The Crusades: The Authoritative History of the War for the Holy Land

by Thomas Asbridge

  During Muhammad’s own life, and in the few years immediately following his death, the warring tribes of the Arabian Peninsula were united under the banner of Islam. Over the next few decades, under the guidance of a series of able and ambitious caliphs (the Prophet’s successors) these Muslim Arabs proved to be an almost unstoppable force. Their incredible martial dynamism was married to a seemingly insatiable appetite for conquest–a hunger sustained by the Koran’s explicit demand for the Muslim faith and the rule of Islamic law to be spread unceasingly across the world. The Arab-Islamic approach to the subjugation of new territories also eased the path to exponential growth. Rather than requiring total submission and immediate conversion to Islam, the Muslims allowed ‘Peoples of the Book’, such as Jews and Christians, to continue in their faiths in return for the payment of a poll tax.

  In the mid-630s ferocious armies of highly mobile, mounted Arab tribesmen began to pour out of the Arabian Peninsula. By 650 they had achieved startling success. With mercurial speed, Palestine, Syria, Iraq, Iran and Egypt were absorbed into the new Arab-Islamic state. Over the next century the pace of expansion slowed from this breakneck pace, but inexorable gains continued, such that in the mid-eighth century the Muslim world stretched from the Indus River and the borders of China in the east, across North Africa to Spain and southern France in the west.

  In the context of crusading history, a critical stage in this whole process was the capture of Jerusalem in 638 from the Greek Christians of Byzantium. This ancient city came to be revered as Islam’s third-holiest site, after Mecca and Medina. In part this was due to Islam’s Abrahamic heritage, but it was also dependent upon the belief that Muhammad had ascended to Heaven from Jerusalem during his ‘Night Journey’, and the associated tradition identifying the Holy City as the focus for the impending End of Days.

  It was once popular to suggest that the Islamic world might have swept across all Europe, had not the Muslims been twice thwarted in their attempts to capture Constantinople (in 673 and 718) and then defeated in 732 at Poitiers by Charlemagne’s Frankish grandfather Charles the Hammer. In fact, important as these reversals were, a fundamental and profoundly limiting weakness within Islam had already shown its face: intractable and embittered religious and political division. At their core, these issues related to disputes over the legitimacy of Muhammad’s caliphal successors and the interpretation of his ‘revelations’.

  Problems were apparent as early as 661, when the established line of ‘Rightly Guided Caliphs’ ended with the death of ‘Ali (the Prophet’s cousin and son-in-law) and the rise of a rival Arab clan–the Umayyad dynasty. The Umayyads moved the capital of the Muslim world beyond the confines of Arabia for the first time, settling in the great Syrian metropolis of Damascus, and they held sway over Islam until the mid-eighth century. However, this same period witnessed the emergence of the Shi‘a (literally the ‘party’ or ‘faction’), a Muslim sect who argued that only descendants of ‘Ali and his wife Fatima (Muhammad’s daughter) could lawfully hold the title of caliph. Shi‘ite Muslims initially set out to contest the political authority of the mainstream Sunni form of Islam, but over time the schism between these two branches of the faith took on a doctrinal dimension, as Shi‘ites developed distinct approaches to theology, religious ritual and law.8

  The fragmentation of the Muslim world

  Over the next four centuries, the divisions within the Muslim world deepened and proliferated. In 750 a bloody coup brought Umayyad rule to an end, propelling another Arab dynasty–the Abbasids–to power. They shifted the centre of Sunni Islam even further from the Arabian homelands, founding a spectacular new capital in Iraq: the purpose-built city of Baghdad. This visionary measure had profound and far-reaching consequences. It heralded a comprehensive political, cultural and economic reorientation on the part of the Sunni ruling elite, away from the Levantine Near East to Mesopotamia–the cradle of ancient civilisation between the mighty Euphrates and Tigris Rivers, sometimes known as the Fertile Crescent–and further east into Persian Iran and beyond. Abbasid patronage also transformed Baghdad into one of the world’s great centres of scientific and philosophical learning. For the next five hundred years the heart of Sunni Islam lay, not in Syria or the Holy Land, but in Iraq and Iran.

  However, Abbasid ascendancy coincided with the gradual dismemberment and fragmentation of the monolithic Islamic state. The Muslim rulers of Iberia (sometimes known as the Moors) broke away to establish an independent realm in the eighth century; and, over the decades, the rift between the Sunni and Shi‘a strands of Islam gradually intensified. Communities of Shi‘ite Muslims continued to live, largely in peace, alongside and among Sunnis across the Near and Middle East. But in 969 a particularly assertive Shi‘ite faction seized control of North Africa. Championed by a dynasty known as the Fatimids (because they claimed descent from Fatima, Muhammad’s daughter), they set up their own rival Shi‘ite caliph, rejecting Sunni Baghdad’s authority. The Fatimids soon proved themselves to be potent adversaries–conquering large swathes of the Near East from the Abbasids, including Jerusalem, Damascus and sections of the eastern Mediterranean coastline. By the late eleventh century, the Abbasids and Fatimids regarded each other as avowed foes. Thus, by the time of the crusades, Islam was riven by an elemental schism–one that prevented the Muslim rulers of Egypt and Iraq from offering any form of coordinated or concerted resistance to Christian invasion.

  Even as the enmity between the Sunnis and Shi‘ites hardened, the degree of influence exercised by both the Abbasid and Fatimid caliphs dwindled. They remained as nominal figureheads–in theory retaining absolute control over religious and political affairs–but in practice executive power came to be wielded by their secular lieutenants: in Baghdad, the sultan; in Cairo, the vizier.

  A further, dramatic change transformed the world of Islam in the eleventh century–the coming of the Turks. From around 1040, these nomadic tribesmen from Central Asia–noted for their warlike character and agile skill as mounted archers–began to seep into the Middle East. One particular clan, the Seljuqs (from the steppes of Russia, beyond the Aral Sea), spearheaded the Turkish migration. Having adopted the religion of Sunni Islam, these fearsome Seljuqs declared their unswerving allegiance to the Abbasid caliph and readily supplanted the now sedentary Arab and Persian aristocracy of Iran and Iraq. By 1055, the Seljuq warlord Tughrul Beg had been appointed as sultan of Baghdad and could claim effective overlordship of Sunni Islam; a role which members of his dynasty would hold as a hereditary right for more than a century. The advent of the Seljuq Turks brought a new, vital lease of life and unity to the Abbasid world. Their restless energy and martial ferocity soon brought sweeping gains. To the south, the Fatimids were driven back and Damascus and Jerusalem reconquered; notable victories were scored against the Byzantines in Asia Minor; and a Seljuq splinter group eventually founded their own independent sultanate in Anatolia.

  By the early 1090s the Seljuqs had reshaped the Sunni Muslim world. Tughrul Beg’s able and ambitious grandson Malik Shah held the office of sultan and, together with his brother Tutush, enjoyed relatively secure rule of Mesopotamia and most of the Levant. This new Turkish empire–sometimes referred to as the Great Seljuq Sultanate of Baghdad–was forged through ruthless despotism and the presentation of the Shi‘ites as dangerous, heretical enemies against whom Sunnis must unite. But when Malik Shah died in 1092, his mighty realm quickly collapsed amid succession crises and chaotic civil war. His two young sons fought to be named sultan, contesting control of Iraq and Iran; while in Syria, Tutush sought to seize power for himself. When he died in 1095, his sons Ridwan and Duqaq likewise squabbled over their inheritance, snatching Aleppo and Damascus respectively. At this same time, conditions in Shi‘ite Egypt were little better. Here, too, the precipitous deaths of the Fatimid caliph and his vizier in 1094 and 1095 brought sudden change, culminating in the rise of a new vizier of Armenian heritage, al-Afdal. Thus, in the very year that the crusades began, Sunni Islam was in a tur
bulent state of disarray and a new ruler of Fatimid Egypt was just finding his feet. There is no evidence to suggest that Christians in the West knew of these manifold difficulties, so they cannot be regarded as a definite trigger for the holy war to come. Even so, the timing of the First Crusade was remarkably propitious.9

  The Near East at the end of the eleventh century

  The endemic disunity afflicting Islam at the end of the eleventh century would exert a profound influence over the course of the crusades. So too did the Near East’s distinctive cultural, ethnic and political make-up. In truth, this region–the battleground in the war for the Holy Land–cannot be spoken of as a Muslim world. The relatively tolerant approach to subjugation adopted during the early Arab-Islamic conquests meant that, even centuries later, the Levant still contained a very high proportion of indigenous Christians–from Greeks and Armenians to Syrians and Copts–as well as pockets of Jewish population. Nomadic communities of Bedouins also continued to range widely across the East–migrant Arabic-speaking Muslims, who had few fixed allegiances. This long-established pattern of settlement was overlaid by a numerically inferior Muslim ruling elite, itself made up of Arabs, some Persians and the newly arrived Turks. The Near East, therefore, was little more than a fractured patchwork of disparate social and devotional groupings, and not a purebred Islamic stronghold.

  As far as the main powers within the Muslim world were concerned, the Levant was also something of a backwater–notwithstanding the political and spiritual significance attached to cities like Jerusalem and Damascus. For Sunni Seljuqs and Shi‘ite Fatimids, the real centres of governmental authority, economic wealth and cultural identity were Mesopotamia and Egypt. The Near East was essentially the border zone between these two dominant spheres of influence, a world sometimes to be contested, but almost always to be treated as a secondary concern. Even during the reign of Malik Shah, no fully determined effort was made to subdue and integrate Syria into the sultanate, and much of the region was left in the hands of power-hungry, semi-independent warlords.

  Thus, when Latin crusading armies arrived in the Near East to wage what essentially were frontier wars, they were not actually invading the heartlands of Islam. Instead, they were fighting for control of a land that, in some respects, was also a Muslim frontier, one peopled by an assortment of Christians, Jews and Muslims who, over the centuries, had become acculturated to the experience of conquest by an external force, be it at the hands of Byzantines and Persians, or Arabs and Turks.

  Islamic warfare and jihad

  In the late eleventh century, the style and practice of Muslim warfare were in a state of flux. The traditional mainstay of any Turkish fighting force was the lightly armoured mounted warrior, astride a fleet-footed pony, armed with a powerful composite bow that enabled him to loose streams of arrows from horseback. He might also be equipped with a light lance, single-edged sword, axe or dagger. These troops relied upon speed of movement and rapid manoeuvrability to overcome opponents.

  The Turks classically employed two main tactics: encirclement–whereby an enemy was surrounded from all sides by a fast-moving, swirling mass of mounted warriors, and bombarded with ceaseless volleys of arrows; and feigned retreat–the technique of turning tail in battle in the hope of prompting an opponent to give fevered chase, the indiscipline of which would break their formation and leave them vulnerable to sudden counter-attack. This style of combat was still favoured by the Seljuqs of Asia Minor, but the Turks of Syria and Palestine had begun to adopt a wider array of Persian and Arab military practices, adjusting to the use of more heavily armoured mounted lancers and larger infantry forces, and to the needs of siege warfare. By far and away the most common forms of warfare in the Near East were raiding, skirmishing and petty internecine struggles over power, land and wealth.10 In theory, however, Muslim troops could be called upon to fight for a supposedly higher cause–that of holy war.

  Islam had, from its earliest days, embraced warfare. Muhammad himself prosecuted a series of military campaigns while subjugating Mecca, and the explosive expansion of the Muslim world during the seventh and eighth centuries was fuelled by an avowed devotional obligation to spread Islamic rule. The union of faith and violence within the Muslim religion, therefore, was more rapid and natural than that which gradually developed in Latin Christianity.

  In an attempt to define the role of warfare within Islam, Muslim scholars turned to the Koran and the hadith, the ‘traditions’ or sayings associated with Muhammad. These texts provided numerous examples of the Prophet advocating ‘struggle in the path of God’. In the early Islamic period there was discussion about what this ‘struggle’ or jihad (literally ‘striving’) actually involved–and the debate continues to this day. Some, like the Muslim mystics, or Sufis, argued that the most important or ‘Greater jihad’ was the internal struggle waged against sin and error. But by the late eighth century, Sunni Muslim jurists had begun to develop a formal theory advocating what is sometimes termed the ‘Lesser jihad’: ‘rising up in arms’ to wage physical warfare against the infidel. To justify this they cited canonical evidence, such as verses from the ninth sura of the Koran, including: ‘Fight the polytheists totally as they fight you totally’, and hadith, such as Muhammad’s declaration that: ‘A morning or an evening expedition in God’s path is better than the world and what it contains, and for one of you to remain in the line of battle is better than his prayers for sixty years.’

  Legal treatises from this early period declared that jihad was an obligation incumbent upon all able-bodied Muslims, although the duty was primarily seen as being communal, rather than individual, and the responsibility for leadership ultimately rested with the caliph. Making reference to the likes of the hadith ‘The gates of Paradise are under the shadow of the swords’, these treatises also affirmed that those fighting in the jihad would be granted entry to the heavenly Paradise. Jurists posited a formal division of the world into two spheres–the Dar al-Islam, or ‘House of Peace’ (the area within which Muslim rule and law prevailed); and the Dar al-harb, or ‘House of War’ (the rest of the world). The express purpose of the jihad was to wage a relentless holy war in the Dar al-harb, until such time as all mankind had accepted Islam, or submitted to Muslim rule. No permanent peace treaties with non-Muslim enemies were permissible, and any temporary truces could last no more than ten years.

  As the centuries passed, the driving impulse towards expansion encoded in this classical theory of jihad was gradually eroded. Arab tribesmen began to settle into more sedentary lifestyles and to trade with non-Muslims, such as the Byzantines. Holy wars against the likes of Christians continued, but they became far more sporadic and often were promoted and prosecuted by Muslim emirs, without caliphal endorsement. By the eleventh century, the rulers of Sunni Baghdad were far more interested in using jihad to promote Islamic orthodoxy by battling ‘heretic’ Shi‘ites than they were in launching holy wars against Christendom. The suggestion that Islam should engage in an unending struggle to enlarge its borders and subjugate non-Muslims held little currency; so too did the idea of unifying in defence of the Islamic faith and its territories. When the Christian crusades began, the ideological impulse of devotional warfare thus lay dormant within the body of Islam, but the essential framework remained in place.11

  Islam and Christian Europe on the eve of the crusades

  A charged and vexatious question remains: did the Muslim world provoke the crusades, or were these Latin holy wars acts of aggression? This fundamental enquiry requires an assessment of the overall degree of threat posed to the Christian West by Islam in the eleventh century. In one sense, Muslims were pressing on the borders of Europe. To the east, Asia Minor had served for generations as a battleground between Islam and the Byzantine Empire; and Muslim armies had made repeated attempts to conquer Christendom’s greatest metropolis–Constantinople. To the south-west, Muslims continued to rule vast tracts of the Iberian Peninsula and might one day push north again, beyond the Pyrenees. In rea
lity, however, Europe was by no means engaged in an urgent struggle for survival on the eve of the crusades. No coherent, pan-Mediterranean onslaught threatened, because, although the Moors in Iberia and the Turks in Asia Minor shared a common religious heritage, they were never united in one purpose.

  In fact, after the first forceful surge of Islamic expansion, the interaction between neighbouring Christian and Muslim polities had been relatively unremarkable; characterised, like that between any potential rivals, by periods of conflict and others of coexistence. There is little or no evidence to suggest that these two world religions were somehow locked in an inevitable and perpetual ‘clash of civilisations’. From the tenth century onwards, for example, Islam and Byzantium developed a tense, sometimes quarrelsome respect for one another, but their relationship was no more fraught with conflict than that between the Greeks and their Slavic or Latin neighbours to the west.

  This is not to suggest that the world was filled with utopian peace and harmony. The Byzantines were only too happy to exploit any signs of Muslim weakness. Thus, in 969, while the Abbasid world fragmented, Greek troops pushed eastwards, recapturing much of Asia Minor and recovering the strategically significant city of Antioch. And with the advent of the Seljuq Turks, Byzantium faced renewed military pressure. In 1071, the Seljuqs crushed an imperial army at the Battle of Manzikert (in eastern Asia Minor), and though historians no longer consider this to have been an utterly cataclysmic reversal for the Greeks, it still was a stinging setback that presaged notable Turkish gains in Anatolia. Fifteen years later, the Seljuqs also recovered Antioch.

  Meanwhile, in Spain and Portugal, Christians had begun to reconquer territory from the Moors, and in 1085 the Iberian Latins achieved a deeply symbolic victory, seizing control of Toledo, the ancient Christian capital of Spain. Nevertheless, at this stage, the Latins’ gradual southward expansion seems to have been driven by political and economic stimuli and not religious ideology. The conflict in Iberia did become more heated after 1086, when a fanatical Islamic sect known as the Almoravids invaded Spain from North Africa, supplanting surviving indigenous Moorish power in the peninsula. This new regime reinvigorated Muslim resistance, scoring a number of notable military victories against the Christians of the north. But Almoravid aggression cannot really be said to have sparked the crusades, because the Latin holy wars launched at the end of the eleventh century were directed towards the Levant, not Iberia.