W RITING ‘T RUE STORIES’

C ULTURAL E NCOUNTERS IN L ATE

A NTIQUITY AND THE M IDDLE A GES

General Editor

Yitzhak Hen Ben-Gurion University, Beer-Sheva

Editorial Board

Angelo di Berardino Augustinianum–Instituto Patristico, Rome

Nora Berend University of Cambridge
Leslie Brubaker University of Birmingham
Christoph Cluse Universität Trier
Rob Meens Universiteit Utrecht
James Montgomery University of Cambridge
Alan V. Murray University of Leeds
Thomas F. X. Noble University of Notre Dame
Miri Rubin University of London

Previously published volumes in this series are listed at the back of this book.

VOLUME 9
 W RITING ‘T RUE STORIES’
Historians and Hagiographers
in the Late Antique and Medieval Near East

Edited by

Arietta Papaconstantinou

in Collaboration with
Muriel Debié and Hugh Kennedy

HF
 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Writing 'true stories' : historians and hagiographers in

the late antique and medieval Near East. -- (Cultural
encounters in late antiquity and the Middle Ages ; v. 9)
1. Middle East--Historiography. 2. Hagiography--History--
To 1500. 3. Middle Eastern literature--History and
criticism. 4. Literature, Medieval--History and criticism.
5. Christianity and literature--Middle East--History--To
1500.
I. Series II. Papaconstantinou, Arietta. III. Debie,
Muriel. IV. Kennedy, Hugh (Hugh N.)
956'.0722-dc22

ISBN-13: 9782503527864

© 2010, Brepols Publishers n.v., Turnhout, Belgium

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,
without the prior permission of the publisher.

D/2010/0095/49
ISBN: 978-2-503-52786-4
 For A.,
Phantom of Delight
 C ONTENTS

Foreword ix
Abbreviations xi
Introduction: Writing True Stories — A View from the West 1
CATHERINE CUBITT

Early Byzantine Historiography and Hagiography as Different 13

Modes of Christian Practice
DEREK KRUEGER

Creating Local History: Coptic Encomia Celebrating Past Events 21

GESA SCHENKE

A Saint and his Biographer in Late Antique Iraq: The History 31

of St George of Izla († 614) by Babai the Great
JOEL WALKER

Writing History as ‘Histoires’: The Biographical Dimension 43

of East Syriac Historiography
MURIEL DEBIÉ

Converting the Caliph: A Legendary Motif in Christian Hagiography 77

and Historiography of the Early Islamic Period
ANDRÉ BINGGELI

‘He was tall and slender, and his virtues were numerous’: Byzantine 105
Hagiographical Topoi and the Companions of Muhò ammad in
al-Azdî’s Futûhò al-Shâm
NANCY KHALEK
‘Become infidels or we will throw you into the fire’: 125
The Martyrs of Najrân in Early Muslim Historiography,
Hagiography, and Qur(ânic Exegesis
THOMAS SIZGORICH

Ibn al-Azraq, Saint Marûthâ, and the Foundation 149

of Mayyâfâriqîn (Martyropolis)
HARRY MUNT

Christian King, Muslim Apostate: Depictions of Jabala 175

ibn al-Ayham in Early Arabic Sources
JULIA BRAY

Variations on an Egyptian Female Martyr Legend: 205

History, Hagiography, and the Gendered Politics
of Medieval Arab Religious Identity
STEPHEN J. DAVIS

Sainthood Achieved: Coptic Patriarch Zacharias according 219

to The History of the Patriarchs
MARK N. SWANSON
 F OREWORD

T
his volume began its life as a panel organized with Muriel Debié at
the 21st International Congress of Byzantine Studies held in London
in August 2006. Our aim was to explore the all-too neglected relation
between history and hagiography as the two main narrative modes of repre-
senting the past in the late antique and medieval Near East. These were clearly
as distinct for their practitioners as they are for us, but they evidently shared
more common elements in that world than scholars allow for today. The inter-
weaving of the two genres and the blurring of their frontiers, but also their
circulation beyond religious or cultural borders, was one of the issues that we had
suggested as a possible angle of investigation, and it found favour with most of the
contributors.
In order to cover a wider chronological and geographical field, the six pa-
pers of the Congress session (Binggeli, Davis, Khalek, Krueger, Sizgorich, and
Walker) have been complemented with five additional articles (Bray, Debié,
Munt, Schenke, and Swanson). Catherine Cubitt, who gave a response at the con-
ference, has transformed and expanded it to make the volume’s introduction.
Some exciting new avenues of approach are opened by the contributors, and I
hope this volume, still a very tentative start, will inspire further work in this
promising area which lies at the intersection of several disciplines.
There could be no better venue for a book like this one than a series on Cul-
tural Encounters in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, and I would like to
express my gratitude to Yitzhak Hen for accepting the book in this series. It is also
a pleasure to thank Muriel Debié and Hugh Kennedy for being such gracious co-
editors, and Robert Hoyland for his comments and repeated proof-reading. This
book was prepared for the most part during a Marie Curie fellowship at the
x Foreword

Faculty of Oriental Studies, University of Oxford, which also met some of the
costs occasioned by the publication process.

—Arietta Papaconstantinou, June 2009

 A BBREVIATIONS

AnalBoll Analecta Bollandiana: Revue critique d’hagiographie

(Brussels: Société des Bollandistes)
BHO Bibliotheca hagiographica orientalis, ed. by Paul Peeters
Subsidia hagiographica, 10 (Brussels: Société des Bol-
landistes, 1910)
BHG Bibliotheca hagiographica graeca, ed. by François Halkin,
3rd edn, Subsidia hagiographica, 8 (Brussels: Société
des Bollandistes, 1957)
CSCO Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium (Paris:
Poussielgue; Leuven: Peeters, 1903– )
PO Patrologia Orientalis (Paris: Firmin-Didot; Turnhout:
Brepols, 1904– )
 INTRODUCTION :
W RITING T RUE S TORIES —
A V IEW FROM THE W EST

Catherine Cubitt

T
he martyrs, saints, and heroes whom the reader will encounter in this
volume hail from across the Christian and Muslim Near East, from Persia,
Syria, Palestine, Egypt, and the Arab empire and their lifetimes date from
the seventh to the eleventh century CE. All became the stuff of legend — virgin
martyrs, heroic soldiers, saintly leaders, and victims of persecution — and their
tales were told, orally and in writing, from the seventh century through to the
fifteenth and beyond. The volume accordingly ranges widely and examines
figures of diverse origins, many of whose reputations travelled across religious,
political and cultural boundaries. All may be termed exemplary men and women,
that is those whose lives were ‘valued and admired not merely (or even necessarily)
for [their] practical achievements, but for the moral or ethical or social truths or
values which [they are] perceived both to embody and, through force of example,
to impress on the minds of others’.1 The biggest group is that of the martyrs — the
Persian George killed for his refusal to give up his Christian faith by the Persian
king, Khusro II, the Egyptian nun who died to preserve her virginity, the
Christian Anthony, a high-born convert from Islam, the ordinary Christian
believers of Najrân, forced into a burning trench for their beliefs. The martyr
was such a powerful figure that other types of life and reputation could be re-
fashioned according to its model. As Sizgorich states: ‘divinely inspired communal

1
Geoffrey Cubitt, ‘Introduction: Heroic Reputations and Exemplary Lives’, in Heroic Repu-
tations and Exemplary Lives, ed. by Geoffrey Cubitt and Allen Warren (Manchester: Manchester
University Press, 2000), pp. 1–26 (p. 2).
2 Catherine Cubitt

champion par excellence in the imaginations of late ancient Romans and Mus-
lims alike was the martyr, who, through his or her rejection of the enticements
and terrors of worldly kings, first insisted upon and then proved through trial the
defining truths or his or her community of God’. Other figures discussed in this
volume include the not-so-saintly Coptic pope Zacharias whose mild resistance
to apostasy awarded him a saintly reputation, and leaders from the heroic age of
Islam, the Companions of MuhE ammad — remodelled according to Christian
tropes — and the last Arab king, Jabala, a Christian client of the Romans. The
essays assembled here look at the ways in which the stories of these martyrs, saints,
and leaders were told and refashioned, and the ways in which the telling was
shaped by genre, discourses, and oral testimony. ‘What resonates is not the life
as lived, but the life as made sense of, the life imaginatively reconstructed and
rendered significant.’ 2
This geographical, chronological, and cultural breadth enables the individual
authors to trace the development and different cultural reflexes of narratives
and motifs across long periods and cultural boundaries. The essays of Binggeli,
Khalek, Munt, Sizgorich, Davis, and Bray examine how stories of particular
martyrs and heroes were moulded and changed in different milieux and what
work these freshly crafted stories performed. Recent work has demonstrated the
mingling of late antique Christian and classical/Hellenistic traditions with early
Islamic culture in the Near East in the aftermath of the Arab conquests and
the essays in this volume serve as case studies in cultural fusion and diversity,
collectively providing a conspectus of interaction and change, by a series of studies
which individually illustrate the trajectories of particular narratives. The dramatic
events of the seventh and eighth centuries engendered questions of identity not
only for the Muslim conquerors but also for the fragmented Christian com-
munities living under non-Christian rule and facing internal divisions of their
own. New identities and unities could be woven around charismatic figures:
martyrs, saints, and kings whose stories could be told and retold to act as symbols
of suffering, spiritual victory, or as figures embodying the conflict between old and
new.
Stephen J. Davis shows how the story of a virgin martyr, probably a tale of
folkloric origin, was retold and used as a metaphor to negotiate the boundaries be-
tween Muslim and Christian in Egyptian society. In the History of the Patriarchs,
a beautiful nun foils the attempts of her Muslim persecutors to violate her chastity
by tricking them into executing her. Davis argues cogently that the vulnerable

2
Cubitt, ‘Introduction’, p. 3.
INTRODUCTION 3

female body of the martyr acts as a metaphor for the domination of the Coptic
Church under Muslim rule. In later retellings recorded in Arab sources, the nun
receives her death at the hands of Coptic rebels, an adjustment which Davis
suggests may signal the use of the story to express the tensions within the Coptic
community and accommodation in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries with
their Muslim neighbours. In the third version of the story examined, the self-
sacrifice of the nun becomes an exemplar of sexual virtue, a value shared be-
tween Christian and Arab communities. The story of the converted Muslim
noble, Anthony, in Damascus in 799 was transmitted in different ways within the
Jacobite and Melkite communities from the early ninth century. The cult became
particularly popular within the Melkite Church and passed thence from Damas-
cus to Palestine, Egypt, Baghdad, and Khurâsân, among Christian communities
living within the caliphate ‘crossing language barriers and even strict confes-
sional borders’, from Melkites to Maronites, Georgians and Ethiopians (p. 85).
Binggeli argues that the attraction of Anthony’s tale lay in his noble Muslim
origins which came over time to be linked to the celebrated caliph )Umâr II.
Anthony stood for the resistance of Christians to conversion and served perhaps
to encourage Arab apostates from Christianity to return to the fold. The tale was
transmutated further within the Byzantine Empire between the ninth and
eleventh centuries when it was assimilated to legends about the conversion of the
Caliph, another story of ancient origin — the conversion of the impious ruler —
and used in service of hopes for final triumph of Christianity over Islam.
The hagiography of the late antique saint Marûthâ is a valuable source for Ibn
al-Azraq in his quest to record and dignify the foundation of his city, Mayyâfâriqîn.
Ibn al-Azraq may have deliberately modified the saint’s story in order to attribute
the foundation of Mayyâfâriqîn to the great emperor, Constantine, well known
to Arab circles for his establishment of the prestigious city of Constantinople.
Munt argues that although Ibn al-Azraq’s work may have had a mixed audience
of Muslims and Christians, his utilization and remodelling of the Life represent
not cultural interaction, but appropriation of a Christian tale to facilitate his
composition of a foundation narrative of a type common to Muslim historians.
Key figures from the Muslim past could be refashioned to provide the early
Islamic peoples with a sense of identity and community and utilized to express
tensions in the growth of the umma. The Companions of the Prophet could be
presented as figures of exemplary piety, models of Muslim virtue, vested in sancti-
fied clothing borrowed from the age-old and extensive wardrobe of Byzantine
saints. Khalek demonstrates how Islamic authors used Byzantine concepts of
religious asceticism and of warrior sanctity to give shape and substance to the
4 Catherine Cubitt

Companions of MuhE ammad. In Julia Bray’s article, Jabala, king of the tribe of
Ghassân, a Christian who fought against the Muslims at the Battle of Yarmuk as
a client of the Byzantines, also became an iconic figure but one who represented
the tensions between the old order and the new. Tradition relates how Jabala was
converted to Islam but apostatized because of his pride. While on pilgrimage,
Jabala — equipped with great splendour and luxury — refuses to make reparation
for his injury to a social inferior despite the command of the Caliph, )Umâr, and
returns to Byzantium and to his old faith. Jabala’s pride and worldly magnificence
mark him out as a symbol of the Arab world before Islam, while the moral purity
and equality of the new order are represented by the Caliph and his insistence on
reparation. But Bray notes a certain attractiveness in Jabala’s embodiment of the
old world and positive as well as negative stories circulated about him. She argues
that the figure of Jabala embodied different and opposed currents in the )Abbâsid
world.
Bray’s assemblage of texts recounting the story of Jabala illustrates the diversity
of historical discourse in the )Abbâsid period, drawing upon poetry, genealogy,
oral narratives, and other sources. Bray notes how some authors present the diver-
sity of stories about Jabala and do not seek to reconcile or harmonize them while
others try to synthesize different tales to achieve coherence. Historical narratives
are assembled as a type of bricolage, episodes and characters are assigned to
‘a variable set of events, dates, and chronological schemes’ (p. 195). Even the
identities of the historical actors can be changed. Bray identifies a Jabala cycle
which is transmitted in different forms and modified to suit the purposes of the
individual text. In Ibn A)tham al-Kûf î ’s FutûhE , Jabala’s story is part of the Muslim
grand narrative of the Islamic conquests, reinforcing the theme of the moral
triumph of Islam and opposing Christian luxury and corruption to Muslim heroic
purity. The ‘truths’ contained in these stories are as much moral as historical.
Bray’s corpus of Jabala stories in )Abbâsid historiography is a rich resource,
demonstrating the range of history writing and how different authors assembled
their works from an abundance of traditions. She shows the ease with which an
emblematic figure such as Jabala can be manipulated for different purposes.
Sizgorich describes how the Muslim historiography of the political and cultural
rise of Islam came to be constructed from the fragments of tradition preserved in
poetry concerning individual warriors and tribal groups. Pre-Islamic Arab culture
did not possess the tradition of history writing that could make sense of the rapid
transformation of the Byzantine and Arab world that took place in the seventh
century. Sizgorich argues for the profound influence of late antique culture, and
particularly hagiography upon Islamic thought, providing a repertoire of symbols,
INTRODUCTION 5

narratives, and topoi which could transform shards of memory into meaningful
stories.
The Lives of martyrs or of illustrious figures like Jabala or )Umâr acted as a
medium for thinking about the past. Tales of their actions or their heroic deaths
can be contextualized within explanatory narratives which link up the lives of
individuals with historical processes. In this sense, history and hagiography are
linked by a seamless continuum so that saints and martyrs can move from one
text or genre to another. History and hagiography can both show the workings of
God in the world. They are both closely linked to exegesis which provides an
understanding of the divine through the close study of Scripture. Sizgorich shows
how the story of the Christian martyrs of Najrân was used to explicate the Sûrat
al-burûj in the Qur(ân. In Walker’s account of the writings of Babai the Great,
the Syriac abbot used his hagiographical writing to demonstrate theological
truths. His History of St George, an account of the martyrdom of a contemporary,
was a tool in the struggles which Babai faced as an East Syrian Christian leader
in the Sasanian Empire. Its preface addressed to a member of a powerful Persian
family increased Babai’s own religious standing while the dissemination of text
and the cult embodied the unity which he hoped for amongst the Christians in
Persia. Babai was the author of a number of hagiographies of recent martyrs, but
wrote no history. Hagiography was his preferred way of addressing the role of
providence in the recent past.
A key theme in this volume is the interplay between history and hagiography.
The story of the martyr Anthony, for example, was transmitted in Syriac historical
chronicles in the Jacobite community where in the Melkite one, hagiography was
the medium for its preservation. The earliest version of the passion in the latter
was an Arabic text composed in the early ninth century. Swanson discusses the
unexceptional life of the Coptic pope Zacharias, the sixty-fourth patriarch (1004–
32) who was commemorated as a saint in a section of the History of the Patriarchs
of the Coptic Church written by Bishop Michael of Tinnis around 1050. The
same source recorded the story of the martyred virgin nun, analysed by Davis. The
same tale was also repeated in the History of the Churches and Monasteries of Egypt
in the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries and by the Muslim historical and
topographical work, al-Khitò atò , from the early fifteenth century. Does the ease with
which such narratives could move between chronicles, topographical works, and
hagiography indicate that distinctions between genres were meaningless in the
eyes of medieval authors? Felice Lifhitz, a scholar of early and high European
medieval hagiography, has argued that the concept of a genre of hagiography
was developed in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries as part of the
6 Catherine Cubitt

emergence of history as a scientific and objective discipline. In the eyes of

nineteenth-century scholars, history, both medieval and modern, was concerned
with accuracy and objectivity, where hagiographies, with their obsession with
miracles and predilection for transferring stories about one saint to their own sub-
ject, came to be seen as accounts of fiction and legend. The distinction between
history and hagiography is therefore, according to Felice Lifshitz, a modern
distortion of medieval traditions and obscures the role of both histories and
hagiographies as writings about the past.3
The essays assembled in this volume demonstrate rather the opposite: that late
antique and medieval authors were highly sensitive to genre. Swanson argues that
the sanctity of the unremarkable Pope Zacharias — who was upstaged politically
and spiritually by more powerful figures for the whole of his period of office — is
signalled by Michael of Tinnis precisely by his use of genre. Zacharias’s biography
takes for the form of a saint’s Life followed by a catalogue of miracles. Binggeli
notes that the Syriac chronicles display a remarkable lack of interest in the cult of
the martyr Anthony. Commenting on the difference between the Jacobite and
Melkite traditions, the first lacking hagiography in the early Islamic period and
the latter continuing to produce it, he asks pertinently: ‘This striking dissymmetry
between the hagiographical production in the Melkite and Jacobite communities
raises the question of what aims the hagiographers and chroniclers of different
confessions were pursuing. Are they simply using various literary forms to pro-
mote martyrs […] or do they have radically opposed ways of considering the role
of such figures as models for their fellow believers?’ (p. 78).
Krueger persuasively and powerfully demonstrates how the distinction be-
tween history and hagiography profoundly affected individual authors. By the
fifth century, hagiography had become a textual form distinct from history writ-
ing. Authors working in both genres developed different authorial personae
depending on which form they were writing in and employed different literary
techniques. When writing hagiography, authors stress their humility and obe-
dience, claiming to be inadequate to their task. Hagiography is more marked by

3
Felice Lifshitz, ‘Beyond Positivism and Genre: “Hagiographical” Texts as Historical Nar-
rative’, Viator, 25 (1994), 95–113. On the question of genre, see also Baudoin de Gaiffier, ‘Hagi-
ographie et historiographie: Quelques aspects du problème’, La Storiografia altomedievale, 10–16
aprile, 1969, Settimane di Studio del Centro italiano sull’alto medioevo, 17 (Spoleto: Presso la
sede del Centro, 1970), pp. 139–66; Friedrich Lotter, ‘Methodisches zur Gewinnung historischer
Erkenntnisse aus hagiographischen Quellen’, Historische Zeitshrift, 229 (1979), 298–356; Marc
van Uytfanghe, ‘L’hagiographie: Un “genre” chrétien ou antique tardif?’, AnalBoll, 111 (1993),
135–88.
INTRODUCTION 7

recourse to biblical quotations and examples. Theodoret, writing in the fifth

century, makes greater use of biblical quotations in his Religious History than in
his Ecclesiastical History. Were such distinctions lacking in the West? A brief
study of the writings of the eighth-century Anglo-Saxon Bede suggests otherwise.
The Ecclesiastical History of the English People is Bede’s most famous work,
but he composed over a dozen works of exegesis, as well as pedagogical texts
and poetry. His Ecclesiastical History was completed in 731, at the end of a life
primarily spent in the study of the Bible and in the production of biblical com-
mentaries.4 Bede’s interest in time and chronology was strong and present from
his early days as a writer. In 703 he composed a study of time and its calculation
to which he appended a short chronicle. His own History was preceded about five
years earlier by a longer and more expanded Chronicle.5 There are significant
continuities between Bede’s writings in these different forms: his biblical exegesis
is marked by a notable exploration of the historical aspects of the Holy Scripture,
for example, in the actual form of the Tabernacle as much as its spiritual signi-
ficance,6 his History weaves into its narrative of political and institutional events
biographies and miracles of saintly missionaries and church leaders, and his
hagiography deploys moralizing and narrativizing techniques which are also a
feature of his History.7 Did Bede, then, perceive a distinction between his work as
a historian and his work as a hagiographer?
The Ecclesiastical History opens with a preface addressed to his king, Ceolwulf
of Northumbria. Bede describes himself simply as a ‘servant of Christ and priest’.
Bede opens by stating that Ceolwulf has asked to see the recently published His-
tory and that the King had already seen an earlier draft. He praises the King for his
desire to learn not only from Holy Scripture, but also from the deeds of the past:
‘Should history tell of good men and their good estate, the thoughtful listener is
spurred on to imitate the good; should it record the evil ends of wicked men, no
less effectually the devout and earnest listener or reader is kindled to eschew what
is harmful and perverse, and himself with greater care pursue those things which

4
George Hardin Brown, A Companion to Bede (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2009), pp. 1–16.
5
Bede: The Reckoning of Time, trans. by Faith Wallis (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press,
1999), pp. lxvii–lxxi.
6
Alan Thacker, ‘Bede and Augustine of Hippo: History and Figure in Sacred Text’, Jarrow
Lecture 2005, Jarrow, St Paul’s Church, 2005.
7
Catherine Cubitt, ‘Narrative and Memory in the Cult of Early Anglo-Saxon Saints’, in The
Uses of the Past in the Early Middle Ages, ed. by Matthew Innes and Yitzhak Hen (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 29–66 (pp. 46–50).
8 Catherine Cubitt

he has learned to be good and pleasing in the sight of God.’8 The majority of the
preface is taken by Bede’s careful detailing of his sources and authorities behind
the History, concluding with a disclaimer: ‘So I humbly beg the reader, if he
finds anything other than the truth set down in what I have written, not to
impute it to me. For, in accordance with the principles of true history, I have
simply sought to commit to writing what I have collected from common report,
for the instruction of posterity.’9 He ends the preface with a request for inter-
cession on the part of those reading or hearing his book.
Bede’s preface to the Ecclesiastical History is a remarkable claim to authorial
authority. He signals that he is writing for no less than the King of Northumbria
and that his text bears a royal imprimatur. His sources for the History are un-
impeachable — bishops and senior monks, men who had direct knowledge of
their subjects, authoritative monastic traditions and, where all these fail, oral re-
port supported by the ‘principles of true history’. This phrase is, in fact, borrowed
from Jerome and already used by Bede in his commentary on Luke’s Gospel, a
telling pointer to the links between Bede’s exegetical and historical thinking.10
Bede concludes his History with an annalistic recapitulation of the main events
described within it and rounds it off with his own autobiography: his birth on
estates of his monastery of Jarrow, his oblation, ordinations, and monastic life, a
catalogue of his writings. Bede’s authority as writer is made powerfully manifest
in this short sketch, one of the very few pieces of autobiographical writing to come
down to us from the eighth-century West. His sense of identity is indissolubly
tied to his monastery and its abbots, even to the extent of describing his birthplace
as the territory of Jarrow, although the house had not been founded when he was
born. But at the same time, the very textual production of his Life is a testimony
to his self-confidence, and he finished his work with a prayer, not to the reader for
intercession but to Christ himself.
Bede’s authorial persona is rather different in his major work of hagiography,
the prose Life of St Cuthbert, completed about ten years earlier. Where the preface

8
Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People, ed. by Bertram Colgrave and R . A. B.
Mynors (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969), pp. 2–7 (p. 3).
9
Bede’s Ecclesiastical History, ed. Colgrave and Mynors, p. 7.
10
Bede, The Ecclesiastical History of the English People, ed. and trans. by Judith McClure and
Roger Collins (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994), p. 361, Roger D. Ray, ‘Bede, the Exegete,
as Historian’, in Famulus Christi: Essays in Commemoration of the Thirteenth Centenary of
the Birth of the Venerable Bede, ed. by Gerard Bonner (London: S.P.C.K., 1976), pp. 125–40,
especially p. 130.
INTRODUCTION 9

to the Ecclesiastical History situated Bede in relation to royal authority and

national histories, that to the prose Life of Cuthbert locates him firmly within
the monastic profession. It opens by addressing Bishop Eadfrith of Lindisfarne
and the brethren there, and throughout Bede is anxious to associate himself with
Cuthbert’s community as ‘fellow servant’ and friend, culminating in his reminder
to them to enrol him in their confraternity book so that he will receive their
prayers after this death. Bede again sets out his quest for authentic material, for
genuine information about Cuthbert, a truth which is tested by reading the
resulting vita to the elders of Lindisfarne for their approval. Bede is writing here
as a monk for monks, and he adopts a tone in keeping with his profession, one
of humility and obedience, describing the vita as an ‘opusculum’, referring to the
task which the brothers had imposed upon his ‘obedience’ and requesting their
intercession for ‘one so insignificant, that I may be worthy, now, with a pure heart
to long for, and hereafter, in perfect bliss, “to see the goodness of the Lord in the
land of the living”’.11 Bede’s preface therefore situates him as an author as monk
writing in obedience to a commission, in fellowship with the community he is
writing for.
Bede’s use of this quotation from the psalms indicates another way in which
Derek Krueger’s analysis of the different authorial personae generated by his-
tory and hagiography holds good for Bede. In the Life of St Cuthbert, biblical
quotations are an important element in its construction of meaning. Chapters
frequently conclude with a biblical citation which draws a moral from the miracle
recounted and scriptural quotations are placed into the text to show how Cuth-
bert’s Life conforms to biblical teachings.12 Biblical citations and examples are by
no means as prominent a feature of Bede’s History. Moreover Bede’s History is
shaped by marking the passage of time. Famous for its use of dating by the Incar-
nation, the History represents a remarkable achievement in harmonizing different
dating systems and in incorporating material which may have originally lacked any
precise chronological context. The Life of Cuthbert, by contrast, does not mention
a single date.13 This does not mean that it is uninterested in the passage of
time: it shares with the Ecclesiastical History the use of causal narrative, linking
disconnected events to one another to create a narrative which explains their

11
Bede, Prose Life of St Cuthbert, in Two Lives of Saint Cuthbert, ed. by Bertram Colgrave
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1940), pp. 146–47; the quotation is Psalms 26. 13.
12
Cubitt, ‘Memory and Narrative’, pp. 49–50.
13
Bede, Prose Life of St Cuthbert, chap. 36, p. 266, reports that Cuthbert was a bishop for two
years.
10 Catherine Cubitt

significance.14 Bede, unlike the earlier anonymous hagiographer of Saint Cuth-

bert, wished to show how his hero had developed as a saint from childhood
through his conversion to the religious life, his ordinations and offices, to his
death as a hermit.15 In his hagiography, Cuthbert was an exemplar for spiritual
emulation, not an agent in religious and secular politics. This lack of precision is
even more marked in Bede’s verse Life of Cuthbert, an earlier work written for use
in meditation and devotions. It strips Cuthbert’s Life of precision and details
and places it in ‘a timeless, placeless framework’.16 The devotional intention of
hagiography remoulds figures as universal paradigms of sanctity where history
shows how saints are active on earth as intermediaries of God.17
The differences between Bede’s hagiography and history raise important ques-
tions of audience. According to his preface, Bede wrote his History with a royal
audience in focus, where his Lives of St Cuthbert expect a religious or monastic
readership. Bede’s History was certainly read very widely, in churches but also at
royal courts: Charlemagne’s library probably included a copy and it was translated
into the vernacular at the time of Alfred the Great.18 It may be that the question
of audience is more useful than a question of literary genre. Hagiographies could
be put to many uses: as devotional reading within a religious community, de-
ployed as the basis of preaching on a saint’s feast day, or edited to produce lections
read out in the liturgy. Some Latin hagiographies were certainly used in preaching
to the laity. Schenke’s study of Coptic encomia discusses eulogies written for
recitation at the saint’s shrine to a local audience. Their claims to authenticity and
legitimacy were therefore intended for a devotional assembly. But perhaps we
should consider not only different audiences for history and hagiography but
also different types of reading. Bede’s poetic Life of Cuthbert demanded a more
meditative form of reading from his prose Life.19 Both history and hagiography

14
Cubitt, ‘Memory and Narrative’, pp. 46–50.
15
Clare Stancliffe, ‘Cuthbert and the Polarity between Pastor and Solitary’, in St Cuthbert,
his Cult and his Community to AD 1200, ed. by G. Bonner, D. Rollason, and C. Stancliffe (Wood-
bridge: Boydell, 1989), pp. 21–44.
16
Michael Lapidge, ‘Bede’s Metrical Vita s. Cuthberti’, in his Anglo-Latin Literature 600–899
(London: Hambledon, 1996), p. 353.
17
See the perceptive comments of Karen A. Winstead in her study of Gregory of Tours, ‘The
Transformation of the Miracle Story in the “Libri Historiarium” of Gregory of Tours’, Medium
Aevum, 59 (1990), 1–15.
18
Brown, Companion, pp. 118, 123.
19
Lapidge, ‘Bede’s Metrical Vita’, p. 355.
INTRODUCTION 11

taught moral lessons, but hagiography presented saints as exemplars worthy of

imitation and as figures whose intercession could be sought.
Notions of genre are therefore not anachronistic in late antiquity and in the
earlier Middle Ages. Bede was deeply conscious of the different functions and uses
of the literary forms he wrote in. It may be that by the ninth century, Lifhitz’s
starting point, the distinctions between writing hagiography and writing history
had become irretrievably blurred, but this seems unlikely given the sensitivity of
medieval writers to rhetorical and literary tropes and forms. Lifhitz is certainly
correct to argue that a modern, post-Enlightenment view of the scientific nature
of history is an inappropriate lens through which to view medieval writings about
the past. Both history and hagiography presented moral truths. Schenke clearly
demonstrates that claims to truth and authentic tradition were an important part
of Coptic encomia on saints. Likewise, Bede’s prefaces to his History and to his
Life of St Cuthbert describe in very similar terms the reliability of his text and his
consultation of knowledgeable witnesses, even though his authorial persona is
very different in both.
In her wide-ranging and nuanced survey of hagiographical and historical
writing in East and West Syrian traditions, Muriel Debié notes that history and
hagiography can be considered genres, ‘although neither of them corresponds to
a unique literary form’. As she rightly comments, classification is not an empty
question ‘because the form chosen by the writers implies in itself a meaning and
a purpose’. Hagiography is a heterogeneous genre, encompassing many different
forms, including biographies, passions, miracula, and translations. Like Binggeli,
she points to regional and chronological variations in the production of both hagi-
ography and history. West Syrian tradition came to use universal chronicles as its
principal means of remembering the past, perhaps eschewing the creation of new,
local saints in order to maintain its bond with the universal church. The East
Syrian Church on the other hand, produces both hagiographies — often martyr
passions — and histories.
Debié suggests that one important difference between history and hagiography
in her selected texts is the emphasis on personal testimony as a mark of authen-
ticity in hagiography. The Syriac language does not distinguish between biography
and passions or between hagiography and history, but uses the word taš ‘itâ, ‘story’,
or šarba, ‘account’. The articles collected within this volume evidence the com-
plexity and diversity of narratives used to record the stories of exemplary lives.
Perhaps another way forward from the problems of defining genres would be to
explore narrative patterns and techniques, rather as Bray has assembled a corpus
of Jabala stories in order to investigate early Islamic historiography.
12 Catherine Cubitt

One striking feature to a historian of the Latin West of the texts discussed here
is that so many of them emanate from minority and persecuted groups. There is
clearly a link between these minority texts and the promotion of martyrs, as the
voice of resistance. This also sets them apart from the Western tradition. Anglo-
Saxon texts, for example, rarely explicitly criticize ruling kings and represent the
dominant discourse. Bede’s voice is an authoritative one, allied to royal and high
ecclesiastical power. His criticisms of contemporary kings are implicit, an un-
spoken subtext. But the papers in this volume frequently explore dissenting texts,
texts which were created to empower minorities and to legitimate their struggles.
Babai the Great claimed to use the autobiographical prison diary of the martyr
George. I was reminded here of the polemical texts produced by Maximus the
Confessor and his followers after his trial and exile by the Byzantine emperor, a
polemical dossier circulated for propaganda purposes. These are also highly per-
sonal accounts by his disciples of their sufferings.20 Is there any connection here
between the confident assertion of the self in the mode of autobiography and the
dissenting voice? Did the diversity and sophistication of Eastern literary culture
foster a more independent discourse than in the West, where textual culture
seems to have been closely allied to the structures of power?
Bede’s ‘principles of true history’ referred not to post-Enlightenment notions
of scientific accuracy and objective truth but to what was commonly believed.
‘What mattered was the message of the narrative, not its details. If details were
corrected for their own sake and thus made strange to the audience, then nothing
might be gained and everything lost, since the narrative might lose verisimilitude
and become rhetorically ineffective.’21 The true stories told in the different
narratives explored in this volume all possessed this powerful, higher truth: they
resonated with their audiences and could be used to explore and symbolize the
needs of these communities.
University of York

20
Maximus the Confessor and his Companions, ed. and trans. by Pauline Allen and Bronwen
Neil (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002).
21
Ray, ‘Bede, the Exegete’, pp. 129–30.
 E ARLY B YZANTINE H ISTORIOGRAPHY
AND H AGIOGRAPHY AS D IFFERENT
M ODES OF C HRISTIAN P RACTICE

Derek Krueger

F
rom the perspective of the modern critic, concerned with the classifications
of texts, late ancient and early Byzantine ecclesiastical histories and saints’
Lives belong to different genres. Ancient readers also consistently classified
these texts as separate literary types even as their genres were merely emerging.1
The works prompted different expectations about what the reader would and
should encounter within and demanded different sorts of literary performances
on the part of their authors. The division, however, was neither entirely consistent
nor simultaneous. Eusebius of Caesarea (c. 260–339/40) most likely wrote his
Ecclesiastical History in the 310s, before the genre of Christian hagiography ex-
isted as such, and devoted his sixth book to an extensive biography of Origen.2

1
On the slow emergence of the genre of hagiography, see Derek Krueger, Writing and
Holiness: The Practice of Authorship in the Early Christian East (Philadelphia: University of
Pennsylvania Press, 2004), especially pp. 4–6, 195–97; some of my conclusions are encapsulated
in Derek Krueger, ‘Literary Composition and Monastic Practice in Early Byzantium: On Genre
and Discipline’, in Monastères, images, pouvoirs et société à Byzance, ed. by Michel Kaplan, Byzan-
tina Sorbonensia, 23 (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 2006), pp. 43–47. See also Virginia
Burrus, The Sex Lives of Saints: An Erotics of Ancient Hagiography (Philadelphia: University of
Pennsylvania Press, 2004), pp. 19–24.
2
Eusebius of Caesarea, Ecclesiastical History, ed. by Kirsopp Lake and John E. L. Oulton, 2
vols (London: Heinemann, 1926–32). On the date, see Richard Burgess, ‘The Dates and Editions
of Eusebius’ Chronici canones and Historia ecclesiastica’, Journal of Theological Studies, 48 (1997),
471–504, who has rejected a date in the 290s argued by Timothy Barnes, ‘The Editions of
Eusebius’ Ecclesiastical History’, Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies, 21 (1980), 191–201. On
14 Derek Krueger

And the genre hagiography was slow to emerge. Early saints’ Lives such as Ath-
anasius’s Life of Antony and Gregory of Nyssa’s Life of Macrina present themselves
as letters.3 Only when we get to Theodoret of Cyrrhus (c. 339–c. 466) in the 440s
does a Christian writer begin to think and write explicitly of ‘the Lives of the
Saints’ as a new and distinct Christian genre.4
The critic’s and reader’s perspective on genre may tend to focus attention
on the classification of the finished text in order to know what to expect from
its contents or, perhaps, to know on what shelf to place it within a library. An
author’s perspective on genre functions differently, guiding the process of literary
composition. In Writing and Holiness: The Practice of Authorship in the Early
Christian East I argued that the genre hagiography in particular prompted new
ways for Christians to think about authorship, spawning new performances of
authorial voice in which the narrating self strove to imitate both the style and
texture of biblical narrative and the patterns of virtue exhibited by the saint
extolled within the text. Distinct authorial subjectivities emerged in the prologues
and epilogues of saints’ Lives as early Byzantine writers reflected on their acts of
literary production, their work as authors, within a new economy of sanctity that
promoted humility and obedience.
Recognizing this new Christian literary praxis also raises questions of whether
the models for authorship that emerge in early Byzantine hagiography are also
found in early Byzantine historiography and of the extent to which different modes
of authorial display mark hagiography and historiography not only as different
genres but as different modes of Christian practice. Theodoret saturates his Reli-
gious History with biblical quotations and with comparisons between local ascetics

the Life of Origen, see Patricia Cox Miller, Biography in Late Antiquity: A Quest for the Holy Man
(Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1983). For perspective on the de-
velopment of historical writing more generally, see David Rohrbacher, The Historians of Late
Antiquity (New York: Routledge, 2002).
3
Athanasius, Life of Antony, prol. 4, in Athanase d’Alexandrie: Vie d’Antoine, ed. by
Gerhardus J. M. Bartelink, Sources chrétiennes, 400 (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1994). Gregory of
Nyssa, Life of Macrina, prol. 1, in Grégoire de Nysse: Vie de Sainte Macrine, ed. by Pierre Maraval,
Sources chrétiennes, 178 (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1971). See also Krueger, Writing and Holiness,
pp. 115–18.
4
Theodoret of Cyrrhus, Religious History, prol. 2–3, in Théodoret de Cyr: Histoire des moines
de Syrie, ed. by Pierre Canivet and Alice Leroy-Molinghen, Sources chrétiennes, 234 and 257
(Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1977–79). See also Theodoret, Epistle, 82; Théodoret de Cyr: Correspon-
dance, ed. by Yvan Y. Azéma, Sources chrétiennes, 98 (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1964). Krueger,
Writing and Holiness, pp. 196–97.
EARLY BYZANTINE HISTORIOGRAPHY AND HAGIOGRAPHY 15

and biblical heroes. He compares James of Cyrrhestica and Symeon the Stylite,
in particular, with a multiplicity of separate biblical types. He also compares his
composition of saints’ Lives with Moses’ ‘writing down the way of life of the holy
men of old’ (I.1) and compares his research methods with those of the gospel
writers, some of whom wrote as eyewitnesses (Luke and John), while other wrote
relying on oral testimony (Matthew and Mark) (prol. 11). Theodoret thus
anchors his heroes and his own authorial practice in biblical types.
Authorial performances of humility and obedience in particular mark the
early Byzantine hagiographer as an emulator of the saints he describes. Authorial
claims to be inadequate to the task of composition, to be ‘witless and unskilled
[Æäéþôçò ]’,5 or to write ‘without ignorance of my own unworthiness and deficient
education’,6 cast the work of composition within the framework of the virtue
humility, so that authors imitate the saints.7 In fact, the frequent quotation of
the phrase ‘witless and unskilled’ ties the author to the humility of the apos-
tles as described in Acts 4. 13: ‘Now when they saw the boldness of Peter and
John and realized that they were uneducated and unskilled men [–íèñùðïé
•ãñÜììáôïß åÆóéí êá Æäéù̃ ôáé ], they were amazed and recognized them as
companions of Jesus.’ In some texts, statements that the author writes only in
obedience to the demands of a superior or a community situate hagiographical
composition within the parameters of the monastic life, and, in fact, also claim the
Evangelists as models, since according to late ancient Christian lore, the gospellers
only wrote in response to the demands of others.8
While similar techniques are not entirely lacking in ecclesiastical historiogra-
phy, examination of the prologues and epilogues of late ancient church historians
and their employment of biblical citations reveals that authorial self-presentation
in historiography did not involve these most typical conventions of the emerg-
ing genre of hagiography. I briefly consider here the ecclesiastical histories of
Eusebius, Socrates (c. 380–after 439), Sozomen (c. 400–c. 450?), Theodoret,
and Evagrius of Antioch (c. 536–after 594). Together these authors produced

5
Life of Daniel the Stylite, I, in Les saints stylites, ed. by Hippolyte Delehaye, Subsidia hagio-
graphica, 14 (Brussels: Société des Bollandistes, 1923), pp. 1–94.
6
Cyril of Scythopolis, Life of Sabas, in Kyrillos von Skythopolis, ed. by Eduard Schwartz, Texte
und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur, 49. 2 (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1939),
pp. 85–200 (p. 86).
7
Krueger, Writing and Holiness, pp. 94–109.
8
On the Evangelists and models for authorship, see Krueger, Writing and Holiness, pp.
33–62.
16 Derek Krueger

a continuous and often overlapping narrative of Christianity’s history from

the perspective of Greek-speaking church authorities. With his supplementary
chapters, Eusebius covered the period from the origins of Christianity to 324.
Socrates’, Sozomen’s, and Theodoret’s accounts each continued where Eusebius
had left off. Socrates dealt with the years from 305 to 439, while Sozomen’s
account covers from 324 to 425 — the final part of his ninth book, which has
been lost, extended to 439. Theodoret started in 323 and ended in 428; Evagrius
continued with an account of the period from 431 to 594.9
In comparison with saints’ Lives, Socrates, Sozomen, and Evagrius of Antioch
employ few biblical citations, even while their historical analyses are undergirded
by theological expectations about the work of God in history. Their texts do not
intend to participate in and extend the world of the Bible into the era they de-
scribe. Theodoret is a particularly useful case, since he wrote in both genres. A
comparison of his Religious History and his Ecclesiastical History reveals that
although his Ecclesiastical History does use more biblical quotations than Soc-
rates and Sozomen, it uses far fewer biblical tags than the Religious History,
suggesting that he understood himself to be writing in a different mode. In a
few cases, Theodoret treats the same figures in both works: the re-narration in
the Ecclesiastical History of the deeds of James of Nisibis (II.30), Julian Saba,
Aphrahat, and Madedonius lack the persistent typological themes of their ac-
counts in the Religious History. The editors of the Nicene- and Post-Nicene
Fathers’ translation of Socrates cite relatively few biblical tags and quotations,
mostly in quotations of other authors. Their index to Sozomen (II.2.455) cites
a mere sixteen biblical citations in the entire work, a quarter of them in the
introductory chapter.
Statements of authorial humility in Christian literature predate their use as
ascetic topoi in hagiography. A passage from the first chapter of the first book of

9
Socrates, Ecclesiastical History, ed. by Günther C. Hansen, Die griechischen christlichen
Schriftsteller, n.s., 1 (Berlin: Akademie, 1995); trans. in Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers: Second
Series, ed. by Philip Schaff and Henry Wace, 14 vols (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1994), II,
1–178. Sozomen, Ecclesiastical History, ed. by Joseph Bidez, rev. edn ed. by Günther C. Hansen,
Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller, n.s., 4 (Berlin: Akademie, 1995); trans. in Nicene and
Post-Nicene Fathers: Second Series, II, 179–427. Theodoret of Cyrrhus, Kirchengeschichte, ed. by
Léon Parmentier and Felix Scheidweiler, Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller, 44 (Berlin:
Akademie, 1954); trans. in Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers: Second Series, III, 33–159. Evagrius,
Ecclesiastical History, ed. by Joseph Bidez and Léon Parmentier (London: Methuen, 1898); The
Ecclesiastical History of Evagrius Scholasticus, trans. by Michael Whitby, Translated Texts for
Historians, 33 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2000).
EARLY BYZANTINE HISTORIOGRAPHY AND HAGIOGRAPHY 17

Eusebius’s Ecclesiastical History displays both a declaration of the author’s limi-

tations and a prayer for God’s assistance:
I trust that kindly disposed readers will pardon the deficiencies of the work, for I confess
that my powers are inadequate to do full justice to so ambitious an undertaking. I am the
first to venture on such a project and to set out on what is indeed a lonely and untrodden
path; but I pray that I may have God to guide me and the power of the Lord to assist me.10

Consciously setting out to write in a new genre, Eusebius has already Chris-
tianized earlier Greco-Roman conventions for protestations of authorial modesty
and the occasional invocation of the muse. While such textual performances of
humility and dependence on divine assistance would, in time, become key ele-
ments of hagiographical front and back matter, they did not become standard
among Eusebius’s three continuators who composed in the 440s and 450s. In the
opening of his Ecclesiastical History, Socrates Scholasticus explicitly situates his
work as a continuation and expansion of Eusebius’s ‘history of the church in ten
books’ and Life of Constantine, but he eschews imitation of Eusebius’s claims of
inadequacy and prayer for God’s help. 11 Instead, his description of his sources
— ‘what we have been able to collect from documents, and what we have heard
from those who were familiar with the facts’ (I.1) — employs a trope of self-
positioning comparing his methods to the various methods attributed by late
ancient Christian readers to the New Testament Evangelists, especially Luke.12
Socrates presents himself and his text as revising parts of Eusebius’s narrative
that need correction. He uses his prologue to establish rather than undermine his
authority through a performance of humility. The trope of carefully researched
history recurs at the beginning of Socrates’ second book, where he presents his
work as a correction of Rufinus’s continuation of Eusebius, both with respect to
chronology and the examination of additional sources, including the writings of
Athanasius and ‘several letters of eminent persons’ (II.1).
While Socrates does not present his act of authorship as a performance of
asceticism, he does understand historical investigation as a theological discourse.
At the opening of Book V, Socrates apologizes to the reader for mixing wars

10
Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History, I.1; Eusebius, The History of the Church, trans. by Geoffrey
A. Williamson (London: Penguin, 1965), p. 32.
11
On the text more generally, see Theresa Urbainczyk, Socrates of Constantinople: Historian
of Church and State (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1997).
12
See Luke 1. 1–4. For the significance of Luke’s model of careful research and sifting of
sources for subsequent Christian authors’ self-presentation, see Krueger, Writing and Holiness,
pp. 29, 33–35, 42–46.
18 Derek Krueger

and political history into his history of the church but offers that the ‘mischiefs
of the state and the troubles of the Church have been inseparably connected’
(V.1); he proposes that current problems of imperial crisis and the spread of heresy
are chastisement for sin. At the opening of the sixth book, Socrates remarks on his
style ‘divested indeed of all the affectation of sublimity’, not to connect it with the
simple speech of the apostles, as a hagiographer might, but rather to explain that
he was gauging his rhetoric to his audience (VI.1).
The Ecclesiastical History of Sozomen, by contrast, opens with the author’s
reflection on the huge scale of the task. He reasons that if ‘so divine and mar-
vellous a change has taken place’ in the demise of paganism, ‘why should not I rise
above myself and write a history of the Church?’ He concludes his introduction
‘invoking the help and propitiousness of God’ (I.1). The text lacks any attempt to
link this cursory suffrage to broader patterns of prayer, and while possibly modest,
Sozomen’s self-presentation involves no sort of self-abasement. Sozomen is emu-
lating earlier historians, not emulating the saints.
The introduction to Theodoret’s Ecclesiastical History is brief, with a few
sentences comparing writing and painting in which ‘historians substitute books
for pictures’. This recalls the much more elaborate discussion of sculpture and
hagiography in his earlier Religious History. And he includes a statement of au-
thorial humility, although it lacks explicitly ascetic vocabulary: ‘When I compare
my own powers with the magnitude of the undertaking, I shrink from attempting
it. Trusting, however, in the bounty of the Giver of all good, I enter upon a task
beyond my own strength’ (prol. 1). Theodoret does claim that he was ‘frequently
urged by friends’ to write the Ecclesiastical History, employing a topos found in
early Byzantine discussions of why the Evangelists wrote the Gospels.13 Never-
theless, Theodoret does not here employ his hagiographical guise.
Evagrius Scholasticus’s Ecclesiastical History, completed in 593/94, con-
sciously followed in the steps of the four earlier church historians.14 Here for
the first time — and some 150 years after the previous three authors — we also

13
For the Evangelists as reluctant writers, see Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History, II.15, III.24. John
Chrysostom, Homilies on Matthew, 1. 3, in Patrologiae cursus completus […] Series Graeca, ed. by
Jacques-Paul Migne, 161 vols (Paris: Migne, 1857–66), LVII, cols 13–472, LVIII, cols 471–794
(here LVII, col. 17); Epiphanius of Salamis, Panarion, 51.12.2; Epiphanius, Bände 1–3: Ancoratus
und Panarion, ed. by Karl Holl and Jürgen Dummer, Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller,
25, 31, 37 (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1915–33). See also Cosmas Indicopleustes, Christian Topography,
V .190, 196, 198, 202, in Cosmas Indicopleustès: Topographie chrétienne, ed. by Wanda Wolska-
Conus, Sources chrétiennes, 141, 159, 197 (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1968–73).
14
The Ecclesiastical History, trans. by Whitby, pp. xx, lv–lx.
EARLY BYZANTINE HISTORIOGRAPHY AND HAGIOGRAPHY 19

see the influence of hagiographical models for authorial asceticism in the his-
torian’s self-presentation. In his opening paragraph, after citing the works of
Eusebius, Sozomen, Theodoret, and Socrates, Evagrius explains that he had taken
in hand to describe more recent events, although he has not ‘obtained any sort of
sequential account’ (I.5). In this manner, he confesses that he has failed to produce
a narrative on the model of the author of the New Testament books of Luke and
Acts who claimed that he had produced an ‘orderly account [•êñéâù̃ò êáèåîç̃ò ]’
so that his reader ‘may know the truth concerning the things of which [he has]
been informed’ (Luke 1. 1–4). Evagrius identifies not with Luke but with the
much humbler apostles. He writes ‘even though I am not expert in such matters,
and undertake to labour for their sake and to make these into an account, putting
full trust in Him who both gave wisdom to fisherman and changed an unrea-
soning tongue into articulate eloquence’ (I.5). In addition to the conventional
historian’s claim to ‘lack of literary competence’,15 Evagrius allies himself with the
disciples, simple men who were granted the ability to speak well and wisely by the
inspiration of the holy spirit at Pentecost in Acts 2. 1–4. That said, Evagrius
avoids further tropes typical of authorial self-denigration in hagiography.
In general, the authorial voices present in the prologues of ecclesiastical his-
tories adopt subjectivities different from those developing in hagiography. On
the one hand, the general lack of certain hagiographical tropes in ecclesiastical
histories, such as biblical tags and performances of humility, serves as a control,
confirming the novelty of hagiographical performances of authorship. On the
other hand, the appearance of other Christian tropes, or the Christianization of
older historiographical tropes, suggests that ecclesiastical history also prompted
a distinct, if different, mode of Christian literary practice. This mode rested on
the authority of research methods and the claim to stand in relationship to earlier
historiographical texts. The persona of the ecclesiastical historian was also a
Christian type.
Some of the differences in the authorial voices present in late ancient and early
Byzantine hagiography and ecclesiastical history no doubt derive from the varied
contexts in which their texts were read and heard. At present we know too little
about the performance contexts for both incipient genres. It seems most likely
that hagiography reached a wider audience, including significant numbers of un-
educated and lay Christians, especially when texts were read at shrines or in
paraliturgical services on the anniversaries of saints’ deaths. Ecclesiastical history,
on the other hand, aimed for smaller, private reading contexts, in the homes of

15
The Ecclesiastical History, trans. by Whitby, p. 5 n. 4.
20 Derek Krueger

educated lay Christians, or perhaps to groups of elite churchmen.16 The authorial

performance of the hagiographer thus keyed itself to the display of saintly virtues,
while the authorial voice of the church historian strove to display a command of
the sources and the shape of the narrative.
University of North Carolina at Greensboro

16
My remarks on audience are speculative and preliminary, although, I think, not unfounded.
Further research on the relationship between expected audiences and the formation of various
Christian literary genres would be most welcome.
 C REATING L OCAL H ISTORY:
C OPTIC E NCOMIA C ELEBRATING P AST E VENTS

Gesa Schenke

A
mong the numerous Coptic hagiographical texts, there are many encomia
concerning the life and afterlife of famous martyr saints. These festive
orations, presented to a congregation gathered at the martyr’s shrine on
the day of his/her feast, are designed not only to invoke a sense of pride in the
Christian faith and history but also to inspire the audience into leading a re-
warding and virtuous Christian life themselves. They honour and celebrate a local
Christian hero while offering a short history of past events.
In this paper, I wish to explore the nature of these encomia, which essentially
seem to present a perfectly interwoven mixture of history and hagiography. In
doing so, I shall look at five different encomia, all presented to famous martyr
saints by men of the highest standing: the encomium for Apa Mena attributed to
John, Archbishop of Alexandria,1 the encomium for Saint Kollouthos attributed
to Bishop Isaac of Antinoe,2 the encomium on Saint Merkourios the General
attributed to Basil of Caesarea,3 the encomium for Saint Theodore the Stratelates

1
Apa Mena: A Selection of Coptic Texts Relating to St. Menas, ed. and trans. by James
Drescher, Textes et documents (Cairo: Société d’archéologie copte, 1946), pp. 35–72 (text) and
128–49 (trans.).
2
Stephen E. Thompson, ‘Encomium on St Coluthus Attributed to Isaac of Antinoe’, in
Encomiastica from the Pierpont Morgan Library: Five Coptic Homilies Attributed to Anastasius of
Euchaita, Epiphanius of Salamis, Isaac of Antinoe, Severian of Gabala, and Theopempus of Antioch,
ed. by Leo Depuydt, CSCO, 544–45, Scriptores coptici (hereafter scr. copt.), 47–48 (text and
translation volumes respectively) (1993), pp. 47–83 (text) and pp. 37–64 (trans.).
3
Cf. Frederick Weidmann, ‘Encomium on St Mercurius the General Attributed to Basil of
Caesarea’, in Homiletica from the Pierpont Morgan Library: Seven Coptic Homilies Attributed to
22 Gesa Schenke

attributed to Bishop Anastasius of Euchaita,4 and a second encomium for Saint

Kollouthos attributed to Bishop Phoibammon of Akhmîm.5
The majority of these texts seem to be part of the great find of a rich monastic
library unearthed at Hamouli in the Fayyûm. Most of the codices discovered there
date from the ninth century. While the encomium by Bishop Phoibammon is
only fragmentary, its assigned date (ninth/tenth century) places it in the company
of the others offering evidence of a strong interest in the encomiastic tradition at
that time. Preserved through such later copies, these encomia seem to have gained
a certain importance and historical value in themselves. However, my aim in ex-
amining these texts here is to highlight the means by which the original Coptic
encomiast attempted to convey historical ‘truth’ in his account.
The overall purpose of an encomium was to honour the martyr saint, but since
this was done publicly it entailed addressing an audience who needed to be briefed
on or at best reminded of the saint’s particular biographical details and spectacular
deeds. Thus, the emphasis lay on telling the story of the saint’s life and post-
humous miracles, which were usually set in the immediate neighbourhood of the
martyr shrine. These related events, therefore, presented themselves as a part of
local history.
Such interweaving of hagiography — the honorary description of a saint —
and historiography — the description of past events — was not an arbitrary
process. These interpretative historiographical presentations followed long estab-
lished ideas and principles. Several ancient authors discuss the proper presentation
of history. In Cicero’s De oratore, for example, the point is made that such a
task should ideally fall onto an orator. 6 It is felt that the fundamental pillars of
history — factual truth and accuracy — are by no means sufficient to convey an
understanding of the past. Historiography also needed style and composition.

Basil the Great, John Chrysostom, and Euodius of Rome, ed. by Leo Depuydt, CSCO, 524–25,
scr. copt., 43–44 (text and translation volumes respectively) (1991), pp. 3–9 (text) and pp. 3–9
(trans.); here p. 8, § 23.
4
Paul Chapman, ‘Encomium on St. Theodore Stratelates (the General) Attributed to Anas-
tasius of Euchaita’, in Encomiastica (see n. 2, above), pp. 1–19 (text) and pp. 1–15 (trans.).
5
Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France (BnF), MS fonds copte 129 16 , fol. 76 r; Vienna,
Österreichische Nationalbibliothek (ÖNB), MSS K 9525, K 9526, K 9524; and London, British
Museum (BM), MS Or. 329; see Walter C. Till, Koptische Heiligen- und Martyrerlegenden, Ori-
entalia Christiana Analecta, 102 (Rome: Pontificium Institutum Orientalium Studiorum, 1935),
pp. 169–70 (text), pp. 175–76 (trans.).
6
See Cicero, De oratore, II.9–15, especially II.9.36, in Cicero, Rhetorica, ed. by A. S. Wilkins,
Oxford Classical Texts, 2 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1902–03), I, De oratore.
CREATING LOCAL HISTORY 23

Actors and events should not only be named and mentioned but analysed and
judged as well.7 Outstanding public orators specializing in the presentation of facts
should also be entrusted with conveying a proper moral conclusion of past events.8
In doing so, eloquentia, ornatio, and dicendi artificium should be employed.9
A similar desire to present events not simply as facts, but to elaborate on their
reason and purpose in order to make them understandable and employable as
a didactic model is reflected in Aulus Gellius’s Noctes atticae. 10 The immediate
danger that such an interpretation and evaluation of collected facts can be made
‘correctly’ as well as ‘incorrectly’ becomes immediately apparent.
With respect to the martyr saints, such a concern is raised at the beginning of
the encomium for Apa Mena attributed to John, Archbishop of Alexandria. There
the Archbishop laments about ‘foolish people’11 who in the past told numerous
falsehoods concerning the saint’s origin and profession:12
And after all these things we have found it thus: the things that have been written about
him at variance with one another, foolish men seeming to do him honour but rather
uttering things unfit about him, some (saying) that he belonged to Nepaeiat, others that
he came from Mareotes, and others that he was a camelherd.13

Contrary to them, the Bishop will now present the saint’s life and conduct free
from fictitious and unsuitable additions.14 He will offer a reliable account ‘which
we have found lying in the library of the Church of the Patriarchate of Alexandria,
written in Greek’.15 These documents had been collected by ‘the old chroniclers’
who, as is stated, had not only been contemporaries of Apa Mena but eyewitnesses
of the events concerning his life and martyrdom as well:16

7
Cicero, De oratore, II.15.62–63.
8
Cicero, De oratore, II.12.51. See also Timothy P. Wiseman, Historiography and Imagination:
Eight Essays on Roman Culture (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 1994), pp. 1–2.
9
Cf. Wiseman, Historiography, p. 3.
10
Aullus Gellius, Noctes atticae, V .18.8–9, in Aullus Gellius, Noctes atticae, ed. by P. K.
Marshall, Oxford Classical Texts, 2 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1968), I, bks I– X ; Wiseman,
Historiography, p. 4.
11
Apa Mena, p. 36, col. 2, ll. 22–23; p. 37, col. 1, ll. 8–9.
12
Apa Mena, p. 36, col. 2, l. 16–p. 37, col. 1, l. 4.
13
Apa Mena, trans. Drescher, p. 129.
14
Apa Mena, p. 37, col. 1, l. 17–col. 2, l. 20.
15
Apa Mena, p. 37, col. 2, ll. 13–20.
16
Apa Mena, p. 37, col. 2, ll. 21–29.
24 Gesa Schenke

Wherefore we have been astonished at the great boldness of these aforesaid foolish men,
daring to record these worthless stories of such a great luminary. Wherefore we ourselves
will undertake, God willing, to make known to you the life of this saint, his virtues, his
race, his city, his family, his parentage, and how he bore himself in his soldiership. We shall
not invent and tell you fictitious tales but the things which our holy fathers have set forth
for us from the beginning, which we have found lying in the library of the Church of the
Patriarchate of Alexandria, written in Greek by the old chroniclers who lived at that time,
these who saw with their eyes from the beginning and became officers of the word, in-
structing us about his family and his martyrdom.17

An explanatory statement emphasizing the historical veracity of an account on a

martyr saint by mentioning the use of reliable sources is not an exception among
Coptic encomia. This particular declaration of having found Greek manuscripts
in the library of the patriarchate of Alexandria, however, is so far singular in its
explicitness. It not only suggests an awareness of the difference between oral and
written accounts, but apparently between more and less reliable manuscripts as
well. The reference to the most important Egyptian Christian library in which
the manuscripts were held, as well as the mention that they were written in Greek,
the old official language, must have conveyed the idea of ‘prime evidence’. With
this introductory statement the author of the encomium on Apa Mena surely
intended to make his audience aware that he was presenting them with an his-
torical account of their martyr saint.
A little further into the encomium on Apa Mena, the author gives particular
details of the feast of the Virgin Mary, in which the barren Euphemia, later the
mother of Apa Mena, took part.18 These cultic activities must have been so
familiar to the encomiast’s audience that their trust in the credibility of his
presentation was further ensured; if minute details are related, the account on the
whole must be equally reliable:
And when the feast of the Holy Virgin, the Mother of God, Mary, came round on 21
Tobe, all the people of the city, men and women, put on their (best) clothes and went to
church in joy and gladness. Euphemia, likewise, the mother of the holy Apa Mena, stood
by the pillar on which the image of the holy Mother of God, Mary, was depicted. She
prayed and besought God with tears, seeing all the women wearing gold and silver and
diamonds and carrying their children, but she had no adornment of gold or silver because
of her grief in her heart; and therefore was she filled with envious longing.
While, then, she was still praying and beseeching the holy Mother of God, Mary, she
raised her hand in order to dip her finger in the oil of the lamp burning before her. Lifting

17
Apa Mena, trans. Drescher, p. 129.
18
Apa Mena, p. 42, col. 2, l. 2–p. 43, col. 1, l. 26.
CREATING LOCAL HISTORY 25

up her eyes, she heard a voice from the mouth of the Lord Christ, held in Mary, His
mother’s arms, saying, ‘Amen’. And great fear fell upon her.19

Bishop Isaac of Antinoe presenting his audience with an encomium on Saint

Kollouthos the martyr, a native of the same Egyptian city of Antinoe, proceeds in
a similar fashion. He likewise applies the most ‘scholarly’ method of mentioning
one’s sources and refers to details with which his audience would be particularly
familiar. Prior to this, he makes use of two additional ‘methods’ to gain his audi-
ence’s trust. First, he calls upon the saint himself for assistance in his undertaking
to relate the story of his life and miracles:20
O my lord father, saint Kollouthos, O physician in truth who heals without a fee. I will
begin and say small encomia about you. But my tongue is a tongue of flesh and my heart
is a feeble heart. I do not have the strength to cross the sea of your virtues, O holy martyr,
crown-bearer of Christ. But accept my resolve, I, this wretched and miserable one. Do
not reject me as I am begging you. Receive from me my little humble gift. Accept my
resolve like (that of) the widow even if I do not have the two small coins like that
woman. Give me the means, O honoured martyr, to say a few things from the wonders
which you did.21

Secondly, Isaac of Antinoe reminds the congregation that Kollouthos was one of
them, a native of their city of Antinoe.22 Surely, they all must have heard of his
noble parents, the dux Heraklamon and his wife Christianç, of senatorial rank.23
Saint Kollouthos, whose feast day we are celebrating today, came from well-born parents
in this city Antinoe. His parents were very rich according to this world, having plenty of
money and plenty of possessions. They owned plenty of vineyards and plenty of fields.
Indeed, they had a large staff, because they possessed the dignity of a high rank. On the
other hand (?) [should read: Moreover], his father was Heraklamon the governor, and his
mother was Christianç, a woman of senatorial rank, orthodox and faithful.
As for this man Heraklamon, you have certainly heard that he was hospitable and also
what he was like in his generation, how rulers loved him and the poor blessed him on
account of the righteous judgements which he rendered.24

Bishop Isaac, offering his encomium on the day of the martyr’s ‘holy commemo-
ration’, does not present the audience with dry dates and facts, but seeks to convey

19
Apa Mena, trans. Drescher, p. 133.
20
Cf. Thompson, ‘Encomium’, p. 50, § 8.
21
Trans. Thompson, ‘Encomium’, p. 39.
22
Thompson, ‘Encomium’, p. 51, § 13, ll. 15–17.
23
Thompson, ‘Encomium’, p. 51, § 13, ll. 21–23; § 14, ll. 24–25.
24
Trans. Thompson, ‘Encomium’, p. 40.
26 Gesa Schenke

his deep admiration for the martyr’s impeccable conduct, which ought to serve
as a model for every Christian. In presenting the vita and miracula of Saint
Kollouthos he incorporates numerous biblical citations and repeatedly addresses
the congregation directly. From time to time he diverges from the actual story to
emphasize its meaning for the present. The Bishop repeatedly uses imperatives
and vocatives to keep the audience’s attention, such as ‘listen’, ‘my beloved’, or
‘God loving people’. The saint himself, being the recipient of his encomium and
thus the other audience, is likewise directly addressed, for example, as ‘true judge
of the contests’, ‘workman’, ‘chief physician of our souls and our bodies’, or simply
as ‘holy Kollouthos’.
When Bishop Isaac finally gets around to mentioning his sources, he refers to
earlier testimonies he holds reliable for his report:
He (the boy Kollouthos) would pray a hundred times by day and a hundred times by
night. His food was bread, salt, and a measure of water, according to what those who
know have testified to us.25

Later, however, he does underline the veracity of his account of a miracle by

stating that some of the events took place during the time of his immediate
predecessor, Bishop Apa Markus:26 ‘They rose and came to Bishop Apa Markos,
this one whose successor I am.’
In between, relating the story of the young Kollouthos visited by the angel of
the Lord in a field, Bishop Isaac reminds his audience that they are all very familiar
with the locality where this miraculous event had taken place: ‘Since his father
[i.e., Kollouthos’s father] had a large number of fields in this city, just as you
know, as they are called “property of Heraklamon, the dux, until today.”’27 Here
too, the truth of the story as a whole is emphasized by pointing out familiar details
and verifiable facts.

25
Thompson, ‘Encomium’, p. 55, § 25, l. 21. All translations from the Coptic not attributed
to the original editor are mine.
26
Thompson, ‘Encomium’, p. 75, § 85, ll. 7–8.
27
Thompson, ‘Encomium’, p. 58, § 33, ll. 14–17. Thompson’s translation, ‘Now, his father
had great numbers of peasants in this city, according as you know this. Until today they are called
“properties of Heraklamon the governor (dux)”’ (p. 45, § 33, ll. 1–3), makes little sense, as
peasants would not have been known generations later by a former owner. Since the topic is fields
and extensive grounds, which the young Kollouthos occasionally needs to inspect personally, it
is likely that one needs to read ‹nma› nouoie, which seems to be confirmed by the later use of the
term ousia.
CREATING LOCAL HISTORY 27

Basil of Caesarea, to whom an encomium on Saint Merkourios the General is

attributed, gains reliability for his account through a more direct method, namely
by declaring himself an eyewitness of the saint’s most spectacular miracle, the
killing of Emperor Julian.28 As part of a group of imprisoned bishops he relates in
the first-person plural how they themselves looked up into the sky and saw the
saint’s spear stained with the Emperor’s blood:29
Certainly you are not ignorant of the time when I went with the bishops to put the
lawless Julian to shame because of the sufferings which were on us, how he put us into
prison and went off to Persia. We were in great distress, for we had no hope of being saved
except (by) God alone. By night one of us, one who can be believed, looked up and saw
that the holy martyr St. Merkourios had drawn his spear from its place saying, ‘Will I let
this lawless one blaspheme God in this way?’ And within three days the news was brought
to us that the impious Julian had died. While we were still struck by the wonder that had
happened, we looked up to heaven and saw St. Merkourios, his spear stained with his
( Julian’s) blood, as if he had just now hit him.30

In the encomium of Bishop Anastasius of Euchaita on Saint Theodore Stratelates

the Bishop also starts by calling upon the saint himself for assistance in his
undertaking to relate his life story,31 thus employing the same ‘method’ as had
been used by Bishop Isaac of Antinoe in his encomium on Saint Kollouthos. In
doing so, the encomiast could hardly be doubted not to speak the truth, since it
was the saint himself who was allowing him to do so and occasionally helping him
along:
But I exhort you, O my lord the general, saint Theodore, to be a little patient with me
so that I might reveal a bit of your holy life. I know that it is not in my power to honour
you by one ten-thousandth of your virtues. Yet the overabundance of your valiant
deeds compels me to speak at great length of your valiant deeds and your esteemed
life.32

Bishop Anastasius then proceeds to present himself as a personal acquaintance of

the saint. He and Theodore had been classmates. Moreover, Eulogios, the father
of Anastasius, had baptized the saint who was then already almost sixteen years
old. Anastasius himself claims credit for having led him to his father for the
baptism. In the encomium he proudly emphasizes both facts of such personal

28
See Weidmann, ‘Encomium’, especially p. 8, § 23.
29
Weidmann, ‘Encomium’, p. 8, § 23, ll. 20–22.
30
Trans. Weidmann, ‘Encomium’, pp. 8–9.
31
Chapman, ‘Encomium’, p. 2, § 2, ll. 3–6.
32
Trans. Chapman, ‘Encomium’, p. 1.
28 Gesa Schenke

intimacy by making use of a nominal phrase when constructing his sentences:

‘I, Anastasios, was in school with him, as we were small children together at the
same time’,33 and ‘I, the most humble Anastasios, brought him before my father
Eulogios’.34
Furthermore, the veracity of the account given by Bishop Anastasios is twice
underscored by a vaticinium ex eventu. When the Bishop describes how the saint
had been visited by Christ himself, who told him of all the things that would
happen, he also lets Christ say to Theodore: ‘After a time, your friend Anastasios
will be bishop over them, if you fulfil what I have commanded you.’35 Later, an
angel speaks to the saint and repeats that prophecy: ‘Your friend Anastasios will
be bishop of the city Euchaita and will reveal a bit of your completion.’36 For the
faithful audience of the encomium that must have been enough to prove the
historicity of such an account.
At the end of his encomium, the Bishop reports that he was not only person-
ally acquainted with the saint but that he has also been an immediate eyewitness
to his death: ‘As the general (saint Theodore) was taken out of the stadium, I, the
most humble Anastasios, went out with him.’37 He then describes how the saint
was beheaded in front of his mother’s door and how he, Anastasios himself, saw
blood and milk pouring out of the saint’s body, before it was thrown into the fire
by which it was never consumed.38 By relating the story from personal experience,
and over this through divine intent, the congregation was given no reason to
doubt that what they were told was claimed to be ‘true’.
A very different but equally effective method of adding reliability to one’s
story is used by Bishop Phoibammon of Akhmîm (Panopolis), who presented an
encomium for Saint Kollouthos on the day of the inauguration of his new martyr
shrine in Pneueit, on Hathyr 24.39 He lets Kollouthos relate the story of his

33
Chapman, ‘Encomium’, p. 5, § 10, ll. 1–2.
34
Chapman, ‘Encomium’, p. 6, § 13, ll. 15–19.
35
Chapman, ‘Encomium’, p. 11, § 24, ll. 12–14.
36
Chapman, ‘Encomium’, p. 15, § 32, ll. 18–20.
37
Chapman, ‘Encomium’, p. 18, § 39, ll. 21–23.
38
Chapman, ‘Encomium’, p. 18, § 39, ll. 23–28.
39
BnF, MS f. copt. 129 16 , fol. 76 r ; ÖNB, MSS K 9525, K 9526, K 9524; and BM, MS
Or. 329. See Till, Koptische Heiligen- und Martyrerlegenden, pp. 169–70 (text) and 175–76
(trans.). For the place name Pneueit see Stefan Timm, Das christlich-koptische Ägypten in
arabischer Zeit, 7 vols (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1984–2007), IV , 1987–90; and Walter
E. Crum, ‘Colluthus: The Martyr and his Name’, Byzantinische Zeitschrift, 30 (1929–30),
CREATING LOCAL HISTORY 29

martyrdom in the first-person singular, which seems to convey the exact words
of the saint himself. The introduction mentions numerous important guests
who were present when the encomium was first delivered and who presumably
accepted the report of the saint’s words as ‘true’:
He [Bishop Phoibammon] put forth this encomium in his [Kollouthos’s] holy martyr
shrine, this one that has been built in his name in the land of Sodom, that is Pneueit, on
the day on which his holy topos had been dedicated, that is the 24th of the month Hathyr,
as Kosma, the bishop of the capital Antinoe sat with him, and Theocharis, the great
eparchos of the same city of Antinoe and of the city of Shmun, and the majority of the
archontes of the city of Akhmîm, while he related to them in full, what saint Kollouthos
had told him about this lawless village.40

Later, the fragmentary manuscript preserves a passage from Kollouthos’s martyr-

ion where the saint describes in great detail his encounter with Arianos, the
hegemon, which begins as follows:
Arianos said to me, ‘Kollouthos, I have been informed by hostile people that you are a
Christian. Well then, come and sacrifice to the gods of the Emperor, so that you may put
your accusers to shame’. 41

Such a verbatim report must have made some impression on the audience, for who
would doubt what comes straight from the saint’s mouth? Additionally, Bishop
Phoibammon relies on Christ himself for assistance in presenting the encomium,
and starts with a citation from the New Testament.42
I will borrow the beginning of the speech from the one who gives me every consolation
and every encouragement in any matter, who knows my entire heart and all my thoughts.
Who is this? This is the logos of the good father, whose divine body I divide with my
hands. I pour his blood into the wine-cup handing it to those who desire it. [This is] my
Lord and my God, Jesus Christ, calling out through his divine mouth saying, ‘Everyone
who asks will receive; and he who seeks will find; and he who [knocks it shall be opened
to him].’ […]43

Such a combination of ‘historical’ and biblical presentation makes encomia a

particularly useful tool for moral instruction. Local martyrs from the best and

323–27, especially p. 326 and nn. 3 and 4: ‘Pneuit is now Banawit or Banwit, some 5 miles S. of
Tahta; its ill reputation dated back to the days of Shenoute, who had known it for a still
malignant stronghold of idolatry.’
40
Cf. Till, Koptische Heiligen- und Martyrerlegenden, p. 169, ll. 10–20.
41
Cf. Till, Koptische Heiligen- und Martyrerlegenden, p. 170, ll. 23–27.
42
Cf. Till, Koptische Heiligen- und Martyrerlegenden, p. 170, ll. 8–17 (text breaks off).
43
Matthew 7. 8 and Luke 11. 10.
30 Gesa Schenke

most renowned families become the object of local history while serving as a
model for the decision to follow Christ. The two underlying messages these
encomia carried are the keeping of the Christian faith in God and the care for the
poor, ill, and neglected within a community. In doing so, the encomia helped to
strengthen Christian ties and to shape local identities.
The question to what extent the late antique audience of such encomia ac-
cepted what they heard as historical reality can clearly not be answered with any
certainty. However, that these texts were meant to be understood as such can
hardly be denied.44 The reference to the testimony of eyewitnesses, the mention
of the well-known locality were these events took place, as well as the calling of the
martyr saint himself as a witness to the related account, makes a rather strong case
for Coptic encomia preserving a celebrated historicity of hagiography.
Universität zu Köln

44
The conclusion drawn by Matthias Vogt, ‘Zwischen Geschichte und Fiktion: Die
Ermordung des Kalifen al-Mutawakkil’, in Oriens Christianus vivens, ed. by Ute Pietruschka,
Hallesche Beiträge zur Orientwissenschaft, 40 (Halle: Martin-Luther Universität, 2005), pp.
177–99, that the difference between history and fiction is simply a readiness of the reader to
accept a story as one or the other, does not hold true with respect to the Coptic hagiographical
texts examined. The signals they incorporate convey a strong appeal to the audience to accept
them as historical accounts.
 A S AINT AND HIS B IOGRAPHER IN
L ATE A NTIQUE IRAQ : T HE H ISTORY OF
S T G EORGE OF IZLA (†614) BY B ABAI THE G REAT

Joel Walker

O
ne January morning in the year 614, Zoroastrian officials in the city of
Ctesiphon prepared to execute an apostate named Mihrmâhgushnasp.
The condemned man, who came from a prominent Persian family of
central Iraq, had spent the previous year in the dreaded ‘Fortress of Oblivion’, the
Sasanian royal prison, where he wore an iron collar marked with the seal of the
empire’s ruler, Khusro II (590–628).1 His Christian supporters, who visited him
in prison, urged George (the name Mihrmâhgushnasp had taken upon baptism)
to remain firm in his repudiation of ‘Magian’ tradition. On 14 January, in the
middle of the hay market at Veh-Ardashîr, George was shot full of arrows and
then crucified.2
Nearly everything that is known about these events comes from a single Syriac
hagiography composed during the 620s. Its author, Babai the Great, was abbot
of the Great Monastery on Mount Izla, near Nisibis, where George lived as a
Christian ascetic prior to his arrest and martyrdom.3 Modern historians have long

1
For this Sasanian prison in Khuzistan, described by Byzantine, Persian, and Syriac sources,
see Erich Kettenhofen, ‘Die Staatsgefängnis der Sasaniden’, Welt des Orients, 19 (1988), 96–101;
and Giusto Traina and Claudia A. Ciancaglini, ‘La Fortresse de l’Oubli’, Le Muséon, 115 (2002),
399–422 (pp. 407–09 on the heavy chains worn by its prisoners).
2
For Sasanian methods of execution, see Christelle Jullien, ‘Peines et supplices dans les actes
des martyrs persans et droit sassanide: nouvelles prospections’, Studia Iranica, 33 (2004), 243–69
(p. 260 on crucifixion).
3
Gerrit J. Reinink, ‘Babai the Great’s Life of George and the Propagation of Doctrine in the
Late Sasanian Empire’, in Portraits of Spiritual Authority: Religious Power in Early Christianity,
32 Joel Walker

recognized Babai’s account of George’s career as a critical source for late Sasanian
history, mining it for its vivid descriptions of both Zoroastrian and Christian
customs.4 The literary dimensions of Babai’s hagiography have received, by
contrast, very little attention. The absence of a recent edition or translation partly
explains this neglect. The Chaldean priest Paul Bedjan produced in 1890 the first
and only edition of the Syriac text.5 Oscar Braun’s 1915 German translation re-
mains the most complete translation.6 As Gerrit Reinink has observed, we ‘still
await a systematic study’ of this major East Syrian hagiography.7
This essay examines the narrative framing of Babai’s History of St George of
Izla to elucidate the rhetorical strategy of the Church of the East’s most prolific
hagiographer. Over a period of more than three decades (c. 595–c. 628), Babai
published at least twelve hagiographies of the monks and martyrs of Iraq. His
account of George of Izla is the only of these texts to survive, a fact that enhances
its importance as an example of what was once a flourishing genre of Syriac Chris-
tian literature.8 Although we have other East Syrian hagiographies composed

Byzantium, and the Christian Orient, ed. by Jan W. Drijvers and John W. Watt (Leiden: Brill,
1999), pp. 171–93 (p. 174 n. 22, for Babai’s composition of the biography between 621 and 628).
4
See especially Michael Morony, Iraq after the Muslim Conquest (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1984), pp. 84, 87, 184, 188, 287, 294–96, 298–300, 333, 350–51; and Martin
Tamcke, Der Katholikos-Patriarch Sabrîšô‘ I (596–604) und das Mönchtum (Frankfurt a.M.:
Lang, 1988), pp. 31–35, 47, 55, 108–09, 116–17, 120.
5
Histoire de Mar–Jabalaha, de trois autres patriarches, d’un prêtre et de deux laïques nestoriens,
ed. by Paul Bedjan (Paris: Harrassowitz, 1895), pp. 416–571. Bedjan based his edition on two
East Syrian manuscripts: 1) a 1869 copy of Diyarbakir 96 (now in Baghdad), which dates to the
ninth or tenth century; and 2) a twelfth- or thirteenth-century manuscript now held in the British
Library. On the Diyarbakir manuscript and its copy, see Reinink, ‘Babai’, p. 173 n. 16. On the
London manuscript, see William Wright, Catalogue of the Syriac Manuscripts in the British
Museum, 3 vols (London: Trustees of the British Museum, 1870–72; repr. Piscataway, NJ:
Gorgias, 2002), III, 1207.
6
Oskar Braun, Ausgewählte Akten persischer Märtyrer: Mit einem Anhang; Ostsyrische
Mönchsleben, Bibliothek der Kirchenväter, 22 (Kempten: Kösel, 1915), pp. 221–77. Braun’s
teacher, Georg Hoffmann, was the first to draw attention to the text’s importance. See the partial
translation and notes in his Auszüge aus syrischen Akten persischer Märtyrer (Leipzig: Brockhaus,
1880; repr. Nendeln, Liechtenstein: Kraus, 1966), pp. 91–121.
7
Reinink, ‘Babai’, p. 174.
8
For a list of Babai’s other hagiographies, including fragments of his Martyrdom of St Chris-
tina, see below. The list in Geevarghese Chediath, The Christology of Mar Babai the Great
(Kottayam, India: Oriental Institute for Religious Studies; Paderborn: Ostkirchendienst, 1982),
p. 21, requires some corrections.
A SAINT AND HIS BIOGRAPHER 33

during the same period, their authors are mostly anonymous or little known.9
Babai, by contrast, was a prominent abbot and theologian, whose works became
a touchstone for orthodoxy in East Syrian tradition.10 His commitment to hagi-
ography illustrates the genre’s emergence as the most common literary vehicle for
the Christians of late antique Iraq to record their history.

Hagiographic Credentials: The Preface to Babai’s ‘History of St George’

Babai’s account of George of Izla’s career opens with a lengthy preface that is
largely omitted from the only published translations.11 Babai uses this preface
to explain the circumstances of the work’s composition and highlight his own
credentials as a hagiographer. He is careful to explain, first, the pious appeal that
convinced him to undertake his task. While such requests were a well-established
topos of Syriac literature,12 the particulars here are entirely plausible. Babai was
asked to write the History by a Persian Christian deacon named Shapur (Syriac
Šabur), whose family he praises for its ‘Christ-loving tradition’.13 Babai singles out
for admiration Shapur’s relative, a man whom he too can claim as a spiritual
teacher, ‘our blessed father and the father of the monks [aksnâyç], my lord, Mar

9
Other examples include the hagiographies of the patriarchs Mar Âbâ († 552) and Sabrîšô)
(† 604), the martyr Išô)sabran († 620), and, from the early mid-seventh century, the legends of
the apostle Mârî, the martyr Mar Qardagh, and the martyrs of Tur Ber)ayn. For a literary and
historical analysis of the Qardagh legend, see Joel Walker, The Legend of Mar Qardagh: Narrative
and Christian Heroism in Late Antique Iraq (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California
Press, 2006), with bibliography for the other texts cited at pp. 291–93.
10
Chediath, Christology, pp. 1–16, offers the most complete biography, though it is not
without problems. For orientation in the sources, see also Ignazio Ortiz de Urbina, Patrologia
Syriaca (Rome: Pontificium Institutum Orientalium Studiorum, 1965), pp. 139–41.
11
Hoffman, Auszüge, pp. 91–93; Braun, Ausgewählte Akten, pp. 221–22. Cf. Eva Riad,
Studies in the Syriac Preface, Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis, Studia Semitica Upsaliensia, 11
(Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1988), pp. 11–12, which chides both scholars for their tendency
to omit or truncate the prefaces to the Sasanian martyr literature.
12
See Riad, Syriac Preface, p. 20, for Aphrahat and Ephrem’s use of the request-topos, which
Syriac writers inherited from Greek rhetorical models.
13
Babai, History of St George, § 1 (Braun, Ausgewählte Akten, p. 221; Histoire, ed. by Bedjan,
p. 416, ll. 9–10). My citations refer to the paragraph divisions in Braun’s translation. The numbers
in parentheses correspond to the page numbers of Braun’s translation and the page and line
numbers of Bedjan’s Syriac text.
34 Joel Walker

Burzôç.14 Unfortunately, nothing else is known about this Persian Christian

abbot.15 Babai does not mention him in his other surviving treatises, which could
suggest some special pleading here: an effort by Babai to secure the support of a
powerful family based in the Sasanian capital.16
Babai would have been keenly aware of his need for such allies in the political
context of the 620s, when he was completing his History of St George. From the
early 600s, the West Syrian faction led by the royal physician Gabriel of Sinjar
had begun to wrest property and influence from their East Syrian rivals.17 With
the support of Khusro’s Christian wife, Shîrîn, the West Syrian ( Jacobite) faction
had succeeded in blocking the appointment of a new East Syrian patriarch,
following the death of Gregory of Kaškar in 608. For a period of nearly twenty
years, until Khusro’s death in 628, the Church of the East was without a patri-
arch.18 Babai, as abbot of the Great Monastery on Mount Izla, stepped into this
void, overseeing the church in collaboration with the Archdeacon of Seleucia-
Ctesiphon. His success in holding the church together during these difficult years
hinged on his ability to retain the support of key allies not only in Ctesiphon,
but also throughout the western Sasanian provinces.19 Hagiography gave Babai a

14
Babai, History of St George, § 1 (Braun, Ausgewählte Akten, p. 221; Histoire, ed. by Bedjan,
p. 417, ll. 1–2). The London manuscript reads rabâ dil(i), instead of mârâ dil(i).
15
Burzôç is a common Sasanian name, but rarely attested among Christians. See Philippe
Gignoux, Noms propres sassanides en moyen–perse épigraphique: Iranisches Personnamenbuch, Band
2: fasc. 2: Mitteliranische Personennamen (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der
Wissenschaften, 1986), pp. 64–65 (no. 249); and Ferdinand Justi, Iranisches Namenbuch (Mar-
burg, 1895; repr. Hildesheim: Olms, 1963), p. 74, citing this passage and a Georgian chronicle as
the only Christian attestations.
16
Babai’s diction underscores Shapur’s connection to the capital, which he describes as ‘your
land and your city, Mahò ôzç, the royal capital’. History of St George, p. 1 (Braun, Ausgewählte
Akten, p. 221; Histoire, ed. Bedjan, p. 417, l. 8). Mahò ôzç, literally ‘the towns’, is the standard
Syriac name for the Sasanian capital, which was composed of a conglomeration of settlements
extending across both banks of the Tigris River. See Jens Kröger, ‘Ctesiphon’, Encyclopaedia
Iranica, 4 (1993), 446–48 (p. 447 on the various names for the city).
17
For the rise of the West Syrian (i.e., Jacobite, or ‘Miaphysite’) church in the Sasanian
Empire, see Morony, Iraq after the Muslim Conquest, pp. 372–76; and Walker, Mar Qardagh, pp.
175–79.
18
Tamcke, Katholikos–Patriarch Sabrîšô‘, p. 60. For a detailed review of the events and
factions, see William A. Wigram, An Introduction to the History of the Assyrian Church, or the
Church of the Sassanid Persian Empire, 100–640 A .D . (New York: Gorham, 1910), pp. 246–64.
19
In principle, Babai’s authority was secure, since he was appointed inspector of all the
monasteries of the Church of the East by the metropolitan bishops of Adiabene, Bçth Garmai,
A SAINT AND HIS BIOGRAPHER 35

powerful and supple tool to build these alliances. The preface to his History of
St George, with its tribute to the deacon Shapur, offers a good example. While our
sources do not allow us to reconstruct Shapur’s social network,20 Babai’s deference
to him suggests that his power exceeded his ecclesiastical rank. Babai addresses
the deacon as ‘Your Reverence [hasyûtâk]’, a title normally reserved for bishops.21
He also posits a close bond between Shapur’s relative, Burzôç, and his hero,
George of Izla, ‘who was also a dear son [brâ yaqirâ ] of your blessed father’. In
what sounds like a calculated bit of modesty, Babai suggests that Burzôç would
have been a more capable narrator of George’s story.22
Babai’s entire preface strikes a careful balance between humility and self-
assertion. His insistence that someone else would be better qualified to write
George’s story tweaks the standard theme of authorial incompetence. 23 He
presents himself as the greatest ‘wretch and sinner of all’, who lacks even the most
basic implements for writing.24 He then prays directly to Christ, ‘bringer of hope
to penitents’, to aid him in his endeavour.25 Babai artfully links the first moment
of his own composition to this divine support:

and Nisibis. But, in practice, this authority could not have been easy to maintain, especially in
central and southern Iraq, which lay multiple days’ travel from Mount Izla.
20
The name Shapur remained popular throughout the Sasanian period (Gignoux, Noms
propres, pp. 161–62), but is rarely attested as a Christian name outside the Caucasus. For two
other examples, see Justi, Namenbuch, p. 74, citing a fourth-century martyr (no. 16) and the
Bishop of Šenna (near Takrit), who attended the Synod of 605 (no. 25). There is no evidence to
link either figure to Babai’s patron, Shapur the deacon.
21
Babai, History of St George, § 3 (Histoire, ed. Bedjan, p. 418, l. 4), where Babai also twice
refers to Shapur as ‘Your Excellence’ (rabutâk), as he does also in the first sentence of the
hagiography (Histoire, ed. Bedjan, p. 416, l. 7). For the traditional use of these titles for bishops,
patriarchs, and secular rulers, see Robert Payne Smith Thesaurus Syriacus, 2 vols (Oxford: Claren-
don Press, 1879–83; repr. Hildesheim: Olms, 1999–2001), I, 1327–28; II, 3787.
22
Babai, History of St George, § 2 (Histoire, ed. Bedjan, p. 417, ll. 15–16): ‘For he could have
written this History to such a high degree of excellence’. The claim seems calculated, since Burzôç
is not mentioned again in the hagiography. Burzôç’s connection to George of Izla may have been
less intimate than Babai’s ‘dear son’ comment implies.
23
On professions of humility, see Riad, Syriac Preface, pp. 197–202.
24
Babai, History of St George, § 5 (Histoire, ed. Bedjan, p. 423, ll. 6–7). Babai’s total literary
production, outlined below, indicates that, in reality, he had access to a very substantial library of
Christian literature.
25
Direct invocations of God, while rare in early Syriac prose, are a common feature in the
prefaces of highbrow Syriac hagiography of the sixth century and later. For other examples, see
Riad, Syriac Preface, pp. 214–15.
36 Joel Walker

Behold now, by Your Mercy, which turns to me like consolation for penitent sinners, I
grasp the (reed) pen to write Your spiritual letters. And verily I depict the beneficial
histories of holy and godly men, who excelled in the contest of righteousness and the
solitary life, but also [the histories] of the true confessors and the victorious martyrs, those
who departed (this life) in victorious bliss to the good things that have been prepared. So
I begin now to write about the awesome heroic deeds, marvellous contests, and crowning
victory on the cross of our splendid father, Mar George, the confessor, priest, solitary, and
victorious martyr. 26

With this invocation, Babai identifies his hagiography as a form of spiritual exer-
cise guided by God. At a fundamental level, his writing belongs to God; his
sentences form ‘Your spiritual letters’ (seprayk ruhânç). But his histories also
have a specific goal among men. Babai fully expects his writing to be ‘beneficial’
(mawtrânyâtâ) for the education of Christian audiences.27 To support his under-
taking, he invokes the prayers of earlier ‘victors’ (i.e., martyrs), of George himself,
and also of ‘our holy brothers’ on Mount Izla.28 This axis of prayer underscores the
close bond between the hero of his story, George the martyr, and the monastic
community on Mount Izla, where Babai’s hagiography would be read and copied.
Later in his narrative, Babai pauses several times to invoke the prayers of George
and his companions on behalf of the monastery that nourished them.29
Having established his humility, Babai’s rhetoric shifts in the central portion
of his preface (at nineteen pages, one of the longest prefaces in Syriac literature)
to remind his audience of his own, not insignificant, credentials as a hagiographer.
I quote at length since the passage preserves a unique autobiographical overview
by the Church of the East’s most ardent hagiographer:
Approximately thirty-three years ago, I wrote the History of our father, the blessed and
very revered Rabban Mar Abraham, the priest and monk from the land of Kaškar, the
chief of the earliest monks in the land of the Persians, the founder of this holy congre-
gation of monks on Mt. Izla […]. And later I wrote the History of Rabban Mar Dadîšô)
from Bçth Aramâyç, that one who was entrusted after Rabban Mar Abraham with the
leadership of this holy congregation […]. Then I wrote the History of Mar John, the priest
from the land of Margâ, and of Mar Ramîšô), the priest from the land of Kaškar, great and

26
Babai, History of St George, § 5 (Histoire, ed. Bedjan, pp. 423, l. 8–424, l. 1).
27
For the fundamental concept that a literary work must be ‘useful’ (Syr. yutrânâ; Gr.
chrçsimon), and in a Christian context, spiritually beneficial, see Riad, Syriac Preface, pp. 13–14,
218–19.
28
Babai, History of St George, § 5 (Histoire, ed. Bedjan, p. 424, ll. 1–3).
29
See especially Babai, History of St George, § 65 (Braun, Ausgewählte Akten, p. 268; Histoire,
ed. Bedjan, p. 543).
A SAINT AND HIS BIOGRAPHER 37

godly men, monks and outstanding hermits […]. I also wrote the History of all the
brothers in this monastery who have departed (from this life) […]. And I was asked to
record in writing [the History of] that blessed offspring, the son of the heavenly kingdom,
Mar Ishô‘šabran, who was also known as ‘His mother’s life’, from the land of Bçth
Garmai, from Karkâ d-Bçth Slok […]. I also wrote the History of Mar Abimelek, the
priest and martyr from the land of Qardû, and about those ascetic labours to which he
devoted his life for the purpose of righteousness […] I also wrote the History of John the
Arab, from [the city] HE îra of the Arabs, who lived in a cave near this holy monastery […].
And we also wrote the History of Mar Daniel, the priest and abbot from the land of Babel,
who built a monastery in the desert as a place of refuge for strangers […]. We also wrote
the History of St. Maria, the confessor and nun, the sister of Mar George, the victorious
martyr […]. We also wrote the History of our blessed father, Mar Gregory, the metro-
politan bishop of Nisibis, who suffered in the same way as the martyr George [i.e., death
by crucifixion].30

Previous scholarship has passed over this list with little comment, since none of
these other hagiographies have survived.31 This loss should not, however, allow us
to overlook the list’s evidentiary value. Several features are noteworthy. First, all
the hagiographies honour late Sasanian figures, East Syrian ascetics active during
the sixth and early seventh century. Babai seems to have preferred to write about
holy men whom he had known in person. Second, his portraits of sanctity focus
on men. Babai wrote hagiographies of only two women: the History of George of
Izla ’s sister, Maria; and, not listed here but separately attested, the Martyrdom
(sâhdûtâ) of Saint Christina, a fourth-century virgin martyr from Karka d-Bçth
Slok.32 The omission of the Martyrdom from Babai’s list of his earlier hagiog-
raphies may suggest that he viewed as less prestigious a distant (and probably leg-
endary) female martyr.33 Third, Babai’s selection of Christian heroes deliberately

30
History of St George, p. 6 (Histoire, ed. Bedjan, pp. 424, l. 8–428, l. 3), paraphrased by
Braun, Ausgewählte Akten, pp. 221–22.
31
Not even fragments have been identified, although later hagiographers of the ninth and
tenth century, such as Thomas of Marga and Išô)dnahò of Basra, probably read and possibly ex-
cerpted Babai’s biographies of particular East Syrian abbots, such as John the Arab and Abimelek
of Qardû.
32
For the fragmentary Syriac text, see Acta Martyrum et Sanctorum, ed. by Paul Bedjan, 7 vols
(Paris: Harrassowitz, 1890–97; repr. Hildesheim: Olms, 1968), IV , 201–07. Babai’s authorship
is attested only in the title line (Histoire, ed. Bedjan, p. 201, l. 5), but appears defensible on stylistic
grounds.
33
According to the Martyrdom, she was the granddaughter of the marzbân of Nisibis. See
Jean Maurice Fiey, Saints syriaques, ed. by Lawrence I. Conrad, Studies in Late Antiquity and
Early Islam, 6 (Princeton: Darwin, 2004), pp. 59–60, for her commemoration in the Byzantine
38 Joel Walker

mirrors the geographic and ethnic diversity of the late Sasanian Church. The holy
men whose careers he chronicled came from all over Iraq: from H E îra and Babel,
Kaškar and Bçth Aramâyç, from Karkâ d-Bçth Slok, Marga, Qardû, and Nisibis.34
Babai’s hagiographic corpus deftly emphasizes the unity of the church, at a time
when, in actuality, serious and growing sectarian divisions threatened that unity.
Having established his hagiographic credentials, Babai launches into his nar-
rative. Like many hagiographers, he reveals little about his sources. The only
source he openly acknowledges is George himself, whose oral testimony he in-
vokes three times in his account of George’s sister, Maria. Babai claims to have
recorded the marvellous events of Maria’s conversion, ‘just as our father, the
victorious martyr, explained (them) to us’.35 Babai also alludes on several occasions
to written documents, including George’s autobiographical prison diary written
upon royal orders.36 Yet, he hedges on whether he ever quotes directly from this
or other documents that he could have easily acquired. This ambiguity is useful,
precisely because his narrative’s credibility does not hinge on documents. Instead,
Babai extends the authority claimed in his preface to craft an intimate biography.
Dramatic dialogues, staged in both public and private spaces, punctuate the narra-
tive. The audience hears not only George’s words, but also his thoughts as he
approaches the moment of his conversion.37 The creative freedom implicit in this
narrative structure gives Babai considerable latitude. As Gerrit Reinink has em-
phasized, the Christological polemics of the hagiography closely correspond to
the formulations of orthodoxy expounded in Babai’s own theological treatises.38
During his life, George of Izla served Babai as an important ally. As a martyr

and West Syrian calendars. It is possible, but less likely, that the attribution is mistaken or that
Babai wrote the text sometime after his History of St George.
34
For an introductory survey of the Church of the East’s geography, see Walker, Mar
Qardagh, pp. 92–106, with the map on p. 4.
35
Babai, History of St George, § 13 (Braun, Ausgewählte Akten, p. 226; Histoire, ed. Bedjan, p.
444, ll. 10–11). Babai explicitly invokes George’s oral testimony again at § 17 (Braun, Ausgewählte
Akten, p. 231; Histoire, ed. Bedjan, p. 450, l. 6) and § 33 (Braun, Ausgewählte Akten, p. 241;
Histoire, ed. Bedjan, p. 482, ll. 5–6).
36
Babai, History of St George, § 56 (Braun, Ausgewählte Akten, p. 261; Histoire, ed. Bedjan,
p. 525, ll. 12–13).
37
Babai, History of St George, § 22 (Braun, Ausgewählte Akten, pp. 234–36; Histoire, ed.
Bedjan, pp. 461–63).
38
Reinink, ‘Babai’, pp. 184–85. See, for instance, the anathema against the followers of
Hò enânâ of Adiabene, which George posted on the church doors at Nisibis. Babai, History of St
George, § 44 (Braun, Ausgewählte Akten, pp. 250–51; Histoire, ed. Bedjan, pp. 503, l. 6–504, l. 8).
A SAINT AND HIS BIOGRAPHER 39

and hagiographic hero, he became a still more effective spokesman for Babai’s
theology.

History and Hagiography in East Syrian Tradition

Babai’s hagiography forms just one part of his intellectual legacy. Later East Syrian
writers credit him with the composition of either eighty-three or eighty-four
treatises, spanning a wide range of genres.39 Babai earned his epithet ‘the Great’
by his influential works of theology, liturgy, exegesis, hymns, monastic rules,
and manuals of spiritual instruction. Only a few portions of this massive literary
corpus have survived, the most important being his theological magnum opus,
the Book of the Union, and a lengthy commentary on the Centuries of Evagrius.
Notably absent from the list of his titles is any reference to an ecclesiastical history
or chronicle. Both genres were known in the Church of the East (see further
below), but Babai chose not to use them. It seems legitimate to ask why. The
answer lies in Babai’s mobilization of hagiography as a vehicle for writing recent
history. In his eyes, the Providence of God was most clearly observable in the
authenticated stories of holy men recorded by contemporary observers. I do not
wish to suggest that Babai opposed historiography or chronicles; he simply found
other genres — exegesis and martyr literature — more useful modes for exploring
the relationship between past and present.
Defining the exact relationship between hagiography and historiography in
the East Syrian tradition lies beyond the scope of this paper. The East Syrian
chronicle tradition has not yet received the type of thorough analysis necessary
for this comparison.40 The accidents of survival are partly to blame. With the
exception of the Khuzistan Chronicle from the mid-seventh century, the earliest
East Syrian chronicles and histories have largely perished, though the East
Syrian bibliographer, )Abdîšô of Nisibis (†1318), preserves some of their titles.

39
Chediath, Christology, pp. 17–41, compares and harmonizes the three surviving lists of
Babai’s titles.
40
West Syrian chronicles and historiography have been better served. See, for instance, Muriel
Debié, ‘Record Keeping and Chronicle Writing in Antioch and Edessa’, ARAM, 11–12 (1999–
2000), 409–17; and Witold Witakowski, ‘The Sources of Ps. Dionysius of Tel-Mahre for the
Second Part of his Chronicle’, in Leimon: Studies Presented to Lennart Rydèn on his Sixty-fifth
Birthday, ed. by Jan Olof Rosenqvist (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1996), pp. 181–210. For
a well-organized overview of the sources, see Igantius Aphram I Barsoum, The Scattered Pearls:
A History of Syrian Literature and Sciences, trans. by Matti Moosa, rev. edn (Piscataway, NJ:
Gorgias, 2003), pp. 143–58.
40 Joel Walker

Attempts to reconstruct their content based on excerpts from the Chronicle of

Siirt have achieved only limited success.41 East Syrian writers inherited both the
chronicle and church history genres from Syriac translations of Eusebius, but the
genres’ development in the Church of the East quickly became intertwined with
hagiography (as happened also in Byzantium and the Latin West). Indeed, Syriac
diction underscores this ambiguity. Syriac Christian writers use one and the same
word, taš ‘itâ — from a verbal root meaning to ‘tell’ or ‘narrate’ — to describe
works that modern scholarship categorizes as either history or hagiography.42
Babai the Great decided to use hagiography as his principal literary vehicle
for writing the history of his own era. This biographical approach avoided the
somewhat rigid chronological framework of the chronicle tradition and also the
documentary demands of the church history genre. Although he had access
to plenty of documents, Babai had no interest in reproducing them literally. 43
He expected his audience to accept the accuracy of his account based on the
unimpeachable authority of his one explicit source, the martyr George himself,
and his broader credentials as a hagiographer. The hagiographic genre also gave
Babai a flexible tool for both praise and denunciation. By linking his hero to the
family of his patron, Shapur the deacon, Babai attempted to strengthen his rela-
tionship with a Persian Christian family of the Sasanian capital. Babai heartily
endorsed the cult of late Sasanian ascetics and martyrs as a focal point for the
convergence of the Church of the East’s diverse regional and ethnic components.
As soon as the news of George’s martyrdom was disseminated, ‘his commemor-
ation was celebrated and his name was proclaimed in all the regions: in Bçth
Aramâyç and Khuzistan, in Bçt Qatò rayç and India, in the land of the Arabs, in
Bçth Garmai, and in all other its surrounding regions’.44 The diffusion of George’s
commemoration epitomized for Babai the ideal unity of the Sasanian Empire’s

41
For the debate over the sources of the Chronicle of Siirt, especially the extent of its debt to
the lost seventh-century Church History of Daniel bar Miriam, see the bibliography cited at
Walker, Mar Qardagh, p. 262 n. 62.
42
Payne Smith, Thesaurus Syriacus, II, 4250–51. For example, Eusebius’s Ecclesiastical History
is named in Syriac the taš‘itâ d–‘idtâ, while many hagiographies are similarly named the History
(taš‘itâ) of Saint X.
43
Byzantine hagiographers of the same era (i.e., the sixth to early seventh century) were, by
comparison, more willing to reproduce entire documents. See, for example, Cyril of Scythopolis,
The Lives of the Monks of Palestine, trans. by R . M. Price (Kalamazoo: Cistercian, 1991), pp.
162–67, for the petition addressed to Emperor Anastasius.
44
Babai, History of St George, § 76 (Braun, Ausgewählte Akten, p. 275; Histoire, ed. Bedjan,
p. 461, ll. 1–4).
A SAINT AND HIS BIOGRAPHER 41

Christian community.45 Such unity required a shared devotion to the orthodox

(East Syrian) doctrine that Babai was fighting hard to establish. His hagiography
effectively presents George of Izla as the inspired defender of that orthodoxy.
University of Washington

45
His list of regions encompasses the southern and central provinces of the Church of the
East. Significantly, these are the regions most distant from northern Iraq, where Babai’s monastic
base was probably most secure.
 W RITING H ISTORY AS ‘H ISTOIRES’:
T HE B IOGRAPHICAL D IMENSION
OF E AST S YRIAC H ISTORIOGRAPHY

Muriel Debié

W
riting ‘histoires’, ‘stories’, is what East Syrian historians and hagi-
ographers alike claim to be doing, since both groups use the same
technical terminology. Although Syriac hagiography is essentially
identical to that written in Greek, Latin, and the other ancient Christian lan-
guages, consisting mainly of martyr acts, individual Lives, and collective biogra-
phies,1 these different texts are not distinguished by Syriac terminology. There is
no regular Syriac equivalent to the Greek bios, designating saints’ Lives, nor to
martyrion for the martyr acts, but all Syriac hagiographical texts are indiscri-
minately entitled taš‘itâ, ‘story’, or šarbâ, ‘account’, ‘tale’, whatever the literary
genre to which they belong.2 This can be confirmed by a quick glance at the
qodikos, that is, the table of contents, of any hagiographical manuscript, whether
West Syrian or East Syrian. But whereas West Syrian historians write ecclesiastical
histories’ (’eqlesiastò iqi) or chronographies (maktbânût zabnç) according to the

I am most grateful to David Taylor for checking the English of my text and for discussing a
number of issues.
1
Hippolyte Delehaye, Les Passions des martyrs et les genres littéraires (Brussels: Société des
Bollandistes, 1921).
2
The Syriac equivalent of martyrion, sâhdûtâ, is almost never used in the actual titles of East
Syriac hagiographical works. Sometimes taš ‘itâ is qualified by d-dubâre, ‘story of the manner of
life’ of an ascetic. A general introduction to Syriac hagiographical literature can be found in Sebas-
tian P. Brock, ‘Syriac Hagiography’, in Byzantine Hagiography: A Handbook, ed. by Stefanos
Efthymiadis (Farnham: Ashgate, forthcoming); see also Brock’s ‘Saints in Syriac: A Little-Tapped
Resource’, Journal of Early Christian Studies, 16 (2008), 181–96.
44 Muriel Debié

Eusebian models of Greek Christian historiography, and hagiographical texts

according to their different genres, their East Syrian counterparts are content with
recounting both as ‘stories’. In other words, historians writing in Syriac do not
write history in the same way on opposite sides of the frontier between the Roman
and Sasanian Empires. This observation is all the more striking in that no similar
literary divergence can be detected in any other genre of Syriac literature. This
alone gives us good reason to take a closer look at these ‘stories’ that the East
Syrian historians choose to tell us.3 But first of all, we ought to define the type of
hagiography chosen, one that was seldom studied as such — even though it exists
also in other cultural and linguistic traditions — that of collective biographies,
examples of which can be found in the West as well as the East Syriac literary
production. A comparison with the West Syrian tradition that preferred writing
chronicles to Lives will then help enhance the distinctiveness of the East Syriac
counterpart.

The Question of Genres in Hagiography and Historiography

Most of the time historiography and hagiography are considered to be genres,

although neither of them corresponds to a unique literary form.4 Both have been
read as sources for history, but only recently has it been recognized that both
combine, to varying degrees, both literary and historiographic features. Thus
hagiography has often been seen as an ancilla historiae: due to its preservation of
numerous details of realia it has been used especially for the histoire des mentalités,
but also for the history of the everyday life of those classes or population groups,
such as women, rarely mentioned by mainstream, high-status literature. Attention
has also been paid to it for the information it provides about the cult of the saints.
Following Hippolyte Delehaye, Bollandists and historians alike sought to quantify
the historical truth within saints’ Lives, which were then classified as historical
texts or works of imagination according to the degree of truthfulness which

3
For East Syrian authors see the Catalogue of All the Church’s Books by the metropolitan
)Abdîšô bar Brika of Nisibis, also known under the Latin name of Ebedjesus Sobensis († 1318),
in Bibliotheca Orientalis, Clementino-Vaticana, ed. and Lat. trans. by Joseph S. Assemanus, 3 vols
(Rome: [n. pub.], 1719–28), III, pt I, 3–362.
4
Marc van Uytfanghe, ‘L’hagiographie: Un “genre” chrétien ou antique tardif?’, AnalBoll,
111 (1993), 135–88, suggested that hagiography should be defined by its subject matter and not
by the literary form it takes.
WRITING HISTORY AS ‘HISTOIRES’ 45

they were deemed to contain. The literary genre mattered only insofar as it
enabled scholars to distinguish between literature and history, between ‘rédacteur
et témoin’.5
The same was true as far as chronicles were concerned: whereas histories were
read as literary texts, chronicles were considered as ‘Mönchsliteratur’,6 a low genre
with no literary interest, only of value for the information they conveyed about
chronology, and even this could appear unreliable. Only recently have scholars
begun to read these texts both as literature and as historical sources (with the
appropriate subject-specific objectives and methodologies).7
So if we spend a little time exploring these questions of literary criticism and
genre it is not due to an obsessive interest in definition and typology, but it is
because the form chosen by a writer provides important information about his
intentions and purpose, and so leads to a better understanding of the texts them-
selves. In addition, East Syrian histories took a form that is seldom taken into
account or even recognized as being distinctive.
Hagiography, as has long been recognized, assumes many forms, most of which
are not restricted to this subject, and some of which, such as martyrdoms, were
adapted from the classical tradition according to Christian needs, and so were
intentionally created and developed as hagiographical genres. It is thus possible
to distinguish ‘historical’ martyrdoms — according to Delehaye’s typology — a
great variety of Lives or vitae (Lives of ascetics, monks, holy women, Holy Fools
for Christ, bishops, saintly emperors …), encomia, hagiographical romances —
still following Delehaye’s criteria —, miracle collections, homilies (in Syriac
memre), either in prose or in verse, letters, intended to make known a new saint
or a cult (as, for example, Saint Martin in Gaul or the Himyarite martyrs in
southern Arabia), liturgical synaxaria (in Syriac fenqyâtâ), and, mainly in the field
of Greek hagiography,8 metaphrases, and, in the Syriac tradition, dispute poems
— a legacy of Mesopotamia. Beside the literary form taken, the type of holy
individual dealt with — martyrs, monks, holy fools, bishops, emperors, etc. — can

5
Delehaye, Les Passions des martyrs, p. 12.
6
Dimitri E. Afinogenov, ‘Some Observations on Genres of Byzantine Historiography’,
Byzantion, 62 (1992), 13–33.
7
See the introduction by Stefanos Efthymiadis to his Byzantine Hagiography.
8
Sebastian P. Brock, ‘Hellenike kai Syriake metaphrase’, in Historia tes Hellenikes Glossas, ed.
by A. P. Christides (Thessaloniki: Institouto Neoellenikon Spoudon, Hidryma Manole Trianta-
phyllide, 2001), pp. 691–701.
46 Muriel Debié

also be a criterion used for categorization. But there is at least one hagiographical
variety which is rarely taken into account, namely collective biographies.9

A Distinct Genre: Collective Biographies

Two different kinds of collective biography can be distinguished: cycles of Lives

on the one hand, and biographies which take the form of ascetic histories centred
on a particular monastery (in the same way that miracle collections developed
around particular shrines) or a region (such as Egypt or Syria) on the other hand.
This collective hagiography plays an important role, drawing the map of local and,
most commonly, confessional sanctity.
Lengthy biographies of holy ascetics — such as the Lives of three key abbots
of the monastery of Mor Gabriel (Qartmin, in Tur )Abdin, S. E. Turkey),
namely Samuel,10 Shem)un,11 and Gabriel,12 plus that of Bishop Simeon of the
Olives13 — made an important contribution to the definition of local sanctity and
orthodoxy (in this case of the monastery of Mor Gabriel and, more generally, of
Tur )Abdin). Around the figure of Mar Awgen a cycle of Lives of his disciples
was also written, telling the story of the spreading web of North Mesopotamian
monastic foundations.14 The same is also true of the influential Mar Abraham

9
Although many studies have been devoted to collections of Lives, only one article has been
devoted to the genre of collective biography: see Patricia Cox Miller, ‘Strategies of Representation
in Collective Biography’, in Greek Biography and Panegyric in Late Antiquity, ed. by Thomas Hägg
and Philip Rousseau, Transformation of the Classical Heritage, 31 (Berkeley and Los Angeles:
University of California Press, 2000), pp. 209–54.
10
Jean Maurice Fiey, Saints syriaques, ed. by Lawrence I. Conrad, Studies in Late Antiquity
and Early Islam, 6 (Princeton: Darwin, 2004), no. 382, pp. 166–67. Andrew N. Palmer, ‘A
Critical Edition and Annotated Translation of the Qartmin Trilogy’, microfiche supplement to
Monk and Mason on the Tigris Frontier: The Early History of Tur )A bdin, University of Cam-
bridge Oriental Publications, 39 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989).
11
BHO 1120; Fiey, Saints syriaques, no. 414, p. 176.
12
BHO 307; Fiey, Saints syriaques, no. 163, pp. 80–81.
13
Sebastian P. Brock, ‘The Fenqitho of the Monastery of Mar Gabriel in Tur )Abdin’,
Ostkirchliche Studien, 28 (1979), 168–82.
14
BHO 120–23; Fiey, Saints syriaques, no. 60, pp. 40–41. Awgen is proclaimed in East
and West Syriac traditions to be the founder of fourth-century monasticism in northern
Mesopotamia. Twelve Lives of his alleged seventy-two disciples are known, not all of them so far
edited. See Brock, ‘Syriac Hagiography’; Jean Maurice Fiey, ‘Aonès, Awun et Awgin (Eugène) aux
origines du monachisme mésopotamien’, AnalBoll, 80 (1962), 52–81.
WRITING HISTORY AS ‘HISTOIRES’ 47

of Kaškar (491–588), the founder of the Great Monastery of Mount Izla and
whose disciples were the founders of many new monastic settlements, who gave
rise to several Lives.15 Most of them — including Abraham’s Lives — are now lost
except for the summaries preserved by Thomas of Marga (800–60) in his
Historia monastica16 or Išo)dnahò in his book of monastic founders (after 850).17
Although these Lives dealt with the same subject and contributed to the crea-
tion of a reputation for holiness — be it of a monastery or of a leading ascetic
hero — they were not intentionally written as a unit, and did not form part of an
ideological project, in contrast, for instance, to the Greek Lives of the holy men
of Palestine through which Cyril of Scythopolis18 explicitly created a Palestinian
hagiography of Chalcedonian Orthodoxy.
Most collective Lives, however, were intentionally written in order to create
a single text. Sometimes these were no more than gatherings of assorted writings
of varied origins, such as the famous Paradise put together in the seventh century
by the monk )Ananišo, who copied narratives from Palladios’s Historia Lausiaca,
histories which were taken from the Historia monachorum and apophthegmata
patrum, all obviously centred around Egyptian ascetics and monasticism and
which had probably already been gathered together by the sixth century,19 at

15
Fiey, Saints syriaques, no. 23, pp. 25–26.
16
Thomas of Marga, The Book of Governors: The Historia Monastica of Thomas, Bishop of
Marga A .D . 840, ed. and trans. by E. A. W. Budge, 2 vols (London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner,
1893); the original text appears in vol. I, hereafter designated as ‘T’; the translated version appears
in vol. II, hereafter cited as ‘V’. See Assemanus, Bibliotheca Orientalis, chap. 23, pp. 463–501.
17
On Išo)dnahò , see )Abdîšô, Catalogue, chap. 128, pp. 195–96; Išo)dnahò, Le Livre de la
chasteté composé par Jésudenah, évêque de Baçrah, ed. and trans. by Jean-Baptiste Chabot, Mélanges
d’archéologie et d’histoire, 16.1 (1896), 225–92 (no. 14, p. 234). Also edited by Paul Bedjan in
Liber superiorum seu historia monastica auctore Thoma, episcopo Margensi (Paris: Harrassowitz,
1901), pp. 437–517. Jean Maurice Fiey, ‘Îchô)dnah, métropolite de Basra, et son œuvre’, L’Orient
Syrien, 11 (1966), 431–50.
18
Les Moines d’Orient. III/3. Les Moines de Palestine: Cyrille de Scythopolis, Vie des saints Jean
l’Hésychaste, Kyriakos, Théodose, Théognis, Abraamios, Théodore de Pétra, Vie de saint Théodosios,
trans. by André-Jean Festugière (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1963); see also Cyril of Scythopolis: The
Lives of the Monks of Palestine, trans. by R . M. Price and John Binns (Kalamazoo: Cistercian,
1990); Bernard Flusin, Miracle et histoire dans l’œuvre de Cyrille de Scythopolis (Paris: Études
augustiniennes, 1983).
19
See Brock, ‘Syriac Hagiography’ and the detailed study in Brock, ‘Saints in Syriac’,
pp. 193–95. On )Ananišo and the Paradise, see Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, II.15,
pp. 86–88 T; pp. 189–92 V.
48 Muriel Debié

least partially, by an otherwise unknown ‘Hieronymus’. This influential text

served both as a source for later writings on monasticism but also as a literary
model.
But the majority of collective biographies actually consists of Lives provided
with an introduction in which the author, who usually identifies himself, outlines
his purpose in writing.20 Collective biography is a distinct literary genre, and is
not confined to Christian literature, 21 but includes the Greek collections of
biographies which predate the fourth century (Plutarch’s Parallel Lives, Philo-
stratus’s Lives of the Sophists, Diogenes Laertius’s Lives of Eminent Philosophers),
as well as the last pagan and the first Christian collections from the end of the
fourth century: Eunapius’s Vitae philosophorum et sophistarum and the anony-
mous Egyptian Historia monachorum (both 390s); Palladios’s Lausiac History
(c. 400); and many later collections, such as Damascius’s Philosophical History
(460s); Theodoret’s Religious History (first half of the fifth century);22 the five
Martyrdoms under Yazdgird I (399–421) and Bahram V (421–39) by Abgar;23
the contemporary Lives of the Palestinian Monks by Cyril of Scythopolis and Lives
of the Eastern Saints by John of Ephesus (560s); and Gregory of Tours’s Vita
Patrum (second half of the sixth century). In addition to a formal principle (like
parallelism in the case of Plutarch), a chronological, geographical, or confessional
interest can be the principle of organization chosen by the authors.
Patricia Cox devoted a pioneering study to the topic of collective biographies,
relying upon earlier research on individual collections. She also used the work of
Susan Steward, who suggested that a ‘collection is not constructed by its elements;
rather it comes to exist by means of its principles of organization’.24 By the end of

20
Eva Riad, Studies in the Syriac Preface, Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis; Studia Semitica
Upsaliensia, 11 (Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1988), pp. 111–16.
21
Averil Cameron notes that ‘Christian and Neoplatonist rivalries could seem to be express-
ing themselves in a war of biography’; Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire: The Development
of Christian Discourse (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1991), p. 145.
22
Théodoret de Cyr, Histoire des moines de Syrie, ed. and trans. by Pierre Canivet and
Alice Leroy-Molinghen, 2 vols (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1977–79), I, 41–43 (‘Le genre littéraire
de l’Histoire Philothée’).
23 e
Paul Devos, ‘Abgar, hagiographe perse méconnu (début du V s.)’, AnalBoll, 83 (1965),
303–28.
24
Cox Miller, ‘Strategies’, p. 215, referring to Susan Steward, On Longing: Narratives of the
Miniature, the Gigantic, the Souvenir, the Collection (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press,
1984).
WRITING HISTORY AS ‘HISTOIRES’ 49

the fourth century as Patricia Cox noticed, ‘because the type, whether philosopher
or monk, has been assimilated to an ideal of human identity itself […] the impulse
to repeat and so reinforce the features of this identity underlies the formal com-
positional technique of these collections’.25 And she adds: ‘When the interest of
a collection is in depicting human identity by means of its exemplars, the result is
a parade of metaphors, each of which tells essentially the same “story”.’
One of the main differences between individual and collective Lives is that the
latter are less personality-centred narratives. What matters is what comes out of
the gathering. Since the whole is more important than the individual, most of
these texts do not give a full life of the personalities included but only a summary
with the key points, thus enhancing the repetitive aspects and sameness. Theo-
doret,26 as well as Thomas of Marga, Išo)dnahò of Basra, or the author of the
History of the Convent of Sabrišo,27 thus intended to write the Lives of the ascetics
only as a summary (b-pâsiqâtâ) or with much brevity. This puzzled the first editors
of these texts who wondered if they were merely summaries made by later writers
or indeed the actual works of Thomas and Išo)dnahò . In fact the reference to
‘brevity’ is simply an acknowledgement that a selection had had to be made in the
life and actions of the heroes described. Historians too were engaged in the same
process when they wrote their chronicles ‘in short’, or ‘as a summary’, because they
too would never have been able to describe all that occurred in history, but were
forced to make a selection.
The same elements are repeated in each Life: the social and religious back-
ground of the saint, where and what he studied, and how he joined a particular
monastery. Even the miracles performed by an ascetic can travel from one story
to another: Jacob of Nisibis is thus credited with a miracle that is also attributed
to Gregory of Nyssa by Gregory Thaumatourgos, and to Epiphanios by Sozo-
men.28 But as Bernard Flusin remarked concerning Cyril of Scythopolis’s Lives,
repetition and sameness are the rule in a context where transmission from master
to disciple and imitation are essential.29 The holy man not only follows the steps
of his earthly master but tries as much as possible to liken himself to him, just as

25
Cox Miller, ‘Strategies’, p. 228.
26
Théodoret, Histoire des moines, I, prol. 8, p. 138.
27
See Išo)dnahò , Livre de la chasteté, pp. 1–3; Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, intro-
duction, p. 15 T; 18, p. 19 T; p. 24 V.
28
Paul Peeters, ‘La Légende de saint Jacques de Nisibe’, AnalBoll, 38 (1920), 285–373 (p. 293).
29
Flusin, Miracle et histoire, p. 85: ‘La pierre de touche de leur authenticité est leur conformité
à l’Écriture tout d’abord, à des vies précédentes aussi.’
50 Muriel Debié

each of them tries to liken himself to Christ. Sameness is intrinsic to all such
collections, but it is reinforced here by its status as a major ascetic virtue. The
notices of the Book of Founders by Išo)dnahò , most of which are very short, are very
striking on that ground: almost nothing original is said of most of the ascetics
and so the same basic information is provided, only with different family data or
geographical settings.
The fact that biographies relate the Lives of members of different generations
of masters and disciples necessarily imposes a historical dimension on such works
— and sometimes a chronological organization — and since a choice was made
about the region or place of primary interest (they are never universal, being
organized around individuals), they also display a geographical dimension.
This genre is thus situated somewhere between hagiography and histori-
ography and strikingly quite a number of these texts, Christian or not, are now
named histories (Philosophical History, Historia monastica, Lausiac History, Re-
ligiosa historia). The History of the Martyrs of Palestine by Eusebius is a good
example of such works due to its large scope and size, equating to that of a chapter
or independent book (which it in fact seems to have been). The scope is a regional
one and displays an obvious historical side. It is interesting to note that it was
eventually appended to the Ecclesiastical History of Eusebius and that the longer
version was preserved only in Syriac, the Greek retaining only the shorter
text. Again, the Lives of the Palestinian Monks by Cyril of Scythopolis, or the
Lives of the Ascetics of Syria and Mesopotamia by Theodoret, are clearly examples
of hagiography which are as much historical in character as ascetic. The former is
essentially a monastic chronicle of the leading Palestinian archimandrites, and the
latter a regional history of asceticism.

Biographical and Ecclesiastical Histories

We can thus distinguish two different historiographical genres; ecclesiastical

histories, and the histories of leading monks or ascetics which we might term
monastic biographical histories. In the case of these biographical histories the
stress is put on providing a spiritual portrait of individual ascetics, whereas in the
ecclesiastical histories we are merely presented with key items of biographical data,
often short, and usually related to contemporary historical events or individuals.30

30
Peter van Nuffelen, Un héritage de paix et de piété: Étude sur les histoires ecclésiastiques de
Socrate et de Sozomène, Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta, 142 (Leuven: Peeters, 2007), pp. 195–96,
WRITING HISTORY AS ‘HISTOIRES’ 51

There are similarities and common features in the two fields of history and
biography, both Christian and pagan,31 admit accounts of miracles and divine
signs. History is not divorced from the miraculous and theological, but neither
should the historical aspects of collective hagiography be overlooked. The em-
phasis on individuals is counterbalanced in this genre by the collective dimension:
biography leads to history, but a local history of holy places or regions through
exceptional human beings, filling the gap between the human and the divine.
These two genres, however, of collective hagiography and of ecclesiastical
history (and, later, of chronographies) retain their distinctive identities and are
employed as alternative tools or vehicles, sometimes by the same writers (such as
Theodoret and John of Ephesus), to account for the ascetic and miraculous
history of holy men — in their geographical setting — on the one hand, and poli-
tical and ecclesiastical history on the other. Biography is the organizing structure
in the case of hagiographical histories, chronology in that of historiography.
It is thus interesting to compare, for example, the way in which Theodoret
recounts the life of Bishop Jacob of Nisibis32 in his two histories: in the Religious
History he gives a full high-style Life, with major rhetorical flourishes and use of
conventional miracle stories, whereas in his Ecclesiastical History, drawing more-
over on a different source, he summarizes the story of his subject in a few lines and
refers the reader to his other history for a fuller version.33 Similarly, the history of
the holy monks expelled from the Oriental monasteries in John of Ephesus’s
Ecclesiastical History is a rough summary of what can be found in his Lives of the
Eastern Saints. The Lives were constructed according to the model set forth by
Theodoret in his Religious History, in this case in order to provide a model of

rightly concludes: ‘C’est donc l’angle biographique et moral qui sépare l’hagiographie de l’histoire
ecclésiastique, en lui conférant une sélection propre des faits.’ About the place which saints and
holy men occupy in Sozomen’s narrative, see Eran I. Argov, ‘A Church Historian in Search of
Identity: Aspects of Early Byzantine Palestine in Sozomen’s Historia Ecclesiastica’, Zeitschrift für
Antike und Christentum, 9 (2005), 367–96.
31
The pagan New History of Zosimus (beginning of the sixth century) is a good example of
that phenomenon. Also for the use of miracles as a political language in the histories and biogra-
phies of the Roman Empire, see Lellia Cracco Ruggini, ‘The Ecclesiastical Histories and the Pagan
Historiography: Providence and Miracles’, Athenaeum, 55 (1977), 108–25 (p. 114). See Cameron,
Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire, pp. 209–10 for the idea that miracle stories pervaded all
kinds of texts and that Christian discourse became the discourse of the whole of society.
32
BHG 769, BHO 405–06. Théodoret, Histoire des moines, I, 160–93.
33
Theodoret of Cyrrhus, Kirchengeschichte, ed. by Léon Parmentier and Felix Scheidweiler,
Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller, 44 (Berlin: Akademie, 1954), p. 168, l. 2.
52 Muriel Debié

sanctity for those non-Chalcedonians persecuted by the imperial authorities,34

and also following Theodoret’s example he produced a separate Ecclesiastical
History based upon the tradition of ecclesiastical history writing in Greek, estab-
lished by Eusebius and his followers.

Hagiography and Historiography in the West Syrian Tradition

A number of individual Lives of the Syrian Orthodox dealt with theological

polemic, as for example the Life of Rabbula35 and the Lives of a few miaphysite
leaders of the sixth and seventh centuries, such as the Life of John of Tella by
Elia of Dara36 or of the Life of Maruta of Tagrit by Denhò a.37 Except for these
examples, the main body of Syrian Orthodox hagiography actually consists of
Syriac translations of Greek Lives of the miaphysite leaders, such as the Lives of
Patriarch Severus38 and of Bishop Peter the Iberian.39 What is striking however

34
On the theological dimension, see Susan Ashbrook Harvey, ‘Asceticism in Adversity: An
Early Byzantine Experience’, Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies, 6 (1980), 1–11, and more
generally her Asceticism and Society in Crisis: John of Ephesus and the Lives of the Eastern Saints,
The Transformation of the Classical Heritage, 18 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of
California Press, 1990).
35
BHO 1023; Fiey, Saints syriaques, no. 363, pp. 159–60. Syriac text in Acta martyrum
et sanctorum, ed. by Paul Bedjan, 7 vols (Paris: Harrassowitz, 1890–97) (hereafter A MS), IV ,
396–470; English translation in Stewards of the Poor: The Man of God, Rabbula, and Hiba in
Fifth-Century Edessa, trans. and intro. by Robert Doran, Cistercian Studies, 208 (Kalamazoo:
Cistercian, 2006), pp. 65–105.
36
BHO 524. Fiey, Saints syriaques, no. 233, p. 112. Syriac text in Vitae virorum apud
Monophysitas celeberrimorum, ed. by Ernest W. Brooks, CSCO, 7 (1907), pp. 21–60; English
translation by Joseph Ghanem, in his ‘The Biography of John of Tella (d. A .D . 537) by Elias,
Translated from the Syriac’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of Wisconsin, 1970).
37
BHO 719. Fiey, Saints syriaques, no. 304, p. 137. Syriac text and French translation in
François Nau, Histoire d’Ahoudemmeh et de Marouta, métropolitains jacobites de Tagrit et de
l’Orient, PO, 3.1 (1909), pp. 61–96.
38
BHO 1060–61. Fiey, Saints syriaques, no. 405, p. 173. Syriac texts and French translations
in Sévère, Patriarche d’Antioche 512–518: Première partie; Vie de Sévère par Zacharie le Scholas-
tique, ed. and trans. by Marc-Antoine Kugener, PO, 2.1 (1903), pp. 7–115; and Sévère, Patriarche
d’Antioche 512–518: Deuxième partie; Vie de Sévère, par Jean, supérieur du monastère de Beith
Apithonia, ed. and trans. by Marc-Antoine Kugener, PO, 2.3 (1904), pp. 207–64. See Brock,
‘Saints in Syriac’, pp. 187–88.
39
BHO 955–56. Fiey, Saints syriaques, no. 350, pp. 152–53. Syriac text and German
translation in R . Raabe, Petrus der Iberer: Ein Charakterbild zur Kirchen und Sittengeschichte des
WRITING HISTORY AS ‘HISTOIRES’ 53

is that, with the single exception of the eighth-century Life of Simeon of the
Olives,40 no hagiographical texts were produced about saints of the Syrian Or-
thodox Church from the seventh century until the thirteenth-century biographies
of Philoxenus of Mabbug († 523) and Bar )Ebroyo († 1286), whereas a great
number of chronicles were written in that church throughout the same period,
which is without counterpart in the other Syriac-speaking churches (partial
exceptions being the two short Melkite and Maronite chronicles and the now
lost Maronite history of the astrologer Theophilus of Edessa, 41 although these
churches too belonged to what might broadly be defined as the western Syriac
tradition). The hagiographical texts produced in the early years of the Syrian
Orthodox Church, relating to its holy monastic founders and church leaders, do
not seem to have had many successors, whereas the Chalcedonian communities
never ceased writing hagiographical texts, in Greek, Syriac, and, later, Arabic.42
Thus it is interesting, but not surprising, to note that when Michael the Great
wished to recount the life of Hò anania, the Syrian Orthodox bishop of Marde and
Kfar Tuta (consecrated in AG 1104/AD 792–93), he was forced to rely upon a
biography written by a ‘Nestorian’ called Dnahò išo.43
After the glorious years of its origins, with its anti-Chalcedonian ‘martyrs’, the
Syrian Orthodox Church chose another way of writing its history, namely the
universal chronicle divided into two sections, one ecclesiastical and the other civil,
corresponding to the now well established separation of church and state.44
It is not easy to explain this sudden break in the production of Syrian Ortho-
dox hagiography. Is it a consequence of the chance preservation or loss of texts?
Or of a change of fashion in valued literary production? Or the consequence of a
traumatized theological community being unable to move beyond the moment

funften Jahrhunderts (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1895). Fragment of another Life in Vitae virorum apud
Monophysitas celeberrimorum, p. 18.
40
BHO 1120. Fiey, Saints syriaques, no. 414, p. 176. See above, nn. 7 and 10.
41
Robert G. Hoyland, Seeing Islam as Others Saw It: A Survey and Evaluation of Christian,
Jewish and Zoroastrian Writings on Early Islam, Studies in Late Antiquity and Early Islam, 13
(Princeton: Darwin, 1997), pp. 400–09.
42
See André Binggeli’s contribution to the present volume. Marc Swanson, ‘Arabic Hagi-
ography’, in Byzantine Hagiography (see n. 2, above).
43
La Chronique de Michel le Syrien, Patriarche Jacobite d’Antioche (1166–1199), ed. and
trans. by Jean-Baptiste Chabot, 4 vols (Paris: Leroux, 1899–1924; repr. 1963), XII.6 (IV , 489 T;
III, 20 V ). See n. 59, below.
44
See Muriel Debié, ‘L’héritage de la chronique d’Eusèbe dans l’historiographie syriaque’,
Journal of the Canadian Society for Syriac Studies, 6 (2006), 18–28.
54 Muriel Debié

of its trauma, of its separation from, and condemnation by, the larger church? Or,
perhaps drawing loose parallels with the continued cult of the saints in the post-
Reformation Church of England which did not, however, allow itself to create
new saints, could we tentatively suggest that the new miaphysite hierarchy was not
willing to adopt a new body of saints unrecognized by the Chalcedonian Church
since this would have meant acknowledging and even enforcing the parting of the
ways? In this scenario such exceptions as the Lives of Gabriel and Simeon of the
Olives would be explained as the consequence of local popular cults that did not
require central ecclesiastical recognition.

The East Syrian Tradition

The majority of the hagiographical literature of the Church of the East consists
of Acts of the Martyrs, which were produced continuously throughout the Sasa-
nian period, since persecution never completely disappeared where noble converts
were concerned. From the massive persecutions under Shapur I (241/42–c. 273)
to the last known martyr Anastasius, under Khusro II (590–628), a remarkable
number of texts was written detailing the history of the heroes of the Church.45
But this was not the only type of hagiography: Lives of holy monks were also an
important part of the landscape of East Syrian sanctity.
On the other hand, as far as historiography is concerned, except for the pole-
mical academic debate about the authenticity of the two so-called ‘chronicles’ of
Karka of Bet Slokh46 (modern Kirkuk in Iraq), and Arbela47 (modern Irbil), very

45
These texts have been edited, although usually only from one or two manuscripts, by
Assemanus and Bedjan: Acta sanctorum martyrum orientalium et occidentalium, ed. by Stefanus E.
Assemanus, 2 vols (Rome: Collini, 1748) (hereafter ASMO); and AMS. Relatively few have been
translated into modern languages, but see Oskar Braun, Ausgewählte Akten persischer Märtyrer:
Mit einem Anhang; Ostsyrische Mönchsleben, Bibliothek der Kirchenväter, 22 (Kempten: Kösel,
1915); and Les Actes des Martyrs d’Orient, traduits pour la première fois en français sur la traduction
latine des manuscrits syriaques de Étienne-Évode Assémani, trans. by F. Lagrange, 2nd edn (Tours:
Mame, 1871).
46
BHO 705. AMS, II, 507–35. German trans. by Georg Hoffmann, ‘Auszüge aus syrischen
Akten persischer Märtyrer’, Abhandlungen für die Kunde des Morgenlandes, 8 (1880), 43–60; ed.
and German translation by Georg Moesinger, Monumenta syriaca ex Romanis codicibus collecta,
2 vols (Innsbruck: Wagner, 1878), II, 63–67. A new edition with French translation is in progress
in Paris. Jean Maurice Fiey, ‘Vers la réhabilitation de l’histoire de Karka d’Bét Slôh’, AnalBoll, 82
(1964), 189–222.
47
History of Arbela, Syriac text and French trans. in ‘Histoire de l’Église d’Adiabène sous les
Parthes et les Sassanides par Mšihò a Zkha ( VI e siècle)’, in Sources Syriaques, ed. and trans. by
WRITING HISTORY AS ‘HISTOIRES’ 55

little attention has been paid so far to Syro-Oriental histories as such, as if their
authenticity is always considered suspect, or their contents not deserving of inves-
tigation. Quite a number of texts, however, have been preserved and transmitted
in, admittedly, a relatively limited number of manuscripts. But these texts are only
the visible islands of a much larger continent which has been swallowed up either
by the neglect of later generations that did not deem them worthy of copying or
by the accidental loss of manuscripts.
Several histories can be dated to the sixth century, notably the History of
Karka of Bet Slokh, and perhaps also the History of Arbela, and by the end of the
sixth century a history (’eqlesiastò iqi) had been written by Barhò adbešabba of Bet
Arbaye.48 We also know that Bar Sahde of Karka, who is likely to have lived at the
beginning of the Muslim Era, wrote an ecclesiastical history (ktâbâ d-’eqlesiastò iqi),
of which only indirect quotations and one independent extract survive.49 Another
ecclesiastical history is attributed to Gregory of Kaškar, who became metropolitan
of Nisibis under Catholicos Sabrišo (596–604). But of that text we know noth-
ing more than what Išo)dnahò of Basra50 says in the ninth century.
Several other historians flourished in the seventh century. Under Patriarch
Išo)yahb III († 660), there was Daniel Bar Maryam51 and Mika of Bet Garmai

Alphonse Mingana, 2 vols (Mosul: Harrassowitz, 1907–08), I, 1–75 (text), I, 76–156 (trans.); Die
Chronik von Arbela, ed. and German trans. by Peter Kawerau, CSCO, 467–68, Scriptores Syri
(hereafter scr. syr.), 199–200 (1985); Paul Peeters, ‘Le Passionnaire d’Adiabène’, AnalBoll, 43
(1925), 261–304; Jean Maurice Fiey, ‘Auteur et date de la Chronique d’Arbèles’, L’Orient Syrien,
12 (1967), 265–302.
48
)Abdîšô, Catalogue, chap. 93, p. 169. La Seconde partie de l’histoire de Barhò adbešabba
)Arbaïa, PO, 9.5 (1913), pp. 489–632, and La Première partie de l’histoire de Barhò adbešabba
)Arbaïa, PO, 23.2 (1932), pp. 177–343, both ed. and French trans. by François Nau. See the
introduction and English translation by Adam Becker, Sources for the Study of the School of Nisibis,
Translated Texts for Historians, 50 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2008).
49
)Abdîšô, Catalogue, chap. 154, p. 229. The only extract of his history to have survived so far
is going to be published by Françoise Briquel Chatonnet in a study of the Syriac sources dealing
with the martyrs of Najran. Jean Maurice Fiey thought that he might also be the author of the
History of Karka of Bet Slokh, but the extract clearly has no connection to the History of Karka
(see Fiey’s ‘Vers la réhabilitation de l’histoire de Karka d’Bét Slôh’, AnalBoll, 82 (1964), 189–222
(219–22)). For citations, see Eliae Metropolitae Nisibeni opus chronologicum, pt I, ed. and Lat.
trans. by Jean-Baptiste Chabot, CSCO, 62, scr. syr., 21–22 [= ser. 3, 7] (1910), p. 116 T; p. 55
V for the year AG 795: eclipse of the sun, murder of King Piruz.
50
Išo)dnahò, § 56, pp. 30–31.
51
)Abdîšô, Catalogue, chap. 159, p. 231. Erika Degen, ‘Daniel bar Maryam: Ein nestorian-
ischer Kirchenhistoriker’, Oriens Christianus, 52 (1968), 45–80 where she gives a list of all the
56 Muriel Debié

(metropolitan of the province?).52 Of the former, we have nothing more than

citations in the History of Seert, and of the latter, just citations in the Chronicle of
Elijah of Nisibis. Elijah also uses the work of an otherwise unknown Allahazka.53
Another Elijah, metropolitan of the city of Merw, is mentioned by Išo)dnahò and
)Abdîšô.54 It seems that the authorship of at least part of the so-called Anonymous
Chronicle of Guidi — according to the name of the scholar who discovered and
published it — or Chronicle of Khuzistan — according to the likely place of com-
position of its final part — should be attributed to him.55
Between the seventh and eleventh centuries the production of historical texts
did not cease, but their nature and form did change. The Book of the First Princi-
ples of the History of the Temporal World by John of Phenek is as odd as its title
implies.56 It belongs more to the genre of historical apocalypses, like the Revela-
tions of Pseudo-Methodius, than to the bulk of historical writings, and is probably
better understood as a theological rather than as a historical work, unless strictly
religious history is meant. The core of the East Syrian tradition at that time con-
sists of monastic histories: the History of the Convent of Sabrišô, dated to the end

sources in Syriac and Arabic that quote his History; also Degen’s ‘Die Kirchengeschichte des
Daniel bar Maryam, eine Quelle der Chronik von Se)ert?’, Zeitschrift der deutschen morgen-
ländischen Gesellschaft, Supplementa 1(17), Deutscher Orientalistentag vom 21 bis 27 Juli 1968
(Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1969), pp. 511–16. His so-called Ecclesiastica (’eqlesiasEtiqi) is quoted by
Elijah for the events of 595–96 (AG 906–07) and 605 (AG 916), in Eliae Metropolitae Nisibeni
opus chronologicum, pp. 124–25 T; p. 60 V.
52
His work, also titled Ecclesiastica (’eqlesiasEtiqi), is quoted by Elijah for the events of 595–96
and 605 (AG 906, 907, 916), in Eliae Metropolitae Nisibeni opus chronologicum, pp. 123–25 T;
p. 60 V, about the catholicoi Išo)yahb and Sabrišo.
53
His Ecclesiastica (’eqlesiasEtiqi) are quoted for the events of 596, 600, 601 and 606 (AG 907,
911, 912 and 917), in Eliae Metropolitae Nisibeni opus chronologicum, pp. 124–25 T; p. 60 V,
about Gregory, Bishop of Nisibis and later Catholicos, a plague, and a solar eclipse.
54
)Abdîšô, Catalogue, chap. 79, p. 148.
55
‘Chronicon anonymum’, ed. and Lat. trans. by Ignazio Guidi, in Chronica minora, CSCO,
6 pts in 1 vol., ser. 3, 4 (1903), I, 15–39 T; I, 13–32 V; Pierre Nautin, ‘L’auteur de la “Chronique
anonyme de Guidi”: Élie de Merw’, Revue d’histoire des religions, 199 (1982), 303–13. See Hoy-
land, Seeing Islam, pp. 182–89.
56
Bar Penkaye, in Sources Syriaques (see n. 47, above), I, introduction to and edition of the
second part, pp. 1–171, and French translation of Book XV , pp. 172–203; Sebastian P. Brock,
‘North Mesopotamia in the Late Seventh Century: Book XV of John Bar Penkaye’s Ris Melle’,
Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam, 9 (1987), 51–75; repr. in his Studies in Syriac Christianity:
History, Literature, and Theology, Collected Studies Series, 357 (London: Variorum, 1992), no. 2
(intro. and English trans. of the end of Books XIV and XV ); Hoyland, Seeing Islam, pp. 194–200.
WRITING HISTORY AS ‘HISTOIRES’ 57

of the eighth century; the Book of Governors, finished by Thomas of Marga in 840;
and the Book of Founders of Monasteries by Išo)dnahò of Basra, of around 850.

A Biographical Historiography

Whatever the genre to which they belong, East Syrian historical texts have usu-
ally come to be labelled, according to general genres of historiography, either as
‘chronicles’ (the histories of Karka and of Arbela) or as ‘ecclesiastical histories’ (so
Barhò adbešabba and almost all the later histories, excepting the Monastic History
and the Book of Founders). Only three of them, however, are called a chronicle
by ancient authors, the now lost maktbânut zabne of Simon of Karka 57 and of
Išo)dnahò 58 and that of Elijah of Nisibis (1008–46).59
Michael the Great (1166–99) says that he took the story of Bishop Hò anania
from the ecclesiastical histories (taš‘yâtâ ‘idtânâyâtâ) of Book X, Chapter 17, of the
chronicle (maktbut zabne) of a certain Dnahò išo. This name is a common variant
of Išo)dnahò and probably refers to the author of the Book of Founders.60 Pierre
Nautin suggested that the History of Išo)dnahò might actually be the anonymous
History of Seert.61 But in spite of the obvious similarities no conclusive evidence
can be reached and we should note that the story of Hò anania is not part of the
History of Seert, another argument, although a thin one, for making a distinc-
tion between both works.62 The extract shares the same interests as the Book of
Founders, in this case the foundation of the monastery of Mar Hò anania. But since
it is not taken from the Book of Founders itself, Michael may well be referring to
the otherwise lost ’eqlesiastò iqi in three volumes or three parts (tlât pelgwân) which
)Abdîšô mentions in his catalogue.63 It is unclear from these limited facts whether
the content of the work was simply ecclesiastical, or whether the chronicle was

57
)Abdîšô, Catalogue, chap. 166, p. 230.
58
)Abdîšô, Catalogue, chap. 128, p. 195.
59
)Abdîšô, Catalogue, chap. 183, pp. 266–74. See Eliae Metropolitae Nisibeni opus chrono-
logicum for an edition and translation of Part I; and ibid., ed. and trans. by Ernest W. Brooks,
CSCO, 63, scr. syr., 23–24, [= ser. 3, 8] (1909) for the edition and translation of Part II.
60
Jean Maurice Fiey, ‘Κô)dnâhò et la Chronique de Seert’, Parole de l’Orient, 6–7 (1975–
76), 447–59 (p. 456) seems to accept this identification.
61
Pierre Nautin, ‘L’auteur de la chronique de Séert: Išodnah de Basra’, Revue d’histoire des
religions, 186 (1974), 113–26.
62
Fiey thought that due to the lack of strong evidence, it was more likely that both texts used
the same sources but were different (‘Κô)dnâhò et la Chronique de Seert’, p. 457).
63
)Abdîšô, Catalogue, chap. 128, p. 195.
58 Muriel Debié

divided — like its Western counterparts — into two parts, one ecclesiastical and
one profane.

The ‘Chronicle’ of Elijah of Nisibis

The Chronicle of Elijah (1018) distinctly follows the Western pattern of
chronicles, with chronological canons inspired by the Eusebian model but adapted
to the multicultural and multilingual world of eleventh-century Nisibis. Bilingual
(Syriac and Arabic) and organized in columns displayed on manuscript openings
(on the verso of the first folio and on the facing recto of the next folio), it repre-
sents a unique adaptation of the model of chronicles with canons. But although
Elijah’s use of a number of otherwise lost Muslim sources has long since been
noticed, few studies have been devoted to this interesting text itself.64
With this one exception, all other surviving East Syrian historical texts, what-
ever the other obvious differences between them, have one significant feature in
common, which is to rely upon biographies. The literary models they follow are
not the expected Western Christian ones of ecclesiastical histories and chronicles
but biographical histories of the kind used for Greek histories of philosophy.

The ‘History of Barhò adbešabba’

The so-called ‘ecclesiastical history’ of Barhò adbešabba65 has nothing to do with
its Western counterparts written in Latin, Greek, or Syriac. Barhò adbešabba may

64
See Antoine Borrut, ‘Bilinguisme et transmission interculturelle dans la Chronique d’Élie
de Nisibe’, paper read at the annual conference of the Société d’études syriaques, L’Historiographie
syriaque, Paris, 14 November 2008.
65
On Barhò adbešabba’s identity, see Adam Becker, Fear of God and the Beginning of Wisdom:
The School of Nisibis and the Development of Scholastic Culture in Late Antique Mesopotamia
(Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2006), pp. 100–01, and his introduction to the
Sources for the History of the School of Nisibis, Translated Texts for Historians, 50 (Liverpool:
Liverpool University Press, 2008). I take this opportunity to warmly thank Adam Becker for
generously sending to me a pre-publication version of the latter: ‘To a certain extent the question
of whether the Cause and the Ecclesiastical History have the same author is insignificant […] since
both texts, whether by the same author or not, were written in the same institution within a few
years of one another. Furthermore, as I argue in Appendix IIII, the Cause is dependent on the
Ecclesiastical History, or at least shares a common source with it’ (Sources for the History of the
School of Nisibis, section: Identifying Barhò adbeshabbâ); see Gerrit J. Reinink, ‘“Edessa grew
dim and Nisibis shone forth”: The School of Nisibis at the Transition of the Sixth-Seventh
Century’, in Centres of Learning: Learning and Location in Pre-Modern Europe and the Near East,
ed. by Jan W. Drijvers and Alasdair A. MacDonald, Brill’s Studies in Intellectual History, 61
(Leiden: Brill, 1995), pp. 77–89 (pp. 80–86).
WRITING HISTORY AS ‘HISTOIRES’ 59

well have taken historical material from Socrates or Theodoret, but his literary
models are not to be found in such genuine ‘ecclesiastical histories’. Indeed, the
only title his history actually bears in the manuscripts is ‘Stories of the holy
Fathers who were persecuted on behalf of the Truth’.66 Quite astonishingly for a
history, not only is it not organized chronologically or even geographically, but it
also contains hardly any dates at all.
Instead, the author collects together stories (taš‘yâtâ) of orthodox monks
and bishops, as well as of the most notorious heresiarchs whom the orthodox
defenders of the faith opposed. The chosen bias of his history is a very traditional
one in the field of history, that of war. Like Eusebius, he wants to recount the wars
that the Church fought against its enemies, and he begins with the first and most
terrifying enemy of them all, responsible for the existence of all subsequent foes,
Satan. His intention is to compare and contrast the good deeds of the orthodox
fathers and the bad habits of the heretics, because ‘it is by comparison that one can
distinguish the truth from the lie’.67 War against the heretics is the organizing
intellectual pattern of his history, and so each story tells the tale of an individual
fighter for or against the Church. Barhò adbešabba’s main interest in this war that
is waged against the Church is not really the events themselves, let alone the chro-
nology or any attempt at dating, but the men. This biographical orientation is
clearly expressed in the topos, probably borrowed from Theodoret, in which he
compares his endeavour to draw the spiritual portraits of the Christian holy men
with the pagan practice of painting the people they love.68 It is a gallery of
portraits that Barhò adbešabba undertakes to produce, each one serving as a model
and a memorial.
There is thus an attempt at defining all the heresies, but it is on the basis of the
identity and name of the individuals who initiated them — a model that had been
in use since Justin Martyr, and was itself based on the model of the philosophical
schools which were named after their founders. Even Satan is presented here as a
schoolmaster, teaching his crafty tricks to his disciples (all the later heresiarchs).69
Alain Le Boulluec suggests that the reason for naming heresies in this way was that
it emphasized the relation between master and disciples, and so sought to explain

66
Barhò adbešabba, La Seconde partie de l’histoire, p. 489.
67
Barhò adbešabba, La Première partie de l’histoire, no. 13, p. 271.
68
Théodoret, Histoire des moines, I, 128–29; Barhò adbešabba, La Seconde partie de l’histoire,
pp. 496 and 588–89 (Story of Narses, no. 31).
69
Barhò adbešabba, La Première partie de l’histoire, p. 182.
60 Muriel Debié

the subsequent transmission of doctrine.70 Barhò adbešabba insists on this manner

of identification on several occasions,71 despite stating that Paul disapproved of
it (without, however, saying why).72 We get here at the core of his conception of
history, which always involves a personal link with the Church, whether positive
or negative.
His history reveals some common features with the Diadochai, or ‘succes-
sions’ of the philosophers, in which biographies combined information about
their philosophical views along with details of their way of life, and that of their
schools. At the same time, the stress laid upon the heresies also tends to establish
a connection with the Peri Haireseôs treatises which seem to have consisted in
expositions of the doctrine of each philosophical school.73
The biographies of the church leaders as well as of the main heresiarchs were
thus for Barhò adbešabba the best way to convey the idea that history is a war where
each human being has to choose his side. (The empress Helen is said to be the
woman who won the first war against Satan!) The struggle is a personal and spir-
itual contest, following in the path of the ascetics, but it is also the everlasting
struggle of the Church against pagans and heretics.74 This dimension of moral
edification, and the decision to write portraits, is what gives the text its hagiogra-
phical dimension.

The City Histories of Karka and Arbela

The histories of Karka and Arbela have often been compared, since both are
histories of provincial cities of the Iranian empire, two strongholds of Syriac
Christianity and metropolitan sees of the Church of the East, and both texts aim
to demonstrate how early their respective cities were converted to Christianity.
In spite of the doubts raised about the authenticity of the History of Arbela, they
both reveal such a great number of features in common that it is hard to believe

70
Alain Le Boulluec, La Notion d’hérésie dans la littérature grecque, IIe– IIIe siècles, 2 vols (Paris:
Études augustiniennes, 1985), I, 40.
71
Barhò adbešabba, La Première partie de l’histoire, pp. 185, 186, 198–99 (manu riš heresis,
‘who is the head of the heresy?’).
72
Barhò adbešabba, La Première partie de l’histoire, p. 185.
73
Le Boulluec, La notion d’hérésie, pp. 40–41.
74
The same motive appears in the History of Arbela where the author states that the Church
fights in all ages against the magi, the pagans and the unfaithful, and that this enmity will last until
the end of time ( ‘Histoire de l’Église d’Adiabène’, pp. 13–14 T; p. 90 V ). See also John of Phenek,
Book of the First Principles of the History of the Temporal World, chap. 14.
WRITING HISTORY AS ‘HISTOIRES’ 61

that this latter text was produced by a modern scholar, even one with such a pro-
found knowledge of Syriac texts as Alphonse Mingana.
The History of Karka goes back to the alleged foundation of the city under
Sardana, son of Sennacherib, who is said to be contemporary with the prophet
Jonah. But apart from a short account of the history of the city until its re-
foundation by King Darius, the main part of the text relies upon the Acts of the
Martyrs of the city and its province of Bet Garmai. Its title is actually History of
Karka of Bet Slokh and of its Martyrs. It is not organized by a sequence of dates,
like Western chronicles, but follows the uninterrupted succession of the local
bishops from the time of Addai and Mari, who allegedly sowed the first seeds of
Christianity in the town. It is according to that succession that the Acts of the
Martyrs are chronologically arranged. The commemorative celebrations of the
collective martyrdoms are described after the mention of the bishop who either
built a martyrium or decided to establish an anniversary celebration. The frame-
work of the text is the succession of the bishops of the city, with occasional glances
at the bishops of the other dependent sees in the province of Bet Garmai. This
history is thus essentially a history of the Church of Karka, but it cannot formally
be described as either a chronicle or as an ecclesiastical history (in the usual sense
of this term).
The same is true of the History of Arbela, which looks like a liber pontificalis
of the local church. The history of this town also is retold according to the
succession of the bishops, and special attention is given to the local martyrs. The
author says that he intends to write about all the chiefs or bishops of the city and
about its martyrs.75 He says to the addressee of the text, named Pinhes, that he is
only going to retell the story of the martyrs whose blood watered ‘the earth of our
city and country because that is your request, and so that you might know who are
the truly divine men who came before you, and how you can easily follow their
path’.76 This might suggest that he addressed his text to the contemporary bishop
of the city. Here again the idea of succession, whether on the bishop’s seat or in
the steps of the holy martyrs, is the leading principle of organization.
The text consists of the biographies of the twenty bishops who succeeded
one another from the time of Mar Peqida, who was allegedly ordained by Addai
himself, until the sixth century, each of them given a number in the succession.
The historical material is then arranged according to the reigning bishop. The

75
History of Arbela, p. 77 V.
76
History of Arbela, pp. 53–54 T; p. 132 V.
62 Muriel Debié

author knew the Ecclesiastical History of Eusebius, to which he alludes twice,77 but
clearly did not take it as his literary model.
In these two histories, the principle of organization is not abstract chronology
but the succession of the city bishops. They can not be called chronicles but are
city histories based upon the stories of the local bishops and martyrs, some of
which existed and circulated as independent martyr acts.

The ‘History of the Last Sasanians’

Probably composed no later than the 660s CE (the last datable event is in 652
CE),78 this history relates the end of the Sasanian Empire and the beginning of
the Muslim era. It is the East Syrian text that most approximates an ecclesiastical
history, since it combines both ecclesiastical and secular events. It follows the
succession of the catholicoi and of the Persian kings until Yazdgird III (632–52)
and Maremmeh (646–49). It retells not only the story of the inner wars of the
Church and its fights with heretics (Manicheans, Severians, Messalians, and Jews)
but also the military campaigns conducted by the Sasanian and Roman empires
and, in its second part, the victories of the Arabs. This makes it an exception in
the landscape of East Syrian historiography. Ecclesiastical matters remain cen-
tral, but they are always related to more mundane affairs. The author thus pays
special attention to the interactions between church and state. He provides
information not only about the catholicoi and their family origins, but also
about the Sasanian royal family and court. The chronology, however, is no more
accurate or detailed than that in any other East Syrian history: it does not supply
a single date in any era! It thus seems singularly inappropriate to describe it
as a chronicle; it is more appropriately categorized as an ecclesiastical history.
Interestingly the text was transmitted in a manuscript that also contains eccle-
siastical canons (among which are the canons of the School of Nisibis), and it is

77
History of Arbela, pp. 99 T and 104 V.
78
Also known as ‘Guidi’s Chronicle’, after the name of its editor; ‘Chronicon anonymum’,
I, 15–39 T; II, 13–32 V); Hoyland, Seeing Islam, p. 185. Brock, ‘Syriac Historical Writing’,
p. 25, gives the date of c. 670–80. For a recent English translation of the text from the
beginning (§ 15) up to § 30.19 (the text ends at § 39), see The Roman Eastern Frontier and the
Persian Wars: Part II AD 363–630. A Narrative Sourcebook, ed. by Geoffrey Greatrex and Samuel
N. C. Lieu (London: Routledge, 2002), pp. 229–37. See Sebastian Brock, The Khuzistan
Chronicle, in The Encyclopedia of Syriac Literature, <http://roger-pearse.com/wiki/index.php?
title=The_ Khuzistan_Chronicle> [accessed December 2009].
WRITING HISTORY AS ‘HISTOIRES’ 63

placed in the middle of canonical and theological collections (including extracts

from Gregory of Nazianzus and John Chrysostom about the duality of natures
in Christ).79

The Monastic Histories

When monasticism evolved in Persia from the traditional Mesopotamian
schema of bnay qyâme in the sixth and seventh centuries and adopted the Egyp-
tian structure of organization into laurae and coenobia, a monastic literature was
created which both accompanied and encouraged its evolution and growth. At
first individual Lives were produced of the leading ascetics and monastic founders,
but from the eighth century on these texts were incorporated into larger monastic
histories. Three such East Syrian monastic or ascetic histories were written at
the end of the eighth century and the beginning of the ninth: the History of the
Convent of Sabrišo,80 the Book of Founders of Schools and Monasteries,81 and the
Book of Governors.82
The History of the Convent of Sabrišo, also called the History of Bet Qoqa, is
presented as a historical verse homily (memrâ taš‘itânâyâ) on the abbots and holy
laymen who founded monasteries and schools or wrote about the monastic life.
It is organized according to the succession of abbots from the founder Sabrišo,
who is described as a bloodless martyr and the director (mdabrânâ) of the soli-
taries. It relies upon existing Lives which are sometimes mentioned, like the Life
of the abbot Yohannan83 and that of Maranemeh written by Bishop Paul.84 In
both cases, the author says that for further details, the reader should consult these
stories because he had had to be highly selective in the details he used.

79
The text is known in at least four manuscripts: Baghdad, Chaldean Monastery 509 (olim
Alqosh, Rabban Hormizd, MS 169); Vatican Borgia, sir. 82; Vat. sir. 599; Mingana syr. 586. For
its context in the third part of the East Syrian canonical collections see Synodicon orientale ou
recueil de synodes nestoriens, ed. and trans. by Jean-Baptiste Chabot (Paris: Imprimerie nationale,
1902), p. 9, although Chabot does not edit or translate this third part.
80
Histoire en vers du couvent de Sabrišo de Beth Koka, in Sources Syriaques (see n. 47, above),
I, 171–220 (text) and I, 221–67 (French trans.); see Hoyland, Seeing Islam, pp. 209–11.
81
Also known as the Book of Chastity, this was written by Išo)dnahò ; Hoyland, Seeing Islam,
pp. 211–13.
82
See n. 14, above, for details of editions of this work by Thomas of Marga; Hoyland, Seeing
Islam, pp. 213–15.
83
Histoire en vers du couvent de Sabrišo, p. 248 V.
84
Histoire en vers du couvent de Sabrišo, p. 263 V.
64 Muriel Debié

Išo )dnahò introduces his so-called Book of Chastity (ktâbâ d-nakputâ) thus:
‘accounts (šarbe) in summary of all the Fathers who founded convents in the
kingdom of the Persians and the Arabs, of all the Fathers who wrote books about
the ascetic life, of the holy metropolitans and bishops who founded schools or
wrote books about the ascetic life or founded convents in the Oriental regions,
and of the virtuous laymen and women who founded convents and monasteries’.85
His more than one hundred short notices prove extremely useful not only for the
information they provide about the monastic foundations and their inter-
connections, but also for their description of the education system. From the
multitude of individual biographical anecdotes a larger picture emerges of the
regional network of schools,86 varying in size, status, and level, such as is seldom
described in any other Christian literature, although such networks must also
have existed in Latin as well as Greek-speaking areas in late antiquity and the
Middle Ages. This interest in the schools is a distinctive feature of this particu-
lar text, but it should be emphasized that it is not actually a history of the East
Syrian schools. Rather, here again the presentation is a biographical one that
gives greater importance to the relationships between monastic figures and to
their intellectual and spiritual formation: where and under which master were
they educated? Which school did they attend? The recording of the transmission
of scholastic skills and spiritual formation is at the heart of this history. The need
to identify the founder of each school may be the consequence not only of the
author’s personal interest, but also a means of demonstrating the school’s ortho-
dox lineage and credentials, thus vouching for the orthodoxy of its teaching and
simultaneously asserting ownership rights at a time when the changed political
situation and the aggressive expansion of the ‘Severians’, who were founding their
own schools and looking to convert others, could call both into question.
Modern historians wish for more authors like Thomas of Marga: he speaks
willingly about what he is doing, about his aims and his methods, and gives a clear
idea of what it was to write history and hagiography in the early Middle Ages. His
Book of Governors (ktâbâ d-rišâne) is composed of two parts, a history of the holy
men of Bet )Abe and two Lives of the solitaries Cyprian and Gabriel appended to
the history proper as a sixth book. The story of Gabriel, however, seems to have
been written before the first five books.87

85
Išo)dnahò, Le Livre de la chasteté, p. 1.
86
See Becker, Fear of God.
87
Jean Maurice Fiey, ‘Thomas de Margâ: Notule de littérature syriaque’, Le Muséon, 78 (1965),
361–66.
WRITING HISTORY AS ‘HISTOIRES’ 65

The literary model chosen for his history is the work of Palladios because of
the prestige of Egyptian monasticism as the alleged model of East Syrian monas-
ticism, and a genuine source of later inspiration as exemplified in the monastic
reform of Abraham of Kaškar. Indeed, until the late sixth century East Syrian
pilgrims would travel on to visit the holy places of the Egyptian desert (such as the
cell of Antony, or the grave of Pachomios)88 after having first visited the Holy
places in Jerusalem, and even in later centuries when such tours ceased the high
regard of the East Syrians for the Egyptian ascetics did not decline. As a new
centre of monasticism developed in Bet )Abe a literary celebration of it was created
through the writing of individual Lives of the founder and superiors, and then in
the 860s these were gathered together in a history of the convent by one of its
leading figures, Thomas of Marga. This monastic hagiography then itself played
a key role in establishing the monastery as one of the most holy places in the
Persian monastic network, and thus also one of the most powerful and important.
But Thomas himself lays stress upon the fact that he intends to write history,
and not hagiography. He first raises the question of style which seems for him to
be a significant criterion in the definition of genres. As he states about the Life
of Narses, Bishop of Shenna: ‘Now Rabban Habiba having departed from the
manner of diction which historical narrative requires, composed an account in
metrical discourses which were to be sung to the “fourth tone” […]. This style is
appropriate for hymns and for the sweet penitential compositions […] but not for
history.’89 Thomas thus makes a clear distinction between history and stories, and
he explicitly puts his enterprise on the side of history.
Another key point is the question of chronology. Since history assumes a
chronologically ordered account, Thomas, who was working with biographies,
tried wherever possible to arrange his stories in chronological order, making use
of the rare fragments of dated information to be found in those texts or what he
knew from other sources about the succession of the abbots: Let us ‘arrange all
these things, one after another, in one consecutive order, a matter which belongs
to the care of writers, and which the order of historical works requires [w-tâba‘
sedrâ dilheyn d-taš‘yâtâ]’.90 He feels obliged to apologize for the occasional lack of

88
Florence Jullien, ‘Types et topiques de l’Égypte: sur quelques moines syro-orientaux des
e
VI – VIIe siècles’, paper read at the conference Les Monachismes d’Orient: images, échanges,
influences; Cinquantenaire de la chaire des christianismes orientaux (École Pratique des Hautes
Études, V e section), organized by Florence Jullien and Marie-Joseph Pierre (Paris, Collège de
France, 11 June 2008).
89
Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, V .13, pp. 522–23 V.
90
Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, p. 19 T; p. 24 V.
66 Muriel Debié

accuracy: ‘Hold me entirely free from blame should it appear that one narrative
is in advance of its correct position and another is after. For not all narratives will
admit of being written down in chronological order.’91
Thomas was able to glean information from all sorts of oral and written
sources which guarantee the veracity of what he says: ‘Let the reader, then, per-
ceive clearly, and let the listener understand, that the things concerning holy
men which my narrative recounts are not vain imaginations of my own for I have
collected the materials for them from the things which have been said concerning
them in the living speech, and from the written statements which I have found
concerning them in the histories of others.’ 92 Most of these sources are hagio-
graphical texts and the History casts light on a now entirely lost corpus of Lives.
Thomas says that he had a great quantity of stories to hand93 and that proves to
be more than a rhetorical statement. One of his sources is Sabrišo, alias RostEam,
to whom he devotes a whole chapter in which he provides a full list of the Lives
written by him.94 Other sources are the stories written by Sahdona about whom
he also writes a chapter in which he lists his literary production.95 About Sahdona
himself, Thomas says that he used the story written by Bar )Idta.96 He also writes
a chapter about the solitary Salomon Bar Garap from whom he borrowed ele-
ments for the Lives of Jacob of Bet )Abe and Maryahb.97 He also quotes several
times the ’eqlesiastò iqi of Atqen, monk at the Great Monastery of Mount Izla, who
was apparently well informed about the catholicoi98 but also about the life of
Rabban Joseph, head of the monastery of Rabban Bar )Idta.99
In the introduction to his Life of Cyprian, where he plays the part of the
hagiographer more than that of the historian, Thomas explains that he went to
the monastery where Cyprian had lived as an ascetic and asked for any relevant

91
Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, II.21, p. 94 T; p. 217 V.
92
Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, I.2, p. 19 T; p. 23 V.
93
Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, II.20, p. 92 T; p. 214 V.
94
Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, II.17, pp. 89–90 T; pp. 209–10 V. Rostò am’s stories
are cited several times (see index).
95
Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, I.34, p. 62 T; pp. 110–12 V.
96
Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, I.34, p. 62 T; p. 110 V.
97
Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, I.19, pp. 41–42 T; pp. 72–73 V.
98
Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, II.12–13, quoted p. 85 T; p. 186 V, and p. 88 T; p.
207 V.
99
Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, II.30, p. 105 T; p. 234 V.
WRITING HISTORY AS ‘HISTOIRES’ 67

written texts that the brethren possessed.100 He says that the material he was
shown was written in a simple manner and that with it he intended to write a
‘spiritual treatise’. We thus catch a glimpse of the process by which hagiography
could be produced. In addition to the elevated literary Lives with which we are
familiar, written by leading monks about their brethren, it seems that simple
written records or notes were composed within monasteries about the Lives, say-
ings, and acts of local ascetic leaders or heroes, and that these were then available
to others for consultation. We have here a unique record both of the existence of
raw material for hagiographical writing in the monasteries, and of the method of
the hagiographer — who searched, even hunted, for such sources on the spot and
then reworked them in order to produce an account in a higher literary style.
Apart from tracking down original sources, Thomas, in his role as historian,
also made a critical examination of them. He sometimes used several for the same
Life: he thus says about King Khusro that he had collated the date of his accession
to the throne, acquired from the story of Išo )zka, with that given in the History
by Bar )Idta.101 Elsewhere he notes that when writing the Life of Rabban Jacob,
which was based on the Life written by Salomon Bar Garap, he had also made use
of the one written by Sahdona but which he found weak on some points. So he
decided to add information from other sources written by Gabriel (in verse) and
by Apnimaran (in a prose history).102
The original pattern of East Syrian historiography had heirs in the later Chris-
tian Arabic historical works based upon Syriac sources, namely the often called
Nestorian History or Chronicle of Seert (but which should more accurately be
called the East Syrian Arabic History since it is preserved in a manuscript only
found, not even written, in the town of Seert, in southern Turkey), but also the
Chalcedonian Syro-Arabic History of Agapius of Membij103 or the anonymous
Mukhtasò ar al-akhbâr al-bi‘iyya, whose links with the East Syrian Arabic History
need further investigation.104

100
Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, VI.1, pp. 330–31 T; p. 579 V.
101
Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, I.23, pp. 46–47 T; pp. 79–80 V.
102
Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, I.6, p. 25 T; p. 45 V, and I. 25, p. 47 T; p. 83 V.
Apnimaran is quoted again in I.32, p. 60 T; p. 108 V.
103
Kitab al-‘Unwán, histoire universelle écrite par Agapius (Mahboub) de Membidj, ed. and
trans. by A. A. Vasiliev, PO, 5, 7–8 (1910–12); Agapius episcopus Mabbugensis: Historia Uni-
versalis/Kitab al-’unwán, ed. by L. Cheikho, CSCO, 65, Ar., 10 (1912); Hoyland, Seeing Islam,
pp. 440–42.
104
MukhtaEsar al-akhbâr al-bi‘iyya, ed. P. Haddad (Baghdad: [n. pub.], 2000). Amir Harrak,
‘The Syriac Sources in a Recently Discovered Christian Arab Chronicle’, paper presented at
68 Muriel Debié

The East-Syrian Arabic History (Seert) is no more a chronicle than its Syrian
counterparts. It relies mainly upon Syriac sources105 and is organized as a chrono-
logical succession of ‘stories’: the story of the monk with a demon, the story of
Narsai the Doctor, the story of Anastasius, King of the Greeks, and so on. The
same is true of the History of Agapius as well as of the other anonymous history.
They chronologically organize accounts and histories. When we have a look at
the table of content of those texts we cannot avoid noticing that it is a roughly
chronological succession of histories (qisò sò at in the History of Agapius) of both
Greek and Sasanian Sovereigns but also of Christian holy men, mainly of East-
Syrian abbots, thus alternatively melting profane and ecclesiastical blocks of
stories. Although written in Arabic and including profane events, these histories
clearly belong to the East Syrian tradition from which they took not only part of
their historical material but also its ‘story model’.

The Handling of Sources: Between History and Hagiography

Apart from the question of style and chronology, another key difference be-
tween historiography and hagiography is the manner in which they handle their
sources. All of the histories discussed above use hagiographical material as
their main source (texts which are now lost in most cases, but not always). The
History of Karka thus borrowed from Acts that were otherwise transmitted
independently, such as the Acts of Shapur, Bishop of Bet Niqator, and of Isaac,
Bishop of Karka, and their companions.106 The same is true of the History of

the Canadian Syriac Studies Society Symposium V , Ottawa, 12 November 2005. Harrak
does not support the view that it could be the lost beginning of the History from Seert.
He thinks that it is another history produced in the same milieu and using the same kind
of sources. Herman Teule gave a new presentation of that text, showing also that the two
histories have close relationships but also differences: ‘L’Abrégé de la chronique ecclésiastique
(MukhtaEs ar al-akhbâr al-bi‘iyya) et sa relation avec la chronique de Séert: Quelques sondages’,
in L’Historiographie syriaque, ed. by M. Debié, Études syriaques, 6 (Paris: Geuthner, 2009),
pp. 161–78.
105
Histoire nestorienne, chronique de Séert, ed. and trans. by A. Scher, PO, 4 (1908), pp.
215–312; 5 (1910), pp. 221–34; 7 (1911), pp. 99–201; 13 (1919), pp. 437–636. It quotes twice,
for instance, the now lost History of Bar Sahde of Karka, five times that of Daniel bar Maryam,
once or twice that of Elijah of Merw, and is thus used as a treasure of citations of historical
writings now lost. Hoyland, Seeing Islam, pp. 443–46.
106
Martyrdom of Shapur, Isaac, Mana, Abraham, and Symeon (20 November 340), BHO
1042, Fiey, Saints syriaques, no. 386 p. 167; ASMO, I, 226–29; AMS, II, 51–56.
WRITING HISTORY AS ‘HISTOIRES’ 69

Arbela.107 The same web of hagiographic sources was apparently used by the
three monastic histories of the ninth century: two stories about the spiritual
‘children’ of Sabrišo, written by David, Bishop of the Kurds of Kartaw, were
also used by Thomas of Marga.108 The History of the Convent of Sabrišo says that
Yozadek wrote the story of ŠubhE almaran of Karka and it may be that same story
that was used by Išo)dnahò for his own notice.109
The sources however are not limited to hagiography. As an historian, Bar-
hEadbešabba copied material from all sorts of sources (some of them Greek ones,
partially lost, such as those relating to Basil the Great and to Nestorius)110 and
sometimes complains because he was unable to uncover information about some
of his subjects: he thus failed to find a history of the life and actions of Flavian, the
Bishop of Antioch, in any collection (knišâ).111 This suggests that he selected the
information he needed from already existing collections of biographies of leading
ecclesiastical figures.
Thomas of Marga says that he got some of his information from the older
monks of the monasteries of Bet )Abe and of Abba Simon of Shenna. He was
himself for some time the secretary of Abraham II of Marga (837–50) and that is
certainly why he had access to some material from Eustathios who was the arch-
deacon of Mar Abraham in Seleucia-Ctesiphon.112 He even questioned boatmen
and fishermen he happened to meet about events or miracles that took place near
the Tigris and the Zab.113 In this he continues the classical practice, inherited from
Herodotus, of interrogating local people (epichorioi) as a means of gaining reliable
eyewitness information114 (or at least, information that could not easily be re-
examined or challenged by later writers!). His informants thus belonged to quite

107
Paul Peeters, ‘Le Passionnaire d’Adiabène’, AnalBoll, 43 (1925), 261–304. The Acts of
the Martyrs of Adiabene were transmitted independently from the History.
108
Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, II.24, p. 99 T; p. 225 V.
109
Išo)dnahò, Le Livre de la chasteté, § 58, p. 32.
110
Barhò adbešabba, PO, 9.5, no. 15, p. 277. See the introduction by Nau for a list of sources
used by Barhò adbešabba.
111
Barhò adbešabba, PO, 9.5, no. 16, p. 305.
112
Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, V .13, p. 293 T; p. 523 V.
113
Cyriacus, Bishop of Balad, is credited with crossing the Tigris on foot and having one of
his friends — a Severian heretic — cross over with him (Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors,
IV .25, pp. 249–50 T; pp. 463–64 V ). There is also a miracle recorded of water drawn from the
Zab having been changed into wine (IV .19, p. 233 T; p. 440 V ).
114
See van Nuffelen, Un héritage de paix et de piété, p. 249.
70 Muriel Debié

different social conditions, regions, and positions, which implies that more varied
sources were at hand than is usually the case in monastic histories. He also states
that for the history of the monastery of Risha he relied upon the ‘historians of the
times and of the kings’ (maktbâne d-zabne wad-malke), about whom we would be
glad to have more information.115
The main difference between historiography and hagiography in the handling
of sources is that hagiographers usually claim that the truthfulness of their in-
formation is due either to autopsia, personal testimony, or to the testimony
of a trustworthy witness known to them.116 The chain of transmission is both
personal and oral, and it is this that guarantees the accuracy of the information.
(There is an obvious parallel here to the early years of Christianity, when believers
privileged the testimonies of the first generation of witnesses of the words and
deeds of Jesus.)117 Since hagiographical texts are personality-centred, they rely
upon the trustworthiness and judgement of the witnesses and the soundness
of the chain of transmission. Thomas of Marga for example mentions an example
of such transmission known to him, passing from master to disciple: ‘according
to what I have learned from Rabban Matthew the Elder who heard it from
his master Abba Maran-Zka’.118 Even the writing of Lives conforms to this
pattern of succession and direct transmission, and thus Lives sometimes stem
directly one from another: Yozadek is entitled to have written the Life of
ŠubhE almaran, who in turn wrote the Life of Rabban Pranse of Hrem in Adiabene,
and both of these were used by the author of the History of the Convent of
Sabrišo.119
In the case of hagiography, therefore, the truthfulness of the information pro-
vided is underpinned by reference to direct oral testimony and the identification
of a chain of sound transmitters. This is far less important for historians, even
when they are unable to find documentary evidence for contemporary events and

115
Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, VI.1, p. 328, 10 T; p. 574 V.
116
Théodoret, Histoire des moines, I, prol. 11, p. 143. Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors
(V .17, p. 319 T; p. 561 V ) says that for the Life of Abba Joseph he relies on his own information
since he knew him personally.
117
See Théodoret, Histoire des moines, I, prol. 11, p. 143. The same was true in the first years
of Islam with the highest prestige accorded to the testimony of the Companions of the Prophet;
see Gregor Schoeler, Écrire et transmettre dans les débuts de l’islam (Paris: Presses universitaires de
France, 2002).
118
Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, II.32, p. 108 T; p. 240 V.
119
Histoire en vers du couvent de Sabrišo, I, 239, 252, 255 V.
WRITING HISTORY AS ‘HISTOIRES’ 71

so are forced to rely upon private sources of oral information. The mixed nature
of East Syrian histories is thus all the more obvious, since their writing meth-
odology borrows from both traditions. Barhò adbešabba, for instance, explicitly
names the documents he is using, such as the letters of Athanasius to Diodorus.120
Arnoldo Momigliano thought that this was characteristic of the genre of eccle-
siastical histories,121 but it may in fact be a common practice among Christian
writers who were keen to establish the trustworthiness of their sources.122 Peter
van Nuffelen has convincingly demonstrated that the citation of documents
cannot be a criterion for the definition of the genre since Sozomen cites few
documents and John of Ephesus none at all. The evidence of the East Syrian his-
torians adds further support to this point of view, since not only BarhEadbešabba
but also Thomas of Marga cites specific documents, and neither wrote eccle-
siastical histories. (Thomas sometimes quotes letters, such as that from Ezekiel to
the monastery he founded,123 or that sent by Išo)yahb of Nineveh to the Great
Monastery.)124

Histories of the Church

East Syrian historiography in many ways mirrors the situation of the Church of
the East itself, being internally vigorous and yet isolated from the rest of the
universal church, and thus paying no attention to the history of the Western
world (the exception to this general rule being the History of the Last Sasanians,
which was written at a time when frontiers were being swept aside). The geo-
graphic scope of this historiography is rather limited: it is not merely confined to
the limits of the Persian Empire, but it has a more narrow focus on the Aramaean
populated provinces of Bet Garmai and Adiabene plus Khuzistan, that is on the
deeply Christianized areas.
The historical outlook was not much broader: there is no universal chronicle
(that is, starting from the Creation) written in the East Syrian tradition. One pos-
sible explanation for this is that the Eusebian model of the universal chronicle left

120
Barhò adbešabba, PO, 9.5, no. 17, p. 314.
121
Arnaldo Momigliano, ‘Pagan and Christian Historiography in the Fourth Century A .D .’ in
his Essays in Ancient and Modern Historiography (Oxford: Blackwell, 1977), pp. 107–28 (p. 107).
122
Van Nuffelen, Un héritage de paix et de piété, pp. 192–93.
123
Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, I.31, p. 59 T; p. 103 V.
124
Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, II.11, p. 79 T; pp. 175–76 V.
72 Muriel Debié

no room for the contemporary Persian Empire. In the schema of the succession
of empires drawn from the biblical book of Daniel, the Persian Empire was
present, but for the ancient period only, and it was to be replaced by the reign of
Alexander the Great and his successor, that is, the Roman Empire. The Parthian
and Sasanian empires had no role to play in the Christian era when the Roman
Empire became the only world power, political heir of the preceding empires and,
as a Christian empire, heir of the promise God made to the Jewish people. Iranian
history was thus evoked only when it interacted with Roman history, which
was mainly when the empires were at war with one another. Excluded from the
Eusebian Oikoumene as belonging to the Persian Empire,125 the Church of the
East was also dispossessed of the legacy of biblical history since the Roman Chris-
tian Empire had assumed this also as sole inheritor. Moreover, having been first
isolated from the universal church as a consequence of political geography, the
Church of the East was then excluded for being ‘Nestorian’.126 It was thus im-
possible for it to write its history according to Eusebian models.
Perhaps as a consequence of their lacking the model or concept of a uni-
versal history, the East Syrians also lacked the chronological framework for
such a history since there is nothing that even approximates to a continuous
chronology in the East Syrian tradition, nor any absolute dating. The Seleucid
era is almost never in use, except in the very occidental Chronicle of Elijah of
Nisibis, or for dating events related to wider history or coming from Western
sources, just as the hijra dating is occasionally used for events officially recorded
by the Muslim administration or by Muslim sources.127 Where political events are

125
Sebastian P. Brock, ‘Eusebius and Syriac Christianity’, in Eusebius, Christianity and Judaism,
ed. by Harold W. Attridge and Hata Gohei, Studia Post-Biblica (Leiden: Brill, 1992), pp. 212–34.
126
Sebastian P. Brock, ‘The Persian Church up to the Sixth Century and its Absence from
the Councils in the Roman Empire’, in Syriac Dialogue: First Non-official Consultation on Dial-
ogue Within the Syriac Tradition [proceedings of a conference held in Vienna, 24–29 June 1994]
(Vienna: Pro Oriente, 1994), pp. 69–86 (repr. in Brock’s Fire from Heaven: Studies in Syriac
Theology and Liturgy, Variorum Collected Studies Series, 863 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), no. 2).
127
A major drought is dated according to the hijra era in Thomas of Marga’s Book of Gover-
nors (III.9, p. 335 V ). A plague, famine, and war are also dated this way in John of Phenek’s Book
of the First Principles of the History of the Temporal World, in Sources syriaques (see n. 47, above),
I, 178. For the corresponding situation in manuscripts, see Sebastian P. Brock, ‘The Use of Hijra
Dating in Syriac Manuscripts: A Preliminary Investigation’, in Redefining Christian Identity:
Cultural Interaction in the Middle East since the Rise of Islam, ed. by Jan J. van Ginkel, Heleen L.
Murre-van den Berg, and T. M. van Lint, Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta, 134 (Leuven: Peeters,
2005), pp. 275–90. The History of Arbela gives a few dates according to the Seleucid era: the end
of the Parthian Empire (p. 29 T; p. 106 V ), the death of the Bishop Šri)a (p. 46 T; p. 124 V ), the
WRITING HISTORY AS ‘HISTOIRES’ 73

concerned, the dating is a relative one, given according to the regnal year of the
Persian kings.
Since the Church of the East and the East Syrian Christians first constructed
their identity in opposition to their persecutors (the King of Kings and the Maz-
dean clergy), their history can be summarized as a history of ‘those persecuted
because of the Truth’ (to quote the title of the History of Barhò adbešabba). When
the martyrs of blood became fewer, the ascetic stories of the spiritual martyrs —
the monks and ascetics — began to be written. All the historical texts claim to be
writing the story of the martyrs as well as that of the chiefs of the Church whose
‘reigns’ constitute the yardstick of chronology.128 Thomas of Marga thus provides
a very interesting insight into his historical method when he explains that he has
to include details about the chiefs of the Church in order to be able to date his
other information: ‘I should be obliged to insert also the memorials of others who
were governors of the Church in their times, where it was necessary, in order that
their period might be known and that [this] history might possess a consecutive,
historical narrative.’129
Chronology therefore, like history itself, is ecclesiastical.130 No wonder that all
those texts are called ’eqlesiastò iqi, which never means ecclesiastical history, as
understood when used of Western models, but the history of the Church or, more
exactly, of the Church’s leading figures. The writing of contemporary events never
took the form of a chronicle based upon a chronological framework but was in-
stead accomplished through non-historiographic genres such as hagiography and,
later on, poetry. This latter tradition, starting with the History of the Convent of
Sabrišo continued with the poems of Giwargis Warda and survived well into the
nineteenth century in the vernacular literature written in Sureth.131

beginning of the reign of Shapur (p. 47 T; p. 124 V ), the election of the catholicos (p. 49 T; p. 128
V ). The beginning of the kingdom of the Arabs and the end of the kingdom of the Persians is
mentioned but not dated (p. 226) in the History of the Convent of Sabrišo, whereas the deaths of
two heads of the monastery are dated according to the Seleucid era (pp. 252, 257).
128
We have already mentioned Thomas of Marga, but see also History of Arbela, p. 1 T;
77 V.
129
Thomas of Marga, Book of Governors, p. 49 T; p. 86 V (‘d-mekâ teqne maktbânutâtò aksâ
mlahò mâ’). Elsewhere, he dates the accession of Hasan son of )Ali to the year ‘when George was
appointed’ catholicos. Both reigned at the same time and died in the same year (p. 88 T; p. 207 V ).
130
It is actually Christian, starting with Christ and not with the Creation (see also the History
of Seert or the MukhtaEsar al-akhbâr al-bi‘iyya).
131
See Alessandro Mengozzi, ‘Suraye wa-Phrangaye: Late East-Syriac Poetry on Historical
Events in Classical Syriac and Sureth’ (forthcoming); David Bundy, ‘Interpreter of the Acts of
74 Muriel Debié

But whereas the East Syrian Church had no concept of, or access to, a con-
tinuous chronology, it was deeply influenced by the idea of succession. The highly
esteemed model of the transmission of both knowledge and authority from master
to disciple pervaded the way that history was written. This model was not limited
to ascetic and monastic circles but was shared with the philosophical schools in
late antiquity. Pierre Hadot’s celebrated studies have shown that the reason that
early Christianity took the form of a philosophy was because first- and second-
century Greek philosophy presented itself as ‘an exegetical method of spiritual
formation’.132 It is not surprising, then, that the philosophical movement in late
antiquity presented many analogies with monasticism, and a real interaction took
place concerning the ideas of revelation and inspiration.133 The importance the
East Syrian tradition accorded to education and learning134 also reminds one of
the philosophical schools in late antiquity.135 Adam Becker has shown how the
school model ‘as an institution for the transmission of learning with a formal
hierarchy and a chain of succession has been superimposed upon the story we
find in the ecclesiastical history’ by Barhò adbešabba.136 But what is true of BarhEad-
bešabba is also true of the other histories. The golden chain of transmission is not
that of the Athenian Platonists but of the local church leaders and ascetics — the
bishops of cities such as Karka and Arbela, and the abbots of the monasteries. The
successors of Sabrišo are thus presented as his spiritual children who followed in
his glorious path.

God and Humans: George Warda, Historian and Theologian of the 13th Century’, The Harp:
A Review of Syriac and Oriental Studies, 10. 3 (1997), 19–32.
132
Pierre Hadot, ‘Philosophie, exégèse et contresens’ in his Études de philosophie ancienne
(Paris: Belles Lettres, 1998), p. 33.
133
Hadot, Études, p. 39.
134
Adam Becker, ‘Bringing the Heavenly Academy Down to Earth: Approaches to the Im-
agery of Divine Pedagogy in the East Syrian Tradition’, in Heavenly Realms and Earthly Realities
in Late Antique Religions, ed. by Ranaan S. Boustan and Annette Yoshiko Reed (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2004), pp. 174–94.
135
See the well known passage in Thomas of Marga’s Life of Mar Abraham of Kaš kar (Book
of Governors, I.4, pp. 23–24 T; p. 42 V ): ‘And as formerly everyone who wished to learn and to
become master of the heathen philosophy of the Greeks went to Athens, the famous city of the
philosophers, so in this case, everyone who desired to be instructed in spiritual philosophy went
to the holy monastery of Rabban Mar Abraham, and inscribed himself in sonship to him’.
136
Becker, Fear of God, p. 100; on the importance of the chain of transmission as a literary
device, see pp. 107–08.
WRITING HISTORY AS ‘HISTOIRES’ 75

It is difficult to determine whether the model of the philosophical histories

had a direct influence on the East Syrian tradition, or whether similarities in their
strained relationships with contemporary governments and political establish-
ments encouraged a similar approach to history writing. The prosopographical
technique was for the philosophical histories137 a means of telling the story of
schools and individuals who embodied pagan ideas and ideals which were falling
out of favour with the imperial authorities due to the influence of Christianity
and so were increasingly under legislative assault. The same is true, mutatis mu-
tandis, of the East Syrian Church in the Sasanian and then Arab kingdoms:
persecuted and restricted to being an official but minority church, it always
remained on the margins of official history. In both cases, writing history as a
succession of biographical ‘histoires’, stories, enabled these closed, often perse-
cuted, groups to demonstrate the unbroken line of transmission of their ideas and
doctrines, to establish the validity of their leaders’ credentials, and to rejoice in the
triumphs of their intellectual and spiritual heroes, thus reinforcing their com-
munal identity in the face of a hostile world.
CNRS, IRHT, Paris

137
The philosophical histories by Porphyrios (of which only the Life of Protagoras survives),
Damascius, and Eunapius on contemporary Neoplatonism, were a means of writing a history of
philosophy, of the philosophical dynasties, and of philosophical ideas. The Lives combined
biography and doxography and were generally arranged in chronological order since the issue of
succession was essential. Cf. the introduction to Damascius: The Philosophical History, ed. and
trans. by Polymnia Athanassiadi (Athens: Apamea, 1999).
 C ONVERTING THE C ALIPH : A L EGENDARY
M OTIF IN C HRISTIAN H AGIOGRAPHY AND
H ISTORIOGRAPHY OF THE E ARLY ISLAMIC P ERIOD

André Binggeli

A
fter the Arab conquests, apostasy and conversion to Islam rapidly became
serious issues for Christians living in Syria and Palestine. By the end of
the seventh century, the growing concern it was causing to church author-
ities of different confessions is reflected in the writings of Anastasius of Sinai
(† c. 700) and Jacob of Edessa († 708), among others.1 The first reactions to the
threat of Islamization deal with questions of dogma, for example the case of re-
pentant apostates seeking readmission to the Church.2 Very soon, however, faced
with the increasing numbers of converts to Islam, Christian authorities felt the
urge to stop the flow. A propagandist perspective was adopted, and true believers
who resisted conversion and died as martyrs for their faith were glorified and put
forward as models for fellow believers.
In the monasteries of Mar Sabas, Mar Chariton, and Mount Sinai, where an
important part of the literary activity of the Melkite community was concen-
trated, as well as in Jerusalem and Damascus, hagiography continued to be a very

I am grateful to Antoine Borrut and Stephen McPhillips for their careful rereading and very
useful remarks.
1
Robert G. Hoyland, Seeing Islam as Others Saw It: A Survey and Evaluation of Christian,
Jewish and Zoroastrian Writings on Early Islam, Studies in Late Antiquity and Early Islam, 13
(Princeton: Darwin, 1997), pp. 100–01, 162–63.
2
André Binggeli, ‘Un nouveau témoin des Narrationes d’Anastase le Sinaïte dans les membra
disjecta d’un manuscrit sinaïtique (Sinaiticus MÃ 6 + MÃ 21)’, Revue des études byzantines, 62
(2004), 261–68 (pp. 265–67).
78 André Binggeli

productive literary genre throughout the Umayyad period and the first century
of the )Abbâsid period. The first accounts of martyrdom go back to the late
seventh century, though at first these have no direct hagiographical purpose.3 Less
than a century later, at the same time as the Greek corpus was being translated
into Arabic, full-scale martyrologies were composed. More than half a dozen such
accounts of Christian martyrs of the second half of the eighth century have thus
survived in Greek, Arabic, and Georgian.4
Strangely, the hagiographical genre in Syriac, which had been so important in
the late antique period, especially for martyrs inside the Sasanian Empire, was now
much less productive, and no martyrologies of the early Islamic period have been
transmitted independently, possibly indicating that the promotion of saints had
become a secondary concern. Nonetheless, historians continued to incorporate
accounts dealing with Christian martyrs in their chronicles, as in the former
period. This striking dissymmetry between the hagiographical production in
the Melkite and Jacobite communities raises the question of what aims the
hagiographers and chroniclers of different confessions were pursuing. Are they
simply using various literary forms to promote martyrs who resisted conversion
to Islam, or do they have radically opposed ways of considering the role of such
figures as models for their fellow believers?
While relating the story of one of these martyrs, the Arab polygraph al-Bîrûnî
(† 1048) brings some interesting insights into precisely the way he conceives the
relation between historiography and hagiography. In the chapter devoted to the
festivals of the Melkite Christians in his Chronology of Ancient Nations, unlike
most other entries in the calendar, al-Bîrûnî writes a detailed biographical note
concerning the saint of the day named Anthony:
29 th December. Antò ûnyûs martyr. The Christians believe him to be identical with Abû
Rûhò , the nephew of Hârûn al-Rashîd. He left Islam and became a convert to the Chris-

3
Bernard Flusin, ‘Démons et Sarrasins: L’auteur et le propos des Diègèmata stèriktika d’Ana-
stase le Sinaïte’, Travaux et mémoires, 11 (1991), 381–409 (pp. 403–04).
4
Sidney H. Griffith, ‘Christians, Muslims and Neo-martyrs: Saints’ Lives and Holy Land
History’, in Sharing the Sacred: Religious Contacts and Conflicts in the Holy Land: First-Fifteenth
Centuries CE , ed. by Arieh Kofsky and Guy G. Stroumsa ( Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi, 1998),
pp. 163–207. For a quick survey of the hagiographical production in other Christian commu-
nities, especially among Copts and Armenians, see Hoyland, Seeing Islam, pp. 336–86 (Chapter
9, ‘Martyrologies’). One must wait for the Ottoman period to find again such an important and
well-defined corpus; Jean Maurice Fiey, ‘Martyrs sous les Ottomans’, AnalBoll, 101 (1983),
387–406. Clive Foss, ‘Byzantine Saints in Early Islamic Syria’, AnalBoll, 125 (2007), 93–119,
focuses on the historical evidence that can be gleaned in this hagiographical production.
CONVERTING THE CALIPH 79

tian Church, wherefore Hârûn crucified him. They tell a long and miraculous tale about
him, the like of which we never heard nor read in any history or chronicle. Christians,
however, on the whole are very much inclined to accept and give credit to such things,
more particularly if they relate to their creeds, not at all endeavouring by the means at
their disposal to criticize historical traditions, and to find out the truth of bygone times.5

The ‘tales’ that Christians are said to ‘give credit to’ is certainly a reference to
the hagiographical genre used as a means of edifying believers and illustrating
the principles of faith. Al-Bîrûnî contrasts it with historical writing which, in his
view, preserves truth unaffected by religious beliefs. The statement is naive, and
evidently, it reflects a prejudiced Muslim view of Christian literature, but it is
probably not for want of subtlety, and al-Bîrûnî’s criticism of the lack of historical
rigour among Christians could be put down to his rational mind and his pragma-
tism. However, what really troubles him in this particular ‘long and miraculous
tale’ is the fact that Christians claim that the apostate and martyr was the nephew
of the Caliph himself. Such a claim would surely sound unacceptable and be
perceived as a provocation to a writer who, as a Muslim, identified himself to the
caliphate.
By chance, the story of Anthony that is referred to in this text is extant both
in Syriac historiography and in Melkite hagiography composed in Arabic. There-
fore al-Bîrûnî’s claim can be put to the test. This story is also an ideal opportunity
to study how different literary genres developed as a response to the problem of
apostasy, and more generally to the new political and religious situation brought
about by the Arab conquests. What do they convey of the self-representation
and expectations of the different Christian communities in Syria and Palestine?
Moreover, this paper will argue that the theme of the ‘conversion of the caliph’ to
which al-Bîrûnî alludes is a later development added to the story, which conveys
the ultimate hopes of the Christians living in the caliphate, and also those in
Byzantine territory.

The Story of Anthony: Hagiography versus Historiography

According to the general framework of the story as it appears in most sources,

Rawhò al-Qurashî was a young Muslim nobleman living on the outskirts of

5
Al-Bîrûnî, Al-Âthâr al-bâqiya ‘an al-qurûn al-khâliya, in Chronologie orientalischer Völker
von Albêrûni, ed. by C. Edward Sachau (Leipzig: Brockhaus, 1878; repr. 1923), p. 292; trans. into
English as The Chronology of Ancient Nations, trans. by C. Edward Sachau (London: Published
for the Oriental Translation Fund of Great Britain and Ireland, 1879), pp. 287–88.
80 André Binggeli

Damascus, close by a church of Saint Theodore. He would often sneak into the
empty church to desecrate the shrine or to play tricks on believers attending Mass.
After having witnessed two miracles, the first related to a wonder-making icon of
the patron saint and the second to the transubstantiation of the Eucharist during
Mass, the young man saw Saint Theodore in a nocturnal vision enjoining him to
repent. Lit up by faith in Christ, he left for Jerusalem and asked Patriarch Elias for
Baptism. The Patriarch refused for fear of Muslim authorities and sent the young
man to the Jordan, where he was secretly baptized by two monks and christened
Anthony; on his way there, he slept overnight at the monastery of Choziba, where
he had a vision of the Mother of God encouraging him in his decision. Back in
Damascus, he was imprisoned for having publicly confessed his faith, and then
sent to al-Raqqa, where he appeared in a trial in front of Caliph Hârûn al-Rashîd
(786–809). Anthony was eventually beheaded for apostasy on Christmas Eve of
the year 799.6
The story has come down to us mainly through two distinct circuits of trans-
mission. In Syriac, a short account of the martyrdom, focusing on the miracle of
the Eucharist that led to conversion and the trial in front of the Caliph, was
incorporated in chronicles composed in a Jacobite monastic environment, in
northern Syria, as early as the beginning of the ninth century. A mutilated version
has survived in the so-called Anonymous Chronicle of 813, a chronicle of local
interest covering the years 754 to 813, probably written in the Tûr )Abdîn in the
early ninth century.7 Approximately the same version is found in the universal
Chronicle of Michael the Syrian († 1199),8 which most likely depends for this
account on the lost Ecclesiastical History of Dionysius of Tel-Mahò rç († 845), also
composed in northern Syria shortly after 842. The account found in the Chronicle
of Bar Hebraeus († 1286) is almost identical to that of Michael the Syrian and

6
An attempt at reconstructing the chronology of events was made by Samir Khalil Samir,
‘Saint Rawhò al-Qurashî: Étude d’onomastique arabe et authenticité de sa passion’, Le Muséon,
105 (1992), 343–59 (pp. 353–59).
7
Chronicon anni 813, ed. and Latin trans. by Ernest W. Brooks, in Chronica minora III,
ed. and trans. by Ernest W. Brooks, Ignacio Guidi, and Jean-Baptiste Chabot, CSCO, 5–6,
Scriptores Syri (hereafter scr. syr.) 5–6 (text and translation volumes respectively) (1905; repr.
1960–61), pp. 253–54 (text), p. 192 (trans.); English trans. by Ernest W. Brooks, ‘A Syriac Frag-
ment’, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgendländischen Gesellschaft, 54 (1900), 195–230.
8
Michael the Syrian, Chronicle, XII.5, in La Chronique de Michel le Syrien, Patriarche Jacobite
d’Antioche (1166–1199), ed. and French trans. by Jean-Baptiste Chabot, 4 vols (Paris: Leroux,
1899–1924), IV , 487–88 (text), III, 18–19 (trans.).
CONVERTING THE CALIPH 81

obviously depends directly on it.9 The precise literary relationship between the
Anonymous Chronicle of 813 and the Ecclesiastical History of Dionysius of Tel-
Mahò rç is unclear, but they certainly draw on the same source, if they are not
mutually dependant. So it appears that by the early ninth century the story of
Anthony was well known in Syriac historical writings.
The second circuit of transmission originated in Melkite hagiography com-
posed in Arabic. Various versions of the narrative have been edited over the last
century. Unfortunately, no comprehensive survey of the manuscript tradition has
yet been undertaken to show precisely how these different versions are related to
one another. The earliest, if not the original form of the hagiographical narrative,
was edited in 1961 by Ignace Dick.10 This Passion of Anthony is extant in a tenth-
century Arabic manuscript from Mount Sinai in kûfî script (Sinai arab. 513). The
editor added in the notes to his edition some variants from two thirteenth-
century manuscripts, also from Mount Sinai, which present a slightly revised text
(Sinai arab. 445 and 448). A radically rewritten and abridged form of the Passion
in Arabic had been edited earlier by Paul Peeters,11 who also edited an Ethiopic
version apparently translated from the original Arabic Passion.12 Another Ar-
abic manuscript of the eleventh century (London, British Library, MS Or. 5019),

9
For Bar Hebraeus, Chronicon Syriacum, see Gregorii Barhebraei Chronicon Syriacum, ed. by
Paul Bedjan (Paris: Maisonneuve, 1890); for an English version, see The Chronography of Gregory
Abû’l-Faraj, 1225–1286, trans. by E. A. Wallis Budge (London: Oxford University Press, 1932),
p. 121.
10
Ignace Dick, ‘La Passion arabe de S. Antoine Ruwahò , néo-martyr de Damas († 25 déc.
799)’, Le Muséon, 74 (1961), 109–33. A mutilated sixteenth-century manuscript (Birmingham,
Selly Oak College, MS Mingana Christian Arabic 88 (95), fols 5r–6 v and 32 r–v), containing
approximately the same version, is noted by Georg Graf, Geschichte der christlichen arabischen
Literatur, I: Die Übersetzungen, Studi e testi, 118 (Vatican: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1944),
p. 524 and Joseph Nasrallah, Histoire du mouvement littéraire dans l’Église melchite du V e au XX e
siècle, II: T. 2: 750– X e s. (Leuven: Peeters, 1988), p. 165.
11
Paul Peeters, ‘S. Antoine le néo-martyr’, AnalBoll, 31 (1912), 410–50 (pp. 440–50). The
first editor knew of only one manuscript: Beirut, Bibliothèque Orientale, MS 625 (seventeenth-
century), pp. 99–104. The same version is found in the mutilated Mount Sinai, Saint Catherine’s
Monastery, MS Arabic 66 (thirteenth-century), fols 376 r–381 v, indicated by Samir, Saint Rawhò
al-Qurashî, p. 345, and in a December menologion, Mount Sinai, Saint Catherine’s Monastery,
MS Arabic 398 (c. 1258), fols 288v –292r, indicated by Graf, Geschichte, p. 524. The Arabic versions
edited by Dick and Peeters were re-edited with an Italian translation in Storia di R awhò al-
Qurashî: Un discendente di Maometto che scelse di divenire cristiano, ed. and trans. by Emanuela
Braida and Chiara Pelissetti, Patrimonio culturale Arabo Cristiano, 5 (Turin: Zamorani, 2001).
12
Peeters, ‘S. Antoine le néo-martyr’, pp. 422–40.
82 André Binggeli

containing a text closely related to the original Passion, but with some interest-
ing additions, was recently edited by Bartolomeo Pirone.13 Finally, an autobio-
graphical form of the narrative, having the martyr himself tell how he converted
to Christianity and adding many narrative developments, has survived in three
tenth-century Georgian manuscripts;14 this version was also translated from
Arabic, as can be proved from a mutilated Arabic manuscript discovered by
Peeters (MS Vatican arab. 175).15 On the face of it, this amounts to six different
versions, but the textual history of the hagiographical dossier is less confused than
it first appears. In fact, all these versions belong to the same tradition, and one can
show that they derive, directly or indirectly, from the Passion in its original and
simplest form as it was edited by Dick, while the London manuscript edited by
Pirone represents an intermediate version that contains most of the novel ele-
ments found in the autobiographical version.16
The Arabic Passion of Anthony is no doubt a product of the Melkite commu-
nity, as all the manuscripts that contain the original form clearly originate from
there. Concerning the date of composition of the original text, Theodore Abû
Qurra gives some valuable testimony. In his Treatise on the Veneration of the Holy
Icons composed in the early ninth century (c. 815–20), the Bishop of Hò arrân
mentions the wonder-making icon that caused Rawhò to convert:
In our own day there was a well-known martyr, from a family of the highest among the
outsiders’ nobility, whose story is widespread. May he remember us to Christ in his
prayers, he is called St. Anthony. He used to tell everyone he met that he came to believe
in Christianity only because of a miracle he saw in connection with an icon that belonged
to St. Theodore, the martyr.17

13
Bartolomeo Pirone, ‘Un altro manoscritto sulla vita e sul martirio del nobile qurayshita
Rawhò ’, in Biblica et Semitica: Studi in memoria di Francesco Vattioni, ed. by Luigi Cagni, Diparti-
mento di Studi Asiatici, Series Minor, 59 (Naples: Istituto Universitario Orientale, 1999), pp.
479–509.
14
Ioseb Kipšidze, ‘Žitie i muèenièestvo sv. Antonija Ravaha’, Hristianskij Vostok, 2 (1913
[1914]), 54–104 (pp. 80–97).
15
Paul Peeters, ‘L’autobiographie de S. Antoine le néo-martyr’, AnalBoll, 33 (1914), 52–63
(pp. 56–63).
16
The London manuscript contains at least one other hagiographical text in a rewritten
version using additional sources: André Binggeli, ‘Les Versions orientales du Martyre de Saint
Aréthas et de ses compagnons’, in Le Martyre de saint Aréthas et de ses compagnons (BHG 166), ed.
by Marina Detoraki, Monographies, 27 (Paris: Centre de recherche d’histoire et civilisation de
Byzance, 2007), pp. 163–77 (pp. 166–68).
17
Theodore Abû Qurra, Maymar fî akrâm al-îqûnât, 15–16, in Traité du culte des icônes, ed.
by Ignace Dick, Patrimoine arabe chrétien, 10 (Jounieh: Librairie Saint-Paul; Rome: Pontificio
CONVERTING THE CALIPH 83

The fact that the story was widespread in Theodore’s time and that the martyr
was already celebrated as a saint only twenty years after his martyrdom seems to
imply the existence of a written hagiographical text of some kind; Syriac histori-
ography indeed attests to the circulation of written sources by Abû Qurra’s time.
Considering that the production of hagiographical texts about martyrs of Islam
in the Melkite community span the second half of the eighth century and the first
half of the ninth century, are written exclusively in Greek and in Arabic, and
constitute a relatively homogeneous corpus, it is most probable that the Passion
of Anthony was composed likewise in the first half of the ninth century. The
text must have been written directly in Arabic, by then the most commonly used
written language in the Melkite community, although it may have drawn on some
earlier accounts in Syriac, such as those that were used by history writers. In any
case, the original language was certainly not Greek, as the saint has been totally
ignored by the Byzantines. As very often in hagiography, the original narrative was
then reworked several times. The different versions that were elaborated reflect
the interests of Christian communities in the promotion of a local sanctuary
dedicated to the saint and the festival that was held there. Three sanctuaries stand
out in the narrative: the monastery of Saint Theodore near Damascus, where the
martyr witnessed the vision that led him to conversion, the monastery near the
Jordan where he was baptized, and the monastery on the Euphrates where his
remains were buried.
The monastery of Saint Theodore is located in a suburb of Damascus called
Nayrab.18 The two thirteenth-century manuscripts used by Dick in the apparatus
locate the place more precisely outside the Iron Gate (Bâb al-Hò adîd), that is the
north-west of the city;19 no doubt they reflect a Damascene tradition testifying to
the fact that the monastery still existed in their time. Since no other relics of the
martyr seem to have been kept in his native town, the shrine could conceivably
have boasted the miraculous icon that had brought conversion, and this may be
a feature that the Passion is trying to put forward.

Istituto Orientale, 1986), p. 173; see the English version in A Treatise on the Veneration of
the Holy Icons, trans. by Sidney H. Griffith, Eastern Christian Texts in Translation, 1 (Leuven:
Peeters, 1997), p. 74.
18
On the precise location of this monastery see the Appendix below.
19
Dick, ‘La Passion’, p. 127 (Mount Sinai, Saint Catherine’s Monastery, MSS Arabic 445 and
448). These two manuscripts also precisely locate Kiswa, the place on the outskirts of Damascus
from where Anthony left for Jerusalem; Dick, ‘La Passion’, p. 129.
84 André Binggeli

In the Georgian tradition, the commemoration of Anthony is celebrated on

19 January,20 which does not fit the date of the martyrdom as recorded in the
other versions, on 24 December. The date in the Georgian tradition may have
been chosen by association with the feast of Anthony the Great on 17 January.21
It is more likely related to a local cult: 18 January is the date of the dedication of
the Church of the Mother of God in Choziba (Dayr al-Khûzîb) near Jericho, and
according to the Lectionary of the Church of Jerusalem, which records the
liturgical usage in the eighth century, the celebration on that day takes place in
Choziba.22 By fixing Anthony’s commemoration on the next day, the clergy of
Jerusalem probably wanted to promote the local sanctuary where the young man
had a vision of the Mother of God the night before his baptism.
The martyr’s burial place is more controversial. According to the Passion
edited by Dick, the martyr’s remains were buried, on the orders of Hârûn al-
Rashîd, in the otherwise unknown Convent of the Olives ()Umr al-Zaytûn), near
the Euphrates.23 The two thirteenth-century ‘Damascene’ manuscripts add that
the monastery was in the town of al-Raqqa, probably because the trial took place
there. At this point, the London manuscript edited by Pirone adds a long epi-
logue.24 When he hears of the miraculous light that shines every night over the
crucified body of the martyr causing many witnesses to convert to Christianity,
the Caliph decides to go and see for himself. Right away, as he observes the strange
phenomenon, he has the coffin with the remains of the martyr thrown into the
Euphrates. As it drifts downstream, it is spotted by a Christian near Circesium
(Qarqîsîyâ() and the remains are eventually buried in the cathedral church of
Baghdad dedicated to the Mother of God, in a chapel on the right of the altar.25
These two opposed traditions on the burial place of the martyr appear to reflect

20
Gérard Garitte, Le Calendrier palestino-géorgien du Sinaiticus 34 (X e siècle), Subsidia hagio-
graphica, 30 (Brussels: Société des Bollandistes, 1958), p. 136.
21
Dick, ‘La Passion’, p. 117 n. 28.
22
Garitte, Le Calendrier, p. 133; Michel Tarchnischvili, Le Grand lectionnaire de l’Église de
Jérusalem (V e– VIIIe siècle), CSCO, 188–89 and 204–05, Scriptores Iberici (hereafter scr. iber.)
9–10 and 13–14, 2 vols (1959), I, 29 (for text and trans.).
23
This toponym was misread by the Ethiopian translator; Dick, ‘La Passion’, p. 115. There
is no need to introduce yet another shrine, the ‘Monastery of the Column’; Peeters, ‘S. Antoine
le néo-martyr’, p. 420.
24
Pirone, ‘Un altro manoscritto’, pp. 504–07 (§§ 30–33).
25
Pirone, ‘Un altro manoscritto’, p. 506 (§ 33).
CONVERTING THE CALIPH 85

the rivalry between two sanctuaries over the possession of the relics of the martyr,
one in the Jazîra, the other in Iraq.
Around these three, or rather four, shrines are located the scenes where the
main events of Anthony’s life are staged: Damascus, Jerusalem and the Judaean
Desert, and the banks of the Euphrates. They probably also correspond to the
regions from where the cult of the martyr first developed. Later hagiographers
seemed keen on extending the geographical horizon of the narrative to other
regions. Peeters noted the addition of a trip to Khurâsân in the autobiographical
version.26 The London manuscript edited by Pirone, as well as the Georgian
version, which apparently draws on it, adds a trip to Egypt between Anthony’s
baptism and his return to Damascus. The addition takes up only a few lines,
drawing a broad outline of the ascetic life led by Anthony, who received the
monk’s habit at the same time as he was baptized.27 The hagiographer may have
had in mind to establish in this way a monastic affiliation between Anthony and
his illustrious predecessor, the Egyptian pioneer of the monastic way of life. As for
the Ethiopic version, it has a flavour of Aleppo to it for an unknown reason. It
twice gives Aleppo as Rawhò ’s birthplace, but this is evidently a later addition since
the information is not confirmed by any other version.28
In this way, along the routes Anthony himself is said to have followed, from
Damascus to Palestine, Egypt, Baghdad, and Khurâsân, his story and cult spread
rapidly and widely among Christian communities living inside the caliphate,
crossing language barriers and even strict confessional borders, since from the
Melkites it passed on to the Maronites,29 Georgians30 and Ethiopians.31 The
spreading of his cult is all the more amazing when compared to other accounts
that did not have the same success, considering that most accounts about Melkite
martyrs have survived only in one or two Arabic or Georgian manuscripts. Al-
though Syriac chronicles appear not to consider Anthony as a saint, he may also

26
Peeters, ‘L’autobiographie’, pp. 62–63; Kipšidze, ‘Žitie’, p. 94 (§ 10).
27
Pirone, ‘Un altro manoscritto’, pp. 498–99 (§ 22); Kipšidze, ‘Žitie’, p. 91 (§ 8).
28
Peeters, ‘S. Antoine le néo-martyr’: ‘Erat porro hic iuvenis e civibus Beroeae, qui bona in
urbe Damasco possidebat’ (p. 422); ‘Beroeam deduceretur, ad urbem eius patriam’ (p. 436).
29
Joseph-Marie Sauget, Premières recherches sur l’origine et les caractéristiques des synaxaires
melkites (XIe– XVIIe siècles), Subsidia hagiographica, 45 (Brussels: Société des Bollandistes, 1969),
pp. 332–34.
30
Garitte, Le Calendrier, p. 136 (19 January).
31
Gérard Colin, Le Synaxaire éthiopien: Mois de yakkâtit, PO, 45.3 (1992), pp. 583–87 (25
yakkâtit).
86 André Binggeli

have been celebrated by the Jacobite Church according to the fourteenth-century

liturgical calendar of Rabbân Sò alîbâ.32
As one turns back to the Syriac chronicles, however, the want of any hagio-
graphical perspective is striking. The Christian name of the martyr, Anthony, is
not mentioned. The monastery of Saint Theodore is not referred to, and even the
name of Damascus is lacking in the chronicles of Michael the Syrian and Bar
Hebraeus. Only the shrine where the remains of the saint are buried is located,
rather vaguely, in a town in Persia where a Christian is said to have taken the head
of Anthony after his martyrdom in al-Râfiqa, the twin city of al-Raqqa.33 The
Syriac chronicles could be referring here to the shrine in Baghdad mentioned by
the London manuscript.
The fact is that the promotion of saints appears as a secondary consideration
for chroniclers, when it is not altogether problematic. For example, when he re-
lates the martyrdom of Eustathius and his companions, Roman prisoners in the
hands of the Arabs put to death in Hò arrân on the orders of Caliph Hishâm in
741/42, Michael the Syrian (or more likely his model Dionysius of Tel-Mahò rç)
expresses doubts on whether or not they should be considered as martyrs.34
Conversely, for the Byzantine historian Theophanes († 818), the sanctity of these
same martyrs is unquestionable, and he relates the miracles that took place at their
shrine in Hò arrân.35 The confessional identity of the martyrs — as Byzantines they
were Chalcedonian — was probably at issue. The general attitude of Dionysius of
Tel-Mahò rç towards Chalcedonian hagiography is indeed marked by scepticism,
and in the preface to his work copied by Michael the Syrian, he openly criticizes

32
Paul Peeters, ‘Le Martyrologe de Rabban Sliba’, AnalBoll, 27 (1908), 129–200 (p. 144
(text), p. 171 (trans.)).
33
Michael the Syrian, Chronicle, XII.5, ed. and trans. Chabot, IV , 488 (text), III, 19 (trans.).
The same story is found in Bar Hebraeus’s Chronographia, but not in the Anonymous Chronicle
of 813, which is mutilated at this point.
34
Michael the Syrian, Chronicle, XI.21, ed. and trans. Chabot, IV , 463 (text), II, 501 (French
trans.): ‘W hen Eustathius and his companions bore witness in Hò arrân, there was some
question as to whether they should be declared martyrs or not.’
35
Theophanis Chronographia, ed. by Carl de Boor, 2 vols (Leipzig: Teubner, 1883–85), I, 414;
trans. by Cyril Mango and Roger Scott as The Chronicle of Theophanes Confessor: Byzantine and
Near Eastern History, AD 248–813 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997), p. 573: ‘In the same year
Isam, the ruler of the Arabs, put to death the Christian prisoners in all towns of his realm, among
them the blessed Eustathios, son of the distinguished patrician Marianos, who did not abjure his
pure faith in spite of much violence and proved to be a true martyr at Harran, a notable city of
Mesopotamia, where his precious and holy relics work all manner of healing by God’s grace. Many
others, too, met their death in martyrdom and blood.’
CONVERTING THE CALIPH 87

Theophilus of Edessa, his main source for this period, for relating mostly stories
about Chalcedonian saints and fraudulently omitting those that concern Jaco-
bites.36 The critical mind of the historian can be seen at work straight away as he
finds a rational explanation for the miracles that take place in a church held by
Chalcedonians.37 Not to say that in Anthony’s case, the problem was confessional.
His popularity in the Melkite community, however, could imply such an interpre-
tation. Moreover, the various shrines where the saint was commemorated could
refer to some kind of rivalry between different communities, though it would be
rash, lacking further evidence, to suggest that the shrines in Baghdad and in al-
Raqqa were held by opposed confessions.
Analysing the account in the broader perspective of the chronicle itself is
a more delicate question, as the ninth-century evidence is fragmentary. In the
Anonymous Chronicle of 813, the story of Anthony is inserted between two epi-
sodes that concern the internal affairs of the Jacobite Church, but it is not echoed
in the rest of the chronicle by events of a similar nature. In Michael’s Chronicle,
Anthony’s story is found in the third column, which relates natural phenomena,
disasters, and minor events.38 It is one among many other accounts of martyrdoms
that span the eighth and the beginning of the ninth centuries: Mu)âdh, chief of
the Christian tribe of the Banû Taghlib in Mesopotamia, who refused to convert,
c. 710,39 Cyrus, a Christian of Hò arrân, who is said to have apostatized and then
repented, in 767,40 Layth, a member of the Christian tribe of the Banû Tanûkh

36
Michael the Syrian, Chronicle, X .20, ed. and trans. Chabot, IV , 378 (text), II, 358 (French
trans.): ‘One of them was Theophilus of Edessa, who was Chalcedonian, and regarded the hatred
for the orthodox as a legacy. He fraudulently rejected every story in which one of our own was
commemorated.’
37
Michael the Syrian, Chronicle, X .21, ed. and trans. Chabot, IV , 381 (text), II, 360 (French
trans.): ‘On his way back, Philippicus passed through the town of Zeugma, and he had a church
(dedicated) to the Mother of God built there. They say about it that on the day of her holy feast,
they would close the doors of the church, and when they had secured them with bolts, all of a
sudden, they would open by their own will. They say that the Mother of God herself opened
them. However, Chalcedonians are the ones who spread rumours like these, and the accuracy of
the fact is not established. Some people say that the priests of the church made them open by some
kind of craft.’
38
On the special layout of Michael’s work, Dorothea Weltecke, Die ‘Beschreibung der Zeiten’
von Môr Michael dem Grossen (1126–1199): Eine Studie zu ihrem historischen und historio-
graphischen Kontext, CSCO, 594, Subsidia, 110 (2003), pp. 163–78.
39
Michael the Syrian, Chronicle, XI.17, ed. and trans. Chabot, IV , 451 (text), II, 481 (trans.).
40
Michael the Syrian, Chronicle, XI.26, ed. and trans. Chabot, IV , 476 (text), II, 527 (trans.).
88 André Binggeli

near Aleppo, who refused to convert, in 778/79,41 )Abdûn, a notable of Takrît,

whom Caliph al-Ma(mûn vainly tried to convince to convert to Islam around
820,42 and a group of martyrs in Sarûj, denounced for having apostatized and then
become Christians again around 840.43 These stories usually appear as events
illustrating the hardships underwent by Christians living in the caliphate and are
treated in the same way as records of destruction of churches or accounts of
harassment and persecution. Apparently they serve no greater scheme in the
historical writing, although it should be noted that all these accounts concern
martyrs who are either members of Christian Arab tribes who refused to convert
to Islam or Christian apostates who came back to their original faith. One must
turn to contemporary parallels like the Chronicle of Zuqnîn, a universal chronicle
that goes up to the year 775, written in the monastery of the same name in
northern Mesopotamia, to find an account of martyrdom, namely that of the
same Cyrus of Hò arrân, employed with a specific purpose. While the last pages
of the chronicle depict in detail the defection of a large number of Christians
to Islam, the figure of the faithful who refused conversion is obviously being pre-
sented as a counter-model against apostasy.44

Nephew of the Caliph or Descendant of Muhò ammad?

Why did the story of Anthony appeal so much to Christians living under Muslim
yoke to the extent that even Jacobite historians felt the urge to mention a saint
worshipped by the Melkites? Al-Bîrûnî put his finger on the reason for the story’s
success when he expressed doubts about the real identity of the martyr; but to

41
Michael the Syrian, Chronicle, XII .1, ed. and trans. Chabot, IV , 478–79 (text), III , 1
(trans.).
42
Michael the Syrian, Chronicle, XII.11, ed. and trans. Chabot, IV , 506 (text), III, 49 (trans.).
43
Michael the Syrian, Chronicle, XII.20, ed. and trans. Chabot, IV , 534 (text), III, 97 (trans.).
44
Amir Harrak, ‘Piecing Together the Fragmentary Account of the Martyrdom of Cyrus of
Hò arrân’, AnalBoll, 121 (2003), 297–328 (pp. 299–300). See also a more general study on the
aims of the Chronicle of Zuqnîn by Amir Harrak, ‘Ah! the Assyrian is the Rod of My Hand! Syriac
Views of History after the Advent of Islam’, in Redefining Christian Identity: Cultural Interaction
in the Middle East since the Rise of Islam, ed. by Jan J. van Ginkel, H. L. Murre-van den Berg, and
Theo Maarten van Lint, Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta, 134 (Leuven: Peeters, 2005), pp. 45–
65, and Witold Witakowski, The Syriac Chronicle of Pseudo-Dionysius of Tel-Mahò rç: A Study
in the History of Historiography, Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis, Studia Semitica Upsaliensia, 9
(Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1987), pp. 136–46.
CONVERTING THE CALIPH 89

come back to his statement concerning the genealogy of the martyr, none of the
Christian sources that have been mentioned so far claim or even suggest that the
martyr could have been related to the Caliph. When Anthony is questioned by
Hârûn al-Rashîd himself in al-Raqqa, the Caliph tries in various ways to convince
the apostate to return to Islam, but he never hints at their being related. Never-
theless, the identity of the martyr — and we owe this to al-Bîrûnî’s insight — is
far from being a minor point in the story. Both historians and hagiographers have
given particular attention to it. In the Anonymous Chronicle of 813, the apostate
is identified as ‘a man of the tribe of Quraysh whose name was Rûhò ay’, while
Michael the Syrian specifies that he was of ‘pagan confession’, and Bar Hebraeus
‘a Muslim’.45 In most occurrences in the Ecclesiastical History of Dionysius of
Tel-Mahò rç, and after him in the Chronicle of Michael the Syrian, Quraysh serves
to identify Arabs of particular status, and it refers more precisely to the Meccan
clan from which the first four caliphs originated,46 as opposed to the Umayyads
and the )Abbâsids.47 Undoubtedly, most Christian readers living in the Islamic

45
Chronicon anni 813, ed. and trans. Brooks, p. 253 (text): ‘gabrô hò ad men sharbtô
dqûrayshîyç dashmeh Ruwayhò ’; Michael the Syrian, Chronicle, XII.5, ed. and trans. Chabot, IV ,
487: ‘btawdîteh hò anpô’; Bar Hebraeus, Chronicon Syriacum, in The Chronography, trans.
Budge, for a facsimile copy of Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Hunt 52, fol. 45 r: ‘mashlemônô’.
46
The text of the Ecclesiastical History of Dionysius of Tel-Mahò rç for the seventh century
was reconstituted on the basis of the Chronicle of Michael the Syrian and the Anonymous
Chronicle of 1234 in The Seventh Century in the West-Syrian Chronicles, trans. by Andrew Palmer,
Translated Texts for Historians, 15 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1993). For the
occurrences of Quraysh, see Dionysius Reconstituted, § 73, in West-Syrian Chronicles, trans. by
Palmer, p. 161 [= Anonymi auctoris Chronicon ad AC 1234 pertinens, I.120, ed. by Jean-Baptiste
Chabot, CSCO, 81, scr. syr., 36 (1920; repr. 1965), p. 254]: ‘the great and famous of Quraysh
accompanying ‘Umar to Jerusalem’; Dionysius Reconstituted, § 87, trans. Palmer, p. 168 [=
Michael the Syrian, Chronicle, XI.8, ed. and trans. Chabot, IV , 421 (text), II, 430 (French trans.)]:
‘a man of Quraysh in Mecca whose slave killed )Umar’; Dionysius Reconstituted, § 125, trans.
Palmer, p. 198 [= Michael the Syrian, Chronicle, XI.15, ed. and trans. Chabot, IV , 421 (text), II,
469 (French trans.)]: ‘the oldest of all the Quraysh who comes to reconcile the clans of Damascus
with those of Yathrib’. See also Michael the Syrian, Chronicle, XII.8, ed. and trans. Chabot, IV , 497
(text), III, 34 (French trans.): ‘a man of Quraysh named Ibrahò îm who promotes pagan cult in
Hò arrân’; Michael the Syrian, Chronicle, X II .9, ed. and trans. Chabot, IV , 498 (text), III, 35
(French trans.): ‘Quraysh and the people of Baghdad being involved in the designation of the
caliph’.
47
See the confusion about )Uthmân considered as ‘not from the tribe of Quraysh but from
the tribe of the Umayyads’; Dionysius Reconstituted, § 88, trans. Palmer, p. 169 (and n. 416) [=
Chronicon 1234, I, 127, ed. Chabot, p. 262].
90 André Binggeli

empire would also identify Quraysh as Muhò ammad’s tribe.48 In Melkite sources,
the special status of the Quraysh tribe among Arabs is made explicit, as the Pas-
sion makes a distinction between quraysh and ‘arab when referring to people
of the same rank as Anthony.49 According to the hagiographer (and Theodore
Abû Qurra as well), Qurashî is synonymous to noble lineage.50 Moreover, studying
the occurrences of Rawhò , the name of the martyr before his conversion, Samir
showed that in the eighth century it is frequently found for Arab high officials of
Syrian origin, and it is even the name of two sons of Umayyad caliphs.51
It appears that the reference to Quraysh is a feature common to hagiographical
and historical accounts. On this point, the literary productions of the different
Christian communities are in accordance in their intention of highlighting the
origin of the martyr, whether relating him directly to the tribe of the Prophet of
Islam, or at least suggesting he is not a late convert, but a Muslim from the begin-
ning and an Arab of high lineage. The statement that is behind the conversion and
martyrdom of this Arab nobleman is clear. It is meant to legitimize Christianity
among native Arabs, as David Vila has shown, 52 and encourage them to stay Chris-
tian or even to apostatize from Islam, in a period when the general trend was, on
the contrary, to assimilate Arab identity and Islam, since the Arab tribes were
among the first converts to the religion of the conquerors, very often under
duress. From this viewpoint, the account of Anthony’s martyrdom in the Chron-
icle of Michael the Syrian echoes all the other accounts of martyrs of Arab origin
who refused conversion to Islam. It also reminds us of contemporary martyrolo-
gies produced by the Melkites that concern Arab converts like Qays al-Ghassânî,
christened )Abd al-Masîhò .53 However, because of his status, Rawhò appears as the

48
Dionysius Reconstituted, § 25, trans. Palmer, p. 129 [= Michael the Syrian, Chronicle, XI.2,
ed. and trans. Chabot, IV , 405 (text), II, 403 (French trans.)]: ‘Muhò ammad a member of the
tribe of Quraysh’.
49
Dick, ‘La Passion’, p. 125 (§ 9): ‘ma)a nuzò arâ(ihi quraysh wa-)arab’.
50
Dick, ‘La Passion’, p. 119 (§ 1): ‘rajul min al-ashrâf’; Theodore Abû Qurra, Maymar fî
ikrâm al-îqûnât, 15, ed. Dick, p. 173: ‘min ahl al-sharaf al-a)lâ’.
51
Samir, ‘Saint Rawhò al-Qurashî’, pp. 347–53.
52
David Vila, ‘The Struggle over Arabisation in Medieval Christian Hagiography’, Al-Masâq,
15 (2003), 35–46 (p. 43).
53
Milka Rubin, ‘Arabization versus Islamization in the Palestinian Melkite Community
during the Early Muslim Period’, in Sharing the Sacred (see n. 4, above), pp. 149–62 (pp. 150–
52); Mark N. Swanson, ‘The Martyrdom of )A bd al-Masîhò (Qays al-Ghassânî)’, in Syrian
Christians under Islam: The First Thousand Years, ed. by David Thomas (Leiden: Brill, 2001), pp.
CONVERTING THE CALIPH 91

perfect paradigm within this category. He is indeed an Arab, but what sets him
apart from all the other martyrs of the same period is the fact that he does not
come from a Christian tribe, but from the original umma of Muslim believers.
The hagiographer that wrote the version in the London manuscript edited by
Pirone underlines what is at stake in the story while glossing the vision of the
Eucharist that led the young Muslim nobleman to conversion:
It was God’s pleasure to show his compassion and the greatness of his mercy to this
extravagant man in order to soften his heart and so that this may be an easy way for
whoever wants to repent from his sins and return to God, He who shows his abundant
blessings to those who go through horrible trials, as said saint Paul the Apostle: ‘Where
sin abounds, grace much more abounds’.54

The story of Anthony is intended to serve as an example for anyone who wishes
to convert from Islam to Christianity. The concern that emerges behind this
statement is to leave the door open for readmission within the Church of Arabs
who may have renounced their Christian faith.
The fact that the martyr comes from Muhò ammad’s tribe obviously appealed
to Christian hagiographers, and in later versions of the story they delighted in
making the statement more explicit, by relating the martyr directly to one of the
closest companions of the Prophet of Islam. In the Ethiopic version, the protago-
nist is given an imaginary genealogy that goes all the way back to )Umar ibn al-
Khatò tò âb, the second caliph (634–44),55 and this famous ancestry is also cited
in the calendar of Rabbân Sò alîbâ.56 Through a certain sense of decency, the de-
velopment of the story did not end up in making of Rawhò a direct descendant
of the Prophet Muhò ammad himself, but the intention behind is the same. For
)Umar I is a paradigmatic figure of the caliph, an incarnation of justice and piety.
Owing to his political and social action, he is also regarded as the founder of the

107–29. The Martyrdom of ‘A bd al-Masî hò is edited by Sidney H. Griffith, ‘The Arabic Account
of )A bd al-Masî hò an-Na™rânî al-Ghassânî’, Le Muséon, 98 (1985), 331–74 (repr. in Griffith’s
Arabic Christianity in the Monasteries of Ninth-Century Palestine, Variorum Collected Studies
Series, 380 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1992), chap. 10). It is our contention that the text is roughly con-
temporary to the Passion of Anthony and must be dated to the late eighth century, and not to the
late ninth century as proposed by Griffith: André Binggeli, ‘L’hagiographie du Sinaï en arabe d’après
un recueil du IX e siècle (Sinaï arabe 542)’, Parole de l’Orient, 32 (2007), 163–80 (pp. 175–77).
54
Pirone, ‘Un altro manoscritto’, pp. 488–89 (§ 8).
55
Peeters, ‘S. Antoine le néo-martyr’, p. 422: ‘Fuit Antonius vir inclutus Qoraisita, e proceribus
Arabum, qui dicebatur Rawah, filius Hatem, filii Beheravi, filii Omar, filii Khattab.’
56
Peeters, ‘Le Martyrologe de Rabban Sliba’, p. 171: ‘Decembris XXV. Antonius Koreisita
e genere Omar (men sharbtô d‘Umar), adiutor eorum qui in angustiis versantur’.
92 André Binggeli

Islamic state by later historians.57 Therefore, it aims at the heart of the Muslim
community, and the conversion of the descendant of one of its main characters
would be felt by Christians as a reversal of the course of history; it was meant at
least to comfort them in the idea that such a reversal was possible. In this sense,
al-Bîrûnî was right when he suggested that Christians were foolish enough to be-
lieve the fables that hagiographers served them, since by his time hagiographers
had definitely lapsed into legend creation by relating the martyr to the second
caliph, one of the most eminent figures of Islamic history.
So the promotion of a saint like Anthony in Melkite hagiography, probably
much less so in historical writings, appears as a means of countering the threat
of apostasy and Islamization. It also contributes to defining the limits that the
Christians living inside the Arab Islamic empire are willing to give to their own
community. When considered from this viewpoint, it is no great surprise that the
cult of Anthony did not cross the borders of the caliphate. Such concerns are
scarcely reflected among the Byzantines. Would the word Quraysh even strike a
chord with them?

Legend Creation between Byzantium and the Caliphate

Nonetheless, the story of Anthony did not go altogether unnoticed in the Byzan-
tine Empire, and eventually, by some convoluted means it arrived there after
undergoing a major transformation, both in its narrative structure and in its use
by hagiographers. A very similar story exists indeed in Greek as part of a collection
of miracles related to Saint George. It is difficult to establish precisely when and
where this new version of the story was composed; it was probably somewhere
in Byzantine territory between the ninth and the eleventh century, but in any
case, there seems to be no valid reason to attribute the narrative to Gregory
the Decapolite († 842), as some editors have done.58 The story comes as an edify-

57
Giorgio Levi della Vida and Michael Bonner, ‘)Umar (I) ibn al-Khatò tò âb’, in Encyclo-
paedia of Islam, ed. by Hamilton A. R . Gibb and others, 2nd edn, 12 vols, including supplement
(Leiden: Brill, 1960–2004), X , 883–86.
58
The attribution to Gregory the Decapolite has never been discussed. Francis Dvorník, La
Vie de saint Grégoire le Décapolite et les Slaves Macédoniens au IX e siècle, Travaux publiés par
l’Institut d’Études Slaves, 5 (Paris: Champion, 1926), pp. 28–29, and Robert F. Taft, ‘Byzantine
Communion Spoons: A Review of the Evidence’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 50 (1996), 207–38
(pp. 226–27) are inclined to reject its authenticity. Daniel J. Sahas, ‘What an Infidel Saw that a
Faithful Did Not: Gregory Dekapolites (d. 842) and Islam’, Greek Orthodox Theological Review,
CONVERTING THE CALIPH 93

ing tale told secondhand by an otherwise unknown military commander called

Nicholas, supposedly stationed on the border between Byzantine and Arab ter-
ritories. The plot is roughly the same, albeit with some borrowings from other
hagiographical accounts. Only the setting has changed, and the conversion takes
place in the more famous sanctuary of Saint George of Lydda (Diospolis), near
Ramla in Palestine. The martyr is not named,59 but in the end he is identified as
the nephew of the Caliph,60 as claimed by al-Bîrûnî.
That such a version circulated in Byzantium does not come as a surprise. The
theme of the conversion of the Caliph was very popular and appeared in many
different literary forms. The most famous occurrence concerns the episode of

31 (1986), 47–67, supports the attribution, but with no positive evidence; moreover he makes
a number of errors that undermine his argument, among others, the setting of the story in Egypt
and the confusion between the Decapolis of Isauria and that of Syria. The attribution to Gregory
the Decapolite is probably due to the first editor, Isidorus a S. Ioseph, S. Gregorii Decapolitae sermo
historicus (Rome: [n. pub.], 1642). Unfortunately, the manuscript used by the editor has not been
identified (in all likelihood Vatican, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana (BAV), MS Vaticanus graecus
1130, but it reads only Gregorios in the title; Brussels, Bibliothèque Royale Albert Ier, MS 7812,
fols 367 r–373 r, has the attribution to Gregory the Decapolite, but it is a seventeenth-century copy
from the Bollandists’ Library); see Carl Van de Vorst and Hippolyte Delehaye, Catalogus codicum
hagiographicorum graecorum Germaniae, Belgii, Angliae, Subsidia hagiographica, 13 (Brussels:
Société des Bollandistes, 1913), p. 199. Isidorus’s edition was then republished in Acta Sanctorum
Aprilis, 3 vols (Antwerp: Cnobarus, 1675), III, xlii–xliv, and in Patrologiae cursus completus […]
Series Graeca, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 161 vols (Paris: Migne, 1857–66) (hereafter PG) C , cols
1201–12. Jean–Baptiste Aufhauser, Miracula S. Georgii (Leipzig: Teubner, 1913), pp. 64–89 (no.
6), published anew this version (BHG, 690), ascribing it to Gregory with no further identification,
alongside a second version of the story ascribed to a monk named Mark (BHG, 690a), and a
modern Greek metaphrasis. All three versions were edited on the basis of late manuscripts: BAV,
MS Vat. graec. 1130 (sixteenth/seventeenth-century), Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France,
MS fonds graecus 1190 (1568), and Mount Athos, Skete of Kausokalybion, MS Ioasaphaion 308
(1878). The fact is that many older manuscripts are extant, namely Mount Athos, Monastery of
Iviron, MS 408 (twelfth/thirteenth-century), fols 359 v–368 r, Vienna, Österreichische National-
bibliothek, MS Historicus graecus 67 (thirteenth-century), fols 23 v –24 v , and Milano, Biblioteca
Ambrosiana, MS M 83 sup. (thirteenth-century), fols 279 r–284 v. They contain a slightly different
and anonymous version of the story (BHG, 690c), that probably reflects the original as it was first
written in Greek; it has none of the incongruities of the later versions, like the presence of a bishop
on Mount Sinai in the eighth century (instead of a higoumen).
59
In the later versions, the martyr is alternately called Pachomios or Joachim, while he is
anonymous in the original version.
60
Miracle of Saint George on the Conversion of the Saracen, PG, 100, col. 1201: ‘•ðÝóôáëêåí
Ò &Áìåñïõìíç̃ ò [= amîr al-mu’minîn] Óõñßáò ôÎí Çäéïí •íåøéüí’. On the exact meaning of
‘anepsios’, which may stand here for ‘cousin’, see Hoyland, Seeing Islam, p. 383 n. 141.
94 André Binggeli

the exchange of correspondence between Emperor Leo III (717–41) and Caliph
)Umar II (717–20). The earliest confirmed testimonies of this epistolary exchange
date from the early ninth century, notably in the Byzantine chronicle of Theo-
phanes. Without entering the debate concerning the authenticity of the actual
text of the correspondence as it has been transmitted in the late eighth-century
Armenian chronicle of £ewond,61 there is no doubt that, even if it is a later in-
terpolation, it draws on material from Christian-Muslim controversy that was
elaborated in parallel in both Byzantine and Arab territories in the second century
of the hijra.62 The framework of the episode is simple: )Umar is supposed to have
written to Leo to convince him of the truth of Islam, and in response he received
from Constantinople a refutation by the Emperor. Christian historiography de-
veloped further around this epistolary disputation, especially among Melkites and
Armenians, on the effect that the refutation produced on the Caliph. The tenth-
century Melkite chronicler Agapius of Manbij does not say that Leo’s response
caused )Umar to convert, but that the Emperor definitely outmatched the Caliph
with his arguments.63 According to £evond’s account, the long and detailed refu-
tation of Leo seriously undermined the Caliph’s beliefs and produced on him such

61
The full text of the correspondence exists in an English translation by Arthur Jeffery,
‘Ghevond’s Text of the Correspondence between )Umar II and Leo III’, Harvard Theological
Review, 37 (1944), 269–332.
62
Stephen Gero, Byzantine Iconoclasm During the Reign of Leo III with Particular Attention
to the Oriental Sources, CSCO, 346, Subsidia, 41 (1973), pp. 44–47, 132–41 and 153–71, argued
that the extant chronicle of £ewond is the work of a twelfth-century reviser and that the corre-
spondence between Leo and ‘Umar is a later addition, a forgery originally written in Armenian.
Gero’s claim has been convincingly refuted by Robert G. Hoyland, ‘The Correspondence of Leo
III (717–741) and )Umar II (717–20)’, ARAM, 6 (1994), 165–77 (repr. in Hoyland, Seeing
Islam, pp. 490–501), using documents brought to light by Jean-Marie Gaudeul, ‘The correspon-
dence between Leo and )Umar: )Umar’s Letter Re-discovered?’, Islamochristiana, 10 (1984), 109–
57. See also Jean-Pierre Mahé, ‘Le Problème de l’authenticité et de la valeur de la chronique de
£ewond’, in L’Arménie et Byzance: Histoire et culture, ed. by Bernadette Martin-Hisard and
others, Byzantina Sorbonensia, 12 (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 1996), pp. 119–26, who
is inclined to believe, on the basis of stylistic evidence, that the correspondence itself is a later
interpolation translated from Greek, while the main body of £ewond’s chronicle dates from the
late eighth century.
63
Agapius of Manbij, Kitâb al-‘Unwân, ed. and French trans. by Alexandre Vasiliev, PO, 8.3
(1912), pp. 502–03; trans. Hoyland, Seeing Islam, p. 490: ‘He [)Umar] wrote for Leo the king a
letter summoning him therein to Islam and, moreover, disputed with him about his religion. Leo
made him a reply in which he tore apart his argument and made clear to him the unsoundness of
this statement, and elucidated to him the light of Christianity, by proofs from the revealed Books
and by comparisons from the insights and inclinations of the Qur(ân.’
CONVERTING THE CALIPH 95

a strong effect that he started treating Christians with kindness.64 The account
found in the Armenian chronicle of T)ovma Arcruni, which dates from the early
tenth century, goes one step further:
)Umar, son of )A bd al-)A zîz, for 3 years. He was the most noble of them all. He wrote a
letter on the faith to Leo, emperor of the Greeks; and receiving a response from him,
expunged many of the most fabulous things from the Qur(ân, for he recognized the true
power [of Leo’s argument]. Although he did not dare to remove them all, yet being very
confounded and ashamed he abandoned the falsehood that was refuted by the emperor’s
letter, and thereby showed great benevolence to the Christian people.65
In this development of the story, it is the very foundation of Islam, its holy book,
that is targeted, since the chronicler adds that the Caliph expurgated the Qur(ân
in accordance with Christian dogma. By asserting that the Caliph was tempted to
convert fully to Christianity, but did not dare to do so publicly, he may even be
implying that the Caliph did so secretly.
In most sources, both Christian and Muslim, )Umar II is depicted as a just
and pious caliph, like his predecessor )Umar I, though what is usually emphasized
are his laws unfavourable to Christians and his tax legislation to encourage them
to convert to Islam.66 On the contrary, the Caliph is presented here as very
benevolent towards Christians. Whether this reflects a more balanced view of his
legislative and administrative action or a change of policy during his reign after
the failure of the siege of Constantinople in 717, undoubtedly the positive image
generally associated with the figure of )Umar II opened the breach that allowed
chroniclers to elaborate on the theme of his imaginary conversion.
A more explicit instance of the theme is found in the Life of Theodore of Edessa.
This hagiographical romance compiled from many different sources exists both
in Greek and Arabic versions.67 There has been much debate over the last century

64
Jeffery, ‘Ghevond’s Text of the Correspondence between )Umar II and Leo III’, translates
Ghevond’s text, p. 330: ‘The Emperor Leo sent this response by one of his intimate officers to
)Umar, sovereign of the Arabs. After having read it, the Caliph was very confused. This letter
produced on him a very happy effect. From this moment he commenced to treat the Christians
with much kindness. He ameliorated their state, and showed himself very favourable towards
them, so that on all hands were heard expressions of thankfulness to him.’
65
T)ovma Arcruni, Chronicle, II.4, in Thomas Artsruni, History of the House of the Artsrunik‘,
trans. by Robert W. Thomson (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1985), p. 171.
Antoine Borrut, ‘Entre tradition et histoire: Genèse et diffusion de l’image de )Umar II’,
66

Mélanges de l’Université Saint-Joseph, 58 (2005), 329–78 (pp. 350–54).

67
The Arabic text is as yet unpublished. The Greek text was edited by I. Pomjalovskij, Žitie
iže vo svjatyh otca našego Theodora arhiepiskopa Edesskago (Saint Petersburg: Imperatorskaâ
Akademiâ Nauk, 1892).
96 André Binggeli

as to which was the original language, but the more recent studies agree that it
was Greek;68 in all likelihood, it was composed in the first decades of the eleventh
century in the region of Antioch after the Byzantine re-conquest,69 and translated
soon after into Arabic, probably in the monastery of Mar Sabas in Palestine.70
More than half of this composite work (§ 70–112) is taken up by an account re-
lating the conversion and martyrdom of a caliph called Mauias, who is fictional,
even though Alexandre Vasiliev has argued that the character refers to a historical
figure of the )Abbâsid dynasty.71 It may also be an attempt at transcribing the name
of Mu)âwiya, the founder of the Umayyad dynasty himself. In the Arabic version
that circulated in the Melkite community, he was changed into another figure of
the lenient caliph, al-Ma(mûn (813–33).72
The story begins as the Bishop of Edessa arrives in Baghdad to make an appeal
to the Caliph about some affairs concerning his church. He finds the Caliph
severely ill and cures him using dust from the Holy Sepulchre. During his stay
at the court, Theodore preaches to the Caliph on Christian faith and secretly
baptizes him with three servants in the Tigris. After several episodes relating to
an embassy to the Byzantine emperor Michael III (842–67) in Constantinople
to request a fragment of the True Cross for the Caliph, a public debate at the
)Abbâsid court confronting Theodore and a Jewish controversialist, and a visit to

68
The abundant literature concerning this text is extensively discussed in two recent articles:
Sidney H. Griffith, ‘The Life of Theodore of Edessa: History, Hagiography and Religious Apolo-
getics in Mar Saba Monastery in Early Abbasid Times’, in The Sabaite Heritage in the Orthodox
Church from the Fifth Century to the Present, ed. by Joseph Patrich, Orientalia Lovaniensia Ana-
lecta, 98 (Leuven: Peeters, 2001), pp. 147–69, and Mark N. Swanson, ‘The Christian al-Ma(mûn
Tradition’, in Christians at the Heart of Islamic Rule: Church Life and Scholarship in ‘Abbasid Iraq,
ed. by David Thomas, History of Christian-Muslim Relations, 1 (Leiden: Brill, 2003), pp. 61–92.
69
New evidence will be advanced in a forthcoming study by the author to support the
contention that the work was composed in the two first decades of the eleventh century. Central
to the argument is the terminus post quem provided by Nicephorus Ouranos’s metaphrasis of the
Life of Symeon Stylites the Younger, written while he was the governor of Antioch (between 999
and 1007); it can be shown that the beginning of the Life of Theodore of Edessa, which relates the
saint’s childhood, plagiarizes Nicephorus’s text. The terminus ante quem is provided by the date
of the oldest manuscript, Moscow, State Historical Museum, MS Synodal Greek 15 (Vladimir
381), copied by Theophanes of Iviron in 1023.
70
Griffith, ‘The Life of Theodore of Edessa’, p. 155.
71
Alexandre Vasiliev, ‘The Life of St Theodore of Edessa’, Byzantion, 16 (1942–43), 165–
225 (pp. 204–08), made an attempt at identifying the martyred caliph suggesting he could be
)A bbâs, the nephew of al-Mu)tasò im (833–42), who allegedly embraced Christianity according to
Armenian sources, or al-Mu(ayyad, who was murdered by his brother, Caliph al-Mu)tazz (866–69).
72
Swanson, ‘The Christian al-Ma(mûn Tradition’, pp. 82–83.
CONVERTING THE CALIPH 97

the desert near Baghdad to an anchorite who predicts the forthcoming martyr-
dom, Theodore takes leave of the Caliph and returns to Edessa. Meanwhile, the
Caliph has commanded an assembly of all the people of the capital where he
confesses publicly his faith and is promptly cut to pieces by the angered crowd. As
in Anthony’s story, miracles occur over the shrine that contains his relics in the
metropolitan church of Baghdad, and ‘many Persians and Hagarenes’ convert to
Christian faith.73
The scholarly debate over the authenticity and historicity of all these texts,
especially as to the original language — Greek, Arabic, or even Armenian — in
which they were written, raises the issue of the place where they were first com-
posed. There is evidently not one single answer to the question, and each text has
its own circuit of transmission. Nevertheless, all these variations on the theme of
the conversion of the Caliph have in common that they expand as they travel back
and forth between Byzantium and the caliphate, mainly among the Melkite com-
munity. In the case of Anthony’s story, the legend of the martyr’s relation to the
Caliph is obviously a later development, although well established in the eleventh
century when related by al-Bîrûnî. It may have circulated first as an oral tradition,
whether or not it originated in Byzantine territory. The fact is that we have no
other written testimony than the Greek miracle of Saint George. Could this mean
that the literary motif was elaborated in the Christian empire as a propagandistic
theme, just as the Byzantine armies were achieving their first major military suc-
cesses against the Arabs in the area of Antioch in the late tenth century?
In fact, the theme of the conversion of the impious monarch is universal,
and parallels can be found for martyrs under Roman or Persian rule. Christians
living inside the Islamic empire had long been flirting with this idea, especially
in the literature of disputation set at the caliph’s or the emir’s court. Some of
these disputations appear in an embryonic state inside hagiographical texts about
martyrs; the trial of Anthony at al-Raqqa is a very condensed form of it. A more
elaborate example is found in the Passion of Michael of Mar Sabas, which was
later included in the Life of Theodore of Edessa.74 However, Muslim-Christian
disputation developed as an independent genre, in some way related to the so-
called Majlis literature.75 Sometimes the caliph is the antagonist of the Christian

73
The Life of Theodore of Edessa, chap. 111, ed. Pomjalowskij, p. 116.
74
Sidney H. Griffith, ‘Michael, the Martyr and Monk of the Mar Sabas Monastery, at the
Court of the Caliph )A bd al-Malik’, ARAM, 6 (1994), 115–48.
75
Sidney H. Griffith, ‘The Monk in the Emir’s Majlis: Reflections on a Popular Genre of
Christian Literary Apologetics in Arabic in the Early Islamic Period’, in The Majlis: Interreligious
98 André Binggeli

debater; more often he supervises the controversy that has Christians, Jews, and
Muslims battling together. Although the narrative part is usually summed up in
an introductory paragraph where the stage is set, some disputations, like the early
ninth-century Dialogue of Abraham of Tiberias, develop narrative episodes around
the disputation, and this text ends with an astounding sequel of miracles and
conversions: two Jews and two Christian renegades, who are then put to death for
apostasy from Islam.76 The court appears thus as a privileged place for miracles and
conversions, and the caliph is never far from letting himself be persuaded; at least,
the texts are trying to convey the idea that one of these debates could eventually
lead to the conversion of the caliph himself.
The conversion of the caliph is only one element in a broader perspective, and
the real claim is the universal victory of Christianity. In the Life of Theodore of
Edessa, the conversion of the Muslim caliph is the climax in a series of conver-
sions that include a Jew, Pagans, Arabs, Persians, and finally heretics, reuniting
all religions within Orthodox Christianity, and since the text originated in the
Byzantine Empire, obviously, this stands for Chalcedonian Orthodoxy, as is
clearly stated in the Caliph’s confession of faith.77 A similar process can be seen
underway in the way the Passion of Anthony Rawhò was read at different times. In
a thirteenth-century manuscript of the abridged version of the Passion, Sinai arab.
66, the Passion is associated with stories of converts from different confessions:
Joseph the Jew in Constantinople who is baptized with his whole family in Jus-
tinian’s time (527–65),78 and Pantaleon of Nicomedia, a Pagan convert martyred
under the Roman emperor Maximianus (285–305).79 On the contrary, in the
London manuscript, one of the earliest testimonies of the text, the Passion of
Anthony, is followed by the Passion of ‘Abd al-Masîhò , the martyrology of an Arab
convert, contemporary with Anthony. It has been said how much the hagiogra-
pher was aware of the polemical value of the narrative in a given context marked

Encounters in Medieval Islam, ed. by Hava Lazarus-Yafeh and others (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz,
1999), pp. 13–65.
76
Dialogue of Abraham of Tiberias, § 546–79, in Le Dialogue d’Abraham de Tibériade avec
‘Abd al-R ahò mân Hâshimî à Jérusalem vers 820, ed. by Giacinto Bûlus Marcuzzo, Textes et
études sur l’Orient chrétien, 3 (Rome: Pontificia Universitas Lateraniensis, 1986), pp. 516–30.
77
Swanson, ‘The Christian al-Ma(mûn Tradition’, p. 79.
78
The story is adapted from a Greek tale of the Pratum spirituale of John Moschos (BHG,
1076k), ed. by Elpidio Mioni, ‘Il Pratum Spirituale di Giovanni Moscho’, Orientalia Christiana
Periodica, 17 (1951), 61–94 (pp. 93–94, no. 12).
79
Graf, Geschichte, p. 521.
CONVERTING THE CALIPH 99

by the threat of apostasy. By associating it to another story in the same vein, he

was apparently concerned that the original intention of the story be reinforced.
The development of the theme of the ‘conversion of the caliph’ and of a new
genre of polemical literature related to it indicates that a drift in the aims of the
hagiographical genre was taking effect. It first developed in the eighth and ninth
centuries as a response to a specific religious situation, as a ‘littérature engagée’ so
to speak. Henceforth, more distant expectations, if not eschatological, were ex-
pressed in these stories, possibly under the influence of Byzantine propaganda.
They conveyed the hope in a final triumph of Christianity over the infidel empire,
while at the same time, a literary response was being elaborated inside the Islamic
empire, conveying the opposite eschatological expectations of the Muslims.80 The
transformation undergone by the account of Anthony’s martyrdom and echoed
by Al-Bîrûnî could be a sign that Christians knew that they were losing ground to
Islam; and so they were already contemplating the end of times for a triumph of
Christianity.

Appendix: The Shrine of Saint Theodore Near Damascus

The monastery on the outskirts of Damascus where Rawhò lived is located by the
Passion of Anthony in Nayrab. This place is evidently not to be mistaken with the
monastery of Bçth Mar John at Narab near the village of Sarmin, south of Aleppo,
as Peeters had first suggested,81 but the precise location of the monastery is none-
theless problematic, as medieval sources mention on the outskirts of Damascus no
less than three different churches dedicated to Saint Theodore that all possessed
a miraculous icon of the patron saint: one is in the village of Nayrab, the second
is the monastery of Dayr Murrân, and the third is a church in the village of
Karsatas. This is an attempt at presenting a comprehensive review of the medieval
sources in order to determine whether the different names do not refer to the
same shrine.
The different versions of the Passion give further information as to the exact
location of Nayrab. The two thirteenth-century ‘Damascene’ manuscripts (Sinai

80
David Cook, Studies in Muslim Apocalyptic, Studies in Late Antiquity and Early Islam, 21
(Princeton: Darwin, 2002), pp. 54–66.
81
Peeters, ‘S. Antoine le néo-martyr’, p. 420; see the arguments of Marlia Mundell Mango,
‘Where Was Beth Zagba’, in Okeanos: Essays Presented to Ihor Ševèenko on his Sixtieth Birthday
by his Colleagues and Students, ed. by Cyril Mango and Omeljan Pritsak, Harvard Ukrainian
Studies, 7 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983), pp. 405–30 (pp. 417–18).
100 André Binggeli

arab. 445 and 448) locate it outside the Iron Gate (Bâb al-Hò adîd),82 which is the
northern gate of the Ayyûbid citadel of Damascus, situated in the north-west of
the town, 83 and the Ethiopic version on a hill, next to a river.84 All these details
fit quite well with the general description of Nayrab by Arab geographers. Ibn
Hò awqal and al-Isò tò akhrî (tenth century) locate Nayrab next to the hill of Rabwa,
at the place where the Baradâ River comes out of the gorge and enters the plain of
Damascus.85 Ibn )Asâkir († 1176) distinguishes Upper-Nayrab and Lower-Nayrab,
next to Tawra, a branch of the Baradâ River that flows through Damascus,86
meaning the village was built between the valley and the slopes of Mount Qâsyûn,
which overlooks the city. According to Yâqût († 1229), Nayrab is ‘a celebrated
village of Damascus, lying half a farsang (c. 3km) away from the city, in the midst
of gardens. It is one of the most pleasant places I have ever seen. They say there
is here an oratory (musò allâ) of al-Khidò r’.87 The traveller Ibn Jubayr († 1217) was
equally charmed by the village of Nayrab hidden amidst orchards. He also men-
tions a mosque with a beautiful pavement floor that resembles a carpet.88 The
monastery of Saint Theodore does not appear in any of these later sources, but all
the information added up enables us to locate Nayrab precisely, to the north-west
of Damascus, between the modern neighbourhoods of Sò âlihò iyya and Rabwa, on
the slopes of Mount Qâsyûn.89

82
Dick, ‘La Passion’, p. 127.
83
Nikita Elisséeff, La Description de Damas d’Ibn ‘Asâkir (Damascus: Institut français de
Damas, 1959), p. 300; neither the gate, nor the citadel existed in Rawhò ’s time.
84
Peeters, ‘S. Antoine le néo-martyr’, p. 422: ‘in loco edito qui dicitur Nairab, ad ripam
fluminis’.
85
Al-Isò tò akhrî, Kitâb al-masâlik wa-l-mamâlik, ed. by Michael J. de Goeje, in Bibliotheca
Geographorum Arabicorum, 8 vols (Leiden: Brill, 1870–94; repr. 1967), I , 59; Ibn Hò awqal,
Kitâb sò ûrat al-ardò , in Bibliotheca Geographorum Arabicorum, re-ed. by Johannes H. Kramers
(Leiden: Brill, 1938; repr. 1967), II, 174.
Ibn )A sâkir, Ta’rî kh madînat Dimashq, ed. by Sò alahò al-Dîn al-Munajjid, 2 vols (Damascus:
86

Al-Majma) al-)ilmî al-)A rabî, 1951– ), II, 89–90; Elisséeff, La Description, p. 166 (and n. 1).
87
Yâqût, Mu‘jam al-Buldân, in Jacut’s Geographisches Wörterbuch, ed. by Ferdinand Wüsten-
feld, 6 vols (Leipzig: Brockhaus, 1866–73), IV , 855; trans. in Guy LeStrange, Palestine Under the
Moslems: A Description of Syria and the Holy Land from AD 650 to 1500 (London: 1890; repr.
Beirut: Khayats, 1965), pp. 514–15.
Ibn Jubayr, Rihò la, in The Travels of Ibn Jubayr, ed. by William Wright, rev. by Michael
88

J. de Goeje, 2nd edn (Leiden: Brill, 1907), p. 277.

Elisséeff, La Description, p. 166 n. 1. Muhò ammad Kurd )A lî, Ghû tò at Dimashq (Damascus:
89

Al-Majma) al-)ilmî al-)A rabî, 1949), pp. 223–24; other references in René Dussaud, Topographie
historique de la Syrie antique et médiévale (Paris: Geuthner, 1927), p. 308 n. 4.
CONVERTING THE CALIPH 101

A second monastery of Saint Theodore is mentioned in the Passion of Peter of

Capitolias, a martyr of the early Islamic period, like Anthony, allegedly martyred
in 715. According to the martyrology preserved in a Georgian version, Peter was
brought to Kasia, a mountain overlooking Damascus which is obviously Mount
Qâsyûn. There stood a monastery dedicated to Saint Theodore that had been
taken over by the ‘Arab tyrants’, says the hagiographer, and converted into a
palatial residence. In this place, the martyr faces in a trial Caliph al-Walîd (705–
15), who is close to dying.90 According to Arabic sources, al-Walîd spent the last
weeks of his life and died at Dayr Murrân in 715.91 The famous monastery of Dayr
Murrân is often cited by Arab poets as a place of pleasures where caliphs, emirs,
and poets enjoyed spending time. It also served as a strategic residence for the
Umayyad caliphs from where they could control their capital.92 The geographer
Yâqût gives a more precise description of the complex, quoting the lost Book of
Monasteries of the Khâlidî brothers († c. 990–1000)
This monastery is near Damascus, on a hill overlooking fields of saffron and beautiful
gardens. The buildings are plastered and the greater part of it is paved with coloured
stones. It is a large monastery and there are in it many monks, and in the sanctuary there
is a miraculous image of exquisite workmanship. There are trees all around.93

Apparently the place had lost none of its charms at the end of the tenth century,
but at that time it appears to have been inhabited solely by monks. By the time of
Yâqût, it is not certain whether the monastery was still inhabited; in any case, one
century later Ibn Fadò lallâh al-)Umarî († 1349) describes it as lying in ruins.94
There is little doubt as to the fact that the monastery of Saint Theodore
in Nayrab, on the slopes of Mount Qâsyûn, is the same as the monastery of
Saint Theodore mentioned in the Passion of Peter of Capitolias, itself being Dayr

90
Paul Peeters, ‘La Passion de S. Pierre de Capitolias († 13 janvier 715)’, AnalBoll, 57 (1939),
299–333 (p. 307).
91
Al-Tò abarî, Ta’rîkh al-rusul wa-l-mulûk, ed. by Michael J. de Goeje and others, 15 vols
(Leiden: Brill, 1879–1901), II, 1270.
92
Elisséeff, La Description, p. 62 n.1; Dominique Sourdel, ‘Dayr Murrân’, in Encyclopédie de
l’Islam, 4 vols (Leiden: Brill, 1913–38), II, 204–05; Kurd )A lî, Gûtò at Dimashq, pp. 241–43.
93
Yâqût, Mu‘jam al-Buldân, II, 696; Palestine, trans. Le Strange, pp. 431–32. A similar
description is given by Ibn Fadò lallâh al-)Umarî, Masâlik al-abòsâr fî mamâlik al–amòsâr, ed. by
Ahò mad Zakî Bâshâ (Cairo: Dâr al-kutub al misò riyya, 1924), I , 353–54.
94
Ibn Fadò lallâh al-)Umarî, Masâlik al-abòsâr fî mamâlik al-amòsâr, pt II, chaps 6–7, ed. by
Ayman Fu(âd Sayyid, Textes arabes et etudes islamiques, 23 (Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie
orientale, 1985), p. 114.
102 André Binggeli

Murrân.95 The same place apparently had two different designations, one Chris-
tian, the other Muslim. In the Umayyad and early )Abbâsid periods, the monastic
buildings set in a pleasant suburb overlooking the orchards of the Ghûtò a and the
city had certainly become a favourite haunt of the Damascene elite, but it is
difficult to evaluate to what extent the buildings were still occupied by monks, if
they had been completely transformed to serve as a palatial residence, or if secular
buildings had been constructed alongside the monastic complex.96 The church,
however, was still used by Christians,97 and after the ninth century, it could boast
a miraculous icon of the patron saint. Some confusion also remains as to where
the mosaic pavement was found — in the church, in the monastery, in a nearby
mosque, or in a monastic building that had been transformed into a mosque.
There is yet a third sanctuary dedicated to Saint Theodore mentioned in the
village of Karsatas, at four milia (c. 6 km) from Damascus. Anastasius of Sinai
(† c. 700) relates a story that is supposed to have taken place there soon after the
Arab conquests. It involves twenty-four families of Arabs living in the church (or
maybe a monastery?). One of them aims an arrow at the icon of the patron saint,
and it sticks into his shoulder, which starts to bleed. Unlike Anthony, instead of
converting, they all die. The narrator testifies to having seen the miraculous
icon wounded by the arrow.98 There is no other information to specify the exact

95
The identification was first suggested by Kekelidze, the editor of the Passion of Peter of
Capitolias (Korneli Kekelidze, )Žitie Petra Novago, muèenika Kapetolijkago’, Hristianskij Vostok,
4 (1915 [1916]), 1–71 (p. 12)); Peeters, ‘La Passion de S. Pierre de Capitolias’, p. 307 n. 5, and
supported by Dick, ‘La Passion’, p. 112.
96
For a general survey of the phenomenon of reoccupation of Byzantine monasteries in
the early Islamic period, see Elizabeth Key Fowden, ‘Monks, Monasteries and Early Islam’ and
‘Christian Monasteries and Umayyad Residences in Late Antique Syria’, both in Studies on
Hellenism, Christianity and the Umayyads, ed. by Garth Fowden and Elizabeth Key Fowden,
Meletemata, 37 (Athens: KERA, 2004), pp. 149–74 (pp. 159–67), and 175–92, and Hilary
Kilpatrick, ‘Monasteries through Muslim Eyes: The Diyârât Books’, in Christians at the Heart of
Islamic Rule: Church Life and Scholarship in ‘Abbasid Iraq, ed. by David Thomas, History of
Christian-Muslim Relations, 1 (Leiden, Boston: Brill, 2003), pp. 19–37.
Ibn )A sâkir, Ta’rîkh, II, 41, reports a tradition according to which the church at Dayr
97

Murrân was one of the three main Christian sanctuaries on the outskirts of Damascus at the time
of )Umar II (717–720).
98
Anastasius of Sinai, Narrationes, no. 2, edition in preparation by the author. The story was
compiled in the florilegium of John of Damascus, Contra imaginum calumniatores oratio tertia,
III.91, in Die Schriften des Johannes von Damaskos, ed. by Bonifatius Kotter and others, 6 vols
(Berlin: de Gruyter, 1969–2009), III, 184.
CONVERTING THE CALIPH 103

location of the village,99 and considering the proximity to Damascus, it is tempting

to identify Karsatas with Nayrab. It seems indeed highly unlikely that two sanctu-
aries in the vicinity of Damascus each had their own miraculous icon of Saint
Theodore. A difficulty remains, however, for this assumption implies that the
village changed name in little more than a century’s time, since neither Anastasius
of Sinai nor the hagiographer of the Passion of Anthony, both of whom seem well-
informed on the region of Damascus, would have made a mistake on the name of
the village. Alternative solutions would be to suppose that the icon was trans-
ferred between the seventh and the eighth century from one sanctuary to the
other, or that one sanctuary was trying to supplant the other.
Whatever the answer, it is noteworthy that the Passion of Saint Anthony
reports two miracles that led to Rawhò ’s conversion, while the Syriac chronicles say
nothing of the icon and mention only the miracle related to the Eucharist. The
Passion obviously borrows some of its themes from earlier narratives, and the tale
reported by Anastasius could well be one of them. It is equally clear that, through
this double miracle, the hagiographical text is incidentally promoting the Dama-
scene sanctuary and its miraculous icon. The hagiographer seems to have achieved
his aim, since the icon of Saint Theodore in Damascus was still venerated in the
late medieval period.
CNRS

99
An unconvincing suggestion was made identifying Karsatas with Hò arestat el-Basò al, a
village four kilometres to the east of Damascus in the direction of Homs; Dussaud, Topographie,
p. 302.
 ‘H E WAS TALL AND SLENDER, AND HIS
VIRTUES WERE NUMEROUS’: B YZANTINE
H AGIOGRAPHICAL T OPOI AND THE C OMPANIONS
OF M UHò AMMAD IN AL -A ZDÎ’S F UT ™Hò AL -S H–M

Nancy Khalek

M
odern studies of Islamic historiography regularly include the argu-
ment that Arabic historical writing is best seen as an example of ‘how
people come to terms with the present by reconceptualizing the past
[rather] than as a record of what had actually happened’.1 Fred Donner argues
that ‘Muslims sought to legitimize themselves as monotheists, recipients of God’s
revealed word, and as rightful heirs to God’s kingdom on earth’ within a process
of identity construction.2 Among the styles of legitimation formulated by the
earliest historians of Islam, piety ranked high as a ‘crucial determinant of one’s
standing in the community in this world, no less than one’s standing in the next’.3
In addition to the criterion of piety, other legitimizing approaches to explaining
the success of the early conquests included theologically driven arguments (ex-
plaining God’s plan on earth), or complicated historicizing schemes (claiming
that all of human history progressed in such a way as to produce a specific out-
come).4 When it came to understanding the role of the sò ahò âba, the Companions

1
Most recently, see Chase Robinson, Islamic Historiography (Cambridge: Cambridge Uni-
versity Press, 2003), p. 11.
2
Fred M. Donner, Narratives of Islamic Origins: The Beginnings of Arabic Historical Writing,
Studies in Late Antiquity and Early Islam, 14 (Princeton: Darwin, 1999), p. 282.
3
Donner, Narratives of Islamic Origins, p. 98.
4
Donner, Narratives of Islamic Origins, pp. 111–22.
106 Nancy Khalek

of Muhò ammad, a combination of all three of these styles of legitimation came

into play. In the hands of historians, theologians, and jurists, the Companions of
the Prophet were cast as agents of political and spiritual authority, invoked over
time for differing, often opposing causes. 5
A preference for certain Companions over others for the sake of advancing
political claims, especially those concerning the contested leadership of the early
community, has been the subject of several impressive studies.6 In this essay, I
examine how Abû Ismâ) îl Muhò ammad ibn )Abdallâh al-Azdî portrayed two
Companions of the Prophet, Mu)âdh ibn Jabal and Abû )Ubayda ibn al-Jarrâhò , in
his Futûhò al-Shâm (Conquest of Syria). Al-Azdî’s renderings of these two men,
compiled in the Syro-Byzantine milieu within which the author lived, incor-
porated Byzantine hagiographical topoi in order to portray Mu)âdh and Abû
)Ubayda as both saintly and military heroes.
Much as early Christian martyrs and holy men became the spiritual heroes of
the Byzantine world, so did the Companions of Muhò ammad become heroes to
early generations of Sunni Arabic historiographers. In explanations of the glory
days of the early community and its triumph over neighbouring empires, the
generation which included the sò ahò âba became essential components of formative
narratives. It is not my intention to make categorical statements here about the
veracity of the traditional sources, nor is it to imply that some discernible and
agenda-driven collective agency was at work in constructing any one, monolithic
‘master narrative’ of events involving the early Muslim community or its foun-
dations. Nevertheless, the fact remains that, however truthfully or fancifully,

5
In some cases, biographies of important Companions serve to rehabilitate the reputations
of early figures involved in treacherous events, as with the emergence of a Sunni Orthodoxy that
dealt with the murder of )Uthmân and the events of the civil wars of the early period. See James
Lindsay, ‘Caliph and Moral Exemplar? )Alî Ibn )Asâkir’s Portrait of Yazîd b. Mu)âwiya’, Der
Islam, 74 (1997), 250–78 (p. 252). See also Steven C. Judd, ‘Competitive Hagiography in the
Biographies of al-Awzâ) î and Sufyân al-Thawr î’, Journal of the American Oriental Society, 122
(2002), 25–37. For a more extensive study of related issues, see Muhammad Qasim Zaman,
Religion and Politics Under the Early ‘Abbâsids: The Emergence of the Proto-Sunni Elite (Leiden:
Brill, 1997) especially pp. 51–56 and 169–71.
6
In addition to those noted above, see Abdelkader I. Tayob, ‘Tabarî on the Companions of
the Prophet: Moral and Political Contours in Islamic Historical Writing’, Journal of the American
Oriental Society, 119 (1999), 203–10; Maya Yazigi, ‘Hò adîth al-)ashara, or the Political Uses of
a Tradition’, Studia Islamica, 86 (1997), 159–67; Etan Kohlberg, ‘Some Zaydî Views on the
Companions of the Prophet’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 39 (1976),
91–98; Asma Asfaruddin, ‘In Praise of Caliphs: Re-creating History from the Manâqib Litera-
ture’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 31 (1999), 329–50.
‘HE WAS TALL AND SLENDER’ 107

religious communities construct narratives that shape and reflect their concepts
of community and identity. 7 These narratives vary greatly on both regional
and sectarian bases, though a fundamental, if slightly elusive, set of assumptions
underlies any use of ‘great men of the past’ in bids for political or spiritual
legitimization. Scott Lucas’s work, for example, has demonstrated the ‘collective
probity’ of the Companions for Sunni Islam in the classical period, in the context
of the transmission of Prophetic tradition for legal purposes.8 More than figures
aptly utilized by sectarian proponents for the legitimization of a legal tradition,
the Companions were, in addition, and in different ways to different political or
sectarian groups, figures worthy of pious emulation in and of themselves. As we
shall see, the elevation of Companions differs widely amongst Sunnis and Shi)îs,
and not all Companions were deemed worthy of admiration. Rather, by and large,
the generation of Muhò ammad’s followers provided different groups with an issue
around which to take a position which would eventually affect legal as well as non-
legal matters.9
Fadò â’il, or ‘excellent qualities’ literature, lists of awâ’il, or ‘firsts’ and the
characteristic arrangement of tò abaqât literature all reflect historians’ use of the
past as a source of legitimate authority. Medieval compilers tended to classify
groups or categories of Companions on the basis of the timing or earliness of their
conversion to Islam or their participation in formative battles waged during the
earliest days of the community.10 As time went on after the death of Muhò ammad,
so too did the distance between what was righteous and profane increase pro-
portionally. In order to reclaim and redirect the spiritual potency of that early era,

7
Of course, much more can be said about the use of narrative for the formation of communal
identity. For a recent exposition on narrative and community in the context of hò adîth trans-
mission, see Recep Senturk, Narrative Social Structure: Anatomy of the Hadith Transmission
Network (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2005).
8
Scott C. Lucas, Constructive Critics, Hò adîth Literature, and the Articulation of Sunnî
Islam (Leiden: Brill, 2004).
9
I have decided to limit my discussion to the social implications of the admiration and praise
of the Companions vis-à-vis a similar and, as I argue, related veneration of holy men and women
in the Byzantine tradition.
10
Categories emphasizing pre-eminence or early conversion, among other characteristics,
called groups of sò ahò âba the sâbiqûn or awwalûn. These terms themselves are taken from a verse
of the Qur&ân, which refers to the m uhâjirûn and am sò âr and the first generation of followers;
see al-Tawba, 10. See also M. Muryani, ‘Sò ahò âba’, in Encyclopaedia of Islam, ed. by P. Bearman
and others, 2nd edn, Brill Online (Leiden: Brill, 2009), <http://www.brillonline.nl/subscriber/
entr-y?entry=islam_SIM-6459> [accessed December 2009].
108 Nancy Khalek

historians cast the Companions of the Prophet as a class of model Muslims, whose
role in the formation of the early community took on hagiographical as well as
political proportions.
The Companions of Muhò ammad, like the saints and martyrs of the early
Christian period, became a category of people who loomed larger and larger in
historical memory, taking on more than physical dimensions. For historians of
the formative period of Islamic historiography, construing the Companions as
military and spiritual heroes was a salient feature of a cosmological framework
within which historical figures possessed, through the varied constructions of
their characters, explanatory power.11

The Companions of the Prophet in a ‘Shared World of Texts’ 12

Distinguished in the Islamic tradition by virtue of their relationship with Mu-

hò ammad, the sò ahò âba would eventually factor into the political and social develop-
ment of a large portion of the Islamic community for generations after they
themselves had died.13 The theological and political privilege accorded to this
generation of Muhò ammad’s followers challenged historians and legal scholars to
devise ways in which to categorize this group of men and women, to position
them in the story of Islamic origins. This generated several solutions cast along
various, sometimes divergent trajectories.
Narratives of the conquest, which meant, in part, to glorify the success of the
early community, were not the only sources to portray the sò ahò âba as larger than
life. Abû )Ubayda ibn al-Jarrâ ’s life and work are described, for example, in a short
entry in Ibn Hò ajar al-)Asqalânî’s biographical compendium. Far from a dry account
of dates and basic biographical data, the entry includes a more intimate portrayal
of Abû )Ubayda’s relationship to Muhò ammad and other leading sò ahò âba:

11
I use the term formative, as Robinson does in his Islamic Historiography, to refer to the pre-
classical period, from the rise of Islam to the mid-ninth century. He argues that Islamic histori-
ography went through three phases. In the first, from 610 to 730, oral culture dominated and
there was no historical writing per se. The second, from 730 to 830 was the real beginning of
Islamic historiography, when chronography, prosopography, and biography became recognizable
forms. The third, from 830 to 925, featured large-scale and synthetic collection of historical
material.
12
Robinson, Islamic Historiography, p. 51, uses the term ‘shared world’.
They became the foremost authorities for collections of canonical hò adîth in the Sunni
13

tradition, for example. See Lucas, Constructive Critics.

‘HE WAS TALL AND SLENDER’ 109

)Umar made Abû )Ubayda governor over Syria, and God blessed him (with victory) at al-
Yarmûk and al-Jâbiya. He was tall and slender. Al-Jarîri said, according to )A bdallâh ibn
Shaqîq, ‘I said to )Â(isha, “Which of the Companions of the Messenger of God, peace and
blessings be upon him, was most beloved to him?” (She replied), “Abu Bakr.” Then I said,
“And who after him?” And she said, “)Umar.” “And after him?” “Abû )Ubayda ibn al-
Jarrâhò .” And his virtues were numerous.’14

Like more narrative historical sources, including maghâzi (accounts of early

raids) and futûhò (conquest narratives), entries of this sort, while typical, reflect a
nuanced approach to the historical question of the sò ahò âba. Everything from a
pleasing physical appearance to the possession of many virtues is linked to being
amongst those whom the Prophet loved. In this case, hierarchy among the Com-
panions is expressed in relation to the ‘most beloved’. Medieval compilations are
replete with similar embellishments and emphases on physical appearance. Abû
)Ubayda was ‘a slender man, with a gaunt face, and a light beard’.15 According to
some traditionists, he was among the ten Companions whom the Prophet claimed
were promised entry into Paradise.16 Mu)âdh ibn Jabal, a younger Companion,
was famed for being both extremely knowledgeable and exceptionally hand-
some.17 His outward appearance corresponded to an equally pleasing inner nature.
He was ‘a beautiful young man, magnanimous and among the best of his people’.
More specifically he was ‘white complexioned, with a clear face’.18 Fadò â’il liter-
ature extolling the physical and spiritual beauty of important people or groups
of people, reached a period of effulgence by the late second and third Islamic
centuries.19

14
Ibn Hò ajar al-)Asqalânî, Tahdhîb al-Tahdhîb, 12 vols (Beirut: Dâr Ahò yâ& al-turâth al-
)Arabî, 1994), III, 51. The word manâqib, translated here as ‘virtues’, has several important con-
notations, and can also signify ‘good deeds’, ‘internal qualities’, ‘generosity of action or conduct’,
or ‘memorable deeds’.
15
Ibn Hò ajar al-)Asqalânî, Al-Isò âba fî tamyîz al-sò asò aba, 8 vols (Cairo: Dâr al-thiqâfa al-
)arabiyya, 1970–72), III, 587.
16
Ahò mad ibn Shu)ayb al-Nasâ’î, Fadò â’ il al-sò asò âba (Morocco: Dar al-thiqâfa, 1984), p. 107.
The famous variations on the tradition that promised ten Companions entry into Paradise is the
subject of Maya Yazigi’s article ‘Hò adîth al-)ashara’. Note that Abû )Ubayda is not included in
all versions of this ‘list of ten’.
17
Ibn Hò ajar )Asqalânî, Tahdhîb al-Tahdhîb, X , 188.
18
Ibn Hò ajar al-)Asqalânî, Al-Isò âba, VI, 136. The term wadò î’ literally means ‘pure’ or ‘clean’.
I take it here to imply ‘unblemished’ or ‘clear’.
19
Ibn al-Nadîm cites, for example, a second-century work on the excellent qualities of the
ansò âr by Wahb ibn Wahb al-Bakhtar î († 200), and another one on the excellent qualities of
110 Nancy Khalek

The Byzantine Milieu

The Islamic literary tradition is comprised of overlapping, or intersecting genres,

particularly in the formative period. In particular, narratives of the conquests
feature elements of hagiography, religious disputation, and theology. Hybrid
literary genres were not unique to the Islamic tradition; contemporary Byzantine
hagiography was also an assembly of several types of writing, and hagiographical
texts are particularly rich in terms of their potential to provide information on
matters as varied and widespread as doctrine, religious practice, geography, art and
architecture.20 Byzantine religious culture permeated the early Islamic historio-
graphical tradition in Syria. One of the most striking aspects of that infusion is the
Islamic treatment of the sò ahò âba. They were people whose status was effected by
the combined effect of their association with Muhò ammad, their religious excel-
lence, their early membership in the Islamic community, and their crucial role in
the earliest days of jihâd. Their participation in the most important battles and
political developments in the early days of Muslim society was as formative for the
community as the period of persecution for early Christian martyrs had been for
Christianity. Likewise, their position as exemplars of piety in biographical and
conquest literature parallels the instructive character of hagiographical models
in the Byzantine world.
This is not to say that the Companions were all considered saints or that their
character and behaviour were uniformly unimpeachable. Rather, as is the case
with appropriated forms or symbols, early Muslims fashioned their own version

Muhò ammad ibn Hò anîfa, Ja)far ibn Abî Tò âlib, and al-Hò ârith ibn)Abd al-MuEtEt alib by )Alî ibn
Muhò ammad al-Madâ(inî († 225). See Muhò ammad ibn Ishò âq Ibn al-Nadîm, Al-Fihrist (Beirut:
Maktabat Khayyâtò , 1966), pp. 113–14. An emphasis on the physical as a marker, or indication
of one’s spiritual condition is itself a feature of the tradition of ‘ilm al-firâsa, physiognomy. On the
importance of physiognomy in both antiquity and the Islamic period, see Seeing the Face, Seeing
the Soul, Polemon’s ‘ Physiognomy’ from Classical Antiquity to Medieval Islam, ed. by Simon Swain
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), especially the contribution by Robert Hoyland, ‘The
Islamic Background to Polemon’s Treatise’, pp. 227–80.
20
Christopher Walter, The Warrior Saint in Byzantine Art and Culture (Aldershot: Ash-
gate, 2003), p. 18. Geographical information, for example, is evident in the Life of Theodore of
Sykeon, in Three Byzantine Saints, trans. by Elizabeth Dawes and Norman H. Baynes (New York:
St Vladimir’s, 1996), pp. 195–263. See also Alexander Kazhdan and Henry Maguire, ‘Byzantine
Hagiographical Texts as Sources in Art’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 45 (1991), 1–22, and René
Aigrain, L’hagiographie: Ses sources, ses méthodes, son histoire (Paris: Bloud et Gay, 1953). See
also Hagiographie, cultures et sociétés, ed. by Évelyne Patlagean and Pierre Riché (Paris: Études
augustiniennes, 1981).
‘HE WAS TALL AND SLENDER’ 111

of religious exemplars using elements of the milieu in which they found them-
selves. In seventh-century Syria, no system of religious life was more compelling
than monasticism. Just as the reconfiguration of the physical landscape of Syria
was a matter of the ‘upstaging of a Christian holy place’, a similar reconfiguration
of historical perspective was a matter of upstaging the image of the Christian holy
man.21 Unable and unwilling to take on a monastic tradition which held so central
a place in Byzantium, the early community was adept, instead, at putting an Is-
lamic spin on the ascetic existence. In the place of reclusive monasticism, a kind
of engaged, military piety became the symbol of the first jihâd.22 To employ the
rhetoric of our sources, Christian monks withdrew to the desert to escape the
trappings of the inhabited world, while the early Muslims emerged from the desert
to conquer the world, founding a religious empire that allowed for material gain
but did not eliminate the possibility of spiritual rewards.
A compiler like al-Azdî had a wealth of raw material at his disposal which he
manipulated with varying degrees of liberty. The Syrian milieu within which his
Futûhò al-Shâm was compiled greatly affected the colour and tenor of the story as
told in al-Azdî’s unique voice. The author formulated images of the companions
Mu)âdh and Abû )Ubayda which reflected Islamic concerns while recapitulating
certain Byzantine hagiographical topoi which would have been both recognizable
and effective in late eighth- and early ninth-century Syria.23

21
Elizabeth Key Fowden, The Barbarian Plain: Saint Sergius between Rome and Iran, Trans-
formation of the Classical Heritage, 28 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press,
1999), p. 178.
22
Thomas Sizgorich, ‘Narrative and Community in Islamic Late Antiquity’, Past and Present,
185 (2004), 9–42.
23
Suleiman Mourad, ‘On Early Islamic Historiography:Abû Ismâ)îl al-Azdî and his Futûhò al-
Shâm’, Journal of the American Oriental Society, 120 (2000), 577–93 (p. 580). Lawrence Conrad
argues for a second-century date and Syrian provenance, while Suleiman Mourad is convinced
that the text is Kûfan, though he also argues for a second-century date. Their difference of opinion
rests on an analysis of authorities named in al-Azdî’s chains of transmission. Conrad’s conclusions,
with which I am inclined to agree, are based on several compelling factors. In an account of the
fall of Jerusalem to Muslim armies and the subsequent visit of Caliph )Umar b. al-KhaEtEtâb to that
city, the author exclusively refers to Jerusalem as Îliyâ( as opposed to the later-coined ‘Bayt al-
Maqdis’. See Lawrence Conrad, ‘Al-Azdî’s History of the Arab Conquests in Bilâd al-Shâm: Some
Historiographical Observations’, in Proceedings on the Second Symposium on the History of Bilâd
al-Shâm During the Early Islamic Period up to 40 AH /640 AD , ed. by Muhammad Adnan Bakhit,
3 vols (Amman: University of Jordan, 1987), I , 28–62 (p. 43). The toponym Îliyâ( appears
on reform copper coinage introduced by the Umayyad caliph )Abd al-Malik starting in 695
A D , before the terms ‘Bayt al-Maqdis’ or its abbreviation ‘al-Quds’ became common names for
112 Nancy Khalek

In his work on Byzantine warrior saints, Christopher Walter describes a

hagiographical discourse in Byzantium comprised of several essential elements.
Its subjects were imbued with the divine, although not divine themselves. The
protagonists of hagiography had their origin in oral tradition, which one or more
authors later put into literary form. The purpose of that discourse was performa-
tive, not informative, and could be apologetic, idealistic, instructive, or edifying.
Its subjects were men and women of God, exhibiting spiritual, ethical, ascetic, or
supernatural qualities.24 These elements are also marked features of the early
Islamic historical tradition. Muhò ammad and his Companions, not divine them-
selves, were nonetheless holy people. The stories and legends of their lives and
battle days were likewise rooted in an oral tradition, possessing instructive quali-
ties for informing proper and advisable Islamic behaviour. Finally, the earliest
conquest narratives were also apologetic, justifying the spread of Islam by military
conquest. They feature miracles, visions, and accounts of divine intervention.25
Chase Robinson has argued that ‘Christians, Jews, Muslims and Zoroastrians
lived in a shared world of texts and scriptures, and this was particularly the case
in the early, formative period, before Muslims generated a distinct tradition of
their own’.26 Daniel Sahas makes a similar argument, positing that ‘through the
polemic literature the [People of the Book] influenced the intellectual, theological

Jerusalem. Other toponyms that appear in the text were common knowledge within Syria in the
early period, including Dayr Khâlid, a monastic establishment just outside Damascus. On the
reliability of Islamic sources that refer to known place names, see also Walter E. Kaegi, Byzantium
and the Early Islamic Conquests (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992) p. 7. Against the
objection that al-Azdî’s text is not from the early period and that a later (Crusader or post-
Crusader) compiler simply reused and embellished some early material at his disposal, Mourad
puts forth four distinct channels of transmission of the text from second- and early third-century
sources, including the Fahrasa of Ibn Khayr, the Ghazawât of Ibn Hò ubaysh, and the I‘lân of al-
Sakhâwî. Scholars arguing for a later date for the composition of the Futûhò have asserted its
similarities to a much later work of the same title by pseudo-Wâqidî. Dating to the Crusader
period and betraying the anachronistic terms ‘Franks’ or ‘Russian troops’, the pseudo-Wâqidî
narrative is a composite text of a very different character and purpose. It is much more detailed
and elaborate than al-Azdî’s, and the latter bears none of the anachronistic hallmarks of pseudo-
Wâqidî.
24
Walter, Warrior Saint, p. 17, citing Marc van Uytfanghe’s ‘L’hagiographie: Un “genre”
chrétien ou antique tardif?’, AnalBoll, 111 (1993), 135–88.
25
For example, the trope of angelic armies coming to the aid of terrestrial soldiers appears in
accounts of the Battle of Badr, which took place in the Prophet’s lifetime, and appears with some
regularity in accounts of later conquests.
26
Robinson, Islamic Historiography, p. 51.
‘HE WAS TALL AND SLENDER’ 113

fabric of Islam [which was] still in its infancy’.27 Byzantine ecclesiastical and pole-
mical literature comprises major themes which also feature largely in Islamic
historiography: providential design, salvation, and the basic struggle between good
and evil. In the salvific context of the early conquests, the success of the Muslim
armies was seen as the result of God rescuing the Arabs from the harshness of the
desert and the ignorance of polytheism. Faced with accusations of Muhò ammad’s
false prophecy, Muslim participants in religious debates often resorted to biblical
authority and claimed that Muhò ammad himself characterized his mission as one
which continued the work of both Jesus and Abraham.28
Arabic works preserved by the Christians living under Islamic rule were pri-
marily those of interest to the monastic community of their time. They comprise
homilies, miracle stories, hagiographies, and texts containing questions and an-
swers. This last category would have been a useful tool for Christian congregations
whose leaders hoped to equip them with responses to the theological challenges
posed by Muslims, with reference to issues as far-ranging as the Trinity and icon
veneration. The Codex Rescriptus Tischendorf 2, an eighth-century Arabic trans-
lation of Cyril’s Lives contains a version of the Life of the monk Abramius which
is more elaborate than its Greek counterparts and supplements non-Arabic ver-
sions.29 This text and others like it are the most likely candidates for the diffusion
of hagiographical ideals to akhbâr collectors and authors of the formative period.
It has long been argued that themes in Syriac and Arabic Christian disputation
texts were determined by a confrontation with Islam, but that they were primarily
intended for a Christian audience. Faced with the evident staying power of Islam,
Christian authors invested in arming their congregations with ready answers to
challenges posed by Muslims. In the Conquest, conversations between Muslims
and Christians illustrate the bi-directionality of the pressure applied from one
religious group to another in Syria. In spite of Islamic military success, on the bat-

27
Daniel J. Sahas, ‘The Art and Non-Art of Byzantine Polemics’, in Conversion and Conti-
nuity: Indigenous Christian Communities in Islamic Lands, Eighth to Eighteenth Centuries, ed. by
Michael Gervers and Ramzi J. Bikhazi (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1990),
p. 60.
28
For a survey of Muslim-Christian polemical literature which touches upon these issues as
well, see Sidney H. Griffith, The Beginnings of Christian Theology in Arabic: Muslim-Christian
Encounters in the Early Islamic Period, Variorum Collected Studies Series, 746 (Aldershot: Ash-
gate, 2002) and Griffith’s ‘The Monk in the Emir’s Majlis’, in The Majlis: Interreligious Encounters
in Medieval Islam, ed. by Hava Lazarus-Yafeh (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1999), pp. 13–65.
29
Griffith, ‘From Aramaic to Arabic: The Languages of the Monasteries of Palestine in the
Byzantine and Early Islamic Periods’, in his Beginnings of Christian Theology, chap. 10, p. 28.
114 Nancy Khalek

tlefield of identity formation their victory was not nearly so decisive.30 ‘Early
Muslim leaders were not unaware of the spell cast over the Arabs by Christianity,
with its liturgical, charitable, and festal traditions, often based at churches and
monasteries.’31
Far from transmitting random or incidental aspects of Christian thought into
the religious discourse of the early Islamic world, the monastic communities of
Palestine which were the cradle of Arabophone Christianity preserved the works
of such luminaries as John of Damascus, George Synkellos, Michael Synkellos, and
Saint Anthony the Younger.32 Except for John of Damascus, all of those men were
exiles from Constantinople. Through their work, early Muslim compilers were on
the receiving end of high-quality ecclesiastical literature. In spite of the tremen-
dous influence these Christian authors exerted on life within Islamic territories,
they were intellectually cut off from Constantinople. They tell us about life in the
lost territories of Byzantium, not in their old centre. Their attention was inwardly
focused, on the communities and conflicts of their own eastern Mediterranean
world. It was this world which featured a cultural as well as a military confron-
tation with Islam, in the midst of which Muslim authors first penned a mixture
of hagiographical, theological, and historical literature.

Al-Azdî’s ‘Futûhò al-Shâm’

The appropriation of Christian ascetic models required exploiting powerful sym-

bols and topoi to supplement the sketchy historical outline of the conquests.
Additionally, and perhaps more interestingly, appropriation implies that By-
zantium supplied a usable past for early Muslim writers. The Islamization of
Byzantine ascetic ideals facilitated a relationship with, as well as a claim to supe-
riority over, competing religious groups. Arab-Byzantine relations were recast,
through historiography and other means, provoking new configurations of the old
relationship between Byzantine ‘dignitary’ and Arab ‘savage’.
In the case of al-Azdî, historical writing both generated and reflected systems
of authoritative and inspiring leadership, as he borrowed, finessed, rearranged, and

See, for example Abû Ismâ)îl Muhò ammad ibn )Abdallâh al-Azdî , Kitâb Futûhò al-Shâm
30

(Cairo: Mu(assasat Sijill al-)Arab, 1970), p. 201.

31
Key Fowden, Barbarian Plain, p. 177.
32
Griffith, ‘Anthony David of Baghdad: Scribe and Monk of Mar Sabas’, Church History, 58
(1989), 7–19 (p. 18).
‘HE WAS TALL AND SLENDER’ 115

refashioned those elements of religious life that carried sufficient cultural currency
to be persuasive to his audiences. Therefore the topoi which loom large in al-
Azdî’s work reverberate keenly with both the biographical literature associated
with Muhò ammad and with those of contemporary Christian sources.
Mu)âdh and Abû )Ubayda represent a real-world version of Byzantine warrior
saints, engaging in actual and not celestial battle, with the ascetic qualities of mo-
nastic exemplars complementing their military activity. The presence and pre-
eminence of monks is a palpable element of the Conquest. They inhabited tower
hermitages which made them, by extension, visible symbols of the flourishing
asceticism of the region.33 In one persistent trope they even abandoned those
towers to join the Byzantine army as soldiers and to take part in processions of
monks, priests with crosses, and patricii who marched into battle.34 The monastic
virtues of patience, humility, and poverty resonate throughout the Conquest.
Though reverent of the monastic lifestyle in theory, Muslim authors preferred
their heroes to embody the wisdom that was the fruit of asceticism, while re-
taining their policy of engagement with the world of the conquests.

Patience, Humility, Poverty

In 636, Caliph )Umar ibn al-Khatò tò âb dispatched Mu)âdh ibn Jabal to Syria, where
his negotiating skills were almost immediately put to test as an envoy to the
Byzantine army just before the battle of Pella.35 During a confrontation with a
delegation of Roman troops, Mu)âdh refused to follow protocol, and displayed his
distaste for the pompous formalities of his counterparts.
Take a seat with those mulûk in their assembly. You know, not everyone is granted an
audience with them, but they heard that you were a decent man and among the best of
your kind, and they dislike speaking while they are seated and you stand. Mu)âdh told his
translator, ‘Our Prophet, peace be upon him, instructed us not to stand for anyone, and
that we should only stand in prayer to God, in worship […]. I am not standing out of
respect for you but I have stood rather than walk on this rug or recline on your cushions
[…] [God] has forbidden such worldliness and luxury, so I will sit right here, on the
ground’.36

33
Al-Azdî , Futûhò al-Shâm, p. 12.
34
Al-Azdî , Futûhò al-Shâm, pp. 169, 180, 187, and 191.
35
Al-Azdî , Futûhò al-Shâm, pp. 7, 115.
36
Al-Azdî , Futûhò al-Shâm, pp. 115–16.
116 Nancy Khalek

In eschewing the ‘worldliness’ of the Romans, Mu)âdh’s humility and willingness

to debase himself for the sake of God is explicit. When the Romans replied that
his humiliating choice made him the equivalent of a servant, Mu)âdh was only too
pleased to accept the intended insult as high praise, readily accepting that he was
‘a servant from among the least of the servants of God’.37 His lengthy addresses to
the Byzantine delegation use the term zuhd (asceticism) repeatedly, asserting that
God has shunned the world, in spite of Byzantine attachment to its accoutre-
ments. He even attributes the quality of asceticism to ‘all the former prophets,
may peace be upon them, who brought the message from God that the world
should be shunned’.38 In a final attempt to flatter Mu)âdh, the Romans suggested
that his presence before them implied a certain prestige, that he ranked high in his
cohort. Al-Azdî constructed Mu‘âdh’s character by putting a reply in his mouth
which at once highlighted Muslim egalitarianism and ridiculed Byzantine arro-
gance: ‘By God, I seek refuge from the Lord from saying such a thing. If only I
were not the least of them!’39 A humility measured in terms of viewing oneself
as ‘the least’ or the ‘most unworthy’ reverberates with familiar sentiments in
statements made, for instance, by the Holy Man Maro, a monk from the territory
of Amida in Mesopotamia, whose Syriac Life was composed by John of Ephesus.
Maro, angry at visitors who marvelled at his ability to cast out demons balefully
retorted, ‘Would that I were driving out my own!’40 The contrast in both cases
is between the best and the least, the most worthy versus the least worthy, where
the character who is the model of piety expresses unworthiness. His holiness is
hidden, nearly secret, and most importantly, a fact reinforced by his own denial
of its existence.
In the Lives of the Monks of Palestine of Cyril of Skythopolis, the monk Eu-
thymios’s predecessor and teacher, Arsenios, embodied a life of humility and
possessed great powers of discernment.41 Mu)âdh was likewise a charismatic
figure with great powers of discretion. His superior officer, Abû )Ubayda, ‘never
proceeded with a major decision without consulting him’.42 When a Byzantine

37
Al-Azdî , Futûhò al-Shâm, p. 117.
38
Al-Azdî , Futûhò al-Shâm, p. 117.
39
Al-Azdî , Futûhò al-Shâm, p. 117.
40
John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints, ed. by Ernest W. Brooks, PO, 17 (1973), p. 67.
41
Skythopolis is north-west of Pella. Cyril of Skythopolis, The Lives of the Monks of Palestine,
trans. by Richard M. Price (Kalamazoo: Cistercian, 1991), p. 30.
42
Al-Azdî, Futûhò al-Shâm, p. 248.
‘HE WAS TALL AND SLENDER’ 117

envoy to the Muslim camp requested the counsel of two of Abû )Ubayda’s ‘wisest
companions’ Mu)âdh and another soldier, Sa)îd ibn Zayd ibn )Amr ibn Nufayl
assured the Roman of entry into Paradise should he convert to Islam and join the
Muslim army. Upon hearing Mu)âdh’s counsel, the Byzantine soldier immediately
converted and became a ‘double agent’, keeping his new loyalty a secret and re-
turning to his former comrades to gather information on their activities.43
In this case, the impact of Byzantine topoi on al-Azdî’s narrative is evident by
virtue of a counter-paradigm. The character of the ‘converted Byzantine’ is no less
than an Islamic response to contemporary Christian martyrologies. Figures such
as Michael the Sabaite, whom Caliph )Abd al-Malik (685–705) sentenced to death,
and Peter of Capitolias, who suffered the same fate at the hands of al-Walîd ibn
)Abd al-Malik (705–15). Romanos and Bacchus were martyred in the 780s, the
latter for apostasy, since his conversion to Islam was short-lived, and his reversion
to Christianity must have made for a compelling story. )Abd al-Masîhò al-Najrânî
was martyred near al-Ramla in the 860s. This trope of the steadfast Byzantine
Christian corresponds to al-Azdî’s more easily converted one.44
There was a didactic component to al-Azdî’s portrayal of the Prophet’s com-
panions as warrior saints. Mu)âdh and his son )Abd al-Rahò mân fought side by
side, more valiantly ‘than any other Muslims’.45 Father and son encouraged one
another to be role models for the community. Knowing that they were out-
numbered, )Abd al-Rahò mân reassured his father that it would be encouraging to
the other members of the army to see Mu)âdh persevere.46 In this case, courage
in the face of adversity was strengthened by the conviction that fighting non-
believers in God’s cause was sufficient guarantee of success.
While not hagiographical, the Tactica of Emperor Leo VI (886–912) describes
Byzantine soldiers in terms which would have been familiar to al-Azdî. They were
‘soldiers of God and champions of the Church. Their enemies were also those of
the true God’.47 The Praecepta militaria of the mid-tenth century ‘ordered prayers

43
Al-Azdî, Futûhò al-Shâm, p. 198.
44
For a discussion of the Christian extreme of this trope, namely ‘converting the caliph’, see
Sidney Griffith ‘The Life of Theodore of Edessa in Early Abbasid Times’, in The Sabaite Heritage
in the Orthodox Church from the Fifth Century to the Present, ed. by Joseph Patrich (Leuven:
Peeters, 2001), pp. 147–70, and idem, ‘The Monk in the Emir’s Majlis’.
45
Al-Azdî, Futûhò al-Shâm, p. 222.
46
Al-Azdî, Futûhò al-Shâm, p. 222.
47
Walter, Warrior Saints, p. 280.
118 Nancy Khalek

to be said by soldiers morning and evening’.48 Imperial sanction of faithful and

cross-bearing soldiers paralleled the cult of the warrior saint in Byzantium, the
function of which was to provide military protection through saintly intercession.
Al-Azdî likewise portrayed the Muslim army in prayer before each battle.49 An
Arab Christian sent to spy on the Muslim army reported back to his superiors that
they were ‘monks by night’, spending their evening hours in constant prayer, and
‘lions by day’, engaging bravely in battle.50 Patience and perseverance in the face
of military adversity reverberate strongly in al-Azdî’s account. On his deathbed
after suffering major injuries, Mu)âdh’s son comforted his father by quoting verses
about providence and steadfastness in the face of adversity.51 Mu)âdh responded
in the words of Ismâ)îl, son of Patriarch Abraham as relayed in the Qur(ân: ‘God
willing, you will find me among the patient.’52 Although the roles were reversed
in this case, with the Mu)âdh declaring his patience, the allusion to Abraham and
his son is poignant. Mu)âdh and )Abd al-Rahò mân’s relationship is imbued with the
drama of the Qur&ânic story, with the expression of patience (abr) as the ultimate
declaration of faith. The use of this biblical story, even in its Qur(ânic version,
would not have been lost on an audience accustomed to giving weight to the
authority of the biblical tradition.
Far from being a hard-hearted warrior, Mu)âdh’s piety was expressed, in other
moments, with copious weeping. During his visit to Jerusalem, Caliph )Umar
gathered the troops for a congregational prayer, for which he summoned Bilâl, the
former slave of Muhò ammad and the first mu’adhdhin, whose call to prayer
inspired Mu)âdh (and Abû )Ubayda) to weep:53
When the Companions heard Bilâl’s voice, they remembered their Prophet, peace be
upon him, and they wept profusely. On that day, none of the Muslims cried more or for
a longer time than Abû )Ubayda and Mu)âdh ibn Jabal, may God be pleased with them.
They continued in this way until )Umar said, ‘God will be merciful to you both.’ 54

48
Walter, Warrior Saints, p. 280.
49
Al-Azdî, Futûhò al-Shâm, p. 194.
50
Al-Azdî, Futûhò al-Shâm, p. 211.
51
See, for example, Qur(ân, 3. 60.
52
Qur(ân, 37. 102. The same statement also appears in verse 18. 69, with Moses responding
to Khidò r .
According to the text, Bilâl had not performed the call to prayer since Muhò ammad’s death.
53

We are to understand that his agreement to do so at this juncture was an event of some dis-
tinction: Al-Azdî, Futûhò al-Shâm, p. 256.
54
Al-Azdî, Futûhò al-Shâm, p. 256.
‘HE WAS TALL AND SLENDER’ 119

Tearfulness as a marker of piety was a recurring motif for Cyril, too. Echoing a
well-known tradition that was related on the authority of Muhò ammad, Euthy-
mios ponders, ‘Have you not heard the Lord calling those who laugh wretched
and those who weep blessed?’55 John the Hesychast, a solitary in the monastery of
Mar Sabas, was known to weep profusely during the celebration of Communion.56
According to John of Ephesus, the blessed monk Malkha would secretly spend his
nights in tearful prayer, causing his eyes to swell up the next day.57
On his deathbed, surrounded by visitors and comrades, Mu)âdh dispensed
wisdom encapsulating similar lofty sentiments but also expressed support for
continuing military struggle.58 He advised one visitor of the benefits of fasting
by day and praying throughout the night. In his very last moments, several of
Mu)âdh’s companions gathered around him in a dramatic tableau. Propped up in
the arms of one of his comrades, he dispensed a final piece of ‘secret knowledge’:
The Prophet, peace be upon him, told me something which I have kept to myself, fearful
that you would not believe me. But I will not keep it to myself any longer. I heard the
Prophet say that ‘no servant of God who testifies that there is no God but Allah alone,
and that there is no partner unto Him, and that Muhò ammad is His servant and mes-
senger, and who upon nearing death is unafraid, and who testifies that God raises men
from their graves, and who believes in the messengers and believes that what they related
[to mankind] was the truth, and who believes in heaven and hell, approaches the hour of
his death without having gained entry into heaven and protection from hellfire’.59

Abû )Ubayda ibn al-Jarrâhò represented a different type of warrior in the Con-
quest. He was older than Mu)âdh, and was less ferocious than his famous fellow
general from the eastern frontier, Khâlid ibn al-Walîd. Al-Azdî tells us that Abû
)Ubayda’s humility was so great that he was indistinguishable from any other
soldier, so much so that the Byzantines were at a loss to single him out.60 When-
ever his troops were outnumbered, Abû )Ubayda faithfully relied on Divine aid
and ‘angelic support’.61 He owned no possessions beyond his weapons and horse

55
Cyril of Skythopolis, Lives of the Monks of Palestine, trans. Price, p. 27.
56
Cyril of Skythopolis, Lives of the Monks of Palestine, trans. Price, p. 226. This also resonates
with various sayings hò adîth attributed to Muhò ammad, who once explained away his sorrowful
demeanour by saying, ‘If you knew what I knew, you would laugh little and weep much.’
57
John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints, ed. by Brooks, PO, 18 (1937) p. 564.
58
Al-Azdî, Futûhò al-Shâm, p. 270.
59
Al-Azdî, Futûhò al-Shâm, p. 271.
60
Al-Azdî, Futûhò al-Shâm, p. 122.
61
Al-Azdî, Futûhò al-Shâm, pp. 181 and 183.
120 Nancy Khalek

and retained no wealth.62 Most importantly, he embodied the two elements of this
new creation, the Islamic saintly warrior: he led conquests in this world but kept
his eye on the next. Responding to Byzantine claims about the superiority of
the Roman army, Abû )Ubayda delivered a message which was both ascetic and
practical, emphasizing worldly as well as heavenly gain:
God loves the patient, and they [the Muslim troops] do not speak except to say ‘God
forgive us for our sins and relieve us of our burdens. Make our footsteps firm and grant
us victory over the unbelievers’. And God has granted [the believers] rewards in this world
and preferred the reward of the afterlife, for God loves those who strive for Him. The
rewards of this life are booty and conquest, and the rewards of the next are forgiveness and
Paradise.63

Literary Foils

The appearance of a prominent Byzantine general named Baanes (Bâhân in the

Arabic materials) who also features in Syriac sources from the eighth century, is
a major component of al-Azdî’s work. This character appears in the text fre-
quently, in a series of anecdotes and lengthy dialogues. Al-Azdî establishes Bâhân
as a foil to Abû )Ubayda and the soldier Mu)âdh ibn Jabal.64
Mu)âdh, Abû )Ubayda, and Bâhân are three primary characters in the Con-
quest. The highs and lows of their characters, actions, and judgements are central
to propelling the story of the fall of Syria. Other minor players and tropes weave
in and out of the text, interspersed with standard narrative forms. Epistles, pre-
scient visions, and speeches pepper this story of Muslim success and Byzantine
failure. Several unnamed characters appear repeatedly: the Christian convert,
the Arab spy, the monk who has descended from his tower to join the Byzantine

62
Al-Azdî, Futûhò al-Shâm, p. 122.
63
Al-Azdî, Futûhò al-Shâm, p. 183.
64
Bâhân/Baanes appears in the Syriac Common Source, which Theophilus of Edessa, Dio-
nysius of Tellmahre, and Agapius of Manbij made use of. Confirming what we find throughout
al-Azdî’s account, the Syriac reports tell us that Baanes and his troops were sent by Heraclius to
protect Damascus from the oncoming Arab forces and that he was encamped near the Barada
river. Al-Azdî describes Bâhân in precisely this place in the context of perceived unrest among
Syrian Christians facing Byzantine oppression. Sure enough, according to the Common Source,
some of Bâhân’s men revolt and go so far as to proclaim him emperor. In terms of location and
the name of the general leading these Byzantine troops, the Syriac sources and al-Azdî’s narrative
are consistent.
‘HE WAS TALL AND SLENDER’ 121

army. Mu)âdh’s and Abû )Ubayda’s piety is surpassed only by their courage,
readiness in battle, and military leadership. As for the third protagonist, Bâhân,
in spite of some redeeming elements in his character, he stands in as the personi-
fication of Byzantine corruption.
Broadly put, the Conquest is good cop/bad-cop on multiple levels: individual
characters, opposing armies, and empires themselves are in a constant state of
contrast. Those contrasts occur in a series of rather diametrically opposed paired
conceits: the small, underdog Muslim army and the large Christian army; the
ascetic Muslim warrior and the pompous Christian soldier; the silent, prayerful
front line and the noisy, raucous front line; the disciplined Muslim leader and the
wanton Byzantine overlord; the austere life of the tribal world and the worldly
excess of Byzantine riches.65
Al-Azdî set both Abû )Ubayda and Mu)âdh in counterpoint to the Byzantine
general of Persian descent, Bâhân. Alternatively he is referred to as ‘king’, ‘gover-
nor’, ‘leading man’ and ‘head of the Romans’.66 Bâhân presided over all of Syria on
behalf of Emperor Heraclius, though he was a Persian and al-Azdî makes frequent
reference to him speaking ‘in his language’, in order to distinguish it from Greek.67
It is possible that Bâhân’s tenure in Syria began during the Byzantine reconquest
of the eastern territories before the Islamic incursions.
The most salient feature of Bâhân’s authority was, in fact, his lack of it. His
inefficacy as a leader is juxtaposed with the wise and counsel-seeking leadership
of Mu)âdh and Abû )Ubayda. Even their armies behaved differently. The Muslims
stood in silent prayer for an hour before the battle of al-Yarmûk, while the
Byzantines made a raucous and uncoordinated entry.68 Corruption and abuse of
those who resided in the Syrian countryside were recurrent experiences in Bâhân’s
career. Byzantine overlords oppressed, robbed, and murdered the Syrians under

65
Even the land in which the events took place had a dual nature. A recurrent motif
throughout the narrative is that Syria was a land of plenty, far more luxurious than the desert of
Arabia. Time and again in al-Azdî’s text, Muslim generals met Byzantine accusations that the
invading Arabs were unqualified to inherit Syria with a standard refrain: God had foretold the
conquests and commanded the Muslim army to spread the message of Islam. At the same time,
there is a sense of Syria as an uncontrolled place, a land of excess, where loyalty to the traditional
values of Arabian Islam ran shallow. Most particularly, in his rendition of the conquest of
Jerusalem, al-Azdî conveyed a palpable anxiety about Syria. If the Byzantines were corrupt, Syria
was corrupting, and Muslims would not always be immune to its charms.
66
See, for example, Al-Azdî, Futûhò al-Shâm, pp. 175, 178, 191, and 195.
67
Al-Azdî, Futûhò al-Shâm, p. 200.
68
Al-Azdî, Futûhò al-Shâm, pp. 194 and 220.
122 Nancy Khalek

their control. Bâhân was helpless to stop the corruption; each time he attempted
to exert a tempering influence, he faced opposition from Byzantine patricii.69 Even
Emperor Heraclius did not seem surprised when Bâhân wrote to apprise him of
their defeat at al-Yarmûk. Echoing the words of Khâlid ibn al-Walîd, the Emperor
chalked up the victory of the Muslim armies to the fact that they ‘were more
desirous of death than you are of life’.70
The apparent lack of historicity of these accounts does not detract from their
value for understanding how questions of historical development were addressed
in the minds of our earliest authorities. The elements of the narrative were ar-
ranged, at times augmented, indeed fabricated, in order to address the compiler’s
concerns. At the same time, the very real circumstances and persons to whom he
referred and the nature of the personalities he chose to describe in order to make
his point are why the story is so compelling.

Veneration of the Companions

Regional variations produced divergent strands of Islamic historiography. In the

case of Syria, the Companions of the Prophet became more than just model
soldiers and pious figures. In the early Islamic period, a ‘cult of the Companions’,
a version of the cult of the saints, flourished and was attested by numerous phys-
ical monuments. The Great Mosque of Damascus housed several relics of various
sò ahò âba, not to mention a mashhad with the relics of the martyr Hò usayn.71 Pil-
grimage manuals note that upon visiting the mosque one could also see a maqsò ûra
of the Companions, a Qur(ân which had belonged to Caliph )Uthmân, an oratory
linked to )Umar ibn al-Khatò tò âb (or possibly to )Umar ibn )Abd al-)Azîz), and the
general Khâlid ibn al-Walîd’s sword. All of these relics are associated with early
figures, suggesting that some attempt was made by the Umayyads to make their
Great Mosque a repository of such objects. This is the clearest evidence for a
concerted effort, on the part of that dynasty, at amassing a significant number of
Companions’ relics for their premier holy site. The cemetery outside the Bâb al-
sò aghîr in Damascus housed numerous mausolea, including three for the Prophet’s
wives, one for Bilâl ibn Hò amâma (the first mu’adhdhin), and those of other sò ahò âba

69
Al-Azdî, Futûhò al-Shâm, pp. 176–77.
70
Al-Azdî, Futûhò al-Shâm, p. 234.
71
The early Islamic cult of saints in general and of relics in particular follows a somewhat
different, and in some ways, much more influential, trajectory in the Shi)i tradition.
‘HE WAS TALL AND SLENDER’ 123

including Abû al-Dardâ&, Fadò âla ibn )Ubayd, Sahl ibn Hò anzò alîyya, Wâthila ibn al-
Asqa) and Aws ibn Aws al-Thaqafî. This cemetery also contained the tombs of the
traditionist Ka)b al-Ahò bâr, of Caliph Mu)âwiya himself, and of Sukayna, Hò usayn’s
daughter.72
In fact, according to a survey of medieval Islamic pilgrimage literature, a sig-
nificant percentage of Damascene loca sancta resulted from local cults developing
around tombs of the Prophet’s Companions. In medieval pilgrim’s guides from
the twelfth through the fourteenth centuries, between 59 and 77 per cent of all
tombs designated for ziyârât belonged to Companions.73 Byzantines and Muslims
of the formative period lived in a shared world indeed, and not just of texts. They
lived in a shared world of practices, and a shared architectural vocabulary with
which to accommodate those practices. Occasionally, they even shared saints.74 It
is all the more fitting, then, that they described their spiritual heroes in similar
terms, and revered them in familiar ways.
Brown University

72
)Alî ibn Abî Bakr al-Harawî, Kitâb al-ishârât ila ma‘rifat al-ziyârât (Damascus: al-Ma)had
al-Faransî bi-dimashq, 1954), p. 13.
73
Cyrille Jalabert, ‘Comment Damas est devenue une métropole islamique’, Bulletin d’études
orientales, 53–54 (2001–02), 13–41 (p. 19).
74
For example, in the first decade of the eighth century, the Great Mosque of Damascus
incorporated a pre-existing shrine to John the Baptist. In the later medieval period, the phenom-
enon of shared saints amongst Christians and Muslims becomes even more pronounced.
 ‘B ECOME INFIDELS OR WE WILL THROW YOU
INTO THE FIRE ’: T HE M ARTYRS OF N AJRÂN
IN E ARLY M USLIM H ISTORIOGRAPHY ,
H AGIOGRAPHY, AND Q UR(ÂNIC E XEGESIS

Thomas Sizgorich

I
t is not always obvious whether or in what ways the early Islamic community
shared in the cultural traditions of the ‘world of late antiquity’. It is not always
clear how the first Muslims received, interpreted, and elaborated upon the
signs, symbols, and narrative forms with which pre-Islamic communities of
the Mediterranean and Middle East discussed questions of revelation, salvation,
worldly politics, or the meanings of the past. Not that much at all is clear about
the thought world of the first Muslim communities — indeed, the origins of
early Muslim modes of recalling the past or imagining the holy are for the most
part shrouded in an apparently impenetrable gloom, contained in invisible pro-
cesses of oral composition, elaboration, and transmission.1 And yet there is no

1
See, among others, Michael Cook, ‘The Opponents of Writing of Tradition in Early Islam’,
Arabica, 44 (1997), 437–530; G. Schoeler, ‘Writing and Publishing on the Use and Function
of Writing in the First Centuries of Islam’, Arabica, 44 (1997), 423–35; Gahan Osman, ‘Oral
vs. Written Transmission: The Case of al-Tò abarî and Ibn Sa(d’, Arabica, 48 (2001), 66–80;
Stefan Leder, ‘Authorship and Transmission in Unauthored Literature: The Akhbar Attributed
to Haytham Ibn )A di’, Oriens, 31 (1988), 67–81; Michael Lecker, ‘The Death of the Prophet
Muhò ammad’s Father: Did Wâqidî Invent Some of the Evidence?’, Zeitschrift der Deutschen
morgenländischen Gesellschaft, 145 (1995), 9–27; Joseph Schacht, The Origins of Muhammadan
Jurisprudence (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979); Harald Motzki, Die Anfänge der islamischen
Jurisprudenz: Ihre Entwicklung in Mekka bis zur Mitte des 2./8. Jahrhunderts, Abhandlungen für
die Kunde des Morgenlandes, 2 (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1991); Harald Motzki, ‘The Musannaf of
)Abd al-Razzaq al-San(ani as a Source of Authentic Ahadith of the First Century A .H .’, Journal of
126 Thomas Sizgorich

more important issue in the study of the history of the early Muslim community
than the processes by which those Arab monotheists who had gathered around the
recalled career and revelation of the prophet Muhò ammad began to define and
refine the contours of a single, self-consciously distinct communal identity, and in
so doing became the Muslim umma.2
In what follows, I will seek to illuminate the question of Muslim communal
origins by examining the hermeneutic processes whereby the early Muslim com-
munity sought to interpret bits and pieces of its recalled primordial past. This was
of course a process of memory production, but it was memory production of a
particular kind. As we shall see, the memories produced through this process were
memories whose narrative and semiotic bases often resided in much older, much
more pervasive systems of memory and memorializing. More precisely, I will seek
to demonstrate that when we examine early Muslim systems of historical and
Qur(ânic exegesis, it becomes clear that in striving to make sense of its past, the
early Muslim community frequently proceeded very much as had the other com-
munities of late antiquity, deploying not only the same palate of narrative forms
and semiotic figures, but indeed the same stories and identical characters as a
means of fleshing out the often obscure or sketchy knowledge contemporaries
possessed about both Qur(ânic and Muslim communal history.
So far as we know, the early Arab Community of Believers composed its nar-
ratives of the early history of Muhò ammad’s umma without the benefit of a pre-
Islamic tradition of Arabic historical writing capable of casting diverse and
far-flung events within a grand narrative of the complexity and sophistication
required to make sense of the emergence of Muhò ammad’s community as an im-
perial presence, or the explosive growth of Islam’s cultural and religious power.3
What the Arabs did possess, however, was a tradition of poetic recollection of

Near Eastern Studies, 1 (1991) 1–21; Gautier H. A. Juynboll, Muslim Tradition: Studies in Chro-
nology, Provenance, and Authorship of Early Hadîth (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1983); M. J. Kister, Society and Religion from Jâhiliyya to Islam, Variorum Collected Studies Series,
327(Aldershot: Ashgate, 1990).
2
See R . Stephen Humphreys, Islamic History: A Framework for Inquiry (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1991), chap. 3; Chase F. Robinson, ‘The Study of Islamic Historiography: A
Progress Report’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, ser. 3, 7 (1997), 199–227; and Robinson’s,
Islamic Historiography (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003).
3
The designation ‘Community of Believers’ is from Fred M. Donner’s work. See his Narra-
tives of Islamic Origins: The Beginnings of Islamic Historical Writing, Studies in Late Antiquity and
Early Islam, 14 (Princeton: Darwin, 1998) and idem, ‘From Believers to Muslims: Confessional
Self-Identity in the Early Islamic Community’, al-Abhath, 50–51 (2002–03), 9–53.
‘BECOME INFIDELS’ 127

the outstanding deeds of individual warriors and tribal groups. These stories
of courage, strength, and daring were the patrimony of individual clan or tribal
groups, and were elaborated and re-elaborated by successive generations of poets
and storytellers.4 Fred Donner has convincingly suggested that it was narratives of
this sort, limited in their scope though they may have been, that provided the
initial mini-narratives for what would become the dominant accounts of Islam’s
formative decades.5 Donner suggests, moreover, that extant early Islamic texts
dealing with such events as the futûhò or ‘conquests’ of the lands of Syria and
Mesopotamia often represent attempts by early Muslim authors to assemble
accounts of battles, campaigns or other events that were recalled only in their most
basic outlines.6 The information upon which the ‘outlines’ of these events were
composed will have reflected the interests and concerns of those who provided
the information itself, the Arab tribal and family groups whose oral traditions
preserved ‘memories’ of the personalities and events of the conquest era. The
concerns of these groups seem frequently to have extended little further than
the recollection of those contributions made to the conquest by those ancestral
tribesmen who actually took part in the battles.7
The entries in Khalîfa ibn Khayyâtò ’s early third/ninth-entury Ta’rî kh provide
us with a rough sense of what the patchy narratives the early Muslim umma
inherited may have looked like. 8 In the section of Khalîfa’s text that recounts
the climactic Muslim victory at al-Yarmûk in Syria, for example, the reader en-
counters only a rather sparse recitation of names and statistics:
Bakr said, on the authority of Ibn Ishò âq: The Romans arrived at al-Yarmûk, and there
were 100,000 of the Romans, and the tribes of Qudò â)a, and over them was al-Suflâr, a
eunuch belonging to Heraclius. Ibn Kalbî said: The Romans were 300,000, and Bâhân
was in command of them. He was one of the sons of the Persians who converted to

4
See Donner, Narratives of Islamic Origins, pp. 104–11.
5
See Donner, Narratives of Islamic Origins, pp. 104–11, 276.
6
See Donner, Narratives of Islamic Origins, pp. 174–82. See also Lawrence I. Conrad, ‘The
Conquest of Arwad: A Source Critical Study in the Historiography of the Early Medieval Near
East’, in The Byzantine and Early Islamic Near East, I: Problems in the Literary Source Material,
ed. by Averil Cameron and Lawrence I. Conrad, Studies in Late Antiquity and Early Islam, 1
(Princeton: Darwin, 1992), pp. 317–401; Albrecht Noth with Lawrence Conrad, The Early
Arabic Historical Tradition: A Source-Critical Study, Studies in Late Antiquity and Early Islam,
3 (Princeton: Darwin, 1994).
7
See Donner, Narratives of Islamic Origins, p. 276.
Khalîfa ibn Khayyâtò , Ta’rîkh, ed. by Akram Dò iyâ( al-)Umarî (Beirut: Mu(assasat al-Risâla,
8

1977).
128 Thomas Sizgorich

Christianity and entered the service of the Romans […]. And God put the Unbelievers
to rout after a fierce fight, and he killed among them a horrific number of casualties […].
Bakr reported to us, on the authority of Ibn Ishò âq that )Amr ibn Sa) îd ibn al-)Âsò and
Abân ibn Sa)îd ibn al-)Âsò and )Ikrima ibn Abî Jahl and )Ubayd Allâh ibn Sufyân ibn )A bd
al-Asad and Sa)îd ibn al- Hò ârith ibn Qays were martyred on the Day of al-Yarmûk. Abû
al-Hò assan said Abân ibn Sa) îd ibn )Âsò was killed on the Day of Ajnâdîn, and some people
also say on the Day of Marj al-Sò uffar. Walîd ibn Hishâm said that )Ikrima was killed on
the Day of Marj al-Sò uffar. Abû al-Hò assan said that Sahl ibn )A mr and al-Hò ârith ibn
Hishâm were martyred on the Day of al-Yarmûk.9

Sparse though it is, within Khalîfa’s account of the conquests, the battle of al-
Yarmûk actually stands out for the degree of detail proffered: we learn, for
example, that there was disagreement among traditionalists regarding the iden-
tity of the Roman commander at al-Yarmûk, and about the number of Roman
troops faced by the Muslims under Abû )Ubayda. Moreover, we learn that the
traditionalists disagreed about when and where certain of the heroes named in this
report were killed. Beyond, this, however, there is little to distinguish this battle
from any of the others included in Khalîfa’s Ta’rî kh. The battle of al-Qâdisiyya, for
example, a crushing victory for the Muslim armies over the Persian Empire, is
recounted almost exclusively as a debate over the number of Persian troops that
were present. The account begins,
Over the Muslims was Sa(d ibn Mâlik, and over the Unbelievers was Rustam, and with
him al-Jâlînûs and Dhû al-Hò âjib. And another one reported to us, on the authority of
Abû )Awâna on the authority of Hò asò în on the authority of Abû Wâ(il, he said, the
Muslims were something between seven and eight thousand and Rustam was opposite us
with sixty thousand.

Then, for the next several lines, other estimates for the Persian troop strength are
given. The denouement of the battle itself is described with a terse ‘God put the
Unbelievers to rout, and killed Rustam. Zuhra ibn Hò awiyya killed him’, although,
again, the traditionalists disagreed and the killer of the Persian general may in fact
have been any one of a number of other Muslim warriors. Elsewhere, the conquest
of vast sweeps of Roman and Persian territory are recounted with repetitions of the
formula, ‘the Muslims killed and took captives’, lists of names of those Muslims
believed to have been present and/or killed at these battles and, brief reports of the
surrender terms of local communities, towns, and cities.10

9
Khalîfa ibn Khayyâtò , Ta’rîkh, pp. 130–31.
For the battle of al-Qâdisiyya, see Khalîfa ibn Khayyâtò , Ta’rîkh, pp. 131–32. For Muslim
10

troops ‘killing and taking prisoners’, and accepting terms from various communities, see, as
examples, ibid., pp. 124–25, 134–35.
‘BECOME INFIDELS’ 129

Insofar as the recollection of the futûhò and other aspects of the Muslim com-
munity’s early history was ‘an exercise in legitimation’, as Donner has claimed,
and so the discursive basis for a bounded, cohesive community, the recollection of
such particle-like ‘facts’ as the presence of a given warrior at a given battle, the
outcome of that battle or the names of those who died in that battle still required
some means for situating such discrete remembrances within a larger, cohesive
narrative. This cohesive narrative would bestow specific shades of meaning upon
individual deeds and events — the battle of al-Yarmûk, for example, or the actions
of those who fought there or the sacrifices of those who died there — within a
wider, unifying story within which they would become recognizable as episodes
charged with larger, often numinous meaning. It was at this juncture that the pre-
Islamic Arab modes of remembrance as they are known to us seem to have fallen
rather short of the requirements of the Community of Believers that had emerged
from the first/seventh century in what was in many ways an entirely new world,
and one that required much explanation.11
For Believers of the first centuries after the hijra, then, recollection of the
primordial Muslim past seems to have been an ongoing process of filling in rough
outlines with known quantities — of making the best sense possible with the
sketchy and incomplete materials available of the early history of the umma, and
of the events, personalities and consequences of Muhò ammad’s lifetime and the
decades that followed his death. This was a project in which the Believers to whom
such work fell necessarily drew upon the world they themselves knew for plot
devices and figures with which to adorn the narrative of communal origins that
otherwise depended heavily upon the oral traditions of tribal or clan groups.
Recently, I have argued that the Muslim texts produced during the first/seventh
and second/eighth centuries may be read as hybrid compositions incorporating, on
the one hand, battle accounts rendered in a recognizably ‘pre-Islamic’ idiom, that
of the ayyâm al-‘Arab or Bedouin ‘battle days’ poetry, and on the other certain
specifically Islamic elaborations of common late antique semiotic figures and
narrative structures.12 These semiotic figures and narrative structures often derive
from the vast corpus of hagiographical texts produced by the confessional com-
munities of late antiquity as they advanced and contested claims concerning
transcendent truth, revelation, and the role of the numinous in the affairs of
human beings. As the early Muslim community imagined and narrated its own past

11
Thomas Sizgorich, ‘Narrative and Community in Islamic Late Antiquity’, Past and Present,
185 (2004), 9–42 (p. 9).
12
Sizgorich, ‘Narrative and Community’.
130 Thomas Sizgorich

within this ‘sectarian milieu’, it will have been natural for its members to elab-
orate upon the signs, symbols, and narrative forms that had so long provided
the basis for communications within and among the faith communities of late
antiquity.
Not surprisingly, the hagiographical tropes we encounter in early Muslim
texts frequently function much as they had for centuries before in the foundation
narratives of other communities. Consider, for example, the two following pas-
sages. The first is from Ibn Ishò âq’s Sîrat rasûl Allâh, a second-/eighth-century
biography of the prophet Muhò ammad, while the second is from a fourth-century
Christian saint’s life, Paphnutios’s Life of Onnophrios.
[Muhò ammad said] I was suckled among the Banû Sa)d Bakr, and while I was with a
brother of mine behind the tents shepherding the lambs, two men in white raiment came
to me with a gold basin full of snow. Then they seized me and opened up my belly,
extracted my heart and split it; then they extracted a black drop from it and threw it away;
then they washed my heart and my belly with that snow until they had thoroughly
cleaned them. Then they sealed my belly. 13
Then, [Onnophrios said,] I looked and I beheld a man radiant with glory standing in
front of me. He said to me, ‘What afflicts you?’ And my strength came back to me a bit
and I said to him, ‘It’s my liver that afflicts me, sir’. He said to me, ‘Show me the place
where you are suffer from it’. So I showed him the place where my liver [pahHpar] was
hurting me. He stretched out his hand over me, with his fingers joined together, and
he cut my side [lit. ‘my rib’] as one might with [lit. ‘in the manner of’] a knife [a fp e h
p as p ir n+P e n+ ous Hfe ]. He took out my liver and showed me the dark spots [aftsaboi
e ne plugH] in it. He scraped them off and applied a cloth to the lesions. Then he
put my liver back in its place again, and with his hands he smoothed over my body
[a fhk ou a fY n+n e uo Ha m om e e ut oe is a f Y o n m + p a hHp a r e p e fm a n+ ke so p
auo afsloclc+ ej m+ p asw m a hn+ n+f cij ] and he rubbed the place where the parts that
he had cut met.’14

As Uri Rubin has suggested, the story of the opening of Muhò ammad’s
chest seems to function within the Muslim tradition as a sort of ‘preparation’

Muhò ammad Ibn Ishò âq, Sîrat rasûl Allâh, ed. by Ferdinand Wüstenfeld, 2 vols (Göttingen:
13

Dieterichsche Universitats-Buchhandlung, 1858–60; repr. Frankfurt a.M.: Minerva, 1961), I,

106; Life of Muhammad, trans. by Alfred Guillaume (London: Oxford University Press, 1955),
p. 72.
14
Life of Apa Onnophrios the Anchorite, pp. 8–9; my translation. Coptic text in Coptic Texts,
IV :Coptic Martyrdoms Etc. in the Dialect of Upper Egypt, ed. and trans. by E. A. Wallis Budge
(London: British Museum, 1914), pp. 205–24; trans., pp. 454–73. Where in doubt, I have
followed the English translation in Tim Vivian, Histories of the Monks of Upper Egypt and Life of
Onnophrius, Cistercian Studies, 140 (Kalamazoo: Cistercian, 1993), pp. 149–50.
‘BECOME INFIDELS’ 131

narrative, preparing the young Muhò ammad for his prophetic career.15 Rubin also
demonstrates the recurrence of variants of this story in other early Muslim texts
describing the career of another sort of holy figure, an inspired pre-Islamic poet
named Umayya ibn Abî l-Sò alt, concluding, ‘the stories about Umayya demonstrate
the universality of some hagiographic models of election and initiation which may
wander from the biography of one hero to that of another’.16 The ‘wandering’
Rubin has in mind is clearly that which took place as the topos of chest-opening
migrated from biographical treatments of Muhò ammad to those of another, lesser,
would-be Arab prophet. Accepting and extending Rubin’s model of what we
might call ‘hagiographic drift’, I would suggest that even before this topos ap-
peared in early Muslim biographies or hagiographies of Muhò ammad, it had served
to dramatize the preparation of another young messenger of God for his own pro-
phetic career; the tale of Onnophrios’s own chest-opening experience not only
features imagery, characters, and plot that are very close matches for those of the
Muhò ammad story, but indeed it functions in very much the same way as the story
of Muhò ammad’s chest opening within its own narrative. Accordingly, it would
seem that in composing an account of the early life of the prophet Muhò ammad,
the Muslim community told and re-told one story among many about the early
life of Muhò ammad in which a cluster of signs, symbols, and narrative forms
were deployed much as they had been previously to narrate the life of another
community’s prophet, and to fulfil very much the same narratological function.
Similar strategies of composition emerge in accounts of the conquest period.
In the preceding pages, we briefly examined Khalîfa ibn Khayyâtò ’s accounts of
the battles of al-Yarmûk and al-Qâdisiyya. In so doing, we noted that Khalîfa’s
rendition of the battles seems to depend very closely upon the sorts of information
one would expect to emerge from the traditional Arab battle accounts that Donner
has identified as the likely sources of who-what-when information upon which
specifically Muslim histories of the conquests were constructed. That is, Khalîfa’s
accounts emphasize the presence and contributions of individual warriors,
and in particular the glorious deaths of certain warriors on the field of battle,

15
Uri Rubin, The Eye of the Beholder: The Life of Muhò ammad as Viewed by the Early
Muslims, Studies in Late Antiquity and Early Islam, 5 (Princeton: Darwin, 1995), pp. 59–75.
Previous scholarship has identified the ‘preparation’ in question to be that in anticipation of
MuhE ammad’s ascension to heaven. See Harris Birkeland, The Legend of the Opening of Muham-
med’s Breast, Avhandlinger utg. av det Norske videnskaps-akademi i Oslo. II, Hist.-filos. Klasse,
3 (Oslo: Dybwad, 1955), p. 6.
16
Rubin, Eye of the Beholder, p. 75.
132 Thomas Sizgorich

while offering only very general descriptions of the circumstances of the battles
themselves. In other early Muslim sources, however, the battles of al-Yarmûk
and al-Qâdisiyya are rendered very differently. In the texts of al-Azdî, al-Tò abarî and
Ibn A)tham, for example, these battles are operatic clashes between ascetic, pious,
and determined representatives of God’s last community and the proud and
decadent powers of the present world. The Muslims who populate these stories are
described as ‘like monks’ in their devotion to prayer, self-denial, and rejection of
the present world’s allure, and they pace the stage set by the authors of these texts
bristling with a steely devotion to their God recognizable to generations of late
ancient peoples as the mark of the divinely inspired communal champion.17 As we
shall see in what follows, the divinely inspired communal champion par excellence
in the imaginations of late ancient Christians and Muslims alike was the martyr
who, through his or her rejection of the enticements and terrors of worldly kings,
first insisted upon and then proved through trial the defining truths of his or her
community of God.
Accordingly, in the accounts of al-Yarmûk and al-Qâdisiyya provided in the
texts of al-Azdî, al-Tò abarî and Ibn A)tham, the battles between Arab and Roman
or Persian warriors become comprehensible as something more than military
clashes, and as something more than venues in which audacious tribal heroes
struggled valiantly and died nobly. They are instead numinous events in which the
truths of Islam and the will of God are manifested in the actions of poor and pious
Muslim warriors who, in carefully crafted scenes of confrontation opposite such
figures as the Roman Bâhân or the Persian Rustam, walk the ancient walk and talk
the ancient talk of the martyr.18 Khâlid ibn al-Walîd, for example, in his conference
with Bâhân as it is described in the second-/eighth-century history of al-Azdî,
listens as the Roman first tries to reason with him, and then cajoles him and finally

17
For conquest-era mujâhidûn compared to monks, see as examples, Muhò ammad ibn )A bd
Allâh al-Azdî al-Basò rî, Ta’r îkh futûhò al-Shâm, ed. by )Abd al-Mun)im )Abd Allâh )Âmir (Cairo:
Mu&assasat Sijill al-)Arab, 1970), p. 211; Abû Ja)far Muhò ammad ibn Jarîr al-Tò abarî, Ta’rîkh al-
rasul wa-‘l-mulûk, ed. by Michael J. de Goeje and others, 15 vols (Leiden: Brill, 1879–1901),
I , 2125–26 and 2395, trans. respectively in The History of al-Tò abarî, X I : The Challenge to the
Empires, trans. by Khalid Yahya Blankinship (Albany: State University of New York Press,
1993), pp. 126–27, and in The History of al-Tò abarî, XII: The Battle of al-Qâdisiyyah and the
Conquest of Syria and Palestine A .D . 635–637/A .H . 14–15, trans. by Yohanan Friedmann
(Albany: State University of New York Press, 1992), pp. 181–82; Ibn )A sâkir, Ta’r î kh madînat
Dimashq, ed. by )Umar ibn Gharâma al-)Amrawî and )A lî Shîr î, 80 vols (Beirut: Dâr al-Fikr,
1995–2001), II, 95–96.
18
Sizgorich, ‘Narrative and Community’.
‘BECOME INFIDELS’ 133

threatens him with the might of the Roman Empire. Khâlid remains unmoved
through all of this and patiently explains to Bâhân the tenets of his own faith, and
invites the Roman to accept Islam. The Roman is deeply impressed by the wisdom
of the Muslim but insists that a people as traditionally weak and despised as the
Arabs cannot successfully defy the will of the Roman Empire. Khâlid, however,
insists on the tenets of his faith, and will not compromise upon them. He insists
upon acceptance of the tenets of that faith in the form of either conversion or
payment of the jizya, or if neither of these is forthcoming, upon a trial for his
community’s beliefs in the field of battle. In the test that ensues, the truths to
which Khâlid has born witness are of course vindicated by means of a Muslim
victory. This victory, in turn, is readily recognizable as a metaphor for the con-
quests as a whole, and indeed many of the major battles of the conquests are
recalled in early Muslim histories in accordance with the formula we have traced
above.19
In such narratives, Khâlid was crafted by Muslim authors very much after the
fashion of such Christian/Muslim heroes as Jirj îs (the martyr Saint George) or, as
we shall see presently, the asò hò âb al-ukhdûd, known to Christians as the Najrân
martyrs.20 This rendering of Khâlid at the battle of al-Yarmûk required much
fleshing out, and supplementing over time of the presumably very basic knowledge
of the battle possessed by the early Community of Believers as it set about the task
of narrating the events of the futûhò . This fleshing out was clearly carried out
through the use of what Albrecht Noth has termed topoi, or recurrent literary
devices used and reused by Muslim authors as they attempted to make good the
lack of specific information about events like al-Yarmûk, but also as they sought to
assign to such events specific meanings within the larger and much more complex
story of the birth and growth of the Muslim umma as a community of God.21
One way to understand how this process worked is to look to a closely allied
family of texts, the works of Qur(ânic exegesis produced in the first centuries after
the hijra.22 In these texts, as we shall see, early Muslim authors also attempted to

19
Al-Azdî, Ta’rî kh futûhò al-Shâm, pp. 202–05.
20
For the Muslim version of the martyrdom of George, see al-Tò abarî, Ta’rî kh, I, 794–811.
21
On the use of topoi in early Islamic historiography, see Noth with Conrad, The Early
Arabic Historical Tradition; Donner, Narratives, pp. 266–71.
22
For tafsîr literature generally, see Fuat Sezgin, Geschichte des arabischen Schrifttums
(Leiden: Brill, 1967–), I , 19–24; Andrew Rippin, ‘Al-Zuhrî, Naskh al-Qur&ân and the Problem
of Early Tafsîr Texts’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 47 (1984), 22–43;
Andrew Rippin, ‘Literary Analysis of the Qur(ân, Tafsîr and Sîra: The Methodologies of John
134 Thomas Sizgorich

flesh out, elucidate, and historically situate a received body of poetic utterance,
albeit one that originated not with Bedouin warriors, but with the one God of
Abraham. Despite the source of these utterances, however, they came to those
who would interpret them much as had the traditions that served as the basis for
early Islamic historical narratives — after the time of Muhò ammad’s death, they
were passed on and received by individuals who, however pious and learned, were
obliged to understand and explain them not with the Prophet’s numinous insight,
but with the resources available to individuals and communities deeply situated
in a late ancient cultural and religious milieu.

‘I call to witness the heavens, full of the signs of the zodiac’: Early Qur’ânic
Exegesis and the People of the Trench

In addition to the articulation of narratives of communal origins, one of the

earliest hermeneutic projects undertaken by the Muslim umma was the inter-
pretation of the record of Muhò ammad’s revelation. The text of that revelation
had not yet been canonized when the first Arab armies set out for the lands of
Syria, Mesopotamia, and Egypt in the eleventh or twelfth year after the hijra
(633–34 CE). Within a century of the ‘opening’ of those former Roman and
Persian domains, however, scholars had begun the crucial task of commenting
upon the narration or ‘Qur(ân’ of that revelation, seeking its hidden meanings and
illuminating its many opaque and esoteric verses (âyât, sing. âya) and chapters

Wansbrough’, in Approaches to Islam in Religious Studies, ed. by Richard C. Martin (Tucson:

University of Arizona Press, 1985; repr. Oxford: OneWorld, 2001), pp. 151–63; Claude Gilliot,
Exégèse, langue et théologies en Islam: L’exégèse coranique de Tabari (Paris: Vrin, 1990); Peter
Heath, ‘Creative Hermeneutics: A Comparative Analysis of Three Islamic Approaches’, Arabica,
36 (1998), 173–210; Marco Schöller, ‘Sîra and Tafsîr: Muhò ammad al-Kalbî on the Jews of
Medina’, in The Biography of Muhò ammad: The Issue of the Sources, ed. by Harald Motzki (Leiden:
Brill, 2000), pp. 18–48; Norman Calder, ‘Tafsîr from Tò abarî to Ibn Kathîr: Problems in the
Description of a Genre, Illustrated with Reference to the Story of Abraham’, in Approaches to the
Qur’ân, ed. by Gerald R . Hawting and Abdul-Kader Shareef (London: Routledge, 1993), pp.
100–40; Walid A. Saleh, The Formation of the Classical Tafsîr Tradition: The Qur’ân Com-
mentary of al-Tha‘labî (d. 427/1035) (Leiden: Brill, 2001); Gordon Newby, ‘Tafsîr Isra’îlîyât: The
Development of Qur(ân Commentary in Early Islam in its Relationship to Judeo-Christian
Traditions of Scriptural Commentary’, Journal of the American Academy of Religion, 47 (1980),
685–97; John Wansbrough, Quranic Studies: Sources and Methods of Scriptural Interpretation
with Forward, Translations and Expanded Notes by Andrew Rippin (Amherst, NY: Prometheus,
2004) pp. 154–58, 191–92, 234–35, 244–46; Approaches to the History of the Interpretation of the
Qur’ân, ed. by Andrew Rippin (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988).
‘BECOME INFIDELS’ 135

(suwar, sing. sûra). Among these was Sûrat al-burûj (85). It is a comparatively brief
sûra. It runs as follows:
In the Name of God, the beneficent, the merciful
1. I call to witness the heavens, full of the signs of the zodiac
2. And the promised day
3. And the witness and the witnessed
4. Killed/accursed (qutila) are the people of the trench (asò hò âb al-ukhdûd)
5. The fire possessing fuel
6. As around it they sit
7. W hat they had done unto the believers they witness
8. They had no reason to take revenge upon them, except that they believed in God,
the powerful One, the One worthy of praise
9. To whom is the rulership of the universe and the Earth; over all things God bears
witness
10. Surely those who torment the faithful men and faithful women and then do
not repent, for them is the torment of Hell, and for them is the torment of the
conflagration
11. Surely those who believe and do good deeds, for them is a garden, the river flowing
from below it; that is the great success
12. Surely, your Lord’s outrage is severe
13. It is surely he who begins and begins again
14. He is inclined to pardon and inclined to love
15. Possessor of the Magnificent Throne
16. And he provides for whatever he wishes
17. Has report of the troops come to you
18. Those of Pharaoh and Thamûd?
19. But those who disbelieve are in denial
20. And God is surrounding them from behind
21. Yet this is the Glorious Qur(ân
22. On the preserved tablet.23

23
Al-Qur(ân, Sûrat al-burûj (85). Where in doubt, I have followed the translation of Ahmed
Ali, Al-Qur’ân: A Contemporary Translation (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), p.
530.
136 Thomas Sizgorich

In addition to all else that it is or may be, the Qur(ân is a famously inimitable
exemplum of Arabic poetry. Accordingly, it is a text in which multiple layers of
meaning are perceptible, and, like the rest of the Qur(ân, Sûrat al-burûj may be read
in a variety of registers. As is true of any multivalent text, the Qur(ân and each of
its suwar may offer the reader deep assurance and answer profound and difficult
questions; but each also tends to beg a variety of questions as well. For early
Muslims, if we are to judge from early tafsîr works (works of Qur(ânic inter-
pretation), one of the most persistent questions relating to Sûrat al-burûj was
the identity of the asò hò âb al-ukhdûd (the people of the trench). In order to interpret
this sûra, and indeed in order to interpret any facet of the past or present for which
they had no direct prophetic instruction, Muslims of the first centuries after the
hijra necessarily drew upon the world around them for hermeneutic tools with
which to make sense of the past, the present, and even their holiest of texts.24
Indeed, as Gerald Hawting has recently written, ‘The interpretation of any text
involves at least two parties — the text itself and the interpreter. The interpreter
will approach the text with aims, preconceptions, tools, and methods of
interpretation, many of which derive not from the text but from the mind of the
interpreter and the society to which he or she belongs.’25
One difficulty inherent in analysing early Muslim exegetical strategies is that it
was through exegetical processes undertaken with regard to not only the Qur(ân,
but also the recollected past of the Community of Believers, that one group of
Arab monotheists became the Muslim umma. That is, the ‘society’ upon whose
‘aims, preconceptions, tools, and methods of interpretation’, very early Qur(ânic
exegetes drew was not (and could not have been) yet the self-consciously distinct
and carefully bounded Muslim society of later centuries. Rather, it was a multi-
confessional society in which these exegetes encountered a rich and diverse
marketplace of stories, characters, and narrative forms from which to set about
the work of elucidating the past, whether this past was the past described in the
Qur(ân, or a past that was recalled in the oral histories of the Arabs now settled
across the post-futûhò landscape. Among the stories and characters these early
exegetes encountered were those associated with the so-called Martyrs of Najrân.

24
On this process, see Brandon M. Wheeler, ‘Moses or Alexander? Early Islamic Exegesis of
Qur(ân 18:60–65’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies, 57 (1998), 191–215 (especially pp. 214–15).
See also n. 22, above.
25
Gerald Hawting, ‘Qur(ânic Exegesis and History’, in With Reverence for the Word: Medieval
Scriptural Exegesis in Judaism, Christianity and Islam, ed. by Jane D. McAuliffe, Barry Walfish,
and Joseph W. Goering (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), pp. 408–19 (p. 408).
‘BECOME INFIDELS’ 137

In what follows, we will trace the ways in which the story of the Najrân Martyrs
aided proto- and early Islamic exegetes in rendering comprehensible for themselves
and their contemporaries the revealed word of God.

‘Even as a vine which is pruned and gives forth much fruit’: Martyrdom
and Remembrance in Najrân

As he composed his tafsîr in the first half of the second century AH following
materials collected from the works of earlier exegetes, it was clear to Muqâtil ibn
Sulayman († 170/767), as it seems to have been to most early Muslim scholars, that
Sûrat al-burûj was about the persecution of monotheists for their belief; –ya
(verse) 8 seems to make this clear. But who were these monotheists? Who per-
secuted them? Under what circumstances did this persecution take place? None
of this may be answered from the text itself, which is, like much of the Qur&ân,
esoteric in its phrasing. To answer these questions, Muqâtil ibn Sulayman, his
sources and those who came after them would have to draw upon what they knew
of the world around them.
One explanation concerning the identity of the asò hò âb al-ukhdûd set forth in the
Tafsîr Muqâtil ibn Sulayman is as follows: Yusef ibn Dhû Nûwâs, of the people of
Najrân, dug a trench, and he built in it a fire. ‘Whoever of [the people in Najrân]
professed monotheism [al-tawhò îd], he burned him in the fire’. He ordered the
pious people of the city that they must abandon Islâm (yartaddûn‘an al-Islâm), but
they refused and he ‘burned them all’. As they were going, one by one, into the fire,
we are told, one woman carried with her a child. At the last moment, as the woman
wavered out of concern for her child, her child reminded her that there was before
her another fire, one that burned forever. Fortified by the child’s words, she went
into the fire with the rest of her community. God placed their souls in Paradise, the
text says, and he told his prophet about the asò hò âb al-ukhdûd, presumably in the sûra
in question.26

26
Muqâtil ibn Sulayman, Tafsîr Muqâtil ibn Sulayman, ed. by Ahò mad Farîd, 3 vols (Beirut:
Dâr al-Kutub al-)Ilmîyah, 2003), III, 469. See The Martyrs of Najran: New Documents, ed. and
trans. by Irfan Shahîd, Subsidia hagiographica, 49 (Brussels: Société des Bollandistes, 1971), pp.
46–49, where various Najrân Christians are burned alive, some of them thrown into fires, others
immolated with their homes or church. See also ibid., pp. 51–53, 61, for brief narratives about a
‘child of three’ and a ‘child of eight’, both of whom show great zeal in the face of the Himyarite
persecution.
138 Thomas Sizgorich

The late first/seventh or early second/eighth-century Tafsîr of al-Dò ahò hò âk ibn

Muzâhò im (†105/723), similarly described the victims of the asò hò âb al-ukhdûd as
‘the people of Islâm’, although it also says ‘the asò hò âb al-ukhdûd were the Christians
of Yemen, and the Messenger of God received a revelation in his 40th year, <and
they who persecute the faithful and do not repent, for them is the torment of Hell,
and for them is the torment of the conflagration> al-–ya 10. And al-Dò ahò hò âk said,
“<killed are the people of the trench> means that they burned them”’.27
In his own tafsîr chapter on Sûrat al-burûj, the fourth-/tenth-century au-
thor al-Tò abarî († 311/923) includes a very similar story. In al-Tò abarî’s version,
there has been an on-going civil war between ‘believers and unbelievers’ in a Ye-
meni community called Najrân, in which one side and then the other has gained
the upper hand. Finally, the warring parties make an agreement between them in
accordance with which neither side ‘will act treacherously with the other’, but the
unbelievers break faith and force the believers into a burning trench. ‘Their leaders
began to plunge into it’, the section continues. ‘And then a matron among them
held back, as if she had given up her intentions. And a young child said to her,
stopping her, “O mother, do not play the hypocrite”.’ The story of these events was
later to be narrated by God, the text concludes, presumably to Muhò ammad.28
Al-Tò abarî also passes on reports connecting the asò hò âb al-ukhdûd with the
city of Najrân, where, he says, it was said that there was a ‘fissure’ in the earth in
which ‘the people were tortured’.29 The perpetrators of the violence are frequently
identified by al-Tò abarî as ‘of the Banû Isrâ(îl’. Among the passages so identifying
them is the following:
[A group of traditionalists] maintained that the asò hò âb al-ukhdûd were of the of the Banû
Isrâ(îl, and they seized men and women and dug a trench for them, and they lit two fires
in it, and the faithful went up to it, and they said, ‘Become infidels or we will throw you
into the fire.’30

As one reads the accounts contained in al-Tò abarî’s chapter on Sûrat al-burûj, then,
it becomes clear that as Muslims of his and previous generations sought to better
understand this particular sûra, they associated the persecution described in the

Al-Dò ahò hò âk ibn Muzâhò im, Tafsîr al-Dò ahò hò âk, ed. Muhò ammad Shukrî al-Zâwîtî, 2 vols
27

(Cairo: Dâr al-Salâm, 1999), II, 950, nos 2879–81.

28
Abû Ja)far Muhò ammad ibn Jarîr al-Tò abarî, Jâmi‘ al-bayân ‘an ta’wîl al-Qur’ân, 30 vols
(Cairo: al-Bâbî al-Hò alabî, 1954), XXX , 132.
29
Al-Tò abarî, Jâmi‘ al-bayân ‘an ta’wî l al-Qur’ân, X X X , 133.
30
Al-Tò abarî, Jâmi‘ al-bayân ‘an ta’wî l al-Qur’ân, X X X , 133.
‘BECOME INFIDELS’ 139

sûra with a story that was familiar to them, one in which a group of monotheists
were killed for their refusal to renounce their faith. The story that seems to have
suggested itself most often is that of the martyrs of Najrân.
The story of the martyrs of the city of Najrân appears in a number of late
ancient texts, including the Syriac Zuqnîn Chronicle, the chronicles of pseudo-
Zachariah and Michael the Syrian, the Book of the Himyarites, Greek and Arabic
versions of the Martyrdom of Arethas, and the so-called Letter of Bçth-Arshâm,
as well as the more recently discovered Letter of Simeon of Bçth-Arshâm.31 It is,
in many ways, a very typical martyr narrative; as the ugly events in Najrân entered
the imaginations of Christians in the lands of Syria, Mesopotamia, and Arabia,
they were mediated through a familiar matrix of signs, symbols, and motifs, and
subsumed into what had long before become the dominant metanarrative of
Christian history throughout the sprawling cultural expanse we have come to
describe as ‘late antique’.
In 523/24 CE, a Christian ruler in southern Arabia, whom the Christian king
of Ethiopia had installed and who had been an active persecutor of Jews, died.
When that ruler died, the Himyarites in the region proclaimed a local, Jewish king.
Upon his ‘appointment’, we are told, this new king began a persecution of the
Christians of the region in retribution for the violences previously suffered by Jews
and in hopes of initiating a Jewish kingdom in the region.32 The persecution of the
Christians of southern Arabia reached a crescendo of sorts at the Christian city of
Najrân. There, despite an agreement between the polytheist, Christian, and Jewish
inhabitants of the town and their Jewish besiegers guaranteeing the safety of the

31
For a full catalogue of texts and editions in which versions of the Najrân martyr narrative
appears, and for the fullest treatment to date of the events in Najrân, as well as an edition
and translation of the most recently discovered Letter of Simeon, see The Martyrs of Najran.
See primarily The Chronicle of Zuqnîn: Parts III and IV, A .D . 488–775, trans. by Amir Harrak
(Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1999), pp. 76–85; Zachariah of Mitylene,
Chronicle, VIII.3, in The Syriac Chronicle Known as that of Zachariah of Mitylene, ed. and trans.
by Ernest W. Brooks and Fredrick John Hamilton (New York: AMS, 1979), pp. 192–203; La
Chronique de Michel le Syrien, Patriarche Jacobite d’Antioche (1166–1199), ed. and trans. by Jean-
Baptiste Chabot, 4 vols (Paris: Leroux, 1899–1924), IV , 273–76; II, 184–89; The Book of the
Himyarites, ed. and trans. by Carl A. Moberg (Lund: Société des Lettres de Lund, 1921). See also
Peter Brown, The Rise of Western Christendom: Triumph and Diversity, 200–1000, 2nd edn
(Oxford: Blackwell, 2003), p. 288.
32
Zuqnîn Chronicle and Zachariah of Mitylene, as above. For the fullest treatment to date of
the events in Najrân, see The Martyrs of Najran.
140 Thomas Sizgorich

besieged if they would open their gates, upon surrender of the town the Himyarites
demanded that the Christians convert or die.33
That this story was well known in detail among Muslim historians and adab
authors by the third/ninth century at the very latest is made clear by its inclusion
in the Kitâb al-ma‘ârif of Ibn Qutayba († 889). In that text, the Himyarite king
Dhû al-Nûwâs is identified as the ‘sò âhò ib al-ukhdûd, of whom God made mention
in His Book. And he was a Jew, and it had come to him that the people of Najrân
had become Christians’. Dhû al-Nûwâs persecutes the Christians and gives them
the choice of apostatizing or being burned in his fire trench. In Ibn Qutayba’s
version, one of the Christian women of Najrân has with her a child who speaks to
her as she approaches the burning trench, saying, ‘O mother, carry out your reli-
gion [imdò î dînaki].’34 In his own Ta’rîkh, al-Ya)qûbî († 283/897) also identifies
Dhû al-Nûwâs as sò âhò ib al-ukhdûd, ties his identification to the Najrân per-
secution, and associates )Abd Allâh ibn al-Thâmir, the figure responsible for
bringing Christianity to Yemen in his rendering, with the martyrs killed in the
fiery trench.35 By the tenth century, Ibn Wahab, in his own tafsîr, associated
the asò hò âb al-ukhdûd with the city of Najrân and with the figure of Dhû al-Nûwâs,
with a fire pit full of naphtha, pitch and wood, and with the choice faced by
one community of either agonizing death or renunciation of their monotheist
faith.36
This brief survey of early Muslim accounts of the persecution at Najrân makes
clear that the various Muslim authors whose works we have thus far consulted
emphasized certain key aspects of what seems to have been a common core nar-
rative. In addition to the burning in a trench of those who refused to renounce
their faith, we have the recurring story of the valiant child martyr and his mother,
and hence an emphasis upon the rigorous piety of Najrân’s Christian women and
children.
Notably, these elements are also featured prominently in the various Christian
iterations of the Najrân martyrdoms. In many of these Christian accounts, for

33
Zuqnîn Chronicle, p. 79; Zachariah of Mitylene, Chronicle, VIII.3, pp. 193–94.
Ibn Qutayba, Kitâb al-ma‘ârif, ed. by Tharwat )Ukkâsha (Cairo: Dâr al-kutub, 1960), p.
34

637. This passage then goes on briefly to detail the reaction by Christian Roman and Abyssinian
forces to these events.
35
Ahò mad ibn Abî Ya)qûb ibn Wâdò ihò, al-Ta’rîkh, ed. by Martijn T. Houtsma, 2 vols (Leiden:
Brill, 1883; repr. 1969), I, 225–26.
Ibn Wahb, Tafsîr Ibn Wahb, ed. by Ahò mad Farîd, 2 vols (Beirut: Manshurât Muhò ammad
36

)Alî Baydò ûn, Dâr al-Kutub al-)Ilmîyah, 2003), II, 488.

‘BECOME INFIDELS’ 141

example, the Christian church of Najrân was burned with many of its congregation
and clergy still inside.37 Then a number of prominent Christians were asked to
renounce Christ; when they refused, they too were executed in a wâdî (possibly
interpreted as a trench) near the city.38 More notable, however, is the role of
mothers and children in the extant Christian versions of the Najrânî martyr
narrative. After the death of her husband, for example, one elite Christian
matron paraded through the neighbourhoods of Najrân with her daughters
dressed as though for their wedding. She exhorted her fellow Christians, ‘May
the blood of my brothers and sisters who were killed for the sake of Christ be the
wall for this city!’ In the gruesome denouement to this episode, the mother’s
throat it cut over the faces of her daughters, into whose mouths their mother’s
blood runs.39
Elsewhere we encounter closely kindred versions of an episode in which a young
child is accompanying his mother to her martyrdom (an image strikingly similar
to that encountered repeatedly in the Muslim accounts of the Najrân martyr
stories surveyed previously) and is noticed by the Jewish king:
The king said to him: ‘Stay with me and I will give you nuts and almonds and everything’;
and the child said to him: ‘No, by Christ, I will not eat the nuts of the Jews nor will my
mother eat the nuts of the Jews.’ The king said to him: ‘Why?’ and the child said: ‘Because
the nuts of the Jews are the Jews […]. [L]et me go to my mother, lest she should die and
lest the Jews should come and take me away’. 40

In the texts that describe the confrontation between the Christians of Najrân
and the Jewish Himyarites who seized power after the death of a local Christian
ruler in 524 CE, then, any late ancient Christian reader will have encountered a
series of very familiar characters, arrayed in service of a very familiar plot; intran-
sigent witnesses testify to the defining truths of the Christian faith, and they are
set in opposition to a powerful king who demands that each of them deny Christ.

37
See Martyrs of Najran, pp. 46–47.
38
See Martyrs of Najran, pp. 46–62.
39
For the wâdî (Syriac wadiyâ) where some of the Najrân martyrs were killed, and the episode
with the matron and her daughters, see Zuqnîn Chronicle, pp. 83 (wâdî), 81 (matron); Zachariah
of Mitylene, Chronicle, VIII.3, pp. 200, 197; Martyrs of Najran, pp. 57–61, where it is the blood
of the matron’s Ruhayma’s granddaughters that pours into her mouth.
40
Martyrs of Najrân, pp. 51–53. The child is eventually led away to be raised until he is old
enough to choose one religion or the other, and John of Ephesus included a description of him
as an adult in his Ecclesiastical History, portions of which are preserved in other sources. See
Zuqnîn Chronicle, pp. 84–85.
142 Thomas Sizgorich

These demands are roughly refused, and the Christians of Najrân predictably die
the deaths of martyrs after suffering horribly at the hands of their persecutors.
What is perhaps more remarkable, however, is that later Muslim texts clearly took
up these semiotic elements and deployed them in a way that Muslim readers seem
to have found equally familiar and immediately comprehensible.
Although the hagiographical tradition that grew up around the persecution of
the Christians of Najrân recalls a series of historical events, what ‘actually hap-
pened’ in Najrân is all but impossible to know. What happened as the memories
of those events were shared among various communities of Christians, however,
seems clear enough. As had happened countless times over the preceding centuries,
certain ‘events’ became comprehensible as episodes (indeed, episodes of a readily
recognizable type) as they were cast in accordance with a now ancient narrative of
Christian persecution and resistance. Indeed, the best accounts we have of the
events at Najrân, taken from a pair of texts which purport to have been written
by the monk Sergius (known as ‘the Persian Debater’) as a letter announcing the
events, contain a speech by one of the martyrs, Hò arith, son of Khanab, that seems
to locate the events within this narrative even as they take place:
I am sure that, even as a vine which is pruned and gives forth much fruit, so shall our
Christian people be multiplied in this city; and the church, which has been burnt by you,
shall increase and be built up, and Christianity shall have dominion and give commands
to kings, and shall reign, and you Judaism shall be blotted out, and your kingdom shall
pass away, and your dominion shall come to an end […]. If any man fears the sword and
denies Christ, let him be separated from us!41

Thus these events, which took place in sixth-century Yemen, accrued meaning
in the minds of Syrian ascetics and Greek-speaking Christian clergymen as they
were mediated through a much larger story of Christian persecution, resolute
resistance in the face of powerful enemies of the faith, and eventual triumph due
to the sacrifices of the martyrs. We cannot know, of course, whether the men and
women who were killed in Najrân during those horrific days understood their own
actions through the prism of such a narrative, any more than we can know with
certainty who the asò hò âb al-ukhdûd ‘really were’. What we can note, however, is
that as the events themselves became comprehensible in the minds of contem-
poraries, they were cast as recognizable episodes, stocked with recognizable signs,
symbols, and characters.

41
Zachariah of Mitylene, Chronicle, VIII.3, p. 199; Zuqnîn Chronicle, p. 82.
‘BECOME INFIDELS’ 143

On the day of his death, Hò arith, son of Khanab proved prescient. The Chris-
tian community remained in Najrân despite the persecution there, and sizable
and influential Christian — and Jewish — populations remained in Najrân after
the Muslim conquests.42 According to the Muslim author al-Tò abarî, Najrân’s
Christian population recalled its foundation via a narrative that connected the
coming of monotheist belief with the ascetic valour of one of those who eventually
died defending his faith in the face of persecution carried out under the aegis of a
powerful unbelieving king. Al-Tò abarî’s rendering of the Najrânî Christian origin
narrative comes to us in two very similar iterations, one in his tafsîr work, and the
other in his Ta’rîkh.
In the version of this tale that appears in his tafsîr text, a version that al-Tò abarî
attributes to the Prophet himself, a young man (ghulâm) is drafted into the service
of a local king’s sorcerer, who, when he begins to sense his approaching death,
tells the King that he must train a successor. One day, the boy, now the sorcerer’s
apprentice, is following his master in the street, when he comes across a monk
preaching to any who will listen. He is fascinated by the monk and begins to spend
a good deal of time listening to him preach. The boy spends so much time with the
monk, in fact, that his family and his master begin to complain bitterly about the
time he spends away from them. The monk instructs him that when his family
demands to know where he has been, he should say that he has been with his
master the sorcerer, and when his master demands to know how he has been
spending his time, he should say he has been with his family. Meanwhile, the boy
grows ever more devoted to the monk and his way of life. After he embraces the
amr al-râhib (instruction of the monk) as superior to that of the sorcerer, the
boy begins curing lepers, the blind, and the perpetually ill. Eventually, he cures a
courtier of the King, who discovers his religious commitment to the one God. The
King confronts the youth, tortures him, and tries to kill him but is unable to do so
until, at the direction of the youth himself, he collects all of the people of his
community together and says ‘In the name of the God of the youth’ and then
strikes the boy, whereupon the youth drops dead. This brings about a general
conversion of the King’s people, which in turn prompts a confrontation between
the King and his followers involving the ultimatum that they must either renounce

42
See Christian J. Robin, ‘Yemen’, in Late Antiquity: A Guide to the Postclassical World, ed.
by Glen W. Bowersock, Peter Brown, and Oleg Grabar (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 1999), pp. 752–53; see Muhò ammad Ibn Sa)d, Kitab al-tò abaqât al-kabîr, ed. by C. Edward
Sachau and others, 9 vols (Leiden: Brill, 1904–40), I, pt II, 84–87 for the arrangements made
between the ‘ashrâf nasò ârâ’ of Najrân and the Muslims.
144 Thomas Sizgorich

the new monotheistic religion or be thrown into a fire trench. They choose the fire,
and file into the inferno. As they do so, a woman carrying a small child is urged by
the child to carry through with her martyrdom and does so.43
Although in the version recorded in his tafsîr al-Tò abarî specifically associates
this story with the asò hò âb al-ukdûd, he does not mention the city of Najrân by
name. In his Ta’rîkh, however, al-Tò abarî includes an all but identical version of
this story, on the authority of some Christian inhabitants of Najrân, to describe
the coming of monotheism to southern Arabia. The name of the young ascetic
and defender of the faith killed by the Jewish king in the version of this narrative
al-Tò abarî relates in his Ta’rîkh is )Abd Allâh ibn al-Thâmir.44 The figure of )Abd
Allâh ibn al-Thâmir in the origin narratives of the Najrânî Christian community,
that of the ascetic, intractable, and utterly devoted ‘servant of God’ pictured in
confrontation with the powerful of the terrestrial order, is closely kindred not
only with that of Hò arith, son of Khanab, in his confrontation with the Jewish
Himyarite king (called in Muslim texts Dhû Nuwâs), but also with that of Khâlid
ibn al-Walîd in the early Muslim texts we surveyed above. That is, as al-Tò abarî
narrated the origin story of the Christian community of Najrân as he knew it, he
narrated a story of confrontation between a pious, ascetic champion of revealed
truth and a proud and overbearing representative of worldly power. It is no coinci-
dence, I would suggest, that as the sources of al-Tò abarî, al-Azdî, and other early
Muslim authors narrated the primordial dramas of their own community, and
particularly those that took place in the context of the futûhò , they did so by
articulating very similar stories, stories featuring a closely kindred vocabulary of
signs, symbols, and hagiographical forms.
The texts in which these stories were recorded took the form that they did as
the result of a process of historical exegesis that seems to have worked very much
in the manner of the Qur(ânic exegetical methods that employed the forms and
figures that populated the story of the martyrs of Najrân to elucidate Sûrat al-burûj
and identify, historically situate and define in greater detail the asò hò âb al-ukhdûd.

Al-Tò abarî, Jâmi‘ al-bayân ‘an ta’wîl al-Qur’ân, XXX , 133–34. Versions of this story are
43

repeated in the Tafsîr Ibn Kathîr; see the Tafsir Ibn Kathir (Abridged), ed. and trans. by Safiur-
Rahman al-Mubarakpuri and others, 10 vols (Riyadh: Dâr al-Salâm, 2000), X , 427–34.
See al-Tò abarî, Ta’rîkh, I, 919–27; see also The History of al-Tò abarî, V : The Sâsânids, the
44

Byzantines the Lakhmids, and the Yemen, trans. by Clifford E. Bosworth (Albany: State University
of New York Press, 1999), pp. 190–206, and cf. Muhò ammad Ibn Ishò âq, Sî rat rasûl Allâh, I,
23–25; Life of Muhammad, trans. by Guillaume; Gordon Newby, ‘An Example of Coptic Literary
Influence on Ibn Ishò âq’s Sîrah’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies, 31 (1972), 22–28.
‘BECOME INFIDELS’ 145

That is, the utilization of late ancient hagiographical tropes shared in common
with numerous other communities as a means of fleshing out for contemporary
audiences what were otherwise sketchy and incomplete figures or versions of events
in the early history and pre-history of the Islamic world reflects quite closely the
practice we may observe in some detail within works of Qur(ânic exegesis that
identify the mysterious asò hò âb al-ukhdûd as the Christian martyrs of Najrân whose
sacrifices and bravery were so widely known and recalled among the communities
of late antiquity.
Among those ‘communities of late antiquity’ was the Arab monotheist ‘Com-
munity of Believers’ that came to fashion from its own constituent parts the
Muslim umma. This was a process of self-fashioning carried out in part by means
of the elaboration of a communal identity through the recollection and narration
of a communal past. Emplotted within the narrative that this process produced
were such heroes as )Abd Allâh ibn al-Thâmir and Khâlid ibn al-Walîd, a Christian
and a Muslim whose pious, resolute striving on the path of God defended the
defining truths of their respective communities and made manifest in the world
the divine will of the God they shared. Another story from al-Tò abarî’s Ta’rîkh
illustrates this nicely. It seems that one day in the first/seventh century, some
workmen dug into the sacred soil of Najrân. They discovered there the body of a
man, uncorrupted by death, seated, holding his hand to his head, covering a
wound:
When his hand was lifted off, the wound began to flow with blood, but when the hand
was released, he placed it back on the wound and the flow of blood ceased. On his hand
was a seal ring with the inscription, ‘My lord is God’.45

The body was that of )Abd Allâh ibn al-Thâmir. When the sovereign of the
land, Caliph )Umar, himself an ascetic and famously pious monotheist who would
eventually also become a martyr, was told about the discovery of the body, he
ordered that it be left in place, and the earth filled in around it. )Umar’s reasons for
treating the body with respect are in many ways obvious; the prophet of his own
community had received a revelation about the events surrounding )Abd Allâh’s
death, and that revelation had become one small section of the sacred text of the
Muslim community, while )Abd Allâh had become one of the sacred symbols of
that community. The example that the monk )Abd Allâh and his fellow natives of
Najrân had set, )Umar and his contemporaries believed, had been commended to

45
Al-Tò abarî, Ta’rîkh, I, 926; The History of al-Tò abarî, p. 206.
146 Thomas Sizgorich

them by God as an example of fortitude and perseverance in the face of oppression

and persecution.
However, the Christian heroes of Najrân became comprehensible as Qur(ânic
heroes to these early Believers only through exegetical processes whose hermeneu-
tic strategies also rendered Khâlid ibn al-Walîd, Mu)âdh ibn Jabal, and other
conquest-era mujâhidûn as flinty ascetic pietists very much ‘like monks’ as the
texts that narrated their exploits so often described them. Although these exe-
getical processes produced texts that could be read as examples of distinct genres
of writing (i.e., history, ta’rîkh, or Qur(ânic commentary, tafsîr), the strategies of
interpretation employed within them and the forms and semiotic content upon
which they depended in fact bound them to still other genres of writing, from
Eusebian martyrology and Athanasian hagiography to Syriac chronicles peopled
by militant ascetics and prophetic communal leaders whose unswerving loyalty
to their God brought them into bloody confrontation with the powerful of the
present world, whether these wore the guise of the Roman emperor, the Persian
Shah or the Jewish king of the Himyarites.

Conclusion

In the preceding, I have tried to elucidate how and in what ways the early Islamic
community participated in the cultural, hermeneutic, and literary traditions so
familiar to the other, non-Muslim communities of late antiquity. I have done so
by examining certain exegetical processes in which signs and symbols ‘native’ to
the imaginary of various later Roman Christian communities began new careers
in the service of the nascent Muslim umma’s narration of the events that fore-
shadowed the advent of Muhò ammad’s prophecy-based community, and indeed
the foundational events of the Muslim umma itself.
The articulation by the early Muslim community of its foundational narratives
proceeded in much the same way that other monotheist communities arrayed
throughout Syria, Egypt, and Mesopotamia had recalled and narrated their own
origin stories. The persecution of the Christian community at Najrân, for example,
was recalled among the Christian communities of late antiquity as an episode of a
readily recognizable sort; it was yet another confrontation within a long series of
other such confrontations between apparently weak believers in the revealed word
of God and the powerful of the present world. The events of that confrontation
were recalled by the various communities that commemorated them in accordance
with a very regular semiotic vocabulary, and by means of a literary genre deeply
‘BECOME INFIDELS’ 147

stocked with recognizable characters and episodes, among these the poor and pious
witness to the revealed truth of God, the proud and unbelieving bearer of worldly
might, the dialogue in which the witness was called to abandon his/her faith, but
instead articulates an authoritative statement of the tenets of that faith, and a scene
of violence in which the truths championed by the witness in question are
vindicated by her/his zeal and the hand of God.
As we have seen, early Muslim authors were clearly familiar with such stories,
the formulae with which they were constructed, and the roles they were meant to
play in the metanarratives of the confessional communities that narrated them. In
the case of the Sûrat al-burûj, early Muslim exegetes agreed that they had before
them the story of a group of monotheists who, when faced with a powerful un-
believer, did not shrink from confrontation with that unbeliever, but instead
strove on God’s behalf and died the deaths of martyrs. That they identified the
asò hò âb al-ukhdûd as the martyrs of Najrân and that they used the story of the Najrân
martyrs in the way that they did suggests that these exegetes knew of the events at
Najrân via stylized Christian hagiographical accounts, that they understood very
well the implications of the stories in which the acts of those martyrs were recalled,
and that those Christian martyrs were recognized as suitable models of stalwart
monotheist resolve in the face of powerful enemies. Moreover, that the figure of
the Christian monk soon became associated with the strivings of the Najrânî
martyrs suggests that these early Muslim authors also understood the affinity
ascribed by other late ancient peoples to the monk and martyr. It should be little
surprise, then, that as these authors and their contemporaries elsewhere narrated
the confrontation of their own community with powerful unbelievers in the guise
of Roman and Persian imperial officials, such futûhò -era mujâhidûn as Khâlid ibn
al-Walîd should appear in their texts described as ‘like monks’, and scripted on
the very familiar model of the martyr. It is in this, I suggest, that we may discern
one kind of evidence for the participation of the early Muslim umma in the
thought world and imaginative projects of the broader ‘world of late antiquity’.
University of California, Irvine
 IBN AL-A ZRAQ , S AINT M ARÛTHÂ , AND THE
F OUNDATION OF M AYYÂFÂRIQÎN (M ARTYROPOLIS)

Harry Munt

S
cholars have known of the existence of a Life of Saint Marûthâ of May-
yâfâriqîn (Greek, Martyropolis; Syriac, Mayferqatò ; Armenian, Np’rkert) in
the sixth-/twelfth-century Arabic Muslim Ta’rîkh Mayyâfâriqîn of Ahò mad
b. Yûsuf b.)Alî b. al-Azraq al-Fâriqî for at least a century now, since Amedroz
first published a discussion of the work in 1902.1 Nonetheless, few have studied
it in any detail. The major obstacle hindering such work is that the relevant
section of Ibn al-Azraq’s work has not yet been edited. This should not neces-
sarily surprise us; most historians approaching the work have been interested
in what it has to tell us about Mayyâfâriqîn and the Jazîra more generally in
the fourth–sixth/tenth–twelfth centuries. 2 The only parts of the text that have

A version of this paper was first delivered in Oxford in January 2009. I would like to thank
those who attended for their helpful suggestions and comments. I am very grateful to Chase
Robinson for his comments on an earlier draft.
1
Henry F. Amedroz, ‘Three Arabic Mss. on the History of the City of Mayyâfâriqîn’, Journal
of the Royal Asiatic Society (1902), 785–812.
2
Studies based in part on Ibn al-Azraq’s work include: Claude Cahen, ‘Le Diyâr Bakr au
temps des premiers Urtukò ides’, Journal asiatique, 227 (1935), 219–76; Carole Hillenbrand, ‘The
Establishment of Artuqid Power in Diyâr Bakr in the Twelfth Century’, Studia Islamica, 54
(1981), 129–53; Vladimir Minorsky, ‘Caucasica in the History of Mayyâfâriqîn’, Bulletin of the
School of Oriental and African Studies, 13 (1949), 27–35; Marius Canard, Histoire de la dynastie des
H’amdanides de Jazîra et de Syrie (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1953); Henry F. Amedroz,
‘The Marwânid Dynasty at Mayyâfâriqîn in the Tenth and Eleventh Centuries AD ’, Journal of the
Royal Asiatic Society (1903), 123–54. Elisséeff also lists him among the sources for his history of Nûr
al-Dîn; see Nikita Elisséeff, Nûr al-Dîn: Un grand prince musulman de Syrie au temps des croisades
(511–569 H./1118–1174), 3 vols (Damascus: Institut français de Damas, 1967), I, 18–20.
150 Harry Munt

been edited are two sections dealing with the Marwânid and Artuqid rulers of
Mayyâfâriqîn.3
This Arabic Life of Marûthâ has been of interest to scholars of late antique
Christianity and hagiography, and Mayyâfâriqîn’s pre-Islamic history, but because
of the difficulties of consulting Ibn al-Azraq’s text most have had to rely upon
three later Arabic sources, whose authors all used Ibn al-Azraq’s Life as the basis
of their discussions of Mayyâfâriqîn’s early history.4 Only Jean Maurice Fiey has
consulted and published discussions of Ibn al-Azraq’s own account of Marûthâ.5
His work has focused on some of the variations and similarities between Ibn al-

3
Ta’rîkh al-Fâriqî, ed. by B. A. L. Awad (Cairo: General Organisation for Government
Printing Offices, 1959); Carole Hillenbrand, A Muslim Principality in Crusader Times: The Early
Artuqid State (Istanbul: Nederlands Historisch-Archaeologisch Instituut te Istanbul, 1990). On
the Marwânid and Artuqid rulers of Mayyâfâriqîn (in the fifth/eleventh, and sixth/twelfth
centuries respectively), see Clifford E. Bosworth, The New Islamic Dynasties: A Chronological and
Genealogical Manual (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1996), pp. 89–90 and 194–96;
Carole Hillenbrand, ‘Marwânids’, in Encyclopaedia of Islam, ed. by Hamilton A. R . Gibb and
others, 2nd edn, 12 vols, including supplement (Leiden: Brill, 1960–2004) (henceforth EI2), VI,
626–27; Claude Cahen, ‘Artuqids’, EI2 , I, 662–67; and the further references above in n. 2.
Marius Canard also edited some brief extracts dealing with Hò amdânid history in his Sayf al-
Daula: recueil de textes relatifs à l’émir Sayf al-Daula le Hò amdanide avec annotations, cartes et
plans (Algiers: Jules Carbonel, 1934), pp. 76–78, 208–10, 257–58, 276–80, and 285; on the
Hò amdânids, see Canard, Histoire de la dynastie des H’amdanides.
4
The three Arabic sources are Yâqût († 626/1229), Mu‘jam al-buldân, ed. by Ferdinand
Wüstenfeld, 6 vols (Leipzig: Brockhaus, 1866–73), IV , 703–08; Ibn Shaddâd († 684/1285),
al-A ‘lâq al-khatò îra fî dhikr umarâ’ al-Shâm wa-al-Jazîra, pt 3, sec. 1, ed. by Yahò yâ )A bbâra
(Damascus: Wizârat al-Thaqâfa wa-al-Irshâd al-Qawmî, 1978), pp. 260–68; al-Qazwînî
(† 682/1283), Kitâb ‘Ajâ’ib al-makhlûqât wa-gharâ’ib al-mawjûdât, ed. by Ferdinand Wüstenfeld,
2 vols (Göttingen: Dieter, 1848–49), II, 379–80. Markwart, who translated Yâqût’s version,
noted that he could not get to see the manuscript of Ibn al-Azraq’s work in London; see Josef
Markwart, Südarmenien und die Tigrisquellen nach griechischen und arabischen Geographen
(Vienna: Mechitharisten-Buchdruckerei, 1930), pp. 184–202. Other works to utilize one or
another of the Arabic Lives of Marûthâ include: Gertrude Bell, The Churches and Monasteries of
the Tò ur ‘Abdin, ed. with intro. and notes by Marlia M. Mango (London: Pindar, 1982), pp. 123–
30; Albert Gabriel, Voyages archéologiques dans la Turquie orientale, 2 vols (Paris: De Boccard,
1940), I, 209–21; J. Noret, ‘La Vie grecque ancienne de S. Marûtâ de Mayferqat’, AnalBoll, 91
(1973), 77–103; Eugène Tisserant, ‘Marouta de Maypherqat (Saint)’, in Dictionnaire de théologie
catholique, ed. by Alfred Vacant and others, 16 vols (Paris: Librairie Letouzey et Ané, 1903–72),
X , 142–49.
5
Jean Maurice Fiey, ‘Mârût â de Martyropolis d’après Ibn al-Azraq’, AnalBoll, 94 (1976),
35–45; and Fiey’s ‘Martyropolis syriaque’, Le Muséon, 89 (1976), 5–38.
IBN AL-AZRAQ 151

Azraq’s Life and other extant Lives of Marûthâ, and on what Ibn al-Azraq’s
account has to tell us about Mayyâfâriqîn’s Christian history.
As important as Fiey’s studies are, it is unfortunate that little work has been
undertaken that combines an analysis of Ibn al-Azraq’s Life of Marûthâ with a
discussion of the Ta’rîkh Mayyâfâriqîn and its place in the Arabic historio-
graphical tradition more generally.6 Before we can begin to mine the Ta’rîkh
Mayyâfâriqîn for information about the career of Marûthâ and the city’s pre- and
early Islamic history, we have to try to understand what Ibn al-Azraq’s ambitions
were for this section of his work. We may remember here the truism that a hagio-
graphical work often tells us at least as much about its author as it does about its
subject.
In an article in 1996, Chase Robinson argued that a study of the first half of
the history would help to solve some of the problems that had been noted by
earlier commentators.7 He also noted that the earliest sections of the work
were of historiographical interest in their own right, specifically for what they
could ‘add to our very rudimentary understanding of northern Mesopotamian
history writing in general’, and due to the incorporation of a late antique saint’s
life within the work.8 He concluded by remarking, ‘That over half of BL OR
5803’s [the Ta’rîkh Mayyâfâriqîn’s] two hundred folios are concerned with pre-
Hò amdânid and Hò amdânid history is reason enough to conclude that an adequate
judgement about Ibn al-Azraq must look beyond the Marwânids and Artuqids.’9
In order to begin such an analysis, and to help contextualize the appearance of
the Life of the Christian saint Marûthâ in the Ta’rîkh Mayyâfâriqîn, I will deal
here with two questions: Why did Ibn al-Azraq decide to include the Life of
Marûthâ in his local history? How can we account for some of the important
variations which appear in his version of the Life?

Ibn al-Azraq and his ‘Ta’rî kh Mayyâfâriqîn’

We can begin with an overview of Ibn al-Azraq’s life, his work, and his material
concerning Marûthâ. Since there are no lengthy discussions of Ibn al-Azraq’s life

6
For a useful start, see Chase F. Robinson, ‘Ibn al-Azraq, his Ta’rîkh Mayyâfâriqîn, and Early
Islam’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, ser. 3, 6 (1996), 7–27.
7
One problem that Robinson shed new light upon was the religious background of Ibn al-
Azraq; Robinson, ‘Ibn al-Azraq’, pp. 14–16.
8
Robinson, ‘Ibn al-Azraq’, especially pp. 8–9, 22–26.
9
Robinson, ‘Ibn al-Azraq’, p. 27.
152 Harry Munt

in medieval Arabic sources, most of what we know about him comes from his own
Ta’rîkh Mayyâfâriqîn.10 He was born in 510/1116–17. From about the age of
twenty, Ibn al-Azraq began travelling around the Jazîra and northern Syria. He
visited Baghdad three times, in 534/1139–40, 546/1151–52, and 568/1172–73.
On his first visit he studied with various scholars, whom he lists, and on the third
he visited the tomb (mashhad) of the Imâm Mûsâ al-Kâzò im.11 He also spent much
of the early 560s/late 1160s in Damascus.
He held a number of administrative posts in Mayyâfâriqîn and elsewhere.
Under the years 543/1148–49 and 562/1166–67 he records his appointment as
the supervisor (mutawallî ) of two separate charitably endowed properties at
Mayyâfâriqîn, and in 564/1168–69 he was the overseer (nâzò ir) of the mosque at
the tomb of the companion Sa)d b. )Ubâda in al-Manîhò a, near Damascus.12 In
542/1147–48 he was sent on a mission to buy copper for the Artuqid ruler
Temür-Tash (r. 516–48/1122–54) to mint coins, and in 544/1149–50 the same
ruler sent him to Mosul to sell iron. He even briefly attended the court of the
Georgian king Dmitri (r. AD 1125–56) in 548/1153–54, and accompanied that
monarch on a seventy-day journey across his lands.13 He died some time after
577/1181.14

10
Even on the few occasions he is mentioned, we get only his name and the title of his work,
and both differ between the sources. Compare Ibn Shaddâd, al-A‘lâq, pp. 288–89; al-Sakhâwî, al-
I‘lân bi-al-tawbîkh li-man dhamma al-ta’rîkh, ed. by Franz Rosenthal and Sò âlihò A. al-)Alî (Beirut:
Dâr al-Kutub al-)Ilmiyya, [n.d.]), p. 284; Hò âjjî Khalîfa, Kashf al-zò unûn ‘an asâmî al-kutub wa-al-
funûn, ed. by M. S. Yaltkaya and R . Bilge, 2 vols (Istanbul: Maarif Matbaasý, 1360–62/1941–43),
I, 307; concerning Ibn al-Azraq’s full name, I have followed Ibn Shaddâd. The best accounts of
the life of Ibn al-Azraq are to be found in Amedroz, ‘Three Arabic Mss.’, pp. 787–94, and
Hillenbrand, A Muslim Principality, pp. 5–7. The following is drawn principally from these two
works.
11
For the list of the scholars, see Hillenbrand, A Muslim Principality, pp. 98–100, 182.
12
Ibn al-Azraq, Ta’rîkh Mayyâfâriqîn, London, British Library, MS Or. 5803 (henceforth
TM), fol. 2v .
13
Ibn al-Azraq’s time in Georgia is discussed in Minorsky, ‘Caucasica’; idem, A History of
Sharvân and Darband in the 10th–11th Centuries (Cambridge: Heffer, 1958), pp. 170–72.
14
Following Ta’rîkh, ed. Awad, p. 22 (English section), who mentions that there is a manu-
script of al-Ghazâlî’s Ihò yâ’ ‘ulûm al-dîn in the Chester Beatty Library in Dublin (M S no. 3376),
which was copied by one Ahò mad b. Yûsuf b. al-Azraq in Mayyâfâriqîn in Sò afar 577/June–
July 1181; cf. )Umar R . Kahò hò âla, Mu‘jam al-mu’allifîn: tarâjim musò annifî al-kutub al-‘arabiyya,
15 vols (Beirut: Dâr Ihò yâ’ al-Turâth al-)Arabî, [n.d.]), VI , 130, who has him die in 590/1194.
IBN AL-AZRAQ 153

Ibn al-Azraq’s ethnic and religious background is difficult to ascertain. For

the former, Carole Hillenbrand could do no better than suggest Kurdish,
Arab, or Turkish.15 As for his religious sympathies, Vladimir Minorsky thought
that he ‘displays his own pro-)Alid inclinations’. Hillenbrand, citing his anti-
Ismâ) îlî sentiments and his studies with prominent Shâfi) î scholars in Baghdad,
considered him a Sunni, though ‘no great proselytiser’.16 Robinson debated
Hillenbrand’s claims, and instead concluded that Ibn al-Azraq is most probably
pro-)Alid. 17 Whatever the case, he is certainly not an Ismâ) îlî, for they are the
only religious group to come under sustained criticism in his history.18
Ibn al-Azraq’s only known work is his Ta’rîkh Mayyâfâriqîn, of which there are
two extant manuscripts, both in the British Library: Or. 5803 and Or. 6310.19
The two manuscripts are quite different, both in terms of content and presen-
tation, the greatest difference being that MS Or. 6310 only begins with events
during the reign of Caliph al-Muhtadî (r. 255–56/869–70).20 Since it is thus
only MS Or. 5803 that contains Ibn al-Azraq’s account of the foundation of
Mayyâfâriqîn and the career of Marûthâ, I will limit my discussion in the rest of
what follows to that manuscript.
MS Or. 5803 was written in 572/1176–77 and was copied after 640/1242.21
It is incomplete, but still comprises two hundred folios, each page measuring
about 24 × 17 cm and containing between nineteen and twenty-three lines of
text.22 The handwriting is clear for the most part, complete with diacritical points,
although many folios include lacunae, words crossed out, and marginal corrections,

15
Hillenbrand, A Muslim Principality, p. 7.
16
Minorsky, A History of Sharvân, p. 170; Hillenbrand, A Muslim Principality, p. 6.
17
Robinson, ‘Ibn al-Azraq’, pp. 14–16.
18
For an example of his ‘anti-Ismâ)îlî’ rhetoric, see Hillenbrand, A Muslim Principality,
pp. 62–63, 163.
19
Carl Brockelmann, Geschichte der arabischen Litteratur, Supp., 3 vols (Leiden: Brill, 1937–
42), I, 569–70.
20
For the major differences between the two manuscripts, see Amedroz, ‘Three Arabic Mss.’,
pp. 795–96; Hillenbrand, A Muslim Principality, pp. 15–18.
21
Following Robinson, ‘Ibn al-Azraq’, p. 10, who draws attention to the list of )A bbâsid
caliphs on folios 86 r –87v of the work, which includes the last of them, al-Musta)sò im (r. 640–
56/1242–58). Unfortunately the copyist stopped giving accession and death dates after al-Nâsò ir
(r. 575–622/1180–1225), so we do not know if al-Musta)sò im had already died when the list was
compiled.
22
From fol. 120 v onwards every page comprises 23 lines.
154 Harry Munt

usually in the same hand as the main body of text. There are at least two clearly
discernible styles of handwriting, suggesting that more than one scribe worked
on it. The quality of the Arabic grammar is at times very poor, or at least non-
classical, perhaps reflecting some colloquial features. The spelling, especially of
proper nouns, is regularly inaccurate.23

Marûthâ and the ‘Ta’rîkh Mayyâfâriqîn’

We do not know a great deal about the career of Marûthâ.24 He is, however,
famous for the role he played in certain important events. The first of these
concerns his appointment(s) — some sources have him sent once, some twice
— by the Roman emperor (either Theodosius II (r. AD 408–50) or Arcadius
(r. AD 395–408), and possibly both) as ambassador to the court of the Sasanian
king, Yazdgird I (r. AD 399–421). He appears thus in the very first historical
source to mention him, the fifth-century AD Greek Ecclesiastical History of
Socrates, and in several later sources. 25 Most of these sources also have him
responsible for curing either Yazdgird or one of Yazdgird’s children of an ill-
ness; one even has him almost convert the Persian king to Christianity.26 Whilst
in Persia, Marûthâ is said to have played a key role in the convening of a general
council of the Sasanian Church.27 In connection with these events, Marûthâ
is credited with composing works on the canons of the Council of Nicaea

23
On this, see Hillenbrand, A Muslim Principality, pp. 15, 18, 19–20; Minorsky, ‘Caucasica’,
p. 27. The blame for this poor writing should not necessarily be attached to Ibn al-Azraq, since
the other manuscript’s style is better; see Hillenbrand, A Muslim Principality, p. 18.
24
For what we do know, see Tisserant, ‘Marouta de Maypherqat (Saint)’, pp. 142–46.
25
For his appearance in Socrates’ Ecclesiastical History, VII.8, see Ralph Marcus, ‘The
Armenian Life of Marutha of Maipherkat’, Harvard Theological Review, 25 (1932), 47–71 (pp.
48–50). Later historical sources to discuss Marûthâ’s career, aside from Ibn al-Azraq and the other
Muslim Arabic works noted above, include: Chronicle of Si‘irt, ed. and trans. by Addaï Scher, PO,
4 (1908), 211–313; 5 (1910), 217–344; 7 (1911), 93–203; 13 (1919), 433–639; especially at PO,
5, pp. 318, 324; Mârî b. Sulaymân, Akhbâr fatò ârikat kursî al-mashriq min Kitâb al-Mijdal, ed.
and trans. by Henricus Gismondi (Rome: C. de Luigi, 1899), pp. 29–33; )A mr b. Mattâ, Akhbâr
fatò ârikat kursî al-mashriq min Kitâb al-Mijdal, ed. by Henricus Gismondi (Rome: C. de Luigi,
1896), pp. 23–27.
26
See Socrates, Ecclesiastical History, VII.8, in Marcus, ‘The Armenian Life’, pp. 49–50.
27
Chronicle of Si‘irt, PO, 5, p. 318; Mârî, Akhbâr, p. 30; )A mr, Akhbâr, p. 24.
IBN AL-AZRAQ 155

and on the Persian Christians martyred during the reign of Shapur II ( AD

309–79). 28
Several Lives of Marûthâ are extant. One of these is the Arabic Life, included
by Ibn al-Azraq in his Ta’rîkh Mayyâfâriqîn and then taken up by several later
authors as noted above. Three other Lives are also extant; the Armenian Life,
which can only be dated to sometime between the end of the sixth century and the
twelfth century AD (the earliest manuscript dates to this time), and two Greek
Lives, dating to the tenth and eleventh centuries AD.29 All of these are based
ultimately on a Syriac tradition, but no Syriac life has survived.30 In spite of the
extant Lives’ ultimate Syriac origin and their broad agreement on the key issues
of Marûthâ’s career, there are enough differences between each of the individual
language traditions to suggest that they are not directly related to each other. That
is to say, the various Arabic accounts are all drawn from Ibn al-Azraq,31 and one
of the Greek Lives appears to be based on the other,32 but there is no evidence of
a more direct connection between the Arabic, Greek, and Armenian traditions
beyond their ultimate derivation from Syriac. As well as highlighting Marûthâ’s
mission in the Sasanian lands, these Lives also pick up on one other role of his
often neglected by the other sources: Marûthâ as the founder of Mayyâfâriqîn.33

28
See, for example, Chronicle of Si‘irt, PO, 4, pp. 280, 288–89. There are German and
English translations of an extant work about the canons of Nicaea ascribed to Marûthâ; see De
sancta nicaena synodo: Syrische Texte des Maruta von Maipherkat nach einer Handschrift der
Propaganda zu Rom, trans. by Oskar Braun (Münster: Schöningh, 1898); The Canons Ascribed
to Mârûtâ of Maipherqatò and Related Sources, ed. and trans. by Arthur Vööbus, 2 vols (Leuven:
Peeters, 1982). For a discussion of the (doubtful) authenticity of the extant works ascribed to
Marûthâ, see Tisserant, ‘Marouta de Maypherqat (Saint)’, pp. 146–49.
29
Marcus, ‘The Armenian Life’, especially p. 54 for the terminus post quem of the Life; Noret,
‘La Vie grecque’, especially p. 77 for the date of the Greek Lives, and p. 96 n. 3, for the date of the
earliest manuscript which contains the Armenian Life. The two Greek Lives are both quite short;
the Armenian Life is much longer, approximately the same length as Ibn al-Azraq’s version.
30
That Ibn al-Azraq’s account is based on a Syriac life will be discussed below. The Armenian
Life states that it is a translation from Syriac; see Marcus, ‘The Armenian Life’, pp. 54, 68. That
the Greek Lives are probably derived from a Syriac tradition, see Noret, ‘La Vie grecque’, p. 97.
31
Whether they were all drawn from the same manuscript tradition as MS Or. 5803 is
debatable; for later historians’ access to Ibn al-Azraq’s Ta’rîkh Mayyâfâriqîn in general, see Carole
Hillenbrand, ‘Some Medieval Islamic Approaches to Source Material: The Evidence of a 12th
Century Chronicle’, Oriens, 27–28 (1981), 197–225.
32
Noret, ‘La Vie grecque’, p. 77.
33
Marcus, ‘The Armenian Life’, pp. 63–64, 67–68; Noret, ‘La Vie grecque’, pp. 86–87; Eliza-
beth Key Fowden, The Barbarian Plain: Saint Sergius between Rome and Iran, Transformation of
156 Harry Munt

Ibn al-Azraq’s account of the career of Marûthâ, of which I will provide a brief
summary here, comes within his section on the foundation of Mayyâfâriqîn.34
Several of the problems with his account, especially those of the awful dynastic
chronology, will be dealt with later. The story begins with Marûthâ’s father,
Liyûtò â, the governor of lands in the Jazîra, and his marriage to Maryam, the
daughter of the chief of the nearby mountain, during the time of the Roman
emperor Theodosius ‘the younger, the yûnânî ’ (Theodosius II). They had three
sons, one of whom, Marûthâ, took over his father’s position after his death, and
became a bishop; in fact, he was one of the 318 bishops who attended the Council
of Nicaea in AD 325. In the meantime, Emperor Theodosius had married a girl
from the royal family of Edessa (min ahl al-ruhâ min awlâd al-mulûk) called
Helena. Between them, they bore a son, Constantine, who became emperor after
Theodosius’s death and founded Constantinople.
The Persian king, Shapur,35 had a daughter afflicted with a disease which no
doctor or sage in his lands could cure. He thus sent to the Roman emperor,
Constantine, for Marûthâ, who duly went to Ctesiphon (al-Madâ(in) and cured
the princess. As a reward, the Persian king, whose armies had previously raided
Marûthâ’s territory, concluded a peace treaty with the Roman emperor, and
Marûthâ was allowed to gather the bones of the Persian martyrs and take them
back to his lands. Constantine, overjoyed by the peace deal, agreed to assist
Marûthâ in building a fortified city in his see. Marûthâ set about this task, but it
was not long before malicious rumours were spread that he was only building
this city to secede from his loyalty to the Roman emperor. Constantine, how-
ever, having despatched servants to inspect the new foundation, was assured of
Marûthâ’s innocence and renewed his own efforts to assist the construction. He
even went to the new city with his mother, Helena, and three of his ministers to
oversee the construction of the Great Church. The three ministers also each built

the Classical Heritage, 28 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1999), pp.
45–59. For pre-Islamic Mayyâfâriqîn more generally, see, for example, Carole Hillenbrand and
Vladimir Minorsky, ‘Mayyâfârikò în’, EI2 , VI , 928–32; Markwart, Südarmenien, pp. 86–202;
Fiey, ‘Martyropolis syriaque’, pp. 5–10; Nicholas Adontz, Armenia in the Period of Justinian: The
Political Conditions Based on the Naxarar System, trans. and rev. by Nina G. Garsoïan (Lisbon:
Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation, 1970), pp. 9–13, 27, 35, 134, 137, and 376 n. 10.
34
TM, fols 7 v–12 v.
35
Ibn al-Azraq has this Persian king as Sâbûr b. Sâbûr b. Ardashîr. Such a king never existed
and it is hard to know whom he meant; perhaps Shapur I (r. c. AD 239/40–270/72) or Shapur
II. Yâqût, Buldân, IV , 704, has the latter. The Armenian and Greek Lives all suggest that the
Persian king was Yazdgird I.
IBN AL-AZRAQ 157

a tower and a church. Marûthâ placed the bones of the martyrs within the walls
of the new city and built eight gates in the walls. (In his discussion of these gates,
Ibn al-Azraq gives the reader an itinerary following the city’s walls.) He finished
by building a monastery in the names of Saints Peter and Paul, in which he placed
a basin which was filled with the blood of Joshua (Yûshi) b. Nûn), brought there
from Rome. Having completed his work, Marûthâ died and was buried in the
Melkite church in the city.
Throughout his discussion of Marûthâ’s career, Ibn al-Azraq frequently ap-
pends his own comments on the state of the various buildings, specifically defen-
sive fortifications — walls, gates, and towers — but also churches, down to his
own day. He also adds on to the end of the Life an Arabic text of two pre-Islamic
inscriptions (probably originally in Greek) from the walls of the city.36
Before we go any further, it is worth mentioning here the peculiar organization
of the earliest folios of the manuscript of the Ta’rîkh Mayyâfâriqîn. We are missing
the beginning of the work; how much we simply do not know.37 Our manuscript
begins in the middle of the Islamic conquest of Syria with the taking of Busò râ.
There follows a brief account of the Islamic conquests throughout Syria and
Iraq in general,38 before Ibn al-Azraq focuses on the conquest of the Jazîra, in-
cluding Mayyâfâriqîn.39 After the fall of Mayyâfâriqîn, however, comes the work’s
introduction. This positioning of the introduction in the middle of a work is
not without precedent in medieval Arabic historical writing although it is not
common; an example is the introductory section in the middle of al-Ya)qûbî’s
Ta’rîkh.40
After the introduction we are taken back in time, to a period long before the
Islamic conquests. It is here that we find the story of Marûthâ and the foundation

36
TM, fols 11r –12r ; one of the inscriptions is said to be in rûmiyya, the other in yûnâniyya.
On the distinction drawn between these two terms by Arabic writers, see Nikolai Serikoff, ‘Rûmî
and Yûnânî: Towards the Understanding of the Greek Language in the Medieval Muslim World’,
in East and West in the Crusader States: Context, Contacts, Confrontations, ed. by Krijnie Ciggaar,
Adelbert Davids, and Herman Teule, Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta, 74 (Leuven: Peeters,
1996), pp. 169–94.
37
For some estimates of what exactly is missing, see Amedroz, ‘Three Arabic Mss.’, p.
785; Fiey, ‘Mârût â’, p. 36; A. Savran, ‘General Information on Two Manuscripts of Târîkh
Mayyâfâriqîn wa Âmid’, Doðu Dilleri, 2 (1977), 245–56 (pp. 249–50).
38
TM, fols 1r–5 v .
39
TM, fols 5v –7r.
40
Al-Ya)qûbî, al-Ta’rîkh, 2 vols (Beirut: Dâr Sò âdir, 1379/1960), II, 5–6.
158 Harry Munt

of Mayyâfâriqîn. After the foundation narrative, Ibn al-Azraq provides a brief

survey of Roman-Persian relations and warfare during the fifth, sixth, and sev-
enth centuries AD up until the beginning of the Islamic conquests.41 At the end
of all this, the work jumps forward again to return to the account of the conquests
at the point where it had originally left off. From this point on, the work presents
its material in chronological order.
Several modern scholars have accused Ibn al-Azraq, on reasonable grounds, of
being a bad historian and his work as being confused, and this strange organi-
zation of material in these early folios of the work might be seen to support this
assertion.42 However, he really would have been a terrible historian had he failed
to realize that a city must be founded before it can be conquered, and since the
rest of the work is structured more or less chronologically it cannot be said to
lack a basic organizational principle. It seems more likely, therefore, that Ibn al-
Azraq had a plan for these early folios of the work, which his strange arrangement
of material helped to further. I will argue shortly that he was trying to draw
attention to the Islamization of Mayyâfâriqîn.

The Inclusion of the ‘Life of Marûthâ’ within the ‘Ta’rîkh Mayyâfâriqîn’

Ibn al-Azraq was not alone among medieval Muslim historians in displaying an
interest in Christian source materials. Several Muslim historians not only showed
an interest in Christian history, but even went to the effort of actually reading
some Christian works. Al-Mas)ûdî († 345/956), for example, mentions works
by Melkites, Nestorians, and Jacobites among his sources; he was particularly
impressed by the histories of Eutychius of Alexandria († AD 940) and Agapius of
Manbij († after AD 940).43 Among Muslims who wrote polemical works against
Christianity, some tried hard to comprehend the differences that separated the
Melkites, Jacobites, and Nestorians.44 By no means was all of this interest in Chris-

41
TM, fol. 12 r–v.
42
See especially Hillenbrand, A Muslim Principality, pp. 12–14.
43
Nadia M. El Cheikh, ‘Arab Christian Contributions to Muslim Historiography on Byzan-
tium’, Bulletin of the Royal Institute for Inter-Faith Studies, 1 (1999), 45–60 (especially pp. 46–
52); Ahmad M. H. Shboul, Al-Mas‘ûdî and his World: A Muslim Humanist and his Interest in
Non-Muslims (London: Ithaca, 1979), pp. 231–33.
44
Sidney H. Griffith, The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque: Christians and Muslims in
the World of Islam (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008), pp. 140–41, and the further
IBN AL-AZRAQ 159

tianity negative, and it is worth highlighting that Ibn al-Azraq does not talk
disparagingly about Marûthâ or the Christians in general. He apparently removed
the Christian prayers and devotions which appear in other versions of the Life,
but he still presents Marûthâ in a very positive way.
If Ibn al-Azraq is not unique among medieval Muslim scholars in displaying
an interest in Christian history, he is perhaps unusual in giving so much space to
the legend of a Christian saint apparently unknown previously in Arabic Muslim
historiography. Why he did so will be the focus of this section.
The first important thing to note is that Ibn al-Azraq uses the Life of Marûthâ
as a source for the foundation and urban topography of Mayyâfâriqîn; he is not
interested in Marûthâ as a Christian saint, but as the founder of the city. Much
work has been undertaken recently to show that topographical descriptions
should not be read simply as a mimesis of urban geography.45 For medieval Arabic
historiography, the important point to bear in mind is that local historians carried
with them preconceptions both of what should be discussed in a topographical
section and how it should be presented. Robinson has proposed that Ibn al-
Azraq’s concern for urban building should be placed in the context of the inter-
action between Christian and Muslim historiography in the Jazîra and northern
Syria, citing among other examples the great interest in foundation tales and
urban building displayed by the Syriac Chronicle of AD 1234 and the now-lost
Christian Arabic Kitâb Awqât binâ’ al-mudun of Yahò yâ b. Jarîr al-Takrîtî († after
472/1079–80), and Ibn al-‘Adîm’s († 660/1262) use of Christian sources in his
(Muslim) history of Aleppo.46 He was perhaps correct to look for non-Islamic
influences on Ibn al-Azraq’s history since, as he notes, unlike many other Muslim
local historians, Ibn al-Azraq shows a keen interest in urban projects in regions
other than his own.47 However, in spite of the obvious Christian influence

references cited there. For a further discussion of Christian influences on Arabic historiography
in northern Syria and the Jazîra, see Robinson, ‘Ibn al-Azraq’, pp. 23–26.
45
See, for example, the essays in Place/Culture/Representation, ed. by James Duncan and
David Ley (London: Routledge, 1993). Zayde Antrim has applied some of their conclusions to
Islamic historiography in ‘Ibn )Asakir’s Representations of Syria and Damascus in the Intro-
duction to the Ta’rikh Madinat Dimashq’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 38
(2006), 109–29.
46
Robinson, ‘Ibn al-Azraq’, pp. 23–26. On Yahò yâ b. Jarîr, see Georg Graf, Geschichte der
christlichen arabischen Literatur, 5 vols (Vatican City: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1944–53),
II, 259–63.
47
See, for example, his account of building activities in Sâmarrâ’, TM, fols 97 v–98 r.
160 Harry Munt

through his use of a saint’s life as a main source, Ibn al-Azraq’s account of the
foundation of Mayyâfâriqîn also displays striking parallels, both in terms of
content and presentation, to other topographical introductions in local histories
within the Islamic tradition. These parallels suggest that the case for a Christian
influence on Ibn al-Azraq may have been overstated.
Ibn al-Azraq’s foundation section sets out to provide both the circumstances
behind Mayyâfâriqîn’s foundation and a description of the key monuments of the
early city, appended to which are his own comments as to what has survived down
to his own times. This is not a world apart from what other Muslim authors
were doing in their own introductions to local histories. Al-Khatò îb al-Baghdâdî
(† 463/1071), Ibn )Asâkir († 571/1176), and Ibn al-)Adîm all provide topograph-
ical introductions to their prosopographical local histories, on Baghdad, Damas-
cus, and Aleppo respectively.48 These works provide much more information than
does Ibn al-Azraq’s on the original foundation of their respective cities and on the
state of the cities’ monuments in their own day, but they were on a much grander
scale over all. One modern edition of Ibn )Asâkir’s Ta’rîkh madînat Dimashq runs
to eighty volumes.
In his foundation narrative, Ibn al-Azraq displays the same concerns as
these other historians, albeit on a much smaller scale. In particular, his focus on
defensive foundations — walls, towers, and gates — is shared by other Muslim
local historians. Ibn )Asâkir includes a chapter on the gates of Damascus and
Ibn al-)Adîm also focuses some of his attention on gates and walls.49 Al-Khatò îb
al-Baghdâdî provides a detailed description of Baghdad’s gates, towers, walls,
and intervallums (fasò îls).50 This last parallel is potentially revealing, since in al-
Khatò îb’s work much of this information comes from Muhò ammad b. Khalaf
Wakî) († 306/918), whose own account, according to Lassner, may have been

48
Al-Khatò îb al-Baghdâdî, Ta’rîkh Baghdâd, 14 vols (Cairo: Maktabat al-Khânjî, 1349/1931),
I, 66–127; Ibn )Asâkir, Ta’rîkh madînat Dimashq, ed. by )Umar al-)Amrawî and )A. Shîrî, 80
vols (Beirut: Dâr al-Fikr, 1415–21/1995–2000), I – II; Ibn al-)Adîm, Bughyat al-tò alab fî ta’rîkh
Hò alab, ed. by Suhayl Zakkâr, 11 vols (Damascus: [n. pub.] 1408/1988), I . On al-Khatò îb al-
Baghdâdî’s topographical introduction, see also Jacob Lassner, The Topography of Baghdad in the
Early Middle Ages: Text and Studies (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1970).
49
Ibn )A sâkir, Ta’rîkh, II, 407–09; Ibn al-)A dîm, Bughya, I, 55–57.
Al-Khatò îb, Ta’rîkh, I , 71–77. I follow Lassner’s translation of fasò îl; see The Topography
50

of Baghdad, p. 219. A fasò îl is defined by Lane as a wall ‘having little height […] before, or in front
of, the [main] wall of a city’; see Edward W. Lane, Arabic-English Lexicon, 8 vols (London:
Williams and Norgate, 1863–93), VI, 2407. Ibn al-Azraq’s interest in Mayyâfâriqîn’s fasò îl is
evident in TM, fol. 10 r–v.
IBN AL-AZRAQ 161

based in part on Ibn Abî Tò âhir Tò ayfûr’s († 280/893) Kitâb Baghdâd.51 Ibn al-
Azraq quotes a Kitâb Baghdâd as a source of inspiration for his own history, so
here we can possibly identify a direct, non-Christian model for the topographical
section of the Ta’rîkh Mayyâfâriqîn.52
His foundation narrative is also similar to those of other Muslim historians
in its appropriation of famous figures from the past to demonstrate the merits
(fak â’il) of his hometown. Ibn )Asâkir provides reports demonstrating, for exam-
ple, that Damascus was either one of the first three cities built after the Flood, or
was built by a slave boy (ghulâm) of Abraham or Alexander the Great (Dhû al-
Qarnayn).53 In a similar vein, Ibn al-Azraq has not only a local saint but also the
famous Roman emperor Constantine (r. AD 306–37) found his city.54
A further parallel with other Muslim local histories is Ibn al-Azraq’s use of
pre-Islamic inscriptions to corroborate his foundation narrative.55 Al-Khatò îb al-
Baghdâdî and Ibn )Asâkir both use inscriptions in their foundation and topo-
graphical sections.56 Ibn al-)Adîm has an entire chapter devoted to inscriptions in
the region of Aleppo.57 Itineraries around a city’s walls and gates, such as Ibn al-
Azraq provides for Mayyâfâriqîn, can also be found in al-Khatò îb al-Baghdâdî,
Ibn )Asâkir and Ibn al-)Adîm.58
This discussion is not intended to remove all possibility of Christian histo-
riographical influence on Ibn al-Azraq’s history. The use of a Syriac saint’s life
speaks for itself and we have evidence that some Christian Arabic works also
provided topographical sections.59 However, in terms of content and presen-
tation, Ibn al-Azraq’s foundation narrative fits neatly into an Islamic histo-
riographical context as well as the Christian. We must bear this in mind when

51
Lassner, The Topography of Baghdad, pp. 32, 34–35.
52
TM, fol. 7r.
53
Ibn )A sâkir, Ta’rîkh, I, 11–18.
54
TM, fols 9 v–10 r. Constantine’s alleged role in the foundation of Mayyâfâriqîn is discussed
in more detail below.
55
TM, fols 11 r–12 r.
56
See, for example, al-Khatò îb, Ta’rîkh, I , 72, 86; Ibn ‘Asâkir, Ta’rîkh, I , 18.
57
Ibn al-‘Adîm, Bughya, I, 453–58.
58
Compare TM, fol. 10 r–v, with, for example, al-Khatò îb, Ta’rîkh, I , 73–76; Ibn ‘Asâkir,
Ta’rîkh, II, 407–09; Ibn al-‘Adîm, Bughya, I , 55–57.
59
As well as the examples cited above, see Franz Rosenthal, A History of Muslim Histori-
ography, 2nd edn (Leiden: Brill, 1968), p. 151; David S. Margoliouth, ‘An Arabic Description of
Antioch by Professor I. Guidi’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society (1898), 157–69.
162 Harry Munt

considering why Ibn al-Azraq included a Syriac saint’s life in his history and how
he interpreted the information which it provided.
Working within the Arabic historiographical tradition, Ibn al-Azraq wanted,
and was expected, to provide a discussion of his city’s foundation and urban
topography; the Life of Marûthâ probably features in the Ta’rîkh Mayyâfâriqîn
because it was all that was available to Ibn al-Azraq to fulfil this requirement.60
That this should have been the case is not surprising. Mayyâfâriqîn is known to
have possessed a library of some renown in Ibn al-Azraq’s day, holding books
donated by Abû Nasò r Ahò mad b. Yûsuf al-Manâzî († 437/1045–46), vizier to
the Marwânid ruler Nasò r al-Dawla (r. 401–53/1011–61), but it was not a major
centre of scholarship, even locally.61 In the fourth/tenth century, the Arab geog-
rapher al-Muqaddasî had noted that the city was ‘lacking in learning’ (qalîlat
al-‘ilm).62 Ibn al-Azraq appears to have been the first person to write a history of
his home town, and Mayyâfâriqîn does not feature prominently in other, earlier
histories written in Arabic.
We do have some evidence that other foundation legends for Mayyâfâriqîn
were circulating after Ibn al-Azraq’s day; they may have been available to him.
Both Yâqût and Ibn Shaddâd, as well as using Ibn al-Azraq’s Marûthâ legend to
explain the foundation of Mayyâfâriqîn, also suggest that a woman, known to the
former as Mayyâ and to the latter as Fâriqîn, may have been the first to build the
city.63 This is, of course, a pseudo-etymology, but other possibilities were put
forward too. Yâqût also notes the theory that the Persian kings Khusraw I (r. AD
531–79) and Khusraw II (r. AD 590–628) were responsible for Mayyâfâriqîn’s
construction.64 One much later source even puts forward the claim that Mayyâ-
fâriqîn was one of the first three cities built after the Flood, a claim advanced by
many other towns in Syria and the Jazîra.65

60
See also Robinson, ‘Ibn al-Azraq’, p. 26.
61
For the library, see Ta’rîkh, ed. Awad, p. 131; Ibn Khallikân, Wafayât al-a‘yân wa-anbâ’
abnâ’ al-zamân, ed. by Ihò sân )Abbâs, 8 vols (Beirut: Dâr Sò âdir, 1397/1977), I, 143; Mohammed
M. Sibai, Mosque Libraries: An Historical Study (London: Mansell, 1987), p. 79.
Al-Muqaddasî, Ahò san al-taqâsîm fî ma‘rifat al-aqâlî m, ed. by Michael J. de Goeje, 2nd
62

edn (Leiden: Brill, 1906), p. 140.

63
Yâqût, Buldân, IV , 703; Ibn Shaddâd, al-A‘lâq, p. 260.
64
Yâqût, Buldân, IV , 703.
65
The much later source is Evliya Çelebi (d. 1095/1684), who also claims that Mayyâfâriqîn
is the home of the Kurdish language; see Martin van Bruinessen, ‘Kurdistan in the 16th and 17th
IBN AL-AZRAQ 163

Leaving the Mayyâ/Fâriqîn account aside, if the others were circulating in Ibn
al-Azraq’s day they could certainly have offered his city greater distinction than
foundation by an otherwise unknown (to the Islamic tradition) Christian saint.
None of the alternatives, however, would have provided Ibn al-Azraq with enough
information to write a discrete section on Mayyâfâriqîn’s foundation and urban
topography; the Life of Marûthâ did. This can perhaps explain also why he
included such a detailed account of Marûthâ’s career. Put simply, he wanted to fill
the space. Had there been a biography of a suitable Muslim figure or pre-Islamic
prophet available that provided the necessary detail, Ibn al-Azraq may well have
chosen that instead. His inclusion of the Life thus highlights his resourcefulness
in finding information;66 it need not highlight any peculiarly Christian influence
on his work.
This is not necessarily to say that Ibn al-Azraq did not have Christian readers
in mind when he composed his Ta’rîkh. We know little about the relative pro-
portion of Christians and Muslims in Mayyâfâriqîn in Ibn al-Azraq’s day, but it
is fair to say that Christians would have been present in large number; they may
even still have been in the majority.67 Furthermore, some Christians may have
been in positions of importance in the Artuqid administration. Our information
on the role and status of Christians in the Artuqids’ lands speaks of both tolerance
and ill-treatment, but Ibn al-Azraq does tell us that one Abû al-Hò asan al-Mubârak
b. Mukhtò ar (sic), who was in charge of (mutawallî) the dîwân, was buried in
Mârdîn (approximately eighty miles south-west of Mayyâfâriqîn) in a church
(bî‘a) which he had built.68 Cahen was convinced that this man must have been
a Christian, but we cannot really be so certain;69 for one thing, his name appears
to be Muslim. Hillenbrand admits the possibility that he may have been a Chris-
tian who had adopted Muslim names, but suggests that we should read buq‘a,
‘mausoleum, Sò ûfî convent’, instead of bî ‘a, ‘church’. 70 Nonetheless, the manu-
script does read bî ‘a, and since Ibn al-Azraq is talking about Mârdîn here, an

Centuries as Reflected in Evliya Çelebi’s Seyahatname’, Journal of Kurdish Studies, 3 (1998–

2000), 1–11. See above for a similar claim in Ibn )Asâkir’s history of Damascus.
66
On Ibn al-Azraq’s resourcefulness in general, see Robinson, ‘Ibn al-Azraq’, p. 22.
67
Cahen, ‘Le Diyâr Bakr’, p. 268; Hillenbrand, ‘The Establishment’, p. 149.
68
TM, fol. 173 r; Hillenbrand, A Muslim Principality, pp. 122, 195. Hillenbrand states that
this man’s name should be al-Mustawfî Mu(ayyid al-Dawla Abû al-Hò asan b. al-Mukhtâr; see
A Muslim Principality, p. 122 n. 88.
69
Cahen, ‘Le Diyâr Bakr’, pp. 268–69.
70
Hillenbrand, A Muslim Principality, p. 122 n. 90.
164 Harry Munt

important Christian centre, there seems to be no obvious need to read buq‘a

instead. Ibn al-Azraq presumably wrote his history for the political and scholarly
elites of the Artuqid lands, and it is possible that some of these were Christian.
Although Syriac was still being used as a language of scholarship in the Jazîra
in Ibn al-Azraq’s day, Christians were coming to use Arabic more and more.
Agapius of Manbij, in northern Syria, for example, wrote his history, the Kitâb
al-‘Unwân, in Arabic in the tenth century AD.71 Elias of Nisibis composed his
Chronography in the eleventh century AD in both Arabic and Syriac, and also an
Arabic-Syriac glossary to facilitate the teaching of Syriac to Arabic speakers.72
With more and more Christians using Arabic as their language of scholarship as
well as everyday life, Ibn al-Azraq may have been aware that those in Mayyâfâriqîn
were a potential audience for his work. It is worth noting again that he does not
display an anti-Christian attitude in his book.
In spite of the still-strong and influential Christian presence in Ibn al-Azraq’s
Mayyâfâriqîn, we can probably discount the idea that there was a Marûthâ cult,
shared between Christians and Muslims of the city, although there are several
famous examples of such cultural syncretism from nearby Saljûq Anatolia.73 The
main argument against this being the case comes from Ibn al-Azraq’s own
introduction to this section of his work:74
[This is] what was related in the tash‘îth,75 which is in the Melkite church [bî‘at al-
malikiyya] in Mayyâfâriqîn. To be more precise, I heard from a group of people from the
Melkite church that there was a book there, called the tash‘îth, which recounted the
origins of the foundation of this city and the church. So I met with a priest who resided

71
Agapius of Manbij, Kitâb al-‘Unwân, ed. and trans. by Alexander Vasiliev, PO, 5 (1910),
559–691; 7 (1911), 457–591; 8 (1912), 397–550.
72
Graf, Geschichte, II, 177–91, especially 187–89; Sebastian P. Brock, A Brief Outline of Syriac
Literature (Kottayam: St Ephrem Ecumenical Research Institute, 1997), p. 71.
73
Speros Vryonis, The Decline of Medieval Hellenism in Asia Minor and the Process of Islami-
zation from the Eleventh through the Fifteenth Century (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of
California Press, 1971), especially pp. 485–87.
74
TM, fol. 7v .
75
Here Ibn al-Azraq has simply transliterated the Syriac word tash‘itâ, a word with several
meanings; see Witold Witakowski, The Syriac Chronicle of Pseudo-Dionysius of Tel-Mahò rç: A
Study in the History of Historiography, Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis, Studia Semitica Upsaliensia,
9 (Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1987), pp. 153–56; Joel T. Walker, The Legend of Mar Qar-
dagh: Narrative and Christian Heroism in Late Antique Iraq, Transformation of the Classical
Heritage, 40 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2006), p. 113 n. 107;
Robinson, ‘Ibn al-Azraq’, p. 22 n. 149. One of its possible meanings is the life of a saint.
IBN AL-AZRAQ 165

there and asked him about it. He recounted to me things I was not interested in [fa-
dhakara lî shay an ghayr al-maqsò ûd], so I took the aforementioned book from him and
brought [it] to one of the Christians called […].76 He read the book in Syriac and
translated it into Arabic [wa-fassarahu bi-al-‘arabiyya].77

There is nothing here to suggest that Ibn al-Azraq was already aware of the
existence of Marûthâ, let alone the existence of a Marûthâ cult or of any of the
details of his career.78 This passage also nicely highlights the fact that Ibn al-Azraq
was only interested in the Life of Marûthâ as a source for the foundation of
Mayyâfâriqîn. In short, Ibn al-Azraq probably incorporated the Life of Marûthâ
into his Ta’rîkh Mayyâfâriqîn in such detail because it was the only way of
fulfilling the Arabic local-historiographical requirement, and his desire, to provide
a foundation narrative and topographical overview.
In connection with Ibn al-Azraq’s decision to include the Life of Marûthâ in
his work, and with the question of a potential Christian readership, it is worth
making one further tentative suggestion. Might Ibn al-Azraq have been using the
Life of Marûthâ to make a point about the city’s Islamization? This suggestion
helps to explain the strange organization of the early part of the work. As noted
above, in the Ta’rîkh Mayyâfâriqîn as we have it, the introduction to the work
comes after the account of the conquest of Mayyâfâriqîn and before the account
of its foundation. Ibn al-Azraq seems to be suggesting with this organization of
material that the most important phase in the history of his home town began
with its conquest and subsequent Islamization.79 Its actual foundation is only of
secondary importance. As support for this idea, we might also note that Ibn al-
Azraq provides an account of mosques being built in the city immediately follow-
ing the Islamic conquest before he comes to Marûthâ’s foundation.80
In this context, Ibn al-Azraq’s provision of the Life of Marûthâ can take on
extra significance. The reader is told of Mayyâfâriqîn’s pre-Islamic history as a
subtle reminder that it was destined to become a Muslim city. After all, a city has

76
The name is missing.
77
This could also mean that he simply ‘explained it in Arabic’.
78
Although cf. the account of Ibn al-Azraq’s near-contemporary, Mârî, Akhbâr, p. 31: of
Marûthâ’s depositing the bones of the martyrs in Mayyâfâriqîn, Mârî tells us, ‘this is well-known
[ma‘rûf ] there until today and people seek blessing from them’. On Mârî, see Graf, Geschichte, II,
200–02.
79
I am talking here about the Islamization of the city, not of its population.
80
TM, fol. 6v , provides two alternative accounts of the construction of seven mosques in the
newly conquered city by seven of the conquerors.
166 Harry Munt

to be something else before it can be Muslim.81 Had he provided Mayyâfâriqîn

with an already ‘Islamized’ past (for example, by linking its foundation to Noah
and the Flood) it may have blurred the point. Yet Ibn al-Azraq possibly still
wanted his city to have a monotheist history, to show that it had taken part in
the broader religious history of the world, moving from Christianity to Islam.
For this purpose, foundation by Khusraw I or Khusraw II, or any of the other
alternatives, would not have been good enough; Marûthâ as founder, however,
works very well.
By Ibn al-Azraq’s time Mayyâfâriqîn was solidly within the area of Islamic
rule; he was writing almost exactly a century after Manzikert and just before
Saladin’s reconquest of Jerusalem. However, its status as an Islamic city — that is,
a city at least ruled by Muslims — had not always been so comfortable. It was
never actually re-occupied by the Byzantines during their period of reconquest
in the early to mid-fourth/tenth century, but it had been sacked in the early
940s AD.82 Mayyâfâriqîn had been a frontier city for most of its existence, before
and after the Islamic conquests. Although the frontier had been moving gra-
dually westwards, away from Mayyâfâriqîn, for some time before Ibn al-Azraq was
writing, memory of its precarious position between two empires may have lived
on. In this climate, it might have made good sense to Ibn al-Azraq to remind his
readers that Mayyâfâriqîn was once a Christian city but it was not any more.
A few of Ibn al-Azraq’s own comments, which he appended to the Life, may
lend some support to the idea that he was using Marûthâ to make a point about
his city’s Islamization. In several of these authorial interjections, the reader is told
about later renovations made to the pre-Islamic building works by the city’s

81
In connection with this idea, it is helpful to remember that many ‘conversion narratives’
display what Luckmann has termed ‘Amnesieverbot: das Vorher darf nicht getilgt werden’; see
Thomas Luckmann, ‘Kanon und Konversion’, in Kanon und Zensur: Beiträge zur Archäologie der
literarischen Kommunikation II, ed. by Aleida Assmann and Jan Assmann (Munich: Fink, 1987),
pp. 38–46 (p. 44). (I am grateful to Judith Pfeiffer for drawing my attention to this article.) Of
course, Ibn al-Azraq is not writing an actual conversion narrative, certainly not of a population,
but the comparison is still worth bearing in mind. For an interesting study of one particular con-
version narrative in an Islamic context, see Devin DeWeese, Islamization and Native Religion
in the Golden Horde: Baba Tükles and Conversion to Islam in Historical and Epic Tradition
(University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1994); of interest, he notes that in the
Inner Asian case he is studying, ‘conversion narratives are assimilable, in structure, content, and
function, with the “legends of origin”’ (Islamization and Native Religion, p. 11). Again the com-
parison is far from exact, but worth consideration.
82
Mark Whittow, The Making of Orthodox Byzantium, 600–1025 (Basingstoke: Palgrave
Macmillan, 1996), pp. 319–21.
IBN AL-AZRAQ 167

Muslim rulers. The Hò amdânids, who ruled Mayyâfâriqîn in the fourth/tenth

century — the time of the greatest Byzantine threat to the city — play a par-
ticularly prominent role here, but representatives of other dynasties feature too.83
It is mostly Marûthâ’s walls and gates that come in for restoration, which is
presumably an accurate reflection of the time in which that dynasty ruled; with
the Byzantine threat increasing, the Hò amdânids and later rulers needed to ensure
that Mayyâfâriqîn’s defences were at their best. Nonetheless, Ibn al-Azraq’s com-
ments also help to make his readers aware that Marûthâ’s Christian foundation
was now an Islamic city.
It is not just the restoration of the city’s defences that received Hò amdânid
support. We are told that a daughter of the Hò amdânid ruler Sayf al-Dawla
(r. 333–56/944–67) established a waqf for the monastery of Saints Peter and
Paul after she was cured of a disease by the blood of Joshua, which was kept
there.84 This could be seen as a good example of cultural syncretism; a Muslim
notable was cured by a relic in a Christian monastery, and it was because of her
subsequent endowment that the monastery continued to prosper. Ibn al-Azraq
may, however, also have intended that his reader recognize that even the Chris-
tians’ religious institutions benefited from the arrival of Islamic rule.

Variations in Ibn al-Azraq’s ‘Life of Marûthâ’

Several scholars have already focused on some of the differences between the
Arabic Life of Marûthâ (that provided by Ibn al-Azraq and later abridged by
Yâqût, Ibn Shaddâd, and al-Qazwînî) and the other extant Lives in Armenian
and Greek.85 These scholars have been interested primarily in seeing how the
variations aid or hinder our understanding of the career of Marûthâ and the
topography of pre-Islamic Mayyâfâriqîn. Here, however, we will instead consider
how these variations help us to understand the development of the legend of
Marûthâ, how it was reworked to fit the ever-changing needs of its latest re-
dactors, and especially what they have to tell us about Ibn al-Azraq’s own concerns

83
See, for example, TM, fols 10 v, 11 r, and 11 v. Later in the work as well, Ibn al-Azraq discusses
the Hò amdânids’ building programme in Mayyâfâriqîn further; see, for example, fols 113v –114 r,
117 r.
84
TM, fol. 11 r.
85
Fiey, ‘Mârût â’; Noret, ‘La Vie grecque’, pp. 97–103. For further details of these Lives, see
above, nn. 4, 29–30. There are, of course, also several differences between the versions of the
Arabic Life; for a brief discussion of some of these, see Amedroz, ‘Three Arabic Mss.’, p. 796 n. 1.
168 Harry Munt

and misunderstandings.86 We must note here that Ibn al-Azraq does not say that
he is providing a simple translation of the tash‘îth, the Life of Marûthâ. The first
sentence after the introductory paragraph (cited above) is ‘Included in what it
[the Life] recounts is that the location of Mayyâfâriqîn was […].’87 This, coupled
with his own frequent interjections about the later history of the monuments,
makes it clear that the Life of Marûthâ is a source for the foundation narrative, not
the foundation narrative itself.
On several occasions, it seems that something has been lost in the translation.
Although not directly related, Ibn al-Azraq’s account and the Armenian Life are
both based on a Syriac tradition (see above), and a comparison can be instructive.
In the Armenian Life, for example, we read the following:88
For like a spiritual [and] diligent husbandman he uprooted the thorns from the fields and
hearts of all, and sowed righteousness and holiness to the glory of God […]. God wished
to bring the wanderers back by the hand of Marut)a to knowledge of the truth by the
prayers and intercessions of all the saints who were gathered there. For the flock was
without a shepherd, cast down by beasts, [that is] evil demons. And through this saint,
Christ the good Shepherd, who gave his life for his sheep, by his shepherd’s staff, [that is]
his life giving cross, drove the demons away, and through him [Marut)a] he gathered them
back to the unity of the faith and to the knowledge of the most holy Trinity by pasturing
them in a verdant place […]. The blessed Marut)a also was a preacher to the land and a
teacher who, filled with all virtue, perfectly and by many miracles increased his flock day
by day.

In the Ta’rîkh Mayyâfâriqîn on the other hand, we read that Marûthâ ‘was
the owner of cattle, sheep, cows, and others’ (wa-kâna sò âhò ib mâshiya wa-ghanam
wa-baqar wa-ghayr dhâlika), and that because of Persian raids on his land he
‘uprooted the thorns, reeds, and tò arrâsh,89 carried away what stones were there,
and made of them on the earth an enclosure [siyâj] and a wall for his sheep, in
which they could spend the night, to protect them from thieves’.90 It is slightly
strange that Ibn al-Azraq would have misunderstood this metaphorical imagery
of a spiritual shepherd and his flock as a literal shepherd and his sheep, since

86
I am only focusing here on a small number of these variants; for a discussion of some others,
see the references above in n. 85. There is unfortunately as yet no comprehensive list of the
variations apparent in the different Lives of Marûthâ.
87
TM, fol. 7v .
88
Marcus, ‘The Armenian Life’, pp. 59–60.
According to Reinhart Dozy, tò arrâsh is an ‘espèce de chêne qui ne porte pas de fruits’; see
89

Supplément aux dictionnaires arabes, 2nd edn, 2 vols (Leiden: Brill, 1927), II, 36.
90
TM, fols 8 r–v.
IBN AL-AZRAQ 169

similar imagery exists in Arabic-Islamic political thought.91 Perhaps the misunder-

standing was a result of the translator using the terms mâshiya, ghanam, and
baqar; in Arabic political thought, the imagery of a ruler/shepherd and his sub-
jects/flock is almost always expressed using the words râ‘î and ra‘iyya. There are
perhaps other cases of misunderstanding resulting from the translation, but they
are not so clear-cut.92
Other variations seem to have arisen through local pride, on behalf of both
Mayyâfâriqîn and the Jazîra more generally. We will see below how at least one
major problem of Ibn al-Azraq’s foundation narrative can be solved by under-
standing how Ibn al-Azraq reworked material that came to him from the Life to
improve the distinction of his home city. Before that, however, we will briefly
consider some variations that probably entered the Syriac tradition before Ibn al-
Azraq’s time.
One of these is the assertion that Helena, the mother of Constantine, was a girl
from the royal family of Edessa. There may be some confusion here resulting from
two competing legends concerning the discovery of the True Cross analysed by
Jan Willem Drijvers — the legend that Helena, mother of Constantine, found
the Cross, and the rival story that Protonike, supposedly the wife of Emperor
Claudius (r. AD 41–54), found the Cross.93 (The Protonike legend appears in the
Doctrina Addai, an account of the Edessan king Abgar’s supposed conversion to
Christianity in the first century AD.)94 Following Drijvers’s conclusions regarding
these legends, it is unclear how this mistake would have come about, but it may
have done nonetheless. Alternatively, someone may simply have wanted to claim,
rather crudely, that the famous Helena was from the Jazîra. In either case, we seem
to be dealing with a local tradition attempting to highlight the great history of the
region. Since Helena was far more famous among Christians than she was among

91
Clifford E. Bosworth and Suraiya Faroqhi, ‘Ra‘iyya’, EI2, VIII, 403–06; Bernard Lewis, The
Political Language of Islam (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988), pp. 61–62.
92
For example, Ibn al-Azraq tells us of Mayyâfâriqîn’s Great Church that it ‘was the first
church to be built in this city because the cross is depicted in the middle of its altar [li-anna al-
sò alîb musò awwar fî wastò madhbahò ihâ]; this is a sign [‘alâma] among the Christians for the first
church to be built’ (TM, fol. 9 v). There is clearly a misunderstanding here, but it is unclear how
it came about.
93
Jan Willem Drijvers, Helena Augusta: The Mother of Constantine the Great and the Legend
of her Finding of the True Cross (Leiden: Brill, 1992).
94
Drijvers, Helena Augusta, pp. 147–63; idem, ‘The Protonike Legend, the Doctrina Addai,
and Bishop Rabbula of Edessa’, Vigiliae Christianae, 51 (1997), 298–315.
170 Harry Munt

Muslims — a fact noted by Ibn al-Azraq himself 95 — this claim concerning Hel-
ena’s origins was presumably not introduced by Ibn al-Azraq. This is significant,
for the Armenian Life, also translated from Syriac, does not include this story at
all. Perhaps there is a sign here of development within the Syriac tradition.96
Another example of how the local tradition influenced Ibn al-Azraq’s account,
this time more specifically related to Marûthâ and Mayyâfâriqîn, is the claim that
Marûthâ was one of the 318 bishops who came after the apostles, that is to say,
one of those who attended the Council of Nicaea in AD 325.97 This does not
feature in either the Greek or Armenian Lives and is chronologically impossible.
We may not know much about the exact chronology of Marûthâ’s life, but we do
know he was particularly active during the reign of Yazdgird I in the early fifth
century AD. Again, since the Council of Nicaea would have meant little to Ibn al-
Azraq, this must have slipped into the Life before he had it translated. As noted
above, Marûthâ is well known for having translated the canons of Nicaea into
Syriac for the Christians in the Sasanian kingdom, and it is only a short step from
that fact to the claim that he was actually present himself at the council. Such a
claim is actually attached to an extant set of canons supposed to be those trans-
lated by Marûthâ.98
We come finally to the matter of Ibn al-Azraq’s imposing his own ideas and
purpose upon the foundation account. We can gain an insight into this through
his appalling sense of Roman imperial dynastic history.99 The other Lives of
Marûthâ name the Roman emperor who ruled through Marûthâ’s career, the
emperor who helped him to found his city, as Theodosius, almost certainly
Theodosius II.100 Ibn al-Azraq, however, has that emperor reign during the life-
time of Marûthâ’s father.101 In the chronological mess that follows, he then has

95
TM, fol. 8r.
96
Perhaps it was introduced by the man who translated the Life into Arabic for Ibn al-Azraq,
although we will never know.
97
TM, fol. 8r.
98
In these documents, Marûthâ is not among the actual list of the attendees of the Council
of Nicaea, but he is elsewhere noted as having been among them; see De sancta nicaena synodo, pp.
29–34, 52; The Canons Ascribed to Mârûtâ, pp. 98–101, 113.
99
This is perhaps the most problematic feature of Ibn al-Azraq’s account of Marûthâ’s career,
and one that is followed by all the later Arabic authors who used his foundation account; for one
brief, though unsatisfactory, attempt to solve the problem, see Fiey, ‘Mârûtâ’, pp. 44–45.
100
Noret, ‘La Vie grecque’, pp. 78, 87; Marcus, ‘The Armenian Life’, p. 60.
101
TM, fol. 7v .
IBN AL-AZRAQ 171

that emperor, Theodosius II, as the husband of Helena Augusta and father of
Constantine.102 (This latter actually reigned about a century before Theodosius
II.) Helena is well known as having been Constantine’s mother, but she was not
married to Theodosius II.
Since other extant Lives share Ibn al-Azraq’s identification of the two rulers
involved, a possible solution to this problem presents itself. Unlike Ibn al-Azraq,
the Greek Lives do present the two Roman emperors in the correct order; Con-
stantine is the emperor in the time of Marûthâ’s parents, Theodosius in the time
of Marûthâ. It is clear that Ibn al-Azraq has the correct rulers, just the wrong way
around. Could this mix-up have occurred in the Syriac Life? We have just seen
that somehow a Syriac tradition came to place him at the Council of Nicaea; it
would thus make sense to have the emperor during his career as Constantine.
Furthermore, in the documents connected to the canons supposedly translated
by Marûthâ, there is an equally inaccurate account of Helena’s life in which she
is married to the Roman emperor ‘Valantianus bar Qustus bar Arsinis bar Daqius
bar Qlaudius’, and they are the parents of Constantine.103 However, since this
tradition involves an emperor otherwise unattested in Lives of Marûthâ, and since
among Christians Theodosius II would have been more famous an emperor than
Valentinian, it still seems unlikely (although admittedly not impossible) that a
Syriac Life of Marûthâ would have had the emperors Constantine and Theodosius
the wrong way round. Christian scholars would not have got away with having
Constantine as the son of Theodosius.
For Ibn al-Azraq, however, a Muslim historian with the aim of highlighting the
distinguished origins of his city, correct Roman dynastic history was probably not
a priority. That Ibn al-Azraq was concerned with the merits of his city compared
to others is obvious from the Ta’rîkh Mayyâfâriqîn. Twice during the foundation
narrative he takes the opportunity to compare his city favourably with nearby
Âmid, even though the actual comparisons are a little silly.104 Other Arabic local
historians gave their cities distinguished origins by claiming that they had been
founded by pre-Islamic prophets and other legendary figures, or by caliphs or

102
TM, fol. 8r.
103
De sancta nicaena synodo, pp. 45–46, 50; The Canons Ascribed to Mârûtâ, pp. 15–16, 24,
103.
104
TM, fols 9 v , 10 v . In the first instance, Ibn al-Azraq claims that because Marûthâ fortified
Mayyâfâriqîn with the bones of the saints it had never been taken by force whereas Âmid had
many times (this may have been a claim that pre-dates Ibn al-Azraq’s work, but that does not
matter here); in the second he claims that nobody spends a night in Mayyâfâriqîn without losing
their sadness and concerns, whereas in Âmid all visitors become anguished and concerned.
172 Harry Munt

famous companions of Muhò ammad.105 For Ibn al-Azraq, there were no ancient
prophets or illustrious companions associated with Mayyâfâriqîn to provide such
an extraordinary foundation history; instead, he had chosen to work with the
story of a Christian saint. However, by switching the two emperors around Ibn
al-Azraq was actually able to have the founder of the great city of Constantinople
as the co-founder of his own city as well.
Why might this be important to Ibn al-Azraq? The Islamic historiographical
tradition had a deep respect for Constantinople as an imperial foundation. Ibn
Rusta included a substantial entry on the city in his geographical work (written
c. 290–300/903–13), based on the account of Hârûn b. Yahò yâ, a prisoner of
war who had been to the city.106 Al-Mas)ûdî also displayed a great interest in
Constantinople.107 One recent study has demonstrated that medieval Muslims
considered Byzantines to be great city-planners and even suggested that at times
‘Constantinople seems to have provided a yardstick against which the Muslims
might measure themselves and their own civilization’.108
There are three further reports in Ibn al-Azraq’s foundation narrative that
support the suggestion that Ibn al-Azraq deliberately switched the names of the
two emperors to have Constantine as the founder of his city. The first is that he
actually includes a brief account of Constantine’s foundation of Constantino-
ple.109 This does not appear in other Lives of Marûthâ and was probably included
by Ibn al-Azraq lest his readers fail to realize the connection he was trying to
create between that city and his own through their common founder. The second
is that he actually has Constantine and Helena travel to Mayyâfâriqîn in person
to assist in the construction efforts, again unlike the other extant Lives of Marû-
thâ, in which the Emperor at most provides his moral and financial support from
a distance. They personally constructed the city’s first church and Constantine’s

105
See above for the example of Ibn )Asâkir and Damascus.
106
Ibn Rusta, Kitâb al-A‘lâq al-nafîsa, ed. by Michael J. de Goeje (Leiden: Brill, 1892), pp.
119–27. For a discussion, see Alexander Vasiliev, ‘Harun-ibn-Yahya and his Description of
Constantinople’, Seminarium Kondakovianum, 5 (1932), 149–63.
107
See especially, al-Mas)ûdî, Murûj al-dhahab wa-ma‘âdin al-jawhar, ed. by Charles Pellat,
7 vols (Beirut: L’Université Libanaise, 1966–79), II, 41–45; idem, Kitâb al-Tanbîh wa-al-ishrâf,
ed. by Michael J. de Goeje (Leiden: Brill, 1894), pp. 138–42, 171–74; also Shboul, Al-Mas‘ûdî,
pp. 242–45.
108
Nadia M. El Cheikh, Byzantium Viewed by the Arabs (Cambridge, MA: Harvard Uni-
versity Press, 2004), especially pp. 139–52, 199–213 (quotation on p. 150).
109
TM, fol. 8 r.
IBN AL-AZRAQ 173

three ministers each built towers and churches.110 The third is that whereas the
other accounts of Marûthâ’s career have the Zoroastrian clergy plot against him
in an attempt to rid him of his favour with the Persian king, Ibn al-Azraq has
plotters try to turn Constantine against him.111 Ibn al-Azraq has tried so hard to
explicitly link Constantine, Helena, Constantinople, Marûthâ, and Mayyâfâriqîn,
a link absent in all other extant Lives of Marûthâ. He seems to have done so to
provide his home city with a highly unique pedigree.
It is worth noting briefly that Ibn al-Azraq’s Persian dynastic history is also
inaccurate.112 This is especially problematic because Ibn al-Azraq’s cited source for
his information at one point, Abû Hò anîfa al-Dînawarî’s († 282/895) Kitâb al-
Akhbâr al-tò iwâl, does not make the same errors.113 We can only conclude that Ibn
al-Azraq does not seem to have cared much about getting proper names exactly
correct.114 This suggests that for him names coming from the distant past were
only important, if ever, for their symbolism; thus he would have seen nothing
wrong in switching around Constantine and Theodosius.

Conclusion

The above is not a comprehensive discussion of Ibn al-Azraq’s Life of Marûthâ.

I have tried only to highlight three issues. The first is that the first half of Ibn
al-Azraq’s Ta’rîkh Mayyâfâriqîn is interesting and worth considerably more atten-
tion that it has previously received. Due to the work’s incorporation of a life of
Marûthâ, this has been recognized by several scholars of late antique hagiography,
but it remains to be recognized by more than a handful of Islamicists.
The second is that Ibn al-Azraq’s extensive use of the Life of Marûthâ in his
history can be explained in terms of Arabic historiographical conventions and the
author’s own ambitions for his work. In particular, rather than seeing Ibn al-
Azraq’s inclusion of the Life of Marûthâ as an example of cultural syncretism or

110
TM, fols 9v –10r; cf. Marcus, ‘The Armenian Life’, pp. 63–64, 67–68.
111
TM, fol. 9 r–v ; cf. Marcus, ‘The Armenian Life’, pp. 64–66; Noret, ‘La Vie grecque’, pp.
86–91; Socrates, Ecclesiastical History, VII.8, in Marcus, ‘The Armenian Life’, pp. 49–50; Mârî,
Akhbâr, p. 30.
112
See, for example, TM, especially fol. 12 r–v.
113
Cf. al-Dînawarî, Kitâb al-Akhbâr al-tò iwâl, ed. by Vladimir Guirgass and Ignace Kratch-
kovsky, 2 vols (Leiden: Brill, 1888–1912), I, 62–111.
114
See also Hillenbrand, A Muslim Principality, p. 12; Minorsky, ‘Caucasica’, p. 27.
174 Harry Munt

of Christian and Islamic historiographical interaction in the Jazîra, we might

instead identify two other influences at work: the presumption that an Arabic
local history needed to provide a reasonably detailed foundation narrative and
topographical section, which for Ibn al-Azraq only the Life of Marûthâ could
provide; and Ibn al-Azraq’s desire to highlight the eventual Islamization of
his city. Ibn al-Azraq’s Life of Marûthâ could thus be seen as an example of cul-
tural appropriation, rather than cultural syncretism. Since the Islamic conquest,
Mayyâfâriqîn’s Christian history had become part of its Islamic history.
The third, and final, point concerns the handling of source materials by later
historians; specifically, in this case, hagiographical materials, but the conclusions
are applicable to other types as well. This study of Ibn al-Azraq’s use of the Life
of Marûthâ lends further support to the idea that source materials rarely pass
through the transmission process unscathed. This is especially so, as we have seen,
when a translation has been necessary, both from one language to another and
from one set of cultural ideas to another. Source materials, including hagiog-
raphies, are often made to conform to the ideas and interpretations of their latest
transmitters. Ibn al-Azraq was an author in his own right, and not only in the
sense that he had to choose what of his predecessors’ materials to include in his
history. In fact, we have seen that he may have had a rather limited choice of
previous materials to work with. Rather, he reworked and reorganized his source
materials to fashion his own interpretation of the history of Mayyâfâriqîn. As the
switching of the names of the emperors Constantine and Theodosius, and the
placement of the account of Mayyâfâriqîn’s conquest before its foundation,
demonstrate, not even an ideal of chronological progression could get in the way
of Ibn al-Azraq’s ambition for his work.
University of Oxford
 C HRISTIAN K ING , M USLIM A POSTATE:
D EPICTIONS OF JABALA IBN AL-A YHAM
IN E ARLY A RABIC S OURCES

Julia Bray

Introduction

J abala ibn al-Ayham al-Ghassânî is here discussed as a literary figure — that is,
as the subject of stories and descriptions — and the word ‘king’ (malik) is
applied to him to evoke his aristocratic Jafnid lineage and personal splendour,
as in the early Arabic sources. Since historians debate whether Jabala was really a
king, and if so, in what sense, I should add that these sources, which date from the
first two )Abbâsid centuries, two or three hundred years after Jabala’s lifetime,
represent the convergence of a range of scholarly endeavours, and are correspond-
ingly informed by several epistemologies. In a number of them, malik has what
seems a primarily anthropological bearing, and designates someone who inhabits
a rich and imposing setting and behaves with pride and generosity towards his
people and his followers.
A Christian client of the Byzantines at the time of the Prophet, Jabala was
depicted in )Abbâsid, Muslim sources as the last Arab king, a depiction heavy with
both historical and ethical significance: the passing of his power after the battle
of the Yarmûk River (c. AH 15/AD 636), when the Byzantines lost Syria, under-
lines the passing both of the old world order and of the old Arab moral order, the
pre-Islamic jâhiliyya, of which Jabala is shown as the embodiment. From his
ancestral home in Syria, where, according to legend, his tribe of Ghassân had
migrated centuries before from the Yemen, he fought with the Byzantines against
the Muslims. The Byzantines’ departure from Syria made a deep impression on
176 Julia Bray

the Muslim Arabic literary imagination. As well as sweeping conquest (futûhò )

narratives, a number of set scenes and exemplary figures scattered through the
early sources testify to this. In particular, the Christian Arab chieftains left behind
by the Byzantine withdrawal, who found themselves at odds with their new Arab
masters, are evoked in vivid vignettes. Of these chieftains, it is Jabala who receives
the greatest amount of literary attention and enjoys the longest literary after-
life. There are extended accounts of him, most of which say that he converted to
Islam after his defeat but soon passionately renounced his new allegiance out of
wounded pride. Some add that he then fled once more to Byzantine protection.
He is cast not just as a type, but as the archetype, of jâhiliyya, Christianity, and
kingship — equated, in his person, with pride and hierarchy and alien, Byzantine
ways — and of their incompatibility with the new order — Arab, Muslim,
modest, and egalitarian — which had triumphed over them.
But things were not so clear-cut. In parts of Syria and Iraq, large, local, long-
established Christian Arab tribal groups coexisted with the Muslim incomers for
many decades. Meanwhile, Muslim Arabs were everywhere a tiny minority in the
population of the conquered lands, and before long their Arab culture began to
be reshaped by their new circumstances. Nevertheless, much of the pre-Islamic
Arab ethical heritage — a tribal ethos of pride, independence, loyalty, and aristo-
cratic display — survived in the unruly behaviour of Muslim Arab grandees and
their followers and was glorified as a badge of identity. The old ethos had, from
the beginnings of Islam, been interwoven, thanks to court poets, with the caliphal
discourse of legitimacy; and once the )Abbâsid dynasty established itself, from the
second half of the second/eighth century, as an empire of all the talents and Islam
became a universal religion, open to non-Arabs, all Muslims could aspire to share
Arab values. Indeed, not to do so was regarded as morally suspect: in an ever more
scholarly civilization, pre-Islamic Arab antiquity, the matrix of the Arab virtues,
was absolved by learned investigation from accusations of mere paganism. Never-
theless, its culture was what Islam had been sent to overthrow, and its allies, the
Byzantines, the enemies of Islam, were still at the gates. It is in these circumstances
that Jabala takes shape as a literary figure.

(i) King Jabala and Arab Identity

Caught up in these historical dilemmas, Jabala thus has two Arabic literary per-
sonae, one positive, and one negative or ambivalent. As a fragmentary figure of
proverb and legend, he is the heir to ancient Arab princely traditions, and is a
pattern of the pre-Islamic aristocratic Arab virtues, a generous patron of poets and
CHRISTIAN KING, MUSLIM APOSTATE 177

a lover of music and wine (see 3a and d, 4a, 4b end, 9b, 13, 14a, 15a, 15b end, 17b,
18a, 22, 23, and 29b below). This persona has a contemporary attestation in the
poetry of Hò assân ibn Thâbit, who celebrated Jafna, the ruling house of Ghassân
— though perhaps not explicitly Jabala himself — before becoming the prophet
Muhò ammad’s panegyrist.1 The bond between Hò assân and his pre-Islamic bene-
factor became a byword, and is often invoked in Islamic panegyric poetry to solicit
a patron’s generosity. Still in legendary and proverbial vein, the Jabala of heroic
stature fulfils the final destiny of Ghassân, whom his forebears had once led out
of Yemen to Byzantine Syria and to Christianity, by leading them anew out of
Muslim Syria to fresh settlements in Byzantine territory (see 1 and 4b below, and
compare 8b, 10, 18a and b, 19d, 20c, 23, 24c and d, and 26b, below). The great
statesman Mu)âwiya, a governor in Syria and later the first Umayyad caliph,
admires his loyalty to his poet Hò assân, and either offers or agrees to restore to him
his ancestral lands in Syria (see 3c, 15b, 16a, and compare 17b, 18a, below).
In longer, ambivalent, or negative narratives, which either centre on Jabala or
in which he is an incidental actor in broader narratives of the Islamic conquests,
and which generally incorporate some or several of the above elements, after his
defeat at Yarmûk, Jabala is welcomed as a convert to Islam in the Muslim capital
of Medina by his tribal cousins, the Ansò âr, Muhò ammad’s ‘Helpers’, without whom
the new religion could not have succeeded, but who also — the reader does not
need telling — were, like Ghassân, long-ago emigrants from the Yemen, where
kingly traditions were strong. He is courted and allowed to flaunt his pomp by the
usually puritanical caliph )Umar, who is well aware of his value as a political prize.
But the ill-founded alliance is jeopardized by a trivial accident. During his very

1
The mid-third-/eighth-century recension of Hò assân’s poetry, which derives in part from
the scholarship of Muhò ammad ibn Hò abîb (no. 8, below), contains only one short piece that can
be taken as referring specifically either to Jabala (‘Ibn Jafna’) or to his flight and apostasy, Dîwân
Hò assân ibn Thâbit, ed. by Hò . Hò asanayn and Hò . K. al-Sò îrafî (Cairo: al-Hay’a al-Misò riyya al-
)Âmma li-al-Kutub, 1394/1974), p. 363, no. 252. The gloss carries an abridged version of the
story of Jabala’s pilgrimage, his quarrel with )Umar and apostasy, whose source is either anony-
mous/composite or else Muhò ammad ibn Hò abîb transmitting from Ibn al-Kalbî (3, below);
see Dîwân Hò assân ibn Thâbit, p. 360. This version differs in several details from those given at
3–5, 8–12, 15–19, and 23–26, below. Here, it is the (third) caliph, )Uthmân, who sends an
(unnamed) messenger to woo back Jabala to Islam, and the messenger first calls upon Rabî) a ibn
Khalaf al-Jumahò î, another apostate, who fled to Byzantine territory and turned Christian when
)Umar, the second caliph, punished him for drinking wine. The gloss preserves Jabala’s promise
never to send Hò assân a greeting without a gift and gives a variant of Hò assân’s reply to the mes-
senger when he pretends to withhold the gift.
178 Julia Bray

first performance of the rites of Muslim pilgrimage, Jabala is insulted, as he sees

it, by a Muslim commoner, strikes and injures him, and is ordered by the now
uncompromising )Umar to make reparation (versions 3b and c, 4b, 5, 16a and b,
and 25, below). He refuses to bow to the egalitarianism of his new religion,
recants, and flees to the protection of Emperor Heraclius, where he again holds
kingly state (and, in some traditions, prolongs his kingly line, see 20c and 24d,
below). (In other versions, after his defeat he remains in Syria, where he is either
insulted by a commoner: 9d (version in Ibn Kathîr, Bidâya), 10, 17a, and 18b,
below, or disputes the terms of his taxation, symbolic of his submission, with a
Muslim governor: 18b, and 19d and e, below.) In versions following on from the
first account, )Umar sends an envoy to reconvert him. Jabala’s pride wrestles with
his remorse, and he agrees to become a Muslim once more, on high-handed not
to say preposterous terms, to which )Umar consents, knowing that God will never
permit them to be fulfilled; and indeed, in versions 16b and 25 (see also 15b),
Jabala dies before the envoy can return and seal the bargain. In this persona,
Jabala, a lost soul, capable of some fine Christian casuistry (see 4b and Section II,
below), is the bearer of a powerful myth about Arab and Muslim identity and
moral choice, which is recorded in multiple versions in Iraq, and transmitted to
Spain, in Arabic writings of the ninth and tenth centuries AD.

(ii) Organizing a ‘Jabala Corpus’: Aims and Limitations

Ten years ago I put together a corpus of Arabic materials on Jabala, covering the
formative stages of development of both personae, for a projected volume on early
Islamic historiography.2 The question then uppermost was that of content: could
texts which considerably postdate the people they portray and the events they
relate — as do all Arabic accounts of early Islam in their extant form, attributed
to contemporary witnesses or early narrators, but transmitted, and probably
recast, by writers of whom the earliest lived a century and a half later — somehow
be made to yield either genuine information or useful insights? Although, in fact,
they had received little close scrutiny, the formats of )Abbâsid writing were then
widely regarded as self-referential, ideologically contaminated, and historically
sterile, incapable of explaining the mutations of the early Muslim polity. Ten years

2
The original version was called ‘Jabala and the Historians’. The volume, edited by Lawrence
I. Conrad under the title History and Historiography in Early Islamic Times: Problems and Per-
spectives, has never appeared.
CHRISTIAN KING, MUSLIM APOSTATE 179

have seen great changes in outlook as the result of the investigation of formerly
neglected early materials, such as inscriptions and administrative papyri, which are
independent of narrative texts. The latter are now being reconsidered with a more
sophisticated and more sanguine eye, and connections, if not always straight-
forward ones, have been discovered in some of them with the conditions and
attitudes that can be conjectured from the early independent materials. Questions
of literary technique have, however, still not been fully addressed; more especially,
)Abbâsid historiography, which is full of vivid tales and fragments of tales often
marked by strong family likenesses, seems to cry out for a motif index as a means
of showing, firstly, the frequency and distribution of recurrent themes and plots,
as at Section I (ii) below, and secondly how they are combined, and how their
literary handling and contexts affect their meaning; an example is given in Section
II. The corpus of early )Abbâsid materials on Jabala laid out below is offered here
as a contribution to an eventual motif index, although it takes the form merely of
entries, without generalized, conceptual headings (such as ‘Defeated chief con-
verts to conquerors’ religion, then recants’, or: ‘Believer in old religion recog-
nizes/announces portents of new religion’). It also serves as an example of the
difficulties posed by the task of summarizing, labelling, and accurately represent-
ing condensed and allusive narratives, for the materials in the corpus, though
often terse, are too rich to be analysed exhaustively in an article of this length. An
instance of an important theme which I have discussed elsewhere but passed over
here is the visual scene-setting and symbolism which play a prominent part both
in the Jabala corpus and in other early Arabic representations of un-Islamic royal
pomp.3 As emblems of error and vanity, gorgeous crowns and thrones, symmetric
ranks of sumptuously adorned musicians and courtiers, and so on, carry an ob-
vious message of moral condemnation, but one which, in the story of Jabala, does
not seem altogether to override their glamour and mystery (see 4b, below, for the
symmetrically laid out scene of Jabala’s anointing). Symmetry, much associated
in the corpus with Jabala and his entourage, could be singled out as a particularly
ambivalent theme: evocative of order and of equilibrium, it can also signal moral
vacillation between antithetical choices. Despite such ambivalences, the longer
items in the corpus may be seen as a family of anti-hagiographic narratives, which
retain the elements of kingly Christian mystery and glamour in order to discredit
them.

3
Julia Ashtiany Bray, ‘The Damnation of ˜abala: A .habar in Context’, in Law, Christianity
and Modernism in Islamic Society, Proceedings of the Eighteenth Congress of the Union Européenne
des Arabisants et Islamisants held at the Katholieke Universiteit Leuven, September 3–September
9, 1996, ed. by Urbain Vermeulen and J. M. F. van Reeth (Leuven: Peeters, 1998), pp. 111–24.
180 Julia Bray

(iii) The Narrative Unit of the Corpus: The Khabar

The basic unit of narrative exposition, which determines the shape given to the
summaries in the corpus below, is called in )Abbâsid texts by the neutral term
khabar, a word applied equally to narratives and motifs and to their constituents.
Meaning ‘an item of information’, it can signify that a witness or a prior trans-
mitter has personally informed (akhbara) the person who passes it on, that is, it
implies continuity of evidence, even where the sources used are in fact written
and not face-to-face. In formal terms, khabar can designate both a single piece of
information, descriptive (‘Jabala was a giant’, 8c and 24b, below) or narrative
(‘Jabala went over to the Byzantines after the Muslim conquest of Syria’, 24c); or
it can apply to a complete story compounded of several elements, which may
derive from several sources. Each of the sources which go to make up a story will
usually be identified by an isnâd (prop), which serves to support (asnada) the
khabar’s content or to ascribe it to a source, and consists, ideally, of the names
of the original eyewitness or narrator and of the individuals who have passed on
his or her testimony or narrative. Variants, which are again identified by isnâd,
are also akhbâr; examples found in the materials summarized below (but not
exhaustively detailed in the summaries themselves) are the different accounts of
the concessions made by Caliph )Umar to secure Jabala’s conversion and re-
conversion, the different tellings of the first-person narrative of a Muslim envoy,
variously identified, who is sent to the court of Heraclius to try to reconvert
Jabala, and, most strikingly, the four different accounts of Jabala’s ultimate fate
put to the reader by Abû al-Faraj al-Isò fahânî as part of his version of the story of
Jabala (26a, below), which is in fact not one but several stories, assembled not as
a narrative unity with a single chronological thrust but as a thematic bundle.4

I. The Early Jabala Corpus (up to the Fourth/Tenth Century)

(i) Stylistic Features

The corpus is representative, not exhaustive. Thus, for example, for reasons of
space, pure genealogies, geographical references, poetic allusions, and items in
hò adîth collections, and Qur(ân commentaries (where Jabala may be mentioned
under the topic of apostasy at Qur(ân 5. 54) have been omitted from the corpus.

4
Ashtiany Bray, ‘Damnation’, pp. 120–21 and n. 33.
CHRISTIAN KING, MUSLIM APOSTATE 181

The twenty-nine items given below are presented in chronological order of author
(by ‘author’, I mean the composer of a written text, whether or not still extant),
and are broken down into paraphrases of their main constituent akhbâr. It is
important to bear in mind that this method of presentation obscures wide differ-
ences of style, coherence, and context. Thus the longest and fullest account of
Jabala, that in Ibn A)tham al-Kûfî’s Futûhò (item 5, below), forms part of a con-
tinuous psycho-dramatic narrative of the Islamic conquests and is interrupted by
the narration of these events. (This account is discussed separately from the rest
of the corpus, in Section II, below.) Quite different is the focus of Abû al-Faraj al-
Isò fahânî in Kitâb al-Aghânî (see 26, below), a vast anthology of songs structured
around the lives of the poets, musicians, and patrons connected with them. As
just noted, he organizes his materials into thematic bundles in which there is
no unified narrative drive. The akhbâr which make up these bundles originally
evolved partly in oral, partly in written form, and were once, presumably, sty-
listically fluid; but Abû al-Faraj treats them, in his editorial comments, as though
they had already stabilized before he himself gave them a fixed written text.5 There
is loss as well as gain in this process. On the one hand, he is able to make fine
distinctions between variants, but on the other he discards any context they may
previously have possessed. Slightly earlier, Ibn )Abd Rabbih (see 25, below), the
only Andalusian author in this corpus, who, however, derives his materials from
Iraqi sources and shares one (acknowledged) source for Jabala with Abû al-Faraj,
also discards previous context in his thematic anthology, al-‘Iqd, in which he
assigns the story of Jabala to the chapter on embassies.6 Ibn )Abd Rabbih tells a
single story with a well-marked and cleverly paced beginning, middle, and end,
but, not least because the fit between them is not perfect, I assume that the items
that he combines in doing so preserve a degree of individual narrative integrity.
I make the same assumption of integrity for the items used by al-Balâdhurî in his
Ansâb al-ashrâf, a genealogical work, and his Futûhò , another account of the Islamic
conquests, 18a and b, below. Other items are more problematic. Some (those
in Ibn Sa)d’s Tò abaqât (10), a work of history/group biography, Ibn Qutayba’s
Ma‘ârif (17a), a handbook of general knowledge, al-Ya)qûbî’s Ta‘rîkh, or ‘History’
(19)) seem to be a mixture of summary or paraphrase and quotation. With the

5
On Abû al-Faraj al-Isò fahânî’s sources, see Manfred Fleischhammer, Die Quellen des Kitâb
al-A ÿg â nî (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2004).
6
On Ibn )Abd Rabbih’s unacknowledged sources, see Walter Werkmeister, Quellenunter-
suchungen zum Kitâb al-‘Iqd al-farîd des Andalusiers Ibn ‘Abdrabbih (246/860–328/940): Ein
Beitrag zur arabischen Literaturgeschichte (Berlin: Schwarz, 1983).
182 Julia Bray

exception of the two versions of the first embassy to Heraclius given by Ibn al-
Faqîh al-Hamadhânî, a geographer, (21), and al-Nahrawânî, an anthologist (29),
the remaining items have seemingly lost both their stylistic integrity and any
narrative integrity they may have possessed in earlier stages of development,
for example, the items in Muhò ammad ibn Hò abîb’s Muhò abbar (see 8, below) are
unconnected résumés (N. B. Full isnâds are omitted.)

(ii) Summaries of the Texts

(1) Wahb ibn Munabbih († c. 110/728), Tîjân. ‘[…] then the rule of )Amr ibn
)Ulba waxed strong, this )Amr being the first king of the House of Jafna, which
wore the crown in Syria until Jabala brought them out [of Syria]’.7
(2) Ibn Ishò âq (c. 85–150/704–767), quoted in al-Tò abarî (224–310/838–923),
Ta’rîkh, and later sources. Jabala ibn al-Ayham led the Byzantines’ Arab con-
federates at Yarmûk.8
(3) Ibn al-Kalbî († 204/819). His Jamharat al-nasab gives a genealogy but no
narrative. Two items are quoted from Ibn al-Kalbî by Abû al-Faraj al-Isò fahânî
(283–?356/897–?967), Aghânî, the second in fragmentary form, the passages
omitted from it being said to agree with the version of Abû )Amr al-Shaybânî (see
4, below). (a) The story of a competition between poets to praise a Ghassânid king
at the expense of the Lakhmid king of al-Hò ira;9 Abû al-Faraj introduces it under
the rubric ‘Hò assân ibn Thâbit and Jabala ibn al-Ayham’; Ibn al-Kalbî, however,
identifies the king as )Amr ibn al-Hò ârith and the poet and narrator as al-Nâbigha.
(b) [As Abû )Amr al-Shaybânî: Jabala’s conversion to Islam; then:] Jabala and a
man of the tribe of Fazâra exchange slaps when the Fazârî treads on his pilgrim’s
dress (izâr) during the circumambulation of the Ka)ba (tò awâf ). Jabala’s entourage
of Ghassân break the man’s nose and hale him before )Umar [then: as Abû )Amr
al-Shaybânî: Jabala’s apostasy and flight]. (In the sixth-/twelfth-century Ibn al-
Jawzî’s Muntazò am, the episodes of Jabala’s apostasy and of the embassy sent to
reconvert him, attributed to Ibn al-Kalbî, are close to the version of Abû )Amr al-

7
Wahb ibn Munabbih, Kitâb al-Tîjân in the recension of Ibn Hishâm († c. 218/833), ed. by
F. Krenkow (Hyderabad: Dâ(irat al-Ma)ârif al-)Uthmâniyya, 1347/1928), p. 300.
8
Al-Tò abarî, Ta’rîkh al-rusul wa-al-mulûk, ed. by Michael J. de Goeje and others, 15 vols
(Leiden: Brill, 1879–1901), I, pt V , 2347.
9
The two kings form a symmetric and antithetical pair: the Ghassânid is a Byzantine, the
Lakhmid a Persian lieutenant.
CHRISTIAN KING, MUSLIM APOSTATE 183

Shaybânî.)10 (c) In Ibn Kathîr (700–74/1300–74), Bidâya, a continuous version

attributed to Ibn al-Kalbî ‘and others’ is given in full, with no isnâd; the last
section, in which Mu)âwiya offers to restore Jabala’s lands to him, agrees with the
version of )Umar ibn Shabba (see 15, below), except that there is no reference to
Jabala’s damnation. This version appears to be a paraphrase.11 (d) For yet another
version attributed to Ibn al-Kalbî, see note 1, above.
(4) Abû )Amr al-Shaybânî († between 206–13/821–28). (a) In Abû al-Faraj al-
Isò fahânî, Aghânî: Abu )Amr’s version of Hò assân ibn Thâbit’s praise of a Ghassânid
king is said to agree with that of )Umar ibn Shabba, except that Abû )Amr
identifies the king as )Amr ibn al-Hò ârith, not Jabala, and adds a variant. (b) In
Aghânî: Jabala, a king (malik) of the House of Jafna, converts to Islam and writes
to )Umar asking him to receive him; he leads five hundred of his house to Medina,
which he enters, with two hundred splendidly mounted followers, wearing his
crown, set with the earring of his ancestress Mâriya.12 He accompanies )Umar on
the pilgrimage, but a man of Fazâra treads on his izâr during the tò awâf. Jabala
breaks his nose, rejects )Umar’s egalitarian upholding of the tribesman’s complaint
and swears to turn Christian. )Umar swears to kill him if he does; he begs for
delay; civil strife threatens, and )Umar lets him leave by night for Syria with
his five hundred men, whom he takes to Constantinople. They convert before
Heraclius, who accounts this a great victory and gives Jabala lands. In Aghânî,
the next episode is interrupted by interpolated variants from al-Zubayr ibn
Bakkâr (see 16, below), whose version is otherwise said to agree with Abû )Amr
al-Shaybânî’s although, in the opening passage, it is not entirely clear where the
interpolations end. In the Khizâna of al-Baghdâdî (1030–93/1621–82), Abû
)Amr al-Shaybânî’s version is reconstituted as an uninterrupted sequence, of
which the second half runs as follows: )Umar now writes to Heraclius, summoning
him to the faith. He refuses but sends )Umar’s messenger (named, in Aghânî, as

10
Abû al-Faraj al-Isò fahânî, Kitâb al-Aghânî, 20 vols and 1 vol. of indices (Bûlâq: al-Matò ba)a
al-Amîriyya, 1285/1868), XIV , 2–4, 4–5; see also the translation in Annali dell’Islam, ed. and
trans. by Leone Caetani, 10 vols (Milan: Hoepli, 1905–26), V (Anno 23. H), 194–95; Ibn al-
Jawzî, al-Muntazò am fî ta’rîkh mulûk al-Islâm, ed. by Muhò ammad and Musò tò afâ )A. Q. )Atò â, 18 vols
and 1 vol. of indices (Beirut: Dâr al-Kutub al-)Ilmiyya, 1412–13/1992–93), V , 257–60.
11
Ibn Kathîr, al-Bidâya wa-al-nihâya (Cairo: al-Matò ba)a al-Salafiyya/Maktabat al-Khânjî,
1351– /1932– ), VIII, 64–66.
12
A legendary queen, mother of the kings who took Ghassân from Yemen to settle in Syria.
Her earring(s) were jewels of fabulous value and the subject of a proverb, see Ashtiany Bray,
‘Damnation’, p. 114 n. 17.
184 Julia Bray

Musâhò iq ibn Jaththâma al-Kinânî) on to Jabala. The messenger’s first-person

narrative: Jabala holds greater state than Heraclius himself, sits on what may be
identified as a Solomonic throne,13 and is surrounded by images. The couches
from which he receives guests, and his gold and silver vessels, are turned to catch
the sun. Yet he asks sorrowfully after )Umar and the Muslims. Musâhò iq tries to
reconvert him, but he and Jabala clash: he abides by the letter of the law, rejecting
the luxuries he is urged to accept by Jabala, who invokes ‘purity of heart’. Still
smarting from the memory of the Fazârî’s insult, Jabala makes great show of
feasting and drinking. Ten singing-women then enter and range themselves to his
right and left, five by five; a damsel enters with a pearl-white bird, which dips itself
in the chalices of rosewater and mingled musk and ambergris which she holds and
scatters the perfumes on Jabala’s head. Jabala bids the musicians ‘make me merry’:
they sing poems by Hò assân ibn Thâbit in praise of the Jafnids. Musâhò iq tells Jabala
that Hò assân is now blind, agrees to deliver a gift to him with Jabala’s greetings, but
refuses any gift for himself. Jabala weeps, and bids his musicians ‘make me sad’:
they sing Jabala’s own poem of lament for his apostasy and exile; Musâhò iq weeps
in sympathy. He returns to )Umar, who condemns Jabala but summons Hò assân
to receive his gift, pronouncing that God has wrested it from Jabala in spite of
himself. Hò assân defiantly sings the Jafnids’ praises. In Aghânî, this scene includes
both Hò assân’s anger with a Muzanî tribesman who reproaches him for praising
‘former kings [mulûk], whom God hath surely caused/will surely cause to pass
away’, and his wish that he were dead, so as to receive the camel sacrifice which
Jabala had provided for in this event.14 In Khizâna, the exchange with the Muzanî
is omitted.15
(5) Ibn A)tham al-Kûfî (early to mid-third/ninth century), Futûhò .16 See the dis-
cussion in Section II, below.
(6) Ibn Hishâm († c.218/833). (a) Sîra [not transmitted from the Sîra’s first
redactor, Ibn Ishò âq]: the Prophet wrote to al-Hò ârith ibn Abî Shimr/Shamir al-

13
Ashtiany Bray, ‘Damnation’, p. 116 n. 23.
Abû al-Faraj al-Isò fahânî, Aghânî, XIV , 3–7; see also the translation by Caetani, Annali, V ,
14

194–95.
)Abd al-Qâdir ibn )Umar al-Baghdâdî, Khizânat al-adab, ed. by )Abd al-Salâm M. Hârûn,
15

3rd edn, 13 vols (Cairo: Maktabat al-Khânjî, 1409/1989), IV , 394–98 (commentary on quotation
no. 315).
Ibn A)tham al-Kûfî, Kitâb al-Futûhò , ed. by M. )A. M. Khan, 8 vols (Hyderabad: Dâ(irat al-
16

Ma)ârif al-)Uthmâniyya, 1388–95/1968–75), I, 125, 126–27, 302–10.

CHRISTIAN KING, MUSLIM APOSTATE 185

Ghassânî, lord of the Syrian marches, and sent the same messenger, Shujâ) ibn
Wahb al-Asadî, to Jabala ibn al-Ayham al-Ghassânî.17 (b) In al-Hò alabî (975–
1044/1567–1635), al-Sîra al-hò alabiyya: Ibn Hishâm and others say [as (a)], and
that Shujâ) told Jabala that since his people, the Ansò âr [who were his tribal cousins],
had taken the Prophet ‘from his own abode to theirs’ and supported him, Jabala
should do likewise; he replies that he prefers to await the outcome of events.18
(7) Khalîfa ibn Khayyâtò (c.160–240/777–854), Ta’rîkh. The Prophet sent Shujâ)
ibn Wahb either to al-Hò ârith ibn Abî Shimr/Shamir al-Ghassânî or to Jabala.19
(8) Muhò ammad ibn Hò abîb († 245/860), Muhò abbar. (a) The Prophet sent Shujâ)
ibn Wahb to Jabala. (b) Jabala was the last king of Ghassân; he converted under
)Umar, apostatized, and returned to Byzantine territory; there is a story about
him (the story in question may be the one outlined in note 1, above). (c) Jabala
was one of those ‘whose toes brushed the ground’ even when mounted on a tall
horse (compare 17a and 24b, below).20
(9) Al-Wâqidi (130–207/747–823). (a) Maghâzî: Ka)b ibn Mâlik (autobiogra-
phical narrative introduced by qâlû, ‘they have said’), in disgrace for not taking
part in the Tâbûk expedition against the Byzantines, receives a sumptuously wrap-
ped missive from al-Hò ârith ibn Abî Shimr/Shamir al-Ghassânî, or Jabala ibn al-
Ayham, attempting to seduce him from his allegiance to the Prophet.21 (b) In Abû
al-Faraj al-Isò fahânî, Aghânî: al-Wâqidî (no isnâd, but see that of the passage
before), transmitting indirectly from a grandson of Hò assân ibn Thâbit: Jabala’s
splendour in the Jâhiliyya (‘Age of Ignorance’ before Islam), and his ten singing-

17
Ibn Hishâm, al-Sîra al-nabawiyya, ed. by M. al-Saqqâ&, I. al-Abyârî, and A. Hò . Shalabî, 2nd
edn, 4 vols (Cairo: Musò tò afâ al-Bâbî al-Hò alabî wa-awlâduh, 1375/1955), VI, 607.
18
)Alî ibn Ibrâhîm al-Hò alabî, al-Sîra al-Hò alabiyya (also called Insân al-‘uyûn), 3 vols (Cairo:
al-Matò ba)a al-Azhariyya al-Misò riyya, 1320), III, 287.
Khalîfa ibn Khayyâtò , al-Ta’rîkh, ed. by Akram Dò . al-)Umarî, 2nd edn (Damascus: Dâr al-
19

Qalam; Beirut: Mu(assasat al-Risâla, 1397/1977), p. 98.

20
Muhò ammad ibn Hò abîb, al-Muhò abbar in the recension of al-Sukkarî († 275/888), ed.
by Ilse Lichtenstädter (Hyderabad: Dâ(irat al-Ma)ârif al-)Uthmâniyya, 1341/1941), pp. 76,
372, 233. For the motif of Jabala as a giant occurring, as here, separately from the story of his
apostasy, see Ihò sân )Abbâs, Ta’rî kh Bilâd al-Shâm min mâ qabla al-Islâm hò attâ bidâyat al-‘asò r
al-umawî, 600–661 (Amman: al-Jâmi)a al-Urdunniyya, 1410/1990), p. 138, and Ashtiany
Bray, ‘Damnation’, p. 114 n. 13.
21
Al-Wâqidî, Kitâb al-Maghâzî, ed. by Marsden Jones, 3 vols (London: Oxford University
Press, 1966), III, 1051.
186 Julia Bray

girls, five of whom sang in Greek and five the songs of al-Hò îra (compare 22,
below). When he drank, he sat on a carpet of flowers and herbs, and ambergris
and musk were scattered on him from vessels of gold and silver. He was tem-
perate, jovial, liberal, and always master of himself. Under Islam, Hò assân ibn
Thâbit is still moved by the memory of these things. (In a variant elsewhere in
Aghânî, some of these props and traits are attributed by al-Wâqidî to al-Hò ârith
ibn Abî Shimr.) (c) Aghânî: it was al-Hò ârith (rather than Jabala) whom Hò assân
ibn Thâbit praised at the expense of the King of al-Hò îra.22 (d) In al-Dhahabî
(673–748/1274–1348), Ta’rîkh/Maghâzî: the Prophet sends Shujâ) ibn Wahb
to al-Hò ârith ibn Abî Shimr in the year 6 AH. He angrily rejects the idea of
yielding up his sovereignty, but Qaysò ar (the emperor), giving thanks in Jerusalem
(Îlyâ&) for his deliverance from the Persians, dissuades him from war. The Prophet
comments: ‘Nevertheless, his kingdom [mulk] shall surely pass/has surely passed
away.’23 Ibn Kathîr, Bidâya, explains that the Ansò âr were paternal cousins of
Ghassân, and paraphrases ‘the best-known version’ of the story of Jabala, which
he attributes to al-Wâqidi (isnâd: ‘from Ma)mar’) ‘and others’ (isnâd: ‘al-Zuhrî
from )Ubayd Allâh from Ibn )Abbâs, who gave isnâds going back to numerous
Companions of the Prophet’): Jabala fought at Yarmûk on the Byzantine side,
converted under )Umar’s reign, exchanged blows in Damascus with a Muzanî
tribesman, refused to accept the ruling of Abû )Ubayda, the governor, that he
must compensate him, apostasized and fled. )Umar, mortified at his defection,
whips Hò assân ibn Thâbit for applauding him.24
(10) Ibn Sa)d (c.168–230/784–845), Tò abaqât (the sources are presumably the
same as on the page before, al-Haytham ibn )Adî and others). The Prophet wrote
to Jabala ibn al-Ayham, King of Ghassân, who converted (compare 19a, 24a,
and Michael the Syrian, below) and remained a Muslim until the time of )Umar.
He apostasized and took his people to Byzantine territory because of an incident
in the sûq of Damascus in which the governor, Abû )Ubayda ibn al-Jarrâhò , refused
to recognize his rights as a king as being superior to those of a tribesman of
Muzayna. )Umar, mortified at Jabala’s defection, whips Hò assân ibn Thâbit for
applauding him.25

22
Abû al-Faraj al-Isò fahânî, Aghânî, XVI, 15 and 9 respectively; XIV , 8–9.
23
Al-Dhahabî, Ta’rîkh al-islâm wa-wafayât al-mashâhîr wa-al-a‘lâm: al-Maghâzî, ed. by
)Umar )A. S. Tadmurî, 2nd edn (Beirut: Dâr al-Kitâb al-)Arabî, 1410/1990), p. 622.
24
Ibn Kathîr, Bidâya, VIII, 63–64.
Ibn Sa)d, Kitâb al-Tò abaqât al-kabîr in the recension of Ibn Hò ayyawayh († 381/991), ed. by
25

Eugen Mittwoch and Edward Sachau, 9 vols (Leiden: Brill, 1904–40), I, pt II, 20.
CHRISTIAN KING, MUSLIM APOSTATE 187

(11) Al-Asò ma)î (?123–218/741–833), quoted in Ibn Qutayba, Shi‘r, and Abû al-
Faraj al-Isò fahânî, Aghânî. After his apostasy, Jabala sends Hò assân ibn Thâbit a gift,
to be converted into a camel sacrifice on his grave if he (Hò assân) is dead; Hò assân
wishes he were dead so as to receive it.26
(12) (Pseudo-)Asò ma) î (?third/ninth century), Ta’rîkh al-‘Arab qabla al-Islâm.
The Prophet wrote a missive to Jabala, a strong king who collected the tax
(kharâj) of Syria. Jabala converts under )Umar, enters Medina with kingly horse-
men, and performs the pilgrimage in splendid garb. A Fazârî tribesman treads on
his izâr; the man is injured and )Umar orders Jabala to pay him compensation.
Restrained from stirring up civil strife, Jabala steals away by night, becomes a
Christian, and goes to Heraclius in al-Raqqa (= Nikephorion/Callinicum).27
(13) Al-Madâ&inî (135–?228/752–?843). In Abû al-Faraj al-Isò fahânî, Aghânî, and
in Ibn )Abd Rabbih, ‘Iqd (unattributed): Hò assân ibn Thâbit praises a Ghassânid
in rhymed prose and verse (in ‘Iqd, the praise is at the expense of the King of al-
Hò îra).28
(14) Al-Jâhò izò (c.160–255/776–868). (a) Hò ayawân and Bursò ân: variants on how
Jabala ibn al-Ayham jealously asked Hò assân ibn Thâbit to compare him to the
King of al-Hò îra.29 See also, tangentially, (b) al-Radd ‘alâ al-Nasò ârâ (trans.
Allouche): ‘[…] à l’apparition de l’islam, les Arabes avaient deux rois. L’un était
Ghassanide, l’autre Lakhmide. Or tous deux étaient chrétiens. Les Arabes qui leur
obéissaient et leur payaient tribut avaient reporté sur leur religion la considération
qu’ils avaient pour eux.’30

26
Ibn Qutayba (213–76/828–89), Kitâb al-Shi‘r wa-al-shu‘arâ’, ed. by Michael J. de Goeje
(Leiden: Brill, 1904), p. 171; Abû al-Faraj al-Isò fahânî, Aghânî, XIV , 7.
27
(Pseudo-)Asò ma)î, Ta’rîkh al-‘Arab qabl al-Islâm from an MS dated AH 243 in the hand
of Ya)qûb Ibn al-Sikkît, ed. by Muhò ammad Hò . Âl Yâsîn (Baghdad: al-Maktaba al-)Ilmiyya,
1379/1959), pp. 11–12.
28
Abû al-Faraj al-Isò fahânî, Aghânî, XIV , 4; Ibn )Abd Rabbih, Kitâb al-‘Iqd (known as al-‘Iqd
al-farîd), ed. by A. Amîn, A. al-Zayn, and I. al-Abyârî , 3rd edn, 7 vols (Cairo: Matò ba)at Lajnat al-
Ta(lîf wa-al-Tarjama wa-al-Nashr, 1375/1956), II, 133–34.
29
Al-Jâhò izò , Kitâb al-Hò ayawân, ed. by )Abd al-Salâm M. Hârûn, 7 vols (Cairo: Musò tò âfâ al-
Bâbî al-Hò alabî wa-Awlâduh, 1356–64/1938–45), IV , 377; al-Jâhò izò , Kitâb al-Bursò ân wa-al-‘urjân
wa-al-‘umyân wa-al-hò ûlân, ed. by )Abd al-Salâm M. Hârûn (Beirut: Dâr al-Jîl, 1410/1990), p. 548.
30
Al-Jâhò izò , al-Radd ‘alâ al-Nasò ârâ, in Three Essays of Abu ‘Othman ibn Bahò r al-Jahò izò (d. 869),
ed. by Joshua Finkel (Cairo: al-Matò ba)a al-Salafiyya, 1344/1926), p. 15; trans. by I. S. Allouche in
‘Un traité de polémique christiano-musulman du IX e siècle’, Hesperis, 26 (1939), 123–55 (p. 133).
188 Julia Bray

(15) )Umar ibn Shabba (173–264/789–876). (a) In Abû al-Faraj al-Isò fahânî,
Aghânî, as transmitter: Hò assân ibn Thâbit praises Jabala in competition with the
poet al-Nâbigha; Jabala promises him a yearly gift. (b) In Aghânî, as source:
Mu)âwiya sends a messenger, )Abd Allâh ibn Mas)ada al-Fazârî, to the King of the
Byzantines; he meets Jabala, who describes himself as ‘a man foredoomed to
damnation’ and sits drinking while two damsels sing the poems of Hò assân ibn
Thâbit. He gives the messenger a gift for Hò assân, and asks Mu)âwiya to let him
return to his homeland. Mu)âwiya consents, but Jabala dies. Hò assân demands the
gift he knows Jabala has sent him with his greeting.31
(16) Al-Zubayr ibn Bakkâr (172–256/788–870). (a) In Abû al-Faraj al-Isò fahânî,
Aghânî: Jabala converts under )Umar, quarrels with a Medinan, rejects )Umar’s
egalitarian ruling, goes to Byzantine territory and turns Christian, but rues it and
declaims a poem mourning his lost faith and homeland. ‘The rest of the story’ and
‘Jabala’s gift to Hò assân’ are alluded to as part of al-Zubayr ibn Bakkâr’s narrative,
which is said to be ‘as Abû )Amr al-Shaybânî’s’ (see 4, above), with the following
variants: Mu)âwiya as governor of Syria offers Jabala his homeland if he will
reconvert, but Jabala refuses; the closing scene with Hò assân ibn Thâbit omits the
exchange with the Muzanî tribesman and the reference to the camel sacrifice.32 (b)
In Ibn )Abd Rabbih, ‘Iqd: Abû )Amr al-Shaybânî’s version of Hò assân ibn Thâbit’s
exchange with the Muzanî is attributed to al-Zubayr ibn Bakkâr, with a postscript:
)Umar agrees to Jabala’s conditions for reconversion (the succession to )Umar as
caliph, and his daughter’s hand); but he is already dead, predestined to damna-
tion.33 (c) In al-Dhahabî, Ta’rîkh/Sîra (see 9b, above): narrative of )Ubâda ibn al-
Sò âmit, for which al-Zubayr ibn Bakkâr’s isnâd is shown by al-Dhahabî to be
defective: )Ubâda ibn al-Sò âmit is sent by Abû Bakr with a group of Companions
of the Prophet to summon Heraclius to the faith. [Then, essentially but not
textually, as the version of Hishâm ibn al-)Âsò in Ibn A)tham al-Kûfî’s Futûhò :] In
Damascus, they encounter Jabala, who receives them from his throne, and refuses
to convert; he has vowed to wear black until the Muslims are driven out; he denies
that the envoys are those who are destined to overthrow him and his high king

Abû al-Faraj al-Isò fahânî, Aghânî, XIV , 2–3; ibid., pp. 7–8, also in Annali, trans. Caetani, V ,
31

199–200. Neither khabar appears in )Umar ibn Shabba, Ta&rîkh al-Madîna al-munawwara, ed.
by Muhò ammad Dandal and Yâsîn Sa)d al-Dîn Bayân (Beirut: Dâr al-Kutub al-)Ilmiyya, 1996).
32
Abû al-Faraj al-Isò fahânî, Aghânî, XIV , 5–7; Annali, trans. Caetani, V , 196–99.
33
Ibn )Abd Rabbih, ‘Iqd, II, 61–62.
CHRISTIAN KING, MUSLIM APOSTATE 189

(the emperor), and angrily sends them on to this king. The latter in turn shows
them icons of the prophets, including Muhò ammad, which God gave to Adam and
which Daniel copied, and wishes that it were possible for him to convert.34 In
another version, which also includes al-Zubayr ibn Bakkâr in its isnâd, the lacuna
in the isnâd is filled in and some details expanded: in a garbled phrase, Jabala sits
‘on his throne, level with the roof’ / ‘on rugs (or cushions) piled ceiling-high’ (‘alâ
furush lahû ma‘a al-suquf ),35 and recognizes the envoys as the sumarâ’, ‘the brown-
skinned ones’ (compare 21 and 29, below).36
(17) Ibn Qutayba (213–76/828–89). (a) Ma‘ârif: Jabala was the last king of
Ghassân, and a giant. He converted under )Umar, then turned Christian and
went over to the Byzantines, because of an incident in the sûq of Damascus in
which Abû )Ubayda ibn al-Jarrâhò refused to recognize his rights as king.37 (b) Shi‘r:
Mu)âwiya sends a messenger to the Byzantine king; Jabala sends back a gift to
Hò assân ibn Thâbit, who recognizes Jabala’s old promise to him. Variant from al-
Asò ma) î: the gift is to be converted to a camel sacrifice if Hò assân is dead, etc. (see
11, above).38
(18) Al-Balâdhurî († c.279/892). (a) Ansâb: in the Jâhiliyya (pre-Islamic period),
despite his jealousy (of the King of al-Hò îra) concerning Hò assân ibn Thâbit, Jabala
rewards Hò assân and promises him a gift with all future greetings. Under Islam,
Jabala having gone over to the Byzantines, Mu)âwiya sends a messenger to ransom
Muslim prisoners. Jabala sends Hò assân a gift by the messenger, which Hò assân,
remembering Jabala’s promise, claims despite the messsenger’s denials; Mu)âwiya
praises Jabala’s noble generosity.39 (b) Futûhò : Jabala leads the Arab confederates

34
Al-Dhahabî, Ta’rîkh/Sîra, pp. 529–33.
35
On soft furnishings (furush), here serving as a throne, see Joseph Sadan, Le Mobilier au
Proche-Orient médiéval (Leiden: Brill, 1976), pp. 24–31.
36
Al-Dhahabî, Ta’rîkh/Sîra, pp. 533–36. I translate sumarâ’ as ‘brown-skinned’, because the
Byzantines, in contrast to the Arabs, are traditionally known for their ‘yellow’ skins; sumarâ’,
however, is not the usual plural of asmar.
37
Ibn Qutayba, Kitâb al-Ma‘ârif, ed. by Tharwat )Ukâsha (Cairo: Matò ba)at Dâr al-Kutub,
1960), p. 644; for a translation, see Reynold A. Nicholson, A Literary History of the Arabs
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1907), pp. 50–51.
38
Ibn Qutayba, Kitâb al-Shi‘r wa-al-shu‘arâ ’, ed. by Michael J. de Goeje (Leiden: Brill, 1904),
p. 171.
39
Al-Balâdhurî, Ansâb al-ashrâf, ed. by Max Schloesinger, rev. by M. J. Kister ( Jerusalem:
Magnes, Hebrew University, 1971), IV , A, 29–30.
190 Julia Bray

at Yarmûk at Heraclius’s bidding. After the defeat, he flees to the Ansò âr (the
Prophet’s Helpers in Medina, his tribal cousins), claiming kinship, and pretends
to become a Muslim. But in Syria, in AH 17, he strikes a man of the tribe of
Muzayna in the eye. )Umar demands restitution, but Jabala refuses to call any
man master, flees to Byzantine territory and apostatizes. (Variant: he came to
)Umar as a Christian and refused to convert as the condition of paying camel-
tax ( sò adaqa) like the (Muslim) Bedouin Arabs. Being too proud to pay instead
the tax of the conquered, and of sedentary non-converts, the jizya, he goes
over to the Byzantines with thirty thousand men.) In AH 21, anxious to win
him back, )Umar sends )Umayr ibn Sa)d al-Ansò ârî on the first summer campaign
in Byzantine territory with orders to woo Jabala as a kinsman and to let
him remain Christian. (This episode is referred to again later in al-Balâdhurî’s
Futûhò .)40 After Yarmûk, Heraclius bids farewell to Syria41 (see also 20 and 27,
below, and note 43).

(19) Al-Ya)qûbî († 292/905), Ta’rîkh. (a) The Prophet sent Shujâ) ibn Wahb to
al-Hò ârith ibn Abî Shimr/Shamir al-Ghassânî, and )Ammâr ibn Yâsir to al-Ayham
ibn al-Nu)mân al-Ghassânî (compare 10, above, and 24a and Michael the Syrian,
below). (b) Jabala was the last king of Ghassân. (c) He led the Rûm (Byzantines)
at Yarmûk at the head of an army of his own people. (d) After Yarmûk, he refuses
to pay jizya at the demand of Yazîd ibn Abî Sufyân because he is an Arab, not a
peasant/non-Arab (‘ilj). (e) The Jafnids (the princely house of Ghassân) were
Byzantine governors (‘ummâl); when Jerusalem surrenders, Jabala demands to pay
sò adaqa like the Arabs; )Umar refuses, and tells him to go to his fellow Christians.
To his chagrin, Jabala takes thirty thousand men to Byzantine territory.42

(20) Al-Tò abarî (224–310/838–923), Ta’rîkh. (a) From Sayf ibn )Umar: an ‘Ibn
al-Ayham’ is listed among the defenders at Dûma (an oasis town of north Arabia
captured in one of the Prophet’s campaigns). (b) From Ibn Ishâq (see 2, above):

40
Al-Balâdhurî, Futûhò al-buldân, ed. by Sò alâhò al-Dîn al-Munajjid, 3 vols (Cairo: Maktabat
al-Nahò dò a al-Misò riyya, 1956–57), I, 160–61; see also, Annali, trans. Caetani, III, pt II (Dall’anno
13 al 17. H), 552–53, 562, 936–37; al-Balâdhurî, Futûhò , I, 195; Annali, trans. Caetani, IV
(Dall’anno 18. al 22. H), p. 506.
41
Al-Balâdhurî, Futûhò , I, 162.
Al-Ya)qûbî, al-Ta&rîkh, 2 vols (Najaf: al-Maktaba al-Hò aydariyya; Baghdad: al-Muthannâ,
42

1384/1964), II, 67; Annali, trans. Caetani, II, pt I (Dall’anno 7. al 12. H.), 69; al-Ya)qûbî, Ta&rîkh,
II, 179–80; ibid., pp. 132, 137, Annali, trans. Caetani, II, pt II, 792, 936.
CHRISTIAN KING, MUSLIM APOSTATE 191

Jabala leads the Arabs at Yarmûk. After Yarmûk, Heraclius bids farewell to Syria
(see also 18b, above, and 27, below).43 (c) Emperor Nicephorus I (r. 802–11) was
said to be descended from the Jafnids.44

(21) Ibn al-Faqîh al-Hamadhânî (c. 290/903), Mukhtasò ar Kitâb al-Buldân.

Isnâd: Ibn Da&b from Mûsâ ibn )Uqba: Jabala, in the Ghûtò a (orchards and plea-
sure gardens of Damascus), receives )Ubâda ibn al-Sò âmit and others sent by
‘a caliph’ to summon the King of the Byzantines to the faith. He sits on ‘a
throne/rugs/cushions piled ceiling-high’ (‘alâ furush ma‘a al-suquf; compare 16c,
above, and 29, below) and wears black sackcloth because of a vow to drive out the
Muslims. He identifies the envoys as ‘the brown-skinned ones’ (sumarâ ’ ), and
angrily sends them on to the King. The King questions them about their faith,
shows them icons of the prophets, including Muhò ammad, that are of divine
origin, and recognizes the truth of Islam, but cannot convert.45

43
Al-Tò abarî, Ta’rîkh, I, pt IV , 2065–66; I, pt V , 2347. This scene is found in al-Balâdhurî,
Futûhò (18b, above), as part of the Yarmûk sequence into which the story of Jabala is inserted with
variants. It is also found in al-Mutò ahhar ibn Tò âhir al-Maqdisî, Bad’ (27, below), in a more
condensed and close-knit sequence in which Jabala is mentioned in passing. In al-Tò abarî, it occurs
at some distance from the brief reference to Jabala, and is cast in prophetic or apocalyptic mode:
‘Whenever Heraclius made the pilgrimage to Jerusalem, left Syria behind, and entered into the
land of the Byzantines, he used to turn back and say: “Peace be upon you, O Syria! This is the
farewell of a man who takes leave of you without fulfilling his desire and will return.” [But when
he left for the last time] he ascended to an elevated place […] and said: “Peace be upon you, O
Syria! This is a farewell after which there will be no reunion. No Byzantine man will ever return
to you except in fear until the ill-fated one [al-mash’ûm] is born; would that he would not be
born! How sweet will be his deeds and how bitter will be their outcome with regard to the
Byzantines”’; The History of al-Tò abarî, XII: The Battle of al-Qâdisiyya and the Conquest of Syria
and Palestine, trans. by Yohanan Friedmann (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1992),
pp. 181–82. The ‘ill-fated one’ is referred to by Sayf ibn )Umar, one of al-Tò abarî’s sources, in Ibn
)Asâkir (630–711/1105–76), Ta’rîkh madînat Dimashq, ed. by Sò alâhò al-Dîn al-Munajjid, 2 vols
(Damascus: al-Majma) al-)Ilmî al-)Arabî bi-Dimashq, [1951–54]), I, 475, in a khabar in which
Heraclius sees a portent in the proud but ascetic demeanour of the Muslim envoys who meet the
Christians before Yarmûk, and exclaims, ‘Did I not tell you that this is but the start of our
humiliation? As for Syria, it is no more; and woe to the Greeks from the ill-omened babe! [al-
mawlûd al-mash’ûm]’.
44
Al-Tò abarî, Ta’rîkh, III, pt II, 695.
45
Ibn al-Faqîh al-Hamadhânî, Mukhtasò ar Kitâb al-Buldân, ed. by Michael J. de Goeje
(Leiden: Brill, 1885), pp. 140–43; see also the translation by Henri Massé, Abrégé du Livre des
Pays (Damascus: Institut français de Damas, 1973), pp. 168–71.
192 Julia Bray

(22) Ibn Khurradâdhbih (?211–300/825–911), Kitâb al-Lahw. Jabala had ten

singing-girls, five of whom sang in Greek and five the songs of al-Hò îra (compare
9b, above).46
(23) Ibn Rusta (fl. 290–300/903–912), al-A‘lâq al-nafîsa. Jabala was a heathen
(mushrik, i.e., not a Muslim monotheist; the term is applied to Trinitarians and
Jews as well as pagans); he was the last king of Ghassân; a giant, he converted
under )Umar, then turned Christian and went to Byzantine territory.47
(24) Al-Mas)ûdî († 345/956). (a) Murûj al-dhahab: Jabala, the patron of Hò assân
ibn Thâbit and successor of al-Hò ârith ibn Abî Shimr/Shamir, converted, then
apostasized because dishonoured by a slap, as related in al-Mas)ûdî’s earlier [now
lost] works.48 As detailed in al-Mas)ûdî’s [lost] Akhbâr al-zamân, the Prophet’s
letter was addressed to al-Hò ârith (compare 6a, 7, 8a, 9d, 10, 12, and 19a, above,
and Michael the Syrian, below), who converted. Hò assân ibn Thâbit’s praise of the
Ghassânid king at the expense of the King of al-Hò îra was also addressed to al-
Hò ârith (compare 9c, above). (b) Murûj al-dhahab: Jabala was a giant (compare 8c
and 17a, above).49 (c) Tanbîh: as described in al-Mas)ûdî’s [lost] Kitâb Funûn al-
ma‘ârif wa-mâ jarâ fî al-duhûr al-sawâlif, Jabala, last king of Ghassân, went over
to the Byzantines after the Muslim conquest of Syria. 50 (d) Tanbîh: Emperor
Nicephorus I was descended from Christian Arabs of Jafna (compare 20c, above,
and 26b, below),51 or from Christians of the tribe of Iyâd who left their territory

46
Ibn Khurradâdhbih, Mukhtâr min Kitâb al-Lahw wa-al-malâhî, ed. Ighnâtiyûs )A. Khalîfa,
2nd edn (Beirut: Dâr al-Mashriq, al-Matò ba)a al-Kâthûlîkiyya, 1969), pp. 36–37.
47
Ibn Rusta, Kitâb al-A‘lâq al-nafîsa, ed. Michael J. de Goeje (Leiden: Brill, 1892), pp. 251,
225–26.
48
Al-Mas)ûdî, Murûj al-dhahab, ed. and trans. by Charles Barbier de Meynard and Pavet de
Courteille, rev. by Charles Pellat, 7 vols (Beirut: Publications de l’Université Libanaise, 1965–79),
II, ¶1082, p. 234; see also Pellat’s five-volume translation (Paris: Société Asiatique, 1962–97).
49
Al-Mas)ûdî, Murûj al-dhahab, ed. and trans. de Meynard and de Courteille, V , ¶3485,
p. 223.
50
Al-Mas)ûdî, Kitâb al-Tanbîh wa-al-ishrâf, ed. by Michael J. de Goeje (Leiden: Brill, 1874),
pp. 182, 186; see also the trans. in B. Carra de Vaux, Le Livre de l’avertissement et de la révision
(Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1897) pp. 247, 252.
51
Descent from Jabala or his people was later claimed both for Muslim rulers and for non-
Muslims, e. g. the Mamluk historian al-)Aynî (762–824/1361–1451) claimed that his patron al-
Mu&ayyad Shaykh (r. 815–824/1412–21) was of part-Arab descent because Jabala’s people, ‘when
Byzantine power declined, withdrew to the mountains of Circassia, and intermarried with its
people’; see Peter M. Holt, ‘Literary Offerings: A Genre of Courtly Literature’, in The Mamluks
CHRISTIAN KING, MUSLIM APOSTATE 193

in Jazîra (northern Mesopotamia) for Byzantine territory in the time of )Umar

ibn al-Khatò tò âb.52
(25) Ibn )Abd Rabbih (246–328/860–940), ‘Iqd. See 16b, above, and the full
discussion in Bray, ‘)Abbâsid myth’.53
(26) Abû al-Faraj al-Isò fahânî (283–?356/897–?967), Aghânî. (a) See under Ibn
al-Kalbî (3), Abû )Amr al-Shaybânî (4), al-Wâqidî (9b and c), al-Asò ma) î (11),
al-Madâ(inî (13), )Umar ibn Shabba (15), and al-Zubayr ibn Bakkâr (16a).54
(b) Aghânî: Jabala’s daughter was living in Constantinople when Yazîd ibn
Mu)âwiya besieged it.55

in Egyptian Politics and Society, ed. by Thomas Philip and Ulrich Haarmann (Cambridge: Cam-
bridge University Press, 1998), pp. 3–16 (pp. 9, 11). The Egyptian Ibn Zunbul (active sixteenth
century AD ) apparently credited the Genoese with descent from Jabala, see Georges Jehel, L’Italie
et le Maghreb au moyen âge: Conflits et échanges du VIIe au XV e siècle (Paris: Presses universitaires
de France, 2001), pp. 183, 210. See also Ashtiany Bray, ‘Damnation’, p. 116 n. 21.
52
Al-Mas)ûdî, Tanbîh, pp. 167–68, trans. in Carra de Vaux, Le Livre de l’avertissement, p. 228;
see Ahmad Shboul, Al-Mas‘ûdî and his World (London: Ithaca Press, 1979), p. 249. The coupling
of Ghassân and Iyâd ibn Nizâr is not fortuitous, for their situations were parallel. On the migration
from Muslim territory by Iyâd, caused by the question of taxation, and )Umar’s angry corre-
spondence with the Emperor, see al-Tò abarî, Ta’rîkh, I, pt V , 2507–09. On their association with
Ghassân, and their migration, see al-Balâdhurî (18, above), Ansâb al-ashrâf, ed. by M. Hò amîdallâh,
3rd edn, 6 vols (Cairo: Dâr al-Ma)ârif, 1987), I, 27. There is also a parallel between Ghassân and a
section of the Christian tribe of Taghlib, who, in al-Balâdhurî, Futûhò , I, 216–17, offer to pay double
the normal sò adaqa provided they may remain Christian and — in words similar to those
attributed to Jabala (al-Balâdhurî (18b, above) and al-Ya)qûbî (19d and e, above)) — not be made
to pay jizya as if they were heathen foreigners/peasants (a‘lâj). Similarly, Ignaz Goldziher made a
connection between the story of Jabala and the refusal, in Abû al-Faraj al-Isò fahânî, Aghânî, XVI, 49,
of Zarr ibn Sadûs to convert, in his Muslim Studies, trans. by C. R. Barber and Samuel M. Stern, 2
vols (London: Allen & Unwin, 1967–71), I, 75. In addition, Zarr’s words, ‘nobody shall rule over
me but myself’, echo those attributed to Jabala in al-Balâdhurî, Futûhò , I, 161 (‘I will not stay in a
place where another has authority over me’), and those uttered by his predecessor al-Hò ârith ibn Abî
Shamir on receiving the Prophet’s summons to convert, according to al-Wâqidî (9, above) in al-
Dhahabî, Ta’rîkh/Maghâzî, p. 622 (‘Who shall wrest my kingdom from me?’). See also n. 1, above,
for the apostasy of Rabî)a ibn Umayya al-Jumahò î, rebuked by )Umar for drinking wine.
53
Julia Bray, ‘)A bbasid Myth and the Human Act: Ibn )Abd Rabbih and Others’, in On
Fiction and ‘Adab’ in Medieval Arabic Literature, ed. by Philip F. Kennedy (Wiesbaden:
Harrassowitz, 2005), pp. 1–54. For later versions related to that of Ibn ‘Abd Rabbih, see Ashtiany
Bray, ‘Damnation’, p. 111 n. 2.
54
For later versions derived from Aghânî, see Ashtiany Bray, ‘Damnation’, p. 111 n. 2.
Abû al-Faraj al-Isò fahânî, Aghânî, XVI, 33; trans. by Marius Canard in ‘Les Expéditions des
55

Arabes contre Constantinople dans l’histoire et dans la légende’, Journal Asiatique, 208 (1926),
61–121 (pp. 69–70).
194 Julia Bray

(27) Al-Mutò ahhar ibn Tò âhir al-Maqdisî (c. 355/966), Bad’. Jabala leads the Arab
confederates at Yarmûk; after the defeat, Heraclius bids farewell to Syria (compare
(18b, above, and note 43).56
(28) Hò amza al-Isò fahânî (c. 280–360/893–970), Ta’rîkh sinî mulûk al-ark. Jabala,
last king of Ghassân, apostasized.57
(29) Al-Mu)âfâ ibn Zakariyyâ al-Nahrawânî (303–90/915–1000). (a) Jalîs, with
isnâd going back to Muhò ammad ibn Abî Bakr al-Ansò ârî: )Ubâda ibn al-Sò âmit is
sent by Abû Bakr with others to call the King (malik) of the Byzantines to the
faith. They come to Damascus, where Jabala presents them to ‘the Byzantine king
of that city’, who sits on rugs/cushions/a throne ‘with the bishop’ (‘ala furush
ma‘a al-usquf ) (compare 16c and 21, above).58 [This king] wears black sackcloth
because of a vow to drive out the Musims, asks them if they are the brown-skinned
ones (sumarâ’ ), and angrily sends them on to the high king in Constantinople. He
in turn questions them about their faith, shows them icons of the prophets,
including Muhò ammad, which are of divine origin, recognizes the truth of Islam,
but cannot convert.59 (b) Jalîs, with isnâd going back to Ibn Mâjishûn and his
father): Jabala commands Hò assân ibn Thâbit to censure, then praise wine, which
he does so well that Jabala swears never to give it up.60
To the above may be added the account of Michael the Syrian (late twelfth
century), who preserves the story of the Arab descent of Nicephorus (compare
20c, 24b, and 26c, above), specifying that Jabala was the Arab ancestor in question
and that he had converted to Islam at Muhò ammad’s invitation (compare 10, 19a,
and 24a, above), through the intermediary of )Umar. He then gives the story of
Jabala’s apostasy and flight in a version resembling that of Abû )Amr al-Shaybânî
(4b, above).61

Al-Mutò ahhar ibn Tò âhir al-Maqdisî, al-Bad&wa-al-ta’rîkh, ed. by Clément Huart, 6 vols
56

(Paris: Leroux, 1916), V , 104.

Hò amza al-Isò fahânî, Ta’rîkh sinî mulûk al-ardò wa-al-anbiyâ ’, 3rd edn (Beirut: Dâr
57

Maktabat al-Hò ayât, 1961), p. 104.

58
In Muslim sources, Byzantine patricians are often shown as accompanied by a bishop.
Al-Mu)âfâ ibn Zakariyyâ al-Nahrawânî, al-Jalîs al-sò âlihò al-kâfî, ed. by Ihò sân )Abbâs, 4 vols
59

(Beirut: )Âlam al-Kutub, 1407–13/1987–93), III, 389–93.

60
Al-Nahrawânî, Jalîs, III, 243. The episode is given in reverse, with variants, in, e.g., Ibn Zâfir
al-Azdî (567–?613/1171–?1226), Badâ’i‘ al-badâ’ih, ed. by M. A. F. Ibrâhîm (Cairo: Maktabat
al-Anjilû al-Misò riyya, 1970), pp. 287–88.
61
Chronique de Michel le Syrien, Patriarche jacobite d’Antioche (1166–1199), ed. and trans.
by Jean-Baptiste Chabot, 4 vols (Paris: Leroux, 1899–1924), III, 15.
CHRISTIAN KING, MUSLIM APOSTATE 195

(iii) Variant Narratives, Differing Epistemologies

Let us here note the major fluctuations between these accounts. In the above
corpus, a stable repertory of functions (patronage; kingship) or situations (defeat
and conversion) or psychological attitudes (wounded pride and reversion to
type) is hitched to a variable set of events, dates, and chronological schemes, and
perhaps because of this, the identities of the historical actors are mutable: Jabala
is sometimes interchangeable with al-Hò ârith or )Amr ibn al-Hò ârith as a patron
of poets (compare 3a, 4a, and 9b and c), as a recipient of a summons to convert
(compare 6a and b, 7, 9d, 19a, and 24a) or as a representative of a doomed or
cursed dynasty (compare 4b end, and 9d (al-Dhahabî)), and the roles of the
Byzantine ‘King’ and of Jabala, and those of major and minor ‘kings’, are confused
in Ibn al-Faqîh al-Hamadhânî, Mukhtasò ar Kitâb al-Buldân (21), and al-Mu)âfâ
ibn Zakariyyâ al-Nahrawânî, Jalîs (29a). Jabala, or his functional equivalent, is
sometimes summoned to the faith by the Prophet (the Prophet sends a mes-
sage/messenger to a Ghassânid other than Jabala (6a, 7, 9d, 19a); at 24a, the
recipient, al-Hò ârith, converts; the Prophet sends a message/messenger to Jabala
(6a, 7, 8); Jabala then converts (10); the Prophet writes to Jabala and Jabala
converts under )Umar (12). Jabala sometimes converts, under )Umar, of his own
accord (4a and b, 8, 12, 16a, 17); it is not always clear that he was originally a
Christian (he was a Christian (18b, 19d); he was a mushrik (23)); he does not
always convert and recant (he refuses to convert at the summons of the first
caliph, Abû Bakr (16c); he does not convert, nor does his king (21)); Jabala and
two higher kings do not convert (29); he converts and then apostasizes (24); he
apostasizes (3b, 4b, 8b, 9b, 28); in one version (18b), he merely pretends to con-
vert. In a unique account, the attempt at conversion goes the other way and it is
Jabala or al-Hò ârith who tries to seduce a Companion of the Prophet from his
new faith (9a). The messenger sent by the Prophet was Shujâ) ibn Wahb al-Asadî
(6a and b, 7, 8, 9d (al-Dhahabî), and 19a). The messenger sent by ‘a caliph’ or Abû
Bakr to Heraclius/the King of the Byzantines and received by Jabala in Damascus
was )Ubâda ibn al-Sò âmit (16b, 20, 29). Jabala apostasizes because a Fazârî treads
on his pilgrim’s dress (3b, 4b, 12), or because of a quarrel with a Medinan (for
which read Muzanî?) (16a), or because, in Damascus, he strikes a Muzanî and
refuses to accept the governor, Abû )Ubayda’s, ruling, or else that of the caliph,
)Umar (9d, 10, 17a, 18b); or he refuses to pay jizya (18b), at the demand of
Yazîd ibn Abî Sufyân (19d). He takes five hundred men to Constantinople (4b),
or thirty thousand men to Byzantine territory (18b, 19e), or goes to Heraclius at
196 Julia Bray

al-Raqqa (12). )Umar sends Musâhò iq ibn Jaththâma al-Kinânî (4b), or )Umayr
ibn Sa)d al-Ansò ârî (18b), to woo him back. Mu)âwiya offers to restore Jabala’s
lands (3a, 16a), or sends )Abd Allâh ibn Mas)ada al-Fazârî to the King of the
Byzantines, and consents to Jabala’s request to be allowed to return (15b), or
sends a messenger to the Byzantines to ransom Muslim prisoners, who carries back
Jabala’s gift to Hò assân ibn Thâbit (18a). Jabala dies (15b, 16b, 25); Jabala lives on
(4b, 5 (see Section II), 8b, 9c, end, 11, 12, 17b, 18a and b, 19d, 20c, 23, 24d).
Jabala’s and his tribesmen’s role as defectors is paralleled by other Christian Arab
tribes (see note 51). He is sometimes a giant (8c, 17a, and 24b), a motif which
seems unconnected with any of the others.
No two accounts tally fully, and the fact that )Abbâsid authors actively pre-
served such discrepancies points to a diversity of thinking about epistemological
and historical questions that is the more striking as it arises out of the handling of
the same materials or types of material.
Attempts by )Abbâsid authors to give akhbâr concerning Jabala the status of
some form of organized knowledge seem to me to fall into four broad categories.
At one extreme are those works whose aim is to achieve not certainty but a
conspectus, and whose authors therefore avoid harmonizing or synthesizing. Abû
al-Faraj al-Isò fahânî’s Kitâb al-Aghânî (26), is the prime example of this approach,
in which historical uncertainty carries with it the positive concomitant of a wide
exploration of the possibilities. Al-Mas)ûdî, whose surviving history, Murûj al-
dhahab (24a and b), repeatedly draws attention to the different treatments topics
receive in his fuller (now lost) histories, and whose Tanbîh (24c), by its very title
‘alerts’ readers to the miscellaneous additions and corrections he has found since
composing them, is another explicit adherent of the uncertainty principle. At the
other extreme are al-Balâdhurî, Futûhò (18b), and al-Ya)qûbî (19), two historians
whose general outlook differs considerably, but who, in the case of Jabala at least,
seem in agreement in wishing to point up the rationally self-interested motivation
of historical actors, to synthesize a narrative line, and to establish coherence
between micro and macro-history. In between these extremes are a number of
positions which deserve individual investigation, but which I will here put into
two groups. The first contains those authors who are concerned with the dramatic
or moral charge of akhbâr, and for whom the historical sequences or situations
which provide a niche for them appear also to be of essentially moral significance;
they are less interested in verifiable data than in dramatic thrust. Ibn A)tham al-
Kûfî (5; Section II) and Ibn )Abd Rabbih belong together here, even though Ibn
A)tham is concerned only with the topic of the conquests while Ibn )Abd Rabbih
(25) deals with a spectrum of discrete topics. The second group contains all those
CHRISTIAN KING, MUSLIM APOSTATE 197

works that deal either in specialized subjects such as music (Ibn Khurradâdhbih,
Kitâb al-Lahw (22)) or in general knowledge (Ibn Qutayba, Ma‘ârif (17a)), and
which are not concerned either with a grand narrative of events or with individual
story lines, but rather with organizing memorabilia for cultural reference and
display.

II. Cycles of Themes: Jabala in Ibn A‘tham al-Kûfî ’s ‘Futûhò ’

(i) How Context Inflects the Meaning of Akhbâr

In the akhbâr attributed by various sources to al-Zubayr ibn Bakkâr, it seems that
several episodes concerning Jabala which are found separately elsewhere may once
have come together to form a cycle; thus at 16c, as transmitted by al-Dhahabî, the
sumarâ’, ‘brown-skinned ones’, sent to summon Heraclius to the faith, are first
received, resentfully, by Jabala (compare the detached episodes at 21 and 29,
above); then, under )Umar, Jabala converts and apostasizes (16a); then, following
Jabala’s flight to Byzantium, )Umar sends an ambassador to win him back (16b).
In Ibn A)tham al-Kûfî ’s Futûhò , the Jabala cycle survives complete, though not
self-contained, as part of the grander story of the Islamic conquests, with which
it is interleaved; moreover, it is an open-ended cycle, since Jabala does not die after
the attempt to win him back, as he does at 15b and 16b, but survives, along with
the Byzantines, as an enemy of Islam. (This outline is preserved and amplified in
pseudo-Wâqidî, Futûhò al-Shâm, a popular saga composed at various dates, partly
under the influence of the Crusades, where Jabala becomes an arch-traitor, bought
henchman of the Byzantines, and one of the most ubiquitous villains in the story
of the struggle between Islam and the corrupt Christians.)62 I have summarized
the central episodes of Ibn A)tham’s telling of the Jabala cycle elsewhere, focusing
on its visual iconography.63 Here I shall approach the complete cycle from a
different angle, that of the way in which it is used to draw together strands of
the surrounding grand narrative of the conquests and to deepen their message.
The basic motifs of Ibn A)tham’s Jabala cycle can all be traced to the Jabala
corpus of Section I of this paper, but in the new setting provided by Ibn A)tham
they are keyed into other bodies of motifs and gain extra meaning from them.

62
Pseudo-Wâqidî, Futûhò al-Shâm, 2 vols in 1 (Beirut: Dâr al-Jîl, [n. d.]), I, 111, 118–23,
125–28, 166, 167–72, 174, 193, 201, 209–11, 282–86, 293, 295, 299, 302, 308; II, 63.
63
Ashtiany Bray, ‘Damnation’, pp. 115–18 and pp. 121–22.
198 Julia Bray

My summary will give an impressionistic account of these well-known thematic

bundles, which belong to debates about the conquests and the ultimate destiny
of the conquerors and are widely distributed in historical akhbâr and hò adîth
literature.64
The central episodes of Ibn A)tham’s account of Jabala differ little in outline
from the account of Abû )Amr al-Shaybânî (4b). There are, however, divergences
of detail and exposition. The brief opening is more circumstantial: Jabala’s desire
to convert is situated ‘after )Umar’s return from Syria’; he comes to )Umar in
Medina with 170 men ‘of his Christian tribe’, etc. More importantly, the rela-
tionships of the parties are clarified and point to future lines of conflict. )Umar
does not, as in Abû )Amr al-Shaybânî’s version, rejoice at Jabala’s coming or
prepare his reception: it is the Ansò âr who rejoice and obtain )Umar’s permission
to receive him; later, they will try to mediate between him and )Umar. Jabala first
presents himself outside the city as a crowned king and processes through the
streets, impressing the crowds not as a convert but still as a Christian lord. Only
then does he make ‘a true conversion’ before )Umar, and only then does )Umar
bestow on him his favour, rejoice, and command the Ansò âr to honour him.
The reasons for )Umar’s caution are not explained; but they can be inferred
from what went before. This is not Jabala’s first appearance in Ibn A)tham’s
Futûhò , nor are these his first dealings with Muslims. He is first shown as a doublet
of Emperor Heraclius (the role to which he will finally revert). As the Byzantines
mass for war, the Muslim generals Abû )Ubayda and )Amr ibn al-)Âsò prepare to
engage them, mindful of Caliph Abû Bakr’s words that this will be a fight between
the forces of good and evil.65 News reaches them that Jabala, with forty thousand
Christian Arabs, splendidly armed and horsed, has arrived in the Ghûtò a of
Damascus to support the Byzantines. An embassy led by Hishâm ibn al-‘Âsò is sent
to parley with him. Jabala sits on high-piled rugs/cushions/a throne (‘alâ furush
murtafi‘a), crowned and surrounded by kings (mulûk) on gold and silver thrones.
He receives the envoys haughtily, rejects their attempts to convert him, and tells
them he has vowed to wear black until the Muslims are driven out. Warned that
neither his throne nor that of the Emperor is safe, he recognizes them as ‘the
brown-skinned ones’ (sumarâ’ ) whose coming has been foretold in the Gospels
(he does not say where), and who will conquer the world from east to west.
Wrathfully, he sends them on to the Emperor in Antioch and declares that he will

64
See, for example, Stefan Leder, ‘Heraklios erkennt den Propheten’, Zeitschrift der deutschen
morgenländischen Gesellschaft, 151 (2001), 1–42.
65
Ibn A)tham l-Kûfî, Futûhò , I, 125.
CHRISTIAN KING, MUSLIM APOSTATE 199

convert [only] if the Emperor will. A similar scene is enacted with Heraclius,66
who ends by showing the envoys icons of the prophets, etc.; but, although con-
vinced of the truth of Islam, he cannot convert because he cannot bear to lose his
kingdom. ‘God hath set a seal on their hearts’ (Qur(ân 2. 7), says Abû )Ubayda;
and the Muslims go to war. With the fall of Syria and the surrender of Jerusalem
comes the episode of Jabala’s conversion which, in the light of the preceding
narrative, can be seen as a calculated attempt to preserve his pretensions to king-
ship; a sign of this is that when he accompanies )Umar on the pilgrimage, he sets
up his brocade pavilion outside the sacred precinct, ‘and none in Mecca could
look on him but with the eye of awe [bi-‘ayn al-jalâla]’. As soon as his hopes of
being, as a royal convert, ‘more honoured in Islam’ than he was before are dashed,
he decamps to become Heraclius’s wazîr, more regal than the Emperor himself,
but despised by )Umar, and torn between regret and resentment of )Umar (the
anger the two men feel towards each other is stressed by Ibn A)tham).67 )Umar has
the last word: when Hò assân ibn Thâbit, old and blind, comes forward to receive
the gift that Jabala has sent him, )Umar comments that it is not the free gift of a
king, but something that ‘God has wrested from him despite himself ’. No more
is seen of Jabala, although he is later referred to by the general Khâlid ibn al-Walîd
during his long parley with the Byzantine general Mâhân: ‘This Jabala ibn al-
Ayham al-Ghassânî — an Arab, though he dwells among you with all his Chris-
tian cousins — is more bitter against us than yourselves.’68 The Muslim conquests
pursue their foreordained course, stopping short of the final overthrow of the
Christian empire.

(ii) Literary and Historiographical Techniques

Jabala is associated by Ibn A)tham with recurrent motifs (crown, throne, cour-
tiers, etc.) and other signs of an unchanging motivation — pride — which is
emphasized to the exclusion of the more complex sorts of relationship between

66
Al-Qalqashandî (756–821/1355–1418) suggested that hiraql might be a title of
lesser governors, not the emperor’s name, Sò ubhò al-a‘shâ (Cairo: al-Matò ba)a al-Amîriyya, 1331–
38/1913–20), III, 422.
67
Alfred-Louis de Prémare emphasizes the pre-Islamic rivalry between Quraysh, including
)Umar, and Ghassân, Les Fondations de l’islam: Entre écriture et histoire (Paris: Seuil, 2002),
pp. 53–56.
68
Ibn A)tham al-Kûfî, Futûhò , I, 244.
200 Julia Bray

him and Muslim Arabs that are found in some other items of the Jabala corpus.
Thus the second embassy to Heraclius (in which, in Ibn A)tham’s version, the
messenger is Hò udhayfa ibn al-Yamân) lacks elements prominent in the version
of Abû )Amr al-Shaybânî (4b): the messenger’s sympathy for Jabala, Jabala’s
homesickness for Islam as well as for his ancestral lands, and, when the messenger
returns to )Umar with Jabala’s gift for Hò assân ibn Thâbit, Hò assân’s defiant praise
of him. The first and third of the three tableaux in which he appears in Ibn
A)tham’s Futûhò are largely static, in contrast to the brisk action of most of the
surrounding narrative, and might therefore seem merely to be patched into it.
But within the broader narrative scheme of the Futûhò , the episodes involving
Jabala can be seen to serve a complex of functions, operating on two levels. The
first is structural and interpretative. Chronologically, the episodes form part of
the framework of the story of the irresistible moral triumph of Islam. Repeatedly
during their wars with the Muslims, the Byzantines are forced to acknowledge
that their reverses are God’s punishment for their moral decadence; repeatedly,
they fail to embrace Islam, and suffer fresh reverses.69 The same pattern applies to
Jabala. His rejection of the sumarâ’ is followed by the defeat of his protector,
Heraclius, his apostasy by the loss of his homeland, and his failure to reconvert by
the last phase of the Muslim victories over Byzantium. His own moral loss, which
he ultimately acknowledges,70 is presented, through )Umar’s grim comments, as
far more important than the loss to Islam of his numerous followers; similarly, the
Christians’ confessions of moral bankruptcy serve to gloss over the Muslims’
failure to seize the seat of their empire. This is the flag-waving aspect of Ibn
A)tham’s Futûhò that will be taken over by pseudo-Wâqidî, together with the
leitmotif of Byzantine crowns, thrones, jewels, etc., which accompany the ap-
pearances not only of Jabala but of patricians (batò âriqa) and bishops and herald
the haughty rejection of Muslim overtures that will be followed by remorse. On
this level, Jabala serves as the heightened emblem of simple moral contrasts: for
example, he dresses up to impress the crowds in Medina and Mecca, whereas,

69
Ibn A)tham al-Kûfî, Futûhò , I, 151, 219, 221, 234–36, 249, 268, 271.
In an often-cited poem of remorse which, together with the praise poems of Hò assân ibn
70

Thâbit which he commands his musicians to perform for the messenger (see 4b, above), is omitted
from the Hyderabad edition of Futûhò . All the poems are quoted in the otherwise identical text
of al-Khwârazmî (555–617/1160–1220) cited in al-Ma)arrî, Shurûhò Saqtò al-zand, ed. by M. al-
Saqqâ and others, 3rd edn, 5 vols (Cairo: al-Hay(a al-Misò riyya al-)Âmma li-al-Kitâb, 1406/1986),
I, 302. The Hyderabad edition has Jabala paraphrase his own poem, ‘some lines of which I
committed to memory’, the messenger, Hò udhayfa, says; Ibn A)tham al-Kûfî, Futûhò , I, 309.
CHRISTIAN KING, MUSLIM APOSTATE 201

immediately before, )Umar had refused to change his worn garments for white
robes on his entry to Jerusalem.71
But even at this level, all is not pure triumphalism, and there are parallels as
well as contrasts between the two sides. The most notable of these occurs just
before the above episodes, when an aged Christian monk (the outline of his name
reads ‘Z r y b ibn B r th m l â ’) mysteriously appears to a group of Muslims on
campaign in Syria. He has been charged by Jesus himself to warn )Umar of the
wrath that is to come ‘when your men shall satisfy themselves with other men and
your women with women; when your men of religion [‘ulamâ’] shall tell your
leaders only what they wish to hear […] and when you shall seek counsel of your
slaves and eunuchs’, etc.72 Unmistakably, this is a message for Ibn A)tham’s own,
)Abbâsid times; but already in the heroic age the seeds of corruption are sown, and
among )Umar’s first tasks in Jerusalem are the stripping of Muslim horsemen who
have decked themselves in Byzantine finery and the punishment of Muslims
ignorantly living in sin.73
By such touches, the Christians are shown by Ibn A)tham to be in a sense the
Muslims’ partners in history, rather than simply the enemy. The monk, Heraclius
with his icons which show the prophetic succession culminating in Muhò ammad,
the ‘jâthulîq of the Christians’ who later predicts )Umar’s successors from the
Gospels and identifies Muhò ammad as the Paraclete (fâraqlîtò ), 74 and Jabala him-
self when he proclaims the sumarâ’: all these are custodians of mysteries which
confirm or foretell God’s plan. Hence they are themselves a necessary part of that
plan (and this helps to explain why, unlike the Persians, they are spared total
defeat). Not only do they, as outsiders, hold such objective proofs of Muhò am-
mad’s prophethood as Heraclius’s icons, they also have a continuing role to play
in bearing witness that the Muslim conquests are part of the working out of the
same prophetic mission. At the same time, they hold up a mirror to the Muslims.
Christian captains and kings, among them Jabala, describe Islam to Muslim
envoys in terms which are alien, but which they recognize; through them, the early
Muslims come to a full understanding of their own identity and destiny.75 The

71
Ibn A)tham al-Kûfî, Futûhò , I, 294–95.
72
Ibn A)tham al-Kûfî, Futûhò , I, 283.
73
Ibn A)tham al-Kûfî, Futûhò , I, 295, 299–301.
74
Ibn A)tham al-Kûfî, Futûhò , II, 87.
75
For example, when Heraclius examines the Muslim envoys before showing them the icons,
he questions them about their greetings, inheritance laws, prayers, and fasting, then asks them
202 Julia Bray

Christians’ usual demeanour, on the other hand, is a warning of what the Muslims
will become if they lapse into like errors. Jabala’s example shows them the seduc-
tions of Arab pride as against Muslim modesty, and teaches them that it is a
danger which lies within themselves.
Such signs make discernible a pattern in the course of history; and on this level,
in the first part of the Futûhò , Ibn A)tham shows the part in it even of such men as
Jabala to be decipherable and to serve a purpose. Yet this is not an optimistic view,
for the Muslims are told that their ultimate (or present) destiny is corruption and
divine wrath.
On the level of explaining the causes of specific events, Ibn A)tham’s outlook
is also pessimistic. In its details, the grand scheme of history — the triumph of
true religion — seems flawed, since victory is not unqualified: the good, such as
)Umar, are thwarted by the ignorant and the wicked. Ibn A)tham does not openly
address the question of evil; but I think that he tries to solve it by presenting the
victories of evil as a matter not of force of circumstance dictated by God but of
how human beings respond to circumstance. In Jabala’s case, this is done through
a process of accumulation; Ibn A‘tham’s deployment of the three tableaux suggests
that Jabala’s weakness and moral obduracy increase, in the teeth of the success of
Islam, even as his remorse and awareness grow. So too, by juxtaposition, in the
recurrent appearances of other Christians, pride and obstinacy can be seen con-
flicting with an increasing recognition, and resentment, of the truth of Islam.
Conflicts within individuals, on the one hand, and between individuals, on the
other, are made by Ibn A)tham to function as the causes of historical misfortune;
he extends the technique of juxtaposition so as to show the contrasts and grada-
tions of contrast between characters that bring them into collision: Jabala’s
impetuosity, for example, makes a poor showing against the greater statesmanship
of his double, Heraclius, but he and his opposite, )Umar, display equal rigidity;
unlike either Heraclius or )Umar, however, Jabala, disastrously, is simultaneously
weak and strong — too weak to control himself, too strong to yield to remorse.
Finally, if contrast is an explanatory tool — it explains the past, and suggests the
mechanisms which may also shape the future — it is also dramatic. There is an
unsuspected irony latent in )Umar’s austerity when newly master of Jerusalem: in
retrospect, it will bode ill for the shameless ostentation that Jabala will shortly
display in spite of just having lost a battle.

what are the strongest words they use. Their reply: ‘There is no god but God; God is all-great’,
makes the roof crack open, startling the Muslims with a portent of their own might; Ibn A)tham
al-Kûfî, Futûhò , I, 128–29.
CHRISTIAN KING, MUSLIM APOSTATE 203

Conclusion: Corpora, Indexes, and the Plotting of Meaning

Textually, Ibn A)tham’s scissors-and-paste technique does not differ in basics from
that of most )Abbâsid authors: he recycles and juxtaposes akhbâr. Yet he creates
a coherent narrative by the simple device of angling akhbâr against each other in
a play of contrasts; and it is in his narrative’s saturated and therefore seemingly
ineluctible coherence that its message lies. Other authors’ uses of materials in the
Jabala corpus are more open and varied in texture, and hence in meaning, because
their choices and juxtapositions of material are guided by other principles than
contrast. The differences in sense that different styles produce cannot be inferred
from a summarized corpus or a motif index; on the other hand, when one tries to
navigate bulky and complex sources without such tools, their style is poorly
visible, and much of their essential meaning cannot be grasped.

Université de Paris 8 — Saint-Denis

 V ARIATIONS ON AN E GYPTIAN
F EMALE M ARTYR L EGEND : H ISTORY,
H AGIOGRAPHY, AND THE G ENDERED P OLITICS
OF M EDIEVAL A RAB R ELIGIOUS IDENTITY

Stephen J. Davis

Introduction

A
study of late antique and medieval sources from Egypt vividly demon-
strates how the modern categories of ‘history’ and ‘hagiography’ were
often blurred in literary practice. Both Christian and Muslim writers
who produced historical chronicles frequently wove stories of saints’ lives into
the fabric of the ‘histories’ that they composed and edited. In this short essay,
I take a closer look at this phenomenon in three Arabic histories from medieval
Egypt.
The first is the History of the Patriarchs of the Coptic Church.1 Traditionally
attributed to the famous Copto-Arabic theologian Sâwîrus ibn al-Muqaffa), it
was in fact a multi-generational compendium of Egyptian church history that was
redacted and translated in the eleventh century by an Arabic editor named
Mawhûb ibn Mansò ûr ibn Mufarrij. In compiling his material, Mawhûb relied on
several earlier Coptic sources. One of these sources was a mid-eighth-century
account written by a certain John the Deacon who was a contemporary of the
Alexandrian patriarch Michael I (743–67 CE).2

1
History of the Patriarchs of the Coptic Church of Alexandria, ed. and trans. by Basil T. A.
Evetts, PO, 1.2, 1.4, 5.1, 10.5 (1904–14) (HP); and the continuations of this work, ed. and trans.
by Yassâh )Abd al-Masîh and others (Cairo: Société d’archéologie copte, 1943–74).
2
For an accessible account of the redaction of the History of the Patriarchs, with bibliography,
see Johannes den Heijer, ‘History of the Patriarchs of Alexandria’, The Coptic Encyclopedia, ed. by
206 Stephen J. Davis

The second is the History of the Churches and Monasteries of Egypt (Ta’rîkh al-
kanâ’is wa al-adyira), edited by Abû al-Makârim and others in the late twelfth and
early thirteenth centuries.3 One of the most important sources for the study of
medieval Egyptian monasticism, the HCME records a detailed property register
for Christian churches and monasteries in Cairo, and dedicates separate sections
to Alexandria, the Delta, and the provinces of Upper Egypt.
The third is a historical and topographical work composed by the Muslim
historian al-Maqrîz î in the early fifteenth century.4 The work — entitled al-
Mawâ’izò wa al-i‘tibâr fî dhikr al-khitò atò wa al-athâr, but known as al-Khitò atò
(Territories) for short — is a social and topographical history of Egypt and the
surrounding regions (including Nubia, the Sudan, and Abyssinia). Monumental
in scope, it includes a substantial section devoted to the Copts of Egypt, in which
al-Maqrîzî traces their history and gives accounts of their patriarchal leadership,
sects, liturgy, and organization, including an inventory of their monasteries and
churches.
In each of these three historical works, one finds variations on the same female
saint’s legend. This legend, which seems to have been drawn from the common
stock of ancient Middle Eastern folklore,5 tells the story of a young Christian

Aziz S. Atiya, 8 vols (New York: Macmillan, 1991), IV , 1238–42. For a more detailed treatment
of this subject, see his monograph entitled Mawhûb ibn Mansûr ibn Mufarrið et l’historiographie
copte-arabe: Étude sur la composition de ‘l’Histoire des Patriarches d’Alexandrie’, CSCO, 513,
Subsidia, 83 (1989).
3
History of the Churches and Monasteries of Egypt, ed. and trans. by Basil T. A. Evetts
(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1895; repr. Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias, 2001) (HCME); I also cite the
edition by S. al-Suryânî, Ta’rîkh al-kanâ’is wa al-adyira fî al-qarn al-thân î ‘ashar al-milâdî, 4 vols
(Cairo: 1984; repr. 1999–2000). On the role of Abû al-Makârim (and others) as author/editor
of this work, see Aziz S. Atiya, ‘Abû al-Makârim’, Coptic Encyclopedia, I, 23; and Johannes den
Heijer, ‘The Composition of the History of the Churches and Monasteries of Egypt: Some
Preliminary Remarks’, in Acts of the Fifth International Congress of Coptic Studies, ed. by D.
Johnson, 2 vols (Rome: CIM, 1993), II, 209–19. Den Heijer actually identifies four different
editorial layers to the work: 1) an early layer with two or three compilers, including Abû al-
Makârim (c. 1160–87), 2) an intermediate layer (c. 1190), 3) a later layer (c. 1200–20), and 4) a
final abridgement (c. 1339–49).
4
Al-Maqrîzî, Al-Mawâ’izò wa al-i‘tibâr fî dhikr al-khitò atò wa al-athâr, ed. by Muhammad
Zeinahum and Madihat al-Sharqâwa (Cairo: Maktabat Madbûlî, 1998). On al-Maqrîzî’s treat-
ment of the Copts, see Aziz S. Atiya, ‘Maqrîzî, Taqîy al-Dîn al-’, Coptic Encyclopedia, V , 1525.
5
Giorgio Levi Della Vida, ‘A Christian Legend in Moslem Garb’, Byzantion, 15 (1940–41),
144–57, identifies a number of examples of this story type and tentatively attempts to trace its
literary origins and genealogy.
VARIATIONS ON AN EGYPTIAN FEMALE MARTYR LEGEND 207

woman, an Egyptian nun, whose monastery is besieged by a marauding army

during the turbulent eighth-century transition from Umayyad to )Abbâsid rule.
In this study, I turn my attention to the reception and adaptation of this hagio-
graphical narrative in medieval Egyptian-Arabic historical literature. In reviewing
this literature, I want to highlight the way that representations of the female body
function in relation to competing discourses of Arab religious identity. Using
insights drawn from gender studies and post-colonialist criticism, I will argue that
the authors of these three texts each differently use the body of the female saint
as a metaphor or tool strategically designed to underscore, alter, or de-emphasize
social and religious boundaries between Muslims and Christians in Egyptian
society — boundaries that were constantly being renegotiated in a delicate balance
of resistance, complicity, and power.

Body of Resistance: Writing an Anonymous Female Saint into the

‘History of the Patriarchs’

In the History of the Patriarchs, our saint’s story appears in a biographical account
dedicated to Patriarch Michael I. Originally recorded by his contemporary, an
eighth-century scribe named John the Deacon, Michael’s biography contains an
intriguing mix of historical and hagiographical material. Thus, in the midst of an
account of the civil war in Egypt during the transition from Umayyad to )Abbâsid
rule — and of the political and economic troubles that the Coptic patriarch faced
during that time of turmoil — the biographer pauses to present the account of a
pious Egyptian nun who, in order to preserve her virginity, marvellously tricks her
Umayyad captors into executing her as a martyr.
The inclusion of this story in Michael’s biography is significant for under-
standing the way that John the Deacon, as an early medieval historian, was seeking
to define Coptic religious identity over against an Islamic political hegemony. In
the HP, the military retreat to Egypt by the Umayyad caliph )Abd al-Malik ibn
Marwân ibn Mûsa (Marwân II) provides the historical setting for the events
described in the anonymous female saint’s legend.6 As )Abbâsid forces were ad-
vancing in the East, the coffers of the Umayyad caliphate had begun to dwindle,
and as a result, the local governor serving under Marwân in Egypt (a man also
surnamed )Abd al-Malik) began to intensify the tax demands placed upon the

6
For a helpful summary of these events, see Mark Swanson, The Coptic Papacy in Islamic
Egypt: The Egyptian Church and its Leadership from the Rise of Islam to the Ottoman Conquest
(Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, forthcoming), chap. 2.
208 Stephen J. Davis

Christian community. Unable (or unwilling) to meet those demands, the Coptic
patriarch Michael and his attendants were thrown into prison for seventeen days
before being released with the order to collect further tax moneys in Upper
Egypt.7 However, at the same time, in the Bashmur district of the Egyptian Delta,
armed riots and revolts broke out among Copts in response to the Umayyad
imposition of higher taxes:
Some of the Bashmurites had rebelled against )A bd al-Malik (the local governor), under
their leader Mennas, son of Apacyrus, besides other insurgents, inhabitants of Shubra near
Sanbat. And they seized that province, and refused to pay taxes to )A bd al-Malik or to the
chief of the Divân of Misr; and at last the Lord visited them, and gave them the victory. For
)A bd al-Malik brought out an army against them, but they put him to flight by the power
of God, and slew his soldiers with the edge of the sword. And he dispatched another army,
and a fleet of ships on the river, and by the power of God they put all his men to flight or
slew them. And when Marwân reached Egypt, all this was made known to him. So he
wrote letters of pardon for those rebels; but as they would not accept him, he dispatched
against them a great army of Egyptian Muslims and of those who came in his company
from Syria. But this army could not reach them at all, because they fortified themselves in
marshy places […]. And as the troops watched the Bashmurites from a distance, the latter
marched out against them at night by ways they knew, and took the soldiers by surprise,
and killed those whom they could, and carried off their goods and their horses; and as
(Marwân’s) troops grew tired of these attacks, they marched away and left them.8

Here, the HP effectively depicts the Bashmurites as a Christian guerrilla resist-

ance force that holed itself up in the inaccessible marshes of the Delta and made
a series of successful raids against the Muslim army commanded by Marwân.
When Marwân’s army subsequently takes over Alexandria, he arrests Patriarch
Michael once again for being unable to control these renegade Christians from
the Delta.9 Michael himself seems resolute and uncooperative with his Muslim
captors while in captivity; however, we later find out that he had earlier written
to the Bashmurites, forbidding them to fight, but that ‘they would not listen to
him’.10
This depiction of indigenous Coptic resistance and of Michael’s mediating
leadership role in the HP is noteworthy on a couple of levels. First, it conforms
quite closely to the social picture I have described in my book The Early Coptic

7
HP, 18, Michael I, PO, 5.1, pp. 134–39.
8
HP, 18, Michael I, PO, 5.1, pp. 156–57.
9
The general of Marwân’s army asks the Patriarch accusingly, ‘How could you permit your
children, the Christians to fight against us?’ (HP, 18, Michael I, PO, 5.1, p. 160).
10
HP, 18, Michael I, PO, 5.1, p. 162.
VARIATIONS ON AN EGYPTIAN FEMALE MARTYR LEGEND 209

Papacy with regard to Christian responses to early Islamic rule in Egypt.11 Here
again, one encounters variegated forms of resistance to Islamic rule and the social
fragmentation of the Coptic community over competing claims to authority. The
Bashmurites’ armed rebellion — celebrated by the editor of the HP as a manifest-
ation of ‘the power of God’ 12 — stands in tension with Patriarch Michael’s more
muted vision of a Christian resistance that is tempered by forms of compromise
and complicity.
Second (and more immediately), this complex political scenario serves as the
historical backdrop for the female saint’s legend that I will be discussing here.
Repelled by the Bashmurite resistance in the Delta, Marwân leads a campaign of
destruction in Upper Egypt, where he authorizes his followers to ‘pillage every
town that you reach, and slay the inhabitants’.13 In the HP, this campaign is pre-
sented as part of an effort to coerce the Coptic population into converting to
Islam. Thus, Marwân publishes an edict that ‘if any of the people of Egypt refuse
to enter into my religion, and to pray as I do, and to adopt my creed, I will slay
him and impale his body’.14 The narrative describes in graphic detail how on this
campaign his soldiers went through towns killing officials, kidnapping women,
servants, and children, and burning monasteries ‘until they came to the Eastern
district’ where there was ‘a convent of nuns, virgins who lived there as the brides
of Christ, thirty in number’.15
The HP proceeds to tell the story of a beautiful, young virgin who was seized
by Marwân’s marauding soldiers and removed from her convent. While the
soldiers were casting lots to determine what to do with her, the woman requested
to speak with their commander, saying that she had something of great value to
give him — a medicament with which he and his soldiers might anoint themselves
before battle so that they would be impervious to injury. In exchange for her
freedom, she offered him this wondrous ointment; and if they did not trust her
words, she offered to demonstrate its efficacy herself: ‘I will anoint my neck in
your presence; then bring the best sword that your men have, and let the strongest
among them strike me, and I shall not be cut at all.’16 At this point, the narrator

11
Stephen J. Davis, The Early Coptic Papacy: The Egyptian Church and its Leadership in Late
Antiquity (Cairo: AUC, 2004), chap. 4.
12
HP, 18, Michael I, PO, 5.1, p. 157.
13
HP, 18, Michael I, PO, 5.1, p. 162.
14
HP, 18, Michael I, PO, 5.1, p. 158.
15
HP, 18, Michael I, PO, 5.1, p. 163.
16
HP, 18, Michael I, PO, 5.1, pp. 163–64.
210 Stephen J. Davis

of the tale reveals her true motives: in fact, she ‘desired to die by the sword’ in
order that she might preserve the purity of her body against defilement. Then, she
‘brought out a phial containing oil’ that had been blessed by holy men, and ‘she
anointed her neck and face and all her body with it, and prayed kneeling upon her
knees, and stretched out her neck’ to receive the sword.17 Finally, a young soldier
sprang forward and struck at her neck, and her head fell from her body. The story
ends with the repentance of Marwân’s Muslim followers: after they recognized her
virtue, ‘they touched no more of the nuns and virgins, but left them in peace and
departed glorifying God’.18
Here, I want to concentrate on the female body of the saint as a site of cultural
resistance in this narrative.19 In analysing modern colonialist discourses, Kadiatu
Kanneh has written about the ‘feminizing’ of colonized territory — about how
the figure of ‘woman’ comes to signify the colonized land or subject peoples.20 In
such discourses, the violation of female bodies (whether threatened or actual)
often serves as a graphic metaphor for the rape and domination of the colonized
country by its colonizers. Frantz Fanon has described colonial resolve in these
terms as an impulse to ‘conquer the women’ and to ‘find them behind the veil
where they hide themselves’.21 In literature produced by members of the colonized
societies, such discourses of domination are often assimilated and subverted. How
might these insights from post-colonialist criticism provide us with a theoretical
vocabulary for describing Coptic identity politics as a subject people under early
Islam?22 In the case of the HP, one sees how the female martyr’s body has been re-

17
HP, 18, Michael I, PO, 5.1, p. 164.
18
HP, 18, Michael I, PO, 5.1, p. 164.
19
Bill Ashcroft, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin, ‘Introduction to Part X : The Body and
Performance’, in their The Post-Colonial Studies Reader (London : Routledge, 1995), pp. 321–22,
write, ‘The body […] has become then the literal site on which resistance and oppression have
struggled, with the weapons being in both cases the physical signs of cultural difference’ (p. 322).
20
Kadiatu Kanneh, ‘Feminism and the Colonial Body’, in Post-Colonial Studies Reader (see
n. 19, above), pp. 346–48 (p. 346).
21
Frantz Fanon, ‘Algeria Unveiled’, in A Dying Colonialism (L’an cinq de la révolution
Algérienne), trans. by François Maspéro (New York: Grove, 1970), pp. 35–67 (pp. 37–38).
22
I am not suggesting here that the situation of the early medieval Copts was identical with
that of colonized peoples after the modern rise of the nation-state — far from it. Rather, I am
suggesting that post-colonialist literature may be the source of instructive analogies regarding
the (heterogeneous) ways that resistance to power came to expression under early Islam. On
heterogeneity in settings of resistance, see Gayatri Spivak, ‘Subaltern Studies: Deconstructing
Historiography’, in her In Other Worlds: Essays in Cultural Politics (London: Routledge, 1987),
VARIATIONS ON AN EGYPTIAN FEMALE MARTYR LEGEND 211

appropriated and rewritten as a site of cultural resistance: her stratagem to pre-

serve the purity of her body is successful, and her resulting death manifests a
transformative power over her captors in the story.
A subtle recapitulation and reversal highlights the fact that the martyred
body of this anonymous female monk stands in for the body politic of the Coptic
Church. Earlier in the biography of Michael I, we learn how the Patriarch himself
was imprisoned and faced the threat of martyrdom. After refusing to offer Mar-
wân a bribe to secure his own release,23 Michael is seized, hit on the head with a
rod two hundred times (with no ill effect), and then finally dragged off to be be-
headed. The narrative describes how Michael ‘readily with joy stretched out his
neck’, but he survived when the Muslim general changed his mind at the last
minute and decided that he should be spared.24
The story of our Egyptian nun comes immediately after the narration of these
events, and in effect her tale recapitulates and brings the account of Michael’s
near-martyrdom to its fulfilment. She too is described as having ‘stretched out her
neck’ to the sword, only in her case there was no last-minute reprieve. Instead, she
anonymously entered the ranks of the martyrs. As such, this female martyr func-
tions in the narrative as a surrogate for Patriarch Michael, and more broadly her
martyred body epitomizes the Coptic community as a whole, which is presented
in the HP as besieged and beleaguered and yet still undefiled, upheld by the
power and glory of God. By inscribing the body of the female martyr upon the
corporate body of the Coptic community headed by Patriarch Michael, the editor
of the HP effectively creates a new subject of cultural resistance — a new subject
that emerges out of (in Frantz Fanon’s words) ‘the dismemberment […] inflicted
by the coloniser’s destructive gaze’.25

pp. 197–221 (pp. 204, 211); idem, ‘Can the Subaltern Speak?’, in Marxism and the Interpretation
of Culture, ed. by Cary Nelson and Lawrence Grossberg (London: Macmillan, 1988), pp. 271–
316 (p. 284); Bart Moore-Gilbert, Postcolonial Theory: Contexts, Practices, Politics (London:
Verso, 1997), pp. 75–76; Nima Naghibi, ‘Colonial Discourse’, in Encyclopedia of Postcolonial
Studies (London: Greenwood, 2001), pp. 102–07, especially pp. 103–04.
23
HP, 18, Michael I, PO, 5.1, p. 161. While the Chalcedonian (Melkite) patriarch Cosmas
is said to have paid a thousand dinars for his release, Michael, the archbishop of the anti-
Chalcedonian communion in Egypt, refuses, saying, ‘There is nothing in my church; therefore,
I give myself instead of the money.’
24
HP, 18, Michael I, PO, 5.1, pp. 161–62.
25
Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, trans. by Constance Farrington (Harmonds-
worth: Penguin, 1967), p. 177; Michael Dash, ‘In Search of the Lost Body: Redefining the Subject
212 Stephen J. Davis

Domesticated Bodies: The Reception and Adaptation of an Egyptian

Martyr Legend

Let me now turn to the reception and adaptation of this martyr legend in two
later Egyptian-Arabic histories, both of which are (at least partially) dependent
on the History of Patriarchs, but do not seem to be directly dependent on each
other. I shall treat the two sources in chronological order, first discussing Abû al-
Makârim’s twelfth- or thirteenth-century History of the Churches and Monasteries
of Egypt, before moving on to examine the fifteenth-century account by the
Muslim historian al-Maqrîzî.
The History of the Churches and Monasteries of Egypt preserves a slightly modi-
fied version of the same saint’s legend, albeit one with a much more complicated
hagiographical genealogy. Abû al-Makârim and the other scribes who compiled
this work prove to be more adept storytellers than the editor of the HP. Most
notably, the narrative leaves the reader in suspense until the very end as to wheth-
er the ointment will indeed preserve the woman’s life (in contrast, the HP tips the
reader off early on in the story regarding its denouement).
In places, the editors significantly expand upon the original story: indeed,
key details change in the retelling.26 First, in the HCME, both the location of the
women’s monastery and the name of the heroic virgin are explicitly identified.
These are not innocuous new details. Rather, as Paul Carter has observed, the act
of naming serves as a means of creating a ‘place’ out of (generic) space, a means of
producing ‘a space with a history’.27 The women’s monastery is identified as Deir
al-Hamidât (Dayr al-Humaydût), which is located on an island village in the
middle of the Nile near the Upper Egyptian town of Qena.28 The virgin herself is

in Caribbean Literature’, in Post-Colonial Studies Reader (see n. 19, above), pp. 332–35 (p. 333)
(first publ. in Kunapipi, 11 (1989), 17–26).
26
For a brief discussion of the relation between the HCME and HP versions, see Johannes
den Heijer, ‘The Influence of the History of the Patriarchs of Alexandria on the History of the
Churches and Monasteries of Egypt by Abû l-Makârim (and Abû Sò âlih?)’, Parole de l’Orient, 19
(1994), 415–39 (especially pp. 423–25).
27
Paul Carter, ‘Spatial History’, in Post-Colonialist Studies Reader (see n. 19, above), pp.
375–77 (p. 377) (first publ. in his The Road to Botany Bay: An Essay in Spatial History (London:
Faber, 1987)).
28
Abû al-Makârim, HCME, fol. 84a; Tarîkh, ed. al-Suryânî, II, 111 n. 2. See Levi Della Vida,
‘A Christian Legend’, p. 151 n. 20. Due to confusion over the pointing of the Arabic script, Evetts
transcribes the name as Deir al-Jimûdât, which he is unable to identify (Arabic text: p. 106;
English trans.: p. 240 n. 1).
VARIATIONS ON AN EGYPTIAN FEMALE MARTYR LEGEND 213

identified as ‘a young maiden named Febronia, who had come from Syria to the
convent when she was three years old and had grown up within its walls’.29
The naming of the woman in the HCME version provides us with the crucial
clue for unravelling the work’s more knotty literary-cultural inheritance. In late
antiquity the name of Febronia was indeed originally associated with a female
saint from Syria who had reputedly been martyred during Diocletian’s perse-
cution in the early fourth century. Her late sixth- or early seventh-century Syriac
vita describes how she was dragged from her convent by an invading Roman army
(chap. 18) and how she endured a series of ignominies and brutal tortures in order
to preserve her bodily purity — including being stripped naked before a crowd,
having her back lacerated with rods and nails, being burnt with fire, having seven
of her teeth pulled out of her mouth, having her breasts cut off and the wounds
cauterized with flames, and having both hands and both feet chopped off with an
axe — before finally having her head severed from her body by the executioner’s
sword (chaps 23–31).30 Febronia came to be venerated as a saint in Nisibis, Syria,
where her martyr shrine and holy relics became destinations for pilgrimage in
the late sixth century. In the seventh century, her Life was translated into
Greek and her cult became active also in Constantinople, where she was linked
with Saint Artemios, who was renowned as a healer of testicular infections and
hernias.31 A chapel was dedicated to her at the Church of St John the Forerunner
in the capital, and one miracle account from the Artemios collection relates
how the female martyr intervened at that chapel to aid a young woman afflicted
with a genital hernia.32 Later, devotion to Febronia spread to Italy and France,33

29
Abû al-Makârim, HCME, fol. 84b; ed. and trans. Evetts, p. 107 (text) and p. 240 (trans.);
Tarîkh, ed. al-Suryânî , II, 111.
30
Life of Saint Febronia [= BHO, 302], in Acta Martyrum et Sanctorum, ed. by Paul Bedjan,
7 vols (Paris: Via dicta de Sèvres 1890–97; repr. Hildesheim: Olms, 1968), V , 573–615; trans. in
Holy Women of the Syrian Orient, ed. and trans. by Susan Ashbrook Harvey and Sebastian Brock,
rev. edn, Transformation of the Classical Heritage, 13 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of
California Press, 1998), pp. 152–76; see also J. Simon, ‘Note sur l’original de la Passion de Ste
Fébronie’, AnalBoll, 42 (1924), 69–76.
31
Susan Ashbrook Harvey, ‘Introduction’, Life of Saint Febronia, in Holy Women of the Syrian
Orient, pp. 151–52 (p. 151); John W. Nesbitt, ‘Introduction’, in The Miracles of St Artemios, ed.
by Virgil S. Crisafulli and John W. Nesbitt (Leiden: Brill, 1997), pp. 1–30 (pp. 13–14).
32
Miracle 24, in The Miracles of St Artemios, pp. 140–45.
33
Ashbrook Harvey, ‘Introduction’, p. 151; Paul Devos, ‘L’œuvre hagiographique de
Guarimpotus, hagiographe napolitain, III, La passion de Ste Fébronie BHL 2843’, AnalBoll, 76
(1958), 164–70.
214 Stephen J. Davis

as well as to Egypt, where her story was commemorated in the Coptic Synax-
arium.34
In the context of this widespread Mediterranean devotion, the association of
Febronia’s name with a formerly anonymous female martyr from Egypt probably
represents an attempt to Egyptianize her cult, or at least to promote its Egyptian
expression via an alternative martyrological narrative.35 Indeed, the account in the
HCME would seem to provide evidence for local devotion to an Egyptian martyr
named Febronia in the Upper Nile Valley around Qena in the thirteenth century
CE. One further narrative detail — Febronia’s prayer for deliverance before an
icon of the Virgin Mary — suggests that her Egyptian martyr cult may have been
closely linked with local Marian devotion.36
In addition to the naming of the female martyr and the location of her mona-
stery, another notable alteration to the legend has relevance to my study of the
relation between history, hagiography, and Copto-Arabic religious identity. In
the HCME, the Bashmurite army, far from being a guerrilla resistance force, is
portrayed as assisting Marwân in his war, and it is this army which is sent by him
to wreak havoc upon the monasteries of Upper Egypt.37 What is the reason for
this radical shift in the representation of the Bashmurites? While it may have been
the result of confusion on the part of Abû al-Makârim and the other twelfth- and

34
Synaxarium Alexandrinum, ed. and trans. by I. Forget, CSCO, 67, 90, Scriptores Arabici,
ser. 3, 19, 2 vols (1912–26), II, 199–200 (trans. pp. 196–97).
35
Variants in the Arabic transcription of Febronia’s name (e.g., Qephronia and Ephronia)
may have been one source of confusion in Egypt between the original Syrian hagiographical
tradition and this alternative legend of a beheaded female martyr (who in one Byzantine version
goes by the name Euphrasia): den Heijer, Mawhûb, pp. 176–77 n. 42; and ‘Influence’, p. 424
n. 27. On the Byzantine legend of Euphrasia (recorded by Nikephoros Kallistos), see Levi Della
Vida, ‘A Christian Legend’, p. 148. For a similar example of how a foreign saint’s cult could be
Egyptianized through the process of hagiographical re-narration, see Stephen J. Davis, The Cult
of Saint Thecla: A Tradition of Women’s Piety in Late Antiquity, Oxford Early Christian Studies
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 177–90.
36
Abû al-Makârim, HCME, fol. 85a; ed. and trans. Evetts, p. 108 (text) and p. 241 (trans.);
Tarîkh, ed. al-Suryânî, II, 112. The Martyrdom of Saints Paese and Thecla evince a similar impulse
to tie devotion to the Egyptian Saint Thecla to the cult of the Virgin Mary in the Nile Valley:
Martyrdom of Saints Paese and Thecla, fol. 69, sect. V i, lines 6–8, 13–18, in Four Martyrdoms
from the Pierpont Morgan Coptic Codices, ed. by Eve A. E. Reymond and John W. B. Barns
(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1973), p. 57; Davis, The Cult of Saint Thecla, pp. 188–89.
37
Abû al-Makârim, HCME, fol. 84a–b; ed. and trans. Evetts, p. 107 (text) and p. 240 (trans.);
Tarîkh, ed. al-Suryânî, II, 111.
VARIATIONS ON AN EGYPTIAN FEMALE MARTYR LEGEND 215

thirteenth-century editors,38 it is also possible that this change was also aided by
an impulse toward historical revisionism, through which some medieval Christian
editors, eager to preserve good relations with their Muslim neighbours, sought
to suppress or downplay the memory of Islamic persecution and militant Coptic
resistance from the early Islamic period. If this latter revisionist scenario is true,
it would mark how the appropriation and adaptation of this Egyptian martyr
legend played into the negotiation of Arab religious identity both through ex-
pressions of cultural complicity (represented by the Bashmurite collusion with
Marwân) and through forms of resistance (embodied by the martyr Febronia
herself).
In the HCME, the severed body of Febronia mirrors a fragmented Coptic
community — a community where internal factionalism brings with it the threat
of violence. However, at the same time, Febronia’s victory in martyrdom — in
particular, her success in preserving her virginity and keeping her body inviolate
— manifests the ‘power of God’ 39 and serves to resolve the intra-communal
tension in the narrative. In the end, the Bashmurites, finally comprehending
Febronia’s heroic resolve, ‘did no injury henceforth to any of those virgins, but let
them go, and refrained from the undertakings which they had planned, and
restored to the nuns all that they had pillaged from their convent’.40
In contrast to both the HP and the HCME, which were produced in an eccle-
siastical setting, al-Maqrîzî’s Territories witnesses the earliest reception of the
legend by a Muslim author in Egypt. At first glance, al-Maqrîzî’s account seems to
represent a straightforward borrowing and abbreviated summary of the story as
it is found in the HP. His rendition of the martyr story is short enough to quote
in full:
[Marwân] attacked the Patriarch and the Christians, and set fire to Egypt and its
crops. A number of monastic women were taken prisoner at some of the (monastic)
houses. He [Marwân] tried to seduce one of them in her soul, but she used stratagems to
deceive him. She fended him off by virtue of the fact that his desire was for an oil [duhn]
that she had. If a person was anointed with it, the sword would not harm him in any way
[lit. ‘do anything to him’]. And she got him to trust that it would make him strong by
means of a trial/experiment on herself. And her deception of him came to pass. She

38
Den Heijer (‘Influence’, p. 425 n. 31) discusses an ambiguity in the phrasing of the primi-
tive recension of the HP that may have been a source of confusion for the editors of the HCME.
39
Abû al-Makârim, HCME, fol. 85b; ed. and trans. Evetts, p. 190 (text) and p. 242 (trans.);
Tarîkh, ed. al-Suryânî, II, 113.
40
Abû al-Makârim, HCME, fol. 86a; ed. and trans. Evetts, p. 109 (text) and p. 242 (trans.);
Tarîkh, ed. al-Suryânî, II, 113.
216 Stephen J. Davis

brought out oil [zayt] with which she anointed herself. Then, she stretched out her neck
and he struck it with his sword and caused her head to fly off. Thus he learned that she
chose death over sexual immorality.41

The details of this brief epitome closely follow the HP: in the midst of Mar-
wân’s pillaging of Egyptian monasteries, an anonymous female monk preserves her
purity by tricking her captor into making her a martyr. However, there are a
couple of telltale differences in this account. First, it is Marwân alone (and not his
Muslim followers) who is implicated in the destruction of Christian monasteries
and the attempted corruption of the anonymous virgin. Second, one sees in al-
Maqrîzî’s version a heightened attention given to the threat of sexual seduction
and the particular moral lesson drawn at the end. The virgin is presented by al-
Maqrîzî not as an icon of cultural resistance, but as an ethical exemplar in her
choice of death over sexual immorality (in Arabic, al-zinâ’ ), a vice that would
have been commonly frowned upon by his Muslim and Christian readers alike.
In his recent scholarship,42 Sidney Griffith has focused on the cultivation of al-
insânîya (a spirit of ‘humaneness’ or ‘humanity’) as a shared virtue in the apolo-
getic and philosophical literature produced by Arabic Christian and Muslim
writers during the medieval period. This cultivation of al-insânîya sought grounds
for rapprochement between Muslims and Christians on the basis of a common be-
longing to a polity in which all mutually participated in the promotion of human
values. For advocates of al-insânîya, ascetics often served as important models.
I would argue that in the case of al-Maqrîzî’s adaptation of this female martyr
legend one sees a similar appeal to moral values (i.e., the eschewal of al-zinâ’ ) that
cut across lines of religious identity and served as a common ground for the pro-
duction of an agreed upon social polity. Thus, in al-Maqrîzî, one sees how an
anonymous female martyr could be further domesticated — transformed from a
minoritarian icon of resistance to a majoritarian model of social concord and
moral consensus.43

41
Al-Maqrîzî, Al-Mawâ’i , p. 768.
42
Sidney Griffith, ‘Elias of Nisibis’ Treatise On Dispelling Sorrows: The Philosophical Life in
Muslim/Christian Intellectual Exchange in Late Abbasid Times’, paper presented at the 2005
Society of Biblical Literature Annual Meeting, 20 November 2005; see also his book The Church
in the Shadow of the Mosque: Christians and Muslims in the World of Islam (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 2008), especially p. 125.
43
It is interesting that al-Maqrîzî adapted and re-presented this martyr legend in such terms
in the early fifteenth century, a period of heightened tension between the Coptic community and
the wider Islamic society.
VARIATIONS ON AN EGYPTIAN FEMALE MARTYR LEGEND 217

Conclusion

In all three of the sources that I have examined, one sees how the body of a female
martyr was used to write — and then rewrite — Coptic history and communal
identity in the context of medieval Islamic society. In the History of the Patriarchs,
the anonymous virgin stands in for the body politic of the Coptic Church as an
icon of resistance against Arab military incursion into the Egyptian countryside.
A century or two later, the History of the Churches and Monasteries of Egypt
names, localizes, and (in the process) subtly domesticates the female martyr by
recasting the narrative conflict as one complicated by Christian factionalism in
Egypt. Finally, in al-Maqrîzî’s Territories, we see the saint in summary, co-opted
as a majoritarian symbol of a social concord based on common virtues that cut
across the dividing lines of Egyptian religious identity. In this complex history of
reception, the malleability of the female martyr’s body is on full display as it is by
stages transformed from an icon of resistance to a physical sign of moral hegemony
and cultural consent.
Yale University
 S AINTHOOD A CHIEVED : C OPTIC
P ATRIARCH Z ACHARIAS A CCORDING
TO T HE H ISTORY OF THE P ATRIARCHS

Mark N. Swanson

Introduction

A
s is well known, the fundamental source for the history of the Coptic
Church in its first centuries under Islamic rule is the Arabic-language
work usually entitled The History of the Patriarchs. The core of this work
was compiled from Coptic-language sources and translated into Arabic by a team
led by the Alexandrian deacon and lay notable Mawhûb ibn Mansò ûr ibn Mufarrij,
starting in 1088 CE; Mawhûb and a number of continuators then brought the
work up to date (through the patriarchate of John VI, 1189–1216) with addi-
tional entries composed in Arabic.1 While The History of the Patriarchs is usually
classified as a work of history, hagiographical elements can be quite prominent,
depending in part upon the accomplishments and/or sufferings of the particular
patriarch, on the one hand, and on the worldview and historical vision of the
author who tells his story, on the other.2

This essay develops the interpretation of the patriarchate of Zacharias found in my book on the
medieval Coptic Orthodox patriarchs: Mark N. Swanson, The Coptic Papacy in Islamic Egypt,
The Popes of Egypt, 2 (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, forthcoming), chap. 4.
1
See Johannes den Heijer, Mawhûb ibn Mansò ûr ibn Mufarrið et l’historiographie copto-
arabe: Étude sur la composition de ‘l’Histoire des Patriarches d’Alexandrie’, CSCO, 513, Subsidia
83 (Leuven: Peeters, 1989).
2
See Swanson, The Coptic Papacy. On the interplay between historiography and hagiography
in the part of The History of the Patriarchs composed in Arabic, see Brigitte Voile, ‘Les Miracles
des saints dans la deuxième partie de l’Histoire des Patriarches d’Alexandrie: Historiographie ou
220 Mark N. Swanson

The present brief study examines hagiographical elements found in the biog-
raphy of Pope Zacharias, the sixty-fourth patriarch, who reigned from 1004
until 1032.3 This biography is part of a set of ten (from Michael, the fifty-sixth
patriarch, to Shenoute II, the sixty-fifth) originally written by Michael (Mîkhâ(îl)
al-Damrâwî, Bishop of Tinnîs, in about the year 1050.4 Bishop Michael displays
both a keen interest in secular history and a startlingly frank attitude towards the
foibles and failings of his own Coptic Orthodox Church;5 both are abundantly
on display in the biography of Pope Zacharias. At the same time, hagiographical
elements enter the biography in surprising ways, and demand to be taken into
account in the reader’s final evaluation of an almost accidental and largely in-
effective patriarch who, contrary to early expectations, achieved sainthood.

An Unprepossessing Patriarch

According to Bishop Michael of Tinnîs,6 Zacharias was a priest of the church of

the Archangel Michael and steward (qayyim) of the churches of Alexandria
generally when Pope Philotheus died in 1003. A synod was promptly called in
Alexandria to find a successor, and Zacharias, in his capacity as steward, found
himself in charge of hospitality for the visiting bishops. Thus he was ‘on hand’, as
it were, when the bishops almost desperately sought a candidate in order to fore-
stall the ambitions of Ibrâhîm ibn Bishr, a wealthy Alexandrian layman with
excellent connections among the Muslim authorities, who had travelled to Cairo
in order to obtain official backing in his bid for the papacy. According to Michael,

hagiographie?’, in Miracle et karama, ed. by Denise Aigle, Hagiographies médiévales comparées,

2 [= Bibliothèque de l’École pratique des hautes études, Section des sciences religieuses, 109]
(Turnout: Brepols, 2000), pp. 317–30.
3
Edition and translation: Aziz S. Atiya, Yassâ )Abd al-Masîhò , and Oswald H. E. Khs-
Burmester, History of the Patriarchs of the Egyptian Church, Known as the History of the Holy
Church by Saw îrus ibn al-Mukò affa‘, Bishop of al-Ašmûnîn, II, pt II: Khaël III—Šenouti II ( A .D .
880–1066), Textes et documents (Cairo: Société d’archéologie copte, 1948). This volume con-
tains the contribution of Bishop Michael of Tinnîs; the biography of Pope Zacharias is found on
pp. 116–51 (Arabic text), and pp. 174–228 (English trans.); hereafter cited as HPEC, with the
page numbers of the Arabic text followed by those of the English translation. English translations
from HPEC are my own, although I have consulted the translations provided there.
4
The biography was written in the year AM 767/1050–51 CE ; HPEC, pp. 137/209.
5
For more on the characteristics of Bishop Michael’s biographies, see Swanson, The Coptic
Papacy, chap. 4.
6
In this paragraph I paraphrase the story as told in HPEC, pp. 116–17/174–76.
SAINTHOOD ACHIEVED 221

the bishops’ attention was called to Zacharias when he fell from a ladder without
breaking or spilling the jar of vinegar he had gone to fetch; having observed this
miracle (!),7 the bishops decided that this ‘poor, wretched, and pure’ priest would
be a patriarch more to their liking than a wealthy and ambitious layman coming
‘with a strong hand and the Sultan’s command’.8 Zacharias’s consecration as
patriarch was completed just in time to present Ibrâhîm ibn Bishr, when he
arrived from Cairo, court officials in tow, with a fait accompli; the disappointed
and physically shaken Ibrâhîm was eventually placated with a bishopric.
The choice of Zacharias as patriarch was especially welcome — and perhaps
had been engineered — by a clique of bishops and others that included Anbâ
Khâyâl, Bishop of Sakhâ, the new patriarch’s nephew. This clique, in effect,
controlled the Patriarch. ‘He was like a mute. His relatives and disciples ruled
and managed him.’9 Their chief concern in directing the patriarchate was to
make money: simony, regularly a temptation for the medieval Coptic Orthodox
patriarchate,10 ran rampant. Patriarch Zacharias, whom Michael describes as ‘very
modest, like a meek lamb’,11 is portrayed as an exceedingly simple person, putty in
the hands of his handlers, who used him to rubber-stamp their decisions and give
the scent of sanctity to an administration in which ecclesiastical offices were sold
to the highest bidder — with grave consequences for Christian education and the
church’s discipline of prayer.12 Zacharias was unable to pursue any initiative
without turning to his handlers: ‘If he wanted to feed a man with bread, he was
unable to do so except by their charity.’13
This state of affairs continued for seven years and came to an end not be-
cause of any movement of reform undertaken inside the Church, but because of
a whirlwind that hit the Church from the outside: the persecution of the Fatimid
caliph al-Hò âkim bi-Amr Allâh.14 Bishop Michael devotes several paragraphs to

7
Hâdhihi l-u‘jûbah, HPEC, pp. 117/176.
8
HPEC, pp. 117/176.
9
HPEC, pp. 120/181.
10
See Otto F. A. Meinardus, ‘Cheirotonia’, in The Coptic Encyclopedia, ed. by Aziz S. Atiya,
8 vols (New York: Macmillan, 1991), II, 517.
11
HPEC, pp. 120/181.
12
HPEC, pp. 117–18/177–78 (on the effects of greed at the local level), 119–20/180 (on
the failure of Christian education).
13
HPEC, pp. 120/181.
14
For al-Hò âkim’s persecution, see Marius Canard, ‘al-Hò âkim bi-Amr Allâh’, in The
Encyclopaedia of Islam, ed. by Hamilton A. R . Gibb and others, 2nd edn, 12 vols, including
222 Mark N. Swanson

describing the bloodthirstiness of this caliph before turning to his decision to

require that his senior Coptic officials convert to Islam: several were martyred, at
their head Abû Najâhò al-Kabîr and Fahd ibn Ibrâhîm, while others converted
under torture.15 A lengthy list of discriminatory measures against Christians and
Jews was enacted. Churches were closed, and, eventually, decrees were issued for
their destruction (including the notorious decision to destroy the Church of the
Resurrection in Jerusalem).16
Patriarch Zacharias was caught up in the persecution, but again in an almost
incidental way. According to Bishop Michael, the Patriarch first came to the
Caliph’s attention as the result of a complaint lodged against him by a monk
named John, who had been repeatedly frustrated in his ambition to become a
bishop; although the Patriarch himself had promised to appoint him to a vacant
see, the Patriarch’s handlers, led by Anbâ Khâyâl of Sakhâ, dismissed him rudely
since he had no money with which to pay for the appointment. The Patriarch was
brought before al-Hò âkim and imprisoned for three months.17 He was released —
again, almost incidentally — when an Arab shaykh named Mâdò î ibn Maqrab
interceded with the Caliph for the release of one of the Patriarch’s fellow
prisoners, and obtained the release of his friend’s cell mates as well. Zacharias
hurriedly departed for the monastery of Saint Makarios, in the Wâdî al-Natò rûn,
where most of the other bishops had also taken refuge; he remained there for the
next nine years.18 For part of that time, the Wâdî al-Natò rûn was the only place in
Egypt where the liturgy was regularly and openly celebrated.19
While the persecution raged with particular intensity for a few years (especially
around 1012–13), the Caliph’s interest in the Christians later seemed to flag.
Copts began to meet and celebrate the liturgy in houses, and some Christians who
had accepted Islam under coercion sought permission to return openly to their
Christian obedience.20 One such penitent was a monk named Poimen, who upon

supplement (Leiden: Brill, 1960–2004), III, 76–82, especially pp. 77–78 on the chronology of al-
Hò âkim’s anti-Christian measures. Also see Marlis J. Saleh, ‘Government Relations with the
Coptic Community in Egypt during the Fâtò imid Period (358–567 A .H ./969–1171 C .E .)’
(unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of Chicago, 1995; UMI Microform 9530796).
15
HPEC, pp. 122–23/184–86.
16
HPEC, pp. 124–28/188–95.
17
HPEC, pp. 120–21, 127/181–83, 192–93. The story of the Patriarch’s being thrown to
the lions during his imprisonment will be treated later.
18
HPEC, pp. 131–32/199–201.
19
HPEC, pp. 135/204.
20
HPEC, pp. 135/204–05.
SAINTHOOD ACHIEVED 223

his return to Christian faith founded the Shahrân Monastery — which al-Hò âkim
used to visit, following the Fatimid caliphs’ tradition of seeking refreshment by
retreating to favourite monasteries.21 Poimen then used his proximity to the
Caliph to get his permission both for the return of the Patriarch and for the
rebuilding and reopening of the churches. And it was Poimen who engineered a
meeting between the Caliph and the Patriarch.22
It is worth pausing at this point, because, in the context of The History of the
Patriarchs, the account of the meeting between Patriarch Zacharias and Caliph
al-Hò âkim is laden with echoes of previous meetings between Coptic patriarchs
and Muslim officials, the most famous of which is the meeting of Patriarch Ben-
jamin with the Arab conqueror of Egypt, )Amr ibn al-)Âsò . On that occasion, one
remembers, the Muslim governor marvelled at the appearance of the Patriarch,
exclaiming: ‘Verily in all the lands of which we have taken possession hitherto I
have never seen a man of God like this man.’ The History of the Patriarchs goes on
to explain )Amr’s wonder: ‘For the Father Benjamin was beautiful of countenance,
excellent in speech, discoursing with calmness and dignity.’23 On the occasion of
the encounter between al-Hò âkim and Zacharias as well, the Muslim ruler marvels
at the Patriarch’s appearance — but not because he is ‘beautiful of countenance’,
but rather because, unlike the magnificent bishops in his entourage, he is ‘con-
temptible in appearance and ugly by constitution’ — but, even so, has authority
over the others (or so it was claimed).24 In the encounter with al-Hò âkim, it is
Poimen and the bishops who do all the speaking on the Christian side. Unlike
Patriarch Benjamin — who prayed for the Governor and preached ‘an eloquent
discourse’ in his presence25 — Zacharias does not speak a single word. His role is
entirely passive; the hero of the story on the Christian side is really the monk
Poimen.
It was not long after this encounter, reports Bishop Michael, that al-Hò âkim
authorized the rebuilding of churches, commanded the return of church property
(including wood, marble columns, and bricks from demolished churches), and

21
Saleh, Government Relations, pp. 55–56.
22
HPEC, pp. 135–36/205–07.
23
History of the Patriarchs of the Coptic Church of Alexandria, II: Peter I to Benjamin I (661),
ed. and trans. by B. T. A. Evetts, PO, 1.4 (1904), p. 496.
24
HPEC, pp. 136 /206–07.
25
History of the Patriarchs of the Coptic Church, p. 497. Also Swanson, The Coptic Papacy,
chap. 1.
224 Mark N. Swanson

lifted the discriminatory measures against Christians.26 Shortly afterwards, al-

Hò âkim himself disappeared while walking alone by night outside of Cairo, and his
son al-Zâhir came to the caliphal throne, ushering in a period of restoration and
peace for the Church.27 Bishop Michael says nothing of Zacharias’s activities in
those days other than that he spent the remaining twelve years of his patriarchate
‘in quiet and well-being’, died in the year AM 748 (1031–32 CE), and was buried
at the church of the Virgin at al-Daraj in Old Cairo.28

The Patriarch Upstaged

If the monk Poimen was the real hero of the story of the encounter between
the Caliph and the Patriarch, again and again in Bishop Michael’s narrative the
Patriarch is upstaged, so to speak, by others who either carry the narrative forward
or provide examples of sanctity. We have already mentioned the martyrdoms of
some of the leading Coptic officials. Abû Najâhò al-Kabîr refused to deny his
religion, despite the Caliph’s order that he be beaten with five hundred lashes,
followed (when Abû Najâhò remained steadfast) by five hundred more. Bishop
Michael reports that after eight hundred lashes Abû Najâhò said ‘I thirst’, and
shortly afterwards ‘gave up his spirit’; the allusions to Saint John’s account of
Christ’s crucifixion ( John 19. 28–30) are plain. Here is a saint indeed, trans-
formed into the image of Christ in his death. Michael prays, ‘May his blessings be
with us!’29
According to Bishop Michael, the most effective Christian leader in Cairo
during the dark days of the persecution was a pious deacon and civil servant
named Buqayrah al-Rashîdî. Dismissed from his post at the beginning of the
persecution, he devoted himself to the care of prisoners and others of the faithful
who were in need as a result of the dismissal of Christian civil servants and
restrictions on Christians’ commercial activity. At one point he was thrown into
prison, but he spent his days standing in prayer and writing, despite the heavy
chains attached to a collar around his neck.30 When the sacred relic of the head of
Saint Mark the Evangelist was acquired by a Turkish emir who offered it up for

26
HPEC, pp. 137/208.
27
HPEC, pp. 137/208–09.
28
HPEC, pp. 138–39/210–11.
29
HPEC, pp. 122–23/184–85.
30
HPEC, pp. 128–31/195–99.
SAINTHOOD ACHIEVED 225

sale, it was Buqayrah who purchased it (for three hundred dinars) and brought it
to the Patriarch at the monastery of Saint Makarios.31 Again, Pope Zacharias is
upstaged in his own biography: while he was a virtual exile in the Wâdî al-Natò rûn,
the layman Buqayrah was actively caring for the needs of the Church at Egypt’s
urban heart.
Perhaps most surprising in what is supposed to be the biography of a patriarch
of Alexandria, immediately after the mention of Pope Zacharias’s death and
burial, his biographer devotes several pages to the story of his contemporary,
Patriarch John VII ibn )Abdûn (1004–33) of Antioch.32 This patriarch, according
to Bishop Michael, was an impressive miracle worker. His words, ‘May the Lord
accept them from you’, when written on a scrap of paper, outweighed in a balance
the offering that occasioned them, a bag of dinars.33 He raised to life a young man
who fell from a bridge and drowned, whose body was only found after ten hours.
(Bishop Michael adds the appropriate references to the gospel account of the
widow of Nain; Luke 7. 11–17.)34 He was clairvoyant, and he recognized the
Coptic bishop of Damietta who had come to visit him incognito.35 And he cured
a blind man, making explicit reference to Christ’s healing of the man born blind
( John 9).36 In addition to all this, he was a great confessor of the faith. Living at
a time when Byzantine power had been extended to Syria, John was hauled off to
Constantinople and appeared before the Emperor, who sought to sway him to
the Chalcedonian confession of faith. John, however, stood firm in his non-
Chalcedonian Orthodoxy. He died in exile as a consequence.37
It is not uncommon in the entries of The History of the Patriarchs to encounter
stories of the saints who lived in the days of the Patriarch; their accomplishments
are seen as enabled by and reflecting upon the Patriarch, who in a sense is the
conductor of an ensemble of holiness.38 Bishop Michael of Tinnîs provides just
such an example in his biography of Patriarch Afrâhâm ibn Zur)ah; in the famous
story of the moving of the Muqattam Hill, for example, various members of the

31
HPEC, pp. 132–33/201.
32
HPEC, pp. 139–48/211–24.
33
HPEC, pp. 140–41/213–14.
34
HPEC, pp. 141/214.
35
HPEC, pp. 146–47/221–22.
36
HPEC, pp. 147–48/223–24.
37
HPEC, pp. 142–46/215–21.
38
See, e.g., Swanson, The Coptic Papacy, chap. 2 (on Pope Michael I).
226 Mark N. Swanson

community, gathered around the Patriarch, play a role in saving the community
from dire threat.39 In the case of Zacharias, however, the Coptic patriarch plays
a bit part in the ensemble: the major roles are played by others, and the greatest
example of a saintly patriarch is the patriarch of … Antioch.

The Saint

Patriarch Zacharias was in many ways a weak and simple man who, in his early
years as patriarch, was completely controlled by a simoniacal clique; who played
a largely peripheral role during the crisis of al-Hò âkim’s persecution; and whose
life is largely a cipher for its final twelve years, during the rule of al-Zâhir. And
yet, Bishop Michael of Tinnîs makes it clear in the course of his narration that
Zacharias is to be regarded as a saint.
The primary reason for his sainthood, according to Bishop Michael, was the
fact that he confessed the faith during al-Hò âkim’s persecution. This is clear from
one brief scene from Zacharias’s three months in prison: a Muslim fellow prisoner
advised him to convert to Islam and thus to be set free. The Patriarch replied: ‘My
reliance is upon God to whom is all power; He will help me.’ When one of the
guards struck him in the mouth with an iron mace, Zacharias responded with
language typical of the martyrs: ‘As for the body, you have authority over it to
destroy it, as you will; but as for the soul, it is in the hand of the Lord.’40 Now we
can see part of the reason for Michael’s interweaving the stories of Zacharias and
John ibn )Abdûn: to a certain degree they mirror one another. As Bishop Michael
of Tinnîs summarized the matter, each ‘experienced great trouble and toil, and
they received a majestic crown through their endurance and their confession of
the Orthodox Faith before the opponents: as for Anbâ John, before the king of
the Byzantines and their patriarch and his community; and as for Anbâ Zacharias,
before al-Hò âkim, king of the Muslims, and the people of his kingdom’.41
If the reason for Zacharias’s sainthood was that he proved to be a confessor
during the Church’s great trial under al-Hò âkim, Bishop Michael seeks to drive
the point of Zacharias’s sainthood home to the reader with a short catalogue of
miracles that he performed. His biography ends with three anecdotes from

39
Swanson, The Coptic Papacy, chap. 4.
40
HPEC, pp. 199/131.
41
HPEC, pp. 147/223.
SAINTHOOD ACHIEVED 227

among ‘many miracles’.42 The first account concerns one Bishop Merkourios of
Tilbânah, who developed a skin disease described in the text as leprosy; Zach-
arias’s role in the story is to inform Merkourios, in a kindly sort of way, that
church law did not allow him to exercise his priestly duties until he was cured
of this defilement. Merkourios was indeed healed after three days of prayer
and weeping before an image of the Blessed Virgin in her church at Timay. The
following Sunday he showed himself to the Patriarch, generously attributing
his healing to the Patriarch’s prayers, and was readmitted to the service of the
altar.43
In the second miracle story, a married deacon quarrelled with his wife and,
having left home in a rage, encountered and had sex with ‘an effeminate man’. He
immediately developed a kind of leprosy, and at his wise and pious wife’s urging
sought out the Patriarch for help. The Patriarch responded by having the man
stand in a barrel of salt water for forty days, while fasting and praying! The
Patriarch fasted and prayed with him, and at the end of the forty days the man was
healed.44
The third story relates an occasion in which the Patriarch went out to greet
a Nubian monk named Shîshih, whom he treated with great reverence. When
asked the reason for this honour by his disciples, the Patriarch related that the two
of them had been thrown to the lions together when in prison — and that the
lions had been obedient to Shîshih and had ‘licked his feet’ before licking the feet
of the Patriarch.45
On the one hand, this set of three anecdotes may seem to institute a com-
parison in which Zacharias does not come off very well; healing a man of a skin
disease by having him stand in a barrel of salt water for forty days is not nearly as
impressive as John’s Christlike deeds of raising a dead man to life, or of restoring
the sight of a blind beggar! The third anecdote does allude to remarkable events,
but at second hand. On the surface, it simply relates a meeting between the Egyp-
tian patriarch and a Nubian monk.
There are, however, several observations that must be made about this set of
anecdotes. It is, in the first place, notable that the first two ‘miracles’ that are
attributed to Zacharias have to do with healing lepers. Syrian patriarch John had
performed miracles of raising a dead man and healing a blind beggar, correspond-

42
HPEC, pp. 148–51/224–28.
43
HPEC, pp. 148–49/224–26.
44
HPEC, pp. 149–50/226–27.
45
HPEC, pp. 150–51/228.
228 Mark N. Swanson

ing to two of Christ’s most memorable miracles; but cleansing lepers are yet
other ‘signature’ miracles of the Lord. Thus, the accounts of Zacharias’s role in
healing lepers (by whatever means!) complement the accounts of John’s great
miracles. By the juxtaposition of the complementary accounts of John and
Zacharias, the reader is encouraged to consider the patriarchs together. It is as a
team that they most fully accomplish their imitatio Christi.
As for the third anecdote, it helps the reader to focus again on the place where
Zacharias’s sainthood was achieved: in al-Hò âkim’s prison. The emphasis here is
not on Zacharias’s confession of the faith before scoffers, however, but rather on
the story of how he and his fellow prisoner were thrown to the lions. Earlier in his
account, Bishop Michael had narrated this story in grisly detail: when the lions
did not touch the Patriarch, al-Hò âkim gave orders that the lions should be starved,
and the Patriarch stripped and smeared with sheep’s blood — but to no effect,
since God ‘transformed the nature’ of the lions and protected the Patriarch.46 This
rather fantastic story comes as something of a surprise in Bishop Michael’s other-
wise quite sober account,47 but it is important to pay attention to its literary
echoes. Most obviously, Bishop Michael’s account echoes the Bible: Zacharias
came through the lions’ den like the prophet Daniel, for whom ‘God sent his angel
and shut the lions’ mouths’.48 But there are also striking echoes of episodes from
The Acts of Paul and Thecla, a text well known in Egypt.49 Thecla was bound to
a lioness who gently ‘licked her feet’ (as the lions licked the feet of Shîshih and
Zacharias);50 later, she was stripped and thrown to the beasts (as was Zacharias),
but God transformed the nature of a fierce lioness, who at first lay down at
Thecla’s feet and then protected her from an attacking bear and lion.51 More

46
HPEC, pp. 127/193.
47
Elsewhere Bishop Michael simply speaks of the threat to throw the Patriarch to the lions;
HPEC, pp. 131/199.
48
Daniel 6. 22.
49
On the cult of Saint Thecla in Egypt, see Stephen J. Davis, The Cult of Saint Thecla: A
Tradition of Women’s Piety in Late Antiquity, Oxford Early Christian Studies (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2001).
50
Acts of Paul and Thecla, 28, in The Apocryphal New Testament: A Collection of Apocryphal
Christian Literature in an English Translation, ed. by James K. Elliott (Oxford: Clarendon Press,
1993), p. 369.
51
Acts of Paul and Thecla, 33, p. 370. See also the recension in Vie et miracles de Sainte Thècle,
ed. and trans. by Gilbert Dagron, Subsidia hagiographica, 62 (Brussels: Société des Bollandistes,
1978), pp. 244–47.
SAINTHOOD ACHIEVED 229

generally, the story of the Patriarch’s surviving despite being thrown to the lions
echoes those of many Coptic martyrs of old, who, according to the accounts of
their martyrdoms, miraculously survived repeated attempts to kill them.52 The
strong echoes of Daniel, Thecla, and other heroes of the faith that we hear in the
account of Zacharias are telling indications of how the attentive listener is to
regard the Coptic patriarch.
Finally, it must be observed that, regardless of the specific content of Zach-
arias’s miracles, Bishop Michael has given clear notice that he regards Zacharias
as a saint simply through his use of genre: in the end, the biography of Zacha-
rias takes on the form of a Life of a saint followed by a catalogue of ‘miracles’, or
‘wonders’. This form is not unusual; many examples can be given for the Life
of a martyr followed by a catalogue of the miracles performed after his or her
martyrdom, including the Life and Miracles of Saint Thecla;53 for examples pre-
served in Coptic, we may mention the Martyrdom, Miracles and Encomium of
St Menas;54 or the homilies on Saint Kollouthos by Isaac of Antinoe (first homily)
or by Phoibammon, both of which give an account of the saint’s martyrdom
followed by four miracles.55 In later Copto-Arabic hagiography the life+miracles
form would be utilized for famous holy men such as Barsûm the Naked,56 Marqus
al-Antò ûnî,57 or Anbâ Ruways,58 although in these cases most of their miracles are
accounts of remarkable events that took place during the life of the saint.

52
See Theofried Baumeister, Martyr invictus: Der Martyrer als Sinnbild der Erlösung in der
Legende und im Kult der frühen koptischen Kirche: Zur Kontinuität des ägyptischen Denkens,
Forschungen zur Volkskunde, 46 (Munster: Regensberg, 1972), especially pp. 160–72.
53
Vie et miracles de Sainte Thècle.
54
Apa Mena: A Selection of Coptic Texts Relating to St. Menas, ed. and trans. by James Drescher,
Textes et documents (Cairo: Publications de la Société d’archéologie copte, 1946).
55
See Ugo Zanetti, ‘Les Miracles arabes de Saint Kolouthos (MS. St-Macaire, hagiog. 35)’, in
Ægyptvs Christiana: Mélanges d’hagiographie égyptienne et orientale dédiés à la mémoire du P. Paul
Devos, bollandiste, ed. by Ugo Zanetti and Enzo Lucchesi, Cahiers d’orientalisme, 25 (Geneva:
Cramer, 2004), pp. 43–109 (here especially pp. 44–50).
56
A Life plus forty-five miracles; see Walter E. Crum, ‘Barsaumâ the Naked’, Proceedings of
the Society of Biblical Archaeology, 29 (1907), 135–49, 187–206.
57
A Life plus thirty-four miracles; see Mark N. Swanson, ‘“Our Father Abba Mark”: Marqus
al-Antò ûnî and the Construction of Sainthood in Fourteenth-Century Egypt’, in Eastern Cross-
roads: Essays on Medieval Christian Legacy, ed. by Juan Pedro Monferrer-Sala, Gorgias Eastern
Christian Studies, 1 (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias, 2007), pp. 217–28.
58
A Life plus fourteen miracles in Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fonds arabe
282.
230 Mark N. Swanson

In the case of Zacharias, the Life proper and the miracles are in fact separated
by the interpolated Life (including several miracles) of the Syrian patriarch
John ibn )Abdûn. If we are interpreting the ensemble of Bishop Michael’s text
correctly, however, this is not done in order to show Zacharias in a poor light.
Rather it is to allow these two Orthodox patriarchs, who confessed the True Faith
through great trials, to reflect one another’s light. They each received ‘a majestic
crown’,59 and thus at the end of Bishop Michael’s biography, a biblical allusion
that he made at its beginning seems justified: Zacharias in many ways may have
seemed a poor specimen of church leader, but one must reckon with God, who
‘raises the poor man from the earth and the needy from the dunghill, and seats
him upon the throne of glory’ (Psalm 113. 7–8).60
Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago

59
HPEC, pp. 147/223.
60
HPEC, pp. 117/175.
 C ULTURAL E NCOUNTERS IN L ATE
A NTIQUITY AND THE M IDDLE A GES

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