The Professional Soldiers

Between June 971 and July 975 four military expeditions were dispatched from Córdoba. Two of them were deployed in June 971 and June 972 in response to sightings of Viking boats off the Atlantic coast, which stirred up fears the invaders would attack further inland. As it turned out, there was no real threat and, in both cases, the troops returned without having seen action. A very different fate awaited the third of these four military campaigns. In the summer of 972, al-Ḥakam decided to send the greater part of his army across the Straits of Gibraltar to wage war on the North African chieftains who refused to recognise his authority, and whose allegiance was shifting towards support for the Fāṭimid caliphs in what is today northern Morocco. The caliph's decision was the start of a long, costly campaign marred by disasters. Three years later, Andalusi troops were still stationed in the region. Then, in the summer of 975, with part of the army still serving in this challenging Moroccan campaign, another military expedition had to be deployed, this time to the north of the Iberian Peninsula, where a coalition of Christian kings and counts had besieged the fortress of Gormaz, on the upper course of the Duero River.

Four campaigns in four years – one of them essentially a full-blown war – are a lot. They require a well-supplied and organised army, as well as a considerable capacity for recruitment. The Umayyad caliphate of Córdoba had such a capacity, and even improved it throughout this period. Furthermore, this army was not only mobilised on campaigns. It undertook escort missions, the fortification or defence of strategic enclaves, and it also took part in the parades held to mark the caliphate's grand celebrations. Likewise, when someone incurred the caliph's wrath and had to be arrested and imprisoned, soldiers were ordered to make the arrest. In Córdoba, along the frontier, or across the provinces ruled by the qāʼids, the army was a constant presence, albeit not always a welcome one: it provided a clear reminder of the caliphate's coercive capacity, which was exercised openly against foreign enemies, and implicitly against its own subjects.

The Caliphate's Celebrations and Rituals

The early Muslim caliphs scorned the pomp staged by the infidel sovereigns. Although they had become the rulers of an immense empire, these caliphs liked to present themselves as simple people, who lived in modest houses with no other luxuries than the respect and veneration that emanated from their authority. Four centuries after the Hijra, in the mid-tenth century, the situation had changed significantly. The initial rejection of the ostentation of power had given way to a powerful court culture, which had evolved within the caliphal palaces and established complex protocols regulating access to the sovereign, as well as the occasions on which he made formal appearances. In the ‘Abbāsid court there was, for example, a head of protocol, the ṣāḥib al-marātib, who was responsible for ensuring that everyone was correctly placed when the caliph held audiences. In addition to residential quarters, the palaces built in newly-founded cities such as Baghdad, Samarra and Cairo had large audience halls that were used to represent the diverse aspects of caliphal sovereignty, which played a key role in the ‘institutionalization of the court ceremonial’.

In al-Andalus, the institutionalisation of court ceremonial was an especially characteristic feature of the caliphal period, yet it does not seem to have been a feature, or at least not such a prominent one, of the emirate era. During the reign of ‘Abd al-Raḥmān III, when the alcázar of Córdoba was still the main caliphal residence, solemn receptions were held to mark the arrival of embassies or religious feasts. However, following the transfer of the seat of the caliphate to Madīnat al-Zahrāʼ, and especially during the reign of al-Ḥakam II, these ceremonial events became more numerous and complex. Archaeological evidence at Madīnat al-Zahrāʼ supports this claim. It has shown that over the course of the 950s, the new alcázar that had been built between 939 and 941 in the city was extensively remodelled, and these changes were in part intended to intensify the representation of power.

The Viking Danger

The massive military operation undertaken by the Umayyad caliphate in North Africa significantly weakened its capacity to respond to threats that arose on other fronts. One such threat was the Viking attacks, which had been taking place in al-Andalus for a considerable time and were inflicting major damage. Incursions by these Scandinavian pirates – which is what vikingr means in Old Norse, while its feminine form refers to their ’ expedition’ – had begun in the late eighth century using the impressive boats developed by this Norse people, with which they navigated across the Atlantic. Their boats could reach speeds that had never been achieved before, and their remarkable designs permitted them to sail up rivers, as well as transport a significant quantity of troops and provisions. Aside from the longships, which are undoubtedly their best-known vessel, they used other classes of ships, which played a support role and were used for loading and transporting the captives and booty obtained. They were also used to carry the cohorts of warriors that served under leaders – inspired by ideals of a ‘good life’ sailing the seas, fighting and plundering riches – who had invested huge sums in the construction of these ships. One of the places where such riches were to be found in abundance was in the south, in Serkland, the ‘Land of the Saracens’.

In the summer of 844 (229 ah), a Viking squadron formed of fifty-four ships along with a similar number of smaller ships attacked various locations along the north and west of Iberia, including Lisbon. Having then headed south, the squadron sailed up the Guadalquivir River as far as Seville. This was a manoeuvre these Scandinavian pirates frequently used, and they did so at a later date against London and Paris: it consisted of sailing to the mouth of a river and from there navigating upstream to cities where they could pillage greater quantities of booty. This strategy had the further advantage of leaving their rearguard in a safer position as they were able to re-board their ships more swiftly. In Seville, the suddenness of the Viking attack and the delay with which Emir ‘Abd al-Raḥmān II mustered the army allowed the attackers to set up camp undisturbed for forty days.

Floods and Droughts: the Medieval Climatic Anomaly

On 19 February 974 (363 ah), after many days of heavy rain, the River Guadalquivir burst its banks and flooded Córdoba's riverside market, with the floodwater rising above the butchers’ counters. A few weeks later, at the start of April, another rise in the river's level once more inundated these shops. Neither of these episodes resulted in any victims, but a few decades later, in 1010 (401 ah), another flooding of the Guadalquivir is said to have caused hundreds of deaths. When in spate, the river could wreak destruction, as it could rise seven and as much as ten metres above its normal level. Even today, and despite the Guadalquivir being carefully controlled by reservoirs and dams, the city of Córdoba floods when the river's discharge rises above 1,500 cubic metres per second; when it reaches 5,400 cubic metres it causes disaster, as occurred in 1963. Obviously, during the Umayyad caliphate much lower volumes could quite conceivably cause major catastrophes.

Floods, just like droughts, had a considerable impact on the natural order of things in the caliphate of Córdoba: harvests, tax collecting, military campaigns and trading activity were all affected by torrential rain and oppressive droughts. As a result, at the court of al-Ḥakam II the climate, far from being considered a trivial matter, was subject to meticulous study: the weather was recorded on a regular basis, its effects on the harvests were carefully assessed, and, when conditions became severe and struck the people with unexplainable force, the caliph and the religious Muslim leaders prayed to God beseeching him to alleviate the suffering these disasters were causing. Thereby, to counter the unforeseeable nature of the elements, a powerful courtly narrative was fashioned of the Umayyad caliphate as encompassing a predictive capacity that sought to mitigate the consequences of the trials God unleashed on the peoples of al-Andalus.

From the second half of the ninth century (third ah) these trials tended to become more frequent, as extreme climatic conditions increased. This was caused by the beginning of what has been termed the ‘Medieval Climatic Anomaly’, which caused temperatures and rainfall in the Western hemisphere to undergo significant changes.

A History of Two Cities

Between 971 and 975 al-Ḥakam II divided his time between Madīnat al-Zahrā’ and Córdoba. While the city palace was the caliph's main residence, he also spent lengthy periods at the alcázar in Córdoba, travelling frequently between the two places, which were just over five kilometres apart. All the evidence indicates that the sovereign chose to maintain a dual capital, and this is confirmed by ‘Īsā al-Rāzī, who refers to the existence of two capitals (ḥaḍiratayn), both of which had its own ṣāḥib al-madīna and Friday mosque with its prayer leader. However, no qāḍī seems to have been appointed to al-Zahrā’, which demonstrates how the caliph's urban project in the new capital had still not attained its definitive form.

Al-Ḥakam II's continual comings and goings between the two cities came to a brusque end in late November 974 when he suffered a stroke while at Madīnat al-Zahrā’, which meant he had to withdraw from court life and state affairs until mid-January. He remained at the palace-city throughout the winter, which brought snow and strong winds. Then, at the end of March 975, the doctors instructed that he should be transferred to Córdoba, ‘due to his excessive exposure to the cold of the mountains, which they thought would disturb the balance of his humours’. Leaving Madīnat al-Zahrā’, described by the chronicler ‘Īsā al-Rāzī as the ‘lady of palaces, mansion of pleasure and seat of joy’, must have been a very difficult decision. The caliph consulted God and chose to follow the doctors’ advice. According to our author, al-Ḥakam did this ‘not out of hatred, but to take better care of his poor health … so it is, at times, that beauty is disowned albeit not through any fault of her own’. Al-Rāzīʼs words offer an example of the ‘symbolic feminization of place’, a trope Andalusi authors repeatedly made recourse to when referring to topographical landmarks identified with caliphal power.

An Episode of Betrayal

In the summer of 971 (360 ah), while the Fāṭimid court in Ifrīqiya was immersed in preparations for its imminent transfer to Egypt, an event took place that had a series of unexpected consequences. ‘Īsā al-Rāzī offers a highly detailed account of this incident and its repercussions, which in conjunction with information provided by other sources reveals what happened with a degree of detail rarely encountered in this period. The description given of this episode offers a number of insights into the conflict between the Fāṭimids and Umayyads, and, furthermore, elucidates the strategic decisions taken in al Andalus with regard to the political situation in North Africa, decisions that would eventually prove to have been mistaken.

Once the Fāṭimid armies had concluded their takeover of Egypt, and the decision had been taken to transfer the government there, Caliph al-Mu‘izz decided to nominate a governor of Ifrīqiya. He chose Zīrī b. Manād, the leader of the Ṣinhāja tribe and founder of the city of Ashīr, who was mentioned in the previous chapter. The choice of Zīrī dealt a hammer blow to the aspirations harboured by his great rival, Ja‘far b. al-Andalusī, who had settled in al-Masīla, and whose family had always been firm and loyal supporters of the Fāṭimid caliphs. Ja‘far was milk brother to Caliph al-Mu‘izz and had grown up with him, whereby if someone had been well-placed to be appointed as governor of Ifrīqiya following the caliph's departure it was him. Furthermore, Ja‘far was an Arab who had converted the city of al-Masīla into a small court where there was no lack of secretaries or renowned poets, such as the Andalusi Ibn Hānī (d. 973/362 ah), who, undoubtedly due to an excess of enthusiasm, went so far as to compare his patron's court with that of Baghdad. Caliph al-Mu‘izz himself had often praised Ja‘far in the past by pointing out that he ruled over a population consisting of ‘the most savage, stupidest, and simplest people to have ever existed, but God had made them humble thanks to his [Ja‘far’s] policy, worthy of all praise’.

The Fāṭimid Revolution

One Thursday in early January in 910 (Rabi’ II, 297 ah) an event took place that would mark the history of the Mediterranean region for more than two and a half centuries. On that day, Abū Muḥammad ‘Abd Allāh, a man who was said to be a descendant of the Prophet Muḥammad, made his triumphal entry into the city of Qayrawān in Ifrīqiya (in modern Tunisia). Belonging to the Prophet's family was in its own right a badge of distinction, but for many Muslims a further degree of honour was bestowed on those who could trace their descent back to the marriage of the Prophet's daughter, Fāṭima, to one of the most significant and charismatic figures of early Islam: ‘Alī b. Abī Ṭālib, the Prophet's cousin, who had been one of his first and most fervent followers. Hence, it comes as no surprise that the arrival in Qayrawān of someone who claimed to be a direct descendant of this renowned union was greeted by crowds of bystanders hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Observed by throngs of people and accompanied by his son and the troops that had won him a series of resounding military victories, Abū Muḥammad ‘Abd Allāh entered the city, where he was met by the city elders, who gave him a courteous, yet tepid welcome. The following day, a Friday, he issued a lengthy edict in which he proclaimed himself caliph with the title of al-Mahdī, and promised harsh treatment for anyone who dared stand against him, and high hopes for those who placed their trust in the justice he would administer. Thus began the long succession of Fāṭimid caliphs, who governed first in Ifrīqiya and then in Egypt, and went on to establish one of the most important medieval dynasties until its demise in 1171.

The proclamation of al-Mahdī as caliph in 297 of the Hijra, just three years prior to the end of the third century of the Islamic era, was an extraordinary event. All of a sudden much of what many Muslims considered to be certain was called into question, and for a time many became hopeful that major changes were about to take place.

Coercion and Surplus

The use of force pervaded medieval societies, including Islamic ones. Sometimes, this force was exerted physically, which could result in acts of great cruelty, but in the majority of cases the mere allusion to it in everyday life, or its reference in rules and customs, sufficed to ensure that the majority of society accepted the dominance of the minority capable of exercising it. This extra-economic coercion permitted a social minority to control the surplus produced by the majority of the population, or in other words, what was left over once the population had guaranteed both its subsistence and the repetition of the cycles of production and exchange. This coercion was always justified in one way or another by legal or ideological arguments, or simply on the basis of tradition.

The institutional form in which the dominant classes acquired their resources could vary greatly. In many medieval European societies, this often took the form of rent, which included the various forms of payment that peasants, artisans and merchants had to give to feudal lords in recognition of their authority. In contrast, in societies such as al-Andalus, its centralised states captured the surplus in the form of tributes, a combination of taxes levied under different forms and periodically by the state's representatives, which were redistributed in numerous ways among the dominant classes.

The difference between rent and tribute was not qualitative, as the social conditions of those paying feudal dues were not necessarily very different from the conditions of those who paid taxes. In both cases, the surplus was obtained by way of extra-economic coercion, and in both cases the beneficiaries accumulated resources on a scale that was unimaginable to those who provided the surplus. Although it is true that, by demanding tributes from all subjects, tax-based formations differed in principle from those based on rent, in practice this was not always the case, as the dominant classes obtained a range of fiscal exemptions that underscored their social superiority.

The last forty years have represented a kind of golden age for historical research on al-Andalus. The scholarship devoted to this western region of the medieval dār al-Islām has been impressive both in terms of quantity and quality. Arab manuscripts on a wide variety of subjects – from historical chronicles to legal works, from poetry to scientific treatises on disciplines like astronomy, botany or medicine – have been edited and, in some cases, translated. Evidence hitherto considered as intractable, like the thousands of profiles of Muslim scholars included in biographical dictionaries, has been systematised and analysed by long-term projects like the Historia de los Autores y Transmisores Andalusíes (HATA), the Biblioteca de al-Andalus or the Prosopografía de los ulemas de al-Andalus, all of them easily accessible online. New research has also entailed the publication of a good amount of new Arab inscriptions, including those carved on stone or plaster, and also those embroidered in textiles, or engraved on metalwork or even rings. Numismatists have produced coin catalogues, as well as accurate descriptions of hoards and stray finds that have fostered detailed studies on minting and coinage circulation. On top of that, archaeology has made significant breakthroughs during these years, as regular campaigns have been undertaken at certain sites, rescue excavations, despite all their downsides, have managed to provide significant data, and analyses of materials have unveiled unexpected patterns of production, distribution and use of pottery, glass and other items.

All this activity has resulted in an exponential growth in our knowledge and understanding of the political, social and cultural processes that unfolded in Islamic Iberia. However, this exciting and novel scholarship has not always had the impact it deserves on the field of Islamic medieval history. This is partly for an objective reason: al-Andalus was a peripheral area, very distant from the main centres where classical Islam took shape. Arab geographers described it as an island (jazīra) detached from the rest of the dār al-Islām by the sea and by the frontier or thagr that demarcated the Christian lands.

The Umayyad sovereigns of al-Andalus resided at the very centre of Córdoba in a palace called Alcázar, just in front of the city's celebrated main mosque. The events that took place in this palace, and especially matters of a private nature, were rarely divulged to the subjects living outside its high walls and closely-guarded gates, as the Umayyad rulers zealously protected their intimacy. Luckily, however, there were always gossips on hand to recount intriguing stories to whoever wanted to listen to them, and likewise, even more fortunately, on rare occasions some of these stories were heard by someone who chose to write them down, and thus allowed them to survive the oblivion wrought by the passage of time.

One of the most interesting stories of the Umayyad alcázar was told by a certain Ṭalāl, a palace eunuch, who was in charge of the harem and was famed for his intelligence and trustworthiness. According to Ṭalāl, following a pleasant afternoon in the alcázar gardens in the company of his female slaves, the Emir ‘Abd al-Raḥmān III decided that he would spend that night with his wife, Fāṭima, the highest-ranking woman in his harem, as she was his paternal cousin and therefore also belonged to the Umayyad lineage. When a servant informed Fāṭima that she should make the necessary preparations to go to the emir's chambers and spend the night with him, the rest of the women of the harem congratulated and complimented her in every way. The most effusive display of good will was made by one of the emir's concubines, Marjān, a slave of Christian origin and a fierce rival of Fāṭima. Her many felicitations for having obtained the privilege of spending the night with the emir began to vex the caliph's wife, who sought to play down the event's significance by revealing that their encounters were no longer as passionate as before, whereby the matter did not merit such a fuss. Marjān nonetheless persisted. She even went so far as to say that, in exchange for the privilege of spending the night with ‘Abd al-Raḥmān, she would give away all she had, apart from the dress she was wearing. The haughty Fāṭima swallowed the bait: was Marjān really prepared to pay any price for the opportunity of spending the night with the emir?

The Caliph as a Good Ruler

Al-Ḥakam II ruled over al-Andalus because, in addition to other factors, he belonged to the Umayyad dynasty, one of the oldest and most illustrious Arab families. In the aftermath of the Prophet Muḥammad's preaching, his ancestors were recognised as caliphs and the major Arab conquests were carried out during their reign. As caliph and a descendant of caliphs, al-Ḥakam was living proof of the impressive survival of a dynasty that had resisted the ravages of time and, despite having been on the point of annihilation on various occasions, had managed to restore itself amid great splendour on the far western edge of the Islamic world. For many, the Umayyads’ endurance must have seemed a clear sign that their dynasty was under divine protection.

Not everyone could make the same claim. Around the time al-Ḥakam II was ruling in Córdoba, the ‘Abbāsid caliphs survived in Baghdad under the protection of the Buwayhids, a family of military leaders of humble Iranian origins, who had seized power in the caliphate's capital despite their well-known Shī‘ī faith. When the Buwayhids took control of Baghdad in 946 (334 ah), they even considered killing the ‘Abbāsid caliph so they could replace him with a descendant of ‘Alī b. Abī Ṭālib and thereby fulfil the principal aim of Shī‘ī doctrine. However, the sage advice they received from one of their supporters dissuaded them taking this step: ‘While you have to deal with a caliph that neither you nor your followers consider a legitimate sovereign, you can order someone to kill him at any time, it being deemed licit to spill his blood. Yet, if you raise to the throne a descendant of ‘Alī, whom you and your followers consider as having the right to the caliphate, he could induce one of your followers to kill you.’ This advice saved the ‘Abbāsids. Shut up in their palace with a pension assigned to them – one that tended to decrease as the years went by – the ‘Abbāsid caliphs gradually lost all trace of the power once wielded by their ancestors. What is more, they had to undergo humiliations such as having to leave the city to welcome the Buwayhid emir on his return from expeditions.

The State and its Problems

In English, the word ‘sultan’ means ‘a prince or king's son, a high officer’. According to Arabic dictionaries, the word derives from a root meaning to possess or exercise power through the use of ‘coercion’. The title ‘sulṭān’ was in fact one that many medieval governors began to adopt from the eleventh century (fifth ah) onwards to distinguish their temporal power from the exclusively religious authority exercised by the caliphs in the Near East, albeit increasingly in name only. Around that time, Islamic political theory had assimilated the idea that the caliphate was not the only possible form of government and that other sovereigns, using titles such as that of ‘sulṭān’, were also capable of protecting the interests of the Islamic community.

However, prior to the eleventh century, Arabic authors in general, and Andalusi ones in particular, were already using the term sulṭān on a frequent basis. During the caliphal era reference is made, for example, to the sulṭān's army (‘askar al-sulṭān), the appointment of a governor of the sulṭān (‘āmil al-sulṭān), or someone serving as the sulṭān's emissary (rasūl al-sulṭān). In all these cases, sulṭān was not a title, as the word was still not used in that sense, but it referred to the power incarnated in the caliph, and that flowed from him. So, for example, when al-Ḥakam II fell mortally ill in 976 (366 ah), we are told that the vizier Ja‘far b. ‘Uthmān al-Muṣḥafī took care of his sulṭān (yudabbiru sulṭāna-hu). Many other examples confirm this: at the end of the ninth century (third ah) during the era of the fitna of the emirate, one group of rebels wanted to restore obedience to the centralised power of Córdoba and claimed they did so ‘to uphold the old bonds that they and their ancestors had had with the sulṭān in times of rectitude’; at one of the receptions held at Madīnat al-Zahrāʼ, the road to this city palace was filled with people from the suburbs of Córdoba, to whom the sulṭān had granted arms; and finally, the Idrīsids, who ruled over enclaves in North Africa, were concerned about the extension of Andalusi power (sulṭān al-Andalus).