Murzuphulus began to plot and whisper against Alexius, whispering that Greece deserved an emperor who could rid the land of Frankish invaders. He sought to frighten Alexius. The great statue of Athena carved by Phidias had stood for centuries in the forum, but Murzuphulus caused a demonstration and pointed out that Athena was facing west as though beseeching the Franks for help. Consequently the statue was attacked, mutilated, arms broken off, head shattered. And Murzuphulus entered Blachernae palace late at night telling the Varangian guard that conspirators had arrived to kill the young emperor and they should hurry outside to put down the revolt. He wakened Alexius and said they must escape because a crowd marched upon the palace to murder him. So they crept out, Alexius hiding his face beneath a cloak. Now the villain led Alexius to a tent where conspirators seized him, stripped off his clothing and shackled him. Murzuphulus, who proudly wore the green buskins of Protovestiarius, took for himself the scarlet buskins of imperial office.
This usurper was crowned in the church of Sancta Sophia, anointed with consecrated oil by the patriarch of Constantinople, hailed by citizens as vice regent of our Lord on earth. Human flesh shudders. Yet it is not for mortals to debate His mighty scheme.
What of Alexius? More than once conspirators poisoned the food, even while he sat at table with his captor, but it was not God’s intent for him to die that way. During the sixth month of a wicked administration Murzuphulus entered the room where Alexius slept, accompanied by sergeants. They cracked his ribs with a metal instrument, looped a bowstring about his neck and drew it taut. Murzuphulus then declared him dead from natural reasons and had him buried with ostentatious ceremony. Next he shot an arrow into the pilgrim camp bearing news that Alexius was no more. Frankish barons were indifferent. A curse on those who care, said they.
What of Isaac Angelus? Some few days later he died of grief. He had reveled in good things, a sea of wine, savory meat. Never would he wear the same garment twice and every second day he bathed. Yet when he gave up the ghost few spoke of it, he meant so little.
Round about Candlemass, being grievously short of victual and other things, certain pilgrims learned of a prosperous town called Philia ten leagues distant. Off went thirty mounted knights plus a company of mounted sergeants. They rode until dawn, captured the town and many citizens. They helped themselves to cattle, weapons, food, clothing, and other valuables. There they spent two days. But as they started back to Galata they found themselves encircled by Murzuphulus with a thousand Greeks. Then the Franks cried out to God and Our Lady and did not know which way to turn. However they thought they should die fighting. So when the Greeks rushed forward they dropped their lances and struck in all directions with knives, swords, and daggers. The patriarch Samson accompanied these Greeks and had brought a jeweled icon of Our Lady. Pierre de Bracieux struck him on the helmet so hard that he dropped the icon and Pierre dismounted to pick it up. Also with the Greeks was a Spaniard who rode unhelmed, around his head a cleverly wrought gold band. Henry, brother to the count of Flanders, dealt this Spaniard a blow that sliced through the ringlet, the sword going two fingers deep into his skull. Concerning Murzuphulus, he lurched wounded across the neck of his mount and escaped galloping away so fast that he dropped his shield. Then the other Greeks, seeing how it was, flew out of sight. Pierre Bracieux brought back to camp the jeweled icon, entrusting it to the bishop of Troyes. Some say this was a triumphal cross embellished with a tooth of Infant Jesus. Others call it a portrait of Mary painted by Saint Luke. Whatever the truth, all repaired to church amid much rejoicing and the bishops chanted service. God willing, said the barons, this holy image should be delivered to Cîteaux. If it got there, I do not know.
Now here came Murzuphulus to Constantinople pretending he had destroyed the Franks, but many citizens felt suspicious because he did not have the icon or the imperial standard. He pretended he had put them away. However this news went up and down until the Franks heard it, so they manned a galley and went rowing along the walls holding aloft the icon and the standard. Ah, said Murzuphulus when people jeered at him, those Franks will pay dearly. And he sent word that they must vacate his lands within a week or he would slay them, one and all.
What? said the Franks to each other. Let Murzuphulus beware. And they sent word they would not continue on the road to Jerusalem until they secured full payment for what Alexius promised. But it appeared they could not get what they were owed unless they captured the city.
Murzuphulus hearing of such talk ordered the battlements strengthened. He compelled citizens to work on the walls and he levied taxes. Yet it is said that life in Constantinople did not change very much. Despite a Latin fleet that controlled the harbor there was food enough. Charcoal braziers glowed in the street. There was cinnamon, ginger, dates, sugar, olives, heaps of fish pulled from the sea. Forcemeat turned on spits. Tanners pursued their trade, emptied vats of foul residue into the drains. Hammers clanked through the district occupied by coppersmiths and iron workers. Jewelers and those who worked in enamel continued to produce exquisite art, the silence of their quarters undisturbed save for the tiny click of mallets or the buzzing of drills. Garment stalls overflowed with embroidered silk. Precious stones winked in the smoky light. All because no other city could boast such wealth. Lords of Constantinople wore slippers and gloves studded with pearls. So much and more had envious Franks observed while wandering the streets.
Now the tyrant Murzuphulus suspended three captives from hooks, burnt them to death in view of the host. Alberic de Trois-Fontaines relates how all watched in dismay because nothing could be done.
On the ninth of April in our year of grace 1204, just after sunrise, here came Venetian palanders and galleys with the living host. They landed on mud flats beneath the walls. Petraries, mangonels, rams, tortoises, all had been readied. Knights and sergeants led horses ashore. Companies of miners dashed forward to dig at the foundations. Scaling bridges were hoisted by tackle. These Franks and Venetians attacked Constantinople at more than one hundred places while the morning resounded with battle cries. They were able to see the tent of Murzuphulus on the summit of a hill, whence he might look down at ships and moving soldiers and direct his people this way or that. Huge stones began falling on ships in the harbor, on Frankish catapults. Miners gnawing at the fundament quit their work and ran away, so the Greeks whistled and hooted, jumped up on ramparts to drop their clouts and show their buttocks. Murzuphulus had his timbrels sounded, and his silver trumpets, and cried out to his army. See the dogs run! Have I not done well? Tomorrow I, Murzuphulus, will capture the Franks and hang them!
The discouraged army of Christ sailed back across the Golden Horn, having left numerous bodies in the mud, unburied and unblessed. It seemed they had been chastised by God. Yet the clergy declared they had performed a righteous deed, since at one time Constantinople was obedient to the laws of Rome but now had become disobedient. The bishop of Troyes, the bishop of Soissons, the bishop of Halberstadt, the abbot of Loos, Chancellor John Faicette who was most eloquent, and others preached throughout camp on the following Sunday. They proved how the Greeks were disloyal traitors who murdered their sovereign, hence more accountable and reprehensible than Jews. By authority of God and in the name of His Holiness, they declared, those who fought the Greeks would be absolved. They ordered pilgrims to confess, to receive communion, to renew the assault. They sought out light women who infested the camp, ordered them put aboard ship and sent away.
Doge Enrico assembled the barons to devise another plan. Some argued for attacking close to the harbor mouth because Murzuphulus had not fortified those walls. But the Venetians understood why he had not. Because at that point the current swept dangerously over rocks and shoals and the walls rose sheer, without purchase, so they could not hope to land. Anchors would not hold. Ships would break loose and be carried off. They explained that Franks, Lombards, and Belgians might be excellent horsemen, but the sea was different. With such logic they convinced the others. According to
Villehardouin, some would have been happy to go sweeping down the straits to anyplace on earth if it meant escaping this country.
Those who climbed scaling ladders during the first assault were forced back on account of so many Greeks. Now the barons thought to put twice as many Franks ashore by lashing two vessels abreast. And while they debated such ideas the living host rested. Clerics went about reminding all that Greeks were heretics who denied the authority of Rome.
Once more Venetian ships came sliding across the harbor. Church bells warned of their approach so thousands of Greeks hurried to the walls. Greek catapults flung stones at the fleet, stones so heavy that no man on earth could lift one, but each vessel was protected by grapevine, hides, and planks. Murzuphulus was seen outside his tent encouraging his officers, directing them. Timbrels shook and silver trumpets rang before the monastery of Christ Pantepoptos. The Greeks, puffed with conceit, thought they would be victorious. Yet all events are decided by God. Here was a strong wind Boreas hurtling down from the north, which lifted the vessels. Two that were lashed abreast struck a tower. These were Peregrina, which belonged to the bishop of Troyes, and Paradisus, which belonged to the bishop of Soissons. For a moment the flying bridge of Peregrina touched the wall and some Venetian laid hold of the tower with hands and feet, clung, and pulled himself up but straightway got hacked apart with battle axes, so it is thought Varangians killed him. Here came another gust of wind and a huge wave, allowing André d’Ureboise to climb in the tower. Greeks struck at him and were amazed because he withstood their blows. He drew his sword and drove them back enough for other pilgrims to secure the bridge. They could be heard shouting praise of the Holy Sepulcher.
Now those on the beach understood what happened and lifted scaling ladders. Some assaulted the gate with rams or pickaxes even as boiling pitch fell on them. Other servants of Christ hastily disembarked, each wishing to take the van. Pierre de Bracieux, wounded, leaking blood, brought a company to force an old postern that had been walled up. They battered it with pikes, rods, axes and swords, and broke through. But when they looked inside they saw half the Greeks on earth. Now here was a doughty cleric pressing forward, Aleaume, brother to Robert de Clari. Robert contested him, saying that he should not go through the opening or he would be killed. Aleaume vowed to his brother that he would and dropped down on hands and knees to wriggle through. Robert got him by one foot, but Aleaume kicked loose and crawled inside. Greeks came rushing toward him. This cleric pulled a dagger and ran at them and the Greeks scurried away quicker than geese. Aleaume shouted to those outside, so Lord Pierre urged his people to scramble through the opening. Now there were ten knights and sixty footmen inside Constantinople. Murzuphulus came riding down from his tent on the hill and made a show of spurring toward them.
Lord Pierre cried out to encourage his men. We shall have battle enough! Here is the emperor! Let us acquit ourselves!
Murzuphulus, observing that the Franks had no wish to escape, decided he would do better commanding his army and galloped away.
Lord Pierre despatched sergeants to force the gate. They hacked and struck with axes and swords at iron bolts until they contrived to swing it open. At once a column of knights rode in and galloped toward the emperor’s vermilion tent. When Murzuphulus saw them he ordered his gongs and trumpets to sound, which made a huge clarion noise, after which he ran through the streets to join a crowd of merchants driving wagons out of the city. They say Murzuphulus escaped westward to Thrace. Documents assert that raging pilgrims butchered camels, horses, mules, whatever lived, whatever moved. Almighty God knows how many Byzantines gave up the ghost. By reason of perfidious behavior they deserved what they got.
That evening about six o’clock the knighthood of Christ sheathed bloody weapons and agreed to rest because it would take a while to subdue this great city. Doge Enrico camped beside his fleet, which had performed such gallant service. Count Baldwin took for himself the tent of Murzuphulus. The marquis of Montferrat lodged near the disputed quarter. Thus it happened on the anniversary of Saint Basil that for the first time in nine centuries Constantinople was taken. No relic availed the Queen City. Not the holy icon at Blachernae, which housed a portrait of Our Lady and a shred of her robe, nor bones of apostles, martyrs, saints, nor even the head of John the Baptist.
That night Count Bernard of Katzenellenbogen, frightened by shadows, dreading attack in the darkness, set fire to certain buildings. Flames once again took hold. Until vespers next day the city burned. More houses burned than could be found in three of the largest cities in France. This according to Geoffrey de Villehardouin.
Now the marquis of Montferrat rode through smouldering ruins to the imperial palace, Boukoleon, which he understood to be the governing seat and spiritual heart of Constantinople. He expected strong resistance and was followed by knights in armor, but no one opposed him. The palace surrendered on condition that the lives of those inside be spared. Many noble ladies had gathered within, among them Empress Marie who was sister to the king of Hungary. So the marquis took Boukoleon for himself. Henri, brother to the count of Flanders, took Blachernae. Other lords occupied lesser palaces and abbeys.
What was Boukoleon in its glory? Old men used to speak of what their fathers knew. Beside the imperial throne stood two gold lions that could open their mouths to roar. Mechanical birds in golden trees would trill and flap their wings. The palace contained five hundred rooms conjoined and blazoned with gold mosaic. Here were thirty chapels, the Holy Chapel so rich that hinges and latchets were silver, every column porphyry or jasper, the pavement of marble glistening like crystal. Here were enshrined two fragments of the Cross upon which He suffered. Two of the nails that pierced His body. Here was the tunic He wore and that crown of reeds with thorns more cruel than dagger points. Here were famous relics such as that image of Saint Demetrius painted on a panel, exuding so much oil it could not be wiped away as quickly as it flowed, which Emperor Manuel selfishly took from the sarcophagus of the saint at Thessalonika. Was this Boukoleon? Or the faded dream that old men dream? Years later a Greek from Nicaea, Michael Palaeologus, would subjugate Constantinople, by which time the palace lay in hopeless disrepair. They say the last Frankish emperor stripped lead from the roof to pay his debts.
However it was, Robert de Clari asserts that important lords secured fine accommodations, each according to rank, but did not mention this to lower nobility, much less to common folk. Thus, when pilgrims heard of the barons in opulent quarters they felt justified in doing what they pleased. So began the sack of the wealthiest city on earth. Never had such treasure been accumulated, not in the days of Alexander, not in the days of Charlemagne. Greeks themselves claimed proudly that two-thirds of the world’s valuables reposed at Constantinople. Monasteries, churches, shops, homes, all were looted. Some have said these pilgrims behaved like infidels, disciples of Satan, raping children and nuns, murdering, spoiling, pausing often enough to break open wine cellars. Into the cathedral of Sancta Sophia, sanctuary of divine wisdom, they spurred their horses and stripped vestments from priests. They took gold reliquaries preserving gifts the Magi brought to Lord Jesus. Here lay tablets of the Law that Moses once held, which they took. Here stood an image of Our Lady whose eyes dripped tears, which they took. Slender trumpets played at Jericho. These and more. Vessels that might be melted, converted to coin. Gemstones, chalices, enameled boxes, patens, icons, manuscripts, whatever richness they found. The altar had been made like a church spire of solid silver and the table of gold with precious jewels mixed. And the place where these Byzantines read the Gospel exceeded description. An hundred chandeliers hung down, each hanging by a silver chain thicker than a man’s arm, each chandelier with twenty lamps. In the choir stood twelve silver columns, which they broke. On the altar twelve crosses in the shape of trees, the largest taller than a man, all broken. Forty chalices encrusted with gems. Censers of pure gold. Whatever was gold or silver or studded with jewels they took. Did one among them gaze into that dark al
cove where the guardian angel dwelt?
Columns held up the dome of Sancta Sophia and not one but failed to work miraculous cures. One healed sickness of the kidney if rubbed against, another sickness of the side, and so forth. And from a bolt on one of the silver doors hung a tube like the pipe that shepherds play, which possessed marvelous virtue. If any sick man put this tube in his mouth his eyes would roll up and down while venom dribbled from his lips and he could not get free until the sickness had been sucked out. But the pilgrims dismantled these silver doors because corruption prevailed in their hearts. Nor was gold and silver enough. On the throne of the patriarch they seated a harlot who bawled lewd songs dishonoring the name of Jesus Christ and danced lasciviously to flaunt her private parts. Thus did Constantinople fall into the hands of men led astray through wicked error and ignorance. Wisely does Boethius inform us that it is natural for other living things to be ignorant of themselves, but for man this is a defect.
How much was melted, plundered, bartered for gold? The bronze image Lysippus made of Hercules, reputed to be so large that the waist of a living man was smaller than his thumb. Bellerophon astride Pegasus, of such size that herons built a nest on the animal’s croup. Beneath the innermost nail on the left rear hoof was a mysterious emblem. What it signified could not be learned. Vanished in the melting pot. That prodigious statue of Juno that stood in the forum of Constantine, so huge that four horses struggled to drag away the head. Nor was this enough. Anemodoulion atop a revolving sphere who faced the prevalent wind. Franks scaled the obelisk with axes and levers and descending left the pedestal empty. Or the famous bronze ass with its driver, cast by Emperor Augustus following the battle of Actium where he questioned some ass-driver to find out the position of Antony. This much did servants of Christ take and melt because they were in need of funds to continue the arduous journey. Yet who shall debate the need? Did they remember our Lord’s redemptive act? Did they contemplate the debt they owed to a spring so bounteous?
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