CHAPTER FOUR
‘Our lords entreat you, in God’s name to take pity
on the land overseas’
SET UPON A clutch of islands in the lagoon at the head of the Adriatic, the city of Venice was a powerful and independent force in the medieval world and boasted a proud and distinctive history.1 The islands had been inhabited by fishermen since Roman times when the region was part of the great empire. In those days the lagoons were far more extensive, both inland and stretching to the north and south of the area that would later become Venice. With the decline of the Roman Empire in the fourth and fifth centuries most of Italy came under the rule of Germanic tribes. One exception was the territory known as Venetia. This remained under the control of officials sent out from Constantinople, which, since 331 as the emperors sought a safer base further east, had been the ‘new Rome’. This link with Byzantium was fundamental in shaping the development of Venice over the next few centuries.
The Lombard invasion of Italy in 580 forced many refugees from the mainland to seek safety on the islands deep amongst the lagoons. Several settlements grew up and in 697 the Byzantine officials appointed the first dux (or doge) to rule the area. In 810, Charlemagne’s son, Pepin, attempted to conquer the region on behalf of the Frankish Empire, but was unable to cross to the Rialto island that already formed the hub of the settlement.
A subsequent peace treaty made plain that Venice was part of the Byzantine Empire, although the islanders soon began to assert their independence. This was vividly symbolised in 829 with the theft of the relics of St Mark from Alexandria and the adoption of the apostle in place of Theodore, a Greek warrior saint, as the patron saint of the city. However, a loosening of political ties did not mean a complete break from Constantinople, and trading links remained strong, as did Greek influence on cultural matters, such as architecture.
Around this time the Venetians concentrated their sailing skills on the myriad river valleys that ran into the broad natural basin that lay below the Dolomites in northern Italy. Their bargemen became great traders, selling salt and fish from their own region, as well as products brought up from the Mediterranean by Byzantine merchants (spices, silk and incense) in return for staple foodstuffs including grain, which they were unable to grow on their own small, sandy islands.
Neighbouring regions such as the Po river valley became increasingly peaceful during the ninth and tenth centuries, the economy prospered and the Venetians started to travel further afield to satisfy a rising demand for luxury products. Their ships sailed into the Mediterranean with ever-greater frequency, trading with Muslim North Africa as well as Asia Minor and the Levant. Slaves from the Slavic lands and timber from the plains and mountains to the north of Venice became important exports. The slaves and wood were sold to North Africa in return for gold and this, in turn, was spent in Constantinople to obtain luxury goods to sell in the West. This growth in trade, combined with the ready availability of timber, meant that the Venetian shipbuilding industry emerged to help sustain the city’s commercial ascendancy.
In 1082 Emperor Alexius I of Byzantium favoured the Venetians by granting them complete exemption from tariffs across the Byzantine Empire - another substantial boost to the islanders’ economy.2 By the eleventh century Venice was a strong, wealthy and vigorous political and economic force. Unlike its rivals Pisa and Genoa, it had managed to remain independent from the German emperor who ruled over much of northern Italy. At the time of the Fourth Crusade, the city had grown to be one of the largest urban centres in Europe with a population estimated at about 60,000 people based on the islands centred around the Rialto.
In early 1202 the envoys halted their horses at the eastern edge of the Veneto plain and transferred to small barges for the last leg of their journey. Their boats passed through the lush vegetation of the lagoons and on to stretches of green, open water where they caught their first sight of Venice. They saw a skyline unlike that of any other city in northern Italy. Centuries of rivalry meant that places such as Siena, Genoa, Bologna and Perugia were marked by a forest of tall stone towers. These structures were built by families and kin groups as statements of wealth and power and as defence against aggressive neighbours both inside and outside the city. Venice had no such high towers, in part because it had suffered few political upheavals - the non-hereditary system of election for the doges worked well - and, more practically, because the sand upon which it was built could not support buildings of this sort. The clay lagoon floor (beneath the sand), combined with wooden piles, offered some sort of foundation, but this underlying weakness and a lack of local stone meant that it was hard to construct tall buildings.Today the Venetian skyline remains remarkably low, broken principally by the campanile (bell-tower) of St Mark’s Square. First constructed in 1173, the present structure originates from the sixteenth century, although a collapse in 1902 led to it being rebuilt.
Soon after the envoys’ arrival, the ruler of Venice, Doge Enrico Dandolo, came to welcome the Frenchmen. This remarkable individual was to be one of the central players in the Fourth Crusade.3 By this time he was already a most venerable man, probably aged over 90 years old; he was also blind. To survive to such an advanced age indicated a hardy constitution and was a comparative rarity in the medieval period, although genetics seems to have favoured the Dandolo family because several other members of the clan lived into their eighties and beyond.4 Enrico had been blind since the 1170s and he told Villehardouin personally that he had suffered the disability as the result of a severe blow to the head. Later rumours suggested that the wound had been inflicted by Emperor Manuel Comnenus during an embassy to Constantinople in 1172. Manuel had realised that Dandolo was a dangerous opponent and had had him bound and then blinded by using glass to reflect the sun’s rays into his eyes. Thus, the story went, Dandolo swore to be avenged on the Greeks; hence the diversion of the Fourth Crusade to Constantinople. Sadly, this neat reasoning does not tally with the evidence because, as well as his account to Villehardouin, we know that the doge could still see in 1176. Thus, however attractive it is, the idea of a long-standing personal grudge against the Greeks based upon Dandolo being blinded by Manuel Comnenus cannot be sustained.5
In spite of his handicap, Dandolo was a man of incredible energy, drive and determination, dedicated to securing wealth and honour for his people. Some contemporaries such as Innocent III (as well as later historians) have criticised him for his greed and ambition, but, equally, many of the crusaders themselves spoke highly of his qualities.6 Gunther of Pairis described him thus: ‘He was, to be sure, sightless of eye, but most perceptive of mind and compensated for physical blindness with a lively intellect and, best of all, foresight. In the case of matters that were unclear, the others always took every care to seek his advice and they usually followed his lead in public affairs.’7 Baldwin of Flanders wrote of the high esteem in which all the crusaders held him.8 Robert of Clari regarded Dandolo as ‘a most worthy man’.9
Dandolo was elected doge in 1192 and very quickly set about emphasising both personal and civic prestige. One way he did this was to reform the city’s coinage from the standard silver penny to a new denomination that included a large silver grosso worth no less than 24 pennies. There was no standardised coinage at national (let alone international) level in the Middle Ages and each city or county would have its own particular currency, which created a huge and complex exchange market.
Aside from their financial function, coins could also signal the manner in which a city or region wanted to be perceived. In the days before mass media, coins were one of the few items to receive widespread circulation and the design could transmit an image of a particular area and its rulers far beyond its homeland. Some rulers, such as the kings of France, did not engage in this practice and minted fairly unimaginative coins adorned only with their name, title and a simple cross; others, such as the emperors of Germany, chose to depict their monarch in full regalia upon a throne. In 1194, Dandolo decided to recast the Venetian coinage and his grosso was a masterpiece of political and religious imagery, as well as a statement of his city’s financial power (see plate section).
On one side sits a beautifully executed depiction of Christ on his throne; on the other, the patron saint of Venice, St Mark, blesses the doge himself, who is actually named in person towards the edge of the coin. In other words, the grosso shows divine approval for the doge and emphasises the link between his authority and the saint’s protection of the city’s leader. This coin became the highest-denomination currency in Europe and was praised for its fineness and purity: it was no less than 98.5 per cent silver, far superior to anything else in the West.
Given the Venetians’ international trading position, Dandolo was not simply concerned with western European markets, but also with the Byzantine and eastern Mediterranean worlds. The Venetians had earlier made much use of coinage from the kingdom of Jerusalem and, in the latter half of the twelfth century, the Byzantine coinage as well. In recent decades, however, this had declined in purity and, coupled with the unstable relations between the Greeks and the Venetians, it was unwise for the latter to rely on the Byzantine currency. The new grosso would give the Venetians more independence and it was soon internationally recognised as the most important silver coinage in both Europe and the Mediterranean. The fact that it was Enrico Dandolo who had introduced it reveals him as a man of considerable political and economic acumen.10
The crusaders’ envoys met, therefore, a formidable and highly experienced leader, familiar in the ways of commerce and diplomacy and confident in the capabilities of his great city. Dandolo listened to the embassy’s credentials and their letters of introduction and acknowledged their high standing; he then asked them to speak concerning their mission. Villehardouin reported that the Frenchmen wanted to address the city council to lay before it their lords’ message. He hoped this could be done the following day, but Dandolo replied that he would need four days to call the assembly to order.
The crusaders duly appeared in the doge’s palace next to the church of St Mark’s on the Rivo Alto, the central island of Venice. Villehardouin described the palace as ‘a most beautiful building and very richly furnished’. There the leading men of Venice, the doge and a group of judges known as the Small Council, awaited the embassy. One of the envoys addressed his audience:
My lords, we have come to you on behalf of the great nobles of France, who have taken the cross to avenge the outrage suffered by our Lord, and, if God so wills, to recapture Jerusalem. And since our lords know that there is no people who can help them so well as yours, they entreat you, in God’s name, to take pity on the land overseas, and the outrage suffered by our Lord, and graciously do your best to supply us with a fleet of warships and transports.
The embassy delivered, therefore, a plain request for military assistance, couched in the familiar terms of a holy war to regain Christ’s patrimony. The Venetians were well aware of Pope Innocent’s call for the crusade from the visit of legate Soffredo and, through their commercial networks, would have had a clear appreciation of the political and strategic realities of the situation in the Levant.11
‘How can this be done?’ asked the doge. ‘In any way that you care to advise or propose, so long as our lords can meet your conditions and bear the cost,’ came the reply. Perhaps taken aback by the scale of the request, the doge asked for a week to deliver his response: ‘do not be surprised at so long a delay, since such an important matter demands our full consideration’. Dandolo was right to ask for a period of grace. If he agreed to the envoys’ proposition - and some sense of the projected size of the force must have been given at this stage - he would be asking his people to embark upon the most ambitious step in their commercial history. To transport the French crusaders to the Holy Land necessitated a level of commitment unprecedented in medieval commerce. The number of ships required would absorb almost the entire Venetian fleet and would entail the construction of many new ships as well. To devote the manpower of the city to one project was a breathtaking idea; in fact, it would require the suspension of practically all other commercial activity with the outside world. A modern comparison might entail a major international airline ceasing flights for a year to prepare its planes for one particular client, and then to serve that client exclusively for a further period afterwards. To us, the level of risk seems fearfully high; only the firmest assurances - and the greatest rewards - could produce such an agreement. In the case of the Fourth Crusade, the two engines of faith and commerce should be borne in mind. The Venetians’ motivation as Christians, along with their hopes of securing unparalleled long-term economic advantages in the eastern Mediterranean, were powerful lures.
As well as building the ships, the Venetians would also sail the fleet and participate in the expedition. Collectively, these responsibilities would draw in far more men than the city had ever previously committed to a crusade. It must also involve their doge, as befitted the ruler of a maritime state. In 1122-4 Doge Domenico had led a crusade to Tyre, and now Enrico Dandolo wanted to do the same. The idea that a man of his age was prepared to submit himself to the rigours of a sea voyage and a holy war showed incredible devotion and determination. As an aside, several leaders on the First Crusade had been men of relatively advanced years and there is a suggestion that their intention was to end their days in the Holy Land and to be buried in the very earth sanctified by Christ’s presence; perhaps Dandolo intended the same fate for himself.12 Given the extraordinary level of commitment required, Dandolo and his fellow-citizens must have wanted the most watertight of guarantees that their labours would be rewarded in full. If the deal collapsed, then Venice faced ruin - and Dandolo himself would have to bear the enormous responsibility for that disaster.
A week later the envoys returned to the palace and, after further discussions, Dandolo announced the terms of the Venetians’ offer to the crusaders, subject to the approval of the Grand Council and the assembly of the commons. Villehardouin provides this information:
We will build transports to carry 4,500 horses and 9,000 squires, and other ships to accommodate 4,500 knights and 20,000 foot sergeants. We will also include in our contract a nine months’ supply of rations for all men and fodder for all the horses. This is what we will do for you, and no less, on condition you pay us [four] marks per horse and two marks per man. We will, moreover, abide by the terms of the covenant we now place before you for the space of one year from the day on which we set sail from the port of Venice, to act in the service of God and of Christendom, whichever it may be. The total cost of all that we have outlined here amounts to 85,000 marks. And we will do more than this. We will provide, for the love of God, fifty additional armed galleys, on condition that so long as our association lasts we shall have one half, and you the other half, of everything that we win, either by land or sea. It now remains for you to consider if you, on your part, can accept and fulfil our conditions.13
The treaty itself survives in full and its key terms are those related by Villehardouin, although it includes further details such as the provision of foodstuffs for the crusaders - wheat, flour, fruit, vegetables, wine and water, and, likewise, adequate provision for their horses.14
The envoys asked for a day to consider the offer and, after discussions deep into the evening, they agreed to the terms. The following morning they formally accepted. The matter was still not closed, however, because the doge needed to persuade his fellow-citizens to endorse the plan. First he had to sway the Grand Council, a group of the 40 most senior men of the city. According to Villehardouin, Dandolo gradually argued them around to his position and convinced them that they should approve the contract. Villehardouin conveys a slight sense of reluctance on the part of some Council members and, given the scale of the proposal, it is unsurprising that a few took time to be won over. Afterwards the common people of Venice had to agree. For them, Dandolo realised that a more emotional appeal was required and he chose a powerful but calculated setting to secure the outcome he desired. 15
Along with a recognition of the commercial advantages to Venice, Dandolo, as a pious medieval man, was stirred by the idea of freeing the Holy Land. This was, after all, the purpose underlying the entire crusading movement and - with Villehardouin and his companions as visible representatives of that hope, and as men sworn to fight and, if necessary, to die for God - it was important to exploit the basic religiosity of the Venetian people. Dandolo invited 10,000 of the common people to hear a mass of the Holy Spirit in the church of St Mark’s, and to pray for divine guidance concerning the envoys’ request for help.
The church of St Mark’s began life as the private chapel of the doge, whose palace was (and still is) located next door.16 The first church was built to house the relics of St Mark, stolen from Alexandria in 828. Fires and subsidence necessitated several reconstruction programmes. The underlying shape of St Mark’s is that of a Greek cross (the four arms are of the same length) and the replacement of the wooden roof with five new brick domes in the latter half of the eleventh century formed the basis of the building we see today. These domes remain in place, although from the outside they are now hidden under the later lead-covered onion lanterns that dominate the present skyline. In other words, to picture the church in Villehardouin’s day we must imagine a much lower, flatter outline. To support these domes huge, thick walls were added, along with various apses and a porch. The shape and decoration of the church demonstrate the cultural affinity between Venice and Byzantium, because St Mark’s was deliberately modelled on the church of the Holy Apostles in Constantinople (destroyed in 1453). The massive central piers are pierced by archways to give a greater sense of light, and the central dome with its ring of small windows seems almost to hover over the mighty vaults. The tomb of St Mark is in a crypt under the high altar; it lies, therefore, at the end of a long arena suitable for the great processional ceremonies of the church and the doge.
Some of the surviving mosaics, sculpture, flooring and marble date from after the sack of Constantinople, but in the spring of 1201 the Frenchmen still went into a sumptuously decorated church. Several mosaics were already in place and others extant now, such as the main Christ figure over the east apse, are copies of twelfth-century work. Below this great image of Christ are depictions of four patron saints, clad in beautiful blue and ivory robes and bearing gifts; these date from around 1106.17
On entering the church, the visitor is faced by an array of brown, gold, green and blue mosaics. The eye is caught by a bewildering variety of divine beings and sacred events and there is an impressive opulence and intensity in the overall decorative effect. The last of the three arches of the short nave merges into the central supporting pillars. These stretch above to the three central domes, which then step away down the church to the main focus of the building, the east apse containing the figure of Christ overlooking the tomb of St Mark.
Villehardouin and his colleagues walked into the church. All those inside knew of the envoys’ presence in the city and the nature, if not the details, of their business. With the crusader cross emblazoned on their shoulders, the Frenchmen strode down the aisle, watched intently by those at ground level and by the people staring down from the galleries above the porch and along the nave. It must have been an intimidating moment. The envoys had settled on the deal that would enable their crusade to take place; now they had to clear the last obstacle that might otherwise stop them from realising their purpose. Opposition to the scheme would certainly end all possibility of launching the crusade.
Dandolo introduced the Frenchmen, and Villehardouin himself, presumably through an interpreter, addressed the crowd. He made an emotional appeal to the Venetians, flattering them that, as the greatest seafaring power, it was to their city that the nobles of France looked. He asked them to take pity on Jerusalem and begged them, in God’s name, ‘to avenge the insult offered to our Lord... They [the nobles of France] have commanded us to kneel at your feet, and not to rise until you consent to take pity on the Holy Land overseas.’ He drove home the familiar messages of civic pride and fundamental religious fervour: the envoys believed passionately in their cause and, as Villehardouin drew to a close, they all began to shed tears and fell to their knees in front of the assembled congregation. The call to help the holy places brought the doge and his associates to tears as well and everyone in the church cried out: ‘We consent! We consent!’
The shouts of the audience echoed up to the divine figures adorning the walls and domes, as though the Venetians were determined to convince their spiritual guardians of their enthusiasm and sincerity. The popular piety of the crowd had been harnessed; ‘this great surge of piety’, as Villehardouin expressed it, carried the concept of the crusade into reality. The expedition was acclaimed and the people of Venice were committed to the holy war. The doge returned to the lectern and, brimming with pride and emotion, said: ‘Behold the honour God has paid you in inspiring the finest nation in the world to turn aside from all other people and choose you to join with them in so high an enterprise as the deliverance of our Lord!’ Regardless of their relentless commercial drive, it is important to remember that the core spiritual appeal of the crusade had profoundly moved the Venetians.
The deeds of the agreement were duly drawn up. They embodied both the spiritual reasons for the crusade and the terms of the commercial contract. The following day these were confirmed: the two parties were now locked into a crushing contractual embrace of honour, huge financial outlay and high risk. The Venetians were to be paid in four instalments by April 1202 and the fleet would be prepared to set sail later that year on 29 June, the feast-day of Sts Peter and Paul.18
The signed and sealed charters were brought to Dandolo’s palace and there, in the presence of his Grand Council, he prepared to hand over the documents to the envoys. It was a momentous occasion: the sight of the full covenant was too much for Dandolo and, as he presented the Frenchmen with the charters, the aged doge fell to his knees and began to weep. With tears streaming down his face, he swore on the Bible to hold firm to the terms of the contract. Moved by the emotion of their leader, the Venetian councillors gave their oath and then the crusaders followed suit. They too felt the enormity of the moment and shed tears as well. Perhaps at this moment the Venetians and the Frenchmen realised that their plans were moving decisively from theory into reality and that they were now irrevocably bound to the crusade.19
While the scale of this agreement was unprecedented, the basic principles of the transportation of a body of crusaders at a fixed cost per man and horse were familiar. The most recent example was the contract of 1190 between the Genoese and the French. This specified the conveyance of 650 knights, 1,300 horses and 1,300 squires at a rate of nine marks per unit - that is to say, one knight, two horses and two squires for eight months - equivalent to 13½ marks per year. The Venetian charge was 14 marks per year, a similar enough rate.20
In the case of the 1201 covenant, however, the key difference was the size of the army. The crusaders had sworn to bring 33,500 men to Venice by April 1202 and it was the failure to reach this figure that created a fundamental fault-line that proved critical in determining the fate of the entire expedition. It was as if here, at the moment the deal was conceived, a genetic flaw was introduced that had the capability of distorting or crippling the whole project as it grew towards fruition.
Tied to the number of crusaders required at Venice was the huge cost of transport for these men. The sum of 85,000 marks was equivalent to 60,000 pounds sterling, around twice the annual income of King John of England or of King Philip of France. On one hand, this demonstrates the massive outlay needed by the Venetians to prepare the fleet, but it also makes one pause at the scale of the commitment.21 In the case of King Philip’s contract with the Genoese, he must have been certain that he would have 650 knights to accompany him: as the ruler of France he knew the size of his army from his advisers and from basic feudal obligations. With regard to the envoys in 1201 there was no such firm template to work from. They presumably had a clear idea of the number of men from Flanders, Champagne and Blois who had taken the cross; they may also have had some estimates of the size of some of the groups likely to join from Germany or Italy. Yet 33,500 was a substantial number to aim for in the contemporary political climate and was probably many more than the recruits already enlisted. By way of comparison, although we have no accurate figures for any earlier crusading expeditions, historians have estimated that 7,000 knights and 50,000 others took part in the First Crusade. The biggest crusader army to date had been Frederick Barbarossa’s huge force, said to have comprised about 20,000 knights and up to 80,000 other participants.22
A key problem for the envoys in 1201 lay in their reliance on many men taking the cross in the future, rather than basing their figures on firm commitments already made. They were, in essence, making an educated guess. Yet these men were highly experienced crusaders and diplomats - they should have been able to arrive at a reasonably accurate figure for such a crucial agreement. Villehardouin himself had participated in the Third Crusade, as had Conon of Béthune, Milo of Brabant and John of Friaise; in other words, four of the six men had actually seen for themselves the size of the forces that could be assembled. They must have made a reasoned and carefully considered calculation to engage in the deal with Venice. Time alone would reveal whether their estimates reflected blind optimism, calamitous misjudgement or plain realism.
Aside from the provisions outlined in the sealed pact there was one further element introduced into the planning of the expedition - a secret agreement that the crusade would initially sail to Egypt, rather than to the Holy Land.23 On the face of it, this seems illogical; if the objective of the campaign was to reclaim Jerusalem, why should it try to conquer other Muslim-held lands? In fact, the idea of an invasion of Egypt was, in strategic terms at least, an excellent and familiar solution to the problem of capturing the holy city. There was a long history of the crusaders and the Frankish settlers in the Levant trying to seize Egypt in order to compel the Muslims to surrender Jerusalem. The extraordinary wealth of the Nile Delta and the trade routes from North Africa across to the Middle East would give the Christians unparalleled military and economic strength to bring true stability to their hold on the Holy Land. Furthermore, it would end the Franks’ position as a fragile regional power clinging to the Mediterranean coast and surrounded on almost every landward side by the forces of Islam. 24 If they were to immediately capture Jerusalem, this would be acclaimed as a great triumph and would certainly weaken morale in the Muslim world, but the overall balance of power would simply return to the position created by Saladin before he invaded Jerusalem in 1187. The Muslims and the Franks had long recognised that control of Egypt led to possession of the Holy Land, and a later writer commented that ‘the keys to Jerusalem are to be found in Cairo’.
The prosperity of Egypt was a source of wonder to a Frankish visitor in the 1160s; Archbishop William of Tyre (d. 1185), the chancellor of the kingdom of Jerusalem and author of a history of the Latin East, wrote of ‘the marvellous abundance of all good things there and of each individual commodity; the inestimable taxes belonging to the ruler himself; the imposts and taxes from the cities both on the coast and farther inland; and the vast amount of annual revenue... The people there, devoted to luxurious living and ignorant of the science of war, had become enervated through a period of long-continued peace.’25 After Saladin had taken the country in 1169, William lamented that ‘he draws an inestimable supply of the purest gold of the first quality’.26
The Frankish settlers had expended enormous energies in their attempts to conquer the land they called Babylon. The first king of Jerusalem, Baldwin I (1100—18), died en route home from an expedition to Egypt; further campaigns were fought there in the 1120s and the 1140s. Between 1163 and 1169 King Amalric (1163-74) invaded the country no fewer than five times and during one incursion his royal flag fluttered over Alexandria, though ultimately his efforts failed. Later, as the consummate general of the age, Richard the Lionheart appreciated the need to take Egypt to ensure a long-term future for the Crusader States. Twice during the Third Crusade he tried to persuade the army to march southwards, rather than go towards Jerusalem, yet on both occasions opposition from the rank and file, who were determined to focus upon the object of their devotion rather than the bigger military picture, meant that he was unable to realise his plans. Richard had also opened contacts with the Genoese, proposing to engage their naval skills in any future invasion of Egypt in return for commercial advantages.27
The essential components of the 1201 agreement can be seen in Richard’s experiences: a need for naval expertise to attack Egypt (Amalric had used Pisan and Byzantine fleets); the offer of trading benefits to the provider of this force; and an awareness of the potential pressure from the bulk of the crusader army to go to Jerusalem rather than first to Cairo. Villehardouin and his colleagues had experienced such tensions at first hand between 1191 and 1193 and they had few qualms about keeping this aspect of their plan hidden. As the marshal wrote: ‘[this part of the plan] was kept a closely guarded secret; to the public at large it was merely announced that we were going overseas’.28 As the land in which Christ had lived and walked, Jerusalem had a spiritual potency that nowhere else could rival. As yet, the massive outbreak of popular enthusiasm needed to generate a viable crusade and to persuade men to risk their lives and leave their loved ones could not be shifted elsewhere. Regardless of the best long-term motives of the crusade leadership, a call to attack Egypt would not capture the popular imagination in western Europe. Villehardouin’s careful choice of the word ‘overseas’, was a clever deceit because, to the average knight, squire or foot-soldier, it automatically meant the Holy Land and would encourage him to take the cross in good heart.
It also made sound strategic sense to conceal the destination of the crusade. The Muslim world was in some disarray after the death of Saladin, with the rulers of Cairo, Aleppo and Damascus each seeking to dominate their rivals. The Franks were well aware of these difficulties and knew that it was a situation worth exploiting. A clearly signalled attack in one area might cause the Muslims to put their differences aside and prepare a strong defence against the invaders. Furthermore, Egypt itself was in a particularly fragile position at the turn of the thirteenth century because the Nile flood had failed for five consecutive years and had brought poverty and famine to the country.
Finally, there was a diplomatic consideration: the existence of a five-year truce between the kingdom of Jerusalem and the Muslims of Syria. Gunther of Pairis mentioned this agreement as a part of their motivation for attacking Egypt rather than Jerusalem. ‘They [the crusaders] had decided to ... sail in a direct assault against Alexandria, an Egyptian city. They chose this destination because at this time a truce between our people and the barbarians was in effect in the regions beyond the sea. Our people could not violate what they had pledged in good faith.’29 In the early thirteenth century the Christians and Muslims of the Holy Land were both militarily under strength and needed a period to recover and regroup. The two sides tended to observe such truces, because to continually break them reduced their value in future. An invasion of Egypt did not, however, enter this category and would enable Christian aggression to fall outside the letter of the agreement.
Alongside this diplomatic factor, the superiority of western seapower was another reason to target Egypt. The Muslim navy was, compared to the maritime strength of Venice, relatively weak. The Syrian Muslims, who had ruled the country since the late 1160s, were from a landlocked equestrian culture who regarded seafaring as a dangerous activity best undertaken by common criminals; indeed, many sailors in the Muslim fleets were convicts. The Arab proverb, ‘It is preferable to hear the flatulence of camels than the prayers of fishes’, expresses this sentiment concisely. Saladin did try to develop a navy, but limited resources and poor seamanship rendered his efforts largely worthless. The bulk of his fleet was captured at the siege of Acre in 1191 and such was the scale of this disaster that his successors were still struggling to rebuild it by the time of the Fourth Crusade.30
From the perspective of the Venetians, of course, the prospect of a dominant position in Alexandria was a truly tantalising one. Without doubt this was the commercial jewel of the eastern Mediterranean and would open up the markets of North Africa and the Middle East in an unprecedented way. Egypt was a major source of alum, sugar, spices and wheat and was an important market for wood and metals. The Venetians had a limited foothold in the country and conducted only around 10 per cent of their eastern Mediterranean business in Alexandria.This compared to about 65 per cent with Byzantium and 25 per cent with the Crusader States.31 By contrast, the Genoese and the Pisans were much more active in Muslim ports.32 Papal directives forbade trade with the Islamic world and, in response to Innocent’s attempts to enlist Venetian help at the start of the Fourth Crusade, the city sent envoys to ask for dispensation to deal with Egypt. The pope complained of Venetian sales of materials for war (weapons, iron, galley timbers) and threatened them with excommunication if this continued. He did, however, acknowledge that the Venetians - as a trading, rather than agricultural economy - gained their entire livelihood through commerce, and in order to encourage this help for the crusade he gave them grudging licence to continue supplying non-military items. This was a calculated, pragmatic move from Innocent as he tried to satisfy the conflicting diplomatic, religious and economic pressures created by the Venetians’ activities.33
Dandolo himself had been to Egypt in 1174 and he had seen its magnificent trading power, but also its declining defensive strength - something that even Saladin had failed to fully address. William of Tyre provides a vivid description of the city from around this period:
Alexandria is most conveniently situated for carrying on extensive commerce. It has two ports that are separated from one another by a very narrow stretch of land. At the end of that tongue rises a tower of marvellous height called the Pharos. By the Nile, Alexandria receives from upper Egypt an abundance of food supplies of every kind and, indeed, a wealth of almost every commodity. If there is anything that the country itself lacks, it is brought by ships from the lands across the sea in profuse abundance. As a result Alexandria has the reputation of receiving a larger supply of wares of every description than any other maritime city. Whatever this part of the world lacks in the matter of pearls, spices, Oriental treasures, and foreign wares is brought hither from the two Indies; Saba, Arabia, and both the Ethiopias, as well as from Persia and other lands nearby... People from East and West flock thither in great numbers, and Alexandria is a public market for both worlds.34
Ibn Jubayr, while on pilgrimage to Mecca in 1184-5, lavished praise on the buildings of Alexandria:
We have never seen a town with broader streets or higher structures, or more ancient and beautiful. Its markets are also magnificent. A remarkable thing about the construction of the city is that the buildings below the ground are like those above it and are even finer and stronger, because the waters of the Nile wind underground beneath the houses and alleyways ... We also observed many marble columns of height, amplitude and splendour such as cannot be imagined.35
The Venetians too, therefore, had good reason to encourage the attack to focus on Alexandria. In comparison, the ports of the Frankish East, although not insignificant (particularly Acre), were relatively second-rate. While the enormous scale of the Venetians’ commitment to the crusade cannot be doubted, the stakes they were playing for were equally vast. The basic terms of the contract with the crusaders must have been enough to cover their initial investment in shipping and men. What really helped to convince Dandolo to sell the idea to his senior councillors was the expectation of commercial dominance of the most important port in the Mediterranean. This was a unique opportunity for the Venetians, and one they had never had sight of before. For Dandolo, it would be a chance to crown his time as doge with a dual triumph: to help retake Christ’s patrimony for the faithful and to establish his home city as the greatest commercial force in the Mediterranean.
There was one further connection between Venice and Alexandria and, while this was a comparatively minor issue compared to the grander commercial and strategic matters, it is worth noting. The patron saint of Venice was Mark the Evangelist, a companion of St Peter and St Paul, who eventually resided in Alexandria and was martyred there around AD 74. In the ninth century two Venetians had brought Mark’s body from Alexandria—hidden in a consignment of pork to deter the Muslim port officials from examining their cargo too closely—and it was housed in the doge’s private chapel, the building that eventually developed into St Mark’s. This link between their patron saint and the immediate target of their crusade may have given a further edge to the Venetians’ involvement in the expedition.36
With the formal contract and the secret deal agreed, the Frenchmen borrowed some money to make a down payment on the sum owed. The first instalment was not due until August, but the envoys wanted the Venetians to start work on the fleet immediately and paid over 5,000 silver marks. Afterwards they left for home, riding across the north Italian plain to Piacenza where the party divided. Villehardouin headed northwards to France, and the others turned west and south to visit the other Italian mercantile cities of Pisa and Genoa to discover if they were prepared to provide any help for the crusade. Given the dominant position established by the Venetians, this seemed unlikely, but perhaps the envoys thought that some crusaders might, for reasons of convenience, prefer to travel from western Italy and they therefore wanted to see if any travel arrangements might be offered.37
Back in Venice, work on the great fleet began. The Venetians had 13 months to make ready their existing ships and to build the new vessels required. Dandolo and his advisers sent out the appropriate orders; the focus on the crusader fleet was to be total: all commercial activity was to be suspended. Thousands of sailors would be used to man this huge fleet; they had to be enlisted and trained. Vast supplies of foodstuffs needed to be assembled—representatives went out to the farmers of northern Italy and contracted to buy their crops in hitherto unimagined volume; they engaged regional centres such as Padua and Piacenza, as well as Ravenna and Rimini further south. Corn and pulses were gathered for men and horses, along with 16,775 amphorae of wine for the crusaders, plus at least the same amount again for the Venetian soldiers and sailors. After the autumn harvest of 1201 the roads towards the Venetian coast, and the ferry-boats and barges moving over the lagoon, teemed with labourers, ceaselessly hauling victuals into the storehouses as the city drew in foodstuffs with a seemingly unquenchable appetite.
Dandolo must have summoned the master shipbuilders of the city and laid before them the full requirements of the contract, although he had presumably sought some kind of advice from them before setting out the terms of the offer in the first instance. Such was the vast cost of this construction programme that a later Venetian writer reported that the doge had to mint extra silver grossi to give as wages to the masters because there were insufficient small pennies to pay them.38
The heart of the Venetian shipbuilding industry was known as the Arsenal. This was (and still is) located about 750 yards east of St Mark’s in the adjacent Castello district. It was established in 1104 as an official shipyard of the Venetian state and its task was to produce and maintain a fleet. Quite naturally, this created an institution of enormous technical expertise and was a major reason for the Venetians’ maritime strength. Specialised ships for warfare, for the carrying of horses and for troop transportation could be conceived and created, and the Arsenal also carried the spares and supplies to maintain such vessels. Dandolo was plainly confident that the Arsenal could design and produce the necessary shipping to fulfil his own needs and those of the crusaders.39
The number of ships required was immense. The 4,500 knights, the 9,000 squires and the 20,000 foot-soldiers were to travel on naves or large sailing ships, often converted cargo carriers. The names of some of the biggest of these ships were recorded in the sources and are known from the particular role they played in later events. The size of these vessels varied: the greatest, called World, and others, such as Paradise and Pilgrim, had masts tall enough to reach the towers of Constantinople in 1204. Most would have been rather smaller and it is estimated that around 60-70 of these vessels were needed to transport the crusaders (see plate section).
To us, these ships would appear ugly and ungainly; they were short, rounded tubs. Some surviving visual evidence, such as mosaics, ceramics and manuscript illustrations, along with details from mid-thirteenth-century shipping contracts, allow estimates to be made of their size and capacity. Three-decked versions of the round ship were approximately no feet long and 32 feet wide. In comparison, a modern aeroplane such as an Airbus A320 is 120 feet long and its fuselage is about 16 feet wide. It carries up to 150 passengers and eight crew on flights of (usually) no more than four-and-a-half hours’ duration. By the end of such a flight, most passengers are cramped and fidgety. As we look over a medieval ship, perhaps the equivalent of a jet as the main mode of transport, and consider that journeys lasted many weeks, such figures are sobering.40
At each end of the medieval ship were wooden structures known as castles that brought the overall height of the hull to more than 40 feet. On both sides at the back of the vessel were huge steering oars, slung in wooden ‘wings’ to keep them attached to the ship. These great paddles were then connected by a series of pivots and tackle to the tiller, which was manned by the helmsman on top of the rearward castle. Rudders were not found on Mediterranean ships until the fourteenth century. The knights’ cabins were in the rearmost tower and offered what passed for luxury accommodation, affording at least some privacy. On top of the solid superstructure was a more lightly built apartment that provided some protection from the elements and was again available to the most important passengers. The bulk of the men were housed in the central section of the ship and were cramped into the smallest possible space each—as little as two feet by five feet according to one mid-thirteenth-century statute. On one of these big vessels a crew of 80—100 men joined up to 600 passengers (most ships would have carried fewer). The noise of creaking wood and snapping sails, the smell of sea and sweat, and the sheer proximity of so many people must have produced an incredibly intense experience.
Medieval people were used to sharing sleeping quarters in the Great Hall of a castle, but here was added the unfamiliarity of sea travel and the fact that the sailors had to carry out their tasks amidst the crusaders. As they huddled below decks, rolling from side to side in the dark, dank underbelly of the ship, many a passenger must have regretted ever leaving dry land. The fear and chaos of a storm terrified the crusaders; the sudden squalls that can whip up in the Mediterranean induced trepidation, prayer and promises to repent for a lifetime’s sins. Above them, the masts towered more than 96 feet high, carrying immense sails, cracking and whipping in the wind under a yard-arm up to 150 feet long. Speeds were slow by today’s standards and the voyage from Venice to Acre—a distance of about 1,800 miles if all went well—was anticipated to take four to six weeks. On a typical journey, after sailing down the Adriatic, Crete was a vital port of call, then Rhodes, the bay of Antalya off the southern coast of Asia Minor, Limassol on Cyprus, the Levantine coast at Beirut, before moving down to Acre. Each ship pulled along two or three small rowing boats that were used to go ashore to collect fresh water. It must have appeared like a mother duck and her chicks as the big, round ships trailed their ‘offspring’ behind them.
The transport of horses by sea was a difficult and dangerous affair.41 Horses were essential to enable the western knights to deliver their feared charge and they were expensive status symbols of the military elite. The horse ships, known as tarida, probably carried up to 30 animals. Each beast had to be suspended in a sling to prevent sudden movements of the ship causing them to lose their footing and injure themselves. Large amounts of food and water had to be stored in these vessels and there was also the need to muck out each horse and throw the dung overboard. The animals were carried deep in the boat, with the main entrance falling below the waterline when fully loaded. When beached on shore and ready for battle, this door could then be opened and the horses, saddled up with their riders already mounted and fully armed, could cross a ramp and pour out of the ship, straight into the fray. With the numbers of knights the crusaders planned on recruiting, the deployment of their shock troops directly from the sea into a battle situation would have given the Christians’ invasion force a formidable edge and one that might have created an immediate and overwhelming tactical advantage. To carry the 4,500 crusader horses would have needed around 150 ships. More importantly, these vessels were powered primarily by oarsmen. More than 100 men plus perhaps 30 other crew would be required to propel the ship, bringing a further 19,500 Venetians into the campaign.
Finally, there was the Venetian fleet of 50 battle-galleys, led by the doge’s own vermilion-painted ship. Again, just over 100 oarsmen were needed, with a crew of warriors, officers and sailors. These galleys were roughly 125 feet long, but only about 12 feet wide (compare this 1:10 width/length ratio to the 1:3½ width/length ratio of the round ships). They were only about 14 feet high at the stem and 11 feet tall at the stern. Oarsmen usually worked two men per bench, each with a 22-foot oar. They could move the boat along at an average speed of around three knots an hour in daylight, but unlike sail-powered vessels they needed to rest at night. Another problem with the galleys was that they sat very low in the water in order to make the most effective use of the oars, yet this made them hopelessly susceptible to swamping in heavy seas and difficult to turn quickly. Furthermore, they also carried a large volume of water—well over a gallon per day per man—to keep the crew hydrated in the summer heat. In spite of these disadvantages, the galley was the main attacking vessel in the navies of the medieval Mediterranean and its oarsmen could reach speeds of up to 10 knots in short bursts. Their main weapon was a pointed, metal-tipped beak that projected beyond the prow, above the waterline, unlike the ram of a Roman galley that ran below the surface. This was intended to damage the oars of an enemy vessel and cripple it before the ship’s soldiers used grappling irons and ropes to snare their quarry, board it and seize it. Galleys would be essential to defeat any seaborne opposition that the Muslims chose to direct against the crusaders and on many occasions in the past, such as the sieges of Tyre (1124) and Acre (1191), victories at sea had done much to pave the way for a subsequent success on land. At the start of the thirteenth century the recovering Egyptian fleet contained a number of battle-galleys. It was, therefore, essential for the crusade to possess the ability to engage with and defeat these vessels.42
From these crude estimates it is apparent that the Venetians needed to employ or provide at least 30,000 men—probably over half the adult population of the city itself—to sail a fleet of the size proposed in the contract. Thousands of local mariners from the Adriatic shores must have come to join the crusade as the Venetians strove to fulfil their side of the bargain. Meanwhile, as Villehardouin rode northwards carrying the news of a successfully negotiated deal, he must have wondered how recruitment for the crusade was progressing and which great nobles planned to join him on the expedition. By chance, as he crossed Mount Cenis in northern Italy, he met Walter of Brienne, a leading French lord who had taken the cross with Villehardouin and Count Thibaut of Champagne. Walter was heading towards Apulia in southern Italy to regain some lands belonging to his new wife, a member of the Sicilian royal family. He and his companions praised Villehardouin for what he had achieved and promised to join the army in Venice once they had completed their business in the south. In good heart, therefore, the marshal continued his journey. Little did he know, however, that the crusade was about to suffer its first, tragic setback.43