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© 2015 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston

Cover image: A Jew lays his hands on the coffin to disrupt the
Virgin Mary’s funeral, whereupon they stick to the bier. Wall-
painting by Albertus Pictor, 1480s; Täby Church, Uppland,
Sweden.
Photograph: Jonathan Adams. © The editors.

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Inhaltsverzeichnis

Titel
Impressum
List of Illustrations
Acknowledgements
Contributors
A Note on Spelling, Technical Terms, and Referencing
Introduction
1 Encounters and Fantasies: Muslims, Jews and
Christians in the North
1.1 Northern borderlands
1.2 Medieval Scandinavia and the Islamic World
1.3 Medieval Scandinavia and the Jews
1.4 Imagined Muslims and Jews in the Baltic
1.5 Real Muslims and Jews in Prussia
1.6 This volume
Bibliography
Primary sources
Literature
I. Contact
2 Trading with Muslims and the Sámi in Medieval
Norway
2.1 Trading and Crusading
2.2 Trading with the Sámi
2.3 Concluding remarks
Bibliography
Primary sources
 Literature
3 The Evidence for Islamic Scientific Works in
Medieval Iceland
3.1 Introduction
3.2 Lund Astronomical Clock
3.3 Icelandic scientific knowledge in the twelfth
century
3.4 The Glossary of GkS 1812 IV, 4°
3.5 The Provenance of the Glossary
3.6 Aramec –Alpha Boötis
3.7 Wega –Alpha Lyrae
3.8 Alakol –Beta Persei
3.9 Al<ca>ph –Beta Cassiopeiae
3.10 The sources of the Arabic terms according to
Beckman and Kålund
3.11 The Astrolabe
3.12 Algorismus
3.13 Rím II
3.14 Master Pérús
3.15 Conclusion
Bibliography
Primary sources: Manuscripts
Primary sources: Printed
Literature
4 Fire-Worshipping Magicians of the North: Muslim
Perceptions of Scandinavia and the Norsemen
Bibliography
Primary sources
Literature
5 The Encounter with Islam between Doctrinal
Image and Life Writing: Ambrosius Zeebout’s
Report of Joos van Ghistele’s Travels to the East
1481–1485
 5.1 Joos van Ghistele’s travels and Zeebout’s
Tvoyage
5.2 Images of Muḥammad and the Islamic religion
in Zeebout’s Tvoyage
5.3 The Muslim as the religious and cultural Other
5.4 Joos van Ghistele’s encounter with the Muslims
and Zeebout’s narrative
Conclusion
Bibliography
Primary sources
Literature
II. Settlement
6 Jews and the Black Death in Fourteenth-
CenturyPrussia: A Search for Traces
6.1 The Detmar Chronicle
6.2 The Chronicon Olivense
6.3 Letters from Lübeck and Visby
6.4 The Braunsberg liber civitatis
6.5 Jews in Prussia?
Bibliography
Primary sources
Literature
7 Jewish Physicians in the Teutonic Order’s Prussian
State in the Late Middle Ages
7.1 Introduction
7.2 Jews as physicians
7.3 Jewish physicians in the State of the Teutonic
Order
7.3.1 Meyen
7.3.2 Jacob
7.3.3 Tham von Hochberg
7.4 Conclusion
 Bibliography
Primary sources
Literature
8 The Muslim People of Desht-i Qipchaq in
Fifteenth-Century Prussia
8.1 Prolegomenon
8.2 The circumstances of arrival and the sites of
settlement
8.3 The geographical distribution of the
settlement sites
8.4 Numbers
8.5 Forms of settlement and their durability
8.6 The possible role played by Tatars in the
Prussian political and social system
8.7 The question of acculturation
8.8 Conclusion
Bibliography
Primary Sources
Literature
9 Karaite Settlement in Medieval Lithuania
Bibliography
III. Images and Stereotypes: Scandinavia
10 Christian Hatred of the Other: Theological
Rhetoric vs. Political Reality
10.1 Peter the Venerable on Jews and Muslims
10.2 The Northern countries: Hatred of the virtual
Other
10.3 The attitude toward the Other in the Latin
East and Europe
Bibliography
Primary sources
 Literature
11 The Life of the Prophet Muḥammad in East Norse
11.1 Muslims and Islam in East Norse
11.2 Implicit comparison: Muslims as foils
11.3 Explicit comparison: mirrors and boundaries
11.4 Muḥammad as idol
11.5 Muḥammad as prophet
11.6 The East Norse sources
11.7 Episodes from the life of Muḥammad
11.8 Early life
11.9 Marriage
11.10 Epilepsy
11.11 Followers and laws
11.12 Christian companions
11.13 Tricks
11.14 Death
11.15 Conclusion
Appendix: texts
Bibliography
Primary sources: Manuscripts
Primary sources: Printed
Literature
12 Kyn / Fólk / Þjóð / Ætt: Proto-Racial Thinking and
its Application to Jews in Old Norse Literature
Bibliography
Primary sources
Literature
IV. Images and Stereotypes: Baltic Region
13 Missionary Theatre on the Baltic Frontier:
Negotiating the Imagined Jew in the Riga Ludus
Prophetarum
13.1 Missionary theatre
 13.2 The Baltic frontier
13.3 Negotiating the imagined Jew
Bibliography
14 Advocating, Converting, and Torturing: Images
of Jews (and Muslimized Pagans) in the Kalanti
Altarpiece
14.1 Attacking Mary – Questioning Virginity
14.2 Circumcision and the Jewish advocate
14.3 Imitatio: St. Barbara tormented by the Jews
14.4 Conclusion
14.5 Epilogue
Bibliography
15 The Teutonic Knights and their Attitude about
Muslims: Saracens in the Latin Kingdom of
Jerusalem and in the Baltic Region
15.1 Introduction
15.2 Struggling against the Saracens in the Latin
Kingdom of Jerusalem
15.3 Struggling against the heathen enemies – the
Saracens in the Baltic region
Bibliography
Primary sources
Literature
16 The Image of the Infidelis in the Grand Duchy of
Lithuania: A Comparison of the Trends in the
Creation of Anti-Jewish and Anti-Muslim
Stereotypes
16.1 The formulation of anti-Jewish stereotypes in
the GDL
16.2 Trends in the adaptation of anti-Judaism in
the GDL
16.3 The image of Jews and the creation of anti-
Tatar stereotypes: The case of Piotr Cżyżewski’s
 Alfurkan Tatarski
16.4 Summary
Bibliography
Primary sources
Literature
17 Infidel Turks and Schismatic Russians in Late
Medieval Livonia
17.1 Introduction
17.2 The Turkish threat motif
17.3 Origins and development of the Russian
threat motif
17.4 Russians as Turks: the Rise of Moscow and its
conflict with Livonia
17.5 The Russian threat during the first half of the
sixteenth century
17.6 Conclusions
Bibliography
Primary sources
Literature
Index nominum
Index locorum
List of Illustrations

Fig. 1: The astronomical clock, Lund Cathedral, Sweden.

Fig. 2: Douai, Bibliothèque Marceline Desbordes-Valmore, MS

381, fol. 131r, initial U.

Fig. 3: Luttrell Psalter, British Library, Add. MS 42130, fol. 82,

margin.

Fig. 4: Mosse-Mokke in the Rolls of the Issues of the

Exchequers, Hilary Term 1233 (17 Henry III), National
Archives E. 401/1565.

Fig. 5: Malchus struck by St. Peter, Teiknibók, fol. 9r.

Fig. 6: Bald, hook-nosed Jew helps apply the crown of thorns.

Teiknibók, fol. 6r.

Fig. 7: Detail from Crucifixion, Teiknibók, fol. 6v.

Fig. 8: Jew with effeminate eyelashes from Crucifixion,

Teiknibók, fol. 6v.

Fig. 9: Dark-skinned Jew? Teiknibók, fol. 6v.

Fig. 10: “Sechz” (cf. Lameck), “Enos”, “Eroas”. Codex

Upsaliensis, fol. 25v.

Fig. 11: “Jew” with tally? Codex Upsaliensis, fol. 25r.

Fig. 12: Illustrations on Codex Upsaliensis, fol. 25r.

Fig. 13: Female figure on Codex Upsaliensis, fol. 25r.

Fig. 14: Jews from Passion scene, Ål Stave Church.

Fig. 15: Malchus detail, Ål Stave Church.

Fig. 16: Detail from Last Supper, Ål Stave Church.

Fig. 17: The Kalanti altarpiece, c. 1420, second view with the
Marian images.

Fig. 18: The Virgin’s Funeral. Wall-painting in the Täby

church, Sweden, by Albertus Pictor, 1480s.

Fig. 19: The Legend of Theophilus. Detail of the right wing of

the Kalanti altarpiece, c. 1420.

Fig. 20: Meister Francke, The Life and Martyrdom of Saint

Barbara. Panel paintings of the Kalanti altarpiece, c.
1420.

Fig. 21: Meister Francke, The Interrogation of Saint Barbara.

Fifth panel of the cycle of Saint Barbara in the Kalanti
altarpiece, c. 1420.
Acknowledgements

This volume of articles is a direct outcome of the conference

Fear and Loathing in the North: Muslims and Jews in Medieval
Scandinavia and the Baltic Region generously sponsored by
the Royal Swedish Academy of Letters, History and
Antiquities, and held in Stockholm on 10–11 June 2013.
We would like to thank the Royal Swedish Academy of
Letters, History and Antiquities for sponsoring the conference
in Stockholm and for providing the venue. Staff at the
Academy, especially Helene Carson and Staffan Eriand Isa,
provided unstinting support and assistance throughout the
conference, while the president of the Academy, Gunnel
Engwall, kindly hosted the dinner. The Knut and Alice
Wallenberg Foundation generously provided funding to cover
additional expenses. The Centre for Medieval Studies
(Stockholm University) and the Department of Scandinavian
Languages (Uppsala University) co-organized this event, and
special thanks go to our colleagues there. We would also like
to express our gratitude to the Royal Swedish Academy of
Letters, History and Antiquities as well as the Knut and Alice
Wallenberg Foundation for their generous funding of this
publication.
In preparing this volume for publication we have received
support and assistance from numerous people and
institutions. In particular we would like to thank Jacob
Klingner and Maria Zucker (De Gruyter) for commissioning
this book and guiding it through the peer-review process to
publication. Thanks to Michael Ryan (Montréal) who provided
much assistance in preparing the articles for peer-review, and
to Suzanne Paul (Cambridge University Library) and Nirit Ben-
Aryeh Debby (Ben-Gurion University of the Negev) who both
offered valuable help with various aspects of the publication.
Most of all, we would like to thank the contributors to this
volume. It has been a pleasure to work with them and we are
delighted to be able to present these scholars’ innovative
research on these pages.
Besides the contributors to the volume, we would like to
thank Anthony Bale (Birkbeck College), Anders Andrén
(Stockholm University), Louise Berglund (Örebro University),
Annika Björklund (National Archives, Stockholm), Anna
Nohlert (Vallentuna Parish), and Henrik Williams (Uppsala
University). All of them also gave papers and contributed to
the lively discussion at the conference, but they have either
published their essays elsewhere or been obliged to decline
the offer to have them included in this volume. Fear and
Loathing in the North otherwise reflects the range of topics
covered at the conference.

Copenhagen and Berlin, December 2014

While we were working on the final corrections for this
volume, a young man attacked a discussion meeting at a
cultural centre and a bat-mitzvah party at the main
synagogue in Copenhagen, killing two people and injuring
several more. That fear and loathing continue to influence
relations between different religions and community groups
in our home countries and elsewhere is abhorrent. We are
dedicating this book to the memory of the victims of
antisemitism, interreligious hatred and intolerance, and to
their families and friends.
Stockholm, February 2015
Contributors

Jonathan Adams is docent and research fellow for the Royal

Swedish Academy of Letters, History and Antiquities at the
Department of Scandinavian Languages, Uppsala University,
Sweden. He has also been a researcher at the Danish Society
for Language and Literature, and a visiting research fellow at
the Australian National University in Canberra and the
University of Copenhagen, Denmark. His publications on
medieval interreligious relations include articles in Danske
Studier (2010, 2013) and Rambam (2012) as well as the
books Lessons in Contempt: Poul Ræff’s Translation and
Publication in 1516 of Johannes Pfefferkorn’s The Confession
of the Jews (2013), and The Jewish-Christian Encounter in
Medieval Preaching (co-editor, 2014). Adams is co-editor of
Medieval Sermon Studies and his current research interests
include the portrayal and use of Muslims and Jews in
medieval East Norse literature, medieval preaching, and
Birgittine literature.

Bjørn Bandlien is associate professor at the Department of

History, Sociology and Innovation, Buskerud and Vestfold
University College, Norway. He has most recently published a
study on the Armenian embassy to Norway in the early
fourteenth century (Journal of the Society for Armenian
Studies), and an article on images of Muslims in Fighting for
the Faith and Images of the Other (2015). He has also edited
an anthology on Eufemia of Rügen, queen of Norway from
1299 to 1312, with the title Eufemia: Oslos
middelalderdronnning (2012). His research interests include
Scandinavia and the crusades and the political and cultural
relations between Norway and the Eastern Mediterranean. He
is currently working on a study of a manuscript of the Old
French translation of William of Tyre’s chronicle. This
manuscript has been attributed to an Antiochene scriptorium,
but its first known owner was Queen Isabella Bruce of
Norway.

Sarit Cofman-Simhon is senior theatre lecturer at the

School of Performing Arts, Kibbutzim College of Education
and Arts, Tel-Aviv, Israel. She is also academic advisor for the
Theatre Department of Emunah College of Arts, Jerusalem.
Her major publications include “Performing Jewish Prayer on
Stage: From Rituality to Theatricality and Back” (2014),
“African Tongues on the Israeli Stage: A Reversed Diaspora”
(2013), and “From Alexandria to Berlin: The Hellenistic Play
Exagoge Joins the Jewish Canon” (2012). Her research
interests include theatre in diverse Jewish communities. She
is currently working on a book on artists of Ethiopian origin in
Israel.

Richard Cole is a PhD student in the Department of

Germanic Languages and Literatures at Harvard University,
USA. He has taught Old Norse at Aarhus University and
University College London, and been a Fulbright Visiting
Scholar at Harvard. He has published articles on the
treatment of Jews and Judaism in Old Norse literature in the
journals Scandinavian Studies, Medieval Encounters, and
Postmedieval. Richard is broadly interested in the literature
of medieval Scandinavia, and is currently working on several
projects which all intersect with questions concerning the
containment and manipulation of desire.

Michalina Duda is a PhD student in the Department of

Auxiliary Historical Sciences at the Nicolaus Copernicus
University in Toruń, Poland. Among her publications are
Lekarze w państwie zakonu krzyżackiego w Prusach w XIV–XV
wieku (2013) and Ze świata średniowiecznej symboliki. Gest i
forma przysięgi w chrześcijańskiej Europie (X–XV w.) (co-
author, 2014). Her current research focuses on the issues of
communication and dispute resolution at the frontier of the
Kingdom of Poland and the State of the Teutonic Order in the
Late Middle Ages.

Christian Etheridge is a PhD student at the Centre for

Medieval Literature at the University of Southern Denmark.
His research interests include medieval science and scientific
manuscripts as well as the transmission of ideas and trade in
the Baltic region during the Middle Ages. He is currently
working on his PhD project on the centres of scientific
learning in medieval Scandinavia and a book on the herring
market in the Øresund during the Late Middle Ages.

Yvonne Friedman is professor of medieval history at Bar-

Ilan University, Ramat-Gan, Israel, and the Chair of the Board
of Israel Antiquities Authority, Jerusalem. Her early research
dealt with Christian-Jewish polemics – Peter the Venerable’s
adversus judeorum inveteratam duritiem (1985) – and
comparative studies in Christian and Jewish mores – e.g.,
“Community Responsibility toward its Members: The Case of
Ransom of Captives” (A Holy People: Jewish and Christian
Perspectives, eds. J. Schwartz and M. Poorthuis, 2006). Her
book Encounter between Enemies: Captivity and Ransom in
the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem (2002) was the beginning of
her current research on peace processes between Christians
and Muslims in the Latin East to be published as a book
named Interludes of Peace in the Latin East: Perceptions and
Practices. Another project in work is Guide my Sheep:
Catholic Guides of Holy Land Pilgrims – Historical and
Ethnographic Aspects funded by Israel Scientific Foundation,
and the reception of medieval antisemitic images in medieval
Norway.
Cordelia Heß is docent and senior lecturer in the
Department of Historical Studies, University of Gothenburg,
Sweden, and a research fellow for the Royal Swedish
Academy of Letters, History and Antiquities. She was a post-
doctoral researcher at the Centre for Medieval Studies at
Stockholm University and has also been a fellow at Tel Aviv
University, Herzog August Bibliothek Wolfenbüttel, and
Zentrum für Antisemitismusforschung, Berlin. Her work
centres on questions of religion, language, and culture in the
Baltic Sea region. Her publications include Heilige machen im
spätmittelalterlichen Ostseeraum (2008) and Social Imagery
in Middle Low German (2013). A second focus of her work is
modern antisemitism and the extreme right, for example
“The Third Reich without the Holocaust” (Zeitgeschichte,
2012), and Rechtspopulismus kann tödlich sein (2013). She is
currently working on a study on the Teutonic Order’s policy
for the treatment of Jews in medieval Prussia.

Kay Peter Jankrift studied history, Semitic and Romance

philology, and Oriental sciences at the Westfälische Wilhelms-
Universität Münster, Germany, and the University of Tel Aviv,
Israel. His MA dissertation (1993) dealt with the Syriac
chronicles of the crusades, his PhD thesis (1995) with the
development of the Order of Saint Lazarus of Jerusalem, and
he achieved habilitation in 2002. Currently he is researching
and teaching medical history and ethics at the Technische
Universität München and at the Universität Ulm.

Veronika Klimova is a PhD student at the Adam Mickiewicz

University in Poznań. Her current research interests include
Karaite Catechisms, the self-identification of the East
European Karaites, and the Sefer Massah u-Meriva (1838) by
Abraham Firkowicz.

Krzysztof Kwiatkowski is a post-doctoral researcher in the

Department for the History of Baltic Countries at the Nicolaus
Copernicus University in Toruń, Poland. His publications
include Zakon niemiecki jako “corporatio militaris”. 1:
Korporacja i krąg przynależących do niej. Kulturowe i
społeczne podstawy działalności zakonu w Prusach (do
początku XV wieku) (2012). He is interested in the military
activity of the Teutonic Order in medieval Prussia and of the
towns and townsmen in the Baltic region, the social and
corporative memory of the Teutonic Order in the Baltic
region, and the culture of war and war as part of culture in
agrarian and traditional communities. His current research
projects are the Troops of the Teutonic Order in Prussia
(1230-1525): The Corporation, her Prussian Dominion, Armed
Men, Culture of War, and Military Activity, and Townsmen
under Arms. The Military Activity of the Towns in the Baltic
region (Thirteenth-Sixteenth Centuries).

Shlomo Lotan is a fellow at the Rennert Center for

Jerusalem Studies at Bar-Ilan University in Ramat-Gan, Israel.
His major publications include The Teutonic Order in the Latin
Kingdom of Jerusalem 1190–1309 – Mutual Relationships
between the Latin East and Europe (2012), and the articles
“The Battle of La Forbie (1244) and its Aftermath – Re-
examination of the Military Orders Involvement in the Latin
Kingdom of Jerusalem in the mid-Thirteenth Century”
(Ordines Militares 2012), and “Hermann von Salza und sein
Beitrag zur Friedensstiftung im lateinischen Osten” (Sprache,
Macht, Frieden, eds. J. Burkhardt, K. P. Jankrift, and W. E. J.
Weber, 2014). His research interests include devotion of the
Military Orders and their organization after the fall of Acre
and the loss of the Latin Kingdom in 1291. He is currently
working on editing a special issue of Revista Internacional
d’Humanitats on the occasion of the seven-hundred-year
anniversary of the dissolution of the Templar Order (1314–
2014).

Madis Maasing is a PhD student of general history at the

University of Tartu, Estonia. He has published on the
sixteenth-century ‘Russian threat’ in Studia Slavica et
Balcanica Petropolitana (2010). His research interests include
political relations and rhetoric in Livonia in the sixteenth
century, and relations between Livonia and the Holy Roman
Empire in the same period. He is currently working on his
doctoral thesis that encompasses all the aforementioned
research interests.

Elina Räsänen is currently senior lecturer in art history at

the University of Helsinki, Finland. She specializes in late
medieval art and material culture of Northern Europe, with a
special focus on wood sculptures and panel paintings. Her
research interests include corporeal and material aspects of
art and its experience, as well as iconography. Räsänen is the
author of Ruumiillinen esine, materiaalinen suku (2009), co-
editor of Methods and the Medievalist (2008) as well as
author of a number of articles published in peer-reviewed
journals and collections such as Taidehistoriallisia tutkimuksia
– Konsthistoriska studier (2007 and 2010), Suomen Museo
(2012 and 2014), and Locating the Middle Ages: The Spaces
and Places of Medieval Culture (2012). Her work-in-progress
concerns the art of Master Francke of Hamburg.

Stefan Schröder is a post-doctoral researcher at the

University of Helsinki, Finland. He has also worked as a
research assistant at the Universities of Kassel and
Nuremberg-Erlangen, Germany. His dissertation on Otherness
in late medieval pilgrimage reports and on the writings of the
Dominican monk Felix Fabri in particular was published in
2009 (Akademie Verlag). His research interests include
images of Islam and Judaism in travel reports, the cultural
transfer between the Arabic-Islamic and Latin-Christian World
and the cultural memory of the Crusades in the Middle Ages.
He is currently working on a monograph on the impact and
transformation of Arabic cartographical knowledge in Latin-
Christian medieval maps.

Jurgita Šiaučiūnaitė-Verbickienė is associate professor in

the Faculty of History at Vilnius University, Lithuania, and
director of the Centre for Study of Culture and History of East
European Jews, Vilnius. In addition to a number of articles,
she has published the monograph Žydai Lietuvos Didžiosios
Kunigaikštystes visuomeneje: sambūvio aspektai (2009) and
is a co-editor of Synagogues in Lithuania. A Catalogue, vols.
1–2 (2010, 2012) and Lietuvos žydai: istorine studija (2012).
Her current international project is focused on the historical
demography of the Jewish community of the Grand Duchy of
Lithuania in the late eighteenth century and based on the
first census of Jews in the Polish-Lithuania Commonwealth
(1764–1765).
A Note on Spelling, Technical
Terms, and Referencing

For the sake of consistency and coherency, we have

endeavoured to standardize spellings, place-names, personal
names, and referencing across the volume. However, one
particular problem with editing a book of this nature is that
there are many different spellings of names. Not only does
the timespan covered by this volume mean that linguistic
changes altered the sound and consequently the spelling of
many names, but the choice of spelling can sometimes be
affected by national scholarly traditions and politics, too.
As far as geographical locations are concerned, we have
chosen to use the appropriate historical place-name to avoid
anachronism, but we include the modern native version in
brackets the first time the name is used in the article. Thus,
in the context of the Teutonic Order, we write for example,
Danzig (Gdańsk), Thorn (Toruń), Bittau (Bytów), and Elbing
(Elbląg), but Gdańsk, Toruń, Bytów, and Elbląg to refer to the
modern towns. In those cases where there is a widely
recognized anglicized form found in academic publications,
we have used it. For example: Prussia (not Preußen or Prusy),
Copenhagen (not København), and Warsaw (not Warszawa).
Personal names are similarly given in anglicized forms if
such exist. For example: Casimir IV Jagiellon (not Kazimierz IV
Jagiellończyk or Kazimieras IV Jogailaitis), Vytautas the Great
(not Vytautas Didysis), and Peter the Venerable (not Petrus
Venerabilis). In all other cases, we use what seems to use to
be the most sensible, standardized form of the native name.
For example: Hákon Hákonsson (not Hákon Hákonarson or
Håkon Håkonsson), and Sven Estridsson (not Sweyn
Estridsson, Sveinn Ástríðarson, or Svend Estridsen).
Hebrew and Arabic names and terms have been transcribed
as accurately and consistently as possible. For example,
Muḥammad (not Mohammed), alĠazāl (not al-Ghazal), and
’Eliyahu (not Eliyahu). Transcriptions from Russian and
Ukrainian have also been done as transparently as possible.
German terms used to describe various phenomena and
people in Prussia have been translated into English as far as
possible – Grand Master (Hochmeister), confederation (Bund),
and servants (Knechte) – or supplied with an explanation –
Hackelwerk (a quasi-suburbium) and Kämmerer (bailiffs).
The term used in the volume to denote the phenomenon of
modern biological-racial Jew-hatred is antisemitism, while
anti-Judaism is used to refer to opposition to Jewish beliefs
and practices. However, there is, of course, a degree of
overlap between the two phenomena. The editors have
chosen not to use the hyphenated anti-Semitism, considering
it a non-term (it is not directed against “Semitism” – there is
no such race or people), and prefer therefore to use the
unhyphenated version. However, the contributor Richard Cole
considers “Semitism” to be a phenomenon of real substance
in the minds of antisemites, and therefore prefers to use the
hyphenated version in his article.
References are provided throughout the volume in
footnotes using the author-date system to locate the work in
the associated bibliography. Please note that Icelanders are
listed under their first name. For example, Heimir Pálsson is
listed under “H” for Heimir, not “P” for his patronymic
Pálsson. Note also that all Web addresses were correct at
time of going to press.
Introduction
Jonathan Adams and Cordelia Heß

1 Encounters and Fantasies:

Muslims, Jews and Christians in
the North

1.1 Northern borderlands

We know a lot about Jewish life in the Middle Ages, and we
also know a great deal about anti-Jewish hostility during the
same period. The complex relations between Christians and
Muslims from the First Crusade on have also been thoroughly
investigated. Indeed, the past twenty years or so have seen a
wealth of studies published on interreligious contacts;
dialogue and violence; Otherness and hybridity; antisemitism
and Islamophobia; the Self and the Other in Medieval Europe;
integration and disintegration of cultures, and medieval
conceptions of race and ethnicity.1 In most of these studies,
Scandinavia and the Baltic Rim (that is, the Baltic countries,
northern Poland, and the German lands bordering the Baltic
Sea) have been missing. There are several reasons for this
lack of research. First of all, the traditional definition of this
area as a periphery – culturally, geographically, and
historically – results in a lack of interest in it from the
“centre”. Secondly, the historiography of the Scandinavian
countries tends to describe the medieval, the early modern,
and often even the modern societies of Denmark, Sweden,
and Norway as culturally and religiously homogenous. And
finally, probably the most obvious reason: There are
essentially no sources that confirm the actual presence of
real Muslims and Jews in medieval Scandinavia and the Baltic
Region.
Nevertheless, we have managed to collect an entire book
about Muslims and Jews in the medieval North, and more
besides. Rather than being studies that apply the theoretical
frameworks and concepts developed in other, richer areas to
the scarce sources from the North, most of the articles
collected here are first-time presentations of source
materials, new readings of well-known sources, and other
attempts to make visible phenomena that until now have
remained unseen. And suddenly, the Muslims and Jews of the
North emerge as an absent presence – something that is
there, but not visible, either constructed or silenced, and
always shifting between being entirely neglected and being
blown up to imagined and fantastical proportions2 – inspired
by Christian teaching and tradition, by occasional encounters
with travellers and traders, and by fear and loathing.
Anti-Muslim and anti-Jewish hatred in the North functions
differently from areas where there were actual day-to-day
contacts, be they peaceful or violent. It also functions
differently than in places like England, where Jews had once
been present but were expelled only then to live on in the
Christian imagination. At the same time, the homogeneity of
Northern populations in terms of ethnic and religious identity
is a modern supposition: There were cultural and economic
contacts with the pagan Sámi in the North, there were
contending attempts for Christianization from the East and
the West, and there were strong competing local identities
based on custom, practice, and dialects even after the formal
unification of the Nordic and Baltic peoples under the
Christian faith – not to speak of persisting political differences
between the Swedish, Danish, and Norwegian Empires, and
between Prussia and Livonia.3 However, examples of contact
with non-Christians, real or imaginary, have to be carefully
extracted, partly from written sources and partly from
archaeological ones. They have not left persistent traces in
the collective memory of the modern nation states in
Scandinavia, whereas in the Baltic Rim countries the situation
is quite the reverse. Here, the struggle between the Slavic
and German populations and states, which was still ongoing
until quite recently, has led both to the destruction of many
archives and to the obscuring of other religious and ethnic
groups and their potential influence.
The absent presence of Muslims and Jews in the sources has
two principal causes. First of all, there were no stable
communities that could write and trade their own memory.
And secondly, the few non-Christians actually present in the
North and Baltic left for the most part very few traces in the
sources that might help to identify their actual presence.
Nevertheless, these traces do exist, and once discovered,
they can be critically examined for their representation of
actual people. What happened to the Muslim prisoners of war
who are documented as inhabitants of Prussia for a short
period in the first half of the fifteenth century? Did they
convert, die, or secretly maintain their belief and culture for
several generations? We do not know. If Jews were held
responsible for spreading the Plague in medieval Prussia, or
pejoratively depicted in Icelandic manuscripts, does this
mean that Jews were actually present in these areas? Almost
certainly not. The Muslims and Jews from the Scandinavian
and Baltic sources are products of the imagination, an
imagination created from ignorance, maybe curiosity,
fragments of knowledge from homecoming travellers,
pilgrims, and warriors, and most important of all, the massive
Christian textual tradition, which was adapted to Northern
needs. Most of the texts speaking of Muslims and Jews –
except for the ones documenting actual settlement and
residency, as in Prussia – are translations of well-known
material from the continent: courtly romances, lives of saints,
sermons, biblical references in historiographical texts, even
material culture such as altarpieces, sculptures, and wall-
paintings. The differentiations necessary when examining
continental phenomena apply even more so here – what did a
continental Judenbild tradition mean for Northern people’s
willingness to exclude, mock, or kill those depicted? Mitchell
M. Merback’s call not to read medieval images of Others
“inside the prison of Otherness furnished with the
propaganda imagery it sets out to study” is valid even in an
area where the social realities did not contain any or very few
actual encounters.4
According to postcolonial theory, this adaptation of a
textual and cultural tradition in a peripheral area always
leads to a hybridization of knowledge, of cultural forms and
signs, and other phenomena of cultural adaptation,
alienation, and appropriation.5 The medieval Baltic is an area
where cultural formations were mixed and adopted, not only
as far as the representation of Muslims and Jews is
concerned, but also regarding different elements of the
Christian tradition. This makes it extremely difficult – even
more than in other, more central, European regions – to
deduce a common local mentality behind the representation
of Muslims and Jews in the sources, and to decide whether
certain images of Muslims and Jews were the result of
campaigns by the learned elite or rather of long-term
changes in the relations between majority society and
minorities.6 Was the lavish continental courtly culture
depicted in Floris and Blancheflour not just as foreign to the
Scandinavian reader as the religion and lifestyle of the
“Babylonians” in the romance? When the concept of
Crusading was transferred to the Baltic, the term for the
enemy in Outremer, the “Saracen”, was also transferred to
the pagans, the “Saracens of the North” –but what did this
term mean to people who had never been to Outremer?
Considering all these questions, we are not exactly in a
position to explain phenomena. We are rather detecting,
gathering, and discussing evidence. The conference Fear and
Loathing in the North aimed to draw together scholars from a
range of disciplines – such as theology (both popular and
authoritative), social history, literary studies, art history,
Islamic and Jewish studies, and the history of Islamophobia
and antisemitism – to present their research interests and
findings concerning the perception of or encounters with
Muslims and Jews in medieval Scandinavia and the Baltic
Region. The geographical areas for discussion were defined
as those where the predominant language was Danish,
Swedish, Norwegian, Icelandic, and the German dialects
characteristic for the Teutonic Order’s lands along the Baltic
coast. The period for discussion, the Middle Ages, was set –
rather loosely – as the centuries between the collapse of the
Western Roman Empire and the beginning of the sixteenth
century. There was a degree of elasticity here as the Jewish
and Islamic Middle Ages do not of course map directly onto
the datings for Western Christian Europe.
Scandinavia and the lands to the south of the Baltic Sea are
usually dealt with separately in historiography despite the
obvious mutual influence through religious culture, trade, and
military activity. For example, the effects of Western
Christianity, the Hanseatic League, and the Northern
Crusades could be felt in the lands to both the north and the
south of the Baltic Sea. Yet the areas remain distinct with
regard to Muslims and Jews, not least as far as actual
settlement is concerned. Although there are no recorded
communities of Muslims or Jews in medieval Scandinavia,
both groups of non-Christians inhabited some of the areas
along the southern coast of the Baltic Sea at various times.
This difference in actual presence could possibly have
affected the groups’ representation in literature and art, their
treatment in legal regulations, and the creation of myths and
stereotypes.
All of these aspects specific for the area in focus –
periodization, geography, and populations – have received
increased attention by scholars within the field of postcolonial
medieval studies. The complex relation between the Self and
the Other becomes particularly visible if considered from the
perspective of borderlands. Text production about Muslims
and Jews in the North points to the interconnection between
spatial and temporal distance, while it also contains all the
aspects of merging, mirroring, and delimitating the Other that
we know from other areas and periods.7 The hierarchization
between centre and periphery, which has been identified as
the basis for Eurocentric models of interpretation, is disturbed
in the Christian periphery, and opens for differentiations of
the phenomena of alterity, between seeing the Other as
monstrous and potentially disturbing the boundaries of the
social order and a simple curiosity for the strange.8
While vital in the medieval Baltic, the Crusades as the most
privileged model for cultural encounters between Christians
and Muslims play only a minor role in Scandinavia, and thus
evidence from this area can add to the attempts by Sharon
Kinoshita and others to describe the encounters between
these two groups in other terms than proto-colonialism.9 For
Prussia and Livonia, on the other hand, the notion of alterity
shaped by both medieval and modern forms of colonialism
can be questioned by adding knowledge to the hybrid and
heterogeneous practices of religion and identity. In
Scandinavia and the Baltic Region, modern national borders
have for a long time obscured the perspective on medieval
borders and borderlands. The examination of the
representations of Muslims and Jews here can serve, as Lisa
Lampert has proposed for medieval literature in general, as a
tool for decentring Christianity as the single normative frame
of medieval Europe.10

1.2 Medieval Scandinavia and the

Islamic World
There were no resident Muslims in Scandinavia until towards
the end of the nineteenth century when a few hundred Tatars
arrived in Finland.11 Thus, with the exception of occasional
envoys or travellers from the Islamic world to the North, the
Muslims whom Scandinavians met were abroad. Vikings
encountered the Islamic world in Iberia to the west, the
Maghreb to the south, and the Abbasid Caliphate to the east.
Later, pilgrims to the Holy Land and crusaders would have
had first-hand experience of Muslims, Islam, and Arab and
Ottoman culture and society. Studies on the portrayal of
Islam and Muslims in medieval Scandinavian art and texts are
few and far between.
The main sources at hand for studying contacts between
the Viking and Islamic worlds are written records (runestones
and Arabic texts), Arabic coins, and archaeological objects. As
far as runic evidence is concerned, it is particularly the
interpretation of placenames that has caused the most
debate. Although some placenames are straightforward to
interpret, such as iursala, Jerusalem, which appears on three
runestones, others are more problematic.12 There are seven
extant runestones that, while alluding to travels to the east,
make explicit mention of sirklant, that is Særkland.13 In
spite of its obvious similarity to “Saracen land”, there is no
scholarly consensus where this place is.14 Although first used
to refer to the south-easternmost destination of the Vikings,
the (Muslim) area south of the Caspian Sea,15 later in the
Viking Age Særkland came to refer to all Muslim lands
beyond Russia. In Old Norse sagas and poems it even
included North Africa and southern Spain, although it was
generally used as the name of a fictional romanticized place
rather than a factual location.16 The name may derive from
the city of Sarkel in the land of the Khazars,17 or from the
Norse word særker, “shirt, sark”, and thus ultimately from
Latin sericum, “silk”, referring either to the silk-producing
lands or the clothes worn by the inhabitants.18 Another
problematic placename is karusm found on the Vs 1
runestone. Some argue that it is an error for karþum,
Garðaríki, the regions ruled by the Kievan Rus’,19 while others
interpret it as Khwarezm, the river delta of the Amu River at
the Aral Sea in western Central Asia and a region that had
been Muslim since about the eighth century.20 The very
existence of these runestones thus provides clear evidence
for an awareness of and economic interest in the East, while
placenames such as iursala and karusm demonstrate just
how far into Muslim lands some Scandinavians travelled
before 1200. But runic inscriptions can be tricky evidence to
interpret, and it is difficult to see whether it will ever be
possible to know for sure how to read these names.
More information about contacts between Scandinavians
and the Islamic world is found in Arabic written sources
whose authors, such as Yaḥyā ibn alḤakam al-Bakrī (al-
Ġazāl), Ibrāhīm Ya‘qūb aṭ-Ṭarṭūši, Aḥmad ibn Faḍlān, and al-
Mas‘ūdī, provide a snap-shot of Scandinavian society,
although as with many travel descriptions it can be difficult to
discern between the real and the fantastical, and the
everyday and the extraordinary. In spite of the pioneering
work on sources by Georg Jacob and Harris Birkeland, as well
as studies by the likes of Elisabeth Piltz, James E.
Montgomery, and Stig Wikander, there still remains a great
deal of work to be undertaken on Arabic sources on the
Vikings, and not least work on later Persian versions.21 An
obvious way forward would be greater collaboration between
scholars of Arabic, Persian, and Scandinavian literature and
language.
A substantial number of archaeological finds also testify to
contacts with the Islamic world. For example, around 85,000
Arabic or Kufic coins have been found in Sweden, about 5,000
in Denmark, and just fewer than 2,000 in Finland. 22
Interestingly, some of these coins have pagan images of
Þórr’s hammer (Mjǫlnir) or Christian crosses scratched onto
them, which suggest that Scandinavians wanted to
disassociate themselves from the other faith, Islam.23 Other
objects from the Islamic world reaching Scandinavia include
balances and weights, textiles, and beads. All these objects
testify to a lively trade – either directly or indirectly – with the
East, while the defacing or “rendering harmless” of objects by
inscribing pagan or Christian symbols onto them hints at a
perceived need to draw and affirm the boundaries between
their own religion and Islam. Intriguing though this may be,
we can but speculate to what extent Vikings felt threatened
by the religion of Muslims while at the same time coveting
their wares and precious metals. In his account of the Volga
Bulgars, Ibn Faḍlān writes that he saw 5,000 people called al-
baringār who had converted to Islam and built a wooden
mosque.24 Al-baringār has been interpreted as væringjar,
Varangians, the name given by Greeks and East Slavs to
Vikings.25 Might some of these same Vikings have
subsequently brought their new faith back to Scandinavia
with them?
Given the late arrival of the Latin alphabet to Scandinavia
(the very earliest written documents date from c. 1200) and
its geographical distance from the Islamic world, the paucity
of written sources from Scandinavia is hardly surprising. As
written culture developed over the next few centuries, not
least through the cultivation of a vernacular literature, texts
portraying Muslims begin to appear. These include
sermons;26 romances, such as the Old Danish Floris and
Blancheflour and The Chronicle of King Magnus; miracle
stories, such as the Old Swedish legendary; Old Icelandic
sagas, such as Nítíða saga and Yngvars saga víðførla; travel
descriptions and pilgrim guides, such as that in Copenhagen,
AM 792, 4°, and reports of Ottoman military expansion, such
as the Old Danish Siege of Rhodes from 1508. However, in
these texts – unlike the albeit somewhat unforthcoming
runestones of the Viking Age – Særkland, Khwarezm, and
other sites of adventure, gold and pilgrimage are replaced by
a constructed, largely pejorative image of Islam, Muslims and
Muḥammad imported from the European mainland. Despite
including many details about Muslim beliefs and customs,
these documents do not reflect actual contact between the
North and the Islamic world but rather the absorption of
European anti-Muslim polemics into Scandinavian literary
culture.
There has been little research on Christian ideas about
Muslims in medieval vernacular Scandinavian literature. In
fact, such accounts usually form little more than brief
prolegomena to more detailed examinations of later
literature; for example in Bent Holm’s study of the Turk in
early modern Danish drama or Martin Schwarz Lausten’s
study of Muslims in post-Reformation texts from Denmark.27
Studies on Scandinavian Latin literature and the image of
Muslims and Islam tend to fall within the context of crusading
and therefore to concentrate on violent encounters.28 There
is thus much work to be done, beginning not least with the
identifying and cataloguing of relevant sources and the
images contained therein. It is generally assumed that ideas
about non-Christians in medieval Scandinavian literature,
which at least as far as mainland Scandinavia is concerned
was largely translated from other European languages, were
unoriginal, yet there has in fact never been a study to see
how the image of the Islamic world might have been
developed during the transmission of texts to Scandinavia.
One need only think of the conclusion of Floris and
Blancheflour to see that this could be a promising area of
study. In the French versions of the tale, the emir consults his
advisors and forgives the two young lovers when they are
discovered in bed together. In the Danish version, the couple
are put on trial and the matter resolved through a violent
duel between Floris and a Saracen knight. What do these
sorts of examples tell us about how Scandinavian literary
culture used an “Oriental” background to define itself and its
values?
Similarly, medieval art depicting Muslims, such as the
Norwegian painted altar frontals featuring Saracen soldiers
(Nedstryn Church, Norway, c. 1300–1325)29 and a Saracen’s
head (unknown provenance, Norway, c. 1300),30 have largely
escaped scholars’ attention. Post-Reformation art, such as
the recently discovered wall-paintings in Skibinge Church,
Denmark, depicting St. James the Greater being
(anachronistically) martyred by Moors, has received more
attention.31 The sixteenth- or seventeenth-century painting in
Gothem Church, Visby, has also become well known, not least
as its renovation coincided with the Jyllands-Posten
Muḥammad cartoon controversy. Alongside the figures of the
pope (“Papa”) and St. Christopher (“Christophoros”), a
moustachioed figure in a turban is identified by the
accompanying name “Mahomet”, but there is some
disagreement whether it depicts the Prophet Muḥammad or
the sultan Mehmed IV (1642–1693).32 Furthermore on the
subject of art, there is a need for research on the extent to
which Islamic art – in architecture, textiles, weapons, and
harness decorations and ornaments – influenced
Scandinavian styles.

1.3 Medieval Scandinavia and the Jews

Although Jews were not resident in the medieval lands north
of the Baltic Sea, Scandinavians would have had the
opportunity to meet Jews elsewhere in Europe. 33 For
example, there were Jews living in Normandy at the time the
Danish Vikings settled there; Vikings who travelled eastwards
to Russia and Byzantium would have traded with Jews in
Khazaria; participants in the pilgrimages or Crusades south to
mainland Europe or to the Holy Land would also have
encountered Jews, and students studying at European
universities would possibly have seen or interacted with Jews
in those cities. Individual Jews may have come to Scandinavia
before the seventeenth century as merchants or traders, but
if they did, they have not left behind any archaeological
remains or written evidence whatsoever.34 The absence of a
Jewish community does not mean that Jews are absent from
medieval artistic and literary works; indeed, they appear in
many artistic, literary, and theological works, albeit as
fantastical, fabricated beings, and were as such very much
alive and present in the Scandinavian collective mentality.
Descriptions of and stories about Jews abound in the extant
literature, especially from within the religious sphere, and
they give the impression that ideas about Jews, and what
they were believed to represent, had saturated the public’s
consciousness.
The rather modest amount of research on Jews and
medieval Scandinavia has tended to be characterized by
subject specialists working in isolation.35 As far as Sweden is
concerned, Hugo Valentin’s pioneering work Judarnas historia
i Sverige (1924) gives short shrift to the Middle Ages,36 and
with the exception of a highly readable student dissertation
on Jews in Swedish medieval wall-paintings and a couple of
articles that mention Jews in St. Birgitta’s Revelations , 37
nothing of note has appeared since. This is quite remarkable
as there are a great many sources in Sweden, both in art and
in literature. The country has the dubious honour of
possessing Scandinavia’s only examples of the Judensau ,
three in all,38 as well as many other images of Jews in church
art.39 With the exception of some venerable figures from the
Old Testament, the Jews in these paintings are all presented
pejoratively: typically in profile, with grotesque facial
features, beards, dark or red skin, and wearing “Jew hats”.
Many Swedish vernacular texts, such as the Old Swedish
Legendary, the Revelations of St. Birgitta, sermons, and
devotional texts, include descriptions of Jews. These still need
to be investigated from the viewpoint of Jewish-Christian
relations, and as some of them are translations from foreign
works – for example, the legendary is a reworking of Jacobus
de Voragine’s Legenda aurea – there is the possibility of
comparative studies that will demonstrate whether or how
the image of the Jew transforms during its transmission from
continental Europe to the North.
Relations between Christians and (imagined) Jews in
Denmark have been most thoroughly investigated by Martin
Schwarz Lausten and Jonathan Adams. Lausten’s work is
rooted in church history and is largely theological in its
approach looking at how patristic and authoritative writing
shaped the works of writers in Latin and Danish.40 Adams
provides an investigation of (anti-)Jewish motifs and
stereotypes in Danish vernacular literature up to and
including the publication in 1516 of Poul Ræff’s Danish
translation of Johannes Pfefferkorn’s De Judaica Confessione,
as well as a study of Jews in Passion tales and in sermons. 41
His findings show that the images of biblical Jews from late
medieval mainland European texts were deeply embedded in
the prevailing culture of Denmark, whereas popular myths
concerning well poisoning, host desecration, ritual murder,
and the like, are entirely lacking. However, this may just be a
consequence of the small size of the Old Danish text corpus.
The portrayal of Jews in Danish wall-paintings has been
investigated extensively by Ulla Haastrup, 42 although her
conclusions – not least that Jews must have been resident in
Denmark – have been disputed.43 The area would benefit
from an interdisciplinary approach integrating art history,
medieval literature, and theology to investigate the interplay
between church art and popular religious texts, particularly
sermons, in order to understand what images were
propagated by the Church and how they came to be
embedded in medieval Scandinavian culture.
There remains much work to be done on Norway and
Iceland. Despite the publication of fine editions of key texts,
such as Jóns saga Hólabyskups ens helga and Gyðinga saga,
little has been written on the portrayal of Jews in West Norse
art and literature.44 Painted figures appear dressed in typical
Jewish attire in several Norwegian churches, for example in
Bø, Hamre, and Nes, and Jews can be seen crucifying Jesus in
Hauge Church, while the miracle of the Jewish boy in the oven
appears on two altarpieces, viz. in Årdal and Vanylven. 45 An
article by Bjarne Berulfsen argued that antisemitism was a
“litterær importvare [literary imported item]” from mainland
Europe.46 This claim, which seems to be based on the view
that anti-Jewish ideas and the cultures that produced them
were static and unchanging, rests on the supposition that the
representation of the Jews in Old Norwegian and Icelandic
literature is entirely religious in character and the same as in
other European texts.47 However, there has never been a
survey of Jewish stereotypes and antisemitic images in West
Norse literature that might uncover significant differences in
the frequency or use of certain motifs between Norway,
Iceland, and the rest of Europe. Nor do we know anything
about pre-conversion ideas concerning Jews whom
Norwegians or Icelanders might have encountered on their
travels. If pagan Swedish Vikings felt the need to deface
Islamic writing and symbols on coins by scratching on Þórr’s
hammers, why would Norwegians not have felt a similar
distaste towards the religion of the Jews whom they met
around the Mediterranean?
1.4 Imagined Muslims and Jews in the
Baltic
Scholarship on non-Christians in the medieval Baltic Rim is
inevitably shaped by research on the Teutonic Order and its
colonization of the region. And in this research, the relations
between Christian knights, Christian settlers, and indigenous
pagan Prussians entirely dominate the picture, while relations
between the Teutonic knights and members of the other
monotheistic religions are mainly dealt with in the context of
the Order’s earlier presence in the Holy Land. None of the
three large military orders originally seemed to have a
particularly negative relation to the Jewish communities in
the Holy Land or the other areas where the orders built up
dominions, such as Rhodes and Cyprus.48 Since the Teutonic
Order was the youngest among the knight orders, its role in
the production of anti-Muslim crusading propaganda and
literature is somewhat neglected compared to that of the
Templars and the Hospitallers.
Regarding the process of the settlement of eastern Prussia,
dominated by German-speaking colonizers, questions of
ethnicity have been much discussed, but questions of religion
have been limited to the contrast between Christian
colonizers and indigenous pagans.49 The topics of inter-
religious contact or religious diversity in the Baltic seem
entirely overshadowed by the Teutonic Order’s fight against
the indigenous pagan peoples: Prussians, Samogitians, and
Lithuanians.50 Muslims do play a certain role in the
imagination of the Christian knights and consequently in
scholarly research, but in this context, it is not potential
encounters with real Muslims and Jews in the Northeast that
are the focus of historical and literary scholarship, but rather
the transference of the concept of the enemy from the
Muslims in the Holy Land to the pagan Prussians and
Lithuanians in the Baltic lands.51 It is assumed that the Order
somehow developed a collective memory of the encounters
with Muslims in the Mediterranean and that these encounters
from the twelfth and early thirteenth century became a
matrix for meeting the enemies of the fourteenth century –at
least in the world of chronicles and epics.
Since the literary production of the Order itself – that is,
texts that can clearly be assigned either to Prussia and/or to
a member of the Teutonic Order as author and/or sponsor – is
very limited, the Baltic crusades as described in European
chivalric epics and travel literature have provided insights
into the perception of pagan Lithuanians as the religious
Other.52 Regarding the Teutonic Order’s own production, the
translation of Old Testament texts dominates, and here,
much work remains to be done regarding the particularities
of translation. The fact that the Teutonic Order adopted the
“new Maccabees” as their label and used and disseminated a
German translation of the Books of Maccabees53 has been
mentioned frequently in the context of the military and
corporative ideal that this ideology transports.54 In the
chronicles of Peter of Dusburg (died c. 1326) and its
translation by Nicolaus of Jeroschin (died c. 1341), the
Maccabees as well as the three young men in the fiery
furnace from the Book of Daniel are, as has been pointed out
by scholars of literary history, presented as virtuous models
of fighting and suffering.55 But the significance of choosing
explicitly Jewish role models and emphasizing the translation
of Old Testament books – in addition to Maccabees, both
Judith56 and Esther57 were also translated at the behest of
the Order – has not been investigated yet.58 The
representation of Muslims and Jews in church paintings,
architecture, and manuscript illustrations has likewise been
neglected.59
1.5 Real Muslims and Jews in Prussia
As far as medieval Prussia is concerned, the assumption that
the Teutonic Order maintained an active anti-Jewish policy
has become a commonplace and has ultimately led to a lack
of research on Jews in this area before the seventeenth
century. The sources for this anti-Jewish policy are, however,
more than doubtful. In one thread of the tradition of Prussian
chronicles, it is claimed that High Master Siegfried of
Feuchtwangen gave the Prussian lands a codex of laws
(Landordnung) in 1309, as soon as he had moved the main
seat of the Order to Marienburg (Malbork). The first willkor, or
article, of this Landordnung is said to forbid the residence of
“Jews, magicians, sorcerers, and waideler” in the Prussian
lands, the waideler being Prussian pagan priests. The earliest
chronicle containing this information is Simon Grunau’s
Preussische Chronik from 1525, which is otherwise generally
viewed as highly unreliable by scholars of history.60 The
earliest Landordnungen by High Masters for the Prussian
lands stem from the beginning of the fifteenth century and do
not contain any anti-Jewish regulations. Despite the obvious
reasons to doubt the existence of this anti-Jewish policy on
the part of the Teutonic Order, the fact remains that there are
but few traces of real Jews in Prussia; this probably explains
why German Jewish scholars of the emerging Wissenschaft
des Judentums,61 Christian and National Socialist German
scholars62 as well as Polish scholars63 all started their
published investigations of Jewish communities in early
modern Prussia by repeating the statement that the Teutonic
Order had proposed and implemented a ban on Jewish
settlement.
Nevertheless, there are traces of Jewish life in the area from
the beginning of the fourteenth century on. No stable Jewish
communities seem to have existed in the Prussian
heartlands; however, letters of safe conduct for Jews,
formulae for Jewish converts, records of bishops’ financial
support for these converts as well as recurring calls in
Prussian towns during the fifteenth century for restrictions on
Jewish trading exemplify that Jews were by no means only
imagined figures in medieval Prussia.64 Numerous medieval
placenames containing the element Juden- have until now
only been investigated by völkische scholars who judged
them not to be evidence of actual Jews living there.65 The
quite uncertain field of personal names has enjoyed great
attention by scholars interested in the “German character” of
the region but they have never mentioned and discussed the
frequent evidence of iode, “Jew”, as a surname.66
The expansion and decline of the Order’s territory would
also justify a more thorough investigation of its presumed
anti-Jewish policy: In Neumark (Nova Marchia), acquired by
the Order in 1402, Jews had had the right of residency since
the thirteenth century and were not expelled by the Order;67
in the territories under the control of the Prussian bishops,
the Order’s rules for settlement and residency did not apply
at all,68 and as far as Livonia is concerned the legal situation
for Jews is ignored in scholarship just as much as for the
Prussian heartlands.69 In nearby Poland, the Jews’ legal
situation was exceptionally good due to the Privilegium
Casimirianum of 1334, and most of the studies assuming a
ban issued by the Teutonic Order mention that the legal
situation of Jews in Prussia might have changed for the better
after 1466, when larger parts of Prussia came under the
control of the Polish crown. The shifting authorities in the
town of Danzig (Gdańsk) also provided shifting policies on
Jewish settlement and residency.70 However, a systematic
review of this still remains a desideratum.
As far as the areas to the east and south of the Teutonic
Order’s Prussian heartlands are concerned, sources and
research on religious diversity are generally better, but the
main focus here is on contact between Catholic and Orthodox
Christians in places such as Novgorod, Pskov, and Reval
(Tallinn), mainly because of the cultural contacts brought
about by the Hanseatic League.71 West of Prussia, the
territories of Brandenburg and Mecklenburg were the sites of
shifting relations between Christians and Jews, resulting in
numerous Jewish communities but also violent pogroms and
expulsions.72 Medieval Lithuania as a place of interreligious
and intercultural exchange and coexistence has attracted
scholarly interest in the past decades, finally overcoming
research structured according to the boundaries of modern
national states.73 At the end of the Middle Ages, Tatars
settled mostly in the eastern part of the Grand Duchy of
Lithuania and, like the Jews who lived there, enjoyed
considerable privileges. 74 Fifteenth-century sources from
Prussia mention Tatar prisoners of war, and in the sixteenth
century, during the Livonian War, Tatars who served in the
Russian army even settled Livonia.75 Evidence of Jews in the
Hanseatic towns on the Baltic coast, such as Lübeck, Stettin
(Szczecin), and Rostock, during the Middle Ages is just as
sparse as for Prussia and has been equally neglected in
systematic studies of Jewish life.

1.6 This volume

The articles in this volume are grouped into four sections. In
“Contact”, the first section, cultural and economic exchange
between Christians and members of other religions in
Scandinavia and the Baltic are investigated. Bjørn Bandlien
(Buskerud and Vestfold University College) discusses whether
images of the heathens in northern Scandinavia changed
during the Middle Ages, and if such developments were
influenced by perceptions of Saracens from elsewhere in
Europe. Trading relations between medieval Christian
Scandinavians and Sámi are compared to see if they were
legitimized in the same way as they were between Muslims
and Christians in the Mediterranean. Christian Etheridge
(University of Southern Denmark) considers the influence of
Islamic scientific works on medieval Iceland. Latin
translations of such works had arrived in Iceland possibly as
early as the late eleventh century and were being used at
least until the fourteenth century. These scientific works both
supplemented and augmented earlier Icelandic treatises. The
transmission of these ideas shows that Scandinavian and
Islamic interaction, albeit indirect, in the medieval period is
an example of non-hostile relations. Kay Jankrift (Technische
Universität München) writes about the reports of Ibrāhim ibn
Ya‘qūb (mid-tenth century), a Jewish convert, who was
fascinated by the whale hunting practised by the Norsemen,
and the Arab ambassador al-Ġazāl who visited a Viking court
in Denmark c. 845. Stefan Schröder (University of Helsinki)
accounts for the unusual travel route of the Dutchman Jost
van Giselen to the Holy Land and Northern Africa. Van
Giselen’s encounters with the Other are described and
compared with those in other travel writings, for example Sir
John Mandeville’s Book of Marvels and Travels.
The second section “Settlement” deals with evidence of
actual Muslims and Jews along the Baltic Rim. Cordelia Heß
(University of Gothenburg) presents an interpretation of the
chronicles and letters dealing with Jews as scapegoats for
spreading the Black Death in Prussia around 1350. Despite
the existing connection between Jews and contagion in these
local sources, there is no evidence of pogroms or trials
against Jews or Jewish converts in Prussia. Michalina Duda
(Nicolaus Copernicus University) discusses the surprising
presence of three doctors of potentially Jewish origin (Meyen,
Jacob, and Tham von Hochberg) in Prussia for short periods
during the fifteenth century. They are known from the
archives of the incoming and outgoing correspondence of the
High Master, including letters of request for Jewish experts in
medicine and letters of safe conduct for their travels in
Prussia. Krzysztof Kwiatkowski (Nicolaus Copernicus
University) presents evidence of Muslim prisoners of war who
lived in Prussia in the fifteenth century and were kept by the
Teutonic Order especially for their skills as horse keepers and
breeders. Initially they seem to have formed small
communities, but after only two to three generations the
sources turn quiet, which Kwiatkowski interprets as a result of
processes of assimilation and acculturation, maybe also
conversion. Veronika Klimova (Adam Mickiewicz University)
discusses the Karaite settlement in the Lithuanian town Troki
from the thirteenth century on, pointing out the relatively
large amount of religious freedom and social integration this
Jewish group enjoyed. This status granted them an important
position in Lithuanian society as well as acting as a positive
model for later Jewish communities in their struggles for
privileges.
The third and fourth sections deal with images and
stereotypes of the Other. Beginning the section
“Scandinavia”, Yvonne Friedman (Bar-Ilan University)
identifies Peter the Venerable as the paradigm of medieval
Christian anti-Jewish and anti-Muslim theological thought and
the anti-Jewish and anti-Muslim rhetoric employed in
Scandinavia and the Baltic region in the twelfth to fourteenth
centuries. Peter’s greater tolerance for Islam as compared to
his inveterate hatred of Judaism diverged from crusader anti-
Muslim political propaganda. Although in Scandinavia and the
Baltic region we find the same demonization of the Jews in
Christian sermons as in Peter’s work, Muslims suffered a
harsher rhetoric that was adopted from crusader propaganda
and used as a metaphor in the fight against the local
heathens, who were referred to as Saracens. This stands in
stark contrast to the pragmatic approach that encountered
and engaged the Other in the Latin Kingdom. Jonathan Adams
(Uppsala University) investigates descriptions of Muslims,
Islam, and Muḥammad in Old Danish and Old Swedish
literature. He shows how Muslims are used in these texts
both as foils to prove the truth of Christianity and as mirrors
to reflect the Christian readers’ moral failings. Muḥammad is
depicted as both an idol and a pseudo-prophet, a treatment
that fits clearly within the Western European traditions of
describing and denigrating Islam. Descriptions of events in
the life of Muḥammad are shown to be part of an attempt to
render Islam harmless and insignificant to Scandinavian
readers and audiences. Richard Cole (Harvard University)
investigates the depiction of Jews in Old Norse literature to
sketch out some Norse positions on what we would now think
of as notions of “race” or “ethnicity”. Presenting the most
typical ethnic and racial identifiers, for example skin colour,
hooked noses, and grotesque features, he found that they
resemble modern antisemitic stereotypes very closely.
In the final section on images and stereotypes, “Baltic
Region”, Sarit Cofman-Simhon (Kibbutzim College of
Education and Art) writes about anti-Jewish sentiment in the
Ludus Prophetarum (Prophets’ Play) that was staged for
pagans in Riga in 1204 as a means of persuading them to
convert to Christianity. She argues that its anti-Jewish images
and staged violence, while being used as a missionary tool,
blurred the medieval dichotomy between ‘good’ (some Old
Testament figures) and ‘bad’ (New Testament) Jews. Elina
Räsänen (University of Helsinki) discusses the visual
representations of Muslims and Jews in the Kalanti altarpiece
(c. 1420), which contains paintings from the Meister Francke
tradition and sculptures of Hamburg or Lübeck origin. She
found familiar strategies of depicting the Jews in the Marian
picture cycle as ugly and inferior, while the pagans present at
the torture of St. Barbara were depicted dressed in imagined
Oriental outfits. Shlomo Lotan (Bar-Ilan University) describes
the evidence of non-Christians in the early historiographical
works of the Teutonic Order, namely, the chronicle by Peter
of Dusburg, and connects this evidence to the Teutonic
Knights’ experiences of the Holy Land and its loss. A striking
aspect was the adaptation of the term “Saracens” for the
pagan inhabitants of the land conquered in the Baltic, as well
as the ascription of deeds and characteristics to them known
from Crusading propaganda in the Holy Land. Jurgita
Šiaučiūnaitė-Verbickienė (Vilnius University) writes about the
development of anti-Jewish and anti-Muslim hatred in Early
Modern Lithuania. Despite the fact that Lithuania was itself
Christianized relatively late and that Jewish settlements are
not known before the seventeenth century, anti-Jewish
stereotypes were widely spread among the upper echelons of
society as early as the mid-sixteenth century. While these
reflected the adaptation of a universal stereotype in form and
content, the resentment against the Tatars was more
complicated, since it included both Tatars as a hostile out-
group attacking the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and those
Tatars living legally, even if in separation, within the country.
Madis Maasing (University of Tartu) also describes the
adaptation of a well-proven stereotype, that of the Turks, to
an entirely different group, viz. the Russians, who had
become a major threat to Livonia. The Teutonic Order went to
war with the Grand Duchy of Muscovy at the beginning of the
sixteenth century, an event that was followed in Livonia by
the intense writing of polemical works that identified the
“schismatic Russians” with the infidel Turks.
This collection thus gives readers a unique perspective on
relations between Christians, Muslims, and Jews in medieval
Scandinavia and along the Baltic Region during the Middle
Ages. The inclusion of the articles by Maasing and
Šiaučiūnaitė-Verbickienė recognizes the extended boundaries
of what constitutes “medieval” in Islamic and Jewish history
and demonstrates how constructed terms such as “the Middle
Ages” can be limiting particularly when dealing with groups
outside of Western Christianitas. The articles also cover a
vast geographical area from Iceland in the west (Cole,
Etheridge) to Muscovy in the east (Maasing), from Sápmi in
the north (Bandlien) to the Arabian Peninsula in the south
(Schröder). What is remarkable perhaps is how in some ways
the view of the Muslims and Jews was broadly the same
among Christians in these areas, due no doubt to the unifying
influence of the Church as, for example, mediated through
papal bulls, sermons, and art. Nevertheless, it is important to
recognize that this view of Muslims and Jews was malleable
and provided an array of images that could be put to a
variety of different uses and that could elicit a variety of
responses, from coexistence to conflict.
The reader will notice that the volume does not include
contributions on places such as the Hanseatic towns,
Novgorod, and Mecklenburg. However, we hope that this
book will act as an impetus for new research and that
scholars will soon begin investigating attitudes towards
Muslims and Jews in these areas. The study of Jewish-
Christian-Muslim relations in medieval northernmost Europe
is a relatively new area of research. It draws upon many
disciplines and builds upon and nuances the findings from
more thoroughly investigated areas such as England, Spain,
and Germany. The results, we hope, provide a fresh and
original description of the pre-modern religious and non-
religious background to society in today’s Scandinavia and
Baltic lands with respect to tolerance, persecution, and
intercultural encounters. Furthermore, we hope that they
highlight the mutual influences between centre and periphery
in the Middle Ages.

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I. Contact
Bjørn Bandlien

2 Trading with Muslims and the

Sámi in Medieval Norway
In the Middle Ages, it felt to Norwegians like they were
surrounded by heathens. Although they were geographically
far removed from the Holy Land, many Norwegians
encountered Muslims during pilgrimages and when
participating in Crusades.76 Moreover, they maintained close
contact with the northern heathen ‘Finns’ or ‘Lapps’, today
usually identified as the Sámi.77 In fact, the Norwegian
Archbishops of Nidaros went so far as to declare themselves
and their patron saint, Olaf, to be the bulwark against the
threat from the North, the homeland of demonic forces that
threatened to overrun Christendom.78
From a modern perspective, there are many obvious
differences between the Sámi at the northern fringe of
Europe and the Mediterranean Muslims in the Middle Ages.
For example, the Mamluks in Egypt had a complex political
structure, significant military resources, and were involved in
large-scale international trade, while the Sámi were hunters
who lived in a society without cities and certainly had no
military structure that would pose a serious threat to any
kingdom.
Nonetheless, the Sámi were included in Western pro-
Crusade discourse alongside the Muslims. King Hákon
Hákonsson of Norway (1217–1263) had taken the Cross in
1237, but in 1241, he sent a petition to Pope Gregory IX,
asking to be absolved from his vow to participate in a
Crusade to the Holy Land. He listed a number of difficulties,
including a lack of necessary economic resources. He
promised, instead, to make war on his kingdom’s heathen
neighbours. Pope Gregory IX responded by granting the king
a part in the Crusading indulgence and sending a letter
extending papal protection to the king, his family, and his
property.79
A similar excuse was offered in response to the call for a
Crusade at the Council of Vienne in 1311–1312. When papal
collectors arrived in Norway to claim Crusading tithes, the
head of the royal council and de facto ruler of Norway in the
1320s, Erling Vidkunsson, claimed to be planning his own
Crusade against Norway’s heathen neighbours. In 1323, he
received a letter from Pope John XXII granting the Norwegians
who died fighting the pagani dicti Finnar (heathens called
Finnar) the same privileges as those who died fighting for the
liberation of the Holy Land.80 In 1326, John XXII also granted
the young King Magnus Eriksson’s guardians a portion of the
Crusading tithes to finance the war against the heathen
Karelians and the heretical Russians.81
This suggests that Norwegian rulers in the thirteenth and
fourteenth centuries viewed their relations with the heathens
at their borders as part of the same struggle for Christendom
as that against the Saracens in the Middle East, against the
Moors in Spain, and against the heathens in the Baltic region.
Norway’s heathen neighbours were located at the kingdom’s
northern border. Along with the Sámi, other groups with
interests in northern Scandinavia were identified as heathens,
among them the Bjarmar and the Karelians, as well as the
Russians (the latter were sometimes referred to as heathens
and sometimes as heretics).
Stereotyping both the Sámi and Muslims as equivalent
Others is in line with the general development of a
‘persecuting society’ in the High Middle Ages. In his
influential study of medieval European persecuting society,
Robert I. Moore argued that the images used to identify
marginal groups, such as Jews, lepers, and heretics, as well
as the way in which they were persecuted, were very similar.
The development of a new bureaucracy and a new rhetoric of
authority, morality, and normalcy contributed to this.82
Norwegians and other European Christians shared a common
image of Muslims, and by the early fourteenth century at the
latest, heretics were targeted for persecution.83 In medieval
Norway, the negative stereotypes of the Muslims led to the
construction of the Saracens, or Serkir in Old Norse, with their
well-established polytheistic faith, idol worship, and cruelty.84
Historian Sirpa Aalto has argued that the negative, or even
monstrous, qualities assigned to heathen enemies can be
traced to patterns found in the Old Norse kings’ sagas. The
heretical and heathen groups who were assigned traits
similar to other ‘non-Christians’ included, among others, the
Karelians, Bjarmar, Wends, blámenn (conventionally
translated as ‘black men’), and Sámi in the north. For
example, in the Icelandic sagas, the Sámi were often
portrayed, in a corresponding way, as skilled in magic or
demonic sorcery and as heathen idol worshippers.85 This
suggests that the traits assigned where influenced by images
of the Other that the Norwegians shared with other
Europeans.86
However, as was the case for other Europeans, Norwegians
had relations with the Sámi and Muslims that were more
complex than allowed for in the depictions of the Saracens
and Finnar in sagas, chansons de geste, chronicles, and
romances.87 Although the Sámi and Muslims were depicted
as enemies of Christianity, sagas and chronicles testify that
Norwegians continued to trade with them. While
representations of these groups as monstrous Others would
contribute to a Christian identity and community, trading
relations and peaceful contact would seem to endanger such
simple oppositions. However, as Emile Durkheim pointed out
a century ago, trade may provide little more than a fragile
peace: “Interests never unite men but for a few moments,
contracts are mere truces in a continuing antagonism.
Nothing is less constant than interest. Today it unites me to
you; tomorrow, it will make me your enemy”.88 In the case of
medieval Iberia, the view is that face-to-face trade relations
lent stability to the Muslim-Christian convivencia.89 David
Nirenberg, in his study on the relations between Christians
and Jews, Muslims, and lepers in France and in the Crown of
Aragón, counters the view held by Robert I. Moore, Norman
Cohn, and others, arguing that the role and objective of
stereotypes of the Other “are closely dependent on social
context and conflict, and therefore differ greatly from time to
time and place to place”.90 According to Nirenberg,
persecution of and violence against minorities was short-lived
and was generally determined by the way in which the
perpetrators took hold of and manipulated the discourse
about the Other. Furthermore, episodes of aggression against
minorities were not always socially disruptive: They often
played an integrative and stabilizing role, clarifying ethnic,
religious, and social boundaries and making different group
identities more tangible.
In this paper, I will examine the interrelationship of trading,
religious missions, and Crusading based mainly on
Scandinavian sagas and chronicles. In these narratives,
trading relations with heathens are most often recorded
because of their noteworthiness to an élite audience of
clerics, monks and nobles, many of them connected to the
Norwegian royal court. Given the lack of archival sources until
the Late Middle Ages in Norway, such narratives are
especially valuable since they show that boundaries between
the Christian and heathen communities could be challenged
and upheld during “the few moments” of trade.

2.1 Trading and Crusading

At the Second Council of Lyon in 1274, Pope Gregory X
excommunicated and anathematized those “false and
impious Christians who […] transport weapons and iron and
wood [to the Saracens] for building galleys and other sailing
vessels with which they [the Saracens] attack Christians […]
or in anything else whatsoever lend them aid or counsel to
the detriment of Christians, particularly those of the Holy
Land”.91 Jon Raude, Archbishop of Nidaros in Norway,
attended the Council in Lyon, and in 1280 he included the
same embargo in a provincial statute, under threat of
excommunication.92
Attempts at an effective commercial boycott of the Muslims
had begun in the twelfth century. The Third Lateran Council,
under Pope Alexander III, provided the first clear formulation
of the principle. As had been the case at the Second Council
of Lyon, the export of weapons, slaves, and shipbuilding
materials to Muslims was considered a particularly serious
offense. Occasionally, there were more extensive embargos:
The Fourth Lateran Council of 1215 forbade Christians to
send ships to countries inhabited by the Saracens for a period
of four years, because they should remain available to those
who wished to act in service of the Holy Land, and so that the
“Saracens may be denied the benefits that they usually reap
from such commercial intercourse”.93 After the fall of Acre in
1291, Pope Nicholas IV tried to extend the embargo on arms,
horses, iron, wood, and foodstuffs, to include “any other form
of merchandise” – in essence, a complete embargo.94
The attempts at regulating commerce with Muslims reflects
the flourishing trade conducted by merchants from cities like
Venice, Genoa, Marseille, and Pisa across religious borders in
the Mediterranean, including the export of war materials to
Egypt, Tunis, and Syria.95 Although Norwegians did not play a
significant role in the trade in war materials, it is nonetheless
notable that Lodin Lepp served as Norwegian King Magnus
Hákonsson’s envoy to Egypt in the 1270s, during Baibars’
reign.96 Although the Icelandic source does not mention the
purpose of the journey, it does say that it made Lodin
famous. We know from other sources that he had also been
sent by the Norwegian king to al-Mustansir in Tunis in 1262. It
is possible that Lodin Lepp and other Norwegians met
ambassadors from al-Mustansir already during a stay in
Valladolid in 1258.97 Lodin was well received by al-Mustansir
in 1262 and stayed in Tunis over the winter. Sturla Þórðarson,
nephew of Snorri Sturluson, who probably knew Lodin Lepp
personally, mentions that the Norwegians brought many gifts
with them, including gerfalcons “and other things that were
difficult to find there”. These were not, however, merely gifts:
They would also have been meant to send a message, given
that gerfalcons were a very valuable commodity in the
Maghreb, Egypt, and Syria. The contemporary Muslim author
Ibn Sa‘īd al-Maghribī wrote that these falcons were so highly
valued that even dead specimens sold for a very high price.98
Such a gift might, therefore, have been given to Baibars, the
Mamluk sultan of Egypt, to encourage trade and increase
prices.
A more extensive report about Norwegian trade with
Muslims is found in Orkneyinga saga, probably composed in
several stages around 1200. It provides a lengthy description
of the Norwegian magnate Erling Kyrpinga-Ormsson leading a
Crusading fleet to the Holy Land in the early 1150s, in the
company of Earl Ragnvald of Orkney. According to
Orkneyinga saga, upon entering the Mediterranean, the
Crusaders caught sight of a dromund, a ship so large that
they initially thought it was an island. As the ship
approached, the Crusaders could not help but wonder
whether the crew of the dromund were friends or enemies. At
this point it is clearly stated: “If those [on the dromund] are
heathens, then the Almighty God will show us mercy and give
us victory”. The saga then explains that: “On the dromund
were Saraceni, who we call Maúmet’s heretics”. However, the
author goes on to distinguish among these Saracens. Black-
skinned warriors receive special mention: “There were many
blámenn there, and they fought most fiercely”. This would
imply that others on board were Saracens, but not blámenn,
and that they fought less fiercely.
However, the Crusaders also noticed a man whom they
thought appeared different: “A man on the dromund was
both larger and more striking than the others. The
Norwegians assumed he was the chieftain”. The Crusaders
cleared the ship, sparing only this singularly striking man.
Then, they headed for the mainland and “went to a town of
the Serkir and made peace with them for seven days. They
traded with them and sold silver and other things to them”.
The Crusaders also wanted to sell their captive, but “no one
wanted to buy the large man”. Finally, they let him go.99
A few days later he returned to the town with a great force
and informed the terrified Crusaders “that he was a chieftain
from Serkland and had sailed with the ship and a crew from
this town”. Although he had the power to determine the
Crusaders fate, the chieftain chose to let them sail on to the
Holy Land: “You will now be allowed to leave in peace since
you did not kill me and showed me the honour you were able
to, considering the circumstances”.
This episode gives a complex image of an encounter with
the Saracens. First, the saga explains the term Saraceni to
the readers, calling them “Maúmets villumenn [the heretics
of Maúmet]”. The nature of the heresy is not specified, but
the contemporary Speech Against the Bishops, written in
Norway in the late 1190s, adds more detail. The basic
premise of this treatise is that the king should control both
the kingdom and the Church, since clerics tended to fall into
lechery, pride, greed, lust, and sexual immorality. The list of
heretical clerics mentions a certain Nicholas Advena. He is
said to be a disciple of Christ, who later became the bishop of
Serkland. He then became known by another name, Maúmet.
His heretical teaching had spread to such an extent that half
the world now believed in him and said that he was God.100
This image of the Saracens as heretics has been connected to
the development of a Christian intellectual culture that
responded to the challenge posed by Muslim theology. 101
However, most of the Saracens were said to be blámenn, a
stock image from the Old Norse sagas. They are frequently
depicted as the fiercest of warriors, often skilled in magic,
and with connections to monstrous beings.102
The saga presents the people of Serkland in more neutral
terms. No problems are mentioned in relation to the trade in
silver and other items with the local merchants. Only when
the striking Saracen returns with an army is the religious
conflict between the Crusaders and the heathens presented
as a potential problem. However, the Saracen proves to be a
noble and chivalrous heathen and lets the crusaders leave
the city in peace.
This differentiation of Saracens is similar to that found in
other European sources. It is well known that trade and
commerce followed closely in the wake of Crusades, and that
the Genoese in particular used military force to increase their
influence in Muslim North Africa.103 In the case of the
Norwegian and Orcadian expedition in the 1150s, the cities of
Bougie (now Béjaïa in the eastern part of modern Algeria) and
Tunis were the most likely sites of trade. Genoese merchants
had set up in these cities by the mid-twelfth century,
although they had rivals among the Christians, particularly
the Pisans.104
Letters between the Genoese and the local traders suggest
close bonds, even during times of internal strife among
Christians or between local governors and merchants.105 The
noble character of the striking heathen chieftain in
Orkneyinga saga may have functioned to legitimize trade in
Muslim countries. The townspeople, who bought silver and
other items from the Crusaders, are also depicted in a similar
pronouncedly neutral fashion, simply as the inhabitants of the
land of the Saracens, or Serkland. The Norwegian Speculum
regale, or Konungs skuggsiá, written at the royal court in the
late 1250s, claims that Norwegian merchants often faced
danger, both at sea and in heathen lands.106 In order to be
well received, they were strongly advised to respect local
customs wherever they were, including in the land of the
Saracens.
The major distinction among the Saracens is the portrayal
of the blámenn as fierce warriors. They are also depicted as
monstrous and demonic in other late twelfth-century sources.
Clearly, they were not a group with which it was considered
easy to establish peaceful trading relations. The category of
Saracens was distinguished as an ethnic Other rather than a
religious Other. Orkneyinga saga clearly illustrates how
different images of and various perspectives about Muslims
could co-exist in a single work.
In 1347, King Magnus Eriksson of Norway and Sweden
managed to get papal permission to trade with “Soldan of
Babilonia”.107 King Magnus openly stated that this was
necessary to improve the kingdom’s economy. To gain
permission to trade with the Mamluks in Cairo, the claim was
made that it would serve to finance Crusading activities in
the East. King Magnus wanted to export falcons, a long and
profitable Scandinavian practice.108 The falcon trade
subsequently received papal exemption from the embargo,
and in 1348 Pope Clement VI directed his envoy Peter of
Ghent to grant absolution to Scandinavian merchants guilty
of illegal trade with Saracens and infidels, if they would use
the profits for the war against heathens.109 King Magnus
assumed that the trading policy of the papacy was
considered questionable and was possibly viewed with
disapproval. Indeed, two Swedes had in 1345 arrived at an
agreement with the merchant Pere de Mediavilla in
Barcelona, one of the richest and influential men in the
Kingdom of Aragón, to gain passage on his ship to Alexandria.
Pere de Mediavilla himself also acted as the King of Aragón’s
envoy, becoming a very unpopular figure among the French
when the claim was made that he had told the Mamluk sultan
that the French king was planning to attack Egypt.110
While the blámenn were portrayed as monstrous berserkers
or demonic idolaters, there seems to have been a parallel
interest in narratives that depicted Babylonia more
favourably. The cross-cultural contacts in the Mediterranean
also influenced the learned and aristocratic worldview in the
North, and the Norse aristocrats’ aspiration to courtliness
may have made admiration for the rich culture they
encountered in places like Tunis and Egypt more appealing
than simply seeing it as monstrous.111

2.2 Trading with the Sámi

From the twelfth to the fourteenth centuries, Norwegians
were involved in the Crusades against the Muslims. At the
same time, the heathen Sámi, or Finnar as they were usually
called in Old Norse, were a close neighbour to the
Norwegians. Since the Viking Age, chieftains and petty kings
in the South had traded with and taxed the Sámi. After the
Christianization of Norway, the northern Finnmark region was
associated with heathendom, and its inhabitants with sorcery.
Beginning in the thirteenth century, a growing number of
Norwegians settled in Finnmark, but control over the area
was challenged by the Russian princes of Novgorod, who
were also interested in northern Scandinavia. In response to
this, the Norwegian rulers built churches in the region, and in
the early fourteenth century erected a fortress in Vardø.112
In the middle of the twelfth century, an anonymous
chronicler connected to the Archbishopric of Nidaros
described the Finns. Above all, he emphasized their religious
practices, claiming that “a person will scarcely believe their
unendurable impiety and the extent to which they practice
heathen devilry in their magic arts”.113 At the same time, he
stated as a matter of fact that Norwegians habitually traded
with the heathen Finns. He offers an anecdote: “Once, when
Christians who had come to trade had sat down at table with
some Finns, their hostess fell forward all of a sudden and
expired”.114 This is followed by an account of how two
magicians attempted to restore her to life by using a gandr,
the “demonic spirit” of a sorcerer who was able to travel long
distances, in the shape of a whale, for instance. One of these
two sorcerers died while performing the chanting
incantations, falling to the ground “negro ut ethiops [black as
a negro]”. This expression would have been familiar to the
learned audience of the text. The meaning of the blackness of
the Ethiopian had been discussed since Antiquity. In early
Christianity, the distinction of whiteness and darkness was
often interpreted in relation to sin. Demons would often be
described as Ethiopians with curly hair.115 At the same time,
Church Fathers, such as Augustine, declared that Ethiopians
traced their origin to the same human forms as other people.
As rational and mortal beings, they were part of humanity
and potential Christians; by converting, they, just like other
people, were made white in the light of the Lord.116
In some Old Norse sagas, however, there is an ambivalent
attitude about the possibility of converting the Sámi. Oddr
Snorrason, a Benedictine monk from the Icelandic monastery
of Þingeyrar, writing in the late twelfth century, described
how the missionary King Olaf Tryggvason received sound
advice from a wise Finn who could see into the future.
Although helpful to the king, the Finn said that “ek hefi
annars konar náttúru [I have a different nature]” and was
unable to adopt Christianity or its customs, “Því at ekki má ek
snúast til annarra hluta eða annarrar náttúru en nú em ek
[because I cannot convert to other practices or to another
form of existence]”.117 Later in the saga, King Olaf fails to
convert a chieftain from Hálogaland in northern Norway,
because he was born as the result of some Finnar using
magic to insert an unclean spirit into a woman’s womb. This
chieftain was, in fact, that very spirit and could not be
baptized for the reason that “ek hefi ekki mannz eðli [I have
not the nature of a man]”.118 In this case, the Sámi seem, by
their nature, to be immersed in witchcraft, while the
Norwegian or Icelandic performers of magic, both before and
after their conversion to Christianity, would most often be
depicted as having learned magic or specific charms, often
from the Finns.119 In any case, in the episode of the two
magicians in the Historia Norwegie, trade between
Norwegians and the Sámi is not seen as a problem in and of
itself. It is only the practices of the two heathen magicians
that are considered demonic and dangerous.
Along with trade, the Sámi are depicted as fishing alongside
the Christians. The author relates one such episode in his
work: “When the Finns, together with the Christians, had
gone about catching by hook a flock of fish such as these
heathens had seen in Christian dwellings, they drew almost
full traps out of the deeps with their wand, and so loaded the
boats to capacity”.120 Here, the Sámi are more or less doing
the same thing as the Norwegians. The historical context for
this episode is the increased and lucrative trade in fish
exported to the south. Both the Sámi and the Norwegians
who were settled further north wanted a piece of this trade,
and in this instance the author clearly portrays the Sámi as
imitating the Norwegian practice. It is the religious context of
the fishing, with the Sámi successfully using sorcery, which
denotes the difference between the two groups.
In the fishing episode in Historia Norwegie, the Finns used
the wand and were more successful than the Norwegians.
Another writer from the late twelfth century emphasized that
Christians should under no circumstances adopt this kind of
sorcery. When compiling a collection of Saint Olaf’s miracles,
Archbishop Eystein Erlendsson of Nidaros (1167–1188) told
the story of a remarkable Norwegian catch in northern pagan
lands: “For lying in a narrow inlet in the middle of the pagan
wastes, three or four weeks distant from Christian lands, and
disappointed of their expected catch […] they humbly
besought with plea and with prayer the mercy of God and the
intervention of the martyr.”121 Their success attracted the
attention of the Sámi (or Lapps as they are called here): “The
pagan Lapps who had also gathered there to fish, hearing the
vow of the faithful, asked to be admitted as fellows to this
plan, but in such a way that their gods should be no less
honoured with the fruits of their vow than the blessed Olaf
with the offerings of the faithful. But since there is no concord
between Christ and Belial, the wretches in their error were
spurned”.122 Archbishop Eystein then described how the
Norwegians sent fish to the cathedral in Nidaros to express
their gratitude for Saint Olaf’s intervention.
This was clearly seen as a remarkable and important
miracle, and Archbishop Eystein claimed to have verified it
himself. When travelling to the fringe of heathen lands, he
had questioned truthful men about what had happened, and
they all told him the same story. Whereas the fishing episode
in Historia Norwegie presents the Sámi sorcery as particularly
effective in procuring a good catch, Archbishop Eystein
depicts the worship of the saint as more fruitful. It seems like
the Archbishop was concerned about the extremely close
relationship between the Norwegians and the Sámi – not the
fishing as such, but the fear that it would lead to a mixed
worship of saints and heathen gods. Archbishop Eystein
emphasized that Christians would receive more help from
Saint Olaf, and that the saint’s intervention was the result of
the unwillingness of the Norwegians to take part in the Lapps’
worship. It is not explicitly stated in the account of the
miracle, but in the light of the parallel episode in the Historia
Norwegie, we could presume that Archbishop Eystein
believed that the heathens’ sorcery actually was an effective
way to catch fish. This made Christian fishermen in the
northern pagan lands of central importance in establishing
Christianity’s distinction from the heathendom and the works
of the Devil. Fishing became a battle between “Christ and
Belial”, and even if the Christians and heathens fished side by
side, the way they worshipped served to introduce
Christianity to the heathens and to mount a defence against
the trappings of the Devil in these heathen realms. If all the
Christian fishermen were to worship Saint Olaf in the same
way, they would not only be economically successful, they
would also help to Christianize these realms. It was a vision of
Crusading while fishing.
These sources suggest that while they perceived the Sámi
as a religious Other, the Norwegians also viewed them as a
people with a king they could negotiate with. In 1313, Martin,
the “king of the Finns”, is said to have visited the Norwegian
king, Hákon V (1299–1319).123 That same year, King Hákon
issued a legal amendment concerning the northern part of
the kingdom,124 offering the Finns privileges if they converted
to Christianity. For thirty years after their conversion, they
would pay only one third of any fines imposed by royal
officials. Hákon V also admonished both his own officials and
the Archbishop of Nidaros’ officials to treat the Finns justly
and not to exploit them economically. It seems that Martin
was some sort of Sámi chieftain – perhaps a Christian (as his
name would suggest) – who was negotiating on behalf of his
people. 125
Few sources show active attempts to convert the Sámi
during the fourteenth century. One episode in the late 1350s
or the 1360s indicates that the mission to the Sámi continued
to follow in the wake of trade. A certain priest from
Hálogaland travelled with merchants by ship to Finnmark.
They entered a suitable harbour and were met by numerous
Sámi, who had come to trade with them. One day, the priest
was saying Mass in a tent, since there were no chapels or
churches in the area. The Finns joined the Christians at Holy
Mass. Among them was a man who stood by the door of the
tent. This man was greatly skilled in witchcraft. He was
revered by all of the Finns as their leader, both because of his
sorcery and because he could foretell the future. However,
when the hostia was raised, the sorcerer fled from the tent.
He was later found lying on the ground. He explained to the
Norwegians’ interpreter that the consecrated host had
appeared to him to be a brightly illuminated child covered in
blood. The Finn had fainted in terror. This miracle was
reported by the priest to Archbishop Olaf of Nidaros, who
ordered that it be announced from the choir of the cathedral
for all to hear, and that the announcement be accompanied
by chiming bells and the chanting of the hymn Te deum.126
The narrator expresses doubt about the sorcerer’s
conversion to Christianity. He attended the Mass with the
other Finns, but is referred to as a heathen, while the others
are portrayed as believing in his sorcery more than in Christ.
In any event, the conversion of the Finns was obviously not
the point of this story or the reason it was announced with
such veneration in Nidaros. The main message was that the
power of Holy Mass was greater than the skills of the
northern pagan sorcerers. Norwegian traders who travelled to
these areas could expect God’s support, and if they
performed Christian rituals, the pagans would recognize
God’s power.
This episode also indicates that Norwegian merchants and
priests met people in the North who did not have the
negative attitude towards Christianity that Crusaders had
grown to expect of the Saracens in the Mediterranean. On the
contrary, the Sámi were depicted as attending Mass, even
though they considered a sorcerer their leader. It is likely that
many of the Sámi had become catechumens, possibly by
proclaiming the Symbol of Faith, renouncing the Devil, and
being blessed with the sign of the cross (prima signatio).127
There are, however, many indications that the Sámi
incorporated elements of Christianity and Christian
symbolism into their own religion in an adapted form, rather
than choosing between Christianity and their traditional
beliefs.128 This kind of hybrid religion is also reflected in the
buildings known as multi-room houses. Archaeological
excavations have shown that these sites on the coast of
modern Finnmark can be connected to Norwegians, the Sámi,
and the Karelians. Of a turf, stone, and wood construction,
such houses might have served several functions in a multi-
ethnic environment.129 For example, they might have allowed
for communication and facilitated peaceful trade between
people from different cultures.130
In the economic and political relations in north Scandinavia,
the religious or ethnic differences of the Norwegians and the
Sámi seem to have given rise to very little conflict or
violence. Most conflict and violence was over taxes and
control of trade, and occurred between Norwegians and
Karelians, who were acting on behalf of Novgorod.131 The
accounts of religious conflict provided by the Church of
Nidaros focused on trade and fishing, rather than on a
military Crusade led by the Norwegian king. The accounts in
question present the activities of the two peoples as so
intermingled that distinctions were barely visible. This made
it necessary to introduce the issue of religious worship to
denote a meaningful difference between them. The conflict
between Norwegians and the Sámi had to be transformed
into a relationship between Christendom and heathens. In
this relationship, Christian ideology would be presented as
hegemonic, but the narratives provide a view of numerous
instances of peaceful interaction between the two groups,
and even cases of Norwegians being tempted to use Sámi
“sorcery”. This was why the Archbishop of Nidaros felt it was
necessary to announce the miracle of the sorcerer who was
struck with terror at the sight of the consecrated host during
Mass.

2.3 Concluding remarks

In the early sixteenth century, the Portuguese humanist
Damião de Góis wrote a treatise on the Lapps, entitled the
Deploratio Lappiannae gentis. Damião’s source for the
treatise was the last Catholic archbishop of Sweden, Johannes
Magnus (1488–1544). Johannes Magnus had told Damião that
he wished to convert the Lapps to Catholicism, but as the
Swedish king had converted to Lutheranism this was
impossible. He feared that King Gustav Vasa of Sweden would
exploit the Lapps economically, rather than convert them.
Damião himself bemoaned the fact that the Lapps had not
yet been Christianized, blaming this on the greed of kings
and merchants who preferred that they remain heathens, so
they could be more heavily taxed.132
In the period of the twelfth through the fourteenth
centuries, however, there would have been no perceived
contradiction between Christian preaching, colonization and
trade or between missionaries and merchants. It is true that
King Hákon V’s 1313 legal amendment concerning the Sámi
included economic privileges for those Sámi who converted.
These trading privileges were seen as promoting
Christendom in the North. In 1358, King Erik Magnusson of
Sweden confirmed the existing trading privileges in the
northern realms, in part because they encouraged the growth
of Christianity (christna troes föröckning). 133 From the
Archbishopric of Nidaros’ perspective, the central issue was
not the converting of individual heathens in the North, but
rather building churches and performing Mass for the
Norwegian traders and settlers in the region. The miracle
stories reflect the close interaction of Norwegians and the
Sámi, and were meant to ensure Christians that they
received no less support from Saint Olaf than the heathens
did from their sorcerers. Given that they fished side by side
and ate together, it was essential to remind the Norwegian
merchants and settlers that the heathens threatened their
salvation.
Although, in Finnmark, the Norwegians were not fighting to
defend or recover a Holy Land from a group that refused to
acknowledge Christianity, it nonetheless seems that they
drew upon lessons learned from trade between Christians
and Muslims in the Mediterranean. For merchants from a city
like Genoa, combining Crusading and trade would have been
the norm. In a similar vein, the Scandinavian Crusaders of the
early 1150s would fight fierce battles with the blámenn one
day and trade with Serkir/Saracens the next day. The first
group played the role of monstrous and demonic forces in the
narratives, while the merchants and rulers were presented in
stories highlighting exotic luxury and chivalrous values.
Depending on context, the Saracens might even be depicted
as chivalrous warriors worthy of the Christians’ respect. In
what may be called aristocratic discourse, the parameters
were not those of religious Otherness, but of the shared
values of some Christian and heathen warriors.
While in the case of the Muslims, the violence against the
heathen blámenn served as a reminder of the distinction
between Us and the Other, in Finnmark, the Sámi often
accepted baptism and attended Mass, making the lines blurry
for Norwegian traders and priests. The dominant discourse
about the Finnar in the sagas addresses their attachment to
sorcery, to controlling the weather, and to shapeshifting.
Clerical authors in Nidaros invoked such images to transform
the peaceful encounters between Norwegians and the Sámi
into a religious battle between Christianity and heathendom.
In relation to trade, these images were used to highlight the
differences between the groups. However, traders also had
access to more positive images and narratives that
legitimized relations with both Muslims and the Sámi.

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Christian Etheridge

3 The Evidence for Islamic

Scientific Works in Medieval
Iceland

3.1 Introduction
The genesis of this article lies in a recent visit to the
Romanesque cathedral of Lund. While in the cathedral, I
walked over to the medieval astronomical clock to await the
moving figures and music that accompany the striking of the
hour. During my wait, I noticed four carved figures that had
been placed in each of the corners of the top part of the
clock. The figures were wearing exotic clothing and one even
wore a turban, immediately bringing to mind the image of an
Arabic astronomer. This challenged my previous assumption
that Muslims had generally been portrayed in a negative light
in medieval Scandinavia. Indeed, it actually seemed to
suggest that there was a sense of pride in having these
figures here occupying a prominent place within the walls of
one of medieval Scandinavia’s most important ecclesiastical
buildings. This encounter tied in with research that I had been
undertaking on the influence and dissemination of Arabic
scientific works in Scandinavia, particularly in Iceland. What
follows is an analysis of the manuscript evidence for the
impact and distribution of scientific works originating from
the Islamic world during the Middle Ages, with particular
attention on the cultural currency of the image of the Islamic
scientist in medieval Iceland. The article begins with the Lund
astronomical clock, and then heads to Iceland to analyse the
scientific works there, as well as making connections with
contemporary works in other regions of Scandinavia.

3.2 Lund Astronomical Clock

The first Lund cathedral, dedicated to the martyr St.
Lawrence, traces its beginnings to the reign of the Danish
King Sven II Estridsson (1047–1074). In 1104, Lund was made
the archbishopric of all Scandinavia, and the present
cathedral was built shortly afterwards. Although the
Scandinavian archbishopric was split up by the Papal Legate
Nicholas Breakspear (later Pope Adrian IV 1154–1159) in
1152, Lund retained its position as one of the most important
ecclesiastical centres in medieval Scandinavia. The
astronomical clock was constructed c. 1422,134 but after the
Middle Ages it gradually fell into disuse and by the nineteenth
century had ended up in a storeroom, where it was found and
rebuilt again in 1923 by the cathedral architect Theodore
Wåhlin and the clockmaker Bertram Larsen. Only the top half
of the clock is original, and this is where the four exotically
attired figures are located.135
 Fig. 1: The astronomical clock, Lund Cathedral, Sweden. (Photograph: Jonathan
Adams)

Each of the figures holds a paper scroll on which the original

writing has been obliterated by the passage of time. The two
upper figures wear crowns of a typical medieval type. The
lower right-hand figure also has a crown, but of oriental type,
whereas the other figure wears a turban which seems to
denote a Muslim.136 Wåhlin, in his work on the reconstruction
of the clock, interpreted the two upper figures as
representing great astronomers from Antiquity, such as
Hipparchus, Ptolemy, Aristotle, or maybe even King Alfonso X
(1221–1284). Wåhlin also hypothesized that the lower right-
hand figure was the Chinese astronomer Tcheou-Kong, who
lived c. 1100 BCE, and that the other figure with the turban
was either the Persian astrologer Albumasar (Abū Ma‘shar al-
Balkhī, 787–886) or the Arabic astronomer Ali-Ben Isa (Alī ibn
‘Īsā al-Asṭurlābī, ninth century).137 Anders Andrén, in his work
on medieval Lund, also noted that the two upper figures
appeared to be Europeans and possibly represented Aristotle
and Ptolemy. Andrén concluded that there was no
documented evidence to help to determine the identity of the
four figures.138 There is, however, firm comparative evidence
that gives a much clearer picture as to the identity of the four
astronomers and the possible maker of the clock.
In 1394, the German clockmaker Nikolaus Lilienfeld made
an astronomical clock in the Church of St. Nikolai in
Stralsund, Pomerania. His signature can still be seen there.
This astronomical clock has four figures, one in each corner,
that closely resemble those in Lund. They retain their names
and are named top left Ptolemy, top right Alfonso, bottom left
Hali, and bottom right Albumasar. Nikolaus is also believed to
be responsible for the construction, in 1390, of the
astronomical clock at Bad Doberan Minster in
Mecklenburg.139 This astronomical clock also has four figures
which closely resemble those in Lund and Stralsund, and
again have the same four names. It is highly likely, as
Manfred Schukowski has conjectured that it was Nikolaus
Lilienfeld who constructed the astronomical clock in Lund.140
The similarities in design, as well as the geographical (there
are fewer than two hundred kilometres between the clocks)
and chronological proximity of the Stralsund and Bad
Doberan clocks would indeed make Nikolaus the most likely
candidate for clockmaker of Lund.141 If this is the case, then
the attributions of the four astronomers would be the same in
Lund as the other clocks in Stralsund and Bad Doberan, and it
is at the identities of these figures that we must next look.
 Claudius Ptolemy (second century CE) was an Alexandrian
astronomer who wrote widely on astronomy, geography, and
astrology. His most important work was the Almagest, a
detailed star catalogue and astronomical work that was lost
to the Latin West sometime in the sixth century. It was
translated and commented on extensively in the Islamic
world in the ninth century and became known as the al-
Majisṭī, or great work, later Latinized to Almagest. The court
of Alfonso X, king of Castile, produced several works of
astronomy and astrology, of which the most important was
the Tabulae alphonsinae, or Alfonsine tables. Haly Abenragel
(Abū l-Hasan ‘Alī ibn Abī l-Rijāl, died after 1037) was a court
astrologer for the Zirid dynasty based in Kairouan.142 His
influential work Kitāb al-bāri‘ fī akhām an-nujūm (Book on the
Judgement of the Stars) was translated into Latin at the court
of Alfonso X in 1254. Albumasar was an influential astrologer
and astronomer in the Abbasid court in Baghdad. His works
on the philosophical reasoning behind astrology influenced
Adelard of Bath, Albertus Magnus, and Roger Bacon amongst
others in the West.
The figures on the Lund astronomical clock suggest an
admiration for astronomers on the part of the clockmaker or
his patron.143 It also implies a receptive audience that would
likewise appreciate these figures and recognize in them a
sense of wisdom and knowledge. The fact that two Islamic
astronomers are also represented there is proof that in early
fifteenth-century Scandinavia Islamic scholars were so
admired that they could be represented on the walls of one of
its greatest cathedrals. This is, of course, party to the classic
dichotomy of Christian thinking towards Islam and Muslims in
the Middle Ages. On the one hand, Islam was seen as heresy
and Muslims as either being in error or evil. Peter the
Venerable (1092–1156), in his influential Liber contra sectam
sive haeresim Saracenorum (The Book against the Sect or
Heresy of the Saracens), denoted that Islam was either a
secta (body of belief independent of Christianity) or haeresis
(heresy). To quote Jeffrey Cohen in his On Saracen
Enjoyment:

He [Peter the Venerable] knew that all Saracens

shared its errors (hence the unnuanced collective
plural Saracenorum), and tautologically that sharing
rendered them Saracens. Cultural specificities were
lost as the inhabitants of Iberia and the East were
unified beneath the sign Saracen, a racialized figure
of ultimate difference who condensed everything
inimical to the fragile Christian selfsame.144

Works such as those of Peter the Venerable were

complemented by negative manuscript images of Muslims,
the most famous of these being the unhorsing of Saladin in
the Luttrell Psalter (British Library, Add. MS 42130 fol. 82)
dating from 1325–1340.145 In this scene Saladin has his
helmet knocked off by a jousting Richard the Lionheart and is
exposed to have the face of a grotesque blue demon
underneath. These negative images and works stood in
contrast to the knowledge that Islamic science and
philosophy were far in advance of that in the Latin West,
which eventually gave way to a more positive view of Muslim
scholars. For example Hugh of Santalla, the twelfth-century
Spanish translator, explained to his fellow Latin Christian
scholars that Islamic astronomers were to be looked up to,
because “It befits us to imitate the Arabs especially, for they
as it were are our teachers and precursors in this art”.146 The
Cordovan philosopher Averroes (Abū l-Walīd Muḥammad bin
’Aḥmad bin Rušd, 1126–1198) was known by the title of ‘The
Commentator’ in the Latin West, because his commentaries
on Aristotle were the most important and influential
Aristotelian critiques during the Middle Ages. To investigate
further this positive image of the Islamic scholar in an
Icelandic context, it is fundamental to first study the impact
of Islamic scientific works on medieval Icelandic scholarship.

3.3 Icelandic scientific knowledge in

the twelfth century
From the very beginning of Iceland’s Christian era, knowledge
of computus (the science of calculating Easter and other
moveable feasts) was needed. Computus had developed from
the complex task of dating Easter, requiring as it did an
accurate knowledge of both the solar and lunar cycles and
the ability to calculate dates from them using elementary
calendrical algorithms. In the early eighth century, the
Venerable Bede (672–735), following previous Irish
computistical works, wrote three treatises which mastered
the art of the computus and remained in vogue until the
twelfth century, when translated Arabic works on astronomy
and mathematics allowed for greater accuracy in calculation.
147 The very earliest surviving Icelandic manuscript
(Reykjavík, Árni Magnússon Collection, AM 732 a VII, 4° from
1121–1139) is, in fact, a calendar used to calculate Easter. It
is, of course, ironic that Islamic science allowed for a more
accurate calculation of the most important Christian festival.
Another early survival from the twelfth century is the first
Icelandic chronological treatise Rím I, or Rímbegla, believed
to have been written by the astronomer Bjarni Bergþórsson
inn Tǫlvísi. The oldest version, dating from the end of the
twelfth century, is found within the manuscript Reykjavík,
Árni Magnússon Collection, GkS 1812 IV, 4°. It is unknown
where it was written, but the diverse range of works used in
its construction would suggest a monastic environment.
Natanael Beckman researched many of the sources of Rím I,
and they are detailed in his notes on the treatise.148 Several
authors are mentioned by name in the text of Rím I, and I will
deal with these first. For the anonymous remainder, Beckman
has made comparisons between the Old Norse text of Rím I
and those in various Latin astronomical and computistical
treatises. Any scholar working with medieval Icelandic
astronomy is in debt to the immense task of comparative
work that Beckman made between the Old Icelandic and
Latin sources. Of course, it is possible that Beckman may
have made some errors with these sources. Beckman wrote
almost one hundred years ago, and knowledge of medieval
astronomy has advanced since then. There are, for example,
many edited manuscripts that would have been unavailable
to him in the early twentieth century. This note of caution
aside, and until a full and systematic editing and evaluation
of the Icelandic astronomical material appears, Beckman’s
work is still the most thorough examination available, and it
will be used in this assessment of the source material.
The astronomer that is most frequently quoted by name in
Rím I is the early twelfth-century Icelander Stjǫrnu-Oddi
Helgason. His Oddatal (Oddi’s Reckoning) is a series of
measurements of the sun’s altitude at noon and its bearing at
sunset and sunrise throughout the year. Oddi measures the
height of the sun using the sun’s own size in scale.149 There
is a supernatural þáttr recorded about him called Stjǫrnu-
Odda draumur, written sometime between 1391 and 1395,
some two centuries after he wrote Oddatal.150 Other Icelandic
astronomers that are directly quoted are the aforementioned
Bjarni Bergþórsson inn Tǫlvísi and the tenth-century calendar
reformer Þorsteinn Surtr, both of whom we know very little
about.
It is because of this dependence on Icelandic sources that
the Rím I treatise can be seen as semi-independent from
foreign astronomical practices. The only foreign astronomer
that is directly quoted is Bede from his De natura rerum.
However, there are many indirect quotes and sources of
calculations within the treatise which Beckman has
painstakingly re-assembled. The majority of these belong to
the twelfth-century Christian theologian Honorius
Augustodunensis (1080–1154) and his works De imago
mundi, and Liber XII questionum. There is also extensive use
of the encyclopaedic Etymologies of the seventhcentury
Bishop Isidore of Seville (560–636). The final two authors are
the Roman scholar of mythology, Gaius Julius Hyginus (64
BCE–17 CE) and his Poeticon astronomicon and the
Carolingian archbishop Hrabanus Maurus (780–856) and his
De computo. Honorius Augustodunesis was a well-known
writer in medieval Iceland, and a translation of his work
Elucidarius from Latin into Old Norse was undertaken in the
late twelfth century. The use of his works in Rím I would
suggest a familiarity with standard reference works that were
popular during the Middle Ages. Hrabanus Maurus wrote De
computo primarily as a traditional computus text, but it also
included new material from the Carolingian texts available at
the time. Among these were discussions of the Greek
astronomical poet Aratus (315/310 BCE – 240 CE) and his
important work, the Phaenomena. This aspect of De computo
ties in with the work of Hyginus and his Poeticon
astronomicon. The latter was popular in the Middle Ages and,
along with the Phaenomena of Aratus, provided the Greek
mythological background to the figures depicted in
illustrations of the stellar constellations. Of all the sources
that were used in the compilation of Rím I, by far the most
important was Bede’s De natura rerum, which is referred to
more frequently than all the other foreign sources combined.
Given the evidence detailed above, it seems reasonable to
assume that the writer of Rím I was working with a standard
set of encyclopaedic manuals which focused mainly on
computus, along with some basic astronomy and a little
detail about the constellations. For our purposes, the real
relevance of Rím I is the lack of any source material that
derived from Arabic sources. Yet, it is in the same manuscript
GkS 1812 IV, 4° that we find the earliest attestation of Arabic
astronomical terms anywhere in Scandinavia.

3.4 The Glossary of GkS 1812 IV, 4°

Situated towards the end of GkS 1812 IV, 4° is a glossary of
mostly Latin terms with Old Icelandic translations. Originally
part of a glossary together with the manuscript Reykjavík,
Árni Magnússon Collection, AM 249 l fol., it dates from the
end of the twelfth century and is a copy of one or more
earlier manuscripts. Medieval glossaries in the West Norse-
speaking area are rare, and what makes this glossary rarer
still is a collection of Arabic words written in the Latin
alphabet and glossed into Old Icelandic. This is the earliest
occurrence of Arabic words in a Scandinavian source. The
words are star names, listed in a part of the glossary devoted
to astronomical terms. There has been surprisingly little
scholarly work on possible sources of this extraordinary
appearance of Arabic terminology at such an early period in
Iceland. Natanael Beckman and Kristian Kålund conducted
the most complete study of these astronomical terms to date
in their work Alfræði Íslenzk II: Rímtol, to which I shall return
later.151 Fabrizio Raschellà, in a series of informed articles,
has carried out the most complete work in recent years on
the Latin words in the glossary, but has deferred to Beckman
and Kålund on the Arabic terms.152

3.5 The Provenance of the Glossary

Fols. 24r and 34v from GkS 1812 IV, 4° originally formed a
single glossary, along with fol. 4r–v from the manuscript AM
249 l fol. These folios are written in the same hand and are
copies from one, or possibly more, earlier manuscripts. In
total, there are about 260 Latin words, which appear with
their Old Icelandic translations in the two manuscripts. In AM
249 l fol., they are inserted in the blank spaces and side
margins of a computistical table, while in GkS 1812 IV, 4°
they appear on the first and the last page of the manuscript’s
oldest section encompassing the computistical treatise, Rím I.
This is contemporary with the earliest Icelandic text of the
same length. The Icelandic Hómiliubók (Homily Book) is also
from the end of the twelfth century and also includes
Icelandic glosses of Latin words, in this case in a section
devoted to the Creation.153 The contents of the glossary are
mainly agricultural in substance, aside from those in GkS
1812 IV, 4°, which are astronomical in character.
Raschellà believes that the glosses were likely made by
some student or a scholar for personal use and could reflect
vocabulary learning.154 The Arabic glosses are to be found on
fol. 34v in GkS 1812 IV, 4°, written on eleven lines in three
columns. They are recorded in the lower half of the folio,
followed by a series of agricultural glosses. I have placed the
Arabic star names with their Old Icelandic equivalents where
noted.155 The manuscript folio is unfortunately badly worn
(Beckman and Kålund’s textual reconstructions are shown in
brackets).
3.6 Aramec –Alpha Boötis
The first of the Arabic star names is Aramec, which Beckman
and Kålund point out is a Latinized version of the Arabic ar-
rāmiḥ, itself a contraction of as-simāk ar-rāmiḥ (the uplifted
one of the lancer). This is the Arabic word for the star
Arcturus, found in the constellation of Boötes and the second
brightest star in northern skies.156 The ancient Greek name of
Arcturus, the Bear Watcher or Guardian, refers to its relation
to the nearby constellation of Ursa Major, the Great Bear.
Arcturus is itself glossed as the Old Icelandic dag (stiarna), or
daystar, possibly because of its brightness. Beckman and
Kålund noted that the second half of the Old Icelandic gloss is
very faint, but can be retrieved because Arcturus is still
named dagstjarna in Norwegian (and was also known as
dagstiærna in Old Swedish).

3.7 Wega –Alpha Lyrae

Beckman and Kålund conclude that Wega comes from the
Arabic wāqi‘, meaning “falling” or “landing”, stemming from
the phrase an-nasr al-wāqi‘ (the landing vulture). This star,
known to us in modern English as Vega, is in the constellation
of Lyra (the lyre), which was originally seen as a vulture or
eagle by the ancient Arabs.157 It is one of the brightest stars
in the sky, and from Iceland it is seen on the south horizon,
hence the Old Icelandic glossed name of Suþrstiarna, or
southern star.

3.8 Alakol –Beta Persei

Beckman and Kålund have this as a version of the star known
as Algol, which is found in the constellation Perseus. They
note that the old name for Algol was the Medusa’s Head,
which the ancient Greek hero Perseus carried in his hand, and
that Medusa translated into Arabic would be Algol, or the
Devil. Paul Kunitzsch says that Algol is from an abbreviation
of the Arabic ra’s al-ghūl (the demon’s head) and derives
from Ptolemy’s description in the Almagest of a Gorgon’s
head.158 Algol is a binary star, which appears to fluctuate in
brightness, although Beckman claims that this characteristic
feature was unknown in medieval times. The Old Icelandic
gloss Kyndilbere (candle bearer) is, according to Beckman
and Kålund, probably a translation made in connection with
the Latin Lucifer, or light bearer. This is a term which is often
used to represent the planet Venus in its capacity as the
morning star. They also say that a similar confusion seems to
have occurred with dagstjarna, which in this context may
mean morning star. Kyndelbere is also linked as a gloss to
Sirius by the term idem above it. Beckman and Kålund
continue by positing that Kyndelbere could be an appropriate
name for Sirius, which is the brightest star in the sky and
appears just before the feast of Candlemass (2 February).
It appears that Beckman and Kålund have become very
confused about the star names here, as they manage to mix
up Algol, Venus, Arcturus (dagstjarna), and Sirius. The
proposition that Kyndelbere represents Candlemass and the
rising of Sirius is peculiar, as Sirius rises in July. This theory
does not work with Algol, which is always visible in the
northern skies of Iceland, nor does it work with Arcturus,
which rises in the autumn. Venus, as a planet, can rise and
set on any day of the year. The etymology of Kyndelbere
would most likely to be connected with the flickering light of
a candle, representing the fluctuating brightness of Algol. It is
also not conclusively proven that medieval astronomers were
unaware of the changing brightness of Algol.159 This would be
a more reasonable explanation than the rather confused one
offered by Beckman and Kålund, and would indicate a high
degree of sophisticated knowledge on the part of Icelandic
astronomers.

3.9 Al<ca>ph –Beta Cassiopeiae

Beckman and Kålund comment that this Arabic word is the
name for the star called Beta Cassiopeiae or al-Kaf (the palm
of the hand). Kunitzsch notes that the ancient Arabic name
for this star was al-kaf al-khadīb (the stained hand).160 This is
more correctly a collective term used for the five brightest
stars of the constellation Cassiopeia. These five stars form an
asterism that is very visible in the Northern Sky, taking the
shape of the letter W, or as the ancient Arabs saw it, a hand
stained with henna. The Old Icelandic glossed name for al-Kaf
is unfortunately now missing from this part of the glossary.

3.10 The sources of the Arabic terms

according to Beckman and Kålund
Beckman and Kålund note that the knowledge of Arabic
terminology is of the greatest interest for dating the
manuscript. Beckman looked for sources by tracing the oldest
form of one of the stars mentioned, in this case Vega. He saw
this term as stemming from the Alfonsine Tables, the series
of star tables commissioned by Alfonso X of Castile and
dating from 1256.161 Beckman realized this would be
impossible, as he dates the manuscript folio to 1192, and
instead provides an alternative explanation. He refers instead
to a passage from Amable Jourdain in his Recherches sur les
Anciennes Traductions Latines d’Aristote.162 The passage
mentions a Latin translation of the Persian astronomer, al-
Farghani (Abū al-‘Abbās Aḥmad ibn Muḥammad ibn Kathīr al-
Farghānī, ninth century) which he traces to Spain in 1135.
This is the work of John of Seville, the translator of al-
Farghani, and his Liber in scientia astrorum (Book on the
Science of the Stars).163 Beckman then goes on to claim that
it is not surprising that this work was present in twelfth-
century Iceland. He identifies Abbot Nikulás Bergsson of the
Benedictine monastery of Munkaþverá as the source of this
knowledge, on the basis of Nikulás’ visit to Palestine between
the years 1149 and 1154.164 His guide, Leiðarvísir ok
borgarskipan (A Guide and List of Cities) details the
pilgrimage route from Iceland via Rome to Jerusalem. The
rationale for Beckman is that Abbot Nikulás mentions a
method to calculate the location of the pole star in his guide,
and therefore he must have had an interest in astronomy.165
Beckman then claims that the Latin al-Farghani manuscript
could have ended up in the Holy Land, where it was picked up
by the abbot. This is an interesting theory, but it does not
stand up to scrutiny, as Beckman was unaware of earlier and
more likely possible sources of Arabic star names. Instead of
the work of John of Seville, I believe that a treatise on the
astrolabe is the source of the glossary of GkS 1812 IV, 4°.

3.11 The Astrolabe

The astrolabe is a device that is able to project what the
observer sees in the sky onto a flat disc through a process
known as stereographic projection. A typical astrolabe is
made of a series of rotatable brass or copper graduated discs
held together by a single pin. The back disc is called the
Mater and is marked on both sides. Sitting on top of the
Mater is a series of plates or climates, with different plates
being used for different latitudes. On top of the plates is the
rete with pointers indicating different stars. There is a pointer
called the Alidade at the back of the Mater and a pointer
called the Horse at the front of the rete. With the Alidade, the
altitude of the Sun or a star could be measured to within an
accuracy of about one degree. An astrolabe could be used to
locate and predict positions of the Sun, Moon, planets, and
stars, determine time, survey and triangulate, and cast a
horoscope. To exploit the astrolabe to the full, it was
necessary to have a comprehensive set of astronomical
tables on the movement of the sun, moon and planets,
among which a table of the position of the sun for each day of
the year was the most important. The earliest surviving
Arabic texts on the astrolabe date from the work of al-
Khwarizmi (Abū ‘Abdallāh Muḥammad ibn Mūsā al-Khwārizmī,
c. 800–847) in the ninth century, with the oldest extant
Arabic astrolabe dating from 927 to 928.
Knowledge of the astrolabe was brought to the Latin West in
two main stages: The first was the completion of the
Sententie astrolabii (Meaning of the Astrolabe) treatise and
its related texts in Spain in the late tenth century, and the
second was the translation of major works on the subject in
Toledo from the mid-twelfth century onwards. The Sententie
astrolabii was a Latin treatise on the astrolabe, probably
written by Lupitus of Barcelona and inspired by Cordovan
treatises. There were related texts, such as De utilitatibus
astrolabii (On the Usefulness of the Astrolabe) attributed to
Gerbert of Aurillac (c. 945–1003), who travelled to Catalonia.
Gerbert later taught astronomy and made armillary and
celestial spheres to explain the workings of the heavens, and
he used mathematics to aid in astronomical
measurements. 166 Gerbert later became Pope Sylvester II
(999–1003), and he was associated with legends of magical
abilities due to his astronomical knowledge.
 Lotharingia (Lorraine) became the focal point of
mathematical and astronomical studies in the Latin West
during the eleventh century, and many of its scholars were
connected with Gerbert and his teaching. The next most
important centre for this learning was the Benedictine abbey
of Reichenau, by Lake Constance, which reached its cultural
peak under the magister Berno of Prüm (c. 975–1048) and his
pupils. Berno took many books with him from Lotharingia,
and under his influence Reichenau became a centre of
mathematics, astronomy, and music. Hermann Contractus
(1013–1054) became famous as an astronomer and
chronologer, writing his treatise on the astrolabe, De
mensura astrolabii (On the Measure of the Astrolabe).167 De
mensura astrolabii was accompanied by a table of twenty-
seven stars to be placed on the rete of the astrolabe.168 The
stars are mentioned by their Arabic names in transliteration:
A Latin translation is added to several of the Arabic names.169
His pupil Berthold (d. 1088) continued his work at Reichenau.
The third most important centre for these studies was
Cologne under Wulfhelm (1015–1091) and the Irish
chronologer Marianus Scotus (1028–1082/3).170 A new series
of translations of astrolabe treatises appeared in the twelfth
century, such as those by Plato of Tivoli (fl. 1134–1145) and
John of Seville (fl. 1135–1153). Various original Latin works
also appeared, such as those by Adelard of Bath (c. 1142–
1146), Robert of Chester (1147) and Raymond of Marseille
(before 1141).171
In 1966, Kunitzsch produced his study of the different types
of astrolabe treatises dating from the tenth to the fourteenth
century.172 Sententie astrolabii was assigned Type I, De
utilitatibus astrolabii was Type II, and De mensura astrolabii
was Type III. Analysis of the combination of star names in the
Icelandic glossary point to it being a version of one of the
earliest treatises, that of De mensura astrolabii from the first
half of the eleventh century.173 Latitudes for astrolabe plates
or climates have been found that extended to far extremes:
There are several that approximate the Arctic Circle between
66° N and 66.30° N. These plates show that similar plates
could have been created for use in an Icelandic context.
Below is a translation of the inscription found on one of these
plates.

This is the side for latitude 66.25° N, which is the

end of the seventh climate [sic] and the northern
limit of the inhabited part of the earth. What lies
beyond is desolate and unknown. I have engraved
these markings in order to ponder the power of
Almighty God and [no less] because of the need of
the person viewing [these markings] of a modest
knowledge of astronomy, so I engraved the 24 equal
hours which is the maximum length of daylight at
that latitude.174

The De mensura astrolabii treatise dates from the first half of

the eleventh century and is a legacy of the first wave of
translation of Arabic texts into Latin. It was made obsolete in
the middle of the twelfth century by newer, more advanced
astrolabe texts arriving from the major translation centres of
Toledo, Sicily, and Antioch. It is possible, therefore, to date
the arrival in Iceland of De mensura astrolabii sometime
between c. 1050 and 1150. The Icelandic scholar, Sæmund
Sigfússon (1056–1133) would seem to be the most likely
candidate to have brought it there. This deduction follows
upon the work of Peter Foote in his article “Aachen, Lund,
Hólar”, where he ties down the wanderings of Sæmund to the
geographical area of Lotharingia that was so vital in the early
transmission of Arabic astronomical and mathematical
treatises.175 It also relies on the connection drawn by Halldór
Hermannsson in his Sæmund Sigfússon and the Oddaverjar,
where he notes the parallels between the legends of magic
and astrology of Sæmund and Gerbert of Aurillac.176
Sæmund Sigfússon was born into the powerful Oddaverjar
family at its family seat at Oddi in south Iceland. He was
known as inn fróði (the learned or wise), and the historian Ari
Þorgilsson (1067–1148) submitted his Íslendingabók to
Sæmund for criticism. His reputation for wisdom was so long-
lived that the collection of Eddic poems known as the Poetic
Edda was known as Sæmund’s Edda right up to the early
twentieth century. Foote points out that Sæmund need not to
have strayed too far from the paths followed by previous
Icelandic ecclesiastics such as Bishop Ísleifr or Bishop Gizurr.
Indeed he was related to them, and like his predecessors,
was very much part of the Icelandic establishment. These
men were connected via Westphalia and Denmark (including
Lund) to the monasteries and the cathedrals of the Rhineland
and down to Reichenau.
There is a small piece of possible and tantalizing evidence
of these travels on fol. 165 of the manuscript Karlsruhe MS.
Aug. 163 Priscianus maior (tenth to twelfth centuries). There
are two inscriptions, one in Latin referring to the contents,
and one in runes indicating the price paid for it. This
inscription seems likely to have been made by a
Scandinavian buyer keeping track of his expenses. For one
reason or another, he must have been unable to take it home
and it finally found its place in the Reichenau library.177 There
are also references to pilgrims in the Necrologium Augiense
from Reichenau, dating from around 1100. There are around
40,000 names in there, of which thirty-nine are from Iceland
under the title Hislant terra.178 After this early evidence of
Arabic works, at the end of the thirteenth century, more
translations of Arabic treatises appeared in Iceland.

3.12 Algorismus
One of the most important mathematical treatises in
medieval Iceland was Algorismus. Written in Old Norse and
using Hindu-Arabic numerals, it explains various forms of
mathematical calculations. Algorismus first appears in
Hauksbók , a manuscript compiled by the Icelandic
Lawspeaker and Knight of the Gulaþing Haukr Erlendsson
(1265–1334). Hauksbók is made up of three manuscripts, AM
371, 4° (Reykjavík), AM 544, 4°, and AM 675, 4° (both
Copenhagen), and was assembled somewhere around 1302
to 1310.179 The other scribes writing in the manuscript are
mainly Norwegian, but some are Icelanders.180 There is an
earlier appearance of Hindu-Arabic numerals in the
manuscript found on fol. 35v, in a section that deals with the
calendar, whereas Algorismus appears on fols. 89v–93r of AM
544, 4° and by a scribe that is known as Haukr Erlendsson’s
‘First Icelandic secretary’.181 The Algorismus treatise is also
found extant in three other manuscripts, GkS 1812 II, 4°
(Reykjavík), AM 685 d, 4°, and AM 736 III, 4° (both
Copenhagen).
Algorismus has its origins in Latin translations of al-
Khwarizmi’s Kitāb aljam ‘wa itafrīq bi hisab al-Hind (The Book
of Addition and Subtraction according to the Hindu
Calculation). The earliest evidence of Western Arabic
numerals in Latin sources is from the Catalonian Codex
Vigilanus from 976. The Codex includes Isidore’s Etymologies
and includes a description of the nine numerals of the
Indians. They are written down in the Arabic format, that is to
say, right to left, and specifically using Western Arabic forms.
This was repeated in another Catalan manuscript from 992
that includes Isidore, the Codex Emilianus. 182 Al-Khwarizmi’s
work was translated into Latin in the first half of the twelfth
century, with the title De numero indorum.183 Al-Khwarizmi’s
name became Latinized to algorizmi (hence the modern
word, algorithm). AM 544, 4° was not the first Old Norse
version of Algorismus, as the calligraphy of the Hindu-Arabic
numerals suggest an earlier model from before 1270.184
Algorismus also includes a chapter on the four elements that
is based on Plato’s Timaeus (except in AM 736 III, 4°, where
there is a diagram instead on fol. 2r).185 Plato is also quoted
in the Third Grammatical Treatise (1.9) from c. 1250, in a
discussion on categorizing sound, where Óláfr Þórðarson
refers to caelestis harmonia, or heavenly types of sound.186 It
is currently obscure whether this knowledge of Plato in
medieval Iceland derives from a version of the Timaeus that
was translated from an Arabic copy or from the late Roman
Commentary on the Timaeus by Calcidius that circulated
from c. 400 CE onwards.187
There were three main important Latin algorithmic works in
the Middle Ages, Liber Abaci (1202) by Leonardo Fibonacci of
Pisa, Carmen de Algorismo (1200–1203) by Alexander de Villa
Dei, and Algorismus Vulgaris (c. 1230) by Sacrobosco. By
about 1500, Fibonacci’s works superseded the other two, but
until 1300, they were still considered the authoritative
sources.188 The bulk of the treatise Algorismus appears to be
an Old Norse prose translation of the Latin poem Carmen de
Algorismo. The Carmen de Algorismo itself is an extraction of
al-Khwarizmi’s work.189
In medieval Europe, merchants were quick to use Hindu-
Arabic numerals, and very soon this number system formed
part of the curriculum of medieval business schools. These
schools taught accountancy, law, documentation, and
calculation, which did not lead to a bachelor of arts, but were
designed for more practical purposes. They existed in Oxford
from the beginning of the thirteenth century and taught the
clerks who wrote letters and documents and kept records, as
well as apprentices in trades and crafts that entailed letter
writing, record keeping, and financial accounting.190 This type
of business school later became most pronounced in
Florence. The Italian banker Giovanni Villani (1280–1348)
stated in c. 1338 that between 1000 and 2000 children were
learning the abacus and algorism in six Florentine schools.191
Both the Norwegian connections of Haukr Erlendsson, and the
fact that the Algorismus of GkS 1812 II, 4° was written in Old
Norwegian rather than Old Icelandic, point to a strong
likelihood that the treatise was copied and compiled from
Carmen de Algorismo in Bergen. In the fourteenth century,
Bergen was the greatest trading centre in Scandinavia and
the usefulness of Algorismus for the merchant community is
self-evident.

3.13 Rím II
The treatise Rím II is believed to have been written around
1275 to 1300 and to have been heavily influenced by the
works of the English astronomer Johannes de Sacrobosco
(thirteenth century).192 Its most complete manuscript is
Reykjavík, Árni Magnússon Collection, AM 624, 4°, which
dates from c. 1500. There are incomplete parts that are to be
found in the following manuscripts: Reykjavík, Árni
Magnússon Collection, AM 415, 4° (1310), Copenhagen;
Arnamagnæan Collection, AM 732 b, 4° (1300–1325);
Copenhagen, Arnamagnæan Collection, AM 736 I, 4° (1300–
1325); Reykjavík, Árni Magnússon Collection, AM 727 I, 4°
(1594); Oslo, Norsk Riksarkiv NRA 59 (1300–1400), and
Reykjavík, Árni Magnússon Collection, GkS 1812 II, 4° (1300–
1400). In addition to the astronomical and computistical
details in Rím II, there are also references to Euclid’s
Elements.193 Within the treatise, there are spring tidal
calculations which point to the tides of the coast of south and
southwest Iceland. The only educational seat in this area is
the Augustinian monastery of Viðey, which points to it as the
most likely centre of composition. The treatise also includes
attempts to explain Hindu-Arabic numerals.194 There is also a
closing quote in the work which comes from the poet
Johannes de Havilla (c. 1150–1200).195 It is a passage from
his work Architrenius, which is an allegory about his journey
to the island of Thule, a mysterious place beyond Britain,
usually associated with Iceland, which may explain the
popularity of this poem for Icelanders. The poem also
describes aspects of philosophy and the makeup of earth.
The Latin passage that the writer of Rím II has used describes
the spherical nature of the Earth.196
There is a lot of astronomical material included in Rím II that
is indebted to the Arabic translation period. The works of
Sacrobosco are also the product of these translations.
Sacrobosco is the biggest influence on Rím II, and the treatise
includes the work of the Danish astronomer Petrus de Dacia,
who was one of his major commentators. Al-Farghani’s
Elements of Astronomy is referred to and one “Alkinean” is
named, most likely the Arabic astronomer and mathematician
al-Kindi (Abu Yūsuf Ya‘qūb ibn ’Isḥāq aṣ-Ṣabbāḥ al-Kindī, 801–
873). Finally, Ptolemy is quoted, but the author of Rím II calls
him Tolumeus konungr Egiptzi, and so follows the classic
medieval misunderstanding of his origins and confuses him
with being a member of the Ptolemaic dynasty of Egypt.
There is further evidence of knowledge of Ptolemy’s Almagest
in GkS 1812 I, 4°, from the fourteenth century. On fol. 11r
there is a diagram showing the geocentric orbits, epicycles,
and deferent of Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn.197 Rím II also
describes the measurement of geographical zones or
climates with the help of an Arabic instrument called a
quadrans vetus (old quadrant or sine quadrant).

Stiarna su, er gengur ifuir hofði manz med festingar

himni, er kollod cenit, oc ma marka i quadrant,
huersso margar gradur eru i milli natsolar hringhs ok
cenit ifuir hofdi manz, huar sem hann er, ok huerssu
margar gradur eru þadan nordur til leiðar stiornnu,
 þvi at cenit ifuir hofdi manz er sua margar gradur a
himnni til nordrs fra iafndegris hring sem grada sv,
er þradr snertr vm miðian dag um iafndegri fra
svnnanverdvm quadrant.
[That star which goes over one’s head with the
firmament is called cenit (the zenith), and one can
observe in the quadrant how many degrees there
are between the orbit of the midnight sun and cenit
when it is over one’s head, where it is, and how
many degrees it is from the north to the pole star,
because cenit, when it is over one’s head, is as
many degrees to the north in the sky from the circle
of the equinox as that degree which the thread
touches in the middle of the day on the equinox
from the southern quadrant.]198

The quadrans vetus is divided on its arc side into ninety equal
parts or degrees. At the apex, where the two graduated
straight sides of the grid pattern meet in a right angle, there
is a pin hole with a cord in it and a small weight on the free
end, with a small bead that slides along the cord called a
khait. The instrument could be used to measure celestial
angles, to tell time, find directions, or determine positions of
any celestial object at any time. It was first described in the
Almagest and later was mentioned by al-Khwarizmi in c. 840.
The phrase þráðr snertr (the thread touches) refers to the
cord used to measure the angles. The contemporary Liber
daticus Roskildenis from Roskilde Cathedral also refers to this
instrument in a passage from 1274: “Perfecta est autem hec
tabula per astrolabium et Gardagas sinuum Roskildis anno
Dominice incarnationis Millesimo ducentesimo septuagesimo
quarto [Now these astronomical tables are completed by
means of the astrolabe and sine quadrant]”.199 In this
passage, gardagas is a Latinized form of kardaga, or cord,
and sinuum is sine, astrolabium is the astrolabe and tabula
are astronomical tables. The most famous scholar from this
cathedral school was Petrus de Dacia, canon of Roskilde, who
travelled in the 1290s to Bologna and Paris where he wrote
Expositio super Algorismo (Explanation concerning the
Algorism), a commentary on Sacrobosco’s Algorismus. He
also wrote the Kalendarium, which corrected the lunar
calendar of Robert Grosseteste, and the Tractatus eclipsorii
(Treatise on Eclipses) on astronomical instruments and
eclipses.200

3.14 Master Pérús

There is one figure in medieval Icelandic literature that
explicitly represents an Islamic magister. His name is Master
Pérús. He appears in the romance called Klári Saga, written
between 1320 and 1339 by Jón Halldórsson (d. 1339), the
thirteenth Bishop of Skálholt. Jón Halldórsson grew up in the
Dominican monastery in Bergen, but his mother was
Icelandic, and his father might have been as well. He studied
at the Dominican run universities in Paris and Bologna and
became familiar with a rich exempla tradition. The promotion
and dissemination thereof, were of particular interest to the
Dominican order. Anecdotes of Jón’s time in Paris have him
reading a page of his master’s book while the master relieves
himself. The book is endowed with great power and the
reading of the page causes a great storm. The master
hurriedly returns and has to quickly read another page of the
book to end the storm.201 This story has hundreds of variants
known across medieval Europe and resembles the story of
Sæmund. Jón lived in the Dominican monastery in Bergen for
approximately two decades after his return from his studies
in Paris and Bologna, before becoming Bishop of Skálholt
(1322–1339). Jóns Þáttr biskups Halldórssonar is the only
medieval work devoted to him.202
The Klári Saga is found in its oldest example, together with
a series of exempla, in the manuscript Copenhagen,
Arnamagnæan Collection, AM 657 b, 4° (1350–1399).203 The
opening lines of Klári Saga state that Bishop Jón found the
story in France written in Latin verse. In the saga, Tiburcius,
the emperor of Saxland (Germany), wants a tutor for his son
Klárus, who had already mastered the seven liberal arts and
was considered the most learned scholar in Europe. He learns
of a far superior meistari (magister or master) in Arabia,
named Pérús, and engages him to be the boy’s tutor.204 The
saga revolves around the desire of Prince Klárus to win the
heart of the Princess Serena, and Pérús creates fabulous
automatons to captivate the Princess Serena. In fact it is
Pérús who drives the entire adventure,205 overshadowing his
pupil Prince Klárus, who is portrayed as a clumsy fool in
comparison. As Marteinn H. Sigurðsson points out, Pérús does
not stay in the background of the story, but assumes the
feats one would rather expect the normal hero of the tale to
perform. 206
The Klári Saga states that there are many ævintýr
(adventures) told that involve Master Pérús and that three
stories about him survive.207 The collection is named Af
meistara Pero ok hans leikum (Of Master Pérús and his
Tricks), and this is also the name of the first ævintýr. The
second ævintýr is named Af meistara Pero ok Prinz (Of Master
Pérús and Prinz), and the third is named Af meistara Pero ok
hertugo (Of Master Pérús and the Duke).
In Af meistara Pero ok hans leikum, Pérús acts as a
councillor in the court of two dukes, the brothers Vilhjálmr
and Eiríkr. Pérús is very taken with their sister Ingibjǫrg and
asks for her hand in marriage, but they do not want to give
her to him as he had no title or wealth. The ævintýr says that
Pérús was, however, the most learned of men and that the
brothers were not said to be very wise. Pérús creates an
apparition of himself that drinks and talks with the brothers,
while he is off making love with Ingibjǫrg in her chamber. His
affair is eventually discovered and he is taken to be
executed. However, Pérús breaks free of his bonds, pulls out
a blue thread that turns into a rope, and climbs up it into the
clouds, never to be seen again.208
In Af meistara Pero ok Prinz, Pérús is forced to give up his
fine horse by a nobleman named Prinz, who believes Pérús is
not noble enough for such a fine steed. Pérús creates an
illusion and tricks Prinz into believing that he is riding the
horse when in fact he is riding a bundle of brushwood. When
Prinz realizes what has happened, he takes Pérús away to be
executed. After lecturing Prinz on his greed, Pérús breaks free
and takes out a piece of chalk. He draws a picture of a ship
set for sail and after a mighty noise he sails away.209
In Af meistara Pero ok hertugo, Pérús arrives at a port in
which a duke lies at anchor with his fleet. The duke makes his
living honestly fighting pirates. As Pérús arrives, the duke’s
servants are preparing a dinner of chicken. Pérús asks
whether the duke would like to be king, and offers to arrange
it in exchange for an annual payment of ten marks of gold.
The duke agrees. Then, the king of a neighbouring town dies,
and his son is just thirteen. The assembly is about to declare
the young son the new king when Pérús appears. He says
that the son is too young to defend the kingdom, and that
there is a fleet of warships approaching the town. Pérús
recommends the duke to be the new king and he is
subsequently elected by the assembly, marries the old king’s
widow, and Pérús receives his first ten marks. The next year,
Pérús arrives at the assembly and demands his ten marks,
and the courtiers are astonished by his impertinence. The
following year, Pérús arrives again and the courtier’s protest.
The king pays him, but asks Pérús to not come again. In the
third year, Pérús arrives once more, and this time the
courtiers are in uproar. The king is also angry and threatens
Pérús with arrest and possible execution. Pérús then lectures
the king on when he was a duke and an honest man, but now
he has become greedy and unjust. At this point Pérús says
that the duke’s dinner is ready, and at that moment the duke
is back on his ship with his chicken being served to him. The
election, marriage, and three years as king were all an
illusion that Pérús has used to test the duke.210
The figure of Pérús has much in common with the court
magicians who are a feature of the medieval German
romances.211 The exempla have connections with Jewish
narratives, the Spanish tale of Don Juan Manuel, and the
Swiss Edelstein collection.212 Master Pérús is also similar to
the characters in goliardic literature on the continent.213 He is
also consistently wiser than the noblemen he deals with and
a master of illusion and magic. As Marteinn H. Sigurðsson
sums up: “Master Pérús is strategically opposed to noblemen
whose asininity, ambition, greed and brute force is ridiculed
by the Arabian expert of illusion visiting their courts”.214

3.15 Conclusion
Islamic scientific knowledge translated from Arabic came to
Iceland at a surprisingly early date. The GkS 1812 IV, 4°
glossary attests that the very first appearance of Arabic
words in a Scandinavian context occurred around the end of
the twelfth century. What I have endeavoured to show is that
they arrived in Iceland even earlier – at the end of the
eleventh century. The GkS 1812 IV, 4° glossary was aiming to
show Old Icelandic versions of Arabic star names, which
would have been a practical way of teaching people how to
use the astrolabe. In the second half of the thirteenth
century, a new wave of treatises influenced by Arabic works
was created in Iceland. Algorismus and Rím II use Hindu-
Arabic numerals and exhibit a familiarity with the works of
Ptolemy and Euclid that were only available after the second
translation period in the mid-twelfth century. For the first
time in Icelandic history, Rím II also references Islamic
scholars directly, namely al-Kindi, and by allusion al-Farghani.
Furthermore, Rím II deploys original Arabic words such as
“zenith” and describes the use of the quadrans vetus. It is
very possible that the author of Rím II was in some way
connected to the cathedral school of Roskilde and the
astronomical works that came out of there. The description of
the astrolabe and quadrans vetus indicates that such
instruments existed and were used in Iceland from the
eleventh century onwards. Finally, in the fourteenth century,
we have the literary figure of Master Pérús, a representation
of an Arabian magister who has many positive qualities,
particularly a superior knowledge and understanding of
science. With this representation of Master Pérús, we return
full circle to the positive image of Islamic astronomers that
adorns the Lund cathedral astronomical clock.

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Kay Peter Jankrift

4 Fire-Worshipping Magicians of
the North: Muslim Perceptions of
Scandinavia and the Norsemen
“I was told that when their chieftains die, the least they do is
to cremate him. I was very keen to verify this, when I learned
of the death of one of their great men”, reports Aḥmad Ibn
Faḍlān in his travelogue about his encounter with
Scandinavians during his mission to the king of the Volga
Bulgars in 922.215 The event he witnessed made a deep
impression on the Arab messenger.216 He described the ritual
ceremonies preceding the cremation in some detail. Ibn
Faḍlān found the enormous consumption of alcohol
particularly striking. He claimed: “They are addicted to
alcohol, which they drink night and day. Sometimes one of
them dies with the cup still in his hand.”217 He reports that
even the slave girl who volunteered to accompany her
deceased master on his last journey drank copiously during
the days preceding the cremation. Moreover, she had
intercourse with a number of men, all of whom released her
with the words: “Tell your master that I have done this purely
out of love for you!”218 The girl was not the only gift the
chieftain received. A whole ship was prepared to carry the
deceased to his gods. Food and drink, weapons, and a couch
with cushions of Byzantine silk, where the body could be laid
out, were delivered to the ship. Ibn Faḍlān continued:219

On the day when he and his slave-girl were to be

 burned I arrived at the river where his ship was. To
my surprise I discovered that it had been beached
and that four planks of birch and other types of
wood had been placed in such a way to resemble
scaffolding. Then the ship was hauled and placed on
top of this wood. They advanced, going to and fro
around the boat uttering words which I did not
understand. […] Then the deceased’s next of kin
approached and took hold of a piece of wood and
set fire to it. He walked backwards with the back of
his neck to the ship, his face to the people, with the
lighted piece of wood in one hand and the other
hand on his anus, being completely naked. Then the
people came forward with sticks and firewood. Each
one carried a stick the end of which he set fire to
and threw it on top of the wood. The wood caught
fire, and then the ship. […]. A dreadful wind arose
and the flames leapt higher and blazed fiercely.

Without a doubt, this lengthy account, of which extracts were

incorporated into Yāqūt al-Ḥamawī’s (c. 1179–1229) famous
early thirteenth-century geographic dictionary Mu‘ğam al-
buldān,220 contributed to the image of Nordic people in the
medieval Islamic world. Drawing upon Arabic sources, my
goal is to analyse this image, to elucidate its background, and
to present the different perceptions of the North, both factual
and fictional.
When comparing the texts, it becomes obvious that Muslim
scholars had difficulty settling upon a single, uniform name
for the Norsemen. Nordics are referred to as ar-rūs –as is the
case in Ibn Faḍlān’s report – or as-ṣaqāliba, but primarily as
al-mağūs (magicians).221 In his article “Ibn Faḍlān and the
Russiyah”, James Montgomery, professor of Classical Arabic
at the University of Cambridge, stressed that “among
scholars interested in the Vikings, as indeed among scholars
generally, it is widely assumed that the Rūs were
Scandinavians of eastern Swedish origin”.222 This is not the
place to discuss whether the general term Rūs encompassed
Slavic people. The Arabs, in any case, did not distinguish
between two distinct ethnic groups. While the word as-
ṣaqāliba hints at pagans in a more or less general way, the
term al-mağūs is closely linked to magic and fire worship.
Muslim authors employed this designation first of all for the
Zoroastrians, a religious community whose adherents
primarily lived – and still live – in central Asia, Persia above
all.223 Fire plays a central role in their belief system.224 The
early Zoroastrians prayed around fireplaces called atashkada
(eternal flame). Consequently, they were tagged as fire
worshippers. Just as the Inuit of the Polar region distinguish
between different kinds of snow, Zoroastrians distinguish
between different kinds of fire. Given that the soil in Persia
and northern Afghanistan contains large gas reserves,
historians believe that the eternal flame was fuelled by a
natural gas source.225 These magicians, however, were
separated from the Norsemen by thousands of kilometres
and had very little if anything in common with them. So, why
call the Scandinavians al-mağūs?
Given the fact that most encounters between Muslims and
the Nordic people took place close to the shore of large rivers
like the Volga, a name such as sea people would seem much
more obvious. Yet, Muslim chroniclers, geographers, and
travellers associated the Norsemen with fire rather than
water. Although the Arabs certainly knew nothing, or at best
a very little, about Nordic religious ideas, they did note the
special role that fire played in rituals. Before the
Christianization of their realms, this cultic use of fire
distinguished the pagan Norsemen from Christians and
Jews.226 As a way to define people who appeared under
different conditions in different places – as traders in the
Middle East, as plundering pirates along the shores of the
Iberian Peninsula, as settlers somewhere in the North –
religious practices made more sense than ethnic or
geographic origin. Muslim geographers – more on this later –
had but a vague idea about Northern Europe and the Nordic
homelands.
According to Ibrāhim ibn Ya‘qūb al-Isrā’īlī, probably a Jewish
convert, who in the 960s travelled as the ambassador of
Cordovan Caliph al-Ḥakam II’s (961–976) to the court of
Emperor Otto I (912–973), and who visited parts of Eastern
Europe and Italy, Ireland was the Norsemen’s only stable
place of residence.227 As the Arab spellings of Ireland and
Iceland are very similar, Georg Jacob presumed that the
traveller from the Iberian Peninsula was in fact referring to
the latter.228 Given that only fragments of Ibn Ya‘qūb’s
travelogue are reproduced in the works of later authors, such
as Abū ‘Ubaid al-Bakrī (1014–1094) and the Persian scholar
Abū Yahyā Zakariyā’ ibn Muḥammad al-Qazwīnī (c. 1203–
1283), it seems likely that Jacob is right.229 On the other
hand, the famous Egyptian geographer and historian Abu’l-
Ḥasan ‘Alī ibn al-Ḥusain al-Mas‘ūdī (c. 895–957), who died in
Fustat just a few years before Ibn Ya‘qūb set out for the
Imperial court, confused the Norsemen with the Slavic tribes,
wondering how it was possible for them to reach the Iberian
Peninsula by ship.230
Even if the travellers and geographers had different ideas
about the Norsemen, their customs, and their daily lives, they
all agreed that these mysterious magicians once lived
exclusively in the cold parts of the world. Al-Bakrī was
convinced that people from such regions needed the cold to
survive and were risking their lives if they travelled to the
Langobard realm in Italy.231 He argued that they only felt
healthy if their humours congealed. If this frozen mixture of
blood, phlegm, black and yellow bile – which according to
contemporary medical conceptions was responsible for
human health and disease232 – melted or even started to boil
in the heat of southern countries, Northern people
immediately died. During the cold months of the winter, al-
Bakrī continued, the earth in their countries would become as
hard as stone.233 Water froze in the wells. When the people
sneezed, ice that looked like glass came out of their noses
and stuck to their beards until they were able to warm
themselves at an open fire. The fire, however, did not just
serve to warm the houses and bring some light to the dark
Nordic nights. As Arab authors saw it, the specific
environment and living conditions also favoured a cultic use
of fire, which appeared to them to be shared by all
Norsemen, whatever their geographic origin.234 The Spanish
diplomat and poet Yahyā ibn Ḥakam al-Bakrī (c. 790), better
known as al-Ġazāl, who may have visited Jutland before the
middle of the ninth century, clearly stated that the term al-
mağus was employed for the Norsemen because they
worshipped fire.235 Seven decades later, Ibn Faḍlān also drew
attention to the special religious significance of fire for the
Nordic people he encountered.
Ibn Faḍlān’s eyewitness account of a Viking burial ceremony
remains unique, something that has inspired a vivid
discussion among historians and scholars in related
disciplines about the degree to which he augmented fact with
fiction.236 There are, however, other written sources and
archaeological findings that support the general picture
transmitted by the oriental traveller. Laxdæla Saga, for
example, which was composed in Iceland around 1250, but
refers to incidents that occurred between the late ninth and
the early eleventh centuries, tells us about the burial of the
matriarchal figure, Unnr the Deep-Minded. 237 After a ritual
meal, her corpse was brought to a small hill that had been
specifically prepared for the burial, placed in a boat, and
covered with earth. Indeed, archaeologists have discovered
such ship burials in different parts of Scandinavia and the
British Isles.238
 The best-known examples are certainly the findings in
Gokstad and Oseberg in Norway,239 and in Sutton Hoo in East
Anglia.240 The Oseberg ship contained the skeletal remains of
two women.241 While it is presumed that the older of the two
had been a person of high rank, the younger woman was
probably one of her slaves, who had been sacrificed to
accompany her deceased mistress to the other world. A
recent DNA analysis of the servant’s bones indicates that her
ancestors originally lived in the Black Sea region, presumably
in Persia. This archaeological record supports Ibn Faḍlān’s
report of a slave girl being buried with the deceased
chieftain.
A different sort of Nordic inhumation is depicted at the
beginning of the Old English poem Beowulf.242 In this epic
narrative, the dead hero Scyld Scefing was placed in a funeral
boat and rendered to the sea.
Archaeological evidence proves that it was much more
common – particularly if the deceased did not belong to the
upper class – to burn the corpse, and then bury the ashes in a
grave marked by a stone in the form of a ship. Hundreds of
such graves, dating from 800 to 1000, have been discovered
at Lindholm Høje, Denmark’s largest Viking-era cemetery.243
For a Muslim eyewitness, cremation would automatically
have been associated with paganism. Jews and Christians did
not burn their dead. The ar-rūs, as Ibn Faḍlān called them,
acted just like the as-ṣaqāliba (heathens). In contrast to Ibn
Ya‘qūb and al-Ġazāl, neither of whom ever encountered a
real magician, the traveller from Baghdad certainly knew
Zoroastrians. Many of them lived in the region.
The al-mağūs brought the corpses of their deceased to so-
called towers of silence and exposed them to the vultures.244
While this practice is still common in India today, over the
centuries Zoroastrians have also started to bury or cremate
their deceased. The Muslims of medieval Spain only knew
about the mysterious magicians through Arabic writings from
the Middle East. These descriptions of the special significance
of fire for the mağūs shaped their idea of the Norsemen,
resulting in al-mağūs becoming a nom générique for Vikings
in the Iberian Peninsula.245
Although the Arabic reports about encounters with the
Norseman include a certain amount of authentic information
– for example Ibn Ya‘qūb’s narrative about whale hunting in
Ireland (Iceland) and Ibn Faḍlān’s description of their
clothing, their weapons, and their appearance246 – there can
be no doubt that all of the authors intended to show their
readers the barbaric counterpart to their own society – a
society civilized by the laws of Islam. In doing so, they
employed the same motifs. For example, both Ibn Faḍlān and
al-Ġazāl tried their very best to depict Viking society as
promiscuous247 – the latter claimed that the Viking queen
became very fond of him, and even met with him alone in her
private chamber. Nordic women are depicted as the
antithesis of chaste and pious Muslim ladies. Ibn Faḍlān
established the barbarity of the mağūs by calling them
“Allāh’s filthiest creatures”.248 Ibn Ya‘qūb claimed that he
had never heard people sing more horribly than the
Norsemen of Schleswig, whose voices sounded to him like the
barking of dogs.249 Nonetheless, a certain mystery
surrounded the wild barbarians: They remained phantoms
shrouded in the cold fog of a vague North.

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Frähn, Christian Martin (Ed. and trans.). Ibn Foszlan’s und

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Stefan Schröder

5 The Encounter with Islam

between Doctrinal Image and
Life Writing: Ambrosius
Zeebout’s Report of Joos van
Ghistele’s Travels to the East
1481–1485

[I]nt jaer ons Heeren zes hondert ende viere, als

Bonefacius de vierde paus was inde heleghe kercke
van Roome, ende Focas domineerde ende
rengneerde over tkeyserijc, ende Cosdrue bezadt
dat keyserijc van Perssen ende vele provincien daer
onttrent, de welke zeere groote oorloghe voerende
was jeghens de heleghe kerstin Keercke, so wart in
Arabien gheboren de valsche bedriegher Machomet
den xiiijen dach van aprille int jaer zes hondert ende
zesse.

[In the year of the Lord 604, when Boniface IV was

pope of the Holy Roman Church, and Phocas
reigned the empire (of Eastern Rome), and Khosrau
II ruled the Persian empire with many provinces
thereabouts which led great wars against the Holy
Christian Church, the false traitor Muḥammad was
born in Arabia on 24 April in the year 606.]250
With this somewhat internally contradictory (and historically
inaccurate) pronouncement, Ambrosius Zeebout begins his
description of the ‘birth, life, and faults’ of the Prophet
Muḥammad that forms part of his book on Joos van Ghistele’s
Eastern travels.251 Zeebout’s account is flawed from the
outset, insofar as it provides two contradictory dates for
Muḥammad’s birth in a single sentence – probably a slip of
the pen or the result of sloppy compilation from different
sources. The year 606 and the information regarding the
clerical and worldly leaders of the day can be traced back to
a pilgrimage report written by Bernhard von Breidenbach (c.
1434/1440–1497).252 This text – printed for the first time in
1486 – was Zeebout’s major source on Muḥammad and Islam,
but in the case of this specific passage he ignored the
broader context. Breidenbach characterized these years as a
very unstable period, during which Christians suffered
greatly. In particular, Constantinople was presented as the
target of constant attack by infidels. The date of
Muḥammad’s birth was not chosen at random. The
turbulence of the time was interpreted as a sign of an even
greater evil to come.
Even if Zeebout did not completely adhere to Breidenbach’s
assessment, he did adopt Breidenbach’s tone for his own
narrative of Muḥammad’s life and the Islamic faith. He made
it clear to his readers from the outset that Muḥammad was
the false prophet of a religion rife with error. But why exactly
did he choose to include information about Islam in a report
that was primarily devoted to the Flemish knight Joos van
Ghistele and his remarkable travels in the East? What exactly
does the text say about Islam and Muslims? And what do
Zeebout’s dogmatic depictions of Islam have to do with
Ghistele’s travels?
This article explores the narratives about Islam and the
Muslims and the options available as well as limitations faced
in presenting information about transcultural contacts to the
audience at home. Zeebout’s text and the sources he used,
as well as contemporary travel reports, will be compared and
analysed to determine the nature of the (North) European
image of the Muslim Other and the different functions it
served. In this context, Otherness is understood as an
attribution that is used to mark what is seen different,
unfamiliar or exotic.253 Factors of difference are, for example,
the spatial distance, the ethnos, the faith, and cultural
customs. Yet in most cases it is a combination of them all
that is changeable and outlined every time anew. Cognitively
and culturally solidified as stereotypes, they give orientation
in the world and affect the patterns of perception of a
person.254 Since the Other and the Self are interrelated
concepts, defining the Other influenced how the narrator saw,
or wanted to see, himself and his culture. Given that
Ambrosius Zeebout did not travel with Joos van Ghistele, but
was commissioned to write his account, this article will also
address Zeebout’s narrative strategy for incorporating
knowledge from written sources with information he may
have received directly from Ghistele.

5.1 Joos van Ghistele’s travels and

Zeebout’s Tvoyage
The travels of Joos van Ghistele (1446–1516) to the East are
remarkable for their unusual routes and for his motive for
undertaking them. When the nobleman, who held several
high-level political positions in Ghent, and who had important
connections to the court in Burgundy, decided to make a
pilgrimage to the Holy Land, he probably did not think it
would be four years before he saw his hometown again.255
Unlike the ‘all-inclusive’ trip to Jerusalem offered annually by
Venetian patricians – an easy but pricy way to reach the Holy
Sites256 – the travels of Joos van Ghistele and his chaplain Jan
van Quisthout257 have more the quality of a Grand Tour.
Besides the Holy Land, they visited Egypt, the Sinai
Peninsula, Syria, some of the Aegean islands, and Sicily, as
well as Tunis and Carthage in North Africa. Their most
significant trips were those to the city of Aden on the Red Sea
and to the city of Tabriz near the Caspian Sea. In both cases,
they were prevented from traveling further East – once by
local Muslim authorities and once by rumours of an outbreak
of pestilence.258
According to Ambrosius Zeebout, the decision to go further
East had been made very early on in the journey. During a
stop in Cologne to visit the Shrine of the Three Kings, they
heard that travellers from the Low Countries who were
carrying jewels that had touched the bodies or tombs of the
Kings were very welcome in the lands of Prester John.
Ghistele decided to travel beyond Jerusalem to visit the tomb
of the Apostle Thomas in India.259
The tale of a mighty Christian king and descendant of the
three Magi, who ruled over numerous kingdoms and lived in
incredible luxury somewhere in India near Paradise, had been
very popular in Europe since the twelfth century.260 It was a
story connected to the hope of defeating the Muslims. The
weaker the position of the Christians in the Near East, the
stronger the belief in a great power prepared to help
overthrow Islam and re-conquer the Holy Land.261 The vision
of a Christian realm in the East persisted in the fourteenth
and fifteenth centuries, as can be seen, for example, in
another of Zeebout’s main sources, the widely read report on
John Mandeville’s 1357–1371 trip around the world.262
Zeebout’s explanation of the length of Ghistele’s voyage is
that he hoped to visit the lands of Prester John (and perhaps
establish diplomatic contact). This placed him in the tradition
of other famous travellers to Eastern Asia.263 Moreover, the
hardships of a journey to the grave of St. Thomas would
demonstrate his piety and bravery and increase his prestige
at home. In this way, more temporal motives for the journey –
curiosity, the quest for adventure, or even the complex
political situation in the Low Countries – were tastefully
masked.264
Ambrosius Zeebout was not part of the party that
accompanied Ghistele on his journey. It seems that he only
became his confessor upon his return and was commissioned
to write the report.265 One of the text’s main objectives was
to portray Ghistele as a pious pilgrim and a courageous
explorer, as well as a keen observer and learned scholar.266
There is little doubt that Zeebout discussed a draft with
Ghistele and would not have written anything unfavourable. A
work of this sort formed part of a nobleman’s official self-
presentation and served not only to ensure he would be
remembered, but was also read (aloud) at home or in the
court. It might even serve as the source for a public re-
enactment.267 Since Zeebout did not mention Joos van
Ghistele by name in his foreword or when beginning to
describe his travels in Book II,268 the original text was
probably not written for a wider audience. A title was only
added when the text was printed for the first time in 1530.
Since that time, the account of the journey has been known
as Tvoyage van Mher Joos van Ghistele.269 The wealth of
details suggests that Ghistele might also have provided some
written notes.270 Overall, the text is an elegant blend of some
of the events of the journey with information from numerous
written sources.271 One major source, besides the
aforementioned reports of Bernhard von Breidenbach and
Mandeville, was the Itinerarium of Anselme (1424–1483) and
Jean (1444–1512) Adorno, who began their pilgrimage in
1470 in Bruges and may have known Ghistele personally.272
According to Zeebout’s foreword, the text should also be
seen as a geographical reference book and a practical
manual for future pilgrims. Zeebout divided his work into
eight parts and systematically organized the material to
make sure that the reader could easily locate countries,
towns, and sites and artefacts of interest.273 Furthermore,
Zeebout stated that he included descriptions of sites visited
by other travellers, but not visited by Ghistele himself.274 This
clarifies differences, for instance, with the account of the
Franciscan Friar Paul Walther von Guglingen (born c. 1422),
who met Ghistele during their stay in Jerusalem, but did not
mention a later chance meeting in Alexandria described by
Zeebout.275 Zeebout created a fuller picture of what there
was to see abroad and what a traveller needed to know about
the regions in question. As a result, it seems futile to attempt
to ascertain whether or not Ghistele really travelled to all the
places mentioned.276 Like the enigmatic ‘armchair traveller’
John Mandeville, Zeebout compiled details from several
sources to create a fascinating narrative that provided
geographical and cultural information –and at the same time
entertained the audience.277 In this, his report has parallels
to that of Arnold von Harff (1471–1505), a nobleman in
service of Duke William IV of Jülich-Berg who claimed to have
visited all of the major Christian pilgrimage sites, including
the tomb of St. Thomas in India, in the years 1496 to 1498.278
The Tvoyage is thus in no way an eyewitness account that
provides a reasonably ‘transparent’ depiction of the journey
in general or the encounter with the Other in particular.
Rather it is – as is the medieval travel report in general – a
complex combination of personal memories, oral information,
and ‘authoritative’ knowledge from other written sources. As
a piece of life writing (Selbstzeugnis),279 it presents an
important period in Joos van Ghistele’s life, with the goal of
fulfilling the expectations of both the overseer (Ghistele) and
the intended reader. Moreover, Zeebout’s text is formed by
dogmatic viewpoints and literary conventions that serve to
shape patterns of perception, memory, interpretation, and
description in advance. It is influenced by and at the same
time defines prevailing social norms, cultural practices, and
romantic imagery. Rather than being a collection of daily
observations, it creates a coherent narrative about the
journey as a whole.
As a result, Zeebout’s work should be understood as a
medium for presenting a specific world-view, one that
outlines the boundaries between the Self and the Other. It
provides an overview of what should be seen as familiar, as
unknown, or as bizarre, as well as what should be understood
as right or wrong. This also applies to Zeebout’s description
of Muslims and the Islamic religion.

5.2 Images of Muḥammad and the

Islamic religion in Zeebout’s Tvoyage
The practice of including descriptions of non-Christians – Jews
and Muslims (as well as of other Christian denominations) – in
travel reports developed in the Late Middle Ages.280 One
objective was to describe the difficulties posed by encounters
with other religions on such a journey. There was, however,
also a general interest in learning more about the beliefs,
demeanour, and habits of people living overseas – especially
the Muslims who dominated much of the Near East, and in
the case of the Turks reached the edges of the European
continent. Information about the origin of Islam and about
individual aspects of the Muslim faith and daily customs could
be found in scholarly tractates on the life of Muḥammad or
the Qur’ān.281 Integrating this information into personal
pilgrimage reports made the substance of these works
available to a wider audience. These reports became, in fact,
a major source of information about Islam for Latin
Christianity, particularly from the fourteenth to the sixteenth
centuries.
 Zeebout dealt with the Muslims in Book I. As well as advice
for future pilgrims to the Holy Land, he provided an
ethnographic handbook of all the nations and confessions
that existed in the Near East. This would have offered future
voyagers with reliable information about cultural differences,
so that they could adjust their behaviour accordingly. For the
reader who stayed at home, it was a compact overview of the
political and social situation in the Near East. This made the
subsequent description of Ghistele’s travels in Books II to VIII
easier to understand. It also allowed Zeebout to concentrate
on the voyage itself, without interrupting the narrative with
lengthy sidebars or risking repetition.
The depiction of the Muslims is much more detailed than
Zeebout’s brief paragraphs on other faiths and ethnicities.282
It begins with some pseudo-biographical information about
Muḥammad – how he started his religion and determined the
rules found in the Qur’ān – and ends with Muḥammad’s death
and Islam’s expansion under his successors. Zeebout
portrayed the Prophet as an imposter who gained his wealth
and power by seducing the wealthy merchant Khadīja, later
to be his first wife.283 Hungry to increase his power, he
gathered around him a gang of thieves and murderers,
increasing his wealth and dominating both countries and
trade routes. Yet, his great success only came when he made
his doctrine public in the city of Yathrib – later Medina –by
building a mosque and claiming his epileptic seizures resulted
from his encounters with the Archangel Gabriel. Combining
genuine and worthy sections of the Old and New Testaments
with great fallacies and unbelievable lies, Muḥammad and his
partner Sergius, a disgraced monk and apostate, began to
proselytize for the new faith.284
Thus, for Zeebout, Islam was a crude mixture of Christian
and Jewish components with some elements of old Arabian
paganism. In one passage, he says that while the Muslims
might venerate Christ as a holy and virtuous man and regard
him as an important prophet, by denying that he is the Son of
God and claiming that not he but someone else had been
crucified, they expose their lack of faith.285 For him, Islam
was a debased version of the true Christian religion, focusing
on earthly delights instead of divine enlightenment. Zeebout
characterized Muḥammad as a trickster who used fake
miracles (for example, a trained dove and bull – well known
stories in the anti-Muslim polemic) to persuade people of his
legitimacy.286 Zeebout referred to the injuries the Prophet
suffered in combat to show that Muḥammad did not have
magical powers and did not enjoy divine protection.287
Mentioning, for example, the alleged adultery of
Muḥammad’s favourite wife ‘Ā’ishah with one of his followers,
Zeebout depicted Muḥammad also as a man with an
insatiable sexual appetite. Muḥammad used his power as
prophet to affirm ‘Ā’ishah’s integrity and avoid having to end
the relationship.288 The story served to verify for Christian
readers the extent of Muḥammad’s desire of women, which
undermined his claim to be a prophet – a person who was
expected to have a high degree of moral integrity and lead
an ascetic lifestyle. In addition, Zeebout told his readers that
opposition to Muḥammad and doubts about his doctrine were
ruthlessly suppressed, occasionally by murdering
adversaries. Furthermore, it was forbidden for Muḥammad’s
followers to study the seven arts, because otherwise any
learned man would readily see the errors of the Muslim
faith.289
By cataloguing acts of violence and repression, Zeebout
demonstrated that Muḥammad created his religion to fulfil his
personal desires and that he was a false prophet whose
lifestyle was the antithesis of that of Christ and the Christian
saints. The final proof came with Muḥammad’s death. When
he was not resurrected after three days as he had proclaimed
would be the case, his followers had to quickly bury the body
because of the horrible stench.290
 The main source for Zeebout’s portrayal was the report of
Bernhard von Breidenbach. The dean of Mainz Cathedral had
published his lavishly illustrated pilgrimage report in 1486 in
both Latin and German. Breidenbach called for an end to the
disputes among the Christian leaders so that a new Crusade
could be mounted. To this end, the image he presents of
Islam and Muslims is truly terrifying.291 Absolutely every
aspect of Muḥammad’s life, even the alleged meaning of his
name, was used to affirm the perfidy of this heretical sect.
Zeebout did not reproduce these passages verbatim: He
handpicked some of Breidenbach’s arguments against Islam,
but for the most part avoided his intensely polemical style.
While the self-indulgence ascribed to the Prophet and to
Muslims played an important role in Christian anti-Muslim
writings, Zeebout chose to focus less on accounts of
Muḥammad’s promiscuity and uncleanness than on other
reports.292 He did make use of some degrading language, for
example, calling Muḥammad a “valssche vrucht [false
rascal]” and asserting that Islam was a “verm[al]edide wet
[cursed doctrine]”, but an overall demonization of Islam is
absent from his text.293
Zeebout’s images might be less polemical, but they
nevertheless played the same role of dismissing the Other.
From a theological point of view, the antagonism between the
Self and the Other only allows for a binary opposition
between righteous Catholic Christians and the heretical
Muslims, Jews, and other Christian denominations.
Understanding the Latin Church to be the one true faith left
no room for compromise. To admit that the Other had any
kind of legitimacy would actually mean questioning one’s
own point of view. More to the point, the goal was to
strengthen the Christian Self, to make it clear that
Christianity was the one true religion and that Christians
alone were the true defenders of God’s message.
In sum, Zeebout presented the normal distorted and
negative image of Muḥammad and Islam that had been
elaborated by Christian authors over almost nine centuries of
Christian-Muslim relations: Islam was not only an irrational,
violent, and immoral religion, but a Christian heresy founded
by Muḥammad, whose sinful life was characterized by his
rampant and base debauchery. Moreover, Muḥammad
deceived his followers about the true basis of his religion with
(magic) tricks. What’s more, the exaggerated worship of
Muḥammad among Muslims proved that Islam was a
polytheistic and idolatrous religion.294

5.3 The Muslim as the religious and

cultural Other
Christians in the Middle Ages in general and Christian
travellers in particular had no access to an impartial
perspective on the Muslims and their faith. However, a
pilgrimage to the most holy Christian sites had nothing to do
with questioning or correcting images of the Other. What was
written about personal encounters with Muslim religious
customs served, for the most part, to verify existing
stereotypes. This is apparent in the numerous reports that
address the Islamic prohibition of alcohol, the Ramadan fast,
or the Muslim Ḥajj to Mecca, including those of Bernhard von
Breidenbach and Felix Fabri (1437/1438–1502). The reports
either asserted that the commandments were not obeyed or
defined Islamic customs as a deformed inversion of Christian
customs. The reports suggested that wine, which was
forbidden by Muḥammad, was commonly consumed in secret
in the Muslim world. Ramadan was not a period of abstinence
like the Christian Lent, but a time of nightly bacchanal
festivities. Finally, the rituals during the Ḥajj were seen as a
continuation of ancient pagan traditions, with Muḥammad
rather than God being worshipped. The alleged hedonism
underlying the Muslim prohibition of alcohol is one of the
established truisms repeated in Zeebout’s report. He claimed
that secretly Muslims were enthusiastic consumers of wine.
When discussing Ramadan, with its nightly dancing, springing
about, screaming, and yelling, Zeebout admonished
Christians to remember that God did not condone the Muslim
idea (of feasting).295 This makes it clear that the religious
Other was not, in fact, accepted. The nature of the Other was
clarified for the reader by comparing Muslim and Christian
religious doctrines and customs. The strict application of
Christian standards meant there could be no debate about
the Other as a distinct entity with a distinct social system and
its own values and customs.
Excluding the Other was of course not restricted to religious
issues. It also occurred when addressing physiological or
racial differences and when describing social customs.296
While Zeebout did not focus on any Muslim physical
otherness, he made it clear that some of their cultural
practices were contrary to those found in Christendom, and
therefore had to be rejected. For example, he judged various
Islamic laws and punishments that were based on the
principle of ‘an eye for an eye’ to be inhumane.297 It was
likely that Christ’s criticisms in the Sermon on the Mount
(Matthew 5. 38–39) led him to contrast Christian ideals, such
as the grace of charity, even towards enemies, with ruthless
legalism. He had a particularly negative view of Saracen men,
describing the manner of urinating in a sitting position like
women as disgraceful.298 However, other pilgrims frequently
made even more polemical use of this sort of rhetorical
inversion when describing, for example, the ‘hermaphroditic’
clothing worn by Muslim men, the ‘animal’ sound of the
Arabic language, or the disgusting way in which Muslims
ate.299 The pilgrimage report of Francesco Suriano (1450–
1529), who was the abbot of the Franciscan monastery in
Jerusalem for several years, concluded that the Muslims
would even walk backwards just to distinguish themselves
from Christians.300 In spite of the insight he gained in his
extensive dealings with Muslims and the Mamluk authorities,
he created a foreign reality with inverted norms and customs.
Sometimes, Zeebout’s descriptions are not accompanied by
judgmental commentary. For example, he rarely called
Muslims heathens, infidels, or dogs, as was the case in other
pilgrimage reports.301 Furthermore, he described the various
Muslim prayer positions in a neutral tone.302 The same is true
of his notes on the Muslim custom of circumcision,303 his
depiction of what was thought to be the Muslim belief about
the afterlife,304 or his narrative on the Mamluks, the rulers of
Egypt and Palestine in the fifteenth century. As was the case
in other reports, they are called “verloochende kerstenen
[renegades]”, referring to the fact that they were converts to
Islam. Zeebout’s description of their political and social
system is not specifically disparaging.305 The ruling Sultan
Qaitbay, with his gracious treatment of visitors, seems to be
a reasonable and even generous king, rather than a tyrant
who poses a major threat to Christians.306 Having Ghistele
treated as a person of high rank during his audience with the
Sultan was, of course, an effective way of increasing his
prestige in the eyes of the readers of Tvoyage. The
impression one gets is that all of the parties involved had a
shared understanding of appropriate courtly manners.
Occasionally, Zeebout’s text provides greater and more
accurate information about Islam than do other travel
reports. For example, he included a meticulous transcription
and translation of the first part of the Islamic call for prayer
which states that there is only one true God and that
Muḥammad is his rightful messenger.307 Thus, Zeebout did
not repeat the popular but disparaging story that the muezzin
is calling for people to have sexual intercourse to populate
the world. For example, the Milanese cleric Pietro Casola (c.
1427–1507) wrote that an interpreter confirmed for him that
it was a call for sexual intercourse. The excessive sexuality in
the Muslim world was already by this time a commonly
accepted stereotype in Western culture. In the case of
Casola, it was presented as confirmed by personal experience
on the ground and verified by an expert in the language.308
Zeebout’s transcription of the Arabic text shows, to the
contrary, that Arabic is not some barbarous or animal idiom,
but rather a language with clear grammatical rules.309 He
also specified that Muslims are only obliged to make a
pilgrimage to Mecca once in their lifetime, and not every
year, as Bernhard von Breidenbach had claimed.310
In Zeebout’s text, the Other was thus not always excluded
and devalued. Framing the concept in terms of ‘familiar’
versus ‘unfamiliar’ creates a more open understanding of
‘Otherness’. In this sense, Zeebout’s work has things in
common with the Adorno or Arnold von Harff pilgrimage
accounts.311 Differences between the Self and the Other are
noted, but without comment. How any particular episode is to
be judged is left to the reader. One reason for this was that
the allegorical and symbolic meaning underlying Muslim
doctrine was poorly understood, so that the authors were
restricted to a more or less straightforward description.312
There were also other inevitable limitations, given the
circumstances under which cultural contact took place:
language problems; the brevity of visits to the Holy Land (in
most cases Christian pilgrims travelled as part of groups led
by Franciscans and had little opportunity for direct cultural
contact); warnings against debating issues of doctrine with
Muslims; and a mutual unwillingness to engage in a deeper
exchange.
In some cases, there are even positive connotations to the
way Muslim customs are depicted. When this occurred, it was
often to provide an example of correct morality when
criticizing conditions at home. The Muslim’s ritual washing
before praying and the cleanliness of their mosques were
interpreted as signs of purity and (at least ‘external’)
piety.313 Two of the most detailed examples are found in
Mandeville’s description of his audience with the Mamluk
Sultan and Fabri’s comparison of the conditions at the Church
of the Holy Sepulchre and at the Dome of the Rock. According
to Mandeville, the Muslim ruler condemned the wickedness
and political selfishness of Christians.314 In this dialogue, the
Sultan is presented in a way highly reminiscent of the
rhetorical figure of the noble heathen.315 For Fabri, the
cleanliness at the Dome of the Rock and the filth and chaos
at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre is an allegory for the
current state of both religions: While the seducer Muḥammad
is held in high regard, Jesus Christ is forgotten and his
commandments are despised.316 These stories were meant
to hold up a mirror to Christian society. The reader should
feel ashamed and be motivated to seek improvement or even
reform.
This is not the approach that Zeebout took. He notes that
Muslims were obliged to wash before praying or confessing,
as well as their frequent use of bath houses and the great
reverence in which they held mosques, but he did not
express admiration or pass a positive judgment.317
Nonetheless, such examples do show that a greater openness
existed in pilgrimage accounts than was the case in dogmatic
works on Islam and the Muslims. A positive appraisal,
however, does not necessarily translate into acceptance or
respect for the Other. It might even be argued that projecting
Christian ideals onto a foreign culture is in no way an
encounter with the Other. It negates the existence of the
Other as a subject and contributes more to the discourse
within the narrator’s own society.318
5.4 Joos van Ghistele’s encounter with
the Muslims and Zeebout’s narrative
Occasionally, however, pilgrimage reports give small hints of
transcultural contact that went beyond religious and cultural
differences. Despite the plethora of conflicts and the mutual
hostility, described as dirty “guerrilla warfare”,319 Felix Fabri
also depicted friendly relations with Muslims. He was full of
praise for his Muslim donkey-driver and a dragoman who
accompanied the Christian pilgrims from Jerusalem to
Egypt.320 Arnold von Harff came close to the figure of a
cultural broker in dressing like a Mamluk, drinking wine with
Mamluks, and using his medical skills to treat Muslims.321
Bernhard von Breidenbach, in his pilgrimage instructions
written for a German count, even recommends that wine be
purchased from a certain honourable Jew.322
Such episodes refer to daily interactions. They indicate a
perception of the Other beyond the paradigm of religious and
cultural antagonism. The Other was not in every case
functionalized to define one’s own identity or to project the
ideals of one’s own culture. Not every description was
adapted to literary conventions, with the fantasies and
expectations of the Self superimposed on the Other.
However, when the Christian pilgrim (or narrator) could not
make sense of or was threatened by what he had
experienced, when he lacked a distinct vocabulary for
appropriately expressing what had happened in the
encounter, the result could be a faulty reading of the
situation and a flawed understanding of the Other.323
Nonetheless, these incidents played a defined role in the
narrative. It was expected that a pilgrimage report, even with
all its conventions, would do more than provide examples of
sound morality and instruct the reader in correct behaviour.
The reader was also interested in the exotic Other. The
reader expected some thrilling details and some excitement,
or in the words of Fabri, “something childish and something
to laugh at”.324 His strategy of humanizing the Other and
presenting cross-cultural contacts in a very emotional way
gave his report more character and made it more reliable
overall.
On a more general level, these episodes reflect the fact that
cultural borders were not entirely fixed and inalterable. They
were also permeable crossing zones.325 The episodes show
that neither in modern nor in medieval times were cultures
and civilizations static entities: They were, in contrast,
constantly changing in ways that made space for shared
cultural spaces and hybrid phenomena. 326 Recent research
accentuates that especially the medieval Mediterranean and
its adjacent regions were a space of cultural diversity that
shows not only continuous and dynamic processes of
integration and disintegration, but of multiple transcultural
contacts and complex social, economic and cultural
interdependences.327 Simplifications and ideological
doctrines might be necessary to understand, organize, and
categorize the numerous and complex experiences of
distinction. Yet firm, normative boundaries between cultures
do not reflect the complex reality.
Since Ghistele’s extraordinary journey would not have been
possible without the help of local people and the authorities,
one would anticipate Zeebout providing the reader with
similar episodes. But whatever Ghistele may have
experienced during his extensive travelling through the
Mediterranean, not much about direct encounters with
Muslims made its way into Zeebout’s report. Most of his
statements about Islam can be traced back to Breidenbach
and Adorno or to other historical writings. When the practical
instructions about encounters with Muslims provided at the
beginning of Zeebout’s work are examined, very few appear
to be based on what Ghistele experienced: He witnessed a
quarrel between Venetian merchants and Muslims in which
one Muslim was seriously hurt, followed by difficult and costly
negotiations to resolve matters. Zeebout reduced the
incident to a general guideline specifying that one should not
hit a Muslim in a way that causes him to fall down or bleed,
because it could lead to a legal case that results in great
expense and heavy burdens.328
The warning to be cautious when dealing with Muslims plays
a role in another of Zeebout’s anecdotes. He makes his point
with a story about a Mamluk named Nassardijn, who
apparently acted as guide for pilgrims in Cairo. This convert,
said to have been born in Venice, claimed he wanted to
return to Europe and to the Christian faith. He asked for the
support and advice of a Venetian merchant in Cairo. The
merchant provided him commendatory letters and referred
him to another Venetian merchant. However, the second
merchant doubted Nassardijn’s sincerity and rejected his
request. Forced to stay in Egypt, he blackmailed the first
Venetian merchant. He threatened to publicize the
commendatory letter and to claim that the merchant had
tried to lure him away.329 Zeebout did not use any disdainful
language and did not link Nassardijn’s behaviour to the
Muslim faith. Still, the Other was not depicted favourably, but
as an example of why caution and wariness were
necessary.330
In the description of the travels of Joos van Ghistele,
concrete interaction with Muslims is largely neglected. It
seems that when nothing unusual happened and an
encounter with the Other did not interrupt the trip, Zeebout
did not consider it worth reporting. Inversely, one could argue
that this indicated that the cultural encounter was not
generally hostile. The Mamluk authorities were, in fact, very
pragmatic.331 However, remaining silent about some typical
or even amicable encounters amounted to not questioning
the traditional Latin-Christian images of Islam. On the other
hand, Zeebout rarely drew upon personal incidents recounted
by Ghistele to affirm stereotypical images of the Other and
the Self.332
In the end, one example might indicate that what Ghistele
experienced did change Zeebout’s perception of Islam to
some degree. In contrast to most Christian authors, Zeebout
did not recount the miracle of Muḥammad’s tomb in Mecca.
According to a very popular legend, Muḥammad was buried
in an iron coffin that appeared to miraculously float in the air,
but was held in place by hidden magnetic stones.333 As Latin-
Christian authors saw it, Muḥammad’s successors had
constructed this marvellous tomb to prove to their followers
that the prophet was indeed a messenger of God. Zeebout
was critical of this legend. He wrote that Ghistele‘s
companions asked their guide Nassardijn as a person of local
expertise to verify the story. The Mamluk – this time said to
have been born in Danzig, Prussia, and to be working in Cairo
as a gunsmith –answered that he did not know. He had only
heard that it may have floated in the air in days gone by. He
also reported that the tomb, or at least parts of the building,
had been recently destroyed by a heavy thunderstorm.334
When addressing this empirical data seemingly provided by
the pilgrims, Zeebout stressed the superstitious quality of the
tale. In this context, Nassardijn is depicted as a trustworthy
authority, a mediator who could give valuable insight into
Muslim culture. As he comes from Europe and shares a
common language, he is seen as less alien and remote, even
though he has abandoned the Christian faith.335 In this case,
Nassardijn’s testimony allowed Zeebout to adopt a more
distant attitude about the tale of the floating coffin.
Moreover, such details and inquiries lend his overall travel
report a more serious quality, increasing its credibility.
If, however, Ghistele and his travel companions had actually
questioned the Mamluk, it is safe to assume that Nassardijn
would have told them that Muḥammad was in fact buried in
Medina and not in Mecca. Few European sources reflected
any knowledge of this fact,336 which would have led to a far-
reaching shift in the traditional Christian image of Islam that
Zeebout was not able or willing to address. It would have
undermined the analogy between Christian pilgrimages to
Jerusalem and Muslim pilgrimages to Mecca. In this analogy,
the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, central to Christian religious
identity, had found its evil counterpart in Mecca, where the
Muslims venerated their false prophet. It stood as a symbol of
the two competing monotheistic religions, both of which
claimed to be the one true faith. The destruction of
Muḥammad’s tomb in this anecdote provided further proof of
the falseness of Islam.337

Conclusion
There is always a productive element to the encounter with
the Other. Even when it is perceived and described as a
conflict, or even a culture clash, it necessarily leads to a
discussion about and engagement with the other side.338
Zeebout’s report offers an ambivalent view of the encounter
with Muslims, running the gamut of fact and fiction, of fear
and loathing, and of exotic attraction. Recounting and
reinterpreting the authoritative images of Islam served to
confirm already existing stereotypes about Muslims. It also
affirmed the traveller’s, the author’s, and the reader’s sense
of belonging to the one true religion. Exposing the ‘errors’ of
Islam and Muḥammad’s ‘malicious life’ strengthened
Christian identity. When dealing with Joos van Ghistele’s
travels, Zeebout was able to present these images in a more
instructive way, thereby transmitting theological doctrine to a
wide-ranging audience. Ghistele also gained in stature from
this depiction. The reader recognized the huge burdens he
had to shoulder and the immense endurance required to
successfully manage an encounter with the Other.
The account of Ghistele’s travels did not call into question
Latin Church ideology, with its rigid conception of the
theological enemy. It was possible to include some episodes
that offer a different perception of Muslims, but any narrator
had to ensure that he as the author or the traveller did not
get too close to the foreign culture. Even Arnold von Harff felt
obliged to make it clear that he was never really attracted by
all of the Muslim temptations he described, and that he never
questioned his Christianity. To travel through these lands,
particularly without the shelter provided by a larger group of
pilgrims, was sometimes a balancing act between self-
assertion and self-estrangement, where, in particular
situations, it might become necessary to surrender attributes
of one’s identity temporarily.
Zeebout’s report lacks such moments. There are no
examples of the doctrinal image of Islam being challenged by
any thought-provoking experiences Ghistele would have had
during his travels. Furthermore, Ghistele’s memories of his
travels and Zeebout’s account are inseparably entangled.339
Some remnants of Ghistele’s perception of the Other seem to
have made an impression on Zeebout and guided the
narrative. Occasionally, they display the constructed
character of the Other and the Self. However, we have to
take into account that Ghistele himself was also part of Latin-
Christian culture and shared its cultural memory and its ideas
about how to deal with the Other. He met and judged
Muslims based on these preconceptions. It is possible that
when he was preparing for his journey, he read some of the
texts that Zeebout used for his Tvoyage. The perception of
Islam and Muslims that guided Ghistele when he travelled in
the Near East was thus shaped by his pre-existent mental
map, his experiences structured and organized according to
categories from his own culture. Encountering the Other
outside of this construct might have been already impossible
for him and this was probably even more the case for
Zeebout, who composed the account of Ghistele’s travels
while sitting at his desk. In separating the description of Islam
and the Muslims from the narrative of the journey, Zeebout
was able to omit incidents that would have called the
boundaries between religions or cultures into question.
Drawing upon the narrative style of Jean and Anselme Adorno
and abandoning Bernhard von Breidenbach’s polemics
allowed Zeebout to assume a neutral tone.
In sum, Zeebout usually maintained an ‘ideology of
silence’.340 Muslims were seen uniquely in the light of
Christian salvation history. Furthermore, he did not discuss
whether or not it would be possible to convince the Muslims
of the falsity of their beliefs and convert them to Christianity.
In this sense, it was useful to present Ghistele’s travels as a
failed quest for the lands of Prester John. Thus, the hope of a
powerful emperor living somewhere in the East who could
assist Western Christianity in its struggle with the Muslim
enemy could be kept alive.

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II. Settlement
Cordelia Heß

6 Jews and the Black Death in

Fourteenth-CenturyPrussia: A
Search for Traces

“For the Eastern European Jewry [Ostjudentum,

from Poland and Lithuania] Prussia was, thanks to
the policy of the Teutonic Order, not a gateway, but
a bulwark restricting their influx.”341

There is plenty of reason to doubt this assessment by Kurt

Forstreuter, who was a historian and archivist in Königsberg
(Kaliningrad) until 1943, and who was actively involved in
stealing Jewish archives in the German-occupied territories in
the East.342 But despite the political bias in his research
regarding Jews and the contested rhetoric of “bulwarks”,343
he highlights the one true problem: Why did Jews not settle in
medieval Prussia and Livonia in the same way as they did in
the surrounding areas, in Poland and Lithuania?
By the beginning of the sixteenth century, Jews had settled
and were paying taxes in numerous places surrounding the
Teutonic Order’s territory – in Grodno, Vilnius and Troki, as
well as in Łomża, Bydgoszcz and Płock.344 But in the case of
Prussia and Livonia, we lack information about similar
settlements and communities. It is not only in the antisemitic
and völkisch German scholarship before and after the Second
World War that one finds the presumption that this absence
is the result of an active anti-Jewish policy on the part of the
Teutonic Order. For example, nineteenth-century Jewish
authors also believed medieval Prussia to be a place hostile
to Jews.345 However, a closer look at the sources allows for a
different interpretation. No anti-Jewish regulations were
issued on behalf of the large Prussian towns before the
middle of the fifteenth century, in connection with the
Thirteen Years War, at which point they were issued by the
Polish king at the request of the towns. The one possible anti-
Jewish regulation issued by the Teutonic Order has not been
preserved in a contemporary diplomatic form, but is only
known from a contradictory tradition of chronicles composed
about 150 years later – this phenomenon needs to be
discussed in detail in another context.346 However, given the
lack of evidence of a ban on Jewish settlement, the few
sources regarding Jews in Prussia during the fourteenth
century need to be reinvestigated.
Even those scholars who believe medieval Prussia to be
entirely free of Jewish life – such as Forstreuter – have
acknowledged evidence of Jews being named in Prussian
sources in connection with the Black Death, which hit the
region in 1350 and found its expression in contemporary
historiography as well as in pragmatic sources such as town
books. The fact that Jews are mentioned in this context allows
for two differing assumptions: Either there were Jewish
communities in Prussia around 1350, which fell victim to
pogroms just like the Jewish communities all around Europe,
or there were no Jewish communities, and in this case the
transfer of the scapegoating of Jews for the pandemic is a
peculiar case of absent presence. Before deciding upon one
of these options, the sources need to be presented and
discussed in detail. The time period for this event is
especially interesting in the context since the presumed ban
on Jewish settlement in Prussia is dated to the year 1309 –
several decades before Prussian Jews were made responsible
for the Black Death. This discrepancy has been noted by
previous research but never been discussed in detail as part
of a general assessment of potential traces of Jewish life in
the region.347 The following article will discuss the remaining
sources mentioning Jews in connection with the Black Death
in Prussia around the year 1350 and examine closely the
information they contain: Were there anti-Jewish pogroms in
Prussia, and if yes, were they directed against local Jewish
residents or against travellers? Did the information come
from eye-witnesses, from other texts, or from hearsay? Can
we assume that there were Jews in Prussia, just because they
were blamed for the spreading of the pandemic?
The Black Death, and in particular, the pogroms and
expulsions of Jews in the wake of the pandemic, were central
events underlying major changes in the demographic
structure of Jewish communities in Europe.348 The imagined
connection of Jews to contagion in general, or more explicitly
accusations of well-poisoning against Jews, was developed in
southern Europe (France and the Iberian Peninsula) by the
beginning of the fourteenth century, so by the time the
plague reached the German lands and Poland, the
scapegoating was well established in many places.349 The
authorities moved quickly to gain control of what started as
popular riots against the Jewish communities, staging trials
against individuals, and forcing them to confess to
conspiracies. Even in Northern Europe, in places less densely
populated, and with fewer and smaller Jewish communities,
pogroms triggered by the plague followed a common pattern:
first tumultuous attacks, and then, after the summer of 1348,
official trials.350
The source situation in Prussia is relatively good for the
fourteenth century, even though quite specific and
dominated by sources produced in connection with the
landlords, the Teutonic Order and the bishops. Several
chronicles in Latin and German cover the time period of
interest here; the diplomatic tradition in the episcopates
Warmia and Culm is relatively good for these years –the
Codex diplomaticus Warmiensis for example contains about
40 diploma for the years 1349–1350. The situation is
somewhat less sufficient for the Prussian towns, in which the
production of pragmatic and administrative texts only gained
momentum in the last decades of the fourteenth century.
Finally, Prussian events are mentioned in the historiographic
production and political communication of the Hanseatic
towns as well as the Polish realm.
Current research has questioned the nature and
comprehensiveness of the diseases affecting Europe in the
mid-fourteenth century.351 Regarding Prussia, the chronicles
report major pestilentiae at least three times in this century,
around 1320, around 1349, and in the 1380s – whether one
or several of these actually report about outbreaks of the
bubonic plague is of secondary importance in this context.
Jews are mentioned only in connection with the disease
during the years around 1349, with the narrative of a Jewish
conspiracy against the Christians being repeated in several
sources. But in fact, the Black Death takes a backseat in the
chronicles to the descriptions of battles in the ongoing
conflict with the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, especially in the
lands of the Samogitians. Consequently, the chronicles –
which for the most part are not contemporary, having been
written at least a hundred years after the events – are
contradictory regarding the evidence, chronology, and
geographical range of the plague. Much of the historiographic
tradition from sixteenth-century Danzig (Gdańsk) and
Königsberg (Kaliningrad), which is partially based on the
chronicle by Wigand of Marburg and partially on later
sources, such as Simon Grunaus Preussische Chronik, makes
no mention of the plague in the years 1348–1353. They focus
instead on the wars and battles with the Lithuanians and on
the warm winter of 1352, which made it impossible to cross
the rivers; the Jubilee Year in Rome and the numerous
pilgrimages it gave rise to are also described, sometimes
along with the 1384 pestilentia.352 The Chronicon Livoniae
simply notes “Anno 1351 fuit maxima mortalitas [In the year
of 1351, there was a great mortality]”.353 More detailed
accounts can be found in the chronicle by Lübeck Franciscan
Detmar (died c. 1395), which describes a large number of
Prussian events during the years 1105–1395; and this is also
one of the few accounts that mentions Jews in connection
with the disease. It is worth mentioning that no similar
connections were made in the Prussian chronicles regarding
earlier or later epidemics. The chronicle by Jan Długosz, from
nearby Poland, for example, mentions the Black Death in
1349, along with anti-Jewish violence in Poland and Alemania,
but does not mention any Prussian towns among the
locations of either the plague or the pogroms.354
Considering the broad historiographic tradition telling about
the Black Death, the few cases in which chroniclers mention
Jews must be seen as exceptional, especially since most of
them were not produced in Prussia itself. The most
comprehensive account stems from Lübeck chronicler
Detmar. His accounts of scapegoating are insofar interesting
as they also mention the plague in Prussia and anti-Jewish
pogroms, but make no explicit connection. For the entire
German Baltic coast area, very few pogroms from this period
are reported, 355 but still, Detmar blames the Jews for the
pandemic.

6.1 The Detmar Chronicle

In 1385, two Lübeck city council members commissioned a
chronicle, since the urban historiography had largely been
laid waste since the Black Death. They chose a
representative of the institution which was least hit by the
pandemic –the Lübeck Franciscans in the St. Catherine
monastery had profited so greatly from the foundations they
had received during the plague years that they were able to
extend their church considerably in the years following the
epidemic. The lesemester Detmar spent the following ten
years with the compilation and composition of a town and
world chronicle, stretching from 1101 until his lifetime. The
Black Death is described in several paragraphs in one version
of Detmar’s chronicle, the one used by the Lübeck city
council.356 He mentions 1346 as the year of the first outbreak
of the pandemic, describing the spread of the disease from
the Holy Land, where it had killed thousands of heathens,
“which was not much to moan about, since they are the
enemies of God”, thereafter spreading to Christian lands,
such as Hungary, Italy and France, followed by England and
Flanders, then, Sweden, Norway, Sealand (that is, Denmark),
spreading from there to Prussia, especially Königsberg and
Elbing (Elbląg). After providing this account of the contested
regions, Detmar writes:

Des tech men den ghedoften joden, de sik vor

cristene lude helden unde beden vor Got ghuder
lude almosen, dat de mit vorghifnisse, de se den
luden gheven, das volk to deme dode brochten. Dat
wart van en gheseen unde worden anghetastet
unde worden ghebrand; do bekande se in erme
dode, dat is war were, dat se it hadden ghedan,
unde dat ir vele were, de in der selven sake in der
cristenheit ghinghen, unde segheden, dat de riken
joden in den groten steden dat bedacht hedden der
cristenheit to vorderfnisse, wente se sint der
martere unses heren ghevanghen lude hebben
wesen, unde wolden nue koninghe unde heren
worden sin over al den cristendom.357
 [The baptized Jews, who pretend to be Christian
people and beg for God’s and good people’s alms,
were held responsible for killing the population with
poison which they gave the people. They were seen
doing this and were attacked and burned; and in
their death they confessed that this was true, that
they had done it, and that they were many who
were walking among the Christians in the same
matter, and they said that the rich Jews in the towns
had thought this out in order to destroy Christianity,
because they have been prisoners ever since the
torture of our Lord and now they want to become
kings and lords over all of Christianity.]

A second occurrence of the Black Death in 1348 is mentioned

in the Detmar Chronicle, and here an astronomer’s
explanation of the disease as the result of a particular
constellation of planets in 1345 is recounted, even though
Detmar himself does not believe the stars to be responsible
for anything, being nothing more than signs of things to
come. He does not directly blame the Jews for the plague,
but:

Nu hadden ok de joden grote mestere in der sulven

kunst astronomia, de langhe vorgheseen hadden de
tid des stervendes. Do ghewunnen de joden arghe
danken, unde wurden des to rade, dat se mit
vorghifnisse hemeliker sake unde mit arghen
dinghen tolegheden unde hulpen desseme
vorbenomenden tokomenden stervende, uppe dat
se dar nicht ane vordracht worden unde wolden sik
vryen van der eghenschap, dar se inne syn. Nu
wolde Ghod, dat dit to wetende wart den
mechtighen heren in den landen unde den guden
steden, de worden des to rade, dat se de undat
 wreken wolden an den joden unde sloghen se in
manghen landen unde in menigher stat to dode.358

[The Jews also had great masters in the very art of

astronomy, who a long time ago had already
foreseen the time of the dying. Thus, the Jews had
evil thoughts, and decided that they wanted to help
this aforementioned dying which was to come by
means of secret planning and the addition of bad
things, so that they could not be held responsible
for this and would free themselves from the state of
being owned that they are in. But God wanted this
to become known to the powerful lords in the lands
and the good towns, who decided to punish the Jews
for the misdeeds and killed them in many countries
and in many towns.]

To sum up, the Detmar Chronicle placed some emphasis on a

disease that was supposedly the Black Death, which occurred
between 1346 and 1350. Detmar has an informed view of the
geographical origin and spread of the pandemic and
discusses different explanations, for example, mankind’s
sinful state, stellar constellations, and the Jews. On two
occasions, Detmar explicitly identifies Jews to be punished in
connection with the disease. He first mentions baptized Jews,
who were said to have poisoned people, subsequently
confessing under torture to propagating and spreading the
disease. Their explanation was that they had been captives
ever since they killed Jesus Christ, but were determined to
become the kings of the world again. Two Prussian towns are
explicitly mentioned in connection with disease, but the
location of the trials of the converts is never identified.
In the second case, the disease “in the German lands” is
linked to a conspiracy of Jewish astronomers to take
advantage of the disease and exacerbate the dying. In both
cases, evidence of the Jews’ guilt came from their own
accounts during trials and under torture. Furthermore, in both
cases, the control and “ownership” of the Jews by Christians
is the reason offered for their hatred of Christians.
Detmar’s descriptions of the alleged Jewish conspiracies
related to the Black Death are not particularly detailed. For
example, the common accusation of poisoning wells and
water is not mentioned, no details are provided about the
form and preparation of the poison, and so on, and no
location of the trials and confessions is offered. This makes it
unlikely that Detmar possessed actual copies of trial
documents, from which he was directly quoting, as was the
case in the south of France, where summaries of trials were
copied and sent to other towns, becoming models for
chroniclers’ accounts of the events.359 Consequently, this
source provides no useful information about anti-Jewish
pogroms – and thereby the existence of Jews – in the
northern German lands and Prussia. Nonetheless, the Black
Death plays a prominent role in the chronicle, which
otherwise has a very strong local focus on the Hanseatic
towns along the Baltic Sea coast. Although there were no
major Jewish communities in most of these locations, in the
Detmar chronicle, the connection between Jews and the
disease is very marked. Both the poisoning theory and the
astronomical explanation are connected to a Jewish
conspiracy. A possible explanation for this, considering the
lack of Jewish communities in most of the locations Detmar
mentions, would be spontaneous pogroms against Jews who
were in the towns as travellers or guests – or against Jewish
converts, as previously mentioned. Later sources do provide
evidence that Jewish converts lived in some of the Prussian
towns.

6.2 The Chronicon Olivense

A similar connection between the Black Death in Prussia and
Jews is made in a chronicle originating in Prussia itself, the
Chronicon Olivense or Older Chronicle of Oliva, written in
1351 by a Cistercian monk at the Oliva monastery close to
Gdańsk. While the chronicle relies primarily on older sources,
such as Peter of Dusburg, the account of the Prussian plague
is original and has no parallel tradition.360
The Chronicon Olivense – putting even more emphasis on
the account of the disease than Detmar had – dates the
plague to 1351 and mentions its origin in India, with an
apocalyptic course of events: bad air, horrible sounds, and
fire and mist descending from the sky, infecting and killing
the people. The chronicle claims that physicians in Italy
distinguished three different kinds of disease. It also provides
a detailed description of the measures taken against the
plague in Avignon and Marseille, as well as the processions of
the flagellants. The chronicle seems to draw information from
different clerical sources, probably itinerant members of the
Cistercian Order, who had themselves experienced the
disease in the south, or letters circulating in the Cistercian
monasteries. However, even in the more learned and detailed
account found in the Chronicon Olivense, the blame placed
on the Jews and the punishment meted out was central to the
description of the disease in Prussia and Pomerania, although
it nowhere explicitly mentions Jews being killed there.

Predicta ergo pestilencia […] iam fere in tota Pruzia

et Pomerania innumerabiles viros ac mulieres
consumpsit et hodierna die consumere non cessat.
Et quod est miserabilius istis epydimijs et
pestilencijs immiscuit se odium Iudeorum […] per
nuncios suos Iudeos occultos et per malos
Christianos, quos ad hoc faciendum peccunia
corruperunt per totam Germaniam et Poloniam, ut
inficerent fontes et flumina, de quibus Christiani
 deberent coquere cibos suos […] et propter hoc
omnes Iudei in tota Germania et Alemania et fere in
tota Polonia sunt deleti, alij gladijs occisi, alij in igne
cremanti, et alij in aquis suffocati, et multi mali
Christiani […] postquam receperant a Iudeis
peccunias, Iudei per quedam dyabolica verba, que
ipsis in aures susurrauerunt, adeo ipsos
dementauerunt et in odium Christianorum
accenderunt, quod si potuisssent uno actu totam
Christianitatem libenter deleuissent.361

[The aforementioned plague … has already killed

innumerable men and women in Prussia and
Pomerania and has until today not stopped killing.
And what is even worse is that these epidemics and
plagues have been sent here by the Jews’ hatred …
by their messengers, the secret Jews and the bad
Christians, who have received money throughout
Germany and Poland for doing this, so as to infect
wells and rivers, from which the Christians had to
prepare their food … and because of this all Jews in
all Germania and Alemania and also in all of Poland
are annihilated, many killed by the sword, others
burned in fire, and others drowned in water, and
many bad Christians … after they had received
money from Jews, the Jews had deluded them with
certain devilish words which they whispered in their
ears, so that they were inflamed with hatred of the
Christians so that they would gladly destroy all
Christianity in one act.]

Here as well, Prussia is specifically mentioned as a place hit

hard by the plague, and again, the Jews are immediately
blamed, along with “bad Christians.” The account of the
disease’s spread is more detailed than in the Detmar
Chronicle, with also the anti-Jewish pogroms described in
great detail – no trials are mentioned, however. The
description seems to be a synopsis of various accounts the
author has heard or read, and from which he draws the
information most important to him. Again, the “secret” Jews,
that is, those who only superficially accepted baptism, are
held responsible along with those who remained Jewish. The
Jews are identified as entirely separate from the Christian
communities – they poison the water the Christians have to
use – and special emphasis is put on the different ways they
were killed, suggesting both spontaneous pogroms and death
penalties issued at trials.
The fact that the author of the Chronicon Olivense lived
during the pandemic and was an inhabitant of Prussia gives
this account a certain authority regarding the lack of
evidence of pogroms in Prussia, which he mentions as hard
hit by the plague, but not as a site of anti-Jewish violence.

6.3 Letters from Lübeck and Visby

The third relevant source regarding anti-Jewish violence in
Prussia in the 1350s is a letter from the Lübeck town council
to Duke Otto of Lüneburg.362 There is no actual date on the
letter itself, but it has been placed within the context of the
Black Death in the Baltic Sea region and dated to 1350. The
council members from Lübeck tell the Duke about the trial of
a certain Keyenort, who was burned at the stake in Lübeck,
and about a woman who prepared poison from snakes she
kept in her house. No Jews are mentioned in connection with
the woman, but Keyenort confessed to receiving three solidi
from the Jews to poison people from Prussia to Lübeck on
their behalf – no mention is made of the location of the trial.
The men from Lübeck write that also council members from
Rostock and other Hanseatic cities had reported Jews
confessing to poisonings in their cities and in “the Slavic
countries.” The same letter also quotes yet another letter
from the council of Visby, describing the trial of a certain
Tidericus, who was burned after having confessed to
receiving money and poison from a Jew named Aaron, son of
Solomon, in Hannover, and having used it to poison
numerous wells and fountains in a number of towns in
Hannover county. While he was gambling with his blood
money in Lübeck, Tidericus was approached by another Jew,
named Moyses, who gave him more money. As a result, he
travelled to Prussia, specifically Frauenburg (Frombork), and
killed forty people, and a further forty in Memel (Klaipėda),
Hasenpoth (Aizpute), Goldingen (Kuldīga), Pilten (Piltene),
and Windau (Ventspils), before travelling on to Curland.363
The council members add a few short lines of particular
interest regarding Prussia:

Eciam consules Thurunenses scripserunt nobis de

pluribus Judeis baptizatis in civitate eorum
deprehensis, et omnes recognovissent, quod
huiusmodi operacio intoxicacionis totaliter a Judeis
ortum habet processum.364

[The council members of Thorn (Toruń) also wrote to

us about many baptized Jews who were caught in
their town, and they all remembered that the trial
had its origin in this mode of total intoxication by
the Jews.]

This otherwise mysterious sentence at least proves the

existence of baptized Jews in Thorn and their persecution,
although in a very vague way – were the council members
recalling a concrete trial against the baptized Jews of Thorn or
another trial? When did it take place?
The letter from Visby has also been preserved, and it tells a
somewhat different story from the Lübeck letter.365 Two
people who made poison were burned at the stake. They had
confessed to poisoning numerous people in different Swedish
towns and of plans to poison all of Gotland. They claimed to
belong to a secret society of Jews and bad Christians intent
upon poisoning all of Christianity. Just before being burnt at
the stake, one of them said: “Nescio plura vobis dicere, sed
tota Christianitas est per Judæos et pessimos nos intoxicata [I
do not know more things to tell you, but all of Christianity is
poisoned by the Jews and by the worst of us]”. Both of the
letters from Lübeck and Visby to the Duke end with the
demand that the Jews be deprived of privileges and
protection in order to ensure that they are found and
punished for their evil deeds.
All of these letters are undated, but have been connected to
the Black Death that occurred around 1350 in the source
editions and in subsequent scholarly research. The method of
killing, in particular, that is well-poisoning, is reminiscent of
the accusations in the wake of the Black Death, even though
the number of victims seems relatively small considering the
number of fatalities during the pandemic. The letters may
also refer to events that occurred either before or after the
Black Death, since they are full of hearsay and references to
other people having told other stories or written other letters
– however, the connection of Jews to bad Christians, who are
misled into killing by the former, a high number of casualties
due to poisoned wells, and the vast geographical range of the
casualties due to the work of a travelling killer, are all familiar
elements from the anti-Jewish accusations connected to the
Black Death. Lübeck and Visby present similar accounts of
Jewish settlement in Prussian and most of the Hanseatic
towns – there is no sign of stable communities, but there is
also no evidence of major conflicts or anti-Jewish regulations.
Of course, it is very likely that Jews were present in the town
as travellers, guests, and temporary residents. Three letters
that were circulating in the Hanseatic towns on the Baltic
coast around the same time reported trials against and death
penalties for Jews or people who confessed to have been paid
by Jews, and these letters asserted that these persons had
travelled around Prussia. This can be treated as relatively
solid evidence that Jews were held responsible for the
diseases in these areas as well. It is, however, remarkable
that none of the trials was the result of the casualties in the
town where the trial was held –the accused in Lübeck were
punished for casualties in Prussia, and the accused in Visby
for casualties elsewhere in Sweden and Prussia. The
reference to baptized Jews put on trial in Thorn is vague. The
Lübeck, Rostock and Visby council members seem to have
had a clearer idea regarding the towns affected by the
pandemic than about the whereabouts of the people
condemned for spreading it – there is no mention in any of
the letters of where the Jews came from, what their
professions were, or where they lived.

6.4 The Braunsberg liber civitatis

A fourth account of somewhat mysterious origin adds to the
impression that Jews were thought to be responsible for the
Black Death in Prussia, but in this account, the suspicion is
not said to have led to any sweeping persecution. It is
undated and preserved in the oldest liber civitatis of
Braunsberg (Braniewo).

Rumboldi memoria et malicia. Anno domini M.ccc.xl.

nono a festo pasce vsque ad festum galli fuit in
terra pruscie Rvmboldus Judeus qui dixit se esse
baptizatum. Qui per intoxicaciones veneni et per
incantaciones diuersas multos interfecit et precipue
 in Elbingo vbi a festo Bartholomei vsque ad
nativitatem christi plus quam nouem Milia hominum
veneno quasi morte subitanea interierunt. Item in
eodem anno in Konigisberg multitudo hominum
interiit non computata. Item in marienburg similiter.
Item in hollandia. In heiligenbil. In vrowinborg. In
Molhusin. Item in terra Sambye multi prutheni
veneno perierunt. Eodem anno multi tam noxii
quam inoxii propter venenum cremati sunt vndique
terrarum. 366

[About the memory and the bad deeds of

Rumboldus. In the year of the Lord 1349 from Easter
until St. Gallus, the Jew, Rumboldus, who claimed to
be baptized, was in the land of Prussia. He killed
many with poisoned drinks and different
incantations, especially in Elbing, where more than
nine thousand people died almost immediately of
poisoning between St. Bartholomew’s and Christ’s
Birth. Also in the same year in Königsberg a mass of
people died, they were not counted. The same in
Marienburg (Malbork). The same in Preußisch
Holland (Pasłęk), in Heiligenbeil (Mamonovo),
Frauenburg (Frombork), Mühlhausen (Młynary). Also
in the land of Sambia many Prussians died of
poisoning. In the same year many were burned in all
countries because of the poisoning, guilty as well as
innocent.]

This is the most comprehensive account of the spread of a

disease in Prussia: It names more towns than any of the
others, and includes Sambia, as well as providing precise
dates, one for Rumboldus’ sojourn in Prussia, and one for the
fatalities in Königsberg. The dates partially overlap –
Rumboldus is said to have travelled around Prussia between
12 April and 16 October, while people in Elbing are said to
have died suddenly between 24 August and 25 December.
This suggests that the effects of Rumboldus’ poison and
incantations remained effective even after he had left – or
after he was killed. The report mentions people having been
held responsible for the dying, but does not make explicit
whether or not Rumboldus himself was punished by death at
the stake. The report itself is preserved in the liber civitatis of
Braunsberg, but Braunsberg is not among the many towns
mentioned as having been hit by the poisoning.
Both the Detmar Chronicle and the anonymous report from
the Braunsberg liber civitatis explicitly mention Königsberg
and Elbing as suffering high levels of fatality; while the
Chronicon Olivense names Prussia and Pomerania. Detmar
dates the beginning of the disease in Prussia as 1346, the
anonymous report as 1349, and the chronicle of Oliva claims
it started in the Mediterranean in 1347, reaching Prussia in
1350, and continuing into 1351 when this part of the
chronicle was written. The two chronicles are written shortly
after the events themselves. This is also true for the letters
from Visby and Lübeck, which were probably written in either
the 1340s or the 1350s, but cannot be precisely dated.

6.5 Jews in Prussia?

Blaming Jewish converts is a recurrent feature in the reports.
In the Detmar chronicle, they are said to be pretending to be
Christians and living off their alms. Those accused of the
poisonings are themselves obviously poor beggars and
vagrants, and thereby, even without the Jewish ascription,
belong to a marginalized group – a pattern similar to
persecution in France, which started with paupers as victims,
and subsequently Jews.367 The chronicle of Oliva names
Iudaeos occultos (secret Jews), and in the case of Rumboldus,
a traveller, or vagrant, is accused of the poisonings. In both
cases, the accused are ascribed the status of Jews, although
they claim to be Christian or are even living as converts,
receiving alms as a result of their status – in the case of
Prussia, there are several reports about the High Master
himself, as well as the bishops of Sambia, providing converts
and their families with monetary aid in order to prevent them
from returning to the Jewish faith.368 The name Rumboldus
points to the traveller being from either the Low Countries or
England, where saints with this name were venerated.369 In
the letters from Lübeck and Visby, on the other hand, “bad
Christians” are blamed, and they claim to have been paid and
misled by Jews to perform the deeds. In almost all of the
sources, the terms “sorcery” and “witchcraft” are used:
incantations, whispering words in someone’s ear, secret
things. Rumboldus is presented as a lone killer, while the
other sources suggest a far-reaching Jewish conspiracy.
Reasons for the crimes are, in the cases of the bad Christians,
money and being bewitched, and in the case of the Jews and
converts, hatred of Christians and the wish to enslave them
under Jewish rule as revenge for their own present
enslavement under Christian rule.
Samuel Cohn has pointed out the social circumstances of
anti-Jewish violence during the plague years, most of which
was staged by local authorities rather than being
spontaneous outbreaks of hatred by the lower classes or
peasants.370 In the Prussian sources, we learn little about the
perpetrators – in Visby and Rostock, the urban authorities
held the trials, but the accused were Christian foreigners,
while in the chronicles, it is not possible to distinguish who
killed the Jews. It seems to be obvious, though, that the
accused were not well-off merchants, money-lenders, or
physicians, but poor people living or travelling in the rural
areas: The Detmar Chronicle refers to their confessions, in
which they identify “the rich Jews in the towns” as the minds
behind the conspiracy. Both the Jews and the Christians
accused in the Prussian and Hanseatic sources were, as such,
poor people and vagrants, and it is likely that this fact was
actually the primary incentive for blaming them – the
identification with the Jewish religion is very vague in most
cases, suggesting that they were probably primarily
perceived as social outsiders, not religious outsiders, and
were persecuted during the Black Death for that reason, as is
known from southern Europe.371
Despite all of these sources being chronologically close to
the events and considered to be of high historiographic
reliability, they do not provide a consistent picture of the
spread of the Black Death, particularly as only two of them
were directly produced in Prussia, while the others derive
from other Hanseatic towns. It is likely that the bubonic
plague that hit large parts of Europe also reached Prussia by
ship, and possibly also over land from Poland, sometime
between 1347 and 1351. It is, however, not possible to
connect all the sources mentioned clearly to this specific
disease and its spread. There are other sources that also
mention a pestilentia in these years, but they are all of much
later origin, and, in any case, the information they contain
about diseases in the years around 1386 and 1427 is much
clearer than about the mortalities around 1350. The chronicle
by Jan Długosz, from nearby Poland, for example, mentions
the Black Death in 1349, along with anti-Jewish violence in
Poland and Alemania, but does not mention any Prussian
towns among the locations of either the plague or the
pogroms.372 Since earlier scholars and editors of source
collections felt more comfortable attributing different reports
about diseases from the fourteenth century to the Black
Death that occurred around 1350 than we are today, when
we consider the state of the research, it is no longer possible
to decide whether or not all these sources are addressing the
same event. What is obvious, however, is that a number of
fourteenth-century sources from Prussia and the Hanseatic
towns in the Baltic coastal area connected epidemic diseases
to Jews or Jewish converts to Christianity, even if these towns
themselves were not party to any anti-Jewish pogroms. It is
also obvious that they do not directly report anti-Jewish
violence in Prussia during this period, although the Jews were
blamed.
There are a number of ways to interpret this. The first one
would see the emergence of Jews as scapegoats in Prussia
and the Baltic as a sign of this area being a part of a general
Christian-European cultural framework, in which anti-Judaism
was a formative element. The connection of Jews to sorcery,
diseases, poisoning, and conspiracies is well established in
the case of southern Europe and the German lands, both
before and after the first wave of the bubonic plague, and to
the Prussian chroniclers it probably did not seem to be
farfetched to blame non-existing Jews for the fourteenth-
century diseases – thus the focus on travellers and vagrants.
However, there is an alternative interpretation that does not
presume that there were no Jews in Prussia, as blaming Jews
for spreading diseases remains a sign of a shared European
framework of anti-Jewish resentment. The focus on travellers
and vagrants would suggest that there was no anti-Jewish
violence in the Prussian towns themselves, and that the
persons blamed were generally victims or scapegoats
because of their status as foreigners, not because they were
non-Christian. Overall, the historiographic accounts that
mention diseases in the fourteenth century without
mentioning Jews by far outnumber the ones presented here
that make the connection. During this period, the Teutonic
Order and its chroniclers were preoccupied with the
consolidation of their territory and the persistent conflicts
with the neighbouring Lithuanians – and later, the Poles. After
the initial task of Christianizing the Old Prussians was
completed, expanding into Lithuanian territory became the
primary goal of the Teutonic Order’s warfare – and converting
Lithuanians the primary objective of its propaganda. Although
the Order and the literate Prussian elite – Cistercian monks
from Oliva, German town scribes in Braunsberg – certainly
shared a common Christian ideology that easily blamed Jews,
but they themselves did not see any Jews burnt at the stake,
and as the Teutonic Order itself was much more preoccupied
with anti-Lithuanian warfare and anti-pagan propaganda,
these chroniclers also did not put any particular emphasis on
Jews being responsible for diseases. Prussia in the fourteenth
century was probably not a good place to be a Jew – but there
were much worse places, and there were definitely no good
places to be a pagan, if we are to believe the propaganda.
“Nur wenn es Streit gab, kam etwas in die Akten [only if there
was a conflict, was a record written]” writes Kurt Forstreuter
in a later version of his article about the Jews in Prussia.373
Here again, his conclusions are not the obvious ones – maybe
the fact that there are very few conflicts reported between
Jews and Christians in Prussia does not mean that there had
never been any Jews in the country. Maybe the fact that we
lack information about interreligious conflicts and anti-Jewish
pogroms in Prussia before the fifteenth century simply means
that there were no conflicts between the inhabitants who
adhered to different monotheistic beliefs.

Bibliography
Primary sources

Chronicon Olivense = Hirsch, Theodor (Ed.). Die Ältere

Chronik und die Schrifttafeln von Oliva. SRP I (1861).
669–726.

Cod. dipl. Warm. = Codex Diplomaticus Warmiensis oder

Regesten und Urkunden zur Geschichte Ermlands. 4 vols.
 Eds. Carl Peter Woelky and Johann Martin Saage. Mainz:
Kirchheim: Braunsberg: Peter, 1860–1935.

Cronica des landes Bruthenia, ietzund Preusserlant.

Geschrieben durch Casparum Bittander (1609). Uppsala,
University Library, H 153 fol.

Detmar-Chronik = Koppmann, Karl (Ed.). Chroniken der

deutschen Städte. Vol. 19. Detmar-Chronik von
1105–1386. Leipzig: Hirzel, 1884. 187–596.

Hermanni de Warthberge Chronicon Livoniae = Strehlke,

Ernst (Ed.). Hermanni de Warthberge Chronicon Livoniae.
SRP II (1863). 21–116.

Ioannis Dlugossii Annales = Dąbrowski, Jan (Ed.). Ioannis

Dlugossii Annales seu cronicae incliti regni Poloniae Liber
IX. Warszawa: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1978.

Marienburger Tresslerbuch = Joachim, Erich (Ed.). Das

Marienburger Tresslerbuch der Jahre 1399–1409.
Königsberg in Preussen: Thomas & Oppermann, 1896.

SDHK = Svenskt Diplomatariums huvudkartotek över

medeltidsbreven. < riksarkivet.se/sdhk >

Simon Grunaus Preussische Chronik. 3 vols. Eds. Max

Perlbach, Rudolf Philippi, and Paul Wagner. Leipzig,
1876–1889.

SRP = Scriptores rerum Prussicarum. Die Geschichtsquellen

der preussischen Vorzeit bis zum Untergange der
Ordensherrschaft. 6 vols. I–V: Eds. Theodor Hirsch, Max
Töppen, and Ernst Strehlke. Leipzig: Hirzel, 1861–1874;
VI: Eds. Walther Hubatsch and Udo Arnold. Frankfurt am
Main: Minerva-Verlag, 1968.
UB Lübeck: Urkundenbuch der Stadt Lübeck. Abth. 1: Codex
diplomaticus Lubecensis. Theil 3: Urkunden bis 1350.
Lübeck: Aschenfeldt, 1871.

UB Mecklenburg: Meklenburgisches Urkundenbuch. X: 1346–

1350; Nachträge zu Band I–X. Schwerin: Stiller in Komm,
1877.

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Cluse, Christoph. “Zur Chronologie der Verfolgungen zur Zeit

des ‘Schwarzen Todes’.” Geschichte der Juden im
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Cohn, Samuel K. “The Black Death and the Burning of Jews.”

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Preußen.” Wirkungen des Preußenlandes: Vierzig
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Michalina Duda

7 Jewish Physicians in the

Teutonic Order’s Prussian State
in the Late Middle Ages

7.1 Introduction
There are no records of a Jewish population residing in the
State of the Teutonic Order, which existed in medieval
Prussia after the thirteenth century. The only exception is
Neumark (Nova Marchia), a region that was purchased from
King Sigismund of Luxembourg in 1402. This was the result of
the Teutonic Order’s policy; due to its ongoing Crusades (e.g.,
the Northern Crusades) Teutonic Knights could not permit
followers of other religions to live within their territory.374
One aspect of the attitude towards Jews on the part of the
Order’s superiors is reflected with perfect clarity in a letter of
18 May 1442 sent by the commander of Thorn (Toruń),
Johann von Beenhausen, to Grand Master Konrad von
Erlichshausen. The commander was reporting on talks with
the Poles during the convention in Thorn and Nowa
Nieszawa.375 During the meeting, the Poles demanded that
Jews who were in the Kingdom of Poland at that time be
permitted to run their businesses within the State of the
Teutonic Order, with no greater limit being placed upon their
activities than was the case for other residents of Poland, as
had been formally stipulated by provisions of the 1435 Peace
of Brześć Kujawski.376 The commander, however, was
unwilling to agree to that without discussing it with the Grand
Master and suggested that he would have an answer for the
Poles within three weeks.377 It would appear that Konrad von
Erlichshausen’s response was negative. Nothing in known
later sources indicates that Jews from Poland were permitted
to conduct business in Prussia. Thus, we can safely assume
that Jews had restricted access to the Teutonic Order’s
territory.378 The situation did not change substantially when
the Thirteen Years’ War ended in 1466.379 Nonetheless, it is
important to keep in mind that while Jews were not allowed to
settle in the State of the Teutonic Order, they were in contact
with the locals. The information preserved in fifteenth-century
Teutonic sources makes an interesting contribution to our
understanding of Jewish physicians in Teutonic Prussia. This
will be the focus of what follows.

7.2 Jews as physicians

Jews made a great contribution to the development of
medieval medicine, not least by translating and transmitting
Greek and Arabic medical texts into Hebrew. These
translations were used by Jewish medical practitioners and
enabled them to become famous for their knowledge.
However, the special esteem enjoyed by Jewish doctors was a
result of their activity as practitioners. A relatively large
number of Jewish physicians were involved in the treatment
of patients.380 Joseph Shatzmiller has pointed out that
although Jews constituted just one percent of medieval
society, in certain places and times Jewish physicians
accounted for half or more of the medical practitioners.381
They gained knowledge and experience through frequent
contact with patients. Furthermore, travelling between
communities and corresponding with rabbis and other
physicians were important ways in which they increased their
knowledge. 382
In the Middle Ages, Jewish physicians primarily practised in
Jewish communities: This can be seen quite clearly in the
cases of the Iberian Peninsula, Italy, and southern France.383
They needed licentia practicandi to practise their profession,
and only qualified physicians received a licence.384 In 1140,
King Roger II of Sicily issued the first regulation requiring
physicians to pass an obligatory examination. He hoped this
would ensure decent medical care for those under his rule.
Analogous legislation appeared in other countries over the
course of the subsequent centuries: the Liber Augustalis
enacted by Emperor Frederick II; regulations created by
Count Charles of Anjou; provisions established in Florence
and in the Kingdom of Valencia.385 Although these
regulations did not generally mention Jews, the fact that
there were numerous licensed Jewish physicians practising in
Spain, Italy, and France indicates that they adhered to the
law.386
It is assumed that physicians practising in the Middle Ages
had received an education. Where did Jews study? A great
number of Jews received their education within the family,
with young Jewish men studying with their fathers and their
fathers-in-law. This is confirmed by the Jewish physician
dynasties that existed, as well as by the contents of marriage
agreements. There were, however, also Jews, particularly
those who aspired to be surgeons, who paid to study with
private teachers. There are sources that suggest there were
cases where several families employed one teacher to
instruct a group of their children. In this context, it is worth
noting that recent research indicates that there were some
Jews connected to the medieval European universities. Jews
were found on the faculty of the famed school of medicine in
Montpellier and at Italian universities, including those in
Pavia, Bologna, Padua, and Siena.387
 Beginning in the thirteenth century, secular and
ecclesiastical authorities increasingly banned Jews from
treating Christian patients. The prohibition was announced at
the synod of Trèves (1227). Subsequently, in 1254, the two
synods of Albi ruled that Christians who turned to Jewish
physicians for medical treatment would be excommunicated.
These regulations were the result of a fear that Jews would
block Christians’ access to the last rites. Additional hostile
bans were put in place in the fourteenth century during the
proceedings of the councils of Valladolid (1322), Salamanca
(1335), and Avignon (1337).
This was also the point at which secular legislators were at
their most restrictive. In 1310, Frederick III of Sicily
established punishments for both physicians and patients. On
the basis of this regulation, Jews would be imprisoned for at
least one year, and Christians for three months. While in
prison both Jews and Christians would be restricted to a diet
of bread and water; moreover, Jews would see any
remuneration and salaries they had received confiscated and
donated to the poor. The sense of the edict promulgated by
Count Charles II of Provence in 1306 is much the same.
Nonetheless, Jewish physicians did treat Christian patients. In
fact, during the Avignon Papacy, the pope availed himself of
Jewish physicians.388 Dozens of Jewish physicians had
remarkable careers – at the court of Aragón, for example.389
Due to a lack of properly qualified people, Jews not
infrequently acted as city physicians. Very often commoners
also used the medical treatments offered by Jewish
physicians. Not being members of a guild, Jews provided a
wide range of services. Furthermore, they gave medical
assistance at competitive prices and probably filled
prescriptions cheaper than Christian pharmacists. In addition,
patients were convinced that the unfavourable legal situation
of Jewish physicians forced them to perform their duties more
carefully than their Christian counterparts.390
7.3 Jewish physicians in the State of
the Teutonic Order
Jewish physicians were also present in the State of the
Teutonic Order in fifteenth-century Prussia. Sources from
former Teutonic Order Grand Masters’ archives currently
gathered in Geheimes Staatsarchiv Preußischer Kulturbesitz
in Berlin-Dahlem allow us to point to two Jewish physicians
temporarily present in the Teutonic Knights’ State in Prussia.
The first, named Meyen, passed through Prussia in 1446 and
visited the territory again in 1448 and 1449. The second,
Jacob, was in contact with the Teutonic Knights as a diplomat
of Polish official Mikołaj Szarlejski. Tham von Hochberg,
personal physician of Grand Master Martin Truchsess, will
also be discussed below. Tham probably did not have Jewish
roots, but his opponents intended to destroy his reputation by
accusing him of being a Jewish convert.

7.3.1 Meyen

The first Jewish physician present in Prussia can be found in a

historical source dating to 12 December 1446. On that date,
in Bittau (Bytów), Grand Master Konrad von Erlichshausen
provided safe conduct for a Poznań-based Jewish physician
named Meyen. This document allowed the physician to safely
enter the State of the Teutonic Order and remain there for a
specified period, after which he was free to leave unhindered
– however with one stipulation: He could not work as a
physician.391 The fact that the Teutonic Order’s superior
explicitly forbad Meyen to provide any medical advice during
his stay in the State of the Teutonic Order might be the result
of mistrust or of prejudice against Jews and their practices. In
any case, the short period of safe conduct, dating from its
issuance until 14 February of the following year – i.e., slightly
more than two months – seems to corroborate the claim that
this document probably only entitled the Jew to pass through
the Teutonic Order’s territory and made a longer stay
impossible. That safe conduct was issued at the castle in
Bittau, located near the border, suggests the possibility that
Meyen was making his way to or from the Duchy of
Pomerania – later sources support this conjecture.
In all probability, it is the same Jewish physician who
appears in other sources. Despite a certain inconsistency with
the name (Meyne,392 Meyen,393 Meiger, 394 Meygen,395
Maher396) and his place of residence, it seems reasonable to
presume that this is the physician named Meiger from Nowa
Nieszawa in Cuiavia (Kujawy), who was first mentioned in
historical sources in 1448.397 At that point, Nowa Nieszawa
had only been part of the Kingdom of Poland for a brief time –
since the 1422 Treaty of Melno. Previously, it had been a part
of the State of the Teutonic Order. When a trade centre
competing with nearby Thorn had developed in Nowa
Nieszawa under the rule of the Polish king, Polish Jews had
settled there. The fact that Meiger lived in Poznań in 1446,
and relocated to Nowa Nieszawa in 1448 would seem to
corroborate the claim that the Jews in Nowa Nieszawa had
originally come from Greater Poland.398
As previously mentioned, historical references to Meyen are
also found in sources dated 1448–1449. The entry book of the
Grand Master’s chancery indicates that safe conduct was
granted on 27 January 1449 by the Teutonic Order’s superior
in Elbing (Elbląg) and was valid until 1 June 1449. It
guaranteed – on behalf of the authorities, officials, and
subjects – complete legal immunity and safe round-trip
passage on a specifically determined route between Thorn
and Marienburg (Malbork). This document applied to the
Jewish physician ‘Meyen’ and his travelling companion, also a
Jew.399 Two weeks previously (14 January 1449), Grand
Master Konrad von Erlichshausen had requested that the
castellan of Kruszwica, Jan Kretkowski, who was also the
starost of Cuiavia, send Meygen, a Jew and physician based in
Nowa Nieszawa, to Prussia, at the fervent request of the
Prussian knight Hans von Baysen,400 who wished to engage
his professional medical services. The Order’s superior
promised to issue safe conduct for the physician and his
companion, who was also a Jew, so that they could proceed
safely to Marienburg. He also forbad them to stay in any
other large towns within the State of the Teutonic Order.401
The letter clearly referred to an educated Jewish physician
from Nowa Nieszawa. The dates of both of these documents,
as well as a similar travel route and the similar names, prove
that the physician in question was Meyen. There is, however,
room for doubt as to his place of residence, since in 1449
Konrad von Erlichshausen requested the help of a physician
from Nowa Nieszawa, while the bearer of the safe conduct
issued in 1446, Meyen, was a resident of Poznań. We can
safely assume, in any case, that Meyen had moved from
Poznań to Nowa Nieszawa after 1446. He probably moved
before 17 June 1448, since that was the date of the letter
sent by the Teutonic Order’s official in Bittau to the Grand
Master, mentioning the “magister Meiger der Yeden, der zcu
Diebaw wonnt [Master Meiger the Jew who resides in Dybowo
(this is the name that was used in some sources for Nowa
Nieszawa)]”, located across the border from Thorn.402
Moreover, Meiger must certainly have been educated, as the
letter referred to him as ‘Master’. Despite the fact that his
name was spelled differently, there is no doubt that the letter
refers to the same person.
The 1448 letter, written by a Teutonic official from Bittau,
seems to indicate that on this occasion the physician Meyen
and a knight from Pomerania, Ludwik Massow, were sent to
Marienburg by Jarosław, the Duchy of Słupsk’s bailiff. The
Teutonic official expressed the hope that they would be of
service to the Grand Master, but did not specify the nature of
the service in question.403 However, it seems likely that he
required a medical consultation. Previous research connects
the presence of Master Meyen in the Duchy of Słupsk with
medical services: He subsequently travelled to the capital of
the State of the Teutonic Order. Sławomir Jóźwiak assumed
that the Jew from Nowa Nieszawa was treating Eric I of
Pomerania, the dethroned king of Denmark, Norway, and
Sweden, who was nearly 70 at the time.404 However, it is not
clear that Eric I of Pomerania was living in the Duchy of
Słupsk in 1448, as he had been residing in Gotland since
1438. According to Antoni Czacharowski, following the death
of Bogusław IX in 1446, Eric moved to Darłowo.405 Recent
literature, however, tells us that Eric I may not have left
Gotland until as late as 1449.406 The presence of Meyen
within the area of the Duchy of Pomerania in 1448, which is
confirmed by historical sources, seems to corroborate an
earlier assumption that in 1446 he was practising medicine in
that territory.
The historical sources do not allow us to specify the length
of Master Meyen’s stay in Marienburg in 1448. In early 1449,
there is mention of the physician being present in Nowa
Nieszawa. Three sources from that period include information
about Master Meyen. The earliest is the aforementioned 14
January 1449 letter, sent by Konrad von Erlichshausen to
starost Jan Kretkowski, asking the latter to send the
physician.407 Another reference to the physician can be found
in the copy of the 27 January 1449 safe conduct issued for
Meyen, which was preserved in the entry book kept by the
Grand Master’s chancery.408 The last and most extensive
reference to the nature of Meyen’s journey to Prussia is found
in starost Jan Kretkowski’s 11 February 1449 reply to Konrad
von Erlichshausen. Kretkowski accepted the request of the
Teutonic Order’s superior and agreed to send Master Meyen
to the Grand Master.409 While travelling to Marienburg – as
we read in the letter – Meyen was to stop in Thorn to begin
treating Hans von Baysen. Therefore, Kretkowski – as his
letter to the Grand Master made explicit – informed the local
commander that if the knight from Prussia came to Thorn, he
would need to provide him with appropriate accommodation
for Meyen to begin the patient’s treatment. However, Hans
von Baysen did not come to Thorn,410 so Kretkowski sent
Meyen directly to the capital of the State of the Teutonic
Order. He was accompanied by the burgher and nobleman
Mikołaj Scharar, a member of the starost’s household.411
Although – as earlier letters of the Grand Master seem to
imply – the safe conduct was issued for two Jews, neither the
starost’s letter nor scholarly findings regarding Mikołaj
Scharar suggest that Meyen’s companion was a Jew. In the
further section of his letter, the starost of Cuiavia asked the
Grand Master to guarantee safety and immunity for the
Jewish physician on his return trip. He also wished Konrad von
Erlichshausen good health and blessings.412
In previous scholarship, this information has led to the
erroneous assumption that the aim of Meyen’s stay in
Marienburg was to treat the Order’s superior. 413 In fact, this
supposition cannot be confirmed. It should be emphasized
that in his letter the Grand Master was asking for medical
consultation for Hans von Baysen.414 Although Kretkowski’s
wishes of good health might create the impression that
Master Meyen was to treat the Order’s superior in
Marienburg, 415 there is no evidence to corroborate this
assumption. Kretkowski’s good wishes might simply be a
slightly unconventional conclusion to a letter. We have to
consider the alternate assumption that Meyen went to
Marienburg to treat Hans von Baysen, not the Grand Master.
Keep in mind that it was the Prussian knight who encouraged
Konrad von Erlichshausen to request that the starost of
Cuiavia send the Jewish physician. Moreover, in the 14
January 1449 letter, the Grand Master made no mention of a
short stay on the part of the physician in Thorn, nor he did
not permit the physician to stop in any of the Teutonic
Order’s towns. He simply indicated that his safe conduct
would secure Meyen’s safe trip to Marienburg.416 Thorn was
mentioned in the second letter, written nearly two weeks
later (27 January 1449) as an alternate destination. The letter
specified that Meyen and his companion were to go to Thorn,
and then on to the capital of the State of the Teutonic
Order.417 This information is supplemented by Kretkowski’s
letter informing the Grand Master that as Hans von Baysen
had not come to Thorn, he would send the Jewish physician to
the Grand Master’s court.418 Therefore, we can assume that
the ailing knight was waiting for Meyen in Marienburg or
intended to go there. There are, however, no historical
sources to corroborate this conjecture.
Regardless of who it was that Meyen was to treat in
Marienburg, the effort undertaken to facilitate his trip to
Marienburg reflects a high degree of respect for his medical
skills. It appears that Meyen’s reputation led to numerous
wellpaid trips abroad to practise medicine. These trips might
have been behind the physician’s decision to relocate from
Poznań to Nowa Nieszawa, which was situated across from
Thorn. His move to this border town certainly facilitated his
trips within the Teutonic Order’s territory, and also shortened
the distance to both Marienburg and the Duchy of Pomerania.
He might also have been encouraged to move by other
factors, such as the opportunity to live in an economically
thriving, though still developing, town, which would have
been attractive to a resourceful person, or a desire to join
other members of the Jewish population who had left Poznań
shortly before and settled in Nowa Nieszawa.419

7.3.2 Jacob

Another Jewish physician active in medieval Prussia was a

man named Jacob. References found in historical sources
leave no doubts about his profession and indicate his Jewish
background. In letters, he was referred to as “Jacobus Judeus
medicus [the Jew Jacob the doctor]”.420 Yet, his stays in the
State of the Teutonic Order were not connected with medical
services, or at least there is no evidence that this was the
case. This physician acted as an intermediary in secret
negotiations between Mikołaj Szarlejski, the starost of
Bydgoszcz, as well as the voivode of Brześć-Cuiavia, and
Grand Master Ludwig von Erlichshausen. In the face of an
imminent internal conflict with the Prussian Confederation,
the Teutonic Order hoped to win favour with the Polish official
who had authority over the border area. The role performed
by the starost’s physician is explained in two letters of
authorization prepared by Szarlejski. The first was issued on 6
January 1454 in Bydgoszcz.421 With the document in hand,
the physician made a short trip to the capital of the Teutonic
Order’s Prussian State. Following this first trip, Jacob probably
went to Włocławek, where Marian Biskup assumes the starost
of Bydgoszcz was staying. The latter was probably on his way
to meet King Casimir IV Jagiellon. Szarlejski listened to Jacob’s
report and received recommendations from the Order’s
superior (unfortunately, we do not know what they were).
Most probably, the voivode accepted them.422 On 11 January
1454, the voivode issued another letter of authorization for
the physician, once again sending him to Marienburg.423
Before the end of the negotiations conducted by Jacob in the
capital of the State of the Teutonic Order, it was agreed that
Szarlejski would stay at the Teutonic castle in Althaus
(Starogród), near Culm (Chełmno). Moreover, Ludwig von
Erlichshausen used the Jewish physician to deliver the starost
a letter with a draft of the agreement enclosed. In
accordance with that draft, in the event of confederates in
Prussia taking up arms against the Teutonic Order, the
voivode would side with the Teutonic Order. Moreover,
Szarlejski was to prevent the recruiting of mercenaries from
the Kingdom of Poland and to impede regular troops from
other areas from marching through the territory of Cuiavia.
He was also obliged to send armed knights to the aid of the
Teutonic Order within four weeks of a request to that effect.
Furthermore, if necessary, the starost was to place the
stronghold in Bydgoszcz at the Grand Master’s disposal. For
his part, Ludwig von Erlichshausen, if he deemed it
reasonable, promised to make the castle in Althaus available
to the Polish official. The Order’s superior also demanded
that, if need be, Szarlejski would seek to influence the king
and the Polish nobility in matters related to the State of the
Teutonic Order.424
On the basis of the 22 January 1454 letter from the Althaus
commander to the Schwetz (Świecie) commander, we can
ascertain that Jacob was in Althaus at that time,425 possibly
to continue negotiations with the Teutonic Order on
Szarlejski’s behalf. However, there are no surviving sources
that allow us to reconstruct the course of these negotiations –
perceived in the scholarly literature as having been held
solely for the sake of appearance426 – or to determine
whether or not the Jewish physician was involved in them.
To sum up, the existing sources provide information about
actions undertaken by the Jewish physician as an
intermediary in secret talks. While we cannot exclude the
possibility that Jacob also provided medical advice while
carrying out his diplomatic mission in Prussia, there are no
available sources that provide evidence of him doing so.

7.3.3 Tham von Hochberg

When discussing Jewish physicians in the State of the

Teutonic Order, it is worth mentioning Doctor Tham von
Hochberg. We cannot be certain of his Jewish origin.
Moreover, in previous research doubts were mistakenly
raised as to whether he was a physician at all.427 However,
source material confirms that Hochberg took the position of
personal physician to Grand Master Martin Truchsess in
1485.428 In the same year, acting as the Grand Master’s
doctor, Hochberg accompanied Martin Truchsess to the
convention in Thorn.429 Later, for unknown reasons, he
ceased his cooperation with the Grand Master’s court.
Afterwards, in March 1487, Doctor Tham von Hochberg sent a
long letter to Grand Master Martin Truchsess offering his
services. From this letter, we can infer that Hochberg, then
residing in Thorn, knew that the Order’s superior did not have
a doctor430 and sought to win favour, sending four or five
letters. He made it clear, however, that he was not sure
whether or not the Grand Master had received the earlier
letters, as he only replied to the last one. Even that one had
been addressed to Nuremberg and did not directly reach the
recipient, who was in Thorn at that time. It is likely that the
problems with communication were no accident: Hochberg –
as an analysis of the letter indicates – did not have a very
good reputation with the Grand Master’s court in Königsberg
(Kaliningrad).
Hochberg vehemently protested the rumours that were
circulating about him. He insisted that suspicions that he was
born out of wedlock or was a baptized Jew, as well as other
slanderous claims being made about him, were only meant to
damage his reputation. As a result, he asked for an
opportunity to address the accusations and slander, and
thereby refute his accusers. In the event that his services
were rejected, Hochberg asked to be allowed to send a
servant to deliver his response. He also asked for safe
conduct to Königsberg (probably to address the accusations).
Hochberg also informed that he was going to remain in
Gdańsk, Poland, from where he would travel to the capital of
the State of the Teutonic Order.431
Christian Probst has concluded that Hochberg was not
employed at the Grand Master’s court, because he is never
again mentioned in the available sources. The safe conduct
that the physician requested from the Order’s superior also
warrants consideration. The difficulties posed by the
handwriting of the preserved letter are significant obstacles
to reading and translating this document, which creates
uncertainty as to the accuracy of the interpretation of some
of its sections. It seems, however, that this safe conduct was
meant to enable Hochberg to travel safely to Königsberg. It
is, however, unclear why he was attempting to obtain safe
conduct. He claimed he was not a Jew, although rumour had
it that he was a baptized Jew. It is, however, well established
that a convert could freely travel in the State of the Teutonic
Order without this document to guarantee his safety. Most
probably, he felt unsafe because the rumours about him were
common knowledge. He likely applied for the safe conduct,
not because it was indispensable, but because it would
guarantee him a safe journey.

7.4 Conclusion
The appearance of the aforementioned persons within the
Teutonic Order’s territory in the fifteenth century would seem
to confirm that the Teutonic Knights were willing to accept
the temporary presence of Jewish physicians in Prussia.
Meyen’s previously discussed visits to the State of the
Teutonic Order in 1448 and 1449 were probably related to
the provision of medical services and reflect a recognition of
his professional skills, even if, in 1449, he was obliged to
travel along a pre-determined route that did not include the
larger towns. We should also keep in mind the fact that in
1446, when he was passing through the State of the Teutonic
Order on his way to the Duchy of Pomerania, the Order’s
supreme authorities categorically denied him the right to
practise medicine. The attitude towards the physician Jacob
would undoubtedly have been different, because he was
playing a diplomatic role as the Polish starost’s
representative when he visited medieval Prussia in 1454, and
as a result, the Teutonic knights were obliged to show him
the respect due his position. The last physician mentioned
above, Tham von Hochberg, had a distinct relationship with
the Order’s supreme authorities. He was initially the Grand
Master’s physician, but seems to have lost his post and
become the object of the Teutonic Order’s disapproval. He
claimed that there was a hostile clique in Königsberg that,
among other things, accused him of being a baptized Jew,
preventing him from regaining a position at the Grand
Master’s court.

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Krzysztof Kwiatkowski

8 The Muslim People of Desht-i

Qipchaq in Fifteenth-Century
Prussia

8.1 Prolegomenon
Late medieval Prussia, stretching across the southern Baltic
coast from a small river called the Leba in the west beyond
the estuary of the Memel (Nemunas) in the east,432 was a
heterogeneous country, both governmentally and culturally
dominated by the Teutonic Order.433 The military order
arrived in the area in c. 1230, and over the subsequent fifty
years gained control of the Baltic communities between the
lower Vistula and Pregel (Pregoła),434 laying the foundation
for its dominion (Herrschaft) over the area, which, as the
fourteenth century progressed, increasingly took on the form
of territorial dominion (Landesherrschaft). 435 At the same
time, the Order established a specific socio-political system
based both on a growing network of settlements and on the
social interactions between various communities and
individuals.436 Beginning with Reinhard Wenskus’ study from
1975,437 it has become increasingly clear that this socio-
political system was not of a ‘colonial nature’, with one
foreign ethnic group establishing predominance, as Karol
Górski had previously claimed,438 but was made up of a
multi-ethnic network with relatively complex and dynamic
relations. Subsequent detailed studies addressing different
aspects have shed additional light on this reality.439 In 2008,
Jürgen Sarnowsky published a comparative depiction of the
functioning of multi-ethnic societies in the fifteenth century in
Prussia and on Rhodes. In the case of the Greek island,
religious diversity also played a role in how multi-ethnicity
was understood.440
In the earlier Prussian studies addressed by Sarnowsky,
three main ethnic groups inhabiting and colonizing late
medieval Prussia were juxtaposed: a German-speaking
population that came primarily from the Lower, the Middle,
and the Rhine region of the Reich;441 Slavic people, primarily
Pomeranian, Mazovian, and Polish;442 and indigenous Baltic
people.443 In the 1940s, Henryk Łowmiański provided an
estimate of the size of each of these groups in the early
fifteenth century – a Germanic population of 190,000
(200,000), a Slavic population of 130,000 (140,000), and a
Baltic population of approximately 140,000.444 Among the
Baltic tribes, both native Old Prussians and Jatvingians, as
well as Samogitians who came from the east, and
Lithuanians,445 there were some who maintained local, tribal
pagan cult practices. It has, however, proven impossible to
provide an accurate estimate of their numbers.
Does this brief outline of the threefold ethnic division and
twofold religious division accurately depict the reality of late
medieval Prussian settlement, ethnicity, and religion? It can
undoubtedly be seen as an accurate reflection of the
significance of those particular ethnic groups and religious
divisions in the Prussian region, but it nonetheless lacks
precision. In addition to the dominant German minority,446
extant sources confirm the presence in fifteenth-century
Prussia of people from other ethnic groups and religious
traditions. Besides Catholic Englishmen,447 partially
Christianized Baltic Kurs/Curonians,448 and Orthodox
Ruthenians,449 there is evidence of the presence of Islamic
Tatars. The Teutonic Order in Prussia, and its territorial
dominion ([Landes]Herrschaft) of Prussia, is usually, and
largely accurately, associated with a ‘holy war’ against
pagans on the far edges of the then Western Christian
ecumene.450 In this context, the Muslims mentioned in the
title referred to in relation to Prussia might in some cases be
the marauding Mongolian army, which by the second half of
the thirteenth century may have occasionally reached the
southern edges of Prussia.451 Alternatively, it might refer to
Cuman (Qipchaq)452 and Tatar allies of the grand dukes of
Lithuania and Polish kings during the wars waged against the
Order in the fourteenth, fifteenth, and early sixteenth
centuries (1330, 1410, 1414, 1422, 1519–1521).453 Indeed,
the Mongolian Muslims, who occasionally appeared alongside
Jagiellonian troops in Prussia, served a significant propaganda
purpose in the Order’s efforts to present itself as ‘the shield
of Christianity’. 454 They allowed the Order to present its
actions in an even more virtuous light. Not only did it stand
against the Baltic pagans, the superficially converted
Lithuanian Christians, the Russian schismatics, and their
traitorous Polish Catholic supporters, but it also stood against
the infidels – the followers of Allah – who rushed to their
aid.455
The above-mentioned passing military presence of Muslims
in late medieval Prussia represents only one aspect of a wider
phenomenon, which also has facets unrelated to war and
confrontation. The written source material, of which a
significant amount from the late fourteenth century through
the first three decades of the fifteenth century has been
preserved, confirms the presence of people of a Muslim origin
in Prussia for reasons unrelated to war. Information, although
scarce, can be found in a Prussian chronicle written by a
Pomesanian judicial vicar during the first quarter of the
fifteenth century.456 The second type of source material that
includes data relevant to this analysis are the records of
Teutonic Order provenance related to the management of
their dominion and to communication between officials, the
latter including letters457 and various administrative books458
from the early fifteenth century.
This essay is concerned with the insufficiently examined
long-term presence of a population of Muslim origin in the
Prussian Land. Such issues as the reasons for and
circumstances of the Muslim population’s appearance, their
numbers, the forms and durability of their settlements, the
role they played in the political and social system of the
dominion, and finally acculturation and its determinants,
have all become key points of interest. An attempt will be
made to place this phenomenon in the context of the multi-
ethnic and bi-cultural structure of Prussian society in the Late
Middle Ages.

8.2 The circumstances of arrival and

the sites of settlement
Both the Pomesanian judicial vicar’s chronicle of and the
records of the so-called Marienburger Tresslerbuch459 attest
to the presence of people known as Tatern and Tataren in
Prussia. The first records date back to 1402. In the chronicle
describing the Lithuanian and Samogitian attack on Ragnit
(Neman), which took place shortly before 25 December 1402,
there is mention of the burning of a brickyard and a
Hackelwerk,460 i.e., a quasi-suburbium, near the castle.
During the attack ‘certain Tatars’, who had presumably been
stationed in the Hackelwerk by the commander of Ragnit,
were taken captive.461 The question arises: Where did these
‘Tatars’ come from and what ethnicity does the term actually
represent? Analysis of the onomastic material in the
Pomesanian judicial vicar’s chronicle indicates that we are
indeed dealing with people of Tatar origin. The ethnonym
‘Tatars’ was not used in this chronicle to describe various
eastern peoples in general, as was quite common in the Latin
cultural milieu of the 1230s through the 1260s, and continued
to be prevalent in various Latin circles in the fourteenth and
fifteenth centuries.462 At the turn of the fourteenth to the
fifteenth century, this term was used by the Pomesanian
author in relation to various Tatar-Turkish communities32
living in the Pontic-Caspian steppe (Desht-i Qipchaq) between
the northern shores of the Black Sea in the west and the
region of the Aral Sea in the east.463 The communities formed
in this vast area as part of the new cultural system created
by the Mongolian elite (including members of the Tatar and
Mongol tribes) during the second half of the thirteenth
century through the fourteenth century were quite ethnically
diverse. The origins of these communities included the
Turkish Cumans/Qipchaqs (Kipchaks), the Mongolian Tatars,
the Caucasian Alans, and the Nogais, who were of both
Mongolian and Turkish extraction.464 In the fourteenth
century, the communities were linked by three cultural
factors: 1) elements of the elite Mongolian culture that
arrived with the Mongolian clans in the mid-thirteenth
century; 2) the Qipchaq Turkish language, and 3) the spread
of Islam beginning in the mid-thirteenth century.465 As a
result of their cultural continuity, by the turn of the
fourteenth to the fifteenth century the nomads of Desht-i
Qipchaq were uniformly referred to as ‘Tatars’, with their
language also resulting in them being called ‘Qipchaqs’.466
The political, economic, and cultural centre of the
communities that existed as part of the Mongolian Golden
Horde’s political system at the time – a system rife with
internal conflict467 – was located between the lower Don
River and the lower Volga River (with New Sarai/Sarai Berke
[Kolobovka] as its primary seat), on the areas named
‘Qipchaq’.468 So it may be called the ‘Desht-i Qipchaq
Cultural Circle’, i.e., cultural milieu of the steppes of
Qipchaq.469 In this light, Jürgen Sarnowsky’s identification of
the source-related Tataren with the Sinti and Romani ethnic
groups appears to be incorrect.470 The Romani people in
particular did not begin to arrive in Central Europe from
southern parts of this continent until the late fourteenth
century and early fifteenth century.471 Sarnowsky only took
into consideration the Tatern working on the Teutonic Order’s
farms in the early fifteenth century, not those from the Ragnit
Castle. However, this particular identification of the
ethnonym under discussion does not provide an explanation
of how or why these alleged Romani people appeared in the
Teutonic Order’s courts and on its farms rendering service to
the corporation. How did the Teutonic Brothers force the
nomadic Romani people to adopt a sedentary lifestyle on
convent farms as agricultural labourers and shepherds?
If we consider the way in which the Tatern most likely came
to be in the vicinity of the Ragnit Castle, then the thesis that
they were actual Tatars (in the broad sense of the word:
Tatar-Turkish) appears more plausible. The descent of a
group of people from one of the eastern steppe ethnic groups
into Prussia at the turn of fourteenth to the fifteenth century
could only have occurred in one of two ways. They were
either prisoners taken in Lithuania during one of the Teutonic
Order’s expeditions against the Lithuanians, or they were
prisoners directly abducted from the Eurasian steppe
region.472
The latter option must be considered, given the
participation of Teutonic Order contingents as auxiliaries in
Lithuanian Grand Duke Alexander Vytautas’ expeditions in
1398 and 1399 against Temür Qutlugh, Khan of the Golden
Horde.473 While the second expedition ended in military
defeat at the Battle of the Vorskla River on 12 August 1399,
making it unlikely that Tatar prisoners were taken during that
expedition,474 the 1398 expedition was successful and
resulted in the construction of St. John’s Castle (Johannisburg,
Sente Johannesburg) at the mouth of the Dnieper River by
the grand duke’s army.475 It is probable that a small
contingent of Tatar prisoners were brought back from this
expedition.
The first alternative – Tatar prisoners abducted from
Lithuania – would mean that the Tatern had been brought to
the Ragnit Castle in 1402, because that was the only year in
which the Teutonic Order was involved in military action in
Lithuania during the period between 1397 and 1402.476
However, one should not exclude earlier explanations of this
settlement related to the Teutonic Order’s expedition to
Lithuania in 1394.477 During the expedition in summer of
1402, which arrived in the area of Aukštaitija close to
Vilnius,478 the Teutonic Order’s troops could only have
captured Tatar people who had either been brought to
Lithuania during Grand Duke Alexander Vytautas’ Black Sea
expeditions in 1397 and 1398 or who had emigrated during
an earlier period.479 Regardless of when the Tatars actually
arrived, we are dealing with a population originating in the
Eurasian steppe region.
The literature connects the resettlement of the population
from the Black Sea area to Aukštaitija by the grand duke to
the question of the Karaites/Karaims – the Qipchaq Jewish
population.480 However, in the light of current research, it
does not seem likely that the term Tatern in the Prussian
sources would encompass those practising Rabbinic or
Karaite Judaism.
Regardless of exactly when and how a group of Tatars
appeared in the Ragnit Hackelwerk, it is beyond doubt that
they had established a presence there by the end of 1402.
The presence of a group of Tatars in the vicinity of the Ragnit
Castle was confirmed in Teutonic Order administrative
documents from 1408481 and 1411.482
At the same time, this Ragnitan group was not the only
Tatar population living in Prussia in the early fifteenth
century. Tatars were also present beginning in 1402 on some
farms in Lower (Niederland) and Upper Prussia (Oberland).
The Marienburger Tresslerbuch records concerned farms in
the following areas: Neuhof (Nowy Dwór Elbląski) in the
Kammeramt (administrative region) of Fischau, between
1403 and 1408;483 Biester/Beister (no longer in existence) in
the Kammeramt of Natangia, between 1402 and 1409;484
Schaaken (Nekrasovo) in the Vogtei (administrative unit) of
Samland (Sambia), between 1402 and 1408;485 in (Preußisch)
Eylau (Bagrationovsk) in the Kammeramt of (Preußisch)
Eylau, in 1409;486 and Memel (Klaipėda).487
The Marienburger Tresslerbuch records are not the only
administrative source of information about Tatars in Prussia.
There is also a note preserved from the turn of the fourteenth
to the fifteenth century regarding thirty-four captured Tatars,
whom bailiffs (in German Kämmerer - local tax officials) were
to distribute to courtyards in the Kammeramt of Waldau and
the Kammeramt of Kremitten, in the Commandery of
Königsberg.488 Based on geographic information, it seems
likely that these were Tatars captured by the forces of the
Commandery of Königsberg, indicating that contingents from
this area were involved in one of the aforementioned
Lithuanian military expeditions. Of all the expeditions against
Lithuania between 1397 and 1404, the great expedition in
the summer of 1402 seems most likely,489 along with a
smaller one in January 1403.490 During the first – as
mentioned – the troops of the Teutonic Order arrived at the
(New) Trakai, one of the grand duke’s residences,491 around
which 1397 and/or 1398 groups of captive Tatar warriors and
Karaite/Karaim merchants had been placed.492 The second
expedition arrived in the area of Hrodna (Grodno), where the
captured Tatars had lived too.493 There are notes found in the
1409 Marienburger Tresslerbuch addressing the same issue.
They concern the courtyard of the Kämmerer of Eylau, and
indicate quite clearly that at least some of the captured
Tatars were brought to Prussia, along with their wives and
children.494
Taking into account the records preserved in the letters
from 1408-1413, it is also possible that Tatar warriors were
captured and brought to Prussia during smaller military
actions carried out against Lithuanian military outposts in the
Prussian-Lithuanian-Samogitian transition zone by individual
Teutonic Order houses, given that these were manned by
Tatars.495 This also might have been the case at the Prussian-
Mazovian border.496

8.3 The geographical distribution of

the settlement sites
In analysing the presence of Tatars in Prussia, the breadth of
the geographical area they were spread across becomes
clear. The seven sites verified by the historical sources –
Neuhof, Biester, (Preußisch) Eylau, Kremitten (no longer in
existence), Waldau (Nizove), Schaaken, and Ragnit – spanned
about 120 km, in four commanderies: Elbing (Elbląg), Balga,
Königsberg (Kaliningrad), and Ragnit. Given that the
Marienburger Tresslerbuch records only included information
about places visited by great masters as they travelled the
country, the possibility that Tatar prisoners were placed at
additional sites after 1398 or 1402 cannot be excluded. Also
the previously discussed note from 1402 or 1403 includes
other sites assigned to specific groups of prisoners: Kaymen
(Zarechye), Schaaken, Rudau (Melnikovo), and Wargen
(Kotelnikovo) – all of which are the seats of Kämmerer in the
Vogtei of Samland.497 As has been mentioned, records in the
Marienburger Tresslerbuch attest to the presence of Tatars in
Schaaken in 1402 and 1408.498 The list includes a total of
forty additional people. It is impossible, however, in these
cases, to determine whether Tatars or prisoners of a different
ethnic origin are being discussed.

8.4 Numbers
Apart from the previously mentioned notes from 1402 or
1403 and 1411, there are no quantitative estimates
regarding Tatar settlement in Prussia. The note regarding the
thirty-four Tatars sent back to two Kämmerer courtyards499
suggests that these prisoners were settled in groups of a
dozen or so. As a result, it is reasonable to presume there
were about one hundred people coming from the Desht-i
Qipchaq cultural milieu at the eight verifiable sites. It is
difficult to determine whether the thirty-four people
mentioned encompass all of the prisoners, or perhaps only
the adults, or even only the men. If the latter were the case,
given that we know entire families500 were taken captive, the
Tatar population on Teutonic Order farms would have been
considerably higher than suggested. Adding the forty persons
mentioned in relation to four other Kämmerer courtyards in
Samland would, of course, make the number even larger. As
well, the number of Tatars in the vicinity of the Ragnit Castle
might well have been greater than a dozen, given that twelve
Tatars were recorded as injured in military actions around
1411.501 The total number of Tatars inhabiting the Prussian
Land at the sites verified in the historical sources from the
first decade of the fifteenth century ranged from fifty to 250
males and females. In the absence of further specific source
material or archaeological data, an educated guess is the
best that can be hoped for.

8.5 Forms of settlement and their

durability
Both the Tatars settled on farms and those placed in Ragnit
Hackelwerk were prisoners. Evidence for this is provided by
the previously mentioned chronicle of a Pomesanian judicial
vicar and by the presence of these people on the Order’s
working farms themselves. For people from Lithuania and
from Desht-i Qipchaq could not be found there as other than
prisoners. It is difficult to believe that small groups of people
of a foreign cultural background would voluntarily render
unpaid service or even work for hire for the Teutonic Order’s
corporation.502
Given that no accounting records for all of Prussia after
1409 have been preserved, it is impossible for historians to
trace Tatar settlement in Prussia beyond that point. One
random note attached to a letter written by the commander
of Ragnit on 15 June 1427 suggests the possibility of Tatars
being sent from Lithuania to Prussia, but it does not confirm
it.503 The available information indicates that Grand Duke
Alexander Vytautas sent a few Tatars to the grand master,
presumably as serfs. This note provides no information about
the degree of stability of Tatar settlement near the Ragnit
Castle from the beginning of the second decade to the end of
the third decade of the fifteenth century. It is impossible to
determine whether or not this is also the case for the
previously mentioned farms, with the possible exception of
Schaaken, for which source records exist.
Two ambiguous grant documents were issued in Schaaken
on 18 October and 13 December 1497 by grand commander
Wilhelm Graf von Isenburg. These letters verify the existence
of the ‘Tatter’s Farm’ (Tatters Hof), covering an area of seven
hides (Hufen) in the Kammeramt of Schaaken, which was
given to Niclas and Peter von Sassen, along with other
estates in the Kammeramt.504 Nearby were the estates of an
unknown Jacob Tatter, who was probably a relative of another
Jokub Thatar, a landowner in Samland in the Kammeramt of
Schaaken in 1436,505 and of Hans Tatter, a landowner in the
Kammeramt mentioned in the 1448 acts,506 who himself may
well have been related to a cathedral canon in Dorpat, Johann
Tatter (de Tataren, Tarteren, Tataren), mentioned in sources
from the 1420s and 1430s.507 Is this a case of descendants of
a Tatar family, who possibly settled with their fellows in
Schaaken or nearby in 1402 or 1403? In the case of the
family from Samland, it is not clear, whereas in the case of
the Dorpat canon, it is out of question, as preserved sources
from the end of the fourteenth century and the first half of
the fifteenth century confirm close relations of other
members of the Tatter family with Westphalia, the Rhineland,
and Lübeck.508 The proper name itself, bearing as it does the
features of an ethnonym, is nonetheless suggestive. If the
Tatters of Samland were actual descendants of the Tatars,
which cannot be excluded, this would suggest a process of
acculturation and assimilation. This is an issue that requires
further detailed prosopographic research, as well as
additional investigation of settlement records.
Sources from the first decade of fifteenth century
concerning the courtyard in Schaaken, and the work of one of
the Tatars there, indicate that, at least in some cases, it was
possible for prisoners with families to see their captivity
transformed over time into ongoing service to the Teutonic
Order as servants (Knechte).509 The routine of their lifestyle
encouraged adaptation to local conditions and acculturation,
reducing the likelihood that they would attempt to escape
from the Prussian Land. This acculturation may well have
proceeded quite rapidly. It can also be assumed that the
change in the living situation of Tatar prisoners was also
encouraged by religious realities, as Christianization was
undoubtedly an important factor in their integration into the
Prussian cultural community.
The continuing presence and actual acculturation of the
Tatar population in Prussia in the first half of the fifteenth
century is confirmed by the record of resolutions presented at
the convention of Prussian towns (Tagfahrt) in Elbing on 15
January 1441. One of the questions discussed at the
convention was the issue of admitting people who were not of
noble origin (uneddele lewthe), including Tatars and
Samogitians, into the newly founded Prussian Confederation
(Preußischer Bund). The record provides evidence that in
some instances this had, in fact, already occurred before
convention took place. The decision taken at the convention
changed that practice and expelled some members from the
Prussian Confederation.510 The admission of Tatars to the
Prussian Confederation clearly indicates that at least some of
them had been Christianized, because only Christians were
admitted for the Confederation, and an oath (undoubtedly
taken as a personal act before God and on the Holy Scripture)
constituted an essential element for the entire Confederation
(confederatio).511

8.6 The possible role played by Tatars

in the Prussian political and social
system
The above-mentioned sources do not provide the information
necessary to determine what role Tatar prisoners played in
Prussia. It should be assumed, however, that they were
initially an unpaid workforce on the Teutonic Order’s farms in
Neuhof, Biester, (Preußisch) Eylau, Schaaken, Memel,
Waldau, and Ragnit, where there were stud-farms or
stockyards, although the earliest sources confirm that some
of these only date from between the second and the fourth
decades of the fifteenth century.512 Therefore, one must
agree with Hartmut Boockmann, who points to the
importance of Tatar prisoners in horse breeding.513 Their skill
in breeding eastern horses, especially the Baltic sweiks
(Sweiken) so important for the Teutonic Order’s military,514 is
beyond debate.515 It is difficult to establish exactly what role
the Tatars in Waldau’s stockyard and in Kremitten played, as
there is no reliable information about the Teutonic Order’s
economic activity in these areas.516 It is possible that the
Ragnit Hackelwerk was a Tatar military settlement, given that
the settlements around commandery castles primarily
fulfilled military functions.517 Furthermore, being a
professional fighter does not in any way rule out horse
breeding. On the contrary, one activity could, in this case, go
hand in hand with the other.

8.7 The question of acculturation

The absence of any evidence of Tatar settlement in the areas
under consideration during the second half of the fifteenth
century (apart from the name of one of the courtyards in the
Kammeramt of Schaaken at the end of the fifteenth century)
might indicate a certain degree of successful acculturation.
Virtually all of the factors that determined the existence of
Tatar groups in Prussia would have favoured such a process:
their small number, their dispersion over a large geographical
area, separation from families and relatives, limited personal
freedom, the lack of opportunity to participate in their native
culture or practise their religion.518 Apart from that, in some
rare cases, living in small biological families separated from a
wider native community and left free to adopt a lifestyle
suitable to their new conditions could have meant that people
quickly adapted to the existent cultural patterns in their new
place of residence.519 The acculturation of Tatars in late
medieval Prussia was most likely a rapid and thorough
process. This thesis is reinforced by the lack of any residual
traces of Tatar culture in the local oral traditions or folk
culture of the areas in which they settled in the former
Prussia in the early fifteenth century.

8.8 Conclusion
To summarize, the following points are particularly important:
1. Tatar Muslims were not only present in Prussia for
short periods of time as warriors supporting the
armies of the Polish kings and the Lithuanian grand
dukes during expeditions in the fourteenth, fifteenth,
and early sixteenth centuries. There was also a Tatar
presence unrelated to war and confrontation.
2. Administrative and narrative sources from the
Teutonic Order confirm the presence of Tatars from
the steppes of the Black Sea and the Volga River
(Desht-i Qipchaq) in Prussia at the beginning of the
fifteenth century. The records undoubtedly concern
Tatars, and not Romani or Sinti, as was suggested in
earlier research.
3. Tatars were prisoners of war captured either in the
steppes of the Black Sea by the Teutonic Order’s
contingent supporting Grand Duke Alexander
Vytautas’ army in 1398 or in Aukštaitija (possibly in
the area of Trakai) during a Teutonic Order expedition
to Lithuania (most likely in 1403).
4. It is possible that Tatars were taken as prisoners of
war during other military actions carried out by the
Teutonic Order’s army in Lithuania and Samogitia at
the turn of the fourteenth to the fifteenth century.
5. Tatars taken prisoner of war between 1398 and 1403
were, for the most part, settled on the Teutonic
 Order’s farms and stud-farms in Memel, Ragnit,
Neuhof, Biester, Schaaken, (Preußisch) Eylau, as well
as in the Kammeramt of Waldau and the Kammeramt
of Kremitten. It is also possible that some Tatar
groups were settled in Kaymen, Rudau, and Wargen.
6. In the case of Ragnit, Tatar settlement might have
been determined by military factors, while at other
sites prisoners of war were exploited as workers on
farms and stud-farms.
7. The number of individual Tatar groups inhabiting the
Prussian Land at the beginning of the fifteenth
century cannot be established with certainty: It would
have encompassed fifty to 250 males and females.
8. It is possible that both individual warriors and entire
Tatar families were deported to Prussia.
9. The sources generally only confirm the presence of a
Tatar population in the Prussian Land during the first
decade of the fifteenth century. It is only in the case
of Ragnit that the sources also address the second
decade of the fifteenth century. There are also
general source records that confirm the presence of
Tatars at the beginning of the fifth decade of the
fifteenth century (1441). There are, however, no
sources that confirm their presence in subsequent
decades.
10. The 1441 record demonstrates the extensive
acculturation of Tatars and their integration into the
Christian community in the Prussian Land. This is
further confirmed by other sources from both the fifth
and the tenth decades of the fifteenth century.
11. The main factor in the acculturation of the Tatars
from Desht-i Qipchaq was their limited numbers and
their dispersion over a large geographical area. Given
that there are no later residual traces of Tatar
settlements in Prussia, fifteenth-century acculturation
must have amounted to complete assimilation.
 12. The relatively small number of Tatars inhabiting the
Prussian Land at the beginning of the fifteenth
century constituted a new factor in the multi-ethnic
nature of settlement in Prussia – a country which, at
that time, had all the features of a borderland area. It
appears that the multi-ethnic nature of Prussia in the
Late Middle Ages was much more complex than has
been reflected in the literature addressing the issue
up until this point.
13. It is important to stress that given their rapid social,
religious, and linguistic acculturation, the Tatars from
Desht-i Qipchaq cannot be regarded as a factor
contributing to the alleged multi-cultural nature of the
Prussian Land. Although Prussia in the Late Middle
Ages remained a multi-ethnic country, the period
from the thirteenth century to the early sixteenth
century initially evinced the features of a bi-cultural
(Latin Christian and Baltic pagan) socio-political
structure, slowly evolving over time in the direction of
cultural unification.

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Veronika Klimova

9 Karaite Settlement in Medieval

Lithuania
Karaites settled in medieval Lithuania – particularly in Trakai
(Troki), where they established a community and began a
chronicle of Karaites in the Baltic Region of Eastern Europe.
The history of Karaites has already been analysed by many
Jewish, Polish, Lithuanian, Russian, American, and other
scholars who focused on finding historical truth by
establishing some facts.520 This article examines how the
history of this settlement has been passed down through
written documents and oral tradition. It serves as an
important reminder of the process of Karaite identity
formation and draws attention to the Hebrew heritage. It
addresses records from the fifteenth to the early twentieth
centuries and delineates the way in which interpretations of
this history have shifted over time, both among the Karaites
themselves and in the work of historians who have worked
with this subject. As there are some discrepancies in both the
source materials and the publications – the result of
inaccurate dates, locations, events, and perspectives – I have
examined both Karaite and Jewish works, including those of
independent researchers. A short Hebrew text regarding the
settlement of Karaites in Lithuania from Mordecai Sultansky’s
Zecher Tzadiqim (‫ )םיקידצ רכז‬deserves particular attention.521
He was the first to attempt a general history of Karaites from
their origin until his own time. I have also analysed the
Karaite deeds published by Jacob Mann522 – found in the
Firkowicz collection – which are in fact the only medieval
sources that provide a window into the daily life of the
Karaite community in Lithuania. Finally, this article also
considers relations between two religious groups, Karaites
and Rabbanites.
The earliest known Karaite sources date back to the late
fifteenth century. Although they describe the medieval life of
Karaites in Trakai,523 they are not related to the arrival of
Karaites in Lithuania. Correspondence prior to the expulsion
in 1495 confirms that the Trakai Karaite community remained
in contact with the Karaite centre in Constantinople. This
popular form of exchange and consultation about religious
questions is primarily associated with the leading Karaite
figure Elijah Bashyatzi.524 He was the ideological force for
Karaite rapprochement with Rabbanism525 and the most
important codifier of Karaite Law. His book ’Aderet ’Eliyahu,
meaning the “Mantle of Elijah”, which in fact was finished by
his son-in-law Caleb Afendopolo, is the most important
Karaite halachic work.526 Bashyatzi provided his expert
advice regarding adopting certain rabbinic innovations. One
of these letters concerns permitting Sabbath candles, which
were already being used in Adrianople and Constantinople in
the fifteenth century. This issue caused divisions among
Karaites, as not all believers were ready to accept the
change, particularly because it was a Rabbanite innovation.
In a 1485 letter to Trakai, Bashyatzi expressed his support for
the new custom, but Joseph ben Mordecai firmly opposed the
Rabbanite adaptation of heating the stoves on cold winter
Sabbaths. Nonetheless, it was only a matter of time before
this practice was adopted, the freezing Lithuanian winters
proving persuasive.527
In 1483, the Trakai elders wrote to the Constantinople
centre for spiritual guidance. They presented a self-
deprecating picture of the spiritual state of affairs among the
sectaries in Lithuania:528
 [In the land of Ruthenia (…) scattered and dispersed
over the mountains without a shepherd looking after
the flocks, refraining from understanding God’s
Torah, but pursuing imaginary successes (viz. those
of mundane life) and regarding them as essential.]

The writers express their worries and feelings while calling

people evil and sinners, even children of whoredom (
– Hosea 1. 2). The early leadership had died, and the Karaite
community in Trakai lacked decent successors who were able
to take responsibility for providing the necessary services:

529, 530

[(People) are arrogant toward the Torah, and they

are like the nations of the earth families. They act
high-handedly. Everyone does whatever seems right
in his own eyes, and lays a snare for he who
reproves inside the gate.]

It was probably the custom to begin letters in such a way, as

later, to the contrary, the elders boast about their situation:

531, 532
 [The truth is that our lord the king and his officers
smite through the loins of his adversaries and
enemies, that they rise not again, and have not
imposed upon us heavy taxes or other exactions,
and nobody prevents us and keeps us from
practising our religion. We have a Bet-Din with a
Dayyan and Shofet to enforce the laws and
judgments of Israel.]

In this letter the Trakai elders asked for a scholar from

Constantinople to come to teach them “Torah and wisdom [
]”. They also wrote that they had heard about the
Code of Law by Tobias ben Moses (from the eleventh century)
and requested a copy. The letter indicates a full awareness of
a truly poor spiritual condition. It alludes to some of the
educational problems among the Karaite population, and it
evidences a deep desire on the part of the Trakai elders to
create a better future for the Karaites and to preserve their
religion.533
In 1484, Elijah Bashyatzi wrote a reply, which was co-signed
by other Karaite scholars. He expressed both his respect for
the Trakai elders for their attention to Karaite spiritual life
and his admiration for their intellectual eagerness to achieve
a higher level of knowledge, skill, and competence, so as to
counter arrogance in the face of Torah Law and to unite
“wisdom [science] with religion”. He says that the goal is to
establish the religion of God for the entire world and its
creatures to see. He stresses the perfection of the Torah:

[If there is no first perfection, then there is no final

perfection. There is only one way and one approach.
 There is no other way to salvation, and that’s why
you make that your goal.]

Unfortunately, there was no Constantinople Karaite scholar

able to leave his family and go to Trakai, so Bashyatzi
suggested that some young people from Trakai visit
Constantinople to study “the words of Torah and the words of
wisdom [ ]”, and on their return share their
knowledge and experience with their countrymen and “teach
the Torah of Israel [ ]”. He promised to
provide a quality education, as well as accommodation and
other necessities. Although the plague was widespread in
Constantinople at the time, Bashyatzi assured the Trakai
elders that he would protect the students, taking refuge with
them in one of the villages. As for the sectaries who were
reluctant to keep religious customs, Bashyatzi recommended
issuing a warning. If that did not help, then they should be
judged “by our Torah [ ]”. As a last resort, they were
to be excommunicated from the community, with their
property placed under ḥerem. Bashyatzi had to postpone
sending Tobias’ Sefer Mitzvot (‫ )תווצמ רפס‬and the
commentary on the whole Bible ( ),
which there had been no mention of in previous
correspondence, as the sofer needed to make a copy had yet
to be located, and Bashyatzi did not want to wait any longer
to send his reply.534
The origin of the first Lithuanian Karaite settlements can be
traced using a later written tradition. A 1668 letter of
complaint from the Lithuanian Karaites to the Rabbanites in
Brest-Litovsk, found in the Firkowicz collection, reads: “for
four hundred years, and even longer, our ancestors strived to
expand their borders in Troki [
]”. 535 This
would suggest that the Karaites first settled in Lithuania in
the thirteenth century. On the contrary, according to another
document, an historical memorandum discovered by
Firkowicz in an old manuscript, Karaites from Solkhat arrived
in Trakai in 1399:536

[In the second year after the arrival of our ancestors

here in Troki from the land of Media537 from
Solkhat538 our rabbi Samuel, who had a position (in
the community), a friend of our rabbi Simcha Murza,
one of the community leaders, may his Rock keep
him and grant him life, begot our beloved rabbi
Moses, in 1400. Moses became famous, so he was
appointed as the minister, the captain in the court
of our Lord, King Casimir Jagiellon, may his glory be
exalted, in the year 1456. He (Moses) raised the
glory of Israel, because he asked the King and he
(the king) confirmed the charter of privileges,539
which was given to our forefathers by the
aforementioned merciful Duke Witold 540.]

In the book, Zecher Tzadiqim, by the nineteenth-century

Karaite writer and ḥacham Mordecai Sultansky,541 the
introduction to the history of the Trakai Karaites reads:542
[(40) And it happened in 4978, in 1218 of the
Christian era, the Grand Duke of the Duchy of
Lithuania, called Witold Jagiełło, the son of Queen
Bona, went to war against the Crimean Tatars in the
Crimean Empire of the Khan. He defeated them,
invaded Crimea and took much booty and a great
number of prisoners among the Tatars. When
leaving Crimea, he took and carried away the
(people) among the Karaites from Solkhat, called
Old Crimea – 483 Karaite homeowners; families543
in their language – and brought them to Lithuania.
He settled 330 of them in the town of Troki, situated
4 parasangas544 from the city of Wilno,545 provided
them with land and gave them charters of great
privileges. The remaining 153 families he settled in
the town (called) Poniewież,546 while protecting and
giving them the same great privileges (…) as were
bestowed upon the people of Troki (…)

(41) In the year 5006 from the creation of the world,

which corresponds to 1246 by Christian reckoning,
the same Duke Witold, who has been mentioned,
united and joined the Duchy of Lithuania with the
Kingdom of Poland, which is called Korona Polska547
in their Polish language. He came to the throne of
the kingdom of Poland under the condition that he
and his nation would accept the Christian religion
(previously they were fire worshipers). In this case,
the Polish people took him to be king over them,
they transformed and changed his name, and they
called him Władysław Jagiełło. In the
aforementioned year, this king went to war for the
second time against the Tatar army, which came
from Crimea and attacked the Polish land,
destroying everything, as is their habit. After
defeating them in the country of Moltwania,548 next
to the Black Lakes, called Czarne Błota549 in Polish,
with 84,000 of them falling on the first day, which
was the fifteenth day of the month called
wrzesień550 (сенmябрь551 in Russian), they
attacked again and captured a huge bounty. On his
way home, the king also took 380 Karaite families
from Solkhat with him (and settled 180 of them) in
 the land of Galicia, in the town of Halicz,552 near the
Nester River,553 which was called Turla in the Qedar
(i.e., Turkic) language.554 The rest of them – 200
families – were settled in the land of Wołyń,555 in a
town called Krasna Góra (Beautiful Mountain) on the
hillside across the Styr River from the Łuck556
fortress. He gave them about one and a half miles of
fields and land ringing the town (in like manner he
gave it to the same Karaites who were settled in the
town of Halicz), and he gave them rights and
freedoms in all commercial matters and duty-free
use of the roads. He arranged and approved
everything in an authoritative and eternal charter of
privileges, which he himself called żelazne listy557 (I
want to say that the privileges were just as strong
as iron), and, in order to avoid any damage to them,
he ordered them to protect and preserve these
privileges in the stores, called archivum in their
language, which were in the land of Lodomeria, in a
big town called Lwów558 in the Polish language and
Lemberg in the Ashkenazi language (i.e. Yiddish) at
number 15. Some versions were left among the
Karaites, who copied it in the year 1267 by the
Christian reckoning, on the eighth of grudzień 559
(∂екaбрь560).]

The Zecher Tzadiqim was published by Samuel Poznański and

included his commentaries on historical truth. Poznański
stressed the fact that the above story had earlier been told to
Rabbi Moshe Tenenboim ( ) by the Karaite ḥacham
from Halych, Josef Leonovich ( ). Leonovich copied
it verbatim from a letter sent by his father Abraham
Leonovich ( ), who himself had copied it in the
Lviv archives. This version was later published in Hanesher (
 ) 15 on 2 Nisan 5624 (1863) and in Sinani Isaac’s Istoriya
vozniknoveniya i razvitiya karaimizma (
u). Nonetheless, it does not conform to
historical reality: The Grand Duke Vytautas was the ruler in
1392–1430, and Queen Bona’s son was Sigismund II
Augustus, King of Poland and Grand Duke of Lithuania, the
last of the Jagiellonians, who lived in 1520–1572. Queen
Bona’s son is not mentioned in Hanesher,561 and, reasonably
enough, Sinani changed the year from 1218 to 1418.562
In 1912, Józef Smoliński wrote a response to Poznański’s
commentaries –“Jeszcze w sprawie Karaimów (Odpowiedź p.
Poznańskiemu) [More on the Karaite Question (A Reply to Mr.
Poznanski)]”. In it, he stressed that the Karaites had arrived
in Lithuania in the fourteenth century:563

Znany przywilej Witolda W-go Ks, Lit., ustanawiający

stosumek źydów do chrześcijan, wyd., w Łucku w
1388 roku, a ośmiu dniami wcześniej zastosowany
tamźe do utworzone go dekanatu karaimóv w
Trikach, rozszerzający i objaśniający dawniejsze
nadania, o których wspomina, nie mozie odnosić się
do żydów rabinistów, gdyż jak przyznaje p.
Poznański, w pierwszych przywilejach nie
odrózniano karaimów od rabinistów; w tym wypadku
jednak nie mozina twierdzić, aby nazwano ich, jak
pisze p. P., ‘wszystikich pospolem’ judei trocenses,
gdyż jak to najwyraźniej widzimy z późniejszych
nadań i chiciażby z przytoczonego w art, moim
przywileju Władisława IV, wyd, karaimom w
Warszawie w 1646 r., żydzi rabiniści nie tylko nie
mieli w Trokach żadnych zgola przywilejów
osadniczych, ale nawet nie mieli prawa tam
zamieszkiwać, Król Władysław IV potwierdza to
tylko, powołując się na dawne nadania: jak czytamy
‘zydzi rabinowie czasy niedawnemi w mieście
naszem trockiem mieszkania sobie wynająwszy, w
onych rezydując – wolności żydom karaimkim od ś.
p. prozodków Naszych y Nas samych nadanych nullo
iure zażywają ...’ Nie będzie wiec „błędnem”
twierdzenie, że przywileje dawane „żydom trockim”
stosują się do karaimóv, i żydzi rabiniści nie mogą
ich sobie przypisywać, gdiż pod żadnym względem
nie byli uprzywilejowanymi mieszkańcami Trok.

[The privilege promulgated by Vytautas, the Grand

Duke of Lithuania is recognized, and, it established
the relationship of Jews to Christians, given in Lutsk
in 1388, although eight days earlier, it had been
used to set up the Karaite deanery in Trakai,
expanding and clarifying older grant rights, which,
as he mentions, cannot refer to Rabbanite Jews,
because, as Mr. Poznański admits, no distinction
between Karaites and Rabbanite Jews existed in the
original privileges: In this case, however, it cannot
be said that they were called, as Mr. P. writes, “all
together” judei trocenses, because as we can see
clearly from rights later granted, even if only the
privilege of Władysław IV given to the Karaites in
Warsaw in 1646, which is cited in my article,
Rabbanite Jews not only did not have settlement
privileges in Trakai, they did not even have the right
to reside there. In confirming this, King Władysław
IV simply relied on past grant rights. As we can
read: “Recently in our town of Trakai, the Rabbanite
Jews who were renting housing or residing there
made use of the freedoms of our late ancestors
among the Karaite Jews, which were given to us as
nullo iure …” That’s why it is not so “wrong” to say
that these privileges were granted to “Trakai Jews”,
to the Karaites, in fact, and Rabbanite Jews could
not claim them, because they were in no way
 privileged inhabitants of Trakai.]

In 1927, Majer Bałaban published the Polish translation of

Mordecai Sultansky’s aforementioned history of Karaite
settlement in Trakai in Studja Historyczne.564 He points out
that three charters of privilege were granted to the Trakai
Jews –in 1441 by Casimir IV Jagiellon, in 1492 by Alexander,
and in 1507 by Sigismund I. Although the Karaites are not
specifically mentioned as the recipients of the charters, it is
to them that they were granted.565 Grand Duke Casimir
Jagiellon resisted the Catholic opposition to the Jews under
his rule, allowing them to have their own law courts and to
trade in agricultural and dairy products. In 1441, he passed
the Magdeburg Law,566 which granted the Karaite community
of Trakai equal status with the Gentile municipalities of
Trakai. The Trakai Jews (Karaites) were no longer under any
jurisdiction except that of a shofet (in later Polish documents,
wójt 567 [mayor]) who was responsible for resolving any
litigation among them.568 The shofet was elected for a two-
or three-year term by the representatives of an irregular
assembly, but the election had to be confirmed by the
governor (in Polish, wojewoda), who received a fee or
‘present’ for his confirmation. The shofet was responsible to
the Grand Duke of Lithuania for his actions. A peasant kmieć,
or nobleman, caught red handed committing a crime in the
Jewish territory could only be subjected to the Jewish court
system with the knowledge and agreement of wojewoda. The
Trakai Jews were obliged to pay an annual rent, but were free
of all impositions. To meet the needs of the Polish-Lithuanian
Commonwealth, under the Magdeburg Law, they, like other
cities, were obliged to make extraordinary contributions.
They received half of the revenue of a weighing house and of
a woskobojnia (a wax producer). When visiting Trakai in
December 1492, Grand Duke Alexander exempted the Trakai
Jews (Karaites) from all tolls – toll roads, toll bridges, and
royal, private, clerical, and lay tolls – allowing them to travel
freely and transport goods throughout the Grand Duchy of
Lithuania, as was already the case for the townspeople of
Vilnius and Trakai.569
According to Bałaban, the privileges gained by the Karaite
community allowed them to create not just a qahal, but an
entirely separate town. This resulted in Trakai being divided
into two parts with a so-called border being the ‘Swan Bridge’
(lebiednyj most) alongside a small river. In 1485, there was a
conflict between Catholic and Orthodox burgesses and the
Karaites about the srebszczyzna570 tax. In response, Casimir
Jagiellon asserted that the town had already long been
divided into two parts, and that this division had changed
nothing about the taxes and tributes to be paid. He promised
to find a solution to the problem when he next visited, but
that visit never occurred. In 1517, the Karaites once again
appealed to Sigismund I about the same issue. On 24 April
1517, the king commanded the Trakai wojewoda to call for
the town wójt Mikołaj, so that he could be instructed to
maintain a strict divide between the Christian and Jewish
(Karaite) sections of Trakai. The Karaites were represented by
their wójt, Mordecai.571
In 1936, Abraham Szyszman, writing in the Karaite journal
Myśl Karaimska (Karaite Thought), dated the first Karaite
settlement in Trakai to the late fourteenth century. In 1397,
Algirdas, the Grand Duke Vytautas’ commander, defeated
three Tatar rulers who united against him. The first was the
ruler of the Crimean region (main town, Solkhat), the second,
the ruler of the Kyrk Jer region (main town, Kyrk Jer, viz.
Chufut-Kale), and the third, the ruler of the Mangup region
(main town, Mangup Kale). Algirdas invaded the Crimean
Peninsula, getting as far as Solkhat, the main Tatar centre in
Crimea. In late 1397, having regained control of Tokhtamysh
(in Tatar, Tuqtamış), Grand Duke Vytautas removed many
Tatars, as well as 383 Karaite families, from the Solkhat area.
According to Szyszman, Grand Duke Vytautas turned over
some of his Tatar captives to King Jogaila, who forcibly
baptized half of them. The other captives were settled on the
territory of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and were not
obliged to change their religion. The Karaite territory ran from
Swan Bridge to the Tatar Wall, with the Lithuanian tribal
population being resettled elsewhere. As Szyszman has
noted, the strategic location of the Karaite settlement in
Trakai and later privileges indicate that Karaites were
accepted to the knighthood of the Grand Duchy as a
significant social group with land rights. He further noted that
it was only in 1579 that the Karaites were exempted from the
obligation to watch the castle and cultivate land in Old
Trakai.572
It is worth noting that Szyszman describes the Charter of
Vytautas as the first charter of privileges. It is “probably lost
forever, but the next charter was preserved. It confirmed that
the Karaites were given residence in the territory of the
former capital Trakai, they were not restricted to the religious
beliefs, and they were fully trusted in the Grand Duchy”.573
In 1935, in his book Texts and Studies in Jewish History and
Literature, Jacob Mann addresses the expulsion of Karaites in
the late fifteenth century. Grand Duke of Lithuania Alexander,
Casimir’s fourth son, reconfirmed and expanded the Karaite
charter of Trakai in December 1492, but then in 1495, he
expelled all Lithuanian Jews, including the Karaites of Trakai
and Volhynia, with everything confiscated being given to the
throne, the church, or the Jews’ neighbours.574 It was only
following the death of John Albert 575 that the Lithuanian Jews
were permitted to return to Lithuania. Like his father,
Alexander became king of Lithuania and Poland. In 1503,
Alexander annulled his own expulsion decree. There is no
evidence that Jews returned as a result, but this probably
stabilized the situation, and in 1507, Sigismund I reconfirmed
the Karaite charter of Trakai, extending some rights in the
process.576
In conclusion, the medieval settlement of Karaites in Trakai
before the expulsion could be characterized by the
maintenance of stability. In the extant documents we do not
find any complaints about heavy fiscal burdens. Meanwhile,
the first sources draw attention to the issue of the Hebrew
legacy and great piety of Karaites. The fact that they were
written in Hebrew only raises the status of this language
within the Karaite community. It proves that Hebrew was not
only cultivated for religious reasons in solemn and dignified
worship, but that it was the language of daily
correspondence. Therefore, the elders were required to be
fluent in Hebrew in order to keep contacts with the Karaite
co-believers of Constantinople. The Karaite piety reflected in
the letters to and from Elijah Bashyatzi refers to Karaite
consultation towards some Rabbanite adaptations.
The following centuries brought some changes in Karaite
life, and subsequently had a great impact on the attitude of
authorities towards Karaites, as well as on relations between
Rabbanites and Karaites. The strained relations could be
indirectly echoed in the history of the first Karaite settlement
in Lithuania passed down orally from generation to
generation, as even until the twentieth century Karaites
boasted having received Vytautas’ charter of privilege in
1388, which in fact has been discredited in recent times.
However, this history has become so ingrained in past
thinking of all Karaites honouring the famous dukes that it
overshadows the true facts of the arrival of Karaites who
have become almost forever linked with something they
never did. As there was no way of verifying its accuracy,
details and meanings changed over time, consequently
prevented prejudice and hatred from spreading, protected
against religious intolerance and persecution, and helped
them to avoid paying certain discriminatory taxes and tolls –
in contrast to these difficulties experienced specifically by
Rabbanite Jews. The more privileges Karaites obtained from
local authorities, the wider the gap that formed in relations
between these two groups, and consequently they drifted
apart. The history proves that it was an individual and
general duty of self-preservation to defend not only the
property they possessed, but even their own lives. Karaites
identified with this version of history so strongly that not only
did they convince the monarchs, but they personally believed
it to be the unquestionable truth for many centuries. As a
final point, it is fair to say that the authors discussed here did
not consider all of the available documents on the origin of
the Karaites in Grand Duchy of Lithuania in the fifteenth
century, and as a result, their opinions should be viewed with
scepticism.

Bibliography
Bałaban, Majer. Studja historyczne. Warszawa: Księg. i
Wydaw. M. J. Freid i S-ka, 1927.

Bershadsky 1883 =

u
. 1388–1569 ƨ. Санкт-Петербург: Тип. М. М.
Стасюлевича, 1883.

Gąsiorowski, Stefan. Karaimi w Koronie i na Litwie w XV–XVIII

wieku. Kraków: Austeria, 2008.

Kizilov, Mikhail. “The Arrival of the Karaites (Karaims) to

Poland and Lithuania: A Survey of Sources and Critical
Analysis of Existing Theories.” Archivum Eurasie Medii
Aevi 12 (2003–2004): 29–45.
Mann, Jakob. Texts and Studies in Jewish History and
Literature. Vol. 2. Karaitica. Philadelphia: Hebrew Press
of the Jewish Publication Society of America, 1935.

Schur, Nathan. The Karaite Encyclopedia. Frankfurt am Main:

Peter Lang, 1995.

Sinani 1890 =
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. №
26, 1890.

Smoliński, Józef. “Jeszcze w sprawie Karaimów (Odpowiedź p.

Poznańskiemu).” Ziemia 22 (1912): 353.

Sultansky, Mordecai. Sefer Zecher Tzadiqim ( ).

Warszawa: Ha-Tzfirah, 1920.

Szyszman, Abraham. “Osadnictwo karaimskie i tatarskie na

ziemiach Wielkiego Księstwa Litewskiego.” Myśl
Karaimska 10 (1933–1934): 29–36.

Szyszman, Abraham. “Osadnictwo karaimskie w Trokach za

wielkich książąt litewskich.” Myśl Karaimska 11 (1935–
1936): 40–68.

Witkowski, Rafał. “Some Remarks on the History of the

Karaites in Grand Duchy of Lithuania in the 15th
Century.” Karaite Archives 1 (2013): 211–241.
III. Images and
Stereotypes: Scandinavia
Yvonne Friedman

10 Christian Hatred of the Other:

Theological Rhetoric vs. Political
Reality
Any depiction of medieval antisemitism confronts the
question of where to draw the line between verbal theological
polemic and incitement to physical violence against the
adversary. Irrational hatred could and did lead to the violence
that fostered the portrayal of Western Christianity as a
‘persecuting society’. 577 This also raises the question of the
extent to which theological animosity was linked to real
Others – contemporary Jews and Muslims. It can be difficult to
precisely identify the distinction between theological
adversary and religious-political enemy when examining the
Crusades, Christian society’s military or violent action against
unbelievers within and without Western Europe.578
This paper considers this distinction and the metaphorical
portrayal of the enemy in three contexts. It first undertakes a
comparative consideration of Peter the Venerable’s anti-
Jewish and anti-Muslim thought, viewing him as a touchstone
of medieval Christian thought and rhetoric regarding the
Other. Then, using medieval Scandinavia and the Baltic as a
test case, it considers the question of whether anti-Jewish and
anti-Muslim rhetoric and violence required the presence of
the Other. It concludes with a comparison of the attitude
toward the Other in the Latin East, where the adversary was
an actual presence, and in Europe, where the adversary often
assumed virtual form.
10.1 Peter the Venerable on Jews and
Muslims
Peter’s virulent anti-Jewish attitude is well represented in his
polemical treatise, Against the Inveterate Obduracy of the
Jews. The publication of the critical edition of Peter’s
Adversus Judaeos in 1985 seems to have sparked renewed
scholarly interest in this figure.579 Various scholars have
portrayed Peter as a landmark figure in Christian anti-Jewish
polemic. Thus, Gavin Langmuir views Peter as defining
antisemitism,580 and Anna Abulafia,581 Denise Bouthillier and
Jean-Pierre Torrell 582 underscore his demonization of his
adversary. More recently Jeremy Cohen583 and Dominique
Iogna-Prat 584 put forth the view that Peter the Venerable
exemplified Christendom’s association of its anti-Jewish
polemic with its anti-Muslim struggle. Peter, the grand abbot
of Cluny (1122–1156), was rightly lauded by his secretary and
biographer as a champion fighting for the Christian faith
“with the swords of Divine words […] in order to humble the
Satanic pride and arrogance which rise up against the
greatness of God”.585 His polemical works include the treatise
against the Petrobrusian heresy, his book against the Jews,
and his anti-Islamic Contra sectam Saracenorum, based on a
compilation he commissioned of Summa totius haeresis
Saracenorum – a summary of anti-Islamic texts. His works
demonstrate that he was indeed a fighter for the faith, a
leader of the medieval Christian polemic against ‘the religions
of the book’.
Peter’s anti-Jewish polemic starts out in a conventional
mould based on centuries of adversus judaeos literature, but
then takes an innovative approach. If the first chapters of his
book revolve around the correct interpretation of scriptural
verses, chapter five sees Peter launching a new type of
attack; a full-fledged assault on the Talmud, a century before
the fateful disputation of Paris that led to its burning in
1244.586
In the first four chapters of his work, Peter draws upon
scriptural authority and uses rational refutation in an intense
effort to convince himself and his virtual adversary that the
Christian exegesis of the topical Christological biblical verses
provides their sole true meaning. His endeavour to prove that
Christ was the Son of God as foretold by the prophets, that
He was truly the deity, that His kingdom was eternal and
Heavenly, and that the Messiah had already come,
constituted well-trodden paths. The Christian exegesis of
these biblical prooftexts had been rehearsed for centuries,
dramatized in the Ordo prophetarum – the theatrical
performance of the prophets foretelling Jesus – and sculpted
in Romanesque churches, depicting the prophets with their
scrolls containing prophesies about Christ.587 The stubborn
Jews who refused to be persuaded by these verses were what
Jeremy Cohen has termed hermeneutical Jews.588 Except for
one instance, where Peter claims to know the contemporary
Jewish interpretation,589 this part of his polemic has very little
to do with the actual Other. The adversary is in fact a virtual
construct, not a real person. (See fig. 2.)
 Fig. 2: Douai, Bibliothèque Marceline Desbordes-Valmore, MS 381, fol. 131r,
initial U (originally Anchin XII); the illuminator is probably Siger (1156–1166).
Published by permission, copyright CNRS, IHRT.
Peter the Venerable instructing a Jew. Although Peter is seated, he looms taller
than the standing Jew whose dark countenance is in contrast to Peter’s bright
face. The posture of the Jew’s twisted body, as if defending himself with his right
hand, while raising a finger of his left hand, shows him as inferior, but not giving
way to the truth being preached to him. His disproportionately large head bestows
a sinister appearance on the Jew.

Peter’s argument in the long appendix to the fourth chapter

is grounded in the triumphal spread of Christianity and past
and contemporary miracles. The appendix also takes up the
question of the binding power of the Mosaic Law and its
commandments, which had been transformed in Christianity
from the outer shell, the cortex, the word that kills, to the
inner meaning, the medulla , the spirit that quickens. Here,
we find a more heated tone, as these were topics debated in
actual Christian-Jewish dialogue.590 In his fifth and final
chapter, Peter moves to post-biblical texts, as if Jewish
stubbornness was grounded in a secret alternative to the
New Testament, namely, the Talmud. For Peter, it was the
Talmud that prevented the Jews from seeing the light. All that
was necessary was to prove that Talmudic texts – mainly the
haggadic, legendary passages – were ridiculous,
blasphemous, and false. Unlike the earlier chapters, this part
of the dispute seems to be directed not at a virtual, historical
Jew, but rather at Peter’s contemporaries. It was based on the
assumption that the level of Jewish belief in the Talmud was
equivalent to a belief in a holy scripture, and that they
understood its stories literally, which shows scant knowledge
of contemporary Jewish thought. Peter then went further,
offering two new arguments. First he asks three times
whether the obstinate Jew who refuses to be convinced by his
polemic and convert to Christianity can be seen as a human
being or should rather be counted a beast.591 Second, he
intimates that if the irrational Jew believes in an alternative
tradition, then perhaps the Jews’ function as book bearers,
bringing testimony to the Christian truth, has outlived its
purpose, and it is no longer necessary to protect them. Both
the threefold dehumanization that frames Jews as beasts and
the implicit questioning of whether or not they deserve
protection were to have dire consequences for later
generations.592
Peter’s angry outburst against the Talmudic text – “I would
condemn it and its perpetrators to the flames” – was probably
not meant to be taken literally. 593 However, those
inflammatory words may have sown a fateful seed that
culminated in the burning of the Talmud and other books in
Paris a century later. It is in this chapter that Peter’s anti-
Judaism explodes into a harsh diatribe. Almost as if shouting,
Peter writes, “who would contain our hands from your blood if
not for the explicit verse ne occidas eos [kill them not]?”594
The Augustinian exegesis understands this verse as a
scriptural proscription against Christians killing Jews, who
have to be dispersed like Cain the fratricide and
humiliated.595 In use for ages, in Peter’s mouth the tone of
this argument straddles the border between polemic and
violence.
It is perhaps Peter’s diatribe against the inhuman Jew in the
context of the crucifixion that enabled Christians to cross the
line from hatred of Jews to violence. In chapter three of his
book, Peter abandons the intellectual tone and embarks on a
tirade against the inhuman Jew: “Were you not dogs, when
like dogs you thirsted for blood and so very rabidly almost
licked it up saying ‘His blood be upon us and upon our
children’?”596 This emotive, angry reaction to the story of the
Passion penetrated other countries and persisted for
centuries. Stemming from the literary figure of the Jew in the
New Testament, it was an emotional-religious hatred that
required no real contemporary Jews, but could easily spill
over into violence against real people.597 The threefold nescio
utrum homo sit – I do not know if the Jew is human, I doubt
that he who has a heart of stone could be called human,
leaves little ambiguity as to the answer.598
Curiously, when Peter wrote his anti-Islam treatise, he
offered the claim that Muslims ought to learn from the
tolerant attitude of Christian polemicists: They need only
follow the example of the Christians who argue with Jews.
Hearing the Jews blaspheme, the Christians do not go into a
fury, but listen patiently and make scholarly, wise replies.599
Just as Peter made efforts to learn about post-biblical Jewish
literature –although he misunderstood it – he went to great
lengths to learn about Islam. During his visit to Spain in 1142,
he commissioned a translation of the Qur’ān and a corpus of
Christian weapons against it: Robert of Ketton’s Fables of the
Saracens; the Liber generationis (the legends of the prophets’
lives); the Doctrina Muhammed (the story of four Jews asking
Muḥammad a hundred questions), and the Apologia or
Risālah of al-Kindī (a ninth-century dialogue between a
Christian and a Muslim).
His own book against Islam differs greatly in tone from the
Adversus Judaeos. The well-known prologue is inviting: “I do
address you, not as our men often do with arms, but with
words, not with violence but with reason, not with hate but
love”.600 Peter expands upon this motif: “I love you, loving
you I write you”. In this case as well the protagonist is virtual:
“I address verbally those whom I have never seen and
perhaps never shall”.601 The book is also meant for internal
consumption, to strengthen the faith of the Christians
threatened by Islam’s successes and to provide them with
arguments for a possible confrontation. The humane, loving
salutation is meant to open the door to dialogue in the name
of humanity and asks them to listen, even if they do not
agree.602 Nevertheless, during his refutation of Islam, Peter
utters harsh words against Muḥammad, declaring him a false
prophet. Peter identifies the essence of prophecy as
proclaiming through divine inspiration unknown things, be
they past, present, or future, and finds the Qur’ān to contain
no prophecy. There is also the lack of miracles like those
Peter used so proudly both in his book De Miraculis and
against the Jews. But ultimately, if he failed to convince the
adversary, his reaction was to demonize Muḥammad and his
sectaries as a sum total of heresies, both Christian and
Jewish. The explanation for Muslim success was the coming of
the Antichrist. Cluny was God’s citadel besieged by demons,
and polemical works were the defensive ammunition.
Peter’s greater tolerance for Islam as compared to his
inveterate hatred of Judaism was evident not only in his
theoretical, polemical works, but also in his concrete advice
on how to act. In a very famous letter written to Crusading
King Louis VII, Peter makes a clear distinction between the
two enemies of Christendom:

Why should we pursue the enemies of the Christian

faith in far and distant lands while vile blasphemers
far worse than any Saracens, namely the Jews, who
are not far from us, but who live in our midst,
blaspheme, abuse and trample on Christ and the
Christian Sacraments so freely and insolently with
impunity.603

Again straddling the thin line between incitement and

persecution, Peter reminds the king of the scriptural
command ne occidas eos,604 according to which the Jews are
not to be killed, suggesting instead that they be taxed to
finance the Crusade, alleviating the Church’s financial
burden: “Let their lives be saved and their money taken away
so that the blasphemous Jews’ money would help the
Christian to fight the Saracens”.605 The letter finds the
current anti-Muslim feelings to be theologically justified, and
uses the same criteria to direct hatred toward the Jews:
 If one ought to hate the Saracens, even though they
believe like us that Christ was born of a virgin and
agree with us on many other things, because they
still deny that he was God and son of God […] How
much more should one hate and execrate the Jews,
who understanding of Christ and the Christian faith,
reject, blaspheme and deride him.606

Clearly the Jews had a special place in Peter’s heart. His

stated rationale for having the Jews finance the Crusade
mixes their theological divergence with socioeconomic
factors: The Jews are social parasites who trade in stolen
goods.

The thief hands over the vessels of Christ’s body

and blood to those who killed him, who heaped
contumely and injury upon him when he was
amongst the living […] They do not cease from
wounding him with their blasphemous words as
much as they dare […] Verily Christ feels the Jewish
abuse of the vessels, themselves insensitive, sacred
to him […] I have often heard from veracious men
that those infamous ones use these celestial vessels
[…] in a way of which it would be horrible to think of
and detestable to speak of.607

The language of this accusation, which derives from rumours

about the profanation of holy vessels, resembles that used
some years later in the blood libel accusations of Jewish
desecration of the Host, as if again crucifying Jesus.608

10.2 The Northern countries: Hatred of

the virtual Other
Peter had to distinguish between the virtual Jew based on the
biblical and historical Jew, the so-called hermeneutical Jew,
and the actual Jews who lived in France in his day, whom he
targeted viciously in his letter to Louis VII. As there were no
Jews living in Scandinavia or late medieval England, the only
Jew that existed there was the theoretical, virtual Jew.609 In
such a situation, where both Jews and Muslims could only be
virtual enemies, we might perhaps expect a more tolerant
attitude, but this was not the case.
The burning of heretics and others perceived as
endangering Christianity was neither Peter’s invention nor a
unique idea. But the burning of the nine traitors in Visby in
1350 could not have happened without a solid background of
loathing and fear laid down for centuries by mainstream
Christian intellectuals, such as Peter the Venerable.
Underlying the burning at Visby was the belief in an
international plot against Christians and Christianity.610
Although there were no Jews in Gotland at the time, the
irrational fear of the Black Death gave birth to the libel of
Jews poisoning the water and plotting to destroy the entire
Christian population. With no actual Jews to persecute in
Sweden at that time, Christian enemies had to do and could
be scapegoated as the messengers of the Jews. In this case,
the culprit Dideric (Tidericus) was burned as an accomplice in
the plot of two mysterious Jews, Moses and Aron. Nine other
Christians were accused of spreading the Black Death by
poisoning the wells – two of them clerics.611 Thus, no actual
Jews were needed to breed antisemitism in the Swedish
Gotland: The medieval Christian heritage was sufficient.
Taking into account the strong German influence there, this
Northern antisemitism seems to have been part of the
imported Christian heritage.612 The agency of the medieval
Scandinavians lay in their use of the images to solve a
current social problem and to transfer hatred to another
adversary. It should be noted, for example, that, at the same
time, the Sámi, living in north and east Norway, were still
mostly polytheistic pagans; yet they were left alone until the
seventeenth century and not persecuted on religious
grounds.613 However, the old Danish texts that are blatantly
anti-Jewish are centred mostly on the devotional ritual of
identifying with the suffering Christ, a trend that has its roots
in emotional, mystical texts such as those by Pseudo-
Bonaventura and St. Birgitta.614 The detailed descriptions of
the tortures inflicted on Jesus by the Jews go much farther
than the polemical outburst noted above and were powerful
lessons in contempt. 615
David Nirenberg has even claimed that ‘Jewishness’ became
a feature attached not only to the Jews. He asks, “Why is it
that the fear of Judaizing reached a new peak in Western
Europe at precisely the moment when Jews had virtually
disappeared from it”?616 He shows that the accusation of
‘Judaizing’ gained new social and political power precisely
when the Jews disappeared, because once ‘Jewishness’ was
rendered invisible, it became more ominous and threatening.
In her books on a Flemish moneylender, Myriam Greilsammer
attests to the repercussions of this phenomenon of ‘virtual
Jewishness’ for non-Jews. In a society with no Jews, the
metaphors and diabolical characteristics could be transferred
to a Christian adversary.617 Anthony Bale demonstrated the
same phenomenon in England after the expulsion.
“Reinforced by religious polemic, ‘universal’ currency, and
ancient pedigree, anti-Semitic stories were implicitly ‘true’,
even as their distinctive power rested in their fantastical,
fleeting, and unofficial elements”.618
In Scandinavian literature, the virtual Jews were strongly
connected to the Passion stories. As was the case earlier in
Europe, the liturgy of Easter and Christmas were replete with
anti-Jewish insinuations. Mary’s Lamentations at the Cross –
the West Norse parallel to the planctus sive lamentaci Mariae
and the Stabat Mater – depicts an emotive scene. The refrain:
“Why did the most horrible Jews crucify you?” could not have
failed to raise emotions.619 The stations of agony and the
depicting of the sadistic, mocking Jews illustrated and
amplified the accusation that the Jews “heaped contumely
and injury upon him when he was amongst the living”.620
Richard Cole’s “The Fantasy of Violence against Jews in
Medieval Scandinavia” 621 demonstrates the hatred toward
virtual Jews, and the ease with which – as was the case at
Visby – the line between emotion and violence could be
crossed. However, where Peter and his legacy of anti-Jewish
outbursts may have indirectly influenced the newly
Christianized societies in the North, they did not seem to
inherit his preference for Muslims over Jews. In the case of
Muslims, or Saracens, their animosity found a different outlet.

10.3 The attitude toward the Other in

the Latin East and Europe
Peter’s attitude toward Islam did not alter the attitude of the
members of Crusader society who fought against the Muslims
in the Near East. For them, their main enemy was the Muslim,
not as a virtual concept, but as a military adversary who was
engaged on the battlefield. Muslims were described as
pagans in Crusader chronicles, even by later authors, who
knew very well that the Muslims were in fact not pagans.
Thus, when the Teutonic Knights moved from the Holy Land
to the Baltic in the late thirteenth century, they brought with
them the metaphor of themselves as Maccabees opposing
the pagans,622 with whom they equated the Muslims in the
Holy Land.623 Intriguingly, we find a different metaphorical
usage in the North: Although their enemies in the North were
actual pagans, the Teutonic chronicles refer to them as
Saracens. Thus in Scandinavia and in the Baltic, Muslims
were blamen – black or dark men – a reference to their
depiction with a diabolic, dark countenance in European
poetry and illustrations.624 (See fig. 3.) By importing this
concept of the Other, their pagan neighbours became
Saracens and it was therefore possible to transfer the anti-
Muslim Holy Land Crusader propaganda to the North.

Fig. 3: Luttrell Psalter, British Library, Add. MS 42130, fol. 82, margin. Copyright
The British Library Board.
A miniature of two caparisoned knights jousting; generally believed to be Richard
the Lionheart and Saladin. Note Saladin’s dark blue countenance, long crooked
nose, and the black face on his shield as his heraldic sign.

We must, however, recall that the focus of the early

Crusades and of the Crusaders’ mission was the Holy Land,
and even though interreligious war raged there throughout
the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, the demonic, pagan, and
threatening image of the Saracen did not take root in the
Holy Land. Although the chroniclers of the First Crusade
almost consistently identified Muslims as enemy pagans,
later descriptions called them Turks or Saracens
(differentiating between Seljuks in the North and Fatimids in
the South).625 Nor did the European anti-Jewish image
become prominent in the Latin East.
 Certainly, both Jews and Saracens were butchered in the
frenzy of the conquest of Jerusalem in July 1099.626 Although
the atrocities against the inhabitants of Jerusalem may be
seen as ‘common practice’ in the case of a lengthy siege and
the storming of a city,627 the extent of the carnage, as well as
the proud descriptions of the blood flowing in the streets,
seem to have provided an outlet for the anti-Muslim
propaganda of the First Crusade. But, as preserved in the
thirteenth-century assizes, Crusader law did not seem to
assign Jews or Muslims a different status from that of other
conquered populations, including the Oriental Christians.628
Literary sources from both sides show that whereas the
Muslims were perceived as a military enemy, in everyday life
both Jews and Muslims were viewed as human beings and not
as diabolical demons. 629 Thus the political-social reality
made it possible to build a coexistence that alternated
between war and peace, without transferring irrational
European hatred to that arena. In the North, the image of the
enemy as a Saracen took root, and the irrational hatred of
the Jews, even without any real Jews to hate, remained part
of the Christian heritage.
Peter’s highbrow treatises probably never reached the
Northern countries. On the other hand, his famous letter to
King Louis, with its practical repercussions, may have had a
wider sphere of influence. In any case, anti-Jewish feelings
became the norm in contemporary Christian culture. As for
Peter’s attitude toward Islam, it was exceptional in Europe,
where the more aggressive Crusader propaganda carried
greater weight. In the Latin East, where the Muslim was a
military enemy, the irrational, mythic hatred and loathing of
the religious adversary was less current. It might not have
made much difference to the victims killed in war, but there
were many instances of grudging respect between the
enemies and little demonization.630 Curiously, in Western
Europe, the Muslims were labelled pagans, and in the
Northern countries, the pagan enemy was labelled Saracen.
Surprisingly, the greatest hatred of the Other is manifested
during this period, when the Other is virtual and not actually
present.
I conclude on a personal note. In 1967, before antisemitism
in the North was influenced by Middle Eastern politics, my
brother was stranded in a cabin (hytte) in Jotunheimen,
during a snowstorm. Among the people with whom he shared
his room was another hiker, who upon hearing that my
brother came from Israel, stared at him and explained: “Jeg
har aldri sett en jøde før [I’ve never seen a Jew before]”. This
was not a symptom of hatred, but rather curiosity regarding
an alien, unknown Other; apparently he expected him to have
a distinctive look based on stories he knew.631 It is when the
medieval heritage of fear and loathing of the Other, based
originally on religious myths and traditions, takes root that
such feelings become dangerous. Thus, polemics that seem
purely intellectual in nature could, nonetheless, be very
explosive and breed anti-Jewish and anti-Muslim feelings
even – or especially – when there was no Other in the vicinity
to hate.

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Jonathan Adams

11 The Life of the Prophet

Muḥammad in East Norse

Beware of false prophets which come to you in

sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening
wolves. Ye shall know them by their fruits […] a
corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit.
(Matthew 7. 15–17)

There are several texts in East Norse – Old Swedish

(fornsvenska, c. 1225–1526) and Old Danish (gammeldansk,
c. 1100–1515) – that mention or describe Muslims and their
religion.632 Yet, studies on the portrayal of Islam and Muslims
in medieval East Norse texts are very scarce, and usually
form little more than brief prolegomena to more detailed
examinations of later literature.633 This article begins by
looking at the portrayal and (mis)use of Muslims in East Norse
literature before focusing on three texts that describe the life
of Muḥammad (The Old Swedish Legendary, Consolation of
the Soul, and The Travels of Sir John Mandeville) in order to
uncover the ideas about the Prophet that were circulating in
vernacular texts in Denmark and Sweden during the Middle
Ages. The investigation concentrates on depictions of
Muḥammad as a pseudo-prophet, but also touches on
representations of Muḥammad as one of several idols
worshipped by the polytheistic Saracens. The reasons behind
including stories about Muslims and Muḥammad in religious
and non-religious Christian writings are discussed, and
editions of the three East Norse lives of Muḥammad, together
with translations into English, can be found in the appendix at
the end of this article.

11.1 Muslims and Islam in East Norse

As described in the introduction to this volume, there is a
rather abrupt change in how Muslims and the Islamic world
are referred to in East Norse sources after the end of the
Viking Age. Presumably, this also represents a shift in the
perception of and relations between the Muslim and
Scandinavian peoples at the time. With the introduction of
manuscript culture to Scandinavia came a pejorative image
of Muslims and the Islamic world that had been developed on
the European mainland, from where it was imported.634
Unlike the earlier runic inscriptions, these texts do not reflect
actual contact between the North and the Islamic world, but
rather the incorporation of anti-Muslim polemics and the
standard stereotypes of Western Christendom into East Norse
literary culture. The portrayal of Muslims in East Norse
literature is thus largely negative.
The most common East Norse term to refer for a Muslim is
saracen (Saracen) 635 or simply hethning (pagan).
Occasionally, tribal names from the Bible are used, such as
hagarenus (Hagarene; Genesis 16. 1–12), ismaelite
(Ishmaelite; Genesis 16. 11), moabite (Moabite; Genesis 19.
37), and amonite (Ammonite; Genesis 19. 38). In the Old
Danish Travels of Sir John Mandeville (hereafter Mandeville)
from 1459, we also find araber (Arab) and bedoines (Bedouin)
to refer to Muslims living outside of towns. In romances, such
as The Chronicle of Charlemagne (from 1480; hereafter
Charlemagne), we find the term blaman (black man), and
only in later works, particularly from the beginning of the
sixteenth century, do we encounter mahomet
(Mohammedan) and tyrke (Turk). Unlike in some other
European languages,636 East Norse tyrke does not refer to
Muslims in general, but is restricted to Ottoman Muslims.
The term blaman is particularly interesting, as it refers to
ethnic difference (skin colour)637 and carries connotations of
evil. The association with evil comes from the term’s frequent
use in descriptions of devils in East Norse. So, for example, in
a Danish sermon by Christiern Pedersen (c. 1480–1554), we
read of a lavishly dressed woman who entered a church and:

Bag paa hendiss kiortel som hwn slæbede efter sig

sade mange vtalige diøffle smaa som røtther oc
sorte som blaamend de loge oc skogrede oc
klappede deriss hender til hobe oc den ene spranck
offuer den anden som fiske gøre i en wod.

[On the back of her robe, which she dragged behind

her, sat many innumerable devils, small as rats and
black as “black men”; they laughed and cackled and
clapped their hands together and the one leapt over
the other like fish do in a net.]638

The sense of the demonic would have been transferred to

anyone defined using the word blaman through a “common
pejorative visual vocabulary”: The association between
darkness and evil is a common European tradition.639 In
Charlemagne , the hordes of warriors, who fight against the
fair Christians, are blamen. 640 Adjectives found in connection
with Muslims include hethen (pagan), utro (unbelieving), ond
(evil), and usal (wretched). They are often referred to as
hunde (dogs)641 whose main occupation is to strithe (fight, do
battle) sometimes using bamber (drums) or banners bearing
the image of an idol to scare their enemies’ horses.642 As can
be seen, these words relate to and focus on evilness,
violence, idolatry, and animal-like behaviour.
The main signifier of Otherness in the East Norse texts is
illustrated in religious terms: Muslims are evil and devilish.
This inner monstrosity is expressed through overtly visual,
symbolic signifiers: their black skin, their giant stature (see
below), and their dog-like noises and behaviour. In this, East
Norse literature fits clearly within the western European
tradition.
It should, however, be noted that in some romances,
Muslims can be beautiful and fair (for example, Flores – who
eventually embraces Christianity – in Flores and
Blanzeflor). 643 In Mandeville, the sultan of Cairo is described
in largely neutral or positive terms and appears as a
hospitable and intelligent character, 644 and Saracens are
praised for looking after the religious sites in the Holy Land
(although later accused of only doing so for the sake of
money).645 A nod of recognition to Arabic science and
medicine can be discerned, for example, in the preface to
Henrik Harpestræng’s Old Danish Lapidarium (c. 1300).646
These ‘non-black’ descriptions of Muslims and Islam
represent the beauty, scientific learning, and wealth of the
East, while the ‘black’ descriptions highlight its strangeness,
moral inferiority, and horror. Negative descriptions of Muslims
do preponderate, but the existence of neutral and positive
descriptions, albeit rather few, reflects the split view of the
Islamic world.647 Indeed, it is important to remember that
representations of Muslims – even in a small corpus such as
that of the extant East Norse texts – did not convey a single,
unchanging meaning, but demonstrated a great variation of
images that could mean different, sometimes contradictory,
things in different contexts. Writers were usually not
interested in attempting to reflect “real” Muslims at all but
were instead invoking fictions, polemical creations, that
fulfilled specific roles scripted for these characters in order to
meet the needs and expectations of the Christian authors,
their texts, and their audiences.

11.2 Implicit comparison: Muslims as

foils
In the miracle stories of The Old Swedish Legendary
(hereafter Legendary), Muslims appear as foils to
demonstrate the truth of a particular Christian doctrine. So,
for example, the drowning Saracen, who “promised that he
would visit the shrine of St. Mark and become a Christian
before he died”,648 is saved from certain death in order to
illustrate the openness of Christianity to all those who
embrace it, its miraculous salvatory power both physically
and spiritually, and the effectiveness of invoking the saints to
intervene in worldly affairs. It tells us nothing about the
appearance or personal qualities of the Saracen, beyond his
subsequent breaking of the oath: After arriving safely in
Alexandria, he fails to undertake the promised pilgrimage to
Venice until St. Mark appears to him “a second time,
terrifying, and reproached him with threats”;649 only then
does he visit the saint’s shrine. The Muslim – just as many
Christian sinners do in other miracle stories – is acting solely
to demonstrate the saving grace of Christianity and the
sincerity with which one should request and accept it.
Similarly, in the legend of St. Clare from the same work,650
the holy woman is able to thwart the Saracens’ violent attack
on her convent by raising up the host in the face of the
invaders who fall from their ladders as if dazzled and take
flight: “[T]he boldness of these savage dogs was quashed
immediately”.651 Again we are told nothing of the beliefs of
these Saracens, who merely act as foils in a Christian tale
designed to demonstrate – and counter any doubts about –
the power of the Eucharist.652 Besides their ungodliness, the
Saracens’ religious beliefs remain obscure. However, their
aggressive, military prowess is very clear: They are cruel,
bloodthirsty, marauding soldiers, intent upon gaining entry to
the nunnery. Rapists, robbers, and vandals they may be, but
serious religious contenders they are not. Their physical
strength is no match for the supernatural, divine powers of
the host. In this type of text, Muslims are nothing more than
poorly defined non-Christians who can serve to demonstrate
the truth of Christianity. Their few named characteristics –
typically deceit and violence – serve only to contrast with
“Christian qualities”. Opponents of Christianity perhaps, but
Muslims – even when invoking Muḥammad (or their other
idols) – remain subject to its divine truth and power, and, as
in the St. Mark miracle, can be converted by means of a little
supernatural persuasion, or failing that, as in the St. Clare
legend, they can be repelled by the power of Christ.
Muslims as foils is a trope that appears in literature from
across Europe, for example in Iberian texts such as Ramon
Llull’s Blanquerna (c. 1283) and some of the sermons of
Vincent Ferrer (1350–1419). Ryan Szpiech has shown how the
image of the ‘hermeneutical Muslim’653 was used as
unwitting testimony to Christian truth in anti-Jewish
writing.654 He makes the point that Muslims fulfil “no larger
figural cycle of revelation and prophecy in Christian
soteriological history” and that they play a “rhetorical role in
Christian polemic only by adding another voice in harmony
with Christian belief”.655 Muslims’ belief in Mary and Jesus (as
opposed to the Jews’ disbelief) is testimony to the truth of
Christianity. To this we might add that the use of Muslims as
foils in the examples cited above also demonstrates their use
as unwitting witnesses to the truth of Church doctrine.
11.3 Explicit comparison: mirrors and
boundaries
The account of Sir John and the sultan of Cairo in Mandeville
provides a fascinating and, in an East Norse context, truly
remarkable example of Muslims being given a voice.656
During their many discussions, the sultan fires a number of
criticisms at the Christian clergy and laity. He accuses priests
of living bad lives (“onder lefneth”) and not performing their
duties in church. They dress worldly, drink to excess (“drikcæ
thøm drukcnæ”), break the rules of chastity, and are poor
advisers to their rulers. Moreover, the laity do not keep the
holy days: Instead of going to church, they conduct business
(“køpsla”), go to the inn (“æræ j kruend”), and eat and drink
to excess (“ædæ oc drikchæ til ofuerflødichedh”).
Furthermore, they gossip (“tale […] illæ”), fight, and live
more filthily than dumb beasts (“vskelligæ dyur”), and they
practise usury (“the ogræ”), steal, rob, cheat, and break
oaths.
Sir John is amazed, and his response is not to be filled with
indignation or rage, but rather to ask the sultan how he could
possibly know so much about the true state of the Christian
affairs.657 The sultan explains that he sends his councillors to
Europe in the guise of traders transporting precious stones,
ointments (“balsamo”), silk, and spices (“yrtir”), and these
spies keep him up to date with developments in the Christian
lands.
What is remarkable here is the claim that Muslims are not
just capable of moral behaviour, they are more moral and
pious than Christians, and furthermore Muslims can
accurately and legitimately comment on matters of Church
discipline and Christian morality. This stands in stark contrast
to the usual portrayal of Muslims as heathen, marauding
invaders. Furthermore, the Islamic world is shown to be
curious and knowledgeable about Christian Europe: The same
could hardly be said about Christian knowledge of the Islamic
world. Of course, the episode is meant as a prick of
conscience for Mandeville’s readers to nudge them towards a
life of greater piety and as a form of mild anticlerical
invective to admonish undisciplined, lazy, and immoral
members of the clergy. The sultan’s comments are not
intended to make the reader consider the benefits of Islam –
perish the thought! – but rather to reflect upon their own lack
of piety and the failings of the clergy. Christianity is not under
attack, but the practices and the sincerity of some of its
followers are. The sultan is holding up a mirror for Christians
to see themselves and their sins.
Another discussion between a Christian and a Muslim can
be found in Charlemagne. In it, we read that just before
Charlemagne launches his assault on Córdoba, Roland is sent
to fight the Saracen giant Ferakude.658 After some ferocious
martial combat, they stop to rest and then fall into a
discussion about religion. Ferakude declares he is a
monotheist and therefore does not believe in the Holy Trinity,
because the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit must surely
be three separate gods.659 Roland explains the Trinity by
comparing it to the single sound of a harp made up of three
separate elements: the frame, the string, and the hand. So
too is the almond made up of a shell, a nut, and a kernel, and
a man is made up of a torso, limbs, and a soul. Roland’s
pedagogical explanation causes the scales to fall from
Ferakude’s eyes, and the giant declares, “I now truly believe
that God is one and three!”660
The discussion continues in the style of Elucidarius, with
Ferakude cast in the role of discipulus, asking questions
about the Incarnation, the Virgin Birth, the Crucifixion, the
Resurrection, and the Ascension, all of which are answered in
turn by Roland in the role of magister. Gradually, it becomes
more and more apparent that the differences between
Ferakude and Roland’s worldviews are not so great – indeed,
the boundary between Muslim and Christian becomes so
blurred that Ferakude considers much of Christian doctrine to
be compatible with Islam, and he seems to see no reason
why either of them should not adopt the religion of the
other.661 Just as the boundary between the two religions
begins to appear dangerously pervious, it is suddenly and
dramatically redrawn through an act of violence; what Jeffrey
Jerome Cohen has called a “ritual of disidentification”:662
Roland takes Ferakude’s sword and thrusts it through the
giant’s navel, killing him. As he lies dying, Ferakude
commends his soul to his god, Muḥammad: “Ferakude
shouted in the throes of death and said, ‘Mament! God! Take
my soul! I’m dying now!’”663 Thus, Ferakude, who one minute
appears almost Christian, shows his true pagan colours at the
moment of death. Roland’s assertion of self through an act of
violence – intended as an exemplary model for confronting
Islam? – re-establishes the natural order and the boundary
between the true believers and the infidels, between
salvation and damnation.664

11.4 Muḥammad as idol

It should be noted that Muḥammad is not just portrayed as a
heresiarch in East Norse, but sometimes as one of several
idols or demons/gods worshipped by polytheistic Muslims.
Just as in the European chansons de geste, this is the case in
Charlemagne, where we read:

Jamwnd kallede till seg eth sende bwd ok sade ryd

till myn fadher ok seg hannum ath wij haffuæ fonget
stoor skadhæ ok myst iiij aff wore gwdhe mamenth
ok teroganth Jwpiter ok appwlim them hauer k.
 Fanget.

[Jamund called a messenger and said: “Ride to my

father and tell him that we have been greatly
harmed and lost four of our gods: Mament and
Terogant, Jupiter and Appulin. The emperor has
captured them”.]665

In Charlemagne, Muḥammad is often invoked before a battle,

which subsequently (consequently?) ends in defeat, or his
name is used to swear an oath, which is then often broken.666
Depicting Muḥammad as an idol casts the Saracens as
polytheists, but otherwise fulfils no real theological function
and is little more than a literary motif.667 Indeed, the
portrayal of Saracens as idolaters may not have been due to
ignorance on the part of the Christian authors, but rather an
intentional fiction either intended to entertain and amuse or
motivated by malice.668 Even when he is presented as trying
to pass himself off as a prophet, Muḥammad is typically
described as being worshipped as a god –rather than just
exalted as a prophet – by his followers.669

11.5 Muḥammad as prophet

The great prophet of Islam, Muḥammad, was the most
obvious line of attack for Christian writers, and he became a
familiar figure to their readers during the Middle Ages.
Characterized as a “false prophet”,670 he was charged with
having created a Christian heresy. This is why Dante’s Inferno
(c. 1308–1321) place’s “Maometto” in the ninth bolgia of the
eighth circle among the “Sowers of Discord”, the schismatics.
Like many medieval Christian writers, Dante views
Muḥammad as the creator of a heretical offshoot of
Christianity. Negative descriptions of a deviant Muḥammad
were an important part of the textual arsenal used to
discredit Islam. Alarmed by the spread of Islam and the
challenge he posed to the Christian view of the Prophets, the
Messiah, and salvation history, writers depicted Muḥammad
as the antithesis of Christian truth and often cast him in the
role of the Antichrist, viewing him through an apocalyptic lens
tinted by the Book of Revelation. His life was described in
terms that aimed to invalidate his prophetic status by
focusing on his lowly birth and improper marriages, as well as
revealing his methods of deception by accusing him of being
a liar and an epileptic. His followers were often portrayed as
violent, carnal, and morally corrupt, and as a physical and
spiritual threat to all Christendom. However, in texts about
the life of Muḥammad (rather than in those that just mention
Saracens or Turks), his followers appear almost as victims of
the pseudo-prophet’s trickery. They have been lured to
damnation by his false promises and absurd laws and thus
serve as warnings about the ease with which people who are
not strong in their faith can be seduced into evil.
Negative writings about Muḥammad drew on a number of
sources, including the polemical works of John of Damascus
(c. 675/76–749), Petrus Alfonsi (1062–1140), James of Vitry
(d. 1240), Matthew Paris (c. 1200–1259), Riccoldo of Monte di
Croce (c. 1243–1320), and Ramon Llull (c. 1232–1315).671
The Qur’ān was translated into Latin by Robert of Ketton in
1143, under the supervision of Peter the Venerable (1092–
1156): This Lex Sarracenorum was subsequently mined for
material that could be used to refute Islam. The East Norse
treatment of Muḥammad, which is only preserved in works
translated from other European languages, does not,
however, involve complicated theological discussions of the
challenge he posed to the Christian worldview. It basically
comprises a character assassination by means of ridicule and
defamation, where the emphasis is on exposing his lies (he
did not receive revelations from God), and on containing
Muḥammad within the history of Christianity (Islam is merely
a perversion of Christianity, not an authentic religion, and will
ultimately be vanquished by Christianity).

11.6 The East Norse sources

Legends are the biographies of saints that were read aloud in
church on the relevant saint’s day and in monasteries during
meals. In all, there are approximately eight thousand legends
listed in the Bibliotheca Hagiographica Latina, comprising
stories of martyrdom (known as passiones) and lives of saints
(known as vitae). The Old Swedish Legendary (known as
Fornsvenska legendariet in Swedish) consists of a
chronologically ordered collection of legends about the Virgin
Mary, John the Baptist, Jesus and the Apostles, the saints, and
ecclesiastical and secular events that shaped the history of
the Church from its beginnings to the thirteenth century.672
Much of the content is based on Jacobus de Voragine’s
Legenda aurea (1263–1273).673 Valter Jansson makes the
case that the author of the Swedish text was a Dominican,
and that the text was composed at one of the monasteries in
Götaland, most probably Skänninge or Skara, between 1276
and 1312.674 Although there are a few details about Sweden
and Denmark, the author’s principal interest lies elsewhere,
viz. on the great and important men and women of the
Church. Legendary is known today from a number of
manuscripts and fragments which suggests the texts were
widespread. 675 The Legendary manuscript used here is
Uppsala, University Library, C 528, edited and published by
George Stephens in 1847–1874.676
Consolation of the Soul (hereafter Consolation) is a popular
compilation of (im)moral tales that focuses on the Ten
Commandments. Stories about historical figures and heroes
act as exempla in this didactic text. In Danish, there are just
two extant fragments (Uppsala, University Library, C 529, and
Stockholm, Royal Library, A 109), the remains (about one
third) of what was once a single impressive parchment
manuscript dating from c. 1425. These fragments are very
similar to the Swedish version of the text (in Stockholm,
Royal Library, A 108, the “Ängsö Codex”), the version used in
this article. The Swedish text was translated at the beginning
of the fifteenth century from the Middle Low German
Seelentrost, but incorporates various Latin and Swedish
sources. The relationship between all the manuscripts has
been investigated by Johannes Brøn-dum-Nielsen (1934) and
Ivar Thorén (1942), and the Swedish version was edited and
published by Gustaf Edvard Klemming (1871–1873; used for
quotations here).
Mandeville is an entirely fictitious mid-fourteenth-century
description of a journey to the East undertaken by the English
knight Sir John Mandeville. It was a medieval ‘bestseller’ and
survives today in over 250 manuscripts and 130 print editions
in at least ten languages.677 The Latin versions of Mandeville
are shorter than many of the vernacular versions (those in
German, English, and French, for example). In all, five
independent Latin versions have been recorded, but only the
principal one, known as the Latin vulgate, has been printed.
The print edition of this vulgate text appeared in 1484 in
Strasbourg. This common abridged version served as the
basis for the Danish translation, which dates from 1434 or
1444, and is extant in four manuscripts of a later date (one of
which is, however, only fragmentary).678 Marius Lorenzen
published an edition of the Danish version in 1882, which is
used here for quotations.

11.7 Episodes from the life of

Muḥammad
Episodes from the life of Muḥammad that underscored his
human qualities were of particular interest to Christian
writers, as they served as arguments against his
prophethood. That the Prophet’s human qualities are
essential to Islamic doctrine only goes to demonstrate the
hermeneutical nature of Christian argumentation in which
they are presented as failings.679 Only Christian standards
are applied to Muḥammad and Islam; they are not considered
on their own distinct terms.

11.8 Early life

The Prophet’s name, Muḥammad, “the praised one”, appears
in several forms in the texts: “maghumet” (Legendary),
“maghument” (Consolation), and “makomet” or “machomet”
(Mandeville). Indeed, in Mandeville, we read, “Whatever he is
called, Makon or also Makomet or Mahon or Makometus, they
are all the same thing”.680 Legendary makes no mention of
his homeland, whereas Consolation locates him in the land of
the pagans – “Bethsermien”, presumably a corruption of Bēth
Aramāyē (in present-day northern Iraq)681 – and in Mandeville
we read that he was born of the tribe of Ishmael in 600 in
Arabia. Although Consolation makes no mention of his
religion, it does locate his home in the land of the pagans.
Legendary states that he was a Christian, while Mandeville
makes the point that he was a pagan who first encountered
Christianity during his journeys to Egypt. These latter two
texts set the scene for a conception of Islam as a heretical
and perverted product or misunderstanding of Christianity.
We can read about Muḥammad’s early working life in two of
the texts. Legendary describes him as a merchant who
transported precious stones from India to Egypt. Mandeville is
rather more detailed and paints a pejorative picture of an
uneducated man who first looked after donkeys, and then
carried sacks for merchants who were travelling to Egypt,
eventually becoming wealthy from this portering.

11.9 Marriage
In all three texts, Muḥammad marries a wealthy woman: in
Legendary an unnamed queen in Egypt; in Consolation an
unnamed rich noblewoman; in Mandeville Cadigeran
(Khadīja), the widow of a prince in Corrodana (presumably
either an error for Chorozania [Chorazin], one of the cities
cursed by Jesus [Matthew 11. 21]),682 or for Corocania, the
dominion of the Quraysh tribe in Mecca).683 The suggestion is
that Muḥammad’s power and success can be attributed not
to his own merits but to the wealth he acquired through
marrying Khadīja. In terms of social rank, the union is a
mismatch: Muḥammad can only bring good looks and
intelligence (Mandeville only), as well as claims to holiness, to
the marriage, whereas Khadīja, as a prince’s widow, brings
vast wealth and political influence. That Khadīja is described
as a widow in Mandeville may mean that she is somewhat
older than Muḥammad, which could thus also to be
understood as criticism of a mismatch in age.684

11.10 Epilepsy
All three texts describe Muḥammad as an epileptic and follow
the tradition started by Theophanes the Confessor (c. 760–
817), who wrote that Muḥammad invented his visitations by
angels to explain and cover up his epileptic fits.685
Muḥammad claimed that he collapsed because he was
unable to stand the light emanating from the visiting angel.
In Legendary, Muḥammad says to his wife that he is visited
by the Archangel Michael, whereas in the two other texts, it is
Gabriel whom he claims causes the fits.686 In Consolation, his
epilepsy is described as a punishment from God for
pretending to be a holy man for material gain: He invents his
angelic cover story to reassure Khadīja by means of
deception. In Mandeville, Muḥammad’s explanation for his
epilepsy – also invented to allay his wife’s concerns – only
brings him greater praise and admiration. Indeed, Mandeville
highlights how popular and beloved Muḥammad was among
his countrymen: “He was a skilled and handsome man and
extremely clever in his words and deeds, and he was chosen
and loved by the people”.687

11.11 Followers and laws

Muḥammad’s success in gaining followers is attributed in
Legendary to his promises of paradise in the world-to-come,
“where everyone would make merry with food and drink and
truly beautiful women”,688 and which can only be accessed
through him (cf. John 14. 6).689 This sensual paradise is held
up for mockery and stands in stark contrast to Christian ideas
about a spiritual after-life. In Mandeville, we read:

J muæ oc vidæ, at the Saracener ok hetningæ oc

allæ andræ, som ikcæ æræ Cristnæ eller Iødher, te
thro, ath ikcæ er andet hemmærigæ, ter som godæ
oc helgæ menniskæ j blifuæ skullæ efther tettæ
neruærendes liff, som vy her vdh y lefuæ, vdhen
thet Paradiis, som paa iorden er, ther som voræ
forældræ Adam oc Eua foræ therris vlidelssæ voræ
vdh scutnnæ ov vth kastæ. Tee siæ och, ath ther
ryndher honikh, melk oc vin, oc at the faa ther
costæligæ hus foræ thøm bigdæ meth gul oc sølf oc
kostæligæ stenæ oc allæ honnæ legemligæ løst oc
glæde til euig tyd, effter thi som her huer fortiænt
hafuer. Tessæ forsc refnæ faræ thi ver blindæ,
effther ty at tee hafuæ ikcæ tee helly trefollichets
thro, oc tro ikcæ ponnæ Ihesum Christum, gutz
enigæ søn. Jtem Cristnæ oc alle som døptæ æræ, oc
Iøder, the troo oppa tet hemmelskæ Paradiis, oc at
allæ menniskæ eftter tørres godg erningher skulæ
ther hafuæ løn meth gudh oc nydæ oc see guts
claræ enlydhæ oc neruæ relssæ met vbegrifuælich
ewinnælig glædæ til euig tiidh.

[You should also know that the Saracens and

heathens and all those, who are not Christians or
Jews, believe that there is no other Heaven (where
good and holy people will be after this current life
which we are living here) than that Paradise that is
on Earth and from which our parents, Adam and
Eve, were removed and cast out because of their
sin. They also say that honey, milk and wine flow
there, and that they will have exquisite houses built
for them of gold and silver and precious stones, and
(there will be) all sorts of sensual pleasure and joy
for all eternity, according to what each person has
earned in this life. These aforementioned people are
unfortunately lost, as they do not believe in the Holy
Trinity, and do not believe in Jesus Christ, the only
son of God. Christians and all those who have been
baptized, and Jews, believe in the celestial Paradise,
and that all people according to their good deeds
shall receive their reward there with God and enjoy
seeing God’s bright face and presence with
 incomprehensible eternal joy for all eternity.] 690

The Christian lens through which Islam is viewed can also be

discerned in Consolation, where we read that Muḥammad
was seen as a God by the people (cf. Jesus). In Legendary, we
read that Muslims view Jesus as a prophet, presumably in
order to attract as many converts from Christianity as
possible. Mandeville also tells us that Muḥammad gained
followers “because of the expensive gifts that he distributed,
and precious promises and advantages that he promised and
announced”.691
The same text tells us that Muḥammad revealed his
“accursed book” and made it law in 621. Legendary describes
it as nothing but an amalgam of his own beliefs, rules and
customs, Jewish laws, and Christian rites. All three texts focus
on elements of Islam that would have shocked the
sensibilities of their Christian readers: polygamy (Legendary
and Consolation),692 punishments for adultery (stoning and
whipping; Consolation),693 and prohibition against alcohol
(Mandeville) – a heady brew of moral laxity, sensual
pleasures, brutality, and irrational attitudes about wine, the
blood of Christ. On alcohol, Mandeville also accuses Muslims
of hypocrisy, claiming that many of them disregard the
prohibition and drink a sweet sugar-based alcoholic
concoction in private. Consolation describes fasting during
Ramaḍān with scarcely hidden ridicule: They gorge
themselves during the night and fast during the day. Thus,
Islamic nighttime feasting is implicitly compared to Christian
fasting during Lent. The same work also mentions wuḍū’,
ritual cleansing in preparation for formal prayers (Qur’ān 56.
79). The author might be attempting to show that whereas
Christians can cleanse their souls through confession,
contrition, penitence, and prayer, Muslims – bound to the
physical world – can at best only wash the filth from their
bodies before they pray in vain. It is, however, noteworthy
that Consolation, does concede that some of Muḥammad’s
articles of law were good, even if some were good for nothing
(“somlik waro goodh oc somlik dughdho alzenkte”).
Presumably, even a little misinterpreted Christianity in the
guise of Islam is better than paganism.

11.12 Christian companions

In Islamic legend, a monk called Baḥīrā recognizes
Muḥammad’s special status and foretells his destiny. In
Christian traditions, beginning in Byzantium, the monk Baḥīrā
(later referred to as the heretic Sergius or Nicholaus) is given
a much more sinister and central role in the formation of
Muḥammad, whom he uses to corrupt the Arabs and prevent
them from obtaining salvation through the Church.694 Thus,
Islam becomes a Christian heresy instigated by a disgruntled
and vengeful monk. In Consolation, a large part of the story
of Muḥammad is given over to the role of the apostate
Sergius and his success. Following Peter the Venerable’s
story of Sergius, a monk expelled from the Church who fled to
Arabia, this man convinces Muḥammad to seek power and
gives him the tricks to do so.
In Mandeville, two unnamed Christian hermits are
mentioned. The first lives in the desert between Arabia and
Egypt and was visited by the young Muḥammad on his trips.
This hermit is a pale shadow of the Christian Baḥīrā/ Sergius
figure, and we learn little about him other than that
Muḥammad “in particular […] learnt from a hermit who lived
in a desert […], where he often spent the night”.695
Nonetheless, it is made clear that this Christian played a part
in Muḥammad’s religious education. The second hermit is
also a desert dweller, whom Muḥammad visits in the years
after becoming king of Arabia. We learn little about him,
other than that he is unpopular among the king’s councillors
who kill him whilst he and Muḥammad are asleep after an
evening of drinking. The men blame their liege for killing the
hermit while he was drunk, which results in Muḥammad
decreeing a prohibition against alcohol.696 The episode is
meant to demonstrate that Islamic law is not inspired by
God’s will, but by Muḥammad’s whims, and that by insisting
upon such nonsense, Muḥammad damns his own soul: “This
curse affects his own head, because it is written that wine
cheers both God and man”.697

11.13 Tricks
In addition to the texts’ inclusion of the story of Muḥammad
using his epileptic fits to trick people into believing he was a
prophet, Consolation includes – at length – the story of how,
thanks to help from Sergius, he was able to train animals to
give the illusion that he was a holy man: a dove that would
land on his shoulder to look for grain in his ear (giving the
illusion of the Holy Spirit speaking the word of God into his
ear)698 and an ox that would lay its head down in his lap to
eat food from his hands (giving the illusion of a wild animal
bowing down before God – a kind of inverted tale of the
Golden Calf; Exodus 32. 1–6).699 Muḥammad’s circus tricks
contrast with the miracles performed by Jesus in the New
Testament and only demonstrate the pseudo-prophet’s false
claims to divinity.
Traditionally Muslims have always downplayed or denied
that Muḥammad worked miracles precisely to emphasize his
humanity. In these East Norse texts, Muḥammad is seen
entirely through a Christian lens and consequently as he
declared himself a prophet he must have performed miracles
(as this is what prophets did in the Judaeo-Christian tradition),
but as he is not a real prophet (in the eyes of the Christian
writers), his miracles must have been nothing more than
tricks. These passages about Muḥammad’s trickery are
excellent examples of Christian hermeneutical argumentation
and the creation of straw-men in polemics against Islam.

11.14 Death
In Consolation, we read that Muḥammad received an
ignominious death: He was poisoned. Muḥammad’s murder
and very human death is meant to contrast with Christ’s
crucifixion and the supernatural end to his earthly life. His
body was placed in an iron casket that was housed in a
purpose-built temple (“mønstir”), and magnetic stones in the
vaulted ceiling of the temple caused the casket to be
suspended in mid-air: “Then all the people said that it was
due to his sanctity and still believed in him”.700 The story of
Muḥammad’s floating coffin is first recorded in Gautier of
Compiègne’s Otia de Machometi,701 which also includes
stories about the false miracles of the dove and the bull, and
was probably the ultimate source of the colourful legendary
material about Muḥammad in Consolation. Mandeville does
not provide a cause of death, but has him anointed and
placed in a coffin that is kept in the town in Arabia where he
had his first followers (Corrodana). In 900, the text tells us,
the “vile maggot’s body”702 was moved to a more worthy
city, called “Merk”. The name “Merk” is similar to Mecca and
indeed most medieval writers thought that Mecca was the
site of Muḥammad’s tomb.703 The Ḥajj to Mecca was thought
to be a pilgrimage to his grave, just as Christian pilgrimage to
Jersualem centred on the Holy Sepulchre. Indeed, Mandeville
goes on to say that his tomb is visited by many people.
However, in the Legenda aurea, Muḥammad’s resting place is
said to be in “Merch vel Iachrib [Merch or Yathrib (pre-Islamic
name for Medina)]”. If “Merch” and “Iachrib” are to be
understood as the same place, then perhaps Mandeville’s
“Merk” should be understood as a name for Medina.

11.15 Conclusion
The treatment of Muslims and Muḥammad fits clearly within
Western European traditions of describing and denigrating
Islam. The texts aim to expose the truth about Muḥammad
and Islam – but they all do so in slightly different ways.
Mandeville follows a historiographical approach.
Muḥammad’s year of birth, the year of the revelation of the
Qur’ān, and the year of the translation of his body to Medina
are provided (albeit inaccurately). Geographical locations
(Egypt, Arabia, “corrodana”) and the name of his wife
(“cadigeran”) are provided. The style is factual, portraying a
heresiarch whose success is put down to marrying into
money and power, his good looks, and his intelligence.
Consolation takes a quite different approach, with
Muḥammad painted as a colourful scoundrel who uses
numerous tricks to fool people into believing in his
prophethood. Only one place is mentioned (“bethsermien”)
and one person (“Sergius”). Apart from that, the tale provides
no details of his life story beyond his false miracles. The
much shorter Legendary text – surprisingly – follows the East
Norse historiographical tradition, and includes little legendary
material (only epilepsy). Although dates and names are
largely absent, the text describes Muḥammad’s early life,
marriage, and popularity, and presents elements of Islamic
doctrine without mentioning the false miracles. The many
legendary elements found in the Legenda aurea, which is in
fact more similar to the text of the Consolation, are missing
from the Old Swedish Legendary.
 In East Norse texts, Muslims are employed as foils to
demonstrate the truth of Christian teaching or as mirrors to
make Christian readers reassess their own (lack of) piety and
morality. The treatment of Muḥammad is, however, not that
of being a Muslim foil. The texts aim to neutralize Muḥammad
and turn him into an anti-hagiographical, heresiological figure
by denigrating his background and intentions, as well as the
Qur’ān which he is seen as having composed. His religion is
passed off as a mixture of his own ideas, (heretical)
Christianity, and elements of Judaism, a seductive blend
forged to deceive Christians (and Jews?) and gain Muḥammad
as many followers as possible. He is presented as a fraudster,
driven by lust for power and wealth, who employs magic
tricks, distributes gifts, and makes attractive promises in
order to gain and keep his followers from among simple,
gullible people. Thus, these texts simultaneously denigrate
Islam and explain its success in gaining adherents.
Whereas finding a historiographical account of Muḥammad
in the Mandeville account of the Middle East, with its datings
and use of toponyms and personal names, is hardly
surprising, the inclusion of Muḥammad in edifying literature,
such as Consolation and Legendary, may seem unexpected.
Yet, by placing Muḥammad within the framework of Christian
history and Christian theology, he is contained: He becomes
merely one of many heretics in the long history of the Church
and he – and his followers – are powerless when confronted
with its teachings and sacraments. The anti-hagiographical
life of Muḥammad is an inverted parody of the life of Christ:
Muḥammad’s motives are the opposite of the vita Christi
ideals of poverty, chastity, and humility, and his theatrical
miracles, which are nothing but staged attempts to acquire
Old Testament-style prophetic status, pale in comparison to
the New Testament stories of Jesus’ miraculous deeds. Within
the magnificent and eternal framework of Christianity,
Muḥammad, his concocted religion, and his followers are
shown to be of no importance whatsoever.
 Given the amount of East Norse literature that is translated
from other European vernacular and Latin materials, it is not
surprising that Scandinavian examples of Arabs, Muslims,
Muḥammad, and Islam also depend on these earlier accounts
and show little innovation or independent development. Just
like the other European materials, they reflect a fascination
with the East that spans cautious enquiry to outright fear and
is viewed entirely through western European Christian values.
The most noticeable difference between East Norse and other
accounts is one of quantity: It would seem that although
textual Muslims could act as a didactic tool for writers, they
were not particularly popular in the North. For example, they
appear but rarely in Christiern Pedersen’s sermon collections
from the beginning of the sixteenth century (despite being
written at the height of the Ottoman Empire). It may be that
vernacular literature was not felt to provide an appropriate
platform for discussing the theological problems posed by
Islam. Moreover, there was a long tradition of authoritative
refutation of that other enemy of Christendom: the Jew. There
existed a wealth of material answering the Jewish case, the
challenges of Judaism had long been defeated, and the
multifaceted but thoroughly negative image of the Jew,
especially the New Testament Jew, was so embedded and
widely understood that it could be used as an effective
literary tool in various popular contexts, even in regions like
Denmark and Sweden without a resident Jewish
population. 704 Although the extant material shows that Danes
and Swedes were familiar with literary portrayals of Muslims
and Muḥammad, for some reason (lack of contact;
disinterest; paralysis in the face of Islamic expansion?), Islam
and its Prophet were not actively employed by vernacular
authors who instead preferred anti-Christian tropes that were
more developed or closer to home.
Appendix: texts
1. Old Swedish Legendary
Source: Uppsala, University Library, C 528 (Codex
Bildstenianus), fol. 132r (1400–1450); Original text: Jacobus
de Voragine, Legenda aurea [The Golden Legend, 1263–
1273] = Iacopo da Varazze 1999, 1261–1266; Editions:
Stephens 1847–1874, II, 725–726.

¶ Vm then thima war maghumet fulaste falsare som drogh fra

christo medh willo dyghran del aff væruldinne ¶ Han war først
en cristin køpman ok idhnadhe føra dyra stena fra indie land
til egyptum oc gilde ther ena drotningh medh listum han war
brutfællinger ok fik drotningin ther aff dighran stygh widh
mannin ¶ Han løgh sik wara gudz prophetam oc at michael ·
archængil bar hanum opta gudhlekan budskap · ok sik falla
vidh hans enlitis lius ok ey for soth skuldh ¶ Sidhan vaxte han
mærare en før allom landum · han jætte allom them hanum
trodo paradys / ok ther alla skemtan hafua · medh math ok
dryk ok wænasta quinde ok ther for trode hanom alt
osinnoght folk ¶ Han dictadhe them ok scref sina thro ræt ok
sidi en del epte judha laghum ok en del æpter cristna manna
sidhum · ¶ Som dictade han aff nyio · at hwariom manne
lofuat ware hafua swa manga husfrur som han matte fødha ¶
Han sagdhe gudhz ænghil hafua · sænt sik the laghin som
han skreff / allæ the hans lagh halda heta saraceni tho lofuar
han j sinom laghum varn herra ihesum christum · ok sigher at
enghin faar himerike vtan han thror hans læst ok prophetum

[At that time, Maghumet was a truly abominable fraudster

who on purpose was leading a large part of the world away
from Christianity. At first, he was a Christian merchant and
made a living by transporting precious stones from India to
Egypt, and there married a queen by means of trickery. He
was an epileptic, and the queen was greatly repulsed by the
man because of this. He lied, saying that he was God’s
prophet and that the Archangel Michael often carried divine
messages to him and that he collapsed because of the light
from (Michael’s) face, and not due to illness. Then, he grew
even more famous in all countries. To all those who believed
in him, he promised paradise, where everyone would make
merry with food and drink and truly beautiful women, and for
this reason all foolish people believed him. He fabricated and
wrote down his beliefs, rules, and customs, partly copying
Jewish laws and partly copying the customs of Christians.
Some things he invented anew; that to every man is allowed
as many wives as he is able to feed. He said that God’s angel
had sent him the laws that he was writing. All those who keep
his laws are called Saracens. In his laws he praises Jesus
Christ and says that no one enters heaven unless they
believe his writings and prophecies.]

2. Consolation of the Soul

Source: Stockholm, Royal Library, A 108, pp. 84–86; Original
text: Middle Low German Seelentrost; Editions: Klemming
1871–1873, 136–139.

Letters rubricated in red are in bold.

¶ Wi finnom oc scrifwit aff enom som maghument hetir / Jak

thror at han foor aff sinom guddom ey mykyt bætir Aff
maghument
Thet war een høghferdhoghir munkir heth sergius / Han
stodh æptir storu m oc werdhogheth oc herradømø j pawans
gardh j room oc thet kunde hono m ekke ske / Han fik ther aff
ena mistrøst oc fiol j wanhop ffortidde sin || cristindom oc
flydhe in j hedhindomin ok kom til bethsermenien / Han
selladhe sik til een vngan man heth maghument / talande til
hans oc saghdhe swa / wilt thu mino radhe følghia Jak wil thik
ofwir alt thetta land til een storan herra gøra / Oc folkit skal
bidhia til thik / oc halda thik for thera gudh / Han swaradhe
thet gerna wilia gøra / Tha tok munken ena vnga duwo oc
inne leste hona j enom camera / Oc loth engin gaa in til
henna vtan manghument eensamen / tha han skulde hona
mata tok han kornit oc stak j sith øra oc satte duuona oppa
sina skuldro / Oc swa tok hon sin math vth aff hans øra / Vm
sidhe wardh hon swa ther til wan / at æ nar han kom ffløgh
hon oppa hans skuldro oc stak sit næb j hans øra oc søktø
æptir sinne fødho Then sami maghument hafdhe ok een
vngan oxa innelestan til hwilkin engin ingig vtan han ensamin
/ Han gaff honom fodhir / oc hafdhe vxan ther til want at han
bøghdhe sik for honom oppa sin knæ oc ath sith fodhir aff
hans skøth Ther æptir loth then fornempde munken alt folkit
saman koma oc taladhe til them oc saghdhe Jak wil idhir
wisselika bewisa hwem j skulin tilbidhia oc for idhan gudh
halda / Then j seen then hælgha anda ofwir koma j duwo
liknilse oc sæthia sik oppa hans skuldro / then ær gudz son /
Han skulin j hedhra for idhan gudh oc herra / Tha han hafdhe
thetta sakt / gig han hemelika borth oc loth dufwona
vthflygha / Hon fløgh alla wegna kring om folkit Oc wardh vm
sidhe warse hwar maghument stodh / Hon fløgh oppa hans
axl ellir skuldro Oc stak sit neb j hans øra som hon war wan
søkiande æptir sinne fødho Tha saghdhe munken Seen j thet
wel / then helghe ande hwiskar j hans øra hwat han skal idhir
læra / ther æptir loth han vxan vthløpa Oc aff thy han hafdhe
længe inne standit wardh han swa grymbir oc øør at engin
thordhe honom nalkas ellir gripa / Vm sidhe gig maghument
mot honom / Oc genstan fiol vxsen a knæ oc laghdhe sin
mula j hans skøøt / Oc søkte sit fodhir som han war wan /
Ther æptir hult alt folkit maghument for een gudh Oc han
gaff folkeno ena handa lagh huru the skuldo lifwa / Naar the
fastadho / skuldo the enkte æta then daghin En vm nattena
matto the æta swa opta the wildo / Naar the wildo bidhia
skuldo the førra twa thera || lykama / Thet matte oc een man
hafwa fyra laghgipta hustrur til lika / the matto ok taka sina
magha oppa thet maghskapit blifwi thes fastare Hwilkin man
gripin wordhe met annars hustru / them skulde man badhin
stenka / wordhe een man gripin met løsø qwinno / han skulde
hafwa xviij slagh aff ene gisl Oc mang annor stykke som han
gaf them at halda somlik waro goodh oc somlik dughdho
alzenkte J them tymanom war ther een riik landis fru / hon
throdhe alt wara wist oc sant oc tok sik han til bonda Swa
kom han j stora rikedoma oc mykyt godz / Ther æptir sænde
gudh honom een warnaghla oc gaff honom ena plagho at han
skulde sik bethænkia oc bætra / Thet war at han fiol j bruth
threm sinnom hwar dagh Ther aff drøfdhis frun storlika oc
mykyt sørghdhe / Han badh hona ekke sørghia oc saghdhe at
thet war aff thy / thet sancte gabriel plæghadhe tala met
honom / oc han gat the clarheth aff honom gig ekke lidhit /
Langt ther æptir wardh honom forgifwit / Han loth gøra eeth
skriin af iærn j hwilkit the skuldo han læggia tha han ware
dødhir / Oc loth byggia eet mønstir / Oc loth hwælfwa thet
met sæghil steen / Tha han war dødhir oc burin in j mønstrit j
the iærnskrineno / Tha vpdrogho stenane som waro j
hwalfweno iærnskrinit til siin oc bleff ther hængiande Tha
saghdhe alt folkith at thet war hans hælagheth oc trodho
stadhlika oppa han Swa thro saraceni æn j dagh oppa honom
oc halda hans lagh Swa daradhe han folkit oc swek sik ila
sielfwan
[We also find described someone called Maghument. I think
that he did not fare much better with his divinity. About
Maghument.
There was a haughty monk called Sergius. He sought
greatness and dignity and dominion in the pope’s court in
Rome, and nothing came to him. This made him despondent,
and he fell into despair: He forsook his Christianity and took
flight to the pagan lands and came to Bēth Aramāyē(?). He
joined a young man called Maghument, speaking to him he
said thus: “Do you want to follow my counsel? I will make you
a great lord of all this country, and the people will worship
you and consider you their god”. He replied that he wished
to. Then the monk took a young dove and locked it in a room
and did not allow anyone to go in there except Maghument
alone. When he (Maghument) was to feed it, he took the
grain and stuck it in his ear and placed the dove upon his
shoulder, and then it took its food out of his ear. In the end, it
was so used to doing this, that whenever he arrived, it flew
up onto his shoulder and stuck its beak in his ear and looked
for its food. The same Maghument also had a young ox
locked indoors, which no one went in to except he alone. He
gave it fodder and the ox became so used to this that it
would kneel before him and eat its fodder from his lap. Then,
the aforementioned monk had all the people assemble and
spoke to them and said: “I want to prove to you for sure
whom you should worship and consider your god. The man
whom you see the Holy Spirit descend upon in the form of a
dove and whoever’s shoulder it sits on, he is the Son of God.
You shall praise him as your god and lord!” When he had said
this, he went secretly away and released the dove. It flew all
around the people and finally became aware of where
Maghument was standing. It flew upon his shoulder and stuck
its beak into his ear as it was in the habit of doing to look for
its feed. Then the monk said: “You see it clearly! The Holy
Spirit is whispering into his ear what he should teach you!”
Then, he released the ox, and as it had been standing a long
time indoors, it became so wild and crazed, so that no one
dared approach it or take hold of it. In the end, Maghument
went towards it and the ox fell to its knees straightaway and
placed its muzzle in his lap and looked for its fodder, as it was
in the habit of doing. After this, all the people considered
Maghument to be a god. And he gave the people a kind of
law by which they should live. When they fasted, they should
eat nothing during the daytime, but during the night they
could eat as often as they wished. When they were to pray,
they should wash their bodies beforehand. It was also allowed
for a man to have four legal wives. They could also take their
partner to make family relationships stronger. If any man was
caught with another’s wife, they should both be stoned. If a
man was caught with an unmarried woman, he should be
given eighteen lashes with a whip. And he gave them many
other articles of law to obey: Some of them were good, and
some of them were good for absolutely nothing. All that time,
there was a rich noble lady. She believed it all to be certain
and true and took him (Maghument) as her husband. Thus he
acquired great wealth and many possessions. After this, God
sent him a warning and gave him a punishment so that he
would consider his actions and better his ways. This was that
he collapsed three times every day. His wife was greatly
perturbed by this and was very distressed. He ask her not to
be sad and said that it was because St. Gabriel used to talk to
him and he could not endure the radiance that emanated
from him. Long afterwards he was poisoned.705 He had a
reliquary of iron made in which they should place him when
he was dead. And he had a temple built and had magnets
placed into the vaulted ceiling. When he was dead and
carried into the temple in the iron reliquary, the magnetic
stones that were in the vaulted ceiling drew the iron reliquary
upwards towards them, and it remained suspended there.
Then, all the people said that it was due to his sanctity and
still believed in him. So the Saracens still believe in him today
and keep his laws. Thus, he fooled the people and greatly
deceived himself.]

3. The Travels of Sir John Mandeville

Source: Stockholm, Royal Library, M 307 (previously K 31),
pp. 50–55; Foreign parallels: Itinerarius domini Johannis de
mandeville militis (Strassburg, 1483); Iohannis de monte; villa
Itinerarius in partes Iherosoliminitanas. Et in vlteriores
transmarinas (Cologne, c. 1500); Editions: Lorenzen 1882,
67–72.
The manuscript contains several lacunae and sections of
corrupt text. Words that I have supplied are in triangular
brackets. Text from the later manuscript, Stockholm, Royal
Library, M 306 (dated 1584), is in square brackets. Letters
rubricated in red are in bold.

Her effter maa mandh fongæ ath høræ aff machomets

lefneth Capitulum xxij. etc. etc.
Iech iettæ foræ j boghen at siæ || nogit aff makomets lefnẏt
som tee s<ar>acener settæ tørris høxtæ troo oppa som iech
hafuer fundit bescrefuit och jech hafuer hørt j therriss landh
huot heller han kaller hannum makon eller oc makomet eller
mahon eller makometus thet er thøm ther all ens the menæ
ther ath han er fødh aff ysmaels folk eller aff hans slekth som
vor abrahams søn huylkin han hadæ meth agor hans
husfrues tiænestæ qwynnæ oc ther aff kaless end sommæ
saracener ẏsmaelite oc sommæ agareni oc sommæ moabite
ok sommæ amonite aff thoo lots sønner moab oc amon som
føddess | aff too hans eynæ døtter per incestum Jtem vor
tennæ forscrefnæ makomet fødder vor herræss ardh sex
hundrædæ vdy arabia han vor først een fatik mand oc
giømdæ asnæ oc ther nest fuldæ han en køpmand ind vdy
egipten och bor therriss sekcæ om sin halss foræ løn skild oc
then tid vor egiptus cristen thy nam han oppa thee reẏser
han tiidh ford nogit aff ten helly throo oc sinderligæ nam han
aff eet ærmæthæ som bodhæ vdhẏ een øtken som ther j
melløm wor ther som han offtæ natitess och aff sadannæ
reyser och andher biæringh wordæ han møgith riigh saa at
falkith beg<i>nnædhæ || til oc hollæ aff hannum sa lenggæ
til han wor tagen til een styeræ øuer eet land som hedher
corrodana som ligger vdy arabie koninghæ ryghæ Saa
lenghæ til ther dødæ end herræ j teth sammæ landh som
han styrere wor [oc machomet fich hanns huszfrue som hed
cadigeran / oc siden bleff hand oc for hindis Skyld / megit
megre ophøyet. hand vor]706 een fultagæ mand och skøn och
ofuermadæ clog vdy hans ord oc gerni ngghre oc vor han
fræmdrawen oc ælsker aff falkith Jtem hadæ han then
fallendæ sooth oc thet vestæ engin Ten tid hans husfruæ
teth fornam taa wor hun høfuæligæ bedrøfueth at hun hadæ
fonghet sadan mand huylket han forsua rædæ oc sueg
husfruen meth een falsk orsagæ oc sadæ ath guts helly
engild ga|briel vor sender til hannum at syæ hanum nogit aff
guts hemmæligæ velliæ oc at han offtæ plæyædæ saa ath
giøræ thy kundæ han ikcæ lydæ hans clarhedh oc
neruarelssæ vdhen hannum burdhæ at fallæ til iordhen oc
then tid tessæ ord voræ obenbarædæ thaa kom [hand] vdy
eet stort loff sa aat <tha> koningin aff arabia bleff dødh
nogith ter effter tha wor han for hans falskæ skalkæ par och
hans falskæ helliheth som aff hannum sadess oc for
kostæligæ gafuer som han udh gaff oc kostælich iæth oc
fardeel som han udh iætthæ oc fran sek sadæ kesther til
koningh || ofuer alt arabie konings rẏghæ Ten sinnum han vor
stadfester vdy hans rygæ och høxstæ maiestaath som vor
ard effther gudz byrdh sex hu<n>dret oc eet oc tyuæ oc
hundretæ oc pannæ tet tolftæ dawæ die iouis som er om een
torsdagh tha obenbarædæ han oc lod vykynnæ then
forbannædæ bogh oc logh full aff vantro oc villelsæ som han
dictet hadhæ oc bødh allæ sinæ vnderdanæ ath the hennæ
saa hollæ skullæ all hans tidh udh Huẏlken bog saa mangæ
wtalẏghæ ardh intil thennæ dagh aff sa møgit wtallicth folk til
therriss eghen forderuelsæ nu holdess for troo ok low effter |
hans død Tet ma stor soruæ oc vselhed wæræ at sa megit
folk skal blifuæ forsømmit foræ end mantz villelssæ skildh
Jtem vor eet annet ermetæ vdẏ hans rigæ arabia then tidh
han vor koning j øtken huilket ermetæ han offtæ plæyædæ
ath søghæ oc hadæ meth sek noger aff hans rodh och
tiænæræ oc thet fortrøth thøm offtæ at han tid faræ villæ
saa offtæ thy hadæ tee j velliæ ath tee villæ slaa tet ermetæ
j hell Teth skedæ sa een nath at koningin vor hoos ermetet
oc tee drukchæ thøm bodæ druknæ aff win sa ath tee
sofnædæ bodæ til sammen. Ten tid hans tiænæræ
fornummæ at tee voræ bodæ druknæ oc lowæ til sammen oc
sofuæ || ta vdh drowæ thee hemmæligæ koningins suerd
som han hoos sin sidæ hadæ oc stungæ ærmedet iheel Ter
koni<n>gin oppuoknædhæ oc sa mannen liggæ dødh hoos
sek ta vor han megit galend oc vreder oc skyldædæ sinæ
tiænæræ ter foræ oc sadæ at the teth giort hadæ oc villæ
ther foræ hafuæ dødet thøm allæ sammen Ter han meth
thøm foræ kom foræ visæ mend oc foræ retthæ taa sadhæ
the allæ ath koningin hadæ teth seluer giorth j sin drukcen
skaph [thij huer mand det icke viste oc till itt tegenn sagde de
at hanns suerd vor ennd blodigt i Skedenn / oc at hannd icke
afftiurde blodit / før end hand ind stack suerdet /]707 oc han |
fan suerdet sa blodict oc tertil han hørdæ sa manghæ vitnæ
omod sek ta søruædæ han megit saræ och gik meth stor
bluelssæ bort oc forlofuædæ ath drikcæ vin nogher tidh j
sinæ daghæ oc forbød vdy sin logh noger mand at drikchæ
win oc forbannædæ tøm allæ tøm som vin plæyædæ at
drikcæ eller at seliæ huẏlken forbannelssæ skal gongæ ofuer
hans eygit hofueth effther ty ath thet stondher screfueth at
win glædher bodæ gud och menniskæ oc foræ tennæ sag
skild taa drikcæ saracener ikcæ win Huot som the ikcææ ||
giøræ obenbaræ teth giøræ tee tok een deel aff tøm
hemmæligæ teth som tee hafuæ foræ foræ drik tet er
søth oc løstict at drikcæ oc tet <f>øther vel oc teth er giort
aff kallamell som sukcher pleyer at vordæ aff Jtem nor
fornefnde makomet vor dødher taa vord han kostæligæ
smurder met yrther oc lauth udẏ een kistæ kostæligæ giort
met guldh oc sølff vdy een stad arabian ter som te begindæ
ath hollæ hannum foræ eend hellig mand oc foræ gutz vessæ
sendæ budh til tøm oc effter gutz byrdh nẏhu<n>dret ard vor
[det] fulæ ass hans legemmæ tæden ført oc til | een
verdigæræ stad som kaldess merk ter som han nu hetris oc
søgess aff megit falk som suẏgnæ æræ aff diæfuælind oc
hollæ hannum foræ enn hellich mandh.
[Below you can hear about Machomet’s life. Chapter 24.
I promised earlier in the book to tell something about the
life of Makomet, in whom the Saracens place their greatest
faith, whom I have found described and have heard about in
their land. Whether he is called Makon or also Makomet or
Mahon or Makometus, they are all the same thing. There they
believe that he was born of the tribe or family of Ishmael,
who was Abraham’s son, whom he begat on Hagar, his wife’s
servant-woman, and therefore some Saracens are called
Ishmaelites and some Hagarenes, and some Moabites and
some Ammonites after the two sons of Lot, Moab and
Ammon, who were born from incest by two of his daughters.
Also this aforementioned Makomet was born in AD 600 in
Arabia. At first, he was a poor man and looked after donkeys,
and then he accompanied a merchant to Egypt and carried
their sacks around his neck for payment. And at that time,
Egypt was Christian, so on these journeys, which he
undertook often, he learnt something of the holy faith, and, in
particular, he learnt from a hermit who lived in a desert,
which lay between (Arabia and Egypt), where he often spent
the night. And he became very rich from such journeys and
other means of support, so that people began to value him so
much that he was appointed ruler of a country that is called
Corrodana, which is located in the Kingdom of Arabia, until a
prince died in the very same country where he was ruler, and
Makomet married his wife, who was called Cadigeran, and
thanks to her, he became much more exalted. He was a
skilled and handsome man and extremely clever in his words
and deeds, and he was chosen and loved by the people.
Also he had epilepsy, and no one knew this. When his wife
noticed this, she became exceedingly sad that she had
married such a man. He defended this and tricked his wife
with a false reason and said that God’s holy angel, Gabriel,
had been sent to him to tell him something of God’s secret
will, and that he often used to do this. He could not tolerate
his radiance and presence, so he began collapsing to the
ground. And when these words were made public, he
received even greater praise, so that when the king of Arabia
died some time later, he was – because of his wicked cunning
and his false holiness which was told about him, and because
of the expensive gifts that he distributed, and precious
promises and advantages that he promised and announced –
elected king of all the kingdom of Arabia. When he was
installed in his kingdom and highest majesty, which was 621
years and a hundred days after the birth of God on the
twelfth day, die Jovis, that is a Thursday, he made public and
acknowledged the accursed book and law, full of superstition
and error, which he had composed, and commanded all his
subjects to obey this book until he died which, for so many
innumerable years since his death until this very day, has
been obeyed as faith and law by so many innumerable
people, leading to their own destruction. It is a great sorrow
and misery that so many people should be squandered
because of one man’s error.
Also there was another hermit in the desert in his kingdom
of Arabia, when he was king. He often used to visit this
hermit and took with him some of his council and servants,
and they regretted often that he wanted to go there so
frequently. So, they decided that they would kill the hermit. It
happened one night that the king was with the hermit, and
they drank themselves into a drunken stupor with wine, so
that they both fell asleep together. When his servants sensed
that they were both drunk and lay together and slept, they
secretly drew the king’s sword, which he had at his side, and
stabbed the hermit to death. When the king woke up and saw
the man lying dead beside him, he became very furious and
angry and blamed his servants for it and said that they had
done it, and for this he wanted to have them all put to death.
When he came before wise men and a court of law, they all
said that the king himself had done it in his drunkenness,
although he did not know it, and as evidence they said that
his sword was still bloody in its sheath, and that he had not
dried the blood off before he replaced the sword, and he
found the sword so bloodied. And when he heard so many
witnesses against him, he went away greatly ashamed and
swore never to drink wine again during his life and forbad
anyone by law from drinking wine and cursed all those who
used to drink or sell (wine). This curse affects his own head
because it is written (Judges 9. 13) that wine cheers both God
and man. And for this reason, Saracens do not drink wine.
What they do not do publicly, some of them do however in
private. What they drink is sweet and delightful to drink, and
it is nutritious and made from caramel, which sugar is usually
made from.
Also when the aforementioned Makomet had died, he was
anointed with herbs and placed into a coffin, expensively
crafted with gold and silver, in an Arabian town, where they
first began to consider him to be a holy man and God’s
certain messenger to them. And in AD 900, the vile maggot’s
body was transferred from there to a more worthy site, which
is called Mecca/Medina(?), where he is now honoured and
visited by many people who have been deceived by the devil
and consider him to be a holy man.]

Bibliography
Primary sources: Manuscripts

Denmark, Copenhagen: Arnamagnæan Collection: AM 783,

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Denmark, Odense: Karen Brahe Library, E III 6.

Sweden, Linköping: Huvudbiblioteket, Stiftsbiblioteket: B 70

a; B 70 b; Saml. 1.a; T 153 a.

Sweden, Lund: University Library: Mh 20.

Sweden, Stockholm: National Archives: E 8900; Royal Library:

A 3; A 9; A 10; A 34; A 49; A 54; A 58; A 108; A 109; A
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Sweden, Uppsala: University Library: C 9; C 528; C 529; C

831.

Vatican (Rome, Italy): Vat. Reg. lat. 525.

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Novum Supplementum. Ed. Henryk Fros. Brussels:
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Birgersdotter, Birgitta. Heliga Birgittas Uppenbarelser efter

gamla handskrifter. Ed. Gustaf Edvard Klemming. 5 vols.
Stockholm: P. A. Norstedt & söner, 1857–1884.

Bonaventure. Bonaventuras betraktelser öfver Christi

lefverne. Legenden om Gregorius af Armenien. Ed.
Gustaf Edvard Klemming. Stockholm: P. A. Norstedt &
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Brandt, Carl J. (Ed.). Romantisk Digtning fra Middelalderen. 2

vols. Copenhagen: Samfundet til den danske Literaturs
Fremme, 1869–1870.

Harpestræng, Henrik. Harpestræng. Ed. Marius Kristensen.

Copenhagen: UniversitetsJubilæets danske Samfund,
1908–1920.
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Copenhagen: J. H. Schultz, 1960.

Iacopo da Varazze [Jacobus de Voragine]. Legenda Aurea. Ed.

Giovanni Paolo Maggioni. 2nd edn. 2 vols paginated as
one. Florence: SISMEL, 1999.

John of Damascus. Heresies [ αἱρέσεων / De

haeresibus], in Patrologia Graeca, 94. Cols 677–780.

John of Damascus. John of Damascus: Writings. Trans.

Frederic Hathaway Chase. Washington, DC: Catholic
University of America Press, 1958. 111–163.

Klemming, Gustaf Edvard (Ed.). Själens tröst. Tio Guds bud

förklarade genom legender, berättelser och exempel.
Efter en gammal handskrift. Stockholm: Norstedt &
söner, 1871–1873.

Klemming, Gustaf Edvard (Ed.). Klosterläsning: Järteckensbok,

Apostla gerningar, Helga manna lefverne, legender,
Nichodemi evangelium. Efter gammal handskrift.
Stockholm: P. A. Norstedt & söner 1877–1878.

Lorenzen, Marius (Ed.). Mandevilles Rejse i gammeldansk

Oversættelse tillige med En Vejleder for Pilrimme.
Copenhagen: S. L. Møllers Bogtrykkeri, 1882.

Olson, Emil (Ed.). Flores och Blanzeflor: Kritisk upplaga. Lund:

Berlingska, 1921.

Pedersen, Christiern. Christiern Pedersens danske Skrifter.

Eds. Carl Joakim Brandt and Thomas Fenger. 5 vols.
Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1850–1856.

Stephens, George (Ed.). Ett forn-svenskt Legendarium: Efter

gamla Handskrifter. 3 vols. Stockholm: P. A. Norstedt &
 Söner, 1847–1874.

Theophanes the Confessor. The Chronicles of Theophanes the

Confessor: Byzantine and Near Eastern History AD 284–
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Richard Cole

12 Kyn / Fólk / Þjóð / Ætt: Proto-

Racial Thinking and its
Application to Jews in Old Norse
Literature

It was at this time [after the fifteenth century] that

Jews, without any outside interference, began to
think “that the difference between Jewry and the
nations was fundamentally not one of creed and
faith, but one of inner nature” and that the ancient
dichotomy between Jews and Gentiles was “more
likely to be racial in origin than a matter of doctrinal
dissension”. This shift in evaluating the alien
character of the Jewish people, which became
common among non-Jews only much later in the
Age of Enlightenment, is clearly the condition sine
qua non for the birth of antisemitism.
(Hannah Arendt, The Origins of Totalitarianism)708

First published in 1951, in Arendt’s own words, “against a

backdrop of both reckless optimism and reckless despair”,709
The Origins of Totalitarianism was an avowed response to the
horrors of the twentieth century. It was a book which
intended to expose the innate flaws in modern thought,
particularly the intellectual currents which led to, or were
fuelled by, anti-Semitism. But for a work which was so open
about its focus on modernity, it often resonates with a debate
of key importance to our understanding of pre-modern
thinking. Arendt, the modernist writing about twentieth-
century totalitarianism, is frequently in agreement with
scholars, such as Miri Rubin, Jeremy Cohen, or Amos
Funkenstein, medievalists writing about twelfth- to
fourteenth-century Jew-hatred. What these four voices have
in common is that, in their view, consideration of the ‘inner
nature’ of the Jew did not occur until after the Middle Ages.
Rather, the medieval mind apprehended Jewish difference in
purely religious terms. In the view of these scholars, until the
Enlightenment – the sparks from which Arendt’s subject of
modernity would ultimately emerge – there was no thought in
which notions of race or genetics took precedence over
religion. Ergo, one cannot speak of medieval anti-Semitism:
During this period, there was only anti-Judaism.710 Medieval
thinkers may have criticized the Jews, medieval doers
sometimes took up arms against them, but neither felt any
enmity towards a ‘Jewish people’. In the line of thought neatly
surmised by Arendt, the medieval Jew was despised for his
beliefs, not his birth.711
Other scholars have had no such qualms about deploying
the concept of anti-Semitism alongside anti-Judaism, or if
they eschewed the word ‘anti-Semitism’ itself, considering
factors beyond the religious. After all, when medieval sources
depict Jews as hook-nosed, physically weak or effeminate,
instinctively untrustworthy, or intellectually deficient, can we
really expect the lay audiences who received such images to
discern nuanced theological criticism of the Jewish faith?
Consider, for example, the Jew of Tewkesbury from the
Polychronicon (compiled c. 1327–1342). In this episode
quidam Judæus per diem Sabbati cecidit in latrinam, nec
permisit se extrahi ob reverentiam sui Sabbati712 –“a certain
Jew fell into a latrine on the day of the Sabbath [Saturday],
but did not allow himself to be taken out on account of
reverence for his Sabbath”. As Anthony Bale has pointed out,
this little exemplum “is grounded in the Old Testament
stipulations concerning the observance of the Sabbath” and
“responds to Jewish polemic and Talmudic material [… It]
reverses Jewish invective and possibly stems from Christian
anxieties about controversial, heretical Talmudic
material”. 713 Bale’s treatment is rigorous and convincing, and
arguably situates the narrative in its anti-Jewish context. But
there is also a much more immediate discourse at play; the
scornful, inane image of a Jew wallowing in shit, a crude
alignment of Jews with excrement – I use this vulgarism to
highlight the vernacular quality of this reading. At this basic,
surface level reception of the Jew of Tewkesbury, it is hard to
avoid the feeling that we are in the realm of anti-Semitism.
Historians of Christian-Jewish relations who have been
willing to accept the suggestion that the medieval mind could
sometimes be as fixated on notions of heritage as it was on
religious status include Bale, Salo Baron Cohen, and Joshua
Trachtenberg.714 It should be stressed that to maintain such
a position is not to deny the religious dimension of hostile
sentiment towards Jews, i.e., anti-Judaism. Rather, it is to
admit that a national, ethnic, or racial element sometimes
also exerted its influence. In short, it is to accept that the
medieval mind was capable of comprehending ‘faith and
creed and inner nature’. Speaking in a medieval English
context, Bale provides a lucid delineation of these two
distinct tendencies:

To argue against the usury practised by the Jews of

Norwich on the grounds of Judaism as opposed to
Christianity might be called ‘anti-Judaism’. To
represent Moshe [‫ ]ﬣשּמ‬as Mosse-Mokke in [a]
fictive, grotesquely physical register, in which an
imagined ‘Jewish’ body is the cynosure for a range
of vices, is antisemitic. [See fig. 4.] ‘Antisemitic’ will
 be my preferred term throughout: There are few
‘real’ Jews in the narratives I consider, only
deprecatory non-Jewish ideas about Jews.715

Fig. 4: Mosse-Mokke in the Rolls of the Issues of the Exchequers, Hilary Term
1233 (17 Henry III), National Archives E. 401/1565. (Photograph: National
Archives)

I will make only two observations regarding this ongoing

debate over terminology: 1. while a subject as emotive as
Jew-hatred obviously requires the commentator to exercise a
special degree of precision, this question of religious or racial
intent becomes meaningless once we consider reception. It is
bold enough to claim we know the meanings texts would
have had in the minds of their original authors. But how can
we possibly claim certain knowledge of the way their
audiences understood them – particularly in the case of
material that was read aloud to large groups, as so much
medieval Christian literature was? As previously suggested, a
sermon on the Crucifixion may have been written as a subtle
work of allegory, inspired by a rich tradition of Christian
thinkers going all the way back to the Church Fathers.
Doubtless, some of the faithful would have recognized that.
But to the minds of some uneducated laymen, it may well
have sounded like little more than an authoritative
explication of the unique cruelty of the Jews. 2. the entire
debate is to some degree an accident of language. Scholars
writing in German can simply refer to an all-encompassing
Judenhass. Similarly, the limited work on anti-Jewish
sentiment in Old Norse literature by Bjarne Berulfsen used
the Norwegian jødefientlighet.716
My purpose here is not to evaluate the appropriateness of
the word anti-Judaism vs. anti-Semitism, but I will engage
with the basic issue underpinning that discussion. The
question at hand is this: Was there a tendency in medieval
Norway and Iceland to perceive the Jews as a race, as well as
a religion? To do this, I will examine certain pieces of Old
Norse literature, particularly texts intended for mass
consumption, such as Marian legends and homilies – miracula
were used in Old Norse preaching since the Old Icelandic
Homily Book.717 We will also consider some moments in
visual culture, specifically church art and manuscript
illustrations. Other than the aforementioned article by
Berulfsen in 1958, which he followed with an encyclopaedia
entry in 1963, the subject matter of Jews in Old Norse
literature has gone largely uncommented upon by critics.718
It is worth noting, however, that this brief treatment was
extremely sceptical of there being any racial element in Old
Norse treatments of the Jewish topos. Berulfsen asserted that
“den første påviselige jødefiendtlighet altså utelukkende er
av religiøs karakter [the first visible antagonism towards Jews
is exclusively religious in character]”.719
While research on Jews in Old Norse may be rather shallow,
the last twenty years has yielded some interesting
scholarship on medieval notions of race more generally. A
2001 special issue of the Journal of Medieval and Early
Modern Studies dedicated to the topic is particularly worthy
of note. There, Robert Bartlett elucidated a conception of
medieval race rooted in a study of contemporary
terminology. Thus, he identified the Latin words gens and
natio as terms which often implied descent groups, while
populus did not. Examining the medieval reception of
Hippocrates, Aristotle, and Pliny, together with original
medieval authors, such as Albertus Magnus and
Bartholomeus Anglicus (both fl. 1240s), Bartlett observed a
strong tradition of geographic determinism and interest in
skin colour in medieval racial thought. But more than race
being a matter of breeding, he also saw a focus on cultural
delineation: Language and law were just as important as
inheritable features, such as skin tone, when the medieval
mind was organizing the world into races. Here, he cited
examples by William of Malmesbury, John Fordun, and
Emperor Charles IV, among others.720
Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, whose publication in the same
volume as Bartlett was later revised in his Medieval Identity
Machines, stresses the primacy of the body as a site of
difference in medieval race theory, rather at the expense of
Bartlett’s additional consideration of incorporeal alterity.
Drawing on diverse sources, including the chansons de geste,
the Etymologiae, the Cursor Mundi, and medieval receptions
of the Galenic corpus, he presents a pre-modern conception
of race as being an affiliation of bodies. In Cohen’s view,
when a group all display the same bodily trait, we are
witnessing a partition of peoples not religions. True, dark
skinned images of Saracens and ‘Ethiopians’ imply symbolic
criticism of their Islamic beliefs, as hook-nosed Jews do for
Judaism, but the implication of the body in these polemic
efforts has shifted the discourse.721 To apply Cohen’s
approach to the example provided by Bale earlier, it hardly
seems that in the medieval mind, if Mosse-Mokke would only
relinquish his beliefs, then his nose would straighten itself, he
would be welcomed into Christendom, and all would be well
with the world. In Cohen’s formulation, race is the somatic
manifestation of difference. The body introduces a way of
thinking about Otherness that is no longer entirely spiritual:
People look different because they were somehow born
different.722
In the same 2001 volume, William Chester Jordan pointed
out the expediency of reducing racial thinking to its essence.
Whether we call it ‘racial’, ‘national’, or ‘ethnic’, we are
describing the same phenomenon: The explanation of a
person’s characteristics by recourse to the values projected
on to the collective (s) to which they belong. Jordan suggests
that “[w]e should not substitute ethnic identity for race […]
They mean the same thing in [this] formulation, but it would
[…] be a kind of cowardice to hide behind six syllables when
we could speak the language of truth with one.”723 In a
sense, what Bartlett, Jordan, and Cohen suggest is
fundamentally in agreement with Arendt’s definition of racial
thought, even if it is at odds with her chronology: Race is the
business of using outer signs – language, skin colour, law – to
reveal ‘inner nature’. This will be the definition of ‘race’ and
‘racial’ employed in this paper.
Written sources from Iceland and Norway almost entirely
avoid descriptions of Jewish physicality of the kind which
Cohen and others would find racial. There are two rather
marginal exceptions: A skaldic verse describes Jarl Sigvaldi,
who betrayed Óláfr Tryggvason at the Battle of Svolder. as
having a niðrbjúgt nef (crooked [lit. down turned] nose). This
has been interpreted by Theodore Andersson as an allusion
to the archetypal traitor, Judas, and would suggest that the
‘hook-nosed Jew’ motif had popular currency either at the
time the verse was composed (1000) or the saga was written
(c. 1190).724 The only other attestation of the phrase
niðrbjúgt nef occurs in the Eddic poem Rígsþula, which tells
of how the pagan god, Rígr, slept with three women and so
fathered the three classes of man: þræll (slave), jarl (earl),
and konungr (king). Attendant to the theme of racial thought,
we might note that in this poem, each class is described as
an ætt, a term implying a lineage or descent group.725 This
resonates with Bartlett’s connection of feudalism with racism,
where he describes the Middle Ages as “a world in which
blood and descent were seen as fundamental. A noble was
generosus or gentle or gentil – ‘well born.’ A serf was nativus
–‘born unfree’”.726 In stanza 10 of Rígsþula, Þír, the mother of
the ætt of slaves, is introduced as so:

Þar kom at garði She came towards the farm,

gengilbeina; bow-legged;
aurr var á iliom, armr muddy footed, with sunburnt
sólbrunninn, arms,
niðrbiúgt er nef, nefndiz The nose was crooked, she was
Þír.727 named Þír.

There are some interesting echoes of both racial and religious

invective here. Aside from the hooked nose, Þír is depicted as
dark-skinned, as Jews frequently were in both visual and
textual culture.728 She is also unclean, a prejudice levelled
against Jews in various tropes: the foetor judaicus (Jewish
stench), the contagious well-poisoner, the Judensau (pig-
suckler), etc.729 More striking than both these resonances,
however, is the fact that she is a servant. From Augustine
describing the Jews as book-carrying servants for Christian
students, to Emperor Frederick II’s designation of Jews as
servi camere nostre (servants of our chamber), to the
possessive servitude exhibited in the Anglo-Norman Judei
Nostri, the doctrine of the ‘Jew in Christian Service’
permeated medieval thinking about Jews.730 Þír might be
compelling evidence of a widespread apprehension of Jews in
both physical and racial terms, but the dating of Rigsþula is
unresolved. As Thomas D. Hill notes, it “might be much older
than the MS in which it was preserved [1270s], and a product
of the pre-Christian period, or it might be the work of
eleventh or twelfth century Icelandic of Norwegian poets of a
somewhat antiquarian disposition”.731 The younger dating
would support the theory that the poet is drawing from
popular thinking about Jews, the elder would rule it out: Why
would a pagan Scandinavian be anti-Jewish, let alone anti-
Semitic? At any rate, neither of these two instances of a
niðrbjúgt nef is applied directly to Jews. Their allusive nature
hints at a widespread racial apprehension of Jews – note,
following Bale, the ‘grotesquely physical register’ –but they
are not definitive proof thereof.
When Old Norse authors discussed Jews explicitly, they
tended to engineer difference through descriptions of their
behaviour rather than their bodies per se. Consider one of the
Norse versions of the Erubescat miracle. In this tale, widely
known in many medieval literatures, Jews plot to abduct and
murder a cleric who torments them by singing a hymn which
decries their rejection of Christ. A Jew dresses as a monk in
order to kidnap the cleric, and the captive is accordingly
executed. The conspirators almost get away with it, until a
miraculous intervention by the Virgin Mary reveals their
crime. The Christians respond as so:

kallar konvngrinn saman mikinn lyð oc stefnir

fiølment þing, þviat hann var þar i borginni þann
tima, er þvillikir lvtir gerðuz. Er a þvi þingi þetta mal
vpp borit af kirkivnnar halfv ok konvngsins, hversu
gyðingar hafa prettvissliga gabbat savðaher guðs.
Þar eptir dømir konvungrinn með beztu manna raði,
at fyrir þa grein at gyðingrinn hafði klerkinn gripit vt
af kirkivnni vndir siðløtis bunaðe, skulo allir gyðingar
taka þa pinv, ef þeir uilia eigi snvaz til rettrar trvar,
at þeir skulo engi kløði bera nema gvl, ok þo vánd
ok felitil at øllvm kosti, at þeir se avðkendir með
sinni otrv ok fraskilianligir guðligri hiørð, sem iafnan
meinmøla hinn krossfesta Jesum ok hans dyrðliga
moðvr blezaða mey Mariam drotningv
 [the king calls together a great crowd and arranges
a large assembly, because he happened to be in
town at the time when these things happened. At
this assembly the matter was raised on behalf of the
Church and the king, how the Jews had cunningly
mocked God’s flock. Thereafter the king, with
counsel of the greatest men, deems that as the Jew
had seized the cleric from the Church by wearing
the clothing of the righteous all Jews should have
the punishment, that if they will not be turned to the
correct faith, they will wear no clothes but yellow,
and indeed poor and miserable ones in every way,
so that they might be recognized for their
faithlessness and their separation from the godly
herd, as they always abuse Jesus the Crucified and
His glorious mother, the Blessed Virgin, Queen
Mary]732

Clearly, this episode is couched primarily in religious terms.

What the Jews have done is a product of ótrú (faithlessness).
Moreover, the Jews do not exhibit any corporeal difference
from the Christians: The Jew can successfully disguise himself
as a monk because there is otherwise no outwardly visible
difference between himself and a Christian. On these
grounds, the message would rightly be described as anti-
Jewish, rather than anti-Semitic. But it also contains the very
faint beginnings of a deliberation on ‘the inner nature’ of the
Jew. The text leaves some important questions unanswered.
If to be a Jew is simply to believe erroneous things, why do
the Jews not convert when they witness the Marian miracle?
733 What must be wrong with them, to make them so

irrational and stubborn? And if Judaism is only a religion, how

does it make its adherents so préttviss (cunning)? Elsewhere,
Old Norse literature tends to depict personal qualities,
particularly moral and intellectual ones, as innate rather than
learned. As Paul Bibire remarks succinctly: “Personality traits
were […] believed to be inherited; genealogical narrative was
therefore a guide to how subsequent descendent would
behave in specific narrative situations”.734 I see no reason for
this one miracle to be an exception to this tradition. Its
audience would have heard through homilies that the Jews
were recalcitrant and crazed back in the time of Christ; thus,
through the principle of genetic inheritance the contemporary
Jews would be the same.735 It was their lineage, not their
religion, that made them so. In the king’s own words, the
yellow clothes he enjoins upon the Jews are a way to
recognize the fact they are fráskili (separated, isolated,
astray; as defined by Cleasby and Vigfússon).736 I do not
deny the religious connotations of the word, but what the
king also seems to be motioning towards is ‘difference,
Otherness’. Doubtless, the yellow clothes signify religious
alterity, but they can also be understood as an outer
articulation of an unchangeable ‘inner nature’. Indeed, a
similarly ambiguous mixture of racial and religious thinking
stood behind the decision by the Fourth Lateran Council in
1215 which led to Jews being forced to wear coloured badges
in many European polities:

In some provinces a difference in dress

distinguishes the Jews or Saracens from the
Christians, but in certain others such a confusion
has grown up that they cannot be distinguished by
any difference. Thus it happens at times that
through error Christians have relations with the
women of Jews or Saracens, and Jews and Saracens
with Christian women. Therefore, that they may not,
under pretext of error of this sort, excuse
themselves in the future for the excesses of such
prohibited intercourse, we decree that such Jews
and Saracens of both sexes in every Christian
 province and at all times shall be marked off in the
eyes of the public from other peoples through the
character of their dress.737

Again, the tone is ostensibly religious. Here, Jews are not

perceived to have any substantial physical differences from
Christians that would otherwise reveal their identity. But the
clerics behind this edict do not even consider the possibility
that ‘relations’ between Jews and Christians might lead to
conversion. They appear to be more concerned that some
sort of contamination might occur. Even if Jews do not exhibit
external difference, what is it in their inner nature that must
be kept away? When premarital intercourse is already a sin,
why is it considered so much worse to sleep with a Jew that
the issue requires its own legislation? When legislators begin
to concern themselves over the intermingling of Christian and
Jewish bodies, their thinking may yet be described as anti-
Jewish, but the drift towards a somatic discourse betokens at
least the beginnings of something racial.738 In this way, the
author of the Old Norse Erubescat miracle may have
misunderstood the historical origins of the ‘yellow badge’, but
his work is a product of the same psychology.
This way of thinking is developed further elsewhere in the
Norse miracula. In the Toledo Miracle, the voice of the Virgin
Mary is heard from the heavens, warning the Toledans that
the local Jews are planning to re-enact the crucifixion með
mikilli slœgð ok illzku (with great cunning and evil). The
archbishop summons a crowd, and they begin a search for
where the Jews might be intending to carry out their secret
rite. The episode is resolved as so:

Ok fóru þeir fyrst til halla þeira, er byskup gyðinga

átti, ok rannsökuðu þar. Ok þá er erkibyskup kom í
þinghús þeira, þá fannz þar líkneskia gör af vaxi í
 líking lifanda mannz. Hon var börð ok hrækt, ok þar
vóru menn margir af fólki gyðinga ok féllu á kné fyrir
líkneskiuna, sumir gáfu henni kinnhesta. Þar stóð ok
kross hiá, ok höfðu gyðingar þar ætlat at negla
líkneski þetta þar á krossinn til spotz ok svívirðingar
við dróttin várn Jesum Krist ok alla þá er á hann
trúðu. En er kristnir menn sá þetta, þá brutu þeir
þetta líkneski, en drápu alla gyðinga, þá er þar vóru
við staddir.739

[First they went to the hall which the rabbi (byskup

gyðinga) owned and searched there. And when the
archbishop came to their synagogue (þinghús) there
was found a statue made of wax, in the likeness of a
living man. It was battered and spit-drenched, and
there were many people of the Jewish race (fólk)
falling on their knees before the statue, some
slapped it on the cheek. Also, there stood a cross
nearby, and the Jews had intended to nail that
statue to the cross for the mockery and insult of Our
Lord Jesus Christ and all who believed in Him. And
when the Christians saw this, then they destroyed
that statue and killed all the Jews who were
present.]

While the narrative voice has not introduced the theme of a

visibly different Jewish body, when we consider the
motivations of the Jewish antagonists a little more closely the
author’s proto-racial message becomes apparent. What are
the Jews really doing in this scene? Superficially, their
performance is a straightforward ridicule of Christianity.
There is a rich tradition of mockery by sculpting an insulting
effigy in Old Norse literature, and although the Toledo miracle
is a translation, I find it hard to believe that Icelanders
hearing it were not at least occasionally reminded of the
valences of parodic statues in their own culture. This tradition
is known as tréníð (wooden insult) – níð refers to a particular
kind of humiliating denigration, often but not universally
understood to have sexual implications. Its chief quality is
that it “seek[s] to degrade a person in the opinion of others
by referring to him or representing him as a despicable
person” and “always conveys contempt”.740 Indeed, the
mockery and irreverence of níð would have made a perfect
analogue with the stereotype of the sceptic, bilious Jewish
assailant. That such a connection was plausible to the minds
of medieval Icelanders is confirmed by the Old Norse saga of
St. Peter (Pétrs saga Postula) where the word gyðingr (Jew) is
at one point replaced with guðníðingr (lit. one who commits
níð against God).741
Even when the Jews have very nearly succeeded in their
conspiracy, there is still a logical flaw at its core. The whole
point of níð is that it must have an audience who are thereby
shamed and wounded. But this strange performance was
never actually intended for Christian eyes. Indeed, were it not
for the intervention of the Virgin Mary, it would have
remained known only to the Jews who participated. This is the
very same conundrum we saw at work in the Erubescat
miracle; the inscrutable, irrationality of the Jews. But it is
intensified here by the apparent frenzy that apparently
consumes them. It is not merely a question of stubbornness,
but actual derangement akin to the Jewish dementia posited
by Bede.742 There is no sense here that the Jews are guilty of
misunderstanding the scriptures. Rather, they are incapable
of understanding anything at all. The author has taken a step
towards separating ‘Jews’ from ‘Judaism’: The antagonists of
this episode can hardly be said to belong to a structured
religion. There is no one officiating over this frenzied display,
nor any sense of congregation, an opposing scripture, or non-
Christian ritual. Noticeably, the rabbi’s house is empty. The
Jews of Toledo present the image of having a leader and
being a religious community in their own right, but this is only
a pretence. They attack Christianity instinctively, irrationally,
and ineffectively, quite without the need for the
organizational hierarchies characteristic of Christianity, Their
incapability to think or reflect also means that apostasy is
impossible. In contrast to the Erubescat legend, the Jews are
not even offered the chance to be snúazk til réttrar trúar
(turned to the correct faith). Whatever it is in Jewishness that
makes the Toledan Jews hostile and crazed, it cannot be
undone by conversion. Thus, the only response available to
the Christians is to kill them all. The author’s concerns over
the indelibility of inner nature rather than the mutability of
religion are also exposed in his choice of language. He speaks
of a gyðinga fólk (lit. ‘people of the Jews’, but translated in
accordance with Jordan’s earlier call for simplicity as ‘Jewish
race’). The author does not speak of a gyðinga trú (Jewish
faith). He does not conceive of Judaism as an erroneous
religion to be proselytized away so much as he thinks of Jews
as a strange people to be wiped out.
This application of the word fólk to the Jews in an interesting
development, and it warrants further comment on
terminology. Fólk is a rather semantically narrow term, quite
possibly equivalent to Bartlett’s previously cited identification
of populus, defined in the Icelandic-English Dictionary as ‘folk,
people’.743 Its use in the Toledo Miracle may hail a
phenomenological shift from thinking solely about Judaism to
a further consideration over ‘the Jews’, but it is not a racial
descriptor per se. Cleasby and Vigfússon maintained that
“the Germ[an] sense of people, nation [Dan(ish) folket] is
strange to Icel[andic]”.744 Their generalization is not entirely
correct. An Old Norwegian homily on the massacre of the
innocents exerts considerable effort in delineating the
gyðinga fólk from the gyðinga kyn, kyn Palestinorum and kyn
Jacobs.745 It seems hard to believe that the homilist is not
conceiving of the term as an ethnic identifier there. Several
Old Norse texts also use variations of the term Isræls fólk to
refer the Jews, including The Old Norwegian Homily Book,
Stjórn, and Konungs Skuggsjá. Thómas saga Erkibyskups
refers to the French as Frankaríkis fólk. Snorri Sturluson
frequently uses fólk to describe the diverse races of gods,
elves, and giants who populate his Prose Edda.746 But if fólk
only very occasionally conveyed a sense of ethnic
delineation, there is one example from Old Norse literature
where the Jews are referred to with a collective noun that did
have explicitly racial connotations. The word kyn conveys the
idea of genetic extraction, but also of type or species. Thus
Cleasby and Vigfússon suggest the Latin translation genus, or
modern English “kin, kindred […] a kind, sort, species”.747
There are several moments in Old Norse literature where
people are described in terms of their kyn. In Eyrbyggja saga,
a trader by the name of Nagli is “skozkr at kyni [Irish by
descent]”,748 which Sverrir Jakobsson has proposed as a
marker to explain his discomposure and cowardice in
battle.749 Similarly, Ívarr Ingimundarson in Morkinskinna is
said to be “íslenzkr at ætt ok stórættaðr at kyni, vitr maðr ok
skáld gott [Icelandic by descent and noble in extraction, a
wise man and fine poet].”750 Is Ívarr poetically gifted and
Icelandic, or poetically gifted because he is Icelandic? After
all, Theodoricus Monachus and Saxo Grammaticus both
praise the Icelanders’ reputation as poets, and the majority of
known skálds were Icelanders.751 Demonstrating
considerably less subtlety, Bergr Sokkason makes very clear
his concept of kyn as an ethnic appellation and as a
foreshadowing of character. In his Nikolaus Saga Erkibyskups,
he tells the story of a troubled merchant who approaches a
Jewish moneylender: “sækir hann heim gyding nockurn
storliga rikan at gulli ok silfri, sem þess hattar kyni er
veniuligt, bidiandi, at hann seli honum sva mikit gull at lani
[he seeks the home of a certain Jew, very wealthy in gold and
silver, as those of this kind of race usually are, asking that he
might loan him much gold]”.752 Predictably, Bergr’s
stereotype does not proceed to behave with much integrity in
the following transaction. Just as Nagli’s Irish kyn made him
cowardly, Ívarr’s kyn made him poetic, and the Jewish
moneylender’s kyn makes him wealthy and dishonest.
Bergr’s moneylender will ultimately convert to Christianity,
but in my view the triumph of God’s love over ‘bad blood’
does not erase the implication of inherited, innate negative
qualities. Just as Bergr chose to end on a theme of divine
redemption, he also chose to begin with the notion of kyn. He
might have spoken of þess háttar trú (this kind of faith), þess
háttar starf (this kind of profession), þess háttar stétt (this
kind of rank), etc. He did not.
As seen, textual depictions of Jews from Iceland and Norway
may well approach Jewishness as something irremovable,
inheritable, and therefore racial, but they do not use the body
to articulate this essentialism. Visual culture, on the other
hand, is a different matter. As we have seen in the case of
Mosse-Mokke cited by Bale, other medieval European
cultures frequently used pictures of Jews to communicate
anti-Semitic notions of Jewish difference. Students of Old
Danish and Old Swedish have a rich array of sources to
choose from in this regard, as Denmark and Sweden are
richly endowed with surviving examples of church art. Old
Norse specialists have a dramatically narrower range with
which to engage: There are some impressive manuscript
illustrations from Iceland, but virtually no church art survives
there, and for depictions of Jews the Norwegian material is
only marginally superior.753 But in the Icelandic case, we
have one surviving collection of illustrations known as the
Teiknibók (AM 673a, 4°), which is widely reckoned to have
served as a model for manuscript illustration and church art
throughout the Middle Ages.754 Naturally, we cannot be
certain how closely Icelandic church-painters copied these
models, but it is probable that the images contained in the
Teiknibók were not completely unique, and it seems safe to
assume they are broadly representative of the medieval
Icelandic visual culture which we have now largely lost.

Fig. 5: Malchus struck by St. Peter, Teiknibók , fol. 9r. (Photograph: Stofnun Árna
Magnússonar)

The Teiknibók features several images of Jews, many of

which exhibit classic racist tropes – I do not mean to put the
Middle Ages on trial by using the word ‘racist’; rather, I intend
only to highlight the fact that the artist in question apparently
rehearses the notion that Jews look a certain way, and he
clearly does not intend his depictions as compliments.755
Three artists are thought to have worked on the manuscript,
but all the depictions of Jews here are by the same hand,
dated between 1330 and 1360.756 In addition to the usual
hooked noses (see fig. 5 and fig. 6), there are also some
slightly subtler strategies of somatic difference at play. The
Jews are generally much less physically imposing than Christ
and his apostles. One image (fig. 7) features a particularly
dainty, elfin Jew, who would scarcely reach Jesus’ armpit were
he to stand:
 Fig. 6: Bald, hook-nosed Jew helps apply the crown of thorns. Teiknibók, fol. 6r.
(Photograph: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar)

Like the equally petite Malchus, he can also only muster a

wispy stubble in contrast to Christ’s full beard. This concept
of the Jew as somehow lacking vitality, or indeed masculinity,
is wholly lacking in textual sources, but appears on multiple
occasions in the Teiknibók. In fig. 6, the Jew seems curiously
physically degenerate, with sickly, downturned eyes and
complete hair loss from the beard upwards. In the case of
these two examples, recent work by Carl Phelpstead on the
proclivity for Old Norse literature to align baldness and poor
beard growth with effeminacy or emasculation ought to be
borne in mind.757 It is not impossible that here we can
observe literary and visual expression in concert. In fig. 8,
although the folio is damaged, we can see that the Jew
nailing Christ’s left hand to the cross has long, feminine
eyelashes. The assertion of Jewish queerness was commonly
rehearsed in medieval culture, e.g., the idea that Jewish men
menstruate, that circumcision was sexually damaging, that
Jews forcibly circumcise or murder Christian children because
they despise their virginity, etc.758 As Steven Kruger has
pointed out, the racial and religious implications of this motif
were not clearly disambiguated:

The idea of Jewish and queer bodily degeneracy and

danger is linked also to a claim about ideas, a belief
that homosexuals and Jews were not just physically
but intellectually perverted, and in particular unable
to read and interpret texts properly. Jews of course,
were thought wilfully to misunderstand the truth of
Christ’s life, and of Scripture both ‘Old’ and ‘New’;
just as they possess debased bodies, their readings
debase texts by focusing only on the material, never
the spiritual.759
 Fig. 7: Detail from Crucifixion, Teiknibók, fol. 6v. (Photograph: Stofnun Árna
Magnússonar)

Nonetheless, Kruger describes this medieval Christian avatar

for Jewishness as the “the religiously and racially queer Jew”
who appears in “anti-Semitic texts”.760 The strategy is
ambidextrous: The weak, feminized Jews of the Teiknibók can
be read metaphorically. In that capacity, they serve as
symbols of a religion that lacks vitality, that is fading away,
that is utterly perverse. But like any metaphor, they can also
be read literally – in this case, as a comment on the moral
degeneracy and physical alterity inherent to the Jewish
people, or to use a term we saw earlier, the gyðinga fólk. A
lay audience of uneducated Icelanders, observing copies of
these illustrations daubed on church walls while they listened
to their preacher tell the Erubescat or Toledo miracle, may
well have understood things in such literal rather than
symbolic terms.
Fig. 8: Jew with effeminate eyelashes from Crucifixion, Teiknibók, fol. 6v.
(Photograph: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar)
Fig. 9: Dark-skinned Jew? The manuscript is defective and the colouring is most
likely accidental rather than original artistic intent. Nonetheless, the face is
noticeably darker than the liripipe it surrounds. Teiknibók , fol. 6v. (Photograph:
Stofnun Árna Magnússonar)

Lay misunderstanding of Jews exhibited through visual

culture can also be found in another, rather more unlikely,
place. The Codex Upsaliensis (DG 11, 4°) is an Icelandic
manuscript written in the early 1300s. It is most famous for
containing a unique recension of Snorri Sturluson’s Prose
Edda, but it also preserves several other shorter works: The
Second Grammatical Treatise, Skáldatal, Lǫgsǫgumannatal,
and, most importantly for our purposes, Ættartala Sturlunga
(The Reckoning of the Heritage [ætt] of the Sturlungs). This
text is a short genealogy of the Sturlung clan, which held
power over much of western Iceland during the thirteenth
century, and to which many prominent Icelanders belonged,
not least Sturla Þórðarson (d. 1284) and Snorri himself. It is
generically related to the regnal lists of the Norwegian royals,
where the male line begins with Adam, proceeds to the
Greeks/Trojans, then the Anglo-Saxons, and continues right
up to the incumbent monarch.761 However, it is unusual
amongst such genealogies for the number of errors it
contains. Details which would have been common knowledge
to anybody with even slight insight into the Bible are quite
confused. The son of Adam, for example, is listed not as Seth
but ‘Sech’. Similarly, Enoch becomes ‘Enon’. Likewise, details
from Classical literature which are elsewhere well understood
by Old Norse authors, are corrupted in the Ættartala, e.g.,
Tros becomes ‘Eroas’ (see fig. 10). These may well be simple
scribal errors, but if so we can at least be certain that the
hand responsible was very much a layman – nobody with a
modicum of clerical training could have made such mistakes.
Here, we should also note that there is no reason why the
scribe should not also have been the author, having adapted
his own tala from the material provided in the genealogy of
Óðinn given in the prologue to Snorra Edda.762 This ignorance
of biblical history on the part of the hand should be borne in
mind when we consider the illustrations which immediately
precede the Ættartala on fol. 25r.

Fig. 10: “Sechz” (cf. Lameck), “Enos”, “Eroas”. Codex Upsaliensis, fol. 25v.
(Photograph: Uppsala universitetsbibliotek)

The popular explanation for the three figures on fol. 25r has
been that they are dancers.763 Olof Thorell described fig. 11
as a “man i halvfigur med hakskägg, hållande en stav med
krycka [man in profile with a goatee, holding a staff with a
crutch]”.764 There are several reasons to describe it more
properly as a caricature of a Jew. Most obviously, there is the
niðrbjúgt nef that we have seen previously. Thorell
acknowledges the goatee, but neglects to add that this style
of beard was a staple of anti-Semitic imagery during the
Middle Ages.765 The theme of physical deterioration,
manifested in the figure’s wearied wrinkles, recalls our earlier
example from the Teiknibók (fig. 6). The man’s headgear is
not readily discernible: Is the hair covering the ears a crude
parody of the peyot, is he wearing a kippah, or is he sporting
a head of tight curls? All three possibilities would resonate
with medieval depictions of Jews – and indeed
contemporaneous notions of race, particularly if we consider
the peyot or kippah in light of Bartlett and Jordan’s definition
of medieval race as including law and customs.766
A logical question to pose at this point is: Why should there
be a Jew in the Codex Upsaliensis? A flippant response might
be: Why should a troupe of dancers be there either?
However, while I am ready to accept the hypothesis that the
scribe of the Ættartala drew a Jew simply because he could,
we might also be able to relate the image to the text in
question, and in doing so illuminate some of the ways that he
perceived the concept of ætt. As previously alluded to, the
Ættartala cleanly shifts from Biblical names, to Greek names,
to Old English names – or approximations thereof, e.g., Scef
becomes Sesef, Godwulf becomes Guðólf, Hereræd becomes
Hereðei, etc. – before finally arriving at Old Norse names,
which in turn can be divided into the royal Norwegian
Ynglingar line and the Icelandic Sturlung clan. It is possible
that the Ættartala scribe conceived of the first, biblical
portion as being Jews. Anyone with basic knowledge of the
Bible would know that they were not. The line goes from
Noah to Japheth, and then onwards to the Greeks, following
the assertion first popularized by St. Isidore of Seville that
Europeans were descended from Japheth. 767 The Ættartala
diverges several generations prior to the first Jewish
patriarch. But as previously seen, our scribe’s understanding
of Bible history was very much confused. It may be the case
that the Jew on fol. 25r is a graphic representation of how he
believed people such as Lamech and Noah would have
looked. It is worth noting that he appears to be measuring
between two points on the item that Thorell described as a
crutch. Is he, perhaps, indicating the portion of the tal or tala
to which he belongs?768 The two female figures in fig. 12 and
fig. 13 appear to be making similar measuring gestures,
explicating their own demarcations of the Sturlung pedigree.
Are they perhaps depictions from another part of the
Ættartala, possibly the only two-named female Sturlungar
(Vigdís Svertingsdóttir and Helga Sturludóttir)? Alternatively,
one of the women may be the only named female Yngling
(Ólöf Vémundardóttir). The figure with a sword in fig. 12
might be any number of the warriors in the Ættartala , from
Hector to Sighvatr Sturluson.
If the illustrations surrounding the Ættartala are indeed
inspired by the scribe’s understanding of the text, then fig. 11
is a striking visualization of a ‘Jewish’769 ætt, just as we
earlier encountered the ætt of slaves in Rigsþula or the ætt of
Icelanders in Morkinskinna. Moreover, it stresses the
ethnic/genetic component of ‘Jewishness’. The Sturlung line
does not become Christian until the Scandinavian branch
(and then quite late on; this line even includes Óðinn
himself), so it cannot be religious status that undoes the
hooked nose and wizened appearance. In the mind of the
scribe, the fact that the contemporary Sturlungar did not
‘look Jewish’ must have been attributed to an idea that
‘Jewishness’ was something that was inherited and could
therefore be bred outover the generations. His identification
of Noah et al. as Jews might well have been idiosyncratic in
medieval Iceland, but as we have seen such notions of
hereditary characteristics were not. In any case, even if fig.
11 is quite unrelated to the adjacent text, the image’s
rehearsal of the anti-Semitic tropes previously outlined
constitutes a further example of medieval Icelanders
expressing hostile sentiments about the inner nature of the
Jews via the site of the body.

Fig. 11: “Jew” with tally? Codex Upsaliensis, fol. 25r. (Photograph: Uppsala
universitetsbibliotek)

I will conclude with one more example of what I believe to

be a racialized image of the Jewish body from the Old Norse-
speaking world. Ål Stave Church was constructed during the
twelfth century in what is now Ål Kommune, south east
Norway. During the early 1300s a lavishly painted chancel
ceiling was added, depicting 23 scenes from the Bible.
Although the church was demolished in 1880, these paintings
were recovered and survive to date. Imagining being packed
into the church, staring up at the vibrantly coloured images
while the priest read material from the Old Norwegian Homily
Book or the miracula , one can understand how powerful the
lay experience of Old Norse religious literature must have
been. Returning to earlier observations made on the
reception of the Teiknibók, we might even speak of ‘the
multimedia Jew’. An illiterate Old Norse-speaking layman
could look from panel to panel on the chancel ceiling of Ål
stave church, following visual depictions of Jewish cruelty
during the Passion at the same time as the preacher narrated
them (we might even make an educated guess at what such
a sermon might have been like, e.g., Dominica palmarum
sermo from The Old Norwegian Homily Book).770 What the
written/spoken word did not say of the Jewish body, church
art could show.
 Fig. 12: Illustrations on Codex Upsaliensis, fol. 25r. (Photograph: Uppsala
universitetsbibliotek)

Some of the imagery from Ål is conversant with what we

have previously seen from the Teiknibók. The Icelandic fig. 5j
and the Norwegian fig. 15 both depict Malchus as hook-nosed
and diminutive. As suggested in fig. 9 from the Teiknibók, the
Ål Jews have visibly darker skin. In fig. 14 and fig. 16, Jesus
and his disciples exhibit a ruddy, fleshy tone. Judas and the
Jews are of a browner hue, which somehow simultaneously
conveys the image of being more pallid and sickly, while also
not being quite as ‘white’.771 Again, the visual and literary
cultures of West Norse-speaking Scandinavia coalesce on this
topic: dark complexions in general were often distrusted by
Old Norse authors, being seen as ugly or suggestive of
loutishness, impudence, or malevolence. It is a common trope
in the Íslendingasögur, that of two brothers, the one with a
darker complexion will be a troublemaker, e.g., Grímr and
Þórólfr Kveld-Úlfsson, then Egill and Þórólfr Skalla-Grímsson in
Egils saga.772 The sociologist Christen T. Jonassen went as far
as to claim that this eulogizing of fair features at the expense
of the dark was part of “a rather complete racist theory which
was integrated with […] mythology and [the Scandinavian]
total value system, and which in most respects paralleled the
myths of modern racist dogma”.773 It is particularly relevant
for our purposes to stress that in Old Norse literature dark
skin was considered to be a heritable trait, derived from ones
ætt. In BragðaMágus saga, for example, King Karl
interrogates the titular hero, who has presented himself at his
court in the guise of a man who is half Ethiopian (blámaðr)
and half Scandinavian:

“Hvar lannda ertu fęðingr?” segir keisara. Hann

mællti: “Ek em barnfęddr a Blálanndi. Enn blamaðr
var faðir minn, enn moðir min var ęttuð norðan yfir
haf; ok því em ek blár megin, at mer bregðr þui
til feðr mins; ok marga megi þer þar seá aBlalanndi
sva vorðna, sem ek em, ok micklu endimligri, ok sva
aSithia hinni Micklu”774

[“Of which country are you a native?” says the

emperor. He said: “I was born in Bláland. My father
was a blámaðr, but my mother was descended
(ættuð) from the north over the sea, and thus I am
 black on one side, which I get from my father, and
you can see many in Bláland who look like me, and
much more hideous besides, and also in Greater
Scythia.”]

Fig. 13: Female figure on Codex Upsaliensis , fol. 25r. (Photograph: Uppsala
 universitetsbibliotek)

Fig. 14: Jews from Passion scene (detail), Ål Stave Church. Note skin tone in
relation to Jesus. (Photograph: Eirik Irgens Johnsen)

Fig. 15: Malchus detail, Ål Stave Church. (Photograph: Eirik Irgens Johnsen)
Fig. 16: Detail from Last Supper, Ål Stave Church. Note skin colour of Judas (L) in
relation to the other disciples. (Photograph: Eirik Irgens Johnsen)

For a Norse-speaking congregation, who had never seen

actual Jewish people and so had no reason to suspect that the
iconographic traditions used to depict them might not be
intended literally, it seems unlikely that the skin tone of the
Jews would have been interpreted as a religious metaphor,
but rather as a biological reality. The same can probably be
said for the facial features of the Jews in fig. 14, which are
distorted to the point of looking scarcely human. Their noses
are so hooked that they merge back into the face like a
snout, their ears are oversized and flapping, their mouths are
twisted into snarls. The rather canine impression conveyed by
their grimaces may well have been intentional on the part of
the artist. The ‘Jewish dog’ was common in anti-Jewish or
anti-Semitic invective in the Middle Ages, and Jews are
described as dogs twice in the Norse miracula.775 In one
legend, it is said of a Jew who steals a statue of the Virgin
Mary that “eptir gløpzkvfvlla hvndz gerð helldr enn mannz
hvarf hann allr i brott, sva at hann fannz alldri siðan [in the
manner of a malice-filled dog rather than a man, he
completely disappeared so that he was never found
again]”.776 In an Old Norse account of the host desecration
trial that took place in Güstrow in 1330, the Jews allegedly
responsible are described as “hinu vondu hundar [those evil
dogs]”.777 By accident or design, this is an example of the
verbal and visual languages of anti-Semitism overlapping.
If the Ål congregation sometimes heard sermons or miracle
tales which were focussed on a purely religious conception of
Jews, the images which surrounded them nonetheless
articulated an overwhelmingly racial paradigm. The trope of
dark skin and implications of a bestial nature do little to
communicate the impression of Judaism as a rival belief
system, and much to enforce the suggestion of the
instinctively, corporeally Othered Jew. Such a propensity to
complement engagement with Judaism as a religion with
striking criticism of the Jews as a people is the common
theme in all the textual and visual encounters we have
discussed. Obviously, Old Norse-speaking culture reached its
apex long before the rise of the Enlightenment ideals which
Arendt and the medievalists who, by accident or design,
follow her intellectual footsteps consider to be necessary for
the apprehension of race. Nonetheless, many of the requisite
concepts for racial thought had long been attendant to the
medieval Scandinavian experience. As we have seen, Old
Norse literature exhibits an awareness of hereditary traits,
concerns over skin colour, dehumanizing invective, and
sophisticated terminology for describing kinship and descent
groups. In the examples presented here, kyn, fólk, þjóð, and
ætt are really ‘race’ by any other name.778

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IV. Images and
Stereotypes: Baltic Region
Sarit Cofman-Simhon

13 Missionary Theatre on the

Baltic Frontier: Negotiating the
Imagined Jew in the Riga Ludus
Prophetarum

To describe the event implies that the event has

been written. How can an event be written? What
can it mean to say ‘Writing the event’? […] The
[reporter’s] informative word was so closely
involved with the event, with the very opacity of its
present, as to become its immediate and
consubstantial meaning, its way of acceding to an
instantaneous intelligibility.
(Barthes 1989, 149)

If the identity of, for example, a historical document

is delimited by a historian, the process of knowledge
production is the process of, first, selecting a
document that is as yet undefined, at least as far as
the historian is concerned; second, locating it within
a series; and third, forming this document’s ‘present
intelligibility.’ To use a metaphor, a historical
document is spoken to, and forced to respond by
speaking, a language that is not its own but that
belongs to the voice that framed its reality as well
as present reality.
(Kobialka 1999, 19)
A passage from the thirteenth-century Chronicon Livoniae,
written by the priest Heinrich von Lettland (Henry of Latvia),
has repeatedly been addressed by historians of drama. The
Livonian Chronicle of Henry is a document in Latin describing
historic events in Livonia (present-day Latvia and Estonia)
from 1180 to 1227. The document “offers one of the most
vivid examples of the crusading ideology in practice in the
early thirteenth century”.779 However, the original
manuscript of the chronicle has not survived. There are
sixteen different copies, dating from fourteenth to the
nineteenth centuries, in which Heinrich reports on the early
stages of the Christianization of the Eastern Baltic peoples.
Among other episodes, Heinrich describes a Ludus
Prophetarum (Prophets’ Play), which was staged for pagans in
Riga in 1204, as a means of persuading them to convert to
Christianity. According to Heinrich, it was a ludus magnus,
that is, a large-scale event, rendering biblical figures, such as
King David, Gideon, and King Herod, with their armies.
The most intriguing detail about the description of the Riga
Ludus Prophetarum is the response of the spectators
(namely, the pagans). They fled. In Heinrich’s words, “the
armed troops of Gideon fought with the Philistines; the
pagans, afraid to be killed, began to flee but they were called
back again carefully”. 780 Apparently, the spectators
perceived the biblical Gideon and his troops as a physical
threat, in addition to potentially being colonizers of their
souls. Such unexpected theatrical interaction suggests that,
on the one hand, the staged combat was wildly realistic, and
on the other hand, Gideon, the judge chosen by God to free
the people of Israel and to condemn their worship of idols,
starred in Riga as a brutal missionary. Thus, the biblical
figures of ancient Israelite leaders acquired a negative image
in the eyes of medieval Livonians.
Relying on medieval theatre traditions and on
intertextuality between anti-Jewish sermons and proselytizing
practices of the Middle Ages, I would like to explore how this
Christianizing event constructed imagined Jews as a threat,
when in fact the spectators had few prospects of
encountering the alterity of flesh-and-blood Jews.781 Because
Heinrich’s description of the event is the sole extant
testimony to this missionary attempt, it is impossible to
discern the details with any certainty or to ascertain if there
was any diversity in the way the event was understood.
Heinrich was very much involved with the event. Moreover,
the impact of those who rewrote his text is unknown. I
therefore have to undertake a speculative, contemporary
reading of Heinrich’s writing, “determined by specific
agendas, beliefs, and interests.”782
I will argue that although most scholars do not address the
anti-Jewish sentiment of the Riga Ludus Prophetarum, its
power to produce anti-Jewish images reached beyond the
medieval dichotomy between ‘good’ Jews (the Old Testament
figures, who were not necessarily perceived as ‘Jews’ at all)
and ‘bad’ Jews (the New Testament figures who rejected
Jesus, and whose descendants lived in Europe). It does not
necessarily follow that pan-European structures of thought
and feeling are evident here, yet it does mean that staged
violence utilized as a missionary tool blurred the boundaries
of a possible dual perception of Jews. No imagined Jew
benefited from positive imagery. I wish to shed light on this
mostly disregarded aspect of the Riga Ludus Prophetarum,
although, as Nils Holger Petersen put it, “any discussion of
the (Riga) ludus magnus must inevitably end in
speculation”.783

13.1 Missionary theatre

Heinrich’s description is compelling:
 In that same winter [of the year 1204] a very
elaborate prophet play, which the Romans call a
comedy, was presented in the middle of Riga, in
order that that body of people might learn the
rudiments of the Christian faith through ocular
assurance. The matter of which play and comedy
was most carefully explained by an interpreter, as
much for the neophytes as for the pagans who were
present. Then, however, the armed troops of Gideon
fought with the Philistines; the pagans, afraid to be
killed, began to flee, but they were called back
again carefully. So, therefore, in a brief time the
church was completely still, reposed in peace. This
play was, however, like a preamble, a prelude and
presage of future evils. For in that same play there
were battles, namely of David, Gideon, and Herod.
There was doctrine of both the Old and the New
Testament, and undoubtedly through the many
battles that followed that body of people was
converted, and through the doctrine of the Old and
New Testament they were instructed as to true
peacemaking and how they may come to eternal
life.784

We may reasonably assume that the event took place

indoors, since “for a brief time the church was completely
still.” However, it might well have occurred outside: We do
not know whether there were any church buildings in Riga at
the time, and the word ‘church’ may refer to the
congregation itself. Heinrich explains that the text delivered
had to be simultaneously translated, so it is probable that the
clergymen involved as actors (such was the habit) spoke
Latin, even though we cannot exclude the possibility of
vernacular German. It was not only a large-scale
performance, but also a long and comprehensive one,
spanning David through Herod (based on the hypothesis that
the plot was a linear one). Finally, as Heinrich explains,
“through the many battles that followed that body of people
was converted”. It seems that for Heinrich the reason for the
heathens’ willingness to convert was the staged battles, from
which they had initially attempted to flee.
Performing arts – music, dance, singing, and drama – all had
a place in the religious life of the worshipping community at
the turn of the twelfth century and “it was of importance to
the ecclesiastical authorities that they were soundly based.
Either separately, or in combination, these performing arts
served to make the liturgy more convincing and
understandable”.785 If that was true of ordinary liturgy, it was
even more pronounced regarding proselytizing practices,
which raised numerous challenges and required the use of
performing arts. For one, in the Early Middle Ages, church
services were conducted in Latin, rendering them quite
unintelligible to the masses of the people. Sermons, on the
other hand, could be in a vernacular, while reading the Bible
was effectively out of question for the largely illiterate
masses. If they were to become familiar with Bible stories, it
would have to be through portrayals of events in the life of
Christ and his saints. Faced with the problem of explaining a
new religion to a largely illiterate population, churches began
staging dramatized versions of particular biblical events on
specific days of the year.
Liturgical drama, that is, live representations of biblical
stories, could have constituted a powerful rhetorical tool in
the Christianization process. These dramatizations might
have been included in order to vivify annual celebrations.
Symbolic objects and actions – vestments, altars, censers,
and pantomime performed by priests – recalled the events
that Christian ritual celebrates. These were extensive sets of
visual signs that could be used to communicate with the
audience. Traditionally, liturgical drama has been traced to
the Quem-Quaeritis (Whom Do You Seek) Easter trope, dating
from around 925. Monasteries at Fleury and Limoges in
France are often suggested as likely places of origin.
Liturgical drama was sung responsively by two groups of
clergy or choirboys and did not involve actors impersonating
characters. However, in the late tenth century, Æthelwold of
Winchester composed the Regularis Concordia (Monastic
Agreement), which includes a playlet complete with
directions for performance. We also have evidence that in the
twelfth century, in France, England, and Germany, dramatic
compositions were presented that dealt with such subjects as
the life of St. Nicholas, the martyrdom of St. Catherine, the
resurrection of Lazarus, the parable of the virgins, and a
ludus prophetarum , which included Moses and Samuel, as
well as King David and King Herod. The characters were
mostly major biblical figures, the title prophetarum thus
referring not to prophets in particular, but to leaders of the
Hebrews and the Israelites, from Antiquity up to Herod, the
Edomite king of Judea, who converted to and practiced
Judaism.
Judging by surviving texts, representing large-scale battles
does not appear to have been common in early Latin plays or
ceremonies. The need for more aggressive forms of
missionary theatre was identified later, a move which
stemmed from the resistance to Christianization in the lands
on the eastern shores of the Baltic Sea. Livonia was
considered a frontier, and forced conversion was the mission
of Heinrich and other priests, who “quite a few times also
joined in the combat”.786
I will briefly address the question of the poor stage-combat
technique most likely displayed in that ludus. From a
contemporary point of view, the presentation of violence in a
theatrical environment is based on the principles of reality,
with specific techniques that make the action safe for the
performers, while the audience perceives the violent acts as
real. A fight director generally needs a background in aspects
of martial arts, the overriding concern being for the safety of
the actors and the audience. Seemingly, this was not the
case in Riga. While the leading parts were probably acted by
clergy, it is possible the actor-warriors were local men
recruited for the missionary theatre, who might have
received some sort of payment. It is reasonable to assume
that they had no training for stage combat. It is possible that
during the staged battles, they hit each other, and some of
them might have been wounded, and fell into the audience,
making the fighting physically dangerous for everyone
present.
The use of staged battles in liturgical drama should be
looked at more attentively, since it also entails the need to
probe the spectators’ response from an aesthetic point of
view, and its significance as a conversion practice. Riga’s
inhabitants were probably not very versed in this type of
entertainment and, consequently, they displayed their
rejection of the ‘willing suspension of disbelief’. Obviously,
they were not in the position to willingly suspend their belief
that they were in real danger, since the intention was
probably precisely that –to scare them. Use of violence in
missionary theatre was deliberate and cunning, with the
intention of producing fear. The Church employed violence as
a pedagogical principle: “[B]rutal instructional activities help
the didactic dramatist to inscribe on the collective memory of
his audiences a message of his own about Christian
discipline”.787 The battles operated as an indication of what
would happen to those who would not apostate.
Moreover, by mediating violence through missionary
performances, the Church alluded to its power to discipline,
thereby presenting itself as a system capable of controlling
violence and imposing rules for peaceful conduct. There is
indeed a paradoxical lapse in this logic: The proselytizing
Crusaders in Livonia (and elsewhere) depicted their
colonialist enterprise as a liberating act, relocating violence
by virtue of Christianity’s dominance. Staged battles were
extremely suited to achieving the missionaries’ twofold goal –
as Enders puts it: “When the theater exploited
mnemotechnics, it too engaged in conservation, construction,
and reconstruction as its bodies mediated – as all memories
did – among past, present and future”.788 In other words,
staged violence both operated as mnemotechnics for
inculcating Christianity and promised a bright future of
discipline under Church governance. Petersen makes clear
the intention of and justification for the staged battles in
Riga:

The ludus magnus may have been anything from a

large-scale enactment of biblical wars and fighting,
combined with an exhortation to remind pagans of
the urgency of their conversion, to a more
traditional Latin sung play of a more or less
liturgically informed kind, such as the ordo
prophetarum, pointing to the coming of Christ and
representing the battle for the souls of the heathen.
Whatever the case, it seems that, for his
description, Henry [Heinrich] chose to justify the
violent conversion of the pagans in the Baltic by
using Old Testament models.789

In other words, beyond poor combat staging technique, it

could very well have been that the spectators took the
metaphoric battle literally: In some dramatic events directed
by the Church, the antagonists were, as Regula Meyer Evitt
puts it, “implicitly presented as part of the audience itself.
They were silent ‘naysayers’”.790 Re-enactment of Old
Testament battle scenes was part of Pope Innocent III’s
repertory during his papacy in the early thirteenth century:
“He knew what was going on in Livonia […] and approved
most of it”.791 If so, I would argue that Heinrich was perfectly
right: It was the staged battles that ultimately persuaded the
Riga spectators to convert to Christianity.
Staged battles indeed functioned as a metaphor for the
struggle between the Christian faith and paganism, with the
latter always defeated. We can substantiate the audience’s
perception that they were targets for the actor-warriors by
looking at other similar events. Performing battles as a
proselytizing method for imposing Christianity was a practice
also seen in other parts of the world, such as in Mexico:

Take the mock battles of the Moors and Christians,

for example, staged there in the sixteenth century.
The tradition, as the name implies, came from
Spain, a transplanting of the theme of the
‘reconquista’ of Spain after the expulsion of Moors
and Jews in 1492. In Mexico, these battles ended
predictably with the defeat of the Indians-as-Moors
and a mass baptism.792

13.2 The Baltic frontier

Christianity had come to Livonia with the Swedes in the ninth
century and the Danes in the eleventh. Alan V. Murray’s
anthology Crusade and Conversion on the Baltic Frontier
1150–1500 (2001) describes how German traders began to
arrive during the second half of the twelfth century to trade
along the ancient Daugava-Dnieper route to Byzantium. The
indigenous Livonians, who had been paying tribute to the
East Slavic Principality of Polotsk, at first considered the Low
Germans (Saxons) to be useful allies. They were often under
attack by their southern neighbours, the Semgallians. The
Livonians were of various ethnicities:

The ethnic groups encountered by the Christians in

the northern Baltic lands were Estonians, Livs and
Kurs [Curonians], who spoke Finno-Ugric languages,
and Lettgallians, Semgallians and Selonians, who
spoke Baltic languages.793

By the twelfth century, the peoples inhabiting the lands now

known as Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania formed a pagan
wedge between increasingly powerful rival Christian states –
the Orthodox Church to their east and the Catholic Church to
their west. This difference in creeds was one of the reasons
they had not yet been effectively converted.
Meinhard of Segeberg, an Augustinian monk, arrived in
Livonia in 1184, with the mission of converting the pagan
Livonians. “The conquerors originated from Germany and
Scandinavia and spoke Germanic languages, which were
totally different to those of the natives”.794 Heinrich portrays
Meinhard’s endeavour as a ‘peaceful mission’ culminating in
the establishment of “a suffrage of the archbishopric of
Hamburg-Bremen”795 in Üxküll (the historic German name of
Ikšķile, a town in present-day mainland Latvia), with Meinhard
as its first bishop (1186–1196). When peaceful means of
conversion failed to produce results, the impatient Meinhard
plotted to convert the Livonians forcibly, but was thwarted.
He died in 1196, having failed to achieve his mission.
Heinrich then records the next bishop of Üxküll, Bertold
(1096–1098), abbot of the Cistercian monastery of Loccum in
Hanover, who led the first Crusade to Livonia: He describes
his martyrdom – while riding ahead of his troops in battle,
Bertold was surrounded and killed, and his forces defeated.
 These accounts constitute only a prologue to the description
of the establishment of the Riga bishopric: “Henry’s chronicle
is designed as the founding narrative of the new bishopric,
Riga, aiming at establishing its legitimacy and identity”.796
Following Bertold’s defeat, Pope Innocent III issued a bull
declaring a Crusade against the Livonians. It was Albrecht
von Buxthoeven, a canon from Bremen, who in early spring
1200 embarked with a Baltic fleet of twenty-three vessels
and 500 armed Crusaders. He had the support of the
Hohenstaufen German King, Philip of Swabia, and the
blessing of Pope Innocent III. Together with merchants from
the Baltic Sea island of Gotland, Albrecht founded Riga in
1201, at the site where a small community of Hanseatic
traders from Lübeck maintained a tentative trading
encampment. Albrecht established Riga as the seat of his
bishopric, and his uncle Hartwig, archbishop of Bremen and
Hamburg, named him bishop of Livonia, provided that he
could conquer and hold it and convince the pagan inhabitants
to convert to Christianity. In 1202, Albrecht created a military
order, the Livonian Brothers of the Sword, to aid in the
conversion of the pagans to Christianity and, more
importantly, to protect German trade and secure German
control over commerce. Known as Albert of Riga or Albert of
Livonia, he headed the armed forces that forcibly converted
the eastern Baltic region to the Catholic faith during the
papacy of Innocent III, at the same time as the Fourth
Crusade was sacking Constantinople. Heinrich, whose
writings portray these years in Livonia, was not only a priest,
but also a Saxon missionary and historian. Heinrich’s
Chronicle is written from a clerical point-of-view, and makes it
clear that there was a mix of theological, political, and
economic motivations at the heart of the proselytizing project
in Livonia. His narrative ends in 1227, “after which the whole
Estonian territory was subjugated under the Church of Riga,
the Order of the Sword Brethren and the Danish king”.797
 Based on their historical experience, the spectators at the
Riga missionary theatre in 1204 rightly felt targeted, and it
seems that they had every reason to fear Gideon and his
army. It is not only Heinrich’s chronicle that portrays a
tradition of brutal treatment of the natives in Livonia –
Richard Fletcher describes it as well, in contemporary terms:

Violence marked the relation between natives and

incomers at all times. Henry [Heinrich] calmly
reports the routinely burning of crops and houses,
the slaughter and the maiming, the torture of
prisoners, the enslavement of women and children.
[…] It was traditional: the Livonians and their
neighbours had been carrying on like this since time
out of mind. The coming of the Christians introduced
novel features to the scene, such as a superior
military technology.798

Heinrich’s Chronicle attests to the strategy of the Baltic

missionaries, who “after soldiers seized control of a region,
moved in to baptize the conquered population”. 799 Thus, in
the Riga play, the native spectators, burdened with their
historical experience, possibly perceived the leaders of the
biblical Israelites as equivalent to ancient predecessors of the
Livonian population’s slaughterers, with one difference:
Gideon and King David fought in the name of Pope Innocent
III.

13.3 Negotiating the imagined Jew

Meaning-production through performative acts has to
observe the social, spatial, structural, and physical conditions
of the act, whether they are intentional or unintentional. As
opposed to images generated by written texts, performed
images trigger collective responses and engrave visual
memory (“ocular assurance”, as Heinrich would have it). Due
to the absence of a written dramatic text, our knowledge of
the Riga event remains vague and frustratingly incomplete.
Still, I would like to advance the idea that the ‘prophets’
constituted only one form of constructing ‘Jews’ in Riga’s
missionary theatre, and that there was also another type of
‘Jew’ performed and constructed in the Ludus Prophetarum ,
one not mentioned in Heinrich’s Chronicle.
The play was rather comprehensive: “[I]t must at least have
begun with the Fall of Man and have expanded to the
Resurrection”.800 If the spectacle spanned up to Herod and
Jesus, it also portrayed Jews who rejected Jesus, Jews who
brought about his crucifixion: They were the forefathers of
medieval European Jewry. The clergymen-actors had come
from German territories, and they were probably familiar with
anti-Jewish Christian traditions that had become especially
pronounced during the Crusades. The confluence of
Crusading and the Christianization of the last resistant
European corners gave rise to anti-Jewish sentiment in
liturgical drama, which made intertextual use of material
from early medieval texts and sermons, such as the
exegetical Adversus Judaeos (Against the Jews). Whereas the
‘prophets’ were the pride of the missionary theatre,
contemporary living Jews (such as those living in Germany),
and their forefathers, were rendered as evil.
Regula Meyer Evitt argues that the Riga play was related to
the liturgical Ordo Prophetarum (A Procession of Prophets), a
dramatization of the Christmas season liturgical sermon
Contra Iudaeos, Paganos et Arianos by the bishop of
Carthage, Quodvultdeus, written in the fifth century in an
Augustinian vein, and frequently presented in churches: “The
liturgical Ordo Prophetarum [Prophets’ Play]’s connection
with the Adversus Judaeos tradition is indisputable”.801 Meyer
Evitt demonstrates that the sermon intended to contrast the
Jewish beliefs with the veracity of the Christian faith. She
further explains that whereas the earliest Ordines
Prophetarum focused “on a typological, biblical Judaism,
prepared to testify to the truth of Christianity”,802 the twelfth
and thirteenth centuries saw a shift in the Church’s theatrical
representation of Jews:

[The Ordines Prophetarum] dramatize the increasing

awareness among Christian exegetes of the
implication of the contemporary Jewish exegesis. In
their plays they respond directly to the
interpretative cruxes that result from competing
twelfth- and thirteenth-century Christian and Jewish
readings of the Hebrew prophets, especially Isaiah.
These dramatists’ stereotyped representation of
Jews reflects both greater awareness of and
intensified anxiety about the influence of post-
biblical Jewish communities in European
Christendom. 803

The original Ordines Prophetarum did not include staged

battles, but, heavily influenced by the Adversus Judaeos
tradition as they were, they contributed to the negative
image of Jews. The era of the Crusades and the efforts to
Christianize the last European pagans launched a tradition
that would persist for centuries – that of dichotomous
theatrical representations that polarized Old Testament Jews
as good, and New Testament Jews as evil, both in Ordines
Prophetarum and in the Passion Plays performed during the
Late Middle Ages and thereafter. If in earlier liturgical drama,
biblical figures were not directly related to contemporary
Jews and they were not evil, the awareness of this possible
connection began to cast a long shadow on the dramatic
representation of Jewish characters. Meyer Evitt identifies the
point at which this shift occurred:

The earliest liturgical Ordines Prophetarum, like the

Adversos Judaeos literature, from which they in part
derive, are traditionally aimed at Christian
audiences and intended to reaffirm the spiritual
convictions of the faithful, not to convert pagans or
Jews. During the thirteenth century, however, a
growing impetus towards conversion of both Jews
and pagans begins to color the anti-Judaic polemic
of northern Europe.804

If so, it was during the thirteenth century that the dichotomy

between ‘good’ Jews and ‘bad’ Jews became predominant:
the Jews portrayed as good guys (in bono) were the prophets
and other leaders of the biblical Israelites, while the bad guys
(in malo) were those who did not accept Jesus. Meyer Evitt
explains that the early Ordo was

a very narrowly delimited context: one which

dramatically focuses on an Augustinian in bono
understanding of Judaism as prophetic prefiguration
of the veracity of Christian faith and only
peremptorily alludes to contemporary Jews as
waiting in eschatological limbo, emblematic of the
Christian unfaithful who will be arraigned at the end
of time.805

Unfortunately, we do not have details about the second part

of the Riga event (assuming that it was chronologically
structured). Both Rosemary Woolf and Meyer Evitt argue that
the Riga ludus sweep probably included scenes with Jews in
malo when representing Jesus and the Jews who rejected him.
If this was the case, how were the in malo Jewish characters
negotiated? In the early twelfth-century Ordines
Prophetarum, in malo Jews were represented by allegorical
characters such as Judeus and Archisynagogus (the ruler of
synagogue). The Riga Ludus Prophetarum model was
imported from the German territories. It is a plausible
hypothesis that in the process of transferring the model from
the heart of Germany to its outskirts, the core of the plot was
preserved. Still, it is possible that this was not the case, and
we do not know how (or if) those evil Jews were present at all
in the Riga ludus. If they were present, they would have been
depicted with medieval imagery based on the encounter with
German Jews. Consider, for example, the Ordo Prophetarum
from the Benedictine Abbey near Augsburg, dating to the late
twelfth or early thirteenth century806 –Benediktbeuern Ludus
de Nativitate (a Christmas play). Max Harris provides the
description of Archisynagogus:

The play begins with a procession of prophets

foretelling the birth of Christ […] Archisynagogus
and his Jews respond to the prophecies “with an
excessive clamor.” Then, “shoving forward his
comrade, agitating his head and his entire body and
striking the ground with his foot, and imitating with
his scepter the mannerism of a Jew in all ways,”
Archisynagogus mocks the prophecies, taking
particular exception to those that promise a virgin
birth. Less sensitive than we now claim to be, the
role provides an opportunity for a clerical actor with
a vicious talent for ethnic caricature.807

This caricature was very much necessary in the Christian

cosmic drama: The ‘Jew’ as antagonist constituted not only a
theological, but also a dramaturgical choice. Woolf views the
introduction of the Archisynagogus figure as a dramatic
element that provides tension where there was basically only
illustration and a storytelling approach to biblical narrative:

This ingenious introduction of conflict was no doubt

suggested to the author [of the Benediktbeuern
Christmas Play] by the debate form that flourished
in the twelfth century, but it is precisely this skilful
borrowing from other and often secular forms to
give life to the undramatic that is the hallmark of
successful religious plays throughout the Middle
Ages.808

This practical development added a dynamic and attractive

dimension to the performances. Staged conflict between the
characters (beyond the overt battles) was the core of
missionary theatre – in fact, that was its seductive power. In a
didactic manner, undoubtedly believing in the heathens’
naivety, the missionary theatre had to very clearly and
unequivocally transmit its message, establishing who is right
and who is wrong, what is crime and what is punishment.
Staged conflicts and staged battles stabilized the contours of
truth, faith, and discipline.
Moreover, as I mentioned earlier, the in malo Jews were
sometimes perceived as equivalent to the pagans who
constituted the audience: They also did not believe in Jesus.
Such was the case in the Limoges Ordo Prophetarum of the
late eleventh century:

In fact, the only literally ‘present’ [explicitly

dramatized] Jews in this [Limoges] dramatic
celebration are those who can be conceived as in
bono: the prophets […] the Jews conceived of in
malo here are implicitly presented as part of the
 audience itself. They are silent “naysayers,” anti-
prophets, and represent danger from within, not
unlike that presented by Christian heretics.809

Therefore, the Riga spectators were perfectly entitled to both

dislike Archisynagogus and to identify with him, and at the
same time to fear King David’s and Gideon’s armies. The Jews
portrayed in bono frightened the pagans, while those
portrayed in malo paved the way for a not very sympathetic
future encounter with real Jews, the scions of the in malo
theatrical Jews.
To conclude, it is hard to tell how much of the biblical
narrative the spectators in Riga actually understood. But they
surely grasped that Gideon (a Jew in bono) was a sort of army
commander and assumed that he wanted to assault them,
the spectators. It makes sense that this was their perception
of in bono imagined Israelites – violent agents of the Pope. As
for the imagined Jews in malo (if there were any), they
obviously did not get favourable public relations either.
Given all of the above, I find Heinrich’s words in his
chronicle rather ironic: “[T]hrough the doctrine of the Old and
New Testaments the pagans were instructed as to true
peacemaking”.

Bibliography
Barthes, Roland. The Rustle of Language. Trans. Richard
Howard. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989.

Bolton, Brenda. “Message, Celebration, Offering: The Place of

Twelfth- and Early Thirteenth-Century Liturgical Drama
as ‘Missionary Theatre’.” Continuity and Change in
Christian Worship. Ed. Robert N. Swanson. Woodbridge:
 Boydell, 1999. 89–103.

Brundage, James A. “Introduction: Henry of Livonia, The

Writer and His Chronicle.” Crusading and Chronicle
Writing on the Medieval Baltic Frontier: A Companion to
the Chronicle of Henry of Livonia. Eds. Marek Tamm,
Linda Kaljundi, and Carsten Selch Jensen. Farnham:
Ashgate, 2011. 1–19.

Enders, Jody. The Medieval Theater of Cruelty: Rhetoric,

Memory, Violence. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1999.

Fletcher, Richard. The Barbarian Conversion: From Paganism

to Christianity. Berkeley: University of California Press,
1999.

Harris, Max. Sacred Folly: A New History of the Feast of Fools.

Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2011.

Kala, Tina. “The Incorporation of the Northern Baltic Lands

into the Western Christian World.” Crusade and
Conversion on the Baltic Frontier 1150–1500, Ed. Alan V.
Murray. Farnham: Ashgate, 2001. 3–20.

Kobialka, Michal. This is my Body. Representational Practices

in the Early Middle Ages. Ann Arbor: The University of
Michigan Press, 1999.

Meyer Evitt, Regula. Anti-Judaism and the Medieval Prophet

Plays: Exegetical Contexts for the “Ordines
Prophetarum”. Unpublished doctoral thesis, University of
Virginia, 1992. (Available via ProQuest Dissertations &
Theses database).

Meyer Evitt, Regula. “Eschatology, Millenarian

Apocalypticism, and the Liturgical Anti-Judaism of the
Medieval Prophet Play.” The Apocalyptic Year 1000:
 Religious Expectation and Social Change, 950–1050. Eds.
Richard Landes, Andrew Gow, and David C. Van Meter.
Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003. 205–230.

Murray, Alan V. (Ed.). Crusade and Conversion on the Baltic

Frontier 1150–1500. Farnham: Ashgate, 2001.

Petersen, Nils Holger. “The Notion of a Missionary Theatre:

The Ludus Magnus of Henry of Livonia’s Chronicle.”
Crusading and Chronicle Writing on the Medieval Baltic
Frontier: A Companion to the Chronicle of Henry of
Livonia. Eds. Marek Tamm, Linda Kaljundi, and Carsten
Selch Jensen. Farnham: Ashgate, 2011. 229–244.

Tamm, Marek, Linda Kaljundi, and Carsten Selch Jensen

(Eds.). Crusading and Chronicle Writing on the Medieval
Baltic Frontier: A Companion to the Chronicle of Henry of
Livonia. Farnham: Ashgate, 2011.

Taylor, Diana. The Archive and the Repertoire: Performing

Cultural Memory in the Americas. Durham, NC: Duke
University Press, 2003.

Woolf, Rosemary. The English Mystery Plays. Berkeley:

University of California Press, 1980.
Elina Räsänen

14 Advocating, Converting, and

Torturing: Images of Jews (and
Muslimized Pagans) in the
Kalanti Altarpiece
The painter known in modern scholarship as Meister Francke
worked in the town of Hamburg in the early decades of the
fifteenth century. Very little is known about the man and his
craftsmanship, as only four works of art can be attributed to
him or his workshop, and there are few, if any, documentary
sources that can be connected to this master.810 The most
famous surviving work of art attributed to him is what is
known in German research as the Thomas-Retabel , now in
the Hamburger Kunsthalle. This altarpiece, which has not
survived as a whole, consists of painted panels depicting the
Life of Christ and Passion imagery, as well as the legend of
Thomas Becket.811
The Kalanti altarpiece (Barbara-Retabel) is another of
Meister Francke’s major works. It was added to his œuvre in
the 1910s, because it bears a clear stylistic similarity with the
Thomas-Retabel.812 The Kalanti or Nykyrko (in Swedish)
altarpiece is a pentaptych consisting of a corpus and two
pairs of folding doors or wings: The sculpted central portion
depicts the Marian themes of the Dormition and the
Assumption, framed by four images on the doors: on the left,
two scenes – Nativity and Circumcision; on the right, two
miracles – the miracle that prevents an attempt by Jews to
disrupt Mary’s funeral and the legend of Mary’s intercession
on behalf of Theophilus (fig. 17). The outer sides of the inner
shutters, that is, the reverse sides of the above mentioned
motifs on the doors, and the inner sides of the outer shutters,
in turn, portray the martyrdom legend of St. Barbara, one of
the four virgines capitales and an immensely popular virgin
saint of the Late Middle Ages.

Fig. 17: The Kalanti altarpiece, c. 1420, second view with the Marian images.
Dormition and Coronation in the centre; left wing: the Nativity and the
Circumcision; right wing: the Jews attacking the funeral of the Virgin and the
legend of Theophilus. By the kind permission of the National Museum of Finland.

This altarpiece, which has been part of the collection of the

National Museum of Finland, in Helsinki, since 1903, has
received regular, albeit sporadic, scholarly attention over the
past hundred years.813 This essay will approach the
altarpiece from a hitherto unexplored angle – it will focus on
the representations of Jews, discernable in multifarious ways,
and asks how this imagery, both directly displayed as well as
indicated by the visualized stories, evokes discourses about
Jews and Jewishness in the Christian narrative.814 It will
suggest more nuanced iconographical interpretations inbuilt
in the altarpiece, as the elements concerning (imagined)
Jewishness, incorporated into the Marianic themes, are being
illuminated. That Marianic piety was replete of anti-Jewish
aspects, and indeed, that her cult played a significant role in
the exclusion of Jews from Christian society in the Middle
Ages underlies my approach.815 The essay also takes interest
in the winged altarpiece as an object, clarifying the
memorizing functions which its folding structure invites. I will
begin by examining the Marian imagery and proposing that
the altarpiece’s motifs form a closely interlaced nexus of
meaning that is intimately bound to the concept of virginity. I
will then discuss the St. Barbara cycle, and its social and
ethnic undercurrents, and will argue that one of her torturers
has a ‘Jewish’ characterization. The essay will close with a
historiographic glance at the art historians who have
previously studied the altarpiece, and who experienced a new
version of the anti-Jewish reaction, an undertone that the
altarpiece too echoes, in their own lives.
The representation of Jews on the Kalanti altarpiece has
only been noted in connection with the sculpted relief that
depicts the assault by the Jews –the miracle at the Virgin’s
funeral – and solely on a purely descriptive level. In his 1908
dissertation, K. K. Meinander, who was the first to properly
study the altarpiece, identified the motif and provided a brief
summary of the legend. 816 This portion of the altarpiece has
subsequently rarely been mentioned due to the focus of the
previous studies on the painted panels, treating the sculpted
sections of the altarpiece as less appealing and inferior in
their craftsmanship. Moreover, the scant interest that has
existed towards the sculptures has concentrated on their
relationship to Meister Francke’s workshop.817 For example,
in her massive two-volume monograph (1929) on Meister
Francke, Bella Martens only briefly mentions the motif of the
Virgin’s funeral and the actions of the Jews.818 In subsequent
decades, knowledge of the motif seems to have declined, or
otherwise been overshadowed, with it being named simply as
an image from the Virgin’s funeral and not as a specific
example of Jews as protagonists whose actions are the issue
at hand.819
Before addressing the actual topic of this essay, a few more
words need to be said about the altarpiece. In spite of its
relative fame, even the actual structural relationship between
the sections of the altarpiece has at times been obscured –
for the most part, this is due to misunderstandings caused by
the removal of the sculpted parts from the painted panels in
the 1920s – and even today it continues to be exhibited in
this dismantled state.820 The dating of the altarpiece remains
slightly unresolved, but for the purposes of this essay, a
dating of c. 1420–1430 will suffice.821 It has not been
established how or exactly when the altarpiece arrived at the
Church of Kalanti, a stone structure from c. the 1440s in
southwest Finland, which in medieval times formed the
heartlands of the eastern part of the Swedish Realm – the
discussion concerning the provenance of the altarpiece is,
however, more than can be tackled here. The overall style of
Meister Francke’s paintings manifests what is generally
known as international gothic or courtly style, with a notable
Netherlandish influence.822 While the paintings accord with
the style of Conrad von Soest, for example, as well as that of
several unidentified masters of the early 1400s, the
sculptures reflect the relatively usual craftsmanship typical of
the Lübeck region.
This article places the art of Meister Francke and the
anonymous sculptor (s) within the overall context of Western
Christian Catholicism in Northern Europe, and not just that of
a particular church or city. Yet, concentrating on the specific
altarpiece and its interpretation, the article will mainly focus
on the area where the altarpiece was materially present.
Most likely there were no Jewish settlements in that area at
the time, which, of course, does not mean that people had
not had passing contact with Jewish merchants, doctors, etc.
in their hometowns or when travelling. Nevertheless, the
existence of Jewish communities in the area is not a central
issue in the approach taken here, because Jewishness was
abundantly represented in both the visual domain of art as
well as in the tales they visualized.

14.1 Attacking Mary – Questioning

Virginity
The second opening of the altarpiece is typologically similar
to many of the written legends of the saints: First, the events
of the holy person’s life on earth are narrated, followed by a
presentation of the person’s death, and finally, a listing of the
post mortem miracles ends the account. In this case, the
protagonist is the Virgin, so the compilation shows events
that are crucial to Christianity. Succeeded by the two
occasions in her life, namely the Nativity and the
Circumcision, the altarpiece’s centre scene presents the
mourning apostles gathered around Mary’s deathbed as well
as the Coronation above, her splendid welcome in heaven:
Surrounded by angels, Christ crowns his mother. The liminal
state between life and the new life in heaven is followed by
the two miracles on the right doors. At the moment of Virgin’s
death, young John, holding Mary’s hand, has leant over to
close her eyes. A second apostle is lighting a new long candle
from the stub of a previous one, while a third is blowing
smoke from the censor. It can be deduced from the
customary curly hair and short beard that the figure on the
right with a somewhat extravagant brooch on his chest is St.
Peter. St. Paul, bald with a longish beard, stands opposite
Peter holding a book. In the foreground, one apostle is
removing a splinter from the sole of his foot and St. James the
Great wearily leans his head on his hand, pilgrim’s hat flipped
to the neck.
The scene of Mary’s passing from the world belongs to a
large body of events illustrating the post-Crucifixion period in
her life. Based on the dating of the earliest text fragments, it
appears that interest in this epoch began to increase in the
early fifth century.823 During the subsequent centuries, the
stories were included in such widespread ‘bestsellers’ as De
gloria Martyrum by Gregory of Tours (d. 594), Gautier de
Coincy’s Miracles de Nostre Dame (c. 1220) or Speculum
historiale (1253) by Vincent of Beauvais, which were
translated into many vernaculars and, in turn, inspired
numerous later writers. After-life miracles, in which Mary
intervenes from heaven in the most imaginative ways on the
behalf of mankind, were extremely popular during the Late
Middle Ages, providing sumptuous material for the visual and
performing arts. Many of the miracle tales had Jews as
protagonists; generally doubting and attacking Christian
beliefs, but sometimes converting under Mary’s sway.
The Marian section of the Kalanti altarpiece has altogether
six scenes or images which can be deployed to different
constellations, thereby multiplying their interpretative
potential. To start with, the corpus, described above, and the
miracles on the right door should be seen as a unit – the two
miracles dealing with imaginary Jews are not ‘independent’
motifs, but ought to be understood as an integral part of the
Assumption. The stories testifying to Mary’s miracles –
including those not directly linked to her funeral – followed
the Assumption in miracle collections, homilies, and other
scriptures, and were, in fact, read on that feast day.824 For
example, the extremely widely read Legenda aurea (Golden
Legend) by Jacobus de Voragine (c. 1230–1298) includes a list
of six miracles under the rubric of the Assumption. Among
these six miracles is the popular story of the Jewish Boy who
took communion, for which his furious father threw him in the
oven, with the Virgin interceding to save him.825 Even the
very early Dormition or transitus traditions provide examples
of miracles; the Jews attacking the Virgin, suffering divine
retribution, and converting. 826 Stephen J. Shoemaker has
argued that the strong connection of the Dormition texts with
anti-Judaism is rooted in the actual Late Antiquity disputes
between Jews and Christians over the question of Mary’s
virginity, with certain rabbinic texts questioning her moral
status.827 Hundreds of years after these debates, the image
of the Jews hating and fearing Mary was very much alive in
both literary and visual narratives.
The upper miracle image shows how the Jews caused a
rampage at the Virgin’s funeral, when they tried to overturn
the coffin carried by the singing apostles. There are
numerous versions of the tale, all of them similar at their
core. Legenda aurea presents three slightly different versions
of the event. In the first, the hands of the offender, the
‘prince of priests’ (often named as Jephonius), are withered,
and in the second, arms are ripped away at the elbows.
According to the first story, “the populace was excited by
such dulcet sound and melody, and came rushing out of the
city to see what was going on […] The chief priest, seeing
what was happening, was astounded and filled with rage, and
said: ‘Look at the tabernacle of the man who disturbed us
and our people so much! Look at that glory that is now paid
to the woman’”. After attempting to throw the body to the
ground, “his hands were withered and stuck to the bier, so
that he was hanging by his hands; and he moaned and cried
in great pain”. He cried out for St. Peter to help him, and
then, following the advice of Peter to kiss the bier and testify
to his belief in Jesus Christ and the eternal virginity of Mary,
he was instantly cured.828 The second version goes a bit
further, both in regards to the physical punishment and the
act of repentance: In this version, Peter orders the ‘culprit’ to
kiss the eternal Virgin’s body. In the third version, one of the
offender’s hands falls off like a dried branch, but when he
puts his other hand on Mary’s body, he is cured and his hand
is restored.829
The episode at the funeral is depicted on the altarpiece not
faithfully following any of the above versions, but as follows:
A great number of apostles are carrying the coffin, with some
of them behind it so that only the tops of their heads can be
seen. A beardless apostle, John the Evangelist, leads the
procession. After John comes Peter, who balances the bier on
his left hand and is looking directly out at the viewers, with
his right hand raised, as if to indicate that he is talking. Two
bare-armed robust men are hanging onto the side of the
coffin. Adolph Goldschmidt, a prominent medievalist who
took an interest in the altarpiece in the 1910s, aptly
remarked how the tumultuous activity of the armed men is
effectively contrasted with the calmness and serenity of the
apostles.830
John, at the front, originally held a palm branch in his hand –
only the stem between his fingers still remains. This now lost
detail has significant agency regarding the role of Jews in the
story. In various text versions, Mary received a palm branch
taken from the Tree of Life from the angel who announced
her coming death, and then handed it to John, warning him of
the Jews’ plans for her funeral.831 After the attack and the
cure of Jephonius, Peter orders the convert to take the palm
branch from John and use it to cure and convert the blinded
Jews. The palm branch was a sign of virginity, corresponding
with the lily of the Annunciation. Its central reference to
virginity becomes apparent as the story unfolds. We quote
here from Yrjö Hirn’s early but still extremely useful study,
The Sacred Shrine:
 When Mary was about to be carried to her grave, a
noble strife arose amongst the foremost disciples as
to their precedence in the procession. John wished
Peter, whom God had chosen as shepherd of His
sheep, to walk before the bier with the angel’s
palm-branch in his hand; but Peter thought that this
place was due to John, who had become Jesus’
disciple while his body was still virginal. “It is most
proper”, he said, “that a virgin should bear the
Virgin’s palm”; and it was Peter’s will that
prevailed.832

Hence, it was crucial to underline the virginity which the Jews

denied and even ridiculed, and indeed with the very palm
branch of virginity their blindness was swiped away.
Anthony Bale makes a remark worth noting about the way
in which the Assumption and the interruption on the funeral
are intertwined – the latter being an inversion of the former:
“The Jews want to drag the body to the ground and burn its
physical essence, whereas the Assumption shows the
ascending spirit and soul of the Virgin”.833 This is
underscored in the Kalanti altarpiece in a very visual way,
because the Funeral is depicted at the same horizontal level
as is the Coronation. Therefore, although the Dormition and
the Coronation are customarily placed above each other in
the same pictorial space (the corpus) on the altarpiece, and
are thus today understood as parts of one ‘picture’, medieval
viewers saw a connection between the Coronation and the
scene next to it on the door, the attack at the funeral, too.
Moreover, they also perceived a certain resonance with the
Nativity scene on the left side, where Mary adorns her Son
(the sculpted Infant Jesus has been lost). An image of the
Birth of Christ was simultaneously a statement about the
source of Mary’s divinity, her virginity. There could be no
Coronation without it, nor any reason for the fury of the Jews
who feared the miraculous power of Mary’s body. These three
upper images of the altarpiece, the Nativity, the Coronation,
and the Funeral are, then, tightly interconnected by the
crucial theme of virginity.
In the funeral scene, the clothing of the men attacking the
bier is not typically ‘Jewish’: They are portrayed as soldiers,
with short uniforms and armourlike vestments. One of them
has a large sword on his hip. The types of garments they are
wearing are elucidated by the written sources – according to
the Legenda aurea: “the chief priest sent a crowd armed with
swords and clubs”.834 The men’s hands are not severed;
instead they seem to be stuck to the bier. The same motif in
the stained glass window of St. Peter Mancroft in Norwich,
England (built c. 1450), portrays the two offenders in armour,
too; one hanging from the bier with his visor raised, the other
having fallen down.835 In many of the wall-paintings
visualizing the incident in churches in Sweden, the attackers
are not soldiers, but a crowd of clumsy jesters with very
distinguishable caricatured Jewish facial features and profiles.
Also in contrast to the Kalanti altarpiece, the hands being
severed from the bodies of the attackers seem to have been
a prominent detail. This is the case, for example, in the many
churches painted by Hessen-born Albertus Pictor (c. 1444–c.
1507) and his workshop, such as those in Almunge, Täby,
Vänge, and Dingtuna, all executed in the final decades of the
fifteenth century.836 (See fig. 18.)
There are multiple layers of meaning to the fact that it is
hands that are the focus of the miracle. As Anthony Bale has
aptly put it, “In a world in which gesture, in particular manual
gestures and formal public gestures, were preeminent modes
of communication, the Jew’s stuck or amputated hand was a
potent symbol indeed”.837 The relationship between the hand
and doubt recalls a number of themes, including the hand of
the midwife Salome, who dared to question Mary’s virginity –
so here, again, the funeral image alludes to the image
mirroring it from the other shutter, the Nativity. Furthermore,
the way the Jew touches the bier and the body of Mary is a
counter-image to the tactile aspect of the veneration of relics
so central to devotional life in the Late Middle Ages. The
viewers would identify the coffin with the reliquaries carried
in processions, and, because these precious objects were
supposed to be touched devoutly, the image presents the
Jews as the opposite of good and appropriate. 838

Fig. 18: The Virgin’s Funeral. Wall-painting in the Täby church, Sweden, by
Albertus Pictor, 1480s. (Photograph: Jonathan Adams)

14.2 Circumcision and the Jewish

advocate
Christ’s Circumcision, below the Nativity on the left door, is a
motif that itself underscores the Jewishness of both Christ
and Mary. The event is mentioned as a matter of fact in Luke
2. 21: “And at the end of eight days, when he was
circumcised, he was called Jesus, the name given by the
angel before he was conceived in the womb”. Theologically,
however, the essential point was the analogy with the
Crucifixion: Christ shed his blood for the first time, not
because he had to, but because he was willing to.839 As is
convincingly shown by Leo Steinberg, the connection
between these two events was recognized in the visual arts
by, for example, painting the blood from the crucified Christ’s
wound streaming into his genital area.840 The naked Christ
Child was simultaneously always a suffering man, the
Saviour, but also the Flesh, the host; in numerous stories
people either see, or should not see the baby boy when
receiving communion. This is what Sixten Ringbom has called
‘polar thinking’; certain depictions embodied allusions to
others.841 Crucifixion prefigured the Passion, but likewise it
was interconnected with Mary’s Purification, because the
Virgin, spotless and thus without need for such action, agreed
to be purified nonetheless.
On the Kalanti altarpiece, the high priest is holding the knife
and standing on the right of the altar, opposite a man holding
a baby still with both hands. The Christ Child is not in agony,
but is resting peacefully on white linen. The party also
includes the Virgin and Joseph, with two maidens in the
background. Although sometimes Joseph is depicted as
inferior to the Virgin and then comes across as a
representative of the Old Law, in this case he stands on the
similar level as his wife and the maidens. His Jewishness,
then, is just as concealed as is that of the Virgin. The master
of the workshop or those who ordered the work had the
choice of rendering the Circumcision likening a Christian
baptism with the high priest resembling a bishop with a
mitre, or adhering to what was known about Jewish customs;
a fairly rare example of the latter is found on wall-paintings in
Denmark which show Christ Child sitting on the high priest’s
lap.842 The high priest in the Kalanti altarpiece is not
portrayed as a Christian bishop or as a priest, but neither
does his attire directly suggest Jewishness – instead, he has a
vaguely exotic look. His hood-like cap and his beard, combed
into two swirling halves, both tipped with metal bulbs, are
worth noting. It is appropriate to ask if there was a certain
unwillingness to portray ‘good’ Jews, because rather than
taking the approach of depicting the high priest as a Christian
style bishop, an obscure and alien figure was presented.
During the fifteenth century controversial factors inscribed
into the Circumcision motif seem to have become more
pronounced: The faces of the priests wearing the gowns with
the pseudo-Hebrew inscriptions became more unpleasant,
and the whole atmosphere became more awkward, as is the
case with the famous Master of the Tucher Altarpiece (c.
1450) in the Suermondt-Ludwig-Museum, Aachen. Perhaps
they began more and more to incorporate the two regularly
visualized and interconnected themes, both related to major
accusations directed at the Jews. First, we have the
desecration of the host, with men using large knives to chop
up a communion wafer lying on a table. The other is the
blood libel, an image of the ritual murder of a young Christian
boy by the Jews.843 Illustrations of these two motifs often
carry similar elements and compositional features as does
the Circumcision.
 Fig. 19: The Legend of Theophilus. Detail of the right wing of the Kalanti
altarpiece, c. 1420. Photograph: author. Published by the kind permission of the
National Museum of Finland.

The legend of Theophilus is placed below the portion

featuring the Virgin’s funeral (fig. 19). To date, studies
concerning the altarpiece have not been overly interested in
the details of this story, and thus have neglected mentioning
the existence of the Jewish character in it. This is nonetheless
understandable as he is not pictured. Theophilus was a
wealthy secular clerk working for the bishop of Cilicia in the
sixth-century kingdom of Armenia. Embittered about losing
his possessions, he seeks the assistance of a well-known
Jewish sorcerer, and with the sorcerer’s help, he enters into a
legal contract with the devil. In the contract, he denies Christ
and His Mother in order to regain his position and wealth, but
he later regrets his actions. He begs for Mary’s mercy, and
she retrieves the contract from the devil, returning it to
Theophilus, who, in front of the congregation, burns it, takes
communion, and, three days later, dies peacefully. The story,
a very early and famous example of Mary’s intercessory
powers, was probably translated from Greek to Latin in the
ninth century by Paulus Diaconus, who worked in Naples. It
subsequently spread widely; so much so, that it has been
coined as one of the most important texts to inspire devotion
to Mary in Anglo-Saxon England – with a major pan-European
impact thereafter. In short, it is one of the best-known of the
Marian miracles.844
The Kalanti altarpiece has the crowned Mary sitting on her
heavenly throne, holding the naked Infant Jesus on her lap.
Her body is wrapped in an ostentatious robe, which is
fastened with a decorative brooch on the chest, and her long
hair is combed behind her ears. She wears a crown, of which
only two finials still survive. Theophilus is genuflecting at her
side, in a way that should be understood as in front of her,
looking upward. As he calls out for her help, his palms are
together in a gesture of prayer, skilfully making his posture a
compositionally effective diagonal mirror image for Mary in
the Nativity scene. The devil, pictured as half human-half
animal, is standing behind her and passes her the contract
with his right hand – the left hand of the sculpted figure is
missing. The Virgin is regal with an air of passivity, and this
differs greatly from some representations of the legend, in
which she is furious, and even punches the devil in the
eye.845
The presence of the Christ Child within the Theophilus scene
underscores the unity of mother and son, one element of the
hierogamic relation between Mary and Jesus – an analogous
version of which the beholder could also see in the
Coronation presenting them as heavenly lovers and spouses.
More than this aspect, however, the Kalanti altarpiece
stresses Mary’s motherhood, but a specific virginal
motherhood that the Nativity brought forth: It should be
borne in mind that the Nativity scene showed a third image of
a naked Baby Jesus, the now lost infant (the hole for the
wooden peg that held it in place is visible) whom Mary
adores.846 Moreover, the believer could see the naked body
of the Christ Child simultaneously as the host, and this
association was further emphasized by the existence of the
Circumcision on the other side, where, as was indicated
earlier, the Christ Child is on the altar. In the Theophilus
image, Christ is on his mother’s lap, which is, of course, also
symbolically an altar.
Adrienne Williams Boyarin has argued that the Theophilus
legend shows how, in England in particular, Mary was closely
associated with Jewish apostasy, as well as with legal issues,
and, above all, had supratextual powers. According to
Boyarin, Marian miracles suggest a special connection to Jews
– whether for retribution or for conversion – and therefore,
Mary’s role as mediatrix and legislatrix also included
mediating between Jews and Christians, and portrayed “Mary
as legal advocate with special connection to the documentary
text and legal literalism associated with her Jewish
identity”.847 The Kalanti altarpiece also emphasizes the
importance of the book and the written word in the form of a
legal contract, in a visual way. The contract is a fairly large
object placed prominently at the very centre of the pictorial
space. The text – or rather the visible letters – is secondary,
and the content of the original layer is unknown.
The courteous figure of the devil, to my mind, reflects the
later versions of the tale in which Satan fully acknowledges
Mary’s power; the Middle Low German versions follow this
plot line and in these the devil (Lucifer or Satan) declares her
as Vrowe or Herrin (Lady) and them as her knechte
(servants).848 Even so, I would propose the figure of the devil
has another, simultaneous, meaning: It incorporates both the
devil and the Hebræus. As said, the devil ‘acts’ as an
attorney, standing behind his ‘client’ Theophilus and politely,
with a slight bow, hands the contract to Mary. Second,
although his face is typical for Satan, it is also the face of an
‘evil Jew’, with a large crooked nose. The strategy of alluding
to the Jew in the character of the devil could be juxtaposed to
Heinz Schreckenberg’s observation concerning the visual
amalgamation of, in this time, the Jew and Theophilus: In a
Parisian manuscript illumination Theophilus wears a Phrygian
hat, a common signifier of Jews particularly in French-
speaking regions.849

14.3 Imitatio: St. Barbara tormented

by the Jews
When the first doors of the altarpiece were opened, the visual
narrative of St. Barbara was revealed in eight scenes, in two
horizontal rows (fig. 20). Proceeding from left to right, it
starts, in the upper row, with the dispute between the
converted Barbara and her pagan father Dioscurus, and then
continues to her escape and imprisonment. In the lower row,
Judge Marcian’s interrogation is followed by torture of the
virgin martyr ending with her beheading. As is essential with
martyrdom stories, the cycle includes images of violence and
torment.
The Otherness of those who torture St. Barbara has not
gone unnoticed in the previous studies, but the connection to
Jews in particular has not been put forward. Ruth Mellinkoff,
in her pioneering study of ‘outcasts’ in later medieval art,
presented the panel showing the cutting of St. Barbara’s
breast as an example of villainous characters portrayed as
indecent: The flagellator’s unbuttoned tunic exposes his
belly, and “though it suggests the violence of his deed, it also
condemns the exposure as indecent”, she writes.850 Madeline
H. Caviness, too, has commented on the torturers, stressing
their ‘ethnic’ Otherness, as well as noting the ethnicity of
both the father and Judge Marcian: “Although the jailers are
designated by dress and physical traits as ethnically other, as
if to help a West European Christian audience keep its moral
footing by asserting difference, the narrative has to involve
her own father and secular ruler as her accusers and they
also threaten her with their scimitars”.851 She, then, focuses
on the beholders’ identification processes, rather than
discussing the deliberate ethnic qualities of the figures. The
general ‘strangeness’, or Otherness, of both Saracens and
Jews is inscribed in the St. Barbara cycle in multiple ways,
and, intriguingly, it is written into the very name ‘Barbara’.
Julia Kristeva, in her study on foreignness, has provided the
etymology referring to ‘barbarians’: The Greek word
βάρβαρος (bárbaros) includes the “inarticulate or
incomprehensible mumblings”, bar-bar, so the Greeks began
to use the word to denote people from the Near East, and
eventually, all foreigners.852
What I am suggesting here is that one of the torturers is
distinctly and purposefully portrayed as a Jew. He is
delineated with the typical caricatured Jewish features – a
crooked nose and thick lips. The figure appears in three
panels; most notably in the fifth scene, showing the
interrogation, where he pushes his face very close to that of
Barbara (fig. 21). This, of course, puts visual emphasis on the
differences between these two faces: hers a beautiful
Godloving Christian; his that of an ugly, lustful Jew. In two
other panels, this character is the one who attacks Barbara’s
breast, both cutting it and burning it with a torch, actions that
serve to denote his evil sexuality even more explicitly than is
the case in the interrogation scene.
 Fig. 20: Meister Francke, The Life and Martyrdom of Saint Barbara. Panel
paintings of the Kalanti altarpiece, c. 1420. Panels that today are separate from
one another once formed the first view of the altarpiece. Photograph: Soile Tirilä.
By the kind permission of the National Museum of Finland.

Fig. 21: Meister Francke, detail of the fifth scene depicting the interrogation of
Saint Barbara. Saint Barbara cycle in the Kalanti altarpiece, c. 1420. Photograph:
author. By the kind permission of the National Museum of Finland.

In the devotional domain, the appearance of the Jew(s) in

the martyrdom cycles was meant to underscore the imitatio
Christi of the martyrs: Their passion was meant to reflect the
Passion of Christ. That Meister Francke employed this analogy
is made perfectly apparent when the St. Barbara panels are
juxtaposed with those of the Thomas Becket altarpiece in the
Hamburger Kunsthalle. These include the Flagellation of
Christ, with Christ presented in a position and a state of near-
nakedness that much resembles Francke’s portrayal of St.
Barbara. In addition, Pilate and Caiaphas watching the
whipping of Christ constitute a pair with Judge Marcian and
Dioscurus, who watch over the molesting of Barbara.
Moreover, the overall composition of the interrogation scene
restates the message of the innumerable images of the
Betrayal and Arrest of Christ, and thus imitatio technology
causes the Jewish character in the interrogation to evoke the
image of Judas Iscariot, the archetypal Jew, who, in the
Garden of Gethsemane, pushes his face into Christ’s and
kisses him.
The topic of imitation weaves the threads that bind together
the panel paintings and the sculpted sections of the Kalanti
altarpiece. The correlation of Mary’s life with her Son’s was
obviously the preeminent imitatio, and thus, the harassment
by the Jews at Mary’s funeral was a counterpart to the actions
of the Jews at the Passion of Christ. Mary’s virginity
underscores that of St. Barbara, who following her death was
also taken to Heaven as the Bride of Christ; Barbara is, then,
imitating both Christ and the Virgin Mary. Madeline H.
Caviness has pointed out the resonance between the two
cuttings, the mastectomy in the painted cycle and the
Circumcision in the sculptures, although they did not,
evidently, appear side by side, as she erroneously claims, but
on the both sides of a single panel.853 Nonetheless, she has a
valid point, since the very idea of the winged altarpiece is
based on the beholder’s awareness of all of the object’s
images – of those visible and of the then hidden images on
the obverse. In this case, the image of the Jew holding a
sharp knife in the act of Circumcision effectively concealed
the other Jew on the reverse, who was ready to plunge the
blade into an innocent martyr’s flesh.
The visual hagiography of St. Barbara takes place in an
Oriental setting, in some imaginary, far-off land. Barbara’s
father Dioscurus and Judge Marcian are meant to be
perceived as pagans, and they are presented in a way that
conjures up the imaginary Muslim, or Saracen, who, of
course, was the prototypical heretic. Their attire combines
contemporary clothing with exotic details and foreign-looking
accessories, such as Dioscurus’ scimitar which is prominently
displayed in the images. These ‘exotic’ traits should,
however, be analysed with caution. For example, in the third
scene, which shows Barbara betrayed by a shepherd and
Dioscurus pursuing her on horseback, the horse is wearing a
crescent moon pendant on its forehead, something which the
modern reader might readily associate with the East.
Crescent moon appears, of course, as a sign of Jewishness in
the medieval and early modern representations, but then as
a crescent-horn plate – the tips of the crescent upwards, not
down as in the panel – on the mitre of the high priest.854 A
recent investigation suggests that the crescent moon
pendant on a horse, while referring to the contemporary
material culture, was used as visual rhetoric meant to make
the Christian narrative relevant and accessible to everyone.
According to Visa Immonen, “it draws on the pendant’s
association with hunting and with high social rank to create a
certain image of a layperson”.855
The relationship between Saracens and Jews was complex;
on the one hand, they were both considered enemies of
Christianity and in the Marian miracles, for example, they
might convert in the face an image of Mary coming to life.856
On the other, if the issue of heresy is excluded, Christianity
had no obvious conflict with the Saracens, as it had with the
Jews, as Jesus was not a Saracen, nor did Saracens kill him. At
any rate, they were not seen as completely separate, and as
Michael Camille has formulated, they were “inextricably
linked together in the consciousness of Christians”.857
Sometimes they got ‘mixed’, such as when in the so-called N-
Town play the enraged Jews swear by their God ‘Mahound’
(Muḥammad) as they approach the Virgin’s funeral
procession, or when the French versions of the legend of
Theophilus describe the magician as a Muslim or name him
Salatin.858 The story of Joseph, who was sold for thirty pieces
of silver to the Ishmaelite merchants, offered another kind of
version of amalgamation because it was perceived as a
corresponding antecedent for Judas’ betrayal of Christ and
the thirty pieces of silver he received.859 Looking closely at
the clothing of the Saracen figures Dioscurus and his men,
the decorative pseudo-Arabic letters on their hems and
necklines resemble pseudo-Hebrew writing, similar to that
which can be detected at the neckline of the Caiaphas figure
in the Thomas Becket altarpiece. This tailored detail, often
used to mark Jewish officials and distinguish them from the
Christian figures, aims to merge the pagan enemies of St.
Barbara with the Jews.
As has been suggested by earlier research, the St. Barbara
panels demonstrate social status by portraying poor people
as unpleasant and ugly, while the equally evil but wealthy are
portrayed with neutral, or even aristocratic, features and
luxurious clothing – the fabric patterns are from then existent
Italian silks. Besides the torturers, the above-mentioned
shepherds in the betrayal scene represent the ‘lower class’.
According to Erwin Panofsky, they are ‘genre’ figures and
“not only ‘small’ in the sociological sense […] but also
conspicuously poor and picturesque”.860 Their appearance is
not determined by moral standing, because the loyal
shepherd’s physiognomy is portrayed as just as rough as that
of the traitorous shepherd: Social status far outweighed
personal morality. The same applies to ethnicity and, indeed,
the late medieval practice of portraying high-ranking people
as more pleasing to the eye sometimes makes it difficult to
distinguish between the so-called good and bad Jews of a
higher rank – for example, distinguishing Joseph of Arimathea
from the high priest Caiaphas.861

14.4 Conclusion
Late medieval Christian devotional art could not avoid
representing Jews. Moreover, one would be justified in
claiming that these representations were found even when
they lacked a biblical or ‘historical’ basis, for example, in the
images created of the legends of martyrs. Even if the
Jewishness of Christ, the Virgin, the apostles, and the other
protagonists of the Christian narrative was acknowledged in
an opaque or tortuous manner, there were several other
characters whose presence was crucial within the holy
events, whose Jewishness could not be questioned, but whose
portrayal was more open for variations, such as the ‘good’
high priest. Any representations of the Virgin’s life, for
example, required a high priest who received her at the
Temple, did the betrothal service, and later circumcised
Christ. On the other hand, the scenes of Christ’s torture often
included mean, indecent, and ugly figures, with caricatured
features meant to identify them as Jews, but also the high
priest, now turned evil. In the Middle Ages, Jews were
portrayed as either good or bad,862 and the Kalanti altarpiece
adheres to this general rule with a strong emphasis on the
latter; even the high priest and his assistant performing the
Circumcision do not have a dignified look.
What, then, did these images convey without directly
showing? What did they connect with? In the case of
medieval imagery, it is necessary to consider what sorts of
narratives were incorporated in the images, and which stories
they linked together. In this regard, the violent miracle
stories told at the feast of the Dormition might have meant
that the image of Mary’s (temporary) death, comforting and
peaceful in and of itself, could well have triggered
associations that were rife with allusions to anger and sheer
horror. The image of the Assumption of the Virgin on the
Kalanti altarpiece did not even need the associations on a
purely imaginative level, as Mary’s sovereignty and the
‘evilness’ of the Jews were clearly exposed in the miracle
scenes on its right side.
 The Kalanti altarpiece makes broad reference to imaginary
Jews and indicates the central role these characters played
both in Christian narratives and in the pictorial world so
essential to the devotional life. Meister Francke was
consciously presenting the figures of Jews in his painting –
even when the actual events would not have included Jews.
Of the many options available, those who determined the
motifs for the carved Marian images decided to include these
miracles, which clearly emphasized the wickedness of Jews.
As a consequence, these motifs created possible new ways of
reading the other scenes as well, stressing Mary’s eternal
virginity and, for instance, evoking the negative, or even
horrendous, connotations inherent in the image of the
Circumcision. As I have shown, Mary’s eternal virginity is
inscribed in every sculpted scene of the altarpiece, whether
directly, or through ‘polar thinking’ or by taking advantage of
the entire visual complexity of the work, that is, the power of
the images to evoke new meanings of the ones with which
they are compositionally connected. Indeed, the emphasis on
virginity – as well as on the imitatio – bound together the
painted and the sculpted parts of the altarpiece.
People knew the stories so it was not crucial to display
everything. Just as neither the healing nor the conversion of
the Jews is shown in the funeral scene, no one needed to see
in order to know how, following her beheading at the hands of
her father, the angels carried St. Barbara’s soul to Heaven,
where she resides wearing her virginal crown and holding her
attribute, the tower. Similarly, it was not necessary to show
the wicked magician beside Theophilus to know that he
belongs to the scene or, if the audience was a aware of the
fifteenth-century, Middle Low German version (known as
Theophilus T) not only was there one Jew, but many to whom
Theophilus tries to sell himself: Musin, Isaak, Bonenfant, and
Samuel, of which the latter then escorts Theophilus to the
devil.863 Certain details, such as the gestures and positions of
the two apostles who face the viewers in the funeral scene,
all but invite the beholders to continue and imagine the story
in their minds, with a happy ending. The plots and
conclusions were rooted in the beholder’s consciousness and
memory. Moreover, although this essay has discussed the
visual and the textual, it is essential to be alert of the
performances that powerfully reinforced the messages
mediated in the works of art. As a vivid example of this, the
devil’s face in the Theophilus scene much resembles the
masks of the devilish characters in the various mystery
plays.864 Versions of the Theophilus play survive in many
languages including Middle Low German and equally popular
were stagings of the Dormition or of the Virgin’s funeral.865 In
actual fact, it has been suggested that the growing audiences
and the need for didactic, comic and grotesque elements on
stage expanded the roles of Jews in the tales.866 Put bluntly,
much of what was perpetuated in immobile art was also part
of town life in the Late Middle Ages.

14.5 Epilogue
The threads connecting Meister Francke and his art to the
sentiments toward and persecution of the Jewish people
continued into the twentieth century. Adolph Goldschmidt
(1863–1944), the scholar who attributed the St. Barbara
panels to Meister Francke, was a distinguished Berlin-based
professor of art history. He was one of many ‘assimilated’
Jews who had strong patriotic feelings for Germany, and he
resisted emigrating until the final moment: He left for Basle
only after he was no longer granted access to the university
library.867 The Meister Francke scholar Bella Martens (1891–
1959) had Erwin Panofsky (1892–1968) as her Doktorvater
(doctoral supervisor).868 Panofsky, also a German-born Jew,
but a generation younger than his teacher Goldschmidt,
became one of the best-known art historians of the twentieth
century. He moved to Hamburg in 1921 to teach, and three
years later he was nominated as a professor ordinarius. In
1933, he was forced to leave his professorship, and very soon
thereafter fled with his family to the United States.869
In 1950 Panofsky received a letter from his former student
and friend William S. Heckscher (1904–1999), who was also a
refugee, but had now visited post-war Hamburg and its
Kunsthalle. He wrote, “The only moving thing was of course
to see Meister Francke and Bertram and a few of the other
things again”.870 Panofsky probably would have shared his
friend’s feelings, since not only had he overseen Bella
Martens’ research, he unquestionably also had a personal
interest in Meister Francke. In addition to the previously-
quoted book on Early Netherlandish painting, he took Meister
Francke up in what is perhaps his most influential essay, “Die
Perspektive als ‘symbolische Form’”, as well as in his study
on the Imago Pietatis, the motif of the Man of Sorrows (both
1927).871 Moreover, it is fascinating to consider his attention
to Meister Francke increasing once he had personally
examined the St. Barbara panels when they were in the
Hamburger Kunsthalle for conservation, and during the
subsequent exhibition in the 1920s.872 We need not
speculate about whether or not he then saw the altarpiece,
because in a letter from 1967 he mentions that he still
remembers this “beautiful altarpiece”.873 The Kunsthalle was
a significant location in many ways: Panofsky’s art-history
seminars were held at the edifice; Bella Martens worked there
as an assistant to Gustav Pauli, the director until 1933, and a
close friend to Panofsky.874 In the same year, Bella Martens
also lost her post and she was relocated to the department of
prints and drawings (Kupferstichkabinett).875
Although Panofsky, as far as we know, was not religiously
observant, with the rise of the Nazis, simply being a Jew
would play a major role in his fate. His exile, and the reasons
for it, continued to have an impact throughout his life,
something that many of those who have analysed his work
believe greatly affected his theoretical thinking.876 It is no
exaggeration to say that the collapse of classical German
academic culture had immense consequences for art-history
scholarship overall. To simplify: Subjective interpretations
tied to Hegelian ideals and drawn from the general
Weltanschauung were no longer accepted after the war and
would ultimately be replaced by Anglo-American analytic and
scientific positivism. This development was primarily
advanced by E. H. Gombrich (1909–2001), yet another
refugee and a major art historian during the twentieth
century.877 Although the degree to which Panofsky’s views
changed is open to debate, French art historian Georges Didi-
Huberman’s treatment of him places Panofsky firmly within
the sphere of harsh rationality.878 Didi-Huberman makes
metonymical use of a mystical Jewish tale to frame his
analysis: Rabbi Azriel saves a young girl possessed by a
dybbuk by exorcizing it and, to Didi-Huberman, the exorcist
rabbi is like Panofsky.879 He is an art historian who could not
‘understand’ images, but could only ‘explain’ them
authoritatively and, “satisfied with his well-constructed
answers”, he exorcized power and efficacy from images.880
Panofsky’s caution in the face of what images can evoke in
people is, in Didi-Huberman’s analysis, reduced to a fear of
images.881
Early art history seems to have been fairly indifferent to the
part played by images in the persecution of Jews in the
Middle Ages. The dismissal of the function of the images lies
in part with the historical developments and traditions of the
discipline of art history; interpreting works of art by
contextualizing them within the society in which they were
created was by and large introduced following the war, and,
in actual fact, was very much indebted to Erwin Panofsky’s
iconological ‘method’.882 Thus, the early scholars did not
necessarily recognize that the ugly Jewish face painted on an
altarpiece in early fifteenth-century Hamburg was not only an
artistic feature summoning earlier influences and models, but
a formative agent in the era in which it was painted.

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Shlomo Lotan

15 The Teutonic Knights and

their Attitude about Muslims:
Saracens in the Latin Kingdom of
Jerusalem and in the Baltic
Region

15.1 Introduction
Research into the Teutonic Order has traditionally
concentrated on its military activities in the Baltic region – in
Prussia and Livonia – where its Knights waged a ruthless war
against heathen tribes in an effort to strengthen Christianity
in northern Europe. However, it is important to remember
that the Teutonic Order began its military activities in the
Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, in the late twelfth century,
battling Muslims. The extensive nature of these campaigns
would gradually cripple the Latin Kingdom, contributing to its
collapse in 1291.
The way the Teutonic Knights spoke of their enemies in the
Baltic region indicates how they were affected by the
constant fighting with Muslims in the Latin East. They
described their enemies in the Baltic region as “Saracens” –
Muslims – a term that referred both to the Muslims as such
and to their military capabilities.
This article will address different characteristics of the
Teutonic Order in the Latin East and in the Baltic lands, as
well as the way in which the Teutonic brethren viewed their
enemies in the Baltic region. It will focus on how the
campaigns in the Latin East influenced the way in which the
Teutonic warriors referred to the heathen tribes in the Baltic
region as Saracens, at a great remove from the Muslim
military action in the Mediterranean Basin.
This article will emphasize the unique use of the term
“Saracens” and the way it has affected the activities of the
Teutonic Order upon moving its fighting from the Latin East
to the Baltic region. This term, Saracens, became increasingly
common when relating to the Teutonic enemies in the Baltic
region as the enemies of Christianity, like the Muslim
struggling against the Crusaders in the eastern
Mediterranean basin.
During the twelfth century, the Crusaders were competing
with the local Muslim population in the Latin East. This
population had survived the first period of fighting and had
maintained a presence within the Kingdom’s territories since
1099. The Crusaders’ toleration of the Muslim population,
along with the economic, agricultural, and trade relations
they developed with Muslims, came to an end when Muslim
resistance increased in the eastern parts of the
Mediterranean Basin – Egypt and Syria – during the second
half of the twelfth century.883 With the rise of Saladin and the
development of a more powerful Muslim army, the Crusaders
came under consistent attack for a decade, beginning in
1177 in Montgisard near Rama (Ramla) and ending with the
great defeat at the Battle of Hattin in July 1187.884 This battle
marked the final stage of the first kingdom: Following this
defeat the Crusader cities quickly fell into Muslim hands.885
Only with the Third Crusade of 1191, followed by the alliance
of European warriors under King Richard I (Lionheart), was
the Latin Kingdom recovered, creating a new Crusader entity
in the coastal region, at a remove from Jerusalem, which
remained under Muslim rule, with the exception of brief
periods during the mid-thirteenth century.886
In 1197, in the wake of a Crusade known as the “German
Crusade”, led by German warriors who had arrived from
Southern Italy, there was a renewed effort to re-conquer the
Latin Kingdom. These warriors had fought in the Siege of
Toron (Tibnin), contributing to the occupation of the coastal
cities of Sidon and Beirut.887 The warriors who had remained
in the Kingdom established the Teutonic Military Order in
1198.888 This new military order joined the Hospitallers and
the Templars, well-known military organizations that had
been fighting the Muslims since the twelfth century.889 Did
this unstable political and military situation influence the
Teutonic Order’s subsequent history and tradition? This
question and related assumptions form the basis of this
article. I will present the history of the Teutonic Order in the
Latin East in the light of its struggle with the Muslims. I will
also attempt to explain how these campaigns contributed to
the Order’s later military approach to its Teutonic enemies in
Northern Europe, specifically the Prussians and Livonians.
What did the Teutonic warriors adopt and absorb in the Latin
East that allowed them to increase their standing in their
future endeavours in other areas of Europe where they ruled
and fought? These will be compared and explained in the
next part of this article.

15.2 Struggling against the Saracens

in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem
Beginning with the Fifth Crusade to Egypt in 1218–1221, the
Teutonic Order participated in all the major campaigns
against Muslims in the Latin Kingdom’s territory and the
surrounding area, alongside the other military orders and the
Crusader nobility.890 The fighting in the Nile Delta in Egypt
ended in defeat. Thirty Teutonic Knights were killed on the
battlefield at the Battle of Damietta.891 Despite the defeat in
Egypt, the Teutonic Knights won the recognition and
admiration of the German nobility who participated in the
Siege of Damietta. For their contribution to the battle in
Egypt, they received grants and property in northern Europe,
in France, and in the northern Holy Roman Empire.892 They
also received assistance that allowed them to purchase land
in western Galilee – in Mi‛ilya and the surrounding area.893
The Sixth Crusade of 1228–1229, led by the Holy Roman
Emperor Frederick II, brought changes to the Crusader
movement’s basic approach. Emperor Frederick II managed
to regain many parts of the Holy Land through political
negotiation, rather than by resorting to military force or
directly confronting the Muslim troops.894 The Emperor’s
achievements, including the Crusaders gaining control of
Jerusalem (albeit without the Temple Mount), as well as of
many areas in Galilee, including Nazareth, Toron, and Hunin,
led Church authorities to excommunicate him, bringing about
a shift in the regional balance of power. 895 The Teutonic
Knights were among the few who supported Frederick II,
accompanying him on his journey to Jerusalem. They also
participated in the ceremony at the Church of the Holy
Sepulchre to crown him king of Jerusalem. 896 Pope Gregory
IX attacked the Teutonic Order, attempting to remove them
from positions of power and to deprive them of status. The
Knights survived this crisis, both on the basis of the
resistance mounted by the Order’s magister, Hermann von
Salza, and the prominent role the Order had played in the
defence of the Latin Kingdom. Hermann von Salza wrote a
letter to Pope Gregory IX, in which he described both the
Crusade’s achievements, including the construction of the
Montfort Castle in Galilee, and the role the Order played in
protecting the Frankish Kingdom.897 In response, in 1230, the
Pope appealed to all Christians to consolidate the Teutonic
resistance and contribute to the maintenance of the castle in
the Galilee as a boundary between Christianity and the
infidels, and thus as a stronghold in the defence of
Christianity from the attacks of the Saracens. The Pope also
praised the Teutonic Knights as the period’s “new
Maccabees”, who were chasing the Saracens from Holy
Land.898
Saracens was the Crusaders’ favoured term for their Muslim
enemies. It was based on the word for the Middle Eastern
wind (sharqī in Arabic) that swept across the eastern lands,
bringing with it the nomadic Arab tribes from the Arabian
desert that settled near the shores of Mediterranean, in the
region of the Byzantine Empire.899 This unique term was a
nod to the power Muslims wielded, but, above all, it was a
term of resentment used by the Crusaders in the Latin East
and in Europe to define all of their enemies, whether Muslims
or pagan tribes, or even Christians who opposed the Pope
and his emissaries.900
The unstable military situation in the Latin Kingdom, where
battles were constantly being waged with the Muslims, lasted
another decade. In 1244, following a series of conquests and
ongoing efforts to strengthen the Latin Kingdom, a period of
military decline set in, marked by the loss of territory. The
Egyptians, who felt threatened by the Crusaders, who had
allied with Muslim forces from Damascus and northern Syria,
sought the support of the Khwarizmian tribes, who came from
Central Asia to storm the Mediterranean region.901 The rival
forces collided in the fields of the village Hirbiya (in French,
La Forbie) in the area between Ascalon and Gaza, in the
southern part of the Latin Kingdom.902
The Battle of La Forbie, which took place on 17 October
1244, resulted in the collapse of the Crusader army. The
Egyptians attacked the Syrian Muslim forces dispersed
throughout the area, leaving the Crusaders on their own
against Egyptian forces and their allies. The Crusaders put up
stiff resistance against the superior Muslim forces, but were
finally defeated.903 According to Crusader sources, 325
Hospitallers were killed, leaving only twenty-six survivors,
312 Templars died, with a mere thirty-three surviving, and
397 (of some 400) Teutonic warriors were killed.904 Many
fighters tried to escape the battle, heading north toward
Ascalon. Among them was the patriarch of Jerusalem, Robert
of Nantes, who described being wounded and escaping the
battlefield, which had been the scene of a defeat and a
terrible slaughter.905
The terrible result of the battle and its aftermath
underscores the superiority of the Muslim warriors in the
Latin East. The Muslims had a different military strategy than
the Crusaders, one better suited to the environment, the
climate, and the terrain of the Latin East. They used light
archers and moved quickly from site to site, whereas the
Crusaders used heavy armour and bulky equipment. One
medieval source described the Muslims’ use of bows and
arrows as “rain from Hell”.906
It is well known that the Crusader forces, including the
military orders, studied the Muslim way of fighting and
included groups of foreign soldiers among their troops,
including Turcopoles, who were Christian Turks, and who also
served in the Byzantine army. These were trained soldiers
familiar with the realities of battle in the Frankish East, and
with Muslim military methods and equipment. Their
experience proved useful to the Crusaders in military
confrontations with the Saracens.907 The Turcopoles are
mentioned in Crusader sources for the significant service
they rendered, helping the Teutonic Knights to organize their
forces during battles. The Teutonic grand master’s entourage
included several Turcopoles, indicating the regard the
Teutonic Knights, including their leadership, had for the
Turcopoles and their military experience in fighting the
Muslims in the Latin East.908 The Crusaders appear to have
relied primarily on Christian forces, avoiding, where possible,
alliances with Muslim troops. The experience of fighting
alongside Muslim forces from Syria was a rare one, and was
never repeated following the defeat at the Battle of La Forbie,
in 1244.
In 1260, the Mongols invaded Syria, threatening the Latin
Kingdom in the process. The Kingdom’s leaders assembled in
Acre to discuss a Muslim appeal to join forces in an attack on
the Mongols. The Crusader leaders wanted to support the
Muslims, but the Teutonic grand master, Anno von
Sangerhausen, insisted on avoiding military involvement,
instead advocating maintaining the existent Crusader
positions. He based his argument on a long-standing
experience of the Saracens not keeping their promises to the
Christians. The Crusaders feared that the Muslims would
invade the Kingdom, and turn against the Christians when the
battle against the Mongols ended. The Teutonic grand
master’s opinion prevailed, eventually contributing to the
Kingdom’s survival following the defeat of the Mongols in Ayn
Jalut and the Mamluk victory of 1260.909
It is important to point out that rather than attacking them,
the Crusaders and the military orders developed a
relationship with the Muslims in the Galilean villages and
along the Mediterranean coast. The Teutonic Knights who had
acquired lands and villages in the northern part of the Latin
Kingdom of Jerusalem needed the local population, which was
mostly Muslim, for agricultural produce and to acquire
necessary goods. They also needed local support in their
negotiations and communication with the local population.910
The Teutonic brethren used Arabic interpreters, some of them
Muslim and others Eastern Christians (Syrians), who were
familiar with the local culture of the Latin East. Some charters
from that period make mention of the use of local
interpreters at the Teutonic headquarters when purchasing
land or signing contracts with the local Crusader nobility and
other sections of the local population.911
The Crusaders enjoyed very little peace and stability from of
the Battle of La Forbie in 1244 until the collapse of the Latin
Kingdom in 1291. The Muslims had grown stronger, and the
Crusaders were unable to repeat their twelfth-century
success. The Mamluks, led by Baybars, managed to upset the
military balance in the region, conquering most of the
Crusader fortifications in the 1260s – Nazareth, Arsor,
Caesarea, Safed, Jaffa, Antioch, and finally, in 1271, the
strongholds of the Hospitallers in Crac des Chevaliers and the
Teutonic Order’s Montfort Castle. The Frankish Kingdom
remained a small entity, located close to the Muslim
territories. The Kingdom survived only because peace
agreements (hūdna in Arabic) were signed with the Muslims
and Christians in Europe and in the Mediterranean Basin
provided aid.912
In the end, this was not enough to ensure the Kingdom’s
survival. The Latin Kingdom’s major city fell at the Battle of
Acre, in May 1291. The Mamluk attack on Acre was a
response to the Christians’ treatment of a group of Muslims
visiting the city. A group of Italian merchants attacked the
foreign Muslims on the streets of Acre and killed them. This
was in violation of the agreements signed with the Mamluks
and was considered a serious provocation by the Muslim
world. The Crusaders sought peace with the Mamluks, but
were rebuffed. 913
The fall of Acre is described in several medieval sources.
One of them mentions the Teutonic resistance to the Muslim
invaders and reactions to the brutal battle. This German
medieval source identifies Konrad von Feuchtwangen as the
Teutonic leader of Acre at the time. It is presumed that he led
the retreat of the Teutonic Order from the city and its
departure to Europe. Faced with a deteriorating city, the
Teutonic leader chose this course, rather than allow his men
to be killed for no reason. When the Teutonic Knights voiced
their opposition, Konrad von Feuchtwangen promised to
avenge the fall of Acre and the deaths of its Christians by
killing as many infidels as possible in Prussia. He referred to
them as Saracens.914
Udo Arnold rejects this version of events, presenting a
number of contemporary medieval Frankish sources that
mention Konrad’s activities in that region. 915 In addition, the
fact that archaeological evidence indicates that the Teutonic
compound in the north-eastern part of Acre was completely
destroyed by fire, making it likely that most of the Teutonic
brethren, including their leader, were killed in the 1291 battle
with the Muslims, supports Arnold’s perspective. 916
It is well established that Konrad von Feuchtwangen
understood the military situation of Muslims and Crusaders in
the Latin East. In 1261, he served as the military order’s
treasurer in the Latin East, after which he was appointed
Teutonic commander of the region.917 After serving in these
positions, he joined the Teutonic Knights in Prussia, where he
gained insight into the violent struggle in the Baltic region.
Konrad von Feuchtwangen was a strong advocate of Teutonic
settlement and resistance in Prussia, and, for the most part,
objected to the persistent fighting in the Latin East. At the
end of 1292, Konrad von Feuchtwangen was elected grand
master of the Teutonic Order, a position he used to continue
his efforts to shift the military order’s focus from the
Mediterranean Basin to the Baltic region of Prussia and in
Livonia.918

15.3 Struggling against the heathen

enemies – the Saracens in the Baltic
region
While it strengthened its position in the Holy Land during the
thirteenth century, the Teutonic Order was at a crossroads in
northern Europe. In 1230, the Teutonic Knights invaded
Prussia’s Baltic region, north of Poland. This was in response
to an appeal from Poland’s leader, Konrad I of Mazovia.919
The Teutonic Order also received the approval of Emperor
Fredrick II, who supported their mission in Prussia and, in
1226, gave them a charter known as the Golden Bull of
Rimini.920 With a new battleground in Prussia, the Teutonic
Order was poised to launch a new chapter in its history.
While it was only one of several military factions in the Latin
Kingdom of Jerusalem, in Prussia the Teutonic Order was the
primary faction engaging the heathen tribes opposing its
advance into their lands. The Teutonic Knights fought a
ruthless war against their infidel enemies, with fighting
lasting until 1283, when the Teutonic Order completed its
conquest of Prussia and established the Teutonic
Ordensstaat.921
The Teutonic Order and the German rulers used a term
acquired during the wars against the Muslims in the Latin
East – Saracens – to define the heathen tribes fighting the
Teutonic Order in Prussia and the German population in
Livonia. The term expressed the revulsion the Christian
warriors felt for their opponents. In 1211, the Roman Emperor
Otto IV called the pagan warriors fighting the Christians in
Livonia Saracens, describing them as enemies of Christianity.
This same leader heaped praise on the members of the
military order in Livonia known as the Brothers of the Sword,
claiming that they were fighting a ruthless war against the
Saracens from the north.922
The description of the ruthless warfare in the Baltic region is
primarily based on medieval Teutonic chronicles. One of the
most important contemporary medieval sources is the
Chronicon terrae Prussiae, written in 1326 by a priest who
was a member of the Order – Peter von Dusburg.923 The
heathen tribes in Prussia were known for their brutal
behaviour, pillaging, and destruction of the Teutonic
positions.924 Peter von Dusburg describes the heathen tribes
with great distaste, depicting them as devoid of morality.925
They were also accused of being under Satan’s command,
fighting against the Christians on his behalf.926 Peter von
Dusburg also described their pagan manners and their
sacrificing of human victims, as well as their custom of
mistreating the wounded and incinerating prisoners of war.
The Teutonic Knights seem to have mimicked the heathen
tribes’ brutal behaviour. They murdered infidel warriors
captured in battle, exiled women and children, and looted
villages following battles. 927
Another chronicle from the first half of the thirteenth
century describes the Christianization of Livonia (roughly in
the area of modern Latvia and Estonia) by a priest – Heinrich
von Lettland (Henry of Livonia).928 The chronicler describes
the cruel way in which infidels fought the Christian population
when it settled in Livonia. He writes about Christians who
went outside the fort at Üxküll to cultivate their land and
were attacked by a group of heathen warriors. Several
Christians were killed on the spot, and others suffered a cruel
death through sacrifice.929
Another Christian source from the end of the thirteenth
century, the Livländische Reimchronik, also describes the
pagan tribes’ cruelty.930 It mentions how the heathens
tortured and sacrificed German prisoners to their gods before
burning the bodies.931 The Germans’ cruelty during battle
was thus considered a response to the heathen warriors’
behaviour on the battlefields of Prussia and Livonia.932
Not only does the chronicle of Peter von Dusburg portray
the cruelty of the fighting between the enemies in the Baltic
region, it provides evidence of an unusual use of the term
Saracens. The chronicler describes a Teutonic warrior named
Hermann, called “Sarracenus”, who was a member of the
Teutonic Order defending the fortress of Königsberg
(Kaliningrad).933 Why was he called Hermann Sarracenus?
Did it symbolize his courage on the battlefield? Did he serve
in the Latin Kingdom before moving to Prussia? The Teutonic
chronicle does not answer these questions, but it is unlikely
that this warrior was a Muslim who joined the Teutonic Order
and continued his military service in Prussia. There is no
evidence of that ever happening.
There are other references to Muslims in the chronicle of
Peter von Dusburg, and to the fighting against the Saracens
in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem. He describes the heroic
Teutonic battle against the Muslims in Acre in 1291, where
many of the Teutonic warriors were killed. After the defeat in
Acre and the loss of the Holy Land, Peter von Dusburg wrote
a lament (Klage in German) about the fall of the Holy Land to
the Muslims and the hard feelings it aroused.934 He also
described in exaggerated terms a military campaign in 1300
on the eastern shores of the Mediterranean. The Crusaders,
encouraged by the Mongols, attempted to re-conquer the
Holy Land and recover their positions in the Latin Kingdom,
but failed. He suggested that the fighting began in Armenia
and continued along the coast of the Mediterranean up to
Gaza. He also wrote that the Christians chased the Muslims
south to the Egyptian border, killing 200,000 Muslim
warriors.935
After moving its headquarters from the Latin Kingdom to
Venice, and then, in 1309, to Marienburg in Prussia, the
Teutonic Order’s military focus was on the Baltic region. The
anger and the desire for revenge meant the continuing
destruction of the infidel tribes and the exile of survivors to
Lithuania, far away from Prussia.936
The infidel population continued to live in Lithuania until
1386. Therefore, it became a favourite destination for the
Teutonic Knights and the other European knights and nobles
(mostly from France and England) that went on expeditions
to demonstrate their knightly virtues. These journeys to the
Baltic region were known by a unique term – Reisen. In these
campaigns, the Christians continued to call their enemies
Saracens, and Lithuania was called the land of the
Saracens.937
The war against the Lithuanians continued even after the
majority of the population had converted to Christianity. The
last battle fought in the fields of Tannenberg (Grunwald) in
1410 determined the Teutonic Order’s fate in Prussia. The
military order fought united Polish and Lithuanians forces,
which had the support of numerous mercenaries and East
European soldiers. The battle ended with the death of
Teutonic Grand Master Ulrich von Jungingen and the military
retreat of the remaining Teutonic warriors to their
strongholds in Prussia.938 According to the Teutonic Order,
they were delivered this harsh defeat by Saracens from
Lithuania and elsewhere in Eastern Europe.939
Surprisingly, this term was still in use more than one
hundred years after the Teutonic Order was driven from the
East and had retreated from the Baltic region. The intensity
with which the Muslims fought and the influence they had on
events, even in the post-Crusade era, left its mark. The
Teutonic Order subsequently used a term it had originally
applied to Muslim warriors – Saracens – during its military
campaigns in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem in the Baltic
region. The term Saracens, originally used for the warriors of
the East, became the term used to identify all enemies of
Christianity and Christian hegemony in the Baltic region,
whether Prussians, Lithuanians, or even Christians who
opposed the Teutonic Order and its rule in the fifteenth
century.
There is evidence in several medieval sources from the
Baltic region supporting the hypothesis that the Teutonic
Order transposed the term Saracens from the Latin East to
the Baltic region. There were only descriptive chronicles or
charters written by Teutonic brethren, mostly priests, serving
in the Military Order or parts of the Teutonic headquarters’
associates. The people in the heathen tribes were illiterate,
therefore they did not leave recorded descriptions, and if
they did these were lost and had never been exposed. The
only evidence we have regarding the Baltic military activities
and the clash between the two major forces derives from the
Teutonic Knights’ chronicles written by clergy members of the
Military Orders, but this information is prejudiced and
onedirectional.
The term Saracens had brought attention to the Other by
way of differentiation and alienation. Dealing with Otherness
prompted in the Teutonic brethren a sense of uniqueness and
difference from the banished heathen tribes. The Teutonic
descriptions allow us to estimate that the Teutonic warriors
and clergy felt a sense of disgust and hesitation towards the
pagans surrounding them in the Baltics. These lead to
descriptions and harsh stereotypes against these ruthless
enemies. With this term, the Teutonic Order pronounced its
revulsion of its pagan enemies and their cruel resistance in
battle.
These issues transferred from the Latin East were not
reinforced in the extremely long campaign in the Baltic
region. In this sense, adopted images and designations were
used as another way of describing the enemies of the
Christian faith, without unwillingness to connect them and to
build the path towards acceptance of the Other, the cruel
rivals of the Teutonic Order in Prussia and Livonia. This term
was applied to any powerful, unwavering, and
uncompromising enemy, as well as to the heathen tribes that
opposed Christianity and Church authorities.
The memory of their resolute enemies from the Latin East
remained tangible for the Teutonic Order, and it influenced
their military and political activities in the Baltic region. This
was yet another way that the Crusade movement left its
mark on European warriors in their struggle against their
enemies in the outlying regions of medieval Europe.

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Jurgita Šiaučiūnaitė-Verbickienė

16 The Image of the Infidelis in

the Grand Duchy of Lithuania: A
Comparison of the Trends in the
Creation of Anti-Jewish and Anti-
Muslim Stereotypes
In the context of socio-cultural development in the Grand
Duchy of Lithuania (hereafter referred to as the GDL), infidel,
or non-Christian, was more than simply a definition that
determined the reciprocal relations between different
communities in society – it was also a legal term. The Second
Statute of Lithuania, introduced in 1566, was meant to define
the legal and social status of non-Christian communities –
Jews and Tatars – by determining their relation to the
Christian community and applying religious exceptionality.
The Ruthenian concept of besurmianin (non-believer),940
signifying an infidel, was the legal reflection of the
prevalence of Christianity within the GDL. The non-Christian
nature of the Jewish and Tatar communities was one of the
factors that accounted for their similar legal and social
status,941 as well as for the similar assessments of these
communities and the common stereotypes.
Drawing upon research942 and historical source material
relevant to the topic, I will highlight the trends at play in the
creation and formulation of the image of Jews, Tatars, and, to
some degree, Karaites,943 all of whom were regarded as
infidels. I will also show how these tendencies shaped both
the development of Christian society and the history of non-
Christian communities in the GDL. Knowing, as we do, the
process by which these images tended to spread –local
adaptation, accompanied by subsequent changes in their
content, and in the way in which they were understood and
expressed – we can uncover the most common trends
exhibited in the case of anti-Jewish stereotypes. I will also
pose a related question: How, why, and under what
circumstances were the negative Jewish stereotypes adapted
to create the image of Muslim Tatars in the GDL? These
issues are particularly important in identifying the trends of
social relations, whether the dominant Christian society
unimaginatively falls back upon the universal European
image of the Jew, developing an image of the Muslim that is
not qualitatively different from that of the Jew, or acts
creatively, using the existing possibilities to construct the
social formulation of non-Christians at a legal level, and
subsequently indiscriminately applies the same stereotypes
to all non-Christians.
This article is based on various sources from the sixteenth
to the eighteenth centuries: publications, hagiography, anti-
Jewish literature, and the sole anti-Muslim publication to
appear in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth: Alfurkan
Tatarski prawdziwy na czterdzieśći częśći rozdzielony (“The
True Tatar Alfurkan, Divided into Forty Parts”; hereafter
Alfurkan Tatarski).944 Anti-Tatar literature offers a promising
source that has not been addressed in research on the image
of the Jew. True, attention should be drawn to the fact that
the Jewish segment there is collateral (rather than primary,
as in anti-Jewish works), supplementing or consolidating the
image by means of contrast or analogy. However, texts of
this nature represent perfectly the complex attitude of a
predominantly Christian society to its confessionally-mixed
non-Christian sectors, allowing us to distinguish the Jewish
stereotypes applied in assessing the Tatars. It is obvious that
the scholarly literature addressing the Tatars in the Polish-
Lithuanian Commonwealth uses anti-Tatar literature to
analyse society’s view of the Tatars, but the question of the
origin of these anti-Tatar stereotypes goes unaddressed here.
The evolution of society’s self-consciousness, mind-set, and
values plays an important role in the formulation, and even
more so the development, of the image of the Jew. Social
development, above all Christianization, the characteristics or
behaviours attributed to Jews, and the perceived social
position of Jews are interrelated.

16.1 The formulation of anti-Jewish

stereotypes in the GDL
It is a distinct feature of the GDL’s socio-cultural development
that it was late in accepting the Roman Catholic branch of
Christianity as the state religion (1387), and that it did so at a
time when the majority of the population, and even a good
portion of the ruling elite, were Eastern Orthodox (and from
the late sixteenth century, Unitarians). When Martin Luther
proclaimed his famous Theses in 1517, Catholicism had been
dominant in Western Europe for eight or nine hundred years,
while only 266 years had passed since the unsuccessful
conversion of King Mindowg (Mindaugas in Lithuanian) in
1251 – he later forsook Christianity. The GDL had only
officially become Christian in 1387, and the bishopric of
Medininki (Medininkai in Lithuanian) in Samogitia had only
been established in 1417.945 The romantic presentation of
medieval GDL as a pagan state does not reflect historical
reality. Predatory Crusades and dynastic politics had resulted
in the incorporation of Eastern Slavic lands. From the outset,
the GDL was a multi-confessional state, with dynastic and
political power in the hands of a pagan minority that was, its
paganism aside, strongly influenced by Orthodoxy;
administrators of conquered lands often received an
Orthodox baptism, and grand dukes were known to marry
Orthodox women.946 Paradoxically, however, the state, which
was home to many Christians, remained officially pagan, in
spite of several attempts to introduce the practice of baptism
before it gained official backing.947 Non-Christian
communities had been established in the GDL during the
period of pagan ascendency, but their legal status only began
to be regulated following the Catholic baptism of state
officials.
In the case of Jewish migration within Europe, the GDL, at
the eastern limit of the areas settled, was favourably
perceived. Pagan GDL was often seen as a safe alternative to
the complicated situation facing Jews in medieval Catholic
European states. Although it is common to date Jewish
settlement in the GDL to the privilege granted by Witold
(Vytautas in Lithuanian) the Great to the community of Brest
in 1388 – the first written mention of Jewish settlement –the
fact is that by the early fourteenth century, the GDL had
already ‘conquered’ Jewish communities: The Rus lands,
conquered or integrated into the GDL by dynastic ties, were
inhabited by numerous Jewish communities. Typically, the
common legends about Jewish settlements948 focus on Jews
invited to settle in the GDL by the grand dukes.949 The
second wave of migration in the sixteenth century – from
Western Europe through Poland – would, however, prove to
be important.
Muslim Tatar settlement in the GDL can also be dated to the
fourteenth century: There were hired Tatar warriors in the
troops commanded by Grand Duke Gediminas (Gedimin). Not
only is the legend about the several hundred Golden Horde
Tatar families that Grand Duke Witold brought into Lithuania
(1397) accepted by the Lithuanian Tatar community even
today, but it was also accepted by the Polish chronicler Jan
Długosz (1415–1480), writing about eighty years after the
events in question. It is likely that there were a variety of
circumstances that led different groups of Tatars to settle in
the GDL: the relations between the GDL and the Golden
Horde; taking Tatars as prisoners of war; 950 and Tatar
participation in the GDL’s military.
The slower, or later, Christianization process and social and
cultural development in comparison to other Eastern
European states, and a particularly radical and dynamic
Reformation and Counter-Reformation, inevitably influenced
the formulation of the image of the Jew and created the
conditions for adapting the universal pan-European anti-
Jewish stereotypes and myths, while interpreting them in a
new way.
The existing scholarship has failed to address several
important factors that contributed to the formulation of the
image of the Jew in the GDL.
First, the gradual Christianization of different layers of
society (particularly relevant with regard to the Catholic
section of society) should be mentioned –conscious
Christianization was accompanied by the gradual assimilation
of stereotypes and of a perception of Jews based on a
Christian theological interpretation. The importance of
religion in shaping both consciousness and mindsets is not
pointed out sufficiently in the historiography, although it
plays a significant role throughout the course of society’s
development.
Second, the adoption and spread of the image of the Jew in
the GDL took place very rapidly, with the forms of anti-
Judaism that had appeared in the states of Western Europe
gradually manifesting in the GDL. Prior to the mid-sixteenth
century, Jews had been recognized as economic competitors,
giving shape to their negative image and providing the
impetus for the spread of the myth of blood libel (admittedly,
however, there is only limited evidence of manifestations of
the myth of host desecration). At the same time, the non-
Christianity of Jews became a focal point, and they began to
be accused of endangering Christians and of deicide,
establishing a basis for the alleged necessity of their social
segregation.951
Third, variations on the image of the Jew became more
widespread and took root during the brief but dynamic period
of the Reformation, which lasted only a few decades, and
were consolidated during the Counter-Reformation (when
Catholicism became a value and the category of non-Catholic
took form). The rapid social assimilation of anti-Judaism often
resulted in a rather superficial understanding of some of the
universal anti-Jewish stereotypes, as well as a simplistic grasp
of the ideas that underpinned these stereotypes. This was the
basis for the peculiarities and local variations of the image of
the Jew found in the GDL.
Fourth, the GDL was not particularly creative in its
development and implementation of its adapted image of the
Jews. The image of the Jew that gained a foothold during the
sixteenth century remained static until the end of the
eighteenth century. Rather than creatively expanding upon it,
the same image was consistently evoked, in sermons or in
printed material. Given the late spread of anti-Judaism in the
GDL, in comparison to Central and East European states,
there was probably little room for the modification of the
existent image of the Jew, which generally focused on two
components that directly affected daily life – economic
competition and the theological interpretation of certain
Biblical passages – and the related collective assessments of
the Jews.

16.2 Trends in the adaptation of anti-

Judaism in the GDL
Anti-Judaism appeared in the GDL during the first half of the
sixteenth century, with unfavourable views about Jews being
recorded among society’s elite, and the first, still schematic,
elements of the image of the Jew beginning to appear. The
publicist and public figure Michalon Lituanus provides a
particularly extreme example:

Quam in regionem confluxit ex aliis prouinciis

omnium pessima gens Iudaica, iam per Omnia
Podoliae, Voliniae & alia fertiliora oppida aucta,
perfida, callida, calumniatrix, quae nostras merces,
monetas, Syngrapha, Sigilla adulterat, in omnibus
emporiis victum Christianis praeripit, nullam artem
praeter imposturas & calumnias exercet: ex
progenie Chaldaeorum natio pessima, vt tradunt
sacrae literae, adultera, peccatrix, infidelis, nequam,
peruersa.952

[The most abhorrent of all nations – Jews – flooded

this country (the GDL) from Podolia and Volhynia
and all the other fertile towns, insidious, crafty,
deceitful, forging goods, money, signatures, bills of
exchange, and seals, depriving Christians of the
means of living in all markets, not knowing better
than to deceive and slander, the worst nation
descended from the Chaldeans as the Holy
Scriptures teach, debauched, sinful, unbelieving,
despicable, perverse.]

In this image, collective characteristics and behaviours

attributed to Jews were related to economic competition, an
aspect that remained dominant in burghers’ statements
about Jews. Referring to the sources in different genres and
to existing research allows us to distinguish the following
image of the Jew, one which was to all intents and purposes
formulated during the Reformation and Counter-Reformation,
and which was occasionally accompanied by blood libel
accusations. The characteristics and features attributed to
Jews in the GDL remained largely unchanged from the
sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries:953 sly, forgers,
slanderers, swindlers, and vilifiers of the Christian religion
who distracted Christians from their faith (a baseless fear of
what occurred when Christians were hired to work in Jewish
households and a genuine fear of the spread of non-Christian
religions in the GDL),954 wealthy impoverishers of Christians,
955 eternal enemies, infidels, and non-believers, whose

actions were explained by their hardened enmity to the

Christian blood, unfaithful and debauched, rejected by God
and humanity, subject to slavery, despicable, and abhorrent.
In this case, the information about the non-Christianity and
nonCatholicism of Jews, which was provided in religious
primers and reinforced in sermons,956 is central. When
analysing the cases of blood libel and its social interpretation,
we can presume that the people of the GDL profoundly feared
the physical extermination of Christians. For example, during
the eighteenth century, Kiprian Lukowski, the priest in the
small town of Traszkuny (Troškūnai in Lithuanian) said the
following in a sermon to his parishioners (it is very important
to keep in mind the fact that sermons were not only a way to
create anti-Jewish stereotypes, but also allowed for a
theological interpretation of Judaism, creating the opportunity
to periodically remind parishioners about the danger posed
by Jews):

Żidas Pagonuy ney gieray, ney piktay darity ne

turia, bet apie tay wisokiu rupestiu storoties turia,
idunt Krikscioni numarintu yr isz Swieta isznaykintu,
o kada to padarity ne gale, idunt ij woktu, apgautu,
gaysintu yr naikintu.
 [The Jew does not have to do either good or evil to
the pagan, but he must make an effort to put the
Christian to death, and when he is unable to do so,
he must at least rob him, cheat him, and cause him
loss.]957

The negative depictions of Jews in the historical sources can

be grouped into several general stereotypes: an enemy and
impoverisher of Christians; a vilifier of the Christian religion,
and one who is rejected by God and humanity. These
stereotypes underpin the aforementioned fear that Jews
would consciously harm Christian society. This was a very
pronounced fear that functioned in a particular way through
the blood libel.958 This myth, which arose periodically as
evidence of the alleged danger posed by Jews, posited
extremely inhumane actions on the part of Jews, such as
mocking and brutally murdering Christians, desecrating their
bodies, and even using their blood. A fear that Jews would
consciously harm Christian society was key to the image of
the Jew, its different aspects becoming clear, as the all-
pervasive harm done by Jews was uncovered.
The established stereotype of Jews as impoverishers of
Christians was developed in the urban environment,
gradually becoming something akin to the standard
description of the economic relations between Jews and
burghers.959 When comparing themselves with Jews,
burghers, and sometimes noblemen, described themselves as
living in poverty.960 The behaviour attributed to Jews and
their imagined goal of succeeding in business at the expense
of Christians soon acquired a new derivative aspect, with
people coming to believe that Jewish businesses lacked
transparency per suas machinationes (through their own
mechanisms).961 The stereotype of Jews as impoverishers of
Christians became an important part of the imagined damage
Jews caused to society. The imagined prosperity of Jews was
an accepted fact for both noblemen and townsmen, and it
played a role in all spheres of daily life and affected
reciprocal relations. The stereotype of wealthy Jews often
motivated the nobles in sejmiks (local congress of noblemen)
to demand an increase in the Jewish poll tax,962 the
imposition of special tolls, restrictions on the capacity of Jews
to develop their economic activities in the towns, and so on.
In the polemics of both the Reformers and Counter-
Reformers, Jews (and often Tatars) were chosen as a symbol
of evil, and presented as second-rate, as social outcasts.963
The arguments in favour of tolerance towards Jews that
appeared in Catholic Counter-Reformation polemics in the
GDL (remaining important until the end of the eighteenth
century) are to a large extent similar to the attitude found in
other European societies,964 and did nothing to alter the
basic perspective that shaped society’s worldview – “one
lord, one religion, one baptism, one God” (Petr Skarga)965 – or
how these relations were understood in a multi-confessional
society: “Why do we hate them [non-Christians] and
persecute them? Simply because we are not related by a
common religion and hold different religious views.”966
Of the two common European anti-Jewish myths, viz. the
profanation of Sancta Hostia and the blood libel, the former
was practically unknown in the GDL. The only signs of it were
among certain clergy, Catholic, Orthodox, and Unitarian alike.
On the other hand, all social strata were aware of the blood
libel. This myth, which was known in the GDL by the mid-
sixteenth century, was undoubtedly assimilated in a pre-
existent form, but then underwent a good deal of local
modification, in part, presumably, as a result of a failure to
understand the essence of the myth. Early in the seventeenth
century, alleged victims of blood libel included both adult
Christians and children, both boys and girls, making it seem
doubtful that the reliving of Christ’s suffering inherent in the
myth had been conceptually grasped. The sacralization of the
children among the Jews’ alleged victims, which had its
origins in West Europe, took root in the GDL in the quite
modest form of burying the remains in churches. 967 I found
no evidence of the sacralization of adult victims. Taking these
circumstances into account, it seems safe to assume that the
burden of Christ’s suffering fell exclusively on children, an
adaptation of the classical plot of the myth, while adults were
the victims of the alleged harm Jews did to society and of
their thirst for Christian blood.
Arguments about the actions attributed to Jews and
explanations of their behaviour remained undeveloped in the
GDL, and speculation about the use of blood in Jewish rites
did not evolve any further. In fact, up until the second half of
the eighteenth century there was no specific knowledge
about what Jews were allegedly using Christian blood for, only
abstract ideas about the need for Christian blood in Jewish
rites. On the other hand, an extremely detailed description of
the alleged killing recounted in the myth was constantly
developing and expanding. What was exceptional about the
changes the blood libel accusation underwent in the GDL was
that this myth, which usually targeted Rabbinic Jews, was
also applied not only to the Karaites, but – paradoxically –
also to the Muslim Tatars (more on this later). Thus, to
understand these myths more clearly, a broader European
context is necessary.
The state’s official position of tolerance, protection of Jewish
religious life, and prevention of violence – beginning with the
extensive privileges granted by Witold the Great to the Jewish
community in Brest (1388) – is key when analysing the
development of anti-Judaism in the GDL. Furthermore, on the
basis of the pope’s bulls, there was a clear prohibition on
accusing Jews of “using human blood”.968 Nonetheless, it is
important to distinguish the constant official denunciation of
anti-Jewish myths from the reality of daily life, where they
intersected with official provisions. The divide between the
official position and daily practice was characteristic of both
the state and the Church, particularly in the cities, where
relations were heavily influenced by economic strife. Local
modifications were another important and characteristic
factor in the development of images, as was the application
of the myths in contexts other than that for which they were
created. I will discuss the local modifications to the image of
the Jew that occurred while adapting the anti-Jewish myths,
without going into detail about each of the pan-European
stereotypes that took roots in the GDL.

16.3 The image of Jews and the

creation of anti-Tatar stereotypes: The
case of Piotr Cżyżewski’s Alfurkan
Tatarski
The image of the Tatar community in the GDL, beginning in
the late fourteenth century, or perhaps even earlier, has not
been the subject of much research. One of the reasons that
the image of the Tatar has not been the subject of recent
research (as is also the case for studies of anti-Judaism) is the
established idea that the multi-confessional GDL was an
exceptionally tolerant state.969 A negative assessment of
Tatars as Muslims and the pursuant harm they were allegedly
doing to society has been noted. Jan Długosz describes the
Tatars as “idolatrous” infidel Muslims in his chronicle, that
outlines the narrative of the Tatar arrival in Lithuania and
describes the presentation of some Tatars as a gift to the
King of Poland Jagiełło. However, the image of the
“idolatrous” infidel Muslims is fragmentary in the extreme
and only encompasses existent stereotypes and assessments
in a limited way. In order to understand the image of the
Tatars – the only Muslims in the GDL – one should bear in
mind a number of political and socio-cultural circumstances in
the history of Lithuania, as well as the specific features of the
Tatar community. The trends found in the formulation of the
image of the Jew, which were outlined earlier, particularly
those pertaining to aspects of social development, are also
relevant to the formulation of the image of the Tatar.
First of all, for quite a long time, the Tatars of the Golden
Horde khanates were among the GDL’s political rivals.
Traditionally, they had been the ‘Tatar enemies’, and
relations with them had been marked by military conflict. I
will mention only a couple of these conflicts, which were
important in the context of Europe’s relations with the Golden
Horde970 – the march of the Grand Duke Olgierd (Algirdas in
Lithuanian) to Blue Waters (1362) is recognized as the
deepest penetration of European military forces into the
lands of the Golden Horde, and the unsuccessful Battle of
Worksla, led by Witold the Great (1399), was the first
Crusade971 against the Muslim Tatars. Therefore, in the GDL’s
assessment of the Muslim Tatars, there were two distinct
elements: ‘Tatar enemies’ and ‘local Tatars’. The Vilnius
defensive wall symbolized this situation. It was built in the
early sixteenth century to defend the city from the attacks of
hostile Tatar hordes. One of nine gates of this wall was called
the Tatar Gate after the autochthonous Tatars, who lived
nearby in part of the suburb Lukiśki (Lukiškės in Lithuanian,
now part of the city of Vilnius), which was known by local
inhabitants as Tataria. Interestingly enough, the image of
‘Tatar enemies’ did not have any impact on the assessment
of ‘local Tatars’. On the contrary, as can be seen in Michalon
Lituanus’ treatise De moribus Tartarorum, Lituanorum et
Moschorum (On the Customs of Tatars, Lithuanians, and
Muscovites), which was published in Basle in 1655, even the
hostile Tatars of Perekop were to some degree assessed as a
model of endurance, indulgence, support, charity, abstention
from alcohol, and of effective domination of women.972
Second, the Tatar community in the GDL was socially
heterogeneous. Some of the Tatars served in the rulers’
military in exchange for land, thereby playing a socially
necessary role, and as a result were seen in a positive
light.973 Tatars who served in the military far outnumbered
those who lived in cities and suburbs, farming, raising cattle,
or practising crafts. In the Statutes of Lithuania, the latter
were attributed the status of the lowest social stratum of the
members of an unfree family. Because they served in the
military, Tatars were seen as playing a far more socially
useful role than, for example, the Jews, who paid a monetary
equivalent of military service – the poll tax (Polish pogłówne)
– to the state treasury. The heterogeneity of the Tatar
community and the different activities and interests of its
members must be taken into account to avoid the risk of
reconstructing an image of the Tatar that does not
correspond to historical reality. There was only one way in
which the attitude of Christians about Tatars could be
regarded as unanimous; the assessment of Islam as a false,
erroneous religion created by the Prophet underpinned
Christian claims to dominance.974
Third, a very significant trend in the formulation of the
image of the Tatars was the groundwork laid by the early
adaptation of anti-Jewish social images. (In my opinion, the
adaptation or regeneration of the image of the Jew in the
formulation of anti-Tatar and anti-Islamic stereotypes in the
GDL should be the subject of research in its own right.) My
assertion is that the image of the Jew was a significant,
potentially key, factor in shaping the attitude towards Tatars
in the GDL. I base this supposition in no small part on an
exceptional source –the anti-Tatar pamphlet Alfurkan
Tatarski.975 It was published in Vilnius in the early
seventeenth century, and we know of at least three editions –
1617, 1640, and 1643. The author of this popular pamphlet
signed his work with the pseudonym Piotr Cżyżewski. This
document is unique for the GDL (and, indeed, also for the
Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth). The way in which the
author characterizes the Tatars allows us not only to see the
wide range of anti-Tatar stereotypes, but also to identify
cases of anti-Jewish stereotypes being applied to Tatars. The
thoroughness of this source raises a question: Which of these
stereotypes and interpretations actually played an important
social role at that time, and which are the result of the
author’s misconceptions and intolerance?
As is the case in many anti-Jewish works, in Alfurkan
Tatarski, two broad and problematic areas are discussed as
one – assessments of religion, or rather of religious rites, as
perceived by an outside observer, and the criticism of Tatar
lifestyle and social functions, as part of exposing the threat
Tatars posed to Christians. Much about the approach taken
was undoubtedly borrowed from anti-Jewish works. This fact,
as well as Cżyżewski’s writing style and the structure of the
work (each section is introduced with a statement that is then
followed by its proof), which is both evocative and instructive
“not only for reading, but also for memorizing”,976 and which
remains appealing to the reader even when it is insulting,
presents an associative interpretation that suggests the
author of Alfurkan was entirely familiar with the various “anti-
literatures” of his time (anti-Jewish, anti-Christian, anti-
Catholic, anti-Reformation). Like almost every inhabitant of
the GDL at that time, he had a profoundly negative view of
Jews and embraced countless anti-Jewish social myths and
stereotypes. 977 The fact that these assessments were so
deeply ingrained in the mind-set and worldview of his day
encouraged Cżyżewski to compare the Tatars to the Jews.
This comparison provided the author with both a powerful
and evocative means of grounding his statements in a way
that would easily resonate in the GDL and an associative
approach to formulating the image of the Tatars. The Tatar
and the Jew, who, according to the author, were both similar
and different in numerous ways, upon comparison are found
to be the “great and principal enemies not only of the
Christian faith, but also of all Christian nations and their
prosperity”.978
The scope of this article does not permit me to describe the
image of the Tatars presented in Alfurkan Tatarski in greater
detail, so I will focus primarily on the adoption of anti-Jewish
projections in passages addressing the Tatars. The most
striking case is the attribution of the ritual murder of
Christians to the Tatars, removing one component of this
myth – the alleged use of Christian blood in religious rites.
However, the supposed goal of exterminating Christians
commonly attributed to the Jews in the GDL (as in other
medieval European societies) was, in this case, also
attributed to Tatars. A related example would be the
discussion about the inherent stench of Tatars and Jews – in
analogous West European commentary, the stench of Jews
was related to the devil, while Cżyżewski felt that it was the
stench of goat sweat and excrement that he smelled in his
interactions with Tatars. In the pamphlet, he asked, “Why do
Tatars stink of goat sweat and excrement, just as the Jews
stink?”979 The models for Christian society’s relationship to
the Jews – e.g., their expulsion from the state to promote
Christianization and various legal and social restrictions – are
presented in Alfurkan Tatarski as effective, and it is
recommended that they be applied to relations with the
Tatars as well. Interestingly enough, Cżyżewski did not only
draw his anti-Jewish examples from the GDL (in fact, it seems
he rarely did), but from West European states as well. As can
be seen from the way the author presented these relations,
suggesting anti-Tatar restrictions, he was attempting to
reproduce the restrictions applied to the Jews. For example,
as one of ten means potentially encouraging the conversion
of Tatars to Christianity, Cżyżewski suggested that Tatars
should be obliged to attend Sunday services at Catholic
churches980 (an adaptation of the occasional requirement for
Jews to attend Catholic services as was the case in several
West European countries), and that the ban on Jews having
Christians subjects should also be strictly applied to the
Tatars: “We must ensure that Tatars not only cannot have
Christian servants but also not serfs and slaves […] it would
be right for Tatars to serve Tatars but not Christians [to serve
Tatars].”981
Given these examples, it would appear the GDL lacked the
creativity necessary to formulate independent images and
instead drew upon existing anti-Jewish resources. Alternately,
it is possible that the problem was not of great interest, given
that there are few extant sources with which to reconstruct
the image of the Tatar in the GDL. Furthermore, the
stereotypes presented in these sources are underdeveloped
and often schematically repetitive.
In concluding, allow me to digress briefly and draw the
reader’s attention to the image of the Karaites. A different
strategy was used to formulate the image of this Jewish
community. As early as the Reformation, Karaites were
perceived as an exceptional group of ‘righteous’ Jews who did
not observe the Talmud, and who proved to be of greater
interest to foreigners than to the GDL or the Kingdom of
Poland. In response to late eighteenth-century plans to
reform the position of the Jews in the Polish-Lithuanian
Commonwealth, the Karaites began to differentiate
themselves from Rabbinic Jews (the identity of the Karaites in
Lithuania and part of East Europe would later be
reshaped).982 The image of the Rabbinic Jews became the
reference point for the emerging image of the Karaites, who
had been identified as Jews up to this point. The image of the
Rabbinic Jew was not adapted to the Karaites, as was the
case with the Tatars. Instead, the Karaites juxtaposed
themselves with the Rabbinic Jews. By comparing themselves
with Rabbinic Jews, who had a negative image, the Karaites
were able to present themselves as more socially attractive
and less crafty – they were even perceived as being more
fluent in Polish. This strategy for formulating an image led to
the Karaites being perceived very positively in writings from
the first half of the nineteenth century, which was an
exception to the generally negative view of non-Christians.
A separate, but no less interesting potential topic that has
not received adequate research attention is the image of
other non-Christians held within these communities
themselves – e.g., the Tatars’ image of Jews – as well as how
these stereotypes were adapted and the role they played in
Tatar communities. This aspect of social relations was
invisible to the dominant Christian community, although
Christian views certainly influenced the form these relations
took.
It seems to me that the trends identified and the
observations included in this article might indicate the need
for a more refined elaboration of the idea that within society’s
communicative space the image of the Jew, who was situated
at the bottom of the social hierarchy, became a kind of
associative means of communication that facilitated an
understanding that was acceptable not only to different social
layers of Christian society, but also to non-Christians in the
GDL. The overly negative image of the Jew made it easy to
appear more attractive, better, and more useful to society
and to one’s fellow believers. On the other hand, the image of
the Jew, or its individual aspects, in any case, were far more
deeply embedded as social knowledge than was the image of
the less numerous and less economically active Tatars.
Theological interpretations also undoubtedly served to further
strain relations. It was probably not by chance that the
Karaites initially sought to establish their distinction from the
Rabbinic Jews by claiming that when Christ was crucified,
they were no longer present in Jerusalem.
16.4 Summary
The factors that most influenced the formulation of anti-
Jewish stereotypes were the late (in terms of European
history) official Christianization of the Grand Duchy of
Lithuania (1387) and the rapid cultural and social changes
that occurred thereafter. The initial emergence of anti-Jewish
stereotypes among society’s elite can be dated to the early
sixteenth century. By the mid-sixteenth century, different
forms of anti-Judaism (stereotypes, blood libel, and attacks)
had penetrated all social strata. Among the burghers and in
the Second Lithuanian Statute (1566), a besurmianin non-
Christian group was legally distinguished. Muslim Tatars were
incorporated into this group alongside Jews, including
Karaites. In the GDL in the Middle Ages, Tatars were
alternately associated with hostile acts against the state and
with local Tatars, some of whom served in the GDL’s military.
Oddly, the image of the Tatar as an enemy did not play a role
in how local Tatars were evaluated. The image of these local
Tatars was created very simply by adapting the ubiquitous
anti-Jewish stereotypes and myths. As a result, a comparative
study of Christian attitudes about different non-Christian
groups in the GDL opens the way to a discussion not only
about the spread of stereotypes, and their variations,
adaptations, and local modifications, but also about the
adjustments made to anti-Jewish stereotypes when assessing
the Tatar community. In the context of European history, the
spread of anti-Jewish and anti-Muslim stereotypes in the GDL
should be seen as one of the youngest examples of the pan-
European stereotypes that had already spread through
Christian society for several centuries.
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Madis Maasing

17 Infidel Turks and Schismatic

Russians in Late Medieval
Livonia

17.1 Introduction
At the beginning of the sixteenth century, political rhetoric in
Livonia was shaped by the threat posed by an alien power:
Following a significant deterioration in the relations between
the Catholic Livonian territories and their mighty Eastern
Orthodox neighbour – the Grand Duchy of Moscow – war
broke out, lasting from 1501 to 1503, with renewed armed
conflict remaining an imminent threat until 1509. During this
period of confrontation, and afterwards, the Livonians (i.e.,
the political elite of Livonia) fulminated in their political
writings about the gruesome, schismatic, and even infidel
Russians, who posed a threat not only to Livonia, but to
Western Christendom in general. In the Holy Roman Empire
and at the Roman Curia, these allegations were quite
favourably received. Arguably, the Livonians’ greatest
success took the form of a papal provision for two financially
profitable anti-Russian indulgence campaigns (1503–1510).
For various political reasons, the motif of a permanent and
general ‘Russian threat’ had ongoing currency in Livonia up
until the Livonian War (1558–1583). Even after the collapse of
the Livonian territories, the Russian threat motif continued to
be quite effectively used by other adversaries of Moscow –
e.g., Poland-Lithuania and Sweden.
I will focus here first and foremost on what was behind the
initial success of the Russian threat motif in Livonia, but I will
also address why it persisted for as long as it did. A large part
of its success was the fact that it drew upon a similar
phenomenon – the ‘Turkish threat’,983 which played a
significant role in the political rhetoric of Early Modern
Europe, especially in south-eastern Europe and Germany. We
will examine the substantial similarities between the rhetoric
surrounding the Turkish threat and the way the Russian
threat motif is formulated in Livonian political sources (i.e., in
correspondence and in polemical writings) at the end of the
fifteenth century and thereafter. To this end, the roots, the
initial appearance, and the development of both motifs will
be explored. Rhetorical constructs shared by both motifs are
of particular importance here, e.g., the ‘bulwark of
Christendom’ (Antemurale Christianitatis). The motivations
and intentions for using these adversarial rhetorical
narratives is also significant: Was the threat posed by the
enemy the central issue, or were there also other important
and more complex motivations? The question of whether the
depictions of Turks and Russians are factual or not, is not the
main concern of this paper.
Additionally, the motifs of menacing Turks (or Russians)
seem to fit under one key concept of current social sciences –
The Other, or Otherness984 – and one could also pose a
question: How did the construction of the Turkish (and
Russian) Other affect the development of the Christian
European (and Livonian) Self?
There is extensive literature addressing the Turkish threat
motif: We will address only a cross-section of it here.985 Most
literature exploring the Russian threat motif focuses on the
period following the beginning of the Livonian War.986
However, an important document for our consideration is the
Livonian propaganda piece Eynne schonne hysthorie van
vunderlyken gescheffthen der heren tho lyfflanth myth den
Rüssen vnde tartaren (hereafter, Schonne hysthorie), a
document that has piqued some interest among
researchers.987 Anti Selart’s works will be the main source
used to address Russian-Livonian relations and the
development of the Russian threat motif.988 The primary
sources used here are generally clearly polemical, and
supporting a certain agenda, such as political speeches,
political correspondence, and pamphlets. In comparing
elements of the Turkish and Russian threat motifs, sources
published in threepart volume 19 of the Deutsche
Reichstagsakten. Ältere Reihe will be used. This will allow us
to examine the primary and persistent topoi about the Turks
that dominated European rhetoric for centuries.989 The Liv-,
Est- und Kurländisches Urkundenbuch 990 will be the primary
source for examining Livonian rhetoric, but the Akten und
Rezesse der livländischen Ständetage 991 and the regestae
Herzog Albrecht von Preussen und Livland992 will also be
consulted.

17.2 The Turkish threat motif

A fear of the hostile and powerful Other had haunted
inhabitants of Europe since Antiquity. There had been many
invasions by peoples (mostly from the East) who were
perceived as a threat to all of Europe. During Early and High
Medieval times, the idea of the unity of (Western)
Christendom (Christianitas) developed,993 and the groups
outside of it were seen as alien and potentially menacing.
This included not only suppressed inner minorities (such as
Jews or heretics in Europe994), and smaller alien groups on
the border of Christendom (like ‘pagans’ of Northern
Europe995), but also a strong and unknown force to be feared.
Some of them could be even regarded as harbingers of the
Apocalypse – e.g., Magyars.996 Before the Turks, the Mongols
were one of the most widely feared invaders. They were often
called ‘Tatars’ or ‘Tartars’, and were connected to Hell,
Tártaros in Greek. The ‘Mongol-Tatar fear’ remained active
until at least the fifteenth century, particularly in Eastern
Europe, albeit the apocalyptic expectations were largely
supplanted by more earthly fears.997
The greatest degree of antagonism towards a non-Christian
Other during the medieval period was, however, reserved for
the Muslim. Negative depictions of Islam became more
common as the Crusades proceeded: During the eleventh
and twelfth centuries, Muslims (usually called Saracens) were
often perceived as Christianity’s natural enemy, and depicted
as extremely atrocious and brutal, quite similarly as the Turks
were later described.998 It is important, however, to note that
the term Saracen was also used to denote all infidels,999 with
the Tatar playing a similar role in Eastern Europe – Eastern
European Tatars were Muslims by the fourteenth century.1000
The Turkish threat motif began to spread during the
fourteenth century, with the Ottoman conquest of the
Balkans soon posing an existential threat to Byzantium,
Serbia, and other south-eastern Orthodox powers.1001
Attempts by the Byzantines to raise support in the West led
to the failure of the church union proposed by the Council of
Florence in 1439, which only served to increase enmity
between Western and Eastern Christians, without helping
Byzantium in any obvious way.1002 The Turkish question first
emerged in Hungary during the reign of King Sigismund (king
of Hungary 1387–1437; king of the Romans, or of Germany,
from 1410 or 1411; king of Bohemia from 1419 or 1434;
emperor of the Holy Roman Empire beginning in 1433).
Hungary’s search for support did not prove particularly
successful: Besides the disastrous Crusades of Nicopolis in
1396 and Varna in 1444, there was no joint action of Catholic
rulers against the Ottomans before the fall of Constantinople,
as the Turks were not seen as an overall threat to Europe.1003
However, the conquest of the last remnant of the Eastern
Empire in 1453 caused widespread shock in Western
Christendom: In 1453, the pope called for a general anti-
Turkish Crusade, and the emperor began to make the
preparations. In 1454 and 1455, three meetings of the
imperial Estates (Tagungen) were held, with the Turkish
question the subject of extensive discussion.1004 It was during
these years that the general rhetorical elements of the
Turkish threat motif emerged. This was in part due to
activities of Greek emigrants who were prepared to accept
church union under papal supremacy, among them, Cardinals
Isidor of Kiev and Basilios Bessarion.1005 However, the actions
of Western humanists – particularly Imperial Counsellor
Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini (later Pope Pius II, 1458–1464)1006
– and charismatic preachers, such as the Franciscan friar
Giovanni da Capestrano (John of Capistrano) also played an
important role. The topoi they created were popularized in a
regular flow of literature addressing the Turks.1007
What were the most important topics related to the Turkish
threat? First of all, the fall of Constantinople and atrocities
committed by the Turks were widely lamented. There was a
repetitive pattern to how Turkish cruelty was presented:
unprovoked massacres of men; the rape of holy virgins
(nuns) on altars; the desecration of churches and other holy
places – frequently accompanied by tales of entire cities
being eradicated. All of this was intended as a serious
warning: The Turks could be expected to do the same in
other Christian cities.1008 Another popular assertion was that
the Turks were God’s way of punishing all Christians – both
Orthodox and Latin – for their sins. The obvious conclusion
was that if Christians failed to repent and reform both society
and the Church, then the Turks could not be defeated.1009
Sultan Mehmed II (1451–1481) was depicted as an all-
powerful and extremely dangerous enemy, eschatologically
as a “second Muḥammad”, who would complete the evil
deeds of the first one, the Son of Satan, and (the precursor
of) the Antichrist.1010 On a secular level, he was seen as an
evil and militant tyrant capable of carrying out any one of a
number of atrocities, and who, in his madness and hubris,
hoped to surpass the deeds of Alexander the Great and Julius
Caesar.1011 Almost instantly, the Turk became the ‘common
and natural enemy of all of Christendom’, an enemy who
hoped to subjugate all Christians and destroy the true
faith.1012 In this connection, ‘Turk’ soon replaced ‘Saracen’ as
the common denominator for Muslims.1013 As the Turks
became the epitome for all Muslims, they were sometimes
cast as ‘heretics’, with Islam at times being interpreted as
deformed Christianity, thus raising the hope that Turks could
be persuaded to ‘return’ to Christianity.1014 This was to some
degree reinforced by the idea that the Turks descended from
the Trojans, as did the Romans and numerous European
nations.1015 This also served to justify the fall of
Constantinople as the revenge of the Trojans upon the
Greeks.1016 However, the dominant depiction of the Turks
was of ferocious barbarians who descended from the
Scythians, had vile table manners, and hated and hoped to
destroy all forms of humanity and expressions of culture.1017
Furthermore, the Turks were also said to be in alliance with
other infidels and barbarians, such as the Tatars and the
Saracens.1018
Thus, the Turks became enemies of both Christendom and
civilization, an antithesis to the emerging positive idea of a
‘Christian Europe’. This idea was in fact largely created by
Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini to emphasize the serious threat
posed by the Turks (and other infidels) who had conquered all
of the Christian lands, with the exception of the ‘fatherland
and home’ – Europe, the last corner of the world where the
true faith was still practised, but which was now in grave
danger.1019 This concept was, however, problematic. Not only
did the lack of political unity and cooperation on the part of
key Catholic rulers create difficulties, but the question of
Christian Europe’s borders further complicated matters:
Whether the Orthodox could be considered ‘Christian
brothers’ and be included in the anti-Turkish wars or should
be disregarded as ‘foul schismatics’ posed a recurrent
problem throughout the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.1020
The question of who should be counted as Us and who as
Them could, of course, also be applied to non-Christian
groups within Christian Europe. 1021
The Turkish question also played a significant role in how
the Crusades were understood: After 1453, they were
generally seen as defensive wars against the Turks.1022 For
some time, personal participation in a general Crusade was
seen as the best way for a good Christian to repent for his
sins and serve Christendom, something that was reinforced
by the example of cardinals personally commanding navies in
the 1440s and the 1450s, by Giovanni da Capestrano leading
an army during the 1456 Belgrade Crusade, and by Pope Pius
II’s plans to lead general Crusade in 1464. Later on, good
Christians would be able to purchase letters of indulgence to
save their souls, thereby financially supporting a Crusade.1023
With this development, the ideal of the general Crusade was
abandoned in practice, with the papacy increasingly leaning
on smaller anti-Turkish leagues and throwing its support
behind countries that shared a border with the Ottomans.1024
This served to encourage the idea of the bulwark of
Christendom (Antemurale Christianitatis) that emerged
during the High Middle Ages.
Rhetoric about one’s special role as the protector of all of
Christendom was often advanced to gain political benefit
(e.g., to control church structures, increase income, and
justify alliances with non-Catholics), while actually fighting
the infidels rarely played a significant role.1025 The tendency
to use Antemurale rhetoric to justify various political actions
continued after the advent of the Turkish threat, even in
cases where this threat was seen as grave – e.g.,
Hungary.1026 One could argue that there was at least one
exception – the Order of St. John. During the fifteenth
century, it repeatedly defended Rhodes, most famously
repelling the Ottomans in 1480. This victory, which was
celebrated all over Europe, was seen as miraculous and as a
true sign of God’s favour, with the Order also claiming that
the Virgin Mary had directly interceded on its behalf. The
Order actively used its reputation as the true shield of
Christendom to gain political and financial support, but in
reality preferred peaceful relations with the Ottomans.1027
Even after it was forced out of Rhodes in 1522, the Order
continued in its role as the defender of Christendom: Its other
defensive victory against the Turks at Malta in 1565 was
praised as highly as that in Rhodes in 1480.1028
In the second half of the fifteenth century, evidencing a
willingness to fight the Turks became almost mandatory for
Christian rulers. However, as was the case with Antemurale
rhetoric, this primarily served to fulfil other political goals.1029
At the same time, it became increasingly common to
compare one’s Christian adversaries with the Turks, or even
to call them Turks: The Swiss called Charles the Bold of
Burgundy the ‘Turk of the West’,1030 and the king of Denmark
called Karl Knutsson of Sweden the ‘Turk of the North’.1031 It
also became popular to accuse opponents of cooperating
with this ‘arch-enemy’.1032 Such attacks could seriously
damage the accused’s reputation, as proved to be the case
for the sixteenth-century kings of France, who did, in fact,
militarily cooperate to some degree with the Ottomans
against the Habsburgs.1033
After the conquest of Suleiman the Magnificent (1520–1566)
in Hungary, the Turks became a serious problem for the
German lands, with the imperial House of Habsburg
beginning a war with the Ottomans over Hungary that would
last for almost two centuries. Even during the fifteenth
century, the Turkish threat had been one of the main reasons
for holding general meetings of the Estates, something that
had reinforced efforts to centralize the Empire.1034 However,
collecting taxes to fight the Turks proved to be difficult, as
they only posed a direct military threat to the Habsburgs.
This obliged emperors to continuously bargain about the
financial contributions the Estates would provide to fight the
Turks and the conditions that would accompany such
contributions. This played a role in gaining the princes of the
Empire significant political and religious freedom, helping to
advance the Protestant Reformation.1035 Nonetheless, even
after the Peace of Augsburg in 1555, a certain degree of
solidarity and cooperation remained between Protestants and
Catholics inside the Empire in the face of the Turkish
threat.1036 This was true for all of Christian Europe: Although
the Protestants denied the possibility of Holy Wars in the
name of the Church and the pope, they generally regarded
fighting the Turks as justifiable defensive war that would
benefit all of Christendom, which was still seen as essentially
united in spite of all confessional differences.1037

17.3 Origins and development of the

Russian threat motif
Just as the Turkish threat motif had deep roots, the ‘Russian
question’ had a long history in the Eastern Baltic: Grand
Prince Yaroslav I of Kiev (1016–1018 and 1019–1054) had
temporarily conquered south-eastern Estonia in 1030, which
later allowed Tsar Ivan IV (1533–1584) to claim Livonia as his
hereditary land.1038 At the beginning of the thirteenth
century, some of the inhabitants of modern Latvia were
tributaries of the Prince of Polotsk, and there were even two
Orthodox princes, in Kokenhusen (Koknese) and Gerzika
(Jersika). However, as a result of Western Christian missions
and conquests, both Orthodox principalities and most of the
tributary obligations were gone by the second decade of the
thirteenth century.1039 Nonetheless, Orthodox Russians
remained a factor to be reckoned with for the Catholic
Livonians. The principalities of Polotsk, Pskov, and Novgorod
were rivals, and there was significant strife among the
Western conquerors, as well as examples of cooperation
between Russians and Catholics.1040 Subsequently, conflicts
between the Livonians and the Russians would become more
common than cooperation,1041 with the Russians sometimes
even being referred to as schismatics. In spite of this, there
was little actual religious confrontation: The papal curia did
not have serious plans to force a church union,1042 and no
thirteenth-century pope promoted ‘Catholic aggression’
against the Orthodox.1043 Yet, there were Crusades that
received papal authorization, as well as Livonian and Swedish
Crusade-like campaigns against the territory of Novgorod.
The latter were, however, rhetorically directed against
‘pagans’: Karelians, Votians, and Ingrians.1044
The Livonians’ primary ‘external’ enemy, particularly in the
case of the Teutonic Order in Livonia – the Livonian Order
(the major military power in Livonia)1045 – was, both in reality
and rhetorically, the pagan Grand Duchy of Lithuania, which
served to legitimize the Order as an organization whose
purpose was to fight pagans and the enemies of
Christendom.1046 Some rhetorically anti-pagan campaigns
were also directed against the Orthodox principality of Pskov,
as it sometimes cooperated with Lithuania,1047 and many
western Russian principalities, including Kiev, were directly
ruled by Lithuania during the thirteenth and fourteenth
centuries. Additionally, by the mid-thirteenth century, most
Russian principalities were tributaries of the Golden Horde,
and some Russians even participated in Golden Horde
campaigns. As a result, the Russians could be depicted either
as ‘supporters’ or as ‘subjects’ of the infidels. This marked
the advent of dual concept pairs – e.g., ‘infidel Tatars and
schismatic Russians’; ‘infidel Lithuanians and schismatic
Russians’ – playing a role in Central and Eastern European
political rhetoric, including in Livonia.1048
While these anti-Russian and anti-Lithuanian epithets might
be used against the Russians or the Lithuanians themselves,
they were more frequently used to stigmatize fellow Catholics
in Livonia. For the most part, these ‘internal’ clashes were
connected to the rivalry between the Livonian Order and the
Archbishop of Riga, and the Order’s attempts to subjugate all
Livonian bishoprics. These conflicts lasted until Livonia’s
decline.1049 Often, the Order accused its Catholic adversaries
at the papal curia and in the Empire of treacherous
collaboration with the ‘heathen Lithuanians’ or of cooperating
with the ‘schismatic Russians’. The Order’s enemies
responded in kind. However, the militarily powerful Order was
far more likely to make such accusations, as its enemies were
more reliant on the support of their neighbours.1050 The
schismatic Russian motif continued to be used in the fifteenth
century, by which time the Russians had become Livonia’s
primary rhetorical enemy, as Lithuania had been increasingly
Christianized beginning in 1386 and, as a result, had
gradually come to be accepted as a Catholic country.1051
With this development, the Order began to use the alleged
ongoing threat posed by the Russians to legitimize its
existence and its policies, and to prove the necessity of
maintaining ‘Livonian unity’ (i.e., the Order’s domination).1052
At the same time as the Russians were becoming Livonia’s
rhetorical arch-enemy, the future rhetorical arch-enemy of all
of Christendom also began to appear in Livonian sources:
Turkish raids in Hungary were first mentioned in the
correspondence of the Livonian branch of the Order in
1419.1053 At that time, King Sigismund of Germany and
Hungary was seeking the support of the Teutonic Order
against the Turks.1054 During this same period, Poland and
Lithuania were accusing the Order of harassing the newly
Christianized Lithuanians, and proposed relocating the main
branch of the Order in Prussia to Podolia, as a bulwark
“against the Turks, Tatars, and other infidels”.1055 To gain
legitimacy and to win Sigismund’s support, the Order sent a
small contingent to Transylvania in 1429 to fight the Turks.
Although this undertaking had ended by 1434, it allowed the
Order to claim that it was prepared to fight the infidel
menace wherever necessary.1056 In reality, however, the
Order did not participate in any of the wars against the Turks
for a long time thereafter. As a result, there is no mention of
the Turks in Livonian sources for quite some time.
Soon thereafter, a war broke out between the Principality of
Novgorod and the Livonian Order (1443–1448). The spark for
this war was a failed attempt by Gerhard, the count of Mark,
to make pilgrimage to the Holy Land through Russia in
1437.1057 The war offered the Order a good opportunity to
depict the Russians of Novgorod as stubborn heretics who
obstructed pilgrimages. As the archbishop of Novgorod had
been the first to publicly reject the church union established
at the Council of Florence (1439), the war was also presented
as an attempt to force Novgorod into the Catholic Church.1058
However, the Order also had a practical use for this rhetoric:
justifying financing the war with money collected in Livonia as
part of the pan-European indulgence campaign organized to
support the reintegration of the Eastern Church, as well as to
protect Constantinople from the Turks.1059 Since both the
pope and the anti-papal Council of Basle laid claim to the
money, the Order was able to keep it in Livonia and Prussia
and use it for the war.1060 Official permission to do so was not
gained until some years later: In 1448, the Order and Pope
Nicholas V (1447–1455) agreed that the Order could use two
thirds of the money collected for the effort to “reunite the
Greeks and the Russians to the Church” (i.e., for war
expenses), with the remaining third being used to allow the
pope to provide support to Hungary against the Turks.1061
The Order had a great deal of difficulty producing the papal
third, since almost all of the money had already been spent
during the war, and the Livonians paid only a fraction of the
money they owed to the pope.1062
Beginning with the war against Novgorod, the Turks were
connected to the schismatic Russians in Livonian and
Prussian political rhetoric, whereas the other important
enemy, the Tatars serving in Lithuanian and Muscovite
armies, had begun to appear on the list of Livonia’s enemies
early in the century1063 and were sometimes depicted as
allies of the Turks. In 1444, contemporary with the anti-
Turkish Crusade of Varna, the pope exhorted Grand Duke
Kazimieras of Lithuania (1440–1492, also the king of Poland,
under the name Kazimierz IV, beginning in 1447) to support
the Order in the future struggle against the Russians.
Allegedly, Tatars, Turks, and other barbarians had joined the
Russians to form a 100,000-man army that had transited the
Grand Duke’s territory to invade Livonia, reputedly killing and
mutilating numerous people, burning churches and
monasteries, and committing many other atrocities.1064 A
1454 papal letter to the king of Poland, most likely written in
response to the Order’s pledge to end an alliance between
the king and the Order’s rebellious subjects (the Prussian
League), addresses the conquest of Constantinople a year
earlier: The pope demanded that the king of Poland join the
fight against Christendom’s common enemy – the Turks – and
not fight the Order.1065 In 1455, the pope went as far as
excommunicating the Order’s enemies for allegedly hindering
the anti-Turkish Crusade.1066 However, rhetorical support
from curia and also from the emperor1067 did not help the
Order to defeat the Polish king, and in 1466, it had to agree
to the disadvantageous Peace of Thorn (Toruń): It lost West
Prussia, the Hochmeister (Grand Master) of the Order was
forced to take an oath of allegiance to the Polish king, and
the Order was obliged to participate in the Polish campaigns,
particularly those against the infidels.1068
After 1485, in response to the king of Poland’s demand that
the Order respect the terms of the Peace of Thorn and send
forces to fight the infidel Turks in Moldova, the Teutonic
Order in Prussia once again became gradually involved in the
Turkish wars.1069 Up to that point, the Order had been
resisting the terms of the treaty, but it was impossible for it
to reject the demand to participate in the campaign against
the infidels, without seriously damaging its reputation. 1070
Thus, the Order agreed, but the expedition was postponed,
and the Order never ended up participating.1071 In the 1490s,
the new Polish king, Jan I Olbracht (John I Albert, 1492–1501)
demanded that the Order join another anti-Turkish
campaign,1072 so in 1497 forces of the Teutonic Order took
part of an expedition to Moldova. Militarily, it was a disaster:
the Hochmeister died on the way, and the Polish forces were
defeated by Stephen III of Moldova (1457–1504) without ever
engaging the Turks. In the subsequent years, Tatars and
Turks ravaged Polish-Lithuanian territories.1073 Nonetheless,
the Teutonic Order was able to make effective propaganda
use of this expedition, presenting itself as a diligent protector
of Christendom, both against infidel Turks (Prussian branch)
and schismatic Russians (Livonian branch).1074 Livonia was
also involved into these anti-Turkish projects. The Order in
Prussia tried to absolve itself from participation in the Turkish
campaigns, using the Russian threat in Livonia as an
excuse.1075 In the closing years of the fifteenth century, the
Order in Prussia asked for financial support from Livonia to
cover the cost of the Moldova campaign,1076 but this was
probably unsuccessful. By that point, the Russian threat had
become more than just a useful rhetorical construct in
Livonia.

17.4 Russians as Turks: the Rise of

Moscow and its conflict with Livonia
During the reign of Ivan III (1462–1505), the Grand Duchy of
Moscow grew significantly more powerful, with the Grand
Duke subjugating most of the Russian principalities.
Beginning in the 1480s, there was serious confrontation
between Moscow and Lithuania, into which Poland was also
gradually drawn.1077 The Polish-Lithuanian version of the
‘general Russian threat motif ’ – that was at least for a time
being accepted by the western powers, including the pope –
dates probably from the Polish-Lithuanian victory at the
Battle of Orša in 1514. Polish documents and Polish envoys to
Western countries both stressed that schismatic Moscow
posed a threat equal to that of the Turks.1078 The Polish-
Lithuanian lands were periodically plundered by the Crimean
Tatars beginning in the 1470s, and at the end of the fifteenth
century, by the Ottoman forces as well, reinforcing the image
of Poland-Lithuania as the Antemurale Christianitatis – as the
protector of Christendom against the infidel Turks and
schismatic Russians.1079
Moscow’s expansion affected all of Russia’s Western
neighbours. In Scandinavia, the schismatic Russians motif
was used quite actively against Christian enemies: King
Christian I of Denmark (1448–1481) – he was subsequently
also the king of Norway (1450–1481) and of Sweden (1457–
1464) – made use of both Russian and Turkish threat
motifs.1080 Beginning in the 1480s, Swedish political writings
clearly expressed a fear of Moscow,1081 and the Russo-
Swedish war (1495–1497) was fought as a Crusade.1082
Unlike previous Swedish Crusades, this one did not target
heathens, but “aggressive (unmilde) and schismatic
Russians,” who were referred to as “enemies to the name of
Christ” in the 1496 papal Bull of the Crusade.1083 As Ivan III
was also cooperating with the king of Denmark, who hoped to
subjugate Sweden, which was led by the regent Sten Sture
the Elder (1470–1497 and 1501–1503), it was possible that
the Crusade might also have targeted the Danes as ‘traitors
of the Christendom’.1084 However, in 1497, the ‘Danish
threat’ became more pressing for Sture, and he attempted to
broker a hasty peace with Moscow, leading to him (and not
the king of Denmark) being accused of collaborating with the
schismatics and being deposed.1085
Beginning in the 1470s, Livonia, like Sweden, was affected
by Moscow’s rise when the latter subjugated Novgorod, Pskov
having become its satellite even earlier.1086 As the shift was
not abrupt (Novgorod was subjugated gradually from 1471 to
1478), nor was the emergence of concern about the mighty
Eastern foe. The policies of two Masters of the Livonian Order
do, however, serve to illustrate the nature of this concern.
First, Johann Wolthus von Herse (1470–1471) attempted to
centralize the Order’s structures and proposed an alliance
with Novgorod to oppose Moscow’s increasing power, but he
was deposed before his plans could be realized.1087 The next
Master, Bernd von der Borch (1471–1483), focussed primarily
on the dispute with the archbishop of Riga, attempting to
subjugate the archbishopric permanently.1088 When it
appeared that he had succeeded in doing so, Borch went to
war against Pskov (1480–1481). That proved to be a mistake:
The Livonian army was unable to conquer Pskov, and
Pskovian and Muscovite forces, which incorporated some
Tatars, ravaged Livonia. Although this war against Pskov has
been seen in literature as a response to the annexation of
Novgorod by Moscow in 1478,1089 it rather seems that Borch
chose to justify his annexation of the archbishopric of Riga
and the Order’s domination of and imposed unity in Livonia
with a war against ‘threatening schismatics’.1090 He also
claimed that Livonia was threatened with non-Christian and
non-German conquest1091 The Livonian propaganda seems to
have had some effect in the Empire: In 1486, the prince
electors (Kurfürsten) fulminated about the Turkish atrocities
overshadowing even the deeds of the infidels in Livonia
(probably a reference to the Pskov War of 1480–1481).1092
After the Pskov War, relations between Livonia and Russia
remained more or less neutral until 1491, when Ivan III did
not extend the ten-year truce, and the following year the
Russians started to build Ivangorod Castle immediately
across the border from the Order’s Narva Castle.1093
Although the truce was renewed in 1493, relations worsened
after 1494, when Ivan III ordered the closing of the Hanseatic
League’s Kontor (trading centre) in Novgorod and had
Hanseatic merchants, including many Livonians, imprisoned
for years, the official pretext being that an innocent Russian
merchant was (or several merchants were) burned alive in
Reval (Tallinn). The Livonians, for their part, claimed that
there had, in fact, been two Russians executed in Reval; one
for trafficking in counterfeit money and the other for
bestiality with a horse.1094 The actual reason for Ivan III’s
hostile behaviour remains unclear. It is unlikely that he
planned to conquer Livonia or to seize complete control of
Hanseatic trade in Novgorod, as is commonly believed in
earlier literature.1095 His enmity might have been related to
his relations with the Holy Roman Empire. In particular, his
relations with King Maximilian I (1486/1493–1519, he was
named emperorelect in 1508) worsened in 1492, and then
even more so in 1494, when his alliance with King Maximilian
against the Jagiellonian dynasty (which ruled Poland,
Lithuania, Bohemia, and Hungary, at that time) faltered.1096
The Grand Duke took offence at the German king’s actions,
and, as such, Ivan III’s aggressive treatment of the Livonians,
particularly closing the Hanseatic Kontor, might be seen as
revenge against the ‘Germans’.1097
The Livonians were probably not aware of Ivan’s true
ambitions, and it is quite possible that they feared a
Muscovite attack, particularly after war broke out between
Moscow and Sweden. The Swedes requested support from
the Hochmeister and from the Livonian Master, but they both
declined.1098 The latter expressed regret that, at the time, it
was impossible to aid the Swedes in their battle “against
infidel Russians, Tatars, and Turks”.1099 Following the war
and a meeting of Livonians and Russians at Livonia’s eastern
border in 1498 –which failed to resolve the existing disputes –
it is likely that Livonian Master Wolter von Plettenberg (1494–
1535) considered conflict inevitable, as he began to prepare
for an offensive war. To this end, the Livonians actively
sought external support, but to little avail.1100 They even
followed the Swedes’ example and asked the pope to declare
a Crusade against the Russians, but he declined to do so: He
was already in the process of planning a general anti-Turkish
Crusade – that Crusade was launched in 15001101 – and
hoped that Ivan III could be persuaded to join the anti-Turkish
front.1102 In 1501, a new indulgence campaign for an anti-
Turkish Crusade started that was to include Prussia and
Livonia.1103
In spite of the rather unfavourable circumstances, the
Livonian Order nonetheless decided to go to war against
Moscow in 1501, as an ally of Lithuania. 1104 This war
consisted mostly of raids: Eastern Livonia was devastated by
the Russian forces, while the Livonians ravaged Pskovian
territory and lands east of the Narva River.1105 The greatest
battle of the conflict was the Battle of Smolino, in the autumn
of 1502, where the Livonians scored a military success,
holding the battlefield and forcing the Russian troops to
retreat. The battle was not, however, decisive, and in the
spring of 1503, the war ended in a stalemate, with the
Livonians not faring particularly well. It even seemed quite
possible that that armed conflict would resume after the six-
year truce, which would clearly be a bad turn of events for
the Livonians.1106
At the beginning of the war, the Livonians failed to gain
support from the West and were unable to use any of the
money collected for campaigns against Turks in the Empire,
as the staunchly anti-Turkish indulgence commissioner
(Ablasskomissar) Raimundus Peraudi (Raymond Pérault)1107
was unswayed by attempts to depict the Russians as ‘as bad
as Turks’.1108 It was not until February 1503 that the pope
finally provided the Livonians with a Bull of the Crusade
against “heretic and schismatic Russians, and infidel Tatars
and their adherents”. 1109 It envisaged the preaching of
Crusade indulgences in Livonia, Prussia, and northern
Germany.1110 The pope was to receive one third of the
money collected to finance a future anti-Turkish war, while
the Livonians were to retain two thirds to fund their anti-
Russian defence. The first campaign (1503–1506) was a
financial success,1111 so it was extended for another three
years (1507–1510), which probably proved even more
profitable.1112 It is worth mentioning that the contents of the
two Livonian bulls of the Crusade were almost identical to the
contemporary Turkish bulls. Only the adversary was different:
Instead of ‘infidel Turks’, there were “heretic and schismatic
Russians and the most wicked Tatars”.1113
Besides sermons and short written pleas that compared
Russians with the infidels and requested support for
Livonia,1114 there were also at least three longer anti-Russian
documents used during this campaign. The earliest of them
was a Latin tract, Elucidarius errorum ritus Ruthenici, written
in 1500 by the Polish theologian Johannes (Jan) Sacranus
(1443–1527). It depicted Russians as staunch heretics and
rejected any religious compromise with them.1115 The second
one, Errores atrocissimorum Ruthenorum, was also written in
Latin, and was published around 1507. It derived most of its
contents from Elucidarius , but simplified the issues and was
more blunt in targeting the Russians.1116 Then, in 1508, what
was probably the most influential anti-Russian text of its
time, the Low German Schonne hysthorie, appeared.1117 It
drew almost verbatim from Errores when addressing religious
matters,1118 but its cover illustration also connected it to
Elucidarius.1119 Schonne hysthorie begins with a description
of the Russian lands and their Tatar neighbours, before
describing the religious, cultural, and military behaviour of
the Russians. For the most part, it is a compiled chronicle,
offering an overview of events between 1491 and 1506.
How exactly did this document depict the Russians? First
and foremost, it focuses on the Russian threat to all of
Christendom: Cruel Russians and their vicious ruler, the
tyrannical Grand Duke of Moscow – who, like Mehmed II, is
driven by hubris1120 – hoped not only to conquer the
allegedly unified, harmonious, and truly Christian Livonia,1121
but to eventually subjugate the entire Christian world.1122 It
is also made clear that the Russians were certainly not true
Christians: They did not acknowledge the pope as the head of
the Church, and they had rejected the church union proposed
by the Council of Florence.1123 In fact, the religious behaviour
of these heretics and schismatics was just as bad as that of
the Jews and the heathens.1124 Furthermore, the Russians
were interfering with pilgrimages to the Holy Land (the
example of Count Gerhard of Mark is mentioned in this
connection),1125 which in and of itself provided a righteous
cause for a Holy War and for adding the Russian problem to
the traditional Crusading goals.1126 Russians are presented as
complete barbarians, the aforementioned case of bestiality
with a horse serving as an example. The claim is made that
other Russians in Reval did not regard bestiality as a sin and
acknowledged that it was a very common practice in
Russia.1127 It was also said that the Russians killed and
incarcerated innocent people – including Catholic priests and
the Hanseatic merchants in Novgorod – and cruelly ravaged
the border areas of Livonia.1128 As to the war: The Russians
were depicted as particularly evil and un-Christian. The
desolation in Livonia during the winter of 1501–1502 is
described at length: Allegedly, 80,000 Russians and Tatars
ravaged eastern Livonia, reputedly killing or abducting
40,000 people.1129 In addition, it is emphasized that churches
were destroyed, that the sacraments were mocked, that
anointed oil was stolen, and that women, maidens, and
children were the victims of violence.1130 The description of
Russian cruelties is clearly very similar to the description of
Turkish atrocities committed in Constantinople. 1131
Furthermore, Schonne hysthorie makes fulsome use of the
fact that Ivan III had cooperated with the Crimean Tatars,
who were vassals of the Ottomans: Not only were they
Russians schismatics, they were in an unholy alliance with
the Tatars.1132 This not only made them one with the
heathens, but with the ‘Turkish sect’ as well.1133 They were
even accused of having made a pact with the Tatars and the
Turks against true Christendom.1134 On the other hand,
Lithuanian (allies of the Livonians) cooperation with the Volga
Tatars against Moscow is reported in a completely neutral
tone.1135
The climax of Schonne hysthorie is the description of the
Battle of Smolino, which took place on 13 September 1502.
Although the writing could generally be described as down to
earth, not in any way stressing supernatural factors,1136 there
is certainly divine and biblical content in the way the battle
itself is addressed. The victory is described as a divine
miracle delivered by God and the Virgin Mary,1137 and the
Livonian Master Wolter von Plettenberg is compared to Judah
Maccabee (Judas Maccabeus), a much-revered sacred warrior
in Crusade literature, especially for the Teutonic Order1138 –
and Maccabee also served as an example in campaigns
against the Turks.1139 There is also a description of the
miracle of the soldier who did not die until he had confessed
his sins and received all of the sacraments.1140 The Crusade-
like aura of this battle is to some degree reinforced by the
participation of nearly septuagenarian Archbishop Michael of
Riga (1484–1509) – cf. the aforementioned examples of
Italian clerics during the mid-fifteenth century.1141 The day
after the battle (14 September, Feast of the Cross) became a
day to commemorate the victory in Livonia.1142 The battle
would come to be revered as the last great Livonian victory;
e.g., the chronicle of the Revalian Pastor Balthasar Russow,
which drew up Schonne hysthorie.1143
Schonne hysthorie presents Livonia as internally united and
harmonious, and a vital bulwark or shield for all of
Christendom against the Russian and Tatar threat,
characterized as as great a threat to Christendom as the
Turks and other infidels.1144 Livonia, and the Livonian Order
in particular, whose bravery is explicitly eulogized at great
length,1145 is clearly seen as a worthy opponent of all of the
evil enemies of genuine Christendom. Nonetheless, it
requires the support of other Christians.1146

17.5 The Russian threat during the

first half of the sixteenth century
In 1509, agreement was reached on a fourteen-year truce
between Livonia and Moscow, stabilizing relations between
the two parties (in 1521, the truce was extended for an
additional ten years, and in 1531, for another twenty
years).1147 Russia did not, however, disappear as an issue. In
1517, Hochmeister Albrecht von Brandenburg (1511–1525)
formed an alliance with Grand Duke Vasili III of Moscow
(1505–1533), who provided financial support during the
Order’s war with Poland (1519–1521).1148 The Livonian Order
opposed this alliance: Master Plettenberg said he could only
accept it if Moscow accepted church union and participated in
an anti-Turkish Crusade.1149 In the end, the Livonian Order
nonetheless financially supported the Hochmeister, and even
provided some troops.1150 After the war, the Hochmeister did
not have sufficient resources for any further conflict, and in
1525, Prussia was secularized, at which point Albrecht
became the first duke of Prussia (1525–1568) and a
proponent of the Reformation.1151 This brought his
relationship with Moscow to an end.1152
The secularization of Prussia was a heavy blow to Livonia:
The Teutonic Order lost its leadership,1153 and Livonia lost a
potential ally. In addition to this, the Reformation had
reached Livonia and was having a major influence on politics
there.1154 It was at this point that the papal curia began to
seriously consider the question of church union with the
Russians. This was actively supported by a staunch adversary
of the Reformation, Archbishop of Riga Johann Blankenfeld
(1524–1527, he also served the Church as the bishop of Reval
[1514–1524], and of Dorpat [Tartu] [1518–1527]).
Blankenfeld met with the Russians on the border of his
bishopric of Dorpat, and it is possible that, in addition to the
question of the church union, he discussed and even possibly
proposed an alliance against both supporters of the
Reformation and its rival, the Order. Blankenfeld was accused
of treacherous cooperation with the Russians – a traditional
allegation against the bishop of Dorpat – and was imprisoned
in 1525, before his plans (which remain unclear) could come
to fruition.1155
Although church union was not realized, some Western
rulers continued to hope that Russia would be religiously
integrated to the Catholic Church and, as a result, become an
ally against the Turks, something that would also benefit the
Russians. In the late 1540s, in an appearance before the
emperor, Hans Schlitte, an agent of Ivan IV, justified his
attempts to bring craftsmen and military experts to Russia
with the idea of a possible church union and an anti-Turkish
alliance. His efforts were thwarted by the Livonians, who
stressed the grave threat posed by Russia.1156 Even during
the Livonian War, the Russians had recourse to the same
rhetoric on at least two occasions: From the 1570s, they used
it in an attempt to form an alliance against Poland with
Emperor Maximilian II (1564–1576),1157 and in the 1580s,
Ivan IV raised it when trying to make peace with Polish King
Stephen Báthory (1576–1586).1158 In 1686, the Russians
finally joined the anti-Turkish Holy League. As a result, they
began to be guardedly seen as ‘one of Us’ by the other
European states.1159
From the 1520s to the 1540s, the Livonians primarily used
anti-Russian rhetoric to influence the Empire. Over time, the
connection between Livonia and the Empire became
increasingly important. From the 1520s, Livonian rulers were
also imperial princes.1160 The increasingly close connection
between the two provided the Livonians with both legal
benefits and the hope of security, but it also had its
downside: The estates of the Empire demanded financial
support from Livonia, particularly for campaigns against the
Turks. To deflect these demands, the Livonians used
Antemurale rhetoric that focused on the Russian threat.1161
Meanwhile, the Protestant Margrave Wilhelm of Brandenburg-
Ansbach – the brother of Duke Albrecht of Prussia and the
archbishop of Riga (1539–1563)1162 – used both the Turkish
threat and the Russian threat to renounce his consecration as
a Catholic cleric.1163 Somewhat surprisingly, the Russian
threat motif was not explicitly used when Duke Albrecht of
Prussia requested Livonia’s support against the Turks in the
late 1530s and early 1540s.1164 On that occasion, the
Livonians did not directly decline: They put off giving a
concrete answer until the duke gave up.1165
 The Turkish problem continued to arise from time to time in
connection with Livonia. In 1544, there was a rumour that the
emperor was going to cede Livonia to Poland as a
protectorate, because Livonia was using the Russian threat
motif to avoid paying Türkengeld to the Empire.1166 In 1555,
King Gustav I of Sweden (1521/1523–1560) admonished the
Livonians for making an unfavourable peace with Moscow,
and complained that the tsar would now be able to seize land
as easily as the Turkish sultan.1167 As tensions rose between
the archbishop and other Livonians in 1556, King Sigismund II
of Poland (1548–1572) exhorted the Order and its allies not to
start a war with the archbishop, but to stand against the ‘real
enemies’ – the Turkish sultan and the tsar.1168 The conflict,
known as Coadjutor’s Feud,1169 occurred in any case, and the
archbishop was imprisoned. In response, the elector of
Brandenburg, Joachim II (1535–1571), who was a close
relative of both Duke Albrecht of Prussia and Wilhelm of
Brandenburg-Ansbach, declared the Order’s actions to be a
source of disunity and confusion in the Empire and a
hindrance to war against the Erbfeind (hereditary enemy),
i.e., the Ottomans.1170
Beginning in the early 1550s, the Livonians sought aid from
the West against Russian pressure, but what support there
was remained purely rhetorical. It was only after the war
broke out in 1558 that some effort was made within the
Empire to help Livonia, but it proved to be too little, too
late.1171 As mentioned previously, the Russian threat motif
survived the collapse of Livonia. In Balthasar Russow’s
chronicle, the Russians were called a scourge from God for
the sins of the Livonians (as well as violent barbarians and
arch-enemies) – probably a novelty introduced into Livonian
rhetoric only after the war had begun.1172 On the other hand,
Wolter von Plettenberg’s anti-Russian activities in 1502 were
praised, this being a point when the Livonians still reputedly
benefited from God’s grace.1173 Furthermore, disputes
between Protestants and Catholics about who was to blame
for this scourge began during the Livonian War – naturally,
the Catholics blamed the Protestants and vice versa. 1174
There had been no serious disputes between the Catholic and
Protestant camps in Livonia prior to this. The rhetoric of other
adversaries of Russia –e.g., Poland-Lithuania and Sweden –
compared the Russians to the Turks and ‘other barbarians’,
with the Russians regarded as descendants of the Scythians,
1175 and Tsar Ivan IV depicted as an Asiatic despot and tyrant

no different from the Turkish sultan.1176 Only late in the

seventeenth century did the depiction of the Russians
became more ambivalent: Russia became increasingly
‘European’ during the reign of Peter I (1682–1725), who
wanted to Europeanize all aspects of Russian society.1177 The
Turkish threat motif and the accompanying political rhetoric
also began to disappear.1178 In contrast to Russia, however,
the Ottoman Empire remained alien, was seen as descending
from a despotic power, and was ultimately perceived as ‘the
sick man of Europe’.1179

17.6 Conclusions
The Turkish and Russian threats proved to be both influential
and enduring European political motifs, with an influence on
rhetoric, if not on overall political thinking, that lasted several
centuries. Fear constituted the most obvious basis for these
threat motifs in their various forms: In the case of the Turks,
not only was there a fear of military conquest, but also of the
imminent end of the world, or at least severe divine
punishment, perhaps even the demise of Christianity,
civilization, and European society. Certainly this motif was
rooted in a clearly established tradition for depicting the
Other, which included dangerous barbarians who were the
enemy of all of Christendom, Islam as the antithesis of
Christianity, and the rhetorical Antemurale Christianitatis
construct. As has been seen, the Turkish threat motif was
often used to achieve a separate political goal, and was
applied to Christian enemies in particular. Besides the
language of propaganda, this motif also influenced numerous
other phenomena, such as the concept of Crusading, internal
relations within the Holy Roman Empire, thoughts about
religious and social reforms within Christianity overall, and
(as the alien Other) the notion of (Christian) European unity
(Self).
Similar to the Turkish threat motif, the Russian threat motif
owed its prominence largely to a rapidly emerging and
threatening Other, the Grand Duchy of Moscow. This motif
also had deep roots: The phraseology of ‘dangerous
schismatics’ had already been used in much the same way
during the thirteenth century. As was the case with anti-
Turkish rhetoric, anti-Russian rhetoric was often used by
Catholics against each other, or to rebuff an obligation
(particularly in sixteenth-century Livonia), e.g., participating
in the Turkish wars. At its inception in the middle of the
fifteenth century, the Turkish threat motif soon became
intertwined with the Russian threat motif. In political
correspondence, the Turks and Russians held parallel
positions as Christendom’s worst enemies. The Russians
could be at least partially linked to the Turks via the Tatars,
who were already well-known ‘infidels’ in Eastern Europe by
the thirteenth century. The Tatars were initially depicted as
the Russians’ overlords, but later the two groups were
treated as brothers-in-arms. Thankfully, for propagandists
(such as the author of Schonne hysthorie), by the end of the
fifteenth century, the Crimean Tatars had become vassals of
the Ottomans, creating an immediate link between the Tatars
and the ‘arch-enemy’. It is interesting to note that the both
fear motifs drew upon the Antemurale Christianitatis. The
Schonne hysthorie shares much with the example of the
Hospitallers at Rhodes, as one could also draw some parallels
between depictions of Hospitallers’ famous 1480 victory and
the Battle of Smolino in 1502. Furthermore, the descriptions
of the Grand Duke of Moscow as a tyrant, of his alliances with
other enemies of Christendom, and of Russian atrocities are
very similar to the topoi used in Turkish-related literature.
And similarly to the notion of united (Christian) Europe,
Livonia is also depicted as a harmoniously united bearer of
positive (truly Christian) values. What the Russian threat
motif appears to lack, however, at least up until the
beginning of the Livonian War, is an eschatological
dimension: There is no suggestion that the Russians will bring
about either the end of the World or divine retribution.
There is one clear pattern in the both the Turkish and
Russian threat motifs: In times of direct military conflicts,
they were directly used against the rhetorical arch-enemy,
while in periods of peace, they generally served a different
purpose. During conflicts, the adversarial image of the
‘infidels’ or ‘schismatics’ was, of course, reinforced, shaping
the way in which the depictions would subsequently be used.
At the end of the fifteenth century, after the conflicts
between Moscow and its Western neighbours had begun, a
more consistent depiction of the Russians as ‘as bad as
Turks’ took form. As a result, during the sixteenth century,
the Livonians were able to equate the Russian threat
unequivocally with the Turkish threat, a notion that remained
a constant even after the beginning of the Livonian War and
the fall of Livonia by Poland-Lithuania and Sweden. Both
motifs also shared a concept of unity, albeit functioning at
different levels: The unity of the Christendom that was
promoted as necessary for acting against the ‘infidel Turks’
was often manipulated by European rulers for personal gain,
and the unity of Livonia against the ‘schismatic Russians’ was
primarily advanced by the Livonian Order to justify its
attempts to dominate Livonia.
At least at first glance, it does not appear that the Turkish
threat was ever a significant concern for the Livonians. The
Prussian Teutonic Order, on the other hand, did participate in
anti-Turkish campaigns. Perhaps the idea of a Russian threat
was so strong in Livonia that it left no room for another
similar motif. It also seems that both Lutherans and Catholics
perceived Livonia (at least rhetorically) as threatened by
Russia. Furthermore, unlike the clash between Catholics and
Protestants in the Empire, where both of the competing
religious parties accused the other of being ‘as bad as Turks’,
in Livonia, there is no evidence of the competing confessional
groups referring to each other as ‘as evil as the Russians’.
Livonian rhetoric underwent a significant change following
the onset of the Livonian war, with the Russians increasingly
seen as a scourge from God (as was the case with the Turks
after the fall of Constantinople), setting in motion a polemical
debate between Protestants and Catholics about where the
guilt lay. Of equal interest, once the war began, the Russian
tsar was referred to as the hereditary enemy (Erbfeind), a
concept also applied to the Turkish sultan.
In conclusion, I will briefly address the two questions I posed
at the beginning. First of all, I think that an examination of
the rhetorical Russian threat motif shows us that its success
was the result of both a tradition of depicting the Russians as
dangerous schismatics and the genuine threat they appeared
to pose, which led to increasingly aggressive rhetoric by the
turn of the sixteenth century. Second, the persistence of both
the Turkish and Russian threat motifs was influenced by the
fact that they could serve a variety of political purposes,
similar to the function of the concept of Antemurale
Christianitatis.1180
It is important to keep in mind, however, that the Russians
could never be unequivocally equated with the Turks,
because, in spite of everything, they were still seen as
Christians (albeit schismatics and heretics), and the popes
held the hope that the Russians would convert to Catholicism.
This meant that the Russians were alternately perceived as
‘Christian brothers’ and ‘enemies of Christendom’. By the
fifteenth century, the Russians had begun to advance their
political interests with a combined strategy of nurturing
hopes for church union and forming alliances with the Turks.
In the eighteenth century, the Turks and the Russians began
to receive distinctly different rhetorical treatment: The
Ottoman Empire was perceived as a decadent and despotic
power, while Russia, in spite of its despotism, was seen as
semi-European. The distinction is illustrated by the way the
Turkish threat motif was used during the Russo-Turkish War
of 1877–1878: A book was published in Estonia (then part of
the Russian Empire) describing Turkish cruelty during the
1453 conquest of Constantinople and expressing the hope
that Christians (in this case, Orthodox Russians) would soon
regain control of the city.1181

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Index nominum

Aalto, Sirpa 1
Aaron (son of Solomon, Hannover) 1
Abbadoon (demon) 1
Abraham (patriarch) 1, 2, 3, 4
Abraham (wójt) 1
Abū ‘Abdallāh Muḥammad ibn Mūsā al-Khwārizmī, see
Khwarizmi, al-
Abū al-‘Abbās Aḥmad ibn Muḥammad ibn Kathīr al-Farghānī,
see Farghani, al-
Abū l-Hasan ‘Alī ibn Abī l-Rijāl, see Haly Abenragel
Abū l-Ḥasan ‘Alī ibn al-Ḥusain al-Mas‘ūdī, see Mas‘ūdī, al-
Abū l-Walīd Muḥammad bin ’Aḥmad bin Rušd, see Averroes
Abū Ma‘shar al-Balkhī, see Albumasar
Abū ‘Ubaid al-Bakrī, see Bakrī, al-
Abū Yahyā Zakariyā’ ibn Muḥammad al-Qazwīnī, see
Qazwīnī, al-
Abū Yūsuf Ya‘qūb ibn ’Isḥāq aṣ-Ṣabbāḥ al-Kindī, see Kindi,
al-
Abulafia, Anna Sapir 1
Adam (Bible) 1, 2
Adelard of Bath 1, 2
Adrian IV (pope) 1
Aeneas Silvius de Piccolomini 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
Æthelwold of Winchester 1
Afendopolo, see Caleb Afendopolo
Aḥmad ibn Faḍlān, see Ibn Faḍlān
‘Ā’ishah 1
Albert of Riga (Livonia) 1
Albertus Magnus 1, 2
Albertus Pictor 1, 2, 3
Albrecht von Brandenburg 1, 2
Albrecht von Buxthoeven 1, 2
Albumasar 1, 2
Alexander de Villa Dei 1
Alexander I Jagiellon (grand duke & king) 1, 2, 3, 4
Alexander III (pope) 1
Alexander the Great 1, 2
Alexander Vytautas (grand duke) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Alfonso X (king) 1, 2, 3
Algirdas (commander & monarch) 1, 2
Alī ibn ‘Īsā al-Asṭurlābī, see Ali-Ben Isa
Ali-Ben Isa 1
Ambroise 1, 2
Ambrosius Zeebout 1–2
Ammon (Bible) 1, 2
Ammonites 1, 2
Anastasius Bibliothecarius 1
Andias (learned man) 1
Andrén, Anders 1
Andrzej (son of Jan Kretkowski) 1
Anglo-Saxons 1, 2
Anno von Sangerhausen 1
Anselme Adorno 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Apollo (god) 1
Appulin (god) 1
Aratus (poet) 1
Archisynagogus 1, 2
Arendt, Hannah 1, 2, 3, 4
Ari Þorgilsson 1
Aristotle 1, 2, 3, 4
Armenians 1
Arnold von Harff 1, 2, 3, 4
Arnold, Udo 1
Aron (conspirator) 1
Augustine 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Augustinus Rotundus 1
Averroes 1, 2
Avicenna 1
Azriel (rabbi) 1

Babylonians 1
Baḥīrā (Sergius) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
Baibars (sultan) 1
Bakrī, al- 1, 2
Bałaban, Majer 1, 2
Bale, Anthony 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Balthasar Russow 1, 2
Barbara, St. 1, 2, 3–4, 5, 6
Baron Cohen, Salo 1
Bartholomeus Anglicus 1
Bartholomew, St. 1
Bartlett, Robert 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Bashyatzi, see Elijah Bashyatzi
Basilios Bessarion 1
Beckman, Natanael 1–2
Bede 1, 2, 3
Beks 1
Berdibek (khan) 1
Bergr Sokkason 1
Bernd von der Borch 1
Bernhard von Breidenbach 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11,
12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18
Berno of Prüm 1
Berthold (monk) 1
Bertold (bishop) 1
Bertram von Minden 1
Bertrandon de la Brocquiere 1
Berulfsen, Bjarne 1, 2, 3
Bibire, Paul 1
Birgitta, St. 1, 2, 3, 4
Birkeland, Harris 1
Biskup, Marian 1
Bjarni Bergþórsson inn Tǫlvísi 1
Bogusław IX (duke) 1
Bona Sforza (queen) 1, 2
Bonenfant (necromancer) 1
Boniface IV (pope) 1
Boockmann, Hartmut 1
Botolf (heretic) 1
Bouthillier, Denise 1
Boyarin, Adrienne Williams 1

Cadigeran, see Khadīja

Caiaphas 1, 2
Cain 1
Calcidius 1
Caleb Afendopolo 1
Camille, Michael 1
Caoursin, Guillaume 1
Casimir IV Jagiellon (grand duke & king) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Catherine, St. 1, 2
Caviness, Madeline H. 1, 2
Chaldeans 1
Charlemagne 1, 2
Charles II of Provence (count) 1–2
Charles IV 1
Charles of Anjou (count) 1
Charles the Bold of Burgundy 1, 2, 3
Chester Jordan, William 1, 2, 3
Christ 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12–13, 14, 15, 16, 17,
18, 19, 20, 21, 22–23, 24–25, 26
Christian Bomhower 1
Christian I of Denmark 1, 2
Christiern Pedersen 1, 2, 3
Christopher, St. 1
Clare, St. 1, 2
Clement VI (pope) 1
Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome 1, 2, 3, 4
Cohen, Jeremy 1, 2
Cohn, Norman 1
Cohn, Samuel 1
Conrad von Soest 1
Cumans, see Qipchaqs
Curonians 1, 2
Czacharowski, Antoni 1
Czaplicz, Fjedor 1
Cżyżewski, Piotr 1, 2, 3–4

Damião de Góis 1
Danes 1, 2, 3
Dante, Alighieri 1
Daumantas (Dovmont; prince) 1
David (king) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Deleuze, Gille 1
Detmar of Lübeck 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
Dideric (poisoner) see Tidericus
Didi-Huberman, Georges 1
Dioscurus (father of St. Barbara) 1, 2, 3
Dovmont, see Daumantas
Durkheim, Emile 1

Eberhard Schelle 1
Eberhard von Wallenfels 1
Edomites 1
Egill Skalla-Grímsson 1
Einar Hafliðason 1
Eiríkr (duke) 1
Elijah Bashyatzi 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Eric I of Pomerania (king) 1
Erik Magnusson (king) 1
Erling Kyrpinga-Ormsson 1
Erling Vidkunsson 1
Estonians 1
Euclid (mathematician) 1, 2
Evax (king) 1
Eystein Erlendsson 1

Farghani, al- 1, 2, 3, 4
Felix Fabri 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
Ferakude (giant) 1, 2, 3
Firkowicz, Abraham 1, 2
Fletcher, Richard 1
Flores (character in Romance) 1, 2
Foote, Peter 1, 2
Forstreuter, Kurt 1, 2
Francesco Suriano 1
Frederick II (emperor) 1, 2, 3
Frederick III of Sicily (king) 1
French 1, 2
Funkenstein, Amos 1

Gabriel (archangel) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Gaius Julius Hyginus 1
Galen of Pergamon 1
Gallus, St. 1
Gautier de Coincy 1
Gautier of Compiègne 1
Ġazāl, al- 1, 2, 3, 4
Gerbert of Aurillac, see Sylvester II
Gerhard (count) 1, 2
Gideon (Bible) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Gilo of Toucy 1
Giovanni Villani 1
Gizurr (bishop) 1
Golden Horde 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
Goldschmidt, Adolph 1, 2, 3, 4
Gombrich, Ernst H. 1
Górski, Karol 1
Gregory I the Great (saint, pope) 1
Gregory IX (pope) 1, 2, 3
Gregory of Tours 1
Gregory X (pope) 1
Greilsammer, Myriam 1
Grímr Kveld-Úlfsson 1
Gustav I Vasa (king) 1, 2, 3

Haastrup, Ulla 1
Hagar (Bible) 1, 2
Hagarenes 1, 2
Ḥakam II, al- (caliph) 1
Hákon IV Hákonsson (king) 1
Hákon V Magnússon (king) 1, 2
Halldór Hermannsson 1
Haly Abenragel 1, 2
Ḥamawī, al- 1
Hans I (king) 1
Hans Schlitte 1
Hans Tatter 1
Hans Tucher 1
Hans van der Tateren 1
Hans von Baysen 1, 2, 3, 4
Hanseatic League 1, 2, 3
Hanseatic towns, merchants 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10–11,
12
Harris, Max 1
Hartwig (archbishop) 1
Haukr Erlendsson 1–2
Heckscher, William S. 1
Hector of Troy 1
Hegel, Georg Friedrich 1
Heinrich von Lettland 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10
Helga Sturludóttir 1
Henrik Harpestræng 1
Henry III (king) 1
Henry of Germany 1
Henry Suso 1
Hercules (mythological hero) 1
Hermann Contractus 1
Hermann Saracenus 1
Hermann von Salza 1
Herod (king) 1, 2, 3, 4
Hipparchus (astronomer) 1
Hippocrates 1
Hirn, Yrjö 1
Hohenstaufen 1
Holm, Bent 1
Honorius Augustodunensis 1
Hrabanus Maurus 1
Hugh of Santalla 1

Ibn Faḍlān 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Ibn Sa‘īd al-Maghribī 1
Ibn Ya‘qūb 1, 2, 3
Ibrāhim ibn Ya‘qūb al-Isrā’īlī, see Ibn Ya‘qūb
Ibrāhīm Ya‘qūb aṭ-Ṭarṭūši, see Ṭarṭūši, aṭ-
Icelanders 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Iogna-Prat, Dominique 1
Immonen, Visa 1
Ingibjǫrg (princess) 1
Ingrians 1
Innocent III (pope) 1, 2, 3, 4
Isaac (patriarch) 1
Isaak (necromancer) 1
Isaiah (prophet) 1
Isidor of Kiev (cardinal) 1, 2, 3, 4
Isidore of Seville 1, 2, 3
Ísleifr (bishop) 1
Israelites (people of Israel) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Ivan III (tsar) 1–2, 3, 4
Ivan IV (tsar) 1, 2, 3
Ívarr Ingimundarson 1, 2

Jacob (doctor) 1, 2, 3–4, 5

Jacob (patriarch) 1, 2, 3
Jacob Suchy 1
Jacob Tatter (Jocub Thatar) 1
Jacob, Georg 1, 2
Jacobus de Voragine 1, 2, 3, 4
James of Vitry 1
James the Greater, St. 1
Jamund (knight) 1
Jan Długosz 1, 2, 3, 4
Jan I Olbracht, see John I Albert
Jan Kretkowski 1, 2, 3
Jan van Quisthout 1, 2, 3, 4
Jan van Vaernewijck 1
Jansson, Valter 1
Janusz I the Elder (duke) 1
Japheth (Bible) 1
Jarl Sigvaldi 1
Jarosław (bailiff) 1
Jean Adorno 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Jephonius (Jerusalemite Jew) 1, 2
Joachim II (elector) 1
Jocub Thatar, see Jacob Tatter
Jogaila (grand duke & king) 1
Johann Albrecht of Mecklenburg 1
Johann Blankenfeld (bishop) 1
Johann of Paltz 1
Johann Tatter 1, 2
Johann von Beenhausen 1
Johann von Posilge 1
Johann von Redden 1
Johann Wolthus von Herse 1
Johannes de Havilla 1
Johannes de Sacrobosco 1–2
Johannes de Witte de Hese 1
Johannes Magnus 1
Johannes Sacranus 1
John Fordun 1
John I Albert (king) 1, 2
John Mandeville 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
John of Capistrano 1, 2
John of Damascus 1, 2
John of Hildesheim 1
John of Seville 1, 2
John the Baptist, St. 1, 2
John the Evangelist, St. 1, 2
John XXII (pope) 1–2
Jón Halldórsson (bishop) 1–2
Jon Raude (archbishop) 1
Joos van Ghistele 1–2, 3, 4–5
Joris Palinc 1
Joris van Ghistele 1
Joseph (husband of Mary) 1
Joseph (son of Jacob and Rachel) 1
Joseph ben Mordecai 1, 2
Joseph of Arimathea 1
Jost van Giselen 1
Jourdain, Amable 1
Józwiak, Sławomir 1
Juan Manuel, Don 1
Judah Maccabee 1
Judas Ischariot 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Julian the Apostate 1
Julius Caesar 1
Jupiter (god) 1

Kålund, Kristian 1–2

Karelians 1, 2, 3, 4
Karl Knutsson 1
Kaźmierczyk, Adam 1
Keyenort (poisoner) 1
Khadīja (Cadigeran) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Khazars 1
Khosrau II (king) 1
Khwarizmi, al- 1, 2, 3, 4
Kindī al- 1, 2, 3
Kinoshita, Sharon 1
Klárus (prince) 1
Klimavičius, Kazimierz 1
Konrad Grünemberg 1
Konrad I of Mazovia 1
Konrad Tatere 1
Konrad von Erlichshausen 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Konrad von Feuchtwangen 1
Kristeva, Julia 1
Kruger, Steven 1
Kryczyński, Stanisław 1
Kunitzsch, Paul 1, 2, 3
Kurs, see Curonians
Kveld-Úlfssynir 1

Lampert, Lisa 1
Langelif (knight) 1
Langmuir, Gavin 1, 2
Larsen, Bertram 1
Lausten, Martin Schwartz 1, 2, 3
Lawrence, St. 1
Lazarus (Bible) 1
Leonardo Fibonacci da Pisa 1
Leonovich, Abraham 1
Leonovich, Josef 1
Lettgallians 1
Lithuanians 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14
Livonians 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16
Livs 1
Lodin Lepp 1
Lot 1, 2
Louis VII (king) 1, 2, 3
Ludvig von Erlichshausen 1, 2
Ludwik Massow 1
Lukowski, Kiprian 1
Lupitus of Barcelona 1
Luther, Martin 1

Maccabees 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Machomet(us), see Muḥammad
Magnus Eriksson (king) 1, 2
Magnus Hákonsson (king) 1
Magyars 1
Mahon, see Muḥammad
Makomet(us), see Muḥammad
Makon, see Muḥammad
Malchus 1, 2, 3, 4
Malinovski, see Joseph ben Mordecai
Mament (god) 1
Mann, Jacob 1, 2, 3
Månsson, Peder 1
Marcian (judge) 1, 2, 3
Marco Polo 1
Marianus Scotus 1
Mark, St. 1, 2
Marquard von Salzbach 1
Martens, Bella 1, 2, 3
Martin (king) 1
Martin Rath 1
Martin Truchsess 1, 2
Marx, Karl 1
Mary (Virgin) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10–11, 12, 13, 14, 15,
16, 17
Mary of Burgundy 1
Mas‘ūdī, al- 1, 2
Matthew Paris 1
Matthew, St. 1
Maúmet, see Muḥammad
Maximilian I (emperor) 1, 2, 3
Maximilian II (emperor) 1
Medusa (monster) 1
Mehmed II (sultan) 1, 2
Mehmed IV (sultan) 1
Meinander, Karl Konrad 1, 2
Meinhard of Segeberg 1
Meister Francke 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Mellinkoff, Ruth 1
Merback, Mitchell M. 1
Meyen (doctor) 1, 2–3, 4
Meyer Evitt, Regula 1
Michael (archangel) 1, 2, 3
Michael, Rev. (poet) 1
Michalon Lituanus 1, 2
Mikołaj (wójt) 1
Mikołaj Scharar 1
Mikołaj Szarlejski 1, 2, 3
Mikołajewicz, Mikołaj 1
Mindaugas 1
Moab (Bible) 1, 2
Moabites 1, 2, 3
Mongols 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9
Montgomery, James E. 1, 2
Moore, Robert I. 1, 2
Moors 1, 2, 3
Mordecai (wójt) 1, 2
Mordecai ben Joseph Sultansky 1, 2, 3, 4
Moses (Bible) 1, 2
Moses (rabbi) 1
Mosse-Mokke 1, 2, 3
Moyses (Jew) 1
Muḥammad 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7–8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15,
16, 17– 18, 19, 20
Murray, Allen V. 1
Murzas 1
Musin (necromancer) 1

Nagli (trader) 1, 2
Nassardijn (Mamluk) 1, 2, 3
Nero (emperor) 1
Nicholas Advena 1
Nicholas Breakspear, see Adrian IV
Nicholas IV (pope) 1
Nicholas V (pope) 1
Nicholas, St. 1
Niclas von Sassen 1
Nicolaus of Jeroschin (author) 1
Nikolaus Lilienfeld 1
Nikulás Bergsson 1, 2
Nirenberg, David 1, 2
Noah (Bible) 1, 2
Nogais 1
Norwegians 1

Oddr Snorrason 1
Óðinn (god) 1, 2
Odoric of Pordenone 1
Olaf (archbishop) 1
Olaf, St. 1, 2, 3
Óláfr Þórðarson 1
Óláfr Tryggvason (king) 1, 2
Olgierd (commander) 1
Ólöf Vémundardóttir 1
Otto I (emperor) 1
Otto IV (emperor) 1
Otto of Lüneburg 1, 2

Páll Jónsson 1
Panofsky, Erwin 1, 2, 3, 4
Paul of Burgos 1
Paul Walther von Guglingen 1, 2
Paul, St. 1
Pauli, Gustav 1
Paulus Diaconus 1
Pere de Mediavilla 1
Perlbach, Max 1
Perseus (hero) 1
Pérús (master) 1–2
Peter (chapter official) 1
Peter I (tsar) 1
Peter Mancroft, St. 1
Peter of Dusburg 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Peter of Ghent 1
Peter the Venerable 1, 2, 3, 4–5, 6, 7, 8
Peter von Sassen 1
Peter, St. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Petersen, Nils Holger 1, 2
Petrus Alfonsi 1, 2
Petrus Astronomus 1
Petrus de Dacia 1, 2
Petrus de Vadstena 1
Petrus of Media Villa, see Pere de Mediavilla
Petrus Olavi 1
Pfefferkorn, Johannes 1
Phelpsted, Carl 1
Philip of Swabia 1
Philistines 1, 2
Phocas (emperor) 1
Pietro Casala 1
Piltz, Elisabeth 1
Plato of Tivoli (Tiburtinus) 1
Plato 1
Pliny 1
Pontius Pilate 1, 2
Porus (king) 1
Poznański, Samuel 1, 2, 3
Prester John (king) 1, 2, 3
Prinz (nobleman) 1
Probst, Christian 1
Pseudo-Bonaventura 1
Ptolemy, Claudius 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Qaitbay (sultan) 1, 2
Qazwīnī, al- 1
Qipchaqs 1, 2
Quodvultdeus (bishop) 1

Ræff, Poul (printer) 1

Ragnvald (earl of Orkney) 1
Raimundus Peraudi 1
Ramon Llull 1, 2
Raschellà, Fabrizio 1
Raymond of Marseille 1
Rebecca (matriarch) 1
Riccoldo of Monte di Croce 1, 2, 3
Richard the Lionheart 1, 2, 3, 4
Rígr (god) 1
Ringbom, Sixten 1
Robert Grosseteste 1
Robert of Chester 1
Robert of Ketton 1, 2
Robert of Nantes 1
Robert Toppes 1
Roger Bacon 1
Roger II of Sicily (king) 1
Roland 1, 2–3
Roma 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Romani, see Roma
Rombaldi, St. (bishop) 1
Rotundas, Augustinas 1
Rubin, Miri 1
Rumboldus (Jew) 1–2, 3
Rumoldi, St. (bishop) 1
Rumwoldi, St. 1
Rus 1, 2

Sæmund Sigfússon 1–2, 3

Saif e Din (Saracen) 1
Saladin 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Salatin 1
Salome (midwife) 1
Samogitians 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Samuel (Bible) 1
Samuel (necromancer) 1
Samuel (rabbi) 1
Saphadin, see Saif e Din
Sarah 1, 2
Sarnowsky, Jürgen 1, 2, 3–4
Saxo Grammaticus 1–2
Saxons 1, 2
Scef 1
Schukowski, Manfred 1
Scyld Scefing 1
Scythians 1, 2
Selonians 1
Semgallians 1
Serena (princess) 1
Sergius, see Baḥīrā
Seth 1
Shatzmiller, Joseph 1
Shlomo (Jew) 1
Shoemaker, Stephen 1
Siegfried of Feuchtwangen 1
Sighvatr Sturluson 1
Sigismund I the Old (grand duke & king) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Sigismund II Augustus (grand duke & king) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Sigismund of Luxembourg (emperor) 1
Simcha Murza (rabbi) 1
Simon Grunau 1, 2
Sinani, Isaac 1–2
Sinti 1, 2
Skarga, Petr 1
Smoliński, Józef 1
Snorri Sturluson 1, 2, 3
Sova (furrier) 1
Ştefan cel Mare şi Sfânt, see Stephen III of Moldova
Steinberg, Leo 1
Sten Sture the Elder 1
Stephen Báthory (king) 1
Stephen III of Moldova 1
Stephen, St. 1
Stephens, George 1
Stjǫrnu-Oddi Helgason 1
Sturla Þórðarson 1, 2
Sturlung 1, 2
Suchy, see Jacob Suchy
Sultansky, see Mordecai ben Joseph Sultansky
Sven II Estridsson (king) 1
Sverrir Jakobsson 1
Swedes 1, 2, 3, 4
Swiss 1, 2
Sylvester II (pope) 1
Szpiech, Ryan Wesley 1
Szyszman, Abraham 1

Tabalahr (learned man) 1

Tamerlane 1
Ṭarṭūši, aṭ- 1
Tatars 1, 2, 3, 4–5, 6–7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12–13, 14–15, 16, 17,
18–19, 20, 21, 22, 23
Tcheou-Kong 1
Temür Qutlugh (khan) 1
Tenenboim, Moshe (rabbi) 1
Terogant (god) 1
Tham von Hochberg (doctor) 1, 2, 3– 4, 5
Theodoricus Monachus 1
Theophanes the Confessor 1–2
Theophilus 1, 2, 3–4, 5, 6– 7
Þír 1, 2
Thomas Becket, St. 1, 2, 3
Thomas of Monmouth 1–2
Thomas, St. 1, 2, 3
Thorell, Olof 1–2
Þórólfr Kveld-Úlfsson 1
Þórólfr Skalla-Grímsson 1
Þórr 1, 2
Þorsteinn Surtr 1
Tiburcius (emperor) 1
Tidericus (poisoner) 1, 2
Tilman Bredenbach 1
Tobias ben Moses 1, 2
Tokhtamysh (khan) 1, 2
Torrell, Jean-Pierre 1
Trachtenberg, Joshua 1
Trojans 1, 2
Tros 1
Tucher altarpiece master 1
Turcopoles 1

Ulrich von Jungingen 1

Unnr the Deep-Minded 1

Valentin, Hugo 1
Vigdís Svertingsdóttir 1
Vikings 1–2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7–8, 9
Vilhjálmr (duke) 1
Vincent Ferrer 1
Vincent of Beauvais 1, 2
Votians 1
Vytautas the Great (grand duke) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9

Wåhlin, Theodore 1, 2
Werner Tatere 1
Wigand of Marburg 1
Wikander, Stig 1
Wilhelm von Brandenburg-Ansbach (bishop) 1, 2
Wilhelm von Isenburg 1, 2
William IV of Jülich-Berg 1
William of Malmesbury 1
Władysław IV Vasa (grand duke & king) 1
Wolter von Plettenberg 1, 2, 3
Woolf, Rosemary 1
Wulfhelm (teacher) 1

Yaḥyā ibn al-Ḥakam al-Bakrī, see Ġazāl, al-

Yāqūt al-Ḥamawī, see Ḥamawī, al-
Yaroslav I (grand prince) 1
Ynglingar 1

Zofia Holszańska 1
Index locorum

Aachen 1, 2
Abbasid Caliphate 1, 2
Acre 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Aden 1, 2
Adrianople 1
Aegean Islands 1
Afghanistan 1
Africa 1; North 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Aizpute, see Hasenpoth
Ål 1, 2–3, 4–5
Albi 1
Alemania 1, 2, 3
Alexandria 1, 2, 3, 4
Algeria 1
Almunge 1
Althaus (Starogród) 1
Amu (river) 1
Anglo-Normandy 1
Antioch 1, 2, 3
Arabia 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15
Aragón 1, 2, 3
Aral Sea 1, 2
Årdal 1
Armenia 1, 2, 3, 4
Arsor 1
Ascalon 1, 2
Asia 1, 2, 3, 4; Central 5, 6, 7; Eastern 8; Minor 9
Augsburg 1, 2
Aukštaitija 1, 2
Avignon 1, 2, 3

Babylonia 1, 2
Bad Doberan 1, 2
Baghdad 1, 2
Bagrationovsk, see Preußisch Eylau
Balga 1, 2
Balkans 1, 2
Banat 1
Barcelona 1
Beirut 1
Béjaïa, see Bougie
Belgrade 1
Benediktbeuren 1
Bergen 1, 2
Berlin 1, 2
Bersenbrück 1
Bēth Aramāyē 1, 2
Bethlehem 1
Biester 1, 2, 3, 4
Bittau (Bytów) 1, 2, 3
Black Lakes, see Czarne Błota
Black Sea 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Blue Waters 1, 2
Bø 1
Bologna 1, 2, 3, 4
Bougie 1
Brandenburg 1
Braniewo, see Braunsberg
Braunsberg (Braniewo) 1–2, 3
Bremen 1
Brest 1, 2, 3
Britain 1, 2
British Isles 1
Brodnica, see Strasburg
Bruges 1
Brześć Kujawski 1, 2
Burgundy 1, 2, 3
Burzenland 1
Bydgoszcz 1, 2, 3, 4
Bytów, see Bittau
Byzantium 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

Caesarea 1
Cairo 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Cammin 1
Carthage 1, 2
Caspian Sea 1, 2
Catalonia 1, 2
Catharinenhoff 1
Chełmno, see Culm
Chorazin 1
Chufut-Kale 1, 2
Cilicia 1
Cluny 1, 2
Cockaigne 1
Cologne 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Constance, Lake 1
Constantinople 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8–9, 10, 11, 12, 13
Copenhagen 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10
Córdoba 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Corocania 1
Corrodana 1, 2, 3, 4
Crac des Chevaliers 1
Cracow, see Kraków
Crimea 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9
Cuiavia (Kujawy) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Culm (Chełmno) 1, 2
Culmerland 1
Curland 1
Cyprus 1, 2
Czarne Błota 1

Damascus 1
Damietta 1
Danzig (Gdańsk) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
Darłowo 1
Daugava (river) 1
Denmark 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16,
17
Desht-i Qipchaq 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Dingtuna 1
Dnieper (river) 1, 2
Dniester (river) 1
Don (river) 1, 2, 3
Dorpat (Tartu) 1, 2, 3
Drezdenko, see Driesen
Driesen (Drezdenko) 1
Dublin 1
Dybowo, see Nowa Nieszawa

East Anglia 1
Egypt 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16,
17–18, 19
Elbing (Elbląg) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Elbląg, see Elbing
England 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11
Estonia 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10
Ethiopia 1, 2
Eupatoria, see Yevpatoriya
Eurasian steppe 1, 2
Exeter 1

Ferrera 1
Finland 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
Finnmark 1, 2, 3, 4
Fischau 1
Flanders 1, 2
Fleury 1
Florence 1, 2
France 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15
Frauenburg (Frombork) 1, 2
Frombork, see Frauenburg
Fustat 1

Galicia 1
Galilee 1, 2
Garðaríki 1
Gaza 1, 2
Gdańsk, see Danzig
Genoa 1, 2, 3
German lands 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8; Germania 9; Germany
10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25,
26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33–34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41,
42, 43, 44; German–Jewish 45, 46, 47
Gerzika (Jersika) 1
Gethsemane 1
Ghent 1, 2, 3
Gokstad 1
Goldingen (Kuldīga) 1
Götaland 1
Gothem Church 1
Gotland 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Granada 1
Grodno (Hrodna) 1, 2
Grünhayn (Krasnaya Gorka)
Grunwald, see Tannenberg
Güstrow 1

Halicz, see Halych

Hálogaland 1, 2
Halych 1
Hamburg 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Hamburg–Bremen (archbishopric) 1, 2, 3
Hamre 1
Hannover 1, 2
Härkeberga 1
Hasenpoth (Aizpute) 1
Hattin 1
Hauge Church 1
Heiligenbeil (Mamonovo) 1
Helsingør 1
Helsinki 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Hirbiya, see La Forbie
Hólar 1
Holy Land 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16,
17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28
Hrodna, see Grodno
Hungary 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
Hunin 1
Husby-Sjutolft 1

Iberia 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9
Iceland 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12–13, 14, 15, 16, 17,
18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26
Ikšķile, see Üxküll
India 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Iraq 1
Ireland 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Israel 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Italy 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
Ivangorod 1

Jaffa 1, 2
Jersika, see Gerzika
Jerusalem 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15;
Church of the Holy Sepulchre 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21; Dome
of the Rock 22; Latin Kingdom 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28
Johannisburg 1
Jordan (river) 1
Jotunheimen 1
Judea 1
Jutland 1

Kairouan 1
Kalanti (Nykyrko) 1, 2–3
Kaliningrad, see Königsberg
Karlsruhe 1
Kaunas 1
Kaymen (Zarechye) 1, 2, 3
Khazaria 1
Kherson 1
Khwarezm 1, 2
Kiev 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Kila 1
Klaipėda, see Memel
Kluczbork 1
Kokenhusen (Koknese) 1
Koknese, see Kokenhusen
Kolobovka, see New Sarai
Königsberg (Kaliningrad) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10
Kotelnikovo, see Wargen
Kraków 1, 2
Krasna Góra 1
Krasnaya Gorka, see Grünhayn
Kremitten 1, 2, 3, 4
Kruszwica 1
Kujawy, see Cuiavia
Kuldīga, see Goldingen
Kwidzyn, see Marienwerder
Kyrk Jer, see Chufut-Kale

La Forbie (Hirbiya) 1–2

Langobard Realm 1
Latvia 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Leba (river) 1
Lemberg, see Lviv
Limoges 1, 2
Lindholm Høje 1
Lithuania 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15,
16–17, 18, 19, 20, 21–22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27–28, 29, 30
Livonia 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17,
18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24–25
Loccum 1
Lodomeria 1
Łomża 1
Lotharingia 1, 2
Low Countries 1, 2, 3
Lübeck 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15
Łuck, see Lutsk
Lukiškės, see Lukiśki
Lukiśki (Lukiškės) 1
Lund 1, 2–3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Lüneburg 1, 2
Lutsk 1, 2, 3
Lüttich 1
Lviv 1, 2, 3
Lwów, see Lviv
Lyon 1

Magdeburg 1, 2, 3
Maghreb 1, 2
Mainz 1, 2
Malbork, see Marienburg
Malta 1
Mamonovo, see Heiligenbeil
Mangup 1
Marburg 1
Marienburg (Malbork) 1, 2, 3, 4–5, 6, 7
Marienwerder (Kwidzyn) 1
Marseille 1, 2
Mazovia 1, 2, 3, 4
Mecca 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Mecklenburg 1, 2, 3, 4
Media, see Crimea
Medina (Yathrib) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Medininkai, see Medininki
Medininki (Medininkai) 1
Mediterranean 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15,
16, 17, 18, 19
Meißen 1
Melnikovo, see Rudau
Melno 1
Memel (Klaipėda) 1, 2, 3, 4
Memel (Nemunas; river) 1
Mexico 1
Mi’ilya 1
Middle East 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
Młynary, see Mühlhausen
Moldavia, see Moldova
Moldova 1, 2, 3
Moltwania 1
Montfort 1, 2
Montgisard 1
Montpellier 1
Moscow 1, 2, 3–4, 5, 6, 7
Mühlhausen (Młynary) 1
Munkaþverá 1
Mustansir, al- 1

Naples 1
Narva 1, 2
Natangia 1
Nazareth 1, 2
Near East 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Nedstryn Church 1
Nekrasovo, see Schaaken
Neman, see Ragnit
Nemunas (river), see Memel
Nes 1
Nester (river), see Dniester
Netherlands 1, 2
Neuhof (Nowy Dwór Elbląski) 1, 2, 3, 4
Neumark (Nova Marchia) 1, 2, 3
New Sarai 1
Nicopolis 1, 2
Nidaros 1, 2, 3, 4–5
Nikolai Church 1
Nile (river) 1
Nizove, see Waldau
Normandy 1
Norway 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7–8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17
Norwich 1, 2, 3
Nova Marchia, see Neumark
Novgorod 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12
Nowa Nieszawa 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Nowy Dwór Elbląski, see Neuhof
Nuremberg 1, 2
Nykyrko, see Kalanti

Oddi 1
Oliva 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Orkney 1
Orša 1
Oseberg 1
Oslo 1, 2
Osterode (Ostróda) 1, 2
Ottoman Empire 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13
Outremer 1

Padua 1, 2
Palestine 1, 2, 3
Panevėžys, see Ponieweż
Paris 1, 2, 3, 4
Pasłęk, see Preußisch Holland
Pavia 1
Perekop 1
Persia 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Pilten (Piltene) 1, 2
Piltene, see Pilten
Pisa 1, 2, 3
Płock 1
Podolia 1, 2
Poland 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17,
18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30–31, 32–33,
34
Polotsk 1, 2
Pomerania 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9
Pomesania 1, 2, 3
Poniewież 1, 2
Pontic-Caspian steppe 1
Posen (Poznań) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Poznań, see Posen
Pregel (Pregoła) 1
Pregoła, see Pregel
Preußisch Eylau (Bagrationovsk) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Preußisch Holland (Pasłęk) 1
Provence 1
Prussia 1, 2, 3, 4, 5–6, 7, 8–9, 10–11, 12–13, 14, 15, 16,
17–18, 19, 20–21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26
Pskov 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
Pyrrhicos 1

Ragnit (Neman) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Ramla 1
Red Sea 1
Reichenau 1, 2
Reval (Tallinn) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Reykjavík 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Rhineland 1, 2, 3
Rhodes 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Riga 1, 2, 3–4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11
Rome 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
Roskilde 1, 2
Rostock 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Rouen 1, 2
Rudau (Melnikovo) 1, 2
Russia 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7–8
Ruthenia 1, 2, 3
Rypin 1

Særkland 1, 2, 3, 4
Safed 1
Salamanca 1
Sambia (Samland) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
Samland, see Sambia
Samogitia 1, 2, 3
Sápmi 1, 2, 3, 4–5, 6–7
Sarai Berke, see New Sarai
Sarkel 1
Saxland 1
Schaaken (Nekrasovo) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
Schledehausen 1
Schleswig 1
Schwetz (Świecie) 1
Scotland 1
Scythia: Greater 1
Sealand, see Denmark
Serbia 1, 2
Serkland, see Særkland
Sicily 1, 2, 3
Sidon 1
Siena 1
Sinai 1
Skálholt 1, 2
Skänninge 1
Skara 1
Skibinge Church 1
Słupsk 1, 2
Smolino 1, 2, 3
Solcati, see Solkhat
Solkhat 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Souillac 1
Spain 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10
Starogród, see Althaus
Staryi Krym, see Solkhat
Stettin (Szczecin) 1
Stralsund 1, 2
Strasbourg 1
Strasburg (Brodnica) 1
Styr (river) 1
Sutton Hoo 1
Svolder 1
Swan Bridge (Troki) 1, 2
Sweden 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16,
17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32,
33, 34, 35
Świecie, see Schwetz
Syria 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
Szczecin, see Stettin

Tabriz 1
Täby 1, 2, 3
Tallinn, see Reval
Tannenberg (Grunwald) 1
Tapiau 1, 2
Tartu, see Dorpat
Tataria 1
Tatar Wall (Troki) 1
Tavastia 1
Tewkesbury 1
Thanais, see Don
Þingeyrar 1
Thorn (Toruń) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7–8, 9, 10, 11, 12
Thule 1
Tibnin, see Toron
Tokhtamysh 1
Toledo 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
Toron (Tibnin) 1, 2
Toruń, see Thorn
Trakai, see Troki
Transylvania 1, 2
Traszkuny (Troškūnai) 1
Trèves 1
Trier 1
Troki 1, 2, 3–4
Trondheim, see Nidaros
Troškūnai, see Traszkuny
Tunis 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Turkey 1
Turla (river), see Dniester

’Uḥud, Mt. 1
Ukraine 1
Uppsala 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9
Utrecht 1
Üxküll (Ikšķile) 1, 2

Vadstena 1
Valencia 1
Valladolid 1, 2
Vänge 1
Vanylven 1
Vardø 1
Varna 1, 2
Västmanland 1
Veliuona 1
Venice 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Ventspils, see Windau
Viðey 1
Vienne 1
Vilnius 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13
Visby 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Vistula 1
Voke (river) 1
Volga (river) 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
Volhynia 1, 2, 3, 4
Vorksla, see Worksla

Waldau (Nizove) 1, 2, 3, 4
Wargen (Kotelnikovo) 1, 2
Warmia 1
Warsaw 1, 2
Westphalia 1, 2
Wilno, see Vilnius
Windau (Ventspils) 1
Włocławek 1
Wołyń, see Volhynia
Worksla (Vorksla) 1

Yathrib, see Medina

Yevpatoriya 1

Zarechye, see Kaymen

1
Reuter 2006; Borgolte et al. 2011; Conklin Akbari 2012;
Becker and Mohr 2012; all with further references.
2
On the concept of absent presence, see Law 2004.
3
Jeffrey Jerome Cohen (2006) has similarly shown the
complexity of identities in twelfth-century Britain.
4
Merback 2006, 11.
5
See an overview of the concepts of hybridity relevant for
medieval studies in Burkhardt et al. 2011.
6
See Chazan 1997, 94.
7
Saurma-Jeltsch 2012, 9.
8
An attempt to see alterity as a central positive and
differentiated concept of analysis is found in Rehberg
2012.
9
Kinoshita 2006. Similarly we avoid using phrases like
“orientalism” and “proto-orientalism” (Said 1978) as they
better suit the heyday of European dominance and
colonialism in the nineteenth and late twentieth centuries
rather than the more fluid situation in the Middle Ages
(characterized by cultural exchange) and at the time of the
Ottoman Empire (characterized by European weakness).
10
Lampert 2010, 10–13.
11
On the Tatars of Finland, see Leitzinger 1999; Leitzinger
2006; Martikainen 2009.
12
Unlike many of the other voyages mentioned in runic
inscriptions, the three runic inscriptions that refer to
Jerusalem (G 216, U 136, and U 605†) seem not refer to
trading or military expeditions but rather to pilgrimage.
See Samnordisk rundatabas for transcriptions and
translations of these runic inscriptions.
13
Samnordisk rundatabas: G 216, Sö 131, Sö 179, Sö 279, Sö
281, U 439, and U 785.
14
Whaley 2005, 494 n. 2; Jesch 2005, 124–136.
15
Brate and Wessén 1924–1936, 155.
16
Ruprecht 1958, 55; Cleasby and Vigfússon 1874, s.v.
“Serkland”.
17
Jarring 1983.
18
Shephard 1982–1985, 235.
19
Jesch 2001, 96 n. 26.
20
Pritsak 1981, 443–445; Gustavson 2002; Meijer 2007, 86. It
is noteworthy that karusm is the same as *qarus-m, the
reconstructed Middle Turkic form of Khwarezm.
21
Jacob 1927; Birkeland 1954; Piltz 1998; Montgomery 2000;
Montgomery 2008; Wikander 1978.
22
Mikkelsen 1998; Jensen and Kromann 1998; Talvio 1998.
23
Mikkelsen 1998, 48–50; Mikkelsen 2008, 546. However,
scratching such symbols onto these coins may also have
just been a way of transforming them into talismans with
no deliberate intention to elide the Islamic religion as such.
24
Wikander 1978, 21, 57–58; Piltz 1998, 36.
25
Lewicki 1972, 12 (quoting Károly Czegléd [pers. comm.]);
Wikander 1978, 21. See also Duczko 1998.
26
On the whole, Muslims only appear in crusading sermons.
See Jensen 2007, 104–132.
27
Holm 2010, and Lausten 2010.
28
See, for example, Skovgaard-Petersen 2001; Simonsen
2004, and Jensen 2007.
29
Hohler, Morgan, and Wichstrøm 2003, I, 112–113; II, 121,
and III, 43.
30
Hohler, Morgan, and Wichstrøm 2003, I, 96, and III, 7.
31
Schnohr 2012.
32
Sjögren 2005–2006.
33
Jews were first permitted to settle in Denmark from 1622
and in Sweden from 1718.
34
The first registered Jew in Denmark whom we know of is
Jochim Jøde in 1592 in Helsingør (see Christensen 1987).
There may, however, have been Jews living in Denmark
some years before this date who arrived under false
Christian names (see Katz 1988, 96; cf. Adams 2014, 92–
93). The earliest recorded Jew in Sweden is King Gustav
Vasa’s doctor: A letter dated 9 October 1557 (Västerås)
describes a conflict between “desse våre medicos, doktor
Kop och den juden [these doctors of ours, doctor Kop and
that Jew]”, Valentin 1924, 8.
35
This has resulted in some unfortunate errors in the
interpretation of the sources. See, for example, criticisms
in Adams 2013a, 23 n. 41, and 283.
36
Valentin 1924, 1–9.
37
Muck af Rosenschöld 2007; Raudvere 2000; Raudvere
2003.
38
The Judensäue are located in Härkeberga (wall-painting,
1480s); Husby-Sjutolft (wall-painting, 1480s), and Uppsala
cathedral (carved stone cornice, fourteenth century).
39
An online database of medieval Swedish church art is
available at < http://medeltidbild.historiska.se >.
40
Lausten 1992. This is the first volume in his monumental
series documenting the relationship between the Jews and
the Church in Denmark.
41
Adams 2010; Adams 2012a; Adams 2012b; Adams 2013a;
Adams 2013b; Adams 2014.
42
Haastrup 1999; Haastrup 2003.
43
Thing 2000, 34; Adams 2014, 92.
44
Jóns saga contains a miracle concerning the Jews’ torturing
a statue of Christ (see Foote 2003, 26–27, 93–94, and 129–
130). Gyðinga saga is a retelling of the Book of Maccabees
(see Wolf 1995). In contrast to the Middle Ages, the post-
Reformation period has been studied more thoroughly
(see, for example, Vilhjálmsson 2004).
45
For references, see the indexes in Hohler, Morgan, and
Wichstrøm 2003.
46
Berulfsen 1958.
47
Berulfsen 1958, 126. Berulfsen somewhat marginalizes the
issue of Jews in West Norse literature in his 1963
encyclopaedic article. For a different view, see Cole 2014.
48
Sarnowsky 2001 briefly describes the expulsion of the Jews
from Rhodes in the early sixteenth century, while the Order
of St. John had the Judenregal (a ruler’s right to tax Jews in
return for protecting them) on the island.
49
On pagan religion in Prussia as reported in the sources of
the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, see Brauer 2011.
50
On pagan beliefs and the process of Christianization in the
Baltic, see the contributions by Vladas Žulkus on Lithuania,
Guntis Zemītis and Andris Caune on Latvia, and Enn Tarvel
on Estonia and Livonia in Müller-Wille 1998. See also Valk
2003; Valk 2008; Šne 2008; Kala 2009; Wüst 2012. Ivar
Leimus is one of the few scholars whose research on inter-
religious contact deals with the pre-Teutonic period. He
has studied Islamic coins in pagan Estonia and the effects
of trade with the East; see Leimus 2007a; Leimus 2007b.
51
Urban 1998; Fischer 2007.
52
Murray 2010.
53
Helm 1904.
54
Feistner, Vollman-Profe, and Neecke 2007. However, it
should be noted that Maccabees was also used before the
Teutonic Order; see Undusk 2011.
55
Fischer 1991; Fischer 2005; Lähnemann 2012.
56
Palgen 1969.
57
Caliebe 1985.
58
An exception is Auffarth 1994, but without special
emphasis on the Teutonic Order and Prussia.
59
A notable exception in this context is the volume by Hanna
Zaremska on Jews in medieval Poland that contains several
examples of depictions of Jews in altar paintings from
fifteenth-century Toruń. See Zaremska 2011.
60
Zonenberg 2009, with references to the older studies
arguing in this direction.
61
Jolowicz 1867, 2–3; Hollack 1910; Stern 1925, 6. Also Echt
1972, 12–13. Echt was a teacher in Gdańsk until he was
forced to flee to the UK in 1939.
62
Baczko 1789, 315; Forstreuter 1937; Aschkewitz 1967, 1.
63
Zaremska 2011; Nowak 1991; Broda 2011; Wołosz 2002.
64
The index of the archives of the Teutonic Order’s incoming
correspondence (Ordensbriefarchiv, OBA) already contains
twenty-four entries under the lemma “Juden”. See
Hubatsch and Joachim 1948.
65
Strunk 1931.
66
See for example Clemens Iode in Ordensfoliant 2a. Kubon
and Sarnowsky 2012. On interpreting “Jew” in medieval
Scandinavian personal names, see Adams 2014, 92–93.
67
Heise 1932.
68
Radzimiński 1997.
69
Most recently in Jähnig 2011, where Jews are not
mentioned at all. For Tallinn, see Kreem 2002, who also
does not mention Jews. Buchholtz (1899, 1) finds the first
evidence of Jews in Riga in 1560.
70
For the sixteenth century, see Bogucka 1992.
71
See the contributions in Keene, Nagy, and Szende 2009,
especially Anti Selart on Livonia, and Olga Kozubska-
Andrusiv on Lviv.
72
Backhaus 1988; Heß 2013, 304–309.
73
See the introduction in Rohdewald, Frick, and Wiederkehr
2007, with further references.
74
Racius 2002; Konopacki 2010.
75
See the contribution by Kwiatkowski in this volume; on
Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania, see the contributions in
Larsson 2009; Martin 2002.
76
The standard work remains Riant 1865.
77
In this article, I will use medieval terms, such as Finnar or
Saracens, when discussing images of groups designated as
such in medieval sources, and modern terms, such as
Sámi, Arabs and Muslims when referring to historical
groups and individuals. The relationship between medieval
and modern terms is of course more complicated. For
instance, it is not certain that the Old Norse term Finnar
covered the modern ‘Sámi’ or if the distinction between
Bjarmar and Finnar was very clear to medieval
Norwegians. Furthermore, Finnar sometimes appears even
as synonymous with ‘trolls’. It is difficult to ascertain the
indigenous terminology used in the Middle Ages by those
we today would call ‘Sámi’; see the discussion in Hansen
and Olsen 2014, 35–38. Saracens could be a term for many
types of heathens: for instance in Middle English romances
it even included heathens from Scandinavia.
78
For a discussion of this theme, see Skånland 1956.
79
DN I, 1849, 24; see also Jackson 2009, 23. Gregory IX had
in 1237 promised full absolution and papal protection to
those who participated in a campaign against heathens
who attacked the recently converted Tavastians in
southern Finland, DS 298/SDHK 514.
80
DN VI, 1864, 106.
81
DN VI, 1864, 113.
82
Moore 2007.
83
On the persecution of heretics and the scattered
references to inquisitors in Norway, see Bandlien and
Knutsen 2008.
84
Sverrir Jakobsson 2012.
85
Mundal 1996; Hermann Pálsson 1997.
86
Aalto 2010.
87
Sverrir Jakobsson 2012; Bandlien, forthcoming.
88
Durkheim 1964, 203–204.
89
Meyerson 2003.
90
Nirenberg 1996, 124.
91
Bird, Peters, and Powell 2013, 470.
92
Keyser et al. 1849, 237: “I ellifta fellr á þa fullkomit bann
sem Saracenis flytia til handa vápn eða skip eða iarn, eða
geraz skipstiornar menn þeirra, eða veita þeim nockurs
kyns fullting til agángs ok ufriðar heilögu Jorsala landi ok
kristnu folki.”
93
Menache 2012, 243.
94
Menache 2012, 245–246.
95
Jacoby 2001.
96
Árna saga biskups, ch. 57.
97
According to Hákonar saga (ch. 294, 391), they met
envoys in Valladolid, “both Christian and heathens”.
98
Birkeland 1954, 99–100. Ibn Sa‘īd al-Maghribī was born in
Granada in 1213 and probably died in Tunis in 1286. He
arrived at Tunis in 1254 or 1255, following many years
travelling and an extended stay in Egypt. Although we
cannot be certain, he may very well have been in Tunis in
1262–1263. On the history of Tunis in this period, with
references to the Valladolid meeting and the Norwegian
envoy, see Brunschvig 1940, 39–70 and Messier 1986.
99
Orkneyinga saga, ch. 88, my translation. Orkneyinga saga
was probably written in several stages around 1200, but is
preserved only in manuscripts from the fourteenth century.
100
En tale mot biskopene 1931, 19.
101
Tolan 2002: 167–168; Bandlien, forthcoming.
102
Aalto 2010; Sverrir Jakobsson 2012.
103
Cheyette 2001, 88–96.
104
Schaube 1906, 275–316.
105
Lopez and Raymond 1955, 384–387.
106
Konungs skuggsiá 1983, 4.
107
DN VII, 1869, 198 and 202. King Magnus also received
papal permission to travel to the Holy Land with hundred
men, but with strict orders not to bring anything that could
be useful to the Christians’ enemies; DN VI, 1864, 204.
108
Hofmann 1957–1958.
109
DN VII, 1869, 215; DS 4384/SDHK 5697.
110
The document is published, with an extensive discussion of
the context, in Fritz and Odelman 1992; see also Madurell
y Marimón 1966, 486–489, who mentions Petrus of Media
Villa bringing twenty-eight falcons to Alexandria, with only
five reaching their destination alive.
111
On this theme in relation to Old French literature, see
Kinoshita 2006.
112
Hansen and Olsen 2014, 155–160.
113
Historia Norwegie 2003, 61.
114
Historia Norwegie 2003, 63.
115
Goldenberg 2009.
116
Snowden 1983, 104–105; Courtès 2010, 200–201.
117
Oddr Snorrason 2003, 66.
118
Oddr Snorrason 2003, 96.
119
Mitchell 2003.
120
Historia Norwegie 2003, 63.
121
Phelpstead and Kunin 2001, 70.
122
Phelpstead and Kunin 2001, 70–71.
123
Islandske annaler 1888, 393: “Þetta sumar kom Marteinn
Finna kongr til Hakonar kongs.” His visit to King Hákon V is
also mentioned by Hans Lilienskiold, the provincial
governor of Finnmark in the late seventeenth century, see
Bratrein 2001. In both the kings’ sagas and the legendary
sagas, we find many references to kings in Finnmark, often
mentioned along with their attractive daughters, see
Hermann Pálsson 1997, 131–157.
124
Keyser et al. 1849, 106–107.
125
Mundal 2006.
126
This story was first written in Latin at Nidaros, but only the
Icelandic translation by the priest Einarr Hafliðason (1307–
1393) remains extant, see Kålund 1908, 57–59.
127
On the various rituals of prima signatio, see Uspenskij
2009; see also Mundal 2006 on the Sámi who traded with
Christians having performed ‘primsigning’ or ‘first-signing’.
128
Hansen and Olsen 2014, 313–315.
129
Olsen, Henriksen, and Urbańczyk 2011.
130
Aalto (2010, 173–179) emphasizes the establishment of
kaupfriðr (trading peace), to allow for trading between
Christians and heathens.
131
Hansen and Olsen 2014, 141–227.
132
Earle 2006, 358.
133
DS 5959/SDHK 7420.
134
Schukowski 2008, 126.
135
Andrén 1998, 126.
136
Turbans became quite fashionable in late medieval Europe;
for example, the illustration from a fourteenth-century
manuscript that shows Henry of Germany wearing a turban
while delivering a lecture to university students in Bologna.
Liber ethicorum des Henricus de Alemannia;
Kupferstichkabinett SMPK, Berlin/Staatliche Museen
Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Min. 1233.
137
Wåhlin 1923, 121.
138
Andrén 1998, 126–127.
139
Hamel 2008.
140
See Schukowski 2008.
141
Kragh 2005, 52–53 has the creator of the clock as an
astronomer called Petrus de Vadstena. This is an error
resulting from a confusion of Petrus Astronomus (d. 1513),
a monk from Vadstena monastery who built an
astronomical clock in Uppsala Cathedral in 1506, with
Petrus Olavi (1307–1390), who wrote the Vita beatae
Birgittae at Vadstena monastery.
142
There are other candidates for the identity of Hali, see
Mogensen 2008, 98.
143
For further on the identities of the four figures, see
Mogensen 2008, 95–99.
144
Cohen 2001, 115.
145
See fig. 2 in the article by Yvonne Friedman in this volume.
146
Lyons 2009, 157.
147
These works are De natura rerum (On the Nature of
Things), c. 703; De temporibus (On Times), 703, and De
temporum ratione (On the Reckoning of Time), 725. The
translated works of Bede himself, with extensive
commentary by Faith Wallis and Calvin Kendall (1999 and
2010), are the best introduction to the science of the
computus.
148
Beckman and Kålund 1916, 464.
149
For more details, see Þorsteinn Vilhjálmsson 1991.
150
O’Connor 2012.
151
Beckman and Kålund 1916, 72–75.
152
Raschellà 2007.
153
Raschellà 2011, 337–340.
154
Raschellà 1993, 230.
155
For references on the star names below, see Beckman and
Kålund 1916, 72–75.
156
Kunitzsch and Smart 2006, 19.
157
Kunitzsch and Smart 2006, 43–44.
158
Kunitzsch and Smart 2006, 49.
159
For arguments on medieval knowledge of the changeability
of Algol, see Wilk 1996.
160
Kunitzsch 2006, 26.
161
For more details on the version and transmission of the
Alfonsine tables, see Chabás and Goldstein 2003.
162
Jourdain 1843, 115–116.
163
For more on John of Seville, see Thorndike 1959.
164
Beckman and Kålund 1916, xxxvii.
165
Hill 1983, 180–181.
166
Southern 1952, 170.
167
Welborn 1931, 193.
168
Kunitzsch 1966.
169
Kunitzsch 2004, XX 243–245.
170
Butzer 1982, 9.
171
Hugonnard-Roche 1996, 288.
172
Kunitzsch 1966.
173
Kunitzsch 2004, XX 249. I have to thank Charles Burnett of
the Warburg Institute for confirming this analysis (pers.
comm.).
174
Plate no. 3622 made in Córdoba 1054/1055 and now
residing in the Jagiellonian University Museum, Kraków
quoted here according to Maier 1999, 119–134. See King
1999.
175
Foote 1984.
176
Halldór Hermansson 1932.
177
Derolez 1968.
178
Diplomatarium Islandicum 1876, 170–172.
179
AM 371, 4° is held at Reykjavík, Árni Magnússon Collection;
the other two manuscripts are held in Copenhagen,
Arnamagnæan Collection. The authoritative edition is by
Finnur Jónsson 1892–1896.
180
Bekken 1985, 2.
181
Bekken 1985, 6.
182
Kunitzsch 2004, XXIX.
183
Bekken, Thorvaldsen and Nielsen 2010, 2. For more details
on De numero indorum, see Folkerts 2001.
184
Kristin Bjarnadóttir 2006, 47–51.
185
Bekken 1986; Kristin Bjarnadóttir 2006, 47.
186
Wills 2001, 76–77.
187
Somfai 2002.
188
Bekken, Thorvaldsen and Nielsen 2010, 3.
189
Kristín Bjarnadóttir and Bjarni Vilhjálmur Halldórsson 2010,
2.
190
Orme 2006, 68–71.
191
Grant 2010, 95–96.
192
The dates of Sacrobosco’s life are unsure, see Pedersen
1985.
193
Kristín Bjarnadóttir 2006, 41.
194
Kristín Bjarnadóttir 2006, 41.
195
Beckman and Kålund 1916, 103.
196
Beckman and Kålund 1916, 103 n. 4.
197
For more on this manuscript, see Etheridge 2013.
198
Rím II, 110, lines 16–25.
199
Scriptores Rerum Danicarum Medii Aevi 1772, 268.
200
Pedersen 1967.
201
Marteinn H. Sigurðsson 1996, 36.
202
Marteinn H. Sigurðsson 1996, 13; Gering 1884, 84–94; Jóns
Þáttr exists in Copenhagen Arnamagnæan Collection, AM
764, 4° Reynistaðarbók (1300–1399) and Reykjavík AM
624, 4° (1490–1510).
203
The Klári Saga is also found in Stockholm Perg. 4°, no. 6 (c.
1400) and Reykjavík, Árni Magnússon Collection, AM 589 d,
4°, 1450–1499.
204
The origin of the name is obscure, but it may be a variant
of Porus, a king of India, who was one of the main
opponents of Alexander the Great; see Hughes 2008.
205
Marteinn H. Sigurðsson 1996, 38.
206
Marteinn H. Sigurðsson 1996, 11.
207
Collected in Íslendzk æventýri, no. 81: “Af meistara Pero ok
hans leikum” (Gering 1884, 217–231); also found in Konráð
Gíslason (1860, 419–427); the ævintýr also exist in the
manuscripts Reykjavík, Árni Magnússon Collection, AM 343
a, 4° (1450–1475) and AM 586, 4° (1450–1499).
208
Marteinn H. Sigurðsson 1996, 128–129.
209
Marteinn H. Sigurðsson 1996, 128.
210
Krappe 1947, 217.
211
For more on this, see Hughes 2008, 153–155.
212
Krappe 1947, 221–222.
213
Marteinn H. Sigurðsson 1996, 130.
214
Marteinn H. Sigurðsson 1996, 128.
215
Montgomery 2000, 12–13.
216
Frähn 1976; Frye 2005; Canard 1988; Togan 1966;
Hasenfratz 2007, 13–25; Montgomery 2010.
217
Montgomery 2000, 14.
218
Montgomery 2000, 17.
219
Montgomery 2000, 15–21.
220
Wüstenfeld 1965 [1866–1870].
221
Melvinger 1955, 80–81.
222
Montgomery 2000, 2–3.
223
Stausberg 2002–2004; Boyce 2007; Boyce 1996 [1975],
Boyce 1996 [1982]; Boyce and Grenet 1991; Dhalla 1994.
224
Wikander 1946; Giara 2002.
225
Kraus 1972, 31 and 331.
226
Polomé 1992.
227
Miquel 1975, 348; Lewis 2000, 144–145; Jacob 1927, 26.
228
Jacob 1927, 26 n. 2.
229
Wüstenfeld 1994 [1876–1877].
230
Miquel 1975, 347; Shboul 1979.
231
Jacob 1927, 16.
232
Jankrift 2012, 7–9.
233
Jacob 1927, 17.
234
Piltz 1988.
235
Jacob 1927, 38.
236
Montgomery 2000, 1–3.
237
Beck 1978, 283; Beck 1997; Bensberg 2000.
238
Beck 1978; Capelle 2004.
239
Christensen, Ingstad, and Myrhe 1992; Sjøvold 1974.
240
Carver 2005; Kendall and Wells 1992.
241
Holck 2006; Berglund 2007.
242
Newton 1993, 48.
243
Marseen 1992.
244
Boyce 2007.
245
Lévi-Provençal 1999, 204.
246
Jacob 1927, 26; Montgomery 2000, 7.
247
Jacob 1927, 39.
248
Montgomery 2000, 7.
249
Jacob 1927, 29.
250
Zeebout 1998, 9. I am very grateful to Evelien Timpener
M.A. (Hannover) for her help with some passages of
Zeebout’s text.
251
The actual year of Muḥammad’s birth is unknown, but is
estimated to be c. 570. In most cases, no year of birth was
mentioned in accounts of his lineage and the
circumstances of his birth.
252
Breidenbach 2010, 290–291. According to Bernhard von
Breidenbach, however, Muḥammad was born on 23 April.
In what follows, I will use the German edition of
Breidenbach’s report, which was published with only a few
minor changes a few months after the first printed edition
of the Latin version. For the publication history, see Timm
2006.
253
On medieval studies dealing with the concept of the Self
and the Other, see the recent overview of Classen 2013.
On the connection between this concept and travel
reports, see with further references Münkler 2000; Reichert
2001; Schröder 2009; Meyer 2012.
254
A stereotype as such has either a negative or a positive
connotation. For a definition and an explanation of the
difference to prejudices, see, for example, Roth 1999.
255
On the life of Joos van Ghistele, see with further references
Villerius 2008–2009; Villerius 2009; Strijbosch 2010.
256
This trip from Venice to Jaffa and back lasted
approximately six months and would have included a
guided tour to the Holy Sites in Jerusalem, in Bethlehem,
and along the Jordan River.
257
His other companions – his nephew Joris van Ghistele, Jan
van Vaernewijck, and Joris Palinc – returned to Europe after
visiting the Holy Land.
258
For a complete itinerary of their travels, see Zeebout 1998,
8–10 (maps); Paravicini 2000, 137–138.
259
Zeebout 1998, 48–49. As Bejczy (1994, 87) has pointed
out, this section is probably a misreading of the Middle
Dutch version of the Historia trium regum of John of
Hildesheim, who mentions that “Indian pilgrims liked to
purchase jewels that had been brought into contact with
the Three Kings in Cologne, and that pilgrims and
merchants ‘from that country’ take advantage of this.”
260
In referring to the miracles and marvels of the East, Prester
John’s fictitious letter (Epistola presbiteri Johannis)
provided a fantastic and exotic world completely apart
from everyday life at home. Moreover, it described an ideal
society characterized by great devoutness and justice, in
which there was no conflict, no poverty, and no disease.
Thus, it provided a mirror image of conditions at home. Cf.
Bejczy 2001.
261
During the second half of the thirteenth century, before
they converted to Islam rather than Christianity, the
Mongol Il-Khans were seen as potential allies. Cf. Jackson
2005.
262
Mandeville 2011, 160–165 and 177.
263
Apart from Mandeville, Zeebout might have examined the
well-known report of Odoric of Pordenone or the popular
Middle Dutch version of the (fictitious) 1389 journey report
of Johannes de Witte de Hese, which provides a detailed
description of Prester John’s kingdom. On Marco Polo as a
potential source, see Zeebout 1998, XXVI.
264
Joos van Ghistele’s extensive travels should perhaps be
seen in the context of the increasing conflicts at the
Burgundian Court following the death of Charles the Bold in
1477. With the marriage of Charles’ heiress Mary to
Maximilian of Austria, the court was increasingly
dominated by the Habsburg dynasty. This led to conflicts
with the elite in Ghent. Ghistele might have decided to
spend some time abroad to avoid endangering the good
connections he had with all parties. This intriguing idea
was first raised in Villerius 2009, 28–29.
265
Nothing is known about Zeebout or about Jan van
Quisthout, who served as confessor during the pilgrimage.
266
Commissioning a writer was not uncommon, particularly
among high noblemen. Cf. Nolte 1997, 70–72.
267
Cf. Nolte 1998.
268
Zeebout 1998, 1–2 and 48.
269
The oldest of the three preserved manuscripts of Zeebout’s
text, dated around 1500, lacks a title. The two other
manuscripts from later in the sixteenth century mention
the reisverhaal van Joos van Ghistele and the pelgrimsreis,
1481–1485, van Joos van Ghistele, which may be additions
made by the scribes. See Zeebout 1998, XLVIII–LII;
Paravicini 2000, 132–135; Strijbosch 2010, 37.
270
Or they might have been provided by Jan van Quisthout.
Contrary to the conclusion arrived at in Villerius (2008–
2009 and 2009), clearly distinguishing between the
passages written by Ghistele and those written by Zeebout
is a challenge, since even some of the more vivid passages
ascribed to Ghistele seem to draw upon other pilgrimage
reports. See also Strijbosch 2010.
271
See the detailed record in Zeebout 1998, XVIII–XL.
272
Adorno 1978. The father Anselme had close connections to
the Burgundian court and had served as a mayor in
Bruges. However after the death of Charles the Bold in
1477, Anselme was charged with misappropriation of funds
and fled to Scotland, where he was murdered in 1483. Cf.
Paravicini 2000, 108. The descriptions of Tunis and other
places in North Africa in particular closely parallel
Zeebout’s text. Cf. Zeebout 1998, XXIV.
273
Zeebout 1998, 1–2.
274
Zeebout 1998, 1.
275
Paul Walther von Guglingen 1892, 149. According to
Guglingen, Ghistele was accompanied by one other
“peregrine de Flandria”, who was a cleric (probably Jan van
Quisthout). For differences in their descriptions of
Jerusalem, as well as a negative appraisal of Ghistele’s
reliability, see Paul Walther von Guglingen 1892, 164. The
encounter in Alexandria (Zeebout 1998, 217) is not
mentioned by Paul Walther von Guglingen, nor by
Bernhard von Breidenbach or Felix Fabri. Zeebout may
have gotten this information, as well as the names, from
Bernhard von Breidenbach’s report (2010, 540–543).
276
That he was at least abroad for several years can be
verified using local sources. See Strijbosch 2010, 36.
277
Mandeville 2011.
278
Arnold von Harff 1860. He claimed to have taken the same
route to Aden as Ghistele for his journey further East.
279
On this concept, as well as the relationship between writer
and reader, see Schmolinsky 2012 and Dürr 2007.
280
On Muslims and Islam in pilgrimage reports, see with
further references Reichert 2000; Schröder 2009, 236–291.
281
There is a significant body of research into the
development of Christian-Muslim relations and the
(polemical) images of Islam in Christian works; see with
further references Daniel 1960; Tolan 2002a; Di Cesare
2012.
282
Zeebout 1998, 9–31.
283
Zeebout (1998, 9) mistakenly claimed that Khadīja had
previously been Corrosanij’s wife. In fact, Khadīja is said to
have lived in the province of Chorozaniam.
284
Drawing upon Bernhard von Breidenbach (2010, 302–303),
Zeebout (1998, 12) further explained how Sergius initially
used his influence to convert Muḥammad to the Nestorian
faith, as well as how the Jews of Yathrib – fearing the loss
of their position – sent two learned men (Andias and
Tabalahr) in the hope of influencing Muḥammad.
285
Zeebout 1998, 20.
286
See the article by Jonathan Adams in this volume for more
on these stories.
287
Zeebout 1998, 12–13. This is a reference to the Battle of
’Uḥud in the year 625, in which Muḥammad was seriously
wounded. Cf. Ibn Ishaq 1968, 370–390. Such information
was transmitted through the Risālat al-Kindī, originally
written in Arabic and translated into Latin in the twelfth
century. Cf. Daniel 1960, 91–96; Tolan 2002a, 60–64.
288
Zeebout 1998, 13. According to Ibn Ishaq (1968, 494–499),
the rumours following this incident did indeed pose a
serious threat to Muḥammad’s authority. Zeebout here
drew upon Bernhard von Breidenbach (2010, 296–297).
289
Zeebout 1998, 11 and 14. The last example is not based
on Breidenbach’s report. It calls to mind the assertion on
the part of some Christian authors that wise Muslim
scholars such as Avicenna and Averroes must have
recognized that Islam was flawed and irrational, but did not
say so publicly for fear of being punished. Studying logic
and natural science leads to heresy, or so it would seem.
Cf. Tolan 2002b.
290
Zeebout 1998, 25; Breidenbach 2010, 308–309.
291
As is the case in Zeebout’s report, it is part of a section on
different religions and nations. The author of this chapter
was not Bernhard von Breidenbach, but the Dominican
Martin Rath, who used inter alia Vincent of Beauvais,
Petrus Alfonsi, and Paul of Burgos as authorities. It is Fabri
(1843–1849, I, 347 and 353) who claims this section was
written by Rath.
292
On self-indulgence, see Daniel 1960, 135–161.
293
Zeebout 1998, 9 and 11.
294
Cf. Reichert 2000, 7–8; Reichert 2005, 18.
295
Zeebout 1998, 19 and 26. On images (and fantasies) of
Muslim’s hedonism, luxury, and physical pleasure, see
Cohen 2001.
296
Concerning physical or racial otherness in medieval
sources, see Bartlett 2001; Akbari 2009.
297
Zeebout 1998, 23–24.
298
Zeebout 1998, 22. He probably used the more detailed but
neutral report of Adorno (1978, 72–73).
299
Fabri 1843–1849, I, 202; Casola 2001, 185–186.
300
Suriano 1900, 199–200.
301
See, for example, Casola 2001, 171. Surprisingly, Zeebout
did not use the term Saracen, which is frequently used as a
synonym for all Muslims, as well as for the Arab population
in general. In outlining the different Muslim groups or
nations, he either used the term denoting one group (for
example, Turks, Mamluks, Arabs/Bedouins) or – possibly
because of the structure of the sentence (“The Muslims are
not allowed to …”) – he used no label at all. Zeebout
borrowed the term “musseleminnos [Mussulmen]”, which
he uses at one point (Zeebout 1998, 27), from Adorno
(1978, 68–69).
302
Zeebout 1998, 18.
303
Zeebout 1998, 20. His source, Bernhard von Breidenbach,
in contrast, saw in the commandment additional evidence
that Muslims were thoughtlessly following some
meaningless rules derived from the Jews. Cf. Breidenbach
2010, 348–349.
304
Zeebout 1998, 24. In contrast, Bernhard von Breidenbach
(2010, 318–319 and 360–374) disapproved of the
description of the heavenly Cockaigne, seeing it as an
expression of Muslims’ carnal nature and as utter
nonsense. Other travel reports are less critical and
dismissive (Smith 1995). There is, however, a multifaceted
polemic and nuanced argument against the pseudoIslamic
paradise in Christian sources (Roling 2005). Drawing upon
an additional source allowed Zeebout to provide more
details about the heavenly pleasures than Breidenbach
had.
305
Zeebout 1998, 177–186. For an opposing opinion, see
Villerius 2008–2009, 79–80, who interprets Zeebout’s
description as criticism of a very corrupt and chaotic
political system.
306
Zeebout 1998, 28 and 175–177. The great abundance of all
things desirable at the Sultan’s court also reflects the
literary images of the alien Saracen ruler living in the lap of
luxury.
307
Zeebout 1998, 18:

“Alla lehil lehil, alla allacobar machometo,

recheeul, alla, allocabar bijs mille faudurreulle”,
dats in onser spraken ghenough te zegghene:
God God wilt openbaren, dat maer een
warachtich God en es ende dat Machomet een
warachtich bode es, van Gode in dese weerelt
ghesonden ende elc pijne hem te biddene

[“Alla lehil lehil, alla allacobar machometo,

recheeul, alla, allocabar bijs mille faudurreulle”,
that is in our language sufficiently said: The Good
Lord will reveal that He is nonetheless the true
God and that Muḥammad is his rightful
messenger, sent by God to this world and
 everyone should work hard to worship him.]

In this case, the source of the information is unclear.

Breidenbach (2010, 348–349) does not provide a
transcription.
308
Casola 2001, 186. He was not certain that the interpreter’s
translation was accurate, but noted that Muslims did
indeed have many wives, so their numbers could be
expected to increase. For additional examples, see
Reichert 2000, 13; Reichert 2001, 154. In a different
context, however, Zeebout (1998, 20) did say that the
many pleasures promised by Islam had as their goal
populating the world.
309
Unlike Adorno and Breidenbach, Zeebout did not include
an Arabic alphabet, but did explain that Arabs write from
right to the left. Zeebout 1998, 22. On foreign languages in
pilgrimage reports, see Bosselmann-Cyran 1994.
310
Breidenbach 2010, 316–317.
311
Konrad Grünemberg, Bertrandon de la Brocquiere, and
Riccoldo da Monte Croce also come to mind.
312
Smith 1995, 234.
313
Cf. Fabri 1843–1849, II, 113 (cleanliness of Basars); III, 111
(cleanliness of religious slaughter); I, 291 (cleanliness of
mosques); I, 223 (piety).
314
Mandeville 2011, 86–87. Cf. Michelet 2006, 293–298.
315
In the case of Christian-Muslim relations, the major
depiction of a historical person as a noble heathen is
probably that of Saladin, even when he is also portrayed as
the Antichrist. Cf. Tolan 1997; Jäckel 2010.
316
Fabri 1843–1849, I, 229–230. Cf. Schröder 2009, 258.
317
Zeebout 1998, 17–18.
318
Cf. Michelet 2006, 296–297.
319
Reichert 2000, 12.
320
Fabri 1843–1849, I, 208 and III, 32. Cf. Schröder 2009, 272–
275.
321
Arnold von Harff 1860, 85, 97–98, 101.
322
Breidenbach 1880, 142.
323
Michelet 2006, 301. On the difficulties of describing
Otherness, see Esch 1991.
324
Fabri 1843–1849, I, 4.
325
On cultural borders, see the classic article by Osterhammel
1995.
326
Borgolte 2009, 268; Gotter 2000, 395. On the
methodological problems of transcultural history, see
Höfert 2008.
327
See, for instance, the articles in the anthologies of Borgolte
and Schneidmüller 2010; Borgolte et al. 2011; Mersch and
Ritzerfeld 2009. For a recent overview on the
Mediterranean see Jaspert 2009.
328
Zeebout 1998, XXIV, 7 and 399. It was common for the
guardian of the Franciscan monastery to instruct pilgrims
arriving in the Holy Land not to drink wine in public, not to
enter a mosque, and not to walk in a Muslim cemetery
(Fabri 1843–1849, I, 212–217). Zeebout might have gotten
this information from the published reports of Breidenbach
(2010, 118–119) and Hans Tucher (2002, 372–375 and
492–493).
329
Zeebout 1998, 6–7.
330
Later in his instructions, Zeebout provides the sweeping
advice not to trust anyone of a lower rank or anyone born
on the other side of the Mediterranean, the Greeks in
particular; Zeebout 1998, 8.
331
Reichert 2000, 17. Besides the possibility of economic
gain, there seemed to be no self-evident reason to permit
European Christians to travel through Palestine and Egypt.
For background on economic relations between the
Mamluks and European merchants, see with further
references Christ 2012.
332
One example – not related to representations of Muslims
but of Jews – is the miraculous displacement of a mountain
in Cairo following a religious dispute on the true faith
between Christians and Jews (Zeebout 1998, 188–189). On
this episode, which was only reported by Fabri in his
Evagatorium and in his spiritual guide for nuns, but in a
significantly different form, see Schröder 2009, 177–178.
333
The first Latin sources for this tale date from the eleventh
century. Cf. Reichert 2005; Reichert 2007.
334
Zeebout 1998, 26 and 263. Parts of the complex built
around Muḥammad’s tomb in Medina were indeed
damaged by lightning and fire in 1481 (Reichert 2005, 24–
25). Apart from Zeebout, only Breidenbach, Guglingen, and
Fabri mentioned this incident in their reports. Fabri, for
example, interpreted this as divine punishment and was
very pleased that Muḥammad’s body was extinguished
from earth. Fabri disparaged the Muslims’ religious
authorities for continuously cheating the Saracens and
even increasing idolatry. Fabri 1843–1849, I, 192.
335
To the Mamluks and dragomans as contact persons for the
pilgrims, see Bosselmann-Cyran 1997.
336
Cf. Rotter 2009.
337
Reichert 2005, 25.
338
Cf. Schmieder 2005, 4.
339
See also Strijbosch 2010, 43–45.
340
Halperin 1984.
341
Forstreuter 1937, 48.
342
On this part of Forstreuter’s biography, see Heß 2014.
343
Examples in Burleigh 1984, 38–39.
344
Zaremska 2011, map 2.
345
Jolowicz 1867, 2–3.
346
See also the introduction to this volume.
347
Forstreuter for example discusses some of the sources
mentioning Prussian Jews and the Plague and simply
concludes that they must have existed, and the pogroms
as well. The contradiction to his assumption of an anti-
Jewish ban remains unsolved.
348
Cohn 2002; Cluse 2002.
349
Ginzburg 1991; Stearns 2011, 54–65.
350
Müller 2002, 257.
351
Jankrift 2008.
352
See, for example, Cronica des landes Bruthenia, ietzund
Preusserlant. Geschrieben durch Casparum Bittander
(1609) in Uppsala, University Library, H 153 fol., fol. 111r;
also Simon Grunaus Preussische Chronik, I (1876), 609.
353
Hermanni de Warthberge Chronicon Livoniae, 77.
354
Ioannis Dlugossii Annales, fol. 112r.
355
An exception is Königsberg in Neumark (Nova Marchia),
where a pogrom took place in 1351. Cluse 2002, 240.
356
The version from Stadtbibliothek Lübeck is believed to be
the copy in use at the Lübeck city council.
357
Detmar-Chronik, 505.
358
Detmar-Chronik, 514.
359
Ginzburg 1991, 68.
360
The Chronicle of Oliva was edited twice, first in Scriptores
rerum Prussicarum (SRP) I, 1861, 653 ff., and then, after
several new manuscripts were found, in SRP V, 1874, 594
ff. One of the major differences between these two editions
is the lengthy paragraph about the Black Death, which was
only found in what is probably the oldest remaining
manuscript, dating to the fifteenth century, and held by a
library in Lviv. Max Perlbach, whose investigation of the
chronicle remains the most comprehensive study of the
text, had worked with a much younger manuscript version,
and thus did not comment on this episode – which, not
least of all, changed the dating of the chronicle from 1348
to 1351. Hirsch 1874; Perlbach 1871; Perlbach 1872.
361
Chronicon Olivense, 621–622.
362
UB Lübeck III, 105.
363
Cod. dipl. Warm. III, 1874, no. 633, 634 quotes the letter
incorrectly, mixing together the trials in Lübeck and Visby.
The full text of the letter is printed in UB Lübeck III, 104,
no. 110 A. Ibid. no. 110 B, 105–106, contains a different
letter that also mentions the Visby trial. This letter
resembles more closely the actual letter preserved from
Visby, which was sent by the council of Rostock to the
Duke of Mecklenburg.
364
UB Lübeck III, 105.
365
SDHK no. 5883, DS no. 4665; UB Lübeck III, 105; UB
Mecklenburg X, no. 7083.
366
Cod. dipl. Warm. II, 1864, 152.
367
Ginzburg 1991, 65.
368
Cod. dipl. Warm. II (1864), 316–317; Marienburger
Tresslerbuch, 501, 552.
369
Rumoldi (Rombaldi) ep. Dublinensis, venerated in the
dioceses of Utrecht, Lüttich, and Exeter; Rumwoldi,
venerated in England. Grotefend 1898.
370
Cohn 2007.
371
Cohn 2007, 9.
372
Ioannis Dlugossii Annales, fol. 112r.
373
Forstreuter 1981, 276.
374
This contribution comprises a revised and updated English
version of an article previously published as “Żydowscy
lekarze w państwie zakonu krzyżackiego w Prusach w
późnym średniowieczu” in Kwartalnik Historii Żydów
(2011). – The author would like to thank the journal
Kwartalnik Historii Żydów for providing permission to use
this English version here.
For an overall discussion of this issue, see Nowak 1991,
136–137.
375
It was one of three court arbitration conventions that were
to take place on 13 May 1442 in Strasburg (Brodnica),
Thorn, and Driesen (Drezdenko). The dates of these
conventions and the representatives of both parties were
determined at a joint Polish and Teutonic meeting in
January 1442. Up to this point, the scholarly literature has
incorrectly reported that none of these court sessions took
place; see also Szweda 2009, 275–276.
376
See also Weise 1970, 208. It should be noted that this
refers to a document held only by the Poles and
Lithuanians.
377
GStA PK, OBA 8130.
378
Recent research presents a different perspective on this
matter. See also the introduction and Cordelia Heß’s article
in this volume.
379
See also Nowak 1998, 13.
380
Efron 2001, 15–16.
381
Shatzmiller 1994, 1.
382
Efron 2001, 17.
383
Siraisi 1990, 29. For more on Jewish physicians in the
Middle Ages, see, among others, Roth 1953, 834–843;
Shatzmiller 1994, 1–139; Jankrift 2004, 139–154.
384
Shatzmiller 1994, 14.
385
Shatzmiller 1994, 14–15; Jankrift 2003, 45–47.
386
See also Shatzmiller 1994, 16–22.
387
See also Shatzmiller 1994, 22–35.
388
See also Siraisi 1990, 29–30; Shatzmiller 1994, 90–93.
389
See also Shatzmiller 1994, 56–77.
390
Efron 2001, 36–37.
391
GStA PK, OF 16, 299.
392
GStA PK, OF 16, 299.
393
GStA PK, OF 17, 179–180. It should be noted that in the
document register providing the content of the 1449 safe
conduct, there was an additional abbreviated form of this
name, “Mey” (Hubatsch and Joachim 1948, no. 9829). It is
difficult to determine why the editors used it.
394
GStA PK, OBA 9561.
395
GStA PK, OF 17, 809.
396
GStA PK, OBA 9842.
397
For additional information about this individual, see Jóźwiak
2002, 44–47; Broda 2011, 436–440; Jóźwiak and Trupinda
2011, 265–266.
398
For additional information about the relations between the
Jews of Nowa Nieszawa and the Jews of Poznań, see
Jóźwiak 2002, 42–44.
399
GStA PK, OF 17, 179–180.
400
Hans von Baysen was a knight from the Osterode (Ostróda)
region who suffered from rheumatism and related
ailments. See Biskup 1992, 70–72.
401
GStA PK, OF 17, 809.
402
GStA PK, OBA 9561.
403
GStA PK, OBA 9561.
404
Jóźwiak 2002, 45–46.
405
Czacharowski 1981, 100.
406
Rymar 2005, 332.
407
GStA PK, OF 17, 809.
408
GStA PK, OF 17, 179–180.
409
GStA PK, OBA 9842. In this source, the name of the Jewish
physician appears in another form: Maher. Nonetheless,
the date the letter was issued (a month later than the
letter of the Grand Master), and the information it
contained make it perfectly clear that it was a reply to
Konrad von Erlichshausen’s request, and thus referred to
the same Jewish physician. See also GStA PK, OF 17, 809.
410
Jóźwiak (2002, 46) presumed that the fact that Hans von
Baysen was not in Thorn was likely the result of his poor
health.
411
Most probably this refers to Niclos (Mikołaj) Scharar, a
burgher from Rypin, who was native of Thorn. In the
sources, he has been identified with a secret informer from
the Teutonic Order, who was active in the Kingdom of
Poland in 1442–1453, and who was using pseudonyms,
such as N. S. and N. S. Arman. The relations between
Scharar and the starost of Cuiavia confirm this assumption
in this source. Therefore, we know that N. S. Arman was a
member of Jan Kretkowski’s son Andrzej’s retinue in
November 1452 and was one of King Władysław Jagiełło’s
widow’s attendents, Zofia Holszańska. See also Jóźwiak
2005, 47–52; Broda 2011, 439.
412
GStA PK, OBA 9842.
413
Jóźwiak 2002, 45.
414
GStA PK, OF 17, 809.
415
Jóźwiak (2002, 46) ascribed a very similar purpose to
Meyen’s visit at the Grand Master’s court in Marienburg in
1448.
416
GStA PK, OF 17, 809.
417
GStA PK, OF 17, 179–180.
418
GStA PK, OBA 9842.
419
For more on the development of Nowa Nieszawa in the first
half of the fifteenth century, the settlement of the Jewish
population in this town, and its origin, see Jóźwiak 2002,
40–44; Jóźwiak 2004, 42.
420
GStA PK, OBA 12688, 12708.
421
GStA PK, OBA 12688.
422
Biskup 1959, 216–218.
423
GStA PK, OBA 12708; Biskup 1959, 216–217.
424
GStA PK, OBA 12724; Biskup 1959, 217–218.
425
GStA PK, OBA 12740; Biskup 1959, 218.
426
Marian Biskup (1959, 218–219) presumed that these
negotiations were meant to conceal Mikołaj Szarlejski’s
true intentions. This supposition seems even more credible
in view of the fact that as early as on 25 March 1454 the
starost of Bydgoszcz, while serving at the Prussian
Confederation, issued a declaration letter (GStA PK, OBA
12894).
427
Probst 1969, 172.
428
GStA PK, OF 281, 91.
429
GStA PK, OF 18a, 152.
430
The source refers to the fact that the Grand Master might
not have had a ‘doctor’ at this point (GStA PK, OBA 17311).
The term ‘doctor’ here does not necessarily refer to a
physician, but could simply mean an educated person with
a university degree. However, according to the other
source (GStA PK, OF 281, 91), there is no doubt, that here
the term should be understood to mean a person with a
medical education.
431
GStA PK, OBA 17311.
432
Regarding the development of this term cf. Maschke 1970,
158-165.
433
Militzer 2005, 63-77, 95-111, 143-152; Sarnowsky 2007,
35-51, 72-76, 81-86, 89-98.
434
Ewald 1872–1886; Zajączkowski 1935, 5-30; Labuda 2000,
162-185, 202-210; Boockmann 1994, 93-113.
435
Wenskus 1986a; generally also: Militzer 2005, 72-77, 107-
111; Sarnowsky, 2007, 42-47.
436
I recently addressed this aspect of the Teutonic Order’s
rule in the first section of my dissertation, see Kwiatkowski
2013.
437
Wenskus 1986b (originally published 1975).
438
Górski 1938, 55-56; Górski 1946, 13; Górski 1977, 9; the
Italian edition of the study, Górski 1971, 15; and Górski
1976, 13–31; Górski 1986, 22-23, 29, 69-70, 77;
Łowmiański 1989, 125-126.
439
Czaja 1995b, 9–34; Czaja 1995a, 111–123; Czaja 2000, 57–
76; Czaja 1999, 111-177; Souhr 2009, 7–37; Kubon 2012,
98–118; Kwiatkowski 2009a, 170–176, 184–186;
Kwiatkowski 2009b, 25–28.
440
Sarnowsky 2006/2008, 175–187.
441
Zajączkowski 1935, 34-35, 38; Penners 1942 (among
others pp. 46-96, 138-157); Jasiński 1999, 95–110;
Boockmann 1994, 118, 125, 132; Wenta 1987 (for a
concrete example); Biskup 2000, 316-318; Długokęcki
2008a, 200-204.
442
See for example Zajączkowski 1935, 39, 43, 44-50
(includes references to older literature); Penners 1942,
162-166; Wenskus 1986b, 367-370; Biskup 2000, 320-322;
Schumacher 1977, 72; Małłek 2003, 438-440; Długokęcki
2008a, 210-211, 217.
443
Zajączkowski 1935, 39, 43, 49 (includes references to older
literature); Łowmiański 1989, 156-158; Penners 1942, 166-
168; Wenskus 1986b, 355-364; Wenskus 1986c, 245–298);
Biskup 2000, 322-324; Długokęcki 2008a, 205-205, 208,
211-212.
444
Łowmiański 1989, 160; Powierski 1981, 138-139; Biskup
2000, 367-368; Boockmann 1994, 111; Sarnowsky 2007,
41-42. Data provided by Boockmann 1995, 138; Sarnowsky
2006/2008, 176, claims there were about 140,000
Prussians, 103,000 German-speaking people, and 27,000
Polish-speaking inhabitants c. 1400 in the area of the old
ethnic Prussia and Chełmno Land –the authors made a
mistake, which unfortunately leads to misunderstandings.
It should be noted that all of the estimates were based on
fragmentary settlement studies (for particular areas), with
the results transposed to other areas, or were based on
very general estimates of the overall population density
across the country.
445
Mortensen 1927, 177–195; Mortensen 1933, 134–137;
Zajączkowski 1935, 51-52; Wenskus 1986b, 372-374;
Schumacher 1977, 72; Długokęcki 2008b, 382-383; Małłek
2003, 440; Jähnig 1999, 75–94; Vercamer 2010, 286-287.
446
Sarnowsky 2006/2008, 177.
447
Penners 1942, 51, 53, 65, 68, 73, 78, 83; Jenks 1985, 105-
120.
448
Mortensen and Mortensen 1938, 144-146, 147-149, 173-
175; Długokęcki 2008b, 382-383.
449
Mortensen and Mortensen 1937, 192; Mortensen and
Mortensen 1938, 110-111 and nn. 465, 470-471;
Schumacher 1977, 72; Długokęcki 2008b, 381; Vercamer
2010, 286.
450
Weise 1963-1964, 426-456, 401-410; Boockmann 1975,
50-129; Kwiatkowski 2013, 96-97.
451
FTAP, 62; ChTP, 469; Töppen 1861, 148, n. 2; Maercker
1899–1900, 134; Krakowski 1956, 205, 210-212, 215-219;
Wyrozumski 1982, 83, 84; Sarnowsky 1994, 257 and n. 26;
Czarciński 1994, 35; Tyszkiewicz 1989, 103, 105-107,
Tyszkiewicz 2008e, 32-33; Żmudzki 2000, 448, 454- 457.
452
On the Muslim religion of the Cumans in the fourteenth
century, see Vásáry 2005; Golden 2003; Horváth 1989.
453
Regarding the 1330 campaign, see FTAP, 58; Detmar, 58;
regarding the fifteenth- and early sixteenth-century wars,
see Biskup 1993, 50, 58, 59, 60, 67, 74, 75, 78, 86, 91,
103, 105, 127, 274- 275, 280, 281, 293, 295, 297;
Tyszkiewicz 1988, 86-87; Tyszkiewicz 1989, 158, 159, 183,
187-188, 190-200; Tyszkiewicz 1991, 62, 107-115;
Tyszkiewicz 2008a, 142-148; Tyszkiewicz 2008b, 71- 87;
Tyszkiewicz 2008c, 114, 118-122.
454
Boockmann 1975, 86-89, 90-101; Hoffmann 1965, 69;
Sarnowsky 1998, 114; Souhr 2012.
455
From the early 1390s, but particularly following the defeat
of the Crusader army in the Battle of Nicopolis (25
September 1396), the Prussian Branch of the Order was
increasingly interested in acquiring land in Serbia and
Transylvania (in particular, in Burzenland), to improve the
Order’s access to the ‘Turkish frontline’, responding to
Poland’s and Lithuania’s allegations, see Joachim 1911, 3;
Sarnowsky 1994, 260; Sarnowsky 1998, 114-115. In the
years 1429-1432, the Order was militarily active in the
area of Banat, see Joachim 1911, 10-19; Forstreuter 1936,
259-260; Hoffmann 1965, 74; Boockmann, 1975, 70-71;
Sarnowsky 1994, 261; Thumser 2000, 142-143.
456
Posilge, 79-388. The origin of this written record is
controversial; previously it was assigned to the canon,
Johann von Posilge, but another hypothesis claims the work
for Johann von Redden; more recently, it has been
suggested that the author of this work is a certain Peter,
who held the office of the chapter official, see Wenta 1990,
16-29; Wenta 2000, 237-239; Päsler 2003, 284-290;
Mentzel-Reuters 2013, 93-96.
457
GStA PK, Altfindmittel, Fotokopie; Regesta I; Kloosterhuis
2006, 97; Sarnowsky 2001, 174- 175; Boockmann 1998,
108.
458
See Kloosterhuis 2006, 97-99; Sarnowsky 2001, 177-183 (a
source of older literature).
459
Joachim 1896, iv-vi; Klein 1904; Klein 1905; Müller 2001;
Kloosterhuis 2006, 112; E. 31. Marienburger Treßlerbuch.
460
Regarding the etymology and meaning of the term, see
Mittelhochdeutsches Wörterbuch III, 589a Zurkalowski
1906, 21 and n. 2; in reference to Hackelwerk in Ragnit,
see Weber 1878, 541; Clasen-Sandt 1931, 200; Mortensen
and Mortensen 1938, 109-110.
461
Posilge, 263:

Item korczlich vor wynachten qwomen die

Littowin und Samaythin vor Rangnith das hus und
vorbrantin die czygelschune und das hachelwerk,
und trebin weg gefangen etliche Tatern, die der
kompthur do gesatzt hatte, und ouch die ochsin

[Item shortly before Christmas Lithuanians and

Samogitians appeared in Ragnit, in front of the
castle, and burned the brick barn and the
Hackelwerk, and abducted some Tatars
previously settled there by the commander, as
well as the oxen]

See also Weber 1878, 541; Mortensen and Mortensen

1938, 110. Regarding the Lithuanian-Samogitian attack on
Ragnit, see Clasen-Sandt 1931, 206.
462
Bezzola 1974, 31, 41, 43-53, 57-65, 82-89, 100-109, 201-
209; Connell 1973; Klopprogge 1993, 153-180, 214-216,
222-234; Schmieder 1994, 22-23, 66-72, 122-128, 201-
247, 323-326; Grabski 1994, 34-53; Strzelczyk 2004a, 101-
103, 108; Strzelczyk 2003, 230-231; Strzelczyk 1993, 60;
Jackson 2005, 59, 136-147; Fried 1986, 318-320; von den
Brincken 1975, 117-138; Tyszkiewicz 1989, 82. Regarding
a much smaller number of genuine records about
Mongols/Tatars and the problems they faced gaining
acceptance among the elites of the period, see Jackson
2005, 329- 357; Klopprogge 1993, 222-223, 243-247;
Schmieder 1994, 55-66; Fried 1986, 321-332; Strzelczyk
2004b, 241; Strzelczyk 2004a, 107-109 (these works
include additional literature of the subject). 32 Posilge,
114-115 (the Battle of Kulikovo, 8 September 1380); 283
(Tatars supporting Grand Duke of Moscow Vasily I
Dmitriyevich in 1406); 291 (Tatars supporting Grand Duke
of Moscow Vasily I Dmitriyevich in 1407); 307 (Tatars
supporting Grand Duke of Lithuania Alexander Vytautas in
1409); 314 (Tatars in Alexander Vytautas’ army in 1410);
317 (Tatars at the Battle of Grunwald, 15 July 1410); 320
(Tatars in the grand duke’s army near Marienburg in
1410); 340 (Tatars with Vlachs in Alexander Vytautas’
army in 1414); 345 (Tatars in Prussia in 1414); 348 (Tatars
encamped in Mazovia in 1414); 364 and 366 (internal Tatar
struggles in 1416); 369 (Polish King Władysław II’s
negotiations with the Tatars in 1416/1417); 382 (Tatars in
Alexander Vytautas’ army in 1419).
463
Egorov 1985, 27-47; Weiers 1989, 86; Weiers 1986, 347;
Grekov and Yakubovskiy 1953, 59- 62, 64-66.
464
Williams 2001 10-14; Vásáry 2005, 71-72; Grekov and
Yakubovskiy 1953, 240-241.
465
Kramarowsky 2002, 12, 14, 15-17; Grekov and
Yakubovskiy 1953, 134-145 (the first work includes
extensive literature on the subject).
466
Menges 1995, 60; Csáki 2006, 8-9; Tyszkiewicz 2008e, 43-
44.
467
Grekov and Yakubovskiy 1953, 213-295; Grekov 1975,
207-217; Weiers 1986, 363-369; Kramarowsky 2002, 16-
18; Jackson 2005, 216-219; Tyszkiewicz 1989, 113, 116.
468
Grekov and Yakubovskiy 1953, 20, 66, 71, 120-128, 141-
145; Weiers 1986, 348; Kramarowsky 2002, 18.
469
Kramarowsky 2002, 17-18, 36-37.
470
Sarnowsky 2006/2008, 180–181 (no evidence is provided
to support the thesis).
471
Fraser 2001, 53-55; 56-57, 94-95; Mróz 2001, 19, 25-33,
42-43, 68; Simoniukštyė 2002, 91.
472
Nikžentaitis 1997, 520; Nikžentaitis 1999, 200.
473
Posilge, 222, 229-231; FTAP, 229–230; Summarium, 226;
Sarnowsky 1994, 258; Boockmann 1975, 74–75. In 1398,
the Teutonic Order’s military unit of sixty armoured men
was commanded by the grand master’s official (Kompan)
Eberhard von Wallenfels. It is possible that some prisoners
of war were taken by Marquard von Salzbach during the
third Qipchaq expedition during the summer of 1399.
Prussian records indicate that part of the grand duke’s
army, including the Teutonic contingent, survived the
Battle of the Vorksla River. Regarding the Lithuanian
expedition to the Black Sea, see Rowell 2008, 67–83;
Rowell 2007, 185–194; Ivinskis 1978, 315- 317; Jackson
2005, 218-219; Heinl 1925, 166–167, 175–178.
474
Regarding the Battle of the Vorksla River, see Prochaska
2008 78-80; Kolankowski 1930, 70-72; Heinl 1925, 176-
178; Pfitzner 1930, 149; Jackson 2005, 218-219;
Tyszkiewicz 1989 124; Grekov 1985, 230-232; Prawdin
2009, 471-473; Ivinskis 1978, 316-318; Kiaupienė 2009,
356; Rowell 2008, 67-83.
475
Posilge, 222; Tyszkiewicz 2008e, 44-45; Ivinskis 1978, 315.
476
Paravicini 1995, Tab. 48, no. 38, p. 18; Tab. 49, nos. 282,
283, 283, p. 40; Ivinskis 1978, 330.
477
Paravicini 1995, Tab. 49, no. 259, p. 34; Prochaska 2008,
83-84; Kolankowski 1930, 62-63.
478
Posilge, 258-259 and n. 46.
479
Tyszkiewicz 1989, 117; Tyszkiewicz 2008e, 44;
Šiaučiūnaitė-Verbickienė 2002b, 73-74; Sobczak 1984, 19-
22. The emigration of Tatar Murzas and Beks, of either
Mongolian or Qipchaq origin, began when internal struggle
broke out in the Golden Horde following the death of the
Khan Berdibek in 1358; it became more intense after 1395,
when the Khan Tokhtamysh was defeated at a battle with
Tamerlane and his leaders, forcing him to turn to Lithuania
for support in 1396, see Tyszkiewicz 1989, 123; Sobczak
1984, 19. It was not only the warriors from the Horde who
looked to Lithuania for aid, but the inhabitants of the towns
situated along the Volga and the Don Rivers that had been
destroyed by Tamerlane’s army, see Grekov and
Yakubovskiy 1953, 288-294; Tyszkiewicz 1989, 123;
Jackson 2005, 216, 240; Quirini-Popławska 2002, 139. In
1362, approximately forty Mongolian warriors were taken
prisoners of war at the Battle of Blue Waters and
transferred to the Voke River in Lithuania, see Tyszkiewicz
2008e, 46-47.
480
Tyszkiewicz 2012, 20-23; Tyszkiewicz 1989, 148-150, 154-
155, 159-160; Šiaučiūnaitė-Verbickienė 2002a, 83; Baliulis,
Mikulionis, and Miškinis 1991, 21, 45-47; and particularly
Gąsiorowski 2008, 165-168, 170-176 (including extensive
literature of the subject matter).
481
MTB 487.39-40 (Mai 1408): “Item ½ m. den Tatern zu
Ragnith [Item 0.5 mark for Tatars in Ragnit]”.
482
GStA PK, Findmittel, Fb. 28, fol. 49r; Heinrich-Mortensen
1927, 36, which confirms the presence of at least 12 Tatars
in 1411, who had suffered losses during the military
actions of 1409- 1411.
483
MTB 245.22 (April 1403): “Item 2 scot den Tatthern zum
Nuwenhove gegeben [Item 2 scots given to Tatars in
Neuhof]”; MTB 481.40–41 (May 1408): “Item 2 scot den
Tatern zum Nuwenhofe [as above]”; MTB 513.9–10 (30. 11.
1408): “Zum irsten 2 scot den Tatern im Nuwenhofe [First,
2 scots to Tatars in Neuhof]”.
484
MTB 180.24–25 (August 1402): “und 4 scot den Tattern
zum Byster [and 4 scots given to Tatars in Biester]”; MTB
236.30 (October 1403; Sarnowsky 2006/2008, 181, n. 27):
“Item 4 schilling den Tathern zum Byster [Item 4 shillings
given Tatars in Biester]”; MTB 252.36 (June 1403): “Item 1
scot den Tatern zum Bister gegeben [Item 1 scot given to
Tatars in Biester]”; MTB 487.2 (May 1408): “Item 6
schilling den Tatern zu Bystern. […] Item 7 schilling den
selben Tatern, als [sie] unsern homeyster mit pyczen
ereten [Item 6 shillings to Tatars in Biester … Item 7
shillings to the same Tatars when (they) honoured our
grand master with quirts]”; MTB 543.10–12 (May 1409),
together with Lithuanian slaves; Sarnowsky 2006/2008,
181, n. 27: “Item 5 scot den Thatern und Littauwen. […]
Item 4 scot den Tatern, als sy unsern homeyster und
groskompthur mit pytczen ereten [Item 5 scots to Tatars
and Lithuanians … Item 4 scots to the Tatars, when they
honoured our grand master and grand commander with
quirts]”; see Guttzeit 1977, 158–159; and Boockmann
1983, 555–579, 564 and n. 37; Boockmann 1991, 220.
Regarding landed estates in the Commandery of Balga, see
Boockmann 1983, 571; Guttzeit 1977, 156–161, 169–176.
485
MTB 181.11 (August 1402, a Tatar woman): “Item 1 firdung
der Tatterkynne zu Schoken [Item 1 farden to a Tatar
woman in Schaaken]”; MTB 487.32-33 (May 1408,
unidentified Tatars): “Item 10 scot den Tatern zu Schoken
[Item 10 scots to Tatars in Schaaken]”; MTB 490.5–6 (June
1408, unidentified Tatar servant): “Item 1 m 4 scot eyme
Tatern von Schoken gegeben zu Tapiaw vor syn lon [Item 1
mark 4 scots to a Tatar from Schaaken, given as a wage in
Tapiau]”. Mortensen and Mortensen 1938, 110, n. 466.
486
MTB 550.18–19 (July 1409): “Item 4 scot eyme Tatern mit
syme wybe und 3 kindern [Item 4 scots given to a Tatar
accompanied by his wife and three children]”.
487
MTB 487.33-34 (Mai 1408): “Item 1 firdung den tatern zur
Memel vor 3 sebe [Item 1 farden given to Tatars in Memel
for three nets]”.
488
GStA PK, OF 1a, fol. 292v: “Dese gefangen furen dy
kemerer Waldaw und Cremyten xxxiiij tatern [These
prisoners were brought by Kämmerer: Waldau, , and

Kremitten: 34 Tatars]”.
489
For these expeditions see references in n. 46.
490
Posilge, 264–265; Paravicini 1995, Tab. 49, no. 285, p. 40;
Tab. 50, no. 36a, p. 44.
491
Baliulis, Mikulionis, and Miškinis 1991, 12-34; Petrauskas
2009, 379.
492
Tyszkiewicz 1989, 154-155, 157, 158, 159-161;
Tyszkiewicz 2008e, 45; Tyszkiewicz 2012, 20- 23; Baliulis,
Mikulionis, and Miškinis 1991, 37.
493
Tyszkiewicz 1989, 161; Tyszkiewicz 2008e, 45.
494
MTB 550.18–19 (in the spring of 1409, an unidentified
Tatar with a wife and three children); Boockmann 1983,
564 and n. 37.
495
GStA PK, OBA 1025 (25 December [1408]), the record
concerning the Tatars sent to Samogitia by Grand Duke
Alexander Vytautas in order to gather information about
conditions in the country:

das is im lande czu Samaithen richtig und wol

steet, sunder das lant ist vol Rewszen, Tathern
und Littawen und czien das lant dy twer und dy
lenghe durch, und leghen obir den lewthen, alzo
 das sy clagen, das sy nicht mogen eynen hufen
hews vor yn behalden

[that in the country of Samogitia everything is

going well, but the whole country is crowded with
Ruthenians, Tatars, and Lithuanians, who
traverse the length and breadth of the country
and stay with the people, so that they complain
that they cannot hide even a haycock from them]

OBA 1772 (July-August 1412), a record concerning the

manning of two castles erected by the Grand Duke
Alexander Vytautas in Veliuona by Lithuanians, Poles,
Ruthenians, and Tatars:

herczog Witowt czwey starke husze uff Welune

gemacht hat und volbrocht, und hat die
bemannet mit iiijC gewopenten mancherhande
sprache als Littauwsch, Polnisch, Rusin und
Tatarisch und manigvil

[Grand Duke Vytautas established two strong

castles in Veliuona and completed them well, and
allocated there 400 armed men of different
languages: Lithuanian, Polish, Ruthenian, Tatar,
and many (others)].

496
GStA PK, OBA 1163 [13] October [1413], information about
Tatars with 200 horses encamped near Kluczbork, who
were attacked by the commander of Osterode’s troops:

sprengeten am freitage frue in dy Mosaw vor

Crutzburg, und dy selbege nacht do logen dy
 Tatarn in der stadt mit ijC pferden und worden
dez morgens frue gewarnet und sy randten ous,
und vor randten uns den thamme alzo, daz wir
uns lange mit inschossen und wir konden weder
obendig dez thammes noch neder ubir komen,
alzo daz wir ein erbarn knechte ouf deme
thamme vorloren und faste der unsern gewondet
syn, und der Tatern ouch vile gesthossen worden,
wend ire hawffe yo longer ye grosse begende tzu
werden

[(the commander of Osterode’s people) appeared

on Friday morning in Mazovia at Kluczbork, the
same night Tatars with 200 horses camped in the
town and were warned early in the morning and
they leaped out of the town and met us on the
dyke, so that for

a long time we remained under their fire, and we were

unable to pass either below or above the dyke, so that we
lost one noble squire on the dyke, and many of us were
wounded, and many Tatars were killed, as their horde grew
over time].
497
GStA PK, OF 1a, fol. 292v: “Dese gefangen furen dy
kemerer: Waldaw und Cremyten xxxiiij tatern,
Caymen sunderlich x gefangen. Schaken x. Rudaw vij, item
ij. Wargen viij, item iij [These prisoners were brought by
the Kämmerer: Waldau, and Kremitten: 34 Tatars,
moreover Kaymen 10 prisoners, Schaaken 10, Rudau 7,
item 2. Wargen 8, item 3]”.
498
For the sources, see n. 55.
499
For the sources see n. 56.
500
For the sources, see n. 61.
501
The sources, see n. 51.
502
Regarding the slave population, see my recent remarks,
Kwiatkowski 2013, 425-430.
503
GStA PK, OBA 4776, fol. 2r:

Ouch der herr homeister hot uns gebeten umbe

sechs Thatteregen, die wir im ouch itczunt nicht
fuglich kunden senden, sunder is das wir im die
Thatter senden, so wellen wir denne euwer ouch
nicht vorgessen

[In addition, the lord grand master requested

(from Grand Duke Alexander Vytautas) 6 Tatar
women, whom we could not send him earlier, and
should we send him the Tatars, we will not forget
about sending some of them to you (the Ragnitan
commander) as well].

504
GStA PK, Perg.-Urk., Schiebl. XXXIV, no. 112 (a landed
estate in Sproden [Sprittlauken, Gorohov] of 7 hides and 4
additional hides is included here in a description provided
by Jacob Tatter; this estate is also located in the
Kammeramt of Schaaken); Perg.-Urk., Schiebl. 95, no. 62.
The editors of the ‘Pergamenturkunden’ group’s register
suggest it was connected with Catharinenhoff (no longer in
existence) near Grünhayn (Krasnaya Gorka) in Kammeramt
of Tapiau, see Regesta II, no. 3752, p. 416; the issue
requires further examination.
505
GStA PK, OBA 7266, fols. 1r-6r, here fol. 1r (= edition:
Mülverstedt 1885, 262 = Vercamer 2010, Anhang. Quellen,
no. 7, pp. 416-417, here 416).
506
GStA PK, OBA 9473, fols. 1r-6r, here fol. 5v (= edition: ASP
III 17, pp. 42-44, here 43 = Vercamer 2010, Anhang.
Quellen, no. 8, pp. 417-417, here 417; 19-20 Februar
1448); OBA 9564, Bl. 2 (= edition: ASP III 34, 20 June
1448); Mülverstedt 1855, 179 (note from p. 178).
507
GStA PK, OBA 5467 (= edition: LECUB 1/VIII 317 = BGP IV/1
164); OBA 5490 (= edition: LECUB 1/VIII 331 = BGP IV/1
176); OBA 5509 (= edition: LECUB 1/VIII 340 = BGP IV/1
182); OBA 5514 (= edition: LECUB 1/VIII 362 = BGP IV/1
193); OBA 5578 (= edition: LECUB 1/VIII 404 = BGP IV/1
203); LECUB 1/VIII 392 (= BGP IV/1 204); OBA 5654 (=
edition: LECUB 1/VIII 465 = BGP IV/1 240); OBA 5733 (=
edition: LECUB 1/VIII 493); OBA 5890 (= edition: BGP IV/1
320); OBA 6808 (= edition: BGP IV/2 611); OBA 6831 (=
edition: BGP IV/2 615). About the canon, see Arbusow
1901, 120–121; Arbusow 1911-1913, 210–211; cf. RG 4/2,
2432-2434; RG 5/1, no. 5818. I would like to thank my
colleague Radosław Krajniak (MA) for introducing the
source publication to me.
508
Arbusow 1911-1913, 210 (Lodovicus Tatter); RG 2/1, 1046
(Sifridus Tacher [Thater]); RG 4, 3742 and RG 5, 9318
(Wilhemus Volperti de Tataren). The source confirms the
purchase of wool in England by a merchant named Werner
Tatere from Lübeck, see HUB III, 406 (Nachtrag zu n. 735
im Bd. I); the source confirms that a Johannes Tatere was a
town councillor in Lübeck in 1289, see LübUB II, no. 1090,
p. 1032; LübUB I, 536 (8 July 1289); and a town councillor
in 1290, see LübUB I 550 (16 May 1290); LübUB II 552 (25
June 1290); and a town councillor in 1292, see LübUB II
595 (15 August 1292); and a town councillor in 1295, see
LübUB I 634 (20 June 1295); and a town councillor from
1289 to 1296, see LübUB I 656; sources from 1292 confirm
that a merchant named Konrad Tatere travelled from
Novgorod and Pskov; he was probably from Lübeck, see
LECUB 1/VI 2770, Sp. 61 (= HUB II 187; and HUB III, 424
[Nachtrag zu n. 187 im Bd. II]). Sources from 1427 confirm
the existence of a merchant Hans van der Tateren in
Hamburg, see HUB VI 672 (2 May 1427).
509
Regarding Knechte, see Kwiatkowski 2013, 406-416.
510
ASP II 190, pp. 295-299, here 298 (according to the Gdańsk
manuscript):

Item alse denn die hersschafft vorgab, das wir

uneddele lewthe alse kretczmer und derglichen in
unser eynunge genomen hetten, und nach
nemen, ist also gelassen, das men keynen
uneddelen man, noch Thattern noch Samayten,
kretczmer, gebawer adir schuczen, derleye
lewthe in unser eynunge und vorschribung
nemen will noch sall, sunder dy itczunt in unser
eynunge gekomen synt, dy sullen dorinne
bleiben, awsgenome schulczen, kretczmer,
gebuwer unde sulche personen, alse itczundt
czuvor berurt ist.

[Item as the authorities indicated that we have

accepted and still accept in our union some
ignoble people, such as innkeepers and those
 equal to them, it was established that no ignoble
person, neither Tatars nor Samogitians, nor
innkeepers, nor peasants nor village mayors shall
be accepted in our union, however those who had
already been incorporated into our union should
remain in it, excluding village mayors,
innkeepers, peasants, and those earlier stated.]

511
Janosz-Biskupowa and Biskup 1958, 125-137, Koncept I, §
7, pp. 129-130; Koncept II, § 7, pp. 134-135; ASP II 108, pp.
171-176, here 175-176; ASP II 107, pp. 167-170, here 169:

Wir burgermeister und ratmanne der stat N.

bekennen und czugen offembar […], das wir […]
mit eyntrechtigem gutten willen unser allir
scheppen, burger, inwoner und ganczen gemeyne
geloben und vorheyszen sulche eynung und
vorschreibung, als dy strengen festen erbern und
ersamen hern, ritter, knechte und stete diss
landes uff dem tage Judica czu Marienwerder
underenander geeynet, geslossen, vorschreben
und bezegelt haben, in allen puncten und
artikeln, alse dieselbe vorschreibung innehelt vor
uns, unser scheppen, burger, inwoner und gancze
gemeyne, dy nw und ouch czukumfftig sint, stete,
feste und unvorsert in gutten rechtfertigem
globen, bey truwen und eren czu halden, dobey
czu bleiben, der czu gebruchen und noch gancz
unser macht gnug czu thuende sunder eyngerley
argelist in allen czukomenden czeiten

[We mayor and councillors of the town N. openly

proclaim and certify (…), that we (…) with the
unanimous good will of all our jurymen, citizens,
 inhabitants, and the entire community plight and
promise, as to the union and regulation, which
the brave, stable, venerable and honest lords,
knights, squires, and towns of this country
concluded among themselves, wrote down and
sealed on the day of Judica in Marienwerder
(Kwidzyn), in all points and articles that this
regulation includes, in our name and the name of
our jurymen, citizens, residents, and the entire
community, those who are now and those who
will be in the future, to constantly, firmly and
inviolably in good, justified credence, faithfully
and reverently to observe, abide by, and apply
with all our might without any deceit in all future
times]

See Janosz-Biskupowa and Biskup 1958, 126; moreover

Biskup 1959, 40-41; Biskup 1975, 218 (using Marxist
methodology, the scholar advances a hypothesis about the
class nature of the Confederation; however, he contradicts
himself, stating that the Confederation was a body that
represented the country’s population [Biskup 1975, 219].
Nevertheless, the record quoted here suggests that the
Prussian Confederation was neither of a class or an ethnic
nature: Originally, it was diversified, which to some extent
reflects the political-social character of the heterogeneous
system in the Prussian Land).
512
Neuhof (not confirmed until 1440): GÄB 99.37, 100.14 (8
May 1440); Biester: GÄB 151.25 (29 September 1383);
151.35-35, 152.1 (26 May 1387); 152.13 (12 March 1392);
157.8, 158.25-36, 161.20 (11 November 1412); 171.8-20
(4 July 1441); (Preußisch) Eylau: GÄB 151.33-34, 152.3 (26
May 1387); 152.10 (12 March 1393); 156.29-37 (11
November 1412); Schaaken: GÄB 15.38 (9 January 1414);
17.24 (1415); 19.36-37 (10 January 1422); 23. 9-13 (15
March 1422); 25.3-7 (18 November 1422); 27.34 (25
October 1424); Memel (stockyard [Viehhof] probably near
the castle, perhaps later part of the town Althof), see
Sembritzki 1918, 8 (only provides information about the
functioning of the stockyard in 1402); Zurkalowski 1906,
19; Semrau 1929, 93, 95: GÄB 299.25 (13 July 1376);
300.11 (13 July 1377); 300.29 (1 January 1379); 301.8
(1389); 306.11 (2 January 1415); 306.21-22 (2 September
1416); MTB 137.3 ([24] July 1402; Sembritzki 1918, 8);
Waldau: GÄB 27.28-29 (25 October 1424); 30.35-37 (11
July 1431); 33.21-23 (6 April 1434); 36.1-3 (17 October
1436); 41.39-40 (3 March 1438); 44.5-7 (1 March 1440);
Ragnit: GÄB 258.11 (1379); 259.7 (4 December 1379);
261.4-5 (19 November 1392); 262.24 (1 May 1396);
264.34-35 (14 May 1402); 267.4-5 (1 September 1407);
278.2-4 (20 January 1419); 282.5-6 (4 October 1425);
286.3-4 (19 November 1432); Verwaltung 1968.
513
Boockmann 1983, 564, n. 37; 568, n. 57. The practice of
installing Qipchaq prisoners of war and free warriors on
landed estates, as well as those situated near castles, was
not a practice exclusive to the Lithuanian grand duke’s
entourage; it was also the practice of Duke of Warsaw and
Czersk Janusz I the Elder, see Tyszkiewicz 2001, 197;
Tyszkiewicz 2008d, 57 (this includes the most important of
older literature that primarily addresses the Tatar
settlement in Lithuania).
514
Ekdahl 1991, 32; Ekdahl 1998, 123-124, 126-127;
regarding Sweiken, see Chęć 2005, 360-361; Rünger 1925,
219, 225-227, 230-233; Töppen 1867, 686-687, 697-699;
Bujack 1863, 313 (the last two do not recognize the
military importance of indigenous horses).
515
Kwiatkowski 2013, 430.
516
Verwaltung 1968.
517
Kwiatkowski 2013, 437-441, 444-445.
518
Regarding the social phenomenon of acculturation and of
its complete form, assimilation, see Esser 2010, 9-10;
Peuckert and Scher 2010, 203-204.
519
For an analysis of the cultural assimilation of the Tatar
population in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, see
Zakrzewski 1989, 75-96; Borawski and Sienkiewicz 1989,
87-113; Borawski 1991a, 163-190; Borawski 1991b, 48-49.
The latter researcher considers the geographical dispersion
of families, clans, and groups to be the main reason for the
acculturation of Tatars in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. In
the Prussian Land, the situation may well have been
similar.
520
See, for example, Bałaban 1927; Bershadsky 1883;
Gąsiorowski 2008; Kizilov 2003: 29–45; Sinani 1890;
Szyszman 1933–1934: 29–36; Witkowski 2013: 211–214.
521
Mordecai ben Joseph Sultansky (1772–1862) was one of
the earliest Karaite historians in Eastern Europe. He was
born in Lutsk, Volhynia, where he officiated as ḥacham
until he had a conflict with his disciple Abraham Firkowicz
in 1821. He then moved to Chufut-Kale and subsequently
to Yevpatoriya, both in Crimea, and later to Kherson in
Ukraine. He also wrote a Hebrew grammar – Petaḥ Tiqvah (
), Yevpatoriya, 1857 – and a philosophical work –
Sefer Metiv Da’at ( ), Yevpatoriya, 1858; see Schur
1995, 268.
522
Mann 1935. The second volume includes many Karaite
documents from the Near East, Turkey, the Crimea, and
Lithuania and Poland.
523
Mann claims that in the Middle Ages only Karaites had the
privilege of living in Trakai. According to a letter from
Joseph ben Mordecai of Trakai to Elijah Bashyatzi (1484 or
1485), Rabbanites were residing in Trakai temporarily: “

[we indicated the Rabbanites who are here in Troki as

transients (were) Jacob Suchy, an assistant to a physician
from Cracow, and others]”, Mann 1935, 559.
524
Mann 1935, 698.
525
In contrast to Rabbanism, the mainstream of Judaism,
Karaism does not recognize the Oral Law or the Talmud
(Schur 1995, 222, 240).
526
It was published for the first time in Constantinople in 1531
as Sefer ha-Mitzvot ha-Niqra’ ’Aderet ’Eliyahu (
).
527
Mann 1935, 684.
528
The translation of this and following quotes from the
correspondence between the Trakai and Constantinople
communities presented here is by Mann. My changes and
additions appear in italics.
529
Cf. Judges 21. 25:
530
Cf. Isaiah 29. 21:
531
Polish król (king).
532
(cf. Deuteronomy 33. 11). See
Mann 1935, 1142.
533
Mann 1935, 698–699, 1139–1143.
534
Mann 1935, 699–700, 1143–1148.
535
Mann 1935, 557. The transcription of the Polish name for
Trakai.
536
Mann 1935, 556–58, 1178–1179.
537
The land of Media corresponds to Crimea (Mann 1935,
1178).
538
Solkhat is a Turkish form of the Italian name Solcati. The
present name of the town is Staryi Krym (in Ukrainian,
Старий Крим).
539
The Rabbanites acknowledged that the Karaites were
granted legal residence permits in Trakai even before they
themselves received permits in Vilnius. In 1664, the Vilnius
qahal applied to the leaders of the Lithuanian va‘ad for the
right to re-establish the Karaite settlement in Trakai, which
had been destroyed during the 1655 Muscovite and
Cossack invasion. It is written in the request that the
Karaites “long ago received the right to reside in Trakai.
Several tens of their families had lived there. Their
cemetery was the burial ground for many of (our)
members, before our own was established. They also have
charters in Trakai that we have borrowed several times.
We were compelled to borrow them from there (Trakai)”.
See Mann 1935, 559–560.
540
The transcription of a Polish form of the name Vytautas.
541
Sultansky 1920, 107–110.
542
In the English translation, I have preserved the Polish
names and the names as presented in the original Hebrew
text.
543
The transcription of Ashkenazi.
544
An ancient Persian unit of distance, usually estimated at
5.6 km. Four parasangas is approx. 22.4 km.
545
The transcription of the Polish rendition of Vilnius.
546
The transcription of the Polish rendition of Panevėžys.
547
The transcription of the Polish rendition of Crown of Poland.
548
Bałaban suggests that this should read Moldavia (Bałaban
1927, 11).
549
The transcription of the Polish rendition of Black Muds.
550
The transcription of the Polish word for September.
551
The transcription of the Russian word for September.
552
The transcription of the Polish rendition of Halych.
553
Bałaban suggests that it should read Dniester (Bałaban
1927, 11).
554
The language of the nomads.
555
The transcription of the Polish rendition of Volhynia.
556
The transcription of the Polish rendition of Lutsk.
557
The transcription of the Polish term for the iron letters.
558
The transcription of the Polish rendition of Lviv.
559
The transcription of the Polish word for December.
560
The transcription of the Russian word for December.
561
The published text “ [Le-Qorot Ba‛aley Miqra’]”
(no author) is as follows (Hanesher 15 [1864]: 60):
[In 1218, by the Christian reckoning, the Grand Duke of the
Duchy of Lithuania, Witold, went to war against the Tatars,
the Khan of Crimea. He took much booty and a great
number of prisoners and brought them with him to the
state of Lithuania. He told them to settle and establish a
residence in a place called Troki. He called the place a new
town. He gave them far-reaching privileges. He settled 330
of their families there, and the remaining 153 families were
settled in Poniewież, where they were also protected and
received the same far-reaching privileges as the families of
the new town mentioned above.]
562
Sinani 1890, 279–281. Sinani rewrote the fragment from
Sultansky with the following changes:

[In 1418, the Grand Duke of Duchy of Lithuania, Witold

Jagiełło, went to war against (…) In 1426, the same Duke
Witold Jagiełło united (…) It happened on the fifteenth of
September 1426.]
563
Smoliński 1912, 353.
564
Bałaban 1927, 11.
565
Bałaban 1927, 57.
566
According to Bershadsky, the main reason for such
generosity and kindness on the part of the Grand Duke was
the poverty of the Trakai Jews and some damages
(damna). In order to help them cope with the extremely
difficult situation they found themselves in, he granted
them the same privileges as the Christian sections of
Vilnius, Kaunas, and Trakai (Bershadsky 1883, 241–242).
567
According to Bałaban, the first written mention of the
institution of wójt dates to the early sixteenth century,
following the return from expulsion and the reconfirmation
of the former privileges of 1441. On 25 November 1508,
the Trakai wojewoda Mikołaj Mikołajewicz told his deputy
Fjedor Czaplicz that the king had given his permission to
the Trakai Karaites to have a wójt, and Abraham had been
chosen and confirmed for this position. The next wójt was
Mordecai (1517). See Bałaban 1927, 65.
568
Bershadsky 1883, 241–242.
569
Bałaban 1927, 58.
570
The land tax imposed upon the inhabitants of Lithuania
and Ruthenia in the Middle Ages: It derived its name from
the fact that it had to be paid in silver.
571
Bałaban 1927, 59.
572
Szyszman 1935–1936, 48.
573
Szyszman 1935–1936, 49.
574
Bershadsky mentions some Lithuanian Metrica documents
that relate to the expulsion of Jews from Lithuania. A
document from 8 June 1495 indicates that Alexander the
Great gave a farm in Trakai that had belonged to a Jew
named Shlomo, with its livestock, corn, and other property,
to his furrier Sova. See Bershadsky 1883, 253.
575
John I Albert (1459–1501; r. 1492–1501) was Casimir’s
third son. After his death, his brother Alexander was
elected king of Poland.
576
Mann 1935, 563.
577
Moore 2007.
578
On the connection between anti-Jewish polemic and
promoting the Crusades, see Abulafia 1998, 45–70.
579
PV, Adversus Iud. 1985.
580
Langmuir 1990, 197–208.
581
Abulafia 1995.
582
Bouthillier and Torrell 1984.
583
Cohen 1999, 245–270.
584
Iogna-Prat 1998 (English edn., 2002).
585
PV, Contra Sarracenos, 228.
586
Friedman 1999. Cf. Cohen 1999, 262–265, who does not
emphasize the connection between the twelfth-to-
thirteenth century concept of the Talmud and its anti-
Christian passages.
587
Friedman 1984.
588
Cohen 1999, 2–4.
589
PV, Adversus Iud., IV, 68–69, lines 29–34.
590
For example, see Limor 1991, 35–51.
591
PV, Adversus Iud., V, 125, lines 15–26.
592
Cf. Cohen, 1999, 261–264.
593
PV, Adversus Iud., V, 166, lines 1444–1446.
594
PV, Adversus Iud., V, 141, lines 603–615.
595
Augustine 1891, 339, 341; Unterseher 2009.
596
PV, Adversus Iud., III, 57, lines 536–552.
597
Resnick 2012, 40, even claims that Peter’s book became
something of a favourite among early-twentieth-century
German antisemites.
598
PV, Adversus Iud., III, 57–58, lines 562–570.
599
PV, Contra Sarracenos, 50, 96–98:

Imitamini saltem in hoc nostros, qui, cum

frequentem cum Iudaeis, quorum inter ipsos
plurima multitudo subiecta moratur, sermonem
conserant, et multa ac paene universa fidei
Christianae contraria ab ipsis audient, non in
furiam commoventur nec velut contra
blasphemos in eorum necem insurgunt, sed
audiunt patienter, respondent sapienter
[Imitate at least in this us (i.e., the Christians)
who frequently engage in conversation with the
Jews, of whom a great multitude stay subject
among them, and although they hear from them
many and nearly all things contrary to the
Christian faith, they are not moved to fury nor
aroused to the blasphemers’ slaughter, but rather
listen patiently and answer wisely].

600
PV, Contra Sarracenos, 24, 62.
601
PV, Contra Sarracenos, 24, 62.
602
PV, Contra Sarracenos, 28, 66.
603
PV, Letters, letter 130, I, 327–330 (328).
604
Psalms 58. 12 (Hebrew Bible Psalms 59. 12).
605
PV, Letters, 328–329.
606
PV, Letters, 328–329; Friedman 1978.
607
PV, Letters, 329.
608
Rubin 1999, 1–48.
609
See, however, Haastrup 2003.
610
In the first instance of ritual murder accusations, in
Norwich 1144, Thomas of Monmouth circulated a story
about an annual meeting of Jews in Rouen that decided
where to kill a Christian child. Thomas of Monmouth 1896,
93. Peter the Venerable mentions a contemporary Jewish
leader in Rouen, who, although a head of Jewry, did not
qualify in his opinion as a Jewish king. PV, Adversus Iud.,
IV, 70, lines 77–79.
611
See the article by Cordelia Heß in this volume. The source
is a letter from Lübeck to Count Otto of Lüneburg telling
the story that Tidericus had met the Jews in Germany
(Codex diplomaticus Lubecensis 1871, no. 110, 105–106).
The verdict was handed down on 1 June 1350, and Dideric
was burned a month later for planning to poison all
Christendom. Both the accusation and the means of
execution at the stake were exceptional in Scandinavia
and were probably imported from Germany.
612
Berulfsen 1958, 123–144; Gregg 1997, 171.
613
Solbakk 2007.
614
Adams 2013a, 18–36.
615
Adams 2013a and 2013b; Cohen 2007, 85–135.
616
Nirenberg 2013, 218.
617
Greilsammer 2009; Greilsammer 2012.
618
Bale 2006, 6–7. See also Bale 2008, 23–44.
619
“Avve mik, avve mik, son minn sæle, krossfestu þik hinir
grimmu iudar?” Mariu Saga 1871, 1010.
620
PV, Letters, 329; Adams 2013a, 14–24.
621
Cole 2013.
622
Fischer 2005, 59–71; Ehlers 2001, 22.
623
Murray 2010, 413–429.
624
For example, see the illustration in the Luttrell Psalter that
depicts Saladin with dark blue skin and a crooked nose;
Strickland 2003, 167. For blamen as dark, not necessarily
blue, see Magerøy 2007.
625
See Ambroise, a western poet, who called the Muslim
enemy “Turcs”, “Sarazins” indiscriminately, but sometimes
called them “paens gent [pagans]”. For example, see
Ambroise 2003, lines 7232–7353.
626
Kedar 2004, 15–75. According to Jewish sources from the
Cairo Genizah, at least some Jews managed to escape
death and were ransomed by their coreligionists in Egypt.
Goitein 1952, 129–147. Only one western source, the poet
Gilo of Toucy, mentions the Crusaders of 1099 particularly
targeting the Jews. All the other chroniclers seem
indifferent to the Jews, at this point. Prawer 1988, 26–33.
627
France 1994, 355–356.
628
Assises de la cour de Bourgeois 1843, no. 241, 171–172
where “un Jude, ou un Sarasin, ou un Samaritan, ou un
Nestorin, ou un Grifon, ou un Jacopin ou un Ermin” are
treated the same way in court, and they all have to take an
oath on their specific holy books. In cap. 24 of the Cyprian
Abrégé du livre des Assises de la cour de bourgeois 1843,
254–255, Jews and Saracens are listed among those not
allowed to buy a plot of land called borgezie without any
differentiation. Livres des assises 1839, no. 236, details the
viscount’s obligations in the court of the market: “He is
moreover obliged by law to dispense justice in the
prescribed manner to Muslims as much as to the Syrian, to
the Syrian as much as to the Jew and to the Jew as much
as to the Samaritan and to all manner of persons as much
as to the Christians, for this is what is lawful and right
according to the assizes”.
629
Thus the assizes see them as human like the Franks: “Car
encores scient il Suriens et Grifons ou Judes ou Samaritans
ou Nestourin ou Sarasins, si sont il auci homes les Francs.”
Livres des assises 1839, no. 236; Kedar 1990, 135–174.
630
For example Ambroise 2003: he called Saif e Din
(Saphadin), a wise Saracen (line 7390) and claimed that
Saladin sent a message to King Richard, “saying that by
his faith and by the God whom he supported, that he so
honoured his valour, his great-heartedness and his skill
[Qu’il preiset tant sa grant pröesce, Son grant cuer e sa
vistesce] (lines 11786–11787), that if his land were taken
in any way during his lifetime, then from among all the
princes he had seen, Richard would be the prince whom he
would be most willing to have taken it from him by force
and conquer it” (lines 11772–11795).
631
Resnick 2012, 13–34.
632
The research leading to this article was carried out whilst a
Visiting Fellow with the Humanities Research Centre,
RSHA, Australian National University. I am also grateful to
Linda Gale Jones (Universitat Pompeu-Fabra, Barcelona) for
her advice on several aspects of this article.
Old Danish: Christiern Pedersen, Book about Mass (1514),
Book of Miracle Sermons (1515), and Vocabularium ad
usum dacorum (1510); the anonymous Guide for Pilgrims
(1475–1500), Sydrach (1450–1500), Herr Ivan (1480–
1485), The Travels of Sir John Mandeville (1459), The
Chronicle of Charlemagne (1480), and Flores and
Blanzeflor (c. 1500); Rev. Michael’s poems (1514–1515);
the Danish version of Guillaume Caoursin’s Obsidionis
Rhodiae urbis descriptio (1510), and finally some missives
from the time of Kings Christian I and Hans (14 June 1511;
2 May 1512). Old Swedish: the anonymous Old Swedish
Legendary and various miracle texts (1420–1502),
Consolation of the Soul (1400–1450), Seven Wise Men
(1425–1492), Flores and Blanzeflor (1430–1476), Herr Ivan
(1430–1476), The Chronicle of Charlemagne (1430–92),
Nameless and Valentine (1457–1476), The Bible
Paraphrase (1425–1502); Peder Månsson’s writings in
Swedish (fifteenth century); St. Birgitta’s Revelations
(fifteenth century), and various texts for monastic reading
(1385–1475; collected in Klemming 1877–1878).
633
See, for example, Holm 2010 and Lausten 2010.
634
On the making of this pejorative image, see Daniel 2009;
Rotter 1986; Hoeppner 1999; Tolan 2002; Akbari 2009. On
the European accounts of the life of Muḥammad, see Tolan
2010 and Di Cesare 2012.
635
The term is also used to refer to pre-Islamic pagan groups
in the East. For example, the Old Swedish Legendary (c.
1420) tells us that in 301 CE (over two and a half centuries
before Muḥammad was born), the king of Armenia “eẏ at
enast lot han medh sancto gregorio alt armenie folk koma
til gudz tro. Vtan æmuæl manga af saracenis ok af androm
landzskapom [not only had all the Armenians come to
God’s faith through St. Gregory, but even many Saracens
and people of other lands]”, Lund, University Library, Mh
20 (“Bergmannius”), fol. 27r (Bonaventure 1859–1860,
308). Saracen was understood as meaning “son of Sarah”
(Genesis 17. 15–18) and believed by some Christian writers
to be a term the Saracens themselves used to lay claim to
a noble heritage from Abraham and Sarah rather than
descent from Sarah’s handmaid Hagar; see Tolan 2002,
127–128. In fact, the word comes into Latin and
subsequently the European vernaculars from Arabic,
(sharqiy, eastern) via Greek (Sarakēnós, Saracen).
636
On Italian, see Soykut 2001, 8.
637
On Saracens as racial Others, see Cohen 2001 and Heng
2007.
638
Pedersen 1850–1856, I, 304. There are similar occurrences
in Old Danish to be found in the Mariager Legendary
(Copenhagen, Royal Library, GkS 1586, 4°) and Henry
Suso’s Book of Wisdom (Copenhagen, AM 783, 4°).
Similarly, the Devil is often described as a blaman
(aethiops in Latin versions) by St. Birgitta in her
Revelations. In Book I, Revelation 99, we read, for
example, how when the Devil disguises himself as a nun,
“Swartaste blaman syntis j eno klostre mællan nynnona
[the blackest ‘black man’ appeared in a convent among
the nuns]”, Birgitta Birgersdotter 1857–1884, III, 216.
Other occurrences of blamen in Revelations: Birgitta
Birgersdotter 1857–1884, II, 11–12, 92–95, 100–101, and
III, 71.
639
Strickland 2003, 173. On the physical appearance of
Muslims in Western medieval art and literature, see
Strickland 2003, 165–192 and Saurma-Jeltsch 2010.
640
For example, “Syden kam en hedhen hetth lange liiff met
lm blomen the stridde mannelege pa the cristene roland
sade till oliuer thette falk worder wor dødh [Then a pagan
(i.e. Muslim) called Langelif arrived with 50,000 ‘black
men’. They fought against the Christians. Roland said,
‘These people will be the death of us!’]”, Hjorth 1960, 308.
This text exists in both Danish and Swedish in several
manuscripts and early prints. Unless otherwise stated, I am
quoting from Hjorth’s edition of the Danish Børglum
manuscript (Stockholm, Royal Library, Vu 82) from 1480.
641
On Muslims being compared to dogs, see Friedman 1981,
67; Strickland 2003, 204–206.
642
As in the famous episode in Charlemagne: 1480 version:
“Sydhen droge ij hedne k. moth keyseræn […] ok
begynthæ ath strydæ Saraceni hadæ bambor Aff them
wort keyserens hæstæ sky ok wylæ icke søgæ, wdhen
løbæ till bagæ [Then two pagan kings advanced towards
the emperor (…) and began to fight. The Saracens had
drums. The horses were startled by them, and would not
attack but ran back instead]”; 1534 version: “Siden droge
tho hedninge konger mod Keyseren […] oc begynte at
stride, Saracenerne hagde ith banner, der stod en Affgud
paa, och der fore bleffue keyserens heste sky, och wilde
icke søgæ men løbe til bage [Then two pagan kings
advanced towards the emperor (…) and began to fight. The
Saracens had a banner on which was (depicted) an idol
and the emperor’s horses were startled by it and they
would not attack but ran back instead]”, Hjorth 1960, 90–
91.
643
Old Danish version in Brandt 1869, I, 285–356; Old Swedish
version in Olson 1921. For a discussion of the (highly
conventionalized) description of Babylon’s beauty and
wonders in Flores and Blanzeflor, see Kinoshita 2006, 92–
103.
644
On neutral and other images of Saracens and the Sultan of
Egypt, see Tolan 2009.
645
For example, “Ter liggæ te helly patriarche Abraham,
Ysaac oc Iacob oc Sara oc Rebecca, oc tet er næthen hoos
eth bierghæ, oc stor en skøn kyrkæ ok er bigd til værn som
eet slot. Saraceni kallæ te ten graf Kariarchaba, ok
gømmæ te ten sted gantzæ vell oc hederligæ for te helly
patriarche skil [There lie the holy patriarchs, Abraham,
Isaac, and Jacob, and Sarah and Rebecca, and it is below a
mountain, and a beautiful church stands there and is
constructed like a castle. The Saracens call the grave
*Kariarchaba (i.e. the Sanctuary of Abraham), and they
look after the place quite well and respectfully for the sake
of the patriarchs]”, Lorenzen 1882, 36; but later Muslims
are accused of faking the Easter miracle of the Holy Fire in
the Church of the Holy Sepulchre for monetary gain:
“Mangæ cristnæ menniskæ tro, at tet er sent, aff tørres ret
enfollicheth; ter æræ mangæ, som her om tuylæ oc menæ,
at te Saraceni, som then helly graf giømæ, giøræ tet, forty
at te muæ fa tes fleræ penningæ oc skat af pelægrimæ
[Many Christians out of sheer ignorance believe (the
miracle of the Holy Fire) to be true; there are many who
have their doubts about it and think that the Saracens who
are guardians of the Holy Sepulchre do it so that they can
get more money and taxes from the pilgrims]”, Lorenzen
1882, 41. Entrance fees paid to Saracen guardians are also
mentioned in The Guide for Pilgrims to Jerusalem (1475–
1500): “then tiidh thet komer tha til aften, ogh templet,
som then helliæ graf ær i, lades vp a Saracenis, tha skal
hwer peregrim giuæ fem ducata til ingang, vden vm ther
ær nogher gra brodher ny komen, han skal giuæ iij/
ducatæ [When evening falls, and the temple, in which is
the Holy Tomb, is opened by the Saracens, then every
pilgrim must pay an entrance fee of five ducats, unless he
is a newly arrived Franciscan, in which case he must pay
three ducats]”, Copenhagen, AM 792, 4°, fol. 192 rb
(Lorenzen 1882, 217).
646
“Bẏriær formal af en book thær hetær stenbok gørth af en
kunugh af arabia til nero keẏsæʀ Evax konugh af
arabieland skref til nero keẏser hwilkkæ ærlikæ stenæ
æræ. oc af therræ dʉgh hwær særlæst. oc af therræ lẏt oc
therræ nafn. oc horæ the mughæ hittæs oc hware [Here
begins the preface to a book called Lapidarium composed
by a king in Arabia for Emperor Nero. Evax, king of Arabia,
wrote to the emperor Nero (saying) which stones are
precious and of each one’s special power and their colour
and their names, and how and where they can be found]”,
Copenhagen, Royal Library, NkS 66, 8°, fols. 114v and 116
r (Harpestræng 1908–1920, 174).

647
See Akbari 2009, 160.
648
“iættadhe som han gat · sancto marcho witia hans skrin ·
Ok wardha cristin æn han wndan kome”, Uppsala,
University Library, C 528, fol. 53r (Stephens 1847–1874, I,
253).
649
“andru sinne rædheliker ok awitadhe han medh hozlum”,
Uppsala, University Library, C 528, fol. 53r (Stephens,
1847–1874, I, 253–254).
650
In Stockholm, Royal Library, A 110, and edited as “Heliga
Claras legend” in Klemming 1877–1878, 338–339.
651
“ginstan vardh nidhir slaghin thera grymma hundanna
dirfue”, Klemming 1877–1878, 339.
652
On the use of religious Other to demonstrate the truth of
Christian doctrine, see Rubin 1999. That there was a need
to convince the laity about the doctrine of
transsubstantiation and the efficacy of the Eucharist in
medieval Scandinavia can be seen from the case of the
Swedish peasant Botolf, who was tried and executed in
1311 for denying the existence of the body of Christ in the
Eucharist; see Ferm 1990.
653
An adaptation of the well-known concept of the
‘hermeneutical Jew’ (Dahan 1990, 585; Cohen 1999, 3 n.
3).
654
Szpiech 2013.
655
Szpiech 2013, 176.
656
Lorenzen 1882, 72–76.
657
“Ter iek Iohannes tessæ ordh meth manghæ fleræ aff
hannum hørth hadhæ, tha stodh iech oc vestæ ey megit at
suaræ mod sennen. Jech vndrædæ oppa, at iech saa
dannæ ord aff een vantro Saracener høræ skuldæ; toch
sadhæ iek saa til hannum: ‘Herræ, meth edher orloff,
huorlund kundæ j nu vidæ thettæ saa fullæligæ, som j nu
sagt hafuæ?’ [When I, John, had heard these and many
more words, I stood and just did not know how to respond
to the truth. I was amazed that I should hear such words
from an infidel Saracen; however, I said to him: ‘Lord, with
your permission, how can you know so fully about what
you have now said?’]”, Lorenzen 1882, 74.
658
Saracen monstrosity in the form of giants occurs frequently
in medieval European romance literature. The slaying of
such monsters by Christian knights was doubtlessly meant
to both entertain and reassure readers.
659
“ieg tror pa then hymmel ok iord hauer skapth hade han
hwerken søn eller fadher som han war aff engen afflath tha
afflæth han ok engen aff segh thy ær han en gudh ok icke
trefoldher […] om ieg kaller gud fader Ok gud søn ok gud
ok then helghæ andh thet ær jo iij gude! [I believe in the
one who has created heaven and earth. He had neither son
nor father. As he was produced from no-one, so he
produced no-one from himself. Therefore, he is one God
and not three (…) If I call God father, and God son, and
God the holy spirit as well, then that is of course three
gods!]”, Hjorth 1960, 146. Refutations of the Trinity in the
Qur’ān are verses 4. 171 (“and do not say ‘Three’!”), 5. 73,
and 5. 116. On polemics surrounding the Trinity, see Tolan
2002, 34, 36–37, 153–154; Akbari 2009, 211, 214, 241,
and especially on tathlīth alwaḥdāniyya (trinitizing the
oneness of God), see Burman 2012 (with references).
660
“iegh tror nw wel ath gud ær en ok trænnæ”, Hjorth 1960,
148.
661
“ferækude sade nw will ieg sloss met tegh met so danth
forordh ath winder tw tha skall ieg tro pa tin gud winner ieg
tha skaltu tro po myn gud! [Ferakude said, ‘Now I will fight
you on the proviso that if you win, I’ll believe in your god,
and if I win, you’ll believe in my god!’]”, Hjorth 1960, 150.
In Mandeville, it is said that Muslims are easily converted
to Christianity, because their beliefs are already so similar
in many ways; see Lorenzen 1882, 65–66. By comparison,
the Florentine Dominican polemicist Riccoldo of Monte di
Croce (c. 1243–1320) argues that Saracens are easily
converted because they differ so much from Christians;
see Szpiech 2013, 154. It is interesting to note that
modern scholars have argued the opposite, viz. that
Muslims were not easily converted to Christianity. Those
who converted by choice tended to be slaves or house-
servants, especially women, who were constantly in a
Christian environment without the support of a Muslim
community. See, for example, Ferrar i Marrol 1987.
662
Cohen 2001, 122.
663
“færækude ropede i døden ok sade mament gud tak
myn siell nw dør jeg”, Hjorth 1960, 152. That Ferakude
sees Muḥammad and God as the same person, is shown
by the use of the second person singular imperative tak,
“take”.
664
Akbari (2009, 166) makes the point that romances
characterize two types of Saracen bodies: those that are
assimilable (such as Flores), and those that are not
(such as black-skinned giants). Thus, as soon as “our
giant Ferakude [wor kæmpæ færækude]” is introduced
in the story in such unassimilable physical terms, we
know that he will never become a Christian.
665
Hjorth 1960, 92. Muḥammad is also called a god (or an
idol) in Hjorth 1960, 86, 204, 256, 262. As far as the
idols are concerned: Terogant (or Termagant) was the
Muslims’ chief deity according to medieval writers;
Jupiter was a Roman god, and Appulin was either the
Roman/ Greek god Apollo or possibly the demon
Abbadon featured in the Old Testament and in
Revelation 9. 11. On these idols, see Flori 1992, 246
(with references in n. 7) and Kinoshita 2006, 15–45.
Usually, Christian writers transposed the Trinity onto
Islam in the form of Muḥammad, Terogant, and Appulin,
while Jupiter was listed as one of several lesser gods; on
this structuring of the gods in the chansons de geste,
see Jones 1942, 206–208.
666
Examples of invocation: Hjorth 1960, 66, 90, 202, 228,
234, 238, 240, 246; swearing an oath: Hjorth 1960, 56,
106, 186.
667
Di Cesare 2012, 10.
668
Daniel 1984, 121.
669
As it was known in (some) learned Christian circles that
Muslims did not consider Muḥammad to be a god, this
may also be intended as nothing more than an amusing
literary motif. Cf. Guibert of Nogent (c. 1055–1124):
“Sed omissis jocularibus quae pro sequacium derisione
dicuntur, hoc est insinuandum: quod non eum Deum, ut
aliqui aestimant, opiniantur; sed hominem justum
eumdemque patronum, per quem leges divinae
tradantur [But, putting aside jokes, which are only told
to deride the followers (of Muḥammad), this is a hint:
that they do not consider him a god as some people
think, but as a just man and their patron through whom
their divine laws were given]”, quoted in Flori 1992, 254
n. 43.
670
First coined as ψευδοπροϕήτης, “false prophet”, by John
of Damascus (c. 645/676–749) in his Concerning
Heresies (Περί αἱρέσεων / De haeresibus); see Patrologia
Graeca, 94, 763–764. For an English translation, see
John of Damascus 1958, 153. Although Concerning
Heresies did not exert much influence on Western
Christian views of Islam generally, it did include a
number of conventions regarding Muḥammad (false
prophet) and worship (idolatry) that also pervaded later
medieval Christian writings about Islam.
671
Michelina di Cesare (2012) discusses and presents the
Latin works that deal with Muḥammad as a pseudo-
prophet.
672
Published in Stephens 1847–1858.
673
On Muḥammad in the Legenda aurea (or the Golden
Legend), see Mula 2003 and Palma 2008.
674
Jansson 1934, 4–10.
675
Many of the tales also appear as exempla in sermon
manuscripts.
676
In addition to C 528, the most complete manuscripts are
Stockholm, Royal Library, A 34 (known as Codex
Bureanus), and Stockholm, National Archives, E 8900
(formerly Skokloster 3, 4° and known as Codex
Passionarius). Other manuscripts that include Legendary
texts in Old Swedish: Linköping, Huvudbiblioteket,
Stiftsbiblioteket, B 70 a, B 70 b; Linköping, Saml. 1.a;
Linköping, T 153 a; Lund Mh 20; Rome, Vat. Reg. lat.
525; Stockholm, A 3, A 9, A 10, A 49, A 54, A 58, A 110,
A 124, D 3, D 4; Uppsala, C 9, C 831. On the relationship
between the manuscripts, see Jansson 1934, 46–88.
677
See Braude 1996, 136.
678
The extant manuscripts are: Stockholm, Royal Library, M
307 (previously K 31; dated 1459); Stockholm, Royal
Library, M 306 (1584); Odense, Karen Brahe Library, E III
6 (late sixteenth century), and Copenhagen, Royal
Library, GkS 3559, 8o (1575). The datings are taken from
Toldberg 1966, cols 309–311. For an overview of the
four extant Danish manuscripts and their relationship to
one another and the Latin archetype, see Seymour and
Waldron 1963; Bradley 1969; Bradley 1976; Bradley
1993; Bradley 1999.
679
Reeves 2000, 81.
680
“Huot heller mand kaller hannum Makon eller oc
Makomet eller Mahon eller Makometus, thet er thøm
ther all ens”, Lorenzen 1882, 67.
681
This location is often mentioned in connection with the
Baḥīrā legend.
682
Roggema 1999, 185 n. 119.
683
Palma 2008, 22.
684
However, taking European noble marriage practices in
the Middle Ages into consideration, this may not have
struck a medieval audience as so peculiar.
685
Chronographia 334 in Theophanes the Confessor 1997,
464. The Chronographia was translated into Latin by
Anastasius Bibliothecarius (“the Librarian”) in his
Historia Ecclesiastica (871–874). In the Middle Ages,
epilepsy was usually attributed to demonic possession,
lunacy, or punishment from God – hardly qualities
behoving of a world leader, let alone a divine prophet.
On the history of epilepsy, see Temkim 1945.
686
The Legenda aurea has the Archangel Gabriel, as of
course does the Qur’ān (2. 97).
687
“Han wor een fultagæ mand och skøn och ofuer madæ
clog vdy hans ord oc gerninggher, oc vor han fræm
drawen oc ælsker aff falkith”, Lorenzen 1882, 68.
688
“ther alla skemtan hafua · medh math ok dryk ok
wænasta quinde”, C 528, fol. 132r (Stephens 1847–
1874, II, 726). A paradise of delights – eating, drinking,
and sex – is first mentioned by Theophanes among the
“many other things full of profligacy and stupidity”
promised by Muḥammad, see Tolan 2010, 227.
689
“han jætte allom them hanum trodo [he promised all
those who believed in him]”, C 528, fol. 132r (Stephens
1847–1874, II, 726).
690
Lorenzen 1882, 63. In this passage the author of
Mandeville also shows an (unsurprising) lack of precise
knowledge about Jewish eschatology and the afterlife.
691
“for kostæligæ gafuer / som han udh gaff / oc kostælich
iæth oc fardeel / som han udh iætthæ oc fran sek
sadæ”, Lorenzen 1882, 69.
692
However, after his (monogamous) marriage to Khadīja,
Muḥammad’s further unions are not mentioned.
693
The punishment for adultery in the Old Testament was
also death (Deuteronomy 22. 22; Leviticus 20. 10), so
stoning may not have been entirely shocking to the
Christian audience who would at least have been
familiar with it from Scripture. Cf., however, the teaching
in John 8. 7.
694
Roggema 1999; Szilágyi 2008; Daniel 2009, 105.
695
“sinderligæ nam han aff eet ærmæthæ / som bodhæ
vdhy een øtken […] / ther som han offtæ natitess”,
Lorenzen 1882, 68.
696
Lorenzen 1882, 69–71. The injunction is in Qur’ān 5. 91.
697
“huylken forbannelssæ skal gongæ ofuer hans eygit
hofueth / effther ty ath thet stondher screfueth / at win
glædher bodæ gud och menniskæ”, Lorenzen 1882, 71.
Cf. Judges 9. 13.
698
For biblical accounts of the Holy Spirit appearing in the
form of a dove, see Mark 1. 10–11; Luke 3. 22; John 1.
32 (cf. also Genesis 8. 8–12).
699
On the evolution of these stories from hearsay to
Gautier of Compiègne’s Otia de Machometi (c. 1137–
1150), see Di Cesare 2012, 6; cf. Mula 2003, 179–180.
700
“Tha saghdhe alt folkith at thet war hans hælagheth oc
trodho stadhlika oppa han”, Klemming 1871–1873, 139.
701
On the floating coffin, see Reichert 2007.
702
“teth fulæ ass / hans legemmæ”, Lorenzen 1882, 71.
703
Rotter 2009.
704
On this see Lausten 1992 and Adams 2012; Adams
2013a; Adams 2013b; Adams 2014.
705
The participle “forgifwit” could also mean “forgiven” (i.e.
by Khadīja). The Middle Low German “Dar na ouer langk
wart eme vorgeuen” is similarly ambiguous.
706
Missing in M 307.
707
The corrupt text in M 307 reads: “suerdet huylkeyt
konunggin sa fan blodicth huilket the sadæ ath teth
skulæ varæ eeth tegin at hans suerd tet vor blodicth”
708
Arendt 1973, xi–xii.
709
Arendt 1973, vii.
710
Consider Rubin’s criticism of Gavin Langmuir: “All too
often, narratives of abuse, particularly those about
Christians and Jews, are taken as eternal, unchanging.”
Rubin 2004, 1. Rubin eschews the word “anti-Semitism”
in her œuvre. Cohen speaks of “the harsher, demonic
anti-Judaism that I and other historians have deemed
characteristic of the later Middle Ages” and also avoids
‘anti-Semitism’ elsewhere”. Cohen 1999, 14–15. On
Funkenstein, see Engel 1999, 111–129.
711
For a good account of the debate over anti-Judaism and
anti-Semitism, see Chazan 1997, 126–129.
712
Higden 1882, 246.
713
Bale 2010, 30–31.
714
Baron Cohen 1976, 14–15; Trachtenberg 1961 largely
avoids using the word ‘anti-Semitic’ in a medieval
context, but is transparent on his association between
the anti-Semitism of his own time, 1943, and the Middle
Ages (Trachtenberg 1961, 1–44).
715
Bale 2010, 3.
716
Berulfsen 1958, 123–144.
717
Consider the inclusion of several ‘bite-sized’ miracula
(one featuring a Jew) in Homiliu-bók, 205–207; one
Marian miracle also contains the rubric that it was used
in preaching by Bishop Páll Jónsson (fl. 1195–1211) –
“Þessa iartegnn var Pall byskup vannr at segia, þar sem
hann var stadr Maariv messv hina fyrri [Bishop Páll had
the habit of telling this miracle, when he was presiding
over the lesser Marian mass]”. See “Af presti einvm i
Danmork.” MaS, 153.
718
Berulfsen 1963, 77.
719
Berulfsen 1958, 126.
720
Bartlett 2001, 39–56.
721
Cohen 2003, 190–221.
722
For the purposes of this essay, “Otherness” is simply the
potentiated recognition of alterity. It could be understood
by any number of theoretical frameworks and retain the
same meaning. A reader seeking orientation on the
specific notion of Aristotelian-Deleuzean Otherness which
informs the present author may turn to Deleuze 2004, 38–
43.
723
Jordan 2001, 168.
724
Andersson 2003, 22.
725
According to Cleasby and Vigfússon (1874, 760): “what is
inborn, native, one’s own, lat. proprium; one’s family,
extraction, kindred, pedigree”.
726
Bartlett 2001, 44.
727
Poetic Edda, 281–282.
728
Resnick 2012, 301–304; Strickland 2003, 110–111.
729
On poisoning and the foetor judaicus see especially
Trachtenberg 1961, 47–50, 97–108; all these motifs are
integrated into a discussion of the antiquity of anti-
Semitism, germane to the earlier discussion on
terminology, by Rancour-Laferriere 2011, 218.
730
Rowe 2004, 167; Krummel 2011, 28–36; Sapir Abulafia
2011.
731
Hill 1993, 535. As Hill notes, a mid-thirteenth-century
dating has also been proposed: Von See 1957, 1–12.
732
“Af klerk ok gyðingvm.” MaS, 206–207.
733
Cf. the discussion on ‘being a Jew’ provided by Krummel
2011, 23–26.
734
Bibire 2003, 236.
735
I am thinking here in particular of the Christmas Day
homily, the homily on the Passion, and two untitled
homilies on St. Stephen: Homiliu-bók, 45–49, 66–70, 175–
180.
736
Cleasby and Vigfússon 1874, 171.
737
Marcus 1999, 154.
738
See also Heng 2000, 137; Kruger 1997, 167–168.
739
“Af líkneski várs herra.” in MaS, 110–111.
740
Meulengracht Sørensen 1983, 28–29. For interesting
comment on tréníð, see Finlay 2001, 21–44.
741
Berulfsen 1958, 126–127 (also 1963, 77) argued that this
was deliberate folk etymology: “En slik folkeetymologi er
ofte en utmerket indikator på hva man egentlig legger i
ordet [Such a folk etymology is often an outstanding
indicator of what one really invested in the word].” The
context here is Peter’s explanation of Simon Magus’
circumcision: “Til þess tok Simon skurðarskirn, at hann
mætti framarr bleckia andir ebreska manna, ef mann syndi
sik vera [gyðing/guðniðing/Juda] ok leti sem hann kendi
guðs [This is why Simon was circumcised, he could
further mislead the souls of the Jews if he showed himself
to be a (Jew/mocker of God/Jew) and pretended that he
accepted God’s commandments],” Petrs Saga Postola, 99–
101. This might hint at perceived etymology on the part of
the scribe, but could equally be a scribal error, or indeed
an accidental expression of subconscious anti-Jewish
sentiment.
742
Scheil 2004, 38–49.
743
Cleasby and Vigfússon 1874, 164.
744
Cleasby and Vigfússon 1874, 164.
745
GNH, 94–97.
746
For these examples and more, see ONP, s.v. “folk”.
747
Cleasby and Vigfusson 1874, 366.
748
Eyrbyggja saga, 33.
749
Sverrir Jakobsson 2007, 153.
750
Morkinskinna, 102.
751
Theodoricus Monachus states that “I have been able to
learn by assiduous inquiry from the people among whom in
particular the remembrance of these matters is believed to
thrive –namely those whom we call Icelanders, who
preserve them as much celebrated themes in their ancient
poems.” Theodoricus Monachus 1998, 1. Saxo does not
refer to poetry explicitly, but his Icelandic sources for
mythology can hardly have been prose: “The diligence of
the men of Iceland must not be shrouded in silence; since
the barrenness of their native soil offers no means of self-
indulgence, they pursue a steady routine of temperance
and devote all their time to improving our knowledge of
others’ deeds, compensating for poverty by their
intelligence. They regard it a real pleasure to discover and
commemorate the achievements of every nation”. Saxo
Grammaticus 1996, 5.
752
Bergr Sokkason 1877, 134.
753
On Norway, see Dæhlin 1966, 291–299; Fuglesang 1996.
On Iceland, see Jakob Benediktsson 1981, 299.
754
Jakob Benediktsson 1981, 300.
755
There are three Jewish figures in a crucifixion scene on fol.
6v, two Jewish figures crowning Jesus with the crown of
thorns on fol. 6r, two Jews or one Jew and a Roman soldier
in the judgement of Pilate on fol. 9v, Malchus and Judas on
fol. 9r, one Jew being shown out from the washing of
Christ’s body on fol. 13v, possibly one Jew in a deposition
scene on fol. 13r, Jacob wearing a pilleus cornutus on fol.
14r, Jewish doctor attending a deathbed scene on fol. 17v.
756
Guðbjörg Kristjánsdóttir 2013, 102.
757
Phelpstead 2013, 1–19.
758
Kruger 1992, 303; Bale 2010, 131–132; Resnick 2012, 50–
52; Trachtenberg 1963, 50, 149–150.
759
Kruger 1993, 34–35. Interestingly, Kruger integrates his
general analysis of queerness with Old Norse sources,
namely the accusation of ergi in Gísla saga Súrssonar.
760
Kruger 1993, 33, 35 (my emphasis).
761
For a full presentation of the Old Norse regnal tradition
with accompanying translations, see Bruce 2002, 92–96,
111–113, 114–119, 121–122, 141–150; see also Faulkes
1977, 177–190.
762
Einar Ól. Sveinsson 1940, 64.
763
Thorell 1977, xviii. This interpretation is followed by Heimir
Pálsson 2012, xcv–xcvi.
764
Thorell 1977, xviii.
765
On the importance of the Ziegenbart and the association
with goats more generally, see Trachtenberg 1963, 44–48.
766
With particular application to Jews, see Jordan 2001, 166–
167. On the racial implications of curly hair in the Middle
Ages, see Strickland 2003, 38, 85; on curly hair and Jews,
see Trachtenberg 1963, 26. It is also argued that this
illustration was informed by anti-Semitic visual language in
Cole (forthcoming).
767
St. Isidore of Seville 2006, 193.
768
The title Ættartala Sturlunga is a modern descriptor,
although both ættartala and ættartal are medieval words
used to describe this kind of genealogy or pedigree. The
noun tala refers to a tally or number, while tal connotes a
list more specifically. See Cleasby and Vigfússon 1874,
624–625, 760.
769
I use scare quotes here throughout this section because,
as seen, the people described were obviously not Jews.
770
For the original text, see GNH, 111–116.
771
On medieval notions of ‘whiteness’, see Cohen 2003, 197–
198; Akbari 2000, 19–34.
772
On the Kveld-Úlfssynir: “Var Þórólfr manna vænstr ok
gørviligastr; hann var líkr móðurfrændum sínum, gleðimaðr
mikill, ǫrr ok ákafamaðr mikill í ǫllu ok inn mesti
kappsmaðr; var hann vinsæll af ǫllum mǫnnum. Grímr var
svartr maðr ok ljótr, líkr feðr sínum, bæði yfirlits ok at
skaplyndi [Þórólfr was the most beautiful and
accomplished of men. He took after his mother’s side, a
very cheerful man, generous and enthusiastic about
everything, and the greatest champion. He was popular
with everyone. Grímr was a black and ugly man, like his
father both in appearance and disposition].” On the Skalla-
Grimssynir: “Þórólfr var gleðimaðr mikill […] varð hann
brátt vinsæll af alþýðu […] (Egill) myndi verða mjǫk ljótr ok
líkr feðr sínum, svartr á hár […] hann var brátt málugr ok
orðvíss; heldr var hann illr viðreignar, er hann var í leikum
með ǫðrum ungmennum [Þórólfr was a cheerful man (…)
he soon became popular with the common people (… Egill)
would turn out very ugly like his father, black of hair, he
was often talkative and witty. He was rather hard to get on
with, when he was playing with other youths]”, Egils saga,
5, 80.
773
Jonassen 1951, 157. Although not written by a medievalist,
this neglected article presents some novel arguments and
deserves further attention; see also Jochens 1997, 313–
314.
774
Magus saga jarls, 34–35.
775
Stow 2006.
776
“Einn gyþingr for svivirðvliga með likneski varrar frv.” MaS,
255–256.
777
“Af vndarligum atburd i þyveska landi.” MaS, 1058–1059.
778
I would like to thank the editors of this volume and Oren
Falk for their many insightful comments. Naturally, any
shortcomings are my own.
779
Tamm, Kaljundi, and Jensen 2011, xvii.
780
Meyer Evitt 1992, 3.
781
Individual reports of Jews in what is now Livonia are as
early as the fourteenth century. The first Jewish settlement
was established in Piltene in 1571.
782
Kobialka 1999, 25.
783
Petersen 2011, 244.
784
Meyer Evitt 1992, 3.
785
Bolton 1999, 89.
786
Tamm, Kaljundi, and Jensen 2011, xx.
787
Enders 1999, 150.
788
Enders 1999, 150.
789
Petersen 2011, 242.
790
Meyer Evitt 1992, 108.
791
Bolton 1999, 103.
792
Taylor 2003, 30.
793
Kala 2001, 4.
794
Kala 2001, 4.
795
Tamm, Kaljundi, and Jensen 2011, xvii.
796
Tamm, Kaljundi, and Jensen 2011, xvii.
797
Tamm, Kaljundi, and Jensen 2011, xvii.
798
Fletcher 1999, 495.
799
Brundage 2011, 12.
800
Woolf 1980, 57.
801
Meyer Evitt 1992, 50.
802
Meyer Evitt 1992, iv.
803
Meyer Evitt 1992, iv.
804
Meyer Evitt 1992, iii.
805
Meyer Evitt 1992, 108.
806
The manuscript itself dates from 1230.
807
Harris 2011, 47.
808
Woolf 1980, 41.
809
Meyer Evitt 1992, 108.
810
Because Meister Francke is considered as part of the canon
of Northern European late medieval art, the very few
remaining artworks attributed to him have been the
subject of several art-historical contributions during the
past one hundred years, the classic study being Martens
1929. See also the articles in the exhibition catalogue
Meister Francke und die Kunst um 1400, 1969. For more
recent contributions, see Camille 1998; Camille 2002;
Grötecke 2007, 454–456. The papers presented at the
Meister Francke and the Arts in the Baltic Sea Region in the
Fifteenth Century conference (Helsinki, September 2013),
co-organized by the author of this essay, offered several
new scholarly ideas about and interpretations of Meister
Francke and his work. The essay at hand does not discuss
the historical accuracy of the construct known as ‘Meister
Francke’, but instead uses the name for practical purposes.
811
Documentary information regarding its commission by the
Englandfahrer dates the altarpiece to 1424–1436. Today, it
is exhibited as nine separate panels; one of the panels
being a corner piece of the once larger Crucifixion scene.
On the Thomas-Retabel, see Martens 1929, especially 21–
39; Leppien 1992; Sitt 2008.
812
The first to attribute the panels to the ‘Meister Francke
circle’ was the Finnish art historian Karl Konrad Meinander
(1908, 157–177), and to the painter himself, Adolph
Goldschmidt, some years later (1915).
813
These include Pylkkänen 1966; Stewen 1995; Liepe 2003;
Mills 2005, 106–144; Räsänen 2006; Räsänen and
Valkeapää 2014.
814
It is worth mentioning that the theme of Jewishness has
shortly come up in connection with Meister Francke’s
Thomas-Retabel, because of the ‘Jewish hat’ detail of the
Flagellation panel; see Martens 1929, 162–164. This issue
requires an investigation of its own and will not be
discussed in this essay. In general, the scholarship on the
representation of Jews in medieval art is extensive; the
more recent ones include Strickland 2003; Merback 2008;
Hourihane 2009.
815
Shoemaker 1999, including the thorough bibliography.
816
Meinander 1908, 158.
817
Today it is generally agreed that the artist known as
‘Meister Francke’ was not a sculptor. Goldschmidt (1915)
felt that the sculpted parts had been made in Francke’s
workshop under his guidance and according to his
sketches; Habicht (1915) strongly supported the idea of
Meister Francke himself as a sculptor, which Martens
(1929, 42) later rejected. See also Nordman 1965, 323–
326. The unsophisticated way in which the sculpted parts
have been repainted during the modern era contributes to
them being dismissed.
818
Martens 1929, 43.
819
For example, see the 1969 catalogue (n. 1), 50. In her
generally exhaustive study of Marian miracles in Finnish
medieval wall-paintings, Helena Edgren (1993, 11) names
one miracle, the story of Theophilus, portrayed on the
Kalanti altarpiece and thus dismisses the miracle at Mary’s
funeral.
820
Since the 1920s, the painted panels have been separated
from the rest of the artwork. For the history of the
conservation of the altarpiece, see Waismaa-Pietarila
1994; Reijonen 2011. Each panel measures approx. 91 ×
54 cm, and the width of the entire altarpiece with the
doors opened was 260 cm. On the importance of the
material knowledge behind the interpretations of this
altarpiece, see Lahti and Räsänen 2008.
821
The St. Barbara panels have previously (Martens 1929,
especially 129) been dated to as early as the 1410s, partly
on the basis of stylistic analysis. Meinander (1908, 177)
dated the altarpiece to 1425–1450, and Brigitte Corley
(1996, 156) has suggested a dating of 1420.
822
See, for example, Martens 1929, passim; Panofsky 1953,
70–71, 123–126; Corley 1996, 152–156; Stewen 1995.
823
See, for example, Shoemaker 2002, 25–37.
824
Mâle 2000 [1899], 262.
825
Jacobus de Voragine 1993, 119–120; Rubin 1999 explores
various versions of this tale in detail.
826
Shoemaker 1999, 2002.
827
Shoemaker 1999, especially 777.
828
Jacobus de Voragine 1993, 81.
829
Jacobus de Voragine 1993, 91–95.
830
Goldschmidt 1915, 18.
831
On the ‘Palm of the Tree of Life’ tradition, see Shoemaker
2002, 32–46. See also Hirn 1912, 418; Shoemaker 1999,
798.
832
Hirn 1912, 425.
833
Bale 2010, 95.
834
Jacobus de Voragine 1993, 91.
835
The soldier still hanging onto the bier is dressed in a fine
surcoat, while the man on the ground is wearing simple
armour; given the particular way in which the first – who is
also the one who, in the other window, converts – is
portrayed, David King (2006, clxxxvi–clxxxvii, n. 401)
suggests that he should be understood to be the ‘prince of
priests’. The first man bears the arms of the Duke of
Suffolk, obviously an enemy of Robert Toppes, the man
who commissioned the window. This window offers a
reading where Jewishness is minimized in favour of
contemporary politics, but nonetheless is portrayed with
negative connotations. The image appears on the church’s
eastern window; see King 2006, clxxxi–clxxxvii, 73–75. For
other examples of the motif in England, see Bale 2010, 96,
n. 23.
836
On Albertus Pictor, see Melin 2009; Karlsson 2009, 255–
259. I am not aware of many sculpted versions of this
miracle, but a rare example that shows the distinct
influence of Albertus Pictor is carved onto the altarpiece of
Kila Church (Västmanland, Sweden).
837
Bale 2010, 115.
838
See Bale 2010, 95.
839
Réau 1955–1959, II, 2, 257–258.
840
Steinberg 1996, 57–61, 168–171.
841
Ringbom 1965, especially 84.
842
See Haastrup 2003, 350–353. On the paradoxical custom
of portraying the Jewish high priests or officials with a
mitre, see Mellinkoff 1987; Mellinkoff 1993, I, 82–89;
Strickland 2011, 8.
843
For examples of these motifs, see e.g. Schreckenberg
1996; Rubin 1999.
844
See Rubin 1999, 8. For various versions of the tale, see
Petsch 1908; Plenzat 1926; Lazar 1972; Boyarin 2010, 42–
103. On the appearance of the legend in Cantigas de Santa
Maria, and particularly on the visual image of the Jewish
magician, see Patton 2008. There are numerous
visualizations of the Theophilus legend throughout Europe,
the oldest one apparently being the carvings on the now
dismantled tympanum relief from the Souillac Cathedral in
France, dated c. 1100. For this and other examples, see
Mâle 2000 [1899], 260–262. For a survey of imagery, see
also Edgren 1993, 164–175.
845
This is the case, for instance, in the manuscript
illumination (fol. 40v) in the de Brailes Hours, dated c.
1240, in which the event has the quality of a battle
between the devil and the Virgin, who grabs the contract
from the ugly looking devil, portrayed, in this case, as a
fattish hairy creature grinding his teeth. MS Additional
49999, British Library, London. Accessible online via the
British Library’s digitized manuscript collection: <
http://www.bl.uk/manuscripts/FullDisplay.aspx?
ref=Add_MS_49999>.
846
The appearance of this lost little figure can be
reconstructed using the sandstone reliefs that have
survived in Schledehausen and Bersenbrück, which are
either copies of the altarpiece or share a common source;
see the catalogue Meister Francke 1969, Tafel 39.
847
Boyarin 2010, 7–9.
848
See Plenzat 1926, 167; Lazar 1972, 44.
849
Schreckenberg 1996, 266. The manuscript in question is
the so-called Ingeborg-Psalter MS 9, fol. 35v, c. 1195;
Musée Condé, Chantilly. The Phrygian hat was a more
complex signifier –Ruth Mellinkoff (1993, I, 89–91)
concludes that it primarily conveyed foreignness,
strangeness, and the magi, all of the qualities in fact fitting
the Jew in the Theophilus legend.
850
Mellinkoff 1993, I, 204; II, x.26.
851
Caviness 2001, 115. See also Mills 2005, 106–144.
852
Kristeva 1991, 51. For a stimulating analysis of Kristeva’s
treatment of St. Barbara, see O’Grady 2003. For
discussions of Muslim Otherness in the Middle Ages, see
Frakes 2011.
853
Caviness 2001, 116; Mills 2005, 127. For a critical
discussion, see Lahti and Räsänen 2008, 252–258.
854
See Mellinkoff 1987.
855
Immonen 2013, 187.
856
On the imagery of the Saracen conversion, see Camille
1989; Ringbom 1969, 160–161.
857
Camille 1989, 164.
858
See Lazar 1972, 39; Bale 2010, 105. Not only Jews, but all
kinds of non-Christian peoples were occasionally confused
with or simply called Saracens; see Boyd 2011.
859
See Mâle 2000 [1899], 156.
860
Panofsky 1953, 71.
861
Usually, important and wealthy Christian men can be
differentiated from the Jewish officials and high priests; see
Mellinkoff 1993, I, 41.
862
See the numerous examples in Schreckenberg 1996, and
of ‘bad Jews’ in particular in Mellinkoff 1993, II. See also
Haastrup 2003.
863
Petsch 1908, 74–103; Plenzat 1926, 182–183.
864
See the images in Mellinkoff 1993, II, viii.25 and viii.26.
865
Petsch 1908; Plenzat 1926; Bale 2010, 102–111.
866
Lazar 1972, 49.
867
On Goldschmidt, see the Dictionary of Art Historians; on
Goldschmidt’s scholarly legacy, see Brush 1996.
868
In the preface to her book, Martens (1929, 2) thanks her
“teacher and friend” Erwin Panofsky, who had spared no
effort in supporting her work.
869
On Panofsky’s life, see Heckscher 1995.
870
Heckscher to Panofsky 30 June 1950. Published in Wuttke
2006, no. 1383.
871
Panofsky 1991 [1927], 59; Panofsky 1927.
872
See footnote 11.
873
For Panofsky’s letter to Prof. Päiviö Oksala (11 April 1967),
see Wuttke 2011, no. 3403. The letter was connected to an
invitation to deliver a lecture that the University of Helsinki
had extended to Panofsky. Although he travelled to
Europe, Panofsky had to decline the invitation.
874
Wendland 1994. For a historical overview of art history
education in Hamburg, see Dilly 1994. Gustav Pauli,
although not a Jew, lost his job because he supported the
artists whose work was labelled ‘degenerate’ by the Nazis.
875
Martens’ letter to Panofsky 20 April 1953; published in
Wuttke 2006, no. 1599. She considered trying to have the
order compensated and asked Panofsky to send a
statement. In his response, Panofsky mentions the
unquestioned quality of Martens’ monograph on Francke
and the unanimous appreciation it holds among the
experts – but even this would not help her in the legal
issues; Wuttke 2006, no. 1600.
876
Elsner and Lorenz 2012. I will be examining this thesis in
my forthcoming article “Panopticon of Art History: Some
Notes on Iconology, Interpretation and Fears” (2015).
877
Gombrich came from a Jewish family that had converted to
Lutheranism; on Gombrich, see the Dictionary of Art
Historians. On the rejection of Hegel and its connection to
the Second World War, see Gaiger 2011.
878
Didi-Huberman 2005, xv–xxvi.
879
Didi-Huberman 2005, xxiv. Didi-Huberman, himself of
Jewish origin, makes a point of claiming that Panofsky must
have known the tale – this is, however, somewhat
meaningless speculation, as it is rather implausible that
Panofsky would have identified himself with the exorcist
rabbi.
880
Didi-Huberman 2005, xxvi.
881
For a positive appraisal of Panofsky’s ‘warnings’, see Dilly
1988.
882
Panofsky 1939.
883
Runciman 1952, 403–435; Tyerman 2006, 336–341.
884
The Chronicle of Ibn al-Athīr, 253–324.
885
Chronique d’Ernoul, 167–171; Herde 1966, 1–50.
886
Prawer 1975, 69–99; Richard 1979, 185–199.
887
L’Estoire de Eracles, 227–228; Humphreys 1977, 106–110.
888
Favreau 1974, 64–66.
889
Riley-Smith 1967, 32–59; Barber 1994, 6–37.
890
Powell 1986, 160–161; Militzer 1999a, 33–36.
891
Gesta obsidionis Damiatae, 490; Huygens 1960, 120–122,
128–129.
892
Van Eickels 1998, 77–78; Krämer 2004, 246–247.
893
Mayer 1980, 210–213; Morton 2009, 53, 154.
894
Powell 1995, 263–264; Mastnak 2002, 148–152; Friedman
2011, 229–232, 238–239.
895
Huillard-Bréholles 1963, 92; Powell 1999, 19–26.
896
Coronatio Hierosolimitana 1229, no. 121; Hechelhammer
2004, 296–306.
897
Kluger 1987, 78–82.
898
Tabulae Ordinis Theutonici, no. 72 (1230), 56–57.
899
Savvides 1997, 90–94.
900
Housley 2008, 210–223; Forey 1989, 4–5, 12–15.
901
Cahen 1962, 670–674; Humphreys 1977, 273–275.
902
Lotan 2012b, 57–58.
903
L’Estoire de Eracles 1859, 427–432.
904
Rothelin 1859, 564.
905
Letter to the Prelates of France and England, 342.
906
Rothelin 1859, 544.
907
Harari 1997, 76–79.
908
Sterns 1969, 291–294.
909
Rothelin 1859, 637; Shirley 1999, 118–119; Jackson 1980,
502–503.
910
Riley–Smith 1972, 9–19; Attiya 1999, 206–209.
911
Röhricht 1893, no. 1399 (1274); no. 1435 (1280).
912
Marshall 1992, 25–26, 32; Thorau 1995, 69–88; Holt 1995,
69–88.
913
Cronaca del Templare di Tiro, no. 244 (480), 199.
914
Ottokars österreichische Reimchronik, lines 51795–51823.
915
Arnold 1990, 22–40.
916
Pringle 2009, 134; Lotan 2012a, 33.
917
Tabulae Ordinis Theutonici, no. 121 (1261) 113, no. 126
(1273) 117; Wojtecki 1971, 45–48; Nieß 1998, 41–45.
918
Militzer 1999b, 77–78; Housley 1992, 326.
919
Johnson 1975, 569–571, 576–577; Labuda 1980, 299–316;
Boockmann 1981, 70–93.
920
Hubatsch 1954, 46–53; Arnold 1976, 46.
921
Russel 1975, 5–22; Housley 1986, 266–280.
922
Seward 1972, 94; Mažeika 1994, 64.
923
Petrus de Dusburg 1965 [1861].
924
Peter von Dusburg, Chronik des Preussenlandes, 88;
Favreau-Lilie 2000, 151–154; Matuzova 2001, 254–255;
Mažeika 2009, 124–134
925
Peter von Dusburg, Chronik des Preussenlandes, 104.
926
Peter von Dusburg, Chronik des Preussenlandes, 344.
927
Peter von Dusburg, Chronik des Preussenlandes, 86; Urban
1981, 59.
928
Heinrich von Lettland, Chronicon Livoniae.
929
Bradbury 1961, 52.
930
Meyer 1876.
931
The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, no. 759, 12; no. 1416, 21;
no. 1665, 24.
932
The Livonian Rhymed Chronicle, no. 1519, 22; no. 1799,
25–26; no. 2363, 33–34; no. 3351, 46; Ghosh 2012, 94–98.
933
Peter von Dusburg, Chronik des Preussenlandes, 206.
934
Peter von Dusburg, Chronik des Preussenlandes, 516.
935
Peter von Dusburg, Chronik des Preussenlandes, 520. See
Schein 1979, 810–811.
936
Carsten 1956, 5–88; Burleigh 1984, 1–9.
937
Paravicini, 1, 1989, 118–130; Urban 1994, 520–526; Murray
2010, 416–420; Housley 1986, 272.
938
Militzer 2005, 143–146; Boockmann 1966, 84–88.
939
Chronique du religieux de Saint-Denys, 453; Enguerran de
Monstrelet, 455.
940
Ruthenian for “non-believer”; cf. Latin infidelis. During the
seventeenth century, the ‘nonbelieving Jew’ (Polish
niewierny Żyd) took root in the GDL’s official chancellery
documents.
941
For more about this, see Šiaučiūnaitė-Verbickienė 2009,
116–127, Šiaučiūnaitė-Verbickienė 2010, 68–85.
942
Kalik 2003a, 58–77; Kalik 2003b, 229–237; Šiaučiūnaitė-
Verbickienė 2009.
943
In the present paper, the Karaites are distinguished from
the Rabbinical Jews (Rabbanites) as one of the
communities in the GDL that used the image of Rabbinical
Jews when presenting itself to society. Another unique
feature of the GDL was the somewhat distinct legal
situations of Karaites and Rabbinical Jews. See also the
article on Karaite Jews by Veronika Klimova in this volume.
944
Alfurkan Tatarski, written by Piotr Cżyżewski, was first
published in Wilno (Vilnius) in 1617. I have used this first
edition in this article. For a modern scholarly edition of the
text, see Cżyżewski 2013.
945
These trends were identified by Zenonas Ivinskis (1987,
395–396).
946
Ališauskas et al. 2006, 33.
947
The sequence of the attempts to introduce baptism into
the GDL is as follows: 1317, 1322–1324, 1349, 1351, 1358,
and 1373 (according to Ališauskas et al. 2006, 34). When
assessing the trends at play in the GDL’s social
development in the context of Lithuanian historiography,
relations between Catholicism and paganism are
discussed, rather than the relation between paganism and
Orthodoxy.
948
For more on the legends of Jewish settlement, see Weinryb
1962, 445–502.
949
The idealization of Witold the Great was enduring in the
narratives of non-Christian communities, persisting into the
nineteenth and twentieth centuries.
950
Stanisław Kryczyński, an author of Tatar descent, has
criticized Polish historiography on this issue. His
observations are based on the point at which the
monograph was composed –a time when the Tatar national
movement was active in Poland and Lithuania, and Tatars
were seeking to strengthen their identity. For more on the
Tatar version of the events, see Kričinskis 1993, 15–38. For
more on the settlement of Tatars in the GDL, see Sobczak
1984, 13–34; Tyszkiewicz 1989, 144–169. See also the
article by Krzysztof Kwiatkowski in this volume.
951
For more on the trends at play in the development of
Jewish images in the GDL, see Šiaučiūnaitė-Verbickienė
2009, 190–285.
952
Quoted in Lietuvis 1966, 25 (facsimile). It is a curious
situation that illustrates the tradition of source publication
during the Soviet era. In the Lithuanian translation of this
essential source, this quotation is missing –it was not
translated because of its anti-Jewish content. However, at
the end of the same book, the facsimiles of the original
text in Latin were published, including this quotation in
Latin. When the Russian translation was published several
decades later, this anti-Jewish excerpt was included. For
more on the translation into Russian, see Litvin 1994, 88.
953
During the eighteenth century, the dean of the Troszkuny
parish, Kiprian Lukowski (1996, 161, 170–171) argued:

Niera niejokios biauresnios Diewuy yr Żmoniems

wiezliwiems Giminies, kaypo Żidiszka, ira
isztremtays yr pakumpeys po Swieta. Jra nuog
Diewa pamesty dieł sawa netikeima, yr dieł
nekałtay per jus iszlieta Krauia Sunaus Diewa,
kuri jeme unt sawęs y runt Sunu Sunus […]
Diewas istate, idunt ta Gimine nemieła butu
paniekinimi pas cieła Swieta […] ta Gimine
 piktadaringa, Giminie perwersta sawa sukimays,
apgawimays dayleys pramanimays, bukleys
iszradimais priwiłtomis patogibiomis, prigautais
spasabays.

[There is no other tribe more repellent to God and

honourable men than the Jews, expelled and
scattered to the four corners of the earth. They
have been rejected by God because of their
infidelity and for spilling the innocent blood of the
Son of God, which they brought upon the sons of
their sons (…) It is a tribe that does evil deeds, a
tribe living off swindling, deceit, trickery, foul
inventions, and dishonest ways.]

954
The fear of the spread of non-Christian religions was
apparent in the GDL from the sixteenth century onward.
The sources periodically bear witness to the fear of
possible activities, especially on the part of Jews, meant to
encourage Christians to convert to Judaism (in this case,
this fear needs to be distinguished from the interest in
Judaism that was particularly characteristic of the
Reformation). While this phenomenon still needs to be
investigated, one of the possible bases for such a fear may
have been the existence of a Judaizing movement within
Orthodoxy. A fear of this kind is expressed in the Second
(1566) and Third (1588) Lithuanian Statutes (the main
compendiums of legal documents), where you find the
prohibition: “If you have [people] or their children in pawn,
you have no right to persuade them to convert to the
Jewish or Muslim faith or to be circumcised.” Statute 1855,
chapter XII, art. 5. For engaging in such activities, one
could be burnt at the stake. Another unique reality of the
GDL’s relationship with non-Christians was that distinctions
between Judaism and Islam were not recognized in the
sixteenth century.
955
The stereotype of Jewish wealth manifests itself in the
image of Jews impoverishing Christians. It often surfaces
during attacks against Jews.
956
In this article, numerous quotations come from the Kiprian
Lukowski’s volume of sermons. However, for a better
understanding of relations to Jews, it is important to refer
to the volume of Lithuanian sermons by Kazimieras
Klimavičius, Pawinasties Krikscioniszkas (Christian
Obligations) from 1767. One of the most interesting
elements of these sermons is the representation of Jews
and confessors of Judaism as non-pagans. See Klimavičius
1767, 60.
957
Lukauskas 1996, 162.
958
For more about this myth in the GDL, see Šiaučiūnaitė-
Verbickienė 2008, 201–209. Several examples of this
accusation in the GDL are analysed in Węgrzynek 1995;
Guldon and Wijaczka 1995. Several cases have been
described factographically in nineteenth-century
historiography. For more specific case analysis, see
Kleyman 1924, 217–232.
959
Akty 1901, no. 292; Archeograficheskiy, no. 50; Аrchiv, no.
34.
960
For example, a complaint made by residents of Vilnius in
1633 about Jews settling in and spreading throughout the
city; Archeograficheskiy, no. 50.
961
An instruction from 1735 to the noblemen of the Vilnius
Voivodeship; Аkty 1886, no. 181.
962
The research into the sejmik instructions and the
requirements for Jews carried out by Adam Kaźmierczyk
indicates that Jewish poll tax, the amount collected, the
accounting, and its use were primarily of interest to nobles
in Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. Kaźmierczyk’s
research established that 57 % of instructions related to
Jews in the GDL addressed the Jewish poll tax. Kaźmierczyk
1994, 28–29.
963
Rotundas 2000, 148, 169.
964
Jews were tolerated as witnesses to Christ’s suffering who
would inevitably be converted to Christianity.
965
Skarga 1972, 59.
966
Rotundas 1996, 292. Augustinas Rotundas (1520–1582)
was mayor of Vilnius and a doctor of law, who had studied
at the universities of Padua and Ferrara.
967
For more on the unique modifications to myth in the GDL,
see Šiaučiūnaitė-Verbickienė 2008, 201–209.
968
Gudavichius and Lazutka 1993, 44–55.
969
For more on the image of the Tatar and its trends in the
GDL, see Tyszkiewicz 1989, 288–297; Borawski 1981, 51–
66.
970
For more on the political relationship between the GDL and
the Golden Horde, see Batūra 1975.
971
In scholarship, this battle is usually described as a
Crusade, but the most recent research to discuss this issue
raises the question of whether or not the GDL was an
active participant in the Crusade following the 1387
baptism, or if the GDL’s rulers simply adopted Christian
ideology and rhetoric to achieve their goals. For more on
this topic, see Rowell 2007, 181–205,
972
Lietuvis 1966.
973
For research on the social status of the Tatars in the GDL,
see Sobczak 1984.
974
On this assessment of Islam, see also the articles by
Jonathan Adams and Stefan Schröder in this volume.
975
A facsimile is available online at the Jagiellonian Digital
Library: < jbc.bj.uj.edu.pl/dlibra >.
976
“nie tylko do czytania, ale też y do upamiętania”; Alfurkan
Tatarski, p. 1.
977
For more on the development of anti-Jewish stereotypes
and the sources representing them, see Šiaučiūnaitė-
Verbickienė 2009, 190–302.
978
“są wielkimi y głownymi nieprzyiaćiolmi nie tylko wierze
Chrześćiańskiey ále y wszy[s]tkiemu narodowi y
maietnośćiam Chrześćiańskim”; Alfurkan Tatarski, 70.
979
“Cżemu Tatarowie kobylem potem, koźim parkiem tak iako
y Zydźi śmierdzą, abo woniaią?” Alfurkan Tatarski, 68.
980
The order existing in Italy was presented as an example
(Alfurkan Tatarski, 33):

Jest w Rzymie, a bezmała y po wszystkiey

Włoskiey Ziemi ta vstáwa, iż Zydowe powinni pod
wino na każdy Sabbat w każdym mieśćie, do
naznacżonego kośćioła Katolickego schodzić się,
y tam kazania słuchać […] Też vstawę wnieść do
tego Państwa, y Tatarom toż przykázáć, co
Zydom we Włoszech.

[There is in Rome and almost in all Italy, the law

that on every Shabbat after wine Jews in all
places must go to the specified Catholic church
and listen to the sermon there (…) The law that is
(established) in Italy for Jews (should be)
established in this country for Tatars.]

981
“wlożmy się wto, aby Tatarowie, nie tylko cżeladźi
Chrześćiańskich, ale też y poddanych, y niewolnikow […]
nie chowali […] dobrzeby áby Tátárzyn Tátárzynowi służył,
nie Chrześćianin”; Alfurkan tatarksi, 47.
982
For more on the creation of Karaite myths and their
relation to the Tatars, see Troskovaitė 2012.
983
This research was supported by the Estonian Research
Council’s PUT 107 programme, “Medieval Livonia:
European Periphery and its Centres (Twelfth–Sixteenth
Centuries)”, and by the European Social Fund’s Doctoral
Studies and Internationalization Programme DoRa, which is
carried out by Foundation Archimedes. The author wishes
to express his deepest gratitude to the anonymous referee,
Jonathan Adams, Vladimir Aleksić, Alexander Baranov,
Cordelia Heß, Linda Kaljundi, Liisa Liivamets, Mihkel
Mäesalu, Pärtel Piirimäe, Anti Selart, Remigius Stachowiak,
and Matthias Thumser.
The expression Türkengefahr is extensively used in
German historiography; Höfert 2003, 50–54. The English
term ‘Turkish threat’ will be used here (instead of ‘peril’ or
‘menace’), as it seems to correspond most accurately to
the German usage.
984
Here, the Other, as well as the concept pair of Us and
Them, is used generally in same manner as in
anthropology or ethnography, as standing for alien culture
(cf. a similar approach in Höfert 2003). The Oriental Other
as Edward Said sees it – a speechless, passive, and
submissive construction in eighteenth- and nineteenth-
century European descriptions (Said 2003) – could not be
attributed to the Late Medieval and Early Modern view of
Turks (or Russians), as here the Other was seen as active,
menacing and sometimes even superior to Christian
Europe, although this construct could be seen as the ‘pre-
colonial’ progenitor to ‘Saidian Other’. See Höfert 2003,
318–320; Çırakman 2002, 7–34, 210–217; Vitkus 1999.
985
Schwoebel 1967; Bohnstedt 1968; Schultze 1978; Erkens
1997; Gutmüller and Kühlmann 2000; Höfert 2003;
Kaufmann 2008; Housley 2012a.
986
Kappeler 1972; Angermann 1972; Tarkiainen 1986;
Filjuškin 2008; Filjuškin 2012; Tuchtenhagen 2012.
987
Schonne hysthorie 1861. This edition also includes
extensive commentaries from its editor (Schirren 1861).
For an analysis and context, see Arbusow 1909;
Benninghoven 1963; Thumser 2011; Kreem 2013. The title
of Schonne hysthorie has been translated into English as:
“A nice story about the wonderful business of the lords of
Livonia with the Russians and Tatars”. Kreem 2013, 239.
988
Selart 1998; Selart 2001; Selart 2003; Selart 2004; Selart
2007; Selart 2009a; Selart 2009b; Selart 2012a; Selart
2012b.
989
Weigel and Grüneisen 1969; Helmrath and Annas 2013;
Annas 2013.
990
From first series (Abteilung): vols. 5 (Bunge 1974 [1867]),
7 (Hildebrand 1974a [1881]), 8 (Hildebrand 1974b [1884]),
9 (Hildebrand 1981 [1889]), 10 (Hildebrand and Schwartz
1981 [1896]), 11 (Schwartz 1981 [1905]) and 12
(Hildebrand, Schwartz, and Bulmerincq 1981 [1910]), and
from second series vols. 1 (Arbusow 1981a [1900]) and 2
(Arbusow 1981b [1905]).
991
Arbusow 1910, vol. 3.
992
Hartmann 1999, vol. 2; Hartmann 2002, vol. 3; Hartmann
2005, vol. 4; Hartmann 2006, vol. 5.
993
Hay 1968, 16–36.
994
Moore 2006.
995
Kaljundi 2008.
996
Leyser 1992, 41–42.
997
On the ‘Mongol threat’, see Schmieder 1994; Ruotsala
2001; Feistner 2003.
998
On the Christian European perception of Islam: Cardini
2001; Daniel 1966; Blanks and Frassetto 1999; Kaufmann
2008; Höfert 2003, 180–184. On the depiction of Saracens,
see Uebel 1996.
999
In thirteenth-century Livonia, local pagans were sometimes
described as Saracens (Selart 2001, 151), and to the end
of the fifteenth century, the Teutonic Order referred all its
Eastern European enemies as Saracens in its letters to
France; Polejowski 2011. See also the article by Shlomo
Lotan in this volume.
1000
For example, the Roma people were called Tartaren in
fifteenth-century Germany. Regener 2011.
1001
On the Turkish threat in Byzantium and Serbia, see Radić
2000, 201–240 and accompanying references; Šuica 2006.
1002
On fifteenth- and sixteenth-century plans for church union,
see Halecki 1968.
1003
Mertens 1991, 57–71.
1004
On the Diets of Regensburg (1454), Frankfurt (1454), and
Wiener Neustadt (1455), see Weigel and Grüneisen 1969;
Helmrath and Annas 2013, and Annas 2013 respectively.
1005
Schwoebel 1967, 149–162. On Isidor, see Selart 2009b.
1006
For Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini (Pope Pius II), see Bisaha
2002; Bisaha 2004b; Helmrath 2000; Housley 2012b.
1007
Meuthen 1983; Höfert 2003, 56–62; Schwoebel 1967, 1–56;
Mertens 1997; Kaufmann 2008, especially 61–65.
1008
The first influential texts about the fall of Constantinople
were likely those written in July 1453 by Cardinal Isidor of
Kiev, who survived the siege and described Turkish
atrocities in quite some detail; Weigel and Grüneisen 1969,
325–338, especially 329–331. Piccolomini’s speech
Constantinopolitana Clades delivered in October 1454
(Helmrath and Annas 2013, 463–565) was particularly
influential. He presented the atrocities as follows (Helmrath
and Annas 2013, 509): “tum filii ante ora parentum occisi,
tum viri nobiles velut hostie mactati, tum sacerdotes
laniati, tum monachi excarnificati, tum sacre virgines
incestate, tum matres ac nurus ludibrio habite [Then sons
were killed before their parents’ eyes, then noble men
were slaughtered like sacrificial animals, then priests were
mutilated, then monks were butchered, then holy virgins
were raped, then mothers and daughters-in-law were
violently dishonoured]”.
1009
Schwoebel 1967, 202–234; Höfert 2003, 197–227, 293–
297; Thumser 1997.
1010
For example, see the 1453 Bull of the Crusade (Weigel and
Grüneisen 1969, 60):

ecclesie Christi hostis acerrimus crudelissimus

persecutor Mahomet, filius sathane, filius
perditionis, filius mortis, animas simul et corpora
cum patre suo diabolo cupiens devorare,
Christianum sanguinem sitiens, […] Novissime
autem nostris temporibus secundus Mahomet
insurrexit impietatis illius imitator effundendi
sanguinis Christiani

[The most bitter enemy of the Church of Christ,

the most cruel persecutor Muḥammad, son of
Satan, son of perdition, son of death, wanting to
devour both souls and bodies with his father the
devil (…) But recently in our own times a second
Muḥammad has arisen, imitator of his wickedness
in wanting to pour out Christian blood]

Cf. an imperial letter from January 1454: “communis hostis,

filius sathane, secundus Maumethus, Christiano mucrone
confossus cum Juliano tandem apostata [A common
enemy, a son of Satan, a second Muḥammad, pierced by a
Christian sword at last with Julian the Apostate]” (Weigel
and Grüneisen 1969, 98).
1011
For example, see Piccolomini’s Constantinopolitana Clades
(Helmrath and Annas 2013, 510, 554–555):

Machometus ipse terribili facie, tetris oculis,

terribili voce, crudelibus verbis, nephandis
nutibus homicida mandat, […] ad cedem poscit,
 manus in sanguine Christianorum lavat, omnia
fedat, omnia polluit […] una ei voluptas est: arma
tractare. honorat milites, equos amat, naves
currus machinas bellicas formosis mulieribus
prefert. et quamvis est natura barbarus
abhorretque litteras, gesta tamen maiorum
cupide audit ac Julium Cesarem et Alexandrum
Magnum omnibus anteponit, quorum illustria
facta superare posse confidit atque contendit.
nec se minus aptum ad subigendum orbem dicit
quam illi fuerunt, cum sua sint longe maiora
principia, quam illorum referantur. et quoniam
falso propetho suo Maumetho, ex quo nomen
habet, Constantinopolim subiectit, non dubitat,
quin et Romam submittere possit, barbara
temeritate et Asiana superbia plenus

[Muḥammad himself, with his hideous face,

loathsome eyes, hideous voice, cruel words and
wicked commands orders murder, (…) demands
surrender, washes his hands in the blood of
Christians, defiles everything, pollutes everything
(…) He (i.e. Mehmed II) has one desire: to bear
arms. He honours soldiers, he loves horses, he
prefers warships to beautiful women. And
although he is by nature a barbarian and abhors
literature, yet he eagerly listens to the deeds of
the ancients, valuing above all Julius Caesar and
Alexander

the Great, whose illustrious deeds he strives and believes

himself able to outdo. He says that he is no less fit than
they were to subjugate the earth, since his armies are
greater by far than the ones they brought. And since his
false prophet, Muḥammad, from whom he takes his name,
conquered Constantinople, he does not doubt that he can
also conquer Rome, full of barbarian recklessness and
Asian pride.]
1012
This idea was first expressed by Cardinal Isidor: “volens
totaliter nomen Christi delere de terra [wanting to wipe the
name of Christ completely from the earth]” (Weigel and
Grüneisen 1969, 328); and further developed in first papal
anti-Turkish bull of the Crusade, in September 1453: “et de
toto orbe terrarum de nomen delere Christianum [to wipe
the Christian name from the whole of the earth]” (Weigel
and Grüneisen 1969, 60).
1013
Höfert 2003, 179–180; Housley 2008, 131–137; Kaufmann
2008, 15–30.
1014
Kaufmann 2008, 18–30; Meuthen 1983, 32–35; Kissling
1964.
1015
Harper 2008.
1016
Schwoebel 1967, 148–149, 204–205.
1017
This idea was again most influentially presented by
Piccolomini (Helmrath and Annas 2013, 515–518):

Neque enim, ut plerique arbitrantur, Asiani sunt

ab origine Thurci, quos vocant Theucros, ex
quibus est Romanorum origo, quibus littere non
essent odio: Scytharum genus est ex media
barbaria profectum, quod ultra Euxinum
Pyrrichiosque montes […] carnes adhuc equorum
vesontium vulturumque comedit, libidini serviti,
 crudelitati succumbit, litteras odit, humanitatis
studia persequitur.

[For the Asians (i.e. from Asia Minor) do not, as

many believe, descend from the Turks, as they
call the Trojans, from whom the Romans descend,
to whom literature is not hateful. The Scythian
race originates in the midst of barbarian lands,
across the Black Sea and the Pyrrhicos
mountains; (these people) eat the meat of
horses, bison, and vultures; slaves to their
desires, they succumb with cruelty; they hate
letters (i.e. all civilized things), they attack the
study of humanism.]

1018
Weigel and Grüneisen 1969, 42–43, 231, 260–261;
Helmrath and Annas 2013, 524; Annas 2013, 55, 62–63,
452.
1019
Helmrath and Annas 2013, 495–496:

Neque […] multis ante seculis maiorem ignomiam

passa est quam modo Christiana societas.
retroactis namque temporibus in Asia atque in
Affrica, hoc est in alienis terris, vulnerati fuimus,
nunc vero in Europa, id est in patria, in domo
propria, in sede nostra percussi cesique sumus. et
licet dicat aliquis ante plurimos annos ex Asia
Turchos in Greciam transivisse, Tartaros citra
Thanaim in Europa consedisse, Sarracenos
Herculeo mari traiecto Hispaniae portionem
occupasse, numquam tamen aut urbem aut
locum amisimus in Europa, qui Constantinopoli
 possit equari

[No (…) greater disgrace has afflicted Christian

society over many centuries than (what is
happening) now. For in the past we were
wounded in Asia and in Africa, that is in foreign
lands, but now we are being killed and
persecuted in Europe, that is in the fatherland, in
our own house, in our home. And although some
may say that many years ago the Turks crossed
from Asia into Greece, the Tatars settled this side
of Thanais (i.e. Don) in Europe, the Saracens
crossed the straits of Hercules and occupied part
of Spain, but never have we lost a city or region
in Europe that could be equal to Constantinople]

On the Turks and the concept of European unity, see

Bisaha 2004a; Hay 1968, 83–87; Kaufmann 2008, 56–60;
Mertens 1997.
1020
Halecki 1968; Hösch 1967.
1021
Sometimes the Jews were depicted as defenders of Europe
and victims of the Turks (Schwoebel 1967, 130; Höfert
2003, 70–71, 76), while the Roma people (‘Gypsies’, or
Zigeuner in German) in Germany were occasionally
accused of being spies for the Turks. Regener 2011.
1022
On the changes in Crusading, see Housley 1992; Housley
2012a. For a justification of the Turkish wars, see
Piccolomini’s speeches: Helmrath and Annas 2013, 504–
545; Annas 2013, 496–508.
1023
On fifteenth-century indulgences, see Paulus 1923;
Housley 2006; Housley 2012a, 174–210.
1024
Housley 2012a, 40–50.
1025
On its usage from thirteenth to fourteenth centuries in
Hungary, Poland, and Iberia, see Berend 2008; on Poland,
see also Knoll 1974; Weintraub 1980; Morawiec 2001.
1026
On its usage in Hungary and other Balkan countries, see
Housley 2012a, 41–49; Berend 2008, 33–35; Housley 2008,
15–17, 128–130.
1027
For Order’s role and self-perception, see Sarnowsky 2011a;
Sarnowsky 2011b; Sarnowsky 2011c, 2–12; Sarnowsky
2011d. For defence of Rhodes, see Schwoebel 1967, 123–
131; Housley 1992, 227–228.
1028
Housley 1992, 231–233.
1029
For examples from the late fifteenth and sixteenth
centuries, see Housley 1992, 145–148, 291–321, 449;
Housley 2012a, 13–16, 50–61, 211–216; Höfert 2003, 104–
115; Mertens 1991, 80–89.
1030
Sieber-Lehmann 1997.
1031
Jensen 2007, 85.
1032
The first ‘victim’ of this accusation was Venice that was
accused of the cooperation with the Turks as early as in
the 1410s (Herre 1906, 118), but the Venetians were seen
as possible cooperators with the Turks also by Aeneas
Silvius Piccolomini (Pope Pius II) in the 1450s and 1460s,
and also in the beginning of the sixteenth century
(Schwoebel 1967, 77–81, 162). Later, France became the
primary target. Housley 2008, 131–159; Kaufmann 2008,
42–55; Housley 2012a, 47–49; Höfert 2003, 94–99.
1033
Höfert 2003, 99–104.
1034
Helmrath 2004. On ideas and actions for reforming the
Empire (known in German as Reichsreform), see
Angermeier 1984.
1035
Fischer-Galati 1959; Kaufmann 2008, 44–55, 68–75.
1036
Schultze 1978, especially 297–301, 360–363. Only after so-
called Long Turkish War (Langer Türkenkrieg, 1593–1606),
when the military threat posed by the Turks had
significantly diminished, did the religious conflict inside
Germany escalate, leading to the Thirty Years’ War.
Schultze 1978, 364–370.
1037
On the general attitude of Protestants, see Housley 1992,
454–456; Housley 2008, 85–89, 97. On Scandinavia, see
Jensen 2007, 344–346.
1038
Selart 2012b.
1039
Selart 2001, 154–155. On the conquest and formation of
Medieval Livonia, see Tamm, Kaljundi, and Jensen 2011
and accompanying references.
1040
Selart 2001, 154–161; Selart 2007, 123–167; Mäesalu
2011.
1041
Selart 1998.
1042
Some attempt was made to convince certain Russian
princes to convert to Catholicism, but they proved to be in
vain (Selart 2001, 165–170; Selart 2007, 208–225).
1043
Although events preceding the Battle on the Ice in 1242
are often depicted in Russian historiography as ‘Catholic’,
‘German’, or ‘Western aggression’, the Livonians were only
supporting the former Prince of Pskov in his attempt to
reclaim his throne (Selart 2007, 123–167; Selart 2001,
159–170).
1044
These people were not completely Christianized or
subjugated to the Novgorodians until the fifteenth century,
which could be regarded as an independent goal of the
Crusades (Selart 2001, 162–164; Selart 2007, 138–167,
226–230; Lindkvist 2001, 125–126; Lind 2001, 146–149).
1045
On the history of the Teutonic Order, see Boockmann
1994; on the Livonian Order, see Jähnig 2011b.
1046
On the Preussenreisen (Crusade-like military campaigns) in
which many Western European nobles and even members
of royalty participated, see Paravicini 1989–1995; Ehlers
2001.
1047
Pskov was allied with the Lithuanians after Lithuanian
prince Daumantas (Dovmont) came to power in 1266.
Selart 2007, 231–233.
1048
Selart 2007, 275–282, 302, 305–307; Selart 2009a, 67.
1049
For an overview of relations between the Order and the
bishops, see Jähnig 2002; Jähnig 2011a; Jähnig 2011b, 76–
98.
1050
Selart 2001, 170–173; Selart 2007, 282–287, 303; Selart
2009a.
1051
On this shift, see Selart 2009a, 56–57, 67 and
accompanying references.
1052
Selart 2009a, 60–61.
1053
Bunge 1974 [1867], cols. 447–448 (no. 2291). Turkish raids
were repeatedly mentioned in the 1420s: Hildebrand
1974a [1881], 26 (no. 42), 403 (no. 583), 526 (no. 736),
526–527 (no. 737); Hildebrand 1974b [1884], 61 (no. 95).
1054
On King Sigismund and Teutonic Order, see Nowak 1990.
1055
On the plans to relocate the Order, see Sarnowsky 2011e,
259–260; Thumser 2000, 141–44.
1056
Sarnowsky 2011e, 260–261.
1057
On the count’s connections to the Order and the causes for
war, see Selart 2012b. On the war, see Dircks 1988.
1058
On rhetoric, see Selart 2009a, 62–63. The Archbishop of
Novgorod rejected the church union so quickly because he
had a personal conflict with the pro-Union Metropolitan
Isidor of Kiev (Selart 2009b, 5–11, 16–17).
1059
In Livonia and Prussia, the campaign was announced in
1437, and the collection of the money went well. See
Hildebrand 1981 [1889], 81–83 (no. 130); Arbusow 1909,
6.
1060
Arbusow 1909, 6–8; Selart 2009b, 17–19.
1061
Hildebrand and Schwartz 1981 [1896], 335 (no. 479);
Arbusow 1909, 9.
1062
Arbusow 1909, 9–10. The pope’s envoys also sought
money from Livonia later on, but were likely unsuccessful.
See Schwartz 1981 [1905], 674–676 (no. 867); Hildebrand,
Schwartz, and Bulmerincq 1981 [1910], 253–258 (no. 461),
335–336 (no. 609).
1063
Selart 2009a, 63–64.
1064
Hildebrand and Schwartz 1981 [1896], 62 (no. 94):

junctis Ruthenis et de populo Magne Nugardie

necnon Tartaris, Turchis et barbaris centum
milium numero, per terrum et loca tui dominii
transitum captantes et nullam ibidem, quominus
in fideles sevirent, a tuis subditis resistentiam
invenientes […] indulgentes omnium more
crudelium pluribus ex dictis habitatoribus et
incolis manus ac pedes amputarunt, oculos
eruerunt, mulieribus et virginibus mamillas
 inciderunt, multos interemerunt, ecclesias,
monasteria necnon alia pia loca combusserunt ac
patriam predictam igni ferroque subjecerunt et
alia nephanda plurima, que in divina majestatis
offensam ipsarumque religionis et fidei
depressionem cedere noscantur, committere
nullatenus formidarunt

[The Ruthenians, joined together with the people

from Novgorod the Great plus the Tatars, Turks,
and barbarians numbered one hundred thousand.
They passed through the land and the towns
under your (i.e. Kazimieras’) rule, taking captives
and finding no resistance from your subjects in
that place, though they savaged the faithless, (…)
indulging in all manner of cruelty again many of
these inhabitants. They cut off the hands and feet
of peasants, they plucked out eyes, they cut off
the breasts of mothers and virgins, they
destroyed many churches, burned down
monasteries and other holy places and subjected
this land to fire and the sword. They were not in
any way afraid to commit many terrible acts
which they knew led to an offence against divine
majesty and the humbling of their own faith and
religion]

1065
Schwartz 1981 [1905], 308–309 (no. 361). The curia also
claimed that if the conflict between Poland and the Order
could be brought to an end, then Poland would be in a
position to contribute 200,000 men to the anti-Turkish
Crusade. Schwoebel 1967, 41.
1066
Schwartz 1981 [1905], 398 (no. 497); Housley 1992, 366.
1067
Weigel and Grüneisen 1969, 416–507, especially 418, 453–
455, 491–492.
1068
On the war and the peace treaty, see Boockmann 1994,
207–210.
1069
On the context, see Thumser 2000, 144; Housley 1992, 83,
370.
1070
On relations between the king of Poland and the Order, see
Boockmann 1994, 197–220; Biskup 1990, 108–122.
1071
Thumser 2000, 146–148.
1072
Boockmann 1994, 209.
1073
Thumser 2000, 164–167. On Poland and the anti-Turkish
wars, see Nowakowska 2004.
1074
Thumser 2000.
1075
In 1497, the Hochmeister sent letters to the German king,
Maximilian I, saying that the Order was ready to join the
king of Poland in fighting the infidel Turks and to fight the
schismatic Russians in Livonia, but to do so it would
require support. Arbusow 1981a [1900], 321–322 (no.
443), and 390–391 (no. 535); Thumser 2000, 161–162. In
1498, the regent of Prussia, Wilhelm von Isenburg, wrote
to the princes of the Empire (Reichsfürsten), and to the
Livonian Master, saying that the Order was prepared to
repel the two grave dangers to Christendom, the advance
of the Turks and the imminent Russian attack on Livonia,
but could not do so without sufficient support. Thumser
2000, 168–170; Arbusow 1981a [1900], 454–455 (no. 624),
and 455–457 (no. 625); see also Thumser 2000, 146, 152–
157.
1076
Arbusow 1981a [1900], 456 (no. 625).
1077
The most serious blow to Lithuania was the war of 1500–
1503, in which it lost about one third of its territory. On
Lithuanian-Muscovite relations, see Kiaupa, Kiaupienė, and
Kuncevičius 2000, 216, 221–222.
1078
Kiaupa, Kiaupienė, and Kuncevičius 2000, 225–227;
Kappeler 1972, 23–24; Halecki 1968, 129. Polish efforts
were fruitful even before the ‘propaganda war’ after the
battle of Orša, as Poland received a bull of the Crusade
against the Russians in 1505. Paulus 1923, 222.
1079
On changes of Poland’s depiction as Antemurale in the
sixteenth century, see Osterrieder 2005; Weintraub 1980.
1080
Jensen 2007, 72–73, 82–85, 88.
1081
Jensen 2007, 135–143.
1082
Lindkvist 2005.
1083
Lindkvist 2001, 126–128; Jensen 2007, 143–148.
1084
On the context, see Jensen 2007, 142–146; Lindkvist 2001,
126–127.
1085
Sture also tried to defend his position with weapons, with
his actions being described as ‘worse than Russians’;
Jensen 2007, 147–148. Relations between Russia and
Sweden were rather neutral, until a new war broke out
(1554–1557); on later Swedish depictions of the Russians,
see Tengström 1997; Tuchtenhagen 2012.
1086
Selart 2003, 178–179.
1087
Stavenhagen 1900; Cosack 1915; Sach 2002, 100–103.
1088
On Borch’s policies, see Neitmann 1991; Thumser 2005;
Baranov 2013.
1089
Older literature suggests that Borch was in an anti-
Muscovite alliance with Sweden, Poland-Lithuania, and the
Golden Horde. Sach 2002, 103–104 and accompanying
references.
1090
Selart 2009a, 68. Borch’s problems were not limited to
losing the war, however, as he also failed in his struggle
with the archbishop and the town of Riga, leaving him with
no choice but to resign in 1483. On the final years of
Borch’s reign, see Cosack 1914.
1091
Ropp 1892, 595 (no. 380).
1092
“darzu das überziehen, so vor wenig vershienen jaren in
Lyfland durch die unglaubigen ist beschehen [and also
exceed that, which was committed by the infidels in
Livonia only some years ago]” (Angermeier and Seyboth
1989, 188).
1093
On the Muscovite-Livonian conflict in the 1490s and 1500s,
see Vegesack 1913; Kentmann 1929; Lenz 1928; Wimmer
1985; Selart 2003; Bessudnova 2009.
1094
Selart 2003, 183–196, 206–210.
1095
Kentmann 1929; Lenz 1928; Vegesack 1913.
1096
Wimmer 1988; Bessudnova 2009.
1097
On Livonian, Imperial, and Russian relations, see Wimmer
1988.
1098
The Hochmeister excused himself from the upcoming
campaign against the Turks, claiming that he was already
committed to supporting the Livonians against the
Russians. See Arbusow 1981a [1900], 288–289 (no. 405).
1099
Arbusow 1981a [1900], 458–460 (no. 629). In the same
document, the possibility of a grand alliance between
Poland, Sweden, Prussia, Livonia, and the Hanseatic towns
against the “ungloubigen Rewssen, Tattern und Türken
[the unbelieving Russians, Tatars, and Turks]” was
broached, on the condition that the Polish king’s brother,
Sigismund (later Polish King and Lithuanian Grand Duke
Sigismund I the Old) would be crowned the king of Sweden.
1100
Lenz 1928, 23, 70–79; Wimmer 1985, 84–86.
1101
The pope had invited the Order to participate in this
Crusade in 1494: “zcu rettunge cristlichen gloubens und
widderstandt den grawsamen Türcken [for the rescue of
the Christian faith and the resistance against the cruel
Turks]” (Arbusow 1981a [1900], 43 [no. 50]).
1102
Arbusow 1981b [1905], 127–128 (no. 193).
1103
Arbusow 1981b [1905], 74 (no. 114), and 170–171 (no.
248).
1104
On the alliance and especially its problems, see Lenz 1928,
27–35, 37, 41–44.
1105
On the course of war, see Lenz 1928, 31–46.
1106
Lenz 1928, 46–55; Kentmann 1929, 111–120.
1107
About Peraudi and his innovations in the field of indulgence
theory and practice, see Paulus 1900; Housley 2012a, 53–
56, 125–127, 171–175, 181–215.
1108
Arbusow 1981b [1905], 227–228 (no. 329); Housley 2012a,
208. The German Master also expressed his regret that
due to upcoming anti-Turkish Crusade, the money
collected in the Order’s lands could not be used for anti-
Russian activities. Arbusow 1981b [1905], 255–256 (no.
358).
1109
“contra Ruthenos hereticos et scismaticos ac Tartaros
infideles eis” (Arbusow 1981b [1905], 660 [no. 841]). On
the bull, see Arbusow 1909, 26–29; Ehlers 2007, 388–92.
For an overview of two Livonian indulgence campaigns
during the period between 1503 and 1510, see Arbusow
1909, 27–75; Ehlers 2007, 385–402.
1110
The campaign was conducted in Hanseatic towns, in the
archbishoprics of Riga, Magdeburg, and Hamburg-Bremen,
and in bishoprics of Cammin and Reval. Collecting the
money from the bishopric of Meißen posed a serious
problem, because the bishopric wanted the archbishopric
of Magdeburg to recognize its right to be exempted. In
Prussia, the Hochmeister’s opposition to the fundraising
made it virtually impossible to collect money. Arbusow
1909, 27–39.
1111
The first Livonian campaign raised over 30,000 guldens, of
which about 10,000 went to the pope. Arbusow 1909, 39–
43.
1112
Arbusow 1909, 43–68; Ehlers 2007, 392–402. The second
campaign was carried out in the archbishoprics of Mainz,
Cologne, and Trier, and in the bishopric of Meißen. It likely
raised more than 18,000 guldens. Arbusow 1909, 68–75.
1113
“contra hereticos et scismaticos Ruthenos ac perfidissimos
Tataros [against heretical and schismatic Russians and
treacherous Tatars]” (Arbusow 1981b [1905], 666 [no.
842]); also see Housley 2006, 287–289.
1114
A 1505 letter from Ablasskomissar Eberhard Schelle to
Lübeck provides an example of this. Arbusow 1981b
[1905], 608–611 (no. 784).
1115
It was printed at least twice in the 1500s; in Krakow
(Johannes Sacranus 1507) and Cologne. On its context and
its impact, see Wünsch 2008.
1116
The author of Errores (1507) might have been Christian
Bomhower (d. 1518), the Ablasskomissar of the Livonian
campaign, and the Master of Livonia’s secretary, who later
became bishop of Dorpat (Tartu). Johannes Sacranus and
Elucidarius are named at the beginning of the book, but
the State Library of Bavaria lists it under his name
(Johannes Sacranus 1507b; Johannes Sacranus 1508). On
Bomhower, see Schirren 1861, 194–99, 213–15; Arbusow
1909, 50–52, 92–109; Benninghoven 1963, 12; Ehlers
2007, 396, 399; Thumser 2011, 134–138. It is possible that
Bomhower had met Peraudi’s subcommissioner
(Unterkomissar) Johann von Paltz, and was influenced by
his work, the Supplementum Celifodinae, because the
Tallinn City Archives held a copy (Arbusow 1909, 51–52).
On Paltz, see Housley 2012a, 183–185.
1117
Even more commonly than is the case with Errores,
Bomhower is considered a candidate for the author of the
Schonne hysthorie. Even if this work was not printed, it
spread in manuscript form, having its primary influence
among laymen, given that Latin tracts chiefly targeted
clerics. Ehlers 2007, 396; Thumser 2011, 142–143; Kreem
2013, 239–240.
1118
Schonne hysthorie 1861, 124–132; see also Benninghoven
1963, 17–21.
1119
For a comparison of Errores and Schonne hysthorie, see
Arbusow 1909, 92–109. The cover illustration of all three
works is virtually identical: In the centre, there is the pope
making a blessing gesture with the cardinals behind him
on his right; on his left, there are Russians, who are
depicted turning away from him; and especially on the
Elucidarius illustration the Russians are looking like Turks
(Johannes Sacranus 1507a, front cover); the Errores and
Schonne hysthorie illustrations include a knight from the
Teutonic Order kneeling in front of the pope (perhaps the
Master of Livonia) receiving the blessings of the head of
the Catholic Church. Illustrations of Errores and Schonne
hysthorie have been published in Ehlers 2007, between
pages 414 and 415, fig. 10 (hand-made illustration from
Schonne hysthorie), fig. 11 (printed illustration from
Errores); for the illustrations from Elucidarius and Errores,
see front covers of Johannes Sacranus 1507a and Johannes
Sacranus 1507b, respectively.
1120
Ivan III is repeatedly described as a wilful tyrant in Schonne
hysthorie (e.g., Schonne hysthorie 1861, 121, 139, 141);
see also Thumser 2011, 141, 147–148.
1121
Schonne hysthorie 1861, 116–118, 141; see also Thumser
2011, 140.
1122
Schonne hysthorie 1861, 119–121.
1123
The claim (clearly false) was made that the Russians killed
clerics who supported the church union, Metropolitan Isidor
of Kiev included. Schonne hysthorie 1861, 123.
1124
“van apenbaren yoden oder heyden bedragen werden
noch denne de kettere vnde affgesnedene [be deceived by
obvious Jews or pagans, or by heretics and circumcised
ones]” (Schonne hysthorie 1861, 121).
1125
Schonne hysthorie 1861, 134; Benninghoven 1963, 22;
Selart 2012a, 262.
1126
Cf. Benninghoven 1963, 22.
1127
Schonne hysthorie 1861, 118, 139–140.
1128
Schonne hysthorie 1861, 137–144; see also Benninghoven
1963, 25–27.
1129
Schonne hysthorie 1861, 147–51; see also Benninghoven
1963, 29–30.
1130
Schonne hysthorie 1861, 148–149.
1131
Cf. Thumser 2011, 149–150.
1132
Schonne hysthorie 1861, 123–124, 132–133.
1133
“eyn-dels ganß heyden vnde eyn-dels van der tuurcken
secten [partly complete pagans and partly from the sect of
the Turks]” (Schonne hysthorie 1861, 133).
1134
“ock so ys ydt yn der warheyth dat de russen tartaren
vnde turcken vorborgene wethenheyth vnder sych hebben
tegen vnse rechte chrystenheyt [likewise it is true that the
Russians, Tatars and Turks have secret knowledge
amongst themselves against our rightful Christianity]”
(Schonne hysthorie 1861, 134). See also Benninghoven
1963, 22.
1135
Schonne hysthorie 1861, 143.
1136
Kreem 2013.
1137
“eyn schynbarlyck myrakel vth dem hemmel vnn den sege
dem allemechtygen gade van der gebenedygeden moder
vnn yunckfrowen maryen [a beautiful miracle from the
heavens and victory for the almighty God from the blessed
mother and virgin Mary]” (Schonne hysthorie 1861, 153–
154). It also says elsewhere that Livonia is protected by
the God and the Virgin Mary; Schonne hysthorie 1861, 144.
1138
“myt yuda machabeo vnn anderen segeafftygen
strydt.fforsten [with Judas Maccabeus and other victorious
lords of the battle]” (Schonne hysthorie 1861, 152). On the
Maccabees and the Teutonic Order, see Fischer 2001;
Fischer 2005; Lähnemann 2012.
1139
See Piccolomini’s speeches: Helmrath and Annas 2013,
506; Annas 2013, 497.
1140
Schonne hysthorie 1861, 154–155; Kreem 2013, 242–243.
1141
According to Schonne hysthorie, the archbishop might
even have been killed had he not been saved by the Land
Marshal of the Order’s troops. Schonne hysthorie 1861,
153.
1142
Schonne hysthorie 1861, 154.
1143
Russow 1584, 23b.
1144
“russen vnde tartaren yo so grothe beffarynge vnde anx-
weldych besorch tho-gemethen warth als geynygen andren
turken heydenen edder vngelouygen vnn dar-vmme
lyfflanth // vormure edder vor-schylth ys der gemeynen
chrysthenheyth yegen de gemelthen vyande [a danger and
fearful anxiety was allocated to the Russians and Tatars,
equally to the one for the other Turks, pagans or infidels,
and for this reason Livonia is // a bulwark or pre-shield for
common Christianity against the united enemies]”
(Schonne hysthorie 1861, 134–135); Benninghoven 1963,
22; Thumser 2011, 144–145, 148–150.
1145
Schonne hysthorie 1861, 175–180.
1146
Cf. Thumser 2011, 143–144, 148–151.
1147
On the truces and Russian-Livonian relations, see Tiberg
1995, 163–186, 243–250; Maasing 2010.
1148
On the relations between Moscow and the Order in Prussia,
see Sach 2002.
1149
Sach 2002, 254.
1150
On the political reasons, see Kreem 2004, 28–38.
1151
On the secularization of Prussia and the Reformation, see
Hubatsch 1960, 139–183; Tode 2005.
1152
Sach 2002, 420–423.
1153
On the reaction of the German branch of the Order and its
survival, see Herrmann 1974.
1154
On the Livonian Reformation, see Arbusow 1921; Heyde
2005; Kuhles 2007; Asche, Buchholtz, and Schindling
2009–2012.
1155
The bishop of Dorpat had been accused of treacherous
cooperation with the schismatics as early as the fourteenth
century (Selart 2007, 302–303; Selart 2009a, 57–58); on
Blankenfeld and Russia, see Selart 2011.
1156
Diestelkamp 2000.
1157
Völkl 1992.
1158
Filjuškin 2008, 243–257.
1159
Piirimäe 2007, 79.
1160
In 1521, all bishops were made imperial princes, and in
1526 or 1527, the Livonian Master followed this example.
On the relations between Livonia and the Empire, see
Hellmann 1989; Wimmer 1988; Arbusow 1944; Leesment
1929.
1161
Arbusow 1910, 742 (no. 291, § 7):

derwiele die Romische key. mat., unser

allengnedigsten her, die contribution, stuer und
hulpe widder den erffyand christlickes nhamens
und gelovens, den Turcken, uth den landen tho
Lifflande mehrmals erfurderth und bogerth […] in
dussen entlegenen und vorlaten enden den
 christenheith, des hilligen Romischen rikes und
Duitzscher nation geseten, derwegen ehnen
szulcks uthorichten ane mercklicken eren
vorderff, schaden und undergangk vhast
unmoglich etc.

[at the same time the Roman emperor, our most

gracious lord, has claimed and asked several
times for the contribution, tax and help against
the hereditary enemy of the Christian name and
faith, the Turk, from the lands of Livonia (…)
located in these remote and abandoned ends of
Christianity, the Holy Roman Empire and the
German nation, because of this it is almost
impossible to do this without considerable ruin,
damage and downfall of these, etc.]

Cf. Arbusow 1910, 753 (no. 298, § 7), and 779 (no. 302, §
14).
1162
On Archbishop Wilhelm, see Lange 2014. For overview of
Wilhelm’s religious stance (including interesting
hypothesis that Margrave became decidedly Protestant
only in the 1540s) and activities, see Müller 2014.
1163
Wilhelm claimed that he could not be consecrated,
because Livonia was constantly threatened by the
invasion of schismatic Russians; see Hartmann 2002,
175–176 (no. 1208/3). However, in 1545, his envoys
claimed at the Reichstag that the archbishop could not
be consecrated, because of the Turkish threat; see
Hartmann 2005, 49 (no. 1558/1).
1164
On the significance of the Turkish question for Duke
Albrecht, see Diehlmann 1998.
1165
For correspondence about this issue, see Hartmann
1999, 409–410 (no. 993), 429–430 (no. 1016), and 450
(no. 1037); Hartmann 2002, 97–98 (no. 1147), 106 (no.
1160), and 110–111 (no. 1164).
1166
Hartmann 2002, 212 (no. 1233/1).
1167
Hartmann 2005, 216 (no. 1744). On Swedish interests in
Livonia in the 1550s, see Lenz 1971.
1168
Hartmann 2005, 281–283 (no. 1817).
1169
Rasmussen 1973, 28–89; Tiberg 1984, 61–67, 85–95;
Gundermann 1966; Hartmann 2004.
1170
Hartmann 2005, 390 (no. 1930). As Duke Johann
Albrecht of Mecklenburg, an ally of Duke Albrecht of
Prussia and Wilhelm of Riga, was organizing an anti-
Livonian military campaign within the Empire – see
Hartmann 2005, 333 (no. 1880) –it was likely deemed
necessary that Margrave Joachim’s letter justify it.
1171
Reimann 1876.
1172
The idea that the war was response to the Livonians’
sins was expressed on the Landtag, in March 1558.
Hartmann 2006, 108–109 (no. 2182), 119 (no. 2188),
120–121 (no. 2189), 128–129 (no. 2196).
1173
Russow 1584, Ia–Vb, 22b–24a, 28a–35a.
1174
The Catholic side was the first to engage in these
polemics in the chronicle of Tilmann Bredenbach (1564),
while the most important work from the Lutheran side
was Russow’s chronicle. It is noteworthy to mention that
also Russians saw their war against Livonia as religiously
motivated. Selart 2014.
1175
Piirimäe 2007, 77.
1176
See the literature cited in footnote 4, especially Kappeler
1972.
1177
Peter I also began to make use the rhetoric of just war;
Piirimäe 2007, 79–86. For a general overview of changes
in image of Russia during the eighteenth century, see
Hay 1968, 124–127.
1178
This occurred between the second siege of Vienna in
1683 and the 1730s. Bohnstedt 1968, 40; Yapp 1992,
142–145.
1179
Çırakman 2002; Yapp 1992, 142–148.
1180
For the latter, see Berend 2008, 40.
1181
Türklastest 1877.