In Distant Lands

by Lars Brownworth

  To any outside observer, this relative tranquility seemed likely to last. The two great powers of the Mediterranean – the Caliphate and Byzantium – were on good terms, relatively stable, and had settled into what appeared to be permanent boundaries. While the Christian position was relatively straightforward, however – Byzantium had always been the great protector of Christians in the Holy Land – the Muslim position was considerably more complex.

  Although it looked monolithic from the outside, Islam was deeply divided. The main split – between the Shi'ite minority and the Sunni majority – is nearly as old as the religion itself.24 Politically, the Sunnis had always dominated, ruling the immense Abbasid25 Caliphate from the capital city of Baghdad. By the tenth century, however, the Sunni Caliph – literally 'successor of Muhammed' – was under the thumb of powerful princes, and was unable to prevent the establishment of a rival Shi'ite Caliphate in Egypt.

  The Abbasid rot was stopped by the arrival of the Seljuk Turks, a semi-nomadic tribe from the central Asian Steppes, a vast territory extending from the Ural Mountains to present-day northwestern China. As new converts to the Sunni faith they were zealous soldiers who conquered Baghdad and injected new energy into the decadent Caliphate. In 1071 they shattered the Byzantine army at the terrible battle of Manzikert, and within six years pushed the Shi'ite Egyptians – called Fatimids after their ruling dynasty – out of the Syrian territory they had conquered. In 1077 a tenuous border was established in Palestine, with Jerusalem now in Turkish hands. The delicate balance that had operated for centuries was abruptly upended.

  The new masters of the Holy City were horrified to see flourishing churches, which they interpreted as further evidence that their heretical Shi'ite predecessors deserved to be ousted. They immediately initiated a religious persecution, destroying churches, seizing pilgrims, and confiscating Christian property. Although they quickly learned their mistake – without the pilgrim trade Jerusalem rapidly declined – the damage had been done. News of the atrocities sped west, and with Byzantium crippled by the defeat at Manzikert, Pope Urban had taken up the mantle.

  By the time the Turks themselves were pushed out of Jerusalem in 1098 by the more tolerant Fatimids, the First Crusade had already been launched.

  Chapter 2: The People's Crusade

  “The world is passing through troubling times.”

  – Peter the Hermit

  For Pope Urban, the speech at Clermont was only the start of an exhausting year. The details of his 'great Christian army' hadn't been fleshed out beyond meeting at Constantinople and the goal of restoring Jerusalem. So he spent the better part of the year traveling through France and northern Italy, writing endless letters, preaching sermons, and completing plans for the crusade. Priests and bishops were deputized to spread the word further, and they proved just as successful as the pope had been. Many of them used imagery that powerfully appealed to the charged atmosphere. Christ's command to 'take up your cross' now resonated with a different meaning that was mixed with feudal themes of duty. Some preachers even resorted to showing images of the crucifixion with Turkish persecutors instead of Romans. The response was both immediate and widespread. By the time he returned to Rome, Urban had news that pilgrims as far apart as Scotland, Denmark and Spain had pledged to take the cross.

  The vast enthusiasm that greeted his idea seems to have alarmed more than delighted the pope. Urban was no romantic. He was acutely aware of the danger that Islam posed for Christendom, and knew that the greatest service he could render to the beleaguered East would be to send Europe's super weapon – the heavily armed knight. Peasant levies would be worse than useless. Not only would they be unable to finance such an expensive journey and most likely be slaughtered long before they reached Jerusalem, but they would deprive the West of the manpower needed to gather in the annual harvest.

  This last point weighed most heavily on his mind. In northern Italy, so many peasants heeded the call that there were genuine fears of a famine, and Urban was forced to switch tactics, actively trying to convince people not to join the crusade. Letters were sent clarifying that the great venture was intended only for the landed classes who could afford the material necessary for war. In order to give the nobility time to set their affairs in order, the official departure date was pushed to August 15, 1096, a full year in the future, and all potential crusaders were ordered to obtain the permission of their spiritual advisors first. To ensure the correct composition of the army, Urban instructed the clergy to refuse all but the most fit. Since the non-martial sections of society couldn’t materially aid the crusade, there were no spiritual benefits available to them. The old, sick, and young had to stay home, and the poor had responsibilities in the field. Clerics and monks were ordered to remain in their place to pray for the crusade (unless given specific permission to attend by the bishop), and Spaniards were expressly forbidden since their fight with Islam was at home.26 Even those who qualified, if they were newly married, had to obtain permission from their wives first.

  On one level, it seems strange that Urban found it necessary to restrict attendance in his Crusade because the journey itself should have been enough to discourage most people. To get to Jerusalem by land it was necessary to walk between two and three thousand miles through hostile territory. What’s more, the nobility of Europe was surely aware of the level of opposition they faced. Many of them had spent time as mercenaries in the Byzantine army and knew first-hand how formidable the Turks were. Even more concerning was the prohibitive cost. Knights had to assemble funds to pay for their own journey and in some cases younger brothers or sons as well. In addition, they would need to fund an appropriate retinue – blacksmiths, squires, and servants – to take care of their needs en route. These funds could easily total five or six times their annual incomes, and most prospective crusaders sold off their estates or liquidated family holdings to cover them. Many knights depended on the largess of wealthier lords to make the trip at all. There was, of course, always the prospect of plunder along the way to recoup some of the costs, but this was a remote possibility at best. Urban had decreed that all captured territory would be restored to the Byzantine emperor intact, and the price for disregarding this – or for turning back early – was excommunication.27

  The First Crusade, in other words, meant impoverishing or severely draining family resources all for an unspecified number of years away and the very real possibility of death in a strange land. And yet, despite the risks involved, the crusade was outstandingly popular with the very people who had the most to lose. Worse still, the vast majority of them who reached Jerusalem returned deeply in debt, with neither riches nor land, and in many cases in poor health.

  The reason why so many people simply ignored Urban's restrictions was rooted in the medieval idea of piety. Faith – particularly among the nobility – was demonstrated by public display. Great lords built churches or patronized religious houses to offset lives frequently brutal and bloody. By defending the church at home or abroad at great personal cost, they believed they were gaining rich heavenly rewards.

  Mixed in with this, of course, were all the reasons why men join great enterprises – from the genuine idealism of joining a cause greater than themselves to the basest of motivations. All of them, however, were united in their willingness to risk everything to liberate the Holy Land.

  Urban had unwittingly tapped into a deep reservoir of emotion that quickly escaped his control. He had intended a small, disciplined force of knights to march to the defense of the East, but the first army that left for Jerusalem was none of those things. The call of Clermont may have tugged at the conscience of the nobility, but its pull was far stronger for the peasants. Life in north-western Europe for the poor was, in Thomas Hobbes’ words, 'nasty, brutish, and short'. The Viking raids, which had wracked Europe from the ninth to the eleventh century, had left much of the land spoiled. Fields remained uncultivated, bridges and dykes neglected, and villages underpopulated. As central order had brok
en down, there had been no one to protect the peasants from the abuses of local lords. To add to the general suffering the years leading up to Urban's speech had been particularly hard. 1094 saw terrible flooding in the south of France followed by swarms of insects and disease. The next year there were severe droughts and widespread famine that increased the already high mortality rate.

  Urban's message of a great march to the Holy Land offered an escape from the unrelenting misery of this life, and it held out the tantalizing promise of salvation in the next one. Signs and wonders confirmed the momentous news. In the north of France it was recorded that the moon was eclipsed twice, while in the south a great shower of meteorites was seen. Some who had pledged to go on crusade reported a burning image of the cross on their flesh, while others who were reluctant were struck down with the painful seizures and swollen limbs of the disease popularly known as St. Anthony's fire.

  Peter of Amiens

  Urban had asked only the bishops to preach the crusade, but the countryside of France and the Rhineland was soon swamped with humble monks and itinerant preachers spreading the news. The most important and effective of these unofficial messengers was a man by the name of Peter. He was born near Amiens in Picardy, and though not particularly handsome – his face was often compared unfavorably to the donkey he always rode – he had a strange charisma. "Whatever he did or said,” wrote the monk Guibert of Nogent who knew him, "it seemed half divine." Crowds who listened to him speak were frequently reduced to tears, a phenomenon which continued even when Peter reached Germany where his audiences couldn't understand a word he said.

  He attracted attention from all classes and was frequently given huge sums of money by local nobility. Most of this he gave away, paying off his follower's debts or providing dowries for poor women, which only increased his prestige. Before long, crowds were plucking the hairs off his donkey to keep as relics.

  Peter himself cut quite a curious figure. Always barefoot, he ate no bread or meat, surviving almost exclusively on a pescatarian diet of wine and fish. His only distinguishing garment was a filthy cape that gave him the nickname 'the Hermit'. What separated him from his contemporary preachers, however, was a certain patina of experience that came through in his speeches. Two years before, in 1093, he had gone on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, but had been beaten so badly by the Turks that he was forced to turn back without seeing Jerusalem. This gave his words a certain gravitas – direct knowledge of the actual situation in the east – as well as a sense of urgency.28 There was a common medieval belief that Jerusalem would be in Christian hands when Christ returned, and clearly the end of days was at hand. The nobility, many of whom were busily getting their estates in order for the crusade, were lampooned for a lack of faith. The call had been issued and Christ alone – not careful planning or expensive retinues – would guarantee victory.

  Peter spent the summer of 1095 preaching what historians call the People's Crusade throughout northeastern France. By the time he crossed into Germany, his following had swelled to fifteen thousand, and the scale of what he was attempting to achieve began to dawn on him. It was one thing to inspire people to action but quite another to organize them. His followers came from many backgrounds, but nearly all were poor, and many had brought their entire families – including women, children and animals. Mixed among them were those who were looking for a fresh start; thieves, criminals, and junior members of knightly households without any prospects. They had nothing in common other than their desire to go on crusade, and more closely resembled a mob than an army.

  Peter was caught in a dilemma. On the one hand, he had to find some way to attract the more capable noble elements to stiffen his forces, but on the other he was forced to constantly move. Few places in medieval Europe could afford to feed an extra fifteen thousand people for long, particularly undisciplined ones. When he reached the major German city of Cologne, therefore, nestled in a wealthy area with the Rhine River for easy communication, he saw his chance and paused.

  If Urban's original vision of an elite military force had been mutated by men like Peter the Hermit into a popular movement, in Germany it spun completely out of control. As word of the People's Crusade spread, splinter groups began to form led by increasingly bizarre figures. One group of peasants even followed around a goose that they claimed was inspired by the Holy Spirit.29 While these groups were mocked by more sober crusaders – the priest, Albert of Aix, called them stupid and irresponsible, and their efforts ‘an abominable wickedness’ – much worse was to follow.

  Jews in Medieval Europe

  The Jews had always occupied an ambiguous place in medieval Christian Europe. They were both the Chosen People of the Old Testament and the people who had specifically rejected Jesus. While official Church doctrine taught that the sins of every human were responsible for Christ's death, it was popularly believed that the Jews were particularly at fault. They were referred to as 'Christ-killers' and their treatment varied from suspicion to outright persecution.

  The same things that allowed them to survive with their culture intact – their distinctive clothing, religious ceremonies, dietary laws, reluctance to intermarry and refusal to assimilate – also ensured that they were easy targets as outsiders. This volatile situation was made worse by the limited occupations that they were allowed to pursue. Since Christians were barred from money lending – which was seen as unscrupulous – it was almost exclusively conducted by Jews. This led to considerable ill-will as Christians fell into debt to those they considered their social inferiors. Over the centuries there were sporadic attempts to drive them out of certain countries or force their conversions.

  One of the areas where Jews had found a measure of security was the Holy Roman Empire where they were protected by the crown. In the summer of 1096, however, with men like Peter the Hermit urging action against the enemies of Christ, these flourishing communities in Germany became the targets of angry mobs.

  The most notorious of the anti-Jewish 'crusaders' was an odious count named Emicho of Leiningen. A minor noble from the Rhineland, Emicho had spent his time robbing merchants and other travelers who wandered into his territory. Shortly after hearing Peter the Hermit speak, he claimed that Christ had appeared to him in a dream. He was commanded to go to Constantinople where he would overthrow the current authorities and take the title of 'Last Roman Emperor'. From there he would march to Jerusalem, throw out the Muslims and usher in the end of the world.

  Emicho managed to attract a large following – mostly knights with reputations nearly as bad as his own – and went on a killing spree, attacking Jewish communities along the Rhine from Cologne to Speyer. His primary motivation seems to have been gold. After all, what better way to fund his mission than to take it from the despised Jews? Both clerical and secular authorities were horrified. The emperor ordered all Jewish communities in the empire protected, and many local bishops tried their best to enforce the decree, but they were equally defenseless against the mob. In the southwestern German city of Worms, the bishop announced that the Jews were under his personal protection, but Emicho attacked them anyway, killing more than eight hundred.

  When he reached Mainz, the bishop forbade him from entering the city, and the Jewish community raised a large sum of gold to bribe him to go away. Emicho accepted the money and then let his followers into the city anyway. In a last ditch effort to save the Jews of Mainz, the bishop hid many of them in his lightly fortified palace, while the Christian merchants organized a militia to fight off Emicho's men. While they were able to push back the first few attacks, the sheer numbers soon overwhelmed them.

  Emicho's men stormed the bishop's palace, easily forcing their way inside and slaughtered everyone who wouldn't submit to baptism, regardless of age or gender. The terrified Jews began to commit suicide, preferring – as one chronicler wrote – death by their own hands than the weapons of the uncircumcised.

  To justify their actions, Emicho's followers trotted out the idea of the Christ-
killer, arguing that before reaching the Holy Land, their first duty was to cleanse the imperial cities. As one of his soldiers explained to a rabbi, "You are the children of those who killed the object of our veneration," but these arguments were explicitly rejected by the Church. "By some error of the mind" wrote Albert of Aix, "they rose against the Jewish people... (but) the Lord is a just judge and orders no one unwillingly or under compulsion to come under the yoke of the Catholic faith."

  Even at the time, the atrocities committed by Emicho and his ilk were condemned as perversions, and medieval chroniclers noted with satisfaction that none of the anti-Jewish 'crusades' ever made it to the east. Most collapsed as soon as they met local resistance, or were suppressed by imperial authorities. Count Emicho made it the farthest. He managed to ransack his way to the Danube, but when he entered Hungary and attempted to plunder the countryside for food, his increasingly disorganized force was crushed by the Hungarian army.

  Walter Sans-Avoir

  Back in Cologne, news of smaller groups heading east divided Peter the Hermit's army. They had left everything behind to win back Jerusalem, but instead had been sitting around a foreign city that was growing increasingly tired of the excess population. Peter, however, seemed in no hurry to leave. He was finally attracting significant numbers of German nobles, and wanted to increase the strength of the army.