Echoes of the First Encounters - Syriac Testimonies on Islam’s Emergence (EFE) - IV - The Maronite Chronicle: Between the Empire and the Ummah

The Maronite Chronicle: Between the Empire and the Ummah

بِسْمِ اللَّهِ الرَّحْمَٰنِ الرَّحِيمِ

"In the name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful."

The Maronite Chronicle is among the most compelling yet fragmentary Syriac historical texts to survive from the turbulent decades following the Arab conquests. Unlike the sprawling and apocalyptic tone of many contemporary Miaphysite chronicles, this text offers a terse, measured account shaped by a distinct Chalcedonian (Maronite) lens. Although its original title is lost, modern scholars refer to it by its theological alignment, as the Maronite Chronicle. What survives today is incomplete—fragmentary folios scattered between London and St. Petersburg—but within these leaves lies a rare and vivid Christian witness to the seventh century's seismic shifts.

The Chronicle traces events from the age of Alexander the Great up to the mid-660s, with a notable lacuna between the years 361 and 658. The surviving folios preserve a continuous narrative from 658 to 665/666 CE, a period marked by the consolidation of Umayyad power and the reorganization of Christian communities under Islamic rule. While brief, this window is invaluable. It is here that the Chronicle records three especially fascinating moments of Muslim-Christian interaction: a theological dispute judged by Caliph Muʿāwiya; his prayer at Christian holy sites in Jerusalem; and a monetary reform that broke with Roman conventions by removing the image of the cross.

Each of these episodes speaks not just to historical memory but to the evolving religious sensibilities of the time. The Chronicle’s depiction of Muʿāwiya is particularly nuanced: he is no mere conqueror but a complex political figure who engages with Christian sectarian disputes and sacred spaces. The Maronites are portrayed favorably, while the Miaphysites are vilified—a reflection of the author’s own ecclesiastical allegiance, likely tied to “those of the faith of Mār Maron.” This partisan tone has led some to associate the text with Theophilus of Edessa, a known Maronite chronicler, though scholarly consensus now regards the author as anonymous.

The Chronicon Maroniticum survives in British Library Additional 17,216, dated paleographically to the eighth or ninth century, with earlier missing folios preserved in a flyleaf in St. Petersburg. In 1904, Ernest Walter Brooks published a critical edition based on these fragments, integrating the Petropolitan leaf into the extant British codex. Bibliographic references to the manuscript can be found in William Wright’s Catalogue of the Syriac Manuscripts in the British Museum (p. 1041), while early editions and translations by Th. Nöldeke and F. Nau introduced the Chronicle to Western scholarship.

Debates continue to swirl around the Maronite Chronicle’s exact date of composition. On one hand, the text’s careful correlation of specific years with days of the week—alongside its silence on theological and political developments after the 660s—has led many scholars to propose a composition date not long after 665/666 CE, the date of the Chronicle’s final preserved entry. Notably, it makes no mention of the Maronite–Roman break that would harden in the early 680s, nor of later episodes of intensified sectarian friction, suggesting that the author was either unaware of these developments or lived before they had fully crystallized.

This internal consistency supports the view of the Chronicle as a near-contemporary account, offering a real-time glimpse into the earliest years of Arab rule in the Levant. Its detailed reporting of calendrical data suggests the chronicler may have had access to official records or direct experience of the events described.

However, not all scholars are convinced by this early dating. One key point of contention lies in the Chronicle’s reference to Muʿāwiya’s coinage reforms, specifically the alleged minting of gold and silver coins without the cross—a break from long-established Roman numismatic conventions. Some have seen in this a reflection not of Muʿāwiya’s policies, but of ʿAbd al-Malik’s well-documented coin reform of the 690s, which introduced explicitly Islamic inscriptions and removed Christian symbols from public currency. From this perspective, the chronicler may have projected later developments back onto Muʿāwiya’s reign, suggesting a later date of composition—possibly post-700 CE—when these changes were more visible across the Islamic world.

Yet recent scholarship challenges this skepticism. In particular, Mehdy Shaddel’s study of papyrological and numismatic evidence sheds new light on early Umayyad monetary activity. Shaddel re-evaluates a contemporary papyrus containing an enigmatic reference to coin circulation, which, when read in light of literary and archaeological data, supports the idea that Muʿāwiya himself launched a short-lived monetary reform in the Syrian-Egyptian region during the later years of his rule. Specifically, coins imitating Roman solidi—with their crosses effaced or replaced—appear to have been issued on a large scale. These were not simply regional imitations but part of a deliberate, state-enforced initiative to expand and Islamize the money supply, albeit one that ultimately failed to take permanent root.

This evidence gives new weight to the Maronite Chronicle’s account, suggesting that its reference to Muʿāwiya’s coinage is not an anachronism, but a legitimate observation of ongoing experimentation under the Sufyanids. If so, the chronicler may indeed have been writing close to the time of the events he describes, offering us one of the earliest Christian perceptions of Islamic state-building in action.

In light of this, the Maronite Chronicle stands as a bridge between eyewitness narrative and emerging historical memory. It may have been penned by a writer on the cusp of the great Umayyad transformations—before those changes were fully systematized, but as their outlines were already beginning to take shape.

Despite these uncertainties, the Maronite Chronicle offers a crucial counterpoint to Miaphysite accounts of the same era. Where others saw apocalypse, the Maronite chronicler records realpolitik, liturgical contention, and the theological ambiguities of early Muslim-Christian engagement. It is not the eschaton that looms large here, but the everyday negotiation of imperial loss and religious reorientation.

In this post, we will examine the Chronicle’s surviving material, especially its account of Muʿāwiya and the Arab rule, its sectarian framing of Christian identities, and the theological worldview it embodies. Through this lens, we uncover a window onto a Chalcedonian Christian response to the dawn of Islam—one shaped not only by doctrine but by diplomacy, memory, and a struggle to define belonging in a world now ruled from Damascus.

Commentary on the Maronite Chronicle

AG 969 | AH 37/38 | 658/659 CE

The Deaths of Muḥammad ibn Abī Ḥudhayfa and ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib, and Muʿāwiya’s Allegiance at Ḥīrā

Latin Text:

"... Moʻawia , Hudaifa filius sororis eius ; iubente autem Moʻawia , necatus est. Rursum etiam 'Alī minabatur se iterum profecturum adversus Moʻawiam. Eum percusserunt dum orat, in urbe Hīrtā , et occiderunt eum. Et descendit Moʻawia in civitatem Hirtā. Dederunt ei manum universae copiae Arabum quae ibi erant, et reversus est Damascum."

English Translation:

“...Muʿāwiya, and Hudaifa, his sister’s son; but by order of Muʿāwiya, he was put to death. Again, ʿAlī was threatening to set out once more against Muʿāwiya. But they struck him while he was praying, in the city of Ḥīrā, and they killed him. Then Muʿāwiya descended into the city of Ḥīrā. All the Arab forces that were there gave him their hand [i.e., pledged allegiance], and he returned to Damascus.”

Historical Commentary

This is one of the most compressed yet loaded entries in the Maronite Chronicle, and it does several things that diverge from the Islamic tradition:

1. The Execution of Hudaifa: A Misremembered Family Feud — Or a Real Betrayal?

"Muʿāwiya, and Hudaifa, his sister’s son; but on Muʿāwiya’s order, [Hudaifa] was killed."
— Maronite Chronicle, AG 969 / 658–659 CE

This stark line — terse but chilling — encapsulates what appears to be a deliberate purge within the ranks of the Arab elite. The chronicler identifies a certain “Hudaifa” as Muʿāwiya’s nephew (Latin: filius sororis eius) — and states bluntly that Muʿāwiya ordered his death.
But who was this “Hudaifa”?

Who Was Hudaifa?

The most likely identification is Muḥammad ibn Abī Ḥudhayfa (d. ca. 657–659), a companion of the Prophet, son of the early convert Abū Ḥudhayfa ibn ʿUtba. His life and death were deeply entangled in the First Fitna, and his role makes him a figure of both idealism and political tragedy.
Let’s examine his lineage and ties to the Umayyads:

Lineage and Patronage:

Father: Abū Ḥudhayfa ibn ʿUtba ibn Rabīʿa, a brother of Hind bint ʿUtba, who was the mother of Muʿāwiya. This would make Abū Ḥudhayfa and Muʿāwiya first cousins.

Mother: Sahla bint Suhayl — not an Umayyad herself, but through paternal ties and guardianship, Muḥammad was raised within the Umayyad household.

After Abū Ḥudhayfa’s death at Yamāma (633 CE), the young orphaned Muḥammad was taken in and raised by ʿUthmān ibn ʿAffān himself — his paternal uncle by fosterage (or perhaps first cousin once removed, depending on genealogical sources).

Thus, while he may not have been Muʿāwiya’s literal nephew (ibn ukhtihi), the Christian chronicler’s label is symbolically accurate: Muḥammad was family — either by maternal clan bonds, fosterage, or marital kinship.

His Role in the Fitna

Muḥammad ibn Abī Ḥudhayfa played a central role in the unraveling of the Rashidun consensus:

He was denied a governorship by ʿUthmān, despite being raised by him.

In resentment, he left Medina for Egypt and seized power there in a populist uprising.

He took part in the agitation against ʿUthmān, helping to undermine his legitimacy, though it's unclear if he directly participated in the caliph’s murder in 656 CE.

After ʿUthmān’s death, Muḥammad attempted to retain control over Egypt, but his authority was challenged by forces loyal to ʿAlī, and later overthrown when Muʿāwiya’s forces took Egypt under ʿAmr ibn al-ʿĀṣ.

His Death: Divergent Accounts — Resolved by the Maronite Chronicle

Islamic sources present conflicting accounts regarding the fate of Muḥammad ibn Abī Ḥudhayfa after the First Fitna:

Some say he was captured and imprisoned by Muʿāwiya after the fall of Egypt, left to languish in a cell.
Others claim he was executed under Muʿāwiya’s orders, as a political threat who had once fomented rebellion and ruled a province.
A third account, reported by al-Yaʿqūbī, suggests he was murdered by his own servant, or possibly by Mālik ibn Hubayra, a commander of Muʿāwiya.

But what unites all these narratives is this:

Muḥammad did not die peacefully, nor by chance.
His death followed his role in destabilizing the caliphate, especially the revolt against ʿUthmān—his foster-guardian—and the seizure of Egypt during the civil war.

The Maronite Chronicle Confirms the Verdict

What makes the Maronite Chronicle so crucial is that it resolves the ambiguity.

“Muʿāwiya, and Hudaifa, his sister’s son; but on Muʿāwiya’s order, [Hudaifa] was killed.”
— Chronicon Maronitarum, AG 969 (658–659 CE)

Here, the chronicler:

Names Muḥammad ibn Abī Ḥudhayfa (Hudaifa) as Muʿāwiya’s relative (likely nephew by kin or fosterage),
States explicitly that his execution was ordered by Muʿāwiya himself,
Places it during Muʿāwiya’s consolidation of power in the post-Ṣiffīn phase of the Fitna.

Unlike Islamic sources, which hedge or diverge, this Christian source provides a direct attribution. It treats the execution as a conscious political act — not a mysterious death, nor a rogue killing.

Why This Matters

The Maronite account confirms what later Islamic historians like Ibn Kathīr, al-Ṭabarī, and al-Masʿūdī could only speculate or narrate with caution.

It:

Validates that Muʿāwiya actively purged rivals, including former allies and kin,
Frames the act in a broader moral-political context: the sacrifice of family ties for political survival,
Offers an external confirmation of what Muslim chroniclers likely knew but could not always say outright.

In this light, Muḥammad ibn Abī Ḥudhayfa’s death becomes not just a footnote of civil war — but a symbol of how kinship, loyalty, and idealism broke apart in the quest for caliphal authority.

Why the Maronite Chronicle Focuses on This

The Chronicle’s emphasis on kinship—“his sister’s son”—and the execution ordered by Muʿāwiya reflects a moral framing familiar to Christian chroniclers:

Familial betrayal as a symbol of a collapsing moral order,

Power consolidating through fratricide, echoing biblical patterns of civil war (Absalom, Cain, etc.),

The inversion of loyalty, with adopted sons killing adoptive fathers, and uncles slaying nephews.

This is not just history—it’s a moral parable about the price of power in a fractured community.

In a chronicle so brief and compressed, the inclusion of this episode is no accident, the death of Muḥammad ibn Abī Ḥudhayfa is thus not just a footnote—it’s a signal of the corruption of kinship, faith, and political legitimacy in the wake of Muʿāwiya’s rise.

2. The Death of ʿAlī — Too Early?

“Rursum etiam 'Alī minabatur se iterum profecturum adversus Moʻawiam. Eum percusserunt dum orat, in urbe Hīrtā, et occiderunt eum.”
“ʿAgain, ʿAlī was threatening to set out once more against Muʿāwiya. But they struck him while he was praying, in the city of Ḥīrā, and they killed him.” — Maronite Chronicle, AG 969 (658/659 CE)

The Maronite Chronicle reports that ʿAlī was assassinated while praying in Ḥīrā—a simplified but recognizable reference to his murder in the Great Mosque of Kūfa, which most Islamic sources date to Ramadan 40 AH / January 661 CE, but here's the anomaly:
The chronicle dates his death to AG 969, which corresponds to October 658 – September 659 CE—two to three years earlier than the mainstream Islamic dating.

A Christian Chronology?

This early date is not unique to the Maronite Chronicle. The Greek chronicler Theophanes the Confessor, relying on Theophilos of Edessa, also places ʿAlī’s assassination in 658/659, writing:

“While the Arabs were at Sapphin [Ṣiffīn], ʿAlī (the one from Persia) was assassinated and Mauias [Muʿāwiya] became sole ruler.”

This version skips over al-Ḥasan, ignores the treaty of 661, and treats ʿAlī’s death as the definitive end of the First Fitna.
📚 As Andrew Marsham observes:

“Both [Theophanes and the Maronite Chronicle] appear to see ʿAlī’s death as the end of the civil war… making no mention of Ḥasan’s brief caliphate.”

In this reading, the Maronite Chronicle collapses the complex aftermath of Ṣiffīn and Nahrawān into one final image:

The martyrdom of ʿAlī, sealing the fate of the rebels and marking the rise of Muʿāwiya as sole ruler.

Why So Early?

How did this confusion arise?
A strong theory — and one grounded in the Islamic chronology itself — lies in how final Nahrawān felt.
The year 37 AH / 657–658 CE was dramatic:

The Battle of Nahrawān was fought against the Khawārij, who had splintered from ʿAlī’s camp after the arbitration at Ṣiffīn.

ʿAlī defeated them, but not all were killed — and it was a surviving Kharijite, Ibn Muljam, who would later assassinate him in 661.

The Chronicle conflates these timelines:
After the rebellion at Nahrawān, ʿAlī’s fate was sealed. His enemies had been named. The assassination may have been seen not as a separate event, but as the inevitable conclusion of the post-Nahrawān order.
In Islamic tradition, this distinction remains:

Ibn Kathīr, in his al-Bidāya wa’l-Nihāya, preserves an entire sequence in year 37 AH:

Ṣiffīn

The raising of Qur’āns

The arbitration

The rise and slaughter of the Khawārij at Nahrawān

And then... the anticipation of ʿAlī’s martyrdom

For a Christian chronicler writing soon after, however, the years between Nahrawān and Kūfa might have blurred. The prophecy had been fulfilled. The fate of ʿAlī was known — only the date was flexible.

Historical Memory vs. Chronological Precision

Both the Maronite Chronicle and Theophanes reflect a symbolic logic, not a strict annalistic one:

They compress the end of the civil war into one year.

They see Muʿāwiya’s kingship emerging full-formed after ʿAlī’s death.

They omit Ḥasan — possibly because his treaty with Muʿāwiya was seen as a surrender, not a reign.

This is less about getting the date “wrong,” and more about presenting a narrative arc:

ʿAlī’s death = the end of resistance = the rise of the Arab kingdom based in Damascus.

Conclusion: A Date that Tells a Story

The Maronite Chronicle dates ʿAlī’s assassination to 658/659 — too early by our sources, but not without meaning.
It reveals:

A Christian mental map of the Fitna, shaped by symbolic events,

The way memory condensed Nahrawān and Kūfa into one fatal climax,

And how the dawn of Muʿāwiya’s kingship became the end of an era.

In their eyes, the Ummah had chosen its king. The civil war was over. The Caliphate of Quraysh was now a kingdom — and the Umayyad era had begun.

Narrative Ambiguity and Historical Blame: Who Struck ʿAlī?

In its account of AG 969 (658/659 CE), the Maronite Chronicle tells us:

“Eum percusserunt dum orat, in urbe Hīrtā, et occiderunt eum.”
“They struck him while he was praying, in the city of Ḥīrā, and they killed him.”

It is a stark sentence—violent and abrupt. But the Latin phrasing is strikingly ambiguous. There is no clear subject: we are told simply that “they struck him” — who did the striking remains unspoken.
This ambiguity, far from being a weakness, is deeply intentional and serves a powerful narrative purpose.

A Deliberate Obscurity: Framing Muʿāwiya as the Beneficiary

The context surrounding this line strongly shapes the reader’s perception. The chronicle’s structure is compact, but loaded with implication:

It begins by recounting the execution of Muḥammad ibn Abī Ḥudhayfa, said to have been carried out “on the orders of Muʿāwiya.”

Then it states that ʿAlī was threatening to march against Muʿāwiya, and was struck while praying and killed.

Immediately after, Muʿāwiya enters Ḥīrā, receives the allegiance of the Arab forces there, and returns to Damascus.

This sequencing reads like a chain of cause and effect: rebellion, suppression, assassination, coronation.
In short: ʿAlī’s death clears the board, and Muʿāwiya ascends uncontested.
Even if the chronicler does not outright say that Muʿāwiya ordered ʿAlī’s death, the placement and flow of the narrative strongly imply it. The unnamed subject—they struck him—feels like a rhetorical device, inviting the reader to infer political culpability rather than spiritual or ideological fanaticism (as in the Islamic tradition, where the Kharijites are blamed).

Why Would the Chronicler Frame It This Way?

The Maronite Chronicle reflects a Syrian Christian worldview, one that perceives the First Fitna through the lens of order versus chaos, strong kingship versus anarchy:

Muʿāwiya, the Syrian-based leader, represents stability and imperial restoration. He’s often portrayed in Christian sources with a kind of grim respect.

ʿAlī, by contrast, is linked to Mesopotamian unrest, endless internal feuds, and the dangerous radicalism of groups like the Kharijites, whom the chronicler doesn’t even mention.

Moreover, this Christian chronicler is writing in a time when:

Political assassinations were expected tools of power.

Legitimate kingship was often affirmed by divine providence shown through victory.

The winner of a civil war was not merely tolerated — he was blessed by history.

Thus, even if Muʿāwiya didn’t wield the dagger, the chronicler presents him as the primary beneficiary of ʿAlī’s death — and therefore, in a moral sense, its orchestrator.

Why No Mention of Ibn Muljam?

Unlike Islamic sources, the Maronite Chronicle:

Does not name Ibn Muljam.

Does not mention the Kharijites.

Does not reference Nahrawān or the ideological fallout from arbitration.

This isn’t simply an omission. It reflects a narrative condensation: to the chronicler, the inner-Muslim schism is less important than its political resolution.
He is writing not to explain theology or sectarian ideology, but to record the moment when power passed decisively from the heirs of the Prophet to the rulers of Syria.

Narrative Strategy: Simplify to Clarify

By eliminating complex factionalism (like the Kharijites), the chronicler simplifies the story:

There are two camps: ʿAlī vs. Muʿāwiya.

ʿAlī threatens war.

ʿAlī is killed.

Muʿāwiya enters Ḥīrā and becomes caliph.

This framework allows the chronicler to cast the First Fitna not as a civil religious crisis, but as a power struggle with a winner and a loser, a divinely ordained transition of rule.
Just as Roman emperors would stamp their legitimacy with victory in battle, Muʿāwiya’s receipt of allegiance at Ḥīrā serves as a Christianized version of imperial acclamation.

Summary: The Subtle Finger Pointing

So who “struck” ʿAlī?

The chronicler does not name names, but the rhetorical proximity of Muʿāwiya to the act, and the immediate reward he reaps, point the finger subtly in his direction.

It’s not a legal accusation — it’s a narrative verdict: ʿAlī died, and Muʿāwiya rose. That’s enough to imply complicity.

In Christian eyes, history itself had judged.

Great — here’s a sidebar-style comparative note that you can drop alongside your main commentary. It highlights the divergence between the Maronite Chronicle’s framing and Islamic historical tradition regarding the death of ʿAlī:

Sidebar: Comparing Sources — Who Killed ʿAlī?

Source Cause of Death Perpetrator Named? Political Framing

Islamic Tradition (Ṭabarī, Ibn Kathīr, Balādhurī) Assassinated during prayer in the Great Mosque of Kūfa (Ramadan 40 AH / Jan 661) Yes: ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn Muljam, a Kharijite extremist Framed as religious zealotry and internal schism

Maronite Chronicle (AG 969 / 658–659 CE) Struck and killed while praying, in Ḥīrā No: simply “they struck him” (eum percusserunt) Implied as a political killing, followed immediately by Muʿāwiya’s rise

Theophanes the Confessor (based on Theophilos of Edessa) Assassinated around 658, near Ṣiffīn No name given Seen as the event that ends the civil war and elevates Muʿāwiya

Source	Cause of Death	Perpetrator Named?	Political Framing
Islamic Tradition (Ṭabarī, Ibn Kathīr, Balādhurī)	Assassinated during prayer in the Great Mosque of Kūfa (Ramadan 40 AH / Jan 661)	Yes: ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn Muljam, a Kharijite extremist	Framed as religious zealotry and internal schism
Maronite Chronicle (AG 969 / 658–659 CE)	Struck and killed while praying, in Ḥīrā	No: simply “they struck him” (eum percusserunt)	Implied as a political killing, followed immediately by Muʿāwiya’s rise
Theophanes the Confessor (based on Theophilos of Edessa)	Assassinated around 658, near Ṣiffīn	No name given	Seen as the event that ends the civil war and elevates Muʿāwiya

Key Observations:

Islamic tradition goes into detail: the assassin was a Kharijite; his motive was theological vengeance after Nahrawān.

Christian sources, like the Maronite Chronicle and Theophanes, remove the theological complexity. Instead, they compress the narrative into a clear line of succession: Muʿāwiya wins.

The ambiguous “they” in the Maronite Chronicle allows the chronicler to gesture toward complicity, without becoming polemical or explicit.

To Christian chroniclers writing in Syria and Mesopotamia, the internal fractures of the Muslim community were less important than who emerged with the crown.

3. Muʿāwiya at Ḥīrā — Allegiance, Optics, and Narrative Finality

“Et descendit Moʻawia in civitatem Hīrtā. Dederunt ei manum universae copiae Arabum quae ibi erant, et reversus est Damascum.”
“Then Muʿāwiya descended into the city of Ḥīrā. All the Arab troops who were there gave him their hand [of allegiance], and he returned to Damascus.”
— Maronite Chronicle, AG 969 (658/659 CE)

In this brief yet striking passage, the Maronite Chronicle presents a moment of unmistakable drama and finality: Muʿāwiya enters Ḥīrā, is received by the Arab troops there with a collective gesture of loyalty — manum dederunt — and then returns to Damascus, his seat of power.

This event is not described in Islamic sources in precisely this form. But as a Christian recollection, it captures something deeply real: the moment when Muʿāwiya emerged as the uncontested ruler of the Ummah.

Why Ḥīrā?

The chronicler’s choice of Ḥīrā is no coincidence. Located just outside al-Kūfa, it had once been the capital of the Lakhmid kingdom, an Arab Christian vassal of the Sasanians. In Christian memory, Ḥīrā retained its significance as a noble Arab city — associated with pre-Islamic grandeur, learning, and Christian kingship.

By placing Muʿāwiya’s recognition there, the chronicle elevates the moment: Ḥīrā becomes a symbolic throne room, where Iraq bows to Syria, and the civil war is brought to an end not through treaty but through submission and spectacle.

This scene functions as an imperial entry — akin to a Roman or Persian general receiving homage in a conquered province. Muʿāwiya does not stay; he departs again for Damascus. But he leaves behind the unmistakable message: the Ummah has a new master.

Allegiance Before the Treaty?

This pledge of loyalty comes in the Chronicle before the official peace accord between al-Ḥasan ibn ʿAlī and Muʿāwiya in 661 (41 AH). This is important.

Islamic tradition insists that Muʿāwiya only became universally recognized after al-Ḥasan ceded power. But as Fred Donner and others have noted, this tidy narrative obscures the messier reality:

“There is no doubt that only after the abdication of al-Ḥasan… was Muʿāwiya recognized by the whole Islamic community… Yet this does not preclude the fact that prior to this, he was recognized as caliph by a sizeable number of Muslims.”
— Fred Donner, “The Formation of the Islamic Conquests”

Even Islamic sources reflect that:

Muʿāwiya was already acting as caliph in Syria by 656, immediately after the assassination of ʿUthmān.

He was viewed as a legitimate contender by many Arabs in the region.

ʿAlī himself treated Muʿāwiya not merely as a rebellious governor, but as a political rival who had to be militarily confronted.

The pledge at Ḥīrā, then, reflects a reality already in motion by 658: many in Iraq were ready to abandon the faltering Kufan camp and acknowledge Muʿāwiya as sovereign.

Regional Memory and the Length of Muʿāwiya’s Reign

Interestingly, many non-Muslim sources — especially Syriac and Greek — record Muʿāwiya’s reign as 24 or 25 lunar years, not the canonical 20 (661–680 CE). This would place the start of his caliphate at 656, immediately following ʿUthmān’s death.

This is not a mistake — it reflects regional perceptions in Syria and northern Mesopotamia, where Muʿāwiya was already treated as the effective caliph long before al-Ḥasan’s abdication. As Robert Hoyland notes:

“Muʿāwiya was regarded (even by his enemies) as a contender for the caliphate immediately after the killing of ʿUthmān.”

In this sense, the Maronite Chronicle is not imagining a fantasy — it is recording a perception shared by its world: that by 658, the question of who ruled the Muslims had been answered.

A Christian Chronicle’s Closure

Just as the chronicler dates ʿAlī’s death “too early” — likely to align with the decisive moment after Nahrawān when his fate was sealed — so too does he place Muʿāwiya’s victory before the treaty with al-Ḥasan.

It’s a narrative of closure, crafted by a Christian observer who sought clarity and structure amid chaos. The pattern is unmistakable:

ʿAlī dies in Iraq.

The Arab troops in Ḥīrā give Muʿāwiya their hands.

He returns to Damascus as caliph.

This is how civil wars end in Late Antique chronicles — not through lengthy treaties or technicalities, but through moments of symbolic submission.

Conclusion: The Caliph of Syria, Crowned in Iraq

The Maronite Chronicle’s portrayal of Muʿāwiya’s reception at Ḥīrā is not a digression — it is the emotional and theological climax of the entry for AG 969.

Ḥīrā represented the fading world of ʿAlī and Iraq.

Muʿāwiya’s presence there marked the final transfer of Arab leadership from the east to the west.

Damascus, not Medina, not Kūfa, would now serve as the beating heart of Islamic power.

From the perspective of a Syriac Christian, this wasn’t just a change in rulers. It was the arrival of order — of imperial clarity — after the chaos of Arab civil war.

And it began, as all kingdoms do in ancient memory, with the lifting of a hand in a borderland city.

AG 970 | AH 38–39 | 659–660 CE

Earthquakes in Palestine, Theological Showdowns in Damascus, and Imperial Violence in Constantinople

Latin Text (Maronite Chronicle)

Anno 970°, Constantis 17º, mense hazıran , die Veneris , hora 2ª, fuit motus terrae vehemens in regione Palestinae: multi loci eo corruerunt.

Eodem mense, venerunt episcopi Iacobitarum, Theodorus et Sebōkt, Damascum, et disputationem coram Moʻawia habuerunt cum viris gregis Mar Maronis, circa fidem. Cum autem victi essent Iacobitae, iussit Moʻawia ut darent xx milia denariorum, mandavitque ut in quiete starent; et orta est consuetudo ut episcopi Iacobitarum, singulis annis, id aurum regi Moʻawiae persolverent, ne removeret ab eis manus et a filiis Ecclesiae persecutionem paterentur. Qui appellabatur a Iacobitis patriarcha omnibus monasteriis monachorum et monacharum imposuit quantitatem huius auri quam singulis annis persolverent: similiter et omnibus fidelibus suis imposuit, et seipsum fecit praebitorem regis Moʻawiae, ut prae huius timore sibi submitterentur omnes Iacobitae. Et eo mense quo facta est disputatio Iacobitarum, die nona, dominica, hora octava, mota est terra.

Eodem anno, iubente imperatore Constante, occisus est Theodosius eius frater inique et sine ratione, ut multi dixerunt. Plurimi dolorem conceperunt de eius caede. Dicunt cives fecisse clamores in imperatorem eumque Cainum alterum, fratris occisorem, vocavisse. Ipse quidem multum iratus reliquit filium suum Constantinum super solium suum, sumpsit imperatricem et universum exercitum Romanorum pugnae capacium, et profectus est ad Septentrionem adversus populos extraeneos.

English Translation

In the year 970 AG, the 17th of Constans, in the month of Haziran [i.e. June], on Friday, at the second hour [i.e. 8:00 AM], there was a violent earthquake in the region of Palestine; many places collapsed.

In the same month, the Jacobite bishops Theodorus and Sebōkt came to Damascus and held a disputation before Muʿāwiya with the men of the flock of Mar Maron concerning the faith. When the Jacobites were defeated, Muʿāwiya ordered them to give 20,000 denarii [20,000 solidi (denarii) ≈ 90 kg of gold ≈ $6.75 million USD], and instructed them to remain quiet; and a custom arose whereby the Jacobite bishops paid this money to King Muʿāwiya every year so that his hand might not fall upon them and the sons of the Church not suffer persecution. The man called 'patriarch' by the Jacobites imposed this sum on all monasteries of monks and nuns, which they were to pay each year; likewise, he imposed it upon all his faithful, and made himself the tax-gatherer for King Muʿāwiya, so that through fear of him, all the Jacobites submitted.

And in that same month in which the disputation of the Jacobites took place, on the ninth day, Sunday, at the eighth hour, the earth was shaken.

In the same year, by the command of Emperor Constans, his brother Theodosius was killed unjustly and without cause, as many said. A great many mourned his death. The people cried out against the emperor and called him another Cain, a fratricide. He became greatly enraged, left his son Constantine upon his throne, took the empress and the entire Roman army able to fight, and set out northward against the foreign peoples.

1. A Shaking Earth: The 659 CE Earthquake

The Chronicle opens with a highly specific detail: a major earthquake struck Palestine on a Friday morning in June 659 CE, causing the destruction of “many places.” This is not just a literary flourish — the seismic event is corroborated by other Christian sources:

Theophanes the Confessor records a “great earthquake and collapse in Palestine and Syria” in the month of Daisos (May/June), around 659 CE.

Elias of Nisibis, citing Jesudenah of Basra, likewise records the destruction of “a great part of Palestine and many other places.”

Later visitors, such as John Phokas (12th c.), describe ruined monasteries still visible centuries later — suggesting lasting structural devastation from this quake.

Significance: In Syriac and Greek chronicles, natural disasters are often theological commentaries — signs of divine wrath, especially in times of imperial or religious upheaval. That this earthquake coincided with both an inter-Christian theological debate and the murder of a Roman prince (below) only deepens the Chronicle’s atmosphere of cosmic judgment.

2. The Debate at Damascus: Jacobites vs Maronites Before Muʿāwiya

This is one of the Chronicle’s most vivid inter-Christian episodes. Two Jacobite bishops — Theodorus and Sebōkt — travel to Damascus to engage in a public doctrinal disputation with the Maronites, under the watchful eye of Muʿāwiya.
This detail is extraordinary for several reasons:

It attests to Muʿāwiya’s growing role as an arbiter or imperial referee — not just over Muslims, but over rival Christian sects within the caliphate.

The Maronites emerge as the favored faction in this narrative — they "defeat" the Jacobites in argument, a symbolic inversion of what had been imperial reality under the Romans (where Chalcedonianism dominated).

This moment marks the beginning of a new arrangement between the Umayyad state and the Jacobites — one marked by religious toleration, but fiscally enforced submission.

3. Tribute and Subjugation: The Jacobite Capitulation

“Since the Jacobites were defeated, Muʿāwiya ordered them to pay 20,000 denarii annually and instructed them to remain quiet; and a custom arose whereby the Jacobite bishops paid this money to King Muʿāwiya every year so that his hand might not fall upon them and the sons of the Church not suffer persecution. The man called 'patriarch' by the Jacobites imposed this sum on all monasteries of monks and nuns, which they were to pay each year; likewise, he imposed it upon all his faithful, and made himself the tax-gatherer for King Muʿāwiya, so that through fear of him, all the Jacobites submitted.” — Maronite Chronicle, AG 970 (659/660 CE)

This is one of the most revealing episodes in the Maronite Chronicle. It depicts not only a theological defeat but a systematic subjugation of the Jacobite Church.

The "20,000 denarii" mentioned here refers to 20,000 gold solidi, the standard Late Roman (and early Islamic) gold coin. At 4.5 grams per solidus, this amounts to:

90 kilograms of gold, or approximately $6.75 million USD in today’s value.

This wasn’t a symbolic offering — it was a heavy financial burden, imposed annually.

The Church as Tax Collector

After their defeat in a public disputation with Maronite theologians in Damascus, the Jacobite bishops were not just silenced — they were bound economically:

Their patriarch became Muʿāwiya’s agent, enforcing the tax on monasteries, nuns, monks, and lay believers.

What was once ecclesiastical authority turned into a subordinate fiscal bureaucracy under Umayyad oversight.

This arrangement laid the groundwork for a proto-millet system, where religious communities retained internal leadership, but as clients of the ruling regime.

Christian Politics Under Islam

The Maronite chronicler frames this as a religious and ideological victory. Muʿāwiya, although a Muslim, sides with the "orthodox" Maronites over the "heretical" Jacobites. This underscores a vital dynamic in early Islamic governance:

Christian sects negotiated their survival and influence by aligning with Muslim rulers — often against their own co-religionists.

For the chronicler, this moment is more than just the imposition of tribute — it is a moment of vindication, a declaration that the true faith (as defined by the Maronites) had triumphed in the court of power.

Conclusion: Taxation as Theological Submission

This episode powerfully illustrates how money and doctrine were intertwined in the early caliphate:

Tribute became a theological judgment.

Ecclesiastical authority became fiscally accountable to Islam.

And for the Maronites, this moment marked both vindication and ascendancy within the complex Christian landscape of the Umayyad world.

4. The Murder of Theodosius: Chaos in Rome

The Chronicle now turns to the Roman Empire, revealing a mirror image of instability. While Muʿāwiya consolidates power in Damascus, Constans II is described as committing fratricide, murdering his brother Theodosius.

This act was widely condemned: the people compared Constans to Cain, the archetypal killer of kin.

The emperor’s response was not repentance, but military action: he left his son, Constantine IV, on the throne, gathered the imperial army, and marched north “against the foreign peoples.”, meaning the Slavs.

In Christian narrative logic, this juxtaposition is striking:

Muʿāwiya emerges as a rational arbiter, restoring order.

Constans II appears as a tyrant, tearing apart his own household and empire.

The Maronite Chronicle — like many Eastern sources of the period — begins to invert the usual East–West binary: the Christian emperor is unstable and unjust, while the Muslim ruler is composed and even protective of the faithful (so long as they pay).

Conclusion: Earthquakes, Debates, and the Shape of a New World

The entry for AG 970 (659 CE) weaves together cosmic disaster, doctrinal defeat, financial subjugation, and imperial betrayal. It is a world in flux:

The earthquakes — literally and metaphorically — across the former Roman East.

Christian communities face not just Islam, but each other, vying for survival under a new regime.

And Muʿāwiya, ruler of Damascus, begins to appear not merely as a warlord or claimant, but as a caliph of Christians, too.

This was the post-Fitna order as imagined in Maronite memory: the sword had fallen, the Church had fractured, and the new world had begun — one tremor at a time.

AG 971 | AH 39–40 | 660–661 CE

The Coronation of Muʿāwiya, Earthquakes in Palestine, and the End of Peace with the Romans

Latin Text (Maronite Chronicle)

Anno 971°, Constantis 18°, congregati sunt Arabes multi Hierosolymis, et regem creaverunt Moʻawiam: is adscendit in montem Golgotha, ibi sedit et oravit, et ivit ad hortum Gethsemani, et descendit ad sepulcrum beatae Mariae, et in eo oravit.
Hisce diebus, dum ibi congregati sunt Arabes cum Moʻawia, fuit commotio et motus terrae vehemens: quo cecidit Hiericho, magna ex parte, et cunctae eius ecclesiae. Et ecclesia Mar Iohannis, in honorem baptismi Salvatoris nostri aedificata ad Iordanem, eversa est a fundamentis, cum universo monasterio; monasterium quoque Patris Euthymi cum domiciliis multis monachorum et anachoretarum, locique plurimi corruerunt in hoc motu.
Eodem anno, mense tamūz, congregati sunt amirae et Arabes multi et dextram dederunt Moʻawiae: exiit edictum ut in omnibus pagis et civitatibus eius imperii rex renuntiaretur eique praeconia et acclamationes facerent.
Cudit etiam aurum et argentum, quod acceptum non fuit quia in eo crux non erat. Rursum, Moʻawia non coronam cinxit sicut alii reges qui fuerunt in mundo. Solium suum posuit Damasci, noluitque ad sedem Mohammedi ire.
Gelavit etiam anno sequenti, 13ª mensis nisan, illucescente feria quarta, et aruit hoc gelu vinea alba.
Moʻawia, cum regnaret secundum placitum suum, et quiesceret a bellis civilibus, rupit pacem cum Romanis, nec amplius accepit ab eis pacem; dicebat autem: “Si cupiunt Romani pacem, dent arma sua et tributum solvant.”

English Translation

In the year 971, the 18th year of Constans, many Arabs gathered in Jerusalem and made Muʿāwiya king. He ascended Mount Golgotha, where he sat and prayed, then went to the Garden of Gethsemane, and descended to the tomb of the Blessed Mary, where he also prayed.
During these days, while the Arabs were assembled there with Muʿāwiya, there was a violent earthquake and trembling of the earth, by which Jericho largely collapsed, along with all its churches. The Church of Saint John, built in honor of the baptism of our Savior at the Jordan, was thrown down to its foundations along with the entire monastery. Likewise, the Monastery of Father Euthymius, with its many dwellings for monks and hermits, and numerous other places, were destroyed in this quake.
In the same year, in the month of Tammuz [July], the emirs and many Arabs assembled and gave their right hand to Muʿāwiya [in allegiance]. A decree went out that in all towns and cities of his dominion, he should be proclaimed king and be acclaimed with public praise.
He also struck gold and silver coinage, which was not accepted because it bore no cross. Furthermore, Muʿāwiya did not put on a crown as other kings of the world did. He established his throne in Damascus and refused to go to the seat of Muḥammad.
In the following year, on the 13th of Nisan [April], as Wednesday dawned, there was a freeze, and from this frost the white vineyard withered.
Muʿāwiya, reigning as he pleased and now at peace from civil wars, broke the peace with the Romans, and he no longer accepted peace from them; rather, he declared: “If the Romans desire peace, let them hand over their arms and pay tribute.”

1. The Coronation of Muʿāwiya in Jerusalem

Symbolism, Sovereignty, and Sacred Space

“In the year 971 of the Seleucid era, the 18th of Constans, many Arabs gathered in Jerusalem and made Muʿāwiya king. He ascended Mount Golgotha, sat and prayed there, then went to the Garden of Gethsemane, and descended to the tomb of the Blessed Mary, and prayed there.”
— Maronite Chronicle, AG 971 (660–661 CE)

This brief passage carries profound narrative and historical weight. As Hugh Kennedy writes, it is “the first case in which we have a clear contemporary description of how the oath of allegiance was given and taken” — and it comes not from Islamic sources, but from a Christian, Syriac-speaking observer likely living under Muʿāwiya’s rule.

A Caliph in Jerusalem — But No Mosque

What’s striking is the absence of Islamic ritual or space in this scene. There is no mention of a mosque, of the Kaʿba, of Qur’anic recitation — instead, we find Muʿāwiya:

ascending Golgotha, the hill of the Crucifixion,

praying at the Garden of Gethsemane, where Christ suffered before the Passion,

and descending to the Tomb of the Virgin Mary, a profoundly sacred Christian shrine.

This is not a Muslim story. It is a Christian narrative about how authority was understood and legitimized in a multi-confessional empire.
Muʿāwiya does not go to Medina, the Prophet’s city, nor does he base his caliphate in the Hejaz. Instead, his first appearance as king—regem creaverunt Moʻawiam — takes place in Jerusalem, a city sacred to all three Abrahamic religions.
And yet, as Kennedy stresses:

“There is no suggestion that Muʿāwiya was a crypto-Christian… but both Jesus and his mother are, of course, highly respected in the Muslim tradition.”

Indeed, Jesus and Mary are revered in the Qur'an — the only woman named explicitly — and early Islamic respect for Christian holy sites is well attested. According to Islamic tradition, ʿUmar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb visited Jerusalem and refused to pray inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre to avoid setting a precedent that might endanger Christian sanctity.
Muʿāwiya’s gesture, then, may reflect several intertwined motives:

Political Theatre in a Christian Land

Audience Accommodation: This scene was crafted for a Christian readership — likely the Maronite or Melkite Christians of Syria-Palestine. The chronicler centers the sacred geography they would recognize and honor.

Imperial Optics: Praying at key Christian shrines echoes the rituals of Sasanian or Roman emperors who venerated sites of power and sanctity to legitimize their rule across religious lines. Muʿāwiya’s actions place him in that continuum.

Interfaith Sovereignty: The prayer at these sites does not necessarily indicate Christian belief. Rather, it signals a public act of recognition: the new ruler of Syria and Palestine honors the sacred places of his Christian subjects. This fits within early Islamic strategies of governance, where religious minorities were not only tolerated but woven into imperial narratives of legitimacy.

No Crown, No Mosque, No Kaʿba

This coronation defies modern expectations of caliphal legitimacy:

No coronation in Medina or Mecca

No reference to Muḥammad or Islamic revelation

No military triumph

No mosque

Instead, we see a deliberate alternative model of power — one more reminiscent of a Roman-style emperorship than of prophetic succession.

Historiographical Significance

This moment in the Maronite Chronicle captures a transitional moment:

Muʿāwiya is becoming not merely an Arab tribal leader but a king in the eyes of his Christian subjects.

Jerusalem, not Medina, becomes the stage for political recognition.

Christian sacred geography is repurposed as imperial space.

And notably, this passage comes before the formal abdication of al-Ḥasan ibn ʿAlī, which Islamic sources place in 661. To this chronicler, the ceremony in Jerusalem — not a treaty in Kūfa — is the true beginning of the Umayyad monarchy.

Conclusion: A Christian Memory of Sovereignty

The Maronite Chronicle does not record a Muslim coronation — it records a Christian memory of how Muʿāwiya’s power first appeared to the world:

In Jerusalem,

among sacred tombs and churches,

without a crown,

and with prayer, not sword, as the sign of rule.

This is not a contradiction of Islamic tradition — it is its mirror from across the confessional divide. And it offers a precious glimpse into the earliest perceptions of Islamic kingship by those who were not Muslims, but lived under its shadow.

2–3. Earthquakes and the Fall of Churches — A Shaking of Earth and Order

Latin:
Hisce diebus, dum ibi congregati sunt Arabes cum Moʻawia, fuit commotio et motus terrae vehemens: quo cecidit Hiericho, magna ex parte, et cunctae eius ecclesiae.
Et ecclesia Mar Iohannis, in honorem baptismi Salvatoris nostri aedificata ad Iordanem, eversa est a fundamentis, cum universo monasterio; monasterium quoque Patris Euthymi cum domiciliis multis monachorum et anachoretarum, locique plurimi corruerunt in hoc motu.

English:
In those days, while the Arabs were gathered there with Muʿāwiya, there was a great earthquake and violent trembling of the earth, by which Jericho largely collapsed, along with all of its churches.
And the Church of Saint John, built in honor of the baptism of our Savior at the Jordan, was destroyed down to its foundations, along with the entire monastery. The monastery of Father Euthymius also collapsed, with the many dwellings of monks and hermits, and many other places were ruined in this earthquake.

A Cosmic Response to Coronation?

The Maronite Chronicle links the earthquake directly to the moment of Muʿāwiya’s proclamation as king in Jerusalem. The juxtaposition is striking:

Just as Muʿāwiya ascends Golgotha and prays at Christian sites,

The very land begins to shake, and churches crumble.

To the chronicler’s audience, this is no coincidence. It is a divine sign: a heavenly commentary on human upheaval.
Whether one sees it as divine judgment or symbolic association, the earthquake narrative dramatically underscores the theological anxiety surrounding this new Arab power.

Sacred Ruins: The Destruction of Christian Holiness

The Chronicle does not simply say “earthquake.” It names what is lost:

Jericho, one of Christianity’s oldest pilgrimage towns, “collapsed in large part.”

All of its churches were destroyed.

The Church of Saint John at the Jordan, marking the baptism of Christ, was “torn up from the foundations.”

The Monastery of Euthymius, a major spiritual center in the Judaean Desert, collapsed with its monks’ cells.

This is sacred geography undone.
The Maronite chronicler doesn’t just report ruins. He catalogs the desecration of holy memory — baptismal shrines, anchoritic cells, Marian chapels — a spiritual earthquake accompanying the political one.

What Do Other Sources Say?

This earthquake is not isolated to one chronicle. It’s also reported in:

Theophanes the Confessor (d. 818), who notes a major quake in Palestine and Syria in May/June 659.

Elias of Nisibis, citing Jesudenah of Basra, who adds that “a great part of Palestine and many other places were ruined.”

Later travelers like John Phokas also saw lingering destruction at Jordanian monasteries.

Geologists now believe the June 659 CE earthquake likely destabilized fault lines, leading to aftershocks or a second major event in the following year, precisely when the Maronite Chronicle records the destruction of the Jordan Valley religious sites.
As one study suggests:

“It seems plausible that the June 659 earthquake had created stress along the tectonic structures of the Jordan Valley, which triggered an earthquake the following year.”

The Maronite Chronicle may therefore reflect two closely related quakes: one felt in Syria-Palestine at large (AG 970), and another that hit the Jordan and Judaean Desert region in AG 971, just as Muʿāwiya was consolidating power.

A Chronicle of Collapse

What we’re witnessing here is not just tectonic. It’s the collapse of an order:

Arab armies gather in Jerusalem.

Churches crumble.

Holy places become ruins.

And a new king rises from the fault lines — a king who prays, not at Mecca, but on Golgotha and at Mary’s tomb.

In this vision, the Christian landscape itself is convulsing, as if reacting to a new era dawning.

Conclusion: A Shaken World, A New Age

The Maronite Chronicle gives us a profound metaphor:

Spiritual structures (monasteries, churches) fall.

Political structures (the Roman order, Chalcedonian hegemony) give way.

Earth itself shakes as a new caliph is proclaimed on Christian holy ground.

This was no ordinary earthquake — it was, in the eyes of the chronicler, a cosmic punctuation mark: the Ummah had risen, and the world would never be the same again.

4. Oath of Allegiance and Royal Proclamation

Latin:
Eodem anno, mense tamūz, congregati sunt amirae et Arabes multi et dextram dederunt Moʻawiae: exiit edictum ut in omnibus pagis et civitatibus eius imperii rex renuntiaretur eique praeconia et acclamationes facerent.

English:
In the same year, in the month of Tammuz [July], many emirs and Arabs gathered and gave Muʿāwiya the right hand [of allegiance]. A decree was issued that in all the towns and cities of his empire, he should be proclaimed king and receive praise and acclamations.

An Arab King for a New World

This passage captures a pivotal moment: Muʿāwiya’s public proclamation as king (rex renuntiaretur) by Arab tribal leaders and notables (amirae). While Islamic historiography emphasizes formal bayʿa (allegiance) only after al-Ḥasan’s abdication in 661, the Maronite Chronicle places this ritual before that, suggesting that Muʿāwiya’s kingship was functionally recognized across Syria and Palestine well before his formal caliphal reign.
Here, the giving of the right hand (Latin: dextram dederunt) is a deeply significant gesture. In Roman, Arab, and Christianized tribal contexts, it was a solemn act of political and sacred submission—part oath, part homage, part pact.

Who Gave Him Their Hand?

The Chronicle says simply: “many Arabs.” But Andrew Marsham clarifies this:

These were not the original Arab-Muslim conquerors of Syria.

Instead, they were indigenous Arab tribes of Syria and Palestine, especially the Christianized federations of the Kalb, Ghassān, Tanūkh, Judhām, Lakhm, and Ṭayyiʾ.

These groups had served Rome as federates (foederati) for generations.

Some remained Christian under Islam, and they maintained a monotheist tribal-political culture that blended late Roman, Ghassanid, and Arab traditions.

Muʿāwiya himself had married into the Kalbī elite, including Maysūn, daughter of Baḥdal b. Unayf, a chief whose family retained significant Christian identity. His closest officials, like Sarjūn b. Manṣūr al-Rūmī and ʿUbayd Allāh b. Aws al-Ghassānī reflects this Syrian-Christianized heritage.
So the men who raised their right hands to Muʿāwiya weren’t just soldiers — they were part of a Roman-Christian-Arab political milieu, loyal to a new king who looked like them, ruled like them, and spoke their ceremonial language.

A Ceremony with Sacred Geography

The location matters: Jerusalem.
This was a city with immense religious and imperial symbolism. And these federate tribes had long made Christian pilgrimage centers into gathering spaces for oaths of fealty and ritual pledges. Jerusalem had been important to the Ghassanids; now, it became the site of Muʿāwiya’s “coronation.”
This was more than politics. It was a fusion of sacred space, tribal allegiance, and imperial pageantry.

Continuity in a Syncretic Age

Marsham argues that this ritual mirrors older Roman and Ghassanid models:

Like a basileus, Muʿāwiya received acclamations (praeconia) and proclamations.

Like a phylarch (Arab tribal prince) under Rome, he stood at the head of federate tribes.

And like a Christian monarch, he prayed in Jerusalem at holy places, tying his legitimacy to divine order.

It was a new Arab order, but it was dressed in very old clothes.
The Umayyad regime under Muʿāwiya, especially in these early years, was not purely “Islamic” in a later doctrinal sense. It was a late antique polity, culturally and ceremonially continuous with what came before — a hybrid of Roman administration, Christian ritual geography, and Arab tribal kingship.

Conclusion: The First Caliphal Coronation?

While Islamic sources delay Muʿāwiya’s formal rise until after al-Ḥasan’s abdication, the Maronite Chronicle marks this moment — in Jerusalem, in Tammuz (July) 660 — as his effective coronation.
And perhaps rightly so.

His enemies were dead or in retreat.

His tribal base had pledged fealty.

His capital was Damascus.

His ritual legitimacy had been sealed on sacred ground.

In this vision, we see the first true Umayyad caliphate — not born in Medina or Kūfa, but in a city of resurrection and empire, where old loyalties bent to new realities, and a king was made in the shadow of the cross.

5. Coinage and Symbolic Distinctions

Latin:
Cudit etiam aurum et argentum, quod acceptum non fuit quia in eo crux non erat. Rursum, Moʻawia non coronam cinxit sicut alii reges qui fuerunt in mundo.
English:
He also minted gold and silver, but it was not accepted because it did not bear a cross. Furthermore, Muʿāwiya did not wear a crown like other kings who had been in the world.
This remark from the Maronite Chronicle is not an idle note on aesthetics — it signals the beginning of a conscious Islamic departure from Roman imperial iconography, and simultaneously, a signal to a new religious and political identity.
Numismatic research, particularly the work of Mehdy Shaddel, confirms that during Muʿāwiya’s reign, there was an actual state-backed monetary initiative to mint gold coins in Syria — coins that imitated Roman solidi but had their crosses effaced. These so-called “dechristianized solidi” attempted to preserve the prestige of imperial-style currency while aligning them with a new religious sensibility, Shaddel explains, after an exposition of literary sources along side the Maronite Chronicle:

“In sum, each of the reports in our literary sources quoted above is in some respect problematic, yet it is very remarkable that virtually all of them appear to converge on two points: that at some point in the seventh century a new coinage, further attributed by some to Muʿāwiya, was introduced which lacked the image of the cross; and that the measure was met with popular disapproval and ultimately failed.”
Additionally, these coins were apparently struck in large numbers, with 19 different obverse dies and 18 reverse dies identified across surviving specimens — a scale which, as Shaddel notes, points to a major, though ultimately failed, monetary reform.

Why This Matters

The Chronicle uses this rejection of Muʿāwiya’s crossless coins to emphasize both a cultural boundary and a political innovation. Unlike other kings, Muʿāwiya:

Did not wear a crown, breaking from Roman and Persian courtly tradition.

Did not feature the cross on his coinage, signaling theological divergence.

Rather than a full rupture, this was a carefully staged divergence: Muʿāwiya was still invoking Roman styles, but modifying their symbolism to reflect the new Arab-Muslim order.
The failure of this early currency reform, as the Chronicle highlights, reflects the tensions between the old Christian symbols of legitimacy and Muʿāwiya’s effort to forge a new legitimacy — one based on Arab leadership, Islamic neutrality in iconography, and pragmatic governance.

In short: The coin was rejected, but the message remained.

6. Muʿāwiya’s Capital and Religious Distance

Latin:
Solium suum posuit Damasci, noluitque ad sedem Mohammedi ire.
English:
He set his throne in Damascus and did not wish to go to the seat of Muḥammad.
This deceptively short sentence encapsulates one of the most consequential decisions in early Islamic history: Muʿāwiya’s choice of Damascus over Medina.
While Medina had been the seat of the Prophet Muḥammad, of the first four caliphs, and the symbolic heart of the Islamic community, Muʿāwiya chose not to rule from the Hijaz. Instead, he established his caliphal capital in Damascus — the Romanized, urban heart of Syria, long integrated into imperial administration and infrastructure.
This was not simply geographic convenience — it was an ideological strategy.

In Damascus, Muʿāwiya was not just physically distant from Medina — he was culturally and politically repositioning the caliphate. By aligning himself with the Roman-urban traditions of Syria, while preserving a formal Muslim identity, he forged a new model of Islamic kingship: urban, centralized, and imperial.

Religious Ambiguity, Political Clarity

Although he refused to move to the Prophet’s city, Muʿāwiya still portrayed himself as a legitimate Islamic leader. As Kennedy writes:

“He was clearly a Muslim leader: ‘The earth belongs to God and I am God’s deputy [khalīfat Allāh],’ he proclaimed.”

Yet his religiosity was expressed less through theological intervention and more through public acts of leadership:

He led jihād campaigns against Rome — including major naval expeditions.

He promoted the ḥajj, showing deference to Islamic ritual and Arabian origin.

He governed Syria with the help of Christian and Arab elites, blending Umayyad pragmatism with local traditions.

Thus, the chronicler's comment — “He did not go to the seat of Muḥammad” — subtly critiques Muʿāwiya’s political and religious relocation. It’s not heresy, but it is a reconfiguration of what it meant to be caliph — from a Prophet-following community leader to a Levantine monarch with Islamic credentials.

Conclusion:
Muʿāwiya’s throne in Damascus marks the beginning of a new phase in Islamic governance — one rooted in imperial cities, regional alliances, and a strategic blend of religious legitimacy and political autonomy. The caliphate, from this point on, would no longer be anchored in Medina, but in the capitals of empires.

7. The Frost of the Following Year

Latin:
Gelavit etiam anno sequenti, 13ª mensis nisan, illucescente feria quarta, et aruit hoc gelu vinea alba.
English:
In the following year, on the 13th of the month of Nisan, at dawn on Wednesday, there was a frost, and because of this frost, the white vineyard withered.

Late Antique Climate in Context

This brief note of a spring frost destroying a vineyard may seem anecdotal — but in context, it reflects a broader environmental reality: the Late Antique Little Ice Age (LALIA), a well-documented period of cooling that followed a series of volcanic eruptions beginning in the mid-6th century, but whose roots stretch back earlier into the 7th century.
Although Kyle Harper, in The Fate of Rome, emphasizes the LALIA as being most disruptive from the 530s onward, he outlines the beginning of global climatic instability from the 6th century forward, including fluctuations caused by solar minima and volcanic aerosols that disrupted atmospheric patterns. The Maronite Chronicle’s mention of an unseasonal frost in early spring during this time fits precisely into what Harper calls the “rough journey” of late antiquity — a time when cold snaps, crop failures, and climatic anomalies were more frequent and destructive.

Agriculture, Frost, and the Fragile Mediterranean

The 13th of Nisan would fall around early April — in other words, well into the Mediterranean growing season. That a “white vineyard” withered from frost implies not just a single night of cold, but a significant agricultural setback, especially in a region where viticulture was a mainstay of rural economies.
According to Harper, concerning the Levant's agriculture in this period:

“In the Levant, the history of water is invested with all kinds of significance. The fractious history of the region has been made to lay a little heavily on the fundamentals of climate. The boundaries between humid rain- fed settlement and sparse dry desert are politically charged. And late antiquity occupies a special place in the climate history of the region, not least because of the enormous cultural realignments of the seventh century. Syria and Palestine were the heartland of the late antique east. They were an endlessly fecund source of religious energy and an economic engine. Settled agriculture was the source of tremendous wealth, and it crept outward further than ever before. But at some point the desert made a land- grab. The “dead villages” of Syria and the once- fertile wine country of Gaza were put beyond the reach of even irrigated agriculture. They stand as eloquent if haunting testimony to change. But the chronology and causes remain contested.”

The Chronicle captures this vulnerability in a single line.

A Glimpse into Environmental History

This isn’t just a meteorological detail — it’s a testament to how early Islamic and late Roman history unfolded in the shadow of climate volatility. As Muʿāwiya consolidated power, the land itself was increasingly unreliable. Earthquakes (noted just before this) and sudden frosts reflect natural pressures on imperial stability, rural livelihoods, and the resources that states could extract through taxation or military provisioning.
The Christian chronicler preserved what was perhaps a deeply felt local agricultural memory — another clue that the environment, too, was a player in early Umayyad political life.

8. Breaking Peace with the Romans

Latin:
Moʻawia, cum regnaret secundum placitum suum, et quiesceret a bellis civilibus, rupit pacem cum Romanis, nec amplius accepit ab eis pacem; dicebat autem: “Si cupiunt Romani pacem, dent arma sua et tributum solvant.”
English:
Muʿāwiya, once he ruled according to his own will and was at peace from the civil wars, broke the peace with the Romans and no longer accepted peace from them. He said, “If the Romans want peace, they must give up their weapons and pay tribute.”

A Post-Civil War Shift to External Jihād

This moment marks a crucial pivot in early Umayyad statecraft: having emerged victorious from the First Fitna (civil war), Muʿāwiya now redirects his energies from internal consolidation to external assertion. The Chronicle frames this with deliberate clarity — once Muʿāwiya “ruled according to his will,” no longer constrained by rivals or rebellion, he chose to break peace with the Romans.
This matches Islamic sources, which record a resumption of aggressive frontier raiding (ṣawāʾif) against Rome in the early 660s. Muʿāwiya was deeply invested in renewing the offensive posture of the Islamic state — something which was identified as a central pillar of his claim to religious legitimacy as caliph.

From Diplomacy to Domination

The phrasing is notable: Muʿāwiya refuses further peace unless the Romans disarm and pay tribute. This wasn’t just saber-rattling. It echoed Roman-era political rhetoric, but reversed — now it was the former subjects of Rome who demanded submission from Constantinople.
This assertiveness may reflect several things:

A strengthening Syrian base, giving Muʿāwiya logistical confidence.

A desire to demonstrate religious credentials via military action against traditional Christian enemies.

A move to shift attention away from the recent Muslim civil strife toward a more unifying external foe.

Christian Perspective: A Troubling Shift

To the Christian chronicler, however, this shift is ominous. While Muʿāwiya had just visited Jerusalem’s holy sites and received homage peacefully, he now turns against the Eastern Roman Empire — the Christian superpower. The demand for tribute and disarmament would have felt especially humiliating to readers sympathetic to Rome.
His portrayal as a ruler now “reigning according to his will” implies that the constraints of consensus and religion had given way to autocracy. The Chronicle here subtly turns: the pious ruler on Golgotha becomes a conqueror threatening the Christian oikoumene.

Conclusion: The Sword Follows the Crown

This final moment of the AG 971 entry offers a clean arc: Muʿāwiya was crowned, affirmed by the Arab military elite, prayed at Christian shrines, endured signs and portents (earthquakes, frost)… and now unsheathes the sword. His demand for Roman tribute is not just political, but eschatological — the old world is passing, and a new caliphate is claiming its dominion, with Damascus as its beating heart.

AG 974 | AH 43/44 | 663/664 CE

The Failed Arab Raid on Thrace and the Folly of Constantinople’s Youth

Latin Text (Maronite Chronicle)

...Adscendit iterum Yezid, filius Moʻawiae, cum exercitu valido, dum autem castrametantur in Thracia, dispersi sunt Arabes in praedam, et eorum mercenarii puerique ut pascerent iumenta et raperent quidquid in manus incideret; quos cum vidissent qui stabant super murum egressi sunt et inciderunt in eos multosque puerorum et mercenariorum, etiam Arabum, occiderunt, praedam rapuerunt et regressi sunt.

Sequenti die, congregati sunt universi pueri civitatis et ex eis qui urbem ingressi erant ut ibi protegerentur, et Romanorum aliqui, et dixerunt: «Exeamus contra eos.» Et ait illis Constantinus: «Nolite exire; non enim pugna percussistis et vicistis, sed furando furati estis.»

Illi autem non audierunt eum, sed exierunt, populus multus, armis instructi, vexillis erectis flammulisque, secundum morem Romanorum. Et simul atque exierunt occluserunt omnes portas et imperator sibi fixit tentorium super murum sedensque inspiciebat.

Sarraceni autem se retro subduxerunt et multum a muro elongati sunt, ne cum fugerent illi Romani subito salvarentur; et exierunt sederuntque secundum tribus dispositi, et cum approquavissent illi, exsilierunt steteruntque et clamaverunt lingua sua: «Deus magnus est!»

Statimque illi verterunt terga in fugam, et adversus eos cucurrerunt Sarraceni in eosque inciderunt et trucidabant eos vel captivos abducebant, usque dum sub ictum balistarum muri pervenerunt. Et Constantinus iratus est eis, et aegre permisit eis aperiri portas; ceciderant ex eis multi et alii sagittis transfixi sunt.

📘 English Translation

...Yazīd, the son of Muʿāwiya, once again ascended with a strong army, while they were encamped in Thrace, the Arabs dispersed to plunder, and their mercenaries and young attendants went out to pasture the animals and snatch whatever came to hand, when those standing atop the city walls saw them, they sallied out and struck, killing many of the boys, the mercenaries, and even some of the Arabs, they seized the plunder and returned.
The next day, all the young men of the city gathered, along with some who had entered the city to take shelter there, as well as some of the Romans, and they said: “Let us go out against them.” but Constantine [IV] said to them: “Do not go out; you did not win a battle by fighting—you merely stole by thieving.”, but they did not listen to him and went out, a great multitude, armed with weapons, raising standards and pennants, in the Roman custom, as soon as they exited, all the gates were shut, and the emperor pitched his tent on the wall and sat observing.
Meanwhile, the Saracens had drawn back and kept a great distance from the wall, lest the Romans escape quickly if they fled. They came out and sat arranged by their tribes, and as the Romans drew near, they leapt up, stood firm, and cried out in their own tongue: “God is great!” At once, the Romans turned their backs and fled. The Saracens charged against them and fell upon them, cutting them down or leading them away as captives until they came within range of the wall’s ballistae.
And Constantine was furious with them, and grudgingly allowed the gates to be opened for them. Many of them had fallen, and others were pierced with arrows.

The Arab Raid into Thrace

Latin Text:

"adscendit iterum Yezid, filius Moʻawiae, cum exercitu valido. Dum autem castrametantur in Thracia, dispersi sunt Arabes in praedam, et eorum mercenarii puerique ut pascerent iumenta et raperent quidquid in manus incideret;"

English Translation:

Yazīd, the son of Muʿāwiya, once again advanced with a powerful army. While they were encamped in Thrace, the Arabs scattered to plunder, and their mercenaries and servants went out to graze the animals and seize whatever they could lay their hands on.

Historical Context: Yazīd, Busr, and a Campaign Misplaced in Memory?

The Maronite Chronicle recounts an Arab expedition into Thrace, seemingly led by Yazīd ibn Muʿāwiya. Yet this creates a chronological puzzle: most Roman and Islamic sources place Yazīd’s famed campaign against Constantinople in 668 CE (AH 48 / AG 980), not in AG 974 (663–664 CE), the year cited by the Chronicle.

So what’s going on?

According to historian Marek Jankowiak, the most likely explanation is that the Maronite author preserved a fragmentary memory of the later siege of Constantinople, but situated it several years earlier, perhaps conflating it with a different but related campaign: the 663 CE raid led by Busr b. Abī Arṭāt, a senior Umayyad commander. This raid, as sources like Ṭabarī and Agapius indicate, reached the suburbs of Constantinople, even if it did not besiege the city outright.

Why Name Yazīd Instead of Busr?

This is where political optics and historical memory intertwine.

In 663, Yazīd was just 16 or 17 years old — too young to lead a complex military campaign on his own. However, he had already been publicly designated as heir to the caliphate by his father, Muʿāwiya. His presence on a campaign would have served a ceremonial and dynastic function: to introduce him as the future leader, rally loyalty from tribal elites, and begin projecting his authority across the empire.

Thus, even if Busr commanded the army, Yazīd likely accompanied the campaign as a royal figurehead. In this role, he may have appeared at musters, received delegations, and participated in symbolic rituals of power. His name, not Busr’s, would be the one etched into public memory — especially among Christian chroniclers who were less interested in command hierarchy and more attuned to recognizable political symbols.

The chronicler tells us that “Yazīd ascended again with a mighty army” — a phrase heavy with both martial and dynastic undertones. It signals movement, ambition, and public visibility. Even if Yazīd didn’t direct operations, he was likely seen, and remembered, as being there.

Memory vs. Chronology

This misdating is not necessarily an error. Rather, it reflects how early Christian chroniclers like the Maronite author understood political history through names, faces, and symbolic acts, not administrative exactitude. For such writers, Yazīd was not just a commander, but the embodiment of the rising Umayyad monarchy.

As Jankowiak observes, this passage may be a surviving anecdote from a longer lost narrative. What survives is the vivid memory: a young prince, future caliph, at the gates of Constantinople — facing Roman defiance and the wrath of imperial youth.

In that sense, the Chronicle is not confused, but deeply meaningful. It transmits how Yazīd’s emergence as heir was remembered across confessional lines: not just in treaty texts or court decrees, but in Christian memory, where he rode not just toward power, but toward legend.

A Roman Counterattack from the Walls

Latin Text:

quos cum vidissent qui stabant super murum egressi sunt et inciderunt in eos multosque puerorum et mercenariorum, etiam Arabum, occiderunt, praedam rapuerunt et regressi sunt.

English Translation:

When those on the city walls saw them, they sallied forth and fell upon them, killing many of the servants, mercenaries, and even some of the Arabs. They seized the plunder and returned to the city.

A Small Victory for Constantinople

The scene is vivid: a scattered, overconfident Arab raiding party is caught off guard by a spontaneous Roman sortie from the city walls. The defenders, likely a mix of troops and armed civilians, strike fast and hard, killing some of the Arab attackers, recovering stolen goods, and returning triumphantly.
This kind of nimble, localized counterattack is typical of siege dynamics in Late Antiquity. When a besieging force is disorganized, as the Arabs here are, distracted by looting and foraging, even a lightly armed garrison can cause real damage with a surprise sortie.

“Pueri” and the Nature of the Arab Camp

The Chronicle notes that many of those killed were “pueri” — literally "boys" or "young men" — along with mercenaries and some Arab fighters. The term may refer to:

Servants or slaves in the Arab camp,

Younger auxiliary troops or retainers,

Or more generally, non-combatants involved in logistics (grazing animals, collecting supplies, etc.).

This detail adds nuance: it wasn’t a battle between elite forces, but rather a clash at the edge of the camp, targeting those least prepared to fight. The Chronicle frames it as a moralizing tale — an unexpected triumph of vigilance over arrogance.

A Chronicle’s Eye for Drama

The Maronite chronicler narrates this like a medieval parable:

The Arabs, dispersed and greedy, let their guard down.

The Romans, humble defenders, act with speed and courage.

Divine justice seems to favor the defenders, if only briefly.

This episode sets the stage for a classic reversal, as we’ll soon see in the following section, when the emboldened citizens of Constantinople go too far.

The Youth of the City Demand Battle

Latin Text:

Sequenti die, congregati sunt universi pueri civitatis et ex eis qui urbem ingressi erant ut ibi protegerentur, et Romanorum aliqui, et dixerunt: «Exeamus contra eos.» Et ait illis Constantinus: «Nolite exire; non enim pugna percussistis et vicistis, sed furando furati estis.»

English Translation:

The next day, all the youths of the city gathered, along with others who had taken refuge in the city, and some Romans, and they said: “Let us go out against them.” But Constantine said to them: “Do not go out. You did not fight a battle or win a victory — you merely stole through theft.”

Constantinople’s Reckless Zeal

After the small but morale-boosting success of the sortie, the mood in Constantinople shifted to overconfidence. The city’s pueri — a term which here refers to youths, perhaps both civilian and militia-aged men — were emboldened. Along with newly arrived refugees and even some proper Roman soldiers, they gathered to demand a second, larger engagement with the besieging Arab forces.
Their confidence was not entirely misplaced: the enemy had shown vulnerability. But as the Chronicle shows, the wisdom of leadership was not on their side.

Constantine IV: A Teen Emperor Speaks with Clarity

The Constantinus speaking here is Constantine IV, son of Constans II, who had left the capital for Sicily and Italy, entrusting the city to his teenage son. At just 14 or 15 years old, Constantine displayed what the Chronicle recognizes as sharp judgment and imperial composure.
His rebuke is cutting but true:

“You did not fight a battle or win a victory — you merely stole through theft.”

This line captures both his maturity and a clear Roman imperial attitude: glory is earned in true combat, not in opportunistic skirmishes.

Political Maturity Amid Crisis

This episode is deeply revealing:

Constantine understands that the enemy is not defeated, merely delayed.

He sees that his people’s desire for glory and revenge could turn to catastrophe.

He exercises restraint — a virtue rarely celebrated in siege narratives — and warns them of the consequences.

The Maronite Chronicle, despite being an outsider Christian text, respects Constantine here, portraying him as a voice of reason in a crowd stirred by emotion.

The Bold March and the Emperor's Gaze

Latin Text:

Illi autem non audierunt eum, sed exierunt, populus multus, armis instructi, vexillis erectis flammulisque, secundum morem Romanorum. Et simulatque exierunt occluserunt omnes portas et imperator sibi fixit tentorium super murum sedensque inspiciebat.

English Translation:

But they did not listen to him and went out — a great multitude, armed, with standards raised and banners waving, following the Roman custom. As soon as they exited, all the city gates were shut, and the emperor pitched his tent atop the wall and sat watching.

Roman Pageantry — Without Roman Prudence

Despite Constantine IV’s sober advice, the swelling crowds — emboldened by yesterday’s surprise success — ignored his warning and marched out in force.
They did not leave in disorder. Quite the opposite:

They went out “armis instructi” — fully armed,

“vexillis erectis flammulisque” — with Roman standards and fluttering banners,

“secundum morem Romanorum” — following the formal customs of the Roman military tradition.

This detail is powerful: the chronicler wants to show that this wasn’t a mob but a ritualized assertion of Roman identity, a crowd cloaking itself in imperial dignity — but lacking its discipline.

Gates Shut Behind Them — A Point of No Return

The gates were shut immediately after their departure. This detail has strong symbolic weight. It emphasizes:

A complete break with imperial command,

A one-way commitment to a battle that Constantine never authorized.

In military terms, it meant that they could not retreat easily — any return would be shameful, perhaps even blocked until honor had been satisfied.

The Young Emperor Watches — Alone

From atop the wall, Constantine erects a tent and watches.
This image is almost cinematic:
A teenage emperor, isolated on the walls of his besieged capital, gazing silently over the field as his people disobey his command, and march out in pride.
The Maronite chronicler, though writing from a Christian outsider perspective, offers a moment of deeply human drama. Constantine is no longer simply a child monarch — he is a ruler confronted by defiance, observing with quiet gravity what may soon become a massacre.

The Saracen Ambush

Latin Text:

Sarraceni autem se retro subduxerunt et multum a muro elongati sunt, ne cum fugerent illi Romani subito salvarentur; et exierunt sederuntque secundum tribus dispositi, et cum approquavissent illi, exsilierunt steteruntque et clamaverunt lingua sua: «Deus magnus est!»

English Translation:

The Saracens had withdrawn back and distanced themselves far from the wall, lest the Romans, if they fled, might quickly reach safety. They came out and sat in formation, arranged by tribe. And when the others drew near, they suddenly leapt up, stood firm, and cried out in their own tongue: “God is great!”

Tactical Discipline: The Saracens Set the Trap

The Maronite Chronicle vividly details a carefully staged military ambush by the Arab forces. The Saracens retreat from the city, deliberately withdrawing beyond the reach of the Roman walls.
This was no disorganized pullback. It was a trap designed to:

Lure overconfident Roman forces out of the city,

Prevent their easy retreat should the attack fail,

Gain space for open-field maneuver, where the Arabs excelled in skirmish tactics.

Moreover, the enemy did not wait in confusion — they “sat in formation, arranged by tribe,” showing a high level of battlefield organization that directly contradicts any stereotype of tribal disunity. Each unit waited in disciplined silence until the signal came.

“Deus magnus est!” — The First Literary Allāhu Akbar

Then, in a sudden burst of action: “Exsilierunt steteruntque et clamaverunt lingua sua: Deus magnus est!”

"They leapt up, stood firm, and cried out in their own tongue: God is great!"

This is nothing less than the earliest surviving literary reference to the takbīr — “Allāhu Akbar” — in a non-Muslim source.
Rendered in Latin as Deus magnus est, it preserves the voice of the Arabic takbīr — the Islamic declaration of God’s greatness, commonly shouted at the outset of battle.
Its appearance here is profoundly significant:

It confirms that “Allāhu Akbar” was already an established military rallying cry by the mid-7th century.

It shows that Christian observers had already begun to associate Arab warfare with religious invocation, not merely political revolt.

The Sound of Holy War

For the Christian chronicler, this cry, heard on the battlefield, may have been a chilling omen. It was:

An invocation of divine power, not just a cheer,

A sign that the enemy fought with confidence and theological certitude,

A moment that bridged heaven and war, something both Arabs and Romans understood in their own traditions.

It’s a stark moment of clash, not just of swords, but of cosmologies.

The Rout and Massacre

Latin Text:

Statimque illi verterunt terga in fugam, et adversus eos cucurrerunt Sarraceni in eosque inciderunt et trucidabant eos vel captivos abducebant, usque dum sub ictum balistarum muri pervenerunt.

English Translation:

Immediately, the Romans turned their backs and fled. The Saracens rushed upon them, attacked them, and began to slaughter or carry them off as captives, until they came within range of the wall's ballistae.

Chaos and Collapse

The momentum of the Roman sortie, driven more by youthful fervor than strategic sense — now fully collapses. As soon as the Saracens rise from their tribal formations and shout “God is great!”, panic seizes the attackers. The Romans “turn their backs and flee” — a catastrophic move for any force caught in open terrain.
The pursuit is immediate and ferocious:

The Saracens surge forward with speed and confidence,

Roman youths and unseasoned fighters are slaughtered or captured,

The rout only ends at the very edge of the city’s defenses — “within range of the ballistae.”

A Scene of Brutality and Precision

The Maronite Chronicle’s phrasing is unambiguous:

trucidabant eos vel captivos abducebant
“They were slaughtering them or taking them as captives.”

This is not a romanticized battlefield duel — it’s a massacre in the open field. The Saracen forces, experienced and tribally organized, systematically destroy a disordered, overconfident militia.
Notably, the chronicler marks a tactical line of safety: the ballista range of Constantinople’s walls. Only here does the killing stop, implying that:

The defenders had superior range weapons still active on the walls,

The Arab cavalry knew better than to chase prey directly into fortified fire.

Literary and Symbolic Value

This passage — vividly brutal — serves multiple narrative purposes for the chronicler:

Warning against youthful zeal: the earlier advice of young Constantine IV is shown to be wise. His caution goes unheeded, and it leads to disaster.

Respect for Arab tactics: the Saracens are not depicted as chaotic raiders, but as disciplined, organized, and religiously driven warriors.

The cost of defiance: the youths acted in hubris, and the price was steep — “trucidabant” is no soft word; it evokes a merciless slaughter.

Imperial Displeasure and Heavy Losses

Latin Text:

Et Constantinus iratus est eis, et aegre permisit eis aperiri portas; ceciderant ex eis multi et alii sagittis transfixi sunt.

English Translation:

And Constantine was enraged with them, and reluctantly permitted the gates to be opened for them. Many of them had fallen, and others had been pierced by arrows.

The Return of the Defeated

The episode ends not with triumph, but with shame and chastisement. The youths and city volunteers — so eager for battle — now return bloodied, broken, and diminished. But the gates do not swing open in welcome.
The emperor, Constantine IV, watching everything from atop the walls, is described as “iratus” — enraged. His warning the day before had gone unheeded, and now he must bear witness to the loss of his subjects due to their arrogance and disobedience.
His “reluctant permission” to open the gates — aegre permisit — is not only an emotional reaction. It reflects a deeper imperial logic:

The city’s defenses could not be compromised by opening too soon.

The wounded and fleeing could have led pursuers inside.

The punishment is symbolic — the survivors must feel the full weight of their recklessness.

Casualties and the Cost of Hubris

The closing line is brutal in its conciseness:

“Many of them had fallen, and others had been pierced by arrows.”

The survivors are not heroes — they are a remnant of a failed sortie, of a poorly thought-out strike. The Chronicle’s stark phrasing underlines the tragedy:

“Ceciderant” – they fell, a term often reserved for battlefield deaths.

“Sagittis transfixi sunt” – pierced by arrows, a visual image of helpless retreat under enemy fire.

This is not the noble suffering of martyrs — it’s the avoidable bloodshed of untrained zeal.

Imperial Maturity in a Young Emperor

Though only a teenager, Constantine IV here emerges as a clear-sighted, composed, and tactical leader, in stark contrast to the impulsive youth who disobeyed him.

He restrained his forces.

He kept control of the city.

He understood the limits of their strength — and the seriousness of the Saracen threat.

This closing moment solidifies Constantine’s role as a worthy imperial successor — one not yet tested in battle, perhaps, but already tested in judgment and restraint

Summary: The Arab Raid on Thrace and the Folly of Constantinople’s Youth

AG 974 | AH 43/44 | 663/664 CE
"A siege without a siege, a victory without a war."

In this dramatic episode, the Maronite Chronicle recounts what appears to be an Arab raid into Thrace, led — at least nominally — by Yazīd ibn Muʿāwiya, son of the caliph and heir apparent. Though Yazīd would later besiege Constantinople in 668, this earlier incursion (perhaps confused or deliberately attributed to him) reflects a chaotic clash near the imperial capital.

What began as a routine plundering expedition quickly turned into a humiliating affair for the Romans:

A small Roman sortie successfully ambushed unarmed Arab raiders and reclaimed their loot.

Emboldened by this minor success, the youth of Constantinople — civilians, exiles, and some soldiers — defied the emperor Constantine IV, insisting on attacking again.

Constantine IV, though still a teenager, urged caution. “You did not win a battle,” he warned, “you merely stole through theft.”

They ignored him and marched out in Roman style, armed with banners and pageantry — a spectacle of bravado, not strategy.

But the Arabs had prepared.

They feigned retreat, pulled back from the walls, regrouped by tribal divisions, and when the Romans approached, they sprang a trap, shouting “God is great!” (Allāhu Akbar) — the earliest literary mention of this battle cry.

What followed was a slaughter:

The Romans fled in panic.

Many were killed or captured before reaching the safety of the walls.

Constantine IV, watching from above, was furious and reluctantly opened the gates, letting in the survivors — bloodied, humiliated, and broken.

Key Themes:

Youthful Zeal vs. Imperial Prudence: The contrast between the impulsive, overconfident youths and the calm restraint of the young emperor is striking. The Chronicle subtly praises Constantine IV’s judgment, foreshadowing his later brilliance during the Arab siege of Constantinople.

Military Rituals and Memory: The Roman youths march with “vexillis erectis flammulisque” (banners and streamers raised) — evoking the lost grandeur of Rome even in desperate times.

Islamic Power in Transition: The presence of Yazīd, though likely symbolic, shows the rising dynastic assertiveness of the Umayyads. The use of Allāhu Akbar marks a cultural and theological confidence.

The Cost of Hubris: The Maronite author frames the episode as a cautionary tale — zeal without discipline brings ruin.

This episode stands as one of the Chronicle’s most vivid moments: a moral, military, and emotional drama etched in a few lines — a minor clash remembered as a lesson in leadership, loyalty, and loss.

AG 975 | AH 44/45 | 664/665 CE

The Campaign of Ibn Khālid: Naval Disaster, Siegecraft, and the March Through Asia Minor

Latin (Maronite Chronicle)

Et anno 975°, Constantis 22°, Moʻawiae 7º, ascendit Bar Khaled dux exercitus Arabum Emesae, urbis capitis Phoeniciae, et duxit exercitum in terram Romanorum.
Ivit et castrametatus est ad lacum qui vocatur Asqdrin, vidensque populum multum habitare ibi in insula voluit eam occupare; fecit rates et naviculas easque exercitum conscendere iussit et misit intus; qui intus erant, hoc videntes fugerunt et se absconderunt ab eis. Cum pervenissent Arabes in portum descenderunt et alligarunt naviculas operamque dederunt ut aggrederentur populum. Tum surrexerunt qui latuerant, cucurreruntque et absciderunt funes navicularum quas in altum duxerunt. Arabes autem relicti sunt intra portum in terra circumdati mari profundo et coeno. Qui intus erant contra eos congregati sunt et circumdederunt eos undique, fundis et lapidibus et sagittis instructi ceciderunt in eos omnesque occiderunt. Socii autem eorum Arabum ex adverso stabant et adspiciebant nec poterant eis opitulari. Et iterum non bellum intulerunt Arabes in lacum illum usque in praesentem diem.

Et inde abiit Bar Khaled recedensque condiciones fecit cum urbe Amorio. Cum vero ei portas aperuissent ibi constituit custodiam Arabum. Et inde abiit recessitque ad Sylws castellum magnum; ubi illusit ei architectus quidam e provincia Paphlagoniae, qui dixit ei: «Si vero condiciones feceris mihi et domui meae, ego faciam tibi machinam quae id castellum expugnabit.» Ipse autem annuit. Et iussit Bar Khaled afferri tabulas longas; et fecit machinam cuius similis nunquam visa est, et ascenderunt fixeruntque eam contra portam castelli. Custodes cum confiderent in castelli firmitate siverunt eos ad castellum accedere. Dum suspensi sunt milites Khaledi in sua machina, lapis proiectus percussit ianuam castelli; et rursum proiecerunt lapidem alterum qui minor fuit, rursumque proiecerunt lapidem tertium et ceteris inferior fuit. Qui supra muros stabant deridentes clamaverunt dicentes: «Intendite, viri Khaledi; male enim suspensi estis», et statim miserunt ipsi ab alto in machinam lapidem ingentem; devolvit et percussit machinam Bar Khaledi et confregit eam; corruit machina et cadens multos homines occidit.

Et inde abiit Bar Khaled et expugnavit castellum Pessinuntem, et castellum Kyws, et castellum Pergamus, et etiam Smyrnam civitatem.

English Translation

In the year 975, the 22nd year of Constans, and the 7th of Muʿāwiya, Bar Khālid, commander of the Arab army from Emesa [Ḥimṣ], the capital of Phoenicia, marched with his army into Roman territory.
He went and encamped by a lake called Asqdrin [Lake Ascanius], and seeing that many people lived on an island in its midst, he desired to take it. He built rafts and boats, had his army embark on them, and sent them in, but those on the island, seeing this, fled and hid from them. When the Arabs arrived at the harbor, they disembarked and tied up their boats, preparing to attack the inhabitants, then those who had hidden rose up, ran, cut the ropes of the boats, and sent them drifting into the deep.
The Arabs were now stranded in the harbor, surrounded by deep water and mud. The islanders gathered and encircled them on all sides, attacking with slings, stones, and arrows until they had killed them all, their Arab comrades stood across the way watching, but could not help, and never again did the Arabs attack that lake, even to this day.
From there, Bar Khālid withdrew and made terms with the city of Amorium. When its gates were opened to him, he installed a garrison of Arabs there.
Then he went on to the great fortress of Sylws [Synnada], where a certain architect from Paphlagonia deceived him by saying:
“If you make terms with me and my house, I will build you a machine that will conquer the fortress.”
Ibn Khālid agreed. He ordered long planks to be brought, and a siege engine was constructed — the likes of which had never been seen. They set it up facing the fortress gate.
The defenders, trusting in the strength of the fortress, allowed them to approach.
As Khalid’s men were suspended within their machine, a stone was launched and struck the fortress gate. Then they launched a second stone, which was smaller, and then a third, which was smaller still.
Those atop the walls jeered and cried:

“Straighten yourselves, men of Khalid! You hang so badly!”

Then they dropped a massive stone from above onto the siege machine of Ibn Khālid — it smashed into the structure, shattered it, and as it collapsed, it killed many of the men.
Ibn Khālid moved on and conquered the fortress of Pessinus, the fortress of Cius, the fortress of Pergamum, and also the city of Smyrna.

1. Bar Khālid Marches Out from Emesa

Latin:

Et anno 975°, Constantis 22°, Moʻawiae 7º, ascendit Bar Khaled dux exercitus Arabum Emesae, urbis capitis Phoeniciae, et duxit exercitum in terram Romanorum.

English:

In the year 975 of the Seleucid Era, the 22nd of Constans, and the 7th of Muʿāwiya, Bar Khālid, commander of the Arab army from Emesa [Ḥimṣ], the capital of Phoenicia, marched with his army into Roman territory.

Not an Ordinary Commander: The Legacy of ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn Khālid

The man the Chronicle calls Bar Khālid — Syriac for “Son of Khālid” — was ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn Khālid ibn al-Walīd, son of the legendary Muslim general Khālid ibn al-Walīd.
This was no ordinary figure. Islamic sources describe ʿAbd al-Raḥmān as a formidable warrior, heir to his father’s legacy, and a man who became so powerful in Syria that even Muʿāwiya grew wary of him.
Ibn Kathīr writes:

"عبد الرحمن بن خالد بن الوليد القرشي المخزومي، وكان من الشجعان المعروفين والأبطال المشهورين كأبيه، وكان قد عظم ببلاد الشام كذلك حتى خاف منه معاوية، ومات وهو مسموم، رحمه الله وأكرم مثواه."
“ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn Khālid ibn al-Walīd al-Qurashī al-Makhzūmī — he was among the well-known brave ones and famous heroes, just like his father. He became so prominent in Syria that even Muʿāwiya feared him. He died poisoned — may God have mercy on him and honor his resting place.”

He was even thought by some to have been a child during the Prophet’s lifetime, and his status as a seasoned commander of the Syrian frontier armies (ṣawāʾif) is well-attested:

"كان يلي الصوائف زمن معاوية، وقد حفظ عن معاوية."
“He led the summer raids [against the Romans] during Muʿāwiya’s rule, and narrated reports from him.”

Elegy for a Fallen Warrior

One contemporary poet commemorated his tragic death with powerful verses, praising his lineage and martial spirit:

Arabic:

أبوك الذي قاد الجيوش مغرباً
إلى الروم لما أعطت الخَرْجَ فارسُ
وكم من فتى نبهته بعد هجعة

بقرع اللجام، وهو أكتعٌ ناعسُ
وما يستوي الصفّان: صفٌ لخالدٍ

وصفٌ عليه من دمشق البرانسُ

English Translation:

Your father it was who led the armies westward,
To the lands of Rome when Persia had paid its tribute.
How many a young man he stirred from slumber,
With the clang of reins — startled, lopsided, still drowsing.
The two battle lines are never equal:
One belongs to Khālid — the other clad in Damascene robes.

The final line draws a powerful contrast between the true warriors of Khālid’s legacy and the soft courtiers of Damascus, subtly criticizing the political culture that emerged under the Umayyads.
This was the man who led the 975 AG campaign. In the eyes of both Muslims and Christians, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān was the archetypal Arab general — bold, charismatic, and deeply feared. His presence at the head of the Emesan army gave this campaign a weight far beyond a typical border raid.

Historical Note: Ibn Kathīr Confirms the Campaign

This is not just a Christian memory — Islamic sources confirm it too. Ibn Kathīr, in his entry for AH 44 (663/664 CE), states:

"وفيها غزا عبد الرحمن بن خالد بن الوليد بلاد الروم، ومعه المسلمون، وشتوا هنالك."
“In it [the year 44 AH], ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn Khālid ibn al-Walīd campaigned in the lands of the Romans, and the Muslims were with him, and they wintered there.”

This brief Arabic reference matches the start of the extended narrative found in the Maronite Chronicle, which names “Bar Khālid” — Syriac for Ibn Khālid — as the expedition leader.

The Chronicle’s detail, when paired with Islamic records, gives us one of the most vivid and geographically specific glimpses into a mid-7th-century Umayyad incursion into Asia Minor — not a minor skirmish, but a multi-stage campaign involving lakes, sieges, and coastal conquests.

2. The Naval Disaster at Asqdrīn [Lake Ascanius]

Latin:

Ivit et castrametatus est ad lacum qui vocatur Asqdrin, vidensque populum multum habitare ibi in insula voluit eam occupare; fecit rates et naviculas easque exercitum conscendere iussit et misit intus; qui intus erant, hoc videntes fugerunt et se absconderunt ab eis. Cum pervenissent Arabes in portum descenderunt et alligarunt naviculas operamque dederunt ut aggrederentur populum. Tum surrexerunt qui latuerant, cucurreruntque et absciderunt funes navicularum quas in altum duxerunt. Arabes autem relicti sunt intra portum in terra circumdati mari profundo et coeno. Qui intus erant contra eos congregati sunt et circumdederunt eos undique, fundis et lapidibus et sagittis instructi ceciderunt in eos omnesque occiderunt. Socii autem eorum Arabum ex adverso stabant et adspiciebant nec poterant eis opitulari. Et iterum non bellum intulerunt Arabes in lacum illum usque in praesentem diem.

English:

He went and encamped by a lake called Asqdrīn* [Lake Ascanius], and seeing that many people lived on an island in its midst, he desired to take it.*
He built rafts and boats, had his army board them, and sent them in, but those on the island, seeing this, fled and hid from them.
When the Arabs arrived at the harbor, they disembarked, tied up their boats, and began preparing to attack the inhabitants, then those who had hidden rose up, ran out, cut the boats’ ropes, and sent them drifting into the deep.
The Arabs were now stranded in the harbor, surrounded by deep water and mud.
The islanders assembled, encircled them on all sides, and fell upon them with slings, stones, and arrows until they had killed them all.
Their Arabs comrades stood across the shore watching, but could not help, And never again did the Arabs attack that lake — even to this day.

Why Lake Ascanius Fits — Geography and Linguistic Evidence

The mysterious Asqdrīn of the Chronicle almost certainly refers to Lake Ascania — modern Lake İznik in northwestern Anatolia. This dramatic account aligns remarkably well with both the topography of the lake and how Greek names were transcribed into Syriac by Christian chroniclers.

Physical Features:

Lake İznik is a large inland body of water, about 32 km long, 10 km wide, and up to 80 meters deep.

It contains a small island near the northern shore (Çakırca Island), which in late antiquity may have had inhabitants or fortifications.

The lake’s muddy, marshy edges — particularly on the southern and eastern banks — could easily entrap landing forces.

A Realistic Catastrophe:

Every detail in the Chronicle matches this location:

Hastily built boats were used to ferry an army across a relatively calm inland lake.

Local defenders ambushed Arab soldiers once they landed.

Boats are being cut loose, leaving the invaders stranded on a mud-bound peninsula or island.

Slings, stones, and arrows used by villagers — a low-tech but effective form of resistance.

Arab reinforcements were watching helplessly from the opposite shore.

The defeat was so total, the Chronicle ends the episode with a punchline of humiliation:

"And never again did the Arabs attack that lake — even to this day."

A Catastrophic Amphibious Miscalculation

This account is among the most vivid and tragic Arab defeats in the Maronite Chronicle. It details not just a failed military encounter, but a humiliating disaster, remembered long after for its tactical blunder, helplessness, and complete annihilation.

Geography That Trapped an Army

The “lake called Asqdrīn” is almost certainly Lake Ascania, today Lake İznik, near the ancient city of Nicaea in Bithynia. The topography matches perfectly:

The lake has a central island (Çakırca Island), small but habitable.

Its edges are muddy, shallow, and difficult for large-scale movement.

It was not designed for naval warfare — rafts would be slow, vulnerable, and hard to maneuver.

Tactical and Strategic Commentary

What went wrong?

Underestimation of the defenders: The Arab army assumed a quick victory. They expected the locals to flee, not set an ambush.

Amphibious inexperience: Arab armies of this era were adept at cavalry raids, not naval landings.

Terrain ignorance: Mud, deep water, and island bottlenecks made retreat impossible once the boats were cut loose.

Why was it so devastating?

It wasn’t just defeat — it was total isolation and slaughter.

No prisoners, no ransom — just blood and loss.

The psychological impact was long-lasting, as seen in the Chronicle’s haunting final remark.

From Askania to Asqdrīn: A Syriac Scribal Journey

The transformation of the Greek toponym Askania (Ἀσκανία) into the Syriac Asqdrīn (ܐܣܩܕܪܝܢ) might seem startling at first glance. But when we trace the steps of phonological adaptation, scribal habit, and cultural transliteration, it reveals a remarkably plausible process grounded in well-attested linguistic phenomena.

Step-by-Step Linguistic Adaptation

Let’s take this name apart — sound by sound, character by character — comparing the Greek phonology with Syriac orthographic conventions:

Base Toponym: Ἀσκανία / Askania

Greek spelling: Ἀσκανία

Pronunciation: /a.ska.ni.a/ or /as.ka.ni.a/

In Late Roman Greek, the vowels were already shifting toward /a.ska.ni.a/ → [askania].

This is the starting point — now we trace the transformation.

Syriac Rendering: ܐܣܩܕܪܝܢ (Asqdrīn)

Let’s break the Syriac form into letters and their values:

Syriac Letter Name Transliteration IPA

ܐ ʾĀlep̄ ʾ (glottal stop) or silent [ʔ] / ∅

ܣ Sēmkaṯ s [s]

ܩ Qōp̄ q [q]

ܕ Dālaṯ d [d]

ܪ Rēš r [r]

ܝ Yōḏ y / ī [j] / [i]

ܢ Nūn n [n]

Reconstructed pronunciation: ʾas-qa-da-rīn or es-qad-rīn (dialectal variations allowed).

Syriac	Letter Name	Transliteration	IPA
ܐ	ʾĀlep̄	ʾ (glottal stop) or silent	[ʔ] / ∅
ܣ	Sēmkaṯ	s	[s]
ܩ	Qōp̄	q	[q]
ܕ	Dālaṯ	d	[d]
ܪ	Rēš	r	[r]
ܝ	Yōḏ	y / ī	[j] / [i]
ܢ	Nūn	n	[n]

Key Transformational Steps

1. Greek [sk] → Syriac [sq] (ܣܩ)

The Greek cluster [sk] in Askania (σκ) is not native to Semitic phonology.

Syriac, like other Aramaic dialects, tends to reinforce difficult clusters with emphatic consonants. In this case:

σκ → sq (ܣܩ)

This is a documented scribal convention: unfamiliar clusters were often approximated with emphatics to preserve foreign names phonetically.

📌 Examples:

Greek Scythia becomes Saqṭāyē (ܣܩܛܝܐ).

Greek Skepsis may be rendered with initial sq-.

Thus: Askania → Asqania

2. Insertion of Dālaṯ (ܕ)

The Greek -ka- syllable can easily morph into a [q-d] or [k-d] combination when transcribed by scribes unfamiliar with precise Greek phonotactics.

Alternatively, the insertion of ܕ (d) between q and r may smooth the phonological transition:

Think: Asqania → Askadaria → Asqadrin.

There may also be confusion with Latinized or corrupted variants like Ascadrios or Ascadrinos that entered Syriac via oral retelling.

📌 Parallels:

Latin Claudios → Syriac Qlādrīs (via corrupted transmission).

Scribal insertions of dālath are attested in transliterated names to ease pronunciation.

3. Syriac Toponymic Ending -īn (ܝܢ)

Greek toponyms ending in -ία (-ia) or -ιος (-ios) were often rendered in Syriac as -īn.

This reflects not just phonetic simplification, but also the influence of plural or gentilic forms.

Thus: Askania → Asqadrīn (ܐܣܩܕܪܝܢ)

Supporting Linguistic Phenomena

Greek Element Syriac Equivalent Explanation

σκ (sk) ܣܩ (sq) Cluster reinforcement via emphatic qōp̄

ν (n) ܢ (n) Direct nasal match

-ια (ia) ܝܢ (īn) Plural/toponymic adaptation

κ / κν ܩ / ܕܪ Transcription via emphatic q and bridge consonants

Greek Element	Syriac Equivalent	Explanation
σκ (sk)	ܣܩ (sq)	Cluster reinforcement via emphatic qōp̄
ν (n)	ܢ (n)	Direct nasal match
-ια (ia)	ܝܢ (īn)	Plural/toponymic adaptation
κ / κν	ܩ / ܕܪ	Transcription via emphatic q and bridge consonants

Summary

Askania → Asqdrīn (ܐܣܩܕܪܝܢ) is not an error — it’s a predictable, phonologically plausible Syriac adaptation of a Greek place name.

✔ [sk] → [sq] reflects typical Semitic approximation.

✔ Insertion of [d] smooths difficult transitions or reflects corrupted intermediaries.

✔ -īn ending fits Syriac norms for place names and ethnonyms.

✔ And the geography perfectly matches the Chronicle’s story.

So what looks at first like a corruption is actually an excellent example of cross-cultural linguistic fusion in the scribal world of Late Antiquity.

Conclusion: The Disaster at İznik – A Turning Point on the Anatolian Frontier

The confrontation at Lake İznik — the ancient Ascania — stands as one of the most stinging military setbacks suffered by the early Arab forces during their ambitious campaigns into Asia Minor. Far from a minor skirmish, this episode marked a catastrophic failure in both planning and execution. The Arabs suffered such devastating losses that the memory of the event outlived the men themselves. For a Christian chronicler writing only years later to recall the event in such vivid terms is itself a testament to the scale of the defeat.

This battle reveals much more than just the hazards of war; it underscores the real logistical limitations of early Islamic military expeditions when it came to amphibious or riverine operations in unfamiliar terrain. The Arab armies, otherwise renowned for their speed and desert warfare expertise, found themselves trapped in an environment where local geography, fortified towns, and Roman naval supremacy left them deeply vulnerable.

The tenacity and preparedness of the local Roman defenders cannot be overstated. Far from being a collapsing empire, the Roman state in Anatolia could still muster decisive tactical strength — especially in defense of critical cities like Nicaea (modern İznik). It was this tenacious provincial resilience, more than imperial strategy from Constantinople, that often proved decisive.

But this episode also offers a subtle cultural legacy: the transformation of the name Ascania into Asqdrīn (ܐܣܩܕܪܝܢ) in the Syriac record. It is a small detail, easily missed, but it reveals the creative energy of Late Antique scribal culture. Syriac writers were not merely copying foreign terms — they were interpreting, adapting, and embedding them into their own linguistic world. Each added letter, each shift in pronunciation, reflects a mental map being redrawn by people engaging with imperial geography on their own terms.

In short, the disaster at İznik was more than just a military loss — it was a moment of encounter. It showed the Arab armies that Asia Minor would not fall easily. It showcased how Christian communities recorded victory with pride. And it preserved, in the bones of a reworked toponym, the echo of a battle whose ripples reached far beyond the battlefield.

3. The Surrender of Amorium — A Tactical Victory for the Son of the Sword of God

After the humiliating ambush at Lake İznik, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn Khālid ibn al-Walīd — son of the legendary Sword of God — recalibrated his approach. His next move wasn’t a headlong assault, but a strategic negotiation. His army turned southeast, toward Amorium, a well-fortified city in Phrygia, central Anatolia.

Latin:
Et inde abiit Bar Khaled recedensque condiciones fecit cum urbe Amorio. Cum vero ei portas aperuissent ibi constituit custodiam Arabum.

English:
From there, Bar Khālid [ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn Khālid] withdrew and made terms with the city of Amorium. When its gates were opened to him, he installed a garrison of Arabs there.

This was not a conquest forged in blood and siege engines, but one brokered in diplomacy.
Despite the sting of defeat at İznik, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān's military reputation and lineage still carried weight. As the son of Khālid ibn al-Walīd, the conqueror of Damascus and the scourge of Persia and Rome, he commanded both fear and respect from his own soldiers and from his adversaries.

Amorium’s leadership, likely aware of this and the growing reach of Umayyad arms, chose pragmatism. By opening their gates and accepting Arab oversight, they preserved their city, lives, and status, at the price of hosting a foreign garrison.
This moment offers a quiet but telling insight into the nature of early Arab-Roman warfare:

It wasn’t all pitched battles; diplomacy and calculated submission played a major role.

Frontier cities like Amorium acted with a degree of autonomy, balancing self-preservation against loyalty to Constantinople.

Arab commanders like ʿAbd al-Raḥmān weren’t just raiders — they were state builders, securing outposts deep in Roman territory.

In retrospect, this early occupation foreshadowed Amorium’s later fate. The city would become a cornerstone of the Roman defensive line — and a repeated target of Umayyad and ʿAbbāsid campaigns. But in 664, this was just the beginning — a symbolic crack in Rome’s frontier, opened not by siege towers, but by negotiation and presence.

4. The Siege and Failure at Sylūs [Synnada]

Latin
Et inde abiit recessitque ad Sylws castellum magnum; ubi illusit ei architectus quidam e provincia Paphlagoniae, qui dixit ei: “Si vero condiciones feceris mihi et domui meae, ego faciam tibi machinam quae id castellum expugnabit.”
Ipse autem annuit. Et iussit Bar Khaled afferri tabulas longas; et fecit machinam cuius similis nunquam visa est, et ascenderunt fixeruntque eam contra portam castelli.

English
Then [ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn Khālid ibn al-Walīd] went on to the great fortress of Sylūs [Synnada, modern Şuhut], where a certain architect from Paphlagonia tricked him by saying:
“If you grant terms to me and my household, I will build you a siege engine that will conquer the fortress.”
Ibn Khālid agreed. He ordered long planks to be brought, and the architect built a machine the likes of which had never been seen. They raised it and set it up against the gate of the fortress.

A Trick: Engineering and Deception

This moment in the Maronite Chronicle offers one of the most vivid examples of cunning subterfuge in the early Arab-Roman wars — not a clash of swords, but of wits and war machines.

After suffering a devastating and humiliating naval trap at Lake Ascania, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn Khālid ibn al-Walīd pressed deeper into Asia Minor, seeking to restore momentum. But at Sylūs [Synnada], he encountered a very different kind of resistance — not from walls or weapons, but from a man with tools and a tongue.

The Deceptive Architect from Paphlagonia

The architect — introduced only as “a certain man from Paphlagonia” — played his part with precision. His origin matters: Paphlagonia, in north-central Anatolia, was known in antiquity for its craftsmen, builders, and its loyalty to Rome. But here, one of its own appears as a Judas-like figure, pretending to defect to the Arabs.

His offer was irresistible:

"If you make terms with me and my household, I will build for you a machine that will take this fortress."

This wasn't just a practical gesture — it was a brilliant psychological play:

He tapped into the Arab desire for innovation, especially after their amphibious failure.

He exploited the honor culture of Arab commanders, who could not reject such a bold and confident proposal.

He demanded protection for his “household” — a classic ploy for plausible innocence, and perhaps a veiled way of getting close to the enemy’s plans.

“The Likes of Which Had Never Been Seen…”

The Chronicle tells us that the machine was so massive, so daring, that nothing like it had ever been seen. This is likely rhetorical exaggeration, but even so, it captures the mood:

The Arabs had never relied on siege towers or traction trebuchets to this extent before.

Roman fortresses in central Anatolia were engineered to resist siege, not to be stormed quickly. So for the Arabs, this was a leap into unknown tactical terrain.

This description also carries a note of tragic irony: the very machine that represented their ambitions was a trap from its inception. What they saw as engineering ingenuity was actually an act of theatrical sabotage.

Saboteur, Double Agent, or Opportunist?

What was the architect’s goal?

If he were a Roman loyalist, his mission was to waste enemy resources, expose their elite troops, and humiliate them before the garrison.

If he was a double agent, this was a coordinated Roman ploy — one that depended on luring the Arabs into a kill zone, as we’ll see in the next passage.

If he was simply opportunistic, it speaks to how Roman civilians, artisans, and provincials played subtle but pivotal roles in frontier defense.

Either way, the result was devastating: the Arabs placed their trust in a foreign builder, committed manpower and materials, and marched straight into an ambush they couldn’t foresee.

The Theater of War — and the War of Theater

This episode is more than military history — it’s theater in every sense:

The architect staged a performance.

The Arabs built the stage (the siege machine).

The Romans watched from the walls, waiting for the curtain to fall.

It’s no coincidence that what follows next is a kind of public mockery, shouted from above:

“Straighten yourselves, men of Khālid — you hang so badly!”

This wasn’t just a siege. It was a lesson — one written in wood, stone, and blood.

What Was Sylūs? A Linguistic and Geographic Deep Dive

In the Maronite Chronicle, the mysterious stronghold encountered by ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn Khālid is referred to as Sylūs (ܣܝܠܘܣ) — a name unattested in other Roman or Arab sources. So what was this “great fortress”?
By combining linguistic reconstruction, geographic alignment, and contextual clues in the narrative, we can reasonably identify Sylūs as Synnada (Greek: Σύνναδα), a major administrative and military center in western Anatolia.

Geographic Context: Why Synnada Fits

Modern Location: Near Şuhut, in the Turkish province of Afyonkarahisar.

Strategic Importance: Located between Amorium and the central Anatolian plateau, commanding routes into Phrygia.

Status in Late Antiquity:

Formerly the seat of a Roman governor (praeses of Phrygia Salutaris).

Known for military infrastructure and access to timber and stone (used in siegecraft).

Narrative Consistency: The Maronite Chronicle notes that this fortress comes after Amorium and before the march westward, aligning perfectly with the position of Synnada on a logical campaign path.

From Σύνναδα to ܣܝܠܘܣ: Phonological Breakdown

The transformation of the Greek name Synnada (Σύνναδα) into the Syriac Sylūs (ܣܝܠܘܣ) is both linguistically plausible and textually characteristic of how Greek place names were adapted into Syriac script and pronunciation. Here’s how:

Greek Component Transliteration Syriac Rendering Notes

Σύν- (Syn-) [syn] → [sin] ܣܝ (Sy) Σ (sigma) = ܣ [s]; Υ (upsilon) = ܝ [y] or [i] — a typical direct phonetic match

-να- (-na-) [na] Dropped Syriac often omits unstressed or nasalized medial syllables, especially -na- or -ma- clusters

-δα (-da) [ða] / [da] ܘܣ (ūs) Final -da often adapts as -ūs in Syriac — ܘ (waw) provides vowel support; ܣ (semkaṯ) as a common terminus

Greek Component	Transliteration	Syriac Rendering	Notes
Σύν- (Syn-)	[syn] → [sin]	ܣܝ (Sy)	Σ (sigma) = ܣ [s]; Υ (upsilon) = ܝ [y] or [i] — a typical direct phonetic match
-να- (-na-)	[na]	Dropped	Syriac often omits unstressed or nasalized medial syllables, especially -na- or -ma- clusters
-δα (-da)	[ða] / [da]	ܘܣ (ūs)	Final -da often adapts as -ūs in Syriac — ܘ (waw) provides vowel support; ܣ (semkaṯ) as a common terminus

Scribal Considerations and Syriac Patterns

This is not a random distortion but part of a broader scribal trend seen in Syriac historical texts, especially when:

Translating foreign toponyms into a more familiar phonetic structure.

Reducing consonantal gemination (like Greek νν = nn), which Syriac usually avoids unless in loanwords.

Ending names with a familiar locative or plural-like suffix (such as -īn, -ūs), both of which are frequent in Semitic place-names.

Indeed, this process mirrors other known examples:

Greek Name Syriac Rendering Notes

Ἀσκάνιος (Ascanios) ܐܣܩܕܪܝܢ (Asqdrīn) As seen earlier, with internal strengthening (sk → sq) and final -ios → -īn

Παλαιστίνη (Palaistine) ܦܠܣܛܝܢ (Palasṭīn) Vowel collapse and simplified syllables

Ταρσός (Tarsos) ܬܪܣܘܣ (Tarsūs) Nearly identical transformation to Synnada → Sylūs

Greek Name	Syriac Rendering	Notes
Ἀσκάνιος (Ascanios)	ܐܣܩܕܪܝܢ (Asqdrīn)	As seen earlier, with internal strengthening (sk → sq) and final -ios → -īn
Παλαιστίνη (Palaistine)	ܦܠܣܛܝܢ (Palasṭīn)	Vowel collapse and simplified syllables
Ταρσός (Tarsos)	ܬܪܣܘܣ (Tarsūs)	Nearly identical transformation to Synnada → Sylūs

Why Not “Synnada” in Full?

There are a few reasons why Synnada might not have survived phonetically intact in the Syriac text:

Unfamiliar Greek endings (like -ada) were often simplified for clarity.

Double nasals (νν = nn) were often reduced or dropped entirely.

The ending -da was not easily supported in Syriac without breaking natural phonotactics, and so shifted to -ūs, a more fluid and recognizable ending in Syriac usage.

Final Judgement: Synnada = Sylūs

Linguistic Match: The syllables, consonants, and endings are all justified and explainable through Syriac phonology.
Narrative Positioning: The location of Sylūs exactly fits the route of ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn Khālid, after Amorium and before heading westward.
Topographic Description: The castellum magnum (great fortress) is fully consistent with what we know of Synnada, especially its role as a fortified administrative and military post.

Why This Matters

The identification of Sylūs as Synnada is more than philology — it’s a key that:

Reconstructs a lost logistical path of an early Arab campaign into Asia Minor.

Illuminates how Christian Syriac chroniclers navigated Greek geography through their own linguistic lens.

Reminds us that even corrupted or "exotic" names often preserve real topographic memories, just reshaped through time and script.

Reflections on the Siege Tactic: Engineering, Trust, and Theater

The failed siege of Sylūs (Synnada) offers more than just a tale of shattered wood and crushed dreams. It reveals a deeper pattern — one rooted in the psychological, symbolic, and strategic dimensions of ancient warfare.

Siege Warfare as Psychological Drama

In Late Antiquity and the early Islamic period, siege warfare was not merely a question of brute force. It was theater — a contest of nerves, cunning, and spectacle:

Siege machines were not just tools; they were symbols of dominance.

For the attacker, erecting a siege engine was a way of declaring intent — a visible claim of inevitability.

For the defender, resisting or destroying such machines was a declaration of defiance and morale.

Thus, when the Chronicle tells us that the Arabs built a device “the likes of which had never been seen,” it emphasizes the hubris, confidence, and theatricality of ʿAbd al-Raḥmān’s effort.

The Architect’s Ruse: Trust as a Weapon

This Paphlagonian architect's deception was a masterstroke of counter-siege warfare.

Feigning collaboration was a tactic known throughout the Roman world, leveraging the enemy’s need for local knowledge.

The architect requested protection for his household, a classic cover for defectors, spies, or double agents.

In truth, the man had no loyalty to the Arabs — his objective was to bait and embarrass them.

The siege machine, once raised, collapsed under a single well-aimed stone hurled from the walls — a scene the Chronicle lingers on with almost comic glee. The defenders even mock the Arabs:

“Straighten yourselves, men of Khālid — you hang so badly!”
(Intendite, viri Khaledi; male enim suspensi estis!)

This wasn’t just a mechanical failure. It was a moment of humiliation, staged for full psychological effect.

Contrast with Amorium: From Diplomacy to Disaster

Earlier in the same campaign, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān had taken Amorium — not by force, but through negotiation and guarantees of safety. The Chronicle states he “made terms” and installed a garrison, likely without bloodshed.
But at Sylūs, that cautious diplomacy was abandoned:

The commander sought a decisive military conquest to perhaps recover prestige after the disaster at Lake Ascania.

He trusted too easily, drawn in by the promise of a superweapon and the illusion of a quick victory.

The contrast between these two episodes shows a shift from caution to overreach.

A Lesson in Hubris and Counterintelligence

This episode underlines an enduring truth of siege warfare:

Trusting engineers or locals in enemy territory was always a gamble.

Empires like Rome thrived on intelligence networks, subterfuge, and psychological warfare.

Arab commanders, new to the terrain and its social complexity, were often vulnerable to manipulation.

This siege didn’t fail because of wood or wheels — it failed because of an unearned trust in the wrong hands.

A Chronicle’s Delight in Failure

For the Christian author of the Chronicle, this scene would have been immensely satisfying:

It shows the ingenuity of the Romans, turning Arab tools against them.

It portrays the Muslims as outsiders, outwitted, and unable to grasp the land’s secrets.

And it fits a broader genre of defensive miracle tales, in which a pious city resists invaders through wit, faith, and divine favor.

The fall of the siege engine is more than a military note — it’s a moral parable, preserved in the literature of resistance.

Final Thought: Siegecraft in the Age of Khalid's Son

ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn Khālid, though heir to his father’s legendary martial name, was not impervious. His campaign reveals:

The risks of innovation in hostile territory,

The limits of heroic legacy when facing the realpolitik of Roman engineering,

The resilience of Anatolian fortresses, where terrain, tactics, and trickery all combined to turn the tide.

The episode at Sylūs was a warning — one that echoed across the campaigns of Asia Minor for decades to come.

5. The Machine Destroyed and the Arabs Mocked

Latin

Custodes cum confiderent in castelli firmitate siverunt eos ad castellum accedere, Dum suspensi sunt milites Khaledi in sua machina, lapis proiectus percussit ianuam castelli; et rursum proiecerunt lapidem alterum qui minor fuit, rursumque proiecerunt lapidem tertium et ceteris inferior fuit, qui supra muros stabant deridentes clamaverunt dicentes: “Intendite, viri Khaledi; male enim suspensi estis!”
et statim miserunt ipsi ab alto in machinam lapidem ingentem; devolvit et percussit machinam Bar Khaledi et confregit eam; corruit machina et cadens multos homines occidit.

English Translation

The defenders, confident in the strength of the fortress, allowed them to approach.
As Khālid’s men were suspended inside their machine, a stone was hurled and struck the fortress gate, then they hurled a second stone, smaller than the first, and a third, even smaller.
Those standing on the walls mockingly cried out: “Straighten yourselves, men of Khalid! You hang so badly!” Immediately, they dropped a huge stone from above onto the machine — it rolled down, struck it, and shattered it, the machine collapsed, and falling, it killed many of the men inside.

Detailed Commentary and Analysis

“The defenders... allowed them to approach”

This deceptively simple line reveals a great deal about the strategic mindset and confidence of the Roman defenders at Sylūs (Synnada).

Unlike panic-stricken cities that closed their gates at the first sign of siege engines, these defenders exhibited deliberate patience. They did not hurl stones prematurely, nor did they sally out to engage the enemy before assessing the threat. Instead, they allowed the Arabs to draw near, siege engine and all.

This was not recklessness. It was psychological warfare — and a hallmark of Roman defensive doctrine.

Strategic Psychology

According to Leif Inge Ree Petersen’s Siege Warfare and Military Organization in the Successor States, the ability to allow enemy engines to approach stemmed from:

Confidence in fortifications: Many Anatolian cities retained massive late Roman curtain walls, built or refurbished in the 3rd–6th centuries, designed to withstand artillery, towers, and prolonged sieges.

Sophisticated defensive planning: Cities like Sylūs had integrated defensive layers — parapets, angled walls, and elevated firing positions — designed to exploit the vulnerabilities of siege engines. Allowing the enemy close wasn't dangerous; it was opportunistic.

Prepared traps: Defensive manuals and tactics often described feigned retreats, false weaknesses, and precisely staged counter-assaults. It is plausible that the defenders had already spotted structural weaknesses in the machine or had coordinated with the saboteur architect, the Paphlagonian naggārā who had constructed the mangonel to fail.

Roman Cunning in Action

This passive defense was not laziness. It was theatrical discipline.

Just as De re militari distinguishes between storm and blockade, Roman doctrine often blurred the lines — defending by enticing, delaying, and striking when the enemy was most vulnerable. Allowing the machine to approach served both strategic and psychological purposes:

Baiting the enemy into a false sense of success.

Gaining full visibility on the machine’s crew, mechanisms, and weak points.

Drawing the enemy into a predetermined kill zone — possibly with prepared slides, angled beams, or structural chokepoints designed for maximum collapse and carnage.

Artillery, Not Just Archery

The defenders weren’t just brave — they were trained. As Petersen shows, Roman cities often retained rhōmāyē artillerymen — professional garrison soldiers with precise aim and deep experience. At Thessalonica (586) and Constantinople (668), these troops regularly outshot and outmaneuvered Avar and Arab attackers. In this case, their silence as the machine approached may have simply been tactical — waiting for the perfect shot.

Glossary Note: Rhōmāyē (ܪܘܡܝܐ)

Term: Rhōmāyē (pronounced ro-MA-yeh)
Language: Classical Syriac
Plural of: Rhōmāyā (ܪܘܡܝܐ)
Meaning: "Romans"

What It Refers To:

In Syriac Christian chronicles and early Islamic-era texts, Rhōmāyē refers to the Eastern Romans, specifically:

The imperial troops of Constantinople,
Greek- or Syriac-speaking Christian populations under Roman rule,
The Roman state itself.

Derived from the Greek Ρωμαῖοι (Rhōmaîoi) — the self-identification used by citizens of the Eastern Roman Empire — this term reflects the continuity of Roman identity in the Christian East well into the 7th century and beyond.

Why It Matters:

The term Rhōmāyē carries more than just political meaning:

It signifies cultural legitimacy and imperial heritage in Syriac texts.
It’s used to describe Christian defenders of cities like Synnada, Amorium, and Smyrna.
It emphasizes the civilizational clash between the Arab-Muslim frontier and the heirs of Rome.

So when the Chronicle says that Arab soldiers were outmaneuvered by Rhōmāyē, it wasn’t just a military defeat — it was a dramatic reversal at the hands of the old imperial order: seasoned, fortified, and clever.

A Tactical Reversal, Engineered

By allowing the machine to approach, the defenders demonstrated not only faith in their engineering but mastery over siege tempo. The moment they struck — unleashing the stone from above — they transformed from passive defenders to engineers of destruction.

This isn’t just defense. It is an art. The Roman art of war, where walls became weapons, silence became strategy, and proximity wasn’t danger, but death for the enemy.

“Suspended in the Machine”: Vulnerability in Siege Warfare

The phrase in the Maronite Chronicle — “Khalid’s men were suspended in the machine” (suspensi sunt milites Khaledi in sua machina) — evokes a dramatic and perilous image. It suggests that the Arab soldiers were not simply behind or below siege engines, but rather elevated, exposed, and ensnared in the very mechanism that was meant to ensure their success.

In context, “suspensi sunt” implies at least two plausible architectural interpretations:

A siege tower (Latin: turres ambulatoriae), which would have lifted men into height as it rolled towards the fortress walls, was suspended by planks or platforms within its tiers.

A scaffolded battering ram, raised against a gate, in which attackers might have been hanging from ropes, beams, or platforms to deliver repeated blows while remaining exposed.

This posture — suspended in the air — transformed the attackers from aggressors into targets. Siegecraft, especially in the Late Antique and early Islamic periods, often relied on elevated siege machines like towers, scaffolds, and covered rams (testudines arietariae). As Leif Inge Ree Petersen notes, these constructions required extensive coordination and made their operators visible and vulnerable — prime targets for projectiles hurled from fortified heights.

Petersen further explains that siege towers and elevated structures were often “clumsy, slow, and conspicuous,” with crews operating in tight quarters under intense pressure. The psychological effect was potent: being visible to defenders, unable to maneuver freely, and subject to falling debris created a perfect recipe for panic, especially when the defenders mocked them, shouting: “Straighten yourselves, men of Khalid! You hang so badly!”

This image of dangling attackers — badly suspended, awkwardly elevated — reflects more than a tactical flaw. It’s a theatrical moment of humiliation, where Arab ingenuity meets Roman defiance. Siege warfare in this period was not only a matter of engineering and manpower, but of performance: both sides staging power and prestige through their machines, their walls, and their reactions to failure.

And failure came swiftly. As the Chronicle recounts, the defenders launched a massive stone from above — possibly a catapulted shot or a dropped boulder from a hoarding or parapet — which shattered the machine and killed many of the men inside.

Thus, the phrase “suspended in the machine” becomes a tragic emblem of the siege at Sylūs: a moment when boldness gave way to vulnerability, when towering ambition was literally and symbolically crushed by the weight of Roman stone.

“They hurled three stones... each smaller than the last”

What appears at first to be an odd tactical detail — a sequence of stones hurled in descending size — reveals a level of battlefield calculation and psychological gamesmanship well known in ancient siegecraft.

"Then they hurled a second stone, smaller than the first, and a third, even smaller..."

In siege warfare, the choice and sequencing of projectiles was never arbitrary. As Petersen notes, accuracy with trebuchets and stone-throwers often depended on using projectiles of consistent weight, meticulously selected and prepared beforehand. Yet here we see the defenders intentionally deviating from this rule — reducing projectile size and thereby subtly shifting the range, arc, and expected impact of each shot. This was no mistake of logistics or a sign of dwindling supplies. It was theatre, a calculated manipulation of expectation.

The first stone strikes the gate — a credible attempt to damage the entryway or test the durability of the Arab siege engine.

The second and third? Smaller, almost toy-like in comparison. Their reduced size may have made them seem ineffective, even laughable, which is exactly the point. It emboldened the attackers, who, suspended in their machine, believed the defenders had lost their nerve, or perhaps their firepower.

This sequence, then, becomes psychological warfare. The defenders weren’t merely aiming to destroy — they were exploiting weakness to induce overconfidence in the Arab engineers. Petersen highlights that Roman and post-Roman defenders often relied on deception and theatrical displays to lull attackers into complacency before unleashing catastrophic counterblows.

And indeed, this is what follows: a final, massive stone, dropped from the battlements with devastating precision, crushes the siege machine, killing many of its crew. The culmination of the sequence was never about brute force — it was about timing and humiliation.

To the men inside the machine, it must have felt like a cruel joke: pelted with pebbles, only to be obliterated by a boulder.

“Straighten yourselves, men of Khalid! You hang so badly!”

The defenders' jeering was not merely mockery — it was part of a deliberate performance designed to weaponize confidence. This is the choreographed cruelty of siege warfare, where perception and morale often meant more than stone and steel.

“Straighten yourselves, men of Khalid! You hang so badly!”

This is not merely battlefield trash talk — it is a brutal act of theatrical humiliation, and one of the most visceral and historically rich taunts recorded in 7th-century warfare.

«Intendite, viri Khaledi; male enim suspensi estis.»

This jeer, hurled by defenders from atop the walls, is layered with meaning — technical, symbolic, and personal.

1. A Taunt at the Machine

On the surface, the phrase “you hang so badly” (male suspensi estis) likely referred to the structure of the Arab siege machine. If it were a siege tower or scaffold — as the Chronicle’s use of suspensi sunt earlier implies — then the defenders were mocking how poorly it was designed, how awkwardly it leaned or swayed as it approached the fortress.

As Petersen shows, siege engines of the late antique and early medieval period were often makeshift, improvised under duress, and sometimes betrayed by uneven terrain or hasty construction. To be “badly suspended” was not just a visual insult — it might literally mean the machine’s platforms were crooked, unstable, or visibly failing. In Roman siegecraft, stability and engineering excellence were hallmarks of military professionalism; to lack them was to invite derision.

2. A Jibe at the Soldiers

But there’s more: “you hang badly” could also insult the soldiers themselves — their posture, their morale, their helplessness. Suspended in the machine, likely waiting for another projectile launch, they were sitting ducks. The defenders saw their passivity and mocked it.

This matches a long tradition of verbal warfare in sieges. Herodotus records Persian commanders insulting the Greeks from the walls. Josephus describes Jewish zealots taunting Romans from Jerusalem’s ramparts. And during the Crusades, Latin and Muslim defenders exchanged stinging poetic insults and bawdy threats across siege lines.

Yet to find such scornful specificity — naming “the men of Khalid” — in a 7th-century Syriac-Latin chronicle is rare and chilling.

3. A Blow to the Legend

To insult “the men of Khalid” wasn’t just a battlefield jibe. It was a symbolic assault on the legacy of Khālid ibn al-Walīd, the “Sword of God,” whose campaigns had shattered Roman lines only a generation before. His son, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān, bore not just the name but the weight of memory — and these defenders knew it.

Their cry — sharp, theatrical, and personal — turned the invincible Arab image back against itself. By portraying the attackers as dangling, disorganized, and weak, they attacked the very mythology of Arab martial supremacy in the Levant and Asia Minor.

4. Warfare as Theatre

As Petersen emphasizes, siege warfare in this period was not just about technology, but performance. It was about morale, fear, reputation, and the psychological dismantling of one’s opponent. Mockery from the walls was a critical part of that. Every insult shouted from a parapet had a purpose: to destabilize, demoralize, and delegitimize the attackers.

This line — preserved in the Maronite Chronicle — thus becomes more than a quotation. It is a snapshot of early Islamic-Roman conflict as a war of images and reputations, fought not only with stone and steel, but with jeers and legacies.

“Then they hurled a massive stone from above…”

This moment marks the devastating climax of the defenders’ counter-siege, and what might seem like a simple action (dropping a rock) turns out to be a sophisticated maneuver grounded in centuries of Roman siege doctrine.

The phrase suggests not just improvisation, but preparation. The defenders dropped a massive stone from above, likely from a parapet, tower, or possibly a pre-rigged launching chute — a tactic well-attested in Roman siegecraft.
Late Roman manuals like the Parangelmata Poliorcetica describe such techniques in detail. Stones could be positioned on platforms, parapets, or angled beams, then released with precision when the enemy reached the ideal vulnerable range — directly below. This bypassed the need for artillery and relied purely on gravity: simple, silent, and deadly.
At Naissus in 442 CE, defenders are recorded to have dropped “huge boulders” from parapets directly onto siege engines, with lethal results. These were not random throws — often such stones had been hoisted in advance using cranes or pulleys and released when their momentum could do the most damage.
The Maronite Chronicle’s line — “they dropped a massive stone” — likely refers to a gravity-assisted trap: a heavy projectile (possibly a boulder or column fragment) rolled or tipped from height, which struck the machine of Bar Khalid with such force that it shattered and collapsed, killing many inside.

Slide Mechanisms and Roman Craftsmanship

Such an operation may have used a sloped chute or beam—a technique hinted at in Parangelmata Poliorcetica and visible in later siege manuals, where materials like stones, barrels of fire, or boiling liquids were rolled down engineered slides. These mechanisms, requiring only precise timing and angle, were silent until impact, heightening their psychological effect.
This was not just warfare, but a theatre of annihilation. The initial three stones hurled by the Arabs had seemingly failed, perhaps deliberately ignored by the defenders. Then came the silence — and then came the stone.

Impact and Aftermath

The Chronicle says: “it crushed the machine and shattered it. The machine collapsed and, falling, killed many of the men inside.”

The totality of the destruction—structural failure of the engine, the fatal collapse, and the ensuing casualties—suggests the defenders knew exactly where and when to strike.

Casualties were high because the machine was “fully manned.” This wasn’t merely a lost engine — it was a massacre inside a wooden coffin, engineered with lethal elegance.

Such precision was not possible without prior reconnaissance, engineering experience, and discipline — trademarks of Roman defensive culture.

Leif Inge Ree Petersen notes that defensive forces regularly used massive gravity-propelled objects like stones, columns, and even barrels filled with debris or burning pitch, rolled from parapets to obliterate siege equipment. At Amida, similar tactics shattered a Persian ram; at Convenae in 585, barrels of stone were dropped with identical effect.

Conclusion: More Than Just a Stone

What might appear to be a last-minute act of desperation was, in fact, a calculated defensive climax, carefully staged. The defenders played with timing, confidence, and geometry. They waited for the machine to fully engage, with its human cargo suspended — and then, with a single strike, they brought down both steel and spirit.

Summary: A Devastating Blow

This moment — the catastrophic failure of the siege machine at Sylūs — crystallizes the deep contradictions and tragic brilliance of ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn Khālid’s campaign into Asia Minor. It was not merely a battlefield loss. It was a rupture — symbolic, strategic, and psychological.

From Triumph to Humiliation

The Arab campaign had come to represent a stunning assertion of military daring. This was no minor raid. It was a bold push into the Roman heartland, challenging the stability of the Roman interior and reaching as far west as the Aegean coast.

But at Sylūs, something shifted. The advance ground to a halt — not by overwhelming resistance, but by deception, hubris, and misplaced trust.

Strategic Overreach: The campaign had extended dangerously far from Arab logistical bases in Syria. Supply lines would have been stretched, coordination increasingly difficult, and the terrain unfamiliar.

Tactical Misreading: Ibn Khālid’s reliance on a local Paphlagonian architect, likely viewed as a collaborator, proved fatal. What seemed a clever shortcut to victory turned out to be a poisoned gift. The enemy had become a guide.

Theatrical Collapse: The siege engine — vast, dramatic, and doomed — came crashing down not just physically, but symbolically. The defenders' taunts, their choreographed stone volleys, and the final blow from above transformed this into a set-piece of mockery, remembered not just for its loss, but for its performative cruelty.

A Chronicle’s Lingering Gaze

What makes this passage so remarkable is the unusual narrative depth. In most early Christian chronicles, especially those writing in Syriac or Latin from the Eastern Mediterranean, Arab campaigns are referenced in passing: dates, outcomes, brief notes of destruction or tribute.

But here, the Maronite Chronicle lingers. It narrates tactics, reactions, voices, and deaths.

We hear the mocking cries of the defenders.

We see the stones falling, in sequence — like a tragic overture.

We witness the machine collapse, crushing not only its riders but the momentum of an entire campaign.

This vivid focus suggests that the event resonated deeply with its Christian audience. It was not merely a Roman success. It was a moment of reversal — when the invincible sons of Khālid were exposed as vulnerable, when brute force was met by clever resistance, and when memory took on the shape of a parable.

Legacy: Remembered in Defeat

For the Arab soldiers who survived, this may have been a moment of shame. For the Romans, a tale of resilience and wit. And for the chronicler — perhaps watching from a monastery not far from the front — it became a cautionary tale, a moral victory dressed in military narrative.

No other Arab general of the early Islamic period pushed so far into Anatolia. But few suffered a reversal so spectacular. And fewer still were mocked from the walls, their siege machine shattered, their ambition dashed — not by Roman swords, but by Roman theater.

6. Victories in the West: From Pessinous to Smyrna

Latin (Original Text)

Et inde abiit Bar Khaled et expugnavit castellum Pessinuntem [Pessinous], et castellum Kios [Cius/Gemlik], et castellum Pergamum, et etiam Smyrnam civitatem [Smyrna/İzmir]...

English Translation

Then Ibn Khālid [ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn Khālid ibn al-Walīd] moved on and conquered the fortress of Pessinous [modern Ballıhisar], the fortress of Kios [Cius, modern Gemlik], the fortress of Pergamum [modern Bergama], and also the city of Smyrna [modern İzmir]...

Historical Commentary: The Western Arc of the Campaign

This is the final segment of the campaign — and it's telling that it records successive victories, especially after the disastrous siege of Sylūs (Synnada). From central Anatolia, Ibn Khālid pivots west, marching along a corridor of strategic towns and fortresses toward the Aegean coast.
The route would look something like this:

From Synnada west to Pessinous in Galatia.

Then to Cius (Kyws) on the Sea of Marmara, offering logistical access to shipping lanes.

Down through Pergamum, a rich and historic Roman city.

Finally, to Smyrna (İzmir) — one of the major ports of western Anatolia.

This arc reflects a reassertion of strength after the failure at the lake and siege, showing that Arab military mobility in Asia Minor — even after setbacks — remained formidable.

Syriac Names and Greek Originals: Linguistic Justification

Let’s now zoom in on the place names in their Syriac form, and break them down against their Greek counterparts using the alphabetic correspondences you provided:

2. ܦܣܝܢܘܣ – Psynūs / Psynws

Greek Origin: Πεσσινοῦς (Pessinous)

Syriac Letter Sound Greek Equivalent Notes

ܦ (Pē) [p] Π Perfect match

ܣ (Semkaṯ) [s] Σ Perfect match

ܝ (Yōḏ) [i] ι (short i) Vowel equivalence

ܢ (Nūn) [n] Ν Perfect match

ܘ (Waw) [ū] ου Very close

ܣ (Semkaṯ) [s] Σ Final sibilant retained

Syriac Letter	Sound	Greek Equivalent	Notes
ܦ (Pē)	[p]	Π	Perfect match
ܣ (Semkaṯ)	[s]	Σ	Perfect match
ܝ (Yōḏ)	[i]	ι (short i)	Vowel equivalence
ܢ (Nūn)	[n]	Ν	Perfect match
ܘ (Waw)	[ū]	ου	Very close
ܣ (Semkaṯ)	[s]	Σ	Final sibilant retained

A nearly exact phonetic rendering of Pessinous. The Syriac maintains both consonantal integrity and vowel flow — a rare and accurate transcription.

3. ܟܝܘܣ – Kyws / Kyūs

Greek Origin: Κίος (Cius, Latinized)

Syriac Letter Sound Greek Equivalent Notes

ܟ (Kāp̄) [k] Κ Direct

ܝ (Yōḏ) [i] ι Vowel match

ܘ (Waw) [ū] ο/ου Waw is flexible — fits Greek short o or long ou

ܣ (Semkaṯ) [s] Σ Again, a perfect match

Syriac Letter	Sound	Greek Equivalent	Notes
ܟ (Kāp̄)	[k]	Κ	Direct
ܝ (Yōḏ)	[i]	ι	Vowel match
ܘ (Waw)	[ū]	ο/ου	Waw is flexible — fits Greek short o or long ou
ܣ (Semkaṯ)	[s]	Σ	Again, a perfect match

An expected and faithful Syriac transliteration of Cius. The final -ος becomes -ws (ܘܣ), a common Syriac method for handling Greek masculine singular endings.

4. Pergamum and Smyrna: Classical Powerhouses

The final targets of the campaign:

Pergamum (Πέργαμον): One of the major cities of Hellenistic and Roman Anatolia, once a capital of the Attalid dynasty. Famous for its acropolis, its massive citadel, and its role as a Roman provincial center.

Smyrna (Σμύρνη): An ancient Ionian city on the Aegean, Smyrna was wealthy, heavily Hellenized, and critical to Roman naval logistics.

Although the Syriac text does not give Syriacized spellings for Pergamum and Smyrna, they are well attested in other sources and do not pose transcriptional difficulties.

Strategic Interpretation

This final stage marks a shift from central to western Anatolia, likely for several reasons:

Moral redemption after the humiliations at Asqdrīn and Sylūs.

Plunder and provisioning — Smyrna, Pergamum, and Cius were wealthy and accessible.

Pressure on the coastal defenses of the Roman Empire — threatening lines of communication across the Aegean.

It’s possible that Arab naval units coordinated with this push, especially given Cius’s location on the Sea of Marmara and Smyrna’s port.

Final Note: The Chronicle Ends Here

The Maronite Chronicle cuts off here abruptly, but appropriately.
We are left with:

A devastating defeat at Lake İznik,

A humiliating siege failure at Synnada,

And a triumphal string of victories culminating in Smyrna.

It’s likely that ʿAbd al-Raḥmān returned to Emesa from Smyrna, having recovered his reputation and demonstrated Arab reach deep into the Roman world.
In a sense, the Chronicle presents his campaign as a microcosm of the Arab–Roman frontier dynamic:

One of both ambition and overreach.

Brutal defeats and dramatic turnarounds.

And the limits of early Islamic power in Anatolia — hemmed in by geography, fortifications, and Christian tenacity.

Epilogue: The Last March of the Sword’s Son

The summer of 664 CE began in calamity. Arab soldiers drowned in the waters of Lake Ascania, lured into a trap. A siege engine shattered at Sylūs, buried beneath the jeers of Romans defenders. But the general did not retreat. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn Khālid ibn al-Walīd — the heir of his father's name and steel — pressed deeper into Anatolia.

By 665, his army had carved a path through the highlands of Phrygia and Galatia, stormed Pessinous, captured Kios, and entered the storied cities of Pergamum and Smyrna, where Greek columns met the glint of Arab armor.

This was not a border raid. This was a statement. A demonstration that Umayyad arms could reach the bones of the Roman world. That the son of Khālid ibn al-Walīd had returned — not to the deserts, but to the empire.

But the higher one climbs into enemy lands, the longer one is exposed.

The Quiet Return

The Maronite Chronicle, our window into this campaign, ends with the fall of Smyrna. The text cuts off. No record of the return, no celebration, no closing triumph. Just silence.

But other sources continue the story.

In 666 CE, as al-Ṭabarī records, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān returned to Ḥimṣ from the frontier. He did not fall in battle. No Roman spear pierced his armor. He walked through the gates of Syria — victorious, revered, and feared.

“During this year, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn Khālid ibn al-Walīd departed from Roman territory to Homs. Ibn Athāl the Christian is said to have slipped him a poisoned drink, and when he drank it, it killed him.” — al-Ṭabarī

The Poisoned Cup

The timing was no coincidence.

Smyrna had fallen the year before. A final humiliation for Rome, a jewel lost to Arab hands on the western shore of Asia Minor. Within months, ʿAbd al-Raḥmān was dead.

Some said and pointed fingers at Muʿāwiyah ibn Abī Sufyān, worried that the name of Khālid’s son might outshine that of his own heir, Yazīd. Still others whispered of Romans agents, of Roman gold, and of orders smuggled out of Sicily, where Constans II, emperor in exile, brooded in the marble shadows of Syracuse.

If an assassin struck, it was not on the battlefield.

It was in the clinic, beneath the surface of trust.

A weapon not of steel, but of silence.

A Chronicle’s Closing

The Maronite Chronicle, though fragmentary and often sparse, has offered a rare, local voice — a Syriac Christian witness to the early Umayyad state as it emerged from the crucible of the First Fitna.

Its pages began with the coronation of Muʿāwiyah, the birth of dynastic rule in Islam.

They end with the death of ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn Khālid, a man who symbolized the old warrior elite, a living link to the age of the Prophet, and a rival — in name if not in politics — to the new order.

Between those bookends, we glimpse a world in flux:

A Christian chronicler, watching Arab armies storm ancient cities.

A land where Roman and Arab, Greek and Syriac, poison and prophecy, lived side by side.

A record of a campaign — not mythologized, not idealized, but remembered.

Legacy on the Frontier

ʿAbd al-Raḥmān marched far, failed spectacularly, recovered decisively, and was cut down before his time. His final victories, including Smyrna, pushed Arab campaigns to their furthest extent in Asia Minor during Muʿāwiyah’s reign.

But he died not with a sword in his hand, but with a cup in his grasp.

In Syria, his death was a scandal. In Constantinople, a signal. In Ḥimṣ, a memory. And in this Chronicle — a vanishing point.

The text ends.

The silence begins.

But the story lingers — in the dust of Pessinous, in the harbor of Kios, in the stones of Pergamum, and in the sea breeze over Smyrna.
THE END

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