The Kingdom in the Sun (23 page)

Besides, Robert Guiscard's spectacular rescue of Gregory from the Castel S. Angelo was more than just his duty as a vassal; it was a political necessity. Had he left the Pope to his fate, he would have also left all the South open to invasion by the Emperor. This time the papal enemy was the Roman populace itself, concerned only with the city and its immediate neighbourhood. The imperial threat, though it still existed, was a good deal less imminent. Lothair's successor, Conrad of Hohenstaufen, had troubles of his own. His election as King of Germany in preference to Henry of Bavaria had set a new spark to the old rivalry between their two houses—that age-long struggle of Welf against Hohenstaufen, Guelph against Ghibelline, that was to stain both Germany and Italy red for centuries to come. Even now, seven years after his accession, Conrad was still hard put to preserve his throne.

Not that Italy had ceased to beckon. An imperial coronation by the Pope could not but strengthen his political position, just as it had strengthened Lothair's before him; and beyond Rome lay Palermo, an even more tempting objective. The thought of that Sicilian bandit, who had now for fifteen years claimed dominion over huge tracts of imperial territory despite repeated efforts to eject him, rankled as much as ever; and Conrad knew perfectly well that the ever-turbulent Welfs would never have been able to maintain their opposition but for the huge subsidies they were receiving from Roger's agents—a fact of which he was doubtless regularly reminded by the bitter little group of South Italian exiles hanging round his court, Robert of Capua, Count Roger of Ariano and Rainulf's brother Richard among them. He had never forgiven Pope Innocent for what he considered a craven betrayal at Mignano, nor St Bernard for having made his own peace with Sicily immediately afterwards; and ever since his accession he had been dreaming of a punitive expedition to the South. It would have to be larger than Lothair's, better organised and better equipped, with a naval force capable of pursuing the war beyond the Straits of Messina if necessary —something, in fact, conceived on a very much grander scale than anything he was capable of mounting by himself, even if his domestic difficulties enabled him to do so. Fortunately he had an ally ready to hand.

The Byzantine Empire also had claims on South Italy; indeed, there may have been old men alive in Bari who still dimly remembered those heroic days, nearly a lifetime ago, when in defiance of Robert Guiscard and the massed Norman army their fellow-citizens had held out for nearly three years in their Emperor's name. Ever since, the restoration of the Italian provinces had loomed large in Greek ambitions. We have seen how as early as
113
5 the Emperor John Comnenus had offered Lothair financial assistance against the King of Sicily; it seems likely that a considerable proportion of the expenses of the subsequent expedition was paid for in Byzantine gold. That expedition had failed; but John's determination held firm.

Since then the situation had worsened. When Roger's cousin Bohemund II of Antioch had been killed in
1130
he had left as his only child a two-year-old daughter, Constance; and Roger had laid claim to the throne as the senior surviving member of the House of Hauteville. Five years later he had tried to kidnap the little princess's husband-to-be, Raymond of Poitiers, as he passed through South Italy on his way to join his bride; Raymond had managed to escape only by disguising himself, first as a pilgrim and then as steward of a rich merchant. In
1138
the King had even gone so far as to arrest the Patriarch Radulph of Antioch on a journey to Rome. The Patriarch, whose persuasive charm of manner was in no way affected by a pronounced squint, was soon allowed to proceed; and on his return Roger had treated him very differently, giving him a royal welcome in Palermo and even providing him with an escort of Sicilian ships. Particularly in contrast to his outward journey, it all seemed a little overdone; if Roger really were plotting to seize the throne of Antioch the Patriarch would be a most valuable ally. John Comnenus, who had never trusted either of them, grew ever more suspicious.

During the next few years ambassadors shuttled backwards and forwards between Germany and Constantinople as the two Emperors began to make serious plans for an alliance against their common enemy. Then, in the spring of
1143,
John went off on a hunting expedition in the mountains of Cilicia and accidentally scratched himself, between the fourth and little fingers of his right hand, with a poisoned arrow. At first he ignored the wound, but in the following days the infection spread up his whole arm until, in the words of a contemporary chronicler, it was swollen to the thickness of his thigh. His doctors advised amputation, but the Emperor had no faith in them and refused; and a week or so later he died of blood-poisoning. His youngest son Manuel who succeeded him was at first rather better-disposed towards the King of Sicily, and even toyed with the idea of a marriage alliance; but the negotiations came to nothing, relations between the two grew worse until they were finally broken off altogether, and the Sicilian envoys ended up in prison in Constantinople.

Not, perhaps, altogether without relief, Manuel turned back to the Western Empire. His father had for some time before his death been considering another imperial marriage—this time of Manuel himself, with Conrad's sister-in-law Bertha of Sulzbach—and in
1142
had actually had the proposed bride brought, on approval, to Constantinople. Manuel's initial reaction to this proposal had been lukewarm, and his first sight of the German princess had done little to inflame his ardour; soon, in any case, the minor upheavals that followed his succession and his brief flirtation with Sicily had caused the idea to be dropped. But at the end of
1144
he began to have second thoughts. Conrad for his part was positively enthusiastic. Such a marriage, he wrote, would be a pledge of 'a permanent alliance of constant friendship'; he himself would be a 'friend of the Emperor's friends and an enemy of his enemies'—he named no names, but Manuel would have no difficulty in filling in the blank— and, if there should ever be any slight to Manuel's honour, he would come in person to his assistance with all the massed strength of the German state behind him.

And so the arrangements were made. Bertha, who had been living for the past four years in forgotten obscurity, now re-emerged into public view, shed her barbarous Frankish name for the more euphonious Greek one of Irene, and in January
1146
duly married the Emperor. He should have made her a splendid husband. Young, gifted, famous for his dark good looks, he possessed a gaiety and charm that came as a refreshing contrast after the high-principled austerity of his father. Whether he was in his palace of

Blachernae or one of the hunting-lodges in which he spent so much of his time, any excuse was good enough for a celebration; while the visit of foreign rulers—particularly from the West—was always a signal for prolonged and elaborate festivities. Unlike most of the older generation of Byzantines he had spent his life in constant contact with the Franks of Outremer, and he genuinely admired western institutions. He introduced knightly tournaments to Constantinople and, being a superb horseman, took part in them himself —an activity that must have shocked many of his more old-fashioned subjects. But there was nothing shallow about him. When he was on campaign all his apparent frivolity fell away and he proved himself a brilliant soldier, tireless and determined. 'In war,' wrote Gibbon, 'he seemed ignorant of peace, in peace he appeared incapable of war.' A skilful diplomat, he also had the imagination and sureness of touch of a born statesman. And yet, through it all, he remained the typical Byzantine intellectual who liked nothing better than to immerse himself for hours in theological arguments of the most speculative kind; and his skill as a physician was, as
we
shall see, soon to be attested by Conrad of Hohenstaufen himself.

But he never liked Bertha much.
As
the Greek historian Nicetas Choniates explains,

His wife, a princess from Germany, was less concerned with the embellishment of her body than with that of her spirit; rejecting powder and paint, and leaving to vain women all those adornments which are owed to artifice, she sought only that solid beauty which proceeds from the splendour of virtue. This was the reason why the Emperor, who was of extreme youth, had little inclination for her and did not maintain towards her that fidelity which was her due; although he bestowed great honours upon her, a most exalted throne, a numerous retinue and all else that makes for magnificence and induces the respect and veneration of the people. He also entertained a criminal relationship with his niece, which has left a shameful stain upon his reputation.
¹

It was not in vain that King Roger had built up, over the years, the formidable network of foreign observers and agents that had made him easily the best-informed ruler in the western world. From

1 History of the Emperor Manuel Comnenus,
I,
ii.

Germany and Constantinople—and, in all probability, from several other places as well—he had been kept constantly posted of all these developments as they occurred; and he had followed them with growing concern. He had had difficulties enough with old Lothair; this time there would be two enemies instead of one, both famous for their skill and courage in battle and both at the height of their powers. Conrad was fifty-three—only two years older than himself— and Manuel not yet out of his twenties. There would also be the Byzantine navy to contend with, and a possible direct attack on Sicily itself. In such an eventuality, could he trust his Greek subjects to stay loyal?

Roger had long been conscious of just such a danger. To avert
it
he had for years been sending his massive subsidies to the Welfs in Germany, knowing that to keep Conrad fully occupied at home was the best way of discouraging him from any military adventures abroad; and it was with a similar object in view that he had proposed a marriage alliance with Byzantium. Both plans had failed. He had no more diplomatic weapons in his armoury with which he could hope to deflect the two determined Emperors from their intentions. War seemed certain; victory, to say the least, improbable.

He could not know, at the dawn of the year
1146,
that he had already been saved twelve months before—saved, paradoxically, by a disaster to Christendom, and one that would soon bring a second, yet greater one in its wake. The first of these twin disasters was the fall of Edessa. The other was to be the Second Crusade.

7

THE SECOND CRUSADE

Now there was in Sicily, among the Muslims of the country, a most learned and wealthy man. The King had much regard for him and showed him great deference, placing him above the priests and monks of his court, so that the Christians of the country accused him of being himself also, in his heart of hearts, a Muslim. One day, when the King was sitting in a belvedere looking out over the sea, a pinnace was seen approaching. Those in the vessel brought news that the Sicilian troops had penetrated into Muslim lands, where they had found much booty and killed several men—in a word, that they had gained great successes. At that moment this Muslim was sitting by the King, and seemed to be asleep; the King said 'Ho, thou! Hast thou not heard what tidings have just been told?' The Muslim replied 'No'. The King repeated, they have told us such and such: 'where was then Mahomet, while these countries and their inhabitants were suffering such treatment?' The Muslim replied, 'He had left them, to be present at the conquest of Edessa. The Faithful have just taken that city.' At these words the Franks who were present began to laugh; but the King said: 'Do not laugh; for, as God is my witness, this man never lies.'

Ibn Al-Athir

In
the first years of the Christian era, King Abgar
V
of Edessa was stricken with leprosy. Having heard reports of recent miraculous occurrences in Palestine, he wrote a letter to Jesus Christ, asking him to come to Edessa to cure him. Jesus declined, but promised to send one of his disciples to heal the King and preach the Gospel to his subjects. With this reply, according to some authorities, he enclosed a portrait of himself, miraculously imprinted on canvas. Later, as good as his word, he arranged with St Thomas to send Thaddeus, one of the Seventy, who accomplished both parts of his mission to the satisfaction of all concerned.