Today, the name of Albumazar has almost disappeared from sight, along with those of many of the other Arab scholars whose works were once common currency in both the East and the West. The tendency among Renaissance scholars and their successors, from the Enlightenment to the modern day, to dismiss the contributions of the Muslims and assign a classical Greek pedigree to the Western world of ideas led them to emphasize the influence of the astrological writings of the Greek astronomer Ptolemy.49 However, the early work of Adelard of Bath and his immediate successors accorded Albumazar centuries of influence as one of medieval Christendom’s leading authorities on science and philosophy. His teachings helped to establish almost universal acceptance for a vision of the cosmos as dominated by comprehensible laws.50
With its theoretical grounding in the classical Greek conception of the universe, The Introduction to Astrology proved an ideal vehicle for the transmission of science and philosophy in general to the Latin world, for it united the prestige of Aristotle with the undeniable lure of the occult. So influential was the philosophical basis of Albumazar’s astrology that it served as the first important conduit to the West for Aristotle’s natural philosophy.51 A note in one medieval manuscript, possibly in Roger Bacon’s own hand, says that the leading “authority in the science of the heavens” is not Aristotle himself but Albumazar.52
The first severe backlash by Christian theologians against the “new logic”—the Paris condemnation of 1210 aimed at Master Amaury and David of Dinant—was provoked for the most part by the growing popularity of Arab astrology and its undertones of pagan Greek philosophy. These two intellectual traditions, the Arab and the Greek, posed profound challenges to Christian orthodoxy that would come to occupy much of the theological and philosophical debate of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. These included questions of fundamental importance to the church: the role of man’s free will; the immortality of the soul; God’s knowledge of the particulars of human behavior, particularly apt given that he would preside over Judgment Day; and perhaps the most important for early science, the contentious matter of whether the earth was eternal, as asserted in Aristotle’s natural philosophy, or created “in the beginning,” as recorded in Genesis.
There was a general unease at this swelling invasion of ideas and thought seemingly in conflict with church doctrine, just as there had been two hundred years earlier at the Arab-based learning of Pope Sylvester II. One medieval Latin scribe appended his own succinct commentary to a fresh manuscript copy of Albumazar’s great astrological textbook: “Finished, with praise to God for his help and a curse on Mahomet [Muhammad] and his followers.”53 The Western world could not simply adopt unaltered some of the fundamental precepts of this new natural philosophy; yet it could not afford to ignore any longer the bounties of science and other advanced learning that accompanied more suspect teachings. A reworking of natural philosophy would be essential before Christendom could begin to accept and fully exploit the new science now arriving from the East.
But for now, Aristotle’s great works of cosmology and physics, already widely read in Arabic for centuries, remained largely unknown in the West, as did the insightful and provocative commentaries of the Muslim philosophers, particularly the peerless works of Avicenna and his rationalist successor Averroes. These texts, which reflected hundreds of years of debate within the Islamic tradition but were unknown in the West, would have an immediate and powerful impact on young minds across Europe. Soon they would be all the rage at Paris, Oxford, and other universities.
Adelard of Bath burst onto the European intellectual landscape as a young man, straight out of the cathedral school in Tours, with his public denunciation of the teachings of “the moderns” and his equally public intention of redressing the shameful state of Western learning by turning to the Arab world for illumination. The vague outlines of his life and adventures—even his taste in clothes, or at least in colors—can be gleaned from his translations and original writings. The same cannot be said for the time or place of his death, both of which remain obscured from modern view.
However, it may be possible to identify Adelard with the anonymous astrologer responsible for a series of remarkable royal horoscopes carried out in England in the middle of the twelfth century. Horoscopes from the Norman period are extremely rare. By one estimate, there may be no more than fifteen examples extant from the entire twelfth century, and there was just a handful of Western astrologers alive—and perhaps only two in all of England at the time—capable of performing the sophisticated calculations and determinations required to carry out these politically sensitive readings for the royal house.54
Several aspects of the collection suggest that Adelard may be the author of as many as nine of ten horoscopes preserved together in a single manuscript.55 In the first place, they rely on astronomical data similar to that from the zij of al-Khwarizmi and reworked for the latitude of Cordoba, the very same material Adelard first translated into Latin and introduced to the West. Second, the work exhibits a considerable level of technical skill and experience, except for the rather glaring problem that the astrologer should be using local data from England, not Spain. And third, the horoscopes presume a trusted position within the court, something Adelard seems to have enjoyed later in life. The bulk of the collection can be dated to 1151, when he would have been around seventy years old, a good number of years for his day but not an unreasonable life span. After that, Adelard’s paper trail disappears, suggesting that the well-traveled scholar, court astrologer, and resident Arabist likely died some time not long afterward.
Adelard’s experience in the world of Arab science established him as a respected scholar and intellectual elder statesman back home in England. There he inspired a steady stream of brilliant scholar-adventurers, some of whom soon followed in his footsteps to consult the Arabs on everything from astrology to zoology. Exploiting his standing at court, Adelard used one section of On the Use of the Astrolabe to propose to Henry Plantagenet a radical model for his kingdom. It should be ruled, Adelard tells the future Henry II, by a philosopher-king, for philosophers speak the truth and are guided by natural justice and reason. It should be tolerant of all religions and beliefs. And it should recognize the authority of the Arabs—that is, of the scientists and thinkers—and not that of the rigid church fathers.56
Chapter Seven
“THE WISEST PHILOSOPHERS
OF THE WORLD”
FIRED BY THE examples of Adelard of Bath, Stephen of Pisa, and other pioneers of the studia Arabum, adventurous Western scholars soon began to fan out across the former Muslim lands of Spain, Sicily and southern Italy, and the so-called Latin East in pursuit of newly available works of philosophy and the arts and sciences that accompanied them. Christian conquest and, to a far lesser extent, trade began to open up the vast Arab libraries to Western eyes, particularly in Spanish territory once held by the Muslims. Plenty of eager readers stepped forward. Centuries before the region’s final Arab stronghold, the kingdom of Granada, fell to the armies of Ferdinand and Isabella in 1492, the Latins were busy poring over the invaluable works left behind as the Muslims were forced to withdraw gradually from the Iberian Peninsula. In what amounted to an intellectual gold rush, young scholars hurried into the unknown to uncover Arabic texts and then render them into Latin before someone else could beat them to it.
From the second quarter of the twelfth century, individual Western scholars set up shop wherever they could find reliable supplies of Arabic books and influential patrons to support them. In Spain—the most popular destination due to both its proximity and its enormous cultural wealth—many of the translators worked in teams, employing local Jewish intellectuals or Christians versed in both Arabic and the vernacular as intermediaries between the original text and the final Latin version. Others mastered Arabic and even Hebrew, determined to squeeze the most out of the rich milieu of al-Andalus, where Jewish learning had flourished alongside that of the Arabs.
By its very nature
, this spontaneous translation movement meant that errors, misunderstandings, and misattributions were inevitable. Access and brevity were often more important than content in the selection of texts, and as a result some minor works won widespread circulation while important books were ignored.1 Early Christian scholars commonly thought they were reading Aristotle when they were more likely studying bastardized versions filtered through Arab astrology. Likewise, works falsely attributed to Aristotle, the so-called Pseudo-Aristotle texts, circulated widely. A considerable number of “translations” have also come to light for which Arab or Greek originals remain unidentified, raising the possibility that some Latin scholars may have been concealing their own unorthodox views behind the newfound respectability of Arab learning.2
The translators more than made up for any such shortcomings with a flush of energy and enthusiasm that saw Arabic books rendered into Latin at an accelerating pace. Early interest in works of astrology prompted demand for an understanding of geometry, mathematics, and astronomy—all necessary to practice the art of celestial divination. Influential Arabic writings on the classification of the different sciences stimulated interest in a broader range of translations: on medicine, pharmacology, optics, alchemy, and ways to use the astrolabe and the zij. By the second half of the twelfth century, translations of major scientific works were being augmented by the teachings of the Arab philosophers.
The treasures that Western travelers found waiting for them owed much to the social, cultural, and intellectual traditions established under Muslim Spain’s first great ruler, Abd al-Rahman, the refugee grandson of the tenth Umayyad caliph. Abd al-Rahman had escaped the Abbasid revolution and found refuge with his mother’s Berber people in North Africa. From there, he set his eyes on the storied riches of nearby Spain, just across the strait. Within a few years, he patched together a coalition of Berbers, pro-Umayyad Arab fighters, and other disaffected groups and crossed into Europe in the autumn of 755.
A considerable chunk of the peninsula had already been under Arab control for more than four decades, ever since General Tariq bin Ziyad led a mostly Berber army of around seven thousand men from North Africa and defeated the Christian Visigoths. The general landed his invasion force in the spring of 7II and built a fortress on the mountain of rock that still bears his name—Jabal Tariq, or Gibraltar—before advancing well to the north and killing the Visigoth king, Roderic. But internal dissension plagued the new domain from the outset, and in the summer of 756 Abd al-Rahman exploited these weaknesses to capture the capital, Cordoba, and proclaim himself master of Muslim Spain.
Mindful of the sensitivities of his powerful Abbasid rivals back home, the new ruler was careful not to claim the title or religious authority held by the caliph—one of his successors would see to that almost two hundred years later. Instead, Abd al-Rahman settled for the unprepossessing title of amir, or military commander. During a reign of more than three decades, he set the ever-shifting geographic territory of Muslim Spain on a course to one day rival the glories of the eastern empire. The Muslims would remain a significant presence in Spain for almost eight centuries.
Like Abd al-Rahman himself, the raw materials for the transformation of what had been a Christian backwater under the Visigoths into Europe’s undisputed cultural superpower owed much to their origins in the Arab heartland. The amir built a country villa just outside Cordoba, Munya al-Rusafa, named after his grandfather’s estate in Syria from which the young prince had had to flee for his life. Exotic imports from the Middle East, such as pomegranates and peaches, soon graced this man-made oasis. So did Spain’s first date palm, whose forlorn presence inspired Abd al-Rahman to write a nostalgic verse comparing its lot as an exile to his own: “I said to it: ‘How like me you are, far away and in exile in long separation from family and friends. You have sprung from soil in which you are a stranger, and I, like you, am far from home.’ ”3
Yet this transposition, the source of the amir’s melancholy, was by no means an aberration. The genius of the medieval Arabs lay in their extraordinary receptivity to new ideas, their ability to identify and adopt what they needed from foreign cultures—first Persian and Hindu, then Greek—and to modify and enhance these notions to fit the practical, intellectual, and, especially, religious demands of their own times. Ibn Khaldun, a masterful observer of the human condition whose family had been driven from al-Andalus by the Christian conquest, once noted that his fellow Arabs could simply not sit still: “All the customary activities of the Arabs lead to travel and movement.”4 The result was an almost dizzying transit of people, arts, technologies, even plants, across the enormous expanse of the known world that comprised the lands of Islam.
Even deep political divisions within this community of believers, whether the rise of al-Andalus in the eighth century, the later fragmentation of the Abbasid Empire, or the eventual dissolution of Muslim Spain in the eleventh century into rival petty kingdoms, could not break the fundamental bonds provided by a common faith, language, and legal code and other shared cultural values. At the same time, Islam’s presence on three continents gave it an extraordinary reach, capable of uncovering and then assimilating an array of traditions and cultures that might otherwise have remained isolated and apart. Arab scholars effectively enjoyed a global monopoly on knowledge of the far reaches of the world that remained unrivaled until Europe’s Age of Discovery. In such an environment, it is no surprise that the celebrated physician and scientist al-Razi, known in the West as Rhazes, in the early tenth century could discuss intelligently the relative medicinal merits of different strains of saltwort grown as far apart as Spain and India.5
Over the course of four centuries, innovations of all kinds from India, Persia, and Iraq flowed steadily westward, through Egypt to the Muslims of the Maghrib—essentially modern-day Algeria, Morocco, and Tunisia; West Africa; and al-Andalus, the latter bordering directly on Christian Europe. For example, Arabs from Yemen who settled in North Africa and Spain brought along their established irrigation regulations and administrative procedures, as well as new crops, new technologies, and new systems to enhance land use and increase yields.6 In time, this traffic would constitute somewhat less of a one-way street, but for now al-Andalus and the rest of the western Muslim world were the primary beneficiaries of this expanding store of innovation, science, and know-how emerging in the East.
Consider the common eggplant. Originating in India, the vegetable was apparently well established in Persia at the time of the Muslim conquest, and soon it was discussed in great detail in Arabic cookbooks and agricultural manuals. It was even celebrated in verse. The plant was then taken to Egypt, across the Maghrib, and into al-Andalus. One medieval account describes four different varieties known at the time in Spain: a “local” type, the Cordoban, the Syrian, and the Egyptian.7 Watermelon, spinach, the hard wheat essential to the high art of Italian pasta, and many other foodstuffs now common on Western dinner tables followed similar patterns. Along the way, these imports had to be adapted to new climates and conditions and supported with often complex systems of cultivation and irrigation. Many important Andalusi crops—rice, sugarcane, and oranges and other citrus, to name just a few—had their origins in climates that did not suffer the summer droughts typical of the Mediterranean world. Irrigation schemes, based on advanced engineering techniques and backed by intricate legal and administrative procedures for implementing, sharing, and maintaining them, were vital to long-term success.
The farmers of Muslim Spain became expert in the diversion, collection, and distribution of water for farming, as witnessed by the rich Arabic linguistic trail they left behind in contemporary Spanish: The words for floodgate (azuda), irrigation ditch (acequia), waterwheel (noria), water mill (aceña), and related terms are all derivations from Arabic.8 This same process of East-to-West progression and selective adaptation was repeated time after time, involving everything from the latest fashions in music, dress, and taste to sophisticated studies in astronomy, mathematics, medici
ne, and philosophy.
From its founding, the Arab court at Cordoba had set out to import books and attract scholars from the East in a deliberate bid to compete with the Abbasids. Among these works was the zij al-Sindhind of al-Khwarizmi, which arrived not long after it was completed in Baghdad. The prolonged struggle between al-Mamun and his brother for the Abbasid throne in the early ninth century left a number of court scholars, physicians, and poets temporarily without patronage or prospects; some were more than happy to try their luck in al-Andalus. Still, Spain battled a lingering reputation in the intellectual circles of Baghdad, Cairo, and Damascus as an uncultured, provincial outpost. It often took the threat of political or social unrest in the East, or promises of substantial financial reward, to convince hesitant scholars to make the trip.
One who did was the celebrated musician Ziryab, who arrived from Baghdad under mysterious circumstances; contemporary accounts hint darkly at royal intrigue and the poisonous jealousy of a less talented rival. Ziryab brought with him a repertoire of thousands of songs, and his talent and fame soon established him as Cordoba’s leading arbiter of manners, taste, and popular culture. He is widely credited with introducing the locals to such niceties as toothpaste, underarm deodorant, eating meals in distinct courses, and fine cuisine in general. Among the other figures to appear on the scene was the eccentric inventor Abbas ibn Firnas, whose ill-fated attempt to fashion wings and then fly from the heights of the amir’s palace ended in some serious injuries but not a broken spirit; he went on to perfect a technique for cutting crystal, build an in-home planetarium, and design a complex clepsydra, or water clock, that could approximate the changing times of the five daily prayers.9
The House of Wisdom Page 18