The army decided to put the matter to a vote, and John of Brienne, the mild but dedicated regent of Jerusalem, was elected. However, his election was immediately disputed by the recently arrived papal legate, a Portuguese cleric named Pelagius who had little patience and even less tact. In his mind, any other choice of commander beside himself was laughable. The pope had called the crusade into existence; only his representative was intellectually and spiritually suited to lead it.
While the crusaders were bickering, al-Kamil was panicking. Even with fractured leadership, the western knights had surrounded one of his major cities and were within striking distance of his capital, Cairo. When the emperor Frederick arrived – as he was sure to do imminently – all of Egypt would be at risk. Much better to grit his teeth now and cut a deal before it was too late. Egyptian ambassadors were sent speeding to the crusading camp with a tantalizing offer. If they would agree to evacuate Egypt immediately, he would restore to them the entire kingdom of Jerusalem and throw in a thirty-year truce to boot.
John of Brienne was overjoyed. At a single stroke all the damage that Saladin had done would be reversed. For the price of abandoning a single siege in a country they didn't want to be in, the crusaders would get everything that they had set out to do and far more. The Holy City would be theirs, safe and at peace for at least the next three decades.
Cardinal Pelagius, however, would have none of it. When John of Brienne pointed out that capturing Jerusalem was the whole point of the crusade, the legate upbraided him for being politically naive. Egypt was already tottering, and when it fell they would get Jerusalem anyway. Why give up a profitable siege for the unreliable promise of a thirty-year truce? The Muslim defenders of Jerusalem, he pointed out, had already given up hope. They had destroyed the walls of the city to make it indefensible when it inevitably changed hands.
There was no real debate. Despite the vigorous objection of John of Brienne, Pelagius dismissively rejected the offer, and the siege was resumed. Throughout the winter and following summer there was still no sign of the emperor Frederick, but at the end of August, there was a surprise visit by Francis of Assisi. The monk had decided to try to end the fighting by converting the sultan, and – in a remarkable display – had gently but persistently badgered Pelagius into allowing him to try. The subsequent conversation with al-Kamil – who mistook him for a peace envoy – bore no fruit, but lines of communication between the two sides were opened.
A short time later the sultan repeated his offer, this time sweetening it by volunteering to rebuild the walls of Jerusalem and turn over the relic of the True Cross that had been captured by Saladin at the battle of Hattin. Once again, Pelagius turned him down. The True Cross was intriguing, but he suspected that the sultan didn't have it – Saladin himself had failed to find it when attempting to ransom some prisoners thirty years earlier.
The Capture of Damietta
By the fall, Pelagius' stubbornness appeared to have paid off. On November 4, 1219, a sentry noticed that one of Damietta's towers looked unguarded. The detachment sent to investigate made a horrific discovery. There was barely anyone left alive within the city. Starvation had reduced the population from sixty thousand to ten, and most of those were dying. Corpses choked the streets, bodies lay sprawled in beds or slumped over tables, and a sickening odor hung over everything.
The sight moved even the hardest soldier to pity. The crusaders did their best to alleviate the suffering of the survivors, despite having little food themselves. The city was cleaned, the many orphaned children were baptized and fed, and the adults were allowed to ransom themselves. The greatest challenge, however, was psychological.
The crusaders had been enduring a grinding siege for more than a year and a half. Now, suddenly, they had taken Damietta without a fight, and exchanged the spartan barracks of a military camp for the pleasures of what had been a wealthy port city. Surely they were entitled to a little relaxation before resuming the crusade. As it turned out, they didn't move for a year.
This was mostly due to renewed uncertainty in their leadership. John of Brienne had left soon after the capture of the city, leaving Pelagius as undisputed commander, but most of the rank and file refused to be led by a member of the clergy. In any case, he was clearly losing control of the situation. Brothels and gambling houses had sprung up almost overnight, and violence over the distribution of spoils got so heated that Pelagius had to split the city up into national zones.
The real culprit for the tedious inaction, however, was Frederick II. Just after Damietta fell he had publicly renewed his crusading vow, and sworn to leave Europe no later than the next spring. The crusaders were instructed to stay where they were until he arrived in person to lead them to victory. The first wave of imperial troops arrived in May and there was little doubt that the emperor himself was close behind.
By now al-Kamil was frantic. Once again he made his offer to restore the kingdom of Jerusalem, and once again he was rebuffed. Week after week passed, however, and still Frederick didn't arrive. Finally, in July of 1221, three years since the crusaders had landed in Egypt, their patience ran out. Cardinal Pelagius proposed an immediate attack and the plan was accepted by the frustrated crusaders. Half of the army stayed behind to protect Damietta, the other half marched south to Cairo.
Mansoura
The crusaders left in high spirits. However, now that they had finally begun to move, everything started to go wrong. The long delay had allowed al-Kamil to gather a massive army, easily outnumbering the crusaders. This army confronted the crusaders at the little town of Mansoura, about seventy-five miles north of Cairo. The inexperienced Pelagius chose a campsite on a spit of land formed by the Nile and one of its tributaries, pointedly ignoring a warning that if either river flooded they would be trapped there. The astonished sultan, who had lived the past three years in terror, never even had to use his army. He simply opened a sluice gate used to regulate the Nile's water level and let the river do the work for him.
The Christian position was hopeless, and a month of dwindling food supplies convinced even Pelagius – now trapped on an island – that surrender was the only option. Surprisingly, he found the sultan in an agreeable mood. Al-Kamil's advisors had urged him to slaughter the trapped crusaders, but he realized that would only provoke yet another crusade. Better by far to accept the Christian surrender now before the emperor Frederick showed up and ruined everything.
The terms he offered were therefore extremely generous. The crusaders had to surrender Damietta and evacuate Egypt. In return, the sultan would spare their lives, sign an eight-year truce, and even return the True Cross.
The news was greeted in Damietta first with disbelief, then with horror. Although Frederick himself was nowhere to be seen, a fresh wave of German troops had arrived, only to be told that the crusade was over. Several groups vowed to stay and fight, regardless of the treaty, but this was mostly empty bravado. On September 8, 1221, al-Kamil reentered Damietta in triumph.
For a crusade that had repeatedly been on the brink of spectacular victory, the scope of the humiliation was staggering. Just two months before the entire Holy Land, and Egypt as well, had been poised to return to Christian control. Then in a bewildering flash of idiocy it had all been undone. The crusaders hadn't just lost. Defeat had been wrenched from the jaws of victory.134
Chapter 18: The Sixth Crusade
“Of faith in God he had none; he was crafty, wily, avaricious, lustful, malicious, wrathful; and yet a gallant man”
– Chronicle of Salimbene135
When news of the debacle reached Western Europe it was greeted with stunned disbelief. How could yet another crusade have failed? Was God angry with the sins of the crusaders, or was there perhaps, a more secular explanation? There was certainly no shortage of human agents to blame. The King of Hungary had abandoned the crusade, the conduct of the various leaders inside Damietta had been appalling, and above all there was the mulish Pelagius who had repeatedly refused to accept
victory.
The lion's share of the blame, however, fell at the feet of a man who wasn't even there. It had now been six years since the emperor Frederick had vowed to go on crusade, and he wasn't an inch closer to actually departing. It was true that he had sent along some troops, but this had made it even worse. The endless promises of an imminent departure had left the crusade in permanent limbo, crippling its ability to act.
Pope Honorius III, who had shepherded the Fifth Crusade into existence after the death of his predecessor, Innocent III, was particularly annoyed with the emperor's behavior. At a face-to-face meeting that November he made his displeasure known. Frederick reassured the pontiff that he had no intention of breaking his vow, but claimed that he needed more time to prepare. Mollified by the emperor's apparent sincerity, Honorius gave him an additional four years, but warned Frederick that any further delays wouldn't be tolerated.
Perhaps the emperor dragged his feet, or perhaps crusading enthusiasm was beginning to wane, but when the departure date arrived, Frederick still wasn't ready. He had assembled a sizable enough fleet, but had failed to gather enough troops to man them. Again he met with Honorius III to ask for a delay, arguing that to leave now with such a small force would guarantee failure.
It was hard to argue with this assessment, but the pope was nearly at the end of his patience. He had been on the papal throne for a decade and was already in his late seventies. Time was running short to reverse the humiliation of the Fifth Crusade. Frederick II was given yet another two years, but this time there were severe penalties attached if he missed the deadline. A hundred thousand gold ounces were to be handed over to the Teutonic Knights as a surety, to be reclaimed when he reached the Holy Land. In addition, he vowed to stay in the East for at least two years to ensure a lasting stability. If he failed to keep a single promise, or remained in Europe for a single day after August 15, 1227, he would be excommunicated.
This last bit had been suggested by Frederick as a sign of his seriousness. After all, if he had been dragging his feet, there were several good reasons for it. Going on a crusade was a risky venture at the best of times, and no responsible monarch would welcome the idea of a potentially fatal absence from his country that could last years. The Holy Roman Empire was notoriously chaotic, and he had already spent the better part of his reign crushing revolts. Other than spiritual enrichment, which had never been particularly attractive to him, there were few reasons to go.
The Crown of Jerusalem
In 1225, however, that changed. John of Brienne's thirteen-year-old daughter Yolande, heir to the crown of Jerusalem, came of age, and Frederick, who was a widower, floated to the pope the idea of marrying her. He did so, in typical fashion, by hinting that he would be far more motivated to defend Jerusalem if he was married to its queen. Honorius III suspected that the real reason was to add another title to the imperial collection, but on the other hand it would provide a compelling reason for Frederick to follow through with the crusade. After extracting a promise that the emperor wouldn't attempt to claim the throne, but would only reign as consort to his wife, Honorius gave his full support to the union.
Frederick didn't even wait till the wedding itself was complete before breaking his word. In the middle of the ceremony he announced that he was now the King of Jerusalem. This meant that his new father-in-law, John of Brienne, who had tirelessly worked for the good of what was left of Outremer, was stripped of all rights without so much as a word of thanks.
The only positive outcome for the pope was that Frederick at last began to move. The timing couldn't have been better since the Muslim world was once again fragmenting. The leaders of Egypt and Syria were at odds, and the sultan al-Kamil had sent several messengers to the imperial court offering to turn over Jerusalem if the emperor would attack Damascus instead of Cairo. Frederick managed, with his customary charm, to impress the emissaries, but shrewdly sent his own letters to Damascus to see if they would make a better offer.136
In the summer of 1227, Frederick II finally left for his crusade, twelve long years after he had originally vowed to go. His old antagonist, Honorius III, who had done everything from begging to threatening to achieve this moment, wasn't there to see it. The pope had died in March at the age of seventy-seven, with the failure of the Fifth Crusade still weighing heavily on his mind.
Any thought that there would now be warmer relations between Rome and the empire, however, were quickly dashed. Honorius' successor, Gregory IX, was even older, and equally exasperated with Frederick. In his mind, the emperor was a serial liar who needed nothing so much as a firm, guiding hand. There would certainly be no patience for delays.
At first things went smoothly enough. The emperor had chosen the southern Italian port of Brindisi as the disembarkation point, and during the summer of 1227, German troops began crossing the Alps and streaming into Italy. It wasn't long, however, before things began to go wrong. The weather was brutally hot, supplies were inadequate, and clean water was atrociously short. In the unsanitary conditions disease began to spread, and thousands simply turned around and went home.
Despite the reduced numbers, the imperial fleet set sail on time. The emperor himself, however, wasn't with it. He had taken a more leisurely route with his court, and didn't reach Italy until the end of August. He had the good sense to leave immediately, however, which convinced the pope to overlook the technical violation of his oath to leave by the 15th.
The papal relief didn't last for long. Only three days after Frederick set sail, an epidemic broke out, killing or incapacitating many of the soldiers on board. The emperor himself was struck down, and was so ill that his soldiers began to fear for his life. The decision was made to put in at the nearest Italian port to recuperate. Fortunately they hadn't gotten very far, so the famous spas of Naples were within easy reach.
Frederick tried to preempt the charges of treachery that he knew were coming by firing off a letter to the pope, explaining the unfortunate turn of events. He pointed out that the bulk of the army was still en route, and that he would join them as soon as he was physically able.
It was all too little, too late. Twelve years of watching Frederick postpone the crusade had exhausted whatever patience remained at the papal court. The emperor himself had supplied the penalty if he broke his word. Gregory IX accused Frederick of faking an illness to escape his crusading vow, and on September 29, 1227, formally excommunicated him.
The announcement threw everything into chaos. An excommunicate was outside the bounds of feudal society. No good Christian was to have any dealings with him; all feudal ties and obligations were dissolved. Anyone who took him in or assisted him in any way could share in his condemnation. His titles, lands, and wealth were all theoretically withdrawn.
Frederick cooly ignored it all. He announced publicly that he would resume the crusade in May, and paid no attention to the furious messages from the pope. When he made good on his promise and left in the spring, all of Europe was scandalized. No matter how imperfectly they were carried out, crusades were an act of faith. For an excommunicate to participate, much less lead was unthinkable. It would endanger the souls of everyone who took part.
Souls, however, interested Frederick a good deal less than crowns. The fact that his young wife Yolande, the Queen of Jerusalem – and his connection to the throne – had just died in childbirth was an inconvenient detail. The actual arrangement had always been irrelevant. He had planned to rule as husband, but it was just as easy as Regent. Forgiveness could be obtained at some later date, when this pope saw reason or a successor did.
Frederick II in Outremer
There seemed little hope at the moment that Gregory IX would change his mind. As Frederick was sailing away from the Italian coast, the pope was busy writing to the leaders of Outremer, thundering that the vile emperor was an enemy of the Faith, and forbidding anyone from having anything to do with him.
Not surprisingly, when Frederick finally landed in Palestine he was given a frost
y reception. There were cracks in the facade, however. The clergy and the military orders had no use for him, but many of the nobles of Outremer were glad of any help they could get.
None of it seemed to bother Frederick in the slightest. Unlike most of his crusading predecessors he fully understood the complicated Islamic political situation in the Holy Land, and intended to make use of its natural divisions. He didn't need a strong, united army, he just needed the appearance of one. For more than a decade the mere mention of his name had been a threat to the sultan and various emirs of Palestine. Now that he was here in person, perhaps a few rattles of the saber would do the trick.
Two years previously, the sultan al-Kamil had offered to give Jerusalem to Frederick in exchange for an attack on Damascus, and so Frederick now sent a message announcing that he was ready to take the deal. The sultan was mortified. The political winds had long since shifted, and Damascus was no longer the threat it had been. If he turned over Jerusalem now it would deal a massive blow to his prestige. On the other hand, a refusal would certainly draw the wrath of the dreaded emperor, and he would have to fend off the crusade.
The solution was to play for time. A legion of emissaries was sent to Frederick, each bearing expensive gifts, promises of eternal gratitude, and endless proposals. So many Muslim envoys arrived – and were given a warm reception – that the emperor's own army began to suspect that he was planning to betray them.
In Distant Lands Page 21
