Marquis Boniface de Montferrat arose to speak. My lords, I have been to the court of Emperor Philip of Swabia and there I met a youth who claims for himself the throne of Constantinople. He is Alexius, the son of Emperor Isaac Angelus who was treacherously deposed by his own brother. We might justifiably enter the territory of Constantinople if we take this young prince with us, because he is the legitimate heir.
Abbot Guy arose to speak for those who objected. They had not left their homes, said he, nor journeyed this far to attack Christians. Nor would they consent, but would of themselves proceed to Syria.
The abbot of Loos, who was famous and very holy, declared that for the sake of God and compassion they should keep the living host intact and proceed to Constantinople, by which the land oversea might be reclaimed.
This sounded good to most. Accordingly, messengers were despatched and the Greek youth was overjoyed to hear what they said. He replied that he must consult his brother-in-law, Emperor Philip. The emperor approved, saying that Alexius would get nothing of his heritage but for the help of these Franks. Alexius now told the envoys he would pay two hundred thousand silver marks if he were seated on the throne of Constantinople. He would join the Christian host at Zara.
He had escaped from Constantinople not long after his father was imprisoned. How he did so is partly known. When his uncle marched off to crush a rebellion in Damokraneia he accompanied the expedition but slipped away and fled to Athyra. There lay a Pisan merchant vessel pretending to load ballast. And there lay a skiff awaiting this young prince. Then his uncle ordered every ship in the port of Athyra to be searched. Alexius could not be found. It may be that he quickly snipped off his long hair, clothed himself like a mariner, and mingled with the crew. Or it may be as the Novgorod chronicle relates that he got inside a water cask with a false bottom. Greek soldiers drew out the plug because they suspected he might be hiding in one, but water spurted from the bunghole and they were deceived. Whatever the truth, Alexius got to Ancona, thence to the Swabian court of his brother-in-law.
Many Frankish barons felt uncomfortable when they thought of how they had been persuaded to support this claimant to a Greek throne. In their hearts and minds they envisioned the Holy City of Jerusalem. Instead, the ramparts of Constantinople loomed. Therefore when the fleet paused at Corfu these dissidents camped by themselves amid the odor of mutiny. Marquis Boniface and the doge took Alexius with them to assuage these malcontents. All three knelt on the grass, pleaded and wept, claiming they would not get up off their knees until unity was restored. Also, Frankish bishops testified that invading Greece would not contravene the wishes of God. On the contrary, it would be no sin but a righteous deed since the young prince thereby would gain his natural inheritance. Yet quite a few of the host were unconvinced. To proceed toward Greece and meddle in distant affairs seemed at once foolish and perilous. Why should we go to Constantinople? they asked. Why purchase that city with our blood?
Even so the fleet pressed on. At Cape Malea they encountered two vessels filled with pilgrims returning from the Holy Land. These pilgrims spoke of plague at Acre, which made them debate the wisdom of their course.
Anon they entered that sound which is called the Arm of Saint George. They glided north propelled by oar and billowing sail, galleys in the lead, bows swaggered with carved and gilded faces, stern quarters enhanced by painted scrolls, rubbing strakes resplendent with gold. From bulwarks hung the shields of knights on board, each testifying to the valor of his lineage. Chronicles relate that now and again some galley master struck the gong, raising or lowering his stroke to keep pace with others. Behind them wallowed merchant ships, huissiers, palanders. And in their wake dipped white lateen sails for here came pirates, traders, Jews.
Near the abbey of Saint Stephen they cast anchor, whence they could marvel at shimmering walls and formidable towers of the most fabulous city on earth. Those who had not seen Constantinople looked with amazement, and none so bold or sated by experience that he did not feel his heart contract. In centuries past numerous fleets and armies had tried to vanquish Constantinople. All had withdrawn, bloodily defeated. Twice the Bulgars laid siege, but the Greek emperor Basil slew so many he was named Bulgaroktonos, and sent home fifteen thousand enemies blinded to serve as warning.
Early next day the living host overtook fishing boats, which they showered with arrows and bolts from crossbows. Where, they wondered, would Greek warships emerge to challenge them? But not one appeared. This tyrant had usurped a throne carved from wormy wood, an empire in decay. Innumerable functionaries bore titles and pocketed stipends while doing nothing. Once the Greeks could launch five hundred armed galleys and twice that many transports. Now there were as many admirals as fish in a lake, captains beyond counting. Indeed, Lord Admiral Stryphnos sold the very ships of his command like some alchemist transmuting iron anchors to gold. Also, the keeper of imperial forests did not authorize wood for building new ships because of his great affection for trees. Nor did the emperor investigate. According to Nicetas Choniates this emperor knew as little about the empire as if he inhabited Ultima Thule. He spent the days traveling through his estates on the Sea of Marmora, designing flowerbeds, gathering blossoms, embraced by sycophants of a thousand hue, knaves, vipers, whelps, jackdaws. Some painful disease hobbled
