scenes of rejoicing that had been seen in other European capitals. There was a general feeling that the Day of Judgement was at
hand, and that Sabbatai’s arrival would finally restore the Jews to the glory they had enjoyed under King David.
The Sultan, the young Mehmet IV, was understandably alarmed. Enemies of Sabbatai informed his Grand Vizier, Ahmed Koprulu, that the Messiah was a charlatan who wanted the Sultan’s throne. If Sabbatai had heard about this, he might have felt complimented. The people of Constantinople were prepared to welcome him as the people of Jerusalem had welcomed Jesus Christ, and the secular
authorities thought he wanted to become king. History was repeating itself. His reply, of course, would be: “My kingdom is not of this world.”
But the parallel with Jesus should also have warned him that he would soon be under arrest. In fact, the boat had only just docked – after a painful journey of thirty-six days – when
Mehmet’s soldiers came on board and carried him off to jail.
He was luckier than his messianic predecessor. Wealthy followers greased enough palms to make sure he was not put to death. Instead, he was installed in the castle of Abydos, in Gallipoli, and
allowed to continue to live in style, with a succession of distinguished visitors. Unfortunately, one of these was a paranoid old man named Nehemiah ha-Kolen, a Polish scholar who wanted to argue
with Sabbatai about the Kabbalah, the Jewish mystical system. He was determined to prove Sabbatai an impostor, or at least, compel him to acknowledge himself, Nehemiah, as an equal. Sabbatai stood
up for himself, and probably allowed Nehemiah to see that he regarded him as a bilious and envious old neurotic. Nehemiah hastened away to denounce him to the Sultan as a revolutionary who had
admitted that he hoped to usurp the throne. In September 1666, Sabbatai was brought before Sultan Mehmet, and ordered to convert to Islam or die on the spot. Faced with his supreme opportunity for
martyrdom, Sabbatai behaved as unpredictably as ever. He promptly removed his Jewish skullcap and accepted a turban instead. He also accepted a new name: Azis Mehmet Effendi. His wife converted
too, becoming known as Fatima Radini. The Sultan then granted him a comfortable sinecure as keeper of the palace gates, which carried a generous pension.
Sabbatai, it seemed, had simply abandoned his conviction that he was sent to save the world. He chose comfort – even though he secretly continued to practise Judaism. In public he was a
good Mohammedan. But his followers knew better: they realized that this was another of his inexplicable actions.
Unfortunately, he was still subject to these extraordinary swings of mood, in one of which he divorced Sarah – although he took her back again as soon as he was normal. And he also
continued to preach sexual freedom. In due course, these views caused the Sultan embarrassment, and six years after his conversion, Sabbatai was arrested again. This time he was banished to a
remote village in Albania, Dulcigno, where he lived on for another four years. Sarah predeceased him in 1674, and he married again. He still had manic moods in which he declared he was the Messiah,
but no one paid any attention.
Oddly enough, his “John the Baptist”, Nathan Ashkenazi, continued to love and revere him as the Messiah, as did thousands of followers, who regarded his conversion as yet another of
his strange god-like actions – rather like those of the Japanese Zen masters who suddenly kick a pupil downstairs. Sabbatai was the only messiah known to history who was able to have it both
ways: to proclaim himself a charlatan, and still continue to retain the devotion of his followers. He was the last of the great Jewish messiahs.
These are only a small cross-section of the messiahs who have appeared since the crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth. Readers who want a fuller account should read Jack Gratus’s The False
Messiahs or