by Robert Payne
They were on their way to commit one of the greatest crimes in history.
The Burning
City
THE sack of Constantinople can be explained only by sheer lust for conquest, at whatever the cost in lives and treasure. It was accomplished by treachery in the modern manner, in cold blood, without any regard for the consequences, which inevitably included the weakening of the Byzantine empire, an empire that had for so long been a bastion against the Turks. The pope had promulgated that the Christians should not fight Christians except when one party was hindering the success of the Crusades. The Byzantines were not hindering the success of the Crusades; they were, and had been for a long time, helpful to the Crusaders. The excuse that they were about to attack Constantinople in order to put young Alexius on the throne was a fiction concocted by the doge, the marquis of Montferrat, and Philip of Swabia. They did not even have an interest in recovering the Holy Land; they wanted loot.
During the First Crusade, the Crusaders had found themselves at odds with the Emperor Alexius Comnenus, who had not permitted them to sack the imperial city. When they attacked the walls of Constantinople, he fought them to a standstill. When, with the help of the Byzantine army, Nicaea was captured, the emperor had again refused them permission to sack the city, the second most important in his empire. He demanded from them an oath of loyalty, which they gave him reluctantly with the secret reservation that they would break it whenever they pleased. The relations between Byzantium and the Crusaders were always strained, and this was due largely to the fact that in the eyes of the Crusaders, the civilization of Byzantium was a dying one ready for plunder. They did not know that great civilizations can die many times and be reborn many times. Before the Arabs poured out of Arabia, the Byzantine empire stretched all over Asia Minor, Syria, Palestine and Egypt. Byzantium was still an imperial power, and would endure for many more years. Even after the sack of Constantinople, even after Frankish kings ruled from the jewel-studded imperial throne, there remained in the eyes of the Byzantine people the firm promise of a restoratio, a new birth, a revival of the Byzantine spirit.
Except for the Venetians, those who were determined to sack Constantinople were in a minority. At Corfu, where the battle plans for the attack on the city were finally worked out, the commanders of the Crusaders found themselves with a revolt on their hands. Many of the knights protested the Venetian plans, and they were not alone. The foot soldiers set up the cry, “Go to Acre!”—“Ire Accaron!” There was a plot to ferry troops from Corfu to Brindisi, which was in the possession of Count Walter of Brienne. Count Walter would see that they reached the Holy Land safely. “More than half the army,” Villehardouin admits, “was of this mind.” They had suffered atrociously at Zara, and they had been under heavy guard on the island of Lido, and the Venetians had amused themselves by charging extravagant sums for bread and provisions. Now, at last, they had seen through the Venetian pretensions.
In a formal act of rebellion the Crusaders struck their tents and marched inland into another valley at some distance from the city, to separate themselves from the doge and his army; they hoped that ships from Brindisi would rescue them from their plight.
Boniface, Marquis of Montferrat, decided upon desperate measures. He would abase himself before the Crusaders, he would promise everything they demanded, and at the same time he would cajole a rebellious army with promises and half-promises he had no intention of keeping. He was the supreme commander of the Crusaders, and his staff included Baldwin, Count of Flanders, Louis, Count of Blois and Chartres, and the count of Saint-Pol. With them, and with a retinue of bishops and abbots, and with the young Alexius, he rode to the valley where the Crusaders were in camp and presented himself to them while they were holding a mass meeting. At some distance from the camp he dismounted, and all the others dismounted, to show that they had come on a peaceful errand.
Walking up to the Crusaders he threw himself abjectly down on the ground. All those who accompanied him did the same. There were about twenty people on their knees. It was a coup de théâtre, a spectacle so incredible that the Crusaders were surprised out of their wits. Boniface announced that he would remain on his knees until they had listened to him, that he had many things to say to them, and the most urgent of all was that the army must remain intact and follow the Venetians to Constantinople; all the rest was negotiable. He was a master of oratory. He implored, begged, pleaded. The young emperor was presented to them. It was right and proper that the Christian army should restore him to his throne; it was their Christian duty, and once they had performed this duty, then of course, with his permission and blessing, the Crusaders would sail to the Holy Land.
At first the Crusaders could scarcely believe their ears. Their leaders drew a little apart, out of earshot of the strangers who had come to visit them so dramatically with such finely wrought supplications. They asked themselves whether they could believe what they had been told. How could they trust this man who had lied to them so successfully in the past? His chief argument, as Robert of Clari remembered it, was purely pragmatic. “What shall we do in Babylon or Alexandria,” he asked, “when we have neither provisions nor money to enable us to go there? Better for us before we go there to secure provisions and money by some good excuse than to go there and die of hunger. Moreover the emperor offers to come with us and maintain our navy and our fleet a year longer at his own cost.” This meant of course that, once Alexius was established on the throne, his treasury would be placed at the service of the Crusaders. The diversion would be only temporary; the entire population of Constantinople would be eager to welcome their rightful emperor, there would be little or no fighting, and the troops would soon be released for more important duties in the Holy Land.
When the deputation of Crusaders returned to confront Boniface, their minds were made up. They agreed to go to Constantinople, but only on condition that they be released from their engagement after a fixed period. It was now about April 19. They demanded that by Michaelmas, which was September 29, they would be free to demand and to receive, within fifteen days, ships and provisions that would enable them to reach Syria. They demanded, too, that a solemn agreement be drawn up, and signed in the presence of holy relics, to the effect that Boniface would give them what they asked for “in good faith and without trickery” and “at whatever hour he might be summoned to do so.” Boniface, Alexius, the counts of Flanders, Blois and Saint-Pol all signed the document.
Boniface, by abasing himself and by signing a document he had no intention of carrying out, had won the biggest gamble of his life. By his presence, and by the presence of the young Emperor Alexius, he quelled the rebellion of the Crusader army and in this way prepared the army for the conquest of the Byzantine empire and the vast territories he would later claim as his own.
Yet the marquis’s real motive was not so much desire for conquest as for personal revenge. His brother Conrad had been in Constantinople in 1187. He had fought valiantly for the emperor, quelling a rebellion and personally killing the rebel leader. But Boniface believed that Conrad had been dealt with most treacherously by the emperor.
The ships in the huge armada that sailed from Corfu to the Dardanelles came like conquerors and wore the dress of conquerors. But the vast, honey-colored walls of Constantinople were also impressive, cogent physical evidence of the city’s power and splendor. Villehardouin was not exaggerating when he wrote:
You should know that people who had never before set eyes on Constantinople were astounded, for never had they imagined that so rich a city could exist in the world, and as they gazed at the high walls and noble towers that ringed it around, and the splendid palaces and the towering churches—there were so many of them that no one could possibly believe it until they saw it with their own eyes—they were amazed by it, and especially by the height and breadth of the city, which was sovereign above all other cities. You should know, too, that there was not a single man among us whose flesh did not tremble at the sight o
f it; and it was no wonder, for never was so great an enterprise undertaken by any people since the creation of the world.
This was a bold claim, but Villehardouin had his own reasons for believing that the fleet was engaged in the greatest of all enterprises. He was himself high in the counsels of the leaders of the expedition; he was an arch-conspirator; he rejoiced in the prospect of sacking the greatest city in the world. He had much to gain from the enterprise.
The ordinary soldiers and sailors were not yet sure they would gain anything. They were suffering hardships, for food was running out again. Even the doge was beginning to behave with extreme caution. On June 23, his ship anchored in the Sea of Marmora opposite the Abbey of St. Stephanos, about twelve miles southwest of Constantinople. The doge and most of the leaders of the expedition were rowed ashore and a solemn council was held in the abbey church. There was a long debate, many arguments were heard, and at last the doge rose and laid down the strategy to be followed. It was a characteristically Venetian strategy, which depended upon sea power. Armies were not to be landed in the countryside for an attack on the land walls, because they would soon be dispersed and the enemy had the advantage of numbers. Also, the soldiers would immediately go foraging, and all foraging was useless effort when there was food available in the Sea of Marmora itself. There were islands that could be attacked; all their corn, all their grain, and all their provisions could be expropriated. The fleet had mastery of the straits and the islands were at the mercy of the ships.
Their present aim was to gather all the food on the Princes’ Islands, but when a southerly wind sprang up, making a journey to the islands dangerous, the fleet found itself coasting pleasantly off Constantinople very close to the seawalls, so close indeed that they were able to shoot at the guards manning the walls and the towers. The wind carried the fleet to Chalcedon on the Asiatic shore. Here they found one of the many palaces of the emperor, “one of the most beautiful and delectable ever seen,” and the leaders of the expedition came ashore and took up lodgings in the palace, while the soldiers lived in a tent city that sprang up outside the palace walls. The horses were brought to land, and only the sailors remained on the ships.
They had discovered that it was unnecessary to go to the islands. The Asiatic shore was undefended, for the emperor had pulled back all his forces to protect Constantinople. After resting at Chalcedon for two days, the Venetians and the Crusaders returned to their ships. They were well fed, the corn had just been reaped and was standing in sheaves in the fields around Chalcedon, and the soldiers had been busy carrying the corn to the waiting ships. Then the fleet continued up the straits to anchor off another imperial palace at Scutari. The horses taken off the transports at Chalcedon rode along the shore to Scutari. The massed might of the Crusader army stood at Scutari, ready to pounce on Constantinople.
The emperor had already sent envoys to demand the intentions of the invaders, although by this time he was well aware of their intentions, but he had some hope of reaching an accommodation. If they wanted gold or silver, he was prepared to give it to them. He was told bluntly that they wanted his empire, that he was a usurper and young Alexius was the rightful heir to the Byzantine throne. His envoys returned to Constantinople with the knowledge that it was impossible to argue with the Crusaders, and the city would have to be defended by force.
The doge, who had a keen sense of the uses of propaganda, thought up a ruse intended to mortify his enemies. Ten of the most splendid Venetian galleys would approach Constantinople under a flag of truce; in one of these galleys, sitting on a throne, would be the young Alexius arrayed in imperial robes. The people would be asked whether they recognized their emperor. The doge felt sure there would be some malcontents in the city ready to swear allegiance to a new emperor.
The ruse proved to be spectacularly unsuccessful. The Venetian fleet passed in procession under the walls of Constantinople, and to the cry, “Do you recognize the young Alexius as your lord?” the people shouted back, “We don’t recognize him and we don’t know who he is.” The verdict of Constantinople was unanimous, and the Crusaders learned that there was no nest of spies fighting for them in the city. The outcome of the battle was now in doubt, for the people of Constantinople seemed well able to defend themselves.
For nine days, the Venetians and the Crusaders remained at Scutari. A good deal of time was spent in gathering supplies from the hinterland and in debates on the best method of attack. The knights assembled on horseback in a field and held a parliament, but in fact all the major decisions were made by the doge or by Boniface. The Crusader army was divided into seven main groups, with Baldwin of Flanders at the head of the vanguard and Boniface in command of the rear guard. To Boniface went the Tuscans, the Lombards, the Germans, and the soldiers from southern France. The doge commanded that the Crusaders should attack by land and the Venetians should attack by sea. The land and sea operations were to be carefully orchestrated.
At dawn, under a clear sky, the Crusaders were ferried across the straits from Scutari to Galata at the mouth of the Golden Horn. During the night, all the soldiers confessed and received communion; the army was blessed; and the knights with their horses entered the transports, which were shaped like modern landing craft, with a door opening to permit horse and rider to ride off the ship onto the land. Two hundred trumpeters sounded the advance and there was a dreadful noise of drums. There was a small detachment of imperial troops at Galata, but they were soon overwhelmed. A Venetian ship called the Aquila succeeded in breaking the chain across the mouth of the Golden Horn—a chain so heavy and so well made that it was believed to be impregnable. One end of the chain was attached to the walls of Constantinople and the other to a fortresslike tower at Galata. A flotilla of Greek ships was anchored in front of the chain. The tower and the Greek ships were captured, and the Crusader army moved up the shore of the Golden Horn until they reached the famous bridge, which the Greeks defended as well as they could, at last retreating behind the city walls. After crossing the bridge, the Crusaders set up their tents outside the city walls facing the Blachernae Palace. They were following the scenario laid down during the First Crusade when an exactly similar maneuver had been attempted. During the First Crusade, the attempt had failed. This time, it was successful.
The doge or his naval staff had conceived new and extraordinarily powerful weapons. These were flying bridges attached to the high masts of the galleys, which could be made by a system of tackles and counterbalance weights to reach up to the parapets of the high walls. These flying bridges were sturdily built: three men abreast could walk across them in full armor. Hugh of Saint-Pol says the bridges were a hundred feet long, which may be true if we consider that they resembled a T with the mast forming the centerpiece. We are told that these bridges were protected against Greek fire with hides, which also protected them from arrows. Some of these bridges seem to have been built to form tunnels, so that a man could clamber along them and feel safe until he set foot on the parapet of the walls of Constantinople.
The emperor of Constantinople had not lost hope. He believed he could defend the city. The Varangian Guard, which consisted mostly of Danes and Englishmen who were fanatically loyal to theemperor’s person, could be relied upon. The Pechenegs, recruited from southern Russia, were unlikely to go over to the enemy. The emperor’s main strength lay with the Greek army within the walls, which gave a good account of itself. Constantinople had become a fortress from which the Greeks, the Pechenegs, and the imperial guard could make sorties from the well-defended gates. There were many sorties, most of them from the Romanus Gate and from other gates near the Blachernae Palace. The Crusaders were forced to construct a palisade around their camp. “The Greeks,” wrote Villehardouin “never ceased to attack from one gate or another with the result that the whole army was called to arms six or seven times a day.” The Crusaders found the continual attacks punishing. In addition, they were running out of provisions. They lived on flour, and salted pork, and their dea
d horses. The Crusaders lost many of their best knights but captured Constantine Lascaris, who was one of the best Byzantine generals. And so the fighting continued for ten days, the Crusader army failing to penetrate the walls of Constantinople.
But all this amounted to no more than a test of strength, with the Greeks demonstrating that they were perfectly capable of defending their city if the battles were fought in the customary way, with crossbows, swords, and lances. Now, quite suddenly, the Venetians, who had been making little use of their fleet while the fighting was going on near the Blachernae Palace, captured some of the towers and sent scouting parties into the city, by means of the flying bridges. None of these scouting parties seems to have progressed very far into the city, but it was not necessary to do so in order to employ their secret weapon. They set fire to a large area of the city. And the fire accomplished what all the weaponry of the Crusaders had failed to do: it conquered the city.
Villehardouin gives a clear description of what happened. The fires were lit deliberately by the Venetians, who saw they were hopelessly outnumbered by an advancing Byzantine army. “When the emperor saw that the Venetians were in the city,” he wrote, “he sent his people against them in such numbers that we would be unable to endure their onslaught. So they set fire to the buildings between them and the Greeks, and the wind blowing from our side, the flames rose so high that the Greeks were unable to see our people, who fled to the towers they had seized and conquered.” The flames that saved a small army of Venetians who had climbed over the walls destroyed about a quarter of the city. The two great palaces remained untouched, but the flames reached the Church of Sancta Sophia, where the porch with the mosaics of the patriarchs was destroyed, and then they leaped along the Hippodrome and down to the seawalls. All through the night the high winds fanned the flames.