colorado at Boulder and a research associate at the University of California, Santa Cruz, has received many prestigious fellowships and awards. He is the author of the prizewinning The Victors and the Vanquished: Christians and Muslims of Catalonia and Aragon (1050–1300), The Muslims of Medieval Latin Christendom ca. 1050–1615, and is featured in the documentary Cities of Light. He has traveled extensively in Europe, the Middle East, and the Americas, and has contributed to many travel guidebooks, including his Rough Guide to Languedoc&Roussillon. He and his family divide their time between Boulder and Barcelona.
Read an Excerpt
1
An Ornament, Tarnished
It was the evening of December 30, 1066—the ninth of Teveth, 4827, by the Hebrew calendar, and the year 459 of the Hijra, on the tenth day of Safar, a month characterized in Arabic folklore by calamity. It would have been a quiet Saturday night in Granada, a city of mazelike alleys huddled against the northern face of the Sierra Nevada. Perhaps a few white flakes blew down from the mountains. The only sounds to be heard, aside from the barking of stray dogs, would have been the voices of the city’s muezzins, calling out in near unison from their minarets, “Allahu akbar! God is most great! Allahu akbar! God is most great!” and sending the most faithful grimly shuffling through the dusky, unlit streets to salat al-‘isha, the evening prayer. The Sabbath would be drawing to a close, and the city’s Jewish inhabitants would be preparing for the start of the new week. Light from the waxing crescent moon may have reflected off the snow-covered peaks above, and between the mountains and the city, Granada’s residents would have seen the flickering yellow of oil lamps outlined by the shutters along the walls of al-Hamra’.*
This, the “Red Palace,” named after the hillside on which it stood and separated from the main part of the city by the creeklike River Darro, was the home of a Jew, Yusuf (“Yehosef” or “Joseph”) ibn Naghrilla, who had recently been deposed as wazir, or prime minister, of the Muslim Kingdom of Granada. On this evening, inside his palace, Yusuf and a band of his most trusted confederates were feasting in celebration of what they were sure would be the ex-wazir’s imminent coronation as king. As the guests ate and drank, listened to music, and recited poetry, an army led by Ibn Sumadih, the king of Almería, was on the march. In exchange for a declaration of submission, he would place Yusuf on the throne of Granada. As the story goes, a combination of overabundant wine and overconfidence led Yusuf to boast to his ‘abid, his African-born slaves, of the estates and honors that he would grant them once he was king. One of these slaves demanded to know whether the current king, Badis al-Muzaffar, had been killed. When he was rudely silenced, he burst out of the palace in a fit of panic and outrage, shouting, “The Jew has betrayed al-Muzaffar; Ibn Sumadih is about to enter the city!” Hearing his cries, the city’s Muslims poured out of their homes and rushed to al-Hamra’, where they stormed the banquet hall and pillaged the palace. Even the appearance of Badis, still very much alive, could not calm them, and Yusuf, attempting to flee the city in a blackened cloak, was cornered and killed. Next the mob turned on the Jewish inhabitants of the capital, putting them to the sword and plundering their homes.
As dawn rose on the city the king was safe and the armies of Almería had turned back. At least this is the tale as it has been told. It seems both incredible and predictable: a Jew very nearly became king of a Muslim kingdom in medieval Spain, and a community of innocents was massacred. And it has long appeared to represent a turning point in Jewish-Muslim relations in Islamic Spain and beyond. But was it? To understand the events of that December night in 1066 we must go back to the turn of the millennium, to the collapse of the Caliphate of Córdoba and the founding of the Kingdom of Granada.
THE CALIPHATE IN THE WEST
In the tenth century, Islamic Spain—al-Andalus—developed into the greatest economic and cultural power in the West. In the early 900s under the amir ‘Abd al-Rahman III, a long period of upheaval, civil war, and foreign attacks came to end. ‘Abd al-Rahman subdued the ever-rebellious Arab elite of al-Andalus—the descendants of the warriors who conquered Visigothic Hispania in the early eighth century—forced the small Christian principalities that dotted the mountainous north of Spain to submit to his authority, and undertook the conquest of northwest Africa. With that campaign Córdoba gained access to gold that originated on the far side of the Sahara, in the Niger Delta and the Akan Forest farther beyond. Intrepid Muslim merchants began to take cloth and salt across the vast desert and trade them pound for pound for high-quality gold, as well as ivory, pelts, and slaves. Much of this gold found its way into the royal treasury, funding a navy with which the amir controlled the Western Mediterranean, and a new army that soon had no serious adversary on the Iberian Peninsula. Up to this time, the Arab tribal elite of al-Andalus had dominated the army of a relatively united Umayyad Spain, and ‘Abd al-Rahman’s predecessors could not rule without their consent. But now, with a new army made up largely of Berber mercenaries recruited from Tunisia and Morocco and paid for with African gold, ‘Abd al-Rahman cowed both the tribal elite and his Christian tributaries, some of whom were his own kin. The submission of these tributaries to Córdoba was so complete that the Muslim court became a center of Christian diplomacy and intrigue, and its harem a destination for their daughters.*
The African gold also inaugurated a time of unprecedented prosperity in al-Andalus, and a cultural and scientific renaissance. Córdoba became the center of both trade and culture. The city’s population swelled to nearly half a million, making it, alongside Constantinople and Cairo, the largest metropolis west of Baghdad. The streets were paved, and unlike the filth, squalor, and danger of the stunted and primitive cities of Northern Europe, the capital had a working sewage system, a police force, and street lighting. On those streets peoples from across the Mediterranean and beyond rubbed shoulders: most of the city’s inhabitants were Muslims, but there were also many Christian Mozarabs and Jews, who were all but indistinguishable in language, dress, and habits from one another and from their Muslim neighbors. The strange accents and languages of foreign visitors could also be heard: merchants and scholars from the expanse of the Islamic world, and not a few Latin foreigners, as well as slaves imported from the “land of the Blacks” and pagan Eastern Europe or captured in raids on Christian lands, and even the occasional Byzantine Greek. These peoples were joined by an increasing number of new arrivals from North Africa, Berber warriors and their families who were looked down on by the native Andalusis for being dark-skinned, and—as they saw it—rude and uncultured.* The city was a tumult of workers and craftsmen, traders and merchants, stern royal officials, veiled courtesans, haughty slaves, beggars, soldiers, scholars, and holy men. The aromas of Africa and India wafted from the covered market northeast of the royal fortress, where cloth merchants hawked silks and linens and where gold- and silversmiths’ hammers added to the din caused by the braying of donkeys, the bellowing of camels, and the chatter of townsfolk, visitors, officials, and charlatans of all kinds.
Next door to the market sprawled the majestic Great Mosque, which ‘Abd al-Rahman renovated, doubling its size to accommodate the city’s burgeoning population. Outside of the magnificent structure, scribes-for-hire wrote petitions, contracts, and letters for all and sundry. Within the stone walls, a broad patio, shaded by orange trees and cooled by sprinkling water fountains, served as a public park and gathering space. Near the doors to the prayer hall, the qadi, or magistrate, held court and passed sentence on cases both mundane and sensational. Inside, among the marble columns taken from Roman ruins in the Western Mediterranean and beneath the red-and-white-banded arches that crowned them, people read, meditated, or dozed. Here, on Fridays at noon, the amir himself joined his Muslim subjects, prostrate on the carpeted floor. They faced the ivory-inlaid mihrab, the amir separated from the masses only by the wooden honeycomb of a mashrabiyya screen.
Buoyed by his successes, in 929 ‘Abd al-Rahman took a monumental step and declared himself to be the caliph (khalifa) and Córdoba to be the center of power in the Islamic world. This was not only a blow to the prestige of the ‘Abbasid caliph in Baghdad, who had been universally recognized as legitimate by Sunni Muslims, but a challenge to ‘Abd al-Rahman’s enemies, the Shi’a Fatimids of Tunisia, who had declared their own independent caliphate twenty years before. More than anything it marked a shift in the practice of leadership in Islamic Spain. To that point, the amirs had been “men of the people” in the style of the tribal Arab warlords of old: earthy, practical, and simple. In a stroke ‘Abd al-Rahman transformed himself into a near-divine autocrat, in the mold of Persian and Byzantine emperors. His act had profound consequences. Most immediately it meant that he would withdraw from public life. Protected and served by an ever more efficient and elaborate civil service, his direct intervention in the daily affairs of his realm was no longer practical or necessary. And in 939 a rare defeat at the hands of the forces of Christian León persuaded ‘Abd al-Rahman to end his military career—the life of the caliph could not be risked.
Three years earlier ‘Abd al-Rahman had begun construction on Madinat al-Zahara a few miles west of Córdoba, imagining it as a self-contained palace-city. For forty years, ten thousand workers and slaves were said to have labored on the immense complex, which included residences, a huge mosque, barracks, storerooms, and baths. To its luxurious and extensive gardens were brought exotic plants and trees gathered from as far away as India. The poet Ibn Zaydun would recall “the meandering waterway … its silvery waters … like a necklace unclasped and thrown aside,” and the “fragrant breaths from the pome of the water lilies.” Once finished, Madinat al-Zahara was staffed by thousands of slaves, officials, and soldiers. It became the official seat of government in 947; there would be no reason for the caliph to venture beyond its walls. The center of the palace was the great reception hall, its ceiling decorated with gilt and multicolored panels of translucent marble, interspersed with gold and silver panels and sheltering an ornate fountain sent from Constantinople by Emperor Constantine VII. On sunny days, the light streaming into the great hall was said to be sublime, and when the caliph wanted to awe visitors, his slaves would knock a mercury basin, and its ripples would send shimmers of reflected sunlight through the chamber. It was here that envoys from Africa, the Holy Roman Empire, and Constantinople would come to offer their respects, and the rulers of Christian Spain would come to bear homage.
A contemporary Muslim observer recorded one such visit. In 962 Ordoño IV, King of León, journeyed to Córdoba for an audience with al-Hakam II, the caliph’s son and successor. After stopping to pray at the tomb of ‘Abd al-Rahman III, the Christian king proceeded under escort to Madinat al-Zahara. The caliphal bodyguard had been deployed in parade regalia and the notables of the court had assembled. As Ordoño made his way through the resplendently decorated palace toward the inner sanctum, he was gradually deprived of his own entourage, until he was surrounded only by his closest advisers. Before reaching the reception hall he was forced to dismount his horse. Entering the dazzling room, the king must have been awestruck by the gilded and marbled walls, which were intended to give a sense of Heaven on Earth. At the center, surrounded by well-coiffed and perfumed officials, slaves, and eunuchs, and flanked by soldiers—blond-haired and bearded “Slavs” and Africans whose black skin had been oiled to a glistening sheen—sat the caliph, garbed in exquisite, brightly dyed silk robes. As he drew near al-Hakam’s throne Ordoño bowed, rose, took a few steps, and bowed again, repeating this performance until he reached the caliph, who held out a hand. After Ordoño retreated respectfully, his grandees each rose to kiss al-Hakam’s hand, and then the king exclaimed, “I am a slave of the Commander of the Faithful, my lord and my master; and I am come to implore his favor and to witness his majesty, and to place myself and my people under his protection.” The desired effect—to overwhelm the visiting Christian king, to render him speechless—had clearly been achieved.
Though the caliph’s move to the palace increased his isolation and resulted in new powers for the palace bureaucrats, notably the wazir, the top administrator, and the hajib, or chamberlain, who controlled access to the sovereign, ‘Abd al-Rahman remained involved in the affairs of his kingdom. He was astute enough to realize that the loyalty of his various officials, generals, and wives was tenuous at best—any of them might plot to depose or assassinate him and place a kinsman on the throne. And so he relied for his own protection on bodyguards recruited or captured from the Christian lands in the north, men called “the Silent Ones” for their inability to speak Arabic, who, having no natural allies in al-Andalus, would be unlikely to betray him.
In the same spirit, one of the keys to maintaining the political equilibrium in the caliphate was his cultivation of dhimmis, the Jews and Christians who were the “protected” subject peoples of the Islamic regime. Both communities were granted broad liberties, and both were integrated into Muslim society. A century earlier, after a brief flurry of resistance, the local Christian Church had effectively become a branch of the Andalusi civil service.* Thus, for example, the Christian aristocrat and courtier Reccemund, who went by the name Rabi’ ibn Zaid in Muslim circles, was rewarded for his faithful service to the regime when he was appointed bishop of Elvira by the caliph. Jews found themselves with similar opportunities. The Jewish physician and rabbi Hasdai ibn Shaprut became the caliph’s close friend and adviser, and even led the caliph’s most delicate diplomatic missions. As a consequence of his influence in Córdoba (not to mention his extraordinary devotion and learning), Hasdai was recognized as Nasi, “prince,” and became an advocate for Jews across the caliphate and beyond.†
Non-Muslims, slaves, and Berbers were useful to ‘Abd al-Rahman because they were in their own ways outsiders, and would be unable to harness popular support in a coup. As a consequence, each group served the caliph as counterweights to potentially subversive Muslim and Arab factions within the kingdom. In essence, the administration oversaw a dynamic meritocracy in which neither class nor ethnic background nor religion posed insurmountable obstacles to success. This is not to say that Córdoba’s political culture was based on a principle of tolerance, but rather that the Umayyad rulers were interested only in power. But the regime’s pragmatic self-interest fostered a situation in which Christians, Muslims, and Jews found themselves working together to build a caliphate in the West, each group secure and confident, and each speaking Arabic and moving within an Islamic social, cultural, and intellectual milieu. Muslims felt no threat from the dhimmis among them, and Christians and Jews were accommodated and integrated to such a degree that only the most stalwartly reactionary would harbor any resentment against the still superior status of Muslims.
By 961, when ‘Abd al-Rahman’s son, al-Hakam II, came to the throne, the caliphate was practically running itself, leaving the heir free to pursue his scholarly and intellectual interests. This suited al-Hakam, who had little interest in affairs of state. A bookish type, he patronized scholars, poets, and scientists. During his reign the royal library possessed, if the sources are to be trusted, close to a half million volumes. (This at a time when the Abbey Library of St. Gall in Switzerland, one of the great centers of learning in the Latin West, boasted just over one hundred.) The caliph and other grandees funded translations of literary and scientific works, and scholarship and research progressed apace. But for all his learning, al-Hakam did not foresee the perils of entrusting bureaucrats and administrators with the day-to-day running of his wealthy and complex kingdom.
AN ANDALUSI CAESAR
One of these administrators was an ambitious young man who claimed Arab descent, named Muhammad ibn Abi Amir, who had come to Córdoba from the provinces, hoping to work as a scribe. Through good fortune and persistence he managed to find employment not only in the palace but in the caliph’s harem. He became the personal administrator to Subh, a former Christian, who as the mother of al-Hakam’s sole son and heir, Hisham, was herself a powerful figure. Coaxing al-Hakam to produce an heir had been no easy feat; the caliph’s predilection for men was said to be so strong that he kept a male harem. Subh, it was claimed, had managed to succeed in seducing the unwitting caliph by cropping her hair and disguising herself as a boy. Whatever the truth, Ibn Abi Amir rose quickly in her service; and there were rumors of an affair between the two. However he won Subh’s affection and trust, though, the young scribe was evidently after power, not sex.
Marriage was a separate matter. Ibn Abi Amir married Asma, the daughter of Ghalib al-Nasiri, a leading “Arab” aristocrat and general, with whose support he secured valuable experience and then popular acclaim as a military commander.* In 976 al-Hakam died and ten-year-old Hisham ascended to the caliph’s throne. After heading off a coup by the palace eunuchs, Ibn Abi Amir, Ghalib, and Subh made a pact to keep young Hisham a virtual prisoner while they ran the caliphate. Over the subsequent decades Ibn Abi Amir gradually consolidated his power, disposing of rivals and having himself appointed both wazir and hajib. At the same time, he imported increasing numbers of North African troops and launched spectacular expeditions against the Christian lands to the north. These, along with his conspicuous acts of public piety—copying his own Qur’an by hand and purging the caliphal library of “subversive” works—earned him broad support among the religious elite and the Muslim public over which they held sway. Then Ibn Abi Amir turned on his allies with Stalinesque thoroughness: Subh, Ghalib, and any others who might threaten him were eliminated. Ibn Abi Amir had become the uncontested ruler of al-Andalus.†
Hisham, the caliph in name only, was forced to formally cede political authority to the hajib in 997. By then Muhammad ibn Abi Amir had become known as al-Mansur—“the Victorious by God”—a name that swiftly became synonymous with terror in the Latin world. Called “Almanzor” by his Christian enemies, Ibn Abi Amir sacked the major towns of Christian Spain, including Barcelona, León, and Pamplona. In 997 his armies marched to Santiago de Compostela, the legendary resting place of the Apostle Saint James in the far northwest of the peninsula, and carried the bells from his church back to Córdoba as trophies to be hung in the Great Mosque. For al-Mansur these campaigns served three purposes: to keep the Christian kingdoms weak and on the defensive; to provide an outlet for the energies of his army; and to cement his popular reputation as a mujahid, or a warrior of Islam. At home, he placated the old Arab elite—Hisham’s immense extended family, the Umayyad clan—by ensuring that they had access to powerful and lucrative positions in the administration and by not challenging their social and cultural prestige.
To all appearances the caliphate was at the height of its power under al-Mansur. But beneath the surface tensions were building. Despite his efforts, the Umayyad clan chafed at having been shunted aside by an upstart scribe. Provincial governors and palace slaves plotted uprisings. The ‘ulama’, or clerics, pressured al-Mansur to pursue a repressive domestic policy designed to protect the status of the native Muslim elite and maintain religious rigor. In order to placate them, he burned the books they considered offensive, including a large part of al-Hakam’s immense library. And Andalusis of all classes and backgrounds came to loathe and fear the increasingly powerful Berber element. In the previous decades North African domination of the army had translated into broader political power for Berbers, many of whom had been appointed to administrative posts. The notion that these illiterate, dark-skinned non-Arabs were taking over galvanized the alarmed native populace.
In 1002, returning from his fifty-second biannual invasion of Christian territories, Muhammad ibn Abi Amir took ill. His army stopped in Medinaceli, a wind-swept plateau not far from the northern frontier of the caliphate, and where an arch built by the Roman emperor Domitian nine hundred years earlier still stands today. Here al-Mansur died. His army mournfully carried his body four hundred miles south, back to Córdoba. The hajib was first succeeded by his favorite son, ‘Abd al-Malik, who carefully kept up the facade of the caliphate, but who died unexpectedly in 1008. He was succeeded in turn by his younger brother, ‘Abd al-Rahman, known popularly as Sanjul, or “little Sancho,” for his resemblance to his maternal grandfather, King Sancho II of Pamplona. Sanjul shared none of his father’s or brother’s discretion or restraint. Not content to hold power in practice, Sanjul wanted also to hold it in name, and a year after his appointment, he forced the aging and childless Hisham II to designate him the official heir to the title of caliph. This was simultaneously an act of betrayal to the Umayyad clan, an affront to the ‘ulama’, who upheld the religious legitimacy of the caliphate, and an outrage to the Muslim populace of al-Andalus. Then, further stoking the growing opposition, he ordered state dignitaries to abandon their traditional multicolored headdresses—the symbol of their aristocratic status—in favor of the Berber-style turban. To the people of Córdoba it seemed as though the Berbers were taking over.
Recognizing that he had gone too far, Sanjul attempted to regain popular support among the Arab-identifying Andalusis, but this served only to alienate him from his North African military. In 1009 he was seized by his own troops and put to death, and the people of Córdoba rose up against the Berber clans, who had settled on the outskirts of the city. The period that followed would come to be called the fitna, or “disorder.” A generation-long civil war, it would witness the destruction of Madinat al-Zahara, the sacking of Córdoba, and the collapse of the caliphate. It would herald the beginning of the end of Muslim dominance of the peninsula. Islamic Spain tilted into anarchy: the cities became unsafe, bandits and mercenaries roamed the countryside, and local governors declared themselves independent rulers. A few decades before, the German poetess and nun Hrosvitha of Gandersheim had described it as “the brilliant ornament of the world [that] shone in the west”; now Córdoba was reduced to a shell of its former self. The scholars, merchants, and soldiers of fortune who had lived there scattered as refugees in the aftermath of the uprising. Among these were a Jew, Shmuel Ha-Levi, and a Berber, Zawi ibn Ziri. Although they would never meet, their destinies were deeply intertwined. Between them, they would found the Kingdom of Granada and make it prosper, and Shmuel’s son, Yusuf ibn Naghrilla, would one day aspire to seize its throne.
A SOLDIER OF MISFORTUNE
Zawi ibn Ziri would not have referred to himself as a “Berber,” a label invented by condescending Arab geographers for the diverse indigenous peoples of the Maghrib (Arabic for “the West”; what is now northwestern Africa, from Libya to Morocco). The term derived from the Arabic barbara, “to babble nonsensically.”* Arab-identifying Spanish Muslims viewed Berbers as illiterate, brutish, and uncouth; the prejudice originated during the age of Islamic conquest, and has been perpetuated unthinkingly by writers and historians to this day. In fact, the tribal hill and desert dwellers of the region—farmers, herders, and warriors—spoke a number of languages, including Tamazight, Taqbaylit, and Tarifit, and had used an alphabet developed by the Phoenician colonists at ancient Carthage. Their generic word for themselves, Imazaghen, meant “the nobles.”
When the Arabs arrived in northwestern Africa in the late seventh century, the Berbers (with the exception of some tribes who may have identified as Christians or Jews) were pagan, and so were not considered eligible to live within the dar al-Islam. They were given the choice of converting to Islam or fighting to the death. Some resisted but most acquiesced, and gradually the various tribes of the Mediterranean’s African coastland became Muslim (at least in name), and subjects and allies of the Arab warlords. They relinquished their alphabet as they were gradually Arabized. It was Berber troops who were largely responsible for the Islamic conquest of Spain in the early 700s. Those who stayed in the peninsula after the campaigns were absorbed into the new Hispano-Arabic society of al-Andalus, and by the time of ‘Abd al-Rahman III their origins had been forgotten. This was not the case, however, with the North Africans who had been recruited during the years of the caliphate. Brought over as clans, complete with their women and children, these warriors maintained their distinct customs, language, and identity. Although they took their Islam very seriously, many did not even speak Arabic. Along with the disdain the Andalusis felt for them, this fact made integration impossible. Moreover, the recently arrived Berbers maintained their ties with family members and tribes back home across the Straits of Gibraltar, and saw themselves not so much as immigrants but as temporary mercenaries in the service of the caliphate, or as the vanguard of a new conquest.
Two of the largest nomadic tribal groups of the Maghrib were the Zanata in the west and the Sanhaja in the east. They were traditional enemies. When, under ‘Abd al-Rahman III, Islamic Spain began to conquer and colonize North Africa, it engaged with the Zanata first, as by turns an antagonist and an ally. As a consequence, most of the mercenaries who swelled the ranks of the caliphal army were from Zanata tribes. The Sanhaja, on the other hand, were dependents of the Fatimids, the Umayyads’ archenemies, who had established their own caliphate in Ifriqiya (Tunisia, or the former Roman province of “Africa”) in the early 900s. In 969, after their conquest of Egypt, the Fatimids founded a new capital at Cairo, leaving the Sanhaja to govern Ifriqiya in their place.
The Sanhaja were ruled by a clan called the Banu Ziri, whose men were famous for their fierce prowess in war.* But the Zirids, as they were also called, were riven by internal power struggles, and in 999 a civil war erupted that pitted Zawi ibn Ziri and his brothers against their nephew, Badis ibn Mansur, who had been appointed official governor of Ifriqiya by the Fatimid caliph. Despite their skill on the battlefield, the rebels were defeated, and with his brothers dead, Zawi was left as head of his clan. Seeing no future for his people in Ifriqiya, with great reluctance he turned to his old enemies, the Umayyads, for a way out. Al-Mansur reacted to the overture with cautious interest. Although the Zirids had been his implacable enemies, Zawi was renowned as a warrior from Cairo to Córdoba, and al-Mansur saw how he could prove useful. Though bringing Zawi and his clan to al-Andalus might unsettle the ranks of the caliphal forces, which were drawn from tribes hostile to the Sanhaja, it would also help temper the growing influence of the Zanata, who, in the preceding decade, had come to dominate the army and had taken over key positions in the civil and palace administration.
After prolonged negotiations, Zawi ibn Ziri and the members of his clan, including their families and households, arrived in al-Andalus sometime after 1002. Al-Mansur had died, but Zawi had reached an agreement with his son and successor ‘Abd al-Malik. The future seemed to promise a respite from years of danger and insecurity. But it was not to be; in 1009 the caliphate descended into civil war. After Hisham II’s death, two of ‘Abd al-Rahman III’s descendants made claims to the throne. The first, al-Musta’in, had the support of the Berber armies, whereas his rival, al-Mahdi, was backed by the Arab elite and the people of Córdoba. In 1013 al-Musta’in triumphed, and his victorious Berber forces swept through the capital, taking bloody vengeance against the city. But his victory did not make for peace, and many North Africans fled the peninsula in the aftermath. To restore stability and placate the people of Córdoba, the new caliph stationed the bulk of his remaining Berber forces in the provinces.
The Zirids were assigned to Elvira, a prosperous and fertile region south of Córdoba with a vibrant economy based on abundant orchards and the production of some of the finest silks in al-Andalus. Elvira was also distinguished by its substantial Jewish population.* The region had suffered Berber attacks since the time of Sanjul’s death, and Zawi feared that his family might become targets for retribution. The Elvirans, however, saw in the fearsome Zirids their best hope for survival. They petitioned Zawi to be their protector, offering safety for his kin and generous payment for his troops. Zawi accepted, and not a moment too soon. In 1018 al-Musta’in was assassinated in his bath and two new rivals rose to contest the title of caliph. The Zirids had lost their protector and were now vulnerable to enemies who would seek to destroy them. Moreover, wealthy Elvira become an irresistible target for raiders. An attack was all but inevitable.
Set on open terrain and minimally fortified, the city was vulnerable. Zawi determined that the only hope in the event of an invasion was to retreat to higher ground. Summoning all his eloquence and tenacity, he persuaded the people of Elvira to evacuate their homes and relocate to a town just to the south called Granada, which, because of its proximity to the Sierra Nevada range, would be relatively easy to fortify. Together, the Elvirans and the Zirids settled in Granada and rebuilt and extended its defenses. In the meantime, forces representing al-Murtada, one of the two claimants to the caliphal throne, assembled to subdue or destroy the Zirids. A huge host composed of Muslim troops and Christian mercenaries began to plunder the countryside and to encircle the city. Seeing no other option but to strike, the greatly outnumbered Sanhaja warriors sallied forth from Granada’s gates on horseback. They overran the invaders’ camp and scattered al-Murtada’s ill-prepared forces. Against all odds, Granada had been saved, which made Zawi ibn Ziri’s next move all the more surprising.
In the wake of the great victory, Zawi mustered his troops and announced his intention to immediately return to Ifriqiya, and his hope that his warriors and their families would follow. Sixteen years in al-Andalus had left him disillusioned, and convinced that there was no future there for the Sanhaja, who were hated despite their loyal service to the caliphate. The Andalusis and the Zanata, he claimed, would always plot to wipe them out. “If we kill one of them, a thousand will replace him [and] as their power grows ours will weaken, for we can never replace our dead.” While the allure of his homeland was powerful, Zawi may have had other motives. News from Ifriqiya had led him to believe he might be able to reestablish himself and his clan in the region. His old enemy and kinsman Badis ibn Mansur had died, and Zawi had received permission from Badis’s son and heir, al-Mu’izz, to return from exile. Whatever the case, Zawi’s appeal to his kinsmen in Granada fell on deaf ears. The younger generation had little memory of North Africa, and flush with victory, they were confident that they had achieved security and prosperity in al-Andalus. They refused to follow Zawi home.
By 1020 Zawi was gone, having sailed with his immediate household to settle in the Zirid capital of Qayrawan. His return, however, was not a happy one. Soon after his arrival, he received word that his nephew, an equally audacious warrior named Habbus ibn Maksan, had seized power in Granada from Zawi’s sons, whom he had left in charge of the city. And in Ifriqiya itself, he was allotted a large palace as his home, but far from being invited to share power, he was blocked from any access to Maghribi politics. Of Zawi’s ultimate fate we cannot be certain. One account claims he was poisoned not long after his arrival in his homeland, another that he succumbed to illness after some years, isolated and forgotten. In any event, this proud and principled old warrior died without realizing that quite by accident he had founded what would become one of the most powerful kingdoms in al-Andalus.
ONE KINGDOM AMONG MANY
By the time of Zawi’s departure from Spain, it was clear that the caliphate was nothing more than a convenient fiction. Although assorted Umayyad family members would be trotted out as legitimate successors of Hisham II until the 1030s, no informed observers saw these men and boys as anything but puppets of the various factions battling for supremacy in al-Andalus. None of these candidates captured wide popular support and each met with a nasty end. Still, even though what had once been the most powerful and centralized European state since the time of the Romans had splintered into a multitude of petty principalities that would become known as the taifa or “sectarian” kingdoms, the concept of a single caliphate loomed large in the Andalusi imagination (just as Rome did for Northern Europeans). Wary of offending popular opinion or Islamic unity, the rulers of these independent states avoided openly referring to themselves as “kings.” Rather, in emulation of the great al-Mansur, they took the title of hajib, and presented themselves as mere representatives of a temporarily absent caliph. But kings they were in virtually every sense of the word, and virtually everyone else referred to them as such—they were independent rulers who pursued earthly political agendas, the final aim of which was nothing more or less than the perpetuation of their own power and that of their families.
With the sudden collapse of the power centered in Córdoba following the death of Sanjul in 1009, a frantic free-for-all had begun. Provincial governors, military leaders, and local administrators all rushed to seize power over the city or region in which they were stationed. At the outset no less than thirty separate principalities emerged out of the ruins of the caliphate. Some were ruled by members of the Umayyad clan or other powerful Arab families, some by palace eunuchs, and some by Berber warriors and mercenaries breaking free from their Andalusi overlords. Many of these new statelets were not viable. In some cases the new leaders failed to attract the support of the local populace and were either expelled or put to death. “Slav” taifa rulers—who originated as Eastern European slaves or captured Christians—were particularly vulnerable in this respect, not because they were slaves or former slaves, but because as foreigners they had no wider community or families of their own to draw on for support. Berber clans also found themselves in a delicate position; given the hatred and mistrust the local people directed at them, they could only cling to power if they managed to negotiate a compromise with their subjects. The most secure rulers were the governors of the frontier provinces, like the Thaghr al-‘Aqsa, “the Farthest Frontier,” of Zaragoza, whose families had been ruling their regions as de facto independent kingdoms for generations, and on whom the end of the caliphate had little immediate impact.
Thus, by the 1030s, the less tenable taifa kingdoms had disappeared, with the smaller principalities being absorbed by their more powerful neighbors until only a handful of major players remained. In the south of Spain, there were four. Córdoba, the former capital, had become a small and traditional Arab-style republic, ruled by the local Banu Djahwar family with the consent of a popular council composed of its leading citizens. On the Mediterranean, the important seaport and silk production center of Almería was ruled initially by slaves, until it was seized in 1041–42 by al-Mansur’s surviving son, ‘Abd al-‘Aziz, who then established his seat in Valencia and appointed the Banu Sumadih clan as his governors. By 1060 they would reign as independent kings. To the west there was Seville, the most powerful taifa kingdom in the south. Here, a qadi of Arab origin, Abu ‘l-Qasim Muhammad ibn ‘Abbad, came to power and set about subduing his neighbors. Both Abu ‘l-Qasim and his son, al-Mu’tamid, proclaimed Seville as the champion of Andalusi Arabs against the foreign Berbers, attracting great popular support, particularly among those Muslims loyal to the memory of the Umayyad caliphs. Naturally, their archenemies were the Banu Ziri, Zawi ibn Ziri’s clan, of the now formidable Kingdom of Granada—the greatest obstacle to Seville’s domination of the rich southern provinces of the former caliphate.
The political atmosphere in the taifa period was brutal and volatile; there were few alliances, except of the most temporary and Machiavellian sort, and each taifa ruler dreamed of destroying his rivals and being the one to reestablish the unity of al-Andalus. For an Islamic society this was a shocking state of affairs, not so much because inter-Muslim warfare had not existed previously—in fact, Islamic history to this point had been rife with internecine conflict—but because the Umayyad Caliphate had seemed so stable and permanent only a generation before, and because disunity ran counter to the political and religious ideology of Islam. Unlike Christianity and Judaism, Islam was at once a religious and a political system. Muhammad had not only been the Prophet of God and the religious leader of the ‘umma—the community of believers—but its political leader as well. A theory of just warfare, jihad, was elaborated in the time of Muhammad, and became enshrined in Scripture. Judaism had its own religiously ordained military policy, as expressed in Deuteronomy and Kings, but with the collapse of the Kingdom of Judah and the “Babylonian captivity” this became irrelevant. By the time the Hebrew Scriptures finally took the form we know today, Judaism in the Mediterranean was a religion of kingdomless exiles. Christianity, by contrast, first appeared not just without a state but threatened by one (Rome), and its Scripture was formally pacifist and apolitical. However, no sooner had Constantine I, in 325 C.E., made Christianity an official religion of the Roman Empire than theologians such as Saint Augustine began to frame principles of just and holy warfare.
On a conceptual level, there could be no easy division between “secular” and “religious” spheres in Islam when the goal of the faith was individual salvation as well as the creation of a world governed by God’s law. Muslims aspired to create a world defined by religious unanimity and one ultimate political authority. Hence, the earliest conflicts in Islam were not separatist movements that proposed alternative Islams (as happened in Christianity during the time of the early Church and with later Protestant movements), but struggles over who should wield this authority over all Muslims. And so, although Islamic unity had clearly ceased to be a political and religious reality by the early eighth century, all Muslims, both Sunni and Shi’a, continued to support the ideal of a single caliph, at least outwardly.* The experience of the Umayyad family, the first caliphal dynasty, reflects this conviction. Ruling from Damascus starting in 660 C.E., they were overthrown in a coup in 750, and supplanted by the ‘Abbasids, who were based in Iraq. In the uprising that swept them from power, almost the entire Umayyad family was massacred by the rebels, with the exception of a young prince named ‘Abd al-Rahman, who escaped from Syria and arrived in al-Andalus in 756. However, even after ‘Abd al-Rahman had established himself as an independent prince in al-Andalus, far from the reach of the ‘Abbasids, he did not claim his grandfather Hisham’s title of caliph. Instead, he styled himself as amir, or “prince,” formally acknowledging the authority of the legitimate caliph in Baghdad, despite the circumstances of the latter’s rise to power.
Nonetheless, in certain ways the division between secular and religious was far clearer in Islamic societies than in Christian ones. The notion that the caliph wielded religious or doctrinal authority over the Muslim ‘umma had come to an end in 656 with the death of ‘Uthman, the third successor to Muhammad, who had overseen the creation of a standard version of the Qur’an. Unlike medieval Christianity and traditional Judaism, in which access to God is mediated by a priestly hierarchy who interprets the divine will, Islam was from the start strongly rooted in the notions of the fundamental and absolute equality of all believers before God, and of freedom of conscience. There was no priesthood and no magical element to the liturgy. The caliphs were not popes. The holy writings of Islam were in Arabic, the common spoken language, and therefore accessible to all believers. Muslim ritual was generally practical (such as the pre-prayer washing) and participatory (such as the Ramadan fast and the hajj pilgrimage to Mecca). Doctrine was so straightforward that it could be expressed in a mere eight words: the Arabic for “There is no god but God, and Muhammad is His Messenger.” Moreover, there were few counterintuitive paradoxes such as the idea of God having an incarnate son, or God being simultaneously three and one. Religious authority was informal and based on one’s understanding and interpretation of the sacred texts of Islam: the Qur’an, the revealed Word of God, and the Sunna or “tradition,” accounts of the customs of Muhammad and other early Muslims. Unlike in the Roman tradition, where the emperor and the state were the sources of law, in Islamic lands the law was derived not from the will of a ruler, but from Scripture. Similar to Deuteronomy but nothing like the Gospels, the Qur’an was in part an explicit—if far from complete and not entirely consistent—guide to what rules should govern a just society.
The individuals who were believed to have the ability and capacity to interpret Scripture—the ‘ulama’ (“those who have knowledge”)—decided to a large extent the laws in Islamic societies and how to apply them. Scripture was the basis of criminal law and punishment; family law, including matters such as inheritance, divorce, and custody; commercial law; and even fiscal policy, in that the Qur’an set forth the kinds of taxes that could be levied on members of a Muslim community. All of this meant not only that the judiciary in Islamic lands was functionally independent from the political rulers, but that its power extended into areas we would today consider the prerogative of the state. As a consequence, within the first century and a half of Islam, the authority of political leaders was limited for the most part to military matters. They enforced the laws but did not create them. A symbiotic relationship predominated: the religious elite confirmed the legitimacy of the political and military elite in exchange for protection and security. In reality, no one was under any illusions about who held the real power, but when the political elite failed to hold up their end of the compromise, the ‘ulama’ could declare them illegitimate and mobilize the popular forces to resist or overthrow them.
The ‘ulama’ owed their power to their interpretative skills but also to their ability to represent the people. They were themselves politicans, in some respects. Unlike Latin Christian society, which was explicitly divided into peasant and noble classes, and in which the most influential and powerful positions in the clergy were all but reserved for the aristocracy, widespread literacy, the lack of formal class barriers, and the great socioeconomic mobility of the Arabo-Islamic world made it possible for people from all walks of life to become influential ‘ulama’. Many influential faqihs (legal experts) and muftis (interpreters of law) came from humble backgrounds, starting out as tradesmen, workers, or even slaves. Further, they cultivated their popular reputation by rejecting the potentially corrupting patronage, favor, and government appointments offered by rulers. Because the power of the ‘ulama’ was independent and real, they could not be ignored. Hence the taifa kings’ cautious respect for the ideal of the caliphate was critical to their ability to govern.
Because it was in the hands of scholars who were not constrained by the traditions or dictates of the states in which they lived, Islamic law functioned more or less consistently throughout the dar al-Islam, as scholars and judges traveled from Córdoba to Cairo and Baghdad, practicing their profession without regard to the borders of kingdoms and caliphates. As unusual as it may sound, the collapse of the Caliphate of Córdoba represented a minor disruption in the lives of most common people in al-Andalus in terms of the laws that they lived under. Taifa kingdoms would come and go as superficial disturbances that hardly affected the currents shaping Islamic society. The wars of the taifa kings were not wars among enemy states or competing societies or ideologies; they were clashes between rival elites within a single system. All the factions respected Islamic law as it was interpreted by the ‘ulama’, and few citizens felt any special loyalty to or affinity for their rulers.
Because the laws remained basically intact after Sanjul’s death in 1009, the Andalusi economy was hardly affected, either—if anything, it may have improved, despite the bandit raids that plagued some areas. The flow of African gold continued, and after the first period of civil war commercial networks were revived. The countryside had been nearly untouched by the war, and the cities, with the exception of Córdoba, escaped damage. In fact, the destruction of Córdoba had the effect of stimulating provincial economies, which could now keep the taxes they collected instead of sending them to the capital. Former provincial backwaters became little capital cities and thriving markets in their own right. Culturally, too, the taifa period was a time of progress. While the holdings of the famous caliphal libraries may have been scattered—first by al-Mansur to placate the religious right, and subsequently in the sacking of Córdoba—new centers of patronage and learning sprang up across the peninsula. As with modern nations, the taifa kings tried to outdo one another in funding culture and education. In its four centuries of existence, as a consequence of its melding of Arab, Hebrew, Greek, and Persian traditions, Arabo-Islamic culture had fostered an etiquette of sophistication and courtly behavior, known as adhab. Muslim rulers, even warriors who threw most of their energy into campaigning, revered (or saw the political use in showing reverence for) the arts and sciences. Several taifa kings were even accomplished poets, authors, or scientists in their own right.
A LAND OF OPPORTUNITY
Zawi ibn Ziri had been only one of many people, prominent and otherwise, eager to put the destructive unrest in Córdoba behind him. Also among the refugees of all backgrounds and creeds who fled for the provinces after the fall of the caliphate in 1013 was a young Jew named Shmuel (Samuel) Ha-Levi ben Yusuf ibn Naghrilla.
Abu Ibrahim Isma’il, as he would be better known, was born in 993 into a wealthy family originally from Merida that had moved south to Córdoba after the establishment of the caliphate. He distinguished himself at a young age, becoming a disciple and protégé of Rabbi Hanok, the head of the Rabbinical community in the caliphate and the successor of the legendary Hasdai ibn Shaprut. Isma’il’s parents were evidently raising him for a career in the administration of the caliphate and the leadership of its Jewish community. He was given a comprehensive grounding in Hebrew and in theology, appropriate for any affluent member of the Jewish elite, as well as a superb education in Arabic science and letters. This was not surprising. Arabic had become the preferred spoken and written language of Jews in the Islamic world, from the Indus to the Atlantic. When in 993 Rabbi Saadia Gaon produced his Book of the Articles of Faith and Doctrines of Dogma, the first analytical treatment of Jewish theology, not only did he model it on the work of contemporary Muslim rational philosophers, but he wrote it in Arabic. Hebrew, which had been for some time a fossilized liturgical language, was only beginning to be revived, as Jewish philologists and literati started to adapt the systematizing work of Arabic grammarians to the language of the Old Testament. Most telling was that young Isma’il was also sent to learn Latin from a priest, and evidently learned one of the Berber languages as well. His uncommonly wide-ranging education would allow him to thrive in the multicultural world of al-Andalus. As a young man, he moved with ease among the elite of the capital, in his element among Jews, Muslims, and Christians alike. In 1013, however, at the age of twenty, his education may have seemed to be a waste; the caliphate had all but collapsed, apparently taking his prospects with it.
If we are to believe Isma’il’s own account, though, the setback did not discourage him; he would later recall how as a young man he had been visited by the Archangels Gabriel and Michael, who promised to protect him from danger. But little is known of the years that followed the fateful events of 1013. Our best source for Isma’il’s life, the Jewish chronicler Ibn Daud’s Book of Tradition, idolizes him as a near-messianic figure and is, because of this, far from dependable. It seems that after leaving Córdoba, the young would-be courtier eventually settled in Málaga, a teeming city of about twenty thousand (twice the size of contemporary London), its native Muslim and Christian population swelled by Arabs and Berbers of various tribes, as well as Jews. Málaga was a major producer of fruits and other high-value crops, an important center of cloth production, a fishing port, and an entrepôt for North Africa and the Eastern Mediterranean. In the 1030s it would, as an independent taifa kingdom, ally with Granada against Seville. Here, Isma’il established himself in some sort of commercial capacity—according to Ibn Daud, as a spice merchant or grocer—and undoubtedly rose to a leadership role in the local Jewish community.
As early as 1020, Isma’il left Málaga for Granada, where he became the secretary to ‘Abu ‘l-‘Abbas ibn al-‘Arif. While Ibn al-‘Arif held the official post of chief secretary (katib) to Habbus, King of Granada, it was, in fact, Isma’il who composed royal letters and documents and whose counsel and advice was heard by the king. Ibn Daud fancifully recounts how Ibn al-‘Arif and Isma’il were neighbors in Málaga, and how the former recruited the latter after discovering by chance Isma’il’s talent for love letters. But this is clearly an invention. Ibn al-‘Arif had probably heard of Isma’il because they moved in the same aristocratic circles, and Isma’il was already known for his savoir faire and his command of Arabic. Composing formal diplomatic correspondence in the language was no small feat; one had to be able to draw on the styles and traditions of a rich and varied Arabo-Persian literature, and to be able to leaven one’s compositions with references, both direct and oblique, to Islamic sacred texts. The skill escaped the Sanhaja nobility, most of whom could not read Arabic. But so clearly had Isma’il mastered the form that on his deathbed, ‘Abu ‘l-‘Abbas ibn al-‘Arif confessed to King Habbus that the Jewish merchant had been the one guiding the kingdom in his name. Habbus reacted by naming Isma’il his new katib. Soon Isma’il would serve him also as wazir, although for the moment the deceased katib’s son, Abu ‘l-Qasim ibn al-‘Arif, was given the official title, while Isma’il did all the work and quietly attempted to discredit the younger Ibn al-‘Arif before the king.
It may seem incredible that a Muslim king would appoint a Jew as wazir, but the Berber rulers of Granada were nothing if not practical, and they were warriors before they were politicians, administrators, or believers. Forty years earlier, when al-Mansur’s son, ‘Abd al-Malik, had offered Zawi ibn Ziri a position as his wazir, Ibn Ziri is said to have answered, “Warfare is our line of work, not administration; our lances are our pens, and fallen bodies are the pages on which we write.” But there were other reasons for Isma’il’s appointment, even aside from his campaign against Ibn al-‘Arif. Then as now the key to a state’s success was its capacity to generate revenue, and Isma’il demonstrated a ruthless efficiency in collecting taxes for Habbus. His success was largely the result of his extraordinary administrative and organizational capacities, but he was helped by the fact that a considerable proportion of the kingdom’s subjects—particularly in the countryside—were Jews. The overwhelming majority of the people in the capital, by contrast, would have been Arab-identifying Andalusi Muslims. The rest of the twenty thousand or more inhabitants of the city—it was similar in size to Málaga—were a few hundred Sanhaja warriors and their extended families, a small Christian community, and probably about one thousand Jews. This last number was notably large; Arab geographers referred to the city as “Granada of the Jews.” Unlike contemporary Christian Europe, where Jews lived in tiny, marginalized, urban communities and were forbidden from owning land and entering many professions, Jews in the Islamic world were a diverse group, profoundly integrated and spanning the social and vocational spectrums. This worked to Isma’il’s advantage; he had the knowledge and skills to wring every penny in taxes he could out of his coreligionists, many of whom were wealthy themselves.
Given the importance of Jews in the kingdom, Isma’il’s appointment as wazir can also be seen as Habbus’s means of satisfying a portion of his population, but it would also have had a more far-reaching purpose. Years later, ‘Abd Allah ibn Buluqqin, the deposed and exiled king of Granada, explained his grandfather’s motives as follows:
The Jew [Isma’il] possessed the kind of astuteness and diplomacy that were consonant with the times in which they lived and the people intriguing against them. Badis therefore employed Abu Ibrahim because of his lack of confidence in anyone else and the hostility of his kinsmen. Moreover, Abu Ibrahim was a Jewish dhimmi who would not lust after power. Nor was he an Andalusi against whom he needed to be on his guard lest he scheme with non-Berber princes. Badis also needed money with which to placate his kinsmen and maintain his royal position …
Habbus understood that to rule Granada, a city with a number of distinct ethnic and religious factions, he needed to play these factions against one another to prevent any from growing too strong. The biggest threat was the enmity between Arabs and Berbers. Despite the stability and prosperity that Zirid rule had produced, many Arabs chafed at being governed by a people they viewed as near-barbarians. Not a few looked longingly to the Zirids’ enemies, the ‘Abbadids of Seville, who called for the restoration of the old Arab-dominated Umayyad order. The Berbers, for their part, were internally divided and distrustful of the other groups. Indeed, the Zirids ruled the kingdom not as “Berbers” but as one clan among many, and their relations with the other Sanhaja families were complex, especially in the 1020s, after Zawi’s departure, the murder of his sons, and the recriminations that followed. There were also non-Sanhaja Berbers in Granada, who had a history of bad blood with the Zirids and whose support of the regime was even more fickle and self-interested.
Extended family was central to the workings of both Arab and Berber societies. Unlike the model of primogeniture that would come to dominate in Christian lands, in which power and position was passed down from father to eldest son, in the so-called Oriental model, authority typically devolved to the senior or eldest member of a broad family group dominated by a clique of uncles. In the Christian lands, it was politically advantageous to marry outside of one’s family to establish alliances and thereby increase one’s power—a practice the Church supported by passing laws forbidding cousins to marry (though these were often ignored). In the dar al-Islam, the aim was to secure the property of one’s family by marrying within it; marrying one’s women to outsiders entailed a loss of property and prestige.* The ideal was for a man to marry his first cousin on his father’s side. In cases where a title or position was passed down from father to son, the father was not required to designate his eldest as his heir. He could choose from among his sons, or even skip a generation and select a grandson. But the leader of a clan understood that the decision was not his alone; the opinions of the elders, or sheikhs, would have to be taken into account if the heir was going to enjoy the necessary support.
While this flexibility meant that the most able candidate was often chosen, it also fostered competition among sons. Among Muslims, the practice of polygamy was a further complication. A powerful leader might have up to four wives and many concubines, each of whom could bear him sons eligible to succeed him. The wives and concubines who produced sons, moreover, were rewarded with property and estates, and wielded considerable power, which they used to maneuver a favored son into the position of heir. Conflicts among potential heirs to the throne, and among their mothers, slaves, and dependents—not to mention various allies among the Berber, Andalusi, Christian, and Jewish communities—provided opportunities for collaboration between members of the different communities, but at the same time gave Zirid Granada an instability that not even Habbus’s best efforts could put an end to.
“SOAR, DON’T SETTLE…”
This was the environment Isma’il ibn Naghrilla stepped into when he moved to Granada sometime before 1020. He soon showed that, in addition to possessing a sharp intellect and impressive linguistic skills, he was a man of natural political instincts. He made himself indispensable to Ibn al-‘Arif, as an adviser and secretary of correspondence, as a liaison to the Jewish community, and—most importantly—as an unmatched tax collector. But he stayed in the background, a smart move with the future of the kingdom in doubt. The lingering bitterness Zawi ibn Ziri’s clan harbored after Habbus’s coup was only partially defused by the latter’s successes defending Granada on the battlefield. But the real threat was posed by those among Habbus’s clan who would stir up trouble, most notably his favorite nephew, Yiddir (or Yaddayr). Habbus had two sons, Badis and Buluqqin. Badis was the heir apparent but Buluqqin was favored by the Sanhaja, and al-Yiddir recruited a party of conspirators, including a number of leading Jews and Isma’il’s employer, Ibn al-‘Arif, to back the younger prince. Yiddir at one point even counseled Buluqqin to have his brother killed.
In the meantime, Isma’il consolidated his position. He had risen in the estimation of both King Habbus and the Jewish community in Granada and beyond. In 1027 he had been acclaimed as ha-Nagid, “the Prince,” and in theory held authority over Jews in all of Spain and parts of North Africa; in reality, though, the title involved no formal authority outside of Granada. Whether the title, the first of its kind in Spain, had been granted by the Jewish exilarch in Baghdad—the “official” head of Judaism—or invented by Isma’il himself, he was regarded, and comported himself, as the leader of Andalusi Jewry. He came from a wealthy family from Merida, the Jewish community that claimed to have descended from the Judean nobles the emperor Titus settled in the city in the first century C.E. He was a Levite, a member of the priestly tribe. His educational pedigree, going back to the great Hasdai ibn Shaprut, was unimpeachable. He had all the attributes, in other words, of the small and self-perpetuating Judeo-Arabic elite of al-Andalus: birth, learning, family connections, and money. Owing to his background and talents he had acquired a reputation that reached as far as the ‘Abbasid court, and political connections to match. And he did much on behalf of the Jews of the Mediterranean. As Ibn Daud recalled, Isma’il “achieved great good for Israel in Spain, the Maghrib, Ifriqiya, Egypt, Sicily, indeed as far as the academy in Babylonia and the Holy City.” He purchased and sent copies of the Torah, the Mishnah, and the Talmud to congregations across the Mediterranean and funded scholarships for young students. The lamps of the synagogues of Jerusalem burned with oil sent from his home in Granada.
Muslim recognition came with his appointment as wazir by Habbus in 1037. As the fourteenth-century Muslim historian Ibn ‘Idhari would write, “the king raised him above every other rank and dignity.” It was unheard of for a Jew to hold such an exalted official position in a Muslim principality. The Qur’an was explicit on this point: dhimmis were not to serve in positions of authority over the faithful:
O you who believe! do not take the Jews and the Christians for friends; they are friends of each other;
and whoever amongst you takes them for a friend, then surely he is one of them; for surely God does not guide the unjust people.
And yet, the next year Isma’il would have an even greater opportunity in Zirid Granada. When Habbus died in 1038 after sixteen years of effective governance, he was succeeded by Badis, a warrior like his father, but also a dedicated drunkard. Whatever misgivings the new king may have had over confirming a Jew as his prime minister were quickly put to rest. Soon after Badis took the throne, Yiddir’s faction, which included several leading Jews, confided to Isma’il their plans to overthrow the new king, in the hope that he would support them. Feigning sympathy, Isma’il invited them to hold their meetings in his palace, but arranged for Badis himself to spy on the conspirators from behind a curtain. Having witnessed the treachery, the enraged king swore he would execute the plotters. Yiddir and others fled to enemy Seville upon learning of their peril. But Isma’il interceded and successfully lobbied for clemency for those who had remained, and in doing so positioned himself as the king’s loyal confidant. He also earned the gratitude of the rebels—including his Jewish rivals—for saving their lives.
Isma’il would repeat this tactic on other occasions. In 1053, for instance, as a deliberate affront to Badis, al-Mu’tadid of Seville killed three Berber chieftains under a flag of truce by bricking them up alive within a bathhouse. In retaliation, the Granadan king resolved to massacre the Arabs of his city, who often sympathized with the ‘Abbadid cause. Badis’s plan was to put them to death as they arrived for Friday prayers at Granada’s main mosque. But at noon, the time of prayer, on the appointed day, the mosque was empty; Isma’il had warned the sheikhs to stay away. Badis was furious, but soon realized that his wazir’s discretion had saved him from causing great harm to his own kingdom. Badis’s esteem for Isma’il grew, and even the pro-Umayyad Arabs of the city felt gratitude toward and had confidence in Isma’il.
Isma’il was a master of dissembling and self-control, of charming his superiors and winning the respect of his enemies. He was praised even by those who were in principle opposed to his position in a Muslim kingdom. Decades later, as ‘Abd Allah ibn Buluqqin composed his apologetic history of the Zirid kings of Granada, he may have referred to Isma’il on occasion as “the Jew,” but when he referred to him directly, it was as “Abu Ibrahim,” a respectful honorific usually reserved for elders and sheikhs. Isma’il, for his part, saw his role as nothing short of kingly and prophetic. A true polymath, he was also the greatest Hebrew poet of his age, and his favorite subject was himself. His verse reveals both his self-assurance and his ambition:
Soar, don’t settle for earth
and sky—soar to Orion;
and be strong, but not like an ox or mule
that’s driven—strong like a lion.
Copyright © 2014 by Brian A. Catlos
Map copyright © 2014 by Jeffrey L. Ward
Table of Contents
Map: The Mediterranean World, c. 1050 ix
A Note on Sources xiii
A Note on Names xv
Introduction: The Mediterranean World 3
PART I: THE (JEWISH) MAN WHO WOULD BE KING
1. An Ornament, Tarnished 15
2. The Rules of the Game 44
PART II: A CHRISTIAN SULTAN IN THE AGE OF "THE RECONQUEST"
3. The Cid Rides Again 69
4. Rodrigo Díaz, Taifa King of Valencia 98
PART III: KINGS OF SICILY, KINGS OF AFRICA
5. A Norman Conquest 127
6. Don't Ask, Don't Tell 156
PART IV: INFIDEL RULERS OF A HERETICAL CALIPHATE
7. After the Messiah 183
8. Traitors and Spies 213
PART V: AMBITION, OPPORTUNISM, AND THE END OF AN ERA
9. A Heavenly Kingdom? 241
10. Jerusalem Restored 275
Epilogue: The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire 307
Afterword: Holy War, a User's Manual 317
Dynasty Trees 325
Glossary 329
Sources, Background, and Further Reading 335
Notes 345
Works Cited 353
Acknowledg ments 367
Index 369