Christianity and Violence in the Middle Ages and Early Modern Period: Perspectives from Europe and Japan 9783110643978, 9783110639988

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Fernanda Alfieri, Takashi Jinno (Eds.) Christianity and Violence in the Middle Ages and Early Modern Period

Studies in Early Modern and Contemporary European History

Edited by FBK – Istituto Storico Italo-Germanico/ Italienisch-Deutsches Historisches Institut

Volume 3

Fernanda Alfieri, Takashi Jinno (Eds.)

Christianity and Violence in the Middle Ages and Early Modern Period

Perspectives from Europe and Japan

ISBN 978-3-11-063998-8 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-3-11-064397-8 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-3-11-064018-2 ISSN 2629-3730 Library of Congress Control Number: 2021930525 Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2021 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Cover illustration: Provided by Amakusa Christian Museum, Amakusa City, Japan Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck www.degruyter.com

Contents Fernanda Alfieri and Takashi Jinno Introduction   1

I. Seminal ideas Debora Tonelli From Divine Violence to Religious Violence. A Socio-Political Interpretation of Exodus 15   19 Vincenzo Lavenia Holy Scripture, Theology, and Violence. Terror and Samson in the Early Modern Era  35 Serena Ferente “Nothing violent can last”: Nature, Violence, and Political Legitimacy in a Scholastic Formula  55 Takashi Jinno Tyrannicide as an Act of Divine Justice. The Doctrines of Tyrannicide of John of Salisbury and Juan de Mariana  63

II. Changing Meanings Fernanda Alfieri “Violentia” and the Devil. Early Modern Narratives of Demonic Possession and Catholic Anthropology  81 Morihisa Ishiguro Violence and Covenant in Machiavelli’s Thinking 

 95

Taku Minagawa Peace According to the Political Theologians of the Holy Roman Empire at the End of the Thirty Years’ War  107

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III. Theories and Practices Yuga Kuroda Reconquista and Muslim Vassals. Religion, Politics, and Violence on the Medieval Iberian Peninsula  127 Kazuhisa Takeda The Global Expansion of Christian Violence in the Old and the New World. From Early Church Fathers to the Jesuits   143 Atsuko Hirayama Religion and Violence in the Christian Mission in Early Modern Japan   Giovanni Ciappelli The Privateering by the Knights of Saint Stephen against Turks and Barbary Pirates. Violence and Religion in Seventeenth-Century Printed News Narratives   181 Contributors

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Fernanda Alfieri and Takashi Jinno

Introduction

1 Why the interest? The purpose of this book is to explore the connection between violence and religion via case studies from Christian Europe straddling the medieval and Early Modern ages, as well as looking at Japan during the period of missionary Christianization. It does not set out to construct any universally valid explanatory models, nor to deny or confirm the existence of an essential link between violence and religion. The attempt to circumscribe the concepts of violence and religion proved decidedly arduous for scholars1; that operation, it emerged, brings in its train the danger of wanting to arrive at a-historical, universally valid categories. That – as has recently been pointed out – is particularly the case with religion, when examined in association with violence. Common sense, egged on by political thinking, would tend to see religion as a special driving force, unlike the secular areas of economics and politics – something above all specific times or settings. Its intrinsically anti-pluralistic, divisive nature is supposedly based on an irrational core: a mysterium tremendum et fascinans2, essential and intuitive, irresistible and non-negotiable, capable of enhancing life or expunging it. The “myth”3 of a strong religion-violence association is thought to act on several

1 On the relativity of violence as a concept, depending on the viewpoint of the victim, author or witness, D. Riches, The Anthropology of Violence, Oxford 1986. For a historiographical balance, see the chapter “Violence”, in F. Benigno, Words in Time. A Plea for Historical Re-thinking, London 2017 (originally published as Parole nel tempo. Un lessico per capire la storia, Roma 2013), pp. 19–38. S. Carroll (ed.), Cultures of Violence. Interpersonal Violence in Historical Perspective, Basingstoke / New York, 2007. For an idea of the ubiquity of violence in the ancien regime, see J.L. Castellano / J. Lozano Navarro (eds.), Violencia y conflictividad en el universo Barroco, Granada 2010. On religion, S. Subrahmanyam, La “religion”, une catégorie déroutante: perspectives depuis l’Asie du Sud, in “ASDIWAL. Revue genevoise d’anthropologie et d’histoire des religions”, 9, 2014, pp. 79–90; C. Taylor, The Polisemy of Religion, conference held at the Institut für die Wissenschaften von Menschen, Vienna, published as Che cos’è la religione? La polisemia di un concetto contestato, in “Annali di studi religiosi”, 20, 2019, pp. 9–22; A. Taves, Religious Experience Reconsidered. A Building Block Approach to the Study of Religion and Other Special Things, Princeton NJ 2009. 2 The concept can be traced back to R. Otto, Das Heilige. Über das Irrationale in der Idee des Göttlichen und sein Verhältnis zum Rationalen, Breslau 1917. 3 See W.T. Cavanaugh, The Myth of Religious Violence. Secular Ideology and the Roots of Modern Conflict, Oxford / New York 2009, taking his cue from United States policy towards the Middle East, as of the Nineties. Translation: Ralph Nisbet and Cactus Communications Japan Note: Paragraphs 1 and 2 are by Fernanda Alfieri. Paragraph 3 is by Takashi Jinno. Paragraph 4 was jointly written. https://doi.org.10.1515/9783110643978-001

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levels: for example, in domestic politics, legitimating the marginalization of certain religious groups as being potentially violent; or in foreign politics, causing us to see our enemies as peculiarly backward and blameworthy for the violent streak such backwardness will surely exhibit: “they” have failed to draw the line between politics and religion, hence “their” violence is irrational, stemming from fanaticism, whereas our violence is rational as being secular, and legitimate because it is a bulwark against theirs. In short, we bomb “them” so that their societies shall throw off the violent, totalizing yoke of religion and become secular, hence democratic. Stigmatizing religion as “other” and inclining to fanaticism – as opposed to the rational pacifism of secularism – seems in this perspective to have taken root during development of the modern liberal nation-state, and serves to separate loyalty to God from loyalty to the State, relegating religion to the private sphere. To prevent potential partisan exploitation of the idea that religion is associated with violence, there has been a proposal that we resort to “the sacred” in Émile Durkheim’s sense: something sui generis, standing outside the transaction order, not to be queried, not barterable. So it is that a sacred belief ends up not just in the religious but in the political domain, where the violence that emerges is the more ferocious as it is based on a non-negotiable value, like all “-isms” (not just monotheism, but totalitarianism, extremism in various forms)4. Yet one can hardly deny that religious faith has historically been used (and still is) as a crucial factor in launching and legitimizing acts of violence against human beings: warfare, terrorism, persecution, forms of martyrdom seeing religion as an object that is to be enforced or rooted out, or as an unquestioned value criterion that justifies division between outsiders and insiders, those irrefutably in the right and those irredeemably in the wrong5. Religious violence is not just a bomb attack claimed 4 M.D. M. Francis, Why the “Sacred” is a Better Resource Than “Religion” for Understanding Terrorism, in “Terrorism and Political Violence”, 28, 2016, pp. 912–927. 5 The idea that all religions are intrinsically violent in nature emerges from the comparative approach adopted by M. Kitts / M. Juergensmeyer / M. Jerryson, Introduction: the Enduring Relationship of Religion and Violence, in M. Kitts / M. Juergensmeyer / M. Jerryson (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Religion and Violence, Online Publication Date: Mar 2013. According to the historian of the ancient world A. Momigliano, Empietà ed eresia nel mondo antico, in “Rivista storica italiana”, 83, 1971, pp. 771–791, it was Christian monotheism that saw heresy as the ultimate enemy, paving the way for an unprecedented surge of ferocity in wars against this particular opponent. The medievalist D. Nirenberg, Communities of Violence: Persecution of Minorities in the Middle Ages, Princeton NJ 1996, considers religious violence to have underpinned all relations between minorities and majorities in medieval Iberia: “quotidian, strategic, controlled, stabilizing” (p. 249). In the third part of his work, Moral Purity and Persecution in History (Princeton NJ 2000), sociologist B. Moore Jr. also covers the main Asian religions but concludes that it was only the encounter with Jewish monotheism that caused episodes of religious violence in that setting. To philosopher P. Sloterdijk, Gottes Eifer: Vom Kampf der drei Monotheismen, Berlin 2007, the three monotheisms contain a germ of violence exploding with particular force whenever they meet – something that contemporary society must learn to defuse. Aspects of religious violence have recently been detected

Introduction 

 3

by an allegedly fundamentalist group, or a war declared and waged in defense of one’s religion under threat, or by way of just requital for an insult to one’s God (all stock arguments dating from time immemorial). Violence is also when a holy book is brandished by a politician to justify repression of behavior that infringes some code of ethics purportedly coinciding with God’s will – a wrathful God to be avenged by men before His vengeance is unleashed upon the community that failed to preserve its own integrity – for which it is answerable to Him. In recent years world news has presented more and more instances of such stances. If – by way of abstraction and at the risk of banality – we take religion as the connection with the supernatural divine, formalized as set rituals and a code of behavior governing relations with one’s neighbor, inner self and the natural world; and violence as an act of force causing physical and emotional harm; then we may glimpse some common and constant factors in the inexhaustible historical catalogue of both phenomena: both spheres necessarily entail definition of boundaries and relations among hierarchies. In short, violence and religion touch the heart of social organization6. This may help explain both the close and common link between them – a sort of apparently perfect fit – and the long-standing interest that link has aroused in historians and the humane sciences in general7.

2 A special brand of monotheistic violence? Perspectives from European historiography One of the most powerful and problematic writings on the links between religion and violence these last few years comes from the German Egyptologist Jan Assmann8. Like the other authors cited in this introduction, he has not necessarily served as a guide while the chapters that follow were being drafted. But his proposal, which can only be summarily treated here, touches nodes that will emerge in various ways in the essays collected in this volume. Assmann distinguishes five forms of violence. The in the history of Buddhism and Confucianism by T.D. DuBois, Religion and Violence in East Asia, in R. Antony / S. Carroll / C. Pennock (eds.), The Cambridge World History of Violence, vol. 3: AD 1500– AD 1800, Cambridge 2020, pp. 493–512. 6 R. Antony / S. Carroll / C. Pennock, Introduction to Volume 3, in R. Antony / S. Carroll / C. Pennock (eds.), The Cambridge World History of Violence, pp. 1–14. 7 “Human relations are one of the main things Christianity is about and any Christian notion of the world will include a notion about the state of human relations in it”. This comment on the work of Peter Brown, The Body and Society, comes from J. Bossy, Vile Bodies, in “Past and Present”, 124, 1989, 1, p. 185 (pp. 180–187). 8 Assmann’s theories are highly debated. Part of the debate is contained in R. Schieder (ed.), Die Gewalt des einen Gottes. Die Monotheismusdebatte zwischen Jan Assmann, Micha Brumlik, Rolf Schieder, Peter Sloterdijk und anderen, Berlin 2014.

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first is based on primary emotions like anger, greed and fear, which translate into vendetta, defense and might-is-right; in such violence individual claims have priority. The second is legal violence. It serves to eliminate primary violence and is based on objective law which sets the needs of the individual before collective grounds of argument. The third is state violence: its enemy is external, an “other”, seen as irreducibly different by ethnic origin, gender and faith. The fourth is sacrificial violence: it is performed in the name of religion, including polytheistic forms, and serves to learn the will of god and propitiate the run of worldly events, averting misfortune. It is based on a set ritual performed by a priest who may even kill, sacrificing a pure victim to the divinity – something the god relishes. True or false does not come into his actions, but they are found in the fifth form, religious violence, which seems to find monotheism intrinsically suited to it. Said to be guided by divine will, it acts on the basis of a necessary distinction between enemies and friends, that is, those abiding by the truth and those abiding by falsehood9. To practice such violence one need not be a priest (though priests have a monopoly on ritual in pagan religions): potentially it could be anyone who embraces the true faith which not only admits of no mingling with other “truths” but demands of the faithful that they devote their whole lives to it, in their outer and inner behavior, their habits and thoughts, body and soul10. In Assmann’s interpretation, the distinction between the people living by the truth and others living a lie (the “Mosaic distinction”) is codified for the first time in Deuteronomy (not in the Bible, a transitional text containing lingering forms of pre-monotheistic religion)11. Upstream of that came the turning point that most deeply marked the world we still inhabit12: the move from religions tied to some particular society, to universal religions – from polytheism to monotheism. This was no gradual descent of the latter from the former, but a sudden revelation of truth, codified in a corpus of sacred texts. These last can be turned to for confirmation of the true way of proceeding and the need to fight the enemy. But who is the enemy? And where is he to be found? The books of the Old Testament often tell of atrocious acts of religious violence committed in order to crush domestic enemies, idolaters lurking amid the Hebrew people (as in the famous episode of the golden calf in Exodus 32). The covenant the chosen people have entered with God entails eradicating all truck with paganism, and God’s answer when offended knows no bounds. Assmann looks on this and other episodes of religious violence recorded in sacred texts not as traces of historical events but as history that has filtered down in the course of memory. A memory that

9 J. Assmann, Monotheismus und die Sprache der Gewalt, Wien 2006. 10 J. Assmann, Totale Religion. Ursprünge und Formen puritanischer Verschärfung, Wien 2016. 11 J. Assmann, Moses the Egyptian. The Memory of Egypt in Western Monotheism, Cambridge MA 1997; J. Assmann, Die Mosaische Unterscheidung. Oder der Preis des Monotheismus, München 2003 (in which he summarizes and replies to the criticisms aroused by Moses the Egyptian). 12 An axial turning point in the famous definition by K. Jaspers, The Origin and Goal of History, London 1949.

Introduction 

 5

bases its inexhaustible symbolic power on not being exactly reconstructible as to details, so that it takes on an archetypal dimension that lasts in time and molds the collective image store for centuries to come. With its proselytizing ardor Christianity has universalized the need for distinction, which must be valid for all mankind. Whoever is reached by the evangelical message and rejects its truth remains beyond the pale. But can one remain outside the circle of the “distinct”? Can one withdraw from the truth that saves humankind from damnation? The historical variants on the compelle intrare recorded in the pages that follow show that rejection to be inadmissible. Hence the religious violence of Christian monotheism will turn against the Other as an external enemy. What interests Assmann, lending weight to his approach, is not so much the reconstruction of fact, but the focus on powerful mental models and images the embracing of which has led, over the centuries, to the distinction between Jews and pagans, Christians and pagans, Christians and Jews, Muslims and infidels, orthodox and heretics13. The fact is that medieval and early modern European history is so imbued with religious violence that a kind of nexus emerges between religion and violence, such that one can hardly talk of one without the other14. The perspective sketched so far has omitted some other aspects that historians have unearthed in recent years. These need to be mentioned if the picture is to be captured in all its dynamic complexity. One such is the moderating effect of Christianity on inter-individual violence: for as a “total religion” its insistence on full acceptance of its values naturally includes personal behavior. Now whereas, following Max Weber, many twentieth-century historians in Europe and the United States focused especially on the violence bound up with the developing modern State which – in Weber’s widely-adopted scheme of things – grounded itself primarily on acquisition of a monopoly on violence, as of the last years of the century there has been growing interest in the extra-institutional dimension of power, forms of violence which, though not regulated by codes and formal structures (such as apply to war between states fielding armies, or legal violence being meted out by lawcourts), are nonetheless accepted in social custom and practice. Examples are feuds and vendettas, violent phenomena that are now viewed by scholars as intrinsic to state-building.

13 J. Assmann, Die Mosaische Unterscheidung. 14 One unfortunately not translated work, among many on this theme, is A. Prosperi, Il seme dell’intolleranza. Ebrei, eretici, selvaggi: Granada 1492, Roma / Bari 2011. The focus is on the year 1492, conventional threshold of the early modern era, a caesura between periods marked by a triple political institutionalizing of violence: completion of the Reconquista by the Spanish Catholic monarchy and the expulsion of the Jews, systematic persecution of heresy, the beginning of the conquest of America accompanied by enforced conversions. Respectively, three icons of otherness: Jews, heretics, and Indios. Beneath the peculiar violence against them, justified on religious grounds, was a spirit of universalism that set the need for spiritual salvation above preservation of earthly life.

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This focus on the cultural and social side to politics has revealed religion at work in regulating violence perpetrated by private individuals. From the thirteenth century onward – it has been shown – theological tracts and sermons proliferated in Europe on the theme of the just vendetta, something permissible only when the satisfaction of anger was tempered and action pursued a just cause (such as civil tranquility). The studies show that this form of disciplining, blending introjection of behavioral patterns based both on Christian morality and on worldly codes of honor, had a marked impact in moderating instances of private violence: it gave them a ritual form which may not have steered them towards the lawcourts (the solution often being sub-judicial) but in the upshot calmed them down15. What needs to be remembered, though, is that these churchmen (like the famous Dominican preacher from Valencia, Vincent Ferrer 1350–1419), urged people to moderate the violence of their revenge, while encouraging war with no holds barred against Muslims and sodomites16. It all depended on the nature of the target: these last enemies deserved full-scale religious violence as being radically “other”, diabolical not human. Against such an opponent the right style of vendetta is the Old Testament God’s, avenging the offence of idolatry and sin against nature. The violence that such sinners call down on themselves is the translation in human terms of the terrifying power of an exceedingly wrathful God. His reaction is to be averted by expunging, or avoiding contamination with, the impure – something so different that it cannot be assimilated17. This volume is plural in its very nature. It deliberately welcomes sensibilities that differ by experience of life, scientific background, cultural and linguistic origins. The profoundly interrelated world of historiography has brought contacts and exchanges across far-flung physical latitudes. But much still needs to be built. There was a need for a study of the link between violence and religion in medieval and early modern European history by historians with different backgrounds and viewpoints: for example, where religion was not necessarily seen as monotheism, in contrast with

15 S. Carroll, Violence, Civil Society and European Civilisation, in R. Antony / S. Carroll / C. Pennock (eds.), The Cambridge World History of Violence, pp. 660–678; recently, P. Broggio / S. Carroll, Introduction. Violence and Peacemaking in Early Modern Europe: A Comparative Perspective, in Violenza [special issue] “Krypton. Identità, potere, rappresentazioni”, 5/6, 2015, pp. 4–9. M. Nassiet, La violence. Une histoire sociale. France, XVIe-XVIIIe siècles, Seyssel 2011, pp. 152–154. This viewpoint discusses the great interpretation by N. Elias, The Civilizing Process, New York 1978, 1982, 2 vols. (original edition Basel 1939). On this line of thinking, P. Prodi / W. Reinhard (eds.), Il concilio di Trento e il moderno (Annali dell’Istituto Storico Italo-Germanico in Trento. Quaderni, 45), Bologna 1997. 16 V. Lavenia, Convertire e punire? Ancora su teologia, Inquisizione e sodomia nella prima età moderna, in F. Alfieri / V. Lagioia (eds.), Infami macchie. Sessualità maschile e indisciplina in età moderna, Roma 2018, pp. 23–50. 17 See B. Moore Jr., Moral Purity and Persecution in History, who draws on M. Douglas, Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo, London 1966.

Introduction 

 7

the long-standing authoritative trend18 of European and western historiography. That trend is, of course, amply reflected by the studies collected here: it has its rationale, and the intention is not to belittle it or regard it as outmoded. However, placing it in dialogue with other experiences may hopefully enhance its explanatory potential – and the process could be reciprocal.

3 Weak interrelationships between religion and violence? Perspectives from Japanese historiography One significant point of this joint study is that the Japanese contributors maintained a constant awareness of how the problems associated with religion and violence in the medieval Christian world compare to medieval Japanese society. In other words, were conflicts between religious and secular authorities in Japan’s medieval society similar to those we see in medieval Europe? Temples in ancient and medieval Japan housed warrior monks, and these monks challenged secular authority. In the late middle ages, there were frequent religious revolts, such as Ikkō ikki (一向一揆, fifteenth-sixteenth century revolts or autonomous groupings supported by the Jōdo Shinshū 浄土 真宗 sect of Buddhism). These events could be of great interest when compared with similar events in medieval Europe. However, medieval Japanese society never experienced conversion enforced by violence, such as medieval Europe was subjected to, or such fierce conflict between state and religious forces. The lack of a clear relationship between religion and violence is hence a crucial difference between European and Japanese societies of the medieval and early modern periods. 18 Without wishing to drag in genealogy by the short hairs: in exploring the reasons for Christian cruelty in wars of the time, Erasmus of Rotterdam’s adage Dulce bellum inexpertis (War is a Treat for Those Who Have not Tried It, 1515) pinpointed Jewish monotheism as the matrix of that uniquely ferocious brand of violence, religious, which the message of the Gospels might have transcended, had it not blended with Aristotelian philosophy and Roman law, or been twisted to fit arguments of ancient and modern theology. See Opera omnia Desiderii Erasmi Roterodami, ordinis secundi tomus septimus (II–7), Amsterdam et al. 1999, containing Adagiorum Chilias quarta, pars prior, adage no. 3001, pp. 12–44. In the Querela pacis (The Complaint of Peace, 1517) Erasmus notes the paradox between the strength of the Gospels’ message of peace and the ferocity of wars among Christians. But in that work even the “Lord of Hosts”, i.e. “the God of the Jews”, is not violent. He draws on an “army of virtues, by the aid of which pious men defeat vice”, while the target of his destruction is evil thoughts; see Opera omnia Desiderii Erasmi Roterodami, ordinis quarti tomus secundus, Amsterdam / Oxford 1977, p. 70 (pp. 59–100). As we know, only a few years later Niccolò Machiavelli would claim that Christianity had enfeebled men’s spirit in being incapable of rallying citizens to arms, unlike the religion of Rome. On the debate over the lawfulness of war from ancient times down to the present, see R. Bainton, Christian Attitudes Toward War and Peace. A Historical Survey and Critical Re-evaluation, London 1960.

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In Japan, when Buddhism became the primary religion in society, even though there was already a religion in place, there was no violent elimination of pagan customs or forced conversions from Jingi (神祇, the old name of Shinto 神道 that is the indigenous faith of Japanese people; it remains Japan’s major religion alongside Buddhism) to Buddhism. Instead, a new religious system developed through a merger of the existing Jingi religion with Buddhism. Again, Japanese Buddhist organizations resisted the kind of political power seen in the medieval Christian world for reasons related to their essential doctrine. Radical doctrines that tolerate violence as a means of achieving God’s will are not found in Japanese religion19. In the sixteenth century, Christianity spread throughout Japan and temporarily gained a large number of followers. However, it was later eradicated by the early modern Tokugawa government for “reasons of state” comparable to the practice of early modern European states20. During the early modern period Japan instituted a system that required citizens to become supporters of a particular Buddhist temple, and religion became subordinate to the state. Due to these factors, there are some similarities in the issues of religion and violence experienced by both medieval and early modern Japanese and European societies, but there are also major differences, and a comparative study could uncover many new issues related to this topic21. In this sense, our paper could potentially contribute significantly to the scholarly understanding of the issues of religion and violence in medieval and early modern Japanese society through future comparative investigations. Even with this potential for Japanese and European comparisons, one must be aware of the major differences between Japanese and European history. This becomes clear in a review of Japanese research investigating religion and violence. Few studies on medieval and early modern Japanese history describe the kind of dynamic relationships between religion and violence elucidated by scholars of European history. This is because in medieval and early modern Japan there was no tradition of intensely violent resistance to religious ideology, as there was in Europe. A monotheistic faith with strict doctrines, like Christianity, did not exist in medieval Japan. In an overwhelming number of cases, issues involving religion and violence have been analyzed in terms of power relationships between rulers and communities. These studies, limited in number, have confined themselves to addressing “customs”

19 A. Yoshie, Shinbutsushugo 義江彰夫『神仏習合』 [Syncretistic fusion between Shinto and Buddhism], Tokyo 1996. 20 K. Takase, Kirishitannoseiki 高瀬弘一郎『キリシタンの世紀』[Japan’s Christian century], Tokyo 2013. 21 It is worthy of mention that K. Asakawa, a Japanese Professor of History at Yale, contributed to the review of the research on religion and society in the Japanese Middle Ages in the “Annales” in the 1930s. He wrote from the viewpoint of comparison between Japan and Europe. See K. Asakawa, La place de la religion dans l’historie économique et sociale du Japon, in “Annales d’histoire économique et sociale”, 5, 1933, 20, pp. 125–140.

Introduction 

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and practices that have a religious origin. Certainly, while much research has been published regarding Ikkō ikki, most of it has a community-studies focus (regarding rural self-governing bodies (Sōson,惣村), or it focuses on local leaders (Machishu, 町衆), etc. Hardly any studies have delved deeply into religious doctrine and thought. In early modern Japan, with the exception of Christian-led religious uprisings such as the Shimabara Rebellion (島原の乱, 1637–38), religious violence hardly ever became an issue because both Buddhism and Shinto lost their independence as they were incorporated within the Edo (江戸) government’s feudal system (Bakuhantaisei, 幕藩体制). Certainly, there were several cases of religious violence in medieval Japan, but these did not involve intensely violent resistance based on religious doctrine as in Europe. Related studies focus on national history, and little research is rooted in doctrine or the structure of religious organization(s). Nevertheless, recent Japanese research has presented some novel viewpoints on religion and violence. One example is Chisato Kanda’s The Warring States Period and Religions22. This book recognizes the existence of a transcendental philosophy in Japan’s Warring States period, namely Tendō (天道, the “Heavenly Way” or supreme god), a way of thinking which does not concern rulers and the ruled and transcends Buddhist sectarianism. Kanda believes that the unique character of Japanese religious awareness is captured if one posits a shared belief in Tendō as situated at the pinnacle of a polytheistic gods system. Sanae Murai’s The Emperor of Japan and the Prohibition of Christianity23 argues that, in the midst of confrontation between religions, the Emperor of Japan was seen as an embodiment of Tendō in the conception outlined above for the Warring States period although the emperor of Japan did not have almost any real political power in those days. Recent Japanese studies such as those on religion and violence have rejected the idea proposed by prior research that a European-style concept of nation also existed in Japan, a nation-state concept which, as it were, contained religion. Instead, these studies have indicated the key significance of the Emperor in bringing unity to the different religious faiths. More than anything, it was the September 11, 2001 terrorist incidents that not only shook the world, but also aroused Japanese interest in the issue of religion and violence. For Japanese academics there has been a spate of research examining religion and violence since the September 11 terrorist attacks. Huntington24 considered the 9/11 terrorist attack and subsequent religious terrorism to be a “Clash of Civilizations” between the Christian and Muslim worlds, but this interpretation is still a topic of 22 Ch. Kanda, Sengokutoshukyo 神田千里『戦国と宗教 』 [The warring states period and religions], Tokyo 2016. 23 S. Murai, Tennotokirisutokyokinsei 村井早苗『天皇とキリスト教禁制 』 [The Emperor of Japan and the prohibition of Christianity], Tokyo 2000. 24 S.P. Huntington, The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of World Order, New York 1996. As a criticism of Huntington’s thesis, see W.T. Cavanaugh, The Myth of Religious Violence.

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debate among scholars in Japan and worldwide. However, in both Japan and Western countries scholars have recognized that the dyadic opposition of modern Christian rationalism and Muslim fundamentalism proposed by Huntington was insufficient to explain the core nature of problems relating to religion and violence. In other words, there are limitations to the extent that modern secular nations can be compared with violent religions by way of explaining the cause of religious terrorism, and this viewpoint has become widely accepted worldwide. In response to these conditions, Japanese scholars have conducted research related to religion and violence. Within this research, the collaborative project led by Susumu Yamauchi25, which focused on religion and violence in European history, is important in directly addressing the issues in question – because it moves straight into the problems that it presents. However, the study adopted an uncritically modern viewpoint and criticized Euro-centric political thought and the idea of state and civil society in its handling of issues of religion and violence. Furthermore, it did not focus on empirical historical research; rather, it applied social science theory to the medieval and early modern Christian world. However, the aim of the chapters collected in this book is different. Our project recapitulates the legal and political history perspectives of Yamauchi et al., strengthens the basis of historical study in an empirical research project, and expands its scope beyond Europe to Colonial Latin America and East Asia. If we consider the research that scholars have produced in Japan, very few studies have examined problems associated with religion and violence from a historical perspective, or analyzed them as a factor in the formation of world history. Religion is peaceful at times and violent at others, and its nature changes with the conditions of the current era. Many scholars argue that theology and philosophy are super-historical manifestations of religious phenomena. Researchers have also begun to examine the things that separate historical studies from political science, which analyses religious problems as a facet of international politics. With these things in mind, the contributors used the medieval Christian world as an example to analyze the mechanisms of mutual interaction between Christianity and society which both generates and suppresses violence, our aim being to add a new perspective to investigating the topic of religion and violence. In this connection the medieval Christian world is of particular interest to us since the link between religion and violence is far more striking there than in the reli-

25 S. Yamauchi et al., Bouryoku-hikakubunmeishitekikosatu 山内進ほか編『暴力―比較文明史的考 察 』 [Considerations on violence from the perspective of comparative cultural history], Tokyo 2005; S. Yamauchi, Bunmeihabouryokuwokoerareruka 山内進『文明は暴力を超えられるか』[Can civilizations overcome violence?], Tokyo 2012. The joint research led by Yamauchi stems from the researchers’ interest in how social norms were established in early modern Europe. Their particular focus is on how violent aspects of Christianity (as evidenced by the Crusades, etc.) were restrained during Europe’s modern period as modern nations became established.

Introduction 

 11

gious worlds of Japan and East Asia during the same period. In the medieval Christian world, nation and church were one and the same, and understanding problems of political violence is impossible without examining their links to religion. As a Christian, you participated in and were a member of a society or community. Religious wars such as the Crusades and Reconquista sought to convert believers from other religions to the “correct” faith and thus bring them into the Christian fold. Additionally, being Christian meant that you participated in and were a member of society, and one of the purposes of religious wars was to convert believers of other religions in the surrounding areas to the “correct” faith. The study of religion and violence in the medieval Christian world will hold great value for historical studies, while analysis of these topics from the perspective of Japanese scholars, not Western ones, will form an important part of their contribution. In all chapters of this volume, the discussion tries to trace the theme of Christianity and violence through history. Japanese Scholars do not see a similar interaction of religion and violence in the world of Japanese religion, a point that we made from the outset of the project. Japanese history relates to world history, and we hope the analysis offered from this different perspective will be a stimulus arousing the interest of European researchers.

4 Case studies: Image store, theory and practice The essays that follow fall into three sections. The first is devoted to seminal ideas. It begins with the biblical text and explores how images of religious violence were accepted in the long early modern era. It also analyses medieval political treatises, unearthing arguments that will help define the theoretical link between religion and violence over the centuries. Deborah Tonelli (Chapter 1: From Divine Violence to Religious Violence: A Socio-Political Interpretation of Exodus 15) traces the theme of divine violence to its source in Exodus 15, the biblical reference point allegedly justifying it. The assumption is that such topoi contribute to a community’s sense of its own history and collective belonging. This is especially true of religious topoi, since religion is bound up with belonging to an “us” as opposed to an “other”. What is the role here of divine violence as described in the Old Testament? A neat combination of political science and religious studies is employed to shed light on the interpretation of “divine violence” as a way to legitimate religious – that is human – violence. Vincenzo Lavenia (Chapter 2: Holy Scripture, Theology, and Violence. Terror and Samson in the Early Modern Era) addresses the issue of the genealogy of religious terrorism through the popularity and rewriting of the story of Samson (Book of Judges, 13–16) in the early modern age. It starts from the religious wars in Flanders and France and arrives at the Samson Agonistes by Milton (1671). The sources considered are

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prayers and pamphlets, but also engravings and pictorial images. As we shall see, the figure of Samson intrigued not only the most ardent members of the Protestant and the Catholic front, but also some seventeenth-century Marranos writers. John Donne used the figure of Samson and the account of his death to justify the morality of suicide, quoting the De civitate Dei (I, 21). Augustine, in fact, was the first to legitimize sacrificial suicide in the case of idolaters as being ordained by God, considering it a rightful exception to the prohibition on killing formulated in the fifth commandment. Serena Ferente (Chapter 3: “Nothing violent can last”: Nature, Violence, and Political Legitimacy in a Scholastic Formula) examines one element in the widespread language of politics of late medieval and early modern Europe, the language spoken by “authors” as well as people who talked about politics. The focus is on a formula, a maxim or a proverb, something that travelled from text to text, and from mouth to mouth, occasionally well embedded in a coherent and complex philosophical discourse, more often alone, isolated, so to speak, like a stone that can be mounted on a variety of jewels – as the medieval figure goes. The formula is: “nothing violent can last”, and like proverbs, it occurs in a number of versions. It was mostly cited in Latin: nullum violentum perpetuum, or nihil violentum durabile. The formula originated in thirteenth-century faculties of theology and in the commentaries to Aristotle. It had nothing to do with politics, being linked to discourses about physics and the science of motion, but was transferred into political language. Takashi Jinno (Chapter 4: Tyrannicide as an Act of Divine Justice: The Doctrines of Tyrannicide of John of Salisbury and Juan de Mariana) adopts the traditional view of tyrannicide as a debate unfolding within the historical development of the right of resistance. In examining the relationship between religion and these ideas, he first discusses John of Salisbury’s twelfth-century work, the Policraticus, and then introduces the concept of theocracy and the influence of Holy War ideology on the doctrine of tyrannicide. John of Salisbury explains the state by using the metaphor of a body, in which the soul regulates the physical body as an expression of theocracy, and explains that tyrannicide is justified as punishment from God. The doctrine of tyrannicide was revived during the period of religious wars from this religious basis, and the sixteenth-century Spanish humanist Juan de Mariana formulated much the same kind of doctrine of tyrannicide as John of Salisbury. The second section explores how violence may be related to religion in various different areas of discourse, from the literature on demonology to political theology, and including secular political treatises. Fernanda Alfieri (Chapter 5: “Violentia” and the Devil. Early Modern Narratives of Demonic Possession and Catholic Anthropology) investigates the uses of the Latin term violentia and related words (the adjective violentus, the adverb violenter, the verb violentare) in early modern European treatises for exorcists. One might think that the setting of exorcism is quintessentially “violent”, giving this word the meaning we tend to use today. Nevertheless, the occurrences of violentia and derivatives are very rare in the literature in question, and when referring to the action of the Devil upon humans they mean “sudden”, “unnatural”, and “invol-

Introduction 

 13

untary”. Aristotelian-Thomistic physics and metaphysics underlie this meaning, as shown also in coeval manuals for confessors and moral theology treatises. Morihisa Ishiguro (Chapter 6: Violence and Covenant in Machiavelli’s Thinking) notes how many scholars argue that Machiavelli saw religion as merely a tool of the state. This view he refutes, and suggests that religion played a critical role in Machiavelli’s political thought process. Even though many have argued that the cornerstone of Machiavelli’s political theory is his monopolization of the military, he also discusses the development of Roman religion as the origin of the state in his Discorsi (1–11). In this text, he focused on Numa, the founder of a religion, and rated him more highly than Romulus, who controlled the army. In Machiavelli’s analysis of the process of establishing a nation, Christianity was not a political tool, but a core element. Taku Minagawa (Chapter 7: Peace According to the Political Theologians of the Holy Roman Empire at the End of the Thirty Years’ War) discusses the use of violence to correct religious injustice in pre-modern society and argues that such use of force was acceptable at the time. This, in turn, gave rise to controversy over religious wars instigated by theologians. His final argument addresses the direct influence of theologians on policy and debates the pros and cons of religious reconciliation as occurring among the Jesuits in Germany in the 1640s, at the end of the Thirty Years’ War. Although the Jesuits split into two factions over religious reconciliation, the theologian L. Forer was especially insistent that only missionary work could correct injustice. Acting on this awareness, people of different faiths attenuated violence in the modern world, Minagawa argues, while the attitude the Jesuits adopted towards violence after the reconciliation in Germany was the starting point of tolerance. The third section is devoted to violent practices based on religion: ways of preventing violence in medieval Iberia, where the three monotheisms lived side by side, and ways of legitimating it in Europe, the Mediterranean basin, the New World and Japan in the early modern era. Yuga Kuroda (Chapter 8: Reconquista and Muslim Vassals: Religion, Politics, and Violence on the Medieval Iberian Peninsula) discusses the history of the Iberian Peninsula during the Reconquista military actions from the eleventh to the thirteenth century. A Muslim prince tried to remain in this area, and proactively sought diplomatic relations with the Christian powers in the north. These Christian powers received the Muslim prince and made efforts to achieve a friendly relationship. There was actually coexistence among all three major monotheistic religions in the Iberian Peninsula. As a compromise, the Muslim prince created a hybrid post for an individual who could act as an intermediary between the vassals of Western Europe and the Islamic world. This served to suppress fierce religious violence. Kazuhisa Takeda (Chapter 9: The Global Expansion of Christian Violence in the Old and New World: From Early Church Fathers to the Jesuits) traces Christian thinking on violence from ancient times down to medieval Europe; he goes on to expand these ideas and considers the consequences they may have had when they spread to the early outposts of the New World in the early modern period. To achieve this, Takeda

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first considers the attitudes Christians had towards violence in ancient and medieval times through the introduction of a variety of illustratory biblical texts that contain the phrase compelle intrare. He then argues that the Jesuits significantly influenced the spread of Christian violence to the colonies of the Spanish Empire in the early modern period. Their founding ideals, behavioral patterns, and organizational concepts had well-established military aspects, and Spain conducted forced conversions in their foreign colonies, where the motto “Conquest of Souls” was held up. Atsuko Hirayama (Chapter 10: Religion and Violence in the Christian Mission in Early Modern Japan) discusses the sixteenth and seventeenth-century Catholic missionary trips to Japan, and notes that previous research has traditionally considered pressure from Japanese state-spurred government action, which led to the martyrdoms of both missionaries and converted believers. On the one hand, Catholic missionaries respected Japanese culture, and carried out their work with that in mind. On the other hand, in their effort to promote conversion they argued about various ways of evangelizing and discussed the possibility of requesting armed support and protection from the Iberian sovereign right from an early stage in their work, since some of the missionaries involved in the mission to Japan had no experience of conducting missionary work in areas that did not have secular enforcement. This chapter also includes discussion as to the justification for missionaries using violence in their conversion activities in Japan. Giovanni Ciappelli (Chapter 11: The Privateering by the Knights of St. Stephen against Turks and Barbary Pirates. Violence and Religion in Seventeenth-Century Printed News Narratives) reconstructs the seventeenth-century output of printed news on the enterprises of the Knights of St. Stephen against the Turks. The context is that of the Grand Duchy of Tuscany, where, until the mid-sixteenth century, a moderately aggressive policy was conducted against the Turks, based on privateering and attacks on Ottoman strongholds at various points of the Mediterranean. Ferdinand I, and above all Cosimo II and Ferdinand II, vigorously revived such practices, making them a flagship of the Grand Duchy. Under these three grand dukes, the use of printed communication about the Knights’ enterprises became a systematic project that saw the publication of numerous reports. Their analysis shows how the same episodes (the seizing of coastal villages, the massacre or enslavement of the civilian population) were depicted in different ways according to the narrators’ point of view. While the account of attacks suffered stresses the horror of their violence, the violence inflicted in reprisals is rendered as an expected routine. The indulgence towards violence perpetrated by Christians is justified by the enemy being infidels, and shows the centrality of the concepts of “just war” and of identity based on belonging to the same “civilization”. The “Research Project on the Multiplicity of Christian Societies in Medieval and Early Modern Times” from 2013 to 2017 has been conducted with Grant-in-Aid for Scientific Research funding from the Japan Society for the Promotion of Science. During this period three workshops on “Medieval and Early Modern Religious Histories: Per-

Introduction 

 15

spectives from Europe and Japan” (in 2014, 2015, and 2016) have been held at the Fondazione Bruno Kessler, Istituto Storico Italo-Germanico in Trento. This workshop series covered various topics relating to religion and society in the medieval and early modern Christian world. The third workshop, held in 2016, reflected on issues of religious terrorism in modern Europe. This volume pools the results, enriched by the discussions prompted by previous sessions. Our thanks go to the past director of the Istituto Storico Italo-Germanico, Paolo Pombeni, who made these meetings possible, and to the preesent director Christoph Cornelissen, who included this volume in the series Studies in Early Modern and Contemporary European History. Friederike Oursin’s editorial input was also fundamental.

I. Seminal Ideas

Debora Tonelli

From Divine Violence to Religious Violence A Socio-Political Interpretation of Exodus 15

1 From literary images to social imaginaries Divine images play an important role in the building of religious imaginaries, and their action can have socio-political consequences. This chapter will highlight some images of divine violence contained in Exodus 15, a scriptural passage that is a reference point in Biblical tradition and its reception. The analysis of a single text meets the aim of giving a specific example, rather than developing a definitive theory that is valid for the whole Biblical corpus. Attempting to give a generic definition of violence, we could say that it embraces all forms of physical or moral force in dealings with others, ending up in damaging or destroying their existence by acting in a way contrary to the moral and natural order of things. Violence is, therefore, characterized (1) by being in contrast with something or someone and (2) by excess, in other words by the surplus – with respect to what is necessary – of destructive power and force in the confrontation between the parties. Human history has been characterized by various forms of violence (psychological, physical, gender, economic). All of these, however, seem to retain the same aim: the forced domination or suppression of the “other” in aid of an act of self-affirmation the result of which, at times, ends up in self-destruction. But what, then, do we understand by “violence” when it is exercised by God? And what role does it play in the building of “religious imaginaries”? With this expression I include the religious dimension as essential to social imaginaries. As they have been defined by the philosopher Charles Taylor, “social imaginaries” are the basis on which the members of a society construct a horizon they take to be shared: By social imaginary, I mean something much broader and deeper than the intellectual schemes people may entertain when they think about social reality in a disengaged mode. I am thinking, rather, of the ways people think about social reality in a disengaged mode, how they fit together with others, how things go on between them and their fellows, the expectations that are normally met, and the deeper normative notions and images that underlie these expectations1.

The power of social imaginaries is given by their capacity to remain in the background: they are presupposed in any successive rational reflection on ethical, social

1 C. Taylor, Modern Social Imaginaries, Durham / London 2004, p. 23. https://doi.org.10.1515/9783110643978-002

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or political questions. Not by chance, Taylor distinguishes between a social imaginary and a social theory, highlighting three points: I adopt the term imaginary (1) because my focus is on the way ordinary people “imagine” their social surrounding, and this is often not expressed in theoretical terms, but is carried in images, stories, and legends. It is also the case that (2) theory is often the possession of a small minority, whereas what is interesting in the social imaginary is that it is shared by large groups of people, if not the whole society. Which leads to a third difference: (3) the social imaginary is that common understanding that makes possible common practices and a widely shared sense of legitimacy2.

A social imaginary thus constitutes a shared background and often an unconscious one, on the basis of which society and individuals justify their actions. My assumption is that the biblical narrations stimulate the creation of an imaginary which performs two functions: the first is that it offers a way of understanding the content of the actual narrative. The literary images that comprise the biblical narratives stimulate the readers’ imagination and allow them to reconstruct the setting of the story in their minds and thus understand it3. The second is that it forms a horizon which can be presupposed in any subsequent reflection. The divine violence narrated in many biblical passages contributes to the formation of a kind of imaginary which, in its turn, becomes a horizon against which the believers formulate their own criteria of judgement, values, and choices. Is it possible to worship a warrior god and work for peace? Or, on the other hand, to worship a gentle deity and justify war in god’s name? To some extent the image of god that prevails in a religious creed is also the ultimate foundation for legitimizing the social and political actions that follow from it4. In any case, in biblical texts religious action is not distinct from social or political action, and, indeed, many actions performed by the divinity (or by human beings obeying god’s will) are political actions. A few examples will help us clarify this claim. Let us think, for example, of the biblical Exodus: the flight from Egypt (Exod. 14–15) in order to worship the God of Israel is in fact rather more than a flight from slavery. The prophet that leads this flight, Moses, is a very able political leader, who succeeds in getting a rabble of people without hope to follow him into the desert and then to turn them into God’s people5. “The program of Moses is not the freeing of a little band of slaves as an escape from the empire […]. Rather, his work is nothing less than an assault on the consciousness of the empire, aimed at nothing less than the dismantling of the empire both in its social practices and in its mythic pretensions”6.

2 Ibid., p. 23 3 As argued by U. Eco, Lector in fabula. La cooperazione interpretativa nei testi narrativi, Milano 1989. 4 As to the role of an analogical imagination in the context of moral theology, cf. W. Spahn, Go and Do Likewise, New York 2003, p. 50. 5 The biblical Exodus inspired numerous socio-political revolutions, cf. F. Crüsemann, Bewahrung der Freiheit, München 1983; M. Walzer, Exodus and Revolution, New York 1984. 6 W. Brueggemann, Prophetic Imagination, Minneapolis MN 1980, pp. 18–19.

From Divine Violence to Religious Violence 

 21

The historical books of the Old Testament tell of several wars of conquest, fought by Israel under the guidance of God’s hand. If we were to substitute the divine figure with that of a military general, the texts would be less problematic7. Deborah (Judg. 4–5) synthesizes the prophetic figure well, the judge and the military leader, by guiding Barak, the army commander, in battle. The enemy, Sisera, is killed without mercy and a redactional verse at the end of the poem asserts: “May all your enemies, O Lord, perish in the same way. But may those who love you be like the sun when it rises in all its splendour” (Judg. 5:31). We can think, for example, of the driving of the merchants from the Temple, accused by Jesus of turning it into a marketplace (Matt. 21:8–19; Mark 11:7–19; Luke 19:45–48; John 2:12–25). This action not only has to do with respect for a house of prayer, but with the social and political role of the community’s priests. Again, we can think of the change introduced by Jesus in the idea of people of God: no longer just Israel, but whoever believes in the Father. The religious universalism of Jesus had revolutionary social and political consequences. These are only some of many places in the Bible where the image of God that is worshipped is the origin of effective and revolutionary social action, able not only to radically transform social practices but also to create new values on which to establish new practices: God, the Liberator, the only God who stands against polytheism, the creator God who transcends the logic of a national god. The re-discovery of faith triggers a process of radical change in the way of occupying public space, of organizing the community, of motivating social and political action. We might say that there is no re-discovery of faith without a substantive change in the way in which people live in the world. As to the transition from the divine violence narrated in the Bible, to the religious violence experienced in the actual world, three aspects should be considered: literary images that describe the divine figure, the imagination that these images solicit, and that imagination becomes a form of knowledge (of God, of man, of narrated events) and imaginaries, which project ancient images into the present. Literary images can contribute to a new understanding of the present and, consequently, to a new planning of the future. For this reason – as clearly explained by the theologian Nicolas Steeves – the imagination can even stimulate the reaction to a reality that has yet to be realized and that is, in fact, only imagined: “our world is full of struggles that take place in the imagination, full of wars between imaginaries (and real ones, at that!). Religious and theological realities are not the last places to be theaters of operations where socio-political issues collide – secularism and religions; religious extremism and secularism; ecumenical and interreligious dialogue […]”8. As

7 G. Labouérie, Dieu de violence ou Dieu de tendresse?, Paris 1982. 8 N. Steeves, Grazie all’immaginazione. Integrare l’immaginazione in teologia fondamentale, Brescia 2018, p. 12 (originally published as Grâce à l’imagination. Intégrer l’imagination en théologie fondamentale, Paris 2016).

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an anticipation of a hoped or averted future, the imagination is able to stimulate a reaction to something that has yet to happen. While the imagination is conscious, the imaginary that contributes to building it is not necessarily so. With regard to the divine violence, Exodus 15 is one of the texts that has most of all influenced the religious imaginary of believers and non-believers, contributing both to the development of the divine image, and to the realization of revolutionary social actions, that have set peoples or oppressed groups free9. My analysis of the text will be limited to showing some of the violent images of God that it includes10. By means of these images I will formulate some thoughts on their role in the construction of religious images that are capable of stimulating social and political action. Indeed, divine violence is one of the roots of religious violence and it is able to question our religious imaginary, beliefs, and practices.

2 Exodus 15 “Wherever people know the Bible, and experience of oppression, the Exodus has sustained their spirits and (sometimes) inspired their resistance”11. So claims the political scientist Michael Walzer who has contributed substantially to a reflection on the influence that the biblical text has exercised on the political imagination, inspiring revolutions and radical socio-political changes. Analysis of the text, however, reveals a deeper theological and political meaning than that identified by revolutionary movements. In particular, the language, the images, and the historical and cultural context mediate our understanding of Exodus 15 and of the violence God brings about against the enemies of Israel. This renders rather problematic any immediate identification between the warrior god and those who want to imitate him in virtue of the analogy between the event narrated (liberation from slavery) and the historical moment in which the readers find themselves. After analyzing the text, I will offer some considerations on the violent images of God it contains12.

9 For an overview of socio-political events inspired by Exodus, see M. Walzer, Exodus 32 and the Theory of Holy War. The History of Citation, in “Harvard Theological Review”, January 1968, pp. 1–14. For Exodus as metaphor of Leninist politics, cf. L. Steffen, Moses in Red. The Revolt of Israel as a Typical Revolution, Philadelphia PA 1926. For Liberation Theology, see J. Severino Croatto, Exodus, a Hermeneutics of Freedom, Maryknoll NY 1981. 10 For textual analysis of Exodus 15, cf. my Immagini di violenza divina nell’Antico Testamento, Bologna 2014, pp. 39–84. 11 M. Walzer, Exodus and Revolution, NY 1985, p. 4. 12 The bibliography on Exodus 15 is endless. Here I limit myself to mentioning: W.H.C. Propp, Exodus 1–18. A new Translation with Introduction and Commentary, New York 1999; G. Ravasi, I canti di Israele. Preghiera e storia di un popolo, Bologna 1986; J.L. Ska, Il cantico di Mosè (Es 15, 1–21) e la regalità di

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Introduction13 1 Then Moses and the sons of Israel sang this song to Yhwh and said, saying: Exaltation and victory of Yahweh I will sing to Yhwh because he has triumphed gloriously: horse and charioteer he has thrown into the sea. /2 My strength and my song (is) Yhwh14: He has become my salvation. He is my God and I shall honour him; God of my father15, I will exalt him. /3 Yhwh is a warrior, Yhwh his name. /4 The chariots of Pharaoh, with his army, he has thrown into the sea; his chosen officers, have been swallowed in the Sea of Reeds. /5 The deeps covered them, they sank into the deep like stones. /6 Your right hand, Yhwh, has become majestic, your right hand, Yhwh, shatters the one who is hostile. /7 With your majestic greatness, you overthrow the one who opposes you: you send your wrath, it humbles them like straw. /8 With the breath of your nostrils16. The water congealed17, the floods stood up like a dam, the deeps congealed in the heart of the sea. /9 The enemy had said: I will pursue him, I will catch him, I will divide the spoil, my soul shall be full of it: I will draw my sword, my hand will conquer them. /10 You blew with your breath, the sea covered them, they sank like lead into the mighty water. Digression 11 Who is like you, among the gods, O Yhwh, who is like you, splendour in holiness18, fearful in the qualities which inspire prayer, who do wonders? Theme of the land: the holy pasture 12 You stretched out your right hand, the earth swallowed them. /13 In your mercy you have led

Jhwh, Dio di Israele. Riflessione sulla poetica ebraica, in G. Bortone (ed.), Il bello della Bibbia, L’Aquila 2005, pp. 3–34. 13 This translation is the outcome of my PhD research, published in D. Tonelli, Immagini di violenza divina nell’Antico Testamento (Scienze religiose. Nuova serie, 31), Bologna 2014. 14 The verb is implied. Cf. Gen. 49:3; Exod. 15:13; Ps. 29:11; Ps. 68:36. 15 In this verse, we find three names for Yhwh, affirming that Yhwh, ’El and ’Elohê are the same God. 16 Cf. 2 Sam. 22:16; Ps. 18:16. 17 On the basis of the OT and the extra-biblical literature, the meaning of the verb qp’ is “to grow together, coagulate”. This interpretation leans on the extra-biblical literature, especially the Babylonian Enūma eliš, which recounts the solidification of part of the waters, and some Egyptian cosmogonies where the primordial ocean coagulates to form the first little hill, cf. J. Assmann, Egyptian Solar Religion in the new Kingdom, London / New York 1995, p. 160, fn. 20. On the level of content, the verse recounts the sovereignty of God over the waters, and, if we read it along with v. 9, it is possible to identify a parallel between the sea and the enemies since both succumb to the power of God (Ps. 46, 2. 7; 65:8–9; Isa. 17:12–19), cf. J.L. Ska, Il cantico di Mosè, pp. 24–29. 18 The expression baqqōš is constructed by the preposition bᵉ joined to the article and to the masculine singular qdš. To understand the meaning, it is important to take into account also the second part of the verse and decide if the root qdš refers to a quality of the God of Israel or distinguishes him from the saints. In the course of the poem, we come across qdš again in verses 13 and 17 in which it assumes different meanings because influenced by the context, cf. H. Ringren, “qdš” in Grande lessico dell’Antico Testamento (GLAT), 10 vols., Brescia 1988–2010, here vol. 7, 2003, pp. 835–862 (originally published as Theologisches Wörterbuch zum Alten Testament, 10 vols., Stuttgart 1973–2000).

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this people whom you have redeemed19. With your strength you have led them towards your holy pasture. /14 The peoples heard and trembled, pangs have seized the inhabitants of Philistia. /15 now the chiefs of Edom are terrified, the leaders of Moab are seized with trembling, all the inhabitants of Canaan are melting away. /16 Terror and fear fall upon them, because of the greatness of your arm, they remain motionless like stone, at the crossing of your people whom you have purchased. /17 You will lead them and plant them on the mountain which you have taken as your possession, the place which you have established to return, you have made, Yhwh, (as) a sanctuary, Yhwh, which your hands have prepared. /18 Yhwh will reign eternally and for ever. Song of Miriam 19 When the horses of Pharaoh, his chariots and his horsemen went into the sea, Yhwh caused the waters of the sea to return over them while the Israelites walked on dry land in the midst of the sea. /20 Then Miriam, the prophetess, sister of Aaron, took a tambourine in her hand: behind her came out the women with tambourines and dances. /21 Miriam started to sing the refrain for them: “Sing to Yhwh, because he has triumphed wonderfully: horse and its charioteer he has thrown into the sea!”

The analysis of the passage raises many questions in the contemporary readers: What is the sense of divine violence? Why is the Egyptian army destroyed? What kind of deity is worshipped in this text? Why do the editors seem not to be shocked by God’s violence against the enemies of Israel? Before answering, it is necessary to ask whether such questions are adequate to understand the divine images contained in the text. Exploring the context of Exodus 15 can help to provide an answer: the close succession between event (Exod. 14:21–31) and this text (Exod. 15:1) is a stylistic expedient and the author’s intention is not limited to offering an interpretation of that event but to exalting a God who always saves Israel. This composition is written to be set to music. Its form is not that of a descriptive account but of a “celebration”. The song does not aim to inform the readers about the events, but to “form” them, to “educate” them, that is, to involve them in the celebration so that they make their own the image of God which is being offered to them. The poetic celebration is, in fact, a theological reflection and testimony to a certain concept of God and his action in the history of Israel. The cultural context of the song is the ancient Near East. As I will show, the images that make up the song belong to ancient traditions, here employed anew to convey the theological message of biblical authors. In order to a better understanding the poem, it is important to take into account some literary characteristics: the link with previous tradition; the uncertainty of 19 The use of the verb g’l shows the special link which unites God to Israel. This verb, which means “to redeem”, can also mean “to act as a kinsman”, cf. Exod. 6:6, Ps. 106:10 and occurs in the family context with reference to economic activity aimed at preserving the family’s inheritance (cf. Lev. 25: 25 ff) or with reference to the vendetta aimed at the preservation of family honor (Deut. 19, 6. 12). Yhwh is, therefore, the one who acts for the preservation and well-being of Israel as if he were a kinsman.

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the location of the divine intervention, that is, whether it is earthly or heavenly, or both, and, possibly, how to assess it; the presentation of an event that is not in the form of an account but in its theological perspective; the absence of Israel and the scant presence of Moses; the sovereignty of God over nature; and the action of God in history. The presence of these elements and the way in which they are employed can be interpreted as signals of the late date20 of a composition intended to present the event of the Sea of Reeds as paradigmatic: the enemies of Israel are the enemies of Yhwh in whatever period and wherever they are found. The capacity to employ the ancient traditions anew shows that they had been fully taken on board by the biblical authors and also implies a theological vision on which the biblical tradition had reflected for many generations. In the tension between ancient images and new visions, it is possible to glimpse a long redactional process and the possibility that the song could originally have had a destination different from the present one.

2.1 The structure of the song Exodus 15 is a very famous composition, which has entered into the popular imagination since it is sung during Christian liturgy even to this day. For those who know the biblical tradition, one’s first impression on reading the song is that it is a duplication and celebration of the event recounted (in prose) in Exodus 1421. However, a more careful analysis of the texts makes this sequence problematic, and the dating of the poem turns out to be controversial. The relationship between the two chapters will not be the object of the study here – even though we will assume that the reader has some knowledge of chapter 14 – because the aim of this work is the analysis of the images of the divinity, which make up the song and not its redactional or historicalliterary development. To be sure, some of these aspects will be hinted at in our study, to the extent in which they are useful for gaining important insights into our subject. If the text is interpreted as an independent composition, the impression one gets from it is a little different: it is the joint celebration and narration of an extraordinary event in which Yhwh is the principal actor. The emphasis should then be placed not

20 The dating of the song is object of discussion. The liberating God now coincides with the God of the Fathers, and the world of nature is no longer identified with the traditional divinities but is presented as a passive instrument of the God of Israel with which to vanquish the enemies of his people. This concept is certainly late, probably from the Exilic or post-Exilic period, because it presupposes a mature theological reflection, able to distance itself from the religious conceptions of the more powerful peoples and to interpret the divine action in a new way. Cf. S.M. Kang, Divine War in Old Testament and the Ancient Near East, Berlin 1989. 21 The duplication of a narrative is symptomatic of his importance, see also Judg. 4–5.

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so much on the liberation of Israel as on the “glorification of Yhwh” and on the image of a victorious and ruling God. This second approach sets Exodus 15 in continuity with more ancient myths, for example, that of the glorification of Marduk on account of his victory over Tiamat22. The images which make up the poem belong to the most ancient literary tradition but – as often happens in the Bible – they are being used with different aims from the traditional ones and become the expression of a new religious vision. Thus, it is from this second perspective that it will be enquired, in order to try to understand the role and significance of these images of the divinity. The macro-structure of the scenes will allow us to better circumscribe the images and the themes that compose it23: 1) verses 1–3: exaltation of Yhwh, identified with the God of the fathers; 2) verses 4–8. 10. 12: description of Yhwh’s victory and rule over the creation; 3) verse 9: description of the Egyptians’ plans; 4) v. 13: rescue of Israel; 5) verses 14–16: terror of the peoples before the power of Yhwh; 6) verse 17: sharing of Israel in the inheritance of Yhwh; 7) verse 18: conclusion of the song and celebration of the eternal kingship of Yhwh; 8) verse 19: digression in prose which explains the event narrated in the poem; 9) verses 20–21: song of Miriam at the end of the battle. By contrast with verses 4–10, in which the defeat of the enemy has Yhwh and his right hand as the subject, in 19a, it is the enemies who perform the action leading to their destruction, as if to say that they go to meet their fate on their own. Verse 19 is characterized by the series of three subjects: the enemy; Yhwh (19b) who covers Egyptians with water; and Israel, that walks on dry land (19c). The central part of the verse (19b) acts as middle term, showing how Yhwh has behaved differently with the enemy than Yhwh did with Israel: the former was covered with water; the latter walked on dry land. With this brief subdivision, the composition turns out to be very complex and characterized by an internal circularity that extends from the frame as far as the central stanzas of the song. The structure of the song is very compact and unfolds a very complex drama organized in a sequence of rapid and rich scenes in a plurality of themes. Yhwh is praised first of all for having defeated the enemy chariotry, led by Pharaoh’s “chosen officers” the most powerful weapon of the period. Yhwh is named 13 times in the poem, and twice we find ’El and ’ĕlōhê (vv. 2b.c). The expression ’ĕlōhê ’ābî is very important in the patriarchal and tribal context24, but here it is being emplo-

22 J. Bottéro / S.N. Kramer, La glorificazione di Marduk, in J. Bottéro / S.N. Kramer, Uomini e dèi della Mesopotamia: alle origini della mitologia, Torino 1992, pp. 640–722 (originally published as Lorsque le dieux faisaient l’homme. Mitologie mésopotamienne, Paris 1989). 23 Cf., also, H. Utzschneider / W. Oswald, Exodus 1–15, Stuttgart 2013, pp. 332–333, who identify a different subdivision of the scenes. 24 Cf. A. Alt, Essays on Old Testament History and Religion, New York 1968, pp. 3–100; G. Fohrer, Theologische Grundstrukturen des Alten Testaments, Berlin 1972, pp. 38-40

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yed to identify the God of the Fathers with Yhwh who is fighting25. Where his name does not appear, there are explicit references to his action against the worldly enemies and to the praise of his victory. We cannot overlook the absence of Moses and of Israel in the song: apart from verse 1a – which probably constitutes a late redactional addition – the song never names Moses nor, explicitly, Israel. Israel does not go down into the field with its own army led by the Lord: it is only God who fights and the victory belongs to Yhwh alone26. The battle happens in a totally particular way: more than a conflict, we are beholding a manifestation of the divine power and at the flight of an army which was in possession of powerful weapons. There is no proper combat, but the annihilation of the enemy by the hand of God. Somehow, the song is portraying a kind of “demilitarization of the battle”, which shows itself to be unequal from the very beginning: God is not fighting against other divinities for supremacy in the divine council – as happens in traditional myths27 – but rather against an earthly army (v. 1b. 4). We must ask ourselves, then, what is the point of staging a war with a predictable outcome. In this case, we must suppose that the attention of the writer is focused not so much on the military event as on that which it represents and which goes beyond the event itself. By contrast with the more ancient myths in which the divinities fight among themselves, here we have a staging of the “historicization of the divine”. Here, “historicization” means both: the divine action in human history and the changing of divine Revelation throughout history. Neither at the beginning of the song nor in what follows there is any explicit reference to the prior events: we do not know why Yhwh is fighting, and only in what follows do we discover against whom and on behalf of whom he is acting. Clearly, the authors are not interested in explaining all that; rather they wish to present a certain image of God.

25 The term il(u), ̓ēl in Western Semitic, was employed in the ancient Semitic languages to indicate the divinity and, in due course, became also a proper name for a specific divinity. The plural form too should be interpreted in the general sense of “divinity”, as a replacement for the Tetragram. However, the use of different appellatives would not be a linguistic affectation but would serve to highlight different aspects of the same divinity. Often the name ēl is accompanied by another name (locality, adjective, etc.). Outside the OT, these were used as proper names: “the Israelites adopted the cults of various local gods who were identified with Yhwh, more or less vaguely in popular mind, but with precision in the theological doctrine of the priests. The liturgical names of these Canaanite gods come to be considered as alternative attributes or epithets of Yhwh […] We conclude that the name of the god in question was originally El and that the adjunct of the apposition ̓ĕlôhe yisrael whether applied early or later, was merely for the purpose of making the identification of Yhwh with El explicit”, M.H. Pope, El in the Ugarit Texts (Vetus Testamentum. Supplments, 2), Leiden 1955, pp. 14 f. 26 Cf. J. Vermeylen, Sacral War and Divine Warriors, in J. Leisen / P.C. Beentjes (eds.), Deuteronomical and Cognate Literature Yearbook 2010. Visions of Peace and Tales of War, Berlin / New York 2010, pp. 1–34. 27 As happens, for example, in the Enuma eliš and in the Glorification of Marduk.

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2.2 Yhwh’s victory and rule over the creation The verses 4–8. 10. 12 are particularly useful for understanding what kind of battle it is. Its location in the sea refers to two dimensions: the terrestrial one in the Sea of Reeds, where the enemy are the Egyptians; and the heavenly one, known in the religious tradition of the ancient Near East, where the enemy is the pantheon of the deities28. Not by chance, the context of the divine action is the sea, in polemic with the more ancient religious tradition which interpreted the sea as a king whose power was absolutely like that of the God of Israel. The forces of nature, which in the ancient myths were competing divinities, are completely un-divinized in Exodus 15 and have become the passive instruments of the one God who is fighting: the very tᵉhôm (deep) is at the service of Yhwh, even if its function remains ambiguous and the tradition is making an effort to demythologize it: “We do not find ourselves before a literary image that has been crystallized but a real mythological concept, even if to some degree it has been integrated into the frame of Yahwistic monotheism”29. In the same way, the mention of the yam sûf (v. 4) does not refer to a geographical place but to a mythological concept: accepting the theory of Snaith30, the term sûf should be corrected to sôf (end), and the whole expression yam sôf would indicate the waters of chaos, which mark the limits of the world and death. This interpretation is coherent with the verses 8 and 10, which seem to recall an ancient myth, widespread in the Ancient Near East, which describes the primordial battle of a divinity against the forces of chaos, often personified by the water of the sea31. Yhwh gathers up in himself the features of the creator El: the warrior God is also the creator of the world, and the two traditions are henceforth brought together32. The double dimension of the battle binds together historical enemies (Egyptians, but also the peoples mentioned in vv. 14–15) and their mythical beliefs. In verse 4, the historical enemy is identified, not with the Egyptians as such, but with their leaders, that is, those who held power. In these verses, we discover that the battle is being fought against the army of Pharaoh: not any old enemy but the enemy of Israel par excellence. In the struggle, Yhwh shows his dominion over the creation: now, he has all the features and the functions which at one time belonged to 28 Cf. C. Peri, Il regno del nemico, Brescia 2003, p. 123. 29 Ibid., pp. 109–110. 30 N. Snaith, yam sûp: The Sea of the Reeds: The Red Sea (Vetus Testamentum. Supplements, 15), 1965, pp. 395–398. Peri reconstructs the debate on the translation and interpretation of the term, cf. C. Peri, Il regno del nemico. La morte nella religione di Canaan, Brescia 2003, pp. 132–136. 31 Cf. Ps. 93:3–4. The most well-known myths are the Enuma eliš which recounts the victory of the god of Babylon, Marduk, against the monster of the water, his sister Tiamat. The other is that of Baal, god of Ugarit, who defeats Yam, the sea, in battle. Both these myths end with the construction of a temple for the winning god. W.H.C. Propp, Exodus 1–18. A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, New York 1999, pp. 554–559; J.L. Ska, Il cantico di Mosè, pp. 30–33. Cf., also, Ps. 89:11. 32 Cf. Ps. 89:9–13.

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the different divinities and to the God of the Fathers (v. 2). The battle is fought by God by means of the forces of nature (4b.d.; 5; 7c.d.; 8; 10; 12) against which the powerful Egyptian weapons can do nothing. The song continues with praise of Yhwh (v. 7). This verse transposes the divine action against Pharaoh and his army into a more general dimension: the greatness of God topples whoever resists him, and his wrath humiliates them. With regard to the traditions of Ancient Near East, the song brings on the stage a new relationship among Israel’s God and traditional deities: Yhwh has reduced all the other gods to idols. With regard to their interlocutors, the biblical authors are answering to fundamental question about Israel’s God: God is able to lead Israel to salvation. With regard to the future, his reign will be eternal because there is neither man nor God who can compare with Yhwh. His victory is total: it is completed not only and not so much on the field of battle, but consists of the annihilation of the beliefs and values of the enemy. Because of this annihilation, Israel becomes able to imagine a future in which it is not escaping, but going forward solemnly with its own God. However, the more radical question these verses raise does not concern the relationship between God and the gods. It is rather about how and why the unleashing of God’s violence against man is being staged. And, moreover, what question is the author of this Biblical passage seeking to answer by means of this representation? The analysis of the dynamic of the battle can provide an answer.

3 The core question Exodus 15 is formed by a mosaic of images and themes which refer to various traditions and which are utilized to express new meanings. If, at a superficial glance, the drama concerns the defeat of the Egyptians, the study of the scenes has allowed us to reconstruct a more complex context: the victory of Yhwh over the gods; the identification of Yhwh with the God of the Patriarchs; the security which Yhwh guarantees to Israel through having defeated the Egyptians; and the dwelling of Israel on the mountain to which Yhwh will return to reign forever. In the same way, on closer examination, the battle against the Egyptians has little to do with a war: rather, the composition highlights the fact that Yhwh rules over the forces of chaos, those depths which, in the Ancient Near East, were one of the gates of sheol. In the second part of the composition, the same Egyptians are replaced by a list of enemies of Israel, of whom – in the final analysis – they turn out to be the symbol. Proceeding with the reading, the defeat of Pharaoh’s army is gradually revealed as the occasion to speak of the supremacy of the God of Israel over creation, over other divinities, and over the enemies of his people, and divine violence permeates the whole composition, even without the description of a specific action.

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The intervention of Yhwh is decisive and violent in the sense that his action is characterized by excess, by a superfluity of force, which leads to the destruction of the enemy army, to the annihilation of its gods, and also to the surrender of the other historic enemies of Israel. The impression is that the text is presenting a definitive intervention which settles things once and for all. However, those who inserted this composition into this literary context knew well that the history of Israel did not go like this. At what price did God save Israel and why did the biblical authors give witness to faith in a violent God? Of which God are we speaking? The biblical authors are not primarily interested in the defeat of the Egyptians but their interest hinges on the question in verse 11 “who is like you among the gods?”. Thus, the true question at issue is “on what hope can Israel be founded”, taking into account that its constitution as a people and its survival are intimately connected with faithfulness to this God.

3.1 Violence and Salvation The song contains numerous images and actions of the same God: as warrior God and as God of the Fathers, Yhwh uses the elements of nature to fight Israel’s enemies. He is superior to other deities, who never intervene to defend the Egyptians. The image of God is majestic and terrifying. The divine image prevalent in the song is that of the warrior (v. 3): “the Lord is a man of war”, ’îš milḥāmâ33. The second adjectival noun derives from the root lḥm of the verb lāḥam which expresses numerous meanings bound up with hostility and fighting as well as combat and battle. In Exodus 15:3 we can interpret this noun both as a meaning of the name J-H and as a function of divinity, referring it to the literature of the ancient Near East34. Despite the number of themes which the song puts forward, divine violence is not only one theme among others, but – in some cases – it is part of the communicative strategy of the text. Thus, we must ask ourselves what is the meaning of such violence in the text. The role occupied by divine violence in the composition is not immediately comprehensible, and the links with tradition do not provide all the answers. The message borne by Exodus 15 often transcends the literal interpretation of the text. It is an add-on to the text which cannot be deciphered if we limit ourselves to literary criticism. For example, the problem is not the identification of the Canaanite origin of the image of the God who rules over the sea, but the understanding of what is the purpose 33 Cf. H.D. Preuss, milḥāmâ, in GLAT, vol. 5, Brescia 2005, pp. 82–97. 34 In fact, the warlike function of Yhwh has also to do with the extra-biblical religious traditions in which this function was attributed to the principal divinity such as Baal, Hadad. Yhwh’s primacy in war affirms, therefore, his superiority in relation to the major gods of the foreign pantheons; cf. W.H.C. Propp, Exodus 1–18, p. 515.

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of this re-adoption of a particular representation of the divine. Thus, the issue is not how to justify the wrath of God against the Egyptians: the conflict between God and human beings is by definition unequal. Rather, we must ask ourselves what meaning is intended by the image of a God who dominates the historical enemy, and what effect is it supposed to produce. In this song, God has human features: it is said that he is a man who fights, reference is made to the power of his arm, to his right hand, and to the breath of his nostrils (vv. 3. 6. 8. 10. 12. 16). In the poem, Yhwh is described with all the characteristics which belong to the king according to the tradition of the Ancient Near East: first and foremost, Yhwh is a warrior (vv. 1–12); no one can be compared with him (v. 11), Yhwh is a guard and guide for his people (v. 13); Yhwh is a farmer and a builder (v. 17). The kingdom of the gods is a common theme in the early Mesopotamian and Canaanite epics. Yhwh’s traits are those of a king who fights for his own people and enters his palace, commenting on the conquered (v. 16) and having his people as part of his procession. But this is not a warmonger king, rather one who re-establishes justice, when we consider that the enemies who are named are all peoples who oppressed Israel. Yhwh’s victory against the enemies is also a victory over their gods who never intervene to save their peoples, an absence made still clearer by the juxtaposition between verse 9 and verses 8 and 10 which frame it. Just as the use of powerful weapons is useless in the face of God, so too, every human strategy is undone: God has no rival gods and victory is determined, not by the most powerful weapons but by faith in Yhwh. In this way, the song moves on two distinct levels at one and the same time: the first is the salvation of Israel from the army of Pharaoh performed by Yhwh; the second is the supremacy of Yhwh over the other divinities. This twofold vision of the song finds its fulfilment in the liturgical procession described in verses 17–18, which culminates in the perpetual reign of Yhwh. It is in this cosmic dimension that we can understand how terror and fear succeed in dominating the other enemies too (vv. 14–16), while the royal procession advances towards the mountain; those who trust in Yhwh will not experience fear35. The poem describes an unusual battle: it is fought without weapons; it is not the people that fight but God himself. The enemies of God are not gods but peoples who, at different times, have oppressed Israel. The battle can no longer be interpreted, therefore, as the chronicle of an event but as the symbol of the victory and greatness of Yhwh. Moreover, the fact that it is God who fights prevents Israel from directly confronting its own enemies: thus, the redactors’ intention is not the celebration of the military event, but a call to have faith in Yhwh as the one who performs the salvation of Israel, a salvation which creates it as a people by means of an event that has cosmic

35 Cf. Ps. 27:1; Isa. 12:2. Trusting in Yhwh means essentially to remain in his way (Prov. 3:21–24), to be faithful to him, and not to commit injustice (Job 22:6–10). Cf. G.L. Prato, Gli inizi e la storia. Le origini della civiltà nei testi biblici, Roma 2013, p. 98.

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resonance. However, it is not possible to conclude that his text is inherently pacifist: it does not say explicitly if the human beings have to leave the violence to God and do nothing or whether they should participate in God’s violent action and fight with God for justice within historic reality. The general impression is that Exodus 15 expresses a complex theological vision, which aims to redefine the criteria of Israel’s faith, however, without explaining whether the faithful can or should actively participate in divine violence.

4 The reader’s perspective The immediate reading of the song, today, gives rise to a series of questions that contrast strongly with the imagery of a good and merciful God, who wants peace among men. In fact, the image of God which the Christian theological tradition has constructed sometimes seems distant from that described in numerous biblical passages, both in the Old and New Testament36. The deity, celebrated by the chanting of Israel’s victory over its enemies, takes sides with God’s people without delay and acts with an excess of force against the Egyptians. Can a warrior God inspire peace, mercy, and forgiveness? What is the role of divine images in the building of religious imaginaries? A reading which is attentive to the structure and characteristics of the song, instead, allows us to decipher the images that compose it and to place the text in the cultural, historical, and religious context of the Ancient Near East. Stopping at exegesis, the issues at stake are not contemporary ethical questions, but the supremacy of Yhwh over the pantheon worshiped by enemies and the cosmos. The song marks an epochal transition: the supremacy of Yhwh cancels ancient polytheism and transforms the national deity into a cosmic divinity. The narrated event is the staging of the radical change of the religious perspective and, I would say, also of the social and political imaginary linked to it: the ancient gods can do nothing against the Israel’s God, nor will the most powerful weapons guarantee victory. Both perspectives offer a certain vision of divine violence: the first as an ethical issue, the second as a theatricalization/dramatization of the supremacy of Yhwh. In Exodus 15 only Yhwh fights and the victory is his alone. The singer’s weapons are singing and faith (v. 2), not the sword. To affirm its supremacy over enemies, earthly and heavenly, and over the cosmos, God acts in first person and saves his people. The distance between God and man is unbridgeable. Going behind mere exegesis and moving to hermeneutics, the second conclusion concerns the adherence to a religious practices: the rediscovery of ancient religious values, and the conversion of the heart are never exclusively spiritual events, but have 36 R. Miggelbrink, Der zornige Gott. Die Bedeutung einer anstöẞigen biblischen Tradition, Darmstadt 2002.

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to do with the life of a community, with the way in which the individual lives in public space and with the organization of that space. For the believer, these values and the way of putting them into practice are inspired by the divinity that expresses them perfectly. The non-adherence to a given religious practice does not render a person completely immune to its influence, especially, if this is embedded in the roots of the culture to which one belongs: images, values, and criteria of judgment continue to exert their influence. All this, even when criticized or rejected, places us in a dialectical relation with the religious imaginary and with the images of the divinity from which they arise. Knowing them and being aware of all this can help prevent their exploitation aimed at justifying violence in the name of God.

Vincenzo Lavenia

Holy Scripture, Theology, and Violence Terror and Samson in the Early Modern Era

1 Genealogies of violence In some of his recent writings, the Egyptologist Jan Assmann has explored the relationship between monotheism and violence. In his analysis, the story of the annihilation of the Canaanites by the Jews, and that of the later exploits of the Maccabees, play a central role in marking the distinction between the people of the Mosaic Revelation (“Thou shalt have no other gods before me”: Exodus 20:2; Deuteronomy 5:6) and the idolatrous enemy to be subdued and eliminated (a proximate enemy, geographically speaking). Assmann further posits five categories of violence: raw violence (motivated by anger, lust, revenge); judicial violence (the death penalty); state violence (war); sacrificial violence and the religious violence which has replaced it. The last two forms are not easy to separate, but Assmann – an implacable critic of monotheism – is emphatic on several points: religious violence is rooted in the opposition between true and false; it anticipates not only the extermination of the enemy but also martyrdom of the believer; it embraces what we call religious terrorism, and its ideological origins must be sought for in the Old Testament1. It is not my intention in this paper to talk about religious violence in a general sense, nor of iconoclasm, holy war or the suppression of heresy, all of which belong to this area of violence. I would like rather to discuss a small contribution to the theme of the genealogy of terrorism, that over the last twenty years has prompted a number of investigations into the links between violence and religion. Some of these, as we shall see, have to do with an important author of the early modern period. I am referring to the English puritan John Milton, who shortly before his death published, as well as Paradise Regained, the dark verse drama Samson Agonistes (both 1671). Why this particular choice? The western debate about terrorism, following the events of September 11, 2001, has been marked by a pronounced Islamophobia and, in its search 1 J. Assmann, Monotheismus und die Sprache der Gewalt, Wien 2007; see also by the same author The Price of Monotheism, Stanford CA 2010 (originally published as Die Mosaische Unterscheidung oder der Preis des Monotheismus, München / Wien, 2003) and Totale Religion. Ursprünge und Formen puritanischer Verschärfung, Wien 2016. Note: This essay is a short version of Martirio e distruzione: sulla figura di Sansone in età moderna, in W. de Boer / V. Lavenia / G. Marcocci (eds.), La ghianda e la quercia. Saggi per Adriano Prosperi, Roma, 2019, pp. 163–180. Translation: John F. Phillimore https://doi.org.10.1515/9783110643978-003

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for the antecedents of today’s assassins, has ended up by mixing together disparate fragments of history in the service of a political analysis that oversimplifies the phenomenon. Take, for example, a 2004 essay collection entitled Histoire du terrorisme: de l’antiquité à Al Qaida, which seems significant to me2. As in many texts of this kind, in fact, terrorism is defined as a sort of asymmetrical warfare, and its history is breezily reconstructed, including within the category the sicarii and extremist zealots of the first century AD (on the basis of a passage in Josephus’ The Jewish War, Bk. VII: “the sicarii were the first to flout the laws and were cruel even towards their own people, without holding back from affronting their victims with abuse or wounding them with any means available”); the medieval Ismaili assassins sect (eleventh-twelfth centuries); the romantically embroidered Thug gangs (the Indian stranglers eventually suppressed under British colonial rule), and so on3. The suicide theme too (Masada, sixteenth-century Anabaptists, tyrannicides) makes an appearance in these re-evocations of past times, but the picture is confused and the field of terrorism appears too vast and ill-defined4. None the less we know it to be the case that the word “terrorist” is the offspring of the French revolutionary Terror; that the bomb-thrower of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries was the subversive, the anarchist, the rebel. In short, terroristic violence as such, in the last two centuries, has been a political phenomenon, whose propaganda aspect has played a key role (succeeding in striking a target was a help in “educating” towards revolution, in preparing for it, as well as landing a blow on the enemy or on “collaborators”)5. Well then, what has religious history to say on the matter? It might seem crude to set up a nexus between certain forms of sacrificial and religious violence and political terrorism (as if the latter were only a secularized form of the former); but the events of the last years, in which divine inspiration has been invoked for killings outside the framework of conventionally waged wars (see, in this context, the supposed diary of the perpetrators of 9/11)6, require us to treat seriously the genealogical hypothesis which I have just been criticizing. It is not a question of isolating terrorism and pronouncing it a phenomenon without history or context. It is more a case of understanding whether the ‘religious’ perpetrator has a prototype and whether Assmann’s thesis should be taken up in this field also. Can we then speak of an Old Testament model, common to all monotheisms, of

2 G. Chaliand / A. Blin (eds.), Histoire du terrorisme: de l’antiquité à Al Qaida, Paris 2004. 3 On the myth of the Thugs, see F. Benigno, Il ritorno dei Thugs. Ancora su trasformazioni discorsive e identità sociali, in “Storica”, 51, 2011, pp. 97–120. 4 On suicide, I will cite only M. Barbagli, Congedarsi dal mondo. Il suicidio in Occidente e in Oriente, Bologna 2009, which also discusses Augustine’s position on Samson’s ultimate gesture, pp. 59 f. On the sage of Hippo, see below. 5 See in particular F. Benigno, Terrore e terrorismo. Saggio storico sulla violenza politica, Torino 2018, whose bibliography I recommend. 6 H.G. Kippenberg / T. Seidensticker (eds.), Terror im Dienste Gottes. Die “Geistliche Anleitung” der Attentäter des 11. September 2001, Frankfurt a.M. 2004.

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the suicide who extinguishes his/herself with the intent of inflicting a deadly surprise blow on the enemy outside the usual battlefield, killing those whom we define “civilians”? If the profile of the religious terrorist is primarily just that, we should be aware that we are excluding a strain fundamental to the history of terrorism from the French revolution onwards. The terrorist, in fact, often operates from within a community, opposing a part of it, fighting, therefore, a sort of civil war. Here conversely we are looking at an external enemy, a religious one, and we are trying to see if the logic of martyrdom (μάρτυς in Greek meant “witness”) can be stretched to envisage not only one’s own passive immolation in the name of a faith before a tyrannical regime deaf to the revealed truth, but also the active suicide killer (on whom there is no lack of political studies that pay too little attention to less recent history)7. The question seems to me an important one, as soon as one thinks, for example, of Natalie Zemon Davis’ research into the wars of religion. In a 1973 essay she highlighted how a number of Huguenots arrived at justifying violence by a private individual aimed at defending the “true” religion, even with the sacrifice of his own life, citing an anonymous pamphlet entitled La défense civile et militaire des Innocents et de l’Eglise de Christ (1563)8. This text is lost after being condemned not only by the Lyon civil authorities, but also by the Huguenot pastors led by Pierre Viret, who ordered the burning of all copies of the book. If we know something about its contents, it is because the publication’s importance was flagged by an early twentieth-century French scholar9 and because La défense was attributed to Charles Du Moulin, who denied paternity in an apologia that summarizes those contents10. For that celebrated jurist, acts of iconoclasm and the destruction of idols, like rebellion against an oppressive tyrant, were never permissible in the individual Christian (who should always obey the constituted political authority) but only to magistrates. In his 7 See for exemple J. Croitoru, Der Märtyrer als Waffe. Die historischen Wurzeln des Selbstmordattentats, München 2003. 8 N.Z. Davis, The Rites of Violence: Religious Riot in Sixteenth-Century France, in “Past and Present”, 59, 1973, pp. 51–91. La défense is familiar enough to scholars of French Calvinism: see for example R. Kingdon, Geneva and the Consolidation of the French Protestant Movement, 1564–1572. A Contribution to the History of Congregationalism, Presbyterianism and Calvinist Resistance Theory, Geneva 1967, pp. 153–156; C.M.N. Eire, War against the Idols. The Reformation of Worship from Erasmus to Calvin, Cambridge 1986, p. 301; A. Jouanna, Les temps des guerres des religion, in A. Jouanna et al. (eds.), Histoire et dictionnaire des guerres de religion, Paris 1998, pp. 1–445, here pp. 126 f.; P. Benedict, The Dynamics of Protestant Militancy: France, 1555–1563, in P. Benedict et al. (eds.), Reformation, Revolt and Civil War in France and the Netherlands 1555–1585, Amsterdam, 1999, pp. 35–49; H. Daussy, Huguenot Political Thought and Activities, in R.A. Mentzer / B. van Ruymbeke (eds.), A Companion to the Huguenots, Leiden / Boston MA 2018, pp. 66–89, here p. 78. 9 A. Cartier, Bibliographie des éditions des de Tournes, imprimeurs lyonnais, Paris 1937/38, vol. 2, pp. 530–535. 10 See Apologie contre un livret intitulé La défense civile, in Carolus Molinaeus, Omnia quae extant opera, Editio novissima, Parisiis, sumptibus Nicolai Pepingué, 1681, vol. 5, pp. XVIII–XXII (the measures taken against the text immediately after its printing are listed in an appendix).

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confutation of the pamphlet, Du Moulin significantly refers to a recent work by the Italian exile Pier Martire Vermigli, a commentary on the Book of Judges printed in Zurich in 1561. This text which, like others by Vermigli, had a considerable impact in the Protestant world and went through several editions, drew on both Christian and rabbinical sources and afforded a fairly ample treatment to Samson, who seemed to the theologian a somewhat ambiguous figure. With his immolation Samson fulfilled his task of punishing the Philistines in accordance with divine mandate (that is to say, as a judge and not as an individual), and his death, along with the destruction of the idolatrous enemy, was not voluntary suicide but a just divine retribution for his own past sins11. None the less, despite the stances adopted by such as Du Moulin and Vermigli, the tyrannicide tradition continued to uphold the right of the individual to kill an oppressor, citing the example of Samson, as in the case of Edward Sexby (under a pseudonym), for one, an opponent of Cromwell, writing before Milton’s treatment12. The age of the wars of religion was a time of assassination attempts on the king, conspiring saints, iconoclasts and both Protestant martyrologies (John Foxe, Jean Crespin, Mathias Flacius Illyricus, Pier Paolo Vergerio, Scipione Lentolo) and Catholic ones (Cesare Baronio classed the Reformation “pseudo-martyrs” as sicarii)13. In Spain the compiling of martyrologies, again in the sixteenth century, also served to celebrate the recent Reconquista14. On this occasion, however, I will choose another route and outline briefly the history of a particular figure. I am thinking, as mentioned before, of Samson, who has already been cited in connection with the Twin Towers assailants in a book by Gilbert Achcar15. As early as 2002, John Carey had stigmatized Milton’s play in rather moralistic tones suggesting that the English poet’s Samson was a charismatic ter-

11 Petrus Martyr Vermilius, In librum Iudicum commentarij doctissimi, Tiguri, excudebat Christoph. Froschoverus, 1561, fols. 144r–169v. On this work see at least G. Jenkins, Commentary on Judges. Patristic and Medieval Sources, in E. Campi et al. (eds.), A Companion to Peter Martyr Vermigli, Leiden / Boston MA 2009, pp. 231–248. A position similar to Vermigli’s can be found in Heinrich Bullinger, Les cinq Decades des sermons, [Genève], Courteau, III–6, “Des loix ceremoniales”, p. 260: “Et le desir de Samson n’estoit point tant de se venger de son iniure particulière, que reprimer ces blasphémateurs, & maintenir le peuple de Dieu en liberté, a quoy il avoit esté appelé”. The first Latin edition dates to 1552. 12 “Now that which was lawful for Samson to do against many oppressors, why is it unlawful for us to do against one?” – from [Edward Sexby], Killing no Murder, London 1689, p. 27. 13 On the martyrologies, see B.S. Gregory, Salvation at Stake. Christian Martyrdom in Early Modern Europe, Cambridge MA 1999; F. Lestringant, Lumière des martyres. Essai sur le martyre au siècle des Réformes, Paris 2004. Baronio’s definition is in Martyrologium Romanum. Accesserunt notationes atque Tractatio de Martyrologio Romano auctore Caesare Baronio, Romae, ex typographia Dominici Basae, 1586, p. XIII. For Sephardic martyrology, see below. 14 See Divus Eulogius, Opera, studio et diligentia [...] Petri Poncij Leonis [...] per regna & ditiones Philippi II. Regis Catholici inquisitoris reperta [...]. Cum alijs nonnullis sanctorum martyrum Cordubensium monumentis, Compluti, Ioannes Iniguez, 1574. 15 G. Achcar, Le choc des barbaries. Terrorismes et désordre mondial, Bruxelles 2002, ad indicem.

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rorist disturbing to the twenty-first-century reader16. The response from Milton scholars was split: on one side Stanley Fish and David Loewenstein (the last with some subtlety) objected that this was a superficial reading which failed to take into account the seventeenth-century religious context, the difference between the author’s voice and the voices of his characters in the play, and the totality of Milton’s output, as author after all of the far from fanatical Areopagitica17. From another direction, the Catholic Tobias Gregory replied that Samson Agonistes displays no misgivings about the rightness, even sanctity, of the slaughter of the Philistines and that Milton, fresh from legitimizing the protestant massacres in Ireland in his Observations upon the Articles of Peace (1649), was addressing himself, in the climate of the Restoration, to all those living outside the Anglican Church, possibly in order to open their eyes to ongoing idolatry and oppression18. Milton, incidentally, was blind himself and his hero too had suffered his eyes being put out. Milton’s name crops up in a study by Takeda where he seeks to westernize the genealogy of terrorism using Samson as an example19. Here too, however, we are confronted with an excess of instances that do little to further our understanding (besides, the debate is ongoing among researchers into literature and terrorism – however interpreted)20. I hope to dedicate a fuller study to commentaries on the Book of Judges, such as that of Vermigli – an author Milton knew well21 – because I think such an investigation, ranging over both the Protestant and Catholic worlds, would help us 16 J. Carey, A Work in Praise of Terrorism?, in “Times Literary Supplement”, September 6, 2002, pp. 15 f. 17 An important work for the reconstruction of earlier debates on Milton’s drama is J.A. Wittreich, Interpreting Samson Agonistes, Princeton MA 1986. The text provides a wide panorama of English seventeenth-century commentaries on the Book of Judges. It goes without saying that many of the leading interpreters of the Puritan Revolution have dedicated considerable space to the work, for example, C. Hill, Milton and the English Revolution, London 1977. For the post–2001 debate, see M.R. Kelley / J. Wittreich (eds.), Altering Eyes. New Perspectives on Samson Agonistes, London 2002; S. Fish, “There is Nothing He Cannot Ask”. Milton, Liberalism and Terrorism, now in S. Fish, Versions of Antihumanism. Milton and Others, Cambridge 2012, pp. 79–97; D. Loewenstein, “Samson Agonistes” and the Culture of Religious Terror, in M. Lieb / A.C. Labriola (eds.), Milton in the Age of Fish, Pittsburgh PA 2006, pp. 203–228. These notes cannot pretend to provide a full bibliography on Milton’s Samson, which is endless. 18 T. Gregory, The Political Messages of “Samson Agonistes”, in “Studies in English Literature, 1500– 1900”, 50, 2010, pp. 175–203. 19 A. Takeda, Suicide Bombers in Western Literature. Demythologizing a Mythic Discourse, in “Contemporary Justice Review”, 13, 2010, pp. 455–475. 20 See F.G. Mohamed, Milton and the Post-Secular Present. Ethics, Politics, Terrorism, Stanford CA 2011, pp. 87–106; R. Appelbaum, Terrorism before the Letter. Mithography and Political Violence in England, Scotland and France 1559–1642, Oxford 2015, pp. 208–222 (with an analysis of various literary works prior to Milton); P.C. Herman, Samson among the Terrorologists, in P.C. Herman (ed.), Terrorism and Literature, Cambridge 2018, pp. 486–504. 21 The work enjoyed immediate success in England, thanks to a speedy translation, Peter Martyr, Commentary upon the Book of Judges, London 1564. A review of the drama’s sources can be found in F.M. Krouse, Milton’s Samson and the Christian Tradition, Princeton NJ 1949.

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to understand better the theological culture of destructive suicide already existing prior to the English poet’s work on both sides of the sixteenth- and seventeenth-century confessional divide. I will limit myself here to offering a few suggestions towards an initial study of the figure of Samson at the time of the wars of religion.

2 Samson: History, images, and portrayals The original legend of the (mythical) Samson is narrated in Judges 13–16. He was the offspring of a certain Manoah and a woman previously barren, to whom an angel had appeared on two occasions and refused the offering of a kid, urging her instead to make a burnt offering to God. Samson was consecrated a “Nazarite” from birth and had to abstain from wine and not cut his hair. Strong enough to kill a lion with his bare hands, he became enamored of a Philistine whom his father reluctantly allowed him to marry, although she was a foreigner. Having set the Philistines a riddle whose solution was wheedled out of him by his wife, he refused to honor his promise of handing over thirty asses and thirty changes of clothing to those who had answered the riddle, killed thirty of them and repudiated his wife, which is given in marriage to another of his tribe. Furthermore, in revenge, Samson burnt his enemies’ crops attaching firebrands to the tails of three hundred foxes roped in pairs. Handed over to the Philistines by his fellow Jews to avoid reprisals, he threw off the cords binding him and killed a thousand men with the jawbone of an ass. Later, after eluding an ambush set for him while he was visiting a Philistine prostitute in Gaza (he walked off with the doors of the city), he fell in love with Delilah, who, after a number of failed attempts, succeeded in extracting from him the secret of his strength on behalf of the Philistines. Delilah then shaved off his hair and handed him over to his enemies, who blinded him and set him to turning a millstone. However, his hair grew back, and when the Philistines led him to the temple of Dagon to “make sport” of him during a thanksgiving feast before their idol for the successful humiliation of their enemy, Samson grabbed hold of the columns supporting the building and brought the whole thing down, crushing himself and thousands of his enemies. His body was recovered and buried by his relations “between Zorah and Eshtaol”. The Bible records that Samson “judged Israel twenty years”, although regarding the period of the Judges scholars of ancient Jewish history doubt the testimony of the Old Testament and place it further ahead22. For all that he is a hero, he is portrayed as a lustful xenophile (he desires three Philistine women in succession), is possessed by a raving anger, combines tragic and comic attributes, practices deception, and exe22 M. Liverani, Oltre la Bibbia. Storia antica di Israele, Roma / Bari 2003, pp. 327–330. A fine analysis of the Old Testament account can be found in S. Niditch, War in the Hebrew Bible. A Study in the Ethics of Violence, Oxford / New York 1993, pp. 111–118.

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cutes at least two “terroristic” acts, if we include the foxes. None the less, Josephus in his Antiquities of the Jews (V, 275–317) emphasizes his more heroic traits, making him out as a freedom fighter against Philistine rule and remaining strangely silent about the prostitute and other scabrous details. In his version Samson does not pray for it to happen but the regrowth of his hair is a clear sign of reacquired divine favor. The rabbinic tradition further embellishes the myth of Samson’s strength and generosity, defends him from the accusation of being an oath-breaker but adjudges his blinding a punishment for his immoderate lust. Some sources will even have him a Messiah manqué; others make him lame23. Following the Epistle to the Hebrews (11: espec. 33–34), where various patriarchs of Israel are listed and some of his exploits recounted, Samson is considered a hero of the faith and an embattled witness of God by Christians too, and during the Middle Ages his birth from a barren woman, the angel’s annunciation and his humiliation at the hands of his enemies render him something of an alter Christus24. However, while the Old Testament hero fights back, killing himself and his enemies, and destroying the idolaters’ temple, Christ sacrifices himself in passive obedience to the heavenly plan. Besides, as many Milton scholars have noted, from the sixteenth century onwards the assimilation of his hero to the Messiah gives way to more complex readings which put greater emphasis on Samson’s faults, notably his violence. To get some idea of the assimilation of Samson and Christ, we need only look at this late medieval miniature taken from the famous Maciejowski or Crusader Bible, thirteenth century (fig. 1)25. The last scene in this sort of triptych of the biblical hero’s passion is precisely the destruction of the Philistines’ temple, like that in figure 2, taken from a manuscript codex containing a French version of Boccaccio (fifteenth century)26. This figuring of Samson’s final destructive exploit will go on to enjoy a certain popular currency in later print culture. One could cite for instance the title-page of Alessandro Roselli’s Rappresentatione di Sansone27.

23 For the Jewish sources see L.H. Feldman, Josephus’ “Jewish Antiquities” and Pseudo-Philo’s “Biblical Antiquities”, in L.H. Feldman / G. Hata (eds.), Josephus, the Bible, and History, Leiden 1989, pp. 59– 80, especially pp. 69 ff.; L. Ginzberg, The Legends of the Jews, Philadelphia PA 2003, pp. 877–880. 24 For an analysis of the interpretive tradition from antiquity to our own day, see E. Eynikel / T. Nicklas (eds.), Samson Hero or Fool? The Many Faces of Samson, Leiden / Boston MA 2014. 25 Maciejowsky Bible, incompletely preserved in the Pierpont Morgan Library, New York, Ms. M.638, fol. 15v; cf. W. Noel / D. Weiss (eds.), The Book of Kings: Art, War, and the Morgan Library’s Medieval Picture Bible, Baltimore MA 2002. 26 This is actually a translation of De casibus virorum illustrium (where Samson appears in bk. I, ch. 17) attributed to Laurent de Premierfait: Des Cas des nobles hommes et femmes de Jehan Boccace, 1410 ca., Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Ms. Français 229, fol. 36v; cf. A. Hedeman, Translating the Past. Laurent de Premierfait and Boccaccio’s “De casibus”, Los Angeles CA 2008. 27 Alessandro Roselli, La Rappresentatione di Sansone nuovamente ristampata, Florence, s.n., 1554 (the 1st edition is from 1550).

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Fig. 1: Maciejowsky Bible, partly preserved in The Morgan Library & Museum, MS M.638, fol. 15v. Purchased by J.P. Morgan (1867–1943) in 1916. Photographic credit: The Morgan Library & Museum, New York

Fig. 2: Laurent de Premierfait?, Des Cas des nobles hommes et femmes de Jehan Boccace, 1410 ca., Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Ms. Français 229, fol. 36v.

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Fig. 3: Sebastian Brant, Das Narrenschiff. Historic Images / Alamy Stock Photo.

Towards the end of the fifteenth century, Sebastian Brant highlighted instead the rage and madness aspects, including Samson in his Narrenschiff (ship of fools), chapter 51 (Geheimnisse wahren: keeping secrets), with more than a touch of Dürer in the illustrations (fig. 3)28. And in fact, as in this woodcut, it was the sensual, lustful Samson betrayed by Delilah that would dominate his portrayal in the early modern period; Guido Reni, however, in a picture now in Bologna (1611, fig. 4), shows him triumphant with jawbone (more a Hercules than a biblical hero) – as also in the fresco cycle of the Sala delle Nozze Aldobrandini in the Vatican29. Even if Samson deceived by Delilah came to dominate the iconography, the suicidal destroyer also enjoyed a

28 Sebastian Brant, Das Narrenschiff, edited by Hans-Joachim Maehl, Stuttgart 2006, p. 181. 29 Bologna, Pinacoteca Nazionale, Sansone vittorioso; cf. S. Pepper, Guido Reni. A Complete Catalogue of his Work, Oxford 1984, no. 60; Catalogo generale della Pinacoteca Nazionale di Bologna, vol. 3: J. Bentini et al., (eds.), Guido Reni e il Seicento, Venezia 2008.

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parallel career, as can be seen from this graphic work by Maarten van Heemskerck from around 1560, printed in Haarlem by Philips Galle, clearly under the influence of Michelangelo following the long stay of the artist in Rome (fig. 5)30. Although he is present in many series of illustrated tales from the Bible (I will offer just a couple of images, the first from a 1570 edition of the Lutheran Bible31; the second printed by Martin Engelbrecht in the first half of the eighteenth century32, figs. 6–7), Samson burying the Philistines under the crashed temple was not included in the sequence of Dürer-inspired reliefs in the Fuggerkappelle of the Church of St Anne at Augsburg (one shows Samson tearing down the gates of Gaza, another Samson slaying the Philistines, fig. 8)33 but does appear in a woodcut by his assistant Hans Leonhard Schäufelein34 and a century later in another by Matthäus Merian the Elder, celebrated illustrator of the Thirty Years War, engraved again by Pieter Schut to embellish a Dutch edition produced by Jacob Savry of Josephus’s Antiquities (fig. 9)35. In the field of painting, I will limit myself to noting a Genoese school painting somewhat in the style of Rubens (fig. 10)36; and finally, from the eighteenth century, a vigorous engraving by Jean André Pfeffel who illustrated the Book of Judges in a French version of Johann J. Scheuchzer’s Physica Sacra (fig. 11)37. Did the wars of religion have a bearing on the iconography of the violent Samson? I do not have enough evidence to prove it was so, but further research would be worthwhile.

30 On the background to the artist’s production, see M. Folin / M. Preti (eds.), Les villes détruites de Maarten van Heemskerck. Images de ruines et conflits religieux dans les Pays-Bas au XVIe siècle, Paris 2015. 31 Biblia, Das ist Die gantze Heylige Schrifft Teutsch Mart. Luth., Sampt einem Register und schoenen Figuren, Franckfurt am Mayn, Johann Wolffen und David Zephelij Erben, 1570, fol. 144v. But it would be useful to compare versions of this final scene of devastation in all the illustrated Lutheran bibles produced in the early modern era, from the 1534 Wittenberg Bible to that illustrated by Johann Teufel in 1572, and beyond; cf. P. Schmidt, Die Illustration des Lutherbibel 1522–1700, Basel 1962. 32 F. Schott, Martin Engelbrecht und seine Nachfolger. Ein Bericht zur Geschichte des Augsburger Kunst- und Buchhandels von 1719–1896 (1924), Vaduz 2009. 33 See B. Bushart, Die Fuggerkapelle bei St. Anna in Augsburg, München 1994, pp. 99–159; P.F. Cuneo, Art and Politics in Early Modern Germany. Jörg Breu the Elder and the Fashioning of Political Identity, ca. 1475–1536, Leiden 1998, pp. 69 f.; M. Häberlein, The Fuggers of Augsburg. Pursuing Wealth and Honor in Renaissance Germany, Charlottesville VA / London, 2012. 34 On the author, see C. Metzger, Hans Schäufelin als Maler, Berlin 2002. 35 In Flavius Josephus, Joodsche Historien ende Boecken, Dordrecht, Jacobus Savry, 1665, fol. 66v; for Merian see L.H. Wüthrich, Das druckgraphische Werk von Matthaeus Merian d. Ae., vol. 3/1, Basel 1993; for the production in the Low Countries of images from the ancient history of Israel, see P. van der Coelen, De Schrift verbeeld. Oudtestamentische prenten uit Renaissance en Barok, Nijmegen 1998. 36 The work has been attributed to either Vincenzo Malò (1605–1660) or Giovanni Battista Merano (1632–1698). 37 Jean-Jacques Scheuchzer, Physique sacrée ou Histoire naturelle de la Bible, enrichie de figures en taille-douce gravées par les soins de Jean André Pfeffel, tome quatrième, Amsterdam, SchenkMortier, 1734, tab. 387; on the work see M. Kempe, Wissenschaft, Theologie, Aufklärung. Johann Jakob Scheuchzer (1672–1733) und die Sintfluttheorie, Epfendorf 2003.

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Fig. 4: Guido Reni, Sansone vittorioso, 1611, Bologna, Pinacoteca Nazionale. By concession of the Ministero per i beni e le attività culturali e per il turismo – Direzione Musei Emilia Romagna. Further duplication or reproduction by any means is prohibited.

Fig. 5: Maarten van Heemskerck, Samson Destroying the Temple of the Philistines (The Story of Samson), Haarlem, Philips Galle, 1560 ca., Edinburgh, National Galleries of Scotland.

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Fig. 6: Biblia, Das ist Die gantze Heylige Schrifft Teutsch Mart. Luth., Sampt einem Register und schoenen Figuren, Franckfurt am Mayn, Johann Wolffen und David Zephelij Erben, 1570, fol. 144v. The Morgan Library & Museum, PML 126372. Bequest of E. Clark Stillman, 1995. Photographic credit: The Morgan Library & Museum, New York.

Fig. 7: Samson Destroying the Temple of Dagon, Augsburg, Martin Engelbrecht, before 1756. Courtesy of Perkins School for the Blind Archives, Watertown MA.

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Fig. 8: Albrecht Dürer, Samson Slaying the Philistines, design for the epitaph of Georg Fugger, ca. 1506–1510. Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Kupferstichkabinett.

Fig. 9: Pieter Schut, after Matthäus Merian the Elder, The Death of Samson, in Flavius Josephus, Joodsche Historien ende Boecken, Dordrecht, Jacobus Savry, 1665, fol. 66v. London, British Museum.

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Fig. 10: Vincenzo Malò (1605–1660), or Giovanni Battista Merano (1632–1698), The Death of Samson, Los Angeles, J. Paul Getty Museum.

Fig. 11: The End of Samson, in JeanJacques Scheuchzer, Physique sacrée ou Histoire naturelle de la Bible, enrichie de figures en taille-douce gravées par les soins de Jean André Pfeffel, tome quatrième, Amsterdam, Schenk-Mortier, 1734, tab. 387. Source gallica.bnf.fr / Bibliothèque nationale de France.

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Returning to written sources, as one can readily imagine, Milton’s dramatic poem was not the first modern work dedicated to Samson: those who have made a study of the afterlife of this biblical figure have found a number, going back to the sixteenth century, when the wars of religion were beginning to bloody the fields of Europe. It will be sufficient here to cite just the one, by the German Jesuit Andreas Fabricius, who composed a tragedy on Samson for the wedding of William V of Bavaria and Renée of Lorraine, performed in 1568 and printed in Cologne in 1569. This work identified the Philistines with the Protestants to the extent of having the hero on the brink of his immolation utter the eloquent invocation “Exurge, iudica tuam causam Deus” (Rise up, and judge thine own cause). These, of course, were the very words with which Leo X opens his bull condemning Luther in 1520. But the most interesting feature of the text is the first part in which Fabricius assembles a variety of quotes from the Fathers of the Church in praise of Samson and his violent sacrifice while simultaneously condemning the lust that had led to his downfall. These are culled from Ambrosius, Jerome and Augustine. If the condemnation of pleasure-seeking might have served as a warning to the couple on the brink of matrimony, the example of Samson, at least in the eyes of the Society of Jesus, was meant to encourage the Dukes of Bavaria to extirpate the enemies of the faith throughout Germany38. His heroic figure would remain popular in the theatre and in Jesuit productions particularly, during the Baroque era (one could mention the Bolognese Guglielmo Dondini’s heroic poem Samson ludens, published in Munich in 1669 in a collection of bellicose texts that glorified the champions, especially the German ones, in the fight against Islam and the Ottomans)39. But it is difficult to imagine that Milton would have found much inspiration in these forerunners: Samson Agonistes is manifestly superior to them and recasts the biblical story in a manner we should now direct our attention to.

38 Andreas Fabricius, Samson. Tragoedia nova, ex sacra Iudicum historia desumpta, praemissis ad eius illustrationem insignibus ortodoxorum Patruum sententijs, Coloniae, apud Maternum Chollnum, 1569, in part. p. 137. Fabricius was the Duke of Bavaria’s agent in Rome and tutor of his son Ernst. On the work, see W. Kirkconnell, That Invincible Samson. The Theme of “Samson Agonistes” in World Literature, Toronto 1964, p. 162; F. Körndle, Between Stage and Divine Service. Jesuits and Theatrical Music, in J.W. O’Malley et al. (eds.), The Jesuits II: Cultures, Sciences, and the Arts 1540–1773, Toronto 2016 pp. 479–497, especially pp. 480–482. 39 Selecta heroum spectacula in amphitheatro fortitudinis eleganti poemate repraesentata, accessit Samson P. Guilielmi Dondini, Monachi, sumptibus Joannis Wagneri, typis Sebastiani Rauch, 1669. Dondini, following in the footsteps of Famiano Strada, glorified Alessandro Farnese as another example of the Catholic soldier in the wars against the Huguenots: Historia de rebus in Gallia gestis ab Alexandro Farnesio Parmae, et Placentiae duce, Romae, typis Nicolai Angeli Tinassi, 1673.

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3 A justifiable suicide The action takes place in the run-up to his death in the temple. The imprisoned Samson is visited in turn by his father, by Delilah and by the Philistine giant Harafa. At the end of this first part the chorus recites a theodicy, affirming that God’s plans, even if dark and mysterious, are always just: only unbelievers can doubt this40. He can exempt his elect from strict obedience to the law, allowing apparent crimes, and he let Samson be betrayed by his Philistine wife to bring him low and eventually to carry out his project. That plan we understand from the beginning of the second part when Samson’s father bemoans the honors being prepared for Dagon and curses the blasphemies and idolatry of the Philistines. These honors are Samson’s fault, who is paying with his sufferings for his sins against God, but may yet make amends41. If Dagon has challenged God, Samson declares, God will redress by the hand of His instrument. Delilah herself, in the third scene, claims to have betrayed her beloved only in the name of her own god, in obedience to a religious and civil imperative42, though Samson counters that a woman should abandon her homeland for love, and that a god who triumphs though trickery rather than through strength is not a true god. In the fourth scene Samson challenges Harafa and answers the accusations that he is a murderer and a cheat. To be sure, he admits, my actions have been violent, but more violent still has been the subjugation imposed by the Philistines on the Jews; besides, as a warrior and avenger I was not just an individual rebelling against authority: “I was no private but a person raised / With strength sufficient and command from heaven / Sufficient to free my country” (1211–1213). This speech is central, as Gregory has observed. From the beginning to the end Samson is not driven by rage, by passion or revenge, but by a heavenly commission; and indeed,

40 J. Milton, The Complet Shorter Poems, 2nd edition, edited by John Carey, London 2007, Samson Agonistes, pp. 349–415, lines 293–299: “Just are the ways of God, / And justifiable to men; / Unless there be who think not God at all, / If any be, they walk obscure; / For of such doctrine never was there school, / But the heart of the fool, / And no man therein doctor but himself”. 41 Ibid., lines 434–447: “This day the Philistines a popular feast / Here celebrate in Gaza; and proclaim / Great pomp, and sacrifice, and praises loud / To Dagon, as their god who hath delivered / Thee Samson bound and blind into their hands, / Them out of thine, who slew’st them many a slain. / So Dagon shall be magnified, and God, / Besides whom is no god, compared with idols, / Disglorified, blasphemed, and had in scorn / By the idolatrous rout amidst their wine; / Which to have come to pass by means of thee, / Samson, of all thy sufferings think the heaviest, / Of all reproach the most with shame that ever / Could have befall’n thee and thy father’s house”. 42 Ibid., lines 850–862: “That wrought with me: thou know’st the magistrates / And princes of my country came in person, / Solicited, commanded, threatened, urged, / Adjured by all the bonds of civil duty / And of religion, pressed how just it was, / How honourable, how glorious to entrap / A common enemy, who had destroyed / Such numbers of our nation: and the priest / Was not behind, but ever at my ear, / Preaching how meritorious with the gods / It would be to ensnare an irreligious / Dishonourer of Dagon: what had I / To oppose against such powerful arguments?”.

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he goes on to justify before the chorus even his working at the mill: I want to earn my bread and not receive it as a gift from idolaters43. The climactic event then invoked by Samson takes place offstage in the final act and we hear the details of the destruction of the temple from the mouth of a messenger. In Milton’s text however, the massacre of men, women, children and the elderly, unsuspecting of what is about to occur, is not accompanied by Samson’s prayer as reported in the Book of Judges, 16:28 “O Lord God, remember me, I pray thee, and strengthen me, I pray thee, only this once, O God, that I may be at once avenged of the Philistines for my two eyes”. And the reason for this is clear: he has not avenged the loss of his eyes and a private wrong, but his people and the true God, offended by idolatry and the feast of Dagon. There is besides a detail that the commentators overlook: in the closing moments of the play Samson’s father says that he intends to bury his son’s body in the shade of a laurel and a palm tree. It hardly needs saying that the palm, in the Christian tradition, is the symbol of martyrdom. Martyr or kamikaze by divine command, Samson’s Milton, more than his biblical counterpart, is fulfilling a sacred task. The terror visited on the victims of the unexpected massacre is their just punishment for their idol-worship. A few years earlier the biblical story had found an altogether different literary twist. The New Christian or Marrano Antonio Enríquez Gómez, in his heroic poem in octaves Sansón Nazareno (first published in full in France in 1656), celebrated the champion of the Jewish cause, covertly suggesting the parallel that the Philistines of his day were the Spanish Old Christians44. Samson – declares the Philistine tyrant – will demonstrate in his dying the triumph of a monarchy dominating the world, and the humiliation of the circumcised – a people now condemned to wander the earth45. In this work written by a man himself persecuted by the Inquisition Samson’s final victory is seen not only as 43 Ibid., lines 1335–1337: “Not in their idol-worship, but by labour / Honest and lawful to deserve my food / Of those who have me in their civil power”. 44 Antonio Enríquez Gómez, Sansón Nazareno: poema épico, edición crítica y anotada por María del Carmen Artigas, Madrid 1999. The reconstruction of the life and opinions of this author remains a matter of debate even after Israël Salvator Révah’s publication of his exhaustive research: Antonio Enríquez Gómez: un écrivain marrane (v. 1600–1663), edited by C.L. Wilke, Paris 2003. See, in particular, H.P. Salomon, Was Antonio Enríquez Gómez (1600–1663) a Crypto-Jew?, in “Bulletin of Hispanic Studies”, 88, 2011, pp. 387–421 (but to my mind Révah’s analysis of the poem is the more convincing). Cf. G. Dille, Antonio Enríquez Gómez, Boston MA 1988; C.L. Wilke, Jüdisch-christliches Doppelleben im Barock. Zur Biographie des Kaufmanns und Dichters Antonio Enríquez Gómez, Frankfurt a.M. 1994; K. Brown, De la cárcel inquisitorial a la sinagoga de Amsterdam (edición y estudio del “Romance a Lope de Vera” de Antonio Enríquez Gómez), Toledo 2007; E. Domínguez de Paz, La polémica Zárate/Enríquez Gómez (a propósito de la censura de “La conversión de la Magdalena”), in “Cincinnati Romance Review”, 37, 2014, pp. 45–66. 45 I quote from Antonio Enríquez Gómez, Sansón Nazareno: poema heroico, Ruan, Laurenço Maurry, 1656 (with some fine illustrations). “Sea Sanson el triumpho verdadero / Desta invensible y fuerte Monarquía, / Castigando con animo severo / Del pueblo circonciso la osadia” (14,17); “Dime Sanson; adonde aquel diuino / Dios de Iacob está? que no defiende / Su pueblo entre las gentes peregrino, / Si su poder el Mundo comprehende?” (14,29).

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the just punishment of idolatry, but as the redemption of an entire people46. From the same period, in the libertine Ferrante Pallavicino’s Sansone (1654) the reader readily grasps that the author’s sympathies are with the libidinous hero rather than with the instrument of a massacre ironically credited to the justice of God. Furthermore, Pallavicino touches in closing on an important issue: Samson dies by suicide in order to kill. He thus committed a double sin. Perhaps God will have pardoned him, the author suggests, because, after all, it was a selfless act. But it was suicide none the less47. Pallavicino is not being ingenuous here: while Samson had already made an appearance in Chaucer’s Monk’s Tale, and if the combatants in Cromwell’s New Model Army could read Samson’s prayer in The Souldiers Pocket Bible distributed before the triumphant battles of 164448, it was John Donne, in his Biathanatos, a short moral/ theological text in defense of suicide penned between 1607 and 1608, who argued that the sacrifice of Samson, that shining symbol of Christ, demonstrated the legitimacy of taking one’s own life49. But Donne, debating with a several contemporary luminaries of Late Scholasticism and Catholic casuistry, in his conviction that Samson had acted on divine command, had referred back to an authority that Milton could not but be familiar with, which is to say, De civitate Dei (I,21), where Augustine talks of Samson in the context of exceptions to the fifth commandment. If a death is ordered by God, even one’s own death, that renders the killing legitimate. In burying himself along with the Philistines Samson is obeying a command of the Holy Spirit, who through him performs a prodigious deed. And that deed is the annihilation of the

46 “Yo muero por la Ley que tu escribiste, / Por los preceptos santos que mandaste, / Por el pueblo sagrado que escogiste / Y por los mandamientos que ordenaste./ Yo muero por la patria que me diste / Y por la gloria con que al pueblo honraste./ Muero por Israel, y lo primero / Por tu inefable Nombre verdadero” (14, 61). Miriam Bodian has also considered the popularity of Samson during the seventeenth-century Sephardic diaspora in Dying in the Law of Moses. Cripto-Jews Martyrdom in the Iberian World, Bloomington IN 2007, pp. 151 f., 195, where she links the writing of Enríquez Gómez’s poem to the Inquisition’s persecution of Francisco Maldonado da Silva and cites two earlier works on Samson in Castilian by Juan Pérez de Montalban (1638) and Francisco de Rojas Zorilla. 47 Ferrante Pallavicino, Il Sansone libri tre, Venetia, appresso il Turrini, 1654 p. 189: “se bene la perdita dell’anima per haver ucciso se stesso si dubita che seguisse ad un tanto trionfo, in cui debellò li nemicij […], m’aggrada il sostener le parti della Divina clemenza […]. Stimo verisimile, che non permettesse Dio la dannazione di questo heroe, di cui s’addossò la protectione sin dal nascimento mostrando d’haverne singolare providenza”. 48 The Souldiers Pocket Bible: Containing the most (if not all) those places contained in Holy Scripture which doe shew the qualifications of his Inner man, that is a fit Souldier to fight the Lords Battells [...], London, printed by G. B[ishop] for G.C, 1644, p. 5. 49 John Donne, Biathanatos, edited by M. Rudick and M. Pabst Battin, London / New York 1982, chap. III, par. 4, pp. 180–182. Samson is also cited as an example of justifiable suicide (committed in accordance with God’s will) in a Catholic inquisitorial manual: Iacobus Simancas, Liber de Institutionibus Catholicis, Romae, in Aedibus Populi Romani, 1575, p. 133.

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idolaters50. When Luther wrote his commentary on the Book of Judges, he too surely had this passage in mind51. In the twentieth century Samson would be an inspiration to the Zionist extremist Vladimir Jabotinsky52, but long before then he had had a long history that I have tried to cover at some speed and which demonstrates how this emblematic figure, in modern times particularly, has lent himself to the justification of acts of retribution, or even purely demonstrative ones, on the part of individuals who sacrifice themselves in order to kill enemies of the faith far from the conventional field of battle, and by divine mandate. Are we seeing here the prototype of the modern religious terrorist? It is hard to be sure, but Assmann’s writings remind us how the Old Testament can be seen to have inspired religious violence among monotheisms. It turns out to be the Great Code of faith and of violence; and when Northrop Frye brought to a close his book of that title, he did so evoking none other than the perennially fascinating Samson53.

50 John Donne, Biathanatos, chap. III, par. 4, pp. 180–182: “Samson, too, who drew down the house on himself and his foes together, is justified only on this ground, that the Spirit who wrought wonders by him had given him secret instructions to do this”. 51 For Luther on Samson, see R. Bainton, The Bible in the Reformation, in The Cambridge History of the Bible, vol. 3: The West from the Reformation to the Present Day, edited by S.L. Greenslade, Cambridge 1963, pp. 1–37, especially p. 15. 52 Samson the Nazarite, London 1930. This work inspired Cecil B DeMille’s celebrated movie Samson and Delilah (1949). There is an intriguing reading by D. Grossman, Dvash Arayot, transl. Lyon’s Honey. The Myth of Samson, Edinburgh / London 2007. 53 N. Frye, The Great Code. The Bible and the Literature, London 1982, p. 233. On Milton see also N. Frye, Spiritus mundi. Essays on Literature, Myth, and Society, Bloomington IN 1976, pp. 205–218.

Serena Ferente

“Nothing violent can last”: Nature, Violence, and Political Legitimacy in a Scholastic Formula 1 Tyranny and violence in medieval political languages It is perhaps not surprising that recent political developments around the world have dramatically brought to the fore a concept, “tyranny”, that was particularly salient in medieval political thought in Europe, in Christian as well as Jewish and Muslim traditions. For medieval political thinkers, tyranny – a word inherited from ancient Greek political language – served to highlight the crucial distinction between the mere fact of political rule, on the one hand, and the legitimacy of political rule, on the other. “Tyranny” was perhaps the essential problem of late medieval politics, one declined in myriad forms and encapsulated in powerful words and symbols. It could be used in discourse that aimed to denounce and mobilize, as well as in learned and highly technical debates. This paper examines a small discursive unit, one element of the widespread language of politics of late medieval and early modern Europe, the language spoken by “authors” as well as less extraordinary people, who thought, talked, and wrote about politics. The discursive unit examined is a formula, a maxim or a proverb, something that travelled from text to text, and, one can imagine, from mouth to mouth, occasionally well embedded into a coherent and complex discourse, but often alone, de-contextualized, like a stone that could be mounted on a variety of jewels. The formula was: “nothing violent can last”. Like proverbs, it presented itself in a number of versions: “nothing violent is durable”, or “what is violent is not permanent”. It was mostly cited in Latin: nullum violentum perpetuum, or nihil violentum durabile. I first encountered this maxim in a letter written by a relatively obscure Milanese merchant in September 1452 – his name was Innocente, or Innocenzo, Cotta – and addressed to an equally obscure man, Venturino Brambilla, a friend of Innocenzo, who was at the time the keeper of the castle of Lodi, a town near Milan. This letter is one of those documents produced by non-institutional actors that rarely survive, having been preserved only because it came into the hands of Innocenzo Cotta’s enemy, the new duke of Milan Francesco Sforza, a prince keenly aware of the power that derives from acquiring and preserving information. Innocenzo wrote: Messer Venturino if you consider how things are at present in Italy and in Lombardy, and especially in that poor city of Lodi, in what calamity it is now because of extortions and oppressions, the inability to collect the fruit of the harvest, the siege of the army of the Illustrious Signoria of https://doi.org.10.1515/9783110643978-004

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Venice, the rout of lord Alessandro Sforza, and then the exiles carried out and the great cruelty inflicted onto those citizens who were executed, which was the greatest evil and a sin – God is witness: for all of this you must understand well the extreme necessity and obligation to change the state, because nullum violentum perpetuum1.

“No violence is perpetual”, he writes, and because nothing violent can last in perpetuity there needs to be a change of regime in the duchy of Milan. Specifically, Innocenzo entreated Venturino to surrender the castle of Lodi, so that the duke of Milan Francesco Sforza could be defeated and removed, and liberty restored. The letter continued: Put this in your mind, which is as true as if it were the Gospel: that doing this you will reap more and more worthy rewards, the useful friendship of the leading lords and republics of Italy and the benevolence of every individual person, who will be able to say that they have been dug out of tyranny, and out of the Pharaoh’s hand, thanks to you. You will acquire glory and great merit in the eyes of God, because in freeing Milan you would be on the side of justice and you would liberate your fatherland2.

To be on the side of liberty is to be on the side of justice and to please God; to remove the tyrant Francesco Sforza is to liberate God’s people from the Pharaoh. In fact, a restoration of liberty is not just desirable but inevitable, Innocenzo argued, because what is violent cannot last. The formula is intriguing: nullum violentum perpetuum, a Latin saying planted in the middle of a letter written in a Lombard-Italian vernacular, by a writer very much interested in persuading the reader to take immediate action. This is the sort of political language that is most elusive for a medieval historian, a language that immediately connects practice and theory, relying on a varied toolbox in which ideas combine perhaps unsystematically but effectively, the language of ideology and political debate. Nullum violentum perpetuum can be imagined as one of the tools in the toolbox, one with an interesting history of its own.

1 S. Ferente, Gli ultimi guelfi. Linguaggi e identità politiche in Italia nella seconda metà del Quattrocento, Roma 2013, pp. 62 f.: “Mesere Venturino, pareme abiati a considerare como de presente stano e pasano le cose de la Italia e de Lombardia, e specialmente quela povereta citade in quanta calamitate ela si ritrova per le extorsione, carigi li sono dati, per lo pasato non poter recoliere li fructi soi, per le giente de la Illustrissima Signoria, per li presoni facti quando sequite la rotta del Signor Alesandro, da poi per li condenati facti e per la grande crudelitate facta in fare morire quilli citadini a grandissimo torto e pecato. E Dio n’è bono testimonio. Per le quali tute cose doveti asai comprendere esserli extrema necesitate e forza a mutar stato, perché nullum violentum perpetuum”. 2 Ibid.: “Meteti questo per mente, che l’è così vero como è lo Evangelio: che facendolo voi vi ne sequirano più e più cose degne, utile amicitia de le Segnorie et Segnori de Italia e benivolentia de ogni singular persona, quali poriano dire loro esere cavati de tirapnia, e fora de le mane de Pharaone per voi. E vi ne sequiria gloria, e apreso a Dio aquistaresti grandissimo merito, perché liberando Milano saresti per la iustitia et ancora liberaresti la vostra patria”.

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2 Violence from physics to politics The formula had originated two centuries earlier in the faculties of arts and theology in Paris and in the commentaries on Aristotle’s De Caelo, On Heaven3. It had nothing to do with politics. Masters such as Thomas Aquinas and his student Peter of Auvergne used it in discussing the motion of bodies in space. Violentia was to them the acceleration that an external force impresses upon a body. In keeping with Aristotelian physics, Aquinas explained that any acceleration must come to an end. Violent motion not only, by definition, originated outside the accelerating body but went, in addition, against the natural state, or the natural inclination of that body, it was against nature. This idea, which may be intuitive to a certain extent but is at odds with Galileian-Newtonian physics, becomes clearer if we understand natural motion as the behaviour of bodies observed on Earth (heavy bodies tend to go down, light bodies tend to go up, etc.). Each body has a natural inclination towards a certain type of movement, and what disrupts such a natural inclination is violent; nothing violent is permanent, as for Aristotle and Aquinas natural motion was continuous4. Nullum violentum perpetuum was therefore a scholastic shortcut that encapsulated one of the basic tenets of Aristotelian physics, and was probably used for didactic purposes, in the same way, for example, law students and practitioners memorized legal maxims from Roman Law, such as “from a dishonorable cause an action does not arise” (ex turpi causa non oritur actio). Because maxims travel very easily, and certainly because our maxim carried the authority of Aristotle, Aquinas, and the scholastic teaching system, very soon we find nullum violentum perpetuum cited as a general truth and, unsurprisingly, especially in a political sense. The transition into the language of politics happened somewhere in the late thirteenth century and here, as in many other cases, the extraordinarily popular mirror for princes by Giles of Rome dedicated to the French Dauphin, De regimine principum, played a crucial role. On the very first page of Giles’ treatise, written around 1278/79, the formula is inserted in its new political context: [Aristotle’s] book of Politics argues that not all principates are equally durable, nor are individual governments measured by the same units of time. Instead, some are annual, some life-long, some others are, through inheritance and succession into children, deemed to be in a certain way

3 See for example Peter of Auvergne’s quaestio “Utrum aliquid violentum sit sempiternum”, in Peter of Auvergne, Questions on Aristotle’s De Caelo, edited by G. Galle, Leuven 2003, pp. 274–279. On Peter of Auvergne, see the recent work in C. Flüeler / L. Lanza / M. Toste (eds.), Peter of Auvergne. University Master of the 13th Century, Berlin 2015. 4 On Aristotelian physics, see for example H. Lang, The Order of Nature in Aristotle’s Physics: Place and the Elements, Cambridge 1998; the view of a modern physicist in C. Rovelli, Aristotle’s Physics: A Physicist’s Look, in “Journal of the American Philosophical Association”, 1, 2015, 1, pp. 23–40.

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perpetual. Thus, since nothing violent is perpetual, as all natural phenomena testify, he who wishes to perpetuate his principate in his own person and his children and descendants must especially seek that his government be natural5.

3 Violence, freedom, and Guelph ideology Innocenzo may well have read the formula in Giles’s treatise, which had circulated widely in both Latin and vernacular versions since the late thirteenth century6. Yet the formula in its political version had become even more prominent, and ideologically marked, in the early decades of the fourteenth century – potentially with direct reverberations down the centuries into Innocenzo Cotta’s letter. A heated war of propaganda took place around 1311–1313 when several Italian city-communes and the king of Naples had re-asserted themselves as independent from the overlordship of the Empire. Free cities and a free king in all practical political matters, they banded together in a Guelph alliance in direct opposition to the imperial power. A common claim to independence, bringing together republican and monarchic liberties, had never before been properly articulated in theory. The newly elected King of the Romans, Henry VII of Luxembourg, was in Italy to obtain his coronation in Rome from the Pope. On his way south he received the homage of some lords and cities of Italy, whereas other lords and cities (especially one lord, the king of Naples Robert of Anjou, and one city, Florence), refused to welcome him, pay homage, or allow him to enter the city of Rome through the traditional solemn path of emperors-elect7. The Guelph alliance required a theoretical co-ordination between constitutionally different entities, with different political values and different legal positions vis-àvis the Empire. It also required a sustained work of persuasion, because some of its more powerful members were city-republics, whose citizens were divided and needed to be convinced and mobilized. As a result, the propaganda effort, conducted via a number of pamphlets, probably drafted in Naples and then circulated among allied

5 Aegidii Columne Romani De Regimine Principum, Rome, apud Bartholomeum Zannettum, 1607, p. 1: “Clamat Politicorum sententia, omnes principatus non esse aequaliter diuturnos, nec aequali periodo singula regimina mensurari, sed aliqua sunt annualia, aliqua ad vitam, aliqua vero per haereditatem et successionem in filiis, quae quodammodo perpetua iudicantur. Cum igitur nullum violentum esse perpetuum, fere omnia naturalia protestentur, qui in se et in suis posterioribus filiis suum principatum perpetuari desiderat, summopere studere debet ut sit suum regimen naturale”. 6 A brief introduction to the fortune of De regimine principum in C.F. Briggs, Giles of Rome’s “De Regimine principum”. Reading and Writing Politics at Court and University, c.1275–c.1525, Cambridge 1999, pp. 9–19. 7 On Henry VII’s campaing see W. Bowsky, Henry VII in Italy. The Conflict of Empire and City-State, 1310–13, Lincoln NE 1960.

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chanceries, produced audacious and unprecedented arguments8. Two elements of the new ideological construction stand out: 1) For the first time the Empire itself was denounced as obsolete, and the pope was exhorted to ensure that the imperial throne remain permanently vacant. The Empire was thereby no longer recognized as the pinnacle of legal and political legitimacy in the secular sphere, because – on the authority of Sallust – the Empire was declared the product of wars of conquest, and its authority established with the use of violence. The Romans conquered their territories violenter, through violence, and coercively subjected the defeated. 2) Consequently, “since it is licit for those who are violently taken prisoners by enemies to escape using force or deceit […] no reason exists wherefore it would not be equally licit for one people that is violently oppressed to free itself”9. If the Empire’s legitimacy was based on a historical process of conquest and violence, then the same process of historical change could justify its dissolution. Nullum violentum perpetuum: nothing violent can last. What is established with violence is temporary, the Empire itself is temporary. Indeed, the world looked very different now, said these pamphlets, the Empire is “diminished, mutilated, lacerated, and occupied by several different princes, universities and singular persons of the world, with things reverting to their ancient nature, which they have from natural law and the ius gentium”. Thus, the most radical point the Neapolitan/Guelph polemicists made in 1312 was that the Roman Empire had been built violently (violenter), by conquest and war, oppressing peoples who were previously free, as the Roman historians themselves testified. Consequently, since nullum violentum durabile, the Empire itself was destined to end. Even the Empire, that is, the one political institution in Europe that could be imagined as uninterrupted and permanent, the source of all legitimacy in the secular sphere, was presented instead as a tyrannical government destined for dissolution. This was an obviously polemical stance. Could something that, as late medieval writers believed, lasted longer than a millennium be understood as “violent” in the Aristotelian sense? Yet the argument was powerful. A defender of the Empire like Dante devoted the entirety of the second book of his treatise Monarchia to show that the Empire had not been established by violent means and that all the peoples governed by Rome had subjected themselves voluntarily to Roman lordship10.

8 Nearly all collected in Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Legum Sectio IV, Constitutiones et Acta Public Imperatorum et Regum, edited by J. Schwalm, vol. IV/2, Appendix VII, Hannover and Leipzig, 1909–1911. 9 Ibid., p. 1339: “Cum sit licitum captis violenter ab hostibus ab eis aufugere vi vel fraude […] quare eadem ratione non licebit uni populo violenter oppresso se eripere in libertatem resumptis viribus vel opportunitate captata, nulla ratio prohibit”. 10 Dante, Monarchia, II. On Dante’s treatise see the recent essays in M.L. Ardizzone (ed.), Dante as a Political Theorist. Reading Monarchia, Cambridge 2018, particularly on issues of date of composition

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4 Violence and nature in early modern languages The formula’s popularity continued well after Dante’s and Innocenzo Cotta’s times. From the fourteenth to the nineteenth centuries “nothing violent can last” in its many iterations appears frequently in a variety of writings. Shakespeare adapted the maxim to the king’s passions, equated to natural phenomena: in Richard II, John of Gaunt trusted that the violent anger, like a violent fire, cannot last11. Pierre Bayle mordantly observed that the disputes between erudites may well show that the proverb is wrong, since they are very violent but last longer than actual wars12. An eighteenth-century Welsh physician writing about the properties of opium argued that the state of being awake, and ultimately life itself, cannot last because upheld by force13. Meteorologists could refer to the maxim when talking about extreme weather, and natural scientists continued to discuss it in its original Aristotelian context well into the seventeenth century. Politics was certainly just one of the areas where the maxim could be applied. In his 1452 letter, Innocenzo Cotta, as we have seen, gave the formula a republican spin, which was in keeping with the fourteenth-century anti-tyrannical tradition: he was a Guelph himself, he had participated as an elected magistrate in the government of Milan during the brief republican experience of 1447–1450. Cotta never reconciled himself with the fact that the new Duke of Milan, Francesco Sforza, had gained power through conquest. Yet the maxim nullum violentum perpetuum could be used for opposite political purposes. In 1664 a note was added to the Italian translation of the popular Polish geographer Lucas Linde’s Descriptio Orbis, commenting on the end of the Commonwealth in England. The author, or his translator, wrote that “it is difficult that a kingdom used to the monarchic regime could adapt itself to a republic”, because nullum violentum durabile. The establishment of the republic in England could be deemed to be a form of violence, as it ran against the long monarchical tradition of that country14. Having

and context, which dispute the dating to 1318 supported instead in the treatise’s English translation of reference (Dante, Monarchy, edited and transl. by P. Shaw, Cambridge 1996). 11 Shakespeare, Richard II. “His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last, / For violent fires soon burn out themselves; / Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short / He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes”. 12 Pierre Bayle, Dictionnaire Historique et Critique, vol. 1, Basle, chez Jean-Louis Brandmuller, 1738, p. 227 (Andlo, Petrus ab): “Le proverbe nullum violentum durabile est faux assez souvent dans les guerres d’érudition. Nous n’irons pas loin sans trouver un example de ce que je dis. Les querelles de Mr. Des Marets & Mr. Voetius furent extrémement violentes et durérent près de trente ans, tout autant que la guerre d’Allemagne, qui finit à la paix de Munster”. 13 John Jones, The Mysteries of Opium Reveald, London, Richard Smith, 1701, p. 122: “Note, That the Watching part of our Lives is upheld by Force and that Nullum violentum est diuturnum, and consequently a necessity of Sleep and at last of Death itself”. 14 Lucas de Linda, Le Relationi et descrittioni universali et particolari del mondo, Venice, presso Combi & LaNoù 1664, p. 351: “Perché nullum violentum durabile, & un Regno usato allo stato Monar-

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related the fate of Oliver Cromwell and the Protectorate, Linde expressed a principle that could have well harked back to a famous argument in Machiavelli’s Discourses15, but was framed in scholastic terms by the maxim nullum violentum durabile, which connected, however faintly, political outcomes with natural law. The protean adaptability of the maxim could be taken as an indication of its fundamental superficiality. After all, how useful and interesting can a proverb be when it is deployed for such disparate purposes? Does it not become an empty shell, whose content is too variable to be meaningful? But the maxim “nothing violent can last” was adaptable, but not infinitely so, and it is necessary to go back to its origins in order to see more clearly its conceptual core and implications. Aristotelian language (in its scholastic translation) defined violence as the impact of something external, rather than internal. When the maxim nullum violentum perpetuum migrated from physics and astronomy into the realm of political discourse, the violentum concerned no longer mere physical bodies but conscious agents and collectivities. The maxim, and the distinction it encapsulated between external/internal met with existing ideas of violence (including, importantly, in Roman and Canon Law) and was implicitly re-framed as the distinction involuntary vs. voluntary, or coercive vs. consensual. It was violent what was not voluntary, what constrained the agent. Those writers using the maxim “nothing violent can last” and referring to politics borrowed with the formula precisely this basic distinction: it is a violent regime the one that is not voluntarily accepted, the one that does not enjoy consensus. This was, according to the juridical literature of the fourteenth century (particularly, of course, Bartolus of Saxoferrato), one of the marks, perhaps the ultimate mark, of tyrannical governments: tyrannical government could therefore be easily equated with violent government. By the time Innocenzo Cotta wrote his letter, “nothing violent can last” had become one of the tools of anti-tyrannical discourse, together with ideas of liberty and justice, or Biblical stories such as the divinely assisted escape of Israel from the tyranny of the Pharaohs. A further implication of the formula’s Aristotelian origin concerns the more problematic idea of nature, or “according to nature”, as the opposite of violence. What follows natural inclination cannot be violent – indeed, in the political realm, it must constitute the basis of right, ius. Scholastic theologians, and, before them, canonists at least since Gratian, had relied on the idea of nature, or a “state of nature” as the origin

chico difficilmente si accomoda a quello della Republica”. This passage is absent from the original Latin edition of the work (Descriptio orbis et omnium ejus rerumpublicarum, Leiden 1655). 15 Niccolò Machiavelli, Discorsi sopra la prima deca di Tito Livio, I.16: “Uno popolo, uso a vivere sotto uno principe, se per qualche accidente diventa libero, con difficultà mantiene la libertà”. Note that in this chapter Machiavelli puts the emphasis on the habit and customs of those peoples used to living under a prince, rather than their “natures”. Yet elsewhere in his works, Machiavelli himself often resorts to ideas of nature and naturalness.

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of personal rights16. The authors of the propaganda writings of 1312 applied this general theory of right to collectivites and political entities: once the violently established Empire collapses, things revert “to their ancient nature”, which is one of freedom. In this respect, nullum violentum perpetuum added the inevitability of the laws of nature to the legal and political definition of natural ius. The result was one very powerful political message: tyranny cannot endure, violence will always come to an end. A transcendent political principle, based on Aristotelian physics and Roman history, so typical of the European fourteenth century, and so intrinsically subversive, could become an easy target, a couple of centuries later, of ragion di stato politics, derived from and subservient to the reality and effectiveness of power. The Bolognese adventurer and Orientalist Giovan Battista Montalbano17 was only one of those who turned it upside down, in his Discursus varii de rebus Turcarum (1630): Even though, according to Aristotle, nothing violent is durable, whence it would follow that the Empire of the Turks, since it is tyrannical and violent, should not be lasting, nonetheless by experiment and natural reason it is proved that it shall be not only very durable but also in itself undefeated18.

To offer some precedent to the story of the Ottoman Empire, Montalbano cited precisely the establishment of the principatum by Francesco Sforza in 1450 Milan – that same violentum Innocenzo Cotta had refused to accept. Only, with the benefit of hindsight, Montalbano could comment (rather provocatively for a Christian writing about a Muslim power): “Thus nonetheless the principate continues until today, and will continue in the future, as long as it will please the Divine Providence”19. Political success here no longer springs from natural law. It has no principle other that it is because it is, and what is must in fact accord with Divine Providence.

16 See B. Tierney, The Idea of Natural Rights: Studies on Natural Rights, Natural Law, and Church Law, 1150–1625, Atlanta GA 1997; F. Oakley, Natural Law, Laws of Nature, Natural Rights: Continuity and Discontinuity in the History of Ideas, New York 2005. 17 On Giovan Battista Montalbano, son of the composer and musician Bartolomeo, see L. Rocchi, I repertori lessicali turco-ottomani di Giovan Battista Montalbano (1630 ca.), Trieste 2014. 18 Giovan Battista Montalbano, Turcici Imperii Status seu Discursus varii de rebus Turcarum, Leiden 1630, p. 151: “Etsi, teste Aristotele, nihil violentum durabile, unde sequeretur Turcarum Imperium, quia tyrannicum est & violentum, durabile non esse. Tamen experimento naturaeque rationibus comprobatur, eiusmodi Imperium non modo perduraturum sed etiam ex seipso invictum fore”. 19 Ibid., p. 152: “Sic nihilominus Principatus adhuc perseverat, ac perseverabit, quousque divinae placuerit providentiae”.

Takashi Jinno

Tyrannicide as an Act of Divine Justice The Doctrines of Tyrannicide of John of Salisbury and Juan de Mariana

1 Introduction The doctrine of tyrannicide was one of the most important political ideas of popular resistance to misrule advocated by European thinkers from the twelfth century onwards. As is known, the thought of tyrannicide originated in the ideas of ancient Greece, Rome, and the Judaic World. In western Europe, doctrines of tyrannicide are rooted in these traditions1. Traditional Japan does not know the doctrine of tyrannicide. The case of Oda Nobunaga, the ruler of Japan killed by his vassal in 1582 in the same period as the assassination of Henry III in France (1589), is paradigmatic. The murder was seen as a kind of coup d’état and not as tyrannicide as in the case of Henry III. The very idea of the use of tyrannicide in the name of the common good of the state cannot be found in the background of Oda Nobunaga’s assassination. In the time of the civil war in Japan (the Sengoku period, from the fifteenth to the sixteenth centuries), many minor lords battled each other with the aim of obtaining the position of great feudal lords (Daimyo). It was common for low ranking vassals to betray their loyalties to their superior lords in order to achieve more extensive domination. At this time, the murder of one’s lord was not strictly criticized. Oda Nobunaga himself became the ruler of a unified Japan using many plots and betrayals, so his murder by his vassal was regarded as a similar strategic move. This was called Gekokujo (retaining power by supplanting one’s lord). It is significant that Luís Fróis (1532–1597), a Jesuit missionary to Japan, called Toyotomi Hideyoshi, the successor of Oda Nobunaga, a “tyrant” in his Historia de Japam. But traditional Japanese has no word correspond-

1 For a general survey of this topic from the ancient world to contemporary times, see M. Turchetti, Tyrannie et tyrannicide de l’Antiquité à nos jours, Paris 2013, and M. D’Addio, Il tirannicidio, in L. Firpo (ed.), Storia delle politiche economiche e sociali, vol. 3: Umanesimo e Rinascimento, Torino 1987, pp. 511–610. Translation: Cactus Communications Japan Note: This chapter is a revised and expanded version of an essay originally published in Japanese: イ エ ズ ス 会 の 政 治 思 想 と 暴 政 の 批 判 -フ ア ン ・ デ ・ マ リ ア ナ の 暴 君 放 伐 論 と そ の 中 世 的 起 源- [Jesuit political thought and the condemnation of tyranny. Juan de Mariana’s thesis of tyrannicide and its medieval origins], https://www.waseda.jp/flas/glas/assets/uploads/2019/04/JINNO-Takashi_0603-614.pdf https://doi.org.10.1515/9783110643978-005

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ing to “tyrant”. This is because, unlike Europe in the Middle Ages, the thought that a ruler should maintain the common good had not developed in Japan yet. Here at that time, there was no independent religious power to check and admonish the tyranny of rulers. The idea of a ruler as a “tyrant,” ignoring the common good, was first introduced at the end of the nineteenth century through the influence of European political thought. While feudalism contributed to the formation of resistance theory to kingship in western Europe, there was no theoretical base for resistance against unjust rulers in Japanese feudalism2 and for that matter, the doctrine of tyrannicide ideologized in western Europe seems to be a key point to compare European and Japanese political thought3. There is another important element when considering the European development of the doctrine of tyrannicide: the religious zeitgeist. From the time of the Gregorian church reform in the eleventh century, the idea was advocated that tyrants could be expelled and killed to recover the justice of God. Pope Gregory VII, the initiator of this reform, expounded theocratic ideas of society and of the excommunication of tyrants and when the crusades began, the assassination of tyrants who opposed the Catholic church came to be regarded as a kind of Holy War4. The topic of tyrannicide also received a humanist treatment (consider Bartolus a Saxoferrato and Coluccio Salutati), based on the Roman history and philosophical tradition that affirmed tyrannicide in relation to the common good of the state and the right to resistance. However, here we limit our considerations about tyrannicide-related thought to that which deals with Christian religion. We will examine, compare, and contrast the doctrines of tyrannicide of John of Salisbury in the twelfth century and Juan de Mariana in the sixteenth century relating them to underlying notions regarding the relationship between church and state, religion and politics, and the preeminence of Catholicism over other confessions. This will help to better understand a Western European way of thinking rooted in medieval and early modern ideas of states and rulers as necessarily imbued with both

2 For a comparison of Western European and Japanese relations between lord and vassal, see K. Asakawa, The Documents of Iriki, New Haven CT 1929. Asakawa emphasized that in Japanese feudalism, the dependency of vassals on lords was much stronger than in European feudalism. Besides The Documents of Iriki, he wrote many papers in English that compared the differences in feudal society between Japan and Europe. One such comparative study is The Early SHO and Early Manor. A General Survey, in “Journal of Economic and Business History”, 1929, 1–2, pp. 172–207. In this paper, he compared the manors of St. Germain des Prés in the Carolingian period and contemporary Japanese manors (SHO). Asakawa’s comparative study influenced Marc Bloch’s La société féodale, Paris 1939–1940. 3 For a comparison of western European and Japanese thought on tyranny, see T. Shogimen, Hanboukunnoshisoushi 将基面貴巳『反「暴君」の思想史』 [A history of political thought on anti-tyrant theories], Tokyo 2002. 4 P. Buc, Holy War, Martyrdom, and Terror. Christianity, Violence, and the West, Philadelphia PA 2015.

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religious and secular ethics. Moreover, doctrines of tyrannicide can tell us about some of the motivations behind religious violence.

2 Tyrannicide and religion The idea of the common good of the state emerged in western Europe in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries based on Roman law, Latin classics, and Aristotle’s The Politics, which proposed the removal of tyrants who undermine the common good and act only in their own interests. The Politics by Aristotle is one of the most influential texts on this topic5. In it, Aristotle regarded the state which strives for the common good as a just state, while the state which aims only to benefit its ruler is an evil state; according to him, a state which is ruled by one man and contrary to the common good is to be called a tyranny. These ideas were followed by the thinkers of Ancient Rome, such as Cicero, whose doctrine of tyrannicide, laid out in De Officiis, is well-known for claiming that tyrants who neglect the common good of the state should be killed without reservation. Cicero regarded tyrannicide as a legitimate – and at times also laudable – act. According to him, the index to know whether or not a ruler is a tyrant depends on that ruler’s consideration for the common good of the state6; if a ruler respects it, he is a just ruler, but if he does not respect it, he becomes a tyrant, and the men who kill tyrants are therefore regarded as servants of the common good of the state. Cicero’s arguments greatly influenced the doctrines of tyrannicide in medieval and early modern Europe7. Recent studies have also explored tyrannicide from the standpoint of the relationship between religion and violence, thus highlighting new aspects of the topic. Buc’s monograph on Christianity and violence, for example, analyzes not only traditional Christian societies but also secularized or explicitly non-Christian ones, such as communist states, as states whose social and political systems are also tied to religious violence8. According to him, Christianity was full of violence from its origins. With the conversion of Constantine, bishops began to use the help of secular power to punish heresy, and thus, it became possible to resort to violence in the name of God. In the early Middle Ages, the church of the Frankish Kingdom also used violence to convert pagans, but, above all, it was the First Crusade (1096–1099) that paved the way to regard religious violence as a kind of Holy War. When we see how, later in the six-

5 O.F. von Gierke, Political Theories of the Middle Ages, Cambridge MA 1900, p. 143. 6 M. Turchetti, Tyrannie et tyrannicide, pp. 145 ff.; N. Wood, Cicero’s Social and Political Thought, Berkeley CA 1988. 7 For the influence of the memory of ancient Roman tyrannicide, see M. Piccolomini, The Brutus Revival. Parricide and Tyrannicide during the Renaissance, Carbondale IL 1991. 8 P. Buc, Holy War, Martyrdom, and Terror.

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teenth and seventeenth centuries, rulers such as Henry III (1551–1589) and Henry IV (1553–1610) of France were killed in the name of religious causes, we can understand how violence based on Christian religion continued to be an important civil problem. According to Buc, both Holy Wars and tyrannicide are thought to be the same forms of violence, employed to implement the religious justice of Christianity. Particularly in the time of the Gregorian reform, leaders of religious movements, such as the Pataria in Milan, began to maintain that they could use the sword in defense of religion. From this time, it is possible to see the beginning of the understanding that Holy Wars and Christianity-based terror represented the same kind of violence, and that tyrannicide was believed to be a kind of Holy War. Thus, tyrannicide can be treated as an issue in relation with the common good of the state but also as a kind of Holy War and religious terrorism9. Contemporaneously with the rise of the notion of Holy War10, and at the beginning of the formation of the doctrine of tyrannicide, the theologian and polemist Manegold of Lautenbach (ca. 1030 – ca. 1103) argued for the possibility of suppressing tyrants during the Gregorian reform11. It can be said that the politico-religious situation in western Europe at that time was favorable to a revival of the doctrine of tyrannicide from its ancient heritage. But it was only in the twelfth century that John of Salisbury (ca.1115/20–1180) offered a comprehensive argument in his Policraticus (1159), where tyrannicide can be interpreted as an act not only for the common good of the state but also for the defense of Christianity.

3 The doctrine of tyrannicide of John of Salisbury. Reestimating theocratic understanding John of Salisbury’s doctrine of tyrannicide is the most well-known from the European Middle Ages. He developed his arguments in Policraticus, using parts of Cicero’s De Officiis, the organic metaphor of state, Roman law, many examples of tyrannicides from ancient pagan history, and the Old Testament. He was born in Salisbury and went to Paris to study in about 1136. He then became secretary to Theobald, the archbishop of Canterbury. During this time, he composed his famous works, completed almost certainly in 1159: Policraticus, a mirror for princes criticizing the decadence of twelfth-century court manners and the lax ethics of royalty, and Metalogicon, which discusses the proper way of learning the liberal arts and so cultivating the personalities and virtues of men. After Theobald’s death in 1161, John continued as secretary 9 Ibid., pp. 23–36. 10 J. Rubenstein, Armies of Heaven. The First Crusade and the Quest for Apocalypse, New York 2011. 11 W. Hartmann, Manegold von Lautenbach und die Anfänge der Frühscholastik, in “Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters”, 26, 1970, pp. 48 ff.

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to his successor, Thomas Becket, and played an active role in the disputes between Becket and King Henry II of England. In 1176, he became bishop of Chartres, a position he held until his death12. According to John, the distinction between a king and a tyrant is whether he obeys the law (both civil and divine) or not13. The metaphor of the human body was recalled to explain the difference between a king and a tyrant. In a human body, all senses are concentrated in the brain and the “members” (i.e. body parts) are subject to it. If the brain is sane, all members are ruled well; however, if the head deviates from the right path, the body parts – in other words, the state – cannot function well14. John’s “state of evil members”, in which each member becomes tyrannical, is represented through the following images: the head is the tyrant in the image of the Devil; the soul is composed of heretical priests, schismatics and whoever attacks the law of God; the heart is the Senate, which becomes an evil adviser, oppressing justice; the eyes, ears, tongue, and one hand – unarmed – are unjust judges, laws, and officials; the other hand – this one armed – represents soldiers who commit violence; and the legs are vulgar men who resist the order of God and the law15. Among all the body parts the worst is the head/ruler who becomes a tyrant. John then allowed unconditional tyrannicide, following the teachings of Cicero, and he emphasized the legitimacy of a tyrant’s violent killing, citing the words of the New Testament16. Additionally, he cited many examples of tyrants from ancient pagan history and the Old Testament, and based on these examples, he approved tyrannicide unconditionally, stating: “The ruler who is an image of God should be loved, respected, and cherished. On the other hand, the tyrant who is an image of evil should be killed, generally”17. However, in his later writings, John denied unconditional tyrannicide. Let us try to trace the shift in his reasoning. He began by stating that a tyrant is a man created as a kind of punishment for humanity, claiming that “all powers are good because they originated from God, as all things are good because they are derived from

12 For the life and writings of John of Salisbury, see M. Kerner, Johannes von Salisbury und die logische Struktur seines Policraticus, Wiesbaden 1977. 13 Policraticus, IV/1, vol. 1, p. 235 (C.C.J. Webb [ed.], Ioannis Saresberiensis Episcopi Carnotensis Policratici sive De Nugis Curialium et Vestigiis Philosophorum, Libri VIII, 2 vols., Oxford 1909). 14 Ibid., IV/1, vol. 1, p. 235. 15 “Caput ergo eius tirannus est imago diaboli; anima heretici scismatici sacrilege sacerdots et, […] cor consiliarii impii, quasi senatus iniquitatis; oculi, aures, lingua, manus inermis, iudices et leges, officiales iniusti; manus armata, milites uiolenti, quos latrones appellat; pedes qui in ipsis humilioribus negotiis praeceptiis Domini et legitimis institutis aduersantur”, ibid., VIII/17, vol. 2, pp. 348 f. 16 “Amico utique adulari non licet, sed aures tiranni mulcere licitum est. Ei namque licet adulari, quem licet occidere. Porro tirannum occidere non modo licitum est sed aequum et iustum”, ibid., III/15, vol. 1, p. 232. This sentence is based on De Officiis (iii, 6, 32). John also cites a passage from the Bible: “Qui enim gladium accipit, gladio dignus est interire”. 17 “Imago deitatis, princeps amandus venerandus est et colendus; tirannus, pravitatis imago, plerumque etaim occidendus”, ibid., VIII/17, vol. 2, p. 345.

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God”18, further citing the examples of tyrants who were sent as castigation by God. Although he initially affirmed that it is honorable to kill tyrants, he did further develop his ideas by adding some limitations to tyrannicide. For example, “if the murderer is not bound by fidelity to the tyrant and does not lose justice and honor, it is permitted and honorable to kill an official tyrant”19. The condition that the murderer and the tyrant should have no relation of fidelity is emphasized and the Bible is referred to as the authority to support this argument. Then, dealing with the possible methods of killing, he added that no law permits the use of poison, though use of poison for tyrannicide is known to have existed among pagans20. Finally, he declared that “in fact, the most effective and safe method to kill tyrants is for the oppressed to escape to the protection of the grace of God and to raise pure hands to him and to accept the punishment they suffer by way of pius prayer”21. So, in the end, John rejected tyrannicide by men, citing various forms of the punishment of God22 and coming to regard prayer as the most effective method to expel tyrants. Since John first admitted unconditional tyrannicide as a method to expel tyrants, but later rejected it in favor of prayer to God, the most difficult question is, of course, how to understand his view overall. In previous research into medieval political thought, John’s doctrine of tyrannicide has normally been regarded as the beginning of the idea of the right to resistance in the Middle Ages23. On the other hand, many scholars who have studied John’s texts in detail have maintained that his arguments on tyrannicide lack clear logical coherence. For example, according to Dickinson, there were no distinctions between an official tyrant and a private tyrant in John’s texts, where he mixed discussions on the constitution of the state and moral philosophical admonitions24.

18 Ibid., VIII/18, vol. 2, p. 364. 19 Ibid., VIII/20, vol. 2, p. 372; “Hoc tamen cavendum docent historiae, ne quis illius moliatur interitum cui fidei aut sacramenti religione tenetur astrictus”, ibid., VIII/20, vol. 2, pp. 377 f. 20 “Sed nec veneni, licet videam ab infidelibus aliquando usurpatam, ullo umquam iure indultam lego licentiam”, ibid., VIII/20, vol. 2, p. 378. 21 “Et hic quidem modus delendi tirannos utilissimus et tutissimus est, si qui premuntur ad patrocinium clementiae Dei humiliati confugiant et puras manus levantes ad dominum devotis precibus flagellum quo affliguntur avertant”, ibid., VIII/20, vol. 2, p. 378. 22 Ibid., VIII/21, vol. 2, pp. 379–381. 23 For the interpretation of John’s doctrine as the idea of the right of resistance, see O.F. von Gierke, Political Theories, p. 143; C.H. McIlwain, The Growth of Political Thought in the West from the Greeks to the End of the Middles Ages, New York, 1932, pp. 285 f., 319 f.; F. Kern, Gottesgnadentum und Widerstandsrecht im früheren Mittelalter, Darmstadt 1954, pp. 334–338, 356 f.; R.W. Carlyle / A.J. Carlyle, A History of Mediaeval Political Theory in the West, vol. 3, London 1915, pp. 125–139; W. Parsons, The Medieval Theory of the Tyrant, in “Review of Politics”, 4, 1942, pp. 129–143; J. Spörl, Gedanken zum Widerstandsrecht und Tyrannenmord im Mittelalter, in B. Pfister / G. Hildmann (eds.), Widerstandsrecht und Grenzen der Staatsgewalt, Berlin, 1956, pp. 87–113. 24 J. Dickinson, The Statesman’s Book of John of Salisbury, New York 1927, pp. LXXIV–LXXVI; J. Dickinson, The Mediaeval Conception of Kingship as Developed in the Policraticus of John of Salisbury, in “Speculum”, 1926, 1, pp. 325–335.

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Scholars of John’s writings have often concurred that John did not advocate unconditional tyrannicide and his discourses on the topic are a kind of rhetoric, imitating the classical tradition of Cicero. Webb and Kerner insisted that John only literally imitated the sentences of Cicero25. Schubert and Rouse maintained that John tried to show that tyrannicide is committed not by human will, but by God, who performs it using the hands of men26. Laarhoven said that John only recounted historical examples of tyrannicide. However, many scholars are in agreement that John did not unconditionally advocate tyrannicide27. Nederman criticized these understandings28 maintaining that John’s doctrine of tyrannicide was written as an argument, which had real political meaning. John believed that tyrannicide is a necessary act to realize the justice of God. A reading of John’s texts in detail makes it clear that tyrannicide was understood as a realization of God’s justice. For example, John compares priests with the soul in his organic metaphor of the state, and just as the soul rules the body, priests should rule the state. In this comparison the importance of religious cause is clear, but apart from Schaarschmitt29 and Liebeschütz30 few scholars have stressed the importance of the soul in John’s organic metaphor. Liebeschütz, especially, thought that John’s organic metaphor of the soul and body derived not from the Chartres School but from traditional ecclesiology and that it reflected the theocratic idea affirming the precedence of the church over the state. This kind of understanding has been rejected in studies on medieval political thought, which regard John’s organic metaphor in the context of the development of the idea of the secular state in the twelfth century31 and seems to forget that his doctrine of tyrannicide could be interpreted within the frame of theocratic understanding by using the metaphor of the body and the soul. John does not mention the possibility of punishment of tyrants by priests, but when we observe his organic 25 C.C.J. Webb, John of Salisbury, London 1932, p. 66; M. Kerner, Johannes von Salisbury, pp. 199 ff. 26 E. Schubert, Die Staatslehre Johanns von Salisbury. Ein Beitrag zur Staatsphilosophie des Mitttelalters, Berlin 1897, pp. 21–24; R.H. Rouse / M.A. Rouse, John of Salisbury and the Doctrine of Tyrannicide, in “Speculum”, 42, 1967, 4, pp. 703 f. 27 J. Van Laarhoven, Thou Shalt not Slay a Tyrant! The So-called Theory of John of Salisbury, in M. Wilks (ed.), The World of John of Salisbury, Oxford 1984, pp. 319–341. 28 C. Nederman, A Duty to Kill: John of Salisbury’s Theory of Tyrannicide, in “Review of Politics”, 50, 1988, 3, pp. 365–384; C. Nederman / C. Campbell, Priests, Kings, and Tyrants: Spiritual and Temporal Power in John of Salisbury’s Policraticus, in “Speculum”, 66, 1991, 3, pp. 572–590. 29 C. Schaarschmitt, Johannes Saresberiensis nach Leben und Studien, Schriften und Philosophie, Leipzig 1862. 30 H. Liebeschütz, Medieval Humanism in the Life and Writings of John of Salisbury, London 1950, pp. 52 f. 31 Berges and Post maintain that the cosmology of the Chartres School influenced John’s conceptualization of the naturalness of the state using the metaphor of the body politic; W. Berges, Die Fürstenspiegel des hohen und späten Mittelalters, Leipzig / Stuttgart 1938, pp. 40–48; G. Post, Studies in Medieval Legal Thought. Public Law and the State, 1100–1322, Princeton NJ 1964, pp. 494–561.

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metaphor and the doctrine of tyrannicide in the context of eleventh and twelfth-century church reform, it becomes possible to understand his vision of tyrannicide as a church sanction on tyrants. It is also especially important to keep in mind that John was involved in the political conflict between church and state as a defender of the church’s freedom at the time of the Becket controversy. John also maintained the precedence of the church over secular power through the “Two Swords Theory”32. According to John, God entrusted both spiritual and secular swords to the church. The church holds the spiritual sword and entrusts the secular sword, which is not worthy enough for the church, to the king. In that sense, John’s use of the “Two Swords Theory” reiterates a theocratic understanding of said relationships. Therefore, we should not interpret John’s political thought too secularly and should not regard his doctrine of tyrannicide as a precursor of modern resistance theory, but rather as an expression of Holy War, which legitimizes the abolishment of tyrants who oppress the church and Christian religion. Namely, his doctrine of tyrannicide was closely related to the thoughts the reform papacy developed against secular kings in the eleventh century and with papal ideas of the Crusade against pagan rulers.

4 The doctrine of tyrannicide by Juan de Mariana. The unity of state through Catholic religion After John of Salisbury’s Policraticus, no clearer doctrines regarding the unconditional legitimacy of the assassination of unjust kings in the name of religion can be found in the Middle Ages33. Actually, the doctrine of tyrannicide based on the idea of church reform and Holy War almost disappeared after Policraticus. In the thirteenth century, Thomas Aquinas defined that, among tyrants, only usurpers of kingship could be killed, but rulers who legitimately succeeded to the throne could not. Aquinas’ idea of tyrannicide became the orthodox doctrine in scholastic theology34. 32 Policraticus, IV/3, vol. 1, pp. 239–241. As regards the content of the “Two Swords Theory”, see O.F. von Gierke, Political Theories, pp. 13 ff.; W. Levision, Die mittelalterliche Lehre von den beiden Schwertern, in “Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters”, 9, 1951, 1, pp. 14–42. 33 In the late middle ages, John’s doctrine was accepted as it was. His sentences, for example, are literally imitated by a fourteenth century Italian lawyer, Lucas de Penna, in his writings. Similarly, we may cite the counciliar movement that tried to suppress heretical popes in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries; see W. Ullmann, The Influence of John of Salisbury on Medieval Italian Jurists, in “English Historical Review”, 59, 1944, 235, pp. 384–392; W. Ullmann, John of Salisbury’s Policraticus in the later Middle Ages, in H. Lowe / K. Hauk / H. Mordek, Geschichtsschreibung und geistiges Leben im Mittelalter. Festschrift für Heinz Löwe zum 65. Geburtstag, Köln 1978, pp. 519–545. 34 Thomas Aquinas admits to the possibility of slaying only tyrants without legitimate titles in his Commentary on Sentences; see G.M. Reichberg, Thomas Aquinas on War and Peace, Cambridge 2016, pp. 123 f.; P. Meinhold, Revolution im Namen Christi, in “Saeculum”, 10, 1959, pp. 380–405.

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When Louis of Orléans was assassinated in 1407, a Parisian theologian, Jean Petit, labeled the murder “tyrannicide”35, though this was soon criticized in a decree of the Council of Constance, which prohibited tyrannicide as always unlawful36. Discourse on tyrannicide for religious causes was revived again in the sixteenth century during the European Wars of Religion. De rege et institutione regis by Juan de Mariana (1535–1624) was one of the most influential writings of the era. He was a Spanish Jesuit who studied theology at the University of Alcalá before teaching at various Jesuit colleges in Sicily and Paris. He then returned to Spain to spend the latter half of his life in the house of the Society of Jesus in Toledo. He wrote a number of important works as an erudite writer, among them the Historiae de rebus Hispaniae (1591), which first made him famous37. His De rege et institutione regis was dedicated to King Philip III in 1599 as a mirror for princes, just after the death of King Philip II38. This text was controversial from the outset due to Mariana’s advocacy for a radical doctrine of tyrannicide: private subjects have the right to put tyrants to death. The following paragraph will recall some highlights. In Chapter 6 of Book I of De rege, Mariana praised the assassination of the French King Henry III by a friar as a heroic tyrannicide and argued that it would be lawful to kill even a legitimate king if he became a tyrant. In the same chapter, he explained the correct procedure for the condemnation of a tyrant, as follows: At first, if a king becomes a tyrant, the people must hold an assembly to admonish him not to engage in tyranny any longer. If the admonition is ignored, the assembly should declare the king a public enemy and permit his slaying by anyone. If an assembly cannot be held due to disorderly circumstances, an assassination by anyone will be permitted as long as the peoples’ voice against the tyrant is raised publicly. This kind of procedure for tyrannicide was first formulated by Mariana. In this argument, he did not clarify who could judge a king to be a tyrant. For that reason, De rege was regarded as a work that allowed the arbitrary slaying of tyrants and it was burned solemnly in Paris after the

35 B. Guenée, Un meurtre, une société. L’assassinat du duc d’Orléans, 23 novembre 1407, Paris 1992; A. Coville, Jean Petit: La question du tyrannicide au commencement du XVe siècle, Genève 1974. 36 The decree of the council rejected the following thesis: “Quilibet tyrannus potest et debet licite et meritorie occidi per quemcumque vassalum suum vel subditum, etiam per insidias, et blanditas vel adulationes, non obstante quocumque praestito iuramento, seu confoederatione facta cum eo, non expectata sententia vel mandato iudicis cuiuscumque”, N.P. Tanner (ed.), Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils, London 1990, vol. 1, p. 408; Y. Mazour-Matusevich, Jean Gerson’s Assessment of the Issue of Religious Zeal in the Context of the Tyrannicide Controversy, in “Medieval History Journal”, 16, 2013, pp. 121–137. 37 His Historiae de rebus Hispaniae was regarded as the standard work on Spanish history until the eighteenth century. As a result, Mariana was labeled the “Spanish Tacitus”. He used the contents of the Historiae to show historical exempla in De rege; see H.E. Braun, Juan de Mariana and Early Modern Political Thought, Aldershot 2007. 38 Juan de Mariana, De rege et regis institutione libri III, Toledo 1599. I consulted the edition of the Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Munich, available through Google Books.

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assassination of King Henry IV in 1610. Since Mariana was a Jesuit, his doctrine of tyrannicide was regarded as the official Jesuit stance, becoming one of the causes for the expulsion of the Jesuit Society from some European states and their territories39. The doctrine of tyrannicide in De rege has been studied mainly in the context of the development of constitutional concepts and the theory of resistance in Early modern Europe by scholars of political thought such a Figgis and Treumann40. However, until now, very few studies have explained Mariana’s doctrine of tyrannicide in the context of his entire body of work41, and, as such, we should reconsider this edifice of ideas as a necessary component of his account of the king’s obligations, rather than focusing only on his radical doctrine of tyrannicide. De rege consists of three books. In the first, Mariana addressed the relationship between the king and the state. As a part of this discussion, he argued the justification for tyrannicide. In the second book, he discussed the education of the king and the adequate recreation and hobbies necessary to keep up his mental and physical health, such as music, hunting, bodily exercises, etc., giving interesting insights into the court life of sixteenth-century Spain. In the third book, he provided a treatment of the military skills of the king, the method of imposing taxes, the method of constructing buildings, the organization of the king’s court, and the prudence needed by the king to skillfully engage in politics. In the last chapter of Book III, Mariana emphasized the importance of religious unity within the state to maintain stability and well-being. Mariana insisted not only on the importance of the ruler’s prudence but also on the role of the Catholic church in supervising the state, thus reflecting the contemporary politico-religious situation in Spain. In Chapter 7 of Book I of De rege, entitled “Whether it is lawful to kill tyrants by poison”, Mariana first reiterated the legitimacy of tyrannicide: “It is glorious to wholly exterminate from human society this type of deathly pest. Rotten limbs indeed are cut off lest they infect the remainder of the body. And likewise, that monstrosity of a beast in the human species must be cut with the sword and so removed from the commonwealth”42. As to the methods of killing, history provides many examples of 39 E. Nelson, The Jesuits and the Monarchy. Catholic Reform and Political Authority in France (1590– 1615), New York 2005. After Mariana, it became difficult for Jesuits to treat the doctrines of tyrannicide. However, one Jesuit, Jacob Keller, included sentences almost identical to Mariana’s in his (German) writing; H. Höpfl, Jesuit Political Thought. The Society of Jesus and the State, c. 1540–1630, Cambridge 2004, p. 314. 40 J.N. Figgis, Studies of Political Thought from Gerson to Grotius: 1414–1625, Cambridge 1907; R. Treumann, Die Monarchomachen. Eine Darstellung der revolutionären Staatslehren des XVI. Jahrhunderts (1573–1599), Leipzig 1895. 41 H. Höpfl, Jesuit Political Thought, p. 314. Höpfl states that the main reason the Jesuits engaged in discussions on tyrannicide at all was because it was a perfectly standard topic in textbooks on theology and law; H.E. Braun, Juan de Mariana and Early Modern Political Thought, pp. 15 ff. 42 “Hoc omne genus pestiferum et exitiale ex hominum communitate exterminare gloriosum est. Enim vero membra quaedam secantur si putrida sunt, ne reliquum corpus inficiant: sic ista in homi-

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tyrants who were killed by violence, deceit, or conspiracy, and of assassins regarded as great heroes. According to Mariana, it was lawful for anyone to kill a tyrant in the palace or a public place43. Citing the example of Ehud, who killed the tyrant Eglon, the king of the Moabites, by treachery in the Book of Judges of the Old Testament, he then allowed using every method of treachery or deceit for tyrannicide, yet absolutely prohibited the use of poison for this purpose, despite admitting that assassination by poisoning was a method without danger and by which assassins could easily escape. However, Mariana condemned killing a tyrant by forcing him to ingest poison. In effect, this meant forcing a tyrant to commit suicide, which is a crime against not only religious morality but also natural law44. In this chapter Mariana cited many blameworthy examples of attempts to kill tyrants by poisoning. In contemporary European history of the time, Charles the “Cruel King of Navarre” tried to poison his opponents. In the Muslim world there were many examples of poisoning unpopular kings by sending clothes, linens, weapons, or saddles permeated with poison45. It is obviously not possible to expound Mariana’s thinking in total here. At this point it is enough to consider that the doctrine of tyrannicide has a close affiliation to his ideal of secular sovereignty and the religious role of the Catholic church in supervising the state, which are developed in other parts of the work. It is especially of note that Mariana emphasized the unity of the state and the Catholic church against other Christian denominations and Muslims, and that he demanded the king be given the role of defender of the Catholic religion. Like John of Salisbury, he believed that tyrannicide was a kind of Holy War, rooted in religious causes. Collocating Mariana against the backdrop of medieval thinking46 can be of further help for understanding his philosophy.

nis specie bestiae immanitas, a respublica tanquam a corpore amoueri debet, ferroque exscindi”, De rege, p. 81. 43 “Itaque aperta vi et armis posse occidi tyrannum, sive impetu in regiam facto, siue commissa pugna in confesso est”, De rege, p. 82. 44 “Nimirum crudele existimarunt, atque a Christianis moribus alienum, quantumvis flagitiis coopertum eo adigere hominem, ut sibi ipsi manus afferat pugione in viscere adacto, aut lethali veneno in cibo aut potu temperato. Perinde enim est, neque minus humanitatis legibus, iurique naturae contrarium”, De rege, p. 84. 45 De rege, p. 83. 46 H.E. Braun, Juan de Mariana and Early Modern Political Thought, pp. 15 ff. Braun also says that Mariana’s work is not to be regarded as innovative in the history of political thought because his main political ideas are based on medieval Augustinian thought.

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5 A comparison of John of Salisbury’s and Juan de Mariana’s doctrines of tyrannicide Contrary to what one could have expected, Mariana’s doctrine of tyrannicide is closer to John of Salisbury’s than to orthodox scholastic thought. This is partly due to the fact that Mariana did not publish his doctrine of tyrannicide as an independent pamphlet or article like the monarchomachi. Instead he composed his theory as part of a number of admonitions to the ruler by men of church as was prescribed for the medieval mirrors for princes of which John of Salisbury was a typical exponent. It has generally been said that Mariana advocated the doctrine of tyrannicide to show his critical attitude toward the religious situation in France, where Henry III was assassinated by a friar because of the king’s apparent ambiguous politics towards the Catholic religion. Mariana thought the French king interfered in the politics of religion, which destroyed Catholic unity in France. The religious situation in which Mariana was writing echoes that in which John of Salisbury developed his doctrine of tyrannicide. However, it is not possible to explain Mariana’s doctrine of tyrannicide simply from the perspective of the religious tensions in Europe at the time. We must also analyze his doctrine as a kind of topos, which was used in medieval reflections on the ruler. In constructing his arguments, Mariana’s De rege has characteristics echoing this literary genre. In medieval accounts, we commonly find discussions about the differences between ideal kings and tyrants as an indispensable part of the literary genre of admonitions to kings. Here, it is important to present a convincing image of tyrants in order to make evident the difference between ideal kings and tyrants. When Mariana states that good rulers obey laws and tyrants violate them, he agrees with John of Salisbury’s Policraticus. Here, John claimed that a good ruler obeys the law and rules people as a servant of the law. Mariana discusses the same idea about binding the ruler to laws; however, he emphasizes that a ruler should not only observe laws but also have the virtue of prudence to maintain the welfare of the state by engaging in prudent politics. The importance of this virtue in guiding the state can also be found in medieval accounts, but Mariana argues the meaning of prudence as the most important virtue for a king more extensively than medieval reflections concerning the prince. According to the Jesuit, by way of prudence a king can understand the limitations of his own power and knowledge. Also, by way of prudence a king can respect the laws and customs of the kingdom and can give adequate rewards and honor to his subjects, without oppressing them by imposing severe and unjust taxes.47 47 “Imo numquam Princeps conabitur, quod civibus probare non possit, siue bellum gerendum sit, siue vectigalia imperanda, siue noxii plectendi, multitudinis iudicium plerumque sequatur”, De rege, p. 393.

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Again, already in the writings of the Middle Ages the virtue of prudence was highly esteemed as one with which the ruler could make satisfactory political decisions. Mariana followed the stream of discussion about the king’s virtues as treated in the medieval accounts, presenting the tyrant as the opposite of a good king. Mariana’s priority is showing how a king leads the state and makes it prosper in accordance with Christian ethics. In that sense, Mariana’s doctrine of tyrannicide seems to be a kind of admonition to the king, showing the miserable ending that can come to a tyrant. Below follows a short comparison of certain aspects of the two doctrines of tyrannicide highlighting the differences. As we have already seen, John initially affirmed the unconditional legitimacy of tyrannicide, citing Cicero’s De officiis in Book III of Policraticus, although later, in Books VII and VIII he revised this radical position, allowing tyrannicide with some reservations. He stated that no one bound to a tyrant by oath or by obligation of fealty should kill him. Moreover, he pointed out that it is never permitted by any law to poison tyrants48. John concluded that the most effective method to expel tyrants is through prayer49, as tyrants are a kind of agent of God, representing his punishment to the people. The men who slay tyrants engage in tyrannicide as tools of God. Moreover, God punishes tyrants by various methods, not only by human hand but also by natural disasters such as grievous plagues. Thus, according to John, tyrannicide is regarded not only as an act to protect the state but also as a realization of God’s justice. When we compare Mariana’s political thought with John’s, we can see that Mariana insisted more consistently on binding the ruler by the law and on the superiority of the state over the king. It is clear that Mariana was much influenced by the predominant political thought of the later Middle Ages, such as conciliar theory or the theory of popular sovereignty50. Although we can find the same kind of humanist discussion in both John and Mariana regarding the doctrine of unconditional legitimacy of tyrannicide, there are some specific differences between them. Mariana’s doctrine of tyrannicide is a somewhat more secularized theory because he did not regard tyrants as punishment by God as John did. The difference also lies in the methods admissible for killing tyrants. As already mentioned, John stated that there are various limitations prohibiting tyrannicide such as obligations of fidelity or the use of poison. Mariana also prohib-

48 “Hoc tamen cavendum docent historiae, ne quis illius moliatur interitum cui fidei aut sacramenti religione tenetur astrictus. […] Sed nec veneni, licet videam ab infidelibus aliquando usurpatam, ullo umquam iure indultam lego licentiam”, Policraticus, VIII/20, vol. 2, pp. 377 f. 49 “Et hic quidem modus delendi tirannos utilissimus et tutissimus est, si qui premuntur ad patrocinium clementiae Dei humiliati confugiant et puras manus levantes ad Dominum devotis precibus flagellum quo affliguntur avertant”, ibid., VIII/20, vol. 2, p. 378. 50 Mariana refers to the conciliar theory in the context of a discussion of “whether the authority of the commonwealth or the king is greater.” (Chapter 8 of Book I), De rege, p. 94; see F. Oakley, The Conciliarist Tradition: Constitutionalism in the Catholic Church, 1300–1700, Oxford 2003, p. 226.

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ited using poison, but he accepted all other methods of killing, even if obligations of fidelity existed. According to him, if a tyrant is harmful to the state, it is permitted to kill him even by conspiracy or deceit. However, he detested poisoning because it is not only against canon and natural law, but also because the method had been used so often by infidels like the ancient Romans and Muslims. In De rege, he emphasized the necessity for the unity of religion in the territories of the Spanish monarchy, and his disdain for poisoning seems to be strongly linked to his support for the unification of religion and state by the Catholic church in Spain.

6 Conclusions In this chapter, we have shown that John of Salisbury’s doctrine of tyrannicide should be considered from the standpoint of religious motives and theocratic advocacy using the organic metaphor of the soul’s rule over the body. Moreover, his doctrine could be interpreted as a kind of idea of Holy War, which was to be carried out against tyrants oppressing the church. If we overestimate the meaning of tyrannicide as a defense of the secular state’s common good and ignore the character of its theocratic meaning, John’s doctrine of tyrannicide cannot be fully understood. The same can be said for Mariana’s doctrine of tyrannicide, which insisted that a king should be above all a defender of the Catholic religion and of the unity of the state. Both John and Mariana wrote their doctrines of tyrannicide in their mirrors for princes as an admonition to their respective kings using said organic metaphor of state and citing examples of tyrannicide from the Old Testament. As John lived in the time of the Crusades and Mariana lived in the time of the Wars of Religion, we can discern the idea of Holy War in both of their doctrines. Although Mariana does not explicitly quote Policraticus, there are certain similarities in their religious thinking on tyrannicide. Yet there are also major differences between the two. While Mariana criticized the contemporary Reformation and emphasized the religious and political unity of the territories of the Spanish monarchy, John considered the phenomenon of tyranny as a possible problem of Christendom in general, rather than the problem of a particular state. In that sense, John followed ideas of theocracy and the spirit of church reform, whereas Mariana argued regarding the role of the Catholic church in consolidating the integrity of Spain and emphasized the necessity for the support of priests for the proper government of the Spanish territories. In fact, the clergy held increasingly significant influence over the worldly government at the end of the sixteenth century here, and, when Mariana wrote his mirror for princes, priests and theologians were both political and spiritual advisors to the king. In Chapter 16 of Book III of De rege, Mariana criticized the contemporary situation where one state admitted many creeds. According to him, “Peace is far if the same

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city, state, or region has many confessions”51. In fact, the “conflicts between confessions teach what disastrous results the differences of religion bring about”52. Mariana emphasized that the state is not safe and stable if it is not unified by religion; for him, Catholicism is the only reliable bond of society, and only the Catholic religion can unite it. In other words, if religious unity does not exist, there is no bond that unites people53. Therefore, he does not admit the situation of religious diversity such as it came about after the Reformation. This argument about tyrannicide is an admonition to rulers who destroy religious unity of a state criticizing the contemporary situation of France, which was at the time troubled by the Wars of Religion. The Jesuit’s argument was therefore necessary to present the image of an ideal ruler for a Catholic-unified Spain. In that respect, Mariana is far from John, who treated the doctrine of tyrannicide from a universal Catholic standpoint. This chapter has attempted to show how the topic of our book, Christianity and Violence, is deeply involved with political ideas such as the doctrine of tyrannicide. In medieval and early modern western Europe, the distinction between the secular state and religion was not a clear one. Medieval and early modern political thought cannot be understood without considering how religious violence was legitimized by Christian dogma in medieval and early modern western Europe.

51 Chapter 16 “It is not fitting to have many religions in one province (Multas in una prouincia esse religiones non est verum)” of book III, De rege, pp. 419 ff. 52 “Finge, duas in una provincia, aut civitate eadem vigere religiones, nobilium favore, ferroque populi armatas, numero sectatorum non impares. Quid Princeps faciet? Quo se vertet? Quam rationem administrandae reipublicae explicabit?”, De rege, p. 425. 53 De rege, p. 421.

II. Changing Meanings

Fernanda Alfieri

“Violentia” and the Devil Early Modern Narratives of Demonic Possession and Catholic Anthropology

1 A theater of war In the history of Christianity there is an abundant literature on the theme of diabolic possession. Its rate of production has been increasing over the last few decades, making it clear that this longstanding interest is certainly not fading1. Alongside the academic literature, there is also a constant and flourishing output of texts aimed at a wider public2. This is not the case with the other sacramentals, the rituals instituted by the Church and not considered of divine origin (in contrast with the sacraments). It is definitely not the case that there has ever been, or remains today, an equal attention to the sign of the cross, the blessing of individuals and things, or the consecration of places, buildings, and ornaments dedicated to worship. What does exorcism have that these other sacramentals lack? Exorcism and all its associated actions call supernatural forces into play, in both the negative connotation of the possession of places and things, and the positive sense of their potential liberation and subsequent permeation with special characteristics suited to receive the sacred. These deeds could assume a public dimension, sometimes solemn, with importance for the cohesion of a

1 For ancient Christianity, see E. Nicolotti, Esorcismo cristiano e possessione diabolica tra II e III secolo, Turnhout 2011, pp. 21–29. The first study of exorcism in the early centuries is by the priest A. Binterim, Über die Besessenen (Energumenen) und ihre Behandlung in der alten Kirchen, München 1831. For the early 1900s, see J.T. de Tonquédec, Les maladies nerveuses ou mentales et les manifestations diaboliques, Paris 1939. This Jesuit author was the exorcist for the diocese of Paris and his work includes comparisons with neurologists and psychiatrists. On Italian and international historiography, reference was made mainly to V. Lavenia, Esorcismo, in A. Prosperi / J. Tedeschi (eds., with the collaboration of V. Lavenia), Dizionario storico dell’Inquisizione (DSI), 4 vols., Pisa 2010, vol. 2, pp. 549–554, and V. Lavenia, Possessione demoniaca, in DSI, vol. 4, pp. 1242–1250. Over the long term and with a global view, see also F. Young, A History of Exorcism in Catholic Christianity, London 2016 (Italian trans. Possessione. Esorcismo ed esorcisti nella storia della Chiesa cattolica, Roma 2018, with an extended bibliography). Other indications will be provided infra. 2 In recent years in Italy the exorcist of the diocese of Rome, Gabriele Amorth (deceased in 2016), was an active narrator on the subject, regularly publishing stories of exorcisms he had conducted. The Catholic publishers of his works are an expression of the mainstream doctrine of the Church, interested in stimulating discussion about the demonic. These are not scholarly studies but “real stories”. Pope Francis – exorcised by Amorth – assigns a central role to the demonic in his communication. Translation: Gavin Taylor https://doi.org.10.1515/9783110643978-006

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community, as was the case in the ceremony for the blessing of animals in rural communities. It is also true that, unlike the other sacramentals, exorcism also embodies a highly conflictual aspect, expressed on multiple levels and open to the most varied interpretations and manipulations. The most immediate and obvious form of conflict is in the relationship between the entity thought to inhabit the possessed person and the exorcist, who engages in an unrestrained struggle to expel it. Furthermore, as was noted in early modern European religious studies from both the Catholic and Protestant spheres starting from the 1990s, exorcism has tended to assume a more theatrical nature with a strong emotional impact on the public, especially when it occurs in areas characterized by the presence of communities of different and conflicting faiths3. France between the mid sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries is particularly well studied in this respect4. The spectacular exorcisms conducted in Laon to expel demons from the body of a 16-year-old girl, Nicole Aubry, developed into a competition between the Catholic and Huguenot churches. This occurred just a few years after the edict of Amboise (1563), which had established a temporary truce in the religious wars, and the body of the girl thought to be possessed became an important symbolic battlefield on which the parties could try to demonstrate their superiority. It was not by accident that her final liberation by the Dominican, Pierre de la Motte, was achieved through prodigious administration of sacramental bread, demonstrating the effectiveness of the Eucharist, which had been called into question by Protestants, along with the actual presence of Christ. It is thus no surprise that the account of the episode was presented in contentious terms, intended to demonstrate the power of the “true” faith. This was already clear in the title: Le manuel de l’admirable victoire du corps de Dieu5. Equally well studied is the first of the major cases that would disrupt France in the seventeenth century. It is known as the “l’affaire Gaufridy” from the name of the priest who was burnt alive in April 1611. During his exorcisms of women, the speaking demons in their possessed bodies accused him of witchcraft and seduction. The affair

3 According to Young, there was always an element of conflict underlying the exorcisms: on one hand divisions within the Church, and on the other a threat from an external enemy. According to L. Roper, Oedipus and the Devil. Witchcraft, Sexuality and Religion in Early Modern Europe, London / New York 1997, pp. 174–180, the first theatrical exorcism was conducted by Petrus Canisius, the Jesuit Apostle of Germany. In Augsburg he liberated a young noble woman of ten demons that had tormented her for eight years, resulting in the conversion of many Lutherans. See Giacomo Fuligatti, Vita del Padre Canisio della Compagnia di Gesù, in Roma, per Manelfo Manelfi, 1649, p. 120. On the Jesuit exorcisms in the Low Countries, see H. De Waardt, Jesuit Propaganda and Faith Healing in the Dutch Republic, in “History”, 94, 2009, pp. 344–359. 4 First see S. Ferber, Demonic Possession and Exorcism in Early Modern France, London / New York 2004. 5 Jean Boulaese, Le manuel de l’admirable victoire du corps de Dieu sur l’esprit maling Beelzebub: prins pour l’extrait & souverain sommaire de toute l’histoire notoire, par les hérétiques impugnée & publiquement avérée par la veue de plus de 150 000 personnes, Liège, chez Henry Houius, 1598.

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is narrated in Histoire admirable de la possession et conversion d’une penitente seduite par un magicien by the Dominican Sebastien Michaëlis, an exorcist and inquisitor, and this account became the narrative model for large collective possessions over the following decades. Michaëlis compiled descriptions of his exorcisms and those of a religious brother in Aix-en-Provence between 1610 and 1611, involving a number of women and in particular two Ursuline nuns, Madeleine de Demandols and Louise Capeau, both victims of the seduction and malefaction of Gaufridy. The second, from a Protestant family, had long been possessed by a demon that was trying to convince her to return to the religion of her parents and engaging in heated doctrinal disputes with the demon that possessed Madeleine. As already noted, the dominant style of what were genuine sermons held by the devils was that of controversy, while the two women were exorcised together6. As announced in the prefatory letter to the Histoire admirable, the narration of exorcism would serve two purposes, combined in the primary aim of demonstrating the power of the Church over evil. Firstly, under God’s mandate the exorcist could be capable of forcing the devil, the quintessential liar, to tell the truth. The word of the possessed7 could thus assume the value of testimony and carry sufficient weight to determine the death penalty for the guilty party. Secondly, the scandalous behavior of Gaufridy, sorcerer and seducer, could serve as a warning to the French clergy, called on to respect their religious discipline8. Heresy, falsity, and corruption could be countered thanks to the action of exorcism, which represents an allegory for the triumph of the Church over all its enemies, whatever shape these assume. But to return to the initial question: what makes exorcism the object of such a long and copious narrative tradition compared to the other sacramentals? The titles of the two texts cited so far include the adjective admirable. They recount stories (historiae in the literal sense of facts recounted by someone who witnessed them9) that the reader is expected to find astonishing, their incredulity subsequently transforming into true (Catholic) faith. Thanks to direct accounts from witnesses who saw and wrote (and in the case of Michaëlis, also acted, playing a fundamental role in the outcome of the affair), readers can experience a true shift in perspective, and in life, through awareness of this prodigious victory over evil incarnated in human

6 See J.-P. Cavaillé / S. Houdard, Une histoire sociolinguistique de la possession d’Aix-en-Provence (1610–1611), in “Études Épistémè”, 31, 2017, http://journals.openedition.org/episteme/1660, accessed February 13, 2019. 7 M. de Certeau, Le langage altéré. La parole de la possédée, in M. de Certeau, L’écriture de l’histoire, Paris 1975, pp. 249–274. 8 I was able to consult the edition of Sebastian Michaëlis, Histoire admirable de la possession et conversion d’une penitente seduite par un magicien, la faisant sorciere et princesse des sorciers au pais de Provence […], edition seconde, Paris, chez Charles Chastellat, 1613. From Rome the Holy Office attempted to block its dissemination but without success; see V. Lavenia, Esorcismo. 9 G. Pomata / N. Siraisi, Historia: Empiricism and Erudition in Early Modern Europe, Cambridge MA / London 2005.

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bodies10. The ecclesiastic authorities were well aware of the power of these narratives and the suggestibility of the readers, to the extent of being concerned they might engender similar episodes. This was certainly the position of the Roman curia, starting from the first half of the seventeenth century, who immediately strove to prevent the printing of the Histoire admirable, but without success11. Readers might be amazed by the enormity of the suffering inflicted on the bodies of possessed individuals both by the entity considered diabolical, and by the words of the exorcist addressing the malignant spirits in the spells to cast them out. Even the oldest narratives describe the extreme distress of the latter, with a symptomology that appears “human” (not least because that they act through is the human body of the possessed). Between the 2nd and 3rd centuries Lactantius wrote that the spirits lament, tremble, and complain they are burning and tormented by unbearable pains12. In the dozens of exorcism sessions conducted and narrated by Michaëlis, there are no lack of bodies being raised up and flung from side to side of the church where the ritual is carried out, heads hitting the floor, backs bent back like bows, shoes flung into faces13, none of which was to be subtracted from the narrative. The possessed women are forced into humiliation both by the devils that possess them and by the exorcist that attempts to liberate them. Indeed, if God permitted them to be possessed, it might have been due to their willingness, albeit minimum, to be seduced, and for this reason they need to be brought back to humility. In Le manuel de l’admirable victoire recounting the exorcism of Laon, the first mentioned above, the devils insult Nicole (“ceste putain, ceste ribaulde” [dissolute]) while they strike her head with her own hands. There were thirty of them inside her and they opened her mouth to the point that you could even see “les parties nobles dedans l’estomach [… et] dedans elle estoit rouge” (the noble parts inside the stomach [… and] inside she was all red). Not surprisingly in the text she is referred to as “la patiente possedée” (literally “the patient possessed”)14. When the exorcist La Motte finally manages to free her, he notes that the nape of the girl’s neck was, “molle comme une pomme cuite” (soft as a cooked apple)15. In this play of subjugation and physical destruction, which equally surprisingly also does not nec-

10 On the accounts of conversion, V. Lavenia / S. Pastore / C. Pavone / C. Petrolini (eds.), Compel People to Come in. Violence and Catholic Conversion in the non-European World, Roma 2018. 11 V. Lavenia, “Tenere i malefici per cosa vera”. Esorcismi e censura nell’Italia moderna, in V. Bonani (ed.), Dal torchio alle fiamme. Inquisizione e censura: nuovi contributi dalla più antica biblioteca provinciale d’Italia. Atti del convegno, Salerno, 2005, pp. 129–172, here p. 156. 12 Lactantius, Divinae institutiones, 5, 22 (Patrologia Latina, ed. J.-P. Migne, Paris 1844, vol. 6, cols. 623–624): “Cum corpora hominum occupant, animaque divexant, adjurantur ab his, et nomine Dei veri fugantur. Quo audito tremunt, exclamant, et uri se verberari testantur […] Sic extorti et excruciati virtute divini nominis, exsolantur”. 13 S. Michaelis, Histoire admirable, p. 8, but dynamics of this type are repeated. 14 J. Boulaese, Le manuel, p. 109. 15 Ibid., p. 100.

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essarily lead to death16, God allows the devil to act on and within a person, denying them their fully human faculties, first and foremost their free will and rationality. As a result, Nicole becomes a “pauvre creature”, in other words reduced to the condition of an infant before baptism (in Latin, creatura)17. Nicole-person (when in the fullness of her faculties) must in turn be humbled by the exorcist of all her vanity and presumption in order to be freed, undergoing a further subjugation, this time for positive ends. Even exorcists could be subjugated, as happened in another very famous case in France, in Loudun (another area contested between Catholics and Huguenots) in 1634. The Jesuit Jean-Joseph Surin liberated the Abbess of the local Ursuline convent, who had been infested with demons together with her fellow sisters. However, he himself was possessed, losing the power of speech, the use of his hands, and his self-control for twenty years18. There are innumerable further accounts of spiritual subjugation involving spectacular levels of harm that challenged the limits of biological survival. It would be possible to describe additional dimensions of the conflict, further complicating the scenario of exorcism. I limit myself here to recalling the most hermeneutically and epistemologically striking example: the recurrent contraposition between supernatural and natural interpretations, or rather between the demonic and medical, with relative experts in these fields called on to establish the true origin of the torments suffered by the possessed19. Conflicts always arose between different visions of the 16 As is known, there were no lack of victims of exorcism. In the Benedictine monastery in Bergamo, some nuns died during the rituals and extreme disciplinary practices; V. Lavenia, La lunga possessione. Il caso del monastero di Santa Grata di Bergamo, 1577–1625, in D. Corsi / M. Duni (eds.), “Non lasciar vivere la malefica”. Le streghe nei trattati e nei processi (secoli XIV–XVII), Firenze 2008, pp. 213–242. 17 J. Boulaese, Le manuel, p. 108. On Catholic theological debate, A. Prosperi, Infanticide, Secular Justice, and Religious Debate in Early Modern Europe, Turnhout 2016 (orig. publ. as Dare l’anima. Storia di un infanticidio, Torino 2005). 18 M. de Certeau (ed.), La possession de Loudun, Paris 1970. 19 According to E. Brambilla, Corpi invasi e viaggi dell’anima. Santità, possessione, esorcismo: dalla teologia barocca alla medicina illuminista, Roma 2010, the eighteenth century saw the acquisition by demonology of knowledge and ideas from mechanistic medicine, with the spread among the Roman curia themselves of a sense of disenchantment. More recent historiography has underlined that the relationship between medicine and demonology is also a collaboration: see M.P. Donato / L. Berlivet / S. Cabibbo / R. Michetti, Médecine et religion. Collaborations, compétitions, conflits (XIIe–XXe siècle), Roma 2013. Thus, for example, in 1601 the bishop of Florence, future Pope Leo XI, counselled that presumed “possessions” be examined to exclude melancholy, see V. Lavenia, Possessione demoniaca, Inquisizione ed esorcismo in età moderna: Il caso italiano (secoli XVI–XVII), in R. Millar / R. Rusconi (eds.), Devozioni, pratiche e immaginario religioso: espressioni del cattolicesimo tra 1400 e 1850: storici cileni e italiani a confronto, Roma 2011, pp. 203–230, here p. 203. On melancholy in religious history, see MELANCHOLIA/Æ. The Religious Experience of the “Disease of the Soul” and its Definitions. MELANCHOLIA/Æ. L’expérience religieuse de la “maladie de l’âme” et ses définitions, special issue of “Études Épistémè”, 28, 2015, https://journals.openedition.org/episteme/742, accessed February 15, 2019.

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world: normally between the longstanding and consolidated view associated with orthodoxy, and a newer perspective that was more difficult to accept. This occurred in a mountain village in the Venetian mainland dominions during the first half of the eighteenth century, where a collective possession is recorded. The enquiry conducted on behalf of the tribunal of the Holy Office (the secular tribunal of the Venetian Republic) reported the circulation of skeptical and materialistic ideas of destabilizing influence20. Indeed, as noted by Michel de Certeau when commenting the previously mentioned affair of Loudun, “the incidents of devilry” are “transitory symptoms and solutions”. They represent the points of emergence of a force, “that infiltrates into the tensions of the society it threatens. It worsens these suddenly, exploiting its means and channels”, causing the insurgence of “an effect of revelation of the disequilibriums of a culture and acceleration of its process of mutation”21.

2 The words of conflict The language of possession is itself permeated with conflicts and counter positions, contrary motions, and symbolic and physical acts of force. This was already true in the first centuries of Christianity, later becoming part of the rituals and narratives, two discursive forms that cannot be considered separately, because the former inevitably shapes the latter22. It is not possible to set out a detailed etymology here, but suffice to note that the verb exorcizo can be translated with “I command you to do something in God’s name”23. It is therefore not a prayer but a command, the irresistible strength of which comes from the fact that God is invoked as witness and mandating authority. The ways of referencing possession and the associated phenomena also allude to usurpation: circumsessio, obsessio, possessio, vexatio all suggesting besiegement and invasion, whether from the outside or acting internally, all implying a partial or total possession of the individual. The subject enters a state of passivity and the words express this condition, as emerges from the adjectival and nominal use of “possessed” (controlled by others), and energumenus, which is he who is moved by a force that is not his own. Even outside the reiterating discursive system of ritual and the narration of exorcism, subjugation and usurpation are again found to be fundamental features of the exorcism scenario. A significant example is the section dedicated to the exorcists (scongiuratori) in La piazza universale di tutte le professioni del 20 F. Barbierato, Les langages des diables et des âmes perdues des incrédules. Un cas de possession collective dans la République de Venise au XVIIIe siècle, in “Études Épistémè”, http://journals. openedition.org/episteme/1751, accessed February 13, 2019. 21 La possession de Loudun, pp. 7–8 (my translation). 22 W.T. Wheelock, The Problem of Ritual Language: From Information to Situation, in “Journal of the American Academy of Religion”, 50, 1982, 1, pp. 49–71. 23 A. Nicolotti, Esorcismo cristiano, pp. 31–38.

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mondo (The universal compendium of all the professions in the world) from 1585 by Tomaso Garzoni (1549–1589), a man of letters and member of the Congregation of Lateran Canons. The work describes about four hundred occupations, providing a lively cross-section of the society of the second half of the 1500s24. Intended for an educated, but not necessarily ecclesiastic public, it relies on a huge repertoire of reference authors, including some banned writers, and does not hesitate to reference the author’s personal experience. According to Garzoni, it is “molto ben nota, et chiara” (very well-known and clear) in “verità evangelica, e per fede, e per esperienza” (evangelic truth, faith, and experience), that human bodies can be “crudelmente vessati” (cruelly vexed) by malignant spirits. These “tormentano” (torment) the bodies they occupy “tirannicamente” (tyrannically) in various ways, even though they are there only because God has allowed them, and the exorcists themselves do likewise, having to torment them until they are driven out. This can be achieved in many ways, with words or with gestures. The demon, in every case, is treated as an enemy, rejected rather than appeased. It is also possible to use “alcune cose sensibili, et materiali” (certain tangible and material things) like herbs, syrups, or medicines, as long as these are “benedette nel nome della Santa Trinità” (blessed in the name of the Holy Trinity). Through these substances it is possible to alleviate the diabolical vexation of the body, introducing “qualità, et dispositioni contrarie” (opposite qualities and dispositions). When Garzoni was writing, the Catholic Church had not yet promulgated an official ritual. This would be done in 1614 with the intention of inhibiting the proliferation of manuals that all too often legitimized excessively creative interpretations of a liturgy that had not yet been defined once and for all, and indeed never would be. The very nature of the ritual contributed to this incoherence, which as already noted was a sacramental rather than a sacrament. As a consequence, its effectiveness could not be guaranteed simply through scrupulous observation of the liturgy25. For this reason, alongside the official Rituale Romanum, an abundant practical literature was continuously produced over the course of the early modern period, up until the start of the eighteenth century when the Congregations of the Index and of the Holy Office, in the midst of a rigorist and anti-devotional shift amongst the Roman curia, applied a censorial brake, albeit partial. One of the authors stigmatized at that time by the Church of Rome was, not by chance, Garzoni’s most important reference, the Minor Observant, Girolamo Menghi da Viadana (1529–1609). In Garzoni’s times Menghi was

24 O. Niccoli, Garzoni, Tomaso, in Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani, vol. 52, 1999, http://www. treccani.it/enciclopedia/tomaso-garzoni_ (Dizionario-Biografico); M. Calabritto, Introduction, in T. Garzoni, The Hospital of Incurable Madness / L’hospedale de’ pazzi incurabili (1586), Turnhout 2008, pp. 7–33; Tomaso Garzoni, La piazza universale di tutte le professioni del mondo […], in Venetia, appresso Gio. Battista Somascho, 1585, pp. 294-297 25 This issue was controversial. In his Manuale exorcistarum, Candido Brugnoli (infra) sustained that exorcism could not fail if the exorcist followed the procedures and there was faith in the exorcised subject. This work was banned in 1727. See V. Lavenia, Brugnoli, Candido, in DSI, vol. 1, pp. 177 f.

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the most illustrious Italian exorcist and the prolific author of texts on how to cure diabolic ailments, which enjoyed a vast circulation. Garzoni thus talks from a time when the “profession” of exorcist was also thought to include physical treatments, not just spiritual, as well as not being exclusive to the members of the clergy. The author appears not to have been particularly concerned by this, limiting himself to worrying about the hypothesis that spell-breaking is less effective if not conducted by a priest, and invoking the need in all cases for rigorous moral discipline. He knew by experience that this was not particularly widespread. A certain individual that he had met personally was lacking in this respect: a “superstitioso da Monte Falcone” (superstitious character from Monte Falcone), who in exchange for “una gratia molto illecita, et ingiusta” (a highly illicit and unfair reward) had promised Garzoni to pass him a “secreto” (secret) for expelling demons, but which did not work. In relation to effectiveness, Garzoni invites the reader to remember the episode recounted in the Acts of the Apostles (19:11–16). Now God worked unusual miracles by the hands of Paul, so that even handkerchiefs or aprons were brought from his body to the sick, and the diseases left them and the evil spirits went out of them. Then some of the itinerant Jewish exorcists took it upon themselves to call the name of the Lord Jesus over those who had evil spirits […] And the evil spirit answered and said, “Jesus I know, and Paul I know; but who are you?” Then the man in whom the evil spirit was leaped on them, overpowered them, and prevailed against them, so that they fled out of that house naked and wounded.

This scriptural passage, with its particularly strong imagery, was discussed as regards the possibility that the first Christians attributed a physical nature to demons, measurable by the degree of violence that they were capable of exercising26. Garzoni did not intend to raise an issue that theologists had never stopped debating for centuries27, but he wanted to demonstrate that the violence of demons was selective, and was particularly severe against those who presumed to expel them without being qualified to do so.

3 Beyond the “admirable” In the texts cited so far, violence understood as the use of force causing harm to those subject to it, is such a widespread and salient element as to appear all-pervading. The risk is multiple: that the perception of its forms is unusually subject to individual sensitivity and indeed the reader is at risk of becoming bewitched by its “admirable” enormity. The 26 F. Young, Possession, p. 41; N. Vos / W. Otten, Demons and the Devil in Ancient and Medieval Christianity, Leiden 2011. 27 J. Machielsen, Martin Delrio: Demonology and Scholarship in the Counter-Reformation, Oxford 2015.

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narratives recounted up until now might be perceived as profoundly disturbing. This is not due to the presumed barrier of sentiment, the result of an assumed process of civilization, that has supposedly been raised between us and “them”, the men and women of the Ancien Régime. We like to think of their culture as more ferocious than ours, with the protection of the individual counting for little, and when objective considerations (in this case of the triumphal Church over the safety of the supposedly possessed individual) held sway28. Even the most recent accounts of exorcism can have a disturbing effect on contemporary readers due to the high levels of violence they contain, which might explain both their success and at the same time their relative obscurity. This impasse can be escaped by attempting to go beyond the common and current definition of “violence”, which might be overfamiliar, surveying the genre of narratives mentioned here for the meaning of the term and its correlations (from Latin violentia to the corresponding versions in the vulgar tongues). This makes it possible to exit the specificity of the thematic area in question and bring to light widespread elements of an anthropology that, as will be seen, are not exclusive to the sphere of exorcism but also permeate “normality”29. In the Histoire admirable, the term appears to have the definition we would expect when the demon Verrine grabs the book from the hands of the exorcist, “par violence” (by violence), then questions him, “quoy? tu veux exorciser Louyse?” (so? do you think you can exorcize Louyse?)30. Likewise when Belzebub afflicts the body of Madeleine, “la jettant a terre sur son ventre, puis en arrière vers le dos avec violence” (by throwing her down violently on her belly and on her back)31 or he causes her to fly into the air, “avec tant de violence que quatre homme ne la pouvaient retenir” (with so much violence that four men could not restrain her), and so on32. The violence of the actions described certainly indicates the intensity of their force and harmfulness, but also their capacity to induce a contrary motion from what should be natural for the subjects that suffer such treatment: the body of Madeleine should not fly upwards, nor should it be capable of bending backwards in such a way. The book should not fly out of the exorcist’s hands. The violence is diabolical because it propels things and people outside of the foreseen order. What exactly this order is will be discussed later.

28 S. Carroll, Introduction, in S. Carroll (ed.), Cultures of Violence. Interpersonal Violence in Historical Perspective, Basingstoke 2007, pp. 1–43, for a discussion of the reception of the thesis of Norbert Elias. 29 This regardless of whether or not exorcism is considered as a marginal and pathological phenomenon. As already noted, remaining within the sphere of rites, it is found as an element of baptism, to which billions of Christians are subjected to still today. Furthermore, exorcism has continued to be practiced for centuries in the most varied geographic locations and social contexts. It is effectively an event that is simultaneously exceptional and routine. See A. Nicolotti, Premessa all’edizione italiana, in F. Young, Possessione, p. 14. 30 S. Michaëlis, Histoire admirable, p. 236. 31 Ibid., p. 61. 32 Ibid., p. 94.

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This definition seems to have been present in manuals for exorcists, a typical literary genre in the Italian area, starting from the first half of the 1500s and enjoying a significant editorial success for at least two centuries, while provoking a reaction of concern and censorship among the hierarchies, as mentioned above. One of the bestknown authors was the Franciscan Candido Brugnoli (1607 – ?) who in addition to being an exorcist also worked as a preacher and theology professor in northern Italy. The Manuale exorcistarum (1651), his first work dedicated to black magic, considered to be among the causes of possession, and the diagnosis of its signs, was repeatedly reprinted and then finally blacklisted at the start of the following century. Less controversial but no less well received was the Alexicacon (1668), which resumed the themes of the first book, dividing the discussion by types of malefaction and methods of treatment. In the section dedicated to the diabolical causes of malefaction, there is a list of the ways in which a demon can torment people, holding them violently bound and oppressed (“homines violenter comprimit”33). Demons permeate impure thoughts into the minds of men and women who remain awake at night. In sleepers they instead insinuate sinful dreams of the flesh, stimulating uncontrollable physical reactions. They can cause the appearance of sores, twist the limbs, prick, and startle into wakefulness. The spectrum of molestations is wide: from carnal temptation, to physical malaise, to hallucinations. However, what categorizes them all as “violent” does not appear to be the level of molestation suffered, but rather the degree of involuntariness underlying these phenomena. They can all occur regardless of the intentions of the subject. The willingness of the subject is not strictly necessary for the infiltration of a malignant spirit into the body, it is sufficient that God permits it. It can also happen that, in addition to the torments, the veins of the body are blocked, and the humors are put into agitation, with “subita violentia”34. Once again what qualifies this as violence is its unexpected and involuntary nature, but here the term has an additional sense, as also found in other passages, the hindrance of the inclination of nature towards vitality. This definition is obvious in another passage. In the preface to the second tome of the Alexicacon, Brugnoli reflects on the suffering experienced by humankind, always anxious to procure additional prosperity and to defend what they already have.Among the latter, the first to defend is health. This is equally the object of protection by people and the target of menacing external forces. What threatens health? It might be natural or supernatural diseases, like evil spells. In both cases all these forces acting against life are a “violentia alieni”. Violentia is something that comes from others and is opposed to the natural propensity of a living being for its purpose, which is survival. Underlying this view there is an implicit physical principle derived from Aristotle35.

33 Reference was made to the edition Candido Brugnoli, Alexicacon, hoc est de maleficiis, ac morbis maleficis cognoscendis […] tomus primus, Venetiis, apud Nicolaum Pezzana, 1714, p. 243. 34 Ibid., p. 199. 35 On Aristotle’s notion of violence, see the chapter by S. Ferente in this volume.

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As explained in Physics (2a 4h), depending on their consistency, bodies move by natural motion towards specific places, and so each element has its own corresponding realm, downwards for earth and water, upwards for fire and air. All unrestrained heavy bodies move by natural motion towards the center of the Earth and similarly all light bodies move upwards, towards the sphere of the Moon which is their natural place. Bodies undergo violent motion when a specific external cause displaces them from their natural position. For example, the motion of a stone thrown upwards which, left to its own devices, returns to the ground. On the basis of this episteme another exorcist, in this case the Venetian Carmelite, Alessio Porri, author of Antidotario contra li demoni (1601), could affirm that the demonic “violenta i corpi […] con moti non naturali” (violates bodies […] with unnatural motions)36, as happened to the child in the Gospel of Mark (9:22), thrown by evil forces into fire and water in order to kill him. Left to his own natural inclinations, the body of the child, moved by the soul, which is the moving force of the body, would never have thrown itself into fire or water in order to die. Violence is thus conceived of as that which acts against the natural inclination of things. While human nature strives to survive and maintain health, there is another aspect even more characteristic of humans, and which distinguishes them from animals, their free will. This is again underlined by Brugnoli, who when reflecting on the significance of malefactors in the overall economy of salvation, and asking why God permits such things and the terrible consequences for those who are affected by them, answers that in reality God only allows some malignant things to happen. Many others he prevents, a sign of his infinite love. If he prevented them all in advance, he would create a violent obstacle (“violentum obicem”) to the actions of man, to whom he has given the gift of free will37. An obstacle to free will would be violent because it would inhibit something essential, characterizing, and natural for mankind, which is the freedom to act, allowing deeds that can be equally as good as they can be evil. God could hardly commit a violent deed, considering how, in the litanies that an exorcist might recite during an exorcism, he is invoked as the Repressor violentum, the suppressor of the violent38.

4 An excursus into moral theology “Anti-voluntary” and “anti-natural” would also appear to be the most widespread definitions of violentia in coeval moral theological reflection. This discipline experi-

36 Alessio Porri, Antidotario contro li demonii, in Venetia, in Roberto Megietti, 1601, pp. 37 f. 37 Candido Brugnoli, Alexicacon, tome I, p. 46. 38 As in another text, the Thesaurus exorcismorum, Coloniae, impensis Lazari Zetzneri, 1608, that collected works by Gerolamo Menghi, Valerio Polidori, and Zaccaria Visconti, p. 159.

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enced an unprecedented publishing boom during these years in terms of numbers of titles, authors, thematic specializations (from taxes to contracts, from war to the sacraments), as well as complexity of scope and problematization, linked to the growing role of confessors and of spiritual leaders in the Post-Reformation climate. The roots of this bulky regulatory corpus39 date back first to Thomas Aquinas, for whom, violence directly opposes free will, as it does the natural, since the free and the natural are moved by intrinsic force, while instead the violent is moved by extrinsic force (Summa theologiae, Ia-IIae, a. 6, 5 corp.)40. A stone left to its own devices moves downwards, driven by its intrinsic inclination. Only if it is thrown by an external force can it move upwards, and in this sense that extraneous force is violent, as was the force exercised by Verrine on the body of Madeleine in the Histoire admirable. In the same way, any force that blocks the natural flow of human will can be considered violent, acting against its fundamental freedom. People, animals, and objects can know violence, but not God. There can be no violence in God, because he cannot be moved by anything other than by himself. No coercion is possible, nothing against his nature, because he is complete within himself (Summa contra gentiles, bk. 1, chap. 19). An investigation, still in its early stages, into scholastic literature of the early modern period appears to confirm this concept of violentia. For example, in the Institutiones morales by Juan Azor, the most widespread treatise on moral theology in the Jesuit Colleges (1600–1611), where the violentia is discussed in the first section dedicated to human deeds (bk. 1, chap. 9). Once again, the interest is in violentia as something endured, as an external force (vis) that prevents human action from being entirely free and so less responsible. Azor collects case studies of the varieties of endured violence: Titius who, as the result of an evil spell, begins to adore idols and reject sacred things; the young girl who is violated and resists with all her force; a person who is suddenly tortured in their sleep, amputated, thrown to the ground; a waking person who is forced to watch, listen to, or eat things they do not want. In all these variations of disablement and passivity, the theologian does not consider the motivation of the subject who committed the violentia in order to assess its gravity and condemn them. He is interested, under the heading of violentia, in excluding the moral responsibility of those who endured it. As previously in Thomas Aquinas, from this perspective the suffering caused by violent action is not discussed, or rather there is no explicit consideration of the morally deplorable consequences of violent deeds. Nor are violent deeds discussed as deserving of condemnation. As Thomas

39 See F. Alfieri, The Necessary Vigilance. Erring Consciences and Sensitive Bodies in Catholic Moral Theology (Fifteenth-Seventeenth Century), in A. Brendecke / P. Molino (eds.), Cultures of Vigilance [special issue] “Storia della storiografia. Rivista internazionale”, 2019, 2, pp. 29–50. 40 The other instances in the Thomist lexicon appear to point in this direction. See Thomas-Lexikon, edited by L. Schütz, www.corpusthomisticum.org/tlv.html#violentia.

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Aquinas notes in his commentary to the Sententiae: considering that violence excuses sin, where there is greater violence there is lesser sin41. As might be expected, the responsibility of those who endure violentia is never excluded with certainty. Azor concludes that, for the victim to be entirely free of responsibility and guilt for what happens, it is not sufficient that the violent event is unexpected, that it is against the will, but it must also be strenuously resisted, both in external deeds (e.g. a violated virgin screams and defends herself with all her strength) and a profound opposition of the mind. Furthermore, there might be a minimal but crucial degree of consent hidden in some part of the body. There might be some deep desire ready to welcome the unexpected42. And as the literature of the exorcist teaches, self-vigilance can come to nothing if: “tutti gli spiriti possono penetrare […] nonostante qualsiasi virtù, qualsiasi possanza ed operatione mondana, se Iddio non lo impedisce” (all spirits can penetrate […] despite any virtue, any worldly action or authority, if God does not prevent it)43. In the underlying anthropology of Catholic moral discourse of the early modern era, human beings appear to embody contradictory impulses. On one hand they are essentially and naturally closed to violence and the characteristic freedom of action of humans is expressed without suffering any violentia. Biological survival is only possible if the forces that animate it are not violently blocked or annulled by an external agent. However, humans also appear to be fundamentally and irremediably open to violence. It is this in particular that appears to greatly trouble moral theologists and exorcists, that is the judges of everyday violentia and the therapists for its extreme forms. The former developed an exceptionally refined system of knowledge to enable judges and confessors to understand its origins, its expression, and the limits of human responsibility44, insisting on the centrality of individual decision and self-control. The latter instead promoted the idea of an easy and inexorable loss of self, when a triviality was sufficient in order to be possessed by the demonic. It would be the Catholic church, by way of the judges of everyday violentia and the therapists for its extreme forms, who would conduct the damaged subjects back to normality.

41 Thomas Aquinas, Scriptum super sententiis, in 2 Sent., dist. 21, q. 1, a. 2, arg. 2, www.corpusthomisticum.org/snp2021.html#5290 (my translation). 42 Juan Azor, Institutionum moralium pars prima, Lugduni, apud Pillehotte, 1602, bk. 1, chap. 9, p. 20. 43 Alessio Porri, Antidotario, p. 8. The issue of “praelatio daemonum est a Deo” is also found in the doctrinal introduction to another famous work, Fustis daemonum (1584). Reference was made to the edition Girolamo Menghi, Fustis daemonum, adiurationes formidabiles, potentissimas et efficaces in malignos spiritus fugandos de oppressis corporibus humanis […] complectens, Venetiis, apud Paulum Balleunium, 1697, chap. 6, p. 14. 44 Most recently, S. Tutino, Uncertainty in Post-reformation Catholicism. A History of Probabilism, Oxford / New York 2018.

Morihisa Ishiguro

Violence and Covenant in Machiavelli’s Thinking 1 Introduction Many scholars consider Niccolò Machiavelli an exponent of modern political thought, which is to say, employing a scientific approach1. In their view Machiavelli analyzed politics on two basic grounds: fear (connected to violence) and love (connected to advantage)2. The first scholar to point out these aspects was Francesco De Sanctis. In his History of Italian Literature De Sanctis contrasts Machiavelli (embodying the new scientific approach to politics) with Girolamo Savonarola (the medieval religious approach)3.

1 It seems that it was Yuzaburo Sakai (酒井雄三郎) who initially introduced the thought of Machiavelli to Japan in 1883. He translated, extracted, and summarized some part of the Histoire de la philosophie by Alfred Fouillée in that year. One chapter of this book is devoted to explaining the life and thought of Machiavelli. On the other hand, the first attempt to translate the work by Machiavelli seems to be the ( ) 1886. Behind these introductions publication of Syuhei Nagai’s translation of The Prince『君論』in of Machiavelli’s political thought to Japan in this period we can easily find some effort to transplant modern European ideas of the state into Japan. This kind of effort was derived from the development of the Liberal rights movement (自由民権運動) that culminated with the promulgation of the constitution of the Empire of Japan (大日本帝国憲法), also called the Meiji constitution (明治憲法). The Japanese political culture in this era developed around the conflict between two political trends. One was a group of civil rights ideology that had strong supporters in civic society. Another was a group of nationalist ideology supported by government circles. The former, influenced by French political thinking, sought people’s political participation. The latter desired to establish strong concentrated governmental power in the state imitating the German political system and also the translated work of Fouillée. Yuzaburo Sakai was the principal assistant of Cyoumin Nakae (中江兆民), who first introduced the philosophy of Rousseau and the most important ideologues of the civil rights movement. Also, Kowashi Inoue (井上毅) who helped to publish the first translation of Machiavelli’s The Prince as editor, and was at the same time principal editor of the Meiji constitution. In fact, it was the Meiji constitution that symbolically crystallized the idea of the state in the nationalist group. Considering the politico-cultural context of this period, this is a very interesting fact because it proves that the initial interest in Japan concerning the thought of Machiavelli was to make it the basis for each side (civil rights group/nationalist group) to assimilate or transplant the modern European idea of state into Japan of the Meiji Era (1868–1912). Machiavelli became one of the names each side used as the symbol of their political thought. See M. Ishiguro, La fortuna di Machiavelli in Giappone dal 1868– 1945. Kitaro Nishida e il problema della “Ragion di Stato”, in “Rivista di Politica”, 3, 2018, 18, pp. 13–24. 2 Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince, XVII, http://www.gutenberg.org/files/1232/1232-h/1232-h.htm, accessed August 31, 2020. 3 F. De Sanctis, History of Italian Literature, vol. 2, New York 1931, p. 552 (orig. publ. as Storia della letteratura italiana, Napoli 1870/71); H. Butterfield, Statecraft of Machiavelli, New York 1967, pp. 15–36, pp. 80–85. https://doi.org.10.1515/9783110643978-007

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Machiavelli does indeed argue the utility of religion in politics, an idea supported in various chapters of the Discourses4. Besides De Sanctis, major scholars such as Carducci, Croce, Chabod and Sasso agree in considering Machiavelli a modern political thinker, and likewise that he interpreted religion as a political tool5. More recently a new current has claimed quite forcibly that religion may have a positive role in Machiavelli’s thinking. One glimpses behind this perspective a tendency to relativize, which is typical of western modernity. Yet one must bear in mind that the hitherto traditional way of interpreting Machiavelli has begun to be considerably revised in recent years. One result of that change is the view that Machiavelli deemed Christianity a religion with antisocial effects, and hence contrary to the discourse of politics. Among interpreters of the first line of thinking are Bausi and Parel who see Machiavelli as a sincere Christian in light of the recent discovery of a work in which he urges repentance6. To their names we might add Whitfield and Caleo who emphasize the influence Savonarola’s sermons had on Machiavelli’s thinking. These last thus belong to the first school mentioned, namely to those who are inclined to a “philo-religious” reading of Machiavelli’s thought7. We might also add Viroli and Weinstein. Viroli points out that “civil Christianity” in Florence was quite different from official Roman Catholicism8. He sees it as the fruit of a distinct socio-political atmosphere that formed in Italy at the end of the medieval era9. For his part, Weinstein interprets the last chapter of The Prince as forming part of the eschatological school of latemedieval Florentine Christianity10. Parsons takes the reverse view: that Machiavelli was bent on destroying Christianity which he considered an imperfect religion11. For Christianity denies the value

4 See Niccolò Machiavelli, Discourses on Livy, I, 13 and 14, https://constitution.org/2-Authors/mac/ disclivy_.htm, accessed August 31, 2020; I. Berlin, The Originality of Machiavelli, in I. Berlin, Against the Current. Essays in the History of Ideas, Oxford 1981, pp. 25–79. 5 M. Viroli, Machiavelli’s God, Princeton NJ / Oxford 2010 (orig. publ. as Il Dio di Machiavelli, Roma / Bari 2010), pp. X–III. 6 F. Bausi, Machiavelli, Roma 2005, pp. 319 f.; A. Parel, Machiavelli minore, in A. Parel (ed.), The Political Calculus, Toronto 1972, pp. 186–208; G. Cadoni, Qualche osservazione su Machiavelli e Savonarola, in “La cultura”, 38, 2000, p. 264 (pp. 263-278). 7 J.H. Whitfield, Savonarola and the Purpose of “The Prince”, in “Modern Language Review”, 44, 1949, pp. 44–59, and M. Caleo, Machiavelli discepolo ideale di Savonarola, Rimini 1998, above all pp. 7–11. 8 M. Viroli, Machiavelli’s God, pp. 2–8. 9 Ibid., p. XII; A. Panella, Storia di Firenze, Firenze 1984, pp. 118–121; J.M. Najemy, A History of Florence 1200–1575, Malden / Oxford / Victoria 2006, pp. 151–156. 10 D. Weinstein, Machiavellli and Savonarola, in M. Gilmore (ed.), Studies on Machiavelli, Firenze 1972, pp. 262 f.; G. Cadoni, Qualche osservazione, p. 277; D. Weinstein, The Myth of Florence, in N. Rubinstein (ed.), Florentine Studies, Evanston IL 1968, p. 31. 11 W.B. Parsons, Machiavelli’s Gospel, Rochester NY 2016, pp. 179–181.

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of the active life and pins everything on saving one’s soul in the life to come. Such undue emphasis on our other-worldly destiny enfeebles the human spirit, thought Machiavelli. He views Christianity as an obstacle to social development. This all lessens the value of Christianity as a religion, on such a Machiavellian view. The scholars who embrace such an interpretation cite Machiavelli’s insistence on periodic political, social and religious upheaval as evidence. It is in the Discourses above all (Chapter V of Book II) that we find such arguments12. Machiavelli might supposedly have thought Islam superior, founded as it was by Mahomet, an armed prophet like Moses13. The social superiority of Islam seems to be proved by the political success of the Ottoman Empire which had achieved widespread political hegemony over the entire Mediterranean area by the beginning of the sixteenth-century14. Not unlike the Ottoman dominion, the Roman Empire summed up Machiavelli’s political views. This interpretation of Machiavelli is, as we said, shared by Viroli who stresses the value of Christianity as a civil religion. To that end he picks out phrases from Machiavelli’s Discourses, such as: “Had religion been maintained among the princes of Christendom on the footing on which it was established by its Founder, the Christian States and republics would have been far more united and far more prosperous than they now are”15. And because if it returns to its origins, one can see “how [the Christian religion] permits the exaltation and defence of the city [and] wants us to love and honour it and prepare ourselves to defend it”16. From this survey of differing and partly opposing opinions, it would seem hard to find a reliable interpretation of the significance of religion in Machiavelli’s works. My present intention is to put forward a consistent reading of that significance, through analysing the relationship between violence and religion in the writings of Machiavelli.

2 Machiavelli and restoration of Christianity Discourses II 2 forms a good starting point for our examination. In that chapter Machiavelli criticizes sixteenth-century Christianity which he considers over-focused on salvation of the soul at the expense of earthly values17. Machiavelli hastens to explain that his judgement on sixteenth-century Christianity is prompted by the fact that it

12 Discourses on Livy, II. 5. 13 W.B. Parsons, Machiavelli’s Gospel, p. 179. 14 On Machiavelli’s assessment of the Ottoman Empire see Il Principe, IV. 15 M. Viroli, Machiavelli’s God, pp. 6–7; Discourses on Livy, I. 11. 16 Discourses on Livy, II. 2. 17 Ibid.: “In order to go to paradise, most men think more about enduring their pains than about avenging them”.

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has abandoned its own origins. He writes “lo uso [cristiano] presente quanto è diverso da quelli [fondamenti suoi]” (present-day [Christian] usage, how different it is from those [its foundations]). Christianity of his day has strayed from the ancient faith which points to “the truth and the true way”18. To change that negative trend, one should revert to its “beginnings” (principio)19. Machiavelli thought early Christianity was a religion that enabled man to develop “in greatness of the spirit, bodily strength and in all else that tends to make men extremely tough20. As regards the homeland, the earliest Christianity “wants us to love and honour it and prepare ourselves to defend it”21. At the beginning of the sixteenth century, by contrast, the Christian religion was so different, so corrupt, that Machiavelli saw “la rovina e il fragello” (devastation and scourge) as God’s answer to such a travesty22. Out of these reflections Machiavelli began to develop a theory of his own: that the worse the corruption meriting the scourge and devastation of God, the more urgently Christianity needed to get back to its origins. On this Weinstein thinks that the Machiavellian theory outlined in Chapter XXVI of The Prince was influenced by the Florentine millenarian myth which peaked with the preaching of Savonarola23. But note that the much-needed return to original religion cannot take place without a charismatic figure advocating it. The immediate question arises: who can take on the fundamental role of leader? In Discourses III 1, Machiavelli wrote: “A volere che una setta o una republica viva lungamente, è necessario ritirarla spesso verso il suo principio” (If one wants a sect or a republic to have a long life, one must frequently lead it back to its beginnings)24. Going by what he writes in the first book (chapter 18) of the Discourses, there are two ways of achieving that return to the origins. In the first case, when corruption is not yet deep-rooted in society, there is an excellent chance of such a movement succeeding if a person of outstanding virtue proclaims it before the people25. However, the longer the interval between one such person and a successor of the same ilk, the more corrupt a society will become. Hence, to root out corruption, the political leader has no alternative but to use extraordinary measures of military force, resorting to arms to restore the people to their earliest religious principles26. We may call 18 Ibid.; L. Colish, Republicanism, Religion, and Machiavelli’s Savonarolan Moment, in “Journal of History of Ideas”, 60, 1999, 4, pp. 601 f. 19 Ibid., I. 12. 20 Ibid, II. 2. 21 Ibid. 22 Ibid., I. 12. 23 Regarding the agreement between Savonarola and Machiavelli as to the perspective of reformation or renovation through catastrophe, see D. Weinstein, Machiavelli and Savonarola, p. 262. 24 Discourses on Livy, III. 1. 25 Ibid. 26 Ibid.

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the first method Reformation and the second Revolution27. Hence, if a political leader decides to conduct a political revolution to quell his enemies’ opposition, he must employ extraordinary means (violence and arms) and before all else become Prince of that city28. The title of Discourses I 10 (“How laudable the founders of a republic or a kingdom and how despicable those of a tyranny”) gives us an idea of Machiavelli’s admiration for the leaders of victorious revolutions29. The chapter that I have cited ties up with a sentence from chapter XXVI of The Prince: “Nothing honours a man who is newly arisen than the new laws and new order he has introduced”30. In the same chapter of The Prince Machiavelli cites examples of historical characters whom he deems suited to the role of political leader, mentioning Moses, Cyrus and Theseus. In chapter VI of the same book a similar list of founders of states (in which he includes Romulus) specifies “those who became princes by their own merits and not by fortune”31. Note that the name of Moses heads both lists. The suggestion is that Moses’ deeds as founder of the Jewish state are not so different from his religious role as receiver of the Ten Commandments from God. With this correlation in mind, we can begin to understand the essence of Machiavelli’s political strategy. It seeks first and foremost to educate the lawgiver (a figure both religious and political) who, seeing “devastation and scourge” visited by God to be imminent, will restore the foundations of society, making Christianity revert to its roots. Mindful of Discourses Book I, chapter 10, we should remember that Machiavelli sets more store by the founder of a religion than by “those who have founded either republics or kingdoms”32. The greatness of such political leaders depends (as in the case of Numa) on their having spoken with God or at least having persuaded people that such was the case33. That is why we are dealing with political leaders like Moses “who had such a great tutor [God]”34. Numa’s stature is hence to be contrasted with Romulus who founded a state by eliminating his political enemies (Remus). In other words, Romulus attained absolute power by violence and based his “political” order on a constitution he himself devised. But Numa got his subjects to obey the order that he wanted thanks to religion and a privileged relationship with the God by whom his people swore allegiance.

27 The Machiavellian idea of history that distinguishes these two concepts (foundation/reformation) is a very complicated and important topic. Hence, we must consider it at greater length in another paper. 28 Discourses on Livy, I. 18. 29 Ibid., I. 10. 30 The Prince, XXVI. 31 Ibid., VI. 32 Discourses on Livy, I. 10; L. Colish, Republicanism, p. 606. 33 Discourses on Livy, I. 11. 34 The Prince, VI.

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In the first book of Discourses (chapter 11) Machiavelli mentions the concept of covenant as important to preserving the state. The example of this that he gives is Scipio and his treatment of the young Roman patricians who were intending to leave Rome after the defeat of Cannae. Taking a strong line, Scipio forced them to swear they would defend the fatherland. Thanks to that oath, those youthful nobles shook off their fear and began to stand up to Hannibal35. In relating this episode Machiavelli emphasizes the almost supernatural strength of a religious oath which creates a covenant between man and God. Neither patriotism not fear of the law and the punishment due to transgressors had managed to rein in those youngsters36. Only an alliance with God achieved the purpose. Likewise, Moses’ political success was due to his introducing a religion based on a covenant with the divinity, solid enough to make “speaking with God” plausible. In this respect Numa can be likened to Moses. And by the same token, Machiavelli thought Savonarola (like the personages mentioned) had the ability to remain “powerful, secure, honoured and happy”37. That was why he needed to conduct the Florentines back to the origins of their religious faith; which was possible because they truly believed Savonarola had “spoken with God”38.

3 Violence and covenant So Machiavelli likens Savonarola to Moses and Numa, founders and legislators of a state. The obvious question that arises is: how come Savonarola, who “spoke with God” and stood as a religious leader, was unsuccessful on the political stage? The first point we should remember is that, to Machiavelli, “nothing is more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct, or more uncertain in its success, than to take the lead in introducing a new order of things” 39. This is not just because anyone introducing a new regime “has for enemies all those who have done well under the old conditions,” but because his potential supporters are actually “lukewarm defenders”, at least initially40. In the specific case of Savonarola, Machiavelli thought his downfall

35 Discourses on Livy, I. 11. 36 Ibid. The effect of a religious covenant in making order is here suggested by an anecdote about Scipio Africanus; see G. Cadoni, Machiavelli e l’uso politico della religione, in “Pensiero politico”, 41, 2008, p. 223–228. 37 The Prince, VI. Actually, Machiavelli said this about Savonarola: “one must speak of such a man with reverence” in I. 11 of his Discourses on Livy, I. 11; and cf. Discourses on Livy, III. 1; G. Cadoni, Il “profeta disarmato”, p. 259. About the similarity between Moses and Savonarola in this manner, see D. Weinstein, Machiavelli and Savonarola, p. 258; L. Colish, Republicanism, p. 611, and M. Viroli, Machiavelli’s God, p. 7. 38 Discourses on Livy, I. 11. 39 The Prince, VI. 40 Ibid.

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was due to his being unable to resort to physical violence; he lacked the means “of keeping steadfast those who believed or of making the unbelievers to believe”41. In other words, if the great political leaders like Moses, Cyrus, Theseus and Romulus “had been unarmed, they could not have enforced their constitutions for long”42. To explain this idea more clearly, Machiavelli cites the dramatic episode of the three thousand Jews Moses had put to death during the exodus43. Machiavelli recalls the same event in chapter 30 of the third book of Discourses, entitled “For a citizen who wants to do some good deed in his republic on his own authority, it is first necessary to extinguish envy” 44. In other words, to complete the mission God conferred on him, Moses needed to kill a large number of his compatriots, those who were against him or reluctant to accept his authority45. It should be noted that not only a successful prophet (like Moses) but also one who signally failed (Savonarola) perfectly realized the need for violent means to eliminate their opponents46. Where Savonarola failed, thought Machiavelli, was “because he did not have the authority to be able to do so” and still more “because he was not well understood by those who followed him who would have had the authority”47. The famous Machiavellian maxim that “all armed prophets have conquered, and the unarmed ones have been destroyed” follows from what we have just said48. Clearly, then, Machiavelli’s political theory is designed as advice for those who want (at great risk) to head a movement restoring a state to its socio-political origins. That is the reason why Machiavelli pays more attention to Numa (who introduced religion so as to make the Romans obey) than to Romulus who imposed laws on his people by violence49.

41 The Prince, VI and Discourses on Livy, I. 11; G. Cadoni, Il “profeta disarmato”, pp. 253 f.; D. Weinstein, Machiavelli and Savonarola, p. 263. 42 The Prince, VI; G. Cadoni, Qualche osservazione, pp. 268 f. 43 Discourses on Livy, III. 30; Exod. 32:25–29. Cf. the anecdote of Dathan’s rebellion against Moses in Num. 16. In effect, these two anecdotes stand as representative examples of the “covenant” with God through massacre and sacrifice in the Old Testament. 44 Discourses on Livy, III. 30; G. Cadoni, Il “profeta disarmato”, p. 255. 45 Discourses on Livy, III. 30. 46 Ibid.; G. Cadoni, Il “profeta disarmato”, p. 255; D. Weinstein, Machiavelli and Savonarola, pp. 255 f.; A. Brown, Savonarola, Machiavelli and Moses. A Changing Model, in P. Denley / C. Elam (eds.), Renaissance Studies in Honour of Nicolai Rubinstein, London 1988, p. 64. 47 Discourses on Livy, III. 30 (p. 326); G. Cadoni, Il “profeta disarmato”, p. 256. Actually, when we read the sermons of Savonarola, we find that Savonarola, who initially claimed to expel tyrants through effecting reconciliation between citizens, and who talked about the peace and prosperity of the city created by the newly installed Great Council Regime, began to desire to set himself at the same level as Moses, assuming not only religious authority but also military command based on aggravation of the relationship with Pope Alexander VI (“I wish I could [that is, that I were allowed to] put on a cappuccio and also a lucco [the magistrate’s hood and gown])”: G. Savonarola, Prediche sopra Ruth e Michea, vol. 1, Roma 1962, p. 436; A. Brown, Savonarola, p. 57. 48 The Prince, VI. 49 Discourses on Livy, I. 11.

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This all becomes still clearer if we read the tenth chapter of Discourses Book I. In that passage Machiavelli views religion not just as a political tool (the opinion he is well-known for) but as a necessary pillar of politics. Such an interpretation prompts a question: why does religion prove more effective than fear instilled by violence and the resort to weapons? In replying, we shall need to take a closer look at the meaning of a “covenant with God” in relation to human society and the relations among its components. In the case of Romulus who killed his brother Remus, he put all his strength into eliminating his political adversaries, those against his plans for founding the Roman state. As we read in chapter VIII of The Prince, if a political leader continues to oppress his subjects, he is “always compelled to keep the knife in his hand”50. To prevent such a situation, a prince first needs to offer his subjects material advantages which will make them feel favorably inclined towards him. However, men are as a rule “ungrateful, fickle, prone to simulation and dissimulation”. Moreover, it is not always possible to have the resources needed to win them over. Hence, a Prince who wants to maintain the regime he has set up must introduce something on a higher plane than material interest and mere force of weapons. In short, it must be superior not just to the fear caused by violence but to the love of material advantage51. That ‘something’ is nothing less than a covenant with God. Only that kind of thought can ennoble the human spirit, argues Machiavelli, and make the people act for the good of the republic52. Even in the most favorable circumstances, he thinks we cannot expect human beings spontaneously to subscribe to that kind of devotion. Impressionable by nature, individuals need to be violently compelled to internalize a feeling of that sort. By way of an example, in Discourses I. 11 Machiavelli recounts the anecdote of Scipio and Torquatus53. The story of the all-important covenant between God and the ancient Romans shows that the pact was based on violence which was indeed a necessary condition. The religious ceremony celebrated by the Samnites shows quite clearly that violence was the presupposition for that sacred covenant54. Hemmed “amid many centurions with swords drawn”, anyone who refused to swear would be swiftly dispatched. Thus, violence and holy covenant are inseparable55. On the same subject we note that the famous remark that winds up chapter XXV of The Prince (“fortune is a woman, and if you wish to keep her under it is necessary to beat and ill-use her”) is likewise a metaphor that neatly supports the need for vio-

50 The Prince, VIII. 51 Ibid., IX and XVII. 52 Ordinarily speaking, precisely these two things are considered as the two most important factors that stimulate human will in the thought of Machiavelli. 53 Discourses on Livy, I. 11. 54 Ibid., I. 15. 55 Ibid.

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lence in a holy covenant56. On the one hand, the metaphor hints at the method used by rulers in manipulating the people, “fortune” standing for the “masses”. On the other, it suggests that the people can introject the ruler’s will – as representative of God on earth – through a “holy covenant” that a divinely ordained prince enforces by psychological and physical violence. Already in this junction of the “ruler/ruled” vectors we have a glimpse of the “social contract” in Machiavelli’s thought; it would later be given a theoretical framework by Hobbes57. We should here recall that in dedicating The Prince to Lorenzo de’ Medici, Duke of Urbino, Machiavelli wrote: “To understand the nature of the people one needs to be a prince, and to understand that of princes one needs to be of the people”58. This is clear evidence that Machiavelli grasped what we have termed a junction of two vectors as a characteristic of political discourse.

4 Conclusions: Machiavelli, Christianity, and the modern state The first issue we should reflect on is why Machiavelli thought “leaders and establishers of religions” more meritorious than “those who have set up either republics or kingdoms”; the former are “most laudable […] praised among all men”. As I suggested earlier, the reason for this judgement is that order laid down by the founder must be internalized in the individual spirit as “the principle” without which the state can neither arise nor be maintained. To that end a covenant with God is all-important. To bring off such a feat calls for a leader standing in a privileged relation to God; what he introduces becomes the state religion. To him falls the essential task of making sure the subjects inwardly absorb this covenant. This being clear, there remains one further question clarifying the importance Machiavelli attached to religion in his political thinking. I shall conclude my paper by addressing that issue. Our second question, then, is why Machiavelli (Discourses, II 2) thinks Christianity the religion that shows us “the truth and the true way”, hence superior to all other religions. As I said before, the famous remark “fortune is a woman, and if you wish to keep her under it is necessary to beat and ill-use her” is a metaphor expressing how violence must inevitably be used in the religious/political realm. Machiavelli is adamant that violence underpinning a sacred covenant must preside over the birth of the state. Here, if I may, I might hazard a comparison with contemporary psychology and point out that an ambiguous blend of love and violence lies at the heart of many

56 The Prince, XXV. 57 A. Brown, Savonarola p. 65. 58 The Prince, Dedication.

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a study59. Within due limits, then, it is not so far-fetched to compare addictive dependency with worship of something we believe transcendent to ourselves. In either case the essential feature is a craving for the other which has undergone a process of internalization to a point that we might style “religious”. One can arrive at such a point of infatuation via either physical or psychological coercion. According to the German scholar Rudolf Otto, the essence of the divine resides in its tremendous fascination, which he sums up as “numinosity”60. So, a prophet “speaking with God” compels believers (as well as subjects) to embrace a holy covenant and obey it for its ‘numinous’ quality. This proves all the easier in the case of a monotheistic religion where the desire for intimacy with God imparts a strong note of dependency. Christianity is a case in point since it makes the historical existence of Jesus Christ a central feature of the faith. There thus follows the strongest of spiritual links between the faithful and the divinity61. In the eighth chapter of The Prince Machiavelli writes: In seizing a state, the usurper ought to examine closely into all those injuries which it is necessary for him to inflict, and to do them all at one stroke so as not to have to repeat them daily; and thus by not unsettling men, he will be able to reassure them, and win them to himself by benefits62.

59 We can see Machiavelli’s awareness that the spell of love is superior to physical fear in a sentence from his letter of 31 January 1515 (“and these chains that he has put on me are so strong that I wholly despair of my liberty. I cannot think of any way in which I can unchain myself; and even if chance or some twist in human affairs should open to me some way for getting out of them, perchance I should not wish to take it”. See A. Gilbert [ed.], The Letters of Machiavelli, Chicago IL 1988, p. 184). On the potentially (addictive) nature of love-relationships in contemporary sociology, see A. Giddens, The Transformation of Intimacy-Sexuality, Love and Eroticism in Modern Societies, Stanford CA 1992, pp. 65–85. However, the position underlying Machiavelli’s perspective should be connected to the tradition of Orphism as a part of the “ancient theology” advocated by Pico della Mirandola and Marsilio Ficino and it frames the phenomenon of love-addiction in Renaissance spiritual culture. According to this doctrine the magical power of song and music, as well as the power of love, can lead the soul – confined in the material body – to the celestial sphere. As we can see in the fable of Orpheus who appeased the beasts with his lyra and song, the magic of music has the potential to overcome normal violence. Orphic magic has the power to control the human spirit. But, on the other hand, as we can see in the tragedy of Orpheus’ death at the hands of the maenads, the doctrine of Orphism contemplates the concept of sacrifice or self-sacrifice as sacred violence. On this point, the structure of spontaneous internalization of obedience reflects the notion of Renaissance love magic. We can clearly see the influence of Orphic magic in Florence on Machiavelli’s thought at the end of the fifteenth-century in the letter of January 31, 1515; I.P. Couliano, Eros and Magic in the Renaisance, Chicago IL 1987, and A. Chastel, Marsile Ficin et l’art, Genève 1954. I am currently working on the dynamics of obedience in Machiavelli in relationship to contemporary psychology. 60 About the intrinsic element of the deity being nothing but violent “numinöse”, see R. Otto, Das Heilige. Über das Irrationale in der Idee des Göttlichen und sein Verhältnis zum Rationalen, München 1979. 61 The addictive character of the Judeo-Christian religion is explained very clearly by R. Otto, Aufsätze das Numinose betreffened, Gotha 1923, p. 150. 62 The Prince, VIII.

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In the light of what I have said so far, this advice is a prime example of how to inculcate psychological dependency in the subject population. The behavior of the rulers reveals the twofold nature of the divinity (at once cruel and benevolent). From this angle the similarities between Machiavelli and Savonarola are clear, making it tempting to place the Florentine Secretary’s political thought as pertaining to the relationship between the Protestant Reformation and the beginning of modern political philosophy63. This leads us to consider the influence that Savonarola may have had on Machiavelli, as Whitfield suggested. Where interpretation is concerned, let us remember that in the period between Geoffrey Parker (with his theory of “military revolution”) and John Brewer (who coined the idea of the “fiscal-military state”) the discussion as to the formation of the modern state was all about the creation of a tax system capable of supporting a centralized state structure64. The prevailing opinion was that the modern tax system was nothing but a “war tax system” as devised by Wallenstein under martial law (Ausnahmezustand)65. Thanks to patriotic feeling, such a phenomenon (an extraordinary exception to the norm) managed to survive for a long period. The feeling is connected to the idea of self-sacrifice for one’s country (“pro patria mori”) which fifteenth-century humanism revived from the classical world66. Machiavelli’s famous phrase “I love my country more than my soul” may stand as the starting point for the rise of a strong sense of patriotism67. The historical and political background at that time leads us to infer that chapter XXVI of The Prince is describing the decadence of Italy in the early Cinquecento: a place where traditional ethics have failed and God’s “devastation and scourge” are now imminent to punish corruption. To renew the covenant with God (a process calling for use of violence) the right political leader was needed. It was precisely that founder of the new religion and/or lawgiver that Machiavelli set out to instruct, pointing the way to a return to the roots of Christianity. Such a figure might usher in a new cycle of history. Inevitably, he will have to display strong and determined leadership, comparable with Moses (who had three thousand Jews put to death because they were worshipping the golden calf),

63 See M. Viroli, Machiavelli’s God, pp. 11–20. 64 G. Parker, The Military Revolution. Military Innovation and the Rise of the West 1500–1800, 2nd ed., Cambridge 1996, pp. 45–81; J. Brewer, The Sinews of Power. War, Money and the English State, 1688–1783, London 1988, above all pp. 137–161. 65 About the fiscal system of “contribution” created by Wallenstein in the time of Thirty Years’ War, cf. G. Mortimer, Way by Contract, Credit and Contribution. The Thirty Years War, in G. Mortimer (ed.), Early Modern Military History, 1450–1815, New York, 2004, pp. 101–117, especially pp. 108–113. 66 E. Kantorowicz, “Pro patria mori” in Medieval Political Thought, in “American Historical Review”, 56, 1951, 3, pp. 472–492. 67 The Letters of Machiavelli, p. 249.

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or even Jesus who had come (so runs Matt. 10:35) to “set son against father, daughter against mother, daughter-in-law against mother-in-law”68. The John 15:5 waxes lyrical over the effects of restoring religious unity: “I am the vine, you are the branches. He that abides in me, and I in him, the same bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing”69. These words celebrate the harmony that may exist between order and liberty. In promising to set up a harmonious society based on devotion and self-sacrifice, Christianity purports to show “the truth and the true way” posing as superior to other religions. Hoping for the advent of a new holy covenant, Machiavelli thus wrote in chapter XXVI of The Prince: “How extraordinary the ways of God have been manifested beyond example: the sea has divided, a cloud has led the way, the rock has poured forth water, it has rained manna”70.

68 Matt. 10:34–36. 69 John 15:5. The phrase in Rom. 8:15 “For you did not receive the spirit of bondage in order to fall back into fear, but you received the Spirit of adoption, whereby we cry, ‘Abba! Father!’”, is nothing but the state of liberty achieved by one’s participation in an organic society of this kind (R. Otto, Das Heilige, pp. 193–195). 70 The Prince, XXVI.

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Peace According to the Political Theologians of the Holy Roman Empire at the End of the Thirty Years’ War 1 Religious wars in search of true peace Max Weber famously argued that the monopoly of the legitimate use of violence, i.e., the exclusive right to guarantee peace, was a basic precondition for a modern nation state. How peace is understood in the modern period reflects this proposition in that peace is regarded as non-violence. Thus, a society that condones violence is never regarded as peaceful1. This was not the case in the premodern world. In particular, in a society imbued with religion where people looked toward a post-mortem heaven, peace was understood as spiritual unity. Unless there was spiritual unity, society was not considered peaceful even in the absence of violence2. This is because such a condition still left open the possibility of potential violence. As there was no established system to guarantee non-violence, spiritual unity under common justice was considered a precondition for peace. For this reason, the use of violence for the sake of justice was lauded as an act of guaranteeing and promoting peace. The religious wars that will be discussed in this chapter were predicated on such a premise. They were waged against religious diversity, at least officially. And it is for this reason that the clergy and theologians in the early modern period vigorously debated religious wars. The focus of this chapter is the Holy Roman Empire of the 1640s, where many of the imperial estates were able to exercise their military power despite the 1495 Ewiger Landfriede (Eternal Peace). Although knightly feuds revolving around the concept of honor were eventually restrained, violence continued to be exercised in the name of religion. Among those who sought to justify religious war were the Jesuits. They supported the Roman Catholic emperor and the princes both spiritually and politically in the Thirty Years’ War (1618–1648), serving as chaplains in the Bohemian

1 M. Weber, Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft, ed. by J. Winkelman, 5th edition, Tübingen 1985, p. 29. In this part of the book (“Soziologische Grundbegriffe”), Weber first posited the thesis of “legitime Machtmonopole” (perhaps 1913), and it was translated into Japanese in 1972 by Ikutaro Shimizu, Shakaigaku no Konpon-gainen 社会学の根本概念, Tokyo 1972, p. 88. 2 J.M. Mattox, St. Augustine and the Theory of Just War, London 2009, pp. 114 f.; G.M. Reichberg, Thomas Aquinas on War and Peace, Cambridge 2016, pp. 20–27. Translation: ENAGO/CRIMSON Interactive Co. Ltd. https://doi.org.10.1515/9783110643978-008

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Campaign – the first phase of the war – and thereafter3. However, their activities as court theologians and confessors attracted even greater attention4. In the Holy Roman Empire, Catholic governors particularly the likes of Emperor Ferdinand II and Elector-Prince Maximilian I of Bavaria, often relied on the advice of Jesuit priests who were court theologians and confessors. The Jesuits provided strong strategic and political advice to the emperor and the Catholic princes, undertook diplomatic missions, and authored propagandistic and polemical books and pamphlets to support war. For this reason, Protestant intellectuals in Germany from the eighteenth century onwards, especially since the 1773 suppression of the Jesuits, treated the Jesuits involved in the Thirty Years’ War as though they were all war criminals5. However, recent studies have shown that the Jesuits had been divided into a militant group and a moderate group since the 1635 Peace of Prague6. Modernist historians, such as Carl Conrad Eckhardt, regarded this development as part of a long process of seculariza-

3 D. Albrecht, Maximilian I. von Bayern 1573–1651, München 1998, pp. 324 f. Concerning the military campaign, Jesuits had already worked in the Spanish army in the Eighty Years’ War (1568–1648) as chaplains giving pastoral care to the soldiers: from medical services to promoting their conversions. Through their missiones castrenses they physically and spiritually disciplined the Catholic military. For the Jesuits, their service in the military was a mission that lasted as long as the war was a holy war, and it led to the victory of the Catholic Church. After the end of the wars of religion in the seventeenth century, their activity was utilized by sovereign powers for comforting and encouraging the soldiers. See V. Lavenia, “Missiones Castrenses”. Jesuits and Soldiers between Pastoral Care and Violence, in “Journal of Jesuit Studies”, 4, 2017, pp. 545–558. 4 In Europe, the activity of Jesuits as court confessors periodically varied. The highest demand for Jesuits as court confessors arose in Southern Germany and Austria. In 1575, the Upper German Province of the Society of Jesus requested the superior general to permit Jesuits to serve as court confessors; R. Bireley, The Jesuits and the Thirty Years War. Kings, Court, and Confessors, Cambridge 2003, pp. 27 f. It was in 1602 that the Superior General Claudio Acquaviva allowed the instructions for confessors of princes to be published and encouraged the members of his order to work as court confessors. The first Jesuit confessor in the Spanish court, where the Dominicans were dominant as spiritual and political cancellers, was the German Richard Haller, who was the confessor of Queen Margarete of Inner Austria from 1599. In France, the Jesuits were finally accepted at court during the reign of Louis XIII―the first one was Jean Arnoux. Until then they had been avoided because they were suspected of supporting the legitimacy of regicide (see the chapter by T. Jinno in this volume); their political influence remained relatively modest; E. Nelson, The Jesuits and the Monarchy. Catholic Reform and Political Authority in France, Ashgate 2005, pp. 209–238. See the recent studies by F. Rurale, Court Theologians and Confessors. Jesuits and the Politics of Catholic European Princes, in F. Rurale / P.-A Fabre (eds.), The Acquaviva Project: Claudio Aquaviva’s Generalate (1581–1615) and the Emergence of Modern Catholicism, Boston MA 2017, pp. 217–240 and, above all, N. Reinhardt, Voices of Conscience. Royal Confessors and Political Counsel in Seventeenth-Century Spain and France, Oxford 2016. 5 P.Ph. Wolf, Allgemeine Geschichte der Jesuiten von dem Ursprunge ihres Ordens biß auf gegenwärtigen Zeiten, Zürich 1794, vol. 2, pp. 129–150; R. Robertson, Schiller and the Jesuits, in N. Martin (ed.), Schiller National Poet. Poet of Nations, Leiden 2006, pp. 179–200. 6 L. Steinberger, Die Jesuiten und die Friedensfrage. In der Zeit vom Prager Frieden bis zum Nürnberger Friedensexekutionshauptrezeß, Freiburg i.Br. 1906, pp. 24–52.

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tion7. More recently, Robert Bireley argued that any change was a matter of degree, and that the Jesuits were only reacting to their contemporary situations under the instructions of the superior general of the Society of Jesus8. Claire Gantet focused on the militant German Jesuits known as zelateurs, without covering the period after the Peace of Prague9. Therefore, what really took place in the hearts and minds of the Jesuits still remains a mystery10.

2 “True Peace” for the German Jesuits at the time of the Thirty Year’s War The Council of Trent (1545–1563) defined the doctrine of the Roman Catholic Church, confirmed its spiritual mission, and prescribed the adherents’ spiritual obligations involving matters of faith and conduct. However, the council made little reference to how the church should fight infidels, heretics, and pagans11. It was theology that filled

7 C.C. Eckhardt, The Papacy and World Affairs as Reflected in the Secularization of Politics, Chicago IL 1937, pp. 62–64, 68–71. 8 R. Bireley, The Jesuits and the Thirty Years War, pp. 267–275. 9 C. Gantet, Zélateurs et politiques face à la guerre de Trente ans 1618–1648, in “HAL-Sciences de l’homme et de la Société”, 2009, http://halshs.archives-ouvertes.fr/halshs-00783592, pp. 17–26. 10 Citing the example of the two Jesuits as court confessors of the Holy Roman Emperor and the King of Spain during the 30 Years War, Philip Benedict stresses that there are great differences between the personal beliefs of individual members of the clergy and their political positions. According to him, the impossibility of living together with heretics is dictated by a “ritual” idea that is stronger than a single person’s belief. This line of argument is persuasive on a theoretical level. Nonetheless it underestimates the historical changes in politics and religion in the history of the intellectual elites of the Holy Roman Empire from 1630 to 1640, at the cost of emphasizing a continuity with the eighteenth century; P. Benedict, Religion and Politics in Europe, 1500–1700, in K. von Greyerz / K. Siebenhüner (eds.), Religion und Gewalt. Konflikte, Rituale, Deutungen (1500–1800), Göttingen, 2006, pp. 162–165. 11 Sacrosanctum Concilium Tridentinum, additis Declarationibus cardinalium, ex ultima recognitione Johannis Gallemart: et citacionibus Ioaniis Sotealli Theologi, atque Horatii Lucii I.C: necnon remissionibus D. Augustini Barbosae, Lugdunum, 1649, Caput IV, Sessio VI, “Contra inanem haereticorum fiduciam,” pp. 57 f. In fact, some studies proved that the Council of Trent restricted violence in a context of “modernization”. Cf. G. Angelozzi, Das Verbot des Duells. Kirche und adeliges Selbstverständnis, in P. Prodi / W. Reinhard (eds.), Das Konzil von Trient und die Moderne, Berlin 2001 [orig. publ. as Il concilio di Trento e il moderno (Annali dell’Istituto Storico Italo-Germanico in Trento. Quaderni, 45), Bologna 1997], pp. 211–240. Even the most fundamental work on the Council of Trent by Hubert Jedin (Geschichte des Konzils von Trient, 4 vols., Freiburg i.Br. / Basel / Wien 1951–1975) has not been translated into Japanese as of 2019. The new historiographic trend of Tridentine study in Japan was introduced in the symposium at Waseda University in November 2013; F. Alfieri, Torento Kokaigi gono Kyoukai niokeru Seishin no Tosei to Nikutai no Kirituトレント公会議後の教会における精神の統制と 肉体の紀律 [Control of bodies and discipline of spirits in the post-tridentine church], in “Waseda Seiyoushi Ronso” [Bulletin of western history in Waseda], 36, 2014, pp. 7–24. Only in 2017 was Adriano

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the church’s doctrinal deficiency with respect to war against heretics and pagans. The concept of just war traces its roots to the thought of Augustine, who justified war not only for the sake of helping one’s neighbor but also for the sake of maintaining order among Christians12. Augustine was also referred to by the Jesuits of the Holy Roman Empire, who were on the frontline of the church’s proselytizing campaigns in Europe, as they sought to justify wars against heretics. As is known, in the Holy Roman Empire principalities and imperial cities were regarded as individual confessional units based on the 1555 Religious Peace of Augsburg, which adopted the principle of cuius regio eius religio. According to this principle, the religion of the ruler dictated the religion of those ruled. Even so, Catholics and Protestants constantly fought over the rights to church assets because the rights of the imperial princes and the imperial cities, instead of being clearly separated by territorial boundaries, often overlapped13. Thus, from the sixteenth century onward, the Jesuits urged the Roman Catholic princes to implement hardline sectarian policies14. Their initiatives took place through educational activities, the writing of pamphlets, and advice to the princes. In particular, their schools frequently performed plays featuring pagan tyrants, or infidels being killed in battle, or killed by martyrs as divine punishment15. However, in their books and articles, they refrained from encouraging violence against heretics to avoid the suspicion that they were advocating the killing of tyrants16. Instead, they argued for “true peace”. Until the latter period of the Thirty Years’ War, the “peace” advocated by Jesuit theologians did not refer to non-violence. Adam Contzen (1571–1635), arguably the most famous Jesuit theologian in the Holy Roman Empire in the first half of the seventeenth century, discussed the concept of peace in detail in his De pace Germaniae libri duo. For Contzen, peace was an agreement among those who shared the same understanding17. Religious syncretism was a deception under the guise of peace unless there was

Prosperi’s handbook translated into Japanese: A. Prosperi, Torento Kokaigi; Sono Rekishi heno Tebiki トレント公会議：その歴史への手引き, Tokyo 2017 (orig. publ. as Il concilio di Trento. Una introduzione storica, Torino 2001). 12 F.H. Russel, The Just War in the Middle Ages, Cambridge 1975, pp. 16–39. 13 F. Blendle, Das Konfessionelle Zeitalter, 2nd. ed., Oldenbourg 2015, pp. 156–159. 14 Ibid., pp. 152–155. 15 In Ingolstadt, the center of Jesuit College theaters in Germany, Mauritius by J. Keller (1603), Iulianus Apostata by J. Drexel (1608), Ismelia by A. Brunner (1614), etc., were concerned with violence and faith; C.M. Haas, Das Theater der Jesuiten in Ingolstadt. Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte des geistlichen Theaters in Süddeutschland, Emsdetten 1958, pp. 24–55. 16 Since the Spanish Jesuit Juan de Mariana supported the theory of tyrannicide citing the assassination of the French King Henri III (1589) and since King Henri IV (1610) was killed by a fanatic aspiring Jesuit, the Society of Jesus was suspected to be the mastermind behind the murder; H. Höpfl, Jesuit Political Thought. The Society of Jesus and the States ca. 1540–1630, Cambridge 2004, pp. 321–337. See again the chapter by T. Jinno in this volume. 17 Adam Contzen, De pace Germaniae libri duo, Mainz 1616, p. 416: “Hic de hominum pace agimus, qua non imperavit metus, non conciliavit fallacia, non emit spes temporariae utilitatis, non chartae et

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true unity of spirit, and peace was not a specific action, but rather affection, benevolence, or an attitude based on mutual accordance18. If multiple factions respected and honored one another, according to Contzen, this was peace. Peace did not exist among those who harbored hostility toward each other, and there was no peace possible between true Christians and infidels. Citing Augustine, the Jesuit pointed out that there was never peace when there was no solidarity among citizens, even if they were to insist that there was peace19. Such insistence, according to Contzen, was a mere danger, a fabrication at best. What he meant by “peace” was not non-violence, but eternal security guaranteed by spiritual unity. This understanding of peace, based on medieval tradition20, had been spearheaded by Spanish Jesuit Pedro de Ribadeneira (1527–1611)21. According to de Ribadeneira, only religious unity backed by good intentions could bring about the eternal stability of the political order when combined with thoughtful considerations by the ruler22. This understanding of peace was adopted by Contzen, who sought to justify violence as an indispensable means of achieving it. When the Thirty Year’s War broke out, the Jesuits condemned religious peace as unjust23. The primary target of their criticism was the Religious Peace of Augsburg, because it permitted the existence of heretics, i.e., the Protestants. Jesuit Martin Becanus (1563–1624), a confessor for Emperor Ferdinand II during the early part of his

cera duntaxat conservant: sed quam animorum unione, et consensu Deus ipse, Deus pacis praecipit, perficit, confirmat”. Contzen was born in Monschau in 1571 and entered the Society of Jesus in 1595. He taught at the universities of Würzburg and Mainz. He became interested in the theological debates that took place in the historical synods and was personally engaged in many controversies with the Protestants. Against this backdrop Contzen wrote “De pace Germaniae”, through which he became known to Duke Maximilian of Bavaria and was nominated his confessor in Munich in 1624. The Jesuit advised Maximilian regarding his conscience and activities covering religion and confession, territorial government, finances and censorship, diplomacy and military until Contzen’s death in 1635. His advice was always given in close accord with the Superior General Muzio Vitelleschi; R. Bireley, Maximilian von Bayern, Adam Contzen S.J. und die Gegenreformation in Deutschland 1624–1635, Göttingen 1975, above all pp. 49–53. 18 De pace Germaniae consists of two parts, i.e. “De syncretismo seu falsa pace” (pp. 1–401) and “Irenicon seu de vera pace” (pp. 402–861), each of which is composed of 36 chapters and the entire first part is devoted to the proof of invalidity of the syncretistic attempts under the Peace of Augsburg. 19 Ibid., p. 412: “Non tamen inficias eo inter gentes etiam insociabiles quandam esse pacem, sed tuta nunquam est, semper est periculosa, persaepe ficta”. 20 H.-W. Goetz, Gottesfriede und Gemeindebildung, in “Zeitschrift der Savigny-Stifung für Rechtsgeschichte“, Germanische Abteilung, 105, 1988, p. 122; I. Kende, The History of Peace. Concept and Organizations from the Late Middle Ages to the 1870s, in “Journal of Peace Research”, 26, 1989, 3, pp. 233–247.; this idea comes from the peace theory of Augustine’s City of God, bk. XIX, chap. 12, p. 869, which Contzen cited, too. 21 Pedro de Ribadeneira was one of the founding fathers of the Society of Jesus. Among his works, Tratado de la religión y virtudes que debe tener el príncipe christiano (1595). 22 H. Höpfl, Jesuit Political Thought, pp. 113–116, pp. 133 f. 23 Ibid., pp. 160–163.

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reign, condoned the peace only because it was an interim accord and a lesser evil, and could be useful in accomplishing the ultimate victory of the Roman Catholic Church24. However, once the war started, Jesuit theorists from younger generations rejected the peace not only on moral but also on legal grounds. Contzen provided a rational argument in support of their position, which was followed by a majority of the members of the order25. At the same time, as the Catholics continued to win, there emerged a view among the Jesuits that the war was a divinely ordained holy war and that the Catholics must fight for their final victory26. Under such circumstances, a controversial book titled Pacis compositio27 was written in 1629 in Latin and translated into German in the following year. The disquisition by Paul Layman (1574–1635) and Lorenz Forer (1580–1659), Jesuit theologians at the University of Dillingen, argued that all religious peace accords were illegitimate. The purpose of the treatise was to justify the Edict of Restitution promulgated by Emperor Ferdinand II in 1629. The edict ordered the return of all church assets that had come into the possession of the Protestants following the 1552 Peace of Passau. The Society of Jesus sought to put church assets – such as monasteries – under its control as a proselytizing foothold in southern Germany.

3 Changes in political circumstances The Edict of Restitution triggered a fierce backlash of the Protestant princes. This is because the edict not only implied the denial of their religious leadership in their own territories but also a loss of the assets they had acquired from the Roman Catholic Church three generations ago. In 1630, the balance of military power shifted when Sweden intervened and Emperor Ferdinand II and the Catholic princes were forced to make a compromise to keep the empire intact. Thus, the Peace of Prague was signed in 1635. The emperor reconciled with a group of Lutheran princes led by Elector-Prince Johann Georg I of Saxony by granting them amnesty on condition that the edict would be suspended for 40 years28. The legitimacy of this compromise (which excluded the Calvinists) primarily rested on a common constitutional concept shared by both Catholics and Lutherans. In particular, it was based on the organic metaphors of the empire shared by the leaders of the two camps, i.e., the “head and limbs” and

24 Ibid., pp. 155–159. 25 R. Bireley, The Jesuits and the Thirty Years War, p. 267; H. Höpfl, Jesuit Political Thought, p. 136. 26 R. Bireley, The Jesuits and the Thirty Years War, p. 61 f. 27 Paul Laymann / Lorenz Forer, Pacis compositio inter principes et ordines Imperii Romani Catholicos atque Augustanae Confessioni adhaerentes, Dillingen 1629. Concerning Laymann, a new and fruitful study was recently published: R. Florie, Paul Laymann. Ein Jesuit im Spannungsfeld von Wissenschaft und Politik, Münster 2017. 28 G. Schmidt, Der Dreißigjährige Krieg, München 1999, pp. 49–58.

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the “pillars of the empire”29. Jesuit theologians were not satisfied with this compromise plan, but the most ardent critics – Contzen and Laymann – both died in 1635. This way, the most influential opponents to peace talks disappeared from the courts of the German Catholic princes30. Nevertheless, the war continued because France supported Sweden, forcing the new Emperor Ferdinand III and the Catholic princes to make further concessions in 1635. A plan was created by the Catholic elector-princes to grant amnesty to those Protestant princes excluded from the Peace of Prague, i.e., Electoral-Palatinate, Hesse-Kassel, and Württemberg31. The aim was to bring the latter to the Catholic side as allies and confront Sweden and France, which would then no longer have reason to support them. However, this arrangement would require the emperor and the Catholic princes to accept the terms of the Religious Peace of Augsburg and return the church assets the Catholics had seized in the war to the Protestant princes. That would make it difficult for the Society of Jesus to use these assets as a proselytizing foothold. The plan was discussed among the electors who gathered in Nuremberg in 1640. In the following year, the Imperial Diet was convened in Regensburg to approve the proposal32. The Catholics found it increasingly difficult to achieve a full victory, and the Jesuits had to fill a gap between hope and reality. The members of the Society of Jesus, who were serving as confessors for the Catholic princes, did not have as much influence as they once did over their masters. Thus, Superior General Muzio Vitelleschi instructed his brethren to obey their masters more faithfully in political affairs to increase their trust. As a result, the Jesuits ended up supporting the amnesty proposal33. But it was at this time that differences of opinions emerged. The discord was particularly noticeable among those serving under the bishop of Augsburg who was not allowed to participate in the elector conventions. As it was the elector of Bavaria who led the drafting of the amnesty proposal, these Jesuits believed that his confes-

29 A. Wandruszka, Reichspatriotismus und Reichspolitik zur Zeit des Prager Friedens von 1635, Graz / Köln 1955, pp. 51–55. 30 Two years later, Emperor Ferdinand II died, and his confessor Lamormaini, the last militant Jesuit, left the court. His successor Ferdinand III also had a close relationship with the Jesuits, as his confessor was Hans Gans S.J. However, his requests were different from those of his predecessor. He rarely consulted them on political and diplomatic issues, but rather turned to them for cultural questions; R. Bireley, Religion and Politics in Counterreformation. Emperor Ferdinand II, William Lamormaini, S.J., and the Formation of the Imperial Policy, Chapel Hill NC 1981, pp. 229 f. 31 This plan was proposed during the negotiations of the Catholic and Protestant elector-princes mediated by Maximilian of Bavaria in the period between the Elector-Conventions of Nuremberg (1639) and the Imperial Diet of Regensburg (1640). Probably Bavarian Vice-Chancellor B. Richel designed the proposal according to the instructions of Maximilian as a concession to the Protestant elector-princes so that the Catholics could also accept it; K. Bierther, Der Regensburger Reichstag von 1640/1641, Kallmünz 1971, pp. 148 f. 32 Ibid., pp. 83–89. 33 R. Bireley, The Jesuits and the Thirty Years War, pp. 204–233.

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sor, Johannes Vervaux (1586–1661), was behind the plan. Therefore, they criticized Vervaux for being too heavily involved in politics. Their criticism was expressed in two separate works by Jesuit theologians at Dillingen, the Jesuits’ mission foothold in southern Germany. One was Quaestio ardua, a manuscript written by Heinrich Wangnereck (1595–1664), and the other was Lorenz Forer’s Rationes pro amnistia facienda. Forer was a polemicist well-known for his disquisitions and pamphlets and one of the last Jesuit theorists who supported the Edict of Restitution34.

4 Wangnereck’s “Quaestio ardua” (1640) or “Judicium theologicum” (1647) It is believed that Wangnereck wrote the Quaestio ardua to assist his master, the bishop of Augsburg. The latter strongly opposed the amnesty, and Wangnereck was asked to express his master’s view35. Vitelleschi, the superior general of the Jesuits, applauded Wangnereck’s work, but he initially prohibited its publication. He was probably concerned that this treatise would invite criticism from the emperor and the Catholic princes, thereby weakening the influence of the Society of Jesus36. For this reason, Quaestio ardua remained unpublished until it was revised and released as Judicium theologicum in 164737. From various angles, this work, which consisted of six chapters, criticized the religious peace and amnesty for the heretics (i.e., the Protestants) as a political compromise. Wangnereck began by listing the terms of religious peace strongly demanded by the Protestants: the restitution of rights and assets passed to the Catholics during the war and through lawsuits; a permanent transfer of various rights (like the administration of over 20 dioceses, countless parish churches, and monasteries) from the Catholics to the Protestants; the extension of this religious peace accord also to the

34 Forer was born in Lucerne and became a novice Jesuit in 1600 after studying in Dillingen. He taught in Ingolstadt and became the confessor of the Bishop of Augsburg in 1619. He authored many controversialist works. Pacis Compositio of 1630 was one of them. He returned to Lucerne’s Jesuit College in 1646 as a professor of controversial theology, but visited Bavaria again in 1652 and died in Regensburg. Wangnereck was born in Munich. His mother was related to Luther’s rival Johannes Eck. He entered the Jesuit Order in Landsberg in 1611 and taught at the University of Dillingen from 1625 to 1655 and from 1658 until his death. He took part in many theological controversies, but many of his writings have been lost, and only about 20 remain. According to Bireley, he was more “volatile” than Forer. On their careers, see ibid., p. 216; see also C.C. Eckhardt, The Papacy and World Affairs, pp. 174 f. 35 L. Steinberger, Friedensfrage, p. 31. 36 Ibid., p. 32. 37 Heinrich Wangnereck, Judicium theologicum, super quaestione, an pax, qualem desiderant Protestantes, sit secundum se illicita, Ecclesiopoli 1647; L. Steinberger, Friedensfrage, pp. 31 f., pp. 63–69; Th. Kaufmann, Dreißigjähriger Krieg und Westfälischer Friede, Tübingen 1998, pp. 115–125.

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Calvinist princes. He then explained the conditions of this religious peace by citing 18 items, broadly following the ones set forth in the Religious Peace of Augsburg, and argued that this accord was an interim measure effective only until religious unity was restored38. Wangnereck then referred to 13 conditions that he thought were disadvantageous to the Catholics regarding the demand that the Roman Catholic Church transfer its rights and assets to the heretics, emphasizing that these were unjust conditions and that their acceptance would be a decisive error on the part of the Catholics. Wangnereck did acknowledge the political necessity for an interim peace accord, but he also argued that church assets should never be transferred to heretics even if an interim peace deal was necessary39. Such a transaction would be an ultimate evil and a danger to both empire and religion, and that it would lead to a breakup of the empire and destroy the bodies and souls of all people. If concessions were indispensable for achieving peace for the sake of the public and of religion, such concessions should be made not to the princes or the cities but to the entire empire under the emperor. However, the Protestants would accept nothing short of religious freedom and the complete transfer of all church assets. Wangnereck wrote that the emperor and the Catholic princes, who received their power from God to save the people and provide for their needs, had no choice but to wage war perpetually under divine providence. Amnesty was to be criticized for three reasons: first, it would be tantamount to the acceptance of all the rights violations that the Protestants had committed against the Catholics, making it impossible for the Catholics to condemn individual violations; secondly, amnesty would make it impossible to distinguish between what was permissible and what was impermissible; thirdly, amnesty would not only tolerate evil but also encourage, and lead one to collude with, evil. If such tolerance was permitted, the princes and the magistrates would be neglecting their duties because such tolerance would cause so much damage that the people’s salvation would be imperiled. In addition, this amnesty proposal pertained to religious matters, and spiritual responsibilities were under the jurisdiction of the church alone. Thus, only the church was able to grant amnesty. This amnesty was a criminal act that went against God and natural law, and it could not be justified by any political necessity. As the power of the emperor and the princes was derived from God’s law, they should not accept this unjust peace (pacem illicitam), he wrote40. Furthermore, Wangnereck cited eight reasons why this religious peace accord was problematic. First, it would absolve the heretics, perpetuate the conflicts that had been in existence since the Religious Peace of Augsburg, allow the Protestant princes to impose their religion on their subjects, and justify their acquisition of Catholic

38 Heinrich Wangnereck, Judicium theologicum, pp. 5–7. 39 Ibid., pp. 7 f. 40 Ibid., pp. 9–15.

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assets, thereby encouraging heresies. Second, accepting heretics among true believers and conferring benefits on them would be a violation of God’s law, an immoral act tantamount to sorcery or sodomy prohibited by the Scriptures and the pope. Third, the princes would abandon their subjects in the midst of heretics, or force them into exile, hand them over to Satan, and destroy the souls of all people. Fourth, it would be an abuse of the rights of the church by secular authorities because punishment of heretics and transfers of church assets were the prerogatives of God, the church, and the pope. Fifth, the Catholic princes, especially the bishops, would aid the enemies of the pope, their master. This would infringe upon the obligations of the emperor and the princes to protect the pope and the Catholic assets. Sixth, as the treaty imposed no obligations on either party to abide by its terms, it could easily be violated and cause misunderstandings or trigger a war. Thus, the Protestants would use this religious peace accord to justify their refusal to return the church assets they had seized during the war. Seventh, this religious peace accord did not have the power to settle disputes. Therefore, it was nothing more than a sham that would invite God’s judgment as deceptions were more offensive to God than any losses. Eighth, this religious peace accord would destroy and violate the judgment of God, the pope, the church fathers, and other saints (“Pax eiusmodi Ecclesiae Dei, Summorum Pontificum, SS.Patrum, veterumque suffragio destituitur et damnatur.”41). Wangnereck’s text was so pugnacious that the superior general of the Society of Jesus temporarily suspended its publication. For Wangnereck, who held the traditional understanding that peace only meant eternal peace and that spiritual unity was necessary under common justice, it was a matter of course that the continuation of religious peace had to be condemned. Religious peace meant the existence of multiple sects in opposition to spiritual unity. Wangnereck even called this condition a crime and an extreme evil. Why is it that he abhorred religious peace to such an extent? The answer could lie in Wangnereck’s incendiary rhetorical style, in which he would cite similar points one after the other to attack his opponents. This style was customary in Jesuit controversial literature during the time of the Thirty Years War. Wangnereck insisted repeatedly that although the Religious Peace of Augsburg was an interim peace accord for the purpose of spiritual unity, it gave the Protestants the opportunity to plunder Catholic church assets, thereby making religious unity even more difficult. Probably Wangnereck became so angry thinking that the Protestants had used the agreements of religious peace to deceive the Catholics who wished for a conversion of Protestants. According to him that is why Catholics ended up tolerating war. However, his affirmation of violence was not based on the doctrine of the Roman Catholic Church or the instructions of the Society of Jesus. Rather, it stemmed from his desire to punish or exact vengeance on the Protestants for their “deception”. This is what seems to emerge from a reading of the famous Hermann Conring (1606-1681).

41 Ibid., pp. 15–38.

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He was a Lutheran imperial public-law scholar (Reichspublizist) as well as a physician, and debated the legitimacy of the Holy Roman Empire through historical empiricism. Pretending to be a Catholic, he dispassionately denounced Wangnereck’s writing. He cited Aristotle, a philosophical authority for both Catholics and Protestants, and argued that Wangnereck’s anger arose not from true religion but from a false belief conflating the public good with his own personal views. What must be eradicated, according to Conring, was erroneous faith, not human beings themselves42. This line of thinking was beginning to be seen among Jesuits, as well as Lutherans.

5 Forer’s “Rationes pro amnistia facienda” (1640) Forer was one of the authors of the book Pacis Compositio, which supported the Edict of Restitution. If the church assets in southern Germany, a Jesuit stronghold, were to be given to the Protestants as part of the amnesty, it would become impossible for the Jesuits to carry out their proselytizing activities. This was unacceptable for the Jesuits at Dillingen, a mission foothold, and especially for Forer. Despite its Latin title Rationes pro amnistia facienda, Forer’s new pamphlet was written in German and published in Nuremberg in 1640. As a declaration had been made that the Imperial Diet would be convened in Regensburg to discuss the amnesty, he probably wrote this pamphlet so that it would be read there. Forer’s Rationes pro amnistia facienda was more widely read than Wangnereck’s Questio ardua; the latter remained unpublished until 1647. The pamphlet cites arguments in support of amnesty and then lays out a series of counterarguments. The ravages of war, Forer wrote, were so great that the situation was irrecoverable. Everyone in the Holy Roman Empire, including himself, hungered for peace. Politically speaking, it would be beneficial for the emperor, who occupied southern Germany, to accept peace. If peace were achieved, interventions of foreign nations, such as France and Sweden, would stop. There were many historical precedents in which amnesty brought about peace. If people of every rank within the empire loved peace and gave a high priority to the state of the empire after amnesty, they would naturally seek to maintain peace, heal their lives, and rebuild the warravaged empire43. However, Forer also argued that the history of the Roman Empire had proved that civil wars could not be stopped if heresies and heretics were allowed to exist. People

42 C. Fasolt, Political Unity and Religious Diversity. Hermann Conring’s Confessional Writing and the Preface to Aristotle’s Politics of 1637, in J.M. Headley / H.J. Hillerbrand / A.J. Papalas (eds.), Confessionalization in Europe, 1555–1700, London 2004, pp. 319–345. 43 Lorenz Forer, Rationes pro amnistia facienda. Ursachen, warumb die Waffen niederzulegen, und dann argumenta contra, (Nürnberg) 1640, pp. 1–5.

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must perform military duties in order to prevent war. War could be a trial given by God, and devout Catholics might sustain greater losses than heretics. The problem was that the heretics’ greed had no limits. Could nations such as Sweden, which had invaded and plundered hundreds of monasteries, be persuaded by the offer of amnesty? To be sure, there were some sensible Protestants, according to Forer, such as the elector-prince of Saxony. However, even those individuals could be affected by changes in their circumstances in the long run unless they completely cut off their ties with the heretics and upheld peace. For this reason, it would be extremely difficult to maintain peace by way of amnesty, according to Forer44. A reconciliation among all Christians could certainly be possible as both sides had suffered war. If peace could be achieved through amnesty, neighboring powers would stop their interventions and divine blessings would follow. The willingness to face the agony of war was irrelevant because war had to be avoided. A reconciliation would be worthwhile if it meant that peace would last a long time45. However, peace sometimes contained poison, he wrote. People should not be deluded by the sweet prospect of peace and thereby neglect God. Abandoning conscience, granting amnesty, and handing over monasteries to heretics were exactly such acts. War for God would be better than peace that went against God. If the Catholics won the war with God’s help, they would be able to take back the monasteries from the heretics. It would be against God’s will to give up such a fight and evict monks from the monasteries46. Forer went on to write that heretical imperial cities would not express their gratitude if amnesty were granted, but would resist the offer as a forced peace, and end up hurting the peace and dignity of the emperor. Forer cited Portugal’s King Emanuel I as an example of political prudence; when cities in Castile rebelled against Charles V and offered the crown to King Emanuel in exchange for certain privileges, this proposal was refused by the Portugal’s King. The two kings, devout Catholics, knew that this would have set a bad precedent47. In contrast, the countries of Forer’s time did nothing but disturb the order of their neighbors. If amnesty were given to heretical princes, they could be misled into thinking that the emperor was on their side. However, as long as the emperor was a Catholic, he would eventually feelbetrayed as these heretics abhorred Catholics. The Religious Peace of Augsburg was signed so that the emperor could restore peace and prevent the Catholic Church and its monasteries from being violated even further. As it turned out, however, many of the church assets were plundered. Spain sought to prevent the spread of heresies, but the Calvinists rebelled because the religious peace had been incom-

44 Ibid., pp. 5–7. 45 Ibid., pp. 7–9. 46 Ibid., pp. 9–12. 47 Ibid., p. 12.

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plete, and the Netherlands became independent. The war continued as a result, Forer wrote48. He went on to write that it would be incongruous for the emperor to issue an edict to force reconciliation with heretics when he could also seize their principalities by edict, and that the emperor’s authority would be compromised if he were to force reconciliation. The elector-prince of Saxony should support the emperor since he was elevated to this position by the favor of the emperor. In addition, the emperor should not forget that the pope was strongly against amnesty49. Forer also argued that the situation involving foreign powers was not all that dismal. The king of France, a Catholic, did not trust Sweden or Denmark. As Isidor of Seville stated, the devout should unite to cause discord among the heretics and pit them against one another. This would allow the emperor to reform the military and keep his enemies at bay until France changed its stance. In particular, the Netherlands, which ruled the sea, had to be carefully monitored. They were spreading heretical literature all over Europe and urging nations to oppose the emperor. Moreover they were inciting the people of other European countries to rebel, seeking to expand the country’s rights and make these nations kingless, just like itself and the Swiss Confederation, the author wrote50. Forer cited the above reasons to argue that religious peace through amnesty would be a mistake. If the emperor abolished the Catholic rituals and granted the amnesty that would secularize the church assets, the heretics would be pleased, the Catholics would be angered, and Spain would be isolated, he argued. Instead, the emperor should make diplomatic efforts so that Spain, France, and all other Catholic nations would be reconciled with one another. It was important for the emperor to acquire cities and fortresses, fortify them with the help of the Catholic princes, and mobilize the people for defense. The emperor should raise funds for the military through austerity measures, the restoration of territories, and the imposition of taxes on trade, he maintained51. Peace was neither useful nor long-lasting unless it supported and encouraged justice. Peace and justice were inseparable although people had a tendency to prefer the first over the second. As Augustine wrote, people must love one another because peace would not prevail if each person loved only one other person. Thus, Forer wrote, the emperor must love the people of the entire empire, protect them from the egoistic politics of the imperial princes, and make them realize that he was their true lord. If Catholic princes fought against one another, their subjects could not be blamed if they sought to defend their own territories, form their own forces, leave the empire, and pursue their own common benefits. If the emperor left this situation unchecked 48 Ibid., pp. 12–15. 49 Ibid., pp. 15–18. 50 Ibid., pp. 19–22. 51 Ibid., pp. 22–24.

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and sought only an immediate peace, the church assets would be lost permanently because of the anger of non-Catholics and the fact that even the Catholics would be led to commit sins52. Ultimately, however, God would provide the necessary means to maintain the church53. The above was what Forer wrote in his Rationes. Forer, for one, emphasized that there would be no lasting peace without justice. In other words, he distinguished religious peace from “true” peace based on whether there was spiritual unity. He criticized the former as a compromise measure aimed at immediate benefits, arguing that it would permit a proliferation of heresies and trigger a war. Forer, fearing that heretics could start a new war, believed that a true Catholic peace had to be achieved to put an end to the repeated wars by converting heretics. Thus, Forer, too, adhered to the traditional understanding of peace held by the Society of Jesus. However, this was only one aspect of his argument. Forer, probably as a means of adding some neutrality to his work, also suggested the possibility of talks with the Protestants by recognizing the significance of peace in the sense of non-violence. Furthermore, unlike Wangnereck, he put more emphasis on the political benefits of opposing amnesty, rather than on religious obligations. Forer called for solidarity among the Catholics, predicting that there would be a future standoff with the heretics because there was no spiritual unity with them. For Forer, what was most important was not retaliation against the heretics but to protect the church assets needed for proselytizing. For this, he turned to the emperor. He believed that people would submit to the Roman Catholic Church if the Catholic emperor won the trust of all the subjects of the empire. Such a future vision was lacking in Wangnereck. For him, what was important was to avoid the mistake of pursuing religious peace repeatedly. Wangnereck frequently denounced the disloyalty of the heretics, and even hinted at divine punishment, in an effort to persuade the emperor and the princes not to grant them amnesty. For him, religious peace was a symbol of hatred54. In contrast, for Forer, non-violence was a viable option for the purpose of spiritual unity if the Catholics were guaranteed church assets and if they were allowed to engage in proselytizing. Thus, Wangnereck focused on the past, and Forer the future. These differences do not indicate any change in the thinking of the German Jesuits. In fact, Wangnereck and Forer rarely differed when it came to the conclusions of their arguments. What made them different were their views regarding the relation52 Ibid., p. 25. 53 Ibid., pp. 24–27. 54 Since Natalie Zemon Davis’ The Rites of Violence much research has been conducted on “heretics” as a symbol of evil and on the insults and attacks on them during the wars of religion; N.Z. Davis, The Rites of Violence. Religious Riot in Sixteenth-Century France, in “Past and Present”, 1973, 59, pp. 51–91. Yet there is little text-critical treatment of the Empire’s very heated and much discussed catholic polemic, that the religious peace was a symbol of evil to be done away with also with violence; E. Wolgast, Religionsfrieden als politisches Problem der frühen Neuzeit, in “Historische Zeitschrift”, 2006, 282, pp. 59–96.

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ship between human beings and faith, and the sentiments behind their arguments. Although Forer was focusing on the future in this particular work, he had strongly argued in the past that religious peace was unjust. The two men were colleagues at Dillingen. Thus, it is possible that the two works discussed in this chapter could have been the result of their sharing roles. Be that as it may, what is important is that Forer published his work and offered an alternative to the traditional view of the German Jesuits regarding “just war”. Why did he do this? There is no doubt that the two men sincerely held to the Jesuit teaching that there would be no peace without eradicating heresies. However, they differed in how they communicated their deeply held convictions. When Wangnereck expressed his belief in Questio ardua, he was reaching out to the bishop of Augsburg and his supporters, who, like himself, wanted to punish the heretics. On the other hand, Forer’s Rationes was the only work that the Society of Jesus published for the 1641 Imperial Diet. In this work, Forer shared his belief with many people, including the emperor and the princes, although he may not have been as eloquent as the Jesuit Jeremias Drexel, who was active in Munich55. For this reason, his personal belief was perceived by the readers of this work, above all the visitors of the Imperial Diet of Regensburg as an official stance of the Society of Jesus. However, publications often take a life of their own apart from the author as they are interpreted by the reader. This was true for Rationes. As this work cited both sides of the argument, and because it was published in the Lutheran stronghold of Nuremberg, the superior general of the Society of Jesus suspected that the work falsely bore Forer’s name, and ordered that all the copies be turned over56. Forer’s work did not accomplish its political objective because Ferdinand III offered amnesty after all. However, this offer of amnesty was rejected by the Calvinist princes, who had the backing of foreign powers. Thus, the emperor was forced to make further concessions and included Calvinists in the Religious Peace of Augsburg57. As for Wangnereck, he managed to publish Quaestio ardua as Judicium theologicum immediately before the conclusion of the Peace of Westphalia. His work, however, was nothing more than an expression of loyalty to the pope by a militant Jesuit58.

55 See F. Alfieri, La coscienza illustrata. Per una storia della mediatizzazione dell’interiorità, in G. Bernardini / C. Cornelissen (eds.), La medialità nella storia. Nuovi studi sulla rappresentazione della politica e della società (Annali dell’Istituto Storico Italo-Germanico in Trento. Quaderni, 104), Bologna 2019, pp. 25–31. 56 L. Steinberger, Friedensfrage, pp. 34–36. 57 K. Bierther, Der Regensburger Reichstag, pp. 159–184. 58 According to Bireley and Steinberger, radical Jesuits who were critical of the moderate factions of the court confessors – including Jesuits cooperating in the peace talks in Osnabrück – welcomed the Judicium teologicum as a voice of their discontent. The papal nuncio Chigi also echoed this discontent and was praised by the Pope; R. Bireley, The Jesuits and the Thirty Years War, pp. 248–261; L. Steinberger, Friedensfrage, pp. 101–106.

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6 Conclusions This chapter examined two pamphlets published after the Peace of Prague to discuss the attitude of the German Jesuits toward peace. There were no major differences among Contzen, Wangnereck, and Forer in their reasoned understanding of peace. However, Forer’s 1640 writing was a marked departure from his earlier work59 in that he no longer invoked punishment of heretics through violence. Since he had been removed from politics, and as he also opposed amnesty, his new stance could not have been political pandering, rather, it must have been an expression of a deeply held conviction. Faced with the inefficiency of wars against heretics, Forer did not have any choice but to explore the possibility of ways of proceeding that did not involve fighting. As a result, he reached the conclusion that violence was an extraordinary measure in the event that the church assets needed for proselytizing could not be guaranteed, and that injustice itself had to be overcome by proselytizing. The Jesuits were not to call for punishment of heretics through violence but to operate for the eradication of evil in people’s hearts. Rationes pro amnistia facienda, in overcoming the desire for vengeance, heralded a permanent renunciation of violence for the sake of religion during Germany’s counter-reformation movement. This thinking may have been shared by moderate court confessors, such as Vervaux, but they did not put their thoughts in writing. The Jesuits, who were generally rather militant, may have seen reason for a holy war. However, accommodation was preferred in order to achieve their ultimate goal of proselytizing. The evangelizing work of the Society of Jesus in the Holy Roman Empire after the war seems to have followed this pattern. They maintained their commitment to eradicate heretics on the grounds that true peace would otherwise be impossible. However, the fight against heretics was not to be carried out through violence or war but through proselytizing. Citizens of modern nations entrust their nation’s integrity, such as social contract, national sovereignty, and the peaceful coexistence of ethnic groups to the state. However, the Jesuits, who entrust their moral notion of peace not to Hobbes’ social contract theory but directly to conscience, could be very sensitive to the potential conflict between justice and violence even in modernity60. This does not mean, however,

59 Apart from Pacis compositio (see fn. 27) he had also written a short Latin and German book entitled Who has hit the calf to the eye?, in which the juridical invalidity of all religious peace is proven; Lorenz Forer, Wer hat das Kalb ins Aug geschlagen?, Dillingen 1629. 60 Much research on the legitimacy of violence in Christianity has recently been published. For example, R.S. Appleby, The Ambivalence of the Sacred. Religion, Violence, and Reconciliation, Lanham MD 2000; U. van der Heyden / J. Becker (eds.), Mission und Gewalt. Der Umgang christlicher Missionen mit Gewalt und die Ausbreitung des Christentums in Afrika und Asien in der Zeit von 1792 bis 1918/19, Stuttgart 2000; T. Cavanaugh, The Myth of Religious Violence. Secular Ideology and the Roots of Modern Conflict, Oxford 2009; E.G. Bouwers (ed.), Glaubenskämpfe. Katholiken und Gewalt im 19. Jahrhundert,

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that modern sensitivity is less obsessed with violence than the early modern Jesuits. Even in modern times, public justice takes precedence over non-violence, and violence is used for the sake of justice. To be sure, modern citizens understand non-violence to mean co-existence without physical attacks. However, non-violence is confined within the bounds of public justice as determined by the state. The exercise of punitive authority or national defense is privileged over the suppression of violence, i.e., physical attacks, and is even called “peace”. As Zygmunt Baumann writes, violence has never been overcome by modern nation states: it has only been banished from the “garden”, i.e., national sovereignty61. Even Pope Francis, who has risen to the highest ecclesiastical position ever attained by a Jesuit, after hearing about the Charlie Hebdo shooting incident that took place in Paris in January 2015, made the following significant remark: “If my good friend Dr. Gasparri says a curse word against my mother, he can expect a punch […] You cannot provoke. You cannot insult the faith of others. You cannot make fun of the faith of others”62. He said that there must be limits to free speech when it comes to religion because all religions have dignity. This is certainly an argument that places respect for religion above freedom of speech. However, is this still a kind of realism aimed at making various groups that can only find meaning in living in faith coexist peacefully in modern society? Can this be possible if those groups cannot look beyond their own beliefs? And when the Japanese, only 0.4% of whom are Catholic, accept this statement very favorably63, does this show they are not simply “premodern” (although this is true in one aspect) but also realistic in their understanding of the function of respect for the supreme value of others and for the nonviolent incorporation of various groups in society?

Göttingen 2019. However, there is no study of how Jesuits viewed the relationship between justice and violence in their discourse in the nineteenth and twentieth century. 61 Z. Baumann, Modernity and the Holocaust, Cambridge 1998, pp. 97–103. 62 “Time”, January 15, 2015, https://time.com/3668875/pope-francis-speaks-out-on-charlie-hebdoone-cannot-make-fun-of-faith/, accessed November 20, 2019. 63 See the interview of the Sociologist Emmanuel Todd in the Japanese main Newspapers (Shinbun) such as Asahi Shinbun 朝日新聞, Febrary 2, 2015, Morning edition, 17, Yomiuri Shinbun 読売新聞  on the same day and Nihon Keizai Shinbun 日本経済新聞 on June 2, 2015. His book criticizing the Charlie Hebdo Shooting was also translated in Japanese. He does not deal with any historical background of communication but only with the socially conditioned intention of France, Germany, Northern Italy a.o. (among others issue, he discusses the problem of so-called “Zombie-Catholicism”); E. Todd, Sharuri toha dare ka? シャルリとは誰か, Tokyo, 2016 (orig. publ. as Qui est Charlie? Sociologie d’une crise religieuse, Paris 2015).

III. Theories and Practices

Yuga Kuroda

Reconquista and Muslim Vassals Religion, Politics, and Violence on the Medieval Iberian Peninsula

1 The relationship between religion and violence on the medieval Iberian Peninsula The close relationship between violence and Christianity peaked in the High Middle Ages (the eleventh to thirteenth centuries). Accompanied by internal economic growth and external expansion, a distinctive feudal society developed in which knightly status played a central role in justifying the use of violence in the name of Christianity. Such an overall trend during that era seems to have completely coincided with the situation of the Iberian Peninsula, which became a frontier zone among Western Europe, Maghrib, and al-Andalus regions from the beginning of the eighth century1. As A. Bronisch rightly argued, from the beginning the so-called “Reconquista ideology” included a notion of sacred war, inspired by the Old Testament. From the end of the eleventh century, the Iberian Peninsula was influenced by the famous Gregorian Reform from the north and the Jihād movement brought in by the Almoravids from the south. As a result, it was broadly recognized as a battlefield of the Reconquista in what was considered not only a “just war” to recapture an unfairly stolen territory but also a “holy war” whose participants could enjoy the same spiritual benefits as the Crusaders2. But the situation was not so simple. If we look at the sequence of the territorial expansion of the Iberian Christian kingdoms, some surprising facts emerge. First of all, over nearly 800 years (711–1492), there were only very limited periods when they could successfully pursue the conquest: the first taifa period (1031–1090), the second taifa period (1143–1172), and the third taifa period (1224–1264), not including the early colonization (Repoblación) period (8th to tenth century) and the last Granada War (1482–1492)3. Second, the pursuit of conquest involving extreme violence, such as the 1 B.A. Catlos, Muslims of Medieval Latin Christendom, c. 1050–1614, New York 2014, discusses the general situation of the medieval Iberian Peninsula in comparison with other similar historical regions (the Crusader states in the Holy Land, Sicily, Hungary), see esp. pp. 17–89. 2 The debate on the relationship between religion and violence in medieval Spanish history continues; see F. García Fitz, La Reconquista: un estado de la cuestión, in “Clío & Crímen: Revista del Centro de Historia del Crimen de Durango”, 6, 2009, pp. 142–215. 3 “Taifa” originally referred to an independent principality that appeared after the collapse of the Umayyad dynasty in al-Andalus. We use this term to refer to generic minor kingdoms of al-Andalus after the eleventh century. The periodization of the three taifa periods is provisional. The first is from the fall of the Umayyad (1031) to the start of the annexation of al-Andalus by the Almoravids (1090). The second is from the death of the Almoravid emir Alī b. Yūsuf (1143) to the death of Ibn Mardanīsh https://doi.org.10.1515/9783110643978-009

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enslavement or massacre of all the city’s inhabitants, was rarely carried out. Such cruel treatment for surrendered Muslims was normally limited to the accidental cases of small-fortress assault and, in most cases, could not be carried out in large-scale conquest. And thirdly, when the Christians attacked cities or strongholds in the war against al-Andalus, the conquests were, in many cases, realized after negotiation with the besieged Muslims. In fact, many of the important cities were conquered after the conditions for surrender were mutually agreed upon. For example, in the conquest of Córdoba in 1236 and Sevilla in 1248, the Muslim residents of those cities were ordered to evacuate but were allowed to take their property. And as is well known in such cases as Toledo, conquered in 1085 by Alfonso VI of Castile (reign: 1065–1109), and Zaragoza, conquered in 1118 by Alfonso I of Aragón (reign: 1104–1134), the treaties of surrender typically permitted Muslim inhabitants to stay within the cities, though they potentially faced discrimination4. Thus, when the war against al-Andalus was waged, the massacre of “infidels” was avoided as much as possible. In spite of the strict social discrimination, surrendered Muslims and Jews continued to live side-by-side with Christians, and the Iberian Peninsula became a kind of melting pot where religious convivencia, albeit with limitations, was practiced until the end of the Middle Ages. And we must focus on the situation of warfare at that time in order to understand why such an apparently strange situation arose. What we should consider, as F. García Fitz states, is that constraints on exercising violence existed in the Middle Ages. García Fitz concludes that to achieve the Reconquista idea – that is, the “eradication” of al-Andalus – the peninsular kings, particularly the kings of Castile, deliberately pursued all steps from physical violence (e.g., large-scale engagement, siege, the destruction of cultivated land or supply bases) to indirect violence, like the diplomatic negotiations that could likewise produce confusion and discord in enemy ranks. However, it was impossible in practice to achieve this “eradication”. In the Middle Ages, human and material resources were always lacking. Thus, a unilateral slaughter could not be carried out, and the human loss of allies had to be avoided as much as possible. In a medieval society with an undeveloped logistical system, it was also impossible to carry out a long-term war. Therefore, they chose deliberately to avoid direct battle with their enemies whenever possible and preferred to incorporate

(1172), while the third ranges from the death of the Almohad caliph Yūsuf II al-Mustanṣir (1224) to the large-scale Mudéjar Revolt in Andalucía (1264). 4 A. Echevarría Arsuaga, La política respecto al musulmán sometido y las limitaciones prácticas de la cruzada en tiempos de Fernando III (1199–1252), in C. de Ayala Martínez / M.F. Ríos Saloma (eds.), Fernando III, tiempo de cruzada, Madrid 2012, pp. 383–413; F. García Fitz, ¿›De exterminandis sarracenis›? El trato dado al enemigo musulmán en el reino de Castilla-León durante la plena Edad Media, in M. Fierro / F. García Fitz (eds.), El cuerpo derrotado: cómo trataban musulmanes y cristianos a los enemigos vencidos, Madrid 2008, pp. 113–166; G. Martínez Díez, Las capitulaciones de Fernando III con las ciudades musulmanas conquistadas, in “Archivo Hispalense”, 77, 1994, pp. 267–286.

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the territory by causing them to surrender. On the Iberian Peninsula, which should have become the stage for holy war in the name of God, paradoxically a curious situation emerged in which the Christians not only desisted from employing unlimited violence but also allowed Muslims to be incorporated into their society5. What I deal with in the following pages is some examples of the Muslim magnates that became vassals of the kings of Castile in the High Middle Ages. We could consider the Muslim vassals to be persons that symbolize the modus vivendi characteristic of the medieval Iberian Peninsula, where Christianity and violence were combined in a unique way. And this relationship with the Muslim vassals not only facilitated efforts at conquest but also could play a role in alleviating the violence necessarily associated with that conquest. However, we do not have any contract document on vassalage, so there is no other way but to restore the historical circumstances based on the many fragmentary testimonies from the narrative sources as well as the documentary archives.

2 Muslim vassals of the eleventh century At the fall of the Caliphate of Córdoba in 1031, al-Andalus reached the first taifa period, in which al-Andalus split into regional powers that fought each other. At the same time, the northern Christian kingdoms aimed for political and military intervention in the rich south. Since the taifa rulers could not mobilize sufficient troops, they tried to survive this political situation by concluding a mercenary contract (the paria system, in which the taifa rulers paid the Christian monarchs for military protection against both Islamic and Christian rivals) with Christian kings or magnates6.

2.1 Vassalage of the taifa kings of Toledo and Sevilla Around the 1050s, the Kingdom of Castile-León became the most powerful kingdom, and its king, Fernando I (reign: 1035–1065), began to consolidate the paria system with many taifa rulers. Such relationships could be interpreted as feudal ones. Historia Silense, a chronicle written in the early twelfth century, describes the establishment of the paria system between Castile-León and Toledo as follows. When Fernando I atta-

5 F. García Fitz, Castilla y León frente al Islam. Estrategias de expansión y tácticas militares (siglos XI–XIII), Sevilla 1998; F. García Fitz, Relaciones políticas y guerra. La experiencia castellano-leonesa frente al Islam. Siglos XI–XIII, Sevilla 2002. 6 About the first taifa period, see D. Wasserstein, The Rise and Fall of the Party-Kings. Politics and Society in Islamic Spain, 1002–1086, Princeton NJ 1985. Concerning the “paria” system, see J.M. Lacarra, Aspectos económicos de la sumisión de los reinos de taifas (1010–1102), in Colonización, parias, repoblación y otros estudios, Zaragoza 1981, pp. 41–76.

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cked the Toledan taifa in the spring and summer of 1062, al-Maʾmūn, the taifa ruler of Toledo (reign: 1043–1075), offered him a vast treasure to stop the invasion. Fernando I took this treasure and abandoned the assault against Toledo7. However, according to the thirteenth-century chronicle Chronicon Mundi, which repeated the passage from Historia Silense almost verbatim, Fernando I received not only the treasure but also “the promise of fidelity to the effect that al-Maʾmūn would be his vassal” (sacramenti sponsione, ut sibi esset subditus)8. Moreover, in the official medieval Castilian chronicle on the initiative of Alfonso X (reign: 1252–1284), the following major addition to this episode was made. King Fernando was […] so wise that he was able to oblige al-Maʾmūn to pay his good and great parias every year and to become his vassal. And at the end of all this, while King Don Fernando gave him the peace and truces that he promised, al-Maʾmūn swore to him with strong oaths by his law, and returned from there as his vassal9.

Again, according to Historia Silense, in the following year, 1063, Fernando I invaded the taifa territory of Sevilla. As in the previous year’s Toledan example, Sevillan ruler al-Mu‘taḍid (reign: 1042–1069) brought a large gift and asked Fernando to withdraw. Receiving this gift in consultation with his vassals, he demanded from him the relic of Santa Justa, a third-century martyr who died in Sevilla10. But again, according to Chronion Mundi, Fernando I “condescended to make al-Mu‘taḍid a tributary vassal like the other Iberian Saracen kings” (“illum sicut ceteros Sarracenos Yspanie reges subiectum tributarium dignetur habere”)11. It is possible that in the two aforementioned events, the Toledan and Sevillan rulers merely offered money in order to avoid damage and not as an oath of fealty. But it is also certain that the later chroniclers of Castile, at least, treated the paria system with the taifa rulers as a kind of feudal relationship. In any case, such relationships were certainly hereditary, because after Fernando I died in 1065, his kingdom was divided and inherited by his three sons, and the feudal relationships with them were also considered an inheritance to be divided into three parts, according to a short chronicle called Chronicon Compostellanum12.

7 J.A. Estévez Sola (ed.), Historia Silensis, Turnhout 2018, p. 219. 8 E. Falque Rey (ed.), Chronicon Mundi, Turnhout 2003, p. 289. 9 R. Menéndez Pidal (ed.), Primera Crónica General, Madrid 1906, p. 489; Crónica de Veinte Reyes, Burgos 1991, p. 169. 10 Historia Silensis, pp. 220–221. 11 Chronicon Mundi, p. 290; see also Primera Crónica General, p. 490; Crónica de Veinte Reyes, p. 170. 12 E. Falque Rey, Chronicon Compostellanum, in “Habis”, 14, 1983, pp. 73–83, here p. 79.

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2.2 The meaning of “friendship” with the taifa rulers Fernando I’s second son Alfonso VI, who survived the fratricidal struggle and inherited all his father’s territories, maintained a “feudal relationship” with the taifa rulers. He prioritized the relationship with al-Maʾmūn of Toledo, and he selected the city of Toledo as a place of exile in January 1072 when he lost the battle with his elder brother Sancho. The Latin chronicle De Rebus Hispaniae, written by thirteenth-century Toledan archbishop Jiménez de Rada, gives us a detailed anecdote of his exile in Toledo. The chronicle says that “al-Maʾmūn discovered in Alfonso so many virtues that he appreciated him as a son. On the other hand, Alfonso collaborated successfully in the combat that al-Maʾmūn waged against the neighboring Arab kings”. As his brother Sancho was assassinated during his exile and Alfonso tried to return to his homeland, al-Maʾmūn “wanted Alfonso to renew with him and his firstborn son an oath of non-aggression that he had made to him and to help him against the neighboring Arabs when necessary”, after rejecting his subjects’ advice to kill Alfonso. After that, al-Maʾmūn and his eldest son also made a pledge, and Alfonso VI returned to his homeland. In this episode, Jiménez de Rada clearly thinks that a kind of friendship that transcended difference in faith was renewed and consolidated13. In fact, when al-Maʾmūn opened hostilities against the Sevillan ruler al-Muʽtamid around 1074, Alfonso VI dispatched reinforcements “by the agreement he had signed with him” (por la postura que auie con el). They attacked Córdoba jointly and al-Maʾmūn succeeded in becoming the strongest power in al-Andalus, annexing the Córdoba region, although he would die shortly afterwards14. It is also interesting to note that both Alfonso VI and al-Maʾmūn observe the oath they have made and are afraid to violate it. Alfonso VI maintained this “friendship” until the death of al-Maʾmūn and his eldest son. It was in the reign of al-Qādir, who had not made a pledge with Alfonso VI and was not competent to govern, that he finally conquered Toledo in 1085. In other words, the Castilian chroniclers stress that the conquest of Toledo did not take place illegally15. Why did Alfonso VI try to act in good faith vis-à-vis the taifa rulers once his “friendship” with them was consolidated? It is clear that he was acting based not on a spirit of cordial tolerance but from a realistic mentality adapted to a specific political plan. From 1077 on, Alfonso VI called himself “the emperor of all Spain” (Imperator totius Hispaniae) on his charters. Moreover, after the conquest of Toledo in 1085, he proclaimed himself, in Arabic, to be “the emperor of the Two Religions or Two

13 J. Fernández Valverde (ed.), Historia de rebus hispanie sive historia gothica, Turnhout 1987, pp. 196–201. 14 Primera Crónica General, pp. 521 f.; Chronicon Mundi, p. 303; Crónica de Veinte Reyes, pp. 203 f. 15 Historia de rebus, pp. 203–205.

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Believers” (al-imbarāṭūr dhū-l-millatayn), claiming his suzerainty over al-Andalus. Although his supremacy was short-lived because of the political-military intervention of the Almoravids, it is assumed that Alfonso VI dared to claim this unique Arabic title in order to keep the feudal vassalic relationships with the taifa rulers, as well as to justify the rule over the Muslim subjects (Mudéjars) who remained in the newly conquered territory. In addition to this Arabic title, the controversial Latin titles also appear as “the emperor over all Hispanic pagans” (“imperator super omnes Spanie nationes”) in 1087 and 1088 and as “ruler of all the kingdoms of Christians as well as pagans” (“imperante christianorum quam et paganorum omnia Hispanie regna”) in 1098 and 110416. From 1090 onwards, the power of the Almoravids in al-Andalus was consolidated at the sacrifice of the taifa rulers, but even in this period, the relationship between Alfonso VI and Sevillan ruler al-Muʽtamid was seen favorably, according to many chronicles of Castile-León. In this case, the key was a mysterious lady known as Zaida, who was a daughter-in-law of the Sevillan ruler and who, after converting to Christianity, became the wife of Alfonso VI under the name Isabel. In a fierce battle with the Almoravid army, Alfonso VI, who attacked Córdoba, ordered a captured Almoravid general called ʽAbd Allāh to be burned in the presence of their soldiers “because he had killed King Alfonso’s father-in-law al-Muʽtamid” (“quia occiderat Benabet socerum regis”). The chroniclers tended to consider the rulers and people of al-Andalus to be potential allies, while they saw the Almoravids as irreconcilable foes17.

3 Muslim vassals of the twelfth century 3.1 Vassalage of Saif al-Dawla After Alfonso VI died, his daughter Urraca reigned (reign: 1109–1126) amid extreme turmoil. Having succeeded in suppressing the aristocratic rebellion in the kingdom of Castile-León, Urraca’s son Alfonso VII (reign: 1126–1157) was able to embark on an expansionist policy against al-Andalus.

16 Regarding the imperial idea of Alfonso VI, see A. Gambra, Alfonso VI: cancillería, curia e imperio, 2 vols., León 1997–1998, vol. 1, pp. 694–711; H. Sirantoine, Imperator Hispaniae: les idéologies impériales dans le royaume de León (IXe–XIIe siècles), Madrid 2012, pp. 200–225. Concerning the Emperor of the Two Religions, A. MacKay / M. Benaboud, Alfonso VI of León and Castile, ‘al-Imbratūr dhū-lMillatayn’, in “Bulletin of Hispanic Studies”, 56, 1979, pp. 95–102. 17 Chronicon Mundi, p. 307; Primera Crónica General, p. 556; Crónica de Veinte Reyes, p. 244. About Princess Zaida, M.J. Rubiera Mata, Un insólito caso de conversas musulmanas al cristianismo: las princesas toledanas del siglo XI, in A. Muñoz Fernandez (ed.), Las mujeres en el cristianismo medieval: imágenes teóricas y cauces de actuación religiosa, Madrid 1989, pp. 341–347.

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Around 1131, Ahmad b. ʽAbd al-Malik Saif al-Dawla (known as Zafadola), descendant of the taifa rulers of Zaragoza, accepted the protection of Alfonso VII. According to contemporarily written Chronica Adefonsi Imperatoris, after advance negotiations, Zafadola came to visit the court of Alfonso VII. After being welcomed there and giving the king of Castile-León a precious gift, “Zafadola and his sons made themselves knights of the king and promised to serve him all the days of his life, and he granted Rueda [=Zafadola’s domain] to him”. Alfonso VII subsequently “gave to King Zafadola castles and towns in the land of Toledo, in Extremadura, and along the banks of the River Duero. And Zafadola came and lived in them and served the king all the days of his life”18. And an Arabic historical book, Kitāb al-Iktifā', also describes the establishment of such a relationship involving an exchange of fiefs19. It is interesting that the anonymous chronicler of Chronica Adefonsi Imperatoris describes this in terms evoking the event between King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba of the Old Testament. But more importantly, it was the first time that a concrete statement appeared deeming the vassalic relationship with the Muslim ruler equivalent to that of Western Europe at that time. In fact, there is almost no difference between Zafadola’s case and those of the feudal vassalic ceremonies with King of Navarra or other Christian lords20. Alfonso VII, who succeeded in stabilizing the domestic situation in 1133, carried out an expedition to al-Andalus with Zafadola21. On May 26, 1135, Alfonso VII proclaimed himself “the emperor” like his grandfather Alfonso VI in the cathedral of León. The Chronica Adefonsi Imperatoris, which depicts the ceremony for the imperial coronation, clearly states the reason for claiming the title of emperor. It was “because King García, King Zafadola of the Saracens, Count Ramón of Barcelona, Count Alfonso of Toulouse, and many counts and magnates from Gascony and France obeyed him in all things”22. Alfonso VII tried to achieve the construction of this unique empire, taking advantage of the turmoil in al-Andalus, which broke out in 1143 after the death of

18 A. Maya Sánchez (ed.), Chronica Adefonsi Imperatoris, in Chronica hispana saeculi XII pars I, Turnhout 1990, pp. 109–248, here pp. 162–164. “Rueda” may refer to an actual village named Rueda de Jalón, located 40 km east of Zaragoza. I have adopted the English translation of S. Barton / R. Fletcher, The World of El Cid, Manchester 2000, p. 177. 19 Ibn al-Kardabūs, Historia de al-Andalus (Kitāb al-Iktifā’), Madrid 1986, pp. 144–147. 20 I. Las Heras, Temas y figuras bíblicas en el discurso político de la Chronica Adefonsi Imperatoris, in N. Guglielmi / A. Rucquoi (eds.), El discurso político en la Edad Media, Buenos Aires 1995, pp. 117–140, here pp. 125–131. 21 E. Florez (ed.), Anales Toledanos I, II, III, in España Sagrada, theatro geographico-histórico de la Iglesia de España (Tomo XXIII), Madrid 1767, pp. 381–423, here p. 388; T. Muñoz y Romero (ed.), Colección de fueros municipales y cartas pueblas de los reinos de Castilla, León, Corona de Aragón y Navarra, vol. 1, Madrid 1847, p. 511. 22 Chronica Adefonsi Imperatoris, p. 182. I have adopted the translation from The World of El Cid, p. 193.

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the Almoravid emir ʽAlī b. Yūsuf. From 1144 to 1145, his vassal Zafadola temporarily seized Córdoba and was about to gain Jaén, Granada, and Murcia, capturing Baeza and Úbeda with Alfonso VII’s assistance. However, this grand plan ended in failure with his accidental death involving the Christian lords who were acting together with Zafadola. Again, according to this chronicle, when Alfonso VII heard of his Muslim vassal’s death, he stated, “I am guiltless of the blood of my friend Zafadola”, thus emphasizing that he was not involved in his murder23.

3.2 Vasalli Imperatoris: Ibn Gāniya and Ibn Mardanīsh The division and confusion in al-Andalus became more and more serious, marking the beginning of the second taifa period. During this period, Alfonso VII, just like his grandfather, accepted Muslim taifa rulers as his vassals and succeeded in the military conquest of al-Andalus with their help. He occupied Córdoba at the end of May 1146, at the request of the qadī Ibn Hamdīn (Abefandi, Abephandil), his temporary vassal. And an Almoravid general, Yahyā b. Gāniya, also became a vassal by surrendering the city of Córdoba. The Castilian chronicles and documents tell us about Ibn Gāniya’s vassalage in detail. After he surrendered and handed over the city of Córdoba to Alfonso VII, “he paid homage, swearing to a book of Muhammad called the Koran” (“fecit hominium et iurauit […] super librum Machometi, qui Alchoranus dicitur”) to Alfonso VII and his son Sancho. After that, the defense of Córdoba was entrusted to Ibn Gāniya, who had just become a vassal24. Ibn Gāniya went back and forth over whether to support his lord, Alfonso VII, or the Almohads who began to intervene in al-Andalus, and he finally decided to submit to the latter in 1148. Though his vassalage was short, not only was Corduba tributaria included as the imperial jurisdiction in the issued charters by Alfonso VII, along with the fact of his vassalage, but he also appeared in a private document dated April 28, 1148, as “Rege avengania mauro vasallo imperatoris in corduba”25.

23 Chronica Adefonsi Imperatoris, pp. 239–243; Anales Toledanos I, II, III, p. 388. Interestingly, the same chronicle tends to distinguish the Andalusi Muslims as “Hagareni” and the Maghrebin Muslims as “Moabites”, insisting that “Hagareni” people preferred to submit to Alfonso VII rather than to their coreligionists the “Moabites”, that is, the Almoravids. 24 Historia de rebus, pp. 229–230; Chronicon Mundi, pp. 311 f.; Primera Crónica General, pp. 655 f.; Crónica de Veinte Reyes, p. 264; Anales Toledanos I, II, III, p. 388. 25 J. Bosch Vilá, Los almorávides, Granada, 1990, pp. 292–295; J.A. Fernández Flórez (ed.), Colección diplomática del monasterio de Sahagún, Vol. 4: 1110–1199, León 1991, pp. 196–201; F. Herrero Salas (ed.), Colección diplomática del monasterio cisterciense de Valbuena de Duero, S. XI–XV, 2nd edition, Madrid 2011, pp. 82 f.

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In contrast, the relationship with Muḥammad b. Sa’d b. Mardanīsh (hereafter Ibn Mardanīsh) became much closer and long-lasting. Having established effective control over the Levante region (Valencia-Murcia) in 1147, he succeeded in maintaining independence from the Almohad Empire, collaborating with the Christian peninsular kingdoms and the Italian maritime city-states, until he died in 1172. In January 1149, he established a peace treaty with the count of Barcelona and Aragón’s ruler (princeps et dominator) Ramón Berenguer IV (reign: 1131–1162). Thereafter, Ibn Mardanīsh maintained a relatively good relationship with the Crown of Aragón, providing tribute to him and using Christian reinforcements in return. On January 27, 1149, he also signed a 10-year peace and trade agreement with the Italian city of Pisa26. Meanwhile, Ibn Mardanīsh met with Alfonso VII on February 15, 1149, at Zorita, located halfway between today’s Madrid and Cáceres. No extant historical document mentions any contract between the two, but it can be inferred that they had an agreement in which military aid was provided in exchange for the payment of tribute. Obtaining military assistance in accordance with this agreement, he succeeded in acquiring Guadix in 1152 and tried to rescue the port city of Almería, which was under attack by the Almohad army in 115727. And in several charters during the short period of 1156–1157, he appeared as one of the Emperor’s vassals under the name “king of Murcia” (rex Murcie) along with the count of Barcelona and the king of Navarra28. Alfonso VII’s intention is clear. He was able to conquer several important cities such as Córdoba, Baeza, Andújar, and Almería in less than 10 years. But the recently conquered territory was populated mostly by Muslim subjects. On the other hand, he urgently needed to fight the Almohads by attempting to establish a quasi-feudal relationship and justifying his control over al-Andalus. And for this purpose, he apparently gave himself a title equivalent to that of his grandfather, “Emperor over Muslims and Christians” (“imperatore super mauros et super christianos”) in two documents issued to “a settler of Baeza named ʽAbd al-Azīz Abū l-Walīd (?) (“populator Baecie illo pronominato Abdelaaziz Auoalil”) in 115629.

26 A. Ubieto Arteta, Historia de Aragón: la formación territorial, Zaragoza 1981, pp. 227–253; M. Amari (ed.), I diplomi arabi del R. Archivio Fiorentino; testo originale con la traduzione letterale e illustrazioni, 2 vols., Firenze 1863, vol. 1, pp. 239–240. 27 B.F. Reilly, The Kingdom of León-Castilla under King Alfonso VII, 1126–1157, Philadelphia PA 1998, p. 104; I. González Cavero, Una revisión de la figura de Ibn Mardanish. Su alianza con el reino de Castilla y la oposición frente a los almohades, in “Miscelánea Medieval Murciana”, 31, 2007, pp. 95–110; J. González González, El reino de Castilla en la época de Alfonso VIII, Madrid 1960, vol. 1, pp. 880–909. About the Muslims’ description, see Ibn ʽIdhārī, Al-Bayān al-Mughrib: nuevos fragmentos almorávides y almohades, edited and translated by A. Huici Miranda, Valencia 1963, pp. 308–312. 28 See, for example, a charter dated January 22, 1157; J. del Alamo (ed.), Colección diplomática de San Salvador de Oña (822–1284), 2 vols., Madrid 1950, vol. 1, pp. 264–266. 29 Regarding the imperial idea of Alfonso VII, H. Sirantoine, Imperator Hispaniae, pp. 331–357; L. Sánchez Belda, Notas de diplomática. En torno a tres diplomas de Alfonso VII, in “Hispania,” 11, 1951, pp. 47–61; see also A. Echevarría Arsuaga, La política, p. 401.

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On August 21, 1157, Alfonso VII died, and his Kingdom of León-Castile was again divided and inherited by two sons. But the relationship with the Castilian kings seems to have continued, because on July 11, 1160, Ibn Mardanīsh appeared as “Wolf King, vassal of King Alfonso” (“Rex Lupus, uasallus regis Ildefonsi”) in a charter of the early childhood of Alfonso VIII of Castile (reign: 1158–1214)30. And their mutual military cooperation became rather frequent in order to oppose the expansion of the Almohad Empire. In the expedition to western Andalucía (1159–1161) and in the battle to keep control of Granada (1162), Ibn Mardanīsh mobilized Christian reinforcements and mercenaries. He would fight together with the Castilian army in Çorita around 1165, while in Murcia he fought the Almohad army with “Christians in the Toledan area”, and he himself visited Toledo in 1167. On the other hand, Alfonso VIII played an important role as mediator of the peace treaty of five years between Aragón and Ibn Mardanīsh on June 4, 117031.

4 Muslim vassals of the thirteenth century 4.1 Vassalage of Almohad princes Upon the death of the Almohad caliph Yūsuf II al-Mustanṣir (reign: 1213–1224), a civil war broke out over Almohad Caliph’s throne, and it was ʽAbd Allāh b. Muḥammad al-Bayyāsī (hereafter al-Bayyāsī), one of the Almohad princes, who was first to seek help from the Castilian King Fernando III (reign: 1217–1252). As his name suggests, his power was based in the city of Baeza. When he realized his military weakness around the autumn of 1224, he quickly approached the Castilian king, and they made joint campaigns against rebellious strongholds such as Quesada. In June 1225, al-Bayyāsī officially made himself vassal of Fernando III at the old battlefield, Las Navas de Tolosa, and again carried out a joint military expedition32. To better understand how the act of vassalage was carried out at that time, let us examine some charters issued during this period. For example, a charter dated April 28, 1226, includes a passage stating that “Ibn Muḥammad, the king of Baeza,

30 J. González González, El reino de Castilla, vol. 2, pp. 94 f. 31 Al-Bayān al-Mughrib: nuevos fragmentos, pp. 328–332, 346–355, 379–382, 421–426; Anales Toledanos I, II, III, p. 391; Crónica de Veinte Reyes, pp. 272 f.; A.I. Sánchez Casabón (ed.), Alfonso II Rey de Aragón, Conde de Barcelona y Marqués de Provenza: documentos (1162–1196), Zaragoza 1995, pp. 147–150. 32 J. González González, Las conquistas de Fernando III en Andalucía, in “Hispania”, 25, 1946, pp. 515–631; M. González Jiménez, Fernando III el Santo, Sevilla 2006, pp. 85–97; L. Charlo Brea (ed.), Chronica latina regum Castellae, in Chronica hispana Saeculi XIII, Turnhout 1997, pp. 7–118, here pp. 87–95.

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became my vassal and he kissed my hand” (“Auen Mahomat, rex Baecie, deuenit uassallus meus et osculatus est manus”)33. And we can identify the conditions of his vassalage by reading a description of the chronicles. One of these agreements was that al-Bayyāsī would obtain military assistance by presenting his son as a hostage and some important strongholds to the Castilian king. If he succeeded in conquering territory, he was to hand over to Fernando III such important sites as Martos, Andújar, Jaén, and the fortress that the Castilian king wanted to obtain. In fact, within a short period of time in 1225, al-Bayyāsī managed to take control of almost all of western Andalucía, together with a detachment of the military orders and a Castilian noble, Álvar Pérez de Castro, who had served the Almohads until then. The next year, he was killed by rebels of Córdoba, but al-Bayyāsī’s son converted to Christianity and was given the name of Fernando III, who became his godfather, and after the conquest of Sevilla he was awarded a territory there34. What can be understood from al-Bayyāsī’s vassalage is as follows. First, like the aforementioned cases in the twelfth century, Fernando III built such a relationship by imitating a style of homage popularized in Western Europe. Al-Bayyāsī’s brother Abū Zayd, who reigned over Valencia, also visited the fortress of Moya near Cuenca in 1225 and, “kissing his hands in the presence of the participants, a contract was signed between the two” (“cunctis qui aderant uidentibus, et manum eius osculatus est, et pactum firmatum est inter eos”)35. Second, their relationship benefited both sides, at least in the short run. Al-Bayyāsī rapidly took control of most of Andalucía, taking advantage of the military power of Castile, while Fernando III was able to acquire strategic outposts for the future conquest of al-Andalus. Third, al-Bayyāsī is considered in Castilian narrative sources to be a friendly figure, in spite of his origins as an Almohad prince. As they concluded a contract of vassalage, a Castilian chronicler says, “he was faithful to the Castilian king until his death without betraying him” (“inseparabiliter adhesit ei et usque ad mortem”). Despite the suspicions of the Christian entourage, he was esteemed as “a person who did not entrust all hopes to Muslims but to our king” (“qui de Mauris non confidebat et in rege nostro totam suam spem posuerat”), fulfilling his duty in good faith. And when Fernando III heard that he had died, “he was heartbroken” (“pesóle muy de coraçón”)36.

33 J. González González, Reinado y diplomas de Fernando III, 3 vols., Córdoba 1980–1986, vol. 2, pp. 258–260. 34 Ibid., vol. 1, p. 294; M. González Jiménez, Fernando III, pp. 97, 316. 35 Chronica latina regum Castellae, p. 89; J. González González, Reinado y diplomas, vol. 2, pp. 244– 248. About the life of Abū Zayd, M. del C. Barceló Torres, El sayyid Abu Zayd: principe musulman, senor cristiano, in “Awraq”, 2, 1980, pp. 101–109; R.I. Burns, Almohad Prince and Mudejar Convert. New Documentation on Abu Zayd, in D. Kagay / J.T. Snow (eds.), Medieval Iberia. Essays on the History and Literature of Medieval Spain, New York 1997, pp. 171–188. 36 Chronica latina regum Castellae, pp. 88–92; Crónica de Veinte Reyes, p. 303.

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4.2 Vassalage of Muḥammad I and Nasrid dynasty As the third taifa period went on, it was gradually revealed that Muḥammad b. Yūsuf b. Naṣr (reign: 1232–1273, hereafter Muḥammad I), founder of the Nasrid dynasty, succeeded in consolidating his authority as the sole power in al-Andalus. And it is well known that, from the viewpoint of Castile, the Nasrid Sultanate he founded was a kind of vassal state until 1492. At the end of February 1246, when his important city of Jaén in northern Andalucía was surrounded by the king of Castile, Primera Crónica General states that he became a vassal in the following circumstances. Muḥammad I wisely visited to put himself under the power and grace of King Fernando III, kissing his hand, and became his vassal as follows: he entrusted himself and his land to Fernando’s will and from then on, he surrendered to him Jaén. […] Fernando III accepted him with largesse and honor and asked him only to do the following: to be a vassal with all his territory and to keep it as he did before. However, he had to offer a certain amount of tribute, that is, 150,000 maravedí every year. And to conduct war and peace for him and to attend the parliamentary assembly each year. But Jaén was to be transferred to Fernando III as a conquered city, as described later. This was the pre-arrangement between the two kings37.

There is an evident similarity between this vassalic “ceremony” and the popular homage procedure in Western Christian Europe. Beginning with a kiss to his master’s hand (osculum), Muḥammad I once transferred to Fernando III all of the territory that he had ruled, then the former retook his territory, excluding Jaén, from the latter as a kind of fief, as if it were a Western feudal ceremony (commendatio). In addition to annual tribute, his duties as a vassal included military service (auxilium) and attendance at the parliamentary assembly (consilium)38. In fact, not only did Muḥammad I carry out military service with 500 horsemen to conquer the peripheral land of Sevilla, he also acted as an intermediary for the city of Alcalá de Guadaíra to surrender to the Castilian king. And, as with the case of al-Bayyāsī, the fact of the vassalage of Muḥammad I was praised in several charters39. Fernando III, who had made great conquests, died in 1252. The official Castilian chronicle writes that Muḥammad I was also very grieved at his death40. At this point,

37 Primera Crónica General, p. 746; Crónica de Veinte Reyes, p. 327. 38 On the general characteristics of the Nasrid Granada as a vassal state, see J.E. López de Coca Castañer, El reino de Granada. ¿Un vasallo musulmán?, in Fundamentos medievales de los particularismos hispánicos, Ávila 2005, pp. 313–346. About the Pact of Jaén, see A. García Sanjuán, Consideraciones sobre el pacto de Jaén, in M. González Jiménez (ed.), Sevilla 1248: Congreso Internacional Conmemorativo del 750 Aniversario de la Conquista de la Ciudad de Sevilla por Fernando III, Madrid 2000, pp. 715–724. 39 Primera Crónica General, pp. 747 f.; Crónica de Veinte Reyes, p. 328. For example, a charter dated April 13, 1246, includes the passage “rex Granate factus est vasallus regis Castelle et osculatus est manus eius”; J. González González, Reinado y diplomas, vol. 3, pp. 305 f. 40 Primera Crónica General, p. 774; Crónica de Veinte Reyes, p. 348.

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his son Alfonso X (reign: 1252–1284), who inherited the fast-growing kingdom, understood the relationship with Granada in the same way his father did. From August 5, 1252, two months after taking the throne, Alfonso X began to write the name of Muḥammad I in his issued charter as an attestor in the form of “Don Aboabdille Auén Naçar, rey de Granada e uassallo del rey”, together with the other two Muslim vassals (“rey de Murçia” Ibn Hūd, whose territory had become Castile’s protectorate since 1243, and “rey de Niebla” Ibn Maḥfūẓ, who also had been his vassal between 1247 and 1250)41. Did Alfonso X try to build an “empire” reminiscent of Alfonso VI in the eleventh century or Alfonso VII in the twelfth century? We have no way of knowing his true intentions, but the political situation at that time did not allow it. Alfonso X annexed the Niebla taifa in 1062, and the relationships with both Granada and Murcia would worsen over the struggle for control of the strategically important area around the Strait of Gibraltar (known as the fecho de allende). At the same time as the Mudéjar uprising that broke out in Andalucía and Murcia regions in May 1264, the two taifa vassals finally renounced their oaths of fealty and attacked the territory of their former feudal lord42. Alfonso X launched a war against the former vassals, subduing the Mudéjar uprising. In fact, in a letter of June 20, 1264, he ordered the bishop of Cuenca to engage in Crusader preaching in accordance with the Crusader privileges that his father had obtained from the popes, so the war against Granada was undoubtedly considered a war of the Crusades. However, in the same letter, he states that he declared this war because “the king of Granada told us that they were no longer our vassals” (“enbiónos dezir que non eran nuestro uassallo”) and due to “this so great betrayal that he showed in such a manner against us” (“esta trayción tan grande que él en tal guisa descubrió contra nos”). In other words, Alfonso X did so on the pretext of a secular and personal retaliation against Muḥammad I, who had unilaterally broken their feudal vassalic covenant43. During the Late Middle Ages, the relationship between Castile and Granada was relatively good until 1492, maintaining long periods of ceasefire or peace, with intermittent periods of war. As far as I know, the Nasrid rulers were named as vassals in the royal charters until the reign of Pedro I of Castile (reign: 1350–1369), which means that the successive kings of Castile considered their relationship to be a feudal vassalic one. And when concluding the peace agreement between the two kingdoms, they included some chapters on duties that the king of Granada needed to fulfill as a Castilian vassal, namely, attendance at the parliamentary assembly, military service, 41 M. González Jiménez (ed.), Diplomatario Andaluz, Sevilla 1991, pp. 6–8; A. Echevarría Arsuaga, La política, pp. 399–404. 42 F. García Fitz, Relaciones políticas y guerra, pp. 216–223; F. García Fitz, Una España musulmana, sometida y tributaria? La España que no fue, in “Historia, Instituciones, Documentos”, 31, 2004, pp. 227–248. 43 Diplomatario Andaluz, pp. 313–316.

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and payment of tribute, which were the same conditions as in 1246. Remnants of the Iberian Peninsula’s unique “empire”, built by connecting with Muslim rulers using vassalic ties, would remain until the conquest of Granada44.

5 Conclusions During the High Middle Ages, the society of al-Andalus experienced extreme fragmentation on three occasions: the Umayyad collapse (eleventh century), the post-Almoravid turmoil (twelfth century), and the civil war in the Almohad Empire (thirteenth century). In these situations, the Muslim taifa rulers, who tried to survive on their own by securing military resources, sought out relations with the northern Christian powers. On the other hand, Christian kingdoms, which could not easily conquer al-Andalus directly due to various tactical restrictions, also gladly accepted “friendship” with those Muslim rulers. In the case of the kings of Castile, they built such “friendships“ and moreover tried to incorporate al-Andalus into their territory without resorting to arms by proclaiming themselves to be the Iberian Peninsula’s singular “emperors of the Two Religions” in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, and even in the thirteenth century by applying to Muslim rulers a vassalic procedure modeled after the European feudal one. Both the kings of Castile and the taifa rulers had a certain commonality of interests, and this situation helps account for the great success of the rapid conquest of al-Andalus. Of course, such relationships do not equate to idyllic coexistence or produce a full reconciliation between Christianity and Islam. Many biases that developed in Western Christendom against Muslims in general frequently appeared in the descriptions of the Castilian chronicles. Even in the Iberian Peninsula, the Muslims, considered the enemy of God (Inimici Dei), were regarded with suspicion as unfaithful people to their lords and despised as potential betrayers45. However, such relationships would continue to appear despite prejudice that should have been deeply rooted in a Christian mentality. Even if the contract of vassalage was concluded with infidels, both Alfonso VI of Castile and al-Maʾmūn of Toledo shared the notion that it should not be violated. In this type of knightly culture shared among the political leaders of Christendom as well as al-Andalus, it is possible that

44 A charter issued by Pedro I, dated May 1, 1364, states, “Don Mahomad, rey de Granada, vasallo del rey, confirma”; L.V. Díaz Martín (ed.), Colección Documental de Pedro I de Castilla, 1350–1369, 4 vols., Salamanca 1999, vol. 4, pp. 153–157. About the peace treaties of 1310 and 1331, see A. Giménez Soler, La Corona de Aragón y Granada: historia de las relaciones entre ambos reinos, Barcelona 1908, pp. 167–169; F. de A. Veas Arteseros (ed.), Documentos de Alfonso XI (Colección de documentos para la historia del reino de Murcia. VI), Murcia 1997, pp. 188–192. 45 For example, see Chronicon Mundi, pp. 311 f., 319.

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Muslim vassals like Ibn Mardanīsh and al-Bayyāsī, who devoted themselves to their “masters”, might be considered a model of faithful “knights”46. But such a phenomenon was not limited to members of royalty. Beyond deep-seated religious barriers, Christian nobles and knights were also accustomed to serve as vassals of the emirs and caliphs of Maghrib and al-Andalus to gain honor and wealth47. The situation of the medieval peninsular war and the curious vassalage discussed in this paper constantly produced people who could mediate between the Christian world and the Islamic world. In other words, the medieval Iberian Peninsula, which became a place for negotiations between two worlds divided by religion, constantly produced catalysts that could deter the radical violence that should have been religiously justified. It is an irony of history, however, that their convivencia and the

lack of resort to extreme violence would make their conquests easier.

46 R. Jiménez de Rada, in his Historia Arabum, described Ibn Mardanīsh as “uir prudentia preditus, liberalis, strenuus et benignus”; Roderici Ximenii de Rada, Historia Arabum, in J. Fernández Valverde (ed.), Historiae Minores, Dialogus Vitae, Turnhout 1999, p. 71. 47 S. Barton, Traitors to the Faith? Christian Mercenaries in al-Andalus and the Maghreb, c. 1100– 1300, in R. Collins / A. Goodman (eds.), Medieval Spain. Culture, Conflict and Coexistence; Studies in Honor of Angus Mackay, New York 2002, pp. 23–45; S. Barton, From Mercenary to Crusader. The Career of Álvar Pérez de Castro (D. 1239) Re-examined, in T. Martin / J. Harris (eds.), Church, State, Vellum, and Stone. Essays on Medieval Spain in Honor of John Williams, Leiden 2005, pp. 111–129.

Kazuhisa Takeda

The Global Expansion of Christian Violence in the Old and the New World From Early Church Fathers to the Jesuits You have learned that they were told, “Eye for eye, tooth for tooth”. But what I tell you is this: Do not set yourself against the man who wrongs you. If someone slaps you on the right cheek, turn and offer him your left (Matt. 5:38–39)1.

1 Introduction One of the principal teachings of Christianity is to prevent bloodshed. The English theologian and conscientious objector Cecil John Cadoux (1883–1947) concluded that early patristic authorities stressed the observance of this lesson in its “literal sense”2. The New Testament is essentially against even self-defense3. It is extremely difficult to identify any Christian who engaged in military service until the reign of Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius (161–180). The early Church officially forbade war, and the principal authorities such as Tertullian, Origen, and Lactantius strongly opposed Christian involvement in military affairs4. Successive Popes and ecclesiastical authorities declared numerous calls for peace5. And in relation to the Christian peace movement, there exist numerous peacemaking and conflict initiatives from the international level to the grassroots6. In the fourth century, however, after the enthronement of Constantine as Roman emperor in 306, the topic of “just war” began to be debated among Christians. The period saw the secularization and militarization of Christianity. In his famous treatise, Church History, Eusebius of Caesarea commented that the Christian God had predestined the victory of the beloved Constantine in the Battle of the Milvian Bridge (312). On the other hand, the defeated rival Maxentius was regarded as an enemy of the Christian faith7.

1 The New English Bible: The New Testament, 2nd ed., Oxford 1970, p. 10. 2 C.J. Cadoux, The Early Christian Attitude to War. A Contribution to the History of Christian Ethics, New York 1982, p. 245 (first published 1919). 3 J. Lasserre, War and the Gospel, London, 1962, pp. 53–58. 4 D.A. Lenihan, The Just War Theory in the Works of Saint Augustine, in “Augustinian Studies”, 19, 1988, pp. 37–70, here p. 40. 5 M.G. Long (ed.), Christian Peace and Nonviolence: A Documentary History, Ossining 2011. 6 D.L. Buttry, Christian Peacemaking. From Heritage to Hope, King of Prussia PA 1994. 7 Eusebius, The History of the Church from Christ to Constantine, London 1989, pp. 291–302 (9:9–10). https://doi.org.10.1515/9783110643978-010

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Under the early Christian expansionary policy of Constantine, Ambrose, a bishop of Milan in the fourth century and a great supporter of the doctrine of the militant church, justified Christian violence under certain circumstances. In his treatise, De officiis ministrorum, Ambrose commented as follows: In point of fact, the person who fails to deflect an injury from his neighbor, when he is in a position to do so, is as much at fault as the one who inflicts it. This was where holy Moses took his earliest steps towards proving his courage in war. For then he saw a Hebrew being ill-treated by an Egyptian, he defended him – and did it so successfully that he finished the Egyptian off and hid him in the sand8.

The conversion of Constantine to Christianity strengthened the church’s connection to military affairs. Regarding this historic shift, prominent Lutheran church historian Adolf von Harnack’s (1851–1930) argument is worth noting. The Council of Arles held in 314 by Constantine was the turning point that saw a total change in the ecclesiastical attitude toward war9. The Swiss bible scholar Hans-Ruedi Weber follows Harnack’s argument, focusing on the introduction of military vocabulary to ecclesiastical terminology in the early primitive church. Origen, one of the most influential figures in early Christianity, “began to call all Christians milites Christi” and regarded the church as castra Domini. Also, church officials used the Latin word sacramentum to signify visible Christian rites. According to Origen, “the term sacramentum militiae is used several times in connection with baptism”10. It is fair to say that the pioneers of the investigation of the relationships between Christianity and the military were Cadoux and Harnack, at the beginning of the twentieth century, and in subsequent decades, numerous scholars conducted research in this field, but their efforts failed to elicit a broader academic mainstream in these questions, probably due to the sporadic contribution to distinct book chapters and journals. Roland H. Bainton, Jean-Michel Hornus, and John Driver, however, were exceptions11, and in the early twenty-first century, a new movement has returned to this delicate topic, as exemplified in a series of outstanding works by scholars such as David S. Bachrach, Katherine Allen Smith, and Ronald 8 Ambrose, De Officiis: Edited with an Introduction, vol. 1, Oxford 2001, pp. 221, 223 (Book one, XXXVI, 179). 9 A.V. Harnack, Militia Christi: The Christian Religion and the Military in the First Three Centuries, Philadelphia PA 1981 (first published 1905). 10 H.R. Weber, The Militant Ministry. People and Pastors of the Early Church and Today, Philadelphia PA 1963, p. 6. 11 R. H. Bainton, Christian Attitudes toward War and Peace. A Historical Survey and Critical Re-evaluation, 17th ed., Nashville TN 1990; J.-M. Hornus, It is not Lawful for me to Fight. Early Christian Attitudes toward War, Violence, and the State, Scottdale PA 1980; J. Driver, How Christians Made Peace with War. Early Christian Understandings of War, Scottdale PA 1988. See also P. Brock, The Military Question in the Early Church. A Selected Bibliography of a Century’s Scholarship, 1888-1987, Toronto 1988.

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J. Sider12. In this sense, the time is right to revisit the question of historical religious violence and to study its development across the medieval and early modern periods. Given the importance of this broader topic, a specific focus on one of Christianity’s most influential orders, the Society of Jesus, proves especially illuminating. The Pope officially approved that Catholic order in 1540, and even from its inception, the Jesuit order possessed certain military characteristics. Through meticulous analysis, Denis De Lucca has demonstrated the Society’s military aspects13. The religious battlefield for the Jesuits was not limited to Europe but extended to the earth’s most distant corners, which had been newly discovered in the process of European global expansion in the early modern period. On the Malabar Coast of India, for example, Henrique Henriques compared his missionary activity to war and combat in a letter to the Supreme General Ignatius of Loyola dated January 27, 155214. In the Spanish Viceroyalty of Peru, the Jesuits focused Catholic education on the indigenous elite. The College of Saint Francis Borgia, founded in Cuzco in 1621, developed into an outstanding Jesuit pedagogical institute. Speaking on behalf of his colleagues, Antonio de Vega explained that indigenous students were expected to become brave soldiers against demonic forces15. Although the Jesuits took an accommodating attitude toward different religions and cultures on the local level, they were crucial for spreading the militant doctrine/ideology the church had developed from ancient-medieval Europe up until the early modern globalized world16. This article argues that violence in Christian thought developed in both the Old and New World. The first part deals with the Christian attitude toward violence during the ancient-medieval period. The term compelle intrare, and its usage in different historical contexts, is the main focus of discussion in this part. Following that discussion is an analysis of the mutual collaboration between the Catholic Church and the feudal 12 D.S. Bachrach, Religion and the Conduct of War, c. 300–1215, Martlesham 2003; K.A. Smith, War and the Making of Medieval Monastic Culture, Martlesham 2011; R.J. Sider (ed.), The Early Church on Killing. A Comprehensive Sourcebook on War, Abortion, and Capital Punishment, Grand Rapids MI 2012. See also A.F. Holmes (ed.), War and Christian Ethics. Classic and Contemporary Readings on the Morality of War, 2nd ed., Grand Rapids MI 2005; D.R. Brunstetter / C. O’Driscoll (eds.), Just War Thinkers. From Cicero to the 21st Century, Abingdon 2018. 13 D.D. Lucca, Jesuits and Fortifications. The Contribution of the Jesuits to Military Architecture in the Baroque Age, Leiden 2012; The Oxford Handbook of the Jesuits, Oxford 2019, has shed light on the diverse aspects of the Jesuits based on the results of the new research. 14 J. Wicki (ed.), Documenta Indica, vol. 2: 1550–1553, Roma 1950, pp. 298–310, here p. 310. 15 R. Vargas Ugarte, Historia del Colegio y Universidad de San Ignacio de Loyola de la ciudad del Cuzco, Lima 1948, p. 131. 16 For the Jesuit accommodation method in Asia, see D.E. Mungello, Curious Land. Jesuit Accommodation and the Origins of Sinology, Honolulu HI 1989; N. Standaert, Chinese Voices in the Rites Controversy. Travelling Books, Community Networks, Intercultural Arguments, Roma 2012; A. Amaladass / I.G. Županov, Intercultural Encounter and the Jesuit Mission in South Asia (16th–18th centuries), Bangalore 2014; A. Flüchter / R. Wirbser, Translating Catechisms, Translating Cultures. The Expansion of Catholicism in the Early Modern World, Leiden 2017.

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state, which led to the widespread eradication of pagan worship and to the expansion of Christianity. The Frankish kingdom was at the forefront in the advancement of religious warfare in medieval Europe. The discussion in the second part then shifts to focus on the global expansion of Christian violence beyond Europe, mainly in the territories newly “discovered” and colonized by the Spanish monarchy in the early modern period. The Society of Jesus made enormous contributions to this expansion. Inspired by its militant philosophy, the Society carried out spiritual conquest in order to convert countless Native Americans to Catholicism on a massive scale.

2 Christianity and violence in ancient-medieval Europe 2.1 The historical development of the concept of “compelle intrare” Santa Maria Novella in Florence originally functioned as an oratory in the ninth century. In 1221, the Dominican Order acquired the property rights to build a new church there, marking the beginning of the history of this magnificent basilica. Today this church is well-known not only for the extremely elaborate façade by Leon Battista Alberti, but also by a fresco painting, a masterpiece of Andrea di Bonaiuto da Firenze, entitled, Triumph of the Church, Church Militant and Triumphant (ca. 1350) (Fig. 1).

Fig. 1: Triumph of the Church, Church Militant and Triumphant, ca. 1350 (https://commons. wikimedia.org/wiki/ File:Way-of-salvationchurch-militant-triumphant-andrea-di-bonaiuto-1365.jpg).

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The main subject of this painting is the church’s fight for the expansion of Christianity, a similar motif also recognized in the Russian Orthodox Church. The icon entitled, Blessed Be the Host of the Heavenly Tsar, represents the triumph of the conquest of Kazan by Ivan IV in 1552. Applauding the icons of Ecclesia militans was one of the Russian customs rooted in the Middle Ages (Fig. 2).

Fig. 2: Blessed Be the Host of the Heavenly Tsar (icon), (https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/ File:Blessed_Be_the_Host_of_the_King_of_Heaven%E2%80%A6_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg).

The church militant was a common theme transregionally featured in numerous artworks from late medieval to early modern times. But what historical factors prompted this development? According to David Bade, there have been three fundamental principles of the Church: universality, doctrines of the supreme authority of the Church over political authorities, and the doctrine of compelle intrare17. This article focuses in particular on the historical development of the idea of compelle intrare, the famous phrase that appeared in the Gospel according to Luke (14:23)18. Regarding this passage, the argument of the Russian medievalist A.J. Gurevich is especially revealing: The religious conception of space in the Middle Ages also finds expression in the division of the world into the Christian world on the one hand and the non-Christian world, the world of the infidel on the other. […] Christianity represented a major advance on earlier conceptions of man, which had been restricted to the tribe (among the barbarians), a chosen people (the Jews) or a single and unique political formation (the Romans). […] Only in so far as it was graced by the Christian faith and subjected to the church could the world be described as a cultured well-ordered world in which God’s blessings could proliferate. Beyond the limits of this Christian world, space lost its positive qualities; […] Such a division of the world by a religious criterion 17 D. Bade, Of Palm Wine, Women and War. The Mongolian Naval Expedition to Java in the 13th Century, Singapore 2013, p. 154. 18 For the international research result for this term, see: V. Lavenia / S. Pastore / S. Pavone / C. Petrolini (eds.), Compel People to Come In. Violence and Catholic Conversion in the non-European World, Roma 2018.

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determined the behavior of crusaders in the territory of the infidel; methods and means which were impermissible in Christian lands were legitimate in the crusade against the heathen. In so far as Christ had died for all, however – including the infidels – the church regarded it as an important part of its mission to convert non-Christians to the truth, even if against their own will – compelle intrare19.

Susumu Yamauchi, a prominent Japanese historian of European medieval law, follows this argument. Based on Chapter 11 of the Epistle to the Romans composed by the Apostle Paul, preaching the Gospel became the principal mission of the Christian church. In order to complete this mission, forced conversion might be permitted against offensive infidels under certain circumstances, particularly during the High Middle Ages. The concept of universal evangelization is unique to the Roman Catholic Church, because the Supreme Pontiff is responsible for the salvation of all mankind20. This argument developed in Europe in the Middle Ages and persisted into the early modern period. Spanish conquest and Christianization in the New World relied on the justification of compelle intrare21. Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda, a theologian who engaged in a heated debate against the Dominican friar Bartolomé de las Casas, supported forced conversion as fundamental Spanish policy toward the Amerindians, basing his argument on the Augustinian doctrine of compelle intrare22. Augustine used this term originally in reference to the serious measures he thought necessary to take against the heretical doctrine of the Donatists. His main concern was whether it was justifiable to resort to physical violence in order to correct their teaching practices. The use of compelle intrare was limited to the correction of Donatists and not yet considered justified in terms of general forced conversion23. In this sense, Sepúlveda’s argument represented a broadened application of Augustine’s doctrine. Some scholars, however, have argued that Augustine’s so-called “just war theory” could be traced back to Ambrose, Augustine’s respected mentor24.

19 A.J. Gurevich, Categories of Medieval Culture, London 1985, p. 75. 20 S. Yamauchi, Bunmei wa bōryoku o koerareruka 文明は暴力を超えられるか [Can civilization overcome violence?] Tokyo 2012, pp. 45–46. For Yamauchi’s some research outcomes in English, see S. Yamauchi, Looting of Men and Legal Theories in Medieval and Early Modern Europe, in “Hitotsubashi Journal of Law and Politics”, 23, 1995, pp. 13–32; S. Yamauchi, The Transformation of Just War Theory and Philosophy of the “Public Law of Europe”, in S. Yamauchi / R. Oshiba / K. Ochiai (eds.), Conflict and Settlement in Europe, Tokyo, 2006, pp. 22–35; see also J. Muldoon, Popes, Lawyers, and Infidels. The Church and the Non-Christian World, 1250–1550, Philadelphia PA 1979, chaps. 1 and 6. 21 J.A. Izco, El influjo del “compelle intrare” en la mentalidad de los primeros evangelizadores de América, in “Sapientia: The Eichi University Review”, 27, 1993, pp. 357–369. 22 Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda, Demócrates segundo (Obras Completas III), Pozoblanco 1997, p. 92. 23 M. Dods (ed.), Writings in Connection with the Donatist Controversy (The Works of Aurelius Augustine, Bishop of Hippo: A New Translation, vol. 3), Edinburgh 1872, p. 499. 24 R.H. Holmes, On War and Morality, Princeton NJ 1989, pp. 114–145.

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2.2 The eradication of pagan worship and the expansion of Christianity in the European middle ages Ambrose’s attitude toward the militant church reflects the gradual acceptance of military service and its theoretical justification among Christians. Few documents exist concerning Christian soldiers in the Roman army until the middle of second century, but references to them began appearing in the historical record from the end of that century. In 211, Tertullian wrote a treatise entitled, De corona militis, whose main topic was the avoidance of military service by Christians. The motivation of that treatise suggests the likely existence of Christian soldiers in the Roman army. After the conversion of emperor Constantine to Christianity and the Edict of Milan in 313, the Council of Arles held in 314 resolved to “threaten with excommunication Christian soldiers who insisted on quitting the army”, and to leave “military service perfectly free and open to Christians”25. On the other hand, in the Eastern Roman Empire, the Codex Theodosianus was edited under the reign of Theodosius II in 438 and the armed forces composed only of Christians were founded and at the same time the infidels were removed from military service26. The Christians, originally in favor of non-violence and pacifism, gradually began taking part in military affairs. After the collapse of Western Roman Empire in 476, western Europe entered a period of intense warfare among rival kingdoms with the Kingdom of the Franks eventually emerging as the region’s predominant polity. In this kingdom, a range of Christian cultural activities flourished, a movement which collectively became known as the Carolingian Renaissance. The successive Frankish kings and political statesmen strongly supported the Christian church, which in turn bestowed the kingdom with providential authority. Charles Martel (c. 686–741), Duke and Prince of the Franks and Mayor of the Palace in the Merovingian dynasty, was one of the great contributors to the expansion of Christianity in Frisia. In 734, he ordered the widespread destruction of pagan Frisian sanctuaries. From the middle of the seventh century to the early ninth, prominent missionaries such as Willibrord (658–739), Boniface (c. 672–754), Lebuinus (?–c. 775), Sturm (c. 705–779), Willehad (c. 745–789), and Ludger (742–809) were very active in destroying a number of pagan centers of worship throughout Frankish territory. As Richard E. Sullivan notes, Lebuinus enunciated the seriousness of the Frankish military threat to the Saxons in the North German Plain when he stated: If you are not willing to become adherents of God […] there is a king in the neighboring land who will enter your land, conquer and devastate it. He will wear you out with many wars, drive you

25 C.J. Cadoux, The Early Church and the World. A History of the Christian Attitude to Pagan Society and the State down to the Time of Constantinus, Edinburgh 1925, p. 588. 26 E.A. Ryan, The Rejection of Military Service by the Early Christians, in “Theological Studies”, 13, 1952, pp. 1–32, here p. 27.

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into exile, or even kill you, and give your property to whomever he wishes. You and your posterity will be his subjects27.

Pepin III, the younger son of Charles Martel, is well-known as a major warrior in the fight against pagan enemies of Christianity. He defeated the kingdom of Lombards in 751 at the Pontiff’s request, and in 756 gifted Ravenna to the Roman Curia, which came to be called the Donation of Pepin28. The Carolingian dynasty, which began with the birth of Pepin III in 714, culminated in the reign of Charles the Great. In 772, Charles destroyed Irminsul, a sacral pillar-like object venerated by the Saxons. He also ordered the above-mentioned Ludger to carry out the demolition of a pagan temple on Heligoland Island. At the same time, Charles the Great had initiated a process territorial and evangelical expansion. He described those who engaged in evangelical works as ecclesiae milites, a term which appeared in Epistola de litteris colendis (reducted in 784 or 785)29. This semi-legal document called for individuals to adopt an ideal monastic life in order to accelerate the Carolingian Renaissance. Crucially, a number of erudite clerics were expected to become leading figures in the destruction of non-Christian worship. In this sense, they were by no means simply soldiers in the metaphorical sense. The comparison of clerics to soldiers was a common theme in discussions among early church fathers. Yet the comparison was naturally opposed to the Christian pacifism expounded by Jesus in his lifetime. Regardless, a series of complex circumstances compelled Christians to become actual soldiers, and the legal justification of Christian soldiering began to take shape in the early eleventh century. It was in this period that the sanctification of deceased knights gained gradual popularity and that even bishops began arming themselves30. Around the year 1140, Johannes Gratianus edited the Concordia discordantium canonum, also known as Decretum Gratiani. In Pars II, Causa XXIII of this comprehensive collection of canon law, Gratianus addressed the topic of war. His conclusion was that the use of armed force was justified if certain conditions were satisfied31. Susumu Yamauchi’s observation concerning the historical background of Gratianus’s Decretum is worth noting. The Decretum was rooted in the just war theory developed by Cicero and Augustine. The former stressed the doctrine of secular just

27 R.E. Sullivan, The Carolingian Missionary and the Pagan, in “Speculum”, 28, 1953, 4, pp. 705–740, here pp. 720, 726, and 733 f. 28 T.F.X. Noble, The Republic of St. Peter. The Birth of the Papal State, 680–825, Philadelphia PA 1984, p. 93. 29 A. Boretius / V. Krause (eds.), Capitularia regum Francorum, vol. 1, Hannoverae 1960–1980, pp. 78 f. 30 T. Sugizaki, Shūdōin no rekishi: Sei Antoniosu kara Iezusu-kai made 修道院の歴史: 聖アントニ オスからイエズス会まで [History of the monastery. From Saint Anthony to the Jesuits], Tokyo 2015, p. 205. 31 A. Winroth, The Making of Gratian’s Decretum, New York 2000.

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war and the latter’s main argument focused on the sacred aspect of war. Medieval canon law was finally completed during the crusades and Thomas Aquinas developed a theological interpretation of the just war theory in his famous Summa Theologica (Part II of second part, question XL: Of War)32. Concerning the unlimited ecclesiastical praise for the Crusade campaign, the famous Cistercian Bernard of Clairvaux wrote a dedicatory tract to the Templars in Jerusalem, De Laude Novae Militiae: ad Milites Templi, which he completed approximately in 1136. Chapter 3 of that work is filled with high praise for the military order: But the knights of Christ may safely fight the battles of their Lord, fearing neither sin if they smite the enemy, nor danger at their own death; since to inflict death or to die for Christ is no sin, but rather, an abundant claim to glory. […] The Lord freely accepts the death of the foe who has offended him, and yet more freely gives himself for the consolation of his fallen knight. […] If he [the knight of Christ] kills an evildoer, he is not a mankiller, but, if I may so put it, a killer of evil. He is evidently the avenger of Christ towards evildoers and he is rightly considered a defender of Christians33.

Arnaud Amalric, a colleague of Clairvaux offered further direct religious justification for such violent executions in the name of Christianity. In 1209, at the beginning of the Albigensian Crusade, he inspired inhabitants of Béziers, in southern France, to kill all heretics, which resulted in the Massacre at Béziers34. These ecclesiastical-military collaborations produced the northern crusades or Baltic crusades, the Reconquista in the Iberian Peninsula, and European expansion and conquest in the Americas35.

32 S. Yamauchi, Bunmei wa bōryoku o koerareruka 文明は暴力を超えられるか [Can civilization overcome violence?]; Thomas Aquinas, The Summa Theologica (Great Books of the Western World, 18), vol. 2, 2nd ed., Chicago IL 1990, pp. 577–581. 33 Bernard of Clairvaux, In Praise of the New Knighthood, in R.J. Zwi Werblowsky (ed.), Treatises III (The Works of Bernard of Clairvaux), Kalamazzo MI 1977, p. 134. 34 W.L. Wakefield, Heresy, Crusade and Inquisition in Southern France, 1100–1250, Berkeley CA 1974; J.R. Strayer, The Albigensian Crusades, Ann Arbor MI 1992; L.W. Marvin, The Occitan War. A Military and Political History of the Albigensian Crusade, 1209–1218, Cambridge 2008. 35 E. Christiansen, The Northern Crusades, London 1997; W. L. Urban, The Baltic Crusade, Chicago IL 1994; A.V. Murray (ed.), Crusade and Conversion on the Baltic Frontier, 1150–1500, Aldershot 2001; R. Martín Guzumán, Jihad vs. Cruzada en al-andalus: La Reconquista española como ideología a partir del siglo XI y sus proyecciones en la colonización de América, in “Revista de Historia de América”, 131, 2002, pp. 9–65.

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3 Christianity and violence beyond Europe with special reference to the Jesuit Missions in Spanish America 3.1 The Jesuit military metaphor In 1517, Erasmus of Rotterdam finished writing, Querela pacis, whose main focus was firm opposition to war and ecumenical reconciliation between Protestantism and Catholicism. His contribution to the development of irenic thought was highly respected among his contemporaries in the first half of the sixteenth century36. Despite not referring to real arms or weaponry, however, Erasmus’s other famous treatise Enchiridion militis christiani is replete with military metaphor. One passage from the chapter entitled, “The armor of the Christian militia”, offers a typical example: […] we must prepare two weapons in particular against the seven tribes […] that is to say, against the whole horde of vices, principally the seven deadly sins. These two weapons are prayer and knowledge. Paul wishes us to be always armed, bidding us to pray without ceasing. Devout prayer raises our desires to heaven, a stronghold inaccessible to the enemy, and knowledge in turn fortifies the intellect with salutary opinions so that the one will not be lacking to the other37.

Those with strong bonds to Christianity tended to use the military metaphor. In order to examine this thesis, we will review some historical examples. In the Cluny Abbey, a former Benedictine monastery founded by William I, Duke of Aquitaine, in present Saône-et-Loire, France, the second abbot, Odo, wrote a biography of Saint Gerald of Aurillac just after taking office in the early ninth century38. Gerald was a noble landlord in Limousin, central France. In the biography, he was often described as a heroic figure with arms to defend the weak and poor, although he always achieved victory without bloodshed. The fighting feudal lord Gerald is perhaps the first to put forth an ecclesiastical approbation of “just violence”. Odo of Cluny read the descriptions in the Book of Job closely, and in Odo’s Moralium, the warrior was authorized to wear a sword at his side to defend common people. In his work, Odo permitted the warrior to have a religious 36 V. Lavenia, El soldado cristiano y su capellán: disciplina de la guerra y catequesis en la temprana edad moderna, in V. Undurraga - R. Gaune (eds.), Formas de control y disciplinamiento. Chile, América y Europa, siglos XVI–XIX, Santiago 2014, pp. 328–352, here p. 328 and 335. 37 J.W. O’Malley (ed.), Enchiridion. De contemptu mundi; De vidua christiana, in Collected Works of Erasmus, vol. 66, Toronto 1988, pp. 30 f. 38 Odo of Cluny, The Life of Saint Gerald of Aurillac, in T.F.X. Noble / T. Head (eds.), Soldiers of Christ. Saints and Saints’ Lives from Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, University Park PA 1995, pp. 293–362.

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life without becoming a priest39. On the other hand, those in the Order of Cluny often presented themselves as defenders of a fort or citadel, indicating a consciousness of their role in the fight against evil. Such metaphor continued in the writings of Peter the Venerable, an abbot of the same order in the twelfth century40. The connection between the military metaphor and the religious order became all the clearer when we consider that the founder himself was an ex-soldier. This was the case of Society of Jesus. The first Superior General, Ignatius of Loyola, employed a similar metaphor in his famous Spiritual Exercises. On the fourth day of the second week, Loyola referred to a meditative method concerning the two flags of Jesus Christ and Lucifer: The one [standard] of Christ our supreme Captain and Lord; the other [standard] of Lucifer, the mortal enemy of our human nature41. The important issue to note here is that fighting against the enemies of the Christian faith was more than simply metaphorical for Loyola. In fact, he sent a letter to Charles V, the ruler of the Spanish Empire, to launch a military attack against the Ottoman Empire42. Even after the death of Loyola in 1556, Loyola’s military spirit lived on as a fundamental inspiration to future Jesuits who held him in symbolic memory as among the Society’s supreme commanders. One such pictorial image is a portrait exhibited in the Church of the Gesù in Rome, which represents Loyola clad in armor43. Interestingly, certain Jesuit colleges incorporated the Society’s military spirit into their curriculum. The most exemplary case is the Jesuit Imperial College in Madrid, Spain. Supported by royal patronage, the Imperial College reached the height of its prosperity in the seventeenth century. One of the peculiar characteristics of this College was that it provided military training both to instruct students in the techniques of warfare and to foster discipline. The curriculum’s main purpose was to produce talented individuals who would go on to serve in the national administration in the future. Among those teaching at the College, there were distinguished Jesuits who consciously instilled a military spirit in their students. Alonso de Andrade was the most representative figure on this matter. According to José Simón Díaz44, Andrade held the position as prefect (prefecto) in 1641–1642 and published several books on the subject of military pedagogy45. The presence of José Cassani in the eighteenth century 39 S. Vicchio, The Image of the Biblical Job. A History, vol. 2: Job in the Medieval World, Eugene OR 2006, p. 38. 40 T. Sugizaki, Shūdōin no rekishi: Sei Antoniosu kara Iezusu-kai made 修道院の歴史: 聖アントニオ スからイエズス会まで [History of the Monastery. From Saint Anthony to the Jesuits] pp. 103 and 205. 41 I. of Loyola, The Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius, Garden City NY 1964, p. 75 (Second Week, Fourth Day, A Meditation on Two Standards). 42 De Lucca, Jesuits and Fortifications, pp. 10–13. 43 Ibid., p. xxiv (caption of the image: The young Ignatius in armor). 44 J. Simón Díaz, Historia del Colegio imperial de Madrid, vol. 1, Madrid 1952, p. 541. 45 Alonso de Andrade, El buen soldado catolico, y sus obligaciones, Madrid 1642; Alonso de Andrade, Milicia espiritual, Madrid 1662.

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was also outstanding. He wrote a book to celebrate the bicentenary of the Society’s foundation in 1734, in which he explained that Loyola founded the “celestial militia” and that all members of the Society were the “sons of Captain” Loyola46.

3.2 Jesuit spiritual conquest in the New World For the Jesuits, the New World “discovered” by Christopher Columbus represented the missionary frontier47. That vast and unexplored land was filled with unexpected danger, difficulty, and uncertainty for European missionaries. In the mid-eighteenth century, Pedro Lozano described one Jesuit college founded in Asunción, Paraguay as a “plaza de armas” (weapons square) from where “our sacred soldiers were dispatched, in order to conquer an immense region of infidels”48. Antonio Ruiz de Montoya, one of Lozano’s colleagues who lived almost a century before, published an emblematic book in Madrid in 1639, entitled Conquista Espiritual49. Andrés Pérez de Ribas, Montoya’s contemporary colleague working in northwestern Mexico, employed the phrase “los soldados de la milicia de la Compañía de Jesús” (the soldiers of the militia of the Society of Jesus) in the subtitle of his own book published in 164550. It was in these circumstances that military metaphors definitively transformed into more practical affairs. Manuel Joaquín Uriarte, one of the Jesuits who engaged in missionary activities in Maynas, in present-day eastern Peru and Ecuador, wrote a suggestive letter to his brother in Spain in 1752. According to Uriarte, the region’s indigenous peoples did not heed evangelical voices without “eco de la pólvora” (sounds of gunpowder), and thus it was necessary that missionaries resort to the force of arms in their quest to establish a Christian republic in the New World51. The evangelical policy developed in ancient-medieval Europe was surely transmitted to Spanish colonies overseas. Paraguay in the late seventeenth century offers an exemplary case. Bartolomé Ximénez was responsible of evangelizing Tobatín

46 José Cassani, Glorias del segundo siglo de la Compañia de Jesus, Madrid 1734, Prologo a los RR. PP. y HH. de la Compañía de Jesús. 47 H.E. Bolton, The Mission as a Frontier Institution in the Spanish-American Colonies, in “American Historical Review,” 23, 1, 1917, 1, pp. 42–61. 48 Pedro Lozano, Historia de la Compañia de Jesus en la provincia del Paraguay, vol. 2, Farnborough 1970 (first published 1754–1756), p. 806, no. 3. 49 Antonio Ruiz de Montoya, La conquista espiritual del Paraguay: hecha por los religiosos de la compañia de Jesus en las provincias de Paraguay, Parana, Uruguay y Tape, Madrid 1639. 50 Andrés Pérez de Ribas, Historia de los trivmphos de nvestra santa fee entre gentes las mas barbaras: y fieras del nuevo orbe: consequidos por los soldados de la milicia de la Compañia de Iesvs en las missiones de la prouincia de Nueua-España, Madrid 1645. 51 Manuel de Uriarte, Carta del mismo padre, al mismo señor, Turini, 6 de noviembre de 1752, in Diego Davin (ed.), Cartas edificantes, y curiosas, escritas de las missiones estrangeras, por algunos missioneros de la Compañia de Jesus, vol. 16, Madrid 1757, pp. 75–83, here p. 80.

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Indians in northern Paraguay, and although appealing to them repeatedly to accept Christianity, his efforts proved utterly unfruitful. In this impasse, Ximénez took emergency action: compelle intrare. It was not his original choice to do so, but he eventually felt compelled to adopt that missionary policy, which had been executed more than a half-century prior. In doing so, he cited the earlier efforts of Justo Mansilla and Lucas Quesada, Jesuits that had engaged in a missionary expedition against infidel Indians in western Paraguay52. A very similar attitude appeared in the letter of Bernardo Nusdorffer in 1722. In that year he carried out a visit to the village of Guachaquis, home of the Guayakí or Aché Indians in eastern Paraguay, but again the efforts at verbal persuasion proved ineffectual. It was in this situation that Nusdorffer mobilized a phrase of Gospel, compelle intrase (sic.), no doubt a reference to compelle intrare and the Gospel of St. Luke 14:2353. In-depth research has demonstrated that well-organized indigenous militias carried out these missionary campaigns under Jesuit military instruction and direction54. The history of indigenous military organization in the Jesuit reductions of Paraguay seems unusual and surprising, but was nonetheless real. In fact, indigenous militias became permanent features of frontier missions. The above-mentioned case study of Maynas, in the eastern part of present-day Peru and Ecuador, is worth explaining further. In early 1640, Spanish governor Jerónimo Vaca de Vega took the initiative in establishing indigenous militias throughout all of the region’s Jesuit reductions. Each military company corresponded to a specific ethnic group. The standard-bearer (alférez), one of the militia’s commissioned officers, was equipped with a white flag embroidered with a colored cross55. These indigenous militias took shape in order to provide self-defense against Paulista bandeirante invasions, but in certain cases were mobilized to capture infidel Indians. In his diary, Samuel Fritz recommended such mobilizations twice per year56,

52 “[…] para conducir a este horroroso monstruo [Tobatín Indians] a las puertas celestiales, o al redil cristiano, debía recurrirse al duro ‘compelle intrare’”, Bartolomé Ximénez, Misión a los tobatines, in A. Nagy / F. Perez-Maricevich (eds.), Tres encuentros con América, Asunción 1967, pp. 51–52, chap. 8. See also A. Sepp, Jardín de flores paracuario, Buenos Aires 1974, pp. 95 f. For the missionary expedition organized by Mansilla, see M.L. Salina (ed.), Cartas anuas de la Provincia Jesuítica del Paraguay 1650–1652 y 1652–1654, Resistencia 2008, p. 51. 53 Carta do Padre Bernardo Nusdorffer, 1722, in H. Vianna (ed.), Jesuítas e bandeirantes no Uruguai (1611–1758), (Manuscritos da Coleção de Angelis, 4.), Rio de Janeiro 1970, pp. 248–250, here p. 249. 54 K. Takeda, Las milicias guaraníes en las misiones jesuíticas del río de la plata: un ejemplo de la transferencia organizativa y tácticas militares de España a su territorio de ultramar en la primera época moderna, in “Revista de Historia Social y de las Mentalidades,”, 20, 2016, pp. 33–72. 55 J. Chantre y Herrera, Historia de las misiones de la Compañía de Jesús en el Marañón español, 1637–1767, Madrid 1901, pp. 605–609. 56 Samuel Fritz, Diario, Quito, 1997, p. 119. Citation from F.A. Lopes de Carvalho, Estrategias de conversión y modos indígenas de apropiación del cristianismo en las misiones jesuíticas de Maynas, 1638– 1767 in “Anuario de Estudios Americanos”, 73, 2016, 1, pp. 99–132, here p. 109.

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and Christianized Indians often initiated these military enterprises themselves57. They were, so to speak, akin to the “janissaries” (new soldiers) of the Ottoman Empire58. In Maynas as well as other frontier missions of Spanish America, missionary expeditions targeted mainly children of indigenous noble families. These young generations were expected to become able guides and interpreters in order to communicate with their parents and relatives59. The missionary-military enterprise was often executed with the goal of bringing back converted Indians. In Maynas, the militia mobilized a total of 39 times from 1750 to 1761, and 77 percent of all mobilizations comprised of actions to capture Christianized fugitives60. José Chantre y Herrrera frankly explained their utter dependence on converted Indians in realizing this type of expedition61. In another case, a very similar event occurred in the Mojo missions of the northeastern part of present-day Bolivia. Certain anonymous documents in the mid-eighteenth century explained that newly converted indigenous neophytes eagerly took the initiative in these enterprises with weapons in hand. They were so obedient to the Jesuits and served as interpreters in order to facilitate conversion of infidel Indians. When battles began, they made their traditional surprise attack in the middle of the night62. One of the outstanding characteristics of the Mojo missions was the presence of captives as booty for the neophytes. Captured Indians were placed under the protection of indigenous participants of military expeditions and forced to be baptized. On this subject, it is worth referring to the meticulous research into baptismal records, particularly those from the Loreto mission during the period of 1701–1766. Interestingly, information on the master-servant relationship was recorded in those records. For example: 57 F.A. Lopes de Carvalho, Entradas missionárias e processos étnicos na Amazônia: o caso das missões jesuíticas de Maynas (c. 1638–1767), in “Anos 90”, 23, 2016,43, pp. 321–366, here p. 347. 58 The Janissaries is a “a group of professional soldiers recruited originally from non-Muslim war captives from newly conquered areas, and later primarily from the sultan’s Christian subjects in Greece and the Balkans”, J. Black, Patterns of Warfare, 1400–1800 in J.H. Bentley / S. Subrahmanyam / M.E. Wiesner-Hanks (eds.), The Construction of a Global World, 1400–1800 CE (The Cambridge World History, 6/2), Cambridge 2017, pp. 29–49, here pp. 37 f. 59 P. Maroni, Noticias auténticas del famoso Río Marañón y misión apostólica de la Compañía de Jesús de la Provincia de Quito en los dilatados bosques de dicho río, escribíalas por los años de 1738, un misionero de la misma compañía: seguidas de las Relaciones de los P.P.A. de Zárate y J. Magnin (1735– 1740), Iquitos 1988, p. 203. 60 F.A. Lopes de Carvalho, Estrategias de conversión y modos indígenas, p. 109; F.A. Lopes de Carvalho, Entradas missionárias e processos étnicos, pp. 343 f. 61 J. Chantre y Herrera, Historia de las misiones de la Compañía de Jesús en el Marañón español, p. 143. 62 Descripción de los Mojos que están a cargo de la Compañía de Jesús en la Provincia del Perú. Año de 1754, in J.M. Barnadas / M. Plaza (eds.), Mojos, seis relaciones jesuíticas: geografía, etnografía, evangelización, 1670–1763, Cochabamba, 2005, p. 109, 124; D. Villar / L. Córdoba / I. Combès (eds.), Un documento sobre los panos meridionales en el Mojos jesuítico (1753), in “Revista Andina”, 50, 2010, pp. 231–245, here pp. 235, 237.

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the following young children were taken by the residents of this mission [from the battlefield]. […] Pablo, one year old, who was brought by Pablo Chahiruco, […] Bárbara, 24 years old, whose ancient name was Robohe, was taken by Luis Motayu. […] Pablo, approximately 6 or 7 years old, in hands of magistrate (alcalde) Phelipe Nauntaba. […] María, almost 5 or 6 years old, in hands of Juan Yucu.

According to Akira Saito, this represents a typical example of the custom of war among the indigenous people in the upper Amazon region before the arrival of Christianity63. The baptismal record in the Mojos reduction also clearly describes the captives’ living arrangements. For example, the captured Indian Andrés was listed in the house of Pedro Mari, and another prisoner Catalina, 20 years old, whose previous name was Churima, in the house of captain Pedro. These examples are proof that captured Indians were forced to live with their owner in the same residential space64. The most peculiar situation in the Mojos mission was the existence of captured Indian children in the Jesuit residence. They were, so to speak, screening young generations in order to engage in domestic and manual labor in the residence and often assisted with a range of liturgical activities. Checking on the state of health of all the inhabitants in the mission was another of these children’s important tasks. In the Jesuit document, they were denominated doméstico (domestic). After reaching adulthood, the doméstico left the Jesuit residence and assumed a hierarchically privileged position in the mission65.

4 Conclusions The main objective of this article is to provide a better understanding of religion, mainly Christianity, in historical perspective. What is the nature of religion? Is it violent or pacific? The answer is ambiguous and situational. Every religion contains both opposing characteristics. An attempt to determine the nature of religion can lead to serious misunderstanding. The characteristics of religion are deeply rooted in historical circumstances. As we have seen in this article, Christianity emphasized anti-violent attitudes in the early period. However, after receiving official approval from the political authority of the Roman Empire in 313, the teachings of Jesus were interpreted in various ways by successive generations. In the Middle Ages, the violent aspects of Christianity became more prominent, and this process persisted into the early modern period. The continuous usage of the term compelle intrare in both periods 63 A. Saito, Guerra y evangelización en las misiones jesuíticas de Moxo, in “Boletín Americanista”, 65, 2015, 1, pp. 35–56, here pp. 47, 49; see also A. Gat, War in Human Civilization, Oxford 2008. 64 A. Saito, Guerra y evangelización en las misiones jesuíticas de Moxo, p. 49. 65 A. Saito, Creation of Indian Republics in Spanish South America, in “Bulletin of the National Museum of Ethnology”, 31, 2007, 4, pp. 443–477, here pp. 460–462.

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shows how the concept of Christian violence developed, and this was nothing other than the outcome of history. The emergence of the Society of Jesus as a militant religious order in 1540 was the historical product fermented since the previous centuries. The founder, Ignatius of Loyola, drew many ideas from his military experience and the legacy of his fighting spirit lived on in future Jesuits. The organizational structure of the Society was defined by strong discipline, like a military company, and members were always ready to be dispatched to any religious battlefield in the world. The Jesuits were the promoters of violent religious thoughts rooted in the middle ages and attempted to fulfill their famous motto Ad maiorem Dei gloriam by resorting to arms in certain historical circumstances. The many cases of colonial Spanish America are clearly exemplary. Observing another religious order, we see that this militant character was not exclusive to the Jesuits. Members of Order of Saint Augustine dedicated to missionary activities in the Philippine Islands under Spanish rule also took forceful action in certain cases66. Another interesting case is the Salesians of Don Bosco. This modern religious order, founded in Turin, Italy in 1845, extended their evangelical activities all over the world, including to several countries in South America. In 2015, a photographic exhibition was held in Madrid, Spain with the topic Historical Photographs of the Shuar Indians in Ecuador in the First Half of the Twentieth Century. One of the exhibition’s most interesting photographs was a group picture showing a Salesian missionary sitting on a chair flanked by several male Shuar Indians standing with rifles in hand67. Although the circumstances in which this picture was taken are unclear, this is further proof of the connection between religion and violence throughout human history68.

66 A. Hirayama, Supein teikoku to chuka teikoku no kaiko: 16 17seiki no manira スペイン帝国と中華 帝国の邂逅: 十六・十七世紀のマニラ [An encounter between the Spanish Empire and the Chinese Empire: Manila in the 16th and 17th centuries], Tokio 2005, p. 338, 385. 67 I. Cuesta, Fotos históricas de indígenas shuar-achuar, Madrid, June 17, 2015, https://elpais.com/ elpais/2015/06/09/album/1433868721_445052.html#foto_gal_9. 68 For more information regarding the Salesian missionary activities among the Shuar Indians, see M. Gnerre, Los salesianos y los shuar: construyendo la identidad cultural, in J.E. Juncosa / V.H. Torres, et al., La presencia salesiana en Ecuador: perspectivas históricas y sociales, Ecuador 2013, pp. 567–628, https://core.ac.uk/download/pdf/84694606.pdf.

Atsuko Hirayama

Religion and Violence in the Christian Mission in Early Modern Japan 1 Introduction Violence and liberty are mutually contradictory concepts, but intellect finds a way to combine the two while cheerful charity unites and integrates the two, it is a work that surpasses my ability1.

These are the words of Jesuit missionary José de Acosta (1540–1600) in his work De procuranda Indorum salute (1588)2 in which he discusses violence in the mission. The violence he talks about fundamentally signifies “coercion”, as well as the means of coercion. For the Catholic mission that started at the same time as the conquest of the New World, violence in the mission was one of the most central discussions since the dawn of the sixteenth century. The discussion was advanced in the direction of curtailing violence by the arguments put forward by Francisco de Vitoria, Bartolomé de Las Casas, Melchor Cano, and others3. Around the time when Spanish rule was established gradually in the New World, Acosta had taken up his new post in Peru (1571–1587) and tackled this issue as a humanist and a realist, specifying the forms of violence and arguing that it is crucial to use it wisely. In the text cited above and in his other famous work Historia natural y moral de las Indias (1588)4, he applied his sharp discernment to develop his personal opinions about the missions to East Asia, of which he had no actual experience himself. He did this with information from Jesuits well-versed in the Jesuit communication systems and the region in question. Accordingly, he wrote two extremely interesting texts about the Chinese mission and also referred to the Japanese mission there5. As such, the works represent his missiology concerning all Catholic missions carried out across the world at the time; and one of the main themes in the mission was

1 José de Acosta, De procuranda Indorum salute, in Obras del P. José de Acosta, edited by P. Francisco Mateos SJ (Biblioteca de Autores Españoles, 73) Madrid 1953, p. 430 (my translation). 2 The book was written in 1578, but it took 10 years to be published with the Father General’s permission. See L. Lopetegui, P. José de Acosta S.J. y la misión, Madrid 1942. This is an excellent and basic work regarding Acosta, even though there are new studies. 3 See L. Hanke, The Spanish Struggle for Justice in the Conquest of America, Boston MA 1965, to understand the whole idea. S. Zavala, La filosofía política en la conquista de América, Ciudad de México 1977. 4 José de Acosta, Historia natural y moral de las Indias, in Obras del P. José de Acosta, especially bk. VI. 5 Parecer sobre la guerra de la China, Mexico, March 15, 1587, Respuesta a los fundamentos que justifican la guerra contra China, Mexico, March 23, 1587, in Obras del P. José de Acosta, pp. 331–345. Translation: Editage https://doi.org.10.1515/9783110643978-011

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violence. According to him, there are two main categories of violence in the mission. The first is the use of force to subjugate the “pagans” when they try to obstruct the arrival of the missionaries. The second is mental and physical coercion in the process of guiding converts to “the true faith”. The former yielded a major debate like the Valladolid Debate (1550/51) that even involved the king, but that was a classical narrative that went back to the justification of the violence of German knights in the Christianization of the countries on the Baltic coast during the Northern Crusades6. The latter explores another old theme of the Church, namely the spontaneity of faith. Hence, it can be said that Acosta offered a comprehensive view of the relationship between religion and violence for his age. Acosta refers to non-Christians newly “discovered” by Iberians as “barbarians”, defined as people distant from “right reason and the customs common to humankind”. The distance from right reason was measured according to European standards of legal and political institutions, philosophy, and writing. He classified all nonChristian “barbarians” into three stages. In the third stage people lived naked, had neither a king nor law, and engaged in cannibalism; here the use of missionary violence was allowed to guide them into the Kingdom of Heaven. However, since violence can damage faith, the condition is that its use must not bring great disorder to the mission for “the savages”. The Chinese and the Japanese lived in the first stage, and Acosta argues that in this stage nothing but hostility would result, if violence were used7. There are two types of missionary work. One is advanced in cooperation with worldly powers while the other involves missionaries interacting with the people as individuals and spreading the teachings of Christ. In this chapter, as a matter of convenience, I will refer to the former as large-scale missionary work and the latter as small-scale missionary work. The Japanese mission8, which is the topic of this paper, was initiated by Francis Xavier (1506–1552), together with two brethren and three local followers, in 1549. While it started out as small-scale missionary work, there was always an aspect of large-scale missionary work in the sense that there was the support of the Portuguese king. Conversions peaked in the early seventeenth century, as the missionaries were very successful and annually led to about 7,000 conversions.

6 For the general scope, see R. Bartlett, The Making of Europe. Conquest, Colonization and Cultural Change 950–1350, London 1993; E. Christiansen, The Northern Crusades, London 1997. 7 José de Acosta, De Procuranda, in Obras del P. José de Acosta, pp. 392 f., 419 f., 427. 8 See many works by the Jesuits like G. Schurhammer, J.F. Schütte, J. Wicki, H. Cieslik, D. Pacheco, and A. Uçerler. Japanese historians such as M. Anesaki, and A. Ebisawa wrote several classic works. Anesaki is one of the founders of academic study of the Christian Century and wrote a series of important books, especially ones analyzing Christian literature and Antichristian writings. Some of them are published in English.

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The total Catholic population then reached 350,0009, a Christian proportion of the Japanese population that has yet to be exceeded. This was the dramatic time period that Charles Boxer referred to as the “Christian Century in Japan”. However, this was also the time when those in power started attacking Christianity, and in just 30 years they created a perfect system for eliminating it from Japanese society. It is unclear exactly how many Christians were executed, but the persecution gave rise to many stories of martyrdom and created more than 200 saints and beati10. The persecution persisted until 1872. As research about the Japanese mission has largely been conducted on the basis of documents written by members of orders active at the time or held by those orders, there has been a tendency to focus on martyrdom and missionary work of advanced inculturation. Much of the inculturation goes back to Alessandro Valignano (1539–1606), who served as Visitor of the Jesuits and Provincial in the East Indies, Japan, and China. There he oversaw all Jesuit missionary activities11. He opposed the use of secular military support as a means of conducting missionary work in Japan and China, and there has been a tendency to emphasize that no violence was used by these missions for this reason. The missionaries in Japan and China were in fact not accompanied by armed forces. Yet, a careful historiographic analysis of the correspondence reveals a discussion about military intervention justified by evangelization, while use of the second form of violence described by Acosta, like coercing converts to destroy traditional Japanese religious institutions, was permissible for the Japanese mission. At the same time, the conclusions reached after much discussion about the introduction of violence was that Japan persecutes Christianity on the basis of reason of state and so the Jesuits withdrew because of the harsh persecution they were encountering in Japan. In this paper, I will be focusing on the logic arguing for the use of violence by missionaries in the Japanese mission; the logic of the Japanese rulers who persecuted Christianity; the missionaries’ understanding of that persecution; and finally,

9 Alessandro Valignano, Apología de la Compañía de Jesús de Japón y China (1598), edited by J.L. ÁlvarezTaladriz (Á-T), Nara 1998, p. 115 and fn. 61; Pedro Morejón, Sumaria y breve relación […] (1614), Archivo de la Real Academia de la Historia (Madrid), Jesuitas, 21, fol. 750. 10 C.R. Boxer, The Christian Century in Japan, 1549–1650, Manchester 1993, Appendix XIV, p. 448. The number of martyrs that were missionaries is quite accurate, but with regard to Japanese Christians, it is estimated to be minimal. Also see, Kirishitan Bunko - Iezusukai Nihonkankei Monjo キリシタン 文庫―イエズス会日本関係文書 [Christian Library. Catalogue of Jesuit documents related to Japan mission] edited by S. Obara SJ, Tokyo 1981, which contains information on documents about Japanese martyrs related to the Jesuits, reported to Rome by contemporary Jesuit members. These documents are in Archivum Romanum Societatis Iesu (ARSI) and the Collection of papers is called the Japonica-Sinica Collection (Jap. Sin.). See especially Jap. Sin. 62-I. 11 See J.F. Moran, The Japanese and the Jesuits. Alessandro Valignano in the Sixteenth-century Japan, London 1993; J.F. Schütte, Valignanos Missionsgrundsätze für Japan, Roma 1951–1958; Alessandro Valignano, Sumario de las cosas de Japón (1583), edited by Á-T, Tokyo 1985; Alessandro Valignano, Adiciones del Sumario de Japón (1592), edited by Á-T, Nara 1991, and Apología.

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the reason why the missionaries identified reason of state as the reason for their persecution. The discussion about the use of military help by missionaries involved with Japan fundamentally differed from such discussions about the missions to the Baltic coast and to the Americas. In the latter cases, the discussions focused on how to justify violence that was already perpetrated, while the former was a discussion about whether to make violence a means to further the Japanese mission. Regardless of whether military action against Japan had any chance of success, we need to note that the missionaries themselves argued for and against the use of military force. It was not only the Jesuits who argued that states with the right of Padroado or Patronato real12 in Japan should naturally support the Japanese mission, but this was also the stance of the mendicant orders as they advocated military intervention as an obvious measure for stabilizing missionary activities13. In this paper, my focus is on the Jesuit debate and the reason for this is that their activities, the time they invested, the extant documents and research far exceed those of other orders.

2 The spiritual foundations of Japan Japanese society yielded a considerable number of Catholics in a short time. To the missionaries, this was a natural result of the fact that Christianity was the truth. However, from a historical viewpoint, we have to talk about trends in Japan’s spiritual foundation. Modern Japanese cultural research highlights two points. First, there is the Japanese cultural response to foreign cultures. Researchers say that the Japanese display a “passive and quick openness” yet “possess stubborn self-affirmation”14. Moreover, they purportedly have “a humble attitude that allows them to empty themselves to what they sense and learn from it […] accept what is good from foreign countries with exceptionally keen sensitivity”, while also “saving what is old […] accumulating in layers […] the various cultural elements that they receive”15. 12 A system in which the royal power has the right to preside over the new churches founded in the area newly evangelized (e.g. appointment of bishops), instead of covering all expenses for them. In the expansion of the new territories of Portugal and Castilla, the kings gained more rights by the beginning of the sixteenth century. 13 Documentos franciscanos de la Cristiandad de Japón 1593–1597, edited by Á-T. Nara 1973, pp. 80, 124–127, 130 f., 135; Alessandro Valignano, Apología, pp. 132–153. 14 See G. Sansom, The Western World and Japan, Tokyo 1950; M. Maruyama, Studies in the Intellectual History of Tokugawa Japan, Princeton NJ 1971, Preface; see also T. Watsuji, Sakoku 鎖国 [Seclusion policy], Tokyo 1950, and Nihon seishinshi kenkyu 日本精神史研究 [Research in Japanese spiritual history], Tokyo 1962. 15 M. Kurozumi, Fukusuusei no Nihon shiso 複数性の日本思想 [Plurality of Japanese thought], Tokyo, 2006, pp. 17 f., 21 f., and 154. According to Watsuji, the Japanese had a tendency to idealize the culture of other countries and to revere it as an ideal (Zoku Nihonn Seisinsi Kenkyu 続日本精神史研究 [Further research in Japanese spiritual history], Tokyo 1962, pp. 308–311).

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The idea that everything imported is “good” comes from a historical background of having almost no experience of military invasions, along with having “local characteristics of almost no wariness of foreigners”16. This is one of the reasons why the Catholic mission developed so quickly in such a short period of time. Second, there is the Japanese religious tradition. Buddhism transmitted via China had already been influenced by Daoism and other religions, but it was transformed into a multilayered system by the Japanese indigenous belief of Shinto; thus, it was received as a kind of supplement without causing division in the religious minds of people17. Buddhism differs from monotheistic religions that place regulations and precepts on the outside as it views the individual’s understanding of life as the starting point for salvation; this is an important point. Since medieval times, the discourse had been “The methods of practice differ between Buddhist creeds, but the goal is the same”; thus, neither existing nor new sects – even when they had different beliefs about the next world – attacked each other and avoided conflict. This was the reflection of a conflict-averse Japanese society18. The local lords of the Sengoku (Warring States) period (1490s–1580s) fervently prayed to the gods and the buddhas for victory on the battlefield as a way to ensure the security and survival of their house. They also made large offerings and granted privileges to shrines and temples thought to provide better miraculous efficacy by prayer, but this did not restrict their subjects’ faith; thus, all sects were protected as long as they abided by the principle of not criticizing others19. At the same time, ordinary people were exhausted by the turmoil and fluidity of Sengoku society, which is why they admired the “sincere” attitudes of the missionaries and felt goodwill toward them. The dogmatic differences between Christianity and traditional religions were not very meaningful to the common people. Kurozumi, a researcher of Japanese intellectual history, argues that it satisfied the intellectuals’ “longing for a noble and primordial charisma that understands the world as a unified whole”, while truth-seeking and earnest warriors and women were impressed by the

16 M. Anesaki, Kirishitan dendo no kohai 切支丹伝道の興廃 [Rise and fall of the Christian mission], Tokyo 1930, p. 68. According to Maruyama, this attitude was re-evaluated after the defeat in World War II as a lack of substantial independence (Studies in the Intellectual History, Preface). 17 M. Kurozumi, Fukusuusei, pp. 154, 183–185, 280–282; T. Watsuji, Sakoku, pp. 314–317. Also see A. Yoshie, Sinbutsu shugou 神仏習合 [Syncretistic fusion Shinto and Buddhism], Tokyo 1996. 18 Cf. M. Kurozumi, Fukusuusei, pp. 398–402; Luís Frois, Historia de Japam, edited by J. Wiccki, Lisboa 1976–1984, pt. 1, chap. 27. 19 The Nichiren Sect used refutation of other sects as a means of spreading their beliefs, but they became less aggressive as they were persecuted by many domain lords. The Ikko-shu (single-minded school) had the same movement that engaged in debate with other sects and had a political dimension; see T. Watsuji, Nihon rinri shiso shi 日本倫理思想史 [History of Japanese ethical thought], Tokyo 1979. The latter sect was frequently compared to or regarded as the same as Christians. According to F. Pasio, Hideyoshi warned Nobunaga that Christians were more dangerous than Ikko-shu (Letter to Claudio Acquaviva [1543–1615], dated October 4, 1587, ARSI, Jap. Sin. 10-II, fol. 275. Alessandro Valignano, Adiciones, pp. 370 f.).

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principles of Catholicism that encouraged morality and sincerity20. There were quite a few converts among the warlords and cultured persons around Toyotomi Hideyoshi (r. 1582–1598), who unified Japan at the end of the Sengoku period21. The Christian apologetic Myotei Mondo22 written in 1605 by Fabian Fukan (or Fukunsai Habian)23, a Japanese writer working as an assistant to the Jesuits, reveals a God who hears the sorrows and sufferings of the Japanese people living in times of war, and answers the prayers of ordinary people. As Paramore says, this was somewhat different from the Catholic Church-mediated salvation preached by the Jesuits at that time, which built on the decrees of the Council of Trent24. Possibly this was the result of Fabian’s Buddhist inspired understanding of Christianity.

3 The missionary expulsion edict and the prohibition of Christianity Toyotomi Hideyoshi ordered the expulsion of Christian missionaries on July 19, 1587, before dawn. He had spoken cordially with Vice-Provincial of the Jesuits Gaspar Coelho (1582–1590) the day before; so this came as a great surprise to the missionaries25. Subsequently, Toyotomi was defeated (1600) and Tokugawa Ieyasu, the founder of the Tokugawa Shogunate (1603–1868) of unified Japan, carried on the same policy. The second Shogun, Ieyasu’s son Hidetada, extended similar expulsion edicts across Japan, after which the third Shogun Iemitsu completed a nationwide prohibition of Christianity and persecution of missionaries and native Christians by the late 1660s.

20 M. Kurozumi, Fukusuusei, pp. 148 f., 189; cf. H. Ohkuwa, Nihonkinsei no shisou to bukkyou 日本近 世の思想と仏教 [Early modern Japanese thought and Buddhism], Kyoto 1989. 21 Luís Frois, Historia, pt. 2, chap. 57; G. Elison, Deus Destroyed, Cambridge MA 1973, p. 110. 22 The Myotei Dialogues. A Japanese Christian Critique of Native Traditions, edited by J. Baskinda and R. Bowring, Leiden / Boston MA 2015. 23 Japanese assistant to the missionaries. He was educated at a Buddhist temple and was trained very well in Japanese, literature, and religious argumentation. He joined the Jesuits in 1586 and played an important role in writing sermons and publishing in the Society of Jesus, but he was not allowed to be ordained. Later he left the order and then declared a renunciation of his faith. He advocated a firm anti-Church stance. Cf. Refutation of Deus by Fabian, edited by E. Lowell Hibrard, Tokyo 1963; K. Paramore, Ideology and Christianity in Japan, Abingdon 2009, pp. 18–37. 24 Ibid. 25 Luís Frois, Historia, pt. 2, chap. 16; G. Elison, Deus Destroyed, pp. 111–115.

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3.1 Hideyoshi’s prohibition edict and its reasons The following are the main points of the two documents26 in which Hideyoshi ordered the expulsion of the missionaries and the Christian lord Takayama Ukon27: 1) Japan is a land of the gods, so it is extremely bad that they [the missionaries] spread evil teachings from the Christian countries. 2) It is an unheard-of outrage that they approach people in Japan, turn them into Christians, and encourage them to destroy shrines and temples. When a vassal receives a province, a district, a village, or another form of a fief, he must consider it as a property entrusted to him on a temporary basis. It is extremely unreasonable for lords to force this religion on the peasants of the land in light of this28. 3) (Hideyoshi had understood that) the missionaries, by their wisdom and knowledge, could at will entice people to become believers, but it is outrageous that they engaged in violent transgressions against Buddhist teachings; so, the priests should be sent home to their countries within 20 days. Those who come to Japan to trade are not a problem. 4) Anyone whose fief or rice harvest each year is expected over some amount have to abide by the will of their master, if he likes to be a Christian. The common people may do as they please. In addition to the aforementioned points, he issued a prohibition of bringing Japanese people abroad and selling them as slaves; he also criticized and prohibited the slaughtering and eating of cows and horses29. The Jesuit Luís Frois, who wrote about the Japanese mission in detail, described the destruction of shrines and 26 The first is Tensho 15-nen 6-gatsu 18-nichi tsuke Oboe 天正十五年六月十八日付覚 [Memorandum dated June 18, the 15th year of Tensho (Japanese lunar calendar)], which was for the Japanese, especially Ise Shintoist. The second is Tensho 15-nen 6-gatsu 19-nichi tsuke Sadame 天正十五年六月十 九日付定 [Ordinance dated June 19, the 15th year of Tensho] was handed to the Portuguese Capitan Monteiro; cf. Frois’s translation (ARSI, Jap. Sin. 51, fols. 50–51, there are some misunderstandings of the original). The documents were published by several researchers since their discovery in the 1930s; C.R. Boxer, The Christian Century, pp. 145–148; G. Elison, Deus Destroyed, pp. 115–118; D.J. Lu, Japan. A Documentary History, New York 2005, pp. 196 f., and others translated them into English. Cf. Kurozumi, Fukususei, pp. 104–137. 27 The most famous Christian Lord (1552–1615), beatified in February 2017. After his fief was confiscated, he served one of his friends. After the expulsion edict of 1614, he defected to Manila along with his family; see J. Laures SJ, Studies on Takayama Ukon, Macau 1955. 28 Cf. C. Kanda, Bateren Tsuihourei ni kansuru itikousatu 伴天連追放令に関する一考察 [An inquiry about the expulsion edict of missionaries], in “Toyo Daigaku Bungakubu Kiyo 東洋大学文学部紀要” [Bulletin of the faculty of literature of the University of Toyo] 37, 2011, pp. 65–110. 29 For more than 1,000 years, the Japanese generally had not eaten beef, horse meet, or pork under the influence of Buddhist teachings; cf. Xavier’s letter, Epistolae S. Francisci Xaverii aliaque eius scripta. Tomus II, edited by G. Schurhammer SJ and J. Wicki SJ (Monumenta Historica Soc. Jesu. Romae, 67–68), Roma, 1944/45, Letter and para. numbers 85: 15; 96: 27.

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temples as victories over the devil in his book, Historia de Japam. He also records that some Christian lords opposed Coelho’s recommendations and were reluctant to destroy them30. The Christian lords and aristocrats told the missionaries how such violent acts would incite antipathy among the Japanese, but there were very few missionaries who understood the gravity of this advice31. According to Kurozumi’s summary, Hideyoshi’s intent for the prohibition lay in his declaration that “While the freedom to choose one’s faith is given, even the slightest risk of disorder will cause tension and has to be curbed” and that “If this social understanding is violated, it is just natural that any one is punished”32. Hideyoshi bore in mind the popular aversion to the destruction of temples, but he also enforced his peace and declared that he was the one in charge. “Freedom to choose one’s faith” did not mean what it means today, but signified a choice from among Buddhist sects, as Christianity was regarded as one of them33. Hideyoshi made an inquiry by letter to the governor-general of the Philippines: “If I were to dispatch Japanese teachers to preach the teachings of Shintoism in your country, confuse the populace, and lead them astray, would you be happy about this as the lord of the realm?”34. Previous studies have concluded that the main objective of Hideyoshi’s expulsion edict was to take back Nagasaki (Kyushu) and its port that had been given to the Jesuits by the local lord as well as to dismantle the domains of Christian lords where people had been converted35. However, we should not underestimate the shock that those in power and the common people received when foreigners destroyed pillars of Japanese spiritual life36. This has not been considered important in previous studies of early Christianity in Japan. Another point we should pay attention to is that the only persons whose conversion he prohibited were warriors in top administrative positions, while the common people were not subject to the order.

30 Luís Frois, Historia, pt. 3, chap. 15. 31 Valignano states that the Christian lords were critical of the missionaries’ destruction of shrines and temples on some occasions; J.F. Schütte, Valignanos Missionsgrundsätze, vol. 1, p. 329), but the only ones to name this as the reason for the persecution are Orgatino (Letter dated March 10, 1589, Nagasaki, Jap. Sin. 11-I, fols. 66–72, edited by Á-T, in El Padre viceprovincial Gaspar Coelho ¿“Capitan de armas o Pastor de almas”?, “Sapientia: The Eichi University Review”, 1978, 7, pp. 43–78) and Pedro Morejón (Letter dated Jan. 4, 1613, Jap. Sin. 15-II, fols. 221–223). 32 M. Kurozumi, Fukusuusei, pp. 108 f. 33 Cf. Xavier’s letter, Epistolae S. Francisci Xaverii, letter and para. number 96: 6. 34 Dated September 7, 1597, Ikoku ofuku shokan shu 異国往復書翰集 [Correspondence between Japan and overseas], edited by N. Murakami, Tokyo 1966, pp. 79–80. 35 H. Shimizu, Hakata to Hideyoshi no Tensho kinkyo rei o megutte 博多と秀吉の天正禁教令を巡っ て [An essay about Hakata and the missionary expulsion edict of Hideyoshi], Umi o watatta Kirisutokyo 海を渡ったキリスト教 [Christianity across the sea], Fukuoka 2010; see also N. Asao, Sakoku 鎖 国 [Seclusion policy], Tokyo 1975. 36 S. Kawamura SJ, Sengoku shukyo shakai, shiso shi 戦国宗教社会＝思想 [Religious and social thought in the Sengoku period], Tokyo 2011, pp. 306–319.

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3.2 The Tokugawa Shogunate policy and the prohibition of Christianity The missionary expulsion edict was not strictly implemented37, but it remained a current law. In early 1590, Mendicant orders which were established in Manila under Spanish Patronato intended and started participation in the Japanese mission. Hideyoshi would not expel them from Japan as he wanted to expand trade. Still, in 1597, he had six missionaries crucified as well as 20 Japanese Christians in Nagasaki38. This not only greatly shocked the missionaries but also caused a zeal for martyrdom in the Catholic world. The Jesuits who had settled in Japan took care not to provoke Hideyoshi since they feared expulsion39, but the mendicant orders mainly turned to the common people who were not subject to the prohibition and engaged in vigorous missionary work. Accordingly, the number of adherents increased. Tokugawa Ieyasu was focused on maintaining international trade in the course of the first ten years or so of the new shogunate in Edo. During this time, he met with the Jesuit vice-provincial (1607) and the bishop of Japan (1606), made donations and loans to destitute priests, and was on friendly terms with the Spanish mendicant priests from Manila. This was because both Hideyoshi and Ieyasu thought that the missionaries and the merchants belonged together. Ieyasu also tolerated the evangelization of the common people and the church-building of the Franciscans, sending a letter permitting missionaries to stay in Japan to the Governor-General in Manila40. Notably, at the same time, in 1602, he clearly prohibited the evangelization and conversion of members of the warrior class. This had the same goal as Hideyoshi’s prohibition edict, para. 4. According to some missionaries, Ieyasu expressed his discomfort over the proselitizing activities as “It is like a group of 10 Bonzos preaching the teachings of the Buddha in Rome or Sevilla”. The missionaries called this sophistry and were unable to understand why the Japanese were deceived “by Bonzos working for the devil”41. Around 1607, there were 3,000 to 4,000 Christians in Edo42 with respect to 150,000 habitants according to the ex-governor general of the Philippines, Rodrigo de Vivero43.

37 C.R. Boxer, The Christian Century, pp. 152 f. 38 They were crucified on February 5, 1597, beatified in 1627, and canonized in 1862. All the missionaries were Franciscans (four Spaniards, a creole born in Mexico, and a Portuguese). 39 Alessandro Valignano, Apología, pp. 16 f., 44–49. 40 Log of Ieyasu’s secretary, Zotei ikoku nikki sho 増訂異国日記抄[Revised and supplemented register of overseas correspondence], edited by N. Murakami, Tokyo, 1966, pp. 244–246. T. Gonoi, Tokugawashoki Kirisitansi kenkyu 徳川初期キリシタン史研究 [Study of Christian history in the first period of the Tokugawa Shogunate], Tokyo 1992, pp. 9 f. and 14. 41 J. Gil, Hidalgos y samurais. España y Japón en los siglos XVI y XVII, Madrid 1991, p. 104. 42 Luis Cerqueira (Bishop of Japan 1598–1614) to Acquaviva, dated Oct. 10, 1612 (ARSI, Jap. Sin. 21-I, fols. 221–223), Pedro Morejón to Acquaviva, dated January 4, 1613 (Jap. Sin. 15-II, fols. 221–223v). 43 J. Gil, Hidalgos y samurais, p. 195. Vivero was a witness cared for by Ieyasu as a refugee from the San Francisco, shipwrecked near Edo in 1609. There is a variety of estimates regarding the population

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Ieyasu changed his policy in 1612 when he issued the priest expulsion edict in February of that year. He specified that the priests were to be expelled because “Japan is a country of the gods and a country of the Buddha”44 and in March, he dismissed the Christian retainers serving directly under him. His chief vassals did the same and about 700 retainers were expelled45. Expulsion edicts were issued, and churches were destroyed in Sunpu (where Ieyasu had retired), Edo, Kyoto, and Nagasaki46. The following year, a Christian register of about 4,000 persons was created in Kyoto, but there was a temporary relaxation of the enforcement of the expulsion edicts. However, the shogunate relocated most missionaries and about 400 influential adherents to Macao and Manila in October 1614. The only ones to remain in Japan were a small number of missionaries in hiding and other missionaries tolerated for the sake of trade47. In 1622, even stricter prohibition edicts were enforced. Yet the common people were once again not subject to the edicts, except for cases where local lords suppressed them on an individual basis.

3.3 The reasons for suppression by the Tokugawa Shogunate Previous studies have emphasized the two main reasons why Ieyasu enforced the expulsion edicts. The first one is that the two sides opposing each other in a bribery and fraud scandal were both favored retainers of his and Christians from birth. This incident made Ieyasu realize two things, one of them being that quite a few of his closest retainers were Catholics (including a beloved concubine), which was revealed in a survey of his retainer’s faith following the incident. Another was that the criminal lord Don Protasio Arima elected to die dishonorably by decapitation, although he was granted special permission to die honorably as a warrior by seppuku, thus

in Edo (Tokyo), which are from 250,000 to 400,000 in 1634 for example. Since the 1660s, the shogunate forced all residents to register and belong to a certain Buddhist temple as a means of prohibiting the existence of Christians. As a positive result, fully accurate demographic data remained. Cf. A. Hayami, Population, Family, and Society in Pre-Modern Japan, Folkestone 2009; H. Kawaguchi, Mourir avant de vivre. L’enregistrement des fausses couches et des mort-nés dans les temples bouddhistes au Japon, in P. Charrier / C. Clavandier (eds.), Morts avant de naître, Tours 2018. 44 Ieyasu to the Viceroy of Nueva España, dated the 6th month, 17 of Keitcho (1612) (Zotei Ikoku nikki sho, p. 66). 45 Cerqueira to Acquaviva, dated Oct. 10, 1612 (ARSI, Jap. Sin. 21-I, fols. 251–254v, Iezusukai to Nippon, vol. 2 イエズス会と日本 II [The Society of Jesus and Japan, vol. 2], edited by K. Takase, Tokyo 1972, pp. 81 f.). 46 Bernardino de Ávila Girón, Relación del Reino de Nippon; I was able to consult the Japanese version日本王国誌, Tokyo 1964, p. 315. 47 Jerónimo Rodríguez to Acquaviva, dated March 17, 1615 (ARSI, Jap. Sin.16-I, fols. 178–179, Iezusukai to Nippon, vol. 2, p. 191).

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abiding by the Christian prohibition against suicide rather than the goodwill of his master48. The second reason is that not a few retainers of the Toyotomi clan–the greatest enemy vanquished by Ieyasu–who subsequently remained in Osaka, were Catholics and maintained close contacts with the missionaries. In case of war with the Toyotomi, Ieyasu thought they might have the support of the missionaries49. Ieyasu described the primary logical background in a letter to the governor-general of the Philippines (1605). He declared that “Japan is a country of the gods and we have greatly revered the images of the Buddha since the times of our ancestors until now. Thus, I myself cannot go against this or destroy it”50. In a letter to the viceroy of Mexico in 1612, he emphasized that the covenant between lord and retainer is facilitated by the intervention of gods and Buddha, saying that “If those gods and Buddha are violated, the covenant between lord and retainer cannot be formed”, which he asserted would be a matter touching the very core of the state51. Both Hideyoshi and Ieyasu emphasized that faith in the gods and the buddhas was the basis for a retainer’s loyalty to his master. This is why the prohibition of Christianity did not extend to the common people for another 20 years. According to Ohashi’s research, as long as farmer adherents completely concealed their faith and were good subjects to the local leaders, these adherents and non-adherents lived in peace without interfering with each other52. We can detect some changes in how things are expressed in Japanese sources from 1616 onwards. The second Tokugawa Shogun specified that missionaries and European Christians should be purged because their true aim for coming to Japan was an invasion of the country. Hidetada and his son, the third Shogun Iemitsu, expelled the British delegates in 1623 and then the Spanish ones from Manila in 1624, after which they beheaded 30 members of the Portuguese delegations in 1639, thereby unilaterally severing the ties that had existed for 90 years53.

48 Don Protasio Arima was baptized in 1579 by Valignano. Morejón’s letter dated Jan. 4, 1613, is the most exhaustive regarding a general aspect of the scandal (ARSI, Jap. Sin. 15-II, fols. 221–223v, edited by Á-T in his El P. Pedro Morejón, sobre Arima Harunobu y Sebastián Vizcaíno (1612), in “Tenri Gakuho 天理学報” [Bulletin of Tenri], 138, 1983, pp. 90–115). 49 T. Gonoi, Tokugawashoki Kirisitansi kenkyu, pp. 142–156. 50 Ikoku ofuku shokan shu, pp. 91 f. 51 Zotei ikoku nikki sho, pp. 65–66. Cf. Jerónimo Rodríguez’s letter cited in fn. 47, Morejón’s letter cited in fn. 48 [Iezusukai to Nippon, vol. 2, p. 93]. 52 The situation radically changed with the Shimabara Rebellion (1637/38), which started out as a rebellion by impoverished farmers, but there were many Catholics and their solidarity was strong. The shogunate sent more than 120,000 troops, but they could not defeat the rebellion quickly, then requested support of the Dutch battleship. Cf. C. Kanda, Shimabara no ran, Kirishitan shinko to busoh hohki 島原の乱, キリシタン信仰と武装蜂起 [Christian faith and the Shimabara rebellion], Tokyo 2018. 53 Japanese merchants claimed that they had yet to collect the funds they had lent to the Portuguese; nonetheless the shogunate went ahead with the severing of ties.

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4 The missionaries’ debate Following the arguments for a just war in the New World, resistance to evangelization and the killing of missionaries and their adherents were clear justifications for military action on behalf of the missionaries54. The 1587 missionary expulsion edict and the 1597 martyrdom of the presumed 26 saints of Nagasaki ought to have affected the missionaries’ ideas about the Japanese mission. Notably, in the next section, I will examine this topic based on the texts of three Jesuits that describe their opinions on the matter.

4.1 The opinion of Father Organtino In January 1589, Vice-provincial of the Jesuits in Japan, Gaspar Coelho, called together six of his advisors to debate their response to Hideyoshi’s missionary expulsion edict55. The same year, one of the advisors, Father Organtino Gnecchi-Soldo56, wrote a letter to Father General Acquaviva57, which clearly shows how his opinion differed from the conventional arguments about missionary methods as well as from the majority opinion of the advisors. The majority of the advisors asserted that the stability of the Japanese church needed to be ensured for the sake of solidifying the basis of the missionary activities, and this required the dispatch of an armada from Manila to Japan as well as the building and maintenance of a fort in Kyushu. Furthermore, if it were possible to develop mining, this would be enormously profitable for the king of Spain; so, the king would be able to recover the cost of building the fort within two to three years. This proposal was under consideration some time before 1587, and it later resurfaced in 160958.

54 See Francisco de Vitoria, Relecciones del estado de los indios, y del derecho de la guerra, Ciudad de México, 1974; José de Acosta, De Procuranda, in Obras del P. José de Acosta, pp. 429–432. 55 The members are three Spaniards, three Portuguese, and one Italian (Organtino). 56 Casto 1533 – Nagasaki 1607. He came to Japan in 1570. He formed good relations with Nobunaga, Hideyoshi, and other prominent Japanese as well as common people in general – especially in Kyoto – thanks to his humor and his proficiency in Japanese. 57 ARSI, Jap. Sin. 11-I, fols. 66–72 (edited by Á-T in his El Padre Viceprovincial Gaspar Coelho ¿Capitan de armas o Pastor de almas?, in “Sapientia: The Eichi University Review”, 1973, 7, pp. 49–52). 58 Rodrigo de Vivero (mentioned in fn. 43) referred to the plan, where he discussed about whether or not to build a port of call in Japan for annual galleon, and to send gold and silver mining technicians from Spain “for Ieyasu’s sake.” (Sevilla, Archivo General de Indias, Filipinas 193, 1 n. 12, 13. Cf. J. Gil, Hidalgos y samurais, chaps. 2–4, especially pp. 208–225.) This letter shows that this had been discussed among missionaries for 20 years prior, which clearly indicates that the Spanish were hoping for this. Reports of gold and silver mines were customary among missionaries who worked under the Padroado (or Patronato). In 1571 Father Gaspar Vilela, SJ talks about gold and silver mining in Japan (ARSI, Jap. Sin. 7-II, fols. 3–8 [Professor Y. Moriwaki drew my attention to the document at ARSI]).

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Organtino argued against the proposal. First, he stated that the real reason for the expulsion edict was that missionaries preached the destruction of Buddhist statutes, shrines, and temples. Second, the building of a fort and bringing of military troops would not provide stability for the church, but instead would incite Hideyoshi to destroy churches, persecute individuals, and interrupt the Portuguese trade between Macao and Nagasaki. The Japanese excelled at combat and strategy; hence, it would be impossible for a Spanish army from Manila to land in Japan. Third, a disruption of the Macao trade would incur as much as 400,000 escudos in losses for the Portuguese; thus, it would invite deep resentment of the Jesuits and bring an end to the support for them in Europe and India. He concludes the letter by saying “The bonzos in Osaka were persecuted when they had funds and power, but they are paid no attention now when they lack both”, and that these are “all just excuses to possess Japan under the pretense of missionary work”59. As Organtino writes, this was not the first time that military force was considered against the Japanese. A letter from Coelho to the Superior of Manila Antonio Sedeño dated March 3, 1585, requested military assistance for the Christian lords in Kyushu fighting over territory with their neighbors. Manila responded that they would not be able to provide any assistance as they lacked both men and supplies60. In the second half of the 1580s, the missionaries were in disagreement about whether or not to militarily assist the Christian lords, but even Visitor Valignano had argued about the need for military assistance to the lords during his first tour (1579–1582)61. This demonstrates that the debate about military intervention in the mission was not stimulated by the Japanese expulsion edict, but that it had existed as an option in earlier discussions about the mission.

59 The Honganji Sect (the largest group of Jhodo Sinshu, [true pure land Buddhism]), familiar with Ikko-shu mentioned in fn. 19, which was led by Rennyo and his successors, had enormous political and physical power and countered the power of the time. Nobunaga Oda (1534–1582) attempted to destroy the headquarter (where the Osaka Castle was constructed later) in 1580. Some of them survived, but they no longer had political influence or funds. 60 Valignano was not in favor of Spanish intervention (cf. Valignano to Acquaviva, dated Nov. 19, 1595, ARSI, Jap. Sin. 12-II, fol. 313), so he sent a letter to Sedeño in Manila, who belonged to a different jurisdiction both in the Patronato and the Jesuit administration and hence was not his superior, asking him to decline the request. At the same time, Manila lacked the resources to oblige. See F. Colín, Labor evangélica: ministerios apostólicos de los obreros de la Compañía de Jesús, fundación, y progresos de su provincia en las islas Filipinas, vol. 1, edited by P. Pastells, Barcelona 1900, pp. 336 ff. 61 ARSI, Jap. Sin. 49, fol. 256; Jap. Sin. 8-I, fol. 262 (K. Takase, Kirisitanjidai no Kenkyu キリシタン 時代の研究 [Study of the Christian century], Tokyo 1977, p. 122); Luís Frois, Historia, pt. 2, chap. 57.

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4.2 The opinion of Father Pedro de la Cruz Father Pedro de la Cruz62 signed four letters to Acquaviva in February 1599, advocating military subjugation by the Catholic kings as the sole effective means to evangelize Japan. He wanted to entrust the proposal about building a fort in Japan to the procurador going to Rome, but he made it a confidential letter because Valignano had rejected it. He asserted the following four points: First, the need for military subjugation: The aim was not discovering and possessing silver mines but stabilizing the mission’s foundation. Japan was in a state of civil war, so those in power were frequently relocating local lords, including Christian ones. Converts would apostatize under their new lord63. Second, the means: Having Iberians purchase a Japanese port, establishing the absolute sovereignty of King Felipe II there64, and allowing access to the port only to lords sympathetic to conversion. Third, the justification: The evangelization, Hideyoshi’s crucifixion of the six monks and 20 Christians (1597), the dispossession of the Nao San Francisco by Hideyoshi (1596). Fourth, the benefits: Securing the safety of the missionaries and the Christian church; advancing evangelization; benefits for the Chinese mission. Evangelization in China was likewise impossible without military means. Japan would become a base for supplying weapons and soldiers65. His argument runs as follows: “This has God’s favor as the cause is just and the goal pious”. This classical argument lies at the core of his proposal. Takase has studied Jesuit documents in detail and he found this to be one of the most bellicose opinion66. In his second conference report from Kazusa and a letter to Acquaviva in 1590, Valignano thoroughly criticized Coelho’s plan to use military force as utterly mistaken and only his private opinion. Accordingly, he prohibited military assistance to specific lords and ordered utmost caution when the Jesuits would provide food and other forms of assistance in general. During his first tour (1578–1581), he had thought it realistic to assist provincial lords sympathetic to the missionaries since there was no centralized authority in Japan. Yet, by 1590, with the appearance of the strong leader Hideyoshi, Valignano deemed that any display of military force by the

62 Segovia 1560 – Macao 1606. Admitted to the Society in 1576. The letter is in ARSI, Jap. Sin. 13-II, fols. 249, 269–276 (edited by Á-T, in his Opinión de un teólogo de la Compañía de Jesús sobre la intervención del poder temporal en la defensa de la labor evangélica en Japón [1599], in “Sapientia: The Eichi University Review”, 1978, 12, pp. 173–209). 63 Alessandro Valignano, Apología, p. 99. In a single day, 30 lords moved to new territories. Cf. Alessandro Valignano, Adiciones, p. 515. 64 He pointed out that priests cannot really exercise any authority over the Japanese adherents and that the missionaries cannot compel absolute obedience from the converts without backup by secular hands. 65 Pedro de la Cruz to Acquaviva, dated Feb. 20, 25, and 29, 1599, ARSI, Jap. Sin. 13-II, fols. 249, 269– 276, 297v, 300–302v, edited by Á-T in his Opinión de un teólogo de la Compañía de Jesús. 66 Iezusukai to Nippon, vol. 1, p. 199.

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missionaries would be dangerous. This is the reason he rejected Cruz’ proposal. He was foremost concerned with finding the most effective way to Christianize, so this change of opinion was not a defection, but was based on the changing political circumstances67.

4.3 The opinion of Father Mateus de Couros In a 1617 letter to Acquaviva and the procurador in Rome, the Japanese Provincial de Couros68 described the peremptory oppression of Christians in Japan and its reasons. He concluded with the following: Persecution of Christendom is well underway, and we don’t have any human hope that this will end soon. This is because the persecution is based on razón de estado – having taken root in the heart of the shogun and his governors that the law of God is a strategy and an invention to conquer countries – although they try to conceal their fear of us, citing other reasons69.

Father de Couros’ view was that the Japanese saw the aim of the Jesuit mission as wanting to conquer Japan, taking cues from the earlier cases of Spain combining Christian mission with military conquest in the New World and in the Philippines. His view implied that the involvement and actions of the mendicant orders from the Spanish colony of Manila particularly intensified the Japanese leaders’ impression, and suggested that the Spanish missionaries were very much responsible for the invocation of their reason of state by the Japanese. This was due to the fact that the Spanish lay in Manila, while there was hardly any military presence in Macao. But the traditional animosity between the Jesuits and the mendicants was the salient factor behind his argument. The expression “reason of state” was first advocated with regard to the Japanese mission in a letter from the Jesuit Father Cerqueira, bishop of Japan, to Felipe III in 160770, but use of the concept was not uncommon in Jesuit letters before 1611. Accord-

67 Valignano to Acquaviva, dated Oct. 12 and 14, 1590 (Jap. Sin. 11-II, fols. 233–235v, K. Takase, Kirisitan jidai no kenkyu, pp. 108–115). Takase sees this as a change in Valignano, but having studied the Jesuit missionaries’ actions, I think the key to understanding much of their behavior lies in the words “most effective with regard to the goal”. 68 Lisboa 1568 – Ohmura 1632 or 1633. He arrived at Nagasaki in 1590 with return of the Tenshou embassy, project set up by the visitor Valignano. He served as provincial twice, 1614–1621 and 1625–1632. 69 Dated March 15, 1621, Nagasaki, Real Academia de la Historia, Col. Cortes 567, legajo 13 = 2679, edited by Á-T in his Razón de Estado y la Persecución del Cristianismo en Japón los siglos XVI y XVII, in “Sapientia: The Eichi University Review”, 1967, 2, p. 57. 70 Archivo de España de la Compañía de Jesús en Alcalá de Henares, legajo 967, fol. 2v. Cf. Á-T, Razón de Estado, p. 57, fn. 2. The words themselves appear several times in the letters mentioned above by De la Cruz (1599).

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ing to Giovanni Botero (1544–1617), author of Della ragion di stato (1589), “Reason of state is the knowledge of the means by which such a dominion may be founded, preserved, and expanded. […] The political principle that emphasizes the preservation of the state and the expansion of its interests”71. It is unclear when the missionaries began actively using the expression “reason of state” as a cause for the persecution. Whether this is the first use of the word in reference to the persecution of Christians in Japan, still needs be investigated.

5 The reasons for the expulsion edict The main reason for Hideyoshi’s and Ieyasu’s edicts was the fact that Christianity lead to the destruction of Japanese religion as the cornerstone of the ruler–subject relationship and the destruction of the social order. According to Boxer, Ieyasu’s full-blown oppression was triggered by a series of incidents mentioned above72. Behind the triggering moment, there lay a larger set of causes though. As analyzed by Kurozumi, the exclusive monotheism of Christianity was an irreconcilable enemy that violated the inclusive and pantheistic religious world of Japan, which fostered the trust relationship with the leaders, while monotheism contained teachings that fascinated the minds of some, but important, retainers. This exclusivity became definite with the violence against shrines and temples. It appears that the shogunate’s violence against foreign powers and the church after 1620 became increasingly exclusivist as that was an age of the consolidation of society and the state73. According to Paramore, this ideological trend can be seen in Japanese intellectual history as well, as the shogunate opted for Confucianism and picked one school as the orthodoxy while moving toward ideological control74. The missionaries’ understanding about the persecution was dual layered; in general, the Japanese had heard about the Iberian conquest of America and understood the missionaries’ activities to be a overture to full-scale conquest. In particular, the oppression in 1612 and 1614 was explained in terms of the Japanese reason of state, while an actual commercial conflict between the Jesuits and the Japanese regarding Macao–Nagasaki trade was perceived as the cause75. The background of the latter 71 Giovanni Botero, The Reason of State, trans. by P. J. and D.P. Waley, London, 1956, p. 3. 72 C.R. Boxer, The Christian Century, pp. 311–320. 73 M. Kurozumi, Isshinkyo to wa nani ka 一神教とは何か [What is monotheism?], Tokyo 2006, p. 302. 74 K. Paramore, Ideology and Christianity in Japan, pp. 66–79, see also H. Oomus, Tokugawa Ideology, Ann Arbor MI 1998. 75 Franciscan criticism focused on these two points. We can find them in the papers of a Franciscan friar, Relacion del P. Sebastián de San Pedro O.F.M. (1614), edited by B.H. Willele OFM in Relacion del P. Sebastián de San Pedro, O.F.M. sobre los comienzos y las causas de la grande persecución de los cristianos en el Japón (1614), in “Archivium Franiscanum Historicum”, 78, 1985, pp. 51–97; Relacion

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point is the mendicant’s criticism of the Jesuits after they started participating in the Japanese mission in the 1590s. The mendicants deemed that the cause of the persecution was an exacerbated conflict of interest over trade with the Japanese76; in other words, it was mainly due to the Jesuits’ missionary style of focusing on the upper echelons of society and their procurement of mission funds through deep involvement in trade with Macao for covering their huge expenses77. The Jesuits retorted by saying that the oppression had nothing to do with their missionary methods. They also contended that while the Jesuits were extremely careful in both public and private acts, the mendicants were plainly ignoring Japanese laws and customs, which had angered the leaders and triggered the persecution. They argued that the very arrival of the Spanish missionaries had motivated the Japanese resistance due to the imperialistic actions in the New World. There were Jesuits who alleged that the Franciscan missionaries were executed in Nagasaki in 1597 as spies, not because of faith78. However, did Hideyoshi and Ieyasu really fear a Spanish invasion? Hideyoshi sent an envoy encouraging the payment of tribute to Manila in 1591, while he also twice dispatched armies consisting of some 150,000 men to the Korean peninsula. These actions occurred in 1592/93 and then in 1597/98, ultimately ending in utter defeat.

del P. Sebastián de San Pedro, O.F.M., Madrid, 12 de mayo de 1617, Academia de la Historia, Colección “Cortes” 2666, Mazo 25, no. 1, fols. 369v ff., and Sumario del Padre Fray Sebastián de San Pedro. The original document was never discovered, but we can know it through an Apology against him written by the Jesuit Provincial of Japan Carvalho, which is in Rome, Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale Vittorio Emanuele II, Fondo Gesuítico 1469. K. Takase translated it into Japanese in Iezusukai to Nippon, vol. 2, pp. 265–348. During his second tour (1590–1592), Valignano stated that the Jesuits had competitors and enemies across Japan due to trade and ordered an end to business dealings. Organtino’s 1607 letter said that the Jesuits’ various problems had arisen from their involvement in municipal government in Nagasaki. In this respect, Cerqueira perceived two dangers: first, it was clear that the shogun was using the missionaries for trade, although the missionaries possessed no other effective method to cover a huge amount of social expenses with Japanese politicians (Organtino to Acquaviva, dated March 28, 1607, in ARSI, Jap. Sin. 14-II, fol. 279; cf. also Iezusukai to Nippon, vol. 1, pp. 355–362); secondly, the procurator Father Rodríguez made the raw silk thread distribution inside the Jesuit colegio, and he interfered with the administration of Nagasaki for this reason, which Vice-Provincial Pasio tolerated (cf. Iezusukai to Nippon, vol. 2, pp. 265–267). 76 Documentos franciscanos, pp. 126–132. 77 See K. Takase’s two works: Kirishitan jidai no boeki to gaiko キリシタン時代の貿易と外交 [Trade and diplomacy in the Christian century], Tokyo 2002, and Monsuun bunsho to Nihon モンスーン文書 と日本 [Monsoon documents and Japan], Tokyo 2006. 78 This is the opinion of Valignano, de Couros, and others. If Japan oppresses Christianity based on “reason of state”, the 26 martyrs (mentioned in fn. 38) were not martyrs but guilty of being spies (Apología, p. 92, Couros’ letter dated January 6, 1621, mentioned above). However, there were also Jesuit missionaries like Antonio Francisco de Critana who criticized Valignano, claiming that they were true martyrs (Critana to Acquaviva, dated October 25, 1598, and February 26, 1599, Nagasaki, ARSI, Jap. Sin. 13- II, fols. 208–209, 278-280, 282–284, edited by Á-T. in his Opinión de un canonista de la Compañía de Jesús sobre los Franciscanos en Japón [1598–1599], in “Tenri Daigaku Gakuho 天理大 学報” [Bulletin of Tenri University] 84, 1972, pp. 1–21).

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Trade between Manila and Kyushu was booming79, and more than 3,000 Japanese were living in Manila at the time. Since the Spanish in Manila thought the Japanese were aware of their military weakness, it was actually they who feared an invasion by Hideyoshi80. When a Kyushu lord sent a ship to explore Manila in 1632, for Governor-General Tavora and his staff this gave rise to an extreme sense of crisis81. At the same time, the Jesuit João Rodrigues (ca. 1561–1633), who was so renowned for his language skills that he wrote books of Japanese grammar and dictionaries, was highly regarded by Ieyasu and acted as a kind of foreign affairs advisor. However, he became embroiled in a conflict with Nagasaki merchants over the distribution of the raw silk thread brought into Nagasaki on Portuguese ships. Ieyasu banished him to Macao in 1610; the new foreign affairs advisor who replaced him in 1614 was the famous British navigator William Adams (1564–1620), who worked for Dutch VOC. Murakami points out that this was the turning point when Ieyasu and others changed attitudes toward Iberians82. As such, it could be said that the logic of the Japanese rejection of Christianity until the mid–1610s rather had to do with domestic affairs, while the consciousness of the missionaries very much reflected the patterns of the large-scale missionary work and the historical self-consciousness of the two Iberian countries, so the ideas on the two sides were mutually inconsistent.

6 Reason of state and the Jesuits Giovanni Botero83, the author of The Reason of State, was very interested in the Roman visit of the Tensho Embassy (1584–1586) and especially in the return to Rome of the Jesuit Chinese mission pioneer Michele Ruggieri (1588). In his main work, Botero praised the rationality of Chinese politics, while also appreciating the political decisions of the Ottoman sultans. He was of the mind that it was possible for state leaders to rationally make just judgments also in countries that were not Christian84.

79 See S. Iwao, Shuinsen boeki shi no kenkyu 朱印船貿易史の研究 [Study of the history of Vermillion Seal ship trade], Tokyo 1985; R.P. Toby, State and Diplomacy in Early Modern Japan. Asia in the Development of the Tokugawa Bakufu, Princeton NJ 1984. 80 This changed over time, but the combat capability was about 700 men; cf. J. Gil, Hidalgos y samurais, chap. 1. 81 M. Kawamura, Shuinsen boeki shi 朱印船貿易史 [History of the Vermillion Seal ship trade], Tokyo 1942; A. Hirayama, Toma y quema de un barco japonés en el Río Chao Phraya, in “Tezukayama Keizai・Keiei Ronshu 帝塚山経済・経営論集” [Tezukayama economic review], 10, 2000, pp. 1–34. 82 Zotei ikoku nikki sho, pp. 131, 142. 83 He was educated in Jesuit colleges, ordained in the Society of Jesus. It is said he maintained a certain attachment to the Jesuits after he left the Society in 1580. 84 Giovanni Botero, The Reason of State, pp. 59 f., 83 f., 92 f.

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Going back to Acosta, whom I mentioned at the beginning, it is interesting to note that he wrote at least three texts where he discusses China. These texts can be found in Historia natural y moral de las Indias (1588) and in Parecer sobre la guerra de la China, and Respuesta a los fundamentos que justifican la guerra contra China85. The last works take the form of rebutting the Chinese armed-mission argument of Father Alonzo Sánchez (1543–1593), one of the founders of the Jesuit missions in the Philippines. Sánchez was the person who reported the situation in the Philippines in 1588 to Felipe II as the first procurador of the entire Filipino government office. He argued that it was impossible for missionaries to enter Ming China by peaceful means as the immigration of outsiders was strictly controlled. He came up with the armed-mission argument to end the stalemate. This argument is extremely aggressive and the worldview emerging from it is completely centered on Europe and Christianity. However, Father Sánchez’ report is also an outstanding observation about the cultural and material abundance of South China with humanistic vision86. The extraordinary richness and the civilization had clearly impressed and frightened him. This information was also provided to Acosta directly by Sánchez as he arrived in Mexico from Peru on his way back to Madrid. Acosta developed the following discussion in the above-mentioned texts dated March 15 and 23, 158787; it was possible that China contravened natural law when they did not allow foreigners to enter freely. However, over the course of the preceding 90 years, the Spanish had shown the world that they governed other countries by entering them through legal “titles” that combined diplomatic relations and trade. If China’s “illegal” actions did not stem from hatred toward Christ, but from “legitimate concerns” and was “motivated by a desire to maintain their own government and state”, then “China has a reason to keep out foreigners and missionaries”. Acosta does not use the words “reason of state”, but that seems to be the underlying concept. Moreover, war in a rich and well-governed place like China that was dense with cities would lead to massive damage, terrible chaos, and hatred toward Christ. Even if theologians deem one war just and legal by citing St. Thomas from a legal standpoint, that judgment is nothing more than a judgment based on assumptions. In reality, “means correspond with just cause”, so Acosta emphasized that what is most important is to not injure faith. However, the final reflections of the

85 Obras de José de Acosta, pp. 331–345. 86 A. Hirayama, Supein teikoku to Chuka teikoku スペイン帝国と中華帝国 [Spanish empire and Chinese empire], Tokyo, 2012, chaps. 1 and 2; A. Hirayama, Fr. Alonzo Sanchez and His Problematic Choice Regarding the China Mission, in S. Kawamura / C. Veliath (eds.), Beyond Borders. A Global Perspective of Jesuit Mission History, Tokyo, 2009, pp. 213–229; see also M. Ollé, Empresa de China. De la Armada Invencible al Galeón de Manila, Barcelona 2002. 87 Acosta did not clearly refer any reason why he wrote these two texts and sent them to Acquaviva. The main reason might have been to protect the Society from the harsh criticism against Sánchez’ bellicose view of mendicant orders, theologians, and others that did not know the “real” China but tended to idealize it through readings like The Travels of Marco Polo (ca. 1300).

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texts are important. Would it have been possible to Christianize either Nueva España or Peru without military conquest? If the evangelization saw no progress regardless of method and China did all in its power to oppose it, then it might be possible to likewise wage just war. Nevertheless, he also says that they should refrain from talking about China and other lands not in the Spanish king’s dominion according to St. Paul’s words (I Cor. 5: 12). The goal is inevitably Christianization, so the most effective means should always be chosen according to the unceasing consideration of the changing circumstances. Even if one means is optimal under certain circumstances, it might become the worst if the situation changes. This conclusion is a typical example of the School of Salamanca’s way of thinking88. There are slight differences between how Acosta and de Couros perceive otherness. Acosta only had experiences from Peru, which had already been conquered, whereas de Couros had first-hand experience of violence from Tokugawa Japan. Moreover, there was a gap of 30 years between the two matters, during which Spanish foreign policy changed89. Valignano cited De procuranda in his Apologia, which he wrote in 1598. The example of Acosta confirms how the Jesuits recognized the importance of aggregating and organizing information and how they built an environment for sharing information about the world. Botero’s The Reason State surely must have traveled the world in this system as well. It is possible that it provided the Jesuits in Japan with a conception for the non-Christian world.

7 A dialog between the “oppressor” and the “martyr” Let us slightly change our point of view. We can imagine severe opposition and mutual criticism between the oppressor and the martyr, the oppressor’s logic to justify themselves, and the logic of those who do missionary work despite opposition90. Álvarez-Taladriz pointed out the following in a letter from a Dominican reporting the interrogation he had been subjected to and in a letter by a samurai arrested for being a Christian and interrogated by another samurai sent to the Jesuit Provincial Pasio91.

88 See J. Velasco Sánchez, La Escuela de Salamanca: conceptos, miembros, problemas, influencias, pervivencias, Madrid 2015. 89 See J. Martínez Millán, La Monarquía de Felipe III, Madrid 2008, vol. 4. 90 Á-T., Dos diálogos entre perseguidores y máritires (1605, 1619), in “Sapientia: The Eichi University Review”, 1966, 1, pp. 95–151 (the documents edited by Á-T. in this article are in the British Museum, under Add. Mass. 9860). 91 The Dominican Francisco Morales worked in Japan for more than 20 years and was martyred in Ohmura on September 10, 1622. He argued that the oppressor fundamentally only follows the orders

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Regarding the first letter, while “the satisfaction of his state being disseminated to the whole world” filled the Dominican’s heart with the joy of martyrdom, the interrogator demands the mission to withdraw because it is not needed in Japan. There is no “dialog” between the two, and precisely this reveals something about the reason for the expulsion of Christians from Japan92. In the second letter regarding the questioning of the Christian samurai93, the interrogator affirms that his faith is a major crime that needs to be punished because the lord Kato Kiyomasa had previously forbidden adherence to Christianity. He admonishes him by saying, “If you want to live as a Christian, you are free to go somewhere where that is possible”. The samurai replies, “If I am persecuted for being Christian, that is a great joy and I have no intention to stop being Christian”. The interrogator says that a samurai is a warrior and has no reason to kill a Christian who does not resist, but he adds “I do not believe what the monks say about the Buddha saving people. I also do not think people can be saved by just invoking Jesus or Mary. I do not know if the missionaries coming from afar have bad intentions or some ulterior motive”. The Christian samurai responds, “I do not have any desire to insist on what the priests say either,” but “when I heard about the existence of the Creator, I started thinking that there might be some truth to what the priests are saying. If I think about from whom all people were born, then I think what they say about our progenitors is true, and I think that’s where the Creator is”. Their conversation is about the existence of the Creator, but they never reach an agreement. The interrogator is loyal to his position but is neither an ardent Buddhist nor criticizes or reproaches the Christians. He does not condemn the Christians as sinners, but just tries to identify what a person of faith believes in94. These can be seen as circumstances that corroborate Ohashi’s research in which he argues, based on historical sources, that there were unexpectedly many secretly Christian groups that actually coexisted with non-Christians, completely fulfilling their obligations as residents of the land, under the politics of the Edo Shogunate that strictly prohibited Christianity95. This is one reason why religion as well as religion and politics in Japanese society cannot be properly discussed when measured by the standards of Western European Christian society.

of his superior, not thinking about the essential cause and reason of the oppression (Á-T., Dos diálogos, p. 99). 92 Ibid., p. 97. 93 He was baptized at the age of 29, retainer samurai of Christian lord Agostinho Konishi. His land was taken over by Kato Kiyomasa who harshly persecuted Christians. The samurai was caught in January 1605 and martyred at age 39 in January 1609. He wrote the letter describing the interrogation at Provincial Pasio’s request, and Pasio reproduced it in a report (Á-T., Dos diálogos, p. 105). 94 Ibid., p. 113. 95 Ohashi says that there is no difference in the depth of faith between those who profess their faith and those who completely concealed it in Japanese society; Y. Oohashi, Kirishitan Minshushi no Kenkyu キリシタン民衆史の研究 [A study of Christian peoples’ history], Tokyo 2001, pp. 299–330.

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8 Conclusions First, it would be easy to assume that the missionaries sought military protection from the countries that dispatched them as a remedy to the Japanese oppression – but this is not what happened. The goal of the missionaries was to carry out their mission and, in an age of action based on the right of Padroado, military support was always an option. The missionaries did engage in the old debate “Do the ends justify the means?” when it came to whether or not to seek the help of secular power, but just like Valignano showed, this depended on whether or not it benefited the mission. The School of Salamanca’s way of thinking, as seen in Acosta, provided a guiding principle in this matter, and the success in the Christianization of the New World might have lowered the threshold for the use of violence. Second, although the principles of the two religious world, Christianity and Japanese religions, were different, the debate about religion was affected by state logics on both sides. It goes without saying that the connection between “religion and violence” goes back not to how religion itself gives rise to violence, but to how it is easily used by politics. Ieyasu’s letter to the governor-general of the Philippines was an unexpected yet clear indication of the central role of religion in politics. It was the only thing that could maintain the loyalty of subjects to their ruler, which was impossible to guarantee with human means. According to Botero, it is not only a fact that all power comes from God, but religion is a powerful tool for ensuring the authority of rulers and securing the loyalty of the people as “Religion regards the ruler as beloved by God. To someone with God on their side, there is nothing that they fear”96. As long as the religion of the ruler and the religion of the people coincide, that particular religion is an extremely powerful weapon in the hands of the ruler, but it becomes a threat when they do not coincide. The logic of basing the Japanese oppression of Christianity on the reason of state very much hits the mark even when it is off in terms of the directionality of both the missionaries and the shogunate. It could be said that military action against Japan was impossible from a budgetary perspective, but the fact that the Jesuits looked for a justification for withdrawing from the mission in the reason of state after summing up the entirety of the situation – including the impossibility of military action – brings us back once again to their preeminent ability to gather information and their renowned rhetorical skills. The formula Compelle intrare came into play when it seemed that the other was spiritually inferior and when one’s own power was greater than the other’s. When Acosta brought up the scale of “reason,” this was a defining moment determining the line between the self and the other. This permitted violence to “teach Christianity efficiently” despite the fact that he himself experienced that violence could injure the cultivation of faith. Thus, he continued to search for the “way to use it”, and this might explain the epigraph quoted at the outset.

96 Giovanni Botero, The Reason of State, pp. 65–69.

Giovanni Ciappelli

The Privateering by the Knights of Saint Stephen against Turks and Barbary Pirates Violence and Religion in Seventeenth-Century Printed News Narratives

1 The “relazioni” and Grand Ducal propaganda The clash between Turkish and Christian fleets in Lepanto was certainly the epochal event of the sixteenth century with regard to relations between the two blocs, but it had little practical impact1. Between 1589 and the end of the century, even into the next century, the two forces continued to fight at sea, but in a limited manner, engaging in the kind of fighting that had taken place earlier in peacetime: privateering. Like other notable events of the time, naval battles with the Turks were often the object of Christian narratives circulated in ephemeral publications (relazioni, avvisi, canards, relaciones de sucesos) anticipating modern printed news2. By means of a case study, the first part of this essay shows how such printed materials came to serve as a vehicle for the political propaganda of states, and how it achieved such broad 1 F. Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, 2 vols. Berkeley / Los Angeles / London 1995 (orig. publ. Paris 1949), vol. 2, p. 1104; F. Braudel, Bilan d’une bataille, in G. Benzoni (ed.), Il Mediterraneo nella seconda metà del Cinquecento alla luce di Lepanto, Firenze 1974, pp. 109–120; S. Bono, Un altro Mediterraneo. Una storia comune tra scontri e integrazioni, Roma 2008, pp. 63–64; A. Barbero, Lepanto. La battaglia dei tre imperi, Roma / Bari 2012. 2 Studies on such publications have lately increased. Some of the most important recent studies are listed in G. Ciappelli / V. Nider, Introducción, in G. Ciappelli / V. Nider (eds.), La invención de las noticias, pp. 9–16, here p. 9 f. See, in any case, M. Infelise, Prima dei giornali. Alle origini della pubblica informazione (secoli XVI e XVII), Roma / Bari 2002; A. Pettegree, The Invention of News. How the World Came to Know about Itself, New Haven CT / London 2014; K. Keller / P. Molino, Die Fuggerzeitungen im Kontext. Zeitungssammlungen im Alten Reich und in Italien, Wien 2015; J. Raymond / N. Moxham, News Networks in Early Modern Europe, Leiden / Boston MA 2016. In general, on topics such as the Turkish peril, war at sea, and piracy see, above all, H. Ettinghausen, How the Press Began. The Pre-periodical Printed News in Early Modern Europe, A Coruña 2015, pp. 100–111. Note: This essay is in part an English adaptation of a longer text published in Italian (G. Ciappelli, L’informazione e la propaganda. La guerra di corsa delle galee toscane contro Turchi e Barbareschi nel Seicento, attraverso relazioni e ‘relaciones’ a stampa, in G. Ciappelli / V. Nider, Introducción, in G. Ciappelli / V. Nider (eds.), La invención de las noticias. Las relaciones de sucesos entre la literatura y la información (siglos XVI–XVIII), Trento 2017, pp. 133–161). Paragraphs 3: “Religion and violence” and 4: “Concluding remarks” were written specifically for this volume. https://doi.org.10.1515/9783110643978-012

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circulation. The second part shows that the descriptions of military operations contained in such texts expressed the relationship between religion and violence current at the time, and tries to reconstruct the reasons for both this violent behavior and the narratives about it3. Cosimo I de ‘Medici, not yet Grand Duke, founded the Order of the Knights of Saint Stephen in 1561. His stated aim was to counter the excessive power of the Ottoman Empire in the Mediterranean through the creation of a military order, in imitation of the Order of Malta, that could fight against the infidels. The Order undertook a number of military operations in the 1560s and then, on behalf of the Pope who did not have his own fleet, sent twelve galleys to the battle of Lepanto4. In 1572, Cosimo I was succeeded by Francis I. Like his father, Francis I served as Grand Master of the Order but, unlike his father, he did little to support the activities of the Knights5. In 1589, he was succeeded by his brother Ferdinand I, who, despite his ecclesiastical origins (formerly a Cardinal, he had left the priesthood to ensure dynastic continuity), gave new impetus to the activities of the knight-corsairs. After attempts at conciliation with the Turks definitively failed in 15986, Ferdinand began to present himself as a model for Christian princes in the fight against the infidels, promoting every kind of military action in the war at sea7. In 1599, he attempted to take the island of Chios across from Izmir from the Turks. This expedition ended in failure but nevertheless resulted in at least one “aviso” printed that same year in Pavia as well as a narration in verse, written by a convict on one of the Tuscan ships8, printed in Messina. In 1601, Ferdinand lent his galleys to

3 Recent historical studies on the topic of religion and violence in the early modern period are mentioned below, paragraph 3: “Religion and violence”. 4 Studies on the Order of Saint Stephen are by now very numerous, comprising, in addition to several monographs, an annual review which publishes the proceedings of specific conferences (“Quaderni stefaniani”). Also see, especially on these themes, G. Guarnieri, I cavalieri di Santo Stefano nella storia della marina italiana (1562–1859), Pisa 1960; C. Ciano, I primi Medici e il mare: note sulla politica marinara toscana da Cosimo I a Ferdinando I, Pisa 1980; F. Angiolini, I cavalieri e il Principe. L’Ordine di Santo Stefano e la società toscana in età moderna, Firenze 1996; L’ordine di Santo Stefano e il mare, Atti del convegno, Pisa 2001. 5 F. Diaz, Il Granducato di Toscana. I Medici, Torino 1987, pp. 258 f. 6 Ibid., pp. 292 f. 7 See also R. Galluzzi, Storia del Granducato di Toscana, 11 vols., Marchini, Firenze 1822 [orig. publ. 1781], vol. 6, p. 73, cited in general also by F. Diaz, Il Granducato, p. 294 (where Galluzzi refers to the year 1606). 8 Vero aviso della impresa fatta dalle galere del serenissimo Granduca di Toscana […], Heredi Bartoli, Pavia 1599; La vera narratione del sanguinoso successo di Scio, fatto da cinque galere del serenissimo Gran Duca di Toscana, seguito alli 2 di maggio l’anno 1599, sotto la carica dell’ill.mo et ecc.mo duca di Bracciano don Virginio Orsino, composta da Gio. Franchi forzato sopra a dette galere, Pietro Brea, Messina 1600 (copy in Archivio di Stato di Firenze (ASF), Carte strozziane, I s., 144, c. 243); C. Manfroni, La marina da guerra del Granducato mediceo, in “Rivista marittima”, 29, 1896, 1, pp. 39–94; 3, pp. 501–535; 5, pp. 215–252; P. Pandely Argenti, The Expedition of the Florentines to Chios (1599), Oxford 1934.

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the Genoese Doria for the expedition against Algiers, which was also doomed to fail9. Beginning in 1602, he began a counterattack and decided at the same time to mount a sustained propaganda campaign, systematically resorting to the press. In May of that year, Admiral Inghirami came across a fleet of Turkish ships in the Aegean islands, took possession of four galleys, and towed them to the port in Leghorn. The event was celebrated in a classic “relatione”, based on the example of other texts that had circulated reporting feats of arms at land or sea10. Between 1602 and 1628, no less than twenty reports on the privateering by the Knights of St. Stephen were issued, almost all produced by the official printers for the Grand Duke11. At that time, no printer in Florence would have published texts unless printing costs had been paid in advance by the client12; this makes it clear that all the texts printed in Florence, almost all of which displayed the Medici coat of arms in the frontispiece, were in fact official accounts of military actions, conceived by the Medici Grand-Dukes for a precise propagandistic purpose13. These reports were most obviously informative descriptions of the facts, based on accounts written by the protagonists themselves, diaries written on board by commanders and their entourages14, and even drawings made by some of the knights15.

9 R. Galluzzi, Storia, vol. 6, p. 37. 10 Relatione della presa di navi, galere, et altri vasselli turcheschi, fatta nell’arcipelago dalle galere della religione di Santo Stefano il passato mese di maggio 1602, Francesco Tosi, Firenze 1602; Relatione della presa di navi, galere, et altri vasselli turcheschi, fatta nell’arcipelago dalle galere della religione di Santo Stefano il passato mese di maggio 1602, rincontro a S. Apolinari [Sermartelli], Firenze 1602. 11 Cfr. G. Ciappelli, L’informazione e la propaganda, Appendice, ad annum. 12 Cfr. G. Bertoli, Autori ed editori a Firenze nella seconda metà del sedicesimo secolo: il ‘caso’ Marescotti, in “Annali di Storia di Firenze”, 2, 2007, pp. 77–114. 13 For this reason, I have not hesitated to use the term “propaganda” for the relazioni promoted by the grand dukes which were certainly aimed at a large if not always well-identified public, even though some historians have expressed reservations regarding the use of this term for the early modern period. In particular, some authors argue that, in order to define a text as a form of propaganda, it is necessary to precisely identify three aspects: the target of the propaganda, the audience for whom the message is intended, and the reaction that the message aims to produce (see F. De Vivo, Patrizi, informatori, barbieri. Politica e informazione a Venezia nella prima età moderna, Milano 2012, pp. 29–34). But, while methodological caution is advisable and helps to avoid the inappropriate attribution of contemporary qualities to old-regime societies, how should we define those older pamphlets in which some of the elements described above may be less precisely defined, but where one can clearly detect, for example, the intention of rulers to promote greater consensus among their subjects, and a greater consideration of the role of the state in the international arena? The answer that comes to mind is precisely the term ‘propaganda’, even if understood in a broader sense. 14 Such as the “libretto del viaggio che si farà in Levante con le galere di Toscana”, 1590; or the “Imprese delle galere, 1550–1610” written by the galleys’ storekeeper Bastiano Balbiani; or the Memoirs of Francesco del Maestro, “scrivano di razione e vicecomito” of the galleys, 1612: ASF, Carte strozziane, I s., 147.3, 145 (and 147.25), 144.28. 15 Like those drawn “per non stare del tutto in otio” by Erasmo Magno da Velletri, knight of Saint Stephen, between 1597 and 1616: Biblioteca Riccardiana di Firenze, Ms. Riccardiano 2174.

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However, at the same time, their edifying and propagandistic political aims were evident, in terms of both the type of language used and the emphasis employed. In fact, a constant feature of these pamphlets was the high level of detail regarding not only how many had died or were wounded in battle on both sides, but also how many Turks had been taken prisoner, and how many Christians had been liberated. Moreover, these reports described the military resources and wealth that had been acquired in order to emphasize the effectiveness of the naval interventions and, at the same time, the blows that had been dealt to the ability of the infidels to keep moving through the Mediterranean at the expense of Christians. Of course, these conquests were also of considerable material and economic value since they allowed the fleet of the Knights to be at least partially self-financing16. Particularly significant from this point of view were both the opening and the ending phrases in each relazione17. In particular, the raid on Bona in 1607, which led to the conquest of the fortress in the city of Annaba in Algeria (ancient Hippo) in the very heart of the Barbary States, not only produced the eighth official report financed by the Grand-Dukes18, but also pushed Ferdinand to publicly boast of the extent of his involvement in military efforts19. And this despite the fact that the attempted conquest of Cyprus in 1607 had ended in failure20. So these were prestigious operations that aimed to establish the Grand Duke’s reputation as a relentless persecutor of the Muslims who threatened the Mediterranean, for which every form of propaganda was justified: the costs involved in printing (eight) official reports under Ferdinand represented only a minor part of the expenses involved in the realization of these military operations. After Ferdinand’s death in 1609, his son Cosimo II took over the rule of the Grand Duchy for the next twelve years. Although Cosimo II had not supported this aspect of his father’s administration while his father was still alive, he proved ready to resume

16 For a general overview of privateering in the Mediterranean in the early modern age see S. Bono, Corsari nel Mediterraneo. Cristiani e musulmani fra guerra, schiavitù e commercio, Milano 1993. On the importance of Muslim slaves, used as oarsmen in galleys, for the very functioning of the Stephanian fleet see ibid., pp. 110–112. On the characteristics of relaciones about the fight against the Turks and Barbary pirates in the seventeenth century see D. Rault, La lucha naval con Turcos y Berberiscos en el Mediterráneo según las relaciones de sucesos (siglo XVII), in P. Civil / F. Crémoux / J. Sanz (eds.), España y el mundo mediterraneo a través de las relaciones de sucesos (1500–1750), Actas del Coloquio internacional, Salamanca 2008, pp. 131–140. 17 See especially G. Ciappelli, Appendice, nos. 10 and 27. 18 A very large number of copies of this relazione were printed, and reproductions printed elsewhere by other publishers provoked protests from the first publisher, Sermartelli; see G. Ottino, Di Bernardo Cennini e dell’arte della stampa in Firenze nei primi cento anni dall’invenzione di essa, Firenze 1871, pp. 99 f. 19 A. Segarizzi (ed.), Relazioni degli ambasciatori veneti al Senato, III, part II, Bari 1916, p. 135, also cited in F. Diaz, Il Granducato, p. 294n. 20 F. Diaz, Il Granducato, p. 294.

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privateering against the Muslims and also tried to foment political dissidence within enemy ranks by supporting Pashas, sheiks and insurgents21. Cosimo did not have his father’s political stature, and his efforts were quite unrealistic. The forms of propaganda he employed, however, did not change, as proved by the first of the reports published during his reign in 161022. In addition to taking concrete actions, Cosimo was also responsible for the production of five leaflets before the end of his reign. On occasion, even private publishers were allowed to describe certain events in their reports, but they always had to point out the merits of the actions taken by the Grand Duke. A 1617 official relazione provided an account of two “bertoni” (a kind of three-masted ship) seized in Tunis. For the occasion, the Grand Ducal commissioner had four engravings entrusted directly to the French artist Jacques Callot23 inserted in the publication. This would have been highly unusual for a relazione published in the free market, given the high cost of this kind of illustration. In this case, it was decided to specifically entrust the illustrations to an artist, with the intention of providing visual information that could better explain the details of naval maneuvers often not fully understood by non-experts so as to stimulate the collective imagination regarding the myth and virtues of the Grand Ducal knightly order. Recourse to this visual tool was not entirely original. In the 1617 case, however, the execution reached an artistic level which had not been seen in previous publications. In any case, although it was relatively rare to employ an artist to provide quality illustrations for feats of arms in printed reports, it was not unknown in Medici propaganda, as demonstrated by other examples of propaganda and the celebration of the naval deeds of the Medici through art. Cosimo I had already had the defeat of the Turks in Piombino in 1554 immortalized by Vasari in the ceiling of the Salone dei Cinquecento and by Stradano in the courtyard of Palazzo Vecchio, in a period when the Order of Saint Stephen had just been founded. In imitation of his father, between 1607 and 1614 Ferdinand I celebrated the seizing of Bona and Preveza, commissioning paintings for the ceiling of the church of the Knights of St Stephen in Pisa, and the grand ducal residence of Palazzo Pitti in Florence24. Moreover, after Ferdinand’s death, Cosimo II would entrust other artists with painting a celebratory fresco cycle of his father’s deeds within the Casino di San Marco and other Medicean buildings, and then the artist Jacques Callot with a series of engravings on the Life of Ferdinand I de ‘Medici, where the theme of the struggle against the Turks promoted by the former Cardinal was conspicuous25. See Figure 1.

21 Ibid., p. 373. 22 G. Ciappelli, Appendice, no. 35. 23 Ibid., no. 62. 24 E. Fumagalli / M. Rossi / R. Spinelli (eds.), L’arme e gli amori. La poesia di Ariosto, Tasso e Guarini nell’arte fiorentina del Seicento, Catalogo della mostra, Livorno 2001, p. 140. 25 The first official commission was on 23 October 1614: Jacques Callot, 1592–1635, Catalogue of the exhibition. Nancy 1992, p. 173. The series originally included 15 engravings and one etching.

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Fig. 1: Battle between the Turks and Knights of St. Stephen, engraving by Jacques Callot (on a drawing by Matteo Rosselli), from the series La vita di Ferdinando I de’ Medici, Firenze, Gallerie degli Uffizi, Gabinetto dei Disegni e delle Stampe.

But his propagandistic operation did not stop here. In addition to information-propaganda produced by authors who mostly remain unknown and the creation of works to inspire the collective imagination through painted iconography, he promoted epic poems written by learned men of letters. Already in 1611, a court poet had published celebratory poems of brave deeds26. Cosimo II then entrusted another well-established court poet protected by the Medici, Gabriello Chiabrera, with recounting the privateering activities of the Grand-ducal knightly order in verse27. The twelve songs celebrating twelve deeds accomplished by the Knights of St. Stephen between 1602 and 1617 roughly corresponded to the official reports published by the Grand Ducal printers. Here too, the beginning phrases were significant, inspired by Pindar’s verses celebrating the Olympic Games. It is certainly laudatory literature28, however a tight relationship to the text of official reports - based on the narration of facts – was main26 G. Ciappelli, Appendice, no. 39. 27 [G. Chiabrera], Canzoni di Gabriello Chiabrera per le galere della religione di s. Stefano. Al serenissimo G. duca di Toscana Cosmo secondo, Zanobi Pignoni, Firenze 1619. 28 Cfr. D. Conrieri, Chiabrera encomiasta dei Medici, in E. Fumagalli / M. Rossi / R. Spinelli (eds.), L’arme e gli amori, pp. 43–52.

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tained, so much as to cite at the beginning of each song (in a way that has appeared strange to literary critics, but which is very much in line with the purposes of propaganda) the balance of captured Turks and freed Christian slaves29. After Cosimo II’s death in 1621, the heir to the throne Ferdinand II was just eleven years old, and up until 1628 the government was entrusted to the regency of his mother and paternal grandmother. The knights’ privateering continued, but only two relazioni were printed in Florence30. And when Ferdinand II assumed direct power, the formal celebration of such deeds changed and the number of relazioni, even unofficial ones, significantly decreased. Also, perhaps in the wake of Chiabrera’s songs of 1619, official publications tended to become decidedly literary as they celebrated the dynasty in power31. Despite being in his forties, Grand Duke Ferdinand felt so tied to his role as a fighter for freedom and religion against the barbarians that he dressed up as his enemy for a costume party as if he were a conquering hero32. In fact, at the time, Ferdinand II had already liquidated (literally) most of his fleet to obtain cash: he had retained only two galleys to provide for the safety of the Tuscan coast, selling the rest to the Prince of Monaco who bought them for France33. For that matter, even in 1619 maintaining the fleet cost an average of 130,000 ducats a year34. Furthermore, in the 1640s the Mediterranean seemed sufficiently dominated by Western fleets to allow this disarmament, and the savings were used to compensate for the severe financial problems faced by the Medici state, already sorely tried by military efforts on land related to the Thirty Years’ War35. After this period, we still find an official eulogy in 1675, and four more reports before 171936. Only the last of these reports had been promoted by the Grand Duke, and this also marked the end of such texts as far as Tuscany was concerned. This happened as a consequence of the large reduction, if not the end, of Turkish and Barbary piracy in the Mediterranean.

29 Compare, for example, the title of one relatione with the lines before the beginning of one of Chiabrera’s songs about the same event: “Relatione della presa […] delle galere capitana, e padrona del già famoso corsaro Amurat Rais nell’isola di Negroponte […] con la liberatione di 450 schiavi christiani, il bottino fato, et la presa, e morte di gran quantità di Turchi” (G. Ciappelli, Appendice, no. 53); “Canzone XI. Quando si conquistarono le galere Capitana e Padrona di Amuratto nei mari di Negroponte, fecersi schiavi Turchi 200. Cristiani franchi 420” (Chiabrera, Canzoni, n.n.). 30 G. Ciappelli, Appendice, nos. 98 and 102. 31 Ibid., nos. 111–113. 32 His portrait in Turkish costume, painted by Giusto Sustermans before 1650, is now at Palazzo Pitti, Galleria Palatina. 33 R. Galluzzi, Storia, vol. 7, pp. 273 f. On the downsizing of the fleet see also M. Lenzi, La gestione delle galere stefaniane negli anni Quaranta del ‘600, in L’Ordine di Santo Stefano e il mare, pp. 233–248. 34 R. Galluzzi, Storia, vol. 7, pp. 15 f. 35 But see also C. Sodini, L’Ercole tirreno. Guerra e dinastia medicea nella prima metà del ‘600, Firenze 2001, about the heavy expenses for land wars in the 1630s. 36 G. Ciappelli, Appendice, nos. 120, 124–126, 127, 129, 131–132.

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2 Transmission of news: Translations in Italy and abroad Including both relazioni and literary works, there were about twenty official narratives recounting the deeds of the Tuscan galleys. But adaptations of these texts, including reprints by other publishers, some from other cities, and translations into other languages, brought the number of texts of this kind to 114 (so far) – for about forty feats of arms. Thus, on average, there were about three publications – including reprints and translations – for each single event. This represents a considerable success in the European publishing market of the time for this type of event and narrative – all fostered by the self-promotion of the Medici Grand Dukes. And the reasons for this success are clear: facts about war were among the main events treated in relazioni; the fight against the Muslim enemy was one of the driving motivations for proto-information in that age; and the security of the Mediterranean, also considering the direct experience of risk by commercial operators and coastal populations, was a major concern for the general public. These texts were disseminated in various ways. First, as replications of the same text printed, either locally or further afield, by publishers who did not enjoy Grand Ducal privileges in Florence or in the Grand Duchy of Tuscany, or by publishers in other Italian cities. In other cases, pamphlets offering popularized versions of official relazioni were disseminated. Judging from their presentation, these were written by low-ranking people such as soldiers or sailors, who had participated in the described events and may even have been directly involved in battles. In still other cases, there were popular adaptations in verse describing the same deeds to sing the praises of the combatants and to spread the stories in a more or less generic way. Thus, while the “official” relazioni promoted by the Grand Dukes numbered about twenty, these other types of texts numbered about 56, printed in Rome, Bologna, Milan, Naples, Turin, Viterbo, Cremona, Pavia, Siena, Lucca, Pistoia. The other major trend in this diffusion of texts was translation or descriptions of the same events in other languages. These texts followed the same patterns outlined above. There were 44 cases of this type, with all but one (in 1687) appearing between 1602 and 1645 during the “golden age” for the production of official texts, when the public impact of the narrated episodes was also very high. Apart from three British and one French case that I found, 39 translations out of 43 were produced in Spain: 17 in Barcelona, ​​12 in Seville, and the remaining 10 in Madrid, Malaga, Valencia, Valladolid and Montilla. Thus, the relative majority of such texts were produced in Barcelona37.

37 This was shown in Ettinghausen’s book on print in Barcelona 1612–1628, which lists as many as 82 such texts: H. Ettinghausen, Notícies del segle XVII: La Premsa a Barcelona entre 1612 i 1628, Barcelona 2000.

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The first of these translations in 1602 was, as the title reflects, an exact translation in Spanish of a report that had been printed in Florence in the same year. The second was a translation of an official Medici report from 1610. The next, printed in Malaga, was from 1613, but related to a particular situation. In fact, the seizing of the fortress and port of Agliman in Caramannia (Turkey) was such a striking event at the time (or so well advertised) that it enjoyed the largest number of adaptations. In addition to the official Medici report, with two re-printings in Siena and Bologna, five other Italian versions appeared in Florence, Brescia, Pavia, Messina and Genoa, all based on a text written by a soldier on board the Tuscan fleet. In addition to a Spanish translation of the official text, we have also a French one from the same year (Paris, Victoire obtenue contre les Turcs), and an English one from the following year (London), with the title Good newes from Florence of a famous victorie obtained against the Turkes38. The assault from the sea on the ancient Seleucia (today Silifke) in southern Anatolia involved the seizure and looting of a mighty fortress already used by the Knights of St. John and evoked a strong response largely because of the symbolic value of conducting such a large military action entirely in Turkish territory. Above all, it represented the revenge of the Knights of St. Stephen and Cosimo II for a still stinging loss. In 1612, the Turks had cut off the heads of 40 men, the crew of the Tuscan ship Prospera, which had gotten lost along the Turkish coast, and had put their heads on stakes along the walls of the fortress. The following year, therefore, Cosimo II sent an expedition to avenge this outrage. Even the capture of two pirate galleys of Amurat Rais in 1616 earned a Spanish translation39. The numerous remaining Castilian versions of Tuscan naval deeds printed before 1639 were justified either because these Tuscan actions were conducted alongside Spanish ships (galleys from Naples or Sicily), in which case the title page displayed the coat of arms of the Habsburgs of Spain; or because the Tuscan galleys had been sailing in Spanish waters. Or else (and this is the case for many of the Barcelona texts) they celebrated an event, whether it was solely Tuscan or jointly Tuscan, in verse, sometimes without providing any details about the places and dates of the described events, but stating on the title page that the author was a Spanish soldier who had participated in the events (in this case, the illustrations were of poorer quality, for instance, depicting a galley or a stylized vessel, and they reappeared over time)40. In other cases, the text was a translation of a letter about the events, sometimes sent from Leghorn (the port of departure for Tuscan galleys). In 1626, Esteve Liberòs in Barcelona even printed a report in Italian, written by a Neapolitan standard bearer of the Tuscan troops. In 1625, he published a text already composed in Madrid about a Tuscan deed, but this was more a story with a happy ending than a relaciÓn: the

38 G. Ciappelli, Appendice, ad annum. 39 Ibid., nos. 53 and 56. 40 Cfr. the title pages of nos. 58 and 60, 59, 75 and 93, 114 and 115, but also 56 and 71.

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name of an admiral of the Tuscan fleet is mistaken for that of a Genoese merchant who lived in Madrid, the Tuscan Admiral makes a vow to the Virgen of Montserrat, who is only venerated in Catalunia, and when the fleet returns to Tuscany, the Grand Duke receives in his palace in Florence twelve Calabrian damsels who had been taken prisoner by the Turks41. Well before the middle of the seventeenth century, this phenomenon seems to have worn off. We have six episodes reported in Italian between 1675 and 1719 and only one Spanish mention of Florentine deeds in 1687, which was very concise, and strongly influenced by gazette style42. In fact, apart from the actual decrease in Tuscan naval actions since the 1640s for the reasons mentioned above, also linked to the strong Tuscan military commitment on land, it seems that from this time on news about such events was incorporated into a new type of periodic information: the newspapers43.

3 Religion and violence Tuscan and more generally Christian privateering in the Mediterranean was part of a clash between two blocs, fueled by political, economic, and cultural motives, where a difference of religion – at least officially – played a fundamental part. Violence was a byproduct of this clash, and therefore we can assume that an analysis of the descriptions used in the aforementioned pamphlets (even if they are all from only one point of view) can help us better understand the link between religion and violence in seventeenth century Europe. How was violence portrayed in the aforementioned descriptions? What paradigms emerge?

41 G. Ciappelli, Appendice, nos. 93, 89. 42 Ibid., no. 130: “Florencia. Las Galeras del Gran Duque de Toscana no se pudieron juntar con la Armada de Venecia, por el recelo de la peste, se bolvieron, y mandó su amo que saliessen a corso, y de dos salidas que hizieron, apressaron un navio de Argel de treinta pieçis de artilleria, y un vergantin con ciento y quarenta Moros”. 43 For example, news on the recovery of a ship taken by Turks in the Tirrenian Sea is present in the Massi and Landi “Gazzetta” (unauthorized copy of the “Gazzetta di Genova”) of July 11, 1643 (“… Portercole, da dove essendo sabato scoperto una pollacca 20 miglia in alto, mandò il governatore della squadra la galera di Santo Stefano per riconoscerla, havendola arrivata alle 20 ore si trovò essere l’istessa ch’il giorno avanti era stata presa carica di legne per questa città a Cavo Linari da tre galere turchesche, quali havendosi posto sopra gente che la conducesse in salvo, passarono altrove. Fu dunque presa, e con 17 Turchi e un greco che la guidavano remulcata a Portercole”). Another one on the privateering in “Corriere ordinario”, July 27, 1678: “Sabbato mattina approdarono qui [Napoli] 4 Galere di Toscana, e doppo essere quel Generale stato fatto accogliere dal Viceré con ogni onorevolezza, spiegarono la notte di Domenica nuovamente le vele, per corseggiare in questi Mari contra i legni infedeli”). The same newspaper provides information about a campaign of Venetian galleys in the Levant on June 16, 1694.

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First of all, it is necessary to stress that all descriptions were influenced by a specific rhetoric, which regarded Christian privateering in the Mediterranean at the time as the continuation of the ideals of the Crusades. Texts on this topic fostered an edifying historiography which extolled the protagonists of such deeds (either the monarchs, or the chivalric orders related to them) so as to justify their actions, leaving the less obvious reasons for an armed intervention against Turks and Barbary pirates in the Mediterranean in the background. If the beginning of the eighteenth century saw the flourishing of such historiographic panegyrics, the preceding period had experienced the dissemination of relazioni as a means to the same end. As recent studies have shown, Tuscan Grand Dukes actually used the war against infidels to justify their need to maintain a naval fleet in the Mediterranean for both political and commercial purposes, thus avoiding any opposition from other European powers. Besides, the very foundation of the chivalric order of St Stephen in 1561 allowed the Medici Grand Dukes to gather the old feudal nobility and new nobles under their command, united by their common dependence on the sovereign’s favor44. If we keep this aspect of privateering in mind, it also seems clear that publications conceived for a large audience had to appeal to largely shared values and use shared feelings to describe situations. This makes a brief analysis of the words used to describe the episodes of violence in the relazioni of events worthwhile, since they can help us catch the spirit of the time. Especially in “official” relazioni, the language used was often far from harsh, and if anything it is rather technical when describing the naval and military actions which brought about a final result: the seizure of a ship, or a group of ships, or their cargo, or the conquest of a port or fortress taken from the enemy. The enemies were almost never described as cowards; on the contrary, their fighting and defense was described as brave (“valoroso”), either because that was the case, or because saying the opposite would also have lessened the Christians’ valor. Violence is not shown through bloody descriptions, but rather through the substance of what is described. In this sense, what would certainly have been condemned in the behavior of Turk or Barbary privateers who were raiding Christian villages, is freely practiced by Christian troops, who sacked conquered villages, set fire to civilian houses, enslaved not only enemy soldiers but even civilians including women and children, shelled areas of the city where the population had gathered and, in at least one case, set fire to a mosque where “Turks and Moors” had barricaded themselves. During the seizure of the Prevesa fortress in 1605, the attacked village was not set on fire only “because the houses of Greeks were mixed in with those of the Turks”. The seizure of a Turkish galleon close to Capo Spartivento in 1619 provides the background for this comment: “in that moment, the nearby peoples of Calabria could look on

44 Cfr. G. Poumarède, Pour en finir avec la Croisade. Mythes et réalités de la lutte contre Les Turcs au XVIe et XVIIe siècles, Paris 2004, pp. 433 f.

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with delight at a battle in which they saw in their own sea and before their own eyes their natural enemies, who had regularly attacked their coasts, pay the penalty for the countless damages they had inflicted, at the hands of the Tuscan knights and soldiers”45. The satisfaction they felt at this revenge for earlier offences is often explicit: “The aforementioned conquest is very important, both for the value of the things confiscated [more than 200.000 scudos], and because in this way revenge was taken for Amurat the Old’s seizure of the galleys Capitana and San Giovanni in the Gerbi shallows in Barbary, 22 years ago”46. And as we have seen, the desire for revenge also led Cosimo II to attack Silifke in 1613, where, in the preceding year, Turks had beheaded 40 Tuscan knights, placing the knights’ heads on the city walls. Symbols were equally important, and if the destruction of ships which could not be taken away derived from the desire to destroy the very means of the enemy’s privateering, attempts to recover precisely those cannons formerly taken by Turks did not have only military value. At the same time, the display (and sometimes abasement) of enemy flags at the stern of ships when the Tuscan fleet returned to its port of origin must be recognized as a contemporary practice47. Flags taken from the Turks by the knights of Saint Stephen were later displayed as trophies in their church in Pisa, Saint Stephen of the Knights, and some of them still hang on these walls today. In the last twenty years or so, the connection between religion and violence has been analyzed a number of times, mostly as a result of suggestions which derive from present issues. Anthropologists, sociologists, philosophers, and experts on religion have tried to understand, each from his specific point of view, the main traits which characterize the interplay of religion and violence. So much so that a recent publication, the Dictionnaire des faits religieux, included an article on violence where the author tried to answer the question as to whether it is possible to establish if not a causal link at least the interdependence of religion and violence48. With respect to the early modern period, historians have so far reflected above all on the implications of the massive conflicts which crossed Europe in relation to the clash between Christian denominations: Protestantism against Catholicism. Denis Crouzet has analyzed, also from an anthropological point of view, violence in the time of the French Wars of 45 G. Ciappelli, Appendice, no. 66: “all’ora i vicini popoli di Calabria potevano con diletto mirar questa pugna, dove vedevano i loro naturali nemici, da i quali son del continuo le rive loro oltraggiate, ora nel proprio mare, e avanti agli occhi propri per mano de cavalieri, e soldati toscani pagar il fio degl’infiniti danni che dalla lor natione hanno sempre ricevuto”. 46 Relatione della presa, 1616 (G. Ciappelli, Appendice, no. 53): “La detta preda è di molta importanza, sì per il valore delle robbe predate …, [more than 200.000 scudos], come anco per essersi vendicata la presa che Amorat il Vecchio fece della galera Capitana, e San Giovanni del Gran Duca nelle secche delle Gerbi di Barberia, già 22 anni sono”. 47 See Vera relatione della presa …, 1620 (G. Ciappelli, Appendice, no. 70): “Le bandiere per poppa inimiche d’usanza de’ corsali in segno di vittoria …”, and compare G. Ciappelli, Appendice, no. 93. 48 H. Bozarslan, Violence, in R. Azri / D. Hervieu-Léger (eds.), Dictionnaire des faits religieux, Paris 2010, pp. 1272–1276.

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Religion49. But if violence can still be seen as a byproduct of confessional and therefore religious conflict in the case of the French Wars of Religion, it is already more questionable to consider it so in the case of the Thirty Years War50. The temptation to find a common pattern in the way violence functions in relation to religion in different contexts and ages can be strong, but we probably need to preserve some distinctions in order to best understand phenomena. For example, the pattern described in Barrington Moore’s Moral purity and persecution in history51, in which monotheism and moral purity are considered the roots of violence and persecution, already appears weak in relation to early modern history and the French Wars of Religion; in general, it is also not convincing52 and it would be hard to use this pattern to interpret the early modern clash between Christians and Turks. Leaving aside the fact that Moore treats the French wars of Religion rather superficially from an historical point of view and builds his generalizations on only a few sources (Calvin’s Institutions, and a few ballad texts), the Turk-Christian conflict was not a war fought for purity, that is, an attempt to expel polluted members of society in an effort to attain purity. Such a pattern might perhaps apply in relation to early modern Spain, where the goal of religious uniformity was actively pursued by Catholic kings with the creation of the Spanish Inquisition, where Jews and Muslims were actually obliged to convert or were expelled, and where purity of blood later became a real issue, even within a formally Christian population. Generally speaking, violence against other religions is pursued – as a matter of fact, if not of principle – even by religions which are not monotheistic, or do not consider purity to be a fundamental value, such as Hinduism, and Buddhism53. It is, I think, rather a matter of identity: the identification of individuals with one group and its fundamental characteristics and values leads them to refuse the rights they grant themselves to others. At the same time, it corresponds to what Charles Schmitt (and Nicolai Hartmann before him) has called a “tyranny of values”, when a value (in this case a religious one) tends to stand out as the only leading principle for behavior and ends up suffocating others54. This is particularly clear in relation to the “just war”. In this case, any kind of solicitude for the enemy breaks down. As Schmitt says: “When it’s a matter of impos-

49 D. Crouzet, Les guerriers de Dieu. La violence aux temps des troubles de religion, vers 1525–vers 1610, 2 vols., Seyssel 1990. 50 See C. Zwierlein, The Thirty Years’ War – A Religious War? Religion and Machiavellism at the Turning Point of 1635, in O. Asbach / P. Schröder (eds.), The Ashgate Research Companion to the Thirty Years War, London 2016, pp. 231–243. 51 B. Moore Jr., Moral Purity and Persecution in History, Princeton NJ 2000. 52 See the critical reviews of Moore’s book by J. McManners, in “The English Historical Review”, 115, 2000, 464, pp. 1250 f., and D. Frankfurter, in “Journal of Religion”, 83, 2003, pp. 454–456. 53 And this despite the final pages of Moore’s book, see H. Bozarslan, Violence. 54 C. Schmitt, La tirannia dei valori. Riflessioni di un giurista sulla filosofia dei valori, Milano 2008, pp. 60 f., 63, 65 (orig. publ. as Die Tyrannei der Werte, Stuttgart 1967)-

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ing the highest value, no price is too high”55. As is well known, the debate about the “just war” has a long history, and in Christianity goes back to Augustin’s original distinction (“iusta bella” versus “impia, iniqua bella”)56, juridically summarized in Gratian’s Decretum, and later theologically worked out by Thomas Aquinas and the scholastics. According to this pattern, a war is just if it is conducted by a legitimate authority, for a just cause, and for just ends57. For these reasons, any war against infidels was considered just until the sixteenth-seventeenth centuries, when new conceptions began to develop due to the discovery of the New World58. The Dominican Francisco de Vitoria (De Indis, 1532; De iure belli, 1539) and the Jesuit Francisco Suarez (De bello, in De triplici virtute theologica, 1621) were the first to consider that a difference of religion, in itself, was an insufficient reason for a just war59. But since the war against the infidels could be seen as a form of defense against their attacks, and therefore a just reaction to a suffered injury, such concepts, even if important, prospectively, in terms of pointing to new, modern, principles for international law, did not modify the negative attitude towards Muslims much. For Vitoria, Muslims still had to be considered “perpetui hostes” of Christianity60. Since it was impossible, in this perpetual war, to get satisfaction for the injustices and damages that one had suffered, it was admissible to enslave not only male adults, but also the women and children of infidels (which would not have been acceptable with Christians)61. For Suarez, “direct injuries against innocents” should have been considered illegitimate, but first it was necessary to understand who could be considered innocent62.

55 C. Schmitt, La tirannia dei valori, p. 65. 56 Augustinus Hipponensis, De civitate Dei, IV.6, 15: Patrologia Latina, edited by J.P. Migne, vol. 41, Paris 1845, col. 124. 57 See texts cited in A. Vanderpol, La doctrine scolastique du Droit de guerre, Paris 1919, pp. 211–214. 58 On the concept of the “just war” in the sixteenth-seventeenth century, see A. Prosperi, Guerra giusta e cristianità divisa tra Cinquecento e Seicento, in M. Franzinelli / R. Bottoni (eds.), Chiesa e guerra. Dalla “benedizione delle armi” alla “Pacem in terris”, Bologna 2005, pp. 29–90; V. Lavenia, Dio in uniforme. Cappellani, catechesi cattolica e soldati in età moderna, Bologna 2018, especially chap. 1: “Tra guerra giusta e guerre sacre. La crisi del Cinquecento cristiano”; A. Trampus, Il problema della guerra giusta, in P. Bianchi / P. Del Negro (eds.), Guerre ed eserciti nell’età moderna, Bologna 2018, pp. 268–290. 59 See the texts cited in A. Vanderpol, La doctrine scolastique, pp. 236 f. 60 See N. Geuna, Francisco de Vitoria e la questione della guerra giusta, in G. Daverio Rocchi (ed.), Dalla concordia dei Greci al bellum iustum dei moderni, Milano / San Marino 2013, pp. 143–174, here p. 164. 61 Francisco de Vitoria, De iure belli, edited by C. Galli, Roma / Bari 2005, p. 77. 62 Francisco Suarez, Sulla guerra, edited by A.A. Cassi, Macerata 2014, esp. pp. 95–113.

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4 Concluding remarks: Religious diversity as a rhetorical argument Generally speaking, therefore, according to widely held seventeenth century conceptions, even cruel forms of war actions against infidels were largely considered to be justified. And this is clear from the descriptions of Christian deeds against Turks and Barbary pirates that we find in texts about Tuscan (and other) privateering. Christians are doing exactly the same things to the Turks that the Turks inflicted on them: invading coastal towns and villages, pillaging of houses, killing even women and children, enslaving civil people because they are considered “infidels”. But this is considered justified, because it corresponds to both legitimate reaction and to the enforcement of true religion. Those who do not belong to the true religion, do not enjoy the same right to respect as do true believers. This kind of stance appears to be based more on the identification with a principle of civilization (collective identity as opposed to the others, the barbarians) than on the application of principles intrinsic to religion63: “barbarians are not the same as ourselves”. The community identifies with its religion, and all people who do not share this fundamental identification are seen as strangers, evil, and enemies who deserve to (or must) be destroyed. This alterity, which separates “us” and “them” and demonizes the other, is not surprising in a context where the principle of tolerance was still unknown64. Furthermore, it belongs to the same pattern which today produces ethnicizations of religion that intentionally confuse cultural tradition and religion, in order to stress the identity of some communities against the others, all the while legitimating forms of political power and political purposes (often coercive power inside and expansive policy outside) on this religious basis65. This is one of the strongest reasons which originate the tie between religion and violence, no matter which religion is involved. This does not mean that the clash between Christian and Muslim countries in seventeenth century Mediterranean was definitely a “clash of civilizations”. In this respect, many recent works provide a much more blurred picture, in which single countries belonging to one or another bloc sometimes acted rather freely in the choice of their contacts and alliances66. It only demonstrates that religious diversity provided a strong rhetorical argument to justify violent behavior towards the enemy, and was adopted as such. 63 In his analysis of Christianity and Islam, even A. Wheatcroft, Infidels. The Conflict between Christendom and Islam, 638-2002, London 2003, p. 39, invites us to distinguish between the features of each religious faith and the images constructed by the enemy. 64 As is well known, the elaboration of the concept awaited Locke (An Essay Concerning Toleration, 1667, which nevertheless excluded Catholics from the application of tolerance because they were intolerant), and later Voltaire for a broader application (Traité sur la tolerance, 1763). 65 See H. Bozarslan, Violence. 66 See in this sense A. Prosperi, Guerra giusta; R. Cancila, Il Mediterraneo assediato, in R. Cancila (ed.), Il Mediterraneo in armi (secc. XV–XVIII), 2 vols., Palermo 2007, vol. I, pp. 7–66.

Contributors Fernanda Alfieri, Researcher, Fondazione Bruno Kessler, Istituto Storico Italo-Germanico, Trento Giovanni Ciappelli, Associate Professor of Early Modern History, University of Trento Serena Ferente, Reader in Late Medieval & Renaissance History, King’s College, London Atsuko Hirayama, Professor Emeritus in History of the Iberian Expansion and East Asia, Tezukayama University, Nara Morihisa Ishiguro, Professor of Early Modern Western History, Kanazawa University Takashi Jinno, Professor of Medieval Western History, Waseda University, Tokyo Yuga Kuroda, Associate Professor of Spanish History, Kanagawa University Vincenzo Lavenia, Associate Professor of Early Modern History, University of Bologna Taku Minagawa, Professor of Early Modern Western History, University of Yamanashi Kazuhisa Takeda, Senior Assistant Professor of Latin American History, Meiji University, Tokyo Debora Tonelli, Researcher, Fondazione Bruno Kessler, Centro per le Scienze Religiose, Trento

https://doi.org.10.1515/9783110643978-013