Conversion and Islam in the Early

Modern Mediterranean

The topic of religious conversion into and out of Islam as a historical phe-
nomenon is mired in a sea of debate and misunderstanding. It has often been
viewed as the permanent crossing of not just a religious divide, but in the
context of the early modern Mediterranean also political, cultural and geo-
graphic boundaries. Reading between the lines of a wide variety of sources,
however, suggests that religious conversion between Christianity, Judaism
and Islam often had a more pragmatic and prosaic aspect that constituted a
form of cultural translation and a means of establishing communal belong-
ing through the shared, and often contested articulation of religious identi-
ties. The chapters in this volume do not view religion simply as a specific
set of orthodox beliefs and strict practices to be adopted wholesale by the
religious individual or convert. Rather, they analyse conversion as the acqui-
sition of a set of historically contingent social practices, which facilitated
the process of social, political or religious acculturation. Exploring the role
conversion played in the fabrication of cosmopolitan Mediterranean identi-
ties, the volume examines the idea of the convert as a mediator and transla-
tor between cultures. Drawing upon a diverse range of research areas and
linguistic skills, the volume utilises primary sources in Ottoman, Persian,
Arabic, Latin, German, Hungarian and English within a variety of genres
including religious tracts, diplomatic correspondence, personal memoirs,
apologetics, historical narratives, official documents and commands, legal
texts and court records, and religious polemics. As a result, the collection
provides readers with theoretically informed, new research on the subject
of conversion to or from Islam in the early modern Mediterranean world.

Claire Norton is Reader in History at St Mary’s University, Twickenham.

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Conversion and Islam in the
Early Modern Mediterranean
The Lure of the Other

Edited by Claire Norton

First published 2017
by Routledge
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and by Routledge
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Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa
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© 2017 selection and editorial matter, Claire Norton; individual
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The right of Claire Norton to be identified as the author of the
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British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Norton, Claire, Dr., editor.
Title: Conversion and Islam in the early modern Mediterranean : the
lure of the other / edited by Claire Norton.
Description: 1st [edition]. | New York : Routledge, 2017. |
Series: Routledge research in early modern history | Includes
bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016045582 (print) | LCCN 2016051275 (ebook) |
ISBN 9781472457226 (alk. paper) | ISBN 9781315574189
Subjects: LCSH: Conversion—Islam. | Islam—Mediterranean Region—
History. | Conversion. | Mediterranean Region—Religion—History.
Classification: LCC BP170.5. C66 2017 (print) | LCC BP170.5
(ebook) | DDC 297.5/7409—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016045582
ISBN: 978-1-4724-5722-6 (hbk)
ISBN: 978-1-315-57418-9 (ebk)
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Contents

List of Figuresvii
Contributorsviii
Acknowledgementsxi

Introduction1
CLAIRE NORTON

PART 1
Trans-imperial subjects: geo-political spatialities, political
advancement and conversion7

1 Trans-imperial nobility: the case of Carlo Cigala

(1556–1631) 9
TOBIAS P. GRAF

2 Conversion under the threat of arms: converts and

renegades during the war for Crete (1645–1669) 30
DOMAGOJ MADUNIĆ

3 Conversion to Islam (and sometimes a return to

Christianity) in Safavid Persia in the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries 50
GIORGIO ROTA

4 Danube-hopping: conversion, jurisdiction and spatiality

between the Ottoman Empire and the Danubian
principalities in the seventeenth century 77
MICHAŁ WASIUCIONEK
vi Contents
PART 2
Fashioning identities: conversion and the threat to self101

5 The early modern convert as “public property”: a typology

of turning 103
PALMIRA BRUMMETT

6 The moment of choice: the Moriscos on the border of

Christianity and Islam 129
HOUSSEM EDDINE CHACHIA

7 ‘Saving a slave, saving a soul’: the rhetoric of losing the true

faith in seventeenth-century Italian textual and
visual sources 155
ROSITA D’AMORA

PART 3
Translating the self: devotion, hybridity and religious
conversion179

8 Antitrinitarians and conversion to Islam: Adam Neuser

reads Murad b. Abdullah in Ottoman Istanbul 181
MARTIN MULSOW

9 The many languages of the self in the early modern

Mediterranean: Anselm Turmeda/‘Abdallāh Al-Turjumān
(1355–1423) – Friar, Muslim convert and translator 194
ELISABETTA BENIGNI
Figures

1.1 Map of the Mediterranean 10

2.1 Map of the Eastern Adriatic 31
5.1 Thomas Cross, Rigep Dandulo, 144 mm × 87 mm, line
engraving, mid-17th century 105
6.1 Map of the Morisco Localities in Tunisia 132
6.2 Mihrab of the Great Mosque of Testour 142
6.3 Star of David on the minaret of the Great Mosque of Testour 143
7.1 Giacomo Farelli, Il riscatto degli schiavi, 1672, Church
of Santa Maria della Mercede e Sant’Alfonso Maria de’
Liguori, Naples 163
7.2 Paolo Biancucci, La Vergine che protegge la Nazione
lucchese, 1620–1630, Church of San Leonardo in Borghi,
Lucca166
7.3 Frontispiece, Catalogus Captivorum Christianorum,
quos Provincia S. Josephi, Ordinis Discalceatorum SSS.
Trinitatis De Redemptione Captivorum, Erecta Ditionibus
Haereditariis Augustissimae Domus Austriacae, Ab
Anno 1777 usque ad Annum 1780, tum Africanis in öris
praecipue Algerii, Mascherae & Tripoli; tum in Turcia
Europaea & Asiatica, aut percolato litro nativa liberati
restituit, aut pecunariis subsidiis ad eam recuperandam
adjuvit, Viennae, Litteris Schulzianis [1780] 167
Contributors

The editor
Claire Norton is Reader in History at St Mary’s University, Twickenham.
She works on early modern Ottoman history, particularly instances of cul-
tural transfer and interaction among communities living in border areas
and other liminal spaces. She is interested in the complexities of identity
formation and the role past-focused narratives have in this process, subjects
that are explored in her forthcoming book Plural Pasts: Power, Identity,
and the Ottoman Sieges of Nagykanizsa. She has edited a number of books
including The Renaissance and the Ottoman World (ed. with A. Contadini)
(2013); Nationalism, Historiography and the (Re)Construction of the Past
(2007). She has also written extensively on the theory of history including
Doing History (2011) with Mark Donnelly.

The contributors
Elisabetta Benigni is Assistant Professor of Arabic and Mediterranean Liter-
ature at the University of Turin. Her research explores South European and
Arabic literary and intellectual encounters during the pre-colonial and colo-
nial periods. She was a fellow of the Italian Academy, Columbia University
and of the research programme “Zukunftsphilologie: Revisiting the Canons
of Textual Scholarship”, Freie Universität Berlin. Her publications include
studies on Arabic translations and readings of Dante and Machiavelli in the
nineteenth and twentieth century. She has also published on Italian transla-
tions of The Thousand and One Nights against the backdrop of the Italian
colonial history of Libya. She is currently completing a monograph on mod-
ern Arabic prison literature.

Palmira Brummett is Professor Emerita of History at the University of

Tennessee and Visiting Professor of History at Brown University. Her
work assesses the rhetorics of cross-cultural interaction in the Ottoman
and Mediterranean worlds. Her publications include: Ottoman Seapower
and Levantine Diplomacy in the Age of Discovery (Albany, NY: S.U.N.Y.
 Contributors ix
Press, 1994); Image and Imperialism in the Ottoman Revolutionary Press,
1908–1911 (Albany, NY: S.U.N.Y. Press, 2000); The ‘Book’ of Travels:
Genre, Ethnology and Pilgrimage, 1250–1700 (Leiden: Brill, 2009); Map-
ping the Ottomans: Sovereignty, Territory, and Identity in the Early Mod-
ern Mediterranean (Cambridge: CUP, 2015) and numerous articles on
Ottoman, Mediterranean and world history.

Houssem Eddin Chachia obtained his PhD in 2014 from the University of
Tunis. His thesis was titled “The Sephardim and the Moriscos: The Journey
of expulsion and installation in the Maghreb (1492–1756), stories and itin-
eraries”. He is now a researcher on the “Regions and Resources of Herit-
age in Tunisia” project at the University of Manouba (Tunisia). He mainly
works on minorities in the Mediterranean, particularly the expulsion from
Iberia of the Sephardi Jewish community (Spanish and Portuguese Jews) and
the Moriscos community. He is interested in the processes and complexities
of identity formation and religious conversion.

Rosita D’Amora is Lecturer of Turkish Language and Culture at the Univer-

sity of Salento, Lecce, Italy. Her research ranges from Ottoman social history
to contemporary Turkish literature and, most recently, to the investigation
of gender, religious and cultural differences and borders in Ottoman and
Turkish literary and historical sources. She is also interested in the politics
of representation in Ottoman society, especially the role played by dress and
headgear in the articulation and negotiation of different identities. She is the
author of a Turkish grammar and of a number of articles exploring cultural
exchanges between the Ottoman Empire and Europe during the seventeenth
and eighteenth centuries. She has also translated into Italian several Turkish
authors such as Sabahattin Ali, Yusuf Atılgan and Mehmet Yashin.

Tobias P. Graf is a Research Associate in Early Modern History at Hei-

delberg University and an Associate Member of the Cluster of Excellence
“Asia and Europe in a Global Context”. He read history at the University
of Cambridge before pursuing a PhD in Heidelberg under the auspices of
the interdisciplinary research group “Dynamic Asymmetries in Transcul-
tural Flows at the Intersection of Asia and Europe: The Case of the Early
Modern Ottoman Empire”. Graf’s interests in the conversion to Islam of
European Christians and the deep entanglements between the Ottoman
Empire and Christian Europe have resulted in The Sultan’s Renegades:
Christian-European Converts to Islam and the Making of the Ottoman
Elite, 1575–1610 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, forthcoming). His cur-
rent research focuses on Austrian-Habsburg foreign intelligence during the
reign of Emperor Maximilian II.

Domagoj Madunić (PhD in History, 2012, from Central European Univer-

sity Budapest), is an associate member of the project: “Military Life and
x Contributors
Warrior Images In the Croatian Border Territory from 16th century to
1918”, at the Croatian Institute for History in Zagreb (ISP). He is also a
visiting lecturer at Zagreb University and Dubrovnik University. His articles
cover various early modern military topics, mainly focusing on the Venetian
defensive system in the Adriatic during the War for Crete and the Republic
of Ragusa (Dubrovnik). He is currently preparing a book on the Republic of
Ragusa in the context of the tributary states of the Ottoman Empire.

Martin Mulsow is Professor for Intellectual History at the University of

Erfurt and director of the Gotha Research Center for Early Modern Stud-
ies. From 2005–2008, he was professor of history at Rutgers University in
the United States. Mulsow has published numerous books on Renaissance
philosophy, the Enlightenment, the history of scholarship and clandestine
literature including, most recently, Prekäres Wissen. Eine andere Ideenge-
schichte der Frühen Neuzeit (Berlin: Suhrkamp, 2012) and Enlightenment
Underground. Radical Germany 1680–1720 (Charlottesville: University of
Virginia Press, 2015). He was a member of the Institute for Advanced Study
in Princeton and the Wissenschaftskolleg in Berlin and is a fellow of the
Sächsische Akademie der Wissenschaften.

Giorgio Rota received his PhD from the Istituto Universitario Orientale
(Naples) in 1996. Since 2003, he has been at the Institute for Iranian Stud-
ies of the Austrian Academy of Sciences (currently as Senior Researcher).
He also held visiting professorships at the universities of Trieste, Bolo-
gna, Munich and at the Ecole Pratique des Hautes Études (Paris). His
main field of research is the military and political history of Safavid Persia
(1501–1736), with a particular focus on the ghulams, the so-called slave
members of the army and administration who were mostly of Caucasian
origin and often Christians converted to Islam: he has written several arti-
cles on the subject. He is also the author of Under Two Lions: On the
Knowledge of Persia in the Republic of Venice (ca. 1450–1797) and La
Vita e i Tempi di Rostam Khan (edizione e traduzione italiana del Ms. Brit-
ish Library Add 7,655) (both Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie
der Wissenschaften, 2009).

Michał Wasiucionek is a Postdoctoral Fellow at the New Europe College –

the Institute for Advanced Study in Bucharest, as a member in the ERC
project Luxury, Fashion, and Social Status in Early Modern South-Eastern
Europe (LuxFaSS). He obtained his PhD in 2016 from the European Uni-
versity Institute in Florence. His research examines cross-border patronage
networks in early modern Polish-Moldavian-Ottoman relations. He has
published extensively on the role of the Danubian principalities and their
elites in seventeenth-century Eastern Europe, as well as other ceremonial
practices in regional diplomacy. Currently, he is working on luxury con-
sumption, space and social boundaries within the Danubian principalities
and the Ottoman Empire.
Acknowledgements

This volume developed from a conference The Lure of the Other: Conver-
sion and Reversion in the Early Modern Mediterranean held at St Mary’s
University, Twickenham in June 2013. I would like to thank everyone who
helped with the organisation of the conference. In particular, I am grateful
to St Mary’s University and the Society for Renaissance Studies for provid-
ing generous grants that supported the event. I would also like to thank all
the participants who gave papers and contributed to the interesting discus-
sions we had both after the individual panels and during the coffee and
lunch breaks – it made the conference a very enjoyable experience. Lastly
my thanks go to the anonymous reader(s) and to the editorial team at Ash-
gate for their support for the volume and for making the publication process
as painless as it can be.
Introduction
Claire Norton

Religious conversion has often been viewed as the permanent crossing of,
not just a religious divide, but in the early modern Mediterranean also polit-
ical, cultural and geographic boundaries. Although conversion is frequently
interpreted in terms of the active spiritual conviction of the convert, the
paradigm of religious conversion as solely engendered by a self-conscious
psychological and spiritual conviction is problematic in such a context as
religious practice was not necessarily viewed as an entity separate from one’s
identity and sense of communal belonging. Reading between the lines of a
wide variety of sources suggests that religious conversion between Chris-
tianity, Judaism and Islam in the early modern Mediterranean often had a
more pragmatic and prosaic aspect in that it constituted a form of cultural
translation and a means of establishing communal belonging through the
shared, and often contested articulation of religious identities.
Following on from some recent ground-breaking work on early mod-
ern conversion the chapters in this volume take an approach to religious
conversion that does not view religion solely as a specific set of orthodox
beliefs and strict practices to be adopted indiscriminatingly by the religious
individual or convert. Instead the chapters in this volume analyse conver-
sion as the acquisition of a set of historically contingent social practices,
which facilitated a process of social, political or religious acculturation
and which did not necessitate a comprehensive relinquishing of previous
identities. Moving beyond the normative cultural, geo-political and reli-
gious divisions that can delineate scholarship of the early modern Medi-
terranean, many of the contributors explore the role conversion played in
the fabrication of cosmopolitan Mediterranean identities and examine the
idea of the convert as a mediator or translator between cultures: a “trans-
imperial subject”.
The chapters in the first section explore the complex, but often flexible,
confessional and communal allegiances and loyalties of Mediterranean-
based trans-imperial subjects. Their crossings of geo-political and religious
boundaries in search of advancement or to escape difficult situations both
reify spatialities of conversion and illustrate networks of interconnected
2 Claire Norton
commercial, familial and diplomatic relationships. Tobias Graf approaches
the early modern Mediterranean as an intersectional, symbiotic space in his
exploration of the workings of Mediterranean cross-border, trans-imperial
networks and the role that converts played in bridging geographical, polit-
ical and religious boundaries. He focuses on the case of Carlo Cigala, a
member of one of Genoa’s oldest noble families and a subject of the King
of Spain, who sought to mobilise his trans-imperial familial connection in
his attempts at social advancement. His brother, Ciğalazade Yusuf Sinan
Paşa, a convert to Islam and high-ranking Ottoman official, in his capac-
ity as admiral of the Ottoman fleet, sought to facilitate the appointment of
Carlo Cigala to the Ottoman sancak of the Duchy of Naxos, demonstrating
the role of converts in mediating and facilitating trans-imperial networks of
patronage.
In contrast, Domagoj Madunić analyses conversion during a time of con-
flict, in this case the seventeenth-century Venetian–Ottoman war for Crete
(1645–1669). Focusing on a number of case studies of conversion from the
Adriatic frontier zone, he argues that, during war, conversion could be a
survival strategy to save one’s life, escape captivity or avoid forced labour in
the galleys. His discussion of the case of Fra Giorgio who converted to Islam
under threat of impalement foregrounds the complexity of early modern
political relationships and the importance of familial networks that tran-
scended religious and communal boundaries. Fra Giorgio’s sister was the
wife of the Pasha of Herzegovina and, as a result of her intercession, a
fetwa was issued annulling his conversion as contrary to Islamic law as it
was made under duress. Madunić’s second example demonstrates that con-
version motivated by self-preservation could also provide opportunities for
personal advancement. Conte Vojin, a Montenegrin chieftain based on the
Adriatic frontier, oscillated in his military and political support for the Vene-
tians or Ottomans depending on how the war was progressing. Conversion
was one of the strategies at his disposal that he employed to gain access to
resources or demonstrate his loyalty. Embracing Catholicism in order to
advance his career in the Venetian army, when captured by the Ottomans in
1649, he converted to Islam, took the name Cafer Ağa and then, as a mem-
ber of the Ottoman military-administrative structure, became a staunch
enemy of the Venetians. Eventually events would catch up with Cafer Ağa
and, having alienated both Christian and Muslim communities along the
frontier, he was killed by a chieftain of one of the competing Montenegrin
clans and his head was delivered to Venice.
Giorgio Rota focuses on conversion in the context of the Safavid Empire.
In particular, he examines the complex interrelationship between Geor-
gian vassal rulers, their Safavid and Ottoman overlords, conversion and
political advancement. He explains how, in the sixteenth century, conver-
sion to or from Shiite or Sunni Islam was employed by members of the
Georgian administrative and military elite as a means of obtaining political
 Introduction 3
and military support from the Shah or the Sultan respectively. Among the
various individuals that Rota details, he examines the case of the Georgian
Giorgo Saak’adze whose shifts in political and military allegiance between
Georgia, Safavid Persia and the Ottoman Empire were accompanied by con-
comitant spatial and religious translocations. His moves to avoid enemies
or seek personal advantage entailed his repeated conversion to and from
Christianity and Shiite and Sunni Islam.
Michał Wasiucionek too is interested in the spatial component of conver-
sion. He concentrates on the spatial movements of the boyar elite to and
from the Danubian principalities of Wallachia and Moldavia that accompa-
nied their religious conversions which were largely motivated by political,
economic or judicial concerns. These cases of Ottoman non-Muslim subjects
(zimmi) who turned Muslim and then turned non-Muslim illustrate an inter-
esting variation in Ottoman cartographies of sovereignty and jurisdictional
control. Although the Danubian principalities of Wallachia and Moldovia
were an integral part of the Islamic Ottoman Empire, Wasiucionek demon-
strates how the boyar elite north of the Danube were able to maintain the
Christian identity of the socio-legal and geographical landscape by exclud-
ing converts from both the socio-political life of the principalities and from
inheriting land or assets despite their generally tolerant and pragmatic view
towards conversion to Islam by their compatriots.
The chapters in the second section explore the ontologically (de)stabilis-
ing affect that the practical integration of converts into an existing religious
community could have on early modern communities as well as the more
abstract threats that conversion could pose. Palmira Brummett is interested
in conversion as a process, one in which identities are layered or interleaved
together and that can ‘be fast or slow; voluntary or coerced; complete or
incomplete; “permanent” chronic, temporary, illusory; “real” or rhetorical’.
She explores the legitimising utility of public conversions or ‘turning’ and
the variety of ways it has been employed to project and reinforce identities.
She illustrates her argument through an analysis of a series of conversion
narratives to and from Islam including that of Philip Dandulo, a “borne
Turk” who converted to Christianity in 1657 and whose story was the sub-
ject of a very popular pamphlet entitled The Baptized Turk, by Thomas
Warmstry D.D.
Houssem Eddine Chachia explores how Iberian Moriscos both before and
after their expulsion from Iberia occupied a liminal space as new converts
and cultural minorities: first as new, Arabic-speaking Christians in Spain
following their forced baptism throughout the sixteenth century and then
in the early seventeenth century as new Spanish-speaking Muslims in the
Maghreb. Reading letters and texts by Moriscos as well as Inquisition docu-
ments, he discusses how they imagined and negotiated identities to either
facilitate their integration into the cultural and religious life of the Maghreb
or to argue for their status as Spanish Christians in Spain.
4 Claire Norton
Rosita D’Amora explores the rhetoric surrounding the ransoming activi-
ties of Christian captives by various Christian religious orders and charita-
ble organisations. In institutional texts, captives’ letters and the narratives
of returned captives, the literary trope of saving Christian souls from the
threat of conversion to Islam and eternal damnation through the provi-
sion of ransoms for captives is prevalent. D’Amora analyses this trope
in a series of paintings, arguing that such images represent an important
visual counterpart to the various written texts on captivity and illustrate
the dangerous ontological implications of conversion to Islam for early
modern audiences.
The third section delineates the self-fashioning undertaken by converts
themselves, and views conversion as a process by which multiple selves are
interpolated and interwoven together rather than the simple substitution of
religious subjectivities. Mulsow and Benigni analyse the hybrid and syncretic
nature of religious conversion and devotional practices in the early modern
Mediterranean and the ways that converts adopted, adapted and translated
the religious traditions in which they participated. Martin Mulsow explores
the self-fashioning of the Protestant, Antitrinitarian Heidelberg minister and
convert to Islam, Adam Neuser, in the context of his recent discovery of
some hitherto unknown papers of Neuser’s in the Gotha Research Library.
Mulsow argues that the Gotha papers essentially constitute fragments of
Neuser’s Apologia: an explanation of both his philosophical arguments and
his actions in converting to Islam. Focusing on the cryptographic marginalia
of the Gotha fragments and the theologian Jacob Palaeologus’ account of
a debate he had with Neuser concerning arguments for the superiority of
Islam outlined in Murad ibn Abdullah’s Guide for one’s turning towards
God Mulsow examines the hybrid persona that Neuser fashioned in Istan-
bul. Here he was both a Muslim loyal to the Ottoman court, and a “Chris-
tian” still in contact with his friends and colleagues in western Europe.
He was a scholar who was not only working on a Latin translation of the
Qur’an, but was seeking to translate both Christian and Islamic doctrine in
order to reconstruct an Islamic Christianity – the perfect synthesis between
both religions.
Elisabetta Benigni also investigates the complex identities fashioned by
a convert to Islam, ʾAbdallāh al-Turjumān (Anselm Turmeda), through his
Arabic and Catalan writings. Turmeda was a fifteenth-century Franciscan
friar and renowned Catalan poet who converted to Islam and moved to
Tunis where he authored a first-person conversion narrative and polemical
treatise on the superiority of Islam entitled Tuḥfat al-Adīb. Like Neuser,
ʾAbdallāh al-Turjumān appears to have been committed to his new faith and
he also retained a complicated relationship with Christianity and his former
Christian identity. Indeed, even after his conversion and move to Tunis, he
continued to author works in Catalan directed at an implied Christian audi-
ence in which he openly recommended belief in the Trinity and the Catholic
 Introduction 5
Church. The juxtaposition of his authorship of a polemical text in Arabic
that condemned the concept of the Trinity and criticised the four Gospels
as mendacious with Catalan works promoting the Trinity has led some
scholars to accuse him of duplicity and a lack of sincerity in his religious
beliefs. In contrast, Benigni explores al-Turjumān’s conversion as a process
of self-translation through inclusion in the context of a fluid early modern
Mediterranean world that facilitated the imagination of a “multiplication
of identities”.
Part 1

Trans-imperial subjects
Geo-political spatialities, political
advancement and conversion
1 Trans-imperial nobility
The case of Carlo Cigala
(1556–1631)1
Tobias P. Graf

Introduction
On 15 Rebiülahir in the year 1007 after the Hijra (12 November 1598),
Sultan Mehmed III issued a certificate of appointment (berat) to a certain
‘Carlo Cigala who lives in Messina’. According to the sultan’s orders, the
man was ‘to bring, without delay and hesitation, . . . [his] mother and [to]
go to the . . . Duchy of Naxos and enjoy and govern it in . . . [his] lifetime’.2
Messina, of course, was not part of the sultan’s ‘well-protected domains’, nor
was Cigala one of his subjects. This imperial command, therefore, presents
somewhat of a puzzle. Why would Mehmed III appoint a foreigner – and a
subject of his greatest rival in the Mediterranean, the king of Spain, at that –
to what was nominally a vassal state, yet effectively a sancak of the Otto-
man Empire? Taking Carlo Cigala’s appointment to the Duchy of Naxos
as a starting point, this article examines the links between members of the
Cigala family and the Ottoman Empire. I argue that, at least as far as Carlo
was concerned, Christendom’s “archenemy” had a crucial role to play in
his quest for social advancement. In fact, Carlo aspired to be, and indeed
considered himself to be, part of a trans-imperial nobility.3
To begin, however, it would be prudent to briefly comment on the main
source for Carlo Cigala’s appointment to the Duchy of Naxos since the
quotation from the berat is taken, not from an Ottoman original, but from
an Italian translation preserved in the archives in Venice. At first glance, this
may make the information rather spurious. Yet Joshua White, who has had
the chance to compare a number of copies and translations of Ottoman doc-
uments from this period preserved in Venice to their originals in Istanbul,
has concluded that the Venetian material is generally faithful and therefore
reliable.4 In this particular instance, the genuineness of the sultan’s order is
supported by the close correspondence of the Italian text to Ottoman diplo-
matics which, in fact, makes it possible to classify the command as a berat
in the first place. Phrases such as ‘give faith to my imperial seal’, with which
the body of the document ends, are commonplace elements to authenticate
the document and affirm its validity.5 While this does not preclude the pos-
sibility that the berat kept in Venice is a forgery that is very unlikely, all
the more so since the translation is contained among the dispatches of the
10 Tobias P. Graf

Figure 1.1 Map of the Mediterranean

Source: Drawn by the author using geographical data provided by Natural Earth.

Venetian baili in Istanbul who stood to gain nothing from spreading false
rumour in this case.

The Cigala family

The Cigalas were one of Genoa’s old noble families. Carlo’s father Visconte
had been born in the city in 1504 but later relocated to Messina. The Sicil-
ian port was an ideal basis of operations for Christian corsairs like Visconte
who targeted Muslim shipping. Apart from undertaking private raids in the
Mediterranean, Carlo’s father on several occasions sailed with the famous
admiral Andrea Doria and participated in Charles V’s naval campaigns in
North Africa and against the Ottomans. The Cigala family also maintained
close connections to the Vatican. While Visconte’s brother achieved the
rank of a cardinal, two of his nephews by another brother joined the Jesu-
its.6 He himself had two daughters and three sons, of whom Carlo was the
youngest.7
By the time Mehmed III issued the ferman for Carlo’s appointment to the
Duchy of Naxos, the latter enjoyed considerable social standing in his own
right. His wife Beatrice de Guidici was the daughter of a Messinese baron
 The case of Carlo Cigala 11
and, according to the Venetian bailo Matteo Zane, by the early 1590s, Carlo
was the recipient of ‘a pension of five hundred scudi annually’ from the king
of Spain.8 In 1597, moreover, the Sicilian had been granted the title of count
by the Holy Roman Emperor Rudolf II.9
In Carlo’s efforts to further enhance his prestige as much as that of his
family, his elder brother played a crucial role. For, when the sultan saw fit
to promote the younger Cigala in the Aegean, Carlo’s brother, who had
been named Scipione by their parents, was none other than the Ottoman
kapudan paşa, the admiral of the Ottoman fleet, Ciğalazade Yusuf Sinan
Pasha. Most probably born in 1544, Scipione Cigala was seventeen years
old when he and his father were captured at sea by Maghrebi corsairs in
1561, one year after the disastrous defeat of the Spanish fleet at Djerba.
The two men were brought first to Tunis and then to Istanbul where Vis-
conte Cigala was imprisoned in the fortress of Yedikule while Scipione
converted to Islam and entered the school of Topkapı Palace.10 Admission
to the school destined him for a prestigious career in Ottoman state ser-
vice and made his subsequent professional biography virtually indistin-
guishable from those of illustrious recruits of the devşirme, the infamous
‘boy levy’, such as Sokollu Mehmed Pasha.11 Less than two years after
his graduation from the inner palace in 1573, he was appointed agha of
the janissaries. He received his first provincial governorship, in Basra,
after the outbreak of war with Safavid Iran in 1578.12 In the following
years, he distinguished himself on the Eastern battlefield, notably in the
conquest of Tabriz during the campaign of 1585.13 As early as 1579, he
briefly assumed command of the Ottoman forces in the East when the
current commander-in-chief (serdar), Grand Vizier Lala Mustafa Pasha,
was summoned to Istanbul.14 In recognition of his services, Ciğalazade
Yusuf Sinan Pasha was promoted to the rank of vizier in 1583. As the
war with Iran drew to a close after thirteen years of fighting, he finally
secured the appointment which he had desired for years: the office of the
kapudan paşa.15
When Mehmed III succeeded to the throne after Murad III’s death in
1595, the Italian-born admiral was dismissed as part of the usual reshuffling
of positions in the Ottoman administration which accompanied a new sul-
tan’s accession.16 In the following year, still out of office, he accompanied the
sultan on campaign in Hungary where the so-called Long War with the Aus-
trian Habsburgs had broken out in the summer of 1593. This campaign saw
not only the conquest of the fortress of Eger (German: Erlau, Turkish: Eğri)
by Ottoman troops, but also, in its aftermath, the effective routing of the
Ottoman camp on the nearby plain of Mezőkeresztes. By several accounts,
Ciğalazade Yusuf Sinan Pasha played a crucial role in turning the tide of bat-
tle at the last minute, as a reward for which he was appointed grand vizier.
However, owing to palace intrigues as well as the harsh treatment of alleged
deserters, he was relieved of his duties after little more than a month.17
Subsequently, he was posted first to Damascus and finally reappointed to
12 Tobias P. Graf
the kapudanlık in 1598. This time, he remained in office even when Ahmed
I succeeded to the throne in December 1603.18 When the Italian-born pasha
was removed from his post the following year, it was because his talents as
a military commander were once again required in the Eastern provinces
where a new war with Iran had broken out.19 He died during that campaign
in 1606.20
During his lifetime as well as in the memory of later generations,
Ciğalazade Yusuf Sinan Pasha enjoyed considerable fame not just in the
Ottoman Empire, but also in Christian Europe. In the middle of the seven-
teenth century, for example, a man claiming to be a son of the late admiral
became the object of public attention. Although this self-styled Jean Michel
de Cigala/Mehmed Bey in all probability was an impostor unconnected to
the actual Cigala family, he had managed to convince the king of France
of the truth of his claim. The episode, as Ciğalazade Yusuf Sinan Pasha’s
biographer Gino Benzoni has remarked, provides ‘eloquent testimony of
the enduring fascination of the Christian world with the figure of Cigala,
who remained an enigma in the West’.21 As late as the nineteenth century,
the kapudan paşa appeared as the main character in an homage to William
Scott by the German novelist Philipp Joseph von Rehfues, while the Italian
singer/songwriter Fabrizio de Andrè dedicated a song to “Sinàn Capudàn
Pascià” in 1984.22

Carlo Cigala’s quest for the Duchy of Naxos

Against the background of his success in climbing the Ottoman hierarchy,
Ciğalazade Yusuf Sinan Pasha sought to re-establish contact with his fam-
ily in Sicily. Sometime after his first appointment as kapudan paşa, the
convert invited his younger brother Carlo to visit him in Istanbul, an invi-
tation which the latter accepted in 1593. News of this journey instantly
gave rise to the rumour that the younger Cigala had been dispatched by
the king of Spain in order to breathe new life into negotiations for a truce
with the Porte.23 If Carlo had indeed been on such a mission, it came to
naught. In any case, during a meeting in the Ottoman capital, he reas-
sured Bailo Matteo Zane ‘that he [was] here on his own private business
alone’.24
That ‘private business’, however, was more than merely a reunion between
two brothers. According to the Venetian diplomat’s relazione delivered to
the Doge and Senate after his return from Istanbul in 1594, ‘the said Signore
Carlo . . . was indulging in the belief that he could easily be given charge of
Moldavia or Wallachia by paying the usual pension to the Porte. And when
this turned out unsuccessful he hatched the idea of having the islands of the
Archipelago in imitation of the [sultan’s] Jewish favourite Giovanni Miches
[Joseph Nasi]’.25 In this undertaking, Carlo certainly hoped to benefit from
his brother’s position in the Ottoman military-administrative elite, not least
because Naxos and the other islands of the Cyclades, which were part of the
 The case of Carlo Cigala 13
historical duchy, were subject to the kapudan paşa’s jurisdiction.26 Although
Carlo had arrived in Istanbul with high hopes, they remained unfulfilled for
the time being. After several months, he returned to Messina empty handed
because, as Zane put it, ‘his brother the Capudan . . . [would] not support
him’.27
On the surface, Carlo’s visit to Istanbul appears rather unusual.
Ciğalazade Yusuf Sinan Pasha’s invitation certainly contradicts the pre-
vailing stereotype that conversion necessitated the severance of all previ-
ous ties to kith and kin expressed by Ottoman and Christian-European
contemporaries alike.28 By and large, however, such contacts between con-
verts and their families, even outside the Ottoman Empire, were a rather
ordinary phenomenon. Maria Pia Pedani has drawn attention to the fact
that, during the same period, a number of Venetians visited family mem-
bers who had entered the Ottoman elite. Some of them stayed, others
even converted themselves.29 Thanks to Eric Dursteler’s recent work, the
best-known example of this pattern is certainly provided by the Venetian
Michiel family which included the eunuch Gazanfer Agha one of the most
powerful men of his day, and his sister Beatrice, who after her conver-
sion became known as Fatima Hatun.30 That Gazanfer Agha had one of
Fatima’s sons abducted from a Venetian boarding school and brought to
Istanbul, where he, too, embraced Islam, makes it one of the most spec-
tacular cases of such continuing contacts between converts to Islam in the
Ottoman Empire and their families ‘back home’.31
Carlo Cigala’s hope to receive his brother’s patronage likewise finds par-
allels in the stories of Venetian families. Ciğalazade Yusuf Sinan Pasha’s
immediate predecessor in the kapudanlık, Uluç Hasan Pasha, for instance,
petitioned the Venetian Senate for an annual income of one hundred ducats
and a bakery for his sister Camilla who continued to reside in the Serenis-
sima. During a visit to Istanbul in 1590, moreover, Camilla’s husband explic-
itly requested his “renegade” brother-in-law to intercede with the Venetian
authorities on his behalf and help him secure either a lucrative appointment
or a pension. Although Uluç Hasan Pasha complied, the initiative proved
unsuccessful. Even before his appointment as admiral of the Ottoman fleet,
he had repeatedly used his position as a governor-general in North Africa to
obtain pardons for his brother and cousin.32
In the context of Carlo Cigala’s aspirations in the Aegean, it is note-
worthy that both Zane and Mehmed III explicitly mention the example
of Joseph Nasi as a model for the Sicilian’s appointment to the Duchy
of Naxos. Selim II’s famous courtier had become duke of Naxos in 1566
when the duchy had been formally annexed by the Porte. Yet, even after
the incorporation of the Cyclades into the Empire’s regular structure of
administration as a sancak, which only occurred after Nasi’s death, it
remained somewhat exceptional since the sancakbeyis who succeeded Nasi
included non-Muslims such as Constantine Cantacuzino and the Croatian
Gasparo Gratiani.33 As a general rule, similar positions in other parts of the
14 Tobias P. Graf
Ottoman Empire were reserved for members of the all-Muslim military-
administrative elite.34 The reference to Nasi, therefore, is an indicator
that Carlo expected to avoid following his brother’s example of having to
undergo religious conversion in order to qualify for this appointment in
Ottoman state service. This conclusion is further supported by his initial
attempts to become voivode of Moldavia or Wallachia, both of which
were ruled by Christian vassals rather than Muslim provincial governors.
The reference to Nasi may also indicate that, like the Jewish favourite, the
Sicilian intended to send an agent to carry out the business of government
while he himself resided elsewhere.35
Carlo’s aversion to embracing Islam is borne out by the events following
Mehmed III’s command concerning his transfer to the Aegean. Although
the berat had been issued in 1598, Carlo only arrived on Ottoman soil,
notably on the island of Chios, in 1600 to meet up with his brother. Await-
ing Ciğalazade Yusuf Sinan Pasha’s arrival, the duke-to-be immediately
began to renegotiate the terms of his appointment. In particular, he tried to
effect the removal of the local kadi (judge) from the island, an undertaking
which his brother considered ‘impossible because it would be an action
contrary to the law which the scholars here would not tolerate’.36 Carlo
did not, however, heed his brother’s advice to desist from this request,
informing him that the permission for settlement on the Cyclades which
he had received from King Philip III of Spain was conditional on the kadi’s
removal from Naxos.37
That Carlo had felt the need to obtain – and managed to secure – royal
approval for his undertaking is both remarkable and revealing. While he
was happy to work for the sultan, he took care not to follow his brother’s
example too closely in becoming an Osmanlı proper, a Muslim member
of the Ottoman military-administrative elite. If nothing else, the younger
Cigala wanted to avoid being branded a renegade and thus a traitor to
Christianity and Christendom, quite possibly to ensure that he contin-
ued to be employable by the Spanish crown. Evidently, Philip III had suf-
ficient trust in the steadfastness of his subject’s faith to consent to the
undertaking.
Since adherence to Islam had become the most important marker of loy-
alty to the sultan by the sixteenth century, it is remarkable that Mehmed III
did not explicitly demand Carlo to embrace the sultan’s faith. The argu-
ment from silence, however, is a difficult one to make in this case since
the sultan and his advisers may simply have taken the new appointee’s
conversion for granted and hence felt no need to spell it out as one of
the conditions for appointment in the berat. On the other hand, adopting
the ruler’s faith was not the only means by which one could declare and
ensure loyalty. In this context, the command that Carlo bring his mother
to the sultan’s domains needs to be seen as a demand for a symbolic dem-
onstration of the duke-to-be’s political loyalty. It mirrors the practice of
 The case of Carlo Cigala 15
the newly appointed voivodes of Moldavia sending family members as
hostages to Istanbul.38 Doubtlessly, the demand for the relocation of the
Cigalas’ mother to the Ottoman Empire was meant to offset Carlo’s earlier
ties to Spain, thereby preventing the Spanish crown from enforcing a simi-
lar claim to the man’s loyalty through the mother’s continued residence in
Sicily.
That the berat specifically demanded the relocation of Carlo’s mother,
however, had wider implications. Carlo’s first visit to Istanbul in 1593 had
caused quite a stir among a section of the Ottoman elite. As Zane reported
at the time,

there are some who are seeking a decision from the Mufti [the
şeyhülislam] on this point, whether it is lawful to use force to compel
the son of a Turkish woman, born at Castel Nuovo, carried slave into
Christendom, to return to Islam, which is precisely the case of Signor
Carlo Cicalla.

Interestingly, Zane’s summary of the legal issue at stake closely mirrors

the kind of abstractions commonly used in fetvas. If Bostanzade Mehmed
Efendi, who was şeyhülislam at the time, indeed produced an opinion on
this question, and if a collection of his fetvas was produced, it should be
possible to identify it on the basis of the Venetian dispatch.39 The cen-
tral issue in this controversy was the religious adherence of the Cigalas’
mother who, as other sources confirm, was a convert to Christianity from
Islam.40 In this light, Mehmed III’s demand for her return to his domains
derives from the sultan’s duty as the protector of Islam and Islamic law
and, perhaps above all else, had propagandistic value. At the same time,
the fact that the mother had become a Christian in this context turned
the demand for her relocation to Ottoman territory into a special test of
loyalty for a future servant of the Ottoman realm who would be charged
with upholding Ottoman law, including the enforcement of the prescrip-
tions concerning apostasy.41 Clearly, Carlo would only be worthy of his
post, if he put his obligation to the sultan above even his filial loyalties.
Whether or not the Ottomans expected Carlo to embrace Islam, he cer-
tainly did not abandon his Catholic faith. Nor did he transfer his mother’s
residence to the Ottoman Empire. When he arrived in Chios in 1600, he
arrived alone. Having failed to fulfil the conditions for his appointment and
unable to convince the sultan of his loyalty to him, the Italian was never
actually invested with the Duchy of Naxos. Nevertheless, he does not seem
to have given up his desire until after his brother’s death. Until then, he
maintained a second domicile on Chios. According to Emrah Safa Gürkan’s
findings, during his time there he played a central role in gathering intelli-
gence on the Ottoman Empire for the king of Spain, as well as vice versa –
another sign of his political ambivalence.42
16 Tobias P. Graf
Carlo Cigala’s quest for social advancement
Carlo Cigala’s attempts to be appointed to the Duchy of Naxos as well as
his ambivalence towards the Ottomans need to be seen in the context of
what was a life-long and ambitious quest for social advancement in which
his elder brother Ciğalazade Yusuf Sinan Pasha played a crucial role. Carlo’s
strategic use of his connection to the upper echelons of Ottoman state ser-
vice, moreover, was by no means restricted to his dream of establishing
himself in the Aegean. It is also evident, for instance, in a letter which he
sent to Queen Elizabeth I in 1601 concerning reparations for losses caused
to his ships and the goods they carried at the hands of English pirates in
the Mediterranean. In merely four pages, Carlo mentioned ‘my brother the
Captain Pasha’ no less than six times.43
Although the Italian’s attempts to be employed by the Porte were ulti-
mately abortive, in 1610, the wealth he had accumulated through various
other ventures enabled him to buy the baronage of Tiriolo in Calabria. In
addition to the nobilities of Genoa, Sicily and the Holy Roman Empire,
Carlo thus gained admission to the peerage of the Kingdom of Naples. Three
years later, like his father before him, he was admitted to the Order of Saint
James of the Sword, an honour which required papal dispensation because
his mother, as a former Ottoman subject, and thus he himself, lacked the
noble pedigree which was normally required of all its members. In light of
his attempts to enter the service of the sultan, this honour is particularly
ironic. After all, Saint James had been symbolically central to the centuries-
long efforts of driving the Moors out of the Iberian Peninsula, commonly
referred to as the Reconquista, and the fight against Muslims was one of the
main tasks with which the order was charged. Finally, in 1630, Philip IV of
Spain elevated the younger Cigala to the rank of a prince.44
In attaining these favours from the papacy and the Spanish crown, Car-
lo’s relationship with his brother was crucial. When he arrived on Chios
in 1600, the former had been authorised to negotiate with Ciğalazade
Yusuf Sinan Pasha for the latter’s defection to Christendom. By 1603, the
plan, which had originally been conceived in the 1590s, had taken on truly
millenarian proportions. Pope Clement VIII even had letters to the Otto-
man admiral prepared in which he not only encouraged the kapudan paşa
to return to his native religion, but also implored him to take up arms
‘against the tyranny of the Turks’, stage a coup d’état and install a Chris-
tian dynasty in Istanbul. Ciğalazade Yusuf Sinan Pasha was to keep all
territories which he conquered from the Ottomans, with the exception of
Hungary and Jerusalem, which were to be ruled over by the Emperor and
the king of Spain respectively. The plan, of course, was never put into
practice and, in any case, had no chance of success. Since Ciğalazade Yusuf
Sinan Pasha was called to the Ottoman–Safavid border at the outbreak of
 The case of Carlo Cigala 17
war with the Safavids shortly afterwards, the papal letters were never even
dispatched.45 While it is doubtful that anyone but Clement VIII ever took
the scheme seriously, even if Rudolf II and Philip III at least nominally
supported it, Jan Paul Niederkorn has shown that Carlo Cigala explicitly
linked his requests for various favours, particularly admission to the Order
of Saint James, to his involvement in the negotiations for his brother’s
defection.46
As late as the 1630s, now in his mid-seventies, the younger Cigala brother
turned once more to the Porte in order to request the appointment of one of
his sons as prince of Moldavia or Wallachia in order ‘most of all to satisfy
the parents of an eminent woman from Bohemia meant to marry that same
son of his’. Carlo Cigala died a few months after this visit to Istanbul on 26
July 1631, aged 75.47 The historian Gino Benzoni fittingly concluded that
the kapudan paşa’s brother ‘was the jealous custodian of his family’s pres-
tige, fond of pomp and splendour and no stranger to restless and devious
ambitions for grandeur as well as risky intrigues in order to fulfil them’.48
Niederkorn has gone so far to call the involvement of Carlo Cigala as well
as his Jesuit cousins Antonio and Vincenzo in the ambitious plan to over-
throw the Ottoman Empire, ‘a nearly perfect fraud’ designed to enhance the
family’s prestige.49
Regardless of whether Carlo Cigala actually engaged in such forms of
deception and deceit, his skilful invocation of ties on both sides of the
political dividing line between the realms of the king of Spain and the
Ottoman sultan fits him into the category of trans-imperial subjects.
Natalie Rothman, who coined this concept, uses it for individuals like
him who ‘regularly mobilized their roots “elsewhere” to foreground
specific knowledge, privileges, or commitments to further their current
interests’. This was not merely an elite phenomenon or a strategy open
only to individuals of noble birth as the examples from sixteenth- and
seventeenth-century Venice she discusses in her book make clear.50 Carlo
Cigala, however, employed trans-imperiality as a strategy for further
advancement within the Mediterranean nobility at large, rather than in the
service of one particular ruler. In itself, this is perhaps not particularly sur-
prising and seems to have been rather in keeping with his Genoese descent
in emulation, for instance, of the career of Andrea Doria.51 Yet going so far
to even consider Ottoman employment was rare, although Carlo’s story
in many ways parallels the experiences of Christophe de Roggendorf and
the Comte de Bonneval who both turned to the Ottoman Empire when
they became disgruntled with those they served. Only for Bonneval, how-
ever, this changing of allegiance involved embracing Islam. Roggendorf
resisted conversion only to switch sides once again, this time to the king of
France, out of frustration over the lack of high-level career opportunities
for Christians in the sultan’s service.52
18 Tobias P. Graf
Conclusion
From the available evidence, both Carlo Cigala and Ciğalazade Yusuf
Sinan Pasha emerge as trans-imperial noblemen. In the latter’s case, this
conclusion is further supported not least by the nisbe Ciğalazade itself,
which literally means ‘son of Cigala’. Even after his conversion to Islam
and admission to the Ottoman military-administrative elite, the associa-
tion with his father’s house remained of considerable importance to the
Italian-born convert, his contemporaries and even his descendants. For
Carlo Cigala, the trans-imperial nature of his ambitions, of course, owed
much to coincidence; his brother simply happened to be a high-ranking
Ottoman. But even if the concrete means by which he sought social and
economic advancement for himself and his family were the result of devel-
opments outside his control, he was both ready and savvy enough to seize
the opportunities which presented themselves to him. Doing so was a high-
stakes gambit, especially for a subject of the Spanish crown. Carlo Cigala’s
mere attempts to enter the sultan’s employment might easily have been
construed as treason and cost him his life. Even his ambitions had lim-
its, however. While he was willing to capitalise on his Ottoman brother
and become an Ottoman vassal himself, his desire to remain part of the
Christian-European nobility made him stop short of actually becoming
Osmanlı, with everything this status implied. One wonders what role their
mother’s Ottoman origins played in all this.
As pointed out above, however, Carlo Cigala’s attempts to mobilise
trans-imperial family ties and connections were not unique in principle.
They find parallels in the cases of Venetian families such as the Michiels. In
addition, Palmira Brummett has suggested that it would be more accurate
to speak, not of trans-imperial nobles, but trans-imperial notables, draw-
ing attention to a wider Mediterranean phenomenon. Indeed, the embed-
dedness of kapudan paşas in Mediterranean networks of patronage and
correspondence may very well explain their relative success or lack of it in
this office.53
Brummett’s point is well taken, although I would go even further to say
that such cross-border networks were a wider Eurasian phenomenon which,
as far as Ottoman–Christian-European contacts are concerned, just hap-
pens to have been best studied in the context of the Mediterranean.54 The
case of Pál Márkházy, for example, suggests that embeddedness in trans-
imperial networks was of equal importance in the context of the Ottoman
Empire’s north-western frontiers. Márkházy, a Transylvanian nobleman,
had converted to Islam in the 1570s and was subsequently posted in the
provinces bordering his former home, precisely because he knew the region
so well and had extensive contacts who could provide him with good intel-
ligence.55 In the same vein, Martin Mulsow has shown the importance of
continued contacts between the former Heidelberg preacher Adam Neuser,
 The case of Carlo Cigala 19
who had converted to Islam and settled in the Ottoman Empire in 1573,
and correspondents in Transylvania, as well as his son who was caught by
the Austrian authorities while trying to join his father in Istanbul.56 In the
last analysis, such contacts must be seen in the context of similar patterns of
contact, travel and patronage which have already been studied among other
groups with trans-imperial backgrounds, whether Chaldean Christians or
Morisco and Converso refugees settling in the Islamic world. One needs to
think only of Joseph Nasi or Samuel Pallache and their relatives.57 Further
research will hopefully illuminate to what extent these groups tapped into
similar networks to provide the infrastructure without which correspond-
ence and mutual visits were impossible.

Notes
1 This article examines in greater detail material also discussed in chapters 4
and 5 of Tobias P. Graf, The Sultan’s Renegades: Christian-European Con-
verts to Islam and the Making of the Ottoman Elite, 1575–1610 (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2017). It has profited from insightful comments,
incisive questions and a generous sharing of manuscripts by several of the
participants of the conference “The Lure of the Other”. I would like to
acknowledge my particular debt to Palmira Brummett, Gábor Kármán,
Martin Mulsow and Joshua White.
2 Archivio di Stato di Venezia, Dispacci del Bailo a Costantinopoli al Sen-
ato, filza 51. As transcribed in Ilario Rinieri, “Clemente VIII e Sinan Bassà
Cicala: Secondo Documenti Inediti,” pt. 6, La civiltà cattolica, series 16,
11/1132 (August 11, 1897): 411–12. Unless otherwise noted, all transla-
tions into English are my own.
3 For a detailed definition of E. Natalie Rothman’s concept, see her Brokering
Empire: Trans-Imperial Subjects between Venice and Istanbul (Ithaca, NY:
Cornell University Press, 2011), 11–15.
4 Joshua M. White, “Catch and Release: Piracy, Slavery, and Law in the Early
Modern Ottoman Mediterranean” (PhD diss., University of Michigan,
2012), 65.
5 Quotation from Rinieri, “Clemente VIII e Sinan Bassà Cicala,” pt. 6,
412. On the diplomatics of berats, see Ludwig Fekete, Einführung in die
osmanisch-türkische Diplomatik der türkischen Botmäßigkeit in Ungarn
(Budapest: Veröffentlichungen des Königlichen Ungarischen Staatsarchivs,
1926), XLVI–XLVII and the document reproduced there on pp. 28–9. I am
grateful to Gábor Kármán and Henning Sievert for bringing this correspond-
ence to my attention.
6 On Visconte Cigala and his background, see Gino Benzoni, “Cicala, Vis-
conte,” in Dizionario biografico degli Italiani, ed. A. M. Ghisalberti and M.
Pavan (Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana, 1981), 340–6; Domenico
20 Tobias P. Graf
Montuoro, “I Cigala, una famiglia feudale tra Genova, Sicilia, Turchia e
Calabria,” Mediterranea: Richerche storiche 6 (2009).
7 Benzoni, “Cicala, Visconte,” 345.
8 Luigi Firpo, ed., Costantinopoli (1590–1793), vol. 9 of Relazioni di ambas-
ciatori veneti al Senato (Turin: Bottega d’Erasmo, 1984), 295.
9 The diploma of nobility has survived in Österreichisches Staatsarchiv, Allge-
meines Verwaltungsarchiv, Vienna, Adelsakten, Reichsadelsakten, box 65,
no. 30. See Jan Paul Niederkorn, “Das negotium secretum der Familie
Cicala,” Mitteilungen des Instituts für österreichische Geschichtsforschung
101 (1993): 432.
10 Benzoni, “Cigala, Scipione,” 320, 344. On the battle of Djerba, see the
account in John Francis Guilmartin Jr., Gunpowder and Galleys: Chang-
ing Technology and Mediterranean Warfare at Sea in the Sixteenth Century
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1974), 123–34.
11 Gilles Veinstein, “Soḳollu Meḥmed Pasha,” in Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd
¯¯
ed., ed. P. J. Bearman, T. Bianquis, C. E. Bosworth, E. van Donzel and W. P.
Heinrichs (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 706–11. On the palace school, see Gülru
Necipoğlu, Architecture, Ceremonial, and Power: The Topkapı Palace in the
Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries (Cambridge, MA and London: The MIT
Press, 1991), chap. 6; Barnette Miller, The Palace School of Muhammad the
Conqueror (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1941).
12 Bezoni, “Cicala, Scipione,” 321.
13 Ibid., 321–3; V. J. Parry, “Čighāla- Zāde (dj ighāla- zāde) Yūsuf Sinān Pāshā”,
in Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd¯ ¯ ed., ed. P. ¯J.¯ Bearman,
¯¯ ¯¯
T. Bianquis, C. E. Bos-
worth, E. van Donzel and W. P. Heinrichs (Leiden: Brill, 1965), 34.
14 İbrahim Peçevi, Peçevî tarihi, ed. Murat Uraz, 2 vols. (Istanbul: Son Telgraf
Matbaası, 1968–9), 330.
15 Benzoni, “Cicala, Scipione”, 322–3; Parry, “Čighāla- Zāde,” 34; İsmail
Hâmı Danişmend, Osmanlı Devlet Erkânı (Istanbul: ¯¯ Türkiye Yayinevi,
1971), 184.
16 Rhoads Murphey, Exploring Ottoman Sovereignty: Tradition, Image, and
Practice in the Ottoman Imperial Household, 1400–1800 (London and
New York: Continuum, 2008), chap. 5.
17 Benzoni, “Cicala, Scipione,” 328–30; Jan Schmidt, “The Egri-Campaign of
1596: The Military History and the Problem of Sources,” in Habsburgisch-
Osmanische Beziehungen/Relations Habsbourg-ottomanes: Wien, 15.–30.
September 1583, ed. Andreas Tietze (Vienna: Verlag des Verbandes der
wissenschaftlichen Gesellschaften Österreichs, 1985); William J. Griswold,
The Great Anatolian Rebellion 1000–1020/1591–1611 (Berlin: Schwarz,
1983), 19–21; Edward Barton to Thomas Heneage, Constantinople, 5 Janu-
ary 1596 Old Style [15 January 1597], London: The National Archives of
the United Kingdom, State Papers [hereafter: TNA, SP] 97/3, 150r–154r;
Rawdon Brown, Horatio F. Brown and Allan B. Hinds, eds., Calendar of
State Papers and Manuscripts Relating to English Affairs Existing in the
Archives and Collections of Venice and in Other Libraries of Northern
 The case of Carlo Cigala 21
Italy, 38 vols. (London, 1864–1947) [hereafter cited as CSP Venice], vol. 9,
no. 524.
18 Benzoni, “Cicala, Scipione,” 330–1; Parry, “Čighāla- Zāde,” 34; Henry Lello
¯ ¯ Old Style [2 May 1598],
to Sir Robert Cecil, Constantinople, 22 April 1598
TNA, SP 97/3, 237v; Henry Lello to Sir Robert Cecil, Constantinople,
1 July 1598 Old Style [11 July 1598], TNA, SP 97/3, 249r; Danişmend,
Osmanlı Devlet Erkânı, 184–5. On the reasons for the absence of the usual
dismissals at Ahmed I’s accession, see Günhan Börekçi, “Factions and
Favorites at the Courts of Sultan Ahmed I (r. 1603–17) and His Immediate
Predecessors” (PhD diss., Ohio State University, Columbus, 2010), 77–92.
19 Benzoni, “Cicala, Scipione,” 336–7; Parry, “Čighāla- Zāde,” 34; “Di Cos-
tantinopoli li 22 Febraro 1604,” Österreichisches ¯ ¯ Staatsarchiv, Haus-, Hof-
und Staatsarchiv, Vienna, Staatenabteilungen, Türkei I, box 87, bundle for
1604 February, 155r.
20 Benzoni, “Cigala, Scipione,” 337; Parry, “Čighāla- Zāde,” 34.
21 ¯¯
Benzoni, “Cigala, Scipione,” 338. An autobiography was published as His-
toire de Mehemet Bei, aujourd’huy nommé J. M. de Cigala, Prince du sang
impérial des Ottomans (Paris, 1668). John Evelyn’s refutation of the story in
his The History of the Three Late, Famous Impostors, viz. Padre Ottomano,
Mahomed Bei, and Sabatai Sevi appeared in London the following year.
I am grateful to John-Paul Ghobrial for bringing the impostor’s story to my
attention.
22 Rehfues’s novel Scipio Cicala was published by Brockhaus in Leipzig in
1832. A second “completely reworked” edition appeared from the same
publisher in 1840. Andrè’s song was released on the album Crêuza de Mä,
Ricordi, SMRL 6308, 1984, 33⅓ rpm.
23 CSP Venice, vol. 9, nos. 170, 172, 197; Edward Barton to Lord Burgh-
ley, Constantinople, 23 December 1593 Old Style [2 January 1594], British
Library, Cotton MSS, Nero B.XII, 12r; Emrah Safa Gürkan, “Espionage
in the 16th Century Mediterranean: Secret Diplomacy, Mediterranean Go-
Betweens and the Ottoman Habsburg Rivalry” (PhD diss., Georgetown Uni-
versity, Washington, DC, 2012), 118 and 175–6.
24 CSP Venice, vol. 9, no. 198.
25 Firpo, Costantinopoli, 295–6.
26 Benjamin J. Slot, Archipelagus turbatus: Les Cyclades entre colonisation
latine et occupation ottomane c. 1500–1718, 2 vols. (Istanbul: Nederlands
Historisch-Archaeologisch Instituut te Istanbul, 1982), 1:88–104.
27 CSP Venice, vol. 9, no. 217.
28 See also Tijana Krstić, Contested Conversions to Islam: Narratives of Reli-
gious Change in the Early Modern Ottoman Empire (Stanford, CA: Stan-
ford University Press, 2011); Tijana Krstić, “Illuminated by the Light of
Islam and the Glory of the Ottoman Sultanate: Self-Narratives of Conver-
sion to Islam in the Age of Confessionalization,” Comparative Studies in
Society and History 51 (2009); Claire Norton, “Lust, Greed, Torture, and
Identity: Narrations of Conversion and the Creation of the Early Modern
22 Tobias P. Graf
Renegade,” Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East
29 (2009): 266–8; Ralf C. Müller, Franken im Osten: Art, Umfang, Struktur
und Dynamik der Migration aus dem lateinischen Westen in das Osmanis-
che Reich des 15./16. Jahrhunderts auf der Grundlage von Reiseberichten
(Leipzig: Eudora, 2005), 288–90; Eyal Ginio, “Childhood, Mental Capac-
ity and Conversion to Islam in the Ottoman State,” Byzantine and Modern
Greek Studies 25 (2001).
29 Maria Pia Pedani, “Safiye’s Household and Venetian Diplomacy,” Turcica
32 (2000): 19–23; Maria Pia Pedani-Fabris, “Veneziani a Costantinopoli
alla fine del XVI secolo,” Quaderni di Studi Arabi 15 suppl. (1997).
30 Eric R. Dursteler, “Fatima Hatun née Beatrice Michiel: Renegade Women in
the Early Modern Mediterranean,” The Medieval History Journal 12 (2009);
Dursteler, Renegade Women: Gender, Identity, and Boundaries in the Early
Modern Mediterranean (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press,
2011), chap. 1; Pedani, “Safiye’s Household,” 25–7; Pedani, “Veneziani”.
31 Dursteler, Renegade Women, 26–8; Pedani, “Veneziani,” 75–6. On the phe-
nomenon as a whole, see Tobias P. Graf, “Of Half-Lives and Double-Lives:
Christian-European ‘Renegades’ in the Ottoman Empire and Their Pre-
Conversion Ties, ca. 1580–1610,” in Well-Connected Domains: Towards
an Entangled Ottoman History, ed. Pascal W. Firges, Tobias P. Graf, Chris-
tian Roth and Gülay Tulasoğlu (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 137–49; Graf, Sultan’s
Renegades, chap. 5.
32 Antonio Fabris, “Hasan ‘Il veneziano’ tra Algeri e Costantinopoli,” Quad-
erni di Studi Arabi 15 suppl. (1997): 60–1, quotation from 61; Danişmend,
Osmanlı Devlet Erkânı, 183–4; Kâtib Çelebi, The Gift of the Great Ones on
Naval Campaigns, ed. İdris Bostan, trans. Uzman Tercüme Ltd. Şti. (Ankara:
Prime Ministry Undersecretariat for Maritime Affairs, 2008), 11, 138.
33 Slot, Archipelagus turbatus, 1:103–4.
34 Claire Norton, “Conversion to Islam in the Ottoman Empire,” Wiener
Zeitschrift zur Geschichte der Neuzeit 7 (2007): 31; Christine Isom-
Verhaaren, “Shifting Identities: Foreign State Servants in France and
the Ottoman Empire,” Journal of Early Modern History 8 (2004): 117;
Metin İ. Kunt, The Sultan’s Servants: The Transformation of Ottoman
Provincial Government, 1550–1650 (New York: Columbia University
Press, 1983).
35 On Nasi’s administration of the Cyclades, see Slot, Archipelagus turbatus,
1:92–7.
36 Ciğalazade Yusuf Sinan Pasha to Carlo Cigala, Constantinople, 24 April 1600,
Archivio di Stato di Venezia, Dispacci del Bailo a Costantinopoli al Senato,
filza 51. As transcribed in Rinieri, “Clemente VIII e Sinan Bassà Cicala,”
pt. 6, 417.
37 Rinieri, “Clemente VIII e Sinan Bassà Cicala,” pt. 6, 417–8; Emrah Safa
Gürkan, “Espionage,” 175.
38 Sándor Papp, “Moldavia,” in Encyclopedia of the Ottoman Empire,
ed. Gábor Ágoston and Bruce Masters (New York: Facts on File, 2009);
 The case of Carlo Cigala 23
Ekkehard Völkel, “Moldau,” in Lexikon zur Geschichte Südosteuropas,
ed. Edgar Hösch, Karl Nehring and Holm Sundhaussen (Vienna, Cologne
and Weimar: Böhlau, 2004); Halil İnalcık, “Bog_h_dān,” in Encyclopaedia of
Islam. 2nd ed., ed. P. J. Bearman, T. Bianquis, C. E. Bosworth, E. van Donzel
and W. P. Heinrichs, vol. 1 (Leiden: Brill, 1960).
39 CSP Venice, vol. 9, no. 198 (3 August 1593). On Bostanzade’s tenure as
şeyhülislam, see Danişmend, Osmanlı Devlet Erkânı, 118.
40 Firpo, Costantinopoli, 343; Henry Lello to Sir Robert Cecil, Constantino-
ple, 21 October 1598 Old Style [31 October 1598], TNA, SP 97/3, 260r;
Benzoni, “Cicala, Visconte,” 341; Montuoro, “I Cigala,” 280–1.
41 Yohanan Friedmann, Tolerance and Coercion in Islam: Interfaith Relations
in the Muslim Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003),
chap. 5, esp. 123–4 and 170–2; Joseph Schacht, An Introduction to Islamic
Law (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1966), 132, 165, 187.
42 Gürkan, “Espionage,” 175, 219.
43 Carlo Cigala to Queen Elizabeth I, Messina, 17 July 1601, TNA, SP 93/1,
6r–7v, quotation here from 7r.
44 Benzoni, “Cicala, Visconte,” 345; Montuoro, “I Cigala,” 299. On the eco-
nomic activities of Carlo and his mother, see Montuoro, “I Cigala,” 295–8,
as well as a number of memoranda concerning incidents of piracy suffered by
Carlo Cigala and his mother Lucrezia in TNA, SP 94/14, pt. 2, 272r–287v.
45 Rinieri, “Clemente VIII e Sinan Bassà Cicala,” pt. 8, La civiltà cattolica, series
16, 12/1136 (7 October 1897): 154–67 (quotation from p. 163); Rinieri,
“Clemente VIII e Sinan Bassà Cicala,” pts. 3 and 7, La civiltà cattolica, series
16, 10/1125 (20 April 1897): 272–85; La civiltà cattolica, series 16, 11/1134
(6 September 1897): 653–63. See also Niederkorn, “Negotium secretum,”
esp. 426 and 434; Clement VIII to Giovanni Francesco Aldobrandini, papal
envoy in Spain, Rome, 10 November 1594, in Die Hauptinstruktionen Cle-
mens’ VIII. für die Nuntien und Legaten an den europäischen Fürstenhöfen,
1592–1605, ed. Klaus Jaitner, 2 vols. (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1984), 1:301–3.
46 Niederkorn, “Negotium secretum,” 431–4.
47 Archivio di Stato di Venezia, Senato Corti, reg. 1, c. 91r. As quoted in Ben-
zoni, “Cicala, Visconte,” 345. See also Montuoro, “I Cigala,” 300.
48 Benzoni, “Cicala, Visconte,” 345.
49 Niederkorn, “Negotium secretum,” 434.
50 Rothman, Brokering Empire, 11–12.
51 Montuoro, “I Cigala,” 277–9.
52 See Isom-Verhaaren, “Shifting Identities,” 130–2; Claire Norton, “ ‘The
Lutheran is the Turks’ Luck’: Imagining Religious Identity, Alliance and
Conflict on the Habsburg-Ottoman Marches in an Account of the Sieges of
Nagyakanizsa 1600 and 1601,” in Das Osmanische Reich und die Habs-
burgermonarchie in der Neuzeit: Akten des internationalen Kongresses zum
150-jährigen Bestehen des Instituts für Österreichische Geschichtsforschung,
Wien, 22.–25. September 2004, ed. Marlene Kurz, Martin Scheutz, Karl
Vocelka and Thomas Winkelbauer (Vienna and Munich: Oldenbourg,
24 Tobias P. Graf
2005), 66–7, 74; Felix Konrad, “Soziale Mobilität europäischer Renegaten
im frühneuzeitlichen Osmanischen Reich,” in Religion und Mobilität: Zum
Verhältnis von raumbezogener Mobilität und religiöser Identitätsbildung im
frühneuzeitlichen Europa, ed. Henning P. Jürgens and Thomas Weller (Göt-
tingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2010), 226–7.
53 Palmira Brummett made this suggestion during the course of the confer-
ence. Also see her “Placing the Ottomans in the Mediterranean World: The
Question of Notables and Households,” Osmanlı Araştırmaları/Journal of
Ottoman Studies 36 (2010). The integration of Ottoman kapudan paşas
is illustrated, as Brummett points out, by the surviving correspondence of
these officials discussed in Gilles Veinstein, “Les documents émis par le
ḳapûdân paşa dans le fonds ottoman de Patmos”, Documents de travail
du Cetobac, 1 (January 2010), http://cetobac.ehess.fr/docannexe/file/1353/
les_archives_de_l_insularite_ottomane.pdf (last accessed 07/04/16).
54 The possibility that membership of trans-imperial networks was similarly
crucial to the success of Ottoman officials in other posts is explored more
fully in Graf, The Sultan’s Renegades, chap. 4.
55 Sándor Papp, “From a Transylvanian Principality to an Ottoman Sanjak: The
Life of Pál Márkházi, a Hungarian Renegade,” Chronica 4 (2004): 57–67.
56 Martin Mulsow, “Fluchträume und Konversionsräume zwischen Heidel-
berg und Istanbul: Der Fall Adam Neuser,” in Kriminelle – Freidenker –
Alchemisten, ed. Mulsow (Cologne: Böhlau, 2014), 55–6. See also Mulsow
“Antitrinitarians and Conversion to Islam: Adam Neuser reads Murad b.
Abdullah in Ottoman Istanbul,” in this volume.
57 The ties and mobility of Eastern Christians are discussed in John-Paul A.
Ghobrial, “Stories Never Told: The First Arabic History of the World,”
Osmanlı Araştırmarları/Journal of Ottoman Studies 40 (2012); Ghobrial,
“The Secret Life of Elias of Babylon and the Uses of Global Microhis-
tory,” Past and Present, 222 (2014). The literature on the Jewish diaspora
in the Ottoman Empire is extensive. Good starting points for the period
discussed here are Benjamin Arbel, Trading Nations: Jews and Venetians
in the Early-Modern Eastern Mediterranean (Leiden: Brill, 1995); Cecil
Roth, The House of Nasi: Doña Gracia (Philadelphia, PA: Jewish Publica-
tion Society of America, 1948); Roth, The House of Nasi: The Duke of
Naxos (Philadelphia, PA: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1948).
Also see Mercedes García-Arenal and Gerard Wiegers, A Man of Three
Worlds: Samuel Pallache, a Moroccan Jew in Catholic and Protestant
Europe, trans. Martin Beagles (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins Univer-
sity Press, 2010). For the Moriscos, see Andrew C. Hess, The Forgotten
Frontier: A History of the Sixteenth-Century Ibero-African Frontier (Chi-
cago and New York: University of Chicago Press, 1978); Tijana Krstić,
“Moriscos in Ottoman Galata, 1609–1620s”, in The Expulsion of the
Moriscos from Spain: A Mediterranean Diaspora, ed. Mercedes García-
Arenal and Gerard Wiegers (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2014), 269–85;
Houssem Eddine Chachia, “The Moment of Choice: The Moriscos on the
Border of Christianity and Islam,” in this volume.
 The case of Carlo Cigala 25
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––– “Lust, Greed, Torture, and Identity: Narrations of Conversion and the
Creation of the Early Modern Renegade.” Comparative Studies of South
Asia, Africa and the Middle East 29 (2009): 259–268.
Papp, Sándor. “From a Transylvanian Principality to an Ottoman Sanjak: The
Life of Pál Márkházi, a Hungarian Renegade.” Chronica 4 (2004): 57–67.
 The case of Carlo Cigala 29
––– “Moldavia”. In Encyclopedia of the Ottoman Empire, edited by Gábor
Ágoston and Bruce Masters, 389–391. New York: Facts on File, 2009.
Parry, V. J. “Čighāla- Zāde (djighāla- zāde) Yūsuf Sinān Pāshā.” In Encyclopae-
¯ ¯¯ ¯ ¯by P. J. Bearman, T. Bianquis,
¯ ¯ C. E. Bosworth,
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E. van Donzel and W. P. Heinrichs, vol. 2, 33–34. Leiden: Brill, 1965.
Pedani, Maria Pia. “Veneziani a Costantinopoli alla fine del XVI secolo.”
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––– “Safiye’s Household and Venetian Diplomacy.” Turcica 32 (2000): 9–31.
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––– The House of Nasi: The Duke of Naxos. Philadelphia, PA: Jewish Pub-
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2 Conversion under the threat
of arms
Converts and renegades during
the war for Crete (1645–1669)
Domagoj Madunić

Introduction
The problem of conversion in the circumstances of a major armed conflict
constitutes the main research topic of this study. The conflict in question is
the “War for Crete”, the longest war ever fought between the Republic of
Venice and the Ottoman Empire, lasting from 1645 until 1669.1 In spatial
terms, this chapter is limited to events that took place in the Adriatic theater
of operations and its adjunct territories, that is: Bosnia and Herzegovina,
Montenegro, Albania and Ottoman-controlled Slavonia.2 Through several
case studies from this conflict, this chapter aims to reconstruct the condi-
tions and circumstances under which conversions took place and demon-
strate how, in the midst of war, conversion functioned as a survival strategy.
Furthermore, the examples of conversion that this study deals with are only
those involving Muslims and Christians; the question of inter-Christian con-
versions (between Catholicism and Orthodoxy), which was also widespread
in Dalmatia in the years in question, is not discussed. The main reasons
for this decision were the following: the lack of space, the complexity of
the Catholic-Orthodox relationship in the Balkans – which, although it has
already been the object of several studies, still remains a topic in need of
further research – and finally, despite the fact that some Orthodox Chris-
tians undoubtedly served in the ranks of the Ottoman forces, the main par-
ticipants in this conflict (namely the Republic of Venice and the Ottoman
Empire) came from different sides of the Christian-Muslim religious divide
and I wanted to focus on cases of conversion between the main warring
parties.3
The outbreak of a new war between the Republic and the Ottoman Empire
in 1645 after more than seventy years of peace immediately resulted in a
drastic increase of violence along the already volatile Venetian-Habsburg-
Ottoman frontier in the Adriatic.4 Once the initial sporadic skirmishes esca-
lated and hostilities started for real, full-scale military campaigns, raids and
counter-raids came to be facts of life for the population on both sides of
the frontier for the next two decades. Due to the nature of warfare in the
 Conversion under the threat of arms 31
region, prisoners came to constitute one of the most valuable commodities
that could be obtained from enemy lands. Over the course of twenty-five
years, both Venetian and Ottoman forces captured an uncountable num-
ber of prisoners. This was especially the case in the years 1647 and 1648
when the most intense fighting took place in this area. During these years, in
two spring campaigns, Venetian forces re-conquered the entire area between
the Adriatic coast and the Dinaric mountains.5 Not only were all Ottoman
strongholds south of the Dinaric mountain ranges neutralised, but the entire
area was almost completely depopulated. This success of the Venetian army
was accompanied by a whole-scale rebellion of the Ottoman-Christian sub-
jects, known in the Venetian sources as Morlacchi, who in their thousands
migrated to the coast or the Venetian-controlled islands.6 On the other hand,
the local Muslim population and the Morlacchi who had refused to join the
rebellion either fled to the north and the safety of the Ottoman-controlled
lands of Bosnia and Lika, or fell prey to the Venetian regular and irregular
forces and were taken into captivity. The number of prisoners, combatants
and noncombatants alike, captured by the Venetian forces in these years
were in the thousands. And all of them were facing an equally unfortunate
future.

Figure 2.1 Map of the Eastern Adriatic

Source: Drawn by Eszter Lázs.
32 Domagoj Madunić
Convert or row: prospects for Muslim prisoners captured by
the Venetian armed forces
Quelli, che non hanno voluto abbracciare la nostra fede, sono stati, o tenuti
schiavi nelle gallere, o venduti con le donne a Pugliesi mercanti et transmessi
in Italia, et altrove.
Bernardo Florio Archbishop of Zadar/Zara (October 1648)7

For the Republic of Venice, all captured males older than age sixteen, with the
exception of those of higher social standing, represented the manpower pool
from which depleted crews of the Republic’s war galleys were replenished.
Chained to the benches, badly provisioned with food and clothing, exposed to
the elements and harsh conditions of galley service, these unlucky souls could
count themselves fortunate if they managed to survive more than a few sea-
sons. The prospects of the noncombatants, women and children, were equally
appalling. They usually found themselves handed over to Italian merchants
and sold in the slave markets of the Southern Italy. The safest way of escap-
ing both of these outcomes was conversion to the Catholic faith. However,
this did not always result in immediate liberation from the galley service; the
converted Ottoman would serve not as a schivao – an oarsman chained to the
bench – but rather under the much better conditions of a free oarsman. Thus,
as it could be expected, with countless prisoners facing prolonged captivity,
a premature death or the uncertain fate of the slave markets, the number of
converts in times of war surpassed by far those of the peaceful pre-war years.
In the first few years of the war, a key role in the conversion of Muslims,
but also in that of Orthodox Christians and even some Protestant soldiers
serving in the Venetian forces, was played by fra Bartolomeo di Verona, a
Capuchin friar who held joint Papal-Venetian appointment as the spiritual
governor of the Venetian forces in Dalmatia. During the years 1647 and
1648, the citizens of Zadar, the capital of the province, on several occasions
witnessed ceremonies of mass conversions when dozens of Muslims were
baptised by fra Bartolomeo. For example, on 9 December 1647, Lunardo
Foscolo, governor-general in Dalmatia and Venetian Albania (provveditore-
generale di Dalmazia e Albania) – the head of both the civil administra-
tion and all the military forces in the province – informed his superiors in
the Senate that, in only the previous week, fra Bertolomeo had baptised
forty-two Muslims and the next Sunday another thirty baptisms of mainly
women and children were scheduled, adding that, in total, fra Bartolomeo
had converted to the Catholic faith more than 200 “Turks”.8 According to
the report that reached the Congregation for the Propagation of the Faith,
in the period between 1647 and 1655, a total of 570 Muslims (male and
female) of all ages were baptised in Dalmatia, while many others had been
sent to Venice to the Casa di Cathecumeni [Holy House of the Catechu-
mens] and baptised there.9
 Conversion under the threat of arms 33
Although the Venetian provincial magistrates dutifully participated in
these ceremonies in the roles of patrons and godfathers, the rulers of the
Republic had no reason to be overly pleased with the good works done by
fra Bartolomeo.10 At the beginning of the hostilities, on 8 November 1646,
the Senate authorised its governor-general in Dalmatia to pay 10 silver
reales per head for each Ottoman prisoner fit to serve aboard the galleys.11
Due to the shortages of galley crews and increased war demands, by Decem-
ber 1646, the amount paid for Ottoman prisoners was raised to 20 reales,
and additionally, the governor-general was instructed to deny the prisoners
posted to the galleys an opportunity to ransom themselves.12 Thus, every
soul “saved” by the diligent Capuchin friar resulted in one empty bench on
the war galley one that needed, somehow, to be filled. Therefore, it should
come as no surprise that once fra Bartolomeo’s mandate was finished in
1650 and he returned to Italy, no replacement to this post was ever again
sent to Dalmatia.
Performing a ceremony of baptism, however, was one thing, but ensuring
the permanence of conversion was quite another matter. Since it was already
losing valuable military resources, the Venetian administration was rather
interested in not quickly losing its new subjects as well. Thus, the Republic,
with the full support of the provincial Church, implemented a series of meas-
ures aimed to better integrate converts into their new society and to ensure
their loyalty. Converted Ottoman soldiers were enrolled into the Venetian
armed forces and if possible, together with their families, were transferred
to garrisons on terraferma (Venetian mainland possessions). Young, unmar-
ried women were betrothed and married to Venetian soldiers of local origin,
with attention paid to ensure that that those belonging to better families
were married to officers. Finally, with the active help of church officials,
numerous children and women too old for marriage were placed as serv-
ants in well-off provincial households.13 How effective these measures were
is hard to assess with any certainty. Yet, the silence of the Venetian sources
regarding cases of converts fleeing back to their homeland can perhaps be
taken as testimony of their success.

‛Fra Giorgio or Muhammed?’ The case of fra Giorgio

Lerotich (Juraj Lerotić)
Over the course of the twenty-five years of the conflict, no similar state-
sponsored or initiated mass conversion of Catholics by the Ottomans ever
took place; neither among the numerous Venetian subjects that fell into
Ottoman captivity nor the even greater number of Catholics already liv-
ing in the border provinces of the Empire. Although the Ottoman Empire
suffered several serious defeats in Dalmatia, and a large-scale armed upris-
ing of its Christian subjects in Dalmatia, sporadic rebellions of Albanian
Christians (mostly Catholics) and a revolt of various mountain Montene-
grin clans (mainly Orthodox), no official policy, or coercive measures aimed
34 Domagoj Madunić
at the conversion of Christian subjects of the Empire were promoted by the
organs of the central or provincial administrations. Instead, the Ottoman
government focused its anger mainly against the institutions of the Catholic
Church, closing Franciscan monasteries in Bosnia and Albania and banish-
ing Catholic clergy from its territory. Yet, it left its Catholic, tax-paying
subjects at least officially in peace.14 This in turn, opened the way for a
rather different threat to the Catholic communities of the Western Balkans.
Already at the beginning of the war, the faction of the (Serbian) Orthodox
Patriarchate of Peć (Pëjë in present-day Kosovo) aimed to exploit the disfa-
vour in which the Catholic Church fell in order to spread its influence and
affirm taxation rights over the Catholics in the areas of their jurisdiction.15
By the mid-seventeenth century, conflicts over taxation rights were not new,
they had characterised Catholic-Orthodox relations in the Balkans since the
late fifteenth century. However, the patriarchs of Peć, in the expectation of
the liberation of the Balkan Christians from the “Ottoman yoke” and for
the sake of establishing a common anti-Ottoman platform with the Holy
See, were usually ready to promote a more conciliatory, “pro-Rome” policy
and to restrain the anti-Catholic activities of their subordinates in the areas
under their jurisdiction.16
Nevertheless, there was an abundant number of incidents or outbursts
of violence against the Catholic (and Orthodox) subjects of the Empire,
especially in Bosnia or Albania, the areas adjunct to the Dalmatian theater
of operations. Military operations combined with an absence of Catholic
clergy, increased taxation pressure and the selective reintroduction of the
devşirme encouraged many to either change their faith and convert to Islam,
or to migrate to more peaceful parts of the Empire all resulting in a significant
reduction in number of Catholics in these areas.17 Probably, the most seri-
ous incident that can be singled out took place in the town of Bar/Antivari
located in present day Montenegro, in 1648. Already at the outbreak of hos-
tilities, in 1646, almost all the Catholic bishops from Albania (Shkodër/Ska-
dar/Scutari, Lezhë/Alessio, Durrës/Durazzo) and coastal Montenegro (Bar),
with the expectation of Venetian support, had begun plotting an uprising of
Catholic subjects of the Empire in their domains. Yet, in 1646 and 1647,
the Senate was more concerned with the deteriorating military situation in
Dalmatia and assigned all of its available resources to that battlefield. Thus,
it was not until late 1647 that negotiations between the representative of the
bishops and the Senate were concluded and the start of rebellion was sched-
uled for the spring of 1648. Accordingly, in February 1648, the archbishop
of Durrës assembled a force of some 6,000 men and ready to attack towns
of Lezhë and Krujë awaited the arrival of the Venetian expeditionary force
with troops and provisions. However, the Venetian commander in the field,
governor-general Lunardo Foscolo, followed his own agenda and was not
ready to depart for Albania before clearing all remaining Ottoman strong-
holds in Dalmatia (something which did not occur until mid-April 1648),
 Conversion under the threat of arms 35
thus providing the Ottomans in Albania with ample time to discover the
plot and act accordingly.18
Although after the failure of the Venetian forces to appear in the field the
rebel force disbanded, this incident nevertheless caused unrest among the
Ottomans in the province and a swift reaction. At the request of the enraged
town mob the kadı (judge) of Shkodër ordered two Franciscan friars from
the monastery in the town of Bar to be brought to him. In spite of inter-
ventions on their behalf by the local fortress commander (ağa) and mufti
(expert in Islamic law) the kadı determined both Franciscans to be leaders
of the alleged conspiracy, sentenced them to death and had them impaled.
Fearing wholesale prosecution, the rest of the Catholic clergy from the prov-
ince saved themselves by fleeing to Venetian-controlled lands.19 Yet this was
just the beginning of the troubles for the Bar Catholics. In the course of the
next year, according to the reports reaching Rome, a further seventy-three
Catholics suspected of cooperating with the Venetians were killed, while all
the rest, fearing for their lives either converted to Islam or fled, leaving the
town of Bar without a single Catholic family.20 This represented just one of
numerous local incidents in which local communities or individuals took
matters into their own hands, with limited or no official support. Moreover,
in this case, the actions of the town magistrate (kadı) did not even have
the support of all the provincial dignitaries. As was mentioned, both the
mufti and ağa of Shkodër fortress personally intervened on the behalf of the
Franciscans and tried to prevent their execution, while the wife of the san-
cakbeyi of Shkodër (who at the time was absent from the province serving
in the Ottoman forces fighting on the Island of Crete) personally helped the
third accused Franciscan friar (padre Cherubino) to escape to the safety of
Venetian lands. Furthermore, it seems that the Franciscans had rather good
relations with the two most powerful local Ottoman lords: Ali-Pasha Čengić
(Cengi) and the previously mentioned sancakbeyi of Shkodër, Jusufbegović,
who were both a few years later engaged in negotiations to again open the
lands of the sancak of Shkodër to Franciscan missionaries.21
The inefficacy and temporary nature of conversions made under a direct
threat of arms is very nicely illustrated by the case of the Franciscan Giorgio
Lerotich (Juraj Lerotić) from the monastery of St. Cross (Svetog Križa) on
the Makarska littoral. The community of Makarska, where fra Giorgo’s
monastery was situated, was one of the first to overthrow Ottoman rule and
accept Venetian protection in August 1646.22 Yet, in the spring of 1647, fra
Girogio was nevertheless elected as the envoy of his monastery (part of the
Bosnian Franciscan province) to carry the usual annual gift to the pasha in
Mostar in the sancak of Hercegovina. On his way from the Dalmatian coast
to Mostar, fra Giorgio was intercepted by a group of Ottoman soldiers, who
accused him of being a Venetian spy and were intent on killing him. The
only way for the fra Giorgio to save his life was to renounce his faith and,
as the sources put it, to become a “Turk”.23
36 Domagoj Madunić
Although fra Giorgio was expediently circumcised, practically on the spot,
this was not the end of the story. As with many other Bosnian Franciscans,
fra Giorgio was not without friends and relatives among the Ottoman pro-
vincial dignitaries. In the case of fra Giorgio, his sister was the favourite wife
of the pasha of Hercegovina. After repeated appeals by his wife on behalf
of her brother and even threats to throw herself into the river (according
to the report sent to the Congregation in Rome), the pasha assembled his
court inviting the kadı and the molla (teacher of theology) and in public
asked fra Giorgio what his name was, to which fra Giorgio replied that his
name was Muhammed. After this the pasha warned fra Giorgio and asked
again: ‘answer me faithfully, have you became Muslim because you like
the laws and the faith of Muhammed, or due to some other reason?’24 Fra
Giorgio’s answer was that he had ‛turned Turk’, because he was afraid of
being impaled. Upon hearing this answer, the pasha turned to the molla and
the kadı and asked them to give a judgement concerning whether a conver-
sion based on fear for one’s life was valid or not and then he adjourned his
court. The entire affair was resolved the following day when a fetva was
issued annulling the conversion and fra Giorgio was ordered to return to his
monastery. The pasha of Hercegovina bid farewell to fra Giorgio with the
following parting words: ‘Go now, and If I ever see you again without your
[Franciscan] habit, I will immediately have you impaled!’25 So it came to be
that after being a Muslim for just three weeks, fra Giorgio Lerotich returned
safely to his monastery in the Makarska region where he was absolved of
“his errors” by a local bishop, whose acts were later confirmed by the Con-
gregation for the Propagation of the Faith. The only consequence of the
entire affair for fra Giorgio Lerotich, apart from the physical legacy of the
conversion, was that, at the suggestion of Rome, he was prohibited from
holding mass or any other service in the Church for several years.26
Although the official policy of the Empire was not to promote (illegal)
conversion by force or actively support confessional agitation, as was under-
taken by Catholic church, still, the extraordinary circumstances of the war
ensured that many Christians, at least nominally of their own free will, were
ready to abandon their faith and become Muslims. For Christian prisoners,
the only options to avoid Ottoman captivity (besides escaping) were to pay
a ransom, to be exchanged for an Ottoman captive of similar rank held by
the Venetians, or conversion to Islam.27 During the war for Crete, the price
of 20 silver reales paid by the Venetian Republic for an Ottoman prisoner
fit for galley service can be taken as the standard price of an able-bodied
male in the state-run slave market. However, as Suraiya Faroqhi has already
pointed out, captives’ ransoms were always set ‘far higher than the price the
same person would fetch on the slave market’.28 Furthermore, the increase
in the ransom for elite or high-ranking prisoners was exponential. The fol-
lowing few examples well illustrate this increase in ransoms. In 1651, Piero
Marcovich (Petar Marković), a peasant from the fortified village of Kaštel
 Conversion under the threat of arms 37
Stari/Castel Vecchio on the Dalmatian coast near Split/Spalato, after four
months of captivity was able to ransom himself by the payment of the hefty
sum of fifty silver reales (about eighty ducats).29 Similarly, in the summer of
1658, Ottoman corsairs from Leucas and Ulcinj/Dolcigno enslaved eighty-
three persons from the Papal State, and their ransoms were subsequently
set at between seventy and eighty reales, or for a few captives, at a hun-
dred reales.30 These rather disparate sources suggest that the ransoms for
ordinary prisoners, “persons of no distinction” ranged between fifty and
a hundred silver reales. On the other hand, the Venetian lieutenant Giacob
Federico Ilirus in 1656, after sixteen months of captivity, paid a ransom
that amounted to 300 silver reales, while the ransom of Lodovico Begna,
a member of the notable patrician family from Zadar was, in 1654, set at
1,000 silver reales (approx. 1,613 ducats).31 Although the Venetian state
undertook some measures to ease the financial burdens of paying a ransom,
as for example acknowledging the time spent in captivity as active service
and thus making it eligible for state pay, this was done on a case-by-case
basis and each prisoner (or his relatives) had to submit an application to the
Senate in Venice.32
In the course of this long war, more than a few chose to convert to Islam
in an attempt to free themselves from captivity, or at least to improve
their current conditions. Months, and even years of waiting for a ransom
to be gathered by their relatives, or for the exchange negotiations to be
brought to an end, proved to be too much for many. Venetian reports from
Dalmatia speak of people of all social strata: peasants, soldiers of various
nationalities (French, Germans, Italians), captured Dalmatian patricians
and Albanian chieftains, all of whom succumbed to the hardships of cap-
tivity and decided to convert to Islam. As strange as it may seem, probably
those most susceptible to the “lure of conversion” as a means of escaping
the miserable conditions of prisoners of war were actually persons of mid-
dle social rank, such as Dalmatian nobles, Albanian chieftains, or officers
in the Venetian army. Unlike captured Venetian patricians, in the cases
of whom the state (run by their relatives) took a more active role in their
release, they did not enjoy such privileged treatment. Their families had to
use their own personal connections and channels in order to negotiate the
terms of their release. Then, if an exchange of prisoners was part of the
agreed terms of release, their relatives had to made a formal application to
the Venetian state authorities for a particular prisoner in the possession of
the Republic to be granted to them, which usually proved to be a lengthy
and not-so-straight-forward affair.33 For some, such as captured highly-
skilled craftsmen, ship builders, masons or weapon masters, who were in
high demand in the times of war, conversion to Islam could prove to be a
sure path to economic or social advancement. However, as the next case,
that of Conte Vojin Jovanović-Tujković, testifies, the path of conversion to
Islam was not without its dangers.
38 Domagoj Madunić
The case of renegade: Conte Vojin or Cafer Ağa/Džafer Aga
The case of Conte Vojin Jovanović-Tujković or Cafer Ağa, serves as an
illustrative case from this frontier zone. Conte Vojin (or Voin/Voyin) as
he is most commonly known in the Venetian sources was one of the four
principal chieftains of the county of Grbalj (or Zuppa), a strategically
important area under the Ottoman control situated between the Venetian
ports of Kotor/Cattaro and Budva/Budua in present day Montenegro. The
county of Grbalj, consisting of twenty-five villages inhabited in 1614 by an
Orthodox population, was under Ottoman rule and organised as a semi-
autonomous nahiya (the smallest administrative unit of sancak) run by
its own notables who, depending on the circumstances, styled themselves
with a range of Venetian, Slavic or Ottoman titles such as knez, conte,
sipahi and voyvoda.34
At the beginning of the war in 1644, Conte Vojin, along with many
other Montenegrin or Albanian notables, entered Venetian service and
raised one infantry company for the service of the Republic. In Septem-
ber 1644, after receiving compensation for recruitment costs and the
first few salaries for himself and his men, as was the standard Venetian
practice, his company was shipped to Crete. However, while en route,
Conte Vojin forced the ship to disembark his men and all the provisions
it was carrying off the Montenegrin coast near his homeland. In short, he
deserted Venetian service with the maximum of material benefits for him-
self and his companions. Thus, one could assume that, in the first years
of the war (1645–6), Vojin considered the Venetian war effort to be a lost
cause, one not worthy of supporting, and, if we are to believe Venetian
reports, he was actively agitating among his compatriots for the Ottoman
cause.35 However, rather spectacular Venetian victories in Dalmatia in the
spring of 1647 changed all this. It seems that, impressed by the progress
of the Venetian war effort in Dalmatia, by May 1647, pro-Venetian senti-
ments finally prevailed among his compatriots who decided to side with
the Republic. So it happened that on 20 May 1647, four distinguished
representatives of the nahiya of Grbalj came to Kotor and presented the
Venetian extraordinary-governor (provveditore estraordinario) with a list
of terms under which they were prepared to accept the suzerainty of the
Venetian Republic. The Republic readily granted all their requests (except
state stipends for the community notables), and, on 23 July, the people
of Grbalj were, by the official decree of the Dodge Francesco Molino,
accepted as subjects of the Republic.36
Although Conte Vojin was not personally present at the Kotor meeting,
since at the time, due to his pro-Ottoman activities, he was in disfavour
with the Republic, he sent his oldest son as the family representative to
the meeting. Nevertheless, it did not take long for Vojin to return to the
favour of the Venetian provincial administration. Already in July 1647,
 Conversion under the threat of arms 39
Vojin was at the head of a small force of 400 men sent by the governor of
Kotor to the Montenegro hinterland with the task of agitating the moun-
tain clans and instigating a feud between them and their Ottoman lords
with the aim of securing their support for the Venetian cause. It seems
that Vojin’s incursion, combined with extensive Venetian diplomatic ini-
tiatives, bore fruit: in February 1648, all the major Montenegrin clans’
representatives led by Vladika Visarion (the Metropolitan of Montenegro)
arrived at Kotor for secret negotiations with the Venetian governor.37 The
provincial Venetian administration recognised Vojin as one of the key clan
chieftains that could be counted upon and under the title of governatore
(with allocated state stipend) he acted as the Venetian administrator of the
Grbalj community. Furthermore, both Vojin and his son were enrolled in
the Venetian army and served as the captains of two small, armed boats
(barche armate).38
In addition to a political and military career, Conte Vojin also pursued
other avenues of personal advancement and self-reinvention. The name of
Conte Vojin from Grbalj also found its way into the offices of the Sacred
Congregation for the Propagation of the Faith [Sacra Congregatio de Propa-
ganda Fide] in Rome. In May 1647, Conte Vojin, raised in the Orthodox
faith, as the principal representative of the county of Grbalj, sent a personal
letter, co-signed by three other chieftains, to the Catholic missionary Giovanni
Pasquali, who had recently arrived in town of Kotor, inviting him to come to
their lands and instruct them in spiritual teachings of the Catholic Church.
Shortly afterwards, in August 1647, Pasquali could inform his superiors in
Rome about the warm welcome he received from the people of Grbalj, and
especially from Conte Vojin, who had promised to observe of his own will the
Latin (Roman) rite.39 As with the many other new subjects of the Republic of
Venice of Orthodox faith, Conte Vojin readily adjusted to the new political
and religious context, recognising the supremacy of the Pope and accepting
the Roman rite promoted by Catholic missionaries.40 Moreover, for Conte
Vojin, the activities of the Catholic missionaries in his community served as
an excellent means for self-promotion. Letters sent to Rome by Giovanni Pas-
quali concerning the progress of his work among the people of Grbalj quite
often mention Vojin as one of principal supporters of Catholicism.41 Then
in 1650, Conte Vojin’s career in the Venetian service came to an abrupt end.
In August 1649, the Venetian governor of Kotor, Filippo Boldu, on his
own initiative embarked on a rather ambitious campaign in the Monte-
negro hinterland with the aim of revitalising Venetian influence among
the mountain clans. Yet the entire operation quickly ended in failure.
When, on 28 August, the sancakbeyi of Skadar, in a short encounter on
river Morača, routed the Venetian vanguard of 600 men led by Conte
Vojin, the entire operation was aborted and the Venetian troops fled to the
safety of the bay of Kotor. In addition to the significant loss of reputation
among the Montenegrin clans, the Venetians also lost some fifty men in
40 Domagoj Madunić
this vain and poorly planned operation, including Conte Vojin who was
captured alive by the Ottomans.42 The Governor of Kotor was quick to
exploit Vojin’s misfortune and use him as a scapegoat. In a report to his
superiors, Boldu attributed the entire blame for failure of this operation,
not to his own military incompetence, but rather to the treason of Conte
Vojin, accusing him of conspiring with the Ottomans. Yet, other reports
that reached the governor-general Lunardo Foscolo in Zadar, presented a
different account; namely, that Conte Vojin was held in tight chains and
would be, with other prisoners, sent to Constantinople. Well versed in the
internal politics of the Republic, the governor-general Lunardo Foscolo
abstained from offering any personal opinion on this matter, providing
only a rather general comment to the Senate, that ‘time will reveal the
truth from the lie’.43
As a proven rebel and traitor of the Empire, the captured ex-sipahi Vojin
was facing almost certain death.44 Yet, the news that reached Venetian offi-
cials in the course of the next several months was rather surprising. Taken
to Istanbul and presented at the Porte, it seems that Vojin was able not only
to elude death, but also to enter into the grace of several powerful Otto-
man patrons whom he managed to convince of his influence and impor-
tance in the region. His rather flexible attitude toward religion and state
loyalty was further demonstrated by his conversion to Islam and his taking
of the name Cafer Ağa. For Vojin, who became one of the most prominent
advocates for a more vigorous Ottoman military effort in the Adriatic bat-
tlefield, switching allegiance in the midst of the war proved to be an entry
to power and influence, surpassing by far the prospects offered by the Vene-
tian state.45 And, as it turned out, upon his return to the region, he proved
that the trust of his patrons was not misplaced. Over the years, Cafer Ağa
became instrumental in suppressing Venetian influence among the Monte-
negrin clans and steadily rose in power and influence. While the other local
Ottoman lords, including the sancakbeyis of Hercegovina and Shkodër were
coming to an understanding that further fighting had become pointless and
undertook various kinds of unofficial, non-aggression agreements with pro-
vincial Venetian magistrates, Cafer Ağa remained a staunch enemy of the
Republic.46 The Republic did not remain idle, though, and repaid his actions
in kind by arresting and transferring his wife to Zadar (in 1655), where she
was put under guard.47
The star of Cafer Ağa reached its zenith in 1657 when he became the
right-hand man of the new pasha of Shkodër, who was sent to the region
by the Porte in order to revitalise the failing Ottoman war effort and
capture the Venetian stronghold of Kotor. The subsequent failure of the
siege, combined with the rising unpopularity of Cafer Ağa among both
local Christians and Muslims who increasingly came to resent him as an
upstart, seriously undermined his standing in the region. In 1657, the
Republic put a price on his head and, in April 1658, Conte Vojin’s head
 Conversion under the threat of arms 41
was brought to Kotor by a son of the chieftain of one of the compet-
ing Montenegrin clans.48 For the mountain clans, the long war between
the Republic and the Empire presented an ideal opportunity to play out
internal local power struggles in which changing imperial allegiances
and conversion served as tools for ensuring material support and local
influence.

Conclusion: conversion as a survival strategy

What conclusions can be drawn from the examples discussed in the ear-
lier sections? What must be noted in the first place is that the path of con-
version did not provide equal opportunities for Muslims and Christians.
As we have seen in the case of Conte Vojin, his demonstration of readi-
ness to adopt the Latin (Roman) rite and then his conversion to Islam
both provided opportunities for social advancement. Yet, for captured
Muslims, conversion functioned primarily as a means of survival and a
mechanism for their integration into a new homeland. Becoming a Catho-
lic did not offer any direct prospects for economic or social advancement
in the Venetian Republic. Moreover, it seems that those of higher social
rank proved to be much less willing to choose conversion to Catholi-
cism as a way out of captivity. Among almost 600 recorded names of the
Muslims who were baptised in Dalmatia during the first ten years of the
war only a few can be linked to members of influential Muslim families
from this frontier and all of these were female names.49 The reason for
this can probably be found in the fact that, for Ottomans of higher social
rank, abandoning their faith could have quite the opposite effect, namely
the loss of a timar and other family properties in the Empire, while at the
same time not assuring any sort of compensation from the Venetians. It
seems that for distinguished Ottomans defection to the Venetian side and
concomitant conversion was considered as an option only in the most
extreme case.50
The second point that I wish to make is that, due to the extraordi-
nary circumstances of a prolonged armed conflict, the attitude of the state
and church authorities regarding converts was stretched to extremes. On
the one hand, conversion as a response to a threat to one’s life served
as a convenient basis for a more benevolent attitude towards Christians-
turned-Muslims who managed to find a way back from the Ottoman lands
(as in the case of fra Giorgio Lerotich). Yet at the same time, as was shown
in the case of Vojin Tujković aka Cafer Ağa, the state of war pushed the
Venetian side to take more radical steps regarding Christian renegades
of status and importance who actively participated in the Ottoman war
effort. Putting a price on their heads, plotting poisoning or an assassina-
tion, these were all courses of action the Republic would not pursue lightly
in times of peace.51
42 Domagoj Madunić
Notes
1 The topic of the long war for Crete has so far been the subject of numerous
scholarly studies. I have therefore limited my references to a few classical
studies available in English and German that provide a concise overview of
this conflict: Ekkehard Eickhoff, Vendig, Wien und die Osmanen. Umbruch
in Sudosteuropa 1645–1700 (Munchen: Verlag Georg D. W. Callwey, 1970),
17–176, 228–64; Kenneth M. Setton, Venice, Austria, and the Turks in the
Seventeenth Century (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1991),
104–243. For an overview of the sea operations in the Aegean, see: Ander-
son C. Roger, Naval Wars in the Levant (1559–1853) (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1952), 121–84.
2 In addition to the general overviews of the war for Crete cited in note
1, for more specific and detailed coverage of the military operations and
historical processes that took place in the Adriatic theatre of operations,
see: Josip Vrandečić, Borba za Jadran u ranom novom vijeku: Mletačko-
osmanski ratovi u venecijanskoj nuncijaturi 1524–1797 [Struggle for the
Adriatic in the Early Modern Period: Venetian-Ottoman wars in the records
of the Venetian Nuntio Archival Documents] (Split: Filozofski fakultet u
Splitu, 2013); Tea Mayhew, Dalmatia between Ottoman and Venetian Rule
(Roma: Viella, 2008), 29–48, 141–84, 191–4; Feruccio Sassi, “Le Cam-
pagne di Dalmazia durante la Guerra di Candia (1645–1648),” Archivio
Veneto 20 (1937) henceforth Sassi 1; Sassi, “Le Campagne di Dalmazia
durante la Guerra di Candia (1645–1648),” Archivio Veneto 21 (1937)
henceforth Sassi II; Gligor Stanojević, “Dalmacija u doba kandijskog rata,”
[Dalmatia in the Age of the War of Crete] Vesnik vojnog muzeja 5/2 (1958);
Gligor Stanojević, Jugoslovenske zemlje u mletačko turskim ratovima XVI–
XVIII vijeka [Yugoslav lands in the Venetian-Turkish Wars XVI–XVII ct.]
(Beograd: Izdanje istorijskog instituta, 1970); Stanojević, “Crna Gora u
doba kandiskog rata (1645–1669),” [Montenegro in the Age of War for
Crete (1645–1669)] Istorijski Glasnik 1–2 (1953); Marko Jačov, Le guerre
Veneto-Turche del XVII secolo in Dalmatia (Venezia: Società dalmata di
storia patria, 1991).
3 For more on Catholic-Orthodox relationship in the Balkans see: Jovan
Radonić, Rimska kurija i južnoslovenske zemlje od XVI do XIX veka
[Roman Curia and the South Slavic Lands from XVI to XIX ct.] (Beograd:
Naučna knjiga, 1950); Mile Bogović, Katolička Crkva i Pravoslavlje u Dal-
maciji za mletačke vladavine [The Catholic Church and Orthodoxy in Dal-
matia during Venetian Rule] 2nd ed. (Zagreb: Kršćanska sadašnjost, 1993);
Lászsló Hadrovics, Srpski narod i njegova crkva pod turskom vlašću [The
Serbian People and its Church under Ottoman Rule] (Zagreb: Golden Mar-
keting, 2000); Miloš Milošević, Boka Kotorska, Bar i Ulcinj od kraja XV
do kraja XVIII vijeka [Boka Kotorska, Bar and Ulcinj from the end of the
XV. until the end of the XVIII. ct.] (CID: Podgorica, 2008) 231–67. See
also: Zdenko Zlatar, Our Kingdom Come. The Counter-Reformation, the
 Conversion under the threat of arms 43
Republic of Dubrovnik, and the Liberation of the Balkan Slavs (New York,
Columbia University Press, 1992), 225–50.
4 Though the Republic and the Ottoman Empire were formally at peace from
the end of the Cyprus War (1572), the relationship between the two polities
was far from ideal. The main cause of dispute between the Republic of Ven-
ice and the Ottoman Empire up until 1619 were the activities of the Chris-
tian corsairs in the service of the Austrian Habsburgs known as Uskoks who
indiscriminately raided shipping in the Adriatic. For more on the Uskoks and
the problems they caused in the Ottoman-Venetian relations see: Catherine
W. Bracewell, The Uskoks of Senj: Piracy, banditry, and Holy War in the
Sixteenth-Century Adriatic (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1992); Suraiya
N. Faroqhi, “The Venetian Presence in the Ottoman Empire, 1600–30,” in
The Ottoman Empire and the World Economy, ed. Huri İslamoğlu-İnan
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 314–17; Gligor Stanojević,
Senjski uskoci, [The Uskoks of Senj] (Beograd: Vojnoizdavački zavod, 1973).
With regard to border disputes and incidents directly preceding the outbreak
of hostilities in 1645 see Gligor Stanojević, Dalmacija u doba kandijskog rata,
94–7; Tea Mayhew, Dalmatia between Ottoman and Venetian Rule, 23–9.
5 For more on these military operations see Josip Vrandečić, Borba za Jadran,
64–86; Tea Mayhew, Dalmatia between Ottoman and Venetian Rule, 36–40;
Sassi II, 65–73, 84–8; Gligor Stanojević, Dalmacija u doba kandijskog rata,
109–22.
6 For more on the Morlacchi rebellion and their contribution to the Venetian
war effort see Domagoj Madunić, “Capi di Morlacchi. Venetian Military
Policies During the War for Crete (1645–1669) and the Formation of the
Morlacchi Elite,” in Türkenkriege und Adelskultur in Ostmitteleuropa vom
16. bis zum 18. Jahrhundert, ed. Robert Born and Sabine Jagodzinski (Leip-
zig: GWZÖ, 2013). Concerning the question of the identity of these Otto-
man Christian subjects see: Vjeran Kursar, “Being an Ottoman Vlach: On
Vlach Identity(ies), Role and Status in Western Parts of the Ottoman Bal-
kans (15th-18th Centuries),” OTAM. Ankara Üniversitesi Osmanli Tarihi
Araştirma ve Uygulama Merkezi Dergisi [Journal of the Center for Ottoman
Studies – Ankara University] 34 (2013).
7 ‘Those who were not willing to embrace our faith, were either kept as slaves
aboard the galleys, or sold together with their wives to Puglia merchants
and taken to Italy or elsewhere’. This, and all other translations are by the
author.
  Quote taken from the letter of archbishop of Zadar, Bernardo Florio to
the Congregation for the Propagation of the Faith, published in Marko
Jačov, Le Missioni Cattoliche I., 198.
8 Archivio di Stato di Venezia (henceforth referred to as ASVe), Senato, Dis-
pacci, PTM. b. 465, num. 349. (Zara, 9. Decembre, 1647.)
9 For the official report of Fra Bartolomeo of Verona, submitted to his supe-
riors in Rome concerning his activities in Dalmatia, dated 1 June 1649:
see Marko Jačov, Le Missioni Cattoliche nei Balcani durante la Guerra di
44 Domagoj Madunić
Candia (1645–1669) vol. I (Città del Vaticano: Biblioteca APOSTOLICA
VATICANA, 1992), 223–5, henceforth Le Missioni Cattoliche I; A compiled
report containing the list of names of the baptised Muslims can be found in
Marko Jačov, Le Missioni Cattoliche I, 505–44. See also the report by the
archbishop of Zadar Marko Jačov, Le Missioni Cattoliche I., 198–200.
10 The aforementioned report of fra Bartolomeo also records the names of
padrini (godfathers) and padrine (godmothers) and among those one can
find the names of governor-generals (Lunardo Foscolo or Girolamo Fos-
carini), their wives and other notable Venetian magistrates or military offi-
cials. Marko Jačov, Le Missioni Cattoliche I, 505–42.
11 ASVe, Senato Rettori, R(egistro)-17, (A di 8 Novembre 1646) f. 264v-265r.
12 ASVe, Senato Rettori, R-17, (A di 27. Decembre 1647) f. 305v.
13 The previously quoted report of Archbishop of Zadar from October 1648 to
the Congregation for the Propagation of the Faith contains a good summary
of the Venetian treatment of both converted Muslims and those who refused
baptism. See Marko Jačov, Le Missioni Cattoliche I., 197–200.
14 For example, see the letter of the Archbishop of Ohrid (in present day Mac-
edonia) Rafael Lenković, from May 1648, in which he reports flights to the
Christian lands of various Catholic officials from Bosnia and Albania and
informs the Congregation that all Franciscan monasteries in Bosnia, with
the exception of the one at Olovo/Piombo are closed. Marko Jačov, Le Mis-
sioni Cattoliche I., 177–8. Concerning the prosecution of Franciscans in
Albania (from 1651) see ibid., 375–7.
15 For example, see the following complaints sent to the Rome (from 1647–
1649) concerning the taxation of Catholics by Orthodox bishops: Marko
Jačov, Le Missioni Cattoliche I, 144, 172, 252–7; or concerning the con-
version of Catholics to Orthodoxy in Hercegovina (from 1648) because of
the absence of Catholic clergy in the region, ibid., 196–7. For the taxation
privileges of the Serbian Orthodox Church within the Ottoman Empire, see
Lászsló Hadrovics, Srpski narod i njegova crkva pod turskom vlašću, [The
Serbian People and Its Church under the Ottoman Rule] (Zagreb: Golden
Marketing, 2000), 61–81. These tendencies were not limited only to the
Serbian Orthodox Church, already in June 1646, the Sacred Congregation
for the Propagation of the Faith was alarmed because of similar initiatives
on the part of Greek Orthodox priests, and took steps accordingly. Marko
Jačov, Le Missioni Cattoliche I, 48–50.
16 Lászsló Hadrovics, Srpski narod i njegova crkva pod turskom vlašću, 79–80,
104–7.
17 See the following reports from 1646 sent to Rome from various clerics
in the field warning about the Islamicisation of the Catholics in Alba-
nia Marko Jačov, Le Missioni Cattoliche I., 45, 78–9. According to the
report from 1655 of the bishop of Bosnia (with the seat in Đakovo in
present day Croatia) Marijan Maravić concerning the state of Catholics
in his bishoprics from the beginning of the war in 1645 some 2,000
 Conversion under the threat of arms 45
Catholics migrated from Bosnia to Hungary. Marko Jačov, Le Missioni
Cattoliche I., 544–65.
18 Franjo Difnik, Povijest kandijskog rata u Dalmaciji, [History of the Candian
War in Dalmatia] (Split: Književni krug, 1986), 204–6.
19 Marko Jačov, Le Missioni Cattoliche I., 169–72.
20 Ibid., 247–8.
21 Ibid., 611–4. For more on Ali-Pasha Čengić and Jusufbegović see Domagoj
Madunić, “Frontier Elites of the Ottoman Empire during the War for Crete
(1645–1669): The Case of Ali-Pasha Čengić,” in Europe and the ‘Ottoman
World’: Exchanges and Conflicts, ed. Kárman Gábor and Radu G. Paun
(Istanbul: Isis Press, 2013).
22 Franjo Difnik, Povijest kandijskog rata u Dalmaciji, 94–5; Josip Vrandečić,
Borba za Jadran, 59–64.
23 Marko Jačov, Le Missioni Cattoliche I, 130–1.
24 ‘Tu menti, gli disse il Pascia; ma il tuo nome e fra Georgio. E poi dimmi
il vero: Sei fatto il Turco, perche ti piace la legge, e fede di Mohamed, o
pure per altra caggione?’ Taken from the letter of fra Marino di Possegha,
describing the entire event, sent to Congregation for the Propagation of the
Faith. Ibid., 141.
25 Ibid., 141.
26 Ibid., 132–3.
27 A good insight into the conversion of British prisoners taken by Maghrebi
corsairs is provided in Nabil Matar, Turks, Moors and Englisghmen in the
Age of Discovery (New York: Columbia University Press, 1999), 71–82.
28 Suraiya Faroqhi, The Ottoman Empire and the World Around It (London
and New York: I.B. Tauris, 2004), 124–5.
29 ASVe, Senato, Dispacci, PTM, b. 471. num. 12. (Trau, 24. Marzo 1651)
attachment to the letter.
30 ASVe, Senato, Dispacci, PTM, b. 483. num. 207. (Spalato, 25. Agosto
1658).
31 ASVe, Senato, Dispacci, PTM, b. 479. senza numero. (Zara, 7. Marzo 1656);
PTM, b. 476. num. 147. (Spalato, 19. Luglio 1654).
32 For example, on 19 July 1652, the Senate gave a positive reply to lieutenant
Michaele Matteovich’s application and ordered governor-general in Dalma-
tia to pay all overdue wages to the lieutenant for his time spent in captivity
so he could at least partially pay his debts to creditors who had provided
him with the money for his ransom. ASVe, Senato Maar, R-113, (Adi 19.
Luglio 1652.) f. 244r.
33 Such was, for example, the case in March 1651 when the brother of engi-
neer Tomaso Moretti, who had fallen into Ottoman captivity, petitioned
the Senate that a specific Ottoman commander, who was a favourite of
the Grand Vizier and at the moment in Venetian hands, be granted to him
and exchanged for his brother. ASVe, Senato Mar, R-112. (Adi, 18. Marzo
1651). f. 62r-v.
46 Domagoj Madunić
34 For more on the county of Grbalj, see Ivo Stjepčević, Kotor i Grbalj [Kotor
and Grbalj] (Split: Novo Doba, 1941).
35 Gligor Stanojević, “Crna Gora u doba kandijskog rata (1645–1669),”
[Montenegro in the Age of the War of Crete (1645–1669)] Istorijski Glasnik
1–2 (1953): 21–2.
36 Ibid., 22; Stanojević, Jugoslovenske zemlje, 206.
37 Stanojević, Crna Gora u doba kandijskog rata, 24–7.
38 Letter of fra Giovanni Pasquali, dated 10 Giugno 1648, Cattaro. Marko
Jačov, Le Missioni Cattoliche I, 178–9. For more on the organisation
of the Venetian naval forces in the Adriatic during the war for Crete
see: Domagoj Madunić, “The Adriatic Naval Squadron (1645–1669):
Defense of the Adriatic during the War for Crete,” Povijesni Prilozi 45
(2013).
39 Marko Jačov, Le Missioni Cattoliche I., 119–23, 129–30.
40 For a full list of those who allegedly acknowledged the supremacy of the
Pope, accepted the teaching of the Roman Catholic Church and abandoned
their schismatic beliefs, see the report sent to Rome in 1649 by fra Barto-
lomeo di Verona: Marko Jačov, Le Missioni Cattoliche I, 279–306. (Conte
Voin’s name appears on page 286 as Governator Voyn).
41 For example, see the following letters sent to Rome by Giovanni Pasquali
concerning the state of the county of Grbalj, dating from August 1647 until
June 1648. Marko Jačov, Le Missioni Cattoliche I., 138, 174, 179.
42 Gligor Stanojević, Jugoslovenske zemlje, 214–7.
43 ASVe, Senato, Dispacci, PTM, b. 469. num. 621. (Zara, 9. Settembre 1649).
44 ‘Od nas Voyvode Spahije’ [‘From us Voyvode Sipahi’] this is how Vojin pre-
sents himself to the Catholic missionary Gionvanni Pasquali in his letter
from May 1647, shortly after becoming a Venetian subject. It is possible
that Vojin’s use of this title indicates that he had indeed, at one time, been a
sipahi, Marko Jačov, Le Missioni Cattoliche I., 119.
45 First such news reached Dalmatia in May 1651. According to the reports
(avvisi) that reached governor-general Girolamo Foscarini from his
Ragusan sources, Conte Vojin had offered to become a Muslim at the
Ottoman Porte and asked that one squadron of galleys be put under his
command. He promised in turn the capture of the Venetian stronghold
of Kotor with the support of the forces of two nearby sancaks (Hercego-
vina and Shkodër) and his knowledge of the defensive weaknesses of that
city. ASVe, Senato, Dispacci, PTM. b. 470. num. 30. (Zara, 24. Maggio
1651).
46 Domagoj Madunić, Frontier Elites of the Ottoman Empire during the War
for Crete, 57–63.
47 ASVe, Senato, Dispacci, PTM. b. 477. num. 21. (Spalato, 22. Marzo, 1655).
48 ASVe, Senato, Dispacci, PTM. b. 482. num. 161. (Zara, 21. Febraro 1657.
mv.) attachment: Lettera di Cav.re Bolizza et di altri, che avvisano la morte
data à Voino rinegato.
 Conversion under the threat of arms 47
49 See the report by fra Bartolomeo di Verona published in Marko Jačov, Le
Missioni Cattoliche I, 505–44.
50 One of the few recorded cases of Ottoman notables considering defection
to the Venetian side can be found in the correspondence of governor-
general Antonio Bernardo from September 1658. In his letter, the governor-
general informed the Senate that he was contacted by the representative
of an unnamed Ottoman commander, at the moment hosted at Sinj/Sign
by Atlagić bey, at the time probably the most notable of the local Otto-
man lords (principal Capo di questi Confini), concerning the possibility of
sheltering him in Venetian lands. The person in question was one of the
commanders of the Ottoman army which had been recently routed by the
Transylvanian prince György Rákóczi and who, in fear for his life, took
refuge on this frontier. ASVe, Senato, Dispacci, PTM. b. 484. num. 208.
(Spalato, 6. Settembre 1658).
51 For a broader overview of Venetian policies and practices concerning the
assassination of enemies of the state, mainly traitors or renegades, see
Paolo Preto, I Servizi Secreti Veneziani (Milano: il Saggiatore S.P.A., 2010),
346–60.

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OTAM. Ankara Üniversitesi Osmanli Tarihi Araştirma ve Uygulama
Merkezi Dergisi 34 (2013): 115–161.
Madunić, Domagoj. “The Adriatic Naval Squadron (1645–1669): Defense
of the Adriatic during the War for Crete.” Povijesni Prilozi 45 (2013):
199–234.
––– “Capi di Morlacchi. Venetian Military Policies during the War for Crete
(1645–1669) and the Formation of the Morlacchi Elite.” In Türkenkriege
und Adelskultur in Ostmitteleuropa vom 16. bis zum 18. Jahrhundert,
edited by Robert Born and Sabine Jagodzinski, 29–47. Leipzig: GWZO,
2013.
––– “Frontier Elites of the Ottoman Empire during the War for Crete
(1645–1669): The Case of Ali-Pasha Čengić.” In Europe and the ‘Otto-
man World’: Exchanges and Conflicts, edited by Kárman Gábor and
Radu G. Paun, 47–82. Istanbul: Isis Press, 2013.
Matar, Nabil. Turks, Moors and Englishmen in the Age of Discovery. New
York: Columbia University Press, 1999.
Mayhew, Tea. Dalmatia between Ottoman and Venetian Rule. Contado di
Zara 1645–1718. Rome: Viella, 2008.
Milošević, Miloš. Boka Kotorska, Bar i Ulcinj od kraja XV do kraja XVIII
vijeka. CID: Podgorica, 2008.
Preto, Paolo. I Servizi Secreti Veneziani. Milano: il Saggiatore S.P.A., 2010.
Radonić, Jovan. Rimska kurija i južnoslovenske zemlje od 16 do 19 veka.
Beograd: Naučna Knjiga, 1950.
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Princeton University Press, 1952.
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(1645–1648).” Archivio Veneto 20 (1937): 211–250.
––– “Le Campagne di Dalmazia durante la Guerra di Candia (1645–1648).”
Archivio Veneto 21 (1937): 60–100.
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tury. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1991.
 Conversion under the threat of arms 49
Stanojević, Gligor. “Crna Gora u doba kandijskog rata (1645–1669).”
Istorijski Glasnik 1–2 (1953): 3–53.
––– “Dalmacija u doba kandiskog rata.” Vesnik vojnog muzeja 5/2 (1958):
93–182.
––– Jugoslovenske zemlje u mletačko turskim ratovima XVI-XVIII vijeka.
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––– Senjski uskoci. Beograd: Vojnoizdavački zavod, 1973.
Stjepčević, Ivo. Kotor i Grbalj. Split: Novo Doba, 1941.
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3 Conversion to Islam (and
sometimes a return to
Christianity) in Safavid
Persia in the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries
Giorgio Rota

‘It’s the code, sir. Code! That’s a big word with the men who live on the fron-
tiers of Empire. Morale can crumble very easily out there. Drink, women and
unpaid gambling debts, those are the steps down,’ he said. ‘Drink, women
and unpaid gambling debts,’ he repeated.
P. G. Wodehouse, Ring for Jeeves (London: Arrow Books, 2008), 93

In Persia during the first quarter of the seventeenth century, two men were
oscillating back and forth between Christianity and Islam more or less in the
same years. One of them, the Georgian military and political leader, Giorgi
Saak’adze (1570–1629), fled to Persia in 1612 to escape the hostility of
important members of the Georgian court. In Persia, he converted to Shiite
Islam (although we do not know the details of his conversion) and rapidly
earned the favour of Shah Abbas I (1587–1629), which allegedly allowed
him to foster the career of Xosrow Mirza Bagrat’ioni (b. ca. 1562 – d. 1658),
the illegitimate son of King David XI of Kartli (1562–1578), who played a
key role under Shah Abbas’s successor, Shah Ṣafi (1629–1642). In 1625, the
Shah sent Saak’adze to Georgia together with a Persian expeditionary force:
when Giorgi was in his old country, however, he mutinied and joined forces
with the rebels he was supposed to crush, becoming one of the leaders of the
uprising (and presumably returning to Christianity). Later he fell out with
the other rebel leader, King Teimuraz I of K’axeti (1606–1648), whereupon
in 1626 Giorgi was defeated and forced to take shelter in the Ottoman
Empire. There he became a Sunni Muslim (although, once again, we know
nothing about how, when and where).1 In 1629, Giorgi was arrested and
beheaded, officially on account of his mistreatment of the Muslim popula-
tion of the province of Karaman, which was under his governorship. How-
ever, there is reason to believe that Giorgi Saak’adze’s demise was actually
due to his plan to return to either Persia or Georgia, which of course would
have entailed another conversion to either Shiite Islam or Christianity.2 As
for the general perception of Giorgi’s true religious affiliation or persua-
sion, the Ottoman historian Mustafa Naima recorded verses that, according
to him, were circulating among the troops and the civil population of the
 Conversion to Islam in Safavid Persia 51
empire: in the German translation provided by von Hammer, these read, ‘Ich
trinke Wein und ess’ Pilaw, ich fress’ zu einem Stier mich an/Nicht Geber,
Jud’ und Musulman, der Beg von Karaman, Maghraw’.3 In a similar vein,
the Teatine missionary Cristoforo Castelli reported that, after his execution,
Giorgi’s chest was split open and it was found that his heart was ‘double, as
if it were twin’ (tanquam geminae duplex).4
The other man, Giovanni Francesco Flaminio, of whom we know nothing
about his birthplace or age, travelled to Persia around 1597 as the agent of
several Venetian traders. After squandering the capital entrusted to him, he
became a Muslim, joined the Safavid army and allegedly married a Muslim
woman. Later, however, he repented and was reconciled to the Christian
faith by Fr. Juan Tadeo de S. Eliseo, the head of the Carmelite mission in
Isfahan.5 In 1610, after his reconciliation, Flaminio was met by Alessan-
dro Studendoli, the son of one of his former senior partners. Studendoli
encouraged Flaminio to go back to Venice so that he could at least save his
soul after wasting the money, promising that his family would take no legal
action against him.6 In 1611 at the latest, Flaminio was again in Venice.7
These two men could not have been more different from each other:
nonetheless, at the same time they are each quite typical (perhaps Saak’adze
less so than Flaminio, for reasons I will discuss later) of the two groups that
seem to have composed the majority of the foreign male Christian renegades
in Safavid Persia. The first group were military men and administrators,
mostly of Caucasian origin, in the service of the dynasty (the so-called ghu-
lams, literally “slaves” or “servants”).8 The other group consisted of people
whom I would like to call here “renegades of the classic model” (i.e. of the
type well documented in scholarship on the Mediterranean basin and the
Ottoman Empire), that is, Europeans who reached Persia for a variety of
reasons and converted there under duress, in the hope of a better future,
out of personal conviction, or, as Flaminio did, out of the sheer necessity of
finding a solution to practical problems. In addition to these two groups,
I would like at least to mention three other groups, which however cannot
be dealt with in more detail here. The white eunuchs and the women of
the royal harem, like the ghulams, were generally captured during military
campaigns or bought in slave markets (with the exception of those women
who arrived in Persia through marriage alliances or as pledges of politi-
cal allegiance): they were overwhelmingly but probably not exclusively of
Caucasian origin and, despite the important political role they often played,
information about them and their careers is very scanty given the nature of
their functions and the secluded nature of their life in the harem. Besides the
white eunuchs, there were black eunuchs, about whom we know even less:
they came from East Africa and perhaps India, and at least some of them
may have originally been Christian.9 Finally, there was a large (at the time)
Armenian minority in Persia, some members of which were occasionally
subjected to forced conversion and later allowed to return to Christianity,
either individually or as a group. Modern scholarship has not fully explained
the reasons behind such forced conversions nor why they were allowed to
52 Giorgio Rota
return to the old faith. However, the wish in some court circles (which did
not necessarily include the ruler but may have been strong enough to obtain
his support, at least for a while) “to rid the kingdom of unbelievers” on one
side, together with the more mundane hope to extract money from the afflu-
ent Armenian trading community on the other certainly played a role. As
for individual Armenians, the main reasons behind conversion seem to have
been fiscal pressure and the legal possibility offered to converts to usurp the
inheritance of their still-Christian relatives.10
As for the Caucasians (and, in particular, the Georgians) who served the
Safavid dynasty in its army, administration and at the court, we tend for
obvious reasons to have much more biographical information about the
members of the Bagrat’ioni royal family which ruled over Kartli (central
Georgia), K’axeti (eastern Georgia) and Imereti (western Georgia), the three
kingdoms into which the unified Georgian state fragmented in 1462, than
about the members of the aristocracy or commoners. Whereas, between
1501 and 1614, embracing Shiite Islam had often been an excellent way
for Bagrat’ioni pretenders to the thrones of Kartli and K’axeti to secure
Safavid support and recognition, between 1614 and 1633, a policy took
hold under which conversion to Islam became the necessary prerequisite for
rulers of either state while under Safavid suzerainty.11 This means that all
the princes who ascended the thrones of Kartli and K’axeti between 1633
and 1736 (as well as some other male members of the family who did not
rule) officially became Shiite Muslims sooner or later in their lives: probably
most of them remained Muslims until their deaths, although there were a
few who returned to Christianity, and at least one became a Sunni at a cer-
tain point to gain Ottoman support.12 Since the Bagrat’ioni family was the
legitimate royal dynasty ruling two vassal states of Safavid Persia (and of an
Ottoman vassal state), the interests at stake for its members were extremely
high. Thus the dynamics governing the attitude of these members towards
conversion to Islam did not necessarily apply to Georgians of non-royal
blood. It may be nonetheless interesting to have at least a cursory look at the
lives and careers of a few of these princes to see how this attitude could be
very different from one case to another, not only on account of the stakes at
hand, but also due to individual political allegiances and, perhaps, personal
factors that today escape us.
For instance, King Luarsab I (1534–1556) died as a Christian fighting
against the Safavids. His son David XI (r. 1562–1578) converted to Islam in
December 1561 in order to enlist Safavid help against his own brother King
Simon I (r. 1556–1599) and was promptly acknowledged as “governor”
of Tbilisi by Shah Ṭahmāsp I (1524–1576), receiving the name of Dāud
Khan and the honorific title (laqab) of “son of the Shah”.13 When the Otto-
mans invaded Georgia in 1578, David/Dāud handed over those territories
still under his control to them and eventually, in January 1585, he entered
Constantinople where, according to a Venetian source, he “turned Turk”,
later receiving a provincial governorship.14 As for Simon I, he was ruling
 Conversion to Islam in Safavid Persia 53
as a Christian king over Kartli and fighting against his rebellious brother
David when he was captured by the Safavid forces during a battle in 1568
or 1569 and imprisoned in Persia by the order of the aforementioned Shah
Ṭahmāsp I15. He was freed by Shah Ṭahmāsp’s son and successor, Ismail II
(1576–1577), but he did not convert to Islam until 1578, when the throne
was occupied by yet another Shah, Solṭān Moḥammad Xodābande (1578–
1587), who gave him the name of (Solṭān) Maḥmud Khan and the laqab
of “brother”.16 Simon I/(Solṭān) Maḥmud Khan then returned to Georgia,
ousted his brother from power and loyally fought several years against
the Ottomans, even after Shah Abbas I signed a peace treaty with them
in 1590.17 On 1 April 1598, Pope Clemente VIII (1592–1605), seemingly
unaware that Simon had converted, addressed a letter to him praising his
‘constancy in the Catholic Faith’.18 In 1599, Simon was captured by the
Ottomans and died in captivity in 1611, without becoming a Sunni Muslim.
Xosrow Mirza, the illegitimate son of David XI/Dāud Khan, was born
either in Persia in 1565 or in Georgia in 1566/7.19 Be that as it may, he was a
loyal servant of the Safavid dynasty for his entire life and, to the best of our
knowledge, he was also a Muslim for all of it, or at least for the longest and
most significant part of it. At a later stage of his life he was “renamed” Ros-
tam Khan, and the crowning achievement of his career was the appointment
as vāli (governor, but king from the Georgian point of view) of Kartli, where
he ruled successfully from 1633 until his death in 1658 under the name
of Rost’om Mepe (King Rostam in Georgian). Once on the throne of his
ancestors, he married Mariam, the sister of the Christian ruler of Mingrelia
(western Georgia), Levan II Dadiani (1611–1657) in a double – Christian
and Muslim – ceremony, disregarding the fact that the first husband of the
lady was still alive.20 Xosrow Mirza/Rostam Khan/Rost’om Mepe is accused
by the Georgian sources of the time to have introduced Persian customs and
luxury to the Georgian court, but he is also praised for restoring the cathe-
dral at Mcxet’a, the old capital of the country.21 Needless to say, both names
under which he is known are Iranian names and both were made popular by
the Šāhnāme, the epic poem which at the time was extremely popular both
in Persia and in Georgia.22
As said before, the Bagrat’ionis were in an exceptional position as far
as the conversion to Islam of the Georgians in Safavid Persia is concerned.
Giorgi Saak’adze, strictly speaking, was most probably a molāzem (a
“dependant” or personal retainer) of the shah rather than a member of the
military corps of the ghulams proper (although he was of course a ghulam
in the broad sense of the word, insofar as he was, like everybody else at
court or in the army, a servant of the ruler). As for the ghulams, Europe-
ans travelling in Persia in the seventeenth century variously assessed their
numbers as between 8,000 and 30,000,23 which means that the information
currently available to us about individuals concerns only a tiny fraction of
the ghulams active in Persia at any given time in Safavid history. That said,
a few general conclusions may nonetheless be drawn. Many ghulams were
54 Giorgio Rota
captured during military campaigns or bought from slave dealers, where-
upon they were converted and trained in a way that may have (or may not
have, we are not well informed on this point) been reminiscent of the train-
ing undergone by the Ottoman janissaries.24 However, others were born (in
Persia or the Caucasus) to Muslim fathers of Caucasian origin who were
already in Safavid service: although the traditional view is that most ghu-
lams were captured slaves, the available data does not actually allow us to
establish which group was more numerous, nor how numerous they were.
Some ghulams were people who had left Georgia after political or mili-
tary setbacks and moved to Persia (as Giorgi Saak’adze had done).25 Others
replaced, perhaps voluntarily, close relatives as ghulam or molāzem. Finally,
some at least certainly volunteered: this was for instance the case of Abul
Beyg, mouravi (governor) of the city of Kiziqi in Georgia, who was enrolled
as a ghulam in 1695 upon the request of Kalb-ʿAli Khan Ziyādoġli Qājār
Moṣāḥeb, beyglarbeygi of Qarābāġ, ḥākem of K’axeti and commander-
in-chief (sardār) of the Safavid army in Georgia.26 Abul Beyg was clearly an
adult man with an important post when he decided to join the ghulams, and
it is reasonable to suppose that he saw enlistment as an advancement to his
career.27
Returning to Christianity does not seem to have been very common
among the ghulams, although it was somewhat more common among the
Bagrat’ioni princes. Among the latter, re-conversion seems to have been
determined by political expediency or a fall from royal grace, as in the case
of King Arčil of K’axeti (1664–1675), who renounced Safavid allegiance to
pursue his dream of ruling over Imereti.28 On the other hand, one must not
forget that the only Christian country bordering Persia was Georgia itself,
which could hardly be considered a safe haven for prominent defectors,
deserters or apostates. A safer haven seems to have been provided by Rus-
sia, as it was for King Vaxt’ang VI (1719–1723),29 but this generally meant
becoming hostage to Russian interests, exile without return and the end
of one’s political ambitions. However, many Georgian ghulams displayed
a favour for Christians (including the Catholic missionaries) or a dislike
for Muslims, thus authorising contemporaneous observers, Christian and
Muslim alike, to judge them as crypto-Christians. Once again, we are bet-
ter informed about the attitude of Georgian aristocrats and members of
the royal house than of the rank and file. For instance, a Persian histo-
rian stated that the governor of Qandahar, King Giorgi XI/Šāhnavāz Khan
(1676–1688, 1703–1709) of Kartli, had badly mistreated the local Afghan
population because he had remained a Christian at heart despite his conver-
sion to Islam and, indeed, a Georgian officer in King Giorgi’s army, Sexnia
Čxeidze, reported receiving communion before a fight against the Baluch in
1700.30 Giorgi’s nephew, King Kaixosro (1709–1711), who also fell fighting
the Afghans at Qandahar, was secretly baptised by a Carmelite father who
later followed him to Afghanistan and perished with him and the rest of
the Georgian contingent.31 According to the Theatine missionary don Pietro
 Conversion to Islam in Safavid Persia 55
Avitabile, Dāud Khan Undiladze ‘donated his soul to God’32 but, when he
later mutinied in Georgia in 1632, it does not seem that he openly became a
Christian. Similarly, when the Safavid army occupied Georgia in 1633, as a
consequence of that rebellion, its commander Rostam Khan Saak’adze told
the same Avitabile that he would ‘slit the belly open’ of anybody stealing
from the Catholic fathers or threatening their safety.33 Of course, it is diffi-
cult to assess the role played by personal religious convictions: for instance,
Rostam Khan Saak’adze seems to have been a strict disciplinarian and par-
ticularly intolerant of theft, and therefore his threats against plunderers may
have been due less to his favour for Christians than to his strict sense of
justice, to which also Persian sources bear witness.34
The precise circumstances of individual conversions often escape us as
well. In one particular episode, dreams play an important role: we are for-
tunate enough to have two different and mutually exclusive accounts of the
same episode, one from the Georgian and one from the Persian side. Prince
Luarsab, who was living at Isfahan as a hostage, was sent to far away Kir-
man after his brother, the aforementioned Giorgi XI/Šāhnavāz Khan, rebelled
against Persian domination in 1688. According to the Georgian version of
the events, at first, Luarsab refused to abandon Christianity but then, dur-
ing the journey to Kirman, he scratched his nose, made it bleed and claimed
that “the Imam” had struck him and ordered him to convert (with the aim,
unstated by the source, to be allowed to remain in the capital). According to
the Persian version, Luarsab claimed that “the Imam” had converted him in
a dream along the way. Once in Kirman, he (unsurprisingly) chided Giorgi
for his rebellion but also asked to be circumcised: this detail, if true, may be
either seen as lending weight to the sincerity of his conversion or witnessing
a desperate desire to stay in Isfahan at any cost.35
The story of Giorgi XI’s successor, Erek’le I (1688–1703), also has many
interesting facets. The grandson of a staunch enemy of the Safavids, the
aforementioned Teimuraz I, Erek’le was born in Georgia and in 1674 moved
to Persia from Russia, where he had spent many years in exile. The fol-
lowing year, during a banquet at the shah’s court, he met the papal envoy,
Father Francesco Piscopo, who later reported that the prince ‘was leaning
towards the Catholic faith’.36 The prince remained in Persia as a Christian
until 1688, when the Georgian members of his court (including his chaplain
and spiritual guide) declared that they were ready to take his sin of apostasy
upon themselves if he finally decided to become a Muslim, which he agreed
to do: he was then allowed to ascend the throne of Kartli with the name of
Naẓar-ʿAli Khan.37 His son David III/Emāmqoli Khan (1703–1722), who
was born in Isfahan around 1678, embraced Islam together with his father
and, when the latter returned to Georgia, remained at the Safavid court,
where he ‘was raised among the Shah’s eunuchs’. By the time he became
vāli/king of K’axeti at the age of 25, he had completely forgotten the Chris-
tian beliefs, ‘followed all the tenets of the Muslim faith’ and did not know
the Georgian traditions, although he had mastered both the Georgian and
56 Giorgio Rota
Persian language and literature.38 Later ‘he bowed to Georgian custom’ but,
when he took part in banquets, he did not drink wine (unlike his father, who
on the contrary was a strong drinker), both because he was a Muslim and
on account of an illness that wine would have worsened.39
When it comes to personal convictions or motivations, however, King
K’onst’ant’ine, who ruled very briefly over K’axeti in 1605 left us a short
but nonetheless very interesting autobiographical statement:

I intend to serve the great Sovereign Tsar even better than my father did.
Though I am of the Moslem faith, I am not a Moslem of my own free
will: my father had given me to the Shah. . . . My father and my grand-
father and my great-grandfather were Christian sovereigns since days
of old; and I myself was also a Christian and still remember the Chris-
tian faith. My father delivered me to become a Moslem when I was
seven years old. It was not of my own free will that I have become a
Moslem; God will judge my father for it. And now, without fail, I shall
not subject Christians to oppression . . . I am the Shah’s servant, and
in his letters the Shah calls me his son. Should your great Sovereign be
as gracious towards me as the Shah, I am ready to be in the Sovereign’s
grace.40

These few lines, although concise, lend themselves to some considerations.

One seems to perceive in the words of the prince regret for his father’s deci-
sion, and also a rebuke. One sees as well pride in his own royal origin: fate
may have changed K’onst’ant’ine’s official religious affiliation but it did not
change or limit his natural right to rule. Indeed, it strengthened it by forging
a strong personal bond with the shah, as is expressed in kin terminology
implying full support from the Shah himself and son-like loyalty from the
prince. And K’onst’ant’ine’s words are of course a political statement as
well: the prince was not going to trade the power accruing to him as a vassal
of the shah for a precarious independence as a fully-fledged Georgian king
but, at the same time, he explicitly left the door open to Muscovite influence
and help. The mention of having once been a Christian and not having for-
gotten the old faith must be understood as a suggestion that, under certain
circumstances, the old faith could still be recovered. The phenomenon of the
ghulams, as well as questions regarding their attitude towards religious con-
version or the interplay between the latter and their career ambitions, would
be better understood if treated in the wider context not only of Islamic mili-
tary slavery, but also of the “international military market” (in other words,
the recruitment of foreign mercenaries at an international level) in the early
modern period in Europe, which could provide interesting terms of com-
parison from western history. Similarities between European states and the
Ottoman Empire in the policy of recruiting foreign soldiers and administra-
tors have been noticed.41 European armies of the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries were indeed “mongrel forces”, which included large numbers of
 Conversion to Islam in Safavid Persia 57
foreign troops who did not always share the same religious persuasion of
their employers,42 the most spectacular instance being probably the Prot-
estant German Landsknechts storming and sacking Rome on behalf of the
Emperor Charles V (1519–1556).43 However, despite this ethno-religious
mix, religion was not the main reason for desertion or mutiny, although of
course there were exceptions.44
Finally, while it is certainly true that in Persia ‘the Georgians changed
their religion with remarkable sans-façon, but Islam too sat lightly on their
shoulders’,45 there were notable exceptions. The aforementioned Erek’le
I and Vaxt’ang VI converted to Islam only very reluctantly and after years
of exile at the Persian court. Before them, Teimuraz I (Erek’le’s grandfa-
ther) never did convert, despite repeated defeats, the loss of his throne and
the destruction of his family.46 It was indeed Teimuraz’s mother, Ketevan,
who was tortured to death in Shiraz in 1624 on the orders of Shah Abbas
I, who provided the most striking and most celebrated example of attach-
ment to the Christian religion: her martyrdom did not fail to deeply impress
European observers of the time.47 The praise, in a poem dedicated to Kete-
van’s martyrdom, addressed by the unflinchingly Christian and anti-Safavid
Teimuraz to the man who oversaw the torture and death of his mother48
(Emāmqoli Khan Undiladze, himself a Georgian ghulam like his father and
his brother, the aforementioned Dāud Khan) bears eloquent witness to the
complexity, and perhaps ambivalence, of the ties connecting the ghulams to
each other, the homeland, the host country, and their employer and overlord
the Safavid shah.49
Even if Safavid Persia was more difficult to reach than the Ottoman
Empire and not as fabulously rich as Mughal India, in the sixteenth and sev-
enteenth centuries it was nonetheless home to a certain number of renegades
of European origin like Flaminio.50 Unfortunately, the amount of current
information about such figures does not compare to what we know about
the ghulams, yet a certain amount of (usually episodic) data is available
which can give us a sense of the situation at large. The Ottoman–Safavid
wars certainly provided an important channel for Europeans to end up in
Persia, as either deserters or war prisoners. As early as 1507, for instance,
a Venetian source mentions a Frenchman who escaped to the Safavid royal
camp after twelve years of slavery in the Ottoman Empire.51 When two
Imperial envoys reached the Safavid court at the end of the 1520s, their cre-
dentials were translated by a Portuguese renegade named Emāmqoli who,
however, ‘did not know Latin well’ and therefore could not fully explain
what the letters were about.52 He was perhaps a deserter from the Portu-
guese outpost of Comorão/Bandar Abbas or from the retinue of a diplo-
matic envoy. A very interesting case is that of another Portuguese, António
Tenreiro: a member of an embassy which reached the Safavid court in 1524,
he may have converted to Islam before starting his journey back home.53 In
the seventeenth century, Persia was reportedly ‘full’ of Polish54 and probably
also Russian slaves, some of whom must have become Muslims. These men,
58 Giorgio Rota
and sometimes women, had clearly either fallen victim to Crimean Tatar
raids or were captured by the Safavids while serving in the Ottoman army.
This was for instance the fate of a Russian man named “Alessandro”, appar-
ently thirty-five years of age, who was reconciled in front of the Holy Office
in Venice on 24 January 1634. He stated that he had been kidnapped and
taken to Persia by the “Tatars”, who sold him to a Muslim trader.55 He spent
fifteen years with this trader, living ‘in the Turkish way’ (alla turchesca, that
is, as a Muslim) but without reneging, being circumcised, entering a mosque
or saying the Muslim prayers.56 In 1622 Shah Abbas I freed 87 Russian pris-
oners and sent them back to Russia as a sign of friendship to the Czar.57 We
do not know how they had come to Persia, but a Safavid chronicle informs
us about the ‘Frankish and Russian young ghulams’ serving in the Ottoman
army and captured at the battle of Ṣufiyān (1605).58 A clearer connection
between the wars of Shah Abbas and the presence of Christian renegades in
Persia is established by an account written by Fr. Belchior dos Anjos, who
met two such renegades in 1604. A ‘young German man’ captured in Hun-
gary thirteen years earlier, who had become a Muslim but had expressed the
wish to return to Christianity, was provided with letters of recommendation
and sent to Goa. A Frenchman, who had likewise been taken prisoner in
Hungary by the Ottomans (during the war of 1593–1606) and kept seven
years as a prisoner, was later captured by the Safavid forces at the conquest
of Tabriz (1603). He had never been forced to renege by his first master and
wanted to return to Christendom. Interestingly, he stated that the “Moors”
(by which he probably meant both the Turks and the Persians) thought he
was a “Moor” himself because he was dressed like them and spoke Turk-
ish well.59 Others, both Catholics and Protestants, were traders, artisans,
physicians60 and painters61 who had come to Persia in search of fortune, or
mercenaries who occasionally trained the Safavid troops.62 We know that
some settled down in Persia63 and some may have converted.64 Europeans
too, like the Caucasians, provided martyrs to the Christian faith: the most
famous among them is probably Johann Rudolf Stadler, a Swiss Protestant
clock-maker who refused to convert during the reign of Shah Ṣafi, a ruler
otherwise supposed to be well-inclined towards Christians, and was there-
fore executed.65
As remarked earlier in the case of the Georgian ghulams, there were not
many options left for those European renegades who may have wished to
return to Christianity: a flight to Russia was out of the question for geo-
graphical reasons and also Portuguese Bandar Abbas must have been too
far away for the majority of them. The situation improved from this point
of view with the establishment of the first Catholic mission at Isfahan in
1602, as Flaminio’s case shows. Missionary sources sometimes provide data
concerning the number of renegades brought to the Catholic faith. Fr. Juan
Tadeo writes of

about 2,000 Georgians, who had become renegades, persuaded . . . to

return to the Faith . . . 59 children of Georgians, Jacobites, etc., who
 Conversion to Islam in Safavid Persia 59
voluntarily received the Roman rite . . . and a very large number of per-
sons from Italy, France, Germany, Poland, Russia, Georgia, Valachia,
Portuguese and Indian Christians reconciled to the Catholic church.66

Ten Georgians were baptised in July 1707.67 We must assume that the
majority of these ex-renegades, especially the Georgians, could not leave
Persia and were therefore forced to conceal their return to Christianity.
However, not even the missionaries were entirely safe from the risk of
apostasy. An Austrian traveller, Ferdinand Amadeus von Harrsch, who
was in Persia around the year 1700, reported the recent apostasy of two
priors of the Augustinian convent at Isfahan (the Portuguese Manuel de
S. Maria and António de Jesus) who had become Muslims in one case
because of a woman (1691), in the other after a quarrel with a Portuguese
ambassador (1697). The first, according to von Harrsch, lived ‘miserably’
and regretted his decision, albeit not to the point of returning to the fold
of the Holy Roman Church, while the latter had become a secretary to
the Shah.68 This report is remarkable also because it confirms how indi-
vidual and diverse both the path leading to conversion and the “new life”
thereafter were. Indeed, in a final twist of fate, António de Jesus (by then
ʿAliqoli Beyg Jadido’l-eslām) not only became the author of bitterly anti-
Christian religious treatises but even converted to Twelver Shiism another
Portuguese man who, as the slave of a Yemeni master, had previously
embraced the Zaydi branch of Shiism.69 Again, information is scarce and
general conclusions are tentative, but it seems that in Safavid Persia (as
far as the “classic renegades” are concerned) the reasons for converting
to Islam were the same as those highlighted by modern scholarship on
conversion in the Mediterranean basin and the Ottoman Empire: violence
or the threat thereof (particularly in the case of purchased slaves, the occa-
sional Ottoman prisoner of war of Christian origin, and local Christian
communities), need, ambition, lust for adventure, personal religious con-
viction and of course what an Italian observer of the time would have
called la lussuria del vivere turchesco (the lecherousness of the Muslim
way of life). As an eyewitness like Pietro della Valle put it, ‘a half-witted
man [un uomo di poco cervello]’ in Persia was always in danger of waver-
ing in his Christian faith because of the lure of money, royal favour, a
beautiful wife or similar reasons.70 The reasons for (possibly later) revert-
ing to Christianity are more difficult to understand, but we may assume
that, again as in the Mediterranean basin, disappointment with their new
status as Muslims, the wish to return home (whether it was actually pos-
sible or not), the fascination exerted by the Catholic liturgy and an unex-
tinguishable attachment to the old religion all played a role. The words
quoted in the epigraph, ascribed by the great master of British humour
to a fictional English white hunter living somewhere “east of Suez” in an
a-temporal British empire, are singularly in agreement with the words of
the more serious-minded Sirach, and this is not by chance.71 The fact is,
that men living on the fringes of the empire (any empire) or beyond them
60 Giorgio Rota
were by definition more likely to meet other cultures and new ways of life
than their fellow countrymen who never left more inland regions of the
same state. They were relatively free from the constraints that dominated
life at home but they were also far away from that life and the protection
it could offer. They often stood alone when facing unusual or unexpected
challenges and, left to their own devices as they were, their response to
the challenge may not always have been one that their society of origin
would have approved of. More often than not, as both modern scholar-
ship and primary sources show, it was practical problems (summarised
by Wodehouse as drink, women and unpaid debts for the sake of brev-
ity and, no doubt, irony), and not theological issues, that triggered the
choice between two religions. The possibility to choose may have been
hailed by some as a personal conquest72 or regretted by others as a heavy
burden unfairly forced upon them by fate. For some it must have been like
a ‘change of dress and coins’ without particular consequence, for others
it was a step that could not be made lightly, or that could not be made at
all.73 In either case, the modern scholar dealing with the phenomenon of
renegades should always be aware of the importance of the human factor
and not indulge in the temptation of imposing too-strict theoretical frames
on what was, after all, a highly personal and unpredictable decision.

Notes
1 Histoire de la Géorgie depuis l’antiquité jusqu’au XIXe siècle, trans. Marie-
Félicité Brosset, II part, Histoire moderne, I livraison (St. Petersburg:
Imprimerie de l’Académie Impériale des Sciences, 1856), 45–60, 163–67;
W. E. D. Allen, A History of the Georgian People (London: Kegan Paul,
Trench, Trubner and Co., 1932), 166–8. On Giorgi Saak’adze and Xos-
row Mirza, see Histoire de la Géorgie, II/I, 56.
2 The details of the death of Giorgi and of his possible plot to leave the Otto-
man Empire can be found in Giorgio Rota, “A New Date for the Death of
Giorgi Saak’adze,” Eurasian Studies 4 (2005) pp. 19–27.
3 Joseph von Hammer, Geschichte des osmanischen Reiches (Pest: Hartleben,
1827–35), vol. V 104 n. b.
4 Cf. for instance Bernadette Majorana, La gloriosa impresa (Palermo: Sell-
erio, 1990), 274, plate 61; also Rota, “A New Date,” 27 n. 32.
5 On Fr. Juan Tadeo, cf. A Chronicle of the Carmelites in Persia and the Papal
Mission of the XVIIth and XVIIIth centuries, ed. H. Chick (London and
New York: I. B. Tauris, 2012), vol. II, 920–34.
6 Venice: Archivio di Stato (hereafter: ASV), Sant’Uffizio (Tre Savi all’Eresia),
busta 85 (fols. not numbered). Fr. Juan Tadeo arrived at Isfahan on 2
December 1607, which of course means that Flaminio’s reconciliation
took place after this date, cf. A Chronicle of the Carmelites, vol. II, 921.
One wonders if the ‘Venetian merchant so weighed down by debt that
 Conversion to Islam in Safavid Persia 61
he saw no alternative but conversion to Islam’, whom the Augustinian
António de Gouveia met at the end of 1602 or beginning of 1603 in Isfa-
han, was Flaminio, see John M. Flannery, The Mission of the Portuguese
Augustinians to Persia and Beyond (1602–1747) (Leiden and Boston:
Brill, 2013), 65. Unfortunately I did not have access to de Gouveia’s own
account of his mission, Relaçam em que se tratam as guerras e grandes
victórias que alcançou o grande rey de Persia Xa ‘Abbas [. . .] (Lisbon,
1611).
7 ASV, Cinque Savi alla Mercanzia, I serie, registro 143, fols. 87a–88a (31
March 1611).
8 On the ghulams, see in particular Giorgio Rota, “Caucasians in Safavid
Service in the 17th Century,” in Caucasia Between the Ottoman Empire
and Iran, 1555–1914, ed. Raoul Motika and Michael Ursinus (Wiesbaden:
Reichert Verlag, 2000); Willem Floor, Safavid Government Institutions
(Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda Publishers, 2001), 166–76; Hirotake Maeda,
“Ḥamza Mīrzā and the ‘Caucasian Elements’ at the Safavid Court: A Path
Towards the Reforms of Shāh ʿAbbās I,” Orient’alist’i 1 (2001); Sussan
Babaie a. O., Slaves of the Shah (London and New York: I. B. Tauris,
2004); Giorgio Rota, book review of Babaie a. O., Slaves of the Shah, The
Middle East Journal, 59 (2005); Valerian Gabashvili, “The Undiladze Feu-
dal House in the Sixteenth to Seventeenth-Century Iran According to the
Georgian Sources,” trans. Manana Gabashvili, Iranian Studies 40 (2007);
Rudi Matthee, Persia in Crisis (London: I. B. Tauris, 2012), 27–62 and
passim.
9 Willem Floor, “Barda and Bardadārī. IV. From the Mongols to the Abolition
of Slavery,” in Encyclopaedia Iranica, ed. Ehsan Yarshater, vol. III (Lon-
don: Routledge and Kegan Paul 1982–), 769–70; Mohammad Rafiʿ al-Din
Ansâri, Dastur al-Moluk. A Safavid State Manual, trans. Willem Floor and
Mohammad H. Faghfoory (Costa Mesa: Mazda Publishers, 2007), 175–85;
Kathryn Babayan, “Eunuchs. IV. The Safavid Period,” in Encyclopaedia
Iranica, ed. Ehsan Yarshater, vol. IX (London: Bibliotheca Persica Press
1982–), 67–8; Matthee, Persia in Crisis, 59–62.
10 The law applied to all non-Muslims and was issued ‘before ʿAbbas I died’
according to A Chronicle of the Carmelites, vol. I, 288. Aptin Khanbaghi,
The Fire, the Star and the Cross (London–New York: I. B. Tauris, 2006),
128 suggests ‘around 1624’ as a date for the Shah’s edict but this is prob-
ably too early. On the Armenians (and Assyrians) under Safavid rule see,
among others, Vartan Gregorian, “Minorities of Isfahan: The Armenian
Community of Isfahan 1587–1722,” Iranian Studies 7 (1974); Vera B.
Moreen, “The Status of Religious Minorities in Safavid Iran 1617–61,”
Journal of Near Eastern Studies 40 (1981): 128–32; Roger M. Savory,
“Relations between the Safavid State and Its Non-Muslim Minorities,”
Islam and Christian-Muslim Relations 14 (2003): 441–58; Khanbaghi,
The Fire, the Star, 111–29, 134–5; Rudi Matthee, “Christianity in Safavid
62 Giorgio Rota
Iran: Hospitaliy and Harassment,” Studies on Persianate Societies 3 (2005)
15–37; Matthee, Persia in Crisis, 177–95; Flannery, The Mission of the
Portuguese Augustinians, 111–47. Also the Jewish community in Safavid
Persia occasionally experienced forced conversion followed by permission
to return to Judaism, for reasons which were largely the same as those out-
lined in the case of the persecution of the local Christians: cf. for instance
Moreen, “The Status of Religious Minorities,” 123–5; Vera B. Moreen,
“The Problems of Conversion Among Iranian Jews in the Seventeenth and
Eighteenth Centuries,” Iranian Studies 19 (1986): 215–28; Savory, “Rela-
tions,” 449–53; Khanbaghi, The Fire, the Star, 102–11, 135–46; Matthee,
Persia in Crisis, 183–93.
11 Allen, A History of the Georgian People, 176–7, 272–3; David Mar-
shall Lang, The Last Years of the Georgian Monarchy, 1658–1832 (New
York: Columbia University Press, 1957), 21–2; Gulkan Žoržoliani,
Sakartvelo XVII sauk’unis 30–50–ian c’lebši (Tbilisi: Mecniereba,
1987), 35–7.
12 This was Iese, the brother and rival of King Vaxt’ang VI (1711–1714 and
1719–1723), who ruled over Kartli under Safavid suzerainty as ʿAliqoli
Khan in 1714–1716 and in Ottoman service as Mustafa Pasha between
1724–1727: on him, see Lang, The Last Years, 108–9, 114–5, 139–40;
Lang, “ ʾAlī-qolī Khan”, in Encyclopaedia Iranica, ed. Ehsan Yarshater,
vol. I (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul 1982–), 874. Before him,
David XI had also become first a Shiite and then a Sunni (see later in the
chapter).
13 Ḥasan Beyg Rumlu, Aḥsano’t-tavārix, ed. ʿAbdo’l-Ḥoseyn Navā’i (Teh-
ran: Bābak, 1357), 536; ʿAbdi Beyg Navidi Širāzi, Takmelato’l-axbār, ed.
ʿAbdo’l-Ḥoseyn Navā’i (Tehran: Ney, 1369), 120; Qāżi Aḥmad b. Šarafo’d-
din al-Ḥoseyn al-Ḥoseyni al-Qomi, Xolāṣato’t-tavārix, ed. Eḥsān Ešrāqi
(Tehran: Entešārāt-e Dānešgāh, 1359–1363), vol. I, 434; Eskandar Beyg
Torkmān, Tārix-e ʿālamārā-ye ʿabbāsi, ed. Iraj Afšār (Tehran: Amir Kabir,
1334–1335), vol. I, 89.
14 Allen, A History of the Georgian People, 155; ASV, Senato, Dispacci ambas-
ciatori, Costantinopoli, filza 20, no. 53, fols. 540b–541a (Giovan Francesco
Morosini, Vigne di Pera, 29 January 1585 [1584 more veneto]).
15 Rumlu, Aḥsano’t-tavārix, 567–70; Qomi, Xolāṣato’t-tavārix, vol. I, 558–
9; Navidi Širāzi, Takmelato’l-axbār, 132; Torkmān, Tārix-e ʿālamārā-ye
ʿabbāsi, vol. I, 90; Eskandar Beg Monshi, History of Shah ‘Abbas the Great,
trans. Roger M. Savory (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1978), vol. I, 150;
Histoire de la Géorgie, II/I, 33.
16 Rumlu, Aḥsano’t-tavārix, 628; Qomi, Xolāṣato’t-tavārix, vol. II, 622,
626–8; Torkmān, Tārix-e ʿālamārā-ye ʿabbāsi, vol. I, 90, 207, 227; Mon-
shi, History of Shah ‘Abbas, vol. I, 150, 307–8, 339–40; Histoire de la
Géorgie, II/I, 34. The Persian sources are not in agreement as to whether
the word solṭān was part of Simon’s Muslim name or not. Most likely it
 Conversion to Islam in Safavid Persia 63
was, since this name was clearly modelled after that of Solṭān Moḥammad
Xodābande.
17 Allen, A History of the Georgian People, 155–60; Histoire de la Géor-
gie, II/I, 35–43, 359–73; Giovanni Tommaso Minadoi, Historia della
guerra fra Turchi, et Persiani (Venice: Andrea Muschio e Barezzo
Barezzi, 1588).
18 A Chronicle of the Carmelites, vol. I, 63 n. 1 (English translation); Ilia
T’abaġua, Sakartvelo Evrop’is arkivebsa da c’ignsacavebši (XIII–XVI ss.)
(Tbilisi: Mecniereba, 1984), 228–30 (Georgian translation), 295–7 (Latin
text) and 298–302 (facsimile of the Latin text); Givi Žordanija and Zurab
Gamezardašvili, Rimsko-katoličeskaja missija i Gruzija, vol. I (Tbilisi:
Izdatel’stvo Tbilisskogo Universiteta, 1994), 574–6 (Latin text); Episto-
lae ad principes, vol. III (Sixtus V – Clemens VIII, 1585–1605), ed. Luigi
Nanni and Tomislav Mrkonjić (Vatican City: Archivio Segreto Vaticano,
1997), 418.
19 Žoržoliani, Sakartvelo, 19–21.
20 Histoire de la Géorgie, II/I, 69; Lang, The Last Years, 13. The wedding
sealed the alliance between Rost’om and Levan II which was aimed at fight-
ing Teimuraz I.
21 Lang, The Last Years, 13. ‘Nobody knows to which religion the prince
[Rost’om Mepe] belongs: he never goes to church, he never fasts, he is a
Moor with the Moors and makes the sign of the cross in front of his wife’
see Žordanija and Gamezardašvili, Rimsko-katoličeskaja missija, 704. On
his reign, see also Nana Gelashvili, “Iranian – Georgian Relations during
the Reign of Rostom (1633–58)”, in Iran and the World in the Safavid Age,
ed. Willem Floor and Edmund Herzig (London and New York: I. B. Tauris,
2012).
22 Donald Rayfield, The Literature of Georgia (Oxford: Clarendon Press,
1994), 99–101; Lang, The Last Years, 129.
23 Floor, Safavid Government, 170.
24 On the training of the ghulams, see Floor, Safavid Government, 168–
9; Rota, “Caucasians in Safavid Service,” 109–10. Mirza Beyg Ḥasan
b. Ḥoseyn Jonābādi, Rowżato’ṣ-ṣafaviye (Tehran: Mowqufāt-e Doktor
Maḥmud Afšār Yazdi, 1378), 785 mentions the ġolām-e kučak (the little
ghulams): were they future ghulams still under training, perhaps similar
to the Ottoman acemi oğlans, who supposedly provided the replacements
for the Janissaries? Even less clear is Pietro della Valle, Delle conditioni
di Abbas re di Persia (Venice: Francesco Baba, 1628), 48; Pietro della
Valle, Abbas re di Persia, ed. Antonio Invernizzi (Turin: Silvio Zamorani
Editore, 2004), 66, where we read of the ‘pages’ (paggi) and ‘many oth-
ers’ who were trained in ‘several houses’ under Shah Abbas I. Finally,
serious doubts have been expressed recently about whether the main
function of the acemi oğlans was really to serve as “cadets” to the Jan-
issaries, and whether both corps received systematic military training:
64 Giorgio Rota
see Gilles Veinstein, “On the Ottoman janissaries (fourteenth–nineteenth
century),” in Fighting for a Living. A Comparative History of Military
Labour 1500–2000, ed. Erich-Jan Zürcher (Amsterdam: Amsterdam
University Press, 2013), 128–34.
25 We have two biographies of prominent ghulam officers, the untitled
ms. British Library Add 7,655 for Rostam Khan Saak’adze and the
Fotuḥāt-e Fereyduniye for Fereydun Khan Čarkas. The latter was cap-
tured by “brigands” when he was seven years old and sold to the Lezghi-
ans. He remained among them for at least seven years, after which he
ended up in Persia and entered the Shah’s service under circumstances
that remain unexplained, see Moḥammad Ṭāher Basṭāmi, Fotuḥāt-e
Fereyduniye, ed. Seyyed Saʿid Mir Moḥammad Ṣādeq and Moḥammad
Nāder Naṣiri Moqaddam (Tehran: Našr-e Noqṭe, 1380), 25–9. Rostam
Khan Saak’adze was born in Georgia in 1587/8 and taken to Persia by
his father, who had probably been in the service of a Georgian Royal
prince who later became King Bagrat’ VII (1615–1619), another son
of the aforementioned David XI/Dāud Khan. Rostam Khan entered the
Shah’s service at age eleven: see Giorgio Rota, La Vita e i Tempi di Ros-
tam Khan (edizione e traduzione italiana del ms. British Library Add
7,655) (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaf-
ten, 2009), 52, 61–5, 276, 340, 343–4, 429, 52 n. 92, 62 n. 130. Rostam
Khan was either unrelated or only very distantly related to Giorgi: cf.
Rota, La Vita e i Tempi, 51–2 n. 92.
26 Mak’ar Xubua, Sakartvelos muzeumis sp’arsuli pirmanebi da hokmebi (Tbi-
lisi: Sakartvelos SSR Mecnierebata Ak’ademiis gamomcemloba, 1949), 34,
36; Sp’arsuli ist’oriuli sabutebi Sakartvelos c’igntsacavebši, ed. Vladimer
Puturidze, vol. I, part 2 (Tbilisi: Sakartvelos SSR Mecnierebata Ak’ademiis
gamomcemloba, 1962), 58.
27 See also the remarks in note 43.
28 Lang, The Last Years, 88–90.
29 Ibid., 115–19, 134–5.
30 Mirza Moḥammad Marʿaši Ṣafavi, Mojmaʿo’t-tavārix, ed. ʿAbbās Eqbāl
Āštiyāni (Tehran: Sanā’i and Ṭahuri, 1362), 4; Histoire de la Géorgie depuis
l’antiquité jusqu’au XIXe siècle, trans. Marie-Félicité Brosset, II part, His-
toire moderne, II livraison (St. Petersburg: Imprimerie de l’Académie Impé-
riale des Sciences, 1857), 19. See also Rota, “Caucasians in Safavid Service,”
115. King Giorgi was met by a Portuguese ambassador while he was at
the Safavid court: cf. Jean Aubin, L’ambassade de Gregório Pereira Fidalgo
à la cour de Châh Soltân-Hosseyn, 1696–1697 (Lisbon: Comité national
portugais pour la célébration du 2.500e anniversaire de la fondation de la
monarchie en Iran, 1972), 72–7.
31 A Chronicle of the Carmelites, vol. II, 812–13. An early eighteenth-century
source states that the vāli/king of Georgia ranked in importance after the
vāli of Lorestān on account of the latter being a Muslim. Of course, the vāli
 Conversion to Islam in Safavid Persia 65
of Georgia too was officially a Muslim, but clearly not a real one in the eyes
of the writer, see Tadhkirat al-Mulūk, ed. and trans. Vladimir Minorsky
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1943), 44.
32 Archivio Storico “de Propaganda Fide,” Rome (hereafter: SCPF), SOCG,
Persia, Giorgia . . ., vol. 209, fols. 358–62 (don Pietro Avitabile, Gori, 1
October 1633).
33 SCPF, SOCG, Persia, Giorgia . . ., vol. 209, fols. 358–62 (don Pietro Avita-
bile, Gori, 1 October 1633).
34 Rota, La Vita e i Tempi, 64–65, 278, 344, 430 n. 678. See however Žordanija
and Gamezardašvili, Rimsko-katoličeskaja missija, 693 (don Giusto Prato,
Gori, 16 October 1633), 701 on his kindness towards the Christians in gen-
eral and the Catholic missionaries at Gori in particular.
35 Mir Moḥammad Saʿid Mošizi Bardsiri, Taẕkere-ye ṣafaviye-ye Kermān,
ed. Moḥammad Ebrāhim Bāstāni Pārizi (Tehran: Našr-e ʿelm, 1369),
541–3; Histoire de la Géorgie, II/I, 87. Dreams are omnipresent in
the narratives of conversion, see for instance Mercedes García-Arenal,
“Dreams and Reason: Autobiographies of Converts in Religious Polem-
ics,” in Conversions islamiques: Identités religieuses en Islam méditer-
ranéen, ed. Mercedes García-Arenal (Paris: Maisonneuve et Larose,
2001), 89–103.
36 A Man of Two Worlds. Pedros Bedik in Iran 1670–1675, trans. Colette
Ouahes and Willem Floor (Washington, DC: Mage Publishers, 2014), 493
(see also 491–4, 497).
37 Histoire de la Géorgie, II/I, 87 (also 177–8). See also Lang, The Last Years,
96–7.
38 Histoire de la Géorgie, II/I, 181 (also 97). It is only seemingly paradoxical,
given the contradictions inherent in imperial patronage and court education,
that Teimuraz I’s Georgian poetry should have been heavily influenced by
Persian literature, which he fervently admired, see Rayfield, The Literature of
Georgia, 106–11. The poems of the anti-Safavid Arčil were closer to traditional
Georgian metre, but ‘with conceits, forms, and themes inspired by Persia’ cf.
Ibid., 112.
39 Histoire de la Géorgie, II/I, 87–8, 97, 181–2.
40 Quotations from Russian Embassies to the Georgian Kings, 1589–1605,
ed. W.E.D. Allen, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1970), vol.
II, 464, 465, 467. Other witnesses indeed confirm a certain degree of
ambiguity in K’onst’ant’ine’s religious identity. Anthony Sherley met
K’onst’ant’ine at the Safavid court in late 1598 or early 1599 and men-
tioned him twice as a Christian, see Sir Antony Sherley His Relation of His
Travels Into Persia [. . .] (London: Nathaniell Butter and Ioseph Bagfet,
1613), 72–3. It is however unlikely that he was openly Christian, since
Sherley himself states that the prince was appointed governor of Isfahan.
In 1602, Shah ͑Abbās I introduced K’onst’ant’ine to de Gouveia as a Chris-
tian, which was again probably not true, at least not in the sense of the
66 Giorgio Rota
official religious affiliation of the prince, see Flannery, The Mission of the
Portuguese Augustinians, 60. Whether the Shah meant that the prince had
only embraced Islam outwardly or wanted to deceive the missionary can-
not be ascertained. However, in 1604, the Bishop of Meliapor (Mylapore
in southern India) saw K’onst’ant’ine in the camp of the Shah. According
to him, the prince had a bishop and two priests in his retinue, and he led
a body of 3,000 Christian Georgians who marched behind a ‘large cross’,
see Luis Gil Fernández, “A Report of the Bishop of Meliapor to Philip III
(6-XII-1606),” in The Spanish Monarchy and Safavid Persia in the Early
Modern Period: Politics, War and Religion, ed. Enrique García Hernán,
José Cutillas Ferrer and Rudi Matthee (Valencia: Albatros, 2016), 143.
At the opposite end of the Mediterranean world, the episode of ʿAbdu’l-
Malik I (1576–1578) of Morocco sprinkling holy water on the renegades
in his retinue and his comments on their reaction seem to show the sul-
tan’s awareness of the complexity of their “identity” and ultimately his
indifference towards their “real” faith, see Fernando R. Mediano, “Les
conversions de Sebastião Paes de Vega, un Portugais au Maroc saʿdien”, in
Conversions islamiques, ed. Mercedes García-Arenal, 189.
41 Christine Isom-Verhaaren, “Shifting Identities: Foreign State Servants in
France and the Ottoman Empire,” Journal of Early Modern History 8
(2004): 110–23, 133–4. This article does however underplay the symbolic
importance of conversion to Islam as opposed to change of confession within
the Christian community.
42 Frank Tallett, War and Society in Early-Modern Europe, 1495–1715
(London–New York: Routledge, 1992), 88–91 (quotation from 88); Peter
Burschel, Söldner im Nordwestdeutschland des 16. und 17. Jahrhunderts
(Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1994), 158–9, 163–5.
43 European history during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries provides
numerous instances of individuals or bodies of troops serving rulers across
the divide between Catholics and Protestants. Three exemplary careers of
this kind are outlined in Isom-Verhaaren, “Shifting Identities,” 109–34.
This held true also in periods of intense confessional hostility. One of the
most prominent Protestant military leaders of the first phases of the Thirty
Years’ War (1618–1648), Ernst von Mansfeld, was born a Catholic and
both his father and half-brother loyally served the Spanish and Austrian
Habsburgs. He himself was in Imperial service for several years, but he
entered the fray in 1618 in the service of the Catholic Duke of Savoy and
in support of the Protestant cause and, above all, of the Duke’s hope to be
elected Holy Roman Emperor: see Walter Krüssmann, Ernst von Mansfeld
(1580–1626) (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 2010), 27–30, 39–46, 55–90,
115–53, 625–31, 636–41. Analogous cases are mentioned in Burschel,
Söldner im Nordwestdeutschland, 163–64 n. 396. However, the question
whether Mansfeld actually converted to Protestantism (and to which form
of it) cannot be answered with certainty. In this he resembles his famous
 Conversion to Islam in Safavid Persia 67
contemporary, the English-born adventurer Sir Anthony Sherley (1565–
1633), who served the Crown of Spain for many years (as well as the
Empire, for a shorter spell), who shifted to Catholicism at a certain point
of his life, although the precise circumstances of his conversion are not
known today: cf. Krüssmann, Ernst von Mansfeld, 90–7; Giorgio Rota,
“Real, Fake or Megalomaniacs? Three Suspicious Ambassadors, 1450–
1600,” in Dissimulation and Deceit in Early Modern Europe, ed. Miriam
Eliav-Feldon and Tamar Herzig (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015),
168–73, 176–7 (with further bibliography). A more famous and more suc-
cessful general than Mansfeld, the Imperial commander-in-chief Wallen-
stein (1583–1634) was born a Protestant and converted to Catholicism
at a young age: cf. Krüssmann, Ernst von Mansfeld, 96–7. Analogous,
albeit less frequent, instances can be found during the wars against the
Ottomans. On occasion the Republic of Venice hired Balkan light horse-
men who were often Muslims, and a whole French regiment in Imperial
service (the garrison of the Hungarian city of Papa) famously defected to
the Ottomans in 1600: see Caroline Finkel, “French Mercenaries in the
Habsburg-Ottoman War of 1593–1606: The Desertion of the Papa Gar-
rison to the Ottomans in 1600,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and
African Studies 55/3 (1992). In this latter case, the men deserted because
of lack of pay and the ill-treatment they had received from their superiors
and most of them never converted to Islam, see M. E. Mallett and J. R.
Hale, The Military Organization of a Renaissance State. Venice c. 1400
to 1617 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 317–18, 328–9,
376–7, 459; Gregory Hanlon, The Twilight of a Military Tradition (New
York: Holmes and Meier, 1998), 146; Géraud Poumarède, Pour en finir
avec la Croisade (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 2004), 587–95
(with further bibliography). It was not uncommon for veteran mercenary
officers to try to obtain a commission for younger relatives in the army in
which they were already serving, or for aspiring officers to remind a poten-
tial employer of the merit earned by relatives, see for instance Hanlon, The
Twilight of a Military Tradition, 265–6; Poumarède, Pour en finir avec la
Croisade, 580–2. However, conversion could still make a career easier: see
Ines Peper, Konversionen im Umkreis des Wiener Hofes um 1700 (Vienna
and Munich: Böhlau Verlag and Oldenbourg, 2010), 86–9, 111–12.
44 Michael Keiser, “Ausreißer und Meuterer im Dreißigjährigen Krieg,” in
Armeen und ihre Deserteure, ed. Ulrich Bröckling and Michael Sikora (Göt-
tingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998), 54–5.
45 Tadhkirat al-Mulūk, 19.
46 Allen, A History of the Georgian People, 166–73; Lang, The Last Years,
12–16, 21–2.
47 Flannery, The Mission of the Portuguese Augustinians, 197–225 (with fur-
ther bibliography); Roberto Gulbenkian, “Relation véritable du glorieux
martyre de la reine Kétévan de Géorgie,” in Estudos Históricos, vol. II,
68 Giorgio Rota
Relações entre Portugal, Irão e Médio-Oriente (Lisbon: Academia Portu-
guesa da História, 1997), 247–323; Luis Gil Fernández and Ilia Tabagua,
Fuentes para la historia de Georgia en bibliotecas y archivos españoles
(siglos XV–XVII) (Madrid: Editorial Complutense, 1993), 56–62, 248–
53; della Valle, Delle conditioni di Abbas, 51, 91–4; della Valle, Abbas,
68–9, 98–100; Viaggi di Pietro della Valle (Brighton: G. Gancia, 1843),
vol. I, 675. Ketevan’s martyrdom is the subject of Andreas Gryphius’ trag-
edy Catharina von Georgien oder Bewehrete Beständigkeit (1657). The
chaplain of the queen had been murdered in 1618, see Gulbenkian, “Rela-
tion véritable du glorieux martyre,” 292; Gil Fernández and Tabagua,
Fuentes, 55, 237, 247–8 (where the date 1610 is a missprint). Teimuraz’s
two sons arrived at the Safavid court in 1613 together with Ketevan and
were castrated in 1620, most probably not in odium fidei but “simply”
in order to prevent them from succeeding to the throne, see Histoire de la
Géorgie, II/I, 164–5; Viaggi di Pietro della Valle, vol. I, 663; della Valle,
Delle conditioni di Abbas, 91; della Valle, Abbas, 98 (also Fernández and
Tabagua, Fuentes, 237). However, a Russian ambassador saw them at the
Safavid court in February 1622 and thought they had not yet been muti-
lated, see Histoire de la Géorgie, II/II, 341. They were also converted to
Islam. Interestingly, della Valle met two Georgian sisters of noble origin
who had been initially well received in Persia but then, because of their
refusal to embrace Islam and Teimuraz’s rebellion, became destitute and
kept virtually as prisoners: Viaggi di Pietro della Valle, vol. I, 469–70.
48 Rayfield, The Literature of Georgia, 109–10; see note 38.
49 On Emāmqoli Khan and his family, see Gabashvili, “The Undiladze Feu-
dal House,” 37–56; Hirotake Maeda, “On the Ethno-Social Background
of Four Gholām Families from Georgia in Safavid Iran,” Studia Iranica 32
(2003): 262–6, 272.
50 Pietro della Valle was of the opinion that the Europeans living in Persia in
his time were ‘not good’, since those who were ready to undertake such
a long journey were either mostly ‘knaves’ (mariuoli), who could not
remain in Europe, or ‘madmen’ who roamed the world out of ‘madness’
cf. Viaggi di Pietro della Valle, vol. I, 702 (see also 540, 563 for similar
remarks).
51 Šāh Ismāʿīl I nei “Diarii” di Marin Sanudo, ed. Biancamaria Scarcia Amoretti
(Rome: Istituto per l’Oriente, 1979), 139.
52 Rudolf Neck, “Diplomatische Beziehungen zum Vorderen Orient unter Karl
V.,” Mitteilungen des Österreichischen Staatsarchivs 5 (1952): 85 and also
86.
53 Jean-Louis Bacqué-Grammont, “Un rapport ottoman sur António Ten-
reiro,” Mare Luso-Indicum 3 (1976): 161–4, 169, 173.
54 A Chronicle of the Carmelites, vol. II, 1145.
55 Tatar was of course, at the time, a very vague term that included not only the
Crimean Tatars, but also the Noghays and often the more or less Islamicised
 Conversion to Islam in Safavid Persia 69
peoples of northern Caucasus. Each of these three groups was able to raid
parts of southern Russia and then sell the prisoners in Persia or to Persian
slave dealers active outside Persia.
56 ASV, Sant’Uffizio (Tre Savi all’Eresia), busta 90. Of course it was not uncom-
mon for renegades, especially after their return to Christendom, to claim
that they had managed to preserve their Christian faith despite a formal
conversion to Islam, or to claim that they had not converted at all, in some
cases with the help of “true” renegades. For a few instances from other parts
of the Muslim world, see Bartolomé and Lucile Bennassar, Les Chrétiens
d’Allah (Paris: Perrin, 1989), 412; Mediano, “Les conversions de Sebastião
Paes,” 180, 183–4, 187–8; Albertus Bobovius, Topkapı, trans. Annie Berth-
ier and Stéphane Yerasimos (Arles: Sindbad – Actes Sud, 1999), 86.
57 Histoire de la Géorgie, II/II, 341.
58 Torkmān, Tārix-e ʿālamārā-ye ʿabbāsi, vol. II, 700; Monshi, History of Shah
‘Abbas, vol. II, 892.
59 Roberto Gulbenkian, L’ambassade en Perse de Luis Pereira de Lacerda . . .
1604–1605 (Lisbon: Comité national portugais pour la célébration du
2.500e anniversaire de la fondation de la monarchie en Iran, 1972), 82; see
note 56.
60 Jean Calmard, “The French Presence in Safavid Persia: A Preliminary Study,”
in Iran and the World, ed. Willem Floor and Edmund Herzig (London: I. B.
Tauris), 315–6. The names of some of them can be found in T. W. Haig,
“Graves of Europeans in the Armenian Cemetery at Isfahan,” Journal of the
Royal Asiatic Society (1919): 324, 326, 334–5, 338, 340, 346.
61 Gary Schwartz, “Between Court and Company. Dutch Artists in Persia”, in
The Fascination of Persia, ed. Axel Langer (Zürich: Verlag Scheidegger &
Spiess AG, 2013), 158–65.
62 Bacqué-Grammont, “Un rapport ottoman,” 169 n. 18, 170 n. 20; a Dutch
painter-gunner is mentioned in Schwartz, “Between Court and Company,”
160; French artillerymen on their way to Persia in search of employment are
mentioned in ASV, Senato, Dispacci ambasciatori, Roma, filza 125, no. 217,
fols. 243a–243b (Alvise Contarini, Rome, 3 August 1647). At least one of
these mercenaries, Jürgen Andersen, left an account of his experiences in
Persia and other places of the East: Jürgen Andersen and Volquard Iversen,
Orientalische Reise-Beschreibungen in der Bearbeitung von Adam Olear-
ius, ed. Dieter Lohmeier (Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag, 1980, 1st ed.,
Schleswig 1669).
63 Giorgio Rota, Under Two Lions. On the Knowledge of Persia in the Repub-
lic of Venice (ca. 1450–1797) (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Aka-
demie der Wissenschaften, 2009), 17–18; Haig, “Graves of Europeans,”
335–6, 339–42, 351; Calmard, “The French Presence in Safavid Persia,”
312–19.
64 The aforementioned painter-gunner, Juriaen Ambdis, seemingly converted in
the Ottoman Empire: cf. Schwartz, “Between Court and Company,” 160.
70 Giorgio Rota
65 Haig, “Graves of Europeans,” 325–6; Axel Langer, “European Influences
on Seventeenth-Century Persian Painting,” in The Fascination of Persia, ed.
Axel Langer, 202.
66 A Chronicle of the Carmelites, vol. II, p. 932. See also Florencio del Niño
Jesús, Biblioteca Carmelitano-Teresiana de Misiones, vol. III, En Persia
(Pamplona: La Obra Maxima, 1930), 85; n. 6.
67 A Chronicle of the Carmelites, vol. II, 813. See also Haig, “Graves of Euro-
peans,” 347–8.
68 More on the two renegade missionaries in Ferdinand Amadeus von
Harrsch, Mémoires des Voyages Faits dans l’Empire Turc, et le Royaume
de Perse, Haus-, Hof- und Staatsarchiv, Vienna, Handschriften Weiß
706/30, fol. 39b; Flannery, The Mission of the Portuguese Augustinians,
94–102; Francis Richard, “Un Augustin portugais renégat apologiste de
l’islam chiite au début du XVIIIe siècle,” Moyen Orient et Océan Indien 1
(1984). The Portuguese ambassador must be Pereira Fidalgo, who, how-
ever, does not mention the incident: see Aubin, L’ambassade de Gregório
Pereira Fidalgo.
69 Rasul Jaʿfariyān, Ṣafaviye dar ʿarṣe-ye din, farhang va siyāsat (Qom:
Pažuheškade-ye Ḥowze va Dānešgāh, 1379), vol. III, 1037.
70 Viaggi di Pietro della Valle, vol. I, 562.
71 ‘Where wine and women bring about the apostasy of the wise,’ as in
Flannery, The Mission of the Portuguese Augustinians, 94 (quoted as
19:20).
72 The experience of the renegades can bee seen as ‘an important step in the
development of modern individualism’ see Lucetta Scaraffia, Rinnegati
(Rome–Bari: Laterza, 1993), 178 (also 174–9, 184–8).
73 Adriano Prosperi, L’eresia del Libro Grande (Milan: Feltrinelli, 2011, 1st ed.,
Milan 2000), 112–13 (quotation from 113). However, Bennassar, Les Chrétiens
d’Allah, 327 notes the highly symbolic value of the change of name and dress,
while Prosperi, L’eresia del Libro Grande, 102 and following shows the danger-
ous consequences that abjuration could have on the health of a deeply religious
individual.

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76 Giorgio Rota
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4 Danube-hopping
Conversion, jurisdiction and spatiality
between the Ottoman Empire and the
Danubian principalities in the seventeenth
century
Michał Wasiucionek

Introduction
As historians, we often benefit from past people’s tragedies, for the simple
reason that throughout the centuries such dramatic situations have tended
to produce more sources than happier ones.1 The court records, complaints,
appeals and narratives of collective and personal suffering constitute the
bulk of material that allows us a glimpse into past realities. This chapter is
no exception to this rule, starting and concluding with a personal drama of
a certain Ayşe, who lived in seventeenth-century Istanbul and saw her life
tarnished by her husband, ‘Ali, in 1659. Seeking redress, she appealed to the
divan, which resulted in the issuing of a ferman, which outlines the circum-
stances of her misfortune.
The ferman narrates in short the story of Ayşe’s husband, ‘Ali. According
to the document, before his conversion to Islam, he was an agent (kethüda)
of Wallachia’s deputy treasurer Evstratie Leurdeanu. Following charges
of embezzlement, both he and his patron, in order to escape punishment,
sought refuge in Istanbul.2 While Leurdeanu later returned to Wallachia and
held major offices in the principality, his former client chose another path,
converting to Islam (out of fear, as the ferman informs us) and then mar-
rying Ayşe. However, in 1658 – Ali sold all Ayşe’s property, including the
house and jewellery, and ran away to Moldavia, leaving his wife destitute
and without means. What is more, once in Moldavia, he reverted to Greek
Orthodoxy. All this prompted the Porte to issue an order to the Moldavian
voivode to find the culprit and bring him back to Istanbul.
There is little to nothing we know about ‘Ali except for the information
cited in the aforementioned ferman. We do not know his Christian name,
nor do we know anything about his family or life before or after his conver-
sions. It is only his association with Evstratie Leurdeanu, one of the most
powerful Wallachian boyars of this period that allows us to fix the moment
of his flight from the principality in 1646, when his patron was accused of
embezzlement and fled Wallachia for Istanbul.3 Throughout his life, ‘Ali
remains elusive and we are unable to recover more than has been conveyed
to us in this one source.
78 Michał Wasiucionek
What makes ‘Ali’s case interesting for us here is the connection between
his shifting religious identities and his movement across spatial as well as
jurisdictional boundaries. The first time he crossed a religious boundary, it
was in order to escape the punishment by the Wallachian voivode, Matei
Basarab. In order to do this, he took refuge in Istanbul, where he embraced
Islam. In the second instance, his goal was apparently to escape Ottoman
officials, and his religious shift (from Islam to Christianity) was comple-
mented by a spatial (from Istanbul to Moldavia) and jurisdictional (from
the territory under Ottoman administration to Moldavia) movement. The
convergence between the three fault lines (religious, jurisdictional and spa-
tial) and an individual’s ability to manipulate them for his own benefit forms
the focal point of this study.
At the first glance, there is nothing exceptional about ‘Ali’s trajectory. In
a robust and growing body of scholarship, many scholars have noted the
relationship between spatial movements and acts of religious conversion.
As Natalie Rothman has pointed out, narratives of conversion in Venetian
sources have stressed the role of converts crossing to Christian lands during
the process of religious change.4 Similarly, Dora Zsom’s analysis of rab-
binic responsa has shown that leaving ‘the land of persecution’ for countries
which allowed for an open profession of faith was considered a crucial step
in the reversion of Iberian conversos to return to Judaism.5 In this respect,
we can crudely divide early modern converts between two ideal types, the
renegade and the neomartyr.6 In the case of the former, the process of con-
version implied movement across physical space, which allowed him to
escape possible punishment. In the case of neomartyrs, a spatial transition
did not follow the act of religious change, which left the convert vulnerable
to reprisals and at risk of punishment or death.
On the surface, ‘Ali’s case fits into the model of a renegade, someone who
changed position and locality. However, what is striking is the fact that at
no point did he leave the Ottoman sultan’s “well-protected domains”. The
Danubian principalities, at least at the beginning of the sixteenth century,
were considered part of the Ottoman Empire and their population were
therefore zimmi, the protected non-Muslim inhabitants of the “Abode of
Islam”. Therefore, the trajectory of ‘Ali can be described as one of zimmi-
turned-Muslim-turned-zimmi, all occurring within the bounds of the Otto-
man Empire. This is rather surprising, given the fact that on the occasion of
his second conversion his intention seems to have been to escape Ottoman
jurisdiction and avoid any punishment for his crimes, including his apostasy
from Islam. ‘Ali’s case begs the question, what made the Danubian princi-
palities a viable space for his reversion to Christianity, despite the fact that
in theory it constituted part of the Ottoman Empire?
As I will argue, the underlying explanation of this situation rests on the
peculiar position the Moldavian and Wallachian elites occupied and their
vested interest in preventing any Islamic encroachment on the principalities.
As the status of Moldavia and Wallachia was essentially unstable due to their
 Conversion, jurisidiction and spatiality 79
subordination to the Porte, the local elite, as a defensive strategy, attempted
to enforce a Greek Orthodox identity on the landscape in order to protect
their hold on power. As a Christian peripheral elite of the empire, the boyars
of Moldavia and Wallachia could not prevent individual cases of conver-
sion to Islam, but they made sure that the converts would be excluded from
holding offices and owning land in the principalities. The socio-cultural and
geographical landscape of the principalities was thus very different to that
of the Ottoman territories south of the Danube. While the collective pres-
sure of the Moldavian and Wallachian elites to demarcate the principalities
as Greek Orthodox space resulted in converts to Islam moving south into
Muslim territory, it also allowed for a movement of Muslims wishing to
convert to Christianity in the opposite direction. Thus, a defensive strategy
developed by the members of local elite created opportunities for individu-
als such as ‘Ali to abandon Islam in favour of Greek Orthodox Christianity.
The present study consists of two key sections. Firstly, I address the spatial
aspect of the relationship between the Danubian principalities and the Otto-
man Empire. I argue that the “conversion of space” in the principalities to
an exclusively Greek Orthodox landscape created a liminal experience for
those crossing the Danube from one bank to the other. Ottoman travellers
crossing to the Danubian principalities read the landscape as significantly
different from that which they had been accustomed to in other parts of the
empire. Then in the following section, I explore individual conversions to
Islam in the context of the principalities. It seems that by the seventeenth
century, boyars of Moldavia and Wallachia had accepted conversion to
Islam as a political move, and did not necessarily condemn individual con-
versions of elite members. At the same time, however, they were steadfast in
excluding converts from social and political life in the principalities.

The conversion of space

In his analysis of the Kadizadeli moment in the Ottoman Empire in the
1660s and 1670s, when the Porte allied itself with revivalist Islamic move-
ments, Marc David Baer has proposed a framework for interpreting conver-
sion in the Ottoman world as the intersection of three different modalities:
conversion of self, conversion of others and conversion of space. In order
to enhance imperial legitimacy, Sultan Mehmed IV and the Grand Vizier
Köprülüzade Ahmed Pasha adopted a revivalist and scriptural interpreta-
tion of Islam, and both encouraged the spread of this interpretation among
their Muslim subjects, as well as initiating a ‘hunt for converts’ across
the empire.7 In terms of Baer’s conversion of space, this turn to piety was
reflected in a sustained effort to mark the landscape of the capital with an
indelible Islamic imprint. This was most visible, as Baer and Lucien Thys-
Şenocak argue, in the transformation, after the great fire of 1660, of the
predominantly Jewish district of Eminönü in Istanbul into a visibly Muslim
space with the construction of Yeni Valide Mosque and adjacent complex.8
80 Michał Wasiucionek
While some of Baer’s conclusions met with criticism, the methodologi-
cal framework he developed offers us a promising approach for research-
ing the problem of conversion and reversion in the Danubian principalities.
However, some adjustments have to be made in order to apply the model.9
Most importantly, I have decided to abandon the distinction between the
conversion of self and conversion of others. Instead, I conflate them into
an umbrella category – the conversion of people. The reason for such a
change is dictated on the one hand, by the limitations of sources and lack of
ego documents necessary to address the topic, and on the other by a focus
on individual cases of conversion rather than state-sponsored attempts to
encourage conversion. Therefore, drawing a binary distinction between
conversion of people and that of space seems more fitting in this context
than the tripartite model developed by Baer.
If Istanbul was a showcase for Islam in the seventeenth-century Ottoman
Empire, the Danubian principalities were at the other end of the religious
spectrum, with no mosques built in Moldavia and Wallachia throughout the
early modern period. This absence of Islamic architecture is often cited as
evidence in support of the thesis that neither of the principalities were actu-
ally conquered by the Ottomans. This is best summarised by the quote from
nineteenth-century French historian, Edgar Quinet:

By an extraordinary exception that is striking to the eye, the Muslims,

as soon as they reached this country, denied themselves the right to
build a single mosque. . . . What demonstration could there be more
convincing for the fact that the Romanian territory is not and has never
been marked by the seal of conquest, that its autonomy and sovereignty
have been respected.10

Quinet’s assertion has become a central tenet of Romanian historiography,

with scholars arguing that the Danubian principalities remained autono-
mous throughout the early modern period with their status apparently
confirmed by the Ottoman issue of “capitulations” (ahdnames), the docu-
ments by which the Ottomans regularised their relations with foreign states.
However, these purported “capitulations” dating from the sixteenth to the
eighteenth century, were debunked as eighteenth-century forgeries by Con-
stantin Giurescu over a century ago, although this has not prevented many
Romanian scholars from using them as proof of Moldavian and Wallachian
autonomy.11
In a number of articles, Viorel Panaite has rejected the idea of the Danu-
bian principalities’ status as originating from any written acts. Instead he
points out that the limits of Moldavian and Wallachian autonomy were set
by customary rules rather than fixed in writing.12 Throughout this period,
the Danubian principalities’ position within the empire was characterised
by constant instability and it was at constant risk from the Porte’s inter-
ference. However, despite rumours about the imminent dissolution of the
 Conversion, jurisidiction and spatiality 81
administrative autonomy of the principalities throughout the seventeenth
century, the only attempt to directly incorporate the principalities into the
Ottoman Empire was in 1595, and it ended in an abysmal failure due to poor
military performance, factional infighting at the Porte and pressure from
Habsburg and Polish-Lithuanian forces that caused the Ottoman authorities
to abandon the project.13 Subsequent attempts were aborted even before any
military action was taken, and the officials at the Porte opted instead for a
simple change of incumbent voivodes.
In such moments of uncertainty about the principalities’ future, the Mol-
davian and Wallachian chroniclers of the seventeenth century emphasised
the parallel between the fate of the principalities and the religious imprint
it made on the physical landscape. When discussing the 1595 attempt to
impose direct Ottoman administration in Wallachia, the anonymous author
of the Cantacuzino Chronicle chose to show the scale of the tragedy by
references to the landscape and religious edifices: ‘At this time . . . the Turks
proceeded with the subjugation of Wallachia and the construction of their
shrines and mosques. And the Christians started to suffer from the Turks’
tyranny . . . as they started to put the land and the Christian faith under their
boots’.14 So as to make the description even more dreadful, one of the copy-
ists of the manuscript inserted an additional description of the Ottoman
soldiers burning churches and razing them to the ground, thus stressing that
the imposition of the Ottoman-Islamic order would result in the conversion
of the landscape and the obliteration of the old, Wallachian-Christian one.15
This connection between the autonomy of the principality and the Chris-
tian character of its landscape is even more prominent in the same author’s
account of another plan to annex Wallachia, in 1660. According to the
author, this took place after the incumbent voivode, Gheorghe Ghica, failed
to pay the tribute to the Porte, prompting the grand vizier to consider the dis-
solution of the principalities and the introduction of direct Ottoman admin-
istration. A partisan of the Cantacuzino political faction, the author ascribes
the central role in this narrative to Constantin Postelnic Cantacuzino, the
head of the family at that time and presents him as a larger-than-life figure
that – according to the chronicle – single-handedly managed to discourage
the grand vizier from carrying out the plan. Again the danger looming over
Wallachia is articulated through the landscape and built environment; Can-
tacuzino is said to have ‘wept for a long time and pitied the poor country
and how it the [Christian] faith will perish and how its sacred churches will
be converted into mosques’. Subsequently, Cantacuzino is eulogised because
he ‘removed the land from the grasp of pagans and rescued the churches
from the law of Muhammad’.16
While most outspoken in this respect, the author of the Cantacuzino
Chronicle was not the only one to draw a parallel between the fate of
the Danubian principalities and the presence of Muslim landmarks in the
Moldavian-Wallachian landscape, even if it was a temporary measure. For
instance, in an early-eighteenth-century Moldavian chronicle, Ion Neculce
82 Michał Wasiucionek
cited two instances when the presence of the Ottoman army in the princi-
palities made it necessary to provide a makeshift place of worship for the
Muslim soldiers. Since there were no mosques in either Moldavia or Walla-
chia, the Ottoman soldiers often temporarily took over churches and mon-
asteries, something which revolted Neculce. In 1672, the call from prayer
was uttered from the bell tower of the Sfântu Niculae Monastery in Iaşi;17
however, far more shocking for the chronicler was the event during the
Russian-Ottoman War of 1736–1739, when the Wallachian voivode Con-
stantin Mavrocordat chose to assign a prayer space in the premises of the
Wallachian Metropolite’s residence.18 The passage in which Neculce men-
tions this episode – in the middle of a long description of havoc wreaked
by undisciplined Ottoman troops – leaves no doubt that he interpreted the
establishment of a temporary mosque as a sign that everything around him
was falling apart and the autonomy of the region was under threat.
This emphasis on church buildings as visible signs of political autonomy
comes as no surprise. As numerous scholars have emphasised, buildings –
places of worship, palaces and fortresses – were and are a principal means
of asserting sovereignty over space in both the actual landscape and in car-
tographic representations.19 The conversion of churches into mosques or the
construction of new ones celebrated victories and at the same time increased
the grip of the Islamic ruler over the symbolism of the landscape. While
converting the landscape was not the only reason for the construction of
mosques (mosques also accommodated the needs of the local Muslim com-
munity) it nonetheless played an important role in projecting the Ottoman
presence across their “well-protected domains”.
In this respect, the Moldavian-Wallachian case has its own specificity.
At least on a discursive level, the attitude towards the confessional identity
of the principalities’ landscape was clearly defensive and concentrated on
the preservation of the religious status quo. This is not to say that no new
churches or monasteries were established in Moldavia or Wallachia, since
many boyars and voivodes undertook themselves to establish new places of
worship. However, their main concern was preventing the religious conver-
sion of space. If we take into account the unstable position of the Danubian
principalities within the Ottoman Empire and the asymmetrical relations of
power between the local elite and the Porte, this comes as no surprise. In
order to maintain their hold on Moldavia and Wallachia against the pos-
sible encroachment of Muslim Ottoman elites, the Christian boyars resisted
the establishment of Islamic landmarks in the principalities, thus creating an
impression of their “otherness” from other parts of the Ottoman domain.
This holds true for landholding as well. While the landed estates do not
have a discernible religious identity in themselves, and they do not feature
as landmarks within the physical landscape, we should remember that they
had owners and proprietors, who in turn belonged to specific confessional
communities. In the Danubian principalities, Muslims were often explic-
itly excluded from owning landed property, with the local elite claiming
that such limitations were part of their formal arrangements with the Porte.
 Conversion, jurisidiction and spatiality 83
Most instructive in this respect are the alleged “capitulations” presented
by the Moldavian and Wallachian boyars at the Russian-Ottoman peace
conference at Focşani in 1772.20 Viewing the negotiations as an opportunity
to obtain a formal document establishing the status of the Danubian prin-
cipalities, the boyars fabricated a set of purported capitulations that had
been supposedly given to the voivodes by the Ottoman sultans. As such,
these forgeries should be seen as an expression of what the Moldavian and
Wallachian elites wanted to obtain rather than as an accurate description of
actual arrangements with the Porte. In these documents, concerns regard-
ing landholding feature prominently and explicitly tie in with the resistance
to establish Islamic places of worship, since ‘the Turks will not be allowed
to acquire land in Moldavia, neither in order to build mosques nor for any
other reason’.21 While this stipulation is nowhere to be found in Ottoman
documents regarding the status of the Danubian principalities in the Otto-
man administrative system, it is nonetheless present in Moldavian and Wal-
lachian sources. For instance, the eighteenth-century Wallachian historian
and poet, Ienachiţă Văcărescu, in his Ottoman History claimed that this ban
on Muslim landholding applied not only to newcomers from other Ottoman
lands, but also to converts to Islam from among the boyar class. According
to him, those who ‘convert to the Muslim faith, . . . will lose their fathers’
[landed] property, slaves and all real estate and they will have to leave the
country’.22
At least one case from the seventeenth century illustrates that this prohi-
bition was applied in practice, and that the drive to prevent Muslim land-
holding overrode the inheritance rights of the converts. In the 1580s and
1590s, the representative (capuchehaia) of the Wallachian voivode at the
Porte was Iane Banul (governor of Oltenia, the highest-ranking official in
the Wallachian hierarchy) who was assisted by his son Apostol in perform-
ing his duties.23 However, when the incumbent voivode Michael the Brave
(r. 1593–1601) rebelled against the Porte and joined the Habsburg camp in
November 1594, his representatives found themselves stranded in the Otto-
man capital.24 In order to save their lives, Iane and Apostol abandoned their
positions and converted to Islam.25 It is unclear when Iane passed away, but
in 1631 his son, Apostol, known under his Muslim name as Kürd Salman
Çavuş, returned to Wallachia in order to reclaim his father’s gypsy slaves.26
However, his request was rebuffed by the voivode, Leon Tomşa:

I have been searching for the Gypsies of my father, ban Iane, as I have
found them dispersed among the Gypsies of other boyars. [Thus],
I made appeal to the divan in order to reclaim them. However, the ver-
dict of the divan was that I no longer have claim to my father’s Gypsies,
since I had abandoned the [Christian] law.27

It seems plausible that this rebuttal contributed to the decision of Kürd Sal-
man Çavuş to convert back to Christianity, as three years later he is men-
tioned as having reconverted.28
84 Michał Wasiucionek
Thus, even while the 1772 forged capitulations were clearly a sham and
there are no Ottoman documents that provide an explicit basis for the pro-
hibition on Muslim landholding or establishment of Islamic places of wor-
ship in the Danubian principalities, it is clear that the elites of Moldavia
and Wallachia actively sought to prevent Muslims, including converts, from
acquiring the landed estates in the principalities and were successful. Of
course, we should not see this preoccupation with keeping landholding in
Greek Orthodox hands as driven solely by religious goals. The boyars had
a vested economic interest in trying to prevent Muslim landholding. How-
ever, this does not mean that we should ignore the clear connection drawn
in the sources between the absence of Islamic places of worship and the ban
on Muslim landholding in the principalities. Rather, we should see both
aspects as complementary measures to keep Muslims away from the social
and political sphere of the principalities in an attempt to maintain the politi-
cal and administrative autonomy of Moldavia and Wallachia. In addition,
the ban on Muslim landholding helped prevent the intervention of kadıs
(judges) in land disputes in the principalities, which if they had occurred
would have eroded the autonomy of the Orthodox elites. Whereas a Muslim
could appeal to a kadı court on the opposite bank of the Danube, where
due to his religious allegiance, he would enjoy a clear procedural advantage
in litigation over his Christian opponents, this was not the case in the prin-
cipalities. Thus, we should see both the absence of mosques and the ban
on Muslims landholding as a part of the Moldavian and Wallachian elite’s
strategy to maintain political autonomy and their control of the resources
of the principalities. As a result, two distinct landscapes emerged on the
banks of the lower Danube, with Ottoman mosques on the southern bank
facing Wallachian and Moldavian churches across the river. The Danube
itself became a de facto boundary between two distinct spaces, even if the
inhabitants on both sides were subjects of the Ottoman sultan.

Crossing the Danube as a liminal experience

This bifurcation of the landscape thoroughly shaped the ways travellers
crossing the Danube experienced the traversal during the seventeenth cen-
tury. In the travelogues of Ottoman subjects making their way to Molda-
via and Wallachia, crossing the river is expressed as a transition from the
Ottoman space of the southern bank to a radically different landscape on
the north. This sense of liminality was most eloquently conveyed by an
Orthodox priest from Syria, Bulus b. Makariyos al-Halabi (known in his-
toriography as Paul of Aleppo), who travelled to Moldavia and Wallachia
in the entourage of his father, the Patriarch of Antioch, Makariyos Za’im in
1652–1659.29 After crossing the Danube from the Ottoman town of Maçın
to the Moldavian port of Galaţi, Paul was amazed and enchanted by the
prominence of Greek Orthodoxy, inscribed in the landscape and soundscape
of the city: ‘People ring the bells of bronze, as is the custom here. It was the
 Conversion, jurisidiction and spatiality 85
first time in my life that I had ever heard this. May God not deprive me of
this beautiful sound anymore’.30 For the Syrian priest, the crossing of the
Danube clearly meant more than just a movement across space, but rather
it was experienced as a transition from the Islamised space of the central
Ottoman domains to a distinctively Christian space of the principalities.
Describing the quay and settlement of Maçın, he referred to it as ‘the last
town [on my way] within the Abode of Islam, while Galaţi was the place
where the Moldavian domains start’.31
While for Paul, an Orthodox priest living in the core Ottoman provinces,
the Christian character of Moldavian landscape was a cause for joy, the
peripatetic traveller Evliya Çelebi saw this as a source of peril. Describing
the Danubian fortress of Silistre, just across the river from Wallachia, Evliya
conveyed the atmosphere of constant danger experienced by the Ottoman
soldiers keeping ward in the fortress. According to him:

The wards of this fortress keep their guard every night, invoking ‘God
is great! God is great!’, since, when the severe winter comes and the
waters of Danube freezes, they are very afraid, as they are on the bor-
der, and on the other side of Danube there is the land of Wallachian
infidels [Eflâk Kâfiristanı].32

This perception of Wallachia and Moldavia as significantly different from

the Ottoman lands stands in stark contrast with the official parlance of the
Ottoman official sources. The documents produced by the Porte claimed
that the principalities were provinces like any other and that the Christian
populations were ‘as any other zimmis’ under Ottoman rule.33 However,
it is clear from the quotes provided earlier that this official stance did not
correspond to reality as experienced by individuals crossing the Danube, for
whom transition from one side of the river to the other was not just a mun-
dane logistical matter. Rather, it constituted a liminal experience of leaving
familiar Ottoman space and entering a different landscape, one that carried
a prominent Greek Orthodox imprint and was incommensurable with their
perception of how the “Abode of Islam” should be.
This divergence of landscapes between the Danubian principalities and
the Ottoman core provinces had a profound impact on the perception of
Moldavia and Wallachia in Ottoman mental geography. That this was the
case can be inferred from numerous Ottoman documents and narrative
accounts. As Viorel Panaite has pointed out, despite the official stance that
Moldavia and Wallachia were an integral part of the “Abode of Islam”, the
Danube was often referred to as the “river of gazis” well into the seven-
teenth century.34 During the campaign against Poland-Lithuania, the Porte
felt compelled to issue an order prohibiting the enslavement of Moldavians
by the Ottoman soldiers, restating once more that they were zimmis and
thus enjoyed the sultan’s protection.35 Even if we assume that the Ottoman
soldiers were more concerned with their own profit rather than religious
86 Michał Wasiucionek
and political subtleties, it is striking that they had to be reminded that they
were still in the “well-protected domains”. No doubt, much of this confu-
sion was due to their immediate experience of the Moldavian and Walla-
chian landscape, which caused them to see the principalities as lying beyond
the confines of the Ottoman Empire, despite the official stance of the Porte.

The conversion of people: accommodation and separation

Unlike landscapes, people move across physical space. While one would
intuitively assume that conversion would be a topic of concern for the
authors, it is relatively absent in the Moldavian and Wallachian sources.
This contrasts sharply with the interest taken in this matter by the Christian
authors from the central Ottoman domains, where the conversion of the
community’s members posed a considerable threat. In fact, the only refer-
ences to conversion that we find in the Moldavian and Wallachian chroni-
cles are those regarding the rulers that embraced Islam: Iliaş Rareş (1551),
Mihnea II Turcitul (1591) and Alexandru Movilă (1616). Even in such cases,
most narratives of conversion are surprisingly balanced and non-judgmental,
presenting the act of embracing Islam in a matter-of-fact manner. For
instance, seventeenth-century Moldavian historian Miron Costin, when
discussing the conversion of the unfortunate voivode Alexandru Movilă (r.
1615–1616), who adopted Islam after falling captive to the Ottomans, utters
no word of contempt or regret about the voivode’s decision.36
Even more explicit in his non-condemnation of conversion is the author
of the Cantacuzino Chronicle in his treatment of Mihnea II Turcitul, the
late sixteenth-century ruler of Wallachia (r. 1576–1583, 1585–1591). While
the author was clearly preoccupied with the possibility of churches in Wal-
lachia being converted into mosques, he refrains from any criticism against
Mihnea’s decision to convert. He also does not ascribe to the voivode any
of the moral vices usually associated with converts to Islam in Christian
sources; on the contrary, he credits the ruler with great prudence and states
that he was respected by the boyars. Instead, he presents Mihnea as the
victim of an evil and corrupt boyar, Ban Iane (the same who later converted
to Islam along with his son, Apostol), who schemed at the Porte to remove
Mihnea from power. Seeing his position increasingly tenuous and fearing
dismissal and execution, the voivode ‘escaped from the principality, went
[to the Porte] and converted, so he could have a decent life’.37 Again, no
word of criticism is uttered against the voivode, even though the chronicler
points out that Mihnea’s conversion was voluntary. Instead, the brunt of
moral outrage is directed against Iane, who through his harassment of Mih-
nea brought the latter to the decision to embrace Islam. It is also interesting
that Iane’s subsequent conversion to Islam, a fact that could strengthen his
depiction as a villain, was left out of the Cantacuzino Chronicle’s narrative.
On the surface, this is surprising since the act of abandoning Christianity for
Islam was often cited in Christian sources as a proof of convert’s “perverted”
 Conversion, jurisidiction and spatiality 87
nature. The fact that the author, who was so hostile towards Iane in other
regards, decided to ignore his conversion and also refrained from criticis-
ing Mihnea’s decision to become Muslim, suggests that the boyars did not
necessarily see conversion as a major breach of social norms or as betrayal.
The only convert voivode that drew unanimous condemnation in the Mol-
davian sources is Iliaş Rareş (r. 1546–1551). When describing the voivode,
seventeenth-century historian Grigore Ureche presents a unanimously nega-
tive portrait of Iliaş, describing him as indulging in feasts and debauchery
and spending his nights in the company of Muslim women.38 While this
depiction of the voivode was subsequently adopted by later authors, includ-
ing Miron Costin and Axinte Uricariul, it stands in stark contrast with
descriptions of the conversions by other boyars in contemporary sources,
which are a much more neutral in their tone.39
In trying to explain this difference we should turn to the wider intellec-
tual climate of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Moldavia and take into
consideration Ureche’s sources. Until the end of the sixteenth century, the
high culture of the Danubian principalities was predominantly a Slavonic
one, centred on the institutions of the voivode’s court and monastic liter-
ary culture. Thus, all sixteenth-century chronicles produced in this period
were composed in Romanian-Slavonic and authored by churchmen under
the patronage of the voivodes, including the contemporary accounts of Iliaş
Rareş’s conversion. However, as Panaitescu has pointed out, Moldavian lit-
erary culture experienced a dramatic shift in the seventeenth century corre-
sponding to the growing self-assertion of the boyar class and the growth of
a monetised economy.40 Subsequently, the historians of the seventeenth cen-
tury were boyars composing their works in Romanian rather than monks
writing in Slavonic, and Grigore Ureche was the first known author produc-
ing a work in this new milieu.
However, although Ureche spearheaded this new development, the period
covered in his Chronicle of Moldavia (from the emergence of Moldavia in
the mid-fourteenth century until 1595) necessitated his reliance on the Sla-
vonic chronicles of the sixteenth century, most importantly the works of
Macarie, Eftimie and Azarie – all ecclesiastic figures of monastic intellectual
formation. Ureche’s reliance on the sources produced within the monastic
milieu provides us with a plausible explanation of his particularly harsh
treatment of Iliaş Rareş. The story was first narrated in the Romanian-
Slavonic chronicle of the monk Eftimie. It is this monastic context that
explains the insults thrown against the renegade voivode.41 Ureche, writing
more than half a century later, simply incorporated this narrative. Thus,
the perception of Iliaş Rareş as morally bankrupt in the chronicle of Ureche
can be seen in many respects as a reflection of the attitude of the sixteenth-
century ecclesiastical historian, which indirectly made its way into the boyar
historiography of the seventeenth century. It seems that attitudes towards
conversion had changed by the seventeenth century, as evidenced in the
more balanced treatment of converts in other sources. For example, even in
88 Michał Wasiucionek
the case of the unanimously vilified Iliaş, Miron Costin attempted to soften
his image, claiming that Iliaş redeemed his sins by reverting to Christianity
on his deathbed.42
I would argue that this mild treatment of converts to Islam in boyar his-
toriography reflects the fact that the Moldavian and Wallachian elite of the
seventeenth century came to view and tolerate ‘turning Turk’ as a political
tool and a viable option to escape the threats facing individual members of
the elite. While regrettable in the eyes of the boyars, embracing Islam did
not automatically imply the moral corruption of the convert, but was seen
as a logical, if extreme response to the difficulties an individual faced. This
pragmatic approach of the Moldavian and Wallachian political elites was in
many respects unique. In western sources, the act of voluntary conversion
was often perceived as subverting the most basic social values and was inter-
preted as proof of a convert’s moral corruption.43 In the case of the Christian
population in the core provinces of the empire, the act of individual conver-
sion constituted a viable threat to the moral community, and the response
was often one of criticism of the converts and a eulogising of those who
resisted conversion.44
This interpretation may create the impression that the Moldavian and
Wallachian boyars were rather lukewarm in their religious zeal. However,
such a conclusion would be misleading. First, Moldavian and Wallachian
authors provide evidence that the boyars were preoccupied with maintain-
ing confessional boundaries and enforcing adherence to the Greek Orthodox
doctrine. Throughout the seventeenth century, one of the gravest accusa-
tions that could be made against members of the Moldavian and Wallachian
elite was “being a Turk at heart”, i.e. harbouring sympathy for Islam despite
an external adherence to Greek Orthodoxy. For instance, the author of the
Cantacuzino Chronicle was especially revolted by the behaviour of Stroe
Leurdeanu, one of the most powerful boyars of Wallachia in the second
half of the seventeenth century and the main villain in the chronicle. Forced
to enter a monastery, Leurdeanu allegedly insisted on adopting the name
Receb as his monastic name.45 This brought upon Leurdeanu harsher criti-
cism than that directed against actual converts to Islam.
Second, as I have mentioned before, the act of “turning Turk” virtually
excluded a convert from the local elite, since he forfeited all rights originat-
ing from his membership of the boyar class. This included land and office
holding, as well as owning serfs and slaves. Thus, the act of conversion
entailed cutting all formal ties with the principalities. Thus, while the boyars
accepted the act of individual conversion as a viable option, this came at a
considerable price, due to their insistence on preserving the homogeneous
Christian character of the local ruling class. As a result, the boyar converts
to Islam had to leave the Danubian principalities, coupling their religious
shift with a spatial transition to the Islamic space south of the Danube.
Indeed, all the Moldavian-Wallachian narratives of conversion to Islam
indicate a shift in space coinciding with the religious crossing. A typical
 Conversion, jurisidiction and spatiality 89
phrase used by the authors is that an individual ‘went [to the Porte] and
converted’.46 While this fits the model of conversion procedures outlined in
official Ottoman sources, such insistence on a transition in space in the Wal-
lachian and Moldavian sources indicates that there is more to this. I would
argue that this had to do with the aforementioned preoccupation with keep-
ing the Muslims “out” of the socio-political arena of the principalities. This
accords with the landholders’ preoccupation with confessional identity. In
the period when landholding was one of the principal criteria for delineat-
ing the boundaries of the elite, the insistence that a convert forfeited his
claims to land served to exclude him from the ruling group and make him
an outsider not only on religious grounds, but socio-politically as well. At
the same time, the very fact that conversion to Islam could be a springboard
for upward social mobility within the Ottoman Muslim community on the
southern bank of the Danube meant a convert had little incentive to remain
in the principalities, when he could move south and start a new career there.
Thus, the emphasis on the uniform Greek Orthodoxy of the Danubian
principalities – both in the sense of the religious identity of the landscape
and the ruling, landholding class – allowed for the movement of individuals
between otherwise clear religious, territorial and – as we will see in the fol-
lowing section – jurisdictional boundaries. In the context of an asymmetric
balance of power between the principalities and the Ottoman heartlands, the
movement to the north (and towards Greek Orthodoxy) was more difficult
and created greater risks, but still offered considerable chances of success.

Jurisdiction and evasion: converts from Islam

in the Danubian principalities
Contrary to what we would suppose, the flow of converts between the Dan-
ubian principalities and the core provinces of the Ottoman Empire was not
unilateral. While those willing to embrace Islam left the principalities, Mus-
lims eager to abandon their faith in favour of Greek Orthodoxy migrated
in the opposite direction in order to escape possible reprisals for apostasy.
Unfortunately, there are no Moldavian or Wallachian sources compara-
ble to the exhaustive registers of the Venetian Casa Pia dei Catecumeni.47
Particular cases of conversion are mentioned in passing in travelogues or
diplomas issued by the principalities’ chanceries, but generally all that is
recorded is the name of an individual and the information that he was a
converted Muslim. For instance, among the witnesses of a land transaction
concluded in 1646 we find a certain ‘Ştefan, a former Turk, whose name
used to be Receb’.48 Since it is the only case when this individual appears
in the sources and taking into consideration the fact that Ştefan was one of
the most popular names of the Moldavian boyars, we are unable to identify
him with any degree of certainty. This holds true for most of the converts
we find in the Danubian principalities, severely limiting the possibilities for
a comprehensive analysis.
90 Michał Wasiucionek
However, the few cases that provide us with more detailed information
allow us to sketch life trajectories of at least some converts, as well as draw
some more general hypotheses concerning the reasons for their flight to the
Danubian principalities and their abandoning of Islam in favour of Christi-
anity. In this respect, the life trajectories of ‘Ali and Apostol vel Kürt Salman
Çavuş are most informative. Since I have already discussed these two cases
in some detail in the previous sections, I will now focus on possible expla-
nations for their reversion to Christianity, supplementing their stories with
additional information about other former Muslims in the seventeenth-
century Danubian principalities.
In both cases, although we can only speculate about the reasons behind the
individual’s conversion to Islam it seems plausible that they were attempt-
ing to escape possible reprisals as their fortunes took a turn for worse. In
the case of ‘Ali, the major motive for his embrace of Islam was the fear
that he would be handed over to the voivode of Wallachia, Matei Basarab
(r. 1632–1654) and have to take the blame for his involvement in the embez-
zlement scandal. In the case of Apostol and his father, the decision to convert
served to improve their political position and helped regain the trust of the
Porte after the rebellion of the Wallachian ruler, Michael the Brave. While
it is extremely difficult to theorise about the internal motivations of both
converts, it seems that their religious shifts had little to do with their reli-
gious sentiments or convictions. Instead, they can be interpreted as driven
by an attempt to use confessional fault lines to escape jurisdiction. At the
same time, in both cases, conversion occurred in the imperial capital, which
validates the claim that the territories south of the Danube and especially
Istanbul itself constituted the site of conversion for Moldavian and Wal-
lachian boyars embracing Islam. Following their conversion, ‘Ali and Kürd
Salman Çavuş spent considerable time in the Ottoman capital: twelve and
at least twenty-eight years, respectively.
Again, we are unable to determine what caused both converts to return
to the Danubian principalities and revert to Christianity. In the case of ‘Ali,
it seems that his decision to flee to Moldavia was connected to the forced
sale of his wife Ayşe’s possessions. On the surface, the decision to revert to
Christianity in Moldavia in order to escape punishment by the Porte seems
an unlikely choice since apostasy from Islam was punishable by death and
constituted a serious breach of the Ottoman social order. As I mentioned
earlier, the Danubian principalities constituted part of the Ottoman Empire,
and at least in theory, the Porte could simply order the voivode to apprehend
the culprit. However, it seems that this danger was mitigated by the politi-
cal autonomy of the principalities and absence of Ottoman administrative
institutions. In order to implement orders from the Porte, such orders had to
be entrusted to the voivodes and their administrative apparatus. However,
this cooperation was not a given, and the relations between the Ottoman
and Moldavian-Wallachian administrations were often marred with con-
flict, competition and obstruction on both sides. Even in such matters as
 Conversion, jurisidiction and spatiality 91
highway banditry, cooperation between the Ottoman officials of the Danu-
bian districts and the voivodes of Moldavia and Wallachia was not always
forthcoming as a result of divergent interests between the two parties.49 It is
logical to assume that if the extradition of bandits was a contentious issue
between the officials of the principalities and their Ottoman colleagues, then
the voivodes would be even less inclined to hand over a convert from Islam
to Christianity, particularly if the convert was originally from the boyar
elite. While the voivodes did not resist such orders openly, there is no indi-
cation that they actually acted on such commands. Thus, the obstruction
of the Moldavian and Wallachian administration made the principalities a
relatively safe haven, where converts from Islam could hide from the gaze
of the Porte.
That they were trying to hide is something of an overstatement, since
converts hid neither their identity nor the fact of their conversion from fel-
low boyars. As I have mentioned in the case of the Ştefan/Receb, such indi-
viduals did not worry about their status as former Muslims being publically
known, which suggests that they felt relatively secure and did not fear that
they would be denounced to the Porte’s officials. At the same time, the act
of conversion to Christianity was a precondition for acquiring land and
(re-)entering the Moldavian and Wallachian boyar class. In this respect, the
case of Apostol is instructive. In 1631, when he tried to take over his father’s
inheritance, he was rebuffed by the voivode and boyars of Wallachia. How-
ever, a mere three years later – after he reverted to Christianity – the local
elite readily accepted his claims.50
Thus, while we cannot know whether ‘Ali succeeded in his attempt to
escape punishment for leaving his wife destitute and his subsequent apos-
tasy from Islam, we can assume that there was a good chance that he did.
With his native knowledge of Romanian and the customs of the land, he
would not be an easy person for an Ottoman official to find. His conver-
sion would have allowed him to acquire land and blend into the Moldavian
elite, an impossible task if he had remained Muslim. While his fellow boyars
would have been aware of his identity, it seems that they were not willing
to denounce him to the Ottoman officials who had no means to conduct
the search for the fugitive themselves. Thus, the existence of religious, juris-
dictional and physical boundaries between the confessional spaces of the
Danubian principalities and the core provinces of the Ottoman Empire cre-
ated opportunities for ‘Ali, who could manipulate these structural gaps for
his own benefit.

Conclusions
As I have argued, the case of ‘Ali, a small-time crook trying to run away with
his wife’s money and escape punishment, reveals a unique and complex rela-
tionship between the Danubian principalities and the wider Ottoman imperial
space. In her discussion of the Ottoman imperial model, Karen Barkey has
92 Michał Wasiucionek
pointed out that ‘when boundaries were blurred, people spent much time and
energy trying to define them, making sure that categories were settled’.51 This
was the case with the Danubian principalities as well. Faced with the unstable
position of the principalities, Moldavian and Wallachian boyars embarked on
a complex symbolic and socio-political effort to fix the boundaries between
them and the wider Ottoman Empire. In order to do this, they engaged in
construing the landscape of the principalities in opposition to the Islamised
landscape of the core provinces of the Ottoman Empire. At the same time,
they worked to preserve the identity of the boyar elite as homogenously Greek
Orthodox by denying Muslims the possibility of owning land in Moldavia
and Wallachia even to the extent that it infringed on inheritance rights. In this
way, the confessional identity of the Moldavian-Wallachian elites acquired
a spatial dimension on the lower Danube, with Orthodox churches on the
north facing mosques to the south. This landscape is reflected in the accounts
of travellers who conveyed the feeling that crossing the Danube involved
much more than the traversal of a river.
However, as Barkey points out, the hardening of social boundaries
between the communities permits social actors to manipulate the binaries
and cross between different groups.52 Indeed, this is exactly what happened
in the case of converts moving beyond the Christian space of the princi-
palities or the Muslim space of the wider Ottoman Empire. For a boyar,
who found himself in dire straits in the principality, moving to the south
of the Danube and converting to Islam offered a possibility of escaping the
voivode’s jurisdiction. At the same time, the absence of direct Ottoman
administration and the Greek Orthodox identity of the boyar elite not only
provided a safe haven for apostates from Islam, but also provided incentives
for conversion to Christianity and absorption into the ruling elite of the
principalities. In cases such as those of ‘Ali and Apostol, these fault lines
could be manipulated multiple times, depending on the immediate goals
of the individual. Thus, the ferman issued at the request of Ayşe uncovers
a lot more than just the narrative of a single, failed marriage. Rather, it
shows how the different agendas of the imperial centre, peripheral elites and
particular actors converged in a complex process of “Danube-hopping”,
which allowed enterprising individuals to manipulate the Ottoman system
of governance in order to pursue their own goals, even if that meant stealing
from one’s wife.

Notes
1 An earlier version of this contribution was presented as a paper during the at
the ‘Lure of the Other’ conference at Saint Mary’s University. Versions have
been read by Suzan Meryem Rosita Kalayci, Mukaram Hhana and Claire
Norton, to whom I am greatly indebted for the constructive advice.
2 Ferman to Gheorghe Ghica, voivode of Moldavia, 9 September 1659, Müh-
imme Defterleri 93, doc. 79, Başbakanlık Osmanlı Arşivi in Relaţiile Ţărilor
 Conversion, jurisidiction and spatiality 93
Române cu Poarta otomană în documente turceşti (1601–1712), ed. Tahsin
Gemil (Bucharest: Editura Academiei R.S.R., 1984), 302.
3 Spiridon I. Cristocea, Din trecutul marii boierimi muntene: marele-vornic
Stroe Leurdeanu (Brăila: Editura Istros, 2011), 64.
4 E. Natalie Rothman, Brokering Empire: Trans-Imperial Subjects between
Venice and Istanbul (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2012), 88–9.
5 Dora Zsom, “The Return of the Conversos to Judaism in the Ottoman
Empire and North Africa,” Hispania Judaica 6 (2010): 338.
6 The literature concerning renegades and neomartyrs is huge and constantly
growing. To name just a few works: Lucetta Scaraffia, Rinnegati: Per una
storia dell’identità occidentale, Quadrante 64 (Roma: Laterza, 1993);
Eric Dursteler, Renegade Women: Gender, Identity, and Boundaries in the
Early Modern Mediterranean (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press,
2011); Natalie Zemon Davis, Trickster Travels: A Sixteenth-Century Mus-
lim between Worlds (New York, NY: Hill and Wang, 2006); Marinos Sari-
yannis, “Aspects of ‘Neomartyrdom’: Religious Contacts, ‘Blasphemy’ and
‘Calumny’ in 17th-century Istanbul,” Archivum Ottomanicum 23 (2005–
2006); Elisabeth A. Zachariadou, “A Neomartyr’s Message,” Bulletin of the
Centre for Asia Minor Studies 8 (1990); E. N. Rothman, “Conversion, Con-
vergence, and Commensuration in the Venetian–Ottoman Borderlands,”
Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 41/3 (2009); Anton Minkov,
Conversion to Islam in the Balkans: Kisve Bahası and the Ottoman Social
Life, 1670–1730, The Ottoman Empire and Its Heritage (Leiden and Bos-
ton: Brill, 2004); Tijana Krstić, Contested conversions to Islam: Narratives
of Religious Change in the Early Modern Ottoman Empire (Stanford: Stan-
ford University Press, 2011).
7 Marc David Baer, Honored by the Glory of Islam: Conversion and Con-
quest in Ottoman Europe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 6.
8 Lucien Thys-Şenocak, “The Yeni Valide Complex at Eminönü,” Muqarnas
15 (1998): 67; Marc David Baer, “The Great Fire of 1660 and the Islamici-
zation of Christian and Jewish Space in Istanbul,” International Journal of
Middle East Studies 36 (2004); idem, Honored by the Glory of Islam, 104.
9 See for instance Abdülkadir Özcan, “İstanbul’un Eminönü Semti XVII.
Yüzyılda mı İslamlaştırıldı?,” Osmanlı Araştırmaları 37 (2011): 209–10.
10 Edgar Quinet, “Les roumains,” Revue des Deux Mondes 2/2 (1856): 26–7.
Translation from Viorel Panaite, “The Legal and Political Status of Walla-
chia and Moldavia in Relation to the Ottoman Empire,” in The European
Tributary States of the Ottoman Empire in the Sixteenth-Seventeenth Cen-
turies, ed. Gábor Kármán and Lovro Kunčević (Leiden and Boston: Brill,
2013), 9–10.
11 For a discussion of the existence of capitulations as dogma in Romanian his-
toriography, see Lucian Boia, History and Myth in Romanian Consciousness
(Budapest: CEU Press, 2001), 24.
12 Viorel Panaite, “Custom in the 16th-18th Centuries Ottoman-Romanian
Relationship: Starting Points for a Historiographical Debate,” Revue des
94 Michał Wasiucionek
Études Sud-Est Européennes 31/1–2 (1993); idem, “Power Relationships in
the Ottoman Empire: The Sultans and Tribute-Paying Princes of Wallachia
and Moldavia from the Sixteenth to the Eighteenth Century,” International
Journal of Turkish Studies 7/1–2 (2001); idem, “The Voivodes of the Danu-
bian Principalities – as Harâcgüzarlar of the Ottoman Sultans,” in Ottoman
Borderlands: Issues, Personalities and Political Changes, ed. Kemal H. Kar-
pat and Robert W. Zens (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2003);
idem, “From Allegiance to Conquest. Ottomans and Moldo-Wallachians
from the Late Fourteenth to Mid-Sixteenth Centuries (II),” Revue des Études
Sud-Est Europenées 49/1–4 (2011); idem, Război, pace şi comerţ în Islam.
Ţările române şi dreptul otoman al popoarelor, 2nd, Historia (Iaşi: Polirom,
2013); idem, “The Legal and Political Status of Wallachia and Moldavia in
Relation to the Ottoman Empire,” in The European Tributary States of the
Ottoman Empire in the Sixteenth-Seventeenth Centuries, ed. Gábor Kármán
and Lovro Kunčević (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2013).
13 Mihai Maxim, “Voyvodalık ou beğlerbeğlik? La politique ottomane envers
la Moldavie et la Valachie (november 1594 – février 1596) à la lumière
des nouveaux documents turcs,” in idem Romano-Ottomanica: Essays &
Documents from the Turkish Archives (Istanbul: Isis Press, 2001), 163–72
passim.
14 Dan Simonescu, ed., Istoria Ţării Romîneşti, 1290–1690: Letopiseţul can-
tacuzinesc (Bucharest: Editura Academiei R.P.R., 1960), 54–5; Istoriia Ţării
Rumâneşti de când au descălecat pravoslavnicii creştini, MS Blaj 112, f.
1–127, The Library of Romanian Academy’s Section in Cluj, Cluj-Napoca,
f. 37v. There are sixty-five extant manuscript copies of the chronicle,
mostly from the eighteenth century. For a full list of the manuscripts, see
I. Crăciun and A. Ilieş, eds., Repertoriul manuscriselor de cronici interne,
sec. XV-XVIII privind istoria Romîniei, Croniciile medievale ale României
1 (Bucharest: Editura Academiei R.P.R., 1963), 148–61. All translations by
the author, unless stated otherwise.
15 Romanian Academy Library, Bucharest, MS 196, f. 37v. Simonescu, Istoria
Ţării Romîneşti, 1290–1690, 55.
16 Ibid., 145–6. Emphasis is mine.
17 Ion Neculce, Letopiseţul Ţării Moldovei şi o samă de cuvînte, ed. Iorgu
Iordan (Bucharest: Editura de Stat pentru Literatură şi Artă, 1955), 132.
18 Ibid., 337.
19 Donation of Kara Salman Çavuş to the Radu Vodă Monastery, Decem-
ber 1631, Direcţia Arhive Naţionale Istorice Centrale, Bucharest, Mănăstirea
Radu Vodă xxxix/11.
20 For the account of this forgery, see Mihai Maxim, Ţările Române şi Înalta
Poartă : cadrul juridic al relaţiilor româno-otomane în evul mediu (Bucha-
rest: Editura Enciclopedică, 1993), 20–1.
21 Constantin Giurescu, Capitulaţiile Moldovei cu Poarta Otomană: Studiu
istoric (Bucharest: Carol Göbl, 1908), 8.
 Conversion, jurisidiction and spatiality 95
22 Ienachiţă Văcărescu, Istoria othomanicească, ed. Gabriel Ştrempel (Bucha-
rest: Editura Bibliotecilor Bucureştilor, 2001), 27.
23 Ion Matei, Reprezentanţii diplomatici (capuchehăi) al Ţării Româneşti la
Poarta otomană, ed. Nagy Pienaru and Tudor Teotoi (Bucharest: Editura
Academiei Române, 2008), 127.
24 Nicolae Stoicescu, Dicţionar al marilor dregători din Ţara Românească şi
Moldova (sec. XIV-XVII) (Bucharest: Editura Academiei R.S.R., 1971), 64.
25 On conversion as an expression of loyalty to the ruler, see Christine Isom-
Verhaaren, “Shifting Identities: Foreign State Servants in France and the
Ottoman Empire,” Journal of Early Modern History 8/1–2 (2004): 115.
26 Mihai Maxim, “New Turkish Documents Concerning Michael the Brave and
His Time,” in idem L’empire ottoman au nord du Danube et l’autonomie
des principautés roumaines au XVIe siècle: études et documents, (Istanbul:
Isis Press, 1999), 131.
27 Direcţia Arhive Naţionale Istorice Centrale, Bucharest, Mănăstirea Radu
Vodă xxxix/11.
28 Diploma of Matei Basarab for the Radu Vodă Monastery, 12 February 1634,
Direcţia Arhive Naţionale Istorice Centrale, Bucharest, Mănăstirea Radu
Vodă xxxix/12.
29 Paul of Aleppo, Jurnal de călătorie în Moldova şi Valahia, ed. Ioana Fedorov
(Bucharest: Editura Academiei Române, 2014).
30 Ibid., 161.
31 Ibid.
32 Evliya Çelebi, Seyahatname (Istanbul, 1896), vol. 3, 333. My emphasis.
33 Panaite, “The Voivodes of the Danubian Principalities,” 59–60.
34 Panaite, Război, pace şi comerţ în Islam, 265–9.
35 Ferman of Sultan Mehmed IV to the officials of Tırnovi, Başbakanlık
Osmanlı Arşivi, İbnü’l-Emin Tasnifi, Dahiliye 436, published in Relaţiile
Ţărilor Române cu Poarta otomană în documente turceşti (1601–1712), ed.
Tahsin Gemil (Bucharest: Editura Academiei R.S.R., 1984), 342.
36 Miron Costin, Letopiseţul Ţării Moldovei dela Aron Vodă încoace, ed. P. P
Panaitescu (Bucharest: Fundaţa Regală pentru Literatură şi Artă, 1943), 50.
37 Simonescu, Istoria Ţării Romîneşti, 1290–1690, 53; Axinte Uricariul, Cron-
ica paralelă a Ţării Româneşti şi a Moldovei, ed. Gabriel Ştrempel (Bucha-
rest: Editura Minerva, 1993), vol. 2, 355.
38 Grigore Ureche, Letopiseţul Ţărâi Moldovei, ed. P. P Panaitescu (Bucharest:
Editura de Stat pentru Literatură şi Artă, 1958), 167.
39 Axinte Uricariul, Cronica paralelă, vol. 2, 355; Costin, Letopiseţul, 50.
40 P. P. Panaitescu, Începuturile şi biruinţa scrisului în limba română (Bucha-
rest: Editura Academiei R.P.R., 1965), 193.
41 Cronicile slavo-române din sec. XV–XVI, publicate de Ioan Bogdan, ed. P. P.
Panaitescu (Bucharest: Editura Academiei RPR, 1959), 120–1.
42 Costin, Letopiseţul Ţării Moldovei, 50.
43 Scaraffia, Rinnegati, 50.
96 Michał Wasiucionek
44 Zachariadou, “A Neomartyr’s Message,” 62–3; Krstić, Contested Conver-
sions to Islam, 50.
45 Simonescu, Istoria Ţării Romîneşti, 1290–1690, 162.
46 See for instance Ibid., 53.
47 Rothman, Brokering Empire, 133.
48 The contract of sale of the village Braviceni, (1646), Direcţia Arhive
Naţionale Istorice Centrale, Bucharest, Doc. istorice xxiii/251.
49 Michał Wasiucionek, “Przemiany w wojskowości a bandytyzm na pogran-
iczu osmańskim nad dolnym Dunajem w XVII wieku,” in Na z góry
upatrzonych pozycjach, ed. Bartłomiej Międzybrodzki, Magdalena Gajda,
K. Fudalej and M. Przeperski (Warsaw and Zabrze: InfortEditions, 2011).
50 Donation of Kara Salman Çavuş to the Radu Vodă Monastery, Decem-
ber 1631, Direcţia Arhive Naţionale Istorice Centrale, Bucharest, Mănăstirea
Radu Vodă xxxix/11; Direcţia Arhive Naţionale Istorice Centrale, Bucha-
rest, Mănăstirea Radu Vodă xxxix/12.
51 Karen Barkey, Empire of Difference: The Ottomans in Comparative Per-
spective (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 118.
52 Ibid., 119.

Bibliography

Archival sources (unpublished)

Bucharest, Direcţia Arhivelor Naţionale – Instituţie Centrală
Doc. istorice xxiii/251
Mănăstirea Radu Vodă xxxix/11, 12
Bucharest, Romanian Academy Library
MS 196
Cluj, The Library of Romanian Academy’s Section in Cluj
MS Blaj 112

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Krstić, Tijana. Contested Conversions to Islam: Narratives of Religious
Change in the Early Modern Ottoman Empire. Stanford: Stanford Uni-
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Poarta Otomană. Edited by Tudor Teotoi and Nagy Pienaru. Bucharest:
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Maxim, Mihai. Țările Române și Înalta Poartă: cadrul juridic al relațiilor
româno-otomane în evul mediu. Bucharest: Editura Enciclopedică, 1993.
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et la Valachie (november 1594–février 1596) à la lumière des nouveaux
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Michał Przeperski, eds. Na z góry upatrzonych pozycjach. Warsaw and
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Ottoman Social Life, 1670–1730. Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2004.
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İslamlaştırıldı?” Osmanlı Araştırmaları 37 (2011): 206–213.
Panaite, Viorel. “Custom in the 16th-18th Centuries Ottoman-Romanian
Relationship: Starting Points for a Historiographical Debate.” Revue des
Études sud-est européennes 31/1–2 (1993): 171–185.
––– “Power Relationships in the Ottoman Empire: The Sultans and Tribute-
Paying Princes of Wallachia and Moldavia from the Sixteenth to the Eight-
eenth Century.” International Journal of Turkish Studies 7/1–2 (2001):
26–54.
––– “The Voivodes of the Danubian Principalities – as Harâcgüzarlar of
the Ottoman Sultans.” In Ottoman Borderlands: Issues, Personalities
and Political Changes, edited by Kemal H. Karpat and Robert W. Zens,
59–78. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2003.
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the Late Fourteenth to Mid-Sixteenth Centuries (II).” Revue des Études
Sud-Est Europenées 49/1–4 (2011): 197–212.
––– “The Legal and Political Status of Wallachia and Moldavia in Rela-
tion to the Ottoman Empire.” In The European Tributary States of the
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Ottoman Empire in the Sixteenth-Seventeenth Centuries, edited by Gábor
Kármán and Lovro Kunčević, 9–42. Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2013.
––– Război, pace şi comerţ în Islam. Ţările române şi dreptul otoman al
popoarelor. 2nd ed. Historia. Iaşi: Polirom, 2013.
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rest: Editura Academiei R.P.R., 1965.
Quinet, Edgar. “Les roumains.” Revue des Deux Mondes 2/2 (1856): 5–49.
Rothman, E. Natalie. “Conversion, Convergence, and Commensuration
in the Venetian–Ottoman Borderlands.” Journal of Medieval and Early
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––– Brokering Empire: Trans-imperial Subjects between Venice and Istan-
bul. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2012.
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‘Blasphemy’ and ‘Calumny’ in 17th-century Istanbul.” Archivum Otto-
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Stoicescu, Nicolae. Dicţionar al marilor dregători din Ţara Românească şi
Moldova (sec. XIV-XVII). Bucharest: Editura Academiei R.S.R., 1971.
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nych pozycjach, edited by Bartłomiej Międzybrodzki, M. Gajda, K.
Fudalej and M. Przeperski, 117–124. Warsaw and Zabrze: Inforteditions,
2011.
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man Empire and North Africa.” Hispania Judaica 6 (2010): 335–347.
Part 2

Fashioning identities
Conversion and the threat to self
5 The early modern convert as
“public property”
A typology of turning
Palmira Brummett

In December 1661, an advertisement appeared in the London weekly news-

book, Mercurius Publicus. The ad concerned one Philip Dandulo, ‘a Turke
borne’ who had been ‘converted to the true Christian faith’ and given the
king’s patents for his ‘Subsistence and releife’. It noted that Dandulo ‘was
falsely reported to have been executed for some notorious crime’ and that
collections for his support were so meager that he ‘had nothing to subsist
on’. Quite the contrary, the gazette advised the public, these reports were
false: ‘Philip Dandulo is now living with his wife and family at the 3 Crowns
in Westminster, and it was a Moor that was executed’.1
Rigep (Recep) Dandulo, who took the name Philip when he was baptised
in 1657, had become a cause celebre in London because the story of his
conversion and the ceremonies surrounding it had been published in pam-
phlet form under the title: The Baptized Turk, by Thomas Warmstry D. D.
(1609/1610–1665).2 Once published, the “born Turk’s” story was so popu-
lar that it was reprinted in multiple editions. Dandulo was thus a convert
whose fate was a matter of some interest to the public. We do not know how
the rumours of his execution or impoverishment got started. Nor do we
know who was the ‘Moor’ mentioned in the paper, or what was his crime.
But we can speculate that the rumours threatened Dandulo’s livelihood
which was based on subscriptions to support converts, and also threatened
the good names of his Christian sponsors who were people of some repute.3
Thus we find that “turning” in 1661 London had become a question of
marketing, and Dandulo had become public property. We see the convert as
a person with a family, a history, a reputation and an ongoing relationship
with the crown, charitable institutions, and the public. Dandulo was an
individual; but, in the literatures of the Christian kingdoms of early modern
Europe, individual conversion was part of a broader narrative of spiritual,
communal, national, and imperial struggle. At the time of Dandulo’s con-
version, the outcome of that struggle was by no means settled.
I am interested in the convert as a narrative and visual category. This
chapter focuses on the former to propose a typology of “turning” through
examining differing types of narrative about three kinds of convert: the
‘Turke borne’ (Ottoman Muslim) convert to Christianity, the Christian
104 Palmira Brummett
convert to Islam and what I would call the “half-turned”, that is Christians
in lands conquered by the Ottomans who are nominally Muslim but whose
faith and practice retain the trappings of Christian culture and community.
For purposes of this chapter, I will not address the ubiquitous pictorial rep-
resentations of conversion and converts in the imagery of early modern
Europe. But it is important to keep in mind that narratives of conversion
translated very readily into pictures, capitalising on public interest in the
contexts of both the Reformation and the trans-imperial struggle between
Muslim and Christian kings for the spaces of Europe and the Mediterranean
world.4 As the Ottoman Empire came to dominate more of those spaces in
the sixteenth century, more European Christians became converts to Islam
(voluntarily or under duress), a most worrisome phenomenon for the rulers
and churchmen of Christendom.5 Many of these “turnings” were conver-
sions of survival, but others were conversions of opportunity. What role, if
any, spiritual conviction or piety actually played in those conversions is, of
course, often difficult to discern.6 The Baptized Turk proposes that Dandulo
was converted by means of arguments for the superiority of Christianity so
compelling that he could not help but admit the error of Islam.7 Those argu-
ments were bolstered by the fact that Dandulo had been exposed to the faith
early on by a Christian mother.8 In any case, the disproportionate number
of Christian converts to Islam, compared to the small number of Muslims
who joined the Christian fold, almost guaranteed that a spotlight would
be directed upon Muslims like Dandulo who “came over” to the Christian
side.9 The National Portrait Gallery in London possesses a portrait engrav-
ing by Thomas Cross of “Rigep Dandulo, a Turke by 7 Descents . . . here
Baptized into ye Christian Faith,” apparently done shortly after Dandulo’s
conversion in 1657.10 Indeed, the interested modern consumer can still pur-
chase online this image of the convert, emblazoned on both T-shirts and
necklaces.11
Turning was a critical and essential process of identity for the early mod-
ern world. It was also a gendered phenomenon, the rhetoric of which helped
construct and define the borders of sexual and social convention. It was an
evolving process that enhanced communication, espionage and the develop-
ment of networks of cross-cultural literature, art and translation. The con-
vert was also a readily accessible symbol of the nature of ethno-communal
difference. When he converted (the default narrative convert was male, in
part because female identities were assumed to be subordinate to those of
their male-protectors), the convert did not shed his old communal identity;
rather, he added a new one on top of the old.12 Thus Dandulo continued to
be labelled a “Turk” (a designation which clearly signified Muslim) even as
his conversion to Christianity was trumpeted in narrative and image.
But what do we most want to know about such turnings, and what can
they tell us about the early modern observer’s typology of turning? Here
Dandulo’s case, is instructive. One critical question is this: who cared about
turning, and what did they do about it? That question leads to a series of
others regarding situation and society: what difference does place make?
Figure 5.1 Thomas Cross, Rigep Dandulo, 144 mm × 87 mm, line engraving, mid-
seventeenth century
Source: © National Portrait Gallery, London, NPG D29244.
106 Palmira Brummett
How was the convert incorporated (or not) into his or her adopted society?
Do we see a clear moment of choice, or is that moment lost or ambiguous,
or not a moment? And, finally, when does turning move from a moment of
choice or coercion, and a centrepiece for enactments and re-enactments of
religious and family drama, to a default category of existence – that is turn-
ing as a chronic state? Another category of questions concerns reception in
text and image: how was turning translated? What were its genres? How
did it move from one genre to another? What words were used to designate
the turning, its situation, and its duration? How was the conversion publi-
cised, satirised or used to project power and identity? All of these questions,
applied to texts like The Baptized Turk, help reveal a web of personnel,
institutional frameworks and information in which the convert was embed-
ded. They show us something about connections among states, households,
commercial enterprises, family members and associates in more than one
“national” space. And they highlight claims of both ethnic and religious
ownership.
In the rhetoric of early modern Europe, turning was a natural subject
for attention in the press, but it was also a convention of storytelling,
news, complaint, satire and theatre. Each of the narratives in this article
lends authority to a more complex picture of what turning actually meant
in the early modern world. Dandulo, for example, was characterised as a
‘Turke borne’ or a ‘Turk of seven descents’, as he was called in the por-
trait by Thomas Cross. Yet his origins are murky at best. The published
story of his conversion asserts that he had antecedents in the noble Dandulo
(Dandolo) family from Venice. But some branches of that family had been
‘transplanted’ during the wars between the Ottoman Empire and Venice,
resulting in Dandulo’s father, a silk merchant on the island of Chios, off
the western Anatolian coast, being ‘a professed Turk’.13 His mother, on the
other hand, was purportedly a Greek Orthodox Christian. This was a telling
point for the convert’s English patrons and narrators, because it suggested
a childhood affinity for Christendom. Dandulo’s family could easily have
been caught up in the confessional schizophrenia engendered by the Otto-
man conquests of what had for long been Christian territory in southeast-
ern Europe and the Aegean.14 What mattered most, however, in Dandulo’s
story was not his actual origins, but the fact that English authorities, society
and the news-book reading public all perceived him as a “Turk” who had
changed his allegiance from Islam to Christianity. It was critical that he be a
real “Turk” in order for the significance of his conversion to be magnified.
But Dandulo’s “Greek” mother gave him a ‘just title unto Baptism, even in
his infancy’.15 That inheritance paved the way for his conversion and (par-
tial) assimilation into English society. Along with his cosmopolitan experi-
ence, it marked him as acceptable to “civilised” society.
In that regard, the rhetoric of Dandulo’s tale reminds us of the 1921
American silent film, The Sheikh, starring Rudolph Valentino and based
on the 1919 romance novel of the same name by Englishwoman Edith
 Convert as “public property” 107
M. Hull.16 In the film, Lady Diana Mayo is kidnapped by an Arab sheikh.
Ultimately they fall in love. But to legitimise that union of opposites, the
supposed Arab is reconstituted as the son of an English father and a Span-
ish mother and hence a suitable partner for the English Diana (who wears a
cross around her neck to remind viewers of her Christian identity).17 Dan-
dulo too was reconstituted; he was a ‘Turke borne’ but one with a Christian
heritage. Hence his union with London society was a welcome rather than
a threatening event. The Baptized Turk routinely likens him to the Prodigal
Son.18 Although his colour was ‘something swarthy’ (like Valentino’s), it
was said to derive from the ‘climates wherein he hath lived’, and his features
were said to be ‘comely’.19 His identity as a Muslim was reinforced by his
having been captured by ‘Moors’ at the age of six.20 But his identity as a
potential Christian was reinforced by an inclination both to charity and to
reason.21 Warmstry admits that the conversion of a ‘Turk . . . who hath been
born and bred in that religion’ was a phenomenon ‘rarely seen’.22 But he sees
Dandulo as naturally ripe for conversion.
After various travels and turns of fortune, Rigep Dandulo arrived in
London. There, although he was ‘yet a stranger to the English tongue’, he
found hospitality at the home of ‘Lady Lawrence of Chelsea’, whose son he
had met in Izmir.23 Dandulo’s turning, nonetheless, did not come easily. It
required the use of an interpreter familiar with ‘Turkish parts’, and multiple
long disquisitions with his various English patrons who did not hesitate to
call in professional reinforcements when that seemed necessary.24 Indeed
Thomas Warmstry, who prepared this testimonial to conversion in collabo-
ration with the ‘worthy and learned Divine’ Mr. Peter Gunning, the instru-
ment of Dandulo’s conversion, wrote that only ‘after some struggling [had
Gunning] obtained from him. . . . (as if some violent beam of light and grace
had broken in upon his soul) . . . his consent to be baptized’.25 Gunning
(1614–1684), preacher, theologian, and pamphleteer, was then chaplain at
Exeter House on the Strand. After the Restoration he served as master of
Corpus Christi and of St. John’s at Cambridge, and bishop of Ely.26 Initially,
Warmstry found Dandulo quite determined to retain the faith of his father.27
The prospective convert asked Gunning ‘How do you think I can do that
[convert] without danger to my life? Except I should resolve never to see
more my Country, and Parents, and Friends, and all that is in this world
dear unto me?’28 That plaintive question suggests some of the social dilem-
mas attendant on both Dandulo’s conversion and his decision to remain
in England. His ambivalence certainly seems understandable; Warmstry
informs his readers that Dandulo not only had fought for the Ottomans,
but had a fiancé back home whom he was forced to relinquish as a result of
his conversion.29
After lengthy debate, a prophetic dream and much apparent soul search-
ing, however, Dandulo did convert. And on 8 November 1657, he was
conducted to a baptismal service held at Exeter-house chapel, the London
congregation of the royalist Reverend Gunning. ‘The Convert came in in his
108 Palmira Brummett
Turkish Habit and . . . desired several times that he might be admitted to
the Baptism of the Christian Church’.30 Warmstry notes that the Countess
of Dorset, the Lord George, and Mr. Philip Warwick were witnesses.31 After
reciting the Apostles’ Creed and having answered questions concerning the
Christian Covenant ‘usually answered by the Godfathers and Godmoth-
ers at the Baptism of Children . . . with such alterations as were necessary
for this extraordinary case’, Dandulo was stripped to the waist, knelt, was
baptised, and given the name Philip.32 With sermons by both Warmstry and
Gunning, the festivities were concluded, but not before Dandulo returned
to the chapel ‘in another Habit . . . (charitably provided for him by rev-
erend Doctor Bernard of Grayes-Inn)’, in the ‘English fashion’.33 It is not
clear that Dandulo was still accustomed to wearing “Turkish” dress; but
it is clear from Warmstry’s description that the public change of garments
was meant as a visible symbol of Dandulo’s change of identity.34 So too, the
assembly of multiple clergymen and elite patrons, suggests that Dandulo’s
baptism was a ceremony intended to bestow grace on more recipients than
just the convert himself, and to create the opportunity for more didactic
sermonising such as that enshrined in Warmstry’s text. Indeed, by the time
The Baptized Turk was published in 1658 it had expanded to 150 pages,
and included a tract criticising back-sliding, squabbling and lack of devo-
tion among Christians.
Warmstry concluded his story by writing that Dandulo, ‘at present lives
in Holborn, at the house of the honourable and virtuous Lady Hatter, and
is I conceive much improved in the Christian knowledge, as appeared by a
discourse he had lately at Chelsea, and I hope will prove an eminent Chris-
tian’.35 He does not tell us about the expected role of hostesses like Lady
Lawrence and Lady Hatter in facilitating the convert’s transition to Chris-
tian faith and English life. But we can speculate that these ladies were con-
sidered models of proper Christian comportment whose own access to grace
was facilitated by the charitable work of helping a convert acclimatise. We
do know from the previously noted advertisement in Mercurius Publicus
that by 1661 Dandulo was a married man and father. But we know next to
nothing about his life or his wife except that she was presumably a Christian.
Dandulo was not the only Muslim convert celebrated in the London press.
A shorter pamphlet published in 1586 recorded the baptism of yet another
born Turk in: A Sermon preached at the Hospital of Saint Katherin, adioyn-
ing unto her Maiesties Towne the 2 of October 1586, at the Baptizing of one
Chinano a Turke, borne at Nigropontus [Negroponte]: by Meredith Han-
mer, D. of Divinity.36 This tract on winning over the “heathen” included
a partial history of the Christian struggle against the Ottomans. The con-
vert, one ‘Chinano’, is called a ‘Saracen’ and a ‘silly Turk’ who had been
held captive for twenty-five years in Spain. Like Dandulo’s, the conversion
of Chinano required an interpreter, for he did not understand ‘the English
tongue’.37 Hanmer’s tract, like Warmstry’s, used the conversion of a “Turk”
as the centrepiece for a lesson on Christianity, but his sermon takes a rather
 Convert as “public property” 109
different tack, using the convert’s experience to attack the pope and Spain,
and to illustrate how many unbelievers (Jews, Muslims and idolaters) could
be converted if Christians could only sort out their own truths. It was nei-
ther knowledge nor reason which persuaded Chinano to convert, but works
and the ‘courtesy, gentleness, friendly salutations . . . succor . . . pity and
compassion of the English men’, that he encountered once he was brought
to England. Those Englishmen purportedly provided a dramatic contrast to
the behaviour of the brutal and corrupt Spaniards who had held Chinano
in thrall.38 Like Dandulo, Chinano, in this pamphlet, was compared to the
Prodigal Son and the lost sheep.39 The last two pages of Hanmer’s sermon
record the ritual of his baptism: confession before the congregation, the
answers (in Spanish) to questions posed by the English preacher through an
interpreter, rejection of Muhammad, acknowledgement of Jesus as the son
of god, and a request for baptism. Chinano was then christened ‘William’.
Unlike the account of Dandulo’s baptism, there is no mention of gifts or
a change of dress. Both narratives, however, resonate with early modern
captivity narratives which were designed to show the enduring power of the
Christian faith as well as to entertain (and warn) their readers.40
There are various counterparts to the accounts of Chinano’s and Dan-
dulo’s conversions; but in the literatures of the Christian kingdoms we are
more likely to meet Christians who have converted to Islam than Muslims
who have converted to Christianity. Christians who turned might be charac-
terised as traitors, unwilling victims or useful intermediaries who, hopefully,
given the opportunity would revert to the “true” faith. Captivity narratives
of those who turned, forcibly or voluntarily, while in the hands of Muslim
captors were calculated to prompt the ire, sympathy and self-examination
of Christian readers. But regardless of their actual intentions, such converts
often became go-betweens who smoothed the way for Christian travellers
sojourning in Ottoman domains. One example is the guide ‘Lombardi’,
mentioned by the English scholar Richard Chandler (1738–1810) who
made use of his services during a 1764 sojourn to study antiquities in Otto-
man lands.41 While glad of Lombardi’s expertise, Chandler, like many other
Christian travellers, made no secret of his contempt for a man who aban-
doned the fold of Christendom to embrace the heretical sect of the Prophet
Muhammad. He saw Lombardi as an opportunist, and nothing more.42
Other authors were more sanguine about the ubiquity of converts and
the value of their services, especially in the frontier zones between Ottoman
domains and those of their Christian rivals.43 In his late sixteenth-century
treatise on the Ottomans and ways to defeat them, Gherardo Borgogni
(1526–1608) told his readers that he consulted a man named Hasan, ‘a
Turk from Constantinople’, who was very knowledgeable about the Otto-
man Porte. Hasan was a convert to Islam. He told his interrogator that he
had been taken prisoner at the battle of Lepanto in 1571, having fought
valiantly for the Christian side. Bergogni calls him ‘a most judicious and
intelligent person’. He enjoyed their conversations, especially as Hasan ‘was
110 Palmira Brummett
well versed in Italian’.44 Borgogni thus felt affinities of language, gender,
experience and knowledge with this informant who provided insights into
the life of the “Turk” and, more critically, was intelligible to the author and
hence to his readers.45 That was the advantage of consulting with a con-
vert; Hasan was a “Turk”, in his present condition, but not a ‘Turke borne’
like Dandulo (whose lack of English made Warmstry’s initial proselytising
efforts difficult). What Hasan possessed, and Dandulo apparently did not,
was the easy familiarity with “Christian” language, faith and a mode of
living instilled in him since childhood, something that could not be wiped
away by his conversion to Islam.
Borgogni’s story, published in 1590, may be contrasted to that of Wences-
las Wratislaw, a Bohemian page who travelled with the Hapsburg embassy
of Frederic Kregwitz from Rudolph II (r. 1576–1612) to the Ottoman court
of Murad III (r. 1574–1595) in 1591.46 Wratislaw was an open-minded ado-
lescent who learned some Turkish and made Ottoman friends. But he had
no sympathy for Christians who converted to Islam. In particular, he told
the tale of the embassy’s steward, ‘Ladislaw Mörthen’, who converted to
Islam in 1593. Wratislaw’s narration of the steward’s story is worth citing
at some length because it includes a description of the rituals of celebration
attendant upon public conversion to Islam in Istanbul. Wratislaw tells us
that Mörthen had ‘committed a capital crime’, and been confined to quar-
ters by the ambassador. One day, however, he escaped:

[He] sprang out into the street, and shouted at the top of his voice that
he wished to become a Mussulman. The chiaous [çavuş] who was on
guard by our house heard this exclamation with great joy, and immedi-
ately conducted the steward to a pasha, and laid before him the inten-
tions of the godless villain.
The pasha not only greatly commended it, but was delighted at
obtaining so important a proselyte . . ., and immediately gave him a
handsome red Turkish dress, a turban, and a fine Turkish horse, and
ordered him to be conducted to circumcision with great pomp . . .
Many hundred horse and foot soldiers went before and behind him
past our house, all shouting ferociously, and wishing him joy, while he
exhibited a joyful countenance, looked in at the windows, and carried
himself haughtily.
. . . This renegade, although he had at Prague a wife, . . . and a
son . . . yet [he] forsook all, forgot his soul and wife, took immediately
a Turkish woman to wife, and frequently walked and rode past our
house.47

After the circumcision, according to the author, Mörthen was assigned pay
of ‘forty aspers a day’. Even if Wratislaw embellished the story, this is a clear
illustration of the ways in which the Ottomans used conversion rituals (and
rewards) as propaganda, just like their Protestant counterparts in London.48
 Convert as “public property” 111
Note that Wratislaw calls Mörthen a ‘godless villain’, suggesting that he
had no faith, either Christian or Muslim.49 The steward presumably saw
conversion as an easy way to escape punishment for his ‘capital crime’,
at a time when Ottoman relations with the Hapsburgs were very tense.
For the Ottoman authorities, however, having such a turncoat fall into
their hands provided a clear opportunity to tout the superiority of Islam
in a fashion even more public than Dandulo’s baptismal ceremony.50 What
Warmstry had immortalised in text, the Ottoman authorities immortalised
in spectacle. The public rituals of conversion were important whether the
turning took place in Istanbul or London. Dandulo and Mörthen each
received new clothes, gifts and a stipend.51 Each was subjected to the pub-
lic gaze, either that of a certain class of London Protestants, or that of the
masses in the Istanbul streets. Also noteworthy is the fact that each con-
vert’s reception into his adopted society was certified by his abandonment
of a woman back home (Dandulo left his fiancée and Mörthen his wife),
and the taking on of a spouse whose faith matched that to which he had
newly subscribed.52
The moment of decision so dramatically illustrated in the stories of Dan-
dulo and Mörthen is not, however, a necessary element of the convert’s
tale. In other narratives, the nature and timing of conversion (or the faith
of the protagonist) may be unclear. Some converts had serial identities or
maintained the ritual practices of more than one faith at once. These ambi-
guities are illustrated in various travel narratives, such as that of Domenico
Hierosolimitano (c. 1552–1622) who was trained as a rabbi and who served
as court physician to Sultan Murad III (r. 1574–1595). His path, unlike
Mörthen’s, was one that traced its way from east to west: from Safed, in the
Holy Land, to Istanbul, to Rome where he apparently converted to Catholi-
cism – or at least so it seems.53 Domenico wrote his story from a Christian
space, Rome. There, his (presumed) conversion along with his service to the
sultan and years in Istanbul lent his narrative an air of authority.
Like Wratislaw, Domenico suggests that institutional frameworks were
available in Istanbul for making and dealing with converts. He writes of
what he calls the ‘seventh commandment’ of the Muslims, Kâfirler Döğüşü
(the struggle against the unbelievers), and the admonition ‘that everyone . . .
be ready to make war against those opposed to the law of Muhammad’.
Conversion, of course, was one way to “make war” on the infidels.

This commandment contains the custom that if anyone goes over to

his (Islamic) faith, [everyone] is obliged to give him [the convert] up to
half of his goods and to support him; and he is considered blessed who
can give (him) one of his daughters as a wife, and many who have no
daughters free a slave girl and give her to him as a wife with a good
dowry [and they consider him their son-in law].
[There was a lady] in Constantinople who, in order to observe the
commandments of Muhammad well, made one of her slaves turn Turk
112 Palmira Brummett
and gave him exactly half of whatever personal property and real estate
she had straight away – and she was very rich . . .
All the Ottoman Grand Turks, wishing to observe this command-
ment, have ordained that they can never give their daughters to a native
Turk but (only) to a converted (rinegato) Christian. [Sultan] Süleyman
[r. 1520–1566], for the better observance of this, took pains himself in
person to convert a Latin Christian, a Greek, a Jew, and a Lutheran. And
when he had converted them at various times, he gave to each one his
daughters as wives, with a dowry of half the treasury advanced for the
year he converted; and this he did in observance of this commandment.54

Domenico’s narrative here is full of hyperbole and invention.55 He misrep-

resents the Ottoman system of princess marriage, repeats the mischarac-
terisation of members of the askeri (military-administrative) class levied
in the devşirme as “renegades”, and grossly exaggerates the processes of
creating converts through marriage.56 But he was not mistaken when he
asserted that the Ottoman court took seriously the legitimising utility of
public conversions.57 Domenico’s account repeats some of the more per-
suasive elements of the conversion narrative found in the stories of Dan-
dulo and Mörthen: state support for conversions, devout ladies deployed
to facilitate the assimilation of converts, marriage as a mode of “guar-
anteeing” the longevity of conversion, and societal and legal support for
converts articulated as a form of piety. Istanbul was, after all, a place where
people came purposefully to convert; and in that regard it was like other
large metropoles, particularly port cities.58 Natalie Rothman, for example,
has demonstrated the institutional frameworks available in Venice for the
support (‘patronage and surrogate kinship’) and integration of Muslims
and Jews (either refugees or residents) willing to convert to Christianity.59
If these converts could formally become “proper Catholics” it is no leap
of faith to imagine their counterparts in Istanbul becoming “proper Mus-
lims”. The loyalties of the convert, however, particularly the convert who
had moved from some other place, were always suspect. We have only to
recall Dandulo and the rumour that circulated regarding his commission
of a criminal act to remind us that assimilation was not easy, particularly
when the convert was a foreigner.
The convert as a suspicious (or disreputable) person is a standard trope
of early modern literatures, one that translated readily into drama and fic-
tion. Thus we have the eight-volume L’Espion Turc published in Italian and
French in Paris between 1684–1686, and swiftly translated into English first
in 1687 as Letters Writ by a Turkish Spy.60 This work, supposedly written
by an Arab but actually written by a Genoese named Giovanni Marana,
was so popular that it continued to be published in multiple editions in
the eighteenth century. Its protagonist, the fictional “Turk” spy, was said
to have resided “undiscovered” for forty-five years in Paris, pretending to
be a Christian and sending valuable intelligence to the Ottoman Porte. His
 Convert as “public property” 113
character played upon the audience’s knowledge (and fears) that there were
such foreign people among them, people whose actual identity and faith
were disguised or not readily apparent. Like Dandulo, they had taken up the
“garments” of Christendom.
In a “Note to the Reader”, the supposed “author” writes that he had been
made a slave by the Christians and brought to Sicily where he was held in
captivity and beaten by a brutish master.61 That biography reminds us of
the story of the convert Chinano who had supposedly been a captive of the
Spanish. Despite the hardships of captivity, l’Espion Turc educated himself,
learned Greek and Latin and made his way to ‘one of the greatest and most
peopled Cities of Europe’, Paris.62 The city itself and his having the appear-
ance of cultivation rather than barbarism, served as his disguise.63 But he
also changed his name and his dress.

Instead of my Name, Mahmut the Arabian, I have taken on me, that of

Titus the Moldavian; and with a little Cassock of black Serge, which is
the Habit I have chosen, I make two Figures, being in Heart what I ought
to be; but Outwardly, and in Appearance, what I never intended.64

In short, no one could tell that Titus was a “Turk”. He was just the sort of
informed companion and master of the language that Borgogni found in his
own renegade informant, Hasan. But the fictional Mahmut was not really
a renegade. Instead he remained loyal to Islam and its paramount empire.
So in the Turkish Spy we have a Genoese author pretending to be an Ara-
bian who is pretending to be a Moldavian. The “spy” tells his reader: ‘I go
into the churches as a Christian [but surreptitiously keeping a hand on the
Qur’an] . . . I give no offense; I avoid disputes, mind my own concerns, and
do nothing which may endanger my salvation’.65 The moral of the “Turkish
Spy” was that when it came to turning, nothing was what it seemed. And
Paris (like Istanbul, Venice or even London) was a place where Marana’s
readers could imagine a network of “renegades” who pursued their own
purposes while taking on the guise of converts.66
The message of opaque identity found in L’Espion Turc is repeated in the
travel account of Evliya Çelebi (1611–1682) whose famous Seyahatname
(Book of Travels) narrates adventures in Ottoman realms and beyond.67
Evliya was an Ottoman Muslim who commented on the murky faith-
practices of converts in the once Christian-ruled territories of the Graeco-
Balkan peninsula. There he described the residents of another “conversional
space”, or renegade zone, Albania.68 The villages were intermediate places
because they existed in territory contested by Muslim and Christian empires,
but also because they were located on the coast or in the mountains, places
that shape the identities of their people in particular ways. They were just
the sort of places from which converts like Dandulo emerged, places where
Christian and Muslim ritual existed side by side. In fact, Evliya suggests that
turning may not be such a useful category. He raises the possibility of what
114 Palmira Brummett
we might call half-turning, sort of turning or simply doing religiously what
one pleases.
The Ottoman raconteur, for example, describes the town of Gjirokastër in
Albania (where many of the inhabitants were presumed or professed Mus-
lims of long-standing) as a place where ritual practice was mixed and unfa-
miliar. He was astonished by the lamentations for the dead: ‘Every Sunday,
all the relatives of the dead person gather in a ramshackle house, paying
professional mourners who weep and wail and keen and lament . . . No one
can stand to be in town on Sundays’.69 Evliya calls these endless lamenta-
tions ‘quite pointless’; but, he is magnanimous: ‘every country has its own
traditions’. He is less sanguine however about the alcohol consumption of
the men, who shamelessly drink wine when celebrating (across denomina-
tion) weddings, the feasts of Christian saints and Muslim bayram festivals:
‘this is quite shameful behavior, characteristic of the infidels; but it is their
custom, so we cannot censure it’.70
The territory had long been subject (at least nominally) to the Ottoman
sultan; but in Evliya’s account it clearly retained its Christian and frontier
identities. As he looks at the people of Gjirokastër, Evliya sees that they are
at once both Muslims and ‘sinning’ infidels (kafirs).71 He is not speaking
only of syncretism or lax religious practice, but of moral communities and
flexible communal allegiance. Albania, had been turned (more or less); but
conquest and Muslim rule did not correspond to a recognisable community
of Muslim “believers”. Nor does Evliya seem to think it necessary to affix a
definitive religious label to these villagers. How can one tell after all whether
these men are Muslim or Christian, beyond acknowledging what they say
they are? Evliya admits the ambiguities when he says of the male villagers
southeast of Vlore/Avlonya on the Adriatic coast: ‘[they are] . . . black infi-
dels, [kara keferelerdir] . . . but if you call them infidels, they will kill you’.72
There was no clear moment of conversion here.
Conversion (both individual and group) was a process which could be
fast or slow; voluntary or coerced; complete or incomplete; “permanent”,
chronic, temporary, illusory; “real” or rhetorical. It was a process that was
familiar to a large segment of the urban populations of the Mediterranean
world, particularly those of port cities, where peripatetic Levantine sailors
and commercial agents were recruited and where male and female converts
(and captives) were integrated into the houses of masters and patrons. It
was also familiar to large segments of the rural population in the broad
frontier zones separating the Ottoman Empire and the realms of the Chris-
tian kings of Europe where language, ethnicity, religion and identity were
often multiple or situational.73 There, what Evliya characterised as renegade
life was practiced by many subjects of the sultan, the emperor and the Vene-
tian Signoria. The situation of those who lived this “renegade” life was a far
cry from that of converts like Dandulo or Mörthen. They were not strangers
in a strange land, trying to establish their bona fides, assimilate, gain status
or simply survive through conversion. Rather their space and society had
 Convert as “public property” 115
been “turned” out from under them, while they remained the “locals”, sub-
ject to the scrutiny of outsiders like Evliya. Conversely, what the converts
in the stories of Warmstry, Wratislaw, Evliya and even Marana share is
their adaptation, in a variety of genres, to the rhetorical task of illustrating
belonging and difference, who was part of the ‘cherished community’ and
who was not.74
The narratives excerpted in the previous paragraphs problematise the
simple dichotomy between forced vs. voluntary conversion. They suggest
instead a matrix of conversion that may be chosen, imposed, feigned, “true”,
chronic, temporary, illusory or literary. Conversion might be employed as
marketing, or as entertainment. It served to legitimise faith, society and
ruler. It could be adopted willingly or resisted routinely at multiple levels. It
might make the foreigner palatable or simply highlight his inability ever to
assimilate. It was signified through changes in dress or made ambiguous by
continuity in customs and styles.
The pamphlet literature on the “Turk” and conversion did not peter out
in London as the early modern era became the modern. In 1872, a thirty-
six-page pamphlet was published in London with the compelling title: His-
tory of a Turk. Intended to show the mistake of English women marrying
Mohammedans.75 In this story, written in a breezy, journalistic style, the nar-
rator claims to have personal experience of just such an unfortunate episode
of cross-communal marriage. But the tropes of mixing sound remarkably
familiar: women led astray (in need of redemption by coreligionists or co-
nationals), and the complex dangers of fraternising with “foreigners”. The
tale is both didactic and an exercise in style.76 Indeed this romance-gone-
wrong is emblematic of the ways in which exposure to the “Turk” next-
door had become normalised in English literature.77 But the expectation
of public interest seems little changed since Philip Dandulo protested his
innocence, or had it protested for him, in the Mercurius Publicus in 1661.
One cannot help drawing analogies to more current news. On April 15,
2013, two young Muslim brothers, ten-year residents of the United States
(one recently made a citizen) but born as foreign nationals, set off bombs at
the Boston Marathon, killing several Americans and wounding many oth-
ers. The bombing was not only an act of terror but a public insult to the
American cherished community. Rumours spread like wildfire regarding the
brothers’ associates, nationality and how widely their network of confeder-
ates might extend both at home and abroad. But one person drew particular
attention in the media. The wife of one of the brothers was an American
from Rhode Island. She had converted to Islam in order to marry and had
adopted the hijab. Was she ignorant of or complicit in her husband’s terror
plots?78 For some, the fact that she was a born American, one of “us”, was
enough to give her the benefit of the doubt. But for others, the fact that she
had converted suggested that her loyalty to the United States was undeni-
ably suspect. Her Islamic dress was a sign that she had rejected her identity
and “turned” to something indelibly “foreign”. And so the public debate on
116 Palmira Brummett
the convert (and her hierarchy of loyalties) goes on. The convert can never
entirely abandon his or her old community or be welcomed entirely into the
new. And dress, as an emblem of affiliation, remains a powerful signifier.
For our purposes, the convert, paraded through the streets of Istanbul
or London in his new clothes, is an icon of the ‘cherished community’. He,
or she, serves to reinforce the bonds of that community, and to highlight
its superiority over all others, without necessarily involving the reader in
the messy logistical details of actual assimilation. The subject who turns
to a faith is enlightened, a badge pinned to the breast of the community.
The subject who turns away is a traitor who has publicly dishonoured that
which should be cherished. And the subject who turns back is physical evi-
dence of the centrifugal force of the community, if not the compelling power
of the faith. In between is a middle ground of those who have turned part
way. They are perhaps the most intriguing of all, because neither their looks
nor their behaviour are conclusive indicators of who they really are. One
cannot readily tell which community, if any, they truly cherish. Thus they
become the subject of humour or hostility, and an uneasy mix of curiosity
and distaste.

Notes
1 See Mercurius Publicus Comprising the Sum of Forraign Intelligence. (Lon-
don. Published by Authority. Thursday, December 26, 1661 – Thursday,
January 2, 1662), Numb. 53.
  ADVERTISEMENT: Whereas Philip Dandulo a Turke borne, by pro-
fession a Mahumetan who was converted to the true Christian faith by
Dr. Wilde, Dr. Gunning, Dr. Warmstry, Dr. Thurstcross, and baptized therein
having his Majestie’s Letters, Patents, for Collections to be made in London,
Westminster, and other Counties, in England for his Subsistance and releife,
was falsely reported to have been executed for some notorious crime, and
that his Majestie’s gratious favor towards him was so streightned, and his
Collection so small as that paying the Collection Charges he has nothing to
subsist on. These are to certifie that the said Philip Daudulo is now living
with his wife and family at the 3 Crownes in Westminster, and it was a Moor
that was executed. On which the said report was falsely grounded, desiring
all persons to be so charitable as to take notice of the same that he may not
suffer thereby to his utter undoing.
  Dandulo’s conversion is dealt with extensively in the fourth chapter,
“A Godly Instrument in a Sea of Darkness: “Turkish Converts and the Con-
test of Godliness,” of Laura Perille’s PhD dissertation, now in preparation
for the History Department of Brown University. I thank Laura for this
reference.
2 Thomas Warmstry, D. D., The Baptized Turk, or a Narrative of the Happy
Conversion of Signior Rigep Dandulo, The Only Son of a Silk Merchant in
the Isle of Tzio, from the Delusions of that Great Imposter Mahomet, unto
 Convert as “public property” 117
the Christian Religion, and of His Admission unto Baptism by Mr. Gunning
at Excester-house Chappel the 8th of Novemb. 1657 (London: J. Williams,
T. Garthwairte, and Henry Marsh, 1658), may well be an extended version
of a shorter original. This version is over 150 pages in length including a
dedication, preliminary discourse on the debate of Dandulo and Gunning
over religion and baptism, a disquisition on the convert’s dream, the conver-
sion story and additional arguments regarding the superiority of Christian-
ity over Islam.
3 The London Borough of Bexley, North Cray, http://www.bexley.gov.uk/
index.aspx?articleid=10382, website, accessed June 2013, notes that the
parish registers of St. James Church there record for 1659, ‘4s 6d being
given to Philip Dandulo, a Turk who had converted to Christianity, while in
1670 the sum of £4.10s was raised for the redemption of English slaves held
by the Turks’.
4 For example, Cristelle Baskins, Chapter 2 in a book manuscript in progress,
Books, Portraits, and Print in the Early Modern Mediterranean, for submis-
sion to Ashgate Press, notes an illustration, from Giovanni Francesco Bor-
dini’s On the Worthy Deeds of Pope Sixtus V, (De rebus praeclarus gestis
a Sisto V, Pon. Max. Carminum liber primus) (Rome: ex. offic. J. Tornerii,
1588), which celebrates the conversion of a woman from Algiers.
5 Nabil Matar, “The Renegade in English Seventeenth-Century Imagination,”
Studies in English Literature 33/3 (1993): 492, 490–1 notes the ‘rising tide
of conversion to Islam’ in the seventeenth century: ‘Two factors worried
English writers about the renegade. First was the absence of any moral or
spiritual anxiety associated with the act of apostasy. . . . Secondly, writers
observed that the renegade, having given up his Christian faith, did not suf-
fer subsequent divine punishment but happily prospered as a Muslim’. See
also Matar and Gerald MacLean, Britain and the Islamic World (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2011), 124–55, on English captivity narratives.
6 See Tijana Krstić, Contested Conversions to Islam: Narratives of Religious
Change in the Early Modern Ottoman Empire (Stanford: Stanford Univer-
sity Press, 2011), 98–120, for a sophisticated commentary on some of the
narratives and their claims.
7 Warmstry, The Baptized Turk, 23, 73, 96–8.
8 Ibid., 4, 11, 24–5.
9 For an image of the convert to Islam as enemy, his hand placed upon the
Qur’an, fallen to the ground under the heel of a hooded figure bearing a
chalice, see the cartouche of H. Jaillot’s 1693 version of Nicolas Sanson,
“Le Cours du Danube,” (Paris: Chez Jaillot, 1693). Here the two enemies
of the Christians are the warrior “Turk” and the traitor to Christianity who
converts.
10 Thomas Cross, Rigep Dandulo, 144 mm x 87 mm, line engraving, mid-
seventeenth century, National Portrait Gallery, London, NPG D29244.
11 Via the website Zazzle, http://www.zazzle.com/muslim+converts+tshirts
accessed September 5, 2015.
118 Palmira Brummett
12 But on female converts, see, for example, Eric Dursteler, Renegade Women:
Gender, Identity, and Boundaries in the Early Modern Mediterranean (Balti-
more: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2011); and, for a later period, Selim
Deringil, Conversion and Apostasy in the Late Ottoman Empire (Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 89–90, 94.
13 Warmstry, The Baptized Turk, 2, 4–6.
14 See, for example, Antonis Hadjikyriacou, “Society and Economy on an
Ottoman Island: Cyprus in the Eighteenth Century” (PhD Diss., SOAS, Uni-
versity of London, 2011), 102–3, 115–16. Cypriot Catholics were not per-
mitted to remain on the island after the Ottoman conquest in 1570–1571,
so many converted to Orthodoxy or Islam.
15 Warmstry, The Baptized Turk, 4.
16 E. M. Hull, The sheik, a Novel (Boston: Small, Maynard and Co., [c. 1921],
reprint of London 1919 edition); and E. M. Hull, The Sheik, dir. George
Medford (Los Angeles: Famous Players-Lasky Corporation, 1922).
17 See Steven Caton, “The Sheik: Instabilities of Race and Gender in Transat-
lantic Popular Culture of the Early 1920s,” in Noble Dreams Wicked Pleas-
ures: Orientalism in America, 1870–1930, ed. Holly Edwards (Princeton,
NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000).
18 Wamstry, The Baptized Turk, 74.
19 Ibid., 14.
20 Ibid., 6.
21 Ibid., 12–15.
22 Ibid., 66.
23 Ibid., 16–19.
24 Ibid., 22, 95–6, 137.
25 Warmstry, The Baptized Turk, first page of “Postscript,” in unnumbered
from matter, 23. Warmstry came from a prominent Worcester family and
in 1661 was made dean of Worcester Cathedral; see Warmestry, Thomas
(1609/10–1665), Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2004–2015), online version, accessed June 2013.
26 Gunning, Peter (1614–1684), Oxford Dictionary of National Biography,
online version. Nabil Matar, “Muslim Conversion to Christianity in the
Early Modern Period: Arabic Texts, European Contexts,” in Mediterranean
Identities in the Premodern Era: Entrepôts, Islands, Empires, ed. John Wat-
kins and Kathryn Reyerson, (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2014), makes a
case for the elaborate institutional and imperial frameworks for Muslim
converts ‘seeing the light’, especially in those conversions taking place in
spaces that were targets of colonisation.
27 Warmstry, The Baptized Turk, 20.
28 Ibid., “Postscript,” 6th unnumbered page, discourse between Gunning and
Dandulo.
29 Ibid., 12, 14.
30 Ibid., 139.
 Convert as “public property” 119
31 Possibly the young Philip Warwick, son of Sir Philip Warwick, see Warwick,
Philip (bap. 1640, d. 1683), Oxford Dictionary of National Biography,
online version. Both Philips were admitted to Gray’s Inn which provides a
connection to Reverend Bernard.
32 Warmstry, The Baptized Turk, 139–40. See Gilliam Weiss, Captives and
Corsairs: France and Slavery in the Early Modern Mediterranean (Stanford,
CA: Stanford University Press, 2011), 38–9, 77–8, on the announcement in
the French Mercure françois in 1632 of the ‘baptism of a Barbarian from the
kingdom of Morocco at the Capuchin Church in Paris’, and other stories of
Muslim baptisms.
33 Warmstry, The Baptized Turk, 140. A Nicholas Bernard was preacher at
Gray’s Inn during the 1650s but it is not clear that this was he; see Bernard
(Barnard), Nicholas (d. 1661), Oxford Dictionary of National Biography,
online version.
34 G. Le Strange, ed. and trans., Don Juan of Persia, A Shiʽah Catholic, 1560–
1604 (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1926), 292, 298–9.The change of
clothes as a sign of changed identity is dramatically invoked in the account
of so-called Don Juan of Persia, the Persian secretary Ulug Beg who accom-
panied an embassy sent from Shah Abbas I to the Vatican and other Euro-
pean courts in 1599. The author tells of the nephew, Ali Quli Beg, of the
Safavid ambassador who had ‘come to appreciate the Spanish mode of life,
and for convenience was accustomed now to wear the Spanish dress’. While
this appeared at first to be a matter ‘of mere curiosity and amusement’, Don
Juan tells his readers that it was really a sign of God’s will who intended to
‘soften’ the hard hearts of men from the ‘remotest part of Asia’. Ali Quli
Beg thus determined to be baptised and become a Christian. Ulug Beg also
became a convert in Spain. Here, however, as in Warmstry’s account, the
voice of the conversion story seems to be a born-Christian one. Colin Mitch-
ell, “Don Juan of Persia: A Shiʽah Catholic, 1560–1604 (London: Rout-
ledge Curzon, 2005, reprint of 1926 edition),” Abstracta Iranica [online],
28 (2005) document 172, 18 September 2007, accessed August 3, 2015,
http://abstractairanica.revues.org/17712 points out that Don Juan’s spiritual
guide, Alfonso Rémon extensively “helped” the convert in the preparation
of his account and its translation from Persian into Castilian.
35 Warmstry, The Baptized Turk, 141.
36 Meredith Hanmer, A Sermon Preached at the Hospital of Saint Katherin,
Adioyning unto her Maiesties Towne the 2 of October 1586, at the Baptiz-
ing of one Chinano a Turke, borne at Nigropontus [Negroponte] (London:
Robert Walde-grave, 1586). Hanmer, Meredith (1543–1604), Oxford Dic-
tionary of National Biography, (online version) was a clergyman and ‘histo-
rian of the early church’.
37 Hanmer, A Sermon, 10th unnumbered page.
38 Ibid., 69th unnumbered page.
39 Ibid., 67th and 68th unnumbered pages.
120 Palmira Brummett
40 See Gerald MacLean and Nabil Matar, Britain and the Islamic World,
1558–1713 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 127–55.
41 Richard Chandler, D.D., Travels in Asia Minor and Greece, new edition,
Nicholas Revett, ed., 2 vols., (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1825), 2: 185,
197–8, 203, 212, 215–16, 231, 304, 311, 338. See also Sir George Wheler,
A Journey into Greece, by George Wheler Esq; in company of Dr Spon
of Lyons (London: Printed for William Cademan, Robert Kettlewell, and
Awnsham Churchill, [1682]1689). Wheler (1651–1724), a clergyman and
scholar, was also the author of a journey to the Holy Land, using Eusebius
as his foundation: An Account of the Churches, or Places of Assembly, of
the Primitive Christians; from the Churches of Tyre, Jerusalem, and Con-
stantinople. Described by Eusebius (London: printed by S. Roycroft, for R.
Clavell, 1689).
42 Others described renegades in more pointed terms, as evil, traitorous crea-
tures, much worse than “born Turks”. See for example, Gábor Kármán,
“Turks Reconsidered: Jakob Harsányi Nagy’s Changing Image of the Otto-
mans,” in Well-Connected Domains: Towards an Entangled Ottoman His-
tory, ed. Pascal Firges, Tobias P. Graf, Christian Roth and Gülay Tulasoğlu
(Leiden: Brill, 2014), 114–15.
43 Not all captives converted (or admitted to converting) of course, and those
who did not could still prove very useful to their new masters. See for
example on issues of captive identity the narrative of Osman Aga, a late
seventeenth-century Ottoman captured in the Ottoman-Hapsburg wars:
Osmân Agha de Temechvar, Prisonnier des Infidèles: Un soldat ottoman
dans l’Empire des Habsbourg, ed. and trans. Frédéric Hitzel (N.P.: Sindbad,
1998), 75–6.
44 Gherardo Borgogni, Le Discordie Christiane Le Quali Causarono La Gran-
dezza di Cassa Ottomana, Insieme con la vera origine del nome Turco, &
un breve Sommario delle vite, e acquisti de’Principi Ottomani, Et nel fine
un Paragone della possanza del Turco, e di quella del Catol. Re Filippo,
Da Gherardo Borgogni. Di nuova poste in luce All’Illust.mo Gran Cancel-
lier Filiodoni (Bergamo: Comino Ventura, 1590), 29. Bibliotheca Correr,
Cicogna 558.I8 (816.17).
45 For more on authority in the narration of Ottoman space, see Palmira
Brummett, Mapping the Ottomans: Sovereignty, Territory, and Identity in
the Early Modern Mediterranean (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2015), 277–324.
46 The German version is Václav Vratislav z Mitrovic, Des Freyherrn von Wra-
tislaw merkwürdige Gesandtschaftsreise von Wien nach Konstantinopel: so
gut als aus dem Englischen übersetzt (Leipzig: Schönfeldschen Buchhand-
lung, 1786). The translation used in this chapter is Wenceslas Wratislaw,
Adventures of Baron Wenceslas Wratislaw: What He Saw in Constantino-
ple, in His Captivity, Committed to Writing in 1599, trans. Albert Henry
Wratislaw (London: Bell and Daldy, 1862). Several Czech versions have been
 Convert as “public property” 121
published, among them is Václav Vratislav z Mitrovic, Príhody Václava Vra-
tislava z Mitrovic, které on v tureckém hlavním meste Konstantinopoli videl,
v zajetí svém zakusil a po stastném do vlasti navrácení sám Léta Páne 1599
sepsal, ed. Alois Bejblík (Prague: Mladá fronta, 1977).
47 Wratislaw, Adventures, 109–10. Wratislaw’s narrative can be compared to
that of Christopher Angelos, Christopher Angell, A Grecian, Who Tasted
Many Stripes and Torments Inflicted by the Turkes for the Faith Which He
Had in Christ Iesus (Oxford: John Lichfield and James Short, 1618). In this
pamphlet, the author meditates on whether he can resist torture. After many
enticements to ‘turn’, the ‘Turks’, he says, were even willing to settle for him
selling out the Athenian merchants in Venice (3v-4v). Folger Shakespeare
Library, STC 640.
48 See Weiss, Captives and Corsairs, 49–51, on conversion processions in
North Africa and ‘redemption marches’ in France.
49 Tobias Graf, “Of Half-Lives and Double-Lives: ‘Renegades’ in the Otto-
man Empire and Their Pre-Conversion Ties, ca. 1580–1610,” in Well-
Connected Domains: Towards an Entangled Ottoman History, ed. Pascal
Firges, Tobias P. Graf, Christian Roth and Gülay Tulasoğlu (Leiden: Brill,
2014), 135–7, using the correspondence of Kregwitz and other members of
the embassy, provides a more elaborate context for the Mörthen affair, includ-
ing the charge that Mörthen’s crime was consorting with a kitchen boy.
50 Deringil, Conversion and Apostasy, 80, 156–8, elaborates on changes in
the politics of conversion, religion, and citizenship in the nineteenth-century
Ottoman Empire.
51 Dress, of course, was equated both with identity and with disguise, the latter
a trope that was ubiquitous in captivity narratives and the fictions they gen-
erated. See, for example, Barbara Fuchs, Passing for Spain: Cervantes and
the Fictions of Identity (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2003), 70–5, on
“cultural transvestism.”
52 Graf, “Of Half-Lives and Double-Lives,” 135, 148–9, however, importantly
points out that families left at home could prove a powerful draw on the
convert and an incentive to abandon new loyalties.
53 Michael Austin and Geoffrey Lewis, trans. and ed., Domenico’s Istanbul
(Warminster, Wiltshire: E.J.W. Gibb Memorial Trust, 2001), 1–3. Domen-
ico’s characterisation of converts and renegades in Istanbul is also inter-
esting, see 8, 12–14, 51. Francesca Lucchetta, “Il Medico del Bailaggio di
Costantinopoli fra Terapie e Politica (Sec. XV–XVI)” Quaderni di Studi
Arabi, suppl. al n. 15, Veneziani in Levante: Musulmani a Venezia (1997):
5–50, has written on Jewish physicians from Italy practicing in Istanbul in
the sixteenth century and on the employment of such physicians (who were
also important intermediaries and conduits for information) by the Venetian
bailos.
54 Austin and Lewis, Domenico’s Istanbul, 51–2. Of course, once converted,
it was unwise for such turners to return to their faith unless the situation
122 Palmira Brummett
and location were favourable. Thus Robert Bargrave, a seventeenth-century
English traveller, tells the tale of a repentant convert in Izmir, ‘At Smirna
also there was but a few years since a Greek Servant to the English nation,
martird; who having turned Turke & afterwards perplexed in Conscience
for his crime, recanted, & (on advice from the Patriarch to save his lost
Soule) reviled the Turks false faith, in the same place where he first was
made a Turke: & therefore condemnd by theyr law to die, suffred stoutly
his fiery triall, & was after canonizd a Saint’. See Michael G. Brennan, ed.,
The Travel Diary of Robert Bargrave Levant Merchant 1647–1656, Hak-
luyt Series III, v. 3 (London: Hakluyt Society, 1999), 73. Nonetheless, for
Bargrave, civility was not limited to Christians and barbarity not limited to
“Turks,” 106.
55 While it is true that the proximity (in time) of individual kuls to their Balkan
and Christian roots (and hence to ethnic and communal identities) could be
the subject of commentary or derision in Ottoman sources, the kul, I would
suggest, stands outside the conventional sense of “renegade.” See Suraiya
Faroqhi, Subjects of the Sultan (London: I.B. Tauris, 2007), 272; and Fred-
eric Hitzel, “ ‘Osman Ağa, Captif ottoman dans l’empire des Hapsbourg à la
fin du XVIIe Siècle,” Turcica 33 (2001).
56 One of the disconnects between Europeanist and Ottomanist understand-
ing of the “renegade” in the early modern era is the assessment of the
Ottoman kul system. Europeanist historiography regularly identifies those
levied in the devşirme as “renegades.” For Ottomanist historians, these
men, born Christian, cannot be turncoats, an essential characteristic of the
Europeanist meaning of “renegade”, because their conversion to Islam was
not a matter of choice and because they were, in effect, raised up within the
Ottoman system (a system which the kuls have no desire to relinquish). See
on ideas of “turning Turk”: Daniel Vitkus, Turning Turk: English Theater
and the Multicultural Mediterranean, 1570–1630 (New York: Palgrave,
2003), 16–17, 196–7, on the devşiırme, and the broad and narrow con-
strual of “turning”; Matthew Dimmock, New Turkes: Dramatizing Islam
and the Ottomans in Early Modern England (Aldershot, Hampshire: Ash-
gate, 2005), 20–86, on English notions of “Turkishness”; Constance Reli-
han, “ ‘Disordinate Desire’ and the Construction of Geographic Otherness
in the Early Modern Novella,” in Prose Fiction and Early Modern Sexuali-
ties in England, 1570–1640, ed. Constance Relihan and Goran Stanivuko-
vic (New York: Palgrave, 2003); and Cory Reed, “Harems and Eunuchs:
Ottoman-Islamic Motifs of Captivity in ‘El celoso extremeño’,” Bulletin
of Hispanic Studies LXXVI (1999). Reed speaks of the similarities in late
sixteenth- and early seventeenth-century accounts of the sultan’s harem
and of travellers’ preoccupation with ‘barriers, exclusion, and enclosure’,
202–4.
57 See Marc Baer, Honored by the Glory of Islam (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2008), on the active role Sultan Mehmed IV (r. 1648–87) took in cre-
ating converts and publically promoting conversion.
 Convert as “public property” 123
58 The exchange of goods and information as well as religious identities is criti-
cal for understanding the “renegade” in the context of the urban entrepots
of Istanbul and Venice. See for example, Cemal Kafadar, “A Death in Venice
(1575): Anatolian Muslim Merchants Trading in the Serenissima,” Journal
of Turkish Studies 10 (1986); Maria Pia Pedani-Fabris, “Veneziani a Costan-
tinopoli all fine del XVI Secolo,” Quaderni di Studi Arabi, supplemento al
n. 15 (1997); Eric Dursteler, “Commerce and Coexistence: Veneto-Ottoman
Trade in the Early Modern Era, Turcica 34 (2002); and Suraiya Faroqhi,
“Before 1600: Ottoman Attitudes Towards Merchants from Latin Christen-
dom,” Turcica 34 (2002).
59 Natalie Rothman, “Becoming Venetian: Conversion and Transformation in
the Seventeenth Century Mediterranean,” Mediterranean Historical Review
21/1 (June 2006). Rothman sees the Pia Casa dei Catecumeni as an institu-
tion of both charity and surveillance which contributed to the formation of
‘dense networks of patronage’ in the Signoria, 39. Other evidence of con-
verts coming to Venice and seeking integration into the community is found
in Michela Dal Borgo, “Neo-Convertiti aspiranti sensali (1569),” Quaderni
di Studi Arabi, suppl. al n. 15 (1997).
60 I am using the English translation: Giovanni Paolo Marana, Letters Writ
by a Turkish Spy, Written Originally in Arabick, first Translated into Ital-
ian, afterwards into French, and now into English, 4th ed (London, Printed
for Henry Rhodes, 1692). See also, Virginia Aksan, “Is There a Turk in the
Turkish Spy?” Eighteenth-Century Fiction 6/3 (1994).
61 Marana, Letters, Book 1, 5v.
62 Ibid., 1, 4v.
63 Ibid., 1, 6r.
64 Ibid., 1, 2.
65 Ibid., 1, 3.
66 Graf, “Of Half-Lives and Double-Lives,” addresses the question of renegade
networks in Istanbul, a place where a critical mass of high powered converts
was certainly in evidence.
67 See Evliya Çelebi, An Ottoman Traveller: Selections from the Book of Trav-
els of Evliya Celebi, trans. Robert Dankoff and Sooyong Kim (London:
Eland, 2011), for English selections from Evliya’s (1611- c.1685) ten-volume
Ottoman-Turkish narrative.
68 On ‘conversional spaces’, see Michał Wasiucionek “Danube-Hopping: Con-
version, Jurisdiction and Spatiality between the Ottoman Empire and the
Danubian Principalities in the Seventeenth-Century,” in this volume. The
very idea of who constitutes a “renegade” in the Ottoman context, is prob-
lematic. When I polled colleagues on the question of what Ottoman-Turkish
word we use for “renegade” there was often a long silence. Mühtedi, one
who embraces the true faith, a convert to Islam, is one option, Sir James Red-
house, Türkçe/Osmanlıca-İngilizce Redhouse Sözlüğü, 17th ed (İstanbul:
SEV, 1999), 815, from ihtida, conversion to Islam, 520. There is also the
fugitive, or deserter, firari, Redhouse, Türkçe/Osmanlıca-İngilizce Redhouse
124 Palmira Brummett
Sözlüğü, 375; and one who turns from his religion, dininden dönmüş.
See also, Orhan Koloğlu, “Renegades and the Case of Uluç/Kılıç Ali,”
http://www.storiamediterranea.it/public/md1_dir/b699.pdf, 513, accessed
May 2013. Koloğlu writes of the difference between losing a believer and
gaining a believer. The lost believer in the Ottoman case can be called a
mürted (from apostasy, irtidad). Koloğlu also addresses the designation uluç
and its derivations and possible meaning of ‘a Christian who becomes a
Turk’, 526. See also Deringil, Conversion and Apostasy, 118–24.
69 Evliya Çelebi, Evliya Çelebi in Albania and Adjacent Regions (Kosovo,
Montenegro, Ohrid): The Relevant Sections of the Seyahatname, ed. and
trans. Robert Dankoff and Robert Elsie (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 83. See also,
Brummett, Mapping the Ottomans, 258.
70 Evliya Çelebi, Evliya Çelebi in Albania, 85, 87.
71 Ibid., 143. He means the men because he uses the word facirleri to apply to
fishermen and salt workers (fecereleri/facir: dissolute, adulterous, sinning).
72 Ibid., 145.
73 See, for example, Viorel Panaite, “Ethnicity and Religion in the Ottoman
‘Ahdnames (16th–17th Centuries), Terminological Considerations,” in
Chretiens et Musulmans a l’epoque de la Renaissance, Actes du IIe congrès
international, ed. Abdeljelil Temimi, (Zaghouan: Fondation Temimi pour la
Recherché Scientifique et l’Information, 1997), 201–11.
74 Charles Press, The Political Cartoon (Rutherford, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson
University Press, 1981), 50–79, advances the idea of the ‘cherished commu-
nity’, that is one’s own beloved people/place (with affinities of faith, ethnic-
ity, nation, etc.), as something the successful cartoon must appeal to. If the
reader clearly sees his or her “own” community (something familiar, loved
and enduring) juxtaposed to those things which are unfamiliar or threaten-
ing, then the cartoon will be readily understood and appreciated.
75 Edward St. John Fairman, History of a Turk. Intended to Show the Mistake
of English Women Marrying Mohammedans (London: E. W. Allen, 1872),
36. Bodleian, (OC) 250 k.11 (1).
76 I have been able to find very little information on the author, although,
in another pamphlet defending Halim Pasha as the rightful ruler of Egypt
and critiquing Khedive Ismail and his English supporters, Fairman claims
to have twenty-five years’ experience in Egypt and the Middle East. See
Edward St. John Fairman, Prince Halim Pacha, of Egypt, a freemason.
Egyptian Affairs, or, How Ismail Pacha Found, and Left, Egypt (London:
by the author, 1884), title page and 7, on which he describes the Egyptian
people as ‘patient and long suffering’.
77 See Emily Kugler, Sway of the Ottoman Empire on English Identity in the
Long Eighteenth Century (Leiden: Brill 2012), 29–32, on a 1672 English,
“Broad-side against Coffee: Or, the Marriage of a Turk.”
78 See, for example, Karen Lee Ziner, “Boston Bombing: Widow Quietly Car-
ries on Life,” Providence Journal, (August 31, 2013), 1, 5.
 Convert as “public property” 125
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6 The moment of choice
The Moriscos on the border of
Christianity and Islam1
Houssem Eddine Chachia

Introduction
Despite living in a world of impressive technological developments and truly
extensive communication networks, religious boundaries, especially among
the three Abrahamic faiths, seem to be stronger than ever and perhaps even
more impermeable than in past periods of great religious conflict, such as
during the Islamic Conquest, the Crusades or the Reconquista in Spain.2
The Reconquista not only effectively ended a unique situation of coexist-
ence between Islam and Christianity on the northern shores of the western
Mediterranean, but it also created the phenomenon of the forced baptism
of Jewish and Muslim minorities, who became known as Conversos and
Moriscos respectively. The former were forced to undergo this phenomenon
at the end of the fourteenth century and the latter at the beginning of the
sixteenth century; the result was a highly complex and fractured religious
situation.
Although this research derives from a much wider study on the Sephar-
dim, my article will be restricted in its focus to the social situation of the
Moriscos, a group whose characterisation is beset by a number of linguistic
and terminological difficulties. It is possible to state that the Moriscos are
an Iberian minority of Muslim origin, who were subject to forced baptism
at the beginning of the sixteenth century and then subject to the decree of
expulsion issued in 1609. After this date, some Moriscos managed to stay
in Spain or eventually return to it, but many others migrated to a num-
ber of countries surrounding the Mediterranean basin, in particular to the
Maghreb.3Regardless of the numerous trajectories that the émigré Moriscos
would follow, the period in between the expulsion of 1609 and the settle-
ment of the émigrés elsewhere represents a moment of choice between two
worlds: a moment in which they had to define themselves through a choice
of affiliation to the Islamic or Christian worlds. However, for many, this
decision was not final or irreversible. Their identities fluctuated between the
different religious and cultural spheres of the Mediterranean, a fluctuation
that may itself represent the identities of those who were expelled.
Therefore, my principle objective in this chapter is to understand the limi-
nal situation of the Moriscos, the feeling of being “between worlds”. I will
130 Houssem Eddine Chachia
examine their status as “new Christians” that occurred after their compul-
sory conversion and before the expulsion decree as well as the reaction of
those who migrated to the Maghreb to being “new Muslims”. To do this,
I will use sources primarily authored by the Moriscos themselves including
letters of Molina de Trujillo and Ahmad b. Qasim al-Hajari; the work of
the anonymous author of Tratado de los dos caminos [The Book of Two
Paths] and Muhammad Ibn ‘Abd al-Rafi‘s book al-Anwar al-Nabawiyya fi
Aba’ Khayr al-Barriyya [The Prophetic Light on the Ancestors of the most
Excellent Creatures].4

New Christians: between evangelising and forced

Christianisation
The process of “religious change” in Iberia depended on certain principle
factors: the government directly promoting it through its decisions and
decrees and in a more indirect manner, the clergy attempting to convince
the non-Christian population through proselytisation to embrace Christian-
ity. The Reconquista did not imply simply the re-conquering of territories,
fortresses and dwellings, but also the re-conquest of individuals and their
souls. Thus, the sword of the knight re-conquered the physical landscape
and the cross of the monk re-conquered souls. Since the fifteenth century,
Spanish politics had operated on this basis, especially with regard to Iberian
Jewish communities. The evangelical campaigns that concluded with the
Alhambra decree (the Edict of Expulsion) of 1492 quickly developed into a
choice between expulsion or coercive conversion to Christianity. Jews had
to choose between retaining their faith and expulsion, or embracing Chris-
tianity and preserving their possessions.5 A similar process happened with
regard to Iberian Muslims (the Moriscos) throughout the sixteenth century
when their situation did not differ greatly from that of the Jews in the fif-
teenth century. The official strategy of the rulers fluctuated between evange-
lisation and non-violent attempts to convince Iberian Muslims to embrace
Christianity and decisions to employ coercive conversion. The first attempt
at the latter dates from 1502 when forced baptism was imposed first on the
Muslims of Granada and those in Castile, before being employed in Navarre
in 1515–1516, Valencia in 1521 and finally Aragon in 1525–1526.6 The dif-
ferent dates of the decisions to enforce baptism reflect the different policies
of Christianisation from one region of Spain to another. In certain regions,
such as Granada the issue of Christianisation superseded the question of
faith and also encompassed cultural issues for instance new Christians or
Moriscos were banned from using the Arabic language or from going to
the hammam.7 Other regions were characterised by a relatively more open
policy of Christianisation, for instance in Valencia where cultural tolerance
was extended to the Moriscos and they continued using Arabic until the first
half of the sixteenth century.8
 The moment of choice 131
The reaction of the Moriscos to the policies of Christianisation differed
from one group to another and from one period to another. By way of
example, the reaction of Granadans was to flee to North Africa, to the
Islamic world.9 Whereas other groups of Moriscos, such as the elites or
nobles, chose to embrace Christianity in order to preserve their social
status.10Others chose to oppose the policy of forced Christianisation, as
evidenced by the repeated rebellions of Moriscos of which the most impor-
tant was perhaps the revolt of las Alpujarras between 1568–1571.11 How-
ever, in the area around Valencia for example, where the use of Arabic
continued to be permitted the process of Christianisation was characterised
by a degree of prevarication whereby the Moriscos outwardly conformed
to Christian norms, but practiced Islam in secret.12Moreover, the process
of Christianisation was connected not only to the factors mentioned ear-
lier, but also to the unfolding of events in the Mediterranean world as
a whole during the sixteenth century. As the confrontation heightened
between the Spanish Christian powers and their Ottoman Muslim rivals,
so the harshness of Spanish Christianisation policies increased as well.
The Spanish not only exercised an ever-increasing religious and political
pressure on the Moriscos to embrace Christianity, but also demonstrated
a lack of trust in the sincerity of the Christian faith of those Moriscos who
had converted and in their political loyalties as well. It was thought that
the preservation of their Islamic faith was evidence of their allegiance with
foreign enemies, most notably the Ottomans or the Ottomans’ Maghrebi
vassals.13
Despite the transformation of the Moriscos to “new Christians” in the
first three decades of the sixteenth century in all of the Spanish regions, the
evangelising campaigns and discussions surrounding the sincerity of their
faith did not stop until the year of their expulsion.14For example there were
campaigns in Valencia ending in 1530 and also one led by Antonio Ramírez
de Haroin 1543.15 The discussions that developed out of the investigations
into the nature of the Christianisation of the Moriscos under Hernando de
Talavera at the end of the fifteenth century and which continued until the
end of the sixteenth century and the beginning of the seventeenth century
under Juan de Ribera and Jaime Bleda centred around the claim that the
faith of the Moriscos on the whole was not sincere, and that indeed they
were inherently incapable of internalising the true faith, that is, Christian-
ity.16 This opinion of the Valencian clergyman, De Ribera, does not however,
necessarily reflect the opinion of all clergymen, as some of them such as
Pedro de Castro, the archbishop of Seville between 1610 and 1623, believed
that the policy of Christianisation had not ended in failure, but that it was a
continuous process.17 Moreover, the religious testimonies of certain commu-
nities of Moriscos, especially those of Castile, confirmed the success of the
process of Christianisation.18 Despite this though, the ongoing belief that
the Moriscos were not proper Christians and were not therefore truly loyal
132 Houssem Eddine Chachia
to the Spanish state led to the expulsion decree of 1609. This decree, which
announced the expulsion of 300,000 Moriscos who were officially Chris-
tian was an acknowledgement by the Spanish of the failure of the policy of
Christianisation. The decree led to Morisco communities, who had already
embraced Christianity to various degrees, to not only be forced to undertake
a physical journey that would lead them from the north shore of the Medi-
terranean to its southern shores, but also have to undertake a new religious
journey from Christianity to Islam.

New Muslims: efforts at Islamisation (Tunisia

as a case study)
While numerous scholarly works address the subject of the Christianisa-
tion of the Moriscos before their expulsion, the subject of the Islamisation
of those who left for the Muslim world has been nearly absent from the
research agenda.19 Many of the scholars who study the émigrés conceive
of them in a similar manner to the Spanish powers who expelled them,
namely, as Muslims “by nature” who were left unaffected by the long and
complex process of Christianisation that was forced upon them. I have
chosen to analyse the process of Islamisation among the Moriscos who
migrated to Tunisia (see Figure 6.1) as there is an abundance of relevant
material. Many studies claim that Tunisia accepted the largest number of
exiled Moriscos, between 80,000 and 100,000 émigrés, who arrived in the

Figure 6.1 Map of the Morisco localities in Tunisia

Source: Drawn by the author.
 The moment of choice 133
country having received passage in French ships.20 They were primarily
Castilian, Aragonese and Catalan; that is to say, these were communities
that had been more firmly acculturated to Spanish Catholicism than other
groups.21
Tunisian political power, in the person of the governor ‘Uthman Dey
(1593–1610) encouraged the arrival of the Moriscos.22 He offered them
a number of incentives to settle in the region. He also employed a clear
and well-planned policy of settlement, often grouping the Moriscos by
their geographical origins in particular neighbourhoods of the medina in
Tunis or in Cap Bon and the Medjerda River valley.23In Tunisia at the end
of the sixteenth and at the beginning of the seventeenth century, the most
important person responsible for the spiritual or religious life of Tunisians
was the famous saint (wali) Sidi Abu al-Gayt Al-Quachech (Bulgayz).24
He worked in cooperation with certain leaders of the Moriscos, especially
Muhammad ‘Abd al-Rafi’, for the spiritual integration of the émigrés into
an Islamic society, in what one could call a process of Islamisation. The
Tunisian historical chronicles discuss the warm reception that Sidi Abu
al-Gayt extended to the Moriscos, many of whom would have either been
Christian or unfamiliar with Islam. Moreover, he also played a pivotal role
in defusing potential conflict between the new arrivals and local communi-
ties such as the Tunisians who obeyed the Maliki school of jurisprudence
and the Hanafi Ottoman Turks.25 For instance, Sidi Abu al-Gayt issued
a fatwa that permitted the émigrés to perform their Islamic worship in
Spanish as it seems that the issue of language represented a genuine prob-
lem to Islamic proselytising among the Moriscos.26 The Moriscos tried to
preserve their culturally unique characteristics including their customs and
the use of the Spanish language, which they tried to teach their children,
and which some of the Moriscos continued to speak up until the first half
of the eighteenth century. The Friar Francisco Ximenez presents us with
many examples of this.

In the afternoon, Father Lector Monasterio and I went to see Uncle Sidi
Mahamut Jaznadal. He is a venerable old man speaking Spanish. He is a
descendant of the Moors who were expelled from Spain, His family was
of Aragon, a city of Zaragoza according to what he told us . . . [young
Moriscos] have maintained the Spanish language, but the oldest have
better pronunciation than the young.27

When he visited Testour in July 1724, he says,

and so we talked for a long time in Spanish. They recalled many romances
of the ancient Moors, Calahinos, Infants of Lara, the Moors of Granada
and others. They were saying things and using Spanish in their conver-
sations so I had the impression of being in a village in Spain.28
134 Houssem Eddine Chachia
It seems that some even wished to preserve their Christian faith.

they were accused of being Christians. In fact, some of them tend to

Christianity, but the majority are Muslims.29

The policy of “flexible Islamisation” instigated by Sidi Abu al-Gayt Al-

Quachech, which protected the émigrés from criticism from local Muslims,
ended with his death in 1622 and perhaps this explains the limited results of
the policy. The end of this policy also resulted in the closure of the Spanish
school that the Moriscos had built in the city of Tebourba.30After his death,
we see a number of Morisco authors discussing a change in how the local
inhabitants treated them – it seems that increasing pressure was exerted
on the Morisco community to conform.31As a result, the leaders and elites
of the Morisco community, especially those who were more knowledge-
able about Islam or had migrated to Tunisia before the expulsion, under-
took the responsibility of continuing the process of the Islamisation of their
community.
From this point onwards, we find a number of Morisco writers in Tunisia
authoring books in Spanish on subjects that critique Christian theology.32
For example Juan Pérez, known as Ibrahim Taybili, who was writing in the
city of Testour in the year 1627, presented such a work to the head of the
Morisco religious elites in Tunis.33 There are also works on the subject of
Islamic doctrine and worship written by Moriscos, such as Tratado de los
dos caminos which was most probably written in 1630 by an unknown
Morisco friend of Sidi Abu al-Gayt Al-Quachech.34 Likewise, Morisco elites
including Shaykh al-Andalusi in Testur: Muhammad b. Mahfuz founded an
Andalusian madrasa (school) in the city of Tunis in the year 1625 in order to
teach Morisco children Arabic and the teachings of Islam.35 Among the first
to teach in this madrasa was Sha’ban al-Andalusi, followed by Abu Rabi’
Sulayman.36 However, in spite of all of their efforts, more than a century
after the Moriscos arrived in Tunisia, the image of the Morisco as essentially
Christian remained present throughout Tunisian society. Take for instance,
one of the Moriscos named Muhammad Corral al-Andalusi, who told the
Spanish clergyman Francisco Ximénez de Santa Catalina in the year 1722
that the Moriscos were expelled from Spain on the basis that they were
Muslim, yet in Tunisia they are accused of being Christian and are called
‘Christian sons of Christians’.37 This impression was again confirmed two
years later by some of the Morisco inhabitants of Tebourba, who again
told Ximénez that the local inhabitants of the city consider them to be non-
Muslims.38 In a similar manner, high-ranking Moriscos such as Mahmud
al-Sarayari who was second in command and also the treasurer in the gov-
ernment of Husayn b. Ali (1705–1735) were not immune from accusations
of unbelief. In 1726, one of the jurists of the age ’Abd al-Rahman al-Jami,
after hearing Mahmud al-Sarayari’s opinion on one of the Prophetic hadith,
declared him an unbeliever and then said to him ‘that it was not his fault
 The moment of choice 135
because he was an Andalusian infidel, son of an infidel’.39 The death of al-
Sarayari followed in a matter of days something that Ben Youssef assumes
to be a direct consequence of this episode.40

Views from inside the Morisco community

Having sketched the trajectories of religious conversion and the process of
religious and cultural fusion that the Moriscos experienced post-expulsion,
I will now discuss the views of certain Moriscos concerning this process of
religious and cultural conversion and assimilation. The first of these opin-
ions is contained in the letter sent by a Morisco who had migrated to Alge-
ria, called Molina, to his Spanish friend Don Jeronimo de Loysa, written 25
July 1611.41Molina left Spain with the Morisco community of Trujillo and
went first to Marseille, then to Livorno, before settling in the city of Algiers.
We know very little about him other than the fact that he was expelled between
1610 and 1611. This narrative can be considered the only Morisco testimony
written by a Morisco living outside of Christian lands. The second source
can be found in a letter written ten months after Molina’s letter by Ahmad b.
Qasim al-Hajari. It is dated May 1612 and was sent from Paris to Moriscos
living in Istanbul.42 Ahmad b. Qasim al-Hajari was born in the second half
of 1569 and spent his childhood in the village of al-Ḥajar al-Aḥmar (Horna-
chos). The Christian name that he had before his expulsion was Diego Beja-
rano.43 It seems that when he was nineteen he headed to Granada and studied
with the shaykh and jurist al-Ukayhil al-Andalusi and eventually became a
translator ‘for the high priest’ Pedro de Castro with permission to translate
from Arabic to ‘Ajamiyya (Spanish) and vice versa.44 In around 1598, al-
Hajari, despite the ban of Moriscos travelling abroad, fled to the Maghreb by
a complex and dangerous route. He journeyed to Marrakesh where he was
employed by the ruler Mawlay Zidan as a translator.45 Some time later, he was
sent to a number of French and Dutch cities as an advocate for Moriscos who
had been robbed by the captains of French ships during their exodus from
Spain.46 While in the Netherlands, he made the acquaintance of Dutch orien-
talists such as Thomas Erpenius and Jacobus Golius with whom he later cor-
responded by letter. He returned to the Maghreb in 1613 and remained there
in the service of the sultans of Marrakesh until he undertook the haj to Mecca
after which he lived in Tunisia until his death after 1641. He wrote a number
of texts including Nāṣir al-Dīn ‘alà Qawm al-Kāfirīn [The Triumph of Faith
over the Nation of Unbelievers] and Al-’Izzwa al-Manāfi’ li’l-Mujāhidīn fī
Sabī lAllāh bi’l-Mudāfi [The Splendor and Benefits of the Mujahideen in the
Cause of God with Artillery].47
In the letter to Moriscos in Istanbul, al-Hajari describes some individuals
who belong to a particular group of Moriscos as ‘the lunatics’.48 He contin-
ues to refer to them in overly critical language and demands that this group
be disassociated from the rest of the Moriscos. The reasons behind his criti-
cal attitude have not been investigated, but I argue that an explanation can
136 Houssem Eddine Chachia
be found, in an indirect way, in the earlier letter of Molina. Molina describes
the social and religious freedom that Moriscos enjoyed in Algiers ‘here we
are not forced into any spiritual or physical ritual and no one asked us to
give up what we used to do, and this has made me happy’.49 This cultural
and religious latitude that was present in the Maghreb seems to have been a
principal motivating factor in the departure of a number of Moriscos from
Spain. The Moriscos who left Christians lands were, despite their possible
religious affiliations, conscious of the cultural differences that distinguished
them from the inhabitants of the southern shore of the Mediterranean, yet
they still felt that they could fit in to Maghrebi culture. Consciousness of
this difference was particularly heightened for those Moriscos who had
been fully integrated into Spanish culture and who viewed the culture of the
Christian world, its dress, its food, its passion for the theatrical works of
Lope de Vega, as part of their culture. These Moriscos felt closer to a Span-
ish Christian culture than the Magrebi culture of their fellow Muslims. It is
the behaviour of these Moriscos who were living in the Maghreb yet acting
like Spaniards that Al-Hajari, in his letter, finds incomprehensible.50
Ahmed b. Qasim al-Hajari was one of the few Morsicos who addressed
the topic of those who remained in or returned to Spain after the decree of
expulsion, but he simplifies the complexities of Morisco identity by describ-
ing the Moriscos as Muslim ‘by nature’. In various writings, the author con-
structs Morisco identity as a Muslim community that fled from the infidel
enemy with their faith intact. When writing specifically about Moriscos, as
in the letter sent to Istanbul, al-Hajari uses Spanish, which suggests that he
was addressing a Morisco audience, rather than Muslims in general. His
writings on this subject are useful not simply for the documentary evidence
that they provide, but also because they offer an insight into his thoughts on
Morisco identity, but also on those Moriscos who did not leave Spain. The
paragraph dealing with the issue of Moriscos who remained in, or returned
to, Spain comes immediately after al-Hajari’s discussion of the conditions
under which some of the Moriscos left for North Africa and the sad events
that overwhelmed them as a result of their exile.51This therefore constructs
a comparison between those who left and the sacrifices they made in order
to preserve their religion, and the others who had chosen Christianity. He
describes this latter group as bringing mockery upon themselves and as idi-
ots. After this, he presents a story about the Spanish rulers’ treatment of
them in a harshly sarcastic tone. He states that after they had been given a
show trial and lost all of their goods, they were expelled:

With respect to the lunatics who were in Spain litigating in order not to
be included the king commissioned the count of Salazar to judge and see
the evidence. After they had spent the money they were told to leave.52

This sarcastic tone increases in sharpness when the author discusses the
exiles who returned to Spain after their expulsion to France. At first it seems
 The moment of choice 137
to the reader that some charity has been extended to them by the Spanish
state as he mentions that they were given clothing and excused from paying
taxes for ten years. The reader then finds out that this is only because they
have were condemned to row in the galleys. He says that ‘all [Moriscos]
who return from France they give jackets and they are permitted not to
pay they Alcabala for ten years – being in the galleys’.53After this mockery
and sarcasm the narrator’s discourse regains some gravity. After offering his
opinion on the details of the treatment of those Moriscos who had ‘gone
astray’, he moves on to the necessity of abandoning them or separating them
from the rest of the Morisco community. He argues that ‘one should not
make a case for the people who stay in Spain or Christian territory’ as any
relations with them would damage the image of the Moriscos as Muslims in
their newly adopted countries and render their faith subject to greater sus-
picion. This would put them in a situation similar to that which they expe-
rienced in Spain before their expulsion when a mistrust of their religious
conviction made the authorities suspect that not only was their Christian
faith not sincere, but that their affinity with Arabic culture meant that they
had close ties to North Africa and the Ottoman Empire and that they were
essentially a fifth column for the enemies of the Spanish kingdom.54
In contrast to al-Hajari’s letter that directly addresses the issue of the
Moriscos who remained in Spain, but similar to Molina’s letter which con-
tains an indirect discussion of this question, an anonymous Morisco writer
living in Tunisia indirectly discusses the Moriscos who remained in Spain in
the Tratado de los dos caminos.55 We don’t know much about this author
and all we know is contained in the Tratado. It appears he lived in Tunisia
during the first half of the seventeenth century. He was very familiar with
both the Catholic and Muslim faiths. He knew Castellan and Arabic and
had a relationship with Sidi Abu al-Gayt Al-Quachech.56 The author dis-
cusses the two paths that the Moriscos followed: the path of departure or
the path of remaining in, or returning to, Christian lands. According to the
author, the path of those who chose Islam is the correct path and they will
be rewarded by God for their decision.57 He praises them and emphasises
the sacrifices they made in leaving Spain and choosing Islam. He under-
stands the decision of those who sacrificed all of their possessions and put
their lives at risk to leave and argues that they not only saved their souls
from the darkness of unbelief, but also saved the souls of their children and
grandchildren, implying that the choice of departure does not only operate
on a personal level, but also determines the fate of what al-Hajari calls in
his letter the Morisco ‘nation’ or religious community. While praising the
groups of Moriscos who left for Muslim lands, the anonymous narrator
makes a comparison between the migration of the Jews from Egypt and the
Moriscos from Spain, indicating indirectly that Philip III and his officials
are the pharaohs of the age; this also suggests that the Moriscos should be
grateful and faithful to God for this blessing, the opposite of the Jews who
were, as he says, ‘ungrateful and rebellious’.58
138 Houssem Eddine Chachia
The second path, the author argues, was the path of those who did not
choose Islam or were not faithful in their decision. He considered this path
to be dangerous and argues those who chose it would be punished for their
sins.59 It is possible to read his criticisms as directed at Christian beliefs in
general or against Christian Moriscos in particular.60 His discussion of those
who abandoned the true path is directed against the Moriscos who chose
Christianity over Islam, ‘they will understand their ignorance when they are
regretful and burning in hell because they have abandoned the way of the
divine path’.61
Muhammad Ibn ‘Abd al-Rafi’, in his book al-Anwar al-Nabawiyya fi
Aba’ Khayr al-Barriyya, in a similar manner to the anonymous author
describes the expulsion of the Moriscos as a divine blessing or ‘prophetic
miracle’ as by this means they returned to the true faith and the lands of
Islam.62Ibn ‘Abd al-Rafi‘ was a Morisco born into a family who traced their
lineage to the Prophet, but who was educated in Christian schools in Mur-
cia. Between 1604–1605, he and his family secretly escaped to France and
then settled in Tunisia. He played an important role in the émigré Morisco
community in the Maghreb and was their representative in interactions
with the Ottoman government. He too had a relationship with Sidi Abu
al-Gayt Al-Quachech. His lack of discussion of Moriscos who remained in
Spain or who eventually returned suggests that, as far as he is concerned,
all Moriscos without exception chose the same path, that is they chose
to seek refuge in their ‘inherent’ religion and turned toward the lands of
Islam. As further evidence of this view he depicts Phillip III as denying any
distinctions among the Moriscos, asserting that ‘the enemy of religion, the
infidel king, testified that they are all Muslim, and he confessed that he was
not able to exterminate their faith from their hearts, and that they all cling
to their faith’.63
The intentional omission of a discussion of those who embraced Chris-
tianity either before or after the expulsion in the work of Ibn ‘Abd al-Rafi‘
suggests the importance of this issue. The narratives of Juan Gasque and
Diego Diaz, Moriscos who chose to return to Christian lands and Chris-
tianity may help us understand this phenomenon of intentional omission.
The narrative of Juan Gasque begins in 1622, the year in which his trial
was held by the Inquisition.64 From these records, I am able to ascertain
that he was a Morisco originating from Llombay, in the area of Valencia,
and was resident in the city of Villarrubia de los Ojos. His trial took place
because he did not know if he had been baptised, although he knew that he
had been a Christian since he was a child. He left Spain when the decree of
expulsion was issued in 1609 and headed to North Africa. After some time,
he met a corsair from Holland named Husayn who was a convert to Islam.
He spent two months on Husayn’s boat and when it drew near to the coast
of Portugal he threw himself in the water and reached Faro by swimming,
whence officials took him to Lisbon and from there the Count of Salazar, the
deputy of Philip IV, sent him to Castile, because he had expressed his wish
 The moment of choice 139
to be a Christian. In response to the questions of one of the inquisitors as to
whether he had learned the practicalities of Islamic worship during his time
living in North Africa, Juan responded in the negative. He also confirmed
that he did not pray in the mosque, even though he was forced to go there.
In the light of these responses and the information which he offered to the
Inquisition court, the decision was issued that he was a Christian and he
must join the Catholic Church.65
The narrative of Diego Diaz contains similar information, but with greater
detail concerning the workings of the Inquisitional court that was held at
Cuenca when the sincerity of Diego Diaz and his wife’s faith in Christianity
was questioned by his former servant and other individuals.66In respond-
ing to these accusations and the questions of the judges, Diego presents us
with the trajectory of his life. He said that he was one of the Moriscos who
lived in Castile. He was seventeen years old when the expulsion decree was
issued. After his departure, he headed from Spain to France, specifically to
the cities of Bayona and San Juan de Luz, which were the two cities that
most migrants headed to across the French border. He remained there for
about fifteen days, after which he tried to return to Spain again, specifi-
cally to the city of Daimiel. However, he was discovered and imprisoned
for two months, after which he was sent away with a number of Moriscos
from the port of Cartagena, heading to Algeria. Despite the good reception
that the Moriscos received from the Ottoman Turks in Algeria, he claimed
that he had continued to live as a Christian in total secrecy and without
telling anyone, except for a clergyman who had been imprisoned there and
who took his confession once. He added that he did not enter the mosque
except for once outside of the prayer times and only out of curiosity. After
this, during the course of answering questions regarding the customs of the
Ottomans, Diego indicated his shock at these customs, claiming that they
were the opposite of those in Spain. In addition to their manner of dress-
ing and the impossibility of meeting women, what shocked him the most
was the tendency of the local people to acquire male slaves with whom to
practice sodomy. Towards the end of his testimony, he confirms the presence
of 6,000 Moriscos from Granada in Algiers – all of them Christian – but
adds that there were also Moriscos from Aragon and Valencia there who
were not Christian.67 In making this distinction – arguing that Granadan
Moriscos were faithful Christians whereas those from Aragon and Valencia
were not – Diego Diaz emphasises the distinction between the two different
groups of Moriscos that al-Hajari and the anonymous author also make –
those who stayed on the right path, left their home and remained faithful to
Islam and those who were ‘lunatics’ in al-Hajiri’s words and who continued
to embrace Christianity.
So from these narratives, although Diego Diaz and Juan Gasque do not
present us with direct examples of the issues faced by the exiles, particu-
larly those who returned to Spain, they nonetheless illuminate an aspect
of the experience that many Moriscos refrain from discussing, namely, the
140 Houssem Eddine Chachia
issue of those who chose to belong to the Christian world. This issue is
denied in the narrative of Ibn ‘Abd al-Rafi‘ as he tried to erase all of the
differences within the Morisco community and render it as a monolithic
Muslim community who fled in order to preserve their religion from the
infidel enemy. In contrast, Ahmad b. Qasim al-Hajari would have con-
sidered Juan Gasque and Diego Diaz to be ‘lunatics’ or at least members
of the group who the rest of the Morisco community should disavow. He
expresses his confusion over their choice to return, despite all of the dan-
gers that awaited them at the hands of the Spanish powers in this world,
and the punishment that awaited them in the afterlife. Similarly, the anony-
mous author of the Tratado de los dos caminos would also have argued
that Juan Gasque and Diego Diaz chose the dangerous path and thus do
not represent a clear example of the exiles or those who chose to belong to
the Islamic world. Yet in another respect, Diego provides a response to al-
Hajari’s wonder at how Moriscos could choose to return to Spain despite
all of the dangers. While religious belief may have been important, it seems
that the cultural shock of leaving Spain and arriving in the Maghreb was
significant. Not only were the clothes different, but the visibility of women
in public spaces and sexual habits were also found to be challenging. This
cultural dissonance may have encouraged some of the Moriscos to try to
return to Spain, despite all of the dangers, in an effort to find somewhere
where they belonged.

Who am I? To which world do I belong?

Unlike the members of the Inquisition, I do not seek to produce an answer
as to whether those that al-Rafi described as ‘sinners’ were really Christian
or Muslim. Nor will I make generalisations concerning the religious faith
of the Moriscos such as those made by the Spanish. I will not make the
generalisations that were made by the rulers who expelled the Moriscos to
justify the expulsion, or those by some of the Moriscos who were trying to
establish a sense of religious belonging in the new society in which they set-
tled. Rather I will try to respond to the primary issues that were posed at
the beginning of this study, namely, how the Moriscos found themselves in
the midst of all of these events in the liminal status of being “in between”.
I will explore their response to the questions: who am I? to which world
do I belong? These questions were not easy to answer. They were questions
that were not only asked by individual Moriscos, but also by the rulers
who ordered their expulsion as well as the societies who received them and
could not understand the multifaceted identities of those who maybe had
in their hearts elements of both Christianity and Islam. One cannot answer
these questions simply in religious terms – it was not simply a choice of
belonging to the Islamic or Christian world. The true problem for many
of the Moriscos who found themselves experiencing a crisis of identity and
 The moment of choice 141
existing in a space between two worlds had begun as a result of their forced
conversion to Christianity and an incomplete assimilation into Spanish
Christian life that they experienced throughout the century leading up to
their eventual expulsion. The policy of social integration built on discrimi-
nation that was applied to the new Christians by the religious and political
leaders created this crisis of identity.
The fabric of a hybrid culture is often a characteristic of a minority cul-
ture and the Morisco community was able to understand this, especially in
their attempt to answer the question “who are we?” while in the diaspora.
The group’s collective consciousness imagined the Moriscos as a commu-
nity that both understood its difference from the society that expelled it,
although they shared the same culture, but which also acknowledged that
it differed culturally from the societies that received them, although they
ostensibly shared the same religion. What distinguished the Moriscos as a
community was that they were not local and that the relationships between
the individuals of the group did not conform to geographical borders, but
rather extended to wherever members of the community were found. In this
context, Bernabé Pons and Herrera have established that both before and
during the expulsion there was a network of Morisco individuals stretch-
ing from inside Spain to France and the North African countries who were
smuggling Moriscos and their possessions out of Spain.68They mention, in
particular, the role played by Zapata and Mustafa de Cardenas, who were
the first two sheikhs of the Moriscos in Tunisia, as well as the Granadan
Alonso Muley, Miguel Granada de Épila and Jerónimo Enríquez, who were
in direct contact with the Ottoman and French powers and also organised
the passage of a number of Morisco groups.69
However, after the expulsion and particularly after the first half of the
seventeenth century, one can argue that there existed networks of relations
between different individuals in the diaspora. For instance, networks of eco-
nomic connections tied the Moriscos living in Tunisia to those residing in
France or Italy. This is the case with the wealthy merchant Manuel Enríquez
known as Mehmet Chelebi who was living in Venice.70It is also evident in
the networks of political contacts that connected the Moriscos in the Otto-
man provinces with Moriscos in Istanbul.71It would seem that processes of
cultural understanding cannot be generalised to all Moriscos. The trajectory
of social and religious fusion differed from one area of Spain to another and
according to the time period in terms of its effectiveness. In addition, the
social pressures exercised on the communities by the receiving society com-
plicated matters further, such that a number of the exiled Moriscos prayed
‘to God to open their eyes and guide them to goodness’ and then painted
a star of David in a room in their mosque (see Figure 6.3), incorporated
the star into the tile-work on their minaret, drew a cross on the ceiling and
made their mihrab (see Figure 6.2) in the form of church altar as with the
Moriscos in Testour.72
Figure 6.2 Mihrab of the Great Mosque of Testour
Source: Photograph by author.
Figure 6.3 Star of David on the Minaret of the Great Mosque of Testour
Source: Photograph by author.
144 Houssem Eddine Chachia
Notes
1 The translation of this article from Arabic into English was done by Nur
Sobers-Khan – thank you. I want also to thank Claire Norton for her careful
proofreading.
2 The Muslim conquests began with the Prophet Muhammad in the seventh
century. He established a new unified polity in the Arabian Peninsula which,
under the subsequent Rashidun and Umayyad Caliphates, saw a century of
rapid expansion of Muslim power. For more details see Reuven Firestone,
“Jihad,” in Medieval Islamic Civilization: An Encyclopedia, ed. Josef W
Meri (New York: Routledge, 2006), vol. 1, 418–20. For the crusades see
David Morray, “Muslim-Crusader Relations,” in Medieval Islamic Civili-
zation: An Encyclopedia, ed. Josef W Meri (New York: Routledge, 2006),
vol.1, 418–20.
3 See Juan Penella Roma, Los moriscos españoles emigrados al norte de África
después de la expulsión (Barcelona: Universidad de Barcelona, 1971); Míkel
de Epalza, “Estructuras de acogida de los moriscos emigrantes de España,”
Alternativas 4 (1996): 35–58.
4 For Molina’s letter, see Florencio Janer, Condición social de los moriscos
de España: causas de su expulsión y consecuencia que ésta produjo en el
orden económico y político (Madrid: Imprenta de la Real Academia de la
Historia, 1857), 350–1; Jaime Oliver Asín, “Carta de Bejarno a los moriscos
de Constantinopla,” in Conferencias y apuntes inéditos, ed. Oliver Dolores
(Madrid: Agencia Española de Cooperación Internacional, 1996), 145–50.
For that by Ahmad see Gerard Wiegers, A learned Muslim Acquaintance of
Erpenius and Golius: Aḥmad b. Kasim al Andalusî and Arabic studies in The
Netherlands (Leiden: Faculteit der Godgeleerdheid, Rijksuniversiteit, 1988),
33–44. Anonymous, Tratado de los dos caminos por un morisco refugiado
en Túnez, ed. Álvaro Galmés De Fuentes, Luce López-Baralt and Juan Car-
los Amieva (Madrid: Universidad Complutense de Madrid; Universidad
de Oviedo, 2005), 200. Houssem Eddine Chachia, “Muhammad Ibn ‘Abd
al-Rafi‘ and his work al-Anwar al-Nabawiyya fi Aba’ Khayr al-Barriyya.”
in Christian-Muslim Relations: A Bibliographical History 1600–1700, ed.
David Thomas, John Chesworth (Leiden: Brill, forthcoming).
5 Martínez A. Blasco, “Razones y consecuencias de una decisión contro-
vertida: la expulsión de los judíos de España en 1492,” Kalakorikos 10
(2005): 9–36.
6 José Goñi Gaztambide, “La polémica sobre el bautismo de los moriscos a
principios del siglo XVI,” Anuario de historia de la Iglesia16 (2007): 210.
Rafael Benítez Sánchez-Blanco, “El verano del miedo: conflictividad social
en la Valencia agermanada y el bautismo de los mudéjares, 1521,” Estudis
22 (1996): 27–51. Gregorio Colás Latorre, “Señores y moriscos en Aragón:
el bautismo de 1526,” in Carlos V europeísmo y universalidad, ed. Fran-
cisco Sánchez-Montes González, Juan Luis Castellano (Madrid: Sociedad
 The moment of choice 145
Estatal Para la Conmemoración de los Centenarios de Felipe II y Carlos V,
2001), 221.
7 Antonio Gallego y Burín and Sandoval Alfonso Gamir, Los moriscos del
Reino de Granada según el Sínodo de Guadix de 1554 (Granada: Universi-
dad de Granada, 1968), 198–205.
8 For more details, see Isabelle Poutrin, Convertir les musulmans. Espagne,
1491–1609 (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 2012), 49–164; Youssef
El Alaoui, “L’évangélisation des morisques ou comment effacer les fron-
tières religieuses,” Cahiers de la Méditerranée 79 (2009), online http://cdlm.
revues.org/4905 (accessed 19 January 2013); Michel Boeglin, “De la dépor-
tation à l’expulsion: évangélisation et assimilation forcée,” Cahiers de la
Méditerranée 79 (2009): 109–30.
9 Joaquín GIL Sanjuán, “Las fugas de moriscos andaluces a Berbería.” in
España y el Norte de África: bases históricas de unarelación fundamental,
ed. M. Olmedo Jiménez (Granada: Universidad de Granada, 1987), 333–8.
10 John Edwards, “Mission and Inquisition among Conversos and Moriscos
in Spain,” in Persecution and Toleration, ed. W. J. Sheils (Oxford: Black-
well, 1984), 139–51; Ana Echevarría Arsuaga, “García Ramírez de Jaén,
un converso de moro al servicio de los Reyes Católicos,” in Hommage à
l’Ecole d’Oviedo d’Etudes Aljamiado, ed. Abdeljelil Temimi (Zaghouan:
FTERSI, 2003), 211–33.
11 Luisa Isabel Álvarez De Toledo, “Los moriscos en la Guerra de las Alpujar-
ras,” Voces de la Historia 1 (1994): 3–36.
12 Rafael Carrasco, “Historia de una represión: los moriscos y la Inquisición en
Valencia: 1566–1620,” Areas, 9 (1988): 27–50.
13 Francisco Márquez Villanueva, “El mito de la gran conspiración morisca,”
in Religion, Identité Religion, Identité: Actes du II Symposium International
du C.I.E.M, ed. Abdeljelil Temimi vol. 2 (Tunis: Institut Supérieur de Docu-
mentation, 1984), 267–284.
14 José Sánchez Herrero, “El posible enfrentamiento entre Talavera y Cisneros
en relación con la evangelización de los moros granadinos como para dig-
mático del enfrentamiento entre Motolinía y Las Casas en la evangelización
de los indios americanos,” in El Reino de Granada y el Nuevo Mundo:
Congreso Internacional de Historia de América, ed. Diputación Provincial
(Granada: Diputación Provincial, 1994), vol.1, 547–66.
15 Raphaël Carrasco, “Les morisques au XVIe siècle: de l’échec de
l’évangélisation à la répressiongénéralisée,” Cahiers d’études du religieux.
Recherches interdisciplinaires 2 (2008) on-line http://cerri.revues.org/286,
DOI: 10.4000/cerri.286 (accessed January 17, 2012).
16 Isabella Iannuzzi, “Evangelizar asimilando: la labor catequetica de Fray
Hernando de Talavera hacia los moriscos,” Areas 30 (2011): 53–62. Rafael
Benítez Sánchez-Blanco, El escamoteo del tercer papel del Patriarca Ribera
a favor de la expulsión de los moriscos,” Revista de historia moderna 27
(2009): 179–91. Jaime Bleda, Crónica de los moros de España (Valencia:
146 Houssem Eddine Chachia
Felipe Mey, 1618), vol. 1, 1001–2; Jaime Bleda, Defensio fidei in causa neo-
phytorum sive Morischorum regni Valentiae totiusque Hispaniae (Valencia:
Apud J. C. Garriz, 1610), 20.
17 About Pedro de Castro, see Manuel Barrios Aguilera, “Pedro de Castro y los
plomos del Sacromonte: invención y paradoja. Una aproximación crítica,”
in Los plomos del Sacromonte: Invención y Tesoro, ed. Mercedes García-
Arenal and Manuel Barrios Aguilera (Valencia: Universidad de Valencia,
2011), 17–50.
18 Antonio Domínguez Ortiz and Bernard Vincente. Historia de los moriscos:
vida y tragedia de una minoría (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1985), 81–2.
19 María Martínez Sampedro, “Los moriscos: entre el bautismo y la circun-
cisión”, in Religión y cultura. II Congreso de Religiosidad Popular, ed.
Junta de Andalucia (Sevilla: Junta de Andalucía-Fundación Machado,
1999), vol.1, 671–8; Edwards, “Mission and Inquisition,” 139–51; Ángel
Galán Sánchez, “Las conversiones al cristianismo de los musulmanes de la
Corona,” in VIII Simposio Internacional de Mudejarismo. De mudéjares a
moriscos: una conversión forzada, ed. Centro de Estudios Mudéjares (Ter-
uel: Centro de Estudios Mudéjares, 2002), 617–60.
20 John Derek Latham, “Contribution à l’étude des inmigrations andalouses et
leur place dans l’histoire de la Tunisie, ” in Études sur les moriscos andal-
ous en Tunisie, ed. Míkel de Epalza and Ramón Petit (Madrid: Direction
general de relaciones culturales, 1973), 30–1. Pierre Santoni, “Le pas-
sage des Morisques en Provence (1610–1613),” Provence Historique 185
(1996) 357.
21 Oltaz Villanueva Zubizarreta, “The Moriscos in Tunisia,” in The Expul-
sion of the Moriscos from Spain: A Mediterranean Diaspora, ed. Mercedes
Garcia-Arenal and Gerard Albert Wiegers (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 357–88.
22 Abou ‘Abd Alah Ibn Abi Dinar, Al Mu’nis fi Akhbar Ifriqyawa Tunis (Beirut:
Dar Al-Massira, 1993), 228.
23 Houssem Eddine Chachia, “La instalación de los moriscos en el Magreb:
entre el relato oficial y el relato morisco,” in Actas del II congreso internac-
ional de descendientes de andalusíes moriscos, ed. Enrique Pérez Cañamares
(Ojos-Murcia: Ayuntamiento de Ojós, 2015), 132–3.
24 Míkel de Epalza, “Sidi Bulgayz, protector de los moriscos exiliados en Túnez
(s.XVII). Nuevos documentos traducidos y estudiados,” Sharq Al-Andalus
16–17 (1999–2002): 145–76.
25 Al-Muntasir Al Gafsi, Nur al-armeach fi manaqib Sidi Abu al-Gayt Al-
Quachech, ed. Lotfi Aissa and Nouri Boujara (Tunis: Alatika, 1998), 137.
26 Anonymous, Tratado de los dos caminos, 200.
27 Francisco Ximénez, Discurso de Túnez (Madrid, Real Academia de la His-
toria, 1759), ms.9/6012, f°87v, 88r and ms.9/6010, f°144. All translations
are by the author unless otherwise stated.
28 Ximénez, Discurso de Túnez, ms.9/6013, f°82r-100r.
 The moment of choice 147
29 Abi Dinar, Mohamed Ibn, Historia de Túnez, traduacido del arábigo al
español por Mohamet el Tahager de Urrea, siendo su amanuense Fr. Fran-
cisco Ximénez (Madrid, Real Academia de la Historia, 1759), ms.9/6015,
f°254v.
30 Ximénez, Discurso de Túnez, ms.9/6013, f°75rv.
31 Anonymous, Tratado de los dos caminos, 203.
32 Leonard Patrick Harvey, “Textes de littératurereligieuse des Moriscostu-
nisiens,” in Étudessur les moriscosandalous en Tunisie, ed. Míkel de Epalza
and Ramón Petit (Madrid: Direction general de relaciones culturales, 1973),
199–204.
33 Luis Fernando Bernabé Pons, “L’écrivain morisque hispano-tunisien Ibrahim
Taybili (Introduction à une Littérature Morisque en Tunisie),” in Mélanges
d’archéologie, d’épigraphie et d’histoire:offerts à Slimane Mustapha Zbiss,
ed. Institut National du Patrimoine (Tunis: Institut National du Patrimoine,
2001); Gerard Wiegers, “The Expulsion of 1609–1614 and the Polemical
Writings of the Moriscos Living in the Diaspora,” in The Expulsion of the
Moriscos from Spain: A Mediterranean diaspora, ed. Mercedes Garcia-
Arenal and Gerard Albert Wiegers (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 398.
34 Anonymous, Tratado de los dos caminos.
35 Abdel-Hakim Gafsi, “La médersa des moriscos-andalous a Tunis,” Sharq
Al-Andalus 5 (1988): 69–182.
36 Muhammad Al-Wazir al-Sarraj, Al-Hulal al-sundusiyya fi ’l-akhbar al-
tunisiyya, ed. Habib Al-Hila (Beirut: Dar al-Gharb al-Islami, 1984), 184.
37 Ximénez, Discurso de Túnez, ms.9/6012, f°37r.
38 Ximénez, Discurso de Túnez, ms.9/6012, f°37r.
39 Mohamed Ben Youssef, Al-mashra’ al-milkī fī salṭanat awlād Alī Turkī,
Ahmed Touili (Tunis: Al-Matba’a Al-‘Assria, 2009), vol. 2, 73.
40 Ben Youssef, Al-mashra al-milkī, 74.
41 Molina’s letter can be found in the Archivo General de Simancas (AGS,
Estado, Leg.494) and has also been published by Janer, Condición social de
los moriscos, 350–1.
42 Jaime Oliver Asín, “Carta de Bejarno,” 145–50; Gerard Wiegers, A Learned
Muslim, 33–44. For the biography of Ahmed b. Qasim al-Hajari see:
Al-Ḥajarī, Nāṣir al-Dīn ‘alà Qawm al-Kāfirīn, Houssem Eddine Chachia
(ed.), (Beirut: Adar al-Arabia le-dirasset w al-Nacher, 2015), 15–25. It is
addressed to Doctor Perez Bolhaç, a Mr. Baldivia, and a Mr. Tapia.
43 Mercedes García-Arenal and Fernando Rodríguez Mediano, Un Oriente
español: Los moriscos y el Sacromonte en tiempos de Contrarreforma
(Madrid: Marcial Pons, 2010), 151.
44 For information on al-Ukayhil al-Andalusī, see García-Arenal, Rodríguez,
Un Oriente español, 110. For information on Pedro de Castro, see Manuel
Barrios Aguilera, “Pedro de Castro y los plomos del Sacromonte: inven-
ción y paradoja. Una aproximación crítica,” in Los plomos del Sacromonte:
148 Houssem Eddine Chachia
Invención y Tesoro, ed. Mercedes García-Arenal, Manuel Barrios Aguilera
(Valencia: Universidad de Valencia, 2011), 17–50.
45 Jaime Oliver Asín, “Carta de Bejarano a los moriscos de Constantinopla,”
in Conferencias y apuntesin éditos, ed. Dolores Oliver, (Madrid, 1996), 146;
for the English translation of this letter see Gerard Wiegers, A Learned Mus-
lim Acquaintance, 33–44; for the Arabic translation of this letter, see Hous-
sem Eddine Chachia, “Sephardic and Moriscos: The Journey of Expulsion
and Installation in the Maghreb (1492–1756), different stories and itinerar-
ies,” (PhD diss., University of Tunis, 2014) vol. II, 59–69.
46 Ahmed Ibn al-Hajari, Nāṣir al-Dīn ‘alà Qawm al-Kāfirīn, ed. P. Sj. van Kon-
ingsveld, Qāsim Sāmarrā'ī and Gerard Albert Wiegers (Madrid: Consejo
Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 2015), 119–21.
47 There exist at least five copies known of this work, National Library of
Algeria: MS 1511; National Library of Tunisia: MS 18488, MS 03433,
MS 18120; National Library of the Moroccan Kingdom: MS 1342D.
48 Wiegers, A Learned Muslim Acquaintance, 42. Emphasis is mine.
49 Janer, Condición social de los moriscos, 351.
50 Wiegers, A Learned Muslim Acquaintance, 42.
51 Ibid.
52 Ibid. Emphasis is mine.
53 Ibid.
54 Ibid.
55 Anonymous, Tratado de los dos caminos see n.4 for full publication details.
56 Anonymous, Tratado de los dos caminos, 199–200.
57 Ibid., 195.
58 Ibid., 205.
59 Ibid., 195.
60 Ibid., 200–1.
61 Ibid., 201.
62 For the biography of Ibn ‘Abd al-Rafi‘, see: Houssem Eddine Chachia,
The Sephardim and the Moriscos: The Journey of Expulsion and Instal-
lation in the Maghreb (1492–1756), Stories and Itineraries, [In Arabic]
(Beirut-Abu Dhabi: Dar As-Souidi and Ad-Dar al-Arabiyya li-Dirasatwa
al-Nachar, 2015), 245–51. Chachia, “Muḥammad IbnʿAbd Al-Rafīʿ,”
forthcoming.
63 Abdelmajid Turki, “Wata’iq ‘an al-hijra al-andalusiyya al-ajira ilà Tãnis,”
Hawliyyat al-jami’a at-tãnisiyya 4 (1967): 36.
64 AHN, Inquisición, Libro 1149, ff. 185r-187v.
65 Trevor J. Dadson, Los moriscos de Villarrubia de los Ojos: (siglos XV-
XVIII): historia de una minoría asimilada, expulsada y reintegrada (Madrid:
Iberoamericana, 2007), 1121–2; James B. Tueller, “Los moriscos que se
quedaron o que regresaron,” in Los Moriscos: Expulsión y diáspora. Una
perspectiva internacional, ed. Mercedes García-Arenal and Gerard Wiegers
(València: Universitat de València, 2013), 205.
 The moment of choice 149
66 Archivo Diocesano de Cuenca, Leg. 437, núm. 6169, included in Mer-
cedes García-Arenal, Los Moriscos (Granada: Universidad de Granada,
1996), 271–84.
67 García-Arenal, Los Moriscos, 273–274.
68 Luis Fernando Bernabé Pons and Jorge Gil Herrera, “The Moriscos Out-
side Spain: Routes and Financing”, in The Expulsion of the Moriscos from
Spain: A Mediterranean Diaspora, ed. Mercedes Garcia-Arenal and Gerard
Albert Wiegers (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 231.
69 John Derek Latham, “Muçt’afa de Cárdenas et l’apport des morisques à
la societétunisienne du XVIII siècle,” in Etudes sur les Morisques Andal-
ous, ed. Abdel-Hakim Gafsi, Mohieddine Boughanmi, Míkel de Epalza and
Slimane Mostafa Zbiss (Tunis: Institut Nationale d’Archéologie et d’Art,
1983), 157–78.
70 Bernabé Pons and Herrera, “The Moriscos Outside Spain: Routes and
Financing,” 231.
71 Miguel Angel Extremera, “Los moriscos en Estambul y Anatolia. Una
aproximación a su estudio,” Miscelánea de estudios árabes y hebraicos,
60 (2001): 107–21; Tijana Krstić, “Moriscos in Ottoman Galata, 1609–
1620s,” in The Expulsion of the Moriscos from Spain: A Mediterranean
Diaspora, ed. Mercedes Garcia-Arenal and Gerard Albert Wiegers (Leiden:
Brill, 2014), 269–85.
72 Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quijote de la Mancha (San Francisco: Editorial
Universitaria, 1990), vol 2, 386.

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al-Hajari, Ahmed Ibn. Nāṣir al-Dīn ‘alà Qawm al-Kāfirīn. Edited by P. Sj
van Koningsveld, Qāsim Sāmarrā'ī and Gerard Albert Wiegers, Madrid:
Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 2015.
al-Wazir al-Sarraj, Muhammad. Al-Hulal al-sundusiyya fi ’l-akhbar al-
tunisiyya. Beirut: Dar al-Gharb al-Islami, 1984.
Anonymous. Tratado de los dos caminos por un morisco refugiado en
Túnez.Edited by Álvaro Galmés De Fuentes, Luce López-Baralt and Juan
Carlos Amieva. Madrid: Universidad Complutense de Madrid, Universi-
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Ben Youssef, Mohamed. Al-mashra’ al-milkī fī salṭanat awlād Alī Turkī, 2
vols. Tunis: Al-Matba’a Al-‘Assria, 2009.
Bleda, Jaime. Defensio fidei in causa neophytorum sive Morischorum regni
Valentiae totiusque Hispaniae.Valencia: Apud J. C. Garriz, 1610.
–––. Crónica de los moros de España.Valencia: Felipe Mey, 1618.
Cervantes, Miguel de. Don Quijote de la Mancha. San Francisco: Editorial
Universitaria, 1990.
Ibn Abi Dinar, Abou ‘Abd Alah. Al Mu’nis fi Akhbar Ifriqya wa Tunis. Bei-
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Boeglin, Michel. “De la déportation à l’expulsion: évangélisation et assimi-
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XVIII): historia de una minoría asimilada, expulsada y reintegrada.
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152 Houssem Eddine Chachia
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de la Corona.” In VIII Simposio Internacional de Mudejarismo. De mudé-
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dios Mudéjares, 617–660. Teruel: Centro de Estudios Mudéjares, 2002.
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de Granada según el Sínodo de Guadix de 1554. Granada: Universidad de
Granada, 1968.
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Harvey, Leonard Patrick. “Textes de littérature religieuse des Moriscos
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culturales, 1973.
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su expulsión y consecuencia que ésta produjo en el orden económico y
político. Madrid: Imprenta de la Real Academia de la Historia, 1857.
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et leur place dans l’histoire de la Tunisie.” In Études sur les Moriscos
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Madrid: Dirección General de Relaciones Culturales, 1973.
––– “Muçt’afa de Cárdenas et l’apport des morisques à la societé tunisienne
du XVIII siècle.” In Etudes sur les Morisques Andalous, edited by Abdel-
Hakim Gafsi, Mohieddine Boughanmi, Míkel de Epalza Slimane Mostafa
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cisión. In Religión y cultura. II Congreso de Religiosidad Popular, edited
by Junta de Andalucia, vol. 1, 671–678. Sevilla: Junta de Andalucía-
Fundación Machado, 1999.
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Morray, David. “Muslim-Crusader Relations.” In Medieval Islamic Civili-
zation: An Encyclopedia, edited by Josef W Meri,vol. I, 418–420. New
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Presses universitaires de France, 2012.
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154 Houssem Eddine Chachia
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Brill, 2014.
7 ‘Saving a slave, saving
a soul’
The rhetoric of losing the true faith in
seventeenth-century Italian textual and
visual sources
Rosita D’Amora

Throughout the early modern period, the uncountable incursions under-

taken by both Muslim and Christian pirates and corsairs against the long,
fragmented and highly exposed littorals of the Mediterranean basin and
their continuous attacks on the ships travelling on the sea, had, as an imme-
diate and devastating result, the capture of an enormous number of peo-
ple from both sides.1 The people constituting this human booty were then
brought to the lands of the infidel (kafir), a shared term that was used by
both Christians and Muslims, where, deprived of their freedom, they were
kept as slaves or captives.2
As the extensive research carried out in the last decades has shown,
whereas most of the Muslim prisoners in Europe were sold as domestic
slaves or used as a public labour force, mostly as galley rowers (galeotti), the
primary economic function of captured Christian slaves was via the ransom
asked for their release.3 The vast majority of these slaves, though, were poor
sailors, fishermen or indigent inhabitants of the coasts, and were therefore
not able to pay the often high price to regain their freedom. In fact, they did
not pay, at least not personally. In Christian Europe, the task of ransom-
ing slaves was mostly carried out by religious or secular institutions who
fervently collected alms in order to raise sufficient sums of money to rescue
their coreligionists not only from slavery, but also from the danger of con-
verting to Islam and thus abandoning the true faith.4

Privateering, captivity and redemption

Privateering, both Christian and Muslim, was an old practice in the Medi-
terranean dating back to medieval times. Similarly, assigning a monetary,
or otherwise negotiable value, to those who were enslaved during the con-
stant confrontation between Islam and Christianity, be they minor raids and
incursions or major scale sieges and wars along the military frontiers opened
by the Crusades, was an established practice. Indeed, the foundation of the
first Christian charitable ransoming institutions dates back to the end of
the twelfth century. In 1198, Pope Innocent III approved the Order of the
156 Rosita D’Amora
Most Holy Trinity for the Redemption of Captives, also known as the Trini-
tarian Order, established by Jean de Matha and Felix of Valois in 1193.5
Shortly after, presumably around 1230, another caritative ransoming order
was founded by Peter Nolasc and took the name of Order of Our Lady of
Mercy, or the Mercedarian Order.6
By the sixteenth century, though, both privateering and captivity had
assumed a new face. During the age of extensive, open military conflicts
between the major Mediterranean Empires, privateering had been a sort
of corollary to what Fernand Braudel defined as the grande guerre. After
the epochal defeat of the Ottoman fleet by the army of the Christian Holy
League at Lepanto in 1571, both sides became more concerned with solving
internal affairs, and started several, although not very successful, attempts
to establish a permanent diplomatic peace. Each one of these attempts
failed, but, in practice, the age of major battles had come to an end. Pri-
vateering, in this period of apparent peace, was no longer contained in the
frame of an organised army or a clear political antagonism, it overflowed
in every possible direction and became almost impossible to control. As a
consequence, the capture of slaves and the commodification of captivity
grew considerably. Paradoxically, this was also due to the intense activity of
the many ransoming institutions that were founded in that same period all
over Europe which, by constantly ransoming captives, were reinforcing in
the Muslim slave owners and dealers the idea that such a commodity was
worth acquiring.
Italy, positioned in the middle of the Mediterranean, was particularly
vulnerable both to privateering and slavery. The peninsula was politically
fragmented, the coastline mostly without effective fortifications and the ter-
ritorial defence forces insufficient.7 In this context, starting from the mid-
sixteenth century, many local ransoming institutions were established. The
first one was founded in Naples in 1548 and was called Real Casa Santa
della Redenzione dei Cattivi [Royal Holy House for the Redemption of
Captives].8 Similar institutions proliferated, in fairly short order, not only in
large coastal cities or larger centres more exposed to the “Turkish danger”
such as Palermo (1596), Rome (1581), Genoa (1597) and Venice (1619),9
but also in smaller towns lying far from the front line, such as Bologna
(1584), Lucca (1678) and Ferrara (1714).10
Despite the fact that ransoming a slave was, in practice, mostly an eco-
nomic transaction, these institutions never explicitly presented the ransom-
ing operations to the public as such. On the contrary, the entire ransoming
machine – from the collection of the alms for financing the liberation of the
slaves, to the ceremonies accompanying the return of those who were suc-
cessfully ransomed – was informed and fuelled by the rhetoric of rescuing
fellow Christians from the impending danger of abandoning the true faith
and the perils of converting to Islam. The main fear was that slaves, find-
ing themselves in close proximity to Islam, would apostatise in order to
improve their economic or social situation and not because of a real change
 ‘Saving a slave, saving a soul’ 157
in their religious beliefs. Ransoming slaves, therefore, was perceived as a
true act of salvation, saving the slave from a potential sin and, indeed, it was
often referred to as “redemption”. In contemporary Europe, anxiety about
the pernicious effects of contact with Muslims, especially for individuals
belonging to what were perceived as the more “vulnerable” groups such as
children, women and young men, was pervasive. It emerges again and again
from different official sources, as well as from the accounts and first-person
narratives of slaves, former slaves and all the different actors who contrib-
uted to their rescue.
It is harder to establish, though, how substantiated these fears were.
A widespread belief was, for example, that Muslim masters were relent-
lessly trying to force the Christian slaves to abandon their faith and embrace
Islam. However, besides any theological considerations, from a Muslim
owner’s point of view, the conversion of a slave to Islam meant, first and
foremost, a potential reduction of the free labour force at his disposal, or, if
the slave was intended to be sold in exchange for a ransom price, a consider-
able loss of potential income. Furthermore, Muslim masters must have been
well aware that some of these conversions might have been opportunistic
and used by the slaves as an easy way to avoid more arduous tasks such as
rowing in the galleys or working as heavy construction labourers. In other
words, a slave was generally worth more than a convert and it is therefore
quite unlikely that Muslim masters would constantly try to encourage or,
somehow, force conversions.11 At the same time, it is beyond doubt that in
the period under analysis the lure of Islam was powerful and boundaries
between Christendom and the Muslim world thin and rather permeable.
In this context, a considerable number of Christian individuals ‘rebelled
against the faith’, embraced Islam and became, as they were referred to in
the language of the age, “renegades” – thus reinforcing the idea and collec-
tive angst about the dangerous seduction of Islam.12
Building on this fear of conversion, the ransoming of slaves essentially
meant rescuing them from the threat that they would either turn “Turk” or
die without the sacraments while in the hands of the infidels. Each and every
ransom had, therefore, as its main ideological motivation, the moral obliga-
tion enjoined on all the faithful to liberate poor Christian fellows who had
been enslaved by the foe of the faith. Saving a slave therefore meant more
than simply granting him his liberty, it was mostly, if not exclusively, about
saving his soul, and thus eventually also the souls of all those who had con-
tributed to his redemption. Like other charitable practices of the time, ran-
soming slaves followed the logic of a spiritual investment by the individual
pro remedio animae, or, in other words, it was derived from the concern
that eternal damnation would be reserved for those people who were not
concerned with the suffering of others. Helping one’s neighbour would guar-
antee the salvation of both souls.
A case in point is the Pio Monte della Misericordia, a charitable institu-
tion founded in Naples at the turn of seventeenth century that offered aid
158 Rosita D’Amora
to needy people following the Catholic prescriptions of the Seven Works of
Mercy. Among the activities performed by the Pio Monte there were those
of the Opera della Redenzione dei Cattivi [Institution for the Redemption
of Captives] that, together with the previously mentioned Real Casa Santa,
were, for more than two centuries, the most important organisations for the
ransoming of slaves in Naples.13 In several passages of the rich documenta-
tion testifying to the activities of this institution, it is possible to find many
unambiguous references to the equation of saving a slave with saving his
endangered soul. Ever since the establishment of the Opera della Redenzi-
one dei Cattivi, for instance, a rule was made quite clear: no alms could be
used to ransom those slaves who had renounced the Christian faith. The
first sum of money set aside by the Pio Monte in November 1604 ‘for the
liberation of poor Christians enslaved by the ships of the barbarous and infi-
dels’ was a contribution to the Real Casa Santa in favour of two unnamed
slaves in Tunis on the condition that they were not renegades.14 Further-
more, in April 1629, the Pio Monte decided to give a new impulse to the
much needed ransoming activities starting from the consideration that there
were in the infidel’s land a great number of ‘poor Neapolitans or Regni­
coli in captivity with the manifest peril that their souls will be soon captive
too’.15 Later, in 1652, a new rule was introduced establishing that women
and children should always be ransomed first, taking into consideration ‘the
frailty of the female sex and of the young age’ in keeping the true faith.16
This textual discourse of fear and endeavour in preventing conversions
to Islam was extensively used, in different forms, by other ransoming insti-
tutions as well. The Real Casa Santa, for example, gave precedence to the
ransom of children and women presumably for the same reasons.17 Analo-
gously, among the instructions given in 1607 by the Arciconfraternita per la
Redenzione dei Cattivi of Palermo to the Genoese merchant Giovan Battista
Dania, commissioned to carry out the liberation of some Sicilian slaves in
Tunis, there was the explicit obligation to ransom first of all ‘boys till the age
of fifteen years in order to remove them as soon as possible from the danger’.
The danger referred to, also in this case, was almost certainly the possibility
of them being fatally exposed to the perils of conversion.18

‘Souls in torment suffering the pains of hell’

It is interesting to notice how the “fear of losing the faith” is echoed also
in other textual sources. It appears, for example, in the reports written by
foreign consuls, merchants, ransoming agents or missionaries when describ-
ing the miserable condition of the slaves, hoping, especially in the case of the
missionaries, to prompt the piety, and the donations, of their Christian audi-
ence. Analogously, this rhetoric permeates the different kinds of first-person
narratives often produced by the slaves themselves both before and after
their return back home, such as the letters written during their enslavement,
the autobiographical accounts of their captivity, the individual or collective
 ‘Saving a slave, saving a soul’ 159
petitions sent to ransoming institutions, the testimonies given during inter-
rogations or the depositions made on the occasion of their ransom.19
Particularly significant are the slaves’ letters. It was quite common for
slaves to write, when possible and probably with the help of scribes, rather
graphic letters, addressing them usually to the members of their families in
order to lament the desperate conditions in which they were forced to live
and plead for help.20 These letters were probably used by the slaves’ rela-
tives to appeal for financial aid and therefore are often found in the archives
of ransoming institutions, as is the case of twelve letters, dated between
July 1638 and September 1688, preserved in the archive of the Pio Monte.21
What is quite interesting in these texts is the way the slaves presented them-
selves, filling their lines not only with practical information for their poten-
tial redeemers, but also with the same vocabulary evoking torments, grief
and looming threats of deviation from the “true faith”. All the slaves were
claiming, almost inevitably, and with a few variations on the theme, to be
‘souls in torment suffering the pains of hell’, imploring God’s mercy to die
as Christians and not ‘in the power of dogs’ (‘in poter di can’), begging to
retain their religion and escape from the ‘continuous devil’s temptations’.
Here, for example, is what Diego Mimmo, a slave in Tunis, wrote to his
father on 15 of August 1650:

I am writing to inform you that I am in good health but it would be bet-

ter for me to be dead because I am in Tunis slave of the Pasha of this city,
who is the cruellest pagan in the world, enemy of the faith of Christ. He
shackled my hands and feet and he inflicts me thousands of martyrdoms
to make me deny the name of Christ and his holy faith. I am ready
though to tolerate everything with patience and die as a Christian for
the name of Christ and his mother the Virgin Mary.22

This form of self-representation assumed almost the shape of a literary device

and has to be evaluated not only as an attempt from the slaves to evoke fears
in the readers back home, in order to stir their compassion and prompt them
to intervene, but also as a conscious strategy to be “contained” within the
frame of the ideological motivations of the ransoming institutions. In other
words, the slaves must have been well aware that, for these institutions,
apostasy represented a kind of eternal death treated essentially as a physi-
cal casualty, and they might have been using the claim of being under great
pressure to convert to Islam to promote their chances of being ransomed
even when this circumstance was not reflecting the truth.23
The perils of being forced into an unwilling conversion were also often
recalled in the popular and widely circulated narratives produced by returned
captives who, in their writings, dramatically described the events and tribu-
lations suffered during their enslavement from the perspective of a person
who had a lucky escape.24 These ex-slaves often referred to conversion not
only as the inevitable result of the cruel practices supposedly used by the
160 Rosita D’Amora
Muslims to force Christians to “turn Turk” but also, in some cases, as a
deliberate choice by some captives to obtain easy access to the “sensual lusts
and pleasure” offered by Islam. This is what, to take but one example, the
English sailor John Rawlins, slave in Algiers, writes in his memoir in 1622:

although it would make a Christian’s heart bleed to hear of the same,

yet must the truth not be hid, nor the terror left untold. They commonly
lay them [the Christians] on their naked backs or bellies, beating them
so long till they bleed at the nose and mouth, and if yet they continue
constant, then they strike the teeth out of their heads, pinch them by
their tongues, and use many other sorts of tortures to convert them. . . .
And so many, even for fear of torment and death, make their tongues
betray their hearts to a most fearful wickedness and so are circumcised
with new names and brought to confess a new religion. Others again,
I must confess, who never knew any god but their own sensual lusts and
pleasure, thought that any religion would serve their turns and so for
preferment or wealth very voluntarily renounced their faith and become
renegadoes. . . . And this was the first news we encountered with at our
coming first to Argier.25

In the case of the returned captives, however, it was not only the necessity to
raise awareness and compassion towards the other less fortunate Christians
still enslaved that moved them to recall so vividly the danger of “turning
Turk”. Their narrative also served the clear purpose of publicly demonstrat-
ing that their close proximity to the infidels and exposure to the threats and
seductions of Islam had left no traces on their morals, religious integrity nor
their body.26 The moment of the return of a slave was, indeed, a moment
of great uncertainty and anxiety among the Christian community who had
to reintegrate him. The suspicions were that, during captivity, his identity
might not have been preserved and that contact with the Muslim “other”
had resulted in some form of irreversible, although not immediately visible,
contamination. From this point of view, the narratives produced by or about
returned captives served also the main reassuring aim of openly proclaiming
that the ex-slaves had remained steadfast in their faith as well as reaffirm-
ing their allegiance to the religious and political community to which they
were returning. What I would like to analyse here is how this very same
discourse was reflected in, and in many ways enhanced by, concomitant
visual representations of enslavement and redemption, such as the proces-
sions organised on the occasion of the return of manumitted slaves and the
paintings commissioned by the ransoming institutions to both celebrate and
“advertise” their activities.

Celebrating the return

The processions parading slaves returning from captivity were very popular
in early modern Europe. The most famous and elaborate ones were those
 ‘Saving a slave, saving a soul’ 161
staged by the Trinitarian and Mercedarian orders, but minor institutions,
such as those of Bologna and Ferrara, were also very enthusiastic in publicly
and pompously celebrating the arrival back home of their redeemed slaves.27
These processions had very similar arrangements. Usually, the freed slaves,
in the presence of the religious and political authorities and together with
some members of the ransoming institution, were paraded around the town,
surrounded by religious emblems and children dressed as angels, music and
firecrackers. The aim of these processions was to show, in a very effective
way, the ideological motivation of the redeemers’ work, reinforce the idea
of the need for intervention and, of course, raise money for future missions
from the jubilant people attending the ceremony.
Even though these processions were celebrating the successful deliver-
ance of slaves who remained steadfast in their religious belief, the “fear
of losing the true faith” was still a central element informing the entire
event. However, evoking the danger of conversion to Islam was not only
meant to prompt potential contributors to open their purses, but also to
remind the public of the dangerous closeness to the Muslim world. In
some processions, especially those organised by the Mercedarian fathers,
but also in those taking place in Ferrara, the slaves were presented in
shackles and chains and dressed in a sort of Muslim attire. It was, of
course, quite unlikely that the slaves, after their return home, during the
period spent in quarantine and then, while waiting for the procession to
be organised, would have retained their rags and chains.28 Nonetheless,
presenting the slave in the attire he would have worn during his captivity
was not only used to increase the dramatic effect of these sort of tableaux
vivants, providing an immediate and harrowing testimony of the tribula-
tions the slaves might had suffered at the hands of the infidels, but also
to recall the real possibility that they could have “turned Turk” and not
only in their external apparel. Quite significantly, in Ferrara, for exam-
ple, these processions would end with the ceremony of bestowing on the
returned slave new clothes, described in a contemporary source as the
‘clothes of freedom’ (‘vestiti di libertà’).29 This was the last significant
act of a collective reconciliation performance staged to visibly and sym-
bolically reintegrate the returnees to their original status of free Christians
and to ‘restore’, to use Ricci’s words, ‘the tainted identity’ of those slaves
who, even though they did not abjure the Christian faith, underwent ‘a
contagion still revealed by their clothes’.30
These processions must have had an enormous visual impact. However,
they were very expensive to stage.31 They could be organised only in the cit-
ies where there was an active ransoming institution and, considering the dif-
ficulties of finalising each ransoming mission, they were not very frequent.
From this point of view, the commission of painting advertising ransoming
activities was a practice that could be considered as more effective. The
paintings encapsulated most of the messages conveyed by the processions
but in a more accessible and durable form that could be displayed over and
over again, inspiring devotion, piety and the desire to do good.
162 Rosita D’Amora
Portraying slavery
Like other charitable confraternities of the time who promoted their activi-
ties through the commission of works of art, many ransoming institutions
considered the paintings they commissioned as their ideological manifesto,
an iconographical text to promulgate the idea of redemption of both the
slaves and the people who provided the ransoms. The financial contri-
butions that constituted the ransoms would generally come from alms,
bequests, collection boxes or direct appeals, and it was, therefore, essential
to arouse in the possible donors compassion for the miserable conditions
of the Christian captives. In order to maximise financial support for their
ransoming operations, these institutions had to convey their message to the
widest possible public. Considering the still very limited levels of literacy
in the seventeenth-century Italian peninsula, the visual narrative and the
evocative power of paintings could be accessed, “read” and understood
more transversally, and certainly by a broader audience than written texts.
Nonetheless, these iconographical sources have, so far, received very little
scholarly attention in the studies of captivity and redemption.
One of the most significant examples of this genre is the painting entitled Il
riscatto degli schiavi [The Ransoms of the Slaves] (see Figure 7.1) produced
in 1672 by Giacomo Farelli (1624–1706) as the altarpiece for the Neapoli-
tan church of Santa Maria della Redenzione dei Captivi (now called Santa
Maria della Mercede e Sant’Alfonso Maria de’ Liguori), which was founded
in the mid-sixteenth century to host its homonymous ransoming institution.
The pictorial scheme of the altarpiece is very interesting and brings together
the themes of enslavement and redemption, misery and salvation, the dan-
gerous closeness to conversion and the necessity of being loyal to the true
faith. The scene takes place near the seaside, a setting clearly alluding to one
of the Muslim costal cities where many Christians were kept captives. In the
upper part of the painting, the Virgin Mary, holding baby Jesus in her arms,
is supported and surrounded by angels, while attentively watching over a
group of slaves dominating the lower right part of the composition. The
slaves are all shabbily dressed, with shackles on their feet or hands. Two of
them wear turban-like headgear not very dissimilar from the one donned
by the “Turk” at the centre of the painting and also by the other turbaned
figure who is visible on the rocks at the back, surrounded by slaves, and
who was probably another Muslim slave master. All the slaves appear in
distress pleading for salvation and, according to Bernardo de’ Dominici,
‘all their suffering and the hope of being freed’ is clearly expressed by the
paleness of their faces.32 A further dramatic effect is produced by the pres-
ence among the slaves of some women and infants who resemble the angels
surrounding the Virgin. Finally, in the lower left part of the painting, a man
with a plumed hat, probably a Christian merchant, is kneeling down and
holding a bag full of money to be used for the ransom.33 He is addressing
the more central figure of an elegantly dressed “Turk” who is pointing at
Figure 7.1 Giacomo Farelli, Il riscatto degli schiavi, 1672, Church of Santa Maria
della Mercede e Sant’Alfonso Maria de’ Liguori, Naples
Photo: Archivio fotografico Soprintendenza Archeologia, Belle Arti e il Paesaggio per la città di
Napoli. Autorizzazione dell’Ufficio Diocesano Beni Culturali dell’Arcidiocesi di Napoli.
164 Rosita D’Amora
the slaves with a frown on his face showing a rather cruel and threatening
disposition.34
The painting, however, contains salvific elements too. The imposing rep-
resentation of the Virgin Mary with her large cloak, occupying almost half
of the scene, is intended to offer shelter and divine protection to the miser-
able slaves and, at the same time, to oversee their spiritual salvation. On the
other side, the presence of the boat moored offshore and of the man with
the plumed hat and the bag full of money indicates the arrival of a Christian
ransoming mission and represents, therefore, the human mediation that will
eventually grant the slaves their freedom. These two intersecting elements of
human and divine intervention guaranteeing the slaves’ freedom and spir-
itual salvation recur also in other similar compositions, although not always
together.
The presence of the Virgin Mary, especially, has a particular prominence.
Since the medieval period, the Virgin had been an ever-present ally of the
Christians during their confrontation with the Muslims.35 One of the most
emblematic iconographical testimonies of the recurrent presence of the Vir-
gin Mary in Christian imaginary, and of the almost martial role she was
credited with in securing victory for the Christians in crucial battles, is the
famous votive picture by Paolo Veronese entitled Allegory of the Battle
of Lepanto (c. 1571) produced to commemorate the Christian victory at
Lepanto in 1571. In the picture by Veronese, as in Farelli’s painting, the
presence of the Virgin is very notable. The painting shows how, while the
battle with the Ottomans rages on the sea, in the clouds the patron saints
of the three parties of the Holy League ask for the intercession of the Vir-
gin. An angel throwing flaming arrows at the Ottoman fleet together with
dark rays overshadowing the Ottoman ships, while a ray of celestial light
illuminates the Christian ships, clearly indicates her decisive intervention in
granting victory to the Holy League.36
The Virgin Mary, though, was also regarded as an ally in more individual
battles, a “refuge” for slaves in distress who could assist them in preserving
their Christian faith against the temptations of conversion and, possibly,
also help them to obtain freedom. As noted by Amy Remensnyder, even
though the Virgin was not the only miraculous figure that Christians held
in captivity could appeal to, her popularity increased with time because ‘she
possessed just the qualities a Christian slave would seek in a heavenly guard-
ian: a mother’s boundless compassion and infinite mercy’.37 This maternal
love was often symbolically represented by the act of the Virgin sheltering
her devotees under her capacious cloak, just as in Farelli’s painting where
Mary’s mantle seems to encompass almost the entire scene.
The iconography of a group of people seeking refuge under the cloak of
the Virgin Mary was linked, in particular, with the representation of the
Virgin of Mercy and had been very popular, especially in Italy, since the thir-
teenth century. A beautiful example of this iconography connected with the
theme of ransoming slaves is a painting produced by Paolo Biancucci and
 ‘Saving a slave, saving a soul’ 165
now kept in the Church of San Leonardo in Borghi in Lucca. This painting
entitled La Vergine che protegge la Nazione lucchese [Virgin Mary protect-
ing the nation of Lucca] (see Figure 7.2) was probably commissioned with
celebratory intent by a confraternity called Santa Maria Assunta del Gon-
falone, founded in Lucca in 1577, and affiliated with the Arciconfraternita
del Gonfalone in Rome that, since 1581, had among its charitable tasks the
ransoming of Christian slaves.38
In Biancucci’s painting, the slave is in the foreground on the right and
can be easily recognised by his shabby appearance, his shaved head and the
broken chain at his feet, a symbolic element that unfailingly recurs in all the
paintings representing manumitted slaves. He is paying homage to the Vir-
gin encouraged by one of the members of the confraternity who is wearing a
white tunic with the confraternity cross. The Virgin Mary stands out in the
centre of the painting and is portrayed in the protective gesture of enfolding
everybody in her cloak. The liberation of the slave is clearly attributed to
Mary’s holy intervention. It celebrates how faith, personified by the Virgin
Mary, could save the endangered souls of the slaves and reintegrate them
into the Christian community. In contrast, the element of human contribu-
tion to the divine plan here is only hinted at thorough the portrayal on the
left of the painting of some civil and religious personalities who might have
helped with the provision of alms or influence in the liberation of the slave.
In other paintings, however, the element of divine intervention is rather
understated, confined to a less prominent part of the composition and, occa-
sionally, completely neglected. These paintings are concerned almost exclu-
sively with the ransoming operation portrayed as a commercial transaction
and human enterprise. As in Farelli’s painting, they usually depict a scene
taking place in a Muslim port, where Christian redeemers, in the presence
of one of more slaves whose shackles are broken or, who are in the process
of being unbound, present the ransom money to a greedy “Turk” who is
waiting to collect the sum. Most interestingly, this iconographical repertoire
of images occurs quite often in Trinitarian circles, as in the paintings usually
preserved in churches connected with the Order, such as the canvas by Gio-
vanni Carobio (1691–1752), kept in the church of San Faustino e Giovita in
Brescia and entitled San Giovanni de Matha paga il riscatto per la liberazio-
ne degli schiavi [Saint John de Matha pays the ransom for the liberation of
the slaves].39 Moreover, the same iconographical repertoire also appears on
the placards the Trinitarians paraded during their processions of ransomed
slaves and on the cover page of the printed lists, or cataloghi, they published
enumerating the slaves that they had successfully redeemed.40 See for exam-
ple the cover page of Catalogus captivorum christianorum (Figure 7.3).41
Often, the only religious reference in these paintings is the clerical figures
conducting the ransoming operations, usually a humble and barefoot Saint
John de Matha accompanied, sometimes, by Saint Felix of Valois, consid-
ered the co-founder of the Trinitarian Order. However, also in these paint-
ings in which the commercial aspects of the ransom are foregrounded there
Figure 7.2 Paolo Biancucci, La Vergine che protegge la Nazione lucchese, 1620–
1630, Church of San Leonardo in Borghi, Lucca
Source: Courtesy of the Soprintendenza Belle Arti e Paesaggio per le provincie di Lucca e Massa
Carrara – Archivio Fotografico.
Figure 7.3 Frontispiece, Catalogus Captivorum Christianorum, quos Provincia S.
Josephi, Ordinis Discalceatorum SSS. Trinitatis De Redemptione Cap-
tivorum, Erecta Ditionibus Haereditariis Augustissimae Domus Aus-
triacae, Ab Anno 1777 usque ad Annum 1780, tum Africanis in öris
praecipue Algerii, Mascherae & Tripoli; tum in Turcia Europaea & Asia­
tica, aut percolato litro nativa liberati restituit, aut pecunariis subsidiis
ad eam recuperandam adjuvit, Viennae, Litteris Schulzianis [1780]
Source: Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Vienna. Scan courtesy of Österreichische
Nationalbibliothek-Google Books cooperation.
168 Rosita D’Amora
is, from time to time, clear references to the threat of conversion. In Gio-
vanni Carobio’s painting, for example, even though the scene is dominated
by the commercial transaction, we also see a naked slave raising thankfully
his unbounded shackles and his eyes towards an apparition of Virgin Mary
in the sky. Next to him, a caftan-like robe and a turban lay on the ground
alluding to the clothes he might have been forced to wear during his captiv-
ity. The association of one’s outward attire with one’s inward religious faith
indicates the danger that Muslim dress posed for captives – the danger that,
if the captive had not been redeemed, he might have converted to Islam and
assumed that attire permanently.42
The paintings analysed here offer some significant examples of how the
iconographical texts produced to celebrate and publicise the activities of
the ransoming institutions represented an important visual counterpart to
the various written texts on captivity and how they emphasised the danger
of captives converting to Islam. The main aim of these paintings was to visu-
ally recount how Christianity responded not only to the practical problem
of returning captives home but also to the moral and religious challenges
posed by slavery. Interestingly, all the paintings contain similar elements but
also significant variations. Celestial apparitions contrasting with the earthly
scenes of enslavement and sorrow; religious figures watching over chained,
shabby and distressed slaves waiting to be freed and grim-faced “Turks” and
jubilant crowds of Christians constituted a common repertoire of images
that all artists could resort to. Some of the paintings, however, foregrounded
the liberating power of faith itself, while others seemed to focus almost
exclusively on portraying the ransoming operation as a commercial transac-
tion and essentially a human enterprise. All of them, though, clearly tried to
define the differences between believers and infidels, true faith and heresy,
in order to keep the boundaries between Islam and Christianity sharp. At
the same time, these paintings and the parallel reading of iconographical
and written texts allows us to trace how a discourse concerning the perils of
conversion and the fear of “turning Turk” in captivity developed in various
sources, giving us an idea of how conversion constituted a significant source
of anxiety in early modern Christian Europe through its constant contact
and confrontation with Islam.
Nonetheless, as far as the discourse of conversion is concerned, the
boundaries between Islam and Christianity proved to be rather permeable.
A closer analysis of these different though intersecting visual and textual
narratives of conversion reveals all the complexity of this process. From
these sources, conversion does not emerge merely as a personal possible
rupture of the single individual caught between two antagonistic beliefs, but
rather as a constant attempt to articulate the coexistence of multiple identi-
ties. It also appears, in an intricate interplay of inclusion and exclusion, as
a complex process that involves all the various communities that the person
who has converted or has been simply tainted by a proximity with Islam
belongs to, crosses and returns to.
 ‘Saving a slave, saving a soul’ 169
Notes
1 Although for a long time it has been generally agreed that pirate and corsair
slaving activities were mostly a Muslim phenomenon, more recent studies,
such as Salvatore Bono, Schiavi musulmani nell’Italia moderna. Galeotti,
vu’ cumprà, domestici (Napoli: Edizioni Scientifiche Italiane, 1999), have
shown how this phenomenon also had a significant counterpart in Chris-
tian Europe. More problematic is, instead, to find reliable estimates among
the widely fluctuating figures of the people who were actually enslaved.
This issue is effectively discussed in Robert C. Davis, “Counting European
Slaves on the Barbary Coast,” Past & Present 172 (2001), which focuses
on the problem of offering an accurate reckoning of the number of Euro-
peans living as slaves in the main cities of the Maghrebi coast between the
sixteenth and the nineteenth centuries.
2 The distinction between the words “slave” and “captive” exists in all the
languages of the Mediterranean basin: in French esclave and captif, in Span-
ish esclavo and cautivo, in Italian schiavo and cattivo. These designations
usually refer to two different kinds of prisoners: the slaves were the prison-
ers used as a labour force, while the captives were provisional slaves who
were intended to be sold in exchange for a ransom price. See Michel Fon-
tenay, “Esclaves et/ou Captifs. Préciser les Concepts,” in Le commerce des
captifs. Les intermédiaires dans l’échange et le rachat des prisonniers en
Méditerranée, XVe-XVIIIe siècle ed. Wolfgang Kaiser (Rome: École Fran-
çaise de Rome, 2008), 21–2. Also in Arabic and Turkish there is the same
distinction, and a “captive” or a “prisoner of war” is more properly indi-
cated with the word ‘asīr in Arabic (esir in Turkish).
3 A comprehensive study of the condition of Muslim slaves in the early
modern period Italian peninsula is offered, for example, in Bono, Schiavi
musulmani.
4 Such a broad phenomenon has produced, as may be imagined, a truly exten-
sive bibliography. As a starting point see Robert Davis, “The Geography of
Slaving in the Early Modern Mediterranean, 1500–1800,” Journal of Medi-
eval and Early Modern Studies 37/1 (2007).
5 For a synthesis of the information concerning the foundation of the Trinitar-
ian Order and its principals as well as a critical discussion of the available
bibliography, see John Flannery, “The Trinitarian Order and the Ransom of
Christian Captives,” Al-Masāq: Islam and the Medieval Mediterranean 23/2
(2011): 135–8.
6 The ransoming activities of Mercedarians were more limited compared to
those of the Trinitarians and the bibliography is mostly comprised of general
histories of the Order, the most recent one being, La orden de Santa María
de la Merced (1218–1992): Síntesis histórica (Rome: Instituto Histórico de
la orden de la Merced, 1997).
7 Robert C. Davis, “Slave Redemption in Venice, 1585–1797,” in Ven-
ice Reconsidered. The History and Civilization of an Italian City-State,
170 Rosita D’Amora
1297–1797, ed. John Martin et Dennis Romano (Baltimore: The Johns
Hopkins University Press, 2000), 455.
8 On the foundation and activities of this institution, see Giuliana Boccadamo,
“Prime indagini sull’origine e l’organizzazione della confraternita napole­
tana della “Redenzione dei Cattivi” (1548–1588),” Campania Sacra 7/8
(1977/1978); Giuliana Boccadamo, La redenzione dei Cattivi a Napoli nel
Cinquecento. Lo statuto di una confraternita (Napoli: M. D’Auria Editore,
1985); Giuliana Boccadamo, “I ‘redentori’ napoletani. Mercanti, religiosi e
rinnegati,” in Le commerce des captifs. Les intermédiaires dans l’échange et
le rachat des prisonniers en Méditerranée, XVe-XVIIIe siècle, ed. Wolfgang
Kaiser (Rome: École Française de Rome, 2008).
9 For the activities of the different institutions devoted to the ransoming
of Christian slaves operating in each one of these cities, see respectively:
Giuseppe Bonaffini, La Sicilia e i Barbareschi. Incursioni corsare e riscatto
degli schiavi 1570–1606 (Palermo: Ila Palma, 1983); Sergio Pagano,
L’Archivio dell’Arciconfraternita del Gonfalone: cenni storici e inventario
(Città del Vaticano: Archivio Vaticano, 1990); Enrica Lucchini, La merce
umana. Schiavitù e riscatto dei Liguri nel Seicento (Roma: Bonacci, 1990);
Davis, “Slave Redemption,” 466.
10 The presence of ransoming institutions and also Muslim slaves in cities that
were both far from the sea and the land borders of the Ottoman Empire
show how pervasive the phenomenon of slavery was. See in particular:
Raffaella Sarti, “Bolognesi schiavi dei ‘Turchi’ e schiavi ‘Turchi’ a Bologna
tra Cinque e Seicento: alterità etnico-religiosa e riduzione in schiavitù,”
Quaderni Storici 2 (2001); Marco Lenci, “Riscatti di schiavi cristiani dal
Maghreb. La Compagnia della SS. Pietà di Lucca (Secoli XVII-XIX),” Soci-
età e Storia 31 (1986); Giada Spirito, Schiavi del Turco infedele. La con-
fraternita del riscatto nella Ferrara del Settecento (Ferrara: Centro stampa
comunale, 1999).
11 Davis, “Slave Redemption,” 464. Davis also suggests, though, that there
were certain categories of slaves for whom Muslim owners could actively
encourage conversions such as women, children and men skilled in any craft
in demand at the time. See Davis, “Counting European,” 116.
12 Eric R. Dursteler, Renegade Women. Gender, Identity, and Boundaries in
the Early Modern Mediterranean (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University
Press, 2011), 111. On this subject, the classic work of Bartolomé Bennassar
and Lucile Bennassar, Les chrétiens d’Allah: L’histoire extraordinaire des
renégats, XVIe-XVIe siècles (Paris: Perrin, 1989) remains relevant. See also
Lucetta Scaraffia, Rinnegati. Per una storia dell’identità occidentale (Bari:
Laterza, 1993); Lucia Rostagno, Mi faccio turco. Esperienze ed immagini
dell’islam nell’Italia moderna (Roma: Istituto per l’Oriente, 1983) and
Claire Norton, “Lust, Greed, Torture and Identity: Narrations of Conver-
sion and the Creation of the Early Modern Renegade,” Comparative Studies
of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East 29/2 (2009).
 ‘Saving a slave, saving a soul’ 171
13 On the foundation and the activities of the Pio Monte, see Rosita D’Amora,
“Some Documents Concerning the Manumission of Slaves by the Pio Monte
della Misericordia in Naples (1681–1682),” Eurasian Studies 1/1 (2002);
Rosita D’Amora, “Il Pio Monte della Misericordia di Napoli e l’Opera della
Redenzione dei Cattivi nella prima metà del XVII,” (Rome: École Française
de Rome, 2008), 231–250; in Le commerce des captifs, ed. Wolfgang Kaiser.
14 Rosita D’Amora, “Some Documents,” 39, Archivio Storico del Pio Monte
della Misericordia (hereafter APMM), Libro delle Conclusioni A (1603–
1624), fol. 3v.
15 Rosita D’Amora, “Some Documents,” 41, APMM, Libro delle Conclusioni
B (1624–1631), fol. 154v.
  The term regnicolo was used to refer to an inhabitant of the provinces of
the Spanish Viceroyalty of Naples.
16 Rosita D’Amora, “Il Pio Monte,” 244, APMM, Libro delle Conclusioni E
(1650–1658), fol. 55v.
17 Boccadamo, “Prime indagini,” 146.
18 Giuseppe Bonaffini, “Intermediari del riscatto degli schiavi siciliani nel
Mediterraneo (secoli XVII-XIX),” in Le commerce des captifs, ed. Wolfgang
Kaiser (Rome: École Française de Rome, 2008), 252.
19 See Wolfang Kaiser, “Le mots du rachat. Fiction et rhétorique dans les pro-
cédures de rachat de captifs en Méditerranée XVIe-XVIIe siècles,” in Captifs
en Méditerranée (XVIe-XVIIIe siècles). Histoire, récits et légendes, ed. Fran-
çois Moureau (Paris: PUPS, 2008), 104; Nabil Matar, Turks, Moors and
Englishmen in the Age of Discovery (New York: Columbia University Press,
1999), 74–5; Daniel J. Vitkus, ed., Piracy, Slavery and Redemption. Barbary
Captivity Narratives from Early Modern England (New York: Columbia
University Press, 2001), 347–58 and Norton, “Lust, Greed, Torture and
Identity,” 265.
20 See also Sarti, “Bolognesi schiavi,” 444, 446 and Davis, “Slave Redemp-
tion,” 461.
21 See, for example, the forty-nine letters included in the appendix of Bonaf-
fini, La Sicilia e i Barbareschi, 131–205 or the letters of English captives in
Vitkus, Piracy, 347–53.
22 APMM, Da II, doc. 95.
23 Davis, “Slave Redemption,” 465 and Sarti, “Bolognesi schiavi,” 443–4.
24 In recent years, there have been numerous studies and editions of nar-
ratives describing captivity under Muslim masters. For a general over-
view, see Salvatore Bono, “Récits d’esclaves au Maghreb considérations
générales,” in Récits d’Orient dans les littératures d’Europe (XVIe-XVIIe
siècles), ed. Anne Duprat et Émilie Picherot (Paris: PUPS, 2008) and the
online archive ‘Répertoire Nominatif des Récits de Captivité en Méditer-
ranée’ http://www.oroc-crlc.paris-sorbonne.fr/index.php?/visiteur/Projet-
CORSO/Ressources/R.N.R.C accessed on 7 January 2016. Some works
are based on the nationality of the returned captives or the language in
172 Rosita D’Amora
which the accounts were written. The aforementioned Vitkus, Piracy, for
example, presents seven complete captivity narratives from among the
twenty-five or so extant accounts written by Englishmen slaves in North
Africa between 1577 and 1704; Paul Baepler ed., White Slaves, African
Masters: An Anthology of American Barbary Captivity Narratives (Chi-
cago: Chicago University Press, 1999) includes nine texts, originally pub-
lished between 1703 and 1904, about Americans who were kept as slaves
on the Barbary Coast; the contributions by Ernstpeter Ruhe, “Dire et ne
pas dire: les récits de captifs germanophones et les cérémonies de retour,”
in Captifs en Méditerranée, ed. Moureau and “L’aire du soupçon. Les
récits de captivité en langue allemande (XVIe–XIXe siècles),” in Récits
d’Orient, ed. Duprat et Picherot have shed light on captivity accounts
written in German. Although there are numerous similar accounts writ-
ten in Italian, they have not yet been comprehensively studied. Particu-
larly interesting are the Ragguagli di schiavitù, booklets published on the
occasion of the redemption of a slave and recounting the main events
of his liberation. These booklets were often handed out to the crowd
attending the ceremonies celebrating the return of the slave, see Celebrat-
ing the return. For the Ragguagli produced respectively in Bologna and
Ferrara see Sarti, “Bolognesi schiavi,” 444–8 and Giovanni Ricci, “Res-
tauri di identità contaminate: gli schiavi liberati dai ‘Turchi’,” in Identità
collettive tra Medioevo ed Età Moderna, ed. Paolo Prodi et al. (Bologna:
CLUEB, 2002), 65–6.
25 John Rawlins, The Famous and Wonderful Recovery of a Ship of Bristol,
called the Exchange, from the Turkish Pirates of Argier in Vitkus (ed.),
Piracy, 98–120. The quote is at 102–3.
26 In some cases, upon their return home, male slaves were stripped naked
to check whether during their captivity they had been circumcised, which
would have been a clear sign of their apostasy. See Matar, Turks, Moors, 72.
27 For an example of a triumphal procession, see the description of those organ-
ised by Trinitarians in Venice in 1727 and 1764, Davis, “Slave Redemption,”
470–6. For the smaller scale processions often organised for the return of
single slaves, see Sarti, “Bolognesi schiavi,” 442–4 and Ricci, “Restauri di
identità”.
28 Ricci rightly suggests that the “outfits” and chains of the slaves were prob-
ably expressly produced to be used during these processions and mentions
the case of the Bolognese slave Giovanni Maria Ghiselli, ransomed by the
Venetian bailo in Constantinople in 1683. From the documents recounting
his liberation, we learn that his enraged Ottoman master handed him over
to the bailo completely naked, depriving him ‘even of his shirt’. Still, during
the procession organised in Bologna upon his return, he was flaunting ‘the
insignia of his slavery’ [‘le insegne della propria schiavitudine’]. See Ricci,
“Restauri di identità,” 77.
29 Ricci, “Restauri di identità,” 70.
 ‘Saving a slave, saving a soul’ 173
30 Ibid., 80.
31 On the basis of the documentation concerning the procession organised by
the Trinitarians in Venice in 1764, Davis points out that ‘such elaborate
spectacles were vey likely to cost more than they could ever bring in’ see
Davis, “Slave Redemption,” 474.
32 de’ Dominici is the author of a famous mid-eighteen century collection of
biographies of Neapolitan artists. In his work, Farelli’s painting is defined as
‘worthy of every praise’, not only for its expressivity, the quality of the draw-
ings and the beautiful colouring, but also for having been ‘conceived’ with
the ‘noble idea’ of celebrating the charitable activity of ransoming slaves.
See Bernardo de’ Dominici, Vite de’ pittori, sculturi, ed architetti napole-
tani. Non mai date alla luce da autore alcuno (Napoli: Stamperia Ricciardi,
1743), vol. 3, 462.
33 Farelli’s painting was executed almost a century after the foundation of
the Real Casa Santa, at a time when its ransoming procedure was already
well established. The man with the plumed hat could, therefore, represent a
Christian merchant as the intermediation of merchants was the main chan-
nel used by the institution to redeem slaves.
34 Portraying “Turks” as rapacious and ill-natured was a very common prac-
tice in paintings representing the activity of ransoming slaves. An exception
is the figure of the benevolent “Turk” contained in the painting San Paolino
che riscatta lo schiavo [Saint Paulinus who ransoms the slave] c. 1626–1630
kept in the Pio Monte della Misericordia by Giovanni Bernardino Azzolino
celebrating the Opera della Redenzione dei Cattivi. See D’Amora, “Il Pio
Monte,” 231–2.
35 See Amy G. Remensnyder, “Christian Captives, Muslim Maidens, and
Mary,” Speculum 82/3 (2007): 645–6.
36 See Paul Benjamin, “ ‘And the Moon has Started to Bleed’: Apocalypti-
cism and Religious Reform in Venetian Art at the Time of the Battle of
Lepanto,” in The Turk and Islam in the Western Eye, 1450–1750. Visual
Imagery before Orientalism, ed. James G. Harper (Farnham: Ashgate,
2011), 73.
37 Remensnyder, “Christian Captives,” 652–3.
38 It is also known as La Madonna della Misericordia [The Virgin of Mercy]
however, Marco Lenci has suggested a new reading of the painting and a
new title: La Madonna del Gonfalone che accoglie lo schiavo redento [The
Virgin of the Gonfalon welcoming the redeemed slave]. See Marco Lenci,
“Lucca e i barbareschi. Considerazioni circa la titolatura di una tela di Paolo
Biancucci,” Rivista di Archeologia Storia Costume 3/4 (2001). I would like
to thank Professor Lenci for having shared his knowledge with me and hav-
ing brought this painting to my attention.
39 Another work celebrating Trinitarian activities in Italy is the fresco attrib-
uted to Carlo Cesi (1626–1686) with the title San Giovanni de Matha e
san Felice di Valois riscattano prigionieri e schiavi [Saint John de Matha
174 Rosita D’Amora
and Saint Felix of Valois ransom prisoners and slaves]. This fresco used to
be in the Church of San Dionigi alle Quattro Fontane in Rome, but was
destroyed in 1939. Similarly of interest is the painting, by an unknown
artist and entitled Redenzione di uno schiavo [Redemption of a slave],
now kept in the Curia Arcivescovile in Lucca. Originally it was placed in
the church of San Gerolamo, also in Lucca, that was, after the second half
of the seventeenth century, used by the Trinitarian Order. I would like to
thank don Daniele Martinelli from the Ufficio dei Beni Culturali e Arte
Sacra dell’Arcidiocesi di Lucca for providing me with important informa-
tion about this painting.
40 Davis “Slave Redemption,” 473, mentions that during the procession organ-
ised in Venice in 1764 the Trinitarian fathers were accompanied by ‘two
enormous placards [soleri],’ one of which was ‘showing the imagined scene
of two of the fathers negotiating the ransom, in a port in Barbary’.
41 Catalogus captivorum christianorum, Vienna 1780.
42 In early modern Italian, the expression prendere il turbante (to take the
turban) was a synonym for “embracing Islam”. This idiom had also a
French equivalent conveying the anxiety about French subjects embrac-
ing Islam, as it appears in the phrase ‘prennent le turban aussi facilement
qu’un bonnet de nuit’, attributed to a French consul during the time of
Jean-Baptiste Colbert, see Gillian Weiss, “Commerce, Conversion and
French Religious Identity in the Early Modern Mediterranean,” in The
Adventure of Religious Pluralism in Early Modern France, ed. Keith Cam-
eron, Mark Greengrass and Penny Roberts (Bern: Peter Lang, 2000), 276.
This anxiety is equally expressed by English writers who often emphasised
the link between conversion to Islam and the turban. See Nabil I. Matar,
“Renaissance England and the Turban,” in Images of the Other: Europe
and the Muslim World before 1700, ed. David Banks, (Cairo: American
University in Cairo, 1996), 49–51.

Bibliography

Archival sources (unpublished)

Napoli: Archivio Storico del Pio Monte della Misericordia, Libro delle Con-
clusioni A (1603–1624).
Napoli: Archivio Storico del Pio Monte della Misericordia, Libro delle Con-
clusioni B (1624–1631).
Napoli: Archivio Storico del Pio Monte della Misericordia, Libro delle Con-
clusioni E (1650–1658).

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de’ Dominici, Bernardo. Vite de’ pittori, sculturi, ed architetti napoletani. Non
mai date alla luce da autore alcuno. Napoli: Stamperia Ricciardi, 1743.
 ‘Saving a slave, saving a soul’ 175
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Barbary Captivity Narratives. Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1999.
Benjamin, Paul “ ‘And the Moon Has Started to Bleed’: Apocalypticism and
Religious Reform in Venetian Art at the Time of the Battle of Lepanto.”
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before Orientalism, edited by James G. Harper, 67–94. Farnham: Ash-
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Bennassar, Bartolomé and Lucile Bennassar. Les chrétiens d’Allah: L’histoire
extraordinaire des renégats, XVIe-XVIe siècles. Paris: Perrin, 1989.
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confraternita napoletana della “Redenzione dei Cattivi” (1548–1588).”
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––– La redenzione dei Cattivi a Napoli nel Cinquecento. Lo statuto di una
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Bonaffini, Giuseppe. La Sicilia e i Barbareschi. Incursioni corsare e riscatto
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––– “Intermediari del riscatto degli schiavi siciliani nel Mediterraneo (sec-
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l’échange et le rachat des prisonniers en Méditerranée, XVe-XVIIIe siècle,
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2008.
Bono, Salvatore. Schiavi musulmani nell’Italia moderna. Galeotti, vu’ cum-
prà, domestici. Napoli: Edizioni Scientifiche Italiane, 1999.
––– “Récits d’esclaves au Maghreb considérations générales.” In Récits
d’Orient dans les littératures d’Europe (XVIe-XVIIe siècles), edited by
Anne Duprat and Émilie Picherot, 115–122. Paris: PUPS, 2008.
D’Amora, Rosita. “Some Documents Concerning the Manumission of
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asian Studies 1/1 (2002): 37–76.
––– “Il Pio Monte della Misericordia di Napoli e l’Opera della Redenzione
dei Cattivi nella prima metà del XVII.” In Le commerce des captifs. Les
intermédiaires dans l’échange et le rachat des prisonniers en Méditerranée,
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Française de Rome, 2008.
Davis, Robert C. “Slave Redemption in Venice, 1585–1797.” In Ven-
ice Reconsidered: The History and Civilization of an Italian City-State,
1297–1797, edited by John Martin et Dennis Romano, 454–487. Balti-
more: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000.
––– “Counting European Slaves on the Barbary Coast.” Past & Present 172
(2001): 87–124.
176 Rosita D’Amora
––– “The Geography of Slaving in the Early Modern Mediterranean, 1500–
1800.” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 37/1 (2007):
57–74.
Dursteler, Eric R. Renegade Women: Gender, Identity, and Boundaries in
the Early Modern Mediterranean. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins Univer-
sity Press, 2011.
Flannery, John. “The Trinitarian Order and the Ransom of Christian Cap-
tives.” Al-Masāq: Islam and the Medieval Mediterranean 23/2 (2011):
135–144.
Fontenay, Michel. “Esclaves et/ou Captifs. Préciser les Concepts.” In Le
commerce des captifs. Les intermédiaires dans l’échange et le rachat des
prisonniers en Méditerranée, XVe-XVIIIe siècle, edited by Wolfgang Kai-
ser, 15–24. Rome: École Française de Rome, 2008.
Kaiser, Wolfang. “Le mots du rachat. Fiction et rhétorique dans les procé-
dures de rachat de captifs en Méditerranée XVIe-XVIIe siècles.” In Captifs
en Méditerranée (XVIe-XVIIIe siècles). Histoire, récits et légendes, edited
by François Moureau, 103–117. Paris: PUPS, 2008.
La orden de Santa María de la Merced (1218–1992): Síntesis histórica.
Rome: Instituto Histórico de la orden de la Merced, 1997.
Lenci, Marco. “Riscatti di schiavi cristiani dal Maghreb. La Compagnia
della SS. Pietà di Lucca (Secoli XVII-XIX).” Società e Storia 31 (1986):
53–80.
––– “Lucca e i barbareschi. Considerazioni circa la titolatura di una tela
di Paolo Biancucci.” Rivista di Archeologia Storia Costume 3/4 (2001):
51–62.
Lucchini, Enrica. La merce umana. Schiavitù e riscatto dei Liguri nel Sei-
cento. Roma: Bonacci, 1990.
Matar, Nabil I. “Renaissance England and the Turban.” In Images of the
Other: Europe and the Muslim World before 1700, edited by David
Banks, 39–54. Cairo: American University in Cairo, 1996.
––– Turks, Moors and Englishmen in the Age of Discovery. New York:
Columbia University Press, 1999.
Norton, Claire. “Lust, Greed, Torture and Identity: Narrations of Con-
version and the Creation of the Early Modern Renegade.” Comparative
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Pagano, Sergio. L’Archivio dell’Arciconfraternita del Gonfalone: cenni sto­
rici e inventario. Città del Vaticano: Archivio Vaticano, 1990.
Remensnyder, Amy G. “Christian Captives, Muslim Maidens, and Mary.”
Speculum 82/3 (2007): 642–677.
Ricci, Giovanni. “Restauri di identità contaminate: gli schiavi liberati dai
‘Turchi’.” In Identità collettive tra Medioevo ed Età Moderna, edited by
Paolo Prodi and Wolfgang Reinhard, 65–83. Bologna: CLUEB, 2002.
Rostagno, Lucia. Mi faccio turco. Esperienze ed immagini dell’islam
nell’Italia moderna. Roma: Istituto per l’Oriente, 1983.
 ‘Saving a slave, saving a soul’ 177
Ruhe, Ernstpeter. “Dire et ne pas dire: les récits de captifs germanophones
et les cérémonies de retour.” In Captifs en Méditerranée (XVIe-XVIIIe siè-
cles). Histoire, récits et légendes, edited by François Moureau, 119–133.
Paris: PUPS, 2008.
––– “L’aire du soupçon. Les récits de captivité en langue allemande (XVIe-
XIXe siècles).” In Récits d’Orient dans les littératures d’Europe (XVIe-
XVIIe siècles), edited by Anne Duprat and Émilie Picherot, 185–200.
Paris: PUPS, 2008.
Sarti, Raffaella. “Bolognesi schiavi dei Turchi e schiavi Turchi a Bologna
tra Cinque e Seicento: alterità etnico-religiosa e riduzione in schiavitù.”
Quaderni Storici 2 (2001): 437–473.
Scaraffia, Lucetta. Rinnegati. Per una storia dell’identità occidentale. Bari:
Laterza, 1993.
Spirito, Giada. Schiavi del Turco infedele. La confraternita del riscatto nella
Ferrara del Settecento. Ferrara: Centro stampa comunale, 1999.
Vitkus, Daniel J., ed. Piracy, Slavery and Redemption. Barbary Captivity
Narratives from Early Modern England. New York: Columbia University
Press, 2001.
Weiss, Gillian. “Commerce, Conversion and French Religious Identity in
the Early Modern Mediterranean.” In The Adventure of Religious Plural-
ism in Early Modern France, edited by Keith Cameron, Mark Greengrass
and Penny Roberts, 275–288. Bern: Peter Lang, 2000.
Part 3

Translating the self

Devotion, hybridity and religious
conversion
8 Antitrinitarians and
conversion to Islam
Adam Neuser reads Murad b.
Abdullah in Ottoman Istanbul
Martin Mulsow

Sixteenth-century Antitrinitarians saw themselves in the forefront of the

Protestant reformation, reading the Bible with historical-critical atten-
tion and denying any Biblical foundations of the doctrine of the divinity
of Christ. Usually it was only confessional polemics that linked them with
Islam and its strict monotheism. However, in a few cases, there were indeed
personal encounters between these theologians and Muslims, and even a
few cases of conversion to Islam. Adam Neuser, a Heidelberg minister, is
such a case: he ended up as a Muslim in Istanbul.1 What kind of identity did
he develop? Under what circumstances did he convert, and how did he live
among the Ottomans?
Neuser had originally been baptised as a Lutheran, but then, as an inhab-
itant of the Electoral Palatinate, became Calvinist along with the land when
Elector Frederik III introduced the Reformed Religion in the 1660s. In any
event, Neuser became an opponent of the Trinity doctrine; in 1570, he
wrote a letter to the Sultan in Istanbul, Selim II, asserting that Christian-
ity was corrupt, that Islam was better and that the Sultan should there-
fore take his army and conquer Europe. That was of course high treason
on Neuser’s part. He never did send this letter, but to his chagrin it was
found in his possession and he and his friends were condemned to death.
Neuser eventually fled and attempted on several occasions to breach the
“Iron Curtain” between Christian Europe and Ottoman-held territory, a
border that went straight through Hungary. When he finally did make it
across it to the Ottoman side, he was apprehended and had no choice but
to convert to Islam, otherwise it was likely that he would have faced a long
imprisonment on suspicion of espionage, or – even worse – been extradited
to the Habsburg Empire. He ended his days in Istanbul, where he eked out
an impecunious living as a translator among other renegade Germans. The
eighteenth-century scholar Gotthold Ephraim Lessing wrote about Neuser
and his conversion.2
I have recently started to examine more closely the story of Neuser, for,
at the library in Gotha, I have found some exciting new material pertain-
ing to the case. Until now, Neuser’s notorious letter to the Sultan was not
182 Martin Mulsow
to be found in the Latin original but only in its translated German form. In
the Gotha library, certain parts of the Latin text have now emerged as well
as depictions of Neuser’s interrogation in Heidelberg, his self-justifications
for the flight from Germany, letters from his son and arguments that he
sketched out against the Trinity – all of this penned by Neuser himself.3
My interpretation of this bundle of papers is that they are fragments of an
apologia that Neuser had been working on and in which, from memory, he
reconstructed the content of his letter to the Sultan as well as his interroga-
tion in Heidelberg.
Why did Neuser feel it necessary to explain himself? Well, first of all,
he was under all kinds of pressure. In Germany, his homeland, he had
been defamed with a number of false accusations. His son was arrested in
Vienna. And he himself had been tempted by the prospect of perhaps being
granted amnesty and returning to Heidelberg, where his wife and other
children awaited him. In 1573, a Habsburg imperial delegation arrived in
Istanbul, where they made contact with Neuser and offered to free his son
and allow Neuser to return home with impunity if he would work for them
as a spy. The Habsburg offers were all empty promises – but that is not the
focus here. Of far more interest is Neuser’s activity as a double-agent for
the Ottomans who also wanted him to spy on the Habsburg delegation and
decipher their letters. So, what did Neuser eventually do? Before answering
this, I should like to examine the cryptographic marginalia of the Gotha
fragments.
At first I thought that these marginalia were Turkish or Hungarian, but
they are in fact not in a foreign language, but are encoded characters. The
question then was how to decode them? After several failed attempts, I was
finally able to crack the code with the assistance of a colleague. For his mar-
ginalia, Neuser used the so-called Caesar Code. It bears this name because
Suetonius recounted how Julius Caesar used a certain code in which each
letter of the uncoded message would be replaced by a letter at some fixed
number of positions down the alphabet. For example, with a shift of three,
as Caesar used, the letter A would be replaced by the letter D, the letter
B by E, C by F and so on. During the Renaissance, Leon Battista Alberti
had in fact developed a cipher disc to decrypt the Caesar Code and per-
haps Neuser employed such a device. As an interpreter and occasionally
also a spy at the Istanbul court, he had naturally gathered experience in
encoding.4
If one is to understand Neuser’s role in this situation, perhaps the most
important word in the coded marginalia is ‘labudge’. Decoded the word
is ‘zopirus’.5 But who or what is ‘zopirus’? As it turns out, Zopyrus was
the name of a man that Herodotus mentions in his Histories. Zopyrus was
a highborn Persian in the service of King Darius who mutilated himself
in order to win the trust of Babylonian insurgents against Persian rule.
Zopyrus told the insurgents that the mutilation had been perpetrated by
 Antitrinitarians and conversion to Islam 183
Darius and that he, Zopyrus, wanted to go to the Babylonians in his exile. It
was through this ruse that he was appointed commander of the Babylonian
forces, and he succeeded in so weakening their army that Darius was once
more able to conquer Babylonia.6
Why did Neuser use the name of this Persian soldier? There is one possible
answer. He wanted to indicate that his conversion to Islam and his relocation
to Constantinople was a mere trick to insinuate himself among the Otto-
mans so as to transmit information to the Christians. Just as Zopyrus had
cut off his own nose and ear, so too did Neuser submit to circumcision (one
can deduce this from his comparison) in the service of his Imperial Majesty.
Could it be that Neuser’s encrypted marginalia was intended to be under-
stood thus by the Christian reader; a meaning that was meant to stay hidden
from Muslim audiences? Did Neuser wish to inform the Christians – that is
to say, the delegation along with the Emperor and the Elector Palatine, all of
whom considered Neuser a cause célèbre – that he was one of them? Was he
saying that he would spy for them, if they would just let him go home? We
will see, however, in the rest of this chapter that reality was more complex
and nuanced.
Living in Istanbul as a former Christian and as someone who favoured
heterodox religious interpretations was not easy. Neuser could observe
everyday what might happen to heterodox persons even on the Muslim
side. In June 1573, he attended the public execution of a certain sheikh.
In the report that we have no name is given, but it seems probable that
the sheikh was Hamza Bali, a man from Bosnia, who had been perse-
cuted by the grand vizier Sokullu Paşa.7 Neuser and his friends listened to
the whispers that circulated about what this man believed and what his
opinions were. If it was in fact Hamza Bali, then this is an instance which
almost mirrored Neuser’s position in Christianity. Hamza Bali was exe-
cuted as a zindiq, as a heretic or freethinker. According to some sources,
he esteemed Jesus to some extent more than the prophet Muhammed –
in a similar manner to other Bosnian Sufis of the Malāmiyya and the
Bayrāmiyya sects. While Neuser was accused by the Christians of denying
the Trinity, in the Ottoman Empire, sufi adherents of the Bektashiyya sect
were accused, in contrast, of adhering to the Trinity: a trinity of Allah,
Muhammad and Ali.8
But let us get back to the question of Neuser’s identity. How much did
tactics play a role in Neuser’s styling of himself as a modern-day Zopyrus?
Certainly some. He was still a convinced Muslim and when Antitrinitarian
visitors came to Istanbul, he did the best he could to convert them to the
Islamic faith. This is demonstrated by another source, a printed travelogue
authored by Jacob Palaeologus, which very hard to come by today, the Epis-
tola of 1573. Palaeologus was a Greek from Chios who asserted that he
was descended from the Byzantine royal house and who had been a monk
in Italy, but was then persuaded to reject the Trinity through the writings
184 Martin Mulsow
of Servet.9 In Italy, he had been condemned to death but had been able to
flee and was, in the 1570s, travelling through the Balkans and Istanbul. In
his Epistola we still have his accounts of those conversations he had with
Neuser in 1573, including talks they had about a tract intended to motivate
people to convert to Islam.
In the Epistola Palaeologus describes the tract as ‘a Turkish book [that]
was given to me, which had certain passages translated into Latin by one
of six royal translators, a man of not insubstantial learning, a former
cleric, at first with the Christians, then with the Turks. The book explained
the Turkish religion in its entirety’.10 Which book was he referring to? Pal-
aeologus mentions neither title nor author. At first glance it would seem
impossible to identify a particular text among the thousands in circula-
tion at the time. Even Palaeologus’ subsequently more detailed description
that ‘the entire middle section is a treatise on virtue’ does little to advance
our inquiry. And yet there is a prominent text that had emanated from
Istanbul’s dragoman (interpreter) milieu and which matches the points
identified by Palaeologus.11 This book is the Guide for One’s Turning
Towards God [Kitâb tesviyetü t-teveccüh ila l-hakk], a book designed to
convert non-Muslims to Islam and which enjoyed a certain prominence
at the time. The author of the book was Murad ibn Abdullah, himself a
convert from Hungary who as a boy had been abducted at the Battle of
Mohács in 1526.12 Murad wrote the piece in the years 1556 and 1557 in
Ottoman-Turkish and ten years later furnished it with a Latin translation
that was placed around the Ottoman-Turkish text. The very copy that
Neuser and Palaeologus once held in their hands still exists today – in the
British Library in London.13
This tract, which was intended to encourage converts to Islam, was pre-
sented to the Christian theologian Palaeologus by his Islamic hosts appar-
ently with the challenge to him to counter the arguments put forward in
the work in favour of Islam as the one true religion. Resident Europeans
quickly picked up on this news. Palaeologus writes: ‘when he heard it, this
Adam [Neuser] came with his companions and asked me if I could give him
my opinion of this book. He himself didn’t wish to contradict me or risk
saying anything’.14 Neuser was curious, while at the same time reassuring
Palaeologus that this was not some veiled attempt to convert him. Neuser
would have been acquainted with Murad ibn Abdullah as he himself either
lived with or had lived with a dragoman and thus it is more than likely that
their paths would have crossed as the circle of dragomans in Istanbul was
not that large. So, we have here the opinion leader Neuser and certain of his
friends such as Pentner and probably Ferber crowding around Palaeologus,
curious as to how he will react to Murad’s arguments for Islam. Because
Neuser must be careful, he pledges restraint. But Palaeologus wants to
speak openly; he wants to find out what is the true religion as he writes ‘I
answered him: If truth must be silent, then it would be better not to contra-
dict Rome’.15 And he had already contradicted Rome and Catholicism so
 Antitrinitarians and conversion to Islam 185
seriously that he had been condemned to death in absentia. Neuser defends
himself by saying that this is not a question of untruthfulness but self-
protection: ‘But he [Neuser] replied that all Christian soldiers who had been
turned into Turks would – were they to be asked what they believed and
wishing not to incur the displeasure of the clerics – be compelled to say that
which the Sultan believed. Only in this way could they avoid unpleasant
repercussions’.16
Howsoever risky it might be, a dispute does ensue, ‘but now [Neuser]
came and asked: have you read this book? And I said: yes, I have read
it. Then he said: so quickly?’. The question is a legitimate one, for this
tract is some 340 pages long. ‘And I [replied]: why not, when I have spent
my whole life in reading and commenting [on texts]. And he [said]: what
do you think? Do you wish to become a Turk?’.17 Evidently Neuser had
been dying to say this the entire time. Would Murad’s arguments, with
which Neuser apparently identified, persuade this Antitrinitarian and move
him to convert? Palaeologus counters, ‘a great work, I say, yet I am far
from harbouring this notion. For the beginning and end is influenced by
Muhammed, the Qur’an is cited, and all of the middle portion is a treatise
on virtue. But on civic virtue you should read the Greek and Latin authors
who lived before Christ and Mohammed’.18 Palaeologus recognised that
Murad ibn Abdullah, who had had a certain basic Christian-humanistic
education, had essentially produced a humanistic text framed by Islamic
elements. At the core of the text is an extended discussion of the superiority
of Muslim virtues over Christian but one set out in a humanistic manner.
Tijana Krstic has recently analysed this work and examined the conver-
sion story with which it begins.19 The main part of the text, however, still
awaits analysis. Let me just give a random example of the text’s argument.
In one chapter, Murad talks about the belief in miracles and examines the
Christian claim that Moses and Jesus worked miracles. He counters this by
arguing for a progression in the level of scientific education over time: in
Moses’s time, there were already learned men and especially necromants
that could do great things; but with the help of God Moses surpassed them
all. Likewise, Jesus was supported by God to bring a man back to life
although there were many well trained physicians around. And in Muham-
mad’s time there was again more learning, not only scientific, but even in
rhetoric and in the refined humanistic disciplines (subtilioribus humanita-
tibusque tanti praestantiorus), but still Muhammed surpassed the others
with the help of the Qur’an.20
It was without difficulty that Palaeologus discerned the humanistic ele-
ments of Murad’s text, but he instead argues that rather than read a text
that uses derivative arguments it is preferable to go straight to the ancient
authors and read them in the original Greek and Latin. Why deal with argu-
ments about virtues, if one could take them directly from Plato or Aristo-
tle? Then he changes the subject and introduces a specific critique vis-à-vis
Neuser’s strategy of argumentation, which was always in favour of Islam.
186 Martin Mulsow
Whenever the interpretation of the Qur’an was at issue, Neuser was quick
to criticise Bibliander’s Latin translation of the Qur’an as a bastardisation,
‘but you do not wish to speak of Mohammed unless you have given us a
good translation of the Qur’an, after you have said that it has been badly
translated by Christians, but that you will read it well translated – then
what can I say?’.21 Palaeologus complains that he cannot really dispute with
Neuser if he insists on casting doubt on the textual basis for his arguments
while constantly mentioning that there will be a better translation in the
future. We can reasonably conclude from these comments that Neuser was
undertaking a new Latin translation of the Qur’an, or at least of parts of it.
We know that in Heidelberg he had annotated his copy of Bibliander’s Latin
translation of the Qur’an with copious notes and corrections and also while
in Istanbul he owned another edition of Bibliander, along with other writ-
ings in whose margins he was constantly scribbling his commentary.22 From
those pages found in the library in Gotha, Neuser writes in code, ‘one can
compare my copy of the Qur’an at the section where I annotated the book
De doctrina Mahometis’.23 This text was a translation of Masā’il Abdallah
b. Salām and was bound together with the Bibliander Qur’an.24 He says this
in a marginal gloss on a passage in his reconstructed letter to the Sultan,
the gloss ending with the summary, ‘on the basis of these stories it would
appear that Christianity and the Qur’an do not represent differing views’.25
Neuser kept himself busy with old versions of the Gospels, with his own
translations from the Qur’an and with comparisons between Christian and
Islamic doctrine so as to reconstruct a true and pristine “Islamic” Christian-
ity that would be a kind of synthesis of both religions. But Palaeologus was
not persuaded.
To sum up, the story of Adam Neuser demonstrates the conversion of a
person from being a Calvinist to an Antitrinitarian position and finally to
adopting Islam. In order to accomplish such a conversion, Neuser had to
enter the contact zone between Christianity and Islam. He had to physi-
cally cross the border between the Habsburg and Ottoman Empires in
Transylvania. But somehow he was caught in between: in his years in Istan-
bul, Neuser developed a hybrid persona. He was a Muslim cooperating
with the court of the Ottoman Sultan, but simultaneously a “Christian”
looking for ancient manuscripts that could support his Antitrinitarian
views who was still in contact with friends in Western Europe. In order
to make this hybrid position comprehensible to himself, he forged a self-
fashioning as “Zopyrus” – the Persian undercover agent in Mesopotamia.
In encrypted annotations to his Qur’an and in other writings, he tried to
define both the extent to which he could agree with Islam and the extent
to which he disagreed. In doing so, he worked on a book which would
both serve as an apology for his conversion and a true account of his life.
This book, however, was never finished as Neuser died in 1576, but we do
have a draft of this work in the form of the bundle of papers found in the
Research Library in Gotha.26
 Antitrinitarians and conversion to Islam 187
Notes
1 On Neuser (ca. 1530–1576) see Christopher J. Burchill, The Heidelberg Anti-
trinitarians: Johann Sylvan. Adam Neuser. Matthias Vehe. Jacob Suter. Johann
Hasler (Baden-Baden/Bouxwiller: Koerner, 1989); Georg Veesenmeyer, “Noch
etwas von Adam Neuser,” Theologische Studien und Kritiken 2 (1829); Hans
Rott, “Neue Quellen für eine Aktenrevision des Prozesses gegen Sylvan und
seine Genossen,” Neues Archiv für die Geschichte der Stadt Heidelberg und
der rheinischen Pfalz 8 (1910), and 9 (1911); Curt Horn, Der Kampf zwis-
chen Calvinismus und Zwinglianismus in Heidelberg und der Process gegen
den Antitrinitarier Johann Sylvan, (Heidelberg: J. Hörning, 1913); Curt Horn:
Der Kampf zwischen Calvinismus und Zwinglianismus in Heidelberg und der
Process gegen den Antitrinitarier Johann Sylvan, Heidelberg 1913 (also in:
Neue Heidelberger Jahrbücher 17 [1913], pp. 219–310, as: Joh. Sylvan und
die Anfänge des Heidelberger Antitrinitarismus); Antal Pirnát: Die Heidel-
berger Flüchtlinge (Neuser und Glirius), in his: Die Ideologie der Siebenbürger
Antitrinitarier in den 1570er Jahren (Budapest: Academy of Sciences, 1961),
pp. 117–134; Paul Philippi, “Sylvanus und Transsylvanien. Ein Stück Toler-
anzgeschichte zwischen Heidelberg und Siebenbürgen,” in Sechshundert Jahre
Ruprecht-Karls-Universität Heidelberg 1386–1986, (Heidelberg: Springer,
1985); Raoul Motika, “Adam Neuser. Ein Heidelberger Theologe im Osma-
nischen Reich,” in Frauen, Bilder und Gelehrte. Studien zu Gesellschaft und
Künsten im Osmanischen Reich. Festschrift Hans Georg Majer, ed. Sabine
Prätor and Christoph K. Neumann (Istanbul: Simurg, 2002); Ralf C. Müller,
Franken im Osten. Art, Umfang, Struktur und Dynamik der Migration aus
dem lateinischen Westen in das Osmanische Reich des 15./16. Jahrhunderts
auf der Grundlage von Reiseberichten, (Leipzig: Eudora, 2005), 217–31; Mar-
tin Mulsow, “Fluchträume und Exilräume zwischen Heidelberg und Konstan-
tinopel: Der Fall Adam Neuser,” in Freidenker – Kriminelle – Alchemisten.
Räume des Untergrunds in der Frühen Neuzeit, ed. Mulsow (Köln: Böhlau,
2014); Mulsow, “Adam Neusers Brief an Selim II. und seine geplante Rech-
tfertigungsschrift. Eine Rekonstruktion anhand neuer Manuskriptfunde,” in
Religiöser Nonkonformismus und frühneuzeitliche Gelehrtenkultur, ed. Frie-
drich Vollhardt (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 2014).
2 Gotthold Ephraim Lessing, “Von Adam Neusern, einige authentische Nach-
richten,” in Lessing, Werke und Briefe, vol. 8, ed. Arno Schilson (Frankfurt:
Deutscher Klassiker Verlag, 1989) 57–114; and commentary 789–841.
3 Gotha: Research Library, Chart. A 407, fol. 345r-353v. Two letters from
Neuser’s son Adam to his father 340r-343v; letter by Caspar Baumann to
Neuser 345r-346v; theological arguments against the trinity 347r, 348r-348v;
fragments of the minutes of Neuser’s interrogation in prison 347v, 350r,
353r-353v; notes and autobiographical fragments 349r, 350v; letter to Sultan
Selim II, with marginalia in encoded script, version B 351r-351v; letter to Sul-
tan Selim II, version A (shorter) 352r-352v, with additional notes on fol. 352v
at the bottom. The bundle of papers is part of a collection of letters to the
188 Martin Mulsow
Tübingen theologian Stephan Gerlach, who was in Istanbul as a missionary
preacher from 1573–1578, and who was in contact with Neuser. The two ver-
sions of the letter to Selim II cannot be original, as that was presumably confis-
cated in Heidelberg. Instead, there is good reason to believe that, in his notes,
Neuser reconstructed the letter and the interrogation from memory (hence the
differences between these versions and the only known German translation of
the letter), as part of his attempt to defend himself with an Apologia against
defamation. It is thought that he hoped to print them in Transylvania in 1572,
which meant entering Ottoman territory. While in Istanbul, Neuser appears to
have continued working on his Apologia.
4 On coded letters in diplomacy, see Anne-Simone Rous and Martin Mulsow,
eds., Geheime Post: Kryptologie und Steganographie der diplomatischen
Korrespondenz europäischer Höfe während der Frühen Neuzeit (Berlin:
Dunker and Humblot, 2015).
5 Research Library Gotha, Chart. A 407, fol. 351v.
6 See Herodotus, Historiae, ed. K. Hude, (Oxford: 1963), book III, 153sqq.
7 See Epistola Iacobi Palaeologi, de rebus Constantinopoli et Chii cum eo
actis, lectu digna. Anno 1573 ([s.l.], 1591), fol. B iii v (in the 1594 edition:
p.18f.), ‘Redeo Constantinopolim, ubi die 7. Iunii, spectante Adamo illo
Neyssero, crudelissime est Sechus unus caesus a Turcis, jussu sacerdotum
aliorum, et ipse Sacerdos. Is audita concione, in qua narrabatur, Deum sep-
tem orbes, & septem caelos creasse, misisseque equum e caelo Ad Mahume-
tem, per Gabrielem Archangelum, ut ille conscenso equo perlustrare posset
omnes septem orbes, ut deligeret locum, in quo habitare cum suis posset:
dixit hanc esse fictam fabulam, & persistendum esse in Alcorani narrationi-
bus, cui nihil esset addendum: & ita egit, ut magnam & splendidam multi-
tudinem in suam sententiam pertraxerit’. On Hamza Bali see Tayyib Okiç,
“Quelques documents inédites concernant les Hamzawites,” in Proceedings
of the Twenty-Second Congress of Orientalists, ed. Ahmet Zeki Validi Togan
(Leiden: Brill, 1957).
8 See Frederick W. Hasluck, Christianity and Islam under the Sultans (Oxford:
OUP, 1929); Irène Mélikoff, Hadji Bektash: un mythe et ses avatares. Genèse
et évolution du soufisme populaire en Turquie, (Leiden: Brill, 1998).
9 On Palaeologus, see Mihály Balázs, Early Transylvanian Antitrinitarianism
(1566–1571): From Servet to Palaeologus (Baden Baden: Koerner, 1996);
Antal Pirnát, Die Ideologie der Siebenbürger Antitrinitarier in den 1570er
Jahren (Budapest: Academy of Sciences, 1961).
10 Epistola Iacobi Palaeologi (see n. 7), fol. B iii v (1594: p. 19) ‘Eodem tem-
pore, quo ista fierent, datus est mihi legendus liber Turcicus, cum apposita
ad singulos versus Latina interpretatione, ab interprete uno Regio sene, et
non indocto viro, sacerdote olim, prius Christianorum, deinde Turcorum:
in eo tota religio Turcica explicabantur’. All translations from the Latin are
done by the author unless otherwise indicated.
11 Dragoman comes from the Arabic word tarjuman meaning translator or
interpreter. Dragomen working in Istanbul, either for the Ottoman state or
 Antitrinitarians and conversion to Islam 189
attached to foreign embassies often undertook diplomatic roles as well as
the duties of translation. Because of the need to be very familiar with Euro-
pean languages as well as Ottoman-Turkish (Arabic and Persian), converts
from Christianity were often employed in this role.
12 Kitab-l tesviyetü’t-teveccüh ila‚ l-hakk, London: British Library, Add.
19894. On Murad, see Tijana Krstić, “Illuminated by the Light of Islam
and the Glory of the Ottoman Sultanate: Self-Narratives of Conversion to
Islam in the Age of Confessionalization,” Comparative Studies in Society
and History 51 (2009); Franz Babinger, “Der Pfortendolmetsch Murad und
seine Schriften,” in Literaturdenkmäler aus Ungarns Türkenzeit, ed. Franz
Babinger, Robert Gragger, Eugen Mittwoch and J. H. Mordtmann. (Berlin
and Leipzig: De Gruyter, 1927); Josef Matuz, “Die Pfortendolmetscher zur
Herrschaftszeit Süleymans des Prächtigen,” Südost-Forschungen, 34 (1975);
E. Nathalie Rothman, “Interpreting Dragomans: Boundaries and Crossings
in the Early Modern Mediterranean,” Comparative Studies in Society and
History, 51 (2009); Pál Ács, “Tarjumans Mahmud and Murad. Austrian and
Hungarian Renegades as Sultan’s Interpreters,” in Europa und die Türken in
der Renaissance, ed. Bodo Guthmüller and Wilhelm Kühlmann (Tübingen:
Niemeyer, 2000).
13 The British Library copy seems to be an autograph and the sole copy that
Murad produced.
14 Epistola, fol. B iii v (1594: S. 19f.) ‘Hoc audito Adamus ille cum suis sociis
venit ad me, rogans, ne iudicium meum in librum illum / dicere nec contra-
dicere vellem ne periclitarer’.
15 Epistola, fol. B iii v (1594: p. 20) ‘Respondi: Si tacenda est veritas, satius
erat Romae reticere’.
16 Epistola, fol. B iii v (1594: p. 20) ‘Dicebat autem, omnes milites ex Chris-
tianis factos Turcos, cum rogarentur quid crederent, ut vitarent improbi-
tatem Sacerdotum, cogi dicere Id quod Rex credit, ita enim vitare omnes
molestias’.
17 Epistola, fol. B iii v (1594: p. 20) ‘Venit igitur ille, et dixit, Legistine librum?
Perlegi, inquam ego: et ille: Tam cito? Quid ni, inquam, cum vitam tradux-
erim legendo, commentando? Et ille. Quid sentis? Eris Turcus?’
18 Epistola, fol. B iii v (1594: p. 20) ‘Multum, inquam ego, longiquus sum ab
hac sententia: nam liber vester principia et fines habet de Mehemeto, et citat
Alcoranum. Media omnia continet tractatum de virtutibus. De virtutibus
autem civilibus vellem legisses scriptores Graecos et Latinos eos, die fuerunt
ante natum Christum et Mehemetum’.
19 Tijana Krstić, “Illuminated by the Light of Islam,” n. 11.
20 British Library, Add. 19894, Kitâb tesviyetü t-teveccüh ila l-hakk, fol. 55
‘Miraculum igitur revivificationis cadaverum, ut si populus eiusdem tem-
poris videret potuit vidit et exemplum et doctrinam capiens ad fidem div-
inam conversus fuerit. Utilitas saltem ipsi sibimet profuit. Sed app[ar]ire
hoc miraculum quomodo usque ad finem etatis mundi superest. Videtur
num unquam deficiet medicinaque eius et salmificatio per ipsum semper
190 Martin Mulsow
supra fidelis appregitur [?]. Miraculum autem revivificationis mortuorum
et resanatio morborum corporalium per dominum jesum propterea abun-
dantius demonstratum est. quoniam populus sui temporis in arte phisica
pluris laborantes addipisci studebant. Et docti fuerant. Jesus tempore medi-
corum peritissimorum advenerat. Ergo ut omnes illos phisicos superet et
vincat propterea sibi deus altissimus omnipotens, etiam et revivificationum
mortuorum concesserat, per virtutem et potentiam nominis dei maximi
quodquidem addoctus fuerat itaque etiam et mortuos resuscitabat. Item
quemadmodum populus temporis moisi artem nigromanticam addipisci ver-
sabatur, tamen moises per miraculum magnum omnes nigromantes vinxit.
Sic etiam tempore muhamedi homines docti et . . . omniarum periti et sci-
entiarum posie eruditi laborabant. Et autem eloquentiarum addipitabant,
subtilioribus humanitatibusque tanti praestabtiorus urant ut unum pilum
quod viginta partes dividebant ergo omnes ipsos medio miraculorum huius
sacratissimi alcurani superavit et vinxit’.
21 Epistola, fol. B iv r (1594: S. 20): ‘De Mehemeto autem, nisi Alcoranus
abs te bene vertatur, postquam dicis, fuisse Christianis male versum, et ego
bene versum legero, quid dicere possim?’ Bibliander’s Latin translation of
the Qur’an was published in 1543 and was the first text to acquaint the west
with the Qur’an on such a large scale.
22 A hint to Neuser’s Heidelberg copy is in Ludwig Christian Mieg, ed., Monu-
menta pietatis et literaria virorum in re publica et literaria illustrium selecta
(Frankfurt: Maximilan, 1701), “Praefatio” p. *6, ‘cujus [Neuseri] Epistola,
quam publicamus, & notae, quas Alcorani sui margini allevit, quasque
penes nos asservamus’.
23 Gotha: Research Library, Chart. A 407, fol. 351v, marginalia left side on the
bottom, ‘inspiciatur meus alcoran ubi mea manu scripsi in librum de doctrina
mahometis’.
24 On the Masā’il Abdallah b. Salām, see Hartmut Bobzin, Der Koran im
Zeitalter der Reformation (Beirut: Orient-Institut, 2008; first edition
1995), 50, 217, 331ff. See the Bibliander edition of the Qur’an, Machume-
tis Saracenorum principis eiusque successorum vitae ac doctrina, ipseque
Alcoran, quo velut authentico legum divinarum codice Agareni et Turcae,
alii[que] Christo adversantes populi reguntur . . . His adiunctae una cum
excelentiß. Theologi Martini Lutheri praemonitione . . . adiunctae sunt
etiam, Turcarum . . . res gestae maxime memorabiles . . . Haec omnia in
unum volumen redacta sunt, opera et studio Theodori Bibliandri (Zürich:
Oporinus, 1543). There, the Masā’il Abdallah b. Salām is on 189–200,
Incipit Doctrina Mahomet, quae apud Saracenos magnae authoritatis est:
ab eodem Hermanno translata, cum esset peritissimus utriusque linguae,
Latinae scilicet atque Arabicae.
25 Gotha: Research Library, Chart. A 407, fol. 352r, ‘Ex quibis historiis videtur
apparire Christianismum et Alcuranum non dissentire.’
26 See n. 3.
 Antitrinitarians and conversion to Islam 191
Bibliography

Archival sources (unpublished)

Gotha: Research Library. Chart. A 407, fol. 345r-353v
London: British Library. Kitâb tesviyetü t-teveccüh ila l-hakk Add. 19894,
fols 1b-167a

Primary sources (published)

Bibliander, Theodor. Machumetis Saracenorum principis eiusque succes-
sorum vitae ac doctrina, ipseque Alcoran, quo velut authentico legum
divinarum codice Agareni et Turcae, alii[que] Christo adversantes populi
reguntur . . . His adiunctae una cum excelentiß. Theologi Martini Lutheri
praemonitione . . . adiunctae sunt etiam, Turcarum . . . res gestae maxime
memorabiles . . . Haec omnia in unum volumen redacta sunt, opera et
studio Theodori Bibliandri. Zürich: 1543.
Palaeologus, Jacobus. Epistola Iacobi Palaeologi, de rebus Constantinopoli
et Chii cum eo actis, lectu digna: anno 1573. 1591.

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Tübingen: Niemeyer, 2000.
Babinger, Franz. “Der Pfortendolmetsch Murad und seine Schriften.” In
Literaturdenkmäler aus Ungarns Türkenzeit, edited by Franz Babinger,
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and Leipzig: De Gruyter, 1927.
Balázs, Mihály. Early Transylvanian Antitrinitarianism (1566–1571): From
Servet to Palaeologus. Baden Baden: Koerner, 1996.
Bobzin, Hartmut. Der Koran im Zeitalter der Reformation. Beirut: Orient-
Institut, 2008, first edition 1995.
Burchill, Christopher J. The Heidelberg Antitrinitarians: Johann Sylvan.
Adam Neuser. Matthias Vehe. Jacob Suter. Johann Hasler. Baden-Baden/
Bouxwiller: Koerner, 1989.
Hasluck, Frederick W. Christianity and Islam under the Sultans, 2 vols.
Oxford: OUP, 1929.
Herodotus. Historiae. Edited by K. Hude. Oxford: Clarendon Press,
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Horn, Curt. Der Kampf zwischen Calvinismus und Zwinglianismus in Hei-
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berg: J. Hörning, 1913.
192 Martin Mulsow
––– “Joh. Sylvan und die Anfänge des Heidelberger Antitrinitarismus; Antal
Pirnát: Die Heidelberger Flüchtlinge (Neuser und Glirius).” Neue Heidel-
berger Jahrbücher 17 (1913): 219–310.
––– Die Ideologie der Siebenbürger Antitrinitarier in den 1570er Jahren.
Budapest: Academy of Sciences, 1961.
Krstić, Tijana. “Illuminated by the Light of Islam and the Glory of the Otto-
man Sultanate: Self-Narratives of Conversion to Islam in the Age of Con-
fessionalization.” Comparative Studies in Society and History 51 (2009):
35–63.
Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim. “Von Adam Neusern, einige authentische Nach-
richten.” In Lessing, Werke und Briefe, edited by Arno Schilson, vol. 8,
57–114. Frankfurt: Deutscher Klassiker Verlag, 1989.
Matuz, Josef. “Die Pfortendolmetscher zur Herrschaftszeit Süleymans des
Prächtigen.” in Südost-Forschungen, 34 (1975): 26–60.
Mélikoff, Irène. Hadji Bektash: un mythe et ses avatares. Genèse et évolu-
tion du soufisme populaire en Turquie. Leiden: Brill, 1998.
Mieg, Ludwig Christian ed. Monumenta pietatis et literaria virorum in re
publica et literaria illustrium selecta. Frankfurt: Maximilan, 1701.
Motika, Raoul. “Adam Neuser. Ein Heidelberger Theologe im Osmanis-
chen Reich.” In Frauen, Bilder und Gelehrte. Studien zu Gesellschaft und
Künsten im Osmanischen Reich. Festschrift Hans Georg Majer, edited by
Sabine Prätor and Christoph K. Neumann, 523–538. Istanbul: Simurg,
2002.
Mulsow, Martin. “Adam Neusers Brief an Selim II. und seine geplante Rech-
tfertigungsschrift. Eine Rekonstruktion anhand neuer Manuskriptfunde.”
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edited by Friedrich Vollhardt, 293–318. Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 2014.
––– “Fluchträume und Exilräume zwischen Heidelberg und Konstantinopel:
Der Fall Adam Neuser.” In Freidenker – Kriminelle – Alchemisten. Räume
des Untergrunds in der Frühen Neuzeit, edited by Mulsow, 33–60. Köln:
Böhlau, 2014.
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der Migration aus dem lateinischen Westen in das Osmanische Reich
des 15./16. Jahrhunderts auf der Grundlage von Reiseberichten. Leipzig:
Eudora, 2005.
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in the Early Modern Mediterranean.” Comparative Studies in Society and
History 51 (2009): 771–800.
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van und seine Genossen.” Neues Archiv für die Geschichte der Stadt Hei-
delberg und der rheinischen Pfalz 8 (1910): 184–259 and 9 (1911): 1–70.
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9 The many languages of the
self in the early modern
Mediterranean
Anselm Turmeda/‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān
(1355–1423) – Friar, Muslim convert
and translator
Elisabetta Benigni

Massignon’s reading of ‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān in Cairo

Cairo, 1917. French Orientalist Louis Massignon (1883–1962) was work-
ing as translator and advisor for the French government. The government
appointed him temporarily to the rank of captain for his expertise in
Arabic and his knowledge of Islam. In the political frame of the Franco-
British Sykes-Picot mission, Massignon was working on the implemen-
tation of the agreements already signed in London in 1916. During his
stay in Cairo, Massignon combined his activity as a scholar and diplo-
mat for the French government with his participation in a prayer group.
The prayer group aimed at sharing moments of contemplation between
Oriental and Latin Christians and at reinforcing belief within the local
Christian community.
In order to better understand this intermingling of scholarly, political and
missionary activities, one needs to look at the personal life of Louis Mas-
signon. When he first arrived in Cairo in 1906 as an appointed member of
the IFAO (French Institute for Oriental Archaeology), Louis Massignon was
a young, enthusiastic scholar of Islamic culture who immersed himself in
the study of Islamic tradition.1 In 1909, he left Cairo to join an archaeologi-
cal mission in Iraq. During this mission, although already culturally Chris-
tian, he went through a dramatic experience of spiritual conversion which
led him to become a convinced, believing Christian.2 Therefore, when he
returned to Cairo in 1909–1910, he was in some ways a completely differ-
ent person, someone who manifested a strong desire to actively disseminate
the message of Christianity. In Egypt, driven by his enthusiasm and desire
to manifest his new faith, he founded the prayer group that was later to
become the Badaliya Prayer Association.3 This prayer group was still active
when he went back to Cairo in 1912–1913 to deliver a course on Islamic
Philosophy at Cairo University, and in 1917 during his diplomatic mission
for the French government.4
 The many languages of the self 195
It was while participating in the wider activities of the Cairene Chris-
tian community that Massignon for the first time came across a fifteenth-
century Arabic polemic against Christianity written by a Catalan Francis-
can friar who moved to Tunis and converted to Islam. The polemic, signed
with the Arabic name of ‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān (‘Abdallāh the Translator)
and entitled Tuḥfat al-Adīb fī al-Radd ‘alā Ahl al-Ṣalīb [A Unique Find for
the Intelligent Mind: A Treatise of Riposte to the People of the Cross], was
translated by the Arabist Jean Spiro (1847–1914) with the title Le présent
de l’homme letteré puor refuter les partisans de la croix.5 The text in transla-
tion instigated a crisis of belief in a member of Massignon’s prayer group.
Massignon’s reaction to the threat of conversion to Islam of a member of
his prayer group was immediate. After having spent many nights discuss-
ing ‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān’s polemic with his Christian brother in order to
help him to overcome his crisis of faith, Massignon was able to persuade
him concerning the truthfulness of Christianity and undermined the Islamic
polemical attack through a solid academic and theological argument.6 This
argument was so convincing that his interlocutor invited Massignon to put
it in written form and to publish it.7
Massignon’s argumentative essay on the anti-Christian polemic by
the convert ‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān raises a series of interesting ques-
tions related to the act of “conversion”. Both Massignon and ‘Abdallāh
al-Turjumān were converts who defended their faith confronting the “lure”
of the “other” belief. Obviously the term “conversion” (intiqāl or tabdīl)
implies a different meaning for the twentieth-century scholar of Islam who
converted to Christianity and for the fifteenth-century friar who converted
to Islam. Conversion for Massignon meant an intimate “return” to his
Christian beliefs through the inspiration given by his knowledge of Islam
and of Arabic traditional literature. For ‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān, conver-
sion corresponded to a moment of revelation and came as a consequence
of his reading of the Gospels and of the writings of the Church Fathers,
which he claimed had been falsified and not correctly interpreted. The two
stories of conversion are, in this sense, related and symmetrical: ‘Abdallāh
al-Turjumān reached his revelation through the study of Christian texts
and Massignon was illuminated by the light of Christianity after years
spent studying Islamic tradition.
Massignon’s reading of ‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān’s story of conversion is not
merely a scholarly analysis of a medieval text but a refined theological trea-
tise with a specific spiritual aim. To analyse ‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān’s text,
Massignon applies the same methodology that he used for his studies deal-
ing with the tenth-century Sufi mystic Manṣūr al-Ḥallāj, namely the merging
of sociology, historiography and comparative theology.8 Specifically, in the
Examen du “Présent de l’homme lettré” he refers to Saint Thomas Aqui-
nas’s Summa contra gentiles, comparing Christian and Islamic theologies
within the framework of a detailed analysis of their respective languages.
196 Elisabetta Benigni
The importance Massignon gives to apologetic writing is related to his per-
ception of the genre as a spiritual “in-between” stage, in which the soul of
the reader is divided between the two realms of Christianity and Islam.9
In order to minimise the power of the seduction of al-Turjumān’s anti-
Christian polemic, Massignon attacks Muslim apologetics as ‘literalist and
destructive’ (‘littérale et destructrice’) and compares them with Christian
apologetics which he defines in contrast as ‘genuine and vivifying’ (‘réelle
et vivifiante’).10 He also tries to minimise the importance of the work by
al-Turjumān in comparison with other anti-Christian polemics.11 And yet,
despite Massignon’s attempts to downplay the significance of the Tuḥfa, his
engagement with this text clearly shows that he was intrigued by the story of
the converted friar and even concerned by its power to seduce, five centuries
later, his fellow Christian friends in Cairo.12
There is a note of irony in Massignon’s serious Christian engagement
with ‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān’s apologetics for Islam: just a few years before
he wrote his Examen, with a coup de théâtre which had a resonance
through the fields of Spanish and Catalan philology and Arabic studies,
the author of the Tuḥfa, ‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān was revealed to be the
Franciscan Friar and Catalan renowned Christian poet Anselm Turmeda.
The detail that Massignon ignored was in fact important: the author of the
anti-Christian polemic ‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān, even after his conversion to
Islam and move to Tunis, was still composing texts in Catalan addressed
to a Christian audience, signing them not only with his Christian name,
Anselm Turmeda, but also with the title of fray – the Catalan word for
friar. The conflation of the two identities of the Muslim convert and the
Christian friar aroused accusations of a double personality and a number
of controversies. The Catalan Christian literary legacy by Anselm Tur-
meda and the Arabic Islamic treatise by ‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān had had
independent circulations until the twentieth century. After it was realised
that they had been written by the same person, they were henceforth read
in conjunction, and audiences became acutely aware of the life story of
this seemingly shattered and schizophrenic character encompassing both a
Christian and an Islamic identity.
This chapter examines the problematic reception of the idea of the mul-
tiplication of identities, mobility and conversion in the early modern Med-
iterranean. I shall argue that before the era of the confessionalisation of
empires, the porous space of the Mediterranean offered to travellers and
scholars like Anselm Turmeda/‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān opportunities for the
transgression of borders and the multiplication of identities.13 This multipli-
cation was facilitated by their familiarity with many languages and by the
act of translation as variously understood. The story of Anselm Turmeda or
‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān takes place in the fluid space of the travelling of texts
and ideas, notably in the space of the circulation of languages and transla-
tions of the early modern Mediterranean.14 The tendency of modern and
 The many languages of the self 197
contemporary scholars to look at only one side of this intrinsically “double”
story, accusations of a lack of integrity that were made against him and a
mistrust in the sincerity of his conversion will be discussed in light of an
alternative paradigm which sees conversion as an act of self-translation and
as a multiplication of the languages of the self.

Multiplying the identities through manuscripts

and critical editions
The ‘liquid archive’ of the Mediterranean is rich with fictive and real stories
of conversion.15 In some parts, these two dimensions overlap. The story
of the friar Anselm Turmeda, born on the Catalan island of Mallorca and
who converted to Islam adopting the name ‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān, corre-
sponds and at the same time subverts the paradigm of a conversion nar-
rative. Whereas conversion narratives are often based on a clear divide
between two lives, the old life and the new one, Anselm Turmeda/‘Abdallāh
al-Turjumān’s life is impossible to split.16 The continuation of his Chris-
tian writings after his conversion to Islam and move to Tunis, the multi-
plications of Islamic and Christian traditions about his life and fate and,
finally, the circulation and appreciation of his two written legacies across
the modern Mediterranean are all aspects that make the life of the Catalan
friar a puzzling story. Yet, although the ‘archive of the Mediterranean’ pre-
serves the apparently contradictory two lives of Anselm Turmeda/‘Abdallāh
al-Turjumān through oral legends and literary references, the first-person
conversion narrative and polemical treatise titled Tuḥfat al-Adīb narrates
a clear-cut divide between an old and a new identity.17 This does not mean
that what al-Turjumān narrates about his life in the Tuḥfa should to be
seen as “real” in contrast to other sources and stories about his conversion.
However, the Tuḥfat al-Adīb has a specific relevance because it is the form
within which the story was narrated presumably by the author to an implied
readership.18
Places cited in the Tuḥfa’s first-person story encompass various impor-
tant centres of the Mediterranean early modern geography of learning. The
place of birth of Anselm Turmeda/‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān, Catalonia, was
the centre of the Aragonese Empire, which dominated the Mediterranean
during the fourteenth century, its maritime power confronting the Mus-
lim sultanates further along the coast. The Western Schism at the end of
the fourteenth and the beginning of the fifteenth century was a time of
great crisis with the expansion of the mendicant orders and the spread of
a polemical spirit against the material power of the Church.19 According
to what the converted friar says about himself, in the early stages of his
life he was trained to read the gospels and then he left Mallorca with the
aim of becoming a scholar.20 He first went to study in Lleida, the university
town in Catalonia and afterwards he moved to Bologna to study law and
198 Elisabetta Benigni
theology.21 During his stay in Bologna, his life suddenly took a completely
different trajectory as he decided to reject his Franciscan commitments and
to convert to Islam. This turning point occurred when his professor of the-
ology, Niccolò Martello, fell ill and did not come to class one day. Despite
the absence of the professor, the students carried on the lesson by them-
selves. Their discussion centred on the nature of the Paraclete who is men-
tioned repeatedly in the Gospel of John.22 Dissatisfied with these debates,
Anselm Turmeda/‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān went to his ill professor’s home
and summarised the students’ arguments for him.23 The professor care-
fully paid attention to him, but dismissed these judgements as fallacious.
Then, not without hesitation and fear, he secretly confessed to his student
the real nature of the Paraclete: it/he is indeed not the spirit of Christ but
Muḥammad, the Prophet of Islam.24
It should be noted that Anselm Turmeda/‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān, before
narrating the episode of his conversion, underlines in the course of narration
his intimate relation with his teacher Niccolò Martello, to the extent that he
was familiar to his house and was given access to all the rooms except for
one hidden room, whose key was prohibited to him and where the student
had assumed the many presents received by his teacher from his students are
stored.25 The motif of the key and of the prohibited room are well known
in fairy tales and folkloric accounts and it is probably from one of the
many circulating narratives that Anselm Turmeda/‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān
appropriated this idea.26 His sudden discovery of his teacher’s practice of
Islam may suggest the concrete and symbolic meaning of this ‘secret and
inaccessible’ room. If the room existed, then it is likely that it either stored
Islamic books or it may have been a prayer room. On a symbolic level, the
closed room stands for the secrecy and inaccessibility of the revelation. The
reference to the missing key remains suspended in his account and Anselm
Turmeda/‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān does not come back to this issue. How-
ever, it is important to note that the author frames the account of his stay in
Bologna and his conversion as a ‘journey of initiation’. After the shocking
revelation by Niccolò Martello, Anselm Turmeda/‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān
left Bologna, returned for a short period of some months to Catalonia, then
went to Sicily and from there finally headed towards the “other” shore,
crossing the Mediterranean in order to arrive in the lands of Islam.27 In
Tunis, after a period in which he hid his identity, he publicly confessed his
new faith and changed his name to ‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān. He eventually
married, had a child and became an important translator and diplomat in
the Hafsid court of Tunis.28
The autobiographical section in Anselm Turmeda/‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān’s
work occupies only the first part of the manuscript. The second section
contains a description of his life in Tunis and a laudatory biography of
the Sultan of Tunis Abū Fāris, whereas it is in the third part that he devel-
ops his counter-Christian polemic.29 It was the third part that attracted the
 The many languages of the self 199
attention of the nineteenth-century translator Jean Spiro and subsequently
Louis Massignon. This is a polemic against Christianity, which unfolds
through a strict argumentative logic divided into nine chapters. In chapters
one to six, the author underlines the mistakes in the Gospels. He describes
the divisions of Christians into different sects and discusses the historicity
and corruption of the formulas in the creed. He also demonstrates that the
prophecy of Muḥammad was already foretold in the Torah, Psalms and
the Gospels and discusses their subsequent corruption and incoherence.30
In chapters six and seven, he takes issue with the falsifications of the Gos-
pels and with the Christian dogmas of baptism, the trinity, incarnation,
the Eucharist and confession. He concludes by rejecting the divine nature
of Jesus as the incarnation of God.31 In the conclusion of his text, Anselm
Turmeda/underlines in the course of narration Abdallāh al-Turjumān lists
the accusations that Christians make against Muslims and argues for the
truthfulness of Muḥammad’s mission.32
The aim of this chapter is not to offer a strictly philological analysis of the
Tuḥfat al-Adīb. Many scholars have already devoted their attention to the
text, assessing with philological rigour the language, purpose and spirit of
the polemical text.33 Rather, I will present the fascinating story of the text’s
circulation, reception and re-framing across different regions of the Medi-
terranean during the early modern and modern periods.
Miguel De Epalza, who offered the first complete critical edition of ‘Abdal-
lah al-Turjumān’s work, accompanied his accurate study with a reflection on
the issues relating to the circulation and reception of the text. According to
De Epalza, the story of the circulation of the Tuḥfat al-Adīb. can be divided
into three periods.
The first period extends from 1420, when the work was initially com-
posed, to 1603, when it was translated into Ottoman-Turkish for the
Ottoman sultan Aḥmad I. Interestingly, the original Arabic manuscript is
no longer extant and the Tuḥfa is not cited in any contemporary Arabic
bibliographic or literary source. Therefore, it would appear that there is
no recorded circulation of the manuscript before 1603.34 In 1603, to cel-
ebrate the ascension of Ottoman sultan Aḥmad I, an Ottoman-Turkish
translation of the Tuḥfa was made in the semi-autonomous Ottoman prov-
ince of Tunis by Muḥammad b. Sha‘bān with a foreword by Muḥammad
Abū al-Gayth al-Qashshāsh, who subsequently delivered the text to the
Ottoman capital and presented it in person to the new sultan. The pur-
pose of this translation was clearly political with al-Qashshāsh hoping to
obtain political support and economic aid from the new Ottoman sultan.35
Al-Qashshāsh was an important political and cultural figure in Tunis, well
known for his protection of Spanish Moriscos in the region. Al-Qashshāsh
was also close to the Grand Mufti of Tunis Aḥmad al-Ḥānafī, a Spanish
Morisco who found protection in Tunis after he was expelled from Spain
and the author of many treaties dealing with Islam, jurisprudence and
200 Elisabetta Benigni
anti-Christian polemics. Given that there is no extant manuscript copy of
the Tuḥfa prior to this period, some scholars have argued that the text is a
forgery attributed to the false persona of ‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān, suggest-
ing that the Morisco al-Ḥānafī was the real author of the Tuḥfa.36 Although
the hypothesis attributing the entire authorship to Aḥmad al-Ḥānafī has
been rejected, it is likely that a Morisco, probably al-Ḥānafī himself, re-
wrote the text against the background of the political circumstances of
seventeenth-century Mediterranean after the expulsion of the Moriscos
from Spain.37 The anti-Christian polemics by Moriscos, which were mobi-
lised to support anti-Christian ideological propaganda, prepared the
ground for treatises like that of Anselm Turmeda/‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān.38
According to De Epalza, mistakes concerning the knowledge of Christian
rites and theology in the polemic, already noticed by Massignon, would be
hard to attribute to the convert Anselm Turmeda/‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān
as he had been a Franciscan friar. De Epalza instead argues that they can
be attributed to the re-writing of the text by the Morisco al-Ḥānafī and to
his inadequate knowledge of Christianity.39
This Ottoman-Turkish translation and its reception in the Ottoman
Empire ensured that the text received widespread fame. From this time
onward, various versions of the manuscript were disseminated all across
the Ottoman world, including Egypt.40 Copies of the Tuḥfa were initially
mainly produced in Tunis and Istanbul. However, the copies soon began to
be reproduced in other Ottoman provinces. References to the anti-Christian
polemic by the convert al-Turjumān appear in literary repertories and ency-
clopaedias, including Kātib Çelebī’s (1609–1657) Kashf al-ẓunūn, which
provides a summary of the content of the Tuḥfa.41 It also appears in Euro-
pean bibliographical works such as Barthélemy d’Herbelot’s Biblioteque
Orientale, which is essentially a replication of the structure and content of
the Kashf al-ẓunūn.42
De Epalza also identifies a third phase in the circulation of the manuscript.
This phase starts with the first Arabic-language anonymous edition printed
in Europe around 1875.43 This edition differs from the previous manuscripts
because of the inclusion of a modern critical commentary and the systematic
suppression of all curses against Christians and Christianity.44 It was dissem-
inated throughout libraries and book markets in Arab countries and was
also translated again into Ottoman-Turkish. Subsequently, a second and
then a third Arabic-language edition were produced in Cairo in 1895 and
1904. The first appeared under the Greek pseudonym of Spiridon Stephanos
and the third under the name of Aḥmad ‘Alī al-Malījī.45 The editor Aḥmad
‘Alī al-Malījī was specialised, together with his brother Muḥammad, in the
publication of anti-Christian polemics. These two editions were produced
in Cairo during nineteenth and twentieth centuries, when a degree of anti-
Christian polemic was fostered by some Muslim intellectuals as a response
to the change in social status of the non-Muslims in the social life of the
Ottoman Empire and to the increased presence of Protestant and Catholic
Christian missionaries.46
 The many languages of the self 201
Following the mention of the Tuḥfa in d’Herbelot’s Biblioteque Orientale
and in Flügel’s Latin translation of Kashf al-ẓunūn, the Lexicon bibliographi-
cum et encyclopaedicum (1835–1858), orientalists started to critically exam-
ine the story of the converted friar.47 In 1861, Adrien Berbugger dedicated
an article to ‘Abd allah Teurdjeman, renégat de Tunis in 1388’ [‘Abdallah
al-Turjumān, renegade from Tunis in 1388’] and, in 1885, the aforemen-
tioned French translation of the Tuḥfa was published by Jean Spiro as “Le
Présent de l’homme letteré puor refuter les partisans de la croix” in the Revue
de l’histoire des religions. Within this time interval, it is possible to locate a
number of references to Anselm Turmeda/‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān’s work in
European languages, particularly within the framework of the study of medi-
eval Islamic anti-Christian polemics.48 At any rate, it was Spiro’s translation
that gave the text notoriety in Europe. As discussed previously, a few decades
later, Massignon based his counter-polemic on this French translation. How-
ever, both Spiro and Massignon were ignorant of the fact that the Christian
identity of the author of the Tuḥfa, ‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān, was not that of
an unknown Catalan friar but was rather Anselm Turmeda, one of the best
known and celebrated poets and authors of the medieval Catalan tradition.

Enigmas and controversies: identification of a puzzling

character
Unlike ‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān’s life, which is clearly narrated in the first
person in the Tuḥfa, the life of the popular Catalan poet and writer Fray
Anselm Turmeda was for a long time surrounded by the shadows of legends
and suspended between history, popular belief and traditional narratives.
Until the mid-nineteenth century, Anselm Turmeda was only known as an
early fifteenth-century friar and the author of the famous work in Catalan
language the Libre de bons amonestaments, a collection of moral sentences
in metric form which had a widespread dissemination in the Catalan tradi-
tion. Fray Anselm Turmeda’s fame was also related to the legends of his
escape from the convent and his conversion to Islam, but he was not identi-
fied as ‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān.
The stories related to Turmeda’s conversion are available in different ver-
sions. However, there are common aspects that can be found in all these stories,
namely Turmeda’s flight to Tunis after his conversion, his re-conversion to Chris-
tianity and eventually his death as a martyr. Unlike ‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān’s
account, whose flight to Tunis coincided with his marriage and the beginning
of a happy new life as a translator for the local ruler, the legendary life story of
Anselm Turmeda is characterised by martyrdom and death in the name of the
Christian faith.
Diego Monfor i Sors’s Historia de los Condes de Urgel [History of the
Counts of Urgel], written between 1641–1650, is among the first texts that
tell the story of Anselm Tumeda.49 Monfor i Sors narrates that the Coun-
tess of Urgel had a prophetical dream about Friar Anselm Turmeda. She
dreamt about him fleeing to Tunis and abandoning the Christian faith.50
202 Elisabetta Benigni
A few decades later, the story of Turmeda, his travel to Tunis and his search
for a new faith appears in the life account of the monk Pere Marginet from
the Catalan monastery of Poblet. Marginet’s turbulent life is narrated in a
seventeenth-century chronicle about the history of the monastery of Poblet
entitled Historia de las grandezas de Poblet [History of the greatness of
Poblet] written in 1694 by Baltasar Sayol. According to Sayolon, Marginet
was born in the second half of the fifteenth century in the city of Validara to
a family of farmers. His monastic vocation led him to the Cistercian mon-
astery of Poblet. After many years living an exemplary life he abandoned
the monastery together with a monk from the nearby monastery of Mont-
blanch. This monk was known as Anselm Turmeda. According to the story
reported by Baltasar Sayolon, Marginet and Turmeda lived a dissolute life,
but eventually Marginet came back to his monastery and lived in penitence,
while Turmeda radically abandoned Christianity.51 According to Pere Serra
i Postius in his Prodigios y finezas de los Santos Angeles (1726) [Wonders
and Kindness of the Saint Angels], back in his monastery, Marginet prayed
for the salvation of his friend Turmeda.52 As a response to his prayers, some
angels visited him and brought him to Tunis on an imaginary night trip. In
Tunis, he found Turmeda preaching Islam in front of a crowd of people.
The miraculous apparition of Marginet shocked Turmeda who reconverted
immediately to Christianity.53
During the eighteenth century, the legend of Turmeda’s conversion gained
fame and circulation, particularly in books devoted to the history of Chris-
tianity in Catalonia. These works were based on the biographies of a num-
ber of key exponents of Christian Catalonia. Jaume Coll reports the same
story narrated in the Prodigios y finezas de los Santos Angeles in his book
Crónica Seráfica de la Santa Provincia de Cataluña [Seraphic Chronicle of
the Saint Province of Catalonia] written in 1738, also adding the important
detail that Turmeda was not only a friar in the monastery of San Francisco
de Montblanch, but also a “cathalán de nación” (a member of “the Catalan
nation”).54 The fact that the national identity of Turmeda is explicitly men-
tioned shows how the figure of the apostate friar and martyr was increas-
ingly associated with the rise of a Catalan identity. The bishop and scholar
Fèlix Torres Amat includes Turmeda in his dictionary of Catalan writers,
written in 1836.55 The section devoted to Turmeda includes the anecdote
about his martyrdom already recounted by Serra i Postius and Jaume Coll.56
Fèlix Torres Amat is also known as the first scholar who attributed the
authorship of two previously anonymous “classic” medieval Catalan works
to the quasi-legendary figure of Anselm Turmeda: the Disputa de l’Ase [Dis-
pute with the Donkey] and the Profecies [Prophecies].57 Both works offer
key biographical data about the author that can help in reconstructing his
double-identity.
Over the nineteenth century, the legendary and visionary aspects of Tur-
meda’s story disappeared, while philological works focussing on his legacy
 The many languages of the self 203
gained ground. Adolfo de Castro in volume 56 of the Biblioteca de autores
españoles (1873) [Library of Spanish Authors] looks at Turmeda as a disci-
ple of the theologian and Arabist Raymon Lull, and writes that Turmeda’s
works are all characterised by his ‘gran ingenio y lozanía de imaginación’
(‘great intelligence and imagination’).58 By analysing the Disputa de l’Ase
he locates Turmeda’s place of birth as Mallorca and ultimately rejects the
theory that Turmeda was killed in Tunis after his return to Christianity.
Adolf de Castro’s choice to include Turmeda and his work in his Biblioteca
de autores españoles confirms that, by the end of the nineteenth century,
Turmeda’s story was integrated into the modern national literary canon rep-
resented by encyclopaedias and dictionaries related to the history of the
Iberian Peninsula.59
The famous Spanish philologist and literary scholar Marcelino Menen-
dez Pelayo first wrote about the figure of Turmeda in his Historia de los
Heterodoxos Españoles [History of Spanish Heterodoxies 1880–1882].60
The work is a masterful investigation of the history of Spain from the
medieval period up to the end of nineteenth century, focusing on the role
and activities of writers and actors persecuted by the Catholic Church.
Historia de los Heterodoxos Españoles is infused with a strong Span-
ish nationalism, Catholicism and an anti-Krausist spirit.61 Menendez y
Pelayo defines Anselm Turmeda as ‘fraile corrompido y apóstata vicioso’
(‘a corrupted friar and vicious apostate’), but he leaves open the ques-
tion of his Islamic identity.62 Around the same period, the translation
of ‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān’s Tuḥfa by Jean Spriro was published. Spiro’s
ignorance of the story of the apostate Anselm Turmeda and his incapabil-
ity to relate him to the figure of ‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān is expressed in his
own words:

Concerning our author (i.e. ‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān), we do not know

anything but the narrative he offers. Despite all our efforts, we do not
know more than this. We are ignorant of his name before conversion
and the year of his death. We only know that he is buried in Tunis
and his tomb, located in the middle of the market of saddlers, is still
today widely venerated. Arab authors also do not add anything to our
knowledge.63

A decisive step towards the conflation of the two identities was accomplished
in 1900 with the publication of a document of safe-conduct issued by Alfonso
V. The document was produced in 1423 for Anselm Turmeda/‘Abdallāh
al-Turjumān, allowing the circulation of ‘nostrum fratem Antelmum Tur-
meda alias acaydum Abdalla’ (‘our brother Antelmum Turmeda also called
Abdalla’).64 This document provided historical evidence concerning the leg-
ends about Anselm Turmeda/‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān and connected the two
names for the first time.
204 Elisabetta Benigni
A further step towards the convergence of the two divided legacies into
one character came with the publication of Orígenes de la novella [Ori-
gins of the novel] in 1905 by Marcelino Ménendez Pelayo.65 The works
by the apostate friar Anselm Turmeda, writes Ménendez Pelayo, ‘contain
many enigmas and contradictions, so that literary criticism just recently
began to clarify them’ (‘presentan tales enigmas y conraddiciones, que bien
puede decirse que la crítica apenas comienzas a dilucidarlas’).66 However,
an accurate double check of the date in the safe-conduct and the biographi-
cal details offered in the Disputa and the translation of the Le Présent de
l’homme lettré – which had just recently circulated in Europe in the transla-
tion by Jean Spiro – led Ménendez Pelayo to solve the enigma, arguing that
the Catalan poet Turmeda and the Muslim apostate author of the Tuḥfa
‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān were in fact the same person.67 However, by solving
the enigma, Ménendez Pelayo also raised a plethora of questions. Ménendez
Pelayo’s argument complicated the picture, shedding light on the complex
identity of a Muslim convert who maintained a strong connection to his
Christian identity. All the Christian works by Anselm Turmeda/‘Abdallāh
al-Turjumān are written in Catalan and only the Tuḥfa is in Arabic: his
encounter with Islam, which is likely to have occurred in 1386, apparently
did not prevent al-Turjumān from authoring Christian works as Friar Tur-
meda after his conversion.
The Llibre dels bons amonestaments [The Book of Good Precepts]
is dated April 1398, eleven years after Anselm Turmeda/‘Abdallāh
al-Turjumān’s conversion and settlement in Tunis.68 It is curious that this
poetic work found its way back to Catalonia and was read and taught
as national literature, despite the fact that it was written in Tunis. It was
highly popular in Catalan-speaking areas until the late nineteenth century
where its author was known in schools as franselm (from “fra Anselm”).
The allegorical and autobiographical poem Cobles de la divisió del Regne
de Mallorques (1398) [Cobles on the partition of the Kingdom of Majorca]
was written at the same time as the Llibre dels bons amonestaments.69
Composed of 123 stanzas in rhyme, it has political and civic undertones.
In a short introduction, Anselm clarifies that the work had been written
upon the request of Majorcan traders. As the title suggests, the work had
a clear and direct Majorcan audience. The case of the Disputa de l’Ase
[The Dispute of the Donkey], which I will discuss in the next section, is
even more difficult to decipher.70 This text was probably written in 1417,
although it was banned by the Spanish inquisition for a long time and only
published much later in Lyon, at the beginning of the seventeenth century,
in a French translation. As I will discuss in the next section, the work was
interpreted as a proof of Anselm Turmeda/‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān’s con-
version to Islam and knowledge of Arabic. It was seen as plagiarism from
an earlier Arabic work and as the epitome of the inherent contradictions
in the author’s life.
 The many languages of the self 205
Making one out of two: Anselm Turmeda and ‘Abdallāh
al-Turjumān
‘The majority of the hilarious and huge contradictions highlighted by the
biographers of Turmeda came from their a priori assessment about his
apostasy. Their interest aimed either at negating or admitting his apostacy,
or at refusing or mitigating its relevance and they did not put any effort
in understanding its real meaning’.71 This judgement was spelled out by
Agustín Calvet, a scholar writing in 1914, showing how Turmeda’s apos-
tasy was, just a few years after Menendez Pelayo’s discovery, at the centre
of lively and heated discussions. The juxtaposition of the identity of Anselm
Turmeda with that of ‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān raised a series of questions
related to his “duplicity”. This “duplicity” was intensified by the fact that
all the Catalan works attributed to Turmeda, although they were sometimes
imbued with an anti-clerical polemical tone common at that time, did not
express any evidence of sympathy towards Islam and did not openly men-
tion his conversion.72 Apart from a few details about his location in Tunis
and his Arabic name, he never explicitly refers to his conversion.73 Even
more significantly, despite the fact that in the Tuḥfa he condemns the Chris-
tian concept of the Trinity and criticises all four Gospels as mendacious,
in his Catalan writings, he openly recommends belief in the Trinity and
the Catholic Church.74 Given this ambiguity, when philologist Menendez y
Pelayo recognised Anselm Turmeda as the author of the Tuḥfa and related
the Arabic anti-Christian polemic to the Catalan Christian legacy of the
Franciscan friar, he questioned the personal integrity of both Anselm and
‘Abdallāh, raising obvious questions about his sincerity and accusations of
ambiguity. Facing the puzzling evidence that Anselm’s Christian works were
completed after his conversion to Islam, critics attributed his conversion to
opportunism, philosophical indifference or material desires rather than sin-
cere faith. In line with his disclosure, Menendez y Pelayo in his Orígenes de
la Novela defined Anselm/‘Abdallāh as a ‘corrupt friar’, and a ‘vicious apos-
tate whose conscience fluctuates between the Muhammadan law to which
he apparently belongs and defends and Christianity, which he never rejected
from the depth of his soul’.75
In 1914, the Spanish Arabist Asín Palacios echoed the negative judgement
of Menendez Pelayo in his comparative analysis of Turmeda’s work La Dis-
puta de l’Ase.76 Written in the Catalan language in 1418, only two or three
years before the Tuḥfa, La Disputa de l’Ase, is a Christian philosophical and
allegorical text in which Turmeda compares the virtues of men and those of
beasts. As suggested by the title, the work presents a dispute between a friar
and a donkey. In the lively debate, other animals occasionally intervene. The
friar named Anselm – a literary construction of the author – defends the
superiority of human nature over beasts through a series of examples. How-
ever, Fray Anselm’s attempts to prove the superiority of man over beasts
206 Elisabetta Benigni
fail as the donkey offers a prompt answer to all his examples. Anselm’s last
attempt to silence the crowds of wise animals leads him to claim that God’s
incarnation was into the body of a human being (Jesus Christ) and not
into a beast. Disputa de l’Ase’s sarcastic and irreverent tone was strongly
revaluated in a nineteenth-century movement called the Catalan Renaix-
ença promoted by Valentí Almirall.77 Although the Catalan original had
not survived because it was banned and interdicted by censorship, the text
was reassembled and retranslated into Catalan in the twentieth century on
the basis of the earliest surviving version, a French translation published in
Lyon in 1554.78 At the time in which the text was fully re-integrated in the
Catalan national canon, Anselm Turmeda’s work started to be regarded as a
masterpiece within Catalan literature. Its philosophical and picaresque tone
was considered a manifestation of the genius loci of Catalan literature and
Turmeda a precursor of Rabelais and Disputa de l’Ase, a Catalan counter-
part of Boccaccio’s Decamerone.79
Asín Palacios’s scorn towards Turmeda’s Disputa was not only a result
of the apostasy of the friar; he also accused Turmeda of being a plagia-
rist who largely drew the inspiration and the content of his work from
an Arabic source. Asín Palacios defined the work of Anselm Turmeda
as ‘plagio estupendo’ (‘wonderful plagiarism’) or ‘plagio ejemplar’ (‘an
exemplar of plagiarism’).80 In order to support his accusation, he lists a
series of textual correspondences in order to demonstrate that the Dis-
puta de l’Ase is largely taken from the tenth-century Arabic work Tadāʿī
al-ḥayawānāt ʿalā al-insān ʿinda malik al-Jinn [The Case of the Animals
versus Man before the Jinn]. The work is preserved in volume twenty-one
of the collection of al-Rasā’il [The Epistles] known to be composed by
the famous tenth-century group of thinkers and scholars Ikhwān al-ṣafāʾ
[The Brethren of Purity]. On the basis of similarities between the two
works, Palacios alleged that Turmeda’s work was a forgery, and refused
to grant Turmeda even the merits of originality and intelligence (‘pronun-
ciada originalidad – mucho ingenio y agudeza’) that Menendez Palayo
acknowledged the Catalan friar possessed.81 According to the Spanish
Arabist: ‘Turmeda is not even an intelligent translator. Apart from his
devaluation and degradation of the rigorous solemnity of the Arabic apo-
logue, his rough and pedestrian style and the poverty of his vocabulary
prevent him from translating in a faithful manner the delicate filigree of
literary Arabic’.82
Asín Palacios’s scorn for Turmeda can be explained by situating his
criticism in the wider context of the philological and intellectual debates
of the beginning of the twentieth century, which demonstrated the Ara-
bic origins of Christian medieval literature.83 According to this strand of
thinking, which was infused with the spirit of comparativism and positiv-
ism, medieval Christian authors such as Dante, Raymon Lull, Juan de
la Cruz, “assimilated” Islamic literary models and integrated them into
 The many languages of the self 207
Christianity. However, Asín Palacios views Anslem Turmeda as an excep-
tion to other Christian authors and accuses him of plagiarism. His double
Christian and Islamic identity elicited in Asín Palacios a profound sense of
disconcertion. Instead of considering the possibility of there being a genu-
ine coexistence of the two faiths, Asín Palacios claimed that the simulta-
neous Arabic and Catalan writings of the converted friar derive from his
‘audacious ambition of acquiring fame as a writer in both religious tradi-
tions and literatures’ which he pursued by ‘appropriating works that did
not belong to him and falsifying those works considered his own literary
production’.84
The first two decades of the twentieth century saw the emergence of
studies grappling with the enigmatic figure of Turmeda, his “duplicity”
and the “originality” of his works. In the same year as Asín Palacios’s El
Original Árabe de la “Disputa del Asno” was published, Agustín Calvet
published his book Fray Anselmo Turmeda: Heteodoxo Español [Friar
Anselm Turmeda: A Spanish Heterodox]. The position of Calvet differs
from that of Asín Palacios. He did not consider Turmeda an exceptional
case of ambiguity and deception; rather, he regarded Turmeda as a scep-
tic, a representative of the Averroistic spirit that informed the university
of Bologna and North Italy around the end of the fourteenth century.
From the perspective of Agustín Calvet, the Disputa does not differ sub-
stantially from the Tuḥfa: both works were created within the context of
cultural crisis which characterised the medieval period, paving the way for
the rational spirit of Renaissance. According to this teleological perspec-
tive, Turmeda is not an exception but is the figure who most eccentrically
embodied the culture of rationalism and the widespread criticism of the
Church during the Renaissance:

Taking into account the moral and religious decadence of his times,
the figure of Anselmo loses much of his extravagant originality but he
becomes perfectly understandable. He appears . . . as a characteristic
embodiment of the spirit of his century: religious and Christian by tra-
dition, instinctively rationalist, passionate about occultism, a sceptic,
sensual; a confused mix animated by flashes of wonderful sarcasm, by
a deep and instinctive lust for life, a weak but unequivocal sign of the
proximity of the Renaissance.85

In the light of these different views, who is Anselm Turmeda/‘Abdallāh

al-Turjumān? Is he an apostate, a plagiarist, a completely schizophrenic fig-
ure or is he a living illustration of an age of crisis and of the beginning of
the Renaissance, as argued, for instance, by Agustín Calvet? Moreover, how
should we judge his conversion if, according to the dates of his texts, it did
not bring about a full detachment from his previous self but rather a multi-
plication of selves?
208 Elisabetta Benigni
Translating the languages of the self
Asín Palacios’s accusation of plagiarism is problematic for various rea-
sons, starting with the fact that works created in the manuscript culture
of the medieval period and in the intricate web of interconnection and
mutual influence that characterised the medieval Mediterranean are alien
to the contemporary notion of intellectual property.86 As María Lourdes
Alvarez points out, we can go further in the analysis, examining the
extent to which we can distinguish an act of “translation” or assimi-
lation of models as opposed to “imitation” as well as asking who the
legitimate or authentic “inheritors” of literary, philosophical or cultural
traditions might be.87 The concept of literary “originality” and of legiti-
mate “inheritors” are, as she observes, still central to many discourses
of national, ethnic and religious identity, despite the fact that positivist
philology and catalogues of “influences” have been repudiated by most
medievalists.88
The important questions of originality and translation raised by
María Lourdes Alvarez can be also applied to other works by Anselm
Tumeda/‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān produced in Tunis after his conversion
to Islam: The Libre de bons amonestaments – 1394 [The Book of Good
Advice], for instance, is a Catalan adaptation of the Italian thirteenth cen-
tury work Dottrina dello Schiavo di Bari.89 To be sure, issues of trans-
lation, language and textual analysis play an important role not only in
Catalan works by Turmeda but also in his refutation of Christianity, the
Tuḥfat al-Adīb. On the one hand, the Tuḥfa’s themes such as naskh (abro-
gation) in the unfolding of prophecy and taḥrīf (falsification) of scriptures
by Jews and Christians can be traced back to the template of Islamic anti-
Christian polemical literature. On the other hand, its main argument is the
resort to language as a source of authenticity. Anselm Tumeda/‘Abdallāh
al-Turjumān’s knowledge of languages and original texts and his ability to
read the languages of the Gospels and to translate them is viewed as one of
his most important qualities.90
The entire life and the legacy of Anselm Turmeda/‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān
both in Catalan and in Arabic represent a challenge to positivistic pre-
tensions of “originality” and “purity”, thus offering the opportunity for
a deep intellectual engagement with the theory of translation and textual
sources. In light of his ability to switch between languages and faiths,
we may tentatively argue that the answer to the puzzling question of
his double faith can be found in his identity as a translator. Turmeda/
al-Turjumān’s ability to translate and switch forms, languages and beliefs
was an integral part of his own life, as his own Arabic second name
al-Turjumān indicates. In this sense, instead of looking for the “real”
Anselm Turmeda/‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān, Islamic or Christian, we may
assume that his authorship and authority is based on his inherent duality
 The many languages of the self 209
as both Muslim and Christian, both convert and translator. This dual-
ity can perhaps only be appreciated if we consider his conversion as a
process of re-interpretation of the self through inclusion rather than as a
process of transforming the self through exclusion, an act similar to that
underlying a translation process. Rather than seeing him as an eccen-
tric isolated case, the close semantic relationship between conversion
and translation invites us to challenge the conventional understanding
of conversion and to transcend the line of a rigid separation between
languages and religious beliefs.
Along these lines, biography of this seemingly fragmented figure of an
Islamic-Christian friar and translator, prompts a rethinking of the rela-
tionship between “conversion” and “translation” as both concepts and
practices. Translation studies, especially since the work of Walter Benja-
min, has stressed that translation is not just a verbatim movement across
words and languages, but also a process of transformation that occurs
inside the text and between the translator and the text.91 The perfect
translator is indeed one who is capable of transforming himself or herself
(self-translating) in the very act of translation. From this perspective,
Anselm Turmeda/‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān epitomises the linkage between
the two concepts. His life’s trajectory is characterised by the movement
from one religious practice to another, by his determination to transform
the self and finally by the construction of a new and different whole,
which nevertheless still retains pre-existing features, in a complex con-
frontation between originality and innovation. In the story of Anselm
Turmeda or ‘Abdallāh al-Turjuman, conversion is the process of refash-
ioning an identity out of a multiplication of languages and narratives,
an identity that comes into being in the fluid space of translation and
mobility. The search for the true identity of Anselm Turmeda/‘Abdallāh
al-Turjumān in the nineteenth and twentieth century, the anxiety to
identify the original sources of his works and even the polemics sur-
rounding his Arabic work are a clear illustration of the difficulties in
appreciating the promise of self-fashioning and personal enrichment that
characterised the act of conversion and translation in the Early Modern
Mediterranean.

Notes
1 In Cairo, Louis Massignon was asked by the director of the IFAO, Gas-
ton Maspero, to study the field research conducted by the Institute on the
area of Darb al-Aḥmar. His personal interests, however, led him to abandon
the topographical research in Darb al-Aḥmar and to participate in French
archaeological missions all over Egypt. Massignon’s life in Egypt was also
characterised by his passionate friendship with the Spanish nobleman con-
vert to Islam Luis de Cuadra (1877–1921) whom he met on board the ship
210 Elisabetta Benigni
that brought him to Egypt. See Louis Massignon au coeur de notre temps,
ed. Jacque Keryell (Paris: Karthala, 1999), 154.
2 During his mission in Iraq, Massignon was thrown in prison by Ottoman-
Turkish authorities on suspicion of being a spy. According to Massignon’s
diary, in a night of utter desperation and after attempting suicide, he was
saved by Christianity. The importance of his knowledge of Arabic and Islam
in his becoming Christian is stressed in his diary. He claims to have pro-
nounced his first prayer in Arabic and that during the night of his conversion
he received a visit from ‘a man with a green turban’ (‘Seyyid à turbant vert’)
who read for him verses from the Qur’an. Daniel Massignon, Le voyage en
Mésopotamie et la conversion de Louis Massignon en 1908 (Paris: CERF,
2001), 145–6.
3 See Louis Massignon, Badaliya: Au nom de l’autre 1947–1962 (Paris: CERF,
2011).
4 Louis Massignon, Cours d’Histoire des Termes philosophique arabes: 25
novembre 1912–24 avril 1913 (Le Caire: I.F.A.O., 1983).
5 The translation was published in a series of anonymous articles in the Revue
de l’histoire des religions in 1885 with the title “Le présent de l’homme let-
tré pour refuter les partisans de la croix, par Abd-Allāh ibn Abd-Allāh, le
Dragoman,” Revue de l’Histoire des religions 12 (1885): 68–9; 180–201;
279–301. In 1886, the articles were collected and published in Le présent
de l’homme lettré puor refuter les partisans de la croix, par Abd-Allāh ibn
Abd-Allāh, le Dragoman (Paris: Ernest Leroux, 1886). Massignon uses this
translation to construct his argument and did not consult the Arabic origi-
nal. See Daniel Massignon, “Cours de Louis Massign au Collège de France
sur l’apologétique musulmane” in Louis Massignon, Examen du “Présent
de l’homme lettré” par Abdallah Ibn al-Torjoman (Roma: P.I.S.A.I., 1992),
79.
6 Foreword by Daniel Massignon to Louis Massignon, Examen du “Présent
de l’homme lettré” par Abdallah Ibn al-Torjoman (Roma: P.I.S.A.I., 1992),
vi–vii. The name of Abdallāh Ibn al-Turjūman used by Massignon is a mis-
take, it should be ‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān. The misspelled name is already in
Jean Spiro who translated the work from the edition by Aḥmad ‘Alī al-Malījī
(Cairo: 1904) which contains the mistake.
7 The typewritten theological counter-polemic entitled Examen du “Présent
de l’homme lettré” [Examination of the “Présent de l’homme lettré”]
remained for a long time unpublished. Despite Massignon’s efforts in con-
structing a strong theological argument to dispute the converted Muslim
polemicist’s position, he was concerned that there were some shortcom-
ings with regard to Christian theology. As a consequence, he sought offi-
cial approval for his arguments from scholars of theology and theologians
that he knew. He first hoped that Father Albert Lagrange (1855–1938) –
the Dominica founder of the École Biblique in Jerusalem whom he met in
Rome in 1918 – might read the text. However, Albert Lagrange was too
 The many languages of the self 211
absorbed by his work, and in 1924–1925, he gave the manuscript back
to Massignon accompanied only by some minor remarks. Determined to
publish his text, Massignon approached his friend and scholar of Thom-
ism Jacque Maritain, but Maritain did not show an interest in the text.
He also tried unsuccessfully to give the manuscript to some of his students
but none of them was prepared to discuss Massignon’s text in the manner
that he expected. See Daniel Massignon, Examen du “Présent de l’homme
lettré”, viii.
8 Manṣūr al-Ḥallāj and Islamic Mysticism were the subjects of Louis Mas-
signon’s doctoral thesis: La Passion d’al-Hallāj [The Passion of al-Hallāj]
and Essai sur les origine des termes techniques de la mystique musulmane
[Essay on the Origins of Technical Terms of Muslim Mysticism]. The two
volumes of the dissertation proofs were sent to Louvain in 1914 to be pub-
lished but were destroyed in a fire caused by bombing. Massignon had to
rewrite his work on the basis of his notes and he published them in 1921 and
1922. See Louis Massignon La Passion d’al-Hallāj (Paris: Geuthner, 1922)
and Essai sur les origine des termes techniques de la mystique musulmane
(Paris: Geuthner, 1922).
9 He describes the soul shattered between two friends: ‘Son ami musulman
demeure résolument impassible. . . . Son ami chrétien l’observe avec compas-
sion’. Massignon, Examen, 63.
10 Ibid., 39.
11 According to Massignon, Examen, 63, the Tuḥfah lacks al-Warrāq’s ‘sub-
tilité philosophique’ (‘philosophical finesses’), Ibn Ḥazm’s ‘souplesse acé-
rée’ (‘acute elegance’), Ibn Rushd’s ‘plenitude dogmatique’ (‘dogmatic
strength’) or Ibn Taymiyyah’s ‘violence concentrée’ (‘solid violence’). Mas-
signon’s interests in anti-Christian apologetic writings is also testified by the
course he offered in 1927–1928 at the Collège de France on Histoire de
l’apologétique musulmane au-dedans et au-dehors [The History of Muslim
Apologetic from the Inside and Outside].
12 Massignon’s lack of confidence in publishing his apologetics was driven by
his desire to adhere as far as possible to Christian orthodoxy. Until the end
of his life, he continued to manifest his doubts, as testified in a letter to his
son Daniel Massignon, written many years after the drafting of Le Présent
de l’homme letteré: ‘I am not sure if some aspects of Catholic theology that
I exposed are completely orthodox. I have unsuccessfully tried to submit the
text to expert theologians. Facing my doubts, I abstained from publishing it
until now’. Just before his death, Massignon gave his son Daniel permission
to publish the text. And so he did, and in 1992, the book was published in
Rome with the help and supervision of Father Henri Cazalles. The letter is
included in Daniel Massignon’s foreword to Louis Massignon, Examen du
“Présent de l’homme lettré”, ix. The translation into English is mine.
13 From this moment onward, I will refer to the double name Anselm Turmeda/
‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān to underline the coexistence and mutual interaction
212 Elisabetta Benigni
of the two identities in one life and legacy. For the use of the term confes-
sionalisation, see Tijana Krstic, Contested Conversions to Islam Narratives
of Religious Change in the Early Modern Ottoman Empire (Stanford: Stan-
ford UP, 2011), 100 and Illuminated by the Light of Islam and the Glory of
the Ottoman Sultanate: Self-Narrativesof Conversion to Islam in the Age of
Confessionalization in Comparative Studies in Society and History, Vol. 51,
No. 1 (Jan., 2009), pp. 35–63.
14 For an intercultural perspective on the study of the life and the legacy
of Anselm Turmeda, see: Robert Beier, Anselm Turmeda: eine Studie zur
interkulturellen Literatur Bonn, Romanistischer Verlag, 1996.
15 On the concept of “liquid archive”, see Iain Chambers, Le molte voci del
Mediterraneo (Milano: Cortina, 2007). See also Peter Matvejevic, Mediter-
ranean: A Cultural Landscape, trans. Michael Henry Heim (Berkeley: Uni-
versity of California, 1999).
16 On conversion as a second birth, see the pioneering studies on conversion
and its psychological impact by William James, Writings 1902–1910 (New
York: Library of America, 1987). See also Gerald Peters, The Mutilating
God: Authorship and Authority in the Narrative of Conversion (Amherst:
University of Massachusetts Press, 1993).
17 See Dwight Reynolds, Interpreting the Self: Autobiography in the Ara-
bic Literary Tradition (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001),
194–201.
18 I consider here Gérard Genette’s distinction between histore and récit dis-
cussed by Ryan Szpiech, Conversion and Narrative. Reading and Religious
Authority in Medieval Polemic (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania
Press, 2013), 4. See also Gérard Genette, Narrative Discourse: An Essay in
Method, trans. Jane E. Lewin (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1980),
26–7.
19 The Western Schism or Papal Schism was a divide within the Roman Cath-
olic Church between the Roman and the French cardinals which lasted
from 1378 to 1417. During these four decades, the Western Church was
divided into rival camps headed by two – and eventually three – competing
popes. The schism was ended by the Council of Constance (1414–1418).
The Schism provoked a profound anxiety among the ordinary faithful
and clerical circles. Mystics, poets and prophets of that period often read
the schism as an apocalyptic sign of the end times, represented icono-
graphically by images of the divided Church as a two-headed monster or
a suffering widow. See Renate Blumenfeld-Kosimski, Poets, Saints, and
Visionaries of the Great Schism, 1378–1417 (Philadelphia: University of
Pennsylvania Press, 2006); and Michael A. Ryan, “Byzantium, Islam, and
the Great Western Schism,” in A Companion to the Great Western Schism
(1378–1417) ed. Joëlle Rollo-Koster and Thomas M. Izbicki (Leiden and
Boston: Brill 2009).
 The many languages of the self 213
20 Anselm Turmeda, La Tuḥfah, autobiografia y polémica islámica contra el
Cristianesimo de Abdallāh al-Taryumān (Fray Anselmo Turmeda) ed. Míkel
de Epalza (Roma: Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, 1971). Reprinted as Fray
Anselmo Turmeda (Abdallāh al-Taryumān) y su polémica islamo-cristiana:
Edición, tradución y estudio de la Tuḥfa, (Madrid: Hiperión, 1994). In this
chapter, I am using the first edition (1971).
21 Turmeda, La Tuḥfah, 211.
22 Ibid., 213.
23 Ibid., 215.
24 Ibid., 217.
25 Ibid., 211. The idea that the presents received by Niccolò Martello were
stored in a hidden room in the house can be read as a subtle polemic against
the wealth and corruption of the clergy. This kind of polemic was wide-
spread at that time and the author refers to it in his Catalan work La Dis-
puta de l’Ase that will be discussed later in this chapter.
26 On the psychoanalytic interpretation of the motif, see the classic work by
Bruno Bettelheim, The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance
of Fairy Tales (New York: Knopf, 1976).
27 Turmeda, La Tuḥfah, 223.
28 Ibid., 231.
29 For the biography of the sultan of Tunis, see Turmeda, La Tuḥfah, 231–71,
for the polemic, see 273–497.
30 Ibid., 273–403.
31 Ibid., 405–49.
32 Ibid., 451–97.
33 The first critical edition was produced by Miguel de Epalza in 1971. For a
more recent engagement with the content of the text, see Ryan Szpiech, “The
Original is Unfaithful to Translation: Conversion and Authenticity in Abner
of Burgos and Anselm Turmeda,” eHumanista 14 (2010): 146–77 and also
Ryan Szpiech, Conversion and Narrative. Reading and Religious Author-
ity in Medieval Polemic (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 2013),
174–213.
34 De Epalza, La Tuḥfa, 43–7.
35 Ibid., 48.
36 Ibid., 49.
37 Ibid.
38 Mikel De Epalza, “Notes puor une histoire des polémiques antichrétiennes
dans l’Occident musulman,” Arabica 18 (1971): 99–106.
39 De Epalza, La Tuḥfa, 49. On the fascinating story of the Ottoman translation
of the Tuḥfa see: Tijana Krstić, Reading Abdallāh b. Abdallāh al-Tarjumān’s
Tuḥfa (1420) in the Ottoman Empire: Muslim-Christian Polemics and Inter-
textuality in the Age of “Confessionalization”, in AL-QANTARA XXXVI
2, julio-diciembre 2015 pp. 341–401.
214 Elisabetta Benigni
40 Copies of the manuscripts circulating in the Ottoman world were also
transmitted to western Europe. According to De Epalza, the original copy
donated to the sultan – or one very close to the original – is today in the
Library of Leiden University (Leiden: Cod. or. 432). Curiously, the copy is
part of the Levi Warner collection. This collection had already arrived at
Leiden’s library by 1665. De Epalza, La Tuḥfa, 50.
41 Muṣtafā b. ‘Abdallāh Kātib Celebī Ḥājjī Khalīfa, Kashf al-ẓunūn ‘an asāmī
al-kutub wa al-funūn (Baghdad: Maktabat al-Muthannā, 1941) I: 362.
42 Barthélemy d’Herbelot, Biblioteque Orientale (Maestricht: Dufour &Roux,
1776), 883.
43 According to the studies of De Epalza and Jean Spiro, this edition was printed in
Great Britain. See De Epalza, La Tuḥfa, 53 and Spiro, Le présent de l’homme let-
tré, 5.
44 De Epalza, La Tuḥfa, 53.
45 ‘Abdallāh Ibn al-Turjumān, Tuḥfatu al-Arīb fī Radd ‘alā Ahl al-Ṣalīb
supplemented by ‘The Strange Question’ a reply to the ‘People of the
Cross’, ed. Aḥmad ‘Alī al-Malījī (Cairo, 1904) quoted in Arthur Jeffery,
“A collection of anti-Christian books and pamphlets founds in actual
use among the Mohammedans of Cairo,” The Muslim World 15 (1925):
26–37, 32.
46 On anti-Christian polemics published in early twentieth-century Egypt, see
the edition of the Gospel of Barnabas by Rashīd Riḍā (1908) based on Lons-
dale and Laura Ragg trans., The Gospels of Barnabas, (Oxford: Clarendon,
1907). See Jeffery, “A collection of anti-Christian books,” 33–5. See also
Umar Ryad, “Muslim Responses to Missionary Literature in Egypt in the late
Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries,” in The Character of Christian-
Muslim Encounter: Essays in Honour of David Thomas, ed. Douglas
Pratt, Douglas Pratt, Jon Hoover, John Davies and John Chesworth (Lei-
den: Brill, 2015), 292–312. See also: Krstić, Reading Abdallāh b. Abdallāh
al-Tarjumān’s Tuḥfa, 370.
47 Gustavus Flügel, Lexicon bibliographicum et encyclopaedicum a Mustafa
ben Abdallah Katib Jelabi, dicto et nomine Haji Khalfa, celebrato composi-
tum. Ad codicum Vindobonensium, Parisiensium et Berolinensis (London:
Printed for the Oriental translation fund of Gt. Brit. & Ireland, 1835–58),
vol. 2, 220.
48 Adrien Berbrugger, “Abd Allah Teurdjman, renégat de Tunis en 1388,”
Revue Africaine 5 (1861): 261–75; Moritz Steinschneider, Polemische und
apologetische Literatur in arabischer sprache (Leipzig: Brockhaus, 1877),
15, 34–5, 409; Ignaz Goldziher, “Ueber muhammedanische Polemik gegen
Ahl al-kitāb,” Zeitschrift der Deutsches Morgenlandischen Gesellschaft 32
(1878): 375–6; Thomas W. Arnold, The Preaching of Islam (Westminster:
Constable, 1896), 454–9; Ignazio Di Matteo, “Il “taḥrīf” od alterazione
della Bibbia secondo i musulmani,” Bessarione 26 (1922): 243–6; “Le pre-
tese contraddizioni della sacra scrittura secondo Ibn Ḥazm,” Bessarione 27
(1923): 77–127; La predicazione religiosa di Maometto e i suoi oppositori
 The many languages of the self 215
(Palermo: Tipografia Stella, 1934); Erdmann Fritsch, Islam und christentum
in Mittelalter. Beiträge zur geschichte der Muslimischen polemik gegen das
christientum in arabischer sprache (Breslau: Müller & Seipfert, 1930); Mar-
tin Schreiner, “Zur geschichte der Polemik zwischen Juden und Muhamme-
daneren,” Zeitschrift der Deutsche Morgenlandischen Gesellschaft 42
(1888): 591–675.
49 Diego Monfar y Sors, Historia de los condes de Urgel, escrita por Diego
Monfar y Sors, y publicada de real órden por Próspero de Bofarull y Mas-
caró (Barcelona: J.E. Monfort, 1853), vol. 2, 453.
50 See Manuel de Montoliu, Eiximenis, Turmeda i l’inici de l’humanisme a
Catalunya: Bernat Metge (Barcelona: Editorial Alpha, 1959), 66.
51 de Montoliu, Eiximenis, 66.
52 Pedro Serra y Postius, Prodigios y finezas de los Santos Angeles hecha en el
principio di Calaluña (Barcelona: Jayme Surià: 1726), 178.
53 Serra y Postius, Prodigios y finezas, 177.
54 Jaume Coll, Crónica Seráfica de la Santa Provincia de Cataluña (1738), cited
in de Montoliu, Eiximenis, 67.
55 Fèlix Torres Amat, Memoria para ayudar a formar un diccionario critico de
los escritores catalanes y dar alguna idea de la Antigua y moderna literature
de Cataluña (Barcelona: Imprente de J. Verdaguer, 1836), 635.
56 Torres Amat, Memoria, 635.
57 de Montoliu, Eiximenis, 67.
58 Adolfo de Castro, Biblioteca de Autores Españoles, LXV (Madrid:
Rivadeneyra, 1873), 20.
59 de Montoliu, Eiximenis, 68.
60 Marcelino Menendez Pelayo, Historia de los Heterodoxos Españoles
(Madrid: Imprenta de F. Maroto e hijos, 1880–1882).
61 The Spanish philosophical movement called ‘krausismo’, which was based
on the thought of the German philosopher Karl Krause (1781–1832), was
characterised by a belief in pantheism and the harmonic rationalism of the
world and of human societies. The elitism and pantheism of krausism was
strongly criticised by Menendez Pelayo. See María José Rodríguez Sánchez
de León, ed., Menéndez Pelayo y la literatura: estudios y antología (Madrid:
Verbum, 2014), 32.
62 Menendez Pelayo, Historia, cited in de Montoliu, Eiximenis, 67.
63 Spiro, Le Présent de l’homme letteré, 4.
64 Aguiló Mariano Y Fuster, ed., Cançoneret de les obretes en nostra lengua
materna mes divulgades durat los segles XIV, XV, e XVI (Barcelona: Àlvar
Verdaguer, 1884–1900) cited in Agustín Calvet, Fray Anselmo Turmeda:
Heterodoxo Español (Barcelona; Estudio, 1914), 41.
65 Marcelino Ménendez Pelayo, Orígenes de la Novela (Madrid: Casa Edito-
rial Bailly-Bailliere, 1905–15).
66 Ménendez Pelayo, Orígenes, I: CV. The translation is mine.
67 Considering what the author of the Tuḥfat al-Adīb (written in 823 H. /1420
A.C.) writes about his life, his conversion and settlement in Tunis, Anselm
216 Elisabetta Benigni
Turmeda/‘Abdallāh al-Turjumān probably moved to Tunis in 1387. On the
basis of this information, all the works written in Catalan were produced
after his conversion.
68 Anselm Turmeda, Llibre dels bons amonestaments (Valencia: Manuscrito
del Ateneo Barcelonés, 1594) and other editions.
69 Anselm Turmeda, Cobles de la divisió del Regne de Mallorques, first pub-
lished in Aguiló Mariano, ed., Cançoneret de los obretes (Barcelona: Àlvar
Verdaguer, 1900) and other editions.
70 First edition, Disputa d’un ase contra frère Anselme Turmeda, touchant la
dignitè, noblesse et preminance de l’homme par devant les autres animaux.
Utile, plaisante et recreative à lire et ouyr. Il y a aussi une prophetie dudit
Asne, de plusieurs choses qui sont advenues et advennient encor iournel-
lement en plusiurs contrees de l’Europe, dez l’an 1417, auquel temps ces
choses on esté escrites en vulgaire Espanol, et depuis traduites en langue
Française. Tout est revue et corrige de nouveau (Lyon: Pampelune puor Guil-
laume Buisson, 1606) and other editions.
71 Calvet, Fray Anselmo, 35.
72 See, for instance, strophe 22 of the Llibre de bons amonestaments in which
Anselm Turmeda advises the audience to mistrust Franciscan and Domini-
can friars. Bernat Metge – Anselm Turmeda, Obres minors, ed. by M. Olivar
(Barcelona, 1927), 144–59.
73 Only three passages in his work account for his residence in Tunis and his
Arabic name: See Szpiech, The Original is Unfaithful to the Translation,
164.
74 Armand Llinares, Introduction to Anselm Turmeda. Dispute de l’Ane (Paris:
Librairies Philosophique, 1984), 3; Szpiech, The Original is Unfaithful, 164.
75 ‘Fraile corrompido’, ‘vicioso apóstata, cuya conciencia fluctúa entre la ley
mahometana que esteriormente profesa y defiende; el cristianesimo, al qual,
en fondo de su alma, no rinunció nunca’. Menendez Pelayo, Orígenes de la
Novela (Madrid: Casa Editorial Bailly-Bailliere, 1905–1915) I: 174.
76 Asín Palacios, “El Original Árabe de la “Disputa del Asno Contra Fr.
Anselmo Turmeda,” Revista de Filología Española 1 (1914).
77 Valentí Almirall, Lo Catalanisme (Barcelona: Libreria de Vraguer, 1886).
78 The reconstruction of the Catalan text based on the French translation was
completed by R. Foulché-Delbosc, “La disputation de l’Asne (Anselm Turm-
eda),” Revue Hispanique 24 (1911): 358–479.
79 See Lluis Deztany, “Introduction” to Llibre de Disputacio de l’Ase contra
fraire Encelm Turmeda, (Barcelona: J. Horta, 1922).
80 Asín Palacios, “El Original Árabe de la “Disputa del Asno Contra Fr.
Anselmo Turmeda,” Revista de Filología Española 1 (1914): 1, 2.
81 Palacios, “El Original Árabe,” 3.
82 ‘Ni siquiera le resta a Tirmeda el mérito de un modesto adaptador
inteligente, porque aparte de la torpeza y mal gusto con cuje empeque-
ñeció y rebajó la seriedad solemne del apólógo árabe, su estilo vulga-
rísmo y pedestre y la inopia de su léxico no le permetieron verter fiel
 The many languages of the self 217
y exactamente las delicadas filigranas del árabe literario’. Placios, “El
Original Árabe,’ 51.
83 See Elisabetta Benigni, “Dante and the Construction of a Mediterranean
Literary Space. Revisiting a 20th Century Philological Debate in Southern
Europe and in the Arab World.” In a special issue of Lingua Franca: Toward
a Philology of the Sea, edited by Michael Allan and Elisabetta Benigni,
forthcoming in Philological Encounters 2 (2017).
84 Ibid.
85 Agustín Calvet, Fray Anselm Turmeda: Heterodoxo Español (Barcelona:
Estudio, 1914), 141.
86 María Lourdes Alvarez, “Beastly Colloquies: Of Plagiarism and Pluralism
in Two Medieval Disputations between Animals and Men,” Comparative
Literary Studies 39/3 (2002): 180. María Alvarez Lourdes quotes the study
of Everette E. Larson as an example of a work which points to the common
practice of textual borrowing in the medieval period. See Everette E. Larson,
“The Disputa of Anselmo: Translation, Plagiarism or Embellishment?” in
Josep Maria Solà Soli: Homage, homenaje, homenatge: Misuldnea de estu-
dios de amigosy discpulos, ed. Antonio Torres Alcala, Victorio Aguera and
B. Smith Nathaniel (Barcelona: Puvill, 1984), 285–96.
87 Alvarez, “Beastly Colloquies,” 180.
88 Ibid.
89 The Dottrina dello schiavo di Bari [Doctrine by the Slave from Bari] was
composed in the first half of thirteenth century by the jester known as “schi-
avo di Bari”. It is a poem composed of 77 strophes characterised by a strong
moralistic and didactic tone. Francesco Zambrini, ed., Dottrina dello Schi-
avo di Bari, secondo la lezione di tre testi antichi a penna (Bologna: Romag-
noli, 1862). On the translation of the text by Turmeda/al-Turjumān into
the Libre de bons amonestaments, see Jordi Rubió y Balaguer, Història de
la literatura catalana (Montserrat: L’Abadia de Montserrat, 1984), 395;
Juan Pedro Monferrer Sala, “Fray Anselmo Turmeda,” in Christian-Muslim
Relations. A Bibliographical History, ed. D. Thomas and A. Mallett vol. 5
(1350–1500) (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 327.
90 Szpiech, “The Original is Unfaithful to Translation”, 158; Krstić, Contested
Conversions to Islam.
91 Walter Benjamin, “The Task of the Translator,” in Walter Benjamin. Selected
Writings. Volume I 1913–1926, ed. M. Bullock and M. W. Jennings (Cam-
bridge, MA: Belknap Press, 1996), 253–63.

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