Siege of Zara

Geoffrey's Crusade 2: Imperial Virtues

The Fourth Crusade at Constantinople

In November of 1202, the people of Zara looked down and saw an army encamped at their walls and a fleet in their harbour, and they had no doubts as to their Venetian visitors intentions. So when the Zaran envoys sent down to the camp arrived at the doge’s pavilion, they came with a pretty clear grasp of the state of things. They came to submit themselves and their city to Venetian rule almost unconditionally; all they asked in return was that their people should not be killed. But even at such easy terms, the doge wouldn’t accept their surrender without consulting his allies first.

Dandolo left the Zarans, and in his absence, others came in to speak with them with words of encouragement. These were some of those who remained unhappy about the idea of attacking this city, and they assured the Zaran contingent that the crusading army was never going to do so, and that they had only the Venetians to worry about. If the Zarans could just resist them for a while still, then matters could be sorted out peacefully without their having to surrender. 

No doubt extremely heartened by this new information, the representatives of the city left immediately, so that when Dandolo came back to say that their submission would be accepted, he found them already gone. Geoffrey was probably there, in the pavilion, and our man in the room reports that in the confusion that followed, an abbot then stood, and he said, "Lords, I forbid you, on the part of the Pope of Rome, to attack this city; for those within it are Christians, and you are pilgrims." And the pope had forbade it too, on pain of excommunication, in a letter which may have just caught up to the crusaders. 

I like to imagine a pause here, a silence, a moment of processing and uncertainty, and then fury. Everyone shouting. The Venetians were enraged. They were about to physically attack the abbot, and maybe kill him, but the Count of Montfort stepped in their way. The doge meanwhile was yelling that he’d been betrayed. They’d stolen this city out from under him, and he demanded now that they honour their word. No threats of excommunication were keeping him and his people from what was theirs, and the crusaders had better do as they promised, especially after all those problems with paying their bills.

As had happened at every point of this story, there were some who would not go over this particular bridge. They were looking at trading a crusading indulgence for an excommunication, and then they were looking up at those walls and seeing the crucifixes which the Zarans had hung there like shields. It was just too much. They refused to take this city against the word of the pope. But there were too few of them, too few to carry the argument, and too few to justify Zaran confidence that all was as they'd been told: that these people would never attack them.

Because not many crusaders took themselves aside from what was to come. The Venetians were still there for what they believed was theirs, and the great bulk of the crusaders were also on board for this unpleasant but necessary action. 

Trenches were dug around and siege engines were put to work, while ladders were raised from the ships and sappers went in beneath the walls. The Zarans tried fighting back, and they tried appealing to papal authority to settle the argument. But they saw that neither were working and that their walls would not stand. After five days, on November 24th, they surrendered, and the city was taken, Venetians and crusades alike plundering and destroying with little sign of restraint. Some sources speak of relatively little loss of life while others are so full of bodies there were not enough left alive to bury them. 

The occupying force had a long winter ahead.

Hello, and welcome back. I’m Devon, and this is Human Circus: Journeys in the Medieval World. As always, I at this time want to remind you that review and subscribing to Human Circus is how we stay out of debt with the Venetians, and that by your signing up to the Patreon for as little as $1 a month, we still get to keep all the goodly boats too. Now, back to the crusade.  

With Zara occupied, the crusaders and Venetians settled down to a no-doubt uncomfortable time. Indeed, both our sources speak of an ugly episode immediately following the taking of the city. 

The Venetians were to stay in the port, close to the ships, and the crusaders in another part of the city. But though he doesn’t say how it happened, Robert records that “a great contention arose betwixt the Venetians and the baser sort amongst the pilgrims, which lasted a full night and half a day,” and that it was difficult for the knights to separate them. Where they once managed to calm the fighting in one place, it would spark off again in another. Geoffrey called it a “a great misadventure in the host, at about the hour of vespers; … a fray, exceeding fell and fierce,” that raged in nearly every street, with “swords and lances and cross-bows and darts; and many people were killed and wounded.” One “high lord of Flanders ... was struck in the eye, and ... died ... and many another of whom less was spoken.” Eventually, peace was made, and the leaders on both sides worked to maintain it, and the soldiers of the Fourth Crusade relaxed into their Zaran winter.

The situation there had led to a flurry of communications with Rome. The king of Hungary had been enraged by the crusaders actions, but had still been willing to join them on their crusade if only they abandoned the city. When they had refused, citing their promise to the Venetians, he had called on the Pope to restore the city to his protection, and Innocent had responded in a most illustrative way. He had vigorously condemned the attack on the city, made against his explicit prohibition, and he had demanded that it  be returned immediately to its occupants and to the Hungarian king, but just as interesting was what he didn’t do. He did not act on his threats to nullify their indulgences or to apply excommunication. As angry as he was, he did not actually want them to go home.

So as letters were sent to Rome, seeking absolution, and Dandolo and the other leaders sorted out their next move, or, in other tellings, as Dandolo finessed the next step of his malevolent master plan into being, another storyline was starting to catch up to them. It had been building for some time in the background of all of this, but I didn’t mention it last episode, so let’s catch up on things now. 

For us, that means going back to April of 1195, to the Byzantine Emperor Isaac II, and to the treachery of his elder brother who had himself declared emperor while they were both hunting in the south of Thrace. Isaac was promptly blinded, a disfigurement which rendered one unfit for rule, but his son Alexius was not. Alexius and his blinded father seem to have been given a surprising amount of freedom by their power-seizing relative - maybe he felt a little bad about the whole thing - and they would put that freedom to use in getting Alexius out of there. By 1197, his sister Irene was in Germany and married to Philip of Swabia, contender for the crown of Germany, and Isaac and Alexius had a powerful ear in which to whisper for help. 

It was all arranged in secret, with the help of the young man’s tutor. They promised not to act against the emperor, but what were promises, made to a usurper? When the prearranged moment arrived in 1201, when Alexius was with the emperor in Thrace, he slipped away and onto a waiting Pisan merchant ship. His pursuers searched all the ships, his included, but they couldn't find him. He'd already changed his appearance, his hair and his clothes. He was mingling with the merchants, and, somewhat amazingly, there was nobody on hand who could identify him.

Alexius escaped, and he went to Germany with his tale of woe. He encountered Boniface of Montferrat, who you’ll remember from last episode as the leader of the crusade, and Boniface would have been very interested in what Alexius had to say. Boniface had his own family history where Constantinople was concerned. His youngest brother had died of Byzantine imperial politics, and his older brother had been caught up in it too, and come away from it feeling cheated, at least until his assassination in Tyre. There seems to have been no immediate offer of help from Boniface though, or from his lord and cousin, Philip of Swabia, and so Alexius moved on to Rome.

There, before Innocent III, the young Byzantine noble found even less assurance. The pope was not prepared to back him, or to believe too easily that the boy before him was universally beloved among his people. But despite these failures to win support or arms for his bid to return home, the cause of Alexius was soon to be that of the moment.

According to Robert de Clari, morale among the men was very low that winter. They’d gone against the pope to take this place, deeply resented their Venetian “allies,” and had already exhausted such money and supplies that they wondered how they could possibly carry on to Alexandria, or Syria, or anywhere really. As it was, what could they accomplish if they did? And the Venetians, meanwhile, were no happier. They’d sustained by far the higher losses in the recent brawling, and were still yet to be paid by their adversaries in that fight.  

Have hope, the Venetian doge had urged them all, in Robert’s telling; there was very rich and abundant country in Greece, and if they went there, they would restore themselves for wherever they wished to go next, if they could but “find a reasonable occasion for going thither.” Indeed, all they needed was a “reasonable occasion,” and that was the cue for Boniface, who had recently rejoined the party, to step up and to speak. He told of having been in Germany and having met a very intriguing young man, “brother to the wife of the Emperor of Germany, ... son of the Emperor Isaac of Constantinople, from whom one of his own brothers had taken away the empire by treachery.” Whoever had this young man with them, Boniface continued, would have their reasonable occasion. They would have great ease of passage into Constantinople and whatever supplies they should possibly want or require.

Robert has the eager host then sending two knights to Germany to ask after the young man in question, and he graciously accepting their proposal at his brother in law’s urging, but Robert was, as we talked about last episode, not always in on all that was going on. Geoffrey tells us that two envoys came from Philip of Swabia and Alexius and that they spoke to Dandolo and the other leaders in the Zaran palace where the doge was staying, and that they made the following proposal.

If the crusaders would reunite Alexius with his imperial inheritance, then he would pay them 200,000 silver marks and food for all; he would accompany them onwards on their crusade and provide 10,000 men for the purpose; he would submit to the rule of Rome, and he would establish a lifelong commitment of 500 knights for the defence of the Holy Land. It was a rich offer, but it was not met with immediate open arms.

It was argued vigorously over during a parliament the following day. A Cistercian Abbot, among others, would not have it; these men had not left their homes to fight Christians, and it was held that they ought instead to go to Syria and there do what they could. To this the other side replied that if they went straight to Syria then what they could do was precisely nothing; they need only look to what had become of those who had already left from other ports to see that. If the Holy Land was to be taken it could only be by way of Egypt or Constantinople. If they rejected Alexius’ offer, then their lot was to be shame to last for all time. 

Boniface, Robert says, was all for it, having his own reasons to want revenge on Constantinople and, the lord himself would later maintain, a realistic idea of the provisions the army needed. And Dandolo, he would have needed no encouragement. Maybe the chronicler Niketas was overdoing it by describing the doge as “a creature most treacherous and extremely jealous of the Romans [Byzantines], a sly cheat who called himself wiser than the wise,” but Dandolo knew very well how much a hostile Constantinople had hindered Venetian business, and just how much an emperor who owed them everything might help it flourish. And, like Boniface, he would have had some notion of the logistical requirements for moving forward, and also some desire for any plan that would see the crusaders able to pay their bill. 

The host was split though, laymen and clergy. Of the latter, Geoffrey says, some “prayed and besought the people, for pity's sake and the sake of God, to keep the host together, and agree to the proposed convention,” while others followed the Abbot of Vaux de Cernay in voicing their opposition. In the end, the deal was accepted, and a date set. Fifteen days after the coming Easter, they were to bring Alexius into Constantinople, but Geoffrey tells us that only 12 people of sufficient stature could be found willing to take the oath, among them Boniface, Baldwin, and Louis, and this did not bode well for the army which rested in Zara and waited on the spring. After this pause, we’ll hear what happened.

...

As Geoffrey puts it, “the hearts of the people were not at peace.” Knights left on embassy to Syria, swearing on relics to return, and never came back. Others slipped away on merchant ships, and 500 of these drowned from one ship. And then there was the fact that this was still an army engaged in hostile occupation, and if the crusaders felt that they had much greater affairs to see to in the future, the here and now of it all was still very much on the mind of the locals. One company that abandoned the host was reminded of this as they were ambushed attempting to leave overland; many were killed and the remainder forced to return. Others left more successfully. Simon of Montfort, Enguerrand of Boves, and the Abbot of Vaux de Cernay were all important figures who elected to fulfill their vows elsewhere.

It was not all bad though. They’d sent 4 envoys to see the pope about absolution - and one of those four had jumped ship himself - but the other three had done their job well. Word had arrived that Innocent understood entirely that it was only through the failure of others that the crusaders had been forced to such mischief. So they were scolded but absolved. However, you needed to repent in order to be excused and the Venetians were in no way repentant. They were excommunicated, but Innocent separately let it be known that the crusaders could, against normal rules, continue to accompany the severed-Venetians. What mattered now above all else, was to hold the thing together, and a series of “practical” compromises was being asked of all involved to do so.

Amazingly, an army did hold together through all this until the spring, when the time came to load up again on the ships. I suspect it came as a huge relief for the leadership to leave Zara behind and at last be moving forward, their view of the Venetians dismantling the city receding in the rear view mirror. For some, it was now closing in on a year since they’d first mustered in Venice, and the whole adventure had not yet lived up to its promise. 

The fleet’s first major port of call which the chronicles mention was the island of Corfu, off the coast of present-day Greece where it meets Albania. There they stayed for three weeks, and that was where most of the army had their first look at their imperial saviour. They heard of his coming, and they came down to greet him “with great joy and great honour,” and Robert reports that, understandably, “he was glad as no other man ever was.” Corfu also brought a reminder that this army was really not an army in the modern sense, with cohesion and clear command structure because on Corfu, again, it almost came apart, as a large body of men, perhaps even half, took themselves apart from the rest and planned to call for ships to carry them elsewhere after the rest had departed. Only the intervention of Boniface, Alexius, and the other leaders rescued the situation, the lords and abbots falling to their knees in a tearful appeal to the malcontents and refusing to move until they had rejoined the host. 

If many of the crusaders were unhappy with the plan, Corfu showed also just how unhappy the people of Constantinople were going to be with having this Alexius foisted upon them. This was no return of a beloved prince; on the contrary, the locals bombarded the Venetians ships in the harbour. 

The fleet finally left Corfu with all aboard on May 24th, a day when the sky was clear and the wind in their favour, and the sight of sails and ships covering the waters filled Geoffrey with happiness, and likely the hope that this was all going to work out after all. 

They passed ships going the other way bringing home knights that had not joined them in Venice, and Geoffrey bitterly noted that they would not show their faces, save for one sergeant who had himself brought over and inspired the thought that “even after following a thousand crooked ways a man may find his way right in the end.”

On they went, overrunning the island of Andros by force, and then coming to the city of Abydos, where Troy had once stood at the mouth of the Hellespont, and its people, Geoffrey said, “had no stomach to defend themselves.” But of course they had no real capability to defend themselves against such strength. They would not have seen the straight as Geoffrey did, “in flower with ships and galleys” and “a great marvel to behold.” They would have only seen another wave of armed men washing up on their shores. As it was, the city was placed under guard and lost nothing, Geoffrey claims, but the crusaders still helped themselves to the winter-wheat in the fields before they left. Ahead of them now, was Constantinople.

And waiting there was Alexius’ uncle, the Byzantine emperor who, I should now mention, was also named Alexius. Now Emperor Alexius is not very kindly portrayed in the chronicles, and I don’t just mean they said he was a usurper who had his brother’s eyes put out. There’s the story that after first appearing before the people of the city as emperor in the Hagia Sophia, he was then thrown from his horse, his newly placed crown breaking on the ground where it landed - hardly an auspicious start. And then there was the time that, without apparent cause, the floor before the emperor’s bed had given way and several had fallen and been hurt, and one eunuch had actually died. As the chronicler Niketas records, “God guides the steps of some or trips them up.”  

Early hopes that Emperor Alexius’ rule would prove strong had long since been dashed, as it seemed that for all the effort he had exerted in winning the throne he then gave himself over to “lavish luxury and pleasure,” once it was his. That was the man that the fleet of Boniface, Geoffrey, Robert, and the rest was bearing down on, and he knew they were coming. 

He knew, but there was little he could or would about it. Niketas wrote that the emperor had been kept informed of the movements of the crusaders all along, but that, quote, “his excessive slothfulness was equal to his stupidity in neglecting what was necessary for the common welfare,” and when proposals were put to him for the defence of the city, “it was as though his advisors were talking to a corpse.” He had eventually ordered the imperial fleet made ready, but what a joke that was, for such a thing scarcely existed anymore. Its once awesome might had been frittered away. And that had been a process of decades, not to be laid at his feet alone, but he’d done nothing to help matters. Even in 1171, already in decline, they’d put forth 150 galleys against Venice. Now, the man in charge was his empress’ brother in law, a man with a much greater gift for enriching himself and upending political opponents than for putting boats into the water, so that when the call came, far too late, to mobilize, only 20 ships were to be found, and those “rotting and worm eaten.” The emperor was just going to need to trust in those walls, which had held out so many for so long.

Our Robert was just approaching walls. The ships had been decked out to be as grand a sight as possible, and as it approached - with the transports out front propelled by oars and then the galleys under sail - the people of the city looked down on the fleet from walls and from rooftops, according to Geoffrey, “so many people ... that it seemed as if there could be no more people (in the world).”  They “looked upon it with wonder,” Robert says, but I’m sure there was more than a little trepidation too, for these people’s experience of their Latin Christian cousins had often been unpleasant. Below on the waters, the crusaders in turn gazed up at “the greatness of the city which was so long and so broad.” For many of the Venetians it was a familiar enough sight, but for others it would have been entirely overwhelming, and they perhaps wondered if they had made the right decision in coming there after all. From Geoffrey, we read:

Now you may know that those who had never before seen Constantinople looked upon it very earnestly, for they never thought there could be in all the world so rich a city; and they marked the high walls and strong towers that enclosed it round about, and the rich palaces, and mighty churches of which there were so many that no one would have believed it who had not seen it with his eyes-and the height and the length of that city which above all others was sovereign. And be it known to you, that no man there was of such hardihood but his flesh trembled: and it was no wonder, for never was so great an enterprise undertaken by any people since the creation of the world.

And with that modest assessment, they took harbour at Chalcedon, across the water.

In the days that followed, they settled in very comfortably, the counts and barons in an imperial palace, apparently “one of the most beautiful and delectable that ever eyes could see,” while others were about the houses of the city or, for the larger part, in tents. They watched at first as missiles launched at their ships fell short into the waters. They foraged - Geoffrey says that “those obtained supplies who needed them, and that was every one in the host,” so we can imagine life was pretty grim for the local inhabitants. They had a little skirmish, small but enough for those involved to bring back horses, tents, and other spoils, and to feel good about themselves. 

They received an envoy from the emperor, a native of Lombardy named Nicholas Rosso, who, on behalf of his lord, expressed surprise to find such worthy men there, on his land. What were they doing there? To this they replied that they were not on his land at all, as he had seized it wrongfully, that he could simply submit to the mercy of his nephew, who was among them, and that if Rosso was not returning with word that the usurper would do so, then he need not come again at all. And he didn’t.

Next, the crusaders decided to play the Alexius card. They were still certain that much of the city must want to welcome Alexius as their rightful emperor. Robert credits Dandolo with the suggestion. Take the young man on a ship, the doge is to have said; bring him close to the shore under truce, and “ask the folk of the city whether they will acknowledge the youth as their lord.” But people should not ask such questions, if they are not confident of the answer. 

The youth was loaded aboard and shipped out along the walls for all to admire, and the good people of Constantinople were invited to recognize their true emperor:

“Behold your natural lord;” Geoffrey has it said, “and be it known to you that we have not come to do you harm, but have come to guard and defend you, if it so be that you return to your duty. For he whom you now obey as your lord holds rule by wrong and wickedness, against God and reason. And you know full well that he has dealt treasonably with him who is your lord and his brother, that he has blinded his eyes and reft from him his empire by wrong and wickedness. Now behold the rightful heir. If you hold with him, you will be doing as you ought; and if not we will do to you the very worst that we can." 

Then, in a delightfully Pythonesque turn, the people actually refused to recognize the fellow being paraded before them; they claimed to know nothing at all of this young man on the boat and instead heaped abuse on he and his Latin companions. The crusaders were left with no other option than to go away and to prepare to do the very worst that they could. 

Masses were spoken. Wills were drawn up, many men taking what could be a last opportunity to make gifts that would tip the scales of judgement in their favour. They crossed the waters and landed on the shore, what opposition there was melting away at the lowering of lances. They looted the enemy’s abandoned pavilions, and they camped in the Jewish quarter with an eye making the tower of Galata their next step, for there, the north end of the great chain preventing entry into the harbour was fixed. Plans were made to take it the following day

Going by Geoffey’s depiction, there was a sortie made by the defenders of the tower, and supported by forces from the city on barges. He speaks of a certain James and his men taking the initial brunt of the attack and of James himself taking a lance to the face before the general alarm was raised and men rushed in from all directions, killing several, and driving the others back. Many of the tower chose in retreat to opt for the barges rather than getting back in the tower. Some drowned in the attempt, but others made it. Those rushing back for the tower found the attackers pressing in too close upon them to get close the gates. There was a “terrible fight,” Geoffrey says, before the tower was taken, its defenders killed or made prisoner. 

By his accounting it had been a heroic action, but then he was a heavily invested participant. By the reckoning of Niketas, it was, quote, “a sight to behold the defenders fleeing after a brief resistance,” and it must be said that though he is highly critical of the man at the top, the chronicler does find space for complementary words as to the efforts of the defenders themselves.

However fiercely the defenders had fought, the tower was lost, and with it that defensive chain, which was promptly broken. The Venetian ships swarmed into the harbour and quickly captured the vessels that lay within. Conquering Constantinople had proven impossible for nearly 900 years, but it seemed to be all going easily enough so far. After this pause, we’ll hear what happened next.

There’d been some discussion of how exactly the attack on the city might be done. The Venetian doge favoured an assault by sea with something like siege towers employed to go from boat to wall, but the French knights, understandably, were less enthusiastic about swaying about over the sea. They would feel much better to have their horses and solid ground beneath them. So a compromise was reached: they would have cake and pie. The Venetians would go by water, the French by land, and all was made ready.

On the boats, the siege ladders were prepared, the elevated bridges which could be raised and lowered by cables bound to the masts, and mangonels and petraries to bombard the walls, while on land they were laying out their own siege engines, palisades, and barricades, with one division on guard towards the gates at all times, and six or seven times a day all being required to rush to arms against raiders. They “could not sleep,” Geoffrey said, “nor rest, nor eat, save in arms.” 

The attackers were under pressure, and not only from what might come out of the gates. They had but a little flour and salted meat, and fresh meat only when a horse was killed; there was food enough, Geoffrey reckoned, for just three weeks. They were ill-prepared, astonishingly so for an army that was threatening Constantinople, and the clock was ticking. Food aside, how long would that half of their number who’d wanted to jump ship going to stick around? They’d wanted out on Corfu. Were they likely to stay for a grinding siege?

Perhaps accelerated by concerns such as these, on July 17th, the attack on the city properly began. Three of the French divisions held back to guard the camp, while four went forward against the walls, swarming around a battering ram and up ladders. They clashed with Pisans and the ax-wielding Varangian Guard. Fifteen or so set foot on the walls, fighting with sword and axe, but they were cast down or made prisoner. Others breached the wall and into a passageway, but were repulsed. It was, by Niketas’ words, a “horrendous battle … fraught with groaning on all sides,” and there were many wounds and broken bones. 

Meanwhile, their Venetian colleagues were also facing resistance. Their ships, covered with ox-hide against fire, formed up in a line where the walls met the shore, and the sky above them swarmed with projectiles. Arrows, crossbow-bolts and stones flitted between ship and wall. The line closed enough at times that those elevated bridges were brought within reach for lance or sword to cross, and there was “tumult and noise ... so great that it seemed as if the very earth and sea were melting together,” but the men of the ships were wary of going to close to shore. Until their doge made another intervention, the one for which he is perhaps most legendary. 

Sensing the timidity of his side’s attack, Dandolo, standing at the prow, clad in armour, and St Mark’s banner in hand, ordered his ship to advance to the fore as an example to the others. He shouted down the querulous objections of those around him and stood undeterred by the the arrows whistling around him. Then, as his ship reached shore, the blind 90-something year old lept nimbly down to solid ground, the first man on the beach, and planted his banner there in the sand. Seeing their doge so fearless, his men followed with enthusiasm. 

And this almost certainly is not how it happened, but it still gets repeated here and there. However, we can actually see the seeds of such a story in Geoffrey’s account, which is admittedly that of a man who was very busy elsewhere at the time. His version starts in a similar place, with the Venetians hesitant to advance, but Enrico doesn’t swim to shore in full armour and bearing a cross, or anything of the sort; what he does do is insist that his ship, with its very, very distinctive colour and appearance, rush to the shore; he does threaten “justice upon [his people’s] bodies with his hands” if they failed to comply; and he does stand at the prow with his banner as it surges forward and stirs the others to follow. Maybe this version of the story is still an embellishment, but it is rather more believable. 

Whatever brought them rushing to the walls, the Venetians quickly found success, and Geoffrey wasn’t sure exactly how it had happened. “A strange miracle,” he called it, that the defenders fled from the walls and abandoned them to the attack. From Niketas, we get a less miraculous explanation: they’d actually been able to shoot and strike down on the walls from those elevated bridges and made easy work of it from such superior positions. Soon, the Venetians were able to spread out and to take 25 towers. And for just a moment then, a pretty long moment, the city seemed as if it were theirs. 

They were atop the wall and looking out over it all, sending for the French knights to come quickly, and they ventured in, taking horses and other spoils, but they couldn’t go far into that vast city. They were too few, and would be lost and easily overcome in the streets, and they could see, among other things, the mass of fighters that were headed their way, too many for them to possibly hold back. Pulling back, they set a wall of flames among the buildings before them. Then they watched as the wind picked up from their backs and drove the fire before it, deeper in the city, so that they could no longer see their opponents through the smoke and the blaze, and a vast area was soon consumed by it.

For all this success, their allies on land would not be answering the call to join them, for the crusaders had now poked at the wasps’ nest with their stick long enough that an imperial army had come out to answer their challenge. Whether it was because of the damage to the palace from flying stones, the smoke wafting in from the Venetian-sparked fires, the scorn of his people, or some other reason, Emperor Alexius had finally shifted himself. He had left what Niketas described as the “apartments of the Empress of the Germans,” and he had come out into the world to get involved.

A “huge array,” Niketas called the army that went out with him, of “the flower of the city,” a sight to make his enemies shudder, and the testimony of Robert and Geoffrey does not dispute this. His army poured forth from multiple gates, making it “seem,” Geoffrey said, “as if the whole world were there assembled,” while Robert, getting a little carried away, saw one hundred thousand horsemen, and all the footmen of the city lined before the walls.

The crusaders for their part, formed up in three division before their camp, first archers and crossbowmen, then mounted knights, then sergeants and squires with a group of 200 hundred knights who went without horse. They formed up towards the emperor but didn’t advance, for to do so would have been to be enveloped and lost. The other four divisions were set to guard the camp, and, in an indication of how seriously the threat was taken, these were joined - guarding one side it seems - by every kitchen-knave and common fellow they could muster, wrapped in saddle cloths and armed with copper pots and pestles so that they were, apparently, horrible to look at..

At this point, Geoffrey describes a prolonged standoff, neither side too willing to close with the other, but Robert has a slightly different story. He was among the three divisions directed towards the emperor’s men, those of the Count Baldwin of Flanders, his brother Henry, and that of Count Hugh of Saint-Pol, where Robert’s lord Peter of Amiens was, and he gives us a look at the operation of this army in action. 

Baldwin’s division had the vanguard, and they began to ride towards the emperor, and Hugh’s and Henry’s divisions followed, all shining in “emblazoned trappings or with silken cloth,” and companies on foot behind each. They advanced, and the emperor’s people came forward to meet them, but as Baldwin had left the camp and its army a full two crossbow shots behind him, his advisors spoke up. Better to go no further, they pointed out. If they were to close with the enemy here, there would be no help for them. Much better to withdraw towards the palisades and let the enemy come to them if he was willing. 

Thinking the advice good, Baldwin and his division wheeled about, and his brother Henry’s did also, but that of Hugh of Saint-Pol, where Robert was, did not. He and his men remained in the field, as they were, and Hugh’s people shouted that Baldwin had surrendered the vanguard shamefully and that they ought to take it. Now Baldwin, seeing they hadn’t moved, sent a messenger, asking them to turn back with him, but Hugh would not. And Baldwin sent more messengers, asking for God’s sake that they not bring shame on him for doing as he was advised, but rather turn back and join him. But again, Hugh would do no such thing. Instead, a shout went up from the two leaders of his division that they should ride forward at full speed, and so they did.

Robert was among them as they charged, and he allowed himself in recording this moment, to slip into fantasy a little, and imagine that the ladies of the palace had gone up to the windows and looked down at he and his comrades and said to one another that they seemed as angels, “such goodly men were they.” 

Now Baldwin’s knights said to him that he was doing a most shameful thing by not immediately riding after Hugh, and that if he did not move himself immediately, then they could follow him no longer. So, of course Baldin did as they said. With Henry’s division following, he and his men gave chase, pulling even with Hugh and moving ever closer to the emperor’s men. The counsel had been for them to pull back, keep tight and together, and let the enemy come to them, but now, in their efforts to outdo one another, they had far outstripped any support and were close enough that crossbow shots began to be exchanged. 

As Baldwin and the others crested one last hillock, they halted, the enemy before them on the other side of a canal, also stopped in their tracks. What to do now? Discussions were had among the leaders. Their distance from the camp and any possible reinforcement was no more helpful now then it had been before, and having rushed all the way over there, actually attacking didn’t look like a good option. What were they to do? 

As they considered their options, the decision was taken out of their hands. The emperor, apparently without a blow being struck, was going to withdraw.

What bitterness it must have been to be looking out from Constantinople just then. Niketas wrote that “a work of deliverance would have been wrought had the emperor’s troops moved in one body against the enemy, but now the nagging idea of flight and the faintheartedness of those about him thwarted Alexius from what needed to be done. To the joy of the Romans [of Constantinople] he drew up the troops in battle array and moved out, ostensibly to oppose the Latins, but he returned in utter disgrace.”

According to Robert, there was a “great murmuring” in the city then that if this emperor of theirs would not take up arms on their behalf and protect them from the crusading army, then perhaps they would go and take another look at that young man, for maybe they’d rejected him too soon. And Emperor Alexius assured them that he would do as they asked. He would fight the invaders. He would fight them tomorrow. However, that’s not what he did. Instead, he made for the palace and made ready his escape. He gathered gold and gems and pearls. It’s possible that he really intended to use them to gather some reliable mercenaries, having no faith in his own troops beyond the Varangian guard and Pisans, who were too few in number to carry the day themselves. But he would not be returning. 

Outside the walls, the crusaders returned to their camp. They laid aside their arms and armour. They were “weary and overwrought.” First the combat at the wall and then the tension of the standoff against what all sources seem to indicate were overwhelming numbers, would have been exhausting. They joyfully exchanged news of the doings of the day with the Venetians, but they did not eat or drink much, for their stocks were now too scarce for that. 

They did not know that as they dreamed, that the emperor was abandoning his city. That he made off from the palace in the middle of the night, and that in the morning, the sun would rise on a very different world, where they were concerned, one in which the imperial throne would be vacant and Alexius gone.

As Niketas wrote, “it was as though he had laboured hard to make a miserable corpse of the city.” He was a “miserable wretch among men,” the chronicler continued, “neither softened by the affection of children nor constrained by his wife’s love, nor … moved by such a great city.” But Niketas had some surprisingly kind words for the now former emperor too. If he had been excessively concerned with comforts, he had not been such a bad sort in other ways. He was mild of temperament, and accessible to any who wished to speak to him, and “sometimes, one could contradict him without placing restrictions on oneself in speech.” He had little time for slanderers or flatterers, and he had been forever stricken by guilt for what he had done to his brother, and that had apparently affected him deeply. Niketas continues:

“If it be exceedingly difficult for emperors not to cut down the ears of corn which overtop the rest, and not to leap brutally upon those who have offended them, then one could see that Alexius was rich in such virtue. He did not drive a stake into the eyes to implant darkness or prune the limbs of the body as though they were grapevines, to become a butcher of men. As long as he wore the gloom-stained purple, no woman put on black. Neither did fire flash from his eyes like rays from gems, nor did he abuse others with insults so that teardrops the size of round pearls should fall.”

And that is where we’ll leave things for today. Next episode, we’ll meet the new emperor. Maybe even more than one, for Constantinople could be a tricky place to rule. Thanks for reading. 

Sources:

  • Geoffrey de Villehardouin. Memoirs or Chronicle of The Fourth Crusade and The Conquest of Constantinople, translated by Frank T. Marzials. J.M. Dent, 1908.

  • Three Old French Chronicles Of The Crusades: The History Of The Holy War; The History Of Them That Took Constantinople; The Chronicle Of Reims, translated by Edward Noble Stone. University Of Washington Publications In The Social Sciences, 1939.

  • O City of Byzantium, Annals of Niketas Choniates, translated by Harry J. Magoulias. Wayne State University Press, 1984.

  • Madden, Thomas F. Enrico Dandolo and the Rise of Venice. The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003.

  • Madden, Thomas F. Venice: A New History. Viking, 2012.

  • Queller, Donald E. The Fourth Crusade: The Conquest of Constantinople, 1201-1204. Leicester University Press, 1978.


Geoffrey's Crusade 1: Venetian Appointments

Siege of Zara

In his 1978 book, The Fourth Crusade, Donald Queller opens with the following words of Francesco Guicciardini:

If you consider the matter carefully, you cannot deny that Fortune has great power over human affairs. We see these affairs constantly being affected by fortuitous circumstances that men could neither foresee nor avoid.

It’s an interesting way to start the history of a project that has generally been framed as an unmitigated disaster, a project that left the rails early and never returned to its station, but just kept ploughing along up to the point it ran out of momentum within the ruined walls of Constantinople. Was this all just the work of Fate? Had the human beings involved no control over the matter at all? 

Some observers, many even, have seen quite distinct human-agency at work, a nefarious hand steering the entire enterprise for self-serving purposes, to the misery of many. But the story seems less clearly one-sided to me. It seems more a tragic series of ongoing blunders, miscalculations, overconfident commitments, and yes, people using other people, until it all collapsed.   

Could they have foreseen it? Could they have avoided it? Surely, there was a time when they might have, but as we’ll see, the participants in our drama pursued their goals within a narrowing field of options, the cruel logic of the moment carrying them along towards an end which most involved would never have chosen.

Hello, and welcome back. I’m Devon, and this is Human Circus: Journeys in the Medieval World. I remind you at this time that rating, reviewing, and, for as little as one dollar a month, signing on to the Patreon, is how we extricate ourselves from the khan’s drunken embrace; and that you can find the link to the Patreon, and all other things Human Circus, at humancircuspodcast.com. On that note, a special thank you to Mark, the newest member of the Human Circus patreon family. Your support is hugely appreciated. And now, back to the story.

As I’m sure you’ve realized, we’re onto something new with this episode. This isn’t Marco Polo, but it is a topic we briefly touched on at the beginning of the Marco Polo series, and it certainly does concern his birthplace. Today, I’ll be talking about the Fourth Crusade, a massive military misadventure by most measurements and an unpleasant confirmation of all the people of Constantinople had grown to suspect of their Latin Christian visitors. It would never reach its stated goal of Ayyubid Egypt, but it would have serious consequences, not the least of which was the hastened demise of the Byzantine Empire. 

I’m not going to be exhaustive about the crusade here. Instead, in keeping with how I usually do things, I’ll loosely be following the story of an individual, or in this case two. You’ll be getting the lead up to the Fourth Crusade from the perspectives of Robert de Clari and Geoffrey de Villehardouin, the former a common knight from Picardy, the latter the Marshal of Champagne, a leader, and fortunately for us, a chronicler who gives us access to events at the level of command. Together, they give us a bit of a picture of what it was to go on crusade at the dawn of the 13th century, and they take us up to the story I want to tell next. “Here,” to quote the report of Robert, “beginneth the history of them that took Constantinople, and presently we will tell you who they were and for what cause they went thither.”

But we need to take few steps back before any of that. We should know that at this point there were crusader states all along the Syrian coast. There was the Principality of Antioch, the County of Tripoli, and the Kingdom of Jerusalem, which held sway over Beirut, Tyre, Acre, Caesarea, and Jaffa, but crucially, not Jerusalem itself. That had been taken by Salahuddin in 1187, and had not been won back in the Third Crusade. 

We should know that in the city of Rome, on the 8th of January, 1198, Pope Celestine III had died. He was 92 years old and had been pope for the last 7 of them, having attempted to step down from his position just the year before. Into his place stepped Lotario dei Conti di Segni, better known now as Pope Innocent III. 

Innocent was in his 30s then, a distinctly youthful change from his predecessor, and he began his papal reign energetically. When he wrote to the Patriarch of Jerusalem with news of his elevation, he was already announcing his intent to take back the Holy City, and it wasn’t only empty words either. Soon he was acting on that promise. He declared a new crusade in August of that summer, and set a date of March, 1199 for the campaign to begin. He deliberately excluded the kings of Europe, who he did not want exerting too much control over the operation, and he called for all barons, counts, and towns to provide men and to supply them for two years. He extended the usual offers of indulgence for those who took the cross or contributed, and also protection for participants’ worldly goods while they were away. He named legates, and he imposed a tax upon the clergy. But the results of all these efforts were distinctly underwhelming. It maybe have been relatively easy time to assert papal authority, but it was a difficult one in which to raise an army. 

Europe was divided. Of course it was; always was. But here, France and England were at war with each other, as were Genoa and Pisa, and Germany was at war with itself, with Philip of Swabia and Otto of Brunswick struggling over the imperial throne. There are indications that the clergy resisted the taxation attempts, and neither blood nor treasure were pouring into the war chest as the Spring of 1199 deadline rushed up and was gone. Innocent was disappointed, but a light was flickering on in France which would turn things around.

On the outskirts of Paris, a preacher was making a name for himself. Fulk of Neuilly, as he was called, was filling the streets with his enthusiastic listeners, and a contemporary called him “another Paul.” He railed against usury, lechery, and the concubinage of the clergy, picking out offenders right there in the crowd. And he preached Innocent’s crusade.

With Innocent’s approval, Fulk went to work, extending his reach well beyond the suburbs of the city and enlisting men, some nobles, but mostly the poor, thousands of whom signed up at his urging. And then, at a late November tournament at Ecry, in Northern France, the host, Count Thibaut de Champagne, and his cousin, Count Louis de Blois, took the cross, and took the other attending knights along them. With those two grandsons of Louis VII and Eleanor of Aquitaine officially on board, the floodgates opened. Innocent’s crusade was behind schedule, but it was gaining momentum.    

Both of our chroniclers open their stories by listing some of those notables to take the cross: Thibaut and Louis, who we’ve already met, and also Count Baldwin of Flanders, with his brother, and Count Simon of Montfort with his; the bishops of Soissons and Troyes, a bishop from Germany, the future Bishop of Acre; and many more knights, abbots, and monks than could easily be mentioned; lords are named from Burgundy, Champagne, Beauvais, the Ile-de-France, Flanders, and elsewhere. Robert lists those who would be most notable for their deeds and prowess, the rich of course, but also, interestingly, the poor - Hugh of Beauvais, Robert of Ronsoi, and so on.

If it’s Robert de Clari, much closer in station to a commoner, who provides the more inclusive list of crusaders, it is Geoffrey who gives us the details of what would happen next. He was by far the more senior of the two and personally involved in much that Robert could only piece together after the fact. 

He tells us that when the lords met at Soissons to make plans, they at first could come to no agreement. Many felt they didn’t yet have enough men. And so, the year 1200 passed, with more meetings taken every two months, but no immediate moves toward departure, until it was agreed at least that envoys should be selected to make the arrangements. There were to be two each chosen  by Thibault, Louis, and Baldwin, and these six representatives would be provided with sealed charters from the barons guaranteeing their commitment to carry out whatever agreement the envoys entered into, “in all sea ports, and [wherever] else the envoys might fare.” It was an open ended assignment to see about getting them all to the Holy Land, and conveniently for us, our Geoffrey was going to be one of Thibault’s chosen two. 

The envoys’ first decision was where to take their business. Genoa, Pisa, and Venice were all good possibilities to find transportation for a crusading army, each twice a year carrying men and supplies to the Levant, but Genoa and Pisa had for the time exhausted themselves in their wars against one another and there had besides been many complaints over the Genoans’ handling of Philip Augustus during the Third Crusade. Venice then, was to be the envoys’ selection and Geoffrey’s destination.

In the first week of Lent, February 1201, they arrived in the city of Venice and were welcomed by its Doge, Enrico Dandolo. He was “very wise and very valiant,” Geoffrey wrote. He was in fact very old too, perhaps in his 90s, and also at least partially blind. Some would come to say that he had been blinded by Manuel Comnenus of Constantinople, but this detail was probably added for dramatic effect later on. Dandolo would really  become something of a legendary character, and not just when it came to avenging blindings. He’s given parts of unlikely heroism in some depictions, while in others, he’s the manipulative villain with only the prosperity of himself and his city on his mind, a kind of criminal mastermind almost.

The man Geoffrey and the others met, was not yet any of those things. What was it they might want of him, he wondered aloud, upon reviewing the letters of their lords, likely having a pretty strong idea already why the barons of France might call upon his sea-going city, and when the envoys asked to appear before his council, and let it be tomorrow, he invited them to return in four days and make their wishes known.

On the fourth day, the envoys presented themselves at the palace, “passing rich and beautiful,” and found the doge and his council within. What did they want? That Venice should, “take pity on the land overseas and the shame of Christ, and use diligence that [their] lords have ships for transport and battle.” And how were the Venetians to use diligence? “After all manners that [they] may advise and propose,” the envoys responded, just so long as it was within the means of their lords to cover the cost. That was of course going to turn out to be a real problem, but for now Dandolo asked for eight days in which to consider the proposal, and the envoys took their leave. 

If it seems that Dandolo was really stringing his visitors along here, four to eight days at a time, know that this was no small bit of business for the Venetians. This was an all-in affair that would replace all others until it was done, requiring the total commitment of the city and its resources to this one cause. They’d be emptying their other baskets entirely to do this, and, if Geoffrey’s account is to be believed, the entire operation was going to be left to the Venetians to plan out. This is where we want to go, the would-be crusaders had told them; now show us what you can do. And after this brief pause, we’ll hear what the Venetians came up with.

...

As it happened, the Venetians could do quite a bit. When Geoffrey and the others returned on the eighth day, their meeting concluded with this: the Venetians would construct transport ships for 4,500 horses and 9,000 squires, ships for 4,500 knights and 20,000 “sergeants of foot,” and they would provide nine months of food for horses and men, at a price of four marks for four-leggers, two marks for two. In addition, if the crusading army would cut them in on 50% of their loot while the Venetians were with them, then they could also count on 50 armed galleys to accompany the fleet.

It was a serious contract, and the envoys, after taking the night to think it over, not nearly long or hard enough it would seem, went in to tell the Doge that they found it agreeable. Now, he just had to see if his people found it agreeable. He took the matter to his great council of forty, and then on to one hundred of his citizens, then two hundred, and then a thousand, building consensus before his grand piece of public theatre: an assembly of 10,000 in the Church of St Mark.

There, in what Geoffrey called “the most beautiful church that there is,” mass was said. Then the envoys themselves were brought to the front of the church, and Dandolo had them address the people, and humbly asked for what they wanted. Geoffrey de Villehardouin, the Marshal of Champagne, stepped forward, and he began to speak:

Lords, the barons of France, most high and [powerful], have sent us to you; and they cry to you for mercy, that you take pity on Jerusalem, which is in bondage to the Turks, and that, for God's sake, you help to avenge the shame of Christ Jesus. And for this end they have elected to come to you, because they know full well that there is none other people having so great power on the seas, as you and your people. And they commanded us to fall at your feet, and not to rise till you consent to take pity on the Holy Land which is beyond the seas.

The envoys went to their knees, openly weeping, and the doge, whether calculating or authentically moved, maybe both, burst into tears too, as did the entire assembly in a great display of shared emotion. “We consent! We consent!” they shouted, their hands raised. The doge took the front again, and gave a speech, all “good and beautiful words,” and the people left, happy and united. 

The next day, Geoffrey and the other envoys again met with Dandolo. The treaties were officially signed; the following year was chosen for their departure, when the “barons and pilgrims were to be in Venice, and the ships ready against their coming;” and a destination was set too. Geoffrey tells us that the council was told those ships would be headed for Egypt, but to the general public it was to be the much vaguer “overseas,” something they would surely take to mean a straight line to Jerusalem. The arrangements were forwarded on to Rome for the pope’s ratification, and the envoys, having borrowed enough money for an initial deposit, left for France. 

They had been successful in their mission, and a deal had been secured, but at what a cost, some 85,000 marks. With all that was going to happen later on, people often portray this agreement as the first of a series of cunning Venetian maneuvers bent on achieving a private self-serving goal, but actually their price was close to standard, as such things went, close to recent prices set by the Genoans for example. The prices per knight, horse, and squire were actually all reasonable enough. The problem was with how many were supposed to be involved. This wasn’t a “bring who you will, and we’ll build a fleet to match”-type situation; the Venetians were putting all they had into being ready to shift some 35,000 people, and they expected to be paid for it, whether 35,000 people really showed up or not. This was the agreement Geoffrey and the other envoys had signed on behalf of their lords, and they have to be considered at least partly responsible for this wild optimism, as do their lords who they represented. 

There were no mixed feelings on Geoffrey’s return, no hint that he’d signed the French barons up for something undesirable, something that was going to set the whole thing horribly off course. Maybe he, quite understandably, presented his actions in the best possibly light when the moment came to write things down. Or maybe nobody yet saw the implications, too full with the glory of what they were embarking on to consider it would be anything less than a thing of wonder. 

In his account, we do actually get a little taste of what was going to make things difficult for the crusaders. On his way home from Venice, he meets with a Walter of Brienn. Walter was off to Apulia to conquer the lands of his wife, and Geoffrey identified some of the best of Champagne going with him, knights who had all taken the cross. They told Geoffrey that they would be ready to join him when the time came, but they wouldn’t. 

As Geoffrey reflected on Walter’s case, “events fall out as God wills, and never had they power to join the host,” but Walter and the many knights who accompanied him didn’t just happen to be busy at that moment. Pope Innocent had enlisted them in his struggles in southern Italy with the House of Staufen. So it was that when all those knights were to be needed to make up the numbers in Venice, Walter would be fighting in Apulia, and in June of 1205, when the events of the Fourth Crusade had all played out, he was still going to be there in Italy to be surprised and killed in his own camp, he and his many much needed knights never leaving Italian shores. 

Geoffrey travelled on from this encounter to Troyes, where he found his lord Thibaut still entirely on board. Unfortunately, Thibaut was also sick, very sick, bedridden and slipping away towards the end. Count Thibaut was briefly revived by Geoffrey’s arrival and his news. He rose from his bed, and for the first time in a long time, mounted and rode his horse, but that would be the last time. He soon died, and on his tomb, the following words were inscribed:

Intent upon making amends for the injuries of the Cross

and the land of the Crucified

He paved a way with expenses, an army, a fleet.

Seeking the terrestrial city, he finds the one celestial;

While he is obtaining his goal far away,

he finds it at home.

Behind him, Count Thibaut left money for his friends and followers that they should, upon receiving it, swear on holy relics to join the gathering in Venice, but there were many among them, Geoffrey says, who kept that oath badly. They took the money made their promises, but they did not hold to them. Like the passing of Walter of Brienn into Apulia, they were very much the smoke of a fire still to come.

The death of Thibaut also left the issue of leadership to be arranged, and it wasn’t so simple as handing things off to Louis or Baldwin, or at least that’s not what they did. The crusaders likely viewed this as an opportunity to pull someone in, to dangle the prospect of the glory of command, with support and resources already attached, and to land a powerful baron who had not yet taken the cross, and with him, his many men. From Robert and Geoffrey we get different perspectives on quite how this went. 

Robert will tell us that the Marquis de Montferrat in Lombardy was sent for, and that he agreed to take his place at their head. But Geoffrey lets us know that the Marquis was not the first to be asked. The job had been offered around a little before coming to him. Odo, Duke of Burgundy, had said no, and so had another count, before Geoffrey, who often - perhaps fairly - takes on the role of wise counselor in his own narrative, suggested that they might ask Boniface, the Marquis de Montferrat, and that he would not refuse them. Geoffrey does not mention it, but he’d quite likely visited Boniface on his way home from Venice, and knew the marquis would not say no. 

In Boniface, the crusaders were getting a leader that was acceptable to their different factions, and to the pope. They were getting the son of a crusading family, and an experienced campaigner, and they were getting his many followers too.

Boniface came to the assembly in Soissons, in the abbey’s orchard, and the crusaders prayed he accept the leadership; they threw themselves at his feet, crying, and he threw himself at theirs. Maybe Geoffrey was romanticizing the scene a little here, reaching for a moment more chivalric than factual, but it really was a very emotionally demonstrative time. Either way, the fourth crusade now had a leader, and it had a rapidly approaching appointment to keep in Venice.

After Easter, the crusaders began to make their journeys, and “at their departure many were the tears shed for pity and sorrow, by their own people and by their friends.” They would have been making preparations for a long and potentially life-ending journey. Money would have been raised for the trip and affairs put in order at home. Some would have put thought to the state of their soul, what grievances might still be held in the balance against them, that they might now correct before it was too late. Others would have had second thoughts about going at all. They had perhaps first taken the cross in an outpouring of public enthusiasm, and at the encouragements of a passionate preacher like Fulk, but now they were alone with their own thoughts, and the whole thing was more real, and more immediate. 

At eight centuries distance, we might think these knights with their religious convictions and their sense of heroic virtue would be immune to such misgivings, having already given their word, but we would be mistaken. Raimbaut, troubadour and friend to the Marquis de Montferrat himself, agonized over the thought of leaving his love, Beatrice, and wavered between staying with her and staying loyal to his friend. He pictured the banners and the battle cries, and the heavenly rewards of dying in such a cause, but he was not entirely convinced. In the end, he would go, but not until 1203.

Those who did leave on time, reached Venice in the spring of 1202. For many, it would not have been a direct journey. They were on an extended pilgrimage, even if one that would culminate in violence, and they would have stopped on the way at sites like Clairvaux and Citeaux, strengthening their resolve at the homes of sacred relics. Arriving in Venice, they, quote, “saw the goodly fleet that had been made ready, the goodly ships, the great ... transports for carrying the horses, and the galleys, greatly did they marvel at these and at the great riches that they found in the city.” By Robert’s view of things, it was all pretty great and goodly, and the new arrivals settled themselves in among tents on the Isle of Saint Nicholas. 

With Geoffrey, however, the picture was not nearly so rosy. He knew that all wasn’t proceeding as planned, that the multitudes who had taken the cross were not pouring into the city as projected. Many of them were taking other routes; they were departing from other ports. Some likely suspected there would be problems, and looked to the muster in Venice before committing themselves, and of course by doing so they made of their concerns a reality. Even Count Louis of Blois, one of the initial leaders, held back in this way at first. Envoys were sent out to try to lessen the damage and “by encouragements and prayers” to convince any waverers that Venice was the still the best option to leave from. Geoffrey was, again, among these envoys. He persuaded Louis, and some other crusaders do seem to have been talked into sticking with the plan, but not all, and, as we’ll see, not enough. 

Some knights didn’t just skip the communal travel option. They failed to present themselves entirely. Geoffrey saves his bitterest words for these, people like those on the fleet from Flanders, those who had sworn on holy relics they would bring the fleet to Venice, and its cargo of cloth, food, and men at arms with it. They had not kept to their promises, and their captains were listed off by Geoffrey: John of Nêle, Castellan of Bruges, Thierri, and the rest. And there were other disappointments too: bishops, counts, Walter of Saint-Denis’ brother Hugh. Some would prove of little worth where they were going. Others were causing mission-crippling difficulties simply by not going at all. There were too few knights , and they had too little money.

Pope Innocent saw the problems well enough, but this was no longer his crusade. He ordered some of the knights biding their time in Lombardy to join the host in Venice, but to no great effect. His legate meanwhile arrived only in late July, and then was not allowed by the Venetians to join as a legate, but only as a common preacher. There were many hands on the wheel now, and the pope’s were not the strongest. 

The Venetians had held their end of things up. There were all those goodly boats. Indeed, “the fleet they had got ready was so goodly and fine that never did Christian man see one goodlier or finer; as well galleys as transports, and sufficient for at least three times as many men as were in the host.” And that last part was really the issue. 

The doge’s people had thrown themselves into the project with everything they had; Robert even has all other projects forbade, all other trade curtailed, while the resources went into constructing, and provisioning, this one great fleet. But now the crusaders were assembled there on Lido, it was painfully obvious that there were not enough of them to necessitate such a grand fleet or to cover its costs. The knights on hand paid their quoted shares of the fee, but they were like the last of a very large party leaving the table. They were expected to pick up the entirety of the tab that remained. And they weren’t quite there. They were not quite halfway there, and the Venetians were not pleased.

Now the crusaders faced an interesting decision, and key to this was the fact that “the crusaders,” was not a homogenous mass, tidily calculating in all it did. It was messy collection of individuals, that might just as easily come apart. Some wanted to cut their losses in Venice. They’d paid for their portion, no great outlay for some of them, and if the Venetians were not then willing to take them, well, they could easily find someone else who would; they’d vowed to go on crusade to the Holy Land not to Venice. For others, this might have been an opportunity to just go home; they’d made the effort after all, and maybe it really would be for the best for all of this to be over. That’s not how everyone saw it though. For some, Geoffrey wrote, it was better that they gave “all that [they had] and go penniless with the host, than that the host should fall to pieces and fail; for God [would] doubtless repay [them] when it so please[d] Him.”

This side started scraping the bottom of the savings they had available to them. The Count of Flanders gave “all that he had and all that he could borrow,” and so did Count Louis, and others too. Up to the palace these nobles went, with silver and gold, in coinage and other forms until, when all was totalled up, they were still more than 30,000 marks short! Those who’d held back were gladdest of all now, for, the scheduled departure date of June 29th having long passed, they were certain the whole thing would at last fail, and at least they would have lost very little out of it themselves and would be free to pursue other possibilities, their conscience clear. Some did leave. It was inactive army tied by a shared goal rather than any kind of command structure, and they had nothing to do save for complain at the apparent greed of their abusive hosts. The season for sailing was winding down, and things looked bleak.

However, this was when Dandolo intervened, and where the narrative of the doge as a conniving manipulator starts to gather steam. They had squeezed all the money they were going to have from the agreement, he told his people, and though it was not everything they had been promised, if they held it without delivering on their end of the bargain, it was sure to attract blame and recriminations. Would it not be better to find some other way for the crusaders to pay their way? Surely, if they put their heads together they could come up with something. What about the city of Zara for example? Maybe their guests could help with that. Maybe they could all winter there together, it being now too late to sail for Egypt. Maybe he and his people could then see their way to forgiving “the debt of 34,000 marks ...,” or at least “until such time as it [should] please God to allow [them] to gain the moneys by conquest… ." After this short pause, we’ll hear about Zara, and why they went there.

...

Zara, or Zadar, was an old Roman and then Byzantine city, and a port across the Adriatic Sea. It was useful as a site of resupply on voyages to the east, and crucial as a gateway for Dalmation oak to reach the Venetain shipyards. And it was no longer in their hands. The city had achieved independence around 1180, fought off attempts at recapture, and sought protective friendships first with the Hungarian King, who had build them a fortress, and then with one of Venice’s aquatic rivals, the city of Pisa.

So this was where the Venetians wanted their guests to go with them, and the crusaders were in a bit of a bind. They could say no and hope that their hosts would fulfill their end of the contract despite not being paid in full, but then “they,” again, was not a homogenous entity. There were many who wanted this all to disintegrate, who did not see it as necessary for the fulfillment of their personal crusading vows, so the party that wanted to hold it all together, our friend Geoffrey among them, couldn’t let the momentum fall away. They felt bound to agree to this that would keep things on course, no matter how they may have felt about it, because there was always that greater good to consider at the end of it all, that shining goal that could supersede so much else.

And all of that was enough for many of the crusading knights. They were in, and that meant another of Enrico’s grand gestures, his wonderful public displays, was in store for them. Up he went before his people at the church of St Marks, with many of the crusaders there too. Before the mass was given, he stepped up before them. 

“You are associated with the most worthy people in the world,” he said, “and for the highest enterprise ever undertaken; and I am a man old and feeble, who should have need of rest, and I am sick in body; but I see that no one could command and lead you like myself, who am your lord. If you will consent that I take the sing of the cross to guard and direct you, and that my son remain in my place to guard the land, then shall I go to live or die with you and with the pilgrims.”

And they shouted their agreement; they cried; they wept. Geoffrey mused at Enrico’s “great heart,” and “how little like him were those who had gone to other ports to escape the danger.” The doge knelt before the altar, weeping, and they sewed the cross upon his hat for all to see, and his people and the armed pilgrims shared in the sight of his dedication. They were united in this, for now, and they were going to Zara together. 

Or at least most of them were. There were some who left at this stage, either because they had now exhausted their more meager funds or because they could not stomach this new revelation which must have been filtering down through the ranks, for all the leadership likely did to prevent it. If going to Egypt would have been off-putting, then think how much more so would be assaulting a Christian city, under the protection of a king who had taken the cross no less, and all on the behalf of the hosts that some now viewed as abusive and irredeemably greedy. The disaffected bled more numbers from the ailing army and then spread their unhappiness to those arriving late or waiting to see what transpired in Venice. The papal legate, denied official recognition, did what he could to keep too many from abandoning the crusade, and then left to consult with Innocent. He hadn’t wanted anyone to leave this army, but he also would have no part of storming Zara. And neither would the crusade’s official leader. He too chose this time to go and see the pope. For those that remained, their fleet put to sea in early October, 1202. 

This was not the monumental force that Geoffrey and his compatriots had once imagined, but it was still, in Geoffrey’s eyes and Robert’s, pretty grand. “...the shields were ranged round the bulwarks and castles of the ships, and the banners displayed, many and fair.” The priests all chanted. The Doge of Venice himself was aboard a vermillion coloured ship, a matching pavilion above him, and four silver trumpets before. In Robert’s words:

...it was the goodliest thing to behold that ever hath been since the beginning of the world. For there were full an hundred pair of trumpets, both silver and brass, which all sounded for the departure, and so many timbrels and tabours and other instruments that it was a fair marvel to hear. But when they were come forth upon the sea, and had spread their sails and hoisted their banners upon the castles of the ships, and their ensigns, then verily did it seem that the whole sea was all as warm, and that it was all ablaze with the ships that they were steering and the great rejoicing that they made.

The fleet gathered supplies and men at Venetian subject cities along the coast, and, on November 10th, they appeared before the fortified city of Zara. Looking up, they said to one another, “How could such a city be taken by force, save by the help of God himself?" But I suspect the people of the city looking down at more than 200 transports and galleys, saw very well how it might be done. The chain at the mouth of the harbour was quickly broken and men poured ashore, bringing horses and siege machinery with them. From the walls, the Zarans did not contest the landing, but watched as camp took shape below. Predictably, tragic twists were about unfold, but we’ll be getting to those next episode. 

We’ll witness the fate of Zara, and the unspooling of events that would lead Geoffrey, Robert, and the rest, to the doorstep of the Byzantine Empire. All that, and more, next time.

Sources:

  • Geoffrey de Villehardouin. Memoirs or Chronicle of The Fourth Crusade and The Conquest of Constantinople, translated by Frank T. Marzials. J.M. Dent, 1908.

  • Three Old French Chronicles Of The Crusades: The History Of The Holy War; The History Of Them That Took Constantinople; The Chronicle Of Reims, translated by Edward Noble Stone. University Of Washington Publications In The Social Sciences, 1939.

  • Madden, Thomas F. Enrico Dandolo and the Rise of Venice. The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003.

  • Madden, Thomas F. Venice: A New History. Viking, 2012.

  • Queller, Donald E. The Fourth Crusade: The Conquest of Constantinople, 1201-1204. Leicester University Press, 1978.