The Siege of Jerusalem (c. 1370-90 CE) is a difficult text. By twenty-first-century standards, it is gruesomely violent and offensive. It tells the story of the Roman destruction of the Second Temple in Jerusalem in 70 CE, an event viewed by its author (as by many in the Middle Ages) as divine retribution against Jews for the killing of Christ. It anachronistically turns first-century Roman emperors Titus and Vespasian into Christian converts who battle like medieval crusaders to avenge their savior and cleanse the Holy Land of enemies of the faith. It makes little sense without frank understanding of medieval Christian anti-Semitism. There is, nevertheless, some consensus that Siege is a finely crafted piece of poetry, and that its combination of horror, beauty, and learnedness makes it an effective work of art. As literary scholar A.C. Spearing has put it, “We may not like what the poet does, but it is done with skillful craftsmanship and sometimes with brilliant virtuosity.” The tale that the anonymous Siege poet tells, moreover, is an important and still reverberating part of the history of Western thinking about the East. It is, in Yehuda Amichai’s phrase, a “currency of the past” that continues to be negotiated. The first-century destruction of Jerusalem has been understood in both Christian and Jewish traditions as the beginning of the Jewish Diaspora; for medieval Christians it was also a model of successful Christian leadership and justified warfare, an allegory of political and personal spiritual battle. As part of the story of the historical rift between Christianity and Judaism—and of the inevitable victory of Christianity—the destroyed Second Temple was taken as symbolic of the fall of Judaism and the rise of the new Christian era in which anyone who rejected Christ would suffer. Written in alliterative verse in the late fourteenth century, The Siege of Jerusalem seems to have been popular in its day; at least nine fourteenth- and fifteen-century manuscripts containing the poem have come down to us. Yet this is the first volume to offer a full Modern English translation. In addition, appendices provide extensive samples of the alliterative original, a wide-ranging compendium of materials documenting anti-Semitism in the Middle Ages, comparative biblical passages, and much else.

The story of the final battle of the First Crusade The most extraordinary siege in medieval history began with the arrival of a Christian army at Jerusalem on the dawn of Tuesday, 6 June, 1099. Other sieges may have lasted longer, involved greater numbers of troops, and deployed more siege engines but nothing else in the entire medieval period compares to the extraordinary journey that the besiegers had made to get to their goal and the heady religious enthusiasm among the troops. This was the culmination of the First crusade, a military pilgrimage that had seen hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children leave their homes in Western Europe, march for three years over thousands of miles, and undergo tremendous hardship to reach their longed-for goal: Jerusalem. No other medieval army had made such a journey and no other army had such a peculiar makeup. There were hundreds of unattached poor women, gathered from the margins of Northern French towns by the charity of the charismatic preacher, Peter the hermit, and given a new direction in their lives through the expedition to Jerusalem. There were farmers who had sold their land and homes, put all their belongings in two-wheeled carts, and marched alongside their oxen. Bards came and earned their keep by composing songs about the events they were witnessing, from songs about the heroic charges of the nobles to bawdy satires on the lax behavior of some of the senior clergy. Naturally, knights and foot soldiers were at the heart of the fighting forces, but even here there was a strange fluidity to the army, with the status of a warrior rising or falling depending on his ability to keep his horse alive and his armor in good order. The Siege of Jerusalem offers a vivid and engaging account of the events of that siege; the key figures, the turning points, the spiritual beliefs of the participants, the deep political rivalries, and the massacre of the inhabitants, which left such a deep scar in the horrified imagination of those who learned about it, that it still evokes passionate feelings nearly a thousand years later.

It is fatal to show pity in a time of war. Led by the mighty Titus, the Roman army besieges Jerusalem. Arrows rain over the city day and night, and battering rams assault its defensive walls. Inside, the people curse their fate, resistant to the last but maddened by hunger. After days of rebellion, al last their city falls. The citizens plead for mercy - but as the Romans march on the Temple of Masada, the most sacred sanctuary of the Jewish people, flaming torches blaze above their heads . . .

This internal history of the Jewish rebellion traces factionalism among the Jews from the decades before the war's outbreak through the constantly shifting and dangerous alliances that reigned in Jerusalem from 66 to 70 C.E.; rivalries and divisions are revealed even in the structure of the Jewish army and in the patterns of famine and desertion during the siege. Classical, rabbinic, archaeological and numismatic evidence are brought to bear on a new interpretation of Josephus' Bellum Judaicum.

The fourteenth-century Siege of Jerusalem has been called by Ralph Hanna the chocolate-covered tarantula of the alliterative movement for its apparent anti-Semitism and is, as Livingston notes in his introduction, simply difficult for twenty-first-century readers to like. The poem, which describes the destruction of the Second Temple by Roman forces in AD 70, is graphic in detail and unpleasant in its relish of the suffering of the Jews. But as Livingston points out, Like the gritty violence of Alliterative Morte Arthure, the gore in Siege is perhaps best read as a grim awareness of the terrible realities of war, not as a bloodthirsty and berserk cry for further bloodshed. The poem chronicles a historical war, and it is this historical quality that must stand out: the poem not only has resonances of the bloodshed that battle inevitably brings, but it also is, in a very literal sense, history. This is to say, the war is over. The vengeance of Jesus has been accomplished. The Siege-poet's answer to the social-political-religious question of whether there is such a thing as a just war is that there was one: Titus and Vespasian's vengeance for the death of Christ. . . . Further efforts to avenge Christ were unnecessary. . . . That the poem is a call to action and to crusade, then, seems to be a claim that is far less sustainable than its opposite: a call to peace and to remembrance.