Back in ancient times (well, from at least the thrid century BC), the city of Emesa (now Homs in Syria) was the centre of worship of a deity whose name is sometimes translated into Latin as Heliogabalus, also as Elagabalus. You don’t need a lot of Arabic to spot that this is a phonetic representation of إله الجبل, Ila al-Jabal, the God of the Mountain, though there is also a strong solar element to the cult. The god manifested himself in the form of a conical meteorite which was venerated in the great temple. (It is not the only venerated meteorite in the region.) We actually have a picture of it, from a coin minted near the end, in the time of the usurper Uranius in the 250s AD.
The high priesthood of Emese was hereditary, and had the task of manoeuvring between the competing claims of different neighbours, particularly the Roman Empire. In 187 AD, the High Priest, Julius Bassianus (probably al-Basyānī to the locals) was visited by an ambitious widowed Roman provincial governor, who had been told by a horoscope that he might find a new wife in Syria. As it happened, Julius Bassianus’ older daughter, Julia Domna, had a horoscope which foretold that she would marry a man who would become a king. Julia’s cognomen is thought to have been دُمَيْنَة, Dumayna, a diminutive form of دِمْنَة, dimnah, referring to the dark colour of the sacred stone.
Julia and her Roman suitor hit it off, and married that summer in Lugdunum, now Lyons in southern France. On New Year’s Eve 192, the empersor Commodus was assassinated; 193 is known as the Year of the Five Emperors, by the end of which Septimus Severus, Julia Domna’s husband, was far ahead of the other two surviving claimants. He eventually defeated and killed them both, the final battle being in 197, again in Lugdunum.
After Septimus Severus died in York in 212 (and possibly before), Julia Domna did most of the work of actually running the empire, her young sons Caracalla and Geta not being terribly interested. Caracalla killed Geta and was himself overthrown by Macrinus in 217, and Julia Domna committed suicide. However at this point Julia Domna’s older sister Julia Maesa got involved. (Maesa is derived from the Arabic مايسة, the feminine form of the adjective ميس, meaning walking with a swinging, graceful gait; the modern equivalent is Maïssa.)
Julia Maesa and the rest of the family from Emese had done very well out of Severus’ rule, and had built up connections in Rome. In the meantime the hereditary head priesthood had descended to Julia Maesa’s grandson, Varius Avitus Bassianus. Julia Maesa spread rumours that he was actually the biological child of the dead (but popular) Caracalla and her own daughter Julia Soaemias (Caracalla’s first cousin), and successfully spearheaded a revolt that brought her grandson to Rome as a very young emperor, probably about 14.
The new emperor, Bassianus, was still the High Priest, of course, and so that he could continue in both roles, the god was brought to Rome, and a special temple, the Elagabalium was dedicated for worship. Bassianus attempted to unify the Syrian and Roman religious pantheons, with of course the Syrian god at the top. Although it seems the name was not used for him in his lifelime, posterity remembers Bassianus not under that name but by the same name as his god, Elagabalus, or Heliogabalus. Gibbon, whose whole chapter on this is well worth reading, has a vivid picture of the rites of the new god:
In a magnificent temple raised on the Palatine Mount, the sacrifices of the god of Elagabalus were celebrated with every circumstance of cost and solemnity. The richest wines, the most extraordinary victims, and the rarest aromatics, were profusely consumed on his altar. Around the altar a chorus of Syrian damsels performed their lascivious dances to the sound of barbarian music, whilst the gravest personages of the state and army, clothed in long Phoenician tunics, officiated in the meanest functions, with affected zeal and secret indignation.
I dunno, it sounds rather fun to me. (When I read this passage out to my wife, she sensibly asked, “If their indignation was secret, how do we know about it?”)
Bassianus lasted only five years as emperor, and was overthrown and killed by his cousin Alexander Severus (under the guidance of their grandmother). Alexander was not as keen on the Syrian cult and sent the god back home to Emesa, where we lose track of it.
Though we can make some guesses. Emesa was one of the last cities in Syria to become Christian, thanks to the strength of the cult. It was not until the late fourth century, a hundred and sixty years after the god’s excursion to Rome, that the Great Temple became a cathedral dedicated to John the Baptist during the 390s, helped by the fact that the head of John the Baptist was conveiently found in a nearby cave in 452.
What happened to the god, I wonder? Was it smashed up by zealous Christians? (Unlikely if – if! – it was an iron meteorite.) Did one of the old guard of the pagan priesthood take it home and hide it? Was it given decent burial under the high altar, just in case? My romantic soul inclines to the last of these.
Emesa, and most of Syria, came under Islamic rule from 636 AD, and the former Great Temple became the main mosque. Though there is an interesting hint that initially only half of the building was used for this purpose. What about the other half? Were the remaining Christians, who were a strong local community until the recent civil war, allowed to continue worshipping there? The head of John the Baptist was smuggled out to Cappadocia in 820. (It ended up in Constantinople, was smashed up in 1204 and Amiens, Rome and Mount Athos all claim to have parts of it.)
The mosque was substantially renovated by the pious sultan Nur ad-Din who ruled it from 1149 to 1174; in his memory it is now generally called the Great Mosque of al-Nuri. Subsequently the decorations and entrance of the mosque have been restored and refined, but with no change to the basic fabric which remains as Nur ad-Din left it.
And perhaps as he found it. In February this year, Maamoun Abdulkarim of the University of Sharjah published an article on the religious history of Homs, which is very well worth reading. It includes analysis of two Greek inscriptions found on the base of a column at the mosque. One of them has been known since the nineteenth century, and says “The king, the round image of the universe, conquered all peoples and obtained everything through the skillful driving of a chariot.”
The other was found in 2016, during restoration work after damage caused during the civil war. It is much longer.
It says, “He soars in the sky to crush the warring barbarians. He comes with a screaming voice, piercing the air. He smashes shields with his sword, tearing the enemy into pieces. He instantly transforms into a tiger, facing the foe. From the top of the hill, you hear his roar as he strikes with strength and ferocity. His royal power is derived from the god of war during the day.”
This is strong evidence that at least the northern wall of the main building of the mosque, and probably more than that, dates back to the times of the pagan temple.
Whatever may have happened to the meteorite in the past 1650 years, it’s still rather thrilling that the main place of worship in Homs has been continuously in use since the days of the sun-god from the mountains.