Frederick Barbarossa And Milan


A proud old city was Milan, heavy with its weight of years, rich and

powerful, arrogant and independent, the capital of Lombardy and the lord

of many of the Lombard cities. For some twenty centuries it had existed,

and now had so grown in population, wealth, and importance, that it

could almost lay claim to be the Rome of northern Italy. But its day of

pride preceded not long that of its downfall, for a new emperor had come
<
r /> to the German throne, Frederick the Red-bearded, one of the ablest,

noblest, and greatest of all that have filled the imperial chair.



Not long had he been on the throne before, in the long-established

fashion of German emperors, he began to interfere with affairs in Italy,

and demanded from the Lombard cities recognition of his supremacy as

Emperor of the West. He found some of them submissive, others not so.

Milan received his commands with contempt, and its proud magistrates

went so far as to tear the seal from the imperial edict and trample it

underfoot.



In 1154 Frederick crossed the Alps and encamped on the Lombardian plain.

Soon deputations from some of the cities came to him with complaints

about the oppression of Milan, which had taken Lodi, Como, and other

towns, and lorded it over them exasperatingly. Frederick bade the proud

Milanese to answer these complaints, but in their arrogance they refused

even to meet his envoys, and he resolved to punish them severely for

their insolence.



But the time was not yet. He had other matters to attend to. Four years

passed before he was able to devote some of his leisure to the Milanese.

They had in the meantime managed to offend him still more seriously,

having taken the town of Lodi and burnt it to the ground, for no other

crime than that it had yielded him allegiance. After him marched a

powerful army, nearly one hundred and twenty thousand strong, at the

very sight of whose myriad of banners most of the Lombard cities

submitted without a blow. Milan was besieged. Its resistance was by no

means obstinate. The emperor's principal wish was to win it over to his

side, and probably the authorities of the city were aware of his lenient

disposition, for they held out no long time before his besieging

multitude.



All that the conqueror now demanded was that the proud municipality

should humble itself before him, swear allegiance, and promise not to

interfere with the freedom of the smaller cities. On the 6th of

September a procession of nobles and churchmen defiled before him,

barefooted and clad in tattered garments, the consuls and patricians

with swords hanging from their necks, the others with ropes round their

throats, and thus, with evidence of the deepest humility, they bore to

the emperor the keys of the proud city.



"You must now acknowledge that it is easier to conquer by obedience than

with arms," he said. Then, exacting their oaths of allegiance, placing

the imperial eagle upon the spire of the cathedral, and taking with him

three hundred hostages, he marched away, with the confident belief that

the defiant resistance of Milan was at length overcome.



He did not know the Milanese. When, in the following year, he attempted

to lay a tax upon them, they rose in insurrection and attacked his

representatives with such fury that they could scarcely save their

lives. On an explanation being demanded, they refused to give any, and

were so arrogantly defiant that the emperor pronounced their city

outlawed, and wrathfully vowed that he would never place the crown upon

his head again until he had utterly destroyed this arrant nest of

rebels.



It was not to prove so easy a task. Frederick began by besieging

Cremona, which was in alliance with Milan, and which resisted him so

obstinately that it took him seven months to reduce it to submission. In

his anger he razed the city to the ground and scattered its inhabitants

far and wide.



Then came the siege of Milan, which was so vigorously defended that

three years passed before starvation threw it into the emperor's hands.

So virulent were the citizens that they several times tried to rid

themselves of their imperial enemy by assassination. On one occasion,

when Frederick was performing his morning devotions in a solitary spot

upon the river Ada, a gigantic fellow attacked him and tried to throw

him into the stream. The emperor's cries for help brought his attendants

to the spot, and the assailant, in his turn, was thrown into the river.

On another occasion an old, misshapen man glided into the camp, bearing

poisoned wares which he sought to dispose of to the emperor. Frederick,

fortunately, had been forewarned, and he had the would-be assassin

seized and executed.



It was in the spring of 1162 that the city yielded, hunger at length

forcing it to capitulate. Now came the work of revenge. Frederick

proceeded to put into execution the harsh vow he had made, after

subjecting its inhabitants to the greatest humiliations which he could

devise.



For three days the consuls and chief men of the city, followed by the

people, were obliged to parade before the imperial camp, barefooted and

dressed in sackcloth, with tapers in their hands and crosses, swords,

and ropes about their necks. On the third day more than a hundred of the

banners of the city were brought out and laid at the emperor's feet.

Then, in sign of the most utter humiliation, the great banner of their

pride, the Carocium--a stately iron tree with iron leaves, drawn on a

cart by eight oxen--was brought out and bowed before the emperor.

Frederick seized and tore down its fringe, while the whole people cast

themselves on the ground, wailing and imploring mercy.



The emperor was incensed beyond mercy, other than to grant them their

lives. He ordered that a part of the wall should be thrown down, and

rode through the breach into the city. Then, after deliberation, he

granted the inhabitants their lives, but ordered their removal to four

villages, several miles away, where they were placed under the care of

imperial functionaries. As for Milan, he decided that it should be

levelled with the ground, and gave the right to do this, at their

request, to the people of Lodi, Cremona, Pavia, and other cities which

had formerly been oppressed by proud Milan.






The city was first pillaged, and then given over to the hands of the

Lombards, who--such was the diligence of hatred--are said to have done

more in six days than hired workmen would have done in as many months.

The walls and forts were torn down, the ditches filled up, and the once

splendid city reduced to a frightful scene of ruin and desolation. Then,

at a splendid banquet at Pavia, in the Easter festival, the triumphant

emperor replaced the crown upon his head.



His triumph was not to continue, nor the humiliation of Milan to remain

permanent. Time brings its revenges, as the proud Frederick was to

learn. For five years Milan lay in ruins, a home for owls and bats, a

scene of desolation to make all observers weep; and then arrived its

season of retribution. Frederick's downfall came from the hand of God,

not of man. A frightful plague broke out in the ranks of the German

army, then in Rome, carrying off nobles and men alike in such numbers

that it looked as if the whole host might be laid in the grave.

Thousands died, and the emperor was obliged to retire to Pavia with but

a feeble remnant of his numerous army, nearly the whole of it having

been swept away. In the following spring he was forced to leave Italy

like a fugitive, secretly and in disguise, and came so nearly falling

into the hands of his foes, that he only escaped by one of his

companions placing himself in his bed, to be seized in his stead, while

he fled under cover of the night.



Immediately the humbled cities raised their heads. An alliance was

formed between them, and they even ventured to conduct the Milanese back

to their ruined homes. At once the work of rebuilding was begun. The

ditches, walls, and towers were speedily restored, and then each man

went to work on his own habitation. So great was the city that the work

of destruction had been but partial. Most of the houses, all the

churches, and portions of the walls remained, and by aid of the other

cities Milan soon regained its old condition.



In 1174 Frederick reappeared in Italy, with a new army, and with hostile

intentions against the revolted cities. The Lombards had built a new

city, in a locality surrounded by rivers and marshes, and had enclosed

it with walls which they sought to make impregnable. This they named

Alexandria, in honor of the pope and in defiance of the emperor, and

against this Frederick's first assault was made. For seven months he

besieged it, and then broke into the very heart of the place, through a

subterranean passage which the Germans had excavated. To all appearance

the city was lost, yet chance and courage saved it. The brave defenders

attacked the Germans, who had appeared in the market-place; the tunnel,

through great good fortune, fell in; and in the end the emperor was

forced to raise the siege in such haste that he set fire to his own

encampment in his precipitate retreat.



On May 29, 1176, a decisive battle was fought at Lignano, in which Milan

revenged itself on its too-rigorous enemy. The Carocium was placed in

the middle of the Lombard army, surrounded by three hundred youths, who

had sworn to defend it unto death, and by a body of nine hundred picked

cavalry, who had taken a similar oath.



Early in the battle one wing of the Lombard army wavered under the sharp

attack of the Germans, and threw into confusion the Milanese ranks.

Taking advantage of this, the emperor pressed towards their centre,

seeking to gain the Carocium, with the expectation that its capture

would convert the disorder of the Lombards into a rout. On pushed the

Germans until the sacred standard was reached, and its decorations torn

down before the eyes of its sworn defenders.



This indignity to the treasured emblem of their liberties gave renewed

courage to the disordered band. Their ranks re-established, they charged

upon the Germans with such furious valor as to drive them back in

disorder, cut through their lines to the emperor's station, kill his

standard-bearer by his side, and capture the imperial standard.

Frederick, clad in a splendid suit of armor, rushed against them at the

head of a band of chosen knights. But suddenly he was seen to fall from

his horse and vanish under the hot press of struggling warriors that

surged back and forth around the standard.



This dire event spread instant terror through the German ranks. They

broke and fled in disorder, followed by the death-phalanx of the

Carocium, who cut them down in multitudes, and drove them back in

complete disorder and defeat. For two days the emperor was mourned as

slain, his unhappy wife even assuming the robes of widowhood, when

suddenly he reappeared, and all was joy again. He had not been seriously

hurt in his fall, and had with a few friends escaped in the tumult of

the defeat, and, under the protection of night, made his way with

difficulty back to Pavia.



This defeat ended the efforts of Frederick against Milan, which had,

through its triumph over the great emperor, regained all its old proud

position and supremacy among the Lombard cities. The war ended with the

battle of Lignano, a truce of six years being concluded between the

hostile parties. For the ensuing eight years Frederick was fully

occupied in Germany, in wars with Henry the Lion, of the Guelph faction.

At the end of that time he returned to Italy, where Milan, which he had

sought so strenuously to humiliate and ruin, now became the seat of the

greatest honor he could bestow. The occasion was that of the marriage of

his son Henry to Constanza, the last heiress of Naples and Sicily of the

royal Norman race. This ceremony took place in Milan, in which city the

emperor caused the iron crown of the Lombards to be placed upon the head

of his son and heir, and gave him away in marriage with the utmost pomp

and festivity. Milan had won in its great contest for life and death.



We may fitly conclude with the story of the death of the great

Frederick, who, in accordance with the character of his life, died in

harness. In his old age, having put an end to the wars in Germany and

Italy, he headed a crusade to the Holy Land, from which he was never to

return. It was the most interesting in many of its features of all the

crusades, the leaders of the host being, in addition to Frederick

Barbarossa, Richard Coeur de Lion of England, the hero of romance, the

wise Philip Augustus of France, and various others of the leading

potentates of Europe.



It is with Frederick alone that we are concerned. In 1188 he set out, at

the head of one hundred and fifty thousand trained soldiers, on what was

destined to prove a disastrous expedition. Entering Hungary, he met with

a friendly reception from Bela, its king. Reaching Belgrade, he held

there a magnificent tournament, hanged all the robber Servians he could

capture for their depredations upon his ranks, and advanced into Greek

territory, where he punished the bad faith of the emperor, Isaac, by

plundering his country. Several cities were destroyed in revenge for the

assassination of pilgrims and of sick and wounded German soldiers by

their inhabitants. This done, Frederick advanced on Constantinople,

whose emperor, to save his city from capture, hastened to place his

whole fleet at the disposal of the Germans, glad to get rid of these

truculent visitors at any price.



Reaching Asia Minor, the troubles of the crusaders began. They were

assailed by the Turks, and had to cut their way forward at every step.

Barbarossa had never shown himself a greater general. On one occasion,

when hard pressed by the enemy, he concealed a chosen band of warriors

in a large tent, the gift of the Queen of Hungary, while the rest of the

army pretended to fly. The Turks entered the camp and began pillaging,

when the ambushed knights broke upon them from the tent, the flying

soldiers turned, and the confident enemy was disastrously defeated.



But as the army advanced its difficulties increased. A Turkish prisoner

who was made to act as a guide, being driven in chains before the army,

led the Christians into the gorges of almost impassable mountains,

sacrificing his life for his cause. Here, foot-sore and weary, and

tormented by thirst and hunger, they were suddenly attacked by ambushed

foes, stones being rolled upon them in the narrow gorges, and arrows and

javelins poured upon their disordered ranks. Peace was here offered

them by the Turks, if they would pay a large sum of money for their

release. In reply the indomitable emperor sent them a small silver coin,

with the message that they might divide this among themselves. Then,

pressing forward, he beat off the enemy, and extricated his army from

its dangerous situation.



As they pushed on, the sufferings of the army increased. Water was not

to be had, and many were forced to quench their thirst by drinking the

blood of their horses. The army was now divided. Frederick, the son of

the emperor, led half of it forward at a rapid march, defeated the Turks

who sought to stop him, and fought his way into the city of Iconium.

Here all the inhabitants were put to the sword, and the crusaders gained

an immense booty.



Meanwhile the emperor, his soldiers almost worn out with hunger and

fatigue, was surrounded with the army of the sultan. He believed that

his son was lost, and tears of anguish flowed from his eyes, while all

around him wept in sympathy. Suddenly rising, he exclaimed, "Christ

still lives, Christ conquers!" and putting himself at the head of his

knights, he led them in a furious assault upon the Turks. The result was

a complete victory, ten thousand of the enemy falling dead upon the

field. Then the Christian army marched to Iconium, where they found

relief from their hunger and weariness.



After recruiting they marched forward, and on June 10, 1190, reached

the little river Cydnus, in Cilicia. Here the road and the bridge over

the stream were so blocked up with beasts of burden that the progress of

the army was greatly reduced. The bold old warrior, impatient to rejoin

his son Frederick, who led the van, would not wait for the bridge to be

cleared, but spurred his war-horse forward and plunged into the stream.

Unfortunately, he had miscalculated the strength of the current. Despite

the efforts of the noble animal, it was borne away by the swift stream,

and when at length assistance reached the aged emperor he was found to

be already dead.



Never was a man more mourned than was the valiant Barbarossa by his

army, and by the Germans on hearing of his death. His body was borne by

the sorrowing soldiers to Antioch, where it was buried in the church of

St. Peter. His fate was, perhaps, a fortunate one, for it prevented him

from beholding the loss of the army, which was almost entirely destroyed

by sickness at the city in which his body was entombed. His son

Frederick died at the siege of Acre, or Ptolemais.



As regards the Germans at home, they were not willing to believe that

their great emperor could be dead. Their superstitious faith gave rise

to legendary tales, to the effect that the valiant Barbarossa was still

alive, and would, some day, return to yield Germany again a dynasty of

mighty sovereigns. The story went that the noble emperor lay asleep in a

deep cleft of Kylfhaueser Berg, on the golden meadow of Thuringia. Here,

his head resting on his arm, he sits by a granite block, through which,

in the lapse of time, his red beard has grown. Here he will sleep until

the ravens no longer fly around the mountain, when he will awake to

restore the golden age to the world.



Another legend tells us that the great Barbarossa sits, wrapped in deep

slumber, in the Untersberg, near Salzberg. His sleep will end when the

dead pear-tree on the Walserfeld, which has been cut down three times

but ever grows anew, blossoms. Then will he come forth, hang his shield

on the tree, and begin a tremendous battle, in which the whole world

will join, and in whose end the good will overcome the wicked, and the

reign of virtue return to the earth.



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