King Bela of Hungary welcomed Frederick with a triumphant celebration and himself took the cross, followed by many of his subjects alight with eagerness to restore the Holy City. They feared nothing and looked forward to combat. Frederick’s army crossed the Danube unmolested, but upon reaching the passes of Bulgaria they were attacked by Pincenates, Bulgarians, Alans, and other savages. From Bulgaria into Macedonia they encountered treacherous narrows, rocks and thorns, but overcame each obstacle and came to Philippopolis. The Greeks, who fear what they do not love, had run away. These people are perfidious and degenerate, gorging on ancient hatreds. Once the Greeks were proud, equally accomplished at war and the arts of peace, yet what once were fountains had diminished to trickles, or, as some assert, barren channels. The legacy of their virtue had turned to hollow pomp, their deceit surpassing that of Simon. They had grown more false than Ulysses, more diabolic than Atreus roasting the flesh of his nephew.
Frederick being anxious for peace sent ahead to Constantinople the bishop of Münster. Yet what did the double-minded Emperor Isaac do but cast him in prison, violating the regard that has obtained from antiquity, even among barbarians. Later, dreading Frederick’s wrath, worried that Constantinople might be reduced to smoldering waste, Isaac set the bishop free. Many of Frederick’s host asked why the emperor should go unpunished. And they learned of new mosques built in Constantinople with his consent. This malevolent sovereign, professed Christian, sought to ingratiate himself with Turks.
Now as Libra balanced days and nights toward equivalent lengths, the season ripening into autumn, Frederick took up quarters in Adrianople, there to await the passage of winter and the favorable climate of spring. His younger son, the duke of Swabia, looked about to find some employment for this maundering army, since enforced leisure might degenerate to sloth or malfeasance. He discovered a castle stuffed with Greeks who, proud of their strength, spun webs to catch and pillage Germans. Soon enough they were vanquished and shackled. Emperor Isaac, dreading tomorrow, offered to ferry this menacing host across the Arm of Saint George, thereby with God’s help seeing every German off to Armenia.
In March of that year 1190 they crossed the narrow strait which divides the world between Europe and Asia, marking a fruitful limit.
So they approached Iconium, riding unaware toward pagan hostility. For the sultan had despatched messengers to Frederick while the army loitered in Greece, professing amity, urging Frederick to cross over, masking the venom in his heart while he longed for a cup of Christian blood. Indeed, the sultan accused Greeks of duplicity while proposing himself a devout and faithful servant, offering a market for Germans to buy what they needed en route to the Holy Land, vowing to set himself and all he owned at their disposal, pledging safe passage. Frederick, measuring others by himself, trusted the sultan.
With these Germans went one archbishop, two royal dukes, nineteen counts, three marquises. As to knights and common soldiers, Geoffrey de Vinsauf lists the former at three thousand, the latter at eighty thousand. To avoid disaffection in such a host Frederick divided them, making of his army a head, a trunk, and a tail. The duke of Swabia, his son, proceeded first. Next came those charged with the care of animals and baggage. Emperor Frederick himself came last. Hence all was judiciously arranged, pleasant to behold.
They entered Parthia, dominion of Turks, experiencing no difficulty save asperities of the road because the sultan wished to entice them. But he had populated the gorges, thickets, and mountain heights. His troops opposed Frederick with arrows and stones. Such was the safe passage promised, the promised market. During the night javelins pierced German tents, killing Jerusalemfarers while they slept. For six weeks these Germans did not remove their coats of mail. If a horse died they pounced on the flesh and drank the blood, pretending they dined on veal and swallowed good wine.
They came to a passage between high rocks. But here lay Turks in ambush and rushed from hiding once the duke of Swabia went through. When this news was brought forward the duke wheeled about red with rage and led his cavalry heedlessly into the defile, shouting his father’s name. Turks knocked off his helmet and broke out most of his teeth, as could be seen later when he opened his mouth to talk. Yet his bare gums proved consolation of a sort, testifying to victory since the Turks retreated.
Whitsunday they got to Iconium. But the sultan, not anxious to meet Frederick Barbarossa, had shut the gates, so they were obliged to camp outside. Next morning here was God’s enemy at every flank. What with shouting, whistling, thundering drums, the mighty blast of trumpets, and a clash of swords fit for purgatory, these Turks made noise enough to waken Antioch. The sultan meantime arranged himself comfortably in a barbican to enjoy the spectacle his cunning mind devised. So confident were these misbelievers that some carried chains in place of weapons. However, Frederick’s troops quickly took the city. Heaps of dead infidels clogged the streets. Then the sultan, observing how matters stood, professing himself innocent, offered as much gold as Frederick wanted. The emperor, too lenient, took what was promised and let him go. It would have been more honorable to slay so great a villain.
Next to Armenia, rejoicing that a malevolent kingdom lay behind. Surely these pilgrims rejoiced to enter Armenia, a land where Christ our Lord was known to rule.
Anon they reached the fabled river Cydnus which long ago claimed the life of Alexander. And when they came to the water Frederick hesitated, mindful of that omen deduced by his astrologer. It is said he asked the guides how he might avoid crossing the bridge, if there might be a different road. They told him of a way, if he would ford the river. The ford is good, the water is not swift, they assured him. We will go ahead, they told him, and show you where to cross. So he went with them and watched while they crossed the Cydnus. When they had safely returned he ordered them to lead his son across, which they did, and again returned. Frederick now urged his mount into the river, following two knights. But when he was half across the animal stumbled, throwing him from the saddle. And the water being cold sucked away his strength, the veins of his body opened and he drowned. At this ford no other horse stumbled. How often things occur that amaze or confuse us, but there is meaning in our bewilderment since it encourages us to recognize and venerate the Author of every circumstance.
Frederick was old, near seventy, moderately tall, red hair turning gray, and the red beard that begot his sobriquet. His shoulders and chest were broad, as was his face, manly in all respects. His eyelids protruded above sparkling eyes, and about him was something both dreadful and distinguished, as was told of Socrates. His look denoted resolution undiluted by anger, sadness, or pleasure. If the heights of Gilboa where Saul was killed should be deprived of rain, why should the river Cydnus be deprived? It brought down a pillar from the temple of Christendom. All in his army felt afflicted, yet all agreed that Frederick Barbarossa gained admittance to heaven because he served worthily in the ranks of our Lord, pledged to retrieve the Holy Land. All gave thanks he did not expire in the realm of infidels. Some say that place where he drowned was marked with fatality. Here was an inscription from ancient times prophesying that a sovereign would come to grief.
Chronicles do not explain how Turks besieged at Acre learned of Frederick’s death, but they whistled with delight, beat madly upon timbrels, leapt about the ramparts while renegadoes cried out to dismay the Christians.
Your emperor is drowned! Your emperor is drowned!
The knighthood of Germany soon began to rot. Those Teutonic pilgrims felt the Savior cared little for them. Mourning occupied their hearts. Some, writhing between hope and dread, renounced the true faith to go and live among Turks. The wreath, they said, has faded from our brow. Some made their way to the siege of Acre. Some joined the garrison at Tyre. Others trudged toward Germany, broken, disconsolate, expiring as they walked. It is well known how Germans are fated never to reach the Holy Land.
Concerning Frederick, they soaked his corpse with vinegar. Perhaps, as many believe, the duke of Swabia carried
what remained of his father toward Jerusalem, but it decomposed and was abandoned. Geoffrey de Vinsauf relates that Frederick was taken to Antioch where the flesh boiled from his bones was laid to rest in the church of the Apostolic see. His naked skeleton despatched to the city of Tyre, whence it should be conveyed to Jerusalem. If so, this must be a wonderful contrivance of God that the Holy Roman Emperor who contended gloriously for Christ might find repose in two paramount churches of Christendom, one rendered sacred by the burial of our Lord, one distinguished by the greatest of apostles.
Concerning Saladin, the drowning of Frederick seemed providential for it is widely understood that Germans without a leader have no idea what to do. Thus he might devote himself fully to the siege of Acre. And knowing how those inside the walls must be near death from starvation, he resorted to deceit. He ordered a huge vessel at the port of Beyrouth to be loaded with sheep, corn, onions, cheese, and other foods. The mariners he caused to shave their beards and outfit themselves like Franks. He directed that crosses be fixed to the mast and he caused a brood of pigs to be visible on deck. Thus disguised the Muslim ship went gliding among Christian galleys to the port of Acre where heathen troops greeted it with screams of joy.
So this was a fortuitous acquisition. Nonetheless, if oil is poured on the fire does it not bring forth a livelier flame? Of course. Does not the wheel, turning slowly at first, rise with increasing alacrity? Of course. So did word of Islamic success bring more and more to the cross, more and more who vowed to crush the serpent.
During the blessed year 1189, at Nonancourt in Normandy, King Philip Augustus and Richard Lionheart embraced like brothers. Richard now was king of England, his father Henry Plantagenet having lately surrendered the ghost. These monarchs intent on Jerusalem vowed to undertake the pilgrimage and live on cordial terms until at least forty days after they returned. They devised certain rules of conduct toward the prevention of disorder and gross turbulence. No man beneath the rank of knight should gamble for money since these games lead to quarrels and bloodshed. Nor were clerics, knights, or personal attendants of monarchs permitted to win or lose more than twenty shillings a day on pain of being whipped naked through the army. A pilgrim that struck another and drew blood should have his hand chopped off. Whoever slew another should be tied to the corpse and buried with it. If murder occurred at sea, the murderer drowned in the victim’s embrace. For sailors guilty of crimes such as theft, boiling pitch was poured on their shaved heads so all might know them and at the next port they were cast ashore. In regard to women, none should accompany the host save washerwomen who had reached the age of fifty. Although it is known that many young women defied the prohibition to follow men of their choice.
These monarchs further agreed that a tax should be levied, which they called Saladin’s Tithe, being the tenth part of each man’s property, landed or personal, enforced throughout Christendom against all who could not or would not make the journey. The lord of each fief being charged to raise this tithe. However those who took the cross would enjoy lenience since they could not be oppressed for malfeasance of any sort, debt, thievery, murder.
King Philip Augustus accepted his pilgrim staff and wallet from the abbot of Saint Denys in June of the year 1190. Richard Lionheart accepted his at Tours, but when he leaned on the staff to measure its strength it cracked. If he made light of such an omen, no chronicle reports.
Now proceeding fruitfully in their knowledge of God these sovereigns traveled from Vézelay to Mulins, afterward to Mount Escot, and continued south to Lyons on the Rhône. They hesitated at this river because of its violence, but at length crossed over and erected their pavilions on the meadow not far apart. Pilgrims lodged here or there in the fields as best they could. It is said their number exceeded one hundred thousand with more arriving.
King Philip soon departed with all his men to cross the Alps, having contracted with Genoese, famous sailors, to carry him as far as Messina. King Richard bade him farewell amid protestations of mutual friendship. They agreed that whichever put in first at Messina should await the other.
No more was Philip out of sight than the Rhône bridge began to crumble and one hundred soldiers tumbled in, crying loudly for help. All were rescued save two, which must be counted a miracle. King Richard then had boats drawn up side by side, enabling the rest of his people to cross over. Three days afterward he marched away from Lyons and that very day the bridge dropped into the river.
He came next to Dompas near Avignon, thence by Salus and Marignan to Marseille where he encamped three weeks. Since billowing waves turned Richard’s belly upside down he decided to proceed by land with a modest escort through Genoa, Pisa, and south along the coast, thinking he could endure a brief passage across the strait to Messina. Thus, on the day after the Assumption of Blessed Mary his army embarked for Messina without its king. They sailed between Corsica and Sardinia by means of a strait that those people call Bonifacio. They rowed and sailed by two burning mountains, Vulcano and Strango, and came in view of Messina where they cast anchor to await the sovereign.
Documents relate that Richard passed through the village of Mileto with but a single knight in his train. Soon thereafter he heard a falcon shriek. He turned aside and went into the house, expecting he would take this bird for himself. But here came peasants with staves and one drew a knife against the king. At this Richard smote him with the flat of his sword and broke it, overcame the others and got himself to the priory of La Bagnara. He did not stay long but crossed the strait and let himself down to rest beside a stone tower called Far or Pharos since it is a beacon. The king by incontinent desire for a peasant’s falcon brought this trouble upon himself. Fittingly, the strait he crossed has been known from ancient days for two perils, Scylla and Carybdis, which may be called hauteur and greed.
Next day Richard came to his fleet, more than one hundred ships that included fourteen towering buzas. Some boasted three rudders, thirty oars, thirteen anchors, triple ropes of every sort. Each might transport forty destriers with riders, sergeants, mariners, and food to sustain all for eight or ten months. So when everything was arranged King Richard with the captains of his army and their attendants embarked on galleys to precede this noble fleet.
Messina, being first in Sicily for affluence, abounds with good things, but its citizens are wicked and cruel. Many claim descent from Saracens. They are insolent, hostile, pointing their fingers into their eyes to mock or threaten strangers, sneering, cutting throats, pushing victims into sewers. Hence they are called griffons.
Now if a sovereign is conspicuous for glory he exhibits his greatness to the admiration of all so that homage may be rendered. He does not by concealing himself tarnish the authority with which he has been invested. He understands the proverb. Such as I behold you, thus do I esteem you. Therefore when people heard that Philip Augustus was sailing toward Messina they hurried to marvel at so famous a king. Yet this artless man, misliking the fulsome gaze of citizens, entered the port of the citadel privately. And they who had waited along the shore to writhe in the splendor of his coming interpreted this as miserable. They pointed at him with their mouths, cried to each other that a sovereign who slunk past like a timid dog was unfit to lead.
But here is King Richard. Again the citizens of Messina rush forth, crowd the shore, arrange themselves to watch. Faraway the water sparkles, helmets reflect the sun, swords flash fire. Distant and shrill a trumpet blast, booming drums, banners beyond counting. Now the sea mother gives birth to her swarm of galleys, each distinguished by singular painting on the bow, by the shields of valiant knights aboard. Pennons stream from the points of spears. The sea rages and shakes. Those on shore feel crushed by pounding drums, destroyed by the authority of imperial trumpets. King Richard is here. Richard of England. His galley splits the furious water. At the beaked prow he stands. Like a god he stands at the beaked prow. Waves rage beneath his foot. Those gathered along the shore clutch themselves in admiration. They touch one another. They say he is
worthy. They say King Richard deserves to be set above nations, above kingdoms, for the majesty of which they heard is nothing compared to the truth of him.
Those of his equipage receive him at the landing, bring forth spirited chargers so the king with his attendants may ride to the hostel where they sleep. And the drums boom. Silver trumpets sound. And the griffons feel themselves checked by this English lion, knowing themselves inferior.
With the consent and goodwill of the kings of France, England, and Sicily a decree is promulgated as to lodging, gambling, borrowing, desertion and such like, down to the marketing of wine or making of bread. The price of wine shall not be raised after it is cried. Whoever buys corn shall have a profit limited to one terrin in each quarter and the bran. Other merchants, no matter what calling, shall have a profit of one penny in ten. Four Anjou pennies shall merit one English penny. Nor may any sound the king’s money on which his stamp appears unless cracked within the circle.
But some pilgrim from Richard’s army quarreled over a loaf of bread and would have it weighed. So the woman flew into a passion, abused him wickedly and meant to claw his hair. Griffons rushed forth, beat the Englishman half to death and trampled his body. Soon enough a complaint was listed. King Richard entreated all to relent, saying he had come to Messina amicably. For a time this matter rested, but all at once came back hotly to life. Both kings met with justiciaries and with respected citizens. Next a cry went up that griffons were attacking pilgrims. Others cried differently. It is reported that two merchants by name Luppin and Margarit excited the crowd for a purpose of their own. However it was, King Richard found himself subject to arrogant railings when he endeavored to make peace. Then he, who was not born temperate, offended to the depths by such mockery, took up arms. Then the people began to shout and seized what came to hand, javelin or stone, boasting of how they would resist. Some beseeched the French king for help against this English king, offering themselves, property and all, if he would help them. And Philip, thick with jealousy at Richard’s fame, answered that he would aid the people of Messina sooner than he would the king of England. Thus two sovereign associates became adversary, vowing to fight on a loaf of bread.
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