Venetian galleys nearing the ramparts approached with caution, not certain what to expect. Then the blind, feeble doge stood erect beneath the banner of Saint Mark and called for his men to drive on. And when he felt the prow grind against land he leapt from the galley, so others followed. Overhead the ladder bridges swung forth, enabling Venetian soldiers to jump atop the wall. In this way several towers were captured and it seemed that Constantinople would be taken. But the emperor brought up increasing numbers of troops, which caused the Venetians to retreat. Ladies from the imperial court were seen on distant bulwarks avidly watching, discussing the struggle.
Latins established themselves in a fortified abbey known as the Castle of Bohemond to honor this famous knight. From behind palisades they set catapults to work throwing stones at Blachernae palace. From inside the walls Greeks likewise cast stones at pilgrim tents and often sallied from one gate or another to destroy Frankish instruments, but each time were driven back. Thus, while Venetians attacked by sea, these Franks prepared to move against Blachernae. There were but seven hundred knights, asserts Robert de Clari, of whom at least fifty were afoot. They grouped themselves to advance with sergeants following. Being this few, they conscripted grooms or cooks or anybody who could stand upright and fitted them with quilts and saddle cloths and copper pots for helmets, pestles or maces for weapons, so they looked very hideous. It may be supposed that Greek soldiers would jeer and laugh, but on the contrary these mudlarks, ostlers, gullies, scullions, and God knows what else sporting buckets on their heads with kitchen tools for weapons inspired such terror that the Latin camp proved safe enough.
Frankish knights long ago wore helmets like a cone. Now they were like a barrel, flat on top, slits through which the knight looked out, and a mailed cap underneath. Chain mail they laced up in back, over this a white linen jupon embroidered with a cross. Inhabitants of Constantinople appeared greatly frightened by such a spectacle, alarmed by pounding drums, the blast of oliphants. And here were Latin chargers dressed in cloaks that almost swept the earth while the ground shook beneath their hooves.
Near the seaward gate two ladders went up. This gate was held by the imperial guard, Varangians, blue-eyed men with red or flaxen hair and long mustaches, descended from Anglo-Saxons conquered by William the Norman at Hastings. Odoric Vitalis reports how a multitude of these people left their country rather than submit to Norman law. Many went to King Sven of Denmark, urging him to reclaim the land of his grandfather Canute. Others exiled themselves to foreign places, some as distant as Constantinople. Hence these blond Varangians, thinking of defeated ancestors, hated Franks and savagely assaulted them with axes when they tried to climb the wall. Villehardouin asserts that fifteen mounted the wall and fought at arm’s length, swinging swords as best they could. Most went down bloodily under Danish axes, limbs crushed. Two were led captive to Emperor Alexius who expressed delight. So the Greeks plucked up courage.
Now there was confused battling under the ramparts. Here came the emperor himself out the Roman gate, arranging his people for combat. The count of Flanders went riding to challenge him, each animal sumptuous in silk or another cloth displaying his master’s coat of arms. But the count did not press his charge. Two captains, Eustace de Canteleux and Pierre d’Amiens, a giant, called out they should advance. In God’s name! they cried. All at a trot! Then the count of Flanders to redeem his honor spurred forward.
Court ladies appeared at palace windows to observe and criticize. Alexius, not much caring for the look of things, withdrew. So his ladies gathered at the windows harshly berated him.
Late at night the emperor decided to escape. His cowardly behavior has been much argued. Latin chronicles mention civil unrest, people threatening to welcome young Alexius and make him their lord. Nicetas Choniates, a man of noble birth and well acquainted at court, describes the emperor as soft, weak in spirit, devoid of pride, fearful and anxious since he blinded his own brother, so what he did was but a natural expression of his character. They say this man exuded poison, animals could smell it. His mount reared frantically on the day he was crowned, almost unseating him, throwing his crown into the street. Now at midnight he fled, deserting his empress and their children, excepting the princess Irene whom he favored. Some think he recalled how David fled before Absalom and lived to reclaim the throne. That he forsook his empress is no mystery since she had betrayed him often enough. Indeed, a brother of the empress accused her of disgracing the imperial bed like a whore. Alexius abandoned her to the wind and like Moses escaping Egypt took as many pearls and jewels as he could, ten thousand gold pieces, and choice concubines to grease his loins. Where he went is argued. To a village called Develtos near the Black Sea, according to some. To the Sea of Marmora, say others.
Ministers of state when they learned he was gone did not know what to do. Outside the gate camped a host of Venetians and Franks. It seemed they must have a new emperor, but they could not decide whom to nominate. The imperial treasurer, a eunuch, proposed to restore Isaac Angelus. No matter that he languished sightless in prison, half bereft of sense. If he were set on the throne would not Constantinople have its rightful lord? How should the Franks deny him? How might they claim the youthful prince held jurisdiction above his father?
So here came a delegation of Greeks to the Frankish camp. They inquired for the
