For some reason, in spite of repeat disappointments, I continue to return to the work of Tom Holland. While Rubicon and Persian Fire both helped stimulate my academic interest in ancient history, I have come to realize the problematic approach Holland takes to historical study. Dynasty, Holland’s half-baked precis of Suetonius and Tacitus, finally convinced me that popular narrative history is not much worth my time, which would be better spent with primary sources complemented with serious academic commentary by more credible historians than Holland. Still, I finally decided to read In the Shadow of the Sword, Holland’s helter-skelter foray into late antiquity in the Near East and the rise of Islam. In the Shadow of the Sword differs considerably from Rubicon, Persian Fire, and Dynasty in that it offers a kind of thesis rather than a pure narrative: that the traditional Muslim account for the life of Muhammad and the rise of Islam is not a reliable historical source for the roots of the Arab conquest, and that historians must look elsewhere to weave a barely coherent explanation for the sudden rise of the caliphate. More constructively, Holland maintains that historians should understand the loosely articulated set of beliefs of what would come to be known as Islam as influenced by and emanant from a richly diverse and complicated late antique milieu. The imperial ambitions of the Eastern Roman and Sassanid empires, the persistent evolution of Christianity, Judaism, and Zoroastrianism in the late antique period, and mercantile and military relationships between the Arab tribes and their Roman and Persian sponsors each underpin the inimitable social and cultural context, Holland contends, from which Islam derived and which it would ultimately overtake. Now, for those firmly committed to the idea that God’s revelations to Muhammad as communicated by the Prophet to his followers in no way derived from his prior familiarity with Judaism and Christianity or the late antique Near Eastern world, but came solely from the numinous mouth of Gabriel, this may be a predictably scandalous thesis from yet another secular historian. For most others, however, such a claim should not come as much of a surprise. In fact, Holland’s thesis is not exactly new: he simply repeats a set of claims made by a coterie of revisionist historians of Islam who first published their conclusions in the seventies. And, while some scholars skeptical of the traditional Muslim account of early Islam have certainly strayed into potentially Islamaphobic territory, revisionist scholarship of this period need not be wedded to modern anti-Muslim sentiments. All of which is to say, despite the fact that Holland frequently implies that a cabal of cowardly non-Muslim historians and Muslim scholars blindly committed to the truth of the traditional account have muddled the historical reality of early Islam, there has been plenty of sober academic work on the subject for many decades. What Holland offers here situates many of the conclusions of that work in what he hopes is a coherent historical narrative, rife with all the drama one expects from a Tom Holland book. The result is a convoluted mixture that oscillates wildly between semi-fictional narrative and ostensibly serious historical analysis.
While Holland opens the book with a whole host of questions with respect to the traditional narrative of the birth of Islam, he does not pursue these questions until its final third, once he has canvassed the late antique histories of the Byzantines and Sassanians and contextualized the cultural milieu in which the Arab conquests took place. For most readers, I suspect, this is the most anticipated part of the book—how does Holland answer major questions about the historicity of the Qur’an, the existence of Muhammad, the location of Mecca, and the influences of Judaism, Christianity, and Zoroastrianism on what would come to be known as the Islamic faith? Unfortunately, Holland’s narrative style of history is ill-suited to this task. That is, while Holland is famed and praised for the vividness of his historical narrative approach—he strives with mixed success in all his books to relate history as a literal story, with all the drama of fiction—that approach falters when he must plumb lacunae in the historical record with no obvious solutions. More to the point, Holland is at his best when the historical record is cohesive, linear, and more or less unproblematic. When this is the case—as it mostly is for the fall of the Roman republic, for instance—Holland can deploy his laudable ability to inject the historical narrative with dramatic flavor. When this is not the case, however—as Holland himself insists it is not for the birth of Islam and the Arab conquests—his attempt to collate questions, evidence, and plausible theories into a coherent narrative simply confuses matters. Holland’s solution to the dilemma raised by the dearth of evidence for his narrative style is to cast fairly mundane historical lacunae as eerie mysteries unplumbed by historians and Muslim scholars hitherto. He then presents himself as some kind of sleuth ready and able to venture into historical territory few others have had the audacity to explore. Of course, Holland relies heavily on prior academic work from Patricia Cone, Andrew Rippin, and other revisionist academic historians for how he answers the particular questions he poses, and he himself would be the first, I am sure, to humbly concede his debt to these scholars. Stylistically, however, Holland presents his theories as if they materialized out of thin air—or perhaps were revealed to him by God. Holland never refers to scholars by name in the main text of the narrative, never interrupts his narrative to canvass why one theory from a particular scholar is more persuasive than another from a different scholar, and buries his footnotes in the back of the book. Evidently, this is because In the Shadow of the Sword is a popular history—lay readers are supposedly uninterested in these baseline academic formalities, despite the fact that Holland’s task in this book is an explicitly academic one.
In the Shadow of the Sword is problematic less because Holland’s skepticism of the traditional Muslim narrative for the birth of Islam is unwarranted—in the same way historians question Exodus or Acts of the Apostles as reliable sources for the roots of Judaism and Christianity, respectively—but because Holland so clumsily traverses hotly debated academic territory in his effort to create a coherent historical narrative. No amount of rhetorical flourish or vivid description can do the same work that slow, careful, and sometimes tedious historical scholarship can accomplish. Ironically, the lucidity of the solutions Holland offers to a series of vexed questions on the birth of Islam comes at the expense of his bombastic narrative style. To cite just one example, Holland questions whether Muhammad initially lived in Mecca and, even further, questions whether Mecca existed an important commercial center prior to the Umayyads. His reasons for this skepticism are sufficiently articulate—other than a sole mention in the Qur’an, the earliest textual reference to Mecca is from 741, where it is located in Mesopotamia, “midway between Ur and Harran”; its location in a desert valley far from the coast renders it an unlikely center of commerce; and a major road that connected Himyar with Roman markets bypassed the supposed location of Mecca entirely—yet his explanation for why the fifth caliph, Abd al-Malik, ultimately chose what would become Mecca as the site for the House of God, the now-famous Ka’ba, is muddled and all too brief. Perhaps a ka’ba had stood there before, scattered as such sites were across Arabia, and perhaps it was associated one way or another with Muhammad. Perhaps Al-Malik, due to his connections to the area around Mecca, was familiar with such a shrine, and randomly selected it to become the holiest site in all Islam. These are unsatisfactory answers to a problem Holland himself raises. That is, while there may be reasons to call into question the centrality of Mecca in the traditional Muslim narrative, one cannot simply accept the conclusion that pre-Umayyad Mecca never existed without a persuasive answer for why Al-Malik so honored the site. This is because a far simpler answer to the latter question is that, per the traditional narrative, Mecca did indeed exist and was the birthplace of Muhammad, and thus held a sacred status well before Al-Malik’s rule. Yet Holland either discounts the Occam’s razor solution or is so wedded to the coherence of his narrative that he refuses to entertain a very different story at odds with the drama that has unfolded up to this point in the book.
In the end, In the Shadow of the Sword demonstrates why popular narrative history is deeply ill-suited to the task of serious historical scholarship. At the same time that Holland expresses typical academic skepticism of a time-honored historical narrative—a standard move in revisionist history that has led to important scholarly developments—he trades in cultural stereotypes of Romans, Persians, and Arabs, and relates a whole host of deeply implausible anecdotes to add color to the story he seeks to tell. It is deeply ironic that, in a book that aims to call attention to the implausibility of the traditional Muslim account for the life of Muhammad and the birth of Islam, Holland’s first chapter starts with the story of the death of Yusuf As’ar Yath’as, the Jewish ruler of Himyar who is said to have ridden his horse into the Red Sea, never to be seen thereafter. While Holland concedes later that other sources claim that Yusuf lost his life in battle, not amidst the waves of the Red Sea, he has already shown his cards: In the Shadow of the Sword does not posture as a serious work of historical scholarship and, thus, should not be taken as such. Readers sincerely interested in questions about the roots of Islam would do better to turn to the back of Holland’s book, peruse his footnotes and references, and read Patricia Cone instead.