654 CE: Tribute, Diplomacy, and the Siege That Shook the Roman Empire

654 CE: Tribute, Diplomacy, and the Siege That Shook the Roman Empire

بِسْمِ اللَّهِ الرَّحْمَٰنِ الرَّحِيمِ

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

By 650, the Mediterranean world stood at a crossroads—its ancient contours redrawn by the blades of conquest, the force of faith, and the stories people told to make sense of upheaval. From the marble corridors of Constantinople to the stone arsenals of Damascus, a new age had begun, one defined not by inherited borders but by emergent powers. The Roman Empire, long the unquestioned master of the Mediterranean, now found itself confronted by a new imperial imagination—one born not of the Caesars, but of the Prophet Muḥammad ﷺ, out of the deserts of Arabia had come a revelation and, with it, a movement. Within a generation of the Prophet’s passing, his followers had overturned the empires of Iran and Rome’s eastern provinces. By 654 CE, that movement had matured into a state—a Caliphate. Under the command of Uthman ibn Affan's governor of Syria, Muʿāwiya ibn Abī Sufyān, the Arabs became a naval power. Fleets were built in Syria and Egypt, seasoned by wars with Rome, and now turned seaward not merely to raid but to challenge.

In that fateful year, for the first time in history, the Roman capital itself was threatened. Sebeos, the Armenian bishop and chronicler, recorded it starkly: “All the troops who were in the east assembled...[they came] to Mu'awiya, the prince of the army who resided in Damascus. They prepared warships in Alexandria and in all the coastal cities...He ordered 5,000 light ships to be built, and he put in them [only] a few men for the sake of speed, 100 men for each ship, so that they might rapidly dart to and fro over the waves of the sea around the very large ships.” This was no sporadic piracy—it was a siege.

As Sebeos continues, “Behold, the great ships arrived at Chalcedon from Alexandria with all the small ships and all their equipment. For they had stowed on board the ships mangonels, and machines to throw fire, and machines to hurl stones, archers and slingers, so that when they reached the wall of the city they might easily descend onto the wall from the top of towers, and break into the city. He ordered the ships to be deployed in lines and to attack the city..” The sheer scale of the expedition, as relayed by Sebeos and other sources, signals that this was seen by contemporaries not as a border skirmish but a decisive test of power. Even Emperor Constans II, sovereign of Rome, was compelled to parley, Our sources—Armenian, Latin, and Chinese—speak of tribute, a humiliating concession from the heir of Augustus to the sons of the desert.

This siege reverberated far beyond the Bosporus. In the East, the Old Tang History (Jiu Tang Shu) refers to the Romans as 拂菻 (Fúlin), But now, the chroniclers noted, this “Fulin consented to send gold and silk annually, and thus became subordinate (臣属) to the Arabs.” Thousands of miles from the clash, even the Tang court recognized that something had shifted. Rome was no longer the lone titan of the West.

Armenian historians like Sebeos saw it as a rupture in the balance of empires. Arab poets would later extol the memory of these campaigns as proof that even Rome was not beyond reach. Latin chroniclers, such as the anonymous author of the Frankish Chronicle of Fredegar, whispered of Constans II paying gold as tribute "so that he might at least preserve Constantinople and a few provinces and islands under his control.", This was how memory fashioned history: not just through records, but through awe, fear, and the need to explain how the world had changed.

This blog post explores the 654 siege of Constantinople not merely as a failed assault but as an inflection point in global memory. It was the moment when the Roman heartland itself stood vulnerable before the Caliphate, when the sea became a domain contested by the followers of Muḥammad ﷺ and the heirs of Constantine. It was a moment when the world glimpsed the Mediterranean’s Islamic future. For here, at sea, Islam’s expansion found not its end but a new beginning.

This is the story of how two empires, Roman and Arab, stared at each other across the Bosporus—and both saw their reflections. The Romans saw a force that could no longer be dismissed as desert raiders. The Muslims saw that the great city of legends could be reached, surrounded, and made to tremble. Between the lines of Sebeos, the fears of Roman annals, and the cool observation of Chinese scribes, a new maritime order was already being born.

II. Setting the Stage: The Roman and Arab Worlds Before 654

The Ninth Year of Constans II – A Fading Crown

In the year 650 CE, known to Roman chroniclers as Anno Mundi 6143, and to Muslims as the 30th year after the Prophet’s Hijra, the Roman Emperor Constans II marked the ninth year of his troubled reign. He was just twenty years old, the empire he inherited was not the Rome of Justinian’s dreams, let alone of Augustus Caesar’s. It was a scarred and fractured polity, its frontiers in constant flux, its soul torn by factionalism, theological quarrels, and a growing fear that divine favor had fled.

A generation earlier, the empire had just survived the existential onslaught of the Persian wars—only to face the unprecedented advance of an Arab power whose armies seemed to spring from the desert itself. Syria, Egypt, and Armenia—the pillars of the eastern empire—had either fallen or were burning. The old cities of Christendom—Antioch, Jerusalem, Alexandria—now flew the banners of the Caliphate.

And in the west, Rome, the eternal city, languished under the hollow dignity of an exarch’s administration, while Lombards and Franks circled like carrion birds around the corpse of imperial prestige. The Chronicle of Fredegar tells us little of hope in this era, only confusion and devastation:

“In Constans’ reign the empire suffered very great devastation at the hands of the Saracens. Having taken Jerusalem and razed other cities, they attacked upper and lower Egypt, took and plundered Alexandria, devastated and quickly occupied the whole of Roman Africa, and killed there the patrician Gregory. Only Constantinople, the province of Thrace, a few islands and the duchy of Rome remained in imperial control, for the greater part of the Empire had been overrun by Saracens.”

This was the context in which Sebeos, bishop and chronicler of Armenia, wrote with almost prophetic sorrow. Describing the cataclysmic collapse of Persia and the encroaching Arab threat, Sebeos envisioned the world entering a new cosmic phase: an age of punishment, war, and divine judgment. “ [I shall describe] those of the south [i.e. the Arabs], aroused with great passion, attacking each other, and the fulfilment of the command of the Lord’s anger against the whole world. Like the whirlwind, they arose and burst out to destroy everything within, to raze mountains and hills, to rend the plains, to crush in pieces the stones and rocks beneath the heels of their horses and trampling hooves." What Rome now faced, in turn, was no mere empire—but a scourge, a revelation, a test of divine will.

Religious Strife and Imperial Doubt

Internally, the Roman Empire was not merely embattled—it was spiritually adrift. Since the Council of Chalcedon in 451 CE, Rome’s eastern provinces had been torn by bitter Christological disputes, rooted not only in theology but also in ethnic, political, and cultural divisions. The imperial government’s repeated attempts to enforce theological unity—from the Henotikon of Zeno to the decrees of Justinian—had only deepened alienation. The latest attempt at conciliation, Monothelitism, proposed that Christ had a single will, despite having two natures. But this formula—championed by emperors Heraclius and Constans II—was rejected by all sides.

To the hardline Chalcedonians, particularly in the West, it was a heretical dilution of the two-will doctrine. To the Miaphysites of Egypt, Syria, and Armenia, it was a political ploy that failed to address the deeper ecclesial wounds inflicted by Chalcedon. In effect, Monothelitism succeeded not in unity, but in uniting opposition.

Constans II, who came to the throne as a boy-king in 641 CE, inherited a Church whose bishops were divided, its faithful fragmented, and its creeds weaponized by emperors and patriarchs alike. Even the very language of theology had become political. Greek-speaking bishops of Constantinople and Antioch condemned Syriac-speaking Jacobites in their midst; the Coptic Christians of Egypt no longer even pretended to regard the imperial church as legitimate.

Worse still, the imperial state’s attempts to coerce theological conformity through exile, imprisonment, and ecclesiastical purges alienated local populations—many of whom now lived under Arab rule. In a tragic irony, the arrival of Muslim governors in Syria and Egypt was often welcomed by Christian populations as a lesser evil, the Arab conquests were interpreted not merely as military events, but as acts of divine judgment upon the prideful and fractious Christian world

This crisis of faith was matched by a crisis of governance. The church and state were not separate in the Roman world. The emperor was pontifex maximus, the guardian of orthodoxy. When he failed to preserve religious unity, his political legitimacy was imperiled. Constans’s alienation from Rome was complete by the 640s. Pope Martin I, refusing to accept Monothelitism, was seized on imperial orders, publicly humiliated, and exiled to Chersonnesus in Crimea—where he died a martyr in 655 CE. The episode sent a clear message to the West: the emperor’s writ no longer flowed from spiritual consensus but from raw coercion.

Meanwhile, in Egypt and Syria, Arab governors permitted native Christian churches to retain their bishops, their liturgies, and their languages. In contrast to the brutalities of imperial suppression, the Arabs offered local Christians a degree of autonomy under jizya taxation. In the eyes of many, the Caliphate seemed more tolerant than Constantinople.

This spiritual malaise bled into strategic incapacity. Once the greatest naval power in the Mediterranean, Rome had allowed its fleets to rot. The famed imperial arsenals of Carthage, Alexandria, and Constantinople had been depleted by war and neglect. The sea-lanes, which once carried grain and gold to the capital, now carried raiders, refugees, and rumors of islands lost.

The creation of the Anatolian themes—new provincial commands forged from the wreckage of eastern defenses—was a desperate measure. These military zones were tasked with defending Asia Minor, the empire’s final redoubt. But they were under-resourced, often reliant on local militias, and increasingly autonomous from imperial command. The once-centralized apparatus of Rome had become decentralized by necessity, its authority fragmented.

The empire could no longer project power—it could only respond, and increasingly, its responses were slow, reactive, and often futile. No longer a dynamic world-spanning polity, the Roman Empire of Constans II resembled a battered fortress, its walls crumbling, its garrison quarrelsome, and its inhabitants despairing.

To the Arabs, this spectacle confirmed a theological reading: that God had abandoned Rome, as He had abandoned the Zoroastrians before them. For men like Muʿāwiya, Roman decline was not just strategic—it was providential.

The Rise of the Caliphate: From Medina to Damascus

While Constans II grappled with rebellion, ruin, and religious turmoil, a new imperial force surged from the heart of Arabia. What had begun in the small oasis city of Medina was now an organized and ambitious caliphate stretching across continents. By 650 CE, ʿUthmān ibn ʿAffān, the third successor of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ and a member of the powerful Umayyad clan, presided over this young empire.

In just two decades, the Muslims had transformed from tribal confederations into imperial administrators. They were not merely conquerors—they were statesmen, governors, engineers, and jurists. Under ʿUthmān’s leadership, the Caliphate evolved into a centralized state with bureaucratic structures and a cohesive fiscal policy. Its reach extended from Tripoli in North Africa to the edges of Sindh in the east. And nowhere was the shift from movement to statehood more evident than in Syria, under the stewardship of ʿUthmān’s kinsman, Muʿāwiya ibn Abī Sufyān.

Muʿāwiya, long-time governor of Syria since the reign of Caliph ʿUmar, was not content with maintaining the status quo. He envisioned the Mediterranean as the new theater of Muslim expansion—not merely as raiders, but as naval powers. He ordered the construction of fleets in Palestine and Egypt, preparing to challenge Roman naval supremacy in the eastern Mediterranean. The islands of Cyprus, Crete, Rhodes—appeared increasingly vulnerable.

It was during this time that one Arab inscriber, ʿAmmār ibn Jarā al-Laythī, left a short but striking message etched in the rocks of Ḥismā, near the Hijaz:

"أنا عمّار ابن جرا اللّيثيّ وكتبتُ هذا عام فتح البحر."
“I am ʿAmmār ibn Jarā al-Laythī and I wrote this in the Year of the Conquest of the Sea.”

The phrase “ʿām fatḥ al-baḥr”—the Year of the Conquest of the Sea—signaled a major turning point in Islamic history. Under Caliph ʿUthmān’s permission, Muʿāwiya launched the first naval expedition in Islamic history, a daring campaign against Cyprus, which until then had served as an outpost for raids against Muslim lands. The campaign succeeded. Not only was the island subdued, but it also became a symbol: that the sea, once considered a Roman lake, was now open to Muslim arms.

The fleet was no rogue expedition. It was dignified by the presence of many prominent Companions of the Prophet ﷺ. According to tradition, some thirteen senior Companions took part, including ʿUbāda ibn al-Ṣāmit, Abū Ayyūb al-Anṣārī, Abū Dharr al-Ghifārī, and Abū al-Dardā’. Even Muʿāwiya’s wife, Fākhita bint Qarẓa, joined the campaign, as did ʿUmm Ḥarām bint Milḥān, a woman personally praised by the Prophet. This was not merely an armed foray—it was a collective declaration that the Islamic world was now a maritime power.

Meanwhile, on the opposite frontiers of the empire, another remarkable campaign unfolded. From Egypt, the commander ʿAbd Allāh ibn Saʿd ibn Abī Sarḥ—appointed by Caliph ʿUthmān—led an enormous army into Ifrīqiyyah (modern-day Tunisia and its surroundings). In a weathered stone inscription, the soldier ʿAmr ibn Rabīʿa al-Thaqafī recorded his presence:

"أنا عمرو بن ربيعة الثّقفيّ وكتبت هذا عام إفرقيّة"
“I am ʿAmr ibn Rabīʿa al-Thaqafī and I wrote this in the Year of Ifrīqiyyah.”

This was no minor raid. The conquest of Ifrīqiyyah in 27 AH (647 CE) was one of the largest military campaigns of its time. The historian Khalīfa ibn Khayyāṭ describes a powerful army composed of renowned Companions—the “ʿAbbādilah,” including ʿAbd Allāh ibn ʿUmar, ʿAbd Allāh ibn ʿAmr, and ʿAbd Allāh ibn al-Zubayr, along with al-Ḥasan and al-Ḥusayn, the grandsons of the Prophet ﷺ. They met the Roman Exarch Gregory near Sbeitla, seventy miles from Qayrawān, killing him, defeating his force of 200,000, and claimed vast spoils of war before returning to Egypt.

The famed historian Ibn Khaldūn writes that the campaign against Ifrīqiyyah lasted a year and three months, demonstrating not only military might but strategic depth. The loot was enormous: some soldiers received up to three thousand dinars each—a staggering reward that signaled just how rich and how vulnerable Rome's North African holdings had become.

Together, these campaigns—the conquest of Cyprus by sea and the conquest of Ifrīqiyyah by land—signified a moment of convergence. The Caliphate had begun to act like an empire in full: commanding the sea, claiming cities, building institutions, and managing multicultural populations. Islam had arrived not only as a revelation but as a civilization, capable of matching and even outpacing Rome on its own terms.

And at the heart of this transformation stood Muʿāwiya—pragmatic, shrewd, and visionary. He understood, as few others did, that an empire could not grow without reaching beyond the desert. It had to cross oceans, negotiate with the old elites, and build anew. By 650, the Muslim fleets were already pressing into Roman waters. Within a few years, they would reach Constantinople’s walls.

III. The 654 Siege: A Clash at the City of the World's Desire

The siege of Constantinople in 654 CE was no ordinary campaign. It was a clash of empires, faiths, and destinies—a confrontation that carried both the sword and the solidus. Our richest narrative comes from the Armenian bishop Sebeos, whose vivid, almost apocalyptic account captures both the military ambition of Muʿāwiya ibn Abī Sufyān and the theological certainty with which both sides approached the conflict.

A. A Broken Truce and an Apocalyptic Ultimatum

The seventh-century Armenian bishop Sebeos presents a dramatic account of collapsing diplomacy and rising eschatology. In the thirteenth year of Emperor Constans II’s reign (c. 653–654 CE), a tenuous truce between the Romans and the Arabs disintegrated, Sebeos reports that under the authority of Caliph ʿUthmān ibn ʿAffān, the governor of Syria, Muʿāwiya ibn Abī Sufyān, mobilized an unprecedented military coalition: forces drawn from Khuzistan, Persia, India,and Egypt assembled in preparation for what the bishop characterizes as a transcontinental, divinely mandated invasion.

📜 Reconstructing ʿUthmān’s Letter to Constans II

1. The Sebeos Version (Polemical and Theologically Charged)

“‘If you wish to preserve your life in safety, abandon that vain cult which you learned from childhood. Deny that Jesus and turn to the great God whom I worship, the God of our father Abraham. Dismiss from your presence the multitude of your troops to their respective lands. And I shall make you a great prince in your regions and send prefects to your cities. I shall make an inventory of the treasures and order them to be divided into four parts: three for me, and one for you. I shall provide you with as many soldiers as you may wish, and take tribute from you, as much as you are able to give. But if you do not, that Jesus whom you call Christ, since he was unable to save himself from the Jews, how can he save you from my hands?’”

This version bears unmistakable signs of polemic. It portrays Islam not only as militaristic and supremacist but also as mockingly dismissive of core Christian doctrines. The sneering reference to Christ’s crucifixion (“he couldn’t save himself from the Jews”) is fundamentally at odds with Qur’anic theology (Q 4:157–158), which denies the crucifixion but never in mocking terms.
The caliph’s demands, as relayed by Sebeos, were sweeping: not only submission but religious conversion; not only tribute but the redistribution of Roman imperial wealth; not only military capitulation but a theological renunciation of the Incarnation and the Cross. It is, in essence, an apocalyptic confrontation between two sacred imperial orders — one Christian, the other emergent and Islamic.

This “letter” reflects Armenian Christian anxiety about the growing Islamic power and was probably written less as a faithful report and more as a stylized literary counterpoint to imperial Christian ideology.

2. Mirza’s Framework: Features of Authentic Early Islamic Letters

Sarah Z. Mirza, in her analysis of Islamic epistolary practice (“Oral Tradition and Scribal Conventions in the Earliest Arabic Letters,” and “Islamic Origins, Arabian Custom, and the Documents of the Prophet”), outlines key features common to the earliest letters sent by the Prophet Muḥammad and his successors:

Basmalah: Invocation ("In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate")

From–to Formula: Names and titles of sender and recipient

Greeting: Peace upon those who follow guidance

Call to Islam (daʿwah): "Submit and you shall be safe" (aslim taslam)

Theological Statement: God’s unity, the Abrahamic lineage, and affirmation of the prophetic mission

Warning or Eschatological Reminder: Often restrained, Qur’anic in tone

Legal/Diplomatic Offer: Security, continued local rule, and tribute/rights if Islam is accepted

Mirza stresses that these documents reflect an evolving Islamic imperial ideology — universalist, theologically grounded, and often styled after Qur’anic discourse.

Reconstructed Letter from ʿUthmān to Constans II

(ca. 654 CE, based on historical plausibility and epistolary norms)

In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate

From ʿUthmān ibn ʿAffān, Commander of the Believers, to Constans, ruler of the Romans.

Peace be upon those who follow guidance.

I call you to the worship of the One God, who has no partner —
the Lord of Abraham, Ishmael, and Isaac; the Creator of the heavens and the earth.
Submit to Him alone and you shall be safe. If you do so, God will double your reward.

Know that Jesus, son of Mary, was the Spirit and Word of God, whom He cast to Mary. He was not killed, nor crucified, but was raised up to God. He called to the worship of the One God, as did the prophets before him.

If you accept Islam, we shall recognize your rule in your land. Your cities shall remain under your command, and you shall find justice and protection from us.

But if you turn away, then upon you shall be the burden of your people,
and you shall be accountable for those who follow you.
Your wealth will not save you, nor will your armies protect you."

Reading Between the Lines: Theology vs. Polemic in Early Islamic Diplomacy

The letter attributed to Uthman in Sebeos’ chronicle reads more like a theatrical polemic than a historical record. It portrays the Muslim ruler as issuing a crude ultimatum: deny Christ, dismantle your empire, and submit both spiritually and politically—or face annihilation. This depiction, however, reflects more about Christian anxieties during the Arab conquests than about the actual diplomatic methods of early Islam.

By contrast, when we reconstruct the tone and substance of real Islamic letters from the time of Prophet Muḥammad ﷺ, a very different pattern emerges.

Theology over Polemic

Unlike Sebeos’ version, where Jesus is mocked (“…how can he save you from my hands?”), the Qur’anic portrayal of Jesus is deeply respectful — as a prophet, Messiah, and honored servant of God (cf. Q 3:45–55, 4:157–158, 5:110). Islamic letters aimed not to ridicule Christian belief but to clarify tawḥīd (divine unity) and extend an invitation to accept Islam.

Diplomacy, Not Domination

Sebeos’ version imagines immediate imperial dismantling, treasure inventories, and humiliating demotions. In contrast, the real Prophet’s letters offered rulers the chance to retain power under Islamic sovereignty, with protection and freedom of worship — a model consistent with the ahl al-dhimma framework.

Qur’anic Warnings Replace Apocalyptic Rhetoric

Where the Sebeos text uses coercive, almost cartoonish threats, early Islamic correspondence cast its message in moral and eschatological terms: warnings of divine accountability, not brute subjugation. This was more in line with Qur’anic exhortations and the ethos of dawah, not imperial greed.

Modeled on the Prophet’s Historical Letters

Authentic Islamic letters show a pattern of theological persuasion fused with political accommodation. These letters had a distinct structure: God’s name first, a call to monotheism, followed by the consequences of acceptance or rejection. Humiliation or wealth seizure was never the starting point.

A Mirror of Fear

Sebeos’ fictional letter reveals a deeper truth — not about Islamic diplomacy, but about how Islam was perceived by neighboring civilizations. To a 7th-century bishop watching Rome’s eastern provinces fall, the Arab conquests weren’t just military losses but theological earthquakes. Islam didn’t just conquer land; it challenged Christendom’s eschatology and authority.

Yet what survives, through historical and textual triangulation, is a clearer picture: early Islamic diplomacy was measured, principled, and strategic. The Prophet’s letters were invitations, not ultimatums. Their structure embodied Islamic values of justice, monotheism, and coexistence, rather than ridicule or coercion.

📜 Side-by-Side: Sebeos’ Polemical Fiction vs. the Islamic Historical Model

Feature	Sebeos’ Fictional Letter	Islamic Model (Based on the Prophet’s Letters)
Tone	Threatening, theatrical, mocking	Respectful, firm, theological
Jesus	Mocked: “how can he save you?”	Honored Prophet and Messiah (Q 3:45–55)
Offer	Submit or lose your empire and treasure	Accept Islam and retain rule under protection
Political Terms	Be reduced to a vassal; treasures divided (3/4 to sender)	Governance retained, tax/tribute as per treaty
Purpose	Coercion and humiliation	Invitation (dawah) and warning of accountability
Style	Vague, dramatic threats	Structured: In God’s name → invitation → consequences
Theological Message	Deny Christ, follow the “God of Abraham”	Believe in One God, accept His messenger
Historical Value	Reflects Christian fears and polemics	Reflects Qur’anic values and actual practice

B. The Naval Juggernaut and the March to Chalcedon

Sebeos' Account and the Exaggerated Scale

The 7th-century Armenian chronicler Sebeos presents a striking account Muʿawiya's naval campaign of 654 CE, which culminated in a march to Chalcedon, directly opposite Constantinople. According to Sebeos:

"All the troops who were in the east assembled: from Persia, Khuzhastan, from the region of India, Aruastan [i.e. the Jazirah], and from the region of Egypt [they came] to Muawiya, the prince of the army who resided in Damascus. They prepared warships in Alexandria and in all the coastal cities. They filled the ships with arms and artillery — 300 great ships with a thousand elite cavalry for each ship. He ordered 5,000 light ships to be built, and he put in them [only] a few men for the sake of speed, 100 men for each ship..."

This account, while vivid and dramatic, must be examined critically for its logistical feasibility, historical accuracy, and symbolic resonance.

Numbers and Practicality

"300 Great Ships, Each with 1,000 Elite Cavalry"

This figure implies 300,000 cavalry, a staggering number even by modern standards. The practicality of transporting 1,000 horses and riders per ship in the 7th century is highly dubious. Ships at the time, even the largest dromons, lacked the size, structural integrity, and design to carry such a heavy load. Horses, being high-maintenance animals, required space, food, water, and care — all of which would have made such sea transport highly constrained. Even a modern naval transport would struggle to carry 1,000 cavalry per vessel.

Conclusion: This figure is almost certainly symbolic or rhetorical, meant to convey the overwhelming might of Muʿawiya's forces rather than provide a literal headcount.

"5,000 Light Ships with 100 Men Each"

If taken literally, this would mean 500,000 additional troops, bringing the total force to an implausible 800,000 soldiers. However, Sebeos is careful to add that these ships carried "only a few men...for the sake of speed," suggesting that the number 100 is likely a maximum or rounded exaggeration, not a fixed standard. Light ships (likely akin to small galleys or monoremes) were used for scouting, raiding, and coastal harassment — their design emphasized maneuverability, not capacity.

Conclusion: While 5,000 ships is a large but not entirely impossible number (given dispersed naval bases across Egypt, Syria, and Palestine), the number of 100 men per ship seems inflated, and is likely a stylized number signifying a swift, mobile swarm rather than a packed armada.

Comparative Context

Islamic Army Sizes in the 7th Century

Major early Islamic battles like Yarmuk (636) or Qadisiyyah (636) involved 20,000–40,000 troops, including cavalry and infantry. These numbers stretched the Umayyad logistical capacity to its limits. Even for a well-organized amphibious campaign, mobilizing more than 40,000 troops would have required unprecedented resources and coordination across multiple provinces.

Roman Capabilities

The Late Roman Empire, even in decline, could field 100,000–120,000 total troops empire-wide, not in one theater. The naval defenses of Constantinople were formidable but stretched, and any sizable Arab fleet reaching Chalcedon would have posed a genuine threat.

Conclusion: The actual army size for Muʿawiya's 654 campaign was more likely in the range of 20,000–40,000 men, including perhaps 5,000–10,000 cavalry, transported on a mix of transport ships, war galleys, and smaller support vessels.

Cavalry at Sea: Feasibility and Function

Transporting horses by sea was not impossible, but highly complex. Special ships known as hippagogoi (horse carriers) were used in Roman times, but could carry only dozens of horses at best. Most likely, only a small, elite contingent of cavalry was transported, with the bulk of the forces being infantry, archers, and engineers.

Interpretation: The "1,000 elite cavalry per ship" is better seen as a symbol of elite status, not a literal cavalry battalion.

Symbolic and Rhetorical Intent

Sebeos, writing from an Armenian-Christian perspective, casts the Arab forces as colossal, but ultimately defeatable through divine aid. His rhetorical strategy recalls biblical imagery (e.g., Nineveh, divine punishment), as seen in the Roman emperor Constans II donning sackcloth and calling for a fast, paralleling the repentance scenes in Jonah.

The "800,000" figure thus serves a theological purpose: to dramatize the moment as a cosmic struggle, where God's favor decides the victor, not sheer numbers.

Fleet Strategy and the March to Chalcedon

Sebeos records that Muʿawiya himself marched overland to Chalcedon, while his fleet moved from Alexandria to the Bosporus. This dual approach (land + sea) would have allowed the Arabs to:

Establish a beachhead opposite Constantinople.
Threaten the city with siege artillery (Sebeos mentions mangonels and machines for fire).
Pressure the empire politically and economically, even if outright conquest was not feasible.

Why Chalcedon?

Located directly across from Constantinople, Chalcedon was a natural staging point. From there, naval forces could:

Skirmish with the imperial fleet.
Control access to the Bosporus and Marmara.
Intimidate Constantinople without a full siege.

Realistic Army Composition

Taking all this into account, the most likely scenario for Muʿawiya's army is as follows:

Total Size: 20,000–40,000 men.
Fleet Composition: 200–500 ships of various sizes.
Elite Cavalry: 5,000–8,000 transported in stages or brought overland.
Infantry and Archers: Core of the force, including shock troops and siege engineers.
Siege Weapons: Mangonels, torsion engines, incendiary devices.
Support Staff: Cooks, stablehands, sailors, engineers, logisticians.

Strategic Goal: Not total conquest of Constantinople, but rather to pressure the empire, test defenses, and possibly force tribute or territorial concessions.

Conclusion: A Symbolic and Strategic Power Play

Sebeos's narrative of the 654 campaign is an invaluable source, not because of its literal numbers, but due to its insight into the perceptions and fears of the time. While the notion of 800,000 troops is unrealistic, the underlying historical truth remains: Muʿawiya launched a serious, coordinated assault that challenged Roman supremacy at sea and projected Islamic military power to the very gates of the Roman capital.

Through hyperbole and dramatic framing, Sebeos transforms this campaign into a theological showdown — one in which Constantinople, like Nineveh, is saved through piety and repentance, not just military might.

Ultimately, the event underscores the growing sophistication of the early Islamic military, especially in naval warfare, and sets the stage for future confrontations with Rome that would last over a century.

C. “Then One Could See the Awesome Power of the Lord…”

As the Arab fleet drew near to Constantinople, the weather turned with sudden and terrifying ferocity. The 7th-century Armenian bishop and chronicler Sebeos recounts this moment with haunting poetic grandeur. In his narrative, the storm was no natural phenomenon but a direct manifestation of divine wrath—a celestial act of salvation unleashed in response to imperial penitence:

“When they were about two stades’ distance from the dry land, then one could see the awesome power of the Lord. For the Lord looked down from heaven with the violence of a fierce wind, and there arose a storm, a great tempest, and the sea was stirred up from the depths below. Its waves piled up high like the summits of very high mountains, and the wind whirled around over them; it crashed and roared like the clouds, and there were gurglings from the depths. The towers collapsed, the machines were destroyed, the ships broke up, and the host of soldiers were drowned in the depths of the sea. The survivors were dispersed on planks over the waves of the sea. Cast hither and thither in the tossing of the waves, they perished; for the sea opened its mouth and swallowed them. There remained not a single one of them. On that day by his upraised arm God saved the city through the prayers of the pious king Constans.”

Sebeos’ prose is apocalyptic, echoing biblical imagery of divine punishment and miraculous deliverance. To him, the storm was no ordinary maritime squall—it was an instrument of God’s fury, conjured by the king’s repentance and righteous fasting. According to the chronicler, Constans II had laid aside his royal diadem, clothed himself in sackcloth, and led the people in collective supplication. The calamity that followed was framed not as coincidence but as cosmic justice—God’s response to sincere contrition.

Such a reading reflects the worldview of 7th-century Christendom: battles were not merely decided by arms, but by heavenly favor. The destruction of the Arab fleet, in this framework, was nothing less than divine sanction—a heavenly rebuttal to an encroaching, heretical empire.

Yet when viewed through a more modern lens, Sebeos’ narrative also aligns with known meteorological patterns. The months of September through January mark the peak of Mediterranean storm season, during which cyclonic weather systems—sometimes called “medicanes”—can form in the sea basin. These storms, though lacking the scale of oceanic hurricanes, can produce devastating wind speeds, torrential rain, and mountainous waves. If the Arab fleet approached Constantinople by sea in late summer or early autumn, it is entirely plausible that such a tempest could have struck with little warning, magnified by the bottleneck of the Sea of Marmara and the exposed position of a large flotilla.

The violent sea, in both Sebeos’ theology and the meteorologist’s charts, was no mere backdrop but a decisive actor. Whether sent by God or driven by warm currents and pressure differentials, the storm tore through the Arab navy with devastating force, halting their advance and leaving the waters choked with debris and drowned warriors.

D. Aftermath: Divine Wrath, Tactical Disaster, and Strategic Withdrawal

For six harrowing days, the waters of the Marmara thrashed with the fury of the storm. Sebeos recounts the horror: siege towers were toppled, engines of war ruined, and vessels shattered into driftwood. Soldiers clung to wreckage only to be swallowed by the sea. What had been intended as a triumphant conquest turned into a watery grave.

Under the cover of darkness, the surviving Arab forces abandoned their positions near Chalcedon and retreated. This was not merely a physical withdrawal—it was a collapse in morale and purpose. The dream of taking Constantinople, the spiritual and political heart of the Roman Empire, was dashed by forces no commander could anticipate or control.

For Sebeos and his contemporaries, this was no simple failure of logistics or planning. It was divine warfare. The sea had fought for the city. God Himself, moved by the supplication of Constans II, had descended into history. In Christian imperial imagination, this storm was not just meteorological but theophanic—a visible manifestation of divine intervention. It reaffirmed that Constantinople, the Queen of Cities, stood under heavenly protection, as much as behind its triple Theodosian walls.

Yet even amid the spiritual triumph, the storm had military implications. The Arab fleet’s destruction curtailed further naval ambitions in the immediate term. A secondary Arab force operating inland in Cappadocia also suffered setbacks and was forced to withdraw. As Sebeos tells it, these retreating forces plundered Armenian territory as they fled, only to face more hardship. Snowstorms engulfed their march eastward, and the winter of 654–655 CE brought freezing temperatures and heavy snow across the Armenian Highlands, halting their advance.

Unable to sustain their campaign, the Arabs abandoned any hopes of reaching Iberia (Kartli) or pressing further into the Caucasus. The twin blows—naval defeat by storm and overland failure by snow—marked a turning point.

The siege of 654 CE, though little remembered compared to the later siege of 674–678 CE, was the first serious attempt by the early caliphate to capture Constantinople. It came at a time when the Caliphs were still consolidating their authority and projecting military force across multiple fronts. Its failure was not merely tactical—it was strategic. It exposed the logistical limits of early Islamic expansion, especially into climatically and geographically challenging regions.

For the Romans, this was proof that divine favor still lingered with their empire. For the Arabs, it was a sobering reminder that conquest was not inevitable, and that nature—or God—could bring even the most ambitious campaigns to ruin.

Thus, this early siege occupies a mythic place in the memory of both empires. It became a tale of divine judgment, imperial humility, and the fragile line between victory and disaster. Sebeos’ storm stands not only as a poetic episode in the annals of Late Antiquity, but also as a symbol of the unpredictable currents—both natural and divine—that would shape the fate of Constantinople for centuries to come.

The Poetic Echo of Retreat: Abū al-ʿIyāl al-Hudhalī and the Egyptian Grievance

The bitter memory of the failed Arab siege of Constantinople—so briefly noted in formal Arabic historiography—survives vividly in two unlikely yet deeply complementary sources: the Armenian chronicle of Sebēos and the emotionally charged verse of Abū al-ʿIyāl al-Hudhalī, a soldier-poet whose composition reflects not only personal grief but a tribal and provincial political crisis.

As Nathaniel Miller carefully reconstructs, Abū al-ʿIyāl’s poetic risāla addressed to three towering figures—Muʿāwiya ibn Abī Sufyān, ʿAmr ibn al-ʿĀṣ, and ʿAbd Allāh ibn Saʿd ibn Abī Sarḥ—was no mere literary work. Rather, it stands as what Alfred Bloch aptly termed a "political communiqué in verse", wielding the tools of poetry for the purpose of grievance, censure, and historical testimony. The formulaic phrase abligh āyatan (“convey a message”) transforms it into an official act of protest, preserving tribal memory and soldierly complaint at a moment of deep fracture within the early Islamic military elite.

What distinguishes this poem is its uncharacteristic tone of defeat, rare in the typically triumphalist world of early Islamic martial verse. The speaker does not glorify conquest; instead, he records loss, betrayal, and the sense of abandonment felt by his comrades, many of them Egyptians likely recruited into the navy and land forces under Ibn Abī Sarḥ’s command. These troops, left stranded in enemy territory after the main forces withdrew, were slaughtered in a Roman ambush during the cold season—winter.

Chronological Clues: Dating the Failed Siege to Autumn 654

This poetic fragment, when read carefully, becomes a vital chronological witness to a long-debated episode: the first Arab siege of Constantinople. Abū al-ʿIyāl includes a sequence of Hijrī months—Rajab, Jumādā I and II, and Shaʿbān—which, when mapped onto the Julian calendar, correspond to November 654 through February 655 CE. This strongly implies that the final ambush and retreat took place during these winter months, and that the Muslim forces were already present in the region months prior to this, possibly as early as September 654.

This is critical, because it allows us to estimate the fleet’s arrival near Constantinople or its environs in late summer to early autumn 654, a fact often left vague in later Muslim sources. It also supports Sebēos’s account, which describes Muslim forces stationed in Cappadocia, later routed and pushed eastward toward Armenia—a telling detail that harmonizes with the poem’s sense of entrapment, retreat, and slaughter.

The poem’s specificity of place (al-barīd al-aʿjal, “the swift post route”) and time (multiple months of exposure) further reveals the geographic and logistical sophistication of the campaign—but also its mismanagement. The mention of barīd evokes the Cursus Velox, a fast dispatch route once used for imperial communication, showing that the Muslims were operating within a Roman logistical world, vulnerable to counterattacks once they extended too deep without reinforcements.

Wider Implications: Military Collapse and Political Fallout

Though poetry, the text functions as a military dispatch, implicitly indicting the caliphate’s leadership. Muʿāwiya, then governor of Syria, and Ibn Abī Sarḥ, governor of Egypt, were responsible for provisioning and commanding forces from their respective regions. ʿAmr ibn al-ʿĀṣ’s inclusion suggests the poem’s author saw the Egyptian military elite as collectively guilty for the disaster—perhaps due to previous promises made during the conquest of Egypt that were now broken.

The grievances voiced—of abandonment, lack of support, and fatal exposure to the Roman counteroffensive—speak volumes about the growing tension between the Syrian and Egyptian military commands. Many Egyptian troops were veterans of the African and Roman frontiers who, unlike the Syrians, had not been rewarded with new settlements or spoils (such as those granted in Cyprus). This unequal treatment bred resentment, adding to the Egyptian dissatisfaction that would culminate in the rebellion against Caliph ʿUthmān.

Indeed, the emotional weight of the poem echoes the broader political unraveling of the caliphate in ʿUthmān’s final years. The naval disaster and subsequent abandonment exposed not only tactical weaknesses but deeper fractures in the Ummah’s leadership. When read as a historical source, Abū al-ʿIyāl’s poem becomes an eyewitness account of the earliest signs of provincial military alienation, of failed promises, and of the growing perception that the caliph and his commanders served Syria’s elite first.

A Voice Preserved Against Silence

Formal Arabic historiography rarely admits defeat, and even less so mutiny or internal protest. In that sense, Abū al-ʿIyāl’s risāla is revolutionary. It preserves the voice of a generation disillusioned, the despair of soldiers who saw themselves as expendable, and the rage of a tribe whose men died in foreign lands with no compensation and no recognition.

It is not merely a poem; it is a crisis document.

And in dating the winter ambush to early 655 CE, and thereby backdating the fleet’s presence to around September 654, it also becomes a crucial chronological anchor—pinning down the elusive date of the first Muslim fleet’s assault on Rome’s heartland.

Thus, through poetic lament, history speaks.

🔹 1–2: Bold Introduction and Warning

مِن أَبي العِيالِ أَبي هُذَيلٍ فَاِعرِفوا
قَولي وَلا تَتَجَمجَموا ما أُرسِلُ

Translation:

From Abū al-ʿIyāl, Abū Hudhayl — so know

my speech; don't mumble over what I deliver!

A forceful introduction — the poet names himself and demands attention.
This sets the tone: a direct political rebuke, not casual reflection.

🔹 3–4: The Target — Muʿāwiya

أَبلِغ مُعاوِيَةَ بنَ صَخرٍ آيَةً
يَهوي إِلَيكَ بِها البَريدُ المُعَجَّلُ

Translation:

Give Muʿāwiya ibn Ṣakhr a message —

A sign (or verse) sent to you by swift courier.

Refers to Muʿāwiya ibn Abī Sufyān, governor of Syria.
“آية” can imply a divine sign or poetic condemnation.
Reflects deep dissatisfaction with Umayyad leadership.

🔹 5–6: Then ʿAmr ibn al-ʿĀṣ

وَالمَرءَ عَمراً فَأتِهِ بِصَحيفَةٍ
مِنّي يَلوحُ بِها الكِتابُ المُنمَلُ

Translation:

And to ʿAmr, bring him a letter from me,

Shining with written lines, well-inked.

Direct rebuke of ʿAmr ibn al-ʿĀṣ, governor of Egypt.
Especially significant since the poet is Egyptian — he lays blame close to home.

🔹 7–8: And Finally, ʿAbdallāh ibn Saʿd

وَإِلى اِبنِ سَعدٍ إِن أَؤخِرهُ فَقَد
أَزرى بِنا في قَسمِهِ إِذ يَعدِلُ

Translation:

And to Ibn Saʿd — though I name him last —

He wronged us in his unjust apportioning.

Refers to ʿAbdallāh ibn Saʿd ibn Abī Sarḥ, ʿUthmān’s appointee in Egypt.
A grievance about unfair spoils or pay.

🔹 9–10: Loss of Honor

في القَسَمِ يَومَ القَسمِ ثُمَّ تَرَكتُهُ
إِكرامَهُ وَلَقَد أَرى ما يَفعَلُ

Translation:

In the day of division, he dishonored us.

So I left off praising him — I see what he does.

Disillusionment with leadership, mirroring wider discontent by 655 CE.

🔹 11–12: Address to the Elders

وَإِلى أولي الأَحلامِ حَيثُ لَقيتَهُم
حَيثُ البَقِيَّةُ وَالكِتابُ المُنَزَلُ

Translation:

To the wise and mindful — where I met them,

Where the remnant remains, and the revealed book.

A nod to the righteous community and the Qur'an — positioning the poet on moral high ground.

🔹 13–14: The Disaster Begins

أَنّا لَقينا بَعدَكُم بِدِيارِنا
مِن جانِبِ الأَمراجِ يَوماً يُسأَلُ

Translation:

After you, we encountered — in our land —

From the side of the fields, a day worth asking about.

“الأمرَاج” possibly refers to a frontier or marshy region — maybe Armenia or the Jazīrah.
“يوم يُسأل” = a day of infamy or trauma.

🔹 15–16: Terror and Inescapable Loss

أَمراً تَضيقُ بِهِ الصُدورَ وَدونَهُ
مُهَجُ النُفوسَ وَلَيسَ عَنهُ مَعدِلُ

Translation:

A matter that constricts the chest, behind it,

Are life’s very souls — and there’s no escape from it.

Speaks to battlefield desperation — collapse, ambush, or retreat.

🔹 17–18: Scenes of Death

في كُلِّ مُعتَرِكٍ يُرى مِنّا فَتىً
يَهوي كَعَزلاءِ المَزادَةِ يَزغَلُ

Translation:

In every clash, a youth of ours falls,

Like a water skin unstoppered, spinning down.

A pierced skin flask as a metaphor for young warriors falling — haunting imagery.

🔹 19–20: Elders Die Too

أَو سَيِّدٌ كَهلٌ تَمورُ دِماؤُهُ
أَو جانِحٌ في صَدرِ رُمحٍ يَسعُلُ

Translation:

Or an elder leader, blood bubbling from him,

Or one coughing from a lance lodged in his chest.

Vivid, almost cinematic description of winter battlefield wounds.

🔹 21–22: Calendrical Anchor

حَتّى إِذا رَجَبٌ تَخَلّى وَاِنقَضى
وَجُمادَيانِ وَجاءَ شَهرٌ مُقبِلُ

Translation:

Until Rajab passed and ended,

And both Jumādās — then the next month approached.

This locks the poem to events between November 654 and February 655 CE,
matching the timeline in Sebeos’ chronicle.

🔹 23–24: Shaʿbān and Departure

شَعبانُ قَدَّرَنا لِوَفقِ رَحيلِهِم
سَعباً يُعَدُّ لَها الوَفاءُ فَتَكمُلُ

Translation:

Shaʿbān made us align with their departure —

A tough march, completed by loyalty.

Refers to military withdrawal & regrouping after the failed Caucasus campaign in February 655.

🔹 25–26: War Breaks Loose

وَتَجَرَّدَت حَربٌ يَكونُ حِلابُها
عَلَقاً وَيَمريها الغَوِيُّ المُبطِلُ

Translation:

A war stripped itself bare — its milk is blood,

Stirred on by the perverse, the misled deceiver.

War yields only blood, fed by false leaders (Muʿāwiya & Ibn Saʿd).

🔹 27–28: Movements Southward

فَاِستَقبَلوا طَرفَ الصَعيدِ إِقامَةً
طَوراً وَطَوراً رِحلَةٌ فَتُنقُّلُ

Translation:

They turned toward the southern border — to camp awhile,

Then again journeyed — ever shifting.

Military movement south from Dvin to Syria, aligning with Sebeos' report.

🔹 29–30: Showers of Arrows

فَتَرى النِبالَ تَعيرُ في أَقطارِنا
شُمُساً كَأَنَّ نِصالَهُنَّ السُنبُلُ

Translation:

Arrows whizzed across our regions like suns,

Their tips are like grain heads (i.e., abundant).

Unending missile combat — dramatic imagery of constant warfare.

🔹 31–32: Spears and Slaughter

وَتَرى الرِماحَ كَأَنَّما هِيَ بَينَنا
أَشطانُ بِئرٍ يوغِلونَ وَنوغِلُ

Translation:

And the spears between us like ropes of a well —

They plunge deep, and we plunge too.

War as a blood-filled well, with both sides equally consumed.

Chronological Reconstruction: The 654 Arab Campaign and Its Collapse

Overview

The campaign of 654 CE was one of the most ambitious Arab offensives in the early Islamic-Roman wars. Coordinated between the Syrian navy and Egyptian ground forces, it sought a bold, simultaneous strike on Constantinople from sea and on central Anatolia from land. But the campaign ended in humiliation. Poetry, chronicles, and logistical detail together preserve a portrait of one of the first great military disasters of the caliphate — a failure that reverberated from Chalcedon to Armenia, from Egypt to the Caucasus.

Phase I: The Naval Campaign Against Constantinople

Date Event

Late July – Early August 654 CE A massive Muslim offensive begins. Two wings mobilize:• A naval fleet sails from Syria and Egypt, possibly from Acre, Alexandria, and Pelusium, coalescing off Cyprus.• A land army, composed of Egyptian and Syrian units, marches through the Cilician Gates into Cappadocia. The pincer aims to pressure the Roman heartland.

Early September 654 CE The Muslim fleet reaches the Sea of Marmara, anchoring off Chalcedon (modern Kadıköy), directly across from Constantinople. This is the furthest a Muslim fleet had advanced, creating immense psychological pressure on the imperial capital.

Mid–Late September 654 CE A violent, sudden storm devastates the fleet.Chronicler Sebēos writes:“When they were about two stades’ distance from the dry land, then one could see the awesome power of the Lord… there arose a storm, a great tempest, and the sea was stirred up from the depths below…”The fleet, crippled and in disarray, retreats. This marks a major humiliation — a failed naval strike at Constantinople, noted also in Arabic poetic sources like the risāla of Abū al-ʿIyāl al-Hudhalī.

Phase II: Collapse in Cappadocia

Date Event

~28 September – 3 October 654 CE News of the fleet’s collapse reaches the inland army near Caesarea Mazaca (modern Kayseri). The army’s confidence evaporates as the pincer strategy collapses.

~4–7 October 654 CE Despite the setback, the land army attempts to hold ground.Sebēos records:“The other army, which was quartered in Cappadocia, attacked the Greek army. But the Greeks defeated them...”This likely refers to a Roman counterattack by local forces from Ancyra or Sebasteia.

~8–14 October 654 CE The Muslim forces begin a disorderly retreat eastward into the mountains of Sophene (Fourth Armenia), possibly via Arsamosata (modern Elazığ).As they flee, supply shortages lead to looting of villages — a fact recorded by both Muslim and Armenian chroniclers.

Phase III: Retreat Through Armenia

Date Route Distance

~15–25 October 654 CE Arsamosata to Tigranakert (modern Silvan) ~150 km over ~10 days

~26–31 October 654 CE Tigranakert to Dvin (winter HQ in Armenia) ~250–280 km over ~15 days

~1–5 November 654 CE Arrival at Dvin. The army is exhausted, disorganized, and prepares for winter.

Phase IV: Abortive Campaign in Iberia (Caucasian Georgia)

Date Event

~7–10 November 654 CE Muslim commanders at Dvin issue demands for the submission of Kartli (Caucasian Iberia), aiming to extract tribute or pledges of loyalty.

~11–20 November 654 CE The army marches toward Tbilisi (~180 km), through treacherous Lesser Caucasus terrain.

~21–25 November 654 CE Heavy snows and bitter weather obstruct mountain passes.Sebēos: “As they were setting out on their way, cold and winter snow beset them…”The campaign collapses; the army retreats without engagement.

Late November – Mid December 654 CE Facing starvation and mutiny, the army withdraws, abandoning the Caucasus and any hope of conquering Iberia.Sebēos concludes: “Therefore they departed rapidly for Asorestan [i.e., Syria], and caused no harm to Armenia.”

Phase V: Final Retreat to Syria

Date Route Distance

~15–20 December 654 CE Retreat to Damascus via Nisibis, Raqqa, or Aleppo ~800 km over ~30–35 days, The return is arduous, with cold, exposure, and exhaustion decimating the ranks.

Summary of Route Distances

Segment Approx. Distance (km) Estimated Time

Chalcedon → Caesarea ~600 km ~24–30 days

Caesarea → Arsamosata ~400 km ~20–25 days (retreat and looting)

Arsamosata → Dvin ~250–280 km ~12–15 days

Dvin → Tbilisi ~180 km (mountainous) ~7–10 days

Tbilisi → Damascus ~800 km ~30–35 days

Conclusion: The Campaign’s Collapse and Historical Significance

The campaign of 654 CE was envisioned as a multi-pronged assault — a combination of naval and terrestrial power — to shock the Roman world and impose Muslim dominance over Asia Minor and the Black Sea’s southern arc. Instead, it resulted in a dramatic reversal:

Naval Humiliation: The storm off Chalcedon shattered the largest Muslim fleet yet assembled. As terrified sailors drowned or fled, the Roman capital was spared.

Terrestrial Defeat: The isolation of the army in Cappadocia led to its rout by local Roman forces and a rapid collapse of morale.

Desperate Retreat: The army’s retreat into Armenia turned into a nightmare of starvation, looting, and exposure.

Failed Expansion into the Caucasus: Snow and cold halted any advance into Iberia (Georgia), forcing another humiliating withdrawal.

Fracturing of the Caliphate’s Cohesion: Egyptian and Syrian soldiers returned home demoralized and unpaid. Arab poets like Abū al-ʿIyāl al-Hudhalī recorded their grief and fury.

This catastrophic campaign laid bare the vulnerabilities of the early caliphate: overstretched supply lines, overambitious strategy, poor seasonal planning, and growing internal discontent. These cracks would soon split open with the outbreak of the First Fitna — civil war.

Far from being a mere failed raid, the 654 campaign was the twilight of the Caliphate’s initial expansion — a thunderous defeat that echoed across empires.

Date	Event
Late July – Early August 654 CE	A massive Muslim offensive begins. Two wings mobilize:• A naval fleet sails from Syria and Egypt, possibly from Acre, Alexandria, and Pelusium, coalescing off Cyprus.• A land army, composed of Egyptian and Syrian units, marches through the Cilician Gates into Cappadocia. The pincer aims to pressure the Roman heartland.
Early September 654 CE	The Muslim fleet reaches the Sea of Marmara, anchoring off Chalcedon (modern Kadıköy), directly across from Constantinople. This is the furthest a Muslim fleet had advanced, creating immense psychological pressure on the imperial capital.
Mid–Late September 654 CE	A violent, sudden storm devastates the fleet.Chronicler Sebēos writes:“When they were about two stades’ distance from the dry land, then one could see the awesome power of the Lord… there arose a storm, a great tempest, and the sea was stirred up from the depths below…”The fleet, crippled and in disarray, retreats. This marks a major humiliation — a failed naval strike at Constantinople, noted also in Arabic poetic sources like the risāla of Abū al-ʿIyāl al-Hudhalī.

Date	Event
~28 September – 3 October 654 CE	News of the fleet’s collapse reaches the inland army near Caesarea Mazaca (modern Kayseri). The army’s confidence evaporates as the pincer strategy collapses.
~4–7 October 654 CE	Despite the setback, the land army attempts to hold ground.Sebēos records:“The other army, which was quartered in Cappadocia, attacked the Greek army. But the Greeks defeated them...”This likely refers to a Roman counterattack by local forces from Ancyra or Sebasteia.
~8–14 October 654 CE	The Muslim forces begin a disorderly retreat eastward into the mountains of Sophene (Fourth Armenia), possibly via Arsamosata (modern Elazığ).As they flee, supply shortages lead to looting of villages — a fact recorded by both Muslim and Armenian chroniclers.

Date	Route	Distance
~15–25 October 654 CE	Arsamosata to Tigranakert (modern Silvan)	~150 km over ~10 days
~26–31 October 654 CE	Tigranakert to Dvin (winter HQ in Armenia)	~250–280 km over ~15 days
~1–5 November 654 CE	Arrival at Dvin. The army is exhausted, disorganized, and prepares for winter.

Date	Event
~7–10 November 654 CE	Muslim commanders at Dvin issue demands for the submission of Kartli (Caucasian Iberia), aiming to extract tribute or pledges of loyalty.
~11–20 November 654 CE	The army marches toward Tbilisi (~180 km), through treacherous Lesser Caucasus terrain.
~21–25 November 654 CE	Heavy snows and bitter weather obstruct mountain passes.Sebēos: “As they were setting out on their way, cold and winter snow beset them…”The campaign collapses; the army retreats without engagement.
Late November – Mid December 654 CE	Facing starvation and mutiny, the army withdraws, abandoning the Caucasus and any hope of conquering Iberia.Sebēos concludes: “Therefore they departed rapidly for Asorestan [i.e., Syria], and caused no harm to Armenia.”

Date	Route	Distance
~15–20 December 654 CE	Retreat to Damascus via Nisibis, Raqqa, or Aleppo	~800 km over ~30–35 days, The return is arduous, with cold, exposure, and exhaustion decimating the ranks.

Segment	Approx. Distance (km)	Estimated Time
Chalcedon → Caesarea	~600 km	~24–30 days
Caesarea → Arsamosata	~400 km	~20–25 days (retreat and looting)
Arsamosata → Dvin	~250–280 km	~12–15 days
Dvin → Tbilisi	~180 km (mountainous)	~7–10 days
Tbilisi → Damascus	~800 km	~30–35 days

Literary Reckoning: The Lament of Abū al-ʿIyāl (Winter 654–655 CE)

In the aftermath, Arab poets turned to literature to process the disaster. Chief among them was Abū al-ʿIyāl, who composed a powerful risāla (lament-poem) in early 655 CE.

🔹 Calendrical Anchoring (Verses 21–22)

حَتّى إِذا رَجَبٌ تَخَلّى وَاِنقَضى
وَجُمادَيانِ وَجاءَ شَهرٌ مُقبِلُ
“Until Rajab passed and ended,
And both Jumādās — then the next month approached.”

This sequence—Jumada I, Jumada II, Rajab, and the coming Shaʿbān—firmly dates the poem’s composition between November 654 and February 655 CE, perfectly aligning with Sebēos’s timeline.

Islamic Calendar Correspondence:

Jumada I 34 AH: ~17 Nov – 15 Dec 654

Jumada II 34 AH: ~16 Dec 654 – 14 Jan 655

Rajab 34 AH: ~15 Jan – 13 Feb 655

Shaʿbān 34 AH: ~14 Feb – 14 Mar 655

🔹 Withdrawal and Disillusionment (Verses 23–24)

شَعبانُ قَدَّرَنا لِوَفقِ رَحيلِهِم
سَعباً يُعَدُّ لَها الوَفاءُ فَتَكمُلُ
“Shaʿbān made us align with their departure —
A tough march, completed by loyalty.”

The poem laments the withdrawal and hardship, possibly from Dvin or as they trudged back into Syria. The tone implies bitterness and futility.

🔹 Political and Moral Condemnation

Abū al-ʿIyāl blames top commanders for the debacle:

Muʿāwiya ibn Abī Sufyān – for cowardly desertion and poor planning.

ʿAmr ibn al-ʿĀṣ – for greed and passivity.

ʿAbd Allāh ibn Abī Sarḥ – for abandoning the Egyptian forces in Cappadocia.

Final Assessment: A Lesson in Imperial Overreach

The 654–655 CE campaign—unlike earlier naval triumphs in Cyprus and Rhodes—ended in utter failure:

The naval siege of Constantinople failed catastrophically.

The land army in Cappadocia was defeated and routed.

Retreats through Armenia and the failed advance on Iberia exposed the logistical and climatic limits of Umayyad expansionism.

Both Christian sources (Sebēos) and Muslim poetry present a narrative of divine judgment and leadership failure.

Sebēos, writing with triumphal tone, closes this chapter:

“When the Ismaelites saw the fearsome hand of the Lord, their hearts broke... They departed rapidly for Asorestan and caused no harm to Armenia.”

This disaster would influence Arab strategy for decades, curbing ambitions in Asia Minor and the Caucasus and reshaping the Umayyad military calculus.

IV. Echoes from Afar: How the World Recorded the Siege

China: The Old Book of Tang and the Tribute of Fúlin 拂菻

China’s Old Book of Tang (《旧唐书》), compiled in the 10th century but reflecting 7th–9th century materials, offers a fascinating account of the Romans, referred to in Chinese sources as Fúlin [拂菻], and their interaction with the Caliphate during the early Islamic period. the term Fúlin [拂菻], used in Tang-era Chinese records to designate the Eastern Roman Empire, is an exonym with deep etymological roots in Central Asian languages.

Linguist Zhang Xushan has reviewed the origins of the word and favors a derivation from:
Sogdian: (Frūm) or (Frūm, Frōm) – “Rome”
Khwarezmian: Frōm
Parthian: (Frōm)
Middle Persian: 𐭧𐭫𐭥𐭬 (Hrōm, “Rome”)
Old Armenian: Հռովմ (Hṙovm)

These forms all ultimately trace back to the Greek Ῥώμη (Rhomē), derived from Latin Roma. The chronicle recounts a moment of political submission following the 654 siege by the Arabs (Dàshí 大食), referring to a tribute relationship initiated in the wake of military defeat:

Original Classical Chinese (文言文):
自大食强盛，渐陵诸国，乃遣大将军摩栧伐其都城，因约为和好，请每岁输之金帛，遂臣属大食焉。

Translation:

"Since the Arabs (Dàshí) had risen in strength, they gradually came to dominate many nations. Then, they dispatched their Grand General, Mó Yè (摩栧 - Muʿāwiya), to attack [Fúlin’s] capital city. As a result, a pact of peace was established, in which [Fúlin] agreed to offer tribute each year in gold and silks. Thus, Fúlin became a subject of the Arabs."

This entry preserves China’s distant awareness of world affairs and its framing of geopolitical dynamics through a tributary lens. The tribute reportedly included gold and silk, suggesting either diplomatic submission or strategic appeasement in Chinese terms.

Fúlin’s Gifts to Tang China under Emperor Taizong

Old Book of Tang on Fúlin’s Tribute to China

Original Classical Chinese (文言文):
贞观十七年，拂菻王波多力遣使献赤玻璃、绿金精等物，太宗降玺书答慰，赐以绫绮焉。

Translation:
"In the 17th year of the Zhenguan reign (643 CE), the king of Fúlin, Bōduōlì (波多力), sent envoys to present red glass, green gold essence, and other such items. Emperor Taizong issued an imperial letter in response to comfort them and granted them brocaded silks in return."

Who Was Bōduōlì (波多力)? A Linguistic Glimpse at “Pogonatos”

The Old Book of Tang records that in the 17th year of the Zhenguan reign (643 CE), the king of Fúlǐn 拂菻, named 波多力 Bōduōlì, sent envoys bearing gifts of red glass and green gold essence to the Tang court. Scholars have long speculated about the identity behind this name, and a compelling case can be made that Bōduōlì is a transcription of the Greek epithet Πωγωνᾶτος (Pōgōnâtos)—meaning “the Bearded”—the sobriquet of Constans II, the Roman emperor from 641–668 CE, reconstructing the name in Middle Chinese phonology offers strong support:

Chinese Middle Chinese Greek Equivalent Notes
波 (Bō) pa Po- Accurate representation of the initial syllable
多 (Duō) ta go or gōn Approximate rendering of the medial syllable
力 (Lì) liᴇk -atos A plausible rendering of the -tos ending, common in transcriptions

Chinese transcriptions of foreign names typically adapt sound to local phonotactics, prioritizing rhythm and familiarity over precise phonetic fidelity. The syllable liᴇk (力) could easily stand for the Greek/Latin -tos or -tus ending, and the omission of consonant clusters such as gn is common in Sino-transcriptions. Given these constraints, Bōduōlì (波多力) appears to be a reasonable and culturally filtered attempt to render Pogonatos.

Chinese	Middle Chinese	Greek Equivalent	Notes
波 (Bō)	pa	Po-	Accurate representation of the initial syllable
多 (Duō)	ta	go or gōn	Approximate rendering of the medial syllable
力 (Lì)	liᴇk	-atos	A plausible rendering of the -tos ending, common in transcriptions

This identification not only provides insight into early medieval trans-Eurasian diplomacy but also highlights the sophisticated phonological lens through which Chinese historians recorded foreign leaders, bridging worlds through syllables.

The Treasures of Fúlin: Unpacking the Tribute to the Tang Court

From the Old Book of Tang:

「拂菻王波多力遣使献赤玻璃、绿金精等物。」
"The king of Fúlin, Bōduōlì (波多力), sent envoys to present red glass, green gold essence, and other such items."

This tribute is notable not just for its luxury but for its cultural resonance. Let us unpack the meaning and materiality behind the two most striking gifts:

1️⃣ 赤玻璃 (chì bōlí) – Red Glass

🈶 Characters & Pronunciation:

赤 (chì): “Red,” often intense or crimson; [ʈʂʰɨ] in Middle Chinese.
玻璃 (bōlí): “Glass,” imported in antiquity and considered rare and luxurious; [pɨ]-[lɨ] in Middle Chinese.

Interpretation:

While 玻璃 refers broadly to glass in modern Chinese, in the Tang context, it likely denoted foreign, luxury glassware, especially colorful or translucent varieties. 赤玻璃 would suggest a red-tinted glass, perhaps Roman mosaic glass, enamelled goblets, or even translucent vessels stained with copper or gold chloride.

The Eastern Roman Empire inherited a rich tradition of glass-making, centered in places like Alexandria, Sidon, and Constantinople.
Red glass was among the most prized due to the technical difficulty of achieving vivid coloration without making the glass opaque.

Portability & Value:

Yes, red glass items — such as cups, bowls, or small vessels — were lightweight yet precious, often packed in secure containers or straw-lined crates. They were ideal for long-distance transport via Silk Road caravans.

Conclusion: Red glass was a high-status export, combining imperial artisanship with exotic allure — perfect for diplomacy.

2️⃣ 绿金精 (lǜ jīn jīng) – Green Gold Essence

🈶 Characters & Pronunciation:

绿 (lǜ): “Green”; [lɨk] in Middle Chinese.
金 (jīn): “Gold” or “metal”; [tɕin].
精 (jīng): “Essence” or “refined matter”; [tɕiŋ].

Interpretation:

This compound term suggests a refined, green-hued precious material with a metallic or jewel-like quality. Several possibilities emerge:

Jadeite or nephrite jade: While native to Central Asia and China, jade could be reframed by the Chinese as “green gold” when gifted by a foreign state, especially in an unfamiliar form (e.g., carved Hellenistic style).
Green gemstones: The Romans had access to emeralds (from Egypt) and peridot (from the Red Sea). Either could be described this way.
Enamelled metalwork: Roman cloisonné jewelry often featured green enamel inlays, combining gold with brilliant glassy colors — effectively a "green gold essence."
Alloys: Rare metallic alloys like electrum or green-patinated bronze may have given off a golden-green hue.

Portability & Value:

Absolutely transportable, such materials could be fashioned into rings, crosses, belt clasps, or medallions. The durability and prestige of such pieces made them prized diplomatic gifts.

Conclusion: “Green gold essence” was likely a gem or enamelled object, carrying both spiritual meaning and imperial sophistication.

Summary: Material Diplomacy from the West

These two items — 赤玻璃 (red glass) and 绿金精 (green gold essence) — symbolize artisanal mastery, wealth, and long-distance cultural respect. They were carefully selected to impress the Tang emperor with their exotic origins and refinement:

Item	Likely Form	Material Culture
赤玻璃	Cups, bowls, or vials	Roman glass-blowing; colored glass art
绿金精	Jewelry, stones, cloisonné	Emeralds, jadeite, green enamel over gold

Far from being mere trinkets, these items embodied the prestige of the Roman imperial court and the empire’s far-reaching trade networks. To the Tang, they would have stood as proof of a powerful and cultured realm across the farthest Western horizon.

Fúlin’s Tribute to Tang China Under Emperor Gaozong: The Case of Dīyějiā
Old Book of Tang on Fúlin’s Tribute to China
Original Classical Chinese (文言文):
乾封二年，遣使献底也伽。

Translation: "In the second year of the Qiánfēng era (667 CE), an envoy was sent to present Dīyějiā."

This entry records the second diplomatic mission to China under the reign of Constans II Pogonatos, whom the Old Book of Tang refers to as Bōduōlì (波多力). The first such mission was in 643 CE (17th year of the Zhenguan era), when Bōduōlì sent envoys bearing luxury gifts like red glass and "green gold essence" (绿金精), which were highly prized in China. This second mission in 667 CE, under Emperor Gaozong (reign: 649–683), suggests an ongoing effort by the Roman Empire to maintain diplomatic ties with Tang China.
What is Dīyějiā (底也伽)? A Greek Crown in Middle Chinese
The tribute item Dīyějiā (底也伽) appears to be a Chinese transcription of a foreign term. Through phonetic analysis, it almost certainly corresponds to the Greek word διάδημα (diádēma), meaning a royal diadem or crown.

Phonetic Reconstruction (Middle Chinese vs Greek)

Character Middle Chinese (Baxter-Sagart) IPA Greek Syllable Ancient Greek Pronunciation
底 tejX /tej˥/ δια (diá) /diˈa/
也 jaX /jæ˥/ δη (dē) /deː/ → /ðe/ in Greek
伽 ka (in transcriptions) /ka/ μα (ma) /ma/
Combined Chinese pronunciation (Middle Chinese): /tej˥-jæ˥-ka/ → a close approximation to /di-á-de-ma/
Linguistic Notes:

The Middle Chinese rising tone (indicated by “X”) in tejX and jaX adds a melodic contour similar to the accented Greek syllables.

The final syllable 伽 (ka) was commonly used in transcribing Sanskrit and Greek loanwords, as it was a phonetically versatile character.

This transcription practice—adjusting foreign words into a tri-syllabic Chinese form—was standard in Tang-period transliterations.

Symbolism and Significance
The diádēma (διάδημα) was no mere ornament. It symbolized imperium, the divine authority of the emperor. First adopted by Constantine the Great, it replaced the earlier laurel wreath and was worn across the brow, typically of purple silk encrusted with jewels. It was:

A sacred emblem of statehood in Roman political theology.

A visual claim to divine right and universal sovereignty.

Part of the imperial regalia is closely guarded and ritually bestowed.

By presenting such a symbol to the Tang court, the Roman emperor likely intended to signal respectful parity, not submission—an imperial-to-imperial diplomacy recognizing mutual greatness.
Diplomacy Across Continents
This single artifact—a diadem, rendered phonetically as Dīyějiā—captures the far-reaching ambitions and interconnectivity of the Tang world order. From Constantinople to Chang’an, the exchange of diplomatic gifts was not merely economic or decorative, but rich in meaning, statecraft, and mutual prestige.

This moment also highlights how Chinese scribes recorded foreign terms: not only preserving them phonetically but embedding them into the larger civilizational memory of the Chinese annals.
**“Didn’t the Chinese Know About Crowns?” – Why Call It Dīyějiā?**
This is a fair question — after all, ancient China certainly had crowns (guan 冠) and headdresses (mian 冕) of its own, used by emperors and aristocrats since the Zhou dynasty. So why would the Tang historians transcribe the Greek word phonetically as 底也伽 (Dīyějiā) instead of translating it semantically as something like 皇冠 (“imperial crown”)?
Here’s why:

Character	Middle Chinese (Baxter-Sagart)	IPA	Greek Syllable	Ancient Greek Pronunciation
底	tejX	/tej˥/	δια (diá)	/diˈa/
也	jaX	/jæ˥/	δη (dē)	/deː/ → /ðe/ in Greek
伽	ka (in transcriptions)	/ka/	μα (ma)	/ma/

1. Cultural Specificity: This Was Not a Chinese Crown

The object being offered — the diadem (διάδημα) — was visibly and functionally distinct from any Chinese imperial headwear:

It was a purple silk band, richly embroidered or adorned with pearls and gems.

It symbolized Christian-Roman imperial ideology, not Confucian or Zhou ritual hierarchy.

It lacked the formal mianliu (hanging beads) or flat-topped board of a Chinese mian.

For Chinese scribes, this was a foreign and unfamiliar form of regalia, and its exotic materiality and symbolism warranted a phonetic transcription, not a forced equivalence to native items.

2. Tang Lexical Practice: Transliteration Signaled Prestige and Foreignness

The Tang court and historiographers often chose transliteration (sound-based writing) when:

An item had no exact Chinese equivalent.

The origin or prestige of the object was part of the gift’s significance.

The word needed to preserve its foreignness to emphasize diplomatic reach.

Compare with other transliterations:

琉璃 (liúlí) from Sanskrit vaiḍūrya (lapis lazuli).

菩萨 (púsà) from bodhisattva.

拂菻 (Fúlin) for Rome.

Thus, Dīyějiā wasn’t just a crown — it was a imperial crown, and keeping the original sound preserved its diplomatic identity.

3. Symbol of International Legitimacy

The act of transliterating the name Dīyějiā also elevated the political meaning of the gift:

It marked the object as a token of equal-rank diplomacy between emperors.

It echoed the Tang dynasty’s role as a cosmopolitan empire, proudly recording gifts from far-flung realms like Fúlin and Persia.

By not translating it into Chinese terms, the chroniclers signaled that this was an emblem of another empire’s majesty, not just a “crown” in the generic sense.
In Short:

The Chinese knew what crowns were — but this crown was something different.
It wasn’t just a crown. It was a Dīyějiā — the imperial diadem of the Romans.

This subtle choice in language reveals how Tang China viewed foreign emissaries and their cultures: not as lesser, but as distinct and worthy of being recorded in their own voice — syllable by syllable

👑 Sidebar: Mian, Guan, and Diadem — A Comparative Look at Crowns

Term Origin Description Cultural Meaning
冕 (miǎn) Chinese (Zhou dynasty onward) A ceremonial crown worn by emperors and officials; featured a tall, rectangular board (前圆后方) and strings of jade beads hanging in front and back (miànliú 冕旒). Symbol of ritual authority, Confucian hierarchy, and cosmic order. Often used in ancestral rites.
冠 (guān) Chinese A headdress or crown, ranging from formal caps (jīn, mào) to imperial crowns. Varied by rank and era. Denotes status and decorum; also tied to the coming-of-age ceremony (guān lǐ).
Diadem (διάδημα) Greek/Roman A purple or jeweled band tied around the head, used by Hellenistic kings and Roman emperors. Later evolved into the imperial diadem. Symbol of sovereignty, military success, and divine favor. Reserved for the emperor in late Roman protocol.
Tiara Latin via Persian/Greek High, conical headgear with golden decoration (e.g., Persian kings). Royalty, divinity, or priesthood (later papal tiaras).
Crown (modern usage) Latin corona A rigid, often circular golden headpiece decorated with jewels. Universally denotes monarchical authority in Europe and beyond.

Term	Origin	Description	Cultural Meaning
冕 (miǎn)	Chinese (Zhou dynasty onward)	A ceremonial crown worn by emperors and officials; featured a tall, rectangular board (前圆后方) and strings of jade beads hanging in front and back (miànliú 冕旒).	Symbol of ritual authority, Confucian hierarchy, and cosmic order. Often used in ancestral rites.
冠 (guān)	Chinese	A headdress or crown, ranging from formal caps (jīn, mào) to imperial crowns. Varied by rank and era.	Denotes status and decorum; also tied to the coming-of-age ceremony (guān lǐ).
Diadem (διάδημα)	Greek/Roman	A purple or jeweled band tied around the head, used by Hellenistic kings and Roman emperors. Later evolved into the imperial diadem.	Symbol of sovereignty, military success, and divine favor. Reserved for the emperor in late Roman protocol.
Tiara	Latin via Persian/Greek	High, conical headgear with golden decoration (e.g., Persian kings).	Royalty, divinity, or priesthood (later papal tiaras).
Crown (modern usage)	Latin corona	A rigid, often circular golden headpiece decorated with jewels.	Universally denotes monarchical authority in Europe and beyond.

Key Differences That Mattered to the Chinese

The diadem was soft, tied, and ornate — not rigid or upright like a mian.

The Chinese mian was steeped in ritual cosmology (Heaven and Earth), while the diadem represented imperial charisma (imperium) in the Roman sense.

Tang China didn’t try to analogize or domesticate the foreign; instead, it kept it foreign, showcasing their broad worldview.

So when the Old Book of Tang used the transliteration 底也伽 (Dīyějiā), it was deliberately avoiding confusion with Chinese crowns — this was not merely a “crown,” but an emblem of Rome’s imperial soul.

Voices from the Islamic World

Despite the vast geographical distances and often limited naval communication between the Caliphate and the Roman world, Muslim historians and chroniclers did preserve scattered but telling echoes of the first great siege of Constantinople. While often terse and laconic, these early Arabic sources contain fascinating glimpses of the campaign and its consequences—albeit through the lens of Islamic historical memory and narrative priorities.

Khalīfa ibn Khayyāṭ (d. 854 CE)

In his chronicle under the year 32 AH (652–653 CE), Khalīfa ibn Khayyāṭ notes a series of prominent deaths—among them ʿAbd al-Raḥmān ibn ʿAwf, ʿAbd Allāh ibn Masʿūd, and Abū Dharr al-Ghifārī—before briefly recording:

“وفيهَا غزا مُعَاوِيَة الْمضيق من قسطنطينية.”
“In this year, Muʿāwiya raided the strait of Constantinople.”

Though minimalist, this remark is historically significant. The phrase "al-muḍayyiq min Qusṭanṭīniyya" refers to the Bosporus or its surrounding fortifications. Khalīfa’s account implies that the Rashidun navy, under Muʿāwiya’s orders, reached the very approaches of Constantinople—a statement that aligns with Greek and Armenian sources describing a full-scale naval siege.

Al-Ṭabarī (d. 923 CE)

Al-Ṭabarī, drawing from earlier traditions in his Tārīkh al-Rusul wa-l-Mulūk, records under the year 32 AH:

“Among these was the expedition of Muʿāwiyah b. Abī Sufyān to the Bosphorus—that is, the straits of Constantinople. He was accompanied by his wife ʿĀtikah bt. Qurtah b. ʿAbd ʿAmr b. Nawfal b. ʿAbd Manāf. [Her name] is also said to be Fākhitah.”

This narrative not only confirms the campaign's location at the straits but echoes the same intimate domestic detail found in Ibn al-Athīr's later chronicle: the presence of Muʿāwiya’s wife on the campaign. That multiple transmitters emphasize this point suggests either a remembered prestige of the expedition or an attempt to lend honorific and near-sacral weight to the endeavor by associating it with the noble clan of Quraysh.

Ibn al-Athīr (d. 1233 CE)

Writing centuries later in his al-Kāmil fī al-Tārīkh, Ibn al-Athīr draws upon earlier traditions, perhaps echoing Khalīfa, and adds a rare humanizing detail:
“قيل : في هذه السنة غزا معاوية بن أبي سفيان مضيق القسطنطينية ومعه زوجته عاتكة بنت قرظة ، وقيل فاختة.”
“It is said: in this year [i.e. 653], Muʿāwiya ibn Abī Sufyān raided the straits of Constantinople, and with him was his wife ʿĀtika bint Qarẓa (or it is said, Fakhta).”
This anecdote suggests that the campaign was significant enough to warrant the presence of members of the Umayyad inner circle. Whether historical or symbolic, the inclusion of Muʿāwiya’s wife evokes a sense of prestige, devotion, and confidence in the campaign.

V. A Question of Timing: The Disputed Date of Muʿāwiya’s First Siege Attempt on Constantinople (652–654 CE)

The early 650s marked the first time the Arabs directly threatened the Roman capital. But determining when Muʿāwiya’s fleet reached the Bosphorus is one of the most tantalizing chronological puzzles of the 7th century. Divergent yet overlapping accounts from Islamic, Armenian, and Roman sources complicate, but ultimately illuminate, the sequence of events.

📜 Diverging Sources: One Campaign or Several?

Muslim chroniclers such as Khalīfa ibn Khayyāṭ and al-Ṭabarī record that:

“In the year 32 AH [652–653 CE], Muʿāwiya raided the madiq of Constantinople.”
(Khalīfa ibn Khayyāṭ, Taʾrīkh)

The Arabic word al-madīq (“strait”) is almost universally interpreted to mean the Bosphorus—the critical waterway that leads to Constantinople. Yet these early sources provide no detail about the outcome, leading some to doubt that a true siege occurred.

🧭 Sebeos and the Christian Perspective

The Armenian historian Sebeos, writing from within the Roman world and deeply attuned to its theological-political language, fills in the narrative gaps. He outlines a three-stage escalation of hostilities:

11th Year of Constans II (≈ Sept 651–Sept 652):

“The treaty between Constans and Muʿāwiya was broken.”
→ This coincides with the post-Ṙštuni vassalage and Trebizond’s sack.
12th Year of Constans II (≈ Sept 652–Sept 653):

“Muʿāwiya commanded his forces to make war by sea and land in order to erase the Roman Empire.”
→ This lines up with the initial naval departure, matching 32 AH in Islamic sources.
13th Year of Constans II (≈ Sept 653–Sept 654):

“The destroyer reached Chalcedon…”
→ A clear reference to the Arab fleet reaching the Asian shore opposite Constantinople, the closest approach.

📝 Regnal Note: Though Constans became co-emperor in Sept 641, his sole reign began in Nov 641. Therefore:

Year 11 = Sept/Nov 651 – Sept/Nov 652
Year 12 = Sept/Nov 652 – Sept/Nov 653
Year 13 = Sept/Nov 653 – Sept/Nov 654

🌊 Calendars in Conversation: Hijrī vs Regnal vs Sailing Seasons

Event	Sebeos’ Date	Hijri Equivalent	Approx. Gregorian Date
Treaty collapse	Year 11 of Constans	Late 31 AH	~Sept 651–Aug 652
Order to mobilize	Year 12 of Constans	32 AH	~Sept 652–Sept 653
Fleet reaches Chalcedon	Year 13 of Constans	34 AH (Rabiʿ I)	~Sept 654

⛵ Mediterranean sailing conditions favor campaigns between May–October. Launching a fleet in November 641, when Constans’ reign began, would have been impractical. This supports the view that:

Arabic sources dated the campaign from its departure (652 CE).
Sebeos dated it from its climax (654 CE)—the fleet’s arrival at Chalcedon, followed by a divine storm dispersing it.

🛠️ Two Models of Reconciliation

1. Multi-Phase Campaign (652–654 CE)

Initial departure: 32 AH / mid-652
Possible staging at Cyprus, Rhodes, & Attaleia
Overwintering (653 CE) along the coast
Final push: Summer 654 CE → Reached Chalcedon by September
Storm described by Sebeos occurs during storm season (Sept–Oct)

This model matches:

Islamic tradition: "Campaign launched in 32 AH"
Sebeos: "Campaign ended in 13th year of Constans"

2. Narrative Emphasis, Not Contradiction

Islamic sources record events by start date; Sebeos records the climax. Neither contradicts the other—they complement.

📚 Supporting Evidence from Later Chronicles

Theophanes (AM 6145 / 652–653 CE): confirms Habib invaded Armenia; aligns with buildup.
Agapius: likewise confirms early Arab incursions and Muʿāwiya’s escalation.
Michael the Syrian (MSyr): Describes Arab fleets using bulls to trample snowy terrain en route, again pointing to a logistically complex, phased campaign.

🏁 Conclusion: A Campaign with Two Memories

“The destroyer reached Chalcedon in the 13th year of Constans.”
– Sebeos

This wasn’t just a historical note—it was the theological high point of a confrontation that defined Sebeos’ worldview: a challenge not only to Roman borders, but to Rome’s divine legitimacy.

Through the convergence of:

Arabic departure records (32 AH)
Armenian storm narrative (Sept 654)
Seasonal logic of Mediterranean warfare

…it becomes clear that Muʿāwiya’s first siege attempt on Constantinople was a multi-year enterprise, initiated in 652 and culminating in September 654 CE, when a storm—literal or theological—turned back the first Arab armada to reach the imperial city’s walls.

The road to Constantinople had begun—not as myth, but as coordinated empire-wide ambition.

Echoes from the Latin World: The Frankish Chronicle of Fredegar

“Only Constantinople, along with the province of Thrace and a few islands, and also the Roman province, remained under imperial rule—for the empire as a whole had been severely crushed by the Saracens.
Even the emperor Constans, in the end, was forced and compelled to become a tributary of the Saracens, so that at least Constantinople, along with a few provinces and islands, might remain under his control.”
— The Frankish Chronicle of Fredegar, c. 661 CE

While the Chronicle of Fredegar does not explicitly mention the Arab siege of Constantinople in 654 CE, it provides a valuable Western European lens on the broader geopolitical trauma of early Muslim expansion. Composed around 661 CE in the Frankish realms, this chronicle offers a contemporary Latin-Christian interpretation of the Arab-Roman struggle, situated at the intersection of theological anxiety and imperial collapse.

Rome Besieged: Franks on the Saracen Conquests

Fredegar’s account paints a vivid picture of an empire under existential threat. His depiction of the “Saracens” — a generalized exonym for Muslims — emphasizes devastation on a grand scale: the fall of Jerusalem, the sack of Alexandria, and the conquest of Egypt and North Africa. The narrative culminates in a stunning admission: Emperor Constans II, pressured and surrounded, was compelled to pay a daily tribute of a thousand gold solidi [$337,500 per day - $369.56 million over 3 years] to secure a fragile peace.

⚔️ Key Themes:

The Saracen Deluge: Fredegar describes the Muslim conquests not as isolated incursions but as a wholesale unraveling of Roman hegemony. Africa, Egypt, the Levant — all are seen as lost, conquered lands.
Imperial Subjugation: The mention of Constans II paying tribute is crucial. In Latin eyes, it represented a reversal of Roman glory — the emperor of the "New Rome" bowing to eastern adversaries. This reflects the deep humiliation and perceived moral collapse of the Christian imperium.
Survival of Constantinople: Despite everything, the city endures. Fredegar credits this to its fortifications and divine favor — echoing a common Latin motif of Constantinople as urbs sacra, the holy bastion of Christianity.

Intersecting Sources: Fredegar, Sebeos, and the Siege

Though Fredegar does not detail the siege of 654 CE, his chronicle synchronizes intriguingly with Armenian (Sebeos) and Islamic accounts. His depiction of Constans’ subjugation may reflect the aftermath of the failed siege — potentially aligning with Sebeos’s note of a fierce storm in September 654 that scattered the Muslim fleet. In this framing, the tribute might not have followed conquest, but rather served as a diplomatic price for peace after a failed siege.

Moreover, the shared themes of:

Arab maritime power,
Rome territorial loss, and
imperial tribute,
present a triangulated view of the siege’s impact across different cultural-historical horizons.

Christendom’s View from the Edge

Fredegar’s tone is unmistakably Christian and Frankish: the Saracens are not political rivals but theological adversaries, heralds of apocalyptic warfare. This framing is echoed in other early Latin Christian sources, which often cast the Arab conquests in eschatological terms — the empire’s fall not merely as a political loss, but as a spiritual crisis for Christendom.

Yet, Fredegar also conveys awe. The scale of Muslim victories forces a reluctant recognition: a new power has arisen, one capable of checking — even humiliating — Rome.

Reassessing the Siege in Global Context

Though often overlooked, Fredegar’s chronicle is vital for reconstructing the siege’s reverberations beyond the Mediterranean. It does not narrate the siege itself, but frames its emotional and political fallout within the Latin West. It reinforces a narrative in which:

Constantinople barely survives,
Rome is forced into a defensive crouch,
and the Arab Caliphate emerges as a permanent geopolitical fixture.

Conclusion: Fredegar offers a unique Western voice in the chorus of sources documenting the Arab-Roman confrontation. Though distant from the events in Constantinople, the Chronicle of Fredegar reveals how the siege of 654 — and its implications — rippled across the early medieval world, shaping Frankish perceptions of both empire and Islam for centuries to come.

🧩 A Mirrored Memory: Latin and Chinese Sources in Agreement

Latin Source – Fredegar:

“Trebus annis circeter et fertur adhuc amplius per unumquemque diem mille soledus auri aeraries Saracinorum Constans emplebat. Tandem resumtis uiribus Constans emperium aliquantisper recoperans tributa Saracines emplendum refutat.”
-
“For about three years, Constans paid a thousand gold solidi each day to the Saracens. Then, after recovering some strength, Constans recovered his empire and refused to continue paying the Saracens’ tribute.”

🐉 Chinese Source – Jiu Tang Shu 《舊唐書·大食傳》:

「自大食强盛，渐陵诸国，乃遣大将军摩栧伐其都城，因约为和好，请每岁输之金帛，遂臣属大食焉。」
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“Since the Arabs had risen in strength, they gradually came to dominate many nations. Then, they dispatched their Grand General, Mó Yè (摩栧 - Muʿāwiya), to attack [Fúlin’s] capital city. As a result, a pact of peace was established, in which [Fúlin] agreed to offer tribute each year in gold and silks. Thus, Fúlin became a subject of the Arabs.”

🔍 Synthesis and Historical Implication

Despite the vast cultural, linguistic, and geographic divides separating Merovingian Gaul and Tang China, these two sources—Fredegar’s Chronicle and the Jiu Tang Shu—converge on a remarkably consistent memory of the mid-7th century, particularly regarding the power dynamics between Rome and the rising Arab Caliphate. Their agreement, while independent, forms a rare and powerful cross-cultural confirmation of a pivotal moment in world history.

🏹 A Siege or Military Threat

Both texts indicate an Arab offensive reaching the very heart of Roman power. Fredegar’s chronicle emphasizes the overall weakness of the Roman Empire during Constans II’s early reign, portraying it as ravaged by the Saracens from the Levant to North Africa. Meanwhile, the Chinese source asserts that a major Arab commander—referred to as “Mó Yè” (摩栧, Muʿāwiya)—attacked the Roman capital directly. This can only reasonably be interpreted as a siege of Constantinople, corroborated by Islamic and Armenian sources that refer to a naval assault in 654 CE, thwarted by a storm. That a Tang Chinese historian thousands of miles away described this assault on the “du cheng” (都城, capital city) suggests that the shockwaves of this campaign reverberated globally.

💰 A Tribute Agreement: Submission in Gold and Silk

The tribute agreement lies at the heart of both accounts. Fredegar dramatically asserts that “every day, a thousand solidi of gold” were paid by Constans to the Arabs for approximately three years—an immense financial burden, one designed to secure peace. Meanwhile, the Chinese record speaks of an annual tribute in gold and silk, a reflection of Tang categories of political submission where tribute was both economic and symbolic.

Although differing in timeframe (daily vs. yearly) and currency (solidi vs. “jin bo” 金帛), the essential narrative is the same: Rome, under duress, agreed to pay the Caliphate tribute. This rare admission of imperial vulnerability, attested in both Western and Eastern traditions, highlights a moment when the balance of power in the Mediterranean world had tilted.

🛑 Temporary Subordination and Eventual Rejection

Fredegar continues: after 3 years of weakness and tribute, Constans II regained some imperial strength and chose to reject the tribute arrangement. This suggests either a military resurgence or a shift in political will, perhaps emboldened by the death of Caliph Uthman and the ensuing First Fitna in 656.

This “resumption of imperial authority” could be seen as a symbolic reassertion of Roman sovereignty, even if temporary. The Chinese sources do not mention this rejection, but it aligns perfectly with the abandonment of the siege following the storm, as noted in the Armenian chronicle of Sebeos and Islamic traditions that interpret the naval disaster as divine intervention. The chronology thus triangulates: tribute begins in the early 650s, a siege is launched in 654, but nature intervenes, and Rome seizes the chance to reject further subjugation.

A Global Reverberation of Power Shifts

This mutual corroboration—a Frankish chronicler in Burgundy and a Tang historian in Chang’an—writing from opposite ends of the Eurasian world, confirms that the Arab-Roman conflict was not a regional war, but a conflict of global magnitude. The Arab Caliphate’s meteoric rise and its confrontation with Rome were events with world-systemic implications, recorded not just by Islamic or Mediterranean authors but recognized and documented far beyond their immediate theaters.

Their narratives serve as independent yet harmonious witnesses to a shared historical reality: the Roman Empire, for a brief moment in the 7th century, bowed to the ascendant Islamic polity, even if only through forced diplomacy. This brief but significant subordination was not forgotten, and its memory reached across continents.

Toward a Shared Global Memory

That such a moment is preserved in both Latin and Chinese literary memory elevates its importance. It reminds us that even in the so-called “Dark Ages,” the world was more interconnected than we often assume. Information about sieges, diplomatic treaties, and imperial shifts traveled along vast networks—through merchants, envoys, missionaries, and refugees—creating a shared, if scattered, memory of a world in transformation.

Far from being isolated curiosities, the Chronicle of Fredegar and the Jiu Tang Shu stand as testimonies to the global visibility of the Caliphate’s emergence and Rome’s vulnerable position in the mid-600s. They reinforce each other, and together, they validate the otherwise fragmented accounts of tribute, siege, and resistance.

✍️ In summary: The convergence of these two distant sources offers not just confirmation of specific historical events—it reveals a world watching the same struggle unfold, from Gaul to China. The fall and resurgence of empires were not merely local dramas, but episodes in a global narrative of power, prestige, and transformation.

Conclusion: A New World on the Waters 🌊
The 654 Siege of Constantinople and the First Global Shift

This was not a story of breached walls or conquered capitals. It was something subtler, yet far more enduring—a psychological and geopolitical rupture. Militarily, the Arab siege of Constantinople in 654 failed. But strategically and symbolically, it cracked the illusion of Roman naval invincibility. For the first time in centuries, the imperial capital of Rome’s eastern heir felt vulnerable by sea.

The Mediterranean—long imagined by the Romans as mare nostrum, “our sea”—was no longer theirs alone. That illusion, sustained since Pompey swept the pirates from Cilicia and Augustus ended the Ptolemies, began to fracture in 654. The fall of Carthage, the collapse of the Vandals, the retreat of the Goths—none had prepared Constantinople for an adversary like the Caliphate.

Whereas previous threats came as raids, the Arabs came as empire. The Caliphate deployed not scattered pirates or opportunists, but a full-scale naval expedition. It operated with supply lines, strategic foresight, and political coordination. This was a statement of power, not pillage.

Islam’s Mediterranean Arrival: Not as a Raider, but as a Rival

To the old Mediterranean powers, the Arabs were desert-bound, unfamiliar with seafaring. But the siege of 654 shattered this myth. This was not a hit-and-run campaign—it was part of a broader imperial vision. The same polity that had taken Alexandria, Caesarea, and Damascus now stared down Constantinople from the waters of the Bosphorus.

This moment marked the Caliphate’s arrival not just as a religious movement or territorial force, but as a maritime civilization. The siege transformed the Arabs from regional conquerors into Mediterranean contenders. Their fleets sailed not in search of loot, but as expressions of sovereign will.

In this act, Islam did not enter the Mediterranean periphery—it entered as a peer. The siege was not piracy; it was parity.

The Caliphate Ascends as a True Empire

By the mid-7th century, the Caliphate had emerged as a true imperial power—ruling from the Nile to the Oxus, the Caucasus to Hadhramaut. It administered diverse peoples, built roads and garrisons, levied taxes, and forged a common identity rooted in a prophetic mission.

The siege of Constantinople was more than a military maneuver. It was a declaration of imperial legitimacy. No polity dares to attack the New Rome unless it sees itself as its equal. And the Arabs did. They believed, and the world was beginning to believe, that a new superpower had arisen.

From the Tang court in Chang’an to the monasteries of Gaul, observers noted the shifting tide. Constans II, once styled as basileus tōn Rhōmaiōn, now offered tribute to the Caliph. Chinese chronicles recorded the Arab general 摩栧 (Mo-yé) attacking Fulin—Rome—and securing peace through gold. A Latin monk, Fredegar, noted the Emperor’s humiliation. Even the Armenian bishop Sebēos interpreted the siege as a prophetic clash between empires and religions.

Though Constantinople withstood the siege in 654, the psychological breach never healed. Rome’s maritime monopoly was broken. The empire would recover, adapt, and retaliate—but never again would it dominate the sea uncontested.

This was Act I in a long imperial drama that culminated in the sieges of 674–678 and 717–718. Greek fire, new fortifications, and religious polemic were all born in the crucible of this fear. The Arab fleets had revealed the city’s vulnerability—and altered its sense of destiny.

More profoundly, this moment inaugurated a new geopolitical rhythm. Christendom and Islam would now shape the tempo of Eurasian politics, economy, and memory.

A Siege Remembered Across Civilizations

What makes the 654 siege extraordinary is not only its strategic impact, but its memory across cultures. Muslim sources describe the Caliph’s naval might. Armenian historians write of cosmic conflict. Chinese annals record gold-bearing embassies. Latin monks speak of humiliation and awe.

Despite the distance in language, geography, and worldview, all these sources converge on one point: this was a rupture in the old order. The Arabs, once dismissed as desert tribes, had become empire,

The siege marked more than a shift in naval warfare. It signaled the erosion of Roman exceptionalism. For the Romans, it meant loss—not only of security, but of theological confidence. The seas no longer served only Christian Rome; they now carried the call of Allāhu Akbar.

For the Muslims, it was the first great imperial projection beyond land. A city that symbolized Christendom was now within reach. The siege taught them logistics, diplomacy, and the costs of expansion—but it also taught them that no empire was untouchable.

Beyond the Siege: Diplomacy, Tribute, and Imperial Memory

In the short term, the siege ended in peace and tribute. The Arabs withdrew, the Romans recovered. Storms scattered the fleet—interpreted by all sides as divine intervention.

But something deeper had changed. The Caliphate had proven itself capable of Mediterranean warfare. Constantinople had proven vulnerable. Rome had lost its monopoly on power and sanctity.

By 660, the tribute ceased. Constans II reasserted himself, even launching his own western campaigns. But the balance had shifted. A once-distant desert faith was now a rival with fleets and forts.

That Latin, Armenian, Arabic, and Chinese sources all described this event shows us something remarkable: the 7th century was already global. Empires were connected not just by war and trade, but by information, memory, and myth.

The siege of 654 was not just a moment in Roman or Islamic history—it was a hinge in world history. It marked the beginning of a new Mediterranean—and a new age of world interconnectivity.

This was no isolated conflict. It was a signal flare that the old world was ending, and a new world—divided, connected, and contested—had begun.

THE END.

Works Cited

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Nasir al-Kaʿbi. A Short Chronicle on the End of the Sasanian Empire and Early Islam, 590–660 A.D.: Edition, Translation and Commentary. Gorgias Press, 2016.

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Mirza, Sarah Zubair. Oral Tradition and Scribal Conventions in the Documents Attributed to the Prophet Muḥammad. Dissertation, University of Michigan, 2010.

---. Islamic Origins, Arabian Custom, and the Documents of the Prophet. Gorgias Press, 2022.

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