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
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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.