Download PDF | Mercedes Garcia-Arenal Rodriquez, Fernando Rodríguez Mediano - The Orient in Spain: Converted Muslims, the Forged Lead Books of Granada, and the Rise of Orientalism, Brill 2013.
488 Pages
Introduction
In the late sixteenth century there appeared in Granada, under miraculous and providential circumstances, some small circular leaves of lead incised with strange, archaic Arabic letters like those used in epigraphic inscriptions, amulets, and magical formulas. They contained what purported to be ancient Christian texts, in which the Virgin Mary took a leading role as the vehicle of Revelation; they spoke of certain Arab disciples who had come to the Iberian Peninsula in the company of Saint James the Greater.
These texts engraved on lead complemented and explained a discovery made a few years earlier, during the demolition of the former minaret of the great mosque of Granada, called the Turpiana Tower: a parchment written in Arabic, Latin, and Spanish that contained a prophecy attributed to Saint John, placed within a leaden box together with a handkerchief said to have been the Virgin’s and a relic of Saint Stephen. We call these finds “miraculous and providential” because Granada needed relics, and needed a sacred, Christian past—as a city so clearly shaped by its Islamic history, it had no such past of its own. These discoveries were immediately followed by miraculous cures, ghost lights, and other such wonders; these caused great excitement among the people. The Lead Books provided evidence of the presence of Saint James in Spain and of the belief—which had not yet been declared a dogma of the Church—in the Immaculate Conception of Mary.
The archbishop of Granada interpreted them as a sign that the city, its cathedral, and the Spanish monarchy enjoyed divine favor. The affair came to be known as that of the Sacromonte Lead Books, or as the Láminas Granatenses (Granadan leaves) when the Vatican decided to study them; in 1682, a century after they appeared, it declared them false and anathema. But the Church in Granada through its Archbishop Pedro de Castro, and the Spanish Crown, both defended the books’ authenticity with passion; thus the Lead Books affair gave rise to a tremendous debate and to a long and varied series of translations and linguistic studies. As the present volume will show, the matter went far beyond the confines of Granada’s local history and of the Morisco problem in the region. It would trouble the Spanish Church and Crown, the Vatican, the bishops in their struggles with Rome, and the scholars and humanists of half of Europe.
The text of the Lead Books is cryptic, obscure, at times deliberately ambiguous, and written without vowels—a “secret” text, as were most of the Moriscos’ writings. It has been interpreted as a syncretic text, or as one that tried to infiltrate Islam into Christianity. But for a long time it was considered by many people, including weighty ecclesiastics and theologians, as authentic, that is, as part of the Revelation—an ancient Christian message containing nothing that ran counter to the Catholic faith. The truth is that the Lead Books were perhaps, as Hagerty has proposed, written to be translated rather than to be read. This notion implies that their translators were simultaneously their authors, and of course the debate about the books was rooted in large part in the different translations that were made of them, and how translators interpreted their more ambiguous passages.
Therefore knowledge of the Arabic language is an essential ingredient of this affair. But who were the people who knew Arabic, and what kind of Arabic did they know? Here is one of the fundamental questions considered in the present study, which has the Lead Books at its center. We propose to show how the Sacromonte Lead Books affair transformed both the knowledge and the use of Arabic in Spain, at the same time that it provoked an abrupt turn in the historiographic study of the Peninsula’s Islamic and pre-Islamic past. We will analyze the ties between the situation of minorities in Early Modern Spain and the appearance of an erudite and learned use of Oriental languages, beginning with the specific case of Spaniards’ knowledge of Arabic. We emphasize again that the Lead Books were a text written in Arabic and taken by many to be an authentically Christian message, but by others as syncretist and full of Islamic or Islamicizing elements. Many Moriscos thought that it was an unmistakably and impeccably Islamic text. For this reason we must dedicate our early chapters to the norm that existed before the discoveries: that is, we must determine what was happening with the Arabic language in Granada in the context of its speakers, the Moriscos. We begin by following this thread in the period that preceded the 1580s and showing to what extent the Morisco milieu can explain both the form and the content of the falsifications, as well as the intent of the falsifiers. But we need to go back further into the fifteenth century to understand the different processes of conversion that underlie the main topic of this book.
The Christian conquest in 1492 of the last Islamic stronghold, the Kingdom of Granada, was followed immediately by a series of laws that forced the conversion or expulsion of Jews and Muslims. As a result, Early Modern Iberia became a society characterized by the imposition of a single religion. The forced conversion of Jews to Catholicism during the fifteenth century and their expulsion in 1492 were followed between 1502 and 1526 (through a series of decrees promulgated at different times in Castile and Aragon) by the compulsory conversion of Muslims, who thereafter became known as “Moriscos” or cristianos nuevos de moros (New Christians who were formerly Moors). Thus the final step was taken in converting the—in ethno-religious terms—pluralistic society which had existed in the Peninsula during the Middle Ages into a society in which a single religion held sway. We use the term “religion” in its broadest sense: this transformed society was seen as being endowed with only one Law, one revealed text, a single set of culturally appropriate behaviours, and a single accepted form of spirituality.
The change was massive and had profound consequences not only for the converted groups, but also for the society that had to absorb them. The nation also faced the problem of integrating the converted and confronting their respective sacred texts as well as their prophets, lineages, languages, and hygienic and culinary practices. The entire history of Early Modern Spain is marked by this trauma, which gave rise to long-lasting, multifaceted effects. The most important of these were the founding in 1478 of a new institution for enforcing orthodoxy, the Holy Office of the Inquisition, and the creation of statutes of limpieza de sangre or “purity of blood”: these legislated that persons of Muslim or Jewish ancestry could not accede to certain professions that led to positions of privilege and power. The traumatic transition that produced this mono-confessional Spain also saw the the emergence of shifting identities and new religious attitudes; these included forms of overlapping and redefinition of religious beliefs which will make themselves manifest in this book.
Two fundamental late-fifteenth-century events—the final culmination of the Christian Reconquest and the discovery of America—had led the Spanish monarchy to believe that it played a special metaphysical role, that it had been divinely chosen to embark on the grandest of political and spiritual undertakings. The two near-simultaneous achievements were confidently attributed to the workings of divine Providence. The conquest of the Kingdom of Granada, and the extension of that conquest to parts of the Maghrib when first Melilla (1495) was taken by military force and then Oran (1509) under Cardinal Cisneros, produced a wave of messianic enthusiasm that foresaw the definitive end of Islam, the conquest of Jerusalem, the reestablishment of the early Church, and the conversion of all humanity to the Christian faith. At the same time Islam had become, after the conquest of Granada, a more real and threatening presence than ever for contemporary Spaniards, and was to remain so throughout the sixteenth century. Spain confronted the Ottoman Empire, which harried the coasts of Naples and Sicily and conquered the island of Menorca.
The country was under constant attack from Barbary pirates from the North African regencies, who ravaged Spanish coastlines and shipping lanes (including the routes to the Indies), seizing in the process large numbers of captives. From the latter came back descriptions of the horrors inflicted upon them, and based upon these, religious orders dedicated to ransoming captives created broad propaganda campaigns. Spain suffered a constant unease at the not-always-peaceful presence of its Morisco population, the dangers of which showed themselves in the terrible War of the Alpujarras (1568–70). This rebellion of Moriscos from the mountains of Granada took place after the royal decrees of 1567 that forbade the use of spoken and written Arabic, the posession of Arabic books and documents, Arabic names, and so on. The War of the Alpujarras was considered as a terrible danger by contemporary Spaniards, and an intervention of the Ottomans in favour of their fellow Muslims very much feared. All this is well exemplified by the career of the commander of the army which fought at the Alpujarras, Don John of Austria. Don John of Austria, natural son of Carlos V (and therefore bastard brother of the King Philipp II) was Admiral of the Fleet of the Mediterranean, with which he had been launching war against corsairs and Ottoman ships. After the Alpujarras campaign he went on to lead the fleet to the battle which that Saint League (Spain, the Pope and Venice) fought against the Ottomans at Lepanto (1571) which he won, and afterwards conquered Tunis in 1573.
In any way, the War of the Alpujarras ment the second and definite conquest of the Kingdom of Granada. The true authors of the Sacromonte forgeries must have emerged from the Moriscos’ world. In fact Alonso de Castillo and Miguel de Luna, both of whom were Morisco physicians and court interpreters, have been identified repeatedly as the supposed authors. And yet it is not so much the actual authorship, the concrete and individual “guilt,” that we wish to expose; rather we seek to understand the cultural and even emotional horizons of the possible perpetrators on the one hand and of the recipients of the discoveries on the other. We will attempt to identify some of the core values of different groups of Moriscos, and to examine how those values were accepted or reformulated in response to contemporary social and cultural currents—for example, how the Arabic language gradually became the repository of an intrinsic identity, one that was distinct even from religion. We have tried to divine what significance the events in Granada in the sixteenth century held for the individuals who took part in them. We wish to know how those people made their choices and how they justified them to themselves and to others, because that will reveal how they saw their own identity, their self-respect, and their strategies for survival—all that, in the end, gave meaning to their lives.
These issues are intimately linked to the purpose of the Lead Books and to why they were created. On the other hand, if the authors were Moriscos, their ability to invent a text was obviously conditioned by the linguistic and conceptual resources at their command. They must have been constrained by the Arabic that they knew, by the Christian Arabic texts that existed in their environment (since the Lead Books were read by some as a Christian document), and by such reference works (dictionaries or glossaries) as were available to them. We must ask what elements made up not only their Arabic and Islamic culture but also their Christian one. What books they had at hand and what they might have read is a matter of special interest in the first part of this volume, and is essential to assessing and understanding the text of the Lead Books. Therefore we begin by interrogating the Sacromonte texts in light of the hybrid Christian-Muslim Morisco culture in which the authors and their patrons moved—at least those who benefited from the finds. At the same time we place this appeal to the texts and to the culture of the book in the context of the events that their protagonists lived through: conversion and evangelization, followed by a protracted series of measures that progressively curtailed the possibility of preserving Arab cultural traits independently of religion. Part of that context is the problem of personal honor, and of the privileges that families related to the old Nasrid aristocracy felt to be their due; another important part is the war of the Alpujarras. Of course we are interested also in the reception of the Sacromonte forgeries, or at least in detecting the factors that can explain their astonishing and long-lasting success.
The period in which the Lead Books of Granada appeared was also the age of the first construction of a historiography of a “national” or “protonational” character. In it the Islamic epoch in Iberia was portrayed as an alien parenthesis, now closed; Christianity had triumphed over it and had rooted it out completely. Considerable problems remained, however, above all in the case of the Andalusian cities of Cordova, Seville and Granada. When the history of such cities came to be written—their archaeological remains described, their inscriptions deciphered—what exactly were historians to do? How could they deal with an Arabo-Islamic past that was, in those cities, so obvious, so unavoidable, and at the same time so glorious?
Local history, the writing of which proliferated in Spain, particularly after the general history of Juan de Mariana (1592), was governed by very different imperatives from those of the historical chronicles promoted within official court circles. In such works it became necessary to present the conversion of Andalusian cities into Christian ones as, at the very least, not a mere process of transformation or creation but as one of restoration. This was particularly difficult to achieve in the case of Granada. For Granada, conquered barely a century earlier, the problem of its Muslim past was even graver and more obvious than for other cities: unlike Cordova or Toledo it had not even had a Christian population, and the names of its bishops, upon whose continuity other cities established their Christian background, were unknown. Such uninterrupted lists of succession of bishops bore witness to a city’s antiquity and its adherence to Christianity, and they were an indispensable prerequisite for writing a city’s history. On the one hand, Granada presented itself as the site of the definitive triumph of Christ over Islam, as a “New Jerusalem” rescued from the clasp of the Muslims. In this newly Christian Granada, the cathedral and palace of Charles V were the emblems of an architectural program based on the imperial idea of Caesar; they were a dynastic expression of the new Hapsburg monarchy.
This was true to such an extent that the Emperor had not only made the city a cathedral see but had decided to turn it into the pantheon of the imperial family (although this scheme was later abandoned, just at the beginning of the period to which our book is dedicated). But on the other hand the physical makeup of the city of Granada, with its great Islamic monuments and above all its Alhambra palace dominating the skyline, made it difficult to ignore its Islamic character. Therefore historians found it impossible to write a “history of Granada” for the first one hundred years of its Christian period. No printed history of Granada exists from before the events of the Sacromonte. These were to allow for a new development: a totally novel interpretation of the city’s origins, archaeology, and architecture which, as we shall see, stripped them almost completely of the their “Islamic” character in what must be seen as a true historiographic tour de force.
From the viewpoint of this obsessive concern with the origins of Spain, and with establishing the earliest possible connection between particular cities and regions and the history of Christianity, we should note that the Sacromonte Lead Books were not the only forgery that penetrated deeply into Early Modern Spanish historiography. Annius of Viterbo’s pseudoBerosus chronicle, for example, had a long-lasting impact that can already be detected in the work of Florián de Ocampo, the first great chronicler in sixteenth-century Spain; its influence would persist throughout the century and it would be appealed to constantly as a source for the origins of Spain and of its monarchy. Of equal weight were the forgeries known as the falsos cronicones, invented ancient “chronicles” attributed to real authors like Dextrus and Maximus; these began to circulate in Spain toward the end of the sixteenth century and purported to illustrate its early ecclesiastical history.
The man behind these falsifications was a Jesuit, Father Jerónimo Román de la Higuera, whose possible Jewish origins (he may have been a converso) could explain the motive for the fraud: he was trying to give legitimacy to certain Spanish converso families, particularly from his native city of Toledo, by demonstrating that they had lived in Spain since Antiquity and had been early converts to Christianity. Both Annius’s pseudo-Berosus and the false chronicles left a tremendous mark on Spanish historiography. They also provoked a polemical reaction that was particularly strong in the so-called “critical historiography” of seventeenth-century Spain; the names of its chief protagonists, like Nicolás Antonio, will recur often in the pages that follow. It is for all these reasons that we have drawn connections between the Granadan forgeries and the falsos cronicones, by way of the personal relationship between Miguel de Luna and the creator of the latter, Jerónimo Román de la Higuera; we find both men implicated in a movement to invent and rewrite history that extended beyond Spain.
The fraud of the Lead Books, which sought to exploit the sacred history of Granada, can only be understood in relation to all the similar finds that were taking place at the time: the saints’ remains and martyrs’ bones, ruined churches and buildings that appeared in many cities and towns. All these made it possible to include Spain in a sanctified history, one that went back to the East of the Bible and even to Babylon and Egypt, wellsprings of a wisdom and prestige that surpassed those of Greece and Rome. Thanks to Luna’s and Román de la Higuera’s falsifications, their respective cities could shine with patriotic pride and create for themselves an ancient and holy identity (and one that translated into special privileges). Such an identity made it possible, moreover, to include those elements of Spanish society that had been marginalized by the purity-of-blood statutes and a whole series of civil and religious decrees. Thus it created Arabs who were liberated from Islam, and Jews who were freed from responsibility for the death of Christ—two peoples who had lived in the Peninsula from the beginning, and who connected it to an earlier age when humankind had been closer to its Creator.
We are interested as well in how the Arabic language was allowed to be used in Spain at the time: for translation and interpretation, especially in diplomatic, mercantile, and military relations—in short, for mediation on the frontier with the lands of Islam. A good example is that of Alonso de Castillo and his friends. But Diego de Urrea, to whom we devote a chapter, shows the first overlap between what we might call a practical and functional use of Arabic and a scholarly one. In this regard we are particularly drawn to the figure of Marcos Dobelio, an Eastern Christian who taught Arabic at La Sapienza in Rome; his cultural, intellectual, and even emotional baggage differ from those of everyone else who had been involved with the Lead Books. For Dobelio the books were an aberration, not only from a linguistic or theological standpoint but in the type of religiosity they inspired. Granada was such a singular place that, in the light of these discoveries, its Archbishop could perform an exorcism while uttering part of the Muslim profession of faith in colloquial Arabic. Dobelio, an Arabophone Christian from the East, came from a Roman and European milieu in which Arabic had flourished under the wing of Biblical studies, through its resemblance to Hebrew.
Furthermore there were texts and versions of the Holy Scriptures in Arabic, and in that world the language was a vehicle for evangelization and religious polemic; the Eastern Catholic Maronites were creating a “scholastic Arabic” as a vehicle for the new doctrines that emerged from the Council of Trent. In other words, the Arabic language was the voice and identity of a particular sect, the Maronites, who in Rome were claiming the mantle of Eastern Catholicism above and apart from all the other Eastern Christian confessions. Dobelio’s view of the Lead Books was wholly distinct from the one that Spanish humanists and philologists expressed. In assessing the books, he concluded that the Moriscos were perpetuating a “residual” or “decayed” form of Islam, a religion that assumed an apologetic or polemical stance vis-à-vis Christianity at the same time that it was profoundly penetrated by the latter. We might add that this form of Islam was not very different (save in its contact with Christianity) from that practiced in other parts of the Maghrib: it relied on the same books, authoritative sources, and works of reference. Dobelio, like his follower Gurmendi, showed that the text of the Lead Books was based on Islamic sources. It purported to be Christian and might be read as such, but its origins and referents were Muslim.
It was an example of the richness and specificity of that late Spanish Islam in which cultural motifs, spirituality, and Christian references—including those to reformers and Lutherans—were tightly interwoven with Islam. Thus the Lead Books were in a sense the counterpart to what may be the most important work of all Morisco literature, the Tafsira of El Mancebo de Arévalo: an Islamic text built on a variety of Christian referents, from the Prologue to La Celestina to Thomas à Kempis’s Imitation of Christ. Following the theme of how Arabic was used, the second half of the book seeks to reconstruct how the language was apprehended by the Spanish scholarly world in the seventeenth century. It was a long process whose milestones can be followed through the activity of figures like Diego de Urrea and Marcos Dobelio. These two represent both the transition and the hinge between the book’s two parts through their Eastern background and their complex and “cosmopolitan” intellectual horizons, which gave them a singular profile in the Spanish medium in which they came to work. A field of knowledge was gradually created in which Arabic detached itself from its use as an instrument of proselytizing or diplomacy; this shift occurred through the translation and citation of Arabic sources, the cataloguing of the Arabic manuscripts of El Escorial, and the (precarious) effort to institutionalize the teaching of Arabic at the University of Alcalá de Henares. Throughout this process the falsifications in Granada played a fundamental role.
They owed part of their impact to the content of the Lead Books, which touched on pressing historical questions: the origins of Spain, the presence of Christianity and the Biblical East in Spain’s ancient history, the issue of what language or languages were spoken in the Peninsula—in short, the integration of al-Andalus and Arab culture into a coherent narrative of the Spanish past. Our story focuses in particular on the activities of a group of scholars who were very significant in Spanish culture in the seventeenth century. The names of Gaspar Ibáñez de Segovia, Marquis of Agrópoli and of Mondéjar; of Martín Vázquez Siruela, and of Nicolás Antonio place us at the center of critical Spanish historiography, in the “struggles for the truth” of history, and in the activity of the Madrid salons where “modern philosophy” was debated.
Places, we should add, where Oriental languages were learned, and where books written in Arabic and Hebrew, Coptic and Syriac, were discussed—a world of knowledge that these men, not by chance, considered supremely important in their own intellectual formation. We are at the beginning of an “Orientalist” scholarship. The term “Orientalism” as we apply it to this period refers to the crucial moment in the creation of Oriental studies in Europe with the foundational activities of figures like Erpenius, Raimondi, and Bedwell, both their works and their search for new texts with which to learn Oriental languages. This “Oriental scholarship” or early “Orientalism” proved capable of creating basic critical, historical, and philological tools which were problematic for extant textual and religious authority.
The figure of the Irish-Granadan Jesuit Tomás de León, and his correspondence with historian colleagues, notably the Marquis of Mondéjar, have allowed us to fix with greater precision the central role played by Orientalism in these works of scholarship. A special feature of this group is, in any event, the extremely close ties of several of its members to the Sacromonte; that place was the nucleus around which, at that very moment, the problem of Spain’s relationship to the Orient and of the construction of its sacred history was being formulated. Tomás de León’s correspondence has the virtue of making visible the specific problems and debates that took place within this circle on the issue of Oriental languages. It also serves to illuminate the makeup of a community of intellectual interests, a network that was included in the wider mesh of the European “Republic of Letters.” We have been especially interested in following the traces of the books that circulated and crossed paths within this group. Thus we show how deeply certain Orientalist books were absorbed in Spain: books published in Leiden, Rome, England, and the Low Countries; works by Selden, Erpenius, Hottinger, and Pococke.
This fact is highly significant; if, in the beginning, that Orientalist literature helped to fill gaps in the resources needed to learn Arabic (and other languages), in the end it exerted a profound intellectual influence. Along with those books came a fund of historiographic material, critical tools, and questions that effected a substantial change in the intellectual breadth of the use of Arabic as a language. We can see this assertion illustrated when we consider how the historiographic practices of this group sought to understand Spain’s Muslim past. Al-Andalus, as the Sacromonte Lead Books had shown, was an essential point of contact that interrogated the continuities and ruptures of Spanish history. Andalusi books, as well as archaeological and linguistic relics, were increasingly visible signs that required an interpretation. The basic question that arose was: Should one use Arab sources in writing the history of Spain? Mondéjar and León would answer in the affirmative; but theirs was an essentially novel response, precisely because they were armed with the weapons of the European Orientalist learning that they knew so well.
Their defense of Arabic repeated the well-known clichés (use of the language for commerce and conversion, the value of Arabic scientific works), but from a much broader perspective. It was no longer a simple matter of writing the history of Spain and its cities, but of something different: of allowing the integration of Oriental worlds, with their immense literature and the extensive, complex, and unimaginably ancient histories of their peoples, into the authorized apparatus of European history. We will attempt to show how some of the strictly Orientalist activities that are recorded in seventeenth-century Spain are determined by just this broadened point of view: translations of Egyptian chronicles, for example, could provide information about Eastern antiquities. This deflection of interest from the history of Spain to that of the East helps to explain the continuing concern for the origins of the Hebrews and Egyptians and for the Coptic language, very much under the influence of works by Kircher, Buxtorf, and Selden.
These names underscore the importance of the issues that were in play, from the creation of a great cultural project to restore ancient learning to a discussion on the foundations of civil law. In short, legitimating the use of Arabic as a tool for scholarship implied entering into a vast historical, cultural, and religious debate. As a first step, Arabic culture had to be separated cleanly from Islam as a religion (one of the recurrent themes of this book), but such a separation could never be total, and became a problematic issue in debates about the value of Arabic texts. The religious dimension was ever-present in a world dominated by polemics with the Europe of the Reformation and by the process of confessionalization. But this was not the only thorny side to learned Orientalism; exhaustive study of the Bible and its various textual traditions, the need to coordinate these with newly acquired knowledge of other languages, and the refinement of historiographic and philological tools had all reached the point of dismantling the walls between sacred and profane history. The study of chronology was an especially useful field from which to observe this process; the influential work of Scaliger had opened the way for these unexpected developments. Eastern chronology, Hebrew and Egyptian antiquities, the person of Moses—all constant concerns in the works of the Marquis of Mondéjar and Tomás de León—are themes that allow us to probe the boundaries of the historiographic project of this circle of learned Spaniards.
They had embarked on an internal struggle in defense of the Arabic language, but also on an external one against the “perverse enemies of the Church” who threatened the very edifice of religious authority. This book forms part of the research carried out under three projects funded by the Plan Nacional: “Los libros plúmbeos del Sacromonte: edición y estudio del texto árabe” (HUM2004–02018), directed by Mercedes García-Arenal, “Orientalismo e historiografía en la cultura barroca española” (HUM2007–60412/FILO), directed by Fernando Rodríguez Mediano and “Islam y disidencia religiosa en la España Moderna: entre la reforma protestante y la católica” (FFI2010–17745), directed by Mercedes GarcíaArenal. During this five-year period we have conducted lengthy searches and spent many hours in Spanish and Italian archives. The full list of these may be found in the bibliography and we need not repeat it here, except to express the great debt we owe to their respective archivists and librarians, whose assistance has been of enormous value. As an exception, however, we would like to mention by name certain people whose personal stimulus and guidance has been most important for our task: Don Juan Sánchez Oña, abbot of the Abbey of Sacromonte, and its archivist, Don Tomás Redondo, deceased before this book was finished; Doña Isabel Aguirre at the Archivo General de Simancas; and at the Vatican Monsignor Alejandro Cifres, director of the Archivio della Congregazione per la Dottrina de la Fede. All of them contributed personally to this book, and we wish to acknowledge and thank them.
During these same five years we have presented partial conclusions, at different stages of completion, at seminars and scholarly meetings. The discussions that arose on those occasions helped greatly to revise and complete some of our early positions, to reinforce or alter our direction, and to eliminate issues that blurred our argument—several times, for instance, at the University of Granada, home to noted specialists in related subjects. We give special thanks to the organizers and attendees at the meeting “Sola una ley se tenga” at the Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa in 2008, at which each of us gave an independent paper. Mercedes García-Arenal benefited from discussions with professors and students at the Center for Middle Eastern Studies at Harvard, where she presented the Hamilton Gibb Lectures in 2009, and at the Department of History of the University of Chicago. Fernando Rodríguez Mediano gave presentations at the Casa de Velázquez, at the École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales in Paris, and at the European University Institute in Florence. Our thanks to these institutions and their members.
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