This usurper was crowned in the church of Sancta Sophia, anointed with consecrated oil by the patriarch of Constantinople, hailed by citizens as vice regent of our Lord on earth. Human flesh shudders. Yet it is not for mortals to debate His mighty scheme.
What of Alexius? More than once conspirators poisoned the food, even while he sat at table with his captor, but it was not God’s intent for him to die that way. During the sixth month of a wicked administration Murzuphulus entered the room where Alexius slept, accompanied by sergeants. They cracked his ribs with a metal instrument, looped a bowstring about his neck and drew it taut. Murzuphulus then declared him dead from natural reasons and had him buried with ostentatious ceremony. Next he shot an arrow into the pilgrim camp bearing news that Alexius was no more. Frankish barons were indifferent. A curse on those who care, said they.
What of Isaac Angelus? Some few days later he died of grief. He had reveled in good things, a sea of wine, savory meat. Never would he wear the same garment twice and every second day he bathed. Yet when he gave up the ghost few spoke of it, he meant so little.
Round about Candlemass, being grievously short of victual and other things, certain pilgrims learned of a prosperous town called Philia ten leagues distant. Off went thirty mounted knights plus a company of mounted sergeants. They rode until dawn, captured the town and many citizens. They helped themselves to cattle, weapons, food, clothing, and other valuables. There they spent two days. But as they started back to Galata they found themselves encircled by Murzuphulus with a thousand Greeks. Then the Franks cried out to God and Our Lady and did not know which way to turn. However they thought they should die fighting. So when the Greeks rushed forward they dropped their lances and struck in all directions with knives, swords, and daggers. The patriarch Samson accompanied these Greeks and had brought a jeweled icon of Our Lady. Pierre de Bracieux struck him on the helmet so hard that he dropped the icon and Pierre dismounted to pick it up. Also with the Greeks was a Spaniard who rode unhelmed, around his head a cleverly wrought gold band. Henry, brother to the count of Flanders, dealt this Spaniard a blow that sliced through the ringlet, the sword going two fingers deep into his skull. Concerning Murzuphulus, he lurched wounded across the neck of his mount and escaped galloping away so fast that he dropped his shield. Then the other Greeks, seeing how it was, flew out of sight. Pierre Bracieux brought back to camp the jeweled icon, entrusting it to the bishop of Troyes. Some say this was a triumphal cross embellished with a tooth of Infant Jesus. Others call it a portrait of Mary painted by Saint Luke. Whatever the truth, all repaired to church amid much rejoicing and the bishops chanted service. God willing, said the barons, this holy image should be delivered to Cîteaux. If it got there, I do not know.
Now here came Murzuphulus to Constantinople pretending he had destroyed the Franks, but many citizens felt suspicious because he did not have the icon or the imperial standard. He pretended he had put them away. However this news went up and down until the Franks heard it, so they manned a galley and went rowing along the walls holding aloft the icon and the standard. Ah, said Murzuphulus when people jeered at him, those Franks will pay dearly. And he sent word that they must vacate his lands within a week or he would slay them, one and all.
What? said the Franks to each other. Let Murzuphulus beware. And they sent word they would not continue on the road to Jerusalem until they secured full payment for what Alexius promised. But it appeared they could not get what they were owed unless they captured the city.
Murzuphulus hearing of such talk ordered the battlements strengthened. He compelled citizens to work on the walls and he levied taxes. Yet it is said that life in Constantinople did not change very much. Despite a Latin fleet that controlled the harbor there was food enough. Charcoal braziers glowed in the street. There was cinnamon, ginger, dates, sugar, olives, heaps of fish pulled from the sea. Forcemeat turned on spits. Tanners pursued their trade, emptied vats of foul residue into the drains. Hammers clanked through the district occupied by coppersmiths and iron workers. Jewelers and those who worked in enamel continued to produce exquisite art, the silence of their quarters undisturbed save for the tiny click of mallets or the buzzing of drills. Garment stalls overflowed with embroidered silk. Precious stones winked in the smoky light. All because no other city could boast such wealth. Lords of Constantinople wore slippers and gloves studded with pearls. So much and more had envious Franks observed while wandering the streets.
Now the tyrant Murzuphulus suspended three captives from hooks, burnt them to death in view of the host. Alberic de Trois-Fontaines relates how all watched in dismay because nothing could be done.
On the ninth of April in our year of grace 1204, just after sunrise, here came Venetian palanders and galleys with the living host. They landed on mud flats beneath the walls. Petraries, mangonels, rams, tortoises, all had been readied. Knights and sergeants led horses ashore. Companies of miners dashed forward to dig at the foundations. Scaling bridges were hoisted by tackle. These Franks and Venetians attacked Constantinople at more than one hundred places while the morning resounded with battle cries. They were able to see the tent of Murzuphulus on the summit of a hill, whence he might look down at ships and moving soldiers and direct his people this
