State formation and the structure of politics in Mamluk Syro-Egypt, 648-741 A.H./1250-1340 C.E. 9783737000918, 9783847100911, 9783847000914

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Mamluk Studies

Volume 2

Edited by Stephan Conermann

Editorial Board: Thomas Bauer (Münster, Germany), Albrecht Fuess (Marburg, Germany), Thomas Herzog (Bern, Switzerland), Konrad Hirschler (London, Great Britain), Anna Paulina Lewicka (Warsaw, Poland), Linda Northrup (Toronto, Canada), Jo van Steenbergen (Gent, Belgium)

Winslow Williams Clifford

State formation and the structure of politics in Mamluk Syro-Egypt, 648 – 741 A.H./1250 – 1340 C.E. Edited by Stephan Conermann

V& R unipress Bonn University Press

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de. ISBN 978-3-8471-0091-1 ISBN 978-3-8470-0091-4 (E-Book) Publications of Bonn University Press are published by V& R unipress GmbH. Ó Copyright 2013 by V& R unipress GmbH, D-37079 Goettingen All rights reserved, including those of translation into foreign languages. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Printed in Germany. Printing and binding: CPI Buch Bücher.de GmbH, Birkach

Contents

Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

9

Chapter 1 – Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

13

Chapter 2 – The Problemation of the Early Mamluk State . . . . . . . The Microstructure of Social Conflict . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Problem of Middle East State Formation . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Nature of the Early Mamluk State . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Problem of Idealized Solidary : Usta¯dh-Mamlu¯k, Khushda¯shiyyah and Jinsiyyah . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Structure of Mamluk Politics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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21 30 43 46

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47 54 63

Chapter 3 – The Search for Niza¯m (1249 – 1260/647 – 58) . . . . . . ˙ The Legacy of al-Sa¯lih Ayyu¯b . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ˙ ˙ Shortcomings of Clientelism under Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h and Shajar al-Durr Aybak and Qutuz: The Failure to Establish Niza¯m . . . . . . . . . ˙ Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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65 66 70 74 81

Chapter 4 – Baybars and the Foundation of Niza¯m (1260 – 1276/658 – ˙ 676) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Baybars and Kurdish clients . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Baybars and khushda¯shiyyah . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Baybars and non-khushda¯shiyyah . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Niza¯m: Coercion and Conflict Resolution under Baybars . . . . . . . . ˙ Conflict Resolution: The Cases of Sanjar al-Halabı¯ and Aqu¯sh al-Burlı¯ . ˙ The Role of Friendship and Kinship . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Niza¯m: Punishment and Rehabilitation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ˙ Structured Violence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

83 86 90 92 97 101 104 106 109 110

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6

Contents

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Chapter 5 – Challenge and Restoration of Niza¯m (1277 – 1290/676 – 689). ˙ Al-Sa ¯ıd and the Challenge to Niza¯m . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ˙ Al-Sa ¯ıd and the Limitations of Wala¯ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Qala¯wu¯n and the Restoration of Niza¯m . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ˙ Qala¯wu¯n s Patronage Network . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Niza¯m and Conflict Resolution: The Cases of Kunduk and Sunqur ˙ al-Ashqar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 6 – Niza¯m and “The Operation of Faction” (1290 – 1309/689 – ˙ 709) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Manipulation of Niza¯m in the Reign of al-Ashraf Khalı¯l . . . . . ˙ Al-Ashraf Khalı¯l’s Relations with the Mansu¯riyyah . . . . . . . . . . ˙ The Struggle for Niza¯m after al-Ashraf Khalı¯l: The Fitnah of Sanjar ˙ al-Shuja¯ ¯ı . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kitbugha¯ and the Restoration of Niza¯m . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ˙ La¯jı¯n and the Manipulation of Niza¯m . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ˙ The Struggle for Niza¯m in the Aftermath of La¯jı¯n . . . . . . . . . . . ˙ Niza¯m under al-Na¯sir Muhammad and the Problem of Baybars ˙ ˙ ˙ al-Ja¯shnakı¯r . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

113 114 117 125 129 131 138

143 144 149

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154 158 162 167

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170 175

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179

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182 189 190 197 200 204

Chapter 8 – Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

207

Appendix I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Early Mamluk Rulers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

223 223

Appendix II . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Careerism in the Early Mamluk State . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

225 225

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Chapter 7 – Al-Nasir Muhammad and the Rule of Niza¯m (1309 – ˙ ˙ ˙ 1341/710 – 741) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Baybars II al-Ja¯shnakı¯r, al-Na¯sir Muhammad and the Politics of ˙ ˙ Seniority . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Al-Na¯sir and the Mansu¯riyyah . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ˙ ˙ Punishment and Rehabilitation under al-Na¯sir Muhammad . . ˙ ˙ Al-Na¯sir’s Patronage of the Mansu¯riyyah . . . . . . . . . . . . . ˙ ˙ Al-Na¯sir and the Na¯siriyyah . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ˙ ˙ Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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7

Contents

Glossary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

233

Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . Manuscript Primary Sources Printed Primary Sources . . . Select Secondary Sources . .

235 235 237 241

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Preface

Once in a faculty-student seminar in the Department of Oriental Studies at Princeton University half a century ago, I heard a Middle Eastern sociologist remark condescendingly to a Middle Eastern historian—who happened to be my mentor—“You tell us what the texts say and we’ll tell you what they mean.” This comment also echoed a constant theme of departmental graduate advisors who argued that area studies students without a discipline—“conceptual framework” was the term they used—were little more than philologists and translators. Furthermore, it seemed that only the frameworks of the “hard social sciences” of sociology, political science, anthropology, and economics could structure inchoate philology and mindless empiricism. This was my first encounter with a dispute with roots in nineteenth century philosophical-historical polemics that would soon become intertwined with the discourses of “orientalism.” The spirit of this remark, which made such a deep impression on me then, nevertheless still stalks the halls of the American academy long after many of us believed that our field of study had somehow come of age. Fifteen years later, as a faculty member in the Department of History at the University of Chicago, I first became aware of Winslow Williams Clifford (1954 – 2009; see his obituary in Mamluk Studies Review 13.2, 2009)—known as Wyn to his friends and colleagues—in 1976 when he matriculated into the Department as a student of Byzantine history. I noted his arrival since, as a Byzantinist, he was considered an “exotic,” as non-Americanist, non-Europeanist faculty and students were referred to at that time in the Department. His interest in Islamic history was stimulated in the course of writing his master’s thesis “The Life of Saint Theodore of Sykeon” under the supervision of Walter Kaegi on social conditions in Byzantium at the time of the Arab Muslim conquest and when he was admitted to the doctoral program, he decided to shift from one exotic field to another and began to work formally and informally with Halil Inalcık, Stephen Humphreys, Fred Donner, Carl Petry, Bruce Craig, and me. His proposed dissertation topic in 1981, “Byzantines and Fatimids: Imperial Eclipse, 1096 – 1080” was the first explicit indication of that shift.

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Preface

The appearance of Ralph-Johannes Lilie’s Byzanz und die Kreuzfahrerstaaten: Studien zur Politik des Byzantinischen Reiches gegenüber den Staaten der Kreuzfahrer in Syrien und Palästina bis zum Vierten Kreuzzug (1096 – 1204) in 1981, of which he had been unaware at the time of his proposal hearing, caused him to reassess the feasibility of his original topic. He then consulted with Claude Cahen about the possibility of producing a study on Byzantine relations with the Anatolian Saljuqs, but the senior scholar dissuaded him from pursuing this avenue of research. He had already begun to develop and interest in the Mamluk period as the result of participating in a colloquium on the Mamluk Empire of Egypt and Syria from Carl Petry, who was visiting Chicago from Northwestern University, and preparing a paper for me in a seminar on the Safavids, “A Preliminary Survey of Mamluk-Safavi Relation” that was eventually published in two parts in volume 70 of Der Islam as “Some Observations on the Course of Mamluk-Safavi Relations (1502 – 1516/908 – 922)” in 1993. Consequently, in 1983 he radically reformulated his topic as “The Northern Salient: Mamluk Anatolian Frontier Policy, 1260 – 1461” that somehow morphed over the ensuing decade into his dissertation “State Formation and the Structure of Politics in Mamluk Syro-Egypt, 648 – 741 A.H./1250 – 1340 C.E.” defended in Fall 1994. It seems fairly clear that between 1983 and 1994, Wyn Clifford read incredibly broadly and deeply in sociology, political science, anthropology, and economics especially as these disciplines studied and proposed theories of conflict, extraction and distribution, patronage and clienthood and host of other issues. I had always realized that he was a phenomenal autodidact—a quality also underscored by some of his undergraduate teachers—and I was very enthusiastic when he told me of his intention to apply these social science conceptual frameworks to the analysis of Mamluk politics from the establishment of the polity to the end of the third reign of al-Malik al-Na¯sir Muhammad. The em˙ ˙ pirical foundations of the study were likewise very sound and the members of his committee were quite pleased with what appeared to be a highly original contribution to knowledge, unique for its time. Clifford was not a master philologist and did not pursue the study of language as an end in itself; rather he approached such study pragmatically and on a need-to-know basis—his success in doing so is amply and competently reflected in his use of sources in “Some Observations on the Course of Mamluk-Safavi Relations.” I now am delighted that Bonn University is publishing his dissertation in its Mamluk Studies series as a part of Annemarie Schimmel Kolleg for the History and Society of the Mamluk Era, 1250 – 1517 almost twenty years after its completion. My only regret is that he did not live long enough to experience the reception of his work by a much wider

Preface

11

audience. Nevertheless, I firmly believe that Winslow Clifford has told us both what the texts say as well as what they mean. John E. Woods

Chicago 2012

Chapter 1 – Introduction

Mamluk studies has emerged over the last half century to become a cutting edge in Middle Eastern historical research. Ironically, despite the accumulation of interest in Mamluk civilization, little meaningful attention has actually been paid to the Mamluks themselves. Certainly their most essential creation and identification as a ruling elite – the Mamluk state – remains a vague, static, and unpersuasive concept in the scholarly literature. The root of this problem lies ultimately in the philosophical distinction drawn by nineteenth century social thinkers between modern society as the result of industrialization and premodern society as the product of militarization. Consequently most scholars, perhaps unwittingly, have tended to view the typical Middle East state as functionally military, a war-making apparatus largely devoid of principles of social organization and process. By defining the projection of military power as the fundamental rationale of the state, scholars have effectively reduced the study of the Mamluk state to the study of its own military institution. This has been a false economy, however, for it has merely reinforced the determinist framework of traditional scholarship in which the study of World History since the Middle Ages has been reduced to the question of how Western states developed their competitive edge in national power, then projected it globally. Historians have tended to identify non-Western states, including Islamic ones, in terms of their divergence from the nonnative Western trajectory, often construing such divergence as failure. Thus, while Western states are seen as dynamic, complex and functional, Islamic states are viewed discursively as static, simplistic and unworkable. To the extent that scholars have contemplated the Mamluk sultanate a state at all, it has been mainly as a state of nature, a reflection of the atavistic tendencies of the Mamluks themselves. Indeed, scholars have liked to invoke the image of random, uncontrollable Mamluk violence as proof of the general incoherence of the Mamluk state and, by extension, its unsuitability for serious study. Of course, the naive characterization of the Mamluk state as a vast military barracks squares nicely with the historicist interpretation of late medieval Syro-Egypt as

14

Introduction

yet another expectably dysfunctional non-Western polity, responsive only to the crude militarized discipline of what is sometimes called “Oriental despotism.” Violence, however, was never the true cement of the early Mamluk state. Yet, by defining the Mamluk state entirely in terms of its externalized military structure, scholars have obfuscated the real internal sociopolitical structures which in fact integrated and sustained the late medieval Syro-Egyptian state, including as a military power. This has all but precluded the development of a political sociology or anthropology of the Mamluks themselves. Analytically, the Mamluk state remains a “black box,” a sociocultural system whose codes and mechanisms of political behavior have gone largely unobserved by scholars because they are thought to be largely unobservable. To most scholars Mamluk social action has seemed to be merely pathological and, therefore, essentially inexplicable. Yet, some explanation is clearly due since scholars have also routinely acknowledged the Mamluk sultanate as the most powerful and unitary of the post-Classical Abbasid states. This raises the central but, as yet, unaddressed paradox of Mamluk history : how could a society in the grip of chronic anarchy have maintained its unity for almost three centuries as the premier central Islamic state of the late medieval period? In particular, were the Mamluk “slave rulers” of late medieval Syro-Egypt themselves enslaved, as many have supposed, to compulsive zero-sum competition? The purpose of this dissertation is to address this paradox of Mamluk state formation by demonstrating that, like Western states, the late medieval SyroEgyptian state was in fact a rational sociopolitical structure, not an amorphous polity driven blindly by jungle law. The Mamluks were authentic state builders attempting to preserve rather than destroy internal order. Far from embracing a Hobbesian “war of all against all” the Mamluks cultivated a manageable system of interaction meant precisely to reduce the cost of their internal politics, that is, to inhibit violence and resolve conflict by ensuring a reasonably equitable distribution of resources and rotation of power within the ruling elite. By creating a dialectic between organization and distribution of resources, the Mamluks were, in fact, consciously structuring social power. The capacity of the Mamluk amirs and their retinues to organize themselves efficiently as a credible ruling elite proved the first and most crucial step in the formation of the Classical Mamluk Syro-Egyptian state. This dissertation will analyze this achievement during the early period (1250 – 1340/648 – 741) by demonstrating, first, the microsocial processes of interactionism and exchange which largely shaped Mamluk political relations and, second, the macrostructural constraint placed, in turn, on those microprocesses by a belief in moral economy and constitutional order. In this particular regard, the dissertation is also intended as a contribution to the structure-agency controversy which has driven social theory for more than a century.

Introduction

15

The key to analyzing early Mamluk state formation lies principally in rationalizing the pattern of social conflict for which the Mamluks have become so notorious and yet so little understood. In this regard, modern social action theory, which seeks to discern just such hidden macrostructures and microprocesses of human agency, provides an indispensable framework for studying the often contradictory relationship of power and values to issues of dominance, submission, dissent and resistance within society. It is important to note in this regard that social theory itself is now undergoing a sea change in its traditional conceptualization of human behavior. Theorists, once obliged to choose between rigid concepts of society as either intrinsically stable or unstable, now recognize that social action is delimited by problems of both, and that it is increasingly unprofitable to dichotomize such action into mutually exclusive doctrines of change vs. system; conflict vs. integration; individual vs. collective; or ideology vs. utility. The reality of human organization, including state formation lies, then, somewhere between Durkheim’s social facts and Bentham’s maximization of utility. Historical analysis, heading into the next century, must learn to incorporate into its method this search for a practical synthesis of microsocial agency and macrosocial structure – the so-called “micro-macro link.” Indeed, it is already possible to distill from current social theory a rational model for conflict-oriented societies such as the Mamluk, one independent of historicist notions of inherent dysfunction. The foundation of this model lies in a systems analysis of political behavior, which demonstrates how a social system manages internal stress through continuous communication and feedback among its members. This constant interlinked flow of action/response/reaction – the feedback loop – creates not a constant but a dynamic equilibrium in society, allowing the political system to persist over time. The early Mamluk state was a sociopolitical system in dynamic equilibrium, though scholars, profoundly misunderstanding its basic structure, have typically characterized it as either anarchic or despotic. The Mamluk state persisted over time as a powerful unitary polity through its ability to anticipate and convert normal social conflict (fitnah) into actions which helped to preserve state structure. Internal stability emerged not from the suppression but rather the toleration and even accommodation of the process of grievance and its redress by elements within the paramilitary ruling elite. Challengers were allowed to dissent publically and to seek change in the dialectic of organization and distribution of resources – the structure of social power – in order to give them an incentive to continue operating within the current state structure. It was the operation of this effective feedback loop which prevented the Mamluk state from fissioning into a pre-state condition during its first century. Grievance was communicated within the Mamluk ruling elite through

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Introduction

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“structured violence.” By structuring violence, that is to say, by symbolizing dissent through displays of limited paramilitary action, both regime and challenger could “negotiate” a settlement of grievance without risking the collapse of the state itself into a spiral of real and probably uncontrollable competitive violence. The negative feedback of structured violence both set the organic limits to social conflict and made possible the conflict resolution upon which Mamluk political culture was based and upon which the early Mamluk state depended for its integrity. By suggesting a certain role complementarity between regime and opposition, moreover, the concept of dynamic equilibrium avoids stigmatizing the feedback loop of internal political change as either anarchy or despotism. The premium placed by Mamluks on the interaction and exchange of negotiating internal order suggests, furthermore, that sociopolitical equilibrium itself was based less on gratuitous moral appeal to norms of individual loyalty or collective ethnic solidary than on a pragmatic appeal to individual and, indeed, collective utility. The Mamluk elite possessed a collective appreciation of its moral economy based on equitable access to a hierarchy of rank and privilege founded on seniority. By cultivating this sense of collective pragmatic solidary, the state possessed a mechanism for minimizing dissension and even fissionist tendencies within the elite, thereby forestalling the devolution of late medieval Syro-Egypt into the pre-state condition of chieftaincy and warlordism. This sense of moral economy was of course embedded in the “machine” politics of universal patronage practiced by most early Mamluk regimes. Indeed, the late medieval Syro-Egyptian state can be understood as a patronate, a vast clientelistic structure geared primarily toward mediating the reciprocal flow of loyalty and benefit within the ruling elite. Mamluks were integrated into nonascriptive paramilitary clienteles chiefly in terms of dyadic or two-party exchange – service (khidmah) for benefit (ni mah). Horizontal or corporate solidary, rendered by purely moral expressions such as, for instance, fraternity (khushda¯shiyyah) or ethnicity (jinsiyyah), existed but largely in a normative sense; in the end they, too, were underpinned by the utility of exchange. The sociopolitical phenomenon of khushda¯shiyyah was important, however, as the basis of an age class system, a mechanism by which the Mamluks regulated the distribution and rotation of power on the objective basis of seniority. The natural cycling or Paretian “circulation” of these horizontal age classes and the continuous vertical exchange of universal patronage created a certain basic equilibrium in the political system. The effective operation of this seniority-based clientage system was equivalent to what the early Mamluks called the constitutional order (niza¯m) of their state; it was the practical yardstick by which they ˙ measured the legitimacy of all regimes (duwal). Social conflict was closely intertwined, of course, in the dialectic of organization and distribution of resources represented by niza¯m. Conflict, it must be ˙

17

Introduction

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realized, was a purposeful and even constructive element of Mamluk sociopolitical culture; such negative feedback allowed the ruling elite to determine and adapt power relationships internally within a state lacking formal political institutions or authority structures. Most social conflict within the ruling elite broke out in response to a breakdown in the proper operation of “machine” patronage; even those amirs who manipulated these situations for personal gain were careful to do so under the guise of restoring niza¯m. For although the ˙ Mamluk umara¯ were basically risk-averse, they were prepared to act collectively in defense of what they believed to be their common patrimonial rights (huqu¯q, ˙ sing. haqq) when they felt (or could be persuaded) that they were threatened. In ˙ this sense, social conflict was an organic remedy to perceived threat to the moral economy of the elite as a whole. This collective sense of moral economy, guaranteed by the operation of niza¯m, acted on the Mamluks as a macrostructural ˙ constraint, legitimating certain issues in the structuring of social power while limiting the degree and form of conflict over them. For dissent within the ruling Mamluk elite was normally effected not through uncontrolled mass violence but rather the agonistics or ritual display of staged rebellions and pantomime warfare – the political theatre of structured violence. Dissidents who ignored these limitations and engaged in non-consensual violence or who pushed fitnah to the brink of genuine internal warfare were themselves often liquidated, sometimes by their own fraternal associates or khushda¯shiyyah. By the same token, those in authority felt constrained, too, in their application of violence. Indeed, rulers who relied arbitrarily on coercive force (sayf) to impose their own political will were reviled by the elite as a whole. Tyranny was a weakness, ironically, not a strength in the formation of the early Mamluk state. Sultans, successful ones anyway, did not operate as Oriental despots. Rather they, along with other responsible patron-leaders among the umara¯ , acted as “gatekeepers,” empowered to use limited coercive measures only to preserve the proper organization and distribution of resources represented by notions of haqq and niza¯m. Those who overstepped their constitu˙ ˙ tional mandate were normally brought down efficiently through the relatively bloodless pronunciamiento, i. e., the collective withdrawl of support by the paramilitary elite, rather than the destructive and uncertain process of real civil war. This natural aversion to unconstrained violence was complemented in the Mamluk political system by the desire to rehabilitate dissidents and restore them as acceptable role partners. There were few “unpersons” in the early Mamluk state. Most participants in the structured conflict of fitnah suffered little, by and large, except temporary sanction on status and wealth; even rebellious patronleaders were rarely punished intentionally with death. Detention and confiscation were preferred as standard mechanisms of social control precisely

18

Introduction

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because they were revocable; they allowed a regime to counter a challenge without having to destroy the challengers themselves and, thus, provoke more serious unrestrained violence. The degree and manner in which dissidents broke the political rules ultimately determined the way in which they were punished, if at all. Concepts of forgiveness ( afu¯) and reconciliation (sulh) were crucial to the ˙ ˙ proper functioning of niza¯m, as crucial as the concept of benefit (ni mah). ˙ The principles and codes of sociopolitical behavior which characterized Mamluk elite culture can be seen as early as the reign of the first real ruler of Mamluk Syro-Egypt, al-Malik al-Za¯hir Baybars (1260 – 1277/658 – 676). Though ˙ scholars have long acknowledged Baybars as the “founder” of the Mamluk sultanate, they have not explained satisfactorily that foundation, affecting to see in his achievement only the perfection of despotic practices. Baybars in fact based the Mamluk state on principles of constitutional order or niza¯m. Con˙ scious of the failure of his predecessors to structure social power effectively during the 1250’s, Baybars realized that neither arbitrary force nor patronage were likely to lead to a stable consensus for his sultanate among the ethnically and regionally diverse Syro-Egyptian paramilitary elite. His solution was “machine” politics, to embed his authority in a widespread and reasonably equitable system of state patronage based on the principle of seniority. In addition to the practices of mass patronage, Baybars also practiced techniques of conflict resolution, negotiating with important aggrieved patron-leaders in order to terminate their ritualized disorders (fitan) before they reached the tipping point into real civil war. Most offenders experienced only the limited methods of social control – detention and confiscation; only against small, isolated challengers, whose treatment were unlikely to offend the collective sensibilities of the elite as a whole, was Baybars tempted to be repressive. The subsequent longevity and relative harmony of the reigns of Baybars’ two most important successors, Qala¯wu¯n, and Qala¯wu¯n’s son, al-Na¯sir Muhammad, ˙ ˙ were based largely on adherence to this pattern of constitutional order or niza¯m. ˙ Kitbugha¯, too, showed great skill for a time in restoring the niza¯m of the state in ˙ the aftermath of al-Ashraf Khalı¯l’s messy overthrow through the restoration of equitable patronage and techniques of conflict resolution. Though others of Baybars’ successors did not fully replicate his principles of rulership, the Mamluk elite itself continued to uphold Baybars’ legacy. Attempted deviations from niza¯m by rulers were almost universally opposed and punished by an elite ˙ increasingly conscious of its patrimonial rights or moral economy. Even the 1290’s and early 1300’s, often considered the hightide of Mamluk anarchy in the early period, witnessed a continuing commitment by the Mamluk umara¯ to the preservation of constitutional practices based on techniques of patronage, structured violence and conflict resolution. Rulers who were seen to deviate from these key principles of niza¯m – al-Ashraf Khalı¯l, La¯jı¯n, Baybars al-Ja¯sh˙ ˘

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Introduction

19

nakı¯r, finally even Kitbugha¯ – all succumbed ultimately to their perceived failure at gatekeeping. The way in which the Mamluks structured their social power can be seen mainly through the microsociology of symbolic interactionism and exchange, though the operation of these microprocesses was affected in turn by legitimating macrosocial considerations of moral economy and constitutional order. This reduced the cost of internal politics and discouraged fissionist tendencies within the Mamluk ruling elite which might have returned late medieval SyroEgypt to a pre-state condition. Like many polities in the modern developing world, the early Mamluk state was a “soft state” where, in the absence of formal regulatory institutions, both social indiscipline and mass corruption, in the form of patronage, were exploited to help preserve state structure. Whether medieval or modern, the process of state formation seems to generate similar structural profiles. The origins of the modern Egyptian state, for instance, have often been apprehended in the sociopolitical changes of the late eighteenth/ twelfth and early nineteenth/thirteenth centuries, for which the career of Muhammad Ali is often the shorthand. Yet, the structure of social power in modern post-Nasserist Egypt bears many similarities to the much earlier Classical Mamluk Syro-Egyptian state: the central importance of a ruling paramilitary elite and what is called its “embourgeoisement” as the main support of internal political stability ; the co-existence of charismatic patrimonial tendencies with constitutional ones; self-imposed limitations on the use of coercion by the ruler ; the toleration of limited political opposition; the lack of strong political institutions as bases of power ; the inability of powerful patron-leaders to mobilize the elite for political operations perceived as having little legitimacy ; the displacement of normative, ideological credentials of loyalty for ones based on clientelistic and kinship relations; the mediation of political competition through internal negotiation; the use of patronage and corruption as mechanisms of social control; even the extension of clientage relations downward as a link between the elite and the masses. In seeking the basic structural antecedents of the modern Egyptian state, then, one must look beyond the early nineteenth/ thirteenth century, back to the foundations of the early Mamluk state in the late thirteenth/seventh and early fourteenth/eighth centuries.

Chapter 2 – The Problemation of the Early Mamluk State “To the (Mamluk) historian, the (political) procedure was probably obvious, but not to us.” Sir John Glubb, Soldiers of Fortune: The Story of the Mamlukes “The ‘disorder’ of a jungle becomes a scientific order to the properly equipped biologist.” Robin M. Williams, Jr. “Some Further Comments on Chronic Controversies,” American Journal of Sociology 71 (1966)

Once viewed as little more than a post-colonial contrivance, the modern Arab state has finally begun to elicit attention as an authentic institution. To promote this organic notion certain scholars have recently begun to theorize about a macrostructure of the Arab state. The hallmark of this new thinking has been to deconstruct unflattering notions about Middle Eastern politics derived from nineteenth century Orientalist perspectives said to question the stability, rationality and integrity of indigenous sociopolitical structures.1 Implicit in this search for a theory of the modern Arab state is of course a search for the historic origin of state formation in the Islamic Middle East generally, though few theorists have as yet called for a serious integration of historical analysis into the study of the Arab state.2 Issues of state formation have been subsumed largely by social history, which has sought to champion the study of marginal social groups by minimizing the importance of ruling elites. E. Picard, for instance, has criticized the study of modern Arab military elites as reductionist.3 J. Tucker has gone so far as to suggest that the study of such elites 1 Beyond Coercion: The Durability of the Arab State, eds. Adeed Dawisha & I. William Zartman (London and New York: Croom Helm, 1988); The Arab State, ed. Giacomo Luciani (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1990); Theory, Politics and the Arab World: Critical Responses. ed. Hisham Sharabi (New York and London: Routledge, 1990). 2 Lisa Anderson, “Policy-Making and Theory Building: American Political Science and the Islamic Middle East,” in Theory, Politics and the Arab World: Critical Responses. ed. Hisham Sharabi (New York and London: Routledge, 1990),73 – 75. 3 Elizabeth Picard, “Arab Military Politics: From Revolutionary Plot to Authoritarian Regime,” in The Arab State. ed. Giacomo Luciani (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1990): 189 – 219.

22

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ultimately reveals little about the historic structure of Middle Eastern states; she seems especially perturbed by the close association of Egyptian history with the study of its own ruling military elites.4 Yet, as C. Enloe has observed, the study of state formation in the modern developing world has already begun to gravitate away from the notion of the nation-state and back toward the state itself, that is to say, toward the assumption that polities with coherent political structures can function in the absence of popular participation or even support. As a result, the core element of these statist polities – the military bureaucrat – has reemerged as an important element of social analysis. From an historical perspective Enloe has concluded that the study of these statist groups can now be considered “most fruitful,” since many of these polities have evolved over centuries and preserved both institutional and attitudinal legacies from pre-colonial state systems.5 Enloe’s observations resonate with important current thinking on the modern Arab state. H. Sharabi’s theory of “neopatriarchy”, for instance, accepts the deep and increasingly unbridgeable divide between nation and state in Arab society. Since the 1960’s the petty bourgeoisie have become opposed to what Sharabi calls the “modern sultanate”. The withering of genuine, ideology-driven multi party politics has led to “a sliding-back to new forms of the petty sultanate based, as in the past, on unrestricted personal power, but rendered virtually impregnable … by the modern apparatus of control now available to the state.” The failure of “modern etatist sultanism” to make effective use of its control over industry, finance and social services has led to the impoverishment and alienation of the masses.6 Yet, what are the statist origins of Sharabi’s “modern sultanate”? On the one hand, political scientists, who have traditionally endorsed the importance of paramilitary ruling elites in the formation of modern developing states, have had little to say about the historic origins of such groups and their social structures;7 4 Judith E. Tucker, “Taming the West: Trends in the Writing of Modern Arab Social History in Anglophone Academia,” in Theory, Politics and the Arab World: Critical Responses, ed. Hisham Sharabi (New York and London: Routledge, 1990), 204 – 05. 5 Cynthia H. Enloe, “Ethnicity in the Evolution of Asia’s Armed Bureaucracies,” in Ethnicity and the Military in Asia, ed. DeWitt C. Ellinwood and Cynthia H. Enloe (New Brunswick and London: Transaction Books, 1981): 1 – 17. See also, Bethwell A. Ogot, War and Society in Africa (London: F. Cass, 1972); Rene Lemarchand, “African Armies in Historical and Contemporary Perspectives: The Search for Connections,” Journal of Political and Military Sociology 4 (1976): 261 – 75. 6 Hisham Sharabi, Neopatriarchy : A Theory of Distorted Change in Arab Society (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), 59 – 60. This separation of nation from state can be seen in the analysis of the modern Iranian state as well, see Said Amir Arjomand, The Turban for the Crown: The Islamic Revolution in Iran (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), 198. 7 Amos Perlmutter, The Military and Politics in Modern Times (New Haven and London: Yale

The Problemation of the Early Mamluk State

23

this has of course been the case especially concerning Middle Eastern states.8 On the other hand, social historians, attempting to reify marginalized social groups, have overlooked the fact that marginalization is an issue which also affects elites. How such elites resolve issues of domination, submission, inequality, dissent, resistance and solidary among themselves in the process of state formation are essentially unknown, at least historically speaking. The failure of political scientists and social historians alike to provide a political sociology or anthropology of such historic paramilitary ruling elites in the Middle East constrains University Press. 1977); Morris Janowitz, Military Institutions and Coercion in the Developing Nations (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1964; expanded ed., 1977); Eric Nordlinger, Soldiers in Politics: The Military Coups and Governments (Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall, 1977); Sheldon W. Simon, ed., The Military and Security in the Third World: Domestic and International Impacts (Boulder : Westview Press, 1978); Claude E. Welch, ed., Soldier and State in Africa: A Comparative Analysis of Military Intervention and Political Change (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1970); Henry Bienen, ed., Armies and Parties in Africa (New York and London: Africana Publishing, 1978); Ruth First, Power in Africa: Political Power in Africa and the Coup d’Etat (Baltimore: Penguin, 1971); Roberta E. McKown, “Domestic Correlates of Military Intervention in African Politics,” in World Perspectives on the Sociology of the Military, eds. G. Kourvetaris & B. Dobratz (New York: Brunswick, 1977): 185 – 200; J.J. Johnson, ed., The Military and Society in Latin America (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1971); Mauricio Solaun & Michael A. Quinn, Sinners and Heretics: The Politics of Military Intervention in Latin America (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1973); Abraham Lowenthal. ed., Armies and Politics in Latin America (New York: Holmes and Meier, 1976); John Samuel Fitch, The Military Coup d’Etat as a Political Process: Ecuador, 1948 – 1966 (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1977); Alain Rouquie, The Military and the State in Latin America, trans. Paul E. Sigmund (Berkeley : University of California Press, 1987); Thomas E. Skidmore, The Politics of Military Rule in Brazil, 1964 – 1985 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988). 8 See, for instance, Anouar Abdel-Malek, Egypt: Military Society. The Army Regime, the Left and Social Change under Nasser (New York: Praeger, 1968); J.C. Hurewitz, Middle East Politics: The Military Dimension (New York: Praeger. 1969); Eliezer Be’eri, Army Officers in Arab Politics and Society (Jerusalem: Israel Universities Press, 1969); idem, “The Changing Role of the Military in Egyptian Polities,” in Military and State in Modern Asia, ed. Harold Z. Schiffrin (Jerusalem: Jerusalem Academic Press, 1976): 269 – 75; Fuad Khuri and Gerald Obermeyer, “The Social Base for Military Intervention in the Middle East” in Political-Military Systems: Comparative Perspectives, ed. Catherine McArdle Kelleher (Beverly Hills: Sage, 1974): 55 – 85; Amos Perlmutter, Egypt: The Praetorian State (New Brunswick: Transaction, 1974); H. Batatu, “Some Observations on the Social Roots of Syria’s Ruling Military Groups and the Cause for its Dominance,” Middle East Journal 35 (1981): 331 – 44; Moshe Ma’oz, “Alawi Military Officers in Syrian Politics, 1966 – 1974.” in Military and State in Modern Asia. ed. Harold Z. Schiffrin (Jerusalem: Jerusalem Academic Press, 1976): 277 – 97; Nikolaos van Dam, The Struggle for Power in Syria: Sectarianism. Regionalism and Tribalism in Politics, 1961 – 1978 (London: Croom Helm Ltd, 1979); I. Rabinovich, Syria under the Baath, 1963 – 6: The ArmyParty Symbiosis (Tel Aviv : Shiloach, 1982); A. Drysdale, “The Syrian Armed Forces in National Politics: The Role of Geographic and Ethnic Periphery,” in Soldiers, Peasants and Bureaucrats. eds. R. Kolkowicz and A. Korbonski (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1982): 52 – 76; Raymond A. Hinnebusch. Authoritarian Power and State Formation in Bathist Syria: Army, Party, and Peasants (Boulder and San Francisco: Westview, 1990).

24

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any meaningful analysis of the modern Arab state itself.9 Indeed, the late M. Janowitz, a leading sociologist of military institutions, singled out Middle East scholarship for particular criticism in this regard: Scholarship on Muslim military institutions has been mainly descriptive … Analytical and comparative studies have not been pursued with vigor or intensity since the intellectual ferment of comparative history and comparative sociology has been slow to manifest itself for this area, at least slower than for other areas of the world.10

One exception which Janowitz noted with some approval was the work of E. Be’eri, whose massive comparative sociology of the modern Arab officer corps remains a valuable introduction to the subject.11 Yet, typically, one issue with which Be’eri also struggled was the historic origin of the armed bureaucrat. The 9 Institutional studies of the medieval Byzantine military possess potential comparative value with modern Greek and Turkish militaries, see for instance Walter E. Kaegi Jr., “Patterns of Political Activity of the Armies of the Byzantine Empire,” in On Military intervention. ed. Morris Janowitz & Jacques van Doorn (Rotterdam: Rotterdam University Press, 1971): 5 – 35: idem, Byzantine Military Unrest, 471 – 843: An Interpretation (Amsterdam: Adolf M. Hakkert, 1981); John Haldon, Byzantine Praetorians: An Administrative, Institutional, Social Survey of the Opsikion and the Tagmata, C. 500 – 900 (Bonn: R. Habelt, 1984); Mark C. Bartusis, The Late Byzantine Army: Arms and Society, 1204 – 1453 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1992); G. A. Kourvetaris, “The Greek Army Officers Corps: Its Professionalism and Political Intervention,” in On Military Intervention, ed. Morris Janowitz and Jacques van Doorn (Rotterdam: Rotterdam University Press, 1971): 153 – 204; Dankwart A. Rustow, “The Army and the Founding of the Turkish Republic,” World Politics 11 (1959): 513 – 52; Walter F. Weiker, The Turkish Revolution. 1960 – 61. Aspects of Military Politics (Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institute, 1963); Nur Yalman, “Intervention and Extrication: The Officer Corps in the Turkish Crisis,” in The Military Intervenes: Case Studies in Political Development. ed. Henry Bienen (New York: Russell Sage Foundation, 1968): 127 – 44; G.S. Harris, “The Role of the Military in Turkish Politics,” Middle East Journal 19 (1965): 54 – 66; idem, “The Role of the Military in Turkey in the 1980’s: Guardians or Decision Makers,” in Democracy and the Military : Turkey in the 1980’s, eds. Metin Heper and Ahmet Evin (Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1988): 177 – 200; Serif Mardin, “Center-Periphery Relations: A Key to Turkish Politics?” Daedalus 102 (1973): 169 – 90; Frank Tachau and Metin Heper, “The State, Politics and the Military in Turkey,” Comparative Politics 10 (983): 17 – 33; Bener Karakartal, “Turkey : The Army as the Guardian of the Political Order,” in The Political Dilemmas of Military Regimes, eds. Christopher Clapham and George Philip (London and Sydney : Croom Helm, 1985): 46 – 63; Mehmet Ali Birand, Shirts of Steel: An Anatomy of the Turkish Armed Forces, trans. by Saliha Paker and Ruth Christie (London: Tauris, 1991); William Hale, Turkish Politics and the Military (London and New York: Routledge, 1994). 10 Morris Janowitz, “The Comparative Analysis of Middle Eastern Military Institutions,” in On Military Intervention, ed. Morris Janowitz and Jacques van Doorn (Rotterdam: Rotterdam University Press, 1971), 303. Recognition of the need to bring Middle Eastern studies into the social scientific mainstream has begun to make some headway, see recently, Robert Bianchi, Unruly Corporatism: Associational Life in Twentieth-Century Egypt (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989), 9 – 10. 11 Be’eri, Army Officers in Arab Politics and Society.

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25

problem was complicated by his own insistence that the modern Middle Eastern officer “is a new social type, a member of a new social group” and that, anyway, the concept of officer corps is “a product of the nineteenth century”. However, using as a framework the influential theoretical study of the political scientist S. Huntington on the civil-military relationship, Be’eri believed that he saw “important precedents” for the modern Arab state in late medieval Mamluk SyroEgypt. The Mamluks, Be’eri decided, fit pretty well Huntington’s criteria for a professional officer corps, and he concluded: The influence of previous patterns and relationships is always the source of conscious or unconscious imitation … knowledge of it (the Mamluk elite) is essential for understanding the social grouping and development of the contemporary Arab army officer corps.12

Be’eri, however, did not himself attempt to articulate a political sociology of the Mamluks, deferring apparently to his colleague, D. Ayalon, the founder of modern Mamluk studies. Yet, Ayalon as early as 1953 seems to have attempted to close off discussion on the usefulness of just such inquiry into the structure and dynamic of sociopolitics in the Syro-Egyptian Mamluk state: … coalitions and combinations of forces, of which Mamluk historiography records many instances … were generally of the most temporary nature, and the stability of each sultan’s rule was to a large extent dependent on his ability to take full advantage of the rivalry among the various units. A detailed presentation of the vast material supplied on this type by Mamluk sources is of no special interest.13

Mamluk specialists have since raised little objection to Ayalon’s judgment.14 Yet, Ayalon’s treatment of Mamluk sociopolitics clearly falls into the category specifically criticized by Janowitz as merely “descriptive.”15 To be fair, however, few scholars have displayed much sensitivity toward an analytical approach to the study of pre-modern Middle Eastern elites.16 Certainly what little analysis that 12 Samuel P. Huntington. The Soldier and the State: The Theory and Politics of Civil-Military Relations (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1957); Be’eri. Army Officers in Arab Politics and Society, 296 – 99. 13 David Ayalon. “Studies on the Structure of the Mamluk Army (1).” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 15 (1953), 218. 14 Boaz Shoshan, “Grain Riots and the ‘Moral Economy’: Cairo, 1350 – 1517,” Journal of Interdisciplinary History 10 (1980), 462. n. 7. 15 Ayalon, “Studies on the Structure of the Mamluk Army (1),” 205, speaks himself in terms of the value of the “description of political strife” as “one of the pivotal points of Mamluk historiography.” 16 Some exceptions are: Richard W. Bulliett, Patricians of Nishapur : A Study in Medieval Islamic Social History (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1972); Roy Mottahedeh, Loyalty and Leadership in an Early Islamic Society (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980); Ira M. Lapidus, Muslim Cities in the Later Middle Ages (Cambridge: Harvard Uni-

26

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has occurred has failed as yet to shed much light on the Mamluk case.17 This has not inhibited some, however, from trying to treat the mamlu¯k phenomenon authoritatively ; E. Gellner has even adduced a mamlu¯k typology, his so-called “mamluk solution,” to the problem of tribalism and state formation in the premodern Middle East. Though his notions are stimulating it is premature to evaluate a system without understanding much about its actual internal historical structure and dynamic.18 Of the Mamluks themselves we continue on the whole to embrace a highly negative stereotype, though one carefully fabricated over many centuries. The Mamluk elite has been heir to an historic, especially anti-Turkish sentiment in Egypt and elsewhere in the central Islamic lands stretching back at least to the early tenth/fourth century.19 This negative sentiment was impressed on Western consciousness particularly in the aftermath of Napoleon Bonaparte’s invasion and occupation of Syro-Egypt. Directory France, to whom the Mamluk elite appeared as little more than a local chapter of the ancien regime, viewed the Mamluks as violent, unprincipled and ultimately incapable of enlightened rule, though their negative perspective was undoubtedly coloured by Mamluk resistance to expanded French commercial activity in the Levant.20 The Mamluk stereotype, unfortunately, has changed little since the end of the eighteenth/twelfth century. Gamal Abdel Nasser, who himself finished off the vestigial Mamluk state in 1952, revived for modern mass consumption the hysterical vilification of the Mamluks. In his main revolutionary text, Falsafat althawrah, Nasser denounced the Mamluks as wild, predatory beasts gratifying their rapacious whims in a senseless orgy of destruction and mayhem. They were culpable, he charged, of nothing less than the systemic social, political, economic and even moral devolution of Egypt.21 Though few are prepared to embrace such extreme Nasserite views any longer, modern scholarship has been unable to resist altogether the continuing gratuitous appeal of the negative Mamluk image.

17

18 19 20 21

versity Press, 1967; reprint. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984); Carl F. Petry, The Civilian Elite of Cairo in the Later Middle Ages (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981). See for instance, Stanislav Andreski, Military Organization and Society (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1971), 155; Stephen H. Balch, “The Neutered Civil Servant: Eunuchs, Celibates, Abductees and the Maintenance of Organizational Loyalty,” Journal of Social and Biological Structures 8 (1985), 322. Ernest Gellner, “Tribalism and the State in the Middle East,” in Tribes and State Formation in the Middle East, eds. Philip S. Khoury and Joseph Kostiner (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. 1990): 109 – 26. Ulrich W. Haarmann. “Ideology and History, ldentity and Alterity : The Arab Image of the Turk from the ‘Abbasids to Modern Egypt,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 20 (1988): 175 – 96. J. Christopher Herold, Bonaparte in Egypt (New York and Evanston: Harper and Row, 1962). Gamel Abdel Nasser, Falsafat al-thawrah (Cairo: Maslahat al-Isti’la¯ma¯t. 1966), 37 – 39. ˙ ˙

The Problemation of the Early Mamluk State

27

R. Hinnebusch, for instance, in his recent assessment of modern Syrian politics believes that the Syrian military, whatever its faults, at least possesses the singular virtue of not being “simply some new Mamluk class.”22 Clearly the prejudicial Mamluk stereotype has been not only a useable but even welcome rhetorical device, serving colonialists and anti-colonialists, foreign scholars and indigenous politicians alike. As a consequence of this historic objection to Mamluks, we have come to derive an equally negative image of the Classical Mamluk state (1250 – 1517/648 – 922) itself. Scholars remain largely satisfied with the concept of the late medieval Syro-Egyptian state as an amorphous polity where the natural tide of anarchy could be contained only periodically by the imposition of raw Oriental despotism; driving this chaos, it is felt, was the gratuitous violence practiced by alien militarists steeped in the atavistic traditions of the Eurasian steppe. Yet, such casual appeal to the blind inner compulsions of men driven by jungle law seems prima facie much too simplistic an evaluation of the Mamluk state. Indeed, scholars in other historical fields have already rejected such uncritical, stock interpretations. Asian historians, for instance, have begun to illuminate the once dark structural corners of social action among Far Eastern military ruling elites by appealing to a “new logic” for interpretating seemingly wanton violence and disorder. In so doing, they have helped to make their respective periods more intelligible as a whole. In the study of Muromachi Japan, itself coeval with Mamluk Syro-Egypt, J. W. Hall, has concluded: We have come a long way toward a better understanding of the politics of the Muromachi period. What was once a barely credible history of erratic and arbitrary acts by power-hungry rulers or of unprincipled treachery by ‘turncoat’ vassals now takes on new logic and meaning when interpreted in terms of conflicting power structures and clashing political interests at the national and local levels. Above all, we are brought to a realization that the Muromachi bakufu did not exist in a vacuum23

The modern Chinese historian, H. Ch’i, has remarked similarly about late Imperial China: We will demonstrate that politics in the 1916 – 28 period is not nearly as hopelessly confusing as has been generally assumed. The militarists were quite shrewd and calculating, and they followed rules in dealing with each other. Once their rules and norms are deciphered, it is easier to comprehend their political behavior.24 22 Hinnebusch, Authoritarian Power and State Formation in Ba’thist Syria, 311. 23 John W. Hall, “The Muromachi Power Structure,” in Japan in the Muromachi Age, ed. John Whimey Hall and Toyoda Takeshi (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1977), 39. 24 Hsi-sheng Ch’i, Warlord Politics in China, 1916 – 1928 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1976), 9.

28

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Even in Mamluk studies itself one can begin to detect a budding uneasiness about the facile denigration of the Mamluks. R. Irwin’s survey of the Bahrı¯ ˙ period, for instance, has questioned intuitively certain aspects of the conventional Mamluk stereotype.25 J. Berkey, sounding the spiritual and educational depths of the Mamluk elite, has even called for a “revision” of the image of the Mamluks, at least as cultural and intellectual boors.26 Such revisionist challenges have sometimes lead historians to structure evidence in new ways.27 Yet, on the whole there seems to be little dedication to an explicit dialectic of evidence and theory such as that promoted, for instance, in historical sociology or anthropological archaeology.28 Deciphering the grammar of social systems, particularly defunct ones, clearly requires more than the philological, historiographical and narrative techniques typical of traditional scholarship. Twenty years ago a revolution in archaeological thinking taught that those who deal with the past ultimately can have little direct knowledge of it, and that nothing can be understood except through a process of inference. Social archaeology has enshrined this lesson in its desire not merely to reconstruct chronology but to infer underlying patterns and basic principles of social action, not only in the absence of naive historical testimony but often amidst its plenitude.29 There is, moreover, an increasing expectation within the social sciences 25 Robert Irwin, The Middle East in the Middle Ages: The Early Mamluk Sultanate, 1250 – 1382 (Carbondale and Edwardsville: Southern Illinois University Press, 1986), 153 – 56. 26 Jonathan Berkey, The Transmission of Knowledge in Medieval Cairo: A Social History of 1slamic Education (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992), 146. 27 See, for instances, Sir Lewis Namier, The Structure of Politics at the Accession of George III (London: Macmillan, 1929); Lilly Ross Taylor, Party Politics in the Age of Caesar (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1949); Robert R. Harding, Anatomy of a Power Elite: The Provincial Governors of Early Modern France (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1978); K.J. Leyser, Rule and Conflict in an Early Medieval Society : Ottonian Saxony (Bloomington: Indiana University Press. 1979); Nancy Shields Kollmann, Kinship and Politics: The Making of the Muscovite Political System, 1345 – 1547 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1986); Sharon Kettering, Patrons, Brokers and Clients in SeventeenthCentury France (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986); David F. Epstein. Personal Enmity in Roman Politics, 218 – 43B.C. (New York: Croom Helm, 1987). 28 Philip Abrams, Historical Sociology (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1982), 316: see also the historiographic review in Vision and Method in Historical Sociology, ed. Theda Skocpol (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984). 29 See, for instance, Lewis R. Binford, An Archaeological Perspective (New York: Academic Press, 1972); Colin Renfrew, The Emergence of Civilization: The Cyclades and the Aegean in the Third Millennium B.C. (London: Metheun, 1972); D.L. Clarke, ed., Models in Archaeology (London: Metheun, 1972); Cohn Renfrew, ed., The Explanation of Culture: Models in Prehistory (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1973); Charles Redman, ed., Research and Theory in Current Archaeology (New York: Wiley, 1973); R. Cohen and E.R. Service, eds., Origins of The State: The Anthropology of Political Evolution (Philadelphia: Institute for the Study of Human Issues, 1978); Jonathan Haas, The Evolution 0/ the Prehistoric State (New York: Columbia University Press, 1982); Colin Renfrew, Approaches to Social Archaeology

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29

generally that research results must begin to be consolidated into broader structural insights and even paradigms. This has become almost unavoidable under the impact of T.S. Kuhn and others on the epistemology of scientific inquiry, in which data description is argued to be theory-dependent as well as socially structured.30 Any revisionism of Mamluk history depends, certainly, on a “new logic” for deriving a more satisfactory interpretation of the formation of the late medieval Syro-Egypt state from what is seen as an historical record of arbitrary violence and anarchy. For only by rationalizing the phenomenon of disorder among the Mamluks themselves can one begin to address the central paradox of Mamluk history – how could a polity in the grip of chronic anarchy have maintained itself for almost three centuries as the most powerful and unitary of the post-Classical ‘Abbasid states? Were the Mamluks in fact trapped in a compulsive cycle of violent zero-sum competition which only miraculously failed to dissolve the Mamluk state until 1517/922? Or can their social conflict be characterized as a kind of dynamic equilibrium which actually helped to preserve the state over time? The purpose of this dissertation is to resolve this paradox by demonstrating that the early Mamluks created, in fact, a coherent sociopolitical process structured precisely to avoid the natural disintegrative effects of unrestrained competition for state resources. The formation of the Mamluk state began when the Mamluk amirs and their retinues organized themselves as a ruling elite able to reduce the cost of their politics to a degree which did not threaten the integrity of the sultanate. Only by understanding how internal social tensions were managed within the ruling elite itself is it possible to comprehend how the Mamluk state avoided fissioning into a pre-state condition during the first century of its existence. The operation of this interactive dynamic equilibrium can be best comprehended through a systems analysis of sociopolitical behavior in which macrostructural constraints are seen as both affecting and being affected by the microstructural dynamic of social conflict and its resolution. This microsociology of conflict can be grasped, in turn, through an understanding of symbolic interactionism and exchange theory.

(Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1984); Michael Shanks and Christopher Tilly, Social Theory and Archaeology (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico, 1987). 30 Thomas S. Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968); Anthony Giddens, New Rules of Sociological Method (London: Hutebinson, 1976); Barry Barnes, T.S. Kuhn and Social Science (New York: Columbia University Press, 1982); Ju¯rgen Habermas, The Theory of Communicative Action: Reason and Rationality of Society, trans. Thomas McCarthy (Boston: Beacon Press, 1984): H.M. Collins. Changing Order: Replication and Induction in Scientific Practice (Beverly Hills: Sage, 1985).

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The Microstructure of Social Conflict The Classical Mamluk state might well be called in modern parlance a conflictoriented society. Understanding how such societies cohere internally has been a difficult proposition to tackle systematically until fairly recently, though some have long seen in the study of social conflict a “pathway toward a significant convergence in social analysis” and even an “empirical and conceptual framework for interdisciplinary communication.”31 However, since at least A. L. Kroeber’s concept of the “superorganic” early in this century, social science has relied on the notion of a non-individualizing culture free of behavioral laws to interpret social behavior.32 One result of this has been the perpetuation, primarily through structural-functionalism, of the notion of the completely voluntaristic collectivized society and the corresponding minimization of the empirical, everyday phenomena of social conflict. In perhaps the ne plus ultra of modern functionalist thought, The Social System, T. Parsons attempted to establish the systemic integration of pure valueorientation as “the fundamental dynamic theorem” of human social action. That is, social action was motivated by an automatic, collective and voluntary adherence to moral valuations which could be learned, shared and transmitted unchanged from one generation to the next; this was opposed to any notion of pragmatism, self-reflectivity or utility. Though Parsons did acknowledge ultimately the practical fallibility of value-orientation, he continued to downplay the normality of social conflict, referring to it merely as “deviant behavior.” Deviant motivation was an aberration which automatically (and rather mysteriously) set in motion counter-balancing mechanisms of social control which maintained social equilibrium according to what he visualized as “our ‘law of inertia’ of social process.” Parsons saw the institutionalization of social norms as a servomechanism which would inhibit social conflict before it could “become seriously threatening to the stability of the social system.” Yet, Parsons could neither specify what those limitations might be nor their impact on perhaps that most important category of all social action – politics.33 Moreover, the idea of constant social equilibrium maintained by a ubiquitously shared code of morality minimized the importance of reciprocity on social action.34 Parsons, typically, 31 William Barth and Robert Hefner, “Approaches to the Study of Social Conflict,” Journal of Conflict Resolution 1 (1957), 106. 32 A. L. Kroeber, “The Superorganic,” American Anthropologist 19 (1917): 163 – 213. 33 Talcott Parsons, The Social System (New York: The Free Press, 1951), 249 – 70, 481 – 82. 34 The concept of reciprocity has its origin not in the social but the natural sciences, in the study particularly of the biological foundations of social behavior, vertebrate and invertebrate alike, known as sociobiology. One of the social traits which sociobiology has determined most identifiable in the human biogram is exchange, particularly high-order reciprocal

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degraded such exchange as a “‘secondary’ product of the socialization process,” too generalized to be a direct motive of social action.35 Indeed, to him the issue of exchange, like that of conflict, was an “empirical” problem anyway, ill-suited to the formation of a general sociological theory. Functionalism has been weak, therefore, in accounting for variations in reciprocal exchange, particularly in the extreme case – the exploitation of differing degrees of relative political power. Indeed, in his own introduction to The Social System Parsons admitted that his inability to model these very “processes of economic exchange and of the organization of political power” was an important shortcoming in his purely valueoriented analysis of the collective control of social behavior.36 Of course, the original intent of Parsons’ general theory was to demonstrate how social practices maintained stability rather than threatened change. Since the heyday of Parsonian functionalism a half century ago social scientists have come increasingly to reject Parsons’ concept of emergence – the natural quality of idealized collective control of society. Instead they have taken up analyses which key on processes of change and the interrelationship of power and values to such empirical realities as domination, inequality, dissent and marginality. This shift, curiously enough, began with Parsons himself, in collaboration with his colleague, N. Smelser. In accounting for institutional development, still within the structural-functionalist context, Parsons and Smelser recognized the reality of social conflict in the form of “instability.” The development of inaltruism, which is the keystone to that unique of all human institutions – an economy. Indeed, the concepts of sociobiology have resonated powerfully among economists seeking to study nonmarket institutions and relationships and to factor social interaction into utility theory, though on the basis of rationality rather than genetic selection. Additionally, sociobiology has begun to impact political theory directly with new insights into the role of agonistic behavior and the primal structure of authority, see generally Edwin O. Wilson, Sociobiology : The New Synthesis (Cambridge: Belknap Press, 1975), 4, 275; R.L. Trivers, “The Evolution of Reciprocal Altruism,” Quarterly Review of Biology 46 (1971): 35 – 57; Gary Becker,“A Theory of Social Interactions.” Journal of Political Economy 82 (1974): 1063 – 91; idem, “Altruism, Egoism and Genetic Fitness: Economics and Sociobiology,” Journal of Economic Literature 14 (1976): 817 – 26; Richard A. Posner, “Anthropology and Economies,” Journal of Political Economy 88 (1980): 608 – 16; Oliver E. Williamson, “The Economics of Organization: The Transaction Cost Approach,” American Journal of Sociology 87 (1981): 548 – 77: Roben A. Pollack, “A Transaction Cost Approach to Families and Households,” Journal of Economic Literature 23 (1985): 581 – 607, Fred H. Willhoite, Jr. “Primates and Political Authority : A Biobehavioral Perspective,” American Political Science Review 70 (1976): 1110 – 26; Albert Somit, ed., Biology and Politics: Recent Explorations (Hague: Mouton, 1976); Steven A. Peterson, “Biopolitics: Lessons from History,” Journal of the History of the Behavioral Sciences 12 (1978): 354 – 66; Thomas C. Wiegele Biopolitics: Search for a More Human Political Science (Boulder : Westview, 1979); J. van der Dennen and V. Falger, eds., Sociobiology and Conflict: Evolutionary Perspectives on Competition, Cooperation, Violence and Warfare (New York: Chapman & Hall, 1990). 35 Parsons, The Social System, 243 – 48. 36 Ibid., vii.

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stitutions over decades, they acknowledged, disrupted processes of collective value-integration. Their colleague, S.N. Eisenstadt, extrapolated from this model of decadal institutional stability/instability/stability to characterize entire political systems over centuries. Indeed, various other constructs such as “structured predispositions,” “civilizing process,” “‘proactive’ collective action practices,” “situated practices,” and “reconcentation of authority” all acknowledge that social conflict is potentially more important in shaping social action than Parsons had originally allowed.37 Social theory today is, of course, more than just the routine denial of Parsons’ idealized vision of the totally socialized individual. Indeed, social theorists now stand at something of an intellectual crossroads regarding the importance of human agency in the replication or alteration of sociocultural systems. While recognizing the dogmatic overemphasis placed by macrosociologists like Parsons on structural limits to human behavior, social theorists have not entirely eschewed the functionalist notion that social structure can still affect human agency in some way. Indeed, some social theorists have seized the opportunity to rehabilitate Parsonian functionalism itself;38 even S. M. Lipset, an early advocate of the study of institutionalized political conflict, has tried to reclaim Parsons to some degree by maintaining that he was not blind to the existence of social conflict but merely “took disorder – conflict – for granted.”39 Yet, even defenders of Parsonian functionalism have come to recognize the necessity of in37 Talcott Parsons and Neil Smelser. Economy and Society : A Study in the Integration of Economic and Social Theory (London: Routledge, 1956); S.N. Eisenstadt, The Political Systems of Empires (New York: Free Press, 1963); Seymour M. Lipset, The First New Nation: The United States in Comparative and Historical Perspective (London: Heinemann, 1963); R. Bendix, Nation-Building and Citizenship: Studies of Our Changing Social Order (New York: Wiley, 1964); Marc Bloch. Feudal Society (London: Routledge, 1961); Norbert Elias, The Civilizing Process. Vol. 2: State Formation and Civilization (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1982); Antony Giddens, The Nation-State and Violence. Volume Two of a Contemporary Critique of Historical Materialism Cambridge: Polity Press, 1989); W.G. Runciman, A Treatise on Social Theory. Volume Two: Substantive Social Theory (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989): Charles Tilly, Coercion, Capital and European States A.D. 990 – 1990 (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1990). 38 See for instances, J.H. Turner and L. Beeghley, “Current Folklore in the Criticism of Parsonian Action Theory,” Sociological Inquiry 4 (1974): 47 – 55; E.A. Tiryakian, “Post-Parsonian Sociology.” Humboldt Journal of Social Relations 7 (1979 – 80): 17 – 32; W. Buxton. Parsonian Theory in Historical Perspective (Fredericton: University of New Brunswick, 1982); J.C. Alexander, “The Parsons Revival in German Sociological Theory.” Sociological Theory 2 (184): 394 – 412; idem. Neofunctionalism (Beverly Hills: Sage, 1985); D. Sciulli and D. Gerstein, “Social Theory and Talcott Parsons in the 1980’s.” Annual Review of Sociology 11 (1985): 369 – 87. 39 Seymour Martin Lipset, Consensus and Conflict: Essays in Political Sociology (New Brunswick and London: Transaction Publishers, 1990),4; see also, Thomas J. Bernard, The Consensus-Conflict Debate: Form and Content in Social Theories (New York: Columbia University Press, 1983), 167.

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corporating the concept of interactive dynamic change into the theorem of social action. R. Münch, for instance, has called for a “cross-fertilization” and “synthesis” of traditional binary theories of change vs. stasis; system vs. action; individual vs. collective; conflict vs. consensus.40 Indeed, the integration of these macrosocial and microsocial concepts has emerged as the newest mandate in social theory – revealing the so-called “macro-micro link.” The search for theoretical redirection through the “macro-micro link” has underscored recently the importance of the microsociology of human agency. That is to say, the individual plays a crucial role as a dynamic agent of potential social change. Some have labelled the trend away from attention to macrostructural concepts “regressive,” warning of a renewed ‘“dichotomization” of social theory.41 Yet, the study of microsociological structures, processes and motivations seems vital to understanding the phenomenon of historic social conflict especially. These microfoundations may be the only practical way, ultimately, of discerning macrostructure in conflict-oriented societies lacking, as historic states often do, formal regulatory institutions. For such “soft” states, R. Collins’s suggestion that “macrostructure” is largely “the repeated experiences of large numbers of persons in time and space” may be more insightful than many theorists like to imagine.42 Indeed, for such societies experience may have largely been structure. The revival of the importance of agency and dynamic interaction among individuals can be seen currently in a variety of social theories. Ethnomethodology, for instance, has stressed the importance of human actors evaluating each other’s intentions and motivations in individual situations, revising their social practices to conform to the dynamics of their social reality ; social norms, therefore, are not internalized to the exclusion of necessary practical change. Structuration theory has also advanced the notion that human actors can affect the pattern of their social practices to transform their own historical circumstances; change, thus, is inherent in every social act. As A. Giddens, has observed: “To be a human being is to be an agent … and to be an agent is to have power…the capability to intervene in a given set of events so as in some way to alter them.” Even modernist critical theory, a manifestation of the historical 40 Richard Mu¯nch, “Parsonian Theory Today : The Search for a New Synthesis,” in Social Theory Today, eds. Anthony Giddens and Jonathan Turner (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1987), 116 – 55. 41 Jeffrey C. Alexander and Bernhard Giesen, “From Reduction to Linkage: The Long View of the Micro-Macro Debate.” in The Micro-Macro Link, eds. Jeffrey C. Alexander and Bernhard Giesen (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1987), 26. 42 Randall Collins, “lnteraction Ritual Chains, Power and Property : The Micro-Macro Connection as an Empirically Based Theoretical Problem,” in The Micro-Macro Link, eds. Jeffrey C. Alexander and Bernhard Giesen (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1987), 195 – 96.

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materialism associated with J. Habermas and the Frankfurt School, has focused on the new contingent, self-referential individual rather than the old immutable proletariat as the addressee of revolutionary theory.43 The first and best inquiry into the agency of the self-reflective individual can be traced back, however, to the Chicago School of symbolic interactionism.44 Over the last century there have been of course differing interpretations of symbolic interactionism at Chicago based principally on differing interpretations of the ideas of the social psychologist, G.H. Mead. On the whole, 43 Alexander and Giesen, “From Reduction to Linkage;” John C. Heritage, “Ethnomethodology,” in Social Theory Today, eds. Anthony Giddens and Jonathan Turner (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1987): 224 – 72; Ira J. Cohen, “Structuration Theory and Social Praxis.” in Social Theory Today, eds. Anthony Giddens and Jonathan Turner (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1987): 273 – 308: Jeffrey C. Alexander, Action and its Environments: Toward a New Synthesis (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988); idem. Structure and Meaning: Relinking Classical Sociology (New York: Columbia University Press, 1989); Tom Rockmore, Habermas on Historical Materialism (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1989); Stephen T. Leonard, Critical Theory in Political Practice (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990),36 – 53: Giddens, The Nation-State and Violence, 7. 44 Many of the concepts of social nominalism, against which Parson’ s work was a direct reaction, were first applied to the study of social action by the Chicago School of sociology. Without reviewing the long intellectual history of the nominalist/realist split in Western thought, one can observe that social nominalism has stressed the role of the individual and his utilitarian actions within the essentially competitive processes of social organization; little credence is placed, correspondingly, in the power of ideology to guarantee collective social harmony. The nominalist social psychology associated with theorists such as Dewey, Mead, Thomas, Ellwood, and Cooley attempted to stress the non-deterministic, individualistic and opportunistic nature of human motivational impulses. Men were not programmed by unreasoning inner compulsions to behave altruistically. At best society merely set general conditions for individual actions; men had great latitude, then, to manipulate these situations to suit themselves. Human ecology studies at the University of Chicago also attempted to integrate the processes of Darwinian competition and conflict into a cycle of social change within human groups, typically in urban settings. By studying such things as working families, ethnic minorities, social clubs and gangs University of Chicago social scientists revealed that there could be ultimately no social organization without a reciprocating process of disorganization, no equilibrium without disequilibrium, see for instance, Charles A. Ellwood, Some Prolegomena to Social Psychology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press. 1901); Robert E. Park, “Human Ecology,” American Journal of Sociology 42 (1936): 1 – 15; idem and Ernest W. Burgess, Introduction to the Science of Sociology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1921); John Dewey, Human Nature and Conduct: An Introduction to Social Psychology (New York: Henry Holt and Co., 1922); Charles H. Johnson et al., The Negro In Chicago: A Study of Race Relations and a Race Riot (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1922); Frederick M. Thrasher, The Gang: A Study of 1.313 Gangs in Chicago (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1927); Louis Wirth, The Ghetto (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1928); Clifford R. Shaw et al., Delinquency Areas (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1929); Robert E.L. Faris. Social Disorganization (New York: Ronald Press, 1948); W. I. Thomas, Social Behavior and Personality (New York: Social Science Research Council 1951); C. H. Cooley, Human Nature and the Social Order (New York: Schocken Books, 1964).

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however, interactionists agree that the dynamic of social interaction can exceed the normative structural dimensions of social organization and becomes, therefore, a source of change for the social system itself. Since man is a proactive rather than passive creature, human behavior is necessarily dynamic – in constant process or change rather than constant equilibrium. While man is capable of learning cultural elements he is also able to invent and innovate new forms of behavior as necessary. Culture is in effect a set of shared symbols whose meaning is worked out through the experimental process of social interaction, though this symbolic environment can be internalized to such a degree that social action becomes constrained. Nevertheless, though such interaction may become patterned, it is ultimately susceptible to change since it must be recreated and reenacted voluntarily each time by the social actors themselves. Yet, change does not mean for the symbolic interactionist the absence of order. It signals rather that society is a negotiated order where structures are largely worked out through the symbolic interaction of individual and group dynamics. Normative social values are generally too vague or abstract to serve as an organizational dynamic. Instead social organization is the result of shared agreements, which are hammered out, reconstituted and repeated through a process of negotiation. This interaction may be between solitary individuals but also sets of individuals or teams. Idealized rules of behavior are neither very explicit nor binding; they are used (misused) through the negotiating process to achieve specific individual goals, collective interests or sometimes just a working consensus. Negotiation, it is worth noting, involves the symbolism of threat as well as reciprocal exchange.45 45 Herbert Blumer, “Society as Symbolic Interaction,” in Human Behavior and Social Processes, ed. A. Rose (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1962): 179 – 92; idem, Symbolic Interaction: Perspective and Method (Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall, 1969); R. Bucher and J. Stelling. “Characteristics of Professional Organizations,” Journal of Health and Social Behavior 10 (1969): 3 – 15; E. Goffman, Interaction Ritual: Essays on Face-to-Face Behavior (Garden City : Anchor Press, 1967); idem, Strategic Interaction (New York: Ballantine Press, 1972); idem, Frame Analysis: An Essay on the Organization of Experience (New York: Harper Colophon, 1974); idem, “The Interaction Order,”American Sociological Review 48 (1983): 1 – 17; T.P. Wilson, “Concepts of Interaction and Forms of Sociological Explanation,” American Sociological Review 35 (1970): 697 – 710; G. Stone and H. Faberman, Social Psychology through Symbolic Interaction (Waltham: Xerox College Publishing, 1970; reprinted New York: John Wiley and Sons, 1981); Peter M. Hall. “A Symbolic Interactionist Analysis of Politics,” Sociological Inquiry 42 (1972): 35 – 75; Rosabeth Moss Kanter, “Symbolic Interactionism and Politics in Systemic Perspective.” Sociological Inquiry 42 (1972): 77 – 92; R. Lauer and W. Handel, Social Psychology : The Theory and Application of Symbolic Interactionism (Boston: P.H., 1977); D. Maines, “Social Organization and Social Structure in Symbolic Interactionist Thought,” Annual Review of Sociology 3 (1977): 235 – 59; Anselm Strauss, Negotiations: Varieties, Contexts, Processes, and Social Order (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass. 1979); S. Stryker, Symbolic Interactionism: A Social Structural Vision (Menloe Park: Benjamin Cummings, 1980); G.A. Fine. “Negotiated Orders and Organizational Cultures,” Annual Review of So-

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This dynamic concept of negotiation can be used to bring the microsociology of the interactionist Chicago School into line with perhaps the most utilitarian, some might say behaviorist, microsocial critique of the Parsonian notion of idealized collective control – exchange theory. Exchange theorists, though not unmindful of value consensus, have tried to look beyond the passive constraints of perfectly internalized value-orientations to recognize some of the practical, indeed, utilitarian assumptions of social action.46 Exchange theorists see the mutual gratification derived from reciprocal exchange, especially between unequals, rather than abstract and absolute concepts of morality which forms the core of group solidarity.47 Power itself is a reciprocal but unbalanced relation, which develops principally through exchange. Essentially, power is a product of exchange, a function of the unpredictability of other social actors’ behavior.48 Indeed, such exchange can make an equitable positive-sum game of the political process, encouraging the collective adoption of a constitutional system as the best protection for universal economic rights.49 Exchange theory is an important component of a political sociology since, as S.R. Waldman has observed, it helps reveal the “incentive structures” which support the system; it also explains why certain political behavior is likely to be replicated by actors.50 Certainly anthropologists and political sociologists have long recognized the importance of exchange in the formation of political relations. Political sociologists have extrapolated from the anthropologists’ dyadic, i. e., two-person, relationship to the larger setting of the group.51 The phenomenon of large-scale,

46

47 48 49 50 51

ciology 10 (1984): 239 – 62; idem and S. Kleinman, “Network and Meaning: An Interactionist Approach to Structure,” Studies in Symbolic Interaction 6 (1983): 97 – 110; Tamotsu Shibutani, Society and Personality (Engelwood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall, 1961); idem, Social Processes: An Introduction to Sociology (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1986); Hans Joas, “Symbolic Interactionism,” in Social Theory Today, eds. Anthony Giddens and Jonathan Turner (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1987): 82 – 115. The contribution to social exchange theory by French sociologists such as Levi-Strauss and Mauss remains influenced by Positivism. French “collectivist theory” rejects the idea that social exchange is derivative of economic exchange (and ultimately natural law), suggesting instead that social exchange helps form the social norms and codes of moral conduct for society, which in turn determines economic relationships, see, for instance, Peter P. Ekeh, Social Exchange Theory : The Two Traditions (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1974), 37 – 60. R.D. Jessop, “Exchange and Power in Structural Analysis,” Sociological Review 17 (1969): 415 – 37; Michael Hechter, Principles of Group Solidarity (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1987). Crozier and Friedberg, Actors and Systems, 30 ff. James M. Buchanan and Gordon Tullock, The Calculus of Consent: Logical Foundation of Constitutional Democracy (Ann Arbor : University of Michigan Press, 1962). Sidney R. Waldman, “Exchange Theory and Political Analysis,” Sociological Inquiry 42 (1972): 101 – 28. Luigi Graziano, “A Conceptual Framework for the Study of Clientelistic Behavior,” European Journal of Political Research 4 (1976), 156; see also, S.N. Eisenstadt and Louis Roniger,

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collective exchange has been employed particularly to interpret societies which have expressed their social action in terms of clientelist structures, patron-client networks and factions.52 As L. Graziano has observed, exchange theory “makes it possible … to study clientelism as exchange based on asymmetry of power.”53 Indeed, so important an heuristic device has clientelism become that it has been hailed as the “missing link” of modern sociopolitical analysis.54 Though patron-client networks have been studied mostly in terms of modern developing societies, social scientists have also detected important historical application for clientelistic structures, especially in “tracing the historical transition from feudal to class politics;” historians, by comparison, have seemed little attuned to such models.55 Indeed, S. Kettering, who possesses among modern historians perhaps the most highly developed appreciation for the interrelationship of exchange and historic state formation, has pleaded recently that: “More inquiries by historians are needed into the effects of clientelism on fundamental social processes, such as integration and fragmentation.”56 The microsociology of clientelistic practices, as revealed through exchange and symbolic interaction theory, provides much of the explanation for what social scientists refer to as a theory of social conflict, its management and its resolution.57 Drawing ultimately on the Sorelian notion of violence as non-verbal

52

53 54

55 56 57

“Patron-Client Relations as a Model of Structuring Social Exchange,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 22 (1980), 42 – 43. See, for instance, the collections, Steffen W. Schmidt, James C. Scott, Carl Lande and Laura Guasti, eds., Friends, Followers and Factions: A Reader in Political Clientelism (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1977); Ernest Gellner & John Waterbury, eds., Patrons and Clients in Mediterranean Societies (London: Gerald Duckworth and Co., 1977). Graziano, “A Conceptual Framework for the Study of Clientelistic Behavior,” 158. Rene Lemarchand and K. Legg. “Political Clientelism and Development: A Preliminary Analysis,” Comparative Politics 4 (1972): 149 – 78; see also, Robert R. Kaufman, “The PatronClient Concept and Macro-Politics: Prospects and Problems,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 16 (1974): 286 – 87. Preface to Friends, Followers and Factions, ix. Sharon Kettering, “The Historical Development of Political Clientelism,” Journal of Interdisciplinary History 18 (1988), 447. See, for instance, Jessie Bernard, “Where is the Modern Sociology of Conflict?” American Journal of Sociology 56 (1950), 11 – 16; idem, “Some Current Conceptualizations in the Field of Conflict,” American Journal of Sociology 70 (1965): 442 – 54; William Barth and Robert Hefner, “Approaches to the Study of Social Conflict,” Journal of Conflict Resolution 1 (1957): 105 – 10; Raymond W. Mack and Richard Snyder, “The Analysis of Social Conflict – Toward an Overview and Synthesis,” Journal of Conflict Resolution 1 (1957), 213; Kenneth Boulding, “Organization and Conflict,” Journal of Conflict Resolution 1 (1957): 122 – 34; Ralf Dahrendorf, “Out of Utopia: Toward A Reorientation of Sociological Analysis,” American Journal of Sociology 44 (1958), 126; idem, “Toward a Theory of Social Conflict,” Journal of Conflict Resolution 2 (1958): 170 – 83; Robert A. LeVine, “Anthropology and the Study of Conflict: An Introduction,” Journal of Conflict Resolution 5 (1961), 3 – 15; Allen D. Grimshaw, “Government and Social Violence: The Complexity of Guilt,” The Minnesota Review 3 (1963), 236; Harry Eckstein, “Toward the Theoretical Study of Internal War,” in Internal War.

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communication, social scientists have come to accept that violence itself can be variously symbolized or structured to achieve political ends without resulting in total societal breakdown.58 Such agonistics, i. e., ritualized conflict, is principally a repressive mechanism meant to change attitudes without unlimited violence or the necessity of creating a new cultural system. F.G. Bailey has observed that social conflict is a “process of communication between competitors” in which “they agree not only about the meaning of symbolic actions but also about permissible tactics.”59 As R. Nicholas has noted succinctly, “most political systems … have rules about how to break the rules.”60 Perhaps the most important implication of conflict theory is that, far from being dysfunctional, social conflict can often be eufunctional – “productive conflict.”61 That is to say, conflict is not only a normal element of human social action but possesses positive and even integrative value in societies with undeveloped sociopolitical structures or which lack formal, institutional mechanisms of social change.62 Writing thirty years ago in the still-imposing shadow of

58 59 60 61 62

Problems and Approaches, ed. Harry Eckstein (New York: Macmillan Publishing Co. Inc., The Free Press, 1964: reprinted, Westport: Greenwood Press, 1980), 1 – 7; Arnold S. Feldman, “Violence and Volatility : The Likelihood of Revolution,” in Internal War : Problems and Approaches, ed. Harry Eckstein (New York: Macmillan Publishing Co, Inc., The Free Press, 1964; reprinted. Westport: Greenwood Press, 1980). 111 – 12: Johan Galtung, “A Structural Theory of Aggression,” Journal of Peace Research 1 (1964), 95; Peter A.R. Calvert. “Revolution: The Politics of Violence,” Political Studies 15 (1967), 1; Henry Bienen, Violence and Social Change: A Review of Current Literature (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968), 6 – 8; Keith F. Otterbein, “Internal War: A Cross-Cultural Study,” American Anthropologist 70 (1968): 277 – 89; James T. Duke, Conflict and Power in Social Life (Provo: Brigham Young University Press, 1976). Among historians, see for instance, Lauro Martines, “Political Conflict in the ltalian City States,” Government and Opposition: A Quarterly of Comparative Politics 3 (1968): 69 – 91; idem, “The Historical Approach to Violence,” in Violence and Civil Disorder in Italian Cities, 1200 – 1500, ed. L. Martines (Berkeley : University of California Press, 1972): 3 – 15. Jack J. Roth, The Cult of Violence: Sorel and the Sorelians (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1980), 265 – 66. F.G. Bailey, “Parapolitical Systems,” in Local-level Politics. ed. M. Swartz (Chicago: Aldine, 1968), 283. Ralph W. Nicholas, “Rules, Resources, and Political Activity,” in Local-level Politics, ed. M. Swartz (Chicago: Aldine, 1968), 300. Morton Deutsch, The Resolution of Conflict: Constructive and Destructive Processes (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1973). Georg Simmel, Conflict and the Web of Group Affiliations (New York: Macmillan Publishing Co. Inc., The Free Press, 1955); William S. Stokes, “Violence as a Power Factor in Latinamerican Politics,” Western Political Quarterly 8 (1952): 445 – 68; Max Gluckman, Rituals of Rebellion in South-East Africa (Manchester : Manchester University Press, 1954); idem, Custom and Conflict in Africa (New York: Macmillan Publishing Co, Inc., The Free Press, 1955); Lewis Coser, The Functions of Social Conflict (New York: Macmillan Publishing Co, Inc., The Free Press, 1956): Robert F. Murphy, “Intergroup Hostility and Social Cohesion,” American Anthropologist 59 (1957): 1018 – 35; Dan W. Dodson, “The Creative Role of Conflict in Intergroup Relations,” Merrill-Palmer Quarterly 4 (1958): 189 – 95; idem, “The

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Parsons, even functionalists such as Eisenstadt and Lipset were already claiming that a certain amount of institutionalized conflict could be beneficial for a political system, whether imperial or democratic.63 According to H.L. Nieburg: “The threat of violence and the occasional outbreak of real violence … induces flexibility and stability… They instill dynamism into … the settlement of disputes, the process of accommodating interests. ..”64 Unfortunately, modern social conflict analysis has made little conceptual headway in the study of state formation, either historic or prehistoric.65 Traditional archaeology has of course long possessed a crude conflict-oriented model of the formation of early states. It is one which posits that the state, as an Creative Role of Conflict Re-Examined,” Journal of Intergroup Relations 1 (1960): 5 – 12; R.C. North, H.E. Koch and Dina A. Zinnes, “The Integrative Functions of Conflict,” Journal of Conflict Resolution (1960): 335 – 74; Igor Kopytoff, “Extension of Conflict as a Method of Conflict Resolution among the Suku of the Congo,” Journal of Conflict Resolution 5 (1961): 61 – 69; H.L. Nieburg, “The Threat of Violence and Social Change,” American Political Science Review 565 (1962): 856 – 70; idem, “Uses of Violence,” Journal of Conflict Resolution 7 (1963): 43 – 54; idem. “Agonistics – Rituals of Conflict,” Collective Violence, eds. James F. Short, Jr. and Marvin E. Wolfgang (Chicago: Aldine and Atherton, 1970): 82 – 99; J.M.G. Thurlings, “The Dynamic Function of Conflict,” Sociologia Neerlandica 2 (1965): 142 – 60; Bert N. Adams, “Coercion and Consensus: Some Unresolved Issues.” American Journal of Sociology 71 (1966): 714 – 17; Charles P. Loomis, “In Praise of Conflict and Its Resolution,” American Sociological Review 32 (1967): 875 – 90; James Payne, “Peru, the Politics of Structured Violence,” in Garrisons and Government: Politics and the Military in New States, ed. Wilson C. McWilliams (San Francisco: Chandler, 1967): 249 – 63; Ken Southwood, “Riot and Revolt: Sociological Theories of Political Violence,” Peace Research Reviews 3 (1967): 1 – 65; Robert B. Edgerton, “Violence in East African Tribal Societies,” Collective Violence, ed. James F. Short. Jr. and Marvin E. Wolfgang (Chicago: Aldine and Atherton, 1970): 159 – 70; Henry Assael, “The Constructive Role of Inter-Organizational Conflict,” Administrative Science Quarterly 14 (1969): 573 – 82; F.G. Bailey, Stratagems and Spoils: A Social Anthropology of Politics (London: Basil Blackwell, 1969): Thomas M. Kiefer, “Modes of Social Action in Armed Combat: Affect, Tradition and Reason in Tausug Private Warfare,” Man n.s., 5 (1970): 586 – 96; Frank J. Popper, “Internal War as a Stimulant of Political Development,” Comparative Political Studies 3 (1971): 413 – 23; Lutfy N. Diab, “Achieving Intergroup Coordination through Conflict-Produced Superordinate Goals,” Psychological Reports 43 (1978): 735 – 41; Youssef Cohen, et al., “The Paradoxical Nature of State Making: The Violent Creation of Order,” American Political Science Review 75 (1981): 901 – 10; Donald Black, “Crime as Social Control” American Sociological Review 48 (1983): 34 – 45:;Christopher Boehm, Blood Revenge: The Enactment and Management of Conflict in Montenegro and Other Tribal Societies (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1987). Structured violence can be compared to the macro-concept of “tacit bargaining” found in the strategic theory of limited war, Thomas C. Schelling, The Strategy of Conflict (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1960); idem, Arms and Influence (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1966). 63 Eisenstadt, The Political Systems of Empires; Lipset, The First New Nation. 64 Nieburg, “The Threat of Violence and Social Change,” 865. 65 See, for instance, Timothy K. Earle & Jonathon E. Ericson, eds., Exchange Systems in Prehistory (New York: Academic Press, 1977); Colin Renfrew & Stephen Shennan, eds., Ranking, Resource and Exchange: Aspects of the Archaeology of Early European Society (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982).

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outgrowth of stratification or class formation, is an instrument of coercion meant to institutionalize inequality through hierarchy and a monopoly on violence; the end result is an unstable social system in which conflict rather than cooperation prevails.66 Often opposed to this interpretation is an equally simplistic integrationist or consensus model. This suggests that the early state arose out of the need to better organize and coordinate the activities of an increasing population, to serve as a popular medium for protection and benefits; the outcome is a stable social system based on a widespread assimilation of normative values which minimizes dissent and the likelihood of social conflict. Neither tradition has been entirely satisfactory, as R. D. Jessop has observed, since: “Few societies … are completely polarised, just as few are completely solidary …” As in seemingly all modern social theory, the solution has been to call increasingly for a “synthesis of ‘conflict’ and ‘consensus’ theories.”67 A new generation of state formation theorists has been eager to synthesize from the coercion/consensus tradition a more realistic model of state formation.68 For, as J. Haas has shrewdly observed, “coercive force is an inevitable covariable of an essential benefit.”69 In this regard the state can be seen as a vehicle for mediating conflict through its regulation – and negotiation – of exchange. Both M. Taylor and C. Hastorf have remarked already on the value of mediation by the state to the individual in terms of creating “stability” and “a secure environment.”70 Indeed, for historic societies lacking formal juro-political institutions, the management of social conflict through dynamic clientelistic practices – pragmatic negotiation and exchange – may be all the political institution such societies can muster in the process of state formation. In this regard, R. Cohen has called particular attention to an important universal and processual feature of state formation which captures perhaps the key structural element of polities struggling to mediate social conflict. Cohen, rejecting traditional coercion/ consensus models, has suggested that states form 66 It is worth noting that Ibn Jama¯’ah and Ibn Khaldu¯n, who both resided in the Mamluk state, are considered the earliest exponents of the modern coercion theory of state formation. Martin Sicker, The Genesis of the State (New York and London: Praeger, 1991), 65 – 67. 67 Jessop, “Exchange and Power in Structural Analysis,” 416; Adams, “Coercion and Consensus Theories”; Robin M. Williams, “Some Further Comments on Chronic Controversies,” American Journal of Sociology 71 (1966): 717 – 21. 68 See for instance, Gerhard Lenski, Power and Privilege: ATheory of Social Stratification (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1966); Haas. The Evolution of the Prehistoric State; idem and Elman R. Service, Origins of the State and Civilization: The Process of Cultural Evolution (New York: Norton, 1975). 69 Haas, The Evolution of the Prehistoric State, 83. 70 Christine Hastorf, “One Path to the Heights: Negotiating Political Inequality in the Sausa of Peru.” in The Evolution of Political Systems, ed. by Steadman Upham (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 149; Michael Taylor, The Possibility of Cooperation (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 169.

The Microstructure of Social Conflict

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only in the wake of “the development of institutions counteracting the normal fissioning of the polity.” Fission/antifission, therefore, rather than conflict/ consensus becomes the key distinction between state and prestate systems, such as, for instance, the chieftaincy. The main structural feature of the chieftaincy is that it is politically segmented into a number of small autonomous polities, each replicating the others sufficiently in terms of organizational structure to allow any one sub-group to bid for independence or dominance. The failure to mediate such conflict except by force leads ultimately to the fissioning of the chieftaincy through internal warfare. Only when a political system has developed “new integrative institutions” and found a way to mediate conflict more peaceably can it successfully negotiate the fissioning process and evolve into an actual state.71 C. Clapham and G. Philip have keyed similarly on conflict mediation to describe the central problem facing modern military regimes. Echoing Enloe, they have observed that: “Military regimes need not be popular, but they do need to command obedience on the basis of more than simple coercion … they must devise some … structure … through which … political settlement can be maintained.”72 Interestingly, Cohen has characterized his fission/antifission model as a “neutral systems approach … to the empirical data.” Social or anthropological archaeologists as well as many processual anthropologists, while accepting that cultures are holistic systems with structure and function, have reacted against the notion of stasis and sought to model the actual, empirical normalcy of dissent and conflict in society. Systems thinking views the world as a complex living organism in which social groups and institutions are dynamically interrelated in a continuing process of change. Applied to the issue of state formation, systems thinking maintains that competing interests must be acknowledged, accommodated and regulated to maintain state structure and coherence. Systems thinking focuses particularly on “feedback” – the processes and relationships which allow a society to maintain a dynamic equilibrium in the face of continuous stress. In this way social scientists can discuss processes of social change without becoming entangled in the linear organic analogy of a society suffering either birthpains or deaththroes.73 71 Ronald Cohen, “State Origins: A Reappraisal,” in The Early State, ed. Henri J.M. Claessen and Peter Skalnick (Hague: Mouton, 1978): 31 – 75; idem. “Evolution, Fission, and the Early State,” in The Study of the State, ed. Henri J.M. Claessen and Peter Skalnick (Hague: Mouton, 1981): 87 – 113. 72 Christopher Clapham and George Philip, “The Political Dilemma of Military Regimes,” in The Political Dilemmas of Military Regimes, eds. Christopher Clapham and George Philip (London and Sydney : Croom Helm, 1985), 1. 73 On systems theory in general see, for instance, Norbert Wiener, The Human Use of Human Beings: Cybernetics and Society (New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1950); R.M. Cyert and J.G. March, A Behavioral Theory of the Firm (Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall, 1963); Karl W.

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Articulation of Cohen’s anthropological insight into a systems approach to mediation of internal conflict can be found in the works of Chicago School theorists as well. O. Klapp, or instance, has emphasized the circular interaction of symbolic leadership and public demands in political life.74 D. Easton’s systems analysis treats political life as a system of behavior embedded in an environment in which the political macrostructure both determines and is determined by the microstructural conversion of “demand” and “support” inputs into “decision” and “action” outputs. The continuous feedback of outputs affect subsequent behavior and future inputs. This constant circular flow of communication among social members – the “feedback loop” – enables the political system to manage stress and persist over time.75 M. Kaplan’s balance-of-power model underscores similarly the negotiated trade-offs necessary to keep a political system in dynamic equilibrium. In Kaplan’s system, participants are not meaningly restrained by normative value-orientation but concern themselves foremost with their own security. Yet, pursuit of these microinterests is not intended to come at the expense of the macrostructure as a whole. Instead, actions are inevitably “complementary” to one another, and cohesion is maintained by following the unwritten, informal but “essential roles of the ‘balance of power’system.” These “complementary” roles are: opponents choose to negoDeutch, The Nerves of Government (London: Free Press, 1963); Walter Buckley, ed., Modern Systems Research for the Behavioral Scientist (Chicago: Aldine, 1968); J. Annett, Feedback and Human Behavior (Baltimore: Penguin, 1969); F.E. Emery, ed., Systems Thinking (Baltimore: Penguin, 1969); Robert Hanneman, Modeling Social Systems: A Systems Dynamics Approach (Beverly Hills: Sage, 1988); George P. Richardson, Feedback Thought in Social Science and Systems Theory (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1991). For the impact of systems theory on state formation theory, see, for instance, G. Kushner, “A Consideration of Some Processual Designs for Archaeology as Anthropology,” American Antiquity 35 (1970): 125 – 32; P. Martin, “The Revolution in Archeology,” American Antiquity 36 (1971): 1 – 8; L. Klejn, “Marxism, the Systemic Approach, and Archaeology,” American Anthropologist 74 (1973): 691 – 710; C. Redman et al., Social Archaeology : Beyond Subsistence and Daring (New York: Academic Press. 1978); M. Salmon, “What Can Systems Theory doe for Archaeology?” American Antiquity 41 (1978): 174 – 83; Guy Gibbon, Anthropological Anthropology (New York: Columbia University Press, 1984); Renfrew, Approaches. The systems approach within archaeology has not been without its critics, who have seen in it a deterministic view of the historical trajectory of cultures. Critics have requested more of a trade-off between universal scientific theory and the actions of individuals within particular cultural-historical contexts, see Ian Hodder, Reading the Past: Current Approaches to Interpretation in Archaeology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986). Hodder’s objections are of course based on the fact that archeologists must build their interpretations of societies almost entirely from material remains; historians, on the other hand, have written texts which, when studied carefully, often reveal the symbolism and cultural meaning artifacts by themselves generally cannot. 74 Orrin Klapp, Symbolic Leaders (Chicago: Aldine, 1964); idem, Currents of Unrest: An Introduction to Collective Behavior (New York: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1972). 75 David Easton, A Systems Analysis of Political Life (New York: John Wiley and Sons, Inc., 1965; reprint Chicago: University of Chicago Press, Phoenix Books, 1979).

The Problem of Middle East State Formation

43

tiate rather than fight to fulfill their ambition whenever possible; opponents are prepared to fight, however, rather than endure long-term inequities; when opponents fight they resist the temptation to destroy each other ; actors choose to ally to resist inequity imposed by a dominant actor ; an actor seeking some supernational organizing principle will be opposed; efforts are made to reintegrate defeated actors back into the system as acceptable role partners76

The Problem of Middle East State Formation A systems analysis of dynamic equilibrium has found only limited validation and only for the modern period, mostly in the recent work of I.W. Zartman. Zartman has referred to a “dynamic theory of stability” of the modern Arab state in which social equilibrium is maintained owing to the conversion of change into actions which maintain state structure. Dynamic stability emerges from the anticipation of and constructive reaction to pressures from marginal groups. Challengers are allowed to participate in the system or the system modified to accommodate their demands. Newly enfranchised challengers then have an incentive to work within the current state structure, bringing limited pressure to bear to obtain their goals, rather than bring it down wholesale.77 R. Bianchi, looking specifically at the modern Egyptian state, has approximated Zartman’s “dynamic theory of stability” with his own concept of “corporatism.” According to Bianchi, authoritarianism sets limits to its behavior as a way of preserving state structure in the long term. The government allows corporatist associations to function without coercive centralization as a way of adapting relations with various social groups in order to avoid a revolutionary mobilization of society against the state.78 Even the obvious problem of social conflict has been little modeled in the study of Middle East state formation. The investigation of the phenomenon of structured violence, for instance, has been limited to a handful of ethnologies, mostly of modern Berber and Pathan segmentary lineage societies. Even so, it has begun to dawn on observers that Middle Eastern social structure has perhaps been misinterpreted regarding the dogmatic identification of hierarchy with oppression or equality with the absence of social conflict. Indeed, an76 Morton A. Kaplan, System and Process in International Politics, 2nd ed. (New York: John Wiley and Sons, 1964), 21 – 36. 77 I. William Zartman, introduction to Beyond Coercion: The Durability of the Arab State, eds. Adeed Dawisha and I. William Zartman (London: Croom Helm, 1988): 1 – 13; idem, “Opposition as Support of the State,” The Arab State, 220 – 46, which suggests an actual symbiosis or role complementarity between government and opposition. 78 Bianchi, Unruly Corporatism, 20 – 26.

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thropologists have begun recently to characterize modern Middle Eastern societies by such expressions as “ordered anarchy” and “institutionalized dissidence.”79 In the study of historic Middle Eastern state formation, a systems analysis of dynamic equilibrium and social conflict has made even less headway. This lack of theoretical impetus today is somewhat surprising in the particular case of Egypt, given that Egypt has long been a traditional focus of primary state formation analysis.80 Yet, like modern Egypt, the formation of the late medieval Syro-Egyptian state readily lends itself to the dynamic equilibrium analysis typical of the work of Zartman and Bianchi.81 The Mamluk state was not of course an example of primary but rather secondary type formation, developing in part through the influence of both prior and contemporary sociocultural systems. Studies, for instance, of the influence of Turco-Mongol legal custom, ya¯sa, on the political organization of the early Mamluk state or the emergence of the early Mamluk army from its Ayyubid chrysalis are de facto recognition of such secondary dependence.82 Yet, no clear process of state formation in the 79 Fredrik Barth, Political Leadership among Swat Pathans (London: Athlone Press, 1959): idem, “Segmentary Opposition and the Theory of Games: A Study of Pathan Organization,” Journal of The Royal Anthropological Institute 89 (1959): 5 – 21; D. Hart, “Clan Lineage, Local Community and the Feud in a Riffian Tribe,” in Peoples and Cultures of the Middle East, ed. Louise Sweet, vol. 2 (Garden City : American Museum of Natural History Press, 1970): 3 – 75; R. Fernea, Shaykh and Effendi (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1970); John Waterbury, “Tribalism, Trade, and Politics: The Transformation of the Swasa of Morocco,” in Arabs and Berbers, eds., E. Gellner and R. Michaud (Lexington: Heath, 1972); Jacob BlackMichaud, Cohesive Force: Feud in the Mediterranean and the Middle East (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1975); Philip Salzman, “Inequality and Oppression in Nomadic Society,” in Pastoral Production and Society, ed. L’Equipe ecologie et anthropologie des societes pastorales (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979): 429 – 46; Charles Lindholm, “The Structure of Violence Among the Swat Pukhtun,” Ethnology 20 (1981): 147 – 56; idem. “Kinship Structure and Political Authority : The Middle East and Central Asia,” Journal of Comparative Study of Society and History (1986): 334 – 55. 80 See, for instance, Lewis Henry Morgan, Ancient Society (1877; reprint, Cambridge: Harvard University Press, Belknap Press, 1964); A. Moret and G. Davy, From Tribe to Empire (New York: Knopf, 1926); V. Gordon Childe, Man Makes Himself (New York: Mentor, 1936); idem, What Happened in History (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1942): Karl A. Wittfogel, Oriental Despotism (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1957); Service, Origins of the State and Civilization. 81 Donald Little, “Religion under the Mamluks,” Muslim World 73 (1983), 181, has suggested that “with an acute sense of their own welfare … (the Mamluks) strove to keep diverse religious forces in Egypt and Syria in a state of equilibrium.” 82 David Ayalon, “The Great Yasa of Chingiz Khan: A Re-examination,” Parts A-C2, Studia Islamica 33 (1971): 97 – 140; 34 (1971): 151 – 80; 36 (1972): 113 – 58; 38 (1973): 107 – 56; A.N. Poliak. “The Influence of Chingiz Kha¯n’s Ya¯sa upon the General Organization of the Mamlu¯k State,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 10 (1940 – 42): 862 – 76; Ulrich Haarmann, “Regicide and the ‘Law of the Turk’,” in Intellectual Studies on Islam: Essays Written in Honor of Martin B. Dickson, eds. Michel M Mazzaoui and Vera B. Moreen (Salt

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The Problem of Middle East State Formation

84 85 86

˘

˘

83

˘

Mamluk period has so far emerged from the secondary literature, particularly one which can explain the apparently idiosyncratic but crucial behavior of the Mamluk ruling elite itself. Even the most visible and important component of the Mamluk elite, the sultan, has failed to elicit any consensus among scholars, who have described him as everything from a “puppet” to a “despot.”83 Perhaps more disturbing has been the failure to explain how the Mamluk state survived chronic selfdestructive elite behavior – coups, assassinations, executions, rebellions – without fissioning. Indeed, D. Ayalon in summing up recently the Mamluk sultanate concluded that, on the one hand, it was “the most stable” of all Muslim empires while conceding, on the other, that almost nothing is yet understood about the “institutions” which accounted for that internal stability.84 The search for such formal institutions in the Classical Mamluk state may be misguided, however. Intensive study of the Mamluk “military institution” for instance, has yielded few insights into the formation of the Mamluk state itself. Since territorial conquest did not lay square in the dynamic of early Mamluk state formation anyway, this is not perhaps surprising. Scholars have largely failed to adopt either a political sociology or anthropology which focuses not on hypothetical political institutions but on actual interrelationships among political actors themselves. Indeed, as I. Lapidus has noted, social networking in the Mamluk state “replaced formal institutions” in creating a symbiotic division of labor between the umara¯ and ulama¯ in the management of medieval SyroEgyptian urban communities.85 N. Brown, studying the structure of peasant politics in modern Egypt, has similarly observed that political behavior is not necessarily dependent on the existence of formal national organizations; individuals are quite prepared to act politically out of natural familial, clientelistic or communal concerns.86 Such informal networking among the Mamluks has not, indeed, can not be discerned while treating the micro-processes of political interaction in the Mamluk state as superstructural rather than structural, idiLake City : University of Utah Press, 1990), 127 – 35; R.S. Humphreys, “The Emergence of the Mamluk Army,” Parts 1 – 2, Studia Islamica 45 (1977): 67 – 99; 46 (1977): 147 – 82. William M. Brinner, “The Struggle for Power in the Mamlu¯k State: Some Reflections on the Transition from Bahrı¯ to Burjı¯ Rule,” Proceedings of the 26th International Congress of ˙ Delhi, 4 – 10 January 1964 (New Delhi: XXVI International Congress Orientalists, vol. 2, New of Orientalists, 1970): 231 – 34; P.M. Holt, “The Position and Power of the Mamlu¯k Sultan,” British Society for Oriental and Asiatic Studies 38 (1975): 237 – 49; idem, “The Structure of Government in the Mamluk Sultanate,” in The Eastern Mediterranean Lands in the Period of the Crusades, ed. P.M. Holt (Warminster : Aris and Phillips, 1977): 44 – 61; Robert lrwin, “Factions in Medieval Egypt,” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society (1986): 228 – 46; Amalia Levanoni, “The Mamluks’ Ascent to Power in Egypt,” Studia Islamica 72 (1990): 121 – 144. David Ayalon, “Bahrı¯ Mamlu¯ks. Burjı¯ Mamlu¯ks – Inadequate Names for the Two Reigns of ˙ the Mamlu¯k Sultanate,” Ta¯rı¯kh 1 (1990), 3. Lapidus, Muslim Cities in the Later Middle Ages, 142. Nathan J. Brown, Peasant Politics in Modern Egypt: The Struggle Against the State (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1990), 218 – 221.

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osyncratic rather than rational. Though sociopolitical structures may have been informal, they were not formless. Analytically, then, the Mamluk state remains a “black box,” its internal codes and mechanisms largely unobserved by scholars because they are thought to be largely unobservable. Certainly Mamluk political practices have been unrelated to any dynamic microsocial processes which may have prevented fissioning of the state. Yet, by studying social conflict as a kind of negative feedback, as systems analysis does, it may be possible to model how political challenges were resolved among the ruling elite in such a way that state structure remained intact. Understanding these antifissionist properties may reveal some of the underlying sociocultural principles of state formation in early Mamluk SyroEgypt.

The Nature of the Early Mamluk State The Mamluk state can be said broadly to have evolved from the Ayyubid chieftaincy, supplanting a coterie of localized autonomous Syro-Egyptian polities segmented by lineage with a centralized supraterritorial government based largely on non-kinship. Following Cohen’s processual model, the Ayyubid polity can be said to have fissioned in an attempt by one of its last dynamic segment leaders, al-Malik al-Sa¯lih Ayyu¯b Najm al-Dı¯n, to centralize its independent po˙ ˙ litical units by force. The Mamluks, however, avoided in their turn pre-state fissioning by establishing something akin to Cohen’s “new integrative institutions,” which successfully mediated social conflict through the articulation of an equitable distribution of resources and rotation of power based on patronage and seniority. These were the informal mechanisms which enabled the ruling elite to regulate its internal power relationships without the risk of bringing down the entire state apparatus in a spiral of uncontrolled competitive violence. For, like the Classical Greek politeia, the Classical Mamluk dawlah feared the fissioning potential of social conflict (fitnah) and chaos (tashwı¯sh) above all else. The Classical Mamluk state was in essence a vast clientelist structure or patronate, not much different from modern militaristic Arab regimes today, which, as W. Thompson has observed, are “prone to internal ‘patron-client subsets.”87 I. Lapidus has already demonstrated the effects of clientelism on the various civilian strata of medieval Syro-Egyptian urban society. In particular 87 William R. Thompson, “Toward Explaining Arab Military Coups,” in World Perspective on the Sociology of the Military, eds. G. Kourvetaris and B. Dobratz (New Brunswick: Transaction Books, 1977), 178.

The Problem of Idealized Solidary

47

˘

Lapidus has suggested how the Mamluk elite used patronage ties to neutralize political competition from civilian groups; the Mamluks bisected horizontal forms of solidary by driving vertical clientelistic relations down even to the most marginal and, therefore, potentially disruptive levels of urban society. As Lapidus has concluded: “The Mamluks rendered the masses politically helpless by fostering their division into clienteles.”88 Curiously, although Lapidus appreciated how the Mamluks “controlled and channeled” the phenomenon of civilian “mob violence,” he neglected to consider a similar relationship between patronage and the phenomenon of elite violence among the Mamluks themselves. For among the Mamluks the principal purpose of the state was similarly to mediate the downward flow of patronage and the upward flow of loyalty among multiple networks of paramilitary groups in order to neutralize unrestrained factional competition for resources and, thus, maintain state structure. The orientation of sociopolitical action was principally vertical, based on dyadic or two-person exchange. This reality is captured in the simple formulaic exchange of service (khidmah) for benefit (ni mah) so ubiquitous in the early Mamluk state. Loyalty in effect was a commodity in a polity where optimizing personal goals ultimately transcended gratuitous moral valuations, where the “dominant orientation” as N.K. Nicholson has observed, was perhaps “an amoral pragmatism.”89

The Problem of Idealized Solidary: Usta¯dh-Mamlu¯k, Khushda¯shiyyah and Jinsiyyah Scholars have largely embraced a functionalist, even neo-Freudian, view of fidelity in the Mamluk state based on the assumption that juvenile sentimental bonds were largely sufficient to determine adult political behavior. Mamluks, it is generally believed, were harmonized as youths into collective, habitual, altruistic patterns of behavior by virtue of their moral association with a common master (usta¯dh) and comrades in bondage (khushda¯shiyyah), with whom they are sometimes thought to have shared an insuperable ethnic solidarity (jinsiyyah). Ideally, then, Mamluk social action has been seen as limited both vertically by feelings of gratuitous loyalty to a master and horizontally by moral and ethnic bonds of affection for age mates. Yet, the mamlu¯k had not been brought 88 Lapidus, Muslim Cities in the Later Middle Ages, 184; see also, Guilain Denoeux, Urban Unrest in the Middle East: A Comparative Study of Informal Networks in Egypt, Iran, and Lebanon (Albany : State University of New York Press, 1993), 37 – 38. 89 Norman K. Nicholson, “The Factional Model and the Study of Politics,” Comparative Political Studies, October (1972), 300.

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˘

into the Middle East because of any innate qualities of fidelity ; as Ibn Khaldu¯n, for instance, well knew, the mamlu¯k had been valued merely for his essential toughness (khushu¯nah). Though much has been made of the supposedly sacred nature of the vertical usta¯dh-mamlu¯k relationship, gratuitous moral pledges of loyalty were largely perfunctory in late medieval Syro-Egypt. Like moral ties between master and man in late medieval Japan: “Loyalty was becoming a principle rather than a private commitment.”90 The failure of such normative ties to stand up to the practicalities of political life has led to the conclusion that bonds of loyalty were “remarkably weak” in the Mamluk state.91 Yet, it was less a failure of loyalty than a failure of reciprocity. The loyalty oath (bay ah) was an ancient institution of Arabo-Islamic culture but, as M.M. Bravmann has reminded us: “An essential feature of the agreement named bay ah is that both parties to the agreement…are mutually bound to fulfill the agreement, and the agreement entails for both parties duties and obligations as well as privileges and rights.”92 When clients violated service ties they did not normally do so unilaterally ; patrons often failed to deliver the level or continuity of patronage which clients, rightly or wrongly, felt was owed them. Violations of loyalty, it might be said, were merely reciprocated. The idealization of the usta¯dh-mamlu¯k relationship has been matched only by the idealized solidary of khushda¯shiyyah. The sociopolitical organization of the Mamluk state is supposed to have been based on complete non-ascription. That is, the elite procreated artificially through the generational induction of slave recruits; this status became the basis for political membership to the apparent exclusion of ascriptive ties – a structural substitute for normal kinship. Indeed, as E. Gellner has observed: “The mamluk system … endeavors to dispense with the kin or tribal element altogether and stand it on its head.”93 The placing of slave cadets unrelated to each other, except perhaps by ethnicity, into largely random paramilitary cadres was an attempt to resocialize and harmonize them on the basis of peer equality, corporateness and moral imperative. This synthesis produced what is called khushda¯shiyyah; though khushda¯shiyyah is often thought to be unique to medieval Islamic society, it is in many ways comparable to the sociopolitical phenomenon of hetaeria in the ancient Athenian polis.94 ˘

90 John W. Hall, “Feudalism in Japan – A Reassessment,” in Studies in the Institutional History of Early Modern Japan, ed. John W. Hall & Marius B. Jansen (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1968): 47. 91 Irwin, “Factions in Medieval Egypt,” 237; idem, The Middle East in the Middle Ages, 86. 92 M.M. Bravmann, “Bay’ah ‘Homage’: A Proto-Arab (South-Semitic) Concept,” in The Spiritual Background of Early Islam (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1972), 214. 93 Gellner, “Tribalism,” 121. 94 Hetaeria was the relationship which bound men together in an age-related society with political features. This relationship was based on a social equality derived from childhood association in the gymnasia and later in ephebic service, see generally, George Miller Cal-

The Problem of Idealized Solidary

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The interpretive value of the traditional concept of khushda¯shiyyah has become so great that many scholars have come to depend on it as a convenient denominator by which to reduce virtually all sociopolitical relations within Mamluk society to a single predictable norm.95 Yet, little is now known about the process of acculturation which young slave cadets experienced, especially its effectiveness in fostering enduring and idealistic horizontal ties able to counter the vertical cleavage thought to be typical especially of Turco-Mongol social practices.96 In paramilitary societies even more closely regulated than Mamluk Syro-Egypt, such as ancient Sparta, for instance, the priority of collective interests and conformity according to moral imperatives can be shown to have often been seriously compromised;97 even the highly sophisticated techniques available to modern totalitarian states have often proved inadequate in totalizing the indoctrination of youth.98 If the Mamluks were socialized as youths to engage in altruistic collective behavior, the record reveals that as adults they become much more individualistic and opportunistic in relationships with their khushda¯shiyyah. The failure to explore the natural limits of a value-oriented interpretation of khushda¯shiyyah in the secondary literature can probably be linked to its evocation of the familiar and even reassuring image of an emotively bound family unit. Barracks life among the young mama¯lik can be likened plausibly to a rough sort of familial setting. As in the modern Soviet military collective, for instance, recruits were perhaps isolated to encourage peer association in order to improve the prospect of better psychological manipulation during training; however, as

95

96 97 98

houn, Athenian Clubs in Politics and Litigation (1913; reprint, New York: Burt Franklin, 1970). David Ayalon, “L’escalvage du Mamelouk,” Oriental Notes and Studies 1 (1951), 29 – 31; Sir John Glubb, Soldiers of Fortune: The Story of the Mamlukes (New York: Dorset, 1973), 47; P.M. Holt, The Age of the Crusades: The Near East from the Eleventh Century to 1517 (London and New York: Longoman, 1986), 138 – 89. Robert Irwin, The Middle East in the Middle Ages, 88 – 90, influenced by the writings of Sir R. Syme, has suggested en passant an analogy for khushda¯shiyyah in the Roman expression, amicitia, which has the advantage of stressing a utilitarian rather than moral footing for political relations. A more modern treatment of amicitia can be found, however, in Saller, Personal Patronage under the Early Empire; idem, “Patronage and Friendship in Early Imperial Rome: Drawing the Distinction,” in Patronage in Ancient Society, ed. Andrew Wallace-Hadrill (London and New York: Routledge, 1989): 49 – 62. See, for instance, Jean Cuisnier, “Kinship and Social Organization in the Turko-Mongolian Cultural Area” in Family and Society, eds. R. Forster and O. Ranum (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1976), 210. Stephen Hodkinson, “Social Order and the Conflict of Values in Classical Sparta,” Chiron 13 (1983): 239 – 81. Tracy H. Koon, Believe, Obey, Fight: Political Socialization of Youth in Fascist Italy, 1922 – 1943 (Chapel Hill and London: University of North Carolina Press, 1985), 218 – 52; Gerhard Rempel, Hitler’s Children: The Hitler Youth and the SS (Chapel Hill and London: University of North Carolina Press, 1989), 47 – 71, 259.

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in the Red Army, there were probably few authentic (i. e. emotionally binding) friendships which developed as a result of all this enforced intimacy during training.99 Moreover, recent sociological studies of the traditional family unit have begun to reveal that the family is not the ideal organization that has been assumed; families are themselves often riven by internal conflicts and bound together ultimately as much by exchange relationships as by purely emotional bonds.100 Other kinds of associations which attempt to fuse public and private identity artificially in order to create cohesion are often subject to what I. Goffman has called the paradox of the “total institution;” in such institutions (prisons, camps, etc.) intensified socialization often encourages rather than inhibits interpersonal antagonisms and even violence.101 Small-group dynamics, further more, suggests that horizontally organized groups engaged in continual face-to-face interaction suffer increased social stress when their numbers exceed as few as a half dozen.102 Though leaders in Mamluk society may have displayed solidarity with those of their own khushda¯shiyyah, they did so ultimately not on the strength of prior moral or racial affinities but on the hierarchical and transactional integration of clientelistic practices. Bonds of khushda¯shiyyah especially, though often invoked and willingly exploited, were in the end underpinned themselves by exchange

99 Ellen Jones, Red Army and Society : A Sociology of the Soviet Military (Boston: Allen and Unwin, 1985), 165. 100 Bernard Faber, The Family: Organization and lnteraction (San Francisco: Chandler, 1964); Jetse Sprey, “Conflict Theory and the Study of Marriage and the Family,” in Contemporary Theories about the Family, eds. Wesley R. Burr, Reuben Hill, et al., (New York: Free Press, 1979); idem, “The Family as a System in Conflict,”Journal of Marriage and the Family 31 (1969): 699 – 706; William J. Goode, “Force and Violence in the Family,” Journal of Marriage and the Family 33 (1971): 624 – 36; idem, “Individual and Corporate Responsibility in Family Life,” American Behavioral Scientist 15 (1972): 421 – 44; John N. Edwards, “Familial Behavior as Social Exchange,” Journal of Marriage and the Family 31 (1969): 518 – 26; Catherine C. Arnott, “Married Women and the Pursuit of Profit: An Exchange Theory Perspective,” Journal of Marriage and the Family 34 (1972): 122 – 34; Ivan F. Nye, “Is Choice and Exchange Theory the Key?” Journal of Marriage and the Family 40 (1978): 219 – 35; idem, “Choice, Exchange and the Family,” Contemporary Theories about the Family ; R.G. Burgess & T.L. Huston, Social Exchange in Developing Relationships (New York: Academic Press, 1979); Yoram Ben-Porath, “The F-Connection: Families, Friends and Firms and the Organization of Exchange,” Population Development Review 6 (1980): 1 – 30. 101 C. Kerr and A. Siegel, “The Inter-Industry Propensity to Strike,” in Industrial Conflict, eds. W. Kornhauser et al. (New York: McGraw Hill, 1954): 189 – 212; J.S. Coleman, Community Conflict (Glencoe: Free Press, 1957); George Simmel, Conflict and the Web of Group Affiliations (New York: Free Press, 1964), 43; Robin Luckham, The Nigerian Military : A Sociological Analysis of Authority and Revolt, 1960 – 67 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1975), 107 – 08. 102 Gregory A. Johnson, “Organizational Structure and Scalar Stress,” in Theory and Explanation in Archaeology, ed. C. Renfrew et al. (New York: Academic Press, 1982), 392 – 96.

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relations.103 Mamluks were always clients of someone, whether that patron was their original usta¯dh, a khushda¯sh who had risen to power, or some entirely opportunistic paymaster. Khushda¯shiyyah could not entirely encompass the requirements of careerism. Indeed, some Mamluk amirs did not reach the acme of their careers until well after the passing of an usta¯dh or khushda¯sh from power, people usually thought of as their only natural source of patronage. Something of a modern homology for khushda¯shiyyah can be found today in the Sulu Sultanate. This part of southeast Asia is dominated by a Muslim warrior society where men are bound together ritually and corporately by the artificial kinship tie of blood brotherhood (bagay magtaymanghud). Yet, local solidary among these Tausug is ultimately vertical or dyadic in nature; leaders fashion their political organizations from “minimial alliance groups” based on these unstable dyads. In short, the Tausug “political system stresses vertical rather than horizontal ties.”104 The development of a political system founded on clientelism was a natural result of the socialization of both Tausugs and Mamluks on the basis of reciprocal vertical exchange rather than horizontal moral imperative. Even in modern Egypt itself one can still clearly see the power of vertical exchange at work in politics. The shillah in its most innocuous form can be an association of otherwise unrelated individuals forming a casual support network of friends. However, the shillah can also manifest itself as a single goal-oriented political group, one in which the primary (vertical) patron-client relationship dominates the secondary (horizontal) association of clients themselves. Political shilal typically disintegrate when patron-leaders disappear from the scene; whatever horizontal ties which may have developed among his clients are usually insufficient alone to maintain the association thereafter.105 According to Sharabi’s theory of neopatriarchy, the political system of Middle Eastern states is today “lubricated” by such mediating mechanisms, which ensure a trickle down of material benefits from neopatriarchs to the neopatriarchal masses.106 103 The Mamluks may have payed lip service to khushda¯shiyyah precisely because its public moral content helped disguise private utilitarian ends. Moral performances are a ritualistic dynamic, instrumental in helping to maintain the corporate mystique of an elite, Abner Cohen, The Politics of Elite Culture: Explorations in the Dramaturgy of Power in a Modern African Society (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1981). 104 Thomas M. Kiefer, “Institutionalized Friendship and Warfare among the Tausug of Jolo,” Ethnology 7 (1968): 225 – 44; idem, “The Tausug Polity and the Sultanate of Sulu: A Segmentary State in the Southern Philippines,” Sulu Studies 1 (1972): 19 – 63. 105 Robert Springborg, Family, Power and Politics in Egypt: Sayed Bey Marei – His Clan, Clients and Cohorts (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1982), 98 – 114 ff.; Clement Henry Moore, “Clientelist Ideology and Political Change: Fictitious Networks in Egypt and Tunisia,” in Patrons and Clients in Mediterranean Society, eds., Ernst Gellner & John Waterbury (London: Duckworth, 1977): 255 – 74. 106 Sharabi, Neopatriarchy, 7 ff.

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The weakness of idealized horizontal ties in Mamluk sociopolitics is suggested further by the fact that there appears to have been no exit cost to leaving the solidary of one’s own khushda¯shiyyah. Individuals and even larger elements often split off to pursue their own fortunes without apparently suffering any discipline or retribution; when members found it politic to reassert solidary, they reintegrated casually with their age mates. Perhaps more importantly, ties of khushda¯shiyyah counted for little in the face of individual competition for preferment, grudges and even feuds among age mates. In the early Mamluk state an ambitious amir was often in as much danger from members of his own khushda¯shiyyah as from non-khushda¯shiyyah. If the moral bonds thought to have been engendered by khushda¯shiyyah can be likened at all to a kind of social contract, clearly it was an agreement without any ‘boiler plate’ guaranteeing compliance. This suggests that the Mamluks recognized the potentially high transaction costs of enforcing collective, horizontal solidary. It was more prudent simply to condone breaches in such moral solidary than to employ coercive measures to enforce them, which might only harden attitudes and encourage greater internal conflict.107 One important result of this was that there was an almost unlimited market for contractual sociopolitical relationships. This said, it is still an exaggeration to claim that “the role of khushda¯shiyyah is of only limited importance” in the formation of the early Mamluk state.108 Though khushda¯shiyyah was not the real basis for political action in the Mamluk state, it was a visible focus tor structuring power rela107 As the microeconomics of modern contract law suggests, coercion is generally avoided by contractors where the cost of doing business outweighs potential gains. Ultimately contractors adopt arrangements which are economically ‘efficient’, i. e. reduce such transactions costs, rather than adopt arrangements which are merely legalistic, see, Stewart Macauly, “Non-Contractual Relations in Business: A Preliminary Study,” American Sociological Review 28 (1963): 55 – 67; Kenneth W. Clarkson, Roger LeRoy Miller & Timothy J. Muris, “Liquidated Damages Versus Penalties: Sense or Nonsense?” Wisconsin Law Review 1978 (1978): 351 – 90; Victor P. Goldberg, “Relational Exchange: Economics and Complex Contracts,” American Behavioral Scientist 23 (1980): 337 – 52; idem. “Production Functions, Transaction Costs, and the New Institutionalism,” in Issues in Contemporary Microeconomics, ed. George Feiwel (Albany : State University of New York Press, 1985). Playing off of V.P. Goldberg’s notion of the “income elasticity of ‘morality’” (as the income of a society increases, it trades off consumption for higher standards of moral behavior), the resources of the Syro-Egyptian state from trade and agriculture were sufficient to create a positive-sum outlook within the ruling elite, which allowed its members to ignore the enforcement of such contractual relationships. Had the Syro-Egyptian state been less resource-rich, a zerosum attitude would have been encouraged and mandated the enforcement of such relationships. Perhaps this is one of the differences between the politics of violence practiced by Turco-Mongol elites in the resource-poor Eurasian steppe and the politics of accommodation practiced in the resource-rich Syro-Egyptian state: perhaps it is also a difference in the politics of the Syro-Egyptian state in the Classical Mamluk period and the more zero-sum Beylicate period. 108 Irwin, The Middle East in the Middle Ages, 90.

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tionships within the elite. On the whole, patronage managed to grease the wheels of corporate solidary sufficiently to allow khushda¯shiyyah to function as the main component of an age class system in the Mamluk state. That is to say, khushda¯shiyyah represented for an essentially non-ascriptive, egalitarian yet hierarchic society a mechanism for both the distribution of patronage and rotation of paramountcy based on age class seniority rather than kinship or lineage. The concept of age class was originally developed by anthropologists seeking to comprehend what has long appeared to be the non-institutionalized political activity observed in acephalous, i. e., non-centralized, political systems. The integration of age class into political systems analysis has been pioneered largely by ethnologists studying East African tribal societies. Even so, the construct has been used in the evaluation of other less articulated societies where the substitution of a cognitive and structural order based on age and generational differences for one based on kinship and lineage has seemed appropriate.109 The basis of the system lies in what is called social or structural age, which measures the individual not in terms of physiological development but in terms of the right to engage in certain levels of socio-political activity. Induction into an age class is a kind of second or social birth, which provides individuals, or age mates, an institutionalized grouping based on peer equality, corporateness and prerogatives. It is the succession of age classes through promotion (rather than kinship or lineage) which regulates in the main the distribution of power in such societies. Yet, despite its theoretical importance age class was not a permanent phenomenon. Indeed, anthropologists have shown that the permanence of age class itself can ultimately be more apparent than real. This attenuation of corporate 109 S.N. Eisenstadt, From Generation to Generation: Age Groups and Social Structure (New York: Free Press, 1956); Frank H. Stewart, Fundamentals of Age-Group Systems (New York: Academic Press, 1977); David I. Kertzer, “Theoretical Developments in the Study of AgeGroup Systems,” American Ethnologist 5 (1978): 368 – 74; Madeline L. Ritter, “Conditions Favoring Age Set Organization,” Journal of Anthropological Research 36 (980): 87 – 104; David I. Kertzer and Jennie Keith, eds., Age and Anthropological Theory (New York: Cornell University Press, 1984); Bernardo Bernardi, Age Class Systems: Social Institutions and Polities Based on Age (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985). For comparative examples, see for instance, Robert Lowie, “Plains Indian Age-Societies: Historical and Comparative Summary,” Anthropological Papers of American Museum of Natural History 11 (1916): 645 – 78; E.E. Evans-Pritchard, The Nuer : A Description of The Models of Livelihood and Political Institutions of a Nilotic People (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1940); W.F. Whyte, “Age-Grading of the Plains Indians,” Man 56 (1944): 68 – 72; A.H.J. Prins, East African Age-Class Systems: An Inquiry in the Social Order of the Fall, Kipsigis and Kikuyu (Groningen: J.B. Wolters, 1953); David Maybury-Lewis, Akwe-Shavante Society (London: Oxford University Press, 1974); P.T.W. Baxter & Uri Almagor, eds., Age, Generation and Time: Some Features of East African Age Organizations (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1978).

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bonding within an age class demonstrates how individuals, as they mature, become personally ambitious and seek more relevant structures in which to express these ambitions. Age class eventually becomes, as in the initiationtransition model, only a nominal frame of social reference, giving way in the end to more dynamic organizational structures better suited to gratify ambition, such as clientelism.110 The role of ethnicity or jinsiyyah in shaping sociopolitical solidary, though often assumed, seems questionable as well. The term is both infrequent and ambiguous in its political significance in contemporary sources. Moreover, ethnicity itself is no guarantee of collective action. As M. Hechter has observed, “there is immense variation in the levels of mobilization of ethnic groups … Under certain conditions a rational individual will not participate in ethnic collective action …”111 This issue has been raised particularly regarding conflict analysis in modern African states. R. Sandbrook, for instance, has criticized stock interpretations of sociopolitical conflict in terms of inevitable ethnic antagonism. Inter-ethnic co-operation or “ethnic bargaining” is in fact a highly visible element. Ethnicity “is now conceived, not as a primordial loyalty causing political conflict, but as itself a dependent variable…”112 Indeed, as R. Cohen has suggested, the process of state formation can have the virtue precisely of uniting different ethnic groups within a centralized polity, homogenizing ethnic groups over time into a single “polity-induced” ethnicity. Ethnicity is subsumed within the hierarchy of access to state resources and is transformed, through enfranchisement, into citizenship.113 In any case, the various fitan in the early Mamluk state can not be construed as a form of ethnic rioting.

The Structure of Mamluk Politics It is difficult to see how the permeable, transactional nature of clientelistic social practices could have generated anything like the anarchy with which the 110 See Bernardi, Age Class Systems, 62 – 72; Maybury-Lewis, Akwe Shavante Society, 105 – 205, 293 – 301; Uri Almagor, “The Ethos of Equality among Dassenetch Age-Peers,” in Age, Generation and Time, 69 – 93. 111 Michael Hechter et al., “A Theory of Ethnic Collective Action,” International Migration Review 16 (1982): 412 – 34. 112 Richard P. Sandbrook, “Patrons, Clients, and Factions: New Dimensions of Conflict Analysis in Africa,” Canadian Journal of Political Science 5 (1972), 104 – 05. 113 Ronald Cohen, “State Origins,” 60, 65 – 67; idem, Introduction to Origins of the State: The Anthropology of Political Evolution, ed. Ronald Cohen & Elman R. Service (Philadelphia: Institute for the study of Human Issues, 1978), 16; Frank McGlynn & Arthur Tuden, eds., Introduction to Anthropological Approaches to Political Behavior (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1991), 28.

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Mamluks have been so closely associated. If anything, the very flexibility of microsocial behavior within the Mamluk ruling elite encouraged the search for a negotiated positive-sum settlement rather than zero-sum military victory in the adjustment of power. While the size of one’s paramilitary clientele has been considered a factor of political power in Egyptian politics, even in more modern times, coercive power could not alone create authority even in the non-institutionalized dynamic of the Mamluk state.114 The Mamluk patronage state not only used but in fact relied on negotiation, including manipulation and intimidation, to derive its true power relationships since it possessed no real authority structure, for as L. Graziano has noted, “clientelism … hinders the institutionalization of authority.”115 Indeed, the substitution of a widespread hierarchical administration of patronage for unbridled factional competition for resources was the keystone of what contemporary Mamluk chroniclers referred to as the constitutional order (niza¯m) of the state. The notion of Mamluk society being guided by some kind of ˙ constitutional principle has already been broached. P.M. Holt, for instance, has referred vaguely to “the constitution of the Mamluk state” as a kind of parallax between “despotic monarchy” and “veiled oligarchy.”116 U. Haarmann has also spoken of a “Mamluk ‘constitution’” based on the notion that “only a Mamluk had access to political and military authority, and, more importantly, to the wealth of the country.”117 Neither have keyed, however, on the idea of the Mamluk state as a medieval Ständestaat, an informal constitutional system in which the natural appetite for dominance by the dynast was naturally constrained by the Mamluk Junkertum, the collectivity of paramilitary patron-leaders and their clients who composed the militaristic-agrarian complex of late medieval SyroEgypt. The early Mamluk state of course produced no written constitution – no 114 David Kimche, “The Political Superstructure of Egypt in the Late Eighteenth Century,” The Middle East Journal 22 (1968), 455; Daniel Crecelius, The Roots of Modern Egypt: A Study of The Regimes of ‘Ali Bey al-Kabir and Muhammad Bey Abu al-Dhahab, 1760 – 1775 (Minneapolis and Chicago: Bibliotheca Islamica, 1981), 30 – 32; Peter M. Holt, “The Last Phase of the Neo-Mamluk Regime in Egypt,” L ‘Egypte au XIX Siecle, Colloques internationaux du centre national de la recherche scientifique, no. 594 (Paris: CNRS, 1982), 144; S. Akhavi, “Egypt: Neo-Patrimonial Elite,” in Political Elites and Political Development in the Middle East, ed. F. Tachau (New York: Halsted, 1975): 69 – 113; Clement Henry Moore, “Clientelist Ideology,”; Robert Springborg, Family, Power and Politics in Egypt; I. William Zarunan, “Opposition as Support of the State,” Beyond Coercion: The Durability of the Arab State, eds. Adeed Dawisha & I. William Zartman (London: Croom Helm, 1988): 61 – 87. 115 Graziano, “A Conceptual Framework for the Study of Clientelistic Behavior,” 169. 116 Holt, “The Structure of Government in the Mamluk Sultanate,” 46. 117 Ulrich Haarmann, “The Sons of Mamluk as Fief-holders in Late Medieval Egypt,” in Land Tenure and Social Transformation in the Middle East, ed. Tarif Khalidi (Beirut: American University, 1984), 141.

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Magna Carta – formally enunciating the collective rights of its patrimonial elite.118 This may have been in part because the Mamluk umara¯ , unlike its counterparts among the medieval European nobility, never properly developed what Max Weber called Rechtsgenossenschaft, an autonomous legal solidarity. The Mamluks failed to evolve a formal service law (Dienstrecht) by which the amirs might collectively establish themselves over time into a legally autonomous status group, one whose members, for instance, could not be arbitrarily executed by the ruler. Yet, despite this lack of formal constitutional protection, the Mamluk elite as a whole continued to guard its vested interests by virtue of its own paramilitary power, a prerogative which no early sultan, however bold, ever seriously contemplated abolishing. Even highly legalistic late medieval regimes considering the prohibition of such paramilitary force within its nobility realized ultimately it could not act without threatening its own power base and the security of the state.119 Though perhaps without a defining historic moment like Runnymeade, the Mamluk baronage nevertheless accrued from the outset practical constitutionlike prerogatives which allowed it effectively to enter into a political condominium with the sultan in the exploitation of a state that was neither entirely patrimonial nor entirely bureaucratic. Constitutionalism and ‘sultanism’ were co-extensive in the early Mamluk state. Perhaps, as R. Gilmore has observed about caudillism in Latin America, it “functioned through and around formal constitutional government…”120 Mamluk rulers, the successful ones anyway, understood it was more sensible to patronize and accommodate members of the ruling elite, make its members stakeholders in the regime through the distribution of rank and wealth, rather than try continually to minimize and repress it.121 Like contemporary princes of Muscovite Russia, for instance, Mamluk sultans risked much through the application of arbitrary force, for Mamluk amirs, like Muscovite boyars, had their own paramilitary retinues and influ118 Aziz Sourial Atiya, “A Mamluk ‘Magna Carta’,” in Arab Civilization: Challenges and Responses: Studies in Honor of Constantine K. Zurayk, eds. George N. Atiyeh and Ibrahim M. Oweiss (Albany : State University of New York, 1988): 128 – 39, refers to an edict meant to advantage “the common folk” rather than the Mamluk elite. 119 William Huse Dunham, Jr., “Lord Hastings’ Indentured Retainers, 1461 – 1483: The Lawfulness of Livery and Retaining under the Yorkists and Tudors,” Transactions of the Connecticut Academy of Arts and Sciences 39 (1955): 1 – 175; J.R. Lander, Crown and Nobility, 1450 – 1509 (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1976), 267 – 99. 120 Robert L. Gilmore, Caudillism and Militarism in Venezuela, 1810 – 1910 (Athens: Ohio University Press, 1964), 55. 121 Even the regime of Louis XIV, once an historical archetype of despotic absolutism, has been shown recently to have been based less on coercion than the widespread distribution of patronage within the traditional French ruling elite, see, J.S. Morrill, “French Absolutism as Limited Monarchy,” Historical Journal 21 (1978): 961 – 72; Roger Menam, Power and Faction in Louis XIV’s France (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1988).

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enced the politics of the various provincial juyu¯sh.122 Like Muscovy, too, the articulation of a cursus honorum in the Mamluk state can be tied to the need to provide greater opportunity for such vertical integration of large segments of the elite as a whole.123 The adoption of a positive-sum outcome through universal stakeholding in fact created a social discipline among the Mamluks which militated against the sort of rootless adventurism practiced by marginalized paramilitary types in other late medieval societies. The Italian condottiere, the German Landsknecht, the Japanese ro¯nin even the Ottoman jelal„ had no parallel in the early Mamluk state; if the Mamluks exploited the Syro-Egyptian countryside they did so administratively as stakeholders not opportunistically as ad hoc bands of armed vagabonds. What dissatisfaction existed within the elite was generated, therefore, not by a chronic sub-class of paramilitary “have nots” but by those who were very much “haves.” This irony can be explained perhaps by the V-curve hypothesis. Sometimes referred to as the “Tocqueville Paradox” the V-curve hypothesis maintains that the greatest potential for political upheaval resides not only among those who perceive negative changes to their status but among especially those who perceive positive changes as well – those having done well are driven to do even better. As a rule, such narrow dissent rarely became a revolutionary tide, suggesting there existed among the Mamluks as a whole a genuine satisfaction or at least utility of achievement with their relative access to resources in the hierarchy.124 As J. T. Duke has concluded about social conflict, it is meant to effect “the rank hierarchies of a society rather than to change or revolutionize the society.”125 Certainly, the ruling elite of medieval Syro-Egypt seems to have been at least as “risk-averse” as the peasantry of modern Egypt. N. Brown has suggested recently that peasant politics in Egypt over the last century has been driven by “overriding subsistence needs.” The fallahin have shown themselves unwilling to risk their basic economic position in expectation of greater possible payoffs through political radicalism and violence. Collective “subsistence needs” have led ultimately to a collective “subsistence ethic” or “moral economy” among 122 Nancy Shields Kollman, Kinship and Politics, 72. 123 The articulation of a vertical hierarchy in the preceding Ayyubid period appears to have been little advanced, see, Humphreys, “The Emergence of the Mamluk Army,” 83. 124 Herbert Simon, “A Behavioral Model of Rational Choice,” Quarterly Journal of Economics 69 (1955): 99 – 118; W.H. McWhinney, “Aspiration Levels and Utility Theory,” General Systems Yearbook 19 (1965): 131 – 43; Edward N. Muller, “A Test of a Partial Theory of Potential for Political Violence,” American Political Science Review 66 (1972): 928 – 59; idem and Bernard N. Grofman, “The Strange Case of Relative Gratification and Potential for Political Violence: The V – Curve Hypothesis,” American Political Science Review 67(1973): 514 – 39. 125 Duke, Conflict and Power in Social Life, 247.

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peasants which has allowed them to unify and react politically to perceived threats to that subsistence on the basis of “moral violations of peasant rights.”126 Indeed, as J.C. Scott has observed about the ‘moral economy’ of peasants in Southeast Asia: “…it is difficult to imagine how any disparities in wealth and resources can be legitimated unless the right to subsistence is given priority…”127 The issue of moral economy in the Syro-Egyptian Mamluk state has been raised, in standard Owenite and Chartist terms, with respect to the distribution of grain in late medieval Cairo.128 Yet, the concept of moral economy can be applied equally to the study of intra-elite politics as well. When the Mamluk elite acted politically it did so typically as a unified consensus group. Considerations of moral economy led the Mamluks especially to stand up for what they perceived as their collective rights (huqu¯q) in their dealings with sultans and would˙ be sultans. Irwin’s view of Mamluk politics as the aggregation of how each individual member of the elite “simply calculated his own best selfish interest” makes more of a rational peasant out of the average Mamluk than he probably was; his view that “party politics, ideology and ‘irrational solidarity bonds’” were not the actual bases for political action is only partly right. The Mamluks, like Brown’s fallahin, clearly possessed a collective moral economy based on the preservation of the rights of seniority in the hierarchy of access from which they all benefited in some way.129 At the same time, this collective subsistence requirement discouraged Mamluks as a whole from participating in the sort of reckless, high-risk paramilitary ventures which could easily bring down the state in a spiral of uncontrolled competitive violence. We possess in the interrelationship of collective patrimonial rights (huqu¯q) with their constitutional ˙ protection (niza¯m), in fact, the macrostructure of the Mamluk sociopolitical ˙ system. This collective but pragmatic concern with may or may not be best described as an ideology, however, as N. Smelser has noted, such folk-cultural elements can be sustained as a legitimate defense of the state against internal threat.130 The Mamluks clearly recognized some macrostructural constraint on the microprocesses of interaction and exchange which characterized their politics. If there exists any real application of the Parsonian “law of inertia” of the social process in the Mamluk state, this may be it. 126 Brown, Peasant Politics in Modern Egypt, 16 – 18; 127 James C. Scott, The Moral Economy of the Peasant: Rebellions and Subsistence in Southeast Asia (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1976), 176 – 77. 128 Irwin, The Middle East in the Middle Ages, 154. 129 Shoshan, Grain Riots and the Moral Economy, 459 – 78. 130 Neil J. Smelser, “Depth Psychology and the Social Order,” in The Micro-Macro Link, eds. Jeffrey C. Alexander and Bernhard Giesen (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1987): 267 – 86.

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The macrostructure of moral economy and its constitutional order conditioned much of what is referred to as “factionalism” within the Mamluk ruling elite. Factionalism was not a violent multipolar free-for-all, however, but rather a careful bi-polar competition to define social power between a ruler “who overstepped his bounds” and a “veto group” formed by the Mamluk elite incarnate in the army (jaysh). Sociopolitical conflict in the medieval Mamluk state, as in many modern Hispanic societies, was typically resolved not by uncontrolled factional violence (machetismo) but “a more highly developed, complex method of organizing and changing governments.” The collective “treason of the barracks” (cuartelazo) or a more proactive but still relatively bloodless pronunciamiento ultimately served the statist structure more efficiently than an unpredictable and extended civil war.131 The political behavior of the Mamluk umara¯ also brings to mind the autonomous, unified and self-disciplined actions of the military “veto regimes” of modern Turkey, which have also arrogated to themselves the interpretation and protection of their constitutional ideals.132 This macrosocial context reveals, too, the true role of the Mamluk sultan. The sultan was neither a “puppet” nor a “despot,” nor was he expected to stimulate gratuitous factional competition in order to create political advantage for himself. He was instead a “privileged interlocutor” or “gatekeeper” upon whose organizational skills the patronage system as a whole largely depended for its equilibrium and internal order.133 The sultan’s chief concern in effect was cultivating the moral economy of his elite. Those who failed as gatekeepers were those typically who attempted to rule despotically, i. e. attempted to monopolize and restrict the flow of resources to the elite as a whole. Scholars have assumed, erroneously, that Mamluk politics was a zero-sum game in which a small dominant element routinely monopolized state resources to the exclusion of the rest of the elite; this assumption has even been reified recently as “the logic of the Mamlu¯k system.”134 Even Irwin has scarcely challenged this working hypothesis: “The struggle for power in the Mamluk Sultanate was not a zero-sum game in the strictest sense; … nevertheless, it approaches it.”135 Those regimes which attempted to impose a zero-sum outcome were predictably also short-lived re131 Edward Luttwak, Coup d’Êtat: A Practical Handbook (1968; reprint, Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1979), 24 – 26; Stanley G. Payne, Politics and the Military in Modern Spain (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1967), 14 – 30: Carolyn P. Boyd, Praetorian Politics in Liberal Spain (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolian Press, 1979), 3 – 25; Wolf and Hansen, “Caudillo Politics,” 177; Stokes,“Violence as a Power Factor in Latin-American Politics,” 449 – 51. 132 Hale, Turkish Politics and The Military, 316 – 23. 133 Crozier and Friedberg, Actors and Systems, 82 – 86. 134 Amitai-Preiss, “The Remaking of the Military Elite of Mamlu¯k Egypt by al-Na¯sir Mu˙ hammad b. Qala¯wu¯n,” 256 – 57. ˙ 135 Irwin, The Middle East in the Middle Ages, 153 – 54.

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gimes. Despotism, ironically, was a weakness rather than a strength in the structure of early Mamluk politics. Strong rulers like al-Za¯hir Baybars, al˙ Mansu¯r Qala¯wu¯n or al-Na¯sir Muhammad were successful not because they ˙ ˙ ˙ stimulated factionalism or acted with arbitrary violence but because they chose to fulfill their primary role as gatekeepers to a constitutional order (niza¯m), the ˙ main purpose of which was cultivating the moral economy of the Mamluk elite.136 P.M. Holt has drawn attention rightly to the notion of “dynasticism” in the Mamluk sultanate as “specious and misleading.”137 The Mamluk state had no meaningful institutionalized succession based ultimately on sentiment, only on performance; sultans stood or fell based on their reputation as upholders of the constitutional system of distribution of resources and rotation of power. The ability of many non-dynastic Mamluk rulers to gain political consensus, if only briefly, is a throwback in some ways to the politics of pre-state societies in which ambitious, strong and charismatic Big Men or chiefs follow one another through the provision of some basic societal requirement. Mamluk rulers who attempted to build and maintain a positive-sum consensus did not of course entirely eschew the use of coercive measures. Neither did their challengers. Mass violence, however, was on the whole relatively infrequent in the early Mamluk state. Though Mamluk amirs individually must have possessed plenty of machismo, collectively they seemed to have recognized that machetismo, the use of unrestrained violence for political ends, was a “costly and time-consuming methodology for establishing authority.”138 In many ways the phenomenon of intra-elite violence in late medieval Syro- Egypt is evocative of what has been described for late medieval England as “bastard feudalism.” Though often guilty of riotous behavior and other paramilitary misdemeanors, English nobles like Mamluk amirs were usually careful not to cross the line to commit serious felonies when pursuing their personal ambitions and grudges; importantly, too, when conflict threatened to get out of hand, they frequently sought to end their disputes through arbitration. As well, both the late medieval English nobility and the Mamluk umara¯ formed themselves through patronage and retaining rather than genuine feudal, tenurial service.139 136 The strangely dependent authority of Mamluk rulers invokes the so-called ‘Big-Man’ concept in political anthropology, a leader whose authority is derived through the manipulation of resources in an egalitarian society lacking formal political institutions, see Martin A. van Bakel, Renee R. Hagesteijn & Pieter van de Velde, eds., Private Politics: A Multi-Disciplinary Approach to ‘Big-Man’ Systems (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1986). 137 Holt, “The Position and Power of the Mamlu¯k Sultan,” 240. 138 Stokes, “Violence as a Power Factor in Latin-American Politics,” 449 – 51; Wolf and Hansen. “Caudillo Politics,” 174 – 75. 139 K.B. McFarlane,“Bastard Feudalism,” Bulletin of the Institute of Historical Research 20 (1943 – 45): 161 – 80; idem, England in the Fifteenth Century (London: Hambledon Press, 1981); Joel T. Rosenthal, “Feuds and Private Peace-Making: A Fifteenth-Century Example,”

The Structure of Mamluk Politics

61

Conflict, when it did occur in the Mamluk state, was not necessarily a call for mass violence or revolution but a case for the readjustment of power relationships within it. Conflict was largely agonistic or dramaturgic, intended as a demonstration of power meant to draw attention to and redress individual or collective grievances about access to resources rather than actually to exterminate opposition. Groups using structured violence in this way to renegotiate their hierarchical status can be said to have been engaged in what R. Williams has called “aspirational conflict.”140 This reflected only the “relative deprivation” of certain individuals or small groups and underscores that the franchise of benefits was seen to be theoretically universal. Moreover, since loyalty was essentially transactional, it was not difficult to circumvent violent conflict by suborning rank-and-file supporters. Clients were usually detached from fraternal or ethnic loyalties through patronage relationships. In dealing with potential challenges, therefore, rulers had normally to act against a few patron-leaders rather than the whole clientele. This allowed the Mamluks to reduce significantly the cost of their politics. Economizing on such transaction costs made the state more efficient in maximizing its “profits”, i. e. patronage benefits to the elite.141 This in turn helped preserve state structure. Even against such dissident patron-leaders Mamluk society favoured temporary social disgrace and disenfranchisement through arrest and detention rather than execution.142 As Haas reminds us, the withholding of benefits can be an effective form of coercion in the evolution of state formation.143 Detention figured so prominently in Mamluk politics precisely because it was so revocable.

140 141 142

143

Nottingham Medieval Studies 14 (1970): 84 – 90; Carole Rawcliffe, “The Great Lord as Peacekeeper : Arbitration by English Noblemen and Their Councils in the Later Middle Ages,” in Law and Social Change in British History, ed. J.A. Guy and H.G. Beale, 34 – 53 (Atlantic Highland: Humanities Press, 1984); Edward Powell, “Settlement of Disputes by Arbitration in Fifteenth-Century England,” Law and History Review 2 (1984): 21 – 43; Simon J. Payling, “Law and Arbitration in Nottinghamshire, 1399 – 1461,” in People, Politics and Community in the Later Middle Ages, eds. Joel T. Rosenthal and Colin Richmond, 140 – 60 (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1987); J.G. BellArmy, Bastard Feudalism and the Law (Portland: Areopagitica, 1989); Philippa C. Maddern, Violence and Social Order: East Anglia, 1422 – 1442 (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1992). Robin M. Williams, Jr., “Relative Deprivation versus Power Struggle? ‘Tension’ and ‘Structural’ Explanations of Collective Conflict,” Cornell Journal of Social Relations 11 (1976), 34. Williamson, “The Economics of Organization;” idem, “A Transaction Cost Approach to Families and Households.” A comparable use of detention and social disgrace to discipline members of the ruling elite can be found in late medieval Muscovy and early modern Spain, Ann M. Kleimola “The Muscovite Autocracy at Work: The Use of Disgrace as an Instrument of Control,” Russian Law: Historical and Political Perspectives, ed. William E. Butler (Leyden: A.W. Sijthoff, 1977): 29 – 50; Kollman, Kinship and Politics, 74; Ruth Pike, Penal Servitude in Early Modern Spain (Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press, 1983), 41 – 45. Haas, The Evolution of the Prehistoric State, 82 – 83.

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It provided the ruler with an easy way of destroying a challenge without having to destroy the challengers themselves and setting off, thereby, an unmanageable spiral of violence. Moreover, following Kaplan, these political detainees often were rehabilitated and welcomed back into elite society as acceptable role players. Like Machiavelli’s Prince, successful Mamluk rulers “knew how to act the part of both a fox and a lion”, to balance the use of patronage and coercion in the creation of their state.144 Political rehabilitation itself was mediated, like much else in Mamluk society, by patronage. Detainees were reintegrated as stakeholders, restored to their former rank and holdings or given new benefit (ni mah) as compensation; a few offenders even emerged from detention higher up in the hierarchy than before they went in. Concepts among the Mamluks such as forgiveness ( afu¯), intercession (shafa ah), clemency (ama¯n) and reconciliation (sulh) were part of the ˙ ˙ vocabulary of rehabilitation and conflict resolution; they were as important in restoring and preserving niza¯m as ni mah was in establishing it in the first place. ˙ ˘

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144 Niccolo Machiavelli, The Prince, trans. George Bull (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1981), 99 – 102, 109, 112 – 13. Ibn Khaldu¯n’s assessment of the conditions favoring consensus correspond interestingly to those adduced a century later by Machiavelli in his political primer, The Prince. Indeed, the two thinkers have already been linked. It is interesting to note that although Machiavelli relied on Classical models to exemplify many of his ideas he appears to have found in the contemporary Mamluk state the only contemporary example of political authority still bound by the wishes of its military rather than civil constituency, as in the days of the Roman Empire. For Mamluk rulers, like Roman emperors before them, the key to retaining power did not lay simply in catering to the desires of their elite but in knowing how to balance coercive measures with cooptative tactics in such dealings, E.J. Rosenthal, “Ibn Khaldun: A North African Muslim Thinker of the Fourteenth Century,” Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 24 (1940), 307 – 08; Fuad Baali, Society, State and Urbanism: Ibn Khaldu¯n’s Sociological Thought (Albany : State University of New York Press, 1988), 6. Machiavelli’s observations have been enshrined in the corpus of modern elite theory founded by the nineteenth-century sociologists, Gaetano Mosca and Vilfredo Pareto. Mosca believed that political stability was not derived from an elite being either “autocratic” or “liberal” or “democratic” or “aristocratic” but a balance of these essential tendencies. Pareto, too, in his notion of the circulation of elites viewed stability as emanating from an interchange or cycle of different socio-political values; in short, elites maintained themselves by a balance in their use of cooptation and coercion, Gaetano Mosca, The Ruling Class, trans. Hannah D. Kahn & ed. Arthur Livingston (New York: McGraw Hill, 1939),428; Vilfredo Pareto, “Un applicazione di teorie sociologiche,” Rivista italiana di sociologia (1900): 402 – 56; idem , A Treatise on General Sociology, vol. 3 (New York: Dover, 1963), 2025 – 59; Ibid., vol. 4, 2227 – 37; 2274 – 78; 2482 – 88; H. Stuart Hughes, “Gaetano Mosca and the Political Lessons of History,” in Teachers and History, eds. H. Stuart Hughes et al., (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1954): 146 – 67; N. Bobio, “Liberalism Old and New,” Confluence 5 (1956): 239 – 51; James H. Meisel, The Myth of the Ruling Class (Ann Arbor : University of Michigan Press, 1958); idem, Pareto and Mosca (Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall, 1965); Edward M. Burns, Ideas in Conflict (New York: Norton, 1960; Renzo Sereno, The Rulers (New York: Praeger. 1962), 29 – 35. 106 – 14; F. Kolegar, “The Elite and the Ruling Class: Pareto and Mosca Re-examined,” Review of Politics 29 (1967): 354 – 69.

Conclusion

63

Conclusion In studying the historic structure of social power, M. Mann has observed the dialectical relationship of its organizational and distributive aspects; they have been historically intertwined in such a way that “cooperative, collective power relations” have been implemented through coercive “organization and … division of labor.”145 J. Tainter, in assessing the causes of the collapse of complex societies, has noted similarly the importance of the “equation” of sociopolitical organization with the distribution of resources; the failure of early states to maintain that structural “harmony” was often tied to their demise.146 Current thinking on the late medieval Syro-Egyptian state seems largely blind, however, to such requirements of social power. Scholars appear to believe that the Mamluk sultanate was an amorphous polity, indeed, an anarchy without any dialectic or equation of sociopolitical organization and distribution of resources. The Mamluk elite was apparently indifferent to the social cost of unstructured, unrestrained paramilitary competition for resources. While such thinking may explain, possibly, the final years of the Mamluk state, it seems a naive interpretation of the preceding two and one quarter centuries of Mamluk history. However the Mamluk state may have ended, it is counterintuitive to imagine it could have formed and then risen to greatness along such lines. The early Mamluk state, in fact, structured social power quite well. Mamluk sociopolitical practices were organized precisely to circumvent systemic disorder and promote coherence through the application of a universal and equitable distribution of resources among a potentially highly fissionable ruling elite; this distribution was related dialectically to the “coercive” practice of hierarchical access based on seniority. Even those who challenged their position in the patronate did so through the practice of structured violence. Nor was sultanic authority, as one observer has claimed recently, “dependent almost exclusively on force at all times.”147 Rather it was derived from the ruler’s ability and willingness to guarantee that widespread distribution of equity, to cultivate the moral economy of the Mamluk elite as a whole. Though mass violence was rare, social conflict was not. Yet, when conflict arose it often bore the hallmarks of what Macauley once called “‘defensive revolution.” That is to say, opponents using a minimum of force attempted to constrain, modify, but only in the ex-

145 Michael Mann, The Sources of Social Power: Volume I: A History of Power from the Beginning to A.D. 1760 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 6 – 7. 146 Joseph A. Tainter, The Collapse of Complex Societies (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 91. 147 Amalia Levanoni, “The Mamluk Conception of the Sultanate,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 26 (1994), 375.

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treme, replace the existing regime in order to reestablish consensus within the political community as a whole. These dialectical processes in the early Mamluk state were largely informal, as they are today in the modern Arab state. Like the early Mamluk state, too, these processes in the modern state have yet to be embodied meaningfully in a written constitution. Yet, in both situations, principles of social action have come to form a kind of operative substitute. Theorists of the modern Arab state, developing the logic of dynamic equilibrium analysis, have not suggested that modern processes of internal challenge are inherently chaotic or that their resolution is the result simply of force or raw ideological appeal. Anthropologists have liked to suggest an historic “core contradiction of Middle Eastern social structure” between dichotomous Central Asian notions of rank and authority and Middle Eastern notions of egalitarianism.148 If this is so, the early Mamluks at least seem to have found a way to integrate these two requirements of social power into a successful sociopolitical hybrid.

148 Lindholm, “Kinship Structures and Political Authority,” 350 – 52.

Chapter 3 – The Search for Niza¯m (1249 – 1260/647 – 58) ˙

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The political role expansion, like the introduction, of the mamlu¯k into medieval Syro-Egypt began long before the actual foundation of the Mamluk state itself in 1260/658. Since at least the ninth/third century the exercise of political power, if not actual authority, had often been as much the prerogative of the abna¯ aldawlah as the dawlah itself.1 By the mid-thirteenth/seventh century that phenomenon appeared to be ascending again. The assassination of the Ayyubid ruler, al-Malik al-Mu azzam Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h, at the hands of his father’s mama¯lik in ˙˙ 1250/648, though a dramatic benchmark in that process, was not necessarily a revolutionary one. Many of course have viewed Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h’s assassination as ipso facto the beginning of the end of the Ayyubid dawlah in Syro-Egypt. As A. Levanoni has concluded recently, after Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h’s death “removal of the Ayyubids was a question of time ….” Others, taking a less deterministic view, have tried to look beyond the event itself; yet, these scholars have confessed puzzlement at the “ultimate causes of the political revolution” which brought the Mamluks to power.2 Ultimately there was more evolution than revolution in the Ayyubid collapse. Even the medieval mu allim, Ibn Khaldu¯n, recognized that the waning of dy˘

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1 Although there is some debate how early in the ninth/third century non-free, i. e. mamlu¯k, servitors may have been introduced into Syro-Egypt, by 896/282 they were already flexing their political muscle, assassinating Khuma¯rawayh, son of the eponymous founder of the first ‘Turkish’ Syro-Egyptian dynasty. Ahmad b. Tu¯lu¯n, Patricia Crone, Slaves on Horses: The ˙ ˙ Evolution of the Islamic Polity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980), 75, 255; Jere L. Bacharach, “African Military Slaves in the Medieval Middle East: The Cases of Iraq (869 – 955) and Egypt (868 – 1171),” International Journal of Middle East Studies 13 (1981), 477. 2 Gaston Wiet, L’Êgypte arabe de la ConquÞte arabe a la conquÞte ottomane, 642-m1517 de l’ere chr¦tienne, vol. 4, Histoire de la nation ¦gyptienne, ed. G. Hanotaux (Paris: Libraire Plon, 1937), 4: 403; S.A.F. ‘Ashsu¯r, Misr wa al-Sha¯m fi asr al-Ayyu¯biyyı¯n wa al-Mama¯lı¯k (Beirut: ˙ 115; Sir John Glubb, ˙ Da¯r al-Nahdah al’ Arabiyyah, 1972), Soldiers of Fortune: The Story of the ˙ Mamlukes (New York: Praeger, 1973), 40; R.S. Humphreys, From Saladin to the Mongols: The Ayyubids of Damascus, 1193 – 1260 (Albany : State University of New York Press, 1977), 8 – 9,304; Holt, The Age of the Crusades, 82; lrwin, The Middle East in The Middle Ages, 21; Amalia Levanoni, “The Mamluks’ Ascent to Power in Egypt,” Studia lslamica 72 (1990), 136.

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nastic consensus ( asabiyyah) does not occur in a vacuum. Rather it was ˙ symptomatic of a larger structural problem inherent, Ibn Khaldu¯n thought, in all duwal: the sociopolitics of clientelism (wala¯ ). The Ayyubid polity began to fission in 1250/648 because of the increasing incompatibility between the requirements of clientelism and those of authoritarian centralization initiated by the last Ayyubid ruler of Egypt of any real consequence, al-Malik al-Sa¯lih Najm ˙ ˙ al-Dı¯n. Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h’s interpretation of his father’s statist experiment encouraged him to challenge the hierarchy of patronage established during the 1240’s for the benefit principally of his father’s mama¯lı¯k, the Sa¯lihiyyah. The history of Egypt ˙ ˙ between the death of al-Malik al-Sa¯lih Najm al-Dı¯n and the elevation of his ˙ ˙ mamlu¯k, al-Malik al-Za¯hir Baybars, a decade later turns largely on the failure of ˙ late Ayyubids to preserve that clientelistic relationship through a consensus based on more on seniority, equity and universal access to resources rather than arbitrary patronage and violence.

The Legacy of al-Sa¯lih Ayyu¯b ˙ ˙ Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h’s failure may be considered ultimately a constitutional one. It was part of what R.S. Humphreys has referred to more generally as the “constitutional question”, overhanging the Ayyubid period, based on the desire to create a unitary state within the complicated circumstances of localized autonomous political units. Humphreys thought that in the desire to evolve a more rationalized state “Saladin’s…successors would begin to search for bonds of a more impersonal, institutional kind” than those clientelistic ones upon which Saladin himself had built his state.3 Ironically, the reverse seems to have occurred. The experiment undertaken by al-Sa¯lih during the 1240s to effect greater admin˙ ˙ istrative and political centralization served only to embed the Ayyubid dawlah more firmly still into an increasingly troubled patronal dependence upon the

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3 The Ayyubids rose from obscurity in the early twelfth/sixth century through the patronage network established by the Turkish atabegs of Mesopotamia. Though they had earlier served Kurdish dynasties such as the Rawwa¯dids and Shadda¯dids in the tenth/fourth and eleventh/ fifth centuries, the Ayyubids do not seem to have been a natural focus for the asabiyyah of ˙ his son, other Kurdish clans until their prominence under the regional patronage of Zangı¯ and Nu¯r al-Dı¯n. Saladin’ s take-over of the Fatimid wazirate in 1169/564 enabled him to reinforce these ties and, indeed, build others through his own highly personal patronage network based on the wealth of Syro-Egypt, Vladimir Minorsky, Studies in Caucasian History (London: Taylor’ s Foreign Press, 1953), 123, 128 – 32; Nikita Eliss¦eff, Nur al-Dı¯n: Un grand prince musulman de Syrie au temps des Croisades, 3 vols. (Damascus: Institut franÅais de Damas, 1967), 2: 346,371,401 – 02,469 – 72,487,517 – 19,526,550.582,642,651 – 53, 663, 673 – 74, 683 – 84, 747, 763, 768 – 70; Andrew S. Ehrenkreutz, Saladin (Albany : State University of New York Press, 1972), 27 – 33; Humphreys, From Saladin to the Mongols, 20 – 23, 39;

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The Legacy of al-Sa¯lih Ayyu¯b ˙ ˙

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very mawa¯lı¯ being raised as “new men” to staff the apparatus of al-Sa¯lih’s proto˙ ˙ state. The demise of Ayyubid consensus especially among the ‘new men’ in Egypt was not the result merely of tactless or even idiosyncratic behavior on the part of Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h. Al-Sa¯lih himself had already laid much of the groundwork for the ˙ ˙ collision between the interests of a centralized dawlah and its patrimonial mawa¯lı¯. Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h’s misguided attempt at fulfilling the internal logic of his father’s centralizing experiment in 1250/648 merely triggered a constitutional crisis which had been growing throughout the 1240s and, perhaps, had stalked Egyptian politics since the death of Ibn Tu¯lu¯n three and a half centuries before. Al-Malik al-Sa¯lih had of course begun early on an important and close as˙ ˙ sociation with his mama¯lı¯k. By 1229/626 – 27 he may have possessed as many as a thousand, most probably acquired while serving briefly as na¯ ib of Egypt during the absence of his father, al-Malik al-Ka¯mil Muhammad, in Syria.4 Little is ˙ known about the motives or intentions behind this first, controversial experiment with recruiting a large mamlu¯k cadre. Al-Sa¯lih’s later interest seems to have ˙ ˙ been tied, however, to disappointment with the infidelity (ghadr) of his erstwhile clientele, in fact an unreliable menagerie of free-born and mamlu¯k amirs drawn from all over Syro-Egypt and the Jazı¯rah, who had surrendered his base of operations in Damascus to his rival and uncle, al-Sa¯lih Isma¯ il, in 1239/637.5 ˙ ˙ Though scholars have inferred that al-Sa¯lih enjoyed a close relationship with ˙ ˙ his mama¯lı¯k, the Sa¯lihiyyah, neither the gratuity nor stability of that relationship ˙ ˙ should be taken for granted. Like all patrons, al-Sa¯lih understood the reciprocal ˙ ˙ nature of fidelity and patronage, that moral ties had to be reinforced eventually by practical and timely benefits. Manumission did not end patronal dependence for either mamlu¯k or usta¯dh. When in 1240/637 al-Sa¯lih manumitted and pro˙ ˙ moted a substantial number of his mama¯lı¯k the patent of manumission (muja¯za¯h) granted to them was made conditional “upon their remaining in his service (khidmah).”6 Al-Sa¯lih, now sultan of Egypt, was of course in a position to ˙ ˙ make ample provision for his former mama¯lı¯k at this very moment from iqta¯ ˙ ruthlessly confiscated from Ashrafı¯ and Ka¯malı¯ amirs recently jailed for opposing his elevation.7 Al-Sa¯lih’s active recruitment and promotion of mama¯lı¯k ˙ ˙

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4 Claude Cahen, “‘La Chronique des Ayyoubides’ d’ al-Makı¯n b. al-’Amı¯d,” Bulletin d’Êtudes Orientales 15 (1955), 139. 5 Jama¯l al-Dı¯n Muhammad b. Sa¯lim Ibn Wa¯sil, Mufarrij al-kuru¯b fı¯ akhba¯r Banı¯ Ayyu¯b, MS ˙ ˙ 66b; Cahen, “La ‘Chronique des Ayyoubides’ Arabe No. 1702. Bibliotheque Nationale, Paris, d’al-Makı¯n b. al’ Amı¯d,” 150. 6 Ibn Wa¯sil, Mufarrij, fols. 29b – 30a; Cahen, “La ‘Chronique des Ayyoubides’ d’ al-Makı¯n b. al’Amı¯d”˙150 – 51. 7 At the time of his exile in 1239/636, just before being recalled to ascend the throne of Egypt, alSa¯lih’s mamlu¯k retinue may have numbered only seventy or eighty, Ibn Wa¯sil, Mufarrij, 20a, ˙ ˙ Cahen, “La ‘Chronique des Ayyoubides’ d’ al-Makı¯n b. al-’Amı¯d,” 150. Levanoni ˙ 30a; accepts

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soon left an indelible impression on contemporaries that Egypt had become Sa¯lihi-ridden.8 By cultivating his own mama¯lı¯k in such an aggressive way al-Sa¯lih ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ no doubt hoped to infuse the paramilitary apparatus of Egypt with a fidelity wholly absent when he had been elevated to power in 1240/637 by a coalition of his father’s and brother’s amirs. However, like the early Abba¯sids, al-Sa¯lih’s experiment with building a stable ˙ ˙ political apparatus based on slavery and patronage was not finally successful. Despite his intimate relationship with the Sa¯lihiyyah, or perhaps because of it, he ˙ ˙ was unable to avoid friction with his mawa¯lı¯. Among numerous detainees and exiles during al-Sa¯lih’s reign, for instance, were members of the Sa¯lihiyyah.9 ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Collective opposition did not consolidate, however, until the last months of alSa¯lih’s life. In January 1249/Shawwa¯l 646 al-Sa¯lih clashed with his mama¯lı¯k over ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ¯ dil. The Sa¯lihiyyah objected his decision to liquidate his brother, Abu¯ Bakr al- A ˙ ˙ to executing such a taboo commission, and in the end only four of them could be rounded up to carry out the unpopular operation.10 In June 1249/Rabı¯ I 647 alSa¯lih had a more serious confrontation with his mama¯lı¯k in the aftermath of ˙ ˙ Damietta’s fall to Louis IX. Al-Sa¯lih felt the city had been evacuated prematurely ˙ ˙ and swore retribution against those responsible. His immediate execution of several civilian notables who had fled Damietta gave teeth to his threat. A rumor of al-Sa¯lih’s intention to discipline similarly soldiers of the Damietta garrison set ˙ ˙ off a mutiny in his military camp (mu askar) at Mansu¯rah. Prominent in that ˙ uprising was his own mamlu¯k guard. Indeed, only the timely intervention of the commander of the army (ata¯bak al- askar), the wily Fakhr al-Dı¯n Ibn Shaykh alShuyu¯kh, saved al-Sa¯lih apparently from the same bloody fate which was to ˙ ˙ overtake his son, Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h, a few months later at the mu askar of Fa¯risku¯r.11 The closing of ranks by the Sa¯lihiyyah against their usta¯dh in 1249/646 – 47 ˙ ˙ over internal policy differences suggests that al-Sa¯lih’s clientele had developed ˙ ˙ over the 1240s an autonomous ‘moral economy’ against which the normative claims of dynastic loyalty already fell substantially short.12 There were probably ˘

˘

˘

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8 9 10

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11 12

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non-contemporary testimony that al-Sa¯lih made such iqta¯’ hereditary among the Sa¯lihiyyah. ˙ ˙ in Egypt,” 125. ˙ ˙ ˙ Levanoni, “The Mamluks’ Ascent to Power Ibn Wa¯sil, Mufarrij, 66b. Baybars˙ al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdat al-fikrah fi ta¯rı¯kh al-hijrah MS Add. 23325. British Library, ˙ ¯ Bakr Abdalla¯h b. Aybak al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz al-durar wa-ja¯mi al-ghurar, London, 42a; Abu ed. U. Haarmann (Cairo: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 1971), 8: 61. Despite his precaution, al-Sa¯lih would survive his murdered brother by only ten months, and ˙ his son, Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h, would ˙be struck down by these same mama¯lı¯k, Sibt b. al-Jawzı¯, Mir’a¯t al˙ b. Qizouglu (Hyderazama¯n fi ta¯rı¯kh al-a ya¯n, ed. by Shamsud’-Din Abu’l-Muzaffar Yusuf bad: Dar al-Maaref Osmania, 1952), 8/2: 772; Claude Cahen, “Une source pour l’histoire des Croisades: les m¦moires de Sa’d ad-Din ibn Hamawiya Juwaı¯ni,” Bulletin de la Faculte des Lettres de l’Universite de Strasbourg 28 (1949 – 50), 332. Ibn al-Jawzı¯, Mir’a¯t, 8/2: 773 – 74. See, however, Humphreys, From Saladin to the Mongols, 304: “In view of al-Salih’s ability to

The Legacy of al-Sa¯lih Ayyu¯b ˙ ˙

69

a number of causes for this divergence. The generation of mama¯lı¯k which had come of age in Syro-Egypt between the Fifth and Seventh Crusades served a dynasty which had not only abdicated its original mandate as defenders of the faith but had turned inward against itself. Mama¯lı¯k with little actual military work to perform found themselves increasingly employed in ambiguous paramilitary operations, usually against a constellation of Ayyubid antagonists. Not surprisingly perhaps the chief abuser was al-Malik al-Sa¯lih himself. As Hum˙ ˙ phreys has observed, “… the character of al-Salih’s wars with his relatives could not have encouraged any sentiments of loyalty to the Ayyubid dynasty as a whole among his mamluks.”13 Gradually confined to ambiguous security functions as well as ceremonial duties the Sa¯lihiyyah no doubt found themselves professionally unfulfilled. ˙ ˙ Consequently, like soldiery in modern Africa, these mama¯lı¯k may have begun to reconsider their identity as a purely passive instrument of state and develop a consciousness and finally a set of interests different from those requiring increasingly unorthodox services of them.14 In any event by encouraging an unusually intimate relationship with his mawa¯lı¯ al-Sa¯lih had begun to lose sight, as ˙ ˙ Ibn Khaldu¯n warned, of some of the implicit costs of dependency upon clientelism as a vehicle for realizing centralizing statist ambitions. The more privileged the Sa¯lihiyyah became, the greater their desire for increased privilege ˙ ˙ and autonomy, vindication perhaps of the paradoxical V-curve hypothesis. In his posthumous testament al-Sa¯lih seems to have realized finally he was holding ˙ ˙

command the fidelity of his mamluks, their predominance … did not threaten him personally.” 13 Ibid., 304; Emmanuel Sivan, L’Islam et la Croisade: id¦ologie et propagande dans les r¦actions musulmanes aux Croisades (Paris: Adrien Maisonneuve, 1968), 130 – 58; Ira M. Lapidus, “Ayyu¯bid Religious Policy and the Development of the Schools of Law in Cairo,” Colloque international sur l’histoire du Caire, 27 Mars-5 Avril 1969, ed. Andr¦e Assabgui et al. (Cairo: Ministry of Culture of the Arab Republic of Egypt, n.d.), 284. 14 See, for instance, Samuel Decalo, “Military Coups and Military Regimes in Africa,” Journal of Modern African Studies 11 (1973): 105 – 27; Martin C. Needler, “Military Motives in the Seizure of Power,” Latin American Research Review 10 (1975): 62 – 78; Claude E. Welch, “The Roots and Implications of Military Intervention,” in Soldiers and State in Africa: A Comparative Analysis of Military Intervention and Political Change, ed. Claude E. Welch (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1970): 1 – 59; Jon Kraus, “Arms and Politics in Ghana,” in Soldiers and State in Africa: A Comparative Analysis of Military Intervention and Political Change, ed. Claude E. Welch (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1970): 154 – 221; Robin Luckham, The Nigerian Military : A Sociological Analysis of Authority and Revolt, 1960 – 67 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1975), 236 – 38, 247 – 51; Thomas S. Cox, Civil and Military Relations in Sierra Leone: A Case Study of African Soldiers in Politics (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1976), 11 – 12, 32 – 44, 79 – 88, 106; Henry Bienen, Armies and Parties in Africa (New York: Africana Publishing Company, 1978), 144 – 45.

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a tiger by the tail when he warned his son and successor, Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h, not only to preserve his patronage of the Sa¯lihiyyah but hasten to augment it.15 ˙ ˙

Shortcomings of Clientelism under Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h and Shajar al-Durr

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For its part the Sa¯lihiyyah seemed quite prepared, even eager to continue with ˙ ˙ Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h the profitable service relationship (khidmah) it had long enjoyed with his father. When, for instance, the Sa¯lih¯ı amir, Fa¯ris al-Dı¯n Aqtay, came to ˙ ˙ ˙ the Jazı¯rah to escort Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h back to Egypt, he cooly requested the addition of the city of Alexandria to his own benefice. News of Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h’s arrival at the Egyptian frontier post of al-Sa¯lihiyyah sent many of the Sa¯lihiyyah flocking to ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ welcome the new ruler and, more importantly, petition him to confirm and even grant new benefits to them.16 Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h’s view of how to centralize power in Syro-Egypt involved, however, challenging rather than confirming the paramountcy of the senior paramilitary force in Egypt, the Sa¯lihiyyah. His decision, though impolitic, was not ˙ ˙ simply an act of insolence (jur ah) or juvenile behavior (sibyaniyyah) directed by a vindictive son against the memory of his estranged father.17 Al-Sa¯lih, in his ˙ ˙ heavy recruitment of Turkish mawa¯lı¯, had technically violated “the old maxim of Muslim statecraft never to become dependent on any one ethnic group …”18 One of the immediate goals of Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h’s abbreviated reign may have been to redress this imbalance by cultivating the very Kurdish element disdained by his father.19 Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h had of course been the ruler of Hisn Kayfa¯ in the old Kurdish ˙ ˙ heartland of the Jazı¯rah (al-sharq) before coming to Egypt. It is Likely that his retinue was largely Kurdish already ; certainly those retainers singled out later in Egypt for special promotion and reward appear to have had a Kurdish background.20 Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h also sought to cultivate potential Kurdish support in Syria as well. On his way to Egypt he stopped over in Damascus to cultivate the

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15 Claude Cahen & Ibrahim Chabbouh, “Le testement d’ al-Malik as-Sa¯lih Ayyu¯b,” Bulletin ˙ ˙ ˙ d’Êtudes Orientales 29 (1977): 105, 112, 114. 16 Ibn Wa¯sil, Mufarrij, 78b, 84a. 17 Cahen, ˙“Le testement d’ al-Malik as-Sa¯lih Ayyu¯b,” 105. ˙ ˙ ˙ 304. 18 Humphreys, From Saladin to the Mongols, 19 Ibn Wa¯sil, Mufarrij, 81a, 87b; Cahen, “La ‘Chronique des Ayyoubides’ d’ al-Makı¯n b. alAmı¯d,”˙160; idem and Chabbouh, “Le testament d’al-Malik al-Sa¯lih Ayyu¯b,” 113. ˙ d’˙ al-Makı¯n b. al- Amı¯d,” 20 Ibn Wa¯sil, Mufarrij, 87b; Cahen, “La ‘Chronique des Ayyoubides’ ˙ 160. Levanoni, “The Mamluks’ Ascent to Power in Egypt,” 134, maintains Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h acquired no mama¯lı¯k. ˘

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Kurdish amirs in the city, including the Qaymarı¯ amirs so feared by his father, with a formidable distribution of cash and honors.21 On the eve of his assassination Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h may well have lulled himself into believing that the Kurds stood now as a potentially loyalist counterweight to the dominance of those Sa¯lihiyyah. Certainly while the conspiracy against Tu¯ra¯n˙ ˙ sha¯h was in its planning stages every effort was made to screen out the Kurdish amirs. Once assassination attempt was launched the Sa¯lihiyyah attempted to ˙ ˙ decoy the Kurds away from the killing ground of the mu askar at Fa¯risku¯r. However, if Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h thought jinsiyyah would necessarily create a mutual exclusivity between Kurds and Turks, he miscalculated the natural appeal of ethnic solidary. The Kurds, including Qaymarı¯ officers singled out for favoritism by Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h, were quite prepared to accommodate the Sa¯lihiyyah and allow ˙ ˙ Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h’s assassination to proceeded unhindered.22 Indeed, from a limited conspiracy among certain disgruntled Sa¯lih¯ı officers, ˙ ˙ the coup at Fa¯risku¯r ended as a virtual pronunciamiento by the entire Egyptian army. The apparent failure of any element to rally to Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h’s defense has led to the inference that the Egyptian “army no longer felt compelled to secure its interests within the context of dynastic loyalty.”23 Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h’s immediate successor, Shajar al-Durr, the widow of al-Malik al-Sa¯lih, has been viewed as well as ˙ ˙ incapable of rallying waning dynastic legitimacy.24 Yet, this is by no means clear. Though prepared to act boldly in defence of their moral economy, the Sa¯lihiyyah ˙ ˙ also tried to minimize afterward the potential revolutionary content of their act, differentiating Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h from the Ayyubid dawlah as a whole, portraying him as a deviant within the Muslim polity.25 Moreover, the electoral college convened to elevate a new ruler and dominated by Sa¯lih¯ı amirs split the ballot between two ˙ ˙ other Ayyubid princes, al-Malik al-Na¯sir of Damascus and al-Malik al-Mughı¯th ˙ of Karak. To break this deadlock consensus finally devolved upon yet another member of the Ayyubid dawlah, Shajar al-Durr, the wife of al-Malik al-Sa¯lih.26 ˙ ˙ Finally, when in July 1250/Rabi II 648, the ata¯bak, Aybak al-Sa¯lih¯ı attempted to ˙ ˙ seize the sultanate in his own name, his bid was crushed by renewed appeals ˘

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21 Ibn Wa¯sil, Mufarrij, fol. 81a; Cahen and Chabbouh, “Le testement d’ al-Malik al-Sa¯lih ˙ ˙ Ayyu¯b,”˙113. 22 In 1240/637 the Kurds had proven equally fickle during a similar mamlu¯k putsch against al¯ dil at the Bilbays mu askar, Ibn Wa¯sil, Mufarrij, 27a, 90a. Malik al- A 23 Humphreys, From Saladin to the Mongols, 9. ˙ 24 Ibid, 303 – 04; Irwin, The Middle East in the Middle Ages, 26; Holt, The Age of the Crusade, ¯ gypten: Sˇagˇarat ad-Durr in der arabischen Ge83 – 84; Götz Schregle, Die Sultanin von A schichtsschreibung und Literatur (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1961), 59 – 76, who provides a somewhat more ambiguous interpretation. 25 Ibn Wa¯sil, Mufarrij, fol. 90a; Le Sieur de Joinville, The Life of Saint Louis, trans. M.R.B. Shaw ˙ (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1963), 256. 26 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz , 8: 61.

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among the army to Ayyubid legitimacy. Even his own khushda¯shiyyah rejected Aybak’s coup de main, proclaiming that only those of the Banu¯ Ayyu¯b could still exercise rightful authority (amr) among them.27 The great rivalry between Aybak and his khushda¯sh, Aqtay, reached its ˙ fatal climax after Aqtay contracted marriage with the daughter of the Ayyubid ˙ ruler of Hama¯h, al-Malik al-Mansu¯r, in exchange, it was thought, for supporting ˙ ˙ his father-in-law’s ambition to mount the throne of Egypt.28 In the aftermath of Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h’s deposition, therefore, dynastic loyalty, whatever it may have meant, appeared intact among the Egyptian umara¯ . Indeed, one is compelled to ask what the practical criterion for dynastic loyalty was in a political system based by mid-century on the fusion of seniority and patronage into a hierarchy of access to resources, a system, moreover, now in the hands of the clients themselves? Ayyubid Egypt, increasingly under the veto of al-Sa¯lih’s “new men,” had already ceased to be, if it had ever been, a true ˙ ˙ Weberian Herrschaft; that is, a state founded on legal authority rather than the mediation and gratification of individual and/or corporate interests. The unsettling affaire des princes (1249 – 50/647 – 48) had probably only helped to crystallize thinking among the umara¯ about the existence of some sort of useful if unwritten constitutional order in which their benefits might be guaranteed. The basis for political consensus in Egypt lay essentially now in the continuity of power and privilege of a paramilitary elite drawn foremost from the ranks of alSa¯lih’s mamlu¯k establishment. The Sa¯lihiyyah clearly held to the view that their ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ age class privilege of rank and benefit was virtually a legal right. The sultan’s authority was in practical terms all but derived now from his ability or willingness to guarantee that franchise; in this regard even the captive infidel monarch, Louis IX of France, appeared for a time acceptable to the umara¯ as a potential new patron-ruler.29 Ibn Wa¯sil confirmed that the Sa¯lihiyyah construed ˙ ˙ ˙ their disenfranchisement by Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h as a manifest abuse of dynastic authority (amr).30 Even the foreign observer, Joinville, was quick to discern that the root cause of Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h’s assassination lay in his violation of the moral economy of the Sa¯lihiyyah, summarily dismissing their membership from important ben˙ ˙

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27 Ibid., 8: 13. 28 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 25. 29 Louis’s appeal may have been tied to a mistaken belief among the Mamluks that he was associated with the German Hohenstauffen Emperor, Frederick II, for whom there may have been already some sentiment within the Egyptian umara¯ ‘. The Egyptian ata¯bak al- askar, Fakhr al-Dı¯n Ibn Shaykh al-Shuyu¯kh, for instance, prominently displayed on his banner the coat-of-arms of Frederick II alongside that of al-Malik al-Sa¯lih. Joinville, after his capture, ˙ a˙ relation of Frederick II; his was asked by a high-ranking Mamluk officer if he, too, were confession to a distant marriage relation with the Emperor seems to have impressed his captors, Joinville, Life, 214, 255. 30 Ibn Wa¯sil, Mufarrij, f. 90a. ˙

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efits given by his father and replacing them with outside junior officers from his own retinue.31 The constitutional crisis unleashed by Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h’s overt challenge to the principle of the rights of seniority would remain fundamentally unresolved for a decade. The eponymous founder of the next Egyptian dynasty, the Za¯hirids, al˙ Malik al-Za¯hir Baybars, would recognize and exploit this internal dynamic to ˙ help establish the Mamluk state. Baybars simply recognized the basic desire among the amirs for a constitutional order (niza¯m) which regulated the dis˙ tribution of resources among them, guaranteed a stakeholding in his regime. Baybars’ niza¯m would reflect a political consensus based on the conciliation and ˙ equitable patronage of the Mamluk elite beginning with members of his own paramount khushda¯shiyyah, the Sa¯lihiyyah, who would in this regard praise his ˙ ˙ regime as a return to the ‘good old days’ of their usta¯dh, al-Malik al-Sa¯lih Najm ˙ ˙ al-Dı¯n Ayyu¯b.32 Yet, as early as the regime of Shajar al-Durr some of the groundwork was already being laid for Baybars. Though Shajar al-Durr’s legal position as rightful monarch may have been theoretically complicated, even tenuous, it was to prove no practical obstacle to her forging a working legitimacy through reinforced clientelistic relations with elements of her husband’s mama¯lı¯k, the Sa¯lihiyyah.33 ˙ ˙ Profiting from the lesson of Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h’s failure, Shajar al-Durr made recognition of the paramountcy of the Sa¯lihiyyah the keystone of her dawlah. She ˙ ˙ freely distributed honors, gifts and iqta¯ among the Sa¯lihiyyah, especially the ˙ ˙ ˙ more junior Bahriyyah and Jamada¯riyyah elements; to their leader, Fa¯ris al-Dı¯n ˙ Aqtay al-Jamda¯r, for instance, she gave over the vast estate of the former ata¯bak ˙ al- askar, Fakhr al-Dı¯n Ibn Shaykh al-Shuyu¯kh, which had recently been confiscated by Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h himself. To bind her clientele even more closely, Shajar alDurr arranged marriages between certain of their officers and women in her own household.34 Her shrewd mixture of practical patronage and kinship ties quickly paid important dividends when, in the summer of 1250/648, the viceroy (ata¯bak), Izz al-Dı¯n Aybak al-Turkma¯nı¯ al-Sa¯lih¯ı, attempted to seize the sultanate in ˙ ˙ his own name. Aybak’s power grab was frustrated chiefly by members of his own khushda¯shiyyah, composed largely of the younger Bahrı¯ and Jamada¯rı¯ clients ˙ whom Shajar al-Durr had taken such pains to cultivate.35 Moreover, in 1257/655 ˘

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31 Joinville, Life, 236, 251 – 52. 32 Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdan, fol. 42a; Muh¯ı al-Dı¯n b. Abd al-Za¯hir, Al-Rawd al-za¯hir fı¯ sı¯rat ˙ 18. ˙ ar (Riyadh, 1976), ˙ ˙ ed. Abd al- Azı¯z Khuwayt al-Malik al-Za¯hir, ˙ ˙ centuries created similar paramilitary follo33 Female members of the Mamluk elite in later wings, see Mary Ann Fay, “Women and Households: Gender, Power and Culture in Eighteenth-Century Egypt” (Ph.D. diss., Georgetown University, 1993). 34 Cahen, “Une source pour l’histoire des Croisades,” 334. 35 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 13. ˘

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her paramilitary following, in complete violation of the moral horizontal bonds of khushda¯shiyyah, would consummate its vertical clientistic ties with Shajar alDurr by assassinating their khushda¯sh, Aybak, now al-Malik al-Mu izz, on her behalf. The affirmation of loyalty made to Shajar al-Durr after the bloody deed captures nicely the transactional exchange of khidmah for ni mah, i. e. service for benefit, already driving political action in proto-Mamluk Egypt. After the murder of Aybak, one of her clients proclaimed: “What is our crime … save that you are our lady and ruler? Our sustenance is derived from your benevolence (ni mah) and that of the sainted Sultan al-Malik al-Sa¯lih (Najm al-Dı¯n Ayyu¯b).”36 ˙ ˙ Both al-Sa¯lih and Shajar al-Durr had cultivated the ‘moral economy’ of their ˙ ˙ mamlu¯k clienteles and had been clearly remembered for it. Though successful in the self-conscious exploitation of the bonds of benefit (ni mah) and kinship among at least sub-elements of the Sa¯lihiyyah – the Bah˙ ˙ ˙ riyyah and Jamada¯riyyah – Shajar al-Durr failed ultimately to appreciate the need to convert that limited partisanship into universal support among the umara¯ as a whole. Perhaps believing her small cadre of Bahrı¯ and Jamada¯rı¯ ˙ clients sufficient now merely to impose authority, Shajar al-Durr seems to have succumbed to the temptation of ruling on the basis of cohesion without consensus, taking measures aimed at coercing rather than conciliating the elite as a whole. The record of defection and arrest among the Egyptian umara¯ during her brief tenure clearly suggests her failure to cultivate niza¯m in any meaningful ˙ way.37 Reaction to Shajar al-Durr’s policy of advancing the interests of largely junior elements ultimately led other members of the Sa¯lihiyyah, and probably ˙ ˙ other senior officers as well, to throw their support behind one of their senior colleagues, Aybak al-Turkma¯nı¯ al-Sa¯lih¯ı, as ata¯bak of Egypt. ˙ ˙ ˘

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Aybak and Qutuz: The Failure to Establish Niza¯m ˙ Aybak’s biography reveals that, although technically only an amir of middle (awsat) rank, he had been one of al-Malik al-Sa¯lih’s oldest mama¯lı¯k, enjoying a ˙ ˙ ˙ particularly close association with his usta¯dh. Indeed, as al-Malik al-Sa¯lih’s ˙ ˙ ja¯shnakı¯r and, therefore, a member of his inner circle (kha¯ss), Aybak’s nearness ˙˙ to the late sultan no doubt enhanced his eligibility for the ata¯bakiyyah. By virtue probably of his age and background Aybak possessed another quality naturally favored by his peers – he was accommodating (layyin).38 Undoubtedly Aybak 36 Ibid., 8: 31. 37 Cahen, “Une source pour l’histoire des Croisades,” 334 – 35: Ibn Al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 14. 38 Ibn Wa¯sil, Mufarrij, 90a-b; Khalı¯l b. Aybak al-Safadı¯, Al-Wa¯fi bi’l-Wafaya¯t, ed. J. van Ess ˙ (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner, 1974), 9: 469 – 70. ˙

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was viewed as just the man to uphold the prerogatives of seniority against the more junior elements of the Sa¯lihiyyah basking now in Shajar al-Durr’s lavish ˙ ˙ but somewhat arbitrary benevolence. That seems to have been the general conclusion drawn anyway by those same junior members of Aybak’s khushda¯shiyyah, who began rioting in Cairo when news of his appointment as ata¯bak became public.39 It was to be the first of many examples of serious intrakhushda¯shiyyah tensions beginning to drive political action in the early Classical Mamluk state. The ideological bonds of collective horizontal solidary were already, in 1250/648, showing signs of stress in the face of more utilitarian appeals to the vertical solidary of expanding patronage. Clientelism was starting to compete more and more openly with khushda¯shiyyah as the dominant form of political action. Aybak, indeed, would ultimately fall victim in 1257/655, as alMalik al-Mu izz Aybak, to these intra-khushda¯shiyyah tensions. So, too, would his successor and mamlu¯k, al-Malik al-Muzaffar Sayf al-Dı¯n Qutuz. For, like ˙ Shajar al-Durr, Aybak and Qutuz also failed to appreciate the need to establish an effective constitutional order (niza¯m) on behalf of the elite as a whole, groping ˙ instead for the tactical support of some reliable gang of henchmen, often nonkhushda¯sh in origin, who might support their arbitrary application of patronage and violence. Despite an impressive de jure position as both commander of the army (ata¯bak al- askar) and then viceroy (ata¯bak) to Shajar al-Durr’s replacement, alMalik al-Ashraf Muzaffar al-Dı¯n Mu¯sa¯, Aybak felt his power circumscribed by ˙ the junior elements of his own khushda¯shiyyah, led by Fa¯ris al-Dı¯n Aqtay al˙ Jamada¯r al-Sa¯lih. Aqtay, as patron-leader (muqaddim) of the Bahriyyah and ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Jamada¯riyyah, had been one of the prime movers in Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h’s assassination after his falling out with the young sultan over disposition of the revenues of the city of Alexandria. Recognizing Aqtay’s position as a potential power-broker ˙ among an important segment of her husband’s mama¯lı¯k, Shajar al-Durr had been quick to purchase his support with lavish patronage.40 Cultivating the ambitious Aqtay had been a shrewd decision on the part of Shajar al-Durr ; his ˙ following was not only significant but internally unified. Yet, Aqtay did not command the loyalty of the Bahriyyah and Jamada¯riyyah ˙ ˙ any more than had al-Malik al-Sa¯lih. For they were his clients as well as his ˙ ˙ khushda¯shiyyah, bound to him now more perhaps by practical, vertical ties than fraternal, horizontal ones. They acknowledged Aqtay as their spokesman (tar˙ juma¯n), and all that he did is said to have had their consent (qabu¯l), but his authority was based ultimately upon his ability to distribute patronage to them.41 ˘

39 Cahen, “Une source pour l’histoire des Croisades,” 334. 40 Ibid., 334. 41 Safadı¯, Wa¯fi, 8: 317; Ibid., 9: 472. ˙

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Aqtay used his influence to encourage promotion for his lieutenants and other ˙ clients; one of Aqta¯y’s chief lieutenants, Rukn al-Dı¯n Baybars, later of course al˙ Malik al-Za¯hir Baybars, may have received his commission as an amir at this ˙ time as reward for his actions in Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h’s assassination.42 Others were patronized in more direct but equally effective ways. As the testimony of one of Aqtay’s own mama¯lı¯k makes clear, Aqta¯y saw to it that he had unlimited access to ˙ ˙ the state treasury and he visited regularly to take out vast sums of cash for distribution to his clientele. So habitual were Aqtay’s forays that Aybak later ˙ staged the assassination of his overly-ambitious khushda¯sh during one of these routine visits.43 The sobriquet won by Aqtay for his lavish distribution of pa˙ tronage probably speaks for itself – al-Malik al-Jawa¯d – “The Liberal Prince”.44 Using his de facto power over promotion and appointments, Aqtay rapidly ˙ unified around himself perhaps the most formidable paramilitary organization in the Egypt of his day. Aybak’s own clientele, the Mu izziyyah, by comparison was probably neither sufficiently numerous nor seasoned to compete openly for paramountcy in the state. Aybak seems to have been unable to promote his mama¯lı¯k into positions of power until about 1252/650, fully two years after he had been made titular head of government.45 Yet, Aybak was unwilling to risk a violent confrontation with elements of his own khushda¯shiyyah for control of the state apparatus; instead he worked to undermine their paramilitary potential. In 1251/649, for instance, Aybak ordered the closure of the Rawdah Barracks in ˙ Cairo, for almost a decade the headquarters of the Bahriyyah, and the dispersal ˙ of its inmates and their dependents, thus depriving Aqtay of a fortified base of ˙ operations within the capital.46 An Arab insurrection in Upper Egypt afforded Aybak the excuse of sending Aqtay out of Cairo entirely. Aqtay, however, turned ˙ ˙ his two year absence in the south to advantage, seizing the opportunity to take substantial booty and introduce extortionate new taxes into the rebellious areas,

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42 The promotion of clients, whether mamlu¯k or khushda¯sh, was already recognized as an important and necessary function for those patrons who aspired to political influence. The ata¯bak al- askar, Fakhr al-Dı¯n Ibn Shaykh al-Shuyu¯kh, for instance, had petitioned al-Malik al-Sa¯lih on the eve of his death to commission twenty of his mama¯lı¯k as amirs. In his ˙ ˙ al-Sa¯lih advised Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h to heed this recommendation for the advancement of testament, ˙ Fakhr al-Dı¯n’s˙ clients, Cahen, “Une source pour l’histoire des Croisades,” 334; Cahen and Chabbouh, “Le testement d’al-Malik al-Sa¯lih Ayyu¯b,” 114. ˙¯ fi, ˙9: 317 – 18; Abu¯’l-Maha¯sin Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Al43 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 26; Safadı¯, Wa ˙ Manhal al-sa¯fi wa al-mustawfı¯ ba d al-wa¯fi, MS Dar al-Kutub, Ta¯rı˙¯kh 1113, 140. ˙¯, Wa¯fi, ˙ 9: 472. 44 Safadı ˙ 45 Aybak, for instance, was unable to replace until 1252/650 the amir Ala¯’ al-Dı¯n al-Bunduqda¯r al-Sa¯lih¯ı, the usta¯dh of Baybars, who was one of Aqtay’s chief lieutenants, with his own ˙ ¯˙k, Qutuz, as his second-in-command or na¯’ib al-salt ˙ mamlu anah, Abu¯ al- Abba¯s Taqı¯ al-Dı¯n ˙ ed. M.M. Ziadah (Cairo, 1934 – al-Maqrı¯zı¯, Kita¯b al-sulu¯k li ma rifat duwal al-mulu¯k, 2 vols., 58), 1/2: 384. 46 Maqrı¯zı¯, Sulu¯k, 1/2: 381. ˘

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the proceeds of which undoubtedly found their way into the pockets of his followers as new sources of patronage.47 In 1254/651, Aybak finally steeled himself to liquidate his troublesome khushda¯sh. However, still fearful of a bloody streetfight in Cairo, Aybak had a squad of his mama¯lı¯k, the Mu izziyyah, isolate Aqtay while he was in the Citadel precincts and assassinate him there. ˙ The essentially dyadic nature of patronage no doubt predicted to Aybak that no rival clientele could long hold together operationally, despite pre-existing horizontal bonds of khushda¯shiyyah, once the patron-leader himself was removed. In fact, news of Aqtay’s assassination led to the immediate collapse of his ˙ shillah, many of its members fleeing not only Cairo but Egypt itself. For many years thereafter splinters from his following could be found strewn literally from the Nile to the Euphrates, and even beyond. Yet, patronage seemed already to have the power to heal all. Some of Aqtay’s former clients, perhaps trying to trade ˙ on nominal horizontal bonds of khushda¯shiyyah, eventually defected back to Aybak in hopes no doubt of new vertical clientelistic opportunities in Egypt.48 However, not until the accession as sultan of Aqtay’s chief lieutenant, al-Malik al˙ Za¯hir Baybars, in 1260/658 would Aqtay’s former clientele really unify again ˙ ˙ around a single patron-leader. When confronted later by yet another troublesome patron-leader, Jama¯l alDı¯n Aydughdı¯, and his Syrian mamlu¯k clientele, Aybak would show similar circumspection in attempting to neutralize them. Aybak’s decision to reserve the use of mass violence in dea1ing with rivals shows the Mamluks in their protostate phase already struggling with ways of reducing the cost of their politics; in particular the Mamluks were seeking to preclude the outbreak of internal disorder (fitnah) and chaos (tashwı¯sh) which might undermine the survival of the state itself. As early as Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h’s assassination the umara¯ had recognized that continuing dissension over his successor might lead to large-scale violence in Egypt. Shajar al-Durr had been elevated hastily as a compromise candidate precisely to avoid such tashwı¯sh.49 Aybak himself had been a pis aller candidate as well. Excluded at first apparently from the short list of candidates for the ata¯bakiyyah, he was finally elevated in order to resolve the political deadlock created by the standing refusal of two other senior Sa¯lih¯ı amirs, tawa¯shı¯ Shiha¯b ˙ ˙ ˙ al-Dı¯n al-Kabı¯r and Kha¯ss Turk al-Kabı¯r, to serve Shajar al-Durr because of their ˙˙ 47 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 24; Safadı¯, Wa¯fi, 8: 317. See also Jean-Claude Garcin, Un centre musulman de la Haute-Êgypte ˙medieval: Qu¯s, Textes arabes et ¦tudes islamiques 6 (Cairo: ˙ 184 – 85. Institut franÅais d’arch¦ologie orientale, 1976): 48 Ibn Wa¯sil, Mufarrij, 112b – 113a; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 26; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Tuhfah ˙ ˙ Natioal-mulu¯˙kiyyah fı¯ al-dawlah al-Turkiyyah, MS Flu¯gel 904/mixt. 665. Österreichische nalbibliothek, Vienna, 6a – 7a; Maqrı¯zı¯, Sulu¯k, 1/2: 391 – 92. 49 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 61.

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support for al-Malik al-Mughı¯th of Karak.50 Qutuz was not a compromise candidate, however, having succeeded Aybak by deposing his son, al-Mansu¯r Alı¯. As ˙ a result Qutuz remained forever anxious about the real prospect of dissension (mukha¯lafah) among the umara¯ which might well lead to a cuartelazo or pronunciamiento against him.51 Aybak did exploit, however, his coercive power to the full in the aftermath of Aqtay’s liquidation. Almost immediately he instituted a purge of those of his ˙ khushda¯shiyyah associated with Aqtay who had failed to flee Egypt. Arrests were ˙ followed by several imprisonments and confiscations. Interestingly, many reassignments of iqta¯ were made to non-khushda¯shiyyah, suggesting Aybak’s ˙ relations with those remaining members of the Sa¯lihiyyah were fracturing as ˙ ˙ 52 well. The more senior elements of the Sa¯lihiyyah had done little after all to ˙ ˙ support his first bid for the sultanate after Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h’s assassination against Aqtay’s patron, Shajar al-Durr. Perhaps typical of the tension and degradation in ˙ intra-khushda¯shiyyah relations now was Aybak’s relationship with his khushda¯sh, Sayf al-Dı¯n Aybak al-Halabı¯ al-Sa¯lih¯ı. Aybak al-Halabı¯ was a prominent ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Sa¯lih¯ı amir and an associate of Aybak even before he had come to power. When ˙ ˙ Aybak seized the sultanate al-Halabı¯ was drawn into Aybak’s inner circle of ˙ supporters. Despite this apparently close affiliation, however, Aybak suddenly took it into his head that al-Halabı¯, like many other of his khushda¯shiyyah, bore ˙ him a grudge as well. Though apparently untrue, al-Halabı¯ feared Aybak’s re˙ action sufficiently to join the general exodus of his khushda¯shiyyah from Cairo. Fleeing to Gaza, al-Halabı¯ hid out there until Qutuz’s accession to the sultanate.53 ˙ The constant bleeding away of support from senior Sa¯lih¯ı amirs such as Aybak al˙ ˙ Halabı¯ took its toll. The defection of Rukn al-Dı¯n Kha¯ss Turk al-Sa¯lih¯ı, for ˙ ˙˙ ˙ ˙ instance, who was supported “by many troops from the army,” seems to have obliged al-Malik al-Mu izz Aybak to take new oaths of loyalty from the whole Egyptian soldiery.54 His relations with his own khushda¯shiyyah and their clients in shambles, Aybak eventually turned to a band of Syrian hirelings to beef up his clientele in Egypt. These were primarily Azı¯zı¯ and Na¯sirı¯ mama¯lı¯k who had come to Egypt ˙ originally in 1250/648 under the patronage of the amir Jama¯l al-Dı¯n Aydughdı¯ alAzı¯zı¯. In fact they had defected from their former Ayybuid paymaster, al-Malik al-Na¯sir Yu¯suf, of Damascus. Though racial solidarity (jinsiyyah) has often been ˙ ˘

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Ibid., 8: 13; Ibn Wa¯sil, Mufarrij, 91b. Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯,˙ Zubdah, f. 35b. ˙ Ibn Wa¯sil, Mufarrij, 112b; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Tuhfah, 6b. ˙ ¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal, 160a-b. ˙ ˙ Ibn Taghrı ˙ Aybak had taken oaths upon his original accession as ata¯bak al- askar. Following disturbances a few weeks later he took a second series of oaths from the umara¯’, Ibn Wa¯sil, ˙ Mufarrij, fols. 91b, 96b; Cahen, “Une source pour l’histoire des Croisades,” 334. ˘

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cited as the reason for this disloyal action, the defection of Aydughdı¯ and his officers was probably more influenced by the expanding patronage opportunities emerging in the now wide-open and mamlu¯k-dominated political scene in Egypt. In any case Aybak was eager enough to recruit these non-khushda¯shiyyah to protect him from elements of his own khushda¯shiyyah. Indeed, Aybak bound these Syrian mama¯lı¯k to himself personally as his clients rather than to the titular sultan, al-Malik al-Ashraf Mu¯sa¯, who had been the mascot of his estranged Bahri and Jamada¯ri khushda¯shiyyah. ˙ By 1254/652, however, Aydughdı¯ and the Syrians appear to have become dissatisfied with Aybak’s patronage and began pressuring him to provide additional benefits. The need to increase these benefits may well have forced Aybak’s hand in his dealings with Aqtay and his own khushda¯shiyyah. In any case ˙ Aydughdı¯ and his Azizı¯ and Na¯sirı¯ clients were assigned, so on after Aqtay’s ˙ ˙ assassination, the bulk of the iqta¯ confiscated from Aqtay and his clientele. For ˙ ˙ his part, Aydughdı¯ received the city of Damietta, an assignment valued at some 55 thirty thousand dinars annually. Yet, with the Sa¯lihiyya now rendered hors de ˙ ˙ combat by their own khushda¯sh, Aybak, the Azı¯ziyyah and Na¯siriyyah soon ˙ became even more ambitious than before. In a classic exposition of the V-curve hypothesis, Aybak learned that Aydughdı¯ and his followers were plotting to depose him and recognize the conveniently distant authority of their erstwhile patron, al-Malik al-Na¯sir Yu¯suf of Damascus, in Egypt. Like other mamlu¯k ˙ groups before them, the Azı¯ziyyah and Na¯siriyyah no doubt dreamed of di˙ viding up and imposing de facto rule over Egypt as nominal dynastic clients of a relatively far away prince. The carefully timed arrest of Aydughdı¯ and his lieutenants, however, allowed Aybak to nip in the bud the conspiracy to topple him without, again, triggering a firefight in the streets of Cairo.56 The strength and popularity of the regime of Aybak’s successor, al-Malik alMuzaffar Qutuz, has been judged principally in terms of popular reaction to his ˙ victory at Ayn Ja¯lu¯t. Support for his elevation as sultan over Aybak’s son, alMalik al-Mansu¯r Alı¯, however, came at the height of the crisis with Hu¯la¯gu¯ and ˙ should not obfuscate the fact that Qutuz never enjoyed a genuine consensus within the Mamluk elite. Internally his reign may have been the weakest of all in the proto-Mamluk period. Qutuz himself worried constantly about dissension (mukha¯lafah) and probably would not have been surprised to know that his assassination had been fueled by great resentments (haqa¯ id), grudges (dag˙ ha¯ in) and rancor (haza¯zah); one contemporary source likened it all to a ˙ 57 grassland germinating under manured soil. Open hostility dogged his relations ˘

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55 Ibn Wa¯sil, Mufarrij, 105b, 111b – 112b; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 24. 56 Ibn Wa¯s˙ il, Mufarrij, 113b. ˙ ¯ da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 370; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 35b, 40b – 41a. 57 Ibn al-Dawa ˙

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with the Sa¯lihiyyah and Ashrafiyyah as well as their constituents in the army of ˙ ˙ Egypt. Like Aybak, Qutuz made some attempt at building support for himself among the Azı¯ziyyah. Qutuz released their leader, Jama¯l al-Dı¯n Aydughdı¯ alAzı¯zı¯, from prison in Alexandria where he had been consigned by Aybak. Further, in the immediate aftermath of Ayn Ja¯lu¯t Qutuz awarded other Azı¯zı¯ amirs with administrative posts in Aleppo and along the Levantine littoral; many also received iqta¯ s following the occupation of Damascus. Qutuz was assassinated, ˙ however, before his patronage of these non-khushda¯shiyyah clients could produce any dividends. On the whole, exile, arrest and confiscation seem to have been the hallmarks of Qutuz’s relations with the Mamluk elite.58 Like Aybak, too, Qutuz’s most crucial failing must be counted his relations with his own khushda¯shiyyah. Much of his popularity among the Mu izziyyah collapsed apparently with his deposition in 1259/657 of al-Malik al-Mansu¯r Alı¯, ˙ the son of their usta¯dh, al-Mu izz Aybak. In preparation for his seizure of power, Qutuz had decoyed many of his khushda¯shiyyah to Upper Egypt, much as Aybak had done with those of his khushda¯shiyyah who had favored his rival, Fa¯ris alDı¯n Aqtay, and when they returned he undertook a major purge of their ranks. ˙ Qutuz arrested all the Mu izzı¯ amirs he could lay his hands on, and for good measure all the Bahrı¯ amirs still in Egypt. Apparently Qutuz also confiscated ˙ their iqta¯ , for when the Mu izzi and Bahri assassins surrounded Qutuz at Qusayr ˙ ˙ ˙ they hesitated to strike him down until he affirmed that he would not restore to his many victims their former land assignments in Egypt. Additionally Qutuz may well have instituted the first Sippenhaft in the early Mamluk state, adding the widespread seizure of households and families of arrested amirs in addition to confiscating their assignments and possessions. Those not caught in the dragnet fled to Abba¯sah on the Egyptian frontier and then made for the safety of Baybars’ shadow state at Gaza.59 It is worth observing that at least two of these Mu izzı¯ exiles would figure prominently in Baybars’ conspiracy against Qutuz after Ayn Ja¯lu¯t and, indeed, would participate in the physical assassination of Qutuz at Qusayr in 1260/658.60 ˙

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58 Ibn Wa¯sil, Mufarrij, 121a – 123a, 162b, 163a; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 33, 38; Baybars alMansu¯rı˙¯. Zubdah, 40a; Qutb al-Dı¯n al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl Mir’a¯t al-zama¯n fi ta¯rı¯kh al-a ya¯n, 4 ˙ vols.˙(Hyderabad: Dar al-Maaref Osmania, 1954) 2: 350 – 54. 59 Cahen, “La ‘Chronique des Ayyoubides’ d’ al-Makı¯n b. al-’Amı¯d,” 170; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 38, 61. 60 Ibn Wa¯sil, Mufarrij, 163b; al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 1: 370; Muhammad b. Ahmad al-Dhahabı¯, Al˙ ˙ 85b; Ibn al-Dawa¯Istanbul, Mukhta¯˙r min ta¯rı¯kh al-Jazarı¯, MS 1147. Köprülü Kütüphanesi, da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 38, 60, who actually refers to these the Mu izzı¯ amirs as part of the umara¯’ albahriyyah; other participants appear to have been the mama¯lı¯k of Sa¯lih¯ı amirs. ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘

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Conclusion

Conclusion

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The rise of the proto-Mamluk state in Egypt during the 1250s was tied chiefly to the failure of the late Ayyubids to forge a state of their own based upon a notion of clientelism (wala¯ ) consonant more with the interests and sensibilities – the moral economy – of the c1ients than those of the dynastic patron. Legitimate authority in late medieval Syro-Egypt was derived increasingly not from sentimentality or religious mandate but the ruler’s ability to regulate for the ruling elite as a whole a reasonably equitable and universal access to resources based on seniority, an access probably starting to be identified already as a patrimonial right rather than merely a privilege. Yet, political communication within the ruling elite in this period was not effective; the stress generated by the natural competition for resources could not be managed effectively by the techniques of arbitrary coercion and patronage favored by proto-Mamluk rulers. Without an effective feedback loop, Baybars’ predecessors were unable to establish a stable integration of political organization and distribution of resources among the elite as a whole. Their inability to structure social power kept the cost of politics high and the likelihood of state formation low. If the unhindered growth of clientelism clarified the fact that loyalty between master and man was a reciprocal rather than gratuitous vertical act, it also revealed the basic weakness of normative horizontal bonds of loyalty engendered especially by khushda¯shiyyah. The decade of the 1250s in Egypt underscored the inadequacy of static moral ties in maintaining internal political cohesion in the face of dynamic opportunities provided by the articulation of clientelistic practices. Indeed, social tensions were often as much intra-khushda¯shiyyah as inter-khushda¯shiyyah. Age-related divisions emerged as senior and junior elements competed especially over increased access to sources of patronage. Such pre-existing social relationships appear to have had few exit costs; individuals seem to have loosely interpreted the moral imperative implicit in khushda¯shiyyah, upholding, ignoring and then resuming that association when it seemed to have the greatest utility. The absence of rigid internal discipline may have mitigated intra-khushda¯shiyyah tensions but it did so at the expense of monolithic corporate unity. As fragile as relations within various khushda¯shiyyah were becoming, social action within the proto-Mamluk state as a whole were hardly better structured. Although the 1250s revealed an interest by the Mamluks in ruling themselves, their reach seems to have exceeded their grasp. The 1250s saw some attempt at reducing the costs of politics; despite the use of violence, civil war, for instance, was avoided. Yet, if various regimes seemed to be substituting detention, exile and confiscation for uncontrolled mass violence as a dominant form of social control, they do not seem to have fully comprehended yet the strategy of conflict

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resolution. The dependence on coercion, exclusionary ad hoc paramilitary alliances, even the failure of rulers to unify their own khushda¯shiyyah all suggest a leadership still embedded in a culture based on unstructured competitive violence. Clearly few Mamluk patron-leaders had yet begun to think seriously in terms of anticipating problems of instability though accomodation of dissent and the administrative cultivation of the moral economy of the whole elite. A politics of consensus could not emerge fully without some mechanism guaranteeing to the ruling elite as a whole universal and regulated access to patronage. Baybars would provide that critical belief mechanism by embedding his social control in the legitimating concept of constitutional order (niza¯m). ˙ The proto-Mamluk period witnessed, then, the initiation though not the satisfactory resolution of various problematics of the mid-century transition of Syro-Egypt from a constellation of fractious chieftancies into a unitary state. The interrelationship of power and values among the Mamluks regarding issues of submission, dominance, inequality, resistance and rehabilitation remained as yet uncertain. Certainly no viable framework for a lasting political settlement – no constitutional order (niza¯m) – emerged between the assassinations of Tu¯r˙ a¯nsha¯h and Qutuz. and the proto-state remained dangerously fissionable because of it. Yet to be resolved was the nature of authority itself among the Mamluks. Was it to be imposed by and for the benefit of the ruling dynast or evolved organically by consent of the elite? Clarity was also lacking in the application of patronage. Was it to be regulated equitably or subjected to arbitrary restrictions? Uncertainty remained as well about the role of conflict in the bustling paramilitary society. Could the state survive the results of unrestrained competitive violence or would dissent have to be tolerated, structured, and negotiated to some kind of positive-sum solution? Only at the end of the 1250’s, with the accession of al-Za¯hir Baybars, were these issues to be purposefully and ˙ concretely addressed. As we shall see in the next chapter, Baybars was to profit from the failure of his predecessors to structure social power among the ruling elite of Egypt in the 1250s. He would consolidate an enduring political settlement in the Syro-Egypt of the 1260s on the basis not of an exclusionary carrot and an arbitrary stick but the cultivation of the moral economy of the elite as a whole. Baybars was able to communicate effectively with the Mamluk elite, to create the feedback loop which had eluded his predecessors in the 1250s. He was to show sensitivity to the essential dynamic equilibrium of Mamluk elite society, negotiating consensus through the “machine” politics of mass hierarchical patronage and the conversion of social conflict into conflict resolution. It was on this constitutional basis that Baybars was to convert unchecked factional predation into administrative stakeholding and, thereby, the proto-Mamluk into the Classical Mamluk state.

Chapter 4 – Baybars and the Foundation of Niza¯m ˙ (1260 – 1276/658 – 676) “Your sword makes your enemy wretched Your benefit makes your client fortunate” ˘

Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Al-Rawd ˙ ˙ al-Zahir fı¯ Sı¯rat al-Malik al-Za¯hir ˙ ˙

Al-Malik al-Za¯hir Baybars has long been hailed by historians as the “true ˙ founder” of the Mamluk state.1 Despite or perhaps because of the universality of this claim little attention has actually been paid to the structure of the new Mamluk polity. Both the kinds and degrees of political relationships forged by Baybars to achieve this end are not much understood. Baybars himself has elicited more interest as a builder or a general than as a politician; this is unfortunate since he was recognized in his own day particularly for his political craft (siya¯sah).2 Historians have largely been content to analogize his regime with that of his famous precursor, Saladin. Curiously perhaps, Baybars has been more obscured than revealed through this parallel. Emerging almost deus ex machina from the chaos of the early Mongol invasions, as Saladin had emerged from the chaos of the early Crusades, al-Za¯hir Baybars has been credited with ˙ undertaking a timely though vaguely understood “r¦organisation de l’¦tat 3 ¦gyptien.” Yet, since we have only begun to discern the complicated internal politics which determined the formation of Saladin’s own state it is perhaps expectable that the nature and process of Baybars’ “r¦organisation” should remain shrouded.4 Or, at best, misunderstood. For those who have agreed that Baybars founded the Mamluk state have also intimated that his achievement lay rooted simply in the dynamic of his own ruthless personality ; even the most recent studies continue to portray him as little more than a product of the

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1 Stanley Lane-Poole, A History of Egypt in the Middle Ages, 2nd ed. (New York: Haskell House Publishers Ltd, 1969), 263; S.A.F. Ashu¯r, Al-Za¯hir Baybars (Cairo, 1956), 4; Bernard Lewis, ˙ of Islam (Cambridge: Cambridge University “Egypt and Syria” vol. 1a, The Cambridge History Press, 1970), 215; Sir John Glubb, Soldiers of Fortune: The Story of the Mamlukes (1973; reprint, New York: Dorset Press, 1988), 69. 2 Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 42a. ˙ 3 Lane-Poole, A History of Egypt in the Middle Ages, 264; Wiet, L’Êgypte arabe de la ConquÞte arabe a la conquÞte ottomane 642 – 1517 de l’ere chr¦tienne, 412 – 13. 4 See, Humphreys, From Saladin to the Mongols, 15 – 39.

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random violence of his era.5 Re-examination of this issue reveals, however, that Baybars’ success lay in his ability to structure social power, to integrate effectively the organization and distribution of resources among the ruling elite. Baybars relied far more upon conciliation and the cultivation of the moral economy of the early Mamluk elite than upon despotic idiosyncracies to forge political consensus. Indeed, the Mamluk political insider, Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, sizing up al-Za¯hir ˙ ˙ Baybars’ political achievement, observed that the success of his regime lay essentially in its constitutional (niza¯mı¯) nature, one which he contrasted specifi˙ cally with the rule of force (sayf) employed by Baybars’ predecessors. Baybars alMansu¯rı¯ characterized al-Za¯hir Baybars’ rule as a protectorate (mahmiyyah) in ˙ ˙ ˙ which the sultan conciliated rather than frustrated the interests of his elite. Baybars’ own biographer, Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, made much the same assessment. ˙ The keystone to Baybars’ success lay in his restoration of and respect for what he termed the dignity (hurmah) of the state, by which he meant largely the estab˙ lishment of an equitable distribution of rank (manzilah) and benefit (ni mah) within the ruling elite (na¯s) of the early Mamluk state.6 This policy reflected probably the experience of Baybars in the later 1250s as an exiled officer attempting to build some kind of paramilitary clientele with which to influence the politics of Syro-Egypt. Baybars’ rise to power illustrates in particular not only his personal experience but also his successful exploitation of clientelism as a means of recruiting paramilitary support among both khushda¯shiyyah and nonkhushda¯shiyyah, slave and free-born servitors alike to form ultimately a new unified polity from the fissioned d¦bris of the Ayyubid chieftancies of SyroEgypt. Scholars have traditionally reduced the political universe of mid-thirteenth/ seventh century Syro-Egypt to two normative constants: jinsiyyah, or ethnic solidary, and khushda¯shiyyah, or fraternal solidary. It should be remembered, however, that Baybars himself was a primary example of the sort of flexible careerism which often ran afoul of both concepts. In the decade between his promotion into the Egyptian amirate after the assassination of Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h and his own accession to power, Baybars developed clientelistic ties in most of the ˘

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5 Lane-Poole, A History of Egypt in the Middle Ages, 274; Sir William Muir, The Mameluke or Slave Dynasty of Egypt: A History of Egypt from the Fall of the Ayyubite Dynastics to the Conquest of the Osmanlis A.D. 1260 – 1517 (London: Smith, Elder & Co.,1896), 31; Glubb, Soldiers of Fortune, 101; Lewis, “Egypt and Syria,” 215; Ashu¯r, Al Za¯hir Baybars, 5; Abdul˙ (London: The Green Aziz Khuwayter, Baibars the First: His Endeavours and Achievements Mountain Press, 1978), 37 – 38; Peter Thorau, Sultan Baibars I. von Ägypten: Beitrag zur Geschichte des Vorderen Orients im 13. Jahrhundert (Wiesbaden: Ludwig Reichert, 1987), 293 – 94, has sought to mitigate this image with an appeal to the more charismatic elements of Baybars’ personality. 6 Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Al-Rawd, 71. ˙ ˙ ˘

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major regional seats of power and military employment of his day – Cairo, Karak and Damascus. If Baybars were a product of his age, he was a tribute chiefly to its malleability of loyalty. Baybars, of course, understood already the limitations of horizontal solidary before he fled to Syria in the mid-1250s. He had, afterall, understudied the great patron-leader, Fa¯ris al-Dı¯n Aqtay – “The Liberal Prince” ˙ – who had kept the Bahri and Jamada¯rı¯ elements of the Sa¯lihiyyah together in the ˙ ˙ early 1250s by tapping into the patronage stream flowing from al-Malik al-Mu izz Aybak’s shifting role of Egypt. Baybars no doubt also studied how quickly and easily the fraternal, horizontal bonds of khushda¯shiyyah had disintegrated with Aqtay’s assassination. Though Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir attempted to exaggerate the ˙ ˙ personal continuity provided by Baybars after Aqtay’s death, Baybars was able to ˙ rally in Syria only a part of the Bahriyyah, and even that ultimately did not ˙7 remain unified under his leadership. One large segment under the direction of Alam al-Dı¯n Sanjar Bashkirdı¯ went to Anatolia to seek service with the Saljuq Sulta¯n Ala¯ al-Dı¯n.8 Yet another group under Izz al-Dı¯n al-Afram fled into Upper ˙ Egypt; some of its elements later returned to Cairo to work a deal with Aybak and did not join Baybars in Syria.9 Still other members of the Bahriyyah chose to ˙ remain in Cairo, many to face subsequently persecution at the hands of their increasingly unfraternal khushda¯sh, al-Malik al-Mu izz Aybak.10 Though Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir was careful to characterize Baybars’ relations with ˙ members of his khushda¯shiyyah as personally close, he could not avoid revealing at the same time the essentially utilitarian nature of those ties. Much of the Bahriyyah, it is clear, followed Baybars around Syria during the 1250s specifi˙ cally because of the benefit (ni mah) – regular pay (arza¯q), robes of honor and ˘

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7 In 1259/657 Baybars’ faction split over the decision to defect from al-Malik al-Mughı¯th of Karak and take service with their former employer, al-Malik al-Na¯sir. Baybars, who led a ˙ those who refused to section of the Bahriyyah to al-Na¯sir, was handsomely rewarded while ˙ follow were ultimately imprisoned.˙ The cause of this internal Bahrı¯ crisis is unclear, but there ˙ by this time a key figure in is reason to believe it may have been a serious one. First, Baybars, al-Na¯sir’s regime, made no apparent effort to secure the release of any of his khushda¯shiyyah. ˙ one of the Bahrı¯ amirs imprisoned by al-Na¯sir, Shams al-Dı¯n Sunqur al-Ashqar, later Second, ˙ ˙ liberated during the Mongol occupation of Syria, became an honored exile among the IlKhans. When Baybars took captive the son of the Cilician Armenia ruler, Hethoum, he proposed to swap him for Sunqur al-Ashqar. Al-Ashqar’s biographer, Ibn al-Suqa¯’ı¯, suggests this was because Baybars and he were khushda¯shiyyah. However, al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯ states that when the swap was proposed to him, al-Ashqar was fearful of being repatriated, claiming the deal was a plot (dası¯sah) cooked up by Baybars against him, Cahen, “La ‘Chronique des Ayyoubides’ d’ al-Makı¯n b. al- Amı¯d”, 169; Ibn Wa¯sil, Mufarrij; 145a-b; Fadl Alla¯h Abı¯ al˙ Fakhr Ibn al-Suqa¯ ¯ı, Ta¯lı¯ kita¯b waja¯ya¯t al-a ya¯n, ed. ˙Jacqueline Sublet (Damascus and Paris: Adrien Maisonneuve, 1974), 85 – 86; al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 2: 384 – 85. 8 Al-Maqrizı¯, Histoire des Sultans Mamlouks de I’Êgypte, trans. M. Quatremere, 2 vols. (Paris: The Oriental Translation Fund of Great Britain and Ireland, 1837 – 1845) 1: 50 – 51. 9 Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Rawd, 55; Ibn Wa¯sil, Mufarrij, 123b. ˙ “La ‘Chronique ˙ 10 Ibid., 112b –˙113a: Cahen, des Ayyoubides’ d’ al-Makı¯n b. al- Amı¯d,” 164. ˘

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other possessions – which he was able to obtain for them from each new dynastic patron.11 Unable to reconstitute the Bahriyyah as the dominant paramilitary ˙ force it had been under Aqtay, Baybars attempted to build a new clientele from ˙ the human flotsam spun off by the political crises generated in Syro-Egypt on the eve of the Mongol invasion. Friction between, first, al-Mu izz Aybak and, then, alMalik al-Muzaffar Qutuz with the Sa¯lihiyyah, the Azı¯ziyyah, the Ashrafiyyah, ˙ ˙ ˙ and even the Mu izziyyah sent many Egyptian umara¯ and their followers into Syrian exile during the later 1250s.12 In Syria itself al-Malik al-Na¯sir Yu¯suf, the ˙ paramount Ayyubid ruler, was plagued by disaffection among local Kurdish groups such as the Qaymariyyah and Sha¯hrazu¯riyyah as well as his own mamlu¯k formations.13 These latter included not only Azı¯ziyyah and Bahriyyah refugees ˙ but elements of al-Malik al-Na¯sir’s own bodyguard, the Na¯siriyyah. Al-Na¯sir’s ˙ ˙ ˙ mama¯lı¯k seem to have rejected their usta¯dh’s policy of collaboration with the Mongols chiefly because it deprived them of the additional benefits (an um) which would have been distributed to them in the event of war.14 ˘

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Baybars and Kurdish clients

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Though dissident mamlu¯k groups were Baybars’ stock-in-trade, another important element in his development of a paramilitary clientele was his incorporation of the Sha¯hrazu¯rı¯ Kurds. The Sha¯hrazu¯riyyah were particularly useful to Baybars at that time because many were settled in the vicinity of Ghazzah, a choke-point on the Cairo-Damascus axis. Already partitioned as iqta¯ ˙ for a number of Sa¯lih¯ı amirs by al-Malik al-Na¯sir Yu¯suf when Baybars and his ˙ ˙ ˙ followers had first come to Syria, Ghazzah became now a magnet for the Bah˙ riyyah, the Na¯siriyyah and others defecting from Damascus under Baybars ˙ leadership. With the backing of these local Kurds, with whom he had recently intermarried, Baybars finally obtained after his failures in Karak and Damascus a secure base of operations from which to influence again the politics of Egypt. Indeed, Baybars now opened negotiations with the Egyptian sultan, now alMalik al-Muzaffar Qutuz, who, mindful of Baybars’ control of the principal ˙ strategic line of communications between Egypt and Syria, attempted to co-opt his increasingly powerful adversary.15

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11 Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Rawd, 73. ˙ ˙ 122a-b, 123a-b, 129a-b; Cahen, “La ‘Chronique des Ayyoubides’ 12 Ibn Wa¯sil, Mufarrij, 113b, ˙ ¯n b. al- Amı¯d,” 168. d’al-Makı 13 Ibid., 68, 169, 172, 175; Ibn Wa¯sil, Mufarrij, 123a, 149a. 14 Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Rawd, 62. ˙ ˙ ¯ hrazu¯riyyah not only accepted Baybars into their tribe but placed 15 Ibid., 56, 62 ˙– 63, The Sha ˘

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themselves under his authority (saltah) as well, Cahen, “La ‘Chronique des Ayyoubides’ d’ al˙ Makı¯n b. al- Amid,” 172. Cynthia H. Enloe, Ethnic Soldiers: State Security in Divided Societies (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1980), 1 – 22; Rene Lemarchand, “Political Clientelism and Ethnicity in Tropical Africa,” Friends, Followers, and Factions: A Reader in Political Clientelism, eds. Steffen W. Schmidt, Laura Guasti, et al. (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1977): 101 – 23; Sandbrook, “Patrons, Clients, and Factions: New Dimensions of Conflict Analysis in Africa,” 104 – 119. David Ayalon, “Aspects of the Mamlu¯k Phenomenon: Ayyu¯bids, Kurds and Turks,” Der Islam 54 (1977): 1 – 32. Ayalon has since qualified his opinion, see. D. Ayalon, “The Auxiliary Forces of the Mamluk Sultanate,” Der Islam 65 (1988), 21 – 23. R.S. Humphreys, while contradicting Ayalon, has highlighted Ibn Wa¯sil’s claim that Turks and Kurds were divided by their eth˙ nicity (jinsiyyah), see, R.S. Humphreys, “The Emergence of the Mamluk Army,” 152 – 160: idem, From Saladin to the Mongols, 317. Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 48: Cahen, “La ‘Chronique des Ayyoubides’ d’al-Makı¯n b. alAmı¯d,” 175. Ahmad b. Abd Alla¯h al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yat al-arab fi funu¯n al-adab, MS Arabe 1578, Bi˙ bliotheque Nationale, Paris, 15b. Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 31b, mentions a gathering of Kurds and groups identified as the “Qarasuliyyah” ˙and “Yasaruqiyyah” destroyed by two Mongol tumans under the command of Kitbugha Noyin at Kemah. The Mongol campaign appears to have been an attempt by Hu¯la¯gu¯ to clear his western flank of hostile elements prior to his campaign against Baghda¯d. ˘

16

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Baybars’ integration of diverse elements like the Kurds into his following is consistent with the non-ascriptive clientelistic nature of the ethnically fragmented political system of his day.16 This is worth noting since a role for the Kurds especially in the early Mamluk state has been thought implausible on the grounds of ineluctable ethnic antagonism.17 In fact, the Kurds were an important element in any Mamluk calculation about control of Syria and also continued to figure in the internal history of Egypt through much of the second half of the thirteenth/seventh century. The Mamluks clearly considered them a valuable military asset. The ‘Mamluk’ army which Qutuz lead to victory at Ayn Ja¯lu¯t contained in fact large numbers of Kurds, who undoubtedly made their presence felt here as well as at the crucial victory of Homs in the next year.18 Al-Malik al˙ ˙ Za¯hir Baybars himself, trying to impress his Horde ally, Berke Kha¯n, with his ˙ military power referred proudly to all the Kurdish clans ( asha¯ ir) in service to the Mamluk state.19 Though the migration of Kurdish groups into the Mamluk sphere may have reached floodtide shortly after the Mongol victory over the Turco-Kurdish confederacy at Kemah in 1258/656, the phenomenon appears to have continued well into Baybars’ reign.20 The Sha¯hrazu¯rı¯ Kurds, already an established presence in Cairo before Baybars’ accession as sultan, seem to have enjoyed a certain sense of empowerment, derived probably from clientelistic and kinship ties with Baybars. A Sha¯hrazu¯rı¯ qa¯d¯ı criticized Baybars to his face with regard to his policy of confiscations in ˙ Syria, a display which so demoralized the sultan that he was unable to bring

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himself to take any action against the brash cleric.21 When a Kurdish trooper in the halqah publically confronted a senior Mamluk officer over a pay dispute in ˙ the Turkish sanctum sanctorum, the mayda¯n of Cairo, Baybars felt compelled to intervene and adjudicate the claim personally.22 By 1270 – 71/669 the Sha¯hrazu¯riyyah felt sufficiently confident, indeed, to conspire in a pro-Ayyubid coup in the Mamluk capital.23 Despite this singular breach of loyalty, Baybars continued to integrate newly arrived Kurdish bands and their leadership into the service elite of Syro-Egypt at least as late as 1273/672.24 By the end of the thirteenth/ seventh century the Kurdish presence in and around Cairo had become so great that Mamluk authorities found it necessary to set the governors of Fayyu¯m and Bahasnah specifically to guard the settled oases against their depredations.25 Baybars’ desire to court Kurdish support seems to have been matched by a reciprocal interest within the Kurdish leadership for more meaningful service relations. The Kurdish amir Na¯sir al-Dı¯n al-Qaymarı¯, for one, was delighted by ˙ the prospect of establishing closer ties with the Mamluks after the rather artificial animosity created by decades of intramural squabbling among various Ayyubid mulu¯k: “It is good that there be no enmity ( ada¯wah) between us (Kurds) and them (Turks). The word of Islam unites us, we and they, as one … when enmity is dispelled … then we and they are united in one spirit.”26 The significance of this admission is underscored by the fact that Na¯sir al-Dı¯n al˙ Qaymarı¯ was probably the most powerful Kurdish patron-leader of his day in Syria and of whom it was said “all Kurds were obedient to him and in his service.”27 Indeed, Na¯sir al-Dı¯n’s clientelistic power ultimately outshone the ˙ Ayyubids themselves. In the wake of Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h’s assassination in Egypt Na¯sir al˙ Dı¯n’s influence allowed him, it is said, to deliver not only Damascus but the whole of Syria to the Ayyubid ruler, al-Malik al-Na¯sir Yu¯suf. When he became ˙ sultan, Baybars, conscious of al-Na¯sir’s power, was quick to give him high rank, ˙ honors and wealth and essentially a free hand in the Sa¯hil, the coastal plain of ˙ ˙ occupied Palestine; indeed, Baybars appointed him na¯ ib al-saltanah there, a ˙

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21 Al-Dhahabı¯, Mukhta¯r, f. 95; Sha¯hrazu¯rı¯ clerics appear to have been a bellicose group: another one is said to have disdained the wearing of civilian clerical garb and to have worn instead military livery, al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 3: 102. 22 Izz al-Dı¯n Muhammad Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh al-Malik al-Za¯hir, ed. Ahmad Hutait, (Wies˙ ˙ ˙ baden: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1983), 281. 23 Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 30b; al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 2: 298; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), ˙ 44a – b. 24 Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 3: 30; Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 70. 25 Axel Moberg, “Regierungspromemoria eines ägyptischen Sultans.” in Festschrift Eduard Sachau (Berlin: G. Reimer, 1915), 412 – 13. 26 Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 2: 366 – 67. 27 Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 33b.

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rank usually reserved only for the most important or trusted of his own Mamluk amirs.28 Na¯sir al-Dı¯n Qaymarı¯’s appeal to religious solidarity can be interpreted as an ˙ indirect attempt at redefining not only tribal but ethnic identity through reference to some “wider cultural focus.” This was important in a period of such rapid sociopolitical change, when the failure to subsume such ethnic differences could inhibit not only the formation of clientelistic ties but lead to the kind of violent inter-ethnic strife which had characterized, for instance, the transition from Fatimid to Ayyubid role in Egypt in the later twelfth/sixth century.29 Cohen’s prediction about the neutralization of ethnicity evolving through the state formation process seems to have found some early footing in Baybars’ policy of cultivating all available paramilitary groups. The coalition of Bahriyyah (Sa¯lihiyyah), Na¯siriyyah, Azı¯ziyyah, Mu izziyyah ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ mamlu¯k groups as well as Sha¯hrazu¯riyyah Kurds forged by Baybars during the late 1250s reflected a successful mediation, indeed, control of the dynamics of khushda¯shiyyah and jinsiyyah.30 It also allowed Baybars to replace his erstwhile Ayyubid patron, al-Malik al-Na¯sir Yu¯suf, as the only credible military power in ˙ Syria on the eve of Ayn Ja¯lu¯t. Baybars would continue to reap the benefits of coalition-building during his conspiracy to overthrow the Egyptian Mamluk ruler, al-Malik al-Muzaffar Qutuz, in the aftermath of Ayn Ja¯lu¯t as well. For ˙ several of the principal conspirators were drawn from the Mu izziyyah, that is to say, members of Qutuz’s own khushda¯shiyyah.31 Qutuz had of course raised serious internal opposition to himself in Egypt as sultan.32 Much of it was undoubtedly related to his persecution of important elements of the Egyptian umara¯ , particularly the Bahriyyah and the Mu iz˙ ziyyah. The Mu izziyyah of course had been deprived of their natural expectation for rotation of power by Qutuz’s cultivation of the Sa¯lihiyyah; but the Bahriyyah, ˙ ˙ ˙ too, must have been alienated by this favoritism. Such intra-khushda¯shiyyah division within the Sa¯lihiyyah was of course nothing new. Nearly a decade earlier ˙ ˙ they had split along similar age lines in the struggle between those favoring the Ayyubid princeling, al-Ashraf Mu¯sa¯, and those favoring Aybak, a reflection of the limitations of structural age in helping an age class to cohere in the face of ˘

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28 Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 2: 366 – 67; Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal, 290b; Ibn al-Suqa¯’ı¯, Ta¯lı¯, 64 – 65; alNuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 24a; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 59b. ˙ 29 Lemarchand, “Political Clientelism and Development,” 101, 112. 30 Ibn Wa¯sil, Mufarrij, 149a. ˙ 31 Ibid. 163b; al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 1: 370; al-Dhahabı¯, Mukhta¯r, 85b; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 60 actually refers to the Mu izzı¯ amirs as part of al-umara¯’ al-bahriyyah; other participants ˙ appear to have been mama¯lı¯k of Sa¯lih¯ı amirs. ˙ ˙ 32 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 370; Baybars al-Mansu¯ri, Zubdah, 40b – 41a. ˙

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personal ambitions and its structural expression, factionalism.33 By persecuting the Mu izzı¯ and Bahri amirs, on the one hand, while elevating some of the more ˙ senior Sa¯lih¯ı and Azı¯zı¯ amirs, on the other, Qutuz had seriously factionalized ˙ ˙ Mamluk politics in his attempt to cling to power. Baybars in effect rose to the sultanate as a result of the last age class crisis of the proto-Mamluk state. ˘

Baybars and khushda¯shiyyah

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Though in the past opposed to more senior elements of the Mamluk establishment, induding sometimes those of his own khushda¯shiyyah, Baybars recognized the necessity of gaining their consensus. Even Qutuz, who had ridden roughshod over other Mamluk political sensibilities – deposing the son of his usta¯dh, repressing his own khushda¯shiyyah, manipulating age class tensions – had ultimately acknowledged that political authority was based on the consensus (rida¯ ) of the umara¯ al-aka¯bir, though this too had probably been only an ˙ expedient concession on his part.34 The process of political consolidation was greatly facilitated for Baybars by his ability to take control, while still in Qusayr, ˙ of the greatest patronage network in Egypt – the army. In particular, Baybars was able to co-opt successfully Qutuz’s most imponant crony, the ata¯bak al- askar, Fa¯ris al-Dı¯n Aqtay al-Musta rib; typically Qutuz had chosen to trust a non˙ khushda¯sh Sa¯lihı¯ amir rather than one of his own Mu izzi amirs for the most ˙ imponant post in Egypt. Referred to as the pivot of Qutuz’s regime (mada¯r aldawlah), al-Musta rib controlled through his office the powerful patronage levers of promotion and distribution of iqta¯ assignments throughout Egypt.35 ˙ Baybars had not been necessarily the most likely candidate to succeed Qutuz since others of his khushda¯shiyyah such as his companion Sayf al-Dı¯n Balba¯n alRashı¯dı¯ or even al-Musta rib himself were thought to have had better claims.36 Yet, such was al-Musta rib’s patronal influence over the umara¯ that when he personally took the oath of allegience (hilf) to Baybars “the other amirs did not ˙ attempt anything save what was agreeable to him.”37 Baybars was of course mindful of the power inherent in the office of ata¯bak al˘

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33 Bernardo Bernardi, Age Class Systems, 70 – 72; Maybury-Lewis, Akwe-Shavante Society, 146 – 48. 304 – 06; Uri Almagor, “The Ethos of Equality among Dassanetch Age-Peers,” in Age, Generation and Time: Some Features of East African Age Organisations, eds. P.T.W. Baxter and Uri Almagor (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1978): 69 – 93. 34 Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 35b. ˙ 45 – 48. 35 Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 36 Safadı¯, Wa¯fi, 9: 318 – 19; al-Rashı¯dı¯ was considered the most senior of the Bahriyyah, Dha˙ ˙ ¯, Mukhta¯r, 77b. habı 37 Safadı¯, Wa¯fi, 9: 318. ˙

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askar, having already seen it exercised by Fakhr al-Dı¯n Ibn Shaykh al-Shuyu¯kh, who is said to have been “beloved of the sulta¯n’s kha¯ss” and elicited “universal ˙ ˙˙ obedience in the army.”38 Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h had of course been relieved of the thorny prospect of dealing with Ibn Shaykh al-Shuyu¯kh’s de facto power by the latter’s timely demise at the climax of the Mansu¯rah campaign. Even as sultan, Baybars ˙ appears to have been reluctant to test the residual power and support enjoyed by al-Musta rib. However, one of his first official measures was to place at the top of that enormous patronage network, as a kind of co-ata¯bak, his most senior and trusted mamlu¯k, Badr al-Dı¯n Bı¯lı¯k al-Khazinda¯r al-Za¯hirı¯, making a con˙ dominium (musha¯rakah) of the ata¯bakiyyah of the army.39 Though there may not have been anything so crude as a rasm al-bay ah in the early Mamluk state, the amirs in Qusayr sold their services to Baybars all the ˙ same.40 Baybars acknowledged from the outset that political loyalty was a reciprocal rather than gratuitous arrangement between patron and client. To symbolize this recognition, Baybars swore an oath (hilf) to uphold the interests ˙ of the amirs first, before they in turn took an oath of allegience to him. Baybars’ public acknowlegement of the patron-leader’s responsibility toward the subsistence needs of his clientele may have been reinforced especially by the large number of unemployed (batta¯lu¯n) apparently idling about the Qusayr mu as˙˙ ˙ kar.41 The general oath-taking some days later in the Citadel among the Mamluk elite (na¯s) involved as well the general distribution of wealth and positions to Qutuz’s former clients by Baybars.42 Who were the “new men” of al-Malik al-Za¯hir’s regime? Al-Nuwayrı¯ main˙ tained that when Baybars took power he entrusted control of the citadels (qila¯ ) and fortified towns (husu¯n) to his own mama¯lı¯k, the Za¯hiriyyah.43 The dozen or ˙ ˙ ˙ so careers of Za¯hirı¯ amirs which can be reconstructed bear out Baybars’ pro˙ ˙ motion of his own servitors to many of the plum governorships such as Aleppo, Damascus, Hims, Safad, Karak, Hisn al-Akra¯d. Additionally some of the most ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ sensitive posts in the state were taken by Za¯hiriyyah graduates. The position of ˙ na¯ ib al-saltanah of Egypt, for instance, was held for many years by Baybars’ ˙ chief atı¯q, Badr al-Dı¯n Bı¯lı¯k al-Khazinda¯r al-Za¯hirı¯. The head of Baybars’ in˙ telligence and security service, the dawa¯da¯riyyah, was in the hands of the Za¯hirı¯ ˙ amir, Sayf al-Dı¯n Balba¯n al-Ru¯mi, a man whose “power inspired fear and envy.” Though such promotions may be considered broadly patronage jobs there are ˘

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Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 2: 215. Ibid., 3: 45 – 48; Safadı¯, Wa¯fi. 9: 319. ˙ and Leadership in an Early Islamic Society, 52. Mottahedeh, Loyalty Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Rawd, 69. ˙ Ibid., 70. ˙ Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 60a. ˘

38 39 40 41 42 43

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indications that Baybars applied some criteria of ability and seniority in making his appointments. With an establishment during his reign of perhaps 4,000 mama¯lı¯k Baybars certainly had a sizeable recruitment pool from which to fashion a new ruling elite.44 Yet, though many important posts went to members of the Za¯hiriyyah ˙ many also went to the still paramount formation, the Sa¯lihiyyah. Despite the fact ˙ ˙ that many of his khushda¯shiyyah had rejected his leadership after the death of Fa¯ris al-Dı¯n Aqtay, Baybars was eager to cultivate their obedience with em˙ ployment and promotion. Particularly large amounts of wealth were settled on the Bahriyyah, the junior element of the Sa¯lihiyyah with whom Baybars had long ˙ ˙ ˙ been associated. Their annual pay (ja¯makiyyah) came to 380,000 dinars, more than 75 % of Baybars’ own expenditures and almost 40 % of the government’s annual operating budget; and this did not include apparently the pocket money (naqdiyyah) normally distributed by Baybars among his khushda¯shiyyah.45 Sa¯lih¯ı amirs were given numerous na¯ ib ships, including those for cities where ˙ ˙ their Za¯hirı¯ colleagues were sometimes posted; they were even given commands ˙ in sensitive paramilitary formations such as the sila¯hda¯riyyah and ja¯nda¯r˙ iyyah.46 So many of the Sa¯lihiyyah were raised up and reinstated by this policy ˙ ˙ that Baybars’ biographer claimed he had in effect “resurrected” the state as it had been in the heyday of their usta¯dh, al-Malik al-Sa¯lih, himself.47 Though the senior ˙ ˙ Sa¯lihiyyah was in some sense sharing paramountcy with the newer Za¯hiriyyah, ˙ ˙ ˙ Baybars’ skillful mixing of privilege and promotion had clearly satisfied their sense of moral economy.

Baybars and non-khushda¯shiyyah

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Benefits of course were not restricted to either Baybars’ mama¯lı¯k or khushda¯shiyyah alone.48 Members of the ci-devant Syro-Egyptian dynastics were well provided for by Baybars. Those of major families such as the Ayyubid enjoyed rank (rutbah) and position (waz¯ıfah), including cash benefits and iqta¯ s, ˙ ˙

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44 Safadı¯, Wa¯fi, 9/2: 484; Ibid., 10: 282; Ibn al-Suqa¯’ı¯, Ta¯lı¯, 16 – 17, 52 – 53; al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 2: ˙ 437; Ibid., 3: 238; Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal,˙ fol. 156b, 160b, 216b; 340a, 341a, 343b; Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 87, 91 – 92, 142, 219, 239 – 243. Za¯hirı¯ amirs were also mature enough to ˙ begin assuming independent military commands early in Baybars’ reign, see for instance, alNuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah, 68a; al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 1: 531. 45 Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 80 – 81. 46 Ibn al-Suqa¯’ı¯, Ta¯lı¯, 11 – 12, 13 – 14, 17 – 18, 93; Safadı¯, Wa¯fi, 9: 476, 477, 490; Ibid., 10: 281; Ibn ˙ 2: 413, 437; Ibid., 3: 131 – 33, 190, 239; Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 203, 239 – 42; al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal, 161a. 47 Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Rawd, 71. ˙ ˙ 48 Baybars al-Mans u¯rı¯, Zubdah, 42a; Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Al-Rawd, 71. ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘

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whether as reigning princes in their own patrimonies or as hangers-on at Baybars’ court. Interestingly, Ibn Shadda¯d referred to this largesse as indemnity (muka¯fa ah), giving the impression that Baybars thought it expedient to buy out their various residual interests in the rulership of Syro-Egypt to neutralize them politically, a policy which was to have mixed results.49 Baybars also chose to indemnify the scions of minor dynasties. To gather the tiny lordship of Sa¯hyu¯n, ˙ for instance, Baybars bought out the title of its late amir, Sayf al-Dı¯n Mankuwars, from his heirs, granting them in exchange generous iqta¯ s in Egypt.50 ˙ Other free-born officers and even amirs’ mama¯lı¯k rose to some of the highest positions in the state. The amir Ibra¯hı¯m Kama¯l al-Dı¯n al-Qurshı¯ al-Amawı¯ became walı¯ of both Ruhbah and Baalbak in Baybars’ time.51 The amı¯r Shams alDı¯n Aqsunqur al-Fa¯raqa¯nı¯ al-Ha¯jibı¯ rose prominently in Baybars’ service to ˙ become intendant of the palace ustadda¯riyyah as well as na¯ ib al-saltanah in ˙ Egypt.52 The amı¯r Badr al-Dı¯n Bakta¯sh al-Fakhrı¯ similarly rose to become Baybars’ amı¯r sila¯h.53 Ala¯ al-Dı¯n Aydakin al-Shihabı¯ rose to becorne na¯ ib of ˙ Aleppo as did the Kurdish amir Nu¯r al-Dı¯n b. Majlı¯ al-Hakka¯rı¯ after him.54 The ˙ tawa¯shı¯ Shibl al-Dawlah Ka¯fu¯r al-Khazinda¯r al-Safawı¯, who served as treasurer ˙ ˙ in Damascus, was also picked as na¯ ib of the city’s citadel.55 Much of the consensus Baybars enjoyed was tied not only to his distribution of offices but particularly to his policy of benefit (ni mah) in land assignments. Indeed, Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir claimed that Baybars’ iqta¯ policy, judiciously handled ˙ ˙ by his mamlu¯k and ata¯bak al- askar, Badr al-Dı¯n Bı¯lı¯k, entirely won for Baybars the hearts (qulu¯b) of the elite.56 As noted already Baybars indemnified members of the ci-devant Syro-Egyptian dynastics with iqta¯‘s. To members of other minor ˙ ci-devant dynastics of Anatolia and Iraq and their retinues Baybars proved generous with land assignments. The lord of Jazı¯rah, al-Malik al-Muja¯hid Sayf alDı¯n Isha¯q, was given an iqta¯ worth 100,000 dirhams, and each of his sons were ˙ ˙ rewarded with suitable iqta¯ s as well. Al-Malik al-Muzaffar Ala¯ al-Dı¯n of Sinja¯r, ˙ ˙ his brother, as well as his mama¯lı¯k were all granted iqta¯ s in Egypt.57 Izz al-Dı¯n ˙ Shuma ah and his mama¯lı¯k from Ma¯rdı¯n were similarly rewarded and then enrolled into the halqah. The mama¯lı¯k of the deceased Ayyubid ruler of ˙ ˘

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Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 289; Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Rawd, 79; Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 2: 108, 194. ˙ urı¯, Zubdah, ˙ Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 55; Baybars al-Mans 78a ¯ ˙ Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 3: 125 – 26; Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 141 – 42; Ibn al-Suqa¯’ı¯, Ta¯lı¯, 20. Ibn al-Suqa¯’ı¯, Ta¯lı¯, 12 – 13; Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 241, who says he was wa¯lı¯ of the sila¯hda¯r˙ iyyah. Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 242; Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal, 195b – 196a. Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 240, 241; Safadı¯, Wa¯fi, 9: 491. ˙ Ibn al-Suqa¯’ı¯, Ta¯lı¯, 131. Ibid., 86. Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 1: 494 – 95; Ibid., 2: 108, 156. ˘

49 50 51 52

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Mayya¯fariqı¯n, al-Malik al-Ka¯mil, were also provided with numerous an um.58 Ta¯qı¯ al-Dı¯n Shı¯rwa¯n b. Hamda¯n of Irbı¯l, made an amir of seventy, was given an ˙ iqta¯ along with his nephew.59 The lord of Samsat, a former Khwarizmian officer, ˙ arrived with a formidable retinue of 1,000 mama¯lı¯k and soldiers; all were given iqta¯ s in Egypt as well as other benefits and ranks.60 ˙ To defecting wafdı¯ Mongol leaders and soldiers Baybars was equally patronizing. All were honored and given benefits, including iqta¯ . Some were made ˙ amirs; those who already held rank were promoted, the most prominent being made amirs of one hundred. Many appear to have been enrolled as well into elite royal formations such as the kha¯ssakiyyah, sila¯hda¯riyyah and the jamada¯r˙˙ ˙ iyyah.61 The high level of patronage (ni mah) extended by Baybars in fact stimulated an almost continuous flow of wafdı¯ Mongols to Syro-Egypt – “they followed without interruption, one tribe (ta¯ ifah) after another.”62 Baybars employed a progressive iqta¯ policy to assimilate even the most in˙ digestible paramilitary groups, particularly in Syria, bridging not only political and ethnic differences but even confessional ones. To pacify, for instance, the restive Isma¯ ¯ılı¯ lairds of western Syria Baybars early on enunciated a policy of exchanging political control of their lordships for iqta¯ assignments carved from ˙ annexed local Crusader territories. Some Isma¯ ilis even received assignments in Egypt itself; the chieftain, Sa¯rim Muba¯rak b. al-Riddah, for instance, was given a ˙ very generous iqta¯ of one hundred horse in Egypt. Though relations between ˙ local Isma¯ ili communities and newly arrived Mamluk officers were not always smooth, Baybars’ policy was generally successful and, unlike Saladin, was able to pacify the highlands of Syria without Makı¯ng himself a target for fida¯ ¯ı assassins.63 ˘

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Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 338. Ibid., 332. Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 53a. Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 337 – 38; al-Yunı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 1: 534; Ibid., 2: 195; Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Rawd, ˙ ˙ 138; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 15a-b. 62 Al-Yunı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 2: 156; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 15a-b. D. Ayalon, “The Wafidiya in the Mamluk Kingdom,” Islamic Culture 25 (1951), 91, quotes the non-contemporary Mamluk historian, Maqrı¯zı¯, who claims curiously that Baybars was unhappy about the influx of wafdı¯ Mongols. 63 Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 60; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 63a – 64b; al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 2: 110, 163, 451. Baybars’ own usta¯dh, Ala¯’ al-Dı¯n Aydakin al-Bunduqda¯r, ran afoul of the Isma¯ ¯ıliyyah during his time in the town of Sarmı¯n, killing a local fida¯ ¯ı. Though Baybars transfered Ala¯’ al-Dı¯n to the relative protection of the city of Hama¯h, an Isma¯’ı¯lı¯ special action team am˙ bushed the amir outside the city while he was inspecting his pasturing horses and delivered wounds which were to prove ultimately fatal. Ibn al-Suqa¯’i, Ta¯lı¯, 17 – 18. Subsequent Mamluk ˙ regimes would have more difficulty with this community, H. Laoust. “Remarques sur les expeditions du Kasrawan sous les premiers Mamluks,” Bulletin du Mus¦e de Beyrouth 4 (1940): 93 – 115; Urbain Vermeulen, “Some Remarks on a Rescript of an-Na¯sir Muhammad B. ˙ ˙ Qala¯’u¯n on the Abolition of Taxes and the Nusayris (Mamlaka of Tripoli, 717/1317),” ˙ ˘

58 59 60 61

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Baybars reached out apparently even to the furthest limits of potential paramilitary support in Syro-Egypt – to local Crusaders. Christian knights from Safad and even the son of the lord of Arsu¯f, perhaps as many as three hundred ˙ men altogether, were enrolled into the Syrian halqah and given generous iqta¯ ˙ ˙ assignments, no doubt to help consolidate peacefully Baybars’ absorption of 64 Palestine. Baybars’ broad enfranchisement policy is nicely profiled in one of the few extant documents from his reign. It is a copy of an edict (manshu¯r) drawn up by the qa¯d¯ı al-quda¯t of Damascus on orders from Baybars awarding to a number of ˙ ˙ his important amirs portions of certain villages absorbed as a result of the recent conquests of the Crusader strongholds of Arsu¯f and Caesarea.65 Of the sixty prominent officers listed one-third were either his own mama¯lı¯k, the Za¯hiriyyah, ˙ or mernbers of his khushda¯shiyyah, the Sa¯lihiyyah. The remaining two-thirds of ˙ ˙ these land assignments, however, were distributed among a variety of sociopolitically, geographically and even ethnically heterogenous mamlu¯k and freeborn officers. Among the diversity of mamlu¯k officers were amirs not only from Egypt and Syria but even Iraq. Among the free-born amirs a variety of Kurds were represented – the Qaymariyyah, the Sha¯hrazu¯riyyah, the Hakka¯riyyah and ˙ even the Ayyubids. To this can be added the refugee Turkish princes from the Lu’lu’id dynasty of Mosul and probably even remnants of Jala¯l al-Dı¯n Mingubirti’s Khwarizmian army. The nature of these land distributions is perhaps even more indicative of Baybars’ patronage. The grants were made not as iqta¯ assignments but as he˙ reditable freehold property (mulk).66 The liberal combination of iqta¯ and mulk ˙ could prove quite lucrative for Baybars’ clients. Izz al-Dı¯n Aybak al-Afram alSa¯lih¯ı, for instance, one of those who received mulk in the Arsu¯f-Caesarea dis˙ ˙ tribution, realized from both his mulk and iqta¯ one thousand Egyptian dinars a ˙ day, excluding apparently the commercial value of the barley, wheat and corn grown on these properties.67 Government alienation of property as hereditable freehold also reflects on the controversial issue of hereditability of iqta¯ itself. ˙ Early scholarship on this problem accepted, somewhat ambiguously, the prin˘

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Orientalia Louvaniensa Periodica 1 (1970): 195 – 201; Kamal Salibi, “Mount Lebanon under the Mamluks,” in Quest for Understanding: Arabic and Islamic Studies in Memory of Malcolm H. Kerr, eds. S. Seikaly et al. (Beirut: American University of Beirut Press, 1991): 15 – 32. Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 338; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 73b. This edict of Baybars issued early in his reign (1264 – 65/663) has been discussed to a limited degree in F.-M. Abel, “La liste des donations de Ba„bars en Palestine d’ apres la charte de 663 H. (1265),” Journal of the Israel Oriental Society 19 (1939): 38 – 44; Robert lrwin, “Iqta¯’ and the End of the Crusader States,” in The Eastern Mediterranean Lands in the Period˙of The Crusades, ed. P.M. Holt (Warminster : Amis & Phillips, Ltd., 1977), 65 – 67. Irwin. “Iqta¯’ and the End of the Crusader States,” 66 – 67. Ibn Taghrı˙¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal, 161a.

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ciple of such hereditability.68 More recent investigation, however, has rejected that position principally on the grounds that there exist only two examples of such transfers (from father to son) during the entire first century of Mamluk rule.69 In fact there are many more examples, at least seven from the reign of Baybars alone.70 Indeed, Baybars may only have been following a precedent set earlier by his usta¯dh, al-Malik al-Sa¯lih.71 In addition to upholding the rights of ˙ ˙ sons to their fathers’ land assignments, Baybars also made settlements of money (muqarrara¯t), bestowed rank (rutbah) and remined the inheritance taxes of numerous Mamluk offspring. Baybars’ highly visible commitment to protect the interests of his amirs was, it is clear from Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, a policy designed to ˙ strengthen the primary dyadic ties already existing between Baybars and his 72 military servitors. As Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir nicely summed up in verse: “O this one ˙ (Baybars), who patronized the fathers in their life, after their death (patronized) the sons”.73 To send the roots of his patronage network even deeper Baybars’ apparently undertook to support directly not only the children but mama¯lı¯k and other clients of deceased members of his khushda¯shiyyah.74 Baybars has acquired the image of a potentate ruling from the saddle, almost constantly on the move throughout his state. Much of the time he spent travelling seems in fact to have been taken up with reinforcing patronal ties with his elite. Whether hunting in the Delta, reviewing troops in the field or visiting cities in Syria, the one common activity in which he engaged was the distribution of honors, awards and cash – in short, patronage (in a¯m) – to his amirs and soldiers.75 In some cases it was as reward for specific military achievement, such as his distribution of 300,000 dinars to the amirs and soldiers who stubbornly defended the frontier fortress of al-Bı¯rah from Mongol assault.76 Yet, even a ˘

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68 M. Goudefroy-Demombynes, La Syrie a¯ l’¦poque des Mamelouks d’aprÀs les auteurs arabes (Paris: Paul Geuthner, 1923); A.N. Poliak, Feudalism in Egypt, Syria, Palestine and the Lebanon (London: Royal Asiatic Society, 1939); idem, “The Ayyu¯bid Feudalism,” Journal of The Royal Asiatic Society (939): 428 – 32; Ayalon, “Studies on the Structure of the Mamluk Army,” 448 – 76. 69 Hassanein Rabie, The Financial System of Egypt A.H. 564 – 741/A.D. 1169 – 1341 (London: Oxford University Press, 1972), 59 – 60. 70 Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 3: 48, 49, 90 – 91; Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Rawd, 135, 191; Ibn al-Suqa¯’ı¯, Ta¯lı¯, 10 – ˙ the End˙ of the Crusader ˙States,” 68, 76. 11; Maqrı¯zı¯, Sulu¯k, 1, 508 – 09; Irwin, “Iqta¯’ and 71 Levanoni, “The Mamluks’ Ascent to Power˙ in Egypt,” 125. 72 Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 2: 324; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 23b; Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Rawd, 74, 190 – ˙ ˙ 91. 73 Ibid., 191. 74 Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 71, 73 – 74. 75 Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 2: 108, 158, 382, 430; Ibid., 3: 5, 174; Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Rawd, 76, 121, 133, ˙ al-Nuwayrı¯, 138, 157, 163 – 64, 165, 175, 218, 220; Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 55 – 56,˙ 57, 73, 296; Niha¯yah (1578), 15a-b, 24a, 28a, 32b, 42b, 46a, 50b, 58a. 76 Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 3:5. ˘

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routine assembly of amirs could occasion an equally handsome distribution.77 The very continuity of Baybars’ benefaction suggests it was intended to help keep the wheels of loyalty greased among the provincial juyu¯sh of Syro-Egypt. Contemporary sources in fact refer to a conscious policy ( a¯dah) by Baybars meant both “to attract” and “to retain the obedience (ta¯ ah)” of the amirs.78 While a ˙ prominent amir, such as the Kurdish commander of the Sa¯hil, Na¯sir al-Dı¯n ˙ ˙ Qaymarı¯, might receive 200,000 dirhims on such occasions, Baybars’ patronage was intended for “both the great and the small” among the umara¯ . A lowly amir of five in Syria, for instance, might expect in this period to receive a fairly sizeable gift in special circumstances – from 500 to 1,000 dinars.79 Though Baybars’ patronage was clearly meant to filter down to officers of junior grade, the size of awards appears to have remained in keeping with the guideline of seniority, which regulated the Mamluk political system. Typically, distributions of patronage are said to have been made “according to rank” (bi-hasbi mar˙ a¯tibihim).

Niza¯m: Coercion and Conflict Resolution under Baybars ˙

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Of course patronage alone could not protect Baybars entirely, he also took sensible precautions to help preserve his regime from premeditated or spontaneous challenges. After a rowdy private banquet in Cairo in 1265/663, for instance, where some marginally treasonous and probably drunken remarks were passed Baybars forebade thereafter amirs and soldiers from assembling together privately.80 To strengthen his security in the capital Baybars also ordered the refurbishment of the old Jazı¯rah Barracks, originally built by his usta¯dh, al-Malik al-Sa¯lih Ayyu¯b, and regarrisoned it with his ja¯nda¯riyyah.81 To supervise his ˙ ˙ authority in other cities of the empire Baybars often appointed his own mama¯lı¯k to command the towns’ military installations.82 To protect himself in the field, where he was probably most vulnerable, Baybars relied on his kha¯ss as a kind of ˙˙ military police. The military field camp (mu askar) was possibly the most dangerous environment for any sultan, including Baybars; failure to anticipate security problems there could have immediate and serious consequences. At the siege of Safad, for instance, his kha¯ss had to be called out to suppress a mutiny of ˙ ˙˙ Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 57. Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Rawd, 133, 157; Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 296. ˙ Al-Nuwayrı¯,˙Niha¯yah (1578), 24a, 53b; Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 296. Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 2: 317. Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Rawd, 90. ˙ Al-Nuwayrı¯,˙Niha¯yah (1578), 60a. ˘ ˘

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troops disgusted by two weeks of costly and fruitless fighting.83 In 1273/672 while the army lay encamped outside Damascus Baybars rode out to conduct an impromtu inspection. On this occasion he rode without his usual mounted gendarmerie (rika¯b da¯r li-l-sulta¯n). Seeing the small size of his escort some ˙ disgruntled Turkman auxiliaries rode up, surrounded Baybars and began making demands of him. Though caught off guard Baybars resolved the dispute in rather typical fashion – he paid the Turkman amirs to go away.84 In addition to patronage and precaution Baybars inevitably also employed coercion to help preserve his authority (tasallut); he seems in fact to have ˙ enjoyed something of a reputation for keeping the elite on its toes.85 Indeed, a simple summons to the Citadel by Baybars could send some amirs off to make out a last will and testament.86 Yet, this image may have been intentioned. A patina of uncertainty judiciously applied by Baybars over his relationship with the umara¯ could have helped to discourage dissent, at least on the margin, and intimidate the development of actual rebellion. The heart of the problem lay of course in the dilemma of patronage. There was always a fine dividing line where patronage, the heart of a transactional society like the Mamluk state, became too much patronage, stimulating rather than inhibiting ambition to such a degree that amirs were tempted to “infringe sovereignty (mulk)”. Dissidents, moreover, often proved to be those already high up in the hierachy of access, amirs who enjoyed Baybars’ confidence and patronage. Some amirs such as Badr al-Dı¯n Baysarı¯ al-Sa¯lih¯ı, who were given a “free hand in his sovereignty (mulk) and ˙ ˙ administration (hukm),” did not betray Baybars’ trust.87 Others, however, did, ˙ including khushda¯shiyyah who also enjoyed a close personal friendship (sada¯˙ qah) with Baybars, such as Shams al-Dı¯n Sunqur al-Ru¯mı¯ al-Sa¯lih¯ı. Al-Ru¯mi’s ˙ ˙ offense is instructive; he defied Baybars’ repeated warnings about the misuse of 88 his patronage in raising an overly large clientele. Against isolated acts of disobedience by more marginal elements of the elite, whose suppression would not likely stimulate a general fitnah, Baybars often reacted without much restraint. When the garrison of Hisn al-Karak bungled a ˙ ˙ feeble rising on behalf of a local Ayyubid princeling, for instance, Baybars swooped down on the town “as though on jiha¯d,” suppressed the revolt and ordered the mass execution of everyone involved, amounting to several hundred people; the rebels appear to have been of little consequence, mainly remnants of

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Ibid., 71b. Ibid., 52b. Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 318. Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 1: 491. Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 290. Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 30b.

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the old Ayyubid halqah.89 In 1267/665, Baybars dealt even more severely with ˙ another misfired plot to place an Ayyubid princeling, al-Malik al-Ashraf b. Shiha¯b al-Dı¯n Gha¯zı¯, on the throne of Egypt during his absence. Though the rebellion was both brief and without result, the conspirators were all crucifed by Baybars upon his return from Syria. Though the conspiracy was apparently led by one of Baybars’ own khushda¯shiyyah, the amir Aqu¯sh al-Qibja¯qi al-Sa¯lih¯ı, his ˙ ˙ recless scheme attracted almost no support; certainly no Mamluk amirs of any note were involved, freeing Baybars to make a severe example of the rebels.90 When a rice mill in Safad was burned down and military equipment destroyed by the riotous behavior of some Bahriyyah stationed in the city, Baybars ordered ˙ one of their number executed; it is worth noting that the Bahri chosen for ˙ punishment was characterized as a man of no importance ( adam) among his khushda¯shiyyah91 For breaches of military discipline Baybars sentenced several soldiers to death for avoiding a military review ( ard) in Homs.92 When a band of ˙ ˙ ˙ wafdı¯ Mongol troops attempted to desert the army and return to Il-Khanid 93 territory Baybars ordered them to be liquidated. On the whole Baybars remained circumspect in his dealings with the umara¯ and avoided as much as possible giving them a sense of collective grievance. When, for instance, he needed but was unable to collect a new military tax from the overburdened peasantry Baybars toyed with the idea of taxing the umara¯ . He quickly rescinded the scheme, however, when the amirs “resisted with complaint.”94 At the siege of Safad, Baybars had been obliged for the sake of military ˙ discipline to browbeat the amirs and even arrest several pour encourager les autres; however, when their colleagues returned to the trenches, Baybars quickly released them from detention.95 During the brief pro-Ayyubid rising in Hisn al˙ ˙ Karak Baybars summarily sentenced the entire garrison to death for its treasonous actions. However, when the umara¯ interceded on behalf of the mutineers Baybars thought it politic to gratify their wishes. Though furious with the rebels Baybars commuted their death sentences.96 Perhaps the greatest challenge to Baybars’ relations with the umara¯ came in 1263/661 when he attempted to eliminate his most serious political riyal in Syria, al-Malik al-Mughı¯th of Karak. Baybars was obliged to act very circumspectly to avoid offending the sensibilites of the umara¯ , especially those of his own ˘

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Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 135 – 36; al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 3: 122 – 23; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 58a. Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 2: 362 – 63; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 37a; Safadı¯, Wa¯fi, 9: 322. ˙ Safadı¯, Wa¯fi, 10: 6. ˙ Al-Nuwayrı ¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 56a. Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 64b. Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯˙rı¯kh, 76. Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 71b. Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 362 – 63.

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khushda¯shiyyah, who had supported al-Mughı¯th’s candidacy as sultan of Egypt in the aftermath of Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h’s assassination.97 Control of Karak itself was of great importance to any regime in Cairo, especially in relation to the geo-politics of Syria, which remained vulnerable to both Crusader and now Mongol occupation. Baybars’ strategic appreciation of Karak may have been shaped by his usta¯dh, al-Malik al-Sa¯lih Ayyu¯b, who in a confidential memorandum to his ˙ ˙ successor, Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h, underscored the geo-political advantage of Egyptian control of the fortress city. Certainly Baybars’ squabble with his khushda¯sh and Qutuz’s na¯ ib in Damascus, Sanjar al-Halabı¯, brought home to him the necessity ˙ of controlling the whole of Transjordan.98 To win the umara¯ to his side Baybars carefully prepared a case against al-Malik al-Mughı¯th as a Mongol quisling scheming to deliver Karak and its territories to the Il-Khans.99 Despite the craftily laid plot against al-Mughı¯th, Baybars was disconcerted to find that the umara¯ as a whole still manifested great aversion (kara¯hah) for removing alMughı¯th from power in Karak; indeed, some amirs attempted to warn alMughı¯th of Baybars’ machinations. Baybars now had a dangerous and unexpected crisis on his hands. Only his ability to gain the tacit consent of alMughı¯th’s cousin, al-Malik al-Ashraf of Homs, and that of the qa¯d¯ı al-quda¯t of ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Damascus, who may have facilitated the issuance of legal judgments (khutu¯t) ˙ ˙ sanctioning action against al-Mughı¯th, enabled Baybars at last to finesse the liquidation of his Ayyubid rival over the disapproval of the umara¯ . Even so, Baybars found it difficult to locate anyone willing to carry out the commission and was ultimately forced to have the execution carried out in great secrecy.100 To further placate the umara¯ and prevent Karak from exploding like Hisn al-Karak ˙ ˙ into a pro-Ayyubid revolt Baybars generously patronized al-Mughı¯th’s family and former clientele (ha¯shiyyah).101 Though Baybars had gained his objective ˙ finally, he probably knew he had skated over very thin ice with the umara¯ to do so. Though Ibn Shadda¯d observed that Baybars used both killing (fatk) and imprisonment ( asr) as his primary levers of coercive power it is clear from the evidence that his use of detention far exceeded recorded instances of judicial or extra-judicial execution.102 Baybars much preferred to resolve political problems ˘

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97 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 14. 98 Cahen and Chabbouh, “Le testement d’ al-Malik al-Sa¯lih Ayyu¯b,” 114; Yu¯suf Darwı¯sh Ghawa¯nmah, Ta¯rı¯kh al-siya¯sı¯ li-sharqı¯ al-Urdun fı¯ al-˙asr˙ al-Mamlu¯kı¯ al-awwal (al-Ma˙ ma¯lı¯k al-Bahriyyah) ( Amman: Da¯r al-Fikr, 1982), 58 – 59. ˙ 99 Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 2: 193; L. Hambis, “La Lettre mongole du gouverneur de Karak,” Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientarium 15 (1962): 143 – 46. 100 Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 2: 192 – 94, 299 – 300. 101 Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 1: 533; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 19b. 102 Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 318. D. Ayalon, “Discharges from Service, Banishments and Imprisonments in Mamlu¯k Society,” Israel Oriental Studies 2 (1972): 25 – 50, has identified and ˘

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through mediation. Negotiation, bribery, grants of immunity were more Baybars’ stock-in-trade than overt brutality. And even resort to detention was often tempered by the desire to conciliate and rehabilitate. Limitations on the use of coercion were viewed in Baybars’ day as having positive social value, a manifestation of justice ( adl) by a ruler toward the elite (na¯s). Not surprisingly political stability (dawm al-duwal) was held to be closely linked to such expressions of “justice.”103 It underpinned, along with appropriate application of patronage, what was in effect the unwritten constitution order (niza¯m) of the ˙ Mamluk state.

Conflict Resolution: The Cases of Sanjar al-Halabı¯ and Aqu¯sh ˙ al-Burlı¯ ˘

Baybars’ handling of the rebellion in Damascus by his khushda¯sh, Alam al-Dı¯n Sanjar al-Halabı¯ al-Sa¯lih¯ı was adduced by contemporaries as a classic example of ˙ ˙ ˙ the application of al- adl. When Sanjar al-Halabı¯, styling himself al-Malik al˙ Muja¯hid in imitation of Ayyubid precedent, imposed his own autonomous regime in Damascus following Qutuz’s assassination Baybars sought to mediate the restoration of his authority rather than impose it through violent military action. First, he tried to negotiate an end to Sanjar al-Halabı¯’s disobedience.104 ˙ When this proved fruitless, he tried to coax him back to obedience by sending a khushda¯sh, the amir Jama¯l al-Dı¯n Muhammadı¯ al-Sa¯lih¯ı, to bribe him – 120,000 ˙ ˙ ˙ dirhams, belts, robes of honor and fabrics worth two thousand dinars. When that failed, Baybars next sent his usta¯dh, Ala¯ al-Dı¯n Aydakı¯n al-Bunduqda¯r, to engineer a bloodless defection of al-Halabı¯’s clients through some more judi˙ cious bribery. Only after all this did an Egyptian military column arrive to make a demonstration before Damascus. Al-Halabı¯’s clientele, undermined by Bay˙ bars’ cash blandishments, did not stand their ground long. A perfunctory intramural skirmish in the suburbs ended the pantomime civil war ; al-Halabı¯ ˙ declared victory and fled the city. Al-Halabı¯’s exercise in structured violence ˙ largely ensured that neither he nor his clients would suffer much retribution. Indeed, Baybars not only showed clemency to officers of all ranks in Damascus who had joined al-Halabı¯’s rebellion but guaranteed their benefits by issuing ˙ ˘

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provided a physical description of the many detention centers in the Mamluk state, though without commenting on why the Mamluks chose so often to incarcerate rather than execute rebels. 103 Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Rawd, 94. ˙ nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, ˙ 104 Ibid., 94; Al-Yu 1: 438; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 8a; Ariel Berman, “The ¯ Turbulent Events in Syria in 658 – 659 H./1260 A.D. Reflected by Three Hitherto Unpublished Dirhams,” The Numismatic Circular (1976), 315.

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new rescripts (mana¯shı¯r). Baybars detained al-Halabı¯ himself only briefly in the ˙ Citadel then released him and proceeded to heap honors and benefits upon him, including the powerful governorship (niya¯bah) of Aleppo.105 Much the same pattern of conflict resolution emerged during Baybars’ handling of another, perhaps even more dangerous rebellion, that of the amir Shams al-Dı¯n Aqu¯sh al-Burlı¯ al- Azı¯zı¯. Al-Burlı¯ was an amir of some consequence in the early Mamluk state. Qutuz’s failure to unify his own khushda¯shiyyah, the Mu izziyyah, after his seizure of power had led him to cut deals with various other mamlu¯k groups including the Azı¯ziyyah. Qutuz’s cooptation of the Azı¯ziyyah had been facilitated earlier by a major split in 1255/653 within that khushda¯shiyyah between those who accepted the patronage (hima¯yah) of their ˙ nominal but seemingly unambitious leader (mashı¯r), Jama¯l al-Dı¯n Aydughdı¯ alAzı¯zı¯, and those who, like al-Burlı¯, chose to seek their fortune by serving the ascendant star of the Sa¯Iih¯ı amir and Egyptian sultan, al-Malik al-Mu izz Aybak. ˙ ˙ In the widespread distribution of offices and iqta¯ s to Azı¯zı¯ amirs in Syria under ˙ Qutuz, al-Burlı¯ had received the post of Ghazzah. When Baybars came to power there was already great internal division within in the traditional Syrian tawa¯ if. ˙ In Aleppo, the Na¯siriyyah and elements of the Azı¯ziyyah had recently over˙ thrown Qutuz’s rapacious but tight-fisted appointee and elected their own patron-leader, the Azı¯zı¯ amir, Husa¯m al-Dı¯n al-Ju¯kanda¯r. Squabbles over the ˙ former na¯ ib’s loot led to an internal split within each ta¯ ifah. Abandoning ˙ Aleppo, elements of the Azı¯ziyyah and Na¯siriyyah moved south looking fu¯r new ˙ patronage opportunities. Baybars, eager to increase his own clientele, immediately granted iqta s to some in Syria, while the rest were allowed to come to Egypt ˙ for assignment. To cultivate al-Burlı¯, Baybars confirrned his iqta in Na¯blus and gave him as ˙ well the town of Baysa¯n; in addition he advanced al-Burlı¯’s own mamlu¯k, Qujqa¯r, in rank and power. However, Baybars’ arrest in Damascus of the Ashrafı¯ amir, Baha¯ al-Dı¯n BughadI, a crony of al-Burlı¯, frightened al-Burlı¯ into fleeing the city. Al-Burlı¯, who had already drawn around himself a menagerie of Azı¯zı¯s, Ashrafı¯s and Na¯sirı¯s while in Damascus, quickly attempted to develop additional political ˙ leverage by feigning pro-Ayyubid sentiments, approaching the two principal Ayyubid rulers of northern Syria and offering his services. To al-Malik alMansu¯r of Hamah, for instance, al-Burlı¯ promised to “‘elevate you and revive ˙ ˙ your noble house”. When al-Mansu¯r declined, al-Burlı¯ continued on to Aleppo. ˙ There he overthrew Baybars’ na¯ ib, made the city his stronghold and soon began to shore up his personal rule by promoting amirs and distributing iqta s; to buy ˙ the loyalty of local Arab and Turkma¯n auxiliaries al-Burlı¯ distributed large amounts of foot from the city granery to the tribes. ˘

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105 Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Rawd, 94 – 97; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 8a; ˙ ˙

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Although he had initiated a rebellion in Syria which promised to be even more explosive than that of Sanjar al-Halabi, al-Burlı¯ began almost immediately to use ˙ his de facta paramilitary power to negotiate a peaceful resolution with Cairo. Using a number of mediators al-Burlı¯ attempted first to minimize his disobedience. As he put the case himself: “We were afraid for ourselves when we learned that (Baybars) had changed his mind about us. We headed for the frontiers of the land until we could receive his guarantee of immunity (ama¯n) and return to his service (khidmah).” Al-Burlı¯ used his position as patron-leader of a large clientele to leverage a promise of new benefits (an um) in the form of promotions and land assignments in Egypt for his followers, as well as the plum post of na¯ ib al-saltanah in Aleppo for himself, in exchange for returning to ˙ Baybars’ khidmah. To strengthen his negotiating position, Baybars in turn moved troops into Syria while undertaking laborious discussions in which he alternatively threatened and coaxed al-Burlı¯ to end his rebellion. As part of the structured violence practiced by Mamluk patron-leaders, Baybars and al-Burlı¯ avoided a military encounter, content simply to manoeuvre their troops while dickering for an amicable solution. As with Sanjar al-Halabi, ˙ Baybars’ negotiating tactics soon undermined the solidary of al-Burlı¯’ paramilitary clientele. Many of his Azı¯ziyyah and Na¯siriyyah clients, perhaps fearful ˙ of military engagement or perhaps bribed by Baybars’ agents, began to look askance at al-Burlı¯ as a patron-leader. Many defected to Baybars’ side, hoping for reinstatement in the old hierarchy of access. Baybars did not disappoint them, rewarding all defectors with new assignments. With his clientele being syphoned away, al-Burlı¯ himself finally came to terms with Baybars, without precondition. Baybars displayed great adl with regard to his opponents, welcoming al-Burlı¯’s retinue more as conquering heroes than chasened rebels. Baybars distributed wealth, rank, and assignments liberally to al-Burlı¯, his family members, mama¯lı¯k, khushda¯shiyyah and other clients. Al-Burlı¯ himself was ‘kicked upstairs,’ becoming a personal advisor to Baybars. Yet, al-Burlı¯ could not restrain ultimately his natural ambition; no sooner had he been rehabilitated than he again became involved in a new plot against Baybars. His co-conspirators this time were members of Baybar’s own khushda¯shiyyah and, indeed, close personal associates of Baybars’ as well – the amirs Sayf al-Dı¯n al-Rashı¯dı¯ and Izz al-Dı¯n al-Dimya¯t¯ı. Like al-Burlı¯, both al-Rashı¯dı¯ ˙ and al-Dimya¯t¯ı had enjoyed great patronage by Baybars in terms of assignments, ˙ gifts, cash, as well as administrative authority. Indeed, this lavish patronage was identified as the source of the corruption (fasa¯d) driving their conspiracy against Baybars. Initially the conspirators toyed with the notion of a restoration of Ayyubid authority under al-Malik al-Mughı¯th of Karak. Foiled by the arrest of al-Mughı¯th, however, the conspirators attempted to mount a coup against Baybars in his mu askar at Ghazzah. Though supported by some three hundred ˘

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of al-Rashı¯dı¯’s mama¯lı¯k, the plotters apparently lost their nerve at the last moment. When Baybars returned to Egypt he had the ringleaders – al-Rashı¯dı¯, al-Burlı¯ and al-Dimya¯t¯ı – quietly arrested. He did not, however, touch any of their ˙ clients. Baybars also left untouched their households, possessions and assignments and made every effort to reassure them of his continuing benevolent intentions.106

The Role of Friendship and Kinship

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Organic corporate loyalty clearly had limits, including natural ones. The extreme range in physical age within the Sa¯lihiyyah, for instance, probably did not help ˙ ˙ intra-khushda¯shiyyah solidarity much.107 Members of Baybars’ khushda¯shiyyah such as Sanjar al-Halabı¯, al-Dimya¯t¯ı and al-Rashı¯dı¯ were often the most dissident ˙ ˙ and potentially dangerous of his amirs. Even his own mama¯lı¯k could not be entirely relied upon; some were jailed and one may even have been liquidated by him.108 Baybars therefore attempted to reinforce these institutional ties with more personal ones. Many of those raised by Baybars to the highest levels of his dawlah were characterized as “close associates” or “loyal friends” in whom Baybars is said to have placed personal trust (thiqah), reliance (i tima¯d) or thought were otherwise personally faithful (ama¯nah).109 Perhaps the two khushda¯shiyyah in whom Baybars placed his greatest trust, after his mamlu¯k Badr al-Dı¯n Bı¯lı¯k al-Khazinda¯r, were Sayf al-Dı¯n Qala¯wu¯n al-Alfı¯ and Badr al-Dı¯n Baysarı¯ al-Shamsı¯. Of all the senior amirs in Baybars’ entourage they appear the most frequently. Baysarı¯ was apparently Baybars oldest companion, having been taken captive with him on the Eurasian steppe, and was promoted to the highest rank, amir of 100 and commander of 1000. A further indication of the measure of trust placed in him was that while Baybars often frowned on the building of large paramilitary clienteles by his amirs, Baysarı¯ was allowed to assemble one of the largest. Qala¯wu¯n was similarly trusted and remained throughout Baybars’ reign his chief general. As a measure of his personal trust in both men, when Baybars

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106 Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 8b – 9b, 13b; al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 1: 440; Ibid., 2: 119 – 122, 157 – 59, 350 – 54; Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Rawd, 113 – 114, 128 – 29, 133 – 35, 166 – 70. ˙ Izz al-Dı¯˙n Aybak al-Halabı¯ al-Sa¯lih¯ı, who died in 1257/655, were 107 The most senior amirs such ˙ the youngest, ˙ ˙ Rukn al-Dı¯n Baybars Ja¯liq probably born around the turn of the century, while al-Najmı¯ al-Sa¯lih¯ı, died in 1307 – 08/707, Safadı¯, Wa¯fi, 9: 474 – 75; Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal, ˙ ˙ ˙ 296a. 108 Safadı¯, Wa¯fi, 9: 351 – 52; Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 219; al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 3: 238; Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, ˙ Manhal, 165b. 109 Ibn al-Suqa¯’ı¯, Ta¯lı¯, 93; Safadı¯, Wa¯fi, 9: 479; Ibid., 10: 6; al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 2: 67 – 68, 350 – 54, ˙ Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal, 166a. 413; Ibid., 3: 89 – 91, 239; ˘

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rehabilitated the Jazı¯rah Barracks two of the four towers were given over to Baysarı¯ and Qala¯wu¯n.110 Despite The supposedly non-ascriptive nature of Mamluk sociopolitics, Baybars’ relationship to men like Qala¯wu¯n and Baysarı¯ was reinforced importantly by kinship ties. Baybars’ son and heir, al-Sa id Berke, of course married Qala¯wu¯n’s daughter ; but Baybars and Qala¯wu¯n were also related through their marriages to daughters of the prominent wafdı¯ Mongol amir, Karmu¯n Agha. Baybars, who was related to his usta¯dh, al-Malik al-Sa¯lih, by virtue of their ˙ ˙ marriages to daughters of the Khwarizmian general Berke Kha¯n, may also have considered himself related in some degree to Badr al-Dı¯n Baysarı¯, who had married the widow of al-Malik al-Na¯sir Yu¯sufs brother.111 ˙ Baybars also reinforced both institutional and personal relationships with some of his own mama¯lı¯k. Baybars married off his favorite, Badr al-Dı¯n Bı¯lı¯k, to a sister of al-Malik al-Sa¯lih Rukn al-Dı¯n Isma¯ ¯ıl of Mosul.112 Sayf al-Dı¯n Kunduk, ˙ ˙ ˙ whom Baybars intended for prominence in al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd’s future reign, probably owed his advancement to the fact that he, too, had married another daughter of the prolific Karmu¯n Agha and was, therefore, not only Baybars’ mamlu¯k but his brother-in-law as well.113 Yet, kinship relations could cut both ways politically. One of Baybars’ earliest political alliances, with the Sha¯hrazu¯riyyah Kurds, had apparently been one based importantly on marriage. His later repudiation of that wife probably helped lay the groundwork for the attempted coup d’etat in 1270/669, in which so many Sha¯hrazu¯riyyah Kurds were active. Even more troublesome was Baybars’ earlier confrontation with the Ayyubid ruler of Karak, al-Malik al-Mughı¯th, which seems to have been as much an intra-dynastic as inter-dynastic rivalry. Both men were related by marriages to daughters of the Khwarizmian general, Berke Kha¯n. Baybars may well have feared that his brother-in-law, al-Mughı¯th, might assassinate him in order to establish a regency in Egypt on behalf of his minor son, al-Sa ¯ıd Berke. Al-Mughı¯th might then easily arrange al-Sa ¯ıd’s deposition and assume the throne in his own right, a goal to which he had of course aspired since the assassination of Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h more than a dozen years earlier. ˘

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110 Ibn al-Suqa¯’ı¯, Ta¯lı¯, 129 – 31; Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Rawd, 90; Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal, 214a. ˙ ˙ 111 Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 2: 131. 112 Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Rawd, 86; al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 1: 452 – 53, 483; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), ˙ ˙ 11b. 113 Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 1: 534; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, f. 90a. This relationship seems to ˙ Izz al-Dı¯n al-Hadhabanı¯, for instance, is said have existed in Ayyubid times as well; the amir to have been tied to the Ayyubid al-Malik al-Ashraf b. al- Adil through the kinship (qara¯bah) of their wives. ˘

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Niza¯m: Punishment and Rehabilitation ˙

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Despite popular impressions about Baybars’ ruthless efficiency, disobedience and even rebellion were a fact of life. Yet, the normally theatrical nature of rebellion allowed Baybars to treat them in most cases with a certain amount of equanimity and even gamesmanship. Most dissident acts led to detention rather than execution, and mostly of the culpable patron-leaders.114 Excepting a couple of bungled pro-Ayyubid revolts, most uprisings did not result in the wholesale punishment of clients. Detaining patron-leaders while cultivating their clients was no doubt viewed by Baybars as the most efficient way of defusing dissidence without turning every incident into a bloodbath. The discreet arrests of suspected amirs was intended precisely “to nip in the bud” (hasama al-ma¯ddah) the ˙ likelihood of more serious intramural fitnah breaking out.115 This policy of conciliating the retinues of refractory officers had strategic consequences for the Mamluk state as a whole. It was known that the Mongols were monitoring paramilitary activity within Syria, seeking a favorable opportunity to catch the Mamluks off-balance and invade. The Mongol campaign of 1260/658, for instance, appears to have been initiated on the strength of reports of strife in Aleppo among elements of the Azı¯ziyyah and Na¯siriyyah for control ˙ of the city treasury. The Mongols, underestimating the power of patronage to unify Mamluk groups, experienced a military disaster outside Hims not far short ˙ ˙ of the debacle suffered at Ayn Ja¯lu¯t the previous season.116 Interfactional conflict by soldiers does not necessarily interfere with the execution of more legitimate military duties.117 Just as arrest for “infringing sovereignty” or “exceeding the bounds of the dawlah” usually led to imprisonment, so imprisonment itself often gave way to rehabilitation. The political prisoner was often granted ama¯n for his sins (awza¯r), as in the case of al-Dimya¯t¯ı, who was then reinstated to his former rank ˙ (rutbah).118 The amir Jama¯l al-Dı¯n Muhammadı¯ al-Sa¯lih¯ı was similarly released ˙ ˙ ˙ and reinstated to his former position and wealth.119 The amir Ibn Atlas Kha¯n was ˙ released with an assignment of forty horse as compensation.120 The amir Ala¯ al˘

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114 Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 104 – 05; al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 1: 439; Ibid., 2: 93, 194, 453; Ibid., 3: 87 – 88; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 3a. 46a, 55a. 115 Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 170. 116 Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 8b. 117 Raymond E. Bell, Jr., “Military Unions and Military Effectiveness: Austria as a Case Study, 1920 – 1934,” in Military Unions, eds. William J. Taylor, Roger J. Arango & Roben S. Lockwood, Sage Research Progress Series on War, Revolution, and Peacekeeping, vol. 7 (Beverly Hills and London: Sage. 1977): 74 – 91. 118 Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 50b; Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 57. 119 Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 3: 238. 120 Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Rawd, 159 – 60. ˙ ˙

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Dı¯n Taybars al-Wazı¯rı¯ al-Sa¯lih¯ı was released from prison and made an amir of ˙ ˙ ˙ 100.121 The amir Sayf al-Dı¯n Balba¯n al-Zaynı¯ al-Sa¯lih¯ı was relased and given an ˙ ˙ administrative post in Damascus.122 The largest single rehabilitation was probably that of a number of wafdı¯ Mongol amirs arrested in 1274/673; they were all released together and given new assignments, even better ones than apparently they had enjoyed before.123 Baybars is once said to have remarked about his regime: “Good fortune (sa a¯dah) enthrones a ruler.”124 Yet, Baybars knew that only the successful mediation of the rights of the elite could ensure its longevity. That mediation may be summed up for the reign of Baybars in the concept of justice ( adl); not the garden variety maza¯lim dispensed among the common people (ahl) even in his ˙ new Da¯r al- Adl in Cairo, but the more rarified sort practiced among his elite (na¯s).125 Baybars’ success, his longevity as an authorized ruler, was grounded in his early decision to rule the Mamluks with justice ( adl) rather than by force (sayf). That is to say, Baybars chose to recognize the inherent right to privilege and power among the elite as a whole and to regulate rather than frustrate its expression. He sought in particular to make careerism work for him by equitably patronizing the broad spectrum of the paramilitary class in order to build a broad political consensus for his dawlah. Baybars had himself witnessed the results of trying to rule on the basis of cohesion without consensus typical of the proto-Mamluk period; the 1250s had been a disastrous experiment in the unmediated and sometimes violent struggle to gain and then retain raw power. The main charges against Baybars’ chief predecessors, al-Malik al-Mu izz Aybak and al-Malik al-Muzaffar Qutuz, had ˙ been precisely that they “monopolized” power and were “prone to violence” against the elite.126 Baybars, as Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir remarked, had returned as ˙ much as possible to the ‘good old days’ of al-Malik al-Sa¯lih, anchoring his regime ˙ ˙ in part in the senior mamlu¯k establishment, the Sa¯lihiyyah, who were also his ˙ ˙ khushda¯shiyyah. This was not done, however, at the expense of his own mama¯lı¯k, the Za¯hiriyyah, who in fact enjoyed access to power and privilege throughout his ˙ reign. Yet, it is important to note that many of the Za¯hiriyyah about whom we ˙ have details do not appear to have reached the zenith of their careers until the ˘

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Ibn al-Suqa¯’ı¯, Ta¯lı¯, 93. ˙ ¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal, 200b; Safadı¯, Wa¯fi, 10: 281. Ibn Taghrı Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 104 – 05. ˙ Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 70a. Jorgen S. Nielsen, Secular Justice in an lslamic State: Maza¯lim under the Bahri Mamlu¯ks, ˙ Nabije Oosten, 1985), ˙ 662/1264 – 789/1387 (Leiden: Nederlands Instituut vor het 30 – 130 passim. 126 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 31; al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 1: 379.

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reign of Qala¯wu¯n, who overthrew Baybars’ son and heir three years after his death. Baybars also co-opted Mamluks from different tawa¯ if as well as free-born ˙ amirs into the ruling stratum, ‘circulating’ the elite, in a Paretian sense, though of course within the constitutional constraints of seniority set by the age class system of khushda¯shiyyah. Adl in Baybars’ day was synonymous, too, with forebearance ( afu¯). The rulers of the 1250s had shown little forebearance in their dealings with the umara¯ , preferring to impose a climate of arbitrary coercion to wrest political control for themselves. Though Baybars preferred to encourage loyalty within the elite through a broad application of patronage, he was prepared when necessary to reinforce the carrot with the stick. Yet, application of neither fundamentally weakened his regime. One should not underestimate the importance of being able to invoke the sort of apprehension which caused Mamluk amirs to quake at the prospect of a simple summons to the Citadel.127 Yet, even when posing as a “lion” Baybars was cautious, for in the Mamluk political system arbitrary treatment of individuals, especially powerful individuals, risked setting off fitnah and conjuring up real civil war. To minimize potential bloodshed and the prospect of fitnah, Baybars attempted to nip conspiracies in the bud by arresting the patron-leaders while granting blanket amnesty (ama¯n) and benefits to their clients. Imprisonment was by far a more typical result for dissident amirs than the gallows or the cross. Amirs who were detained typically were also stripped of their rank and status, quite the most serious kind of punishment that could be meted out to them, short of death. Because sentence was easily reversible it could also be imposed with a certain degree of arbitrariness, which helped keep the elite more honest than it might otherwise have been. Suspected dissidence was often pruned before active rebellion could blossom. Social disgrace was an optimum form of social control in a political system where the routine and arbitrary killing of powerful patron-leaders could set off an uncontrollable spiral of paramilitary violence involving perhaps thousands of expertly armed and trained warriors – all under watchful Mongol eyes across the Euphrates frontier.128 This explains ˘

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127 Ibid., 1: 491. 128 This is rather similar to the use of opala, royal disfavor, by Muscovite rulers as a political weapon against refractory elements of the Russian elite, see Anne M. Kleimola, “The Muscovite Autocracy at Work: the Use of Disgrace as an Instrument of Control,” in Russian Law: Historical and Political Perspective, ed. William E. Butler (Leyden: A.W. Sijthoff, 1977): 29 – 50. Renaissance Spain deposited many of its troublesome nobles in the presidios of North Africa, see Ruth Pike, Penal Servitude in Early Modern Spain (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1983), chap. 3 passim.

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why most dissidents were not only spared execution but often later released from detention and rehabilitated.

Structured Violence

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Rebellion was often little more than paramilitary pantomime, an attempt by prominent and ambitious amirs to leverage their position within the universe of available benefits. The more prominent and theatrical the rebellion, such as staged by Sanjar al-Halabı¯ and al-Burlı¯ al- Azı¯zı¯, the more readily and amicably ˙ resolved. Rebels and rulers alike anticipated profit from a negotiated outcome. It was the feeble, isolated plots, usually by more marginal individuals and groups, that were crushed and punished. Conspirators were often those who had already enjoyed royal patronage, enough apparently to stimulate an ambition for even more; many leading dissidents, expectably, were Baybars’ own khushda¯shiyyah, his hombres de confianza.129 Patronage was ultimately a double-edged weapon, encouraging consensus but also threatening it by inciting untoward ambitions among certain members of the elite. In this regard the early Mamluk state seems to validate the V – Curve hypothesis, sometimes called the “Tocqueville Paradox,” that gratification of goals does not lead to a reduction in the potential of political dissidence but may in fact stimulate an increase.130 Yet, rebellion sometimes sought to redress more genuine grievances. The proAyyubid complexion of the revolt of 1273/673 in Hisn al-Karak, for instance, may ˙ ˙ have disguised the real, underlying problem. The participants, members of the local halqah were apparently angry with Baybars for trying to subdivide already ˙ meagre local resources with new assignees sent arbitrarily from Gaza.131 Baybars seems to have recognized as much. Later when he installed a new garrison of Egyptian troops he also appointed a member of the Egyptian chancery to review local economic conditions, no doubt to avoid in future any unwitting overassignment of local resources.132 The mutual reluctance shared by both rulers and rebels to settle disputes with raw military power clearly demonstrates the politics of structured violence which influenced the dyanmic of the early Mamluk state. Each side cautiously employed relatively limited demonstrations of force rather than resort to un129 Mamluk politics bears a striking resemblance to the caudillaje of Latin America, Eric R. Wolf and Edward C. Hansen, “Caudillo Politics: A Structural Analysis,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 9 (1967): 168 – 79. 130 Grofman and Muller, “The Strange Case of Relative Gratification and Potential for Political Violence,” 514 – 39. 131 Ibn Shadda¯d, 135; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 58a. 132 Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 136.

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checked internal warfare to achieve their political ends. Ambition was regulated by the instinct of preserving state structure. Al-Burlı¯, for instance, at the height of his rebellion against Baybars had received a seductive proposition from Hu¯la¯gu¯ suggesting they should divide the bila¯d al-sulta¯n between them. Al-Burlı¯ ˙ flatly refused, saying: “I am the mamlu¯k of Sultan al-Malik al-Za¯hir and whatever ˙ 133 he has given over to my power he can take back.” Al-Burlı¯ viewed his rebellion as a calculated exercise in ambition and grievance redress rather than a play for genuine revolution. Taking actions which might cause the unitary state to fission into a constellation of chieftancies was apparently anathema to Mamluk patronleaders in the early state. Their ambitions lay within the system not outside it as independent warlords. This phenomenon, that politics could be readily affected at the margins, in turn suggests a feeling of empowerment among the elite as a whole. Conflict, properly structured, served as a kind of constitutional guarantee which allowed various centers of relative power in the state to arrange and adjust their relationships without of necessity bringing down or subdividing the state itself.

Conclusion

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While scholars have routinely credited al-Malik al-Za¯hir Baybars with founding ˙ the Classical Mamluk state, they have interpreted this foundation as little more than the momentary triumph of charismatic despotism over more deep-seated anarchical tendencies among the Mamluk amirs. Yet, Baybars’ success in state formation was not based on crushing or even alienating the elite, but rather on merely communicating with it constructively and constraining its behavior in ways preservative of the unity of the new Syro-Egyptian state. As A. Khowaiter has rightly noted, “Baybars was not unappreciative of the value of these amirs in their proper capacities, but had nevertheless to think of the welfare of the state.”134 The key to Baybars’ achievement was precisely in conflating the welfare of the elite with the welfare of the state, making the entire umara¯ s takeholders rather than “have-nots” in his regime. Baybars established a widespread franchise of benefits among the elite, a hierarchy of universal access to patronage based on seniority. His own role was principally to regulate that access equitably, to act as gatekeeper to a system of distribution consonant with Mamluk sociopolitical organization. Baybars may not have been the Washington of his country but he might have been its Walpole. For, like Walpole, Baybars attempted to substitute for unrestrained factional competition the machine politics of pa133 Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 2: 158. 134 Khowaiter, Baibars the First, 38.

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tronage administration, to build political consensus by cultivating rather than outraging the moral economy of the umara¯ as whole. Political order was based on massive state corruption, i. e., patronage, and Baybars undoubtedly believed that without such regulated and widespread access to it, the state would be reduced to a daily struggle for internal coherence, a struggle which Baybars had witnessed his many predecessors lose in the proto-Mamluk decade of the 1250s. Though such “machine” patronage could greatly reduce the cost of internal politics, it was not an absolute mechanism of social control. Baybars clearly anticipated that a certain measure of social conflict was still inevitable and, moreover, had to be tackled in a constructive way in order to preserve the early state from fissioning into a pre-state condition. He tolerated and accommodated the negative feedback from the elite and, though he did not entirely eschew the use of coercion, he was calculating and usually restrained in his use of punishment and the application of paramilitary force. Indeed, it was the mutual restraint by regime and dissidents alike in the application of violence that usually allowed for a negotiated redress of grievances and, consequently, rehabilitation of challengers as acceptable role partners. The concept of structured violence was clearly emerging already as the keystone of social action in a system in dynamic equilibrium. Baybars’ use of coercion in conjuction with techniques of conflict resolution was not viewed as arbitrary by the elite but ultimately necessary in defense of a social system from which Mamluks generally all benefited and upon which the state depended for its integrity. In all of this Baybars showed himself, ultimately, far removed from the modern myth of the Oriental despot. By effectively coupling techniques of conflict resolution with regulated patronage Baybars established a macrostructural concept of constitutional order (niza¯m) from which most of the elite seems to have derived, if not total sat˙ isfaction, at least a certain sense of utility of achievement. In any event, the Mamluk ruling elite as a whole was less prone now to validate resort to unrestrained factional violence as a way of effecting sociopolitical change. By structuring social power in this way, by opening an effective feedback loop with the elite, Baybars systematically reduced the transaction cost of his political system, removing one of the major barriers to the process of state formation. Baybars’ reign demonstrates, then, how natural microsocial practices of symbolic interaction and exchange can both affect the political macrostructure and be affected by it in turn. By the mid-1270s, a dynamic equilibrium seems to have emerged in Mamluk Syro-Egypt. This internal balance-of-power system was propelled by a belief in constitutional order and the protection it afforded the moral economy of the elite as whole. As will be demonstrated in the next chapter, the challenge raised to niza¯m during the regime of Baybars’ son and successor, al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd, reveals ˙ how important the concept of a properly regulated system of sociopolitical ˘

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interaction had become to the Mamluk ruling elite as a whole. The immediate restoration of niza¯m by al-Sa ¯ıd’s successor, Qala¯wu¯n, reveals the degree to ˙ which the Mamluks had not only assimilated but become the principle constituency for the process of dynamic equilibrium “founded” during Baybars’ reign.

Chapter 5 – Challenge and Restoration of Niza¯m ˙ (1277 – 1290/676 – 689)

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When the amir Sayf al-Dı¯n Qala¯wu¯n, soon to be al-Malik al-Mansu¯r Qala¯wu¯n, ˙ deposed his son-in-law, al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd, in 1280/678 he insisted, as usurpers often do, that he was not acting out of personal ambition but for the sake of the Mamluk state. In particular Qala¯wu¯n announced that his actions had been undertaken to preserve the constitutional order (niza¯m) of the Mamluk state in the ˙ face of what he liked to label as al-Sa ¯ıd’s deviation (i wija¯j). Though Qala¯wu¯n’s self-justification perhaps instinctively invites skepticism, it was not actually wide of the mark. For al-Sa ¯ıd’s “deviation” had in fact encompassed a plot to arrest and disenfranchise senior amirs and replace them wholesale with junior amirs drawn from his own kha¯ssakiyyah.1 In short, al-Sa ¯ıd had endeavored to ˙˙ tamper with, if not overthrow, the age class system of the Mamluk state enshrined by his father, al-Za¯hir Baybars. He had, as Qala¯wu¯n claimed, attempted ˙ to undermine the constitutional mechanism which regulated the distribution and evolution of power upon which political consensus and stability in the Mamluk state had rested already for two decades. If the reign of al-Za¯hir Baybars had been a tutorial in effective communication ˙ with the Mamluk elite, the reign of his son, al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd, was an exercise in autism. The inability to maintain a meaningful feedback loop was to prove the difference between maintaining a regime for seventeen years and losing one after hardly two. The politics of al-Sa ¯ıd’s regime was in many ways reminiscent of the floundering despotisms of the proto-Mamluk state of the 1250’s. Baybars had attempted to lay a more stable foundation for his regime by cultivating the moral economy of the umara¯ and their clienteles as a whole; this included especially his own khushda¯shiyyah, the Sa¯lihiyyah, whose rights of seniority had been ˙ ˙ either denied or infringed during the regimes of his predecessors. Baybars’ validation of the rights of seniority, the age-class system, was what Mamluk historians chiefly meant by his creation of a constitutional order (niza¯m) in ˙ ˘

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1 Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 104b; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 232; Baybars al-Mansu¯ri, Zu˙ bdah, 96b.

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Mamluk Syro-Egypt. Many of his own khushda¯shiyyah were of course on the first rung of the hierarchical ladder upon which all Mamluks at some level perched and enjoyed corresponding benefits in terms of rank and wealth. Baybars’ patronage had been proportional but widespread. Al-Sa ¯ıd in effect attempted to overthrow this principle by artificially restricting patronage mainly to his own paramilitary retinue or kha¯ssakiyyah. The upshot of this was constitutional ˙˙ crisis, setting elements of the three major age-classes of his day – Sa¯lihiyyah, ˙ ˙ Za¯hiriyyah and Sa ¯ıdiyyah – against one another in an irregular and provocative ˙ competition for subsistence. ˘

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Al-Sa ¯ıd and the Challenge to Niza¯m ˙ ˘

The essence of al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd’s deviation was his abrogation of his organizational role as gatekeeper to the hierarchy of patronage. It may seem difficult to understand why he chose to defy his father’s success by undermining the foundations of his regime. Certainly he and many of his retainers were too young probably to remember the chaotic experience of the 1250s. However, al-Sa ¯ıd seems to have believed that ultimately he could only maintain the loyalty of his own retainers by gratifying their personal and often exaggerated ambitions for power and position, however destabilizing this may have been to his own tenure as sultan. Al-Sa ¯ıd understood that whatever vertical ideological ties existed between himself and his mama¯lı¯k or kha¯ssakiyyah were underpinned ultimately ˙˙ by transactional relations. Even so, his inability to manage those exchange relations efficiently would fracture the interal unity of his kha¯ssakiyyah and cost ˙˙ him much of their support anyway. The internal fracturing of the Za¯hiriyyah ˙ over the issue of support for al-Sa ¯ıd revealed as well the continuing fragility of horizontal ideological ties of khushda¯shiyyah. In short, the capacity for internalized moral values to maintain social cohesion seems to have been little realized in al-Sa ¯ıd’s day. Al-Sa ¯ıd’s reign did realize, however, other features of the structure of Mamluk politics. Despite the audacity of al-Sa ¯ıd’s attempted constitutional coup d’etat, the ensuing paramilitary struggle and the pronunciamiento which brought him down proved bloodless. Though opposing forces manoeuvred, struck menacing poses and occasionally skirmished, serious military encounters were studiously avoided; even the dramatic and climactic siege of al-Sa ¯ıd in the Citadel proved to be little more than a pantomime. Conflict was not only a normal and purposeful feature of Mamluk society but its resulting violence was normally consciously structured by contending parties to help preserve the ultimate viability of the state. That is to say, conflict was agonistic, designed to signal the need for ˘

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adjustments in political relationships without trying to destroy opposition and set off thereby serious and perhaps unmanageable internal warfare. Though al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd suffered most from it, the origin of his attempted constitutional counterrevolution lay chiefly in the ambitions of his paramilitary retainers, lumped together under the umbrella organization of his kha¯ssakiyyah. ˙˙ Mutually jealous and quarrelsome, none of these groups either collectively or individually were to afford al-Sa ¯ıd any real service or loyalty, certainly not gratuitously. However, the kha¯ssakiyyah appeared united in the beginning on at ˙˙ least one issue: relieving the senior amirs, the paramount umara¯ of Baybars’ dawlah, of their rank and privilege. Al-Sa ¯ıd’s opening move against the age-class system was his sudden arrest of the Sa¯lih¯ı amirs, Badr al-Dı¯n Baysarı¯ and Shams ˙ ˙ al-Dı¯n Sunqur al-Ashqar, two of the most senior and powerful of his father’s amirs, who in effect had been running the administration (tadbı¯r) of the state since Baybars’ death. The practical effect of al-Sa ¯ıd’s provocative action was enunciated immediately afterward in a stinging rebuke delivered by Badr al-Dı¯n Muhammad b. Berke Kha¯n, his uncle and a senior amir as well. Storming into the ˙ chambers of his sister, al-Sa ¯ıd’s mother, Badr al-Dı¯n warned presciently : “Your son has done a destructive thing in arresting those amirs and in listening to the opinions of (his) junior amirs. It will shorten his days.” To stiffle this righteous dissent al-Sa ¯ıd had Badr al-Dı¯n and his brother, another of Sa ¯ıd’s uncles, Husa¯m ˙ al-Dı¯n, arrested and confined in the Citadel. To give their constitutional coup d’ etat every chance, al-Sa ¯ıd and his clients had also timed their actions to coincide with the absence of many of the senior amirs on military operations in Syria. Those umara¯ still in the capital, when they learned of his action, “became angry in their hearts” but could do little else until their companions returned with their retinues. When the senior amirs and their retinues returned from Syria, alerted now to al-Sa ¯ıd’s outrageous scheme, they wasted little time and ascended to confront the sultan in the precincts of the Citadel itself. By that time, however, al-Sa ¯ıd had already divined his tactical mistake and released his captives, thus narrowly avoiding a potential battle with his senior officers and their troops in the heart of his capital. Matters did not end there, however. When later he travelled to Syria al-Sa ¯ıd again fabricated a pretext (hujjah) to rid himself temporarily of the ˙ senior amirs and their followers by ordering yet another military campaign on the northern frontier. Meanwhile he and his clients plotted at their Aleppo headquarters to engineer a redistribution (tafrı¯q) of the power (tamakkun) and administration (tadbı¯r) of the state among the kha¯ssakiyyah. It was decided that ˙˙ when the senior amirs returned from their wild goose chase to Sı¯s and Qal at alRu¯m they were all to be arrested, their iqta¯ ‘s and other assets seized and ˘

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reassigned, all to the junior officers of the kha¯ss.2 Al-Sa ¯ıd’s plot, however, was ˙˙ revealed prematurely to the umara¯ . Once again they brought their retinues back from the frontier to Damascus, where al-Sa ¯ıd had recently established new headquarters. Acting more boldly than he had in Cairo, al-Sa ¯ıd now refused to repent of his unconstitutional behavior when called upon by the amirs to do so. Instead the sultan made for Egypt and the protection of the Citadel, shadowed carefully by the umara¯ and their forces. Behind the walls of the Citadel al-Sa ¯ıd remained defiant. Disgusted by the young ruler’s incorrigible political behavior, the senior amirs, led by his father-in-law, Sayf al-Dı¯n Qala¯wu¯n, resolved matters finally by deposing al-Sa ¯ıd in the Citadel and elevating his brother, Sala¯mish, to the throne. What stands out chiefly about al-Sa ¯ıd’s brief and controversial reign is not how quickly he fell from power but how long his regime was tolerated, given his rejection of the cardinal age-class system inaugurated by his father. That he was allowed to continue on as long as he did suggests that the Mamluk umara¯ , though prepared to stand up for their rights of seniority, feared rather than welcomed the prospect of internal warfare as a means of validating them. Negotiation rather than mass violence was the preferred technique of conflict resolution in the Mamluk balance-of-power system. At the time al-Sa ¯ıd first arrested the two prominent senior amirs in Cairo the umara¯ had been in a position to resolve the issue militarily. Yet, despite al-Sa ¯ıd’s provocative action, they limited themselves initially to admonishing him about the consequences (a qa¯b) of such arbitrary behavior ; indeed, they appeared quite prepared to settle the controversy by accepting, perhaps wishfully, alSa ¯ıd’s pledge that he would not attempt such destabilizing mischief again.3 Later in Syria, when al-Sa ¯ıd again plotted to do away with the senior stratum of the umara¯ , they came south with their forces from the frontier to confront him in Damascus. Though great alienation (mana¯fir) is said to have existed between them and the sultan and though the senior amirs had superior force at hand, they again chose not to resolve the issue militarily. Instead the amirs bivouacked their troops nearby, maintaining a visible potential for violence, but opened negotiations with al-Sa ¯ıd to reason with him yet again to repent of his unconstitutional course of action.4 The pleas of the senior amirs fell on deaf ears, however, and al-Sa ¯ıd returned defiantly to Cairo and what he believed to be the relative safety of the Citadel. Even the final stage of al-Sa ¯ıd’s fitnah, the siege of the Citadel itself, was resolved not by military action but, again, by negotiation. ˘

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2 Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 91b; Ibn al-Dawada¯ri, Kanz, 8: 227. 3 Baybars al-Mans˙u¯rı¯, Zubdah, 89b; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 97a-b; Ibn al-Dawada¯ri, Kanz, ˙ 8: 219. 4 Al-Yunı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 4: 2 – 3 Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 92a; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 227 – 28; ˙ al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 103a.

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Indeed, perhaps the only perilous moment of the seige came when the na¯ ib of the Citadel suddenly shut the gates of the great fortress, which is said to have caused fright (jafalah) and disorder (tashwı¯sh) among the party of the senior amirs, who no doubt thought it signaled a break in negotiations and the imminence of real fighting. Yet, no violence resulted during the siege nor from any other paramilitary operation during al-Sa ¯ıd’s fitnah. In fact, so non-violent had conflict during al-Sa ¯ıd’s dalwah proved that the amirs themselves were later unable to recall if anyone had actually perished as a result of the many months of paramilitary turmoil; in the end they were unable to attribute more than a single death to the conflict between the sultan and the so-called “amirs’ party” (hizb al˙ umara¯ ).5 In this first major crisis of niza¯m in the early Mamluk state the elite ˙ clearly displayed the degree to which it had assimilated the principle of structured violence as the basis of conflict resolution. ˘

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Al-Sa ¯ıd and the Limitations of Wala¯ ˘

Even al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd seems to have accepted the utility of negotiation over fighting to a conclusion. Using various of his own amirs, his mother and even the Caliph, al-Sa ¯ıd variously attempted to achieve some sort of reconcilation (sulh) ˙ ˙ with the senior amirs throughout.6 However, these attempts should probably be construed as either naive or, more likely, merely delaying tactics. For al-Sa ¯ıd had come to depend too much on the support of just those elements within his regime whom the umara¯ blamed for the constitutional crisis – his kha¯ssakiyyah. ˙˙ Though Mamluk rulers naturally relied to some degree for support on their immediate paramilitary retinues, al-Sa ¯ıd had staked everything on his relationship with his. When he was tempted to forget this fact later, during negotiations with the senior amirs who were dernanding the dismissal of the kha¯s˙ sakiyyah, al-Sa ¯ıd s retainers basely reminded him of his dependence: “What is ˙ their goal in our dismissal (ib a¯d) except the taking of power from you and removing you frorn rule (mulk)”?7 Yet, as events were to prove, al-Sa ¯ıd’s kha¯s˙ sakiyyah maintained an inflated and even cynical estimate of its actual worth to ˙ him, exposing the danger inherent in the reification of usta¯dh-mamlu¯k/kha¯ssakı¯ ˙˙ relationships. Though composed principally of his own mama¯lı¯k, the Sa ¯ıdiyyah, al-Sa ¯ıd’s kha¯ssakiyyah appears to have contained other patronless mama¯lı¯k as well. Given ˙˙ ˘

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5 Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 96a. ˙ ¯ nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 4: 2 – 3; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 228; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah 6 Ibid., 92a, 95b; al-Yu (1578), 103a. 7 Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 4: 3.

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the essentially transactional nature of Mamluk politics it is neither surprising that such unattached mama¯lı¯k would choose to serve al-Sa ¯ıd, nor that the sultan would seek to recruit ‘outsiders’ to beef up his clientele, particularly in light of his conflict with the senior amirs. One group which was closely associated with al-Sa ¯ıd’s kha¯ss were the mama¯lı¯k of the late Badr al-Dı¯n Bı¯lı¯k al-Za¯hirı¯, who had ˙ ˙˙ been purchased by al-Sa ¯ıd following Bı¯lı¯k’s untimely death. Though relative newcomers, Bı¯lı¯k’s mama¯lı¯k seem to have maintained their own identity and did not shrink from asserting themselves in intra-kha¯ss politics as an interest group. ˙˙ They vigorously opposed, for instance, the nomination of Aqsunqur al-Fa¯raqanı¯ to the post of na¯ ib al-saltanah, which exerted financial control over the kha¯s˙ ˙ sakiyyah as a whole, because of his hostility toward their former usta¯dh, Badr al˙ 8 Dı¯n Bı¯lı¯k. Later, they successfully promoted the candidacy of Sayf al-Dı¯n Kunduk as na¯ ib al-saltanah, though in coalition with the Sa ¯ıdiyyah.9 Al-Sa ¯ıd ˙ appears to have attracted at least some of his father’s former mama¯lı¯k, the Za¯hiriyyah, to his kha¯ss as well. His association with these mama¯lı¯k had been of ˙ ˙˙ relatively long standing, from their days together in the palace school (maktab) during al-Za¯hir Baybars’ reign. Indeed, al-Sa ¯ıd eventually promoted one of his ˙ Za¯hirı¯ schoolmates, Sayf al-Dı¯n Kunduk al-Za¯hirı¯, as his na¯ ib al-saltanah.10 Like ˙ ˙ ˙ the mama¯lı¯k of Badr al-Dı¯n Bı¯lı¯k, the Za¯hiriyyah were involved in intra-kha¯ss ˙ ˙˙ affairs as well. When Sunqur al-Alfı¯ al-Muzaffarı¯ was suggested for the post of ˙ na¯ ib al-saltanah he was successfully opposed by the kha¯ssakiyyah because, it ˙ ˙˙ said, he was not of the Za¯hiriyyah.11 ˙ An important feature of al-Sa ¯ıd’s kha¯ssakiyyah, expectable perhaps from its ˙˙ diverse membership, was its lack of internal unity. Indeed, relations within the kha¯ss were often as strained as those between the kha¯ss and the senior amirs. ˙˙ ˙˙ Worse still, relations between the kha¯ss and al-Sa ¯ıd himself were often tense and ˙˙ counter-productive. The source of these internal divisions lay of course in the competition for rank and wealth. Even in the case of the core element of al-Sa ¯ıd’s kha¯ssakiyyah, the Sa ¯ıdiyyah, ties were quite embarassingly transactional. This ˙˙ again questions the notion of a primary moral bond between usta¯dh and mamlu¯k having much real significance even in early Mamluk politics. In the first place, the actual focus of loyalty of the Sa ¯ıdiyyah does not appear to have been al-Sa ¯ıd’s himself so much as his current na¯ ib al-saltanah, who actually held the ˙ purse strings. Al-Sa ¯ıd’s mama¯lı¯k supported or opposed candidates to the na¯ ibship entirely on the basis of their estimate of how compliant they might prove. Al-Sa ¯ıd’s first appointee, Shams al-Dı¯n al-Fa¯raqa¯nı¯ al-Za¯hirı¯, had suited ˙ ˘

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8 Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 89b. ˙ designated (or designated himself) Bı¯lı¯k’ s heir (warı¯th). Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, 9 Al-Sa ¯ıd had been Kanz, 8: 210; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah, 97a. 10 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 225. 11 Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 90a ˙

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them initially ; however, the view developed that he had merely been crafty in exerting his domination (tahakkum) over the kha¯ss for his own purposes. ˙ ˙˙ Members of the kha¯ss were quick to complain to al-Sa ¯ıd about al-Fa¯raqa¯nı¯’s ˙˙ chicaneries (mufa¯sid) against them.12 Their subsequent opposition to the na¯ ib al-saltanah, Sayf al-Dı¯n Kunduk al˙ Za¯hirı¯, a personal favorite of their usta¯dh, developed when Kunduk attempted to ˙ stop an increase in their benefits (in a¯m) promised by the sultan as well as restrain their general inclination in plundering state revenues. Like Fa¯raqa¯nı¯ before him, Kunduk also sought to exert his own authority over the unruly kha¯ss.13 That the Sa ¯ıdiyyah were prepared to sell their loyalty to the highest ˙˙ bidder seems clear from their otherwise unlikely support as na¯ ib al-saltanah of ˙ the amir Shams al-Dı¯n Sunqur al-Ashqar al-Sa¯lih¯ı, who was not only outside the ˙ ˙ kha¯ssakiyyah but one of the senior amirs as well. Al-Ashqar was favored simply ˙˙ because of his apparent sincerity (khulu¯s) toward the kha¯ss, a sincerity doubtless ˙ ˙˙ interpreted to mean his willingness to afford the Sa ¯ıdiyyah a free hand in rifling 14 the state’s coffers. The essentially transactional nature of relations between master and man helps explain also the facility with which the Sa ¯ıdiyyah abandoned al-Sa ¯ıd in the moment of crisis, a crisis into which they had largely propelled him. The appointment of the Za¯hirı¯ amir, Kunduk, as na¯ ib al-saltanah appears to have been ˙ ˙ an important episode in the disintegration of this supposedly sacral relationship. From the beginning al-Sa ¯ıd appears to have been under the thumb of his mama¯lı¯k. Indeed, it was said, nothing was done except by their consent (muwa¯faqah) or design (qasd).15 Typically al-Sa ¯ıd had been intimidated into granting ˙ increases in the benefits (in a¯m) to his mama¯lı¯k just as Kunduk took office. Almost immediately the new na¯ ib attempted to curtail their influence. His action was not necessarily an exercise in fiscal responsibility, however, since it was supported by Kunduk’s khushda¯shiyyah in the kha¯ssakiyyah, the Za¯hir˙ ˙˙ iyyah, who no doubt hoped now to reserve more of the financial pie of state resources for themselves. The Sa ¯ıdiyyah were clearly angry with their usta¯dh for what appeared to be his favoritism toward other elements of the kha¯ssakiyyah at ˙˙ their expense.16 His mama¯lı¯k continued to nurse this basic grudge against alSa ¯ıd to a remarkable degree. Following al-Sa ¯ıd’s unsuccessful confrontation with the senior amirs at Damascus many of his mama¯lı¯k simply deserted during the long retreat to Cairo. By the time al-Sa ¯ıd reached the Citadel it is said there were with him “few who bore his nisbah”. The loyalty of those remaining ma˘

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Ibid., 89a; al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 3: 298; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 225; Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah, 102b; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 227. Ibid., 227. Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 3: 298. Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 227.

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12 13 14 15 16

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ma¯lı¯k collapsed soon after when the Citadel was placed under siege by the “amirs’ party”. After only three rather uneventful days, al-Sa ¯ıd’s mama¯lı¯k seem to have developed yet another grudge against their usta¯dh and joined the rest of the kha¯ssakiyyah in abandoning him entirely to his fate.17 Cleary the ideology of ˙˙ the usta¯dh-mamlu¯k relation had natural limitations tied not only to expectations of advancement but actual success. Al-Sa ¯ıd had failed not only as guarantor of niza¯m, at the macro-political level, but even as an effective patron-leader at the ˙ micro-political level. Al-Sa ¯ıd’s fall from the sultanate did not end, however, his complusive yet counterproductive relationship with his mama¯lı¯k. Having contributed in large part to the fall of his regime in Cairo, the ambitions of the Sa’ı¯diyyah soon destroyed al-Sa ¯ıd’s Elba-like existence in Karak and led finally to his liquidation. The terms of al-Sa ¯ıd’s exile in Karak had not been particularly harsh. He was in effect made malik of Karak, though forbidden to leave the general environs of the city, to enter into correspondance with amirs in other parts of Syro-Egypt, or to “corrupt the army”, i. e. recruit the local garrison into his clientele. All of these were sensible precautions to preclude al-Sa ¯ıd from attempting to restore himself to power. However, al-Sa ¯ıd was allowed apparently to reconstitute his troublesome personal retinue, the Sa ¯ıdiyyah. Almost immediately his ambitious mama¯lı¯k began pressuring their usta¯dh to seize the neighboring fortress city of Shawbak and to write to other Mamluk nuwwa¯b, undoubtedly to gain their support for his restoration. In fact Shawbak was taken over briefly by the leader of the Sa ¯ıdiyyah, Husa¯m al-Dı¯n La¯jı¯n al-Tata¯rı¯, before Qala¯wu¯n sent a military ˙ column under Badr al-Dı¯n Bı¯lı¯k al-Azdamurı¯ to chase him out. Though al-Sa ¯ıd had clearly violated the terms of his exile in a number of ways, Qala¯wu¯n is said to have been most angry at his son-in-law’s decision to begin recruiting a scratch army from among the locals (ajna¯d min al-na¯s) through the distribution of benefits (ni am). It appears that this attempt to “corrupt the army” weighed most heavily in Qala¯wu¯n’s decision finally to liquidate al-Sa ¯ıd, who in fact died suddenly that same year, probably from poisoning.18 Al-Sa ¯ıd’s relations with the Za¯hiriyyah were hardly more exemplary or re˙ warding than those with his own mama¯lı¯k. As in the case of the Sa ¯ıdiyyah, there existed theoretically a moral bond between al-Sa ¯ıd and his father’s mama¯lı¯k, a moral presumption that the Za¯hiriyyah owed some residual loyalty to the son of ˙ their usta¯dh. For instance, when the Za¯hirı¯ amir and former na¯ ib of Damascus, ˙ Izz al-Dı¯n Aydamur, was arrested after al-Sa ¯ıd’s deposition, one of the charges levelled against him, somewhat cynically, was that he had deserted the son of his ˘

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17 Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 4: 4; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 229. 18 Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Tashrı¯f al-ayya¯m wa al- usu¯r fı¯ sı¯rat al-Malik al-Mansu¯r (Cairo, 1961), 56 – ˙ ˙ 57; al-Yu¯nı¯nı˙¯, Dhayl, 4: 33.

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usta¯dh (al-Sa ¯ıd) at Bilbays and returned with his forces to Damascus. On the whole this seems to have been a pretext to liquidate Aydamur as much as anything else, since it is also said that the amirs who arrested him had a personal grudge against him.19 Of the Za¯hiriyyah as a whole, it was said at the time they ˙ were not actually opposed to al-Sa ¯ıd but had little regard for him and were 20 faithless. In the Za¯hiriyyah al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd was to find only what he could have ˙ reasonably expected: hirelings seeking to maximize their own advantage. In the event, the Za¯hiriyyah showed remarkably little concern for the consequences of ˙ gratifying their ambitions, consequences which were ultimately to contribute to al-Sa ¯ıd’s fall. Though the Za¯hiriyyah enjoyed position and rank within the elite as a result of ˙ Baybars’ patronage, they yet remained in the shadow of the more senior and still paramount amirs, particularly the Sa¯lihiyyah, Baybars’ khushda¯shiyyah. The ˙ ˙ remarkably unconstitutional plan of arresting and stripping the umara¯ al-kuba¯r of their rank and position was first fomented at al-Sa ¯ıd’s court interestingly by a Za¯hirı¯ amir, Shams al-Dı¯n Aqsunqur al-Fa¯raqa¯nı¯, during his tenure as na¯ ib al˙ saltanah. Al-Fa¯raqa¯nı¯ was not himself a junior officer but actually one of the ˙ more senior of the Za¯hirı¯ amirs, being well into middle age at the time. He was ˙ certainly the most prominent of the Za¯hirı¯ amirs after Baybar’s favorite, Badr al˙ Dı¯n Bı¯lı¯k, and perhaps the most trusted, having been the head of Baybars’ ustadda¯riyyah or security service. Yet, since one of the purposes of khushda¯shiyyah was to represent structural rather than mere physiological age, al-Fa¯raqa¯nı¯ no doubt thought he could rally all ages within the kha¯ssakiyyah to his ˙˙ radical plan.21 Fa¯raqa¯nı¯ himself did not last long as leader of this revolutionary movement, owing to intrigue at court by the ever jealous Sa ¯ıdiyyah. His unconstitutional scheme, however, continued to live after him within the kha¯s˙ sakiyyah, though ultimately many of the Za¯hiriyyah themselves would fall away ˙ ˙ from the plot. One reason rnay have been that by the time al-Sa ¯ıd was putting the finishing touches to his second planned overthrow of the senior amirs in Damascus, the Za¯hiriyyah appear to have lost ground in the struggle for para˙ rnountcy within the kha¯ssakiyyah itself. This was the result chiefly of their ˙˙ continuing squabbles with the Sa ¯ıdiyyah, now under the leadership of La¯jı¯n alTatarı¯, who was attempting to impose a string of injustices ( aqa¯rab al-sharu¯r) upon non-Sa ¯ıdiyyah colleagues in the kha¯ss, including deprivation of their iqta¯ ˙˙ ˙ ‘s and manipulating the assignment of new iqta¯ s from the army diwa¯n.22 For a ˙ time the dominance of La¯jı¯n had been checked by the new na¯ ib al-saltanah, yet ˙ ˘

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19 20 21 22

Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 103b; al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 4: 4; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 230. Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 96a. ˙ 3: 298 – 99; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 89a. Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, ˙ Ibid., 90b.

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another Za¯hirı¯ amir, Sayf al-Dı¯n Kunduk, who enjoyed Za¯hiriyyah support. This ˙ ˙ situation had ended abruptly, however, when the Sa ¯ıdiyyah successfully prevailed upon al-Sa ¯ıd to order Kunduk’s dismissal as they had earlier that of alFa¯raqa¯nı¯.23 Not that internal solidary was the strong suit of the Za¯hiriyyah. The depo˙ sition and later assassination of al-Fa¯raqa¯nı¯ had been underwritten chiefly by alFa¯raqa¯nı¯’s own khushda¯sh, Kunduk. Kunduk’s price ( iwa¯d) for betraying the sacred bonds of khushda¯shiyyah had been al-Fa¯raqa¯nı¯’s rank. The dismissal now of Kunduk appears to have precipitated yet another internal crisis within the Za¯hiriyyah. Dismissed from his important post, Kunduk defected with four ˙ hundred of his khushda¯shiyyah. He made for the camp of the senior amirs, now led by his brother-in-law, Sayf al-Dı¯n Qalawun, to reveal al-Sa ¯ıd’s decision to have them all arrested and their possession confiscated upon their return to Damascus. The attitude of those Za¯hiriyyah remaining behind with al-Sa ¯ıd is ˙ unclear. Al-Sa ¯ıd thought them reliable enough, however, to instruct them to rally to him against the senior amirs beginning to move with their retinues on Damascus.24 Yet, whatever residual support al-Sa ¯ıd still enjoyed among his father’s mama¯lı¯k seems to have largely crumbled at this point. Indeed, one of the Za¯hirı¯ officers entrusted with carrying al-Sa ¯ıd’s orders to other members of the ˙ Za¯hiriyya defected to Qala¯wu¯n, revealing al-Sa ¯ıd’s duplicitous strategy.25 Al˙ Sa ¯ıd’s withdrawal to Cairo was littered by defection and a peeling away of ever more Za¯hirı¯ support. At Bilbays the Za¯hirı¯ na¯ ib of Damascus, Izz al-Dı¯n Ay˙ ˙ damur, who had been escorting al-Sa ¯ıd with his Syrian forces, turned them around and headed back to Damascus. By the time the sultan gained the Citadel, disaffection within the Za¯hiriyyah in Egypt appears to have accelerated even ˙ more. This was no small loss to al-Sa ¯ıd since the Za¯hiriyyah at that time were ˙ very prominent within the army of Egypt. Of those known to have been present at the siege among the party of the senior amirs, the hizb al-umara¯ , perhaps half ˙ were Za¯hirı¯ amirs.26 ˙ Al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd’s reign underscores three primary dynamies about the structure of the early Mamluk state. First, it shows clearly the central role ageclass played in effecting consensus and determining macro-politics in the Mamluk state. Second, it demonstrates at the same time, at the micro-political level, that age-class could also be a rather nominal frame of reference for social action, lacking the absolute cohesive moral force predicted by structural-functionalism. Mamluks operated within the context of age-class to the most prof˘

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23 24 25 26

Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 102b. Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 92a. ˙ Ibid., 92a. Ibid., 94a.

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itable degree possible but were not ultimately bound by its norms of collectivism or altruism. Social action was ultimately dominated by careerism rather than ideology, and moral ties, both vertical and horizontal, were subsumed by high stakes politics. Third, it makes clear, again contrary to structural-functional expectation, the normality of social conflict as well as the way in which violence was structured rather than unleashed in order to effect constructively political change. In assessing the fall of al-Sa ¯ıd’s dawlah, the Mamluk chronicler, Baybars alMansu¯rı¯, drew the lesson that the creation of warring factions leads ultimately to ˙ ruination (talaf) and corruption (fasa¯d).27 Al-Sa ¯ıd had indeed ruined himself by failing to act as gatekeeper to the niza¯m of the state by setting the three major age ˙ classes of his day – the Sa¯lihiyyah, the Za¯hiriyyah and the Sa ¯ıdiyyah – to a ˙ ˙ ˙ struggle for paramountcy, thereby invalidating the rule of seniority established by al-Za¯hir Baybars. It was this hierarchy of access which served as the basic ˙ mechanism of constitutional rule in the Mamluk state. Each generation of Mamluk officers rose in turn to positions of power and influence, to be succeeded by the next age grouping in a more or less natural rotation. Al-Sa ¯ıd’s decision to leapfrog an entire cadre of his junior officers over more senior ones in the hierachy was bound to cause social conflict. The Sa¯lihiyyah, the senior for˙ ˙ mation, and the Sa ¯ıdiyyah, the junior one, each formed a natural pole for faction or hizb. The Za¯hiriyyah, intermediate in terms of age structure, held predictably ˙ ˙ a more ambiguous position and swung between the two in terms of paramilitary support. Though apparently supportive early of al-Sa ¯ıd’s desire of undermining the paramountcy of the Sa¯lihiyyah, important elements of the Za¯hiriyyah later ˙ ˙ ˙ on reversed themselves and returned to support the constitutional concept of seniority. Certainly during the final days of al-Sa ¯ıd’s regime they appear to have sided largely with their seniors, the Sa¯lihiyyah. On the whole the Za¯hiriyyah ˙ ˙ ˙ seem to have attained a certain utility of achievement within the hierarchy which naturally inhibited their desire to drive fitnah into actual fission. Their defection, moreover, may have had its roots in the inability of the Za¯hiriyyah to ˙ take a dominant position in al-Sa ¯ıd’s kha¯ssakiyyah, their unsuccessful com˙˙ petition with the even more junior Sa ¯ıdiyyah perhaps overshadowing any latent resentment they may have entertained against the Sa¯lihiyyah. Yet, in the end ˙ ˙ some members of the Za¯hiriyyah remained on al-Sa ¯ıd’s side. After the fall of al˙ Sa ¯ıd Qala¯wu¯n had several of them arrested, shipped off to detention points in the Transjordan and confiscated their iqta¯ s as punishment for their association with ˙ al-Sa ¯ıd’s unconstitutional schemes.28 The failure of the Za¯hiriyyah to cohere as an age-class in these circumstances ˙ ˘

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27 Ibid., 90b. 28 Ibid., 97a.

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points to the limitations of moral ties in binding members horizontally, as khushda¯shiyyah, in the face of political crisis. As in the initiation-transition model, age-class associations were ultimately reduced by ambition to a nominal frame of sociopolitical reference. It is difficult to ignore also the significant number of political actions taken because of personal grudge and envy over rank and position particularly within the context of khushda¯shiyyah. Again, the Za¯˙ hiriyyah are prominent in this regard. Al-Fa¯raqa¯nı¯ was hated by Badr al-Dı¯n Bı¯lı¯k’s mama¯lı¯k because he had been jealous of the high position held by his khushda¯sh. He may even have conspired in his assassination. Al-Fa¯raqa¯nı¯ in turn was the object of jealousy on the part of his khushda¯sh, Kunduk. Kunduk eventually agreed to facilitate al-Sa ¯ıd’s elimination of al-Fa¯raqa¯nı¯ in exchange for receiving his rank and position.29 Moral ties also failed to bind the Za¯hiriyyah vertically to al-Sa ¯ıd. Whatever ˙ residual loyalty they may have felt toward the son of their usta¯dh crumbled under the exigencies of the constitutional crisis. The general failure of valueorientation in Mamluk sociopolitics is perhaps best represented, however, in the utterly mercenary attitude of al-Sa ¯ıd’s own mama¯lı¯k toward him. The Sa ¯ıdiyyah, it is clear, exchanged loyalty for unconditional access to benefits. Their ambition to monopolize power and position within the state came at the expense both of their seniors and al-Sa ¯ıd himself. Al-Sa ¯ıd’s chief tactical problem was not of course that he failed to recognize the importance of patronage in attracting loyalty but that he failed to mediate it as gatekeeper. Even his patronage within the kha¯ssakiyyah itself was vacillating, critically undermining his posi˙˙ tion among his closest supporters. Al-Sa ¯ıd does not seem to have had any more success with other groups. Few if any distributions of money appear to have been made to the soldiery until near the end of his reign. While in his Damascus headquarters al-Sa ¯ıd made the only known general disbursement of pay bonus (nafaqah) to his troops and to local Arab auxiliaries. Typically perhaps it proved to be too little, too late. When alSa ¯ıd withdrew soon after to Cairo the Arabs completely deserted him along the route. When he reached Bilbays in the Delta the rest of the regular forces from Syria abandoned him and headed back to Damascus. In a last minute bid to attract these departing troops al-Sa ¯ıd offered new patents (dustur) to any soldier who remained with him. All now refused.30 Al-Sa ¯ıd’s credibility as a patronleader of any kind had been fatally undermined. Al-Sa ¯ıd’s regime delivers a heavy blow to any view that institutionalized social norms rather than exchange relations lie at the center of sociopolitical action. Yet, despite personal animosities and the high political stakes being played for ˘

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29 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 227, 229, 230; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 89a-b, 90b, 95b. 30 Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1578), 103b; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, ˙Zubdah, 91b, 95a. ˙

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by both ahza¯b, there remained great sensitivity among Mamluk officers to actual ˙ bloodshed. Certainly the long bloodless fall of al-Sa ¯ıd underscores the desire in a balance-of-power system to substitute conflict resolution for unrestrained violence. Other contemporary examples support this general attitude of restraint as well. When, for instance, a prominent Mamluk officer was offended by alSa ¯ıd’s favorite, La¯jı¯n al-Tatarı¯, he rejected advice to launch an attack with his mama¯lı¯k against him to settle the score in blood.31 The na¯ ib of Damascus, Izz alDı¯n Aydamur al-Za¯hirı¯, allowed himself to be taken into custody by some of ˙ Qala¯wu¯n’s compatriots because he feared resistance might lead to general social conflict (fitnah) among the Mamluks in the city.32 The general absence of violence under such potentially explosive circumstances reinforces the concept that in non-institutionalized polities like that of the Mamluk state was structured to produce positive-sum political results rather than irresponsible carnage. Each hizb sought to symbolize violence as a negotiating tactic in resolving partic˙ ularly the constitutional crisis. With so many well-trained and armed fighting men about, a lapse in such restraint could have devastated the political structure of the Mamluk state and left it open to foreign, especially Mongol exploitation. Conflict in the early Mamluk state was normal; unrestrained violence, however, was not. ˘

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Qala¯wu¯n and the Restoration of Niza¯m ˙ In entering the reign of Qala¯wu¯n (1279 – 90/678 – 89), one re-enters a period of sultan as gatekeeper. The longevity of Qala¯wu¯n’s regime, an issue which has never been properly addressed in the secondary literature, was in fact based on this principle. Indeed, observers have shown little interest in the internal politics of Qala¯wu¯n’s dawlah, though R. Irwin has ventured to suggest recently that Qala¯wu¯n’s regime was absolutist and in that way an evolutionary advance over that of Baybars’, in which the sultan had been merely primus inter pares.33 Yet, an association of political success with autocracy in the Mamluk state is not necessarily well founded, in Qala¯wu¯n’s case or in that of any other successful early sultan. Mamluk rulers were successful by and large precisely because they were not autocratic, but rather conformed to the macrosocial constitutional constraints of Mamluk politics. Qala¯wu¯n ruled as long as he did not because he horded, disenfranchised and repressed, but because he, like Baybars, sought to conciliate and cultivate the moral economy of the Mamluk elite, thereby up31 Ibid., 95b. 32 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 230. 33 Irwin, The Middle East in the Middle Ages, 71.

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holding the constitutional order (niza¯m) upon which the unity of the Mamluk ˙ republic depended. Qala¯wu¯n had of course originally rallied the Mamluk establishment to him in 1280/678 by embracing the cause of constitutional order (niza¯m) against al˙ Sa ¯ıd’s deviation (i wija¯j). The observations of men who perhaps knew Qala¯wu¯n best suggest he was genuinely dedicated to the establishment of constitutional rule. In a letter written by Qala¯wu¯n’s na¯ ib al-saltanah in Damascus, Husa¯m al˙ ˙ Dı¯n La¯jı¯n al-Mansu¯rı¯, to Qala¯wu¯n’s proposed heir, al-Malik al-Sa¯lih, in 1285/684, ˙ ˙ ˙ Qala¯wu¯n’s chief mamlu¯k observed that his usta¯dh had already fulfilled his chief purpose as sultan by establishing niza¯m. He had done so, La¯jı¯n noted, precisely ˙ by not acting the despot (ta¯ghin).34 The chronicler, Baybars al-Mansu¯ri, another ˙ ˙ of Qala¯wu¯n’s mama¯lı¯k, also observed that the sultan was an enemy of despotism (istibda¯d). Similarly Qala¯wu¯n’s policies were undertaken for “the protection of constitutional order (niza¯m)” of the state. Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, like La¯jı¯n, also ˙ ˙ noted that Qala¯wu¯n did not attempt to impose order by tyrannizing the elite. Rather, he was gentle (halim) and “abstained from the shedding of blood” in his ˙ political dealings with the elite.35 Qala¯wu¯n’s enlightened attitude was of course based from the start on the clientelistic relationship which bound all Mamluk rulers to their elite. The oath given, for instance, by the military forces in the opening days of Qala¯wu¯n’s reign to the sultan and his walı¯ ahd, al-Malik al-Sa¯lih, spoke unabashedly of their ˙ ˙ loyalty in terms of “their service (khidmah) and clientage (muwa¯liyyah) in accordance with their customs (mara¯sı¯n) and practices (awa¯mir).”36 These customs and practices were of course based on the formula of service (khidmah) for benefit (ni mah) – the utilitarian bedrock of Mamluk social action. The political insider, Baybars al-Mansuri, confessed frankly that Qala¯wu¯n had ˙ nakedly purchased his constitutional order (niza¯m) precisely through the dis˙ tribution of benefits (an um) to the elite.37 Language contained in a contemporary edict (manshu¯r) issued on behalf of one of Qala¯wu¯n’s khushda¯sh, Izz al-Dı¯n Aybak al-Afram al-Sa¯lih¯ı, for the rank of tablkha¯nah underscores this ˙ ˙ ˙ unselfconscious identity : “… the allocation of the benefit (ni mah) is valued in terms of its inducement to obedience (ta¯ ah) to the royal dynasty.” It is perhaps ˙ no happenstance that Qala¯wu¯n liked to refer to himself in such documents not only as “defender of religion” but also as “renewer of benefits.”38 That Qala¯wun saw this association as the foundation of his political success is revealed also in various memoranda he directed to his son and original heir, al˘

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Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 4: 250. Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 97b, 98b, 100b. ˙ Tashrı¯f, 185. Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, ˙ Baybars al-Mans u¯rı¯, Zubdah, 151a. ˙ Ibid., 155a. ˘

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Malik al-Sa¯lih. In one tafwı¯d, Qala¯wu¯n admonished his son to show benevolence ˙ ˙ ˙ ( utu¯fah) to the army, the nuwwa¯b and the amirs of all ranks, both senior and ˙ junior. Qala¯wu¯n believed that ultimately one could only inspire love in the hearts of the elite through such beneficence (ihsa¯n).39 In another missive Qala¯wu¯n ˙ specifically advised his heir to cast his patronage net as wide as possible: “…add on others with your benevolence (ni mah) until none is left without status.” In the same memo Qala¯wu¯n reiterated the secret of successful rule: “…grant what is asked, give what is expected to increase your position (ha¯l).”40 ˙ So fundamental to the operation, even rationale, of the Mamluk state were benefits that their use was central not only in cultivating the elite but in disciplining them as well. Confiscation of benefits proved to be a major tool in the enforcement of social sanctions against dissidents, and there are several prominent examples from Qala¯wu¯n’s regime. Qala¯wu¯n’s wazı¯r in Egypt, Burhan al-Dı¯n Sanjarı¯, was dismissed and had his property confiscated for misbehavior. The malik al- Arab, Ibn Muhanna¯, had his iqta¯ confiscated following his de˙ fection to Sunqur al-Ashqar (i. e. al-Malik al-Ka¯mil), as did Kunduk’s followers after the abortive coup attempt against Qala¯wu¯n. One of Qala¯wu¯n’s own khushda¯sh as well as one of his leading field commanders, Alam al-Dı¯n Sanjar alHalabı¯ al-Sa¯lih¯ı, was detained and suffered confiscation. Confiscation, like de˙ ˙ ˙ tention, however, was usually a temporary disenfranchisement. Those aforementioned who suffered it were eventually rehabilitated, and as part of that process their property or like value was often restored. Sanjar al-Halabı¯, for ˙ instance, was given in gold the value of what had been seized from him. In addition he was awarded other gifts, houses and given a manshu¯r for an iqta¯ of ˙ 100 tawashı¯; also those of his mama¯lı¯k who had been confiscated and enrolled in ˙ the diwa¯n of Qala¯wu¯n’s son, Khalı¯l, were returned to Sanjar.41 Confiscation proved to be both a salutary and easy punishment to conflict precisely because of the facility with which it could be revoked; it was part of the rehabilitation process by which most Mamluk dissidents were brought back into the balance-of-power system as acceptable role partners. Yet, beyond that, confiscation was intended apparently to be used sparingly as well. Qala¯wu¯n appears to have been especially sensitive about limiting its use against the elite. In 1288/687 he in fact sacked one of his chief lieutenants and mama¯lı¯k, Alam alDı¯n Sanjar al-Shuja¯ ¯ı al-Mansu¯rı¯, as wazı¯r of Egypt for his policy of gratuitous ˙ confiscation (musa¯darah). Qala¯wu¯n was infuriated by these injustices (maza¯˙ ˙ lim) and ordered the na¯ ib al-saltanah of Egypt, Husa¯m al-Dı¯n Turuntay al˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Mansu¯rı¯, to liberate those jailed as a result of Sanjar al-Shuja¯ ¯ı’s racketeering. ˙ ˘

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39 Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Tashrı¯f, 200 – 201. 40 Ibid., 249. ˙ 41 Ibid., 55, 72, 176.

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Qala¯wu¯n’s replacement as wazı¯r, another of his mama¯lı¯k, appears to have began to reintroduce a sense of due process into proceedings against members of the elite. Trials were better organized and the level of confiscatory activity greatly reduced. These reforms were consciously intended by Qala¯wu¯n to restore an atmosphere of benevolence (lutf) among the elite, which had previously existed. ˙ And, indeed, it was said of Qala¯wu¯n’s reforms that the “bitterness of fear” was replaced by the “sweetness of security (ama¯n).”42 Qala¯wu¯n’s assessment of the basic appeal of patronage did not change even when contemplating those who were supposed to be bound to him by gratuitous morality – his own mama¯lı¯k. He had few illusions about the essentially transactional basis of their loyalty. According to Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Qala¯wu¯n kept ˙ the loyalty of his six thousand mama¯lı¯k specifically by virtue of the benefits (an um) he regularly distributed among them. Indeed, he noted, Qala¯wu¯n was obliged to gratify the desires (ara¯ ) and even whims (ahwa¯ ) of his mama¯lı¯k precisely because they were the guardians of his house (bayt). Even the limits of generosity appear to have been set by the Mansu¯riyyah. Following the Mongol ˙ defeat at Hims in 1281/680 Qala¯wu¯n distributed booty at his own discretion to ˙ ˙ various units. When it came to paying off his own mama¯lı¯k, however, they indicated to their usta¯dh that he should go on filling up their money purses until they told him to stop – as Baybars al-Mansu¯ri recalled, “until we were agreeable ˙ to the affair.” By the time Qala¯wu¯n was allowed to stop counting he had dispensed to each mamlu¯k 1,000 dinars, a very generous return for one day’s work.43 Qala¯wu¯n’s acceptance of the efficacy of generosity to the elite extended of course even to those who challenged his power relationships. Clemency (ama¯n), leniency (ighda¯ ), mediation (wisa¯tah) and reconcilation (sulh) were critical ˙ ˙ ˙ elements of Mamluk internal politics, as important to restoring the constitutional order as ni mah was to creating it in the first place. And there were few so incorrigible who could put themselves beyond the pale of rehabilitation. One who managed to do so, however, was Qala¯wu¯n’s brother-in-law, Sayf al-Dı¯n Kunduk al-Za¯hirı¯, for plotting against him. Before executing Kunduk and three ˙ of his henchmen Qala¯wu¯n made plain the severity of the sentence was intended to match not so much the actual treason as the ingratitude which had incited it.44 ˘

42 Ibn al-Suqa¯’ı¯, Ta¯lı¯, 90 – 91; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 162a-b; Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal, ˙ 342a-b.˙ 43 Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 99b – 100a, 116b. ˙ 44 Ibid., 111a.

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Qala¯wu¯n s Patronage Network

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Qala¯wu¯n s Patronage Network ˘

Qala¯wu¯n’s claim that his motivation to power was the desire to restore the constitutional order (niza¯m) rather than mere covetness (tama ) is borne out by ˙ arrangements he undertook to restore equity to the age-class system al-Sa’ı¯d had disrupted. While Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯ makes clear that the Mansu¯riyyah pros˙ ˙ pered with promotions, iqta¯ assignments and choice na¯ ib ships, other groups ˙ enjoyed Qala¯wu¯n’s patronage as well. While Qala¯wu¯n was still only ata¯bak to Sala¯mish, his forgotten (mansı¯y) comrades from the Sa¯lihiyyah returned from ˙ ˙ the quasi-exile they had endured under al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd. They were reintegrated into the hierarchy of access with new or restored honors, subsistence awards (rizq), promotions, iqta¯ assignments and na¯ ib ships until, as Baybars al-Man˙ su¯rı¯ observed, “he (Qala¯wu¯n) had restored to them (Sa¯lihiyyah) the beauty of ˙ ˙ ˙ felicity.”45 As a sign of his confidence in these relations, Qala¯wu¯n did not hesitate to trust most of his appointments for independent military command to his khushda¯shiyyah.46 Even when the army was under his direct command Qala¯wu¯n still gave precedence to Sa¯lih¯ı amirs in top command positions, even over his ˙ ˙ own Mansu¯riyyah. At the battle of Hims, for instance, four of Qala¯wu¯n’s seven ˙ ˙ ˙ general officers were Sa¯lihı¯ amirs, only two were Mansu¯rı¯.47 ˙ ˙ The biographies of a number of Sa¯lih¯ı amirs reinforces the image of con˙ ˙ structive relations with Qala¯wu¯n during his reign. Alam al-Dı¯n Sanjar alBashqirdı¯, for instance, served Qala¯wu¯n during most of his reign as na¯ ib of Aleppo.48 Jama¯l-Dı¯n Ibra¯him was appointed to the sensitive court post as usta¯da¯r to Qala¯wu¯n’s son and heir presumptive, al-Malik al-Sa¯lih.49 Badr al-Dı¯n Bı¯lbak ˙ ˙ al-Muhsinı¯ was appointed one of Qala¯wu¯n’s hujja¯b.50 Fakhr al-Dı¯n Aya¯z al˙ ˙ Muqrı¯, who had been one of Baybars’ hujja¯b, received promotion from Qala¯wu¯n ˙ as his amir ha¯jib; in addition Qala¯wu¯n gave him a large land assignment and ˙ increased the rank of many of his own clients.51 Izz al-Dı¯n Aybak al-Afram became effectively Qala¯wu¯n’s military proconsul in Upper Egypt; furthermore, two of his children served as functionaries in Qala¯wu¯n’s diwa¯n.52 Alam al-Dı¯n Sunqur al-Halabı¯, who had supported al-Malik al-Ka¯mil’s regime in Damascus ˙ ˘

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45 Ibid., 96b – 97a, 99a – 99b. 46 Ibid., 101a, 102a, 103b, 109a, 111b, 112a, 141a; Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Tashrı¯f, 60,80,87,89; al˙ Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 4: 40, 43, 44, 87, 96, 97. 47 Ibid., 4: 93 – 94. The other general was the Sa idı¯ amir, Sayf al-Dı¯n Aytmish, who had just escaped arrest following the collapse of Kunduk’s attempted coup. 48 Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal, 341a. 49 Ibn al-Suqa¯’ı¯, Ta¯lı¯, 18 – 19. ˙ ¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal, 216a. 50 Ibn Taghrı 51 Safadı¯, Wa¯fı¯, 9: 458 – 59; Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal (Paris), 2: 27a – 27b. ˙ al-Suqa¯’ı¯, Ta¯lı¯, 13 – 14. 52 Ibn ˙ ˘

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against Qala¯wu¯n, became one of the notable figures (a ya¯n) in Qala¯wu¯n’s dawlah and was made a shadd in the financial bureau in Cairo.53 Qala¯wu¯n also sought to reintegrate the Za¯hiriyyah into the restored con˙ stitutional order, despite their recent illicit bid for paramountcy in al-Sa ¯ıd’s reign. Qala¯wu¯n’s task was both urgent and sensitive given that the Za¯hiriyyah, ˙ who are said to have formed a “majority” in the army of Egypt, remained in great upheaval (thawrah) about his deposition of al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd’s brother, Sala¯mish, and consequently their future status in Qala¯wu¯n’s new dawlah. Qala¯wu¯n appears, however, to have purchased much of their obedience by reaffirming their position, rank and land assignments.54 Indeed, biographies of the Za¯hirı¯ amirs ˙ show that some even continued to be employed prominently during Qala¯wu¯n’s reign. Sayf al-Dı¯n Balaban al-Ru¯mı¯ al-Dawa¯da¯r, for instance, had been a prominent member of al-Malik al-Za¯hir Baybars’ administration, serving him in ˙ the sensitive role as spy-master. Qala¯wu¯n promoted Balaban to head his entire adminstration as ka¯tib al-sirr.55 Fa¯ris al-Dı¯n Albakı¯ al-Turkı¯ also served Qala¯wu¯n prominently as his na¯ ib in Safad, holding the position in fact throughout the entire decade of his reign.56 The sila¯hda¯r, Sayf al-Dı¯n Baktimur, became as well a ˙ “powerful” figure in Qala¯wu¯n’s dawlah.57 Izz al-Dı¯n Aybak al-Turkı¯ al-Hamawı¯, ˙ who would rise to become na¯ ib of Damascus in 1292/691, may also have continued to be a prominent figure during Qala¯wu¯n’s reign.58 Even Qala¯wu¯n’s decision to move against certain individual Za¯hirı¯ amirs, ˙ ˙ whom he charged with iniquity (su¯ ) in supporting al-Sa’ı¯d’s unconstitutional actions, did not essentially alter his focus as gatekeeper. Although several of these amirs were promptly arrested, stripped of their positions and detained, their public disgrace was part of the political theatre which nearly always led to rehabilitation of the political offender. Indeed, almost immediately Qala¯wu¯n began releasing these same amirs from jail and restoring them to their former privileges; some were even promoted to the prominent rank of amir of ten in the diwa¯n of Egypt.59 Even those Za¯hirı¯ amirs who were detained for a relatively ˙ longer period could still expect some measure of rehabilitation. Shams al-Dı¯n Sunqur al-Bakrı¯, for instance, who was not released until 1288/687, was immediately awarded an amir’s rank in Syria upon his release.60 ˘

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57 58 59 60

Ibid., 8. Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 4: 8; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 100b. ˙ Safadı¯, Wa¯fı¯, 10: 282. ˙Shiha¯b al-Dı¯n Ahmad b. Alı¯ Ibn Hajar al- Asqala¯nı¯, Al-Durar al-ka¯minah fı¯ a ya¯n al-mi’ah al˙ tha¯minah, 4 vols˙ (Beirut: Da¯r al-Jayul, 19), 1: 404 – 05. Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal, 198a-b. Idem, Manhal (Paris), 2: 29b; Ibn al-Suqa¯’ı¯, Ta¯lı¯, 16 – 17. ˙ Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 97a. ˙ Ibid., 163a. ˘

53 54 55 56

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Niza¯m and Conflict Resolution: The Cases of Kunduk and Sunqur ˙ al-Ashqar

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Though Qala¯wu¯n appears to have achieved an early rapprochement with much of the Za¯hiriyyah, not all were entirely satisfied with the new order. Some Za¯˙ ˙ hiriyyah appear to have been upset with the loss of plum posts as nuwwa¯b to members of the Mansu¯riyyah. Heading the list of those disaffected was Sayf al˙ Dı¯n Kunduk al-Za¯hirı¯, Qala¯wu¯n’s own brother-in-law, who had recently been ˙ dismissed as na¯ ib of Egypt. Around Kunduk himself stood a coterie of Za¯hir˙ iyyah and, ironically, Sa’ı¯diyyah mama¯lı¯k. The two rival khushda¯shiyyah, whose squabbling had done so much to undermine al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd’s dawlah, had apparently buried their differences momentarily, again underscoring the priority of pragmatic action over moral ties among the Mamluks.61 With this ad hoc faction at his back Kunduk felt confident to plot the assassination of Qala¯wu¯n. There seems little real justification for the conspiracy, at least among the Za¯hiriyyah, even allowing for Kunduk’s deposition as na¯ ib al˙ saltanah and the loss of several prominent adminstrative posts to the Mansu¯r˙ ˙ iyyah. Qala¯wu¯n at least seems to have been genuinely dumbfounded by the plot, believing he had done all he could to cultivate reasonably the moral economy of the Za¯hiriyyah. Indeed, before passing judgment against Kunduk and his ˙ henchmen Qala¯wu¯n raged against them for their ingratitude: “You know that I did not seek rule…You rose against the son of your usta¯dh and came to me. I came from Sı¯s and I extended my coattails to you and told you to reclaim your esteem (hasab). I interceded on your behalf and your desires were agreed to…I ˙ have given you benefit and favor and scattered it before you. I have spent wealth upon you generously.”62 Qala¯wu¯n’s decision to execute Kunduk, though hardly unreasonable under the circumstances, still ran counter to the instinctive unease the Mamluk elite felt toward the application of violence and of which Qala¯wu¯n clearly was otherwise an exponent; indeed, Qala¯wu¯n’s action against Kunduk was labelled for popular consumption as a state necessity (iqtida¯ ).63 Kunduk of course had been ˙ a potential problem for Qala¯wu¯n all along. For upon being elevated as na¯ ib alsaltanah of Egypt after the fall of al-Sa ¯ıd, Kunduk married one of the daughters ˙ of the ubiquitous wafdı¯ amir, Karmu¯n Agha, who had already provided daughters to al-Malik al-Za¯hir Baybars and Qala¯wu¯n himself.64 Kunduk, there˙ fore, was uncle not only to Qala¯wu¯n’s heir, al-Malik al-Sa¯lih, but to the restive ˙ ˙ ˘

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Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Tashrı¯f, 84 – 85. ˙ Baybars al-Mans u¯rı¯, Zubdah, 111a. ˙ 4: 86. Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 90a. ˙ ˘

61 62 63 64

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Ibid., 111b; Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Tashrı¯f, 84 – 85; al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 4: 86 – 87. ˙ Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 111b – 114b, 117b, 157a. ˙ Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 4: 94. Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Tashrı¯f, 61. ˙ Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 4: 35; Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Tashrı¯f, 63. ˙ ˘

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65 66 67 68 69

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exiled Za¯hirı¯ princelings coiled in Karak. Kunduk’s close familial relationship to ˙ ˙ Qala¯wu¯n, compounded by his ingratitude and adventurism made him perhaps a natural candidate for liquidation. The news of Kunduk’s arrest at Qala¯wu¯n’s headquarters in Damascus had the expectable effect upon his clientele. Deprived of their patron-leader Kunduk’s followers, some three hundred mostly Za¯hirı¯ and wafdı¯ Mongols, fled with ˙ ˙ Kunduk’s lieutenant, the Sa ¯ıdı¯ amir, Sayf al-Dı¯n Aytmish.65 Despite Kunduk’s conspiracy, Qala¯wu¯n typically bore no animus toward his rank-and-file supporters. Indeed, he looked forward to reintegrating Kunduk’s clientele, patiently attempting to reassure and lure them back into his service as acceptable role partners. The Mongol invasion of Syria provided Qala¯wu¯n with a timely opportunity to begin the process of internal reconciliation. At the battle of Hims, ˙ ˙ Kunduk’s followers, now in the employ of Qala¯wu¯n’s khushda¯sh and former rival, Sunqur al-Ashqar, formed one of the units which fought alongside the Egyptian forces against the Mongols. A number of refugee Za¯hiris who par˙ ˙ ticipated in the battle took the opportunity in its aftermath to mend fences with Qala¯wu¯n and rejoin his service. Though a hardcore knot of Za¯hiris sought ˙ service at Karak after the Mamluk victory, by 1286/685 they, too, finally succumbed to Qala¯wu¯n’s repeated blandishments about renewed benefit ( ata¯ ) if ˙ they reentered his service and returned to Egypt.66 Of all those who returned to Qala¯wu¯n’s service only one, Sayf al-Dı¯n Aytmish al-Sa ¯ıdi, is known to have been arrested and imprisoned in the Citadel, probably because of his close personal association with Kunduk.67 Qala¯wu¯n’s use of constitutional methods to restore political order is revealed as well by his long-suffering dealings with his own most wayward khushda¯sh, Shams al-Dı¯n Sunqur al-Ashqar al-Sa¯lih¯ı. Al-Ashqar had in fact been appointed ˙ ˙ na¯ ib al-satanah in Damascus by Qala¯wu¯n during his ata¯bakiyyah under Sal˙ a¯mish. However, Ashqar believed that little moral authority resided any longer in Cairo since the “terminations (awa¯khir) of the Ayubbid dynasty,” and when Qala¯wu¯n deposed Sala¯mish “it occured to Ashqar that he be free in the sultanate of Syria.”68 Ashqar, now self-styled al-Malik al-Ka¯mil, was not of course seeking the breakup of the unitary Mamluk state. Though he suggested to Qala¯wu¯n an arrangement giving him administrative control between the Euphrates and alArı¯sh, Ashqar merely wished to enjoy the rank and autonomy of sa¯hib in ˙ ˙ Damascus much as the contemporary Ayyubid prince, al-Malik al-Mansu¯r, en˙ joyed in Hama¯h.69 Yet, the idea of a confederative state of princes, once the ˙

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hallmark of the Ayyubid dispensation, even with Cairo as senior partner, was an increasing anachronism in the maturing process of early Mamluk state formation. If the old and fairly venerable al-Malik al-Mansu¯r still had his uses as a ˙ nominally autonomous force astride the Mongol invasion corridor, the newly minted al-Malik al-Ka¯mil apparently did not. To compound this embarassment, apparently much of the Sa¯lihiyyah in Damascus, Qala¯wu¯n’s own khushda¯˙ ˙ shiyyah, almost immediately threw their support to al-Ka¯mil’s paper rebellion.70 Without any real bite to the ideology of horizontal collectivity, the internal discipline of khushda¯shiyyah easily went by the board. Qala¯wu¯n, predictably, made no move to crush al-Ashqar’s disruptive incarnation as al-Malik al-Ka¯mil. Qala¯wu¯n’s first reaction in fact was simply to write to the rebels requesting they return to obedience and internal harmony (ulfah). These letters were sent in the care of members of the Sa¯lihiyyah loyal to Qala¯wu¯n, no doubt trying to make the ˙ ˙ most of the ‘old school tie.’ Qala¯wu¯n’s appeal to these horizontal, emotional bonds failed typ cally to sway his khushda¯shiyyah in their present if vague support for al-Ka¯mil’s rebellion.71 Upholding a balance-of-power system in which negotiation was preferred over violence, Qala¯wu¯n did not seek a military denouement despite the failure of his diplomacy. Though both al-Ka¯mil and al-Mansu¯r Qala¯wu¯n soon had troops ˙ in southern Palestine neither command was eager for a serious military engagement. When actual contact was made it proved to be almost entirely accidental. At Gaza a column sent south by al-Ka¯mil and commanded by a Mu izzı¯ amir, Shams al-Dı¯n Qara¯sunqur, blundered into an Egyptian force returning from Karak. A short skirmish ensued between the mutually startled forces, and the Syrian force soon took to its heels back to Ramlah, leaving behind many prisoners. These captives were sent back to Cairo where, characteristically, they were immediately released. Additionally Qala¯wu¯n honored them and bestowed honors upon them. In particular their land assignment patents (mana¯shı¯r) were restored and they were returned to military service, though now in the army of Egypt.72 Qala¯wu¯n was soon reminded, however, that patronage cut both ways. Soon after the repulse of his forces at Gaza, al-Ka¯mil wrote to Qala¯wu¯n’s amirs still in the city of Gaza encouraging them to defect to him with promises of great rewards. To Qala¯wu¯n’s chagrin at least a small number of these accepted alKa¯mil’s offer and defected.73 Following the skirmish at Gaza, Qala¯wu¯n finally organized and dispatched to Damascus a force of more serious dimensions, perhaps as many as 6,000 men. Ibid., 63. Ibid., 63; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 102b. Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Tashrı¯f,˙ 64; al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 4: 36; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 103a. ˙ Ibn Abd al-Z˙ a¯hir, Tashrı¯f, 65. ˙ ˘ ˘

70 71 72 73

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Against the Egyptian force stood al-Ka¯mil’s army, now reinforced by numerous contingents which had drifted in from all over Syria and which may have numbered some 14,000 troops.74 Though Qala¯wu¯n clearly sought to bring alKa¯mil’s insurrection to heel, his real purpose in sending a large force north was not to annihilate the rebels in a pitched battle but rather to intimidate them in hopes of precipitating a breakup of their coalition before any real fighting ensued. Qala¯wu¯n had of course successfully completed just such agambit recently against al-Malik al-Mas u¯d of Karak. When relations had broken down between himself and Baybars’ offspring, Qala¯wu¯n had sent an army into the region under his khushda¯sh, Izz al-Dı¯n Afram al-Sa¯lih¯ı, not to attack Karak but merely to ˙ ˙ create an atmosphere of real intimidation (irha¯b) at al-Mas u¯d’s court, which he ˙ in fact achieved.75 Qala¯wu¯n was later to reduce similarly the citadel of al-Marqab through such intimidation. Indeed, a certain memorandum written after the fall of the place reported that the populace of the citadel had requested ama¯n after witnessing the demonstrative siege preparations being undertaken by Qala¯wu¯n’s forces. The correspondant wittily observed that the capitulation had been induced not by the actual use of force (sayf) but merely by its implied threat (tayf).76 Qala¯wu¯n clearly believed that the use of structured violence would ˙ achieve his political aims more efficiently than the actual application of largescale violence. Qala¯wu¯n’s ploy against al-Malik al-Ka¯mil in Damascus yielded the expected results. For soon after the two forces collided south of Damascus in June 1280/ Safar 679 al-Ka¯mil’s army disintegrated as a result of a mass battlefield defection ˙ by many of his amirs to the Egyptian side. The intimidating effect of the Egyptian army nearby seems to have acted as a catalyst stimulating those who had latent grudges or at least second thoughts about al-Ka¯mil as a patron-leader to desert before any serious bloodshed could be attributed to their fitnah.77 However, Qala¯wu¯n’s strategy would not have been half so successful had his opponents not believed beforehand that they would be readily absolved of their support of al-Ka¯mil’s rebellion and actually rewarded for returning to the niza¯m ˙ of Qala¯wu¯n’s dawlah. As Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯ observed cynically about those ˙ who had effected a timely defection: “They knew he (Qala¯wu¯n) would sheathe ˘

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74 Muhammad ibn Abdalla¯h Safadı¯, Nuzhat al-ma¯lik wa’l-mamlu¯k fı¯ mukhtasar sı¯rat man ˙ waliyah Misr min al-mulu¯k,˙MS Add. 23326, British Museum, London, 67a. ˙ ˙ a¯hir, Tashrı¯f, 63; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 140b – 141a. 75 Ibn Abd al-Z ˙ ˙ 76 Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 4: 248. 77 Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Tashrı¯f, 66; al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 4: 40; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 103a-b; ˙ 67a. ˙ Safadı¯, Nuzhah, ˙ ˘

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the sword of rectitude and bring about an application of clemency (hilm) and ˙ benefits (an um).”78 Many of those who had not defected but fled after the battle also soon returned requesting ama¯n for themselves, which was immediately granted by Qala¯wu¯n’s general, Alam al-Dı¯n Sanjar al-Halabı¯. Even those amirs such as the ˙ southern Syrian malik al- arab, Shiha¯b al-Dı¯n Ahmad Ibn Hajjı¯, who had re˙ ˙ cently defected to al-Ka¯mil, requested and received ama¯n as well. The citadel of Damascus fell without an assault to Sanjar al-Halabı¯ when he offered ama¯n to its ˙ garrison. Those taken prisoner by the Egyptian army in the battle were sent back to Cairo for disposition. Again, typically, Qala¯wu¯n freed them and distributed benefits among them to signal their immediate rehabilitation back into elite society and the hierarchy of access.79 To authenticate the grants of ama¯n his commanders were distributing wholesale to the former rebels in Damascus, Qala¯wu¯n himself sent a letter to Sanjar al-Halabı¯ to be read publically. Qala¯wu¯n prefaced his main remarks with ˙ little more than a paternal scolding of the rebels, asking them simply to renounce the harm (darar) their disobedience had caused. Qala¯wu¯n then moved quickly to ˙ immunize the dissidents: “We forgive the assembly, both senior and junior among the lords of the sword and the pen, and will not arrest any of them. We grant clemency (ama¯n) to them for their persons, family and possessions. We stipulate that we will neither change anyone from his position (waz¯ıfah) nor ˙ what is recorded among his allotted property.” Qala¯wu¯n’s remarks had the intended effect. The elite of Damascus were relieved that Qala¯wu¯n would continue to view them as acceptable role partners.80 Qala¯wu¯n next turned his attention to building relations more directly with the rank-and-file which had supported al-Ka¯mil. Indeed, not long after he came himself to Damascus seeking specifically to reconcile and mediate the return of the Syrian troops to his service again. Characteristically Qala¯wu¯n quickly “won their hearts” by forgiving their past “sins” and granting each his desires (khawa¯tir), i. e. renewed patronage.81 ˙ With the bulk of al-Ka¯mil’s clients seduced away by Qala¯wu¯n’s clemency and patronage, there was little left but mopping up the rebellion. Though Qala¯wu¯n sent off his general, Sanjar al-Halabı¯, with a large force from the army of Egypt to ˙ shadow al-Ka¯mil’s movements, he apparently instructed him to avoid any military engagement. This was just as well, for almost immediately a new Mongol invasion struck northern Syria, stimulated by al-Ka¯mil’s appeals to the Il-Khan Abaqa. Qala¯wu¯n quite unabashedly contacted those forces still under al-Ka¯mil’s ˘

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78 Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 104b. ˙ 4: 41; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 103a; Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Tashrı¯f, 67; 79 Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, ˙ ˙ Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 67a. ˙ ¯ nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 4: 42. 80 Al-Yu 81 Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 111b. ˙

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control requesting they join his own troops to battle the approaching Mongol army. No doubt as a consequence of his policy of clemency toward al-Ka¯mil’s erstwhile supporters in Syria, Qala¯wu¯n felt confident his appeal to the rebels would now be answered favorably. Indeed, before leaving Egypt for Syria Qala¯wu¯n reiterated the basis of his internal politics. In a memorandum (tafwı¯d) to ˙ his son and walı¯ ‘ahd, al-Malik al-Sa¯lih, Qala¯wu¯n underscored again the political ˙ ˙ ˙ value of always being amiable (lat¯ıf) and righteous ( afı¯f) and showing favor ˙ ( atafa) to the umara¯ , both senior and junior.82 ˙ Though the Mongols withdrew from Syria before they could be brought to battle, many of al-Ka¯mil’s amirs seized the opportunity extended by Qala¯wu¯n to resolve peaceably their disobedience and reintegrate into the established hierarchy of access again. By the end of 1280 – 81/679 Qala¯wu¯n’s negotiating skill and liberality had caused al-Ka¯mil’s once formidable patronage army to evaporate, leaving his khushda¯sh with a mere handful of supporters.83 In 1281/680 alKa¯mil’s own son, Na¯sir al-Dı¯n Samgha¯r, defected to Qala¯wu¯n after receiving ˙ ˙ promises of forgiveness ( afu¯) and leniency (ighda¯ ) for himself and whatever ˙ amirs he could bring in with him. Consistent with Qala¯wun’s standing policy, this batch of rebels was also pardoned and given benefits (an um) and gifts (arfa¯d). Al-Ka¯mil’s son also offered mediation (wisa¯tah) between his father and Qala¯wun. Though Qala¯wu¯n now clearly held the whip hand in his confrontation with al-Ka¯mil he continued to try to reintegrate his wayward khushda¯sh peaceably as an acceptable role partner. In a letter to al-Ka¯mil Qala¯wu¯n stressed his tireless desire to reach a reconciliation (sulh) with him. In that regard Qa˙ ˙ la¯wu¯n again offered al-Ka¯mil security (ama¯n) for himself and what remained of his clientele. To sweeten the deal Qala¯wu¯n also promised an enormous iqta¯ of six ˙ hundred horse and the right to retain control over certain of his fortresses in northern Syria. Al-Ka¯mil preferred, however, to enjoy his diminished autonomy in the country around his stronghold, Sahyu¯n, until 1287/686, when a Mamluk military ˙ column with siege equipment finally appeared before his gates. Persuaded by the long history of Qala¯wu¯n’s policy of demency and rehabilitation to those who renounced their sedition, al-Ka¯mil at last surrendererd, requesting ama¯n after a perfunctory artillery barrage of his fortifications. Al-Ka¯mil, his family and followers were escorted comfortably to Egypt where they were all honored and rewarded by Qala¯wu¯n as he had long promised. For the ridiculously small price of exchanging his empty title of malik for that of amı¯r and mamlu¯k (to Qala¯wu¯n) al-Ka¯mil not only avoided the gallows but actually profited nicely from his seven year pantomime insurrection. He was made amir of one hundred, received ˘

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82 Ibid., 107a. 83 Ibid., 109a; Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Tashrı¯f, 78. ˙

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fabulous gifts, including horses from Qala¯wu¯n’s own stud, and became in short order a “beloved advisor” to Qala¯wu¯n himself.84 Qala¯wu¯n’s decision to uphold a balance-of-power system, i. e. restore control in Syria through conflict resolution rather than violence, was not restricted to his dealings with al-Ka¯mil. Indeed, soon after al-Ka¯mil’s evacuation of Damascus, Qala¯wu¯n received a request for reconciliation (sulh) from al-Malik al-Mansu¯r of ˙ ˙ ˙ Hama¯h. The lord of Hama¯h had unwisely implicated himself in al-Ka¯mil’s re˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ bellion, having sent forces under the command of his brother, al-Malik al-Afdal ˙ Nu¯r al-Dı¯n Alı¯, to support al-Ka¯mil’s sultanate in Damascus. Qala¯wu¯n of course welcomed the overture, and when al-Mansu¯r made his pilgrimage of reconcili˙ ation to Cairo Qala¯wu¯n lavishly rewarded him with a cash bonus of 120,000 dirhims as well as distributing benefits to his brother, son, amirs and kha¯ss for ˙˙ their decision to renew their loyalty.85 Later, when the two met again in Damascus, Qala¯wu¯n heaped more benefits upon al-Mansu¯r.86 ˙ At the same time, Qala¯wu¯n was able to reach similar reconciliation with his nephew, al-Malik al-Mas u¯d, of Karak with whom he had fallen out early in 1280/ 679. Qala¯wu¯n objected to the “wickedness” being stirred up at the court of Karak by al-Mas u¯d’s ambitious retainers, whom he had inherited from his unfortunate brother, al-Sa ¯ıd. To encourage him back to the right path, Qala¯wu¯n had sent a ˙ military column into the region,though al-Ka¯mil’s full-scale insurrection in Damascus soon overshadowed his dispute with Karak. With al-Ka¯mil’s insurrection deflated by 1281/680 the court of Karak found it politic to seek improved relations with Qala¯wu¯n, who of course readily accepted the chance to end fitnah without the violence of a military campaign.87 Qala¯wu¯n’s tolerant treatment of al-Malik al-Mas u¯d contrasts of course with his liquidation of Mas u¯d’s brother and predecessor in Karak, al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd. Like Sayf al-Dı¯n Kunduk al-Za¯hirı¯, al-Sa ¯ıd had represented a sticky dynastic ˙ problem for Qala¯wu¯n, being not only his son-in-law but the former sultan of Egypt as well. Despite the potential risk of an attempted restoration of al-Sa ¯ıd, Qala¯wu¯n had from the beginning given al-Sa ¯ıd every incentive to behave by generously allowing him to rule Karak as an autonomous malik, much as alMalik al-Mansu¯r in Hama¯h. However, unable to resist the demands of his ma˙ ˙ ma¯lı¯k in Karak any better than he had in Cairo, al-Sa ¯ıd began to meddle in the internal politics of Syria. Though provocative, these actions were yet only symbolic of revolt. What infuriated Qala¯wu¯n was al-Sa ¯ıd’s attempt at “corrupting” the forces in Karak, i. e. patronizing a new paramilitary clientele from ˘

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84 Ibid., 87; al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 4: 9, 88; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 159a – 160a; Safadı¯, Nuz˙ ˙ hah, 55b. 85 Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Tashrı¯f, 24, 88; al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 4: 40. 86 Ibn Abd al-Z˙ a¯hir, Tashrı¯f, 26. ˙ 87 Al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 4: 89; Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Tashrı¯f, 63, 88. ˙ ˘

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among the local ajna¯d. Al-Sa ¯ıd, who had always enjoyed the reputation of being benificent (muhsin), in fact rapidly accumulated many new foilowers in his ˙ service (khidmah). Al-Sa ¯ıd’s recruiting drive gave real substance to the fear that his seizure of Shawbak was aprelude to a military conquest of Syria and ultimately to his restoration in Egypt as sultan. Judging him to be too “deceitful”, i. e. accepting Qala¯wu¯n’s ni mah while violating his khidmah, Qala¯wu¯n ordered his son-in-law and nephew to be liquidated.88 The peculiar dynastic circumstances which encouraged the elimination of both al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd and Sayf al-Dı¯n Kunduk were not the sole criterion for capital punishment. Key to the viability of a sociopolitical system based on the exchange of service for benefit was the integrity of the assignrnent of those benefits, which for the most part were government land assignments. Not surprisingly, illicit interference with this administration of patronage was judged quite severely in Qala¯wu¯n’s day. In 1280/679, for instance, one amir assaulted another publically in a quarrel over an iqta¯ assignment. Qa1a¯wu¯n promptly had ˙ the offender crucifed on the Ba¯b al-Zuwalyah, where he took three days to 89 expire. Again, in 1285/684 a member of the Damascene halqah had a royal ˙ document forged granting him revenues from a certain assignment in al-Suwa¯d. When Qala¯wu¯n learned of this fraud he ordered the offender to have his tongue cut out and to be publically exposed. The Christian and Samarian Jew who are said to have actually drawn up the forgery were crucified for their efforts.90 ˘

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Conclusion

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Constitutional order (niza¯m), more than a decade after Baybars’ passing, had ˙ clearly taken root as a defining macrostructural concept of the early Mamluk state, affecting microsocial practices of symbolic interaction and exchange among the ruling elite. Mamluk social action appeared to be regularized increasingly on principles of inclusion, limited coercion, mediation, clemency and rehabilitation as micropractices consonant with the dynamic equilibrium of their fragile balance-of-power system. The Mamluk ruling elite seemed by the end of the 1270s not merely tolerant of niza¯m but genuinely supportive, as their ˙ “veto” of al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd’s regime dearly revealed. For al-Sa ¯ıd, while perhaps not much of an Oriental despot, had deviated importantly from the principle of access to privilege on the basis of seniority, the keystone of the age class system upon which the niza¯m of the early Mamluk state largely depended. Though ˙ ˘

88 Ibid., 56; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 101a; al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Dhayl, 4: 33 – 34. 89 Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Tashrı¯f,˙ 64. 90 Ibid., 122. ˙

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essentially risk-averse, the Mamluk amirs unified against this threat to their sense of moral economy and rejected al-Sa ¯ıd’s regime in a sweeping though typically bloodless pronunciamiento. By any measure, al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd’s successor and father-in-law, Qala¯wu¯n, proved a much more solid ruler. In attempting to divine the source of Qala¯wu¯n’s rulership, L. Northrup has suggested that his regime was driven by ambivalent and competing concepts of autocracy and oligarchy.91 His natural ambition for “personal supremacy” was hampered, according to Northrup, only by the tactical necessity of having periodically to temporize and “appease the aspirations of others.”92 Yet, Qala¯wu¯n’s regime was neither so muddled nor ad hoc. Rather, he showed himself to be a self-conscious exponent of al-Za¯hir Baybars’ vision of ˙ a state founded on constitutional (niza¯mı¯) rather than arbitrary methods. Like ˙ Baybars, Qala¯wu¯n recognized that the early Mamluk state was fundamentally neither a despotism nor a factional anarchy but a system in dynamic equilibrium. State formation depended upon the ruler being able to communicate and mediate – to open a feedback loop – with the ruling elite by which their concerns and grievances might be converted into outcomes preservative of state structure. Qala¯wu¯n understood the necessity particularly of protecting the age class system instituted by Baybars as the only viable regulating mechanism for rotating power and distributing resources peacefully among the amirs. Northrup has acknowledged that “Qalawun knew how to use the system of ranks to his own advantage,” claiming in fact that “he institutionalized a seniority system.”93 Yet Qala¯wu¯n achieved much more. He continued for a decade the structuring of social power – the effective integration of Mamluk sociopolitical organization and the distribution of resources – begun under Baybars. Indeed, Qala¯wu¯n proved an effective gatekeeper to the hierarchy of access to benefits. He continued to use patronage as a form of social control, restoring to the Mamluk ruling elite as a whole a much-needed sense of stakeholding in his regime. Like Baybars, Qala¯wu¯n enfranchised the umara¯ to discourage the son of unrestrained factional competition which might cause the state to fission and return the western Fertile Crescent to a condition of warlordism. Qala¯wu¯n’s task was of course simplified by the fact that the bedrock of the early Mamluk state lay in the vertical exchange of ni mah for khidmah – benefit for service. Even Qala¯wu¯n’s relationship with the Mansu¯riyyah, his own mama¯lı¯k, was funda˙ mentally transactional in nature. By continuing to reinforce these transactional relationships Qala¯wu¯n was able to exert considerable social control over the ˘

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91 Linda S. Northrup, “A History of the Reign of the Mamluk Sultan al-Mansu¯r Qala¯wu¯n (678 – 689 A.H./1279 – 1290 A.D.)” (Ph.D. diss., McGill University, 1982), 319 – ˙20, 689. 92 Northrup, “A History of the Reign of the Mamluk Sultan al-Mansu¯r Qala¯wu¯n,” 685. ˙ 93 Ibid., 684.

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various age classes, most notably the Sa¯lihiyyah and Za¯hiriyyah. The Sa¯lihiyyah, ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ whom Qala¯wu¯n had defended against al-Sa ¯ıd’s regime, continued to be patronized into the 1280s, though after a half century of paramountcy Qala¯wu¯n’s khushda¯shiyyah was giving way in terms of power, especially to the Mansu¯r˙ iyyah. The Sa¯lihiyyah was beginning to suffer the natural attrition of old age and ˙ ˙ death; the oldest of them after all had been born at the beginning of the thirteenth/seventh century, and the youngest would finally pass away at the start of the fourteenth/eighth century.94 Qala¯wu¯n also continued to look after the interests of the Za¯hiriyyah in the years after Baybars’ passing. According to Bay˙ bars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Qala¯wu¯n had about forty intimates among the Mansu¯riyyah, ˙ ˙ mama¯lı¯k earmarked for high position and responsibility within his regime;95 this left room for clients drawn from among the ranks of the Za¯hiriyyah and ˙ Sa¯lihiyyah particularly. Such vertical patronage relations also continued to ˙ ˙ compromise the horizontal ideological unity of khushda¯shiyyah among the Mamluks. Both the Za¯hiriyyah and Sa¯lihiyyah displayed a significant lack of ˙ ˙ ˙ internal cohesion and fraternity during the fitan of both Sayf al-Dı¯n Kunduk and Sunqur al-Ashqar, respectively, and were easily reintegrated into Qala¯wu¯n’s clientage network in the aftermath. Of course, niza¯m was not built entirely on exchange, however inclusive; ˙ important, too, were microsocial processes of symbolic interaction, wherein grievances among the ruling elite were communicated agonistically and social conflict resolved through constructive negotiation. Qala¯wu¯n reacted to the negative feedback of elite disorder through a combination of grievance redress, structured violence and rehabilitation. Through patient negotiation rather than hasty military action he was eventually able to win back even the most reluctant dissident at little cost to the integrity of the state. When sanctions were necessary, they resulted usually in detention and confiscation rather than execution; this sagely avoided the risk of setting off a downward spiral of unchecked reciprocating violence, always a serious concern in such a heavily paramilitarized elite society. Qala¯wu¯n recognized that ultimately clemency, reconciliation and new benefits were more efficient tools than sabres, battleaxes and bows in restoring the dynamic equilibrium of the Mamluk state. Few challengers anyway could hope to overcome the advantage Qala¯wu¯n’s niza¯mı¯ methods gave him in ˙ such a conflict. Even Northrup, who credits Sunqur al-Ashqar with nearly fissioning the Syro-Egyptian state as a result of his fitnah in Damascus, has ac-

94 The Sa¯lih¯ı amir, Rukn al-Dı¯n Baybars al-Najmı¯ Ja¯liq, who died in 707/1307 – 08, is said to have ˙ last of the Bahriyyah to die”, Safadı¯, Wa¯fı¯, 10: 348. been˙ “the ˙ ˙ 95 Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 99b. ˙

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knowledged that support for a challenger even of al-Ashqar’s stature was never more than “transitory.”96 It seems clear that by the last decade of the thirteenth/seventh century a learning curve had emerged for constitutional (niza¯mı¯) practices in the early ˙ Mamluk state. The few months of al-Sa ¯ıd’s misguided regime proved a brief exception, of course, but the circumstance of his overthrow suggest that the Mamluks were more fully and consciously manifesting microsocial behavior which could structure their social power efficiently, helping to sustain the dynamic equilibrium of their balance-of-power system. Those lessons, as will become apparent in the next chapter, would continue to be learned in a period often viewed as the hightide of anarchy in the early Mamluk period. The Mamluk ruling elite at the turn of the fourteenth/eighth century continued to embrace principles of niza¯m and struggled to sustain their operation and, thereby, the ˙ integrity of the Syro-Egyptian state.

96 Northrup, “A History of the Reign of the Mamluk Sultan al-Mansu¯r Qala¯wu¯n”, 140 – 41. ˙

Chapter 6 – Niza¯m and “The Operation of Faction” ˙ – 709) (1290 – 1309/689

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For those who have seen in the prior reigns of al-Za¯hir Baybars and al-Mansu¯r ˙ ˙ Qala¯wu¯n the despotic containment of anarchy, the following period (1290 – 1309/ 689 – 709) has seemed by comparison a reversal to complete chaos, one created of course by the expectable release of latent sociopolitical tensions among an elite desperate to express its natural appetite for competitive violence and mayhem. In the minds of many scholars, the Mamluks at the turn of the century were merely struggling to revert to type.1 This period can be analyzed more productively, however, as a continuation of the process of state formation begun by al-Za¯hir Baybars. The circular flow of ˙ communication within the elite, though impaired, survived. More particularly, there was a continuing pursuit of constitutional order (niza¯m) by the umara¯ as a ˙ whole, despite the brief fitan created by a handful of overly ambitious and riskoriented officers. The fact that a few amirs could exploit, even contrive dissension should be weighed against the realization that the Mamluk Junkertum as a whole not only resisted participating in such upheavals but largely acted against them. The Mamluks were clearly thinking of themselves by now as a serious ruling elite and, more importantly, acting like one in their common practice either to circumvent or to resolve conflict as quickly, non-violently and equitably as possible. The Mamluks continued to view a constitutional system as the best protection for their moral economy. Even the moral solidary of khushda¯shiyyah could not in the end compete with the ideology or perhaps instinct for niza¯m. Indeed, very often khushda¯shiyyah piled up on the rock of ˙ niza¯m. The Mansu¯riyyah, though paramount during this period, suffered es˙ ˙ pecially from internal dissension created by this very constitutional issue; indeed, much of the political upheaval of these years was related directly to these tensions. Traditional scholarship has of course liked to envision tensions of an entirely 1 Lane-Poole, A History of Egypt in the Middle Ages, 288 – 306; Glubb, Soldiers of Fortune, 145 – 98; Holt, The Age of the Crusades, 107 – 13; Irwin, The Middle East in the Middle Ages, 85 – 102.

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different sort driving Mamluk social action. P.M. Holt, for instance, has spoken of this period as one in which “tension … existed … between the concept of autocratic monarchy and that of the oligarchy of magnates.”2 Levanoni, too, has seen the Mamluks “waver between the two extremes” of “military oligarchy” and “authoritative rule … with almost arbritrary discretion.”3 Yet, as in the modern concept of statist “corporatism,” authority in the Mamluk state was intended to be self-limiting anyway. The umara¯ were merely seeking a new gatekeeper to uphold their common stake in a viable system of universal patronage, not new opportunities to run amok. There was in fact little organic tension in their constitutional system, though it could be introduced artificially by mischievous and overly ambitious amirs. Fitnah was quickly overcome by the natural redressive mechanism of the system, by “defensive revolutions” meant to restore the normal gatekeeping function of the sultanate. Yet, fitnah sometimes did masquerade as constitutionalism in this period. Putschists routinely invoked the need to protect the universal age class system in order to hide better their real parochial ambitions, and no political charge was more explosive or got a better hearing in the Mamluk Ständestaat than that of the inequitable preferement of juniors over seniors within the hierarchy of access to resources.

The Manipulation of Niza¯m in the Reign of al-Ashraf Khalı¯l ˙

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The reign of al-Malik al-Ashra¯f Khalı¯l was the first clear example in this period of the widespread manipulation of the issue of age class for unconstitutional purposes. Like the reign of al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd before him, that of al-Ashraf Khalı¯l proved both brief and controversial. The traditional scholarship on al-Ashraf Khalı¯l has dismissed him summarily, like al-Sa ¯ıd, as a youthful despot whose self-destructive idiosyncracies led expectably to an early demise. Yet, that case has never been presented very convincingly. Indeed, one can detect over time a certain undercurrent of ambiguity in the secondary literature on this very point. Lane-Poole, for instance, announced quite categorically a century ago that alAshraf “combined in a superlative degree the worst vices of a cruel and capricious tyrant.”4 Half a century later, Glubb revised downward that harsh characterization, claiming al-Ashraf was only “arrogant,” “full of conceit” and displayed “lack of respect” for the Mamluk amirs.5 More recently, Irwin has tried to ˘

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Holt, The Age of the Crusades, 109. Levanoni, “The Mamluk Conception of the Sultanate,” 374 – 75. Lane-Poole, A History of Egypt in the Middle Ages, 285. Glubb, Soldiers of Fortune, 149, 153.

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mitigate this interpretation altogether, suggesting that al-Ashraf was merely “too energetic” and that, afterall, his reign was “not excessively bloody.”6 To one degree or another, however, the secondary literature has clearly tried to suggest that al-Ashraf failed the seminal test of all Mamluk sultans as gatekeeper, that his arbitrary and inequitable policies toward the umara¯ undermined the constitutional order or niza¯m of the Mamluk republic. Certainly this ˙ was how Baydara¯ al-Mansu¯rı¯, al-Ashraf ’s na¯ ib al-saltanah and leading con˙ ˙ spirator in his overthrow, attempted to portray the sultan on the eve of his assassination in 1293/693. Baydara¯ and his co-conspirators maintained their uprising (wathbah) against al-Ashraf was justified on grounds that he had treated with scorn (istihta¯r) the interests of the army and the paramount age class, the Mansu¯riyyah. Al-Ashraf was specifically accused of treachery (ghadr) ˙ in the retardation (ta akhkhur) of the advancement of the Mansu¯riyyah and in ˙ the devation of the junior (sigha¯r) officers who made up his own kha¯ss. Baydara¯ ˙ ˙˙ went so far as to warn senior Mansu¯rı¯ amirs of their own imminent arrests and ˙ seizure of their land assignments for redistribution to al-Ashrafs kha¯ss, which ˙˙ included his own mama¯lı¯k, the Ashrafiyyah.7 It was by now classic political subterfuge to charge an opponent with attempting to interfere with the age class system of the state. The Mamluk state after all had come to depend for its equilibrium since al-Za¯hir Baybars’ day on a ˙ reasonably equitable distribution of rank and resources based on seniority among its paramilitary elite, and any autocratic threat to that enfranchisement necessarily threatened the niza¯m of the state. Yet, there are a number of problems ˙ with the portrayal of al-Ashraf as a despot. In the first place, al-Ashraf ’s overthrow was not in fact viewed by the Mamluk establishment as an act of constitutional restoration. To the contrary his murder was largely condemned by the ruling elite. Baydara¯ was not praised as a restorer of niza¯m, as Qala¯wu¯n had been ˙ at the time of al-Sa ¯ıd’s deposition, but instead vilified as an instigator of disorder (fitnah) himself.8 Far from being a “defensive revolution” or pronunciamiento backed by a broad consensus of the umara¯ , Baydara¯’s strike against al-Ashraf was merely a putsch by a few overly ambitious and disaffected senior members of the Mansu¯riyyah, who in the end proved unable to rally even their own khush˙ da¯shiyyah to their cause. The legitimacy of deposing a reigning sultan of course depended on creating a consensus for it within the Mamluk elite as a whole. Indeed, first reaction to news ˘

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6 Irwin, The Middle East in the Middle Ages, 79, 82. 7 Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 181b – 182a; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 348; al-Nuwayrı¯, Ni˙ Anonymous, Beiträge zur Geschichte der Mamlu¯kensultane in den Jahren ha¯yah (1579), 117a; 690 – 741 der Higra nach arabischen Handschriften, ed. K.V. Zettersteen (Leiden: E.J. Brill 1919), 26. 8 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 349.

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of al-Ashraf ’s assassination centered around precisely this constitutional point. When al-Ashraf ’s amir janda¯r, Rukn al-Dı¯n Baybars al-Za¯hirı¯, confronted ˙ Baydara¯ beneath the royal standards, his hands still steaming with the sultan’s blood, his first concern was with the legitimacy of the putsch: “Was what was done agreed by means of consultation (mashwarah)?”9 Baydara¯, no doubt seeking some constitutional cover for his action, answered that is was. However, Baydara¯ had clearly not conferred with the Mamluk establishment as a whole for, it is said, a “majority” of amirs thought al-Ashraf ’s overthrow an infamous act (mukhziyyah).10 Moreover, the army of Egypt, which had participated in the pronunciamiento a decade earlier against al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd, was roused now to great anger (tayrah) by news of Baydara¯’s unauthorized liquidation of al-Ashraf Khalı¯l.11 When Baydara¯ elevated himself to the sultanate as al-Malik al-Qa¯hir – The Victorious Prince – it was done “against the will of most.” As a measure of his unpopularity Baydara¯ was shortly lampooned with the new laqab, al-Malik ¯ hir – “The Fornicating Prince.” Even in the lowest echelons of society al- A Muslims felt great grief (hamm) over al-Ashraf ’s fate. In Cairo, the lowly hara¯fish ˙ and su¯ a¯d began rioting and mugging members of the na¯s as a sign of their upset at the news of the young sultan’s assassination.12 Perhaps most telling of all against Baydara¯ was the reaction of the Mansu¯riyyah itself. Baydara’s own ˙ khushda¯shiyyah, who might have expected to become even more dominant from this turn of fortune, reviled him for plunging the state into fitnah.13 Though al-Ashraf Khalı¯l had been personally neither mild-tempered (halı¯m) ˙ nor compassionate (rah¯ım), as Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir was bound to admit, he was by ˙ ˙ no means the autocrat he has been portrayed. Al-Ashraf did not seek to exercise power at the expense of consensus, fomenting dissension by tampering with the sensitive and inextricably bound issues of seniority and patronage. To the contrary, Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, who knew the early Mamluk rulers rather better than ˙ most, characterized al-Ashraf as a concilator (musa¯lih).14 And, indeed, al-Ashraf ˙ ˙ seems to have understood to a degree perhaps extraordinary for his youth precisely the importance of wide-spread patronage (ni mah) and the centrality of the age class system to the niza¯m of the state and, presumably, his own longevity. ˙ Al-Ashraf after all had been elevated to power by the consent (muwa¯faqah) chiefly of the two senior formations, the Sa¯lihiyyah and Mansu¯riyyah.15 And in ˙ ˙ ˙ ˘

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Anonymous, Geschichte, 26; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 119b. Ibid., 119b. Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 349; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 117b, 119b. Ibid., 119b; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 348. Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 119b. Muyhı¯ al-Dı¯n Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Ur Abd Allah b. Abd Ez-Za¯hir’s Biografi över Sultanen El˙ Moberg (Lund: Hjalmar M˙ ö˙ller, 1902), 29. Melik el-Asraf Halı¯l, ed. Axel ˘ 15 Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 78b. ˘

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accordance with this, it is said, the sultan bestowed rank (manzilah) in conformity with accepted practice at the time of his accession, i. e., patronage distributed in order of seniority.16 As part of his desire to ensure consensus al-Ashraf Khalı¯l also undertook to liberate several Sa¯lihı¯ and Za¯hirı¯ amirs jailed by his father, Qala¯wu¯n. As the ˙ ˙ release order for perhaps the most famous detainee, Badr al-Dı¯n Baysarı¯ alShamsı¯ al-Sa¯lih¯ı, reveals, prisoners were not only set free but set back on their ˙ ˙ feet by al-Ashraf as well. Baysarı¯, after being sprung from the Citadel jail (jubb), received cash (amwa¯l), expensive fabrics, the rank of amir of one hundred and an iqta¯ assignment to support it. The expressed intent of all this was to allow the ˙ venerable Sa¯lih¯ı amir “to carry on his life as in the days of the Za¯hiriyyah (the ˙ ˙ ˙ reign of al-Za¯hir Baybars).”17 ˙ Al-Ashraf Khalı¯l advanced in positions of rank (ima¯rah) members of the Sa¯lihiyyah, Za¯hiriyyah and Mansu¯riyyah as well as his own mama¯lı¯k, the Ash˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ rafiyyah. Certainly almost all of the senior executive posts at the Egyptian court and in Syria went to members of the paramount formation, the Mansu¯riyyah.18 ˙ One can also find important positions handed out to members of the Za¯hiriyyah ˙ as well. The Za¯hirı¯ amir, Izz al-Dı¯n Aybak al-Hamawı¯, for instance, was elevated ˙ ˙ to the very high position of na¯ ib al-saltanah in Syria in 1292/691.19 Fa¯ris al-Dı¯n ˙ Albakı¯ al-Za¯hirı¯ served for a time as na¯ ib of Safad.20 Another Za¯hirı¯ amir, Rukn ˙ ˙ ˙ al-Dı¯n Baybars, became one of al-Ashraf ’s chief lieutenants at court as amı¯r 21 janda¯r. Al-Ashraf Khalı¯l was apparently equally careful not to prejudice the position of Za¯hirı¯ officers, even vis a vis more powerful Mansu¯rı¯ ones. When ˙ ˙ Baydara¯ al-Mansu¯rı¯, al-Ashraf Khalı¯l’s na¯ ib al-saltanah, was given the town of ˙ ˙ Subaybah he was also promised the kha¯ss attached to it, but only after the passing ˙˙ of the Za¯hirı¯ amir who then held it.22 ˙ There is in fact little evidence that al-Ashraf Khalı¯l displayed unwarranted favoritism toward his own mama¯lı¯k, the Ashrafiyyah. The only significant nomination al-Ashraf Khalı¯l seems to have made came in 1291/690 when he appointed Jama¯l al-Dı¯n Aqu¯sh al-Ashrafı¯ as na¯ ib al-saltanah in Karak.23 Typi˙ cally, those Ashrafı¯ amirs who rose to prominence did so long after the death of ˘

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20 21 22 23

Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Biografi, 29. ˙ Baybars al-Mans u¯rı¯, Zubdah, 179a; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 94a – 96a. Baybars al-Mans˙ u¯rı¯, Zubdah, 166b. ˙ ¯ yah (1579), 108b – 109a; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 339; Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha Manhal (Paris), 2: 29b. Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal (Paris), 2: 8b. Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 119a. Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Biografi, 33. This appears˙ to have been a somewhat special appointment, for Aqush had been acquired by al-Ashraf ’s father. Qala¯wu¯n, for him as a tutor or advisor because of what Qala¯wu¯n valued as his political outlook (siya¯sah) and humility (dara¯’ah). Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 173b. ˙ ˙ ˘

16 17 18 19

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al-Ashraf himself, during the second and third reigns of al-Ashraf Khalı¯l’s brother, al-Na¯sir Muhammad.24 ˙ ˙ Al-Ashraf Khalı¯l’s recognition of the importance of maintaining consensus led him actually to make of his regime a partnership (musha¯rakah) between himself and the umara¯ , especially in the assignment of posts (waza¯ if) and ˙ control of the lucrative adminstration (tadbı¯r) of the state. Al-Ashraf Khalı¯l apparently further underpinned this consensus by consulting frequently with each age class (ta¯ ifah). Indeed, so equitable and representational was al-Ashrafs regime that the contemporary inside observer, Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, was moved ˙ to pronounce it republican (siya¯sah al-jumhu¯r).25 To the umara¯ as a whole al-Ashraf Khalı¯l was not stingy but generous, even to the point of extravagence (tatarruf).26 Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir recorded an episode ˙ ˙ from al-Ashraf Khalı¯l’s regime which was probably typical of his general attitude toward and treatment of the umara¯ . During an inspection of the district of Alexandria, in which he granted fiscal relief (takhfı¯f) to the local peasantry and paid the local troops, al-Ashraf Khalı¯l took the opportunity to order a mass distribution of benefits (in a¯m) to the amirs. The sultan distributed benefits until each had received a major remuneration (ajr) in his earnings (maksab). Grants of iqta¯ a¯t were also recorded and the size of holdings was increased. Al-Ashraf ˙ Khalı¯l’s action clearly had the intended effect for, it is said, the umara¯ felt satisfied (rad¯ı) with his regime27 The historian, Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, recalled fondly ˙ that his own father had received a lavish increase in the value of his iqta¯ of five ˙ hundred dinars as a result of al-Ashraf Khalı¯l’s generosity in distributing benefits (an um) to important officers in the halqah of Egypt.28 ˙ Baydara¯’s second charge against al-Ashraf Khalı¯l, that he ignored the army, seems equally unfounded. The sultan was hailed in fact as being quite magnanimous (samh) and liberal (jawa¯d) especially with regard to the army and ˙ particularly in paying out the all-important nafaqah, or bonus. Moreover, alAshraf Khalı¯l paid these bonuses on a regular basis during his brief tenure. Over three years, he distributed three major nafaqah: first, when he took the throne, second, before the siege of Akkah and, third, before the siege of Qal at al-Ru¯m.29 The outrage manifest within the army of Egypt at news of his assassination is ˘

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24 Al- Asqala¯nı¯, Durar, 1: 354, 395 – 96, 423 – 24; Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal (Paris), 2: 6a – 7a, 25ab, 109a. 25 Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 167a. 26 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯˙, Kanz, 8: 351. 27 Al-Ashraf, who not surprisingly also distributed benefits to his own kha¯ssakiyah, was careful ˙˙ to include from among them those “overlooked by their nisbah”, i. e. intimate servitors who were not of the Ashrafı¯yyah. Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 352; Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Biografi, 26. 28 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 349. 29 Ibid., 351 – 52. ˘

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perhaps the clearest proof of the popularity al-Ashraf had managed to purchase within the military as a whole.

Al-Ashraf Khalı¯l’s Relations with the Mansu¯riyyah ˙

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Al-Ashraf Khalı¯l’s real difficulties resided at the end of his reign, as at its beginning, only with a handful of disgruntled senior Mansu¯rı¯ amirs and their ˙ cronies. While actions were taken against selected Mansu¯rı¯ officers, they cannot ˙ be construed as an attempt by al-Ashraf to displace from paramountcy the Mansu¯riyyah as a whole within the age class system of the state, which was the ˙ core charge leveled against him by Baydara¯. Indeed, the Mansu¯riyyah seems to ˙ have shown little asabiyyah with its own members in their several clashes with ˙ al-Ashraf, underscoring again the basic fragility of the moral bonds of khushda¯shiyyah in the early Mamluk period in the face of practical political matters. Likely the Mansu¯riyyah were embarrassed if not actually aggravated by the ˙ impolitic actions of their overly ambitious members. Though al-Ashraf Khalı¯l’s enemies within the Mansu¯riyyah liked to claim he ˙ was seeking to create an excess of power (fart al-amr) for himself, it would ˙ appear they were rather more guilty of that charge themselves.30 This can be seen as early as al-Ashraf Khalı¯l’s encounter soon after his accession with the overbearing Husa¯m al-Dı¯n Turuntay al-Mansu¯rı¯, the na¯ ib al-saltanah bequeathed ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ him by his father, Qala¯wu¯n. Turuntay had risen to the apogee of power in the ˙ ˙ Mamluk state in the final phase of Qala¯wu¯n’s reign and appears to have begun overstepping his authority almost immediately. Though al-Ashraf Khalı¯l alerted Turuntay that he would no longer condone his continuing “rashness” and ˙ ˙ mischief (ifsa¯d), Turuntay refused to moderate his behavior. Instead, the na¯ ib ˙ ˙ planned to assassinate the sultan rather than anticipate a reduction in his own supreme power. His attempt foiled at the last minute, Turuntay was soon arrested ˙ ˙ and then executed by al-Ashraf Khalı¯l’s order.31 The dramatic liquidation of the most senior Mansu¯rı¯ leader appears to have ˙ had little negative repercussions within the elite, including within Turuntay’s ˙ ˙ own khushda¯shiyyah, the Mansu¯riyyah. In the first place, Turuntay does not ˙ ˙ ˙ seem to have undertaken his assassination plot with their general approval or perhaps even knowledge. Al-Ashraf Khalı¯l after all had only just been elevated to power by the consensus (muwa¯faqah) of the Mansu¯riyyah. At his accession al˙ Ashraf Khalı¯l, in common Mamluk practice, entered into reciprocal political relations with the umara¯ , bestowing patronage upon the amirs and commanders 30 Ibid., 348. 31 Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 79b – 81b.

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and other notables of the na¯s, each “according to his rank.” The umara¯ , including the Mansu¯riyyah, then swore obedience (ta¯ ah) and compliance (in˙ ˙ qiya¯d) to him.32 There was no evidence at that early date (nor would there be later) that al-Ashraf had sworn falsely. Under the circumstance the Mamluks no doubt viewed Turuntay’s attempt on the sultan’s life as unjustified and un˙ ˙ authorized action. Secondly, the power-hungry Turuntay may have begun to wear thin with the ˙ ˙ elite itself. He had already created unnecessary controversy at the end of Qala¯wu¯n’s reign by opposing the sultan’s decision to enroll the sons of the Bahriyyah, ˙ the awla¯d al-na¯s, into the halqah in order to provide them with an honorable ˙ 33 living. Thirdly, whatever sensitivity the Mansu¯riyyah may have felt was mol˙ lified by al-Ashraf Khalı¯l’s decision to divide up Turuntay’s extensive holdings ˙ ˙ and redistribute them not to his own mama¯lı¯k, the Ashrafiyyah, but to other important members of the Mansu¯riyyah in conformity with age class principles. ˙ One of those Mansu¯rı¯ amirs to profit from Turuntay’s demise, Shams al-Dı¯n ˙ ˙ ˙ Sunqur al-Ashqar, soon ran afoul of al-Ashraf Khalı¯l for much the same reason as Turuntay. Al-Ashraf Khalı¯l’s relations with Sunqur al-Ashqar had at the outset of ˙ ˙ his reign been quite good. So trusted had he become that the sultan had even promised him the City of Sahyu¯n. At the time of Turuntay’s execution Sunqur al˙ ˙ ˙ Ashqar was perhaps the most natural candidate to inherit his late khushda¯sh’s benefice (ihsa¯n). The high degree of favoritism awarded Sunqur al-Ashqar, ˙ however, seems to have spoiled him as it had Turuntay. Al-Ashraf Khalı¯l soon ˙ ˙ became so anxious about al-Ashqar that he requested he remit some of Tur˙ untay’s former assets. This compromise might have ended the difficulty equi˙ tably except that, like Turuntay, Sunqur al-Ashqar chose openly and unilaterally ˙ ˙ to challenge the sultan’s prerogative. Yet, despite this blatant defiance, al-Ashraf was reluctant at first to arrest al-Ashqar. Acting on the advice of other amirs, however, al-Ashraf ultimately had him incarcerated and later executed.34 Again, there was no resistance within the umara¯ to al-Ashqar’s fate; those who whipped up fitnah for their own personal interests were clearly expendable to the collectivity of the umara¯ . Another Mansu¯rı¯ amir who profited from the execution of his khushda¯sh, ˙ Turuntay, was of course Baydara¯ himself, who succeeded to Turuntay’s post as ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ na¯ ib al-saltanah as well as taking over his iqta¯ and other possessions.35 Like ˙ ˙ Turuntay, Baydara¯ availed himself of his high position to enrich himself, ulti˙ ˙ mately to a degree which al-Ashraf Khalı¯l found troublesome. Indeed, just prior ˘

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32 33 34 35

Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 303; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 78b. Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 303. Ibid., 312; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 86b. Ibid., 82a.

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to his assassination al-Ashraf Khalı¯l had taken steps to impede Baydara¯’s development of his personal power and wealth. A disturbing inspection of Baydara¯’s property in Upper Egypt revealed he had been increasing his cut from local revenue (jira¯yah) and encroaching dramatically on the purview of the sultan’s kha¯ss in order to build up his own clientele. As al-Ashraf Khalı¯l noted ˙˙ with chagrin: “This Baydara¯ has already eaten up the land.” The sultan, full of jealously (ghayrah), began to take back some of the districts from Baydara¯’s control for his own kha¯ss.36 Renewed squabbling between the sultan and his na¯ ib ˙˙ soon broke out, however, this time over the division of lucrative commercial revenues from Alexandria, of which Baydara¯ was insisting on taking again the lion’s share. The incident ended in a stormy interview between Baydara¯ and alAshraf Khalı¯l, who rebuked and then struck his na¯ ib in the presence of the na¯s. Baydara¯ was to use this incident to excuse the assassination of al-Ashraf Khalı¯l as a measure of self-defense. But Baydara¯ knew better. Al-Ashraf Khalı¯l had already dealt even more severely with the na¯ ib of the citadel of Damascus and one of Baydara¯’s khushda¯sh, Alam al-Dı¯n Sanjar Arjawa¯sh al-Mansu¯rı¯. In the ˙ course of a disagreement with the sultan, Arjawa¯sh had the misfortune to characterize al-Ashraf Khalı¯l’s views as mere childishness (sibyaniyyah). The ˙ sultan, who was indeed sensitive about his youth, assaulted the amir, arrested him and had him carted off in chains. However, in keeping with common political practice, al-Ashraf Khalı¯l almost at once rehabilitated Arjawa¯sh and, in fact, reappointed him as na¯ ib of the citadel.37 Al-Ashraf ’s other nemesis was yet another Mansu¯rı¯ amir, Husa¯m al-Dı¯n ˙ ˙ La¯jı¯n, who would emerge ultimately as Baydara¯’s chief co-conspirator in alAshraf ’s assassination. Yet, al-Ashraf ’s relations with La¯jı¯n were, as they had been with his khushda¯sh, Sunqur al-Ashqar, quite positive initially. La¯jı¯n was made na¯ ib al-saltanah in Syria and, following the liquidation of Turuntay, had ˙ ˙ ˙ his iqta¯ confirmed at a level consonant with what he had enjoyed in the heyday of ˙ Qala¯wu¯n’s reign; additionally at least one of La¯jı¯n’s own mama¯lı¯k was promoted as an amir of ten.38 Nevertheless, La¯jı¯n soon found himself arrested and re-arrested during alAshraf Khalı¯l’s brief reign. Yet, as with other fractious Mansu¯rı¯ amirs there was ˙ little support for him within the elite, including among his own khushda¯shiyyah. Indeed, in 1291/690, the Syrian amirs, over whom La¯jı¯n presided as na¯ ib alsaltanah and malik al-umara¯ of Syria and among whom must have been many of ˙ the Mansu¯riyyah, actually requested La¯jı¯n submit to arrest.39 The Mamluk elite ˙ ˘

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36 Ibid., 111b; Mufaddal b. Abı¯ al-Fada¯ il, Al-Nahj al-sadı¯d wa’l-durr al-farı¯d fı¯-ma¯ ba da ta¯rı¯kh ˙ ˙ Blochet, “Histoire ˙ des Sultans Mamlouks”, 562 – 63. Ibn al- Amı¯d, ed. E. 37 Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 92b – 93a; Ibn al-Suqa¯’ı¯, Ta¯lı¯, 91 – 92. ˙ 38 Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 82b. 39 Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 173a. ˙ ˘

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no doubt feared La¯jı¯n’s public disobedience might foment more serious internal dissension. Earlier, at the siege of Acre, La¯jı¯n had fled to Ajlu¯n, after hearing rumors of his imminent arrest by al-Ashraf Khalı¯l. There La¯jı¯n was visited by his khushda¯sh, Alam al-Dı¯n al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯ al-Mansu¯rı¯, who finally persuaded him to ˙ return to camp to show solidarity with the regime before disorder (tashwı¯sh) developed and he was charged with being the ruin (hala¯k) of the Muslims.40 La¯jı¯n’s arrest, unlike that of either Turuntay or Sunqur al-Ashqar, stemmed ˙ ˙ not apparently from actual criminal activity but from propinquity to those who were perceived by al-Ashraf to be dangerous to his position as gatekeeper. La¯jı¯n was himself first arrested merely because he was thought friendly (lat¯ıf) to his ˙ khushda¯sh, Sunqur al-Ashqar al-Mansu¯rı¯.41 When La¯jı¯n was arrested again in ˙ 1292/691 the amir Rukn al-Dı¯n Tuqsu¯ al-Na¯sirı¯ was also rounded up simply ˙ ˙ ˙ because he was an in-law (sihr) to La¯jı¯n. The amir Sayf al-Dı¯n Jarmak al-Na¯sirı¯ ˙ ˙ was arrested in turn because he was khushda¯sh to Tuqsu¯.42 As a prelude to the ˙ ˙ liquidation of Turuntay, the amı¯r Zayn al-Dı¯n Kitbugha¯ al-Mansu¯rı¯ was arrested ˙ ˙ ˙ by al-Ashraf because of his close personal relationship with Turuntay.43 ˙ ˙ Yet, despite all the arrests ordered by al-Ashraf nearly all the amirs were soon released and rehabilitated in some way. Despite his recidivism, even La¯jı¯n was restored each time to great rank and his possessions returned, including his own mama¯lı¯k, at least those who thought it profitable to return to his employ.44 Kitbugha¯ was released from prison and both his rank and possessions restored to him.45 Sunqur al-Ashqar was also released from jail and appointed to the dı¯wa¯n, though later he was rearrested and died in prison.46 Izz al-Dı¯n Aybak alTawı¯l al-Mansu¯rı¯, na¯ ib of Tripoli, was released after a brief detention.47 Even the ˙ ˙ impudent Arjawa¯sh al-Mansu¯rı¯ was jailed only a few days before being released ˙ and then reappointed as na¯ ib of the citadel of Damascus.48 Despite often difficult circurnstances, al-Ashraf Khalı¯l showed himself an able enough gatekeeper, ˘

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Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 92a; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 308. Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 110b. Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 172b – 173a. The closeness of˙ that relationship can be gauged from the fact that when Kitbugha¯ became sultan he had Turuntay disinterred from his hasty grave near the zawiyyah of Shaykh Amr al˙ ˙in the turbah he had prepared in Cairo in the madrasah by his house, alSa u¯dı¯ and reburied Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 81a-b. At least one of La¯jı¯n’ s former mama¯lı¯k, Shams al-Dı¯n Aqsunqur al-Husa¯mi, chose to remain in al-Ashraf ’s service and was promoted amı¯r al-tablkha¯nah for ˙his˙ loyalty switch. This again reminds one of the essentially utilitarian basis˙ of loyalty even in the supposedly sacred context of usta¯dh-mamlu¯k, Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 176a, 180a; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, ˙ 110b. 8: 312, 340; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 96a, Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 307. Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 93a, 96a. Al- Asqala¯nı¯, Durar, 1: 423. Ibn al-Suqa¯ ¯ı, Ta¯lı¯, 91 – 92; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 92b – 93a. ˙ ˘

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45 46 47 48

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highly sensitive to rnaintaining a balance-of-power system, defeating, even punishing but not eliminating challengers in order to preserve overall structural stability. Despite al-Ashraf Khalı¯l’s rehabilitation of many detainees, for some the experience “remained in their hearts” and they felt little beside dread (haybah) and offended pride (nakhwah) as a result of their experience.49 Yet, al-Ashraf ’s behavior toward the Mamluk elite never proved unconstitutional enough to rally rnuch support for the putsch launched by Baydara¯ and his handful of largely Mansu¯rı¯ supporters. From the beginning, Baydara¯’s support was very soft. ˙ Those who found themselves, at least momentarily, in his faction (jumlah) were divided. Some were for him, others were not and had to be coerced (maghsu¯b) ˙ into remaining with him.50 The key to Baydara¯’s failure was, again, mainly the failure his own khushda¯shiyyah to support him. Indeed, the Mansu¯riyyah not only failed to rally to ˙ him but condemned him outright for his illicit behavior. Although Baydara¯ was opposed by a coalition of amirs representing the Sa¯lihiyyah, Za¯hiriyyah and of ˙ ˙ ˙ course Ashrafiyyah, his pursuit and elimination was mainly orchestrated by other Mansu¯rı¯ officers such as Zayn al-Dı¯n Kitbugha¯, Baktu¯t al- Ala¯ ¯ı and Husa¯m ˙ ˙ al-Dı¯n La¯jı¯n al-Ustadda¯r. Like the Za¯hiriyyah in the reign of al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd ˙ Baraka, the Mansu¯riyyah as a whole ultimately turned away from the prospect of ˙ supporting a fitnah against the niza¯m of the state. Despite the lucrative prospect ˙ of a sultanate headed by one of their own, a violent power grab implicating the whole Mansu¯riyyah might set off an explosion of uncontrolled violence by other ˙ forces seeking to oppose an exclusive oligarchy. Indeed, by the time Baydara¯’s khushda¯shiyyah .caught up with him next day near the town of Tarra¯nah there were no Mansu¯riyyah left in his entourage. When Baydara¯ was finally hacked to ˙ bits by his colleagues it was alongside his last two companions, a Za¯hirı¯ amir, ˙ Aydughdı¯ Shaqı¯r al-Mas u¯dı¯, and a lowly amir’s mamlu¯k named Aybak.51 When later Baydara¯’s henchmen were rounded up, the Mansu¯riyyah did nothing to ˙ save those of its khushda¯shiyyah involved in the putsch. Even the prominent Mansu¯rı¯ conspirators such as Husa¯m al-Dı¯n La¯jı¯n and Shams al-Dı¯n Qara¯sunqur ˙ ˙ kept well clear of their own khushda¯shiyyah, fearing retribution for their unconstitutional actions. The resolution of Baydara¯’s momentary assault on the constitutional order of the Mamluk state was achieved, predictably, with little actual bloodshed. The immediate decision by the major paramilitary formations to stand collectively against the fitnah created by Baydara¯’s adventurism precluded a successful ˘

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49 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 346. 50 Ibid., Kanz, 8: 349. 51 Al-Fada¯ ¯ıl, Histoire, 572; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 350; Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 56b. ˙ ˙

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outcome to his putsch. Moreover, as was the case with most “factions” in the early Mamluk state, Baydara¯’s support withered at the point where conflict threatened to reach the tipping point into genuine mass violence. When Baydara¯ was cornered near Tarra¯nah, the amirs in his “faction” behaved quite expectably ˙ – they postured menacingly for a moment and then took to their heels without giving battle. The restoration of niza¯m in the Mamluk state cost perhaps a dozen ˙ lives, most of them Baydara¯’s henchmen rounded up in the aftermath of the putsch and legally executed.52 The constitutional crisis brought on in al-Ashraf ’s reign mainly by disgruntled elements within the Mansu¯riyyah did nothing to alter the continued ˙ paramountcy of the Mansu¯riyyah in the new regime of al-Na¯sir Muhammad. The ˙ ˙ ˙ Mansuriyyah had no doubt proven their commitment to consensus rule and the ˙ niza¯m of the state by actually helping to put down rogue elements within their ˙ own khushda¯shiyyah led by Baydara¯ and La¯jı¯n. By foregoing a short-lived chance at exclusive oligarchy under Baydara¯, the Mansu¯riyyah ensured the continued ˙ acceptability of their leadership among other formations within the Mamluk republic. As a sign of their desire for continued cooperation the Mansu¯riyyah ˙ even agreed to power sharing by placing on the executive council, already headed by three Mansu¯rı¯ amirs, an important Ashrafı¯ amir, Sayf al-Dı¯n Burulghı¯.53 ˙ According to Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯ it was not so much the elevation of al-Na¯sir ˙ ˙ Muhammad as sultan as the placing of executive authority in the hands of more ˙ responsible Mansu¯rı¯ amirs like Kitbugha¯ which helped restore a sense of niza¯m ˙ ˙ among the umara¯ as a whole following al-Ashraf ’s overthrow.54

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The Struggle for Niza¯m after al-Ashraf Khalı¯l: The Fitnah of Sanjar ˙ al-Shuja¯ ¯ı

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Though their paramountcy had weathered the constitutional storm, the Mansu¯riyyah remained beset by the internal dissension ignited by Baydara¯ and La¯jı¯n. ˙ Solidarity within the Mansu¯riyyah continued to fray now in a bitter struggle ˙ between two senior Mansu¯rı¯ officers, Zayn al-Dı¯n Kitbugha¯ and Alam al-Dı¯n ˙ Sanjar al-Shuja¯ ¯ı. In part al-Shuja¯ ¯ı’s enmity toward Kitbugha¯ was a family matter. Baydara¯, whom Kitbugha¯ had slain, had been not only a khushda¯sh but al-Shuja¯ ¯ı’s son-in-law as well .55 More importantly al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, in the competition ˘

Ibid., 56b – 57a. Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 124b. Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 183b. Ibn al-Suqa¯’ı¯, Ta¯˙lı¯, 58. ˙

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52 53 54 55

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The Struggle for Niza¯m after al-Ashraf Khalı¯l ˙

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for high office, had lost to Kitbugha¯ the post of na¯ ib al-saltanah, which he had ˙ held formerly under al-Ashraf Khalı¯l. Unlike his son-in-law, Baydara¯, al-Shuja¯ ¯ı appears to have appreciated the need for consensus and consultation with the Mamluk establishment in his scheme to remove his khushda¯shiyyah, Kitbugha¯ and Baybars al-Ja¯shnakı¯r, as well as the Ashrafı¯ amir, Sayf al-Dı¯n Burulghı¯, with whom he shared power. AlShuja¯ ¯ı cast his net wide, seeking support from various formations – the Ashrafiyyah, Bahriyyah and Mansu¯riyyah.56 Also al-Shuja¯ ¯ı appears to have made a ˙ ˙ greater attempt than Baydara¯ to recruit a larger and more reliable support base from which to launch his own putsch. His efforts in this regard highlight again the essentially transactional nature of loyalty within the Mamluk state. Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı purchased with benevolence (huzwah) the loyalty of a gang of Za¯hiriyyah, whom ˙ ˙ ˙ he had discovered in the jail of the citadel of Damascus when he had been na¯ ib there. One can witness clearly the sublime power of exchange in fashioning expedient bonds of loyalty in the early Mamluk state. When al-Shuja¯ ¯ı distributed benefits among these non khushda¯shiyyah supporters he incanted: “You are of me and I am of you.” Then came the operative phrase: “What is an attack on you is an attack on us.”57 With regard to his own khushda¯shiyyah, al-Shuja¯ ¯ı did not waste time invoking the collective, moral bonds of that institution but instead employed his office as wazı¯r to distribute benefits lavishly to those of them who would support his undertaking. Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı appears to have had his greatest success among Burjiyyah elements of the Mansu¯riyyah. According to Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, al-Shuja¯ ¯ı ˙ shamelessly “enslaved them with wealth, benefits and promises.” Nor did these Burjiyyah hirelings shy away when al-Shuja¯ ¯ı ordered them to assassinate three senior Mamluk amirs, two of whom were their own khushda¯shiyyah, Zayn al-Dı¯n Kitbugha¯ al-Mansu¯rı¯ and Husa¯m al-Dı¯n La¯jı¯n al-Usta¯dda¯r al-Mansu¯ri. Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı ˙ ˙ ˙ must have felt he was going to get his money’s worth, for these Burjiyyah swore to him that: “We will not have fulfilled what we are bound to do until the three amirs, Kitbugha¯, Husa¯m al-Dı¯n Usta¯dda¯r and (Badr al-Dı¯n) Baysarı¯ (al-Shamsı¯ ˙ al-Sa¯lih¯ı) have been killed.”58 ˙ ˙ Though al-Shuja¯ ¯ı’s scheme seems to have been better prepared and, according to Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯ at least, he obtained some kind of tentative ˙ agreement (ittifa¯q) with certain elements of the Mansu¯riyyah and Ashrafiyyah, ˙ his putsch, once it was launched, collapsed almost as quickly as that of his son-inlaw, Baydara¯. And it did so for much the same basic reason.59A series of bungled ˘

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Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 124b; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 186a. ˙ Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 350. Al-Fada¯ ¯ıl, Histoire, 577; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 353. ˙ al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 186a. Baybars ˙ ˘

56 57 58 59

156

Niza¯m and “The Operation of Faction” ˙

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nocturnal assassination attempts of the two Mansu¯rı¯ amirs, Kitbugha¯ and La¯jı¯n ˙ al-Usta¯dda¯r, and the Sa¯lih¯ı amir, Badr al-Dı¯n Baysarı¯, compounded by the un˙ ˙ authorized arrests of several other amirs plunged the state immediately into fitnah. Even Kitbugha¯ knew al-Shuja¯ ¯ı had overplayed his hand by arresting the amirs without gaining a consensus for it. In a letter Kitbugha¯ taunted al-Shuja¯ ¯ı with the fact that he had isolated himself from general support by acting unilaterally ; he had proven himself a traitor (khatta¯r) to the tranquility of the niza¯m ˙ of the state and had revealed his ambition for secret power (ba¯tin amr).60 Indeed, ˙ when Sultan al-Malik al-Na¯sir summoned the umara¯ in Cairo to the Red Tower ˙ of the Citadel to discuss the crisis, they all immediately repudiated al-Shuja¯ ¯ı’s actions as being full of wickedness (fasa¯d) and contrary to the constitutional order (niza¯m) of the state.61 ˙ Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı’s putsch was effectively stopped, again, by the collective decision of the umara¯ to reject him; there remained, however, the delicate task of resolving affairs equitably and with as little violence as possible. Though al-Shuja¯ ¯ı had stirred up a good deal of conflict, no serious violence had yet occurred. His Burjiyyah special action team had firebombed Kitbugha¯’s townhouse with incendiary devices (qawa¯rı¯r al-naft); they had also pillaged and comrnitted rapine in the horne of La¯jı¯n al-Usta¯dda¯r, but little else occurred overnight. Though the streets of Cairo bristled next day with numerous paramilitary displays, including even duelling below the Citadel walls, the contemporary chronicler, al-Fada¯ ¯ıl, ˙ observed that during the explosive two day crisis no one was actually killed.62 This is of course consistent with the use of structured violence by Mamluk groups seeking to communicate grievances without resort to large-scale and often unpredictable violence. The only certain fatality seems to have been one of al-Shuja¯ ¯ı’s minions, Alam al-Dı¯n Sanjar al-Bunduqda¯rı¯, who fell in a scuffle with one of Kitbugha¯’s mama¯lı¯k in the Horsemarket.63 Al-Na¯sir and the umara¯ were eager of course to negotiate with al-Shuja¯ ¯ı for a ˙ quiet, positive-sum resolution to this largely intra-khushda¯shiyyah conflict with Kitbugha¯ and his friends before things got out of hand in the streets. Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı could not actually be ‘kicked upstairs’ to higher office since the post of na¯ ib alsaltanah was held already by Kitbugha¯. Nevertheless, despite his unconstitu˙ tional antics, al-Shuja¯ ¯ı was quickly given a de facto pardon by being offered back his position at court as wazı¯r. To everyone’s surprise, however, al-Shuja¯ ¯ı refused ˘

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Ibid., 186; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 353; al-Fada¯ ¯ıl, Histoire, 577. ˙ Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 125a; Baybars al-Mans u¯rı¯, Zubdah, 186b. ˙ Al-Fada¯ ¯ıl, Histoire, 579 – 80. ˙ Ibn al-Dawa ¯ da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 353 – 54; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 186a; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah ˙ (1579), 124b – 25a. ˘

60 61 62 63

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The Struggle for Niza¯m after al-Ashraf Khalı¯l ˙

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the generous compromise offer, having become obsessed apparently with the destruction of his two khushda¯shiyyah, Kitbugha¯ and La¯jı¯n al-Usta¯dda¯r.64 Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı’s unilateral decision to reject this consensus agreement for ending the fitnah was construed by the Mamluk establishment as treachery (ghadr), and he was quickly branded as an opponent (gharı¯m) of the state by the umara¯ .65 A new consensus soon emerged calling now for al-Shuja¯ ¯ı’s arrest and imprisonment in the Citadel. Despite all of al-Shuja¯ ¯ı’s disruptiveness and recalcitrance, the Mamluks remained typically reluctant to use violence against him as a form of sanction. Not even Kitbugha¯, La¯jı¯n al-Usta¯dda¯r or Baysarı¯ al-Shamsı¯, all of whom al-Shuja¯ ¯ı had tried to murder, had the intention (qasd) of killing al-Shuja¯ ¯ı ˙ in the wake of his unsuccessful putsch. In the event, of course, al-Shuja¯ ¯ı was killed soon after in jail. His death, however, does not appear to have been a premeditated execution but the unintended result of a spontaneous brawl with two janda¯riyyah, or security officers, in the Zaradkhanah prison.66 As for those who had agitated on al-Shuja¯ ¯ı’s behalf, in keeping with the requirements of balance-of-power systems, little retribution was visited upon them. This leniency was reinforced by the reciprocal respect which many of the rebels had shown during the fitnah for the limits of violence. Their swaggering and even occasional skirmishing had not actually resulted in any serious destruction or fatalities. Some clearly felt rather keenly in fact a social responsibility not to let their agitation run too far out of hand. Members of the Ashrafiyyah, some of whom had supported al-Shuja¯ ¯ı’s putsch, eventually surrendered themselves to the authorities fearing that their continued resistance might increase the general dissension (shiqa¯q) to a dangerous level.67 With its dyadic link to its temporary patron, al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, broken his short-lived clientele was rendered defunct. The umara¯ contented themselves with sending off some of the criminous Burjiyyah and Ashrafiyyah to detention points throughout Egypt, including Alexandria, Damietta and even Cairo itself.68 Retribution had no real place in the dynamic equilibrium of the Mamluk state, serving only to encourage a cycle of real violence, which in turn would only delay further the reestablishment of niza¯m. ˙ ˘

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64 65 66 67 68

Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 354 – 55. Ibid., 8: 355. Ibid., 8: 355; Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 57a. ˙ u¯rı¯, Zubdah, 187a. Baybars al-Mans Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯˙, Kanz, 8: 356; Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 57a; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 187a. ˙ ˙

158

Niza¯m and “The Operation of Faction” ˙

Kitbugha¯ and the Restoration of Niza¯m ˙ ˘

Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı’s brief fitnah did have the virtue of course of creating some useful negative feedback for al-Na¯sir’s regime, revealing a certain legitimate level of ˙ dissatisfaction within the elite to the distribution of resources during Kitbugha¯’s niya¯bah. Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı had afterall received a favorable hearing initially from certain elements, though most Mamluks soon recoiled from his unexpectedly violent methods. Kitbugha¯ immediately set to work not repressing the various aggrieved parties but trying to accommodate and reconcile them as quickly as possible. To this end he immediately convened a consultation (mufa¯wadah) with the umara¯ to resolve outstanding grievances against his niya¯bah. First, guarantees (ama¯n) and pledges ( uhu¯d) were exchanged among the parties to show good faith. For the army, which had not sided with al-Shuja¯ ¯ı’s fitnah, Kitbugha¯ ordered an immediate distribution of nafaqah to all ranks without exception (qa¯tibatan) to reinforce their loyalty. Kitbugha¯ then achieved reconciliation ˙ (sulh) with the amirs and commanders by increasing their iqta¯ and other ˙ ˙ ˙ benefits. Kitbugha¯’s realignment of resources had its intended effect for, according to Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, “constitutional order (niza¯m) was the con˙ ˙ sequence of this, and schism (inqisa¯m) vanished.”69 Kitbugha¯ had deftly restored the dynamicequilibrium of the state through his timely application of patronage. To shore up niza¯m even further, Kitbugha¯ also seized upon the opportunity to ˙ resolve lingering tensions between the Mansu¯riyyah and the Ashrafiyyah, who ˙ resented the participation of the two Mansu¯rı¯ amirs, Husa¯m al-Dı¯n La¯jı¯n and ˙ ˙ Shams al-Dı¯n Qara¯sunqur, in the assassination of their usta¯dh, Al-Malik alAshraf Khalı¯l. Kitbugha¯ managed, indeed, to effect a reconcilation (sulh) by ˙ ˙ bringing La¯jı¯n to the Citadel to discuss the grievances of the Ashrafı¯ amirs. The feud (wahshah) between the two parties, which might have served as the basis for ˙ yet another fitnah or even civil war, was thus peacefully resolved through Kitbugha¯’s skillful mediation.70 While some of the Ashrafiyyah had their grievances settled, others detained after the collapse of al-Shuja¯ ¯ı’s putsch, remained dissatisfied. One of the effects of incarceration as a punishment for political infraction was of course that one’s pay (ja¯makiyyah) and rations (jira¯yah) were stopped. This was a salutary form of sanction for, without harming anyone, withdrawal of patronage helped to remind fraetious Mamluks what happened when they roeked the ship of state too much. Those Ashrafiyyah locked up at various points in Cairo, however, soon began to evolve a sense of genuine grievanee from this lose of state patronage. To ˘

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69 Ibid., 187a. 70 Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 126b – 127a.

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Kitbugha¯ and the Restoration of Niza¯m ˙

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publicize their unhappiness with this reduction (tana¯qus) of their resources, the ˙ detainees decided to instigate a new fitnah while avoiding at the same time actual conflict with those army troops which might be sent to suppress them. The plan of these Ashrafiyyah was to fraternize with the jaysh and “infect them with their agitation so that their ‘claims’ (afka¯r) and ‘needs’ (awta¯r) would be granted.” The plan was a classic example of the application of structured violence in Mamluk politics but one which in the event went haywire. Once these mama¯lı¯k had all broken jail their careful demonstration degenerated quickly into the looting of shops. Their once calculated protest now running amok, the rioting Ashrafı¯s soon found the Mamluk establishment reacting forcefully against them. Led by the amı¯r ha¯jib, Sayf al-Dı¯n Baha¯dur al-Hajj al-Sila¯hda¯r al-Za¯hirı¯, army ˙ ˙ ˙ troops broke up the rioting without hesitation. However, as was typical of all paramilitary confrontation in the Mamluk state, few genuine casualties were incurred. The Ashrafiyyah largely surrendered or fled into the suburbs of Cairo without offering any serious resistance once they realized the umara¯ meant business. Two of the Ashrafı¯ ringleaders were tortured to death and, according to al-Nuwayrı¯ at least, a few others were drowned in the Nile in the nervous atmosphere created by the rioting and its aftermath. The bulk of the seditious mama¯lı¯k, deprived of patronage since the death of al-Ashraf Khalı¯l were conserved, however, divided up among the amirs and subsumed into their establishments without any further retribution.71 Again, as the limits of violence were respected, so the limits of punishment were upheld. The failures of Turuntay, Baydara¯ and al-Shuja¯ ¯ı to dominate the political ˙ ˙ system through violence and unilateral action showed that the Mamluk establishment, including their own khushda¯shiyyah, the Mansu¯riyyah, ultimately had ˙ little stomach for such extraconstitutional behavior in the jumhu¯r. In the wake of these various fitan, the Mamluks continued to seek a new gatekeeper. The de¯ dil in 1295/694 cision to elevate the na¯ ib al-saltanah, Kitbugha¯, as al-Malik al- A ˙ to replace al-Malik al-Na¯sir as sultan was undertaken specifically to insure the ˙ integrity (hurmah) of the niza¯m from such fitnah as had most recently been ˙ ˙ waged by the Ashrafiyyah. Kitbugha¯ had gradually emerged as a natural political inheritor to his usta¯dh, Qala¯wu¯n. He had displayed skill in directing the resolution of a variety of extraconstitutional actions with a minimum of violence and disorder to the system. Although Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯ maintained Kitbugha¯’s mama¯lı¯k and cadets ˙ (sibya¯n) had engineered his elevation, in fact there appears to have been a general consensus (ra y) among the umara¯ to invest the niza¯m of the state ˙ (mamlakah) in his hands. When Kitbugha¯ explained to al-Na¯sir the reason for ˙ ˘

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71 Ibid., 128a-b; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 187b – 188a; Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 57a; al-Fada¯ ¯ıl, ˙ ˙ ˙ Histoire, 582 – 85.

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his own elevation as sultan he spoke of best preserving the system through the preservation (hifz) of al-Na¯sir himself away from power, until he was sufficiently ˙ ˙ ˙ mature to assume the proper role of gatekeeper. By reminding al-Na¯sir : “I am ˙ your mamlu¯k and the mamlu¯k of your father (Qala¯wu¯n) and your brother (alAshraf Khalı¯) …” Kitbugha¯ was perhaps not only reiterating his loyalty to the dynasty but pointing out that the system ultimately transcended the individual and might accommodate, for the time being, any suitable substitute.72 The faith which the Mamluk establishment placed in Kitbugha¯ as gatekeeper of the political system did not seem misplaced initially. Kitbugha¯, or as he was ¯ dil, tried to resolve amicably still outstanding grievances with now, al-Malik al- A members of his own khushda¯shiyyah. Rather than inflict retribution on Husa¯m ˙ al-Dı¯n La¯jı¯n and Shams al-Dı¯n Qara¯sunqur, who had directed the great fitnah against al-Malik al-Ashraf Khalı¯l, Kitbugha¯ sought to purchase their good conduct; La¯jı¯n was made na¯ ib al-saltanah and Qara¯sunqur received numerous ˙ iqta¯ and had his mama¯lı¯k promoted.73 Indeed, La¯jı¯n would later acknowledge gratefully all the benefit (sanı¯ ah) which Kitbugha¯ had done him by preventing ˙ any harm befalling him after his overthrow.74 Kitbugha¯ distributed benefits to other amirs and commanders as well. He also rewarded those members of the Ashrafiyyah who had not joined their khushda¯shiyyah in the fitnah in Cairo.75 Though few details are known about Kitbugha¯’s appointments, they seem to have conformed to accepted practice. At court the post of na¯ ib al-saltanah went ˙ to a Mansu¯rı¯ amir ; that of amir ha¯jib went to the Za¯hirı¯ amir, al-Hajj Baha¯dur; ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ that of amir janda¯r went to the venerable Sa¯lih¯ı amir, Aybak al-Afram, while ˙ ˙ Kitbugha¯ retained as amir sila¯h the aged Badr al-Dı¯n Bakta¯sh al-Fakhrı¯ al-Sa¯lih¯ı. ˙ ˙ ˙ Kitbugha¯’s na¯ ib of Tripoli, Izz al-Dı¯n Aybak al-Kha¯zinda¯r al-Mansu¯rı¯, it is true, ˙ was removed from his post but he was replaced immediately by another Mansu¯rı¯ ˙ 76 amir, Izz al-Dı¯n Aybak al-Mosu¯lı¯. Kitbugha¯ also retained the Za¯hirı¯ amir, Izz ˙ ˙ al-Dı¯n Aybak al-Hamawı¯, as na¯ ib al-saltanah of Damascus. Later he would ˙ ˙ replace him with one of his own mama¯lı¯k, Sayf al-Dı¯n Ughurlu¯ al-Zaynı¯. However, al-Hamawı¯, who was known to be avaricious (tamma¯ ), appears to have ˙ ˙ been genuinely guilty of numerous financial misdemeanors and other iniquity (su¯ ) in his administration in Syria. Nevertheless, to placate the spirit of seniority ˘

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72 Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 128b – 129a; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 188b; Ibn al-Da˙ wa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 356 – 7: al-Fada¯ ¯ıl, Histoire, 585. ˙ 73 Ibid., 587 – 88; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 1290; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 188b; Ibn al˙ Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 356. 74 Ibid., 366. 75 Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 129b. 76 Ibid., 129b, 131b – 132a; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 358, 365; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, ˙ 191a; al-Fada¯ ¯ıl, Histoire, 587. ˙

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Kitbugha¯ and the Restoration of Niza¯m ˙

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and to conciliate al-Hamawı¯ personally, Kitbugha¯ gave him other benefits, in˙ cluding Ughurlu¯ al-Zaynı¯’s own former iqta¯ in Egypt.77 ˙ Sayf al-Dı¯n Ughurlu¯ al-Zaynı¯ was apparently one of only four mama¯lı¯k whom Kitbugha¯ had singled out for high office in his administration. Each was commissioned as amir of 100, and two, Sayf al-Dı¯n Baykha¯ss and Badr al-Dı¯n Baktu¯t ˙˙ al-Azraq, ultimately held the important court position of usta¯dda¯r or security chief. Though there was nothing necessarily provocative in Kitbugha¯’s patronage of his own mama¯lı¯k, he seems to have misplaced his confidence in his two protegees, who, along with a third Zaynı¯ amir, Sayf al-Dı¯n Qutlubak, soon began ˙ to misuse their administrative prerogatives at the expense of more senior members of the umara¯ . This excessive patronage soon extended to the rest of Kitbugha¯’s mama¯lı¯k as well. They received large iqta¯ grants, rations (jira¯yah), ˙ and the public treasury was routinely raided to furnish them with ready cash. The Mamluk establishment, which of course lived off such patronage itself, was moved to castigate the administration as one full of corruption (rasha¯wı¯). Indeed, the main charge levelled by the amirs against Kitbugha¯ when they chased him from office was that his mama¯lı¯k had become “haughty toward the senior amirs and took precedence before the ranking amirs.”78 The challenge to the age class created by the dominance of Kitbugha¯’s own mama¯lı¯k was compounded by what was considered his excessive patronage of numerous wafdı¯ Oirat Mongol amirs as well. The patronage and integration into the elite of Turco-Mongol refugees to the Mamluk state was of course nothing new. Both Baybars and Qala¯wu¯n had settled large numbers of them and promoted their leaders into the Mamluk hierarchy without apparent incident. Indeed, it was considered quite proper (sawa¯b) even to advance these wafdiyyah by ˙ degrees. Kitbugha¯ appears, however, to have given too much preferment to too many. This was likely the result of his policy of encouraging Mongol officers to convert to Islam by tying promotion to conversion. Eurasian nomadic peoples were nothing if not flexible in their attitude toward religion, and Kitbugha¯ may well have found himself swamped with more converts than he could readily accommodate. In any case, the umara¯ came to feel antipathy (karh) toward Kitbugha¯ for his failure to maintain a proper balance in the sensitive issues of seniority and patronage. The infestation of the Citadel precincts by their bumpkinish country cousins, moreover, was especially aggravating to the more ˘

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77 Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 141b; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 359; Al-Malik al-Mu’ayyad Abu¯ al-Fida¯ , Al-Mukhtasar fı¯ ta¯rı¯kh al-bashar (Baghdad: Maktabah al-Madinı¯:, 1968), 4: 33. ˙ 78 Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 130a-b; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 189a., 192b; al-Fada¯ ¯ıl, ˙ ˙ Histoire, 588.

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citified Mamluk umara¯ who were jealous even of their physical proximity to the source of patronage.79 In summing up the failure of the regime of his khushda¯sh, Kitbugha¯, the contemporary chronicler, Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, claimed that Kitbugha¯’s mama¯lı¯k ˙ “had achieved dominance over his thinking” and led him around by his nose, much as the Sa ¯ıdiyyah had done, for instance, to al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd. However, Kitbugha¯ was not entirely a slave to the desires (khawa¯tir) of his mama¯lı¯k. When ˙ Baykha¯ss and Baktu¯t al-Azraq thought it prudent to engineer the arrest of the ˙˙ senior amirs La¯jı¯n and Qara¯sunqur, with whom they were forced to share power in the administration, Kitbugha¯ put a stop to it immediately despite his own feelings of exasperation (ghayz) with La¯jı¯n as his na¯ ib al-saltanah. Perhaps Ibn ˙ ˙ Abı¯ al-Fada¯ ¯ıl was closer to the truth when he observed simply that Kitbugha¯ ˙ “had forgotten that which was proper (sawa¯b).”80 That is to say, he had forgotten ˙ that his role as gatekeeper was not simply to avoid overt acts of fitnah, such as arresting senior amirs, but to ensure the distribution of resources according to the rules and appearances of seniority. It was this lapse in judgement in allowing his mama¯lı¯k, Baykha¯ss and Baktu¯t al-Azraq, to abuse their power more than ˙˙ anything else which seems to have cost Kitbugha¯ his throne, though not his life. Indeed, the putsch launched by the umara¯ at the military camp at al- Awja¯’seems to have been directed more at Baykha¯ss and Baktu¯t al-Azraq, who were both ˙˙ sIain, than Kitbugha¯ himself, who was allowed to flee unharmed. ˘

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La¯jı¯n and the Manipulation of Niza¯m ˙

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Leading the putsch against Kitbugha¯, as they had against al-Malik al-Ashraf Khalı¯l, were again his own khushda¯shiyyah, La¯jı¯n and Qara¯sunqur. However, unlike the earlier fiasco with Baydara¯, La¯jı¯n was able to obtain the support of “a large group of amirs,” who formed an alliance (hilf) with him. This coalition, ˙ moreover, appears to have been broadly based, comprising leaders of the Mansu¯riyyah, Sa¯lihiyyah, Za¯hiriyyah and even Ashrafiyyah, who until recently ˙ ˙ ˙ had been after La¯jı¯n himself. La¯jı¯n appears to have rallied this support by ¯ dil Kitbugha¯, as he had once charged al-Malik al-Ashraf charging al-Malik al- A Khalı¯l, with the most devisive and classic allegation possible – plotting to arrest ¯ diliyyah, precedence (tathe senior amirs and give his own mama¯lı¯k, the A qaddum) over the rest of the umara¯ . What favoritism Kitbugha¯ had shown the ˘

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79 Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 137a-b; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 192a-b; al-Fada¯ ¯ıl, Hi˙ ˙ stoire, 590 – 91. 80 Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 192b – 93a; al-Fada¯ ¯ıl, Histoire, 594. ˙ ˙

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¯ diliyyah as well as the wafdı¯ Oirots, all relative newcomers, seems to have been A sufficient to make the charge stick in the minds of the Mamluks.81 La¯jı¯n would cunningly continue to exploit this universal concern with the sanctity of seniority among the umara¯ in order to promote his own candidacy tor the sultanate. After gathering together in camp both the senior and junior amirs and commanders of all formations, La¯jı¯n revolutionized Mamluk politics, at least temporarily, boldly promising to protect the process of ranking and patronage by going so far as to exclude his own mama¯lı¯k from power. No sultan, including al-Za¯hir Baybars, had hitherto made such an uncompromising sac˙ rifice on behalf of the niza¯m of the state. La¯jı¯n claimed that bonds of seniority ˙ actually transcended even those sacral ties between mamlu¯k and usta¯dh. To the assemblage of amirs, which included many non-Mansu¯riyyah, La¯jı¯n cried: “You ˙ are (all) my khushda¯shiyyah, my brothers!”82 Mamluks were no longer comrades in slavery, but comrades in seniority. The umara¯ had found, it must have seemed, its most impartial gatekeeper ever. The fact that La¯jı¯n was also married to a daughter of al-Za¯hir Baybars could only have reinforced his image as a ˙ devotee of niza¯m.83 ˙ La¯jı¯n’s stagecraft proved effective. The umara¯ quickly agreed to his candidature, and La¯jı¯n took the laqab of his usta¯dh, Qala¯wu¯n, al-Malik al-Mansu¯r. ˙ La¯jı¯n’s accession, in keeping with traditional Mamluk practice, had had the additional virtue of being virtually bloodless. Only a couple of Kitbugha¯’s mama¯lı¯k had fallen at the mu askar of al- Awja¯ . La¯jı¯n benefited further from the decision of Kitbugha¯, who had fled to Damascus, not to contest his newly engineered consensus. To the last, Kitbugha¯ remained dedicated to the discouragement of fitnah within the state. To ensure the niza¯m of the state would ˙ now be preserved, Kitbugha¯ himself led the amirs of Damascus in swearing loyalty to La¯jı¯n. In recognition of his constructive attitude, La¯jı¯n immediately awarded Kitbugha¯ the fortress town of Sarkhad, where his khushda¯sh retired ˙ quietly with his mama¯lı¯k.84 La¯jı¯n’s chief difficulty during his brief reign was, ironically, building support within his own khushda¯shiyyah, many of whom were ambivalent about his accession. During the first hours of his sultanate at al- Awja¯ La¯jı¯n’s accession had nearly been compromised by his khushda¯sh, Sayf al-Dı¯n Qibjaq al-Mansu¯rı¯, who ˙ suddenly withheld his oath of loyalty. Only after La¯jı¯n publically promised

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81 Ibid., 594 – 95; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 366; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 143b; Safadı¯, ˙ Nuzhah, 58a. 82 Al-Fada¯ ¯ıl, Histoire, 596 – 97; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 194b; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah ˙ ˙ 145a. (1579), 83 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 378. 84 Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah, (1579), 147b – 148a; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 195b; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 368; Abu¯ al-Fida¯ , Mukhtasar, 2: 34; Safadı¯,˙ Nuzhah, 58a. ˙ ˙

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Qibjaq the niya¯bah of Damascus did he agree to swear an oath. After La¯jı¯n reached the Citadel, a party of Mansu¯rı¯ amirs headed by Husa¯m al-Dı¯n La¯jı¯n ˙ ˙ Usta¯dda¯r refused initially to answer his summons to return and swear loyalty. Another senior Mansu¯rı¯ amir, Sayf al-Dı¯n Balaba¯n al-Tabakhı¯, even refused to ˙ ˙ open the summons itself.85 Though the internal dissension which had plagued the Mansu¯riyyah since the ˙ assassination of al-Ashraf Khalı¯l does not appear to have receded entirely, La¯jı¯n did manage over the following ten months to paper over his difficulties with his khushda¯shiyyah in particular and to reassure the umara¯ as a whole by confirming or promoting numerous senior amirs from various formations to high posts both at court and the governorships in Syria. La¯jı¯n seemed, then, to be fulfilling the other part of his pledge, to allow himself to be guided by close consultation (musha¯warah) with notables (a ya¯n) of the umara¯ .86 Then, suddenly, the delicate constitutional balance came under assault from La¯jı¯n’s regime. Senior amirs from the Sa¯lihiyyah, Za¯hiriyyah and even the ˙ ˙ ˙ Mansu¯riyyah, were rounded up and jailed, while those most deeply compro˙ mised by al-Shuja¯ ¯ı’s putsch were released from prison and rehabilitated. The Burjiyyah element of the Mansu¯riyyah was purged from the army. To minimize ˙ the well-known collective resistance characteristic of the umara¯ in such constitutional crises, many senior Egyptian and Syrian amirs were called up for military service and sent off on what amounted to a wild goose chase to Cilician Armenia – twice. When they returned later their leader, Husa¯m al-Dı¯n al-Us˙ ta¯dda¯r al-Mansu¯rı¯, was told to prepare for new operations even further afield – in ˙ the Yemen! Several of the senior Syrian amirs, led by Sayf al-Dı¯n Qibjaq alMansu¯rı¯, were eventually marked for arrest as well, though they escaped by ˙ fleeing to the Il-Khans.87 The arbitrary arrest of senior officers was, however, only the first phase of a sweeping attack on the age class system itself, engineered by one of La¯jı¯n’s principal mama¯lı¯k, Mankutimur al-Husa¯mı¯. The second phase of Mankutimur’s ˙ ˙ assault on the constitutional order was his violation of the process of the distribution of wealth based on seniority. With many senior amirs either under arrest or wandering about on campaign, a new cadastral survey was undertaken by Mankutimur, who now administered the state as a virtual private enterprise. The so-called Husa¯mı¯ rawk has often been explained in terms of La¯jı¯n’s attempt ˙ to rebalance the distribution of resources by eradicating the racketeering ˘

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85 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 367. 86 Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 194b – 95a; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 145b; al-Fada¯ ¯ıl, Hi˙ stoire, 597 – 98. ˙ 87 Ibid., 598 – 602, 608; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 148b, 151a, 154a, 158a, 166a – 67b, 169b; Anonymous, Geschichte, 44; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 194b – 197a; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, ˙ Abu¯ al-Fida¯ , Mukhtasar, 2: 35, 37. Kanz, 8: 369 – 70, 373 – 74; Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 58a-b; ˙ ˙

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practice of himayah engaged in by some of the senior amirs and to undermine the halqah, which had become infused with fractious ethnic minorities un˙ favorable to La¯jı¯n.88 In fact the rawk was probably neither so constructive nor subtle an undertaking. Rather, it represented one of the most audacious land grabs undertaken by any group of junior amirs in the early Classical Mamluk period to enrich themselves at the expense of the umara¯ as a whole. Though La¯jı¯n may have approved a new survey, the rawk which resulted was the brainchild of Mankutimur himself. In the first place, La¯jı¯n had already relinquished both authority and operation of government to Mankutimur, who now symbolized his virtual autocracy by transferring the public treasury (bayt al-ma¯l) to his own private residence. Moreover, Mankutimur seems to have exercised a powerful hold over his usta¯dh by virtue of his filial relationship with La¯jı¯n. Indeed, La¯jı¯n had even contemplated nominating Mankutimur as his premortem heir just as al-Za¯hir Baybars and al-Mansu¯r Qala¯wu¯n had done with ˙ ˙ their natural sons. The degree to which Mankutimur may have cared personally what impact his survey had on fiscal abuses or the halqah is problematic. What is ˙ certain is that he was intent on exploiting the rawk for his own personal benefit. Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯ anyway had little difficulty in surmising the real purpose ˙ behind the rawk: “Mankutimur set aside benefits, rank, iqta¯ and jiha¯t which ˙ were first-rate (mutamayyiz) and lands which were designated the best in his estimation (ikhtiya¯r li-nafs) and that of his cronies (asha¯b).” Mankutimur’s own ˙˙ share in the rawk made him instantly and fabulously wealthy.89 Mankutimur’s frontal assault on the age class system of the state far exceeded ¯ diliyyah before him. The umara¯ the enterprises of either the Sa ¯ıdiyyah and the A saw quite naturally both the rawk and the arrests of the amirs as a crime (dhanb) and manifestation of the evil (su¯ ) of Mankutimur, whom they soon took to calling a devil (shayta¯n). Little wonder also that the umara¯ turned so adamantly ˙ against La¯jı¯n himself: “They felt hatred (karh) for his regime and prayed to God that He would eliminate it…(and) felt detestation (maqt) for him (Mankutimur) and loathed his usta¯dh’s (La¯jı¯n’s) tenure for this reason.”90 The inevitable conspiracy against La¯jı¯n and Mankutimur was yet another of the “defensive revolutions” typical of Mamluk political practice in seeking to ˘

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88 Rabie, The Financial System of Egypt, 52 – 53; P.M. Holt, “The Sultanate of Lajin (696 – 8/ 1296 – 9),” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 36 (1973): 521 – 32; Irwin, The Middle East in the Middle Ages, 92 – 94; Tsugitaka Sato¯, “The Evolution of the Iqta¯’ System under the Mamlu¯ks – An Analysis of al-Rawk al-Husa¯mı¯ and al-Rawk al-Na¯sirı¯˙ ,” ˙ ˙ Memoirs of the Toyo Bunko 37 (1979): 99 – 131. 89 Al-Fada¯ ¯ıl, Histoire, 600; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 196b, 199a; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah ˙ 155b, 163b; Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 58b. ˙ (1579), 90 Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯,˙ Zubdah, 201b – 02a; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 376; al-Nuwayrı¯, Ni˙ ha¯yah, (1579), 169b.

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restore constitutional order. In taking action against them the umara¯ were not supporting a gratuitous fitnah but, rather, were only “intent on what was proper (sawa¯b).” Indeed, fitnah had already been unleashed by Mankutimur himself, ˙ who in the view of the amirs was “responsible for the upheaval (inqila¯b) of the dawlah through his ambition (hirs).” The umara¯ specifically viewed Man˙ ˙ kutimur’s unconstitutional behavior as a direct attack on what they had come to see now, in a quasi-legalistic way, as their own collective patrimonial rights (huqu¯q) based on seniority.91 ˙ Mankutimur’s political leadership seems to have found curiously little support even among his own khushda¯shiyyah, the Husa¯miyyah. When, for instance, ˙ the venerable senior amir, Badr al-Dı¯n Baysarı¯ al-Sa¯lih¯ı, was scheduled to be ˙ ˙ arrested, one of La¯jı¯n’s mama¯lı¯k, Sayf al-Dı¯n Arghu¯n al-Husa¯mı¯, betrayed the ˙ plot to Baysarı¯.92 Indeed, the conspiracy which removed both Mankutimur and La¯jı¯n compromised the solidary of the Husa¯miyyah as a whole. La¯jı¯n had ap˙ pointed over his mama¯lı¯k one of his own khushda¯sh, Sayf al-Dı¯n Kurjı¯, who managed gradually to interpose his own patronage over many of them. Kurjı¯ became their spokesman (musa¯lih), and they entered into obedience (ta¯ ah) to ˙ ˙ him personally. As a result Kurjı¯’s clients ackowledged that “his (Kurjı¯’s) grievance (shakwah) was their grievance.” Kurjı¯’s grievance, which he shared with the umara¯ as a whole, was fear of Mankutimur’s unconstitutional methods and intentions. Kurjı¯ had opposed Mankutimur’s reign of terror from the outset and had been one of those who attempted to warn Baysarı¯ al-Sa¯lih¯ı of his im˙ ˙ pending arrest. Kurjı¯ and others close to La¯jı¯n reviled Mankutimur’s autocratic, self-aggrandizing policy whose centerpiece appeared to be the elimination (ib a¯d), one by one, of any among the umara¯ whom he chose.93 On this basis Kurjı¯ was also able to rally support among his khushda¯shiyyah, the Burjiyyah, who appear to have been degraded in status early on by La¯jı¯n, who was their khushda¯sh himself.94 Mankutimur’s desperate attempt to post his rival out of Cairo to a frontier governorship in Cilician Armenia failed before Kurjı¯ launched his coup.95 The actual assassination of La¯jı¯n while he sat over his chessboard was executed with great seriousness, even ruthlessness. Yet, there had been little inevitable about it. Kurjı¯ genuinely regretted the necessity of having to liquidate his khushda¯sh, La¯jı¯n, who during his life, he admitted, “had only done good to ˘

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91 Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 202a; Anonymous, Geschichte, 51; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: ˙ 376. 92 Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 156a. 93 Ibid., 169b – 170a; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 201b – 202a; al-Fada¯ ¯ıl, Histoire, 609 – 612. ˙ (muqaddim) of the Burjiyyah.˙ Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 94 Kurjı¯ was referred to as a commander 8: 378; Al-Fada¯ ¯ıl, Histoire, 612; Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 58a; Anonymous, Geschichte, 50. ˙ ˙ ¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 170a. 95 Al-Fada¯ ¯ıl, Histoire, 610; al-Nuwayrı ˙

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him.” Kurjı¯ and other officers had tried in fact, unsuccessfully, to alert La¯jı¯n to the increasingly unconstitutional drift of his regime under Mankutimur : “We told his usta¯dh (about Mankutimur) but he was not sympathetic to us.” Yet, it cannot be said that La¯jı¯n was entirely blind to the fitnah which Mankutimur was engendering. When Mankutimur himself complained one day about the increasing restiveness of the umara¯ , La¯jı¯n retorted sharply that it was the result “of your administration and the poverty (qillah) of your benevolence (ihsa¯n) to the ˙ na¯s.”96 Nuwayrı¯ suggested a fatalistic streak in La¯jı¯n as a result of his participation in the assassination of al-Ashraf Khalı¯l. During the last hours of his life La¯jı¯n is said to have repeated, as he fondled a quiver of arrows: “He who has killed will be killed.” Yet, Nuwayrı¯ also recognized the upshot ( a¯qibah) of La¯jı¯n’s fall resided in his failure to act as gatekeeper by not resisting Mankutimur’s wicked ambition (maqsid) of repressing the umara¯ .97 ˙ ˘

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The Struggle for Niza¯m in the Aftermath of La¯jı¯n ˙

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To restore at least a semblance of constitutional propriety to the state, those senior amirs, mostly Mansu¯rı¯s, still at liberty in Cairo assembled in the Citadel ˙ and ordered the recall of al-Malik al-Na¯sir from Karak, where he had been ˙ stashed by La¯jı¯n. In recognition of his contribution in Mankutimur’s overthrow, Sayf al-Dı¯n Tughjı¯ was to be made na¯ ib al-saltanah. Kurjı¯, however, carelessly ˙ plunged the state back into political disorder (tashwı¯sh) momentarily by suddenly promoting Tughjı¯ as sultan, with himself as na¯ ib al-saltanah, without ˙ apparently consulting the umara¯ as a whole.98 The senior amirs feared that this new, dubious condominium of Kurjı¯ and Tughjı¯ would be as detrimental to their huqu¯q as that of their khushda¯sh, La¯jı¯n, and his mamlu¯k, Mankutimur. ˙ Standing behind Kurjı¯ and his new unilateral proposal were many of the Husa¯miyyah, whose loyalty Kurjı¯ had already purchased during the reign of their ˙ usta¯dh, La¯jı¯n. More disturbing, an even larger contingent of the Burjiyyah supported Kurjı¯’s scheme as well, against the views of at least the more senior members of their own khushda¯shiyyah, the Mansu¯riyyah. Ironically perhaps, the ˙ senior Mansu¯rı¯ amirs turned to the venerable Sa¯lih¯ı amir, Bakta¯sh al-Fakhrı¯, to ˙ ˙ ˙ protect them from the machinations of their own khushda¯sh, Kurjı¯. Bakta¯sh alFakhrı¯ had been amı¯r sila¯h for many years and in effect chief patron of the army ˙ of Egypt, which was openly in his service (khidmah). The senior Mansu¯riyyah ˙ felt sure that Bakta¯sh, though technically a member of another khushda¯shiyyah, 96 Ibid, 171a-b; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 202a; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 376. 97 Al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), ˙172a. 98 Ibid., 173b – 74b; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 380.

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that of the Sa¯lihiyyah, would by virtue of being a senior amir himself “conciliate” ˙ ˙ them and preserve their privileges on the shared ground of seniority.99 Bakta¯sh al-Fakhrı¯, who had returned to Cairo with the Egyptian army from Cilicia just a few days after La¯jı¯n’s assassination, quickly struck a blow for the niza¯m of the state. He lured Tughjı¯ out of the Citadel and confronted him with the ˙ fact of his participation in La¯jı¯n’s murder. Tughjı¯ rightly pointed out that La¯jı¯n had become a source of evil (mafsadah) through the unconstitutional actions of Mankutimur. Bakta¯sh replied rather disingenuously that Tughjı¯’s actions were nevertheless infamous (qabı¯h). Another amir, a Mansu¯rı¯, charged that Tughjı¯ ˙ ˙ was now himself “the cause of all the disorder (fitnah)” because of his unilateral bid for the sultanate. A Za¯hirı¯ amir from the halqah then stepped forward on cue ˙ ˙ and slew Tughjı¯. Making an object lesson only of the leader of a fitnah was usually enough in Mamluk practice to demoralize his clientele and render any further actions unnecessary. Indeed, when news of Tughjı¯’s assassination reached the Citadel, all those who had once acclaimed Kurji’s new order now began wandering off “one after another” as inconspicuously as possible. Even those Husa¯miyyah and ˙ Burjiyyah in Kurjı¯’s employ, feeling the political consensus hardening against his fitnah, quietly deserted him for Bakta¯sh al-Fakhrı¯ to avoid being caught in a violent showdown in the streets of Cairo. Seeing his already limited consensus rapidly disintegrating, Kurjı¯ fled. He was caught near the Qara¯fah cemetary and slain along with another of La¯jı¯n’s assassins, Abaghay al-Karmu¯nı¯.100 It was not gratuitous dynastic loyalty which underpinned elite consensus for al-Malik alNa¯sir Muhammad’s subsequent regime but rather nostalgia for the niza¯m which ˙ ˙ ˙ had existed under al-Mansu¯r Qala¯wu¯n and, before him, al-Za¯hir Baybars. That is ˙ ˙ to say, consensus existed for the restoration of traditional age class interests among the umara¯ . This can be seen in the reaction by the umara¯ to the attempted assassination of the two senior Mansu¯rı¯ court amirs, Sala¯r and Baybars ˙ al-Ja¯shnakı¯r, soon after al-Na¯sir’s restoration. The fitnah featured one of Kurjı¯’s ˙ former accomplices in La¯jı¯n’s assassination, Burultay al-Husa¯mı¯. Burultay ap˙ ˙ ˙ parently shared leadership with at least one of Kitbugha¯’s mama¯lı¯k, Qutlu¯ ¯ dilı¯, and a wafdı¯ Oirot amir from Syria named Taraghay. Little else Baybars al- A ˙ is clear about the conspiracy except that the ringleaders “bore a grudge.” Almost certainly this grudge was against the senior umara¯ who now resumed their normal paramountcy following the various constitutional lapses during the preceeding decade. The age class nature of the conflict is underscored by the fact that the plot was supported by a body of young Husa¯miyyah (sibya¯n) and Oirats, ˙ ˙ ˘

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99 Anonymous, Geschichte, 51 – 52. 100 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 8: 381 – 82; Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 58b; al-Fada¯ ¯ıl, Histoire, 616 – 17. ˙ ˙

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both of whom had enjoyed extraordinary privileges under Kitbugha¯ and La¯jı¯n out of proportion with their natural junior position in the age class system. This new overt attack on the age class system, involving as it did the intended murder of senior umara¯ , was immediately condemned as fitnah. The army, typically, rallied immediately to the seniority. Burultay was killed outright. His ˙ followers among the Husa¯miyyah were spared, as was customary, and sent off to ˙ detention in Karak after their arrest. The sparing of a clientele once its patron was eliminated was of course traditional practice meant to spare Mamluk society unnecessary bloodshed and circumvent future disorder. The Mamluks, however, took unusually severe reprisal against the Oirats. While those rounded up in Egypt were jailed, forty-one Oirots arrested in Syria were executed summarily in Gaza.101 This sort of violent reaction was a typical of Mamluk sociopolitical behavior. It may reflect a level of hysteria among the umara¯ distracted by the IlKhans now campaigning in northern Syria. It might also signify a level of exclusion which Mamluks may have felt toward free-born wafdiyyah, who may have been perceived as interloping immigrants with fewer natural prerogatives and protections within a system created by and for mama¯lı¯k. ¯ diliyyah, It is worth noting the apparent absence of Kitbugha¯’s mama¯lı¯k, the A as a whole in the unfolding conspiracy. Perhaps Kitbugha¯, still sensitive to the requirements of niza¯m, was able to dissuade his younger mama¯lı¯k from joining ˙ ¯ diliyyah in the conspiracy was no doubt an the fitnah. The absence of the A important factor in al-Na¯sir’s subsequent decision to re-employ and elevate ˙ Kitbugha¯ as na¯ ib of Hama¯h and give him the city as an iqta¯ .102 ˙ ˙ A more positive reaction to the restoration of the age class system occurred soon after, during the evacuation of Syria by Il-Khanid forces in 1300/699. The IlKhan, Ghazan, had left behind in Syria a network of Mamluk nuwwa¯b, headed by Sayf al-Dı¯n Qibjaq al-Mansu¯rı¯, to oversee his new territories. Soon after Gha˙ zan’s departure, however, these same Mamluk officers, who enjoyed under IlKhan tutelage power and status little known in Mamluk practice, quickly announced to Cairo their willingness to surrender their new independent powers to restore the integrity of the Mamluk state. Qibjaq and his colleagues had of course originally rebelled and fled to Ghazan at the end of La¯jı¯n’s reign, that is to say, during the height of Mankutimur’s unconstitutional attack on the age class system. They undoubtedly now felt their natural rights of seniority to be safe under the new consensus-established regime of al-Na¯sir Muhammad. ˙ ˙ The Il-Khans had underestimated the appeal which a sense of political community (jumhu¯r) had on the Mamluk umara¯ . No thought was given by Qibjaq and his cronies to destroying the unitary Mamluk state by maintaining ˘

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101 Ibid., 632 – 33; Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 59a – 60a; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (579), 184b – 85a. ˙ 672. 102 Al-Fada¯ ¯ıl, Histoire, ˙

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themselves as independent warlords in Syria. In any case Cairo would be bound inevitably to try and recover Syria, militarily if necessary, raising the unwelcome spectre of civil war. Satisfied that their constitutional rights would be respected and relying on the Mamluk preference for bargaining rather than battling, Qibjaq and al-Na¯sir’s na¯ ib al-saltanah, Sala¯r, quickly mediated the formal re˙ ˙ turn of al-Malik al-Na¯sir Muhammad’s authority throughout Syria. The cost of ˙ ˙ reunification to the Mamluk state was nominal. Qibjaq was made na¯ ib of Shawbak and received the city as his iqta¯ ; in 1303/702 he was promoted as na¯ ib ˙ of Hama¯h. His khushda¯sh, Baktimur al-Sila¯hda¯r was made amir of one hundred ˙ ˙ ˙ in Egypt, and the Za¯hirı¯ amir, Fa¯ris al-Dı¯n Albakı¯ received an iqta¯ in Damascus; ˙ ˙ later he was promoted as na¯ ib of Homs.103 ˙ ˙

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Niza¯m under al-Na¯sir Muhammad and the Problem of Baybars ˙ ˙ ˙ al-Ja¯shnakı¯r

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By the turn of the fourteenth/eighth century, then, the decade-long search begun in the wake of al-Ashraf Khalı¯l’s assassination for an enduring niza¯m seemed at ˙ an end. The key feature of al-Na¯sir’s new regime was of course that the Man˙ su¯riyyah continued to maintain its paramountcy, taking many of the awards of ˙ high office in his regime. Any challenges to that hierarchy, however, even unintended ones, could still threaten consensus tor al-Na¯sir’s dawlah. Al-Na¯sir’s ˙ ˙ sudden order, for instance, to transfer the Mansu¯rı¯ amir, Shams al-Dı¯n Sun˙ qursha¯h, from the niya¯bah of Safad to that of Sarkhad created unrest (qalaq) ˙ ˙ among the amirs of Syria. Al-Na¯sir in fact was obliged to write a letter of apology ˙ to the na¯ ib of Damascus, who as malik al-umara¯ in Syria operated as chairman of the Syrian officer corps. In this missive al-Na¯sir portrayed himself as eager to ˙ remove the pall of disunity (shiqa¯q), “to protect the constitutional order (niza¯m)” and do away with division (inqisa¯m) in the state. The amirs were ˙ ultimately satisfied that al-Na¯sir’s decision to transfer Sunqursha¯h was not ˙ prelude to another attack on the age class system. For their part, the Syrian officers expressed the desire that they did not want to see a renewal of disorder (shawa¯sh) either.104 The constitutional order reestablished in 1299/698 by al-Na¯sir’s accession ˙ remained intact essentially until his death forty years later. Even the circumstances surrounding the temporary sultanate of al-Na¯sir’s na¯ ib al-saltanah, ˙ ˙ Baybars al-Ja¯shnakı¯r al-Mansu¯rı¯, in 1309/708 proved a backhand confirmation ˙ 103 Ibid., 19, 21; Abu¯’l-Fida¯’, Mukhtasar, 2: 43, 50; Ibn al-Dawa¯darı¯, Kanz, 9: 26, 32 – 37, 41 – 42; ˙ al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯ya (1579), 193a,˙ 195a, 196b, 216b. 104 Ibid., 178a; Anonymous, Geschichte, 52; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 253a. ˙

Niza¯m under al-Na¯sir Muhammad and the Problem of Baybars al-Ja¯shnakı¯r ˙ ˙ ˙

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of the continuing desire among the Mamluks for the rule of niza¯m. After all, al˙ Muzaffar Baybars came to the sultanate only at the end of a process of formal ˙ political transition set in motion by al-Na¯sir himself. As al-Na¯sir was preparing ˙ ˙ to leave for Karak he entrusted to the umara¯ in Cairo his chief function as sultan – the continued “preservation (muha¯fazah) of constitutional government ˙ ˙ (niza¯m).” When al-Na¯sir later declared his relinquishment (tark) of the sulta˙ ˙ nate, the umara¯ “begrudged him his desire (raghı¯bah)” and called for an immediate remission (i fa¯ ) of his decision. They feared that his abdication could create a vacuum not just of power but authority, one which might ultimately wreck the political community (jumhu¯r).105 Though Baybars al-Ja¯shnakı¯r might have been a villain (zalla¯m) to exploit the fears of the umara¯ for the continuation ˙ of niza¯m, it was al-Na¯sir himself who had set the state adrift initially and perhaps ˙ ˙ unwittingly toward constitutional crisis.106 Al-Muzaffar Baybars’ fall from the sultanate not long after reflected both the ˙ internal division within his own khushda¯shiyyah, the Mansu¯riyyah, as well as the ˙ desire of the umara¯ generally to avoid violence in effecting political change, even change which they themselves wanted. Baybars’ nomination to the sultanate had been supported chiefly by his own mama¯lı¯k and those of his na¯ ib alsaltanah, Salla¯r. More importantly, Baybars had also received the backing of the ˙ most fractious wing of the Mansu¯riyyah, the Burjiyyah.107 Little is known of the ˙ internal arrangements worked out by al-Muzaffar Baybars or the reason for their ˙ failure to solidify a consensus for him among not only his khushda¯shiyyah but kha¯ssakiyyah as well. ˙˙ The first defections from al-Muzaffar’s dawlah came perhaps expectably from ˙ those of al-Na¯sir Muhammad’s mama¯lı¯k, the Na¯siriyyah, still in Cairo. The cause ˙ ˙ ˙ may have been al-Muzaffar Baybar’s inability to control his Burjı¯ henchmen, ˙ since several Na¯sirı¯ amirs returned to their usta¯dh in Karak with tales of ap˙ parent Burjiyyah excesses in Egypt. Though Baybars felt great anxiety (qalaq) over tbis unauthorized appeal to al-Na¯sir by his mama¯lı¯k, he apparently still felt ˙ bound by the political constraints of constitutional form. In this vein, Baybars attempted to reconcile rather than repress the Na¯siriyyah as a whole. Only a few ˙ Na¯sirı¯ amirs, those whom he considered most guilty of collusion (muwa¯ta ah) ˙ ˙ against his authority, were arrested and their benefits confiscated. However, alMuzaffar was crafty enough to redistribute these confiscated assignments to ˙ other members of the Na¯siriyyah, their own khushda¯shiyyah. Indeed, in rather ˙ typical clientelistic fashion al-Muzaffar Baybars undertook now to suborn the ˙ Na¯siriyyah, negotiating the transfer of their khidmah from al-Na¯sir to himself, ˙ ˙ ˘

105 Ibid., 261b, 262b – 63a; al-Fada¯ ¯ıl, Histoire, 142. ˙ 106 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 158. 107 Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 64a. ˙

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no doubt for access to greater ni mah. Cairo after all was a more important center of patronage than Karak ultimately. Al-Muzaffar seemed to be making headway ˙ in his transactions with the Na¯siriyyah when news of the defections of key ˙ members of his own khushda¯shiyyah, the Mansu¯riyyah, rapidly ended the ˙ 108 confidential negotiations. Indeed, the defection of al-Muzaffar’s khushda¯shiyyah coupled with soft ˙ support from his own mama¯lı¯k and the alienation of much of the Na¯siriyyah ˙ were key but predictable elements in the general collapse of support which terminated his sultanate. For, like al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd’s regime, that of al-Muzaffar ˙ Baybars’ ended not as the result of actual internal warfare but pronunciamiento. The Mamluk umara¯ , though too risk-averse to commit themselves to the uncertainty and chaos of civil war, were prepared to act in concert as a veto group to threaten unwanted rulers with displays of overwhelming force. Consensus for the pronunciamiento which toppled al-Muzaffar Baybars’ regime germinated in ˙ a rumor started up by some of al-Na¯sir’s mama¯lı¯k to the effect that the Egyptian ˙ amirs secretly wanted al-Na¯sir to return as sultan. The rumor was a plausible one ˙ for disgruntled Na¯sirı¯ officers to spread against al-Muzaffar Baybars, and when it ˙ ˙ was repeated by some of them in Karak to al-Na¯sir himself, he was himself ˙ eventually persuaded to accept it. A favorable consensus among the Egyptian amirs meant of course that al-Na¯sir might regain the throne without having to ˙ initiate an unpredictable, probably bloody and certainly unpopular military struggle to regain his authority. The umara¯ might be persuaded to take him back but probably not at such a price. Al-Na¯sir may have had this point in mind when ˙ he wrote secretly to the Mansu¯rı¯ nuwwa¯b of Syria to spread the rumor of support ˙ in Egypt for his candidacy. He reminded the Syrian umara¯ that he had originally vacated the throne only because he did not want his personal dispute with Baybars and Sala¯r to lead to the chaos (tashwı¯sh) of a violent power struggle which they all abhored. Now, however, the table was set for a potentially bloodless restoration based on the development of a new political consensus among the collectivity of the Syro-Egyptian umara¯ . The Syrian nuwwa¯b, who had otherwise little natural reason to support al-Na¯sir against their own khushda¯sh, al-Muzaffar Baybars, ˙ ˙ seemed willing to allow themselves to be persuaded by the rumor of major disaffection among the Egyptian umara¯ . No doubt fearing a scenario in which the umara¯ of Syria and Egypt supported different candidates, the Syrian nuwwa¯b suggested they, too, might throw their weight behind al-Na¯sir if they could ˙ be sure that the Egyptians were already really favorable to him. The na¯ ib of Damascus, Jama¯l al-Dı¯n al-Afram al-Mansu¯rı¯, summed up the quandry to al˙ ˘

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108 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 155; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 269a; Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 64b – ˙ ˙ 65a.

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Na¯sir : “Since the army of Egypt is with you, we too are in your service (khid˙ mah), for we could not bear the shedding of Muslim blood, with regard to the Egyptians.”109 Above all, the Syrians did not want to have to fight their way into Egypt for al-Na¯sir. ˙ But just as the rumor-mongering looked to be paying unwarranted dividends, the na¯ ib of Damascus received a startling letter from al-Muzaffar Baybars as˙ suring him that the Egyptian amirs were in fact still supporting him. Only a little gang (shirdhimah) of disgruntled amirs was attempting to foment disaffection in Egypt al-Afram, sensing he had been duped by al-Na¯sir and terrified now of ˙ being forced into a real military confrontation with the apparently still-loyal Egyptian forces of al-Muzaffar Baybars, quickly withdrew his support from al˙ Na¯sir and began sending officers to him to circumvent his triumphal march on ˙ Damascus. Al-Na¯sir came on anyway,carried forward now by a rumor which had ˙ taken on a life of its own. The closer al-Na¯sir came to Damascus, the more ˙ demoralized al-Afram’s Syrian troops became about stopping him militarily. If the Syrians were reluctant to shed blood on behalf of al-Na¯sir, they were equally ˙ reluctant to shed it to oppose him. Even on the strength of a dubious rumor started by his own mama¯lı¯k, it seemed much more expedient to switch loyalty to al-Na¯sir than risk a fight with him. On the day al-Na¯sir entered Damascus even ˙ ˙ al-Afram was seeking “to make amends” for his former opposition to him.110 To reward all of this timely inertia in Damascus, al-Na¯sir quickly pardoned al˙ Afram and began distributing benefits (in a¯m) to the Syrian amirs and soldiers. This policy, coupled of course with the continuing belief in secret Egyptian support for his restoration, soon brought the other nuwwa¯b of Syria more firmly into al-Na¯sir’s camp against their own khushda¯sh, al-Muzaffar Baybars.111 ˙ ˙ Ironically, the dubious rumor of a secret shift in Egypt toward al-Na¯sir, which ˙ had altered the consensus in the Syrian army, now began in turn to alter the consensus in the Egyptian army. Indeed, the closer al-Na¯sir’s forces came to ˙ Cairo, the softer the support for al-Muzaffar became. The Egyptian military ˙ clearly had as little stomach as the Syrians for a violent resolution of political issues. When a group of Na¯sirı¯ mama¯lı¯k came out from Cairo to their usta¯dh, al˙ Na¯sir, and informed him that both the Egyptian amirs and soliders were with ˙ him, they declared that even those still in al-Muzaffar’s camp had now turned ˙ against him. The rumor had become self-fulfilling.112 Al-Muzaffar Baybars had tried of course to build support for himself within ˙ the army by promoting forty of his own mama¯lı¯k as amirs as well as some others ˘

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109 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 168 – 69; al-Fada¯ ¯ıl, Histoire, 147 – 49. 110 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 180 – 82; al-Fad˙ a¯ ¯ıl, Histoire, 149 – 51; Abu¯’l-Fida¯’, Mukhtasar, 2: ˙ ˙ ˙ 56 – 57. 111 Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 65a. ˙ al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 174 – 76; al-Fada¯ ¯ıl, Histoire, 152 – 57. 112 Ibn ˙

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“because it had utility (fa¯ idah).” The sacred usta¯dh-mamlu¯k tie, however, was to fail al-Muzaffar Baybars as completely as it had failed al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd. Few of ˙ the mama¯lı¯k favored by al-Muzaffar showed much enthusiasm for his regime, ˙ convinced that their usta¯dh would not last much longer and that their new promotions would therefore be short-lived. Indeed, one of his mama¯lı¯k following his promotion announced casually his refusal to defend his usta¯dh’s interests any further. Still, al-Muzaffar Baybars might count himself more for˙ tunate than one of his amirs, Jama¯l al-Dı¯n Aqush al-Ru¯mı¯, who was slain by two of his own mama¯lı¯k for trying to offer resistance to al-Na¯sir’s advance on the ˙ Delta. As a demonstration of their displeasure with a patron attempting to resist the pronunciamiento underway, they murdered their usta¯dh, decapitated him and brought his head to al-Na¯sir in apology for his unmutual behavior. Later, ˙ after al-Muzaffar Baybars had fled Cairo with his treasury, his mama¯lı¯k plotted ˙ to seize his treasury and kill him to forestall al-Muzaffar’s plan to cross over to ˙ the Hija¯z and seek refuge in the Yemen, far away from the comforts and pa˙ tronage stream of Egypt. Even actual family ties could not stand up to the formation of a new political consensus. Sayf al-Dı¯n Burulghı¯, al-Muzaffar Bay˙ bars’ son-in-law, was given command of 4,000 Egyptian troops, as well as a payment of 30,000 dinars to stiffen his resolve. Burulghı¯, realizing how dramatically the political wind had shifted, promptly took his command to the frontier post of al-Sa¯lihiyyah and surrendered it to al-Na¯sir.113 ˙ ˙ ˙ Despite his crumbling fortunes, al-Muzaffar Baybars continued to cling to his ˙ constitutional position as legal ruler until he learned that the na¯s had formally “discharged his oath (bay ah).”114 That is to say, only after his constitutional authority had been formally revoked did Baybars accept that he must now abandon the throne without further resistance; it was either that or take the frightful consequences of fomenting his fitnah into genuine civil war. Baybars’ adherence to constitutional proprieties, including stepping down peacefully when it was clear his consensus had been withdrawn, should have bought him ¯ dil Kitbugha¯ when he the same sort of honorable retirement enjoyed by al-A decided not to make a fight of La¯jı¯n’s usurpation. In fact, Baybars petitioned alNa¯sir to grant him and three hundred of his mama¯lı¯k as a benefice either Karak, ˙ Hama¯h or Sahyu¯n, where Kitbugha¯ had in fact retired after his deposition. ˙ ˙ Indeed, al-Na¯sir initially agreed to pension off Baybars and one hundred of his ˙ mama¯lı¯k with the town of Sahyu¯n. To Salla¯r, who had quickly and peacefully ˙ ˘

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113 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 180 – 81, 197; Abu¯’l-Fida¯’, Mukhtasar, 2: 57; Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 65b, ˙ ˙ ˙ suggests they surrendered to him in Gaza. 114 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 187.

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submitted to the new consensus as well, al-Na¯sir gave the fortress of Shawbak as ˙ his benefice.115 The decision to reward Baybars and Sala¯r for their decision to preserve the niza¯m of the state was stimulated by al-Na¯sir’s desire to make his own accession ˙ ˙ appear as bloodless and, thus, as constitutional as possible. Later, after the umara¯ had sworn new oaths of loyalty to him, al-Na¯sir had both arrested and ˙ quietly liquidated. As was typical of Mamluk practice, however, no serious action was taken against their supporters. Al-Muzaffar had been taken along with three ˙ hundred men, probably his own mama¯lı¯k. When the arresting officers offered amnesty to them, they did not hesitate to abandon their usta¯dh. No further action against them is known. Along with these were still some thirty loyalist Burjı¯ amirs. They, too, chose discretion over valour ; twenty-two of them were merely sent into detention in Alexandria.116 Early the next year, al-Na¯sir began ˙ releasing at least some of these prisoners.117As virtually his first act as sultan alNa¯sir Muhammad had acknowledged the constraints of the constitutional sys˙ ˙ tem which he had been elevated to preserve.

Conclusion

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The period between 1290-l309/689 – 709 witnessed the Mamluks continuing to embrace the idea of a constitutional order based on regulated access to patronage, structured violence and techniques of conflict resolution as the only solution to the survival of the early state. The flow of interactional communication – the feedback loop – remained intact essentially. Niza¯m remained for the ˙ ruling elite as a whole the central, indeed, defining macrostructural principle of system driven by microsocial practices of exchange and interactionism. Clearly a sociopolitical culture based on equity, grievance redress, non-violence, reconciliation and rehabilitation still seemed to most Mamluks the best way to reflect and cultivate their sense of moral economy in an environment of dynamic equilibrium. Indeed, in some ways the Mamluk commitment to niza¯m was perhaps even ˙ more conspicuous in this period than ever. Between the death of al-Ashraf Khalı¯l and the third accession of his brother, al-Na¯sir Muhammad, the outbreak of ˙ ˙ various fitan obliged the Mamluk umara¯ to reaffirm constantly their commitment to a unitary state. They chose invariably to rally to the defense of niza¯m ˙ rather than to fission into independent baronies characterized by arbitrary

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115 Abu¯’l-Fida¯’, Mukhtasar, 2: 57 – 58; al-Fada¯ ¯ıl, Histoire, 167 – 68; Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 66a. ˙ a¯’, Mukhtasar, 2: 58 – 59. ˙ ¯ da¯rı¯, Kanz, ˙ 9: 195; al-Fada¯ ¯ıl,˙ Histoire, 170; Abu’l-Fid 116 Ibn al-Dawa ˙ ˙ ˙ 117 Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 66a. ˙

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patronage, unrestrained violence, and few limitations on the power of its ruler. Despite frequent invitation, warlordism failed to rear its devisive head seriously, even when assisted by exogenous forces. When, for instance, Qibjaq al-Mansu¯rı¯ ˙ became de facta ruler of Syria on behalf of the Il-Khan, Ghazan, he preferred to surrender his virtually independent authority to al-Na¯sir Muhammad, provided ˙ ˙ that he guarantee niza¯m, that is, the principle of seniority in the hierarchy of ˙ access to benefits. The Mansu¯riyyah remained throughout this period the paramount formation ˙ and took a substantial share of resources in the form partly of high offices. Yet, ironically, it was from their ranks that most of the challenges to the political system arose. Turuntay, Baydara¯, al-Shuja¯ ¯ı and La¯jı¯n were all important Mansu¯rı¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ amirs, men already at the summit of privilege. When these Mansu¯rı¯ amirs, often ˙ acting out ambition or hubris, challenged the general consensus, their typically disavowed them and even rallied opposition to their various fitan. Though the Mansu¯riyyah was a formidable group by itself, it no doubt recognized that, ˙ without resort to the uncertainty of mass violence, it could not maintain paramountcy unless it had the consent of the rest of the Mamluk Junkertum. Bonds of khushda¯shiyyah clearly had recognized constitutional (niza¯mı¯) limits. ˙ Seniority, embedded in the age class system, continued to lay at the heart of political consensus. Certainly allegations of its violation remained the slander of choice among political opportunists. La¯jı¯n had perhaps the most success, levelling that charge first at al-Ashraf Khalı¯l and then Kitbugha¯, though his own regime under the ambition of Mankutimur made the greatest unconstitutional strides of all in elevating the interests of junior over senior umara¯ . Indeed, it was in reaction to the constitutional excesses of La¯jı¯n’s regime particularly that the umara¯ first appear to have formally enunciated their privileges of seniority as actual patrimonial rights (huqu¯q). ˙ Yet, the degree to which the Mamluks were prepared to resolve grievances, including violations of seniority, remained tempered by their basic aversion to the risk of unrestrained violence. Even in so relatively unsettled a period as this, social conflict (fitnah) remained manageable, and agonistic paramilitary displays rarely degenerated far into serious mass violence. Yet, the purpose of a political structure is after all to regulate competition before it degenerates into an uncontrolled fight. Even members of the Ashrafiyyah, one of the most juvenile and therefore potentially disruptive mamlu¯k formations, showed remarkable sensitivity to this problem. In the fitnah created by al-Shuja¯ ¯ı as part of his bid for the post of na¯ ib al-saltanah, his supporters among the Ashrafiyyah ended their ˙ riotous actions, worried that the continuation of their pararnilitary demonstrations on his behalf might lead to more serious mass violence in the streets of Cairo. When these same elements of the Ashrafiyyah were detained in the aftermath of al-Shuja¯ ¯ı s putsch, they broke jail with the intention only of staging ˘

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another agonistic display in the capital. Though their fitnah, in the event, turned violent, their organizing principle had been simply to publicize their grievance with al-Na¯sir for cutting off their subsistence, not to launch a civil war. ˙ Such paramilitary displays, often misinterpreted as acts of sheer anarchy, were part of the feedback loop which helped mediate the stress of competition for resources. Such violent communication among the ruling elite generated much needed negative feedback to those in power, often causing them to readjust their power relationship in order to achieve concilation (sulh), such as Kitbugha¯, ˙ ˙ for instance, effected in his early days in power. In view of this, it is perhaps not surprising that Mamluk rebels even in this unsettled period continued generally to be treated leniently. Systems in dynamic equilibrium, seeking to sustain a political balance-of-power system have a stake in gratifying critics as well as supporters. Universal access to patronage remained of course the main driving force behind all political action. The state was after an a vast clientelist structure in which a virtually unlimited market for loyalty operated. Khidmah was regularly exchanged, often brazenly, for ni mah. The Mansu¯rı¯ amir, al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, for instance, ˙ had little trouble purchasing body and soul a clientele of Za¯hiriyyah to knock off ˙ his own khushda¯shiyyah, Kitbugha¯ and La¯jı¯n al-Usta¯dda¯r. Perhaps more disturbing were the embarassing limitations which exchange placed on the moral tie between usta¯dh and mamlu¯k. The Husa¯miyyah, for instance, seem to have ˙ considered al-Kurjı¯ rather than al-Mansu¯r La¯jı¯n their usta¯dh. The treatment of ˙ al-Muzaffar Baybars by his own mama¯lı¯k was perhaps the most shocking ex˙ ample in this period of the fundamental weakness of gratuitous moral ties in the face of political realities. The Mamluk sultanate has often been characterized, especially in this period, as being highly political but non-ideological. Yet, clearly, the macrostructural concept of niza¯m served to constrain microsocial processes of symbolic inter˙ action and exchange among the Mamluk ruling elite as a whole. If such generalized consciousness cannot be characterized as ideology per se, the Mamluks certainly seem to have carried around in their heads, as G.H. Mead would say, a “slice” of prior experience of their society, which helped them to pattern their interactions. Constitutional order meant administration more than politics per se. The umara¯ as a whole only resorted to serious political (paramilitary) action when the structure of social power was seen to be threatened with break down or subversion. Political action was not the handmaiden of anarchy. It was the failure of a parucular ruler’s gatekeeping function which normally set off what has been characterized as a kind of “‘unproductive factionalism.” The fact that the umara¯ sought again and again to effect a constitutional realignment of the distribution and rotation of power and resources is a reflection of the early Mamluk ruling elite trying to preserve the structure of social power and with it their state

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formation. By the turn of the fourteenth/eighth century niza¯m had clearly be˙ come a unifying macrosocial concept among the ruling elite, if not an actual ideology. As we shall see in the next chapter, al-Malik al-Na¯sir Muhammad was to ˙ ˙ employ the lessons of this period to underpin his own longevity, indeed, one of the longest reigns in Classical Mamluk history.

Chapter 7 – Al-Nasir Muhammad and the Rule of Niza¯m ˙ (1309 – 1341/710 –˙741) ˙

If the preceding period has been characterized by observers as one essentially of anarchy, the subsequent three decades of relative internal peace have been construed as the natural product of despotism. For in studying the third reign of al-Malik al-Na¯sir Muhammad (1309 – 1340/709 – 741) scholars have attempted to ˙ ˙ account for its longevity in terms largely of al-Na¯sir’s autocratic idiosyncracies. ˙ Lane-Poole called him “absolutely despotic.”1 Glubb, too, thought that al-Na¯sir’s ˙ regime was an autocracy in which his “authority was ruthlessly enforced.”2 More recently al-Hajji and R. Amitai-Preiss have concurred that al-Na¯sir sought ˙ during his third reign “to transform the Mamluk ruling system … into a personal autocracy and authoritarian regime” through the premeditated “elimination” and “destruction” of important segments of the Mamluk elite.3 A. Levanoni as well has maintained that al-Na¯sir “based the legitimacy of his rule … ˙ on force.”4 P.M. Holt has gone so far as to maintain it was, indeed, al-Na¯sir’s ˙ historic “achievement to establish a firm autocratic monarchy.”5 Yet, as Holt himself has observed elsewhere, autocracy “was neither absolute nor sovereign” in the early Mamluk state.6 If al-Na¯sir’s longevity can be com˙ pared to that of his father, al-Mansu¯r Qala¯wu¯n, or his uncle, al-Za¯hir Baybars, it ˙ ˙ must also be related somehow to their common practice of creating a political consensus based on the conciliation rather than repression of the umara¯’ as a whole – in short, niza¯m. For, as in Egypt today, the early Mamluk state was ˙ characterized by a self-limiting authoritarianism or, following Bianchi, “corporatism” practiced by rulers seeking to control without eliminating elements 1 Lane-Poole, A History of Egypt in the Middle Ages, 317. 2 Glubb, Soldiers of Fortune, 226. 3 H.N. al-Hajji, The Internal Affairs in Egypt during the Third Reign of Sultan al-Nasir Muhammad (Kuwait, 1978), 79; R. Amitai-Preiss, “The Remaking of the Military Elite of Mamlu¯k Egypt by al-Na¯sir Muhammad b. Qala¯wu¯n.” Studia Islamica 72 (1990), 145. ˙ Conception of the Sultanate,” 380. 4 Levanoni, “The˙ Mamluk 5 Holt, The Age of the Crusades, 114. 6 Idem, “The Structure of Government in the Mamluk Sultanate,” 44.

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within the political system. The creation of such a consensus, through the widespread distribution of state patronage, was the basis of their constitutional order or niza¯m. The sudden imposition by al-Na¯sir of a genuine autocracy would ˙ ˙ have been a high risk, indeed, revolutionary substitute for a successful and accepted system based for almost a half century on equity, consensus and selfrestraint. Contemporary Mamluk historians in fact give little support to the modern view of al-Na¯sir Muhammad’s despotic mania. Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, for instance, ˙ ˙ thought al-Na¯sir’s regime an exemplary model of consensus and mediation not ˙ only in the context of Mamluk but universal Islamic history as well. Reviewing the events of the five centuries preceding al-Na¯sir Muhammad’s reign, Ibn al˙ ˙ Dawa¯da¯rı¯ lamented their record of violence and internal disorder (fitnah) – the struggle for power following the Prophet’s death, including the assassination of Uthma¯n, the killing of Husayn, the Abbasid revolution, the abbasid-Fatimid ˙ struggle, the Qarmatian atrocities, the intra-Muslim strife created by the Crusades, etc. In his view “the sword continued to drip blood” in Muslim history precisely until 1300/699, when al-Na¯sir Muhammad began to rule in earnest. His ˙ ˙ authority (kalimah) was underpinned not by tyrrany but by the distribution of equity (insa¯f) and the reconciliation of conflict (jadal) and disagreement (khulf) ˙ within the state.7 Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, another contemporary chronicler, observed similarly that al-Na¯sir ˙ did not allow his rule to succumb to the grandeur of personal ambition (himmah). He praised him for showing decorum (hishmah) in his dealings with the ˙ amirs. He refrained from abusing or ridiculing them, consulted with them on affairs of state and showed conciliation (hawa¯dah) toward them. Al-Na¯sir also ˙ ˙ ensured their sense of personal security ; no amir had to fear attending a banquet (walı¯mah) outside his own compound, a legendary venue for political assassination. Although he may have cultivated an awe-inspiring (muhı¯b) public facade, in reality al-Na¯sir depended on gratifying the umara¯’ to create support for ˙ his authority. Al-Na¯sir’s regime was not a despotism but, as al-Shuja¯ ¯ı termed it, a ˙ presidency (riya¯sah) in which he mediated rather than abused power.8 Al-Na¯sir’s aversion to tyranny and conversion to the role of gatekeeper to the ˙ constitutional order (niza¯m) manifested itself from the first. As early as the ˙ beginning of his first reign in 1294/693, during the height of al-Shuja¯ ¯ı’s fitnah in Cairo, al-Na¯sir stepped forward during the crisis as a rallying point for the ˙ defense of the niza¯m of the state, pleading with the umara¯’ to repudiate al˙ Shuja¯ ¯ı’s iniquity (fasa¯d), which he deemed contrary to the “constitutional order ˘

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7 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 384 – 87. 8 Shams al-Dı¯n al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh al-Malik al-Na¯sir Muhammad b. Qala¯wu¯n al-Sa¯lı¯h¯ı wa aw˙ Verlag, 1977), 112. ˙ ˙ la¯duhu, ed. Barbara Schäfer (Wiesbaden: Franz˙ Steiner

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(niza¯m) of the state.”9 At the start of his second reign, when he inadvertantly ˙ offended the Syrian amirs, al-Na¯sir quickly sought a reconciliation, invoking the ˙ traditional need “to protect the constitutional order (niza¯m)” of the state from ˙ any form of disunity (shiqa¯q).10 When in 1307/707 poor working relations between himself and his overbearing na¯’ib al-saltanah, Sayf al-Dı¯n Sala¯r al-Mansu¯rı¯, and his usta¯da¯r, Rukn ˙ ˙ al-Dı¯n Baybars al-Ja¯shnakı¯r al-Mansu¯rı¯, led to a visible break in relations ˙ (wahshah), al-Na¯sir rebuked them for introducing turmoil (hayj) into the po˙ ˙ litical system. When their dispute degenerated further and al-Na¯sir found ˙ himself actually besieged in the Citadel, one of his mamlu¯k bowmen feathered Salla¯r’s brother with an arrow. Genuinely horrified by this lone but apparently random act of violence, al-Na¯sir capitulated in order to preclude the outbreak of ˙ further bloodshed. Though humiliated by this defeat, al-Na¯sir viewed the ar˙ rangement sensibly as a political expedient (sabı¯l al-siya¯sah) for reconciling his opposition, thus restoring the niza¯m of the state and, of course, his continued ˙ acceptability as privileged interlocutor.11 The rise to power soon after this incident of Baybars al-Ja¯shnakı¯r as al-Malik al-Muzaffar Baybars was based, indeed, on a careful reading of al-Na¯sir’s fun˙ ˙ damental dread of disunity (khashyah al-inqisa¯m) and his desire to do the right thing (sada¯d) in order to preserve harmony within the Mamluk state. This evaluation of al-Na¯sir by Baybars and his cronies proved accurate. As al-Na¯sir ˙ ˙ himself revealed in a letter to the Egyptian amirs, his departure from Cairo for Karak had been necessitated by his dread of the chaos (tashwı¯sh) which might follow continuation of the struggle with al-Ja¯shnakı¯r for the administration of the state.12 This reiterated the theme of al-Na¯sir’s earlier farewell address in ˙ which he entrusted to the amirs what he considered his chief responsibility as sultan – the preservation (muha¯fazah) of the constitutional order (niza¯m) of the ˙ ˙ ˙ state.13 Even during perhaps his greatest internal crisis, al-Na¯sir proved reluctant to ˙ restore his authority by force and so undermine the niza¯m of the state. In 1312/ ˙ 712 after al-Na¯sir bungled the arrest of the na¯’ib of Aleppo, Shams al-Dı¯n Qar˙ ¯ l Fadl, Mu¯sa¯ b. Muhanna¯, and the na¯’ib of a¯sunqur al-Mansu¯rı¯, the amir of the A ˙ ˙ ˙ Tripoli, Afram al-Mansu¯rı¯, threw Syria into political disorder (tashwı¯sh) by ˙ openly supporting Qara¯sunqur. Realizing that Qara¯sunqur might now gain enough support from the rest of the Syrian umara¯’ to necessitate a military 9 Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 186b; al-Nuwayrı¯, Niha¯yah (1579), 125a. 10 Baybars al-Mans˙ u¯rı¯, Zubdah, 187a. 11 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯˙, Kanz, 9: 147 – 48; Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 252a-b; Anonymous, Ge˙ schichte, 134 – 35; al-Fada¯’il, Histoire, 129 – 33. ˙ 12 Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 260b – 261a, 270a. ˙ 13 Ibid., 261b.

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struggle for control of Syria, al-Na¯sir turned immediately to traditional methods ˙ of negotiation and reconciliation to preclude the outbreak of civil war. Al-Na¯sir ˙ revoked his warrant against Qara¯sunqur with a grant of ama¯n, issued a taqlı¯d for his restoration as na¯’ib of Aleppo or, indeed, any post he wanted; he also attempted to persuade the amir Muhanna¯ to mediate the dispute between himself ˙ and Qara¯sunqur. Al-Na¯sir’s concilatory actions in fact succeeded in mollifying ˙ Qara¯sunqur, at least temporarily ; more importantly his attempt at conflict resolution appeased the Syrian umara¯’ and averted civil war.14 Even on his death bed thirty years later al-Na¯sir continued to exert himself ˙ above all for the sake of niza¯m. As literally his last act as sultan, al-Na¯sir tried to ˙ ˙ effect a public reconciliation (sulh) between his two quarrelling chief mamlu¯k ˙ ˙ amirs, Sayf al-Dı¯n Qu¯su¯n and Sayf al-Dı¯n Bashta¯k, before their personal dispute ˙ (ikhtila¯f) spiraled out of control and spilled over into the streets of the capital.15 Even Baybars al-Ja¯shnakı¯r, during his brief incarnation as al-Malik al-Muzaffar Baybars, recognized constitutional limitations on his own usurped au˙ thority as sultan, particularly with regard to the use of violence. When al-Muzaffar learned that the elite had publically discharged their oath of allegience ˙ (bay ah) to him, he quietly abdicated, unwilling to defend his regime at the cost of Muslim bloodshed.16

Baybars II al-Ja¯shnakı¯r, al-Na¯sir Muhammad and the Politics of ˙ ˙ Seniority Al-Na¯sir’s concern with maintaining peacefully the “constitutional order” was of ˙ course shared by the Syro-Egyptian umara¯’. Protecting the universal franchise from disruption or, indeed, destruction was the basis of their moral economy. The armed stand-off in 1307/707 with al-Na¯sir in the Citadel was considered ˙ madness (khuba¯t) and filled the elite with dread (wajal) that a prolonged con˙ frontation might fester into serious street fighting in Cairo.17 The wounding of Salla¯r’s brother by one of al-Na¯sir’s bowmen, the only real act of violence during ˙ the stand off, was enough to send both sides scambling for the negotiation table and lift the three-day pantomime siege without further incident. As was customary in the Mamluk state, the prospect of structured violence giving way to

˘

14 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 218 – 19, 222 – 24; al-Fada¯’il, Histoire, 208; Abu¯ al-Fida¯’, Mukh˙ tasar, 2: 64. ˙ 15 Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 104. 16 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 187 – 88; al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 108; Anonymous, Geschichte, 144. 17 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 147. ˘

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real violence brought not an escalation but a resolution of conflict within the elite. In 1309/708, as Baybars al-Ja¯shnakı¯r progressively shifted political control away from the young sultan, the Egyptian amirs feared increasingly for the niza¯m of the state. They feared the unwelcome struggle for lawful authority ˙ (mulk) between Baybars and al-Na¯sir would create a political vacuum (inqita¯’) ˙ ˙ which might collapse the Mamluk state into anarchy. Indeed, their subsequent elevation of Baybars al-Ja¯shnakı¯r as al-Malik al-Muzaffar Baybars seems to have ˙ been tied solely to their fear of an ever-widening crisis, particularly after alNa¯sir’s rejection of their plea for his return from self-imposed exile in Karak.18 ˙ Certainly, at the outset al-Muzaffar Baybars enjoyed only qualified support ˙ When he ordered army troops to assemble in the hippodrome (mayda¯n) to swear an oath of allegiance to him they came both “willingly and unwillingly” (taw an wa karhan).19 Soon, however, the elite began to develop an unqualified enmity (bughd) toward al-Muzaffar. Perhaps like Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, the na¯s had ˙ begun to view him as an outlaw (zalla¯m) for exploiting a constitutional crisis by ˙ which he was able to cheat al-Na¯sir of his rightful authority (mulk).20 Less than a ˙ year after al-Muzaffar’s accession, al-Na¯sir’s intelligence service in Cairo re˙ ˙ ported that a majority (kathı¯rah) of the amirs of Egypt were already prepared to endorse his return.21 Al-Muzaffar’s support in Syria, too, was buckling. The nuwwa¯b of Syria, ˙ drawn from his own khushda¯shiyyah, were alienated from al-Muzaffar, who ˙ seems to have resorted more often to intimidation than conciliation in his dealings with them; troops were even sent to the province of Aleppo to make its na¯’ib, Qara¯sunqur al-Mansu¯rı¯, more compliant.22 Al-Na¯sir’s decision to march ˙ ˙ on Egypt from self-imposed exile in Karak, via Damascus, stimulated first a trickle and then a flood of defections to his side. As he advanced from Gaza to Cairo “regiment after regiment” came over to him. By the time he reached the Citadel “the entirety (jamı¯ ) of the amirs of Egypt and Syria were in his service” again.23 When al-Muzaffar was finally taken into custody, he had lost the support ˙ of all but thirty of his Burjı¯ cronies in the Mansu¯riyyah; the bonds of khush˙ da¯shiyyah proved incapable of overcoming among the Mansu¯riyyah their basic ˙ ˘

Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 262b – 263a; Anonymous, Geschichte, 135 – 37. Baybars al-Mans˙ u¯rı¯, Zubdah, 264a; Anonymous, Geschichte, 137. Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯˙, Kanz, 9: 158, 180. Anonymous, Geschichte, 144. Suqa¯ ¯ı, Ta¯lı¯, 57 – 58; Abu¯ al-Fida¯’, Mukhtasar, 2: 56. Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 268b – 269a,˙ 271a; Anonymous, Geschichte, 145 – 46; Ibn alDawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz,˙ 9: 167, 174; al-Fada¯’il, Histoire, 156 – 57; Abu¯ al-Fida¯’, Mukhtasar, 2: 57; ˙ ˙ Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 65a. ˙ ˘

18 19 20 21 22 23

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commitment to the niza¯m of the state.24 Al-Muzaffar Baybars’ regime had not ˙ ˙ fallen as the result of an interminable multi-polar civil war or bloody revolution; rather it disintegrated quickly, quietly and predictably through the withdrawl of consensus by the umara¯’ and their paramilitary clients.25 The juyu¯sh had issued their pronunciamiento against al-Muzaffar.26 Indeed, before joining al-Na¯sir, the ˙ ˙ Syrian umara¯’ had been explicit in their refusal to resort to violence to effect alNa¯sir’s restoration in Egypt. They insisted on acting only with the agreement ˙ (taba an) of the Egyptian umara¯’, refusing to engage in any form of bloodshed, even to change a regime with rapidly diminishing credibility. The response of the Egyptians amirs, that they wanted only reconciliation (sulh) with al-Na¯sir, sat˙ ˙ ˙ isfied their Syrian counterparts that they would encounter no armed resistance 27 on their march to Cairo. Indeed, when one of al-Muzaffar’s khushda¯sh actually ˙ went out to organize resistence to al-Na¯sir’s advance via the Suez road, he was ˙ killed by his own mama¯lı¯k, who sent the severed head of their usta¯dh to al-Na¯sir ˙ as an apology for his temerity.28 Like bonds of khushda¯shiyyah, the supposedly sacred tie between usta¯dh and mamlu¯k could not stand long against political practicalities. Ties of reciprocity were violated by their usta¯dh’s reckless decision to stand against the political tide and risk their collective fortune; these mama¯lı¯k no doubt felt their moral economy threatened by their usta¯dh’s impolitic behavior. If the Syrian amirs had been reluctant to fight their way into Cairo for al-Na¯sir, ˙ they had been equally unwilling to spill blood to keep him out of Damascus tor al-Muzaffar. The na¯’ib al-saltanah of Damascus, Jama¯l al-Dı¯n Aqush al-Afram ˙ ˙ al-Mansu¯rı¯, who alone had been prepared at the outset to oppose militarily al˙ Na¯sir’s advance on the city, could do nothing finally when his troops refused ˙ even to take the field.29 This inaction was not necessarily a reflection of al-Na¯sir’s ˙ natural popularity within Damascus; many in the garrison had to be coaxed over to al-Na¯sir’s side with a personal guarantee of security (ama¯n) as well as a timely ˙ pay bonus (nafaqah).30 The garrison of Damascus refused to confront al-Na¯sir ˙ on his march from Karak because they feared actual combat might result. Predictably both the Syrian and Egyptian umara¯’ were largely inert as well during the fitnah occasioned by Qara¯sunqur’s dispute with al-Na¯sir in 1311 – 12/ ˙

˘

24 Anonymous, Geschichte, 195. 25 Abu¯ al-Fida¯’, Mukhtasar, 2: 56, in fact called it a disintegration (nuhu¯l). ˙ to have been the pe26 The “colonel” (za ¯ım)˙ who orchestrated the pronunciamiento seems rennial naqı¯b of the Egyptian armed forces, Badr al-Dı¯n Bakta¯sh al-Fakhrı¯, Anonymous, Geschichte, 146. 27 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 169; Anonymous, Geschichte, 139, 142; al-Fada¯’il, Histoire, 149. ˙ 28 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 196; al- Asqala¯nı¯, Durar, 1: 398. 29 Al-Fada¯’il, Histoire, 150. ˙ 30 Ibn al-Dawa ¯ da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 174 – 75: al-Fada¯’il, Histoire, 155 – 56. ˙ ˘

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711. The amirs of Egypt, many of whom were his own khushda¯shiyyah, rejected Qara¯sunqur’s secret appeal for support.31 Qara¯sunqur, though na¯’ib of Aleppo, could find no backing within that city’s garrison either ; indeed, the Aleppan amirs eventually locked him out of the city. With the singular help of his khushda¯sh, al-Afram, now na¯’ib of Tripoli, Qara¯sunqur was able to cobble together only a modest force. News of the approach of forces from Egypt and Damascus, however, totally demoralized his little band. Before Qara¯sunqur could reach his new headquarters at al-Rahbah his force had entirely dis˙ integrated; even some of al-Afram’s own mama¯lı¯k deserted and returned to Tripoli.32 No doubt they feared the possibility of a spontaneous military engagement with al-Na¯sir’s shadowing forces; as well they likely felt their usta¯dh, ˙ al-Afram, had violated the reciprocal tie of loyalty by risking their subsistence in an ill-considered rebellion. Despite his announced rebellion, Qara¯sunqur was himself reluctant to initiate serious military action. He continually opposed al-Afram’s more belligerent suggestions for attacking isolated loyalist columns or for turning their Arab auxiliaries loose on the countryside, preferring simply to manoeuvre about northern Syria. Within this seemingly passive military strategy, however, lay definite political purpose. Qara¯sunqur’s military posturing was a classic exercise in the use of structured violence. He intended to pressurize al-Na¯sir into ne˙ gotiating a resolution of the conflict advantageous to himself by keeping a military force in being without actually using it; this selfless demonstration of concern with the preservation of the niza¯m of the state would no doubt make a ˙ favorable impression with the elite as a whole. Qara¯sunqur, in his diplomacy with al-Na¯sir, dangled before the sultan the prospect of ending the conflict ˙ without having to resort to the “shedding of Muslim blood;” his terms were the assignments of the frontier towns of al-Bı¯rah and Qal at al-Ru¯m.33 Probably because of their proximity to the Mongol frontier, al-Na¯sir felt he could not safely ˙ relinquish the two strongholds and rejected Qara¯sunqur’s request for pardon ( afu¯). His bluff called, Qara¯sunqur scampered across the frontier to safety with the Il-Khans.34 Al-Na¯sir’s sensitivity toward the preservation of niza¯m was matched by his ˙ ˙ own understanding of its basic requirements. Far from building his regime upon arbitrary, authoritarian violence, al-Na¯sir relied on equitable treatment of the ˙ umara¯’ to ensure their loyalty and his continued acceptibility as gatekeeper to the political system. Above all, al-Na¯sir gratified the desire of the umara¯’ for ˙

˘ 31 32 33 34

Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 226. Al-Fada¯’il, Histoire, 206, 209 – 10; Abu¯ al-Fida¯’, Mukhtasar, 2: 64, 66. ˙ ˙ Ibn al-Dawa ¯ da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 226 – 27; al-Fada¯’il, Histoire, 208. ˙ Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 67b. ˙

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patronage, exploiting the essential dyadic exchange of economic benefit (ni mah) for political compliance (muha¯wadah) institutionalized by his uncle, al-Za¯hir Baybars, and father, al-Mansu¯r Qala¯wu¯n. ˙ ˙ Whatever support may have accrued to the notion of dynasticism by alNa¯sir’s day, it was still clearly inadequate to guarantee political loyalty, a lesson ˙ brought home quite early in al-Na¯sir’s third reign. During the revolt of 1312/712 ˙ al-Afram al-Mansu¯rı¯, the renegade na¯’ib of Tripoli, maintained confidently that ˙ his khushda¯sh, Qara¯sunqur, could compete successfully with al-Na¯sir for au˙ thority (kalimah) in Syria simply by paying out larger cash bounties and other benefits to the soldiery there.35 Mindful apparently of al-Afram’s observation, al-Na¯sir’s subsequent dis˙ tribution of patronage was sufficient to help win for himself eventually a reputation as a “spendthrift” (mufarrit) and contribute to financial difficulties near ˙ the end of his regime.36 Even as al-Na¯sir complained in the last rnonths of his life ˙ about shrinking revenues failing to offset increasing expenditures, he could not bring himself to economize his patronage more than cutting back on the fodder ( alı¯q) allotment for the horses of the amirs.37 Additionally, he ensured that patronage trickled down beyond the level of the senior amirs to the junior amirs.38 Only in the halqah did al-Na¯sir show himself willing to cut back on ˙ ˙ patronage, cashiering a little more than four hundred individuals during the course of his third reign. Almost three-quarters of those eliminations occurred, however, in 1312/712, during the crisis created by Qara¯sunqur’s revolt in Syria, and seem to have reflected chiefly the need to trim the halqah down to a proper ˙ fighting weight in anticipation of a possible Mongol follow-on invasion.39 Few cutbacks in the halqah seem to have been gratuitous.40 On the whole al-Na¯sir ˙ ˙ appears to have seen to the subsistence needs of his elite; few seem to have felt their moral economy threatened in any case. In any case, al-Na¯sir’s reign was ˙ untroubled by roaming bands of paramilitary “have-nots” looting the countryside in lieu of inadequate administrative benefits. Paramount within the moral economy of the elite were of course rights of seniority, and al-Na¯sir was careful to extend his patronage to the amirs along ˙

˘

Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 276. Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 115. Ibid., 50 – 51. Ibid., 112 – 15. Ten thousand Mongol troops bad been sent to meet Qara¯sunqur and al-Afram on the frontier and escort them to the Il-Khan, who granted the former the city of Baghda¯d and the latter the cities of Sanjar and Diya¯r Bakr for their maintenance; the latter two cities were potential jumping-off points for an invasion of northern Syria, Ibid., 114; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 230 – 31, 238 – 40, 244 – 45; Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 69a-b. ˙ of public works, seems to have sacrificed a small number of 40 Al-Na¯sir, a prodigious builder ˙ iqta¯’s from the halqah to finance his constructions, see, al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 114. ˙ ˙ ˘

35 36 37 38 39

˘

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recognized age class lines. He had after all been returned to power in 1310/709 on a wave of resentment against al-Muzaffar Baybars’ attempted challenge to the age ˙ class system. Al-Muzaffar, apparently unable to extend his base of support be˙ yond a small faction (hizb) ofhis khushda¯shiyyah, the Burjiyyah, began con˙ struction on a new paramount age class through the sudden elevation of a large number of his own mama¯lı¯k as amirs. So obvious an infraction of the age class system was this ploy that even al-Muzaffar’s own mama¯lı¯k were sceptical about ˙ their new promotions, worried they would be invalidated in the increasing likelihood of their usta¯dh’s deposition.41 Al-Na¯sir himself had already had one brief but instructive brush with the ˙ issue of seniority earlier during his administrative dispute with Baybars alJa¯shnakı¯r and Salla¯r in 1307/707. Al-Na¯sir had sought to protest their restriction ˙ of his prerogatives as sultan by refusing to affix his seal to public documents. Baybars al-Ja¯shnakı¯r and Salla¯r immediately portrayed al-Na¯sir’s work slow˙ down as an attack on the age class system. They charged al-Na¯sir’s mama¯lı¯k, the ˙ Na¯siriyyah, with sabotage (ifsa¯d al-tawiyyah) of the seniority system for en˙ ˙ couraging their usta¯dh to interfere in its administration in order to give them preferential treatment inconsistent with their junior status. Though exaggerated, the charge was serious and plausible enough to rally suddenly the Mamluk establishment against al-Malik al-Na¯sir, who found himself unexpectedly iso˙ lated and beseiged in the Citadel.42 The umara¯’ were no less shy in reminding al-Na¯sir during his bid for re˙ storation in 1309 – 10/709 of the importance of their privileges. They underscored in their confidential correspondence with al-Na¯sir that his legitimacy ˙ was contingent ultimately upon their consent (marda¯h); that consent in turn ˙ depended upon his recognition of their collective patrimonial rights (huqu¯q) of ˙ seniority. Still apparently fresh in the minds of the amirs after almost thirty years was the cautionary example of al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd, al-Na¯sir’s cousin, who had ˙ originally challenged the constitutional principle of seniority and lost his throne for doing so. Al-Na¯sir, attempting to dodge any identification in the minds of the ˙ amirs with his despotic relative, invoked instead the memory of his own father, al-Mansu¯r Qala¯wu¯n, who had of course led the overthrow of al-Sa ¯ıd’s uncon˙ stitutional regime. In correspondence with the umara¯’ al-Na¯sir attempted to ˙ counter their suspicions by reminding them that his father, Qala¯wu¯n, had readily given them their due (haqq), i. e. recognized their right of patronage by se˙ niority.43 No doubt al-Na¯sir hoped he could encourage the umara¯’ to view him as ˙ a ‘chip off the old block’ and consent to his restoration. ˘

˘

41 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 180; Safadı¯, Wa¯fı¯, 10: 248 – 50. ˙ 42 Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 252a-b; al-Fada¯ il, Histoire, 129 – 34. ˙ ˙ 43 Anonymous, Geschichte, 140 – 42.

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In the end, al-Na¯sir proved to be not only a student but, like La¯jı¯n, an able ˙ practicioner of the politics of seniority. The occasion came during perhaps his greatest political challenge since Qara¯sunqur’s revolt of 1312/712, that posed by his own mamlu¯k, Sayf al-Dı¯n Tankiz al-Husa¯mi, in 1340/740. As na¯’ib al-sal˙ ˙ tanah in Damascus since 1312/712, Tankiz had been allowed by al-Na¯sir to ˙ ˙ develop virtually unlimited power in Syrian affairs. By 1340/740, Tankiz was viewed as a menace to the niza¯m of the state, fomenting unrest (qalaq) and even ˙ fitnah in Syria by summoning soldiers and amirs to swear allegience to him personally. Tankiz, however, had been careless in his treatment of the senior Syrian amirs, earning their antipathy (karh) as a consequence. Al-Na¯sir ˙ shrewdly drew up his main charges against Tankiz around this latent resentment. The centerpiece of al-Na¯sir’s indictment was Tankiz’s interference in the natural ˙ promotion of his own khushda¯shiyyah, the Na¯siriyyah, in Syria; this constitu˙ tional iniquity (sharr) was compounded by his allegedly unauthorized distribution of honors and benfits to others. For good measure Tankiz was also charged with elevating a common trooper (jundı¯) as amı¯r ha¯jib in order to act as ˙ his instrument of oppression (zulm) against the senior amirs of Syria.44 ˙ Al-Na¯sir’s respect for seniority among the umara¯’ can also be seen in his ˙ treatment of other paramount formations. Although the last of the Sa¯lihiyyah ˙ ˙ seem to have died out just before the beginning of his third reign, the Za¯hiriyyah ˙ still had a small active membership, though on the whole it too must have been experiencing similar age-related attrition. Al-Na¯sir’s high regard for the Za¯˙ ˙ hiriyyah during his third reign may have been linked to valuable support they had given during his bid for restoration in 1310/709. Sayf al-Dı¯n Aqjay al-Za¯hirı¯, ˙ for instance, had brought Safad’s military forces over to al-Na¯sir at an important ˙ ˙ stage. Also, Sunqursha¯h al-Za¯hirı¯ had persuaded the important Mansu¯rı¯ na¯’ib of ˙ ˙ Aleppo, Shams al-Dı¯n Qara¯sunqur, to switch allegiance at a critical moment 45 from his khushda¯sh, al-Muzaffar Baybars, to al-Na¯sir. Al-Na¯sir in any case ˙ ˙ ˙ patronized and employed Za¯hirı¯ amirs, those still fit for service, until the end of ˙ his reign. As a mark of his favoritism, these Za¯hirı¯s all held the elevated rank of ˙ amir tablkha¯nah; one even enjoyed the high-profile command of the Pilgrimage ˙ 46 in 1333/733.

˘

44 Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 71 – 72, 86 – 88; Anonymous, Geschichte, 210 – 11. 45 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 174 – 175. 46 Anonymous, Geschichte, 170, 174, 187, 209; Mufaddal Ibn Abı¯ al-Fada¯’ı¯l, Ägypten und Syrien ˙ al ˙ b. Abı¯ l’Fada¯’ı¯l,˙ ed. Samira Kortantamer zwischen 1317 und 1341 in der Chronik des Mufadd ˙ ˙ (Freiburg: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 1973), 106 – 07; al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯˙rı¯kh, 70 – 71. ˘

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Al-Na¯sir and the Mansu¯riyyah ˙ ˙

Al-Na¯sir and the Mansu¯riyyah ˙ ˙ It was toward the Mansu¯riyyah, still the most important and active group of ˙ amirs, however, that al-Na¯sir’s acknowledgment of the constitutional rights of ˙ seniority was chiefly aimed. Much has been made in the secondary literature about al-Na¯sir’s natural hostility toward his father’s, Qala¯wu¯n’s, mama¯lı¯k; it has ˙ even been suggested that al-Na¯sir’s repressive attitude was “rooted in the logic of ˙ the Mamlu¯k system,” which apparently ordained congenital enmity between a ruler and his father’s military retainers.47 It is difficult to credit such a gratuitous prejudice to al-Na¯sir. Al-Na¯sir in fact readily absorbed and promoted much of ˙ ˙ the Mansu¯riyyah into his own service, creating an additional two hundred amirs ˙ from among their ranks, in explicit acknowledgement of their origin (nasab) and social standing (asma¯’) within the Mamluk hierarchy.48 Al-Na¯sir may even have ˙ employed kinship as an additional tying mechanism. Though most examples show that Mansu¯rı¯ amirs intermarried with other Mansu¯rı¯ households, there is ˙ ˙ at least one example of intermarriage between the households of a Mansu¯rı¯ amir ˙ 49 and an amir of al-Na¯sir’s kha¯ssakiyyah. ˙ ˙˙ The most visible rewards of seniority, the important administrative posts in Syro-Egypt, went to the Mansu¯rı¯ amirs who had entered his service (khidmah) ˙ again after the fall of al-Muzaffar Baybars. Many of those posts were sub˙ sequently lost between 1310/709 and 1312/712 to the Na¯siriyyah as a result of the ˙ arrests of several prominent Mansu¯rı¯ amirs.50 These actions, however, were ˙ meant to discipline certain individuals and were not intended as a gratuitous disenfranchisement of the Mansu¯riyyah as a whole. Those arrested had been ˙ implicated after all in a series of fitan led by al-Muzaffar Baybars, Sayf al-Dı¯n ˙ Baktimur al-Ju¯kanda¯r or Shams al-Dı¯n Qara¯sunqur during those years.51 The Mansu¯riyyah appears in fact to have maintained good relations with al˙ Na¯sir, especially during the difficult period between 1310/709 and 1312/712, ˙

˘

47 Amitai-Preiss, “The Remaking of the Military Elite of Mamlu¯k Egypt by al-Na¯sir Muhammad ˙ ˙ b. Qala¯wu¯n,” 156 – 57. 48 Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 113. 49 The daughter of the Mansu¯rı¯ amı¯r, Rukn al-Dı¯n Baybars al-Ahmadı¯ was married to one of the ˙ Geschichte, 203; Baybars alamirs of al-Na¯sir’s kha¯s˙s, Qublay al-Sila¯hda¯r, Anonymous, ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 266b; Ibn al-Dawada¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 214, 227. 50 There˙ is little evidence of age class tensions resulting from these appointments. Husam alDı¯n Tankiz, for instance, was insulted only late in his tenure as na¯’ib of Damascus by˙ Baha¯dur al-Badrı¯, his own khushda¯sh, who observed: “Only yesterday you were a boy (sabı¯y) … yet ˙ al-Dı¯n Alttoday you crave deference (hurmah).” Tankiz’s successor and khushdash, Ala’ ˙ ˙ unbugha¯, fared little better among the amirs of Damascus, who snickered: “Gold braid does not make the man,” al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 13, 93. 51 For a chronology of arrests, see al-Hajjı¯, The Internal Affairs in Egypt during the Third Reign of Sultan al-Nasir Muhammad b. Qalawun, 74 – 88; Amitai-Preiss, “The Remaking of the Military Elite of Mamlu¯k Egypt by al-Na¯sir Muhammad b. Qala¯wu¯n,” 145 ff. ˙ ˙ ˘

˘

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much to the undoubted chagrin of wayward members of their own khushda¯shiyyah. Except for a handful of Burjı¯ amirs, the Mansu¯riyyah had not rendered ˙ much dependable support for the regime of their khushda¯sh, al-Muzaffar Bay˙ bars, in 1310/709; to the contrary, many had actively worked to bring it down. The arrests of Sayf al-Dı¯n Baktimur and certain other Mansu¯rı¯s in 1311/711 for ˙ plotting to replace al-Na¯sir Muhammad with his nephew met with little demur ˙ ˙ from their khushda¯shiyyah. When Shams al-Dı¯n Qara¯sunqur al-Mansu¯rı¯ re˙ volted against al-Na¯sir Muhammad in 1312/711 – 12, he failed to rally the sup˙ ˙ port of the Egyptian amirs upon whom he had been counting. Many of them were his own khushda¯shiyyah, and Qara¯sunqur bitterly denounced their lack of horizontal solidary as betrayal (khatr).52 Qara¯sunqur and other overly ambitious amirs were naive about both the appeal of high risk payoffs to a basically risk-averse elite and the strength of juvenile ideological attachments in the face of political realities. That the Mansu¯riyyah accepted the propriety of al-Na¯sir’s disciplinary actions against their ˙ ˙ various khushda¯shiyyah suggests that they were not prepared ultimately to uphold the bonds of khushda¯shiyyah against the niza¯m of the state. Ibn al˙ Dawa¯da¯rı¯, for instance, believed that al-Na¯sir’s actions were ultimately a nec˙ essary part of state building. The arrests of the Mansu¯rı¯ amirs in 1312/712 were, ˙ in his opinion, analogous to measures taken by al-Za¯hir Baybars a half century ˙ earlier at the inception of the Mamluk state. According to testimony provided by his own father, a prominent amir in earlier decades, Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯ noted that Baybars had been forced then to arrest several prominent amirs, some like Sunqur al-Ru¯mı¯, close personal friends, in order to preserve his sovereign authority (amr) from unconstitutional challenge.53 Far from construing the sultan’s actions as a threat to their moral economy, the Mansu¯riyyah as a whole ˙ seems to have accepted that al-Na¯sir was acting to preserve the niza¯m of the state ˙ ˙ from the wickedness (sharr) and deceit (makr) of some of their own membership.54

Punishment and Rehabilitation under al-Na¯sir Muhammad ˙ ˙ To reinforce his “corporatist” image as a mediator rather than abuser of power among the Mansu¯riyyah and the elite as a whole al-Na¯sir was equally careful in ˙ ˙ his application of coercive measures. Indeed, he was praised for his lenient treatment of offenders, particularly Mansu¯rı¯ amirs, relying on a policy of exile or ˙

˘

52 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 212, 226. 53 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 243 – 44. 54 Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 113.

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detention for those under suspicion of disloyalty rather than capital punishment.55 Even those involved in the serious political challenges of 1309/709 and 1312/712 apparently suffered little at al-Na¯sir’s hands. In the aftermath of al˙ Muzaffar’s fall a couple of dozen amirs, mostly loyalist Burjiyyah, were jailed in ˙ Egypt; a handful were arrested or had their benefits suspended in Syria, principally in Damascus and Tripoli.56 Those who had joined the revolt of Qara¯sunqur and al-Afram in Syria were demoted in rank and privilege, exiled internally or, at worst apparently, jailed for a time.57 Salla¯r’s brothers, for instance, were released from detention in July 1315/ Rabı¯ II 715.58 Even the Burjı¯ amirs, perhaps the greatest source of agitation against him, jailed by al-Na¯sir were ˙ released even earlier in December 1314/Ramada¯n 714.59 The treatment of the ˙ amir Aydamur al-Safadı¯ al-Khat¯ırı¯ al-Mansu¯rı¯ illustrates nicely al-Na¯sir’s ea˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ gerness (anxiety) to rehabilitate such amirs. Al-Khat¯ırı¯ was among the first batch ˙ of amirs arrested by al-Na¯sir after his accession in 1309/709. He was released in ˙ January 1310/Muharram 710. Al-Khat¯ırı¯ was then rearrested in September 1311/ ˙ ˙ Juma¯da¯ I 711. He was released yet again, in 1312/712, and by December/Ramada¯n of that year had been entrusted with an important military command. A ˙ month later, in January 1313/Shawwa¯l 712, al-Khat¯ırı¯ was appointed na¯’ib of ˙ Damascus. Al-Na¯sir’s capacity for believing in the power of rehabilitation over ˙ recidivism must have been strong, indeed, since al-Khat¯ırı¯’s promotions co˙ incided with the threatened Mongol invasion of northern Syria led by alKhat¯ırı¯’s khushda¯shiyyah, the rebel amirs Qara¯sunqur and al-Afram.60 ˙ Al-Na¯sir’s leniency reflected in part the fact that clienteles in the early ˙ Mamluk state could be easily subverted owing to the fragile nature of the transactional dyadic tie between patron and client. The paramilitary potential of clienteles could be largely neutralized by the removal of the patron; horizontal ties by themselves were not generally strong enough to maintain group cohesion during a political crisis. When, for instance, al-Afram al-Mansu¯rı¯ wanted to add ˙ soldiers to Qara¯sunqur army in Syria in 1312/712 he proposed simply killing the usta¯dh of a body of nearby loyalist troops who were composed of his mama¯lı¯k. Al-Afram explained that without their patron his mamlu¯k clientele could 55 56 57 58 59 60

Ibid., 112 – 13. Al-Fada¯’il, Histoire, 177, 179 – 80. Ibid., ˙211 – 212. Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 78b. ˙ Ibid., 74b. His two sons were made amirs also, Ibid, 66a-b, 70a 71b; Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal (Paris), 2: 40a-b. Concerns about the power of khushda¯shiyyah does not seem to have inhibited al-Na¯sir ˙ from appointing Timur al-Sa¯qı¯ na¯’ib of Tripoli in June 712/Safar 712 despite having arrested ˙ his khushda¯sh, Alktimur al-Sa¯qı¯, in September 1311/Juma¯da¯ 1711; indeed, Alktimur himself was released and in early 1314/714 became one of the commanders of a military expedition to Syria. Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 66b, 68b, 75a. ˙

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probably be suborned and recruited to join the very rebellion they had been sent out to oppose.61 When Qara¯sunqur rebellion collapsed soon after, he bade farewell to many of his mama¯lı¯k. He assured them they would not be harmed by al-Na¯sir. As he was now terminating his rebellion and going into voluntary exile ˙ there was no justification for the sultan to take action against his former clientele.62 Al-Na¯sir’s arrest and execution of both Asandamur al-Mansu¯rı¯ in 1321/ ˙ ˙ 721 and his own mamlu¯k, Husa¯m al-Dı¯n Tankiz, in 1341/740 were closely tied to ˙ the overexpansion of their clienteles; typically, though al-Na¯sir liquidated the ˙ two patrons he took no punitive action against the clienteles themselves.63 In part, too, al-Na¯sir’s leniency was conditioned by the tradition of self˙ imposed limitations on violence, reconfirmed most recently by the Mansu¯riyyah ˙ itself in the difficult years just prior to the beginning of his third reign in 1310/ 709. In 1307 – 08/707, for instance, members of al-Na¯sir’s kha¯ss had been accused ˙ ˙˙ by senior, especially Mansu¯rı¯ amirs of inciting al-Na¯sir to question their pre˙ ˙ rogatives of seniority. Though a relatively serious offense against the moral economy of the Mamluks, al-Na¯sir’s servitors were treated humanely and merely ˙ exiled temporarily to Syria.64 During the brief reign of the Mansu¯rı¯ amir Baybars ˙ al-Ja¯shnakı¯r as al-Malik al-Muzaffar Baybars a number of the Na¯siriyyah had ˙ ˙ defected from Cairo to Karak where their usta¯dh lived in exile. Though alMuzaffar publically denounced this as treasonable and charged the Na¯siriyyah ˙ ˙ with collusion (muwa¯ta’ah) against his regime, he was nevertheless careful in ˙ exacting retribution; Na¯sirı¯s who remained in Cairo suffered only arrest and loss ˙ of privilege.65 Al-Na¯sir himself rarely executed detainees, including even fractious Mansu¯rı¯ ˙ ˙ amirs. Few seem to have behaved so notoriously as not to be excused ultimately. The liquidation of al-Malik al-Muzaffar Baybars al-Ja¯shnakı¯r in 1310/709 was ˙ perhaps inevitable, though al-Na¯sir’s original idea was to pension him off with ˙ 66 the town of Sahyu¯n. Al-Muzaffar’s son-in-law, Sayf al-Dı¯n Burulghı¯ al-Ashrafı¯, ˙ ˙ who had been paid 30,000 dinars to lead the Egyptian army against al-Na¯sir, died ˙ in custody in 709/1310 as well.67 Sayf al-Dı¯n Salla¯r was granted as part of his ama¯n the fortress of Shawbak in exchange for his amirate in Egypt and was even considered for appointment as na¯’ib of Hama¯h ; his death in 1310/710 while in ˙ 61 Al-Fada¯’il, Histoire, 208. 62 Ibid., ˙225. 63 Al-Na¯sir apparently kept himself well informed about the formation of such clienteles, relying˙ probably on the many Coptic functionaries in his employ to monitor the diversion of revenues by prominent amirs in his administration to beef up their own clienteles, Ibn alDawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 395. 64 Al-Fada¯’il, Histoire, 133. ˙ al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 268b – 69a. 65 Baybars ˙ 66 Abu¯ al-Fida¯’, Mukhtas ar, 2: 57 – 58; al-Fada¯’il, Histoire, 167. ˙ 9: 180 – 8l. ˙ 67 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz,

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detention, however, was apparently self-induced and may have been a consequence anyway of his violation of the original terms of his ama¯n.68 Excessive partisanship seems to have sealed the fate of two other Mansu¯rı¯s. Manku¯timur ˙ al-Tabba¯khı¯, arrested during Baktimur al-Ju¯kanda¯r’s foiled coup of 1311/711, ˙ was executed because of his belligerent and unrepentant attitude.69 Ba¯nyaja¯r, who died in detention in 1316 – 17/716, had been similarly a man of partisanship ( asabiyyah)70 Asandamur al-Kurjı¯, executed in 1321/721, had refused to relin˙ quish his post as na¯’ib in Hama¯h; perhaps also held against him was the fact that ˙ he sported a dangerously large clientele of five hundred mama¯lik.71 Yet, careful as he was, al-Na¯sir could not always anticipate correctly the ˙ sensibilities of the elite on the issue of liquidating one of its members, even one of his own mama¯lı¯k, as he soon discovered when he brought to book his prot¦g¦, Sayf al-Dı¯n Tankiz al-Husa¯mı¯. Though Tankiz had alienated much of the senior ˙ umara¯’ while na¯’ib al-saltanah in Damascus, his execution in Alexandria in ˙ 1340/741 was still considered shocking (sa b) by the elite, some of whom ex˙ pected that Tankiz would receive mercy (sadaqah) from the sultan. Al-Na¯sir’s ˙ ˙ chief mamlu¯k, Sayf al-Dı¯n Qu¯su¯n al-Na¯sirı¯, felt compelled to register with al˙ ˙ Na¯sir the elite’s dissatisfaction with his decision. Still, the elimination of Tankiz ˙ had been an otherwise largely bloodless affair, only two of his client henchmen, long marked for retribution by the amirs of Damascus, were killed after him.72 Detention of course could be a serious punishment in its own light, at least for a few. The amir Jama¯l al-Dı¯n, na¯’ib of Karak, for instance, served almost three and one half years.73 The amir Baha¯dur al-Mu izzı¯, however, sat in jail more than fifteen years until his release in 1330/730.74 Yet, only one amir appears to have been specifically sentenced to imprisonment for life (khuld).75 The Citadel jail (jubb), the “place where the na¯s were detained,” apparently got sufficient use to warrant a major renovation between 1329/729 and 1331/731.76 One can only guess at the absolute numbers incarcerated by al-Na¯sir during his third reign, ˙ but the order of magnitude does not seem to have been very great. At the beginning of his reign in 1310/709 al-Na¯sir jailed about fifty amirs in the af˙ termath of the collapse of al-Muzaffar Baybars’ usurpation.77 More than thirty ˙ ˘

˘

Al-Fada¯’il, Histoire, 193 – 94, 196 – 97; Abu¯ al-Fida¯’, Mukhtasar, 2: 58, 60. ˙ Al-Fad˙ a¯’il, Histoire, 201. ˙ Al- Asqala¯nı¯, Durar, 1: 471. Ibid., 1: 376 – 77; Abu¯ al-Fida¯’, Mukhtasar, 2: 62 – 63. ˙ Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 84, 88, 94. Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 79a. ˙ Al-Fad a¯’il, Histoire, 45; Anonymous, Geschichte, 182. Safadı¯˙, Nuzhah, 78a. ˙ Anonymous, Geschichte, 180. Al-Fada¯’il, Histoire, 168 – 170. ˙ ˘

˘

68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77

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Al-Nasir Muhammad and the Rule of Niza¯m ˙ ˙ ˙

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years later, at the end of his own reign, numbers had not increased dramatically ; in 1341/741, the Citadel still held only about one hundred detainees.78 It is important to note that not all detainees were arrested for political reasons. Jama¯l al-Dı¯n Aqush al-Mansu¯rı¯, for instance, was jailed for marrying his African ˙ concubine.79 Baha¯dur al-Badrı¯ al-Na¯sirı¯ was arrested for rudeness to his ˙ khushda¯sh, the na¯’ib al-saltanah of Damascus, Tankiz.80 Aqbugha¯ Abd al-Wa¯hid ˙ ˙ al-Na¯sirı¯, one of al-Na¯sir’s own usta¯da¯r’s, was arrested for pilfering building ˙ ˙ ¯ lmas, was materials to adorn his madrasah.81 Another Na¯sirı¯ amir, Sayf al-Dı¯n A ˙ jailed for pig-farming, of all things, and selling the porkers to Christian merchants.82 Al-Na¯sir even had one of his own mama¯lı¯k jailed for brawling with a ˙ Qur’a¯n reciter (faqı¯h).83 Ultimately the real purpose of the Mamluk penal system was to rehabilitate as many offenders as possible, returning them to the political system as acceptable role partners. Most detainees, upon release, either had their rank and possessions restored or received some other suitable compensation. This included apparently even amirs who had been jailed for plotting to murder al-Na¯sir. The ˙ Mansu¯rı¯ amir, Ala¯qush, was jailed in 1324/724 for planning the assassination ˙ (fatk) of the sultan in the hippodrome (mayda¯n). He was released from a short detention with a rebuke and exiled to Damascus, where his rank as amir was restored.84 One of al-Na¯sir’s first acts as sultan in 1310/709, typically, was to free ˙ detained amirs and give them iqta¯ in Syria.85 The Mansu¯rı¯ amir, Jama¯l al-Dı¯n ˙ ˙ Aqush, for instance, was restored to his rank and possessions after his release from detention in 1315/715.86 Slightly early, in December 1314/Ramada¯n 714, al˙ Na¯sir had released and rewarded the very mob of Burjı¯ amirs who had been the ˙ root of all the conspiracies waged against him since 1309/708.87 In 1335/735 alNa¯sir released another large group of “detainees” (mu’taqalı¯n) from jail in ˙ Alexandria, including several Mansu¯rı¯ amirs, because he was concerned about ˙ their declining health. Upon release, one of these was made amir tablkha¯nah in ˙ Aleppo and another, a Mansu¯rı¯ amir, amı¯r tablkha¯nah in Damascus. The re˙ ˙ maining detainees were all granted iqta¯ s in Syria.88 In 1336 – 37/737 still more ˙ ˘

˘

˘

Anonymous, Geschichte, 220. Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 394. Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 13. Ibid., 27 – 28. Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 373 – 74. Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 14. Al- Asqala¯nı¯, Durar, 1:400. Al-Fada¯’il, Histoire, 169. ˙ Abu¯ al-Fida ¯ ’, Mukhtasar, 2: 77. Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 74b. ˙ ˙ al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 392 – 93. Ibn ˘

˘

78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88

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˘

amirs were released from detention in Alexandria, given honors and restored to their possessions.89 Incarceration was an effective social discipline only if offenders comprehended and accepted its sanction. Mamluk offenders during al-Na¯sir’s third ˙ reign proved surprisingly amenable to such punishment. There are few examples anyway of resistance to arrest. Arresting officers seem merely to have announced the routine charge – “Oh amı¯r, something has been heard against you regarding obedience to the sultan, namely that you have departed from it” – to take an individual into custody.90 Equally there are few examples of detainees attempting to escape from incarceration. This curious but ultimately necessary cooperation in social discipline is captured nicely in a contemporary incident. When a number of Na¯sirı¯s locked up in Alexandria staged a rare jail break (tahawwul al˙ ˙ sijn), one of their khushda¯shiyyah refused join in. The sultan, his usta¯dh, was so delighted by his decision to validate the discipline of incarceration that he immediately freed him and gave him “an excellent iqta¯ ” as benefit (ni mah) for ˙ obeying the rules of the game.91 This penal ‘revolving door’ policy, of course, had a purpose. To draw from one contemporary example, arrest-and-release “encouraged obedience from (the offender) and made him regret his insubordination.” Al-Na¯sir acted punitively ˙ against Mamluk offenders to underscore in their minds the separation between coercion, lit. the sword (sayf), for disobedience and benevolence (in a¯m) and a guarantee of security (ama¯n) for compliance which he was trying to draw in paramilitary elite society. It was perhaps the only practical way to circumvent recidivism, shun of the application of capital punishment, which was never popular among the Mamluks. And it seems to have had some meaningful success. Of the batch of amirs released in 1335/735, for instance, it was said that they were diligent (muwa¯zib) in their service to al-Na¯sir ever after.92 ˙ ˙ One other vehicle for demonstrating “corporatist” restraint used by al-Na¯sir ˙ was granting requests for intercession (shafa¯ ah) on behalf of petitioners, especially on behalf of detainees. Intercession for redress of grievance was in effect a de facto constitutional check on the sultan’s prerogative, including his power to punish members of the Mamluk establishment without review. The conduit for this interchange was normally the na¯’ib al-saltanah, who as malik al-umara¯’, ˙ represented to the ruler the grievances of the elite. Although al-Na¯sir eventually ˙ dispensed with the post of na¯’ib al-saltanah in Egypt after the reassignment of ˙ Arghu¯n al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯ to Aleppo, this important function seems to have continued ˘

˘

Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 5. Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 215 – 16. Ibid, 9: 300. Ibid, 9: 292, 392. ˘

89 90 91 92

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Al-Nasir Muhammad and the Rule of Niza¯m ˙ ˙ ˙

in the person of the amir ha¯jib, who served as spokesman (mutahaddith) for “the ˙ ˙ grievances of the elite” (shaka¯wa¯ al-na¯s).93 Intercession was apparently a universal phenomenon. In 1317/717 al-Na¯sir ˙ arrested one of his own khazinda¯rs but released him after only a couple of days and rewarded him owing apparently to intercession from friends who had been hiding him from the sultan.94 In 1327/727, Tankiz, al-Na¯sir’s powerful na¯’ib al˙ saltanah in Syria, interceded on behalf of two senior amirs of al-Na¯sir’s kha¯ss, ˙ ˙ ˙˙ who had been arrested by the sultan.95 Al-Na¯sir freed one of his own mama¯lı¯k ˙ from jail in Aleppo upon the intercession of his chief mamlu¯k amir, Sayf al-Dı¯n Qu¯su¯n, in 1337 – 38/738.96 In the same year he granted intercession for several ˙ members of the lowly halqah who had been arrested for appearing on parade ˙ improperly equipped.97 Even to civilian offenders, al-Na¯sir was willing to extend ˙ clemency (hilm). In 1327/727, for instance, a large number of arrests were made ˙ among local gangs (ahza¯b) involved in a fitnah in the city of Alexandria against ˙ its Mamluk mutawallı¯. Upon the intercession of local notables and the payment of a fine, al-Na¯sir released the offenders from jail.98 ˙ If unable to remit punishment totally, intercession could be used at least to modify more severe penalties. For instance, al-Na¯sir had been furious enough ˙ with his mamlu¯k, Baha¯dur al-Badrı¯, for insulting the na¯’ib al-saltanah, Husa¯m ˙ ˙ al-Dı¯n Tankiz, to order his tongue cut out. Despite strong personal feelings, alNa¯sir felt compelled to rescind the punishment when a number of Damascene ˙ amirs interceded on Baha¯dur’s behalf.99 Al-Na¯sir himself does not seem to have denied requests for intercession, even ˙ complicated or extravagant ones.100 Indeed, the granting of clemency upon such a petition seems to have been considered more or less de rigueur by the Mamluks as part of their political culture of rehabilitation. One of the main charges brought in l340/741 by al-Na¯sir against Husa¯m al-Dı¯n Tankiz, his own mamlu¯k ˙ ˙ and na¯’ib al-saltanah in Syria, was Tankiz’s refusal to grant a petition for in˙ tercession on behalf of one of his own mama¯lı¯k, jailed in Shawbak, who had petitioned al-Na¯sir through his favorite mamlu¯k, Qu¯su¯n al-Na¯sirı¯. Because this ˙ ˙ ˙ mamlu¯k was popular with the amirs, the sultan wrote continually to Tankiz Ibid, 9: 352. Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 84a-b. ˙ Anonymous, Geschichte, 178; al-Fada¯’il, Histoire, 36. ˙ Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 25. Ibid., 32. Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 342. Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 13. When he transferred a number of Na¯sirı¯ amirs from the province of Hama¯h to that of ˙ ˙ Aleppo, they petitioned him for compensation for their reassignment, which they considered inadequate. To grant their petition, al-Na¯sir had to redraw the territorial boundaries ˙ ¯ al-Fida¯’, Mukhtasar, 2: 71 – 72. between the provinces of Hama¯h and Aleppo, Abu ˙ ˙ ˘ ˘

93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100

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Al-Na¯sir’s Patronage of the Mansu¯riyyah ˙ ˙

requesting his release. When Tankiz refused to act on these numerous petitions for intercession, al-Na¯sir felt compelled to write directly to the na¯’ib of Shawbak ˙ ordering him to release Tankiz’s detained mamlu¯k.101 Of course, al-Na¯sir himself ˙ had recently learned that the consequences of defying a petition for intercession could be potentially very costly. In 1339/740, when his na¯zir al-kha¯ss, al-Nashu¯, ˙ ˙˙ refused to grant intercession to Na¯sirı¯ mamlu¯k amirs from his economizing ˙ measures, apparently with al-Na¯sir’s approval, they threatened to assassinate ˙ their usta¯dh.102

Al-Na¯sir’s Patronage of the Mansu¯riyyah ˙ ˙

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Lenient in his treatment of Mansu¯rı¯ offenders, al-Na¯sir also actively compen˙ ˙ sated the Mansu¯riyyah as a whole for its continuing loyalty to his regime. ˙ Sometimes he was able to combine the two. Al-Na¯sir made it a policy to redis˙ tribute some of what he confiscated from senior Mansu¯rı¯ amirs to more junior ˙ members of their khushda¯sh as patronage.103 More deliberate acts of patronage occurred as well. Amitai-Preiss’s own calculations show that almost as many Mansurı¯ as Na¯sirı¯ amirs held the ima¯rat alf in the immediate aftermath of the ˙ ˙ “remaking” of the elite in 1312/712; if one adds to that those who born held the ima¯rat alf and were mama¯lı¯k of Mansu¯rı¯ amirs, i. e. may have maintained some ˙ latent political solidary with the Mansu¯riyyah, Mansu¯rı¯ voices continued to be ˙ ˙ heard in the corridors of power long after the “remaking”:104 By the death of alNa¯sir thirty years later in 1341/741 the Na¯siriyyah were of course much more ˙ ˙ dominant, yet, at least two Mansu¯rı¯ amirs, Baybars al-Ahmadı¯ and Alam al-Dı¯n ˙ ˙ Sanjar al-Jawalı¯, were still listed as holders of the exclusive ima¯rat alf.105 Jawalı¯ was an interesting appointment since he had been very close apparently to Salla¯r, al-Na¯sir’s earliest nemesis.106 At least three other Mansu¯rı¯s, Sanjar al-Jamaqda¯r, ˙ ˙ Aqsunqur al-Sala¯rı¯ and Izz al-Dı¯n Aydamur al-Khatirı¯ al-Ru¯mı¯, seem to have ˙ enjoyed the same rank after 1312/712 as well.107 Mansu¯rı¯ amirs also continued to serve in important posts after 1312/712. ˙ Rukn al-Dı¯n Baybars al-Dawa¯da¯r was subsequently appointed na¯’ib al-saltanah ˙ ¯ s, another of Egypt; his replacement in 1317/717 was Sayf al-Dı¯n Baha¯dur A ˙ ˘

Al-Fada¯’il, Histoire, 93. ˙ ¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 60 – 63. Al-Shuja Ibid., 112 – 13. Amitai-Preiss, “The Remaking of the Military Elite of Mamlu¯k Egypt by al-Na¯sir Mu˙ hammad b. Qala¯wu¯n,” 149. ˙ 105 Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 111 – 12. 106 lbid., 275 – 76. 107 lbid., 274, 276; Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal (Paris) 2: 40a-b. ˘

101 102 103 104

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¯ s had earlier been entrusted by al-Na¯sir with the deMansu¯rı¯ amir. Baha¯dur A ˙ ˙ ˙ fense of Syria against his own khushda¯sh, Qara¯sunqur, and his Mongo1 allies in 1312/712.108 Timur al-Sa¯qı¯ retained the post of na¯’ib of Tripoli in 1312/712 despite the fact that many of his khushda¯shiyyah had been jailed, including Alktimur al-Sa¯qı¯, who would himself be appointed to an important military command in 1315/714.109 Sayf al-Dı¯n Balba¯n al-Turna¯, one of al-Na¯sir’s amir ˙ ˙ janda¯r, survived the purge to serve as na¯’ib of Safad.110 The Mansu¯rı¯ amir, Baktu¯t ˙ ˙ al-Qarama¯nı¯, was appointed na¯’ib of Rahbah, Qara¯sunqur’s former Syrian ˙ stronghold, in 1315/715.111 Rukn al-Dı¯n Baybars al-Ha¯jib became al-Na¯sir’s amı¯r ˙ ˙ akhu¯r before being elevated as ha¯jib; he also commanded the sensitive ex˙ pedition to conquer Yemen in 1325/725; he was made an amir in Aleppo and even served as na¯’ib al-saltanah in Damascus after Tankiz’s fall.112 Baybars al˙ Ahmadı¯ held the important court position of amir janda¯r up until al-Na¯sir’s ˙ 113 ˙ death. Aqsunqur al-Salla¯rı¯ held the post of na¯’ib of the cities of Safad, Gaza and ˙ finally even Egypt before being nominated by al-Na¯sir as senior aide-de-camp ˙ 114 ( awn) to his son, al-Na¯sir Ahmad. Sanjar al-Jawalı¯ became one of al-Na¯sir’s ˙ ˙ ˙ usta¯da¯r’s and na¯’ib of Gaza and Hama¯h.115 Jawalı¯ was replaced as na¯’ib of Gaza in ˙ 1320/720 by another Mansu¯rı¯ amir, Husa¯m al-Dı¯n La¯jı¯n al-Husa¯mı¯, who held the ˙ ˙ ˙ post for several years.116 Sayf al-Dı¯n Qartay held the post of na¯’ib of Hims and ˙ ˙ ˙ then, for almost a decade, Tripoli, until 1326/726;117 Qartay’s replacement as ˙ na¯’ib of Hims in 1316/716 was another Mansu¯rı¯ amir, Sayf al-Dı¯n Araqta¯y.118 Yet ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ another Mansu¯rı¯ amir, Jama¯l al-Dı¯n Aqush, received an appointment as na¯’ib of ˙ Tripoli as late as 1334/734; Aqush had earlier, in 1322/722, shared command of the important military expedition for the conquest of Aya¯s with his khushda¯sh, Sayf al-Dı¯n Kujkan al-Mansu¯rı¯.119 ˙ Indeed, Mansu¯rı¯ appointments after 1312/712 were apparently common ˙ enough that some nominees felt free to disdain them. In 1322/722, for instance, al-Na¯sir intended to appoint as na¯’ib of Safad, Sayf al-Dı¯n Baktimur Abu¯bakrı¯ al˙ ˙ Mansu¯rı¯, who had conducted the successful conquest of Malatyah in 1315/715. ˙ ˙ ˘

Al-Fada¯’ı¯l, Chronik, 2; Abu¯ al-Fida¯’, Mukhtasar, 2: 69 – 70. Safadı¯˙, Nuzhah, 68b, 75a; al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, ˙223. ˙ al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 265, 287; Safadı¯, Nuzhah, 69b. Ibn ˙ Abu¯ al-Fida¯’, Mukhtasar, 2: 77. ˙ Ibid., 2: 94; Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal (Paris), 2: 106a-b. Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 111. Ibid., 274. Ibid., 275 – 76; Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 265, 287, 297; al-Fada¯’ı¯l, Chronik, 9. ˙ Ibid., 11, 21, 44. Ibid., 1, 9, 20, 34; Abu¯ al-Fida¯’ , Mukhtasar, 4: 80. ˙ Ibid., 4: 80. Ibn Abı¯ al-Fada¯’ı¯l, Chronik, 56, 17. Kujkan al-Mansu¯rı¯ had earlier been given the sensitive command in ˙1320/720 of suppressing the restless˙ and powerful Arab amir, Sulayman b. Muhanna¯, Ibid., 10. ˘

108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119

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Baktimur, however, incautiously criticized the importance of his new assignment. Instead of going to Safad as governor, he was jailed in Alexandria by the ˙ enraged sultan.120 Interesting too, mama¯lı¯k of Mansu¯rı¯ amirs recruited by al-Na¯sir enjoyed great ˙ ˙ prominence in his regime. Many mama¯lı¯k of Balba¯n al-Tabba¯khı¯, for instance, ˙ rose to high rank in al-Na¯sir’s dawlah, one as na¯’ib of Syria and another as na¯’ib ˙ of Aleppo.121 Altunqush, a mamlu¯k of the renegade Aqush al-Afram, was even ˙ appointed usta¯dda¯r to al-Na¯sir’s son, Abu¯ Bakr.122 ˙ Al-Na¯sir’s cascade of patronage was not limited to Mansu¯rı¯ amirs and their ˙ ˙ mama¯lı¯k; he is said to have recognized the offspring (nita¯j) of the Mansu¯riyyah ˙ 123 as well . This seems to have meant that he permitted either the heritability of an amir’s rank and wealth by his son or granted his offspring rank in recognition of his father’s position. Sato¯ has maintained that this included, at least in Syria, inheritance of iqta¯ s.124 There are examples of this as far back as the reign of alZa¯hir Baybars, but it may have been al-Na¯sir Muhammad who formalized the ˙ ˙ ˙ patronage of amiral offspring. Certainly there are a noteworthy number of examples from al-Na¯sir’s third reign, including several among Mansu¯rı¯ heirs. Both ˙ ˙ the son, Na¯sir al-Dı¯n, and grandson, Jama¯l al-Dı¯n, of Husayn al-Dı¯n Turuntay al˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ Mansu¯rı¯, al-Ashraf Khalı¯l’s na¯’ib al-saltanah, were amirs of ten and tablkha¯nah. ˙ ˙ ˙ Al-Malik al- Adil Kitbugha¯’s son, Kama¯l al-Dı¯n, died in 1343/744 as an amir of ten, a rank inherited in turn by his son, Ahmad. The son of Mankutimur, al˙ Malik al-Mansu¯r La¯jı¯n’s na¯’ib al-saltanah of Egypt, was an amı¯r tablkha¯nah by ˙ ˙ ˙ the time of his death in 1338 – 39/739. The son of Balaba¯n Turna¯ al-Mansu¯rı¯, ˙ ˙ Khalı¯l, was made amı¯r tablkha¯nah in Syria. Ala¯’ al-Dı¯n Alı¯, the son of Izz al-Dı¯n ˙ Aydamur al-Khat¯ırı¯ al-Ru¯mı¯ al-Mansu¯rı¯, was also an amir tablkha¯nah by the ˙ ˙ ˙ time of his death in 1339/740; also elevated to an amirate was Alı¯’s brother, Muhammad. Jaraktimur, whose father, Baha¯du¯r, had been Qala¯wu¯n’s ra’ı¯s al˙ nubah of the Mansu¯riyyah, received double promotion from amir of 10 to amir ˙ tablkha¯nah by his death in 742/1341 – 42. Even the son of al-Na¯sir’s notorious ˙ ˙ na¯’ib al-saltanah, Sayf al-Dı¯n Salla¯r al-Mansu¯rı¯, Ali b. Salla¯r, was made an amı¯r ˙ ˙ tablkha¯nah; his son, Khalı¯l, in turn inherited the rank.125 ˙ Alı¯ b. Salla¯r’s case is especially illustrative of the transparent political purpose behind these elevations. Alı¯ was nominated for rank by the powerful Na¯sirı¯ amir, ˙ Qu¯su¯n, merely because Qu¯su¯n wanted the support of the senior amirs, including ˙ ˙ ˘

˘

˘

˘

˘

˘

˘

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Ibid., 17; Abu¯ al-Fida¯’, Mukhtasar, 2: 74. ˙ Safadı¯, Wa¯fı¯, 19: 282. ˙ Al-Fad a¯’il, Chronik, 99. ˙ ¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 115. Al-Shuja Sato¯, “The Evolution of the Iqta¯ System under the Mamluks,” 123. Anonymous, Geschichte, 205, ˙317; al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 56, 89, 95, 121, 220, 223, 266; al-Fada¯’ı¯l, ˙ Chronik, 36; Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal (Paris), 2: 40a-b. ˘

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120 121 122 123 124 125

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presumably Mansu¯rı¯ amirs who were of course the khushda¯shiyyah of Alı¯’s ˙ father. This suggests of course that the Mansu¯riyyah was still viewed as an ˙ important if not perhaps dominant factor in politics after 1312/712. Certainly there seems to have been no real qualification for elevating offspring. Qu¯su¯n, for ˙ instance, merely inquired if the boy, Alı¯, possessed sufficient righteousness 126 (sala¯h) to be an amir. By rewarding the nita¯j of the umara¯’, perhaps better ˙ ˙ known later as awla¯d al-na¯s, al-Na¯sir’s regime was seeking not only to broaden ˙ but deepen, generationally, ties of patronage and solidary within the elite as a whole. And, indeed, other non-Mansu¯rı¯ offspring were elevated or allowed to ˙ inherit as well.127 The sanctioning of heritability, however, seems to have gotten out of hand by the end of al-Na¯sir’s reign sufficiently to cause him to reform the ˙ practice. In February 1341/Ramada¯n 741 al-Na¯sir commissioned his naqı¯b al˙ ˙ jaysh, Badr al-Dı¯n Bakta¯sh al-Na¯sirı¯, to investigate the problem of sick, blind and ˙ disabled iqta¯ holders ceding their place in the army diwa¯n to their children or ˙ other kin.128 ˘

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Al-Na¯sir and the Na¯siriyyah ˙ ˙

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Not surprisingly, al-Na¯sir’s own mama¯lı¯k and kha¯ss also seem to have enjoyed ˙ ˙˙ the privilege of heritability. When the amir Tu¯ghanjaq, a relative of the powerful ˙ Qu¯su¯n al-Na¯sirı¯, died in 1338/738, his son Duqmaq took his rank of amı¯r tabl˙ ˙ ˙ kha¯nah. The amir Tayirbugha¯, whose daughter had married al-Na¯sir’s son, ˙ ˙ Ibrahim, had his ima¯rat alf subdivided on his death in 738/1338 between his two sons; one became an amı¯r tablkha¯nah and the other an amir of ten. The son of al˙ Na¯sir’s amı¯r shika¯r, Ku¯jarı¯, was made an amir of ten. The son of Baktimur al˙ Husa¯mı¯ was made amir of 10 as well. When Altunbugha¯ was recalled as na¯’ib al˙ ˙ saltanah of Aleppo because of friction with Tankiz, al-Na¯sir softened the blow by ˙ ˙ making his son, Muhammad, an amir tablkha¯nah in Aleppo. Even Ahmad, the ˙ ˙ ˙ son of the same Aqbugha¯ Abd al-Wa¯h¯ıd jailed by al-Na¯sir for vandalizing his ˙ ˙ buildings, qualified as an amir of ten. Ala¯’ al-Dı¯n al-Tabba¯khı¯, al-Na¯sir’s amı¯r ˙ ˙ akhu¯r and the mamlu¯k originally of the Mansu¯rı¯ amir, Balaba¯n al-Tabba¯khı¯, had ˙ ˙ all four of his sons elevated to amirates in either Aleppo or Damascus.129 Altunbugha¯, one of al-Na¯sir’s usta¯da¯r’s and originally a mamlu¯k of another ˙ ˙ Mansu¯rı¯ amir, the notorious al-Afram, was succeeded in his rank and position by ˙ ˘

˘

126 Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 220. 127 Anonymous, Geschichte, 154, 217; al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 32, 54, 66, 92; al- Asqala¯nı¯, Durar, 1: 394. 128 Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 97 – 98. 129 Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal (Paris) 2: 37a-b; al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 250 – 51. ˘

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his son, Ibrahim.130 When Na¯sir al-Din, the son of al-Na¯sir’s former na¯’ib al˙ ˙ saltanah in Egypt, Arghu¯n al-Dawa¯da¯r, died he was not only an amir but con˙ sidered a “senior amir.”131 Al-Na¯sir also extended this heritability to other close kin of his mamlu¯k or ˙ kha¯ss amirs. Yalbugha¯ al-Yahya¯wı¯, for instance, saw his father made an amı¯r ˙ ˙˙ tablkha¯nah.132 Al-Na¯sir was sometimes even pressured to make concessions to ˙ ˙ kin. Al-Na¯sir granted, for instance, to the brother of Baktimur al-Ruknı¯ al-Sa¯qı¯, ˙ originally a mamlu¯k of al-Muzaffar Baybars, an ima¯rat alf after being badgered ˙ by Baktimur’s daughter ; she had married the sultan’s son, Anu¯k, and so was the sultan’s daughter-in-law.133 Despite the technically ascriptive nature of the Mamluk political system, al-Na¯sir was obviously keen to exploit kinship as a way ˙ of reinforcing more traditional ties of loyalty with members of his mamlu¯k corps and kha¯ss. Apparently it was a case of the more marriage ties the better. Though ˙˙ we are better informed about al-Na¯sir’s use of his many sons, he equally em˙ ployed the distaff side of his family. The sultan married eight of his daughters to his most intimate clients. One ex-wife married two Na¯sirı¯ amirs in succession ˙ and finally the son of a third. The exploitation of daughters to solidify political ties with clients was not restricted to the royal household. The amir Shams al-Dı¯n Sunqur al-Nu¯rı¯, for instance, married five of his thirteen daughters to his own mama¯lı¯k.134 Al-Na¯sir may even have attempted to sink kinship roots as far down as the ˙ lowly halqah. One of his maternal aunts anyway was given in marriage to a ˙ halqah commander.135 Al-Na¯sir also seems to have made some provision for the ˙ ˙ children of halqah soldiery as well. As early as 1312/711 he provided for the ˙ children of dead soldiers and by 1330/730 was distributing iqta¯ s to them.136 ˙ Al-Na¯sir’s cultivation of the entire elite of course helped to make him less ˙ reliant on the backing of his own mama¯lı¯k, the Na¯siriyyah, for survival. Indeed, ˙ Amitai-Preiss has observed al-Na¯sir intentionally sought support from other ˙ sectors of the elite precisely as “a counter-balance to the influence and power of his own mamlu¯ks.”137 Al-Na¯sir’s relations with the Na¯siriyyah certainly were no ˙ ˙ more secure than between any usta¯dh and his mama¯lı¯k in the early Mamluk state. Loyalty was for hire, driven by the reciprocal exchange between patron and Ibid., 276. Abu¯ al-Fida¯’, Mukhtasar, 2: 95. Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 33,˙ 41, 45, 49, 50. Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal (Paris), 86a – 88a. Anonymous, Geschichte, 184, 199, 216, 218; al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 111; al-Fada¯’ı¯l, Chronik, 63. ˙ Anonymous, Geschichte, 218. Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 237 – 38, 353. Amitai-Preiss, “The Remaking of the Military Elite of Mamlu¯k Egypt by al-Na¯sir Mu˙ hammad b. Qala¯wu¯n,” 160. ˙ ˘

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130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137

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client. Moreover, the Na¯siriyyah were ready to stand on their collective right to ˙ subsist before all other ideological considerations. During the final days of alMuzaffar Baybars many Na¯sirı¯s had defected from Cairo back to their usta¯dh in ˙ ˙ Karak causing Baybars great anxiety (qalaq). To staunch this embarrassing outflow al-Muzaffar proposed increasing his patronage of those members of the ˙ Na¯siriyyah prepared to remain loyal and stay in Egypt. The Na¯siriyyah seemed at ˙ ˙ least receptive to the offer ; only the sudden news of al-Na¯sir’s march on Cairo ˙ seems to have prevented some deal being cut between the Mansu¯rı¯ ruler and the ˙ Na¯siriyyah. Even so, Baybars did turn over the revenue assignment (khubz) ˙ confiscated from jailed Na¯sirı¯s to other members of their khushda¯shiyyah.138 ˙ Solidary could fracture just as easily along horizontal lines as vertical ones; sometimes they could fracture simultaneously. Al-Muzaffar Baybars subsequent treatment at the hands of his own mama¯lı¯k ˙ could only have reinforced in al-Na¯sir’s mind the hazards of violating the moral ˙ economy of one’s own mama¯lı¯k. After stepping down from power in Cairo, alMuzaffar had been sent to Sahyu¯n where he decided to break parole, flee to the ˙ ˙ Hija¯z and then make his way to Yemen. When Baybars’ mama¯lı¯k learned about ˙ this wild adventure, they not only refused to follow their usta¯dh into exile but plotted to murder and plunder him. Only a timely warning from his fellow jailbird, Baybars al-Dawa¯da¯r, saved al-Muzaffar Baybars from his own criminous ˙ mama¯lı¯k.139 No doubt the Muzaffariyyah viewed their usta¯dh’s impolitic deci˙ sion as a threat to their prospects of rehabilitation in al-Na¯sir’s new regime. In ˙ the event, al-Na¯sir does not seem to have denied his own mama¯lı¯k much; to the ˙ contrary, he readily acceded to whatever whim (kha¯tir) they might express.140 ˙ Near the end of al-Na¯sir’s reign his chief mamlu¯k amir, Sayf al-Dı¯n Bashta¯k al˙ Na¯sirı¯, was prepared to reveal quite unselfconsciously to al-Na¯sir’s son, Prince ˙ ˙ Ahmad, the basis of their loyalty to their usta¯dh. The Na¯siriyyah followed al˙ ˙ Na¯sir because each member had enjoyed prosperity (sa a¯dah) and lived a ˙ comfortable life in his employ.141 Yet, liberality does not seem to have always guaranteed to al-Na¯sir the de˙ votion of his mama¯lı¯k. In 1332/732, for instance, while al-Na¯sir was on hajj his ˙ ˙ mama¯lı¯k mutinied. They decided his patronage (ni mah) now seemed inadequate and declared themselves free (bira¯’) of further obligation to him until their claims were settled; to underscore their demands, some began to plunder the royal camp. Though the rioters were arrested, in the end they received the ˘

Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Zubdah, 268b – 69a; Abu¯ al-Fida¯’, Mukhtasar, 2: 56. ˙ Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯˙, Kanz, 9: 197. Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 112. Ibid., 48 – 49. ˘

138 139 140 141

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gratification (qada¯’) they desired from al-Na¯sir without further disciplinary ˙ ˙ actions.142 In 1339/740 al-Na¯sir’s mama¯lı¯k again threatened him, this time with death, ˙ for failing to punish adequately his na¯zir al-kha¯ss, al-Nashu¯, for inflicting ˙ ˙˙ degradation (hawa¯n) upon them, i. e. restricting royal patronage to them. The Na¯siriyyah assumed that anyone who interfered with their patronage was prima ˙ facie an opponent (khasm) also of the sultan himself. Al-Na¯sir, because of in˙ ˙ creasing financial problems, did not quite see things their way. Though he arrested al-Nashu¯ because of “the desires (khawa¯tir) of the amirs of his ma˙ ma¯lı¯k”, secretly al-Na¯sir continued to protect his minister. The Na¯siriyyah then ˙ ˙ bluntly warned their usta¯dh that his dawlah would be endangered if al-Nashu¯ were released from prison. Eventually the sultan learned that some of his mama¯lı¯k had put out a contract on his life. Al-Na¯sir turned Cairo upside down in a ˙ panicked search for the hired bowman, and a complete prohibition against the sale of archery equipment was issued in the capital. Al-Na¯sir felt such dread ˙ (khashyah) of his mama¯lı¯k that he hid out in the Citadel, terrified even to venture into the adjacent mayda¯n to play polo. Finally in Rabı¯ I/October al-Na¯sir ˙ cracked under the pressure brought by his mama¯lı¯k and ordered al-Nashu¯’s execution.143 Al-Na¯sir’s inability to nip this rebellion reflects again on the always compli˙ cated nature of the usta¯dh-mamlu¯k relationship in the early Mamluk state. The firestorm created by al-Nashu¯’s economizing with al-mama¯lı¯k al-sulta¯niyyah ˙ inclined al-Na¯sir initially to punish those of his household officers inciting the ˙ protest. However, al-Na¯sir’s two most powerful mamlu¯k amirs, Qu¯su¯n and ˙ ˙ Bashta¯k, strongly advised their usta¯dh against such a course, in effect warning him that, “… he discredits rulership (mulk) who oppresses his servants (ghilma¯n).” Qu¯su¯n and Bashta¯k represented in particular the amirs of al-Na¯sir’s ˙ ˙ kha¯ss, who felt al-Nashu¯’s economizing with their benefits to be pure iniquity ˙˙ (zulm). When another of al-Na¯sir’s intimate mama¯lı¯k, Yalbugha¯, again warned ˙ ˙ him to rescind al-Nashu¯’s financial measures against his amirs, the sultan demurred, claiming al-Nashu¯’s actions had been beneficial to the overall economy of his regime. Yalbugha¯ replied menacingly to his usta¯dh: “By God, brother, he has harmed you far more than he has helped you.”144 What seems to have brought the whole rebellion to a head was al-Nashu¯’s rejection, apparently with al-Na¯sir’s ˙ tacit agreement, of requests by the Na¯siriyyah for intercession against these ˙ economizing measures, which they viewed as incompatible with their already highly elevated rank and status.

˘

142 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 370. 143 Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 60 – 63. 144 Ibid., 53 – 54, 60.

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Al-Nasir Muhammad and the Rule of Niza¯m ˙ ˙ ˙

The ferocious defense of their subsistence put up by the Na¯siriyyah against ˙ their usta¯dh invokes again the curious paradox of the V-curve hypothesis. It was a rare despotism, indeed, which found its greatest challenge from its own most privileged supporters. If al-Na¯sir were a despot, as many modern observers ˙ appear to think, few contemporary Mamluks or their chroniclers seem to have noticed. It is in fact unlikely that al-Na¯sir, or any Mamluk sultan, ever honed his ˙ crude security apparatus to the degree obtained among “modern etatist sultanates”; in our modern appreciation of, say, President Assad’s sara¯ya¯ al-difa¯’ we are probably projecting too much back onto al-Na¯sir capabilities or even in˙ tentions.

Conclusion The contemporary Mamluk chronicler, Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, hailed al-Na¯sir Mu˙ hammad’s third reign as a new age, the beginning of the end of seven centuries of ˙ unremitting fitnah in Islamic civilization. Yet, al-Na¯sir had only followed the ˙ examples of many of his immediate predecessors in supporting a sociopolitical system which militated against the sort of unregulated factional disorder which could fission the Mamluk state into a pre-state condition. Al-Na¯sir’s inheritance ˙ was the concept of the sultan as gatekeeper rather than autocrat, as mediator to a system based on access to benefits and rotation of power according to seniority. The preservation and proper regulation of this vast network of state patronage formed, along with techniques of conflict resolution, the basis of the constitutional order (niza¯m) in which every Mamluk was, to one degree or another, a ˙ stakeholder. Like his two great predecessors, al-Na¯sir understood how to keep ˙ the circular flow of communication with his elite open in order to preserve the integration of organization and distribution of resources – the structure of social power – among the Mamluks. Whatever coercive measures al-Na¯sir may have ˙ been obliged to take, notably against his father’s mama¯lı¯k, the Mansu¯riyyah, ˙ were taken to protect niza¯m; moreover, he sanctioned individual dissidents ˙ rather than the age class as a whole. It was al-Na¯sir’s cultivation rather than ˙ alienation of the sense of moral economy among the elite as a whole, including its Mansu¯rı¯ elements, which most affected favorably the longevity of his dawlah. ˙ Al-Na¯sir’s role as mediator was of course facilitated by the transactional and ˙ risk-averse nature of the Mamluk elite itself, which often compromised the gratuitous moral unity of horizontal solidary. Even the Mansu¯riyyah demon˙ strated how unprepared it was to uphold blindly bonds of khushda¯shiyyah against the niza¯m of the state. Like everyone else, most Mansu¯rı¯’s feared the ˙ ˙ potential of an uncontrollable fitnah turning into genuine civil war, with all its risks to the unity and, indeed, survival of state structure. Indeed, fitnah during

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al-Na¯sir’s third reign highlighted intra-khushda¯shiyyah tensions and rivalries as ˙ much as inner-khushda¯shiyyah ones; yet this was a characteristic of social action going back to the foundation of the early Mamluk state. Al-Na¯sir’s reign, like ˙ those before, demonstrated the ability of the macrostructural concept of niza¯m ˙ to affect microsocial practices, in respect particularly to the interactionism of structured violence and the regulation of exchange. The rightness of a constitutional order seems to have finally transcended, both pragmatically and ideologically, in the minds of most of the Mamluk ruling elite acceptance of the sort of arbitrary forms of sociopolitical action of a century before. Among early Mamluk sultans al-Na¯sir showed himself a serious student and, ˙ indeed, practitioner of niza¯mı¯ government, though he was perhaps no better an ˙ exponent than either his father, Qala¯wu¯n, or uncle, Baybars. Even the so-called “usurpers” who preceded al-Na¯sir’s third reign, such as Kitbugha¯ or Baybars al˙ Ja¯shnakı¯r, showed more consciousness and even acceptance of niza¯m than they ˙ might otherwise have been credited with. Even an ambitious trimmer like La¯ju¯n understood at least the tactical importance if not the rightness of niza¯m; though ˙ he often shamelessly manipulated constitutional politics he did not, until the end of his career, overtly challenge its groundrules. Al-Na¯sir Muhammad’s ˙ ˙ cousin, al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd, as well as his own brother, al-Ashraf Khalı¯l, failed because they allowed themselves to be portrayed, fairly or unfairly, by challengers as opponents of niza¯m, that is to say, as despots. The same fate might well ˙ have overtaken al-Na¯sir except that he repeatedly seized the initiative in defining ˙ himself as perhaps its greatest exponent. Mediating the dynamic equilibrium of a balance-of-power system through constitutional practices and reacting constructively to negative feedback through techniques of conflict resolution were key elements of that self-definition. Al-Na¯sir Muhammad ended his reign as his ˙ ˙ uncle, al-Za¯hir Baybars, had once begun his, focused on the problem of how best ˙ to manage social conflict among the Mamluks in Syro-Egypt in order to ensure their survival as a credible statist ruling elite.

Chapter 8 – Conclusion

With the recent shift away from the nation-state back once more toward the state itself has come a revival of interest in the core element of statist polities – the armed bureaucrat. This paramilitary elite is an important focus of historical as well as modern analysis since many polities in the modern developing world have a long and important heritage derived from pre-colonial sociopolitical structures. With regard to the modern Arab state, Be’eri has already suggested an important historic link between the modern Arab military elite and the precolonial statist system of late medieval Mamluk Syro-Egypt. This statist reorientation, moreover, coincides with an emerging literature on the theory of the modern Arab state in which scholars have begun to question historicist assumptions about Muslim political structures as inherently simplistic, unstable or even chaotic. Unhappily, no such seriousness has been shown with regard to the pre-modern state in the Middle East. In the case of late medieval Syro-Egypt, scholars have largely confused the Mamluk state with its externalized military structure, its so-called “military institution” despite the fact that the Mamluks themselves were a militaristic rather than military elite. Moreover, routine Orientalist assumptions about organic anarchic tendencies within such ruling elites have obfuscated the coherent and stabilizing, if informal, sociopolitical organization of the Mamluk state. Subsumed under the problematic of Oriental despotism, study of the Mamluk state has been mostly shrugged off as a tertiary, even unnecessary pathology. The essential structure of the late medieval Syro-Egyptian state remains unknown – a “black box” whose mechanisms and codes of sociopolitical action have been largely unobserved by scholars because they are thought to be largely unobservable. Scholars have observed correctly, however, that social conflict was an important feature of Mamluk elite society ; indeed, M. Chamberlain has recently characterized it as an “‘inescapable environment’”.1 The Mamluk state was, 1 Michael Chamberlain, Knowledge and Social Practice in Medieval Damascus, 1190 – 1350 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 8.

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certainly, a conflict-oriented society, yet scholars have failed to explain how social conflict, particularly among the ruling elite, shaped its early formation. Moreover, they have been unable to identify and demonstrate the reciprocating micro-macrosocial processes by which social conflict was itself structured. Chamberlain’s stress on microsocial “practices,” for instance, essentially ignores the importance of macrostructural constraints. Yet, the purpose of modern social theory is not to reify agency over structure but, as D. Shalin has observed, demonstrate the individual as both “product and producer of society.”2 Of course, understanding how conflict-oriented societies in general may have cohered and operated historically has been a difficult proposition to tackle until fairly recently owing to the lingering historical materialist and structuralfunctionalist hold on social theory. General theories which rely on class solidary or emergence have little capacity for explaining the microstructural dynamics of social conflict. The general retreat, however, from social idealization and determinism has led to a gradual revision of social theory, one which has attempted to incorporate rather than deny dynamic aspects of human agency. One of the results has been the application of systems analysis as an interpretive framework for state formation. Political life can be seen as a system in which internal stress is mediated through a continuous flow of communication among its members – a “feedback loop.” Microconflict of interests are restrained and balanced by some mediating entity seeking, ultimately, the survival of state structure; resistance becomes a form of non-verbal communication; rebellion becomes a form of negative feedback attempting to adapt internal relationships of power. Rather than homeostasis, systems analysis suggests a dynamic equilibrium constantly driving social action. In the systems thinking of social scientists such as Cohen, Kaplan, Klapper and especially Easton one possesses a significant improvement on the static coercion/integration teleology of traditional state formation theory. Systems theory, indeed, has already begun to have some impact on thinking at least about modern Arab state formation. Zartman’s “dynamic theory of stability” and Bianchi’s concept of “corporatism” both embody the anticipation and conversion of social tensions and conflict into forms of social action which maintain modern Middle Eastern state structures. History shares with political sociology and social archaeology the need to model the structural dynamics of human organization – the operation of dominance, submission, resistance and rehabilitation – yet historians have been reluctant to analyze these processes in any important way. Mamluk Syro-Egypt is perhaps only typical of that neglect. Indeed, Ayalon, the founder of Mamluk studies, has recently conceded that both 2 D. Shalin, “Pragmatism and Social Interaction,” American Sociological Review 51 (1986), 26.

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the “structure” and “institutions” of the Mamluk sultanate remain “insufficiently known.” Yet, to some degree this ignorance has been self-imposed. The Mamluk state has been labelled alternatively as either an anarchy or a despotism, in any event, a place where members of the ruling elite struggled compulsively for total dominance rather than negotiated rationally for outcomes preservative of state structure. Neither the late medieval Syro-Egyptian state nor any other state is unlikely to be understood so long as its sociopolitical processes are considered idiosyncratic rather than structural. The search for “institutions” as such, as advocated by Ayalon, seems misguided, however. Lapidus has already suggested that urban politics in Mamluk Syro-Egypt was derived from “overlapping and crisscrossing relationships” rather than from “institutions.” Chamberlain has supported this position recently, claiming that “households” rather than “institutions” were the centers of social power.3 Certainly, study of the Mamluk military “institution,” despite its intensity, has yielded little insight into the Mamluk state itself. Attention to the formal structure of the Mamluk army seems misplaced in any case since military conquest does not seem to have lain square in the dynamic of Mamluk state formation. Even Ayalon, doyen of the study of the Mamluk military “institution,” has admitted as much. The Mamluks, according to Ayalon, lacked the necessary “spirit” for such military expansionism.4 Ayalon’s reference to “structure” is, however, more apposite. Indeed, if we are to continue to study the Mamluk “military institution” at all, it must be as a political community operating through informal networks and codes of interpersonal behavior rather than as a formalized war-making apparatus. For communication among members of the ruling paramilitary elite, based on microsocial processes of symbolic interaction and exchange, was the dynamic of Mamluk politics; indeed, the capacity of the elite to pattern these microsocial behaviors over time held the key to replication or change in the Mamluk sociopolitical system generally. However, while much of the energy of the political system was microstructural, these microprocesses were in turn affected importantly by macrosocial constraints of moral economy and constitutional order, which determined their legitimacy and limited, especially, the degree and form of social conflict among the Mamluk ruling elite. This reciprocation largely defined the process of early Mamluk state formation, for it allowed the various patron-leaders and their client-retainers to transform themselves into a stable ruling elite, that is, an elite capable of reducing the cost of their politics to a level

3 Chamberlain, Knowledge and Social Practice in Medieval Damascus, 8. 4 David Ayalon, “Mamlu¯kı¯yat: A First Attempt to Evaluate the Mamlu¯k Military System,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 2 (1980), 332 – 33.

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which allowed them to satisfy their collective subsistence needs without threatening the integrity of the state itself. Indeed, this study has suggested that the early Mamluks developed and sustained a coherent and efficient system of political interaction based on a universal though hierarchical access to resources among the ruling elite. The capacity of Baybars, his immediate successors, and their ruling elites to maintain in this way a dialectic of organization and distribution of resources demonstrates that the Mamluks were capable, as Giddens and Mann have said, of structuring social power. Like the Latin American caudillaje, the Mamluk state, despite “its chaotic appearance, … was a true political system, an organized effort on the part of competing groups to determine who got what, when and where.”5 It was a patronate, a vast clientelistic structure devised to mediate the downward flow of patronage and the upward flow of loyalty on the basis of dyadic or two-party exchange, i. e. service (khidmah) for benefit (ni mah). The Mamluk state was, in short, a patronage “machine,” founded by al-Za¯hir Baybars in the ˙ 1260s on the basis of his experience of the failures of various Syro-Egyptian regimes in the 1250s. Baybars’ immediate predecessors, relying on arbitrary violence and patronage, were unable to create an effective feedback loop by which social power could be structured among their diverse paramilitary elites. In many ways Baybars’ establishment of a universal patronage state was a natural solution to the problem of unifying and at the same time controlling a paramilitary elite drawn from diverse backgrounds. For, as Scott has observed about the modern urban patronage “machine,” the early Mamluk state was “a flexible institution that could accommodate new groups and leaders in highly dynamic situations … reconcile competing ethnic and particularistic claims … ” “Machine politics” is especially good at integrating “transitional populations” of immigrants who, drawn from different places and circumstances, are unable to relate well to society except through “material selfinterest…(which) provides the necessary political cement …. (and) represents an alternative to violence in managing conflict.” As Scott has evocatively concluded: …the urban ‘machine’ … managed in immigrant-choked cities to fashion a cacophony of concrete, parochial demands into a system of rule that was at once reasonably effective and legitimate.”6 To a founding ruler like al-Za¯hir Baybars, grappling with the social ˙ management of both free-born and mamlu¯k, indigenous and wafdı¯ amirs and their retinues, universal “machine” patronage was perhaps all but inevitable. By cultivating the sensibilities and needs of the elite rather than alienating them – making them stakeholders in his regime – Baybars significantly reduced the 5 Wolf and Hansen, “Caudillo Politics,” 177. 6 James C. Scott, “Corruption, Machine Politics, and Political Change,” American Political Science Review 63 (1969): 1142 – 58.

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transaction cost of the political system, helping to ensure for the immediate future its own structural replication.7 Hitherto, of course, scholars have interpreted Mamluk social action in terms of other, more idealized forms of solidary. Though acknowledging, for instance, the importance of vertical ties of clientage between a master and his mamlu¯k, scholars still cling largely to a view of fidelity based on gratuitous ties of juvenile affection. Mamluks are widely believed to have been socialized as youths into habitual altruistic patterns of behavior by virtue of a personal, moral association with their a master (usta¯dh). These patterns of behavior were collective as well. The horizontal solidary provided by either comradeship in bondage (khushda¯shiyyah) or ethnicity (jinsiyyah) are generally held to have been equally important in shaping sociopolitical action among the Mamluk ruling elite. Indeed, khushda¯shiyyah has often been used as a common denominator by which to reduce nearly all political interaction to a predictable norm. Yet, like the vertical relationship between mamlu¯k and usta¯dh, the horizontal solidary of khushda¯shiyyah was ultimately underpinned by exchange relations. In this regard at least, late medieval Middle Eastern polities may not have differed much from their medieval Western counterparts. As Jacques Heers has observed about political life in medieval Europe: “‘Vertical’ lines played a determinant role in political and social activity.”8 However, khushda¯shiyyah did fulfill an important purpose as an age-class system, a mechanism which helped regulate in a largely non-ascriptive society the distribution and rotation of power based on seniority. More vaguely, scholars have invoked ethnicity (jinsiyyah) as an organizing principle for horizontal social action. Almost certainly the members of the Mamluk ruling elite maintained some appreciation of their diverse ethnic heritage; even marginal social groups such as the Copts appear to have manifested a certain ethnic solidary as a civilian administrative elite.9 Indeed, state formation theories in the past have often relied on the concept of stratified ethnic conflict as a central feature of their explanation. Examples of ethnic antagonism fueling political action in the early Mamluk state, however, are few and unpersuasive. Moreover, as Enloe, Hechter, Sandbrook and others have stressed, ethnic stratification is too dynamic to guarantee necessarily collective political action. Indeed, the very structure of a sociopolitical system can alter the impact of 7 Williamson, “The Economics of Organization,” 574. 8 Jacques Heers, Parties and Political Life in the Medieval West, trans. David Nicholas (Amsterdam and New York: Nord-Holland Publishing Company, 1977), 115. 9 The Coptic scribes in the dı¯wa¯n al-insha¯’ identified in terms of their jins, Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 363. See also, Donald Richards, “The Coptic Bureaucracy under the Mamluks,” Colloque international sur l’histoire du Caire. 27 Mars – 5 Avril 1969, ed. Andr¦e Assabgui et al. (Cairo: Ministry of Culture of the Arab Republic of Egypt, n.d.); 373 – 81; Petry, The Civilian Elite of Cairo in the Later Middle Ages, 205, 272 – 74.

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ethnic solidarity. As Enloe has observed, the political process “has acted as an independent variable in redefining the limits of group inclusiveness …”10 Indeed, Cohen has suggested that the state itself is a framework within which ethnicity can be defused and different groups can relate to each other through their common identity with a centralized governmental structure. According to him, membership in a common social, political, military and economic hierarchy tends to fuse individuals into “a new ethnicity that expresses the emergent culture of the state.”11 If scholars have idealized and overestimated the power of horizontal ties such as jinsiyyah and khushda¯shiyyah, they have little evaluated the role of kinship in the structure of sociopolitics in the early Mamluk state. Mamluk society is supposed to have operated along non-ascriptive lines, yet, kinship ties seem to have provided an important reinforcing mechanism to solidary created through wala¯ and khushda¯shiyyah.12 S. Kettering is undoubtedly right, therefore, in her observation that: “Clientage and kinship were overlapping …”13 Many prominent early patron-leaders were clearly tied not only by clientage but by marriage as well. The daughters and widows of Mamluk amirs seem to have been valuable human cement in the construction of political relationships, ones which might not otherwise have weathered very well. J. Ch’en’s observation about the paramilitary elite of early twentieth century China seems apposite: “When … the classmate tie … was (not) strong enough to bind them together in harmony, the warlords resorted to arranging marriages between their children … nothing was thicker than blood.”14 Perhaps, too, like upper class Roman women, Mamluk women, “though relatively independent” were ultimately “subordinated … to corporate interests” of the household.15 The more artificial kinship ritual of co10 Cynthia H. Enloe, Ethnic Soldiers: State Security in Divided Societies (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1979), 2 – 22; Hechter, “A Theory of Ethnic Collective Action”; see generally, Mancur Olson, The Logic of Collective Action: Public Goods and the Theory of Groups (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1971). 11 Cohen, “State Origins,” 66. 12 In contemporary Muscovy the reverse obtained since “historians can observe the fundamental bonds of family and kinship but not the more flexible links of patron and client that must have supplemented family ties,” David L. Ransel, “Character and Style of Patron-Client Relations in Russia,” in Klientelsysteme im Europa der frühen Neuzeit, ed. A. Marszak (Munich: R. Oldenbourg, 1988), 211. 13 Sharon Kettering, “Patronage and Kinship in Early Modern France,” French Historical Studies 16 (1989), 435. 14 Jerome Ch’en, “Defining Chinese Warlords and Their Factions,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 31 (1968), 577. 15 Suzanne Dixon, “The Marriage Alliance in the Roman Elite,” Journal of Family History 10 (1985): 353 – 78; see also, Carl F. Petry, “Class Solidarity versus Gender Gain: Women as Custodians of Property in Later Medieval Egypt,” in Women in Middle Eastern History, eds. Nikki R. Keddie and Beth Baron (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1991): 122 – 42.

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parenthood – kirvelik, as practiced in modern Turkey – may also have supplemented more genuine kinship ties. As A. Kudat has noted, such relations today provide conveniently “a means of coordination between power units of the system” by extending social networks, limiting hostility and mobilizing political support. Kirvelik is particularly useful because it “contributes to the process of integration among different ethnic, religious, and tribal groups … and may be established as horizontal links between different patron-client pyramids.”16 The early Mamluk state did not cohere, then, on the basis simply of the idealized horizontal solidary implicit in jinsiyyah or khushda¯shiyyah but depended rather on the pragmatic vertical orientation of patronage and seniority. Disregard for either patronage or seniority created much of the social conflict for which the Mamluks have since become so notorious. Yet, as Chamberlain has rightly noted, such conflict was a normal element, a “fundamental dynamic of politics and social life.”17 Indeed, J. Boissevain has gone further, observing about the dynamics of political quasi-groups like the clientele: “Conflict is the reason for its existence.”18 Even more than Chamberlain seems to realize, however, fitnah was a constructive element in Mamluk politics. Social conflict helped the Mamluks, in the absence of more formal institutions, to determine and adapt power relationships without resort to violence, especially mass violence, among themselves. Instead, violence was largely structured or symbolized.. Encoded in the agonistics of fitnah was a call usually for grievance redress rather than revolution or genuine internal warfare, though legitimate claims of grievance were sometimes merely illegitimate expressions of personal ambition. As H.L. Nieburg has observed: “The ‘rational’ goal of the threat of violence is an accommodation of interests, not the provocation of actual violence;”19 Indeed, Black has even characterized it as a form of “self-help” against the process of political marginalization.20 As important as the expression of conflict was, the need to reconcile opponents ultimately constrained the degree to which it could be carried. Unchecked internal conflict might easily have spiraled out of control into civil war, geopolitical subdivision and even the destruction of the Syro-Egyptian state itself. Mamluks were generally too risk-averse to bet on the unpredictable outcome of any violent zero-sum conflict. Even “usurpers” such as La¯jı¯n and Baybars al16 Ays¸e Kudat, “Ritual Kinship in Eastern Turkey,” Anthropological Quarterly 44 (1971): 37 – 50; idem, “Patron-Client Relations: The State of the Art and Research in Eastern Turkey,” in Political Participation in Turkey, eds. E.D. Akarli and Gabriel Ben-Dor (Istanbul: BogaziÅi University Press, 1974): 61 – 87. 17 Chamberlain, Knowledge and Social Practice in Medieval Damascus, 8. 18 Jeremy Boissevain, “The Place of Non-Groups in the Social Sciences,” Man n.s. 3 (1968), 551. 19 Nieburg, “The Threat of Violence and Social Change,” 865. 20 Black, “Crime as Social Control,” 34.

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Ja¯shnakı¯r preferred to manipulate consensus rather than test the limits of force. A patron-leader who relied on violence and coercion to suppress collective rights in order to uphold his own authority was disdained in medieval Syro-Egypt much as the “bad agha” is today in modern Turkey. Like the “bad agha,” too, he was unlikely to rally much lasting support.21 The Mamluks seem quite simply to have tumbled to the modern realization that ultimately “violence is politically inefficient.”22 Yet, how did the Mamluks know where to draw the line in their social conflict? The microsocial foundations of Mamluk sociopolitical system in symbolic interaction and exchange must be interpreted in terms of the macrosocial context of collective rights (huqu¯q) – the basis of their moral economy – derived from the ˙ administration of a universal franchise among the umara¯ and their paramilitary clienteles.23 The early Mamluk state, like Huntington’s classic Garrison state, relied on such universal beneficial “concessions” to preserve “general morale” among the elite, particularly to avoid messy intramural competition. Like the ruling elite of another African state, the Mamluks were a Heerenvolk, a nonindigenous, militaristic elite “characterized by … a rather high degree of internal democracy,” yet one which also satisfactorily integrated the principle of a volkdemokrasie with “symbiotic patron-client systems.”24 This reinforces the supposition made today that clientelism is a legitimate basis for state formation, modern or otherwise.25 Yet, despite the need to stake out their relationship with the monarch, Mamluk amirs never developed into pamphleteering frondeurs engaged in a self-conscious theoretical examination of that relationship. Certainly they did not draw up any Magna Carta-like document memorializing it. They were content to hold, instinctively it would seem, to what they viewed as their patrimonial rights (huqu¯q) under an unwritten constitution (niza¯m). What might have passed as ˙ ˙ 21 Michael E. Meeker, “Tbe Great Family Aghas of Turkey : A Study of a Changing Political Culture,” in Rural Politics and Social Change in the Middle East, eds. Richard Antoun and Iliya Harik (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1972), 247. 22 Calvert, “Revolution: The Politics of Violence,” 9. 23 Careerism and corporatism are traditionally considered mutually exclusive in military politics, see, Nicholson, “The Factional Model and the Study of Politics,” 306; Richard A. Gabriel, “Acquiring New Values in Military Bureaucracies: A Preliminary Model,” Journal of Political and Military Sociology 7 (1979): 89 – 101. 24 Harold D. Laswell , “The Garrison State,” American Journal of Sociology 46 (941): 455 – 68; Pierre L. van den Berghe, “The Role of the Army in Contemporary Africa,” Africa Report 10 (1965): 12 – 17; Philip H. Frankel, Pretoria’s Praetorians: Civil-Military Relations in South Africa (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984). 25 William T. Stuart, “The Explanation of Patron-Client Systems: Some Structural and Ecological Perspectives,” in Structure and Process in Latin America: Patronage, Clientage and Power Systems, eds. Arnold Sticken and Sidney M. Greenfield (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1972), 37; Nicholson, “Factional Model and the Study of Politics,” 295.

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their these nobiliaire maintained simply that the purpose of the state was to guarantee at least a subsistence – the equitable distribution of rank and resource through a hierarchy of access. The sultan guaranteed that subsistence by upholding the constitutional order (niza¯m) of the state, by executing his office ˙ neither as a puppet nor a despot but, instead, as a gatekeeper. Lom¦nie de Brienne, the eighteenth century French public policy analyst, once observed that good administration had the potential for making law obsolete: “To make laws useless: this is the aim of administration.”26 His contemporary and Prime Minister of England, Roben Walpole, reckoned more practically that the purpose of administration was to make politics obsolete. The wicked genius of Walpole’s system, according to his Tory detractors, was in the way he conciliated or corrupted men with patronage in order to stifle political debate and ultimately political upheaval. He created stability in Georgian England by introducing “politics as administration;” indeed, administrative patronage became the constitutional basis of the eighteenth century British state.27 In the Mamluk state, administration was intended to make politics obsolete, that is, to neutralize unrestrained factional competition. Levanoni and Chamberlain have suggested that factionalism was a proactive “mainspring” of politics operating actually in the absence of a “‘system of government’” which could provide “an effective administrative apparatus.”28 Yet, in the Mamluk state factionalism usually broke out only when administration broke down, when the regime was perceived by the elite as a whole to be incapable or unwilling to maintain a reasonably equitable distribution of state resources. Like Brown’s modern fallahin, the medieval Mamluks, though basically risk-averse, possessed a moral economy which allowed their individual concerns about subsistence to solidify into collective action when provoked in this way. As J. Scott has observed: “… the right to subsistence is an active moral principle … all members of a community have a presumptive right to living as far as resources will allow.”29 Collective action might lead finally even to actual violence but, as S. Popkin has observed: “The ensuing violence reflects ‘defensive reactions’ … to maintain subsistence arrangements … or to restore them once they have been lost.”30 26 Thomas McStay Adams, Bureauerats and Beggars: French Social Policy in the Age of Enlightenment (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), 138. 27 Isaac Kramnick, Bolingbroke and His Circle: The Politics of Nostalgia in the Age of Walpole (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1968; reprint 1992), 6 and passim. 28 Levanoni, “The Mamluk Conception of the Sultanate,” 375; Chamberlain, Knowledge and Social Practice in Medieval Damascus, 46. 29 Scott, The Moral Economy of the Peasant, 176. 30 Samuel L. Popkin, The Rational Peasant: The Political Economy of Rural Society in Vietnam (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1979), 7.

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31 Hale, Turkish Politics and the Military, 316 – 23.

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Factionalism in any case was not an extemporaneous free-for-all but a careful bipolar conflict between a ruler perceived to be overstepping his constitutional authority and the Mamluk military (jaysh), itself a hodge-podge of paramilitary retinues and clienteles. One is reminded in this regard of the operation today of the Turkish military as a “veto group” over the constitutional politics of the modern republic of Turkey.31 Political change was normally instituted efficiently, through a largely bloodless cuartelazo or pronunciamiento rather than through an interminable series of civil wars among a kaleidoscope of random participants. Though conflicting groups were not perhaps ideologically motivated in a conventional sense, their instinctive, collective utilitarian concern for the continuation of a positive-sum or constitutional order (niza¯m) subsumed natural ˙ ambition for total domination and restrained the reason to mass violence. The desire to avoid risk to niza¯m sometimes went so far as to create internal ˙ fissioning within certain khushda¯shiyyah. Indeed, Mamluk politics in the early Classical state was often driven as much by tensions among members of the same khushda¯shiyyah as between members of different khushda¯shiyyah. This concern of the balance-of-power-oriented Classical Mamluk state may have been singular. In the later Beylicate period, for instance, Mamluk sociopolitics appears to have reverted to what Kaplan has called a “tight bipolar” system. The legendary eighteenth/twelfth century struggle between the Qa¯simiyyah and Faqariyyah witnessed apparently a consolidation of political forces into two formal and quasi-permanent power blocs, exerting relatively more formal internal organization and discipline and engaged in a zero-sum battle for power. Violence was more usual perhaps because the ultimate purpose of the power struggle was now the elimination rather than rehabilitation of competitors and the zero-sum monopolization rather than positive sum distribution of resources and rotation of power. The social discipline engendered by universal franchise and its concomitant sense of moral economy of course simplified control of the Mamluk body politic. The early Mamluk state produced no mobs of paramilitary “have nots” tramping about the countryside, avenging unaddressed grievances through ad hoc pillage, rape and arson. For the handful of actual dissidents, detention was a far more common result than execution. Arrests were generally peaceable, resistance was frowned on and jail breaks seem to have been rare. That so many members of the elite allowed themselves to be disciplined in this way is a credit not to the efficiency of some despotic security apparatus but the expectation by the average elite offender of fair treatment, intercession and eventual rehabilitation. There were few “unpersons” in the early Mamluk state. Concepts such as forgiveness ( afu¯), leniency (ighda ), intercession (shafa ah), clemency (ama¯n, hilm) and ˙

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especially reconciliation (sulh) were part of the working vocabulary of dynamic ˙ ˙ equilibrium. Ultimately, they were as important to the niza¯m of the state as ˙ ni mah. The Mamluk state guaranteed its survival not by an attempt at universal terrorism but an approximation of universal equity.32 By evolving methods for limiting violence in the early Classical state the Mamluks, one supposes, gave an impression of unity and authority which may have militated against the prospect of revolutionary class action by other social groups in Syro-Egypt. Yet, to what extent the Mamluks consciously tailored their process of state formation to forestall such possible upheaval is at best problematic. J. Kautsky, in his study of the politics of aristocratic empires, has found the whole issue largely moot. Historical social groups – little more than autonomous societies living cheek by jowl – rarely interacted politically ; political conflict between groups, therefore, was less typical than conflict within groups.33 Certainly Lapidus has held that the Mamluks largely “dissipated” potential popular resistance “by holding all of the vital social threads in their hands” through the judicious exercise of patronage. If he is right, the concentration of power in the hands of a neo-patrimonial elite probably did little in itself to encourage regime vulnerability to overthrow. The Mamluks sapped early on the operant power of other social groups in urban society to reflect their own micromacrosocial processes of state formation. Denoeux’s study of informal urban networks in the modern Middle East, including Egypt, has confirmed that patronage networks often “preempt or dilute class loyalties and consciousness” in this way.34 Although the Mamluk state, through the exercise of patronage, may have reflected the interests of more marginal members of society, it did not reflect their design. Furthermore, if Mamluk society was organized generally along the vertical axis of clientele rather than the horizontal axis of class, one is left to ponder the role of class consciousness and class conflict as genuine sources of historic social formation and transformation. Moreover, if Cohen’s fission/antifission model of state formation is to be 32 Perhaps one puzzling aspect of the cycle of arrest and detention was its sometime apparent randomness. Al-Malik al-Za¯hir Baybars initiated the ‘midnight knock’, which seems to have at least kept the amirs on˙their toes. Though al-Malik al-Na¯sir Muhammad is supposed to ˙ to inject some un˙ have alleviated such anxieties among the amirs he, too, continued predictability into his decision to incarcerate: he might, for instance, take action against one amir for pig-farming and virtually ignore another for plotting his own assassination. This imprecision may have been intentional. As E.V. Walter has observed about modern totalitarian states, the technique of random arrest could in its very imprecision have a greater controlling effect than one of greater certainty ; if so, it represents probably the only truly ‘despotic’ aspect of the Mamluk state, see Eugene V. Walter, Terror and Resistance: A Study of Political Violence (New York: Oxford University Press, 1969). 33 John H. Kautsky, The Politics of Aristocratic Empires (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1982), 341 – 47. 34 Denoeux, Urban Unrest in the Middle East, 17.

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preferred to the conventional consensus/coercion models, the Mamluks, with their virtual monopoly on violence, were by far the most fissionable material of all. How they interacted and responded to social conflict within their own ranks determined largely whether the Mamluk state itself would disintegrate into autonomous regional polities, including possibly even urban communes, or remain a unitary entity. Coercion models of state formation, essentially Marxist in inspiration, rely too much on stratifying social groups into mutually exclusive and self-conscious classes battling to control and exploit the relations of production. On the other hand consensus models, derived ultimately from Durkheim’s vision of organic social solidarity, tend to uphold the Western notion that only nation-states, i. e. states established with the explicit consent and participation of the masses, are integral and therefore viable. Yet, as Enloe has observed, the nation-state model has begun to lose credibility in the face of the evolution and longevity of purely statist polities throughout the modern developing world; Middle Eastern specialists would seem to agree.35 Indeed, the structure of sociopolitical relationships is sometimes even derived from the process of formation of these statist polities. As L. Anderson has observed recently about state formation in the modern Maghrib, “competition within society was not to be for control of the state so much as for its favor.”36 Though historical materialism tends to see the formation of the state dialectically bound up with peasants, to study the formation of the early Mamluk state is to study largely the ruling elite itself. The extensive patronage relationships driven vertically into urban society by the Mamluks, as Lapidus has described, may perhaps be viewed, as Marxists do, as simply the false consciousness typical of all pre-class and class societies which make exploitation appear as part of the normal order of things. Yet, even neo-Marxists allow that such social groups are capable of analyzing the objective reality of their exploitation and even of carrying on a beneficial dialogue with their exploiters. The Mamluks appear to have been merely replicating for society at large the dyadic ties upon which they relied to arrange relationships of power among themselves. And, as Lapidus has suggested, they were highly successful. The Mamluk state seems to have conformed broadly, then, to what Mann has termed the operation of “infrastructural” rather than “despotic” power.37 Since Weber, it has of course been customary in the Western tradition to discuss social control in terms of a condominium of church and state. Islamist traditions, including those contemporary with Weber himself, have also held to 35 Sharabi, Neopatriarchy, 59 – 60; Arjomand, The Turban for The Crow, 198. 36 Anderson, The State and Social Transformation in Tunisia and Libya, 277. 37 Michael Mann, “The Autonomous Power of the State: Its Origins, Mechanisms and Results,” in States in History, ed. John A. Hall (Oxford and New York: Basil Blackwell, 1986): 109 – 36.

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the naturalness of a class alliance between clerics and military officers (alulama¯ wa-l-umara¯ ) in the domination of Muslim society.38 Lapidus’suggestion that the ulama¯ in the Mamluk state facilitated domination of the common people by the militarists certainly invokes this Weberian association. Yet, as a proactive force the ulama¯ do not seem to have struck much of a profile in the corridors of power in the early Mamluk state; certainly there is no question of a radicalized clerical party building autonomous political power within either urban or rural society or even at court. Though much is made, for instance, of Ibn Tamiyyah’s famous confrontation with Mamluk authorities in the early fourteenth/eighth century, it was a cultural rather than political conflict, although his attack on popular religious practices such as the adoration of saints at their tombs was probably aimed as much at members of the elite as the general population. Whatever influence he may have exercised over Mamluk amirs clearly concerned matters of religious dogma ( aqı¯dah) not constitutional politics.39 Ibn Tamiyyah’s position on antinomian practices by itself was unlikely to generate much political steam among amirs normally consumed by patronage issues. There is no real evidence either that coalitions of opposition clerics and disaffected officers were ever a driving force behind Mamluk politics in the early state. Ibn Khallika¯n’s sensational participation in intra-khushda¯shiyyah politics in 1280/679, issuing fatwa¯ on behalf of Sunqur al-Ashqar, the rebel na¯ ib of Damascus, was a political anomaly. Qala¯wu¯n recognized as much when he released the cleric soon after and then reappointed him qa¯d¯ı al-quda¯t of Dam˙ ˙ ascus. As well, the ulama¯ do not seem to have even been able to establish much of a role for themselves in mediating the frequent social conflict among Mamluks. Al-Malik al-Sa ¯ıd’s brief usage, for instance, of the Caliph al-Ha¯kim in his ˙ dealings with Qala¯wu¯n’s hizb al-umara¯ was little more than window-dressing. In ˙ the end, the Mamluk umara¯ communicated effectively among themselves to resolve their internal conflicts by themselves. Indeed, their entire sociopolitical system, based on the operation of a feedback loop, was structured to achieve this antifissionist result. The search for a revolutionary class consciousness among the urban proletariat and the rural peasantry is equally bootless. Nothing like a bourgeois national guard or a worker/peasant militia emerged to challenge the early Mamluk ruling elite. The ahda¯th, the old urban militia of Fatimid Syria which ˙ sometimes served as the paramilitary wing of the civilian a ya¯n, does not appear to have even survived into the Mamluk period; the term ahda¯th seems to dis˙ ˘

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38 David Dean Commins, Islamic Reform: Politics and Social Change in Late Ottoman Syria (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), 100. 39 Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Kanz, 9: 144.

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Conclusion

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appear anyway from contemporary sources in the wake of the Mongol evacuation of Aleppo after Ayn Ja¯lu¯t. The relationship between the Fatimid ahda¯th and ˙ Mamluk hara¯fish is uncertain, but the antics of the latter were scarcely enough to ˙ have caused the early Mamluk state to fission.40 Indeed, the hara¯fish do not seem ˙ to have been autonomous in their actions, serving largely as paramilitary auxiliaries in on-going fitan among Mamluk patron-leaders. The only credible urban insurrection, i. e. not tied to intra-Mamluk politics, in this period occurred in Alexandria in 1327/727. Though spearheaded by urban “gangs” (ahza¯b) and resulting in an attack on the local mutawallı¯, the riot was basically a ˙ confessional dispute with commercial overtones, not the first curtain in the rising of the Alexandria Commune.41 The meek conclusion to the uprising and the mild reaction by Cairo suggests the Mamluk sultan, al-Na¯sir Muhammad, ˙ ˙ found little revolutionary content in street brawling among the ahl. Far from a structureless anarchy based on arbitrary violence and zero-sum competition, the early Classical Mamluk state evolved as a dynamic but coherent political structure based on sociopolitical assumptions that were egalitarian yet hierarchical, collective yet utilitarian, and non-ascriptive as well as kin-oriented. Because of both the natural constraints of clientelism and the risk to state survival, the Mamluks lacked a truly dominant authority structure. Indeed, tyranny was seen as a weakness, not a strength in the structure of early Mamluk politics. Instead, the state relied on negotiation, a continuous circular flow of communication – a feedback loop – to structure social power within the ruling elite. The early Mamluk state managed internal stress by anticipating and resolving constructively natural competition among the Mamluks before they reached the tipping point into uncontrollable mass violence and civil war. This dynamic equilibrium was the product of microsocial processes of symbolic interaction and exchange mediated by macrostructural constraints on access to resources as well as the degree and form of social conflict. Like Hobbes’ Leviathan, then, it might be said of the Mamluks that they craftily avoided disintegration through the same “introduction of that restraint upon themselves … (which) is the foresight of their own preservation.”42 Perhaps this restraint was merely a reflection of the natural process of adaptation 40 William M. Brinner, “The Significance of the Hara¯fı¯sh and Their ‘Sultan’,” Journal of the ˙ 190 – 215. Brinner, who observes that the Economic and Social History of the Orient 6 (1963): term first appears at the end of the Ayyubid period in Egypt, hypothesizes that they were largely „a group of mendicant dervishes” and seem to have been emboldened to participate in paramilitary actions as clients of Mamluk amirs. 41 Martina Müller-Wiener, Eine Stadtgeschichte Alexandrias von 564/1169 bis in die Mitte des 9./15. Jahrhunderts: Verwaltung und innerstädtische Organisationsformen, Islamkundliche Untersuchungen, 159 (Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 1992), 39 – 43. 42 Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan, ed. C.B. Macpherson (London: Penguin, 1987), 223.

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from nomadic to sedentary life. J. Fletcher has suggested that the Ottoman acquisition of Constantinople, a city with legitimizing political symbolism, had a tonic effect on the evolution of their political society. Perhaps possession of Cairo by the Mamluks may also have “helped limit the recurrent struggles for succession, shortening them and reducing their dissolutive effect.”43 Whatever the reason, the Mamluks clearly embraced behavior which facilitated constructive political communication and reduction of the cost of their politics. In the end they were not merely competitors but “afficionados” of a system which depended upon collective pragmatic limits for its survival.44 The Mamluks produced no written constitution formally enunciating their collective rights (huqu¯q), yet the practical regulation of their political behavior ˙ came to form a kind of operative substitute. Their basic sociopolitical processes were informal, as they are largely today in the modern Arab state. Theorists of the modern Arab state pursuing the logic of dynamic equilibrium analysis have neither suggested that processes of internal change today are inherently anarchic nor charged that the restoration of social equilibrium is based on either traditional concept of coercion or moral imperative. The Mamluk state confirms, indeed, may even have anticipated these same circumstances; certainly it should not be held to a higher standard of judgment.

43 Joseph Fletcher, “Turco-Mongolian Monarchic Traditions in the Ottoman Empire,” Harvard Ukranian Studies 3 – 4 (1979 – 80), 246 – 47. 44 Anatol Rapoport, The Origins of Violence: Approaches to the Study of Conflict (New York: Paragon House, 1989), 323

Appendix I

Early Mamluk Rulers ˘

1250/648 Shajar al-Durr 1250/648 Al-Mu izz al-Dı¯n Aybak 1257/655 Al-Mansu¯r Nu¯r al-Dı¯n Alı¯ ˙ 1259/657 Al-Muzaffar al-Dı¯n Qutuz ˙ 1260/658 Al-Za¯hir Rukn al-Dı¯n Baybars I ˙ 1277/676 Al-Sa ¯ıd Na¯sir al-Dı¯n Barakah Khan ˙ ¯ dil Badr al-Dı¯n Sala¯mish 1280/678 Al- A 1280/678 Al-Mansu¯r Sayf al-Dı¯n Qala¯wu¯n ˙ 1290/689 Al-Ashraf Sala¯h al-Dı¯n Khalı¯l ˙ 1294/693 Al-Na¯sir Na¯sir Al-Dı¯n Muhammad ˙ ˙ ˙ ¯ dil Zayn al-Dı¯n Kitbugha¯ 1295/694 Al- A 1297/696 Al-Mansu¯r Husa¯m al-Dı¯n La¯jı¯n ˙ ˙ ˙ 1299/698 Al-Na¯sir Na¯sir al-Dı¯n Muhammad ˙ ˙ ˙ 1309/708 Al-Muzaffar Rukn al-Dı¯n Baybars II ˙ 1309/709 Al-Na¯sir Na¯sir al-Dı¯n Muhammad ˙ ˙ ˙ 1340/741 Al-Mansu¯r Sayf al-Dı¯n Abu¯ Bakr ˙ ˘

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Appendix II

Careerism in the Early Mamluk State

˘

Biography has played from the beginning an important role in the formulation of Islamic history, though one now often unappreciated. F. Rosenthal perhaps expressed it best when he observed simply : “For Muslims, history was indeed biography.”1 Biographical literature is especially important for the exploration of social history, in particular occupational or career patterns. With regard to Mamluk studies itself C. Petry has made formidable use of biography in just this way for his reconstruction of the civilian elite of the Syro-Egyptian state during the late Circassian period.2 Unfortunately, little has been done correspondingly to study career patterns among the Mamluk umara¯ themselves.3 Of course, it is difficult to render an exact medieval equivalence for the modern notion of careerism. One term often encountered in contemporary sources, however, perhaps renders the closest meaning in the political context of

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1 R.W. Bulliet, “A Quantitative Approach to Medieval Muslim Biographical Dictionaries,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 13 (1970): 195 – 211; Franz Rosenthal, “Plotinus in Islam: The Power of Anonymity,” Quaderno dell’Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei 198 (1974), 444 – 45; M.J.L. Young, “Arabic Biographical Writing,” in Religion, Learning and Science in the Abbasid Period, vol. 2, The Cambridge History of Arabic Literature, ed. M.J.L Young, J.D. Latham and R.B. Serjeant (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990): 168 – 87. 2 Petry, The Civilian Elite of Cairo in the Later Middle Ages. 3 Donald P. Little, “Notes on Aitamisˇ, a Mongol Mamlu¯k,” in Die islamische Welt zwischen Miitelalter und Neuzeit: Festschrift für Hans Robert Roemer zum 65. Geburtstag, edited by Ulrich W. Haarmann and Peter Bachmann (Beirut and Wiesbaden: Orient-Institut der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft and Franz Steiner, 1979): 387 – 401; Gerhard Zoppoth, “Muhammad ibn Mängli: Ein ägyptischer Offizier und Schriftsteller des 14. Jh.s,” ˙ für die Kunde des Morgenlandes 53 (1957): 288 – 99; Irwin, “Factions in Wiener Zeitschrift Medieval Egypt,”; Amitai-Preiss, “The Remaking of the Military Elite of Mamlu¯k Egypt by alNa¯sir Muhammad b. Qala¯wu¯n.” A similar problem exists elsewhere in Islamic historiography, ˙ see,˙ for instance, R.D. McChesney, “The Amirs of Muslim Central Asia in the XVIIth Century,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 26 (1983), 33.

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the late medieval Syro-Egyptian state – khidmah or service. Certainly by the mid-thirteenth/seventh century the political landscape of the central Islamic lands was already strewn with various expressions of political solidary.4 The Mamluks themselves are often credited with propagating yet another – khushda¯shiyyah – collective solidary. Khidmah was a political expression of universal service, however, one which could either subsume or transcend more technically delimited associations, such as khushda¯shiyyah. Even the supposedly sacral clientage (wala¯ ) of the usta¯dh-mamlu¯k dyad was affected by the universalism implicit in khidmah. The term mamlu¯k itself seems to have had two related meanings in the early Classical Mamluk state. In its primary meaning, it referred of course to a bought individual who gave loyalty to his owner (usta¯dh) based on normative social ties. However, the expression mamlu¯k had a more generic political meaning as well. In its secondary sense, it simply meant anyone who gave paramilitary service as a client to a patron. The use of this term in this way is not frequent in the sources but its meaning is clear. In 1337/738, for instance, the na¯ ib of Albistan, Ibn Khalı¯l al-Turqı¯, although a ˙ free-born Turkman prince referred to himself as the mamlu¯k of al-Malik al-Na¯sir ˙ Muhammad when he wished to underscore his loyalty to the Mamluk sultan ˙ during a dispute with the neighboring na¯ ib Aleppo.5 Implicit in the modern notion of careerism is an inclination toward utility rather than morality. Careerism or khidmah in the Mamluk period was probably little different. Already in the Buyid period, we are informed, military servitors were “enmeshed in the calculus of ni mah (benefit).”6 By the beginning of the Mamluk period there is little evidence that anyone had found a way to extract loyalty by more ideological methods. Though Mamluks were raised in a civilization both culturally complex and rich, it is difficult to evaluate the moral effect of their acculturation and factor it into the practice of their politics. Even the most recent revision of the phenomenon of education in medieval SyroEgyptian society and its impact on the Mamluk umara¯ has been unable to resolve this issue satisfactorily.7 Other studies on the awla¯d al-na¯s, the offspring of the Mamluks, suggest, however, the rather minimal impact moral education had on the conduct of public affairs. As U. Haarmann has observed, among the awla¯d al-na¯s, who were presumably even more cultured than their fathers: “Loyalties were easily exchanged.”8 As R. Irwin has noted, the most character˘

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Mottahedah, Loyalty and Leadership in an Early Islamic Society, 82 – 96. Al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 22. Mottahedah, Loyalty and Leadership in an Early Islamic Society, 82. Berkey, The Transmission of Knowledge in Medieval Cairo, 128 – 60. Ulrich Haarmann, “Arabic in Speech, Turkish in Lineage: Mamluks and Their Sons in the Intellectual Life of Fourteenth Century Egypt and Syria,” Journal of Semitic Studies 33 (1988), 109. ˘

4 5 6 7 8

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istic descriptions to be found in the biographical literature of the Mamluk amirs emphasized their boldness (shaja¯ ah) and decisiveness (hazm), qualities not ˙ evocative necessarily of the power of moral judgment.9 Though perhaps not entirely agents of a new ja¯hiliyyah, the Mamluks clearly embodied the ethos of a warrior elite with at best an uneven grasp of the classical Islamic tradition of adab. If, as I. Lapidus has suggested, adab encouraged a code of conduct which denigrated the practice of purely secular politics, one wonders how meaningfully the Mamluks could ever have embraced it.10 The precise origins of such careerism in the medieval Fertile Crescent are unclear. Its progress, however, must have been greatly facilitated by two developments at the turn of the twelfth/sixth century ; first, the political disorder created by the breakup of the Büyük Saljuq Empire following the death of Maliksha¯h I and, second, the emergence of military iqta¯ s in the Near East, which ˙ facilitated the integration of a diverse soldiery into the state structure on the basis of some form of military competence or personal loyalty rather than ethnic or tribal affiliation.11 The military vagabondage enjoyed, for instance, by the famous twelfth/sixth century Syrian adventurer, Usa¯mah Ibn Munqidh, testifies to the wide-ranging opportunities available only a generation after Maliksha¯h’s death to career soldiers throughout the western Fertile Crescent. Born three years after the death of Maliksha¯h in 1092/485, Usa¯mah lived almost to the death of Saladin, who died in 1193/589. During his long career he drifted easily from one military assignment to another, taking service with a constellation of local potentates from the Turkish atabegs of Mesopotamia to the Fatimid caliphs of Egypt, and near the end of his life even with the great Saladin himself.12 During the succeeding Ayyubid period many amirs continued to pursue this calling as soldiers of fortune;13 and career mobility appears to have remained an important tradition among the generation of career soldiers, both free-born and mamlu¯k, whose employment straddled the late Ayyubid-early Mamluk period. The broad ˘

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9 Irwin, The Middle East in the Middle Ages, 156. 10 Ira M. Lapidus, “Knowledge, Virtue, and Action: the Classical Muslim Conception of Adab and the Nature of Religious Fulfillment in Islam,” in Moral Conduct and Authority, ed. Barbara Daly Metcalf (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1984): 38 – 61. 11 It has generally been held that Saladin introduced military iqta¯ into the Syro-Egyptian ˙ context in the later half of the twelfth/sixth century. Recently, however, its emergence has been redated to the first half of that century, see Yaacov Lev, State and Society in Fatimid Egypt (Leiden and New York: E.J. Brill, 1991), 123 – 24. For the beginnings of the “military” iqta¯ in the central Islamic lands, see, Tsugitaka Sato, “The Iqta¯ System of Iraq under the ˙ ˙ Buwayhids,” Orient (Tokyo) 18 (1982): 83 – 105. 12 An Arab-Syrian Gentleman and Warrior in the Period of the Crusades: Memoirs of Usa¯mah Ibn Munqidh, trans. Philip K. Hitti (New York: Columbia University Press, 1929; reprint Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987). 13 Humphreys, “The Emergence of the Mamluk Army,” 71 – 72. ˘

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diversity in military recruitment of the Syro-Egyptian state in the early Mamluk period, then, was no accident. The number of military personnel available at the end of the Ayyubid period, though not known with any exactitude, was insufficient to deal with the principal external problem of the 1250’s and 60’s – Mongol expansion into the central Islamic lands, an expansion fueled in part by enormous Mongol manpower reserves.14 Any regime sitting in Cairo after 1258/ 656 was obliged to fill and keep filled its pool of trained military personnel by extending the universal franchise of khidmah. The biographies of several amirs contemporary with the formation of the early Classical Mamluk state testify readily to the carry-over of careerism into the early Mamluk period. The amir Fakhr al-Dı¯n b. Adla¯n al-Hashtakı¯ (d.1276/ ¯ mid, al-Malik al675), a free-born officer, had first served the Ayyubid lord of A Sa¯lih, and then his son al-Malik al-Mas u¯d before moving to the service of the ˙ ˙ Ayyubid ruler of Damascus, al-Malik al-Ashraf Muzaffar al-Dı¯n. Al-Hashtakı¯ ˙ then sought service with al-Ashraf ’s brother, al-Malik al-Ka¯mil of Egypt. Sometime later he was to be found as an iqta¯ holder (ten tawashı¯) in the ˙ ˙ Ayyubid Mesopotamian city of Ruha¯. When the city fell to the Saljuqs alHashtakı¯ apparently felt no compunction about taking service with them, retaining his original assignment, though he moved on again, back to the service of al-Ka¯mil of Egypt. Some years later he found service with al-Malik al-Na¯sir II of ˙ Syria, rising now to an assignment of fifty tawashı¯. During the Mongol occu˙ pation of Syria, al-Hashtakı¯ fled again to Egypt, now under Mamluk control. After Ayn Ja¯lu¯t al-Hashtakı¯, despite his advanced years, had no trouble finding employment with the Mamluk rulers Qutuz or Baybars, in whose reign he is said to have prospered as he had among the Ayyubid princes.15 Another free-born officer, Ibra¯hı¯m b. Jama¯l al-Dı¯n Abu¯ Muhammad al˙ Qurshı¯ al-Amawı¯, rose relatively high in Baybars’ service from obscure origins. Al-Qurshı¯ had first entered the service of al-Malik al-Na¯sir Da u¯d of Karak as a ˙ common soldier (jundı¯), soon rising in al-Na¯sir’s service as a confidential agent. ˙ Though already highly prized by al-Na¯sir, al-Qurshı¯ took service with al-Malik ˙ ˘

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14 See, David Ayalon, “Studies on the Structure of the Mamluk Army,” 222 – 23; Humphreys, “The Emergence of the Mamluk Army,” 159 – 60; Peter Thorau, “The Battle of Ayn Ja¯lu¯t: A Re-examination,” in Crusade and Settlement: Papers Read at the First Conference of the Society for the Study of the Crusades and the Latin East and Presented to R.C. Smail, ed. P.W. Edbury (Cardiff: Cardiff University College Press, 1985), 237. For estimates of the enormous manpower reserves available to the Mongols at the end of the Ayyubid period, see John Masson Smith, “Mongol Manpower and Persian Population,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 18 (1975): 270 – 99; D.O. Morgan, “The Mongol Armies in Persia,” Der Islam 56 (1979): 81 – 96; Thomas T. Allsen, Mongol Imperialism: The Policies of the Grand Qan Möngke in China, Russia and the lslamic Lands, 1251 – 1259 (Berkeley : University of California Press, 1987). 15 Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 218 – 19.

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al-Na¯sir Yu¯suf of Aleppo, where he became one of the notable figures (a ya¯n) in ˙ the halqah of Aleppo. During the Mongol occupation of Syria, al-Qurshı¯ aban˙ doned the temporizing al-Na¯sir and went to Egypt where he took service with the ˙ Mamluk ruler, Qutuz. After Ayn Ja¯lu¯t Baybars installed him in the halqah of ˙ Damascus, then promoted him as na¯ ib of the citadel of Baalbak, which he 16 administered until his death in 1275/674. Even a free-born administrative officer (mushrif) like Alı¯ al-Sadr b. Nasralla¯h ˙ ˙ al-Halabı¯ could pursue a successful and wide-ranging career. He had originally ˙ served the lord of Aleppo, al-Malik al- Azı¯z Muhammad, until the city came ˙ under the jurisdiction of al-Malik al-Na¯sir Yu¯suf in 1250/649. Al-Halabı¯ suc˙ ˙ ceeded his father as intendant of the army of Aleppo, remaining in al-Malik alNa¯sir’s service until the Mongol invasion. Al-Halabı¯ then set off for Egypt where ˙ ˙ he remained until 1264/663. Called to Hama¯h by al-Malik al-Mansu¯r, al-Halabı¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ left the Mamluk state and took service with yet another Ayyubid prince, rising in his service ultimately to direct the kingdom itself.17 Officers of mamlu¯k origin of course followed similar career patterns in this period as well. The amir Shams al-Dı¯n Sunqur al-Aqra , for instance, had been originally a manumitted mamlu¯k ( itq) of the Ayyubid ruler of Mayya¯fa¯riqı¯n, alMalik al-Muzaffar Shiha¯b al-Dı¯n Gha¯zı¯. Exiled from the city, he took service in ˙ Aleppo with al-Malik al-Na¯sir. Imprisoned by al-Na¯sir, al-Aqra was later re˙ ˙ leased and fled to Egypt where he entered the employ of yet another Ayyubid ruler, al-Malik al-Sa¯lih. Al-Aqra served in Damascus until the city fell to al-Na¯sir ˙ ˙ ˙ in the wake of the assassination of al-Sa¯lih’s son, Tu¯ra¯nsha¯h. Fleeing his former ˙ ˙ employer, al-Aqra made his way to Egypt again and entered the service of the new Mamluk ruler, Aybak. He served Aybak as ambassador to the Caliph’s court in Baghdad in 1257/655, returned to Egypt after Aybak’s assassination then went to Damascus to seek al-Na¯sir’s pardon. Al-Aqra went a third time to Egypt and ˙ entered the employ now of Aybak’s son, al-Malik al-Mansu¯r. Al-Aqra quickly ˙ entered the service of Qutuz, when he soon after deposed al-Mansu¯r from the ˙ throne of Egypt, and then that of Baybars when he, in turn, overthrew Qutuz. AlAqra in fact rose to become a favorite of Baybars, though he was to die in 1271/ 670 in the Citadel prison after a falling out with his patron.18 The amir Badr al-Dı¯n Azdamur al- Azı¯zı¯ al-Dawa¯da¯r had originally been in service to the walı¯ of Aleppo, before being purchased by its prince, al-Malik alAzı¯z. Azdamur later transferred to the service of al-Malik al-Na¯sir until the ˙ Mongol invasion when he left for Egypt. He subsequently received a benefice from Baybars, though he soon abandoned him to take service with another ˘

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16 Ibn Shadda¯d, Ta¯rı¯kh, 141 – 42: al-Suqa¯ ¯ı, Ta¯lı¯, 20. ˙ 17 Ibid., 146. 18 Ibid., 40 – 41.

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Appendix II

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Mamluk patron-leader, the turbulent Shams al-Dı¯n al-Burlı¯, in Syria. After the collapse of al-Burlı¯’s regime Azdamur returned amicably to Baybars’ service and was again given a benefice in Damascus.19 The amir Shams al-Dı¯n Sunqur al-Ashqar al-Sa¯lih¯ı, having fled Egypt owing ˙ ˙ to a personal grudge (hasad) against Sultan Aybak, went to Damascus where he ˙ took service with Aybak’s rival, al-Malik al-Na¯sir, then with al-Na¯sir’s sometime ˙ ˙ rival, al-Malik al-Mugı¯th of Karak. Al-Ashqar eventually wound up in the entourage of the Il-Khan ruler, Hu¯la¯gu¯, before being returned to Egypt at the request of Sultan Baybars to take up service with him.20 As in the case of the amir Badr al-Dı¯n Bakta¯sh al-Fakhrı¯, some careers could be sustained a long time before reaching their acmes. Bakta¯sh, a mamlu¯k of the ata¯bak al- askar, Fakhr al-Dı¯n Ibn Shaykh al-Shuyu¯kh, rose to the highest command almost a half century after the death of his usta¯dh at the battle of Mansu¯rah. Not only did he command an expedition against Sı¯s as late as 1298/ ˙ 697 but became the de facto head of the military, which reinstalled al-Malik alNa¯sir Muhammad to his second reign in 1299/698. ˙ ˙ Even mama¯lı¯k from recruiting areas outside the confines of the old Ayyubid state could find ready employment in the early Mamluk state. The amir Qutb al˙ Dı¯n Sanjar al-Baghda¯dı¯ was originally a mamlu¯k of the Abbasid Caliph alMustansir. At the fall of Baghdad to the Mongols, al-Baghda¯dı¯ made his way to ˙ Syria and settled in Damascus. Though well into middle age, al-Baghda¯dı¯ received from Baybars soon after a fine iqta¯ assignment, which he appears to have ˙ held until his death.21 Of the generation of amirs who flourished near the end of the early Mamluk period, careers continued in a similar pattern. Many of these were Na¯sirı¯ amirs, ˙ the mama¯lı¯k of al-Na¯sir Muhammad (d. 1340/741). Despite what is sometimes ˙ ˙ referred to as the “logic of the Mamlu¯k system,” al-Na¯sir’s many sons continued ˙ to promote their father’s mama¯lı¯k to positions of power and influence often far beyond what al-Na¯sir had done. Izz al-Dı¯n Aydamur al-Shaykh al-Turkı¯ al-Na¯sirı¯ ˙ ˙ did not become prominent until the reign of al-Malik al-Na¯sir Na¯sir al-Dı¯n al˙ ˙ Hasan, when he was appointed na¯ ib of Hama¯h.22 Similarly, the amir Ay˙ ˙ dughmish al-Na¯sirı¯ rose under his usta¯dh to be only amı¯r akhu¯r ; under al-Malik ˙ al-Na¯sir Shiha¯b al-Dı¯n Ahmad some years later, he was appointed na¯ ib of ˙ ˙ Aleppo, and under al-Malik al-Sa¯lih Ima¯d al-Dı¯n Isma¯ ¯ıl, Aydughmish rose all ˙ ˙ the way to become na¯ ib of Syria before his death in 1342/743.23 Under Aqsunqur al-Na¯sirı¯, for instance, rose only to be amı¯r shika¯r under his usta¯dh, al-Na¯sir ˙ ˙ ˘

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Ibid., 38 – 39. Ibid., 85 – 86. Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal, 340a. Al- Asqala¯nı¯, Durar, 1: 428. Ibid., 1: 426 – 28. ˘

19 20 21 22 23

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Careerism in the Early Mamluk State

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Muhammad; it was under his usta¯dh’s many successors that Aqsunqur’s career ˙ truly took off. Following al-Na¯sir Muhammad’s death, his son and successor, al˙ ˙ Malik al-Mansu¯r Sayf al-Dı¯n Abu¯bakr promoted Aqsunqur na¯ ib of Gaza; Al˙ Sa¯lih Isma¯ ¯ıl made him amı¯r akhu¯r al-kabı¯r and then na¯ ib of Tripoli. Aqsunqur ˙ ˙ became so powerful in the reign of al-Malik al-Ka¯mil Sayf al-Dı¯n Sha ban I that he lead the Egyptian amirs in the overthrow of al-Ka¯mil and the accession of alMalik al-Muzaffar Sayf al-Dı¯n Ha¯jjı¯ I in 1346/747.24 Aydamur al-Dawa¯da¯r al˙ ˙ Na¯sirı¯ rose only as far as the dawa¯da¯riyyah during al-Na¯sir Muhammad’s life˙ ˙ ˙ time. Yet, some three decades and eleven reigns after the passing of his usta¯dh, Aydamur found himself promoted na¯ ib of Aleppo, then Tripoli. Aydamur ended his days as commander of the army of Egypt (ata¯bak al- askar).25 The amir Aydamur had succeeded as ata¯bak al- askar, Sayf al-Dı¯n Alajay al-Na¯sirı¯, had ˙ only risen to the rank of ha¯jib before the reign of al-Malik al-Sa¯lih Ima¯d al-Dı¯n ˙ ˙ Isma¯ ¯ıl; between 1342/743 and his death in 1348/748, however, he was elevated twice as na¯ ib of Hims, given the benefit of an amı¯r tablkha¯nah in Damascus, and ˙ ˙ ˙ made na¯ ib of Gaza and, his last appointment, na¯ ib of the city of Safad.26 ˙ Arghunsha¯h al-Na¯sirı¯, prominent in the reign of his usta¯dh, continued to ˙ enjoy important postings to the end of his life. In 1346/747, al-Malik al-Muzaffar ˙ appointed him na¯ ib of Safad; by 1347/748, when al-Malik al-Na¯sir Na¯sir al-Dı¯n ˙ ˙ ˙ al-Hasan elevated him even higher as na¯ ib of, first, Aleppo and, then, Damascus, ˙ 27 Argunhsha¯h’s power rivaled that of the sultan himself. The amir Sayf al-Dı¯n Ariqtay al-Qifjaqı¯ al-Ha¯jj al-Ashrafı¯ al-Na¯sirı¯, rose from his first appointment ˙ ˙ ˙ under al-Na¯sir Muhammad as walı¯ of Hims in 1316/716 to become, thirty years ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ later, na¯ ib of Egypt in 1346/747; before his death in 1349/750, he also received the posts of na¯ ib in Aleppo and Damascus to round out his career.28 Sayf al-Dı¯n Ayunish al-Na¯sirı¯, though a member of al-Na¯sir Muhammad’s kha¯ss, did not ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙˙ receive his first governship until some years after the death of his usta¯dh, when he became, successively, na¯ ib of Damascus, Aleppo and finally Tripoli, which he held until his death in 1354/755.29 The amir Sayf al-Dı¯n Asandamur al- Umarı¯ alNa¯sirı¯ served as na¯ ib of Tripoli once and na¯ ib of Hamah three times, attaining ˙ ˙ his last appointment there as late as 1354/755; his career spanned the reigns of 30 fully nine sultans. Well-connected Na¯sirı¯ amirs were not the only ones able to advance their ˙ careers. Aybak Akhu¯baktimur al-Sa¯qı¯, for instance, was an amir already in the ˘

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Ibid., 1: 394. Ibid., 1: 429. Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal (Paris), 2: 25b – 26a. Ibid., 159b – 161a; al- Asqala¯nı¯, Durar, 1: 350. Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal, 163b; al- Asqala¯nı¯, Durar, 1: 354. Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal (Paris), 2: 30b. Ibid., 2: 194b – 95a; al- Asqala¯nı¯, Durar, 1: 387. ˘

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Appendix II

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days of al-Na¯sir Muhammad, yet did not reach the rank of amı¯r tablkha¯nah until ˙ ˙ ˙ 1363/764, more than a quarter of century and ten sultans later.31 Sayf al-Dı¯n alSarghatmishı¯, a common amir’s mamlu¯k, obtained the rank of amı¯r tablkha¯nah ˙ ˙ only after the death of his usta¯dh, the amir Sarghatmish al-Na¯sirı¯.32 Another ˙ ˙ amir’s mamlu¯k, Aqush al-Sawdı¯ achieved the elevated rank of na¯ ib of the strategic frontier post of al-Bı¯rah, long after the passing of his usta¯dh, the na¯ ib of Aleppo.33 The lowly amir’s mamlu¯k, Shuja¯’ al-Dı¯n Aghuzlu¯ al-Baha¯durı¯ rose to become na¯ ib of Shawbak long after the passing of his usta¯dh, al-Ha¯jj Baha¯dur al˙ Mu izzı¯, and was finally appointed in 1342/743 as walı¯ of Egypt itself.34 Aqsunqur al-Sala¯rı¯ al-Mansu¯rı¯ was made na¯ ib of the city of Safad briefly owing to the ˙ ˙ influence of his usta¯dh, Sayf al-Dı¯n Sala¯r al-Mansu¯rı¯, who served as Baybars II ˙ al-Ja¯shnakı¯r’s na¯ ib al-saltanah. Yet, three decades after the death of his usta¯dh, ˙ Sala¯r, Aqsunqur was made na¯ ib of Gaza by al-Malik al-Na¯sir Shiha¯b al-Dı¯n ˙ Ahmad and then na¯ ib of Egypt itself by his successor, al-Malik al-Sa¯lih Ima¯d al˙ ˙ ˙ Dı¯n Isma¯ ¯ıl.35 Alam al-Dı¯n Sanjar al-Jawalı¯ al-Mansu¯rı¯ was also assisted by Sala¯r, ˙ his khushda¯sh, to obtain a post at court but went on later to become na¯ ib of both Gaza and Hama¯h before his death in 1344/745.36 The amir Aydamur al-Zaraq al˙ Jamaqda¯r al- Ala¯ ¯ı, who rose under al-Na¯sir Muhammad from amı¯r janda¯r to ˙ ˙ na¯ ib of Alexandria, continued after his death to become successively na¯ ib of Gaza, Damascus and finally Aleppo.37 The amir Ughrlu¯ al-Sayfı¯ rose steadily during the reigns of seven different sultans, first as walı¯ of Ashmu¯nı¯n, then na¯ ib of Shawbak, then walı¯ of Cairo until he became na¯ ib of Tripoli in 1346/747.38 The ¯ l Malik advanced through the reigns of career of the amir Sayf al-Dı¯n al-Ha¯jj A ˙ eleven different sultans. More than a half century after his commissioning as an amir by Qala¯wu¯n, he became in 1342/743 na¯ ib of Egypt and in finally 1345/746 na¯ ib of Damascus and then Safad.39 ˙ ˘

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Ibid., 1: 433. Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal (Paris), 2: 20a. Al- Asqala¯nı¯, Durar, 1: 400. Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Manhal (Paris), 198a-b. Al- Asqala¯nı¯, Durar, 1: 394; al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Ta¯rı¯kh, 274. Ibid., 275 – 76. Al- Asqala¯nı¯, Durar, 1: 429 – 30. Ibid., 1: 390. Ibid., 1: 411. ˘

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31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39

Glossary

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adl afu¯ ama¯n ˘

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amı¯r (pl. umara¯ ) amı¯r al-kabı¯r amı¯r al-saghı¯r ˙ amr asabiyyah ˙ ata¯ ˙ atı¯q bay ah dagha¯ in dawlah (lit. change or rotation) fasa¯d fitnah (pl. fitan) ghadr

justice forgiveness (for dissident behavior) guarantee of immunity for life and property, sometimes also liberty, usually marking the formal cessation of fitnah officer-patron officer of senior rank officer of junior rank legitimate power or authority partisanship see ni mah manumitted mamlu¯k oath of allegiance grudge political regime

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corruption or iniquitous behavior internal dissension or disorder infidelity, especially in terms of the violation of normative usta¯dh-mamlu¯k or khushda¯sh-khushda¯sh ties hilf see bay ah; also alliance ˙ hizb (lit. group; pl. ahza¯b) paramilitary party or faction, usually short-lived; also urban ˙ ˙ gang huqu¯q (lit. what is properly patrimonial rights ˙ owed one; sg. haqq) ˙ hurmah integrity ˙ leniency ighda¯ ˙ ihsa¯n benevolence ˙ ima¯rah position and rank of an amı¯r see ni mah in a¯m inqisa¯m see fitnah assignment of land revenue by regime for military service; iqta¯ (pl. iqta¯ a¯t) ˙ ˙ though created ostensibly to support legitimate military activity (jiha¯d), it was used as patronage to construct clienteles ˘

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234

Glossary

jinsiyyah jumhu¯r karh kha¯ssakiyyah ˙˙ khidmah khushda¯sh khushda¯shiyyah mamlu¯k (lit. bought person) manzilah mara¯tib (sg. martabah) nafaqah ˘

na¯ ib (pl. nuwwa¯b) na¯s ni mah (lit. benefit; pl. an um) niza¯m (lit. proper ˙ regulation) rida¯ ˙ rutbah sada¯qah ˙ sayf (lit. sword) shafa¯ ah shiqa¯q sulh ˙ ˙ ta¯ ah ˙ taqaddum tashwı¯sh thiqah usta¯dh wala¯ wisa¯tah wahshah ˙ ˘

ethnicity collectivity of the Mamluk elite enmity clientele or retinue, sometimes of both mamlu¯k and nonmamlu¯k servitors paramilitary service to a patron fellow servitor of mamlu¯k origin sense of fraternity among mama¯lı¯k forged ostensibly by common service to an usta¯dh; the ‘old-school tie’ a paramilitary servitor owned by a master-patron (usta¯dh) and owing him service, ostensibly, on the basis of normative moral ties; any client in political service to a patron see ima¯rah see ima¯rah pay bonus, an important instrument of patronage for the ruler governor elite, civil and/or military patronage

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constitutional order consensus see ima¯rah friendship, mercy force, coercion, violence intercession see fitnah (re)conciliation obedience precedence see fitnah personal trust master-patron clientelism mediation estrangement

Bibliography

Manuscript Primary Sources

˘

Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, Rukn al-Dı¯n. Zubdat al-fikrah fı¯ ta¯rı¯kh al-hijrah. MS Add. 23325. ˙ British Museum, London. Reference: Brockelmann, 2: 54 – 55. Abbreviation: Zubdah. General: Part of a general history of Islam, this manuscript covers events from the close of the Mongol conquest of Iraq (1258/657) to the third restoration of al-Na¯sir Mu˙ hammad (1310/709). The author’s long career in a variety of important administrative ˙ positions makes his testimony invaluable; indeed, it can be read as one of the rarest of all historical documents – a contemporary political memoir. As a political insider, Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯ reveals key concepts about the operation of Mamluk politics. ˙ Al-Tuhfah al-mulu¯kiyyah fı¯ al-dawlah al-Turkiyyah. MS Flügel 904/mixt. 665. Ös˙ terreichische Nationalbibliothek, Vienna. Abbreviation: Tuhfah. ˙ General: An abridged version of the above. Al-Birza¯lı¯, Alam al-Dı¯n. Al-Muqtafa¯ li-ta¯rı¯kh al-Shaykh Shiha¯b al-Dı¯n Abı¯ Sha¯ma¯. MS Ahmet III 2951 I, II. Topkapısaray, Istanbul. Reference: Brockelmann, 2: 45. Abbreviation: Muqtafa¯. General: A continuation of Abu¯ Sha¯ma¯ s Kita¯b al-rawdatayn, this manuscript covers ˙ events especially in Syria from about the mid-point of the reign of al-Za¯hir Baybars ˙ (1266/665) to the mid-point of that of al-Na¯sir Muhammad s third reign (1321/720). ˙ ˙ Given Birza¯lı¯’s prominence among the Syrian ulama¯ it is perhaps not surprising that his work is almost more of a biographical dictionary of his colleagues than a chronicle per se; nevertheless it corroborates dating of events as well as some biographical information of umara¯ not usually contained in better known dictionaries or necrologies. The most salient feature of this manuscript, unfortunately, is its almost complete illegibility in microform. Al-Dhahabı¯, Muhammad b. Ahmad. Al-Mukhta¯r min ta¯rı¯kh al-Jazarı¯. MS 1147. Köprülü ˙ ˙ Kütüphanesi, Istanbul. Reference: Brockelmann, 2: 57 – 60. Abbreviation: Mukhta¯r. ˘

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236

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General: Excerpts taken from the important Hawa¯dith al-zama¯n of the Syrian historian ˙ al-Jazarı¯, which was also the basis for Dhahabı¯’s larger and better known compendium, Ta¯rı¯kh al-Isla¯m. Though an abridgement of a universal history, it preserves information from Syrian historians, including al-Birzalı¯, important for both late Ayyubid and early Mamluk history. Ibn Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, Abu¯ al-Maha¯sin Yu¯suf. Manhal al-Sa¯fı¯ wa al-mustawfı¯ ba da al-wa¯fı¯. MS ˙ ˙ ˙ Ahmet III 3018 (Institute of Arab Manuscripts no. 841 ta¯rı¯kh). Topkapısaray, Istanbul. Reference: Brockelmann, 2: 51 – 52. Abbreviation: Manhal. ˙ Manhal al-Sa¯fı¯ wa al-mustawfı¯ ba da al-wa¯fı¯. MS arab 2070. Bibliotheque Nationale, Paris. ˙ ˙ Abbreviation: Manhal (Paris). ˙ General: A continuation of Safadı¯’s Wa¯fı¯ bi’l-Wafaya¯t and therefore not a contemporary ˙ source, this biographical dictionary nevertheless contains numerous citations of umara¯ who flourished during the first century of the Mamluk state. Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯ provides a check on the particulars contained in the biographies compiled by earlier authors. Despite being himself an offspring of the Mamluk class (walad al-na¯s) and a savant of their political culture, Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯ does not provide significantly better information or commentary on his early Mamluk subjects than contemporary authors. However, Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, though himself living at the end of the Mamluk period, chose to include a relatively large number of umara¯ from the early Mamluk state. Ibn Wa¯sil, Jama¯l al-Dı¯n. Mufarrij al-kuru¯b fı¯ akhba¯r Banı¯ Ayyu¯b. MS fonds arabe 1702, ˙ 1703. Bibliotheque Nationale, Paris. Reference: Brockelmann, 1: 393. Abbreviation: Mufarrij. General: Part of a history of the Ayyubid dynasty, it covers the history of the early Mamluk state down to 1296/695, though in notably decreasing detail after the third year of al-Za¯hir Baybars’s reign (1263/661). Ibn Wa¯sil lived through the pivotal events in ˙ ˙ Egypt during the transition from Ayyubid to Mamluk rule and provides a balanced account. Nuwayrı¯, Ahmad b. Abd Alla¯h. Niha¯yat al-arab fı¯ funu¯n al-adab. MS arabe 1578 ˙ (Suppl. 739). Bibliotheque Nationale, Paris. Reference: Brockelmann, 2: 175. Abbreviation: Niha¯yah (1578) Niha¯yat al-arab fı¯ funu¯n al-adab. MS arabe 1579 (Ancien fonds 683). Bibliotheque Nationale, Paris. Abbreviation: Niha¯yah (1579) General: Part of a history of Egypt from the ninth/third century, these manuscripts cover the period from the start of the reign of al-Za¯hir Baybars (1260/658) to that of the ˙ second reign of al-Na¯sir Muhammad (1302/701). As an important bureaucratic func˙ ˙ tionary in the second and third reigns of al-Na¯sir, Nuwayrı¯ with his access to important ˙ documents and witnesses provides another valuable insider’s view of politics in the early Mamluk state. Al-Safadı¯, Muhammad b. Abd Alla¯h al-Hashimı¯. Nuzhat al-ma¯lik wa al-mamlu¯k fı¯ ˙ ˙ mukhtasar man waliya Misr min al-mulu¯k. MS Or. 6267. British Museum, London. ˙ ˙ Reference: Abbreviation: Nuzhah. General: A sketch of Mamluk history down to 1317/716. Though the author was ˘

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237

Printed Primary Sources

probably a minor bureaucratic functionary and appears to have had access to some documents, they are used too sparingly to make this source very valuable usually ; the main virtue is that the source is contemporary.

Printed Primary Sources

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Abu¯’l-Fida¯, al-Malik al-Mu’ayyad. Al-Mukhtasar fı¯ ta¯rı¯kh al-bashar. 2 vols. Baghdad: ˙ Maktabah al-Mathnı¯, 1968. Reference: Brockelmann, 2: 55. Abbreviation: Mukhtasar. ˙ General: Part of a universal history, this source covers the Mamluk period down to 1329/729. Although a kind of internal memoir, it is not as valuable as the work of Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯ for the study of internal Mamluk politics. Perhaps this is expectable ˙ since the author lived in northern Syria and did not increase his direct contacts with Egypt before 1312/712; his personal relationship al-Na¯sir Muhammad, however, ele˙ ˙ vates the importance of his testimony for events in Egypt as well as Syria during Na¯sir’s ˙ three incarnations as sultan. Abu¯ Sha¯mah, Abd al-Rahma¯n b. Isma¯ ¯ıl. Tara¯jim rija¯l al-qarnayn al-sa¯dis wa al-sabi ˙ ma ru¯f bi’l-dhayl ala¯ al-rawdatayn. Edited by Muhammad al-Kawtharı¯. Cairo: Da¯r al˙ ˙ Kutub al-Malikiyyah, 1947. Reference: Brockelmann, 1: 386 – 87. Abbreviation: Tara¯jim. General: A continuation of the author’s Kita¯b al-rawdatayn fı¯ akhba¯r al-dawlatayn, ˙ this source covers Ayyubid history from the aftermath of Saladin to the early years of alZa¯hir Baybars (1262/660). Though virtually a lifetime resident of Syria, the author has ˙ some interesting comments about the demise of the Ayyubid regime in Egypt. Anonymous. Beiträge zur Geschichte der Mamlukensultane in den Jahren 690 – 741 der Higra nach arabischen Handschriften. Edited by K.V. Zetterst¦en. Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1919. Abbreviation: Geschichte. General: Supposedly a conflation of two sources; the first is anonymous, covering events form 1291/690 to the start of the third reign of al-Na¯sir Muhammad; the second, ˙ ˙ by amı¯r Bakta¯sh al-Fakhrı¯, covers the third reign of al-Na¯sir Muhammad as well as his ˙ ˙ son, al-Mansu¯r Abu¯ Bakr (1341/741). The work as a whole contains much valuable ˙ information on Mamluk politics, especially appointments and dismissals, helpful in ‘scoring’ al-Na¯sir’s relations with his elite. ˙ Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir, Muhyı¯ al-Dı¯n. Al-Rawd al-za¯hir fı¯ sı¯rat al-Malik al-Za¯hir. Edited by Abd ˙ ˙ ˙ al- Azı¯z al-Khuwaytar. Riyad: 1976. ˙ Reference: Brockelmann, 1: 388. Abbreviation: Rawd. ˙ General: The author’s position as confidential secretary (ka¯tib al-sirr) to al-Za¯hir ˙ Baybars allowed him to discern and evaluate his essential political skills (siya¯sah). Unfortunately the resulting sı¯rah has been routinely dismissed as unreliable propaganda. Though probably embellishing the facility of Baybars’ political achievement, it ˘

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nevertheless correctly identifies many of the constructive underlying techniques used by the founder of the Mamluk state to stabilize internal politics in Syro-Egypt after decades of unmanageable conflict. Tashrı¯f al-ayya¯m wa al- usu¯r fı¯ sı¯rat al-Malik al-Mansu¯r. Edited by Mura¯d Ka¯mil. Cairo: ˙ ˙ 1961. Abbreviation: Tashrı¯f. General: This work reflects the author’s continuing personal contact with the highest levels of Mamluk government as confidential secretary to Qala¯wu¯n. Even though he retired from that post during Qala¯wu¯n’s reign, his son, Fath al-Dı¯n, was appointed to ˙ replace him. Qala¯wu¯n’s biography shows him to have been a natural successor to Baybars’ ‘constitutional’ policy. Ur Abd Allah b. Abd ez-Za¯hir’s Biografi över Sultanen el-Melik el-Asraf Hal„l. Edited by ˙ ˙ ˘ Axel Moberg. Lund: Hajlmar Möller, 1902. Abbreviation: Biografi. General: Though retired from government by the time of al-Malik al-Ashraf Khalı¯l’s sultanate, the author’s son, Fath al-Dı¯n, had succeeded him as ka¯tib al-sirr to the sultan. ˙ Especially useful are the author’s comments on al-Ashrafs personality and political attitude. Ibn al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, Sayf al-Dı¯n Abu¯ Bakr, Kanz al-durar wa ja¯mi al-ghurar. Vol. 8: Al-Durra al-zakiyyah fı¯ akhba¯r al-dawlah al-turkiyyah. Edited by Ulrich Haarmann. Vol. 9: AlDurr al-fa¯khir fı¯ sı¯rat al-Malik al-Na¯sir. Edited by Hans R. Roemer. Quellen zur Ge˙ schichte des islamischen Ägyptens, 1 h, li. Cairo: Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, 1960, 1971. Reference: Brockelmann, 2: 55 – 57. Abbreviation: Kanz. General: An abridgement of a universal history, these sections cover the Mamluk period through 1336/736. Though a minor functionary himself, the author was exceptionally well-informed owing to the prominence of his father ; amı¯r Jama¯l al-Dı¯n b. Aybak al-Dawa¯da¯rı¯, who saw a good deal of service in Syria; indeed, often the most revealing testimony relative to the internal workings of Mamluk politics comes from his father and his cronies. Like the observations of Baybars al-Mansu¯rı¯, this sort of insider ˙ testimony provides invaluable insight into the political sociology of the early Mamluk elite. Ibn Hajar al- Asqala¯nı¯, Shiha¯b al-Dı¯n Ahmad b. Alı¯. Al-Durar al-ka¯minah fı¯ a ya¯n al-mi ah ˙ ˙ al-tha¯minah. 4 vols. Beirut: Da¯r al-Jı¯l, n.d. Reference: Abbreviation: Durar. General: The first of the centenary biographical dictionaries, this collection records the particulars of prominent men primarily of the central Islamic lands who died during the fourteenth/eighth century. A religious scholar rather than a bureaucrat like Safadı¯ ˙ or a walad al-na¯s like Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯, the author’s dictionary is expectably perhaps more useful for the study of members of the ulama¯ than the umara¯ ; even so, it bridges the works of Safadı¯ and Taghrı¯bı¯rdı¯ and provides a check on their information. ˙ Ibn Kathı¯r, Ima¯d al-Dı¯n Isma¯ ¯ıl. Al-Bida¯yah wa l-niha¯yah. Edited by Ahmad Abu¯ Ma¯hı¯m ˙ and Alı¯ Nabı¯b Atawı¯. 14 vols. Beirut: Dar al-Lutub al- Alamiyyah. ˙ Reference: Brockelmann, 2: 60 – 61. ˘

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Abbreviation: Bida¯yah. General: A universal history of Islam, it contains contemporary information on the reigns of al-Na¯sir Muhammad. ˙ ˙ Ibn Shadda¯d, Izz al-Dı¯n Muhammad. Ta¯rı¯kh al-Malik al-Za¯hir. Edited by Ahmad Hutait. ˙ ˙ Bibliotheca Islamica 31. Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1983. Reference: Brockelmann, 1: 634. Abbreviation: Ta¯rı¯kh. General: An important Ayyubid functionary in northern Syria, the author fled to Egypt in 1261/659 during Hu¯la¯gu¯’s invasion where he became an intimate of al-Za¯hir Baybars. ˙ His biography of Baybars is less obsequious than that of Ibn Abd al-Za¯hir ; in places he ˙ is even critical, yet without much compelling evidence. Both provide, when read carefully, important insights into Baybars’ constitutional mind-set. Also valuable are the necrologies of contemporary amirs. Ibn al-Suqa¯ ¯ı, al-Muwaffaq Fadl Alla¯h Abı¯ al-Fakhr. Ta¯lı¯ kita¯b wafa¯ya¯t al-a ya¯n. Edited by ˙ ˙ Jacqueline Sublet. Damascus and Paris: Adrien Maisonneuve, 1974. Reference: Brockelmann, 1: 400. Abbreviation: Ta¯lı¯. General: A contemporary biographical dictionary spanning the period from 1259/658 to 1325/725. The author was a functionary in the civil administration of Damascus and, although a Christian, gives detailed and reliable information about members of the ruling class who sometimes abused the native Christian community. Ibn Wa¯sil, Jama¯l al-Dı¯n. Mufarrij al-kuru¯b fı¯ akhba¯r banı¯ Ayyu¯b. Vol. V. Edited by Has˙ sanein Rabie and Said Ashour. Cairo: Ministry of Culture, 1977. Reference: Brockelmann, 1: 393. Abbreviation: Mufarrij (b). General: This volume covers Ayyubid history from 1231/629 to 1248/645, the eve of the fall of the Ayyubid dynasty in Egypt. Useful mainly for the study of the career of alMalik al-Sa¯lih Najm al-Dı¯n, whose attempted consolidation of Syria and Egypt in the ˙ ˙ 1240’s pre-figured the achievement of his own mamlu¯k, al-Za¯hir Baybars, in the 1260’s. ˙ Joinville, Jean de. The Life of Saint Louis. In Joinville and Villehardouin: Chronicles of the Crusades. Translated by M.R.B. Shaw. Harmondsworth and New York: Penguin, 1982. Abbreviation: Life. Appreciation: Captured during the Crusade of Louis IX in Egypt (1249 – 50/647 – 48), the author witnessed firsthand many of the events encompassing the fall of the Ayyubid dynasty in Egypt. It is clear that he developed a personal relationship with several Mamluk officers, who provided him with authentic inside information for his account. As a well-informed outsider, Joinville’s numerous observations about his captors provide unique insight into the early days of the Mamluk state formation process. Maqrı¯zı¯, Ahmad b. Alı¯. Kita¯b al-sulu¯k li-ma rifat duwal al-mulu¯k. 2 vols. Edited by Mu˙ hammad Mustafa Ziya¯dah. Cairo: Lajnat al-ta lı¯f wa-l-tarjamah wa-l-nashr, 1956˙ ˙˙ 58. Reference: Brockelmann, 2: 47 – 50. Abbreviation: Sulu¯k. General: A general history of Egypt down to the time of its author (d. 1442/845), this source, though celebrated, is not contemporary. Despite his reputation as an historian rather than a mere chronicler, Maqrı¯zı¯’s account of internal Mamluk politics often does ˘

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not jibe well with the observations and interpretations of contemporary authors, limiting its value. Mufaddal Ibn Abı¯ al-Fada¯ il. Al-Nahj al-sadı¯d wa-l-durr al-farı¯d fı¯-ma¯ ba da ta¯rı¯kh Ibn al˙˙ ˙ Amı¯d. Edited and translated by E. Blochet, “Histoire des Sultans Mamlouks.” Patrologia Orientalis 12 (1919): 345 – 550; 14 (1920): 375 – 672; 20 (1929): 3 – 270. Reference: Brockelmann, 1: 426. Abbreviation: Histoire Ägypten und Syrien zwischen 1317 und 1341 in der Chronik des Mufaddal b. Abı¯ l’Fada¯ il. ˙˙ ˙ Edited by Samira Kortantamer. Islamkundliche Untersuchungen, Band 23. Freiburg im Breisgau: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 1973. Abbreviation: Chronik General: A continuation of the work of the Coptic historian, Ibn al- Amı¯d, this source covers early Mamluk history from the accession of al-Za¯hir Baybars (1260/658) to 1341/ ˙ 741, just after the death of al-Na¯sir Muhammad. Though a Copt himself, Mufaddal ˙ ˙ ˙˙ presents information which jibes very well with mainstream Mamluk historians. Important, therefore, as a check on other contemporary mainstream sources, Mufaddal ˙˙ also presents many valuable details not found in his counterparts. Safadı¯, Sala¯h al-Dı¯n Khalı¯l b. Aybak. Kita¯b al-wa¯fı¯ bi’l-wafaya¯t. 8 vols. Edited by Helmut ˙ ˙ ˙ Ritter. Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1931 – 59. Reference: Brockelmann, 2: 39 – 41. Abbreviation: Wa¯fı¯. General: Safadı¯ preserves the biographies of many early Mamluk amirs in the largest ˙ and perhaps most important collection for that early period. al-Shuja¯ ¯ı, Shams al-Dı¯n. Ta¯rı¯kh al-Sulta¯n al-Malik al-Na¯sir Muhammad b. Qala¯wu¯n wa˙ ˙ ˙ awla¯duhu. Edited by Barbara Schäfer. Deutsches Archäologisches Institut Kairo. Quellen zur Geschichte des islamischen Ägyptens, Band 2a. Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1977. Reference: Brockelmann, 2: 35 Abbreviation: Ta¯rı¯kh. General: This volume covers the period from 1336/737 to 1345/745. Important coverage of al-Na¯sir Muhammad’s relations with his amirs during his final years. Particularly ˙ ˙ valuable are the necrologies, which reveal the frequency with which the sons of amirs inherited not only their fathers’ possessions but rank. al-Yu¯nı¯nı¯, Qutb al-Dı¯n. Dhayl mir a¯t al-zama¯n fı¯ ta¯rı¯kh al-a ya¯n. 4 vols. Hyderabad: ˙ Matba¯ at Da¯ irat al-Ma a¯rif al- Uthma¯niyyah, 1954 – 61. ˙ Reference: Brockelmann, 1: 425. Abbreviation: Dhayl. General: A continuation of Sibt b. al-Jawzı¯’s Mir a¯t al-zama¯n fı¯ ta¯rı¯kh al-a ya¯n, the ˙ published sections of this source chart the years from 1256/654 to 1288/686 in great detail. Though a Syrian, the author provides many interesting details about Mamluk politics in Cairo; his sources of such information were no doubt enhanced by intermarriage with the Mamluk class. Particularly valuable for the study of the Mamluk elite are the necrologies provided at the end of every year.

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