No sooner did this Turkish host bivouac outside Cairo than here came the vizier of Caliph al-Adid, whose name was Shawar. Almost daily Shawar arrived bearing gifts. Who knows what happened next? Many stories are told. It may be that Shirkuh disappeared, leaving instructions to kill the vizier.
He has gone for a walk beside the Nile, said the instruments of death when Shawar arrived with more gifts. Then all rushed to stab him and sliced off his head.
Or it may be that he was invited to accompany some emirs who wished to visit the tomb of a saint. Saladin rode beside him feigning cordiality, then all at once seized his collar to arrest him. Caliph al-Adid demanded it. Why should the caliph want his vizier murdered? Because weak sovereigns hate and dread inferiors.
Now as the vizier plunged shrieking into that horrible abyss reserved for unbelievers, what did Shirkuh the Lion do but present himself to the caliph and got himself named vizier. So he dressed in the silk brocade of office and went to occupy the home of Shawar but found it empty as the day it was built. He could not find a pillow to sit on. Everything was stolen the moment people learned that Shawar was dead.
Three months later Shirkuh the Lion, having gorged on rich food, discovered he could scarcely breathe. Almost at once he followed Shawar to the dolorous house of hell.
Now here came Saladin into the presence of Caliph al-Adid and was named vizier because the caliph did not imagine he could be dangerous, and gave him a title, Victorious King, with sumptuous badges of office. A flowing robe lined with scarlet silk. A white turban embroidered in gold. A jewel-crusted sword. A fine chestnut mare, the saddle and bridle adorned with pearls. Some believe that Saladin carried a stick while going to pay homage and shattered the caliph’s skull with one blow. Next, he put al-Adid’s children to the sword, making himself undisputed master of Egypt. Others say he got control by murdering the imperial guard, fifty thousand black men from Nubia. He set fire to the barracks at Fostat where they lived with their wives and children. So the black men thought about their families burning to death and were horrified and rushed to Fostat where the Turkish army waited. Perhaps. We can be sure only that men act out what seems natural to them. However it was, Saladin prevailed.
God has chosen me to govern Egypt, said he, although I did not expect it.
Fortune elevated a Kurdish youth, making him wealthy who was poor, making much from little, a sovereign of a peasant. He who gained entrance to court as patron of Damascus whores, who ruled over stews, who ate garlic and played at dice in low taverns now was lifted up to sit among princes, to exceed princes, to govern over Egypt. He would occupy the lands of Gesry, of Roasia, carry his strength to India Citerior. He would assault and subdue each neighbor, one through deceit, one by force, arrogating to himself the prerogative of kings, molding divers scepters into one. With all his nature would he seek to reduce and usurp that provenance bequeathed by God to Christians.
Those who knew him best called this infidel compassionate. They tell of the grief expressed when Taqi al-Din, his nephew, died. They say he wept, asking God’s forgiveness, but asked courtiers not to mention how he wept and sent for rose water to bathe his eyes. They speak of a Frankish woman who came to him sobbing and clawing her breast because thieves had stolen her little daughter. Saladin despatched a retainer to the market and presently a horseman appeared with the infant riding on his shoulders. The woman flung herself to the ground at Saladin’s feet and smeared her face with sand, muttering Frankish words. Then she with her child were escorted to the Frankish camp. They say he was a melancholy little sovereign with a neat beard, always pressing food upon visitors, invariably courteous, anxious that none should leave his presence disappointed. Assassins more than once tried to murder him.
Turks and Egyptians opposed each other like tarantulas in a jug while strife and discord roiled the Holy Land from Kerak to Nicomedia. Sedition spread. Armenians abhorred the proximity of Syrians, Syrians detested the bellies of Greeks, not one able to countenance the next. Prince Kakig of Armenia would take Caesarea and thrust the Greek bishop into a sack with a mad dog. Greeks would lure Prince Kakig into ambush and murder him. So this tapestry unrolled, adumbrating the evil of our time.
During the providential year 1170 two patriarchs would compete for spiritual supremacy. Athanasius, patriarch of Constantinople, arrived to minister Antioch. But this enraged the Frankish patriarch, Aimery, who suspended service and retreated to his castle at Qosair. Presently the earth began to tremble as if lashed by the King of Kings. Churches shuddered. Stones came loose in the cathedral of Saint Peter while Athanasius was celebrating mass, tumbled down to bury him. Now the prince of Antioch dressed in sackcloth, shaved his head and hurried to Qosair begging forgiveness of Aimery. But the Frankish patriarch sulked and would not emerge from his castle, not while Athanasius lived in Antioch. So they put the injured Greek on a litter and took him outside the walls to die.
Such was the lowering state of affairs. God’s enemies found new inspiration while Christianity appeared deficient in prudent leadership. It seemed a new generation had grown up steeped in wickedness, caring neither for purpose nor result but squandered in disgraceful ways the legacy of their fathers. All could watch the kingdom deteriorating. King Amalric summoned his nobles to discuss how this might be remedied. They answered that Christianity had sunk to a wretched estate because of sin.
Appeal to the West, said they. Appeal to Europe for help in contesting the powers of darkness.
Amalric and his counselors then resolved that a delegation of high lords be sent to petition the kings of France, England, Sicily, and the Spains, to beseech the pontiff at Rome, to solicit influential dukes and counts. Also they resolved that Emperor Manuel Comnenus be approached since he was nearby and eighty times wealthier than the rest. This envoy, they thought, should be a paramount lord. And because none seemed so well suited as the king himself it came about in the year 1171 that he traveled without much enthusiasm to Constantinople. He was greeted better than he expected. Civil festivities, displays of dancing at the hippodrome, religious rites, an excursion on the Bosporus. The kingdom of Jerusalem puzzled Manuel Comnenus, yet he felt sympathetic since all were brothers in Christ. He had caused the Church of the Nativity at Bethlehem to be redecorated with mosaic by the artist Ephraim and generously repaired the Holy Sepulcher. No chronicle preserves what accord was reached, what contract signed, but it is known that King Amalric departed full of admiration for his host.
Now it seemed to Amalric that he might once more invade and this time emasculate Egypt. To the south lived people who called themselves Coptic and embraced the teaching of our Lord centuries ago, albeit in strange fashion. Amalric therefore thought he might restore Christianity to its rightful heritage along the Nile. But while he debated this he succumbed to bloody flux and filled up with noxious water. In a little while he flew to the arms of Jesus all blackened and discolored.
Saladin ordered his brother to learn about these Christians in the south. It is related that he marched as far as Wadi Halfa where he killed the bishop, as many Copts as he found, and seven hundred pigs. When he returned to Cairo he told Saladin it was an odious place.
In the very year of Amalric’s death the life of Nur al-Din had run its course. While riding with companions through the orchards of Damascus he remarked on the fragility of existence and nine days later plunged screaming toward the flames of hell. What afflicted him? Perhaps congestion of the heart. He lay helpless in a room of the citadel where he often prayed, unable to speak. Physicians decided to bleed him, whereupon he recovered his voice and said they should not because he was sixty years old. They took other measures, all in vain. First they entombed him at the citadel. Afterward, on account of his piety, they deposited the shell of him at some theological school near the osier market. No Christian wept.
Amalric left as heir to Jerusalem’s throne a leprous boy of thirteen, Baldwin IV. Archbishop William, who became his tutor, wrote that the child possessed a quick and open mind, fo
rgetting neither insults nor kindness. He resembled his father in gait and in the timbre of his voice. He played vigorously, as children do, but when pinched or scratched he felt nothing. William found the boy’s right arm and hand to be insensitive, and upon consulting medical books he saw in the work of Hippocrates how this predicted grave illness. Fomentations, anointings, and poisonous drugs were administered to no avail. As the malady progressed, growing ever more obvious, the people of Jerusalem felt sick with grief. The child himself, understanding that he had not long to live, resolved to be a mighty advocate and rake the Saracen. That he should suspect malefactors all about is little to be wondered, knowing as he did how they awaited his death and plotted among themselves to seize the crown. It is said he trusted his constable, Humphrey of Toron. But the constable would fall, seething with arrows, near the forest of Paneas.
So this was Saladin’s opponent, a crippled, stricken boy who already had used up more than half his life.
Beneath his standard Frankish Syria gained new heights. At Montgisard with eighty Templars and five hundred knights supported by foot soldiers the leper king defeated thirty thousand mameluks under Saladin. These Franks rose up baying like dogs, agile as wolves, to attack and pursue the astonished pagans. At such moments does not our Creator express His will?
During our year of edification 1180 the patriarch of Jerusalem went to sleep in God. Archbishop William, who spoke Arabic, Hebrew, Greek, and other tongues, was proposed to succeed him. Few Syrian Franks rivaled this archbishop for learning. He possessed intimate knowledge of Syrian manners and was agreeably rich, owning two thousand olive trees. Yet the leper king favored a cleric of no repute from Gévauden, by name Heraclius, who was scarce able to read, handsome and chattering with the brain of a sheep, making him sought by ladies of every rank. He is said to have been more dissolute than a grunting hog. Beyond doubt he touched the king’s mother. Through her patronage he had become archdeacon of Jerusalem, archbishop of Caesarea, and now patriarch of Jerusalem. Thus do long past events anticipate our own.
Heraclius kept at his palace a woman named Pasque de Riveri, wife of an Italian draper from Nablus ten leagues distant. He would send for her to come and stay with him. She would stay a week, two, three, four, wandering the streets dressed in such finery and jewels winking on her bosom that a stranger might take her for a duchess. Up and down the realm she was called Madame la Patriarchesse. The draper did not mind because through Heraclius he was getting rich.
One day with the king and his barons assembled at the patriarchal palace in marched a lackey shouting that he brought good news if the patriarch would give him a reward. Very well, wretch, said Heraclius, thinking it would concern Jerusalem, tell us your news if it is good. Aye! brayed the servant. Lady Pasque has given birth to a daughter! No reward did the lackey get but Heraclius cursing him outright.
As for Archbishop William, Heraclius excommunicated him. This happened Maundy Thursday when Heraclius went to make the chrism on Mount Zion. Nor would he permit the archbishop to appeal. It is thought Archbishop William sought justice from the Vatican. Some think he traveled to Rome where he obtained audience with His Holiness Alexander. Others say he prepared to go but was poisoned, murdered by a leech in the employ of Heraclius. Whatever the truth, our Lord keeps count.
Some years previous King Baldwin had thoughtfully allied himself through marriage with the powerful house of Comnenus. So now in the year 1180 did Emperor Manuel think to arrange a high marriage for his son, who was ten years old. To King Philip Augustus went emissaries charged to learn if the king’s little sister, Agnes, might be available. It is said that Philip Augustus, marveling over the dignity and sumptuous garments of Emperor Manuel’s envoys, did not take long to decide. Thus the Frankish child, aged nine, journeyed to Constantinople where she was greeted with honor. Emperor Manuel wished his niece Theodora to attend the wedding so he charged a kinsman, Andronicus Comnenus, to go and fetch her from Jerusalem. Andronicus accepted willingly. By most accounts he was charming, eloquent, and less upright than a serpent. Queen Theodora was now more beautiful than when she had been King Baldwin’s child bride. As related in the narrative of Robert de Clari, when they got well out to sea Andronicus lay with her by force. In fact he did little else but love the queen, who was his cousin. Therefore, since he dared not return to Constantinople he bore her away to Konia where they lived among pagans.
In that same year, albeit soothsayers prophesied that he would enjoy fourteen more years of earthly existence, Emperor Manuel Comnenus ascended to heaven.
Andronicus now considered restoring himself to grace. From exile he sent word to the child emperor, Alexius II, that everything whispered about him was a lie. I beseech you in God’s name, said he, to put aside your wrath. So he insinuated himself, deceived the boy and got back to Constantinople. There he flattered young Alexius and gained his confidence, subtly, as serpents move at their own discretion. When the hour seemed ripe he had the boy stuffed into a sack and carried out to sea and hurled overboard. Next he summoned all those related to the house of Comnenus and they arrived at the palace not knowing what had occurred. He imprisoned them, scooped out their eyes, sliced off their lips, and crowned himself emperor. Next he raped as many beautiful women as he could find, nuns in abbeys, wives and daughters of lords, taking by force a huge number of women, so everyone longed for his death. Next he claimed the child empress for his wife. She was now twelve years old, Andronicus five times her age. He asked if any citizen of Constantinople bore him ill and so learned of three young men descended from Constantine Angelus, which is to say the noble lineage of Angeli. He therefore despatched his steward Langosse to catch them but Langosse caught only one, whom he blinded. Another escaped to Syria. Isaac, the last, fled to the land of Vlachia.
Isaac crept back into Constantinople because he was very poor and took refuge in the house of his widowed mother. It was about this time that soothsayers told Andronicus he had but five days to live, which terrified him. He asked who would become emperor after his death and they said the name of the man was Isaac. Then his steward Langosse found out that Isaac was hiding in Constantinople. If you kill him, said Langosse, you have nothing to fear.
Go at once, said Andronicus.
Langosse with a company of sergeants went to kill this last descendant of the Angeli. When he rapped on the door of the house where Isaac was concealed the widow pretended to be alone.
God’s mercy! cried she. No one hides within!
Langosse told her to make Isaac come out or she herself would be seized.
At this she became alarmed and went to speak with her son. Ah, fair lord, the emperor’s steward waits. You are a dead man.
Isaac went outside. Langosse struck him across the face with a whip and vowed he would hang. So then Isaac drew a sword from beneath his cloak and cleaved the steward’s head down the middle so his teeth and brains flew out and the sergeants ran away in all directions. Isaac mounted the steward’s horse and rode toward the church of Sancta Sophia shouting that he had slain a devil. When he got to the church he rushed inside to embrace the cross. Now here came citizens to throng the streets, exclaiming that Isaac was very brave and should be made emperor. They crowded into the church to admire him and sent for the patriarch to crown him. But the patriarch replied that he would not do as they wished. You act badly, said he. Besides, I dare not since Andronicus would have me torn apart. The people answered that if he did not do as they wished they would cut off his head. So the patriarch went to Sancta Sophia where he found Isaac gripping a bloody sword and his cheap garments splashed with blood. Then the patriarch vested himself as required for the ceremony and, though he did not want to, made Isaac the emperor.
Andronicus being told about this could not believe it. He ran through a passage to the church and climbed up to the vault where he could look down. At the altar stood Isaac. Andronicus asked his followers to give him a bow. He fitted an arrow and drew the bow, but the string snapped, snapped by the han
d of our watchful Lord.
Andronicus fled to the palace, escaped through a postern with some of his followers and boarded a galley, thinking he would find safety at Trebizond. But who can escape from Almighty God? A storm arose, driving the galley backward. He sent men to explore the coast and they returned full of dismay. My lord, they said, we are near Constantinople. They led him to a hostel where they told him to hide among the wine casks. But the keeper looked suspiciously at these people seeking refuge from the storm and bade his wife go among the wine casks. There she found Andronicus wearing imperial robes. Then the keeper sent to a noble whose wife Andronicus had raped. The noble gathered his men, came to the hostel and seized the emperor. Next morning they took him to the palace where Isaac sat enthroned.
Andronicus, said he, why didst thou betray thy lord, the emperor Manuel? Why didst thou murder his son? Why didst thou ravish the queen of Jerusalem? Why dost thou delight in evil?
Against such charges Andronicus replied that he would not deign to speak.
Isaac gave him to the people, saying they should do as they wished since he could not administer justice that would satisfy them. The citizens were glad of this. Some wanted to burn him. Some wanted to boil him in a cauldron. Others wanted to drag him through the streets until he fell apart. Then a man said he had a camel that was the most loathsome beast on earth and they should strip Andronicus naked, bind him to this camel with his face in the creature’s ass, and lead him from one end of the city to the other. All the citizens thought this was good. So they tore away his clothes and shaved his head, leaving a cross of hair on top. They crowned him with a chaplet of garlic stalks. They plucked out one of his eyes but not the other because he should see what was done to him. They strapped him to the camel and went parading about the city. Women emptied buckets of urine and shit on his head. Some whose daughters he had ravished would scream and pull his beard. Some rushed up to stab him or cut off strips of his flesh to eat, meanwhile telling him what they had suffered, eating his flesh to save their souls by avenging the wickedness he had done. And by the time this camel walked across Constantinople not much remained of Andronicus except gristle and bone. What little was left they thrust into a dungheap near the forum of Theodosius. And here amongst stinking offal they found a porphyry chalice with an inscription declaring that at this place an ignoble emperor would be entombed.
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