Pilgrims to Jerusalem in the Middle Ages 9780231529617

Citation preview

Pilgrims to Jerusalem in the Middle Ages

Pilgrims to Jerusalem in the Middle Ages Nicole Chareyron translated by w. donald wilson

columbia university press

new york

Columbia University Press Publishers Since 1893 New York Chichester, West Sussex Copyright © 2000 Éditions Imago English-language translation copyright © 2005 Columbia University Press All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Chareyron, Nicole. [Pélerins de Jérusalem au Moyen âge. English] Pilgrims to Jerusalem in the Middle Ages / Nicole Chareyron ; translated by W. Donald Wilson. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 0–231–13230–1 (cloth : alk. paper) isbn 0–231–13231–X (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Christian pilgrims and pilgrimages—History 2. Christian pilgrims and pilgrimages—Jerusalem. I. Title. BX2323.C3913 2005 263'.04256942—dc22

2004056043

Columbia University Press books are printed on permanent and durable acid-free paper. Printed in the United States of America Designed by Audrey Smith c 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 p 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Ouvrage publié avec le concours du Ministère français chargé de la culture—Centre nationale du livre. This work was published with the cooperation of the French ministry of culture National Book Center.

contents

Foreword by Pierre-André Sigal Preface Chronology and Maps

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1. Evagari et Discurrere per Mundum . . . 2. All Roads Lead to Venice 3. Venice in Splendid Dress 4. Five Weeks in a Galley 5. The Holy Lond of Promyssion 6. Jerusalem and the Holy Places 7. The Church of the Holy Sepulcher: The Christian World in Miniature 8. Pilgrimages and Excursions Round and About Jerusalem 9. Saracens in the Towns, Arabs in the Desert, and Jews Here and There 10. Desert Time, Desert Space 11. Sinai and Its Speaking Stones 12. Cairo, City of Lights 13. Diamonds of the Sands, or Pharaoh’s Granaries 14. The Virgin’s Garden, the Hermits’ Desert, and Egyptian Dreams 15. Alexandria, Sentry of the East 16. Happy He Who, Like Ulysses . . . 17. By Way of an Ending: The Smell of Thyme and the Taste of Honey

1 16 26 47 68 78

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Appendix: Pilgrims’ Profiles Notes Bibliography Index

221 231 271 283

91 102 111 127 146 157 173 179 186 198

foreword Pierre-André Sigal

Jerusalem—the place where Christ lived, was crucified, and entombed—has exerted extraordinary magnetic power over Christians from the fourth century to the present day. Over the centuries, thousands of pilgrims have been eager to confront the difficulties and dangers of the journey in order to pray and meditate in the Holy Land. Many of them remain anonymous, but some—beginning with the Spanish nun Egeria, who made her pilgrimage between 381 and 384—set down the story of their journey for posterity, wishing to transmit an account of their experiences to future pilgrims in order to guide and counsel them in undertaking their expedition. Whether in the form of notes recorded daily and reworked when the journey was completed or written entirely after returning from the pilgrimage, these narratives, which were especially numerous in the final centuries of the Middle Ages, represent a documentary source of the first order for learning about the pilgrimages to the Holy Land. Nicole Chareyron therefore made a wise choice when she turned to them to evoke the different aspects of the “holy journey.” Her considerable accomplishment consists, in the first place, in having scoured libraries all over Europe, seeking out, collecting, and translating more than a hundred accounts written by Frenchmen, Englishmen, Italians, and Germans of varying social status—many of them churchmen, but also nobles, bourgeois, and merchants. These texts cover the period from the thirteenth to the sixteenth centuries, but the great majority were written in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, lending a certain temporal homogeneity to the whole. This was a time when the Holy Land and Christ’s burial place, earlier conquered by the crusaders, had been lost to Westerners. The last Christian fortified town, Acre, fell in 1291, with the result that the pilgrims had to cope with harassment by the Muslim

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administration and the hostility of the local population in addition to the material difficulties inherent in a long journey to a distant land. With considerable verve and a sense of concrete reality Nicole Chareyron enables us to relive the eventful moments of this journey and permits us to become intimately familiar with this company of a hundred or so medieval pilgrims. Her plan is very logically inspired by the route followed by the pilgrim, from his departure in the West (usually through the great port of Venice) to his return from a visit to a Holy Land that might reach as far as Mount Sinai and Egypt. Through the diversity of these accounts and experiences, the author, in her excellent synthesis, traces a truly living portrait of the pilgrim to the East in the late Middle Ages. Indeed, there is no shortage of picturesque details, for the pilgrims give naïve expression to their astonishment as they marvel at the churches of Venice, the gardens of Alexandria, the plans of Egyptian cities, or the majesty of the pyramids (which many of them took to be granaries). They were overcome by emotion in those places where the life and passion of Christ took place, attempting at every step to rediscover some trace of the events described in the New Testament. Many of these travelers—and this is one characteristic of pilgrimage at the end of the Middle Ages—also took an interest in the people and, like ethnologists, took note of the local customs. Chareyron excels at rendering the image of the “other” as it emerges from pilgrims’ accounts, whether it is a simplistic perception of the Muslim religion or the primitive condition of the Bedouin population. However, undertaking a pilgrimage to the East also meant confronting many problems of a material nature, and the author humorously describes how the pilgrims coped with these: life on board ship and the difficulties of life at close quarters; the cost and quality of the requisite supplies; relations with guides and the local population. Other observations strike a more serious note. There were illnesses and violence of all kinds—hence the joy of a safe homecoming at the completion of the pilgrimage. Always referring to original documents, from which she cites numerous extracts, Nicole Chareyron makes this company of pilgrims our intimates. When we finally close her book, the German Dominican Felix Fabri, the English churchman William Wey, the French knight Bertrandon de la Brocquière, the Italian Pietro Casola, and many others have become our familiar traveling companions.

preface

Before I entered the field of pilgrimage studies I must admit that I had only a rather stereotypical perception of it and, worse still, the rather critical attitude of a child of the Reformation, the ironic Rabelais and the stern Calvin having proclaimed that pilgrimage served no purpose for the salvation of the soul. The journals of pilgrims who made the holy voyage to Jerusalem helped me understand to what extent we unconsciously mold human history around our personal beliefs. I only had to put myself in the shoes of travelers of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, explore the world through their eyes, and survey the desert through their spectacles to see things differently. This came about when I encountered a type of literature that is not held in high esteem, no doubt because its subject matter is too personal or anecdotal to deserve the attention of anyone but a historian or the curious. It may seem paradoxical that stories of such an engaging nature should not have met with much success with publishers over the centuries, but it is only natural, after all, that readers should have preferred the archetype of the fearless knight—along with the justificatory discourse in praise of the hero’s valor1—to the obscure figure of the pilgrim and his long and arduous journey. These men revealed heroism of a different kind to me, one that is rarely represented in fiction but perhaps deserved one additional tribute. I say additional since some fine books have already been written to honor the memory of “God’s wayfarers” (an eloquent definition that situates the individual halfway between heaven and earth),2 and some impressive syntheses encouraged me to undertake my own study. This literature of testimony reveals insights that fiction does not always provide. This is so because these travelers, writing first and foremost for themselves, confess their astonishment, pity, admiration, and dread with touching sincerity

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and lack of self-consciousness. When they speak of other men, they draw their own portraits through their words. In turning the pages of the world they also turn the pages of history. At Rhodes in 1480 they encountered the Turks, who were besieging the town. At Candia in 1494 they experienced a cataclysmic earthquake. In 1394 one of them took the wrong way home and found himself in the midst of a war in the Peloponnese. What adventures awaited another who decided to transform his pilgrimage into an exploration of unknown lands!How could one not wish to set out in their company? I therefore invite the reader to travel with them on a journey I have pieced together using elements garnered from their notebooks and accounts, to set out on a dangerous journey with them between the falsehoods of the real world and the true fiction of writing. Let him or her relive the emotions of a sea or desert crossing in the company of Ogier d’Anglure from Champagne, the German Felix Fabri, the Florentine Frescobaldi, the Irishman Symon Semeonis, and so many others, including Italians, Frenchmen, Flemings, and English. Let him be dazzled or disappointed by the medieval city of Jerusalem as it rises up before him, disproving the abstract, ideal, hallowed image of the urbs beata, represented in books and stainedglass windows as a perfect circle or square divided into four parts, with its twelve gates—Jerusalem the heavenly city, evoking “all the ages, and the absolute centrality of its location.”3 Let the lover of cruises rediscover the perils of the Nile, and for a brief moment see the pyramids as stinking stone quarries and the haunt of wild beasts once again, their inner depths scarcely to be penetrated by the flickering light of a candle! Perhaps this literary journey of the pilgrim of former times may show the tourist of today all that his culture and worldview owe to those who went before. Perhaps, thanks to the magic of these testimonies, the modern individual, who is always in such a hurry, may take a few steps in a different time, a “hallowed time, a time of self-denial and of effort”—the age of the pilgrim.4

Preface to the English-Language Edition I would like to say how pleased I am to see Pilgrims to Jerusalem in the Middle Ages cross the Atlantic thanks to Columbia University Press. I am grateful, first of all, to the press for judging it worthy and doing me the honor of this edition. I also want to thank the translator, Don Wilson, for his contribution to this American edition, for without him nothing would have been possible. The quotations from Old French—often in dialect—made his task none the easier, and I have to admire his mastery of the medieval language in its many forms. An Internet dialogue carried on over several weeks allowed us to collaborate and supplement the original with some new material,

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including additional notes, capsule biographies of the pilgrim authors, and a revised bibliography (which, however, makes no claim to be exhaustive). I am also very grateful to Henry Krawitz for his scrupulous attention to detail in editing the English-language text. Finally, I hope that the reader will enjoy journeying briefly in the footsteps of these great wayfarers of long ago and, thanks to their testimonies, reliving a fascinating page of human history. n. c.

Pilgrims to Jerusalem in the Middle Ages

chapter 1

Evagari et Discurrere per Mundum . . . Some are foolish enough to think there is no country but their own. —Anselmo Adorno

Is it the explorer’s instinct that compels men to travel far from their homeland or is it a nomadic urge they allow to triumph within them?1 Whatever the nature of the inner compulsion that makes them leave their native soil, it is reinforced by a cultural imperative that endows it with meaning, whether it be the call of spirituality or a thirst for knowledge. This is what makes man human. Unlike the salmon, man chooses to follow the river back to its source. Man desires exile or consents to it.

The Call of the Open Road In leaving his castle, village, or province to venture over land and sea, each pilgrim who wends his way to Jerusalem reconquers the world in his own way. Might he not be concealing a feeling of elation under his long cloak as, staff in hand, he receives the parting blessing as a promise of renewal and a portent of singular things to come? Little has been said about this feeling other than to condemn it as lacking in piety. It was the Church’s duty to ensure that the would-be pilgrim was not the kind of person to harbor some questionable desire to set off a-roving, leaving his

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conjugal duties and familial responsibilities far behind. Such vigilance was commendable. Yet Chaucer makes no attempt to conceal this elation. His “Prologue” to the Canterbury Tales sounds like a hymn in praise of a joyful departure under the young April sun. The pilgrimage coincides with the rebirth of spring. The sap rising in the flowers, the gentle breeze, and the song of the birds seem to beckon to distant shores.2 How could anyone remain deaf to such signs of Nature, with which the crusaders had already been familiar? The expedition against the infernal hosts recounted in Le Bâtard de Bouillon set out to the call of fine weather, meadows in flower, and fledgling birds3. These literary openings in the form of commonplaces are also the expression of an existential reality. The pilgrimage can hardly dispense with the figure of the peregrinus himself. In his costume acting like a safe conduct, he proclaimed his mission as he set out to travel far and wide on his quest for eternal life. He displayed as many as five insignia: the red cross on his mantle; the gray hat marked with a cross; the beard; the scrip with the flask; and the donkey and its driver. He assumed the grave expression appropriate to the occasion: From that day forth I allowed my beard to grow and adorned both my cloak and scapular with a red cross, a cross sewn into my clothing by the virgins dedicated to God, the brides of Christ, and I took the other badges of the pilgrim as befitted me. Indeed, pilgrims to the Holy Land have five badges: a red cross on a long gray coat, and the hood stitched to the monk’s tunic—but if the pilgrim does not belong to the predicant order the gray habit is not befitting. The second badge is a black and gray cap, also decorated with a red cross on the front. The third is a long beard on a visage rendered grave and pale by suffering and danger, for everywhere pilgrims, even pagan ones, allow their beard and hair to grow until their homecoming. . . . The fourth is a shoulder bag containing a little food and a flask, not for his enjoyment but just enough to sustain him. The fifth emblem, a useful one in the Holy Land, is an ass with a Saracen donkey driver in place of a stick. And then, turning inward, I impatiently awaited the designated day, and prepared myself in silence to undertake the holy journey.4 If not all leave-takings had the same gravity, all entailed a ceremony of blessing and farewell. In the tireless repetition of the trudge to Jerusalem the actors change, as does the style of the accounts that tell and retell their story, for human diversity arises within a context of conformity. Thus, if the pilgrimage remains the same, improvisations on the theme are as many and varied as the pilgrims who relate it. The accounts of travels to the East produced in

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the two centuries before the Renaissance are in the image of those who wrote them. They reveal authors who were increasingly unable to resist the temptation to depict themselves in a heroic light, even if that heroism was wrapped in the mantle of the Cross. Behind the traditional image of the pilgrim to the Holy Land, to which they intended to remain faithful, these occasional writers—in most cases they would write only this one book of memoirs—display a literary originality and perceptiveness that allows us to recognize the pleasure they took in visiting strange lands, the interest mixed with fear they took in the inhabitants, and the attention they paid to such representatives of primitive humanity as the Bedouins they encountered in the desert. Thanks to the pilgrimage to Jerusalem, the silk merchant from Bruges, the nobleman from Champagne, and the chaplain he brought with him—men from town, country, and convent—could all enjoy the illusion of being seasoned seafarers or explorers of new lands—a natural enough illusion, after all, for someone journeying to the land of mirages. The profile of the pilgrim has doubtless evolved since the earliest centuries of the Christian era, but the attraction of the place where God chose to reveal his salvation has not changed down through the ages. It has been possible to establish a typology of pilgrims to the Holy Land reflecting a representation that was historically defined. Toward the end of the Roman period and during the Byzantine era (fourth to sixth centuries), it was an aristocracy of classical culture tempted by the asceticism of desert life. Then the pilgrim began to take an interest in stories of miracles. In the eleventh century there emerged the figure of the millenarian penitent awaiting the imminent Last Judgment in the Valley of Jehoshaphat. As the pilgrimage increasingly became a collective phenomenon, groups that included laymen and ecclesiastics as well as knights bearing arms for their defense would assemble under a leader. This is how the Crusade developed, for its initial vocation was as a pilgrimage. In the early years of the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem it was difficult to distinguish between the crusader and the pilgrim, but in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries a widening gap developed between those whose purpose in the world was to defend it by force of arms and those who rejected it in the name of an ideal of contemptus mundi. The twelfth-century pilgrim was more of an intellectual, as open to the knowledge of things spiritual as of secular realities. He complemented the traditional descriptions of sites and sanctuaries with his own spontaneous observations and also contributed to the dissemination of legends. The homo itinerans of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, in quest of indulgences, no longer really corresponded to any particular type but embodied several figures, so that a diversity of social strata and individual temperaments are reflected in their travel memoirs. Beginning in 1332, the pilgrim came under the aegis of the Franciscans of the Holy Land, who

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organized processions, sermons, and spiritual exercises appropriate to particular holy sites. The practice of pilgrimage was carried out according to the principles of the Imitation of Christ as preached by the Poverello. It had essentially New Testament and evangelical themes. The pilgrim submitted to this, but to the round of collective devotions the learned individual would sometimes add a dimension of personal exploration of the country.5 In refining somewhat the perhaps overly systematic nature of these categories, let me first point out that my sources are primarily the individual experiences of men who could read and write and are thus not necessarily reflective of the whole community of travelers; and that, furthermore, the more numerous the accounts from a given period the more they permit the very ingredient of human diversity to be introduced. It nevertheless remains true that our average pilgrim from the late Middle Ages cannot be considered apart from the abundant literature that emerged from the Crusades and that helped form his mentality and culture. In it the Holy City was inseparable from the notion of conquest. The name of Jerusalem imposed an awed silence. When the minstrel addresses those listening to La Chanson d’Antioche (late eleventh century), calling on them to be silent, the solemn tone has universal relevance: “Be silent, Lords, you will hear of Jerusalem; you will learn how the armies were gathered up!”6 Among the chansons de geste, La Conquête de Jérusalem took on the stylistic characteristics of an epic—a convincing theatricality that gave an imaginary glimpse of the painful adventures experienced by the warriors of the Cross, and of the emotions that beat in their breasts: “They arrive on a hilltop, and, seeing Jerusalem, fall most reverently to their knees!”7 The fourteenth- or fifteenth-century pilgrim was perfectly familiar with all these words and actions, the fundamental rituals of epic discourse on the Holy City. Perhaps he was also familiar with the History of Jerusalem by Foucher de Chartres, a major accredited reference source about the Latin Kingdom. The first book of Jacques de Vitry’s Historia Hierosolomitana (an abridged guide to the Crusades) was widely available, having been translated into French in the thirteenth century. The history of Jerusalem was a standard of the time.8 As for works in a more literary vein, they turn out to incorporate as many fanciful expeditions as real divergences, such as the dream of a hypothetical conquest of Mecca that is flaunted in Le Bâtard de Bouillon (fourteenth century) and the reality of an expedition that petered out in Constantinople (reported by Robert de Clari and Villehardouin). It can be seen how the concept of the “Holy Land” was gradually extended, and how only Jerusalem, even when it was out of reach, was still a magnet powerful enough to set armies on the move. According to Villehardouin, the messengers who announced their masters’ arrival to the doge of Venice did indeed

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speak of barons “who have put on the emblem of the Cross in order to reconquer Jerusalem, God willing.” But God was not willing, and Constantinople, that other Holy Land where Russian pilgrims liked to sojourn, was where the expedition ended. Relics from the Holy Chapel of the Byzantines (a piece of the Holy Cross, the Tunic, and the Soldier’s Lance) would be the only rewards of Robert de Clari’s unrealized dream expedition.9 Jerusalem emitted its waves in concentric circles across the entire world. The city was established as the Center of the World thanks to Ps. 74:12 (“For God is my King of old, working salvation in the midst of the earth.”) and Ezek. 5:5 (“Thus saith the Lord God: This is Jerusalem, I have set her in the midst of the nations”). Maps of the time reflected this spiritual geography. These books, which helped shape our pilgrims’ imaginations, also transmitted nostalgia for a glorious age as well as the pain of living in an age of disappointment. Everyone knew that in a temporal sense Jerusalem, which was in the hands of the sultan of Egypt at the time, was lost. This was why theoreticians and backroom strategists set forth their dreams in plans for its recapture.10 The inexorable Ottoman expansion merely made the sense of urgency more acute. Hayton, nephew to the king of Armenia, proposed itineraries and alliances. Pierre Dubois (1306) dreamed of the Mediterranean becoming a “Christian lake” once again. Marino Sanudo unveiled his “secrets.” Bishop Jean Germain (1451) exhorted the French king to undertake an “overseas expedition.” But the Holy Land would see nothing of all this. One can almost say that the Crusade became intellectualized, an object of speculation and a mental exercise. At the same time, the pilgrimage was increasingly becoming a middle-class phenomenon, so that the texts no longer reflected just the image of a knight in armor. The pilgrim of the post-Crusades period was formed spiritually just as much by what he inherited from the collective memory. He set forth armed with his historical learning and the fictions of his imagination. His head was filled with the Jerusalem of heroic deeds, books, stained glass, and paintings. He knew he was setting out like his epic heroes, royal or anonymous—for the pilgrim was also a ubiquitous literary figure of rich typological diversity, a character who shared in the action of numerous epic poems.11 Perhaps our very real traveler secretly felt he was living in the pages of a novel as he set forth on a road that parchment figures had trodden before him. The earliest organized trips offered a round-trip ticket between Venice and Jaffa for about fifty ducats, including a visit to the holy sites and an optional crossing of the desert to St. Catherine of Sinai, with the possibility of returning through Egypt after a visit to “Pharaoh’s granaries,” and a tour of Cairo—the Egyptian Babylon, an overpopulated megalopolis where hundreds of camels wandered, distributing drinking water. The return trip might include Alexandria (on the spring journey), unless the traveler chose

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to travel in the opposite direction, in which case he arrived at Alexandria and sailed home from Jaffa (the autumn journey). But the itinerary left little room for choice. The Venetian ship’s captain would decide on the route and follow it based on his commercial advantage. Once the traveler had escaped the perils of the sea journey—whether storms or flat calms, Barbary pirates or Turkish forces—once he had survived the verbal or physical assaults of the local population—which did not always show these peaceable intruders any respect—and once he had managed to return home safe and sound within a year of his departure—having avoided enslavement, imprisonment, dehydration and fever, and without his ship taking him too far out of his way—he could consider himself lucky. For any complainers not completely satisfied with the service provided an office had been established in Venice to keep a record of grievances and settle disputes between the shipowners and their clients. But often the pilgrims had only one concern: to cover, without any further delay, the leagues that still lay between them and their roof of slate, tile, or thatch, and the chimney whose smoke they had more than once thought they would never see rising heavenward again.

The Genesis of a Literary Genre What tales they would tell of nighttime vigils at the Holy Sepulcher, of the customs of the nomadic Arabs, of the monsters and dangers encountered on sea and land, of the ritual dip in the Jordan, and of the Dead Sea, that oily “Devil’s Sea”!12 Then would come the time to remember. They would impose some kind of shape on the notes they had taken day by day in the course of their wanderings in order to preserve for a time this singular, fleeting experience, which threatened to evaporate like a misty dream, so that it could be of service to those who might also set out one day, or to help them relive their adventure among friends in the warmth of the family circle. To the epic poems and existing chronicles the pilgrim would modestly add these few pages from the novel of his life in order to become a “paper hero” in turn. The accounts left by these travelers of diverse social origins are as precious as they are fascinating. No longer was it only the literate clerk who had a voice. Now the bourgeois merchant could also tell his tale, and the nobleman could invite others to share his discovery of the world. Their piety was undeniably the thing they had in common and the primary motivation they invoked for what they called their “holy journey”—the only journey, the great one, whose destination was that special place that maps placed at the center of the world. In the minds of these humble adventurers there also dwelt an interest in new things, an appetite for marvels, and the

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joy of meeting a challenge. These merchants, heads of families, noblemen, or plebeians—genuinely religious or spies in friar’s dress, all endowed with the optimism required to challenge mountains and cross the seas, and now suddenly brought together and labeled “pilgrims”—would forget some of their differences as they flocked on board the departing ship. What tremulous elation they must have felt! These travelers of former days, like the traveler of today, brought with them a mental baggage that they projected onto the world. They were sensitive to different things, depending on their personality and their aptitude for appreciating people and places. On these journeys those who had a connoisseur’s appreciation of the gems of Frankish architecture rubbed shoulders with others who constantly complained about the lack of comfort in the inns. Some accepted their misadventures with good humor, while others exhibited bad humor. Some were homesick and some indifferent to the expense—though many were those who made impressive tabulations of their expenses, large and small, down to the nearest ducat. There were those who remained indifferent to the present around them yet attributed to stones the power to resurrect the past, and those able to decipher the present state of a civilization as they described its mysterious signs, learning the difficult art of seeing through the eyes of a different culture. It has been pointed out how difficult it is to reduce the travel account to generic traits because of its evolving nature and its ambiguous relationship to the novel and to scientific writing.13 At the confluence of several types of discourse, its form is extremely open—too open, no doubt, to permit a definition based on normative presuppositions.14 F. Wolfzettel has noted the “lack of epistemological status of a type of discourse that is a practice rather than a genre (since classifications ultimately consist in nothing more than pragmatic distinctions).”15 A “practice rather than a literary genre”. Therein, no doubt, resides the secret of these unclassifiable texts that cannot be fitted into any schema, so broad is the spectrum of the authors and intended readers of such narratives. J. Richard has observed that their compositional characteristics vary according to expectations, with those of merchants differing from those of pilgrims.16 However, the specific nature of the pilgrimage (a linear trajectory), as distinct from the secular journey (a circular one), has been demonstrated. A priori “the pilgrim is not a globe-trotter”17: his is a spiritual objective toward which he is supposed to hasten with no loitering along the way. In French, for instance, the semantic content of the word voyage (journey, travel), derived from the Latin viaticum, lacked precision, whether applied to the action or to a type of writing. Its meaning could only be contextual, with the precise significance being determined by the reader’s interpretation. It could incorporate either a military or a religion connotation

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depending on the context. In one case it might mean “Crusade,” while elsewhere it was used as a synonym for “pilgrimage.” Pilgrims fleshed out the concept by adding the adjective saint (holy) in order to dispel any ambiguity, but the word could also, by extension, simply designate a visit to a place of worship.18 The texts illustrate all these facets of such a protean term, even down to nuances peculiar to the author’s subjective interpretation.19 Where the military connotation is concerned, for instance, the voyage to Nicopolis (1396), characterized by Froissart as a regrettable military expedition, was more “secular” in nature than the same voyage viewed by Philippe de Mézières, which was prompted by the dream of a successful Crusade carried out by a holy knighthood capable of erasing the outrage suffered.20 In the same way, the pacific meaning had ambiguities of its own: the saint voyage (holy journey) could gradually evolve into a journey full of enjoyment—or vexation. Ultimately each user merely discovered a content adapted to his perception. The word “took a long time to acquire the accepted meanings that assign no specific purpose to travel” and to take on the neutral meaning we give to the notion of a “journey,” namely, the “distance covered in traveling from one place to another”.21 On the fringes of the concept there existed a plethora of related words referring to the details of the activity. In Latin navigatio and iter emphasized the type of locomotion, peregrinatio its objective, and evagatio the wandering aspect. The French word journée (the “day” as a duration, with the activity it contains, as opposed to jour, the unit of time), an indeterminate spatiotemporal concept that has survived in the English word “journey,” conveyed a division into stages, while verbs such as aller, chevaucher, nager, and ramer (walk, ride, sail, row, resp.) referred to the means of locomotion. All these subtle distinctions do little to encourage research into the rules of a literary genre through a study of the narratives themselves. This is all the more so since the difficulty of giving a precise definition of the pilgrimage account did not escape certain of the authors. Felix Fabri raises the difficulty of choosing an appropriate title and provides an exemplary illustration of the transformation of the pilgrim into a secular traveler—or, rather, into an ambiguous mixture of the two. In the Epistola that serves as a preface to his book he expresses his hesitation about what to call his account, being aware that his too diverse material breached the limits of the traditional concept of the peregrinatio, and that in his case the journey took on more of the appearance of a evagatio (wandering) of body and of mind. He initially viewed the work in terms of what it was not. It could not be called “a pilgrimage, or journey, or passage,” so it had to be named Wanderings. Thus, the author deliberately recognized his eclecticism and boldly emphasized the “disorder and lack of composition” resulting from his effort. It was

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a singular title for a singular work by a singular author. The essence of the book became an object for reflection, with the evagatio being juxtaposed to the peregrinatio.22 In 1483 this Dominican, who had returned from Jerusalem in 1480, embarked on a second pilgrimage, wishing to remedy the frustrations of a first visit, full of incident but poorly fixed in his memory, and to bring back for his brethren a faithful description of the Holy Land “so that they, too, might renew their faith at the holy sites in spirit, if not in person.” He integrated the account of his own story into his notes—“events both happy and unhappy, vexations and satisfactions, as well as certain insignificant facts and other extraordinary ones.”23 Here encyclopedic discourse is combined with practical experience. The traveler splits in two, simultaneously becoming an author and an actor, with the former depicting the deeds of the latter. This dichotomy would give birth to a range of pilgrim characters, heroes of their own tales. Such is the nature of the Dominican’s story: novelistic, with its living subject as a witness, and encyclopedic in its effort to describe. Thus, the pilgrimage account underwent a transformation. Initially written for oneself, it mutated into a book written for others in which the quest for an esthetic gradually emerged. Fabri’s account of his first journey (1480), which serves as a prelude to the second, resembles a memorandum of events and impressions. The second (1483), while adhering to a (more or less fictional) calendar, begins to look like a gigantic summa of investigations, inclining to the thematic. Far from undergoing the peregrinatio as a penance, the experienced traveler—becoming an intermediary between the world (of which he himself is a representative) and the “other,” whose signs he decodes for others—comes to desire it. Even if the descriptio calls for the formal rigor of a treatise, there is nothing to prevent the pilgrim from becoming the hero of an odyssey filled with the unexpected. The involvement of a biographical first person as an intermediary between reality and the reader would be the great contribution of this work. In addition to his desire to respond to curiosity and satisfy the knowledge and piety of his potential readership, the traveler increasingly introduced the personal touch of his own involvement in the adventure. Although it is scarcely possible to discern any uniform approach to a literary genre, it is nevertheless possible to say that these accounts paved the way for new forms of writing. The way the world, space, and people can be put into words evolves, and its transformations points to a changing way of being in the world. In addition to the unimpeachable model of an evocation of the holy sites following the ordo peregriniationis of his guide (their descriptions and the biblical memories associated with them), the Christian freely set down his remarks in response to what he observed, for he was becoming less and less exclusively a pilgrim. Jean de Mandeville set out to

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be both a geographer and a witness. It is possible to identify his sources, even if he prefers eyewitness accounts to references to authorities. This kind of combination inevitably created confusion and made experts wonder whether his journey was real or imaginary.24 If one observes trends according to the period or the intent of the text (i.e., whether the main interest was religious, strategic, or ethnological), one should not overlook the charming eclecticism, or those traits that allow us to us glimpse the people of flesh and blood behind the text! It should be added that the more new things our authors found to describe, the more they were obliged to confront the aporia of writing about the real world— for ultimately the art of description makes greater demands than that of fiction. Then there would emerge in their writing all the contortions, circumlocutions, and innovations capable of evoking objects through a process of approximation. The later books would provide models and, if need be, a linguistic apparatus permitting real things to be written about.25 There were, of course, pilgrims who claimed that their only ambition was to keep a private diary of their “holy journey” for personal use, intended for no eyes but their own. But is it possible to take up the pen without secretly wishing to cross the frontiers of one’s inner landscape? To what extent is the pilgrim’s narrative really condemned never to escape the ambit of the self? The more we approach the age of the printing press, the less we encounter this pious self-effacement. On the contrary, the pilgrimage account increasingly served as an excuse to communicate the traveler’s personal experience. Bernhard von Breydenbach can be considered a typical example of this phenomenon. He pays considerable attention to his reader, speaking of his concern to shun all verbosity, obscurity, or rhetorical artifice.26 Such an overt preference for a natural style is symptomatic of the way the pilgrimage account gradually asserted itself as “travel writing,” aiming at simplicity, communicativeness, and conviviality. Breydenbach would succeed beyond his wildest dreams. Living in an age when the incunabulum was becoming the printed book, he benefited from the revolution in printing. The many editions of his text bear witness to its popularity throughout Europe: between 1486 and 1522 no less than twelve editions were published in various languages.27 This raises the question of the language these pilgrims chose to write in. What determined their choice? Accounts in Latin, the universal language of churchmen and lawyers (such as Martoni), were still numerous, but accounts in the vernacular were becoming more so at their expense. Mandeville deliberately abandoned Latin because, he said, “the nobility no longer know it.” Contrary to what one might expect, the choice of language does not seem to have been systematically related to the social position of the individuals, for one finds priests who preferred French (Pierre Barbatre),

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Italian (Pietro Casola), or English (William Wey) to the Latin they were familiar with and to which the Germans possibly remained more faithful. (An abridged German version would be derived from Fabri’s Latin text.) The social fabric from which the author emerged and the social status of his circle and his potential readership must have played a part in the decision (for which those concerned rarely provide an explanation). Santo Brasca, a cultivated public servant at the court of the duke of Milan, was very capable of writing in Latin but no doubt had his reasons for choosing Italian. But how could the progressive expansion of the reading public not have resulted in a transformation in the writing? Santo Brasca saw this perfectly well when he denounced a regrettable development. The purpose of the journey to Jerusalem was to “tearfully contemplate and adore the Holy Mysteries, to obtain Christ’s pardon, and not to see the world, not to to say: ‘I have been there and seen that,’ nor to be celebrated by one’s peers,” scolded the Milanese pilgrim, who was quite conscious of the danger.28 But it was no good. The exhilaration of having seen was already possessing people. However, the pious William Wey, fellow of Eton College, with two journeys to the Holy Land to his credit (1458 and 1462), wished to remain above suspicion. Among the ten motivations for his journey that he listed sanctimoniously were the reconquest from the Infidels, respect for Christ’s precept, Saint Jerome’s exhortation, the quest for indulgences, and Saint Leon’s teaching—with curiosity clearly not among them.29 We should not judge these travelers too severely before hearing what they have to say. For almost all of them the journey to Jerusalem did fulfill its primary objectives, namely, the desire to revitalize their religious faith and love of Christ and the wish to earn forgiveness through indulgences. All set out spiritually imbued with the ethic of the “holy journey,” but who would forbid them to use their eyes to see the world and attempt to find the words to describe strange and different things?

Dress Does Not the Pilgrim Make It is true that religious dress could sometimes serve as a disguise for spies in the pay of Western princes. In 1432 Bertrandon de la Broquière traveled from Venice to Jerusalem with a group of pilgrims. He had undertaken this overseas expedition on the orders of Philippe le Bon, from whom he had received a comfortable sum of money in order, he says, “to enable him to clothe himself and travel more decently on a certain distant, secret journey.” Later this councilor would write his book in the form of a report so that “if any Christian king or prince should wish to undertake the conquest of Jerusalem, and lead a great army there over land, he might know the towns, cities, regions, lands, rivers, mountains and ways in the countries,

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and the lords that rule them, from Jerusalem to the Duchy of Burgundy.”30Nothing could be clearer: the reader for whom his book was intended was no pilgrim but rather a conqueror! Yet Bertrandon was no worse a Christian than his contemporary Ghillebert de Lannoy, who, although presented in Cairo as an ambassador, was entrusted with a mission to the East in 1421, and who cloaked his descriptions of ports and strategic locations in his pious notes. Such espionage was risky. In 1388 Marshal Boucicaut made the journey to the Holy Sepulcher to perform his devotions. He remained in Constantinople for three months before traveling overland under a safe-conduct granted him by Murad I. His biographer, the author of the Livre des Fais, depicts him as a pilgrim journeying “with great piety to visit all the usual holy places.”31 He tells us that at this same time the comte d’Eu, also officially on a pilgrimage, was imprisoned in Damascus on the sultan’s orders. Boucicaut, learning of his friend’s arrest, flew to his assistance from Jerusalem. The story does not state explicitly that these great lords were on a fact-finding mission, but the tortuous itineraries they chose, the attitude of the local authorities, and the prompt welcome accorded them by the king of France upon their return suggest that a visit to St. Catherine of Sinai and St. Paul in the Desert was not the only motive for their overseas journey. The concept of the “holy journey” was indeed imprecise, lending itself to all kinds of confusion.32 The Church would flush out such individuals masquerading as “God’s wayfarers,” as it would vagabonds and adventurers. Leaving such reasons aside, why did people become pilgrims? It might have been out of piety, to fulfill a vow, out of gratitude, to expiate their sins by venerating relics, or for political reasons. Pierre-André Sigal has explored the various motives (including those considered inappropriate), setting them in both a historical perspective (the pilgrimage relative to time and place) and a social one (involving individuals of various social rank). In earliest times the permission of the bishop and the consent of the family were required. An investigation would be carried out to ensure that mere wanderlust was not a hidden motive. The traveler would then be given the pilgrim’s staff, the scrip, and the bishop’s blessing, together with a safe-conduct valid for the monasteries he would visit. He was protected by uniform laws. The poor would find lodging in hospices, while the rich would stay at inns. According to long-standing tradition, the pilgrim left without further delay, accompanied to the outskirts of town by family and friends. He was exempt from tolls and was never to be refused hospitality. The knight owed him his protection, and hospices provided assistance in case of illness. The cost of the sea crossing was modest. In Marseilles he was exempt from any contribution on the ships. Upon his return, he would be greeted by a procession.33 The pil-

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grim of the post-Crusade years was expected to be solvent and able to cover his own costs, which were considerable enough for businessmen and churchmen with similar interests to pool their expenses and travel as a group.34 Pilgrimage could become a lifestyle for some old hands, like Jacques le Saige, the merchant from Douai, who, after visiting Compostela, also wanted to experience Our Lady of Loreto, Rome, and Jerusalem, where he was dubbed a Knight of St. John in 1518. With an amiable combination of piety and pleasure in travel, this burgher of the early Renaissance was less sensitive to artistic masterpieces than to the distance between stopovers, the state of the road, and the cost of his accommodations, all of which he noted down with the meticulous attention of a prudent steward. Upon his return he would have his book printed at his own expense (1520–23) so that he could enjoy the luxury of distributing it to his friends or selling it to the pilgrims setting out.35 It was possible to carry out the pilgrimage vicariously or to become an involuntary pilgrim. Her piety notwithstanding, the last thing Louise de Savoie wanted to do was to embark on such a perilous and uncomfortable expedition. Taking advantage of the dispatch of an envoy, she delegated Jean Thenaud, the Father Guardian of the Franciscan convent in Angoulême, to make the journey in her place. The model of the vicarious pilgrim, he would go to Jerusalem to pray on her behalf and place gold, frankincense, and myrrh on the Savior’s crib in Bethlehem. Furthermore, the comte d’Angoulême suggested to the churchman that he penetrate as far as Persia to gather information on that country’s power.36 In this way the individual concerned became invested with a double mission, both spiritual and temporal, combining the functions of pilgrim and secret agent. If Christian princes secretly dreamed of retaking the holy sites, Muslim rulers always kept a close watch on the comings and goings of these people of every nation and social class that the ships deposited each summer on the coasts of Syria or Egypt.

The Drift into Literature For whom, in the final analysis, was the finished account intended? Was it for the future penitent, conqueror, or tourist? When one compares the texts one gets the feeling that several discourses are woven together, the whole aimed at a diverse readership embracing (from the fourteenth century to the Renaissance) the various incarnations of a reader whose profile they sketch. There was a distrust of jealous critics, skeptics, and spiteful individuals bent upon singling out every error. Fabri addresses each of these in turn.37 Later Belon du Mans would fear envy and calumny. The reader

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acquired a personality. The concern to edify gradually gave way to the desire to show, until the day came when it was possible to take pride in writing for the “use and pleasure of those who desire knowledge.” Possot’s “Notice to the Reader” (1532) shows how the concept of the “holy expedition” had become secularized: “What could be more agreeable—I shall not say merely to those good souls moved entirely by piety to visit the holy places but also to those who take daily delight in new and interesting things—than to see some ample, true description of so many fine provinces, towns, and castles, of the sundry ways of life observed in several nations, and of rare things, whether antiquities or holy relics.”38 So what had become of the mortification of the flesh? Those travelers aware of the singular nature of their experience became authors of books containing their impressions. Even if they sometimes lacked the words to account for strange things or the ability to describe their emotions, there were excellent painters and comic writers among them. All of them wanted to share their pilgrimage with those who would never follow in their footsteps, to relive it in communion with their neighbors. But didn’t telling one’s own story also mean reliving the trials and tribulations and, through the alchemy of art, translating one’s store of fear and torment into a tale the listener could enjoy? By inserting into the distance between words and things the subtle aspect of connivance with the reader, or in the way objects are perceived, the pilgrim was “making literature,” possibly without recognizing it. How could someone who has shared his dry biscuit with the desert Bedouin not wish to share the bread of his knowledge with his Christian brethren? In this writing about the real world—a form of literature that has rarely been given its due—the authors never took themselves for novelists or poets, even if they sometimes became such under the impact of their emotion at a time when the desire for secular travel—which would one day (in the nineteenth century) be named “tourism”—was being added to the desire to carry out a traditional pilgrimage. It was always as a pilgrim that he set out, but it was as a traveler that he visited distant lands and as an author that he returned home. This, at least, is one of the reasons why the relevance of venerating the holy places in situ became a bone of contention between critics and defenders of the “holy journey.” The challenge became more radical in the sixteenth century when, with Protestant irony focusing on such “idle, useless journeys,” the pilgrimage became an object of polemics. In defending pilgrimage, the men of the Catholic Reformation were obliged to preach spiritual renewal.39 Sometimes the pilgrimage proper would be reduced to no more than a minor part of the travel account. Belon du Mans would expedite his devotions in Jerusalem, but as a lover of ancient

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ruins he would tarry in Greece and as a naturalist he would catalogue plants and animals to supplement his notes about the customs of the lands he passed through. It is this awakening of the pilgrim to singular things that one hopes to detect in their accumulated accounts. The watchdogs of orthodoxy were still on guard in the sixteenth century, and the pharmacopola Belon du Mans would be criticized for not visiting the Holy Land as a christianus.40 The attraction of rare things41 remained suspect. However, by the end of the Middle Ages the pilgrim to Jerusalem, in crossing a divide and discovering a new world, became sufficiently uninhibited to feel less and less guilty about being curious.

chapter 2

All Roads Lead to Venice Every man who undertakes the journey to the Our Lord’s Sepulcher needs three sacks: a sack of patience, a sack of silver, and a sack of faith. —symon semeonis

The Ways to Jerusalem If almost all the pilgrims’ routes at this period led to Venice, it was because the city of the doges had become established as the most popular gateway to the East, rivaled only by Genoa. Not that there was any shortage of routes; there were others, such as military and caravan routes whose path was determined by their strategic, geographic, and commercial advantages. In the fourth century, before Venice existed as a maritime power and when the network of Roman roads was still in good condition, the Pilgrim from Bordeaux typically traveled overland, counting 110 stages between Bordeaux and Constantinople and another 52 from Constantinople to Jerusalem. He followed the Roman road along the Danube, went through Romania, across the Bosphorus, and from Nicomedia to Tarsus, Antioch to Tripoli, and Beirut to Antioch, finally arriving in Jerusalem. In the tenth century the conversion of the Hungarians had opened up a route that provided an alternative for those reluctant to undertake the sea voyage, but it had become risky because of the Turks.1 Thanks to works of literature, ordinary mortals could have an approximate notion of the distance they had to travel. Embryonic itineraries were outlined in poems such as Le Pèlerinage de Charlemagne (c. 1075), which

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traced a route through Burgundy, Bavaria, Hungary, and Greece.2 One can salute the later effort made to develop a geography of practical use. Mandeville (1350) mentions a variety of routes, including one through Germany that led to Constantinople.3 Ludolph von Sudheim (1348) lists several, offering advice on the food and baggage required for a fifty-day journey. (He allows a hundred days for the journey home because of contrary winds.) He was aware of the route through Asia Minor and the land and sea route leading through Bulgaria to Constantinople, where a ship would be boarded. Some itineraries were largely hypothetical. The one through Spain and North Africa, considered dangerous because of the heat and lack of safety, seems to have been mentioned only for the record since the sea route by way of the Greek islands was recommended.4 And Bertrandon de La Broquière could boast that he had taken the Turkish route as a challenge, despite having been told “it would be impossible, and that if he had a thousand lives, he would lose them.”5 The maritime route via Marseilles, while quite direct, was subject to the threat of Barbary pirates. Some pilgrims who were taken prisoner and sold in the cities of North Africa had the good luck to be ransomed thanks to the charity of the Brothers of Mercy.6 European ports served certain regions: in 1511 Jean Thenaud traveled down the Rhône and at Aigues-Mortes boarded a vessel with the auspicious name the Catherine for a man who would make the perilous trip to the Sinai. He took advantage of the departure of an ambassador sent to Cairo. There is no mention of pilgrims among the passengers, but there were Jews from Avignon or Montpellier traveling to see their families in the East. The cleric suspected them of illegal trade and espionage, claiming that they had with them a “great mantle for smuggling and more than a hundred thousand ducats, and they tell enemies and adversaries all the secrets of Christianity and of the Kingdom, to which [they] are as useful as a fox in a chicken coop.”7 Anselmo Adorno, traveling in 1470, preferred the route through Genoa, “the most beautiful city in Italy, the Proud, Magnanimous, and Strong,” with its comfortable and cleverly armed ships that “sit on the water like castles,” and whose shipboard management was more meticulous than on the cramped, unhealthy Venetian galleys.8 Finally, Niccolò da Martoni (1394), from the Capua region, quite logically took ship at the nearest point, Gaeta, a port in Campania, where he boarded a merchant vessel carrying pilgrims. It would follow a tortuous maritime route by way of Sicily, Ventontene, Gozo, Malta, Modon (Methoni), and Cerigo (Kythera), which reminded him of the legend of Paris and Helen; his ship would be tossed from islands large and small to Alexandria, from whence he traveled on to Cairo and then to Jerusalem. The vagaries of the return journey by way of Beirut (and a forced detour through Athens and Corinth, where war was raging) show to what extent

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certain transportation choices could be contrary to the travelers’ best interests. If the trip from Gaeta to Alexandria was completed within an acceptable time (from June 10 to July 25, 1394), the return voyage from Beirut to Capua was a veritable odyssey (from November 24, 1394, to May 27, 1395!), except that the myopic little notary, terrorized by the gusting winds and driven to despair by so many setbacks, bore little resemblance to Ulysses and had no desire to be thought a hero—making us relish his emotional tale even more.9 The largest number of civilian travelers, however, was to be encountered in Venice, where pilgrimage was a flourishing business. Venice, on its lagoon and numerous islands (people at the time spoke of Venetiae), carried on commercial relations with the Muslim world that were devoid of prejudice,10 still enjoyed dominion over numerous islands in the Mediterranean (despite the challenge of growing Turkish power),11 maintained trading posts in Egyptian cities, and exerted a strong attraction for candidates contemplating the holy journey. When spring arrived, its galleys recommenced their ballet, bobbing from port to port along the Dalmatian coast and casting anchor in the Greek isles on their way to Egypt or Syria.

Setting Out For any pilgrim, setting out meant severing the bonds connecting him to his everyday world. As someone has commented, it did indeed involve “dying a little,”12 but dying in order to be reborn as another and in another place.13 In any case, the pilgrim was advised to put his affairs in order before leaving. Very few writers speak of the grave moment that preceded their parting from their family—which they hoped would be temporary, though in retrospect at least they were all aware of their vulnerability as they related their trials and tribulations. The heart of anyone who donned the mantle of the Cross was torn between fear and desire. No one could discount the risk of death. But is not all human activity directed toward life? One must therefore presume that the pilgrim’s temperament inclined to optimism. Still, the prudent Seigneur de Caumont did not neglect to settle his affairs for the duration of his absence. In addition to the list of instructions he penned, he drew up a contract for mutual assistance with the squires accompanying him and designated those who would be responsible for his estate in the interim.14 Nobles from the same geographic region would form a company, selecting servants and companions appropriate to the function they would fulfill. Fabri itemizes the composition of the company of twelve individuals he joined as chaplain in 1483. It included four German noblemen and a train of servants whose expense they shared: an adviser, a barber, a soldier, a steward, a cook, a trader to act as interpreter, a clerk, and a chaplain.15

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Whatever the known risks, all those who set out fully intended to return, and in some cases did so with a glorious title they had coveted: Knights of the Holy Sepulcher! How solemn was the moment of the consecration, when the homo itinerans knelt before the altar in his cloak to receive the scrip, staff, and Cross!16 The sensitive Felix Fabri gives a vivid description of the emotional atmosphere that prevailed during the days preceding the leave-taking, for some still attempted to keep him from departing: “To my mind their lamentations were extravagant,” he wrote, “for I was joyful and assured as though responding to an invitation to a banquet at my best friend’s house.” Apparently his calm was not infectious. In speaking of the blessing he received while prostrate before the altar of his community, he finally expresses his conflicting emotions: The Father Prior and all the brothers were weeping as if their hearts would break. When I had received this blessing, I was unable to bid farewell to the brothers because of the sobs and tears that mingled with my words. While the brethren embraced and hugged me effusively, I commended myself to their prayers. . . . Master Ludwig wished to accompany me as far as Memmingen. . . . I did not want further sadness and emotion to affect the two of us upon our separation. Even if I aspired to this journey with joy and immense pleasure, how could I not have wept copious tears on taking leave of such a faithful father and such dear brethren?17 On April 29, 1480, following mass and a fraternal farewell meal, Santo Brasca set out from Milan accompanied by his family and friends, who went with him to the charterhouse in Pavia before abandoning him to the solitude of the wayfarer. He traveled to Venice by ship, spending May 2 in Cremona and May 4 in Ferrara, where he took the opportunity to visit churches and palaces, whose materials and style he was able to appreciate as a distinguished humanist.18

Space and Time As soon as the pilgrims were on their way, there arose a sense of the space/time relationship that they attempted to translate. If the desire to exclude any secular signs made the accounts dating from the earliest centuries sparing of details about the route, in the later accounts that concern us here there is a readiness to introduce the dimension of the distance traveled, initially by noting the names of stopping places and dating their passage by means of certain locations. The spatiotemporal relationship, sometimes reduced to its most basic expression, is in any case an integral component of travel writing. “To every instant its place, to every day of the

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month its space. The date, an empty ordinal form, is endowed with a content borrowed from space.”19 Ogier d’Anglure’s account provides a basic illustration of this premise. Setting out from Chambéry, this native of Champagne followed the valley of the Maurienne to Lanslebourg, and then crossed Mont-Cenis. After Susa he lists the places he stopped for dinner and to spend the night, ticking off the little towns: Avigliana, Moncalieri, Asti, Felizzano, Alessandria, and so on. In Pavia he sold his horse and rented a rowboat to travel by river. He passed through Piacenza and Cremona, where he admired the fortified frontier bridges. Italy left him with the memory of its many border checks. On each occasion he showed his letters and passes. Anyone without them had to pay a tax! From Chioggia he traveled to Venice. On the return trip he would follow a different itinerary, by way of the Simplon Pass, Martigny, and Lausanne.20 Between Vernon and Venice Pierre Barbatre (1480) painfully nibbled away at the leagues and miles. His itinerary is precise enough to allow us to retrace his route: Vernon in Normandy, Mantes, Houdan, Nogent-le-Roi, Chartres, Bourges, Dun-sur-Auron, Souvigny, Varennes-sur-Allier, La Palisse, Roanne, Tarare, L’ Arbresle, and so on. Thanks to the way he counts off the leagues (from one to twelve, according to the communities mentioned) and the dates he provides, it is possible to make a rough calculation of his average speed during the fourteen days (April 4 to 17) between Vernon and Lyons: he covered barely more than thirty-five to forty kilometers a day. In crossing the Alps this average speed would obviously have been reduced. The priest from Normandy embellishes his dry enumeration of place names with a few glimpses of the countryside he traveled through, the adventures that befell him, the assaults he suffered, and the sites he glimpsed—as if the incident or feature was intended to jog his memory or to act as a warning sign for others. These are still no more than occasional notations of the changing scenery hastily set down by a man on the move, whose pen randomly recorded certain things to which he would one day grant the status of memories—a jumble of minor surprises not yet retouched by an artist’s hand, including a mugging by a mercenary, an encounter with a prince, a visit to some tombs, the fording of a river, or crossing a mountain pass: “From Bourgez to Sainct Just III leagues. In this place my bottle was taken by a man of war. . . . From Dung le Roy to Pont de Chargy IIII leagues. And we met Lord Philipes de Savoye who was going to the King at Tours. . . . From St. Menon to Sauvegny, a goodly town, one league. The dukes of Bourbon are buried there. There is a most beautiful church. . . . From Sauvegny to Besson II leagues; from there you must cross the river at Saint Loup. From

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Roanne to Sainct Trassen you have to cross in a boat and then keep by the hospital and go along the side of a mountain on the right hand.”21 The traveler got to know the various units of measurement used in the different regions he traversed. After Lyon the leagues grew longer, whereas in the mountains they cost more than on the plain. Barbatre crossed the frontier between Dauphiné and Savoy, near Pont-de-Bauvoisin, and crossed Mont-Cenis by mule. Until he reached Venice, he mentions— with the dispatch of a hastening passerby—the curiosities that presented themselves in the form of castles, reliquary churches, and people in local dress. His account becomes increasingly richer until it ends. His itinerary, presented in three dimensions (space, time, and individual characteristics), is fixed in moments of fleeting impressions. The notations remain succinct, but the more the narrator allows himself free rein in his descriptions, the more the temporal markers are pushed into the background until they almost disappear. In these accounts the visual aspect continues to evolve at the expense of the temporal. The lack of homogeneity of medieval space makes any normative evaluation difficult. Fabri, who distinguishes the Teutonic mile (8,749 yards) from the Germanic and Alemanic miles (8,100 and 9,151 yards, respectively), explains why he gave up noting certain distances: I did not want to establish the distances everywhere—neither between places, nor the length of the roads, nor the number of miles across the sea—because of the great differences I discovered in this respect in military collections, and because of the uncertainty of these measurements and the disparity in the number of miles. For at sea one could only be sure of the mileage if the winds were always of the same strength: with one wind a ship could reach a place in three days, but with a different one I could only get there in three weeks.22 The use of the “itinerary” became established—a primitive form of the conceptualization of space based on experience. It served as a map, for until the Renaissance the representation of space was symbolic rather than scientific. These practical tabulations functioned as a guide. In 1532 Denis Possot could still write: “From Paris to Essonne, VII leagues; from Essonne to Milly V leagues.” In this way he provided a “table of the towns, villages and distances of the places the pilgrims will pass through, from Nogent sur Seine to the Holy City of Jerusalem,” the omega of his long journey.23 Such track charts showing terrestrial, fluvial, or maritime itineraries for the use of pilgrims and traders would be supplemented with practical details about relics to be venerated, the local currency, the required health certificates, and areas of ill repute.24 These tables were sometimes built into the narrative. Those by Jean de Tournai (like Barbatre’s) allow us to appreciate the speed

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of travel. Tournai followed the route taken by Dutch merchants (via Antwerp, Cologne, Maastricht, and Aachen). From Cologne he traveled up the Rhine by boat as far as Mainz, then to Ulm on horseback and into Italy via the Landeck—this being the road to Rome. From Rome he went up to Venice by way of Ancona.25 Germans heading directly for Venice went via Innsbruck and the Brenner Pass; the Romans had upgraded the trail to a military road, and it was the route later taken by the Germanic invaders. The Germanization of the Bolzano region dates from this period. Fabri speaks of thefts committed at the inn and of the difficulty of making oneself understood in a foreign land.26 After selling their horses in Treviso and hiring mules to take them to Mestre, he and his companions reached Venice by boat, which set them down at the German fondaco, or merchants’ quarters (from the Arabic funduk). They found lodgings in the Hospice of St. George, where noblemen from various regions were staying, together with six women who were also setting out. Notes about the route carried the weight of warnings. Sometimes the practical function of the text was indicated in a prologue. Thus, a Parisian pilgrim in 1480 spoke of his wish to “warn of the places, perils, and other adventures that can occur on the said journey, as much for the greatness and long distance of the way, both by sea and by land, the states, nations, languages and different customs as for the danger of the Turks, enemies of our faith.” He rejected the didactic style of the geographies, stating that he was not writing “in the manner of cosmography or other artificial descriptions, but simply and as things presented themselves to [his] understanding . . . , putting down in writing each evening whatever thing worth the telling [he] had seen that day . . . without adding anything or omitting any truth, as far as we can know it by the sense of sight.” Basically he was just defining a style attuned to his notion of writing about reality. The value of practical, first-hand experience eclipsed any esthetic or didactic concern. In this he was in a way demanding recognition for his adopted genre. Being of a practical bent, this writer points out, for example, that Mont-Cenis was often closed because of the snow and that after Susa the distance was measured in miles rather than leagues. But he was also a poet of sensations, looking out for indications that he had entered new territory, the frontier between a still familiar world and an alien land being revealed by everyday details perceived as oddities and differences: the different sounds of church bells; new shapes in women’s bonnets; strange animals; and unfamiliar customs. The authors increasingly gave free rein to their descriptive power, invariably obliterating temporal markers, which perhaps mattered to them less and less.27 Coming to the Alps, the man of the Middle Ages discovered—not without some alarm—those “wrinkles in the earth’s epidermis, this detestable absurd-

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ity, a negation of divine harmony” that mountains represented for him.28 Mountain dwellers had tamed them, to some degree, and were called upon to point out the path, which was blotted out by snow. A few crosses stood by the roadside to indicate the direction, but who in his right mind would venture here without a guide? Mont-Cenis reared up ahead, “most perilous to cross.” They trudged along in silence, for “using the voice astounds the mountain and makes the snow fall downward most impetuously.”29 Philippe de Voisins (1490) retained the memory of the fearful moments he had lived through as he traversed this white hell, the haunt of savage beasts, chamois, and marmots. The earth was frozen so hard “that the horses could not keep their footing on it.”30 Denis Possot (1532) would remain faithful to the tradition of painting a masterly picture of Mont-Cenis, “most marvelous and dreadful,” which he had toiled up on muleback, and from the summit of which he slid down on an “ingenious contraption.” The “Chapelle des Transis,” where those “smothered by the snow falling impetuously in windy weather” were laid out, cast a final chill in their hearts.31 The Rhaetian Alps in the springtime were no more welcoming. In wet weather you had to squelch through mud under a blanket of snow that concealed deep holes. The horses would sink up to their bellies and the rider up to his knees. The road was subsequently improved somewhat. Fabri provides interesting details on the great roadworks ordered by the duke of Austria between 1480 and 1483. Despite everything, during his second ascent he could tell the difference: On the eighteenth day I climbed a higher mountain . . . and went over by the Mount Brenner pass; I was assailed by a violent cold. For here, even in summer, frost and ice are not lacking. I descended the other side of this pass by a long road. . . . After bypassing Brixina, we took the Conter road [Kunterweg], by which we had an easy climb, for the duke of Austria had built it so well that it was possible to go up and down in a cart without the need to take any other route. Moreover, the duke was having a very tall, rich dwelling erected at the summit and was setting up a tollbooth there. Less than two years ago this road was especially bad and dangerous, and a man could take it only with great difficulty, leading his horse behind him by its bridle. During my first journey [in 1480] I cannot tell what hardships I suffered on it! Indeed, to its right there were very steep-sided valleys. The elevated road was narrow, with very tall rock faces on the left hand, and on the right hand a precipice. It was so narrow and dangerous that popular rhymes were sung about it. . . . But now the duke has had the rock artfully blasted with gunpowder, removed the stones, pushed back some impressive rocks, and leveled out the uneven path at great cost.”32

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Once they had gotten through, those who had survived the mountain crossing could joyously open their eyes and ears to the clocks chiming from one to twenty-four hours in the Italian manner and admire the women, “sumptuously coiffured, unchaperoned, wearing velvet trimmed with sable, and velvet caps with white plumes.”33 Then came Milan. Barbatre mentions the activity of the cathedral builders on the gigantic building site that fired his prophetic zeal: “Every day a hundred men are working on the masonry and cutting the stone; as the old church is demolished, the new one is built. If it were completed as it has been begun, it would be the most beautiful in the world, the tallest, largest, and most costly. . . . The church is entirely built of white marble and alabaster, and it seems to me that it will be most difficult to complete in a hundred years the way it is begun. It is a marvelous thing, and it is called the Dom.”34 Later he would take time in Venice to admire the finest glassware in the world. The pilgrimage was becoming a pleasure trip. Ogier d’Anglure provides few details about the stages of his journey to Venice, except when the time and place happened to allow him to witness some singular event. In Verona, on Holy Thursday, he stopped to watch a procession of flagellants pass by wearing hempen shirts, their faces covered with a cloth pierced with two holes, marching two abreast, carrying crosses, and beating themselves with whips and iron chains.35 The Irishman Symeon Semeonis, given his enthusiastic temperament, took advantage of every opportunity for sightseeing. He made a stop in Paris, which he declared to be “the most populous town of all, very wealthy, and admirably surrounded by walls.” In the middle of the Seine he was delighted to find an oblong island, and, near the royal palace, a church dedicated to the Virgin, whose towers and sculptures he admired. At Valence-sur-Rhône he prayed before the relics of inquisitors murdered by heretics. Everything filled him with wonder, as is evident from the repertoire of laudatory epithets he uses to describe the sights: the majesty of Amiens cathedral, the power of Genoa, the brilliance of Venice. For Symeon—with his sense of beauty, grandeur, and opulence—the adventure began on that day in March 1323 when he left his monastery and cast off his moorings to the soil of Ireland.36 Nevertheless, the journey still needed a daily victory. The first lines or titles of the accounts serve as a reminder: Itinéraire or Itinerarium, the name often given to the work, applies less to the notion of things seen than to the distance traveled. Chateaubriand, writing with elation of his journey to the East, would remain faithful to the time-honored title Itinerary from Paris to Jerusalem, a term whose etymology preserves the religious idea of advancing with difficulty and reflects a psychological reality: the effort needed to reach the object and the time spent “moving toward” it are at least

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as important as the desired destination. The pilgrims’ accounts celebrate victories over obstacles and over time. Although the pilgrimage was a spiritual itinerary, it was nevertheless carried out accompanied by the sufferings of a secular trek. The Itinerarium, a guide for departing pilgrims, enabled them to relive the journey, to mentally tick off its stages like the beads of a rosary. The path of faith was inseparable from the struggle against distance: this was how the wayfarer toiled toward his destination. As for his receptiveness to what he saw, it ultimately appears to have been determined less by the period than by individual temperament, culture, and literary aptitude. Nevertheless, curiositas37 gradually emerges as an objective component of the account, enlarging the reader’s horizon of expectation and, perhaps even more, what he demanded. The pilgrimage itself, the motivation underlying the deed, was accompanied by an interest in everything experienced while making it. This, no doubt, is why the greater part of Denis Possot’s narrative is devoted to descriptions of towns, cities, and churches in France, Italy, and Greece. The armchair traveler expected no less.

chapter 3

Venice in Splendid Dress We finally entered the town by ship, sailing up the Grand Canal toward the Rialto, with houses of amazing height and beauty on either side. —felix fabri

Celebrated for its buildings and relics, Venice was the first window opening onto the East and the final stopping place before boarding ship. It could be reached by navigable and canalized waterways. From Chioggia Santo Brasca reached the lagoon by sea. It was also possible to travel overland, taking a boat to complete the two miles separating the city of the doges from the mainland. On the way, pilgrims took the opportunity to visit Padua, where they venerated the relics of Saint Anthony—a lesser pilgrimage encompassed within a greater one. The pilgrims’ accounts permit one to determine how the perception of Venice, with its many island villages, and its image—still nebulous in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries—evolved. How the city’s topography was viewed depended, above all, on one’s preconceptions. E. CrouzetPavan provides a good outline of the various stages in the evolution of the city’s image. Initially little more than a shore where the ship was boarded, it became a genuine secondary destination for pilgrimage and, later, a space celebrated for its esthetic and curiosity value.1 The reality of Venice was subordinated to cultural subjectivity: first there was pious attraction to the holy remains and the relics; then

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the focus of admiration shifted to the architecture, and the acclaim became generalized. A “shore more symbolic than real”? A mere stopping place along the way? This is doubtless what Venice was for the English pilgrim poet who wrote the following lines in 1425: Thuse partet I from Rome to Venys toun After the fest of Our Lady Anunciation And bode there for my passage To the Holy Land I toke my viage.2

Relics Abounding Until he reached Venice Ogier d’Anglure restricted himself to insisting on the value of safe-conducts when traveling through foreign lands, commenting on the city’s extraordinary situation but paying real attention only to the relics, of which he provides a jumbled list. In the course of his visits to various churches, he saw: the arms of Saint George and Saint Lucy; the heads of Saint Cosmo and Saint Damian; the bodies of Saint Paul the Martyr; Saint Nicholas’s pilgrim staff, one of his molars, and a finger; the hand of Bishop Porphyry; the feet of Mary the Egyptian; the ear of the Saint Paul the Apostle; the ashes of Saint Laurence’s roasted flesh; the bones of the Innocents; Saint Christopher’s thigh bone and one of his teeth; a bone from Saint Laurence’s arm and another from Saint James’s arm; Saint Sabine’s head; the body of Saint Mark; and one of Goliath’s molars.3 This abundance testifies to the allure of such relics of doubtful authenticity, which catered to popular religious fervor. Such a perspective, however, seems reductive to people of our own century, accustomed as we are to more picturesque versions of the city. Surely one might have expected a few details about the local customs or a few vignettes! But Ogier, for now at least, had eyes only for what he had come in search of—or perhaps, as someone depicting himself in a book for the first or only time in his life, he was still unable to express himself adequately. In the last part of his account our traveler would become more eloquent and capable of describing things, as if his pen and faculty of observation had suddenly been liberated after his visit to Cairo and the Pyramids. During his first passage through Venice, Ogier exemplified the phase known as the “secondary pilgrimage,” oriented toward the past and restricted to relics. When, on his homeward journey, he visited the sights in a secular manner, he exemplified the phase of glorification of a civilization in full expansion. The pilgrimage to the East occurs between his two depictions of the city of the doges, and these embody two different attitudes related to two different psychological moments in his journey.

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An anonymous pilgrim of around 1420 who begins his account with the Venetian “voyaiges” (pilgrimages) still limits himself to evoking the holy objects and makes no mention of the splendor of the site.4 Santo Brasca (1480) also respects the ritual of listing the relics but adds a description in praise of the Doges’ Palace.5 In Pierre Barbatre’s touching portrait of Saint Lucy (also 1480) the relic becomes not just a holy object but also a thing of beauty: “There one can see the entire head, the eyes, teeth, neck, shoulders, feet, and flesh. She has most beautiful features, young and pleasant to the eye.”6 As for the anonymous Parisian writing in that same year, he would pay at least as much attention to the fine silken cloth covering the saint’s body as to her remains, properly speaking.7

The Fascination of Venice Felix Fabri allows us to gauge the extent of the evolution. The “famous, great, rich and noble city, rising from of the waters, with its lofty towers, great churches, magnificent houses and palaces,” with its foundations laid on the sea, had much to astonish those who arrived in his company in late April 1483, who saw the “marvelously tall and handsome buildings of the Grand Canal” as they glided by. Such was its fascination that Venice would occupy the entire eleventh treatise of his book (which he worked on during a long stay in the city in 1486). While Ogier d’Anglure wrote as the order of his visits and his moods dictated, Fabri engaged in a literary type of organization. He opens his treatise by announcing “a faithful description [descriptio] or rather presentation [circumscriptio] of this most celebrated city,” drawing partly on his reading and what he had been told about it, but above all on his own experience. His study deals methodically with the city’s history, daily life, government, relics, trade, and festivals. The paragraph devoted to the relics, while still able to stand on its own, has become only a small portion of the whole, an adjunct to the historian’s commentaries, the traveler’s description of the city’s industries, and the observer’s study of its inhabitants, almost being eclipsed by the chapter dealing with the innumerable churches, including historical and descriptive accounts for which the History of Venice by Sabellicus provided the material. Attention had indeed shifted from the relics to the decorations, some of whichm moreover, were judged scandalously secular, with the Dominican asking himself what could be the purpose of so many pagan gods and naked children on the doges’ tombs other than to create confusion in people’s minds!8 Venice took him by surprise. The city was asserting itself as something between a major center of Christianity and an extraordinary center of worldly activity. Fabri’s own perceptions are generously supplemented by various sources (quae de hac urbe legi, audivi, vidi). Venice was the superla-

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tive expression of everything admirable (venustior cunctis civitatibus, pretiosor, clarissima, florentissima, clarissima). She could not be captured in words, for what description could do her justice? Her physical appearance was justly celebrated for seven reasons that set her apart from Babylon, Rome, Troy, Athens, Ulm, and Trier. Her exceptional character was precisely due to the fact that she was beyond compare: “There, there are no fields, nor forests, nor mountains, nor valleys, nor vineyards, nor pastures, nor handcarts, nor wagons! For ground she has the sea, for a rampart the waves, for a roof the sky, and for paved roads the waters.” Unique on account of her site, she was also unique for the profusion of commodities on display each day in her public squares—a wondrous thing to behold. But here was a paradox, for the Venetian had to purchase his drinking water even though he lived surrounded by water!9 “In Venice there are no wells or fountains or fresh water,” wrote Pierre Barbatre in 1480.10 Cisterns kept under lock and key were fed by rainwater or water from the Brenta River, conveyed in large boats. The lack of water would later serve Montesquieu’s novelistic ends, for his hero in the Persian Letters would denounce it as a failure to observe the Prophet’s rules.11 This definition of the city according to what she was not or what she lacked was a stylistic mannerism that would become the most apt device for conveying her exceptional character. The anonymous Parisian gives virtual existence to the deficiencies of a place that gave the impression of being crammed together: “It is the most populous town you could find anywhere, for there are no gardens or open squares to be seen and all the streets are extremely narrow, measuring about seven feet in width. . . . Within the city of Venice there live no Jews. . . . In Venice there is no fresh water except from rainwater. . . . In Venice there are no mills. . . . In the town there are no pastry cooks, nor blacksmiths, nor horses.”12 Chateaubriand would still use the negative to convey the city’s lack of any evident cultural inheritance: “neither Roman remains nor barbarian monuments.” Difference is expressed through the negative.13 The pilgrims of 1480 exemplify the transformation of the pilgrim into a traveler through their combination of piety and admiration. If Barbatre, a great lover of relics, did not see Saint Mark’s body (something he seems to regret), he was not disappointed by his visit to the Church of San Giovanni e Paolo, richly endowed with the saint’s feet, legs, and toes—those of Saint Nicholas still with their flesh and skin! On his visit to Murano he admired not only the glassworks but also the remains of “a hundred Innocents, some with their flesh and bones quite intact, laid one on top of the other,” large and small, with heads, arms, hands, and legs visible.14 If the city found favor in the pilgrims’ eyes, it is hardly surprising to find that other visitors very soon reached a further level in celebrating the city

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and helping to create its myth. The ambassador Commynes contributed to the emergence of the burgeoning image of Venice as a secular city at the expense of the fading one of Venice as reliquary. Everything he mentions is endowed with the luster of opulence: the white marble, objects of porphyry and serpentine, gilded floors, rich mantelpieces, boats adorned with tapestries and beautiful carpets. If Commynes says he was filled with wonder, it was not due to the relics but rather thanks to the flowering of its architecture, the ceremonial splendor, and the intense activity. His definition of the Grand Canal as “the most beautiful street in the whole world, with the finest houses” is still famous. Venice was in his eyes “the most triumphant city ever seen, one which does most honor to ambassadors and foreigners, and governs itself most wisely, and where God’s service is most solemnly performed,” while the Arsenal was “the finest thing anywhere.”15 Commynes, like Fabri and others, adopts praise as the descriptive model16 for the city, characterizing it through an accumulation of hyperboles, qualifiers, and superlatives, though he differs from them in the wealth of detail. As for the notion of “triumph,” it took root as a commonplace. Describing the processions, the Anonymous Parisian (1480) speaks of the “triumph and wealth of Venice.”17 Denis Possot (1532) would construct his euphoric discourse around the same notion, making liberal use of it to celebrate the architecture: “The city is very fine, all triumphantly paved with brick. The churches are triumphant, principally San Marco, which is the most beautiful and rich I have ever seen. . . . [T]he ducal residence [is] triumphant. . . . We saw another most triumphant church called Our Lady of the Miracles; it is all of fine marble, most triumphantly paved.”18 The old practice of laudes tended to become individualized, with positive results. For the cultivated Irishman Symon Semeonis (1323) the traveler’s compliment became a precious turn of phrase, evoking ascent to the heavens: “Venice deserves a place among the brilliant stars of Arcturus and the Pleiades.”19 The Tuscan Poggibonsi expresses his praise through references that are more Italian. For him, who was able to decipher towers as Italian symbols of omnipotence, Venice was “una città piena di cose bellissime et di molti campanili.” His compatriots from Florence and San Gimignano would have understood instantly!20 As for Pietro Casola, his reactions were those of an esthete. He was among those eager to share the flavor—all the flavor—of the journey.21 This priest, setting out from Milan on May 14, 1494, reached Venice by the twentieth but did not board his ship until June 4. Once his name was added to Agostino Contarini’s register of pilgrims, how could he spend his time except by strolling about and making some final purchases? Casola speaks as a man who had lived inland but was knowledgeable thanks to his reading, and who discovers a people wedded to the sea: “Does anything remain

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to be written about Venice,” he wonders, “which is already reflected in so many learned works?” Casola immediately assumes the attitude of a delighted sightseer. For him no other city can compare to this cluster of villages built on the water, where people move about on foot and by boat. He lingers, captivated. He speaks of daily life, of the abundance of goods on the Rialto, where he watches the ships being unloaded and the feverish activity of the vendors. The abundance is conveyed by an epicurean enumeration: “tanti vini moscatelli, vini di Romania, vini bianchi de ogni mano, e cosi de vini rossi.” He attempts to count the wine shops, but they are innumerable— yet you have to beg for water. “Bellezza, magnificentia, ricchezza, grandezza, pompa di auro”—these are the mainstays of his discourse. He begs his readers to pardon him should they find him excessive in his praise: “It has to be seen to be believed,” he repeats on every possible occasion.22 It would not take much for Venice to become almost an alter mundus, a different world, a model city—almost a utopia. The city also worked its charms on a Parisian traveling in 1480, who estimated Venice to be half the size of Paris and marveled at the countless bridges of wood and stone (which he estimated as numbering fifteen hundred), the fine shops crammed with merchandise, and the “fine houses they call palaces,” whence the nobility was conveyed to the Grand Council by boat, across the sea, which “passes through the streets.” “There are more boats in Venice than horses and mules in Paris.”23 It was a topsy-turvy world—and a strange one! If the visitor still mentioned the relics, it was the architecture of the religious buildings he appreciated most. Attention had definitely shifted from the holy object to their housing in edifices of stone. This same traveler provides a fine description of the riches of San Marco, introducing the reader to the unfamiliar art of mosaic in a descriptive paraphrase: “little pieces and bits of glass the size of a denier, rounded, of gold and azure and other very rich colors.”24 Several, like him, became acquainted with this technique and attempted to convey its nature. Depending on the individual’s powers of observation, the perception varies, from the myopic vision of one who admires the making of an image using “little stones and pieces of glass a quarter the size of the nail of the little finger”25 and the hues of gold and azure on the walls and arches, to the all-encompassing vision of another who surveys the entire field of generously represented figures: “The whole is paved with images of beasts, birds, eagles, serpents, dragons, and lions made of square, pointed, round, white, black, green, yellow, gray, and blue-green stones, most of them no larger than one of these” [here a little rectangle is drawn by way of illustration].26 The two major points of interest were the churches and the processions—in other words, the décor and spectacle of a city that carefully promoted its image. The account of San Marco left by Barbatre reveals a man

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as interested in the total edifice (the number of doors and towers, the positioning of the altars) as in describing details (painted or sculpted scenes): There are four large copper horses gilded with gold. . . . At the main door, high up, is a large golden lion above a large alabaster image. VI angels at the right corner, a clock in front, and on the two sides XIII pinnacles and XIII large images and all in white marble. On the right, toward the sea, high up, is an image of Our Lady. . . . In front of the church, at important festivals, there are III large masts like a boat’s on which they raise III large banners and at the two corners of the porch on the galleries II smaller ones valued at X thousand écus.27 This painter in words is not content to list the sites; he attempts to conjure them up in the mind’s eye using colors, comparisons, numbers, and position in relation to the whole. Barbatre must also have had an excellent ear for music, for he comments that in the Church of San Salvatore the monks sang only plainchant and that the organ, played by a child prodigy, was as remarkable as the one in San Marco. Thus, at times Venice the enchantress took pride of place over Jerusalem in pilgrims’ hearts. This was certainly true of those travelers who made as much use of their eyes as of their faith, and for whom making a pilgrimage also meant “seeing the sights.” Philippe de Voisins (1490) was among these, and Venice filled him with enthusiasm. To provide the dimensions of the city, he relates it to his familiar world, in which Paris played the part of a universal standard of measurement. Venice was “almost as large as Paris, rich beyond all cities in the world, standing on the sea without any wall or fortification other than the sea itself.” There he observed the comings and goings of merchants from all over the world. But is it not in their dress that a people most visibly manifests its difference? Our pilgrim describes young brides adorned with precious stones and jewels who for two years would wear “low-cut dresses, baring their shoulders entirely,” then dress in black and cover their faces for the remainder of their days.28 As for Casola, he deciphered the female dress code disapprovingly, wondering how young women with veils could see enough to walk, proclaiming that the Venetian women had no fear of being bitten by fliessince they did not spend much on cloth to cover their shoulders! Their women appear to me to be small for the most part, because if they were not, they would not wear their shoes—otherwise called “pianelle”—as high as they do. For in truth I saw some pairs of them sold, and also for sale, that were at least a Milanese braccio [roughly two feet] in height. They were so high indeed that when they wear them, some women appear giants; and certain also are not safe from

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falling as they walk, unless they are well supported by their slaves. As to the adornment of theirs heads, they wear their hair so much curled over their eyes that, at first sight, they appear rather men than women. The greater part is false hair; and this I know for certain because I saw quantities of it on poles, sold by peasants in the Piazza san Marco. Further, I inquired about it, pretending to wish to buy some, although I had a beard both long and white. These Venetian women, especially the pretty ones, try as much as possible in public to show their chests—I mean the breasts and shoulders—so much so, that several times when I saw them I marveled that their clothes did not fall off their backs. Those who can afford it, and also those who cannot, dress very splendidly and have magnificent jewels and pearls in the trimming round their collars. They wear many rings on their fingers with great balass rubies and diamonds. I said also those who cannot afford it because I was told that many of them rent these things. They paint their faces a great deal, and also the others parts they show, in order to appear more beautiful. The general run of the women [i.e., of the common people] who go out of the house and who are not numbered among the pretty girls, go out well covered up and dressed for the most part in black even up to the head, especially in church. At first, I thought they were all widows, and sometimes on entering a church at the service time I seemed to see so many nuns of the Benedictine Order. The marriageable girls dress in the same way, but one cannot see their faces for all the world. They go about so completely covered up, that I do not know how they can see to go along the streets. Above all—at least indoors—these Venetian women, both high and low, have pleasure in being seen and looked at; they are not afraid of the flies biting them and therefore they are in no great hurry to cover themselves if a man comes upon them unexpectedly. I observed that they do not spend too much in shawls to cover their shoulders. Perhaps this custom pleases others; it does not please me. I am a priest in the way of the saints, and I had no wish to inquire further into their lives29 In Venice medieval man made his first great encounter with the “distant other,” “this reversal of perspective that turns us back on our own image, this differential diversity”30—and that leads the thinking man to pass judgment. The good merchant Jean de Tournai (1488) was intrigued by the richness of the attire and saw with his own eyes women leaning on their maids as they took giant steps on their platform shoes.31 Barbatre stresses the beauty immodestly displayed by the women attending San Marco at Ascension. He uses a comparison borrowed not only from the familiar world of

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the ladies of Rouen but also from the storehouse of mythology. The limits of the describable were reached when the unfamiliar object resisted, making a certain degree of stylistic contortion indispensable: “As for the ladies of the city, it is a triumph to see them! Lady Venus, Pallas, or Juno are nothing; the women of Paris, Rouen, or Lyon cannot approach them. . . . They are uncovered to the shoulders and below. Their arms are very prettily set off; they are mounted on skates half a foot in height and seem to be walking on thorns. Some are led by the hand.”32 Even more than the Doge’s Palace, the Arsenal, which provided a living for part of the population, held such fascination for travelers that many of them depict its feverish industry. The precision of the terminology applied to the boats suggests that guided tours must have been provided. Ogier d’Anglure, who discovered these maritime laborers in 1396, takes us with him on his tour, hardly concealing his stupefaction at the enormous dimensions of the workshops: In Venice there is a great enclosed place, all surrounded by walls and by the sea, which they call the Arsenal. It is the place where they construct the city’s defenses—which is to say the galleys, of which there are said to be two score and ten, old and new—on dry land and under cover. Next the vessels’ rigging is made, and God knows the houses where they make them are long! Next come the forges where they make anchors for both galleys and sailing ships. Then where they make the oars and artillery to arm the said vessels. And rest assured that these things are very costly; and all this is furnished by the city of Venice.33 The travelers of 1480, who visited the naval dockyards after the expansion that began in 1472, put the number of workers at three hundred. Barbatre (1480) still resorts to abundant lists to convey the overwhelming impression: There are continually IIIC men working for war . . . builders of galleys, ships and boats, and all under cover in great halls and of all kinds and all manners of artillery such as bombards, canon, culverins, crossbows, bows, arrows, lances, bills, pikes, halberds and great swords, amour, chain mail and all kinds of warlike dress, rope makers; and there is so much rope that a wagon would be needed to carry it, and women sewing sails, etc. No one could imagine what it is like. There is more equipment than would be needed to fight all the Turks.34 Philippe de Voisins (1490) amasses everything that assembly-line work in a human beehive can suggest to the imagination: “Some build ships and galleys, others make oars, some making masts and other trim . . . and women

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making sails, and others making artillery and powder.”35 Thus, in 1396 the traveler was struck by the enormity of the undertaking, in 1480 by the diversity of the objects produced, and in 1490 by the organization of labor, which was a novelty for him. This tallies with what we know of the Arsenal’s physical development from the fourteenth to the fifteenth centuries.36 When all is said and done, the Venice we visit today, a city rich in art and history, was at that time considered a modern industrial city. This disparity emerges in all the texts that describe the city. Ever larger vessels were being constructed, and at the beginning of the sixteenth century pilgrims were filled with awe and admiration to see one with six sails and four decks. Denis Possot (1532) describes the seagoing leviathan he boarded, along with three hundred other passengers, a vessel equipped with “armaments in great quantity, with seven great artillery pieces and three brigandines.”37 Venice was also a city of novelties, with its glassworks, silk factories, and early printing presses, which greatly astonished Barbatre, for thanks to these “printers of books, you can get a breviary for a ducat”!38 In spring Venice decked itself out in its finest for a procession. The season when travelers destined for the Holy Land were passing through was also the time for the springtime religious celebrations. The Venetians took full advantage of this to make a successful display of the evidence of their wealth and opulence to visiting observers, who would eagerly promote the city’s reputation. Philippe de Voisins would long treasure the sight of the procession he witnessed at Corpus Christi. He saw the duke sumptuously clad, angelic children dressed in gold cloth bearing cups of silver and gold, followed by the five guilds made up of as many as 2,700 individuals. He was much more dazzled by Venice than he would be by Jerusalem.39 The anonymous Parisian who visited the city in 1480 would long remember the illuminations for Pentecost. After dark, thirty shining lanterns were placed on the tower of San Marco and on the other towers, and for Corpus Christi the square was hung with white draperies supported by poles, beneath which the procession passed.40 The Englishman Richard Guylforde found that “the relyques at Venyce can not be noumbred.” Long before the English Romantics he succumbed to the city’s spell: “The rychesse, the sumptuous bulydynge, the religyous houses and the stablysshynge of their justyces and councylles . . . maketh a cytie glorious.” He was moved by the celebrations during Ascension and Corpus Christi, particularly by the dazzling images of the little living angels: “Lytell children of both kyndes, gloryously and rychely dressyd, berynge in their hande riche cuppes or other vessayles . . . dressed as aungelles.”41 The unfortunate man would barely have time to enjoy his recollections, for he died in Jerusalem in early September 1506; we owe the final version of his account to a traveling companion who put the final touches to his splendid memoir.

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Pierre Barbatre hoped to render the movement and color of the spectacles through mere enumeration, as if this prose device were best suited to convey reality. He witnessed all the feasts of the Assumption, Pentecost, and Corpus Christi,42 with their displays of “albs, crosses, banners, relics, tunics, chasubles, gold cloth, torches, and cups of gold and silver,” accompanied by an appropriate cacophony of “bugles, trumpets, harps, lutes, and choirs.” This vision he found “inexpressible as far as I am concerned,” he modestly confesses. “The day of Corpus Christi . . . Primo came VIII children dressed as little angels, each one holding a candle; next came VIII men each carrying a torch with a great cross and a crucifix all of yellow wood; next came a hundred men in religious dress, beating one another until they drew blood, with only their eyes, noses, and hands exposed, most of them in iron chains and the others with great scourges.”43 The giant towers that were an Italian specialty were curiosities to be visited for the panoramic view they afforded. The Campanile, which could be climbed on horseback up its corkscrew galleries, was a popular attraction (the building as we know it today was rebuilt between 1905 and 1912): “Close to San Marco stands the Campanile. It is a tall, square tower all of brick; it is climbed without any staircase or steps, and one can go up on horseback almost as far as the bells; and there are VIII bells, among the largest in Venice; from it you can see across all of Venice and the towns, priories, abbeys, religious places, monasteries, and villages VII or VIII leagues around Venice; the belfry is roofed with lead and gilded with fine gold made of ducats.”44 The enormous Piazza San Marco was “by universal accord unique in the world,” wrote the Irishman Semeonis.45 It provided a view over the Doge’s Palace, which Santo Brasca, an official in the chancellery of Milan, had the good fortune to visit. His description allows us to gauge his admiration. In the Great Hall, with its eloquent frescoes, he saw the doge’s throne, facing out to sea. He attended the ceremony during which the doge was married to the sea.46 The ordinary pilgrim often had to be content with outward signs of wealth. This did not prevent Georges Lengherand from admiring the geometric perfection of the huge square. Like a painter he locates his angle of vision. But this magistrate from Mons (or his scribe) was no Canaletto, for though he counts the eighteen arches and nineteen columns—including the two red ones between which death sentences were proclaimed—he restricts himself to experiencing the inexpressible: “Looking the length of this square stands the palace, which is a thing I cannot describe in writing because my senses could not take in the riches and great magnificence of the said palace. And I never would have thought that about a single town it could be possible to see so many boats on the sea.”47 The “inexpressible” splendor of the costumes, the “indescribable” treasure—such are the expressions penned when the vocabulary becomes inad-

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equate for conveying too complex a reality. The writer acknowledges his momentary loss of words as a failure. His expressive resources are insufficient for his desire to show. When words fail, when the language is flagrantly insufficient to express reality, impressions take over from description. The narrator makes a pact with the reader, asking for his complete confidence: “Stupefaction prevents me from speaking,” writes Fabri. “Indeed, what can I say about the Doge’s Palace?” Its beauty? “Unbelievable.” The war machines? “A stupefying sight.” San Marco? “So admirable that legend has it that it was built not by human hands but by those of angels.”48 In dialectics the reader’s right to doubt is recognized. Possot speaks of the Arsenal as “so rich a place that it is impossible for a man to imagine it, or for him who has not seen it to believe it.”49 It is an “unbelievable thing for anyone who has not seen it,” writes another, who, to compensate for his inadequacy, provides some elements of comparison borrowed from his familiar world. Speaking of the pulpits in the Franciscan church of I Frari, he says that “their value is ten times that of the pulpits in Notre Dame de Rouen, the finest in France.”50 The reader is left to use his imagination as best he can! The pilgrims barely had time to investigate the political structures of the Republic in any depth. Often they had only a superficial glimpse of it. Philippe de Voisins had a vague notion of the colonial wealth of Venice, which possessed “many kingdoms and seigneuries.”51 One visitor, chancing to witness an execution, passes judgment in the form of a generalization. He mentions the sentencing of two gentlemen to be hanged between the red pillars of the palace and the execution of two men found guilty of beating a policeman and aiding a prisoner. On the Rialto he saw the stake standing in the water, from which he concluded that “ in this country people great and small are put to death for very little reason.” He discovered that no Jews lived in the center of the city, traveling in to conduct business. He saw one who had hanged himself after being accused of practicing human sacrifice.52 Relations and exchanges with the local population seem to have been limited, but there was no law to prevent a witness turning his hand to journalism now and again. In 1480 the pilgrims in transit learned that the Venetians, having lost some strongholds to the Turks in Albania and Dalmatia, were required to pay a tribute in order to continue using certain ports of call. Travelers could see the human consequences of this spread of Ottoman power; some describe the tide of miserable refugees that invaded the Piazza San Marco each day—a busy square where people lived by what talents they possessed. Santo Brasca saw one curiosity there that attracted a crowd: a woman with no arms but who could eat, drink, cut, spin, and perform all such womanly tasks using her feet—an isolated, fleeting glimpse of one moment in the anecdotal history of the human species.53

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Even though the average pilgrim may have been ill informed about politics in the Signoria, he would have time to form an opinion about its trade practices and economic power. His awareness of such matters began the moment he had to make a contract with the patrono (captain) of a galley. The cost of the passage, including meals on board, varied from period to period. In 1480 the Anonymous Parisian cites fifty-five gold ducats and laments the local monopoly in currency matters (“and then they have to be of Venetian coinage!”). He was surprised to find he had to pay his own expenses when the ship called in a port. There was concern with the rate of exchange for the Venetian ducat when they exchanged the gold they were carrying. Money was the lifeblood of the journey, and an inadequate reserve could require turning back. (In 1170 Richard I found some pilgrims awaiting a passage in Marseilles who had already exhausted their funds.)54 It is hardly surprising, therefore, that some take pains to quote the rate of exchange. At the mint écus were changed for Venetian ducats “because from there to Jerusalem no one takes money or gold unless it be of Venetian coin.”55 However, some gold would be kept in reserve, for its value could always be established by weight. Since only Venetian money was accepted in the ports, money changers profited considerably from the monopoly. “In Venice gold or money cannot be obtained without great loss,” lamented Barbatre.56 In addition, rates of exchange varied from place to place, allowing the captains to profit even further. Arnold von Harff explains how, thanks to the merchants, he was able to resolve his problem of transferring money for the journey: Item: in Venice I had to change all my money for new Venetian ducats called da zecca, since the money in Greece, Turkey, and heathen lands is differently coined from Christian money. Item: since it was in my mind to travel in the lands of unbelievers I had to see that my money was not stolen or taken, which often happened to me. I was taken, therefore, with the help of the German merchants to a gentleman of Venice who traded in all countries overseas, who gave bills of exchange in the cities of Alexandria, Damietta, Damascus, Beirut, Antioch, Constantinople and other towns, so that I could supply my needs, for which the other merchants of the countinghouses of Anthony Paffendorpp of Cologne were my sureties, that they would make good what I spent in other countries. Item: when I came to a heathen town and presented these bills to a person to whom they were made out, although I could not speak with him, I nodded my head at him and kissed my finger in order to show my respect, and gave him the bills. Whereupon he would stare at me and disappear into the back of his house, returning at once and paying me my money, indicating with his finger that I should write down how much I had received.57

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A typical packing list is provided in several accounts. The pilgrims had to purchase a bed and a rope with which to hang it up during the day, and a keg for the drinking water they would obtain at San Niccolò before setting sail, for it kept the best. It would be topped up in each port of call. They would also obtain a small barrel of ordinary red wine from Padua, hams, salted beef tongues, hard cheese, figs, and the famous biscuit familiar to all travelers (a “re-baked bread that can be kept without going bad, baked for so long that it is as hard on the third day as a year later”), dates, sugar, almonds, syrup, and, on the advice of apothecaries, medicines to protect against the heat, which could be fatal. They would go on board and sleep on the ship as they awaited a fair wind for the departure, heralded by bugles and trumpets.58 Jacques Le Saige from Douai (1519) speaks of the food chest for carrying these supplies, which would be bought before the departure and sold back again upon the pilgrim’s return—unless it had been used as a coffin in the meantime, as was the case with one of his companions, who died between Cyprus and Rhodes and was buried at sea.59 In 1533 the expense became such a concern that Greffin Affagart devotes an entire chapter to converting the ducat into the currency of the countries he traveled through. In formulating the requisite qualities of a pilgrim, he repeats the humorous adage illustrating a reality that was unfortunately all too commonplace: “Whoever undertakes this expedition must have a good intention, a good heart, a strong stomach, and a good purse: this is because he is not going on it out of curiosity, nor out of chagrin, nor for worldly profit, but for the love of Jesus Christ. It is commonly said that whoever wishes to make the pilgrimage must have three full purses: one full of patience, the other of faith, and the other of finance.” Before him Casola had already spoken of the “three bags of patience, money, and faith” he was supposed to bring with him on his travels.60 Affagart, however, had the misfortune to set out at the worst possible moment: if he had no lack of faith, his patience would be sorely tested, and it was quite possible that he would run out of finances! The discredit the Reformation cast on pilgrimages and the cult of relics had put a damper on the urge to visit the Holy Land. Affagart accuses those he calls heretics of dealing a severe blow to the Jerusalem pilgrimage. The “wicked lecher Luther” and his henchmen had “cooled the ardor of the Germans and Flemish, once most devoted to pilgrimage.” Since it is true that Germans in the fifteenth century were the source of a considerable number of accounts,61 it was inevitable that their absence would be felt. For the fare was proportionately higher when the galley was half empty. One pilgrim complains bitterly that the regular service was no longer in operation: “Several years ago the voyage was halted and no ship was appointed to convey the pilgrims as a group.” Now each was left to his own devices to secure a passage. There was

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another reason for these difficulties. Even fewer pilgrims would set out for Jerusalem that year, for the Moors on the Barbary coast had recently captured several galleys, making captains reluctant to venture into pirateinfested waters. Oh for the happy time when it was so easy to obtain a passage in the spring! Affagart’s lament reveals the very human myopia that makes us idealize the past; he was unaware that the years between 1470 and 1490 had not all been brilliant ones for the maritime business of pilgrimage, and that in 1473 Father Alessandro Rinuccini had been obliged to postpone his departure from Venice.62 But be that as it may, Affagart, unlike the Protestant reformers, was a strong believer in the value of pilgrimage as a “corroboration and certification of faith” and wrongly imagined that the golden age of the holy journey had come to a definitive end.63 Had it not been his destiny to become a man of the Church, William Wey would have made a brilliant currency trader. The indefatigable Fellow of Eton College knew what he was talking about, for he could speak from the experience of two pilgrimages to the Holy Land (1458 and 1462) and one to Compostela (1456). The chapter he entitled “Chaunges of money from Englond to Rome and Venyse” displays a dazzling acquaintance with currency exchange at the time. He establishes useful equivalences between the currency of England and those of the regions traversed: Brabant, Germany, Rome, Venice, Corfu, Rhodes, and Cyprus. “Here ye may know dyversyte of moneys as from England to Surrey in the Holy Londe,” he proclaims eruditely. What an odd itinerary it was, established according to the relative values of the local currencies! Wey provides a document of rare precision, as well as an interesting economic account.64 Less ambitiously, Barbatre lists the Venetian denominations and their subdivisions,65 while the Anonymous Parisian adds some equivalencies in French currency. The more practicalminded Thomas Brygg, mayor of Bordeaux, who became a pilgrim in 1392, tabulated his expenses for the ship, his interpreter, lodgings, the wine purchased in Crete, and the hiring of guides and camels.66 Prior Mariano da Siena warned more insistently of the danger of seeming to be impecunious. Certain missionaries were vehemently opposed to these summer migrations, which ultimately profited only the sultan and the Saracens. It was rare for pilgrims to set out singly. They usually banded together into companies. Lionardo Frescobaldi, Giorgio Gucci, and Simone Sigoli set out together from Florence on August 12, 1384, on a fall pilgrimage. On September 4 they embarked at Venice after outfitting themselves with mattresses and the other things necessary for crossing the desert. Each of them provided an account. Frescobaldi was almost left behind on the dock. He had fallen ill in Venice and had been forbidden to leave, but he pleaded his case so effectively that the captain offered him his own cabin. The pilgrimage brought together people of widely different geographic origin and social

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background: Frescobaldi, the father of six children, was well known in Florence; Gucci was of plebeian stock; and Sigoli was a nobleman. Gucci was very precise in listing prices and counting the days. Less brilliant than Frescobaldi when it came to describing fortifications or Eastern customs, he was a superior observer of the details of daily life. Unlike Frescobaldi and Gucci, Sigoli devoted a portion of his account to religious aspects, such as churches, indulgences, and relics.67 Each took note of what he considered worthy to be remembered. It is possible that they deliberately took advantage of the way their accounts complemented one another.

The Tourist Office The Venetians established a tourist office. The assignment of the Tholomarii was to assist travelers in finding accommodations, making purchases, and negotiating with a shipowner—for there was a danger they might come in contact with innkeepers who would direct them to ships engaged in the coastal trade to Bari, from where ships also sailed for the Holy Land. Early in the thirteenth century the Senate passed laws intended to ensure a monopoly and to promote safety and comfort. Each galley had to be identified on the hull and display a banner with a red cross, a symbol of neutrality. Oarsmen and armed sailors were taken on board. The patrono had to be at least thirty years old. Experts checked the seaworthiness of the vessels and the freight. Many captains of convoys took the opportunity to carry on some trading on the side, something that was not always in the passengers’ best interest. The Senate oversaw the contracts and tried to guarantee them. The fare was fixed according to custom: depending on the exchange rate and the period, it could range between forty and sixty ducats for the round trip between Venice and Jaffa. Twice a day the captain was supposed to serve a hot meal, which was washed down by wine, but the pilgrims had to feed themselves in ports of call.68 One can surmise that these contracts contained variations, were rarely carried out to the letter, and were frequently disputed. Still, the Senate made every effort to control such a lucrative and substantial trade. It legislated constantly in response to incidents and accidents in order to prevent abuses by unscrupulous mariners and avoid overloading the ships. It would take the step of creating a complaints bureau for unhappy passengers. The Office of the Cattaveri was established to apply the ordinances and statutes pertaining to navigation. Agents registered the names of the pilgrims on each departing ship. In 1398 disputes arising from the sharing of accommodations by merchants and pilgrims led to the creation of two distinct categories of transportation. Beginning in 1401, the patroni who profited from the holy expedition had to be licensed by the Senate. Despite all these pro-

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tective measures, the Cattaveri were besieged by clients who were convinced that they had been cheated.69 Aboard his galley La Contarina—one of the few (or possibly the only one) permitted to leave Venice in 1480 while the Turkish siege of Rhodes was in progress—the sly Agostino Contarini, the scion of a large patrician family, thumbed his nose at the prohibitions and defied the decrees by carrying merchandise worth its weight in gold. In 1540 the Venetian admiral Cristoforo da Canal, a reformer, attacked the dishonest administration of the galleys, the increasing opulence of the captains, and the extravagant expenses of the sopracomiti. The poet Bernardino Baldi would caricature those who ruled like princes over their floating islands, speaking of the “throne where, arrayed in crimson or in gold, he sits who rules over the trireme, and whose will must be the will and law of all.”70 On the Piazza San Marco the ships’ captains waved white banners bearing a red cross to attract customers. They shouted out the merits of their ships and even opened them to inspection by the passengers, who had to reserve their berths. In 1483 Fabri’s noble masters had visited the two departing galleys in this way before reaching a decision: each ship’s captain promised speed and comfort and denigrated the service offered by the competition. On Pietro di Lando’s huge, new, immaculate trireme potential clients were treated to lavish refreshments in the form of Alexandrian specialties washed down with Cretan wine. This scenario was repeated on Contarini’s older, foul-smelling bireme. The Germans finally settled on the superior comfort of the largest cabin available to them on the larger vessel. It is easy to understand why certain of our authors provide instructions on the wording of a contract. The would-be passenger would put his proposals to the captain, who would either accept (sealing the bargain) or refuse. The contract outlined by Fabri includes twenty or so items that illustrate in a negative way the lessons learned from an unfortunate experience and thus represent an excellent implied denunciation of the unsavory practices current at the time: 1. Undertaking by the master to convey and bring back his passengers. Sailing to take place within fourteen days. 2. A galley manned by a crew of experienced sailors and provided with arms in sufficient quantity. 3. No unnecessary stops, but the possibility of obtaining supplies enroute. 4. Two meals per day. The sick to be served. 5. The master undertakes to provide an adequate supply of good bread and wine, biscuit, fresh water, meat, and eggs. 6. In the morning he is to serve a drink before the meal.

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7. A boat at the passengers’ disposal to go ashore when in port to make indispensable purchases. 8. Provision of passengers’ meals in ports where they are unable to shop for themselves. 9. On board the passengers shall be protected from the oarsmen. 10. A reasonable time shall be allowed for visits, including a trip to the Jordan, with the captain acting as guide and protector. 11. Safe conducts, donkeys, and major tolls to be paid for by the captain. 12. 40 ducats da zecca per passenger, half payable in Venice and half in Jaffa. 13. The personal effects of a deceased passenger shall not be seized by the captain. 14. Half the fare paid by the deceased to be returned to the executors of the estate. 15. Bodies of any deceased to be interred in the closest Christian port unless his companions agree to a sea burial. 16. 10 ducats to be reimbursed to any passenger who decides to leave the group in order to visit the Sinai. 17. The captain to arrange the expedition for those going to St. Catherine. 18. The pilgrims to be given room to keep their poultry and have access to the ship’s stove. 19. A sick passenger shall be entitled to leave the noxious atmosphere of the hull and be accommodated in the castle, on the poop, or on an oarsman’s bench. 20. Anything not specified but usual is considered to have been agreed to. The captain who examined this proposal refused the fourteen-day provision and demanded forty-five ducats. He accepted the idea of keeping a dead body on board, while warning that this would not make life at sea any more pleasant and would hinder navigation. When negotiations were completed, the contract would be registered by the Palace lawyers, who sealed the agreement, along with the names of the travelers. It only remained to board the galley to select the position of individual berths, on each of which the captain personally inscribed the name of its occupant in chalk.71 Not all the berths were equal. In this respect William Wey, being a good Englishman, insisted on the precautions to be taken to ensure a more comfortable existence on board: “Firste yf ye goo in a galey, make yowre covenaunte wyth the patrone by tyme, and chese you a place in the seyd galey in the overest stage; for the lawyst under hyt ys ryght smolderyng

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hote and stynkyng: ye schall pay for youre galey and for youre mete and drynke to port Jaff and agen to Venyse XL ducatis for to be in a goyd honeste plase and to have yowre ese” He advises making sure of the ports of call when signing the contract, that the captain was approved by the duke, and that he would not take any merchandise on board along the way, which would limit the room for the passengers. He advised obtaining an assurance that Cyprus, an unhealthy place for the English, be avoided at all costs: “But make covenaunte that ye com nat at Famagust in Cipres for no thyng, for meny Englysch men and other also have dyde for that eyre ys corupte ther abowte, and the water also.” The traveler should beware of fruit bought along the way, for if they were “not acordyng to youre complexioun” they would “gender a blody fluxe.” The pilgrim should make quite sure that the captain did not leave his luggage behind on the dock. Advice was offered about everything, including the amount of money to exchange, the number of chickens to buy, the clothing, towels, cushions, contents of the larder, syrups, and loaves of sugar: “Also y consel you to have wyth you owte to Venyse confectyunnys, confortatyvys, laxatyvys, restoratyvys, gyngeve, ryse, fygys . . . peyper, safery, clowys, masys. Also take with you a lytyl cawdren and fryyng pan, dysches, platerrys, sawserys, cuppys of glas, a grater for brede and such nessaryes. Also when ye come to Venyse, ye shal by a bedde by seynt Markys cherche; ye shal have a fedyr bedde, a matres, too pylwys, too peyre schetis and a qwylt and ye shal pay for III dokettis”—not forgetting a cage with a dozen chickens and “a buschel of myle sede of Venyse for them.” Arriving in Jaffa, he should make haste to choose the best mule, which cost no more than a poor one. When he returned to Venice his bed was returnable to the lessor for a ducat and a half.72 Santo Brasca is a model of precision in his “instructione a ciascuno che desidera fare questo sanctissimo viaggio.” The “accordo col patrono” seems to him at least as important as the spiritual preparation. He lists the items necessary for sleeping and eating, recommends selecting a place in the center of the boat near the door (for air), and advises against counting on the master for food.73 Nicolas Le Huen shows little originality where eating and safety are concerned. The only added obligations for the master were to return the pilgrims to Venice, wait for them in Cyprus (where an excursion was planned), pay all expenses in the Holy Land, provide an interpreter, accept all the baggage, and help to arrange the crossing of the Sinai if necessary.74 An examination of what was required under these contracts leads me to conclude that they could mean disaster for victims of unscrupulous travel agents. The Republic could prevent a ship from setting out if the master was in debt or the route unsafe. Sometimes the pilgrims asked for the removal of

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a prohibition that was to their detriment. The Senate legislated according to the deficiencies and irregularities brought to its attention.75 The ships would set off in a convoy. On May 8, 1432, Bertrandon de La Broquière boarded one of the vessels due to set out that day: “I boarded a galley with several pilgrims, and the others boarded another galley.”76 Although most took their passages on a regular service, some princes had the means to rent a galley for themselves.77 The Venetian hospitality trade was also subject to controls. In 1472 the doge Niccolò Tron conceded to Rolando Verdaro de Guanto the right to keep a hotel to lodge princes and ambassadors in transit. Lodgings were of varying quality. Barbatre and the Anonymous Parisian stayed near San Marco, at the Wild Man, an inn kept by a certain Jean de Liège.78 Philippe de Voisins would be content with the same accommodations some years later (the inn would survive until 1880), while his traveling companion Monsignor de Saint-Georges took lodgings at the White Lion.79 Santo Brasca stayed with a friend. Fabri went first to the Inn of St. George, called The Waves, but attempted to get into the Dominican convent to avoid the worldly atmosphere that prevailed there. He was finally granted a small room to himself.80 Despite all the efforts of the authorities to promote safety and commercial integrity, Venice did not enjoy a good reputation. In 1470 Adorno advised against its cramped, cosmopolitan, and overladen galleys. He chose a better armed Genoese vessel with meticulous onboard management.81 Some individualists avoided organized travel, like the German Arnolf von Harff (the pilgrimage to Jerusalem was only a portion of his journey), who chose to travel in the company of merchants and never regretted it. They were familiar with the language and the routes, enjoyed freedoms and privileges forbidden to others, and did not suffer the discomforts, delays, and exactions that were the pilgrim’s lot.82 Waiting for his ship to cast off, Pietro Casola evokes the atmosphere on the eve of departure, with sacks of merchandise littering the ground and barrels being rolled along the galley’s deck.83 The Anonymous Parisian strolled along the Rialto, in the heart of the islands, where the glassworkers, goldsmiths, and drapers rented a spot on land or water to display their precious merchandise and to trade, assisted by the money changers. Everyone sniffed the air, waiting for a wind. When the vessel was finally ready, a joyful atmosphere prevailed on board—though it would not last. The captain assembled all his clients to “make departure at the first serviceable wind.” Installed on board their galley on June 1, 1480, the passengers of The Contarina would not, however, set sail until the seventh, amid a joyful concert: “The wind being good enough, the three sails were unfurled to the sound of trumpets and bugles, and we entered the open sea.”84 It was the first day of the five weeks they would spend on the galley, suffering every caprice of

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the elements, changing course to avoid pirates, learning to put up with their companions in a restricted space and to stomach the mediocre Italian food, which was too unfamiliar for the digestions of some. But the pilgrim still had to discover what was in store for him! A shore from where the traveler might well set out, never to use the return portion of his fare: such was Venice for some. Richard Guylforde would die in Jerusalem in 1506, Simon von Saarbrücken in Cyprus in 1396, while Denis Possot departed this life on the homeward journey in 1532. It was a shore more symbolic than real, reduced to the primitive state of a spit of natural sand defying the open sea—a piece of land from where one day Thomas Mann’s dying hero would also embark for the beyond.85 Perhaps it was no accident that Venice would become the image of death through its personification as a dying beauty, so dear to Chateaubriand. Did ancestral memory not make it a place from where one set sail for a distant shore? And how did the sumptuous image of Venice as a woman sitting on the sea arise? Perhaps it was thanks to the various meanings of “sitting”—a word equally applicable to cities and human beings: “Venice is a handsome city, half as large as Paris, sitting in the sea, entirely surrounded by water,” writes a fifteenth-century pilgrim, using the word in its primary meaning.86 “There is Venice, sitting on the seashore like a beautiful woman who dies with the day,” wrote a nineteenth-century traveler, exploiting an ambiguity of the kind that gives birth to poetry.87 Was this poetry not made possible by the accumulation, over time, of the attempts at description that engendered admiration?

chapter 4

Five Weeks in a Galley The perfect galley should resemble a graceful young woman, each of whose movements displays alertness, vivaciousness, and extreme agility, while preserving an aspect of grave dignity. —cristoforo da canal

Five weeks was the average time required to cross the Mediterranean from Venice to Jaffa or Alexandria. In addition to the already considerable dangers, many from both town and country were discovering the sea for the first time—and it was an awesome experience. No one embarked without some trepidation, and some were not ashamed to admit their apprehension. Some young noblemen were paralyzed with terror on viewing it from a hilltop: “Let us climb up there and see the sea, which may well be our grave.” In the pilgrimage accounts the boundless sea—symbol of eternity and the infinite, a watery grave, an element that both links and separates places—gradually takes on a romantic, dramatic, and esthetic aura until then restricted to works of fiction: “The setting sun shone upon the part nearest to us; the rest, the end of which no one could see, seemed a high, thick, dark cloud, and of blackish air,” writes Fabri. Does this not already sound very like a hymn to beauty? At the first strokes of the oars between Marghera pier on the mainland and the islands of Venice, masks began to fall: When our boat entered the bitter, salt water we began to sing in a loud and joyful voice the pilgrims’ song

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that travelers destined for Our Lord’s Sepulcher like to strike up. . . . “We are sailing in the Name of the Lord whose Grace we long for; let his goodness be our help and the Holy Sepulcher protect us; Lord, take pity on us!” Some, however, thinking of the bitter sea and its thousand dangers, had no song in their hearts, but only a groan. Some, out of devotion to the Holy Sepulcher and moved by the singing, began to weep. Others trembled at the sight of the sea, as if glimpsing the graveyard where their tomb would be. All the others, fearlessly judging that no harm would befall them, smiled.1 This was the sea seen through a pilgrim’s eyes. And yet it was still only a foretaste of the great crossing on the trireme that had been selected with the obsessive care demanded by an anxious soul. When the thread still connecting them to land was broken and Venice faded into the distance, to be swallowed up in the haze, the great voyage really began. If by some good fortune the galley ploughed a tranquil furrow through calm waters, the homo peregrinus could leisurely enjoy the mobile, ever-changing seascape and awaken to new things. In perceiving a different reality, he sometimes conceived the notion of beauty; for if art grows out of emotion, the ordinary run of mortals can indeed become artists. The depiction of space differs from one to the other and is governed by several criteria, such as the themes considered and the viewpoint chosen. The depiction of places is often selective and dependent on the ports of call. It is more rare to find the sense of movement being rendered as the coast glides past. Life on board the galley, neglected at first, would finally take its place among the topics of the pilgrimage account. The choice of what deserved attention was related to the time and to culture. Before the fourteenth century, accounts dealing with the sea voyage were rare, while in the fifteenth accounts were enriched with worldly details. The ability to see depended on the individual personality. The nearer the age of the printing press, the more this criterion was determined by the work’s intended function.

Life on Board Whatever the progress made in shipping, pilgrims at the time of these spring migrations bear witness to the discomfort of the vessels, the overcrowding, the lamentable food, the frequency of disputes between people of different nationalities, the spoiled water, the insipid wine, and the dishonesty of the crew—with heat and vermin making things even worse. There was the risk of a storm, as there was of being becalmed, and of pirates lying in wait. Sleep would be disturbed by rats, lack of air, smells, and cries. If, by some unfortunate chance, the galley was also carrying horses, the scraping

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of their hooves on the planks would be added to the coming and going of the sailors on deck and the incessant noise of the sea. On board each individual made the best of the tiny space he had paid for, which was furnished with a mattress, pillows, and blankets. A fifteenth-century ship generally had three decks, one for the galeotti, or oarsmen, sitting in twos (a bireme) or threes (a trireme). The second deck was allotted to the travelers. It contained a large dormitory room, where the men lay side by side, feet to feet, their heads toward the side of the boat. The baggage was stored in the middle of the cabin. Each morning the sleeping mats would be rolled and hung up.2 Some pilgrims say nothing about the basic living conditions on board and make no mention of the world of the oarsmen and sailors. Ogier d’Anglure (1395) merely mentions in passing the captain’s review of the crew without describing it. He was only interested in the ports of call, with their places of pilgrimage, and in some details of the local life. His primary concern was to provide a conscientious overview of the voyage in the form of a log. Fabri, on the other hand, describes his galley as a large floating family, with set rules for living. He characterizes it as kindly, as his personal imagination dictates: “The galley resembles a monastery: it has its place of prayer beside the mast; the forum is also there. The common refectory is in the middle part of the stern, the dormitory and chapter house face the kitchen. There are cells beneath the deck at the bow and in the stern. The offices and kitchen and cowshed are above. This is, in short, the portrait of the galley.”3 It was a galley with human form, which also possessed a foot and a belly. The subject obviously inspired him, as it also did Pietro Casola (1494), who devotes several pages to analyzing the regular functioning of this world that appeared so strange to him. Some diversion during the days of boredom on the outward-bound and return journeys was obviously provided by the observation of maritime curiosities.4 The more pragmatic observations of the Lombard differ from the German’s more theoretical ones, but both set out to communicate the mass of new knowledge they gained from experience. They insert themselves into their narratives as explorers do, if needs be depicting themselves as arbiters of greater wisdom than their companions. They seem less to be writing an account of what they have seen than setting out to write about their own adventure and to derive optimum literary advantage from it. Fabri provides a humorous list of the passenger’s trials and tribulations, both major and minor. The maritime environment was unhealthy for those unaccustomed to it, bringing seasickness, strong emotions, and dreadful food. The observer does not neglect to dwell on the consequences of the

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involuntary cohabitation of people crammed into a space that allowed little respect for privacy. He shows how parallel groups coexisted in the microsociety on board. The women, housed in separate cabins, were not admitted to the common table. By bribing the cooks it was possible to obtain some relief from the mediocre diet, but since everyone had paid the same price, certain social usages were abolished: “The first person on board installs himself where he wants, the poor man yields nothing to the rich, nor the commoner to the noble, nor the artisan to the priest, nor the ignorant to the learned, nor the layman to the churchman, apart from some particular liking.” The menu consisted of food prepared in the Italian manner: salad with oil, mutton, fish or eggs, cheese, watered-down wine. “Unhealthy animals and unwholesome eggs are eaten, but the oarsmen sell the pilgrims good wine.” After a few days the ship’s biscuit became “as hard as stone.” It was softened in water or wine. This ancestor of the biscotti of today, a long-life bread that crumbled easily and crawled with worms—provided an opportunity for the adulterations and speculations denounced by the reformer Da Canal. Millet and barley replaced the wheat; the ship’s clerks sold the surplus for themselves and the colluding bakers made shameful profits.5 Tristissimo—such was the typical ship’s biscuit served on the galleys, seeming to play its part in the mortification of the pilgrims’ flesh.6 It has been said that their common lot united the pilgrims and blurred any differences, and that the effect of their undertaking was to abolish divisions of class, age, and sex. But this saintly harmony, often painted in rosy colors, was frequently far from realized because of the social and cultural diversity of the individuals traveling together.7 Personalities asserted themselves in the confined space of the ship. National groups were critical of one another: the Italians considered the Ultramontanes to be malcontents, while the Germans found the French proud and passionate. Acts of violence set them at one another’s throats. In one satirical description the travelers behave like schoolboys in a dormitory, as nightfall gives rise to frustration among the quick-tempered. This is how Fabri, writing in a realist vein, recreates the atmosphere on board, surely shattering the ideal image of the long-suffering pilgrim: When the pilgrims go below to rest, it creates a tremendous disturbance in the rows of beds, stirs up the dust, and provokes great quarrels between those in neighboring berths. . . . One blames his neighbor for intruding on his berth with his bed, the other denies it, but the first persists; each summons his friends to support him, and sometimes entire clans of them clash. . . . I have seen pilgrims confront one another with naked swords and daggers. . . . Once this quarrel has died down, some decide not to go to sleep until late, and disturb everyone

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with their lights and their unending chatter. . . . I have seen some enraged pilgrims piss on the burning lamps to put them out, which again gave rise to great disputes. Some, when the lights were out, begin to settle the problems of the world with their neighbor, sometimes keeping this up until midnight, and when asked to be quiet they raise their voices even more, so that fresh disputes arise . . . especially when there are drunken Flemings. . . . A pilgrim can hardly budge without touching his neighbor. . . . The place is enclosed and full of foul vapors. There are countless fleas and lice, and also mice and rats. . . . Almost every night I would go up on deck to get some air. I felt as if I had escaped from some squalid prison. The peace was also disturbed by those who were restless in their sleep, who snored, who shouted out in their sleep, and by the sick with their moaning, coughing, and spitting.8 Most of the authors avoid the topic of the “difficultas in opere naturae” and retain only the quintessence of the holy voyage. Casola does refer to it in his elaborate topography of the galley. Fabri explores the subject in a vivid, hilarious style. Beside his bed everyone had a clay chamber pot into which he could also throw up. But because of the confined space and the darkness in the cabin, these jars rarely remained upright until morning, for some fellow traveler, driven by an urgent need, would stumble in the dark, knocking over five or six of them and causing an unbearable stench. In the morning the pilgrims would head for the prow, where commodes had been set up. Often, if someone took too long about his business, there might be more than thirteen people waiting impatiently. Fabri compares the wait to that of men standing outside a confessional during Lent, when confessions took too long. He managed—and this is what creates the richness of his prose—to gives his account temporal density by introducing a host of little, everyday scenes related to the circumstances: in calm weather the visit to the prow was tolerable enough, but when the sea was rough you would be hit by buckets of water, and unless you wanted to get your clothes wet, it was better to take them off first. In such conditions any prudishness could have serious consequences! At night the expedition to the bow became outright dangerous. You had to step over forty or so sleeping pilgrims and advance by carefully placing your feet in empty spaces. If you had the misfortune to touch a body, a flood of curses would assault your ears. Fabri successfully explores all the possibilities. Thinking of athletic types not too subject to vertigo, he suggests reaching the bow along the sides of the ship, clinging to the rigging; he had often done this—at grave personal risk. Other feats are suggested for the daring—for instance, going out through the oar holes and performing the

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operation while straddling the same oars. However, this was a dangerous maneuver and not appreciated by the oarsmen. A few errant souls would relieve themselves in the most convenient spot, provoking the wrath of the others. Fabri does not avoid any “difficulty”—not even the ways to combat constipation. Some sailors advised him to go to the place in question regularly and loosen his clothing, “et habebit ventris beneficium etiam si lapides essent in eo.” The voyage was a rude trial of the pilgrim’s patience. Was an inconsiderate individual who allowed his chamber pot to overflow any more intolerable than one who had set out without a change of clothing, so that a stench followed him everywhere he went and he bred a colony of parasites in his hair and beard? For the fleas could indeed propagate at a frightening rate. In some cases it was better to sacrifice the beard. Among the innumerable inconveniences, one was the worst: the poor companion, “ill-humored, envious, quick-tempered, quarrelsome, restless, and dirty.” The aromas Fabri lists inspire a lengthy development. Lastly, in one final wry remark, Fabri cunningly allows us to imagine everything he has left unsaid: “A short explanation would not be enough to relate all I endured from a sick neighbor.”9 The hazards of the sea voyage and the misfortunes of the journey have now become part of the narratives, with the narrator gradually playing the part of witness to an unknown little world upon which he draws back the curtain. The ship’s captain decided on the ports of call and settled disputes. On board there was also a master-at-arms, a steward who planned the meals and dealt with complaints, an officer responsible for the cargo, another responsible for the equipment, sailors, polyglot oarsmen, cannoneers, buglers, a doctor, a barber, a scribe, and a priest. Casola’s galley had a complement of 140 crewmembers to serve 170 passengers. In 1480 La Contarina carried 330 people, 110 of them pilgrims (including at least 6 women). For a given leg of the voyage it was usual to take on board a pilot familiar with that portion of the route. The pilot between Venice and Parezon (Porec, in Istria) was replaced by another, responsible for taking them to Modon (Methoni). A third would take them to Jaffa. Even such guides were not immune to fatal errors, which could run the boat onto a sandbank. Sometimes the ship would be blown off course by contrary winds. Maps became useless, and the sailors would show their confusion in front of the terrified passengers, as is illustrated in this scene reported by Casola: “No land was to be seen on any side, as had been hoped. After midday there was a little argument: one said it was the right course, and the other that it was not. Finally an oarsman was sent up to the galley’s masthead to try to make out if land could be seen on any side—and there he remained. At twenty hours the two towers of Jaffa were sighted, which was a great comfort for all.”10 What could one do at such moments except pray? “Exaudi nos Domine

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Sancte, Pater Omnipotens, Eterne Deus,” the pious Santo Brasca would intone each evening, in all weathers, he who was familiar with no fewer than ten appropriate prayers.11 When the weather was fine the pilgrims would amuse themselves: on deck some played at dice or jacks, cards, or chess to help pass the time. The Saxons, the Flemings, and the poor resold their ration of wine. Some made up a choir of several voices or played the flute, the lute, or the zither. The scholarly read or meditated. Some did manual work or laundered clothes. Some spent their time sleeping or contemplating the sea, while others organized sporting contests (races or jumping over a rope). Mutual de-lousing was another pastime, as was fishing when it was possible. The weather influenced people’s moods: there were serene days when “such harmony reigns that you would think them brothers born of the same mother,” and odious days when “blaspheming and cursing made the galley seem a hell.”12 This interminable month at sea inspired its repertoire of songs performed in a fraternal chorus. Nicole Louve (1428) wrote a facetious ballad on the discomforts of the galley.13 Female presences, however discreet, were not universally appreciated. The English mystic Margery Kempe (1414) had to endure the persecution of her companions. They found her noisy bouts of weeping, fasting, and effusions frankly exasperating. In Venice an attempt had already been made to get rid of her, but learning from Margery’s own mouth that the Lord had warned her not to embark in their company, they were overcome by sudden terror and preferred to pursue the journey in her company to be sure they would benefit from the divine protection that enveloped her person. The Englishwoman’s pilgrimage would be one long series of trials and tribulations. She recounts both her misfortunes and ecstasies with the same lack of affectation.14 Some German lords traveling in 1480, who were candidates for the knightly Order of the Holy Sepulcher, considered it objectionable and shameful that they were obliged to share their ship with six women of mature age. On the return journey these matrons, still enjoying perfect health and showing no resentment, humbly cared for these proud men when they fell ill in Nicosia.15 The galeotti, or oarsmen, initially hired hands, were recruited from the islands of Greece, Dalmatia, or inland (terra firma). The difficulty of finding crew—the resultof increased demand—led the captains (particularly after 1500) to make extensive use of slaves and carry out raids to obtain them, although the Venetians were traditionally opposed to this. Only a handful of our authors paid any attention to the conditions in which the rowers performed their task, curses raining down on them. Though an excellent observer of places, people, and the sea, Pierre Barbatre ignored them except when accidents or incidents took place, such as a sailor dying or a man falling overboard. Fabri was one of the few to discuss their origin, depicting

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them as the damned of the sea. His compassion is expressed in a plea on their behalf of which the author of Les Misérables could have been proud: On the lowest rung are the galley-slaves. . . . Theirs is work fit for donkeys, urged on with whippings and curses. They are like horses pulling a heavy cart up a steep road: the harder they pull, the more they are spurred on. . . . I am disgusted to write this, and shudder to think of the tortures and punishments inflicted on them. I have never seen beasts beaten in such an atrocious manner. . . . They are forced to work with backs, arms, and shoulders bare so that they may be reached by whips and lashes. Most of them are slaves bought by the captain; sometimes men of base condition—convicts, fugitives, wanted men, exiles—or so unfortunate that they cannot live or feed themselves on land. When there is any fear they may escape, they are chained to their benches. . . . They are wretchedly fed and always sleep on their benches. . . . When they have a moment of freedom they play cards and dice, uttering abominable blasphemies. . . . Yet there are among them some honest traders who undergo this dreadful slavery in order to trade in the ports. Some are tailors or shoemakers and, when idle, make shoes, shirts, and tunics. Some are laundrymen and wash shirts for pay. Generally all the oarsmen do some trading: each has something beneath his bench to sell in the ports or to bargain away on the boat. They generally know at least three languages—Slavonian (Serbo-Croat), Greek, and Italian—and most of them know Turkish too. There is a hierarchy among the oarsmen.16 Casola describes the improvised markets that sprang up in ports, for all the crew had something to sell. He marvels at the quantity of merchandise transported on the galley. When the signal was given, these seafaring hucksters would break off their bargaining and return to their posts.17 To start with, the boat made its way along the Dalmatian or Italian coast. The log kept by Zaccaria Pagnani, secretary to the ambassador Domenico Trevisano, gives an idea of the short distances covered between ports of call (just a few miles), and of the vagaries of navigation. The wind would delay them. In one place the rowers took over from the sail. In another the anchor failed to hold.18 There would be disappointment when the ship failed to depart as expected. A stay in port would sometimes last longer than anticipated to allow the crew a much-needed rest and permit repairs to be made. One crewman was admired for his ability to repair the damaged rudder under water using a hammer and nails; he returned to the surface after an incredibly long time under water.19 Santo Brasca notes the distressing gusts of the sirocco. Stopovers gave the travelers time to renew their acquaintance

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with the countryside, to collect plants, or greet some exiled brother who would display a rare marvel: a map of the Holy Land.20 There were setbacks caused by unfavorable winds or an overloaded and poorly balanced vessel. Cargoes of spike-lavender seed (used to make a combustible oil) and paper had to be thrown overboard and the ship put in to port.21 Some wanted to give the impression at all costs that they had traveled at the captain’s side. Sanseverino (1458) was one such, larding his account with the wise mariner’s sayings. He shows the pilot’s incompetence by pointing to the errors that had steered them away from Rhodes.22 Some of the narratives are rich in tragic incidents or amusing anecdotes. The daily happenings of life at sea are documented: the death of a passenger; a prohibition against going ashore in Rhodes or Cyprus for health reasons; the captain’s efforts to save the convoy from pirates; and travelers’ complaints about the food.23 In the forced inactivity tiny details took on exaggerated importance, and there was much amusement when the wind blew away a sleeping Spaniard’s hat. Or there might be a narrow escape from tragedy: Barbatre witnessed the rescue of a foolish sailor who dived off the ship to recover a couple of shirts.24 The Anonymous Parisian reports how a cook fell into the sea while filling his bucket. He shows himself to be an attentive observer and compassionate painter of the crew’s solidarity. The pilgrims of 1480 witnessed a burial at sea. The dead sailor was stitched in his sheet and thrown into the ocean, weighted down with sand.25 Different witnesses perceived the drama in different ways. Barbatre merely describes the event, whereas the Parisian renders the sense of dismay and speaks of the “great alarm” (today we would say “psychosis”) and frightening specter of an epidemic. The experience turned into an investigation in Fabri’s case, for he felt obliged to enumerate all the funeral rites, even those he did not witness: When he dies, he is wrapped in a sheet, placed in a boat, and brought to the nearest shore if the ship is close to land. . . . If it is an infidel country, he is not brought to land, but his body is cast into the sea. If the ship is far from land, they take the sheet and sand is brought up from the depths of the ship, which is spread on the laid-out sheet, and then the body is placed on it and wrapped in it, and a bag of stones is tied to the feet. While everyone is gathered round and the priests chant Libera me, Domine, some of the oarsmen take up the body and let it fall in the sea in the Name of the Lord; the body, thus weighted down, immediately sinks into the abyss while the soul rises up to Heaven. I have often witnessed this, but I have never seen it done as some say they have, namely, that the body, rolled up in cloth, is tied to a beam and thrown into the sea. . . . If the dead man has no compan-

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ions, the galley’s scribe takes note of all the property left behind, presents it to the captain, and pays any debts. If he does have companions, it is they who carry out whatever is necessary. . . . If the pilgrims did not have the foresight to make an agreement with the captain, as we did, it is he who gets the dead man’s bed, linen, and clothing.26 Santo Brasca gives a summary description of the man’s symptoms before evoking the mournful gravity of the service, during which a prayer was offered up asking God’s protection for the living.27 The most common malady—not a mortal one—was seasickness, which occurred when the sea was rough or choppy. However, if the ailment was infectious, the captain could order the patient to be put ashore. This is what became of the unfortunate Denis Possot, who was threatening to infect the whole ship. His companions rented a room for him, and he was left behind to die. His account (1532) was organized and completed by Philippe de Champarmoy.28 The sea permitted some glimpses of the riches of the deep. In the texts this creates an effect of disconnected reminiscences. Those who saw marine monsters give an idea of their size by using exaggerated comparisons: one saw a huge fish “in whose mouth and belly a man could easily stand erect”; another saw creatures “with wings like a bat”; and another animals “as large as a whale,” “as long as oxen, which seemed to fly.” They communicated with certain fish, like a friendly school of dolphins that escorted the ship; according to Denis Possot, “They came in herds, throwing themselves into the air, seemingly happy to see and hear us.”29 Were these dolphins dancing around the ship? This was a sign of a coming storm or of good fortune, according to some prophetic souls, who warned: “It is held to be true that if a person eats a dolphin in his lifetime he will die at sea or be drowned.”30 Certain authors give their readers the benefit of some very recently acquired but unconvincing knowledge. One goes so far as to affirm straightfacedly that sardines melt when cooked: “Cooked in water, they would completely dissolve and turn to nothing.”31

Ports of Call Travel by sea was a secular, sensory experience. The journals generally record places, times, and events. One anonymous pilgrim (c. 1420) provides a precise itinerary without giving any temporal indications, simply noting the length of each leg of the journey. He adds occasional comments on the beauty of Ragusa and the Greek fortresses he saw; at Cerigo (Kythera) he poetically evokes the memory of the beautiful Helen and provides a picture of the local populace.32 It is easy enough to follow the route taken by the Anonymous Parisian (1480). Setting out on June 6 or 7, he reached Parenzo

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(Porec) two days later. There he spent three days at his own expense. The trumpet blast calling the passengers to return on board resounded on June 15. The following day he passed Pula (on the Istrian peninsula, in Croatia) without putting in. He spent two days off Zadar for lack of wind, but remained on board because there was an epidemic. He mentions a few ports of call before Ragusa (Dubrovnik), which he left on June 21, heading for Corfu. Eighty Turkish ships heading in the opposite direction (to lay siege to Ragusa, it was thought) would be narrowly avoided. The traveler left Corfu on July 1, passed the island of Zantos at suppertime on the fourth, reached Modon, which he left on the sixth, bypassed the “port of quails” (Porto Kayió [?]),33 which was rich in bird colonies, Canea (Crete), and then Candia (Heraklion), another Cretan port (a Venetian possession until 1699), where he arrived on July 9. Before allowing his human cargo ashore, the captain inquired whether the plague had ended. On the thirteenth the ship left the island, avoiding Rhodes on account of the Turkish siege, and passed the dangerous gulf of Sathalia (Adalia, Antalya). On the sixteenth Cyprus appeared in the distance. The ship would arrive in Jaffa on July 20, a month and a half after setting out.34 A comparison of parallel accounts allows us to explore the unseen dimension of the traveler in motion, his evaluation and interpretation of spatial markers: fleeting, evanescent images due to the kinetic quality of a landscape depicted in a spatiotemporal relationship. In his impressionistic account Barbatre gives the day, time, and position before stating what is within his field of vision, namely, churches, islands, mountains, or peasants’ fires: On Sunday June xith we sailed past the mountains of Istria. . . . [O]n the following Monday we lost sight of land. . . . On Tuesday xiiith after Vespers we passed between the island of Sazere [Cres?] and the coast of Slavonia, and passed several churches. . . . On this Thursday we spent all day near a rock and after dinner went down into a cave. . . . On Wednesday the twenty-first day of June, at about dawn, the galley set out. . . . We entered the open sea and the weather was fine all day and [there was] quite a fair wind. We went by the mountains held by the Turks. . . . From there the high mountains of Albania can be seen, with a great deal of snow on them. . . . In the evening we saw III fires on the mountains, for it is the custom of the peasants to light a fire on the mountain in the evening when they see boats, ships, or galleys coming so that the people of the towns and cities may be on their guard.35 This confirms the definition of spatial experience as “evidence of the relational unity between an individual at a moment of his history and a space, chosen or imposed, which is qualified with respect to that instant.”36 Instead of the panoramic, ephemeral, and shifting view from the deck of

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a ship, our authors preferred an exploratory, limited, archeological and anthropological glimpse of a site where the ship put in. It is as if, upon finding themselves on dry land, they reestablished their ties with human existence and the works of man. Each of them saw what was of interest to him: the churchman speaks as a churchman; the soldier as a soldier. Writing about Pula, Ogier d’Anglure mentions the scars left by the recent war between Venice and Genoa, the detail of a superb fresh-water fountain, and the Roman amphitheatre identified as. Roland’s palace (a widespread belief).37 The devotee of relics reveled in his visit to the necropolis.38 As a familiar of the powerful court of Burgundy and used to evaluating fortifications at a single glance, Bertrandon de La Broquière (1432), a knowledgeable military strategist, admired Zadar for its “very fine harbor, closed by a strong iron chain.”39 At Spalatro (Split) they saw the ruins of Diocletian’s Palace. Throughout his cruise Barbatre, the priest from Normandy, not only responded to unusual landscapes but also to unfamiliar flavors and cultural traits. Ragusa (Dubrovnik)40 was an astonishing city, “small but beautiful and wealthy, with the sea on one side, and on the other a high mountain from which there gushes a beautiful, great spring, which drives VIII mills, V against the mountain and III in the ditches.” In the twelfth century the island was joined to the mainland. In the fourteenth the visitor could admire its recently constructed outer wall, flanked by several towers, upon which the Venetian imprint was evident, “a beautiful little palace in the center of the city, seemingly very new. The wall is recent, the strongest and thickest I know of, [with] double walls well armed with mortars and canon. In front, on the sea, on a rock, is a very strong fortress built by the Venetians.”41 The traveler visited the Church of St. Blaise (its initial construction dating from 1358), celebrating the local Armenian patron saint, with his plentiful relics and no less plentiful legends. He also saw the Dominican monastery (begun in 1301) and the surprisingly beautiful Franciscan one (fourteenth century), though its rich chapel is reduced to a rapid impression by the passing traveler, who has no time to waste on description: “The most agreeable place I know, a very beautiful, rich chapel.” But perhaps we should see a characteristic of the medieval mind in what we nowadays consider a deficiency or a fault. Reverence for places consisted less in the contemplation of things than in the celebration of a mystery—an impalpable mystery that had no need of words. Barbatre resorts to comparisons in which he uses the towns of his own country as standards of measurement: “It seems to me that there cannot be a stronger city in the world, and it is smaller than Vernon or Gisors by a third.” He provides a close-up of the clock tower and its automata: “A handsome clock, with two armed men who ring the hours and, over the face, a

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moon which shows full or a crescent, large or small.” Costumes attracted his attention as much as the architecture: “The women of Ragusa dress differently from those of Venice. They wear a woolen dress, a high collar at the back divided at the shoulders, and round in front, well closed over the breast. . . . On their heads they wear bonnets of woolen cloth . . . , with two little horns, or their kerchiefs, like young English ladies or like bats.42 In Zadar Symon Semeonis was taken by the women’s dress, which he could never have imagined in his native Ireland: “The women are marvelously got up there. Some wear ornaments shaped like horns on their heads, like a cock’s comb, while others are oblong or square; still others wear a large, high, round hat decorated in front with precious stones. It provides good protection, like a shield against hail, wind, rain, and sun.43 The homo itinerans gleans some information about the political status of the places he travels through. An awareness of the tangible evidence of the spread of Ottoman power occurs sporadically in the texts. On the subject of Ragusa one can read that the people “have no emperor, king, duke, or count, but are tributaries of the Turk until their ditches and walls be completed,” and of Corfu that it is “a city in Greece held by the Venetians.” The traveler encounters another world. In 1323 Symon, the Irishman, speaks of the Albanian merchants, their dress, their language, the falcons sold in the market, and the solid defenses, but he makes no mention of slavery.44 By 1480 it was considered good form for a Christian to express indignation at this practice. Fathers would sell their daughters for five to ten ducats, for Ragusa was unfortunately famous for its market in human flesh. It was there that the Anonymous Parisian first encountered people existing in unbelievable degradation. The concept of primitive humanity emerges from his reflection on the things he saw: “Each day in the city market there are many people, great and small, from the nearby localities who are neither Christians nor Saracens and who live like beasts, without any laws or government, as we saw and were told in the town, and they live peaceably and very poorly, and they are slaves and are sold like animals, men and women as well as daughters and children.”45 This trade was not halted despite the protests from the Grand Council of Ragusa, which denounced it but was powerless to oppose it. It is hardly surprising that priests saw the city as a good place to preach. It was also a gateway to the schismatic East. Georges Lengherand (1485) mentions the displeasure of some pilgrims whose departure was delayed by a missionary who had gone ashore to preach.46 The richness of the descriptions of ports of call is relative to the travelers’ interests. Sometimes the authors enjoyed globe-trotting. Whom should we select as an example of the richness of certain accounts? By what Symon Semeonis sees of Durazzo (Durrës, in Albania)? It was a town in ruins, with

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few people and small, miserable houses. An earthquake had wiped out its eighty-four thousand inhabitants. Fifty years later, in 1323, the city was in as ruinous a state as it was immediately following the earthquake of 1273. Time had stood still.47 Or by what Pierre Barbatre recorded about Corfu? It consisted of a collection of human facts and geographic observations, set down without any plan, as chance dictated, variously colored by his impressions: “houses of little worth, badly built, a large population of impoverished, poorly dressed people,” married priests in tall hats who conducted the service in Greek, the language of the country, and a double castle on two rocks surrounded by the sea, whose towers and moats were under construction.48 Corfu was the first Greek town visited, with its twenty or so churches—all Eastern Orthodox except for the cathedral, where a Latin service was kept up by the Franciscans. The Anonymous Parisian, who remarked on the prosperity of the Jewish merchants and the cosmopolitan atmosphere of the port, may have been a scholar in charge of pupils since he made the following observation, reading between the lines of which we can detect a comparison with his own environment. In Corfu the schools are Greek, and “the masters do not know a single word of Latin, except in a little school run by the Cordeliers.” The same traveler heard the local legends of lamps burning without oil and of a dragon that destroyed the city. A few days later he admired Modon, “well provided with artillery and well enclosed by walls,” but impoverished by the Turkish war and poorly supplied with drinking water. He discovered the uncivilized fringes beyond the walls, where men of no definite religion, ethnic status, or social identity still lived in primitive conditions. The ugliness, nakedness, and poverty perhaps inspired this telling hint of compassion: “Outside the city is a great quantity of very bad houses, and they are only miserable huts full of poor folk who resemble savages, black like half Moors, and they are ugly, almost completely naked, with long beards and long hair, and they are Christians, Jews, and Saracens all together.”49 At the end of the fifteenth century, the travelers saw something of the bitter territorial struggles along the coast of the Peloponnese and attempted to reconstruct the political space the Venetians and the Turks were cutting up into a pattern resembling a leopard’s spots. Here is a journalistic glimpse that simultaneously records two historical moments, the flourishing Venetian era, which it idealizes, and the decadent present: And the land is called the country of Morea. We passed close to some ports and straits held by the Turks, and before a small castle called Le Jonge, where there are Christians, and it belongs to the lords of Venice, and it is X miles to the left of Modon. The country of Morea was once very rich and fertile in large fruits and wines, and is a marvelous large country, long and wide. The Turk holds it almost all. . . . Modon is now

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a poor country . . . it is in the country of Greece . . . held by the Signory of Venice. In the city are several churches . . . all poor churches, and the city is not rich as it once was because the country has been taken and ruined by the Turks.50 The time spent depended on the wind, the captain’s business, pirate fleets, and the point reached in the war. A stay in port was always either too long or too short for the passengers’ liking. In Rhodes Bertrandon de la Broquière did not even have time to visit the castle, for his galley immediately set out again.51 Conversely, the pilgrims of 1480 were upset to have to spend an excessively long time in Corfu, for the Turks were on the lookout for galleys, making it inadvisable to venture out to sea, so the captain was awaiting news. But the pilgrims, who had traveled from France, England, Scotland, Spain, and Germany at great expense, wanted to continue their journey. After a few days of immobility the ship could finally leave, but not before some forty pilgrims had abandoned the expedition. To cover up their cowardice they would spread the rumor in Venice that the others had been taken prisoner by the Turks and were destined for certain death. Fabri, on his return, would relish the news that several requiem masses had been held throughout Swabia in his honor. So what decided the more courageous ones to continue?52 Santo Brasca told himself that he had already completed a substantial portion of the journey, paid the ship’s master, suffered greatly from seasickness and become inured to it, and had seen enough of the effectiveness of divine protection to remain confident.53 Fabri, eager to reach his destination, repeats the arguments and false accusations made against him. One traveler, who had every intention of enjoying for some time yet the earthly goods he had temporarily left behind, alleged: “He, Felix, a mendicant friar, has neither wealth, nor friends, nor honors, nor anything in the world, unlike us! It is better for him to face instant death from Turkish swords than to suffer many deaths as he grows old in his monastery.”54 There were the falcons in the “port of quails” and the Venetian castles of Cerigo (Kythera), and then came Candia (Heraklion, Crete), a great, fortified port with its miraculous Chapel of Our Lady, where the deaf, blind, and sick came hoping for a cure. Barbatre again noticed the Venetian influence in one church, an actual replica of San Marco. The town was no larger than Vernon or Gisors (the French towns that were his standards of comparison), but it was developing extensive suburbs around which a new outer wall was being built (1480). Cosmopolitan, like all these ports, Candia had Christians, Jews, Turks, Saracens, and a surprising ethnic mixture of French, Flemings, Germans, Genoese, Venetians, and Moors—merchants who formed one large family.55

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In Candia malmsey wine was so cheap that some pilgrims who were unsteady on their feet had difficulty climbing down the ladder off the dock and had to be carried into the boats taking them back to the ship, and then directly into their berths. Those who could still speak stammered insults at the more sober ones, who laughed at the sight. Those who were least steady on their legs missed their step and had to be fished out of the sea. In Candia they also discovered melons and lemons, houses with flat roofs, and goats with colored coats, small horns, and large ears.56 For Symon the Irishman (1323) it was the smell of the giant cypress trees (“you would think you were in Paradise or in an apothecary’s dispensary”); the ramparts; the jewelry of the Greek women; the widows dressed in black, who avoided men “as if they were serpents”; the cheese; the dirty, twisting streets; and also the nomads, said to be the “descendants of Cain,” who wandered, destitute, from field to field and from cave to cave.57 The eyes of the fifteenth-century traveler took in every aspect, from the landscape to the architecture, and from human to religious features. The Anonymous Parisian used his four days in port to visit St. Titus’s Cathedral and to investigate the mores of the Greek priests, with their “great cowled hats, varnished without and red within.” They could marry but were expelled if they committed adultery. The man from the North witnessed the strange funereal custom of making a display of sorrow: “[F]or a year following a death, hired mourners are paid to raise a great crying and lamentation in the house.” The pilgrim describes the houses, “high and of strong stone, quite flat on top and painted.” By way of new tastes he discovered wines that “burn[ed] like vinegar.” The figs, almonds, and grapes were delicious; bread and wheat were cheap, but water could be costly: “And you have to buy the drinking water that people fetch for half a league by donkey; and a barrel of water that was the load of only one man cost us three marquetz, which are worth two blancs; and we went to the spring with a Greek fellow who carried our barrel, and to draw the said water it cost us another two tournoys.”58 Rhodes was another secondary place of pilgrimage. Ogier d’Anglure made a stop there on his outward voyage, and also on his way home, when the galley ran aground near the port and had to be towed off. He comments on the excellent quality of the wine; the beauty of the gardens; the church rituals, both Catholic and Greek; the large castle, where two hundred knights resided, and the infirmary where rich and poor were cared for. In the Church of St. John the Baptist our lover of relics found contentment, for he saw the bronze Cross, with great powers, made from the basin used by the Lord to wash his disciples’ feet, the right arm of Saint Bartholomew, and a golden cloth woven by Saint Helena. He even witnessed the miracle of the holy thorn that bloomed on Easter Fridays: “At around midday, when the

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service had ended, we saw this venerable thorn all covered with little white buds, and it was sworn and certified by people (and ones deserving of credence!) that they had seen this thorn another day, when it had no flowers but was black. And the noble brethren assured us that it blossoms thus each year on Great Friday.” Two leagues off he visited Philerma. He repeats the lesson in local history in the form of a legend provided by his guide. It had once been a fine fortified city belonging to the emperor of Constantinople. After seven years of struggle, the rebelling inhabitants were forced into submission by the brethren thanks to a ruse: wearing sheepskins, they occupied the citadel, where two hermits displayed a miraculous image of Our Lady. Witnesses to the fall of this important stronghold still remained. Ogier, lastly, opened his eyes to the port and its sixteen windmills standing side by side in a row, some of them with six sails.59 In Cyprus the stranger could not help but notice the devastation of Limassol. The country was “marvelously hot and dangerous.” The wines there were the worst, tasting “so strongly of pitch they are undrinkable.” Only goat meat was consumed, for the sheep were of interest solely for their curious anatomy (long-haired, with a thick tail, large horns, and ears hanging down like a bloodhound’s). There were neither wolves, nor foxes, nor deer because of the hot climate, but there were wild sheep with the coat of a stag. Sugar cane resembling “hollow rods,” cotton, and pomegranates were grown. One devastating sight revealed the Christian frescoes vandalized in the wars: “All the images in the churches have been chopped with axes and disfigured by the said Saracens, who have cut up the pictures painted on the walls, the Crucifixion, Our Lady, the apostles and the other saints.”60 The traveler who, before reaching Cyprus, had also liked Modon (with its fine wide streets and great stone lion) and Candia (the island with married priests) now tasted strange wines that could not be drunk unless mixed with water, watched the people using animals to thresh the grain in the fields, and in Nicosia discovered a strange fruit, the “apple of Paradise”: “From the branch that bears the apples, when the time comes for it to issue from the trunk or branch, it can be heard weeping and crying out like a child, or a woman in the throes of childbirth.”61 Wonder encourages credulity.

A Taste of Salt Reading these travel journals, there is little danger of forgetting that the word “pilgrim” applied to churchmen, merchants, landowners, and distinguished persons—all curious individuals who produced a rich crop of observations both useful and trivial. There were also poets among them. Visiting the salt lake at Larnica, in Cyprus, Lengherand found some apt comparisons

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to describe the mounds of salt: “It looks like frozen water, and as if on this frost snow has fallen.”62 The Anonymous Parisian finds the salt pond the most beautiful, marvelous thing he has ever seen. Was the salt not a treasure able to make the most arid heart turn poetic? “All the water that comes into the said lake becomes beautiful white salt, like crystal; and is taken from the said lake in beautiful pieces like tiles.”63 Indeed, it is seasoning to pique the appetite: “By the virtue and strength of the sun, the water being on the sand is converted into salt as white as sugar or snow, such excellent salt that there is none better, and in truth so much cannot be removed or collected that there does not remain VI times more than is taken away, and each takes what he wants.”64 The pilgrim song puts it well: “The wind is the only master of the ship.”65 While you did know where you started out from, you could never be sure of reaching the desired port. Ogier d’Anglure experienced four days of rough weather. His ship lost its tiller and drifted helplessly. His recollection inspired him to write a splendid reconstruction of the atmosphere on board: Such a great and horrible fortune suddenly arose. . . . In this misfortune our ship lost one of its rudders by which it was partly steered, and our sail was blown over several times into the sea, in spite of all the sailors. And when Christmas Eve came, a little after midnight, this misfortune overtook us, and it became so dark that on the ship you could not see the next man. [We] were then close to land, which is to say the rocks of Cyprus at about XL miles, which was the thing that disquieted us most, and the sailors too. And, in truth, there was none who had any appearance except that of a man who sees clearly . . . that he must die. This abominable misfortune cast us out of our way. . . . There came to us an offshore wind that blew us out a little. . . . The day became brighter, and our sailors saw that they were off the island of Cyprus. The Christmas the survivors would spend on that island was filled with prayers of thanksgiving. After a long stay at the king’s expense (during which he would lose his father-in-law), Ogier would be blessed with a forced stay of eight days near Castellorizzo, involving several unsuccessful attempts to leave. He would run aground on an uninhabited island from which he pulled off, in extremis, by a boat belonging to some salt merchants. The castaway’s description of his misadventures is not without a little posturing: “We did not have all our ease, for we had spent three days and more without drinking wine, and all our food supplies were exhausted. Our master had no supplies he could give to help us except a little foul-smelling water and some biscuit crawling with worms.”66 “Santa Maria! Ajutaci!” was the cry of the terrorized merchants traveling in Niccolò da Poggibonsi’s company in March 1346, when the sea began

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to rage. Nine ships perished in a single night in the Gulf of Venice. The traveler makes his tale thoroughly dramatic, conveying the lugubrious atmosphere full of rumors, prayers, cries, and tears; allowing us to hear the captain’s orders; and reconstructing the exchanges. The terror instilled by the raging elements would first inspire a feeling for the grandiose and then a feeling for beauty. A tragic moment was given immortality.67 Niccolò Frescobaldi describes the damage to his boat, the misguided passengers who threw the appropriate relics into the sea, and then the thanks given to God, who has spared them shipwreck on a coast where they might well have been enslaved.68 Niccolò da Martoni goes so far as to depict himself directly as a penitent at death’s door: “I, Niccolò, notary, stricken with great terror, having chosen a private spot in one corner of the ship’s poop, wept most bitterly (my cheeks and face streaked with tears). Seeing the sailors in total terror, I lamented my wrongdoings and asked God to have pity on my sins and to take my soul, which I commended to his mercy.”69 One of the best accounts is by Nompar de Caumont, who describes the huge, surging waves, men thrown to the deck by the rolling of the ship, poorly secured objects crashing about, the alarm each time the great, broken mast brushed the water, and the desperate sailors removing their shoes, causing despair among the passengers: The sea was so high that the waves came over the side of the ship and it rolled so much from side to side that no man could remain standing or sitting, unless he were secured to the sides of the said ship. . . . [N]either a table nor anything could remain in place . . . the ship was in such torment. And all the time we were sure she would turn over on one side or the other, for the sail on the main mast touched the sea and cause the ship to list so far that the water came in. . . . [W]e had a grievous, most baleful wind, and the strongest I have never seen, that drove us toward a great rock. . . . And I, seeing [the sailors’] expressions, you need not ask if it gave me comfort! I soon confessed and commended my soul to God and the Virgin Mary, praying that they would have pity and mercy on me in their compassion. And what shall I say? Things had reached such a pass that I no longer considered my body of any account.70 They would barely escape with their lives, and Nompar would pen a prayer of thanksgiving. The travelers would grasp the novelistic power to be derived from such misadventures. Denis Possot gave talented descriptions of storms, using a variety of effects to convey the commotion on board, the terror of the dark, the size of the waves (“as big as castles,” “as high as mountains”) that threw you up to the heavens and cast you down into the abyss: “We saw no land

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whatsoever, for which we were much amazed and dismayed. The night was marvelous, terrible, and impetuous. . . . We all cried for mercy at the top of our lungs. The sick were much afflicted; several had expected nothing but death and despair.” How could the storm not have become an initiatory ordeal “a ritual of the end of time,” 71 and a renewal of the first order of creation? How could it not have found a place as a favored literary motif? But what if the expected storm failed to materialize? It would then be made to exist through the storyteller’s words. Between Rhodes and Cyprus, the Anonymous Parisian anxiously passed by the famous Gulf of Sathalia, famous for its “great tempests, furies, and fortunes that are constantly in that place.” He knew that all vessels ran the danger of foundering there. But that day all was calm. The master would get off lightly, telling the passengers how once, passing this gulf, he was so filled with fear that his beard and hair turned white then and there, and how four years earlier all souls on the Saint Louis had perished there.72 This time the passengers would enjoy only the thrill of a virtual tempest. The worst encounter was with pirates or brigands off the Turkish coast. A captain would wait all day in the hope of joining up with other boats. There was little traffic, however. Nevertheless, convoys of four or five vessels would form. In the evening the travelers would witness a strange sight along the coast as great torches were lit atop the castles. This was a Turkish custom to inform one another about the movements of ships. “Within an hour they are informed over more than a hundred leagues.” This means of communication was very efficient, for very soon ten galleys with their 1,000 fighting men would appear, heading for the lost ship. The 140 unhappy souls could not flee, for they were becalmed. It was decided to abandon the smallest ship to the Turks after evacuating it, but they had no intention of being satisfied with such an insignificant prize. The remaining ships were therefore joined together, but they collided. In the ensuing panic, the captains were ready to lash out at one another, to the passengers’ utter dismay. Finally, men were placed in defensive positions. Bows and arquebuses were at the ready. Passengers were even invited to take up whatever arms they could: “The masters asked me with which weapon I could defend myself,” wrote one, “an arquebus or a Turkish bow, to which I answered that I could very well defend myself with the said weapons, but if they had a crossbow I would put it to good use.” He would finally be appointed to bear the standard of Saint Mark, with orders to wave it to signal the Venetian origin of the vessel.73 After a parley, the Turks withdrew to report to their commander, who approached in his turn “in a great galley, gilded and painted blue.” The eyewitness noticed the commander’s great gilded chair, framed by small, finely wrought pillars and surmounted by a great fringed canopy of golden cloth. After inspecting the merchandise, the pirates threatened to set fire to the

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flotilla. It was customary to invite them to help themselves to whatever they wanted in exchange for sparing ships and lives. Barrels of malmsey, lemons, and Cretan cheeses ripening in brine all descended into the holds of the enemy galleys. This was how a man on the Jerusalem pilgrimage encountered the sea— a discovery for which he had prepared himself through his reading. But the sea is unpredictable: it had been feared in the Gulf of Sathalia, but it was around Cyprus that it raged. Yet one fine morning the Syrian coast would finally appear, and the ruins of Jaffa would emerge on the horizon. The seemingly endless sea voyage would soon be over.

chapter 5

The Holy Lond of Promyssion Intrabimus in tabernaculum Domini Adorabimus in loco ubi steterunt pedes ejus. —pilgrim hymn

To enter the Temple of the Lord and worship in the place where he walked:. How could the pilgrims’ hearts not be filled with holy joy when, after so many storm-tossed days they finally saw the longed-for Holy Land rise above the horizon? At the very least the people on the galley shared the liturgical repertoire that united them. As for the emotion, it remained the same from century to century. Chateaubriand, wishing to walk in the footsteps of the pilgrims of bygone days, would adopt their style. Is there much difference between these two texts, separated by more than four centuries? We began to see a small appearance of the Holy Land, at which we rejoiced. . . . At daybreak, as the sun was rising, all who were in the ship, cried out for great joy in a high voice . . . and sang the hymn “Te Deum laudamus.”1 This moment had a solemn, religious quality; all the pilgrims, holding their rosaries, stood silently in the same attitude, waiting for the Holy Land to appear. . . . How could I, an insignificant pilgrim, dare to tread a soil hallowed by so many illustrious pilgrims?2

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Such was the mimetic power of the pilgrimage to Jerusalem from the outset. Can it be that the accounts imposed a textual template? We can see the affinity modern authors have voluntarily cultivated with those who made the mandatory visits before them.3 Some minor traditions came into being in the course of these pilgrimages. It was customary at the time for the nobles to give wine to the clerks who looked after the baggage.4 But this was just the beginning. Throughout his stay the traveler would discover the commercialization of the pilgrimage, beginning with disembarkation, when all those who considered themselves deserving of their share got into line. Some, not without a sense of humor, provide a list of the expenses to be expected. Santo Brasca promises “uno viagio da non tenere serrata la borsa” and paints a picture of the members of the crew (scribe, master, pilot, trumpeters, drummers, crossbowmen, sailors, and cooks) standing in line, cup in hand, expecting a small gratuity to reward them for their services on board.5 Mariano da Siena (1431) ends his account with a list of expenditures. Apart from the proverbial sack of patience the pilgrim needed to bring along, he should ensure that his “purse of finance”was also well filled, for to get off the boat he would need two Venetian grossi to visit “Saint George” (Lydda), two grossi to pay for the hospitality at Ramla, two and a half for the sultan’s dues at the entrance to the Holy Sepulcher, seven ducats (four grossi and two grossi, respectively, for the second and third visits, and sometimes another to get out again!), six grossi for accommodations in Jerusalem, one for the Sepulcher of Our Lady (and the same for Lazarus’s tomb and the Basilica in Bethlehem), and twelve for the excursion to the Jordan, not counting tips for the guides and the guards at David’s fortress. The writer warns: “A poor man pays the same as a rich one!” No one need set out without money. The penniless were undesirables, for the others had to pay for them.6 Whether he disembarked at Beirut, Jaffa, or Alexandria, the peregrinus during the period following the Crusades always had the feeling he was considered suspect, as if the ambiguity of the word7 had to be carried over into an ambiguity in relations. Sometimes he would encounter open hostility. The passengers felt the tension whenever they came ashore, and it did not make their first experience of the Holy Promised Land a particularly enjoyable experience. This is why their depiction of the inhabitants would not be a charitable one. Our authors, who had only a superficial knowledge of the way of life and customs, would be looking for what separated men rather than what united them. Furthermore, the Franciscans, who took charge of the pilgrims, did not encourage contact with the local people, advising them to avoid any argument or incident liable to give rise to discord.

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Jaffa the Desolate Jaffa’s obvious state of decay was the first concrete, distressing reminder of the lost Latin Kingdom. Since the thirteenth century the city was a mere shadow of what it once had been, “a hill where a Christian city once stood, all in ruins, without any dwellings save a few caves where the pilgrims take refuge from the sun’s heat.” Between the sea and the town were two freshwater springs, one of which was submerged by the sea when the west wind blew. It had a “poor harbor, and of little depth,”8 dangerous for boats at anchor, which by 1470 was no more than a simple beach where the pilgrims came ashore.9 Ghillebert de Lannoy, who chooses his comments for their strategic value, provides a precise topographical description. Jaffa, on the Syrian coast, had one major advantage: it was the port closest to Jerusalem! But it was extremely difficult for a galley to enter the harbor. He did not consider Beirut, a trading city, any better as a port, yet in Christian times it had been a large, fortified town.10 In 1532 Jaffa seemed irremediably condemned to remain “the most marvelous ruin to be seen anywhere” and to feature in travelers’ accounts only as it once was. In the nineteenth century it was still “a miserable cluster of houses gathered in a circle and laid out like an amphitheater.” In 1252 Saint Louis had erected a wall flanked by twenty-four towers around the town, but these fortifications were razed by Sultan Baibars in 1268. Ludolph von Sudheim and Niccolò da Poggibonsi explain that the port had been allowed to fall into disuse to prevent any Christian army disembarking there.11 No doubt this is why Louis de Rochechouart paints the ruins in historical colors.12 Among the more learned, biblical and historical recollections took precedence over the evidence of the senses, and their mental pictures clashed with the physical reality. The more a writer knew of the reputation of this ancient city, the greater the risk of disappointment. Barbatre, interweaving the threads of past and present, provides an excellent composite image of the city outside his own time: biblical Jaffa, Roman Jaffa, the Jaffa of the Crusades, the Jaffa of the Mamelukes. All Jaffa was visible in a single instant: Jaffa is a very fine city, large and mightily strong, and it was built by Japhet, the IIIrd son of Noah. First it was destroyed by Vespasian and Titus . . . it being the first port in the Holy Land by which they arrived. . . . Second Jaffa was destroyed by Godeffroy de Villon. . . . Third . . . it was destroyed by the white Moors, who, seeing that the Christians landed there, . . . finished it off. . . . All the towers and walls are broken down into large blocks and pieces, and it is a wonderful thing to see. . . . Jaffa is the place where Saint Peter stayed to preach.13

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Santo Brasca evokes Jaffa in the form of an antediluvian association with Japhet, the son of Noah.How else could the ancient splendor of this dying stronghold be recovered, reduced as it was to its two watchtowers, where a Moor kept watch, and to its excuse for a harbor, where a ship ran the considerable risk of running onto one of the two rocks that symbolically marked the entrance?14 If the place failed to live up to expectations, would the memory of ancient Joppa make people forget the sight of its present decay? In all ages ruins do indeed have an eloquent power to conjure up compensatory images. By triggering memories, they contribute what is required to endow a real place with an intangible imaginary dimension. Beneath a dusty plain the glory of yesteryear lies buried. The pilgrim clutches at ruins, hoping some shreds of history will appear. The slightest object can inspire a dream that may well give birth to a legend. Are those not iron chains on one of the ruined towers? They will be pointed to as the ones used to “chain a great giant named Andromedes.” What is more, one of his ribs, twelve feet in length, still exists! But the pilgrim has come, above all, to resurrect biblical memory: “This is where the prophet Jonah fled . . . and where he was swallowed up. . . . This is where Saint Peter mended his nets. . . . This is where he brought some servant women back to life, where he saw the shroud let down in which there were the divers beasts.”15 Never is a ghost easier to raise than in the personification of some desolate place. Such is the ruin whose “inadequacy invites reconstruction in words.”16 What remains? Nothing but a site, shapeless rubble haunted by shadowy images. It inspires both emotion and disappointment. When he set foot in Jaffa, each individual was able to appreciate fully the spiritual dimension of the holy expedition. It is only with the heart that the traveler sees, and it is at Jaffa that the Holy Land’s first indulgences were earned . . . but also where the difficulties began. Dragomans (guides and interpreters) and officials were waiting to count the foreigners, direct them, and collect the dues they were required to pay for their stay. Disembarkation could only take place after a ritual customs inspection. One pilgrim relates how his galley was anchored half a league offshore awaiting authorization (i.e., the sultan’s permission) to disembark. The scribe and two interpreters went ashore first bearing the letters of the patrono, who had to pay a tax for each passenger. Some of the captains would resort to fraud to reduce their expenses, for the tax levied for crewmembers was less. The trick, which was well known, would partly succeed: “[T]he captain took fifteen pilgrims and presented them, saying they were servants of the galley—one a cannoneer, another a crossbowman, and the others rowers—so that he would only have to pay half the tribute for them, though he had received LV ducats from each. And some of the said pilgrims passed for ser-

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vants, but the others were rejected and paid the full tribute. . . . The master made a good profit on those who got by.”17 The pilgrims disembarked, were inscribed in the register, and were given a bulletta, a kind of visa to be kept on one’s person at all times. On land, during the formalities, they were held in semicaptivity. Their comfort did not seem to be a primary concern for the authorities responsible for welcoming them. One pilgrim described his lodging as “a pigsty where the Saracens relieved themselves.” The scrutiny was draconian: the pilgrims were “recounted and counterchecked by the superintendents.” Disturbances would break out: the pilgrims were amazed to see a shopkeeper punished for selling souvenirs too dearly to a German. What could explain this unexpected consideration? The sultan had recently issued orders that pilgrims be graciously treated.18 Who would have believed it? The sultan respected the consent given for lucrative, peaceful pilgrimages but nevertheless remained suspicious about spies and lived in constant fear of an armed invasion. As for the local people, they reacted variously to the influx of foreigners each spring. Thus, the registration formalities could take time—a lot of time. This was ascribed to local custom and dubious practices by the ships’ masters: “Such is the custom of the Saracens and pagans, to come to the pilgrims in the said cave, and then call them one by one, asking their name and the name of their father and writing them down. And when they are noted, they put the said pilgrims in the said cave and shut them in until they have agreed and negotiated to their satisfaction with the patrono what money must be given for the safe conduct.”19 Consequently new records for administrative delays were set. In 1480 the pilgrims waited on board their galley for seven days, hoping each day for the Father Guardian of Mount Sion to arrive and take them under his wing.20 In 1490 they were kept on board from July 25 until August 4, “with great inconvenience and discomfort,” rocking about in the miserable little port. Despite giving presents they had to remain shut up for two days in a disgusting cave, sitting and sleeping on the ground, in unbearable heat. Children sold them grass for bedding and food but no wine. These same travelers would be held up for another three days at Ramla, a stop on the way to Jerusalem. They would leave the town, pursued by hurled insults, stones, and clods of earth, not arriving in Jerusalem until August 10!21 An indelible memory for the unfortunate Lengherand was the scant respect with which he was dragged from his galley to the transit cave “by people who seemed to be taking them away to be crucified,” or the discomfort of his sleeping mat, or the projectiles that injured some of his companions. Almost a week was wasted waiting for the sultan’s lords, who were busy feasting with some important visitors to Jerusalem.22 As for Pietro Casola, who arrived on July 17, 1494, he only left Jaffa on August 1. The catalogue of miseries suffered

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during these eventful fifteen days would be enough to discourage the most fervent pilgrim. The cultivated classicist conveys the nightmare in an apt comparison: “We were like Tantalus in Hades, with water close to his lips, yet unable to drink. We saw the land that we had traveled so far to reach, and those Moorish dogs would not let us go on our way.”23 From the time taken up by formalities the pilgrims could gauge the antipathy they aroused. Thousands of arriving pilgrims became familiar with the filthy grotto used as a transit shelter. Each had a store of anecdotes to tell about it. After the dazzling experience of Venice, Guylforde felt only repugnance for the “olde cave.”24 Jean de Cucharmoy, though he has little bad to say, gives a horrifying description of the “swine-cave” into which the pilgrims were cast “like Bohemians” to suffer three days of tribulations. His personal effects were stolen: “I was obliged to go to the galley in disguise to get what I needed,” he writes.25 The Anonymous Pilgrim from Rennes, outraged at the petty profits made by the guard, chose to be droll: “In this condition we remained two nights, very ill-treated, and kept in great subjection by the Moors. None of us got up at night, not even to piss, without giving money to a rascal who guarded us.”26 Finally, once everything was ready—the dues paid, the donkey boys and muleteers hired, and the Father Guardian of Mount Sion present—the visitors were dragged “by the wrist like prisoners” from their cell and a mount given to each. Philippe de Voisins mentions the requirement that they hire only locals.27 Then they set off in a drove of camels, horses, and mules hired at great expense—too great expense. Fear and curiosity make for hasty decisions! As the Anonymous Parisian commented: “[The guides] never allow the Christians to go on foot and take a lot of money to lead them on asses, and mock the said Christians, saying they are not worthy to tread their earth. When we got on land, we were quite afraid to see these remarkable people and so variously dressed, and also because they suddenly took hold of us to lead us before the said commissaries.”28The creation of the caravan was a pretext for further expenditure. Every excuse was used, even the right to bear a sword.29 The initial perception of the local population was dictated by mistrust. Upon disembarking the visitor learned to distinguish between Saracens, Mamelukes (the name given by Westerners to all representatives of the local authority), and Eastern Christians. The first communications were carried out in sign language. The donkey boys’ insistence was misinterpreted. The new arrivals felt they were being bullied. Barbatre does not give the impression he enjoyed the first steps he took in the land of Our Lord: After midnight we departed from Jaffa by moonlight, being taken and seized by the Saracens and an ass given each of us; then the lords or

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commissaries of the Saracens mounted stallions and mares, and rode, some in front and others to the sides, both before and after, also the ship’s captain; but the [Father] Guardian was behind, and the others on foot urging on the asses and asking payment for their services; those on horseback went from pilgrim to pilgrim asking for wine to drink, even though their law forbids it. Nevertheless they felt and searched the pilgrims in order to take their wine or other things. At about a league we passed through the end of a village called the “town of base villains.”30 From Jaffa they went to Ramla, a “large town with no wall, standing in open country.”31 One traveler saw his first mosque, which he describes with analogies drawn from familiar reality as “a small Saracen temple built with little round towers, like the Venetian monasteries.”32 Inside he could see lamps. A little later he would give the following description of the ritual gestures of prayer: “Each evening a Saracen would light a lamp on a tower close to our hospice, and then cry out all round and stretch his hands upward as if trying to embrace something. We could not understand him, for he spoke all in Hebrew” [sic].33 Women were not numerous and were sometimes accepted into the pilgrim groups unwillingly, as Margery Kempe testifies when complaining about the persecution she was subjected to by her companions.34 There were some traveling with Casola’s group. Denis Possot mentions the presence of two female pilgrims who, having taken shelter for the night in a vaulted cave in Jaffa, were sought out by some Turks but were protected by some Christians of the Girdle.35 One of our authors had first read a number of pilgrimage accounts. Denis Possot, forewarned about the harassment to be expected on arrival, was most surprised to be able to leave Jaffa without the slightest impediment. The Turks allocated their donkeys “without any other ceremony, despite what the old books say.”36 Pilgrims who disembarked at Alexandria fared no better. In that particular case they were only headed for Jerusalem, so it was best to take the shorter route. The road leading to the Holy City was rough. The pilgrim had to take care not to be thrown by an unruly mount. Sitting on his donkey, which had no bridle and only a pack saddle and a rope around its neck, he would follow the sandy trail, led on by the Father Guardian of Jerusalem and the muleteers.37

Ramla The first night would be spent in Ramla, in the hospice run by the Franciscans, “poor Christians under tribute,” which had existed there since the end

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of the thirteenth century. In 1403 they had been granted the residence founded by the Knights Hospitaller in an ancient caravansery, a group of “large buildings of brick and baked clay” that had been restored on the orders of Philippe le Bon. It was there that the friars completed the Christians’ spiritual and psychological preparation, dispensing their “rules and teachings” in Latin, Italian, German, French, and any other language that was represented. What did they advise? Never to take the law into one’s own hands (disputes would be settled by the officials and the patrono); not to argue with the Saracens; to pay for everything willingly; and not to damage the buildings. This final recommendation was far from superfluous. Giacomo da Verona (1355) saw no shame in admitting he had had special tools made to enable him to remove nails from the Golden Gate and rocks from the Hill of Calvary.38 Relations with the local people would be more or less strained, depending on the year: 1480, 1490, and 1494 were difficult years. Philippe de Voisins would spend part of his time shut up in Jaffa, Ramla, and Jerusalem, and be ransomed on several occasions. The Franciscan Father spared no effort to maintain a a peaceful disposition among his flock and to encourage them: “He chanted mass, preaching and appealing to the great saints who were in the holy places and the great indulgences to be earned there, giving remission of all sins . . . and preached and demonstrated the patience it was best to show those miscreants.” They would need patience indeed to bear three more days shut up in the hospice, which they would finally leave by ignominiously running the gauntlet: “Each mocked them and threw dust in their faces.”39 Some travelers could see clearly the consequences of the Islamization of Ramla after the eviction of the crusaders. The remaining Christians, few in number, had to endure their status as a subject minority. Confiscations of property and persecutions sent religious practice into decline. The churches were closed, while a mosque was established, nicely described by a foreigner as a “church according to Mohammed’s law, a very pleasing new temple of masonry as white as snow, the principal place for their Sabbath.”40 In Ramla only the architecture, with six or seven towers in the form of belfries, still seemed to recall the era of the crusaders. The Franciscans celebrated mass in the courtyard of the hospice, with Saracens looking on curiously from atop their flat-roofed houses. There were sometimes disturbances. Once a man struck a holy image of Christ brought there for the mass. It was explained to the travelers that he was one of the renegade Christians who surpassed the others in their persecution. Sometimes an evening of entertainment organized by local artists, musicians, and conjurors provided some relief from the galling situation in which the exiles making the holy journey found themselves: “After dinner

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the Saracen Moors came to our hospice before our master and the pilgrims to play strange instruments like harps and the like, and sang and played. . . . And then our master had the drummer from our galley, who was a juggler and magician, change chestnuts into slugs and several other things, and swallow his knife and his things, and change them into other things. There was a great company of Saracen Moors who were astonished to see this.”41 But it was not usually for its program of folkloric festivities that the stopover in Ramla was memorable. In 1394 Niccolò da Martoni complained of the bitter humiliations suffered during his stay.42 In 1471 Adorno was lodged in the large house, which he said lacked every necessity. There followed several trying days during which he had to suffer the constant hostility of those wanting to avenge themselves on the travelers for the pirates from Christian lands who were roaming the area. The Moors threatened to enslave them. The pilgrims owed their rescue to the intervention of an official responsible for policing the caravans, who reasoned with the inhabitants.43 Yet early in the sixteenth century Denis Possot appreciated the duke of Burgundy’s hospital, where the food was good and the conditions for the guests had improved. Did he see the ingeniously constructed baths, with the boiler situated under the marble-tiled floor?44 In Ramla the pilgrims would sometimes find it difficult to carry out the first pious excursion included in their program, which was to the place of Saint George’s martyrdom, at Lydda, even though it was not far away. But the Franciscans and the captains had to agree to go! The anonymous pilgrim from Rennes speaks of the complaints of the visitors to whom those responsible refused this favor in order (he claims) to economize on the dues they were supposed to pay on their behalf.45 An unkind insinuation indeed! But the customers were learning to stand up for themselves, and the next day they were allowed to make the excursion to which they were entitled under the contract signed and sealed in Venice. One writer comes close to counseling firmness in dealing with the occasionally reluctant Cordeliers.46 The pilgrims in 1480 were also denied the excursion on grounds of security, whether justifiably or not: “We asked to go to Saint George, and the Father Guardian and the master were prepared to go; but the dragomen and the Saracens were unwilling and said it was not customary on the journey, and said also that the people there were very wicked and would beat or stone us if they could, and if not would shoot arrows at us from horseback.”47The anonymous Parisian identifies these potential aggressors who were used as bogeymen and adds a clarification regarding their social status. They were “Arabs and wicked people, and would have robbed and beaten us, for they are not subject to anyone and fear nothing.”48 Between Ramla and Jerusalem the adventure continued. If the Westerners’ eyes were opened to new traits of humanity, the reverse was also true.

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The pilgrims’ column was at best simply a spectacle and at worst an intrusion that provoked aggressive reactions, as is shown by two parallel reports dating from 1486. According to the first, “All along the way Saracens large and small climbed up on the houses to see us, and to examine us better at their ease, and came among the Christians asking for wine to drink and for all the things they saw the Christians had.”49According to the second, “The Moors did them great mockery and annoyances that they had to suffer willy nilly. . . . Along the way we came to some villages where the women and children threw stones at us, injuring some pilgrims.”50 When they met caravans, the encounter might turn out well or badly. On one occasion, thanks to the master’s courteous behavior, the natives would do no harm other than ridicule them, while on another fighting would almost break out: “We encountered a great company of Arabs and Ethiopians leading camels who wanted to beat and rob us, and they had their bows bent upon us, and attacked us with their bows, staves, and stones. But the Saracens guiding us defended us so diligently that not one of the pilgrims was harmed.”51The pilgrims like to recount these moments of fear. Perhaps they exaggerate the risk at times. The donkey men could also be a source of danger. The anonymous pilgrim from Rennes depicts himself as an unfortunate participant in an episode that must later have had the most gratifying effect on his eager audience. He abandons his role as a witness to portray himself as a heroic victim of aggression: “One tried to take my scrip by force, which I did not want to allow, and we tugged for a long time. . . . And because I would not give it to him, he took me by one leg and threw me to the ground on the other side, on a pile of stones, and I fell so hard that I ached for the next ten days.”52 What makes the pilgrimage an adventure? The people encountered? The unfamiliar landscapes? Companionship in the face of adversity? The dangers that made their vulnerability obvious? Across the different accounts choices materialize, individuals are profiled, and styles begin to coalesce. For all of them the undertaking was perilous, but for each the adventure was unique and different. One, alert to the slightest incident, tells how a woman was stung on her finger by a scorpion that was killed and then bound on the finger.53 Another preferred to sketch the route followed, a “very poor, rocky road between high mountains that continue for a good twenty miles to Jerusalem,” with the “great pass” where “brigands of the country” lay in wait with bows and sticks.54 These were the first steps. One pilgrim only needed to travel the distance from Jaffa to Jerusalem to dare to write that “it is the most dreadful country anyone could imagine,”55 and for the Holy Promised Land to be transformed, in his eyes, into a land of disappointment.

chapter 6

Jerusalem and the Holy Places Arriving in the Valley of Jehoshaphat, we sat down weeping and trembling to await the Last Judgment. —riccoldo de monte di croce

The road goes up to Jerusalem, for the city is almost three thousand feet above sea level. The climb is a spiritual as much as a physical one, for Jerusalem is the holy place par excellence, the Mount where Heaven and Earth meet. When he began his upward climb four leagues from the city, at the Gate of the Valley, the pilgrim felt he was ascending to a cosmic summit as he drew closer to Golgotha, the Center of the World, according to the picture of the world reflected by the spiritual tradition of late medieval cartography.1 The column would enter the pass leading to the city, going by the church the crusaders had erected on the site of an ancient Roman fortress, the biblical Kiriath-Jearim. At the crest of the hill, three leagues from the city, the pilgrims would reach the vantage point named Mountjoy, Mons gaudii (so called because there the crusaders fell to their knees upon seeing the city for the first time), close to the Monastery of St. Samuel, from where the Holy City could finally be seen. To commemorate the event, the Order of Our Lady of Mountjoy was created around 1180.2 The peaceable pilgrims imitated the soldiers of former days, with bleeding feet and lacerated footwear, as described by

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Richard the Pilgrim.3 The Englishwoman Margery Kempe fell into a fit of ecstasy that would have thrown her to the ground had she not been held up by two pilgrims; on seeing the terrestrial city she was vouchsafed a vision of the heavenly Jerusalem.4 Santo Brasca recalls his nighttime advance in the moonlight, the rugged terrain, and the moment when the city appeared ahead. All dismounted to kneel and chant a prayer as they shed tears at this moment when their vow was finally fulfilled.5 On this piece of earth, above all, every event was commemorated in space according to a topography inspired by the biblical story. The pilgrims went from cross to standing stone, from votive castle to wayside altar. If the caravan encountered nomads in the gorge, the guide played his part by negotiating for them to pass. Denis Possot evokes his climb through the “marvelous rocks” to Anathoth, the birthplace of Jeremiah. On one mountain he saluted Shiloh, the burial place of the prophet Samuel (Nabi Shemu’el), and then the place where the Virgin visited Elisabeth (Ein Karem). “From whence, passing through fearful places, we saw on the left, on a very visible mountain, the castle of Esmaulx (Emmaus) where Our Lord appeared.”6

Jerusalem, the Eternal City Jerusalem was razed to the ground in A.D. 70 by the emperor Titus. Then, in 135, after the final revolt led by Simon Bar-Kochba, who claimed to be a new Messiah (132–135), Hadrian ordered it destroyed and renamed it Aelia Capitolina. Constantine was responsible for its rebirth and the establishment of the holy places in the fourth century, based on memories handed down by the Christian community. The Basilica of Sion was built between 335 and 347. The empress Helena came to suprevise the elimination of idols. It was this regenerated Jerusalem, with its rich, new buildings, that was revealed to Egeria in the fourth century. A Constantinian Church of the Holy Sepulcher stood on three sites, giving concrete expression to the triumph of Christianity over pagan obscurantism. All around, on sites identified by the collective memory, sanctuaries and commemorative chapels were springing up. The great liturgical festivals were established, using rituals of which Egeria gives an account.7 Between 1099, when Godefroy de Bouillon’s crusaders captured the city, and 1187, when Jerusalem fell to Saladin, Western rule had lasted less than a century. For the West there next followed an era filled with dreams of reconquest. The arrival at the Jaffa (Pilgrims’) Gate was an emotional moment after the adventures of the perilous sea voyage and the arduous overland trudge. “You enter joyfully, praising God,” writes the anonymous Breton.8 But some were already noting the deficiencies they could observe. Santo Brasca compares Jerusalem to an unfortified Pavia, except for a “wretched little cas-

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tle.” He sees the Wall of the Temple of Solomon as a fortification, refers to four gates, including the walled-up Golden Gate through which the Lord entered the Holy City, and mentions the minarets used for the call to prayer.9 Thus, it was no longer Constantine’s triumphant Jerusalem that was revealed to the pilgrim, and the city’s only defenses appeared to be its elevated position. Ghillebert de Lannoy notes the “handsome houses of fine white hewn stone, all with flat roofs, but there is very little water and it is in short supply. And there are poor, shallow moats, and nothing could hold out once the town was taken. Jerusalem is entirely surrounded by walls, not high or well defended, and there are some poor towers in some places, but very few. In some places there are poor, shallow moats . . . and it seems not at all strong against a powerful army, for the greatest strength it has is that it is quite strategiclly situated.”10 The mediocre quality of the city’s defenses did not escape the notice of those who ultimately cherished a merely earthly ambition, namely, to furnish the proof that Jerusalem might one day be retaken from the sultan, and who added their personal contributions to the many projects for Crusades.11 All who entered the city walls could recognize the architectural evidence of the all too brief reign of the Latin Kingdom. Customs posts were sometimes the scenes of violent incidents. Niccolò da Poggibonsi (1345) relates how he saw the officer demanding payment of a tribute from monks who were unable to pay. The inspector had their interpreter beaten and imprisoned. A Cypriot Christian had him released when he paid on the unfortunate monks’ behalf.12 The anecdote served a practical purpose, for it warned of the necessity of having the financial means to undertake the pilgrimage. Nobles were required to hand in their swords, which would be returned to them at their departure. The pilgrims had come to visit the Roman Jerusalem of the Bible, and their holy pilgrimage must have been informed by the canonical and apocryphal Gospels. But it was a living, medieval Jerusalem that first met their eyes. They have left us a few depictions of it. The pious Santo Brasca, who likes to show himself traveling to the accompaniment of hymns and prayers, also turned a worldly eye on the houses without tiled or sloping roofs, but which did have flat roofs where the people feasted and the women danced together to a musical accompaniment. On his strolls through the streets he saw groups of shops where the cooking was done, for the inhabitants purchased their meals. He compares these stalls to a well-known Milanese cook shop. He notes the existence of low walls that served as benches, and wandered through the markets where clothing, jewels, silk, and cotton were for sale.13 Pietro Casola admired what he saw, admitting that “what delighted me

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most was the sight of their bazaars.” He lingers over the description of the busy streets stretching on forever, the profusion of foods, and the multitude of craftsmen. He praises even the beauty of the forbidden mosque, which could be viewed from the outside. He complains good-humoredly about what was concealed from the observer: it was impossible to see pretty women, for they all wore veils! He expresses his pity for weeping slaves. And—an unfortunate reality of the prevailing cold war—he experienced the mistrust of the authorities and was saddened to witnessed the arrest of some pilgrims accused of spying.14 Ogier d’Anglure strolled through a city he describes as large and beautiful but poorly maintained. He describes the streets, built as open arcades with high windows to let in the light. Above these arcades were other passages that the Saracens used to go from house to house. He was struck by the division of the city into quarters along religious lines. According to his description, in 1396 the city was expanding beyond its outer wall. Houses were being built with material from the old walls and former moats. Between Muslims and Christians there existed causes for territorial disputes that were pointed out, and the pilgrims were warned about the prohibition against entering Islamic religious buildings. In this Jerusalem that was now in Muslim hands some holy places had been turned into mosques. There were “several places for indulgences where the pilgrims were not allowed to enter.”15 Ogier d’Anglure counted thirty-two of these formerly Christian churches or ancient Judaic sites. Some quarters of the city were also off limits. The visitors believed they were seeing the Templum Domini and the Templum Salomonis in the Dome of the Rock and Al-Aqsa.16 Totally confused, Thietmar distorts the facts: “The Temple of the Lord called Solomon’s Temple, admirably decorated, was converted by the Saracens into a mosque for their own use where no Christian has the right to enter.”17 Whether because of popular piety or a deliberately maintained illusion, the building was transformed into an avatar of the Temple, in defiance of historical common sense.18 The sites had to be honored from a respectful distance: the entrance to the Dome could only be viewed over the arcade of a too well guarded street and the transfigured mosque had to be admired from afar. Incidents erupted: “As soon as the Saracens see a Christian coming along the street leading to the Holy Temple, they shout at him and make him turn back.”19 The penalty for infringing the prohibition was capital punishment: “No one is foolish enough to dare enter through the gate of the Temple courtyard, for he would immediately be put to death.”20 In the fifteenth century doubts began to be raised. To combat such errors Casola (1494) embarked on a lengthy demonstration based on biblical and historical texts.21 In his history of the place Santo Brasca remembers

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Solomon and the presentation of the Child Jesus to Simeon and deliberately points to the destruction of the Temple in Roman times. He was also proud of himself for paying guides to take him to it, for having “touched the door” across from the bazaar and glimpsed the interior, with its marble and mosaic decor.22 But it was from the Mount of Olives that the pilgrims usually viewed the building. In 1506, before his death, Guylforde (or his servant) contemplating the forbidden mosque from the Mount of Olives, still speaks of it using its Christian name, which created some ambiguity: it was a Temple where the Saracens worshiped a rock and the place where the Jews kept the Ark and the Ten Commandments: “There is ye moste clere syght. . . . The Sarrasyns woll suffre no cristen man to come within the sayd Temple. . . . The Sarrasyns have the temple in grete reverence and specially they worshyp a rok of stone.”23 Did any Jews still remain in Jerusalem? The Christian travelers seem to have been more or less unaware of any survivors of the Diaspora. Jewish pilgrims provide better information.24 At the end of the twelfth century Benjamin of Tudela set out on a visit to the Mediterranean lands and an investigation of the homeland of Judaism. His sociological study includes a census showing that though Jews were numerous in Damascus or Egypt, their communities were sparser in Palestine. He saw Jerusalem as a cosmopolitan town where the nations of the world were represented: Armenians, Greeks, Georgians, and Franks. He attributed some ancient buildings at the foot of the Tower of David to his ancestors. The other buildings were in the Ishmaelite style. This traveler mentions the existence of the Hospitallers’ guesthouses and alludes with some indifference to the Holy Sepulcher as an attraction for pilgrims, to the Mount of Olives for its view, and to the Tomb of David and its miracles. He spent some time among a community that paid the sultan a tribute that ensured them exclusive rights over the dyeing of wool and cloth, which he located at the foot of the Tower of David.25 Such investigations may have influenced some to return.26 In 1211 three hundred rabbis from France and England arrived in Jerusalem. In around 1250 Rabbi Yehiel ben Joseph founded a Yeshiva in Acre. But this presence, more symbolic than substantial, could not have increased because of the prohibitions imposed on Jews. (In the fifteenth century Venetian galleys were officially forbidden to accept them.) Obadiah de Bertinoro (1487) speaks of Jewish craftsmen loath to work on the Temple Esplanade.27 In the city the pilgrims sometimes encountered other non-Christian pilgrims and observed them, including pregnant women going to pray for a successful delivery and men purifying themselves at the celebrated springs.28 Early in the fourteenth century the official return of the Latins was negotiated through diplomacy. The sultans allowed the pilgrimages to resume under the aegis of the Franciscans, who acquired proprietary rights

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over the holy places. They alone were officially authorized to guide the pious visits that took the form of organized processions retracing Jesus’ footsteps. The routes they followed, associated with “methodical meditation,” were precisely laid down. The itinerary allowed certain New Testament events to be relived, especially Christ’s Passion. Through his penitence and the indulgences earned at each holy place, the Christian would be reformed and would perfect his religious life. The collective exercise of a tour following a precisely situated itinerary emerged in the fourteenth century, reflecting a change in Western religious sensibility, which would henceforth be oriented toward meditation on New Testament themes.29 The Brethren of Mount Sion had responsibilities that went with their fine monopoly. In the summer months they welcomed the pilgrims, assisted visitors with formalities, cared for the sick and dying, and acted as intermediaries between the pilgrims and the authorities.30 The pilgrims would take lodgings in Jerusalem for between two and six weeks in various accommodations available to them based on varying criteria (nationality, spiritual or social rank) and in groups according to national origin. For example, Italians would be sent to the monastery of Mount Sion, Germans to houses in the city, and French to the Hospital of St. John, formerly occupied by the knights and possibly better kept in their day. The group might also be divided into ecclesiastics and laymen, the latter being housed in the city and the former in Mount Sion.31 One writer tells us that the Franciscans were very aware of the wealth and fame of the visitors and invited the most notable or privileged (almost always French) to their convent. The Father Guardian would designate a friar of each nationality to hear the pilgrims’ confessions and be their guides at the sites, instructing them in the special merits of each. They looked after the French first, then the Germans, the Spanish, and then the others.32 The accommodations often gave cause for dissatisfaction. The anonymous pilgrim from Rennes describes the large, unhealthy room in which he was housed as “a great barn with stone pillars in the middle, all full of dust and foul smells.” The atmosphere was deplorable, and he was constantly harassed by the Muslims: “They took wine and meat from some of the pilgrims and mocked the others and shouted so loudly that we could not sleep.”33 Santo Brasca was more fortunate, for his position as an intimate of the duke of Milan gained him the affection of the patrono of the galley, who, being empowered to issue such an invitation, saw to it that he had comfortable lodgings with him in Mount Sion. There he was served “the most delicious wine in the world, which they say is due to the properties of the place.” But this privileged individual also describes the unfurnished Pilgrims’ Hospital where his companions ate and slept on the floor.34 Capodilista found the place so seedy that he immediately found himself

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other accommodations in the town. Mercilessly critical reports are legion: “[The guards] take them directly to their lodging in the city, at the Pilgrims’ Hospital, a very poor place; and there you have to sleep on straw and old rotten mattresses on the ground, covered with sheets; but the nobles and the wealthy, who know about this, have their beds brought from the galley on the hired donkeys and sleep on them.”35 So the bedding might follow the pilgrim, together with the keg of Paduan wine bought in Venice and replenished in Cyprus. No effort seems to have been made to ensure a pleasant visit. Mariano da Siena found it difficult to accept this negligence and denounces it in his description of the common room, traces of whose past opulence were still visible: “A Hospital that must once have been very fine. Today only the walls remain. This is where both rich and poor stay.”36 There are some exceptions to the chorus of complaints. Jean de Tournai had the means to find lodging in a private house.37 The noble Philippe de Voisins was one of the privileged few to be put up in the house of the patriarch of Jerusalem, which was rented for his group, a mere stone’s throw from the Holy Sepulcher. The Father Guardian provided each pilgrim with “a pile mat and a pillow.” But the author is careful to point out that this special treatment was a benevolent gesture on the part of the Grand Master of Rhodes, who had them brought there.38 He had his reasons for mentioning this detail.

The Holy Places Visiting the holy places was not left to individual whim and was by no means a random or free exploration. It was performed following a ritual ordo peregrinationis, the observance of which was ensured by the Franciscans. The pilgrims were escorted by the friars all times. Three pilgrimages were on the program: the via captivatis (Jesus’ arrest and trial); the via Crucis, leading from the Praetorium to the Holy Sepulcher; and the procession inside the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. At the end of the fifteenth century the itinerary between the Holy Sepulcher and the Praetorium (the Antonia Fortress) was reversed, making it possible to leave Jerusalem before the day’s activities began, thus avoiding the early-morning crush in the narrow streets.39 The different nationalities were kept apart and hierarchy was far from abolished: The Guardian puts the representative of the nation of France first, and then all the French two by two, or three by three, as they wish, except that the nobility goes in front. Then he puts the nations of Germany and Spain next, and then all the other nations, so that the pilgrims not

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mingle together during the pilgrimages. I asked if the English would be put between the nations of Germany and of Spain. The Guardian answered that he did not know, but that he had it all written down. And the pilgrims arranged themselves according to the order prescribed.40 In addition to the indispensable presence on the spot of the friars, it was possible for the pilgrim to obtain a guide to the holy places, a brevarius or libellus, which were numerous from the thirteen century on, being convenient tools for fixing the memory and on which he could model his tour.41 Burchardus de Monte Sion was the author of a small, handy work. The section on the pilgrimages was in three parts: the itinerary; a guide to the different stages; and a collection of appropriate prayers. One would look in vain for any picturesque details or personal impressions. The style was spare. The Monastery of Mount Sion produced this utilitarian literature, but starting in the fifteenth century some would also be produced by Venetian printing presses.42 Travelers would obtain these guides and often incorporated them into their journals. It is easy to see where this has been done in those accounts where they have been faithfully transcribed, for their stilted language contrasts with the rest. They paid no attention to secular realities or particular circumstances and followed recognizable discursive conventions. The pragmatic dimension of the work—its purpose and subject—excluded any ornamentation and restricted any subjective reference. The narrator remained invisible. The style was typified by an overabundance of spatial references; everything seemed to be perceived from without, from a neutral position, with the authors’ personality completely left out of the equation. Some of our writers adapted these skillfully to their own devotional experience.43 Ogier d’Anglure probably followed one such guide in recounting his visit. The monk Giacomo da Verona (1332) copied one out.44 Ghillebert de Lannoy inserted one into his report.45 The evocation of the holy places was introduced by the word “item” and punctuated by crosses (†), each of which was a “sign of complete absolution of punishment and guilt.”46 The brief chapters, listing only the places of devotion, were organized on a spatiothematic principle and were introduced by formulas typical of enumerations: “Here followeth the pilgrimages of Mount Olivet (or Sion, Bethany, the Jordan, Bethlehem, or Judaea).”47 The itinerary of Burchardus de Monte Sion included the sites around and about the Holy Sepulcher, Jerusalem, the Valley of Jehoshaphat, the Mount of Olives (with fourteen stations), Siloam (six stations), Sion (seventeen stations), and Bethlehem.48 This monolithic rigor explains why Niccolò da Martoni’s presentation of Jerusalem is so similar, in form and structure, to

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that of Ogier d’Anglure.49 Thomas Brygg enumerates all the holy places in Jerusalem with equal economy of words,50 and Roberto da Sanseverino conformed to the style.51 The travelers could also call upon earlier descriptions or “States of the city of Jerusalem” that likewise recorded the shifting of the city’s center of gravity and became richer in detail as time passed.52 Tiring of this practice of transcribing other texts, in 1217 Meister Thietmar deliberately chose to devote only a few lines to the Holy City while Damascus, its climate, and its magnificent buildings, demanded his attention. He explains himself by saying that descriptions of Jerusalem were two a penny! He wanted to be open to new things.53 Yet it would be a mistake to think that the pilgrims excluded all personal signs of emotion generated by their piety. Riccoldo de Monte di Croce (1288) retraces his pilgrimage through his own emotional identity. The believer’s “I”—or “we”—is omnipresent, and he integrates his spiritual experience into his discoveries as a traveler. His text, pervaded by religious lyricism, communicates his tears, his feelings, and his prayers.54 Poggibonsi added some verses on the beauty of Jerusalem to his meticulous description.55 William Wey wrote a poem and added a table of the holy places to his inventory of the loca miraculorum. There is nothing unusual about this classification by sites, but his attempt at making a map (mappa mea) of the Holy Land deserves mention.56 Ludolph von Sudheim allowed himself considerable formal liberty in his description: he kept to the essentials and provided biblical references, but he avoided the enumerative style of the guides and expressed himself with flexibility.57 Little by little writers freed themselves from the straitjacketed style of the guides and gave their travelogue an individual flavor. They could even introduce comparisons with their own familiar worlds without endangering the sobriety of the tone; for example, Martoni allowed himself to compare the Holy Sepulcher to Santa Maria in Rome. From the earliest centuries the Church attempted to reconstruct the route of Jesus’ Crucifixion through the maze of streets. It became established around fourteen Stations of the Cross, of which the last four were actually inside the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. This route, leading from the Antonia Fortress to Golgotha, is probably correct, but nevertheless only a conjecture, for the Gospels do not permit a reconstruction of the topography with any precision. The pilgrimage nevertheless followed a specific route within a given area. Along it, the pilgrim was invited to orient himself according to the points of the compass and the usual directional indications: east, west, right, left. Everything seems to be viewed objectively from a neutral perspective. Let us follow Ogier d’Anglure on his visit, for which his guide is a pleasant Father Guardian. It begins with the Via Dolorosa (though the name only

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came into use early in the sixteenth century). Ogier is standing before the Church of the Holy Sepulcher on the spot where Christ was supposed to have taken back onto his own shoulders the Cross that Simon had been carrying. Ogier is shown a square-cut stone sitting about a foot and a half off to the side, lower than the other surrounding stones, on which the foot of the Cross rested as the Lord was taking it back. He climbs the street to the place where the Cross was passed to Simon. A little farther up he is shown the place (corresponding to the eighth station) where the Lord said to the women: “Daughters of Jerusalem, cease weeping for me, but weep for yourselves and for your children.” Ogier continues on his way, which is paved with New Testament memories. As he walks with his group, a few verses come to mind: “Item, continuing upwards, on the right hand is the house where Our Lady got up on the steps to see her dear Child brought to be crucified, for such a great crowd followed him that she was unable to approach or see him. No one lives in the said house at the moment; and there is a great flight of steps before the said house.”58 In the peaceful alley in front of the abandoned house, the pilgrims attempt to picture the hostile crowd. Then they are shown the house where the gentle Virgin Mary attended school. (The source of the episode can be found in the Apocrypha, which tells of her early consecration for worship.)59 And here is the spot where Our Lady fainted upon seeing her crucified Son, and, on the left, Pilate’s house, where Christ was falsely accused and condemned to death. (The books of the Apocrypha give a detailed account of Jesus’ trial.)60 Ogier notes that it is impossible to enter the house, for the entrance has been walled up. Continuing up the street, he comes to St. Anne’s house. Ogier indicates the change suffered by a Jerusalem fallen under Muslim rule: no Christian dares to enter the house, for the Saracens have made it into a mosque. The visitor is also shown the site of Herod Antipas’s residence, where Jesus was brought on Pilate’s orders. The pilgrim certainly needs a great deal of imagination to mentally rediscover the sites mentioned in the Gospels that are buried under the buildings. But Ogier does not seem bothered by the way the present constantly superimposes its images on the past he has come in search of. Still following his guide, he heads for Saint Stephen’s (or the Lions’) Gate on the way to the Kidron Valley. Outside the city, the probatica piscina (Bethesda) is pointed out to him, where the Lord cured the paralyzed man, saying to him: “Take up thy bed and walk.” Then he is directed to the left, to the place where Saint Stephen was stoned. He is shown some rocks on one of which the future apostle Paul sat, keeping watch over the tyrants’ clothes.61 (Our authors make use of quotations, summaries, allusions, and biblical references as required.)

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The Franciscan is able to resurrect some biblical episode from every stone. Would the Jerusalem of memory finally triumph over the tangible one? It was no good for secular time to stand still; the pious Greffin Affagart could not help but feel that the sites were receding into the distance: “You have to have a pouch full of faith and belief, for they tell you: this is where Jesus was born, this is where he was crucified, where he was buried, and so on. He himself is no longer there! Only a few churches can be seen, and in some places only ruined walls, and for that reason, for someone not prepared to believe the monks who show the places, it would be a waste of time to go to so much trouble.”62 This fervent participant in the holy expedition expressed the mixed feelings of the wayfarers as they wandered about the Jerusalem of the Mamelukes, their hearts and minds filled with images from the Gospels. Only the commentator’s persuasive powers could transfigure the city. Some pilgrims characterize the monuments according to the overall configuration, situating them within a perimeter and drawing a mental map. Thus, the Anonymous Parisian situates the place where Our Lady fell in a faint “at a stone’s throw” from the spot where Simon took the Cross, and, “quite nearby,” another street corner where he locates “Pilate’s dwelling,” recognizable by a wall “made like a rose.” Dives’ house could be identified by an archway and a gallery spanning the street.63 Ogier is still walking. Now he mixes in legendary tales with his references to the Gospels. He refers to the place whence it is said a beam of the true Cross was taken—a piece of wood used as a plank to cross the Kidron. Almost a century later the Parisian would notice some changes, mentioning a stone bridge that had replaced the plank upon which the queen of Sheba, under divine inspiration, was said to have refused to set foot.64 In the Middle Ages the wood of the Cross inspired a rich body of legends.65 Coming to the Valley of Jehoshaphat, Ogier tries to imagine the fulfillment of a prophecy: “The Holy Scripture says that the ‘General Judgment’ will take place here.”66 But he does not go as far as Monte di Croce, a hundred years earlier, who worked out precisely where the Righteous Judge would sit and selected for himself, on His right, a place he marked with a stone. Farther on, lower down on the left, is a fountain in a handsome square from where forty-three steps lead down into a deep crypt. This is the Virgin’s tomb. Ogier describes the finely decorated little chapel with its two tiny entrances and the spring that gushes forth nearby. (Apocryphal writings are a source of traditions about Mary’s death, which gave birth to the cult of Mary.)67 Fifteen or sixteen paces away is another dimly lit chapel where Our Lord prayed three times to God the Father, and above, on the left, the place where He left his disciples sleeping.68 The pilgrim makes every effort to reestablish the topography as precisely as possible, for anyone

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reading an account of a holy journey must be able, in his imagination, to walk, climb up and down, turn his head to the right and left, and move around mentally within the designated space.69 Gethsemane has its holy places. Some pilgrims were extremely conscious of the changes that had taken place since biblical times. The Anonymous Parisian notes that “it is now like a garden, although there used to be a little town.”70 Ogier’s group is shown where Peter cut off Malchus’s ear. On the way up to Galilee, a large stone is pointed out upon which Our Lady often rested after the Lord’s Ascent into Heaven. Close by is the presumed spot where Saint Thomas found her girdle after the angels carried her up into heaven. Farther on, they stop to pray once more: this is where Jesus wept as he prophesied the fate of Jerusalem. On the hill of Galilee they can see where the Lord appeared to his disciples after the Resurrection. From there they have a view of Jerusalem, where at night the Dome of the Rock gleams with a thousand lights.71 On the Mount of Olives a building shaped like an ancient castle contains a round, vaulted chapel (the Chapel of the Ascension) in the center of which, on a block of marble, they revere the footprint the Lord left on the day of His Ascension. Below is the place where the apostles composed the Creed, and a little farther on the tomb of Absalom, son of David, the “most comely man of his day.” Finally, the sepulcher of James and the place where the Virgin took counsel with him are pointed out. Then Ogier returns to the Valley of Jehoshaphat. He is directed toward Bethphage, where Jesus mounted the ass on Palm Sunday. (The village probably lay between Bethany and Jerusalem, near the Mount of Olives, on the road to Jericho.) He logically situates it not far from the Golden Gate. At Bethphage a Fount of Mary is venerated. The Saracens have not changed its name. Lower down the valley is the cistern where the Lord restored the sight of the man blind from birth. Close by is a large stone on which the Jews cut up the body of Isaiah, the prophet of the Incarnation.72 Pilgrims did not go to Jerusalem to die, but several times in the course of the pilgrimage they meditated on the frailty of human life. The field of Hakeldama, bought with the thirty pieces of silver from Judas’s betrayal, had become the burial place for crusaders and foreigners. They went there to pray and meditate. Niccolò da Martoni (1394) speaks of the stench of the corpses of recently deceased pilgrims, 73 but Lengherand (1486) describes the place as a disused burial ground: “In times past they say it was the sepulcher of pilgrims who died making their journey.” 74 In 1480, in the courtyard of the Monastery of Mount Sion, the pilgrims are shown the site of a ruined church erected on the spot where the Virgin lived after being entrusted to Saint John, and where she passed away.75. They are shown where John chanted divine service each day, where Jesus often

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preached, and where the Passover lamb was roasted. Inside the church itself the Virgin’s oratory is to be seen, with tapestries woven of gold, a gift of Philip of Burgundy. However, the Saracens have demolished the chapel commemorating the spot where the Holy Spirit descended on the Apostles at Pentecost. The building, with the “upper room” where the Last Supper was held, dates from the fourteenth century. The visitor is shown the cistern that supposedly provided the water for washing the disciples’ feet. In Caiaphas’s house, in a tiny turret barely big enough to hold two people, Ogier d’Anglure is shown the stone column to which Jesus was bound, and the Anonymous Parisian the place where “Our Lord was tied to a thick olive stump that stands there to this day.” In the middle of the courtyard a large rosemary plant commemorates Peter’s denial (the site of St. Peter’s in Gallicantu). Three arrow shots away is the rock beneath which the apostle wept bitter tears. And here is the stone upon which the angel sat that Easter day when the three Marys went to the sepulcher to anoint the body of the resurrected Lord. And here are the tombs of the kings of Israel, with the place where David wrote his Psalms. There the pilgrims encounter some Jews going to his tomb. Outside the Chapel of Our Lady is the chapel commemorating Christ’s appearance to Thomas and the disciples. The pilgrims relive the scene.76 As they come down from Mount Sion toward Jerusalem, they see the Church of St. James of the Armenians.77 An anonymous author puts at two weeks the time required for a worthwhile visit. After this some would return to Jaffa to make their way home, while others would request authorization to cross the desert. “Whoever wants to travel further to accomplish the holy journey to St. Catherine or Mount Sinai . . . must go to Rama (Ramla) before the admiral to obtain a new safe conduct, which the said admiral will grant readily, and provide dragomen to guide them.”78 But before leaving Jerusalem all had to carry out the greatest pilgrimage of all: a nighttime vigil in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. What, in the end, was the pilgrims’ view of Jerusalem? It was ambivalent in many ways. The memory of the Crusades was still fresh, and an awareness of the decline kept the dream of reconquest alive. Still, it was the biblical Jerusalem they chose to bring back to life. Giacomo da Verona (1332) illustrates this adoption of a selective vision of an eternal reality in which time was meaningless. He makes a carefully annotated inventory of the fortresses in the country that would have to be taken should an army ever land, but in his selective description of the city itself he deliberately gives priority to the biblical Jerusalem. The other Jerusalem, with its demolished walls and barely visible ancient buildings would, he says, be of little value.79

chapter 7

The Church of the Holy Sepulcher The Christian World in Miniature

Of all nations, and kindreds, and people, and tongues . . . —rev. 7:9

It was only at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher that the pilgrims sensed they had finally reached their destination. It was there that they all united for a procession led by the Franciscans and where they discovered the entire spectrum of the world’s churches and the astonishing spectacle of their respective rites. Never again would the Europeans have an opportunity to witness such a collection of the religious expressions of the Latins, Greeks, Jacobites, Armenians, Nestorians, Maronites, and Ethiopians (called “Prester John’s Indians”). Their accounts show the keen interest they took in the various manifestations of Eastern Christianity, while at the same time revealing their inability to make any sense of this hodgepodge of dogmas or to situate locate their historical origins. Hence our authors are often content to merely list the “sects” or “nations” (as they call these divisions), accompanied by a summary characterization. However superficial their approach, it shows how ordinary Westerners viewed Eastern Christianity. Indeed, a few weeks were not enough to familiarize oneself with the subtleties of a rite, understand its origin, and grasp its purpose without resorting to simplification. Riccoldo da Monte di Croce needed many

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years of familiarity and debate as a missionary before he could give an account of the fundamental doctrines of the Jacobites and Nestorians.1 Often the ordinary pilgrim never saw past the outward gestures and unusual features of dress, and as a result he resorted to caricature. In this at least he differed from his forerunners in the fourth century, for a reading of Egeria’s account of the liturgy as she witnessed it in her day does not give the impression that she was puzzled by the different rites. The Spanish nun does mention the noisy exhibitions, but she does not seem to have been overly confused by the services, during which translators were available to foreigners. The divisions in the Church were not yet evident, and the Western woman joined in communion with the local congregation.2 A thousand years later the rites would be described very differently.

Visiting the Church In 1217 Thietmar mentions that the Church of the Holy Sepulcher was always closed and unlit, but that it was possible to gain admission in return for a small donation.3 In 1288 Monte di Croce was initially denied admission but visited the church later when a procession was held.4 Early in the sixteenth century the sultan granted exclusive control over the Christian pilgrimages to the Cordeliers, the custodians of the by then accessible church, but from the thirteenth century on the space was shared by the different communities, the Latin liturgy being displaced as each denomination conducted services in its own tongue. Such cohabitation was unique in the world. In estimating the church’s dimensions, the authors refer to buildings familiar to their potential readers. The Parisian compares it to SaintGermain-des-Près but says it was “very different in style and situation from Western churches.”5 The Milanese pilgrim Santo Brasca turned to Italy for his comparisons, comparing it to San Lorenzo in Milan and Santa Maria in Rome.6 Some dared to sketch in a few details to emphasize its strangeness: “There is a fine bell tower and a tall one of stone, but there are no bells because the Saracens do not want any,” laments the Seigneur de Caumont.7 Rochechouart deserves credit for his extremely precise description of the stone and marble building where he was taken upon his arrival, and for his evocation of the two scenes carved on the handsome great door.8 Rather than its external appearance, it was the church’s interior geography that received most attention. Traditionally pilgrims spent three nights in the church (four in Caumont’s case). In the evening they were shut in by the supervising officers, who would inspect the premises the following morning: “Every morning the Saracens came to unlock us and let us out of the said church, and entered the said sepulcher to see if we had broken anything, or taken anything away.”9 Such precautions were warranted because of the relic-

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hunting engaged in by the visitors, who were indifferent to the damage they caused. Giacomo da Verona, who intended to bring fragments of wall home with him, had the requisite metal tools made and makes no bones about his efforts to dislodge the extremely hard stone of Pilate’s house10—and he was far from the only one possessed by such destructive frenzy. The pilgrims were surprised and disturbed to discover that the sultan controlled the holy sites and that they were required to respect certain rules, such as obtaining permission and paying an entrance fee. In 1458 Roberto de Sanseverino lamented that people were not allowed to enter whenever they wanted.11 Denis Possot criticizes the merchants in the Temple: in his day it cost as much as “nine ducats for each man who approached the door”!12 Lengherand expresses his dismay to see the keys to the church in Muslim hands, sighing: “May God in his mercy take them from them!” He notes that two Franciscans were in permanent residence inside the church and that “people give them food through the gaps in the great door.”13 The night spent in the innards of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher was a symbolic ritual of Death and Resurrection. All the writers speak with fervor of this vigil kept at the center of the world. When the doors were closed behind the pilgrims, the brethren of Mount Sion organized the procession. The penitents, barefoot and holding a candle, followed their guide said a prayer appropriate to the mystery. Philippe de Voisins conscientiously followed a Livre de pellerinaige.14 This prolonged meditation in the incenseladen darkness of the church left an unforgettable impression: “Throughout the said night all the holy places of the Hill of Calvary were visited by the pilgrims, who were shut up inside the Church of the [Holy] Sepulcher as on the previous day, and all night the religious and churchmen sang their masses over the said sepulcher and on the Hill of Calvary. And on the Tuesday morning, the next day IInd of August, the Saracens unlocked us and put us out of the said sepulcher.”15 Pietro Casola makes an almost charitable reflection: “There a beautiful sermon was preached on the passion of Christ by one of the friars of Mount Sion, in such a manner that I believe that if those Moorish dogs had been present, together with all the pilgrims, they would have wept.” He would return to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher a second time to perform his devotions. On yet a third visit he would complete his descriptions.16 Rochechouart speaks of the flood of tears he shed, and of his heartfelt emotion.17 Monte di Croce, overwhelmed by an emotion that “should have killed him,” hoped and prayed for a vision: “I wanted to really see my Lord hanging on the Cross with my bodily eyes, but I only saw him with the eyes of faith.” A vivid example of the mystic quest, he shows how the Passion was relived with great intensity thanks to these processions. As if he had personally witnessed the Crucifixion, he seems blind to any actual features of real

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space, noticing neither marble nor icons but describing the New Testament garden as if it still existed: We wanted to go to the sepulcher to seek out the Lord whom we had not found at Calvary, for he had been buried, and I, unhappy man, coming too late, said: ‘Let us seek him in the grave where he has been laid.’ . . . I organized the procession. . . . We followed the path by which the Marys had gone. . . . As we walked, we talked amongst ourselves, asking one another: ‘Who will roll back the stone for us?’ One of us sang out a verse at every step and the others responded in a chorus. Turning round and round the sepulcher, we eagerly sought for the Lord but did not find him, when one of us cried out: ‘Surrexit Christus.’ The cry was so loud that a murmur arose among the Saracens outside the Temple.18 The ground covered is presented in the order in which the pilgrim discovered it. Ogier d’Anglure also relived some pages of the Gospels as he advanced, but unlike Monte di Croce he shows some awareness of the architecture. He provides a careful description of the Chapel of the Crucifixion, with its eighteen steps, mentions the altars around the spot where his Lord was nailed to the Cross, and points out the hole in the rock in which the Cross was set, the rock that was split in twain, and a skull said to be Adam’s. The chapel, with its marble pavement, was richly wrought and decorated. High Mass was celebrated at first light with great pomp, confession, and communion. Afterward priests said several Low Masses. In another chapel the pilgrim made a halt before the tombs of Godefroi de Bouillon and King Baldwin, whose epitaphs he carefully copied down in his diary. In the center of the church was the Chapel of St. Stephen, with its altar on the west side. Ogier makes careful note of the route he followed: You enter a little chapel through a small door, then through an even smaller door, and you go into another tiny chapel. That is where you can see Our Lord’s Holy Sepulcher, the place where his precious body was laid by the good Joseph of Arimathea. These tiny crypts were opened for us to allow us in to pray and perform our devotions there all that night. . . . In the middle is an opening, which some say Our Lord declared to be the Center of the World. To the right of the Holy Sepulcher is the Chapel of Our Lady, where Our Lord appeared after the Resurrection. Close by the entrance is the marble column to which Our Lord was bound, beaten, and cruelly whipped on Pilate’s orders. This pillar stands inside a large alcove enclosed by a grille, through which you can reach out to touch it. Outside the Chapel of Our Lady, before the door, is a very round, flat stone, in the center of which is a round hole. This is the place where Mary Magdalene mistook Our

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Lord for a gardener. . . . To the left is Jesus’ prison. Very nearby is a rather low chapel where Our Lord suffered a thousand agonies and was struck with these words: ‘Prophesy unto us. . . . Who smote thee? A little farther on is yet another chapel in which they cast dice for the Lord’s tunic (it is in Constantinople, for Saint Helena brought it there, together with one of the nails and other relics). Farther yet, under an altar stone, is a thick marble pillar to which Our Lord was bound when the Jews crowned him with thorns and reeds and worshiped him like a king, mocking him, saying: ‘Hail, King of the Jews.’ . . . Thirty steps below is the Chapel of St. Helena; twelve steps farther down, under a large rock, is the place where Saint Helena discovered the Holy Cross, the nails, the lance, the sponge, the reed, and the holy tunic. Outside, before the entrance, around the square, are four chapels: Our Lady, Saint John the Evangelist, Mary Magdalene, and Saint Michael, administered by the Greeks, the Armenians, the Christians of the Girdle, and the Christians of the Land of Prester John.19 Noblemen would undertake the journey to Jerusalem to be dubbed Knights of the Holy Sepulcher. Such was the dream of the Prince of Orange, Guillaume de Tonnerre, whose father Louis had gone there in 1415. “I don’t want to be a playing-card knight but one of true chivalry,” he is supposed to have said, “so I decided to receive the order upon the Holy Sepulcher.” So it was that on a night in 1453 the young Guillaume, kneeling, with his arms crossed, received “three good blows with a sword, for better remembrance,” and lightened his purse by offering a hundred gold florins. Upon his return home he would generously distribute the relics and pebbles he had collected in his pouch as gifts.20 Santo Brasco witnessed seven pilgrims being dubbed knights in a most solemn ceremony.21 These collective ceremonies, a resurgence of the crusader spirit, were frowned upon by the Muslims, who considered them a threat. Prohibited and held in secret, they brought together representatives from all of Christian Europe: “Beginning two hours before midnight the knights were dubbed upon the Holy Sepulcher—secretly for fear of mischief makers—by a worthy friar, formerly a count and knight in the country of the Germans, who became a Cordelier friar in Mount Sion. And a great number—dukes, counts, and others—were dubbed that had come from the countries of Germany, Holland, Flanders, from the Kingdom of France, and other foreign lands.”22 Among the knights created during his third nighttime visit, the anonymous pilgrim from Rennes mentions a certain “Sire de Chasteaubriant.”23 In 1418 the Seigneur Nompar de Caumont entered the church at midnight by torchlight. There he was made a Knight of the Sash in a ceremony he describes as follows:

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The good knight gave me the Order of Chivalry . . . and struck me V blows in honor of the V wounds of Our Lord, and one in honor of my lord Saint George; then the worthy friar who had sung mass, still wearing his vestments, and the said knight, gave me the said sword naked into my hand, I kneeling all the while to receive this sword in honor and reverence of God and my lord Saint George, to keep and defend the Holy Church, and against the enemies of the faith. . . . I put it in the sheath I had girded on. However, first they made me promise and swear VI times on the said altar of the Holy Sepulcher, as it is customary to do with all those who in this holy, precious, and worthy place take on the Order of Chivalry. The new knight took an oath to: (1) keep and protect the church; (2) help conquer the Holy Land; (3) guard and protect his people and administer justice; (4) keep his marriage holy; (5) refrain from all treason; and (6) defend widows and orphans. Then his banner was unfurled. Henceforth he would wear the azure sash. The Saracens counted the penitents again as they left, possibly exacting another tribute.24 The high emotion is sometimes rendered by a dislocation of the narrative form. Santo Brasca inserts prayers and hymns into his Viaggio and, barefoot on Calvary, composed a prayer in verse. He would compose another on the Tomb of the Virgin in the Valley of Jehoshaphat. Santo Brasca serves as an excellent witness of the collective fervor: “One after the other the brethren expounded the Mysteries of Jesus in every tongue. The pilgrims were constantly in tears, and the greater their efforts to hold back their tears, the more they wept.”25 William Wey also puts part of his account into verse and draws up a Table of the Holy Places.26 Some mystics fell into a trance there. Margery Kempe, that thorn in the pilgrims’ side, sobbed loudly on being granted a vision of the biblical scenes being described (precisely what Monte di Croce desired so much!). Her cries caused consternation among those around her. She experienced a similar ecstasy at the Virgin’s Tomb. In Bethlehem she again upset her companions so much that they refused to sit at table with her. Margery claimed to have found more comprehension among the Saracens and the Franciscans than among her own compatriots, and later it was a local inhabitant who helped her climb the Mount of Temptation.27

Church Rivalries How did the Europeans of the Latin rite judge so many different expressions of Christianity? It would be a mistake to think that likeness engenders friendly feelings, for brotherly love was not the principal virtue shared by the

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Christians of the Holy Sepulcher. One incident of which Rochechouart was a victim confirms this. The pilgrims were unable to reach an agreement that would have allowed them to sleep in the choir, as was customary, for a Greek had poured water on the ground to prevent it. When the Father Guardian complained, the guilty party was arrested by the officers. The Greeks called the Franciscans “dogs” and considered them unworthy to celebrate mass on their altars. There was also an implacable hatred between the Greeks and the Armenians, but the latter enjoyed the friendship of the Latins.28 Although our authors enumerate the divisions, they do not agree as to their number and had great difficulty untangling the theological differences between Greeks, Jacobites, Christians of the Girdle, Syrians, Maronites, Nestorians, Nubians, Indians, Abyssinians, and Latins.29 They might have been somewhat prepared by their reading if they had been able to consult studies by well-informed clerics, such as the Descriptio Terrae Sanctae by Burchardus de Monte Sion, specifically its chapter entitled “De variis religionibus Terre Sancte,”30 or Monte di Croce’s Liber peregrinationis, containing his study (based upon firsthand experience of the controversy) of the doctrines of the Jacobites and Nestorians. Ludolph von Sudheim, who allies physical geography and human description, also draws up a list on which the Jews and Muslims were not forgotten.31 Jean de Mandeville provides an almost complete list of the different confessions. He observes that all of them share a belief in certain articles of the Christian faith but diverge on others; he singles out the Jacobites, who make their confession to God by lighting a fire into which they throw incense, and follow the Bible to the letter. He places the Syrians halfway between the Latin and Greek churches: they wear beards, celebrate the Eucharist with leavened bread, and speak Arabic, but they conduct their service in Greek and make confession like the Jacobites. The Georgians, who are independent of Byzantium, venerate Saint George, who brought about their conversion; their tonsure is round for priests and square for laymen. The Christians of the Girdle can be recognized from the linen sash they wear. To this list he adds the Nestorians, the Arians, the “ Nubian Christians, as black as Moors from the great heat of the sun,” who remain faithful to the Abyssinian Church (fourth century), isolated by the Arab conquest. Although Mandeville’s chapter provides an account of this diversity, it is perceived more in outward details than through any real consideration of the doctrines.32 In that respect the missionary Monte di Croce is more reliable. The name “Prester John’s Indians” was applied to the Ethiopians in residence at the Holy Sepulcher. The kingdom of this mythical sovereign was part of the “dream map” of the medieval West.33 It was a fantasy picture, extrapolated from reality, of an Ethiopia still faithful to Christianity despite being isolated from the West. Thus Simone Sigoli (1384) places Prester John

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“in India” (Ethiopia) and asserts that the sultan paid him homage lest he cut off the sources of the Nile.34 Giacomo da Verona (1335) deals at length with the Nubians, describing their threefold baptism: circumcision in conformity with the Jewish law; a baptism of fire in which the Cross was branded from head to nose with an iron; and a Christian baptism with water. The spirituality of their monks is praised and reference is made to the favor with which “the master of Nubia and Ethiopia, more powerful than the sultan,” looked upon them.35 The similarity of such accounts of the Eastern churches allows us to confirm the existence of a common fund of basic knowledge, since almost all the travelers attempt, with varying degrees of competence, to provide a list, with commentary, of the different dogmatic groupings. Rochechouart carries out a survey of Christianity under nine headings,36 Santo Brasca distinguishes six,37 while an anonymous pilgrim (c. 1420) enumerates twelve who accept or do not accept certain “faiths” (dogmas).38 The Parisian of 1480 restricts his estimate to “seven manners of Christians,” using highly inconsistent criteria: place of worship (Greeks and Latins), religious fervor (Latins), language (Nestorians), origin of the rite (Jacobites and Georgians), skin coloration and ceremonies (Indians), and behavior (Armenians). The only common trait he can find is that they are all in error (though he does not know in what respect), yet he praises their exceptional fervor.39 Such a picture reveals the arbitrariness of the classifications used and just how blinkered these perceptions were. This Church, with its linguistic and spiritual divisions, created an impression of rivalry—perhaps even of anarchy. Rare are the analyses in which well-documented authors demonstrate any kind of confident theological knowledge. Heads of missions or pontifical legates occasionally attempted to root out the causes of antagonism. A papal missionary—who remained for three years as an emissary to the patriarchs of Antioch and Jerusalem in an attempt to unite them—was aware of the animosity of the Greeks toward the Latins and denounced the efforts made by the sultan to keep divisions between the schismatics alive and to distance them from Rome. Monte di Croce recounts the successes and failures of his apostolic efforts to convince them of the truth. But here again the testimonies depended on the personal experience and historical context of the individuals. One question, however, had to be asked: Were these Easterners still considered Christians? In superficial relations the pilgrims demonstrated some uncertainty about this as they observed the communities in action.40 Poggibonsi (1345) uses an ambiguous formula that summarizes these reservations, claiming they are “Christians, even though we do not consider them Christians.”41 Less sectarian, Giacomo da Verona (1335) recognized the title of “valentes homines et fideles christiani” that was allowed the Georgians

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and Armenians,42 while Monte di Croce draws up a merciless inventory of errors.43 Around 1500 Nicolas Le Huen contributes a treatise on the “customs, rites, and errors of those who dwell in the Holy Land” in which every point of doctrine is criticized.44 Fabri (“De diversis hominum generibus in ecclesia Sancti Sepulchri habitantibus”) surveys those he generously groups together under the name “heretics”—for example, the Greeks, formerly excellent Christians but now fallen into error.45 Insights varied, depending on the mission. Thus, Bertrandon de La Broquière’s point of view in 1432 would be political rather than dogmatic, for though he took little care to record the stages of his “customary pilgrimages,” he was very much preoccupied by the Jerusalem of the time. He bemoans the fact that the Franciscans were kept “in great subjection to the Saracens.” In the course of his two months in the Holy City he noticed the decline of the Franks. His analysis, more temporal than spiritual, is carried out in terms of relative power rather than doctrinal differences.46 On the other hand, the anonymous pilgrim from Rennes (1486), who took the investigation further, remarks on the dominant role played by the Franciscans. In the course of his detailed study of the different confessions, he expresses his hope for an Ethiopian church desirous of adopting the Latin rite. He believed in the “Prester John Letter,” a widely distributed fraud in which the sovereign was alleged to have offered his assistance to the pope in liberating the Holy Land. He ends his portrayal triumphantly by depicting the cacophony produced by the prevailing confusion: “And it is a marvelous thing, when one is in the said Church of the Holy Sepulcher, to hear each nation and manner of Christians and all conducting their services at the one hour, for in singing they make a marvelous great noise, each in divers tones, and they process, and make great ceremony, principally of censing, and a lengthy service. May God by His holy grace return them all, and the country, to His true Catholic faith.”47 It is easy to see that the pilgrims of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries reacted out of curiosity rather than as historians of the schisms or as passionate critics of the disputes. We can see to what extent these age-old divisions were a matter for theologians rather than simple believers. What struck the latter more than anything was the visible consequence—the amazing cohabitation of so many different “sects” within a restricted space, conducting their worship with complete indifference to their surroundings. “Such is their way,” concludes Philippe de Voisins, displaying a sense of amusement, resignation, and tolerance: “Each began matins and said masses and other hours according to their way, and were strange to hear, each in his own language. . . . And you would have seen many kinds of masses sung there, for one carried Our Lord through the church, the other presented him over the arm, and others on the shoulders and on the head. . . . And they

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allowed the little children of less than two or three years to take communion, for such is their way.”48 The Anonymous Parisian, less inclined to define the polemics of schism than to observe the “extremely black Indians,” takes note of the various practices: “And they are three to say mass, and very often they all sing in the strangest way, and he who performs the blessing gives the sacrament to the others, putting them [sic] in the middle of his palm and the others take it into their mouths without touching it with their hands.”49 Poggibonsi (1345) describes the processions and the impressive cacophany created by the different chants: “They sing with their mouths, they sing with their hands, they shout very loudly all Saturday night, and commend one another. On Sunday the church is entered carrying olive branches and crosses; the streets and windows overflow with people.”50 The Fleming Joos van Ghistele, nicknamed the “Great Traveler,” chanced to be in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher on Good Friday. His description expresses stupefaction rather than piety. He seems quite incapable of interpreting the meaning of the gestures he observes and so contents himself with translating the collective incoherence of the “bizarre ceremonies and devotions, interspersed with peculiar chanting with scarcely credible intonations, sounds of instruments, sharp cries, divers gestures, and pious contortions”: Some seem to run rather than walk at an orderly pace. . . . Others carry out their procession in a single group, men and women together. . . . The faithful carry blocks of wood and a hammer in their hand that they strike in rhythm to accompany their singing together. . . . Others perform their procession in three or four successive groups, prostrating themselves from time to time to kiss the ground, singing or shouting. Priests, men, women, and children make their tongues and throats resound, clapping hands. Others cling to one another as they leap and dance. The priests walk in the midst and carry on their head a splendidly bound Gospel. . . . The friars of Mount Sion, like the Maronites, process the way we do at home. . . . All these pilgrims, with the exception of the Latins, imagine that the lamp in the Holy Sepulcher goes out of its own accord on the day of Good Friday, and likewise relights itself on Easter morning. Van Ghistele adds that accidents could happen: “Some return maimed, and others mortally injured, and if the soldiers did not intervene, they would kill one another without mercy, for each wants to have the first spark of this lamp.” This was the Greek ceremony of the Holy Light viewed through the critical and satirical eye of the sardonic Fleming!51 But all were not as skep-

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tical as he. Mandeville believed in the miraculous lamp that extinguished itself on Good Friday and relit itself on Resurrection Day.52 A thousand years earlier, when Egeria described the collective emotion and the moans of the weeping people at Gethsemane, her stance was not one of such detachment from the exaltation.53 But this was probably just a matter of temperament, for in 1335 Giacomo da Verona celebrated different masses without feeling at all uncomfortable. He expresses his joy at mingling with the colorful crowd attending the simultaneous ceremonies of the Jacobites, Georgians, Nubians, and Maronites on August 13 in the Church of the Assumption in Bethlehem: “O God, what joy to hear all those songs praising God and the glorious Virgin! The entire church was full of people, and we remained there till vespers.” Two days later he was at the tomb at Jehoshaphat, his joyous fervor as strong as ever: “Thus did all those of the other nations. Never did I feel such joy as during those three days. Thanks be to God!”54 The problem of the holy sites has existed for centuries and still seems far from resolved. The perception of this twentieth-century author differs very little from that of pilgrims of yesteryear: “Even more than the unrestrained piety of the colorful Eastern crowd and the cacophony (at times beyond belief) of the discordant liturgies, what strikes the pilgrim is the paradoxical and often unfriendly rivalry of the different confessions that, in different capacities, share the holy sites.”55

chapter 8

Pilgrimages and Excursions Round and About Jerusalem As soon as [Bethlehem] came into sight I was so filled with joy, comfort, and spiritual elation that all my past sufferings were forgotten. —jean thenaud

Little Town of Bethlehem . . . Bethlehem was a little town with a great destiny, according to the prophesy of Mic. 5:2 (“But thou . . . though thou be little . . . out of thee shall He come forth . . . that is to be ruler”), echoed in Matt. 2:6. Ernoul (1231?) had confirmed this with his own eyes: “Bethlehem is a city, but it is not large, having only one street.”1 Monte di Croce (1288) paraphrased the scripture: “civitatem parvulam ubi natus est parvulus, Ille magnus.”2 But whatever the size of other towns, Bethlehem, seen as small by the pilgrims, was made great thanks to its history. The pilgrims traveled there on donkeyback. Along the way the guide would point out Joseph’s house, the spot where the Three Kings rested, and Rachel’s Tomb. In 1461 Rochechouart found a little town with ruined walls, a few vestiges, and a Church of Our Lady in lamentable condition, standing only by virtue of a miracle, for, he says, “the Saracens do not permit any repairs.”3 The basilica had not seemed so dilapidated to Mandeville4 or to Giacomo da Verona in 1335, who described it as very beautiful, set amid a charming decor of vines, olives, and fig trees.5 In 1480 preparations were at last being made to repair the lead roof,6 which, with its mosaics, was a bit reminiscent

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of San Marco in Venice. Some splendid wood that Philippe de Bourgogne had sent for the purpose lay on a courtyard floor: “We entered Bethlehem, which is a poor city, small and on a mountain, in which there is a Church of Our Lady: quite well appointed; and it is large and spacious; and there are four rows of fine pillars of white marble; and most of the said place is in ruins; and the church was decorated after the fashion of St. Mark’s in Venice, which is to say with mosaics, and roofed with lead. In a courtyard there is a great quantity of fine wood that Philippe, duke of Burgundy had brought from Venice.”7 The forest of marble columns (forty-four or fifty, depending on the individual account) stood in an advanced state of disrepair.8 The most emotional arrival in the city of David was certainly that of the sensitive Jean Thenaud, come on his sovereign lady’s behalf, bearing gold, frankincense, and myrrh, and who, overwhelmed by his spiritual elation, forgot all his sufferings.9 At the entrance candle sellers offered their wares to the arriving pilgrims.10 In the Grotto of the Nativity every object was a reminder of some feature of Christ’s birth. The pilgrim entered a “small room with a vault of fine marble and mosaic, a masterpiece, a beautiful place, the most elevating one could wish to see.” There, beneath the rock, was the place where the Lord was laid, the crib for the ox and the ass, and in the rock itself the place for the nails that held the rings for tethering the animals, and the hole through which the star that guided the Magi was said to have disappeared, and the place where they worshiped Him.11 All our authors decipher the space in similar terms. Monte di Croce witnessed a kind of mystery play and worshiped the newborn Christ, represented by the baby of a poor Christian woman who received some charity as a result. There, as in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the visit was carried out in processional order, “carrying a lighted candle, “ accompanied by anthems and hymns.12 Near the cloister the pilgrims visited the vaulted chamber where Saint Jerome had translated the Bible. They saw his tomb, and also the crypt where the Innocents massacred by Herod were laid to rest. It was reached by a “secret passage [about which] the Moors do not know,” says the anonymous pilgrim from Rennes. It was, writes Ogier d’Anglure, a “small, deeper crypt at the very end of the others, in a very dark place.” The Bethlehem site included a network of caves. Not far away was one that wept continuously in memory of the Virgin, who had taken refuge there for fear of Herod: it was called the Milk Grotto. Reverently, pilgrims took with them some of the soil—still white—to which miraculous powers were attributed. Nearby, on the road to Jerusalem, was the spot where the Annunciation to the Shepherds took place, and two leagues from Bethlehem, in a valley among the mountains, the spring Ein Karem (Spring of the Vine) where Our Lady uttered the Magnificat. Ogier describes his walk to the place

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where the Virgin met Elisabeth, who spoke part of the Ave Maria. Two arrow shots away was the house of Zachariah, with a tiny entrance and a minuscule chapel where John the Baptist was circumcised.13 Near the altar the secret niche was pointed out where the child was laid to escape the Massacre of the Innocents. Saint Elisabeth’s house, in poor condition, was being used as a storehouse and cowshed. On the return journey Ogier visited the fortified residence containing the magnificent Greek Church of the Holy Cross. There, it was said, grew one of the tree trunks of the Cross, the one from which the crossbeam was made.14

A Dip in the Jordan To the biblical memories our authors add some tales handed down by the oral and apocryphal traditions. Mandeville took the opportunity to evoke the origin of the story of the Field of Flowers. A woman wrongly accused of fornication was to be burned. The thorns were set alight. Before entering the fire she prayed to the Lord to prove her innocence through a sign: when she touched the flames the fire went out and the thorns were covered with roses.15 Other excursions outside Jerusalem were more risky. Even when plans did not have to be abandoned, armed reinforcements might be needed. One traveler reports an altercation between the patrono and his group: the pilgrims wanted to go to the River Jordan as provided for in the contract, but they met with a refusal, for Arab encampments made the surrounding area too dangerous. When the clients protested, it was suggested that they pay an additional sum in order to provide the necessary escort, but they refused, saying they had already paid enough in Venice. Rightly or wrongly, the visitors suspected their organizers of dragging their heels. Sometimes, by exerting pressure, they would get satisfaction.16 They insisted on making the pilgrimage to the River Jordan, even though it was in an area Nompar de Caumont described as “a dangerous land, because of the evil people that live there, and who live entirely by robbery.” But he explains why the attraction was more powerful than the fear: “Our Lord himself says that any person who bathes in the said river has all his sins washed away. For that reason, and for honor and reverence, I bathed there.”17 The road from Jerusalem to the Jordan was yet another pilgrimage from one holy place to the next. One of the best itineraries is provided by Giacomo da Verona, who was well versed in the Bible and who scrupulously notes the distances from one site to the next and evokes incidents from both the Old and New Testaments. After crossing the Kidron and the Valley of Jehoshaphat, he left the Mount of Olives on his left. In Bethany, at Lazarus’s

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house, he added to his collection of stones. Heading toward Jericho (where vestiges of walls could be seen), he recalled Luke 10:30, which said that if the earth was red in the place called Red Tower, it was because blood had been spilled there. In the improvised casting of this drama, the local Bedouins played the villains’ part: “It is the thieves’ path! Traveling it, we pilgrims were in great fear because there are wicked Saracens in the place; it is totally desolate and empty of dwellings.” The group also passed the spot where the blind man’s sight was said to have been restored (Luke 18: 35–43) and the place where Zacchaeus climbed down from the sycamore tree (Luke 19:1–10). Then they went to the Mount of the Forty Days (Qarantal), or Mount of the Temptation. The pilgrim stopped in a cave to prise off two more stones and then reached a small chapel guarded by a pair of Greek hermits: it was there that Jesus fasted. There exists a description of the steep place to which he was carried: “This very high mountain I climbed with much difficulty and danger, for it is higher than all the other mountains,” writes our monk, who from the summit could contemplate the plain of Jericho all the way to the Jordan and the Dead Sea, and meditate on Israel’s dwelling place. He saw the spring the prophet Elisha purified (2 Kings 2:19–22) watering the fine fruits, lemons, and bananas in the plain. A little later he came to the Greek Monastery of St. John, where in a wooden reliquary he touched relics sheathed in silver. At the Monastery of St. Jerome, between Jericho and the sea, he admired the garden, with its abundance of fig, lemon, and banana trees.18 For Riccoldo da Monte di Croce the particular geographic interest of the site was this remarkable contrast between the harsh mountains and the plain, with its lush vegetation consisting of sugar cane, palm trees, and rose gardens. With the panorama of the fertile plain spread out before him, he could understand the meaning of Matt. 4:9: “All these things will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me.”19 Denis Possot paid twenty ducats to visit the Jordan. He provides his itinerary. After crossing the Kidron he climbed toward Bethany, passing close to the barren fig tree, saw the houses of Simon the Leper and of Lazarus, who was restored to life by the Lord, and then Martha’s house. From there he went on to the Spring of the Apostles, which he places more than four miles from Jerusalem. He believes he lodged in the house of Zachaeus before reaching the mouth where the river flowed into the Dead Sea—a sea with no boats. Beyond was the Arabian Desert. He saw Lot’s wife’s statue of salt and, on the way back to Jericho, the spring converted to fresh water by Elisha. He climbed the Mount of Temptation.20 During Epiphany people came in the thousands to be baptized in the Jordan at the spot where John baptized Christ. Riccoldo da Monte di Croce writes: “There, at the feast of Epiphany, we found more than ten thousand

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Christians of all peoples and nations, assembled to be baptized and for the feast. We raised an altar on the river bank, and there we celebrated, preached, and baptized with tears of joy. From the whole crowd that was receiving baptism, crying ‘Kyrie Eleison,’ weeping and shouting rose up so powerfully that we thought the angels had come down from heaven and were mingling their shouts and tears with ours.”21 According to Ogier d’Anglure, the surrounding areas were not always as crowded or as safe. At the site of Christ’s baptism there were small groves of trees along the river, where its water flowed cloudy and white.22 But the anonymous pilgrim from Rennes claimed that the dip was invigorating: “Some of the pilgrims undressed and bathed entirely naked. And among others the said Lord de la Guerche bathed quite naked, who, though before his swim he was more tired than he had ever been, on emerging from his bath . . . felt himself the most fresh and least fatigued he had ever been.”23 Guylforde (1506) writes: “There we wesshe us and bayned us all nakyd in the water of Iordan. . . . And made clene from all our synnes.” He took the opportunity to recall the story of Naaman, cured of leprosy after dipping in the river seven times.24 The splendid scene described by Frescobaldi clearly shows the ritual importance of the excursion to the Jordan: “We stayed for a large part of the day, and all bathed out of reverence, although the weather was not favorable. And all those who could swim (of whom I was one) crossed the river, while the others stayed behind. And there, at the top of our lungs, we sang the “Te Deum laudamus,” those who were on one bank answering those who had remained on the other.”25 The pilgrims of 1480 entered the water up to their necks in the hope of curing their ailments seen or unseen. They drank the water and filled gourds that they carried back with them. But their ablutions were disturbed by the arrival of some Bedouins, bow in hand, who obliged the group to withdraw.26 Giacomo da Verona’s ablutions, on the other hand, were long drawn out: “I remained all day, purified myself, entered the river and crossed it. . . . I collected water in a container and brought it with me, and I experienced immense joy there. . . . O blessed Jordan, praise God who allowed me to see thee.”27

The “Devil’s Sea” The Dead Sea, sometimes called “the Devil’s Sea,” or mare maladetto (accursed sea), exerted a real fascination. Its biblical origin was the primary reason: it was, above all, the place where Sodom and Gomorrah “melted into nothingness because of the vile vice of lechery.” There was a reminder of the fleeing Lot, whose wife looked back at the sound of the cataclysm: a rock resembling a statue was pointed out. Martoni felt himself quiver with

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indignation: “O abominable and repugnant sin of debauchery from which all Christians must abstain! O unhappy people!”28 The pilgrims also discussed the density, composition, and use of the water. Barbatre provides the elements of a good depiction: “There are no fish. Iron floats on it; wood, straw, and feathers sink in it; no bird swims in it, and if it flies above it, it falls dead for fear.”29 Rochechouart (1461) abandons biblical memories to provide some concrete facts. The surprising thing was that the waters of the Jordan failed to freshen this sea, with its persistent bitterness, this water that stained, and whose high content of salt, bitumen, and pitch sustained no life. Its wealth was exploited: the pitch was used to protect trees from insects and the good white salt was used all over the country.30 Santo Brasca speaks of bitter, salty water from which a vapor was always rising, rendering everything it touched sterile, and in which bodies could not sink. When the condemned were thrown in, they did not drown but died of hunger.31 Giacomo da Verona carried out some experiments, throwing projectiles of varying density into the water, watching how they behaved, and then dipping his hands, bringing them out all greasy. Nearby he saw trees producing deceptively beautiful-looking but foul-tasting apples.32 To relate the realm of visible, palpable realities to the biblical world through objects, buildings, fruit, and people and establish a relationship that authenticated or confirmed the scriptures—such was the pilgrims’ hope. Tradition sometimes came to their aid: the bananas of the Mount of Temptation, the fruit of the Earthly Paradise, were indeed marked with a sign: “If you cut this fruit across,” writes da Verona, “you will see the imprint of the Crucifix appear on each piece.”33 At the place where John the Baptist dwelt Ogier d’Anglure confirms that, “indeed, the surrounding area can well be called a desert.”34 For one Franciscan in 1463, the men of the region repeated the actions of the past: they, too, fed on insects and consumed a sort of honey, a residue that remaiined when leaves were crushed between the hands.35

Galilee and Its Biblical Villages Less frequently pilgrims visited Samaria, Galilee, or Damascus. In his depiction of Galilee Riccoldo da Monte di Croce (1288) presents the most spiritual dimension of the landscape. For him the sites stretched out in a rosary of appropriate prayers. In Cana this thirster after visions wanted to witness the tasteless water changed into the wine of repentance. In Genessaret he asked to be delivered from attacks by demons. In Bethsaida he prayed to become a fisher of men. On the mount where Christ preached, he expressed the desire to be freed of any longing for earthly goods.36 The natural decor was reduced to a schematic diagram.

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Fifty years later Giacomo da Verona (1332) paints a more graphic picture. This monk, a devotee of biblical culture, allows his reader to benefit from his erudition. He garnered information from local Jewish guides, whose knowledge he praises and whose services he recommends the visitor to use if he wishes to enjoy a solid lesson in archeology. His account reflects broad sweeps of Jewish history. This author deserves fuller study for his acute perception of reality and for the rich sensibility he displays. I will restrict myself to citing a few of the things he communicated in his Latin prose. His taste for toponymy can be seen in the way he distinguishes between the five different places named “Rama” or from his interest in the etymology of Neapolis (Shechem, the modern Nablus). He gives the various names of towns (Acre, for example), or of the Sea of Galilee (sive Tiberiadis, sive Zenorech, Genasereth). In his itinerary he provides the precise distances between towns and their character. (Shechem, a straggling town, built on either side of a single road, was rich in springs and lay at the heart of a fertile landscape planted with olive trees.) He provides a remarkable picture of the economy and pays considerable attention to the natural decor, with a description of Mount Garizim, the camel pastures near Samaria. As a countryman he admires the “rich, stoneless soil” of Galilee and describes the rugged, hilly site of Nazareth. In that town he saw only a few remains of the Church of the Virgin, some walls and a chapel in the form of a cave, but he drank and prayed at the spring. He scaled the summit of Mount Tabor, the site of the Transfiguration. He evokes biblical villages: Capernaum, where the Christians were abused; Bethsaida, which was still (as its name suggests) a fishing village. He lists the ruined buildings. He also devoted a page to the regions of Mesopotamia. Shortly before reaching Damascus, with its admirable setting (sicut Paradisus Dei) he crossed the much-used and lucrative frontier bridge, which was thronged with merchants and camels. Damascus left him with some magical impressions: he describes its towers and defenses, depicting the city as the major spice market of Assyria; marvels at the orchard gardens, and provides an open-minded description of the Mosque, formerly the Church of St. John: “I have never seen, in all of Italy, a church of such magnificence as this mosque.” Giacomo da Verona completed his journey at Acre, sadly conjuring up its brilliant past as he contemplated its ruins. The town was abandoned save for a few poor Saracens who viewed the Christians with hostility. Caesarea inspired some nostalgic reflections. The impregnable Tyre and ancient Sidon had lost all their arrogance. But the place-names alone sufficed to conjure up the biblical scenes at the spot where they had originally taken place, and they reminded him of prophesies that had been fulfilled, as he notes with sadness.37 His writing reflects the soul’s contrasting moods. The pilgrim rejoiced in

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his spiritual and historical vision, for he was in contact with the blessed places and would long retain his physical contact with them thanks to the stones he had pried away, but he was distressed to see the ruins of the deserted buildings, towers, and castles that were reminders of the great age of the Crusades. The substance of his descriptions is composed both of things visible to the physical eye and what could be seen only with the eyes of the spirit. A century after Giacomo da Verona, Bertrandon de la Broquière also visited the northern part of the country. However, his perspective is more secular than that of the monk. In telling his story, he takes on the persona of a daring traveler. In Jerusalem he was refused the escort he requested in order to make a pilgrimage to Mount Tabor and Nazareth. The individual who exercised authority in the name of the sultan was against the idea, for a Venetian and his guide had recently been killed along the way. The Father Guardian of Mount Sion also refused to take such a risk. But Bertrandon, far from being discouraged, traveled to Nazareth from Acre disguised as a Saracen, as the authorities had prescribed for the safety of foreigners. Arriving at the “large village between two mountains,” the site of the Annunciation, he expresses his disappointment: there was no longer any church, and all that was to be seen was “the place, a small thing, where Our Lady was.” In 1346 the only thing that Poggibonsi found standing was the Virgin’s tiny room, lined with mosaics. The Christian buildings had been destroyed in the thirteenth century following the expulsion of the crusaders. It was only from the eighteenth century onward that the pilgrims would visit the new Basilica of the Annunciation, erected over the grotto where the Archangel Gabriel appeared to Mary. Bertrandon ascended Mount Tabor (1,273 feet) on muleback. He had to take two additional men for his protection, setting out under cover of darkness. The mountain was “very high and dangerous to climb, for there is no path.” At the summit he discovered some pastures and some vestiges of walls and ditches, the ruins of what had once been a living community. To the east the wayfarer admired the view across the Sea of Tiberias, and to the west the plain of the Jordan, “a pleasant land of gardens and date-bearing palms.” He waxed lyrical at the view: “Someone who did not know what it was would think it had snowed, for the leaves are green like vine leaves, with the cotton above them.” At the foot of the mountain the traveler had seen cotton being treated in a house and discovered dates on the branches. Held for ransom by his hosts, he was able to regain his freedom before encountering two richly dressed Madianite horsemen in wide-sleeved robes, shields fringed with silk, and headgear in the form of round, pointed hats of red wool with flaps hanging over their ears and down their necks. According to his guide, these men would have killed or mistreated him if

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they had suspected he was a Christian. To avoid having to pay an additional tribute, he went by night to the place where Peter used to preach, and from there to Joseph’s Well. Thanks to his native dress, he was able to enter the mosque.38 La Broquière’s account is that of a traveler foolhardy enough to risk his life, one interested in the landscape, the clothing, the agricultural produce, and the ruins that were a focus for his hopes and disappointments. Riccoldo, the extremely spiritual thirteenth-century missionary; Jacques, the open-minded, cultivated fourteenth-century monk; and Bertrandon, the observant and courageous fifteenth-century soldier—all traveled through the same regions and doubtless followed routes that were identical or very similar. Yet we can see that they did not perceive the same things in the same way, and that the same places did not have exactly the same effect on each. They inspired the first to pray; for the second they evoked eras of historical time; and to the third they offered the perilous discovery of a different civilization. The image of countries as mirrored in books is not always the same.

chapter 9

Saracens in the Towns, Arabs in the Desert, and Jews Here and There There was in Arabia a small people called Troglodytes . . . who, if the historians are to be believed, resembled animals more than men. —montesquieu

Can a culture ever get outside itself? Ethnocentrism, which makes people see other civilizations as aberrations, consists in rejecting the moral, social, religious or esthetic norms of others with a dismissive “that’s not the way we do things.” The medieval traveler had only the sketchiest notions of ethnography. He came not with a neutral perspective but with one laden with preconceptions. As a reader of fictions, tales, and treatises on Islam, his perceptions were already predetermined by ideology, distorted by the images propagated by learned or popular tradition, and shaped by the portrayals of an Oriens horribilis that had been absorbed into the chronicles of the Crusades. His vision was structured by two major tendencies: the exotic pole (the fascination of different places), which was beginning to assert itself, and the critical pole (a stereotypical refutation of doctrines), whose influence was declining.1

Encounters with a Different Humanity Travelers naturally wanted to verify what they had learned against what they saw, and to complete their mental baggage by observing the specimens of humanity they encountered.

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A description of the people encountered is a natural component of travel accounts, which are written as representations of reality and explicitly presesented as comprehensive accounts of the things witnessed. To his itinerary, properly speaking, Ludolph von Sudheim (1348) added a descriptio (a study in the guise of a local exploration), of which one part of the diptych was devoted to human activities—a survey that constituted a rudimentary sociological document.2 It remains to be seen how far an author relied on models and to what extent he was able to free himself from preconceptions. Generally speaking, the pilgrim distinguished between the densely populated cities, with their often cosmopolitan population (where he referred to the Muslims as “Saracens”), and the rural areas or desert, the haunt of nomads (whom he called “Arabs”) His initial feeling was one of curiosity, later followed by animosity. Genuine contact meant remaining in one place for some time, but the pilgrim was always on the move, so that his actual contacts were sporadic, superficial, and practical in nature. While presented as an objective report, his description was most likely conceived for some didactic, moral, or religious purpose. Dependent on preexisting vocabulary and imagery, our author necessarily followed models.3 His perception of ethnic groups tended to lump them together under general characteristics. Individualization was rare, even if actual observation necessarily confirmed or refuted what had been learned from books. From the fourteenth to the sixteenth centuries, the eye won out over the ear as a source of knowledge.4 Indeed, illustrations appear as a complement to the text: the 1486 Latin edition of Breydenbach’s account contains plates depicting costumes.5 The identification of characteristics common to an ethic group would initially be based upon outward appearance (dress, gestures, and practices) as the external manifestation of an invisible essence, the “superficial shell in which real life is contained”—for, indeed, is clothing not a basis for the “first level of a social identification according to an implicit or explicit codification, a real symbol of human status, a decor that allows a precise evaluation of the social structure”?6 Particular features of dress were caricatured. To depict differences Santo Brasca resorted—whether his own invention or in imitation of someone else—to picturesque (in the literal sense) comparisons, a type of literary description that permits the use of substitute terms to compensate, as needed, for any lexical insufficiency: “Their dress and costumes—those of the men like those of the women—are very different from ours. . . . The men wear a linen cloth on their heads; there is enough of it to make a pair of sheets. Their clothes—most often white and reaching down to the middle of the leg—are quilted like our bedcovers, with two panels resembling our head wraps, namely, one to go around the neck and the other to serve as a belt.”

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This writer gives an unkind description of the women, with their “faces completely covered by a black veil so that neither their eyes nor the slightest inch of flesh is visible, looking like the devil from hell. They wear breeches, but not the men.” When he refers to familiar reality in describing dress, he comes close to suggesting a world turned upside down.7 Symon Semeonis, less of a pointillist and more didactic, explains in the name of which sura the women are veiled and sequestered; describes the variety of costumes, whose various fabrics are determined according to social status; the jewellery, boots, and ornaments; painted nails, numerous bangles, and veils with slits that concealed even the eyes. The sketch is accurate enough, but it does contain a tendentious, demonizing comparison: “They look like the demons you see acting in clerks’ plays.”8 Niccolò da Martoni and Louis de Rochechouart indulge in some potentially audience-pleasing depictions9, the latter even adding risqué details on the ways of answering the call of nature,10 an operation regarding which Symon Semeonis displays a discretion that does him honor: “I scarcely dared to urinate standing up before them, for the Bedouin and Saracens squat to urinate, like women, baring their behinds, and they declare that those who urinate while standing offend God and risk His curse.”11 Could the acknowledgement of difference have been a first step toward the recognition of otherness and an awareness of the relativity of customs and practices? To the externality of dress were added the attitudes that regulated behavior in social relations. The essential part of the earliest ethnographic works was concerned with the outward identification of groups—their gestures of politeness and their table manners.12 This was how travelers of ancient times proceeded, beginning with the actions that gave a structure to life in society. Among the rules, abstinence from wine was the one most commonly noted. The call to prayer from the minarets inspired scornful comparisons, and the kissing of the ground in an apparently conpicuous manner was ridiculed through a repetition of the verb describing the action: They live with strange laws: they do not drink wine in public but secretly . . . and they drink more than we do. At night they climb to the tops of little towers to pray at the top of their lungs, so that you would take them for watchmen; and when they pray on the ground, they raise their hands to the heavens and kiss the ground a hundred times; and in the same way they kiss the ground when they receive money. And when they touch someone’s hand, they kiss their own hand immediately after. When they enter a house where the father or an old man is present, just as we take off our hat, they leave their shoes at the door and go into the room or chamber barefoot. In the same way, when they pass some mosque, which is to say church, they

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take off their shoes and carry them in their hands until they have passed the mosque; then they put them on again. They eat on carpets on the ground, always sitting on their heels, like our tailors when they sew. 13 The apparently descriptive discourse aims only to emphasize the strangenesss of gestures more or less emptied of meaning. “Like tailors at work”— the comparison has become banal. In 1512 Thenaud uses it again,14 proving—if further proof was needed—that our authors took earlier accounts as their models, and that their comparisons, when graphic, had every likelihood of degenerating into commonplaces. Santo Brasco, however, also established some meaningful correspondences and had some notion of the relativity of customs and of the arbitrary nature of deferential gestures. Anselmo Adorno also decoded certain signs that provided a foundation for the everyday social relations of the group: “They are as polite to one as we are, but not in the same way. Thus, they do not bend their knees nor remove their hoods or berets from their heads, but when they want to show respect or esteem for someone, they bring the first two fingers of their hand to their mouth in the case of a noble person; they first touch this person’s clothing and then immediately afterward kiss their own fingers.”15

Islam Depictions of the people are accompanied by a more or less theoretical outline of the teachings of Islam, as if the traveler wanted to make religion the crucial element in cultural differentiation. A model emerged in which critical investigation became the established principle, while a pedagogical presentation ensured the dissemination of the message. Giacomo da Verona (1335) questioned Muslims with the help of interpreters and wrote a treatise vigorously refuting Mohammed, whom he characterized as “pessimus homo, cautus et maliciosus.” He dealt methodically with various points of the Prophet’s teachings, criticizing them according to a well-honed rhetorical pattern (“Item dixit quod . . . item concessit quod . . . item docuit eos”). A peremptory “et sic” introduces the moral and social consequences of the teaching.16 Symon Semeonis studies the rituals in a not dissimilar style, but he also provides a more penetrating view. In the Koran (which he knew thanks to the translation commissioned by Peter the Venerable) he found a justification for various kinds of behavior, supported by additional quotations from the suras. From the Doctrine of Mohammed, a derogatory twelfth-century text, he extracted a caricatural critical commentary. Yet when he was observing the people he became more evenhanded, admiring their piety. While he may have been an enemy of their principles, Symon was no

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enemy of the people themselves.17 The orientalist Riccoldo de Monte di Croce (who spoke Arabic, read the Koran in the original, and was friendly with Muslims from Baghdad) also does them this justice. His treatise takes the form of a diptych under two headings—“Perfection of Works” and “Perfidy of the Law”—a structure that bespeaks his relative concern for balance and outward objectivity.18 It was in this tension between previously acquired notions and personal observation that the accounts were written. It became essential for anyone aiming at credibility to be proprerly informed. Georges Lengherand explains his approach in the following terms: “To have their false sect in greater detestation, [I] discovered as much as I could, and what I could discover I set down in writing.” He presents himself as transmitting Mohammed’s teachings (“they say that”) and relates them to the way of life: [They] deny the Trinity, saying that it was impossible for God to have a son because he has no wife; they affirm and confess that Jesus Christ Son of Mary was a good and holy prophet inspired by a just God. And they say one great foolishness: that if God had a son, the whole world would be in danger and dissension because some would want to be in the Father’s camp, others in that of the Son, and the Son might be disobedient to the Father, from which great evil would result. They say . . . that Paradise consists in eating and drinking, vice, precious robes, and in all the sensuality and pleasures that can be afforded the body, and even in sodomy. The said Mahomet sowed other grievous errors among them in his Alcoran . . . And [I] think their way of life is the most dreadful thing of all, especially with regard to vice, about which they feel no remorse, but hold it to be virtue, showing their nature as dogs, and the men squat like women to piss.19 In this passage we can see the dialectical attitude usually adopted, with the customary admixture of caricature. A common feature of the accounts was the inclusion of treatises intended to enlighten the Christian, in the absence of combat against the infidel. Ludolph von Sudheim differentiates the rituals of the Medes, Turks, and Syrians.20 With polemical vigor Oderic de Frioul (1330) develops the banal theme of the “seducer, Anti-Christ, Satan in the guise of an angel of light.”21 Nicolas Le Huen devotes several pages to an examination of the “errors” of the Muslims and schismatics.22 Rochechouart (1461) pompously announces his intention to provide a methodical account of “the customs of the infidels of the Holy Land.” He distinguishes the sedentary population of the towns from the Bedouin of the desert, noting their mutual animosity. Again the fundamental distinction hinges on religious affiliation, along with some characteristics of each ethnic group. He depicts an Islam divided along doctrinal lines. Although he

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remarks upon eccentric actions he makes little effort to clarify the meaning of the behavior; hence Muslim mystics are shown mutilating themselves out of chastity or wearing hats of ostrich feathers, “like madmen, gesticulating and shouting in the town as if they had seen the devil, though they are not hostile to Christians.”23 Setting out to discover the roots of Christianity, Western visitors encountered the outward forms of Islam in the person of the faithful who practiced them. From the theoretical overview to the illustrative anecdote from which hasty conclusions were drawn, their perceptions were far from identical, depending on the personality, social position, actual experience, and period. Nevertheless, interest in the customs, however uncivilized and foreign they seemed, continued to grow. In her study of the illuminations painted in 1405 to illustrate a manuscript of Riccoldo de Monte di Croce’s Liber peregrinationis Christine Bousquet-Labouérie has shown how Western Christian thought evolved between the thirteenth and fifteenth centuries.24 There is a divergence of meaning between these portrayals of Muslims and the text. Monte di Croce was speaking as a missionary hoping to bring the infidels back to the Church, denouncing the errors in the Koran, and providing a brief description of the ablutions. His illustrator, active more than a century later, seems to have had no illusions about the likelihood of the lost sheep returning to the fold. He worked in close-up, providing a grotesque illustration of the ritual of ablutions and pointing to a warlike Islam. Monte di Croce’s intelligent balance had been lost. This evolution can obviously be found in the texts, but we should be cautious about reducing it simplistically to a given period. On the one hand, the merchant Emmanuel Piloti still believed the conversion of his Muslim friends was a possibility in 1420 and dreamed of seeing Alexandria return to the bosom of Christianity,25 while, on the other, a satirical attitude had already become deeply ingrained, as certain passages from Symon Semeonis testify. The codes of recognition hardly vary from one account to another. What does is the way each author made use of them as a function of the selfimage he wished to communicate to his potential readers. Arnold von Harff adopts the style of a dispassionate traveler and an enemy of all passion.26 Symon Semeonis tries to endow what he wrote with greater credibility by emphasizing the research that provided the substance of his demonstration: “I have seen, I have spoken” vouches for the truth of his words. Dependent as they were on the chance nature of his encounters, all his comments, presented as possessing universal validity, are often merely circumstantial and subjective. For instance, Symon claims that many Saracens are indifferent to religion27 whereas Piloti is of the contrary opinion.28 The traveler, coming from the Western collectivity of which he was a representative, situates himself between difference and similarity. He asks

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himself in what way the other might resemble him. Mandeville argues from his knowledge of the Koran. (His simplistic description of the Muslim paradise as a place of delights is far from original.) He points to the belief in the Virgin and the acceptance of Jesus as a prophet and tracks down the vestiges of Christianity, before concluding with naïve optimism: “They have so many good articles of our faith. . . . And therefore be they easily converted to the Christian faith.”29 In this case otherness is given a mask of similarity, as one religion borrows from the other. Such an approach maintains the illusion born of a dream: the possibility that the other’s belief may disintegrate and that he may embrace one’s own. Santo Brasca has the “twofold, contradictory experience of the strange and familiar”30 in his painstaking disentanglement of the ambiguous relationship between Islam and Christianity. He had seen Moors at the grotto in Bethlehem and was amazed to see his guide invoke the Virgin Mary.31 His astonishment was shared by Rochechouart, who tried to discover more.32 Piloti likewise questioned the Saracens about their reverence for Mary and reports their answer as a living demonstration: “I saw several Saracens who undressed and washed themselves most reverently with water from this well. And I said to them: ‘Why are you washing yourselves in this well which belongs to the Christian faith?’ And they answered: ‘These are miraculous things of Holy Mary and we revere her miracles.’ ”33 This all indicates some puzzlement. The Westerners cherished the hope that the Muslims would be assimilated in the literal sense of the word (assimilate = “make like”). The Brethren of Mount Sion—who had deeper roots in the reality of the local society and given their contractual position as organizers of the pilgrimage—had no wish to see the pilgrims engage in theological debate. They provided a rudimentary education for practical purposes and answered questions, but, whether out of resignation or pragmatism, advised their guests to avoid discussion, fearing the problems that might be caused by overzealous pilgrims on a brief visit who played at being amateur missionaries. The simple believers, who often took away only a picture based on chance encounters, were usually looking more for differences than being made aware of similarities. Witnessing a display of popular fervor, they treated it as a spectacle. Irony and denigration opened the door to appreciable literary effects, paving the way for a literature of exoticism. The anonymous pilgrim from Rennes encountered a “great procession of Moors on foot and on horseback crying out and howling like mad dogs.” Among them was an aged Saracen said to be a holy man, dressed in white, riding a horse, and whose hand people kissed.34 We find a combination of fascination and repulsion in our witness, who, while declaring Mohammed to be “a diabolical fellow full of heresies and an enemy to every truth,” still dwells on the

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rituals of purification and the acts of worship, putting his qualities as an observer at the service of satire and criticism: “They think by this means to be clean . . . stretching out their arms and then bringing them together, squatting down and kissing the ground many times, mumbling I know not what words between their teeth. . . . [A]nd it matters little to them where they say their prayers, but they do so very frequently, and, as I think, out of hypocrisy, they say them in public and by the roadside, and always turn their faces to the rising sun.” We can recognize the acuity and clinical precision he brings to the depiction and dramatization in his description of women’s ritual lamentations in a graveyard and the funeral meal that followed. But the meaning of the performance escaped him, as his latent disapproval suggests: “They set up a marvelous crying and weeping . . . but no tears sprang from their eyes. . . . The others cried all night throughout their houses and summoned those who had died that year in their houses, saying in the Moorish tongue, as I was told: ‘Oh, why art thou not here, friend, come and eat of the meats. . . . What have I done to thee? Why didst thou leave me?’ They never stop eating and drinking like pigs.”35 Adorno misconstrues the behavior of the women mourners. Simone Sigoli summons up all his art to ridicule the ritual ablutions by describing the obsessive cleaning of the body, followed by a race to the mosque, where all remove their shoes before going inside. He writes in a spirit that recalls Monte di Croce’s illustrator, influenced by the dominant trend toward satire. For him it is a matter of providing amusement through caricatural exaggeration. Under his pen the men gesticulate and the cadi arrives, scimitar in hand, to recount to his listeners “the evil actions of the Prophet,” threatening to cut to pieces any who contradict him. During his address the Christians were forbidden to move about under pain of death. “In this way,” he concludes, “these people live like beasts.”36 By simplifying to such an extent, the author was setting out to entertain rather than to instruct his already well-informed readers. Starting from a few well-worn themes, a simplified repertoire of images was built up around popular tales that provided examples of lust or fanaticism. However, there were also some authors of good will who attempted to transcend this basic level, at which only absurdities were depicted, and wished to communicate the immediately perceptible aspects of the religion. If the traditional spirit of refutation and polemics still survived, an analytical description based on observation, less partial in its intent, did emerge, for there was some desire to interpret this foreign universe by means of analogies and equivalencies.37 However, such an approach could prove counterproductive. From this perspective the Eastern world was explained with reference to the West; one might say deciphered and decoded by means of it —

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or at least such was the belief! As long as it was merely a matter of giving a vocabulary lesson by describing the scimitar as “a kind of sword, only shorter, a little twisted at the handle, and without a point,”38 the risk of error was negligible. But when it came to translating the Islamic religious hierarchy into familiar realities term for term, could the parallels be trusted? Sigoli compares the cadi to a bishop (“il vescovo loro”) climbing into the pulpit. The scimitar implicitly replaces the crozier—a message that can hardly escape the reader. The caliph becomes a pope (“il papa loro”). Poggibonsi likens the minaret to a campanile with no bells, whence at about three each afternoon a Saracen called out “their sorry law, the way we ring bells.”39 Rochechouart and Adorno have the believers singing psalms, while for Piloti Ramadan becomes the “pagan’s Lent.” These were all convenient but frequently erroneous points of comparison that gave the Westerner the illusion he was penetrating the secrets of another religion. In this way the problem of conveying its mysteries was partially resolved. Equivalence allowed otherness to be decoded so that it became subsumed into likeness. What form should relations with these Muslims take? The perceptions of the more settled merchant Piloti were more positive than those of a transient pilgrim. His relations were direct and, to judge by what he writes, quite friendly: “The Saracens despise the Jews and their faith more than we ourselves do. And of our faith they have a good and very perfect opinion, and have some hope of returning to it.” His amicable discussions provide an indication of the atmosphere of politeness prevailing among traders. The policy of the sultan at that time (1400–1420) was to keep the human mosaic in a state of conflict-free coexistence—though this did not prevent acts of vandalism by some fanatics. In one story Piloti tells, he brought a charge against a blasphemer, who was punished by so many strokes of the cane that he was left for dead. Our merchant vowed to bring his friends, who were “pure and not evil,” back to the Church.40 But Nompar de Caumont, a pilgrim who remained only briefly, harbors a much more severe judgment, displaying only contempt, for he had observed some disrespectful behavior during a mass.41 Accounts of Muslim practices were never devoid of preconceptions. Often condemnation was already implicit in the title, which revealed the writer’s critical intent. In his report De fide paganorum ac moribus ipsorum Adorno vainly attempts to represent himself as a mere informant, for in the very first line he judges the term “faith” inappropriate and replaces it with “superstition.” He constructs the essential part of his message on a foundation of systematic criticism: the prohibition of wine led to dissembling, while the purification rituals were merely a salve for the conscience. Thus, Adorno reduces the religion to an absurd caricature, whether in its rituals or its customs (for instance, polygamy): “Mohammed established that it

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was sufficient to wash one’s limbs to wipe away one’s sins. . . . Every Friday the religious leader, with a sharp blade in one hand and the Law in another, cries: ‘Here is our Law: believe, believe. If you do not believe, here is the blade to cut off your head!’ ”42 Unlike theoretical writers, he proceeds by reconstructing vignettes (prayer, marriage, and burial) and commenting on them. Far from inviting the traveler to fraternize, he advises him to possess three things for his own good: enough patience to deal with pitfalls, enough good health to resist death, and enough money for an emergency.

Judaism The Christian pilgrims paid less attention to Judaism. Traveling under the aegis of a Muslim guide or a Franciscan friar, they had little contact with Jews, who were dispersed in communities of varying density. To obtain an idea of the Hebrew population of the Holy Land, we must turn to Jewish reports. According to the investigations carried out by Benjamin of Tudela (late twelfth century), they were poorly represented in certain places, but Damascus had a prosperous community of three thousand souls.43 In 1487, in letters describing the various communities, Obadiah di Bertinoro draws a picture of their living conditions in Jerusalem: he saw only poverty and indigence, but no systematic persecution, and an appreciable spirit of tolerance.44 Yet Jews do figure here and there in Christian accounts, generally because of some singular circumstance. Giacomo da Verona is one of the rare few to pay homage to their biblical knowledge and to advise visiting Old Testament sites in their company.45 They appear in Ludolph von Sudheim’s classification in the guise of “Samaritans” and “Sadducees.”46 Jean de Mandeville (c. 1350), a lover of calligraphy, reproduces the Hebrew alphabet and speaks of their community, which, like the Christians, was obliged to pay the sultan a tribute.47 Jews could be identified by their clothing. Samaritans wrapped a red cloth around their heads, Christians a blue one, Jews a yellow one, and Saracens a white one. Ogier d’Anglure also learned to indentify the groups in this way.48 He speaks of differences, whereas Thenaud (1512) speaks of emblems of identity,49 the former term being neutral while the latter implying an intention of the part of the individual. In 1470 Adorno made the same comments about the Jewish colony in Alexandria.50 At the end of the fifteenth century the Jewish population of Jerusalem was put at five hundred men and women in one report lacking in charity, which did not neglect to recall their role in the Crucifixion. It declared them to be “ persistently stubborn in their wickedness and obstinacy, having the veil of Moses set on their heads to prevent them from seeing the light of truth.”51 By around 1500 their numbers had been reduced to two or three

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hundred.52 The waves of immigration to Jerusalem in 1211 and 1267 were by no means an invasion.53

The Bedouin If the Jews seem to be somewhat overlooked, the Bedouin Arabs, on the other hand, enjoyed our authors’ favor, being honored with attentive descriptions. Although portraying them was part of the literary project, the natives are rarely shown to their best advantage. The principal guilt of natural man was his ugliness and primitivism. Thus, the cave-dwelling Turks were described by Monte di Croce as “bestial, ferocious men, living under the ground like moles,” and the Tartars were depicted as “horrible people with large, flat heads and tiny eyes.”54 The language was infused with repugnance, particularly when relations were riddled with disputes, as they were in the desert. The travelers, while fearing the nomads, prided themselves on having approached them. Their reports allow us to see how medieval man viewed the primitive. Living as they did on the fringes of the civilized world, were the Bedouin still men or intermediate beings whose way of life was borrowed from the animals? Louis de Rochechouart writes that they were “of bestial and savage habits, have portable houses or tents, and neither sow nor reap, but live on plunder and camel’s milk and the meat of other animals.”55 Symon Semeonis uses the animal model even in his figures of speech: they enter their low, black tents “creeping like serpents. They obey the laws of the wolves more than those of men.” Their eyes are like “those of a weasel hunting rabbit” and their beards “like those of cats.”56 Yet around the same time Giacomo da Verona took a more charitable view: This country is uninhabited and full of serpents, and the Bedouin, men of very lowly condition, inhabit these deserts. They are uncivilized men, they have no houses, but roam with their animals across the deserts of Assyria and Palestine, Egypt and Arabia, with their women and offspring; they make their houses from animal skins and travel in groups of a hundred or two hundred . . . according to the pasture they find. Also, they serve the law of the Saracens and obey the sultan. As for myself, I have found many throughout Assyria and Arabia, and throughout Palestine and the land of the Philistines, Egypt and Arabia. They starve and have a hard life, like animals, and if you give them a little bread they are glad to take it, for they lack bread and all good things.57 Georges Lengherand has the merit of restricting himself to a description born of his personal experience of these “people, each of whom has a bow

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and arrows in the fashion of the country,” and with whom, willy-nilly, “out of civility,” he shared his biscuit and water from his goatskin.58 An anonymous traveler describes their dress, which was reduced to a merely symbolic dimension, for they were “completely naked, except for a belt of palms that they fasten around their hips, and both in front and behind have a little piece of goatskin that covers their private parts. The women wear a piece of muslin-like cloth over the faces and their hair is twisted and tied over their brow.”59 The Seigneur de Caumont attempts to depict their weaponry, pointing out what they lack by means of negation or restriction. Their indigence is conveyed lexically through the notion of smallness: “They all go on foot—except for some who ride on miserable beasts, asses and small pack animals—and they carry no arms save a little rod in their hand with a small metal point of little use, [and they] go without spurs.”60 For our investigators the ideas of indigence and privation were associated with the notion of the primitive: “They have no habitations, and live here and there like animals and outlaws; eat only the flesh of miserable goats, and a little bread or fouace . . . baked under the ashes; drink water and a little camel’s milk. . . . They are always asking for bread, like starving dogs, which, worn down by their demands and insistence, you have to give them and throw each of them a piece of biscuit.”61 You have to leave the wells before their tribes exhaust your reserves. Nudity and destitution were the dominant features in a depiction of the Bedouin that heralded the sketches of the earliest ethnologists. Arnold von Harff remembers having seen six hundred Arabs swoop down on his group on the way to Sinai. He describes their tents and the swarms of women, children, camels, donkeys, goats, sheep, and men armed with javelins.62 Frescobaldi (1384) provides an excellent account of the emotion he felt on seeing this gente campestra: to him the damned of the desert seem, in the end, more deserving of pity than a threat: We could hear very great cries that seemed to shake the earth coming from certain hills, and saw people running through the dunes toward us. They were almost naked and without weapons, save some who carried little spears more paltry than arrows. And the wooden shafts stuck in point were like reeds. They were lean, dark-complexioned, and expressionless, as if dead. Our dragoman and camel drivers said to us: “Do not fear! These are Arabs coming for you to give them biscuit.” And so we did. And when we had given each a piece of biscuit they departed without any further ado. These are country people who have no dwelling, do not work, and have captains among them who subject the cities of Egypt to certain small taxes, as the Companies do in our own country.63

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In a generic portrait that displays scant indulgence, Mandeville draws together the characteristics presented as typical of the “Bedouin Arrabians” (a way of life devoid of culture, confrontational relations) and summarizes the opinion the sedentary population holds of them: “People of very poor condition [who] have no houses but rather tents that they make from skins of beasts. . . . [T]hey do not till the soil nor plough, for they eat no bread. . . . And they bake their meat and fish on hot stones in the sun. . . . And they be strong men and good fighters. . . . They do not fear for their own lives and do not fear the sultan or any other prince, but will war with them if they do any thing that is a grievance to them.”64 We are far from the myth of the Noble Savage as outlined by Montaigne and celebrated in eighteenth-century essays. Santo Brasca states that in battle they often had the best of things, and that those who lived in the plains were better off than those in the mountains: The Arabs are the enemies of the Moors, and are always in the fields; they have neither land nor dwelling place apart from something like a sack that covers their body and shoulders down to mid leg; the arms are bare. And they have small, black tents. They use bows and lances. . . . They are very numerous, so that when they make war against the Moors they always have the best of it; they have commanders leading them, toward whom they are very obedient, and the ones who live in the mountains live on camel’s milk and carry flour with them. And so they try to keep close to watering places. The others, who live in the plain, close to the land, live a little better; they also own many very fast horses.65 Niccolò da Martoni says they were condemned to wander because of a divine curse placed on them; some claimed they were descended from Pharoah: “In many places in the desert we find a number of Arabs with their wives, and family, and animals who inhabit these parts, sometimes in one place and sometimes in another, for the reason that they have no home of their own on account of God’s curse on them, because they are descended from the Pharaoh. In many places the women appeared before us on the road, carrying their children and asking us for bread for the love of God.”66 Their hostile relations with the Saracens encouraged some to fantasize. Piloti suggests that they sympathized with the Christians. His “treatise,” which called for a new Crusade, depicts them as a nation long residing there, in revolt against an illegitimate sultan, and therefore potential allies in wiping out Islam. Piloti states that in confronting the “sons of slaves” (the Mameluke sultans) these “proud lords” hoped to see Alexandria become Christian again. So these tribal fringes moved up a few rungs on the ladder of humanity and took on an unexpectedly positive aura. Powerful but lack-

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ing arms, they were “proud” and rebellious and considered themselves lords by virtue of seniority: “Let there be no doubt,” asserted Piloti, “that if the Christians held the city of Alexandria, the Arabs would very soon ally themselves with them to ruin and destroy the sultan.”67 Around 1420 Ghillebert de Lannoy also viewed them with relative benevolence and granted them qualities denied to others, including bravery and considerable courage concealed beneath their meager battle dress: The Arabs are most valiant people. . . . And some make war on the sultan himself, and they are people who eat badly and dress poorly and have no other arms but long, slender lances, like supple darts, and have shields like a large buckler; but they are much more courageous than the Saracens, although they are themselves of the sect of Mohammed, and they are their own lords and commanders. And often they make a great war against one another, and they have no towns or houses, so they always sleep in the fields, in huts they make to shield against the sun.68 Was the image of the primitive man undergoing a transformation in the fifteenth century? No doubt more time would be needed for the Bedouin, this “magnificent example of human animality,”69 to take on a positive image. But the learned description by Felix Fabri (supported by scholarly references) is an indication of the growing interest in them. The Dominican mentions all the theories unearthed concerning their origin: Were they Ishmaelites, children of Agar, Madianites, Bedouin, Zingar from Chaldea, or had they come from Egypt? They were said to be exiles, driven into the desert after having their noses cut off. Raiders rather than warriors, they appeared, threatening, along with their women and children, but often renounced combat and were content to exact a toll, calling themselves “masters of all that is not enclosed by walls, surrounded by hedges, covered by a roof or surrounded by a ditch.” Fabri took an interest in their culinary practices—the baking of bread under coals and the drying of meat.70 In them he found a choice topic. This antagonism that some dreamed of exploiting appears clearly in indigenous texts. The Chronicle of Ibn Iyas gives an idea of the constantly smoldering power struggle, a centuries-old conflict. The citizen of Cairo recounts the malfeasance of the nomads (driving farmers off their land, pillaging villages or caravans) and the acts of repression perpetrated by the troops of a sultan, who was obliged to negotiate with the most influential tribal sheikhs.71 In 1512 Thenaud depicts them as a daily thorn in the side of the caravans while noting the formidable superiority of the Mamelukes’ weaponry: “It is often necessary to fight with the Arabs, who seek an opportunity to defeat the caravans and come two or three hundred thousand at

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the same time, but because of their weapons a hundred Mamelukes will always defeat ten thousand Arabs.”72 It is not so easy to determine how the Bedouin, for their part, viewed the Westerners. We do have one rare account by the same Thenaud, who had the opportunity of approaching an Arab sheik in the neighborhood of Sinai. His account demonstrates the part the imagination plays in the composition of any picture we construct of the other: Exceptionally, and because I came from afar, and was a friend of the agumenos, he wanted to feast me and invite me to his dwelling; and I followed him. His dwelling was such that you had to enter on all fours and remain kneeling inside, for it was nothing but a fine foxhole. Yet it was the best dwelling in the country. Then, on two or three flat stones lying in the sun and almost scorching hot from the great heat of the sun he placed butter and dough and made us five or six pancakes cooked by the sun, giving us apples that were not half ripe, asking us if we were as well off as that in Christian lands, and if we had such meats. Then he admitted to me he had paid ten medins—worth twelve sous and six deniers—for this. For he believed we lived only on roots and wild fruit, like wild boar. Then he praised this country. When the said banquet was over, [I] went back up to the monastery with my dragoman.73 It is worth noting a few presages from this page written at the dawn of the Renaissance: the gesture of hospitality and exchange that, exceptionally, brought together two men of different cultures; a similar feeling of superiority in both the traveler and his desert host; the first symptoms of the notion of relativity; and the reciprocal interest in what constituted the singularity of the other. In the language of the Renaissance “singular” would replace “strange,” taking on the positive value (worth retaining) of the latter term: “excellent and singular fruit trees; very delicious-smelling and singular wine of the monks of Sinai; the many singular aspects of a splended Cairo residence.”74 Singularity inscribed its difference in the good or beautiful; in the abstract it signified a readiness to accept other places and unfamiliar things. The notion emerged at the dawn of humanistic travel. It was viewed by F. Wolfzettel as “ the antecedent of the bourgeois travel of modern times.”75 From the Arab chieftain’s point of view, the primitive man was no longer whom one might think . . . Thenaud’s merit—his intellectual modernity—is to have sensed that we always see the other through a lens adjusted to our own capacity to see. Even the most basic description of ethnic dress could, by its choice of words, avoid the evaluation it necessarily implied (comparisons, images)— words borrowed from a familiar world to be applied to unfamiliar things

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and references that the traveler took along with him, like his baggage. It was so difficult to gain an understanding of the rituals of a religion whose secret face remained hidden, and the imagination fosters all kinds of mysteries. Such generalizing depictions often overlooked individual diversity, reducing people to a few shared characteristics. Diversity? Yes, it was there all right— but it can only be found in the vision proper to each: in the fantasy of the strategist who thought he has found an ally in the proud Arab; in the irony of an anonymous traveler who adopts the pose of an onlooker saddened by mumbo-jumbo; in the gaze of an observer mirroring the sophisticated dress of faceless women. If the Western traveler found it so difficult to recognize his fellow man in these examples of a humanity so different from his own, the modern reader easily recognizes the traveler who portrays himself through these blurred images from another place. Indeed, how could such stylized sketches of primitive man not have become learned fables illustrating certain ideas? These “human animals” would one day become Montesquieu’s “good Troglodytes.” They would acquire the beauty of a toad with great round eyes or of Voltaire’s Negro from Guinea (see the article “Beauty” in his Philosophical Dictionary). Although a few centuries would still be required before this philosophical—and entirely theoretical—recognition would be granted, some medieval travelers believed they recognized them as human beings, and that in the light of a few brief encounters they could decipher the signs of civilization in a world that was still “semiologically obscure.”76

chapter 10

Desert Time, Desert Space Departures, I shall praise you . . . Ah! Caravans . . . take me with you! —théodore monod

For the less daring or wealthy the pilgrimage ended in Jerusalem. But if you had a few ducats to lose and liked taking risks you could travel the distance to St. Catherine on Mount Sinai, and from there on to the Red Sea and Cairo. What call from deep within attracts people to the desert? According to A. Pasquali, it is an urge that makes people indifferent to suffering: “For the pilgrim, the natural landscape traversed—a tract full of all kinds of perils—separates him from the holy place, but the act of walking is already a kind of prayer.”1 Niccolò da Martoni exemplifies this indifference to physical conditions: “We walked across the desert, over hills and stony and sandy valleys, and sometimes came upon great hillocks of sand that gave off an intense heat, with a sun so burning hot it can scarcely be imagined unless it be experienced. But my desire to reach the dwelling of the blessed virgin Catherine was so great that I cared nothing for this scorching heat, and I believe it was the same for my companions.”2 It was there, in the desert, that nature assumed its most alien aspect and that the scenery was most amazing. The desert imposed a time and space of its own. The notion of wildness was embodied in the men, the animals, and the

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land forms. The itinerant camper became a discoverer of new lands as the expedition moved along. The desert has always been enriched by the metaphors that the artist or religious person has heaped upon it and enhanced by the varying ways it is represented, depending on the culture, the period, and the individual. It is both one and many: the desert of the Bible, the hermit, or the Bedouin; a place of death or meditation; a refuge; a symbolic space for literature; and a laboratory of pictorial expression: “The desert of Prometheus is not the desert of Manon Lescaut; Saint-Exupéry’s desert differs from that of Saint Bruno. . . . Be that as it may, it remains ‘a favored setting in literature.’ ”3 For the pilgrims of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries it was, above all, a place where new experiences and realities awaited discovery, although its symbolic value was not neglected. Let us see if some of our travelers would also be able to depict it poetically, helping to pave the way for a genuine aesthetic of this hostile space. In 1217 Meister Thietmar ventured into the desert, guided by some Bedouins. He made a contract with them, one stipulation being that they should return him, dead or alive, to his point of departure. How naïve to think a corpse would be brought home! His was the desert of a pilgrim, full of biblical reminiscences, merely a place to be crisscrossed—from the spot where Aaron died to the rock beneath which the Ark of the Covenant was hidden—an immensity to be traversed with the children of Israel constantly in mind. As for the landscape, Thietmar found it terrifying, with “dreadful valleys and fearful depths.” The “fearsome” height of the mountains made him ill. If a few structures erected by human hands (such as the abandoned city of Petra) drew cries of admiration from him, he found the landscape, with its uneven terrain, ugly and wearisome for the traveler. He enumerates the perils: lions; worms; serpents; the waters, flowing in wet weather but scarce in times of drought; and brigands. Thietmar much preferred the domesticated nature of a garden.4 Yet it was this wild, “pink desert,” with its old, abandoned routes, that people would eagerly seek out centuries later once the picturesque had come to be valued by travel writers5—clearly a very different view of the same desert. The groups would split up after visiting Jerusalem. Some, considering their pilgrimage over, would set off for Jaffa, while others would strike a deal to be taken to the Sinai. The latter might entrust messages for their families to those returning home, after which they set off for Gaza to fit themselves out. These expeditions gave rise to exclusive monopolies; for example, some travelers were obliged to recompense a Christian of the Girdle because they had brought their own wine from the galley instead of buying it from him.6 In 1433 the requisite authorization had to be obtained in Jerusalem.

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Bertrandon de La Broquière dealt with a certain “Nanchardin” (Nassir Eddin), the grand dragoman of the city (also mentioned by the Spaniard Pero Tafur).7 After collecting some dues, this representative of the sultan ordered the dragoman of Gaza to summon guides, from whom camels would be hired. As soon as the answer was received, he called in the candidates for a rigorous identity check. La Broquière gives the official reason for this, decrying the unofficial one: “There he asked each of us our surname and forename and age, and had them all written down, together with their philozommies [sic] and whether they had any scars or any other mark on their faces, and our height and the manner of us all; and he sends a copy of all these things to the grand dragoman of Cairo. All this is done for the safety of the pilgrims, so that the said Arabs should not keep any of them, or, as I think, so that no alterations can be made for fear of losing the tribute.”8 Prepared by their reading and the advice heaped on them, the pilgrims bargained over every detail, even down to the time allotted for the journey from Gaza to St. Catherine’s. In doing so Lengherand and his friends managed to reduce the time from fifteen days to twelve—but it would take them fifteen nonetheless. These fifteen days were filled with incident: having to keep watch over the baggage at night; losing provisions; a camel driver’s unscrupulous actions; an untrustworthy dragoman; and various other misadventures. In spite of everything, they thought Gaza the most beautiful, cultivated plain anywhere, with its ingenious irrigation systems and the great wells from which the water was drawn by oxen.9

Hebron Those who traveled by way of Hebron would have liked to spend some time at the Tomb of the Patriarchs. However, the Church of St. Abraham had been converted to a mosque in 1187 and Christians and Jews were denied admission by order of Sultan Baibars (1266). Benjamin of Tudela gives some idea of the Jewish pilgrimages drawn to the site in the twelfth century: The Jews formerly had their synagogue there. The Christians, who took possession of it, built six sepulchers inside, under the names of Abraham, Sara, Isaac, Rebecca, Jacob, and Leah. And the inhabitants tell travelers these are the tombs of the Patriarchs. But it is certain that when a Jew comes there and gives the caretaker a tip, he is shown the cavern with an iron door remaining from ancient times. He descends by the light of a lamp burning in the first vault, where he finds nothing, and no more in the second, until he comes to the third. That is where the tombs are.10

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If the Christians attempted to defy the ban, their guides paid the price: “We went up to the door, for we would very much have liked to go in, and then our dragomen told us that they would only dare bring us in by night because of the danger, for no Christian dare enter the said mosques under pain of death or of denying the Catholic faith, and for this reason we did not enter.”11 The tradition relating to the discovery of the bodies of Isaac, Abraham, and Jacob in the tenth century left some traces of miraculous tales, of which Thenaud still speaks: “A profaner, having had the sepulchers opened, found Isaac whole in one, who said to him sharply: ‘O curious and cruel disturber of our rest, was it not enough that you violated my tomb, but now you want to violate those of our ladies as well, and even though I have borne the first offense, the second will surely be avenged.’ Upon uttering these words, he wrung his neck, and those who were present lived only five days after.”12

Gaza, Gateway to the Desert Gaza became the gateway to the desert, the staging post on the great caravan route for stocking up on food and equipment, and the assembly point for those heading to St. Catherine’s. The pilgrims would spend several days there. The spirit of Samson, the Judge of Israel, still hung over Gaza, and a reminiscence of the biblical episode was freely commented on at the sight of some ruins that were elevated to the rank of “palace of the Philistines.” Thomas Brygg mentions these vestiges,13 Giacomo da Verona speaks of the palacium disruptum, and the guides kept the flame of memory alive around two gray marble columns: “In this city of Gazara [sic] is the palace that Samson the Strong caused to collapse when, by means of his marvelous strength, he shook the main pillar by which the building was supported, and where, out of despair for his wife’s infidelity with his friend, all perished there, as the story has it, to which the people of the town bear witness.”14 A visit to the site never failed to arouse compassion. From the specific tragedy it was easy to move on to a general depiction of the feminine nature and show, with many examples drawn from ancient history, that woman, like Delilah, is the “most grasping, irritable and unfaithful creature, the most lecherous, cruel, and aflame with vanity.”15 So it was that a few tumbledown walls could stimulate memory and reflection. Mandeville incorporates into the biblical reminiscence a geographic sketch of a fine, very populous city.16 Gaza had no city walls, but towers. A crossroads of trade, its ethnic diversity could be seen in a remarkable mixture of humanity.17 Gaza, a city of ill repute, also had its martyrs. In 1364 the Franciscan Castellamare was sawn in two, and four years later John of Naples was drawn and quartered on the governor’s orders. However, La

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Broquière and his companions were made welcome there, although they had to settle some disputes with the local authorities about the wearing of swords and about prices when a muleteer tried to rent them donkeys at an exorbitant rate.18 Fabri was never mistreated in Gaza the way he was in Jaffa and Ramla, even though he went about every day wearing his cross, and though he admits having read some tales on this subject by travelers who were very upset at their treatment there. The anonymous pilgrim from Rennes, on the other hand, lists the many cases of extortion to which he fell victim in 1486—counterfeit coin, dues to be paid, an increase in the agreedupon rate, and acts of brutality—all of which led him to write: “We were treated so badly in Gaza that I advise pilgrims never to go there!”19 Possibly this was why some preferred to await their departure close to a nearby castle where there was a well with good water.20 Fabri redeems the city’s reputation to some extent. He and his companions arrived one evening in 1483 but did not go into the town for fear of being stoned. They waited for nightfall in a field with fig trees, refraining from lighting a fire. Then they went to the pilgrims’ hospice, where there was so little room that they complained, insisting on the level of comfort promised in their legally signed contract, with its twelve provisions. In it everything had been negotiated: their safety, the itinerary, the tolls, the duties of the donkey drivers, the transportation of the baggage, the hiring of mounts and tents, the water supply, the license to buy wine, the cost of the guides, the safe-conduct, the taxes—and the lodgings in Gaza, which were supposed to be “honest and acceptable”! The dissatisfied pilgrims would finally be accommodated in a courtyard near two cells stinking of excrement. While they waited for the promised tents to arrive, they sheltered themselves from the sun, the dew, and the nighttime chill—with their own clothes.21 Yet it was not the Saracens our Dominican had the most to complain about in Gaza, but the Greek Christians, so lacking in brotherly charity that they refused to lend their church to the Latins for fear it would be defiled. So the travelers of 1483 set up an improvised, open-air chapel with some stones for an altar and a few ropes and blankets. With lighted candles and a guard posted at the courtyard gate they celebrated Sunday mass. Of the twenty-seven pieces of advice given by a Franciscan to foreigners setting out, two concerned wine. The pilgrim was asked not to give any to the Muslims. One method of drinking without giving offense to teetotalers was to hide behind a companion or beneath one’s cloak. But incidents did flare up: one foolhardy knight entrusted his bottle to a young Muslim, who became drunk and ran through the streets shouting and throwing stones. The Christians were threatened with imprisonment.22 Wine was precious— a tonic, a coveted nectar, and a source of innumerable anecdotes. It could be

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bought in Jerusalem or in the Christian villages. (Near Bethlehem there were peasants who cultivated the vine and willingly filled the Europeans’ wineskins in return for gold.) In Gaza the splendor of the public buildings contrasted with the poverty of the houses built of clay. A visit to the baths was full of surprises, from the sophisticated central heating system to the skillful massage performed by the bath attendant, who treated maladies incurable in the West. The pilgrims took time to wander in this heart of Eastern civilization.23 They looked at the architecture, but also at the people. The animosity between the Saracens and the Mamelukes did not go unremarked. The soldiers sought out the pilgrims’ company. However, the dragoman did not like to see his clients making friends with these masters, who towered over them from high up on their splendid horses.24 Their mere presence was enough to close down the market, for they took whatever they wanted without paying. They were hoping to get wine, money, or news from the foreigners, who were advised against keeping company with them, though this was unavoidable. Felix Fabri warned: You should beware of the Mamelukes, who are renegade Christian Tartars, and others of the sultan’s men. And notwithstanding that they would not dare to rob or do any other harm that might become known, yet you must beware of them! For they would take the pilgrims’ wine, which would cause them great vexation. And because of this, the pilgrims, if they are few in number, fear to enter the said town except by night. But the next day the news of the pilgrims becomes public: then these Mamelukes come to see them, to find out from what land they come . . . and you must feast them and give them wine to drink, and then a “courtesy,” which is to say money. You must remain in the town until the Arabs’ camels come, and in order to equip yourself with what you need. However, not everything was so depressing in Gaza, the city where shameless Ethiopian women came to bare their “faces black as coal,” to the feigned alarm of the foreigners.25 Gaza the Bad sometimes belied its reputation.

The Cost of the Desert There was a route along which rest shelters had been erected close to watering places. People traveled in a caravan carrying enough supplies for several days. Desert travel was a costly and dangerous adventure. One anonymous pilgrim tabulated his expenses: 7 ducats for his camels, water skins, biscuits, and baggage; 5 ducats for 25 measures of wine; 5 ducats for chickens in a cage, salads, loaves of sugar, lemon syrups, candles, and other indispensables;

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2 ducats for the rent of the goatskins; 1 ducat and a quarter for the donkey to carry the wine; 10 ducats per person for the Italian-speaking dragoman (this rate being reduced according to the number); 1 ducat for the safeconduct; 1 ducat for lodging and water; 1 ducat for the hire of the tent; 6 grossi for the dragoman’s food and mount; 2 ducats as an inducement to advance rapidly; 1 ducat for the group’s scout; and 4 ducat for the visit to St. Catherine’s and other “courtesies.” The total came to between fifty and fiftythree ducats.26 The anonymous pilgrim from Rennes was obliged to make a deal with an unscrupulous dragoman. He purchased beef and mutton, preserves, kitchen utensils, and cotton bedding.27 Before leaving the cornucopia of Gaza, among its forest of palm trees, they picked up an extra supply of bread to be used to pacify the nomads, baskets, grills, spits, bowls, plates, baskets for the foodstuffs, medicines, and spare footwear. The poultry cage would be graced by a “large white cock to mark the hours of the night.” The camel and donkey drivers were responsible for the barley and animal feed.28 Anselmo Adorno overwhelms his reader with advice elevated to the rank of rules for survival, methodically classified and punctuated with imperatives (opus est, necesse est). The reader for whom these pages are intended becomes a future candidate for the adventure—as long as he is not put off by it all! Adorno’s picture of the desert is constructed around practical concerns. Anecdotes provide plentiful illustration of the hackneyed topic of the guides’ dishonesty and greed. The practical purpose of his text is stressed explicitly in the chapter heading: “Que ac qualis provisio pro desertis fieri congruit.” There can be no doubt that travel in the desert, the haunt of “unsubjected men who rob,” required courage. It was even preferable to set out without any wine in order to avoid problems, for vinegar with oil was also a comfort, as was rock candy syrup. Theriac was an antidote for snakebite. The camel, less comfortable but needing less to eat and drink than other mounts, was preferred. Two pilgrims at a time could ride in baskets suspended on each flank. “Like ships in a storm, they toss you about as they go” Potential pitfalls were pointed out. One should never agree to travel without baskets, which were indispensable in case of illness. The men should be chosen with discernment and a contract drawn up before witnesses. In Adorno’s itinerary the potential reader is not the only human figure. The author had already described the desert in his chapter “De Arabibus,” but that was from a theoretical point of view, to teach about the mores of the pagans. He situated the Bedouin in their environment, providing details about the areas they inhabited, their tribal system, their contempt for the law, their pastoral economy, their poverty, and their fraternal feelings for one another.29 In the same account parallel modes of communication may coexist: in one place the subject matter is primarily geographic,while in another it is primarily a practical guide.

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Pilgrims found it difficult to adapt to the climate and were afflicted by sunstroke, indigestion, and poisoning. Sometimes they had to give up the expedition for health reasons. In 1486 some travelers set out but then turned back toward Gaza and made for Mount Sion to receive medical attention.30 This does not seem like such a disaster when we recall that Martoni buried five of his companions between Cairo and Jerusalem—a mournful duty that did little to foster his optimism. “O God!,” he exclaims. “What could I think when I saw such young men die in the prime of life except that I would go the same way!”31 The desert also brought tragedy to Arnold von Harff, who saw two dying men abandoned and the route littered with human and animal remains.32 In Gaza four of La Broquière’s companions fell ill and had to retrace their steps, followed two days later by Bertrandon himself, who was in the grip of a “chaulde maladie” (hot sickness). All he had seen of the desert was a big lizard, three feet in length, with large scales. Brought back to Gaza, he stayed in a dwelling he describes as a blanket of wool or animal hair suspended from a ridgepole laid across two forked sticks planted in the ground. These tents (he counted more than eighty of them) were lined up as if to form a street. La Broquière praises the kindness of his hosts, who treated his sunstroke with the appropriate type of massage: “They treated me in their fashion, and kneaded and pinched me so with their hands that I fell asleep.” Upon awakening, he rejoiced to find his two camels laden with victuals and his two hundred ducats. Nothing had been stolen. The invalid returned to Jerusalem.33 In 1483 the expedition across the desert was almost canceled. Shortly before leaving Gaza several pilgrims became delirious with fever. Bernhard von Breydenbach had lost his sight and his reason. The epidemic was variously attributed to the water, the moon, or poisoning. Some of the sick wanted to return to Jerusalem to be cured or to die, others wanted to make directly for Beirut or Alexandria, while still others preferred to wait in Gaza until they were cured. But the breakup of a group could scarcely be contemplated. Rather than allow this to happen, they attempted to strengthen it through a bond of mutual assistance: “We made a peace treaty between us and became brothers and friends to one another.” So it was decided that the invalids would be carried in baskets all the way to St. Catherine’s. When the going became too difficult, they would have to be persuaded to get down and walk. They grumbled profusely, and more than once Fabri had the impression he was listening to the sons of Israel complaining: “I often feared divine punishment for our grumbling.”34

The Route and Its Caravans The departure did not take place without bitter disputes, for the camel drivers always considered the load too heavy and demanded that additional ani-

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mals be hired, while the pilgrims refused to pay more. The dragoman would claim his clients had brought along too much baggage. Disputes on this subject were an everyday occurrence. But the caravan—numbering twenty-five camels, thirty donkeys, sixty pilgrims, seven camel divers, six donkey drivers, and two guides—finally got under way. Since it was heading for Arabia, the men had the right to bear arms.35 Sometimes the route also turned out to be too dangerous. If Jean de Tournai (1489) turned back for lack of company,36 Pietro Casola (1494) had to give up because of unrest, some monks having been killed a short time before during an armed raid against St. Catherine’s.37 The extent of the travelers’ sufferings during their fifteen-day trek across the desert depended on the period, the guides, and the season. Mandeville presents a singularly optimistic and theoretical view: “Always there are hostelries along the way a day’s distance apart, or what is needed for survival.”38 In what season did he travel the sandy paths he speaks of? The hostelries in question are more realistically described by Adorno as “little ruined huts where food can be prepared,” near cisterns where the water was “black, thick, stinking, and full of vermin.”39 La Broquière tells us that these houses were called Kans [sic], dwellings “built out of compassion for wayfarers to shelter in the shade.”40 As for the lodgings he sees along the route, according to Lengherand they were like “little pigsties.”41 In travel writing the narrative can provide a means to integrate description into the action, with the movement of the protagonists bringing a dynamic aspect to the topography.42 This sort of amalgam can be found in our texts: the homo itinerans positions himself as a critical intermediary between the world and the text, and the adventure (on condition he survived) might take the form of amusing observations—for instance, a caricature of the predatory guides who only moved on when offered a monetary reward and drove the traveler out of his mind with their abominable singing. One pilgrim displays his sense of humor when he describes his lot as a traveler, with his ears subjected to the torture of primitive vocal exercises: “To travel blissfully with these mongrel dogs who lead the asses and camels, you have to give a half grosso or a grosso each day; otherwise they will advance at their own pace, with ill grace, and do every spiteful thing they can. And when you give them the aforesaid, they move at a gallop, singing, for two or three miles, and such a very tuneful song that dogs or wolves howling could do no worse, and the asses and camels, to this tuneful singing, do likewise.”43 Pierre Belon du Mans, who compares what he had read with what he saw, would verify, a posteriori, the effectiveness of the cameleers’ vocal rhythms: “Those who say that the Arabs traveling through the desert sing to their camels to encourage them to keep moving were correct, for the drivers who

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set the camels’ pace and follow them on foot make the same pauses in their songs and in time with the camels’ strides.”44 Singing like a wolf was not a very serious offense. But woe betide anyone who chanced to meet outlaws! Infallibly the accounts portray their authors’ temperaments. The rash Thenaud depicts himself as a naïve and unlucky antihero, unlike the cautious Adorno, who offers endless advice. The former genuinely believed he would never see the rugged peaks of Mount Horeb. He belonged to a breed of generous but foolhardy men. He set out from Cairo accompanied only by a runaway slave he was charitably bringing back with him to Christian lands at the risk of his own life. As long as he remained under the protection of a sizable caravan, he could enjoy the expedition, fishing for sea urchins and white coral and washing himself reverently in the waters of the Red Sea in commemoration of the Hebrews’ miraculous crossing. But where the road to St. Catherine’s forked, the caravan divided in two, and the camel drivers escorting him to Sinai turned threatening. Soon there were blows and beatings. They tugged his beard to force him to open his poor man’s pouch, which contained only some onions, a few biscuits, and a cheese that smelled so bad that “it would have driven rats out of doors.” A stormy exchange with his torturers followed. Thenaud reconstructs the scene for the maximum effect of dramatic immediacy and local color: “Then they asked me for laet [lahm], baid [beïdh], which is to say flesh and egg. To which I answered: Memphis [Ma fich], which is to say ‘I have none.’ Oger bon eva memphis ate flux [Ya guerbu iza ma fich hat fulus], which is to say, ‘O stinking old shoe, thou sayest thou hast none, so give us money.’” Stripped of his clothing and his footwear and left naked on the sand, he could only commend himself to God. But his time had not yet come. The former slave would become the agent of providence and rescue him.45 The prudent Adorno mentions instances of people being robbed and left to die. He had heard the confidences of one guide who boasted of robbing several Franks he was supposed to protect. Adorno was obliged to leave the beaten path to avoid some brigands whose presence was given away by their tracks, and paid ruinous tributes and tolls. In the middle of the desert his guide demanded a raise in pay, blackmailing him with the threat of abandonment.46 The merchant Adorno would never have approved of Friar Thenaud’s rashness. Both of them–one from personal experience and the other from his investigations–illustrate the topos of the mugging, the European’s nightmare.

The Desert Experience To the itinerant geographer the desert offered contrasts in black and white. It has been remarked, quite correctly, that “a travelogue is not a tourist

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brochure,” and that the “need to situate often obscures the search for beauty.”47 All the more reason to recognize the efforts of those who try to bring such a strange and unusual natural decor alive for the imagination. Giacomo da Verona, our collector of stones, respecting the order in which he made his discoveries, reconstructs a set of characteristic landscapes, confirming that he devoted most of his attention to the mineral rather than to the vegetable world. The sea and mountains of sand (dangerous in a high wind); a sandy, stony plain; soil as white as snow; and a narrow valley—all take shape for us again thanks to his pen.48 Another author likewise attempted to depict the diversity of the landscape. In one place the ground was like “fine sand, very white”; in another there was “a hard sand, black, and covered with little flints”; in one place were sparse “little tamarisk trees, with wicked thorns”; in another the mountains stood out “all black, as though scorched by the great heat of the sun” or “like coal”; in another place there was a plain and “sand without a drop of water, sometimes hard, sometimes soft.” To cope with the sandstorms one pilgrim recommends special goggles: “The wind, with its whirling, very often shifts the soil about and makes marvelous high mountains of it. And it is a very great danger for all those who are there at the time; for wherever they are coming from, it strikes so hard around the eyes and mouth that perforce the people sometimes fall to the ground as if they were choking, and often perish. But those who are forewarned keep glass bericles49 about them, stitched into cloth or leather, that they put over their eyes and mouth.”50 How can the desert be rendered palpable to the imagination? How can the effort of the journey be rendered? To write about this world, the painter might abstract elements from everyday reality to use as analogical links (the hills of France evoked as terms of comparison), show a close-up of the exhausted animals, or, like Lengherand, describe a flora imbued with significance: “The whole track is the most unpleasant one we had yet encountered, for it always goes up or down. . . . We went to Mount Abocorba, which is more massive, rugged, and higher than Mount St. Bernard or Mount Monju and Montjouet, but not as steep. . . . All day we traveled among great rocks, and our path was so littered with large stones that our donkeys could hardly advance, going uphill and down all the while. . . . [T]here were trees the size of large hawthorns that put out thorns like those with which our Lord was crowned.”51 To what could our man from the north compare the dense dust that enveloped everything? To a “thick fog,” or to “whirlwinds that seem like smoke.” Did he need to suggest physical sensations? The sand gives way beneath the feet, and you sink “as if into deep snow”; the sandy ridges flow “like a stormy sea,” and the sandstorms “submerge you like water”; they

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are worse than “any shipwreck,” and the blowing sand is “more painful than a hailstorm.” One paradox of the desert is that water becomes a favorite source of metaphors. At night, under a “ sky black as ink,” the sand seeps into the tents. In the daytime, when the wind blows, nothing can be seen or heard; your mount’s head is hidden. The mouth and eyes fill with sand; a man’s black cloak turns white and dissolves before your eyes. The flowing sand obliterates every track. You are afraid the animal you are riding will lose the trail. It is the immensity of “a dark land and of mountains as if indistinct, not because of clouds or mist but due to the measureless expanse of the landscape”—a land of contrasts, where a chill wind could also blow. The traveler could not but awaken to the beauty of the changing decor: “There is always something new to be seen and fill you with admiration,” Fabri finally allows, entranced by the variety of the rocks, the color of the minerals, the relief of the landscape, and the illusions. Could it be the hermit’s syndrome that made him write: “I have known more delights amid the vastness and sterility of the desert and the fearful spectacle it offers the eye than I ever enjoyed amid fertile Egypt, with its wealth and captivating beauty”? Such a landscape has the power to inspire; it speaks of Titans and Atlases. Religious and intellectual perceptions become transformed into artistic ones. The desert takes on a special beauty, with its sumptuous images of ancient caverns pointed out as the erstwhile retreats of counterfeiters.52 Were the real mirages not those that came into being as the authors wrote? More out of astonishment than fear, one pilgrim endows the desert with the image of a living place, for he pays at least as much attention to the fauna as to the people: there are wild sheep, striped like fallow deer, with goat’s hornsrats the size of small rabbits; and black partridges as big as turkeys. He seems almost to regret not seeing any snakes and mentions a passing ostrich and a striped donkey.53 Another is struck by the anatomy of “a venomous creature [that] seems a lizard from its body and is a good three feet in length and moves its tail like a serpent.”54 The snakes’ holes were sometimes so numerous that the camels stepped in them, throwing their riders.55 If the ostrich whose eggs were discovered scarcely gave cause for worry, the same could not be said of the rhinoceros, with its single horn, as valuable as precious stones. This creature, which was thought to have been glimpsed from afar, is described by means of approximate analogies; it has “a horses body, an elephant’s feet, and a pig’s tail.” As they journey farther, they recall an old wives’ tale: its ferocity was lessened once it had torn open a virgin’s breast.56 The wild bestiary of the desert, a blend of the real and the fantastic, was a catalyst for the imagination. As for the domesticated fauna, it would become familiar. The frugal, hard-working donkey drank little, tolerated the heat, and moved more eas-

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ily over difficult terrain than the horse. Innumerable more or less realistic descriptions of the camel are given, its morphology putting it in a class all its own: “a misshapen, hump-backed animal, with a long neck on account of its long legs”; a beast whose gait seemed slow but that actually moved fast. “At home such beasts would be thought monsters.” If it needed to travel over stony ground, its soft hooves had to be shod. It had “a head disproportionately small in relation to its body; large, fearsome eyes; and a sad, anxious expression.” “Its eyes are like those lanterns with mirrors that reflect images and magnify them.” It was endowed with a “hideous mouth, foul and enormous.” It had “several stomachs,” chewed its cud all night long, could survive twelve days without drinking, and could live to be a hundred. It was a rancorous beast, but it also had some qualities, including the refinement of refraining from incest. When several camels were loaded, a “terrible grumbling” would erupt. They could be urged on not by beating or whipping but by singing “Han na yo an no ho ho oyo o ho.”57 The accuracy with which the creature is depicted is not devoid of anthropomorphism in its combination of observation and knowledge gleaned from books. But where did the tidbit about incest come from? Perhaps from Brunetto Latini’s Bestiary, in which he noted this trait, stating that the animal was“of such a noble manner that he would never interfere with his mother carnally, as other animals do.”58 Descriptions of the wilderness also show the influence of literary tradition: it is considered a place of deprivation. One could traverse it without finding any water, trees, or greenery, or anything liable to give pleasure to anyone. The strength of the negation reflects the sense of nothingness: the desert was a place where “neither human being, nor village, nor habitation, nor field, nor garden was to be found.”59 The medieval man evoked—sometimes not without affectation—this barren world devoid of any signs of human habitation (“There is neither port, nor hospice, only a vast solitude”) and stripped of what once made it habitable, for in it there could be no counting on “either manna from heaven, or water from the rock, or oil from the hardest stone, or on the quails of Egypt, or avoiding the wear and tear on shoes and clothing, or a column of fire to guide you by night.” In it “neither man nor beast, nor dwelling, nor house, nor tree, nor plant, nor bush” were to be seen, but only “sandy soil scorched by the heat of the sun.” The Bible provided the model for the churchman’s style as he strove for definitions: the desert was “a land that no man passed through, and where no man dwelt” (Jer. 2:6); “no place of seed, or of figs, or of vines, or of pomegranates; neither is there any water to drink” (Num. 20:5). The desert was categorized in many ways:a desolate land; a land of solitude and of death; a sterile, salty tract; trackless, impenetrable, and uninhabitable; a land of serpents, fauns, satyrs, and demons; a land of temptation.60

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Reading these accounts, we can see how much any desert reconstituted by literary means owes to cultural representations of it and to what extent the eloquence of things is merely the eloquence of a person. Fabri provides a good example of mental projections onto the landscape he traversed, for his observations are framed in a constant exchange between reality and stories borrowed from the storehouse of a well-read man. From map to landscape we trace the evolution of a geography both historical and natural. The desert was indeed a world of mirages for anyone who traversed it carrying his intellectual baggage with him. Reared on the Bible, Diodorus of Sicily, Saint Jerome, and Strabo, the traveler verified what he had been told against what he saw, so that the reptiles spoke to him of the burning serpents of Israel. The desert was a living Bible. Nowhere else could there be such an awareness of time as in this minimalist landscape, with its concomitant sense of an absence of events. Sometimes Ogier d’Anglure merely juxtaposes temporal landmarks, producing the effect of a perpetual sameness of moments in time experienced by someone who feels his activity has been reduced to merely making his way from one well to another. This string of days gives a sense of duration, of total concentration on the objective, and of obliviousness to everything except perhaps the burning desire for water: We set out from Gaza on Sunday the 13th day of October and camped in the field. . . . The following Monday we left that place and traveled all day until evening, when we camped close to a little town where there are two springs, one of fresh water and the other brackish. The following Tuesday we traveled all day and that evening camped in the desert. The following Wednesday we traveled all day. On the following Thursday we traveled all day until evening, when we also camped near a spring. The following Friday we traveled all day. On the following Saturday we traveled until evening, when we camped at another spring.61 How could the passage of time be rendered more faithfully, devoid of any activity62 apart from the repetition of the verb of movement associated with the date and the day’s travel, merely punctuating the successive days, days in which time seemed an eternity? The form reflects the meaning: if the days are alike, the sentences reflect it. Pierre Maraval has distinguished four traits capable of transforming the pilgrim’s everyday time into sacred time: exclusive fixation on an objective (recognizable from the impersonal tone and mere enumeration of the stages of the journey); a time of urgency, dur-

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ing which he makes for the holy places, with worship being his only concern; a time of self-denial and effort, during which discomfort is sought after; and, finally, a hallowed time, a time of prayer.63 Christine Deluz speaks of the “experiential vision of a world measured by the wayfarer’s time.”64 Is the ascetic quality of Ogier’s writing not an illustration of certain aspects of that very time? The camper gives a realistic account of his daily routine and tells us that the setting up of his tent is almost an exploit: “In the evening you must set up camp in the open on that sand, which is so very soft that you cannot get it to hold the tent pegs, so you have to tie the ropes to the baggage you are carrying to keep the tent stretched.”65 In the fifteenth century the transformation of the desert and its way of life into a narrative subject led to the emergence of a heroic figure who was not merely an observer but also an imitator. From seeing he progressed to doing, crossing a threshold in his awareness of the other: it was a mimetic stage that required acting the part of primitive man. Material considerations assumed greater importance alongside the spiritual motivation of the pilgrimage. We find a selfdramatization by the traveler who considers it useful to explain how he had a personal shelter made out of clothing, how he looked for wood, and how he had the meals cooked for that evening and the next day (for the loaded camels could not tolerate any more stops). The participant abandoned his habits, eating while he rode his donkey, sharing the wine and the biscuit, keeping watch, with the nighttime silence punctured by aural hallucinations like the “terrible, savage howls of a crowd” that were suddenly cut short. A navigator of the sands or a magus from a different age, he began to learn to read the stars and set his course by the one named after Saint Catherine.66 He reproduces the uproar of a departing caravan and tells of delicious bread cooked in the ashes over a few twigs. The traveler is inventing the forms of writing about expeditions, at least one characteristic of which seems to be a gradual splitting apart into an actor and an author. Another interesting feature of the desert was its string of springs and wells. Water determined relationships and governed behavior. Camping for the night, it was hard to obtain any when shepherds drove you off. Niccolò da Martoni, who provides a rapid overview of his desert expedition, punctuates the days according to the presence or absence of water. He speaks at length about the syrup that was indispensable for sweetening and purifying and mentions the stomach upsets caused by Moses’ Spring.67 At the Sultan’s Spring Giacomo da Verona had to wait patiently, first making way for a huge caravan returning from Mecca and then for a large number of Christian merchants.68 Water had to be won before it could be shared, so it became the object of pacts and exchanges. Yet it was execrable water, which in the skins took on

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“a reddish color, as of blood, and a brackish smell” and gave food “the taste and color of fresh leather.” But it was water made palatable by thirst, water the color of dirty milk for cooking the food, and red water for drinking.The marshes, cisterns, wells, and springs used by the Bedouin sometimes had to be avoided, and a choice had to be made between a shorter route without any water and a lengthy detour. But it was all for naught if the anticipated source of water had dried up, or if there was dangerous company there. Was it better to be held for ransom or to die of thirst? The pilgrims hesitated, then fearfully pitched their tents close to a well-guarded cistern and distributed biscuits to naked children and nursing mothers. In return they drew the murky water and—in a rare moment of amity—the knights jousted with the young men. The dew had a salty taste. The water bought in Gaza, guaranteed not to go bad, was a disappointment. The only thing that rained down on the dry streambed was the clients’ complaints. The ravine yielded “tepid water with a stinking odor, dirty, almost bituminous, greenish, and full of vermin” that the donkeys refused to drink, but of which the unseeing men drank long draughts before opening their eyes to the thousands of tiny living worms. When enough water was found, they would wash their shirts.69 The water motif is developed enthusiastically. In one place it was stinking and unhealthy and had to be filtered through a cloth; in another it would be muddy or green, vile and thick, or stagnant but better tasting, or give off a dreadful smell. Around the springs there crystallized images imbued with meaning that remained imprinted in memory, so that the account becomes a matter of taste sensations: we follow along from the spring of Cabera [Kaberah], “very warm,” to the spring of Caspa, and then of Lesnya [El Hasana], “ very salty,” but close to which another is found “of white water, as sweet to drink as milk.” The Sultan’s Spring was less rudimentary, with a keeper whose function is summed up as follows: there is “a miserable dwelling where lives a man who does nothing but draw water by the strength of two camels, with a device of wheels like those of a mill.” Then came Moses’ Spring, with its view of Mount Sinai and the Red Sea, and, twelve miles from their destination, one final warm spring to be drunk from, and not a bad one either.70 In these embryonic little desert novels the eternal commonplaces leave room for some nice variations. The desert has its paradoxes: it closes in around the man who is lost, yet opens onto unknown regions—an immense region no one can traverse alive, perceived as a kind of wasteland, half explored and half unexplored. It is easy to imagine that the limits of the inhabited world have been reached. Fabri widened the span of his geographic study by evoking a terrestrial, inviolate “beyond.” Riding along on his donkey, he conscientiously engraved the tracks, valleys, and mountains on the wax tablets he carried at

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his belt. When he could, he copied out his notes and prepared his tablets. But in his imagination he crossed the frontiers of the visible world. He relates his observations to the geographic knowledge of the time and juxtaposes theological vision, interpretations drawing on classical antiquity, and scientific theory. “It is said that the limit of these expanses touches the mountains of the Earthly Paradise, and that it is the flames of fire from the sword the Lord placed at the gates of Paradise that devours these expanses and prevents people from entering” (a fundamentally Christian point of view). “One could indeed advance the hypothesis that these expanses are the Elysian Fields” (classical antiquity). “He who crossed this torrid region while keeping life as his traveling companion would arrive in the region of the Tropics” (a natural scientist’s suggestion, in conformity with the medieval division of the world into regions).71 Such places where nothing existed in abundance provided a special setting in which to discover man in relation to others. Man was, above all, the enemy from without—the Bedouin who slipped in among the group under cover of a sandstorm and was discovered in the morning ensconced among the saddlebags and baskets. The pilgrim fed him before driving him off with sticks. The enemy was the horde of tribesmen who howled as they ripped open the bags of biscuit with the tacit complicity of the camel drivers, who demanded the payment of a toll, and who sometimes continued their harassments all the way to Mount Sinai. The enemy within was the muleteer who threatened to abandon the baggage. The law of the desert was not the sultan’s but the law of its inhabitants. Adorno speaks of a guard post where the officer in charge imposed a toll on passersby as he saw fit. Thanks to the dragoman who passed off his charges as monks, he and his companions got off lightly. A group placed under the protection of a large caravan avoided attacks from without but not other aggravations. Distrust set in when the travelers fancied they were being led round and round Mount Sinai. Some impatient knights unsheathed their swords and tragedy became imminent.72 But exchanges could also be more relaxed, for sometimes the guides joked about the Europeans’ ignorance and played amiable tricks on them.73 The anecdotes show that human relations became distorted in the desert. Fabri remembers the fear he felt at the sight of an innocuous caravan. The guides were already readying their bows and the pilgrims their swords, but the people who had been taken for brigands were just peaceful Egyptians going on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. The sight of a few tents in the distance was enough to arouse concern, yet it turned out to be only a few men armed with lances, prepared to defend themselves but not to attack. Next were some Madianites from the Red Sea who demanded water, and then a caravan suddenly appeared over the horizon: “Those men passed by us in silence, giving us dirty looks, the way Easterners and Westerners usually

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look at one another, for they detest one another.” Such was the hostile silence generated by fear. Representative little vignettes give the reader the illusion of being part of the expedition. In one such we hear a merchant lecturing the guide: “How can you, a Saracen, lead these armed Franks through the sultan’s lands?” To which the reply was: “These pilgrims only wish to defend themselves against brigands.” Then the merchant, reassured, said admiringly: “If only the Moors, Saracens, and Mamelukes had as much courage, the desert would soon be cleaned up.” And the man then quite amicably informed the pilgrims about sailings from Alexandria. To achieve understanding they only needed to exchange a few words. The guides had to cope with their charges’ stubborn foolhardiness. One evening Fabri ventured on his own onto a piece of high ground. Suddenly all he could see was the vast, empty space. He lamented: “Oh, poor me! Why did I leave my companions? Oh my God, help me!” His prayers were answered, for he found his comrades’ tracks and the tents. Another folly was committed when some pilgrims, upon glimpsing the Red Sea, rejected their guide’s advice and set off to bathe in it. The head guide asked to be relieved of any responsibility. The hotheads made off toward a sea that seemed to recede farther and farther into the distance. They got lost in the dark but were miraculously saved the next day thanks to the cries of their camels. They were told how two pilgrims from another expedition who had committed a similar folly were brought back in a raging delirium, only to die shortly afterward.74 Even if they tolerated the bad behavior of the camel drivers, the guides were nonetheless responsible for the men entrusted to their care and had to answer for their safety. An anonymous fifteenth-century pilgrim tells us what measures might be taken against some of them if complaints were lodged against them upon arriving at a place near Cairo, where a new toll had to be paid: The head of the dragomen asks the pilgrims if they have any complaint about their dragomen, guides, and camel or donkey drivers. If the pilgrims say they do (or have their dragomen say so), then— thanks to the safe-conduct granted them—those who have given offense to the pilgrims are summoned, and in the presence of the prilgrims the culprits are made to lie down and are tightly bound to a bench; and two of these Saracen dogs, each with a great cane or dried ox tendon in his hand, beats him on the back without cease until the head dragoman thinks it is enough, and several times they make them turn their belly up, unless they are stopped by entreaties from the pilgrims—not out of any love they have for us, but because of the profit they earn from the safe-conducts.75

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One can understand how this regime may have helped transform the pilgrim into a respected client. Later the desert—the place for new experiences—could only attract writers of fiction, who would find in it the elements for a setting favorable for the invention of entire worlds. Our medieval travelers certainly had something to do with creating the fascination of the tabula rasa and the reverie of emptiness. They contributed to developing an aesthetic and a symbolic repertoire that would be extensively drawn upon by writers of the modern era.76

chapter 11

Sinai and Its Speaking Stones I tearfully implored Almighty God and blessed Catherine to allow me the grace of completing the journey. —niccolò da martoni

One day, with a sweep of his arm, the guide made “two summits like a pair of heads” appear. The pilgrims threw themselves off their mounts and knelt down facing the mountain, hands outstretched, to give thanks to God where the memory of Moses is inscribed in the very stones. From the third century onward pilgrims had sought refuge at the foot of the mountain that bears his name. In the fourth century Saint Helena erected a tower refuge dedicated to the Virgin. In the sixth century Justinian ordered the construction of a basilica on the presumed site of the burning bush, surrounded by a fortress that would become a place of pilgrimage. A monastery was built in Mary’s honor. A corpse found on the mountain in the ninth century and brought to the monastery refocused devotion onto a saint, Catherine, an Alexandrian martyr of the fourth century whose remains were said to have been transported to the place by angels. She gave the monastery its final name.1 From then on bio-hagiographies were constructed. Demonstrating that the cult was very much alive, in the fifteenth century Jean Mielot dedicated a Life of the saint to Philip the Good.2 However legendary she may have been, the virgin of the sands and stones attracted the medieval pilgrim to this

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place deep in the desert. His faith, seasoned with a pinch of foolhardiness, gave him the strength to confront the dangers. Some prayers would take wing in the dangerous silence (Salve virgo Katherina), while others, bearing pilgrims’ names, would be pinned up in the monastery’s Latin chapel.3 On the final stages of the journey the pilgrims would refresh their parched mouths with the delicious manna. This substance was collected by the Arabs. In his description of it, Fabri refers eruditely to Vincent de Beauvais and the book of Exodus before adding his own observations on this “dew that has no flavor of itself, and borrows whatever it has to the nature of the plants and stones from which it is harvested.” Von Harff also speaks of this gum, gathered in August and September, which resembled wax and melted in the mouth like sugar. It was an edible resin4 whose taste, smell, and texture is also nicely described by Jean Thenaud: “On the trees and rocks we found the manna, which is like honey, very thick, and sticky to the touch; but when it is a long time in the sun it spoils. The morning air is so fragrant that I thought I must be in a spice market.”5 For lovers of the desert the taste of these dried pearls always left an exquisite memory; for the local monks the tamarisk mannifera was, above all, a living reminder of a Holy Scripture that could be read in nature: they were “trees bearing thorns, and of a like tree and thorn Our Lord was crowned in his Passion. And from these trees there seeps the true gomma arabica that the Arabs like to eat.”6

The Monastery of St. Catherine The Monastery of St. Catherine (5,151 ft.) is nestled at the bottom of a narrow valley between two mountains rising from a single base, a ballista shot apart: Horeb-Sinai, or Mount Moses (Jebel Musa, 6,181 ft.) and Mount St. Catherine (Jebel Katharin, 8,651 ft.), both of them pilgrimage destinations, so that the entire massif is called “Mount Sinai.” Sometimes sketches accompany the commentaries.7 With walls between forty and fifty feet high and five and a half feet thick, its mosque (built after the tenth century to demonstrate allegiance to Muslim power), its maze of passages and a courtyard, one wonders if the place resemble a monastery at all. In this minuscule space, with its formidable defenses, the territory of man seems scantily apportioned but aggressively conquered and most jealously defended. Pilgrims describe it as an “abbey enclosed by high walls, like a stronghold,”8 a “monastery contained within four strong walls”9 of “square, dressed stone, appointed with a path round the battlements.”10 Giacomo da Verona was astonished to have survived exhaustion and to pass inside its walls, which protected its treasures with the help of three meager iron gates the height of a man.11 Arriving late in the day, Martoni had to

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wait until morning to discover the little fortified town and be admitted through its tiny entrance.12 Would the welcome be warm enough to make the pilgrim forget the severity of the architecture? Among those who speak of it, opinions vary. Noble or middle-class pilgrims had rather less to complain about than churchmen and speak of the Greek Orthodox monks with respect. Ogier d’Anglure admires the generosity of their charity toward the Arabs and sailors from the Red Sea.13 An anonymous pilgrim appreciates their hospitality: “There the brothers, according to their custom, house and honor the pilgrims to the best of their ability.”14 Yet Friar Fabri is more than reserved. While admitting he was appropriately entertained by the occupants, and paying homage to their frugal way of life and simple dress, he heatedly denounces their greed. Full of aggressive idealism, he compares the formerly charitable nature of the order to its present lack of saintliness, for apart from the fact that these schismatics banned Latin priests from their altars (something the friar from Ulm could never forgive!), they behaved in a venial manner, like the Saracens, opening their church, supplying drink, and providing a change of footwear and staffs for the climb only in return for hard cash. On the day of his departure they were even reluctant to allow the water skins to be filled from their cistern.15 But this small-minded report speaks only for its author. Less theoretical but just as demonstrative in his own way, Friar Thenaud (1512) illustrates the parsimonious hospitality of the monks of St. Basil with a vivid anecdote. The famous iron gates would not even open to let him in, and the rope hoist—the only means of access then allowed—took some time to be put into operation. This was going too far! It was only thanks to firm intervention by the Bedouin that he finally gained admission: To enter, they let down a rope from the top of the wall, into the loop of which you put your feet, and hold on, and you are pulled up by a winch. For if there were a gate low down, the Arabs, who ask nothing better than to destroy the monastery, would always be trying to do so. I remained at the bottom for more than four hours before they would let down the rope, because the caloyers, who are Greek monks, detest the Latins and are filled with covetousness and greed; they wanted to hold me ransom, although their life is austere. And I think that if they had not let down the rope for one of their caloyers, whom the Arabs, well acquainted with their spitefulness, would not allow to go up first, my dragoman and I would never have been drawn up and still would not have gotten in.16 Thenaud describes the enmity he provoked. But perhaps he was somewhat to blame for traveling alone, since the reluctance arose from fear of false

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wandering monks. Visitors could visit a chapel where monks killed by the Arabs were buried, and we know that Casola had to give up his journey there in 1494 because of unrest. So perhaps the brethren can be forgiven for screening those allowed in. In 1470 Adorno went in through the gates and found himself in a little town with narrow streets and squares, with lodgings and warehouses opening onto them. He saw the chapels (two Greek and one Latin) at the disposal of pilgrims of different denominations. His group would be housed in small rooms with neither beds nor mattresses.17 Alongside the dwellings surrounding the church the anonymous pilgrim from Rennes noticed hand mills for grinding flour.18 Fabri does not complain about the lack of comfort, but he describes mean, narrow cells with tile roofs, plastered with dry mud, clustered higgledy-piggledy along the slope, one overlapping the other, “like swallows’ nests.” He discreetly visited the mosque and found it empty, lacking any grace or reverence, without indulgences, and with no altar.19 Several travelers express indignation at the incongruous presence of such a building in the heart of a monastery.20 The atmosphere surrounding the visit could be threatening. Assembled before the monastery Fabri and his companions found armed, starving Bedouin whose proximity they had to endure: “These Arabs lay night and day in this courtyard, attentively watching us come and go. We could not even reach the well to drink without passing among them. They did nothing to us, neither good nor harm, and never spoke to us, but we found their presence there most trying.”21 On their departure, the pilgrims’ animals were held for ransom. Adorno also mentions the customary dues the pilgrims had to pay one chief who protected them along some stages of the journey.22 Here the desert belonged less to the sultan than to its natural inhabitants. The population of the monastery varied from period to period. Giacomo da Verona (1335) suggests a figure of a hundred monks.23 Ludolph von Sudheim (1341) speaks of a community of four hundred monks and sixty lay brothers, including Greeks, “Indians,” Arabs, Nubians, Egyptians, and Syrians.24 In 1394 Martoni viewed the monastery as a village consisting of two hundred and forty inhabitants (monks and servants), in which each individual had certain duties to perform.25 In 1396 Ogier d’Anglure speaks of two hundred friars in residence but describes a community actually numbering four hundred, some having left on visits to commanderies or gone out into the world to beg.26 Fabri estimated that within a few years their number had first shrunk from a hundred to eighty and then to around thirty at the time of his visit.27 The friars abstained from meat, eating a diet consisting of fruit, vegetables, dates, almonds, and rice. They drank mostly water but could avail

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themselves of “a dark, thick wine with an amazing taste.” Provisions came to them in the form of rice, flour, almonds, and dates. Fish came from the Red Sea. In the early hirteeenth century Thietmar described their rigorous discipline: their clothing was threadbare; they virtually slept on the bare floor, without any blanket or palliasse. They ate in silence every other day in their cells or in the refectory.28 But this rule seemed almost benign compared to that of the earliest hermits, who endured their fasts in the rocky caverns of the Mount of the Decalogue and had nothing on which to indulge their appetites but raw herbs, wild fruit, and the small amount of wheat grown on a laboriously cultivated patch of ground. According to Saint Nilus (fourth century), to whom we owe these details, some women also led this solitary and extremely frugal existence.29 Adorno witnessed an age-old ritual. On Saturdays the week’s supply of bread was baked in enormous ovens and a share distributed to the Bedouin through a high, grated window on condition that they did not destroy the monastery and agreed to defend it against incursions by other Arabs. The chieftains were given food between two gates.30 Fabri speaks of a daily distribution to “people they would do better to kill.” With a certain degree of malice he interprets this pact as the result of a divine curse laid upon the monks for abandoning the spirit of charity.31 In the nineteenth century this distribution still took place three times a week with the aid of the pulleyoperated hoist: the appropriate number of loaves for the family would be placed in each dirty burnoose that was pulled up. However, the modern witness introduced a hint of compassion into his account by reversing the point of view: “Poor people in the shadows below, with their wild countenances and covetous eyes—to them we must seem princes of the Thousand and One Nights, strolling about in silken garments under the sun on high.”32 The custom still exists today, symbolizing the bond between two groups whose fates are linked historically: the monks and the sedentary Bedouin of the Jebeliya (Highland) tribe, who claim to have been sent by God to protect the monastery. The pilgrimage to Sinai included a visit to the great Church of Our Lady of the Bush, which had no bells, so that to summon the monks bronze rings were struck with a mallet, as in the ancient custom of the symandra. The church was roofed with lead, elegantly decorated, and generously lit. Its marble, mosaics, and icons delighted Martoni, who had never seen so much lighting in a church anywhere.33 Giacomo da Verona counted three hundred lamps and admired the dozen venerable columns. Adorno, who was also accustomed to the austere gloom of Latin sanctuaries, describes these illuminations and, being a connoisseur, identifies the basilica’s building materials. The long, narrow, rectangular white marble reliquary of Saint Catherine, with its three locks, was the focal point of the devotions. There are some

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descriptions of the ritual. With great pomp the monks, bearing candles, kissed the relics and then invited the procession of pilgrims to follow their example. Next they took a piece of silk that they first laid on the holy remains and then gave a bit to each. Adorno would have the additional privilege of touching the bones with rings and jewels entrusted to him by the princes.34 Fabri followed almost the same ritual. He mentions the difficulty the monks had opening the rusty locks. Solemnly he touched the skull with jewels entrusted to him by his friends in Ulm; as he was doing so, the Father Superior of the monastery did not take his eyes off him for a moment for fear a relic might vanish.35 Indeed, several had been stolen in this way or presented to princes. The saint’s fingers—at least those that had not been miraculously detached to follow a certain monk named Simeon to Normandy in the eleventh century!—were covered with valuable rings. Meister Thietmar (1217), in a prayerful chorus amid the lamps and censers, had seen the rounded lid opened for him alone and had touched the skull and human remains bathing in exuded oil.36 Mandeville describes how the Father Superior rubbed the bones with a silver implement and collected a precious liquid that had proven its thaumaturgical value far away from its place of origin—indeed, as far away as Holy Trinity Abbey in Rouen (renamed St. Catherine’s Abbey).37 Thanks to the pilgrims, it was disseminated and continued to be distributed to a number of reliquaries in the West (for instance, to the one in Sainte-Chapelle in Paris in 1363). How could Giacomo da Verona (1335) not have expressed his emotion? “I have myself touched that head, I have held it in my hands!” He, too, had found the head moist with its liquor, which was collected in little glass ampullae.38 He does not say how much he had to pay to fill his vials. The fraternity of relic lovers had its specialists and passionate amateurs, like one anonymous pilgrim who made learned comparisons of their size and qualities. When the lid of the little sepulcher of veined stone—measuring two and a half by three feet and sealed into the wall—was raised for him and he had seen “the large head without the jaw,” he immediately thought of the skulls of Saint John the Baptist in Rome and of Mary Magdalene at Saint-Maximin in Provence; the oozing oil reminded him of the oil that lubricated the remains of Saint Andrew, Saint Mark of Salerno, and Saint Nicholas of Bari.39 Fabri, who saw the limbs in their stagnant liquid, tells us that in 1483 the miraculous discharge had come to an end a short while before. Subsequently it became the practice to distribute pieces of cloth soaked in lamp oil. The sarcophagus would not be closed until it had swallowed up all the offerings of gold and silver, which were promptly collected by the monk on duty.40 Next the procession headed for the Chapel of the Burning Bush, which was entered barefoot: there was a little door, a precious rug, frescoes, pic-

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tures of Moses removing his sandals, and lamps.41 Thietmar states that the original bush had been divided up into relics and a copy made in gold leaf.42 So this was what Christians and Muslims found in what was a place of pilgrimage for both, from which only Jews were excluded, but where Western priests were not allowed to say mass. To the Exodus story was added the apocryphal tale of the distinctive flowers that grew on the bush and that had apparently become fossilized in the rock: It appeared to Moses that the said bush was in flames, but when the Lord departed from the place, Moses found the bush all covered with flowers, at which he was marvelously amazed! Moses took the flowers from the bush and scattered them down Mount Sinai, and everywhere he scattered them they remain to this day, well depicted, so that it is impossible to break the rock in many places without seeing the imprint of the flower rendered much better than any painter could. It is a most marvelous thing and can easily be confirmed by many pilgrims, who carry away some of these rocks from the place, and thereby it is possible to see the miracle.43 In 1483 indulgences could be earned in several outlying chapels, as well as before the twelve columns, with their illustrations of the months of the year. The monastery garden won the admiration of all for its variety of trees, nurtured “by ingenuity and by effort.”44 The place was so dry that the result was marveled at. But the water, cleverly channeled by gardener monks, made such a miracle possible. The garden was reflected in various ways in the visitors’ eyes: the quick sketch by the learned cleric, less interested in such small, immediately perceptible spaces than in wide vistas opening onto the frontiers of the universe45; the delighted picture drawn by the middleclass lover of food; or the landed gentleman, emerging hungry from the desert and able to recognize the emblematic plants of the East—the vine and the olive and fig trees.46 In the valleys Adorno could make out five small gardens that supplied an abundance of apples, pears, and other perfect fruits that the expert eye of Martoni, the southern Italian, was able to identify unhesitatingly: there were orange and almond trees and grapes growing in the sandy, stony soil.47

Climbing Mount Sinai Other pilgrimages awaited the travelers. First they had to climb Mounts Sinai and Horeb. As they clambered laboriously upward, the guide would turn for them the pages of the great book of the mountain. However, before leaving the plain behind, there were sometimes disputes to be settled. The porters hired by the pilgrims would be pushed aside by the Bedouin, who

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replaced them by virtue of a law giving them exclusive territorial rights. Upon seeing the first steep climb, the more faint-hearted pilgrims turned on their heels, while the others scaled the thousands of steps cut into the rock, sometimes going on all fours in the steepest spots. The climbers would slake their thirst at the miraculous Virgin’s Spring, and then, a little higher up, would come to her chapel, which a monk used as a hermitage. They all were told the story of the miracle that occurred on one occasion when the monastery was infested with serpents and other poisonous creatures. Forced to move out, the monks decided to make one last procession to the summit before leaving. Along the way the Virgin appeared to them, bathed in a great light, and ordered them to stay, promising to keep them safe. The friars, not believing their eyes, asked for a sign, and this was vouchsafed them when a spring gushed forth. There are variations in the legends embedded in the pilgrims’ accounts.48 Not far off, a timely appearance by Saint Catherine that rescued the monastery from famine was also commemorated,.49 Still other miraculous springs were revered: here one associated with Moses,50 and there another one that had gushed forth in answer to the prayers of an aged hermit who lacked water.51 Continuing the climb, the pilgrim would reach the Gateway of Confession that stood in a gap in the rock. Only Christians in a state of grace could pass through it. No Jew could do so without being miraculously unmasked, and it was related how one, in disguise, had been halted in his tracks by a vision of the Cross and converted on the spot.52 Higher up again was the Chapel of Elijah, mentioned in almost all the accounts, with a little cave where the prophet was said to have lived, so low that a man could not stand erect inside it. As for the nearby chapels that are mentioned, we have a more confused picture of them, one that varies from period to period. It is possible that some structures dated from the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and that during this period the pilgrimage evolved toward greater formalism.53 Farther up an enormous rock blocked the path. It had come loose from the mountain during the raging tempest of 1 Kings 19:11. Then the climb continued through some broken stones to a narrow section where there was a cavity: the cleft in the rock where God had sheltered Moses (Exod. 33:22) and into which the pilgrims piously squeezed.54 The scene was recreated to help preserve the memory of the place: “There is as if an empty place for a person lying down. Moses was so afraid upon hearing the voice of the Lord that he drew himself in as far as he could, and in doing so hit the rock so violently that he would have broken his neck had not the Lord so willed it that the rock was on that occasion as soft as wax.” This description occurs frequently in the accounts.55 The climb continued, reaching the rock where the Law was given. A Chapel of Moses had been erected on the spot, tended by two or three

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monks who lived there. Barefoot, the pilgrims passed through the iron door and kissed the marble stone where the prophet’s knees had left their imprint. A few steps away was the grotto where he stayed, an enormous cave. Close by was the mosque where Muslims worshiped. From this height there was a view across the Red Sea—which, says Mandeville, was not red: “This sea is not red, no more so than any other sea, but in some places there are red pebbles, and for this it is called the Red Sea.”56 Lengherand writes: “Although people call it the Red Sea, the water, the pebbles, and the bottom are no different from other seas I have seen in every quarter I have been.”57 Fabri mentions a cistern lower down and some ruins said to be those of an ancient monastery. The climb had taken three hours. After eating, he began his perilous descent along another dreadfully steep path. Several times he would slither down some way at a time, or crawl flat on his stomach down sheer rocks in places where a fall down fearful precipices could have been fatal.58 On that side they came to the Monastery of the Forty Martyrs, built to commemorate the massacre of some monks. It still remained for them to climb the higher and steeper Mount St. Catherine, with its overhanging cliffs and wild ravines. If they set out before dawn, in the cool of the night, they could arrive with the first rays of the sun. These ravines and gorges concealed a grassy plateau halfway up. The climber’s pen endows the mountain with inhuman characteristics, describing a “great tumor rising up from the mountain’s body, like a swelling of the earth,” of “an enormous, tortured, furrowed rock, rearing up to the sky like a neck from a human body.”59 The men helped one another, hauling each other up. If some poor knight collapsed from exhaustion, he would be pulled up by the others with the help of a large kerchief knotted to his belt. This ascent, longer and more difficult than the other, elicited many groans: “O weary human flesh, how many efforts and difficulties must thou bear!” writes the pilgrim before pausing to draw breath—and then complete the climb “in order to obtain divine grace.”60 At the summit the pilgrims worshiped on the tumulus where the saint’s body had been found in a solitary, grandiose setting. There was no building on the spot; just a simple stone the length of a human body that was honored even by the birds, a stone in which the saint’s remains had left a depression when they were laid there. Thietmar tells the story of its discovery by a hermit.61 The pilgrims dislodged a few souvenirs from the extremely hard ground. They chanted and meditated and reverently stretched out in the hollow within the rock.62 From up there the climbers would contemplate the world before continuing on their way, faces turned toward their native land. The panorama was widened to include their picture of the universe. To the southwest was the Red Sea, the route to the Indies, with the port of Tor (El-Tûr) and its spice-

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laden vessels, which were said to be built without using iron because of the magnetic rocks that would attract them. In the distance some Ethiopian Olympus shot up its flames at every sunrise. They could make out Arabia, the source of gold and spices. They imagined Mecca and the Prophet’s Tomb, which they believed to be suspended in the air. They looked toward Babylon, whence it was said the Gypsies came, driven out for refusing hospitality to the Holy Family. Their eyes also turned to the Holy Land, but the mountains blocked their view of Judaea, Palestine, and the Mediterranean.63 The guide directed their gaze to the desert expanse between Mount Sinai and the Red Sea, recalling a legend according to which a monastery of holy men existed there, hidden away by the grace of God, the ringing of whose bells could often be heard but the way to which no one had been able to find. Certain Arabs claimed to have reached it but immediately forgotten the way. When monks from St. Catherine’s disappeared, it was believed that they had been carried off and brought to this monastery. Once two lost travelers had been taken in by two hundred white monks. One of them asked to remain there, while the other left and told what he had seen, but he was never able to find his way back to the splendid, ghostly monastery.64 How could the harassed monks not have consoled themselves with the dream of a blessed place that escaped the hostility of this world? The pilgrims scrambled down the mountain from spring to miraculous bush, collecting rods of the same wood as Moses’ staff. Their footwear disintegrated. The garden of the Monastery of the Forty Martyrs, watered by large pools, seemed like a heavenly grove. In the plain there would still be some hermitage (of Saint Onuphre, Saint Como, or Saint Damian) to visit and some deep hole to be explored, into whose gloom the ancient Fathers once descended to seek the light of contemplation. Here was the rock on Mount Horeb (Exod. 17:6–7), broad at the base, narrow at the peak; and there was the seat from which Moses proclaimed the Law. On the mountain, one rock had a bovine shape when viewed from below, a reminder of the Golden Calf. And this peculiar stone? On it Moses had smashed the Tablets of the Law.65 Thus, the pilgrim reread the book of Exodus in the natural shapes before setting out again on the road leading to Cairo and the Pyramids. Today time seems to have spared the monastery. A handful of monks still exchange services with the neighboring villagers, still tend their almond trees in the desert, bake their age-old little round loaves, and visit the hermitages. Like the pages of a book, the scarred walls of the monastery preserve the marks of a past age: “We read the names of several Frenchmen written on the wall of the chapel on Mount Horeb, who had taken pleasure in inscribing themselves there,” wrote one traveler in the sixteenth century.66 “Waiting for sleep to come, I look at the inscriptions that cover the whitewash on the wall around my head: the names of pilgrims come there

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from every corner of the world,” wrote another in the nineteenth.67 In the ancient refectory one can still see the incised names of pilgrims who came to Sinai between the fourteenth and eighteenth centuries. Do graffiti not offer the illusion of existing both here and somewhere else, and of surviving one’s own death? In the desert men still look for the upright stones that speak, saying: “Here Moses made a halt.”68 So did time. Today, as in the past, the visitor can climb the age-old steps of Jebel Musa and Jebel Katharin, and survey the rim of the universe as the sun sets the mountains aflame, as if celebrating the dawn of a new day for the world.

chapter 12

Cairo, City of Lights In the city of Cairo is the mildest air to be found anywhere in the world, and the most profitable for human life. —emmanuel piloti

Attracted by Egypt, that other Holy Land that gave refuge to the fleeing Virgin and was home to the saintly hermits, the pilgrims continued their journey toward the valley of the Nile. They would spend some time in Cairo, a capital with exceptional influence over an immense territory.1 The image of this city that emerges from the accounts is a varied one. Neither entirely true nor entirely false, it is a patchwork of observations, with their interpretations and garnered information. It was influenced by the version of reality elaborated by some guide for the use of the visitor. A comparative reading of the Journal of Ibn Iyas, citizen of Cairo (c. 1500),2 and of the “treatise” written by Emmanuel Piloti, a Venetian émigré (c. 1420),3 as well as of some of the pilgrims’ accounts, may enable us to grasp the different levels of portrayal and appreciation of the city, the showcase for a civilization. What the native Egyptian reveals from within the expatriate merchant attempts to interpret for his compatriots, while the outsider is condemned to see only the outer surface of this land of surprises.

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The Nile: Floods and Celebrations This astonishing metropolis was the throbbing heart of a country unable to spread out any farther for lack of water, which beat to the rhythm of the floods of a tentacular biblical river. This was the Nile, flowing from a source as yet undiscovered, revered because it “readied the barren for fruitfulness,” brought “ships laden with monkeys, parrots, and other novelties from nearby Ethiopia,” whose fish were “born of the silt,” and irrigated splendid orchards.4 Its water was precious, being endowed with medicinal qualities that enabled it to alleviate stomach ailments on condition the advice passed on by Piloti was followed: “The water must be taken from the river and put in a large earthenware vessel that is shut up in a place and allowed to sit for the space of XXIIII hours. [It is clarified and becomes] marvelous. It makes for perfect digestion.5 The Fleming Joos van Ghistele compares it to the Scheldt, but, given its mysterious floods, could it really be compared to any other river? Were these floods caused by melting snow? By particular winds? Did they come from a land where winter reigned during the Egyptian summer? No one could solve the mystery. When it reached a height of twenty cubits and the sultan ordered the dike to be broken so that the land might be flooded, the local people held extravagant celebrations to honor this river of a thousand virtues, considered to be a vestige of the Earthly Paradise and seen as a watery link between the known world and the unexplored,6 a river that traced a seemingly heaven-blessed furrow across an arid land. The citizen of Cairo punctuates his chronicle with an annual reference to his blessed Nile and the crucial role it played, describing the events surrounding the Nilometer, a predicter of bounty or famine that prompted either joy or anxiety, determined commodity prices, and governed behavior—for any delay in the rise of the waters resulted in panic and scarcity.7 This was why, once a year, the Egyptian kept an appointment with his generous river god. For Trevisano, the Venetian ambassador, the opening of the Khalig Canal (around August 15) was “the finest festival of the year.” Adorno saw the princely, carved vessel glide over the water, decorated with silk and precious stones, hung with golden cloth from India, and escorted by other, hardly less splendid, boats, riding low in the water with its load of noblemen and musicians.8 Whereas the traveler saw only the festive pomp, the native Egyptian paid most attention to the economic consequences of the floods.

Cairo the Megalopolis All the visitors admit to having been struck by the dense population and size of the city. The urban area—which includes Cairo, Babylon (old Cairo),

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the ancient Heliopolis, and the port of Bulaq—was impressive. (Some even imagined that ancient Thebes had once been part of the ensemble.)9 Swarming with life, Cairo was considered the largest city in the world. An anonymous writer says that, according to resident merchants, it measures fifteen miles long and five wide. He complains about the crowded streets: “This city is so densely populated that you can hardly take three or four steps in the streets without a collision.”10 Estimates were arrived at, resulting in farfetched comparisons. Cairo was like a Paris and a half,11 seven times Paris, three times Cologne, or eighty times Ulm; it measured three Alemanic miles in length; its circumference was calculated by the number of hours taken by a galloping horse. In 1483 the city’s expansion was under way, and the guides proudly showed off a completely new residential neighborhood where just fifteen years before there had been only scrub and brigands.12 The urban landscape reflected in the texts varies, depending on the visitor’s tastes. One was interested in the construction material of the houses of whitewashed mud,13 while another, arriving by boat, surveyed the fine residences, surrounded by gardens, that stood on the islands, the riverbanks, and the innumerable boats clogging the river.14 Yet another describes the wasteland and orchards of fruit trees and fragrant plants as they came into sight between Babylon and Boulaq.15 City planning can create illusions that magnify reality. A Russian merchant who saw the city in 1465 exaggerated its size so much that he estimated it at fourteen thousand streets. He describes it as being divided into neighborhoods that were relatively independent economically: “Each street has two gates, two towers, and two watchmen who light the oil lamps. Each street has a great bazaar and is self-sufficient.”16 Every main thoroughfare or square was enclosed by such gates.17 In a panoramic view from above, the sultans’ capital touched the Nile at each end, “giving it the shape of a pair of eyeglasses.”18 The houses were overcrowded, and on the outskirts tents and pavilions sprang up. Some even lived in wells or holes in the ground.19 All the figures suggested were intended to impress rather than reflect reality. Cairo was seen as a labyrinth of countless streets, where ten thousand water carriers and twenty-four thousand itinerant cooks carrying their three-legged stoves on their heads made their way through the throng of men and animals the writers took pleasure in depicting.20 Their estimates of the number of mosques surpassed all credence: a thousand, ten thousand, sixty thousand.21 The observant Lannoy noticed that the city lacked a defensive wall. Then, surrendering to the city’s charm, he undertook a lengthy study of the works of art, the customs, and the taboos.22 For the visitor the street, where most of daily life unfolded, was always the visible side of the culture. It could be recounted like a story. What was normal and what was accidental attracted equally spontaneous attention. It

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was always a surprise to see cooking done in the public streets. Fabri could see three reasons for it: hygienic, religious, and economic.23 The small-scale cooks, carrying their braziers on their heads, cried out their wares: meat, fish, and dairy products cooked over charcoal. In an endless to and fro thousands of camels hauled skinfuls of water that would be sprayed to keep down the choking dust. Men carrying goatskins at one elbow distributed cups of water. Such a ballet of people and animals supplying the needs of the inhabitants was an extraordinary sight. The sultan levied a tax per day and per animal.24 There was delicious fruit in the market, including the long “apples of paradise” (bananas), too perishable for export but that infallibly came in for mystical praise. Jean Mandeville wrote: “If you cut across them, the shape of the cross always appears in the center.”25 In 1512, when wood was in short supply, animal dung, palm branches, and straw mixed with earth were used as fuel.26 Traffic jams gave rise to disputes. In the narrow alleyways the guide on horseback would strike the people with his riding crop to clear a path, unconcerned that someone might get hurt. The unfortunate victims did not dare avenge themselves on their masters, slyly attacking those in the rear of the pilgrim column as the cause of the problem. Cries, insults, and stones would fly. Foreigners were not welcome everywhere. Fabri saw lines of prisoners in chains begging, hoping to gather up the wherewithal to buy their freedom. The condemned would call out to passersby and clutch at anything within their reach. In the city, where the traffic was dangerous, he observed a hierarchical code of gestures. When a Saracen encountered a Mameluke of the court, he had to remove his feet from the stirrups or suffer a whipping, while foreigners had to stop and dismount from their donkeys. The Saracens were entitled to move about freely, but Christians and Jews had to be accompanied by guides when riding, during which they had the right to put their feet in the stirrups. At streetcorners donkeys could be hired to travel longer distances within the city.27 Symon Semeonis provides a glimpse of a less rigidly codified city around 1324; he says that only noblemen went about on horseback.28 No doubt this was because Symeon instinctively saw the urban environment he discovered as being normal, likening it to his own familiar world, while Fabri, a century and a half later, was eagerly searching for hidden indications to differentiate it from the universe familiar to him. One brought the two worlds closer together, while the other widened the gap between them. In this way exoticism gradually came to be seen as an essential aspect of the journey. As novelty became more than merely noteworthy, it was sought after for its own sake. It was no longer sufficient to write about what one had seen (a passive attitude); it became necessary to seek out everything that might bestow an aura of strangeness or appearance of novelty on the foreign land. People searched for every

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indication of difference from their familiar universe, even if this sometimes meant offering bizarre interpretations of some poorly understood realities. The important thing was to depict a different world. For Ogier d’Anglure, the city was “better built than any other.” In 1396 he entered by night to avoid the crowds. He was struck by the beauty of the houses without roofs but with terraces instead, by the fountains, gardens, and mosques, which were devoid of decoration but equipped with bathhouses (he also saw poor people washing themselves in the river “most shamelessly and in public”). The thronging multitudes inspired him to make the extravagant estimate of “sixty thousand taverns, eating places, and stalls where cooked meats are sold.”29 The city was so extensive that Adorno gave up any attempt to arrive at an estimate. His own experience was proof enough. He was scarcely able to travel the length of the city between early morning (setting out two hours before dawn) and midday—even though he did not walk but ran, for the dragoman accompanying him was on horseback.30 The lyrical Symon Semeonis, who took delight in all things new, remarked on the opulence of the houses’ interiors, like “God’s mansions at the gates of Heaven.”31 Martoni, the more down-to-earth lawyer, took Naples as his point of comparison to describe the windows.32 Visitors were wide-eyed at the bathing establishments, with their marble pools full of hot or cold water. The Citadel, constructed by Saladin with material from a pyramid, towered over the city and provoked interest as much for what it revealed as for what it concealed. It was assigned dimensions comparable to those of French towns.33 Cairo—in the brilliance of the palaces and the frailty of the houses built of “mud bricks that continuous rain would melt like wax”34—had both gold and mud to offer the medieval “tourist.” Our authors liked to seek out unusual features that made this Eastern city appear to originate in an almost enchanted world. Cairo was the fifteenth century’s “city of light.” Lamps burned in the streets until late at night to light the way and allow the inhabitants to obtain fire. One traveler humorously declared: “I think that in this [town] as much oil is burned as there is wine drunk in Orleans.” He put the sources of light in each of the innumerable mosques at three hundred lamps: “There is not a single room in the entire city where there are people but a lamp burns all night; in every street there are likewise lamps and torches burning all night.”35 The towers were ringed with circular balconies used to call the people to prayer and to which poles were attached bearing lamps that were lit at sunset. “At night you would think the city was on fire,” writes another visitor, who never tired of the spectacle. What king in Christendom could afford such consumption of oil?36 The fact is that the inhabitants of Cairo loved illuminations. Our Egyptian citizen Ibn Iyas, who was close to the sultan, describes nocturnal celebrations with fireworks and torchlight processions the mag-

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nificence of which was rated according to the number of candelabras burning in the palaces or on the minarets.37

Under the Mamelukes Cairo was the Mamelukes’ capital. The Mamelukes were former slaves who had come to power after driving back the Mongols in 1260. They selected one of their own to head of the country, and from then on they comprised the administration and the military. They gave Egypt a “powerful, refined civilization” (this was written later!) whose tangible manifestations still win visitors’ admiration even today.38 The Mameluke princes were builders. Ibn Iyas portrays his sultan, Malik Ashraf, as a building inspector! He points to the improvements they made (such as laying out gardens with beaches and leisure areas, digging canals, and installing sophisticated watering systems), but also to the collapse of poorly designed buildings. Travelers who arrived after the Crusades found building sites upon which monuments were being erected to the glory of the masters. A number of palaces and mosques that still stand today date from this period.39 It was theoretically forbidden for Christians to enter the mosques, but the local nobility, who easily gave in to vanity, would defy the law in order to show off some brand-new architectural gem. So it was that in 1483 it was possible to visit the recently completed great mosque and the City of the Dead—but under protection, for the common people would have resisted the intrusion!40 The Egyptian tombs had already won the admiration of Giacomo da Verona, whose expert eye appreciated their marble and alabaster, the likes of which he had never seen in all of Christendom.41 Ogier d’Anglure compared the sultans’ mausoleums to lovely, spacious chapels.42 Being poorly guided or poorly informed, Joos van Ghistele mistook the Nilometer on Roda (Rawda) Island for a mosque. Visits to Christian churches were part of the pilgrim’s itinerary. One of these was St. Mary’s of the Cave (Abu Sarga, St. Sergius), where the Virgin was said to have taken refuge. Inside, the cavity was pointed out where she laid her Son when danger threatened, as well as the cistern she used. Its water was used to treat listlessness and ailing children were dipped in it. At the Church of St. Barbara (Sitt Burbâra), the martyr of that name was honored. Twenty-nine steps rose up to Our Lady of the Column (Al-Mo’allaqâ, or the Hanging Church, the seat of the Coptic patriarchate until the fourteenth century.). There they were told the miracle of the voice that spoke from the Column.43 The nobles reemerged as knights from St. George’s Church (Keniset Mari Girgis), as they did from the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem. Around 1394 there was also a visit to a small church beside the residence of the patriarch of the Jacobites, a wealthy individual celebrated for his charity to the poor

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and to pilgrims, who was compared to the pope (sicut papa).44 Martoni gives a long account of the visit he paid him together with a group of Ethiopian pilgrims reduced to skin and bones by their ascetic life, and with whom he found himself in perfect communion. The patriarch presented them with vials of balm, and after blessing them he offered them a light meal.45 These buildings, not well described, are barely mentioned apart from their commemorative function. The visitors, whose stay was brief, found it difficult to penetrate the different strata of society, although they did try to decipher them. A hint of didacticism emerges in the style of those who had no more than a superficial glimpse. Ghillebert de Lannoy presents his sociological analysis under the heading “Condition and nature of the Sultans of Babylon, of their commanders and slaves, and of the Saracens of Egypt,” in which he describes the military dress and contrasts the native Saracens, who were less well dressed, with the sultan’s Mamelukes. This study, deliberately limited in scope, was carried out at the expense of other groups: “In all the land of Egypt there is a great quantity of Christians, of whom I make little mention because they could be of little use to Christians.” Such comments remind de Lannoy’s reader of his book’s practical purpose, namely, to provide an investigation of public utility. Ghillebert’s presentation is nonetheless of interest. Around the sultan he observed a guard consisting of former slaves and recreant converts to Islam, who originated from “strange nations such as Tartary, Turkey, Bulgaria, and Hungary, from Christian as well as from other lands. The sultan places total confidence in these slaves for the protection of his person.” The sultan had them undergo instruction in the warlike arts and appointed them “commanders of ten or twenty lances, fifty or a hundred.” As for the rest of the native population, de Lannoy saw only “miserable people wearing shirts, without any shoes or breeches, a cloth wound about the head; and, in the desert, people with little to eat and poorly dressed.”46 In 1335 the milicia soldani seen at the castle’s entrance did not make much of an impression as far as their equipment or mounts were concerned.47 Fifteenth-century accounts show prejudice against the Mamelukes and point to their bad reputation. Martin von Baumgarten criticizes their arrogance.48 Lengherand clarifies the reasons for their unpopularity: “Going about the town, those who do not take care have often been beaten and struck, and have often had their purse stolen by the said Mamelukes, and there is no justice to return it; there were insults aplenty. [They] have complete control over the cities, the police, and justice. And the Moors or native Saracens, however wealthy or learned, have no power over anything save their merchandise.” The merchant class likewise seemed to him to have little power.49 But were his perceptions accurate? Adorno, on the contrary, speaks of the

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importance of the merchants, from whom the sultan borrowed money, implying that their financial power, though discreet, was indeed real.50 Georges Lengherand states that only the Mamelukes, who wore white with red headgear and a badge, were entitled to move about on horseback. He also noticed an original insitutional detail: the sultan was chosen “not by election or seniority but for his strength.” Joos van Ghistele sums up the situation in a rather simplistic fashion: the strongest hold power to the detriment of the ablest.51 The instability that was endemic from the fifteenth century onward is confirmed by the native Egyptians.52 The behavior of those the Westerners (sometimes erroneously) identified as Mamelukes was disgraceful. Anecdotal proof of this is offered up by Jean Thenaud: “When the Mamelukes know there is some good-looking woman or girl in a house, they will enter it and drive out fathers, mothers, husbands, and family in order to put their iniquitous desires into play. . . . Whover strikes a Mameluke, whether it be justified or not, must lose an eye and a hand.” According to Ibn Iyas, the sultans made some feeble attempt to curb their depredations.53 But van Ghistele tells how one of them had two officers whipped in the presence of some ambassadors.54 Could it be that the supreme chieftain wanted to demonstrate his justice? In any case, the travelers were forewarned: it was better to be on one’s guard against these ruffians, who committed outrages against all and sundry and lived a life of idleness.55 The pilgrims’ accounts share the point of view of the local merchants. Ibn Iyas confirms the fear inspired in the inhabitants by the Mamelukes, whose revolts and exactions he describes. If their wages were not paid on time, they would leave their barracks and sack the markets. Following one such raid in 1511, only some complicit slaves were cut in half, while the Mamelukes merely suffered the confiscation of their booty. In 1503, for the same misdemeanor some brigands were hanged or nailed onto camels. Ibn Iyas reveals the power struggle between those lower on the scale and the sultan, who thought of abdicating when the unrest continued. The Mamelukes’ abominable conduct would create shortages, for the merchants would store their goods in a safe place. Ibn Iyas mentions an assault on some women, after which the plaintiffs were awarded compensation to be deducted from the delinquents’ pay—a most unusual occurrence. The dislike of the merchants and fellahs for these military cadres emerges clearly from his account. The citizen of Cairo tells of the taxes arbitrarily imposed on some rich merchant or wealthy artist, group, or community (the Samaritans, for example), and the unjust confiscations. Butchers reacted to repressive measures by going on strike. The sultan was booed by the people, who were infuriated by the way the new coinage ate into their profits.56 The apostate, whether a willing one or not, was considered a deserter from Christianity. Some travelers observed that the fundamental act was

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the denial of Christianity rather than adherence to Islam. Anecdotes seem to show that conversions were opportunistic.57 Some expatriates who still preserved the memory of their roots would seek out visiting countrymen or request some spiritual service of pilgrim churchmen.58 They could serve as intermediaries and cultural interpreters. It was from a native of Danzig that Joos van Ghistele obtained his information about the Mamelukes’ institutions and schools.59 Antonio Zocto, a Florentine, was Martoni’s interpreter.60 But it remains to be seen whether these intermediaries always had an accurate and objective perception of things.

The Passing Parade Cairo, a crossroads for the world’s merchants, had a profusion of riches on display. Spices and precious stones were brought from India by way of the Red Sea and the remainder of the way by camel train.61 The women wore veils when buying cloth and toiletries in the bazaar. There, in innumerable tiny stalls, they could find every kind of material for sale, from Persian embroidered jackets to cambric linen.62 These Eastern women, going about on donkeyback and avoiding the glances of foreigners, remained mysterious to the latter. Many sketches were made of them, so surprising were they, even if it was only for their remarkably inelegant way of sitting astride their mount: “One leg this side, one on the other; and all covered with a white turban, their faces covered with a black cloth so that they can see through it and not be seen; and they are so heavy in this dress that one would never think them beautiful; but inside their houses they adorn themselves and put on other marvelously beautiful, rich silk garments.”63 In the East Westerners encountered polygamy, telling how princes’ wives were guarded by eunuchs. The imagery of the sequestered Eastern woman became a common theme. Van Ghistele describes the harem as a beautiful, enclosed area and succumbs to the temptation to relate a story about it. On his return from war, he explains, the sultan is welcomed in the gallery by his wives, who are singing or dancing, including a number of slaves. He only has to send his ring to the chosen one.64 This world from which foreigners were excluded stimulated the imagination to create romantic fabrications. Georges Lengherand speaks of the guards’ obsessive precautions: “For fear they become inflamed, or want to go to another, they see no other males but the said eunuchs. And they would not be allowed to have any long fruit, such as a cucumber, or anything resembling the nature of a man with which they might be corrupted.”65 (Even their bread was square!) Upon discovering the relativity of customs, the traveler made comparisons with his own everyday experience. Sardonic comments on polygamy were formulated by the Western bourgeois and seigneurs: Did a rich man

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have four wives or five? Lengherand was “ amazed that they do not use their claws against one another, as they would in our country” But he did not find the custom entirely bad, for it cost nothing to marry off daughters in that country; one could be bought for as much as six hundred ducats—a sum that remained hers should she be repudiated.66 O happy land for a father with daughters to marry! Out of the corner of his eye Fabri observed his landlord’s two wives. Arrayed like courtesans, these two Christian woman insisted on attending the pilgrim’s mass. Although their husband did not seem to mind, he was later seen threatening one of them for quarelling with the other. Fabri pointed out the lesson of married life “à l’égyptienne”: discord was the real price of polygamy.67 The travelers transformed Egypt into a land of extremes. The women were either too heavily veiled or went half naked. Lengherand did not at all appreciate a display of dancing, for which he was asked to contribute his purse. Here is how he describes the stupefying exhibition, with its accompaniment pipes and drums: “As they dance the women rolled their hips and cried out as if in the act. To better show off their rolling they tie a cloth below their buttocks, and it is most shameful and odious to see. But neither the men nor the women have any shame, and they say that however respectable a woman may be, she would dance like that to better stir up the men to lechery, although they are already greatly so.”68 Reading Ibn Iyas helps one realize how much festive events are intimately linked to a people’s culture. This citizen of Cairo possessed none of the Westerners’ prudish severity, describing without the slightest opprobrium the outpourings of joyous ululations and the spreading of silks to the accompaniment of drums and shawms. He thoroughly enjoyed the polo games and the fighting bulls, elephants, and lions. The womens’ fervor was evident from by their reverence for the dead: every Friday they threw jasmine, basil, and rose-perfumed oils upon the deceased so that their souls might revel in those sweet fragrances.69 The city seemed to be a mosaic of peoples living side by side without mixing. All the accounts describe this cosmopolitan atmosphere. The Westerners made no distinction between religious ritual and ethnic origin. (Was such a distinction even possible?) Gabriele Capodilista understood that in Cairo dress was part of a common code of identification.70 In the variety of costumes Niccolò da Poggibonsi deciphered religious insignia, creating an impression of profusion with his almost exhaustive enumeration of the “sects” (Latins, Greeks, Georgians, Nubians, Ethiopians, Jacobites, Armenians, Christians of the Girdle) and peoples (Turks, Indians, Tartars, Hebrews, Samaritans, Saracens, Barbarians), “some clad in linen, others in camel skin, others in cloth of silk or gold. That is how these peoples recognize one another.”71 The Jews in their yellow turbans, estimated at a few thousand,

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had their own streets, synagogues, and markets. “They are not as well liked as the Christians of the Girdle,” claims Adorno. Felix Fabri, who could always derive some lesson from what he saw, found it admirable that men of such diverse geographic and religious origins did not come to blows, for the divisions of Islam and Judaism were added to those of Christianity.72 Emmanuel Piloti, who lived in this “Rome of the pagans,” was, on the contrary, conscious of enmities that he likens to the internecine conflicts of Florence: “These peoples are always divided, just as we speak of the Guelphs and the Ghibellines. One people is called dogs by the other and they are always full of ill will.”73 Some rich merchants concealed their wealth to avoid arousing envy.74 In the colorful Cairo throng Nubians were also encountered. They were Christians, but “as dark as blackberries from the great heat of the sun.”75 The fifteenth-century traveler was indignant after having witnessed the trade in human beings. The slave market, wrote Capodilista, was a strange sight, with men and women standing naked, waiting to be sold like cattle.76 Fabri saw Tartar children being sold for almost nothing. Later, in the market at Alexandria, he would again wax indignant, denouncing the owners’ cruelty toward runaways and describing suicides committed out of desperation. He was shocked to come across some who had been taken prisoner at sea and sold into slavery. His account turns into an indictment. The trade had its laws and rituals. Thus, Fabri notes that a nobleman in his group was not permitted to buy the Ethiopian he coveted; and the pilgrims understood that Jews were allowed to buy only Jewish slaves and Christians only Christian ones. The wealthy pilgrim consoled himself by purchasing a long-tailed monkey, silk, and local costumes.77 Sometimes the splitting up of families was avoided. There were merciful masters, but van Ghistele was shocked by the promiscuous atmosphere.78 Foreigners took lodgings with a licensed guide, or in a funduk licensed by the sultan. Niccolò da Martoni was brought to the consul’s splendid residence,79 while Ogier d’Anglure was brought to an inn near the grand dragoman’s house (perhaps they were one and the same). They took bed and board at varying rates. Their stay must have earned the landlord good money, for we hear of a certain François de Malines who attempted to steal clients from a competitor by covertly denouncing the latter as a swindler. Later the pilgrims suspected their host of delaying their departure in an attempt to force them to spend the winter there.80 In 1483 van Ghistele took lodgings in the house of this same François (who enjoyed the sultan’s favor), after showing his letters of introduction, undergoing the security interrogation, and paying a five-ducat accomodation tax.81 Some were unhappy at having to find their meals in town, but the anonymous pilgrim in 1420 considered himself well treated and guided by a certain “Messire

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Luc,” a Genoese merchant: “Messire Luc had the office or duty of lodging pilgrims in his house. . . . After he had treated us all that day to fruit, meats, and good wines, we rested until morning. The next day he took us to see the most marvelous building, the Babelon tower in Babylon, two or three crossbow shots away from Cairo.”82 Any Western traveler was considered a potential spy by the authorities. Niccolò da Martoni (1394) speaks of the oath insisted upon by the officer who registered new arrivals. The pilgrim had to swear that he had come “for cause of pilgrimage, and not in a dishonest manner against the sultan’s State.”83 In 1335 Giacomo da Verona had to leave Cairo in haste because the rumor of an invasion rendered all visiting Christians suspect. Fleeing aboard a Nile boat, he renounced the visit to Alexandria as too dangerous a place to stop.84 Arnold von Harff (1496), who arrived just when there were rumors of a landing by the king of France, underwent a thorough grilling. More than ever he was eager to adopt the guise of a merchant completely ignorant of politics. When van Ghistele asked the sultan for permission to continue his journey into areas usually off limits to Christians, he underwent a further interrogation about his country’s situation.85 The Westerner always had to be wary of the periodic consequences of this fear of spies, and plans for Western expeditions only fueled the psychosis. Despite the discomfort and suspicion, von Harff, enjoyed his visit. Having a curious mind, he studied the customs, sketched the costumes, followed funerals, marveled at certain inventions, informed himself about politics, and guessed at the merchants’ wealth.86 No doubt he drew attention to himself by his lively intelligence, for he also claims to have rejected the advances of women who tried to convince him to enter the sultan’s service. Was this true or was he just boasting? Some visitors did fantasize about the different life they might lead if they became expatriates. The traveler paid tribute to the genius of a people that had carried on the ancient industry of artificial incubation. It was as a satisfied witness that Piloti conjured up the atmosphere in the streets, where vendors proclaimed that “an ovenful of chicks is ready and will be emptied tomorrow!”87 Chicks were sold by the measure and poultry was kept in herds, like geese in the West. The Venetian admits his pleasure at seeing them go by. Van Ghistele recalls the long containers shaped like animal feeding troughs into which straw or dung was placed and a low fire kept burning beneath.88 Thousands of eggs were placed in holes made for this purpose. Without this mass production, how could the population have been fed? It was extraordinary artful the way human industry performed nature’s work in such a miraculous way—the pilgrims who witnessed it were unanimous about that.89 The women carried their eggs to the oven “as if bringing dough to the bake house.”90 One visitor who did see the herds of poultry but not the famous

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incubators he had heard so much about expressed his doubts: “Women tend the chickens in the fields by the hundreds and thousands the way sheperds look after their sheep, and in some places geese. And, what is worse, the Saracens say they hatch and bring out chicks from the eggs by the heat of an oven, five or six thousand at a time, all in the space of six days.”91 Niccolò da Martoni, who did see it, was afraid he would be accused of inventing it, so extraordinary did he find the spectacle.92 Several travelers took an interest in the sophisticated irrigation systems and describe the extraction and refining of sugar, a basic ingredient (along with pistachios) in pastry making. Merchants took an interest in the linen from Upper Egypt and in the factories for making silk and Alexandrian cloth, which were visibly in decline. Cairo’s dominant role in relations with Syria and India did not escape notice, but the exorbitant customs tariffs were deplored.93

A Strange Bestiary Where animal life was concerned, the visitor enumerated curiosity after curiosity. Fabulous beasts could be bought. If anyone wanted to bring a young leopard home with him as a souvenir, he could buy one for a ducat, while a Christian slave could go for as little as fifteen ducats. Kites were used to clean the streets, and pharaoh’s rats (credited with the ability to destroy the basilisk, a fabulous serpent) proliferated. The black, short-horned buffalo was a relative of the ox. The unexpected would appear at a streetcorner in the form of a baboon riding a goat. And who would believe they had seen “a bird bigger than a horse”? Yet such was the ostrich, “equipped with the feet of a calf, more like a young dromedary than an edible bird.”94 New realities were rendered by means of comparisons. The crocodile provided a mandatory exercise. How it was described depended on the classifications of the bestiaries.95 Niccolò da Martoni admits he never saw a specimen of this large quadruped.96 This “savage, aquatic beast”97 devoured men and smashed boats.98 It was a “sort of large serpent called calcatrix [sic], with a head as big as a horse and a body like [the dragon] defeated by Lord Saint George. Which serpents come into the fields and devour horses, cattle, sheep, and people.”99 The animal is described by means of broad comparisons as a combination of different species, real or imagined, with a dragon’s head, the jaw of an enormous pike, teeth like a wolf’s, the creased skin of a serpent, webbed feet like a duck’s, and a long lizard’s tail.100 Commenting on the journey by Sebald Rieter and Hans Tucher (1479), for whom crocodiles were “dragons without a crest or wings,” J. M. Pastré quite rightly notes the paradox that sometimes arose when pilgrims, having exhausted the comparisons that bridge the gap between the known and the

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unknown, “measure the new phenomenon using a fictive yardstick and describe what they are seeing for the first time by means of things they have never seen.”101 Comparisons permit size and scale to be expressed: Ogier d’Anglure speaks of the cockatrice he saw, “hideous, as big as a mastiff and half a lance in length,” with a mouth as long and wide as its body.102 A trade in dried skins was carried on, and in Rome Arnold von Harff saw some animal skins for sale erroneously rechristened “dragon skins.”103 Tortoises were also encountered, “so large that their lids cover all of a man.”104 With only minor variations, everyone conjures up the graceful silhouette of the gentle giraffe (seraph) from “India” with the help of the inspired commonplaces of the bestiaries: a “stag’s head, with no horns” and with ungulate hooves, “divided like those of an ox,” the “body of a large horse,” and a dappled coat. It was so tall that “a large man could barely reach its tail with his fingertips.”105 The unfamiliar animals were seen as a combination of features borrowed from familiar species plus the addition of specific ones. Among the “strange beasts” seen by Ogier d’Anglure, the elephant, described by means of broad comparisons, is reduced to familiar norms: [I]t has a blackish coat; large ears like a small winnowing basket, and floppy like a hunting dog’s; it has marvelously small, round eyes. It was very big and tall and had a short neck: it could not get down to eat because of its great height, but in its snout it has a kind of tube that it has right at the end of a snout (like a hog’s) that hangs almost down to the ground. With this great tube the elephant takes its food from the ground and carries to its mouth; likewise, when it wishes to drink, it fills this tube with the water put before it and brings it up to its mouth; and when it has drunk, it lets the rest fall to the ground. When he blows it resounds through this tube louder than any trumpet in the world could do, and this voice is loud and terrible to anyone unused to it. From its mouth spring two teeth like a wild boar’s.”106 Its bed (two feet high, twenty-five feet long, and twelve wide) gives an idea of its size.107 Lionardo Frescobaldi compares the size of the animal to that of a man or an ox and suggests a few analogies in describing its appearance: it has a goat’s tail, a bat’s ears the size of an escutcheon, a roar like thunder, and a trunk shaped like a roll of parchment.108 The homing pigeons trained to carry official correspondence are also mentioned. Some were skeptical about the bird’s exploits. Certain individuals had pet animals: a civet for its musk; a leopard trained to hunt or for protection; ostriches; handsome talking parrots; and pure-bred horses.109 But does all this mean that travel led to greater wisdom? Many pilgrims challenged old beliefs while accepting new fables. Gradually the idea took

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root that nature sets no limits to the strangeness of the forms it produces. Moreover, the country visited was always enhanced by the things the traveler did not see. No doubt this is why the very grave Georges Lengherand describes with a straight face the fish-women of the Nile as hybrid creatures resembling naked humans, except that they did not speak and had scales along their spine. They emerged from the river to feed on fruit. If caught, they struggled to the death. If shepherds captured a female, they used her carnally before releasing her.110 An anonymous writer tells the same story: In this river Nile, which comes from the Earthly Paradise, there are men and women all naked who remain in it day and night like fish. There is no difference between these men and women and ourselves, save that they do not speak and that along their backs and spines they have a row of scales like fish; they sometimes come out onto land and in the sun, and along the shore; they eat roots, grapes, grasses, and fruit if they can find any, but if they see someone they jump into the river. People say that some have been trapped in pits and in snares, but they suffer so much and struggle so fiercely that if they are not released they die forthwith; but when those lecherous dogs of Saracens who keep watch over the animals can catch them in a pit or a snare—or so it is said—and get hold of some women, it is claimed that they then use them carnally; and forthwith they are let go, without any more show of affection, and they run as fast as they can and throw themselves into the river.111 The discovery of unexpected novelties expands the realm of the credible. Thus, the travelers freely interpreted Eastern reality through the lens of their Western sensibility. Many aspects of political life or the social structure escaped them. But this direct apprehension of a small, visible part of an Eastern world upon which they thought they were raising the veil of mystery is not devoid of charm, even if their vision lacked universal value and was not unconditionally true. These accounts are at least instructive about the criteria of interest at the time. In the sixteenth century Pierre Belon du Mans would travel armed with the curiosity of a natural scientist; his Egypt of “singularities” would be a land of medicinal plants and local fauna.112 Seeing it through Prosper Alpin’s eyes, we share the shortsightedness of the botanist.113 In the eighteenth century the East would be endowed with the poetry of Hubert Robert’s ruins, and in the nineteenth century Chateabriand would project onto the various sites the concept of them he owed to his immense culture. In the twentieth century the country would become a vast archeological dig. The soul of a country is also contained in these fragmentary images, snatches of sound, wafted smells, and partly glimpsed shapes captured by artists. The travel accounts interest us less for

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the (imperfect) knowledge they claim to communicate than for its effect on them. Our authors, who set out as pilgrims to the Holy Land, had become travelers. Why, upon returning home, would they not have been tempted to depict themselves as the heroes of a unique experience, acquired in a far-off land? How could they not have hoped to find the words they needed to share their emotions—words that sound like an invitation to a new departure?

chapter 13

Diamonds of the Sands, or Pharaoh’s Granaries Speak to me! Speak, o rose-crowned Sphinx! —victor hugo

Mystery envelops all unfamiliar forms. We can see the presentiment of an aesthetic of the deserted or crumbling monument emerge, conjured up through cultural memory and the imaginary world associated with it. The travelers awakened to archeology, providing a description or rapid sketch of the obelisks, bas-reliefs, and hieroglyphs. Memphis was devoured by the sands: neglect was to blame, but above all the power of nature’s perpetual, insidious, destructive action. Yet the ancient site captured the attention, and in the fifteenth century travelers were brought there by their guides. Without identifying the place, Van Ghistele noticed two statues of giants (the colossi of Ramses II) and the sculpted shapes of lions and elephants half buried in the sand. On one wall he discovered strange silhouettes and unintelligible signs. He wandered among the ruins and mentioned a well rumored to contain treasure— but a curse had always come upon those who tried to find it! The same traveler erroneously situated Thebes a day’s walk away (Luxor is 451 miles from Memphis). He would inform us that after a good shower of rain, on the Tanais (Syr-Darja), a small hill in Alexandria, the people could pick up old coins, cameos, carnelians, and carved stones that they

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sold cheaply in the city. Westerners began to recognize Egypt as an ancient center of civilization, a cradle of astrology, astronomy, and arithmetic.1

Sphinx and Pyramids If safety allowed, the pilgrim would venture as far as the site of Giza, near Cairo. The pyramids were referred to as “diamonds of stone” in describing their shape, and as “Pharaoh’s granaries” (horrea, granaria pharaonis), where the function attributed to them was concerned. Nestling in the sand, they seemed to have enclosed their secret within. Yet Herodotus had described the chambers that Cheops had built as a tomb for himself and had mentioned the colossal labor and expense involved under the rule of megalomaniac builders for whom the Egyptians had retained a hereditary aversion. Menkaure, Cheops’s son, was responsible for the genesis of the third pyramid. In the ninth century A.D. the Syrian patriarch Denys of Tell-Mahre described the obelisks of Heliopolis and refuted the widespread report that the pyramids were ancient granaries. His description was precise: In Egypt we saw the pyramids the Theologian speaks of in his songs. They are not Joseph’s granaries, as some have thought, but admirable structures built over the tombs of ancient kings. They are solid and full, not hollow and empty. We examined the opening that exists on the side of one of these pyramids: it was about forty cubits deep. We discovered that these pyramids are built of dressed stones laid on top of one another so as to form a base five hundred cubits long by the same width, with each course becoming smaller, so that the top measures only a cubit. They are two hundred and fifty cubits high. Each stone measures between ten and fifteen cubits in all directions. From afar they resemble high hills.2 But this knowledge fell on deaf ears. In the fifteenth century these artificial mounds were still at the center of arguments echoed in the pilgrims’ accounts. The Christian traveler projected onto them a page of Bible history that was completely unrelated. Who had had the idea, one fine day, of christening these giant mausoleums “Pharaoh’s granaries”? Who replaced the true origins of these structures with the story told in the book of Genesis of the grain silos devised by Joseph to save the Egyptians from famine? Georges Lengherand describes peculiar structures he came across on his visit to the plain of Giza: they were pyramidal in shape, and he took them to be ancient granaries of the Sudanese. Were they tombs or ancient storehouses?3 The traveler usually saw nothing more than the Great Pyramid of Cheops and its two satellites, the pyramids of Khafre and Menkaure. For

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Benjamin of Tudela, who in the twelfth century wondered about the pyramid’s origins, if it was not a work of magic, it was at least a masterpiece of the mason’s art: “In the same place is also seen a pyramid so artfully worked that there is nothing in the world to equal this structure, which is said to be a marvelous product of magic. As for these granaries, they were built of a kind of stone and mortar that rendered the construction unshakeable.”4 The guides would tell the excursionists the story of the origins of the Sphinx, described by Lengherand as “a great head carved out of rock planted in the ground, said to have been an idol in times past, and to have spoken and given answers thanks to the devil’s guile”—a Christianized interpretation of the legend.5 As one of its prophesies, the creature was said to have told a man he would become a king if he followed its advice. After his coronation, the king cut off the head, saying: “From this day forth thou shalt give no more advice to anyone.” It was silenced forever regarding the secret of the pyramids. Several travelers recall this legend. For Thenaud the Sphinx was a statue of Isis, a statue taller than “the towers of Notre Dame de Paris.”6 Domenico Trevisano also decribes the “woman’s head six paces high and four wide,” carved out of rock, whose “nose has crumbled away with great age.”7 Van Ghistele repeats the fable, while others prefer the version according to which Prince Thutmose had the statue dug out of the sand. Nearby the sultans had ordered excavations to search for buried treasure, but the diggers for gold were deterred by the curses. Near these structures people were often content to hunt for the little serpent used to make theriac, an antidote for poison, the sale of which was subject to a tax.8. Since it was almost impossible to gain access to the interior of the pyramids, and since fables are always long-lived, many were content to accept the theory that they were granaries built by Joseph, even though skepticism did emerge in both directions. Thomas Brygg accepted the received opinion without a qualm.9 But for Symon the Irishman, who describes their shape, the pyramids were more like a “mountain ending in a needle” than grain silos.10 In the fourteenth century Jean de Mandeville rejected the tomb theory in the name of his Western logic (because of their disproportionate size and the existence of an opening), which on this occasion served him ill. His argument set out to convince: They are of stone, very well built; two of the granaries are marvelously great and high. . . . Each granary has a door by which to enter. . . . And inside there are many serpents. And above these granaries, outside, there are many writings and in divers languages [he reproduces them]. And some men say that they are the tombs of great lords of the past, but that is not so, for the common report throughout the land is that they are Joseph’s granaries and it is so written in their chronicles. Fur-

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thermore, if they were tombs, they would hardly be void within, nor would they have doors by which to enter, nor be of such great size or height. So it is hardly to be believed that they are tombs.11 But in 1336 Willem van Boldensele was not taken in by the legends and rejected the notion upon which Mandeville based his argument: “Dicunt simplices haec maxima monumenta fuisse granaria Pharaonis.” He describes the pyramids by comparing them to familiar realities: they were “tombs and monuments of the ancients, constructed of great, well-dressed stones, very high and sharp like a pointed steeple.” He attempted to decipher some of the inscriptions. These monuments were ill fitted for storing wheat: a door did indeed exist, but it was very small, and a narrow, dark passage led down to a chamber.12 Ibn Battuta, an Arab traveler in the fourteenth century, speaks of the many theories put forward about their purpose and relates a different one: a king of Egypt, living before the Flood, was said to have had them built as a repository for the sciences and a tomb for the kings.13 These witnesses to an extinct power took on strange forms in the collective memory of medieval travelers deprived of our cultural a prioris. Thus, for them the visit to the pyramids might be summed up by an estimate of their dimensions, the fine view of Cairo that could be admired from atop one of them, or it might be associated with an encounter with a colony of rats,14 or yet again as merely an epic excursion full of danger. In 1396 it was inadvisable to travel far outside the city since Arabs carried out armed incursions close to Cairo. Despite this, Ogier d’Anglure hired a guide to take him over the Nile. It was a bad time of year and the road was abominable. He crossed by boat in several places, yet the granaries seemed to retreat into the distance the more he advanced. But the traveler would be rewarded for his efforts: these “fine diamonds” were “the most marvelous thing seen on the whole journey.” In order to gauge their dizzy height, he wrote that a person standing on top would seem no larger than a crow! He heard the hammer blows of the masons conscientiously stripping away the stones of the outer cladding and rolling them down “like wine barrels.” They would be used to construct the major buildings of Cairo. His dragoman assured him that the stripping of the granaries had begun more than a thousand years earlier, and yet they were only half exposed. Rain had never reached the inside, nor would it, so thick were the walls. Ogier learned that the sultan garnered two thirds of the proceeds from the quarrying. Although the entrance had been walled up, the traveler was able to take a few steps through an opening; but he reemerged immediately, for it was “a very dark and foul-smelling place on account of the animals that live there.”15 So ended his visit. “Diamonds” was the metaphor commonly used to refer to the pyramids. Was the term becoming fossilized, a commonplace used to designate some-

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thing that lacked a name? The word would disappear when the mystery was solved—although some modern guides still use it. But until such time Poggibonsi would have no other words to describe it, he who could boast of having ventured inside (if only a few steps), of having glimpsed a deep pit into which he threw a stone that was never heard hitting the bottom. He left quickly, fearing his torch would go out.16 In 1486 Georges Lengherand approached the “granaries” without visiting them. He admired their splendor but feared dangerous encounters. He arrived at an erroneous interpretation of the “little chambers” he glimpsed; his powers of observation were good, but not his powers of deduction. These granaries are very marvelous buildings and there used to be XIIII and now there are only six or seven. It is impossible to enter, and they are all of dressed stone . . . and are in the manner of a hill, beginning from the foot which is IICLXXV [sic] feet long and square on the bottom. . . . And while we were there, we found four wolves asleep on the stones. . . . And around these granaries are small little chambers, several cut into the rock; I do not know what could be their use, unless at the time these granaries were in existence there were guards in these little chambers.17 Among the travelers during this period there were also doubters and intuitives. In 1470 Adorno found his way inside. A sensible man, he tended to accept the mausoleum hypothesis and picked the legend of the granaries apart using an argument that still displayed caution: they were more likely tombs, for there was nowhere to be seen where a crop could be stored; a little door and a narrow, dark passageway led to a small chamber. Latin inscriptions convinced him that the dead were Romans of the Empire.18 Gabriele Capodilista makes an ambiguous comparison: the granaries were built of “living stone, quadrangular in in shape, like the tomb of Romulus, but much greater in height than an ordinary tower.” He approaches the truth by way of an intuition suggested by an analogy.19 Alessandro Ariosto (1475) leaves the debate unresolved.20 In 1483 Joos van Ghistele contradicts the belief. He had seen the ancient cladding of the pyramids, “smooth stones, polished like a block of ice.” Already he was speaking like an explorer: these tombs were not hollow; with a torch it was possible to go down a narrow corridor to a little vaulted room containing statues carved into the walls: men’s heads resembling lions, hands, legs, swords, geese, and other figures.21 At about the same time Fabri dismissed as an illusion the theory that they were granaries, for these pyramids, visible from afar, were too difficult to enter. He himself might have believed it from a distance if he had not visited them. All that he wrote from that point on about the theories of the ancients, the mummies, and the rituals already displays considerable curiosity about the vestiges of

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vanished civilizations.22 In 1507 Martin von Baumgarten declared unequivocally: “They are royal tombs.”23

Early Excavations By 1512 the polemics were over. The ambassador Domenico Trevisano, who said the pyramids were one or two times as tall as the Campanile in Venice, mentions the excavation of one of them: “A short while ago an opening was discovered. It was a Jew who, by magical art or a stroke of genius, recognized that it was partly empty inside. He obtained permission from the sultan and began his investigations. [He cleared the entrance.] The inside is reached by a very narrow passage that scarcely admits a man on his belly. . . . But it is dangerous to venture without a light into these chambers, one of which is a king’s tomb.”24 Guided tours of the interiors began. With Pierre Belon du Mans the excursion would become a scientific and archeological quest. The “ruins,” cleared of rubble, would henceforth be considered under the pompous heading “antiquities” and the pyramids compared to Roman ruins. The “inner parts” were entered by “a square passage.” The visitors advanced into the kingdom of the bats by candlelight, crawling “like serpents.” As a humanist, he sought a spiritual meaning in the ruins: he explains that the “Sphinge” united the signs of Leo and Virgo and symbolized the people’s gratitude for the riches brought by the Nile flood.25 Numerous were those who had to be satisfied with a distant wave to the pyramids without being able to reach them because of the caprices of the Nile or bands of armed Arabs. In 1335 Giacomo da Verona only glimpsed them, unable to cross the Nile because of safety concerns.26 Niccolò da Martoni gave up the idea of going there out of fear of the nomads encamped nearby.27 Some centuries later Chateaubriand would have the same regret, but for different reasons: “By a quirk of fate, the waters of the Nile were not high enough for them to be approached by boat. . . . I therefore had to be content with seeing the pyramids with my own eyes, without touching them with my hands.”28 But gradually, with the passing centuries, the “diamonds,” stripped of their stone cladding, did at last allow themselves to be tamed, and delivered up their secret.

chapter 14

The Virgin’s Garden, the Hermits’ Desert, and Egyptian Dreams An angel of the Lord appeareth to Joseph in a dream, saying: “Arise, and take the young child and his mother, and flee into Egypt, and be thou there until I bring thee word.” —matt. 2:13

Egypt, land of fertile waters. Several springs dotted about the Holy Land bore the Virgin’s name. In Nazareth there was one to which the child Jesus often went to fetch water, and at which the women reenacted timeless tableaux of ancient times: “The Virgin often used this spring for the child and washed his swaddling clothes there, as they still do today,” writes Adorno.1 This, too, was what it meant to be a pilgrim: reading living people as signs and reaching the spirit by way of the flesh. The origin of the veneration of springs can be found in the apocryphal traditions dealing with miracles, particularly those surrounding Christ’s childhood.

In the Footsteps of the Holy Family The pilgrim could hardly leave Cairo without a visit to the most famous of its springs, in the Garden of Balm in Matariya, one of the places where the Holy Family was believed to have stayed in Egypt. (There are others.) To those arriving from the desert, the village, located a few miles outside the town, seemed a refreshing spot where at last they came upon the water, gardens, and fruit they had

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been thirsting for. In 1420 this was where the new arrivals were awaited and paid their tourist dues.2 It was where the Christ child had made a spring gush forth by drumming with his heels. The episode is recounted in the “Arab Gospel of Childhood”: “They came to a sycamore tree that is today called Matarea, and in that place the Lord Jesus made a spring gush forth, where Mary washed his tunic. The balm this country produces comes from the sweat that ran from Jesus’ limbs.”3 Thus, a chaplet of stories flourished, with their variants, in strange contrast to the evangelical sobriety of Matt. 2:13. Niccolò da Martoni reports that the bushes were said to have sprung from the tears of the Virgin, who was terrorized by Herod, but he was more inclined to believe another widespread version that attributed their appearance to the drops that fell from the child’s swaddling clothes.4 This was the version accepted by the Russian merchant Basil5 and reported by Ogier d’Anglure as “the spring that God made at His heels”: She set Our Lord on the ground and set off to find water in the desert, but could find none. And she returned very downhearted to her dear child, who lay stretched out on the ground, and who had struck the earth with his feet so that a fountain of excellent, sweet water gushed out. And Our Lady was filled with joy and thanked Our Lord. Then Our Lady laid her beloved child down again and washed Our Lord’s cloths in the said spring, and then spread the said cloths on the ground to dry, and from the water that dripped from these cloths as they dried a little bush was born from each drop, which bushes produce the balm. And even today there is great plenty of these bushes that produce the balm, and nowhere else in the world save in the Earthly Paradise will you find balm created except in this garden. Even the Saracens call this spring St. Mary’s Fountain. And it is true that no balm tree can be fed or grown unless it be fed with water from this spring.6 It is also related by the anonymous pilgrim in 1420, who stresses the still visible effects of the benefits associated with the miracle.7 For the visitor in 1395 the spring took the form of a well from which water was conveyed along a channel to a handsome fountain at which the local people performed their ablutions. The pool was quite deep, coming up to a man’s chest, and it was said that whoever bathed in it would never be infected with leprosy or any illness of the kind. Around it Christians and Muslims rubbed shoulders.8 In one wall was a niche where the Virgin had laid the child: Adorno (1470) decribes a cavity, lined with fine marble, which gave off an extraordinarily pleasant fragrance and where a commemorative lamp burned.9 The garden was irrigated by two waterwheels driven by oxen. Several authors recount the following miracle. Nothing could convince these oxen

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to work on the Sabbath. On Friday evening they ceased all activity until Monday morning and could not be budged through beatings or by instilling fear. This miracle was reported in secreto to Adorno by two Christians of the Girdle. It was also said that a young woman saw her child fall into the water and remain submerged for so long that no hope remained of pulling him out alive, but one of the waterwheels dragged the child up safe and sound.10 The book of the fountain’s miracles was still being written. In this garden pharaoh’s fig tree (ficus Pharaonis) was venerated, a very ancient sycamore fig with a hollow trunk, split down the middle and twisted. The tree had bent over in homage, offering its fruit to the Holy Family, and had opened up to hide the Virgin and her Son from their pursuers. A lamp burned inside it,11 but pilgrims had cut off so many pieces of the trunk that none of the bark remained.12 In the seventeenth century a new sycamore fig had to be planted, for the other had died. Numerous tales of miracles were summarized. It was thanks to the fig tree that the Virgin escaped the evil intent of a libertine and his band, according to the version provided by one anonymous writer, who makes the most of every twist and turn in his dramatic reconstruction of the episode.13 In some versions the ruffians were soldiers,14 with the additional detail of a spider that spun a protective web.15

A Natural Curiosity The balsam tree that grew in a small garden was held to be both a natural curiosity and a miracle. Two conditions had to be satisfied for this tree to grow, namely, that the Virgin have lived in the place and that it be watered from that spring.16 Several attempts were made to describe the species. The shrubs were compared to the wild vine.17 They were “young thorn bushes with small, serrated leaves; if the trunk is rubbed it gives off a sticky, strongsmelling liquid from which an essence is derived.” Martoni collected some tender, waist-high shoots of the bushes that he compared to the mastic tree (pistacia lentiscus), only with sparser foliage. The balm was harvested in April and May. Giacomo da Verona mentions two harvests. The first yielded the optimum balsamum, drops of which were collected in glass vials. Later in the season the leaves and branches were boiled to extract an inferior liquid. Very few could own the pure balm, for the sultan, who stationed a guard at the garden and cultivated it, kept it for himself.18 However, the guards would steal some to sell to merchants and pilgrims.19 Adorno distinguishes the ointment that fell from the leaves from the product resulting from pressing the fruit, sap, or wood. The first pressing was reserved for Christian princes, while the one for the merchants was watered down.20 It was claimed that all attempts to grow the balm-producing vine elsewhere had been fruitless. This was explained by the nature of the spring21—

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apart from the fact that only Christians were fit to cultivate it, as the Saracens themselves admitted.22 Piloti, who knew the garden well as a result of having visited it on several occasions, undertook a long study of its cultivation, adding his contribution to the legends surrounding it by speaking of a curse. Once a sultan confiscated the garden from the Christians but was obliged to return it to them, for anyone who approached it had died a sudden death.23 Early in the sixteenth century, says Domenico Trevisano, it was difficult to visit the garden, but visit it he did. Before tearing away his bit of bark, he devoutly washed his hands and face in the water of the well, which he describes as “crystal clear.” He writes that “on Ascension Day the water rises by a height of six paces. In the evening it returns to its usual level.”24 Around the same time Thenaud saw the well overflow; he reports that in that place “dough can never rise nor bread ferment,” for when the Virgin asked for bread the women replied that their dough had not risen.25 How could one identify the good balm? It was firm and cleansed wounds. If a drop fell into the water, it could be fetched out with a pin. The balm prevented flesh from decaying and possessed medicinal properties.26 When Thenaud visited the garden in 1512, bad weather had caused damage that was attributed to the clandestine presence of Jews in disguise. By the end of the fifteenth century, travelers were refuting some of the legends—for instance, the one which claimed that only Christians could grow the balm, or that the shrubs would only grow in that one place. Joos van Ghistele (1483) had seen it growing somewhere else.27 Pierre Belon du Mans visited the garden as a naturalist and considered the balm a singular phenomenon. He returned several times to examine it before expressing his perplexity, writing that the “opinions of the authors who have written about the balm are so diverse that if we had not seen it with our own eyes we would not have dared to write a single word after them.”28 At the end of the sixteenth century, Prosper Alpin provides an inventory of its medicinal qualities in the form of a treatise.29 As for the prosaic Muslim point of view, it (along with some twists and turns in the garden’s history) comes down to us from Ibn Iyas, who states that by 1495 the balm was no longer being grown. (This is confirmed by Arnold von Harff).30 He writes: We know that Egypt took pride in this product, which European princes bought at a very high price—even by weight—for in their eyes baptism was worthless unless a little balm oil were added to the water in the baptismal fonts in which the immersion took place. This oil was harvested in the spring season, in Barmahat [April]. The sultan was very concerned by its disappearance and initiated inquiries. He was successful in importing wild balm from certain spots in the

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Hejaz, which was brought to his lands: it was planted in Matarieh, in the very place that had established its fame, and the tree flourished when watered from the nearby well. Now, in this year 914 [1509] a first harvest was obtained after such a long break.31

Hermits and Hermitages Egypt, land of hermits. A few daring travelers set off on one final excursion into the desert to look for them. In 1395 Ogier d’Anglure carried out a memorable, highly risky expedition to the monasteries of St. Anthony (Deir Mar Antonios) and St. Paul (Deir Mar Boulos). Carrying his provisions for the trip, he began by traveling upriver by boat for a day to St. Anthony-on-theNile. There he visited the fortified monastery, where he was welcomed by thirty-odd friars, “very holy, devout people.” It was the first place where Saint Anthony had settled, but on the request of an angel he had abandoned the spot, which was “too delightful a place for a hermit to do penance.” Ogier covered the long stretches between St. Anthony-on-the-Nile and St. Anthony-in-the-Desert on camelback.32 He reached the fortress containing the monastery and its garden, “green with trees and grasses, a joyful sight in such a desert place,” a spot he thought superior in beauty to St. Catherine’s and better maintained except for the church. He slept there, the guest of a hundred-odd friars who led a frugal, saintly life (“they never drink wine nor eat meat or fish, nor wear linen”). Among these circumcised and baptized Jacobites Ogier observed rituals different from those of the Greek and Latin churches; he identified the monks as Christians of the land of Prester John. He pays considerable homage to their age-old sense of free and generous hospitality: they were good people, for “they most readily give the pilgrims whatever they can by way of food, without asking anything [in return].” From there he went to St. Paul’s, a hard day’s walk that took him across a rugged landscape. Nowhere had he found such a strange, desolate trail, which required him to cross a mountain so high that he found it much more harrowing than climbing Mt. Sinai. He situates the fortified Monastery of St. Paul in relation to St. Catherine’s, not far from the Red Sea and across from the Sinai. There he found sixty-odd friars similar to the others. He describes their heartwarming welcome in vivid and emotional terms: “They entertained us well, welcoming us most sweetly and kindly, and quickly prepared a meal for us of such goods as God had granted them. . . . It was around midnight when we entered and came to the door of the said abbey, but the good brethren arose and were [as] diligent in serving us and preparing warm meat for us as if each was to earn a hundred ducats.”33

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Below, under the rock, they were shown the former dwelling place of the hermits and the tomb of Saint Paul, who was buried by his companion with the help of a lion. The three abbeys were administered by the same authority. Ogier returned by the same route. In 1395 the Nile was dangerous. While he was there, eleven boats were attacked by local tribes and one of the sultan’s highest military commanders, sent to administer justice, was killed and his company decimated. Ogier recounts his own misadventures: a nighttime attack on the boat, some passengers hurt, and a companion with a head wound. In the morning the boat appeared “stuck all over with beautiful arrows.” But Ogier was satisfied: he had rediscovered the true flavor of an early hermit’s life in the arid desert. He had encountered genuine Christian brethren who had welcomed him with a kindness that was beginning to be in short supply elsewhere.

The Dream of a Great Canal Egypt, land of dreams. One of the most persistent of these was the notion of a canal linking the Red Sea to the “Great Sea” via the Nile. In ancient times the two seas had been linked. From the Mediterranean one could travel up the Nile to Zagazig, follow one canal to the central lakes, and then another to the Gulf of Suez. The waterway had been perfected by the Ptolomies and named “Trajan’s river.” It then became sanded up during the Byzantine period, was cleared again in 640, but a century later became blocked again. In 1483 the Fleming Joos van Ghistele mentions the Egyptians’ ancient project of linking the two seas, which was abandoned because of fears that since the Red Sea was higher than the Mediterranean, the water would overflow, Egypt would be submerged, and the Red Sea would dry up!34 Thenaud also mentions this envisioned catastrophe.35 Consequently in the Middle Ages the spice route went overland between the two seas. However, by the end of the fifteenth century the Venetians and the Marseillais were increasingly dreaming of creating or restoring a waterway by way of Suez and thereby winning back the mastery of the seas the Portuguese had won from them thanks to the route round the Cape. Old maps display traces of these dreams. Hakluyt reproduces one, dating from 1598, showing an ancient canal or attempt to link the two seas as the fossa trajana had done.36 In the fifteenth century it would have been difficult to find a more inhospitable environment than Suez. For Jean Thenaud the place was no more than a “brackish well, good enough for camels, but not for men.”37 Livio Sanuto describes it, devastated as it was by Portuguese competition, as the former port for spices, drugs, precious stones, amber, and musk from the Indies, stagnating amid a sterile landscape.38 Suez suffered from a lack of

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water, which had to be brought from a distance. It was a place “most unfavorable, barely inhabited, a beach with no protection from the winds,” writes Pierre Belon du Mans.39 In the sixteenth century Suez was a paradise only for the Jacobite or Melchite hermits, who made the region their earthly abode.

chapter 15

Alexandria, Sentry of the East Alexandria is a very great and large city in flat country, situated on the sea to one side of its two ports, very well defended, very well enclosed about with high walls. —ghillebert de lannoy

On the Nile It was at the port of Bulaq that the pilgrim boarded the Nile boat to take him to Alexandria, from where he would return to the land of his ancestors. Going downriver could be an enchanting or a frightening experience, depending on the river’s mood. In the flood season, from August to October—which was often when the pilgrims were there—the roads became impassible1 and the only remaining means of transport was by boat. Indeed, even when the overland route was open, the river remained the principal artery, being faster and more comfortable, according to one traveler who describes both. In December Ogier d’Anglure traveled down the Nile and then turned off along an arm leading toward Alexandria. He mentions his principal stopping points (Fouah and El Keriun). In a town two leagues from the city he loaded his baggage on the sultan’s camels and completed the journey by land.2 When the canals released the fertile floodwaters, the landscape offered a spectacular appearance that Piloti never tired of gazing upon: “The waters spread out and cover all the country, which really seems a view over the open sea, and the villages stand in it, and truly seem isolated. . . . The land lies steeping. . . . All the peasants begin to sow.”3

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If the wind was contrary, navigation became difficult. But an ill wind for some was good for others; those coming from the sea seemed to fly along, propelled by their feluccas’ sails. A strong wind could blow sand, obstruct vision, and choke the passengers.4 If the weather was settled, the leisurely pace of the trip downstream allowed the traveler time to feast his eyes for the last time on the landscape, dotted with little farms on the silt and the palm trees surrounding the fields. Ogier d’Anglure wrote: “Traveling from Cairo to Alexandria, the countryside is so beautiful that it is a marvel, lush and covered with fine gardens and trees; and there are many villages and large towns.”5 The boat could put in at any of these villages to obtain provisions. During these stops, curious locals would gather round, the children proudly displaying captive baby crocodiles. The pilgrims who were preparing to leave Egypt immersed themselves devoutly one last time in the river that flowed from the Earthly Paradise, “the most precious river in the world.”6 At night it was a sight to see the fires burning on the towers. Without the disturbing sounds of something rubbing against the hull, the cruise would have had its charm. But the hippopotamus, a rare monster, was terrifying enough to inhabit the traveler’s minds at the very least.7 In August 1395, Fouah, a large farming town, seemed like an island crowned with orchards containing the finest orange, lemon, and apricot trees in the world.8 This was the granary of the Nile valley, the valley’s horn of plenty, the garden of Egypt, where dates, sweet and juicy watermelons, cucumbers, pomegranates, peaches, quince, excellent little figs, large bunches of grapes, bananas with a most delicate flavor, sugar cane, rice, wheat, peas, beans, and goat cheese were produced.9 Gourmets were in their element. They held forth enthusiastically about these riverbanks where such perfect fruit was grown. The small towns they passed were numbered at over two hundred, each with its mills or waterwheels for drawing water.10 With his interested in every technical novelty, Arnold von Harff studied the cultivation of sugar cane and describes how it was processed: They have in each town a large building in which they prepare the sugar in this manner. They cut the cane, which is very sweet, down to the ground, and slice it into little pieces about the length of a finger or less. These they throw it into a great, wide stone vessel, in which is a large millstone for grinding, which oxen turn round on the lower millstone, so that the stone grinds the sugar [cane] quite small. They then take the ground canes and empty them into a great, long kettle holding nine or ten pailfuls, and light a fire underneath, so that it seethed the way they seethe saltpeter in our country, and skim off the top, which they pour into tubs or barrels. This is called sugar honey, with which in this country all kinds of food are cooked, since they have

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no butter, which melts on account of the great heat. What remains at the bottom of the kettle they empty into pointed tubs, where they let it cool. This settles and becomes the sugar loaf that is brought to our country in large quantities.11 Martoni, who arrived through Alexandria, spent a few days relaxing in the shade under the trees. He observed oxen turning a wheel night and day to supply water. When one grew tired, it was replaced. He saw camels, buffalo, goats, and cows go by on their way to drink. He was approached by boys and girls asking for bread. But his shipwreck in the middle of the night left him with an unforgettable nightmare. The boat hit something and was torn open. The frantic guide unceremoniously awakened the pilgrims, yelling: “Get up, get up, o pilgrims; jump into the water and get to shore, or we shall all perish!” The boat finally went aground on an island, where the lawyer from Campania and his companions took refuge, having salvaged their bedding but lost their provisions. The next day, rescued by another boat, they staved off hunger as well as they could under the blazing sun: “The river water was our food and drink,” writes our traveler. Later there was a new alert on account of strong currents, more cries from the guide, and another panic. Martoni expresses his terror as a nonswimmer when shipwreck seems inevitable and he sees others preparing to escape: “The dragoman said to us: ‘O pilgrims, we are in great danger.’ Those who could swim prepared themselves in case it should be necessary, but what could I think, I, Nicolò the notary, afflicted and unfortunate as I was, if not of death and of praying to God to have mercy on my sins?”12 Our Nicolò would save his skin this time too. In any case, he had avoided some of the more dangerous encounters. He modestly admits to never having seen a crocodile, though he did not allow this to stand in the way of his describing the “four-footed serpent,” using the scaly lizard he had seen in the desert as a model. In the end, his unusual voyage would have brought him his share of thrills and satisfactions.

A Perilous Boat Trip Between the arm of the Nile leading toward Alexandria and the one that led off in the direction of Damietta (Dumyat) was the fertile delta, the “island shaped like a triangle.” A few historical associations occurred to literate souls. There was Mansurah (El-Mansûra), on the Damietta branch, where the crusaders were defeated and Saint Louis taken prisoner. The fortresses in the region were demolished by Sultan Baibars and the area remained under tight control. According to Joos van Ghistele, several arms or canals were closed to

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foreigners. Damietta, which was compared to Cologne on account of its halfmoon shape, left an impression of riches in fruit and dairy products. The architecture of its crenellated tower was reminiscent of Venice. The town, which had once been fortified, no longer had any walls or gates. The port was closed off by a thick chain, and from atop the tower a lookout scanned the horizon night and day. From Damietta it was possible to continue downriver to the sea and then sail along the coast to Alexandria, glimpsing the tower where Blanchefleur was imprisoned along the way!13 The trip offered sights drawn from both historical memory and literary fable. In 1483 Fabri’s descent of the Nile was an odyssey packed with incident. The sailors demanded payment—for the second time!—for unloading the baggage at Rosetta (Rachid). The pilgrims, entirely at their mercy, could only give in. They waited outside the closed gate of the sleeping town until they could hire mounts to carry them to Alexandria. However, no animals would be available for three days. The travelers, discouraged, eventually managed to strike a costly bargain with the boat’s captain to take them to their destination by river and by sea. They all accordingly piled on board a tiny craft. The slaves pulled their human cargo along with a rope, struggling against the wind, bogged down to their waists in the mud, and sometimes having to swim. It was at this moment that a brigand armed with a lance chose to appear and demanded payment of a toll. Next came an encounter with a band of Arabs encamped along the bank. In exchange for ducats and food they would allow the pilgrims to pass. The latter would in future throw bread to forestall the animosity of the starving. Before coming too close to the sea, where the water would become brackish, the sailors filled their amphoras. The plain had become indistinguishable from the sea, and the crew strayed from the riverbed, sailing over the fields. The boat went aground on some higher terrain and was caught in the sticky mud. All around merchants’ feluccas were going astray and running aground onto the mud—to the accompaniment of resounding curses. The night was a difficult one. However, a more favorable wind blew them out of trouble. Reaching the sea, the travelers set out to find baggage animals to take them to Alexandria along the shore. The camel drivers fought over the business. A few leagues from Alexandria they would again be obliged to pay the local porter’s fee for transporting the baggage. After haggling wearily under the beating sun, the parched travelers reached their destination, some on foot, some riding donkeys, and others camels. As they passed by, they would scarcely have taken the time to admire the great plain “resembling ice or snow” (actually a salt pan), or to pay their respects to the remains of ancient Alexandria.14 Sometimes, while sailing down the river, unexpected trans-shipments required by local monopolies were a source of misunderstanding. Having

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been pulled unceremoniously from one boat, along with their baggage, and thrown into another, Adorno and his companions thought they had been sold, for the dragoman had failed to perform his duty as translator. On one overladen boat they were obliged to give up their seats to the locals, “even the most wretched, who treated them like animals.” Their malmsey wine was confiscated. Taking pity on them, some women offered them sweetmeats. When the boat was in danger of being swamped, the passengers had to walk along the bank. Even with an armed escort, between Cairo and Alexandria all kinds of attacks were to be feared, whether from pirates lurking along the featureless shore or bands of brigands posted along the river.15 Martoni followed an arm of the river he called “Lu Calese” (Calizino, Calismo, calige, canal), perhaps the former Canopic branch that was incoporated into the Alexandria (Mahmuduya) canal.16 (This was also the route taken by Ogier d’Anglure.) He wrongly likens the river to the Tigris but provides some information about the use of this channel. When the water rose, it fed channels leading to a system of interconnected cisterns in Alexandria that followed the layout of the streets underground. This was how the year’s water supply was collected. It was good water, according to our traveler, who was probably thinking of the insalubrious water of the wells in his native southern Italy in summertime.

Alexandria The city founded by Alexander the Great in the fourth century B.C. was one of the most closely guarded gateways to the sultans’ Egypt. In the sixteenth century the geographer Livio Sanuto provided a topographical overview,17 describing it as a square town, surrounded by a wall in which there were four gates, with a large thoroughfare cutting through it. In 1470 Alexandria still gloried in its position as the country’s main commercial port, a place where the world’s traders met, and a huge market for spices from the Indies, brought by camel from the Red Sea.18 Martoni describes the appearance of the city, with its proud ramparts, barbicans, and war machines installed in thick, circular towers. Inside the urban landscape was caracterized by countless extremely bountiful date palms. Two artificial hills composed of garbage rose up, on one of which a lookout had been posted to keep watch out to sea. Insecurity was a daily reality and pirates were always a threat.19 Near the port were the funduks, the warehouses and hostelries of the Genoese, Venetian, Florentine, and Catalan merchants, each with its own chapel. There were also Persian, Turkish, Tartar, and other trading posts. The houses were built over cisterns on a vaulted foundation. The beauty of the columns supporting these underground constructions suggested a paradox, namely, that Alexandria’s wealth was greater below ground than above.20

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The paucity of springs in this sandy country made these ancient works of urban construction indispensable: “Each house is built on a grotto, and within this grotto is a cistern that is filled with water each year.”21 The shortage of water was an Achilles’ heel impossible to ignore: “If someone were to sever the said conduit, the city would soon fall,” writes Thenaud.22 In his eclectic notes Martin von Baumgarten also displays an interest in the vital aqueduct. To the history of the city’s founding he adds other elements, describing “Pompey’s Column” and the site of the lighthouse, which finally fell into ruin in the fourteenth century (the rubble made the port dangerous), to be replaced by the Qait Bey Fort.23 Whether they came by land or sea, the travelers were unanimous in deploring the practices of the customs officers stationed at the Rosetta and Sea Gates. The least rancorous of them gives vent to his anger: “We were thoroughly searched at the port to discover how much money and other things we were carrying,” writes Ogier d’Anglure, even though he was arriving from Cairo and had been traveling for months in the sultan’s lands.24 Niccolò da Martoni, in his usual spontaneous style, describes the disagreeable examination by customs officials that took place between the two gates. As soon as a Christian passed through, the guards immediately seized him and carefully searched him all over to see if he was carrying gold; he was searched “down to [his] breeches.” (He gives the percentages of the taxes on pilgrims and merchants.)25 Another pilgrim emphasizes the shocking indelicacy: “Let every pilgrim be assured he will be searched down to his most secret parts—at least, to our great displeasure, we were, as is the custom.”26 Adorno depicts Alexandria as a place of torment, as difficult to enter as it was to leave, where the traveler was bilked at every turn. He felt shamed and humiliated in the city.27 From among his Alexandrian misadventures Fabri chose to remember a dramatic but amusing episode. He and his companions were first beaten with sticks to deny them admission through the Rosetta Gate; stones and insults were hurled at them from the battlements. In front of the massive gate a tax collector awaited them, whip in hand. The pigrim spent the night in the empty space between the two city walls, a prey to hunger and thirst. The comparison that naturally sprang to his mind was with the gates of hell. The following day, before going through the checkpoint, some concealed their money inside amphoras, in loaves of bread, in the lining of their clothes, in bottles of oil, in butter, or in cheese. Fabri concealed his golden cross and silver medals in a sack of flour. The search was meticulous; the merchants and drivers had to undress. Even mouths and ears were examined! After devoutly kissing the sultan’s letter, he guards weighed the sacks. A tariff was set per head according to the valuables discovered.28 In 1323 Symon Semeonis witnessed a few unpleasant incidents. The officers examined the literature (guides and breviaries) being carried, spat on

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the holy images, broke some statuettes, but confiscated nothing. The tension was redoubled by rumors of invasion, and the Italian Christians were suspected of being spies. Symon Semeonis, the Irishman, met with no better treatment.29 Joos van Ghistele depicts the inquisition he underwent in 1483. He attempted to pass himself off as a merchant, but the guard, who was not deceived, consented to tax him as a merchant but informed him that should his deception be discovered, the fine would be doubled! While they paid a lower tax per head, the merchants were charged more for their goods but suffered less harassment.30 At the end of the fifteenth century Arnold von Harff, another pseudomerchant, managed to decieve the guard: “If they had known I was a pilgrim, I would no longer have enjoyed their good graces.”31 Adorno and his companions discovered at high cost the difference between the status of merchant and that of pilgrim. They spent twelve trouble-free days falsely passing themselves off as merchants. But when the officers discovered the truth, the travelers had to pay an exorbitant sum, were hounded with demands for money, and were treated with contempt. As their tribulations increased daily, they cut short their stay. Adorno advises his reader against a long stay in Alexandria.32 When all was said and done, once the prison and the pillars of St. Catherine’s martyrdom had been seen, and the palace and the double walls with their great towers admired, it was best to be on one’s way: “We saw nothing else worth writing about, save the vile things those false dogs said to us and would have put into effect if they had dared,” writes another traveler passing through.33 Those who awaited their safe-conduct to board a galley witnessed some strange practices. First of all, when the ship passed in front of the Qait Bey Fort the mainsail was lowered halfway as a sign of respect. From afar bombards could be heard announcing the ships’ arrivals.34 Then there was the marvel of the homing pigeons, a challenge to space and time that won unqualified admiration. Arnolf von Harff describes the singular aerial ballet between the ship and the land. Messages to the immigration authorities would be attached under the wings of tame pigeons by the Mameluke come on board to inspect the cargo.35 Niccolò da Martoni observed the birds’ maneuvers and could not believe his eyes!36 One traveler who did not witness the phenomenon expressed some skepticism: “The business of the doves is very hard to believe . . . yet the merchants say it is true.”37 The Alexandria seen by Ogier d’Anglure would, it seems, have been able to defend itself: “A large, fine city, very well enclosed by a good, high, very thick wall, towers easy to defend, and good, stout gates.”38 But our traveler does not seem to have noticed the ruins left by Pierre de Lusignan in 1365, which are still mentioned by Jean Thenaud in 1512.39 To Joos van Ghistele the city, though outwardly wealthy in appearance, was a disappointment

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inside, for barely six houses out of ten remained standing.40 Adorno, sensing the wealth of the city’s past, sketches the ghost of a once flourishing city.41 Felix Fabri, struck by the contrast between the walls and the ruins, felt the same disappointment.42 The fruit trees helped one forget the city’s dilapidated state, as did some beautiful mosques and smart shops where foodstuffs, animals, and slaves were sold. Arnold von Harff took lodgings with the Venetians for the duration of his stay, before traveling up the Nile from Rosetta to Cairo on a long little boat with a turned-up prow that he called a “schokarnia.”43 For Joos van Ghistele, the funduks resembled khans, but they were laid out with streets, stories, and rooms around them where the merchants stayed. Below, underneath the arches, were the shops. In the center was an area for unloading or packing. Every evening the buildings were locked.44 Fabri stayed in the Catalan funduk, which he compared architecturally to a monastery, with rooms surrounding a courtyard. He ate well there.45 The powerful Venetians had two funduks and carried on a trade in animals as well as merchandise, so that their courtyard was full of lion cubs, leopards, monkeys, and parrots. Ogier d’Anglure could not conceal his admiration for the handsome residences that represented the nations of Cyprus, Naples, Aragon, Marseilles, France, and Genoa. In the Narbonne funduk where he stayed, he was delighted to at last find some decent wine. It was there that the consul for Narbonne and for pilgrims registered the foreigners and collected their dues.46 Martoni briefly mentions this individual’s administrative function. He was in charge of and responsible for the nationals of his country and had to register the reason for their visit (trade or pilgrimage).47 Jean Thenaud bears witness to the restrictive conditions imposed on merchants. So what still induced them to go there in 1512? According to Thenaud, “Even though the Christians are ill treated, yet the profit for anyone with the ability to trade in merchandise is so great that the merchants always want to return, for they make a hundred percent and more.”48 In 1470, compared to Tunis the city gave an impression of commercial wealth that could be seen in the refined dress of the Jewish, Christian, or Saracen inhabitants. The men’s turbans were more voluminous, the women’s pillbox hats were adorned with solid gold and precious stones, their trousers were of fine linen, and their slippers were gilded.49 Around 1394 Alexandria was estimated to be larger than Naples (but less beautiful in terms of its architecture) and so densely populated that it was difficult to get about. According to Niccolò da Martoni, “It is impossible to take a step without bumping into someone or being bumped into.”50 In the marketplaces, which stretched out lengthwise, every handicraft in the world was represented, and the stalls were laden with gems and precious fabrics. Those who saw only the wealth of some outnumbered those who saw the

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wretchedness of others upon which it was founded. One of the last things to which Felix Fabri turned in Egypt was the slave market, where the buyers shamelessly examined human beings “the way you would a horse.” The wails of those who were being parted moved him to denounce this trade, as he also denounced the misery of the Christian prostitutes he spoke to outside a brothel. Some were weeping and some implored him to take them away.51 Alexandria the prosperous was still growing fat—but for how much longer? Two ports (on the sites of the present-day eastern and western ports) received the shipping. One was open to Christians, but according to Adorno it was dangerous: his ship struck the bottom violently, throwing the passengers off their feet. The channel was narrow and the bottom was littered with debris that protruded above the surface.52 Jean Thenaud, who arrived on a February morning, had little leisure to contemplate the panoramic view bristling with “mountains, towers, mosques, and pyramids.” Before the anchor could be cast, his ship ran aground and almost broke up, and the locals rushed to pillage it. They were fended off with difficulty. The old port was off limits to Christians because of a prophesy, repeated by Thenaud, that still obsessed the people: “They say their country will be conquered by the Christians through this port.”53 Niccolò da Martoni invokes a different and more rational explanation: it was there the king of Cyprus had invaded the city in 1365. He estimates that an eighth of the city was destroyed.54 Ghillebert de Lannoy cast a covetous eye on the port, which one day might well become the landing place for a new crusader army, an army to whom his description—with its panoramic view suggesting points of access, its close-up of the customs gate, and the layout with the distances calculated— seems to send a message. Everything he could “find out by information” is recorded: In the clearest weather, one can only see the land from twenty to twenty-five miles at the farthest, of the lands of Egypt that are so low and flat, and you see the city before the land because of two mounds of earth that stand within its walls and which give knowledge of it, of which the higher stands on the right of the entrance, near the walls inside, overlooking the old port, and it is slender and square like a diamond. On it there is a guard turret that overlooks the whole city, the ports, and round about. And the other stands on the left of the entrance, at the end of the city, inside, in the direction of Cairo, and it is not so high but is thicker . . . at the top of which is a Saracen church called a “Mosque.” . . . I discovered by asking (not from going in) that the old port is shallow, and can be entered by no ship larger than two hundred bottes; it is for shallow galleys, foists, and small vessels, and

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it must be very wide, about a mile, and is shallow and dangerous save for the entry channel on the right when you arrive close to land. And this entrance sits fair for the southwest wind, and it is there a ship can make its way in most safely.55 Before becoming a center of theological controversy Alexandria was a cradle of Christianity. But the pilgrims thought of the popular martyrs rather than of Arianism. They made their way along St. Mark’s street, a long, wide thoroughfare graced with handsome houses, where the patron saint of Venice, come to evangelize the city around A.D. 40, had been tied to a horse’s tail, dragged, and then beheaded. A Jacobite church was dedicated to him. For a few coins the visitor could gain admittance to St. Catherine’s prison, where indulgences were earned. In the cell was a gaping hole through which the angels fed her. No one had ever been able to wall it up. Next they headed for her place of execution, distinguished by the marble columns to which the martyr was said to have been bound and beaten. The pilgrim recited the following to himself: “The young virgin, stretching out her milk-white neck, said to the executioner: ‘Here I am, called by Our Lord Jesus Christ.’ And then, standing up, the executioner severed the head of the venerable virgin with a single blow, and Madam Saint Catherine departed this world for heavenly bliss.”56 Near the port some mysterious engraved stones could be seen near a tower. They were Cleopatra’s needles, one lying on the ground and the other standing (the remnant of Antony’s Caesareum, destroyed in 912). From afar it resembled “a walled tower.” “Of astonishing size, a red marble with pictures of animals flying and others walking from top to bottom.”57 It was a “square stone so high that a good slingman could hardly send his stone over it.” On it were “strange animals, birds, and other figures in place of letters, that no one is now able to read.”58 Adorno makes a similar admission of incapacity when confronted with the tall, four-sided stone.59 These signs would hold their secret for a long time to come. But in his own way Fabri already explains the hieroglyphs as an alphabet of symbols; he had known people unable to read or write who would communicate their wishes by drawing signs. There was one illiterate friar in particular who wrote out his sermons in this way. Pompey’s Column, dedicated to the god Serapis and located on a mound outside the Arab compound (a vestige of the Serapeum), inspired many legends. Joos van Ghistele relates that an idol once stood there that was broken into pieces thanks to Saint Catherine’s prayers.60 Niccolò da Martoni, pessimist that he was, prepared to pass through the city gates with a group of Flemings, his stomach churning at the thought of having to undergo yet another brutal search and fork out a two percent tax.61 We can easily imagine the relief of those who were soon to board the

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galley that would finally carry them away from these shores. Anyone leaving through the closesly guarded gate was subjected to a new search. The merchants’ sacks were tirelessly emptied to check their contents, and thieves pilfered the spices. The guards mocked those pilgrims carrying stones from the Holy Land. Felix Fabri’s souvenirs were not very costly: a few palm branches for the coming Palm Sunday. But one knight had a scimitar confiscated (which was not allowed on board). Wishing to oblige, Fabri agreed to conceal a Saracen bow and arrows and a Turkish sabre among his palm branches. Duties had to be paid on everything: the balm, the gemstones. On the shore, they finally got into the small boats to ferry them out to the ship. Left completely penniless, Fabri would travel home housed in a dark corner beside the ship’s storeroom. While at first sight it seemed inconvenient, this spot would turn out to be the best place to spend a return voyage in winter. True, it was dark, but it was also warm, quiet, and well away from the huge waves.62 In the 1420s Alexandria inspired nostalgia in those who sensed its coming decay. Emmanuel Piloti noted the decline and the dwindling population, which he blamed on the poor local administration. He wished with all his heart that Christian rule might restore the city to its former glory. Alexandria haunted his dreams as a strategist. To conquer the holy places a fleet would have to be secretly outfitted and an alliance made with Prester John; this key to the country would have to be captured and a march made on Cairo. The forces required, the routes to be followed, the topographical information, plans of the fortifications, the best way to approach the beach—he laid it all out in his treatise with the meticulous care of a theoretician ignorant of the contingency of the real world and the hazards of battle. How often did Piloti pace the battlements of Alexandria, meditating on Boucicaut’s abortive attempt63 and the failures of the “vain expeditions” that did Christianity no credit? How many times did he imagine the martial entry of the Christian armies through the Customs Gate? It would be enough to take Alexandria. Pacification would follow. Processions would encourage the Saracens to convert; they would be treated with honor and courtesy. Prosperity would be assured and the greatness of the past restored. In February 1515 the miracle had still not taken place. Ibn Iyas of Cairo, finding Alexandria a dilapidated and deserted city, also expressed his nostalgia for a vanished golden age that it is doubtful could ever have existed as described, with forty thousand marble-paved houses and forty thousand Jews paying the tax imposed on non-Muslims. The Arab memorialist, accompanying his sultan, had every right to dream; he draws a lamentable picture of a city only sparingly decorated with flags and deserted by the merchant class. Bread was in short supply and the shops were closed for want of anything to sell. He blames rapacious taxation for the decadence

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and dereliction of this once flourishing city, which by then was in competition with other trading posts situated on new trade routes.64 In the eighteenth century the plan of the city had scarcely changed. But then came the 1800s. Alexandria was robbed of its last remaining vestiges of power. Its glorious five miles of walls were destroyed, as were most of the cisterns that travelers of former days had once admired as a product of human genius. The obelisks, dug out of the sand, would be hauled away to grace public squares in London and New York. And we—who discover medieval Alexandria from the pages of texts that provide some reflection of it in a series of travelers’ “snapshots”—somehow sense that this was punishment for such an excessively greedy city, with its insatiable customs officials!

chapter 16

Happy He Who, Like Ulysses . . . Who will announce my death to my wife that she may wear black and live as a widow? Who will tell my brother to execute my will? O, how bitter is life for those who wait! —niccolò da martoni

Those who traveled from Venice in organized groups had a good chance of returning home within five or six weeks along the great trade routes they had followed on the way over: Cyprus, Crete, Rhodes, Corfu, Ragusa, and Venice. But the pilgrims’ world also had its share of independent, foolhardy, or unlucky individuals, a reading of whose accounts makes one wonder by what miracle they survived to put them down on paper: the dreamer Jean, the impatient Niccolò, the intrepid Bertrand, and Pierre the journalist. It is with them I shall conclude. One mystery of the journey was knowing how one would write about it—if, indeed, one ever did, for some also died, pen in hand, in mid chapter, like “good Master Denis Possot, [who], after spending time on his wanderings and holy journey, struggling long and combating fortune, finally remained behind and departed this life, as betides in temporal and human matters.”1 There were those whose graves marked out the ways and others whose shroud was the vast ocean. I dedicate these final pages to them. Writing a novel has the advantage of involving no physical danger. The author knows how it will end even before putting pen to paper. The travel diary has no such advantage.

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It is an unpredictable slice of life, initally set down in the world among the hurly-burly of human events and amid unforeseen occurrences and chance encounters: the accident of history that brought the 1480 pilgrims to Rhodes immediately following a memorable siege; the quirk of angry nature which, in 1494, led some to experience the violent earthquake that shook Candia. The pilgrim’s narrative drifts along as his misfortunes dictate, or rambles along as its author does, dissipating into fortuity. Niccolò da Martoni, the notary (1395), could never have foreseen that he would wander for seven months through the labyrinth of the Cyclades, vainly searching for the direct route from which he had strayed, nor that he would disembark in Athens in the midst of an internecine war. It helped little to set out with a guidebook to follow a well-blazed trail; one still came home with one’s mind full of shadows and impressions into which every chance event and unexpected encounter was absorbed. Nothing was chosen; everything was endured. The literary raw material was supplied by happenstance: it was an ad ventura, an “adventure,” in the original, etymological meaning of the word. While the pilgrims were acquitting themselves of their religious duty, the mariners traded along the coasts of Syria and Egypt between Beirut and Alexandria. One traveler who had disembarked at Jaffa explains how he was able to board ship again in Alexandria by boarding a galley there that was heading for Jaffa to take other pilgrims onboard. A final call in port allowed him to see Beirut. Then they all departed from those shores forever.2

Return to Jaffa Those who limited themselves to making the classic Jerusalem pilgrimage reboarded the ship in the port where they had left it. If they had been filled with joy at setting foot on the Holy Land, they did not display any great sadness on leaving it—quite the contrary, in fact. On the beach where the boats were bobbing, waiting to ferry them out to the ship lying at anchor in deeper water, voices rang out in a rousing chorus, singing the same hymns that had resounded from the deck of the ship a few weeks earlier, and were answered by joyful trumpet blasts from the galley. Philippe de Voisins, unaware of the trials and tribulations still in store for him, did not hesitate to show his unrestrained joy. His stay had lasted only a brief month, but this had been enough to exhaust his sack of patience. In his case relations had been limited to endless, unequal struggles between the “poor pilgrims” and the “wicked, miscreant traitors”—words that, coming from him, tell us much about the traumas he suffered. Little wonder that his companions, seeing the galleys that would deliver them lying in the port of Jaffa, gave joyful thanks to the Lord: “All the said pilgrims threw themselves into the water up to their waists as they most joyously climbed into the said boats

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singing “Te deum laudamus,” seeing that they had escaped from the hands of the miscreant Moors; and the ships’ masters remained with them, always making them pay more than had been customary in other years.”3 After this departure, which seemed more like a flight, the passengers still had to endure the rotting meat, stale bread, wormy biscuit, foul water, and sour wine. They spent nineteen days waiting in Cyprus while a ship’s master, ignoring their protests, loaded his cargo of salt. They would risk the plague, be forced to spend eight days anchored in a deserted harbor and then three more in Corfu while awaiting more favorable weather, all “in great boredom and melancholy” (the words reoccur with each forced port of call). But sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, and for now at least the pilgrims could savor the comforting illusion that this moment of contentment heralded the end of their misfortunes. Pietro Casola (1494) manipulates biblical references as he recounts his last days in the Holy Land, a time of real persecution inflicted by a certain “governor of Gazara [Gaza]”—possibly the same individual who had given Philippe de Voisins such a hard time four years previously. The formalities seemed like the reenactment of a biblical drama, with the sultan’s officer playing the part of the Egyptian pharaoh tyrannizing the children of Israel as he delayed their departure by means of procrastination, imprisonments, and disputes over some Christian slaves whose freedom the compassionate pilgrims had bought. One nobleman who had given in to the bizarre temptation to purchase a parrot found himself in serious difficulty. Their impotent suffering becomes palpable in the author’s image of the “fury of those dogs, never full of drinking Christian blood.” While the captain was delayed on shore, the group was decimated by death. (A German was buried along the seashore at Jaffa.) The crew welcomed the pilgrims “like sons and brothers,” sharing their eagerness to be gone. The master, liberated at last, gave orders to put out to sea without even waiting for a favorable wind, so impatient was he to see the sinister towers of Jaffa recede into the distance.4

At Sea Again In Jaffa Pierre Barbatre found the transit cave more uninhabitable than ever because of the filth deliberately left there to vex the travelers.5 The captain seemed more concerned to get his merchandise on board than his passengers. But at last the sail was unfurled, the bugles sounded, the cannon roared, and the galley crew let out their cry, commending themselves to God. Had the captain taken two Jews on board? Commentaries were rife on deck the first time they were becalmed: “We should throw them overboard,” said the pilgrims. “No,” said the crew, “the water stolen from the

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Jordan is to blame.” One individual claimed he had read a papal bull prohibiting its theft. The baggage was searched and “all that was found was thrown into the sea, even thought the wisest on board said that it was the height of foolishness to believe the said water was the cause of our delay!”6 Whether it was the Jordan water or Jews on board, it did not alleviate the shortage when contrary winds blew for four days. There was nothing in sight except the menacing rocks of Turkish territory close by. The complaints began again. According to Nicolas Le Huen, “there was some murmuring against the captain for overloading the ship with salt and merchandise.” A delegation was sent to protest that there were worms in the biscuit, and the pilgrims were granted a pig as a peace offering.7 Pietro Casola depicts his ship’s master excusing himself to inveterate complainers.8. A stopover in Cyprus was wished for by some and dreaded by others. It was desired to allow those nobles who were still in good health, recently created Knights of the Holy Sepulcher, to go to the royal palace in Nicosia, where, by virtue of an ancient custom, they made a treaty with the king of Cyprus, who called them his “brethren,” inscribed their names in a book, and presented them with a silver dagger decorated with a violet (the emblem of the order), a sheath, and a belt. In 1480 it was the Venetian queen Caterina Cornaro who conferred the honor. But the island was reputed to be unhealthy.9 It was there that Ogier d’Anglure would witness the last moments of his father-in-law, whose symptoms he describes.10 Fabri speaks of the dreadful dying cries of a knight he buried along the shoreline at Baffo and expresses his admiration for the dedication of the handful of women sailing on the galley, who transformed themselves into nurses to care for the surviving patients. At Larnaca Santo Brasca would see two of his companions die “per lo pessimo aere.” He himself caught “una febre continua e terribilissma“ that lasted six days.11 But people died in other places too. Denis Possot would describe his illness before expiring in Crete: he suffered from stomach pains and lumbago and had pustules all over his face and body.12 The preacher Francesco, Casola’s companion, would get no farther than the island of Rhodes.13 Some made it their duty to remember those who had died on the holy journey, and the painful duty of informing their family fell to their friends. The pilgrims of 1480 also suffered losses from accidents. The first mate died of a blow from the rigging during a maneuver. When water was in short supply a general depression set in until a mountain stream was providentially discovered from which the crew could fill the water barrels: “There was more fighting and scrambling than there ever was for wine or water. . . . We felt we were returning to life, as plants and trees assailed by the sun’s heat turn green again when bathed with rain and dew,” writes one witness, who elsewhere observed with compassion the slow death throes of

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the animals (sheep, goats, and pigs) brought along to be eaten, which were the first to suffer as a result of rationing. A pleasant surprise awaited the survivors on Rhodes, for the Turks had finally abandoned their lengthy siege. The news was shouted from one ship to the next. On September 11 the pilgrim galley prepared to enter the liberated port. The watch at first thought they were Turks and busied themselves around a large cannon that threatened to unleash a deluge of stones against the ship—but the misunderstanding was cleared up in time. Then the inhabitants came running to see the first Christian boat to arrive since the raising of the siege. There was such a fear of treachery that the passengers were allowed ashore only after their identities had been confirmed.14 The French received a warm welcome from their compatriots, who were all the more eager for contact, which they had been deprived of for so long; just two weeks earlier Turkish sails had still been flapping before the city. Barbatre launches into an account of the joyful festivities to celebrate the return of peace: We went ashore and were given an excellent welcome and reception by the good knights and citizens of the said Rhodes—better than in any other town or city since our departure. The truth is that folk who had never seen or known us treated us royally and offered us of what they had. . . . We found people of all nations there, and especially of our own tongue, from France and Normandy; each came to us to console and rejoice us, among them a gunner named Maître Colin, who has a Greek wife, a fine, handsome woman, and they have two fine little sons.15 This eyewitness account casts some light on the pilgrims’ relations with expatriates. In the course of his journey Barbatre would meet a gunner acquainted with Gournay, Gisors, and Neufchasteau; a Breton cooper whose family lived at Louviers; and a young man from Lisieux. Delighted by his hosts’ welcome as much as by their gifts, he undertook to carry messages to their cousins in France. The most interesting aspect is not so much this domestic news but the journalistic treatment of the siege. Pierre Barbatre recognized that he was witnessing a page of history being written and describes, without any excess of charitable feeling, the still visible mass graves in the war-damaged city: “My companions and I visited the whole city and the wall. . . . You can still see IX or X whole Turks who died on Sea Street, in front of the Jewish quarter; and in the ditches are legs and heads and arms; and large pits where they were thrown and covered with earth. . . . They took away a great number of wounded and dying; and it is a great pity there were not more of them!”16 Barbatre’s account unexpectedly takes on the appearance of a chronicle as a result of his inserted account of the siege,”the most cruel and mar-

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velous there ever was in human memory.” Barbatre copies out a letter sent by a Burgundian knight in which he gives a detailed account of the hostilities. This eyewitness describes the widespread terror caused by the bombards and mentions the betrayals and the decisive assistance from King Ferrando—two ships and eight hundred men, which had the maximum psychological effect; fearing the arrival of further reinforcements, the Turks beat a hasty retreat on August 18. This siege would be remembered as an abominably destructive modern war, with its “marvelous power of artillery unequaled in the world.” It had its share of miracles and celestial signs: a mysterious star; a great cross as bright as the sun that touched earth and sky at the same time; and two giants with beards down to their waists, mounted on white horses.17 In 1487 Obadiah di Bertinoro still speaks of the traumatic memory left by the projectiles. Fourteen years later Pietro Casola evokes his hallucinatory view of the ruins and gives an account of the war, the outcome of which seemed to him “more like a miracle than due to human might,”18 and which is now part of the human history of the island. In Rhodes Casola was merely a listener to an epic tale, but in Candia he experienced a cataclysm firsthand. He was almost hurled to the ground by an earthquake and found himself trapped between the church, from which there issued a great dust cloud, and the city walls, which were too high to jump down from. At the same time, the victim became an observer of collective emotion: the cries uttered in Greek and Latin; the destruction of buildings; strange processions with appropriately discordant chants; a tidal wave that struck the galley on which the pilgrims had taken refuge; and an aftershock. “It was a most pitiful thing to see and to hear.” The Cretan city would remain inscribed in his memory, not only because of this spectacle of desolation but also because of the “great stench” that had to be borne: the houses, “with flat roofs, and so appearing unfinished,” lacked “the necessary place for purging the human body,” so the people threw the contents of their chamber pots out of the doors and windows once a day when a signal bell was rung to authorize it. When Casola remembered the name of Candia, it was also because of the smells.19

A Variety of Itineraries With the same application they had exhibited on the outward outbound voyage, the pilgrims interwove the strands of memory that would link them forever to the Holy City as they named the various stages of their “homeward journey, from the Holy Land by both sea and land to Paris town, capital city of the Kingdom of France.” There was plenty of time to reel off the names and enumerate the leagues and miles they had covered20—particularly since the return voyage lasted somewhat longer

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than the outbound one due to unfavorable winds. To the pilgrims, who were no longer sustained by the strength of their desire to see Jerusalem, it often seemed interminable. Sailing from Jaffa on August 25, 1494, Casola’s galley did not reach Venice until October 31, with the result that three quarters of his account is devoted to life at sea. The author evokes the tension among the mariners, who strayed off course and then—to the consternation of the passengers—quarreled openly. He also allows us to hear those who complained bitterly about the delays even when the port of call was an agreeable one. They behaved “like the children of Israel in the desert, growing weary of the manna they ate every day.” Finding themselves still loitering on the Dalmatian coast two months after their departure, some of them hired smugglers’ boats to reach Venice more quickly.21 The temptation to reduce the time spent at sea or to make a few more side pilgrimages (to Bari or Rome) induced some travelers to disembark at Otranto. But the overland route was just as uncertain. Philippe de Voisins, who chose it, discovered this the hard way when he was held for ransom by officers of the king of Naples. The horses were appraised by rascally experts who established the percentage to be paid. So the “poor pilgrim” assures us that “the worst and most treacherous people anywhere in the world are to be found in the Kingdom of Naples and Apulia”—worse even than “the miscreant Moors, even though in Italy and Lombardy there are scarcely any good people, according to common report.”22 If those who traveled in organized convoys suffered fewer mishaps, the ones who diverged from the beaten track became heroes, whether intentionally or not. The completely penniless friar Jean Thenaud spent more than four months getting from Egypt to Villefranche-sur-Mer. The notary Niccolò da Martoni, who thought himself quite capable of making his way back to Italy independently, spent seven months wandering in despair through the labyrinth of islands in the Mediterranean. The squire Bertrand de La Broquière, who purposely chose the overland route taken by the crusaders, undertook a seemingly endless trek. Seen through the prism of the text, the pilgrimage mutates into a forced stay, a blind navigation, or a willingly undertaken exploration. Leaving Cairo on October 14, 1513, Jean Thenaud almost never reached home. He waited for more than a month at Damietta “to enter Christian territory in great poverty and misery, for he had nothing left.” When the Greek merchants refused to give him lodgings, he sold his ruby and emerald rings and slept in a warehouse yard, greeted each morning by the stones thrown by a gracious hostess, furious to find “this dog born of a dog, this stinking old shoe” still at her door. Finally, on Saint Catherine’s day he was taken on board a ship that narrowly escaped disaster. How did Thenaud recognize Christian soil when he reached it? By the joyful pealing of church

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bells. It was a real joy, in Rhodes, to “hear bells ringing” in full cry, for the Eastern Christians “rang no bells except the one . . . at dusk on the three days before Easter.” This pilgrim passed through the Straits of Messina in January, remained for a month in Sicily, “in great boredom,” watching the smoke rise from “Hell’s chimneys,” which, according to the local villagers, had been fired up to welcome Pope Julius. . . . Finally he left . . . and met with such a violent storm that with one accord the crew and passengers vowed to make a pilgrimage to Our Lady of Loreto. The winds finally died down, and on March 2 the friar disembarked near Nice.23 Niccolò da Martoni would long remember his odyssey in 1395. His return voyage, by way of Athens and the Cyclades, which occupies half of his account, was Homeric in every sense of the word. Having completed his visit to the holy places, he had to wait seventeen days at Ramla for his captain and some pilgrims, who had taken a different route. There, subjected to various humiliations, he hardly dared go in search of food. He finally reached Jaffa, from where he embarked for Beirut on October 27. He had ample time to visit the “port of Damascus,” where he narrowly escaped being drowned on his way from the galley to the shore when his boat overturned in the rough sea. Pulled out in extremis, Niccolò saw his beard and hair turn white. Considering that the captain was delaying too long, on November 4, “desiderans ad patriam redire,” he rather rashly decided to make his own way home. He boarded a ship bound for Famagusta (Cyprus), where he arrived on November 17. But he was unable to leave again. Forced to spend two months there, he had ample time to visit the town and observe the blackveiled Christian women, eternally dressed in black to mourn the loss of Acre. Above all, he had time to sigh. On December 9 he traveled to Nicosia by ox cart. (The driver handed him the reins; Niccolò, unable to drive the animals, suffered the expert’s scorn.) He was plagued by fleas, for the people kept pigs in their houses. In Nicosia he saw the palace (he would go all the way to the king’s chamber, wishing to speak with him!), the churches, and the cloisters planted with orange trees. Our pilgrim set out on foot, without a guide, for Holy Cross (the Cross of the Good Thief), where he arrived frozen and exhausted. There the brethren refused him lodging. Back in Famagusta, he wrote again: “I wanted nothing in the world so much as to return to my homeland.” Hope was reborn in the form of a ship leaving for Rhodes on January 7. But this failed to take into account an encounter with pirates that delayed the sailing. After a few further ups and downs, he finally disembarked on January 24 and was reunited with his friend Antonaccio. Well housed and fed, and comforted by a Dominican, the two friends visited the traditional sites and then took a passage to Messina at a cost of five ducats. There they

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were, on February 1, installed in a small cabin in the stern, provided with sufficient supplies to last the journey—or so they thought! The passage through the Cyclades was eventful. Pirates forced them to disembark into a small boat. Extracting themselves from this predicament, they found berths on a boat heading for Athens at a cost of ten ducats. It was Lent. There, in spite of himself, our hero fell into a depression. He saw himself condemned to permanent exile, with no hope of ever reaching home. The tears he had shed, he says, were more numerous than the drops of wine he had imbibed! The two words exilium and patria haunt the prose of the despondent man. On February 24 he saw Athens and its columns. Martoni had the rare privilege of having visited the city at that time. The road to Corinth was closed because of a war between the duke of Cephalonia and the despot of Morea. The two friends narrowly evaded the Turks, who were scouring the region. Then they stopped at Negroponte, in Euboeia, where they were made welcome by some nobles and could at last sleep in proper beds. But they also had a depressing wait of forty nights (February 26–April 2), with no sight of the ship they were waiting for to finally take them home to their beloved Italy. Wearily, they left the island for the mainland. Then began a nighttime march over hills and valleys to avoid the Albanians and the Turks. They passed through Athens and Megara in fear and suffering. Thanks to a smuggler, they reached Corinth by “sure and secret ways.” There they managed to board a ducal brigantine that was to bring the duchess of Cephalonia home. It set sail on April 7. At Patras our two pilgrims found a vessel bound for Corfu. But a fearful storm broke out, and with some difficulty they were put ashore on the Albanian coast: the rowboat was damaged, but the two survivors, up to their necks in water, were pulled out. On April 20 they were in Corfu at last, and from there they reached Apulia. Martoni then relates the stages of his trek overland. On May 27 he left Capua and was given a triumphal welcome near Caleno by a crowd that had given him up for lost. He was overcome by enormous sadness upon hearing that his wife had died of grief on April 10. “O how bitter for me not to return to my dear wife, Constanza.”24 A pilgrim leaves one world behind and returns to a different one. Time has not stood still in his absence. Bertrandon de la Broquière’s choice of the overland route through Turkey smacks very much of the challenge or exploit, even though the squire expresses his success with an elegant modesty: “I remember hearing some say it would be impossible for a Christian to return to the Kingdom of France by land. But to my judgement, which I do not say is sure, it seems that for a man sufficiently inclined to endure tribulations (but he should have money and good health!) and of average ability, nothing is impossible.”

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The return journey occupies the major part of his book, the pilgrimage itself having evidently been no more than an offical pretext for a reconnaisance trip. In Damascus, which he entered on foot, as was customary, a Saracen sent his broad felt hat flying with a blow from a stick. Bertrandon got the message: once and for all he adopted the local costume as a disguise. In Damascus, although he thought the people “wicked and of little reason,” he found the gardens splendid. In that city, a trade rival of Cairo’s, Christians were subject to as many regulations as everywhere else. For a ducat Bertrandon bought a secret method of making fire for use as a projectile. Traveling under the protection of a Mameluke, he describes the costumes and customs down to intimate details; interprets the beliefs; expresses his surprise to see bread cooked on a stick; mentions the nomads, who “carry their houses about with them,” and the religious men, who “sit in a circle, shaking their bodies and heads and chanting most barbarously.” Having gone there planning to melt into an enemy people, he eventually developed a liking for it. He found the Turks “joyful and fond of singing about heroic deeds; anyone wishing to dwell among them must not be solemn or melancholy.” In the course of his great expedition, the traveler was offered a passage to Cyprus on board a prince’s galley, but he declined this invitation to an easy life. Interested as he was in new gastronomic experiences, he preferred to go on enjoying sheep’s feet, kebabs of veal doused with “vin cuit,” and savoring the curdled milk called yogurt, although he did not enjoy the “caviar with olive oil” he sampled. Traveling from Bursa to Constantinople, disguised beneath his “high red hat,” our traveler abandoned some of his old prejudices and adopted new ones: “I found more amity among the Turks and would trust them more than the Greeks.” In Hungary he came across a primitive version of the air mattress (“you sleep in straw, on leather bags full of air that you blow up and that are the length of a man”). Having boarded a pilgrim galley one day in May, Bertrandon strayed from the beaten track and went far beyond the boundaries of the “customary pilgrimage,” as he demonstrates by turning his homeward journey into an exploration of unfamiliar lands.25

The Alchemy of Memory Whatever route was chosen (or endured), the pilgrim who left the Holy Land, with its images of poverty and splendor, would experience “the impotence of words and the power of memory,”26 a memory enriched by the fruits grafted onto the imagination. Little by little he would add a “pilgrimage as a man and as a poet” to his Christian pilgrimage.27 While one pilgrim desired nothing more than to get home safe and sound, another was

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already making plans to set out again, or to set down on paper the words that would preserve the memory of the islands and their rare fragrances. The pilgrim, leaning on his elbows at the rail in the galley’s stern, would cast his mind backward, like a net dragged in the wake of the ship. He experienced the mystery of time. Perhaps when he set foot on some deserted Turkish port or saw ruins swallowed up by the sea, it occurred to him that civilizations live and die like men: “It was a great city that was destroyed for its sins, like Sodom and Gomorrah,” writes Philippe de Voisins. “There the walls of ruined houses can be seen both beneath and above the water.”28 He also experienced the mystery of place. Perhaps, when he saw the salt lake in Cyprus, God’s gift to Saint Lazarus, who had wished never to be without salt, it also gave him pleasure to allow his mind to hesitate between seeing it as the supernatural effect of an original miracle or a visibly real local curiosity: “I think it a miracle,” writes Pietro Casola, “though some say it is the nature of the place.”29 Lazarus’s wish seemed to have been expanded into a blessing for the local people, such was the abundance of snow-white salt still to be found there. To this real journey, which at times had seemed more like a nightmare, there now were added dreams of journeys not made and which played a decorative role in the writing, like little apocryphal vignettes. After all, had the pilgrim not approached the frontiers of a world even stranger than the one he had explored? Had he not reached the Nile, with its source in the Earthly Paradise, a mystical link to the land of Prester John, the ruler of a mirage of an empire that exerted its attraction on men and drove them to push back the frontiers of known space? Farther still (but where?) was a land of Amazons “who do not suffer men.”30 From high atop Mount Sinai Abyssinia could be imagined, with its creatures bearing a cross on their brow, branded with a hot iron from infancy. They had met men who had been to Mecca, Aden, Ceylon, and the Indies.31 For there existed another East: a hidden, fabulous one, an East of hybrid creatures with human faces and women dressed like men. La Broquière remembered a certain Pietro, from Naples, “married in the land of Prester John,” whom he had questioned about this land where he refused to follow him. The merchant spoke in all seriousness of a sovereign able to assemble an army of four million men, “of great stature, neither white nor black, but of a tan complexion, both virtuous and wise.” We can easily see where the material came from for the fictive, idealized worlds of goodness that later would be exploited for literary or philosophical ends. And what of the monstrous serpents? Of the land of Maha-Cin (Great China; China and Burma)32 and its giant ships? Of Ethiopia, with its impassable mountains? The loquacious Neapolitan, who carried his mirrors with him to sell at considerable profit, described to the squire a topsy-turvy world where winter

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lasted from May to September, where wheat was sown in December and grapes were harvested in February. He described the source of the Nile, a great cave with two towers flanking the entrance, closed off with a chain. Anyone who ventured in never came out again, for inside they heard such a soothing song that they never wanted to leave.33 The voyage was also prolonged in the imagination of Jean Thenaud, who had encountered a great caravan on its way back from Mecca. He was told stories of different rites, of different “indulgences” earned at the cost of a perilous walk across sand that shifted like “waves in the sea or great mountains.” He had seen camels with their legs in chains, among them the beast that carried “the Alcoran and the water from the well of expiation,” condemned to be solemnly eaten once its work was done.34 Far from filling curiosity’s bottomless pit, the real journey became a vector for fancy. After experiencing such a variety of faces and landscapes, nothing was easier than to imagine a country of headless women, some island of monkeys ruled by females (the romance of Perceforest), a cave opening onto parallel worlds; or possibly some Saint Patrick’s Purgatory. But the real journey also awakened the sense of something lacking that evolved into a thirst for exploration—an urge widespread enough around 1510 for Ludovico di Varthema (nicknamed “Viator”) to speak of it as a kind of syndrome: “The desire that has incited several others to see the diversity of the world’s kingdoms has likewise persuaded me to the same undertaking. And because all the other countries and provinces have been revealed by others, I decided in my heart to see provinces less visited by those who went before us.”35 The sense of multiple destinies resulting from the cross-sections of lives encountered along the way is also an essential part of the human experience of travel. Such lives have left their mark on the texts. Pietro Casola recounts the pilgrims’ efforts to purchase the freedom of Christians fallen into Moorish hands. It is certain that their tears remained a lasting obsession, for he expressses his pity in a compassionate passage about these “poor wretches in chains, weeping.”36 Aboard the boat that brought him to Rhodes, Thenaud could smile as he recalled how he had rescued a fugitive slave he took under his protection and who had saved his life in the desert.37 The pilgrimage generally came full circle in Venice, at the Punto della Dogana (Customs Point), where a customs inspection awaited the travelers returning from the great summer journey. Some have spoken of the formalities upon arrival. After all, a pilgrim’s cloak might well conceal a merchant or a trafficker in holy relics. Georges Lengherand and his companions had their baggage and souvenirs searched. “We were asked if there was anything from which we wanted to make money to turn a profit. To which we answered no, and that everything was gifts to our family and friends.” And

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what did they bring back? Soil and Jordan water, of course, but also golden cloth and crimson damask, calico, silks, chaplets of nutmeg, purses of woven gold, Turkish knives, and camelskin gloves. There were also symbolic objects: thirty-three rings and twelve crosses that had been pressed against the Holy Sepulcher; a golden thread the length of the Holy Sepulcher; and a quantity of precious stones with special properties. The chests also contained stones to cure the eyes, or snake venom, or the bloody flux; a fragment of Saint Barnaby’s bone, purchased with confident credulity; and bottles of Saint Catherine’s oil and the diluted balm from Matariya. We shall never know if the parrot bought by the knight Simone Fornaro completed the journey successfully, but the two birds purchased by Nicole Louve did reach Metz alive on December 10, 1428. Mystical experiments left no room for skepticism: upon his return to Venice, one traveler who had placed some bread in the hole where the Cross had stood found it as fresh as the day it had been taken from the oven!38 Artistically gifted pilgrims kept the sketches and drawings that would provide inspiration for future works to keep the memory of the pilgrimage alive. In how many places, as in Venice, would a Church of the Holy Sepulcher be constructed, containing “a piece of the True Cross” and a precise replica of Christ’s tomb in the Church of the Resurrection!39

chapter 17

By Way of an Ending The Smell of Thyme and the Taste of Honey

With the help of writing, I shall not risk seeing the things that nature alone did not allow me to preserve in memory sink into the mist of forgetfulness. —meister thietmar

It is when the journey as action is completed that its reflection, the mirrored journey, begins—an exercise in composition sometimes justified in a prefatory notice.1 Meister Thietmar, in a summary sparing of words, expresses how spiritually he has come full circle. Setting out for the forgiveness of his sins and encouraged by a burning desire to see with his own eyes the things he had read of in the Scriptures, he returned home eager to set down his memories for himself and for others. Avoiding all vainglory, he invites the reader to open and enjoy his book—a work that, he says, was “composed without affectation and in all simplicity to occupy [his] leisure and recollect the places.”2 Indeed, it seems that the pilgrimage to Jerusalem could not be thought of apart from the language to set it down on paper, as if words were to confer on the book the sacred power of an ultimate relic. The expedition gave assurance and authority to Willem van Boldensele, who contrasts hearsay and personal testimony: “I heard tell of many marvels of the Holy Land, but I can really speak of it now that I have seen it.”3 But speak of it to what end? Riccoldo da Monte di Croce expresses a more pragmatic view, pointing to his Liber peregrinationis

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as a kind of encyclopedia of kingdoms, sects, heresies, and monsters intended to be of immediate utility to future missionaries in their ministry.4 As for Ludolph von Sudheim, he refers to the writing of a report as a widespread practice (or perhaps a duty). After his years of absence, he describes “for the reader’s pleasure” what he saw of monuments and men between 1336 and 1341. Paradoxically, he makes no attempt to conceal his use of predecessors’ writings, or the fact that he would not speak of everything, omitting whatever might have strained the credulity of his reader for fear of being accused of fabrication by malicious persons: “I could say much more, but I would frear being called a liar by those who are unworthy to learn and to whom everything seems incredible and unbelievable.”5 Having established the limits of what could be told about the journey, according to the norms of acceptability, he anticipated the reception of his text in a sketch of his average narratee. We may find these self-imposed limitations rather surprising, for we might have expected him to explain his silence by invoking the criteria of reason and prudent skepticism rather than the reader’s incredulity. But extreme novelty was thought too shocking. The reader might well begin to suspect the existence of an unwritten text, remaining invisible because inexpressible (unless such rhetorical flourishes be interpreted as simply the product of literary vanity).

Between the Ineffable and the Beaten Path To tell or not to tell: that was the question for Sebald Rieter, a German traveling in 1479, whose thinking has been revealed by J. M. Pastré: strange things must remain unsaid, for incredible things would find no ears to hear them. There would be much to tell, but new things are posited as ineffable, inconceivable, and indescribable. Strange realities would be “implausible on German soil.” Moreover, “The travelers would return fortunate to have experienced mysterious things . . . and with the almost esoteric certainty of having seen things that others could never understand. By their silence they would increase the attraction of these inviolate zones.”6 Even if the accounts keep many secrets, we are entitled to wonder whether this was a matter of mystery or mystification. But what, then, of too familiar realities? After all, the pilgrimage was above all a journey along well-trodden paths. Some would simply omit such realities as redundant, aware of the danger of their account becoming no more than an infinite play of mirrors reflecting earlier descriptions. In the generic universe of the pilgrimage account, intertextual exchanges were quite acceptable; for those who hoped to provide a fresh vision of the East, Jerusalem was considered a topic long since exhausted. This was why some avoided treating it yet again, instead inviting their readers to consult the

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available stock of earlier accounts. Thietmar considered it useless to speak at length of a holy city when a number of accounts were easily to be found.7 Should we see these suppressions and omissions as an artifice? Chateaubriand makes as explicit as possible the dilemma of the author, hemmed in between the abundant treatments by his predecessors and his responsibility not to omit the essential part of the journey: Here, I find myself in real difficulty. Should I provide a precise depiction of the holy places? But then I can only repeat what others have said before me, for never, perhaps, has a subject been less familiar to modern readers, yet never has a subject been so completely exhausted. Should I omit any depiction of these sacred places? But would that not mean excising the most essential part of my journey, and eliminating its purpose and its end? . . . After considerable hesitation I have decided to describe the principal stations in Jerusalem based on the following considerations: today no one reads the ancient accounts of pilgrimages to Jerusalem, and what is very shopworn will probably appear brand new to most readers.8 He was by no means the first to note this aporia or dilemma that recognizes the limits of referential writing, the subjects of which, already rendered in the words of others, run the risk of reprising one another over and over again in a vain and tiresome play of mirrors. Sebald Rieter perfectly grasped the impossibility of offering a new perception of the Holy Land, preferring instead to refer the reader to his father’s little book, where the essential sites were concerned, and giving pride of place to the things he had witnessed that departed from the commonplace.9 Thus, the travelers could view themselves either as carrying on a tradition or as innovators, flattering themselves that they had been able to enter previously unvisited sanctuaries and walk along untrodden byways. The quest for the new would contribute to the development of a literature of original reportage. It was by way of the written text that the notion of the “journey” would acquire the content the writers wished to give it—a content that might evolve in the course of a single account, for frequently the two meanings of “pilgrimage” and “travel” can be seen to coexist.10 The traveler became an author as well, and the transition from lived experience to the act of writing would be expressed in the treatment, with the statement of intent, foreword, or “notice” suggesting obscure protocols of reading. The fainthearted reader would be content to make a risk-free journey of discovery, while the more adventurous would themselves set out to travel the same itinerary. In the preamble he addresses to the king of Scotland, Adorno exposes the raison d’être of his work: the sanctum iter becomes a descriptum iter intended to acquaint the reader with “the customs and lands of

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men without faith.”Choices were governed by the imperative of “order and method.” While respecting the chronology of his movements, the author divided his material into 168 chapters. His style would be “modest and simple, so that what is sought may be more rapidly found and better understood.” His aim to provide an instructive synthesis was an implied criticism of poorly conceived works. The author develops predictable topics (the sultan, his power, his money, his Mamelukes) and inserts geographic or ethnographic considerations (the faith of the pagans and their customs). The book went further than immediate experience: from the confusion of what was witnessed a lucid discourse had to emerge. Research had to compensate for any insufficiency in the observed data. Uneventful periods were left out. Anything that appeared in random fashion was recast into a meaningful description. In his introductory paratext Adorno came very close to defining the generic criteria for good travel writing—this in the fifteenth century! Nothing is as arduous, sterile, and obscure as a failure to follow the rigorous sequence and precise order that facilitate and clarify the reading. What is more praisworthy and better in the whole undertaking than order and method? So, to find the strength to write about this journey, I have established the order of our movements chapter by chapter and have applied myself to adapt my story to it in an easy, unassuming style, so that the reader may more rapidly find what he seeks and understand it better. Here is the table of the chapters of this Itinerary.11 Reading, writing, investigating, and understanding. Adorno posits communication as a primary principle of coherence. By means of a semantic shift, the content of his “journey” is to be taken not merely as an accumulation of actions and experiences but as a written text divided into chapters. It demonstrates the irreducible ambiguity of a term that supposes a mental transition from things to words. The idea of stylistic clarity delineated by Adorno in 1470 became a precept in 1480, embodied in the double title used by the Anonymous Parisian: Le Voyage de la Saincte Cyté de Hierusalem avec la description des lieux, ports, villes, cités et aultres passaiges fait en l’an mil quatre cens quatre vingtz estant le siège du grand Turc a Rhodes et regnant Loys unzieme de ce nom.12 By using the term voyage (journey) he stressed the notion of movement in space, whereas description suggested a more localized exploration of the world. In his prologue he emphasizes his quest for realities apprehended by the “sense of sight, as they presented themselves to the understanding,” and the rejection of all “artificial cosmography and description.” This was an explicit admission that the evidence of the senses should take precedence over book learning, which was suspected of screening out concrete reality. It also implied the rejection of scholarly classifications,

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whether in an encyclopedic spirit, as in Brunetto Latini’s Tesoretto or Li livres dou tresor (c. 1450), or of geographic intent, like Gilles le Bouvier’s Livre de la description des pays (c. 1450), or with a natural science bent, like the later Observations des singularitez et choses memorables by Pierre Belon du Mans.13 The author’s subjectivity was affirmed, recognized, and accepted as an inescapable component of the text. Yet the pilgrim’s book by no means precluded the transmission of geographic knowledge in a spatiotemporal relationship, elements that came together in the flesh in the traveler’s eyes and in the text in the “I” that spoke for him: “This is the book that I, Seigneur of Caumont and Castenuel, have written on the overseas journey to Jerusalem and the river Jordan, containing the kingdoms, principalities, counties, and other countries and lands and the names of places and the number of leagues going and coming by both land and sea, and the time I was absent between my departure and my return.”14

The Image of the Circle In the end, what was the spatial image of the journey that remained? Perhaps that of a circle, like the map of the world, with its considerable symbolic power, “a reference to the perfection of God’s work,”15 a circle in the likeness of the planet, whose roundness—sensed rather than generally admitted—was an invitation to travel around it. Li livres dou tresor (1266) stated as a physical necessity that the earth be round like an egg, for only a round shape could contain things: the round sky contains the round earth as an eggshell does its contents.16 In 1396 the author of the Liège version of Jean de Mandeville’s book contemplated demonstrating the virtual or theoretical possibility of circling the earth by means of a round-the-world trip: “From this isle, return by the route I described to you on the way out. But, as I told you, if someone did not want to return the way he had already traveled and wanted to set out on the great sea beyond India and venture on where God took him, he could return home by always traveling onward, for the earth is round.”17 The epistemological change that took place between 1480 and 1520 spread the concept of a spherical world.18 Thus, it is not surprising that—as if to illustrate what had been only an abstract notion— Adorno viewed his journey as a symbolic trip around the world. He begins his text with a first chapter set in Rome (“leaving by the Western gate”) and ends it in Rome (“returning by the Eastern gate”), making that city the alpha and omega of his pilgrimage, “so that, like a point on a circle, it should be the beginning and end of the journey.”19 After all, was the city of the popes not the last remaining holy place of the medieval Christian order, “the last remainder of the Holy Land”—the place to which the center of Christianity shifted, from East to West?

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Furthermore, if in his conclusion Adorno explicitly recognizes the benefits of experience and of a direct acquaintance with other peoples, his lesson is pessimistic. Everywhere the world deceives, nothing lasts, all is ephemeral, and this earth is in a state of misery where it is not justice that reigns but passion and the thirst for riches: “Everything that is in this world changes and crumbles away.” Such are the final words of this disillusioned individual who, before the fact, experienced the bitter lesson taught by travel. The material is organized according to the demands of legibility or of symbolic intent; realities are grasped with the understanding and not as a disordered juxtaposition, or the account might be put together for the spiritual comfort of the reader. During the ten days he spent in Jerusalem, Jean Thenaud visited the holy places several times. However, to give a sense of permanence and eternity he eliminates all temporal markers as mere dross. In his text we can recognize the metatextual commentary of an author who became his own first reader in order to indicate his overarching objective, which was to allow others to make a mental pilgrimage: “I first spent ten uninterrupted days visiting and revisiting all the holy places, which I shall list in order, without noting the days on which I visited them in order to avoid superfluity. Because of the ample time I was there, I shall often recite the said journeys so that those who are devoted to the Holy Land may go there in spirit in the best form possible for them.”20 It can be seen that the composition of the essential portion of the work was anything but artless. The book created the image of an itinerary leading to a sacred center. Such was still the sainte serche, the holy quest, referred to by Ogier d’Anglure.21 The book provided an encapsulated tour of a miniaturized Jerusalem. It functioned somewhat like those Ways of the Cross that symbolically recount biblical scenes to serve as a focus for meditation. Its intended function was similar to that of the mazes laid out on the floors of churches, surrogates discussed by A. Dumoulin: “Pilgrimage was prayer in space. . . . Believers unable to carry out the pilgrimage itself followed these labyrinthine mazes on their knees until they reached the center, representing the holy places. . . . By compressing the space into a maze, the intention was to provide the pilgrim with the equivalent of a route fraught with hazards.”22 Today some Ways of the Cross still remain, and— as a consequence of the necessary reduction of sacred space—so do an infinite number of “holy lands” throughout the world that were brought into existence by the chance transplanting of relics and that emerged along with the early centers of Christianization. A few grains of sand carried home, a stone boat, or a woman pulled from the sea23 were enough to forge an enduring link between Jerusalem and some distant pagan land, to give material existence to the piety that makes sanctuaries arise. The pilgrimage accounts contributed to the “imaginary interiorization of

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the holy places.” A. Dupront cites the case of an assembly of nuns in Ulm at which the preacher, a former pilgrim, led his listeners on a mental pilgrimage, a “convenient précis of the holy space,” as an anonymous Italian of the the fourteenth century had already recommended: “These are journeys that pilgrims must make who journey across the sea to save their souls, and that anyone can perform while remaining at home by reflecting on each of the places described below and repeating a Pater and an Ave at each of the holy places.”24 Felix Fabri wrote his work Die Sionpilger25 for these nuns and for those of his Dominican brethren who were physically unable to accomplish the journey to the Holy Land. His manual provided the spiritual exercise of a virtual journey of 208 days, a mental pilgrimage together with the necessary preparation. Thanks to the daily guide, the imaginary pilgrim could hasten from one holy place to another, from one church to the next, overcoming all obstacles, and could travel in spirit to St. James of Compostela, Rome, and Jerusalem. The book created an illusion of ubiquity, allowing the reader to travel while staying put. In reading it, was there not already that “journey of the eye from sign to sign, following all kinds of itineraries” of which Michel Butor speaks?26

From Pious Intention to Humanistic Vision Before the Renaissance the “holy journey” suffered all kinds of appropriations: false pilgrimages masking some “secret, distant journey” or genuine ones paving the way for modern, humanistic, tourist travel; an art of living for merchants; an art of writing for the scholarly. New perceptions were juxtaposed with the pious reiterations of the guides. The original motive for setting out became, in the end, only a minor component of the itinerary. Pierre Belon du Mans would illustrate so extreme a reduction to the secular levelthat he dashed Chateaubriand’s expectations: “He barely mentions the Holy Sepulcher!”27 It was as a lover of ruins that Belon du Mans visited Greece and as a natural scientist that he compiled an encyclopedia of plants and animals to supplement his notes on national customs. The pharmacopola, criticized in the seventeenth century for having failed to make his “holy journey” as a christianus, could have answered his accusers by pointing out that he had specifically avoided using “journey” in the title of his book. The term must have seemed too reductionist to him, for he prudently preferred “Singular Observations,” giving “singular” a positive, enthusiastic connotation. Furthermore, such a title (deliberately?) blurred the notion of spatial movement that had predominated in the medieval era. It gave preeminence to the humanist’s way of looking at things. There was nothing really revolutionary about this; fourteenth- and fifteenth-century travelers had already been paving the way for such an evolution for quite some time.

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The account of travel to Jerusalem and Egypt, too straitjacketed in its original (or generic) framework, was bursting out of its age-old shell, permitting different forms of expression better suited to deciphering the world to blossom, “observations” being one of these. But we should not be too quick to inter the ancient notion of the “itinerary.” Chateaubriand, in a later age, would, on the contrary, cultivate the word’s ambiguity, playing on the pious meaning it had had when the pilgrimages first began, as well as on the geographic meaning it had acquired in the age of the earliest tourist guidebooks. The religious individual, no longer feeling guilty for adding curiosity to his piety, did not, for all that, give up taking advantage of meanings fallen into disuse. Does the elusiveness of language (the cause of so many disputes about meaning!) not result from the accumulated strata of multiple meanings that have arisen over the centuries? Such is the genius of language: a new meaning never completely obliterates the old. Nor should we think that writing a pilgrimage journal is a practice restricted to the past, for, like their predecessors, pilgrims still keep diaries, and some of them are published.28 Nor should we assume there are no longer any spiritual guides to the holy places. They still exist to permit maximum advantage to be taken of each stage of the pilgrimage. Like those of yore, they contain biblical texts and commentaries appropriate to each sanctuary.29 Travel writing provides a splendid illustration of the dialogue between the world and the book, whether as a call to set out in search of adventure or an invitation to travel without leaving home. Some have thought it possible to put the world between the covers of a book, thereby sparing the reader much trouble and effort; it is enough to traverse its pages. But, as they close the volume, how many must have dreamed of opening the book of the world for themselves, a book whose “pages turn at every step”? “A perception committed to paper, the things seen by a passenger seated on his camel or on the deck of his ship, who sees the landscapes open up before him . . . the scattered pages of a volume torn by jackals or soaked in sea foam.”30 Such is the “journey” in the form of picturesque notes as reinvented by Lamartine, who ostensibly left it to others to travel as a pilgrim, philospher, or geographer. He merely rediscovered the halting words of the earliest travelers as they attempted to relate the new world as closely as possible to how it appeared to them. In his day he merely reexperienced the intoxication—that once could scarcely be admitted to—of the friar from Ulm lurching about on his camel, or the genuine terror, proclaimed high and loud, of the little notary from Campania tossed by the waves. He shared with them the desire to communicate the taste of salt or the distaste for sand, as the humor took him. The influence of affective motivations and cultural diversity on the perceptions of each is revealed by the infinite number of variations on the same

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journey. The transition between the time of the adventure and the time of writing allows us to grasp the ever greater part played by individual sensibilities. While Pietro Casola overcame the boredom of the sea voyage by writing a detailed descripton of the boat’s layout, and similarly occupied his time during the days of waiting in port by meticulously recording the slightest incident, Ogier d’Anglure says nothing about a goodly number of tribulations of the sea passage, attempting instead to depict the slow trickle of the sands of time in the desert. The style of each is adapted to his interests or lack thereof, to his choice of narrative viewpoint, and to his awareness of time in relation to action. Parallel accounts by pilgrims traveling in the same year (1480, 1483, and 1486) allow us to appreciate some psychological nuances. Some details are magnified, ignored, or barely touched upon, depending on whose version we are reading. Diversity is also expressed through literary structure. The division into treatises (Fabri) or chapters (Adorno) was crucial for some, while for others (the Anonymous Parisian, for example) it seemed preferable to preserve the disorderly impression of real life. In all cases the book was viewed as a mirror held up to reality. “I believe I have seen the entire universe in a twofold mirror, reflecting a dual observation of the world. . . . In Cairo I saw confusion; in Venice, order.” Such was the assessment of a pilgrim traveling in 1483.31 But did he ever perceive his own face in this mirror he held up to the world? The accounts of pilgrimage and travel—assuming they did not take on the characteristics of a monolithic literary genre32—made their structures available as a medium for thought, an opportunity for education, and a vehicle for knowledge. Walking and meditation go very well together, as we have all discovered: the stroller daydreams and the traveler reflects. The pilgrimage was able to lend its literary formula to inward spiritual journeys in the form of visions—for example, to some allegory of human life as a pilgrimage to a celestial Jerusalem that beckoned from a mirror.33 Travel writing would have a brilliant future in literary history, as we now know. Whether novelistic, picaresque, didactic, or philosophical, it has been called upon to preserve its relationship with fiction, to become a metaphor for thought, a critical reading of reality employing the techniques of fabulation or imaginary comparisons. It would, on occasion, become the representation of a different place where the code of values was inverted and, if necessary, guide the literary wayfarer’s steps toward some paradise or utopia. But hasn’t the creation of imaginary geographies always been the sign of a sharper consciousness of reality? By dint of scrutinizing the world, the traveler has wanted to pass through the looking-glass even if he has failed to recognize his own features in it.

appendix

Pilgrims’ Profiles

anselmo adorno (1470–71). He and his son, Giovanni, whose family originated in Genoa, left Bruges in February 1470 for the East, where they had commercial interests. They embarked in Genoa and traveled by way of Tunis before reaching Egypt, the Sinai, and then Jerusalem. Their account is dedicated to King James III of Scotland, whom Anselmo had met in the course of diplomatic missions to Scotland. The account sets out to be instructive and includes rich documentation on the sites, inhabitants, and customs. Wrote in Latin. greffin affagart (1553). He made his pilgrimage at a time when Luther and Erasmus, whom he termed “wicked heretics,” had discredited the “holy journey.” He complained bitterly that the cost was that much higher since there were fewer pilgrims on board the galley. Wrote in French. ogier d’anglure (1395). Born around 1360, he belonged to an old noble family in Champagne. Ogier de Saint-Chéron, his ancestor and the founder of the line, twice went on Crusades in the twelfth century. The family legend had it that he was taken prisoner by Saladin and was liberated on condition that he include the Islamic crescent in his coat of arms. His descendant Ogier made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem and a journey to Egypt. The account that has come down to us was plagiarized several times. Wrote in French. anonymous (c. 1420). This Frenchman, who probably traveled to the Holy Land and Egypt sometime between 1419 and 1425, combines piety and

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curiosity. He was familiar with several other pilgrimage destinations. He provides unusual details about his time spent in the desert, makes observations on the landscape, and informs himself about the types of Christians he met. Wrote in French. anonymous parisian (1480). This pilgrim portrays himself as a scholar familiar with Paris and the surrounding region. He expresses his enchantment with Venice, enjoys describing the sea voyage, and takes an interest in the Greek clergy. Being an open-minded traveler, he adds his personal observations to the traditional descriptions of the holy places. Wrote in French. anonymous pilgrim from rennes (1486). This Frenchman seems to have been a native of the Charente. He extended his journey to Jerusalem with an expedition into the Sinai. He left a vivid account, in which he enjoys relating his misadventures and expressing his criticisms. There are three other accounts dating from the same year by the Frenchman Georges Lengherand, the Italian Girolamo Castiglione (Fior de Terra Santa), and the German Konrad Grünemberg. Wrote in French. alessandro arioste (1475–78). This Franciscan (born 1444; died 1503) was sent by the pope as an apostolic missionary to the patriarchs of Antioch and Jerusalem, hoping to bring them back into the Roman Church. In this he was not successful. He accuses the sultan of fueling the divisions between the Christians and describes the Greek priesthood’s opposition to the Latin rite. His memoir is also original in that it is presented in the form of dialogues. Wrote in Italian. pierre barbatre (1480). This Norman priest from Vernon traveled in the same convoy with the Anonymous Parisian, Santo Brasca, and Felix Fabri. His traveler’s descriptions of Venice, the Mediterranean, and the Holy Land are of en exemplary precision. On his return journey he turned his hand to journalism in the form of his report on Rhodes, where the siege by the Turks had just been raised. Wrote in French. willem van boldensele (1336) (pseud. of otto von nyenhausen). A Dominican from a noble family in Minden, Germany, he made his pilgrimage between 1332 and 1336 as penance for defecting from his monastery in Minden. He traveled through Palestine and composed a treatise for Cardinal Talleyrand of the Pontifical Court at Avignon that bears the mark of his geographic and historical culture, as well as his inquiries. This work, which purportedly contributed to the reconquest of the Holy Land, met with some success. Wrote in Latin. martin von baumgarten in brautenbach (1507). This German knight, described as nobilissimi et fortissimi, was born in 1473. He left an account that

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was not restricted to Palestine and the pilgrimage but formed part of a book in which he discussed many things: the way of life; animals; homing pigeons; the arrogance of the Mamelukes; and the presence of Jews. Wrote in Latin. bernhard von breydenbach (1483). Called the “most worthy Dean of the Church of Mainz” by Felix Fabri, Breydenbach made his pilgrimage in 1483, the same time as the monk from Ulm, although he is less communicative than the latter about the material aspects of the journey and the world he discovered. His notes were written up by the monk Martin Roth and sketches were made by the draftsman Erhard Rewich. Wrote in Latin. bertrandon de la broquière (1432). An adviser to the duke of Burgundy, this squire fell ill on the way to Mount Sinai and was brought back to Jerusalem. He recovered and visited several sites in the Holy Land, traveling on to Beirut and then Damascus before undertaking a return journey along the overland route by way of Turkey, Constantinople, and the Balkans (the crusaders’ route)—a risky journey during which he shared the life of the Turks while studying ways to defeat them. Wrote in French. thomas brygg de swinburne (1392–93). English lord of the manor who became mayor, or first magistrate, of Bordeaux. Leaving home on August 6, 1392, he set sail for the Holy Land from Venice on September 2 in the company of some German and Czech knights and squires. His journal, probably written by his chaplain, is scrupulously dated. He began his tour in Alexandria (October 20) and Cairo (November 3), displaying considerable interest in the pyramids and in the fauna. He reached Mount Sinai on November 19 and Gaza on December 3. Following a stay in Jerusalem and visits to the holy places, he traveled on to Damascus (December 25) and Beirut (January 3), where he spent twelve days waiting for his ship. He recorded his expenses. Wrote in Latin. burchardus de monte sion (1283). Born around 1220 in a Germanspeaking region (Germany or Alsace), this Dominican stayed in Mount Sion (whence his name) and crisscrossed the entire Holy Land in order to write a geographic description of it by region. He also described Lebanon, Lesser Armenia, and Cyprus. His work had considerable success and was used as a source by certain pilgrim authors. Wrote in Latin. gabriele capodilista (1458). The account written by this Milanese preceded and occasionally inspired Santo Brasca (1480). He kept a dated journal in which he specifies the devotions related to certain holy places. Wrote in Italian. pietro casola (1494). This cultivated priest from San Ambrogio di Milano (born c. 1450; died 1508) gives us a vivid account of his journey to the Holy

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Land and provides a satirical picture of his companions. With charming spontaneity he begins his observations of customs in Venice and then depicts the atmosphere on board ship and the dramatic tribulations of his journey. Wrote in Italian. girolamo castiglione (1486). An Italian humanist who studied at Ferrara, he was the author of Fior de Terra Santa, a fine work commissioned by the knight Francesco di Bivero for the didactic purpose of edifying the people of Sicily. Wrote in Italian. nompar de caumont (1418). Seigneur of Caumont in the region of Agen (c. 1396–1428), he advocated the undertaking of a pilgrimage in his prologue. After visiting Compostela, he traveled to the Holy Land in 1418, setting out from Barcelona. In addition to describing his terror at sea during storms, he provides information on the ceremonies performed in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher (e.g., the dubbing of knights) and describes his pious visits. He also includes an impressive list of the souvenirs and relics he brought back with him. Wrote in French. jean de cucharmoy (1490). A native of Lyon living in Bourges, he set out on May 8, 1490, returning to Lyon on January 1, 1491. He was then aged twenty-five. He speaks of his material difficulties (his personal effects were stolen in Jaffa), his memories of the antiquities, and of history (he admired the tomb of Godefroi de Bouillon). Although he made his pilgrimage at the same time as Philippe de Voisins, his account is less emotional. Wrote in French. felix fabri (1480, 1483). This Dominican friar from Ulm made two pilgrimages to Jerusalem: the first, a very dangerous one, occurred in 1480 and only involved Jerusalem; the second, in 1483, was extended to include a crossing of the Sinai desert and a stay in Cairo. His Evagatorium greatly surpasses the framework of a simple pilgrimage account. It is a documentary summa in which description and personal adventure are interwoven. Wrote in Latin. lionardo di niccolò frescobaldi (1384). Descended from the old Florentine nobility of the Guelph faction, which specialized in trade and banking, Frescobaldi held various civic offices and was elected by the people as one of the Twenty. Upon his return from the Holy Land, he became Podestat de Città di Castello and was entrusted with embassies to the popes (1389, 1398). In 1406 he distinguished himself in an assault on Pisa. This father of several children set out on August 10, 1384, on a journey lasting almost a year, which took him to Alexandria and Damascus. He followed the fall itinerary (Alexandria, Sinai, Jerusalem). Giorgio Gucci and Simone

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Sigoli traveled in his company. He left a journal rich in personal details. Wrote in Italian. joos van ghistele (1481–85). The pilgrimage of this Flemish nobleman was part of a journey of exploration to the East that lasted several years. He was in Jerusalem at the same time as Walther von Guglingen (1483). He visited Egypt and tried to explore unknown or forbidden areas. His account bears witness to his appetite for discovery. Upon his return he had the account written up by his chaplain, Ambrosius Zeebout, Jan van Questout having died before he could complete it. Wrote in Flemish. konrad grünemberg (1486). This German knight, who set out from Konstanz, typified German piety at the end of the fifteenth century and the knightly elite influenced by the German mysticism of Heinrich Suso and Johannes Tauler. The manuscript, preserved in Gotha, has remarkable watercolor drawings. Wrote in German. giorgio gucci (1384). Coming from a plebeian family in Florence, his father held civic offices. He became a prior in 1379 and served as ambassador to Rome in 1383. He was murdered by his brother Thomas in 1393. One of a group of Florentines who set out in 1384, he lists his six companions and their six servants. He must have been the group’s treasurer, for apart from his highly interesting chronicle, he gives precise details of the expenses to be expected by the pilgrim and reproduces an account book. From Alexandria to Damascus these travelers shared expenses. For the return trip from Florence, accompanied by a servant, he advises the pilgrim to expect an expenditure of three hundred gold florins. Wrote in Italian. paul walther von guglingen (1482–83). Initially an Augustinian monk, then a Franciscan, he set out for Jerusalem at the end of August 1481, where he remained for about a year. He would return with a group of Germans in 1483, mentioning Felix Fabri, Bernhard von Breydenbach, and also Joos van Ghistele. Very introspective, he informs the reader of his state of mind, his emotions, his upsets, and his fervor, making himself a very sympathetic character. Wrote in Latin. richard guylforde (1506). This unfortunate English traveler to the Holy Land fell ill in August 1506 while traveling between Jaffa and Jerusalem, where he died on September 5. The prior of Gysborne, who accompanied him, died on the sixth. His burial took place on the seventh. His account was completed by a servant, who refers to him as “master.” Wrote in English. arnold von harff (1496–1499). A young nobleman living at the court of the dukes of Jülich and Gelderland, at the age of twenty-five he left Cologne for a three-year journey that took him to Rome and then on to Egypt. He also

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claimed to have seen India and West Africa. Married in 1504, he died in 1505 without seeing his posthumous son. Nevertheless, he had time to write a singular account that displays a certain taste for adventure. Wrote in German. margery kempe (c. 1410?). In 1436 this woman from Lynn (Norfolk, England) dictated her book, which was essentially a mystical autobiography. This mother of fourteen children advocates chastity and details the stages of her spiritual life. Her pilgrimages (Jerusalem and Rome by way of Germany) are totally interiorized and form only part of the work. The only thing that counts for her are her feelings: the charity of the Sisters in Venice; the meanness of her companions; her visions at the Holy Sepulcher. No trace of a description is to be found. Wrote in English. ghillebert de lannoy (1422). A Flemish nobleman born in 1386, he was variously a soldier, chamberlain, captain, Knight of the Golden Fleece—but above all a great traveler who served as ambassador and spy for the duke of Burgundy and the king of England. He visited Lithuania, Russia, Constantinople, Rome, England, Ireland, Egypt, and Syria, where he took extremely precise notes on the layouts of ports for an eventual armed landing. Wrote in French. gilles le bouvier (1440–50). Born in Bourges in 1386, he was Ghillebert de Lannoy’s contemporary. Like him he roamed the world from the age of sixteen, first in the train of the duke of Berry and then of the Dauphin, for whose messages he was responsible. Most of his voyages abroad took place between 1440 and 1450. From his experience he derived his Livre de la description des pays, but it is to his Chroniques du roi Charles VII (1402–55) he owes his fame. Wrote in French. georges lengherand (1486). This magistrate from Mons, in the province of Hainault, traveled to the Holy Land in the same group as the Anonymous pilgrim from Rennes, extending his stay with an expedition to St. Catherine’s of Sinai and a visit to Cairo. In his account of the desert crossing he displays a keen sense of observation, which he applies to the unfamiliar landscapes he tries to conjure up for the reader. Wrote in French. jacques le saige (1520). This silk merchant from Douai, in northern France, was an old hand at pilgrimage, for this extremely pious man visited Rome, Jerusalem, Compostela, Our Lady of Loreto, and other places. He had little appreciation of artistic masterpieces, but he enjoyed fine wine and good food. Upon his return, he had his book printed at his own expense for his friends and for future pilgrims. Wrote in French. jean de mandeville (c. 1350). A mysterious author, he is sometimes identified as an Englishman and at other times as a native of Burgundy. He cer-

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tainly traveled in the Middle East and is suspected of having journeyed to certain regions of the known world in his imagination. His book, which exists in several versions, had considerable success, as is shown by its numerous translations. The literary sources embedded in his “geography” have been identified. Wrote in French. niccolò da martoni (1394–95). A notary from Campania, he set out from the south of Italy on June 17, 1392, aboard a merchant galley. His route was initially that of the classic fall journey (Alexandria, Cairo, St. Catherine’s, Jerusalem). In too much of a hurry to get home again, he abandoned his group and boarded a ship bound for Cyprus. He spent the next nine months driven from island to island and made an involontary visit to the Greek mainland. He shares with the reader his misadventures, his despair, and his discovery of regions where pilgrims did not ordinarily go. Wrote in Latin. riccoldo da monte di croce (1288). Born around 1243, this Dominican missionary from Florence disembarked in Palestine in 1288 and probably returned home around 1300. His zeal drove him to make a stay in Baghdad after spending a few months in Jerusalem. Having spent about ten years in the East, he became fluent in Arabic. To his Liber peregrinationis he added two treatises containing information about Islam intended to help refute heresies and be of aid to missionaries. Wrote in Latin. emmanuel piloti (1420– ). A Venetian born on Crete in 1371, he traveled in Spain on business and knew the East very well, having lived in Egypt as a merchant for many years. In 1420 he began to write a treatise in which he shared his experience of people and his in situ observations. A believer in the Christian reconquest of Jerusalem, he put forward a plan for an invasion by way of Alexandria. He retired to Florence in 1438, where he completed his work. Wrote in French. niccolò da poggibonsi (1345). This Minorite friar of Tuscan origin spent more than four years in the East in order “to see everything.” He left a vivid account, full of details about daily life, the people, and the Easter ceremonies. Wrote in Italian. denis possot and charles philippe seigneur de champarmoy (1532). Charles Philippe Seigneur de Champarmoy et Grandchamp, proctor of Robert de la Marche (marshal of the king of France), completed the account begun by Master Denis Possot, priest of Coulemmiers, who died in Crete while on the return journey from Jerusalem. Before his death Possot entrusted his notes to Champarmoy. Wrote in French. sebald rieter (1479). This patrician from Nüremberg and his companion, Hans Tucher, also a patrician, added to their pilgrimage an excursion to the

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Sinai and a visit to Egypt. Rieter’s great merit is to have attempted to provide a fresh view of these frequently described regions and to free himself of the influence of previous writings. Wrote in German. louis de rochechouart (1461). Born around 1433, the son of the Seigneur of Mortemart and Vivonne, he chose a career in the church, succeeding his uncle as bishop of Saintes in 1460. A reformer, he attacked the privileges of the canons—hence his cases before the parliaments of Bordeaux and Paris, to which he refused to submit. In 1485 he was stripped of his office and imprisoned. Accused of madness and dispossessed by his nephew, the new bishop, he died around 1495. His travel journal shows him to have been a great reader of works on the Holy Land and possessed of considerable religious and political culture, both secular and humanistic. Wrote in Latin. santo brasca (1480). This palace functionary from Milan belonged to the Chancellery of Duke Sforza. In 1480 he undertook a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, where his compatriot Gabriele Capodilista had preceded him in 1458. His account is one of the rare few to reproduce the hymns, prayers, and other devotions. He dedicated his account to the treasurer, hoping to enable the latter to make the pilgrimage in his imagination as he read, since he was too busy to carry it out in person. Wrote in Italian. symon semeonis [simon fitzsimons] (1323). A Minorite friar from the monastery of Clonmel in southern Ireland, he undertook his pilgrimage to Jerusalem and Egypt in 1323–24. He has left us a vivid account that demonstrates his great interest in—and even enthusiastic admiration for—the monuments and sites he saw from the moment of his departure from London or Paris. His account bears witness to a desire to inform himself about Islam and displays a certain literary taste and refinement. Wrote in Latin. simone sigoli di gentile (1384). He was the scion of a noble Florentine family of the Guelph faction whose arms are known. There is no record of his having held any public office in the city. He traveled with Giorgio Gucci and Niccolò Frescobaldi and, like them, left an account of his journey. Wrote in Italian. ludolph von sudheim (1336–41). This priest from the parish of Sudheim, in Westphalia, remained in the Holy Land for several years, probably as chaplain to a knight in the train of the king of Armenia. He wrote his account around 1350 for Bishop Baldwin of Paderborn. Apart from his description of holy places, an abundance of geographic and historical notes and diverse observations enliven his account. Wrote in Latin. pero tafur (1435–39). He was a hidalgo, or knight of the House of Don Fernando de Guzman, Principal Commander of the Order of Calatrava. Tak-

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ing advantage of a period of peace to visit several foreign lands, he hoped to provide enjoyment for his master with his tale of the trials and tribulations suffered during his travels about the world. Wrote in Spanish. jean thenaud (1511). This Father Guardian of the Franciscan monastery in Angoulême set out in July 1511 from the south of France aboard an ambassador’s ship and at the expense of Marguerite d’Angoulême. His pilgrimage would prove eventful. Attacked and robbed in the desert, he found himself penniless in Alexandria but finally made his way home safe and sound. He left a sensitive and sometimes quite humorous account. Wrote in French. meister thietmar (late 12th–early 13th cen.). A native of Westphalia, he may have been one of the first Franciscans to reach the East before Saint Francis’s departure for Egypt. He left a book on the state of the Holy Land dating from 1217. It is of interest for several reasons. In the first place, pilgrims’ accounts dating from this period (following the loss of Jerusalem in 1187) are rare. But Thietmar’s account is also rich in personal details and descriptions he considered useful. His moderate tone in speaking of Islam is indicative of a change in attitude toward it. Wrote in Latin. jean de tournay (1488). A merchant from Valenciennes, he set out on February 25, 1488, and returned home on March 7, 1498, having completed three great pilgrimages (Rome, Jerusalem, and Compostela) and several other less demanding ones. He left a detailed account of his great journey. Wrote in French. giacomo da verona (1335). This Augustinian monk left an enthusiastic account of his stay in the Holy Land. Although he performed his devotions with a touching fervor, he was also interested in the natural environment of the desert, especially the stones he picked up along the way. He questioned learned Jews and informed himself about the place names. His account is rich in detail about the appearance and nature of the terrain. Wrote in Latin. philippe de voisins (1490). Descended from an important family in Gascony, in April 1490 the Seigneur of Confolens and of Montaut (near Carcassonne) set out to visit the far-off lands where one of his ancestors had left the memory of his faith and courage. He undertook his pilgrimage at the same time as Jean de Cucharmoy. The account was written by the squire Jean de Belesta, who was in his service. Wrote in French. william wey (1458, 1462). This English priest from the Royal College of Eton termed himself “sacre theologie baccularius.” He visited the Holy Land twice and has left us a map (“Mappa mea”), a prose itinerary, and verses in Latin and English. He also made a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela in 1456. Wrote in English.

notes

preface 1. Jean Delumeau, La Peur en Occident (XIVe–XVIIIe siècles) (Paris: Fayard, 1978), pp. 4–6. 2. Pierre-André Sigal, Les Marcheurs de Dieu (Paris: Armand Colin, 1974). 3. Paul Zumthor, La Mesure du monde (Paris: Le Seuil, 1993), pp. 119–20. 4. Pierre Maraval, “Le Temps du pèlerin, IVe–VIIe siècles,” in Le Temps chrétien de la fin de l’Antiquité au Moyen Âge, IIIe–XIIIe siècles (Paris: C.N.R.S., 1984), pp. 479–88.

1. evagari et discurrere per mundum . . . 1. See J. L. R. Anderson, The Ulysses Factor: The Exploring Instinct in Man (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1970); cf. Paul Zumthor, La Mesure du monde (Paris: Le Seuil, 1993), p. 171: “Travelers allowed the age-old nomadic instinct to triumph within them.” 2. Geoffrey Chaucer, Contes de Canterbury, trans. and ed. J. Delcourt (Paris: Aubier, 1946), pp. 131–32. 3. Le Bâtard de Bouillon, ed. R. F. Cook (Geneva: Droz, 1972); see modern French trans. by J. Subrenat in Croisades et pèlerinages, ed. D. Régnier-Bohler (Paris: Robert Laffont, 1997), p. 357. 4. Felix Fabri, Les Errances, vol. 1, pp. 85–86. 5. See Aryeh Grabois, Le Pèlerin occidental en Terre sainte au Moyen Âge (Brussels: De Bœck, 1998), pp. 19–51. 6. Richard le Pèlerin and Graindor de Douai, La Chanson d’Antioche, ed. P. Paris (Paris: J. Techener, 1948; reprint, Geneva: Slatkine, 1969); also in S. Duparc-Quioc (Paris: Geuthner, 1978); trans. Micheline de Combarieu du Grès, in Croisades et pèlerinages, p. 25. 7. La Conquête de Jérusalem faisant suite à la Chanson d’Antioche (XlIe s.), ed. C. Hippeau (1877; reprint, Geneva: Slatkine, 1969). 8. N.- R. Thorp, The Old French Crusade Cycle, VI (London: Alabama Press, 1992); trans. J. Subrenat in Croisades et pèlerinages, pp. 179–351. Corpus Christianorum Continuatio, LXIII, ed. R. Huygens (Turnhout: Brépols, 1986); Chronique de Guillaume de Tyr, trans. M. Zemer, in Croisades et pèlerinages, pp. 507–724; M. Guizot, Histoire des croisades par Guillaume de Tyr (Paris, 1824); Jacques de Vitry, Historia Orientalis e Occidentalis, ed. Moschus (1597; reprint, Farnborough: Gregg,1971); The Historia Occidentalis, ed. J.-F. Hinnebusch (Freiburg, 1972). 9. Geoffroy de Villehardouin, La Conquête de Constantinople, ed. J. Dufournet (Paris: Garnier-Flammarion, 1969), p. 30; or ed. Faral, vol. 1 (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1972), p. 20; Robert de Clari, La Conquête de Constantinople, trans. J. Dufournet, in

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Croisades et pèlerinages, pp. 724–801. On authorial point of view, see J. Dufournet, Les Écrivains de la quatrième croisade (Paris: S.E.D.E.S, 1974). On travelers to Constantinople, see Itinéraires russes en Orient, trans. B. de Khitrovo (Geneva: Fick, 1889), esp. “Pèlerinages d’Etienne de Novgorod (1350), d’Ignace de Smolensk (1389–1405), pp. 87–157. 10. See C. Samaran, “Projets français de croisades de Philippe le Bel à Philippe de Valois,” in Histoire littéraire de la France, 41 (Paris: Diffusion de Boccard, 1981), pp. 33–74. See also Marino Sanuto, Liber Secretorum Fidelium Crucis, ed. Bongars (1609) or Secrets for true crusaders to help them to recover the Holy land (1321), XIV, book III, trans. A. Stewart (1896; reprint, New York: AMS, 1971); Hayton, Recueil des historiens des croisades: Documents arméniens, II, pp. 111–363; the section “Le Passage outremer” in the chapter “La Fleur des Histoires,” trans. C. Deluz, in Croisades et pèlerinages, p. 875 “Le passage outremer”. Pierre Dubois, De Recuperatione Terre Sancte (1306), ed. C.-V. Langlois (Paris: Picard, 1891). Jean Germain, “Le Voyage d’outremer, discours au très victorieux roi Charles VII,” Revue de l’Orient latin 3 (1895): 303–42. 11. See Valérie Galent-Fasseur, L’Épopée des pèlerins (Paris: P.U.F, 1997). 12. Ernoul, “Fragments relatifs à la Galilée,” in H. Michelant and G. Raynaud, eds., Itinéraires à Jérusalem et descriptions de la Terre Sainte (Paris: Société de l’Orient latin, 1882), p. 66. 13. See R. Le Huenen, “Qu’est-ce qu’un récit de voyage?,” in Les Modèles du récit de voyage, ed. M.-C. Gomez-Géraud, série Littérales (Paris: Université de Nanterre, 1990), p. 13. 14. A. Pasquali, Le Tour des horizons (Paris: Klincksieck, 1994), pp. 91–139. 15. F. Wolfzettel, Le Discours du voyageur (Paris: P.U.F., 1996), p. 9. 16. J. Richard, Les Récits de voyages et de pèlerinages (Turnhout: Brepols, 1981), p. 8. 17. F. Tinguely, “Janus en Terre sainte: la figure du pèlerin curieux à la Renaissance” [special issue: Homo viator], Revue des sciences humaines 245 (January-–March 1997): 51–65. 18. See N. Chareyron, “Ambiguïté du terme ‘voyage’dans les récits de pèlerins des XIVe et XVe siècles,” in Parler(s) du Moyen Âge: Recherches et travaux, 55 (Grenoble: Université de Grenoble, 1998), pp. 87–96. 19. Ogier d’Anglure, Le Saint voyage de Jherusalem, ed. Bonnardot and Longnon, p. 6: “Hereafter follows the content of the holy Jerusalem journey.” See Anonymous (c. 1420), Pèlerinage, pp. 70–104. The anonymous writer seems to use the two terms interchangeably. 20. Froissart and Philippe de Mézières use voyage to characterize the warlike expedition to Nicopolis (1396), the aim of which was to reestablish the Christian hegemony south of the Danube. See Philippe de Mézières, Epistre lamentable et consolatoire sur le fait de la desconfiture lacrimable du noble et vaillant roy de Honguerie (1397–1400), in Œuvres de Froissart, vol. 16, ed. Kervyn de Lettenhove (1872; reprint, Paris: Champion / Geneva: Slatkine, 1977), p. 459; Froissart, Œuvres de Froissart (Brussels: Devraux, 1871; reprint, Paris: Champion / Geneva: Slatkine, 1977), passim. 21. See N. Coulet, ed., Voyages et voyageurs au Moyen Âge (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 1996), p. 9. 22. Fabri, Errances, vol. 1, pp. 5 and 7; Fabri, Evagatorium, ed. Hassler, vol. 1, pp. 3–4: Epistola: “Idcirco decrevi, hunc librum non Peregrinatorium, nec Itinerarium, nec Viagium, nec alio quovis nomine intitulare, sed Evagatorium Fratris Felicis juste dici, nominari, et esse statui. Ex quo titulo, materia confusa et diversa libri, et compositionis indispositio et distractio patesceret.”

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23. In 1492 Fabri would compose Die Sionpilger, a work of spiritual pilgrimage intended for those unable to undertake the actual journey; see Die Sionpilger, ed. W. Carls (Berlin: E. Schmidt, 1999). 24. C. Deluz, Le Livre de Jehan de Mandeville: Une “géographie” au XIVe siècle (Louvain: Catholic University, 1988), pp. 57–59, 80. See also the introduction to Mandeville’s book in Croisades et pèlerinages, p. 1394. 25. This is what Christine Montalbetti calls “memory of the library.” On the aporia of referential writing, see her study Le Voyage, le monde et la bibliothèque (Paris: P.U.F., 1997), pp. 1–5. 26. Breydenbach holds up the ideal of a language common and understandable to all, abandoning all artificial, lofty or subtle rhetoric so that its intention may be better understood by one and all. 27. On translations, see H. Davies, Bernhard von Breydenbach and His Journey to the Holy Land, 1483–1484 (1911; reprint, Utrecht: Dekker en Gumbert, 1988). It was published in Latin (1486, 1490, 1502), German (1486, 1488, 1505), Flemish (1488), French (1488, 1489 [trans. Jean de Hersin], 1517, 1522 [trans. Nicolas le Huen]), and Spanish (1498). 28. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, p. 128. 29. Wey, Itineraries, p. 25. 30. La Broquière, Voyage d’Outremer, p. 2. La Broquière translated an Advis sur la conqueste de la Grece et de la Terre sainte. The library of the dukes of Burgundy was rich in Turkophobic works; see G. Doutrepont, La Littérature française à la cour des ducs de Bourgogne (Paris: Champion, 1909), pp. 238–48.) Emmanuel Piloti translated his Traité sur les moyens de conquérir l’Egypte into French. (He lived in Egypt for more than twenty years.) 31. Ghillebert de Lannoy, Œuvres. See R. Arié, “Un seigneur bourguignon en terre musulmane au XVe siècle: Ghillebert de Lannoy,” Le Moyen Age 83 (1977): 283–302. See also Le Livre des Fais du bon messire Jehan le Meingre dit Boucicaut, ed. D. Lalande (Paris: Droz, 1985), pp. 61–65. 32. On pilgrim profiles, see Y. Dossat, “Types exceptionnels de pèlerins: l’hérétique, le voyageur déguisé, le professionnel,” in Le Pèlerinage, série Cahiers de Fanjeaux, 15 (Toulouse: B. Privat, 1980), pp. 207–25. 33. See Sigal, “Pourquoi prend-on la route?,” in Les Marcheurs de Dieu, pp. 5–47; see also Pierre-André Sigal, “L’Apogée du pèlerinage médiéval” and “Le Pèlerin médiéval,” in J. Chélini and H. Branthomme, eds., Les Chemins de Dieu: histoire des pèlerinages chrétiens des origines à nos jours (Paris: Hachette, 1982), pp. 153–86 and 187–206, resp.; H.-R. Duthilloeul, introduction to Voyage de Jacques le Saige. 34. Seymour de Ricci, “Onze Normands en Terre sainte,” in Mélanges syriens. n.d. (BN 4 Q pièce 1447). In 1507 a canon and some priests from Rouen set out on a journey lasting from April 8 to December 20. 35. Le Saige, Voyage. 36. Thenaud, Voyage d’Outremer, ed. Schefer, pp. lxix, 1–2, 89–90. 37. Félix Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, pp. 578, 520. 38. Possot and Champarmoy, Voyage, pp. 3–4. 39. See M.-C. Gomez-Geraud, “Le Crépuscule du Grand Voyage (1458–1612)” (Ph.D. diss., University of Paris X, 1996), vol. 1: “Éloge et contestation du pèlerinage” (pp. 24–57) and “Les Pèlerinages à l’épreuve de la Réforme” (pp. 58–147). See also F. Rapp, “Mutations et difficultés,” in Les Chemins de Dieu, ed. Chélini and Branthomme, pp. 228–41.

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40. Gomez-Geraud quotes the text by the Jesuit Jacob Gretser, who attacked Belon du Mans, accusing him of taking more interest in the people, plants, and architecture than in the story of the Incarnation; see “Le Crépuscule du Grand Voyage,” pp. 344–46. 41. Pierre Belon du Mans, Observations. Thenaud (1512) uses the word with a positive connotation in speaking of the beauty of the gates of Cairo or the taste of fruit (Voyage d’outremer, p. 36).

2. all roads lead to venice 1. S. Yerasimos, Les Voyageurs dans l’Empire ottoman (XIVe–XVIe siècles) (Ankara: Turkish History Society, 1991), vol. 7, no. 117, pp. 23–92; Tobler and Molinier, Itinerarium a Burdigala Hierusalem usque Itinera Hierosolomytana et Descriptiones Terra Sanctae (Geneva, 1879), pp. 1–16; P. Maraval, “Le Pèlerin de Bordeaux,” in Récits des premiers pèlerins chrétiens au Proche-Orient (Paris: Les Editions du Cerf, 1996), 333; M.-E. Léotard, Les Pèlerinages (Lyon: E. Vitté, 1902), pp. 15–18; Sigal, Les Marcheurs de Dieu (Paris: Armand Colin, 1974), pp. 93–99; Grabois, Le Pèlerin occidental en Terre sainte au Moyen Age (Brussels: De Boeck, 1998), pp. 173–82. 2. In Le Pèlerinage de Charlemagne contains an outline of the regions traversed in the course of the emperor’s fictional itinerary: “They left France and passed through Burgundy / Crossed Lorraine, Bavaria, and Hungary / . . . And entered Greece. In Romania they saw lakes and mountains” (Itinéraires, ed. Michelant and Raynaud, p. l, vv. 101–9). 3. Mandeville, Travels, ed. Letts, pp. 229–32. See also Mandeville, “Del chemin d’Engleterre jusques a Constantinople,” in Le livre des merveilles du monde, ed. Deluz, pp. 95–96. 4. Sudheim, De Itinere, ed. G. A. Neumann, pp. 60–64. 5. La Broquière, Voyage d’Outremer, p. 107. 6. Comte de Marsy, Pèlerins normands en Palestine (XVe–XVIe siècles), Soc. des Antiquaires de Normandie (Caen: Delesques, 1896), pp. 14–15. 7. Thenaud, Voyage d’Outremer, p. 7. 8. Adorno, Itinéraire, pp. 30–31, 43–55. 9. Martoni, “Relation,” pp. 577–86. 10. On the links between Venice and the Ottoman world, see M. Viallon, Venise et la Porte ottomane, 1453–1566 (Paris: Economia, 1995). 11. On the Venetian colonial empire, see Ph. Braunstein and R. Delort, Venise, portrait d’une cité historique (Paris: Le Seuil, 1971), pp. 90–106. 12. C. Deluz, “Partir c’est mourir un peu,” in Voyages et Voyageurs au Moyen Âge, ed. N. Coulet (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 1996), pp. 291–303. 13. Zumthor views the journey as an initiation, analogous to the fairy tale in its ternary structure (departure, ordeals, order restored). See his study La Mesure du monde (Paris: Le Seuil, 1993), pp. 167–70. 14. Caumont, Voyaige d’outremer, ed. Lagrange, pp. 3–13. 15. Fabri, Evagatorium, vol. 1, pp. 85–86; Errances, vol. 1, pp. 110–11. 16. See Gauvard, “Avant-propos,” Voyages et voyageurs au Moyen Âge, p. 7; Léotard, Les Pèlerinages, pp. 23–24. 17. Felix Fabri, Evagatorium, vol. 1, pp. 29, 67. 18. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, pp. 46–47. 19. According to R. Le Huenen: “What differentiates the narrative structures of fiction and travel writing? It is that for the logico-temporal principle that regular-

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izes the fictional, narrative travel writing substitutes a narrative structure spatiotemporal in nature” (“Qu’est-ce qu’un récit de voyage?,” in Les Modèles du récit de voyage, ed. M-C. Gomez-Géraud, série Littérales [Paris: Université de Nanterre, 1990], p. 13). 20. “On the following Sunday, the IIIIth day of June, we dined in Milan. . . . On the following Tuesday, the VIth day of June, we left Milan and spent the night in Karonne [Caronno Milanese, near Milan]. The following Sunday dinner and lodging in San Maurizio” (Saint voyage, p. 100). On the return journey he would reach Lake Maggiore on horseback, cross it by ferry, and traverse the Simplon Pass—but not before hiring animals to lighten the load of his mount. He would pass through Saint Maurice [Switzerland, near Martigny], where there were numerous relics, cross the Rhône, follow the lake to Lausanne, and return to Anglure via Dijon. On the health checks and the bearing of arms, see R. Durighello, “Le Frioul, une étape sur les routes de pèlerinage de Rome and de Jérusalem,” in L. Pressouyre, ed., Pèlerinages et croisades (Paris: Editions du C.T.H.S., 1995), pp. 53–65. 21. Pierre Barbatre, Voyage, p. 92. 22. Fabri, Errances, vol. 1, p. 8. 23. Possot, Voyage, pp. 5–9. 24. On the mercenaries, see, e.g., Le Bouvier, Le Livre de la description des pays, pp. 147–58, 217–37. On travel in the mountains, see Norbert Ohler, The Medieval Traveller (Rochester, N.Y.: Boydell and Brewer, 1995), pp. 118–23. 25. See Lucie Polak, “Un récit de pèlerinage de 1488–1489, Jean de Tournai,” Le Moyen Âge 87 (1981): 74–80. 26. “A few years ago this town was Italian and the people spoke Italian. I knew a Father from Italy who could not speak a word of German. When he was a youth, he had been a courier and preacher in the community of Bolzano. But with the passage of time and the increase of the Germans, the town became German and its community was attached to ours” (Fabri, Errances, vol. 1, p. 95). 27. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 2. 28. Zumthor, La Mesure du monde, p. 63 29. La Broquière, Voyage d’Outremer, pp. 2–3. 30. Voisins, Voyage à Jérusalem, p. 15. 31. Possot, Voyage, pp. 44–46. 32. Fabri, Errances, vol. 1, pp. 92–93. 33. Possot, Voyage, p. 44. 34. Barbatre, Voyage, pp. 93–94. 35. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 99. 36. Semeonis, “Voyage,” pp. 92–93. 37. See C. K. Zacher, Curiosity and Pilgrimage: The Literature of Discovery in Fourteenth-Century England (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 1976), p. 42.

3. venice in splendid dress 1. E. Crouzet-Pavan, “Récits, images et mythes: Venise dans l’Iter hiérosolomytain (xive–xve siècle),” Mélanges de l’école française de Rome 96, no. 1 (1984): 489–535; idem, Venise triomphante: Les Horizons d’un mythe (Paris: Albin Michel, 1999). 2. Quoted in Beer, “An English 15th-Century Pilgrimage Poem (1425),” pp. 244–48. 3. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 36. 4. Anonymous (c. 1420), Pèlerinage, pp. 76–77.

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5. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, pp. 50–51. 6. Barbatre, Voyage, p. 99. 7. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 18 8. Fabri presents his double conception of the city in a revealing diptych. He devotes an entire section of his account to Venice as a city of relics dear to the pilgrim’s heart and focuses on the daily religious services. The secular Venice (history, politics, daily life) is shown in a later section, which includes all the themes deliberately excluded from the earlier one. See A. Elzière, “Le Pèlerinage de Félix Fabri: Venise” (Master’s thesis, Université de Montpellier, 1998). 9. Elzière, “Le Pèlerinage de Félix Fabri,” pp. 16–18, 100–102; see also Evagatorium, vol. 3, pp. 399–400. 10. “In Venice there are neither wells nor springs of sweet water, other than from the rain that falls on the houses and in the streets, which runs through the sands into cisterns made like wells; and when it is finished and there is no rain it must be bought or brought in boats from VII miles from Venice on the canal and [they] cast it into the channels to run into the cisterns” (Voyage, pp. 108–9). 11. Montesquieu, Lettres persanes (Paris: Garnier-Flammarion), p. 66. 12. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, pp. 11, 28–29. 13. Chateaubriand, Mémoires d’Outre-Tombe, ed. M. Levaillant (Paris: Flammarion, 1982), vol. 4, p. 336. 14. Barbatre, Voyage, p. 104. 15. Commynes, Mémoires sur Charles VIII: livres VI et VIII, trans. Jean Dufournet (Paris: Garnier-Flammarion, 2002), p. 156. See also “Commynes,” in Historiens et chroniqueurs du Moyen Age, ed. A. Pauphilet (Paris: Gallimard, 1979), pp. 1344–48; and Mémoires, ed. J. Calmette (Paris: Champion, 1925), vol. 3, pp. 108–10. On Commynes in Venice, see J. Dufournet, La Vie de Philippe de Commynes (Paris: Sedes, 1969), pp. 256–60 16. On the models for the descriptio civitatis, see P. Zumthor, La Mesure du monde (Paris: Le Seuil, 1993), pp. 12, 23. 17. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 12. The anonymous writer makes immoderate use of the superlative: “[T]he city is the most populous you could find anywhere. In it you can see the finest shops, with all the merchandise you could find anywhere. St. Mark’s is the most richly decorated church in the world. The procession is the finest and best ordered and most richly arrayed you could see” (p. 23). 18. Possot, Voyage, pp. 74, 75, 79. 19. Semeonis, Voyage, p. 968. 20. Poggibonsi, Libro d’Oltramare, vol. 1, p. 10. 21. See Casola, Pilgrimage, pp. 124–37. 22. Casola, Viaggio, pp. 8, 9. 23. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, pp. 11–12. 24. Ibid. 25. Possot, Voyage, pp. 88–89 26. Barbatre, Voyage, p. 109. 27. Ibid., p. 99. 28. Voisins, Voyage à Jérusalem, pp. 17–18. 29. Casola, Viaggio, pp. 14–15 (trans. Newett) 30. F. Affergan, Exotisme et altérité (Paris: P.U.F, 1987), p. 46. 31. See L. Polak, “Un récit de pèlerinage de 1488–1489,” Le Moyen Age 87 (1981): 85. 32. Barbatre, Voyage, pp. 100–101.

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33. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 98. 34. Barbatre, Voyage, p. 108. 35. Voisins, Voyage à Jérusalem, p. 19. 36. Founded in 1104, the Arsenal was a munitions depot and naval warehouse until the fourteenth century. Between 1303 and 1325 it quadrupled in area and turned out a fleet of warships. This was the Arsenal described by Ogier d’Anglure. In the fifteenth century the industry was stimulated by the evolution in the technology of war and the growth of the Ottoman fleet (which became apparent at Negroponte in 1470). The Novissimo Arsenale was created in 1473, with a doubling of the existing area. This factory, functioning on the assembly-line principle, could produce a fleet of boats of all types. Venice always wanted to be at the cutting edge of progress, for its hegemony depended on its fleet. Its shipbuilders developed the huge Venetian galley, which combined size and maneuverability. At the end of the fifteenth century it was truly a floating fortress, with several masts, a crew, oarsmen, and elite crossbowmen. (Braunstein and Delort, Venise, pp. 106–14) 37. Possot, Voyage, p. 108. 38. Barbatre, Voyage, p. 109. 39. Voisins, Voyage à Jérusalem, pp. 17–19. 40. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 23. 41. Richard Guylforde, Pylgrymage, pp. 6–9. 42. Corpus Christi, an official festival, was established in 1295. 43. Barbatre, Voyage, pp. 100–108, 101. 44. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 14. 45. Semeonis, Voyage, p. 968. 46. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, pp. 48–49. 47. Lengherand, Voyage, pp. 34–35. 48. Elzière, “Le Pèlerinage de Félix Fabri.” 49. Possot, Voyage, p. 78. 50. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, pp. 21, 16. 51. Voisins, Voyage à Jérusalem, p. 17. 52. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, pp. 15–16, 27–28. Cf. Barbatre on accusations of ritual crimes: “There is the little child killed and roasted by the Jews in the city of Trent in Germany [now Trento, in northern Italy] around the year 1474; he was called Simon and performed miracles. He is shown in paintings in many churches. Item: the Jew who hanged himself in Venice was named Moses. I saw his body, and he was rich, having two thousand ducats; and there is another named Jacob, also rich, with two hundred thousand. None live in Venice; they are in several villages and towns nearby, and come every day to Venice to sell. There are some Jews held in the Palace of Venice accused of having murdered a young child . . . aged VI years or more, on Good Friday last, for such is their custom . . . and they do the same everywhere on Great Friday and they roast and eat it and keep its blood to drink on Friday each week.” (Voyage, p. 108) On the topic of Christian refugees: “Every day and night you would find in San Marco as many as two hundred men, women, and children begging for alms and [wandering] all over the country they have fled because they will not renounce their faith, and it is the most pitiful thing I have seen in the land” (p. 109). 53. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, p. 49 54. See introd. to Guylforde, Pylgrimage, p. 5 55. Possot, Voyage, p. 87. 56. Barbatre, Voyage, p. 111.

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57. Harff, Pilgrimage, p. 71 58. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, pp. 24–29. 59. See Y. Bellenger, “Le Saint Voyage de Jacques Le Saige à Jérusalem (1519),” in Mélanges à la mémoire de V.-L. Saulnier, Travaux d’Humanisme et Renaissance, 202 (Geneva: Droz, 1984), p. 40. 60. Casola, Viaggio, p. 53. 61. The table of pilgrims provided by N. Schur in Jerusalem in Pilgrims’ and Travelers’ Accounts: A Thematic Bibliography (Jerusalem: Ariel, 1980), p. 141, shows a substantial proportion of Germans. 62. Rinuccini, Sanctissimo Peregrinaggio, pp. 13–15. 63. Affagart, Relation de Terre Sainte, pp. 21–24. 64. Wey, Itineraries, vol. 1, pp. 1–3. 65. See Barbatre, Voyage, p. 111 and note. 66. Brygg, Itinerarium, p. 10. 67. B. Bagatti, preface to Visit to the Holy Places of Egypt, pp. 1–28. See also A. Lanza and M. Troncarelli, Pellegrini Scrittori (Florence: Ponte alle Grazie, 1990). 68. See P. Tucco-Chala, introduction to Barbatre, Voyage, p. 81; Hilda Frances Mary Prescott, Jerusalem Journey (London: Eyre and Spottiswoode, 1954), pp. 49–52. 69. See M. Newett’s informative introduction to Canon Pietro Casola’s Pilgrimage. See also Ugo Tucci, “I servizi marittimi veneziani per il pellegrinaggio in Terra Santa nel Medioevo,” Studi Veneziani 9 (1985): 43–63. 70. On the enrichment of the captains, see A. Tenenti, Cristoforo Da Canal: la marine vénitienne avant Lépante (Paris: S.E.V.P.E.N., 1962), pp. 94–102. The Baldi quote is on p. 109. 71. See Fabri, Errances, vol. 1, pp. 115–18; Fabri, Evagatorium, vol. 1, pp. 86–92. See also J. Lowell Ragatz, Fifteenth-Century Pilgrim Life on the Mediterranean (Washington, D.C.: Paul Pearlman, 1919), pp. 9–11. 72. Wey, Itineraries, vol. 1, pp. 4–7. 73. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, p. 128. 74. Nicolas Le Huen, Le Grand Voyage de Jherusalem, p. 8. 75. L. de Mas-Latrie, Pièces relatives au passage de pèlerins de Terre sainte (Genoa: Imprimerie des Sourds-muets, 1883), pp. 9–15. Following a scandal provoked by pilgrims traveling to Alexandria and Beirut, in 1398, the Senate forbade the conveyance of any non-Venetian subjects to these ports. In 1399 the Senate granted six Venetians the right, for a period of two years, to outfit a galley for pilgrims. In 1409 protective measures were taken: a ship commanded by Andrea Quirino having been attacked by the Turks at Sathalia, the Senate ordered that henceforth the vessels would be armed as follows: 30 lances; 20 ballistas, and arma pro sua persona. In June 1409 a decree forbade pilgrim ships to engage in trade. See Archives de l’Orient latin 2 (1883): 237–49). 76. La Broquière, Voyage d’Outremer, p. 7 77. In 1399 the Senate rented out a galley to take the duke of Norfolk to the Holy Land. In 1410 the conte di Segni hired the galley Barbadica to travel to the Holy Sepulcher. 78. Barbatre, Voyage, pp. 109–10, n. 4; Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 22. 79. Voisins, Voyage à Jérusalem, p. 17 80. Fabri, Evagatorium, vol. 1, p. 86. 81. Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 66. 82. Harff, Pilgrimage. 83. Casola, Pilgrimage, p. 150.

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84. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, pp. 17–18. 85. Thomas Mann, Mort à Venise, trans. F. Bertaux and S. Sigwalt (Paris: Stock, 1971). 86. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 11. 87. Chateaubriand, Mémoires d’Outre-Tombe, vol. 4, p. 337.

4. five weeks in a galley 1. Fabri, Errances, vol. 1, p. 107. 2. On life at sea, see J. Lowell Ragatz, Fifteenth-Century Pilgrim Life on the Mediterranean (Washington, D.C.: Paul Pearlman, 1919), p. 11. See also Newett, introduction to Canon Pietro Casola’s Pilgrimage, pp. 1–13. 3. Fabri, Errances, vol. 1, p. 157. Here Fabri speaks of the sea and its dangers, shipboard government, pilgrims’ pastimes, food, and boredom. 4. Casola, Viaggio, pp. 20–60 (outward), pp. 86–112 (return). Half of the account is devoted to life at sea and the ports of call, while the other half is divided between Jerusalem and Venice. 5. See Fabri, Errances, vol. 1, p. 177. 6. On the biscuit, see A. Tenenti, Cristoforo Da Canal: la marine vénitienne avant Lépante (Paris: S.E.V.P.E.N., 1962), pp. 104–7. 7. See F. Raphaël, “Le Pèlerinage, approche sociologique,” Les Pèlerinages de l’Antiquité biblique et classique à l’Occident médiéval” (Paris: Paul Geuthner, 1973), p. 20. 8. Fabri, Errances, vol. 1, pp. 177–80. 9. Fabri, idem., pp. 180–81. 10. Casola, Viaggio, p. 51. 11. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, p. 53. 12. Fabri, Errances, vol. 1, pp. 174–76. 13. Nicole Louve, “Ballade d’un pèlerin au retour de Terre Sainte,” reprinted in Ogier d’Anglure, Saint voyage, pp. 110–14. 14. Margery Kempe, Le Livre, trans. Vidal, pp. 102–3. 15. Fabri, Errances, vol. 1, pp. 43–44. 16. Ibid., vol. 2, pp. 162–63. On the oarsmen, see Tenenti, Cristoforo Da Canal, pp. 63–89. Da Canal pleaded for the use of prison inmates (disciplined and efficient) in preference to free men (unpredictable and liable to desert), but psychological and moral objections were raised. 17. Casola, Viaggio, p. 22. 18. Trevisano, Voyage, pp. 149–71. 19. Fabri, Errances, vol. 2, pp. 12–14. 20. In Parenzo (Istria) the captain decided there would be a rest stop for the sick. Further on, some pilgrims went ashore to collect herbs. Fabri took the opportunity to act the herbalist, gathering greens with which to make a salad. In one port they were shown a map. See Santo Brasca, Viaggio, pp. 52–57. 21. Thenaud, Voyage d’Outremer, p. 8. 22. Sanseverino, Viaggio, p. 52. 23. Casola, Pilgrimage, pp. 217, 303–13. 24. “On Thursday, July VI, around noon, a sailor’s shirt blew into the sea, and he jumped in after it, and even if he swam well, if his comrades had not put down a little boat, he would have drowned”(Barbatre, Voyage, p. 122). For more on the same scene, see Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, pp. 33, 47–48, 103.

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25. Barbatre, Voyage, p. 114. 26. Fabri, Errances, vol. 1, pp. 173–74. 27. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, p. 55. 28. Possot, Voyage, p. 201. 29. Thenaud, Voyage d’Outremer, pp. 7, 17; Possot, Voyage, p. 135. 30. Barbatre, Voyage, p. 113. 31. Possot, Voyage, p. 114. 32. Anonymous (c. 1420), Pèlerinage, pp. 77–80. 33. Caumont writes: “From Coron [Koroni] to Cape Matapan: eighty miles; there is “le Port-aux-Cailles” (Portogallo [Porto Kayio?]), where the quails stop when crossing the sea” (Croisades et pèlerinages, ed. Regnier-Bohler, p. 1078). 34. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, pp. 29–57. 35. Barbatre, Voyage, pp. 113–17. 36. A. Metton, introduction to L’Espace vécu, ed. M. T. Betrans et al. (Caen: Université de Caen, 1979), p. 1. See also Edward T. Hall, La Dimension cachée (Paris: Le Seuil, 1971), pp. 15, 93. 37. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 6. 38. Semeonis, Voyage, p. 969. 39. La Broquière, Voyage d’Outremer, p. 8. 40. On Ragusa, see B. Krekic, Dubrovnik: A Mediterranean Urban Society, 1300–1600 (Aldershot: Ashgate Press, Variorum, 1997). 41. Barbatre, Voyage, p. 115. 42. Ibid., p. 117. 43. Semeonis, Voyage, p. 969. 44. Ibid. 45. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 37, n. 1, mentions a protest by the Grand Council of Ragusa, dated April 28, 1466, against the sale of human beings to the Turks and Infidels, like sheep.” Cf. Barbatre: “Each day there are a number of unbaptized men, women and children, who bring foodstuffs and other goods into the city, and they live like beasts. If a man has daughters, he will sell his daughter off for V, VIII or X ducats. Likewise, if they can hold or capture a Christian, they take him off to some town and sell him to the Turks” (Voyage, pp. 115–18). 46. Lengherand, Voyage, p. 92. 47. Semeonis, Voyage, p. 971. 48. Barbatre, Voyage, pp. 118–19. 49. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, pp. 44, 47, resp. 50. Barbatre, Voyage, p. 123. 51. La Broquière, Voyage d’Outremer, p. 9. 52. Barbatre writes: “Trusting in Our Lord, in his glorious mother Mary, and in all the saints in Paradise, and also in the prayers of the good Christian people, all we others decided to complete the holy journey and live or die in doing so” (Voyage, pp. 119–20). See also Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 36. 53. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, pp. 59–60. 54. Fabri, Errances, vol. 1, p. 51. 55. Barbatre, Voyage, pp. 123–25. 56. Fabri, Wanderings, pp. 34–35. 57. Semeonis, Voyage, pp. 970–71. 58. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 51. 59. Anglure, Saint voyage, pp. 91–94.

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60. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, pp. 55–57. 61. Barbatre, Voyage, pp. 127, 157. 62. Lengherand, Voyage, p. 108. 63. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 104. 64. Barbatre, Voyage, p. 154. 65. Louve, “Ballade,” p. 112. 66. Anglure, Saint voyage, pp. 79–80, 90. 67. Poggibonsi, Libro d’Oltramare, ed. A. della Lega, vol. 1, pp. 15–20. 68. Niccolò Frescobaldi, Viaggio, in Visit to the Holy Places, pp. 178–79; see also A. Lanza and M. Troncarelli, eds., Viaggiatori Toscani del Trecento (Florence: Ponte alle Grazie, 1990), p. 214. 69. Martoni, “Relation,” pp. 582–83. 70. Caumont, Voyaige, pp. 94–99. 71. Possot, Voyage, pp. 132–33, 151, 201. On the symbolism of storms at sea, see N. Doiron, “Les Rituels de la tempête en mer,” Revue des sciences humaines 2 (1989): 43–69; see also Delumeau, La Peur en Occident, pp. 31–38. 72. Cf. Anonymous Parisian: “We had a good passage, though we were in great trepidation as much on account of the Turk as of the deeps” (Voyage, pp. 53–54). See also Barbatre, Voyage, p. 126. 73. Possot, Voyage, pp. 198–201.

5. the holy lond of promyssion 1. Possot, Voyage, pp. 151–52. 2. Chateaubriand, Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem, in Oeuvres romanesques et voyages, ed. M. Regard (Paris: Gallimard, 1969), vol. 2, p. 1148. 3. See Jean Roudaut, “Quelques variables du récit de voyage,” Nouvelle Revue Française, no.377 (June 1984): 58–70. 4. Possot, Voyage, p. 152. 5. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, p. 129. 6. Siena, Viaggio, ed. Moreni, pp. 129–30. 7. Wolfzettel stresses the ambiguity of the word and its derivatives in the Romance languages: “A peregrinus is a person who, far from his native land, stands outside the established order. . . . It is only in the light of a quest for salvation that he becomes a Christian pilgrim” (Le Discours du voyageur, p. 10). 8. La Broquière, Voyage d’Outremer, pp. 9–10. 9. Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 303. 10. According to de Lannoy, “Jaffa was once a large walled city, but at present it is all in ruins. And there are only three caves where no one lives, where the pilgrims lodge when they come to the Sepulcher. And the countryside is level and flat, but the site of this former town sits high on a mountain, and would be a good place to fortify” (Oeuvres, p. 155). Casola could estimate its former size from the ruins that formed a sort of mound, and from the broken-down walls. He mentions two watchtowers on the seaward side, caves into which the pilgrims crowded, and on the landward side (toward Ramla) traces of what had once been a wall. Then he recalls a page of Roman history (Viaggio, p. 58). 11. Sudheim, De Itinere, ed. G. A. Neumann, p. 36; Poggibonsi, Libro d’Oltramare, vol. 1, p. 26. 12. Rochechouart, Journal à Jérusalem, pp. 69–70. 13. Barbatre, Voyage, p. 128.

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14. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, p. 64. 15. Possot, Voyage, p. 156. 16. According to Montalbetti, the ruin is “a metonymy of the part for the whole, a synecdoche of the effect for the cause, a residue of history asking for a story to restore and confirm the discourse of History, a link between the experience of the world and remembered readings” (Le Voyage, le monde et la bibliothèque, p. 228). 17. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 66. 18. Ibid., pp. 61–62. 19. Breydenbach, Sanctae Peregrationes, n.p.; see also Barbatre, Voyage, p. 128. 20. Fabri, Wanderings, p. 23. 21. Voisins, Voyage à Jérusalem, pp. 26–27. 22. Lengherand, Voyage, pp. 111–14. 23. Casola, Viaggio, p. 53. The following is a summary: 17th: preparatory sermon. 18th: wait on board ship; negotiations with the sultan’s official. 18th: death of a pilgrim, buried on the beach with the governor’s permission. 20th: preached on board ship. 21st: two tents erected opposite the galley. Local people bring food to the pilgrims. To entertain the pilgrims, the master has them fish in the place where Saint Peter fished. 22nd: the French lose patience. 23rd: arrival on board of the [Father] Guardian of Mount Sion. Promise of disembarkation. On the 24th: the excited pilgrims quarrel over the landing boats, but a new setback occurs. 25th: one part disembarks, and the 26th another. 26th: the Ultramontanes trample one another to disembark first, but the official changes his mind. 27th: all disembark, except five (including Casola). 28th: the master comes off but pays a 100-ducat ransom, while the pilgrims molder in a cave without being able either to leave for Jerusalem or return to the galley. 29th: arrival of the lord of Gazara (Gaza), who argues with the master. 30th: arrest of Cypriot Christian sailors, accused of espionage. The Moors exploit Christian charity. On the 31st., more taxes. Illness, death of a Frenchman (pp. 51–59). Casola left Jaffa on August 1. 24. Guylforde, Pylgrimage, p. 16. 25. Jean de Cucharmoy, Sainct Voyage pp. 101–6. 26. Anonymous (Rennes) (1486), “Récit de voyage,” pp. 332–33. 27. Voisins, Voyage à Jérusalem, p. 27. 28. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 60. 29. “[T]here you must pay per head, for the safe conduct as well as for the entry, and to wear a sword and see the pilgrimages, for their eating expenses and the ass they ride, everywhere from coming onshore until reboarding the galley, xv ducats” (Anonymous [c. 1420], Pèlerinage, p. 80). 30. Barbatre, Voyage, p. 129 31. Lannoy, Oeuvres, p. 141. 32. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 62. 33. Ibid., p. 67. 34. Margery Kempe, Le Livre, trans. Vidal, pp. 126, 134. She irritated her companions by her rigid behavior (fasting) and disturbed them with her noisy outbursts of weeping. (At the Holy Sepulcher, where she had visions, her howls were terrifying.) The other pilgrims thought she was mad and tormented her: her sheet was stolen aboard the galley and the bottom of her dress was cut off. 35. Possot, Voyage, pp. 153–54. 36. Ibid., p. 157. 37. Casola, Pilgrimage, p. 243; Santo Brasca, Viaggio, p. 65. 38. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” ed. Röhricht, p. 34.

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39. Voisins, Voyage à Jérusalem, pp. 27–28. 40. Barbatre writes: “There remain some Christians, who must endure much among the Saracens, who are Syrians, white and black Moors, most wicked people, and the white worse than the black and the young worse than the old. In the city are several churches where the Christians never go” (Voyage, pp. 130–31). 41. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 65. 42. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 62. 43. Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 305. 44. Fabri, Errances, vol. 2, p. 88. 45. Anonymous (Rennes), “Récit de voyage,” pp. 335–36. 46. Barbatre, Voyage, pp. 129–30. 47. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 65. 48. Ibid. 49. Lengherand, Voyage, p. 114. 50. Anonymous (Rennes), “Récit de voyage,” p. 338. 51. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 68. 52. Anonymous (Rennes), “Récit de voyage,” p. 338. 53. Barbatre, Voyage, p. 131. 54. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 68. 55. Barbatre, Voyage, p. 131.

6. jerusalem and the holy places 1. On the sacred center and its cartographic representation, see A. Grabois, Le Pèlerin occidental en Terre sainte au Moyen Âge (Brussels: De Boeck, 1998), pp. 76–81. The concept was unknown in ninth-century treatises and took on concrete expression in the so-called T-maps of the thirteenth century. The eleventh-century millenarians, who awaited the Last Judgment and the restoration of the Heavenly Jerusalem, helped to develop this depiction. 2. See J. Delaville le Roulx’s article “L’Ordre de Montjoie,” Revue de l’Orient latin 1 (1893): 43. 3. Richard le Pèlerin and Graindor de Douai, La Conquête de Jérusalem faisant suite à la chanson d’Antioche . . . , ed. C. Hippeau (Geneva: Slatkine, 1969), p. 193. 4. Kempe, Le Livre, ed. Vidal, p. 103. 5. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, p. 66. 6. Possot, Voyage, pp. 161–63. See also Maurice Halbwachs, La Topographie légendaire des Evangiles en Terre sainte (Paris: P.U.F., 1971). 7. See Egeria (or Etheria), Journal de voyage, ed. Pétré, pp. 189–267; see also introd., pp. 57–91. To the west the Anastasis contained Christ’s tomb, and Easter was celebrated there. The faithful assembled at Calvary on Good Friday. To the east the Martyrium, or Golgotha, served as a parish church for services on Sundays and feast days. 8. Anonymous (Rennes), Récit de voyage, p. 339. 9. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, p. 68. The Golden Gate was walled up and a cemetery created there. According to Affagart, “The Turks forbade Christians to go near it, saying that Mohammed had prophesied that when it was reopened the Christians would rule the land” (Relation, p. 24). 10. Lannoy, Oeuvres, p. 143 11. On plans for Crusades, see C. Kohler, “Deux projets de croisade en Terre sainte (fin du xiiie et début du xive siècle),” Revue de l’Orient latin 10 (1903–4): 406–57.

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12. Poggibonsi, Libro d’Oltramare, pp. 32–36. 13. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, pp. 68–69. 14. Casola, Viaggio, pp. 66–76. A Jewish doctor who spoke Italian had accused some pilgrims of not going to the Jordan in order to explore Jerusalem instead. Some of them were supposed to have said that within two years the Christians would regain control of the Holy City. See also Casola, Pilgrimage, pp. 257, 270, 289. 15. Martoni, “Relation,” pp. 613–14. 16. Anglure, Saint voyage, pp. 40–41. Construction work on the Dome dated from the reign of Abd el-Malik (685–705). This caliph wished to attract Muslim pilgrims to Jerusalem. The crusaders converted the mosque into a church called Templum Domini, administered by the Knights Templar. Saladin restored it to its original function. 17. Thietmar, Peregrinatio, p. 34; see also translation by Deluz in Croisades et pèlerinages, ed. Régnier-Bohler, p. 943. 18. On this confusion about the mosque, see Grabois, Le Pèlerin occidental en Terre sainte, p. 169, n. 49. 19. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 40. 20. Barbatre, Voyage, p. 137. 21. Casola, Viaggio, pp. 67–68. 22. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, pp. 73–77. 23. Guylforde, Pylgrimage, pp. 43–45. The editor of Guylforde’s account indicates the death of his master as having occurred on September 6, 1506. 24. See “Récits de voyages hébraïques au Moyen Age,” trans. J. Shatzmiller, in Croisades et pèlerinages, ed. Régnier-Bohler, “Obadiah de Bertinoro,” pp. 1278–1331. 25. Tudela, Voyages, pp. 35–40. 26. On the return of the Jews, see G. Nahon, “Judaïsme,” Encyclopaedia Universalis, vol. 9, p. 534. 27. Bertinoro, “Récits de voyages hébraïques au Moyen Age.” 28. Cf. Possot: “On Mount Sion, at the place where the Jews stood in the way of the carrying of Our Lady’s body, a mass is said every Monday where pregnant Jewish and Turkish women come to pray for a successful delivery. . . . The Jewish women howled over the graves, and finally told us they were screeching and moaning and weeping for the taking of the Casa Sancta, id est, of Solomon’s Temple” (Voyage, pp. 166,184, resp.). On the springs revered by different religions, see Martoni, “Relation,” p. 615. 29. On modern piety, See B. Dansette, “Les Pèlerinages occidentaux en Terre sainte,” Archivum Franciscanum Historicum, nos. 1–2 (1979): 107–18. 30. On the pilgrimage of Saint Francis, see Omer Englebert, Vie de saint François d’Assise (Paris: Albin Michel, 1956), pp. 253–59. The Poverello joined the Fifth Crusade (1219–20). His mission to convert proved a failure, but he was received by Sultan Melek-el Kamel. Saint Francis’s noble, nonviolent image inspired trust. 31. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 69. 32. Anonymous (c. 1420), Pèlerinage, p. 82. 33. Anonymous (Rennes), Récit de voyage, pp. 339–40. 34. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, p. 68. 35. Anonymous (c. 1420), Pèlerinage, p. 12. 36. Da Siena, Viaggio, p. 25. 37. B. Dansette quotes folio 216 of “Jean de Tournai, pèlerin hiérosolomytain,” in Pèlerinages et croisades, ed. L. Pressouyre (Paris: Editions du C.T.H.S., 1995), p. 269. 38. Voisins, Voyage à Jérusalem, p. 28.

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39. See Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 75; Dansette, “Les Pèlerinages occidentaux,” pp. 119–21. 40. Anonymous (c. 1420), Pèlerinage, p. 82. 41. Pierre Maraval cites a sixth-century breviary that suggests an itinerary starting from the Martyrium, and mentions a topography of the Holy Land, also from the sixth century (“Breviarius de Hirosolyma,” in Récits des premiers chrétiens pèlerins, pp. 179–84; see also “Theodosius,” pp. 186–201). Closer to our own time, C. Kohler mentions the booklet by Pierre de Pennis (fourteenth century?), a treatise on the sacred geography, the common content of which probably came from an offical guide (perhaps a twelfth-century Compendium Terrae Sanctae (“Libellus de Pierre de Pennis (xive?),” Revue de l’Orient latin 9 (1902): 313–83.) De Pennis was the author of the guide used by Burchardus de Monte Sion and Orderic de Pordenone. 42. Burchardus de Monte Sion, A Description of the Holy Land, trans. A. Stewart. See also the anonymous Guide-Book to Palestine, trans. J. H. Bernard (London, Palestine Pilgrim’s Text Society, 1894); R. Pernoud, Un guide du pèlerin en Terre sainte au xve siècle (Mantes: Imprimerie du Petit Mantais, 1940), pp. 3–15. 43. The pilgrims were invited to orient themselves within a given space. The postioning seems to have depended on an indication calculated to conjure up ex nihilo, for instance: “Item ultra Sepulcrum versus occidentem est quedam clausa que vocatur porta Sancte Marie Egypciace. . . . Item supra and ultra hunc locum versus orientem. Item prope hunc locum versus directe ad orientem est altare. . . . Item stando in eodem supra dicto loco and etiam dirigendo vultum suum ad orientem and destris suis, prope murum ecclesie versus aquilonem, est quidam locus. . . . Ab oriente veniendo in Iherusalem” (H. Omont, “Un guide du pèlerin en Terre sainte au xve siècle,” in Mélanges offerts à Gustave Schlumberger (Paris: Paul Geuthner, 1924), pp. 439–50). Omont points out that several guides had a common source. 44. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” pp. 163–71. 45. Lannoy, Oeuvres, pp. 73–97. 46. Anonymous (c. 1420), Pèlerinage, p. 82. These indulgences were said to have been ordained by Pope Saint Sylvester at Constantine’s request. 47. See La Table des pèlerinages (Antwerp: Plantin, 1639), pp. 273–85, and Queresmius, Elucidatio Terrae Sanctae (Antwerp: Plantin, 1639), vol. 1, p. 448. 48. R. Pernoud, Un guide du pèlerin en Terre sainte au xve siècle, pp. 21–36; Golubovich, “Peregrinationes,” pp. 559–63. 49. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 613. 50. Brygg, Itinerarium, pp. 6–10. 51. Sanseverino, Viaggio, p. 78. On the textual models, see J. Brefeld, A Guide-book for the Jerusalem Pilgrimage in the Late Middle Ages: A Case for Computer-Aided Textual Criticism (Hilversum: Verloren, 1994). 52. In “L’Estat de la Cité de Ierusalem (c. 1187)” we read: “Know that the city of Jerusalem is now no longer in the place where it stood in the time when Jesus Christ was crucified. The city was at that time on the Mount of Sion” (Michelant and Raynaud, eds., Itinéraires, p. 24. See also, in same collection, Ernoul, “L’Estat de la cité de Ierusalem (c. 1231),” pp. 29–52 (repeats and supplements the topography of the preceding); and the writer who continued Guillaume de Tyr’s text “La Sainte cité de Ierusalem, les saints lieux and le pelerinage de la Terre sainte (1261),” pp. 141–75. 53. Thietmar, Epistola, p. 34; also trans. by Deluz in Croisades and pèlerinages, p. 944. 54. Monte di Croce, Pérégrination, pp. 47–73.

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55. Poggibonsi, Libro d’Oltramare, pp. 36–38, 106. 56. Wey, Itineraries, pp. 132–42; and map illustrating Wey’s itineraries, pp. 8–9. 57. Sudheim, De Itinere, ed. Neumann, offprint, pp. 48–50. 58. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 14. 59. The Virgin’s School was an obligatory stop on the tour; see Brygg, Itinerarium, pp. 6–10. On the Virgin’s birth and childhood, see “L’Evangile de la Nativité de Marie and de la Naissance du Sauveur ou Evangile de pseudo-Matthieu,” in Les Evangiles de l’ombre: Apocryphes du Nouveau Testament, with a preface by C. Mopsik (Paris: Lieu Commun, 1983), p. 35. 60. The Gospel of Nicodemus (sixth century) reports the exchanges between the Jews and Pilate; see Les Evangiles de l’ombre, pp. 124–31. 61. Anglure, Saint voyage, pp. 14–15. 62. Affagart, Relation, p. 25. 63. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 76. 64. Ibid. p. 77. 65. See A. Prangsma-Hajenius, La Légende du bois de la Croix dans la littérature médiévale (Assen, Neth.: Van Gorcum, 1995). 66. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 16. 67. Les Evangiles de l’ombre, pp. 153–92. The Livre du passage de Marie [Book of Mary’s Assumption], or Dormitio Mariae (fourth century), had considerable influence in the Greek and Latin Churches, as did the Transitus Mariae, or Book of the Assumption of the Virgin, attributed to Melito, bishop of Sardis (second century). 68. The Anonymous Parisian of 1480 describes the same sites: “Near the said bridge, on the left hand, is the Sepulcher of Our Lady, and it is a pretty church below ground, and one goes down into the said church by large steps, and there is a chapel where it is said Joachim was buried, and the said sepulcher is almost in the middle of Jehoshaphat, and Kidron runs through the middle when there is water. Near the said sepulcher is the place where Our Lord went to pray on the evening he was taken and where he said: “Pater si fieri potest, etc. et factus est sudor ejus tanquam gutte sanguinis.”And it resembles a cave, and above is a garden and that is where the Mount of Olivet begins” (Voyage, p. 77). 69. Anonymous (Rennes), Récit de voyage, p. 347. This writer also uses many verbs of movement in his enumeration of the holy places, which is devoid of effusiveness. 70. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 79. 71. Anglure, Saint voyage, pp. 18–19. 72. Ibid., p. 19. Several Jewish traditions mention the martyrdom of Isaiah, who had taken refuge in the hollow trunk of a cedar tree that King Manasseh is said to have cut down. 73. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 616. 74. Lengherand, Voyage, p. 141. 75. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, pp. 71–72. The present Church of the Assumption, dating from the early twentieth century, was built upon the ruins of some chapels, the oldest of which dates from the Byzantine era. The Gospel of Nicodemus, which is the source of the cult of Mary, recounts the death of the Virgin and the miracles associated with it. See Les Evangiles de l’ombre, pp. 160–79. 76. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, pp. 71–73. According to Ogier d’Anglure, “After the Resurrection, our Lord appeared to his apostles behind closed doors, saying: ‘Pax vobis.’ And there also Saint Thomas put his finger in our Lord’s precious side, who said to him: ‘Quia vidisti me, Thoma, credidisti, and beati qui non viderunt et crediderunt’” (Saint voyage, pp. 22–24).

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77. The Church of St. James dates from the period of the Crusades. A Byzantine monastery and a ninth-century Georgian church previously stood on the site. 78. Anonymous (c. 1420), Pèlerinage, p. 82. 79. Verona “Pèlerinage,” pp. 193, 225.

7. the church of the holy sepulcher: the christian world in miniature 1. Monte di Croce, Pérégrination, pp. 125–55. 2. Egeria, Journal de voyage, ed. Pétré, pp. 261–63; see also ed. Maraval, pp. 55–142. 3. Thietmar, Epistola, p. 34. 4. Monte di Croce, Pérégrination, pp. 49, 69. 5. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 94. 6. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, p. 90. 7. Nompar de Caumont, Voyaige, p. 54. 8. Rochechouart, “Journal à Jérusalem,” ed. Couderc, p. 74. 9. Barbatre, Voyage, 150. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 94. See also Martoni, “Relation,” p. 620. Martoni did not leave the Church of the Holy Sepulcher until the following evening. 10. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” pp. 32–35. 11. Sanseverino, Viaggio, p. 78. 12. Possot, Voyage, p. 77. 13. Lengherand, Voyage, p. 131. 14. Voisins, Voyage à Jérusalem, pp. 30–31. 15. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, pp. 74–75, 85. 16. Casola, Pilgrimage, pp. 260–61, 265, 271. 17. Rochechouart, “Journal à Jérusalem,” p. 82. 18. Monte di Croce, Pérégrination, pp. 69–71. 19. Anglure, Saint voyage, pp. 25–31. 20. See E. Travers, Deux pèlerinages en Terre sainte au xve siècle: Les Princes d’Orange, Louis et Guillaume de Châlon (Paris: Dumoulin, 1869). 21. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, p. 98. 22. Voisins, Voyage à Jérusalem, p. 32. 23. Anonymous (Rennes), Récit de voyage, p. 378. 24. Caumont, Voyaige, pp. 50–52, 59–75. 25. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, pp. 145–48. 26. Wey, Itineraries, p. 4. 27. Kempe, Livre, pp. 104–14. 28. Rochechouart, “Journal à Jérusalem,” p. 88. Relations with the Eastern Christians were not always good. Adorno would return home prejudiced against them, and it was by no means innocently that he reported that his dragoman, who subjected him to many humiliations and extorted money from him fraudulently, was a Christian of the Girdle. He adds that he found no Moor as spiteful and perfidious as this schismatic. See Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 303. 29. In the present study I shall not go into any detail about the divisions arising from historical schisms, disputes, or heresies. The reader may consult the following: Dictionnaire de théologie catholique, vol. 8, by Vacant, Mangenot, and Amann (Paris: Letouzey, 1924), cols.1007–9; Auzépy, Kaplan, Martin-Hisard, La Chrétienté orientale (Paris: S.E.D.E.S., 1996); Eddé, Micheau, Picard, Communautés chrétiennes en pays

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d’Islam (Paris: S.E.D.E.S., 1997). The Jacobites were Syrian Monophysites, followers of Jacobus Baradaeus, by whom the church was founded in the sixth century. The Copts are Monophysite Christians from Egypt. The Nestorians (a rite found in Arabia and Asia) were disciples of Nestorius, patriarch of Constantinople. The Christians of the Girdle took their name from the Virgin’s girdle, which was found by Saint Thomas, and followed the primitive Syrian rite of the Church of Antioch. The name “Indians” embraced the Abyssinians or Ethiopians of the Coptic rite. The Melkites are of the Byzantine Orthodox or Catholic rite, using Arabic or Greek as their liturgical language. The Maronites (after Maron, a sixth-century patriarch), Catholics of the Syrian rite, have been in communion with the Latin Church since the twelfth century. 30. See Burchardus de Monte Sion (late thirteenth. century), “De variis religionibus terre Sancte,” in Descriptio Terrae Sanctae, ed. Laurent, pp. 88–94; see also Monte di Croce, Pérégrination, ed. R. Kappler, pp. 125–55. 31. Ludolph von Sudheim, “De sectis christianorum,” in De Itinere, ed. Neumann, pp. 65–68. Gilles Le Bouvier describes the Christians of the Girdle as dressing like the Saracens and wearing black headgear, but he deals only with the outward rituals (Le Livre de la description des pays, p. 89). 32. Mandeville, Travels, ed. Letts, p. 252. On the churches, see the summary by C. Deluz in Mandeville, Voyage autour de la Terre, pp. 82–91. 33. See Jacques Le Goff, “L’Occident médiéval et l’océan Indien: un horizon onirique” in Pour un autre Moyen Age (Paris: Gallimard, 1977), pp. 280–98. For more information on Prester John, see R. Joint-Daguenet, Histoire de la mer Rouge: De Moïse à Bonaparte (Paris: Perrin, 1995), pp. 174–76. The legend of a Christian ruler in the heart of Africa originated in a letter, written around 1180, from the bishop of Mainzand apparently addressed to Emperor Manuel of Byzantium and to the pope. The discovery in Jerusalem of a dark-skinned Christian community observing the Coptic rite lent support to this belief. The Muslim kingdoms denied Christians access to the Red Sea, and this prohibition allowed the imaginationfree rein. In 1487 the Portuguese discovered the reality of Christian Abyssinia. The legend, which had some basis in fact, expressed a Utopian dream of union and reconquest. On Christian Ethiopia in the fourteenth century, see J. Pirenne et al., “Éthiopie,” Encyclopaedia Universalis, vol. 6, pp. 662–70. On the Prester John Letter, see Dictionnaire des Lettres: Moyen Age (Paris: Fayard, 1964), 927–28. 34. Simone Sigoli, “Viaggio al Monte Sinaï,” in Viaggiatori Toscani, p. 234. 35. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” pp. 190–91. 36. Latins, Greeks, Armenians, Georgians, Jacobites, Nestorians, Indians, Christians of the Girdle and Maronites (“Journal de Voyage,” in Croisades et Pèlerinages, pp. 1151–54, or ed. Couderc, p. 87). Santo Brasca speaks of four “families” (generatione) who keep the church and perform their services there, “namely Latins, Greeks, Armenians, and Ethiopians, which is to say Abysinnians” (Viaggio, p. 99). 37. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, p. 99. 38. The Anonymous Pilgrim (c. 1420) shows the Jacobites, Abyssinians, and Syrians in agreement on doctrinal matters but differentiates between them on the grounds of language and circumcision. He notices the spirit of tolerance that prevails in spite of everything, each being free to practice his own religion (“Pèlerinage,” pp. 83–84). 39. The Anonymous Parisian writes as follows: “The Greeks possess the heart and are the principal guardians of Calvary. . . . The Cordeliers, who follow the Church of Rome in everything, . . . are the guardians of the Holy Sepulcher and are very pious people. The third manner of people are named Nestorians and hold their services in

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their own language in one of the chapels. The fourth are called Jacobites and come from a strange country that was converted by Monsignor Saint James the Great, and gather in a little chapel behind the Holy Sepulcher. The fifth are named Indians and are very black, misshapen people, and in their consecration perform marvelous and divers ceremonies. . . . The sixth are called Armenians, who have their own way of doing things, quite different from the others. The name of the seventh is Georgians, called Georges” (Voyage, pp. 73–74). 40. See G. Ferraro’s introduction to Ariosto, Viaggio. 41. Poggibonsi, Libro d’Oltramare, p. 64. 42. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” pp. 192, 197. 43. Monte di Croce, Pérégrination, pp. 129, 155. 44. Le Huen (trans. of Bernhard von Breydenbach), Le Grand Voyage, fol. 39–68. 45. Fabri, Evagatorium, vol. 1, pp. 347–52. 46. La Broquière, Voyage d’Outremer, pp. 11–12. 47. Anonymous (Rennes), “Récit de voyage,” pp. 359–68. The study by this traveler is among the most detailed on the topic. 48. Voisins, Voyage à Jérusalem, p. 33. 49. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 74. 50. Poggibonsi, Libro d’Oltramare, pp. 100–105. 51. Van Ghistele “Voyage en Orient,” pp. 749–50. See also J. de Saint-Génois, “Josse Van Ghistele,” in Les Voyageurs belges du XIIIe au XVIIe siècle, 2nd ed. (Brussels: A. Jamar, n.d.), vol. 1, pp. 162–65. 52. Mandeville, Travels, ed. Letts, vol. 2, p. 269. 53. Egeria, Journal de voyage, esp. pp. 197, 223. 54. Da Verona, “Pèlerinage,” pp. 217–19. 55. B. Collin, Les Lieux saints (Paris: P.U.F., 1962), pp. 14–15.

8. pilgrimages and excursions round and about jerusalem 1. Ernoul, “Fragments relatifs à la Galilée,” in Itinéraires à Jérusalem, ed. Michelant and Raynaud, p. 65 2. Monte di Croce, Pérégrination, p. 60. 3. Rochechouart, “Journal à Jérusalem,” pp. 1124–67, 1156. 4. Mandeville speaks of a very lovely and graceful church with forty-four marble pillars. See Le Livre des merveilles du monde, p. 178. 5. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” pp. 220–22. 6. Sultan Qait Bey authorized the repairs in 1481 on condition that the new roof would be re-covered with the old sheets of lead. 7. Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, p. 81, n. 1. The renovation undertaken c.1465 was completed in 1495; see Dansette, Croisades et pèlerinages, ed. Régnier-Bohler, pp. 1157–58. 8. On the progress of the construction, see Fra Bernardino Amico, Plans of the Sacred Edifices of the Holy Land, trans. T. Bellorini and E. Hoade (Jerusalem: Franciscan Press, 1952). 9. Thenaud, Voyage d’Outremer, pp. 90–91. 10. Voisins, Voyage à Jérusalem, p. 33. 11. Anglure, Saint voyage, pp. 32–33; Brygg, Itinerarium, p. 5. 12. According to the Anonymous Parisian: “When the pilgrims had arrived, the Friars of Mount Sion who had accompanied them and the Friars of Bethlehem organ-

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ized a fine procession. Each held a little candle and went to a place where you go down on two sides. And there is the very place where the Virgin Mary gave birth to Our Lord Jesus Christ, and there is an altar standing there which is hollow underneath and one can kiss the very place where Our Lord was laid between the ox and the ass, and there is a little altar. In front, under a big rock, is the crib for the oxen and asses. It is a place of great devotion and there is full pardon” (Voyage, p. 82). 13. Anonymous (Rennes), “Récit de voyage,” p. 1195. The present building of the Church of Saint John, above the grotto of Zachariah’s house, dates from 1675. Earlier, a church built by the crusaders stood on the site. 14. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 35. 15. Mandeville, Travels, ed. Letts, p. 265. 16. Barbatre, Voyage, p. 146; Anonymous Parisian, Voyage, pp. 85–87. 17. Caumont, Voyiage, pp. 54, 57. 18. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” pp. 207–14. Ogier d’Anglure describes the chapels to commemorate the fasting and the temptation: “In this rock more than four persons could lodge” (Saint voyage, p. 38). He evokes the streams of fresh water and the functioning mills, and the fruit gardens. He stayed at the foot of the mountain, at the Sultan’s Inn. 19. Monte di Croce, Pérégrination, pp. 54–55. 20. Possot, Voyage, pp. 181–83. 21. Monte di Croce, Pérégrination, p. 55. 22. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 36. 23. Anonymous (Rennes), “Récit de voyage,” pp. 369, 375. 24. Guylforde, Pylgrimage, p. 42. 25. Frescobaldi, Viaggio, p. 157. 26. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, p. 111. 27. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” pp. 211–12. 28. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 621. 29. Barbatre, Voyage, p. 148. 30. Rochechouart, “Journal à Jérusalem,” pp. 98–103. 31. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, p. 113. 32. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” pp. 213–15. 33. Ibid., p. 208. 34. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 38. 35. See C. Kohler, “Description de la Terre sainte par un franciscain anonyme (1463),” Revue de l’Orient latin 12 (1909–11): 33–34. 36. Monte di Croce, Pérégrination, pp. 38–42. 37. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” pp. 224, 264–302. 38. La Broquière, Voyage, pp. 25–26, 46–52.

9. saracens in the towns, arabs in the desert, and jews here and there 1. Fictions such as Le Roman de Mahomet (1258) depicted the Prophet as the incarnation of the Adversary. See Alexandre du Pont, Le Roman de Mahomet, ed. Y. Lepage, with Otia de Machomete de Gautier de Compiègne, by R.-B. Huygens (Paris: Klincksieck, 1977. See also M.-G. Grossel, “L’Orient en miroir inverse: Le Roman de Mahomet d’Alexandre du Pont,” in Orient und Okzident in der Kultur des Mittelalters / Monde oriental et monde occidental dans la culture médiévale, ed. D.

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Buschinger and W. Spiewok (Greifswald: Reineke, 1997), pp. 73–86; J. Flori, “La Caricature de l’Islam dans l’Occident médiéval: origine de quelques stéréotypes,” Aevum 66 (1992): 245–56; idem, “Oriens horribilis: tares et défauts de l’Orient dans les sources relatives à la première croisade,” in Monde oriental et monde occidental, pp. 45–56. 2. Sudheim, De Itinere, ed. Neumann. Movement through space and exploration are divided into two separate treatises. The plan (“De montibus,” “De incolis,” “De Sarracenis”) displays a certain methodological rigor. See also Descriptio Terre Sancte, by Burchardus de Monte Sion, containing an inventory of religions, and the Liber Peregrinationes, or Pérégrination, by Riccoldo da Monte di Croce. 3. Cf. Le Huenen: “The account, even if written in good faith, cannot be innocent. It is a reconstruction infused with preexisting values that necessarily determine any apprehension of reality” (“Qu’est-ce qu’un récit de voyage?,” in Les Modéles du récit de voyage, ed. M. C. Gomez-Géraud), série Littérales, no 7 (Paris: Université de Nanterre, 1990): 17. 4. See P. Zumthor, La Mesure du monde ((Paris: Le Seuil, 1993), pp. 307–9. 5. Breydenbach, Sanctae Peregrinationes (Mainz: Reuwich, 1486), fols. 76 (writing), 78 (costumes), 80 (Syrians), 136 (Turks) [Bibliothèque Municipale, Grenoble, cote I 115 Res.] 6. André Leroi-Gouran, Le Geste et la parole (Paris: Albin Michel, 1965), vol. 2, p. 195. 7. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, p. 69. 8. Semeonis, Voyage, p. 978. 9. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 589. 10. Rochechouart, “Journal à Jérusalem, ed. Couderc, p. 106. 11. Semeonis, Voyage, p. 994. 12. Leroi-Gouran, “Les Symboles ethniques,” in Le Geste et la parole, vol. 2, p. 19. 13. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, p. 70. 14. Thenaud: “the sultan, sitting with crossed legs, like our tailors in their shops” (Voyage d’Outremer, p. 45). 15. Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 89. 16. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” pp. 259–64. 17. Semeonis, Voyage, pp. 974–75. 18. Monte di Croce, Pérégrinatio, pp. 154–201. The works of perfection for which he gave credit were: application to study; devotion in prayer; charity toward the poor; veneration for God, the prophets, and the holy places; gravity in conducting one’s life; friendliness toward strangers; harmony with and love for their kindred. But he declared their law to be permissive, confused, occult, untruthful, contrary to reason, and violent. Every point is supported by arguments. See Grabois, Le Pèlerin occidental, pp. 144–55. 19. Lengherand, Voyage, pp. 181–82. 20. Sudheim, “De Sarracenis,” in De Itinere, ed. Neumann, pp. 69–73. 21. Odoric de Frioul, “Liber de Terra Sancta,” in Peregrationes Medii Aevi, ed. Laurent, p. 157. 22. Le Huen, Le Grand Voyage, fol. 39–55. 23. Rochechouart, “Journal à Jérusalem,” 104–5. 24. Christine Bousquet-Labouérie, “Face à l’Islam: Riccoldo da Monte di Croce (1288) et son imagier,” in Pèlerinages et croisades, ed. L. Pressouyre (Paris: C.T.H.S., 1995), pp. 249–61. The manuscript in question is the celebrated French manuscript 2810 in the French National Library.

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25. Piloti, Traité. M. Rondinson distinguishes between the radical notions of Christian ecclesiastics about Islam and the views of Christian merchants, who, in the course of their business dealings, maintained friendly relations with their Muslim counterparts. See La Fascination de l’Islam (Paris: La Découverte Presse-Pocket, 1993), pp. 50–51. 26. Harff, Pilgrimage, ed. Letts, p. 118. 27. Semeonis, Itinerarium, pp. 53–55. 28. Piloti, Traité, p. 188. 29. Mandeville, Voyage autour de la Terre, pp. 100–109. See also “La Cause pour quoy les Sarrasins ne boivent vin ne ne manguent char de porc”(Travels, ed. Letts, vol. 2, p. 266). 30. J. Pouillon, “L’Oeuvre de Claude Lévi-Strauss,” in Race et histoire (Paris: Gonthier, 1967), p. 93. 31. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, pp. 70–71. 32. Rochechouart, “Journal de Voyage,” ed. Régnier-Bohler, p. 1157. 33. Piloti, Traité, p. 85. 34. On the reverence shown the insane, see Santo Brasca, Viaggio, and Adorno, Itinéraire, pp. 79, 82–83. 35. Anonymous (Rennes), “Récit de voyage,” pp. 384, 395–6. 36. Sigoli, “Viaggio in Terra Santa,” in Lanza and Troncarelli, eds., Viaggiatori Toscani, pp. 225–26. 37. Cf. C. Montalbetti: “The familiar universe reconfigures the exotic world as its understudy.” Le Voyage, le monde et la bibliothèque (Paris: P.U.F., 1997), p. 177. 38. Frescobaldi, “Viaggio in Terra Santa,” in Lanza and Troncarelli, eds., Viaggiatori Toscani, p. 178. 39. Poggibonsi, Libro d’Oltramare, p. 62. 40. Piloti, Traité, pp. 45–51. 41. Cf. Caumont: “It meant nothing to the false dogs, so they mocked it” (Voyaige, p. 40). 42. Adorno, Itinéraire, pp. 67–95. 43. In Caesarea he counted ten Jews and two hundred Samaritans; no Jews in Shechem, but one hundred Samaritans; no Jews in Gabaon; twelve in Bethlehem; and fifty in Tiberias. The Samaritans, he writes, observed only the Law of Moses, had priests of the line of Aaron, and made alliances with one another. Their custom, when they attended synagogue, was to remove their everyday clothes and, after washing, to put on others (p. 35). In Egypt, where large Jewish communities existed, he differentiates between the Babylonians, who read the Law every week and got through it in a year (the Spanish rite), and the Israelites, who took three years to do so. However, the two congregations came together on solemn occasions (p. 96). Regarding the Damascus community, he gives an idea of the hierarchies within the group. Apart from their monopoly on dyeing in Jerusalem, they made glassware in Antioch and Tyre (Tudela, Voyages, p. 49). 44. “Récits de voyages hébraïques au moyen âge,” p. 1366. Out of an estimated four thousand heads of families, there were only seventy Jews, all if them poor. There were numerous elderly, abandoned widows, Ashkenazis, Sephardim, and of other origins (seven women for every man). The country was peaceful; the Muslims did not inflict any suffering on the Jews in those regions. 45. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” p. 224. 46. Sudheim, De Itinere, ed. Neumann, p. 68

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47. Mandeville, Travels, ed. Letts, vol. 2, p. 288. 48. “The difference by which one can know all kinds of people in the said country is like this. There is no difference in manner nor other custom [except] the different ways mentioned above. In another street live a kind of miscreant called Samaritans; and of these persons there can only be a thousand persons living in the world as we were told, and so Our Lord ordained it on Moses’ prayer” (Anglure, Saint voyage, pp. 43–44). 49. Thenaud refers to“the yellow turban which is the sign by which they can be recognized, like the Moors by their white turban and the Christians by their blue one” (Voyage d’Outremer, p. 7). 50. Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 165. 51. Breydenbach, Voiage, n.p. 52. Le Huen, Le Grand Voyage, fol. 55–56. 53. According to M. Avi-Yonah, “From 1190 onward the Jews again formed a community which was strengthened by waves of immigration in 1211 and 1267. At the end of this period there were between 150 and 250 Jewish families living in Jerusalem” (Jérusalem [Geneva and Paris: Weber, 1974], p. 148. See also G. Nahon, “Judaïsme,” Encyclopaedia Universalis, vol. 9, pp. 532–35; and “Benjamin de Tudèle,” vol. 3, p. 158. On the pilgrimage to Hebron, see Tudela, Voyages, pp. 42–43. 54. Monte di Croce, Liber Peregrinationis, p. 114. 55. Rochechouart, “Journal à Jérusalem,” p. 105. 56. Semeonis, Itinerarium, pp. 98–100. 57. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” pp. 212, 226. 58. Lengherand, Voyage, p. 152. 59. Anonymous (c. 1420), Pèlerinage., p. 88. 60. Caumont, Voyaige, pp. 57–58. 61. Anonymous (c. 1420), Pèlerinage, pp. 88–89. 62. Harff, Pilgrimage, p. 136. 63. Frescobaldi, “Viaggio in Terra Santa,” in Lanza and Troncarelli, eds., Viaggiatori Toscani, p. 190. 64. Mandeville, “Of the Divers Peoples Who Live in These Deserts and of Their Condition,” in Travels, ed. Letts, vol. 2, pp. 262–63. 65. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, p. 112. 66. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 606. 67. Piloti, Traité, pp. 56–60. 68. De Lannoy, Voyages et ambassades, p. 120. 69. Fernand Braudel, Grammaire des civilisations (Paris: Flammarion, 1993), p. 92. 70. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 81–90. 71. On the relations between the sultan and the tribesmen, see the account by Ibn Iyas in his Journal: bloody struggles between the sultan’s mamelukes and Arabs of the Charkieh (pp. 47–48); pillaging of a caravan (p. 101); Bedouin pillaging villages and destroying crops (p. 111); unrest among Bedouin in the Behera; the sultan’s officers in no hurry to set out to fight (p. 239); the tribe of Azala camps near Giza; the sultan wants to hang prisoners, but his council advises clemency to avoid a vicious circle of violence (p. 346). 72. Thenaud, Voyage d’Outremer, p. 37. 73. Ibid., pp. 77–78. 74. Ibid. pp. 36, 73, 77, 90. 75. See Wolfzettel, “Renaissance: La naissance d’un discours du Voyage,” in Le Discours du voyageur (Paris: P.U.F., 1996), p. 39.

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9. saracens in the towns, arabs in the desert . . .

76. I have borrowed this expression from Jean Roudaut, “Quelques variables du récit de voyage,” Nouvelle Revue Française, no. 377 (June 1984): 58–70.

10. desert time, desert space 1. Pasquali, Le Tour des horizons, p. 19. 2. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 605. 3. On this theme and its richness, see La Littérature et le désert: Recherches et travaux, 35 (Grenoble: Université de Grenoble, 1988). 4. Jules de Saint-Génois, Voyage en Terre sainte par Thietmar, 1217, pp. 34ff. See the partial translation by C. Deluz in Croisades et pèlerinages, ed. Régnier-Bohler, pp. 948–49. 5. See Pierre Loti, Le Désert (Paris: Calmann-Lévy, 1895). 6. See Lengherand, Voyage, pp. 144–45; Anonymous (Rennes), “Récit de voyage,” p. 380; trans. Dansette, in Croisades et pèlerinages, ed. Régnier-Bohler, p. 380. 7. Tafur, Andanças é viajes, p. 65. 8. La Broquière, Voyage d’Outremer, pp. 14–16. 9. These pilgrims would lose their baggage and be blackmailed by their guides, who made a profit on the water and the food. After waiting nineteen days, they threatened to complain to the principal officer if their departure were delayed any longer. An attempt was made to have them pay for the theft of two camels, but they defended themselves by threatening to sue. See Lengherand, Voyage, pp. 147–50. 10. Tudela, Voyages, pp. 42–43. 11. La Broquière, Voyage d’Outremer, pp. 17–18. 12. Thenaud, Voyage, p. 88. On the archeological digs at Hebron and associated tales, see C. Kohler, “Un nouveau récit de l’invention des Patriarches Abraham, Isaac et Jacob à Hebron,” Revue de l’Orient latin 4 (1986): 477–502. Arab accounts of the 1120 exploration exist. Some skeletons were found after a monk probed a gap between two stones and discovered a cavity. Several burial chambers were cleared. 13. Brygg, Itinerarium, Voyage en Terre Sainte, ed. Riant, p. 5. 14. Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” p. 87. 15. Fabri, voyage en Egypte, trans. J. Masson, vol. 1, p. 21. 16. “It is a very fair city, and full of people, a little from the sea. From this city Samson the Strong brought the gates onto a high mountain when he was a captive in the city. And then in the king’s palace he killed the king and himself and a great number of Philistines, who had put out his eyes and shorn his head and imprisoned him, for they mocked him, and for that he brought down the palace upon them and upon himself” (Mandeville, Travels, ed. Letts, vol. 2, p. 245). 17. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 1, pp. 44–45. 18. La Broquière, Voyage d’Outremer, pp. 19–20. 19. See Anonymous (Rennes), “Récit de voyage,” pp. 386–93 (original text); or modern French translation by B. Dansette in Croisades et pèlerinages, ed. RégnierBohler, p. 1209. 20. Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” p. 87. 21. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 5–16. 22. La Broquière, Voyage d’Outremer, p. 17. 23. Fabri describes the steam room, with its domes and arches, as resembling a circular cloister, with cells carpeted with matting and palm branches and closed off by a curtain, where the people disrobed for the bath. He admires the marble of the gushing

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fountain and the water conduits. The hot water ran along a channel. The bath attendant treated bathers with a massage, using oils and lotions. Fabri watched with stupefaction the treatment given an Ethiopian. He adds that men and women had separate baths, and that Jews were not admitted. Voyage en Egypte, pp. 25–28. 24. Ibid., pp. 31–35. Fabri writes that “the latter tower over them so much that they scarcely dare raise their heads in their presence” (p. 32) . See also Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” pp. 86–87. 25. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 35–36 and 34–35, resp. 26. Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” pp. 84–86. 27. Anonymous (Rennes), “Récit de voyage,” p. 381. 28. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 35–36. 29. Adorno, “De Arabibus,” Itinéraire, pp. 94–97; see also, pp. 210–17. 30. Lengherand, Voyage, p. 148; Anonymous (Rennes), “Récit de voyage,” p. 1207. 31. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 605. 32. Harff, Pilgrimage, pp. 119, 138. 33. La Broquière, Voyage d’Outremer, pp. 21–25. 34. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte pp. 93–95. 35. Ibid., pp. 37–40. 36. See B. Dansette, “Jean de Tournai, pèlerin hiérosolomytain,” in Pèlerinages et croisades, ed. L. Pressouyre, p. 269. 37. Casola, Viaggio (1855), p. 112, also Pilgrimage, p. 345. 38. Mandeville, Travels, ed. Letts, vol. 2, p. 245. 39. Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 243. 40. La Broquière, Voyage d’Outremer, pp. 18–19. 41. Lengherand, Voyage, p. 159. 42. See Pasquali, Le Tour des horizons, pp. 94–95. 43. Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” p. 85. 44. Belon du Mans, observations fol. 121b. 45. Thenaud, Voyage, pp. 66–69 (quote on p. 69). 46. Adorno, Itinéraire, pp. 237–41. 47. C. Deluz, “Un monde en noir et blanc?: les couleurs dans les récits de voyage et de pèlerinage,” Senefiance, no. 24 (1988): 57–69. 48. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” pp. 226–29. 49. The term is derived from the Greek beryllos (beryl), a stone formerly used to make magnifying lenses. 50. Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” pp. 87–91. 51. Lengherand, Voyage, pp. 156–57. 52. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 114–18, 129–30, 140–45. 53. Anonymous (Rennes), “Récit de voyage,” pp. 400–401; or modern French translation by B. Dansette in Croisades et pèlerinages, ed. Régnier-Bohler, pp. 1210–12. 54. Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” p. 90. 55. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, p. 109. 56. Ibid., pp. 159–62. 57. Ibid., pp. 48–56. 58. Brunetto Latini, “Des chameus” [Of Camels], in Li Livres dou tresor de Brunetto Latini, ed. F. J. Carmody (1948; reprint, Geneva: Slatkine, 1998), p. 158. 59. Harff, pilgrimage, p. 137. 60. See Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 56–89.

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61. Anglure, Saint voyage, pp. 44–45. 62. Cf. Hervé Martin, Mentalités médiévales, XIe–XVe siècles (Paris: P.U.F., 1996): “In the Middle Ages, space and time did not constitute autonomous mental categories. There was no time apart from lived time, or space apart from what was traversed or experienced in some practical way” (p. 122). “Far from being innate, the notion of time turns out to be a complex mental construct, assembled in relation to variations in the environment and to human activity (p. 156). 63. Maraval, “Le temps du pèlerin,” pp. 479–88. 64. C. Deluz, “Indifférence au temps dans les récits de pèlerinage du XIIIe au XIVe siècle?” Annales de Bretagne et des pays de l’Ouest 83 (1976): 313. 65. Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” p. 89. 66. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 95–113. 67. Martoni, “Relation,” pp. 605–6. 68. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” pp. 227–28. 69. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 107–9, 118–19, 130–33, 145–52. 70. Anonymous (Rennes), “Récit de voyage,” pp. 1209–14; see also Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” pp. 87–91. 71. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 152, 134–37. 72. Ibid., pp. 121–22, 138–39, 164–68. 73. Adorno, Itinéraire, pp. 215–21. 74. Ibid., pp. 4, 111, 148, 315–17, 164–65, 105, 125–27, 317–31. 75. Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” p. 98. 76. See P. Jourde, Géographies imaginaires de quelques inventeurs de mondes au XXe siècle (Paris: José Corti, 1991), pp. 51–54.

11. sinai and its speaking stones 1. On the birth and development of the site, see Labib Mahfouz, Pèlerins et voyageurs au mont Sinaï (Cairo: I.F.A.O., 1961), pp. 1–13. 2. Jean Mielot, Vie de sainte Catherine d’Alexandrie, ed. M. Sepet (Paris: Hurtel, 1881. 3. On the prayers, see Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 243; see also Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, trans. J. Masson, vol. 1, p. 275. Fabri gives the chanted prayer composed by Johan Lazinus on behalf of the group, in which all the participants are mentioned. 4. On manna, see Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 1, pp. 154, 173–77; see also Harff, Pilgrimage, p. 140. The entry under Manne in the Nouveau Dictionnaire biblique Vevey, Switz.: Emmaüs, 1961) reads: “A jelly similar to manna exudes from some plants, either spontaneously or because it has been pierced by an insect. This is true of Tamarix mannifera, which grows in the Sinai Peninsula. The product, which seeps out with a yellowish color, turns white when it falls on the stones and melts in the sun. Alhagi maurorum and A. desertum also exude a sort of jelly that can serve as butter or honey” (p. 467). 5. Thenaud, Voyage, p. 70. 6. Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” p. 91. 7. See Verona, “Pèlerinage,” pp. 234–35; Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 1, pp. 227–33. These two authors draw a sketch. Fabri expands on the topography with a passage on the holy mountains. See also Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 51. 8. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 46. 9. Thenaud, Voyage, p. 71.

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10. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 1, p. 272. 11. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” pp. 229–30. 12. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 607. 13. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 48; Martoni, “Relation,” p. 608. 14. Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” p. 91. 15. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 1, p. 178. Fabri describes the cassocks with the rope serving as a belt, the cowl hanging down the back, the long hair, and Nazarean beard. The monks accepted anyone into their order except Egyptian or Syrian Jacobites or Armenians. Women were not allowed to stay (pp. 279–90) . 16. Thenaud, Voyage, p. 71. 17. Adorno, Itinéraire, pp. 226–28. 18. Anonymous (Rennes), “Récit de voyage,” p. 411. 19. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 1, pp. 276–77. 20. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” pp. 230–31 21. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 1, pp. 177–79, 290. 22. Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 231. 23. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” p. 230. 24. Sudheim, De Itinere, ed. Neumann, p. 45. 25. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 607. 26. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 46. 27. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 1, p. 279. See also Adorno, Itinéraire, pp. 227–31. Back in Ulm Fabri was against giving the alms requested by a brother from St. Catherine’s. See Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 1, pp. 286–89. 28. Thietmar speaks of just one residence closed by a single iron gate. The brethren lived two to a cell, one old and one young. See Voyages faits en Terre Sainte, ed. SaintGénois, p. 43; see also Croisades et pèlerinages, ed. Régnier-Bohler, pp. 950–51. 29. See Mahfouz, Pèlerins et voyageurs, pp. 7–10. 30. Adorno, Itinéraire, pp. 229–31. 31. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 1, pp. 284–85. 32. Pierre Loti, Le Désert (Paris: Calmann-Lévy, 1895), p. 68. 33. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 607. 34. Adorno, Itinéraire, pp. 227–30. 35. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 1, pp. 253–59. In Fabri’s day the twelve columns, a kind of calendar of the saint’s day for each month, were Stations of the Cross where indulgences were sought. 36. Thietmar, Epistola, p. 44. 37. Mandeville, Travels, ed. Hamelius, vol. 1, pp. 38–39. 38. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” p. 230. 39. Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” p. 92. Ogier d’Anglure confirms the excessive dimensions of the skull. Da Verona saw a second reliquary that was not opened for him. 40. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 1, pp. 266–71. See also Mahfouz, Pèlerins et voyageurs, pp. 27–29. 41. Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” p. 92; Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 1, pp. 263–65. 42. Thietmar writes that stones were detached from the rocks on which the shape of the bush was imprinted, and which possessed curative powers. See Epistola, p. 44; see also Croisades et pèlerinages, ed. Régnier- Bohler, p. 953. 43. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 31.

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44. Ibid., pp. 32, 34. 45. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 1, p. 246. 46. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” p. 229. 47. Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 228; Martoni, “Relation,” pp. 607–9. 48. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 1, pp. 182–85. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 608; Mandeville, Travels, ed. Hamelius, p. 40; Anonymous (Rennes), “Récit de voyage,” in Croisades et pèlerinages, ed. Régnier- Bohler, pp. 1216–17. 49. “The sweet lady appeared to them, asking them where they were going. And they were much amazed to see such a beautiful lady there, and thus on her own, which they were not accustomed to, and all the more so when no women, or very few, go on these pilgrimages on account of the long and perilous journey. And they answered her: ‘But you, lady, who are you, and what are you doing here?’ Then the lady said to them: ‘I am Catherine, the servant of God, come to comfort you’” (Anonymous [c. 1420], “Pèlerinage,” pp. 94–95). 50. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 49. 51. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” p. 231. 52. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 1, pp. 185–86. 53. In 1335 Da Verona saw only the Chapel of Elijah ( “Pèlerinage,” p. 233). It is the only one Mandeville mentions (Travels, ed. Hamelius, vol. 1, p. 40). In 1394 Martoni speaks of an “ecclesia Sancte Heremite” (“Relation,” pp. 608–9). In 1395 Ogier d’Anglure saw within Elijah’s chapel an altar where Saint Alexis was supposed to have done penitence; and, outside, a chapel to Saint Margaret (pp. 49–50). In 1483 Fabri listed a Chapel of Saint Marina (heroine of the Golden Legend), of Saint Elisha, and one of Saint Elijah (pp. 188–89). He mentions the indulgences earned at these places on the mountain. Ogier only speaks of actions and worship: the forms of the pilgrimage must have evolved between 1395 and 1483. 54. Fabri describes this crevice in detail. It was possible to slide in head first, with the arms and perhaps the torso. You lay between two rocky masses. It would have been possible to get all the way into the rock, but the space was too tight to turn around. It would have been difficult to get out again without help from outside (Voyage en Egypte, vol. 1, pp. 190–91). 55. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 47; Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” p. 93; Martoni, “Relation,” p. 609; Verona, “Pèlerinage,” p. 233. 56. Mandeville, Travels, ed. Letts, p. 259. 57. Lengherand, Voyage, p. 170. See also Thietmar, Epistola, p. 43. 58. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 1, pp. 189–97. 59. Ibid., pp. 204–6, 198. 60. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 609. 61. According to Thietmar, when a hermit of Mount Sinai saw a light on the mountain, the monks went to the place, where they found the body. An aged hermit miraculously transported to the place told them whose body it was. See Croisades et pèlerinages, ed. Régnier-Bohler, pp. 954–55. 62. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 52; Martoni, “Relation,” p. 610; Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 1, pp. 207–9; Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” p. 93; Thenaud, Voyage, p. 77. 63. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 1, pp. 209–22. 64. Thenaud, Voyage, pp. 79–80; Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 1, pp. 215–16. 65. Ibid., pp. 233–53. 66. Belon du Mans, Observations, fol. 127b. 67. Loti, Le Désert, p. 59.

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68. See G. Rirben, “Moïse s’est arrêté ici,” Terre Sauvage 101 (Dec. 1995): 88– 98.

12. cairo, city of lights 1. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” p. 239; Anglure, Saint voyage, pp. 60–61. 2. Ibn Iyas, Journal. 3. Piloti, Traité (1420), ed. P.-H. Dopp. 4. Mandeville, Travels, ed. Hamelius, pp. 251–52; Thenaud, Voyage, pp. 31–32; Van Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 56–59. 5. Piloti, Traité, pp. 22–28. 6. Van Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 66–69; Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, trans. Masson, vol. 2, p. 609. On the representation of the world, see W. G. L. Randles, De la terre plate au globe terrestre: une mutation épistemologique rapide, 1480–1520 (Paris: Armand Colin, 1980), p. 15. Zaccaria Lilio’s map of the world (Orbis Breviarum, 1494) shows a circle with a T inscribed in it, the arms of which represent the River Tanais (Don) and the Nile, which separates Asia from the rest of the world. 7. The citizen describes the alarms that create shortages (p. 62); the joys (p. 218); the rising of the waters and the abundance of the flood (pp. 78, 426); festivals (pp. 131, 206, 255); and accidents (pp. 93, 368) (Ibn Iyas, Journal). On the Nilometer, see Chronique de Tell-Mahré, ed. J.-P. Chabot (Paris: Emile Bouillon, 1895), who quotes Bar Hebraei Chronicon ecclesiasticarum: “[The Nilometer] is like a square fish pond. In the middle stands a stone column on which levels and measurements are marked. . . . If the waters remain below the fourteenth level, only a small portion of Egypt will be flooded. . . . If they reach the fifteenth level, there will be a moderate harvest and the tax will be proportional. When they reach the seventeenth or eighteenth levels, the harvests and the tribute are full; but if they rise as far as the twentieth level, they bring ruin” (p. xxvi). Piloti describes “a high, thick column, of ruddy or purple color, sown with signs. In the season, it is proclaimed each morning: ‘the river has risen this night by so many signs’” (Traité, pp. 61–62). 8. Trevisano, Voyage, pp. 206–7; Van Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 63–66. Adorno, Itinéraire, pp. 205–8. 9. On the “ruins of Thebes,” see da Verona, “Pèlerinage,” p. 243. 10. Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” p. 100. 11. Lengherand, Voyage, p. 176. 12. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, pp. 400, 526–27, 444. 13. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” p. 240. 14. Martoni, Relation, p. 596. 15. Van Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 56–59. On the appearance of Arab towns, see Albert Hourani, Histoire des peuples arabes (Paris: Le Seuil, 1993), pp. 154–80. 16. Quoted in Voyageurs russes en Egypte, ed. Volkoff, p. 4. 17. Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 187. 18. Van Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 18–19. 19. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, pp. 527–28. 20. Harff, Pilgrimage, pp. 109–11. 21. Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 187; Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, pp. 527–28; van Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, p. 19. 22. Lannoy, Œuvres, pp. 113–16, 119, 121. 23. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, pp. 567–72, 447–48.

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24. Martoni, Relation, p. 601; Van Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, p. 19. 25. Mandeville, Travels, ed. Letts, p. 254. 26. Thenaud, Voyage, p. 47. Ibn Iyas mentions the exceptional penury evident that year (Journal, p. 266). 27. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, pp. 436–38, 441–42, 505, 581. 28. Semeonis, Itinerarium, p. 72. In the crowded streets the nobles went on horseback and others on donkeys (which were available for hire). Camels and sheep added to the traffic. 29. Anglure, Saint voyage, pp. 58–63. 30. Adorno, Itinéraire, p.185. 31. Semeonis, Itinerarium, p. 72. 32. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 595. 33. Cf. Anonymous (c. 1420): “The sultan’s palace is the size of a town, except for Paris, Rouen, Toulouse, Lyon, and Ghent. In it reside only the sultan, his wives, and the Mamelukes, [who are] renegade Tartar Christians, slaves” (“Pèlerinage,” p. 100). 34. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, 530, 568. On the mud bricks, see M. Clerget, Le Caire: etude de géographie urbaine et d’histoire économique (Cairo: Schindler, 1934), vol. 1, pp. 295–96. 35. Thenaud, Voyage, pp. 46–47. 36. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, pp. 528–29. 37. Ibn Iyas, Journal, pp. 259, 312, 414. He provides splendid descriptions of the nocturnal celebrations, with fireworks, torchlight processions, lanterns in the gardens and candelabras in the windows, on the Nilometer, and on the minarets and mosques. 38. Jean-Paul Roux, Histoire des Turcs (Paris: Fayard, 1984), pp. 219–21. 39. Cf. the “Blue Guide” for Egypt: the Muhammad an-Nasir ibn Qalawun mosque (1318 and 1335); the palace of Emir Beshtaq, brother-in-law of Sultan anNasir (1339); the El-Maridani mosque (1340); the Blue Mosque (1347); the palace of Emir Taz (1352); the madrasa of Sultan Hasan (1356–62); the Aytumish al-Baggasi mosque (1363); the El Barquqiyya madrasa (1386); the palace of Qaytbay (1468–1496); and the Qigmas al-Ishaqi mosque (1481). See also P. H. Dopp, “Le Caire vu par les voyageurs occidentaux du Moyen Age,” Bulletin de la société royale de géographie d’Egypte 23, nos. 3–4 (June 1950): 117–49. Ibn Iyas (Journal, pp. 229, 231, 276, 283) mentions a great number of building sites and openings of buildings and gardens with waterwheels. The garden of the Hippodrome (1504) is described as a marvel, with apple trees, pear trees, japonicas, cherry trees, coconut palms, rose bushes, and streams. An island that formed at Bulaq was made into a pleasure ground for feasts and bathing (pp. 107–8). Ibn Iyas speaks of the digging of canals (pp. 60, 93). The new aqueduct of 1507 was admirable, but the funds to construct it were raised in an iniquitous fashion (p. 107). The cisterns were replenished by waterwheels (p. 134). 40. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, pp. 502–3. 41. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” p. 240. 42. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 61. 43. Van Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 48–54. 44. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, pp. 462–67; Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 64. See Dopp, “Le Caire vu par les voyageurs occidentaux du Moyen Age.” 45. Martoni, “Relation,” pp. 598–600. 46. Lannoy, Œuvres, pp. 119–31. 47. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” p. 239; Piloti, Traité, pp. 31–59. On the Mamelukes, see D.

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Ayalon, Le Phénomène mamelouk dans l’Occident islamique (Hebrew), trans. G. Weill (Paris: P.U.F., 1996). 48. Martin von Baumgarten in Brautenbach, Peregrinatio, p. 41. 49. Lengherand, Voyage, pp. 178–80. 50. Adorno, Itinéraire, p 189. 51. Van Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, p. 27. 52. Ibn Iyas depicts the sultan’s fear of revolt. Malik Ashraf’s abdication occurred following a mutiny. This chronicle clearly shows the disintegration of the system (Journal, pp. 446–49). 53. Thenaud, Voyage, pp. 56–57. Ibn Iyas tells of the sacking of an officer’s house by vengeful Mamelukes (Journal, p. 152); of an attack on women who complained to the sultan (p. 181); and of ambushes prepared for merchants (p. 121). In all these cases no justice was obtained except in the case of the women, who obtained financial compensation (p. 36). For visitors the definition of a Mameluke often remained vague. 54. Van Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, p. 45. 55. Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 205. 56. See Ibn Iyas’s Journal on the Mamelukes’ revolts (pp. 6, 11, 14, 16, 94, 124, 171–72, 293, 446–48), their assaults (pp. 152, 181, 201), and their incompetence (p. 200). See the same source on taxes and abuses (pp. 166, 225–26, 306); the new coinage (pp. 22, 27); their depredations (p. 267); the taxing of communities (pp. 227–28); and wrongful imprisonments (pp. 167, 347). 57. On the relative participation of Muslims and non-Muslims in economic activity, see Hourani, Histoire des peuples arabes 9Paris: Le Seuil, 1993), pp. 164–67. Concerning marriage he writes: “A non-Muslim did not have the right to marry a Muslim woman, but a Muslim could marry a Jewess or a Christian woman. It was strictly forbidden for a Muslim to convert to another religion. . . . If a Jew or Christian converted to Islam, he could gain promotion.. . . . Some were made ministers” (pp. 164, 167). 58. Fabri cites the case of a man who achieved high office—exempted by the sultan from renouncing Christianity and from circumcision—who asked a visiting churchman to bless his marriage, which had been celebrated in the Saracen manner, and to secretly baptize his children (Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, pp. 431–39, 496, 551–56). 59. Van Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 30–33. 60. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 597. 61. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” p. 241. 62. Trevisano, Voyage, p. 211. 63. Lengherand, Voyage, p. 184. 64. Van Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, p. 36. 65. Lengherand, Voyage, p. 180. 66. Ibid., p.184. Lengherand expresses a provision of the Muslim marriage code in his own way. On the status of women, see Hourani, Histoire des peuples arabes, pp. 167–70. The marriage contract specified a dowry, which the husband had to give his wife and which remained hers even should he repudiate her. 67. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, pp. 407–11, 516–19. 68. Lengherand, Voyage, p. 174. Fabri saw his landlord’s wives dancing immodestly while scantily dressed (Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, p. 435). 69. Ibn Iyas, Journal, pp. 91, 126, 180, 215, 313–14, 352; Thenaud, Voyage, p. 51. 70. Capodilista, Itinerario, p. 233. 71. Poggibonsi, Libro d’oltramare, vol. 2, pp. 63–65. On costume, see Hourani, His-

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toire des peuples arabes, pp. 164–65. The city was a place where people came together yet were simultaneously segregated because of the diversity of communities. NonMuslims were obliged to display signs indicating their difference, to wear clothes of a special type, and to avoid certain colors associated with the Prophet (green). 72. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, pp. 572–75. 73. Piloti, Traité, pp. 31–33. 74. Thenaud, Voyage, pp. 48, 56. The citizen of Cairo deplores the spoliation of the rich. The director of the mint, a Jew, could not accept its confiscation. All Samaritans had to collectively pay an exorbitant tax (Journal, pp. 184, 227–28, 267). 75. Mandeville, Voyage autour de la terre, p. 35. 76. Capodilista, Itinerario, p. 233. Piloti indicates the price of slaves based on their geographic origin: 140 ducats from Tartary to 70 ducats from Serbia (Traité, pp. 52–54). 77. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, pp. 437, 442, 697–701, 673. 78. Van Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, p. 21. See Hourani, Histoire des peuples arabes, pp. 163–64. The notion of slavery did not have the same connotations in Muslim societies as in America. The legal status of slave applied to different groups (servants, soldiers, prisoners of war, slaves by birth). 79. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 596. 80. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, pp. 401–2, 515. 81. Van Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 16–17. 82. Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” pp. 98–99. 83. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 600. 84. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” p. 245. 85. Van Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, p. 25 86. Harff, Pilgrimage, pp. 102–14. 87. Piloti, Traité, pp. 95–97; also trans. D. Régnier-Bohler in Croisades et pèlerinages, pp. 1235–78, 88. Van Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 55–56. 89. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 601; Trevisano, Voyage, pp. 210–11; Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 189. 90. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, pp. 479–81. 91. Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” p. 99. 92. Martoni, “Relation,” pp. 601–2. 93. Harff, Pilgrimage, p. 98; Piloti, Traité, pp. 90, 110–12. 94. Harff, Pilgrimage, p. 95; Thenaud, Voyage d’Outremer, pp. 47–48; van Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 20, 142; Poggibonsi, Libro d’Oltramare, pp. 72–77. 95. Cf., e.g., Brunetto Latini: “It is certainly not a fish, so it must be a water snake” (Livres dou Tresor, p. 122). 96. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 595. 97. Brygg, Itinerarium, p. 4. 98. Sudheim, De Itinere, ed. Neumann, pp. 42–43. 99. Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” pp. 100–101. 100. Van Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, p. 64. 101. See J.-M. Pastré, “Un regard médiéval sur des mondes nouveaux: les récits de voyage de Sebald Rieter et de Hans Tucher,” Nouveaux mondes et mondes nouveaux au Moyen Âge, ed. D. Buschinger (Greifswald: Reineke, 1994), p. 96. 102. Anglure, Saint voyage, pp. 75–76. 103. Harff, Pilgrimage, pp. 97–98. 104. Thenaud, Voyage, p. 31.

13. diamonds of the sands, or pharaoh’s granaries

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105. Brygg, Itinerarium, p. 4 (giraffe). 106. Anglure, Saint voyage, pp. 62–63 (elephant). 107. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 602; Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 193. 108. Quoted in Viaggiatori toscani del trecento in terra santa, ed. Lanza, p. 183. Ibn Iyas speaks of the success elephants from Zanzibar had as a curiosity in 1511 and of elephant races (Journal, pp. 181, 266). They were paraded in decorative coverings and adorned with banners (pp. 270, 361). 109. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, pp. 409–25, 482; Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” p. 27. 110. Lengherand, Voyage, p. 183. 111. Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” p. 100. 112. Belon du Mans, Observations. 113. Prospero Alpino, Plantes d’Egypte, 1581–1584, trans. R. de Fenoyl (Cairo: I.F.A.O., 1980).

13. diamonds of the sands, or pharaoh’s granaries 1. Van Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 89–91, 128–29, 139. 2. Herodotus, Histoires, vol. 2, ed. P.-E. Legrand (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1936), pp. 124–27, 153. Chronique de Tell-Mahré, trans. J.-P. Chabot (Paris: Bouillon, 1895), p. xxv; quoted from Bar Hebreus, Chronicon ecclesiasticarum, ed. J.-B. Abbeloos and T. J. Lamy (Louvain, Peeters, 1872), vol. 1, cols. 375–82. 3. “In the fields there stand well-built granaries of earth in which grain was stored in days gone by, resembling large wells on top and very wide below” (Lengherand, Voyage, p. 151). 4. Tudela, Voyages, pp. 99–100. 5. Lengherand, Voyage, p. 178. On the Sphinx, see, e.g., van Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 83–87. 6. Thenaud, Voyage d’Outremer, p. 198 7. Trevisano, Voyage, pp. 198–99. 8. Ibid. 9. Brygg, Itinerarium, p. 4. 10. Semeonis, Itinerarium, ed. Esposito, p. 84. 11. Mandeville, Travels, ed. Letts, vol. 2, p. 256. 12. Canisius, Thesaurus, pp. 350–52. 13. Ibn Battuta, Voyage, pp. 80–83. 14. “Item, on the following day we went to see the most marvelous fourteen granaries of Pharaoh, five of six miles distant from Cairo, and you must cross the river Nile that flows from the Earthly Paradise. Of these granaries one was measured and was found to he a hundred and two cannes high, and from one corner to the other it was twelve wide, and from the top there is a good view of the very large city of Cairo. But there, around these granaries, there is such a great colony of rats that it sometimes seems as if they cover the entire ground” (Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” p. 99). 15. Anglure, Saint voyage, pp. 65–68. 16. Poggibonsi, Libro d’Oltramare, p. 93. 17. Lengherand, Voyage, p. 178. 18. Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 190. 19. Capodilista, Itinerario, p. 234. 20. Ariosto, Viaggio, pp. 88–90.

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13. diamonds of the sands, or pharaoh’s granaries

21. Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, p. 82. 22. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, pp. 448–59. 23. Baumgarten, Peregrinatio, p. 70. 24. Trevisano, Voyage, pp. 198–99. 25. Belon du Mans, Observations, fol. 113–14. 26. Verona, “Pèlerinage,” pp. 242–43. 27. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 38. 28. Chateaubriand, Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem, vol. 2 of Œuvres romanesques et voyages, ed. M. Regard (Paris: Gallimard, 1969, p. 1148.

14. the virgin’s garden, the hermits’ desert, and egyptian dreams 1. Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 313. 2. Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” p. 96. 3. Les Evangiles de l’Ombre (Paris: lieu Commun, 1983), p. 91. See also Ecrits apocryphes chrétiens (Paris: Pléiade, Gallimard, 1997). In the latter, the “Evangile de l’enfance du pseudo-Matthieu” (pp. 123–70) recounts the miraculous crossing of the desert, with the episode of the palm tree that bent down and the spring that gushed out in the desert at the infant Jesus’ command. The “Histoire de l’enfance de Jésus ” (pp. 197–204) is a short collection of miracles translated into Greek, Syriac, Ethiopian, Georgian, and Latin. See also the “Vie de Jésus en arabe”(pp. 211–38). 4. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 604. 5. “The Most Pure, being thirsty, laid the Child on the sand and went to the hamlet where she met a woman. ‘Give me to drink.’ And the other replied: ‘I have no water, I also thirst. We drink the Nile water.’ Returning, the Most Pure discovered a spring at the Child’s feet, and drank. She found a stone in the sand, and washed the Child and his swaddling clothes, and laid him down. Bushes sprang up” (“Le Marchand Basile [1465–1466],” in Itinéraires russes, ed. Volkoff, p. 3). 6. Anglure, Saint voyage, pp. 57–58. 7. Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” pp. 97–98. 8. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 58; Martoni, “Relation,” p. 603. 9. Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 195. 10. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 603; Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 57; Verona, Pèlerinage, p. 243; Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 195. According to van Ghistele, writing in 1483, the spring, sheltered by a building, had a remarkable irrigation system: the wheels, powered by buffalo, spread [water] throughout the house and garden (Voyage en Egypte, p. 73). 11. Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 195. 12. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 58. See also Semeonis, Itinerarium, p. 73. 13. Anonymous (Rennes), “Récit de voyage,” pp. 421–22. Poggibonsi mentions the watch kept by the sultan’s soldiers (Libro d’Oltramare, pp. 78–79). 14. Brygg, Itinerarium (1392), p. 4. 15. Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” p. 97. 16. Adorno, Itinéraire, pp. 195–96. 17. Cf. Mandeville: “The balm grows and comes from little bushes and it seems from the wood to be a wild vine” (Travels, ed. Letts, vol. 2, p. 255); Martoni, “Relation,” p. 604. 18. According to van Ghistele, the garden, which was the property of the sultan, was square, surrounded by a hedge, and guarded, but it was poorly maintained (Voyage en Egypte, p. 72).

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19. Verona, Pèlerinage, p. 242. 20. Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 197. 21. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 604. 22. Cf. Anonymous (c. 1420): “The balm trees are watered from this spring, for the Saracens say that otherwise the said balm would not come; nor can it be found in any other part of the world. And the sultans have tried, and have had some planted, but they died immediately. This tree is called the balm vine, over which a great and diligent watch is kept” (“Pèlerinage,” pp. 97–98). 23. Piloti, Traité, pp. 76–88. 24. Trevisano, Voyage, pp. 201–3. 25. Thenaud, Voyage, pp. 54–56. Van Ghistele speaks of celebrations when the spring overflowed. The water was not drunk, nor was it used to make bread (Voyage en Egypte, p. 74). 26. See Sudheim, “De Balsamo,” De Itinere, ed. Neumann, pp. 41–42. Sudheim spells out the virtues of the balm for curing wounds and preserving the dead. 27. Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, p. 74. 28. Belon du Mans, Observations, fols. 110b, 111a. 29. Prospero Alpino, Plantes d’Egypte, trans. R. de Fenoyl (Cairo: I.F.A.O., 1980), pp. 79–86. 30. Harff, Pilgrimage, p. 105. 31. Ibn Iyas, Journal, pp. 145–46. 32. The Monastery of St. Anthony (Deir Mar Antonios), founded in the seventh century, was the older of the two. Protected by its remote location, it was less affected than others by the Arab conquest. Its intellectual life prospered between the twelfth and fifteenth centuries. In 1484 (or 1483) it was pillaged and abandoned until the sixteenth century. In the mountains above the monastery a large fissure in the rock can be seen—the maghara, Saint Anthony’s cave. The Monastery of St. Paul the Hermit (Deir Mar Boulos) is closer to the Red Sea and lies at the bottom of a mountainous cirque from where Sinai can be seen on the opposite shore. Known from a text by Saint Jerome, the hermit is said to have lived to the ripe age of 113, having been miraculously fed by a raven. 33. Anglure, Saint voyage, pp. 70–75. Early in the sixteenth century Thenaud wrote that seven years before his visit (in 1512) the convent was laid waste and the monks butchered (Itinéraire, p. 81). 34. Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 151–52. 35. Thenaud, Voyage, p. 63. 36. R. Hakluyt, “Map of Egypt, 1598,” in Principal Navigations, vol. 6, p. 176. Cf. John Huighen van Linschoten: “1. A diche begonne in ancient tyme and somewhat attempted of late by Sinan the Bassa to joyne both the seas together. 2. A diche called Fossa Traiana“ (British Museum copy of His Discours of Itinéraires unto ye Easte and Weste Indies [London, 1598]). 37. Thenaud, Voyage, p. 62. 38. Geografia di Livio Sanuto, fol. 109; quoted in Thenaud, Voyage, p. 63 n. 1. 39. Belon du Mans, Observations, 1553 ed., p. 271.

15. alexandria, sentry of the east 1. See, e.g., Ibn Iyas, Journal, pp. 187, 393. In September 1511 the sultan, fearing an invasion and desiring to go and inspect Alexandria, had to give up the idea because of the muddy state of the roads.

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15. alexandria, sentry of the east

2. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 77. Cf. Anonymous (c. 1420): “Anyone wishing to go to Alexandria, and to travel faster and at their ease than by donkey or camel, can board a boat and sail downriver. . . . Then it takes two days to go downriver . . . and then it is best to disembark at a village whose name I do not remember, spend the night there, and hire asses to ride to Alexandria” (“Pèlerinage,” p. 101). 3. Piloti, Traité, p. 64. Cf. Anonymous (c. 1420): “If it did not flood like this, they say that the whole country would be lost, for it would be impossible to sow or to reap, nor would any other crop grow, for it fertilizes and feeds all the land. And they say it is true that LXVII thousand villages are fed by it and their wells and cisterns all filled by it. . . . [I]f the water did not rise thus, they could not live there, it rains so little” Pèlerinage, p. 101). 4. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 594. 5. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 77. 6. Piloti, Traité, p. 27. 7. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, p. 584. 8. Martoni, “Relation,” pp. 593–94. 9. Piloti, Traité, pp. 68–69. 10. Adorno, Itinéraire, pp. 168, 174–83. 11. Harff, Pilgrimage, p. 99. 12. See Martoni, “Relation,” pp. 591–95. 13. Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 100–108. 14. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 596–606, 645–55. 15. Adorno, Itinéraire, pp. 174–77. 16. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 590. The present-day Mahmudiya canal, dug in 1817 to provide a good navigable route to Cairo, a conduit for drinking water for the city, and a source of water for agricultural irrigation is the successor to the canal that supplied the city’s cisterns. 17. See Thenaud, Voyage, p. 24, n. 1, for a note on Livio Sanuto’s Geographia. 18. On the spice trade, see Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 166. 19. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 589. For a description of the harbor wall separating the two ports, the towers with bombards, and the watchtower, see Adorno, Itinéraire, pp. 161–63. See also Harff, Pèlerinage, pp. 71–74.On piracy in 1483, see Fabri’s account in Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, pp. 692–93. 20. Adorno, Itinéraire, pp. 166–67. 21. Piloti, Traité, p. 67. 22. Thenaud, Voyage, p. 24. 23. Baumgarten, Peregrinatio, p. 31. Sultan Qait Bey’s fort was constructed on the site of the lighthouse, whose building materials were partially reused. The Pharos once emitted flames that could be seen thirty miles—a hundred miles, according to some— out at sea. 24. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 78. 25. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 587. 26. Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” p. 101. 27. Adorno, Itinéraire, pp. 172–73. 28. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, pp. 662–66. 29. Semeonis, Itinerarium, p. 47. 30. Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 115–16. 31. See “Le Pèlerinage du chevalier Arnold von Harff,” ed. Bleser, p. 71. 32. Adorno, Itinéraire, pp. 170–75.

16. happy he who, like ulysses . . .

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33. Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” p. 102. 34. Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 161. 35. Harff, “Pèlerinage,” ed. Bleser, p. 70. 36. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 586. 37. Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” p. 102. 38. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 79. 39. Thenaud, Voyage, p. 24. 40. Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, p. 114. 41. Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 160. 42. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, p. 665. 43. Harff, Pilgrimage, pp. 93–95. 44. Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 113–14. 45. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, pp. 666, 674. 46. Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 78. 47. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 588. 48. Thenaud, Voyage, p. 27.On the Jews, see Adorno, Itinéraire, p. 165. 49. Adorno, Itinéraire, pp. 170–71. 50. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 588. 51. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, pp. 697–707. 52. Adorno, Itinéraire, pp. 159–61. 53. Thenaud, Voyage d’Outremer, pp. 20–21. 54. Martoni, “Relation,” pp. 586–87. Martoni counted ten ships in the Christian port, which he considered quite large and circular in shape. 55. Lannoy, Œuvres, pp. 99–100. In case it should prove useful, he also mentions that the entrance to the old port is not closed by chains (p. 102). 56. Martoni, “Relation,” pp. 588–89; Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, pp. 685–86; Anglure, Saint voyage, pp. 77–78; Adorno, Itinéraire, pp. 163–65; Jean Mielot, Vie de sainte Catherine d’Alexandrie, ed. M. Sepet (Paris: Hurtel, 1881), p. 331. 57. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, pp. 687–88. 58. Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 119–24 59. Adorno, Itinéraire, pp. 162–63. 60. Ghistele, Voyage en Egypte, pp. 119–24 61. Martoni, “Relation,” p. 590. 62. Fabri, Voyage en Egypte, vol. 2, pp. 710–12, 774–81. 63. Piloti, Traité, pp. 92, 119–25, 176–210. On Boucicaut, see Le Livre des fais du bon messire Jehan le Maingre dit Boucicaut, ed. Denis Lalande (Paris: Droz, 1985, pp. 344ff. 64. See Ibn Iyas, Journal, p. 391.

16. happy he who, like ulysses . . . 1. Possot and Champarmoy, “Avis de Champarmoy au lecteur,” Voyage, p. 193. 2. Anonymous (c. 1420), “Pèlerinage,” pp. 102–3. 3. Voisins, Voyage à Jérusalem, p. 37. Going ashore at Jaffa on August 4, 1390, he arrived in Jerusalem on the tenth. As for his remaining time, he was confined for eleven days in a house where he feared he and his companions would die of hunger. He was unable to go to the Jordan. His group was at the mercy of unscrupulous ship’s captains; on their return at Ramla the pilgrims had to lend one another money to pay one last additional expense.

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4. Casola, Viaggio, pp. 80–86. 5. Barbatre, Voyage, p. 153. 6. Anonymous Parisian (1480), Voyage, pp. 111–12. 7. Le Huen, Grand Voyage, fols. 23–24. 8. Casola, Viaggio, pp. 90ff. 9. Fabri, Wanderings, p. 25. 10. Anglure, Saint voyage, pp. 86–87. 11. Santo Brasca, Viaggio, pp. 119–20. 12. Possot, Voyage, p. 193. 13. Casola, Viaggio, pp. 92–93. Thenaud mentions the death of a pilgrim from Besançon and a merchant from Lyon (Voyage, p. 81). 14. Fabri, Wanderings, pp. 28–31. 15. Barbatre, Voyage, pp. 118, 152–57. 16. Ibid., p. 159. 17. Ibid., pp. 159–63. Cf. a parallel account of the same event by Guillaume Caoursin: “To speak of the fury and violence of their bombards . . . it is the most impetuous and marvelous thing that ever was or that anyone has heard tell, so that anyone hearing of it would have great difficulty believing it” (Opera Guillelmi Caoursin, Rhodiorum vice cancellarii (Ulm, 1496). 18. Casola writes: “There remain so many vestiges of it that it is an astounding thing to see, incredible to whoever has not witnessed it” (Viaggio, p. 44). See also Bertinoro, “Lettres-récits hébraïques,” in Croisades et pèlerinages, ed. Régnier-Bohler, p. 1362. 19. Casola, Viaggio, pp. 40–42. 20. Anonymous Parisian (1480), Voyage, p. 98. Before long certain guides (e.g., the Guide des chemins de France [Paris: Charles Estienne, Imprimeur du Roy, 1553]; Recueil de Voyages, ed. C. Schefer and H. Cordier [Paris: E. Leroux, 1882–1923], vol. 11, pp. 235–42) would translate the distances and include the remarkable sights. 21. Casola, Viaggio, pp. 91–108. 22. Voisins, Voyage à Jérusalem, p. 41. 23. Thenaud, Voyage, pp. 122–24, 142, 144. 24. Martoni, “Relation,” pp. 625–69. 25. La Broquière, Voyage d’Outremer, p. 26. 26. Chateaubriand, Mémoires d’outre-tombe, vol. 1 (Paris: Livre de Poche, 1973), p. 84. 27. Alphonse de Lamartine, , Voyage en Orient (Paris: Robert Laffont, 1985), p. 31. 28. Voisins, Voyage à Jérusalem, p. 38. The place is called “Cacabou” by Voisins and “Cacomo” by Caumont: “On an uninhabited island called Cacomo and between it and the mainland there is a very fine, large port which, in times past, was a city that sank to the bottom, and even today many of the houses large and small can be seen at the bottom of the sea” (Voyaige, pp. 44–45). 29. Casola, Viaggio, p. 87. 30. Le Bouvier, Le Livre de la description des pays, pp. 74–77. 31. Thietmar, Voyages faits en Tere Sainte, ed. Saint-Genois, p. 45. 32. See Poggio Bracciolini, De Varietate Fortunae, ed. Outi Merisalo (Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1993), pp. 233–34. 33. La Broquière, Voyage d’Outremer, p. 145. See Livre des merveilles, Marco Polo, Oderic de Pordenone, Mandeville, Hayton, vols. 1 and 2 [facsimile of ms. in the Bibliothèque Nationale] (Paris: Berthaud, n.d.).

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34. Thenaud, Voyage, pp. 37–42. 35. Varthema, Voyages, p. 6. 36. “Those unfortunate wretches of slaves in chains. The unfortunate men were weeping, and they had good reason to, because they had been ransomed and now they found themselves again in Moorish hands; and no heart was so hard that it would not have felt great pity at the sight of them. . . . As soon as those poor chained men were in the hands of those dogs, we were free to go” (Viaggio, p. 85). 37. Thenaud, Voyage, p. 64. 38. Lengherand, Voyage, p. 194. For a list of things brought home by Nompar de Caumont, see Croisades et pèlerinages, ed. Régnier-Bohler, pp. 1122–23. On Nicole Louve, see the appendix in Anglure, Saint voyage, p. 362. 39. Possot, Voyage, p. 103.

17. by way of an ending: the smell of thyme and the taste of honey 1. See M. Zink, “Pourquoi raconter son voyage? Débuts et prologues,” in Images et signes de l’Orient dans l’Occident, Senefiance 11 (Aix-en-Provence: Cuerma, 1982), pp. 237–54. 2. Thietmar, Peregrinatio, pp. 931–32. 3. Boldensele, “Traité,” p. 1001. 4. Monte di Croce, Pérégrination, pp. 36–37. 5. Sudheim, De Itinere, ed. Neumann, p. 1032. 6. Pastré, “Un regard médiéval sur des mondes nouveaux,” pp. 93–100. 7. Thietmar, Peregrinatio, p. 34; also in Croisades et pèlerinages, ed. RégnierBohler, p. 943. The writer doubtless had in mind texts like Ernoul’s L’Estat de la cité de Ierusalem (c. 1231), which adds descriptions of streets, gates, markets, and buildings to the compilation. In Itinéraires editors H. Michelant and G. Raynaud mention several such accounts. 8. Chateaubriand, Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem, pp. 1017–18. 9. See J.-M. Pastré, “Un regard médiéval sur des mondes nouveaux: les récits de voyage de Sebald Rieter et de Hans Tucher,” in Nouveaux mondes et mondes nouveaux au Moyen Age, ed. D. Buschinger (Greifswald: Reineke, 1994), pp. 93–100. 10. At the beginning of his account Philippe de Voisins (Voyage à Jérusalem) speaks of his “journey,” “pilgrimage,” and “holy journey” (p. 13), and then of the “great journey” of Saint Nicholas of Bari (p. 40) in a religious sense. But he also gives the term its modern meaning when speaking of his journey through the Kingdom of Naples—“seeing the journey they had made” (p. 41)—and in his conclusion, containing the wellworn literary topos of the joy of homecoming: “And there is no need to say or ask if there was great joy and pleasure, seeing that it was the end of his journey” (p. 45). 11. Adorno, Itinéraire, pp. 32–33. 12. Journey to the Holy City of Jerusalem, with a description of the places, ports, towns, cities, and other crossings made in the year on thousand four hundred and eighty, being the siege of the Great Turk at Rhodes and in the reign of Louis, eleventh of the name. 13. Belon du Mans, Observations. 14. Caumont, Voyaige, p. 1. 15. See the map in Paul Zumthor, La Mesure du monde (Paris: Le Seuil, 1993), p. 324.

270

17. by way of an ending

16. Latini, Li Livres dou tresor, ed. F. J. Carmody (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1948; reprint, Geneva: Slatkine, 1998), pp. 86–88, vol. 1, chap. 103: “De l’eliment orbis” (the fifth element, according to Aristotle); vol. 1, chap. 104: “Comment li mondes est reont et comment li 4 eliment sont establi” (pp. 94–95). He attempts a calculation of the earth’s circumference in vol. 1, p. 109. 17. Mandeville, “Le livre de messire Jehan de Mandeville,” in Croisades et Pèlerinages, ed. Régnier-Bohler, p. 1435. 18. See W. G. L. Randles, De la terre plate au globe terrestre (Paris: Armand Colin, 1980), pp. 17–20. The De La Coste copy (Bibliothèque Municipale, Lille), which is a translation of a different manuscript, is more explicit in this respect: “It is beginning with Rome I shall begin to count the chapters of this itinerary, and where I shall end it. The remainder of the story, which is to say the text placed at the beginning of the journey and the text placed at its end, will only serve as transitions, without any division into separate chapters” (quoted in appendix to Adorno’s Itinéraire, ed. Heers and Groers, p. 457). 19. A. Dupront, Le Mythe de croisade, vol. 3 (Paris: Gallimard, 1997), pp. 1508–18. 20. Thenaud, Voyage, p. 94. 21. The figure of the circle is latent in Ogier d’Anglure’s account: “[T]he Father Guardian of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher led us to carry out the holy quest that can and must be performed as follows on the holy journey to Jerusalem” (Saint voyage, p. 13). 22. Anne Dumoulin, “Pour une approche psychologique de l’homme pèlerin,” Lumen Vitae 31 (1976): 290. 23. See the following studies by J. Chocheyras: Saint Jacques à Compostelle (Rennes: Ouest-France, 1985) and Les Saintes de la mer (Orléans: Paradigme, 1998). 24. Dupront, Le Mythe de croisade, vol. 3, pp. 1510–19. The author quotes M. Megla, I viaggi in Terra Santa da un anonimo trecentisto e non mai fin stampata (Naples, 1862), in Girolamo Golubovich, Biblioteca Bio-bibliographica, vol. 5, pp. 34–37. 25. Fabri, Die Sionpilger, ed. W. Carls. 26. Michel Butor, “La Lecture comme voyage,” in Répertoires, vol. 4 (Paris: Editions de Minuit, 1974), p. 10. 27. Chateaubriand, Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem, p. 1019. 28. See, e.g., R. Chalençon, Vers la lumière: De Clermont-Ferrand à Jérusalem (Paris: Téqui-Terre des Hommes, 1990). 29. See, e.g., D. Mouque, Allez vers le Seigneur: guide spirituel de Terre sainte (Paris: Editions franciscaines, 1990). 30. Lamartine, Voyage en Orient, vol. 1 of Œuvres (Paris: Hachette, 1855), p. 478. See the note to the first edition, pp. 1–4. 31. Fabri, Evagatorium, p. 404. 32. In a letter to Hippolyte Taine Flaubert wrote: “The travel genre is in itself well nigh an impossiblity” (quoted in C. Montalbetti, Le Voyage, le monde et la bibliothèque [Paris: P.U.F., 1997], p. 50). 33. E.g., the dream of Guillaume de Digulleville (1330–31), a monk from Chaalis, who undertook a spiritual journey after seeing a vision of heavenly Jerusalem in a mirror. See Le Pèlerinage de vie humaine (Paris: Flammarion, 1998); see also Christian Heck, L’Échelle céleste dans l’art du Moyen Age (Paris: Flammarion, 1997), pp. 113–15.

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This bibliography includes only primary sources. References to secondary sources appear in the notes. However, it may be useful to mention a few of the most important studies. Berriot-Salvadore, E., ed. Le Mythe de Jérusalem: Du Moyen Age à la Renaissance. Saint-Etienne: Pub. de l’Université de Saint-Étienne, 1995. Brefeld, Josephie. A Guidebook for the Jerusalem Pilgrimage in the Late Middle Ages: A Case for Computer-Aided Textual Criticism. Hilversum: Verloren, 1994. Chelini, J., and H. Branthomme, eds. Les Chemin de Dieu. Paris: Hachette, 1982. Graboïs, Aryeh. Le Pèlerin occidental en Terre sainte au Moyen Age. Brussels: De Boeck, 1998. Cardini, Franco. Gerusalemme d’Oro, di rame, di luce. Pellegrini, crociati, sognatori d’Oriente, fra XI e XV secolo. Milan: Il Saggiatore, Mondadori Editore, 1991. Dupront, Alphonse. Du sacré: croisades et pèlerinages, images et langages. Paris: Gallimard, 1987. Ganz-Blättler, Ursula. Andacht und Abenteuer. Berichte europäischer Jerusalem- und Santiago-Pilger (1320–1520). Tübingen: Günter Narr, 1990. Gomez-Géraud, M.-C. Le Crépuscule du Grand Voyage: Les récits de pèlerins à Jérusalem (1458–1612). Paris, Champion, 1999. Sigal, Pierre-André. Les Marcheurs de Dieu. Paris: Armand Colin, 1974.

Readers may also wish to consult the following bibliographies: Paravicini, Werner, general ed. Europäische Reiseberichte des späten Mittelalters. Vol. 1: Deutsche Reiseberichte, ed. Christian Halm (1994, 2001). Vol. 2: Französische Reiseberichte, ed. Jörg Wettlaufer and Jacques Paviot (1999). New York: Peter Lang. Richard, Jean. Les Récits de voyages et de pèlerinages Typologie des sources du Moyen Age, no. 38. Turnhout: Brepols, 1981. Yerasimos, Stéphane. Les Voyageurs dans l’Empire Ottoman (XIVe–XVIe siècles), ser. 7, no 117. Ankara: Imprimerie de la Société Turque d’Histoire, 1991.

primary sources Adorno, Anselme and Jean. Itinéraire d’Anselme Adorno en Terre Sainte (1470–1471). Latin text and French translation by J. Heers and G. de Groer. Paris: C.N.R.S., 1978. Affagart, Greffin. Relation de Terre Sainte (1533–34). Ed. J. Chavanon. Paris: Lecoffre, 1902. Anglure, Ogier d’. The Holy Jerusalem Voyage of Ogier VIII, seigneur d’Anglure. Trans. and ed. Roland A. Browne. Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1975.

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index

Acre, 108 Adorno, Anselmo, 1, 17, 45, 76, 114, 118, 119, 120, 133, 135, 136, 143, 149, 150, 151, 152, 158, 161, 163, 167, 177, 179, 180, 181, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 195, 213, 214, 215, 216, 219, 221 Affagart, Greffin, 39, 40, 88, 221 Aigues-Mortes, 17 Alexandria, 6, 74, 124, 173, 186, 190–97, 227 Alpin, Prosper, 182 Alps, 22–24; Rhaetian Alps, 23 Anglure, Ogier d’, 20, 24, 27, 28, 34, 49, 58, 62, 63, 64, 81, 85, 86–90, 94, 103, 104, 107, 120, 140, 141, 148, 149, 161, 162, 167, 170, 176, 180, 183–84, 186, 190, 191, 192, 193, 201, 216, 219, 221 Anonymous Parisian (1480), 22, 28, 29, 30, 31, 38, 40, 45, 55, 56, 59, 60, 62, 64, 66, 76, 88, 90, 98, 100, 214, 219, 222 Anonymous Pilgrim (c. 1420), 167, 221 Anonymous Pilgrim from Rennes, 73, 76, 77, 79, 83, 95, 99, 103, 117, 131, 133, 149, 222, 226 Anthony in the Desert, Saint, monastery of, 183 Anthony on the Nile, Saint, monastery of, 183 Ariosto, Alessandro, 177, 222 Austria, Duke of, 23

Bar-Kochba, Simon, 79 Bâtard de Bouillon, Le, 2, 4 Baumgarten, Martin von, 163, 178, 191, 222 Bedouin, 3, 106, 115, 121–26, 128, 133, 143, 148, 149, 150, 152 Beirut, 70 Belesta, Jean de, 228 Belon du Mans, Pierre, 13, 14, 15, 135, 171, 178, 182, 185, 217; Livre des singularitez observées, 215 Bertinoro, Obadiah di, 82, 120, 203 Bethany, 104, 105 Bethesda, 87 Bethlehem, 102–4 Bethphage, 89 Bethsaida, 107, 108 Boldensele, Willem van, 176, 211, 222 Bolzano, 22 Bordeaux, Pilgrim from, 16 Boucicaut, Marshal, 12, 196 Bouillon, Godefroy de, 79 Brenner Pass, 22, 23 Breydenbach, Bernhard von, 10, 112, 134, 223, 225 Broquière, Bertrandon de la, 11, 17, 45, 58, 61, 99, 109, 110, 129, 131, 134, 135, 204, 206–7, 208, 223 Brygg, Thomas, 40, 86, 130, 175 Bulaq, 159, 186

Baldi, Bernardino, 42 Barbatre, Pierre, 10, 20–21, 24, 28, 29, 31–32, 33–34, 35, 38, 40, 45, 53, 55, 57, 58, 60, 61, 70, 73, 107, 200, 202, 203, 222 Bari, 41

Caesarea, 108 Cairo, 5, 157, 158–69; Grand Dragoman of, 129, 167 Cana, 107 Canal, Cristoforo da, 42, 47, 50

284 Candia (Heraklion), 57, 61–62, 63, 203; earthquake, 203 Canea (Crete), 57 Capernaum, 108 Capodilista, Gabriele, 83, 166, 167, 177, 223, 227 Casola, Pietro, 11, 30–31, 32–33, 39, 45, 49, 51, 52, 54, 72, 74, 80, 81, 93, 135, 149, 200, 201, 203, 204, 209, 219, 223 Castiglione, Girolamo, 222, 223; Fior de Terra Santa, 223 Catherine of Sinai, Saint, 146, 153, 192, 195; monastery of, 5, 12, 127, 135, 147–52, 155–56; reliquary of, 150–51 Caumont, Nompar de, 18, 65, 92, 95, 104, 119, 122, 215, 224 Cerigo (Kythera), 56, 61 Champarmoy, Charles Philippe Seigneur de, 56, 227 Chanson d’Antioche, La, 4 Chartres, Foucher de, 4 Chasteaubriant, Sire de, 95 Chateaubriand, 29, 46, 68, 171, 178, 213, 217, 218; Itinerary from Paris to Jerusalem, 24 Chaucer, 2 Clari, Robert de, 4, 5 Commynes, Philippe de, 30 Conquête de Jérusalem, La, 4 Constantine, Emperor, 79, 80 Constantinople, 5 Contarina, La (galley), 42, 45, 52 Contarini, Agostino, 30, 42 Cordeliers. See Franciscans Corfu, 57, 59, 60, 61 Cornaro, Caterina, 201 Cucharmoy, Jean de, 73, 224, 228 Cyprus, 44, 55, 64, 201; King of, 201 Damascus, 82, 86, 107, 108, 207 Damietta (Dumyat), 189 Dead Sea, 106–7 Delilah, 130 Doctrine of Mohammed, 114 Dome of the Rock, Al-Aqsa, 81–82, 89

index Dubois, Pierre, 5 Durazzo (Durrës), 59 Eastern Christians, 73, 205; Arians, 97; Armenians, 95, 97, 99; Christians of the Girdle, 74, 95, 97, 167; Copts, 162; denominations, 91, 96–101, 166; in Egypt, 163; Ethiopians, ‘Prester John’s Indians’, 95, 97–98, 99, 100; Georgians, 97, 98; Greeks, 60, 62, 95, 97, 99, 131, 148; Jacobites, 97, 183, 185; patriarch of, 162–63; Maronites, 97; Melchites, 185; Nestorians, 97; Nubians, 97 Eastern women, 113, 165–66 Egeria, 79, 92, 101 Ein Karem (Spring of the Vineyard), 79 Emmaus, 79 Eu, Comte d’, 12 Fabri, Felix, 8–9, 11, 13, 18, 19, 21, 22, 23, 26, 28–29, 37, 42–43, 45, 47, 49, 50, 51–52, 53–54, 55, 61, 99, 124, 131, 134, 138, 140, 142, 143, 144, 147, 148, 149, 150, 151, 154, 160, 166, 167, 177, 189, 191, 193, 194, 195, 196, 201, 217, 219, 222, 224, 225 Father Guardian of Mount Sion, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 83, 84, 88, 97, 109 fauna, exotic, 138, 169–71; crocodile, 169– 70, 188; elephant, 170; fish-women, 171; giraffe, 170; hippopotamus, 187; ostrich, 169; rhinoceros, 138; tortoise, 170 female pilgrims, 22, 50, 74 Fornaro, Simone, 210 Fouâh, 187 Francis of Assisi, Saint, 4 Franciscans, 3, 60, 69, 74, 75, 76, 82–83, 84, 91, 92, 93, 97, 99, 117 Frescobaldi, Lionardo di Niccolò, 40, 65, 106, 122, 170, 224, 227 Frioul, Odoric de, 115 Froissart, 8 Gaeta, 17 Galilee, 107

index Garden of Balm (Matariya), 179–82 Gaza, 128, 129, 130–32, 134; Dragoman of, 129, 132; Governor of, 200 Genessaret, 107 Genoa, 16, 17, 45 Germain, Bishop Jean, 5 Giza, 174–78 Greece, 38, 61 Grünemberg, Konrad, 222, 225 Gucci, Giorgio, 40, 41, 224, 225, 227 Guerche, Lord de la, 106 Guglingen, Paul Walther von, 225 Guylforde, Richard, 35, 46, 73, 82, 106, 225 Gysborne, Prior of, 225 Hadrian, Emperor, 79 Hakluyt, Richard, 184 Harff, Arnold von, 38, 45, 116, 122, 134, 147, 168, 170, 182, 187, 192, 193, 225 Hayton, 5 Hebron, 129–30 Helena, Empress, 79, 95, 146 Heliopolis, 159, 174 Herodotus, 174 Holy Sepulcher, Church of the, 79, 84, 86, 87, 90, 91–101 Horeb, Mount. See Sinai, Mount Hugo, Victor, 173; Les Misérables, 54 Ibn Battuta, 176 Ibn Iyas, 124, 157, 158, 161, 162, 164, 166, 182, 196 Islam, 114–20, 167 Jaffa, 6, 52, 57, 67, 73, 70–74, 90, 199–200 Jehoshaphat, 78, 88, 89, 101 Jericho, 105 Jerusalem, 4, 5, 38, 78–90, 99, 120; Patriarch of, 84 Jews, 17, 37, 60, 82, 90, 108, 120–21, 129, 152, 166–67, 196, 223; colony in Alexandria, 120; Yeshiva in Acre, 82 Jonah, 71 Jordan, 43, 104–6; water, 210 Justinian, 146

285 Kempe, Margery, 53, 74, 79, 96, 226 Khalig Canal, 158 Kiriath-Jearim, 78 Lamartine, 218 Lando, Pietro di, 42 Lannoy, Ghillebert de, 12, 70, 85, 124, 159, 163, 186, 194, 226 Larnaca (Cyprus): salt lake, 63–64, 208 Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, 3, 4, 70, 80 Latini, Brunetto: Bestiary, 139; Tesoretto, Livre du Trésor, 215 le Bouvier, Gilles, 226; Livre de la description des pays, 215 Le Huen, Nicolas, 44, 99, 115, 201 Le Saige, Jacques, 39, 226 Lengherand, Georges, 36, 59, 63, 72, 89, 93, 115, 121, 129, 135, 137, 163, 164, 165, 166, 171, 174, 175, 177, 209, 222, 226 Limassol (Cyprus), 63 Louis, Saint (King Louis IX of France), 70, 188 Louve, Nicole, 53, 210 ‘Luc, Messire’, 168 Lusignan, Pierre de, 192 Luther, Martin, 39 Luxor, 173 Lydda, 76 Madianites, 109–10, 143 Malines, François de, 167 Mamelukes, 73, 88, 123, 125, 132, 160, 162, 163–65 Mandeville, Jean de, 9–10, 17, 97, 101, 102, 104, 117, 120, 123, 130, 135, 151, 175, 176, 215, 226 Mann, Thomas, 46 manna, 147 Mansurah (El-Mansûra), 188 Marseilles, 12, 17 Martoni, Niccolò da, 10, 17, 65, 76, 85, 86, 89, 106, 113, 123, 127, 134, 141, 146, 147, 149, 150, 152, 161, 163, 165, 167, 168, 169, 178, 180, 181, 188, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 195, 198, 199, 204, 205–6, 227

286 Matariya, 179–82 Memphis, 173 Mézières, Philippe de, 8 Mielot, Jean, 146 Milan, 24 Modon (Methoni), 57, 60–61, 63 Mont-Cenis, 20, 21, 22, 23 Monte di Croce, Riccoldo da, 78, 86, 88, 91, 92, 93, 94, 96, 97, 98, 99, 102, 103, 105, 107, 110, 115, 116, 118, 121, 227; Liber peregrinationis, 116, 211, 227 Monte Sion, Burchardus de, 85, 223; Descriptio Terrae Sanctae, 85, 97 Montesquieu, Persian Letters, 29, 111, 126 Morea, 60 Mountjoy, 78–79 Murad I, 12 Murano, 29 Nassir Eddin (Grand Dragoman), 129 Nazareth, 108, 109, 179 Neapolis (Shechem, Nablus), 108 Nicopolis, 8 Nile, 98, 158, 209; floods, 176; Nilometer, 158, 162; travel on, 186–90 orders of chivalry: Holy Sepulcher, 19, 95, 201; Our Lady of Mountjoy, 78; St. John of Jerusalem (Knights Hospitallers), 13, 75, 82; Sash, 95–96 Otranto, 204 Ottoman Empire, expansion of, 37, 59, 60. See also Turks Paffendorpp, Anthony, 38 Pagnani, Zaccaria, 54 Parenzo (Porec), 56 Paris, 24 Paul, Saint, monastery of, 12, 183–84 Patriarchs, Tomb of the, 129–30 Pèlerinage de Charlemagne, Le, 16 Perceforest, 209 Petra, 128 Philerma, 63

index Philippe le Bon, Duke of Burgundy, 11, 75, 90, 103, 146 Piloti, Emmanuel, 116, 119, 123, 124, 157, 158, 167, 168, 182, 186, 196, 227 Poggibonsi, Niccolò da, 30, 64, 70, 80, 86, 98, 100, 109, 119, 166, 177, 227 ‘port of quails’, 57, 61 Possot, Denis, 14, 21, 23, 25, 30, 35, 37, 46, 56, 65, 74, 76, 79, 93, 105, 198, 201, 227 Prester John, 97–98, 196, 208; letter, 99 Pula, 58 Pyramids, 5, 174–78 Ragusa (Dubrovnik), 56, 57, 58–59 Ramla, 72, 74–76 Red Sea, 136, 154, 184 Rhodes, 55, 61, 63, 202–3; Grand Master of, 84; siege of, 42, 57, 202–3 Richard I, 38 Richard the Pilgrim, 79 Rieter, Sebald, 169, 212, 213, 227 Rinuccini, Father Alessandro, 40 Rochechouart, Louis de, 70, 92, 93, 97, 98, 102, 107, 113, 115, 117, 119, 227 Rome, 215 Rosetta (Rachid), 189 Saarbrücken, Simon von, 46 Sabellicus (History of Venice), 28 Saige, Jacques le, 13 Saint-Georges, Monsignor de, 45 Saladin, 79, 161, 221 Samaria, 107 Samson, 130 Sanseverino, Roberto de, 55, 86, 93 Santo Brasca, 11, 19, 26, 28, 36, 37, 44, 45, 53, 54, 56, 61, 69, 71, 79, 80, 81, 83, 95, 96, 98, 107, 112, 117, 123, 201, 222, 223, 227 Sanuto, Livio, 184, 190 Sanuto, Marino, 5 Saracens, 73, 112 Sathalia (Adalia, Antalya), Gulf of, 57, 66 Savoie, Louise de, 13

index Semeonis, Symon, 16, 24, 30, 36, 59, 62, 113, 114, 116, 121, 160, 161, 175, 191, 192, 227 Shiloh, 79 Sidon, 108 Siena, Mariano da, 40, 69, 84 Sigoli di Gentile, Simone, 40, 41, 97, 118, 119, 224, 227 Simplon Pass, 20 Sinai, 128; desert, 132–45; Mount, 147, 152–55, 156, 208 Sodom and Gomorrah, 106 Spalatro (Split), 58 Sphinx, 175, 178 Sudheim, Ludolph von, 17, 70, 86, 97, 112, 115, 120, 149, 212, 227 Suez, 184–85 sultan, sultans, 5, 12, 72, 92, 93, 98, 119, 160, 163, 164, 165, 175, 176, 181; Baibars, 70, 129, 188; Malik Ashraf, 162 Tabor, Mount, 108, 109 Tafur, Pero, 129, 227 Tartars, 121 Tell-Mahre, Denys de, 174 Temple, Solomon’s, 80, 81–82 Temptation, Mount of, 96, 105 Thebes, 173 Thenaud, Jean, 13, 17, 102, 103, 114, 120, 124, 125, 130, 136, 147, 148, 175, 182, 184, 191, 192, 193, 194, 204–5, 209, 216, 228 Thietmar, Meister, 81, 86, 92, 128, 150, 151, 152, 154, 211, 213, 228

287 Titus, Emperor, 79 Tonnerre, Guillaume de, Prince of Orange, 95 Tournai, Jean de, 21, 22, 33, 84, 135, 228 Trevisano, Domenico, 54, 158, 175, 178, 182 Tron, Niccolò (doge), 45 Tucher, Hans, 169 Tudela, Benjamin of, 82, 120, 129, 175 Turks, 5, 6, 16, 18, 22, 37, 57, 60–61, 121, 207. See Rhodes, siege of Tyre, 108 Valence-sur-Rhône, 24 van Ghistele, Joos, 100, 158, 162, 164, 165, 167, 168, 173, 175, 177, 182, 184, 188, 192, 193, 195, 225 Varthema, Ludovico di, 209 Venice, 16, 18, 26–38, 209 Verona, 24 Verona, Giacomo da, 75, 85, 90, 93, 98, 101, 102, 104, 106, 107, 108, 109, 114, 120, 121, 130, 137, 141, 147, 149, 150, 151, 162, 168, 178, 181, 228 Villehardouin, 4 Vitry, Jacques de (Historia Hierosolomitana), 4 Voisins, Philippe de, 23, 32, 34, 35, 37, 45, 73, 75, 84, 93, 99, 199, 200, 204, 224, 228 Wey, William, 11, 40, 43–44, 86, 96, 228 Yehiel ben Joseph, Rabbi, 82 Zadar, 58, 59