The History of the Renaissance World: From the Rediscovery of Aristotle to the Conquest of Constantinople

by Bauer, Susan Wise

  52.1 The Battle of Evesham

  The Battle of Evesham brought an end both to the Second Barons’ War against the crown and to the power of Henry III. It would be two years before final terms of peace were signed, and eight before Henry III’s reign finally ended. But from the moment of victory at Evesham, Edward—twenty-six years old, six foot two and towering over his peers, hardened by constant service in his father’s army—was the real ruler of England.

  MEANWHILE, the Sicilian match that had lit the English powderkeg was burning merrily away in new directions.

  Since Henry was clearly not going to get Sicily out of Manfred’s hands, Pope Urban IV offered the crown to Louis IX instead. Louis declined, on principle; he did not wish to be the usurper of young Conradin’s rights. But Urban IV found a more willing candidate in Louis’s younger brother, Charles of Anjou: aged forty, constantly in motion, a veteran of the failed Damietta Crusade, impatient with Louis’s scruples and ambitious for himself. He agreed at once—over Louis’s objections—to both take the crown and conquer the country. And, like Henry III nearly a decade earlier, he accepted a truly awful set of conditions in exchange for the meaningless title. He agreed to give up all power over the clergymen in Sicily, to claim no other title in Italy, to pay off the English debt to Rome, and to hand over an enormous yearly tribute to the pope. In exchange, he got the name of king—and the pope’s promise to give anyone who fought against Manfred the rewards of crusade.15

  By the time Charles arrived in Sicily, Urban IV too was dead (the continuing election of elderly priests to the seat of Peter lent itself to quick turnover), and the French cardinal Guy Foulques le Gros had become Pope Clement IV.

  Charles and his wife were crowned king and queen of Sicily in Rome; and, with title in hand, Charles prepared to attack Manfred. Learning of the new arrangement, Manfred had crossed over into southern Italy with a good-sized army of his own. He intended to surround Charles in Rome and make short work of him: “The bird is in the cage,” he had remarked, hearing of Charles’s arrival in the city.16

  Before Manfred could arrive, Charles marched his own army, recruited from the French provinces, out of Rome and down into Manfred’s southern Italian lands, bordered by the Garigliano river. The French forces found a gap in the border defense, at the town of Ceprano. Rumors later spread that traitors in Manfred’s kingdom had arranged the hole: “Bones are gather’d yet / At Ceprano,” the Florentine poet Dante wrote later, in the Inferno, “there where treachery / Branded the Apulian name.”17

  The two kings met at Benevento, and Charles of Anjou’s battalions easily outmaneuvered the Sicilian soldiers. Three thousand of Manfred’s men fell; more were drowned in the river nearby as they fled. Manfred himself was killed at the center of the fighting. When Charles located his body, three days later, he buried it in unconsecrated ground near the battlefield: Manfred had died in his excommunicated state. (Dante would later meet Manfred in purgatory, working off his sins: “When by two mortal blows / My frame was shatter’d,” the shade laments, “I betook myself / Weeping to Him, who of free will forgives.”)18

  The capture of the Sicilian kingdom by Charles of Anjou had a bloody and brutal postscript. When the Italian cities in the north declared independence, young Conradin—now fourteen and backed by the German troops of his uncle, the Duke of Bavaria—made a play for what remained of his inheritance. Impelled by his advisors, he crossed through the Alps and tried to rally the Lombard cities against Charles’s power.

  He made it as far as Rome. Clement IV came out to watch him march by, driven by hopes of victory and a teenager’s sense of immortality: “Dragged by wicked men as a lamb to the slaughter,” he is said to have muttered from his balcony.19

  52.2 The Kingdom of Sicily

  Charles came north against him and repeated his victory, driving back Conradin’s supporters at the Battle of Tagliacozzo on August 23, 1268. “The better part of the enemy was destroyed with the edge of the sword,” he wrote back to Clement IV afterwards, “. . . the slaughter of the enemey there was so great that what happened . . . on the fields of Benevento can hardly be compared to it.” Conradin himself was captured as he fled from the battlefield. Charles imprisoned him for a year and then, in October 1269, had the teenager publicly beheaded for treason.20

  The three-way dominion of the Holy Roman Emperors had disappeared, along with the line of Frederick II. Charles reigned in Sicily and southern Italy; the Lombard cities remained in revolt; and, four years after young Conradin’s death, the German electors finally decided on one of their own, Rudolf, Count of Hapsburg, to be the next king of Germany.

  Rudolf prudently remained in Germany, content with the title king of Germany and making no efforts to regain the empire. To be crowned Holy Roman Emperor, he would have had to go to Rome and appeal to the pope; and he preferred to stay home. “Rome is like the lion’s den in the fable,” he explained. “One may see the footsteps of many who have gone there, but of none who have come back.”21

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  The Recapture of Constantinople

  Between 1254 and 1261,

  the Latin Empire comes to an end,

  and the Byzantine Empire is restored

  HALF A CENTURY BEFORE, Byzantium had splintered into four mini-kingdoms and faded from sight. For a little less than a millennium, Constantinople had been a pivot point of international politics; now, like Kiev, or Braga, or Krakow, it was of vast importance to its immediate neighbors, but little more.

  Constantinople now stood as the capital of the “Latin Empire,” a tiny and penniless realm. Immediately after the conquest of the city by the Fourth Crusade, the Latin Empire, under the Count of Flanders turned Emperor, had stretched from Constantinople into the south of Greece, across the Black Sea to encompass the coast of Asia Minor. But under the count’s nephew Baldwin II, who inherited the throne in 1228 at the age of eleven, the Latin Empire had shrunk. The Bulgarian empire, under the ambitious Ivan Asen, mounted constant attacks on its western border; the Empire of Nicaea, under the ruthless John Vatatzes, assaulted it from the east. Baldwin had few troops, and no money to hire mercenaries. A delegation of Franciscan and Dominican friars who visited the city in 1234 reported that city was “deprived of all protection,” the emperor a pauper: “All the paid knights departed. The ships of the Venetians, Pisans . . . and other nations were ready to leave, and some indeed had already left. When we saw that the land was abandoned, we feared danger because it was surrounded by enemies.”1

  Baldwin spent much of his reign out of Constantinople, traveling from court to court in Europe and begging each Christian king to help him protect the city that had once been Christianity’s crown jewel in the east. Both Louis IX of France and Henry III of England made small contributions to the Latin treasury, but in its king’s absence Constantinople itself grew shabbier and hungrier. By 1254, Baldwin could claim to rule only the land right around Constantinople’s walls. He had already sold most of the city’s treasures and sacred relics: a fragment of the True Cross, the napkin that Saint Veronica had used to wash the face of Christ as he walked towards Golgotha, the lance that pierced Christ’s side on the cross, the Crown of Thorns itself. (Louis IX bought most of them and built a special chapel in Paris to house the collection.) He had borrowed so much money from the Venetian merchants that he had been forced to send his son Philip to Venice as a hostage pending repayment; he had torn the copper roofs from Constantinople’s domes and melted them down into coins.2

  While the Latin Empire withered, the Empire of Nicaea grew. John Vatatzes, claiming to be the Byzantine emperor in exile, spent most of his thirty-three-year reign fighting: swallowing most of Constantinople’s land, seizing Thrace from Bulgaria and Thessalonica from the third of the mini-kingdoms, the Despotate of Epirus. (The fourth mini-kingdom, the Empire of Trebizond, never expanded very far away from the shoreline of the Black Sea.) By 1254, the Empire of Nicaea stretched from Asia Minor across to Greece and up north of the Aegean.r />
  53.1 The Empire of Nicaea

  In February of that year, the sixty-year-old John Vatatzes suffered a massive epileptic seizure in his bedchamber. He slowly recovered, but seizures continued to plague him. “The attacks began to occur altogether more frequently,” writes the historian George Akropolites, who lived at the Nicaean court. “He had a wasting away of the flesh and . . . no respite from the affliction.” In November, the emperor died; his son Theodore, aged thirty-three, became emperor.3

  But Theodore II soon sickened with the same illness that had killed his father: “His entire body was reduced to a skeleton,” Akropolites says. He died before the end of his fourth year on the throne, leaving as heir his eight-year-old son John.4

  John’s rule was promptly co-opted by the ambitious Michael Palaeologus, a well-regarded soldier and aristocrat who was also the great-grandson of the Byzantine emperor Alexius III. With the support of most of the Nicaeans (“They did not think it proper,” says Akropolites, “for the . . . empire, being so great, to be governed by a fruit-picking and dice-playing infant”), Michael first declared himself to be regent and then, in 1259, promoted himself to co-emperor as Michael VIII.5

  From the moment he took the throne, Michael VIII intended to recover his great-grandfather’s city: “His every effort and whole aim was to rescue it from the hands of the Latins,” writes Akropolites. In the first two years of his reign, he prepared for the attack on Constantinople by making peace on his other borders; he concluded treaties with both Bulgaria and the nearby Il-khanate Mongols.6

  He also equipped himself with a new alliance. The merchants of Genoa had just suffered a commercial catastrophe. In 1256, they had quarreled sharply with the Venetians over the ownership of a waterfront parcel of land in Acre, the last surviving fragment of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Whoever controlled it could block rival ships from the harbor of Acre, and both of the maritime republics wanted this advantage. “The Christians began to make shameful and wretched war on each other,” says the contemporary chronicle known as the Rothelin Continuation, “both sides being equally aggressive.” The first major sea battle in the war, between a thirty-nine-ship Venetian fleet (reinforced by ships from friendly Pisa) and a fifty-galley Genoan navy, had ended with an embarrassing Genoan loss. Between 1257 and 1258, the conflict ballooned until all of Acre was at war:

  And all that year there were at least sixty engines, every one of them throwing down onto the city of Acre, onto houses, towers and turrets, and they smashed and laid level with the ground every building they touched, for ten of these engines could deliver rocks weighing as much as 1500 pounds. . . . [N]early all the towers and strong houses in Acre were destroyed . . . [and] twenty thousand men died in this war on one side or the other. . . . The city of Acre was as utterly devastated by this war as if it had been destroyed in warfare between Christians and Saracens.7

  The Genoans were the losers. By the end of 1258, they had been forced out of Acre completely; the old Genoese quarter in Acre was entirely pulled apart, and the Venetians and Pisans used the stones to rebuild their own trading posts.8

  Now Genoa needed another trading base in the eastern Mediterranean. Carefully guarded negotiations between the Genoese statesman Guglielmo Boccanegra and the emperor Michael VIII went on during the winter of 1260, and ended in July of 1261 with the signing of a major treaty: the Treaty of Nymphaion, which promised the Genoese their own tax-free trading quarters in Constantinople, should they help the ambitious emperor to conquer it.9

  The conquest itself was an anticlimax; Baldwin II was in no shape to resist, and the city was almost defenseless. As soon as the Treaty of Nymphaion was ratified, Michael sent a small detachment to Constantinople to issue a series of threats. The detachment discovered, to its surprise, that most of the remaining Latin army had been sent off to attack a Nicaean-held harbor island near the Bosphorus Strait. Under cover of thick dark, they climbed into the city, quickly overwhelmed the tiny remaining guard, and opened the gates. Baldwin himself, sleeping at the royal palace, woke up at the sounds of their shouts and managed to flee the city, leaving his crown behind him. The Latin Empire was no more.10

  Michael VIII himself was camped to the north of Thyateira at the time. When news of the capture arrived at his camp, his sister woke him up by shaking him and saying, “Rise up, emperor, for Christ has conferred Constantinople upon you!” According to Akropolites, he answered, “How? I did not even send a worthy army against it.”11

  Three weeks later, he arrived at the gates of Constantinople himself. He entered the city on August 14 as the first emperor of a restored Byzantium, and found a disastrous mess: “a plain of destruction, full of ruins and mounds.” The royal palace was so filthy and smoke-stained that it had to be scrubbed from top to bottom before he could take up residence in it.12

  The Genoese, claiming their reward, now had a trade monopoly in Byzantium and held the premier position in the Mediterranean Sea. Baldwin II ended up in Italy, still claiming to be the emperor of the Latins.

  Michael’s co-emperor, young John, remained behind in Nicaea. Michael VIII intended to rule the restored Byzantium on his own, founder of a new royal dynasty, without challenge. Four months later, he ordered the boy blinded and imprisoned in a castle on an island in the Sea of Marmara. The sentence was carried out on Christmas Day, 1261, the boy’s eleventh birthday.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  The Last Crusades

  Between 1270 and 1291,

  Louis IX dies on crusade,

  the Principality of Antioch and the Kingdom of Jerusalem fall,

  and the crusading age comes to an end

  LOUIS IX had not yet succeeded at crusade. On July 1, 1270, he once again set sail across the Mediterranean, departing from the southern coast of France and heading for Tunis.

  The decay of Almohad power on the Spanish peninsula had been followed by the disintegration of the Almohad empire in North Africa. In Tunis, a former Almohad governor had declared his independence in 1229, establishing a dynasty known as the Hafsid. Other breakaway dynasties claimed chunks of Almohad land as well; the Zayyanids ruled from the city of Tlemcen, the Marinids from Fez. The last Almohad caliph, Idris II, had been able to claim little more than the lands surrounding Marrakesh itself, and even this claim had fallen when the Marinids stormed Marrakesh in 1269 and took it for themselves.

  54.1 After the Almohads

  Of the three post-Almohad kingdoms, the Hafsid was the most powerful. Tunis, separated from the Mediterranean Sea only by a lake, lay at the end of the central trade route down into Africa; it was already visited by merchants from across the Muslim world, and in Hafsid hands it grew into a mighty political capital as well. Ambassadors came to the Hafsid capital from Egypt, from West Africa, even from distant Norway. The kings of Kanem kept a permanent embassy there; so did James of Aragon, who managed to negotiate an ongoing peace with the Hafsid caliphs. Those caliphs boasted descent from a disciple of the twelfth-century prophet Ibn Tumart, founder of the Almohad movement; they set themselves as the rightful protectors of Islam in North Africa. Abu ‘Abdallah al-Mustansir, who had ruled in Tunis since 1249, styled himself “Commander of the Faithful.” His Tunis boasted both the great theological school of al-Zaytuna, where students of Islam came to work from all over Spain and North Africa, and the Studium Arabicum, a Dominican school intended to train Christian missionaries in their understanding of Muslim beliefs so that they could more effectively argue against them. Al-Mustansir raised no objections to this. Under his rule, both Dominicans and Franciscans preached freely to the Hafsid Muslims, although without great effect.1

  Why Louis IX decided to tackle the Hafsids is not entirely clear. They were a mighty Muslim empire, but they held no holy sites. He had originally taken the cross intending to fight against the Bahri mamluk turned sultan Baibars, who had conquered Antioch and was now threatening Acre. Louis’s younger brother Charles of Anjou announced that he would join the Crusade, which might explain the targeting of
Tunis; Charles, now king of Sicily and southern Italy, wanted to claim the North African coast for himself as well. But Louis had not been sympathetic to his brother’s ambitions. Perhaps he simply thought that the open-minded al-Mustansir was a likely convert to Christianity.2

  Whatever the motivation, enthusiasm for the project among the French knights was nonexistent. “If we take not the cross, we shall lose the King’s favour,” one of them remarked, in the hearing of Jean de Joinville, “and if we take the cross, we shall lose the favour of God, since we take not the cross for Him, but for fear of the King.” James of Aragon refused to have anything to do with the war against his allies, and Joinville himself decided not to accompany his king: “They all did mortal sin that counselled his going,” he wrote, “because . . . all the realm was at good peace with itself and with all its neighbors . . . after he had gone, the state of the realm [did nothing but] worsen.”3

  Louis finally managed to raise a certain amount of support. The king of Navarre, Theobald, had married Louis’s daughter Isabella in 1255; he now agreed to accompany his father-in-law. Prince Edward of England had also promised to join the army in North Africa, but had not yet embarked. Along with his three older sons, Louis landed in Carthage on July 18 and marched his army the fifteen miles towards Tunis. He began to besiege the city, but within weeks was suffering from what Joinville calls “a flux of the belly.” Dysentery ravaged the attackers; the Florentine chronicler Giovanni Villani tells us that Louis’s second son John died, along with “an innumerable company of the common folk.”4