Salonica, City of Ghosts: Christians, Muslims and Jews

First among the temptations that afflicted its Christians, of course, was Islam itself. During the prosperous sixteenth century, in particular, many poor young villagers flocked into the city from the mountains, and these newcomers soon formed a very large part of the local Christian population. Some of them, finding themselves adrift and vulnerable to the dangers facing those far from home, converted for the sake of greater security. Other converts were Christian boys apprenticed to Muslim craftsmen, or girls who had entered Muslim households as domestic servants: in both cases the economic power of the employers paved the way to conversion. But this was a dramatic step at the best of times and one which laid the individual open to unrestrained criticism from his relatives and community. Relatively few Christians (or Jews) with families in Salonica appear to have abandoned their faith. To judge from the mid-eighteenth century, which is when the first data became available, the overall numbers of converts were not great – perhaps ten cases a year in the city and its hinterland.41

Even so, Orthodox clerics were always deeply anxious about this. A monk called Nikanor (1491–1549) travelled in the villages to the west of the city, urging the inhabitants to stay true to Christ: ‘by his sweet precepts and the shining example of his virtuous conduct,’ we are told by his hagiographer, ‘he was able to hold many in Christ’s faith’ before retiring to the solitude of an inaccessible cave high above the Aliakmon river. Nikanor also built a monastery nearby, and in his will urged the monks to refrain from begging for alms without permission, not to mix with those of ‘another faith’ and to avoid seeking justice in Turkish courts, stipulations which suggest the extent to which monks and other pious Christians were usually interacting with the Ottoman authorities in one way or another.42

In fact, the very manner in which the Church’s ecclesiastical hierarchy was brought within the Ottoman administrative system added to Christian woes. Patriarchs paid an annual tribute to the Porte and acted as tax-collectors from the Christians. When one sixteenth-century Patriarch toured the Balkans, Suleyman the Magnificent ordered officials to summon the metropolitans, bishops and other clerics to help him collect ‘in full the back payments from the past years and the present year in the amounts which will be established by your examination.’ In the early eighteenth century, the city’s kadi was told to help when it turned out that ‘Ignatius, the metropolitan of Salonica, owes two years’ taxes and resists fulfilling his obligations towards the Patriarchate.’ Fiscal and religious power were separated in both the Muslim and the Jewish communities [where rabbis were salaried employees of their congregations]; for the Orthodox they overlapped, damaging the clergy’s relations with their flock.43

The buying and selling of ecclesiastical favours and offices did not help either: in the seventeenth century alone, there were sixty-one changes of Patriarch. Most Metropolitans of Salonica had run up debts to get into office, and one of the earliest records to survive in the city’s archives is a 1695 Ottoman decree from the Porte on behalf of a Christian money-lender ordering Archbishop Methodios to pay what he owed him. The problem travelled down the hierarchy. One priest demanded to be paid before he would read the sacrament to a dying man; others were accused of taking payment to hear confession. The more their seniors took from them, the more the priests required.44

Money also explained the endless tussles between Salonica’s religious leaders and the lay council of Christian notables, the archons, which supposedly ran the non-religious side of community affairs. When the archons demanded control over management of the city’s charitable Christian foundations, the Patriarchate angrily told them ‘not to involve themselves in priestly affairs’. ‘There is order in everything,’ they were rebuked, ‘and all things in the world, heavenly and mundane, royal and ecclesiastical and civil, right down to the smallest and least important, have their order before God and before men, according to which they are governed and stand in their place.’ The message was simple: there was no way that ‘lay people’, whatever their motivations, would be allowed to ‘become rebels and controllers of church affairs’. Ironically, the main defence against the rapacity of the clergy were the Ottoman authorities themselves. In 1697 Salonica’s Christians complained directly to the Porte about the demands of their bishops, and the kadi was instructed to look into the matter. Twenty years later, their anger was so great that they even got the local Ottoman officials to throw one archbishop in jail until he could be removed.45

Three hundred years after the conquest, the city was still suffering from a dearth of priests, and lay figures regularly performed ecclesiastical duties. ‘Not many years ago,’ reports the Jesuit Father Souciet in 1734, ‘a lay figure married with children not only had charge of the revenues of the archbishop but acted even as a kind of vicar, giving the priests permission to celebrate and confess, and preventing them as and when he saw fit. I am not even sure he did not claim to be able to carry out excommunications.’ The underlying problem was economic, for until the commercial boom of the mid-eighteenth century, the Christians of the city were, on the whole, of modest means. Only a few descendants of the great Byzantine families still lived there; most were artisans, shopkeepers, sailors or traders.46

For them, faith was not really a matter of theology. Poorly educated, few could bridge the gap between the complex formal Greek of the church and the language of daily life, which for many Orthodox Christians was often not Greek at all, but Slavic or Vlach. ‘The priests and even the pastors – the metropolitans, archbishops and bishops – are extremely simple and unlearned men, who do not know the Hellenic language and have no explanations in the vulgar tongue, so that they don’t know and don’t understand anything they read,’ noted a visiting Ukrainian notable. ‘The people don’t know anything at all except the sign of the cross [and this not everyone]. When we asked them about the Our Father, they would answer that “this is the priest’s business, not ours.”’47 Sometimes this uncertainty could be taken surprisingly far, as when a young Greek village priest asked whether Jesus was really God [though perhaps the questioner had been influenced by the scorn with which both Muslims and Jews treated such a claim].48

On the other hand, Salonica’s Christians were deeply attached to their traditional customs – especially fasting, about which they were extremely conscientious – and to the observance of local festivals, which were celebrated vigorously in the city and the neighbouring countryside, combining spiritual and commercial satisfaction. On Saint Dimitrios’s day a majestic service was attended by all the suffragan bishops. There was also a rapidly developing cult of Gregory Palamas, the fourteenth-century archbishop of the city, whose mystical and political views had made him a highly controversial figure in his lifetime. To the surprise of visiting Christians, who knew him for his much-disputed theology, his memory was revered as that of a saint and his mummified body, laid out on a bier, attracted increasing numbers of worshippers.49

Orthodox Christians were constantly reminded that theirs was a second-class faith: they were not allowed to ring church bells or even beat wooden clappers to bring the faithful to prayer. Yet so far as the Ottomans were concerned, they were a people of the Book and one distinctly superior to the Catholic Franks. During the long wars with both Venice and Austria, Catholic missionaries were accused of leading the local Orthodox astray, and introducing them to ‘polytheism, cunning and craftiness’. When an early eighteenth-century visitor discussed Christianity with one of Salonica’s mollahs, the latter told him ‘that the three faiths, the Papist, the Lutheran, and the Calvinist are the worst, while the Greek is better than all.’ According to him, many of the town’s Muslim scholars studied the Gospels in Arabic and valued the Greek Church above the rest because ‘the Greeks don’t depart from evangelical teachings and from church traditions and … they don’t introduce anything new into their religion or remove anything.’ The very conservatism denounced by visiting Jesuits was thus understood and appreciated by Muslims.50

This sympathy, however, had its limits. The primacy of the ruling faith was axiomatic, and any public assertion of the superiority of Christianity over Islam was punished with severity. But even here Ottoman and Orthodox interests fitted strangely together, since the church, itself founded through an act of martyrdom, regarded the public suffering of new martyrs as a way of demonstrating the tenacity of Christian belief. Priests or monks instructed would-be candidates who then presented themselves to the authorities, or carried out acts designed to lead to their arrest, dragging crosses through the streets, or loudly insulting Mohammed. Seeing apostates – in particular – return to the fold was, wrote one priest, ‘as if one were to see spring flowers and roses bloom in the heart of winter.’51

Those who died for their faith were the popular voice of spiritual protest – the senior church hierarchy, by contrast, were servants of the sultan – and their deeds were carefully recorded by monks at the time. Even today modern editions of these ‘witnesses for Christ’ circulate within the Orthodox world, with stories which are well worth reading for their unexpected insights into Ottoman religious culture. Like most Christians in Salonica, the city’s ‘neo-martyrs’ were humble men [and a few women] – a painter, a coppersmith, a fisherman, gardener, tailor, baker and a servant to take just a few of them. Michael, for instance, who was executed in 1547, was one of the many Christian immigrants from the mountains; a baker, he had got into trouble after chatting about religion with a Muslim boy who came to buy bread. Kyrill’s father died young and he was brought up by his uncle, who had converted to Islam. Alexandros, who also converted, had wandered the Arab world as a dervish, and made the pilgrimage to Mecca, before returning to his ancestral faith, and testifying – in the words that distinguished Christians from Muslims – that ‘one is three and three are one’. Although many of these martyrs had converted to Islam before seeing the error of their ways, what had induced their initial apostasy did not matter to the church – it might have been nothing more noble than the desire to pay lower taxes or to escape punishment for earlier crimes. All their sins were wiped out by their intention to repent and to testify to the superiority of the true faith.

Nor were all martyrs apostates. Some sought to emulate the martyrs of the early Church, or wanted to blot out the stain on the family name caused by the conversion of relatives. Aquilina’s mother had remained a Christian when her father had converted to Islam and brought shame on them. Nicetas was outraged when relatives became Muslims and he decided on martyrdom as a way of upholding the family honour. Pilgrimage to the Holy Land inspired one or two to follow in the footsteps of The Lord. In 1527 the noble Macarios, a monk on Mount Athos, became ‘completely consumed with the heartfelt desire to finish his life with a martyric death.’ He went into the streets of Salonica and began to tell a large crowd of Muslims about the teachings of Christ. Brought before the kadi, Macarios prayed that the judge might come ‘to know the true and irreproachable Faith of the Christians’ and ‘be extricated from the erroneous religion of your fathers by the Holy and Consubstantial Trinity’. His martyrdom followed.52

The path to death could be very dramatic indeed. An eighteen-year-old French convert to Islam repented of his apostasy, confessed to a Greek priest, and then – this appears to have been exceptional even among the neo-martyrs – put a crown of thorns on his head, a small cross round his neck, thrust small spikes into his limbs, and paraded in public, whipping himself and shouting ‘I was an apostate but I am a Christian’. He was arrested, rejected various attempts to get him to return to Islam, and was put to death. Christodoulos, a tanner, was so disturbed to hear of a fellow-Christian planning to convert, that he took a small cross, entered the tavern where the convert’s circumcision was about to take place, and tried to stop the ceremony. He was arrested, beaten and hanged outside the door of the church of Ayios Minas.53

Executions were as public as the celebrations which marked conversion itself. In fact vast crowds gathered to witness the last moments of the dying and to pick up relics of martyrdom. Following the Frenchman’s death, ‘the Christians took away his corpse and buried it with honour in a church’. Many people carefully collected drops of his blood and pieces of his clothing, just as they did with the holy remains of other martyrs: the Ottoman authorities respected this practice and made no attempt to stop it. When a young Bulgarian girl who spurned the advances of a Turk, died after being thrown into prison falsely accused of having pledged to convert to Islam, the guards noticed a great light emanating from the room, and were so struck by the miracle that they spread the news around the city. Once again, the clothes of the martyr were carefully parcelled out as relics.

Ottoman reactions generally ranged from bewilderment to anger. Officials considered would-be martyrs insane, and hence not responsible for their actions. Romanos was regarded as mad and consigned to the galleys the first time round. Cyprian was dismissed as a lunatic by the pasha of Salonica and having ‘reasoned that he would not receive the martyric end he desired at the hands of the Turks in that unbelieving city’ took himself off to the capital where by writing an anti-Muslim epistle to the grand vizier and having it specially translated into Turkish, he achieved the desired goal. The biographer of Nicetas recounts an extraordinary conversation that took place in 1808 between that would-be martyr and the mufti of Serres. After offering him coffee, the latter asked Nicetas if he had gone mad, coming into the town and preaching to Muslims that they should abandon their faith. Nicetas explained that it was only zeal for the true faith that motivated him, and he began to debate the merits of the two religions. Other Turks asked him if he had been forced to do this, and this too he denied. But the mufti only became truly angry when Nicetas described Mohammed as ‘a charlatan and a sensual devil’. ‘Monk!’, said the mufti. ‘It is obvious you are an ill-mannered person. I try to set you free, but by your own brutal words you cause your own death.’ To which Nicetas replied: ‘This is what I desire, and for this have I come freely to offer myself as a sacrifice for the love of my Master and God, Jesus Christ.’54

What is surprising in many of these accounts is how reluctant the kadis were to order the death sentence. They could be forced to change their minds by local Muslim opinion, but they must have been conscious of the power of religious self-sacrifice and unwilling to add to the list of victims. As it is, martyrdom was not a common choice, and the vast majority of Christians who converted to Islam evidently never returned to the fold. The hagiographer of the martyr Nicetas suggests that by the early nineteenth century a note of scepticism was beginning to prevail among Christians themselves. A Salonica merchant, he tells us, cast doubt on the merit of what Nicetas had done, saying ‘it is not necessary to go to martyrdom in these days, when there is no persecution of the Christian church.’ Only after a terrifying dream, in which a loud voice told him that Nicetas was indeed a true martyr, did he change his mind. Following British pressure in the 1840s, capital punishment for apostasy was abandoned, and the need for such dreams ceased.55

Sacred Geographies

In 1926, an eminent Albanian Bektashi sheykh, Ahmad Sirri Baba, stopped for a rest in Salonica during arduous travels which took him from Albania to Cairo, Baghdad, Karbala and back. By this point, the city’s Muslim population had been forced to leave Greece entirely as a result of the Greco-Turkish 1923 population exchange, and the tekkes had been abandoned. The sheykh’s journeys, as he moved between the worlds of Balkan and Middle Eastern Islam, were a last indication of channels of religious devotion which had once linked the city with extraordinarily diverse and far-flung parts of the world.

For centuries, Muslims from all over the Balkans congregated in Salonica to find a sea passage to Aleppo or Alexandria for the haj caravans to Mecca. Christians followed their example, acquiring the title of Hadji after visiting their own holy places. Others came to visit the remains of St Dimitrios before travelling onwards to the Holy Mountain. A Ukrainian monk, Cyril, from Lviv, arrived to raise money for the monastery in Sinai where he worked, and brought catalogues of the library collections there which he passed on to the head of the Jesuit mission in the city, Père Souciet, whose brother ran the royal library in Paris. For Muslim mendicant dervishes and Christian monks, the region’s network of charitable and hospitable religious institutions offered a means of permanent support, especially in the cold winter months when work and money were hard to come by. ‘One monk, almost a vagabond, came from Kiev to Moldavia,’ noted a Salonica resident who met him in 1727, ‘and from there wandered aimlessly through Hungary, Croatia, Dalmatia, Venice, then returned from that unnecessary peregrination to Moldavia, and from there to the Zaporozhian Sich whence, by way of the Black Sea, he came to Constantinople and to Mount Athos.’56

In short, the city found itself at the intersection of many different creeds. Through the Sufi orders it was linked to Iran, Anatolia, Thrace and Egypt; the Marranos bridged the Catholicism of the Iberian peninsula, Antwerp and Papal Italy; the faith of the Sabbataians was carried by Jewish believers into Poland, Bohemia, Germany and eventually North America, while the seventeenth-century Metropolitan Athanasios Patellarios came to the city via Venetian Crete and Ottoman Sinai before he moved on to Jassy, Istanbul, Russia and the Ukraine, his final resting-place. Salonica lay in the centre of an Ottoman oikumeni, which was at the same time Muslim, Christian and Jewish. Perhaps only now, since the end of the Cold War and the re-opening of many of these same routes, is it again possible to calculate the impact of such an extensive sacred geography and to see how it underpinned the profusion of faiths which sustained the city’s inhabitants.57

*Frank, a messianic figure in his own right, was a follower of Sabbatai Zevi, and Barouch Russo (see below).

*In Hebrew, the term is Maminim; in Turkish Mümin. Ma’min was a Salonica derivation.

5 Janissaries and Other Plagues

IF SCARCELY ANY BUILDINGS from Ottoman Salonica survive today, this cannot easily be blamed on the effects of war. Before the Ottoman conquest, the city had suffered one siege after another; after it, there were none. A visitor to the fortress vaults in the early nineteenth century found chests of rusting Byzantine arrows, their feathers worm-eaten: they were the long-forgotten remains of the ammunition left behind by the defenders of 1430. Every so often, hostile fleets approached the Gulf and on one occasion Venetian shells landed in the port. But apart from sporadic pirate raids, and a spot of gunboat diplomacy in 1876 which ended without a cannon being fired, that was all the fighting Salonica saw, before the Greeks marched in to end Ottoman rule in 1912.1

The early Ottoman rulers never imagined how little actual danger the city would face, and for three hundred years they kept the walls, gates and port in good order. Bayazid II wintered there. Suleyman the Magnificent built the White Tower at the end of the sea-wall, and another tower, now vanished, on the other side of the city. Both men were engaging the Venetians by land and sea, and Salonica was a crucial staging-post for their forces and a major manufacturer of gunpowder. They added batteries – like the ‘mouths of great lions’ – at key points, and a new fortress between the harbour and the land walls. The traveller Evliya counted a tower every five hundred paces, and spent five hours pacing the entire perimeter across the hilly ground. Each night, he writes, ‘the sultan’s music’ is heard within the walls, while the garrison patrols shout: ‘God is One!’ No houses were permitted to be built on the far side of the walls for security, and even today a tiny lane, barely a car’s width, sneaking round the outside perimeter past the shacks which cling to the steep northwest side of the ramparts, traces what is left of the invisible outline of this policy.2

But by the start of the eighteenth century, there were signs of imperial over-stretch. In 1732 a commissioner of the Porte reported that many of the towers were badly neglected. Within decades, the walls were of antiquarian interest only. An emissary of Louis XVI described the city as ‘of no importance’ from a military point of view – ‘an enceinte of ramparts without moats and badly linked, even worse defended by a very small number of poor artillery pieces.’ In 1840, the British army captain who drank sherbets and lemonade with the artillery commander found the troops excellent but the batteries ‘defenceless in themselves’. When the guns sounded, as they often did, it was to mark nothing more than the breaking of the Ramadan fast, the strangulation of a janissary or imperial celebrations.3

Until the demolitions of the 1870s, however, which got rid of gates, towers and entire stretches of the muraille, the ring of ramparts held the city tight – marking the boundary between residents and strangers, the living and dead. The claustrophobic airless warren of lanes within contrasted with the dreary expanses of open country – ‘a mournful and arid solitude’ wrote a nineteenth-century French visitor – on the far side of the walls, studded with water-mills, cemeteries, plague-hospices and monasteries. On the approach to the gates, the dangling corpses of criminals hung from trees to remind passers-by of the virtues of obedience. ‘We enter the Vardar-kapesi, or gate of the Vardhari,’ wrote the imperturbable Leake. ‘In a tree before it hangs the body of a robber.’ The gates themselves were manned by guards who checked the passes of non-residents and collected merchandise duties from farmers and traders. Come nightfall, tardy visitors were left outside, and everyone else kept in. The sharp sense of a division between city-dwellers and non-residents reflected the prevailing Ottoman conception of a close link between foreigners and crime. Vagrants, migrants and strangers were the cause of insecurity: the gates helped to keep them at arm’s length.4

For even if it was never itself invaded or attacked, in other ways Salonica was deeply affected by the numerous disorders which punctuated the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. With every campaign, rumours swept in: invading Austrian armies were coming down from the north, hostile Russian flotillas were just off Cape Caraburnu, a column twenty thousand strong of Napoleon’s troops was marching down from Bosnia. Wars against European states aroused the anger of local Muslims and jeopardized the position of the Christians. In 1715, during the war with Austria, the French consul reported that ‘terror has spread among the Greeks, who fear being chopped to pieces in their churches, and the Franks, who have a reputation for wealth, are worried about a population which does not reason and cannot distinguish between the French and the [Austrians] who are only five or six days’ march from us.’5

War also brought extra taxation to pay for new galleys, uniforms, and provisions. In 1702 the orders were for gunpowder, in 1714 biscuit and flour, and in the great campaign of the following year, which drove the Venetians out of the Aegean, the city contributed the equivalent of 40,000 sheep and 150,000 kilos of flour as well as workers to repair the roads and bridges along which the Grand Vizier’s army passed. In 1734 lead, powder, iron, medicines and thirty cannons were demanded, in 1744 pack-animals. By 1770, during the war with Russia, the Greeks were ‘so exhausted from constant requisitions that they don’t know how they will manage’. Yet seventeen years later, the Greek and Jewish communities were instructed once again to find two hundred ox-carts and three hundred camels – or the equivalent sum in silver.6